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coffeewritesfiction · 7 months

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A Meeting at the Sow's Ear - a Cthulhu Mythos Short Story

"Evening to you, too, Mr. O'Tipp," I said and I felt the tightness of my words on my tongue. Nathan O'Tipp smiled wider. He looks like a fine man until he smiles. Looks like he should be wandering a Hollywood studio, him with his perfect fair skin and his nice suits. But when he smiles, it stretches too wide, and his eyes have got a shine to them that I've never seen anyone else have. Even when the darkness hides everything else, I see his eyes, almost the same shade as my own. No, there's not a drop of human or humanity in him. I hope he doesn't know I know. "Come out of the dark, Harbinger," he said. "Let me get a better look at you. You are such a treasure to me, I can't let anyone else break you."

Part of the Pharaoh Syndicate Investigations series - a reupload with some edits

CW: blood, discussions of homicide, Prohibition and all that implies, body horror, mild trans/homophobia early on,

Arkham, 1931

Overhead the stars walked the sky like restless strangers, and the fat moon lounged back and watched us all. But it’d missed the fun. Before sunset, I shot two people for the contents of a dirty old bag. Now I walked with that bag down the street to Dad's house. No idea who's Dad he is. He may give me an allowance, but he sure ain't no family of mine.

From five houses down I heard it, one of the favored songbirds singing like it was still 1926. Closer I got, the reason why I heard her became obvious - they’d opened half the windows on the Sow’s Ear. No point hiding it from the coppers anymore. The boss owned them too.

Part of the ‘contract’ with my old boss and the new one took my name. Like the new boss said, I didn't need it anymore. I liked that name. I chose that name. I still use it with one single person. But for everyone else, I'm the Harbinger. And that means I’m whoever the boss wants me to be.

He don't know about this, so don't let me catch you calling me shit like Gumshoe or Dick Dickless. I get enough of that bull from my coworkers. If you wanna call me anything, call me by my real name.

My name was Lazarus, once. I'm 23 years old, pretty sure. I was born a woman. Not long ago, I was an investigator at Keller and Queens Detective Agency. Now I serve a monster pretending to be human. I don't think he knows I know that. I hope he doesn’t know I know that.

There are two speakeasies in town, and until I got my new job, I'd never been to either of them. I was a good citizen once upon a time. One of the speakeasies is run by a cult. The other is a cult. I'll let you guess which one I go to. Only real difference is who's at the center of it anyway.

The Sow's Ear is the center of the boss's operations in a part of Arkham nice people like to forget about. Pretty sure he lives above it. So what? Times are hard. Not a bad place to live anyway. Cute little spot, two stories, looks like all the others in town. Customers come in through the back, employees in the front. Somebody put a sign up for the Women's Christian Temperance Movement by the front door years ago. Boss must've thought it was funny. Now it's as worn and dirty as everything else in the city.

Adds to the charm, I guess.

I got one solid knock in on the door before it cracked open, and two glaring eyes met my own.

"What's the password?" The man spat out.

This was the dumbest part of the whole thing. He knew who I was, and I knew who he was. But old Lyman didn't like me much, and he took every opportunity to try and screw me over.

With a huff, I let the words out.

"Kynyarle keh-urak ghottu."

No, I don't know what that means either.

Lyman stared at me. He pulled away from the door.

"Tell Mr. O'Tipp his dyke is back," he said to someone on the other side.

The door swung open. I caught a glimpse of Lyman's back vanishing into the bar. I ground my teeth. Some men take it real personal, when you don't stick between the lines. I told myself again, I'll get him back for all the shit he'd put me through.

But the bag.

I closed the door behind me, adjusted my sweaty grip on my cargo. The stairs sat right in front of the door. Up I went into the maw.

Always felt like the steps were gonna collapse under me, with how they creaked and groaned underfoot. I go up and down them least once a week, mostly more, but the old wood hated me like everybody else. Not a single fucking picture hung on the wall to distract me, either.

What I really hate? The fact it's on purpose. The fact the bastard didn't need any message sent saying I was here. The fact he had my footsteps memorized the very first day we met.

I won't let him get to me, I said to myself, I lied to myself.

At the top of the stairs he has a velvet curtain hiding his little home away from home. Expensive, purple, golden gild and soft under my tired hand. I lifted it aside and walked into the shadows waiting for me. Heard the music nice and loud now, a voice deep and sweet blessing my ears. Not from the hallway in front of me, that led to his office. It came from the right. From the balcony that overlooked the speakeasy below.

Two golden cats in the antique Egyptian style stood by on either side of the entry. Framing the view, more purple curtains, held back by golden chains. Between them, looking out over the dancing, thriving crowd… him.

As I watched him, me in the shadows and him in the light, he looked over his shoulder at me, and smiled.

"My personal investigator returns," he said. He folded his arms behind his back, took a step forward as he turned all the way to face me. "Once again you've cheated death, haven't you?"

I set my jaw, didn't look down where his eyes settled on my body. Didn't have time to wash out the blood before I headed here. Didn't want to tell him how much of that blood was mine.

"Evening to you, too, Mr. O'Tipp," I said and I felt the tightness of my words on my tongue.

Nathan O'Tipp smiled wider. He looks like a fine man until he smiles. Looks like he should be wandering a Hollywood studio, him with his perfect fair skin and his nice suits. But when he smiles, it stretches too wide, and his eyes have got a shine to them that I've never seen anyone else have. Even when the darkness hides everything else, I see his eyes, almost the same shade as my own. No, there's not a drop of human or humanity in him. I hope he doesn't know I know.

"Come out of the dark, Harbinger," he said. "Let me get a better look at you. You are such a treasure to me, I can't let anyone else break you."

I ground my teeth, but didn't hesitate. Oh, I knew from experience what happened if you hesitated. Over the music I heard my shoes click on the tile. I walked to him and watched his smile grow even wider.

"That's my boy," he said. His hand gestured to the view beyond his balcony. "What a lovely night, isn't it? Beautiful summer, with all her life and bounty, rejoicing in her brilliance as she has for centuries."

Over the railing, there lay a different world. A little softer, a little dimmer, the glitz and gems a touch tarnished, but still beautiful like the dresses on the ladies. People dancing and gambling and kissing and drinking, like the world wasn't dying slow beyond these walls.

God, the people, it caught me dead even in that moment. More shades of skin filled the room than I had ever seen before coming to this city. I thought I was more sophisticated than people wanted to believe, when I left that miserable place. Thought I'd impress people with how much I knew even if I was from Alabama. But nothing like this existed back there. The police would rather burn the whole place down with everyone inside than let white and black blend together. I guess I thought the whole country was like that, whether I liked it or not.

But Arkham was different. Arkham was… better. It sure taught me a lot of lessons. Biggest one is, I don't know as much as I think.

"It is lovely, sir," I said. At the sound of the last word, my grip tightened on the bag.

In the light his eyes did not quite shine but something dark and cruel glowed through his expression.

"I do love how you call me that," he said. He said, like I had any choice but to do so. "It's so much better than your previous defiance."

He must have seen how I fought the rage down, how my fists shook and trembled the bag. He must have, I saw it in the dark twist of his smile.

I wasn't just a detective back at the old agency. I was in charge of the entire investigation into O'Tipp and his tricks. I hunted him, and he hunted me. So many nights I spent on him, staking out his territory, talking to witnesses, finding the clues that could unlock whatever terrible dirty secrets he held.

And I lost. I didn't even know it was a game, that I was never a threat to him, that he was enjoying the hunt. I lost and he won, he won me and my sister, too. Now I'm gonna be working for this bastard for the rest of my life.

And I know, he's going to enjoy every second of it.

Mr. O'Tipp gestured with a finger, guiding me away from the view below. I watched the muscles of his face tighten with hunger or anticipation as he looked at the bag in my hand.

"How much did it cost?" He stepped into the shadows, his long fingers tracing the dangling chains on the wall.

I looked away from him. O'Tipp didn't mean cash.

"Two." I mumbled the word.

"Oh?" He glanced back at me.

Details. He wanted details. I forced myself to inhale.

"The first bled out, I think." I couldn't have saved the poor bastard even if I knew how. "Took a bullet to the chest." Took my bullet to the chest. "The other was guarding… It." Nausea curled inside my stomach. It. The thing in the bag. "I shot him in the back of the head. Like you told me to."

"Good boy," O'Tipp said, and the light cast a shadow on his face, like the skin were paper and the flesh were a mask. "Did you look into the bag?"

I closed my eyes. I couldn't force the memory down. How my fingers curled around the box-like shape within the burlap, only for my flesh to sink into something cold and beating like a pulse beneath them.

"No, sir," I said

"But you're sure it's the right thing?"

I did not open my eyes. I could not handle the thought of seeing the smile I heard. I could not help but think that if I opened my eyes, the face looking at me would not be human anymore.

"Very much so, sir."

"My dear Harbinger," O'Tipp said, "Where is your curiosity? Wouldn't you like to see what you've brought me?"

Now I opened my eyes, and they opened wider than I wanted them to.

"Definitely not, sir."

He stood in front of the door to his office, smiling at me. I looked at his eyes to fight the thought of too many teeth.

"A pity," O'Tipp said. "It would have been better for you if you'd been willing to… expand your knowledge of the world."

My stomach sank with understanding.

"But!" He beamed at me, like a father gazing proud at his offspring. "That makes it more fun for me. Come on then."

He opened the door. Numb, I followed.

A strange little otherworld, Nathan O'Tipp's office is. A little antique and ancient, a lot of books and papers. Globes on the shelves of bookcases stacked to the ceiling. Star charts papering the exposed walls. Nonsense maps full of nonsense places. The world beyond the window, hidden by the same curtains he used everywhere else, golden tacks pinning down the fabric so not a drop of sunlight could fall inside. Furniture in all types of wood, light, dark, painted, lacquered, raw.

His empty desk waited for us.

I don't even remember when he took the bag from me. He rested it on the desk, and the fabric sunk way, way down. The same boxy shape, thick as my wrist, and yet the fabric darkened around the edges of it, wet.

O'Tipp breathed in, and exhaled a light chuckle.

He raised a hand, looked at me. With care, he removed the glove from each finger, one at a time, and let it drop to the floor.

"Don't look away," he whispered, and I knew that was an order.

His hand rested on the flat surface of the bag, and sank down. The fabric and the thing beneath it shivered like disturbed water.

My throat locked up. I did not look away.

"Yes," O'Tipp said, eyes locked on the bag. "You’re the real thing, aren't you?" He nodded his head, looked up at me, and I saw it exposed bare to me, the disconnect between what I knew of reality, and what he knew of it.

"Don't," I mumbled.

"I've been waiting years to find this," he said. "And it came into my grasp so easily. I did not even need to negotiate with their god to do it." O'Tipp leaned over the desk towards me. "Dagon will be furious to know I have this. This sick creation, somewhere between science and witchcraft - the creation of a mind as brilliant as our own beloved Keziah Mason!"

"Please let me leave," I thought, I mumbled.

"You are a miracle worker, you know that, boy? You are, undoubtedly, my favorite curse upon this tiny planet. And this book?"

His wet fingers gripped the cord on the bag. With one pull, the bag opened, releasing a smell I've never forgotten.

"It’s mine now. Mine just as much as you and she are."

Without ceremony or care, O'Tipp snatched the bottom of the bag and upended it. Something green, or something black, something both and neither and iridescent tumbled down. It hit the wood with a crack like a breaking bone, the sick smack of flesh falling from a height it could not survive.

It gurgled like a drowning animal. Water, dark and grimy, bubbled from the open hole of the spine.

And the smell. That goddamn smell. Like the sea became as stagnant as still water. The copper rot of an untreated open wound. Seaweed and fish left dead in the sun and storm.

And my voice shook as I spoke, as I recognized the thing by its shape.

"A book?" I said. "That's it? It's a book?"

O'Tipp pulled his other glove off with his teeth and I could have imagined it but before he tossed it aside, I saw holes in the fabric. Barehanded, he ran his fingers over the cover, and it rippled under his touch.

"A grimoire," he said, stroking the dark, slick surface. "Written by a stranger in a land far more obscure than any on the surface." His smile, his smile, there was nothing I knew of sanity in that smile. He looked to me and his mouth stretched wider.

"Have you ever been to Innsmouth?" He said, and did not wait, because he already knew the answer. "Quaint town with too many secrets. It's up north from here. The whole place was claimed by a cult worshiping a god that lives in the sea, so they say, until the federal agents burned it all down. So they all say. So all you need to know right now.” He tilted his head, the smile staying still. “Look at you, you're so pale. Have you never seen a book before?"

I said nothing. He seemed to like that.

"If you care to believe me," he said, "this-" his fingers tapped the surface of the book, sending waves through the flesh. "Was made from the body of one of those cultists.” He chuckled at me. “Oh, please don't faint, you still have to walk home. Don't be upset." His voice lowered. "This isn't made from a human."

I shouldn't have said it, but I couldn't look away from it. From him.

"Then what is it made of?"

"A Deep One. Skin, cartilage, preserved flesh - no scales, did you notice?"

I shook my head. His expression dripped with sarcastic, amused pity.

"Don't worry, I'll spare you the bookbinding lesson. It's a gruesome thing, so I've heard. But I'll show you one more thing."

Please don't, I thought.

"It still drips with sea water, did you notice?" His hand traced over the lock. A flick of the fingers and without a key, it opened. "But look inside…"

I didn't want to. I did.

The pages, bone white, dark letters of a language I'd never seen before. Bone white pages. Bone dry pages.

"Fascinating, isn't it? What horrors lie in this book, do you think, in that language I have yet to teach you?”

O'Tipp slammed the book shut. I stumbled back, and he laughed.

"Go home, my precious detective," he said. "You've done a wonderful job today. No need to come in for a while. Keziah and I are going to be very busy with my new prize. Enjoy a break - I’ll find you when I need you.”

Despite the way my veins pounded, so loud in my ears I barely heard anything else, I answered him.

"I know, sir."

His gaze hungered.

"Good boy."

I did not head home quickly. In fact, I did not leave the building quickly. No, I'll tell you the truth: I did not even go down the stairs for a good long while. I stepped from the office, the air chilling on my colorless face, and swayed. My body hit the wall. Somehow I did not fall despite the tremble in my legs, the sickness in my gut.

My eyes closed. I welcomed the dark, my mind not again showing me the hideous thing, the hideous, handsome man I served. The black swallowed me and I breathed in the air, ghosts of tobacco and perfume and alcohol wafting up from the floor below.

Again I thought of myself less than four months before, my bright eyes in the mirror, my determination throbbing within my soul. Again I thought of myself back then, and I thought, what nightmare was I hunting?

The office door opened.

“Oh! You’re still here!” O’Tipp said. “I was afraid I’d have to track you down.”

I did not want to do it. I opened my eyes and shifted towards him. His beaming smile, so paternal, churned my stomach anew.

“I almost forgot,” he said, stepping towards me. “Your allowance.”

His gloveless hand gripped my wrist, his other shoved something into my palm. Damp hands, hands far too warm for this night, far too warm for what he’d been handling.

“You’ve done excellent work today, my boy.” O’Tipp patted my cheek. “I’m proud of you.”

I shouldn’t have said anything. I didn’t have a choice but to speak.

“Thank you sir,” I whispered.

As his eyes narrowed and his smile darkened, I almost thought - I don’t know what I thought. But he said nothing more. He stepped away, his hand lingering on my skin, and that was the last thing I truly knew before his office door slammed shut.

I could have left then, when my legs recovered their strength. I could have fled, and run down the street, and never looked back. And yet within my disjointed soul, I understood something almost instinctive - I should not be alone right now, not after that.

My feet carried me to the balcony. I sat on the floor, and watched the people below.

To be part of society and yet apart from it. Yes, I knew that very well, as my cruel grandparents taught me, as I knew now as a different kind of man. A separation from humanity, a barrier put between me and anyone that could have, in another life, loved me. Yes, I understood that. Perhaps it helped me understand them.

How happy they all were, down there. How sweet the woman, a different one now, sang her songs of love and loss. How the people moved between tables, greeting friends. How they clinked their fancy drinks in fancier glasses together.

A sample of humanity, together. All those colors of clothes and hair and skin, together. Like the world beyond did not exist, like there was not an even bigger nightmare lurking at the edges of the horrors we all pretended not to think about.

A Deep One. A living thing that was not human. Something below the surface of the ocean waves. A god. A cult - another damned cult, of course there would be. Could I not escape them? A small amount of distance allowed me to think of it more. So long as I did not picture the book, I could wonder about it. What was a Deep One? What kind of a life did a thing like that have? Did it have a family? Did it have friends? Did it feel love, as humans did?

Was it still alive, even as a book?

In my soul, I ached. Not for the dead, but for me, taken from my home just as the book was.

My gaze drifted, my thoughts eased to a crawl. Down there, down on the floor, I saw him. I did not truly understand what I saw, but I did, I saw him, and he saw me. I let myself blink, focus, in time to see his lips curl into a smile. Dark skin, red clothes, sharp eyes.

He knew me. I knew him. No one else might understand. No one else could understand, I think, that little jolt of electricity that surged within me. That little taste of… hope, perhaps. He knew me, he knew of me, I knew him, knew of him. That brilliant man with his glittering grin. We were both born women. We were both skilled in our fields despite our ages. We were both connected to this nightmare in ways others could not understand.

I tilted my hat to him. He raised his glass to me.

As he disappeared into the crowd, I left.

The city struggled through the night, and the old blood had wrecked my vest. I buttoned up my jacket over it. I’d survived another mission, somehow, by that monster I am bound to serve. There’s a lot of ways to die in this town, and not all of them involve a bullet.

I was so tired of thinking about that. That money he gave me rested heavy in my pocket.

Little detour and then, to home I went. To the Witch House, where I’d lived since arriving in Arkham. O’Tipp bought it too, along with me. Sure enough, on that battered old porch, they waited for me. The old gate creaked as I shoved it open. A set of bright eyes behind round glasses looked up from the book she’d been reading aloud. Sadie, my partner in crime, my sister in soul, Sadie, jumped from her chair.

“Lazarus!” Her arms wrapped around me and I hugged her tight right back, and the grin that formed threatened to split my face in two. “You’re alright!”

Couldn’t help but laugh a little at that.

“Well, mostly,” I said.

On the porch, the other woman hadn’t moved, rocking back and forth in her chair. Her hands in her lap, her hair fallen past the bandages over her eyes, her focus all on me. She smiled, and I could taste the hope that radiated from her.

“I got a surprise for you guys,” I said, and reached into my pocket.

I can imagine what O’Tipp would say, spending so much of my allowance on candy like a child. But what did I care about his thoughts? It was more than a snack for my two favorite girls, it was an offering for their happiness. For my happiness. What was the point of going through this nightmare, if you couldn’t be happy every now and then?

Overhead the fat moon sat and watched it all. I settled into one of the chairs, let myself relax for the first time since the sun rose that morning. Soon, the others who lived in this ancient building would return, and we all could rest for the first time in hours. But underneath the sound of the summer night and my sister’s voice, I heard the pages turning.

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bvckys-doll · 3 years

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Masquerade

Pairing: Vampire!Bucky Barnes x female!reader

Word count: 4.4k

Summary: Y/N and her family are invited to a masquerade ball since Netherfield hall has a new owner: Lord James Buchanan Barnes. What (Y/N) does not know is that this will be her last night among the living.

Warnings: soft!dark themes here! A bit of manipulation. Blood! Pride and Prejudices vibes at the beginning of the fic.

Author’s note: I’m happy that I can finally post this one because I’m a whore for masquerade balls and vampires! Especially Vampire!Bucky! This goes out to @emily-roberts (who can’t be tagged unfortunately) since they inspired me to work on Masquerade here! Maybe this will get a sequel, i’m not sure yet.

You can find my masterlist here!

The year is 1867. Queen Victoria is still in power, and the country is at peace. At least, to the people who are lucky enough to live in the countryside in England. Especially the women who were the ones that learned the least of the ongoing problems around the world. At this time in history, they were mostly excluded from these kinds of conversations. Something (Y/N) was deeply offended by.

Most of the women around her had only one thing on their mind: the latest gossip and men.

Nothing would fit better into the gossip than a mysterious lord who had recently moved into the large estate near Netherfield Park. The whole city was in turmoil, and everyone wanted to get one of the coveted invitations to the grand inauguration party.

(Y/N) could still remember the day a few weeks ago when her mother was running around the house in a rage and talking to herself over and over again. Her father had tried to ignore his wife as much as possible.

“I have heard from Mrs. Brenstock that the new Lord of Netherfield Park is about to give a ball. A ball, Mr. Edwards! Can you imagine that? He doesn’t seem to have sent out any invitations yet, otherwise, we would have gotten one by now, wouldn’t we? Tell me I’m right” she had let herself sink into her chair. With the thick needle in her hand, she repeatedly stabbed her new embroidery cloth.

(Y/N) had been sitting across from her mother at the time and hardly noticed her rambling about the ball, as the young lady was too absorbed in her thoughts about her newest book, which was on the table in front of her.

For her mother, this was finally the chance to marry her off to a rich man. Perhaps even to the owner of the estate himself, since many speculated him to be single. Most women of (Y/N)’s age were already married, some even had children.

It wasn’t that (Y/N) wasn’t very talkative. If she was given a suitable subject, she could chat for hours, but her mother had always preached to her that no man wanted a woman with a loud attitude. Despite all this, (Y/N) didn’t kept her mouth shut and spoke freely about what she thought. Mostly.

