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volleychumps · 4 years

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Hi hi! Can I get a tendou, oikawa, kageyama and atsumu after a fight where they make up? Fluffy ending please! ❤️

I BEEN WAITIN FOR THIS ONE- TURN IT UP

Aftermath of a Fight w/ Their S/O- (Tendou, Oikawa, Kageyama, Atsumu)

Warning(s): slight angst in some of these, implied nsfw (by Atsumu ofc lmfao), but no direct nsfw themes

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Tendou

“...sunshine, open the door.”

“Don’t sunshine me.”

The snap of your voice had the redhead flinching, fist that had been risen to softly knock on the wooden door sinking along with the weight in his chest. Tendou taps his forehead against the door, hearing your soft whimpers on the other side.

“Y/N, please-” He starts, wincing when the door is suddenly flung open, red eyes widening when you bump your shoulder with his in passing. Desperately, he reaches his hand out abruptly to snatch your wrist before you can stomp irritably to the front door.

“Satori let go.” Heat brimmed your eyes as you refused to meet Tendou’s pleading ones,

“Hell no. You’re going right back into that bedroom, tuck yourself into the sheets, and let me make you as many mugs of tea as you want.”

His attempted joke had cracks in his voice, and you find yourself wavering before finally meeting his eyes, lip quivering. You wanted this to be over, and the way Tendou’s lips had stretched into a strained smile in a sad attempt to not let you see how much he really just needed you made you begin to raise the white flag.

“I don’t want tea.” You mumble finally, Tendou’s head lifting all of a sudden as his eyes brighten. A yelp tumbles from your lips as Tendou’s long arms wrap around your waist, lifting you off the ground as he hugged you tightly to his chest, burying his face into the crook of your neck with his slender fingers entangled in your hair.

“I’m sorry for snappin’ at you, sunshine.”

“All this because I knocked over your manga shelf?” A choked laugh escapes your lips as Tendou pulls back, mock-offense in his eyes while keeping both hands on the sides of your face.

“They were alphabatized!”

“Whatever.” You sniff, tears now dry on your cheeks as your thumbs wipe at the corner of Tendou’s eyes, looking up at him doe-eyed.

“...Can we get into bed together?”

Tendou’s grin was wide as he lifted your hand to his lips, scarlet eyes filled with now feigned sadness as he kisses your knuckle.

“But then who would bring us tea?”

“I don’t want tea, Satori!”

Oikawa

“They don’t mean anything to me, Y/N.”

“Hm? I didn’t say anything.” You bite back, jerking away from Oikawa’s motions to help you drape your jacket off your body as you do it yourself. The brunette sighs, slipping his frames off his face to wipe at them with the end of his shirt, not looking up.

“You don’t have to. I know when you get like this, and you didn’t have to make a scene.”

“A scene?!” You blink in disbelief as Oikawa puts his frames back on, shaking his head slightly as if getting annoyed all over again.

“What do you want me to do? Physically push them away?”

“How about, I have a girlfriend so hands off?”

“I guess there just isn’t any winning with you, is there, Y/N?”

You chuckle humorlessly, turning on your heel to face him head-on with a lump in your throat. “Well then why keep up the flirting act right in front of me? Unless it’s not an act, then-”

“How could you even say that?”

Oikawa’s breath caught in his throat, watching your eyes well up with unshed tears of insecurity as you huff, throwing your jacket on the couch while turning around.

“Because maybe they’ll be good enough for me to lose you.” Your voice came out in a whisper, but they didn’t fall on deaf ears as the tears now streamed freely down your cheeks. Gently, Oikawa’s arms pull you into his embrace as chocolate-orbs now riddled with guilt peer down at you, not flinching when you push lightly on his chest.

His hold on you tightens, mumbling into your hair.

“They’re not you, princess.”

Oikawa couldn’t help smile slightly at the way you relaxed at the nickname, seeing he was no longer calling you by your given one, as he placed a gentle kiss atop your head, not minding the dampness on his shoulder.

“No one’s like you, so don’t think for a goddamn minute that there’s someone better, because I can guarantee you-”

You whimper a little when he lifts you by the chin, kissing one of your teary eyes now rid of any anger as his own stare sweetly at you through black frames.

“There isn’t.”

Kageyama

“Um, is it “National Ignore Your Significant Other Day” or are you pissed at me about something?”

“Hm. Funny joke for someone who pretends like it’s that holiday every single day.”

You don’t miss a beat, not looking up from the manga you were reading as you lay on your back upon your bed. Kageyama huffs at the fact that you don’t even spare him a glance before he takes a cautious seat on the edge of your bed.

“What are you talking about?” Kageyama just wanted cuddles. After a grueling practice yesterday and not seeing you wait up for him today, all he wanted was to fall asleep next to you.

“Nothing.” You say easily, and Kageyama frowns when he sees the slight tremble in your hold as you flip through the pages. Your eyes stay on the inked paper as Kageyama concentrates really hard, slipping off his jacket before blue-eyed widen in realization as he stops taking his jacket off mid-way.

“Shit....shit wait, yesterday wasn’t our ten months, was it?”

“And they say romance is dead.” You quip, letting the manga fall to your side as your eyes lock onto your ceiling with a heat threatening to spill over. “It’s not like you stood me up or anything, so don’t worry.”

“Oh, well that’s good-”

“Tobio, baby that was sarcasm.” You can’t help the venemous edge to your voice before you huff, Kageyama blinking in bewilderment as you turn on your side, facing away from him. You bite the inside of your cheek.

“I-I’m sorry...Y/N, I really forgot-”

“Because it wasn’t important to you, right?” You laugh a little, no humor behind the sound as you trace patterns onto your bedsheets. “Not as important as volleyball?”

“Don’t say that.” His words were harder now, and you gasp a little when Kageyama sits you up, forcing you to face him while glaring slightly at you, a blush on his cheeks.

“You...I thought today was the date. That’s why I stayed extra hours yesterday...so I can give all of today to you, and I fucked up, but...”

Kageyama clicks his tongue, shuffling around in his jacket pocket before emerging with a chain, a single charm holding two letters on it- kt.

“I’m sorry I’m a dumbass sometimes. Just...can I put this on you? And then can we just sleep and then wake up so we can go to some ridulous fancy-ass dinner?”

The moisture in your eyes was no longer of sadness as you lurched forward, kissing him sweetly on the lips as Kageyama sighs in relief at your touch, pressing the small of your back against him to close the distance even further-

it was all he had wanted, after all.

Atsumu

“You’re not mad at me right now, sweetheart.”

“Oh, I’m not? Thank you for the sudden revelation!” You gasp in shock, Atsumu hot on your heels as you furiously walked down the halls of one of the Black Jackals tournaments.

“Okay, you might be a little mad-”

“I’m pissed, Atsumu! That was your image, and people already think I’m messing it up-” You spin on your heel, sighing when Atsumu has to physically stop himself from crashing into you. He visibly wilts, and you swear you can see puppy dog ears atop his head as his shoulders sink.

“What happened to Tsum Tsum?”

“That’s all you heard?!”

“Why would I give a fuck about what the people think?” Atsumu blinks innocently. “All I care about is you...is that so wrong?”

You bite your lip, knowing he was being cute on purpose before rolling your eyes, trying not to give in.

“You don’t threaten the people in the audience, Atsumu!”

“Uh, yes I do if they’re eyein up my girl, sweetheart.” Atsumu’s brow raises as if he can’t believe this is even a discussion. “That ass is mine.”

“Atsumu!” You scold, cheeks flooding with heat as the passerbys look at the two of you strangely, prompting Atsumu to huff while crossing his arms.

“Don’t call me that!”

You groan, knowing there was no winning with your man-child of a boyfriend before Atsumu’s lips begin to lift, knowing he had successfully dispelled of your annoyance.

“Just...you make me so tired, you know that?”

“Aw, darlin’“ You can’t help the smile on your lips when he kisses your forehead sweetly, trailing down to your nose while hitting you with that shit-eating smirk.

“It’s what I do best.”

“Is everything about the bedroom with you?”

“Well, it is when you’re standing here in front of me looking like you want me to-”

“Public, Tsum Tsum! We’re in public.”

“Didn’t care then, don’t care now. Lighten up, sweetheart.”

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General Works: @takemetovalhalla @savemesteeb @kasandrafaye @dreebbles @yams046 @aprettyfruit @therestless101 @deadontheinsidebut @therestless101 @dai-tsukki-desu @lifeisntjustblackandwhite @curiouslilbeast @wisepandaslimeland @lmkjimin @h0ngh0ngh0ng @orangegiraffe7 @let-me-have-my-own-name @theworldupthere @itz-tooru @kac-chowsballs

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achillieus · 3 years

Text

let you down. (sebastian stan x reader)

summary: it's a universal truth but it's worth repeating; feelings eat us raw. or just an actor and a girl falling in and out of love over the course of three months.

(this was inspired by sebastian's visit to greece for his movie, monday, and is based on that, so that means in the story we’re in 2018. also i have this posted on ao3 too but while i’m writing the last parts i thought of posting it here too)

pairing: sebastian stan x reader

warnings: alcohol, sexual references, implied depression, don’t kill me because of the ending, sebastian and reader are the definition of right person wrong time, it's kinda slowburn because i love the yearning, also this part has some funny moments but overall it’s a big SOB

part: 6/6 (there will also be an epilogue)

(other parts) (masterlist)

This is how it ends: broken hearts from crashed dreams.

Sebastian holds you until his muscles ache and your lungs burn from the feeling of too little oxygen. It is cold and dark, almost midnight, too dark, a starless night.

No more stars for you and I.

“Here,” Voice hoarse, eyes heavy-lid and itching from almost crying. He gives you one of the rings he wore in the movie. “I want you to keep this.”

Keep it close to your heart. Forget me not.

He takes a breath and a step back, tries to regain all the strength he still has, steady feet and shoulders fixed. He digs his nails into his palms, red marks in his skin, air catching in his throat, he’s on the verge of falling but he stays standing.

He remembers tears glistening down his cheeks, maybe they were yours not his, and the cold autumn wind hitting his face and he remembers feeling like he’s dying.

And then he closes the door of Argyris’ car and looks at you.

And his heart stretches and stretches and stretches and then somehow splits in half.

It goes like this:

There’s a ghost that lives in your apartment from now on. In the living room. Sitting on the couch. And it has steel blue eyes and a familiar heart. And it whispers a love story, half-finished, and you cannot make it stop.

The ghost touches your collarbone and he’s gone but there’s a ring in a golden chain around your neck and a white shirt forgotten in your laundry. And it smells like him. The clinging scent of his aftershave sticking to your pores. Eucalyptus. And no matter how hard you try to wash it off, it still lingers.

How could I ever forget someone like you?

The ghost lives here, but the place is empty, so empty. And it’s hard not to cry.

Sebastian calls and texts a lot.

He tells you he’s tired but excited because he started filming a new movie. It’s very indie and experimental, I can’t wait for you to see it. He tells you he’s missing his days in Greece like hell and that one night he dreamt of you. Didn’t want to wake up. What he doesn’t tell you is that he’s coming back in a month, Argyris needs him for some extra scenes. It’s nearly killing him but he doesn’t tell you. He wants to surprise you, see the pure light in your eyes when they’ll meet his.

You try sexting. It doesn’t go very well.

23:50, sebastian: if you were here in my bed right now what would you be doing

06:51, you: probably falling asleep hahaha

06:51, you: oh fuck was i supposed to sext back

06:51, you: sorry seb i just woke up and i have a class in an hour, love you <3

23:52, sebastian: fuck timezones

(three weeks and 10 seconds later)

“I can’t believe she doesn’t know you’re here,” Argyris shakes his head as he’s driving home from the airport, “If I were her, I’d kill you.”

“Good thing I didn’t fall in love with you.”

Sebastian laughs and looks out of the car window. The stars. There are so many stars tonight. He holds his breath; he’s finally feeling whole again. His heart isn’t split in two anymore.

You don’t know how long you stand there at your door, staring at him, but it feels like a century before he grins, almost laughs, takes your hands in his and you start considering that perhaps this isn’t a hallucination. Perhaps it’s real.

“Surprise?”

Something inside of you bursts, your organs twitch. You can’t think, you can’t speak, but you can move. You don’t lose any more time, you take a step forward, attach your bodies, your face buried in his neck, your fingers clutching into the rough fabric of his jacket. You breathe him in like an antidote.

“How?”

“Does it matter?”

“No.”

You kiss him and it’s like poetry, like art, like honey and you can’t separate yourself from him, not even hours later.

(looking back, these were the golden days)

You pretending to be mad at him for not telling you he was coming back and him pressing his lips on your skin, drawing patterns on your naked shoulder. A feathery touch.

Sebastian always touches you like you’re something made of gold and porcelain, something cherished that constantly needs to be treasured. And nobody has done that before. And you love him for it.

You try to decorate your Christmas tree together. He messes with the lights for a while, eventually gives up and goes on to eat too many reindeer shaped cookies.

He massages your muscles when you write a boring essay for college.

You go with him when he has to shoot a “driving a motorcycle naked in the centre of Athens” scene and you bite the inside of your cheeks to stop smiling like an idiot.

He gives you a dress he bought for you in New York.

“You didn’t have to.”

“I know, but I wanted to.”

He calls you sweetheart in the mornings, still half asleep and later joins you in the shower.

“Why are you so hot?”

“Climate change”

“Oh, shut up”

It’s tender and it’s soft and it’s human.

And that’s the saddest part.

Soon you realize that him leaving two months ago was merely a rehearsal and you still haven’t said your actual goodbyes. Your chest starts to feel as if it’s full of crushed glass.

And it’s ridiculous because you fell in love with Sebastian sometime between the first ten days you spent together.

Who falls in love in ten days?

Ridiculous or not, you know you are in love with him just as you know that sooner or later, whatever he is feeling will fade and wither. Maybe it’ll be in a week, maybe it’ll be in a month, maybe in a year if you’re lucky. But there will definitely come a day when he will step out of a gala or a party or a fancy gym in New York with a beautiful model in his arms and two paparazzi’s following him around.

What will you be then?

A past small cameo in his life. A side character. Will he remember your name?

He is your whole world.

(a bottle of cheap prosecco helps you decide that)

He is your whole world.

And yet, there will come a day when he won’t even remember your name.

It was difficult. No, it was the most difficult thing you’ve ever done. Telling him how you think it’d be better if you didn’t talk after he leaves.

“I don’t agree with this.”

“Seb, it’s for the best.”

Your body doesn’t feel strong enough to carry your heart. And you’re certain it will only get worse once he’s away. The world around you will melt. You’ll obsess over a phone screen and his messages. You’ll start chasing ghosts again. You can’t handle that.

“Why?” He says urgently and his fingers dance over the flesh of your palms.

“Because this”, you motion your hand between the two of you, “is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever had in my life and I don’t want it to become ugly.”

He nods, he understands.

“I love you, you know,” he says smiling and tugs you closer to him, “And I may not be here to show you but I think I’ll love you for a long time.”

Your hand grips his waist right to the bones and something flares in your eyes, something wild that wrenches you around.

“I know, I’ll love you the same.”

“Maybe we’ll meet again.”

“Only if I’m the luckiest girl on the planet.”

He laughs and you look at him, fully aware he’ll be ripped out of your life like a page from a cheap leather notebook. And when you kiss for the last time, there’s a hole forming in your soul.

And just because endings don’t leave visible scars to one’s body and soul, that doesn’t mean the scars don’t exist. You know they do, because you feel the aching pain of every single one of them.

(every night when you close your eyes you see him)

(every night you look at the stars and think of him)

A month passes and Argyris asks you if you miss him.

“I don’t think I’ll ever stop.”

“He said the exact same thing.”

You tell him not to mention Sebastian again.

Two months pass and you need to stop stalking his instagram profile.

Three months pass and you almost text him.

Four months pass and you go to watch Endgame with some friends and you cry. You cry when Black Widow sacrifices herself and when Iron Man smiles at his wife while dying, and when Bucky Barnes appears on screen.

The others don’t understand and you don’t blame them.

Five months pass and Argyris’ girlfriend wants you to meet someone. A charming boy your age with blonde hair and a lip piercing.

And he's cute but you compare him to Sebastian even before he has the chance to say his name. His eyes are not the right shade of blue and he doesn’t look at you like you’re made of the world’s finest jewel.

And he doesn’t know any constellation names.

And then more than a year passes in a second and you learn to not look for him. Not anymore.

It’s early March 2020 and despite the rising fear of the upcoming pandemic, you’re doing well. Scars are starting to fade. And after spending two weeks in Prague, your best friend being there with an exchange program, Sebastian Stan is the farthest thing from your mind.

Until he literally comes crashing into you. At the airport.

No, it can’t be him.

You have your suitcase on one hand and a bottle of antiseptic gel on the other. He has two bodyguards on his sides and a black hoodie on. And while half of his face is hidden behind a mask, you can see his eyes perfectly. A frozen lake in December. You would know those eyes in your deathbed, at the end of the world.

Your vision gets blurry and suddenly you feel cold.

He won’t recognize me, he can’t.

But then he looks at you and every memory you had buried inside of you resurfaces.

He motions to his guards to wait for him and he starts walking towards you. You breathe slowly, one breath at a time. He takes his mask off and you hesitate to take yours, not sure if you truly want him to see you.

You exchange the typical and very awkward hi, how are you, i’m glad you’re doing okay and then he smiles and it feels comfortable. Familiar.

It’s the whiff of another time that you always kept around. A reminder that you were once loved by a god.

“What are you doing here?”

“Filming Falcon and the Winter Soldier”

If you hadn’t unfollowed him on instagram, you’d known.

“Ah yes I heard about that, congrats.”

He nods a thank you.

“And you? In Prague?”

“I was at a friend.”

He looks conflicted, hurt, turns his gaze to his shoes on the grey cement. You want to say something, but you feel like throwing up.

And then he laughs.

“I was right.”

You’re confused, he notices.

“Back in Greece,” he swallows, “I told you this would happen.”

“It would have been an airport, different gates for each of us, but same waiting hall. Or a Greek island, where we’d both be for the summer.”

“I would have found you.”

You remember and you cannot help but smile. He was right. He found you.

“I didn’t believe you then.”

I barely believe you now.

He touches your hair. And his touch is like a knife. And you want to cry. Magnolias under your tongue. A love long lost is whispering in your ears until it hurts to listen. He’s like a magnetic field and you feel yourself drowning in him.

“I bet they’ll ask me a hundred questions about you later.” He says and looks at the two men waiting for him.

“And what will you tell them?”

“That you’re most probably the love of my life.”

Don’t cry, don’t cry.

“There’s no way we’d meet here if you’re not.”

“Sebastian,” His name sounds like a prayer coming out of your lips and you're ready to tell him you love him and you can swear he looks like he’s ready to faint, “I-”

The guards yell his name. And it's the same feeling people have just before a car crash.

“I’m sorry, I have to go.”

One last look.

Don’t cry, don’t cry.

You repeat it over and over again. But you fail.

“No, don't cry” He smiles, one last smile, “Just look at the stars and wait for us to meet again, because we will.”

He caresses the back of your palm for a second and you think your ribcage is shattering but it’s only your heart drumming frantically. Pushing your fragile bones to break.

You want to stop him, wrap your arms around his torso, never let him go. Not again. But you don’t.

You just watch him leave, one more time, your knees weak, your head heavy and dizzy. For the split of a moment he turns and glances at you but then he’s nowhere to be seen.

Perhaps it was all in your imagination. Perhaps it was nothing but a wonder.

You get into your plane and you silently sob.

And then it’s summer.

And you overhear he was seen with a girl, the day before your vacation starts and you find a picture of them together a week later, a pretty blonde girl clinging to his side with a colorful bikini somewhere in Spain. And he’s smiling. And you feel so ashamed. And so stupid.

They say time heals all wounds but they must be wrong because you can’t forget how he used to smile at you or how he used to call you the love of his life.

Was he joking when he said you'll meet again? You bet if you asked him now, he wouldn't even remember saying it.

I’ll love you for a long time.

So long for nothing.

i really appreciate feedback, it motivates me tons and also tell me if you’d like to be tagged :) also i’m really sorry if you asked me to tag you and i didn’t but i lost a lot of asks and the urls of the people that sent them :(

tagging: @lharrietg @awkward117 @dannaloureen @broccoligf @cutestfangirlvevo @caitdaniels @arymb @buckybarnesishot310 @roguesthetic @itsaliceheree @sara-1705 @dorothea-hwldr @freshfreakoaftrash @drinkfantasy @christinamcdonnell @partypoison00 @90ssantiago

#sebastianstan #sebastian stan x reader #sebastian stan imagine #letyoudown #monday the movie #sebastian stan angst #sebastian stan x you #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes x reader

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homoose · 4 years

Text

Atlas

Summary: Three times that Spencer needed support, and one time he gave it. Lightly insp by the song Atlas by The Dip.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader

Category: heavy on the fluff, a lil bit of angst

Warnings/Includes: brief mentions of general anxiety/trauma/mild depression

Word count: 4.4k

———

Spencer pressed his fingers so far into the sockets of his eyes that Y/N thought he might actually jam one of his eyeballs into his brain. He was hunched over his desk, reading through the file of the case he was consulting on. Even on his mandatory 30-day leave, Spencer couldn’t fully tear himself away from hunting monsters.

Y/N moved from where she had been leaning against the doorframe, walking further into Spencer’s office. “Another headache?” She sighed, wrapping her arms around Spencer’s shoulders and pressing her warm cheek to his temple.

Spencer hummed. “Just need another cup of coffee.”

“Honey, you’ve been awake for almost three days,” Y/N sighed. “What you need is a gallon of water and 12 hours sleep.”

He leaned back further into the circle of Y/N’s arms and covered her hands with his own. “I can’t—the team needs this consult before they leave on Monday.”

“And just how long have you been reading this page?” Y/N questioned. When Spencer didn’t respond, she continued, “Mmhm, that’s what I thought. When it takes Dr. Reid two minutes to finish a page, something’s up.” She patted his chest. “Even the biggest brain needs a break.”

“Actually, there’s very little evidence that brain size has any correlation with measured levels of intell—” Spencer started.

“So you’ve mentioned,” Y/N chuckled. “My point still stands. I’m gonna make you a cup of tea and a snack, and then we’re gonna take a nap.” She kissed the top of his head before releasing her hold on him and moving to the kitchen.

Y/N filled the kettle and placed it on the stove before scrolling to find the playlist she had curated for days like this. The melancholic sounds of the Moonlight Sonata came through the bluetooth speaker as she pulled a wooden cutting board from the cupboard. Y/N dug through the bag from her earlier grocery run. She began placing the crackers, dried fruit, nuts, and cheeses on the board, taking time to arrange each piece just so. When she was satisfied with her work, Y/N turned to reach up on her tiptoes into the cupboard for her secret weapon. With a small smile, she placed it in the very center of the board. The kettle had barely begun its whistle when Y/N snatched it from the stove, cringing with a glance toward the door of Spencer’s office. She pulled his best-loved mug from the dish rack and dropped a fresh tea bag into it, covering it with the steaming water.

As the tea steeped, Y/N moved to the living room, crossing her arms as she contemplated the space. Although it was much darker than Y/N’s own living space, it was still far too bright to be comfortable for Spencer’s light sensitivity. Y/N made a mental note to find a suitable set of blackout curtains before retrieving a blanket from inside the trunk-style coffee table. She carried one of the kitchen chairs over to the window, quietly setting it underneath the curtain rod. Stepping up on the seat of the chair, she tossed the blanket up, trying to layer it up over the curtain. It took a few tries, but Y/N got it up and over the rod, adjusting it to block as much of the light as possible. She hopped off the chair, landing on the floor with a quiet thud.

“You didn’t have to do all this.” Spencer stood outside his office, hands in his pockets and honey colored eyes settled on Y/N’s face as she turned to him.

“I know.” Y/N padded across the hardwood. She grabbed Spencer’s hand and pressed a kiss to his shoulder. She shrugged, pulling him into the kitchen. “I don’t mind. I like taking care of you.” When they reached the table, she popped an almond into her mouth with a grin.

Spencer’s eyes moved over the cutting board, lips turning up in a small smile—the first one Y/N had seen in days—when they landed on the Jell-O cup. He picked it up and peeled back the lid. Y/N held up her mug of tea. Spencer let out a laugh and tapped it with his Jell-O. “Cheers.”

When the board held only crumbs and the mugs were empty, Y/N stood from the table and pulled Spencer to his feet. “Come on, nap time.”