It had been a month since that conversation between her parents and (Y/N) was now sitting with them in a carriage on their way to the estate of the new lord of Netherfield Park.

The letter had arrived about two days after the long discussion between her mother and her quiet father. (Y/N) seemed to be more relieved than her mother because she couldn’t bear her constant chatting and complaining about the ball.

In her lap was a white mask that her mother had brought home a few days ago. A masquerade. That was the order of the new landlord. An unusual way to celebrate a party, where you wanted to get to know the locals better, but (Y/N) didn’t put much thought into it.

With a calm look, she peered out of the window of the carriage and could see how the estate grew in the distance. The lights were shining through the high windows towards them as they rode the carriage to the large courtyard, where some other women were already getting out of their carriages and ascending the great marble staircase with their families.

Her father was the first to go out of the carriage, before he helped his wife out. In the end, he reached out to his daughter. For a brief moment, (Y/N) struggled with the wide skirt of her dress, before standing firmly on the ground.

Once again, she let her gaze wander over the courtyard and looked up at the broad facade of the estate. Suddenly (Y/N) caught a glimpse of a silhouette. Someone who seemed to be looking down at them and was watching what was going on. But before (Y/N) could take a closer look, her mother grabbed her arm and dragged her into the hall.

Upstairs in the said room, James watched how the carriages gathered in the courtyard and presented the different guests of almost every status. All came to see some of the wealth of the estate and the treasures that were on display in its halls.

“How many people will visit us tonight? Take a guess” Steve asked him. He was sitting at his best friend’s desk and had put his feet on the tabletop while he leaned back.

James’s gaze was still on the staircase as his gaze followed the woman who had just looked up at him. Yet he replied, “More than two hundred, I would say. Enough to get our bellies full for the next month. You’re going to keep them under control, aren’t you? We need posts at every door.”

“Of course. I’ve never worked sloppy before. You should know that”, Steve winked at him before he stood up and drained the last remaining blood out of his cup. The next moment he pulled some gloves out of his jacket and put them on “But answer me one. Why a masquerade?”

“You don’t want anyone to remember us by mistake, do you?”, a dark smile grazed James features. A similar smile came up on Steve’s face before he pulled the mask over his eyes and left.

In the meantime, the large ballroom of the estate had filled with guests and a small orchestra on a raised balcony played quiet music.

With all the hustle, (Y/N) wondered if she would even recognize anyone. The masks just made it harder to spot anyone she knew. Maybe she could get away from her mother. Time and time again she looked for familiar eyes.

Nervously, she again smoothed the wrinkles of her skirt and chewed around her lower lip. With each breath, it seemed to her as if the corsage of her dress was still lacing up.

Before her inner rambling could cause her to make her more uncomfortable, the hitting of a staff made the crowd go quiet. Everyone held their breath and turned to the source of the voice “Please welcome Lord James Buchanan Barnes and Colonel Steven Grant Rogers!”

The guests applauded in honour of the two men who were standing on a raised platform at the end of the hall. One of them stepped forward and raised his wine glass. (Y/N) couldn’t make out his features. Still, he wore a fancy dark suit with a wine-red tie. His slightly longer hair was tied with a ribbon in the back of his head. Although (Y/N) couldn’t see his eyes, they seemed pitch black.

“It is an honour to welcome you all to my new home. Until now, I have been welcomed with kindness in this beautiful little town and I am very happy to get to know you all better soon. I haven’t even lived here for a month, but it already feels like home to me. Let us all enjoy this evening. Sing, laugh and dance!”, his voice echoed through the room. It gave (Y/N) goosebumps.

He raised his glass to which his guests responded with the same gesture before they all took a sip of their drinks. It took less than five seconds, and the conversations were resumed. It was as if that greeting had never happened.

But (Y/N) could not take her eyes of her host. This was the person she had previously seen standing at the window. Before she could look away from him, he had already noticed her and seemed to reply to her stare. She tensed.

She hastily looked at the wine glass in her hand, from which she quickly took a short sip. The music started again. This time a bit louder than before because the guests began to dance. It wouldn’t take long for her mother to approach her once again and tell her daughter to find a suitable dance partner for the night.

“Do you see that woman over there? The one in the red dress and the white mask”, Bucky walked next to Steve as they made their way through the guests, who all respectfully stepped aside and bowed. Again and again, the two nodded to some people appreciatively.

Steve followed his friend’s gaze unobtrusively and nodded briefly “Pretty little thing. Do you want to go play or save her all to yourself for the night?”

“I haven’t decided yet, but I am sure going to do something with her”, he winked at Steve and stopped at the edge of the dance floor, watching his guests dance. Shortly thereafter, Steve also left him to dance with his wife Margaret, who approached them.

While his friends were busy having fun at the party, James resumed his search for the woman he had just spotted. It did not take long for him to find her her standing next to an elderly couple, who seemed to have an exciting conversation with two other guests. The woman herself didn’t seem very interested in the conversation and kept sipping on her glass. That was his cue.

(Y/N) gave out a soft sigh and investigated her wine glass, which would soon be empty. She listened with one ear to the conversation of her parents but did not attempt to participate herself. The unknown woman just boasted how her daughter had married a wealthy man from Oxford some time ago and now lived there. (Y/N) was already getting ready for a sermon from her mother.

Once again, the young woman raised her glass to her red lips as suddenly-

“Excuse me if I bother you but would you do me the honour of dancing with me?” said a deep voice to her, which seemed quite familiar to (Y/N). Her gaze wandered from her glass to the chest of the man standing before her. Her breath was stunted. It was Lord Barnes looking down at her with a gentle smile on his lips. He held out his hand to her, but (Y/N) couldn’t take her eyes off him.

For a moment, it seemed as if (Y/N) had forgotten to have a normal and decent conversation when her mother stepped in and tore the glass out of her hand “She would be honoured to dance with you, Lord Barnes.”

A charming smile spread across his lips as her mother said so. But he turned his gaze to (Y/N) again and asked for her approval “I hope that is indeed the case.”

(Y/N) blinked. Once, twice.

“Yes, I would very much like to dance with you”, she now agreed herself and took his hand, which he still held out to her. He gently drew her hand to his lips and kissed the back of her hand “What a relieve.”

It was not only her mother who lost her breath at this gesture. Like in a trance, (Y/N) followed her new dance partner onto the wide dance floor, where people automatically made room for them in awe. Soon he stopped with her in the middle of the dance floor and pulled her to his chest, where she instinctively assumed her posture and placed her hand on his shoulder.

Slowly the music started anew. A slow waltz. Controlled, he guided her through the room, and it seemed as if (Y/N) had never done anything else in her life. Every step was exactly as it should be. It was as if they were floating over the dance floor. At least, it seemed like that to her.

“I hope I didn’t take you by surprise”, James remarked, looking down at his dance partner, who focused her eyes on his chest. The reason behind it was the fact that he was a lot taller than her.

Hastily (Y/N) shook her head as her cheeks heated up “Not at all, my lord. I was just surprised, that’s all. There are so many beautiful young women here, I wondered why you chose me.”

“Why shouldn’t I? I have just chosen the prettiest in the room”, James replied, presenting her his charming smile, which made his eyes light up for a second. (Y/N)’s knees got soft. It seemed liked she had been enchanted by his aura.

It wasn’t long before the music became quieter and stopped. Together with the other couples, they stopped and applauded the musicians before James gave her his arm and whispered to her “Would you like to accompany me outside? It seems to be getting a little stuffy in here.”

A lie. It’s been years since James truly breathed air.

“I would love to.”, (Y/N) nodded and took shelter with her host before following him out onto the wide terrace. On their way there, (Y/N) did not notice James meeting the eyes of one of his men. It was Sam who stood near the exit and smiled at his friend. He knew James had found someone new to play with. If only it were for tonight.

“A beautiful night, don’t you think?” James looked up to the sky, where thousands of stars were glowing. It was more common here in the countryside. In the cities, the stars could be barely seen by the smoke rising through the chimneys into the sky.

(Y/N) followed his gaze and leaned forward against the wide stone railing. She nodded back, “Yes, it is. You haven’t seen such a sight very often, have you? I mean, I heard you moved out of town. What prompted you to do this?”

“The war and tranquillity I am looking for”, James replied honestly this time and turned his gaze back to (Y/N), who was still looking up at the stars, but noticed how he looked at her with his eyes: “You haven’t told me your name yet.”

“You didn’t ask for it either”, (Y/N) replied quick and smiled.

Oh, she’s cheeky. I like that.

He laughed for a moment and neck before he asked, “May I know your name, milady?”

At last, she looked at him again and her eyes shone as she replied with a smile, “My name is (Y/N). And I’m not a lady, my lord.”

The tension she had felt before in his presence was blown away. She felt comfortable in his presence, but she couldn’t explain why. He radiated a certain calmness that made her feel safe and comfortable.

He tilted his head to the side as he smiled, “The name suits you. But tell me, (Y/N), why would a pretty woman like you be alone with your parents at a party like this? There must be a man in your life.”

“Why? Because a woman like me needs a man?” she answered with a counter-question. She wondered how long he would put up with it. But it seemed that the remark would excited him more.

He raised an eyebrow, to which she smiled briefly and replied honestly, “I have a mind of my own, as my mother says. Most men don’t like this feature very well. In our small town, they want a woman who makes a man look good. She has to be pretty and smart, but not too smart for her to make the man look stupid. She needs to be educated, but not waste too much time on it. The piano is very popular with most men.”

“Women who only deal with the latest gossip have never really interested me. Besides, I like to talk to women who can keep up with my intellect. Someone like you”, James replied honestly again, leaning his hip against the stone wall to take a close look at her.

As (Y/N) fixed her posture to look him right in the eye, he stepped foward. He gently raised his hand and put his index finger under her chin to raise it so that she could not take her eyes off of him, “Men can be stubborn, especially English men. But we Americans love it when a woman has something more on her mind than piano notes and pretty clothes. How boring it would be to have someone with you who only agrees with everything you say. I have met lots of these women, but I have seldom encountered someone like you.”

Smiling, (Y/N) held his gaze as he took his hand from her chin and took her hand in his. She looked down for a moment but did not attempt to let go.

“You’re the first man to say something like that to me, and you seem to mean it”, she smiled and briefly squeezed his hand. From the gloves he was wearing, she didn’t even notice how cold they were. Once again, he put her hand to his lips and placed a kiss on the back of her hand, “I am glad to see my presence and my personality please you, Lady (Y/N).”

“As I said, I’m not a lady”, she laughed softly as her cheeks heated up once more. The smile on his lips made her knees soft again, “To me, you are one.”

With every moment that passed, he liked the young woman more and more. Something he didn’t expect. It was selfish, but he knew then and there he wouldn’t let her go. Not as fast as he had planned. It would be difficult to inspire her for eternity once he had done it.

A life like him could also be lonely and desolate. Many souls had already gone mad after being transformed and being unable to return to the world of the living. It drove them mad. He wouldn’t let his (Y/N) go crazy. Not so easily.

“My Lord?” her sweet voice tore him from the thoughts that were swirling through his head. His gaze fell back on her as she gave him a worried look. He gently brushed a strand of her hair from her face and smiled calmly, “Forgive me, I was in my head.”

“Do you think maybe we should go back to the hall? Your guests would also like to exchange a few words with you. I don’t want to besiege you forever”, (Y/N) glanced over her bare shoulder and looked at the tinted glass doors that shielded her from the guests. Many couples were on the dance floor together and seemed cheerful.

“I think my guests will be able to be just fine without my constant presence for a while. Besides, it would be a lie if I said I didn’t want to spend some more time with you”, he replied, following her gaze briefly before turning her gaze to him.

It seemed almost supernatural to (Y/N) that a man like Lord Barnes would take such an interest in her, but it was mutual. She didn’t want to leave him. Not yet. She was delighted with his company and gave him a warm smile before she replied, “And it would be a lie if I said I am not pleased by your interest.”

A burst of hearty laughter came over James' lips. It had been a long time since he had heard such words that had truly touched him. Smiling, he held her hand that was still in his, before leading (Y/N) from the terrace into the wide garden, where many lanterns illuminated their path.

(Y/N) had already placed her hand on his arm and followed him through the small maze that stood in the middle of the garden. The tall hedges shielded them from curious eyes as they disappeared deeper and deeper into the maze.

“My parents will probably be wondering where I am”, (Y/N) smiled as she followed James through the hedges, still holding his hand tightly in fear she could lose him. Apparently, he knew his way around the maze very well, for he guided them safely to a small square that marked the middle of the maze.

In the middle of the square stood a beautifully decorated pavilion, clad in red and white roses and ivy trees. James led her there and sat down with her on one of the two benches.

“Your parents know you’re in good hands with me. I would never allow anything…bad to happen to you”, James merely replied. (Y/N) couldn’t have known that evil himself was still holding her hand and concealing his cruel nature with a pretty face. He could feel her heartbeat speeding up a bit.

“You know, (Y/N), a life like mine. . . is very lonely”, he told her, looking at the flowers hanging next to him on a pole. Yet he noticed how her gaze stuck to him. In a calm voice he continued, “Although I am very wealthy and have seen so much of the world, I have been missing someone to share this life with for years. Someone who accepts me for who I am and doesn’t want to be with me just for my money and my land. Do you understand what I mean?”

His gaze fell back on her. (Y/N)’s eyes almost pierced through his head as her eyes turned glassy. A soft sigh escaped her as she gazed down into her lap.

“I understand you very well. Even though my mother’s efforts are straining me a lot, I still want someone who. . . likes me for me. Who wants me. Not for my dowry, but for myself. I have never spoken to someone who understands me as well. . . as you do”, she replied, being astonished at her words.

James Barnes was the first man she could talk to without having to pretend. Her slightly rough nature had not deterred him. He had been tenacious, but still kind and attentive. It’s been a long time since she met someone like him. His personality seemed to drew her even closer to him. As if there was an invisible ribbon, which now tied her to him.

“You are so much more than just your dowry and a pretty face, (Y/N). Maybe it’s too hasty, but it would be a pleasure for me to get to know you better. The real (Y/N), who doesn’t have to act and doesn’t want to impress anyone. I already know you a little, but. . . not quite yet”, he stroked her cheek, giving her goosebumps. In a good way.

A short smile grazed her lips as she put her hand on his, “I would also like to get to know you better, my lord.”

“Please call me James. The title is too formal for me”, he smiled gently at her and ran his thumb over her cheekbones as (Y/N) muttered softly, “As you wish,…James.”

Slowly, he noticed her pulse increasing. He looked her in the eyes again as he got closer, and she could feel his cold breath on her skin. For a brief moment, it seemed like a dream to her, but it became reality at the moment as his lips touched hers. (Y/N) froze. She wasn’t expecting that. Not yet.

Immediately he broke away from the kiss and pulled his hand from her cheek, “Sorry, that was a little too hasty of me.”

If there was still blood flowing through his body, he’d be blushed. For the first time in a long time, he seemed nervous and ran his fingers through his hair. But (Y/N) grabbed his hand and shook her head calmly, “No, please. I was just…surprised that you…feel that way about me.”

“You’re just…so different. In a positive way, of course”, he held her hand and squeezed it briefly once when (Y/N) was the one who came a little closer and leaned forward, “No, you must forgive me. I didn’t mean to reject you. I like you…very much.”

Now James knew it was the right time.

Slowly he leaned over to her and kissed her gently on the mouth. Sighing her eyes closed as the young lady returned his kiss a little cautiously. After all, he had more experience in it than she did. But only now did (Y/N) realize how cold he was. It’s almost freezing.

“James, you’re so cold”, (Y/N) gently detached herself from the kiss and held her lips as he stroked her cheek and put a strand behind her ear: “Don’t worry. It’s nothing to worry about.”

Once again, he conquered her lips and pulled her closer to his chest. A little more courageously, (Y/N) grabbed the collar of his suit and pulled him closer. She closed her eyes again as he slowly continued to kiss her but wandered from her cheek down to her throat. Her eyes remained closed as she enjoyed his kisses on her warm skin. His lips were still cold, but now she did not seem to care anymore.

Soon he could hear her rapid heartbeat as he lavished kisses on her neck. (Y/N) did not notice how his eyes darkened and his teeth stretched into pointed pillars.

For a moment, James wrestled with himself over whether he should really kill her or go even further. Still, one thing was very clear. (Y/N) would never see the light of day again.

"Forgive me." he breathed against her soft skin and closed his eyes before placing his hand over her mouth. Before (Y/N) could even realize what was happening to her, he rammed his teeth into her neck. Her scream was stifled by his hand, but her body didn't give up so quickly. Panicked, she pushed and pounded against his chest as James sucked the blood from her body. But all her attempts did her no good, as he was far too strong for her.

Finally, she slumped lifelessly in his arms and sank against his chest. Sighing, James detached himself from her neck and pressed another soft kiss to the wound where his teeth had pierced her skin moments ago.

Gently he laid the young woman on the bench and pushed her hair out of her face. Carefully he untied the ribbon at the back of her head and pulled the mask from her face.

"Just as I imagined, my darling..." he ran his thumb over her lower lip and looked into her lifeless eyes before pulling his own mask off his face and tossing it on the floor beside him.

He took her hand in his and kissed the back of her hand, "I'll take care of you, my angel. No one will ever be able to hurt you again. We'll be together forever."

#vampire!bucky barnes #soft dark theme #soft dark #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes #bucky barnes imagines #sebastian stan #sebastian stan x reader #female reader #winter soldier #marvel #mcu #dont repost #fanfiction #own gif #giphy #masquerade

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hualianff · 3 years

Text

Vampire/Human AU

(Slight NSFW, angst)

Thinking about vampire HC who owns a vampire-friendly bar with humans who apply as donors to supply fresh blood for vampires willing to pay the expensive prices. When a human with beautiful amber eyes, soft facial features, and blood that smells absolutely delectable, walks in, every vampire whips their heads towards the door. The human approaches one of the staff, YY, to inquire about becoming a donor. HC watches as the enticing morsel follows YY into a room to finalize his application.

Right after the human leaves thirty minutes later–YY probably having said it would take a few days to find him a match–HC pulls YY aside, demanding to have a look over the papers the new donor filled out. After a quick scan, HC shoves the papers back to YY with a click of his tongue,

“No need to find him a match. He’s mine.”

A human whose blood smells heavenly, who has never been bitten or even nipped by a vampire. HC wants to corrupt him. Ruin him.

The next night, HC has the human, XL, meet him in his personal feeding room. There’s a luxurious velvet couch to the side, a pristine glass table with fancy wine and glasses, and a king-sized bed with crimson silk laid upon the mattress.

HC, like most vampires, typically feeds while stimulating their donors. This can be done with something as simple as kissing or full-on intercourse. Not only does this relax the human’s nerves so they won’t tense up before being bitten, but the toxins injected into their system after being bitten feels incredibly euphoric, serving as a kind of aphrodisiac. Many humans donate their blood in this way for the sole reason of attaining this heightened sense of pleasure.

But as soon as XL enters the room in front of HC, his mind freezes as he sees the bed.

“I’m a virgin,” he blurts out, wide eyes panicked as he looks at the vampire. HC raises his eyebrow, unperturbed.

“We can work with that.”

XL gulps.

“I’ve also never kissed anyone.”

HC runs a tongue along his sharp fangs.

“Do you want to change that?” The vampire asks, walking up behind the human, pressing his chest against XL’s back. HC hears XL’s heart rate pick up at the proposition. It’s an unspoken yes, though XL also imperceptibly nods his head. He does not see HC’s lips spread into a vicious grin. However, XL does feel lips brush against the shell of his ear, sending shivers down his spine.

“Use your words, precious. Do you want to be kissed? Want to be touched, experience pleasure beyond comprehension?” HC murmurs, skimming his lips across XL’s nape. “I can fuck you too. Push into your little body as I sink my fangs into your neck. I’d place them right here-“ HC taps XL’s jugular, the human jerking to the side with a gasp. “-oh? So sensitive. All the better. I can make you feel so good.”

XL’s breath quickens, ever so slightly leaning back into HC’s tall frame. HC leans forward to catch a glimpse of those doe eyes regarding him with caution. Oh, how he wants to eat this human alive. HC turns XL around by his shoulders. He lowers his head to bump foreheads with XL, forcing the human to look into his red-tinged eyes.

“Is that a yes?”

XL blinks those doe eyes once, then twice.

“Yes.”

HC brings his hand up to brush a hair away from the human’s head.

“Wonderful.”

***

XL is at the point in his life when he lost everything. He chose to pursue a career outside of his parents’ embroidery business despite being expected to take over the shop after college. Abandoning college altogether, XL went off on his own to chase his dream to become a singer.

A few years later, where XL was provinces away from home, XL’s parents’ business had gone under, devastating them as they could no longer pay for their medical bills. Upon hearing the news, XL rushed back home to take care of them. It seemed they had kept their declining health conditions under wraps. They were too prideful to admit their weakening physical states; they also did not want to guilt XL into giving up on his ambitions to take care of them.

XL’s parents lasted one year before passing away, his father first due to prostate cancer, his mother one month later after succumbing to exhaustion and grief. XL lost their home along with the shop merely a week later, unable to pay off the debt. His parents had used up their savings for their medical expenses and XL had been scraping by as a musician for years. Additionally, there was no one he could confide in. He had lost contact with his friends as he moved from city to city, busking on streets, attempting to catch the attention of music labels.