“Y/N, I appreciate the thought, but I really have to finish—”

“Nope, sorry, that’s not part of the deal.” She gently pushed him toward the couch. At Spencer’s resistance, Y/N huffed out a breath. “Spence, you need a break. I’m not even asking you to go to bed. Just lay on the couch.” She lifted a hand to cradle Spencer’s face. “Unlike the brain size thing, there is actual research that says your brain doesn't function properly when you’re tired. And you, my love, are t-i-r-e-d.”

Spencer allowed himself to be lowered onto the brown leather couch, rubbing at his eyes. “Just twenty minutes.”

“Mhmm.” Y/N reclined next to him on the couch, grabbing the throw blanket draped over the back. “I’ll set the alarm.” She held out her arms. “C’mere.”

Despite himself, Spencer didn’t hesitate, winding his arms around Y/N’s middle and laying his head on her shoulder. She tucked the blanket around the both of them and wound their legs together.

“The alarm’s set?” Spencer mumbled, already falling under the spell of sleep.

Y/N pushed her fingers through his hair and scratched lightly at his scalp, smiling when he hummed happily and burrowed his face into her chest. “Setting it now,” she assured. Maybe she set it a little longer than 20 minutes, but Spencer didn’t need to know that.

⧭⧭⧭

Y/N rolled over toward the nightstand and reached out, clumsily running her hand across the smooth table to grab the ringing phone. When her fingers wrapped around the device, she pulled it towards her only to have it jerk abruptly out of her hand when the charging cord reached its limit. “Shit,” Y/N muttered as it clattered to the floor. She emerged from under the duvet, leaning off the side of the bed and dragging her hand blindly across the floor. Finally, clutching the phone in one hand and pushing herself back into bed with the other, Y/N swiped to answer the call. “H‘lo?”

“Hey.”

At the sound of Spencer’s voice, Y/N was suddenly wide-awake. “Spence? Are you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine, I just—um. I know it’s late, sorry. Are you—? I just—God, you have to work in the morning, I’m sorry. I can—it can wait.”

Y/N paused a moment to make sure he was finished before asking, “Do you need me to come to you, or are you coming here?”

Spencer let out a sigh of relief. “I can—I’ll come to you.”

After thirty minutes of groggy pacing, Y/N opened the door to Spencer, hair frizzy and clothes rumpled from a long flight. She stepped back, allowing him into the apartment and then closing the door behind him. Spencer dropped his go-bag on the floor and ran a hand over his face as Y/N turned the deadbolt and secured the chain. She had barely turned around before he was latching onto her, completely enervated. He burrowed his face into the crook of her neck, and Y/N wrapped her arms tightly around him.

Y/N shifted her weight slowly back and forth, moving the two of them in a gentle swaying motion. She rubbed a hand up and down Spencer’s back, soothing and rhythmic. Spencer let out a shaky breath, and Y/N felt the collar of her shirt becoming damp. She brought a hand up to Spencer’s head, stroking his hair and repeating a familiar mantra: “You’re safe. I’m here. You’re safe. I’m right here.”

Y/N lost track of how long they stood there, swaying and soothing and shattering. Maybe minutes or maybe hours later, Spencer pulled back, head lowered and swiping his arm underneath his nose. Y/N reached out to grasp his face in both her hands, lifting it and sweeping her thumbs under his eyes. When Spencer finally looked at her, Y/N saw the golden irises were shining and ringed with red. “I love you.”

“I love you. So much.” Spencer circled Y/N’s wrists in his hands. “So much.”

She pressed one, two, three chaste kisses to his chapped lips. She dropped one kiss onto the tip of his nose, drawing out a hesitant smile. “Wanna talk about it?”

He shook his head. “No.” Y/N pursed their lips, and Spencer sighed. “I—I will talk to someone, I promise. But I just—I don’t want it in here. In our space.” Y/N wound her fingers through Spencer’s, pulled his arms down, and tugged him closer. “Honestly, I just want to sleep with you,” Spencer admitted. Y/N wiggled her eyebrows and Spencer laughed. “You know what I mean.”

Y/N tried to pull a pout but just ended up smiling. “Fine. Come on, spoilsport. Let’s go to bed.”

⧭⧭⧭

“It was just… not a good day for her.” Spencer leaned back on the couch and scrubbed his hands over his face.

Y/N sat next to him on the couch. She couldn’t find the right words. “I’m so sorry, Spence.”

“Pragmatically, I know that there’s nothing more I could be doing. She made it clear what she wants, and I can’t force her to take medications or try new treatments.” He looked down at his hands, fingers tracing the lines of his palms. “But some days I—I just can’t… reconcile that this is what her life is now. Just… remembering less and less every day. Being confused and agitated all the time. I mean, all the time.” He paused and drew his lips into a thin line. “Not knowing who I am. That happens much more frequently than it used to.”

Y/N reclined back next to him on the couch, putting her feet up on the coffee table and pressing her shoulder to Spencer’s. “Even if she doesn’t always remember, you do. And if there’s one thing I know about you, it’s that you are irritatingly persistent,” she joked. “You won’t ever stop trying to remind her. And that’s the best thing you can do for her.”

Spencer nodded, dropping his head onto Y/N’s shoulder. She tilted her head, an idea flitting across the front of her mind. “Hey, here’s a thought. You know that scrapbook your mom made? Every page is a story from her life. But she stopped around the time you were like, ten, right?”

“Yeah. There’s… not much in there after that.”

“Ok so, what if you picked up where she left off? You have so many great stories and memories with her. You could put some of your journals and articles in there, too. Pictures of you and the team. That one of you and Ethan in New Orleans. Ones with Henry and Michael. Maybe one of you in the lecture hall.” Y/N sat up. “Writing her letters is great, you should keep doing that for sure. But did you know that visual aids—like, particularly photographs—can help stimulate memory recall in Alzheimer’s patients at any stage?”

Spencer smiled. “I actually did know that.”

“Ugh of course you did. Couldn’t just let me have this one thing.” Y/N rolled her eyes, though Spencer caught the hint of a grin underneath the feigned annoyance. “Seriously, I don’t know why I didn’t think of this sooner. I have a ton of scrapbooking stuff,” Y/N said, scrambling up from the couch and into her bedroom.

“You do?” Spencer furrowed his brow. “I’ve never seen you scrapbook.”

“Eh, yeah, it was a phase,” she called from the bedroom. “Scrapbooking paper’s expensive as fuck, so it was a short-lived hobby.”

Spencer chuckled, listening to the sounds of Y/N rummaging through the bedroom closet. There was a muffled thud. “Everything okay in there?”

There were a couple more bumps and bangs, and then, “Ah yeah, here we go.” Emerging from the bedroom, Y/N wheeled a huge black roller bag over to the couch. She unzipped the top pocket and Spencer peered inside. “Oh so you meant, quite literally, a ton of scrapbooking stuff.”

“Look, my ADHD goes all out when it comes to starting new projects.” Y/N shrugged her shoulders. “It’s the, you know, finishing projects that we struggle with.”

The pair went about die cutting, arranging, gluing, and giggling. Y/N scoured the depths of the internet (namely Penelope’s Facebook page) for photographs of Spencer—in costume at the BAU Halloween party, in his tuxedo at JJ and Will’s wedding, a selfie with Penelope at a Dr. Who convention, a candid of him doing magic for Jack and Henry, and even one of him singing karaoke.

Spencer worked on laying out the pages, gluing down frames and choosing decals that reminded him of his mother. He wrote a short synopsis on each page, summarizing his degrees, his work, and his friends. By the end of the afternoon, they had more than a dozen pages for the new book.

“I need one more picture,” Spencer said.

“I thought I got one of everyone? Or is there another karaoke picture that I don’t know about?” Y/N gawked over the top of the laptop from her spot on the couch. She was never going to let him live that down.

Spencer laughed. “No, I’m pretty sure that’s the only photographic evidence of that night.” He turned and smiled up at Y/N from where he sat cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by scraps of paper and the remnants of sticker packs. “I need that one of us at the Cherry Blossom festival.”

“Oh. Well, um.” A blush crept up Y/N’s cheeks. “Coming right up.” She sent the photo to the printer, standing to retrieve it from her desk.

It was quiet in the room apart from the sounds of the printer, rhythmically whirring and inking the memory into life. Y/N absentmindedly chewed the inside of her lip, waiting for the final strokes of the photo to be laid. She turned back, photo in hand, to see Spencer smiling at her, soft and warm.

Over the course of the afternoon, he had swapped his shoes for a pair of fuzzy socks, and his contacts for his glasses. Y/N’s heart actually ached at the length of his sweater sleeves, covering all but the tips of his fingers. The picture of domesticity, Spencer patted the floor next to him. When Y/N sat, he took the photo from her hand, meticulously adding glue dots to each corner before pressing it down onto the page. He lifted his arm, tucking Y/N underneath and pulling her close. “Thank you. For all of this.”

“You’re very welcome.” Y/N snuggled a little deeper into his embrace. “All right so let’s see this masterpiece.”

When they arrived at the last page, Y/N was still incredulous over the details of the karaoke story. “Okay, but there has to be a video somewhere.”

“Oh, I’m sure there is. And you will never, ever see it.”

“Penelope Garcia is a tech wizard, and she is not above a bribe,” Y/N warned.

“What a coincidence, because I am also not above a bribe. Especially if it keeps that video from ever seeing the light of day.” Spencer laughed and squeezed Y/N’s shoulder. “I think this page is my favorite.”

Y/N and I at the Cherry Blossom festival. Y/N is kind, thoughtful, and passionate. She never fails to make me laugh. She’s always up for cloud watching with me, although she prefers altocumulus formations to the cumuliform heaps. We read together almost every night. You both love King Arthur and the Legends of the Round Table, particularly Tristan and Iseult. I could write a million more words about her and it wouldn’t be enough. When I was little, you told me that love is a world of its own that lives in the heart, not in the head. I know exactly what you mean.

⧭⧭⧭

Y/N tossed under the duvet, knowing that she wouldn’t be able to find a comfortable position. She had been sleeping for so long that her lower back was aching, the type of pain that twinges like the ticking of a clock, steady and incessant. She rolled over onto her stomach, stretching her whole body and reaching to turn the alarm clock toward her—3:27pm. She huffed, burying her head in the pillow with a loud groan. She had called out of work to have a productive day at home, and instead she slept the day away.

Y/N threw the duvet off and sat up. She tried not to let the guilt of calling out creep in. Instead, she shuffled into the bathroom to brush her teeth and wash her face. She resolved that small victories might be all she was capable of today.

She pulled her favorite sweater from the hook on her bedroom door, wrapping it tightly around her as she stepped over the threshold into the living and dining space. This is why she had stayed in bed so long. Y/N had been spending so much time at Spencer’s that she had been able to ignore the declining Depression Room™ facing her now.

Three days’ worth of dishes were piled in the sink. There was a stack of unopened mail about a mile high on the kitchen island. The trash and recycling needed emptying about a week ago. Jackets and shoes were strewn about the place—over chairs, the back of the couch, all over the floor. The coffee table was littered with granola bar wrappers, an old McDonald’s bag, empty gatorade bottles, and the dirty containers from last night’s takeout. Her desk was overrun with unfinished lesson plans, professional development books that needed reading, and spelling tests that needed grading.

Y/N knew she would feel better once she started, but she also knew it would take her all day to get the apartment looking even halfway decent. Since she had spent so long in bed, she had even less time to get it done. She was failing to fend off the guilt of calling out, particularly since she hadn’t actually gotten any work done. Compounding her guilt was the fact that Spencer’s apartment was always so clean and cozy. His job was a thousand times more demanding than hers. His life had more trauma and daily stressors than she could even imagine. And still, Y/N was struggling with basic adult tasks. She couldn’t understand it.

Just hang the jackets up. Throw away the junk mail. Wash the pots and pans first, then the plates and silverware. It will take four minutes to take the trash out. Spelling tests need to be in the grade book before the end of the marking period.

The door buzzer sounded and Y/N nearly jumped out of her skin. Running a hand through her hair and cringing at the greasiness, she crossed to the intercom and pushed the button to talk.

“Yes?”

“Hey!” Spencer’s chipper voice crackled through the speaker. “I tried calling you but couldn’t get through.”

Y/N was immediately torn between relief and panic. She was desperately in need of a hug and his company, but she was also mortified imagining what Spencer would think about the state of her apartment, the state of her life. “Y/N?” His voice broke through her musing.

“Yeah, sorry!” She tried to school her voice into something resembling normalcy. “Sorry, I—my phone died and I just— well, yeah.”

There was a pause, and then a tentative, “Can you buzz me in?”

“Oh, um.” Y/N turned and surveyed the apartment. There was nothing to be done. If she said no, Spencer would know for sure that something was wrong. “Sure, yeah yeah, hang on. Just—just a minute.”

Y/N moved quickly around the space and gathered the jackets and shoes into her arms. She fumbled with the door handle of the coat closet, tossing them in haphazardly and closing the door. There was no time to do much of anything else. She jogged back to the intercom, pressing the door button and then roping her hair up into a bun, hoping she could mask how dirty it was. She could hear Spencer coming up the squeaky stairs and felt her eyes start to water. She tilted her head back to keep the tears at bay.

Even Spencer’s knocking sounded happy. And of course that only made Y/N feel worse. She plastered on her best smile and opened the door. “Hi.”

“Hey!” Spencer stepped past Y/N, kissing her cheek and dropping his bag as he entered the apartment. “We had a paperwork day, and I write reports about as fast as I read, so I’m always done early. How was your day?”

“Um, you know, it was ok.”

Spencer’s eyes tracked over her face. “Did something happen?”

“No, no, I just wasn’t feeling great this morning. I called in, just hung around here.”

“You could have called me.” Spencer stepped closer. “How are you feeling now? What were your symptoms?”

“I’m fine. I was just, um—just really exhausted.”

Spencer studied her face a moment. “What’s going on?”

“Hmm? Nothing. Nothing, I’m fine.” Y/N cursed her wavering voice for betraying her emotions.

“Y/N, you have never once, in all the time I’ve known you, failed to answer your phone. I almost thought you were going to tell me to go away before you buzzed me up.” He put his hands in his pockets. “Did I— Did I do something to make you upset?”

Y/N closed her eyes, feeling more awful by the minute. Of course Spencer would worry it was his fault. “No, no, Spence, not at all. I just—um.” The genuine concern on Spencer’s face was enough to have it all spilling out. “I get like this sometimes. I can’t focus on anything or don’t feel motivated or whatever, so I put things off, and then they build up until there’s so much to do that I don’t know where to start, so then I don’t start anything, and then I feel bad about being lazy and not getting things done, and I get so overwhelmed that all I can do is sleep for like, fourteen hours like I did today, and then the whole day is gone and I still haven’t accomplished anything I was supposed to—”

“Whoa, whoa, c’mere.” Y/N hadn’t even realized she was crying until Spencer pulled her into him. He locked his arms around her back so tight it almost hurt. She was vaguely aware of the volume of her sobs, but she couldn’t even bring herself to be embarrassed. It was a completely visceral moment of release, one that she might never have permitted herself without Spencer’s prompting. Now that the floodgates were open, there was no stopping the rush of everything she had allowed to build up. She spent so much of her life being the one who helped, always listening, supporting, and comforting the people around her. She was good at it, and she liked being someone that others could count on whenever they needed her. She just didn’t know how to listen to, support, and comfort herself.

Eventually, her mind and body began to slow down, plunging from the emotional high. When Spencer felt her breathing return to that consistent rhythm, he loosened his grip around her. He left one arm firmly around her waist and used his other hand to rub circles on her back.

“I’m sorry,” Y/N mumbled into his chest. “This is so stupid. Compared to the stuff you see every day—”

“No— no.” Spencer pulled back to force her eyes up. “Don’t do that. Just because horrible things happen to other people doesn’t mean that what you’re going through isn’t hard. Y/N, do you hear me? Don’t diminish your own pain because you think someone else has it worse.” He cupped her chin gently in his hand. “What can I do to help you right now?”

“You already have helped,” Y/N sniffed. “It’s okay. I’m fine.”

“Y/N... you’re not fine. And there’s nothing wrong with that. It—it’s okay to not be fine. But seeing you in pain hurts me, too. And I need to be able to do something about it.” He cradled her face in both hands. “You help me all the time. Please, let me do this for you. Let me be here for you.” After a moment, Y/N nodded and that was approval enough for Spencer. “What did you eat today?

“I um, I didn’t yet.” She sniffed. “I slept pretty late.”

“Okay, well it’s after 4:00pm. We’ve got to eat something.” Spencer ran his hands down Y/N’s arms. “I’d cook for you, but we already know how that story usually ends. How about takeout from the Indian place? They’re usually pretty quick.”

Y/N nodded again. “I need to take a shower, too.”

Spencer kissed her forehead. “You hop in the shower, and I’ll call in the order. It’ll be here by the time you’re done.”

When Y/N emerged from the bathroom, hair damp and skin smelling like lavender, the familiar aroma of curry and tandoori was drifting through the apartment. The coffee table was cleared and the kitchen table set with the takeout boxes and mugs of tea. The trash and recycling were freshly emptied. Spencer stood over the sink finishing up the last few dishes, the pots and pans already laid out to dry. He was quietly singing along to a familiar song—one of their favorites. His voice was sweet and soft and slightly off-key, and her heart panged in the best way as he sang:

Don't put the world on your shoulders 'cause you know it ain't your load to bear alone.

Y/N waited until the final notes of the song faded out, padding quietly across the kitchen floor. “You didn’t have to do all this,” Y/N said, wrapping her arms around his middle.

Spencer dried his hands before turning in her embrace. “I don’t mind. I like taking care of you. And I learned from the best.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead and spoke against her skin. “You can even have the last Jell-o.”

Y/N smiled, quick and genuine. There were moments when life crashed over her, relentless waves breaking her down into grains of sand. And in those moments, this man forever grounded her to the truth—that she was treasured and deserving and whole— all of her, just as she was.

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #criminal minds fanfiction #spencer reid imagine #criminal minds imagine #criminals minds self insert #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid angst #dr spencer reid #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fanfic #criminal minds #homoose writes

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doctorstethoscope · 3 years

Text

The Right Chapter 22 || Aaron Hotchner x Fem Reader

helloooooo besties and happy Saturday!

Read previous chapters of this fic here!

contains: canon-typical descriptions of violence and death

wordcount: 1.9k

You're passing the diamond on your chain between your fingers anxiously a few days later as you and Spencer pour over a map on the jet. You’re headed to Colorado after a family annihilator had struck twice in the same small Denver suburb. The whole town was on alert, and you needed to solve this one fast before the whole state devolved into hysteria. Hotch decided on the jet to send you, Reid and JJ to the precinct-- you and Reid will keep working on the geographic profile, and JJ will coordinate local law enforcement. He, Morgan and Emily are headed to the neighborhood to see if any of the locals had noticed anything off.

“There has to be a connection to this specific suburb. Why come ten miles outside of Denver when the city, or even a closer suburb, would be a more target-rich environment?” You floated an idea past Spencer, who nodded in agreement.

“You think he sought out these families in particular?” He asked, turning his attention to the pictures on the whiteboard.

“Not necessarily. Garcia’s still looking for a connection between the families, but so far she hasn’t found one. I think these two families were practice for something worse, or for a family that matters more to him.” You conclude, hoping more than ever that you had profiled wrong.

“If that’s the case, our presence here might trigger the unsub to escalate,” he points out with a grimace.

“Or, hopefully, it will send him into hiding.”

“We’ll never find him if he does that.”

“We’re gonna have to.” You sigh, pulling your attention back towards the map. You pour over it, certain that if you look just a little closer, the answer will jump out at you, but it doesn’t.

Geographic profiles are always helpful, and you and Spencer were great at them, but they rarely solved cases on their own. The reality of the situation is that without any info on the unsub or the connection between the victims, you were essentially trying to create something out of nothing. You push your chair out from the table, deciding to give your mind and your eyes a break, when your phone starts to ring. It’s Garcia.

“Oh, you’re just my favorite person.” You said into the phone by way of greeting, hoping that she’s going to present you with the missing piece that will make all of these seemingly unrelated pieces of information make sense together.

“Careful, peach! There’s someone else on the line who might object to that,” Garcia warns you.

“What do you have for us, Penelope?” Aaron asks.

“So, the Sutton and Mack families have more in common than we thought-- not so much socioeconomically, but their kids were both enrolled at the local high school, although different ages, and the moms were on the PTA together.”

“Were they friends? The kids, or the moms for that matter?” You ask immediately.

“It doesn’t really look like it, but I’m going to keep digging,” she tells you.

“And no connection between the fathers?” Hotch asks.

“Nope, Mr. Sutton was an attorney and Mr. Mack was a cab driver. Doesn’t seem like they ever would have met.” She tells you both.

“Garcia, do me a favor and make sure Mr. Sutton wasn’t in Mr. Mack’s cab within the last month or so. Let us know when you have more.”

“Oh, sir, before you both go, there’s one more thing.” She blurts out before Aaron can hang up the phone. “It’s about Josh.”

You take a sharp breath in, and Spencer’s in tune to you immediately, his head jerking up from the maps, looking you over to make sure you’re okay.

“What is it?” Hotch asks, sounding every bit as tense as you feel.

“Josh was arrested this morning. Busted for possession during a traffic stop,” She tells you and you let out a sigh of relief.

“That’s… that’s great news.” You say.

“I thought you’d both like to know.” Garcia tells you.

“Anything else?” Hotch asks, and you're perplexed by his lack of response to such a good update.

“No, that’s all for now. I’ll call you back as soon as I have more on the case.” She says, and the line clicks.

“What was that about?” Spencer asks, bringing you back to reality, and you share the info from Garcia about the victims. You can tell that he knows that there’s more, but he doesn’t press and you don’t offer.

“If both the kids and the moms knew each other, we could be looking at a bullied kid or a woman scorned.” You theorize.

“A woman wouldn’t kill the kids, at least not a mother. And if the woman wasn’t from the PTA, why target these moms in particular?” Spencer argues, and you agree.

“Could be a man, too. Maybe he’s jealous that he doesn’t have the picture-perfect family he’s destroying.”

‘That’s more likely. Although with nothing connecting two husbands, we’ll have a hard time profiling a man if that’s the case.”

“Okay, so for now we focus on the kids until we find something that pulls us another way. You want to take the Macks and I’ll work on the Suttons?”

“Will do.”

You work in silence for a couple more hours until Hotch, Morgan and Emily return.

“Anything helpful?” JJ asks, coming into the room behind them.

“The moms were friendly, but not necessarily friends. The kids mostly hung out in separate social circles, it seems.” Morgan informs you all.

“Any obvious power imbalances between the kids groups, or bullying?” You asked.

“None that any of the kids we interviewed brought up.” Emily tells you.

“None of the moms mentioned it either-- and they’d be more likely to bring it up than the kids would.” Aaron tells you.

“So we’ve got a whole lot of nothing.” JJ concludes, and you sigh.

You all continue to work for a few more hours-- putting together profiles of each of the members of the families that ultimately bring you no closer to finding the unsub.

“We’ll be back here first thing tomorrow morning-- there’s nothing else we can do tonight.” Hotch concludes as he pins the last index card to the cork board. “Let’s head to the hotel and get some rest.”

Despite the exhaustion that has soaked its way deep into your bones, you and the rest of the team pull yourselves out of your chairs and towards the SUVs. You nearly sink into the leather, and if he wasn’t such a stark professional, you might have asked him to carry you up to your hotel room. He did, however, offer you a very gentlemanly hand to help you out of the car, and wrap his arm around your waist as the two of you trudged your way into the elevator and down the hall towards your room. You collapse onto the mattress as soon as you make it through the door, and Aaron chuckles at you, taking a moment to brush his teeth and change. When he settles on top of the covers next to you, you speak up, although hadn’t really intended to do so.

“Aaron, can I ask you something?”

“You can ask me anything, my love,” Aaron mumbles like it’s the easiest thing in the world as he leans over to set the hotel alarm clock that sits on the bedside table.

“When Garcia told us that Josh was arrested… you didn’t seem happy.” You said, decidedly not a question. He answers you anyway, shifting towards you to look you in the eye before he speaks up.

“I’m sorry honey. I’m relieved, of course I am. I was just focused on the case this morning. Maybe I haven’t fully processed it yet,” he confesses. “But of course I’m happy for you. I would have been happier to arrest him myself, but this is just as well.” He tells you with a rueful smirk.

He’s lying, and you can see it in his face. Maybe lying is a strong word, but there is definitely more to it than he’s telling you. “You’re sure? There’s nothing else that’s bothering you?” You pushed, but he shook his head, looking down at his lap.

“I’m sure, doll. I really am happy. We’ll take Jack out when we get home to celebrate.” He tells you, leaning over to kiss your temple.

“Maybe a bike ride and some ice cream? I haven’t been out on the bike with him since he got his training wheels off.” You suggested.

“Sounds perfect,” he tells you, reaching to kiss you again and moving to wrap his arms around you, which you dodged.

“Get the bed nice and toasty for me while I change,” you smirked, rolling off the mattress and heading towards your suitcase for some pajamas.

You were back at the police station before the sun rose the next morning, pouring over the transcripts of what had come in from the tip line the night before in the hopes that you might find something useful. Your desk looked the same way it used to when you were studying for exams in the academy-- papers and highlighters scattered everywhere, color coordinated page flags littering all of your documents.

“Cupcake, if I didn’t know any better, I might think you were the serial killer,” Morgan comments with a smirk, setting a hot cup of coffee in a relatively-unoccupied patch of desk.

“Very funny, Derek.” you rolled your eyes. “I’m only letting you live because you brought me coffee. And because I’m too tired to kick you,” you told him.

“Do you want any help?” He offers, and you smile, but shake your head at him.

“No, thanks. I’ve got a pretty strict organizational system going on over here, if you hadn’t noticed,” you chuckle. “But you can come to the medical examiner’s office with me in an hour or so?”

“It’s a date, mama.” He confirms, rapping his knuckles against your desk before going back to his own workspace. You flip through a few more pages, leaving scribbled notes and wayward highlighter in the margins, before you notice something and call Garcia.

“Good morning, peach! What can I do you for?” Garcia asks in her usual cheery tone, clearly far ahead of you in terms of cups of coffee consumed.

“Morning,” you say to her. “Listen, something came in through the tip line last night, and it’s probably nothing, but I just have this feeling…”

“Lay it on me,” she tells you encouragingly.

“So, Mark Vexper is a long-term sub at the high school where all of the kids went. He didn’t go to work the day after both of the murders. He had a scheduled personal day the first day, and he called in sick the second. Like I said, probably just a coincidence--”

“No stone left unturned, kitten! I’m on it. Buzz you when I have more.” She says, hanging up unceremoniously.

“Good catch,” Hotch says from behind you, and you startle.

“It’s probably just a coincidence,” you brush the compliment off.

“Maybe, but we won’t know until we look into it,” he tells you. “You feeling okay?” He asks.

“I just really want to catch this guy and get home to our boy.” You tell him, and his heart warms. Looking around surreptitiously, he drops a quick kiss to the crown of your head.

“Me, too, angel. We’ll get him.” He tells you.

An unexplainable chill runs up your spine, and you have a strange feeling that Aaron’s not talking about this unsub.

tagging: @romanogersendgame @wanniiieeee @zheezs14 @greeneyedblondie44 @angelic-kisses13 @baumarvel @ssamorganhotchner @ijustwannaread2k19 @rexit-mo @shmaptainhotchnersmain @qtip-blog @averyhotchner @the-modernmary @itsmytimetoodream @choppa-style @hotforhotchner11 @infinite-tides @isthatme-thatsme @g-l-pierce @bakugouswh0r3 @ssahotchie @sleepyreaderreads

#aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner x reader #hotch x reader #aaron hotchner x y/n #hotch x y/n #aaron hotchner x you #hotch x you #aaron hotchner fic #criminal minds #criminal minds fic

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bigskydreaming · 3 years

Note

If you were editor of Nightwing's book ever since at least the start of Rebirth to today and you were given free reign, what would your story mandates?

Oh no, this is dangerous. LOL. Hmm, I have no idea what to shoot for here, so I'll try to keep it to ten. That's reasonable right? Ten is good. Yeah. Is fine.

Okay, so, in no particular order:

1) Let Dick be competent 101. None of this him having to play hype man for every other character to pop up in HIS title bullshit. Nope. That's not what they're there for. He's the lead man, LET HIM BE THE LEADING MAN. Like sure, everyone has their areas of expertise, he doesn't need or have to be the best at everything, blah blah blah.....but its about the nuance. All of that is kinda lip service because the thing is, you don't go into MOST comic books and NEED to be reminded of that because the lead characters of those books are all constantly getting saved or shown up or chastised by every guest star in their books, you know? This is a very weird, very niche phenomenon very specific to Dick's character, and I'm super over it. I'm here to read about the guy who has literally been doing this longer than most superheroes twice his age. The guy who's been doing this since before he hit double digits. The born acrobat. The destined ultimate warrior or whatever of Gotham's Ornithological Society Of Murder and Pretentiousness. Gimme that guy. And that guy doesn't need to be 'humbled' every other page, because the thing is, he's not some egomaniac to begin with so the everpresent need to humble him doesn't actually come off as humbling! It just comes off as pandering and not even to actual fans of the actual character, so its like.....wyd DC.

2) Let other people take responsibility for their own crap with Dick rather than always just expecting a mea culpa from him. I'm so unbelievably tired of the words I'm sorry from Dick. I love personal accountability, so I never thought I'd have to say this about a character, but enoooooough. They have made it completely in character for this dude to apologize to everyone ELSE for being brainwashed, getting amnesia, being KILLED, like.....the amount of things he's groveled for forgiveness for when he didn't actually do a damn thing wrong or worse yet, was the ACTUAL victim of is like....pretty damn staggering. And meanwhile, there's nary a peep of apology from the people who regularly insult or belittle him, get physically violent with him, take advantage of him or take him for granted, etc, etc, etc. Its entirely too one-sided and imbalanced, and the pendulum needs to swing the other direction, like YESTERDAY, and in a fairly big way, IMO.

3) None of this Baby's First Social Justice Awakening 101 crap. I'm sorry, but no. Especially not when you go out of your way to acknowledge that Dick is Romani, only to then turn around and act like he's only JUST had his eyes opened to an awareness of like, classism and poverty and the real struggles people face day to day? Sorry not sorry, but especially for other white writers out there, do not use people of color as self-inserts for dipping a toe into Learning To See Past Privilege. And especially when talking about a character who has a history of being actively abused and hurt by the system and institutions of power, or hell, even leaving out that particular origin story, who has still been out on the streets helping people since he was a literal child. You can not tell me that this is his first face to face experience with social issues, or the first time he's had the inclination to try and address those head on. (And its also particularly egregious that the people second-guessing Dick in his own title and giving him reality checks or acting like they have more of an awareness of all this than he does like, happen to all be white? OPTICS. LEARN ABOUT THEM. COMMON SENSE. GET SOME.)

Know what would actually be a better way to approach this? Flashbacks. Show us Dick running into situations that make him think back to a case when he was still Robin, when he and Batman had started fighting over their approaches to things, actually SHOW us those conflicts and how their viewpoints had started diverging, and how much of that was due to Dick not having the same experiences as Bruce, or the same standing in society, no matter what house he lived in. THEN you can jump BACK to the present, with the reminder/awareness that this is something that isn't NEWS to Dick, but that he in the past felt he was forced to make his peace with as something he wasn't in a position to do that much about....only NOW, he's in a very DIFFERENT position, and suddenly it just hits him how he's still acting like he did when he was limited in resources or in having to be part of a chain in command or having to factor other responsibilities into things....now he ACTUALLY has the power and the resources to make meaningful change in the ways he ALWAYS wanted to, but maybe just needed time to figure out HOW.

Like you know what would have made Shawn Tsang's story arc so much better? If Dick didn't just remember her as the Pigeon's one time teenage sidekick he'd briefly fought as a kid, but like.....if he remembered her as someone he and Bruce had FOUGHT about. Because he didn't agree with sending someone to juvie for defacing public property as a form of political protest, when it was someone's LIFE who was going to be irrevocably damaged by that while the damage to the city could be fixed with a check, and what made Dick any more deserving of Bruce's leniency and faith in his potential or underlying goodness than Shawn?

But he was still a kid himself back then, and when Bruce responded with his usual conviction, talking about the importance about rule of law and etc etc, Dick just didn't have the words to get through to him then, to get him to understand that this wasn't just Dick not getting it because he was too young, it was BRUCE not getting it, that Dick was literally just saying well he wasn't too young to have been in juvie himself, and of the two of them, he's the one who has experience there so why was Bruce's opinion on whether this was the punishment that fit the crime the one that got to hold more weight here? When Dick's the one who knows what that punishment actually LOOKS like beyond the abstract, for whom it was a reality that still haunts him in ways that even defacing a few statues of some rich old fucks doesn't deserve?

Or hell, go back FURTHER than when he was Robin. Idk where any of those posts are, but I've always wanted to see something where Dick maybe runs into someone he remembers from his time in juvie, maybe a guard who is like, the source of the reasons Dick mistrusts figures of authority and is so hung up on independence and not being under anyone's thumb, or maybe someone who was in there with him, another kid who looked out for him when he didn't have to, etc. Gimme Dick tackling head-on his firsthand awareness that there's no rehabilitation to be found in a jail for kids, when most of those kids don't even need rehabilitation in the first place and only did what they did in order to survive or escape from worse situations or like, were there purely because of racist cops, etc. Let him go after THAT system, driven by personal experiences and memories that maybe only hit him in full after recovering his memories from the Ric Grayson arc, like they're things that he put in a box in his mind a long, long time ago because he didn't have the spoons or reserves to deal with them when he was a kid still so traumatized in so many ways, like, something had to give and so he put all those memories away for another day and just....never got back to them because life kept hitting him with new and fresh trauma every week.

But now something has him thinking back to those early days in Gotham, and reminding him that not everyone had a Bruce Wayne willing and able to give them an out from that place or acrobatic skills to escape it on their own, and like. You want to do something about the cycles of violence in Gotham and Bludhaven? Why not start with the places that literally MANUFACTURE cruelty on an institutional level, that teach kids that no matter what they did to get put there, even if that was nothing at all, they're all going to be treated the same way and given no reason NOT to do whatever it took to be top dog in a dog eat dog world by the time they got out.

There's SO many better approaches to social awareness in the Batbooks than what we're seeing, and like. Sheesh. The bar is way too low.

4) On a related note, if I'm editor of the Nightwing book, the FIRST thing I'm doing is making it a priority to find a writer of color for that book, ideally someone of Rom descent. Its waaaaay past time to let a Romani writer take the reins on Dick, Wanda, Pietro or Doom, aka some of the only prominent Romani characters out there? You can't tell me that there aren't talented writers who identify as Roma who would be more than willing to add their perspective to Dick's archive of narratives, and if an editor's gotta go looking for them? Go fucking look. DC and its fans have milked a lot of mileage out of the idea of Dick being Romani with very little in the way of nuanced storytelling to show for it in the past twenty years, and if DC wants to trot out little reminders that Dick is Romani every couple years, like in the form of a freaking line that has no follow up or expansion to any degree and is offset by an internal monologue that otherwise reads as incredibly privileged, the least they can do is TRY to expand on that with the narrative perspective of someone they claim to be representing via that character.

And no, this isn't gatekeeping, this is prioritizing. Its not about preventing other writers from writing this character, like just for the hell of it, its about being proactive about finding a writer who can write specific aspects of this character that have long gone unaddressed or poorly represented. And like. Okay. Its not easy breaking into the comics industry for anyone, but its particularly not easy for marginalized writers. Most every major comic book company just recites 'make your own stuff first and then show us that' but when you're a writer specifically, finding a compatible artist to partner with on creator-owned indie stuff first, when those artists are in the same position as you are and apologetically and understandably tend to have to take paying work over yours if you can't pay except on the back end, like....there are a lot of hurdles to getting your start in comic books, and while there are more and more marginalized writers in comics these days, DC and Marvel kinda fucked up, because you know what?

After being told 'make your own first, then we'll talk,' writers DID do just that....but then found out that well, due to the ease of online distribution and access these days, for any writers who CAN find an artist to partner with, its a hell of a lot easier to get their content out there these days WITHOUT a major publisher behind them.....and for a lot of marginalized writers in particular, its worth it to keep full creative control in exchange for smaller circulation. Especially when they don't have to deal with editors 'softening' their work to make it more palatable for audiences that quite frankly aren't necessarily their primary target. So yeah, marginalized voices are becoming more and more present in comics, but Marvel and DC for the most part are keeping the same voices centered they always have, and what these voices have to say is becoming less and less relevant and outdated. Because much like this arc from Taylor, even when they DO dip their toes into story matter that's of interest to wider audiences, they're doing so to a degree that still puts them years behind the conversations everyone else is having.

5) The same holds true of disability representation. I stopped reading Taylor's run for a lot of reasons but his way of responding to people unhappy with his depiction of Babs was a key one. If I'm editor on a book, and someone tweets at one of my writers that their depiction of a disabled character was hurtful because it feels like they're doubling back on everything Babs has ever said about not being defined by or ashamed of her disability and now its being treated like a dirty little secret, and that writer's response is essentially to just laugh at them and say there's nothing wrong or ableist about their writing of a disabled person, TO a concerned disabled person? That writer's ass is getting fired. Full stop.

Either you give a shit about this stuff or you don't. Don't pay your readers lip service about how important social issues are to you and how much you care about using superhero narratives to inspire people on these matters if you're gonna turn around and show your ass the second you don't feel comfortable and prioritized by the conversation, like it wouldn't exist without your oh so valuable contributions. ESPECIALLY if you don't identify as sharing the same identity of the marginalized character you're writing. You are a guest in someone else's lived experiences at that point, and you think you've got the right to belittle and talk down to the people who LIVE THERE? Fuck off, my dude.

6) Re-center Dick as someone who the superhero community RESPECTS. I love seeing Dick depicted as someone who has an awareness of his own limitations and an appreciation for what others bring to the table, and so I'm not opposed to him calling on others when he needs to.....but I also would like to see more of the opposite. But not in the way we usually see it these days, where he's asked to come help with a crisis and then usually second-guessed the whole way, and then sent back home without so much as a thank you when its done. Yawn. Sorry. I've read that story by now.

You know what story arc I freaking LOVED as a kid, back in the 90s? In Green Lantern, when Kyle Rayner first became the sole GL, one of his very early arcs, before he ever joined the JLA or anything....was him realizing how little he knew about being a superhero. He was like, my predecessors all had a full fledged CORPS to teach them everything they needed to know, but I had a few lines of exposition from a funny little blue guy in a red pillowcase and then I was off to the races. That's not good enough. There's so much I don't know about being a hero, I don't even KNOW what I still need to know.

So he went on kinda a superhero training roadtrip. He went to Metropolis to ask Superman for advice, he went to Batman to learn from Batman and Robin (Tim at the time). He went to Wonder Woman, Sentinel (Alan Scott, the first Green Lantern), etc, etc. And in the end, Kyle very much became his own kind of hero who wasn't just a pastiche of all those other heroes and the advice they gave him, but like....this put him on the road to that.

And I'd love to see something like that happen in Dick's solo title. We've seen him train in a team setting, we've seen him train the other Robins.....I'd love to see like, young superheroes from OTHER books, not ones created by the title, but like names people actually recognize from other franchises, like, guest star in Nightwing's book to learn from HIM, specifically. I wanna see something where Wally looks at the latest speedster and is like, you know what, if you really wanna be the best hero you can possibly be, then Nightwing's who you gotta go to, because there's no one I trust to make a better hero out of someone than him. I want the newest kid on the JLA block to worry that people aren't taking him seriously because of his age or experience, and he's always hearing them talk about Nightwing and how young he was when he started and so if anyone knows something about how to gain the respect of your older superhero peers, that's the guy to talk to.

Gimme Dick's couch being crashed on at various times by a half dozen new or upcoming young superheroes who all heard or figured out that if they really want to up their superhero game, Nightwing's the guy to see.

7) Bring back Bea. There's no long paragraph expansion on this, its really simply. Bring back Bea. She was one of the freshest breaths of air in Dick's supporting cast in ages, most of the current run is based off her character direction in the first place, she's literally the best suited TO help Dick in this venture, and the reasons they gave for writing her out of Dick's life were all bullshit and they just wanted to focus on his previous relationships, which would be fine if they didn't fall into the same two endless cycles of bring back up, go nowhere with, awkwardly avoid each other for years, rinse and repeat. Like. Bring back Bea, please and thank you, the end.

8) Focus on new villains. Heartless is meh, but the idea of new villains is still better IMO than rehashing Blockbuster, Zucco, etc. Like, nostaglia ain't it. If I want to read Blockbuster fucking up Dick's life, I can do that. They're called back issues. The thing is, love it or hate it, the Blockbuster arc WAS iconic. It left its mark. And anything that doesn't leave just as much of a mark, if they're going to bring him up again, is just gonna be a waste of time, you know? It'll just dilute his overall presence when like, what he was - worked fine as is. We don't need Round Two.

The trick to good villains, IMO, is they have to speak to a fight that needs fighting.

What I mean by that is....the best villains are those who resonate on a more instinctive level because they embody something that already exists in a reader's mind as a conflict that needs fighting. Like, if superheroes exist, if the embodiment of larger than life presences and forces devoted to protecting the world from various things are real....then their villains need to embody the kinds of fights or conflicts that NEED larger than life figures to combat them, at least on a one to one level.

Look at Superman and Lex Luthor. Superman at his core embodies the strength of community. He's the ultimate hero of the people, his essence is that he was the last survivor of a doomed race who was raised by two honest, hard working people to see the beauty in just being ONE of them, in using what he had on behalf of all of them and not just himself. In contrast, Lex Luthor is basically the embodiment of capitalist greed, of excess, of the entitlement of being able to have anything with a snap of your fingers and thus assuming that gives you divine mandate to make the kinds of choices that he sees as only his right to make.

He hates Superman, ultimately, because Superman is the WRONG savior of the people. He wants their only savior to be HIM, half the time he honestly believes he's saving the world FROM Superman, but just as often he's perfectly content to be the villain and not shy about it....because Lex Luthor's ultimate motivation is he wants everyone to know when he's dead and gone that LEX LUTHOR WAS HERE. He genuinely doesn't care WHAT his impact or legacy is at the end of the day, just that it exists and it overshadows most everything else...because all that really matters to him is the irrefutable proof that HE mattered. And thus at their cores, Superman and Lex are perfectly opposed. Ideally situated to eternally be in conflict, their own forever war, because their core natures are incompatible. They CAN'T compromise, without compromising themselves and essentially ending up as someone totally other than who and what they are already.

And you can go down the list. The Joker is the chaos to Batman's order, while Mr. Freeze is the stagnancy of that order taken too far, he's what you get when you freeze everything in your grief and refuse to let anything go on, anything new grow, because that would mean having to admit once and for all that what you're mourning is really gone. Two-Face is the ultimate embodiment of Man vs Self, a once good man at war with his own worse nature, and reminding everyone who looks at him how easily they could fall to the same fate.

And so on and so on. What Dick needs, is more of the same. Like, as much as I'm not a huge fan of Talon stories, I maintain that the Court of Owls were a great foil for him - just they tend to be poorly used in canon as well. But I also think how poorly they come off in canon has a lot to do with canon not really touching on WHY they're such a perfect foil for Dick....and that's Dick's history with being outside the system, mistreated and even exploited by the system. Because the Court, their core concept, is they ARE the system. They are entrenched, enfranchised, institutional power, passed down through generations, dynastic control that is a perfect counterpart to the dynastic power of the Wayne family, embodied in its youngest generation in the form of Bruce's FOUND family, the children he adopted regardless of whether or not his peers found them deserving of that honor. The Court, and their entire....thing...about the Gray Son, is the entitled fury of those denied something they deem theirs simply because they WANT it, and who will burn the whole world down rather than admit defeat or let someone else have it instead.

And that resonates. It could resonate a lot MORE if DC would actually lean into those concepts and allow Dick to explore how the Court are nothing he's not used to, they're literally made up of the same people who have looked down on him ever since he came to Gotham, but now they're actually a face and a name put to all those attitudes, something he can literally FIGHT BACK AGAINST. The Court are literally human-sized embodiments of everything and everyone who's tried to confine Dick since his parents' deaths, tried to define him without his permission, tried to make him other or lesser than who and what he is.....and who thus now exist in a form that Dick can literally BATTLE. So that he doesn't HAVE to just take this stuff lying down.

Thanks to the Court, he doesn't HAVE to just passively accept it, that this is just how life is, that some people are going to view him this way and think this about him and there's nothing he can do about it. He CAN do something about it, in superhero stories. He can kick its ASS, in the form of the Court of Owls and everything its members think about him and intend for him. He can refuse to bow down to them, to accept their mark on him. He can say lol, no, and then blow their shit sky high, ideally with a little help from his family. He can BEAT them, in this incarnated form, and in doing so, even though he can't beat everything they stand for and represent, that victory still matters, still means something symbolic to readers it resonates with.

And that's what we need more of. Villains created specifically to embody concepts that are diametrically opposed to Dick and what he represents. The system, yes, but also villains who embody the kind of tyranny and control he fights back against in his constant battles for autonomy and self control. Villains who embody the 'new hopes' of a second generation just like Dick himself is the focal point of the hopes embodied by the second generation of heroes. I'm actually not the hugest fan of multiversal constant Dick Grayson, but I might like it more if he had an opposite number there, someone he was specifically contrasted with. Idk.

But you get it.

9) Dick having a social life. Gimme the Titans and his siblings showing up JUST to show up. We have room enough for at least a couple pages every other issue where we just get to see these characters having some breathing room, taking a beat to stop and be something other than just a superhero, to be human as well. There's more to life than 24/7 fighting, even for them, and that's largely been lost in modern superhero comics, which kinda sucks, because that was what made most of the more iconic and lasting dynamics between various characters like, STAND the test of time. The larger than life battles between good and evil might be what many of us come to superhero comics FOR, but the relatable back-and-forths and ups and downs of their private lives spent with friends and family tends to be what keeps most of us coming BACK. And lately its all just mission, mission, mission, and I'm like blah, blah, blah and its like, meh, meh, meh. Y'know? Give the guy some down time, and let his friends come spend it with him.

10) Boone. This is purely self-indulgent, but if you know anything about me, you know my obsession with Robin: Year One, Dick's brief time at Vengeance Academy, and the hate/hate relationship he has with his brief frenemy from that period, Boone aka Shrike. This character has SOOOOO much potential to be Dick's true archnemesis and rival, and like. *Sobs* I can't get into it all again. Its too much. I can't do it.

Okay, I absolutely can. And will, probably. But like. Later.

BONUS ROUND:

Other thing I would absolutely insist upon if I were Nightwing editor....

GET THAT FUCKING MEME SHIRT ABOUT BRUCE SLAPPING DICK THE FUCK OUTTA HERE.

Like. Seriously. WHAT THE HELL. Why would you double down on THAT? Why is Babs STILL wearing it? (Last I checked, like I think I saw it in a scan from last issue? I'm pretty sure its still there? If not, forget this entire rant, and I am very embarrassed. Okay not that embarrassed. I don't really care if I'm wrong here but like, in case I'm not)...

WHY. Who thought that was funny? No, seriously, on behalf of any other abuse survivors who like me are SERIOUSLY not amused, who the FUCK thinks its FUNNY to have one of Dick's best friends sporting a shirt that no matter what it represents IN universe, to readers OUT of universe, is always going to call to mind the fact that this meme only freaking EXISTS because of all the times DC has obliviously and without acknowledgment written Bruce abusing his children, including the BFF that Babs is literally wearing that right in front of.

Like omg do you hate her, DC? What other possible reason could you have for thinking that would be a cute, funny thing for her to wear around the guy getting SLAPPED, by his DAD, in your shirt's iconography.

Okay I'm done.

LOL.

Sorry, that last one was brewing for awhile. Deep breaths. Woo.

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whump-a-la-mode · 3 years

Text

Escape: Part 2

This is a bit different from what I usually do. @equestrianwritingsstuff recently posted a one-off piece, and I got a little bit obsessed with it. So, with her permission, this is a continuation! The original post can be found here.

Summary: After being captured and forced into a torturous reform program, Villain attempts escape-- but throws it all away to save the life of his foe.

CW//Attempted conditioning, denial of food, denial of water, intentional self injury, broken glass, blood, mentions of car crashes, collars, chains, firearms, attempted murder

“Okay.” The sigh was sharp, enough so to make Villain bite their own tongue in apprehension. “Let’s try another one.”

Nosey shuffled through the stack of papers piled before them on the desk. Villain glanced down at the pile-- noting its sheer height. He wasn’t expected to go through all those, right? No, that would certainly take all night.