XL was utterly alone. There were days when not even music could bring an ounce of comfort. However, music was the thing that kept him sane between the various side jobs he managed to pick up to keep him off the streets.

As if the fates decided XL had had enough bad luck for a lifetime, a CEO of a fairly well-known label offered him a business card after a busking session. It was JW of Capital Records who gave XL hope of achieving his dream. XL spent most of his late 20s under the label, training and practicing and producing. He had the chance to record a couple of singles and one mini-album–which he didn’t get to participate much in the production side–but other than that, XL didn’t make it far. He was tremendously overworked and yet, still discarded to the side.

Wondering why he wasn’t provided the opportunities other artists received to further their careers, XL scheduled a one-on-one meeting with the CEO to ask what he was lacking. JW had insisted he could give XL more opportunities if XL could offer something more than just his serene vocals and pretty face.

The unspoken suggestion that XL offer up his body pierced his heart with yet another stake. Overwhelming disappointment and betrayal crashed into XL, but perhaps he should have known better that the whole situation was too good to be true. XL vehemently rejected this idea, angering JW who eventually tore XL down to the point of a medical emergency that allowed him to leave the agency without repercussions.

At age thirty-two, XL was left with no family, mental and physical trauma, and a dying will. Ironically enough, the song lyrics he’d written after experiencing so much loss were the closest thing to making music he’d gotten. But in the end, XL still felt like a failure.

Now in Xi’an, XL was left with limited options to earn money for rent. He already worked two part-time jobs in addition to writing music—though even time set aside for this has dwindled.

One night, as XL was walking home after closing up the convenience store, he saw the neon lights of the sign “Ghost City.” He’s heard many things about this club and is no stranger to the existence of nonhuman creatures roaming amongst human society. After hours of research, XL decided to apply to become a blood donor. It’s not like he had a better option that paid more anyway.

XL’s hope to somehow redeem his past actions has all but fizzled out. He doesn’t expect a vampire like HC to care about his comfort or consent when feeding, though HC still prioritizes these things for some reason.

XL has never looked at his body and thought about the best ways to pleasure himself. HC shows him how. HC caresses and kisses XL like he’s worth being handled with care; HC also invades XL’s body as a threat to break it, broadcasting a vampire’s strength, speed, and endurance in the bedroom.

XL can go as far as to say he even looks forward to his time with HC. In between a busy work life and dealing with people who would rather look the other way than give him the time of day, XL’s mind and body steadily weaken.

It starts with memory loss, where XL can’t clearly remember the conversations he’d had the day before. One of the reasons this develops is because he goes through many days without having anyone to tell about his day. It’s like the life XL lives is so insignificant, nothing about it is worth remembering.

Then, it’s the lack of eating. Most of XL’s money goes towards rent, essentials, and groceries. But he’s not a great cook. And he’s already drained by the time he gets home after working both jobs and visiting Ghost City. XL’s stress doesn’t help, adding to the fatigue that gradually shuts his body down.

While HC might not be able to taste a difference in XL’s blood, he does notice how frail the human moves around. How delayed XL responds, more so than he should be–even as a human. XL has scheduled more visits: three times a week this time. However, his words become less. He stops telling the little stories that brought a small smile to his face. XL doesn’t even mention the songs he’s been working on lately.

HC forces himself to ask about them after an especially rough coupling.

“How’s the songwriting going, darling?” HC asks quietly. He props his elbow upon his pillow, resting his cheek on his hand as he intently observes the human struggling to catch his breath, eyelids fluttering.

“I haven’t written anything new,” XL breathily answers. HC purses his lips. He ducks down to affectionately tongue at the skin his fangs pierced.

“No? In how long?” HC asks. XL sighs heavily.

“Maybe three weeks.”

HC doesn’t know what to say to that. He’s not one to console anybody. No one had afforded him that luxury, and naturally, he did not grant anyone else his concern. The silence that follows is unbearable.

***

The next time XL visits, he’s the one to initiate their first kiss. HC growls happily against his human’s lips, pinning him against the closed door of his private room. XL moans obscenely as HC languidly licks into his mouth. His arms desperately wrap around HC’s neck to bring him closer.

“Someone’s eager,” HC says with a chuckle as he pulls back. XL instantly attaches his lips to the vampire’s jaw, peppering light kisses along the pale skin. HC can’t help but think he’s taught his little human well. XL hums while trailing his lips back to HC’s, capturing them in a kiss that’s the sweetest one yet.

HC should’ve noticed how unstable XL’s legs seemed, how dreadful the bags under his eyes looked before indulging in their bedroom activities. He should’ve kept track all along of how thin XL is, how much more skin and bone he had become. HC is certainly not one to intrude on someone else’s life and scrutinize all their choices. But he should’ve said something sooner.

Maybe then, XL’s heart wouldn’t have stuttered so violently, or completely stopped beating for five counts.

HC watches in horror as XL’s eyes roll into the back of his head. His human’s body goes limp in his arms, collapsing into HC’s chest. When XL’s heart beat starts up again, it’s very weak. There’s a noticeable abnormality in its rhythm.

HC quickly gathers XL in his arms and speeds to the bed. He sits back against the pillow, placing XL to recline against his front. HC hooks his arms around XL’s middle from behind, anxiously listening to XL’s irregular heartbeat that seems like it takes all of his human’s energy to pump. Luckily, XL awakens a few minutes later. He registers a cold embrace and warm puffs of breath lingering near his ear.

“Did I pass out?” XL wheezes out, unconsciously melting into the body behind him.

“Yes,” HC says tightly. “Your heartbeat is uneven. Something is wrong.”

XL can’t tell if he’s imagining it but that sounded like worry in the vampire’s tone.

“Oh.”

HC inhales sharply.

“You just fainted, Xie Lian. Hell, your heart just stopped for a few seconds, and all you have to say is ‘oh?’” HC grinds out.

So he is upset. XL swallows thickly, not wanting to escalate things and further upset the vampire.

“It’s okay,” XL says. “I’m okay-“

“No. You’re not,” HC interrupts.

XL takes a deep breath, wincing slightly as HC tightens his arms around his hips. He’s more sensitive than normal, XL realizes. Before XL can defend himself further, HC grasps XL’s chin and turns his head to face the vampire.

“You’re hiding something from me,” he states. He hears XL’s heart speed up. “There’s no use in lying. I can tell you’ve grown weaker since you first came.”

“Well, I have been donating my blood to a certain vampire for a few months now. I’m bound to be a bit weak in my legs,” XL replies as a matter of factly. He means to poke fun at the situation rather than acknowledge the severity of it. HC knows this because he’s done it numerous times himself. But when XL does it, it makes HC’s blood boil.

“Are you saying I am causing this- this deterioration in your health?” HC asks tensely. XL lets out a gasp, whirling around in HC’s arms, immediately backpedaling.

“No! No, not at all.”

HC’s eyes assess his human who trembles slightly in his arms. He cradles XL in between his legs, hands shifting XL further up his body so he can rest his head on HC’s chest. HC gently pets XL’s hair, an action that was uncharacteristic of him months ago, before XL had walked through the entrance of his bar.

XL gently smiles in an attempt to placate the vampire.

HC’s eyes flash a frightening scarlet.

“I don’t believe you.”

XL’s face crumples.

“It’s true! I’ve just been really busy is all. Work has been hectic and- and-“ gone is the innocence that HC once saw in XL’s doe eyes, instead replaced by stress and utter brokenness that alarms the vampire to no end. A voice in the back of HC’s head snarls that those emotions had always been behind XL’s eyes; they were simply better hidden, and HC had been too lust-driven to notice.

XL continues his rambling, frantically shaking his head. “-I took some extra shifts because I needed the money to pay for some water damage that flooded half my apartment. I’m fine—truly.“

If HC had a beating heart, it would have dropped down to his stomach at the sudden realization. His fingers dig into the paper-thin skin of XL’s hips, then trace up the bony knobs of his spine.

“You’re not eating right.”

“Wait- S-san Lang-“

The nickname HC had asked XL to call him is hurdled back into his face like a stone aimed to shatter. It sounds like a cry for help.

“And you’re not getting enough sleep,” HC concludes with a disapproving frown. His eyes now glow a deep crimson, matching the silken sheets that HC ensures are in perfect condition every time XL visits.

“Fuck, XIE LIAN, you know you need proper nutrition and rest to recover from each night you spend with me!” HC is nearly shouting now, voice wavering out of his control. Who knew another creature could make him feel so strongly?

“I-I am!”

“I SAID NOT TO LIE TO ME. I CAN TELL WHEN YOU’RE NOT BEING HONEST,” HC explodes, spatting those words with a poison that he often uses with uncooperative subordinates, but never directed at XL before.

Tears glisten in XL’s eyes as he’s cornered with no way out, no relief from the building pressure that suffocates him. Right now, after everything XL has been through, this seems to be his tipping point. He never expected HC to care this much. Or perhaps HC is just concerned his reliable supply of blood is flaking out on him, just when he’s had a feasible taste.

XL is sure HC has plenty of other donors to feed on. It’s not like XL is particularly special in that way. Frankly speaking, XL had time and time again asked the universe to give him one last sign that his life mattered in some capacity. But if he couldn’t see the value in his own life, who else could?

XL scrambles off from HC’s lap, allowing himself to speak with the deep-seated spite that has grown in his heart like an untamable weed.

“THERE’S NO NEED TO GET SO WORKED UP OVER MY HEALTH!! I’LL BE GONE SOON ANYWAY! THE DOCTOR GAVE ME THREE MORE MONTHS,” XL screams, having to catch his breath after exerting so much power into his voice. “So there. You have my answer. I’m not lying this time. Just one a couple more months and then- then you won’t have to deal with my shit anymore, okay?”

HC can’t move. He can’t speak either. The shock taking over his system renders his mind and body completely useless. He can only stare blankly at XL whose tears now cascade down his cheeks.

No, this cannot be happening-

XL’s whimpers pull HC out of his head. The human hugs his own frail body, shivering from a coldness that does not exist in the room.

How did HC let it get so bad?

“I’m sick, San Lang. Very, very sick. Not just physically,” XL whispers defeatedly, letting out a small hiccup.

HC doesn’t hesitate to surge forward to throw his arms around XL, hugging him once more. It’s a habit now—to hold XL whenever he could. Now, HC wonders how many more times he would get this chance before it was inevitably the last.

“Xie Lian…”

“I’m sorry. I’m so so sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I-I just can’t eat. Sometimes from stress, other times I completely forget. And I want to rest, but I end up laying in bed awake for hours a-and my mind just won’t let me sleep-”

For the first time in over a decade, there is someone else to hear XL’s agonized wails.

“Please believe me, San Lang. Please."

#tgcf #heaven official's blessing #tian guan ci fu #hualian #hualian au #cerdrabbles #xie lian #hua cheng #human xie lian #vampire hua cheng #sorry it's rushed

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xtodorcki · 3 years

Note

hi, could you do another picture of kurapika please? you can refuse if you want, love your imagines 💕 ily

“Deep End,” Kurapika x Reader

Summary: being Kurapika’s S/O and he suddenly goes in a rampage, murdering all the spiders and ghosting you in the process- leading to a search mission.

Warnings: none none

I came up with this last minute and I’m hoping this turns out as good as it did in my head jeeeez.

It had been weeks since you’ve heard from Kurapika and it honestly made you worry a lot about whether or not he was okay or even alive at this point. He was never the type to leave you hanging or ignore your messages so when he started to slowly distance himself from you, you could only think of the worst.

At first it was a few dry messages a day, then it led to barely one a day, or one every other day to one a week to none at all. You couldn’t help but wonder if this was his was of dumping you, did he fall out of love?

You didn’t know what was going through his head, he could be thinking about anything but you knew Kurapika very well, like the back of your hand- if he was bothered by you, he would be honest about it instead of ghosting you so there could be another reason why he disappeared.

He even rejected his friends calls and messages, you later found out when you’ve asked Leorio if he knew where he was. After that you began to panic more as days and weeks flew by and nothing.

All while Kurapika sat in a different country, blood covering his hands as he moved the chains back up to hide them. He looked down at one of the troupe members he had killed off, he’s done that to more than half of them- leaving Chrollo for last.

He’s completely fallen off the wagon, falling in an endless loop down a never ending hole. He was full of rage and anger, he had completely forgotten about his friends and even his own partner he had left at home all alone.

It was too late for him to turn back though, he already started his rampage- it’s only fitting to continue until he was done with every single member of the spiders, he had to for his clan.

But as almost a year flew by, you found yourself going on a search mission for him. You were afraid that he didn’t want to be found and if that was true, he was pretty good at keeping himself well hidden.

Your mind had instantly came across the troupe members he had talked about. You knew it was of some connection, you just didn’t know where to start- that is until you got word that half of the members have been wiped out clean.

It was in a news article in one of the countries you went to, it was a big story being covered and your mind had set on Kurapika when you saw it. You knew this was his doing, it had to be especially if the killings were so brutal and full of hate.

It wasn’t long till you quickly flown to the area where the last murder was, hoping he would still be there as you searched throughout almost the whole city, cursing under your breath as you tried to ask around for help.

As days rolled by and you had absolutely nothing to go with, you had to sit and think about which troupe member he would strike next. You had written every members name, in the order they were killed in- it had to be of some important, right? You didn’t know, you were just going off a hunch.

You sat at the table in the hotel room, staring at the paper and figuring out the level of importance of each member. Soon enough, you had came up with a small theory and figured which one would most likely be next.

It was hard to even try to track down the members and where they would be staying at. Surprisingly you weren’t all that bad with tracking down someone, you weren’t that dumb but when it came to Kurapika, he was surely too hard to track.

You were a few steps behind him and you needed to put yourself in the position to be ahead of him and ahead of the little game he’s playing.

That is until you made it to another place, figuring out small little details about the member you assumed would be next and it wasn’t long until you found that member, still alive and well.

You waited until dark, it had to be when Kurapika would strike if he were to come to this specific member. But he was much more smarter than you, he was always prepared and had different plans.

He was already inside the building you were on top of, he had already killed the member right under your nose and soon enough he walked out of the place, covered in blood and made his way back to the hotel he was staying at.

You had caught a glimpse of him, making sure you were well hidden as you followed him back to the hotel and waited a moment before pounding your fist on the door. You were upset and hurt and now that you’ve caught up to him, you couldn’t help but feel all of these different emotions.

He didn’t respond at first until you kept knocking and knocking.

“I know you’re in there, Kurapika!” You shouted, soon the door had swung open at the sound of your voice.

His scarlet eyes had met yours, the pain written across his face as the suit he wore covered in blood. He was shocked to see you standing in front of him, he didn’t think this day would happen.

He never forgot about you, he always thought about you- always missed you but his rage and his hatred had driven him far away to make sure you wouldn’t get hurt in the process.

“What are you doing here?” He asked, you can hear the pain in his voice, the sadness as you stepped inside of the hotel room and glanced around.

“You know why I’m here.”

He had closed the door behind you, not knowing what to exactly say or what to do. He didn’t think you would be able to track him down and find him, he hoped you would just forget about him and move on, only because he knew he messed up and he knew there was no going back from this.

“Why didn’t you tell me anything?” You asked, walking over to the single bed that was in the room and sat down at the edge of it.

His eyes had watched you for a moment, searching his brain for something to say to you, a reason, an explanation but he couldn’t think of anything. He was lost for words, speechless and stunned that you were standing in front of him again.

His aching heart had broke when he had to leave you behind but the sadness that washed over him about his clans deaths, he had to do something about it. He was happy with you and he felt free but of course it never lasted long when the overwhelming guilt had him pinned down by his throat.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know what to really say here.” He admitted, the blood still stained on his skin and the clothes he wore.

“I just want to know why you didn’t tell me anything. I could’ve help, I would’ve understood but instead you ghosted me like I meant nothing to you.”

“That’s not true, you mean everything to me.”

“Then what was it, Kurapika? It’s been almost a year.”

“I just.. I needed to do this one thing.” He admitted, shrugging his shoulders as he walked over to the bed and sat down on the edge of it.

“And leave me in the dark? How is that fair? We’re supposed to be a team and I had to be alone for months and come hunt you down and for what?” You didn’t want to be so angry with him, you understood his pain and his suffering but the fact he left you in the closet while he went to go do what he wanted- it hurt you deeply.

“I’m sorry, I am.” He ran his fingers through his messy hair, his sad scarlet eyes moving up to meet yours and soon enough they were filling up with tears.

You sighed softly, walking over and standing in front of him as he sat there on the bed. You looked at the blood he was covered in, moving your hand down to caress his soft cheek and meet eyes with him. You didn’t realize just how much you missed him until he had opened up the door.

He couldn’t help but let a few tears slip from his eyes but you were quick to wipe them away and shake your head as you remained quiet. His hands had moved up and soon his arms were around your waist, his head against your chest and you had softened up instantly.

“I’m so sorry, Y/N. I’m sorry.” He repeated, closing his eyes tightly as he kept thinking about how badly he had fucked up by leaving you behind.

“I promise you, I won’t disappear again. Forgive me.” He was pleading, mumbling soft words and trying to remind you that he loved you and you had felt the same, you loved Kurapika with everything inside of you.

“Just don’t leave me again..”

Idk what I’m doing anymore

• Main Masterlist •

• HxH Masterlist •

#kurapika imagine #kurapika headcanons #kurapika imagines #kurapika x reader #kurapika fanfic #hxh fanfic #hxh headcanons #hxh imagines #hxh x reader

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candyopala · 3 years

Text

Stuck in his ways, Chapter 5

Chapter Summary: Y/N’s training begins, but not before she discovers one of Obito’s secrets.

Words: 1.7k

AO3

Please reblog or like if you enjoy, comments are always welcome <3

5:30 in the morning. It is the sixth time Y/N has woken up. This whole concussion thing has messed up her whole sleeping schedule, she tried her best to get some rest, but to no avail. She ended up sleeping for about fourteen or fifteen hours between small intervals, but she feels worse than before.

Y/N drags herself out of bed, makes some coffee, and brushes her teeth, the whole deal. Having a constant roof above her head is nice, she has to admit that. Not having to worry about wild animals and the climate is cool, but the warmth of a bed is the best part of it. Tying her brand new bandana on her forehead, she leaves the small apartment and heads to the training grounds on the outskirts of the village.

She makes her way through the village’s main market, trying to avoid stumbling onto the hundreds of busy people bustling around her. Watching people attend to their duties and following their routines has always been a hobby of hers, she always found interest in seeing people who can afford to do the same thing every day, have some sort of routine. Can she consider herself one of them now? No, maybe not. Ninjas are always doing different missions and whatnot; their routines are as fucked up as a merc’s. Maybe she can become a baker in another life, who knows?

Around the corner, a hand blocking her way surprises her. At the end of it is a medium height man with his hair tucked into some sort of fabric, with bits of brown hair coming out of the sides. The man holds a toothpick between his lips, accompanied by a smug smile and an attitude that instantly annoys Y/N.

“’Sup babygirl, how come I’ve never seen you around?”

“I’ve been busy for the last 26 years”

“Busy living in my dreams, I bet”

“Busy fucking you mom, actually”

The sleazy type is the worst in Y/N’s opinion. Nothing disgusts her more than someone who thinks they’re hot shit just because they’re attractive. She pushes him away and keeps on walking.

“Ouch! Feisty, I like that. I’ll remember ya!” he states as he leaves the scene with a wink and a flick of his toothpick.

This has to be a joke, what a douchebag.

Going back on her way and observing the people, she closes into a mass of messy short black hair. The man has his back turned to her, but by the jonin vest and height, she assumes it could be… no, wait… it could not be! This man is helping an old lady carry a shitload of groceries, he would never be nice enough to do that.

Could it be him!?

From afar, she changes angle to try and catch a glimpse of his face. After much difficulty dodging busy locals, she is able to see clearly and… it’s Obito! Obito Uchiha helping a poor old lady carry her stuff, I wish I had a camera on me. She thinks of approaching him, but she decides against it in favor of watching from a distance to see where this goes.

Turns out the frail woman lives on the other side of town. Obito sure enough has carried all that stuff through the worst climbs Y/N has ever seen on a city. But that was not all: he was being extra nice. He laughed at all her jokes and even smiled back at her. This is grade A entertainment.

When they finally reach her destination, the old lady pulls out a lollypop and gives it to him. Y/N immediately loses her shit, almost falling from the ceiling she is in because of her fit of laughter. Before she can compose herself, she notices a presence behind her. She was discovered, but who cares? She has seen enough. Obito towers above her, trying to look intimidating, but failing to do so since he has a lollipop on his mouth.

“First you invade my house, now you’re following me. Are you sure I’m the one who should be called a creep?”

“Well, you’re right. Maybe I’ll start calling you… Granny Simp Uchiha©, how about that?”

“I hate you”

“Ow, I’m so hurt, oh my god, how could you? But seriously, I didn’t mean to intrude, but when I saw that… I needed to see more to believe it” She states as she breaks into another fit of laughter

“Let’s go, we’re late for training”

“Have you ever been on time a day of your life, though?”

“Never, I’ll probably be late for my own funeral”

“Fair enough. Wait, did you just make a joke that’s not on my expense?”

“Oh no, your dumbassery is influencing me!” He raises his gloved hands ironically

“Shut up”

~”~

They both reach the training grounds at around 7:30, late but not a whole lot, thanks to Obito’s kamui. Obito will have to make some slight modifications on the mission report to avoid Minato’s wrath. After a quick warmup, Obito goes straight to the point:

“How much do you even know about jutsu?”