“Here.” The hero before him settled on one of the pages, picking it up. “This one should be easy.”

Villain muttered something under his breath, laden with swears and insults.

“What was that?”

“Nothing.”

“Mhm.” A haughty exhale. “Here. If you get this one on the first try, you can go back to your cell and... I don’t know, do whatever it is you do. I’m tired of looking at your face.”

Back to his cell. That made Villain perk up, nearly straining against the cuffs holding him firmly to the table.

“Okay, let’s just get this over with. Here’s the scenario. You’re walking along the street, and you see someone hit by a car. The car does not stop, and the victim is thrown onto the sidewalk in front of you. They are clearly alive, but severely injured. Do you:

A: Use your healing powers to treat their injuries.

B: Search the surrounding area for a civilian with medical training

C: Contact the Heroic Civilian Treatment Team to take the victim to hospital.”

“Um...”

Villain felt the hairs on the back of his neck stick up, despite being half wetted down with sweat.

If someone had been struck by a vehicle, the obvious answer would be to help them as quickly as possible. As soon as injuries like that were inflicted, the clock was already ticking.

The heroes were terribly resistant to him using his powers in any situation-- that was somewhat the whole point of the Villain Containment Practices. But in this case, it would certainly be an exception, right? Their whole job was supposed to be protecting life.

“Uh- I- I think A.” He at last croaked out. “Use my healing powers to stabilize them, then find a civilian doctor to get them to the hospital.”

Nosey sighed.

“A situation like this should always be deferred to us. Using your powers is never the answer.”

They placed down the paper, hastily rearranging the messy stack of them.

“Let’s go back to the gym. I’ll let you off with ten laps, this time.”

Villain gulped, phlegm sliding down a dry throat, as a pair of guards advanced to untie him from the table.

“C- Can I have some water? Please?”

“You’ve already lost your food privileges for the day. Do you really want to lose your water, too? You get water once you’ve earned it. For now, we’re going to the gym.

At this rate, maybe you should just become a permanent resident in our program.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The glass was mocking them.

Villain was certain of that, even as he kneeled on his cot of a bed, half delirious, half exhausted.

The glass of water sat on a small table at the bed’s end. Just a glass, hardly even filled halfway. Haphazardly placed under a faucet for a few moments without thought.

He knew he had to drink it. He didn’t have much of a choice. Tomorrow would only bring more questions, more laps, more push-ups, more lectures. It would be terrible, certainly, but the small amount of liquid would make it at least the tiniest bit more bearable. Give him the tiniest bit more strength.

It was all he had. He’d spent the day watching his classmates-- that’s what the heroes called them, they were fellow prisoners, at best-- eating their meals, while he sat at an empty table.

Just because he had started a fight didn’t mean he should have to starve. Besides, they had it coming. Stuck up ass.

Villain frowned, cracked and dry lips sticking together, and reached forth to pick up the glass.

He needed to drink it, but as soon as he did, it would be gone. He would have to earn the next few drops through countless tears and buckets of sweat. At the very least, right now, he had control. He had a choice.

Not a very good one, but...

When had he gotten to this point? Having a crisis in a barren room over a half-glass of water? He was supposed to be a villain. Others were supposed to fear him.

Besides...

Villain’s hand shook, water sloshing, even as he was careful not to lose a single, precious drop.

He didn’t know how much longer he could survive like this. Endless exercise, endless questions. Maybe they would never let him out. Maybe they wanted him to die here. Hell, they probably wanted him to die here. One less problem, drained of strength until they no longer had enough to breathe.

This was one long, drawn out execution. Even if it wasn’t, he could hardly imagine a situation in which they allowed his parting. In which they considered him at long last “reformed.”

Villain had to leave. He had to. He was leaving here either in a glorious escape, or in a body bag. Or, worse: In a hero’s uniform.

He downed the water, feeling the heavenly moisture fill his throat. It was the best thing he had ever tasted, despite the fact that water had no taste to it.

It was far less pleasant than what would come next. He knew from unfortunate experience that there were only two things that could get him out of this cell: Going to ‘class,’ or having an emergency.

The first wouldn’t work.

There was no camera in the room, he had searched long and hard to confirm that fact. At the very least, he didn’t have to do much in the way of acting. Not yet.

He swung his unsteady legs over the edge of the bed, standing, stumbling halfway to the end table.

Before throwing the glass to the floor.

It was a miracle, that the heroes allowed him glass dishware. The cup exploded, a thousand shining pieces scattering about the floor.

Now, for the unpleasant part.

Villain gritted his teeth, throwing himself onto the broken glass, ensuring that it dug into his flesh, his legs and his palms. At the very least, his screams were genuine.

“Help! Help!” He wailed. “I’m hurt! Help, please help! Oh god, that’s my blood, oh god oh god...”

There was no camera in the room, but the door was plenty thin, and in this facility, screams carried far. To ensure this, he let out a few more cries, carrying them on until the door lock was frantically turned, the door thrown open on its hinges.

Hero’s inhale was quick enough that she nearly started choking on her own breath.

“V-Villain, oh god, that’s- That’s your blood?”

Of course it was, dimwit. It was flooding from his skin, wasn’t it?

“Y- Yes. I tripped, um, oh god, oh...”

The swaying and slurring of his words were not pretend, either. Dehydration and hunger made sure of that.

“Can you walk?” How was there so much concern in her tone?

“Don’t know.”

“We need to try. I can carry you, but- We need to get to the infirmary.”

The hero hurried to their foe’s side, arms under his shoulders helping him to his feet. He could walk on his own, not well, but he could-- though Hero had no need to know that.

“Okay.”

“It’s a pretty long walk. We can take it slow, okay?”

“Yeah.”

That was exactly what they did. Their movements were so painfully slow that at times Villain wondered whether or not they were moving at all, but, after some time, they did cover some distance. The few people awake at such an hour steered clear, seeing a villain covered in blood and wanting nothing to do with it in the slightest.

The infirmary was on the bottom floor, Villain had seen it on his way in, making note of its placement. Of course, Hero wasn’t about to make him struggle down all those stairs. No. She went straight for the elevator, stepping into the isolated box with her foe and letting the doors closed.

This was it. The elevator ride would only last a few moments-- it was now or never.

As subtly as he possibly could, Villain placed his hand upon his injured leg, the minty thrum of healing powers knitting together the slices. Though, it did nothing to dry the blood that had already seeped out.

He was healed, and Hero was alone. Trapped.

By all accounts, it was a fight that Villain should have lost. He was exhausted, stomach left empty for far too long, and veins severely lacking in blood. Hero had the benefit of being well-fed, well-rested, all of it.

But that explanation left out one thing.

Villain was desperate.

He watched the small, digital screen count down the floors.

4...

3...

2...

Now!

The strike may not have been powerful, but it was aided by the sheer speed at what it was launched. Villain’s fist collided with Hero’s temple, knocking her sideways, stumbling. He wasted not a millisecond in preparing his next strike, hearing the crack of a cheekbone beneath his knuckles.

Hero let out a cry, holding her face where a bruise would certainly bloom in the hour. Limbs still soaked in scarlet, Villain swung out with his leg, catching Hero in the knee, sending her to the elevator floor with a hollow crash.

The elevator doors opened.

It was the fastest Villain had ever run in his life, he was certain of that. His legs were little more than blurs of red as he sprinted forth, tearing through a lobby that was nearly barren. An infinitesimal distance between him and freedom.

“Oh no you don’t!”

His legs came out from under him, his face striking the tile floor, almost certainly giving him an identical blessure to Hero.

The voice-- it was Nosey’s stupid, avian squawk. And, too, their polished boot struck Villain’s back.

“You really thought it’d be that easy?”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The metal chafed horribly against Villain’s neck, somehow making his throat’s desiccation more acute. He laid his head against the thin carpet, spine aching terribly. The movement shifted the chain latched onto his collar, the slight clinking noise making his heartbeat stutter.

Tied up like a dog.

“Is this really necessary?” He grumbled, shifting himself to a sitting position, gazing upwards.

To Hero’s bed. Her legs dangled off the side of the mattress, hands gripped into fists around gathered bedsheets.

“We’ve been over this. That cell was a privilege, and you’ve lost it.”

“And so you chain me to the wall like a dog.”

“Exactly. You need to be under my direct supervision.”

“Yeah, whatever. Did you really have to stick this stupid collar on me?”

“I’m no happier about this than you are. But I’m not giving you free reign of my bedroom. You already tried to kill me once tonight.”

“I wasn’t trying to kill you.”

“Whatever. Unlike you, I actually have things to do in the morning. So, if you would please let me sleep?”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

“If you do something for me first.”

“You are in the worst possible position to make demands, right now.”

Villain’s sigh tore at his throat.

“I just want some water.”

“Just that? Wait. You’re not going to smash the glass again, are you? I’m way too tired for that nonsense a second time tonight.”

“Just don’t put the water in a glass, then.”

“You actually just want water?”

“Yes.” He added rather pathetically. “Please?”

“I... Fine. Then you’ll let me sleep?”

“Mhm.”

“Fine.”

Hero stood, glancing suspiciously at her captive as she made her way across the room. As if he could do anything-- the chain was maybe three feet in length. He could barely lay his head down.

She maneuvered to her kitchenette, returning with a plastic cup-- filled to the brim with that precious liquid. She placed it before him. He was already drooling.

“That’s it?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Goodnight, Villain.”

“Goodnight.”

Was that really all it took to domesticate him? A glass of water? It hardly mattered. As soon as Hero turned off the light, bathing the room in shadow, Villain downed the liquid as though his life depended on it.

Perhaps, it did.

It wasn’t long before Hero’s steady breathing had turned to soft snoring. Villain shifted himself into the most comfortable position he could manage. Even that, however, was far from being pleasant, with the chain threatening to strangle him at any moment.

That wasn’t what kept him from sleeping, however. He needed to sleep. He knew that, he wasn’t stupid. He would need his energy for the next day of lessons, of shouted orders and lectures.

That was all his life would be from now on, wouldn’t it? Orders and exhaustion and being forced to earn the most basic of needs by answering moral quandaries incorrectly.

Villain wanted, longed, to cry. To let out all the horrible emotions that had stuck in his chest cavity, threatening to drown his lungs in sorrow. But that would break the conditions of the deal.

He had to be quiet, or else he might never again be allowed water.

It was that dread in his chest, that hopelessness, that forced him awake.

So, he laid, still, listening to Hero’s snores as his own body refused to allow him unconsciousness.

Snores, and...

Footsteps.

Footsteps? Villain tensed, holding stock still, pricking his ears for the noise. They drew louder, louder, before stopping. Stopping outside the dorm room door.

He held his breath.

The door opened gently enough that the hinges made only the slightest noise. Then, the footsteps were inside.

Villain shrunk down in the corner, making himself far smaller and quieter than anyone of his status should ever have had to be.

Two sets of footsteps. Growing louder, coming towards the bedroom. The bed.

Hero.

“Are you sure we need to do this?” An unknown voice, whispering.

“If you want this plan to work, we don’t have a choice.”

That voice, that voice was not unknown. It was loud, terribly high pitched, terribly-

Nosey.

“We really have to kill them?”

“We won’t get the chance if you keep talking. Just do it, don’t chicken out on me, now.”

“Okay, okay.”

Villain’s heartbeat shivered.

The cocking of a gun. That horrible sound, that precursor of bloodshed.

Then, the shot. Two pairs of footsteps, fleeing, slamming the door behind themselves.

Villain gulped.

It was no doubt what had happened-- if he had had any doubts, they were quickly drowned out as Hero’s breathing hitched, then quieted to an almost imperceptible level. Growing slower, weaker by the second.

They are clearly alive, but severely injured.

In the scenario, he had had three choices. But this wasn’t a training scenario.

Now, he only had two.

A: Praise his lucky stars and use the opportunity to escape. There was a fire escape, just outside the window. He would be gone into the night before anyone knew any different.

Or...

B: Do the right thing.

Villain threw himself against the chain about his neck, collar threatening to cut off his airways. He spun about, gripping the chain in clammy fingers, pulling and tugging and-

Her breathing was getting quieter, weaker.

He pulled harder, muscles straining with the effort. The chain was anchored to the wall with a spike, drilled in. There was no way he could break the chain, no way he could break the spike, but-

Villain’s heel slammed through the plaster and drywall, chain flying backwards at his face. He hardly made note of it. Spike and chain and all dragging behind him, he tore to Hero’s bedside.

It was almost fortunate, that the lights were off. He couldn’t see the extent of the wounds.

He placed his hands upon her head, that minty feeling rushing to his fingers, his palms, her skin.

Using your powers is never the answer.

No. No, that wasn’t true.

Rules didn’t matter. Training didn’t matter. All that mattered was doing the right thing.

#villain whumpee #hero villain whump #conditioned whumpee #whump community #whump

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talkfastromance4 · 3 years

Text

something part 2--calum hood

a/n: thank you for all the love on the first part!

word count: almost 4.3k

warnings: sexual situations, angst

read part one here

***

“Calum?”

Calum turns upon hearing his name, knowing it’s Y/N but then his eyes widen when he also sees Missy standing on the last step of the stairs. In his shirt. With no pants on. She also said his name and now his sharp headache is back.

“Have you seen my phone?” Missy asks then looks to Y/N. “Who’s this?”

Y/N’s eyes dart between Missy and Calum, her mouth open then she shakes her head in disbelief and turns back towards the front door.

“Y/N wait!” Calum follows her out the door, the hot cement burning his feet as he sprints. By the time he reaches her she’s already opened the door of her car. He closes it then spins her around, but she avoids his eyes. “Please, let me explain.”

“There’s nothing to explain, Cal. Last night was a mistake, we shouldn’t have done what we did. I’m not mad you hooked up with Missy, it’s fine. Let me go.”

She tries to turn around and open her door again, but Calum presses it shut while simultaneously pressing himself against her. He holds her cheek in his hand until she looks into his eyes, tears pooling inside them.

He’s taken back to his bathroom being in this same position.

“I didn’t hook up with Missy, she got sick and I offered her some clothes and we fell asleep. That’s it. And I’m not letting you go when I…when I feel like I just got you.”

He swipes at a stray tear that fell and she lets out a shaky breath.

“This is already so messy, Cal.”

“Then why did you come back?” he asks, and she averts her gaze from him catching her bottom lip between her teeth.

“Because I….”

“I heard you left with Max. If you hooked up with him then…okay, it happened. But why did you come back, Y/N?”

“Because I wanted to tell you I didn’t hook up with him. I didn’t want you thinking that what you and I did wasn’t…wasn’t something. It was more than that.”

Calum could fly with how happy her words made him.

“So, I didn’t hook up with Missy and you didn’t hook up with Max. We hooked up with only each other,” he clarifies making sure they’re on the same page.

“Yes, but we both ended up in beds with the accused hook-ups and not with each other,” she chuckles. “We’re a mess.” She places her hands on his waist.

“You slept with him?” he asks, and she rolls her eyes.

“He was too drunk to drive home so he crashed with me.”

“We’re both so nice, aren’t we?” he grins inching forward.

“Cal! Someone just threw up in the living room!” Missy shouts from the doorstep.

Calum groans and ducks his head into Y/N’s neck. Her skin is cool against his lips, he forces himself not to take a nibble and have her moan like she did the night before.

“You should go clean up that mess,” she says hugging him to her. Her hands squeeze the back of his shoulders. “Then we clean up ours.”

“I like the sound of ‘we,’” he hums then pulls away. He squints in the hot sun scanning over her face. “I’ll kick everyone out, call the cleaning crew then call you and we can go out.”

“Sounds like a plan,” she stretches up and kisses his nose before moving her lips by his ear and whispers, “maybe I can return the favor you did for me last night.”

Calum groans at the endless possibilities of that statement. She laughs pushing him away to open her car door.

It wasn’t until about four thirty when everyone was out of his house, including the cleaning crew. Y/N’s been on his mind the whole time. How they got where they are now has definitely been messy, but he wouldn’t want it to be any other way or with anyone else.

He’s checking his time on his phone after his shower, he wants to pick up her favorite flowers. His Beatles playlist is echoing throughout the house while he continues to get ready and puts on black jeans, a black tank top and his white and black polka-dotted shirt. Y/N once commented it was her favorite. As he’s applying his cologne he notices he probably should have shaved, some scruff is around his mouth, but he doesn’t have time now.

By the time he’s on the road there’s a slight traffic jam that’s delaying his timetable by fifteen minutes. He sends her a quick text about the delay then taps his fingers on the steering wheel anxiously.

Fifteen minutes turned into twenty when he finally arrived at the flower shop only to find it closes early in the winter months. Fifteen minutes ago.

“You’ve got to be shittin’ me,” he grumbles and tries to Google other flower shops that would be open.

There aren’t any nearby, the closest one is ten miles in the opposite direction of where he needs to be. The sun is starting to sink below the horizon, and he looks up and down the block he’s on for any sign of flowers. Feeling defeated, he heads back to his car then spots some wildflowers sprouting along the guardrail. He picks an array of colors, purple, white, yellow, and a few small red orange looking ones.

He arranges them in a bouquet he hopes is presentable enough then searches frantically for some type of string to tie them together. The only thing he has on him is one of his chain necklaces. Calum sighs, sets the ‘bouquet’ on his seat carefully then unfastens his chain. He wraps and weaves it around the stems, fastening it together again.

When he gets on the road again there’s an accident, so he’s been redirected on a different route to Y/N’s house making him about a half hour late. He hopes she won’t hate him. He predicts she’ll shove his flower arrangement in his face.

His tires squeal as he pulls in front of her small home, Calum takes a deep breath and walks up her cement path. He hides his ‘bouquet’ behind his back and knocks on the door. He hears footsteps then the door opens, and he’s met with her gorgeous smile.

“I’m so sorry I’m late. There was traffic then the flower shop was closed and then there was an accident, so I had to take a detour,” he rambles in one breath then pulls his flowers from behind his back. “These are for you.”

“You’re so sweet,” she takes the flowers carefully and eyes up his necklace wrapped tightly around the stems. “And innovative. Why don’t you—what’s on your hand?”

He looks down when she touches his hand that held onto the flowers and he sees red bumps over his fingers and wrist. Upon seeing them his hand starts to itch.

“Umm…”

“I think you might be allergic to the flowers. Come in, I have Benadryl we can put on it.”

She takes his other hand bringing him inside. She sets the flowers on the kitchen table and leads him into her bathroom. He’s gazing at her decorations on the walls, watercolors and signs of positive quotes while she digs through a drawer.

“This should help the scratch and make it less irritated. I can—no! Don’t touch your eyes!” she gasps when she sees Calum scratching underneath his eye. She swats his hand away, her finger touching the corner of his eye lightly that’s already turning a little pink.

“Oops,” he mumbles then sneezes into his elbow. “I’m sorry. Now I’m the mess.”

“It’s okay. I’ll give you some Benadryl, but you’ll be very sleepy,” she pulls out a pill bottle.

“I don’t want to be sleepy on our date.”

“I don’t want you to be uncomfortable with hives and sneezes. We can stay in for a little bit. Here,” she hands him a small pink pill then fills a small plastic cup with water.

“This is not how I planned this night to go,” he shakes his head and takes the pill.

“Why don’t you tell me how you wanted it to go on the couch?” she smiles and kisses his cheek.

Calum’s laying on top of her while she scrolls through movies and shows on Netflix, the effects of the Benadryl were already acting. She’s playing with his hair while he mumbles about his plans for their night.

“I was going to pick you up your favorite flowers, they’d be in their own vase and everything. Not held together by my necklace,” his voice is muffled as his lips move against her stomach.

“I like how they’re held by your necklace,” she smiles stroking her finger over his forehead lightly. “Then what?”

“Then I’d pick you up, and I’d take you to the pier where there’s a bunch of…” he lets out a long yawn, “…a bunch of food vendors. There’d be a concert and we’d get ice cream or coffee before I brought you home and kissed you goodnight. I miss your lips.”

She selects a movie they both love and settles more into the couch, more into him and his warmth. Her arms wrap around him and she kisses the top of his head.

“Not what I meant,” he sighs, his body gets a little heavier, but he lifts his head. His eyes are droopy, and he has a loopy grin on his face as he purses his lips.

“What am I supposed to do with that?” she teases.

“You’re supposed to kiss me,” he pouts.

“I don’t know…you’re all drugged up.”

“Please? Wanna taste strawberries.”

“Strawberries?”

“Lips. Taste like strawberries. Now, kiss!”

He stretches up further and she giggles at his insistence and is all too willing to press her lips to his. It’s a soft kiss, his lips moving gently against hers. Calum sighs then drops his head against her chest again.

“Thank you,” he hums happily, squeezing her in a hug. “I’m sleepy.”

“I know, you can sleep. I’ll be here when you wake up,” she kisses his head again and continues to play with his curls.

Five minutes later, he’s snoring softly. Her fingers create designs up and down his back, she’s enjoying the soft noises he’s making and how he subconsciously squeezes her closer to him. Last night plays in her head as she watches the actors on the screen. She can’t help but look at Calum while he sleeps peacefully, his face is so cute.

It isn’t until about an hour and a half later that he starts to rouse awake. He flexes his muscles then lifts his head groggily.

“Am I dreaming?”

“No,” she chuckles rubbing at the sleep lines on his cheek. “How do you feel? Your eyes aren’t pink anymore.”

“My nose isn’t stuffy either,” he gives a tentative sniff then lifts his hand. “How’s my hand?”

She takes it delicately in hers, their fingers locking and unlocking, tangling and untangling. He’s free of hives, his eyes are brown and beautiful.

“Perfectly perfect,” she smiles.

Calum leans up to kiss her. “What time is it?”

“Only eight thirty. You still want to go to the pier?”

Calum and Y/N are walking hand in hand along the pier with a thousand stars scattered above them. Chatter and laughter carries them along as they sample food from people at their stands. One of the carts was a flower cart that Calum led her to with a Cheshire grin. There were arrangements in vases and even some flower crowns that Y/N was ogling up.

“Which one do you want?” Calum asks taking out his wallet.

“Mm, this one,” she points to a crown with dainty yellow flowers. Calum pays for it and places it on her head. “How do I look?”

“Gorgeous,” he smiles then ducks down and kisses her.

They continue their evening eating more food and when the music starts to play it’s the song Calum was singing earlier this morning. Was that already this morning? He pulls her against his chest, his arms wrapped around the front of her chest as he sings Something to her softly in her ears.

“You were singing that this morning when I came in.”

“It was in my head when I woke up ‘cause it makes me think of you,” he rubs his cheek against hers. “You attract me like no other.”

On their drive back to her house, ironically Ashton’s song Drive is playing, and Y/N turns the volume up that Calum can’t even hear the wind blowing in his ears. Since it was a warm night, he had the moon roof open. The stars zoomed by like they were in a rocket ship. They’re singing along together at the top of their lungs then Y/N unbuckles her belt midway through the song.

“What are you doing?” Calum shouts turning the music down a little as she stands up poking her body through the roof.

“Turn it up!” she laughs.

He joins in her laughter glancing up at her as she lifts her arms into the air, letting the wind whip through her hair. Calum never wants to forget this moment, but it also makes him nervous that half her body is out the car, so he wraps his arm around her legs, his thumb subconsciously rubbing the skin of her inner thigh.

When he pulls to a stop in front of her house, the song fades and she looks down at him, a diamond smile on her face.

You and me

She kneels down in front of him, hair windblown with her flower crown askew.

You and me

“Is my hair a mess?” she asks breathlessly.

You and me

“You’re perfect,” he shakes his head, eyes flickering to her lips.

You and me

She grabs his cheeks kissing him. And they keep kissing up her walk, through the door, down the hall until finally stopping in her bedroom. Their hearts are racing as his shirt is removed and her jacket is shoved off her shoulders. She uses all her strength to push him onto her bed and straddles him.

“You think you’re in control?” he teases shifting his hands beneath her dress and over her ass. He gives her a squeeze.

“Remember what I said this morning?” she asks stamping kisses to his neck and collarbone.

“Refresh my memory?” his fingers slip underneath her panties, snapping them against her skin.

She lifts her head gazing down at him, biting her lip through a smile. “I want to repay the favor you did for me last night.”

She tugs on his belt for good measure causing Calum to groan, he swallows harshly as she unzips the back of her dress and yanks it off her body. Her breasts falling freely, and his mouth goes dry at the sight of her. She sits back on her heels; he follows her into a sitting position removing his own shirt then quickly meeting her in the middle for a kiss. A kiss with tongues and teeth clashing and Calum cups her breasts in his hands.

“You’re so soft,” he mumbles tugging on her lip. She lets out a shaky breath then pushes him against her pillows.

He watches her undo his pants, aiding her by lifting his hips so she can tug his pants and boxers down. She crawls up his legs slowly, nails scraping his thighs, her eyes innocent as her lips un-innocently kiss below his navel. Calum strokes her cheek affectionately, then pulls on her lower lip with his thumb. His body heats up when she takes his thumb in her mouth, sucking lightly on his finger and he hisses when her hand grabs his already hardened dick.

“Fuck, you’re killin’ me already,” he sighs, and she smiles around his thumb.

She nips on his thumb, eyes still on him as she descends to his waist swiping her tongue over his hip bone. He holds his breath when she finally, finally closes her mouth around his head. When her tongue swirls his stomach clenches. She works herself up taking him little by little until he’s slicked with her spit. When she takes all of him in her mouth he lets out a loud groan, his fingers flying to her hair aiding the bobbing motion of her head.

“Feel good?” she whispers stroking him with her hand. She licks a long stripe up the underside of his dick.

“So, so good,” he pants. She smiles at the praise and Calum wishes he had a camera to capture the moment.

She bobs up and down at a faster pace, his thighs start to clench and as much as he wants to cum from her mouth alone, he needs to feel her all around him. Using all of his willpower he lifts her head off him, a line of spit hanging from her mouth and he groans pulling her in for a kiss.

He flips her over easily making her giggle at the swiftness. Before he moves his lips to one of her breasts, he stares at her. The flower crown is still somehow on her head, her hair splayed across her pillows, lips red and swollen from going down on him.

“What?” she breathes heavily, her fingers playing with his necklace.

Three words are burning dangerously on his lips, their history of bad timing has led to this perfect moment in time. Instead, he traipses his fingers down the curve of her jaw, past her collarbones, down her chest and in between her legs shifting them apart. She wraps them around his waist, and he nudges himself against her folds.

“Nothing, you’re perfect,” he shakes his head saying three different words pushing himself inside her.

She squeezes around him, her fingers tugging on his hair in pleasure, their bodies molding to one another. Two pieces of the same puzzle slotting in all the right places.

“Oh,” she gasps when he starts to thrust.

Her hips meet his in the perfect rhythm, their kisses messy, bodies sweating. A memory crosses his mind and Calum removes her hands from his hair moving them above her own head, pinning them together.

“You remembered,” she moans trying to break free from his grip just for fun. He tightens his hold, and she gasps.

“Wanna make all your fantasies come true, baby,” he grins sucking on her neck. “You take me so well…fill you up so good.”

“Cal,” she whines appreciatively at his words.

He feels her clench around him as she becomes slicker and then she’s gasping out curse words and his name as she comes undone around him. Her body trembles in delight and soon he’s coming as well. He pulls out, releases her hands so he can jerk himself on her lower belly. Her fingers find his hair again as she encourages his release with pretty sighs.

He sees her stomach glistening from his cum, his own hand covered, and he chuckles at a thought.

“What?” she pets his hair affectionately and he looks up at her. Her crown has broken, and she has yellow petals scattered in her hair and around her pillow.

“Now we’re both messy.”

“I don’t mind this kind of mess.”

The next morning, Calum regrettably had to leave early for an emergency band meeting. He tried to get out of it so he could spend more time with Y/N but it was about tour dates and some venues fell through the cracks. He got dressed quickly, eying Y/N sleeping peacefully and crouched in front of her and kissed the beauty mark by her eye.

“What time is it?” she groans then sees he’s dressed. “You’re leaving?”

“It’s early and I don’t want to leave but there’s a band emergency,” he sighs sadly. “I’ll call you as soon as we’re finished.”

“Okay. Give me a kiss before you go?”

He smiles and kisses her softly; he has to force himself to pull away or he’ll never leave.

“Sleep tight.”

She watches him leave through half-lidded eyes then falls back asleep with a smile on her face. He invades her dreams and when she wakes up she finds her phone has been blowing up. Curious, she scrolls through the notifications, one of them has a photo attached to it.

She opens it up to see Calum with Missy at a coffee shop with the headline ‘Calum Hood the BAE-ssist of 5 Seconds of Summer spotted with bombshell model Missy Robins: rumors of dating speculating.’

Y/N swallows the lump in her throat and tries to keep her mind from spiraling. He’s wearing the same clothes he had on yesterday. He wouldn’t lie about meeting with the guys, right? What they did last night was something special, their messy journey ended in the perfect way.

Or did it?

She closed out of the article and saw messages from him and a few missed calls.

[9:19 a.m] Good morning (again) sweetheart, meeting’s almost finished I’ll pick up bagels and coffee and be right over

[10:45 a.m] if you see pictures of me and Missy, I’ll explain everything. Bumped into her but the meeting didn’t go so well…

[11:10 a.m] on my way to your door, hope you’re still in bed naked 😉

She sits up wrapping her sheets around her chest just as her front door opens. He used the spare key she gave him, and she starts to pull the yellow petals that are still clinging to her hair. She can only imagine what the meeting was about and how Missy was involved. Some petals clung a little tightly and it made her eyes sting with tears, at least that’s what she told herself.

Calum enters her room with a wide grin on his face, coffee cups in a holder and a bag in his other hand.

“Hey beautiful,” he greets happily and sits next to her.

“Hey,” she says thickly avoiding his eyes. A sinking feeling nudges her heart, past wounds beginning to rupture at this all too familiar feeling. The familiar feeling of being left.

“What’s the matter?” he sets the drinks and bag on her nightstand and tries to smooth her hair, but she pushes his hand away. “Y/N, talk to me. Is it about the photos?”

“What was your meeting about?” her voice is thick with emotion; she doesn’t dare look at him in fear she’ll really lose what composure she has left.

“It was about tour, but then…management spewed out this ridiculous idea--”

“Involving Missy?” she runs her fingers over the remainder of her flower crown, the loose petals resting in her lap.

“Yes.”

Her heart sinks lower and she takes a shaky breath.

“They want you to…to um, date her, hm?” her mouth quivers but she keeps her emotions inside, no matter how hard they’re boiling to get out. “Because the new single and album and all, right?”

“Yes.” He moves to hold her, but she pulls back.

“Things keep getting messier,” she jokes but her voice cracks and she hides her face from him. The tears start to fall.

“I told them no, I told them I’m already with someone I care about. I don’t want to fake date her, I don’t want to act anymore, Y/N. Please believe me.”

“I do, I do believe you,” she nods swiping at her tears, but they keep leaking from her eyes. “But if…this is your job, Calum. It can’t be coincidence that we’ve had all these roadblocks pushing us apart. Maybe we’re not supposed to be together.”

“No, no, no, don’t say that,” he scoots closer and cradles her cheeks in his hands. His face is blurry through her tears. “I’ve only wanted to be with you, Y/N.”

“Don’t,” she shakes her head. “Don’t say that, it’s making it worse.”

“Y/N, I’m not going to date her for publicity or the band. That’s bullshit.”

“It’ll help your album—”

“Are you really trying to convince me to do this? After all we’ve been through to get here? You’re giving up?”

“It’s not giving up when we never really had each other,” she whispers. Calum’s hands drop from her face, he stares at her stunned.

“You’re just saying that. We’ve both been burned in the past, don’t push me away.”

“You should probably leave. Please,” she cries not even bothering to hide her tears anymore. “I’ll be okay.”

“That’s a damn lie and you know it.”

“It’s easy to be alone.”

“It’s even harder to be lonely.”

They sit there in silence; her tears pat on her comforter. Calum opens his mouth as if to say something else, but he closes it and shoves off the bed. He slams the door on his way out, the sound echoing her shattered heart. Her shaking hands break the rest of her crown, the petals are a mess in her hands, and she sobs in the foliage. No way will her tears restore the life back into them.

Calum’s speeding home, his pounding heart matches the speeding speedometer. He can’t believe this. He’s pissed at management. He’s pissed that he was nice enough to let Missy sleep in his bed. He’s pissed she ‘coincidentally’ was at the coffee shop after the meeting. He’s pissed that Y/N put on a brave face and forced him away.

When the drums and guitar riff of Something plays through his speakers Calum punches the screen to stop it, his rings makes it break, the screen spider webbing in cracks. He’s met with radio silence, the only thing he hears is his heart cracking.

Taglist: @calpalirwin @myloverboyash @loveroflrh @iovehemmings @cxddlyash @princesslrh @spicycal @mysticalhood @notinthesameguey @wastedheartcth @itjustkindahappenedreally @calumance @thew0rldneedsmcreycghurt @sarcastically-defensive17 @another-lonely-heart @devilatmydoor @sanrioluke @mayve-hems @haikucal @thatscooibaby @suchalonelysunflower @burstintocolor @dead-and-golden @mymindwide @blackbutterfliescal @redrattlers @karajaynetoday @quasighost @i-like-5sos @creampiecashton @calpops @superbloomed-c @littledrummeraussie @sexgodashton

#calum hood oneshot #calum hood angst #calum angst #calum hood smut #calum smut #calum 5sos writing #calum writing #5sos writing #calum hood 5sos #calum fic #5sos fic #calum hood fic

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justcourttee · 4 years

Text

Call It What You Want-One Shot Song Prompt

So, I recently saw @marimacaron post this song prompt fic for daminette and I absolutely loved it and knew I had to try and write it! I hope it’s close to what you imagined :)

Marinette’s eyes fell to the glittering rock on her left hand, a small smile tugging at the corner of her lips as she hit post on her computer. Within seconds, hundreds of comments and likes flooded her Instagram from fans and friends alike, most wishing her well for her engagement, a few earning a chuckle at their distress that she was now ‘off the market’.

She reached forward to shut her laptop when one comment in particular caught her eye.

@alyabloglyfe: Why are you still vying for attention? We all know @queenlyla is engaged to Damian Wayne, I mean, why would he be interested in a liar and bully like you?

Already, twenty fans were fighting the girl’s comment, dissing Alya and defending Marinette’s honor, but it didn’t seem to help the punch to the gut she was experiencing. Her fingers lingered over the keyboard, the room seeming to blur around her.

All of a sudden, she felt fifteen again, trapped in her bedroom only being able to scroll through the hate mail that flooded her inbox from all of her former friends. She thought that begging her parents to allow her to pull out of school and switch to an online platform would deter them from attacking her so often, but it only made things worse as they became more confident and vile in their bullying as they could hide behind a screen.

Every night, Marinette would cry herself to sleep wondering what she did so wrong to deserve all of this until one day she decided it would be enough. She deleted all of her social media, even taking down her MDC commissions page, asking her clients to meet her in person or via phone call to schedule fittings and commissions. And it worked, at least for a little while, until they started to vandalize her parent’s bakery, breaking windows and spray painting signs, the cops never seeming to catch them.

Her fingers tapped out the first sentence of her response, her eyes absentmindedly glazed over as she wrote a paragraph, then two, all directed to Alya. She was about to hit send when she felt a pair of arms snake around her shoulders, warm breath tickling the back of her ears.

“How’d your fans take the news?” his deep voice felt like a lifeline as she slammed her laptop shut, blinking away the empty feeling Alya had brought.

He let out a low whistle as he unwinded himself, allowing her to stand up from the desk and fall into his outstretched arms.

“That good, huh?”

She forced out a dry laugh as she buried her face into his chest.

“Just a few people upset that I’m officially a taken woman.”

It was his turn to laugh as she pulled back, taking in the sight of his carefree face. It was always so beautiful, so much peace that he held, all reserved for her.

“Do you have any plans tonight? You know Richard will want to host an exaggerant engagement feast.” He rolled his eyes, but his smile gave him away. She knew he secretly loved being the center of attention, especially when it came to his family.

“I’ll make sure to have everything done by 5 today, promise.”

Ducking under his arms, she slung her purse over her head, making a beeline for the door.

“Do you need Alfred to escort you?” he called after her retreating figure but it was too late, she was gone.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Exiting the fabric store, Marinette made her way down Gotham’s winding streets, her head in another place as she tried to recall anything she could’ve missed.

“This is why you should’ve brought your list with you Marinette!” Tikki popped their head out of her purse, their arms crossed in a scolding manner.

“I would have Tikki, but you know how overprotective he is. He would’ve insisted I waited for Alfred to come down to the apartment to drive me and no offense to Alfred, but sometimes a girl just wants to be alone.”

Her pace slowed as a familiar landscape came into her sight.

“Oh wow Tikki, I haven’t been here in almost three years.” her voice trailed off as she scanned over the construction crew working on the new gymnasium.

“Gotham Academy! This is where you transferred to right?”

She didn’t answer the small God as she took a step forward, placing a hand on the elegant banisters leading up the school stairs. The fresh scent of cleaning supplies filled her nostrils as she closed her eyes, her mind falling back to the comment from earlier.

She was only sixteen when her parents allowed her to transfer. It was in both of their best interests as they couldn’t afford to keep repairing the bakery her former friends destroyed. She was a mere shell of a person when she entered those doors for the first time. She had already decided that she wasn’t going to make any friends this time around, after all, no friends meant no one to stab her in the back, as they all do eventually.

But then something strange happened. The student who was assigned to show her around for the first week was just as cold and calculated. His thorns were just as sharp as hers, neither opening up much to the other. She had planned for warm and inviting, the fake friends trying to pry her open, but she hadn’t planned for someone to hold her attention, someone as cold as her.

One week turned into two, and then a month passed and she dared to consider him her friend.

“Marinette? Marinette? Are you still in there?”

She slowly opened her eyes to a concerned kwami, Tikki’s small hands shaking her nose to the best of their ability.

“I’m fine Tikki, just a bit of reminiscing I suppose.”

Continuing again, Marinette soon found herself in front of her studio. The little bell rang through the place as ten heads popped up, all wearing bright smiles. Unique almost tackled her in a hug before the door had even closed.

“Marinette! We were so excited when you posted this morning! It was sooo hard keeping your relationship a secret when customers asked!”

Hannah and Brooke nodded in agreement as the girls all left their work stations to admire her ring.

“Can we help you design your wedding dress?” Hannah clasped her hands together, earning a chorus of please’s throughout the room.

Marinette chuckled as she brought the women into a big group hug.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way. Now, enough small talk, let’s get down to business, anything new?”

It was as if someone switched a flip in the room, the girls jumping from excited to serious as they all handed in folders, giving her a brief of each new commission. It was going to be a long day of work, certainly. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Her keys jiggled in the apartment lock as she practically fell in, all of her energy drained.

“Damian? Do we have any coffee?”

She didn’t hear an answer as she reached for the cupboard, bringing down her favorite mug. Damian had given it to her a month into them dating. Her fingers absentmindedly reached to her neck where a small D sat on an elegant gold chain.

“I don’t understand Mari-san. You wearing his initial is a statement that he owns you. How is that romantic?”

She adjusted her phone to give Kagami a better look at the necklace, smiling softly as she held the D between two fingers.

“Because Kagami it’s not like that, I don’t wear it cause he ‘owns me’. I wear it because for the first time in a while, I really feel like someone really knows me, ya feel?”

“I do not ‘feel’ but if you are happy, then it is an acceptable gift, as is the coffee mug with the picture of you two.”

The whistle from the coffee machine drew her attention back to the present as Tikki flashed her a smile from where they sat on the Keurig.

“Thank you Tikki. I’m going to need this,” she held up her steaming mug, a tired smile flashing gratefully at the God.

Downing the cup, she placed it in the sink before pulling out her phone seeing three missed texts from Damian stating he would be home soon.

“Well Tikki, at least I’m not the one running late for once.” The two shared a small laugh before they headed towards her bedroom to get dressed for the night. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Damian squeezed her hand tightly as they made their way through Wayne Manner’s garden.

“There could be a small thousand here tonight, are you ready for that Mrs Wayne?”

His smile was blinding as her heart beat rapidly at the sound of him calling her by his last name.

“I most certainly am Mr. Wayne.”

As they rounded the corner to the back of the gardens, Marinette couldn’t help but laugh at the number of people Dick had invited. Loud cheers erupted from every inch of the yard causing her entire face to flash red.

“I might’ve underestimated, I’d say at least three thousand.”

He squeezed her hand once more before he was pulled off into the crowd. She smiled at the genuine fear crossing his face as people began berating him about children so soon.

“Well, well, well, a beautiful woman in distress. Please allow me to be your stand in to ward off the power hungry tonight.”

Jason slung his arm over her shoulders earning a laugh from the smaller girl.

“I am eternally grateful for your services Monsieur Todd.”

They chatted lightly as he led her back to where her future family all stood, all practically vibrating from excitement, even Bruce.

“Mari! I’m so excited! I really thought he was going to force me to hold this a secret for forever.”

Dick pulled her into a bone crushing hug, only pulling back when Barbara and Stephanie forced him to. They each took their turns expressing their excitement for the wedding, Tim even going as far as to say he never thought it would happen.

“What? We were all thinking it! Demon spawn? Happy and smiling all the time? It’s scary!” he shuddered sending another round of laughter throughout the group.

Marinette brought up her phone, snapping a picture, posting it immediately to her Insta.

@mdcdesigns: So excited to officially be a part of this family. (not that I haven’t considered them family for years now :))

She was about to slide her phone back into her purse when something caught her attention. Almost instantly, a private message from Alya sat in her inbox. She wanted to ignore it, but the curiosity was eating her up.

@alyabloglyfe: Soo what?You don’t post for months and all of a sudden you show up with a double post about a supposed engagement to Damian Wayne?

What is this?

A publicity stunt?

A desperate cry to try and hurt Lyla even after all these years?

I demand an answer ‘bestie’

Her heart beat clenched at the last message as she felt the tears trying to pool in her eyes. So many years had passed and Alya still believed her to be the liar and failure that Lila painted her out to be.

She wanted to respond to the messages, but she wasn’t even sure what to say. Her fingers lingered over her keyboard as she looked up, trying to collect her thoughts. Then she saw him. His calm smile, his shining green eyes, the love radiating from him all directed to her. His eyes met hers as he excused himself from the person he was talking to.

“Are you alright habibti?”

His arm snaked around her waist, pulling her into his side. It was as if everything faded away, the only thing she could see was him. Standing on her tiptoes, she gently placed a kiss on his cheek.

“I’m doing better than I ever was.”

He smiled, seemingly satisfied with her answer as she unlocked her phone once more, her fingers moving quickly across the keyboard.

@mdcdesigns: Alya, I don’t need this from you or Lila anymore. I have a world famous business, 1.3 million followers and fans, a loving new family and a fiance who loves me like I’m brand new despite the damage you put me through.

You don’t really want to know what I call this, because you’ll only distort it to fit your fantasy that Lila painted for you so you know what?

Call it what you want :)

She moved to the top of the screen, blocking her old friend without a second thought. After all, she had her new life and it had no room for the past to ruin that. Raising her glass, she leaned forward to clink it with the rest, a new sense of relief flowing through her.

“To Damian, for finally proposing before I had to.”

They all cheered to his mock protests as they brought their flutes to their lips, celebrating the next chapter in their lives, not a single worry filling the space, only love.

Permanent Tag List:

@damianette-is-life @ash-amg @rebecarojas07

#daminette #maribat #song prompt

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sword-dad-fukuzawa · 3 years

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Thoughts on Chuuya’s Character Song

I was going to do Atsushi’s next, but I figured I may as well do soukoku together. Also, this is really fucking hard with a hilariously limited understanding of Japanese and trying to cross reference poem translations with song lyrics, my god. Complaining now out of the way, this song is half as depressing as Dazai’s and twice as sexy, so buckle up, y’all. It’s a long one :p

No matter what kind of cliched game it is, I'll play until the end But I won't be satisfied with a scenario by a third-rate writer

Ah, an opening line that fits Chuuya to a tee. So, I figure he’s opening with the acknowledgement that many of the people he knows likes to treat him like a chess piece--namely, his boss and Dazai. He knows he’s just a player in the schemes of others, but he doesn’t particularly care about the fact that he’s being jerked around as long as it’s for some greater purpose. His tone seems to indicate that he resents this, at least a little, but his fiery dismissal says that it doesn’t matter to him in the end.

GOOD BYE, tainted clothes are no longer to be worn I simply wanted a way to kill time

Alright, multiple ways to interpret this bit. Goodbye in english, and a reference to the poem his ability is named after with “tainted”. The argument could be made he’s referring to Dazai, considering the title and references made in Dazai’s character song.

I’d actually argue he’s talking about the Sheep. It feels like he’s casting off his past with that organization, dismissing them with the words that they weren’t really important to him--just a way to kill time, even though we know that their betrayal cut him deeply. And it’s why he’s saying goodbye, and dismissing them as a part of his past. It’s an interesting parallel to the way Dazai talks about Chuuya himself in his own song, because the both of them have pasts that they’re trying to run from.

'In languor dreams of death' ... who was the one that said it?

That would be you, Chuuya. At least IRL Chuuya, in his very fancy poem “For the Tainted Sorrow”. But why this line?

I’ve puzzled it over for a while, but I don’t have a conclusion. Interesting that he opens with talking about death, though, considering how he brushes up against it almost every day by nature of his job.

The world is a bird cage, faded in colour Even if I lament, I can't get out of this prison

This part is also oddly reminiscent of Dazai’s song. Chuuya’s saying that he feels trapped, like a bird in a cage that no longer interests him at all, and that he can’t escape no matter how much he laments. Which is an interesting translation choice, considering his Sheep Song poem can also be translated as “Lament of the Lamb” (though the words themselves in Japanese differ, so I can’t call this an actual reference).

BUT NOW, DARKNESS MY SORROW I have not yet fallen apart So, as I laugh off this imposed inconvenience Let's overturn even the heavens and the earth (GRAVITY) Within the darkness, a shadow of a hat lightly dances

But Chuuya doesn’t care. So what if he’s trapped? So what if escape is impossible? He’s still alive, he’s still holding it together. So he brushes it off as something that doesn’t really impact him much. This song seems very much like a massive middle finger to the shitty cards he’s been dealt. Chuuya’s saying that despite it all, he’s still going to turn the world upside down.

Part of me thinks the reference to the hat is a Rimbaud reference, since he got the hat from Rimbaud and it originally belonged to Verlaine. I feel like this is Chuuya acknowledging how those two people have influenced him, which...we don’t know about yet, as his backstory is still mostly unexplored.

Even if I get tired of the night and tear off my shackles That eye who sees eye to eye with Kierkegaard is also here

This is Chuuya saying that if he gets tired of the Port Mafia (remember, the night is the PM’s domain) there’s still someone who will make sure he can’t leave. After some googling, I’ve realized Kierkegaard is a Danish poet. But who is Chuuya referencing, who sees eye to eye with Kierkegaard? I’m pretty sure it’s Mori, but the JSTOR article I made an account for is 45 pages long and I’m working my way through it slowly. I’ll get back to y’all on this bit, but for now, I’m 90% sure this is Mori.

WOW OH [The best view worth more than a ten-billion masterpiece...] Let's stop messing around already

Ah, Chuuya, always ready for a fight. And this is definitely a reference to Dazai. This is what he says when he sees Dazai for the first time in four years, coming down the stairs to see his old enemy/friend/partner chained to the wall. If you need a memory refresh, it’s the scene where Dazai says “✨CHUUYA!✨”

Why, of all people... is the KEY CASE in that person's hand? In the moment we clashed, the one in control is me I will manipulate even the weight of this cut-short life

Who is “that person”? I’d hazard a guess that it’s Dazai, considering the previous line. The first line is him lamenting that Dazai seems to always have the answers, always to hold the key. But the next part is Chuuya reasserting his control. It’s Chuuya, fiercely defiant to the end, flipping another middle finger to the guy who keeps coming into his life to turn it upside down. Even his own mortality doesn’t faze him in the least. To Chuuya, it’s another obstacle to overcome.

LONELY DARKNESS MY SORROW, once it is opened by the key I'd rather just fall than go back to being alone Staring at the destroyed cage of this self, (GRAVITY) Slowly, I sing, "Not bad at all."

Chuuya, I love you, but why so many goddamn metaphors? Let’s break this down.

Firstly, there’s a swap from “darkness my sorrow” to “lonely darkness my sorrow”. Ignoring the key part for now, we can look at the second line where he says he’d rather fall then be alone again. I think this is a part of his trauma from how he was alone, with Arahabaki/as Arahabaki, for so many years. Chuuya very deliberately surrounds himself with people--first the Sheep, then the PM. He hates to be alone. And it’s an interesting counterpoint to Dazai, who always feels alone regardless of who he’s with by sheer virtue of how isolated his brain makes him feel.