“Well… I can do that chakra punch, maybe walk on water and trees or release genjutsu, but that’s all.”

“Not even a clone or some substitution jutsu?”

“Nope”

“So you’re basically an academy student with enough brute force to take down S rank criminals… That’s… odd”

Y/N scratches the back of her head, clearly embarrassed by her lack of training. Obito did not expect to have to teach such basic things. I mean, if he wanted to teach people stuff he would have signed up for a job at the academy. He still cannot believe Minato sensei is putting him up to this babysitting job.

He needs to do well on this mission if he wants to get back onto the Hokage’s good side and guarantee his position as the next one. This is his second day with Y/N and things have been insane and… fun? No, he should not be thinking like that. Perhaps he should also go talk with Kushina and ask her to convince sensei to let him go from this one; he was always her favorite after all.

“Granny simp? You ok? Did I disappoint you that much?”

Obito fixes his bandana’s position over his left eye, trying to get himself out of his head. He is here now, so he had better get to work. If he can control himself enough not to put her under a nasty genjutsu for calling him that again, that is.

“Call me that again and I’ll tell everyone that you saw me naked”

“You were not naked, dickhead. And what’s wrong with that?”

“Uhm…?”

“…?”

“Anyway… we’ll start with some cloning jutsu. Have you ever done any seals?”

“Only one or two”

“Try to copy what I’m doing”

“Hey! Stop doing it so fast!”

She honestly seems to be giving her best, but her hand signs are not quite right and the chakra distribution on her network must be all wrong, judging by her failure in producing something that seems to be remotely human. This takes Obito’s memory back to his old academy days, back when he could not do a single clone properly. He would spend whole nights awake training to achieve something passable. Rin helped him a lot back then. The only thing he has ever taught someone was that sexy jutsu to Naruto. To say Kushina was mad was an understatement.

“Concentrate your chakra all along your body, not only on your hands”

“Hum… right, can I get a lollipop after this?”

Four hours later and Y/N has finally mastered two basic jutsu: substitution and cloning. She almost passed out several times due to exhaustion, but thanks to some food pills, she is enduring todays training much better.

Obito has been analyzing her every movement with his sharingan. Looking closely her techniques lack grace, truly a sign of someone who learned everything they know by experience. He needs to fix that too.

Her endurance is also remarkably low. If she were to fight right now, she could do maybe two or three jutsu before passing out, making her rely solely onto her speed and blade habilities. The girl is more of a samurai than a ninja at this point. Examining her file earlier, he noticed that her chakra reserves are not that low as she has stated before, according to the medical department she has an average quantity of it. She just lacks the ability to use it properly.

Some very hard work is in order; it could take some months to get her into decent shape. That would be too much time and effort for Obito, there has to be another way of dealing with this mission quicker.

He did not want to do this, but he will have to talk to Kakashi for some teaching tips. Hell, if he was able to teach anything useful to Naruto he will be able to come up with a routine to help Y/N’s training.

I just hope he doesn’t decide to bother me about this situation…

After dropping Y/N on her house, with much protest from her part, Obito heads to the village’s café to meet with Kakashi Hatake. He knows that the ninja likes to spend his late afternoons reading his porn books accompanied by some coffee, disgusting stuff if you ask Obito. The coffee, that is. He has no formed opinion on porn books.

Approaching the store, he spots his friend’s mass of upward pointing grey hair. Something is different about him, though. Kakashi is usually… a very apathetic person. The look he gave Obito had chills running the Uchiha’s spine, he looked, well, excited.

“Obito! I finally found you! Sit down”

Aliens killed him and this is a body double. Or this is one of Gai’s practical jokes. Obito is honestly stumped.

“Are you ok bakashi?”

“Great! So… who’s the girl?”

Great, just awesome.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about”

“Of course you know, everyone is talking about how you were seen walking up and down with some mysterious gal. I’m so happy for you! Finally you’re going to stop being a sad grumpy bachelor! I’ll call dibs on the position of best-man” and suddenly Kakashi jumps up from his seat, coming closer to Obito’s face “Have you guys done it yet? Did she run away from you and now you need my advice? You could use some techniques from Icha I-”

“What the fuck is wrong with you? Those books are rotting your brain, seriously what the hell?”

“So is it true?”

#Obito #Jonin Obito #obito x reader #obito x you #obito uchiha #uchiha obito #uchiha #naruto fanfiction

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ofendlesswonder · 3 years

Note

Congratulations on the impending release! That's so exciting. Also so excited to see you're taking prompts - 27, if you're so inspired!

27. “I don’t want to feel this way anymore.”

Cat thinks she’s dreaming, when she sees a cape flutter outside her balcony.

It certainly wouldn’t be the first time she’d dreamt of red and blue and a sunny smile. Probably wouldn’t even be the hundredth, if she counts her daydreams, the one allowance she’d made, for when the itch under her skin, the desire to reach out and touch had almost become too much to bear.

Had become too much to bear, in the end. Had sent her fleeing across the country to another coast entirely, separating herself from any temptations, from blue, blue eyes and the traitorous voice in the back of her head wondering would it really be so bad, if you told her?

Yes, she’d always answered. Yes, because I can’t ruin her, too.

Not like she had every other relationship she’s ever had. Couldn’t bear to see the light in her eyes dim, for her to become bitter and jaded, and look at Cat like she despised her.

That’s something she knew she’d never be able to handle, no matter how many times Kara had pressed close beside her on the couch, staying long after her work hours had ended. No matter how often she’d looked at Cat like she held the world in her hands, her gaze had lingering when Cat had dared to undo an extra button, knowing she was playing a dangerous game.

The cape flutters again, propelling Cat out of bed, feet sinking into the plush carpet of her bedroom. Her new home isn’t quite as nice as the penthouse she’d left behind in National City, but it’s a decent replacement, she thinks. Carter had taken some convincing, but she knows D.C. has grown on him.

“Aren’t you a little far from home?” She asks the superhero slouched over her balcony railing, pushing open the doors with the palm of her hand.

Kara doesn’t move, and Cat thinks something must be deeply wrong. Why else would she be here, after so long? Why else, after years of silence stretched thin, would she have come to her?

“What’s wrong?” She asks, a silence of a different kind pressing into her ears. This high, the city traffic is quiet, the low hum of the people milling on the sidewalks below snatched away by the wind.

Cat grabs her robe off the back of the chair by the door, steps into stupidly fuzzy slippers Carter had bought her last Christmas. The ones she will never, ever publicly admit to owning, but that she adores slipping on at the end of a long day, and joins Kara on the balcony.

She doesn’t move, remains still and silent, and Cat wonders if she’s finally gone mad. If something in her has cracked, and she’s conjured an image of Kara, a ghostly mirage that will disappear as soon as she’s within arms’ reach.

“Nothing’s wrong,” she says, when Cat steps close, in a voice suggesting the opposite is true. “Not really.”

“And yet here you are, on my balcony in the middle of the night, for...what? An interview? A catch up? How long has it been, Kara? Four years?”

She doesn’t react to her name, and Cat thinks that might be the most worrying thing of all. A secret she’d guarded so closely, so fiercely, terrified of Cat finding out the truth, and now she doesn’t care? Doesn’t acknowledge it, even?

No, this isn’t the Kara she knows.

But then, it’s been years since Cat last touched her life.

Years, for her to grow and change.

Years, where Cat didn’t know her at all, aside from brief glimpses of news footage, from the articles she’d read, written by Kara’s hand.

The woman standing before her may as well be a stranger.

One she has no idea how to help.

“You were always...like a port in a storm. A safe space to land, a voice of reason when I needed it. You were never afraid of telling me the truth, even if it was painful to hear, and you always knew exactly the right thing to say. And I think I need that, now, because I...I don’t want to feel this way anymore.”

She doesn’t look at Cat when she talks, her jaw clenched tight, her fingers wrapped around the bar of Cat’s balcony railing, leaving indents in the metal.

It’s then Cat notices the blood. It’s caked under her nails, smeared across her knuckles, and Cat’s gaze darts over her body, searching for other signs of damage.

Maybe it’s not hers.

Maybe that’s why, when she turns to face Cat, her eyes are dark and haunted, so lost within herself Cat struggles to find a trace of the woman she once knew so well staring back at her.

“Feel what way?” Cat asks, and her voice is hoarse, because, different though she may be, it’s still Kara looking at her for the first time in years, and Cat had known it was naive, moving away to run from her ever-growing feelings, known it was unlikely to work, but it’s only now, four years down the line and feeling like not a single day has passed, that she realises just how naive.

Can Kara hear the uptick in her heartbeat, as their eyes meet? Has she heard it before? Does she have any idea, how a single glance from her can knock Cat breathless?

“Like the weight of the world is on my shoulders.” Her eyes close, and Cat lets her gaze settle on her face, how though she is physically unchanged—something about those Kryptonian genes, she suspects—she looks so much older.

Weary.

Defeated.

“I can’t...I can’t do it anymore. I don’t want to. The world needs a hero, but that isn’t me.” She shakes her head so violently she lurches to the side, and Cat steadies her—futile though the gesture may be—with a hand on her elbow, her suit rough beneath her fingertips. “I’m not a leader. I’m not...I’m not cut out for this.”

Cat casts her mind back, tries to remember any mention of Supergirl in the news, recently, that might make her feel this way. Smear campaigns against superheroes are nothing new—Cat could almost understand it, because who was going to stop them if they decided this whole being good thing just wasn’t for them?

But not Kara. Never Kara—red Kryptonite aside.

“They deserve better than me.” She sags when she says it, falling into Cat so suddenly she barely manages to catch her, face pressed into the side of Cat’s neck, and her tears hot on her skin.

“You are the strongest person I know,” Cat says, cheek pressing against Kara’s head, a hand settling at the small of her back, nothing but certainty in her voice, in her gentle grip. “The strongest person I’ve ever met, in fact—and let me tell you, Kara, I have met a lot of people. None of them could hold a candle to you.”

She sobs harder, and Cat breaks, because what is it that’s brought this beautiful, selfless woman to her knees?

“There is no one better than you,” she continues, because she thinks these are words Kara desperately needs to hear. “But you’re right about one thing—they don’t deserve you. And no one is entitled to you. What you do, Kara, putting yourself on the line, day after day, forfeiting your rights to a normal life, risking losing it all every time you charge into battle—that’s incredible. But it’s not sustainable. You keep doing it, and sooner or later, something’s going to break.”

If she’s being honest with herself, Cat is surprised it hadn’t happened sooner. Just goes to show, then, how strong she really is.

“You’ve endured so much. So much pain, so much loss.” The likes of which Cat can’t possibly comprehend, the likes of which she will never even fully know. “It’s okay to have days where you can barely even drag yourself out of the bed in the morning. Hell, I feel like that at least once a month, and I don’t have to cope with anything like you do.” Cat doesn’t know what she’d do, if their situations were reversed. Doesn’t know if she’d be able to cope. “Kara, what...what happened?”

Something triggered this. Something to send Kara flying a thousand miles across the country, to seek out the embrace of a woman she hasn’t spoken to in years. The why, Cat thinks she understands, now. Certainly, there have been a dozen other conversations on a balcony just like this one, though the view had been a little different. And Kara had been different, too, buoyed with the feeling of something new and exciting, invincibility in its most naive form, drawing strength from Cat’s imparted wisdom, which she’d never been truly qualified to give.

She definitely doesn’t feel qualified to deal with this, with Kara breaking in her arms. Doesn’t know what to say to make her feel better, not without all of the pieces of the story.

“There was a fight,” she says, and she doesn’t lift her head, the words muffled against the silk of Cat’s robe. “Nothing special. No really. But he...he was strong, and he tossed a car at me, and I...I pushed it off. Didn’t look where, until...until I heard a scream.”

Kara shifts, leans away, like she thinks Cat is about to be repulsed by her, swipes at damp cheeks with a bloodied sleeve.

“I didn’t notice her.” Kara’s bottom lip wobbles, and Cat has never seen someone look so broken. “I didn’t know she was there, but she...it crushed her.” She clenches her jaw, clenches her fists, like she can change the story by sheer force of will alone. “She’s six years old, and she’ll never walk away.”

“Kara…”

“Don’t,” she says, so viciously Cat flinches. “If you’re about to tell me it’s not my fault, don’t. Because it is. I did that to her, not him.”

“You can’t save them all.”

“She wasn’t even in any danger though, was she?” Kara’s laugh is bitter, and not one Cat has ever heard come from her lips before. “That’s the irony of it. If I’d never been there, she’d have been fine.”

“But someone else might not have been.”

Kara scoffs, takes a step back, and for one horrifying moment, Cat thinks she’s going to launch over the balcony and flee, leave her standing out here with an ache in her heart.

“No one ever talks about the collateral damage,” she says, eyes focused on the horizon. “How many people’s lives have been ruined, because of me? How many buildings destroyed, how many people in hospital?”

“And how many people would be dead, if you’d never started using your powers, hm?” Cat has her counterattack ready, can’t let Kara keep going down this rabbit hole. “Thousands, I’d wager. Or the whole world, perhaps. You stopped Myriad, you stopped an alien invasion. And they’re just the ones I know about.” She steps closer, wraps her fingers around Kara’s wrist, squeezes hard so she feels it. “You will carry this in your heart for a long time, Kara, there’s no way around that. It will hurt, and it will ache, and it will make you not want to carry on, but it doesn’t erase all of the good you’ve done. All the lives you’ve touched, the people you’ve saved.”

“How can you look at me like that, knowing I’m a monster?”

“You are so many things, Kara, but monster isn’t one of them. You’ve made a mistake—a grave one—but it was an accident, and you give up because of it. What you do, is you put on the suit, and you grit your teeth, and you vow to do better next time. You carry on. You persevere.”

“How?” She asks, and her voice breaks over the word, over the plea, and Cat clenches her jaw so she doesn’t cry, because she knows that is the opposite of what Kara needs right now.

She came here because she needs someone to be strong for her, because she needs someone to tell her it’s going to be okay—and mean it.

“Only you can come up with the answer to that,” Cat says, and she wraps her fingers a little tighter around Kara’s wrist. “But I think a good start is, perhaps, a shower. Wash away the bad.” Wash away the blood, staining Kara’s skin. “Come inside.”

Kara digs in her heels. “I-I don’t...you don’t have to do that. I should go.”

“I don’t want you going anywhere like this.” Not on her own, not where there’s no one to keep an eye on her. “Please, Kara. Let me help you. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it? Why you came here?”

She nods, jerky and quick, and lets Cat pull her into her bedroom, all the fight seeping out of her.

“Wait here.” She leaves her hovering by the end of Cat’s bed, arms wrapped around her torso, and steps into her en-suite.

She turns on the shower, sets it to scalding, and waits until the room is full of steam, until the ends of her hair begins to curl.

When she returns to her bedroom and finds Kara stripped from her suit, she nearly has a heart attack.

“I didn’t want to wear it anymore,” she says, and she’s shivering but Cat doesn’t think it’s from the cold.

“I’ll find you something clean to wear.” Something not stained with dirt and regret. She digs out an old, worn Harvard T-shirt and some shorts, passes them over to Kara and politely averts her gaze as she does so before prodding her toward the bathroom. “Take as much time as you need.”

She folds the suit while she waits, puts it carefully on the chair by the balcony door along with her boots. When it starts buzzing, she jumps, worried she’s inadvertently pressed a button she shouldn’t have. Has she activated a GPS tracker? Self-destruct? Were a team of shady government agents on their way to her apartment to cart her off to a black site?

Thank God Carter is spending the night at his friends house. She has no idea how she’d explain any of this to him.

The buzzing doesn’t stop, so she ventures closer, finds a pocket and a phone with nearly thirty missed calls, and a dozen more texts.

Alex is a name she recognises, but Nia and Brainy are not. Another reminder things have changed, she thinks, setting the phone down on her vanity for when Kara re-emerges. Clearly, she hasn’t told anyone where she is.

“Thank you,” Kara says, when she opens the bathroom door, a cloud of steam enveloping her. On Cat, the shirt is baggy, but it clings to Kara, highlighting the muscle and strength hidden beneath her lithe frame, and Cat chastises herself for staring.

Not what she needs right now.

If Cat had ever had her doubts about Supergirl’s identity, if Kara had tried to argue when Cat had named her earlier, it would have soon come crashing down. Because now, standing in borrowed clothes, damp hair curling around her shoulders, hunched in on herself, the woman staring back at her was entirely Kara Danvers.

Cat can’t believe she’d ever doubted it.

“Kara, does anyone know you’re here?” She asks, makes sure her voice is gentle, and not condescending. The last thing she needs is her feeling attacked.

“Like they’d understand,” she says, voice soft, and that’s true, Cat thinks, because she finds it hard to understand herself. “I don’t want them to.”

“At least let someone know you’re safe? Your sister, perhaps? It’s either that, or toss your phone out of the window.” As if on cue, it begins to vibrate again. “She’s calling for the hundredth time.”

Kara sighs, but takes the call, resignation on her face as she lifts it to her ear. “Alex. I’m fine.”

A lie, Cat knows from one look at her face. She wonders if her sister can tell, too.

“I just needed some space,” Kara says then, and Cat wonders where her sister might think she is. “I’m somewhere safe.” She casts a glance toward Cat, whose heart thuds at the thought that Kara thinks of her as a safe space. Somewhere to land, when she feels like her whole world is falling apart.

Cat wonders when she’d earned the honor.

“I don’t know. Tomorrow, probably. I don’t want to fucking debrief, Alex.” It explodes out of her, so sudden it takes Cat by surprise, her back ramrod straight and her fingers holding the phone so tight it’s a wonder the plastic doesn’t crack. “You saw what happened. Don’t make me relive it.”

Cat crosses the room without thinking, pressing a hand to the small of Kara’s back. The effect is instantaneous, body relaxing beneath Cat’s fingertips, tension leaching out of her with every breath.

This close, Cat can hear Alex’s voice on the other end of the line, tight with worry. “Come home, Kara.”

“Not yet,” she says, her voice shaky. “I...I can’t yet.” She hangs up before Alex can argue, and Cat pretends not to notice her turn the phone off before tossing it onto the chair with her suit. She’d done what Cat asked—and she doesn’t think she wants the sister knowing her apartment is the place Kara chose to land.

Somehow, she doesn’t think that’ll go over well.

“You can stay here tonight, if you want.” Even if she felt about Kara the way she was supposed to—appropriately, for a woman double her age, and a former boss to boot—she wouldn’t have been able to turf her out when she looks so dejected. “You can stay as long as you want, even. If you want a place to hide away from the rest of the world, consider this your sanctuary.”

“Beside the Queen of all Media.”

“There’s a moniker I haven’t heard in a long time.”

“Do you have a new one? Or is it just Press Secretary, now?”

“Doesn’t have quite the same ring to it, does it?” If this is what Kara needs, idle small talk in the middle of Cat’s bedroom at a stupid hour in the morning, well.

Cat has never been able to deny her.

“It suits you, though.”

“And reporter suits you, Pulitzer Prize winner.” The flush that stains Kara’s cheeks is expected, but it makes Cat chuckle all the same. “You’ve been doing good work. I knew you had it in you.”

“You always saw the best in me.”

“You say that like it’s difficult to.” Seeing the best in Kara is one of the easiest things Cat has ever done. She’d seen something special in her that first fateful meeting—she’d just no idea how special. How this meek, bespectacled woman with the hideous fashion sense would tip her life on its head. “You should get some rest,” she says, when Kara yawns. “You’ve had a...difficult day.” Something of an understatement. “You can stay in here.”

Kara shakes her head. “I’m not kicking you out of bed, Cat.”

“You’re not—I’m offering it to you.”

“I can take the guest room.”

“There is no guest room.” Cat’s smile is wry when Kara frowns. “Not like I get a lot of visitors. It was three bedrooms, but I turned the third into an office.”

“The couch, then.”

Cat stops her with a hand on her arm when she makes for the door. “Stay here, Kara. It’s fine.”

“Will you...will you stay with me, then?” She asks, in a voice so small Cat feels like her heart is being squeezed in a vice.

“I…” Is there a polite way to say no? To say I can’t think of a more terrible, masochistic idea than that without breaking the poor girl’s spirit?

“Please? I...I don’t want to be alone.” It’s the sheen of tears in her eyes that does it, the wobble of her lip, the desperation in her voice, and Cat tells herself that it’s not specifically her that Kara wants. It’s the comfort, it’s the presence of another warm body, to ward off the chill of loneliness.

And yet, it was her that Kara had sought out.

And that has to mean something, even if it’s not what she so desperately wants to be.

“Okay, I’ll stay,” she says, knowing the memory of Kara wrapped up in her sheets will linger long after they’ve been washed, but knowing, also, that it’s worth it, for the way her face lights up when Cat pulls back the covers and climbs inside.

She has to be up in four hours, she thinks, wincing when she glances at the clock.

Worth it, she thinks, as Kara slips in beside her. Worth it, when she turns to Cat in the dark, and presses into her side, face in the crook of her neck, and tears once again damp on her skin.

Cat holds her, and she doesn’t sleep a wink, even when Kara’s breathing deepens, hot against her skin, fingers twitching where they’re gripping at Cat’s robe, still wrapped around her shoulders.

Cat holds her, and thinks they might not talk about it tomorrow—Kara might, perhaps, wake up mortified in her former boss’ bed, the light of morning bringing with it a sense of clarity that maybe the decision to come here was wrong. Kara might, perhaps, flee without saying goodbye, and Cat may never see her again.