Secondly, the cage metaphor. So the cage from earlier also seems to double as a metaphor for Chuuya himself, which makes sense. He’s technically a vessel for Arahabaki, and so inner conflict has been a part of his identity from the beginning. So once someone (possibly Dazai, possibly Mori, possibly even Rimbaud if you want to focus on how Rimbaud freed Arahabaki) frees him, it’s like he destroys the things that are holding him back. And he’s fine with that.

I’ll address the themes of destruction and the repeated screaming of “GRAVITYYYYY” at the end.

Even though it feels like I might be trapped, there is no room for sentiments I'll push myself to the limit and dye everything jet-black

Again, this is Chuuya brushing away his limitations. He’s still going to fight in spite of it all. He’s very goal oriented, liking to take action more than sitting back and thinking about it.

The world is a bird cage, faded in colour Even if I lament, I can't get out of this prison BUT NOW, DARKNESS MY SORROW I have not yet fallen apart So, as I laugh off this imposed inconvenience Let's overturn even the heavens and the earth (GRAVITY) Within the darkness, a shadow of a hat lightly dances.

And then this bit is just a repeated part, nothing new here. So, a few concluding things.

Firstly, Chuuya and Dazai sing about each other very differently. Chuuya seems to be almost nostalgic about Dazai. But Dazai rejects him entirely in his own song, and it’s an interesting counterpoint.

Secondly, the repeated themes of destruction and fighting. It’s honestly all Chuuya’s ever known, and the thing he’s best at. At this point, it’s a part of his identity, so it makes sense that it’s in his song.

Third, and this part interests me the most. Chuuya’s ability is gravity manipulation, right? And gravity is an attractive force that draws objects to things with the greatest mass. I just feel it’s kind of fitting, that Chuuya--terribly scared of being alone--has a power that brings people towards him.

Just a thought.

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kawaiijohn · 3 years

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Going Angst Week Day 2: Obsession

Ao3: Here

WC: 1689

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The scenery behind the door was very... unique Quizz would say.

“You know, if I wanted space I would just remove a wall. A room suspended in the endless void is a little... extra, don’t you think?” They asked nobody.

There was a singular platform suspended in an endless inky void of space with a singular pathway to the door. Nothing sat upon it but a desk- complete with a fancy looking double-monitor setup and roomy drawers underneath. It looked sleek, modern, tempting.

Quizz didn’t know why the single point of focus in an otherwise liminal room was so enticing, but hey! The feeling in their chest hadn’t led them astray. Yet.

With a shrug they began walking, their saunter turning into a slow but steady glide as they negated gravity. “Well, only one way to go. Down it is!!”

The monitors lit up with a strange logo- a devilishly smiling face with red shades and blue flames for hair. Okay... that looked really cool, but... why was it lighting up? They tapped the space key and a password entry blinked before them.

“I can’t even remember my name, what makes this place think I’ll remember a fuckin’ password right off the bat? Sheesh!!” He pulled the chair out and took a seat, realizing it didn’t need adjusting and was hella comfortable.

Alright... he could work with this.

With a too-wide grin he began trying to unlock the machine.

-----

It turned out he could not, in fact, work with this.

Quizz had his cheek pressed against the desk, growling lowly at the password box as it flashed tauntingly at him. It really didn’t help that the damn thing cackled at him with every wrong entry.

“Stupid computer. Stupid amnesia. Stupid Quizz... stupid stupid stupid.” He pried his face off the desk in despair and slammed his forehead on it a few times. “The fact that nothing seems to hurt me makes me think I’m just having an awful dream.” Another slam. “But with my terrible luck I’m in purgatory or something.” Slam.

“Why is this so damn hard... Always gettin’ myself into so much trouble- way more than it’s worth!! Gods mom was ri-...” Quizz paused and thought. “.... she was... who? Who was... right?? ACK!” They grabbed their forehead, talons accidentally scratching the fuck out of their face in the rush. “I-I... why do things keep. Leaving me?”

They took a moment to calm, thinking about it- thinking about the trouble they were in; lost and alone with apparently only a locked computer for company. “Please, I... don’t want to forget her. I just want to... know...” The pain in their head subsided as the thing in their chest thrummed violently. “Who was she to me again??” They had to remember, feelings of both nostalgia and love rushed over them, followed by a single, near debilitating shudder of regret and the gut-wrenching feeling of failure.

‘I’m sorry I wasn’t enough... I couldn’t be there for you all...’

Quizz gasped loudly. “I... someone said I get into trouble... it was familiar, but not angry. Exasperated... and then I... I left them. How did I leave?” Their heard vibrated strangely again. “I don’t think I left them willingly. But who were... they?”

A happy, yet tired family sits at a table. A single chair remains empty yet another day; a small plate covered in frogs sits on a placemat in front of it. There’s three other people, smiling yet tired. Pizza steams fresh in the center with two figures talking excitedly about something else. They’re all smaller besides one more in focus than the others. They look... older? The image clears a bit more and reveals a stout woman with slightly greying hair and blank eyes...

Something clicks into place.

"Mom!!! I remember mom- I think... but who are the others? Kids, at least maybe? Ah, what was her name- I can... Her favorite color was peach!!” They readied themself for pain again, but none came. “ Ah, so the initial memory sucks when I remember it!! Noted! Thanks brain, I hate it!!!” They tapped their forehead and stood in front of the desk, arms crossed. “Now, brain, my dear friend- can please you do me a favor and, oh... I don’t know... fuckin’ LET ME UNLOCK THIS FUCKIN’ DESKTOP?? Please???”

The monitor snickered softly at them again after a moment of absolute silence.

“ALRIGHT SMARTASS!!!” Quizz slammed their fist hard on the keyboard, hearing something click softly underneath. “There’s literally no need to get sassy with me! So what do you say, help me out here, bud? Please???” They pleaded with the computer, but got a loud raspberry in return. “Cool. Just fuckin’ great.” Another smack to the keyboard made something inside the desk click again, the sound of some sort of mechanism unwinding. After a moment, a drawer (one he was SURE was locked) glided open gracefully.

Quizz perked up, ignoring the fact they were about ten seconds from slashing the monitor in half with their new claws. “Alright! Now that’s the shit I’m talkin’ about! That’s the shit I’m fuckin’ about!!!” They turned and saluted the blank space surrounding him. “Thanks, weird void room. Thanks weird asshole computer!! I totally appreciate the help you gave me!!”

‘Ah, sarcasm. Never fails to lighten the mood.’

With nimble fingers the amnesiac started shuffling through the drawer. It had several very... interesting items inside- weirdly shaped pens, a neat collapsable cane he was gonna inspect later, but the best of all was a pair of dope-ass red shades that they absolutely donned immediately- a feeling of pride and rightness filling them as they put them on.

They made it to the bottom of the drawer when their chest thrummed violently. A lone binder, locked tightly, sat at the bottom. They grasped their chest with one hand and the book with the other, admiring the intricate silver swirls and black glittering stars covering it. Quizz placed it on the desk, noticing a small, strangely glittering key hanging off of a chain attached to it.

The room seemed to whisper directly into his mind.

‘Open it. Inside. Open... learn about... read... learn...’

With a shaking hand, they unlocked it and read.

They read.

And read.

Memories coming to the forefront and fading away just as soon. Their eyes scanned words that would pixelate and blur as soon as they glanced at them. Names and places, numbers and facts- blurred away from his sight.

‘No. This is not how it should be.’

A growl bubbled up in his chest as he kept reading. Names were all universally destroyed, photos for the most part blurred out. But categories- favorite places and things... birthdays and personality types- all of those were categorized neatly and nicely.

Some pages had just a few, and those names were less obscured- some even with profile pictures fully visible.

Those pages made his chest rumble happily. He couldn’t understand why.

But there were three specific pages that stood out. Just looking at them... it made his blood itch, his chest scream in longing.

He needed to finish them. If he didn’t... he didn’t know what he would do.

He poured over the pages over and over and over again.

They all had information filled for the most part, more categories were finished than any other page had been, but things like the person’s name and appearance, as well as the photos were unhelpfully blurred out.

They snarled at the thought of not knowing what it meant.

“Can’t make anything easy for me, huh?”

One was a page that was rather childish. Observations were written but he could barely understand them- the letters scrambling before his eyes. But he noticed something- it seemed the entry was cut short; the only clear thing besides crayon drawings of frogs said ‘entry cut short, just like their time with us.’

The second page was filled with pressed flowers- all different types of lilies and snapdragons. Everything was written with a glittery peach gel pen. They ran a claw over the script and felt a tear fall from their eyes. The writing made them feel something deep and painful- the same pain they’d felt a short while ago.

Their eyes scanned the page, noticing a single clear data entry.

Favorite Color: Peach

“This was... is this my mom?”

Upon saying that, the page become more readable- some smaller things filling out and the photo less ‘thumb over the camera’ and more ‘they moved while I took this’.

If this was information on people they knew then...

Quizz yelled as their chest spiked in pain, something overcoming their willpower.

If this book was filled with things about the people they loved, then they will... they are going to... uncover all of it- collect all the information and find them. They’ll collect everyone interesting they meet- ask them... get answers, know things, know all things to... to -

Protect.

Love.

Learn.

Know. Know them.

After feeling cold pins and needles consume their form, Quizz flipped back to the third and last page that had gathered their interest.

The very first page in the book.

Their claw ran over the scrawling handwriting- admiring how the writer crossed their sevens with lines, how they looped their letters and underlined things for emphasis. They felt nostalgic and hollow.

This page had every single category filled, but the descriptions were blackened out; like they’d spilled ink all over the page. They looked it up and down but couldn’t find a single clue about who page one would have been.

With a sigh they grinned and noticed something peculiar on the inner cover- right next to the bio. There was a single note, a single clue.

Password: Page 5′s best friend.

Now that... that tickled Quizz’s fancy. Page 5... that would be the childish froggie page? Yes it was.

Quizz felt the buzzing in their chest become steady, violent yet subdued. It was telling them this was the right direction- that attaining that information would fill a hunger they didn’t know they had.

Interesting, this was going to just be... delightful.

#dantes vibe corner #my fics #dp oc #dp #danny phantom #phanfic #dp quizz #quizz #long post #going angst week 2021 #this one is more mild but the next one is gonna fuckin HURT

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philliamwrites · 3 years

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La Belle Dame Sans Merci

Fandom: The Case Study of Vanitas (Mochizuki Jun)

Pairing: Noé/Vanitas

Tags: #vanitas pines for noé, #implied/referenced past rape/non-con, #implied/referenced past childe abuse, #blood and unjury, #angst and feels, #forehead kisses

Words: 3.7k

Summary: Vanitas can’t sleep so he does the only other thing he’s good at besides curing vampires from the curse: harass Noé. It escalates royally and doesn’t end good. No one is surprised.

La Belle Dame Sans Merci

Moonlight casts slim, silver lines on Noé’s face.

Sitting on the windowsill, Vanitas can see the slow and steady rise of Noé’s chest, a constant rhythm speaking of life. How he has survived until today is still a wonder to Vanitas. Only a few feet separate him from the sleeping, defenceless body—a body he knows all too well capable of pulling tense like a bowstring when ready to strike; an animal equipped with lethal tools to hunt and destroy. But Noé is a paradox of black and white, a pacifist at heart that opens up too easily, too quick. Why else would he be interested in someone like Vanitas?

Their conversation at the top of the bell tower is still ringing all too clear in his head, a memory he’d rather strip from his mind and drop in the deepest part of a vicious, dark sea. Noé is dangerous, because unbeknown to himself, he has worked a strange magic on Vanitas, pulling at invisible chains curling around his neck however Noé pleases. If Vanitas didn’t know better, he’d call it Fate, but she has abandoned him long ago to suddenly return like a sullen lover and beg him for companionship.

“Louis,” Noé murmurs, drawing back Vanitas’s attention, and no, he isn’t jealous, not in the slightest. He just wants to reach inside Noé’s mouth and rip that name out of him. He hates that even though Noé is easy to read like an open book, it turns out its pages are filled with enigmas Vanitas is unable to solve.

A little huff escapes him as he slides down the windowsill, his feet landing eerily quiet on the floor. Watching Noé snore undisturbed, he’s quite sure he’s met what must be the worst vampire of his kind. What else explains his utter lack of awareness of danger? Vanitas imagines slipping right next to him and sliding a dagger across his throat or put the barrel right above his heart, pulling the trigger.

He’s so easy, Vanitas thinks, barely holding back a scoff. In so many ways.

Noé shifts, and Vanitas stops, only noticing then he’s already crossed the room and has almost reached Noé’s bedside. And that’s another thing he can’t stand about Noé: He makes Vanitas do things impulsively, barely spending another thought if what he’s about to do is beneficial or utterly disastrous—no matter that, in most cases he is already moving, already talking, and it’s so aggravating that 80 percent of what he’s saying in a sentence starts or ends with Noé’s name on his lips. Like a blessing, like a prayer. Vanitas doesn’t pray, not anymore. He’s stopped long ago, and no God, Saint or Martyr’s promise of benediction would be enough for a reward to make him resume.

So they punish him, and surely Noé is just another part of what they hold in store for him. Another explanation isn’t possible, because why of all nights in which he has visited Noé, this time he wakes up, his warning only a little hum before Vanitas is met with a sleepy face and white hair adorably ruffled.

No, not adorable, he tells himself. Terrible. Annoying.

“Vanitas?” Noé’s voice is rough on the edges and thick with sleep. “You can’t sleep?”

Vanitas feels challenged to say, “No, watching people sleep is one of my many exotic hobbies!” but he’s tired and sort of really desperate for some form of rest, so defeated, he admits, “No, I can’t.”

Noé considers him with more regard, and Vanitas wonders what he thinks, watching him stand in his room, barefoot and with deep shadows under his eyes. Just the previous day, he'd commented that Vanitas wasn’t looking well at all, and he'd asked if they should rest for a while. Vanitas had pressed on even harder, refusing Noé another good look at his battered form.

The silence stretches before them like a lazy beast, unmoving but still ready to pounce any second. Eventually, Noé offers with a carefully even voice, “Do you want to know what always helped me falling asleep when I was a child?”

Vanitas scoffs. “No, I really don’t.”

“Good,” Noé says, either not noticing or ignoring Vanitas rolling his eyes. “Whenever I couldn’t fall asleep, I’d go to Domi’s room and climb into her bed. Knowing someone was beside me helped, and I can sleep much better with someone warm next to me.”

“My, do I look like a ten year old boy, barely able to fend for myself that I need to share my bed with someone?” Vanitas cocks his head to the side, squinting at Noé from under his black lashes. “And who would want to lie next to a rough sleeper like you, ending up as a body pillow for your serving!”

Noé arches a slim, white eyebrow and lifts his blanket. Vanitas stares at him for a moment, then moves towards him like a moth to the flame and crawls under the sheets, settling right next to the other boy. “What a splendid idea!” no one says, because it isn’t.

Noé is a furnace beside him. Whatever space Vanitas tries to bring between them, he immediately bridges, pressing his arm against Vanitas’s.

“Dominique is going to kill me if she hears about this,” he murmurs into the darkness, ignoring how Noé’s calf feels against his bare ankle. “If you so much as mention it to her, I will haunt you down and slay you.”

Noé hums as he turns around to face him, snuggling into the blanket. Vanitas tries to lie as still as possible. He imagines he is a rock at the bottom of a vast sea where he’s been for hundreds of years and will remain for another hundreds of years. It works until he feels Noé’s warm breath ghost over his cheek and in his imagination, Vanitas sees the rock carried away with the water current.

“She won’t bother,” Noé says. “Like I said, we used to do that all the time as kids. Me, Domi and—” The sudden silence feels like the air sucked out of the room so no sound can travel. Vanitas can feel his shoulders tense, his breath caught somewhere on the way from his lungs to his mouth.

Don’t say Louis, don’t say Louis, he thinks.

“And Louis,” Noé finishes quietly, another breath on Vanitas’s skin.

“Then we must be talking about a different Dominique,” Vanitas says, not indulging at all in the boy that’s written in blood on Noé’s tongue and hands. “But then again, you are her favourite thing, and she would do anything for you. Do me one favour, would you? Don’t invite me to your wedding.”

Noé makes a strange, curious sound, and draws his knees up to his chest. Vanitas tries to accommodate by moving further towards the edge but half of his body is already hanging off, barely covered by the blanket. He shivers and turns to his side, now facing Noé and notices too late what a terrible idea that is with only a few inches separating their faces. His eyes shift from Noé’s ears to his cheekbones and focus on where his lashes throw dark shadows on his skin.

“Wedding?” Noé blinks up at him. “Me and Domi? What makes you think that we would marry?”

“What makes you think you won’t?”

“Dominique is like a sister to me.” Noé hums another little, low note, leaning his head forward. Vanitas leans back. “No, she is the sister I always wished for. I love her as family.”

“Why, go and break her heart like that.” Vanitas sighs, faking a concerned huff. Either the soft fabric just under the tip of his fingers is his own coat or Noé’s pyjama, and he doesn’t dare moving to find out. “Or maybe you’re actually naive enough to believe she feels the same way.”

“Why wouldn’t she?” He can practically hear the other boy frowning. “I’m certain she too loves me as a brother. And should she ever decide to marry, I’ll surely be sad, but it doesn’t matter as long as she’s happy. I just know she’ll be a beautiful bride.”

Vanitas rolls his eyes, unable to believe such gullibility and there’s nothing he wants to do more than claw his way into Noé’s heart and see what makes him tick like that, what mechanics work to produce such a strange specimen like him. But before he can give back a snark remark, Noé suddenly asks, “What about you?”

“Oh, I would make a lovely bride, thank you for asking.”

“No, I mean marriage,” Noé says after a poorly restrained chuckle. “Are you considering to marry Jeanne?”

Vanitas’s mouth forms a little ‘o’ before he barks out a laugh. “What in Heaven’s sake makes you think that?” he says, pressing one hand against his forehead because surely whatever Noé comes up with now will give him the headache that’s asserted itself within him since their first encounter.

Noé is quiet for a moment, then whispers, “Because you love her.”

Vanitas stops laughing. The headache doesn’t come, it’s dulled by the strange tone in Noé’s voice, one he fails to identify. It’s like grabbing mist, the whitish mystery clearly visible but slipping through his fingers.

“That is a very strong assumption,” he starts slowly, hearing the edge in his own voice. “But tell me, Noé, do you see me as someone who is capable of loving?” Noé’s breath hitches, his answer clear to Vanitas before even spoken, so quickly, and with a voice dark and hard, like late-winter ice, he adds, “A vampire of all things?”

Noé’s breath hitches again, this time sounding like a knife stabbed into his side. It does something funny to Vanitas, makes his heart jump a little out of tact, and he feels a smile slowly forming his lips into a crooked line. His hand sneaks up from under the blanket and reaches to grab a white lock, playing a contrast of black and white between his gloved fingers.

“I don’t love, Noé,” he whispers, pushing his cheek into the pillow that smells of Noé. “Not you, not Jeanne. Not humans, and certainly not vampires. I only consume those of value to my cause.” Like you. Like Jeanne and that boy she holds so dear.

Noé seems to understand, but he doesn’t pull away from Vanitas’s touch, which speaks volumes of whatever this connection between them is. No, he slightly turns his head, nuzzling into Vanitas’s hand, and with a shudder Vanitas realises how vulnerable the inside of his wrist is just inches away from Noé’s mouth and those hidden teeth that can easily rip apart his skin.

In this short moment he begs to whatever deities currently punishing him that he would bite him. Because then everything would easily fall into place, and he could kill Noé without second thought; without remorse.

Silver lines return to Noé’s face, and Vanitas blinks up at the window, at the narrow slit showing the moon emerging behind thick clouds, making Noé look like a piece torn out of the night sky: silver and black.

“Ah, but it seems there is someone else who adores you,” he says, his voice rising to a playful, ironic tint. He nods his chin towards the moon, and Noé turns around and away from Vanitas’s hand, blinking into the soft light. Just for a split second, his fingers twitch—toward Noé’s throat, his cheek, his lips?—but he already pulls it back under the blanket, still feeling exactly where Noé has touched him even through the thick fabric of his glove.

“La lune?” Noé turns back to Vanitas, brows drawn together.

“Yes, the very one. But I don’t recommend giving into it. You can only go so far on a roof after all before you reach the end.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You don’t know the story? About the man falling in love with the moon. He climbed up to a roof to reach her, but well. I think you can imagine the end of that.”

“It sounds like the moon is a harsh mistress,” Noé says slowly, surprising Vanitas in joining his antics, even following his train of thought. “La belle dame sans merci,” he whispers. “Then you two aren’t so different.”

Vanitas raises an eyebrow. “Beg your pardon?”

“Just as distant,” he says, shifting away from Vanitas for the first time. Good, Vanitas should think. Stay away from me. But instead he goes rigid and demands, Don’t go. “Just as out of reach.”

“Thank you, I try to keep things interesting,” Vanitas says, his voice hollow.

Noé surprises him (there it is again, being surprised when Vanitas has sworn that he’ll never underestimate another person ever again) by giving a soft chuckle. “But that makes me want to get closer to you even more, Vanitas.”

His mouth goes dry. His brain tries to follow up with whatever might rebuilt the wall between them, brick by brick, but instead his mind betrays him and takes over his mouth, babbling, “Did you know Alain Chartier wrote the poem about the merciless belle dame? It’s a little tacky to my taste, but then again, I wouldn’t beg anyone for their adoration. It’s a silly concept, the dialogue between the Lover and the Lady, I mean why would anyone ride out to enjoy a party, only to languish at the feet of—”

Noé groans. He stops the onslaught of words by slapping a hand on Vanitas’s mouth. The sudden silence stretches into uncomfortable territory until Vanitas can’t bear it anymore. He stares at Noé out from the corner of his eyes, and parts his lips to drag his tongue over Noé’s fingers. Noé flinches, and looks back at him with wide eyes. What usually did the trick to gross people out (Dante for example was fairly familiar with this concept and never failed to meet Vanitas’s expectations to draw away quickly) doesn’t work on Noé. He remains transfixed on Vanitas’s face as if all secrets of the universe display on his features, and Vanitas starts to questions his action. Suddenly, Noé shifts. He props himself on one elbow and leans over him, casting a long shadow over his upper body.

Just then, Vanitas realises what a dangerous situation he’s in. Up until this moment, he thought Noé to be shy, but that isn’t right at all. Noé is quiet resolve, and steadfast loyalty, he is the very silence ready to pounce and turn peace into havoc. It’s evident in how he watches Vanitas behind half closed eyes, those ruby mirrors considering him with an unreadable expression. His heart picks up, and before he can ascertain if this is a game he can win, he answers with sultry eyes himself, and mouths “Kiss me” against Noé’s skin.

It’s just out of curiosity, he tells himself. He wants to rile Noé up a little, see how far he can go and where he draws the line. Maybe Noé won’t do a thing and play the blushing maiden Vanitas imagines him to be. They both know it’s a dare Noé will lose because he respects Vanitas’s boundaries too much, and that little victory satisfies him already enough to smile into Noé’s hand triumphantly.

Noé considers him with a blank expression before his eyes slowly drift to his hand where it’s still secured over Vanitas’s mouth. Something changes in his eyes, they grow soft, and Vanitas immediately regrets what he’s done because he can’t bear the warmth in them, the unspoken promise of whatever Noé is willing to give him. He thinks about squirming out of the boy's touch, but he’s started moving his hand already, settling on Vanitas’s eyes. His heart stops. Rotten memories claw at the edge of his mind, hungry hyenas demanding blood and misery that this kind of darkness brings. Before he can lash out and push Noé away, soft moon light illuminates the darkness behind his closed eyes again, and he takes a deep, shaky breath, only now noticing that he’s stopped breathing. His eyes snap open, locking with Noé’s as he brushes black bangs out of Vanitas’s face. The moon shines a halo around Noé when he leans down and kisses his forehead.

It’s perfect.

Vanitas hates it.

He doesn’t move.

Noé’s lips are surprisingly soft. So is his smell, a faint fragrance of sandalwood with the sharp tint of clove and something coppery hidden under the layers, and there’s nothing better to describe it than home. The realisation cuts him in a sharp, painful flash, one that robs him of the air he’s only just now regained. Noé is careful that no other part of their bodies is touching, and it’s the last act of kindness that pushes something in him into a bottomless, black hole.

His fingers splay on Noé’s chest as he pushes him away, staring up into a slightly flushed face. The blushing maiden. Despite everything, it makes Vanitas smile.