And Cat would accept that decision without question, because for her, this is enough.Stitching the broken parts of Kara back together, being here for her, offering her the comfort she so desperately needed, means more to her than anything else ever could.

#directrix-zelda #thank you 😊#once again...this was supposed to be short #i wrote this entire thing at work today no one tell my boss #supercat #supercat:fanfic

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alpacaparkaseok · 3 years

Text

Mine

3. Stalk me all you want, just bring refreshments.

Genre: Yoongi x OC

Warnings: some stalking lol

Word Count: 3.1k

We’ve made it to Paris by the time the first stalker finds me.

The past week has been spent in England popping in and out of interviews and press conferences. For the most part, it’s been pretty quiet. Granted, each interview never fails to bring up BTS, one even going so far as to pull up a quiz to see how similar I am to Suga.

I got 62%.

Sebastian demanded to take it as well. He got 43%. I still can’t tell if he was relieved or upset. Either way, things have been a little strange between us ever since that morning when he woke me up post panic attack. I can’t tell if it’s just because we’ve both got a lot of things on our minds or the fact that we’re back in civilization now, but I find myself seeking out the company of friends through phone calls and facetimes more often.

Stacey has been working nonstop to deflate the situation as much as possible. Truly, I owe her everything. She’s quick to remind me just that as I make my way to my hotel room.

“You know, this is very different from any other case I’ve had before. This fanbase is hard to get around.”

I roll my eyes even though she can’t see me from the other end of the phone. “You really have to stop referring to this as a case. It sounds like I’m some type of criminal.”

Sebastian passes me to go to his room while I fumble with my keycard. Stacey is in the middle of explaining the reasoning behind calling this a case when I finally open up the door and nearly drop the phone at the sight before me.

A girl sits on the edge of the bed, phone held up and hat low on her head. She stands up, walking over to me.

“Look who it is! Cara Richie!” For her surprised tone, I know she isn’t surprised at all. Stacey pauses on the phone as she picks up on the other voice. I remain frozen in the doorway, utterly confused. Did I get the wrong room?

Sebastian is the first one to react. “Keep your head down Car, and walk over here. Come into my room, I’ll get security.”

I do as he says, hesitating only a moment longer before turning my head down and heading down the hall. Stacey is demanding answers in my ear, but I can’t bring myself to answer her. Not as the girl is rushing out the door in an attempt to capture more footage.

“You think just because you’re a pretty face that Yoongi would be interested in you? He probably felt bad for your sorry excuse of a career and wanted to help. How do you feel about being a pity case?”

The words fling themselves at my back, but I focus on putting one step in front of the other. Sebastian is speaking quickly on the phone, motioning for me to walk faster.

“C’mon, c’mon…” He mutters under his breath, opening his door wide.

“I think you should know that this is live on Instagram. You look like a coward. Why would he like a coward like you?”

My feet refuse to move faster, my measly pace being the only thing I can manage. There’s a piece of me that really wants to turn around and give her a piece of my mind, but I know that’s the last move I should take. Not when she’s filming. Not when we’re just beginning promotions and my career is already barely hanging in there.

When I’m within arm’s reach, Sebastian grabs me and hauls me into the room. I just glimpse the dark clothing of security bursting out of the stairwell before Sebastian closes the door behind us.

“What was that?” Stacey demands to know. I watch as Sebastian scours the room, checking the bathroom and even under the covers for any unwanted visitors. Once he gives me a thumbs-up, I finally speak.

“I...I think that girl was stalking me.”

🌙

To say the least, Paris and I don’t get along well. Yes, the world-famous city of love. The irony of it all isn’t lost on me. I’m stuck in the city of love all the while trying my best to avoid crazed would-be lovers of some man I’ve only ever seen through a screen.

On the bright side, people who work for the tabloids are having a heyday. I haven’t managed to get my hands on any of the magazines they’re working for, but I do have a phone and said phone is in a constant state of buzzing and ringing.

One the down side I still have no clue how I’m supposed to make it through these promotions in one piece. A part of me hopes that BTS will step in and basically tell everyone to knock it off, but I have no way of knowing how their PR teams works. Either way, they seem to be very good at keeping things on their side very quiet while my side is barely holding the barricade.

We’re driving back from an interview when my phone rings yet again. Sebastian looks at me.

“You gonna answer that?”

Sighing, I yank my phone out of my pocket. No doubt it’s yet another nosy friend or reporter that got my number from a nosy friend.

“Oh!” I gasp. It’s an actual friend. “Bong-Cha!” I all but scream into the phone. It’s my crazy roommate from my senior year in college that convinced me to pursue another degree with her in Seoul.

“Wow, you actually sound happy to hear from me,” my friend teases.

“There’s a first time for everything. How are you?” It feels like it’s been years since we’ve last spoken.

Sebastian looks at me with a puzzled expression as I slip into Korean. I’ve never spoken it around him, but I’ve never had a reason to. In fact, it’s about time I got a call from my friend. I need to keep practicing.

“I’m...great.”

I furrow my brows as I study the Parisian streets we pass. “Are you sure about that?”

Bong-cha’s sigh carries through the phone. “Yeah, I think so. It’s just...remember when I told you before you left for the Congo that I had a really big gig coming up? Like, really big?”

The conversation we had less than a week before I left for the Congo comes back to my mind. Bong-cha and I originally went into the university to study acting. When we were both accepted to a prestigious school in Seoul she was elated and I was confused. I didn’t apply to the school. I didn’t even speak the language, why would I apply? Bong-cha took things into her own hands and filled out the application for me. It took a lot of puppy eyes and convincing, but eventually I realized that a fresh start on a new continent and even with a new language would be exactly what I needed.

The program took two years, but it only took Bong-cha six months to realize that she wanted to focus more on the music part of filming rather than the actual acting. The little punk switched programs, but we still lived together for the duration of the two years. Looking back, she made the right decision. She can weave and create a soundtrack that puts people under a spell. She even helped with the soundtrack for one of my very first indie flicks.

Thanks to her I had something of an advantage going into the world of cinema with both American and Korean acting experience. But the best part of it all was the building up a friendship that will last for decades.

“Yeah,” I come out of my walk down memory lane. Paris somehow makes me nostalgic. “What happened with that? How did it go?”

“Well, it went well...it wasn’t exactly for a movie, though.”

“What was it for, then?” I can sense the hesitation in her tone and urge her forward. “Are you releasing a mixtape or something?” We both chuckle at the notion.

“No, not that. Although I would take the world by storm if I decided to drop a mixtape. It would be pure genius.”

“Yeah, yeah. What was it for? Now you’ve made me curious.”

Another sigh. “I was working on a comeback trailer for BTS.”

My heart stutters for a moment. “You- you what?”

“I know, and I should have told you all of this-”

“Daebak!” I shout into the car, Sebastian jumping a little at my sudden exclamation. “That’s so cool, Bong-cha! I can’t believe you didn’t tell me before!”

“Oh, yeah. Yeah, it is amazing, isn’t it? They’re kind of going for this intense dystopian feel and somebody recommended me to them because they’d seen ‘True Lies’, isn’t that great? I still can’t believe it.”

Bong-cha deserves every ounce of credit that comes her way, I couldn’t be happier for her. Then I remember my current situation, and the questions I’m dying to ask her are all jumping for attention. I bite them down, reminding myself that this isn’t about me.

“I told you that the soundtrack for ‘True Lies’ was perfect, didn’t I? See, you should listen to me more often.”

A half-hearted chuckle from the other end of the phone. “I guess I should. But Cara, that’s not the only reason I called. I think I may have screwed something up.”

If my heart keeps stuttering I may die. Trying not to jump to any conclusions, I struggle to keep the apprehension out of my voice. “Ok...what happened?”

“Well...I worked a lot with all the boys, they’re very hands on in the whole process.”

“Ok.”

“I especially worked a lot with Suga because he’s very talented at producing music and all that, so he had a lot of say in the overall vibe and feel of the piece. Anyways, as you can imagine, we had to spend a lot of time together and we actually became pretty good friends...”

A yellow bike is being parked in a bike rack painted with red flowers and vines. It’s outside of the kind of cafe you only see in movies, and a young woman sits by the window with a book in hand. She’s lost in thought, no longer looking down at her book but instead watching the cars as they pass by. One hand rests idly around her drink which is still full. We make eye contact for a single second before I speed by, and I know that I’ll never see her again but I can’t help but wish I was her.

If I were her I could sit there calmly, not worried about much except for not spilling my drink on my novel. I would admire the yellow bike in the rack, and think up bike routes that I could enjoy. I would pack my book in the little basket between the handlebars and I would wait for a sunny day to go out and read.

Just my bike, book, and me.

Jumping a little as we pass over a speed bump I’m ripped from my alternate reality and drink in the words that Bong-cha speaks as delicately as possible.

“...we talked a lot, and eventually I started talking about my friends. You know, pretty normal, isn’t it? Everyone talks about their best friends. I mentioned you, of course. Explained how we lived together for however long, like what, four years? Two in the states and two in Seoul? Anyways, I was going on about you because ‘Under Nine’ has been so huge and it’s like you finally had your big break.”

Coaxing my jaw to move from its stiff position, I form a sentence. “Bong-cha, just tell me.”

There’s a two second pause before she dives back in. “He’d seen the film, said that you seemed cool. And I just started thinking about it and I thought that you two would be so cute together. And he just seems...lonely. Is that weird? And you’re always so stressed with trying to find the next big project so I just talked you up but...I- I didn’t tell him to date you or anything, I swear! I just said that you two should be friends. That’s all, I swear.”

Somehow the spike in heart rate I was expecting never comes. Instead, I almost feel more at ease. At least I’m starting to understand how this got started. It all seemed too disconnected before, like he just picked my name out of a hat and decided to have some fun with it.

“So...do you know why he said those things in the interview? Because that wasn’t exactly a call for friendship. At least, if that’s how he meant it, he failed. Big time. And now I’m paying the price.”

I can’t keep the bite out of my voice toward the end, and Sebastian doesn’t need to be fluent in the language to understand that tone.

‘You ok?’ he mouths. I nod and roll my neck in an attempt to relax. I don’t want Bong-cha to think that I’m mad at her. If anything, I’m flattered that she even thought to act as a sponsor for me to one of the most famous rappers in the world, however misguided her intentions.

“I know. I know, trust me, I talked to him about it.”

I wasn’t expecting that. They must be pretty good friends if Bong-cha feels comfortable calling him out on this. “You did?”

She chuckles. “I know, shocking. I just feel partially responsible for all of this. Then when I saw that video in your hotel room-”

“Wait, you saw that? I thought they were able to take that down in time.”

“Well, it was live when she was filming it. So she had to stop the filming but it was already out in the world. If it makes you feel any better, most people feel bad for you. You reacted really well in the video. Didn’t even say anything. Yoongi felt horrible when-”

“Hold up, hold up.” The words tumble from my mouth before she can continue. “You’re telling me that he actually saw that? And you talked to him about all of this? What is he saying?”

“I would tell you if you would quit interrupting me.”

“Sorry.” A hint of a smile tugs at my lips, the head strong Bong-cha I know so well reappearing.

“Anyways, as I was saying he felt horrible once he saw the video. Obviously we knew that it was probably a little crazy for you, especially with interviews and stuff. But I think even the guys were surprised to hear about you having stalkers and stuff.”

“The guys as in…”

“As in the guys. Jin and Jimin and-”

“Yeah. Yep. Got it.” I’m not sure whether I should laugh or cry, so I settle for shock.

“I talked to Yoongi about it, though. They all feel horrible about it, really. I guess after I talked about you so much he got curious and started doing some research and trying to figure out who you were. You know, kind of like friend shopping.”

“Is that a thing?”

“Sure, when you’re that crazy famous it is. You have to make sure the person you want to befriend isn’t some psycho in disguise.”

I snort. “I am a psycho, though. I don’t even try to hide it.”

Bong-cha chuckles, in full agreement with me. “Trust me, I know. But I don’t know, maybe he thinks it’s endearing? I mean, look at his closest friends. Compared to the rest of the members, you’re pretty tame. They’re all nuts.”

Just from the way Bong-cha speaks about the band I can tell that she really loved spending her time working with them. It would appear they all became fast friends. I can’t say that surprises me; she’s always had a knack for making friends.

“Alright, if you say so.”

“Anyways, I guess the guys were just giving him a hard time because he was always watching your stuff. Everyone took it too far in that interview. I mean, honestly speaking, I think they want him to get a girlfriend as badly as I do, but,” she keeps chattering away as she senses my impending interruption, “they realize that this wasn’t the best way to go about everything. Trust me when I say that their agency practically skinned them alive when the interview went viral.”

I suppose it makes sense to a certain point, but there’s still one outlier in all this information. If this is purely just an innocent mistake, then why on earth would Yoongi fan the flame by inviting us to the film festival in Seoul? And publicly RSVP?

I ask Bong-cha as much, the skepticism thick in my voice. “I just don’t get it, I guess.”

Bong-cha curses on the other side, and I can practically see her rolling her eyes. “That is precisely why all of the boys have basically been in time out for the past couple of weeks. Remember when I said that the other boys want Yoongi to get moving as much as I do?”

“Yeah? I don’t follow…”

Bong-cha laughs at the situation, the sound of it only worrying me more. “That wasn’t Yoongi that invited you guys and RSVPd.”

I nearly choke at the new information. The anger I feel is red-hot. Somebody really is trying to sabotage my career, aren’t they? “W-who? Who would do that? Why haven’t they said anything about that? Clearly someone is trying to ruin my career, and possibly his as well. Wouldn’t BigHit do someth-”

“Hey! Listen to me you psycho!” Bong-cha yells through the phone, barely able to get me to shut up for more than two seconds. “Are you even listening to me at all? I just said that the others are pushing for you and Yoongi, too. Nobody is trying to destroy your career.” She pauses, and for once I don’t interrupt her. Instead I wait with bated breath for her to continue. “You should have seen Yoongi’s face when Jin told him what he did.”

Jin? Kim Seokjin? What did he do?

“What do you mean? What did Jin do?”

A sigh of long-suffering. “He’s the one that invited you guys. And made sure Yoongi would have to be there to face you by publicly RSVPing him. Got it?”

“Why would he do that?” I ask myself the question more than anything. Bong-cha still responds though, the smirk evident in her tone.

“You’ll just have to ask him in person when you get here, won’t you? Make sure you save me a seat. I want to be there for this.”

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moon-lixie · 3 years

Text

City of Love - Kim Seungmin

There was only one city he would ever call the city of love and that was the place where he had the pleasure to not only meet but fall in love with you as well.

Today he played a sorrowful tune, one that brought your memory back like how the waves bring seafoam to the shore, and he wished for nothing else than turning towards the crowd and finding you there.

genre: mild angst and fluff

word count: 2.579k

song: Mia and Sebasian’s Theme - Justin Hurwitz (slowed)

The light grew brighter above his head, pooling at his feet and shining decisively atop the keys of the piano that reflected his solemn expression. The rest of the world became a dark pit of black around him, there was nothing his eyes could comprehend outside the glow of yellowish white.

Taking a deep breath he started playing, fingers hovering gently on the black and white rectangles that pulled at the strings of his hearts.

He felt his fingers tremor for a second and he pressed his eyes shut with force to calm himself. This was no time to hesitate, not when he had gotten this far, not when he knew this song by heart, not when the spotlight was on him.

A soft exhale tarnished the black surface in front of him, bringing back a distant memory that seemed to match perfectly with the melancholic melody his fingers worked hard on bringing to life.

For a split second he was far away from the stage that burdened him so greatly, the sand caressed the soles of his feet and a familiar laugh made his heart ache with such intensity that breathing became troublesome.

Blinking rapidly he managed to regain consciousness of the sheets that stood as a guide for his fingers that moved with pure instinct; still, he liked to bring the sheets just to feel more confident that there would be no mistakes, just like he had once loved to bring you along when he played to give himself a sense of security.

It was foolish of him, turning to the crowd and trying to look for you when he had to concentrate, and when the veil of darkness brought to him by the greatness of that stage, robbed him from knowing who sat on what seemed to be endless rows of seats.

He knew it wasn’t the time to fill his chest with guilt and let his heart touch the ground at how heavy it felt, but he couldn’t help while standing where he had always wanted to. You would’ve been happy for him, he could picture the bright smile that would’ve flooded the whole place with such light that he could allow himself to relish on your features as he played from up there.

His right hand crossed over his left one, reaching for some keys that wished to add a sorrowful shade to the melody. And it wasn’t the expected note that greeted his ears, it was your humming that instead installed itself deep within his mind.

Blinking twice, he suddenly laid atop some white sheets whose texture appeared to be familiar to his fingertips. The darkness had been replaced with a golden light coming in from the small windows sprawled around the room.

The white walls gave the room a cosier feeling as they delimited the small space and combined with the cerulean of the window doors. Everything that held colour inside the room stood out as if it had been carefully planned to do so.

Your humming became clearer as everything started to lose more sense to him, and right before he had the chance to make his way out of the bed agitated, the wooden door opened and revealed your cheerful silhouette.

“Are you still in bed?” you asked incredulous, a pinch of amusement mingling in the air that carried your words to him.

His lips parted and he made an effort to try to answer, but air completely left his lungs as you walked towards his figure and lay right where you could snuggle into his chest.

Time seemed to stop as he became aware of only his rapid beating heart and the warmth that your touch brought upon his figure. That’s when he understood that he wasn’t really there by your side.

If this was a memory he couldn’t tell when it happened, and if it was a mere mirage of what he seemed to truly desire, he just prayed that it lasted for long enough to soothe the aching pain of his heart.

Chaste kisses were left on his cheek by the softness of your lips and for the very first time he uttered a sound; he giggled, because for a second he was reminded of the joy he once rejoiced in.

Hugging you close, he made the effort to try and take in as much of your scent as it was enough for the rest of eternity. Luckily you didn’t question his overly affectionate attitude - one he rarely displayed- allowing him to enjoy this ephemeral moment as much as it was possible.

Once you escaped his embrace and he was forced to stand from the cozy pile of sheets, his feet touched the cold floor, sending a shiver to travel up his spine.

Carefully, he walked towards the window where the amicable city extended itself for the joy of his eyes. He sighed in acknowledgement; things started making more sense now that he recognised himself to be back to the only place he would dare call home.

The place where he had been raised was kilometers away from where he stood -in his mind at least- and it still couldn’t compete with the place he adored with such determination. There, inside the white walls he started to remember clearly, he had loved with an intensity that left his affection staining every corner of the place.

Your paths had stumbled on a particularly sultry afternoon in the only city he would ever dare call the city of love. Quick smiles were exchanged as you had both been in a hurry to simply live your days in the searing routine of always, but there had been an unspoken hope to find each other again, and that’s what brought the two of you to meet at the same place the day after.

Without much hope he had been waiting for over an hour, leaning on the grey stone wall that lessened his flushed state, and staring down at the sea that was still a bit too far away for his liking.

The sea’s blue tones stared back at him with a promise to deliver the fresh breeze he hadn’t met often in the streets filled with people he wandered every single day. It danced slowly yet harsh and threatening with a presence that couldn’t be missed.

His wait hadn’t been excessively long but for a hopeful heart it had felt like an eternity and a bit more. But the wait was more than worthy once he caught a glimpse of your curious orbs scanning the whole area for what he later knew to be his caramel strands.

You were in Thessaloniki because it carried with it all of your childhood memories, he was simply there because some wishful notes had brought him there, looking for more opportunities to play.

The moments he spent with you hadn’t been short-lived but they did move fast; fast enough for him to recognise your home as his, fast enough to fall in love with every corner of the city because it ultimately meant falling in love with a piece of you, enough to convince him that even though you weren’t oxygen and he could live without you, he simply didn’t want to.

Exiting the enigmatic room he now recognised to be yours, he was met with the familiar sight of the small living room area that shared space with a small table for four standing right in front of the door that led to the kitchen.

Closing his eyes he let out a sigh of complete and utter content; it had been so long since he felt at home in the way that he did there. The various pots laying around were a telltale sign that you were the owner of the place, along with the lavender scent that escaped from the freshly washed clothes sitting on a pile.

Some tears threatened to spill from the corners of his eyes but he was quick to push them away, after all, he wanted to enjoy this second more than he wished to spend it crying over what no longer was his.

Your hands slithered around his waist, head soon resting against his back. His breathing became steady, his lids heavy with a new kind of tiredness that he had never experienced before, his hands finally reached for yours, fingers intertwining and bringing indescribable bliss to his heart.

His eyes finally closed, overpowered by the relief that it brought him to be in your presence, and once he opened them again your touch was gone and the picture that sprawled in front of his eyes was different but equally welcomed.

The sun was setting, painting the sky with a tinge of orange that turned into a light blush towards the end; sand carried his feet, water threatening to bring seafoam at the tip of his toes; fresh air filled his nostril with the briny aroma the beach always had to offer.

If the other moment had been nothing but a hallucination he couldn’t be certain, but this was a memory he often came back to; it would be a crime for him to forget about it.

There was hesitation in his movements as he turned to his left, because he knew you would be standing there with tears staining your cheeks and reflecting the mesmerizing aura of the sea.

A soothing hand rubbed circles on your back, and even though there was an indignated look furrowing your brows, you didn’t move away from his touch.

Resentment shone in your eyes once you finally looked in his direction, he could never forget the sour tang that danced at the back of his mouth once you gave him that look. But… What could he do? He had been waiting for an opportunity like that his whole life, it would’ve been stupid not to accept it, right?

Not once had he regretted his decision, not even on the loneliest and coldest nights that he spent in foreing rooms, not even when the spotlight was given to someone else as he played in the dark. But experiencing everything over again so vividly made him question himself about the options that had once laid unanswered in front of him.

After some thought he reached the same conclusion he had reached back then, he would never dare regret the decision that had given him what his passion had seeked for an eternity. And deep inside he knew you didn’t either, because even though there was a small amount of anger on your pupils, he knew for a fact that you were mad at him leaving rather than taking the decision to follow his dreams. At the end of the day you had wished to be far away from him as he wished to be away from you, not in the slightest.

His hands cupped your cheeks and he leaned forward to plant on your lips a kiss of longing mixed with tears. Because he had started crying at some point, way after his heart had cracked ever so slightly promising to shatter completely in the near future.

You kissed him back and it all dawned upon him; he was so madly in love with you that he had spent every single day grieving since he had left your side.

What a sad predicament he was stuck in; he wished to kiss you for an eternity more and then promise you to come back soon. But this was a memory and so it proceeded as it had been on that specially doleful sunset.

Not quite realising what was going on he had let go of your face, grabbing your hands instead and starting to dance along to the music he kept dearly in his heart, right beside where you were.

At first you seemed almost wary of his movements but in no time you had melted against his figure, allowing him to guide you in the slow and pensive dance.

His eyes closed once again as he tried to focus on the feeling of your warmth pressed against his, and as it started to wash away he knew that this moment had in fact been nothing but ephemeral reminiscing.

Coming back to his consciousness he recognised the warm feeling of tears rolling down his cheeks as well as the soft movement of his hands that had not even once stopped playing the song that had elicited the trance that wrapped him around his memories.

The melody slowly came to a stop, carried by the notes he knew to be the right ones; at least he could be certain that he had played correctly while his mind had been far away.

Once silence filled every millimeter of the room he looked away from the piano and towards where people sat listening to him.

The blinding light dimmed completely only to be replaced with a warmer one filling the whole place, allowing him to appreciate some of the faces that seemed to share his sorrow as tears stained their skin.

He moved on instinct to the front once the silence was cut short by the unbelievably loud applauses of the expectators; bowing once he expressed his infinite gratitude for being able to play one more time and deemed himself satisfied enough to leave the stage.

But when his sight travelled from the floor to the front he felt like he was back at the beach, the only difference was that this time your eyes weren’t full of resentment or sadness, there was a proud look painting your whole face.

More tears made their way down his cheeks, tracing the same path his melancholic ones had minutes before. Now he could say it with utter certainty; he didn’t regret his decision not in the slightest, but he did miss you.

He missed you; awfully and greatly, his every breath longed for you, every second he spent alive had been unknowingly not just for him but for you too, and he felt stupid for taking so long to accept it.

Running down the carpeted floor, he didn’t stop until the reflection of the velvety red tone of your seat was more than visible on his pupils and you were finally in front of him, eyes holding an enigmatic look he couldn’t quite decipher but he deemed it unimportant once you wrapped your arms around his neck.

Hugging you close he buried his face on the crook of your neck, taking in your scent for the second time in the last hour, almost sobbing at the realisation that it still remained the one he remembered.

A new melody started playing then, not the result of his fingers but of the rapid beating of his heart becoming one with yours. And it was by far the most beautiful thing he had heard in his whole life, only beaten by the melody of your voice as you whispered in his ear, “I’m so proud of you, you did it.”

Exhaling deeply he moved slightly away from you, still holding you in his embrace. “We did it,” he corrected with a soft tone, because he wouldn’t have made it through half of it all if the memory of you hadn't kept him company.

And who knew? Perhaps from now on it wouldn’t be just your memory but you; it seemed possible as you smiled softly at him and your eyes were filled with tears that threatened to spill without much warning.

#skz imagines #kpop #skz fanfic #skz fanfiction #stray kids #stray kids fanfic #stray kids fanfiction #stray kids fic #stray kids imagines #skz fluff #skz angst #stray kids angst #stray kids fluff #stray kids seungmin #skz seungmin #seungmin angst #seungmin fluff #skz oneshots #stray kids oneshot

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mandohasmyheart · 3 years

Text

The Beskar Guard // 1.

Masterlist AO3

Chapter One - The Landing

The Razor Crest rocked and swayed as the Mandalorian within swore at himself for braving taking on those Imperial ships without back up. Not that he would have been able to get some in time, but still, he could have alerted the locals in the surrounding areas of what laid ahead. Whatever they had hit in the back of his ship had cut off his radio, not allowing him to send out the proper beacons or alert the local landing bay that he was coming in hot.

At this point, he was simply hoping for anything other than a hostile welcoming.

With a silent prayer, he was able to land the large ship in one piece without losing too much of the engine to his left. And from the looks of his surroundings, he could make out that there were various life forms moving about the bay, but none seemed all too concerned with his arrival. Taking a moment to collect himself, he reached for his valuables while making sure he had all the appropriate weapons on hand should he need them. He was often a target on his own, despite what he was currently chasing down.

Making sure the tracking fob was tucked away, he opened the back platform and made his way out into the unknown that was Savareen. He was greeted with nothing but sand and the chittering of something to his right. When he turned, he noticed there was a line of formal looking cloaks stepped forward, almost as if they were coming from the shadows. Instinct took over and Din reached for his pistol about ready to draw it forward when a soft, level voice came through the quieting chaos around him.

“There is no need for violence,” the shadow spoke, stepping forward even more while the others stayed back. “We know why you are here and we can help.”

—-

“Ha, I win again Zoros,” you smirked at the blue alien across from you while happily leaning forward and pulling all the credits forward. “At this point, you might want to just start tossing these things my way before the game even starts.”

The alien threw down his hand of cards before standing and muttering something in his foreign language. Despite your father always harassing you about the importance of learning the languages of the galaxy, you never really felt the need. Especially if all you needed to know what how to tell someone how much you were kicking their ass at cards, the money spoke for itself.

Busying yourself with counting, you waited for your next victim to make its way.

“Y/N.”

That familiar icy tone had you frozen in your spot, the cool credit warming in your palm as you stared ahead, not daring to turn around to the look of displeasure that would have graced his face, just as it always did when he found you anywhere but the palace. “Rafan,” you said slowly, rubbing the pad of your thumb over the slick credit still in your hand.

“Your father is requesting your presence.”

Of course he was, there was only ever a reason that Father’s right hand man came looking for you in the middle of the night. “Tell him he can wait until the morning.”

All the hustle and bustle of the underground card game seemed to fall silent as you felt the firm grip of a cold metal hand on your shoulder. “I have orders to take you in with force if I need to,” his voice continued to stay calm and collected as if the two of you were just talking about the weather. “I don’t think you want me to do that in front of your new… friends.”

Stealing a look around, almost every single being that was squished in the tight quarters of the room had their eyes on the man behind you. Not that you blamed them, Rafan was the kind of man that demanded attention. He was also the reason that you knew that your cover was totally blow with this crew. There would be no card games in the future for you here.

With a sigh, you threw down the credits and stood, aggressively shrugging off the hand on your shoulder before turning to face the man of the hour. Despite having known the man your whole life, the scars that riddle the stern look on his face always caught you off guard. His dark skin drew out the blueness in his eyes, the way they reflected the sky on a warm day while the scars along his right cheek and across his left eye gave way to the fact that he had seen some things. Even more when you caught a glimpse of his mechanical hand under his long robes.

“Let’s get this show on the road,” you said with a sigh, shoving past the man and out into the cool night.

Rafan managed to stay quiet while he trailed behind you. The walk through the bazaar at this time of night was an easy one with very few citizens wanting to be caught by the things that went bump in the night, so you really didn’t need the escort back home, but knowing your father, he had probably insisted that you were not to leave his line of sight.

As the oversized palace grounds came into view, the lush green grounds standing out in the sandy bleak city, Rafan finally spoke the obvious. “This is the third time this week alone,” he said in that calm tone of his. “Your father is not pleased.”

“Is he ever with me?”

There was a humorless chuckle from him. It gave you goosebumps as it reached your ears. “When you focus on your studies and know when you should stay quiet, he is always so thrilled.”

Thankful that he could not see the large eye roll you just gave, you squeezed your mouth shut while passing through the grounds, noting that several of the guards took a glance at you and stilled briefly before shaking their heads. Something was different tonight, usually everyone was at attention and concerned about your walk of shame back to the royal chambers, but everyone seemed to be little bit more relaxed? Was that possible when your father reigned with a sense of stern control?

Entering the main hall, the air felt different. It was not the kind of thing you felt like you could explain to anyone who asked, but it swirled and tightened with every breath in your chest. It was almost growing thicker as you approached the heavy doors that led to where your father would be waiting with that bored look of disapproval at his one and only child. The one that was supposed to have spent the night studying her politics and having been tucked into her bed chambers with a guard outside the door several hours ago.

“Ready?” Your escort asked as he side stepped around you to stand before the doors.

“Ready to get it over with.”

If you didn’t know any better, you would think that he gave you a knowing smirk like he knew something you didn’t. Once more, you stomach twisted with uncertainty at the unusual behavior surrounding you, but you held it together as the sturdy doors lurched forward with a loud groan. Sure enough, your father was wide awake, his evening robes flowing across his large seat at the head of the hall as he glanced up from the book in his hands like he was just doing some light reading.

He eyed you, his tired gray eyes glancing at your choice of common robes before looking over at Rafan. “What was it tonight?”

“Just cards,” he answered disinterestedly.

“Thank the stars,” he said sarcastically before he turned his attention back to where you were standing waiting for whatever punishment that was going to be thrown your way. “Have anything you want to say for yourself?”

That thickness still settled in your chest, so you only were able to give him a small shrug. “I was bored and couldn’t sleep.”

Despite the look of exhaustion that plagued his face, you caught the ghost of a smirk at your answer. “Naturally.”

Now it was your turn to give a small smile at your father. One of few things the two of you shared was insomnia in varying forms. He used his to catch up on the important things that came with overseeing the planet of Savareen or reading the latest political journal while you used yours to see what was so exciting outside of the palace walls - the very walls you had been confined in for the last twenty or so years of your life.

The two of you held eye contact for no more than a few seconds before he cleared his throat and gave a nod towards Rafan, silently releasing him from his babysitting duties. It was quiet as his steps echoed out the hall and the doors closed with that familiar groan so that it was just the two of you. Not knowing what to do with yourself, you focused on how dirty your hands looked in the bright lights, something that would surely get a lecture during one of your lessons tomorrow.

“You know I don’t want you sneaking out,” his voice came out gentle, but stern. “Something could happen to you.”

“But nothing did.”

He stood from his spot, those robes hanging off him heavily as he took the steps down to meet you were you stood shifting your weight back and forth on your heels. “That doesn’t mean it won’t always be the case Little One.”

You knew he was right and that he was just simply concerned for you. Ever since what had happened to your mother, he did not waste any expenses at keeping you safe - one of the many reasons you were rarely given the privilege of getting out of the palace grounds. Sometimes it was suffocating, but having known what your father had been through you couldn’t blame him. Which is why sneaking out made it so much easier than having to have fight after fight for basic freedom.

His eyes continued to roam your face as you remained silent before him. “I think it’s time for a change,” he finally said, turning away from you and nodding towards something off to the side of the hall.

“A change?” You asked, your interest suddenly peaked at your father doing something different. He was a man of habit and old ways, ones that were considered very out of date, so the mere suggest of something new excited you more than it should.

“Yes,” he nodded once more, “a much needed one I think.”

Just as you opened your mouth to inquire more, a shadow moved forward from the spot your father had been facing. A large man stepped into the light, his armor reflecting the glare was almost blinding as he moved to stand beside your father. He was much broader than your frail old man, he towered over him with the thick layers of protection. The way he carried himself, his silence and overall demeanor was all you needed to see to know just what this man was.

“A Mandalorian?” You asked in a quiet gasp, your mind running through all the varying information you had learned of them over the years. “What’s he doing here?”

His covered face tilted to the side as he looked you over, despite not being able to see what was underneath, you could feel the way his eyes raked over your frame in silence. Taking a step forward, your father answered clearly, “He’s here for you.”

Your stomach dropped. If you remembered correctly, Mandalorian’s were known bounty hunters and damned good ones at that. “Me?”

The look of terror must have been clear on your face as he gave a low chuckle and a soft smile. “No, my dear child, he is here for you as your new guard.”

“Excuse me?”

Now the man of silence stepped forward, his throat clearing before he spoke. “I’m having some ship trouble,” his voice came through the modulator and moved deep into the pit of your stomach. “I might be stuck here for awhile and while inquiring for some work, I was made aware I was needed here.”

“As my babysitter?” You asked halfway towards the Mandalorian and your father. “I don’t need a damn babysitter.”

A knowing smirk crossed over your father’s lips once more. “Oh Maker,” he said like you were still a youngling running around with a dagger, an accident waiting to happen. “You need to be kept safe.”

Something in his tone was both soft and fierce, it was the kind of thing that you knew you couldn’t argue with, despite ever fiber of your being screaming at you to do so. Squeezing your eyes shut and taking a deep breath to make sure you could sort your thoughts clearly, you thought about how the armored man said he was having ship problems, most likely meaning that he would be sticking around just long enough to get it fixed and being on his way again.

You could do that. A couple weeks tops with the bounty hunter.

“Okay,” you finally said, letting yourself relax enough to shoot the strange man a smile. “Welcome to the shit show.”

—

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prismatales · 4 years

Text

Through our lifetimes

Word Count: 2.7K

Bingo slot: Reincarnation

Pairings: Kirishima Eijiro x Reader

Tag/Warnings: Fluff, Slight Angst, Soulmates AU.

Synopsis: According to legends, when both soulmates turn eighteen, they start remembering their past lives together. You’ve known about that story ever since you were a small child. The question is....are you ready to meet your soulmate?

Another entry for the bingo event, hosted by the @bnhabookclub ! This time with the Reincarnation prompt! This is also a birthday present for my dear friend @pixxiesdust , who’s one of the most precious friends that I’ve ever had the chance to meet! Happy birthday Zeze! We love you!

Beta readers: @todoscript & @etegomanere

Credits for the Kirishima cap goes to @eraserhead-transparents!

There’s an old myth about soulmates. One, that only a handful of people could tell you about.

An old story your grandparents have always talked about ever since you were but a small child that was just starting to learn how to speak, let alone memorizing things.

According to the stories, when both soulmates become close to turning eighteen, they start to remember their past lives together. They’ll keep seeing glimpses of these moments in the past the closer they get to this age, and when the day finally arrives they will start to remember each and every single moment of their past lives.

How was it possible that an old couple that always showed their family nothing but unconditional love and support, was able to tell you about this old myth like it had been something that they had experienced themselves?

It was pretty simple...It was because they had experienced it themselves.

Every single summer, you’d spend it visiting that small, cozy home in the fields. It almost felt like you were living inside one of those fairytale books that your parents would always read to your younger self before going to bed.

The days would go by listening to the stories about their past lives. You’d enjoy the nice breeze of summer, accompanied by an ice-cold pitch of sweet, tangy lemonade your grandfather would happily prepare for his two favorite ladies in the world.

It was a routine deeply engraved into your memories. Two tiny hands holding a glass way too big for them, filled to the brim with the sweet drink while you sat over your grandmother’s lap. Her wrinkly fingers would always caress the top of your head softly as she kept talking, and talking, and talking about the memories of her past lives with enthusiasm.

Despite being ridden to a wheelchair, your grandmother always made an effort to help her husband in their beloved fields. She would always help out by holding this huge basket over her lap, a way to help out the man standing in front of her, who was too busy choosing the best of their crops for their daily meals.

If there was something they took pride in, it was teaching you not to be a picky eater. There was something about their crops that made them so delicious, so different from the ones that your mother would always bring home from the supermarket.

It created some precious memories for everyone in the family when they saw the pictures of a small toddler, barely learning to walk, yet she already had her tiny, chubby face buried in a tomato.

As you grew up, it became a habit to come back during summer with the happiest smile on your face while helping out, carrying that huge basket filled to the brim with the delicious crops.

And many years later, once you finally started visiting them on your own, the habit of visiting the old couple every summer never died down. Some people your age would rather go to parties during the summer, or vacation to relax somewhere else.

But not you.

Each summer break would be spent visiting that same house, enjoying the nice breeze with a glass of tangy lemonade, smiling at the old couple as they kept telling you about the stories of their past lives.

Sighing deeply, you stared at the sliced tomato in your fork. Its color is pale in comparison to the ones from your grandpa’s fields, but even if their taste doesn’t even come close, food must never go to waste, so quickly, you start eating the delicious meal.

It’s just a typical lunch; a plate of pasta laid before you, carefully served in the shape of a small spiral, covered with a fine portion of tomato sauce, a sprinkle of parmesan cheese, and basil adorning the plate as the finishing touch.

The dish came accompanied by two slices of bread, toasted to perfection with a nice touch of melted, garlic butter.

Lastly, a nice portion of salad drizzled in balsamic vinegar as a side dish that, even though it was delicious, it couldn’t come even remotely close to those hand-picked crops back at those precious, grassy fields.

The taste of the salad may be bland in comparison, but it’s the company all around you that made the meal taste way better than what it was.

After all, it’s your very first get together after graduating from UA a few months ago. And the best part? It’s all happening during your birthday.

Being surrounded by your former classmates was always a nice way to pass the day. After mentioning how this would be the first summer you’d be unable to visit your grandparents, all of your friends came up with a plan to cheer up the dejected, young woman patrolling the city with a melancholic smile.

It was expected that you would feel this way after spending years visiting the old couple in that lovely house, but you knew it was bound to happen the moment you chose to become a hero.

So the morning your birthday came up, everyone had quickly dragged you out for the day, barely giving you the chance to get ready before being taken to one of the longest outings you’ve ever experienced.

From shopping sprees to a nice restaurant for lunch, and many other kinds of activities, the day literally flew by surrounded by those that could be considered a second family.

But as much as you adored the effort they put to raise your spirits, nothing could distract you from the dreams that you kept having for the past days.

Like the one where a young woman kept sneaking out of her house at night. A beautiful dress, that judging by the intricate design and the puffiness of the skirt was from the victorian era, was carefully dragged around as she walked cautiously through the dark, empty streets. She just kept walking, occasionally turning into a different direction, until a hand shot out through an alleyway, dragging her yelping self with little effort.

As terrifying as the gesture seemed, nothing but warm laughter came out of her lips when a pair of arms wrapped themselves around her, holding her body against a firm chest.

“You’re late!” A voice exclaimed from above, resting their jaw against her head lovingly, their bodies swayed together as they enjoyed the other’s presence in their little hiding spot. “Did you have a good day?”

Pulling her head back, she looked at her lover’s face with a tender smile, wrapping her own arms around the stranger’s waist. “Much better now that I am with you.” From the way she stared at this man, the love they shared was more than obvious before they shared a soft, tender kiss.

But through your eyes, it was impossible to see what this stranger looked like because every time you had one of these dreams...there was a black blur over his face.

And of course...not all of these dreams had a happy ending.

Like that one couple, that despite trying their hardest to be together, their love became impossible the day she was betrothed to someone else in order to pay off her family’s debt. Her beloved, in a fit of heartbreak, went traveling overseas...and he was never seen again.

And then there were others, where the lovers never got a chance to meet, spending their whole lives waiting for the moment they could finally meet their special someone, just to realize, that in the end, faith had taken their loved one away before they could finally find each other.

“What do these dreams mean exactly, grandma…?” You asked this to your grandmother during a sunny day, pushing her wheelchair around the fields while she carried the same, worn-out basket in her wrinkly hands that were still full of strength. In the meantime, your grandfather was too busy picking some crops.

The moment you mentioned these strange dreams to the older woman, her face lit up with the same brilliance as that of a lighthouse in the middle of the darkest night. The basket fell out of her hands from the surprise, much to her husband’s surprise.

“Oh, my goddess! Honey! She has a soulmate! Our little girl has a soulmate!” She almost hopped out of her wheelchair from the joy. Seeing her being so excited that she almost stood up despite her legs being so frail, made the news even more exhilarating for the family.

You snapped out of the little trails of thoughts by a hand waved in front of your face. Blinking in surprise, you came face to face with a pair of red eyes and a slightly concerned face.

“Everything okay?” Kirishima asked, standing by your side while everyone else was engaged in their own conversation. “You’ve been spacing out for a while now.”

Warmth began creeping up your whole face, embarrassed about spacing out on your friends. You smiled awkwardly at the red-headed guy at your right side before giggling softly as you looked up at the vast and clear orange sky, filled with some of the fluffiest clouds you’ve ever seen as they took different shapes, some of them being cuter than others. It was amazing how fast time would pass by when you were surrounded by good company; it was already starting to get dark.

“Sorry, I was thinking about my grandma. We usually sit in the garden at this time of the day while she tells me this story.”

In the middle of your little speech, you failed to notice the way Kirishima kept staring at you fondly, knowing from past conversations at high school just how much you adored the old couple.

“You really look up to them, don’t you?”

“Yeah, I do.” Looking back as everyone kept walking in their own groups after today’s outing, your attention then shifted back to the guy walking alongside you.