“You live dangerous, my friend,” he murmurs, playing with a shirt button close to Noé’s collarbones. “But I will condone it this once. It seems I forgot one gets burned when playing with fire.”

Noé leans back, one hand beside Vanitas’s head carrying his weight, contemplating. Vanitas already knows whatever he’s going to say, it won’t be good.

“I never thought of you as someone who would yield to anything,” Noé says eventually. “Not even fire.” And quieter, he adds, “Ignis aurom probat.” Fire tests gold.

A shudder ripples through Vanitas’s body, stealing his control and causing him to laugh involuntarily because he doesn’t see himself as pure as gold, and Noé is so much more than a simple fire. Noé is a searing blaze, devastating cities and forests and leaving ashes of their self, allowing them to rebuild and regrow and turn away from an unwanted past. Vanitas would gladly sell his soul for such an opportunity, but he’s shackled by the shadow of a little boy half his height with a sweet voice and eyes the fairest blue even the sky envies.

“You’re quite the charmer, but you do know what they say about gold, don’t you?”

Noé hesitates, shifting a little, and even Vanitas with the little imagination that he has, can quite clearly picture how the muscles must shift beneath Noé’s dark skin on his back. He closes his eyes and breathes through his mouth. “Gold gives to the ugliest thing a certain charming air, For that without it were else a miserable affair.”

Noé pales. “I didn’t mean—”

“Shhh.” Vanitas smiles a smile Lucifer must have worn just seconds before God banished him from Heaven. His eyes don’t leave Noé for a second when he lifts a finger and presses it against Noé’s lips.

“I know, you didn’t mean to.” He rolls his eyes, voice in a mocking tone imitating what Noé was going to say because he’s easily predictable. “And you would never hurt me. But that makes us different. Because I will gladly hurt you if you let me.” He follows the soft curve of Noé’s lower lip with the tip of his finger until he reaches the corner of his mouth. There he curls his finger inside and pulls one side into a crooked smile. A sharp tooth grazes his skin, not quiet enough to break it, but a shiver travels down his back nonetheless.

Noé pulls Vanitas’s hand away from his face, looking down at him like he’s a strange animal he’s never seen before. A dull sadness settles over his eyes, but it’s too quick for Vanitas to really acknowledge.

“Not gold then,” Noé concludes with resolution in his voice. “But quicksilver.” And with that, he places Vanitas’s hand carefully back on his chest, and retreats to his side of the bed, laying down so Vanitas is faced with his broad back, his body completely turned towards the moon.

Vanitas blinks, stretching out one hand to follow the curve of Noé’s spine in the air with a finger, imagining what it would feel like to curl against this strong body and hold onto something what won’t break under his touch. He stays like that until he hears calm, deep breathing. Only then he lifts that same finger that’s been inside Noé’s mouth to his lips and sucks slowly until his mind talks him into believing it’s actually Noé he tastes.

I don’t love, he repeats over and over in his head until his eyes fall close and he drifts into a dreamless sleep.

The next morning starts just like Vanitas has always feared a morning sleeping beside another body would go. Waking up slowly to a woman’s voice in the far distance, he’s still walking on this slim line between sleeping and waking, a coma really, when his conscience registers a heavy arm around his waist and warm breath in his neck. His body locks up into one painful, tense muscle; all desperate instinct and frightened awareness because No, I don’t want Doctor to touch me, and he starts frantically scrabbling for the dagger below his pillow only to find nothing. Vanitas feels punched back to when he’s eleven and caged under Moreau’s heavy, naked body, a choked whimper like a wounded animal leaving his mouth. The arm moves, allowing the tiniest leeway. Vanitas doesn’t think. He swings his arm as hard as he can and hears the satisfying crack of a bone breaking. The man beside him gives a surprised shout, and Vanitas jumps to his feet, ready to break more than bones as the door crashes open at the same time, a woman storming inside.

“Noé?” Dominique cries, taking in how he's bent forward on the bed, holding his face. It doesn’t stop the blood dripping all over the white sheets, and Vanitas grows cold when her sharp eyes land on him, a furious hate boiling inside them. “What have you done, human?” she hisses, reaching Noé’s hunched form within few steps.

Vanitas is lost for words, a quite frequent reaction whenever he’s in Noé’s proximity. But it isn’t like anything he’ll say can excuse or save him from Dominique’s wrath, so he just stands there, dumbfounded, and watches her valuate the graveness of Noé’s broken nose, wondering if the man who’s fallen off the roof in the pursuit of his love lost as much blood as Noé right now and if that was worthwhile, or if he’d have rather poisoned himself with quicksilver.

Not that it matters.

Both end in a painful, slow death.

I saw pale kings and princes too, Pale warriors, death-pale were they all; They cried—‘La Belle Dame sans Merci Thee hath in thrall!’

[John Keats]

#philliamwrites #ap3 #fanfiction #the case study of vanitas #vanitas no carte #vannoe #vanitas #noe

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cambionverse · 3 years

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envesseled (1 of 3): poker

HELLO >:)

so. as you may have noticed, the last time we posted anything about envesseled (the claire-centric, claire-pov fic intended to follow jesse's fic cambion and ben's fic only human) was in 2013. did we forget about it? did we cancel it? is the verse abandoned? no, no, and no. we had a lot of stuff to rewrite to get the verse in the right place for envesseled, and then we got busy, and THEN there was a pandemic. but it was never very far from our minds, and now it is FINALLY time for this to be the next thing we post.

most of the fans of this verse have been with us for a very long time. for being so patient, and so supportive, we decided to post not one, not two, but THREE scenes from the in-progress envesseled, for everyone to enjoy, but especially for the people who were readers when we posted the last one (again, in 2013, eight entire years ago). we aren't committing to a posting date yet, but we are ALL much closer to the end of this wait than the beginning.

this particular scene is only mildly spoilery and doesn't have any major content warnings to watch out for, aside from a mention of the ticking clock on claire's grace. it also introduces the minor character patrick, from spn episode 5.07, who has been on our cast page for some time; finally you can get some idea of what (small yet important) role he might play in this story. there are two more previews after this before the night is over - we hope you enjoy them.

---

Lucky for Claire, there's already a poker game in progress when she pushes the door of the pub open in a swirl of cold air. The man who wins the next hand looks younger than the others by far, though there's something about him that Claire can't quite place. He catches her eye across the bar and smiles around a toothpick as his compatriots grumble and wander away with their meager winnings.

"Room for one more?" says Claire, laying the sweetness on thick and her money on the table.

He waves a hand at the now-empty chairs. "I'm Patrick."

Surely he's faking that Irish accent; it's even more ridiculous than Jesse's Australia-Nebraska hybrid. And with the name Patrick, no less. "Amelia," Claire says, and pretends the accompanying flare of pain is only because she told a lie.

"Amelia," says Patrick, with an odd emphasis on the last two syllables. "You remind me of someone I once knew." He hands her a stack of poker chips and begins dealing out cards.

Claire leans forward so her braid falls over her shoulder and says, "How did you end up here, Patrick?"

He doesn't take the opportunity to look down her shirt, which is all the more irritating because she had half-hoped he wouldn't. "Luck," he says, snapping the k. He glances at his cards. "It's often on my side."

Lie. Claire doesn't often get such strong feedback from general statements like that, but this one burns. She ups her bet by more than she otherwise would have, careful to keep her voice neutral. "That must come in handy."

"Well, that is what we Irish are known for." He flips another chip onto the pile. "Ignoring the whole bit about the famines, of course. Pots of gold don't make very good eating."

Claire cracks a smile completely involuntarily, and brings a hand up much too late to hide it. Patrick quirks one eyebrow. His eyes stay on Claire's face for a long time, though, as his expression slides into something sadder.

She wouldn't, usually, but Claire asks, "Who was it?"

Patrick blinks, and the smirk is back in place like it never left. "Who was who, darling?"

"You said I reminded you of someone."

"She was a dancer." Patrick takes a chip from his considerable pile and spins it between two fingers. "Held herself like you do, especially when she was angry. Like if she didn't hold herself tight she'd float right up in the air."

Claire's muscles go even tenser when he says that, because he's not supposed to notice. "Raise," she says, dropping the chips in the pile.

Patrick exhales. "She wasn't much of a poker player." He puts his cards down, and slides them back into the deck before she can see them. "I fold."

Claire scoops the pile of chips toward her, stacking them carefully by value. Patrick's first bet this round was high, the highest he's played all game; why did he drop the bluff so fast? With this, plus the little extra hidden in her backpack, and if she's willing to eat vending machine food for breakfast—

The door opens, and a low hum starts up in the back of Claire's head. She knows who it is before Ben ever reaches the table.

"Claire!"

Patrick's eyes narrow the slightest margin. "Claire, is it?"

Fuck, and now she's been made, and he probably won't pay out and she'll have to sleep in a fucking snowbank because Ben Braeden can't keep his mouth shut. She opens her mouth the bare minimum required to say, "Leave."

She hears him settle harder on his feet but continues to stare at her cards. Patrick folded. She doesn't even have one pair.

"I know you don't forgive me yet," Ben says, and Claire breathes out hard. "But there's something Jesse and I need to—"

"I said leave, Ben," and she's turning to glare at him even though she wanted to play this cool. His cheeks are glowing red from being out in the cold, and a little behind him, far enough back to have a clear path to the door, Jesse's watching her too. When he sees Claire looking, his eyes drop to the floor.

"No, you don't get it," Ben begins, but Patrick interrupts.

"Is there a problem here?"

Ben seems to realize there are other people around, and he slides on his most affable grin. Claire can see how it's going to go, Ben charming everyone in a ten-foot radius, what a nice guy he is. Well, not if she gets there first.

"Yeah, there is," she says, savoring the lack of pain because it's true. "This asshole has been bothering me all night. I came here to get away from him."

"Oh, come on," says Ben, already rolling his eyes, but Claire said it loud enough that quite a few people heard her and some of them are starting to mutter. He notices, and ducks closer to her. "Look, Claire, can we just go?"

Patrick stands up. "I believe the lady asked you to leave."

Ben gives him a once-over. "Who are you?"

"Oh, I don't think you want to know the answer to that," says Patrick. His smile is not kind. "I suggest you be on your way."

Claire's not surprised to see Ben's jaw set at that. "Dude, this is so not your business," he says. "I know her, okay? We've been friends for years. I just want to talk to her."

Patrick bites a toothpick idly. "Think she can decide for herself who she wants to talk to."

Ben looks like he might be feeling stupid enough to throw a punch, but then Jesse is there at his side, one hand finding its way to the back of Ben's neck. Ben calms down instantly with Jesse touching him and Claire has been so, so painfully oblivious to never see this for what it was.

When Patrick notices Jesse his arms drop, and suddenly the air feels weird. "And who's your friend?"

"I'm nobody," says Jesse, though Claire would bet her pile of hypothetical money that his other hand is on the knife at his belt. "Just don't want to see this get out of hand."

Patrick looks at all three of them like links in a chain. "And did you not hear the lady's request, nobody?"

"Maybe you should stop talking for her, how 'bout," Ben retorts.

Claire appreciates the help, she supposes, but really what she wants is to be done with the displays of aggression and for everyone to leave her alone. "Go away, Ben," she says, and it comes out tired even to her own ears. He slumps a little deeper into Jesse's grip, and that's exactly the problem.

"Claire—"

"We're going," says Jesse, finally looking away from Patrick to catch Claire's eye again. He lowers his voice. "We'll be waiting outside."

"You'll be waiting a long time," Claire says, one parting shot for them to remember her by. "I do hope you two can find some way to occupy yourselves."

They both flinch, and Claire turns back to the table with bitter satisfaction in the back of her throat.

Patrick settles back into his seat, eyes still on the door. "You do have interesting friends."

"They're not my friends," says Claire. The lie burns like whiskey.

Patrick raises an eyebrow at her. "No? Then what are they?"

"We were playing," Claire says pointedly. When he doesn't move, she grabs the deck and starts to shuffle herself.

"I am playing," Patrick retorts. If he starts to go on about how you don't play the cards, you play the person, she might have to hit him herself. Instead he leans back and chews on his toothpick. "Let me see if I got it straight. You and Ben, you've been friends for a long time."

Claire places her bet, refusing to acknowledge that he's still talking. There's nothing impressive about repeating back what Ben let slip.

"And you're not one to make friends easily, are you, Amelia." She does look up at that, and Patrick, smirking, corrects himself. "Claire."

She deals the next card.

"So maybe you thought Ben was something special. But you didn't trust yourself with him. So you told him to wait."

"Raise," Claire says, and she doesn't even have that good a hand but she wants to clean him out. He won't stop fucking smiling.

"Some people would wait, you know," says Patrick. "Some people would wait a very long time."

Some while back Ben had told her, There is nobody else. Well. I'm nobody, Jesse said. Claire turns out her hand. "Triple sixes."

Patrick sighs. "You're letting me get to you, love. Can't play a good game if your mind's out that door." He tosses his cards onto the table in front of her. "Full house, and I'm guessing you could've used this cash. Quit while you've got any left." He drags the chips out of her reach.

Claire picks up his cards and the rest of the deck. "We're not done playing."

"All that ice isn't going to keep you safe forever." Patrick leans back. "Deal."

And because Claire is tired, and lost, and vindictive, she lets the cards slide through her hands with that special twist Ben taught her.

Patrick nudges a considerable pile of chips into the middle of the table. "Some free advice for you, love," he says, eyes dark. "Your life's too short to pretend you want nothing and no one to come near your heart."

Her grace flares up even before she can shape the words I don't. He doesn't know how right he is—Claire's life is looking very short indeed, these days, and nothing Ben or Jesse can do will put a stop to the invasive light eroding her body from the inside out. Her heart's probably toxic by now anyway.

Claire takes a deep breath and shows her cards, spades all in a row just like she planned. "Straight flush."

Patrick tosses his hand onto the table. "Four aces."

"What?" But there they are, even though Claire could've sworn she cut the ace of diamonds into the middle of the deck and buried the ace of hearts even further down. She locks her teeth as soon as the word escapes, but it's too late; his cold smile tells her he knows what she did.

"I don't like cheaters," says Patrick. He places a polished wooden box on the table and begins gathering the chips back into it, along with any chance she had of getting a hotel room tonight. "And you, of all people, ought to value honesty. Better luck next time, Amelia."

Claire clenches her jaw. She stands to leave—then Patrick catches her hand.

"I'm not doing this for you," he murmurs, and she feels the papery crinkle of fresh bills on her palm. She grips the money instinctively even as she draws back, other hand curling into a fist. No one at all is watching them. But Patrick just looks at her, an unsettling depth to his gaze. "You should tell him how you feel," he says, and releases her.

Claire pockets the money and bolts before he can change his mind.

#cambionverse #envesseled #claire novak #10th cambiversary #rough drafts #writing #ours #lmao this scene is classic spn winchester hustle #but with claire it's like. gatekeep girlboss get the fuck out of my face #also the fact that she uses her mother's name as an alias: hurts me #claire novak my beloved

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renaerys · 4 years

Text

PPG One-Shot: Blowing Off Steam (Brick/Blossom)

@carriedreamerx and @kiebs have been hard at work these last couple of days drawing some really pretty art over on IG for various of our collective fics (check out their IGs, the art is super gorgeous). Since I have the artistic skills of a rock, I thought I’d say thanks with some Reds fight-and-make-out fic! This is an excerpt from an upcoming multi-chapter fic that will feature the Punks along with the Girls and the Boys. Gist of it is they’ve all been warped to a different planet and are stuck in a weird, possibly haunted house as they try to find a way out of it with punches and problem solving and *gasp* teamwork. They’re all in their late 20s in this. In this excerpt, Brick and Blossom blow off a little steam and Berserk takes all the credit.

(Unbeta’d and subject to change when I get around to posting the actual multi-chapter fic itself.)

xxx

Blossom had never felt more discomfited by Berserk’s absence than her presence, but she felt it now across the table from Brick with no one else around to draw her wandering eye, or his. He shifted his weight in his chair. She stretched her neck. He took a sip of water. She cleared her throat.

After ten minutes of this, he slammed his book shut. “What is happening?”

Blossom fixed her gaze firmly on her book and the passage she’d re-read at least four times now without absorbing any of it. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“It’s taken you twenty minutes to read two pages.”

The knee-jerk urge to refute him tugged at her like a dog begging for table scraps, but she ignored it. He wasn’t wrong. “I guess I’m finding it hard to concentrate today.”

They watched each other across the long table, and it struck her just how red his eyes were even from afar: two burning pits fixed entirely on her. Unsettling, yet strangely warm. She thought about retiring early, but she wasn’t tired. In fact, she was having some trouble sitting still in her chair. Maybe a walk outside would do her good, or even a run. Maybe Buttercup was free and up for a spar. Just anything to get her body moving and her brain blanking before her thoughts burned a hole through her skull and exposed everything to him.

“Let’s go a round,” Brick said. The sound of his chair sliding over the tile screamed in the cavernous, quiet library.

“What?”

“I feel like I’m trying to crawl out of my own skin.” He flexed a fist, and red sparks spiderwebbed along his knuckles to the wrist eager for something to burn.

Blossom’s mouth went dry at the manifest threat of his power calling to her like old ghosts. She could retreat, provide some excuse, it had worked before. But no excuse came to her now, and under the table, her fingers curled around a mass of pastel power itching for a summoning. She rose from her chair, books forgotten, and headed for the door. “We can’t have that,” she said.

He fell into step after her not a moment later and followed her down the hall and up the second floor balcony to the first challenge room. The house was quiet and empty tonight, its vaulted ceilings cold and distant. It was as though they were the only two people awake in this uncanny place.

It took everything Blossom had not to stop and wait for him to catch up. His eyes at her back gave off a singular heat, homing and hyper-focused. Perhaps years ago, she would have never entertained the thought of turning her back on someone so dangerous. Now, the thought of what she might invite if she faced him kept her squarely focused on her destination ahead.

“Ladies first,” Brick said directly behind her when they reached the challenge room. He grabbed the edge of the door and held it open for her.

Blossom looked anywhere but back at him and stepped over the threshold. The change of pressure entering the pocket dimension made her ears pop and the access band on her wrist heat with power. As before, the walls on all sides moved as concrete structures grew and shifted, sky scrapers blooming like flowers and withering to dust, only to sprout again elsewhere. Brick followed and closed the door behind them. Already disoriented, Blossom began to float as she adjusted to the altered gravity and tried to abandon the idea of up versus down.

“Restrictions?” Brick asked. He shed his red jacket, leaving him only in his matching pants and a form-fitting tank top.

Blossom very maturely averted her gaze lest he assume she was ogling him, of all the ludicrous notions. Steeling herself, she unzipped her own red jacket and tossed it aside to join his. “Since when can you afford to restrain yourself against me?”

His laughter, light and low, shivered her to the bone. “All right, then. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

He was on her in a flash with a hard punch. Blossom blocked at the last second, but the force sent her crashing into concrete. She barely had time to cough when he came at her again with another punch aimed at her face, but this time she dodged in the nick of time and it was his turn to eat rubble.

Adrenaline and Chemical X made for a heady, explosive cocktail in her veins that spread from her fingertips to the very ends of her long ponytail. Incandescent, pink power jumped over her bare arms as she poised to receive him again.

“Come on,” she said.

Brick glowed red, and it was her only warning before he rocketed after her. Blossom took off deeper into the maze of ever changing obstacles, the exertion only fueling her faster along in a familiar chase they had not run in years.

The pocket dimension was a death trap. Blossom darted over and under spikes and spires closing around her like jaws, her movements precise and fluid. But Brick was just as adept and wasted little energy swerving around the masticating mandible they had chosen for this evening’s playground.

Blossom swung around and under a sprouting obelisk, trusting her body to move exactly according to her will, but Brick abruptly changed course and met her mid-spin. Anticipating his sneak attack, Blossom let him have it with a wicked kick in the ribs.

Unfortunately, he was damn fast and grabbed her by the ankle just as her kick connected, and they both went flying with the force of her attack. A receding column broke Blossom’s fall with a rude crunch, and she broke Brick’s. Rose met red through a cloud of dust and electric Chemical X.

“Caught you,” he said.

Maybe it was the rush of the moment that drove her, the old thrill of the hunt from their heyday, never acknowledged but deeply felt. She felt him now, palms searing around her knee and pinning her neck, and she reached back.

Too close to avoid her open palm on his chest, Brick took her ice at point-blank range and blasted away in a flurry of snowflakes. He nearly hit a stone pillar punching out of the undulating wall, but managed to flip out of its path at the last second.

Blossom floated higher, her arms sleeved in ice and her breath misty. The temperature plummeted further as her power rippled through the pocket dimension. “Not quite,” she said in a voice that crept in between the shifting sky scrapers like hoarfrost.

Across from her, Brick’s power sluiced off him as thick as magma. He was a bright, burning star in this grey world, and god she could feel him pushing back and fighting for ground as if he were right in front of her. The chemically saturated air shimmered around him and ignited the blood in his eyes as they met hers. “Come here.”

It was all the encouragement she needed to give in to the timeless spark between them and unleash. Frost met fire as they collided, broke, and collided again. His punches smoldered, but her ice tempered them to cleansing smoke. And when she caught him in a freezing hold, he inevitably slipped through behind a veil of steam. Each unable to smother the other, they were evenly matched and forever at odds as they ricocheted off stone towers and toppled thrusting obelisks in their bid for dominance.

And that was what this was, what it had always been. Blossom had never felt the need to control and dominate another like she felt it fighting Brick. Call it fate, or design, or maybe it was just him, but there was nothing like this release, this honest surrender to the creature she was and always would be, made magnificent in the eyes of a true equal.

“I’m right here!” she taunted, with snowflakes in her hair.

Brick landed on a cracked block. The cement began to melt under the heat of his power where he crouched and captured her in those pyre-bright eyes. “Is that an invitation?” he shot back. “Or a threat?”

Alive with the thrill of unfettered competition, Blossom grinned. “Let’s find out.”

She took off at a punishing pace, half flying around the cement blocks and half skating over their frozen faces. Brick was right on her tail, his steps scorching the swaths of ice she left in her wake to cataclysmic ends. Wherever the two Supers’ extremities came into direct contact, the concrete collapsed and exploded like a parade of supernovas.

He was close, she could feel it, but he wouldn’t catch her, no way. Blossom was the best at what she did, and no one knew that better than her counterpart. But he was fast closing the distance between them, and when she chanced a glance back, there he was haloed in haze, his fire rising like great, golden chains, and he reached for her.

Blossom gasped, and it was her mistake. Brick caught her waist and pulled her back hard. The blizzard in her lungs went up in steam between his fingers clamped over her mouth. They hurtled together head over heels with Blossom kicking and jabbing with her elbows. But Brick locked her arms to her sides and anchored her to his chest until they came to a stop and she could hardly move. Pink power crackled on her skin as she thrashed in his arms, but he only laughed.

“That tickles,” he murmured.

Blossom immediately ceased her struggling. Immured in his arms with no chance of escaping unless he let her go, she became acutely aware of just how close they were. His breath was warm in her hair, and he smelled like smoke and parchment. He hadn’t loosened his hold around her at all.

“Brick,” she said, sotto voce.

He laughed again, low and husky. “Yield.”

The very word inspired an electric disdain in her. “No.”

He pressed his nose to her hair, and when he spoke his lips brushed against the side of her neck. “Are you sure?”

Blossom turned her head to look him in the eye and held on to her nerve out of sheer force of will. “Are you?”

This close, she could count his freckles and taste the heat he radiated, but there was no reading him beyond his singular and absolute focus on her.

He loosened his grip around her and pulled away. “No,” he said.

Blossom caught him before he could move away. Thoughtless perhaps, but Blossom never stopped thinking, not about their entrapment here, not about finding a way out, and not about him since the day they arrived in this strange place. She barely tugged at his shirt before he was on her again, arms around her waist and kissing her hard. Her fingers sparked with power as she threaded them through his short hair, making him groan, and he suddenly shoved them against the freezing, concrete wall until it cracked. His kiss was volcanic, as relentless as he was, and Blossom pulled him deeper with a smile.

The wall lurched at her back, and as quickly as it had begun, Brick ended the kiss and pushed her out of the way of a wicked spike just as it erupted from the enchanted wall. Blossom landed deftly on a nearby block and watched him do the same. Breathing hard, she wiped the traces of the best kiss of her life from her lips.

“Best two out of three,” he called to her.

Unable to resist, she smirked. “Restrictions?”

“You couldn’t restrain yourself against me if you tried.”

A retort sat poised on the tip of her tongue, but it still remembered his kiss and refused to cooperate.