Who just happened to be your high school crush, but after all the hardships that occurred three years ago; such as the constant fighting against groups like The League of Villains, The Shie Hassaikai, and others. Dating became the least of your worries.

Especially now that you were on your way to become official pro-heroes, starting out first as sidekicks, of course. Your love life could probably wait...and hopefully, your future soulmate would understand…

“It’s getting pretty late, let me walk the birthday girl home!” He offered with that characteristic smile of his that could light up an entire room by itself.

“You really don’t have to!”

“I insist! What kind of guy would let a girl walk alone at night?”

Sighing in amusement, you gave in to his offer. Aftersaying goodbye to everyone else, both you and Kirishima began walking together in the direction of your small apartment.

The sky had already turned dark by the time you reached a small lake near the building.

“Hey, Kiri…Do you believe in past lives?” It was his turn to look back at the sky, stretching his hands behind his neck with eyes closing deep in thought and eyebrows half furrowed as well.

“Well...It’s not something I’d lose sleep over, but it could be interesting!” He opened a single eye and looked in your direction, the small grin together with those cheerful, red eyes could easily rival the beauty of the sunset itself. “You believe in them?”

“Well, yeah! I’ve heard so many stories about people who are able to remember their past lives, I think it would be amazing to know about ours!” He hummed quietly, nodding to himself in thought.

“What kind of stories have you heard?” He was genuinely curious. That, and seeing the joyful look on your face the moment he asked about it made it all worth it because seeing his crush happy was enough to make Kirishima equally joyful.

“Oh! This is my favorite one! According to the stories, when both soulmates turn eighteen, they see their past lives together!”

You kept explaining every detail to him, unaware of just how quiet he had become the moment you mentioned that once both soulmates turned this age, the hidden faces from their dreams, belonging to their lovers from a past life could finally be seen.

“What if they had an age difference? Say, five years?” He was starting to become more interested in the idea of these soulmates.

“Then they’ll start having the dreams once the youngest of the two also turns eighteen!”

“But what if one of them...dies before meeting each other?”

“Well...they’ll never know their soulmate...not all lives have a happy ending…”

“Oh, that’s...pretty sad.”

“Yeah, it is.” You looked back at the street, muttering softly to yourself. “Hope I can find mine, though…”

“Did you say something?”

“Ah! N-nothing important!”

After some slightly awkward silence, you finally came close to the building where you lived.

“Well...Here we are!” You stood in front of the gates. A bright smile was directed to Kirishima, who stood a few feet away, but still close enough that if he lifted his hand, it could easily brush against yours. “Would you like to come in? I have some matcha cake waiting inside!”

“You sure it’s okay?”

“Of course, silly! I’m a firm believer that birthdays must always be celebrated with cake!” He couldn’t help laughing at your enthusiasm.

But you didn’t get the chance to say another word before something flashed before your eyes. A burst of images began flashing at an overwhelming pace, different memories began coming all at once at an alarming rate that made you hunch, leaning on the gate and holding your aching head, throbbing painfully from the sudden wave of memories coming at all once.

Everything came so suddenly; all those dreams from your past lives came rushing like an avalanche.

That couple embracing each other in the darkness of the alleyway. The one that got separated because of a family dispute and the one that ran away together, everything just kept coming back.

And when they finally stopped, the very first one that you remembered stayed still before your eyes. The couple from the victorian era were embracing each other tenderly before he grabbed his lover’s face by their chin to give them one of the sweetest kisses you could ever witness.

His face was no longer hidden by shadows, and it was like a burst of colors painted this seemingly dark room filled with nothing but black and white with the brightest of shades. Like the sun itself had stepped inside that room.

Because that smile, that bright smile that could easily rival the sun...it was Kirishima’s smile.

Turning your head back slowly with eyes wide open, the first thing you noticed was that your so-called friend was hunched over, holding his head painfully before slowly opening his eyes to look at you, with the same look of absolute shock in those bright red orbs that were always full of life, despite everything he had gone through.

Neither of you moved for a solid minute and just stayed in place looking at one another before a tearful smile began appearing on your face.

“It’s you…!”

Carefully, your hands pushed against the wall for impulse, at the same time that he took a single step, before breaking into a short sprint until he reached you, taking you into a heartfelt embrace that was eagerly reciprocated.

“How did I ever get so lucky?” He whispered, voice nearly breaking from everything he felt in that moment. Neither of you had the willpower to let go, not caring about anything, or anyone else.

“All this time...all this time, you were always right in front of me.” You whimpered. “We’ve been having the same dreams for a whole year and didn’t know it!”

“You’re not going to leave this time, are you?” You nuzzled closer to him, hugging him as tightly as possible and completely afraid of losing your soulmate all over again like in those past lives.

“Never, I could never do that to you!” He kissed your temple lovingly. “Nothing will tear us apart. I promise!”

@bnha-ra @bnhabookclub @gallickingun @godtieruwu @hanniejji @mysticalite @savagetrickster @shoobirino @songsforbnha @sugacookiies @unbreakableeiji @wesparklebitch @pixxiesdust @hawks-senseis @yikerb

#bnhabookclub #bnha imagine #mha imagine #bnha imagines #mha imagines #kirishima x reader

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anthropwashere · 3 years

Text

deadfic: Get Out, Get Gone

Yet more deadfic for @goodintentionswipfest! And also another giftfic I never finished, because that’s just who I am as a person! \o/

@ghostfiish did this truly excellent art of Danny’s transformation rings as a galaxy way back when that I promptly lost my whole entire shit over, and also took it as an opportunity to get some kind of manic with the writing style. That, combined with my sort-of accidental, sort-of intentional smashing yet more rad headcanons into it until the whole thing collapsed under its own weight. Still, I remain very fond of this one and what I was trying to do back in 2014, so here we are. 8.7k’s nothing to sneeze at, at least.

Oh, and! While we're at it, have an old Danny playlist I never got around to sharing that fits the mood this fic is going for. Title comes from To Kill a King's "Bloody Shirt (Bastille Remix)," which is unfortunately not included on the Spotify playlist.

There’s a weight to you now that wasn’t there before. You’d think with your powers—

(and doesn’t it feel strange to call them that, when you shake and shiver at the sight of your bones under your meat, when you walk down the stairs and your feet don’t touch anything at all)

—you’d weigh less, be less. A thing of smoke, and ectoplasm, and all that awful electricity arcing through your nerves. But that's not what happened.

You remember that day with a surreal nightmare quality, memories fuzzing and skittering like white noise in your skull. Pain and green light and being so, so certain that had been it. Zap! That’s all she wrote. But it wasn't, and here you are, hovering three inches off the grass and praying no one will see, that no one will know.

You aren’t less for all that’s changed, for all that’s changed in you. Tucker and Sam haven’t said anything about it, and it’s clear they don’t have a clue. Your first—

(disastrous, embarrassing)

—fight against the Lunch Lady knocked you right out. They had to carry you all the way home from school after you failed to stop her. It’s a wonder nobody stopped them, dragging your sorry carcass across town. If either of them had noticed, if either of them could have noticed, they would have told you. Or worse, they wouldn’t have managed to get you home at all.

You noticed it when you changed. Not the first time, in the shadowed, silver throat of the Portal—

(electricity cooking you from the inside out, the Portal writhing, burning, tearing itself into existence, a physical hole ripped so cleanly between realities even your parents don’t understand it and they built the damn framework, boiling ectoplasm splashing on you, over you, inside you, changing you forever)

—but after. Changing back and forth without any control, cringing behind dumpsters and hedges, tossing desperate prayers skyward that nobody had seen the light, that nobody had seen you change from kid to freak. So much of you changes when this strange, alien light stretches across you, not just your clothes and eyes and hair, no, you’re different now down to your cells, down to the very structure of your DNA. You know, you’ve checked. So much of you is different, it’s a wonder you didn’t figure it out sooner.

When you change, you’re heavier. Heavier. Not like ten pounds or something any normal kid might stress over. You become the kind of heavy that leaves brushstroke smears in asphalt, reduces sturdy brick walls to dusty rubble, punches craters through solid ground. It hurts when you fall, god does it hurt. But your bones never shatter. Your guts never liquefy. Your brain never dribbles out your ears. How? How can you possibly survive the beatings every new ghost is so eager to give you?

Ah, but there's never any time to think about it though, not really. No time for anything but a raw, thready panic and clumsily scrawled homework copied five minutes before the bell. Your chance to tell your parents came and went, and now there’s always another ghost attacking the city.

Mom and Dad are so happy now. You’ve never seen them happier than this, with the stuff of your grade school nightmares on the rampage. It’s proof they aren’t crazy, proof they haven’t wasted their whole lives on a pipe dream, proof that everybody who ever called them quacks were wrong. Good for them, you guess. Meanwhile you’re picking yourself out of the wreckage of another storefront, glass needled all down your spine, and you can’t help but marvel at the damage your body has done. Can do. Will do.

Because you’re stronger, you’re getting stronger every day. The weight in you that your Sam and Tucker don’t—

(can’t)

—notice grows more noticeable, and after a few fights you're quicker, too. And perhaps you're changing still, perhaps the accident isn't done with you yet, because one day there’s sickly green light at your fingertips, and in no time at all you can manipulate the energy buzzing inside you—

(the electricity and hot ectoplasm from the accident screaming through you, out from your palms and striking down the things that used to scare you as a little kid, back when door knobs and faucets were out of reach of your tiny fingers and there was so much dark in your big big house, and now your hands trail light like after images from staring at the sun too long, now you can patch your hurts up by the light of your own blood, now you're learning that you don’t need to be afraid of what hides in the dark anymore)

—in ways you never thought possible. Sure, lots of what you do is learned the hard way, mid-battle against sizzling green things with teeth like hunting knives, running on instinct and adrenaline and terror all tangled up in your throat. Lots more is later, when it’s quiet and safe again, practicing things you’ve seen other ghosts do again and again and again until you can mimic it, improve it, make it yours.

But no ghost you fight has the same heaviness as you do. No improbable weight that defies the logical mass of their ectoplasm. If it’s big, it’s heavy. If it’s small, it’s light. Unexpected logic from creatures that defy logic in every other way.

There’s a lesson you learn the hard way, testing the strength of these invaders against your bruised and splitting knuckles. You learn caution. You learn restraint. If you punch them hard enough, some ghosts, the little formless ones your parents have captured once or twice now, burst like water balloons—a hard pop of searing green, an overwhelming smell-taste of citrus and hot pennies. Too much of your supernatural strength pressed into the soft hide of a monster and the end result is a glowing puddle where someone used to be.

You learn this lesson quickly. You learn that even when you’re fighting for your life, you’ve got to hold back. You defend, you protect. Death scares you too much to risk killing—

(is it killing when it’s already dead, where does a ghost go when it dies, is there something more to the Ghost Zone than what you’ve glimpsed with your own eyes or is that it, is that all, have you erased someone from reality forever, these are the questions that make your stomach hurt, that make it hard to breathe, that make it hard to fake a smile when Jazz asks if something’s wrong)

—something so much like yourself. Even if it’s got teeth like hunting knives.

You think you’re an anomaly, a freak, the only one stupid enough to walk into a Ghost Portal and zap yourself full of juice that by rights should have killed you—

(and a little part of you wonders if that isn’t just what happened, if you’re just a dead thing walking around in your body, wearing it like a meatsuit and waiting for the rot to show, but it’s been a month, it’s been months, and you eat more and you sleep less, not because you don’t need it but because there’s never any time, and you’ve grown another inch and there’s new definition to your muscles, and that all must mean you’ll be okay, that you are okay, it has to)

—until Wisconsin. Until Vlad.

He’s in the same boat as you, plus twenty years of experience and enough self-made loneliness to turn him bitter and crazy and dangerous. He wants Dad dead and Mom his, like she’s some kind of carnival prize he can win if he throws his weight around enough. Swing the mallet, hit the bell, and congratulations! The woman you haven't spoken to in twenty years who has made her own life without you is now yours to take home! Ugh.

But god, he can hit hard. Lightning, real lightning, nothing like the weak little zaps of electricity inside you, rattles at his fingertips like a living thing, furious burning strikes of pain, and he knocks you aside like he’s bored. You have a thousand questions, but he won't give you a single answer unless you concede defeat or whatever he wants, so it looks like you’ll just have to beat the answers out of him instead. Who cares if he’s got twenty years on you? He’s not out most nights pummeling wayward ghosts back into the Ghost Zone. He’s not out most days saving people from ghosts with bloodthirsty, power-hungry vendettas. What you lack for in time and experience you make up in rooftop fistfights and stolen first-aid kits.

Sure you managed to outwit him—

(barely, hardly at all, he just wanted to save face in front of Mom, if he hadn’t cared about that, if he’d just tried overshadowing Mom instead it all could have turned out so differently, and doesn’t that thought make it hard to sleep the first few nights back home)

—but you can’t stop thinking of what it had been like to fight him, of what it was like to see another person do all that you can and so much more. You remember every second of each fight, like it’s been burned across your eyelids. You replay it all every time you blink for days, for weeks. It’s easy as thought to recall the light arcing around his waist as he’d transformed. Just like yours, and yet nothing like yours. The color, sure, that had been the obvious difference. When you change it’s a white light, sharp and searing enough to leave stars in your eyes if you look at it. His transformation—

(black like cave darkness, black like a power outage, black like the vastness between stars, sucking in light like a hungry thing, like it’d swallow you whole if it had had the chance)

—had been like a punch to the gut even before he’d buried his fist in your gut. You’d known without words, known in some primitive bit of brain that still looked up at the night sky and thought magic before science, you had known. You and Vlad were made out of the same mess, but maybe, just maybe, those twenty years were stacked against him.

Trouble is, the transformation is so quick you can’t make much out but the light/non-light of yours and his, and luckily—

(unluckily?)

—he’s all the way in Wisconsin so you don’t have many opportunities for a closer look at his. You ask Sam and Tucker to take pictures and videos, change back and forth so often you almost forget which side of you is which, but the quality is never good enough to see what you know is there—

(but can’t explain, not with words, even though you try for the benefit of your friends because they’re the ones there for you when everything else has gone topsy-turvy, but you’re just a kid who leaks green when dead people hit you too hard, just a kid with bad grades and a lot of questions to evade, and what you’re trying to pinpoint frame by frame is something so beyond your vocabulary you can only shrug, can only say you want to know more about your powers and hope this is one of those white lies nobody catches you in the act of)

—so you stop.

Do you give up? No, but there are more important things to focus on. It isn’t shelving your questions so much as putting them on the backburner. There are ghosts to deal with. Ghosts that want to hurt you, ghosts that want to hurt humans, more and more ghosts with strange and terrifying abilities pouring out from the Portal all the time. Closing the Portal doesn’t slow them any, which doesn’t make any sense to you. Then again, Dad was up to his elbows in most of the Portal’s guts and wiring, so applying logic to any inch of it is pretty pointless. You’ve learned not to ask too many questions about anything with a Fenton sticker slapped on it.

You’re busy now, busy all the time, bruised and burned and even stitched up all the time. Super strength is only so good when you’re fighting things with teeth like hunting knives. But it’s whatever, it’s no big deal, really. Because you’re keeping people safe. You’re learning more about the Ghost Zone and the things that inhabit it. You’re learning more about yourself; your powers, your weaknesses, how quick you can be with a snarky quip. Yeah, your parents are aiming guns and questions at you. Yeah, teachers with red pens and detention slips are hounding after you. And yeah, you’re fourteen years old bare-knuckle fighting monsters and no one ever says thanks because they think you’re just like every other ghost out there or maybe that you’re some human-loving freak—

(and when you think of your life like this, in lists of who wants answers and who wants to see you bleed, it sounds so bad, it sounds like you should be one inch away from a complete breakdown, but is it weird to say you’re happy, is it weird to say you couldn’t imagine your life any other way)

—yet you grin through a mouthful of red-and-green and keep going. Elated? Maybe, sometimes. Scared? Absolutely, sometimes. You’re just a kid with eyes that flare like headlights when somebody’s pissed you off.

It’s only right to be scared, sometimes.

Still, it’s the weight of you that keeps you grounded, keeps you human when you need to be. Sit in a chair, walk across a bridge, it all makes the same creak under you as it would for Sam and Tucker. But take one of Skulker’s shoulder rockets to the face, you leave a crater in Central Park so big they decide to just turn it into another duck pond. A permanent new addition to the park, and all your face gets is a nasty bruise Dash takes the credit for. You let him, because Lancer overhears. Dash is the one getting detention for once, and there’s a nasty satisfaction to be found there.

You and Jazz share a bathroom, and she’s got a scale she keeps in the towel cupboard. Curious, you take it out one day after school and try to weigh yourself. Last time you checked, you were somewhere near 120, puberty stretching you faster than your appetite can keep up. This time, the numbers whirl past 280 pounds before the scale makes a metallic groan and crumples like tissue paper under your sneakers. Sheer reflex launches you into the air, and you bounce off the ceiling with your knees hugged so tight to your chest you can hear tendons creak, your heart a thundering jackhammer in your chest. Thank god you’re home alone, because you hover there for who-knows how long, too scared the floor will crack under your illogical, impossible weight, too scared you’ll plummet straight down to the hard steel of the lab if you try to stand, too scared you might plummet even further.

When you finally do scrounge up the courage to touch down, an air bubble in the old linoleum crackles under your heel and you damn near jump out of your skin. After that, all you can do is laugh and laugh until your sides hurt. You throw Jazz’s scale out in a dumpster a block away and never tell her what happened to it.

What does this mean? Is the weight of you optional? If you think about it too hard, does it become real? What about when you’re fighting, causing all that property damage the city hates you for? You’re not thinking of the strangeness of your mass during a brawl, you’re thinking in terms of survivability. Punch this hard to win, get punched this hard to lose. What about when you’re thinking about it at school? Why don’t you break your desk, or the floor, or the stairs?

You don’t know. Your parents might be able to figure it out if you told them, but you don’t. Knowing about you, about what you really are—

(a freak, a monster, an accident, an anomaly bleeding out energy with every burst of green light you bury into the spiny hides of other monsters, who knows how long until your white rings burn black, if one day you’ll look in the mirror and be no different than Vlad, not because you didn’t try your hardest but because there was never any biological choice, what kind of choice can a species of two even make)

—would just scare them. It’s easier, keeping them in the dark, even if it means they’re trying to hunt you down and take you apart molecule by molecule any time you’ve got white hair.

But it’s not just flying and invisibility and energy you can summon with a thought—

(ray or bolt or fire, you don’t know what to call your power, you never really did pay attention when your parents got going even before you had to worry about all their blinking tech going nuts around you, but sometimes your green light is cool and wispy and other times it's hot and sizzling, sometimes you know which one will bloom between your fingers and sometimes it’s a surprise, sometimes it’s almost like your body knows what to do in a fight better than you, sometimes it’s easier to stop thinking and just let it happen, to just be the freak that you are, to burn white-hot and damn the consequences)

—you have to worry about. You’re stronger every day, stranger everyday too. You feel a little bit more at ease as a ghost as time goes on. It stops being a strain and starts being an ease, even a comfort, and some days you dread the thought of going to school because a ghost might not attack and you’ll be stuck as a human all day.

That kind of thinking should worry you, probably.

But so what? You could sneak into your parents’ lab in the middle of the night and try more tests, more experiments, but really, what would that do? You’re a freak, plain and simple. You and Vlad poked your noses in places you shouldn’t have and paid the price, and that’s that.

Eventually you get sick of worrying and just let it be. You’re a freak who can walk through walls, disappear, and fly. You’re the freak protecting a town full of people who pretty much hate you. Really, what can you do? The same old same old, that’s what. Try and get a little more sleep outside the classroom, maybe. As for the townsfolk? Well, you can’t always avoid the property damages, but you can at least save a few lives along the way.

People even start to say thank you, even if it’s from a distance, even if they think you're some crazed vigilante ghost, and doesn’t that make this whole superhero thing worth it?

But then of course something has to come along and ruin even that much, ruin this budding chance at gratitude, at finally feeling like a real life superhero. And it isn’t a ghost this time. It’s a human. You hadn't ever considered humans to be dangerous the way a ghost can be.

Freakshow happens, and all that hard work is undone in just a few short days. Days you can’t remember with any clarity, just blurs of color and noise, your hands full of stolen money and no matter how hard you tried you couldn’t let go, you couldn’t stop. Attacking the cops when they pursued, terrorizing any humans that got too close, puppeted by that grinning, painted maniac who treated you and the other ghosts like animals, like slaves—

(minions, he’d called you all, and he didn’t even bother to learn your name before he sunk his fingers into your brain, and you never did find out who any of those other ghosts were, what their names were or who they had been before that crystal ball had pulled them under, and they were gone before there was a chance to even ask)

—and tanked Invis-o-Bill’s reputation to a whole new low. Trashing nearly every car the Amity Park Police Department has and robbing the city blind at the behest of a psychotic ringmaster would have done that even if you’d been considered the hero you try so hard to be. Oh well. At least nobody was hurt in all that, unless you bothered counting Mr. Lancer getting left in the custodial closet for a weekend. You mostly don’t feel guilty about that. Mostly.

Sam says you ought to count yourself too, but you try not to think about any of what happened—

(all that time spent exhausted and hungry, he never let you rest, not once, because ghosts don’t need sleep, ghosts don’t get tired, ghosts don’t need friends, but it’s over, it’s all over now, you don’t have to hear yourself laugh as the little humans scream below, you’ll never have to watch Sam fall and wonder if your body will listen to you in time, you’re yourself again, you’re in control again, everything’s alright, you’re alright, you’re safe, you’re home, you’re yourself again)

—and try to pass yourself off as fine afterwards instead, just confused, just tired, just sorry for everything that’s happened.