“Blossom,” he said in a commanding tone that wanted answering.

Blossom’s power burst around her, radioactive, and she launched herself skyward. “Try and keep up.”

They spent the next two hours raining tempestuous ruin, on the pocket dimension and on each other.

xxx

Berserk took one look at Brick and Blossom when they returned to the Red Wing later that evening in their soot- and sleet-stained clothes, set her book down, and drained the rest of her bourbon. “Oh god.”

Brick rolled his eyes headed for his room. “There better be some of that left when I get out of the shower.”

Berserk flipped him the bird, which he returned behind his back before slamming the door.

Blossom hovered like a deer caught in the headlights until Berserk took pity on her and poured a fresh glass. “Here. You look like you need this more than I do.”

Blossom snapped out of it and took the offered bourbon automatically. “What?”

Jesus Christ.

You try to be nice for once, and nobody fucking appreciates it. Typical.

“Whatever.” Berserk went back to her book and her own glass of bourbon, which she topped off with the rest of the bottle so there would be none left for Brick.

Blossom didn’t fuck off to her own room like she ought to have, but instead sat down on the red sofa across from Berserk. She was smiling like a creep. Before Berserk could ask her if she needed medical assistance with whatever the hell was going on, Blossom said, “Cheers.”

Magenta eyes narrowed over the top of her book as Berserk studied her counterpart for any hint of a scheme. When she found none, she cautiously clinked her overfull glass to Blossom’s and drank.

They sat there in silence for a while. The sound of Brick’s shower was a low din behind his closed door as Berserk slowly flipped the pages of her book, some boring shit about this planet’s agricultural practices. Blossom had picked up a book of her own and curled up, her legs tucked under her in a perfect mirror to Berserk. Every once in a while Berserk would steal a glance at her counterpart and find her quiet and content with her book and bourbon. Peaceful was not quite the right word for this weirdly tranquil ambience, and Blossom for sure needed a shower. But, well…

Well.

“Thank you.”

It was so softly spoken, that had they not been reading in complete silence, Berserk may not have heard her speak. Blossom didn’t look up to acknowledge her sitting there, or even to check that Berserk had heard her.

Berserk curled a lock of her frizzy, red hair around her finger and buried her nose in her book. “Whatever.”

Blossom hid a smile behind her book and finished her drink.

xxx

Thanks for reading! <3

#Blossick #Reds #Blossom #Brick #Berserk #Powerpuff Girls #PPG #fanfic #carriedreamerx #kiebs #February Fic Prompts #i'm liking this world and pretty excited about writing the ppnkgs!#and more reds who am i kidding #PPG Trinity House

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creepyalienghost · 3 years

Text

Doctors assistant 3

Sammy puts his pen down on the desk next to his sheet music. He had decided he was finish working on it tonight. Besides it was going on 3am and he needed to get some sleep for the early morning in a few hours. He was the only person there left at the studio as he usually is most nights. Even Wally goes home earlier then him, way earlier. Sammy however loves to stay here late and get work done. It was the best time to do so. It was quite and there was no one to distract him plus he was a night owl.

He Gathered his belongings and made his way out. As he Exited the studio he opened his book to the page he last stopped at and began ready about the legends and folklore. He doesn’t know why but this topic speaks to him. It calls out to him. Sammy thinks he use to be into this stuff when he was younger before going to a family that drilled things like the importance of money is and Business things, in his head. He hated that at the time. All that math and business learning he was made to do by his Foster dad did lead him to get a great job here so he was ok with it now. But he started reading folklore about three months ago when he and Joey went to the library.

The stories he read of people’s encounters with ghost, monsters and legends fascinated Sammy for some odd reason. He liked the stories about monsters the best, liked reading what they saw, heard and especially what they felt In that moment of terror.

He was invested in the book as he walked down sidewalks and into alleyways until he heard a strange noise from behind him,turning around quickly. He felt uneasy then as he looked left to right in the darkness to find no signs of life. No robbers, No homeless people, not even animals. He remembered then his friend and coworker, Jack, had always told him that walking at this hour could lead to trouble for him. He always worried for his friend especially knowing the dangers things he and Joey do together. He hated now that Jack could be right and for never listen to him.

“Hello?” Sammy called out, closing his book and holding it with one arm. He waited for a minute to see if someone would call back to him, but no one answered.

Before he took a step to move, he felt a sharp pain in his neck! He dropped his book and spawn around, gripping the spot on his neck. What he saw made no sense. Maybe it was because he’s vision was fucked up now or maybe because he felt tired but he saw three shadow like figures. “W...it-...pa” He had tried to speak but couldn’t form the words correctly.

“Shhh there’s no need to be afraid, my child” came a calming voice that he couldn’t pin point. “Your in good hands” after that all vision and feeling left his body.

——-

Sammy woke up In a dimly lit room with a foggy head. He knew this wasn’t his bed but he had no idea who’s it was and how he got there or even where there was. He sat up, shook his head to clear it then glanced around his surroundings. The room was small but pretty cozy for an abandoned building. There was a few candles on the small table nearby that was keeping the room from total darkness. Next to them laid his book neatly placed and a desk placed along the opposite wall with a chair for it. Papers and folders were scattered on it.

Sammy moved closer to the desk and felt something heavy around his ankle. Looking down, he noticed though the small bit of light he was given, a thick metal chained was attached around his ankle with not much more room to walk, Although he could walk around in this room. He was trapped though with no way of getting out or knowing if help was on the way.

He stayed quiet for he didn’t want his capturer to know that he was awake now. He needed to figure out what to do and where he was first before anything. He slowly stood up from his bed so the chains made little to no noise and slowly he took small steps to the desk. He picked up the first page his eyes landed and scan though it then he did the same though more. It was a bunch of Science and Medical junk, Stuff on diseases and sickness.

“I found the cure.” A soft gentle voice spoke from the doorway. It did make Sammy jump but didn’t place fear in him.

He looked over a the strange figure and knew he should be terrified, he did look like death, but he wasn’t. He felt Comfort from it. He felt like he knew it but couldn’t remember where. “We meet before, having we?” Sammy ask.

The being nodded his beak. “We had.” He reached in his cloak pocket, pulling out a key and gave it to Sammy. “Come. We have much to discuss.”

The being stood at the doorway, waiting for Sammy as he unlocked the chains around his ankle. “Why the chains anyways?” Sammy ask

“So you wouldn’t run in the darkness and get hurt again.” The being answered. Sammy searched his memories and only kinda remember falling thought something when he was a child. Could this being really had been there?

Sammy followed him out the small room and down an dark hallway. It was clear with the children drawings and crosses hung up on the wall that this was place use to be a church. He wondered how it became abandoned and for how long ago.

The two arrived in an kitchen area. There was a few tables that were surprisingly cleaned from dust and a couple usable chairs which the being offered one. “Please sit.”

Sammy took a sit next to the being and listened as it began speaking.

—-

Within the hours of their Conversation Sammy understands the missing pieces from back then. He now remembers the year of being with the doctor and their work they were trying to accomplish, The doctor gave him files of his research has prof. Sammy read them then it dawned on him. The doctor had drugged him and brought him hear. But how had found him? And was there another reason for those chains? “Doctor...” He looked up at the being. “I have it, don’t I?”

The being looked down in sadness then nodded after a moment. “But I can cure you, my child.” The doctor replied. “You won’t be a failed experiment ether! But for you...I’m giving you the choice. If you wanna be cured or not. Take your time. It’s a big choice.” With that the doctor left the table to give Sammy time.

Sammy sat there and read the files again then reread them a third time. He had to be sure before doing this. It was risky. It was dangerous but he didn’t want to die from the pestilence. After another reread he made his choice. He was going to be cured.

Sammy got up from the table and headed back down the hallway looking for the doctor. “I made my choice. Cure me.” He said when he found him.

The doctor stood up and placed his notebook down on the desk. “Follow me, please

Sammy followed him to the well lit operation room which was in the back of the church. The doctor guided him to the soft hospital bed and helped him on it. “Now my dear” the doctor said grabbing an surgical mask. “Lay down and relax. Once you wake you will be cured.” He slipped on the mask over Sammy’s mouth and turned it on.

Sammy laid there and looked up at the old church ceiling. He couldn’t believe after all this time the doctor found the cure. He wondered when and who it was on but that was questions for another time. Now he just needed to relax and he was begging to. He was begging to fell the drowsiness from the medicine. His eyes began to drip, getting heavier and heavier with each minute. It wasn’t ten minutes when Sammy was fully deeply asleep. The doctor got his tools, cleaned them and started his work.

———

When Sammy woke up he was weak for a few days but the doctor took care of him. He also had to regrow his hair which took months. Within years for being cured Sammy noticed that he stopped aging and only then he released what the pestilence was. It was death.

He was immoral now.

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sp00kworm · 4 years

Text

The Devil’s Eyes

Pairing: (Older) Billy Loomis x Gender Neutral Reader

Warnings: Stalking, Blood, Injuries, Murder, Knifeplay, Violence.

ARCHIVE OF OUR OWN LINK

An alarm. Billy dared to look up through the small window of his door as the lock chunked, signalling that is was locked and closed for the next few hours. He chewed at his cheek as the wardens started to make their rounds. Each room would be disengaged at one point, checked, and locked once more for the night.

“Fifteen fuckin’ years and it’s the same old shit, isn’t it?” Billy droned behind the door, smirking as the grouchy warden smacked his baton against the glass.

“Can it, Loomis.” He shouted as they turned and walked back to the end of the hall to search the rooms before his on the other end. He was last. He was always last. The man chewed his lip, fingers turning in the hand cuffs. He’d gotten out of the jacket for good behaviour. Doing what the big wig told him. Obeying every command made him grind his teeth, but for what it gave him, it was worth it. Access to the library was nice. He flexed against the cuffs, holding the book open with his thumb between the pages as they started their rounds. He ground his teeth again and flicked his tongue against the pin tucked between his gums and cheek before reaching up to pluck it out.

“Fuckin’ useless the lot of ‘em.” He grumbled as he pulled the hair pin free and set about undoing the handcuff lock, pushing it back, carefully pushing open the sections of the lock, one rotation at a time.

Billy felt himself smirk when the first one popped free, his hand flexing before he undid the second with much more ease. The guards were next door and he hummed a tune as he reached for the cuffs chain and tugged, pulling the chain towards the bed as he turned his back to the door and pulled the hard back book back in his lap, the cuffs in his hand, a knot of chain wrapped around his fingers, as he waited for them to finish with mad old Tommy next door.

“What I wouldn’t give to read some fuckin’ Stephen King in this place.” Billy mused as he looked back down at the hard copy of The Hobbit and rolled his eyes with disinterest, clenching the chain in his hand as he waited, brown eyes following the words and not really taking them in. He reached to pull his hair back, slicking the dark hair backwards, the curtains of his youth forgotten about when he spent a year incarcerated. It was hard to maintain any real form of haircut. Slicked back suited him, as did the short beard over his face as well. They didn’t let him have a razor. They shaved his face. He had a little say over what they did. Still, he could cope. He would always cope until he found his way out of here.

He decided, as the door opened with a clunk, that The Hobbit, really was the most boring thing he had ever read.

“Turn around, Loomis. Hands where we can see ‘em. Pills and room check.” The warden announced from the door, burning holes into the back of his uniform, “Loomis. Now.” The baton in his hand went with a crack against his other.

“Don’t you ever get tired of shouting, Louis?” Billy drawled, licking a finger as he turned the page, desperately trying to stop himself from grinning as his blood roared in his arms, tensing his muscles as the two of them took steps inside of the room.

One guard continued to walk towards him, boots thumping as he drew close to the edge of the bed, observing the chain still linked to the wall as he loomed over the man convicted of killing six people, most of them his classmates, “Hands or you get the rough treatment, Loomis.”

Billy turned to look over his shoulder, “What if that’s what I want, Louis?”

“Sure thing, asshole. We can wrangle you into that fuckin’ straight jacket again, see how much you enjoy that. Last time you didn’t stop howling and kicking the door for three days.” Louis grinned down at him, looking Billy in the eyes with arrogance he once saw in those football player’s eyes. That was before he dragged the knife through their spleen.

“I don’t think I want to be in that again.” Billy hummed as they reached for the chain of his handcuffs. Two wardens. Not great odds, but against the alarm, he stood even less of a chance.

“Then comply, Loomis. No one likes playing your little mind games. Hands.” Louis growled, his temper reaching the end of its tether. He tugged the chain and Billy held his end tightly as he snapped the book in front of him shut with a thump. Louis frowned as Billy turned to look at him, pieces of hair falling over his dark eyes.

“What’s the worst way to die, Louis?” Billy asked with a grin.

“What the fuck…” Louis reared backwards too late as Billy reached for him with the chain, grappling the man tight by the throat before looping the knot he had made with his hand over the warden’s head. His breathing became strangled as Billy let go and tugged the other end.

“Strangulation is up there, Louis!” Billy roared.

The other man watched in horror before coming for him with the baton. Billy grinned before sidestepping and throwing him against the wall, the brick colliding with his skull. Stunned, he let the killer take hold of him once more, eyes rolling as Billy took him by the hair.

“Let’s see how your blood looks on the wall, huh?” Billy sneered before slamming the guard’s head against the brick. Once. Twice. A third time. His head split and bled with the fourth before Billy smiled with satisfaction at the blood pouring from his skull. Louis gasped in the corner as Billy reached and pulled the chain tight again, watching the guard go purple in the face.

“This is for fifteen fuckin’ years, Louis.”

Louis went purple all too fast and Billy smirked down at his work as he pushed pieces of hair from his eyes. The eyes bulging from his skull was a new look. It suited him, he concluded. Billy admired it for a moment before heading for the door, spinning the handcuffs on his finger before slamming the door to his cell closed behind him. The locks activated with a great thud and he waved at the glass window, looking at the blood smeared on the wall once more before he walked away, smirking as he walked down the shadows of the corridor. The alarm was silent on the wall. Searches were finished. He had ten minutes before someone got suspicious and came looking for the other wardens. Billy walked to the end of the corridor and smirked at the window, holding the pointed clip of the cuff up to the moonlight before fisting it in his hand. He raised it before cracking it against the edge of the glass. The glass cracked in a webbed pattern but didn’t give. Crazy Carl screeched from inside his cell at the noise. Billy raised the point again and smashed his fist against the glass with a grunt, watching with glee as the webbing caved and the window to freedom opened. He paused to smell the night air before wrapping his fingers around the frame, gritting his teeth as shard of glass shredded his fingertips, before hauling himself upwards. Wiggling, he managed to pull himself out on his stomach, grunting as dirt mixed with the blood on his hands. An alarm sounded behind him and Billy scrambled to his feet, turning to flag the brick walls with his middle finger before he was off into the woodlands.

Woodsboro wasn’t much different. Billy hid behind the sunglasses on his face as he watched the town from the front window of the new café. Fifteen years, and Woodsboro was the same sleepy town it was when he was younger. Eighteen and partying like any other high school student until that whore, Maureen Prescott, had slept with his father the year before his plan had come to fruitition. He rubbed at his beard as he sipped at the ice coffee in his grasp, enjoying the cool drink in the summer heat as he watched the world go bye outside of the window. The waitress sauntered over to deliver him his slice of cake, giving him a lip bite and a curious glance as she walked back towards the counter to serve the other customers queuing at the front. Billy watched her ass bounce out of the corner of his glasses before turning back to look out of the window at the bookstore.

‘Out of Darkness by Sidney Prescott’

He scoffed softly before picking up the small fork for his cake. He pushed pieces into his mouth as he watched the bookstore with mild interest. Everyone would love to hear her story, he was sure about that. The final girl. The girl that won. He doubted it was much of a read. All about mental anguish.

“Shits overdone anyway.” Billy scowled at the shop as he mutilated the cake in front of him, thinking on just what good it would do him to be back where he started it all. The cake was in pieces. He wasn’t fond anyway. He picked up the drink and tucked a single dollar under the plate for her annoying service, just for the spite of it, before leaving, the little bell jingling behind him as he went.

The pavement outside was hot. It was getting to the beginning of summer now, and Billy adjusted the sunglasses over his eyes as he fiddled with the stolen wallet in his trouser pocket. A few people on the highway were unfortunate enough to run across him. Stolen clothes and various bank cards later, and he was back in Woodsboro, the cash in his leather wallet enough to last him a while if he played his cards right. Sidney didn’t live here anymore. He wasn’t at much of a risk of being recognised. At least not yet. He didn’t know if that Dewey was still running around pretending to play cop. He’d been sleeping in the back seat of the four by four in the meantime, but he’d kill for some form of hot water. If there was one thing he missed now. It was hot water and a shower. He needed to remedy his situation soon. With a huff he squinted up at the sun before moving back towards his stolen car. The plate needed swapping before it was traced, or maybe he would cut his losses. He pushed a finger against his bottom lip as he unlocked the car and sat in the driver’s seat, fingers playing, drumming on the steering wheel before he turned the wheel and shoved the gear stick a little too hard. The clutch groaned as he ignored the protest and swerved out into the road, heading towards the edge of town in order to dump his vehicle somewhere deep off the beaten track.

The irony and simplicity of him returning to Woodsboro made him laugh as he launched the empty coffee cup out of the car window.

Woodsboro at night was just as sleepy. Doors locked and curtains drawn. Billy pushed the sunglasses into his hair to hold the strands back from his face as he strolled down the streets, wondering and thinking. Wherever old classmates used to live, he drifted towards. A few were sold, different names on the letterboxes and others were empty, the windows boarded up and the families forgotten about. Billy walked past Sidney’s old home with a smirk, licking at his lips as he pulled the sunglasses from his head and watched the empty house for a moment. Black. No one moved inside. Whoever lived there was already in bed.

“All in due time, I think.” Billy hummed to himself as he continued down the road, watching the rows upon rows of houses with decreasing interest, until he stood by a familiar front lawn. On the outskirts of town, he could remember a few nights spent outside this house before he always scuttled down into the side of the picket fence, hidden by the tree and the garbage cans as he watched them peel of their shirt and get into the shower. It helped him get his rocks off many a night after Sidney pushed him away and told him she couldn’t. Stu sometimes lent a hand. He didn’t have either of them anymore.

Billy reached into his stolen jacket and rooted around in the pocket to distract his mind from his foiled plans. The lighter was expensive, and he looked it over curiously before flicking the flint and looking at the flame. He jumped when the light in the bathroom switched on and ducked behind the old tree, brown eyes peering around the corner of the trunk to try and catch a glimpse of who lived in the house now. The glass in the window was frosted now, double glazed with a vent in the corner to remove the steam of the shower. He watched and squinted at the blurry figure in the bathroom. If the record store owner still lived here, then it would be his kid, the very same one he watched undress night after night. Billy looked at his watch. It was the exact time when he used to hide here and watch you shower. He chewed his lip as you peeled off a shirt and leaned over to turn on the hot water. Billy ducked down the side of the house after that, peering into the back window. Every other light in the house was off. He grinned as he pushed his fingers under the sliding window, drawing the wooden frame upwards. It was almost too easy.

The kitchen was silent as he climbed inside, pushing plants on the window ledge to the side as he tugged his legs inside. He grunted when he smacked his injured hand down on the tiles and hissed under his breath as he deftly wrangled his legs inside, hopping over the top of the sink and tap to land in the kitchen. A knife block sat in the corner by the microwave. Billy licked at his bottom lip as he walked over and took the largest kitchen knife, admiring the glint of it in the light from the window before he edged his way to the door and peered around. Nothing. The clock on the wall ticked as he strode through the dining room and towards the stairs, flicking the knife between his hands, catching it as he listened at the bottom of the stairs. He looked at the carpet to see if the wood underneath would give him away. The shower was still running. Billy put his weight on the first step and waited. Nothing. There wasn’t a creak. He continued upwards slowly, putting one boot in front of the other as he continued upwards, checking his weight against each step as he continued to the top of the staircase. At the top he paused and looked at the light underneath the bathroom door before opening the door across from it.

The pyjamas laid out on the bed suggested that this was the room he was looking for. You even had the old walk in wardrobe he remembered. With a mild observation he reached for the handle and slid it open before pushing the clothes apart and nestling himself between them, closing the door to hide himself as he peered through the slats of wood and waited. He clenched the knife in his hand tightly as he heard the water shut off and your music move from the bathroom and into the room. The door creaked open and Billy breathed quietly as he saw the towel wrapped around your body. You dried your hair off with another little towel and dropped the other after rubbing the water off your skin. Billy pushed his fingers against the handle and inched the wardrobe open quietly under the guise of your music. He stood there, knife in his hand, white shirt stained with mud from your plants, jeans slouched on his hips and boots twisted into the grain of the carpet as he watched you dress, covering inches of skin he used to dream about marking.

As though the thoughts in his own head were too loud, you turned around, top clutched to your front as you caught sight of him and opened your mouth. Billy stood and waited for the scream. Your voice caught in your throat as you saw the knife clutched in the man’s hand. Billy raised a finger to his lips, shushing you around his smirk as he reached forwards and snatched the top away from you. The man pushed his fingers greedily against the skin of your neck as he shoved you. You were sent flying against the bed as, at last, a strangled scream escaped your throat. The killer followed you, thighs snapping tight against your hips, pinning you against the bed, his hand snatching your wrists to pin them back.

“Please! Please don’t!” You cried, turning your head away from the mocking sneer on his bearded face.

“Fifteen fuckin’ years and everyone in this shithole of a town has forgotten what I look like.” Billy snapped, pushing the knife close to the skin on your neck, watching it indent under the pressure of the blade. He didn’t cut you yet, just held the edge there as a warning, “It didn’t take any of you long to move on, huh? To forget about the killer. They all do that…and the killer always makes his grand reappearance.” Billy’s dark eyes traced downwards, looking at the hot skin of your chest before he traced the knife downwards and cut a trail over your rib when you flinched.

It clicked as his brown hair slipped forwards and flopped over his eyes in curtains, his smile full of teeth as he watched blood drip over your hips.

“Billy?” You asked breathlessly, holding yourself still in case he cut you again for another flinch under the cold steel.

The knife came up to pat your cheek, “Very good, baby. Been a long time since high school, huh?” He smeared your blood over your jaw, wiping the blade of the kitchen knife clean with a hum of enjoyment, “Fifteen years...” He observed dreamily, “It’s like Michael fuckin’ Myers. Breaking out of the sanatorium to satisfy his lust for blood. Except in his version he burst into the closet and got his eye mutilated. Maybe that makes you Laurie?” He pushed the knife downwards under the waistband of your bottoms, poking the point upwards for fun before he traced it back upwards, digging it against your stomach, “This is even his weapon…Maybe I’ll cut your throat and pose you with a pumpkin for fun like the sick fucker he was?”

“Michael Myers isn’t fucking real, Billy.” You snapped at him as he pushed the knife back against your throat.

Billy sneered, “No he isn’t.” before leaning over, close to your lips, his hair tickling your face, “But I sure fucking am.” The knife pushed against your throat again as punishment. Billy didn’t take kindly to your attitude.

You pushed your hips upwards and squirmed, earning your arm a cut as Billy admired the colour of the blood on the blade, wiping it on your other cheek as he wondered what he was going to do with you.

“Where’s your old man?” He took the knife away with a dark look.

“He’s been dead for three years.” You replied with a swallow as Billy ran that over in his mind.

“So, you’re all alone?” He smiled at that discovery and hummed before leaning over and slamming the knife into the mattress by your head, “Then I think we can come to a…” Billy leaned close so your lips brushed as he spoke, “Little agreement, you and I.” The knife glittered in the corner of your eyes as he pushed his nose against your hair and breathed deeply.

“What sort of agreement?” You asked. Billy didn’t seem to hear you.

“To think. I used to watch outside by the garbage cans and get my rocks off to you and here we are.” He licked at your face, swiping the blood from your cheek, “I get a new little partner in crime, and you…” Billy pushed bloodied fingers around your neck, his breathing quick as the adrenaline howled through his bloodstream, “You get to stay alive, baby.”

You closed your eyes as he pressed a single, bloodied kiss to your lips before blood and spit dripped past his lips, dripping over the cupid’s bow of your lips and back down your cheeks as he grinned, white teeth stained pink. Billy took a shuddering breath, running a hand through his hair to try and calm his heartbeat and stop himself from acting out as you looked at him shyly. His hands flexed, smearing blood between his fingers as got back off the bed and took the knife.

“Come on, baby. Take me on a tour of your place.” He came up behind you as you stood up, “Lets see what horror movies you have, hm? Maybe I’ll let you have some fun if you got the classics.”

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