For weeks after the police shoved Freakshow into the back of a car, your dreams are red. Not with blood, thank god for that. No, it’s like a filter. A stain. Strawberry candy red, saturated fire engine red, the color Sam said your eyes were when you were under his control. It doesn’t matter if you’re having nightmares—

(more common than you’d like, but you’ve never been one to shout after a bad dream and you don’t intend to start now)

—or regular old brain dump dreams. It doesn’t matter if you’re dreaming of broken bones and monsters or forgetting to study for a test; it’s all filtered through that darkroom shade of red.

What does it mean? You don’t know. You don’t bring it up to Sam or Tucker. They’d just worry, and they worry about you enough as it is. Besides, you’re fine. The Circus Gothica billboard is up for two weeks after Freakshow’s arrest, and it doesn’t do anything to you, not like before. You don’t lose time, you don’t say anything creepy. Your eyes stay blue or green, depending on whether or not there’s a ghost in need of wrangling nearby.

It’s just a weird, harmless after effect, that’s your best conclusion. Then you do your best to stop thinking about it. Who you were under Freakshow’s control wasn’t you. It wasn’t. You tell yourself that until you almost believe it. Eventually, you dreams return to their factory settings. Huzzah.

Meanwhile everywhere you go, people badmouth Invis-o-Bill like they’re getting paid to do it. They call him—

(you)

—thief and monster and dangerous, they call him—

(you)

—a menace and a bad influence on the children. A liar. Traitor. Conspiring with other ghosts to earn the trust of humans to terrorize Amity Park all the better. Kids at school spread awful stories about Invis-o-Bill, say he—

(you)

—was probably the ghost of a troubled teen who got in too deep with bad people and paid the price, and now he—

(you)

—spends his afterlife seeking revenge on humans and ghosts alike. They say a lot of bad things about you, for a while. You try not to pay much attention. You’re getting pretty good at that.

After Freakshow, there’s a lull. That doesn’t mean ghosts don’t stop attacking or causing havoc, it just means that, for a handful of weeks, it’s just the little ones. Hungry animals and disoriented blobs and the Box Ghost. Easy stuff. You actually have time to unwind, time to let the tension bleed from your bones, time to catch up on all your late homework and even squeak your grades up to passable. It’s nice. You’d almost call it relaxing.

Of course, the lulls never last. You know this, you’ve learned this, they made you understand this from your very first—

(disastrous, embarrassing)

—fight with the Lunch Lady. You have one fight with Sam the wrong ghost overhears, and everything that’s happened is wished away. You are wished away. For a couple of days, you never walked into your parents’ ghost portal. You were never torn apart and melted back together by heat and light and pain. You were never Phantom at all. Worse still, you have no memory of your erased past, not so much as the slightest disquiet to niggle in the back of your brain when Sam walks up to your locker and starts going on about imaginary monsters like they're real.

Sam Manson—

(a stranger, a total stranger, just a bottle-black pretty girl you stare at because you’re fourteen and desperate for a connection you’ve never had and don’t understand, she’s nobody else, she’s nothing else to you but a chance at your first kiss and later you will hate yourself for thinking of her like that, not as a girl because of course she is that, but as a prize you might earn, and who cared if she was crazy because she just might have kissed you for some unfathomable reason, and Sam is so much more than the sum of her body, Sam is worth so much more than that, Sam is worth so much)

—is the vehement Goth girl who's in half your classes and is [unfinished]

In those stumbling, halting days of dismissal followed by doubt followed by a desperate curiosity to believe that there might be more to life than growing up and settling for less, that movies haven’t lied and there really is something beyond the disappointment growing up has been for you so far. Sam’s purple mouth is a thin, grim line of—

(worry, guilt, fear, shame, envy, panic, uncertainty)

—complicated emotions you can’t parse as you zip up the jumpsuit your parents got you for your birthday. You’ve never worn it before, the fabric stiff and reluctant to bend at your joints. You don’t know how they’re comfortable wearing theirs all the time [unfinished]

Sometimes after a fight wears you out, leaves you bruised and smeared with shining green, you don’t fight the transformation. Not because you can’t, but because it feels good to have that fake pulse vanish, to hear real blood pounding in your ears. The weight of you shifts too, and even though you’re so much weaker when you’re human, it’s easier to sink your fingers into the dirt, to haul your meat out of the mess your ghost left behind, easier to duck out of sight before the news vans and curious bystanders get too close. Nobody ever sees you. Nobody ever puts your bruises and Band-Aids and the trashed Dunkin’ Donuts together. It helps that nobody’s ever heard of a half-ghost, that Vlad was cunning enough to hide his powers. Everybody’s heard of the Wisconsin Ghost, but Wisconsin is a big damn state and unlike you, Vlad and Plasmius hardly look like the same man.

Everybody at school just thinks you’re the football team’s personal punching bag, which is definitely true. Thing is, after spending a couple months fighting ghosts, a gut-punch from a junior is kind of a joke. You’re getting ganged up by a bunch of guys in letter jackets behind the auto shop and you have to mime pain to get them to leave you alone.

Is this real life? Yup, and it’s hilarious.

Time passes, as it does. You get stronger, faster, heavier. You hone your powers. You stop losing control, mostly. New ghosts terrorize the streets. Old ghosts do too, they’re just smarter about it. They all know who you are by now. Hell, a whole other plane of reality knows your name by this point, knows who Danny Fenton really is. Funny though, none of them ever spill the beans to any humans. What better way to take down the one person standing in their way of world domination or an army of hypnotized teens or whatever they’re trying to score than to oust his secret identity?

You don’t ask. Maybe they haven’t caught on that humans have no idea you’re trying to keep a secret. Maybe there’s some kind of code among ghosts; don’t spill a guy’s weakness, even if you hate his ectoplasm. Maybe especially if you hate his ectoplasm?

You’ve had a couple more run-ins with Vlad too. Each time he changes, transforms, you breath hitches, because you can almost see it. Whatever makes up the both of you, piecing the mystery together through the differences—

(light and dark and it’s cliché as anything, it’s so transparently Star Wars, but maybe there’s something to clichés, because you might be the one wearing mostly black but he’s the one with a sucking core, a void, something more horrific for its absence, like he used to be full of stark white light too but it’s all been burned up and whatever’s left is just playing through the motions, pretending at being something else, who knows what it means but you know that it scares the hell out of you)

—between you and him. He goes on and on about how you’re more like him every day, but he’s wrong. He’s so wrong. You’ll never be like him, and it isn’t just a matter of morals.

What you are, down to the complex disaster of your DNA, is different than what makes up Vlad, and you don’t need to slide a piece of him under a microscope to see that. You thought differently once, but now you know better. A glance is all you need. What you are and what he is, has become—

(powerful yes, but ugly and hating and cruel, the rings that flash at his waist are just shadows reflecting light, trying to hide a black mouth brimming with hungry teeth)

—well, you might as well be different species.

Vlad’s crazy and Vlad’s a jerk, but he is right about one thing. There’s so much about the Ghost Zone you don’t understand, and it’s this ignorance that just might get you—

(or somebody else, and isn’t that an old favorite in the nightmares)

—killed. You don’t know if it was fate or a simple coincidence that your parents were working on the Ecto-Skeleton when Pariah Dark woke up. You’re fourteen years old and you can shoot lasers out of your fingers; you don’t have the wherewithal for philosophical theology. You’re just glad they got it functioning in time to stop the King of All Ghosts from overrunning the city, even if the stupid thing nearly kills you.

You don’t fret much about the Ecto-Skeleton vanishing after you pass out. You do, however, remember Pariah’s nasty grin—

(having that much power, it’s a burden, isn’t it child)

—when you stumbled under the strain. You don’t know if he meant what the suit enabled you to do or if he meant the power in your own two hands. Either way, you remember those words, like they’re branded onto your brain, and you don’t have a choice but to hear it over and over every time you try to sleep. They rang in your head like bells in the days after you’d pushed him back into that sarcophagus, stuck in bed aching and weaker than you’ve ever felt in your life.

Because it is a burden. Everybody hates and fears you, but at the same time they happily expect you to protect them from hordes of skeletal ghosts. Sometimes you panic, so aware of how young you are, of how little comic books and video games have prepared you for a life like this, hiding bruises and spinning bold-face lies to everybody from your parents to the U.S. government. Teenagers are supposed to rebel, sure, but if you ever come clean you’d be thrown in a cell and they’d never, ever let you go. Not just because you’re a criminal—

(and you are, thanks to Freakshow and thanks to dozens of ghosts, and you’ve left an imprint of your tiny, impossibly heavy body all over the city, and you’ve done your best to protect everybody but you leave rubble and shrapnel wherever you go, ambulance sirens wail through the streets every day, and everybody’s just as scared as you are, just as fascinated as you are, and yet so many students and teachers have left Casper High, so many faces you used to see everyday in the hallways have vanished, so many business and restaurants and homes sit empty, gathering dust and graffiti, and it’s your fault, if you hadn’t walked into the Ghost Portal none of this would be happening, none of this would ever have happened at all, and you’re too much of a coward to show your face, to tell anyone but your best friends what kind of a monster you really are)

—but because you can phase through solid objects, you’re considered a monster with less rights than a dog.

Sometimes you wish Sam wasn’t a budding ghost-rights activist. You’d probably have an easier time studying if she didn’t rattle off all these statistics and news articles, stories of government agents in white suits quarantining whole city blocks to purge the ghosts inhabiting them, of ghost attacks stopping all at once in little towns after strange men with guns and knives and felonies like grave robbing and murder slunk through in the night. Ghosts are dangerous, there’s no questioning that. But so are bears. So are people. Just because something is dangerous doesn’t mean it should be destroyed.

Maybe that’s why the ghosts have never spilled your secret. You’ve never tried to kill them. You just want them to leave Amity Park alone. Who knows for sure though? You don’t have the guts to risk asking any of them.

Still, this whole mess is worth it. It is. You can fly, for god’s sake. If you’re careful you could juggle minivans, mimic all your favorite action movies and outdo even the craziest Hollywood stunts. What kid hasn’t dreamed of doing any of that? But you’re not being selfish. You’re not. It’s like Dad says; you can’t make an omelet without breaking a few eggs. Progress is a disaster when you’re living it, when it isn’t past tense, when it isn’t all tidied up in a few short paragraphs in a high school history book. What’s happening now is worth it, for the future.

If you ever do tell Mom and Dad—

(you’re not afraid of what they’ll think, you’ve never worried about that, not really, they’re your parents before they’re scientists, and any experiment or test would be to ensure your safety and your health, because that’s what parents do, that’s what good people do, and they’re the best people you’ve ever known)

—you know they’d be able to break down your powers into reams of clinical data in no time. They’d figure out how you survived the accident, how your abilities generate and develop in power, maybe even pinpoint the how of your strange, mutable weight. They’d tell you what that light is, when you change, that light that reminds you so strongly of the stars. After all, just because they’re too oblivious to realize their son is the infamous Ghost Kid doesn’t mean they don’t know what they’re doing. They aren’t known as the leading scientists, engineers and weapon smiths in the paranatural fields for nothing. Mom’s practically got more letters after her name than there are in the alphabet, and while Dad may only have a fraction of that he thinks like nobody else out there. Most Fenton tech are his designs, wild and absurd and covered with stickers of his beaming face, and Mom’s the one who works out the bugs with fond exasperation.

Still, they have to get their knowledge from somewhere, and you’ve seen what they do down in the lab to the formless, red-eyed ghosts, the ones too weak to do much more than snarl wetly. Sometimes they snare something bigger and stronger, something fond of curling prickly tendrils around the nearest human and squeezing. More often than not it’s Dad that’s the unlucky one, always so eager to parse the secrets hidden in each fanged little beastie they’ve fished out of the Ghost Zone. He’s got nearly as many as bruises as you do, some weeks, but he’s never happier than when he’s holding a bag of frozen peas to his head.

After a good wrestle with something that wailed and whistled like a boiling kettle, Dad’ll limp up to the kitchen and settle heavily into a chair, grinning and running his mouth nonstop, talking about how much progress they’ve made today—

(wait ‘til the boys over at the GIW hear about that one, he’ll say with a bray of laughter, makes the piddly little Class Threes look darn near cuddly, didn’t it Mads, why Danny you should’ve seen the fangs on this fella, nearly bit through the exam table in one bite, y’oughta come down to the lab more often, Danny, seeing these spooks up close and personal’d be a great way to help you get over that silly fear of ‘em, and there you are, smiling meekly and holding up your hands and making up any excuse you can think of off the top of your head to keep you out of the lab when your parents have all their equipment up and humming, just in case, aw Dad I dunno, I’ve got this essay due, not today Dad I’ve got like six pages of algebra I haven’t even started yet, sorry Dad I’m sleeping over at Tucker’s tonight and his mom insisted I come early for dinner)

—and every time, Mom will smile indulgently, like she’s falling in love with Dad all over again. She’ll push him back into the seat and tell him to quit fidgeting so she can clean up the nasty cut behind his ear, and every time you smile behind your hand and think, how could Vlad ever hope to break your parents up? They only thing they might love more than each other would be you and Jazz and ghosts, and you’re all so much of their lives they can’t help but love you all completely. How they love each other and their kids and the ghosts they’ve studied all their lives, well, that’s like saying they love breathing. They love each other because without each other, they wouldn’t be themselves. It’s sappy as hell and like any kid you hate seeing your parents get all lovey-dovey, but you can’t help that secret smile as you walk out of the kitchen to give them a little privacy.

Seeing Mom and Dad so hard at work, so happy at work, is why you don’t tell them. They think you’re slacking off, they think you’re getting bullied, and they’re worried about you sure, but better they think their son’s lazy than a freak. If they knew what you did, what you could do, if they knew you were the one facing up against ghosts that made the ones they picked apart in their lab look like kittens, if they knew you’d heard all the awful things they want to do to Phantom once they finally nab him—

(you know they wouldn’t say it if they knew you and him were one and the same, you know you know you know, but sometimes you can’t help but be hurt anyway, to see all that fierce dedication focused on seeing whether or not Danny Phantom has bones, and if he does, how much pressure could they withstand before breaking)

—they wouldn’t know what to do or say or think. They’d be so eaten up with guilt, why hadn’t they known, why hadn’t they realized, what if they’d finally gotten a lucky shot in, what if one of all those cruel ghosts had gotten a luck shot in, what if what if what if—

(and you’ve pictured it a hundred times, it’s so easy to imagine the looks on their faces, the horror the shame the fear, and you know they’d love you all the same, you know this like you know the distance between the Sun and every planet, even little Pluto they just declared wasn’t a planet at all, but you’re young and selfish and definitely some kind of stupid because sometimes you can’t help but feel they’d shun you for the freak you are, turn you over to the GIW because they couldn’t bear to look on the thing their son’s become, and you know that couldn’t ever ever ever happen but still, it’s so easy to imagine)

—and you couldn’t do that to them. You won’t do that to them, no matter how many times Sam or Tucker try to convince you otherwise. How it is now, secrets and lies and detention slips and broken curfews, can’t last forever. You know that. But until then, it’ll have to do, and you’ll have to parse all your growing weirdness without all of Mom and Dad’s knowledge or experience, fingers crossed that their ticking and glowing machines won’t reveal your secret before you’re ready to do it yourself.

But you’re turning out stranger in ways you can’t even recognize, and for all that Sam and Tucker are by your side to help you as you change and burn brighter and hotter and faster and heavier, they don’t see it either. Jazz is the one who points it out, one day not long after the Spectra… thing, all out of the blue. She’s been noticing lots of things lately, and acting so strange, like she might have pieced it together. But she can’t have, of course not, you’re so careful, you are always so careful. Jazz is just clever, Jazz got all the brains and you got the leftovers. Everybody knows that. Even you know that.

She comes into the kitchen one morning with a curious little spin to her step, craning her head around and around like she’s running late for school and can’t find her keys, but it’s a Saturday. You’re there by the fridge, cobbling together something that might resemble an edible breakfast, moving slow because you’ve got a bruise all down your right side that makes it hurt to do more than breathe shallowly or raise your arm more than a couple inches. You sniff the milk and instantly regret this decision, and while you’re pouring the lumpy mess down the sink Jazz asks if the kitchen’s always been on the second floor.

You stare at her, too tired and baffled to give her the proper what the hell a question like that deserves, but she drags you over to the kitchen door and pushes it open, and since when has there been a door to the kitchen and oh my god the kitchen is on the second floor.

She gapes at you and you gape right back, and the rest of that morning is spent going over every inch of the house and seeing what else has changed compared to your shared memories.

Everything has, in some way or another. Doorknobs have shifted, cupboards have lowered, doors moved from one part of a room to another. Even chairs have changed their heights. There’s a whole new door neither of you can remember ever existing before connecting the upstairs bathroom directly to your room. Thinking back—

(staggering through your open window, mouth thick with the hot penny burn of ectoplasm and blood, your right hand pressed against the throb all down your side, and aren’t you grateful for your weight, your sturdiness, because before you finally peeled the faceguard off of Skulker’s exoskeleton and sucked that little jerk into a Thermos he got a good shot in with a rocket that hit you hard right in the ribs, and if you’d been normal there would have just been a dark wet hole where your torso used to be but lucky you, you’re every inch the creepy little freak Spectra called you, so you get to limp home and clean up as best you can on your own since it’s four in the morning and no way are you gonna wake Sam or Tucker up again, and you have to be quiet, you have to be so quiet, biting down pain, you can’t make a sound or Jazz might hear, grabbing the first-aid kid from your underwear drawer and slipping into the bathroom, and for once the hinges didn’t squeak, thank god, you think, thank god)

—you hadn’t even noticed last night or even this morning that a door had sprung up where there’d just been NASA and Nat Geo posters before. And your windows have moved, and your bed has moved, and you and Jazz just stare and stare. Why had neither of you noticed any of this until now? Why haven’t your parents? How long has this been going on?

What could cause something like this?

It takes half an hour to convince your mom that something’s off about the house, and even longer to get your dad to grasp what you both are trying to say. Their eyes just keep glazing over the differences, even something as huge as the kitchen being on the wrong floor. Once they finally do see though, it’s a whole other story. After the initial shock, they drop all their experiments and spend the next week measuring and scanning every inch of the house.

Their conclusion, a week and some change later? The Ghost Portal leaks.

Even with the huge steel door locked up tight, it seems there’s enough residual energy slipping through to warp, literally warp, the house. Somehow. The way your mom’s lips thin as she says all this means she’s not satisfied with this conclusion, but she puts on a wide smile when Jazz asks if you’re all in any danger. A smart question, one you think you might’ve asked yourself. Y’know, if you still needed to worry about something like exposure. Your dad just laughs big and loud and says not to worry about it, says if there were going to be any creepy side effects they would have manifested by now. Everything’s fine, they assure you both, but you look at the crease between your mom’s eyebrows and you wonder.

Later, when they’re out taking readings from the ectoplasm-damp wreck you and the Lunch Lady made of a McDonald’s and Jazz is studying at the library, you creep down to the lab and pull up all their documentation of the house. Most of it is dry as dirt; neatly typed spreadsheets and tidy, color-coded graphs (clearly your mom’s handiwork), but there’s also nearly a gigabyte’s worth of photos. Clicking through them, you can see Dad’s sloppy angles and the occasional square pinkie slipping into the frame. Most of the first hundred photos have been untouched, but the two hundreds have been filtered all to hell, like Mom and Dad went through the house a second time, trying to find something the human eye can’t see. Just shy of 300, the photos turn a dusty black and white, splattered in places with an all-too-familiar starkly glowing green.

No. Not splattered. A few spins of the scroll wheel zooms in on a crooked picture of the kitchen. There’s green all over everything; the fridge, the microwave, the drawers and cupboards, cluttered thickly at the kitchen table. These aren’t splatters. They’re handprints, slapped in layers and layers over themselves, like somebody dipped their hands in neon paint and went to town.

Every photo taken in that black and white filter shows the same thing. Handprints on doorknobs and railings, footprints on tile and carpet, green smeared and stamped everywhere, tracking the movements of something—

(somebody)

—for what must be as long as the Portal’s been active.

Why didn’t Mom and Dad say anything about this? Why haven’t you sensed it? There’s a ghost, an entity, some thing lurking around your house like it has every right to be there! Green gathered on the couch, on every table and sink, even the upstairs shower and your room and—

(the pictures of jazz’s room are nearly clean, the pictures of Mom and Dad’s room are spotless, but your room is practically bathed in green from floor to ceiling, your bed and desk nearly washed out by a poisonous haze, and no wonder Mom had looked so worried and no wonder Dad had laughed so loud, they know something’s wrong with you, they’ve always known you were messed up thanks to the accident but now here’s irrefutable proof, how can you lie your way out of photographic evidence, how can they look at you and not see you for the freak you are)

—oh.

You close the files, power down the computer, and walk quietly out of the lab. That’s… that’s all you can really do. Sooner or later your parents will knock gently on your door and ask you to come downstairs. Just a few tests, they’ll say. It’s for your own good, they’ll say. We’re worried about you, they’ll say.

But they’ll find out. They’ll find out what you are, and it’ll go one of two ways. They’ll either accept you as the freak you are, or hate you for the freak you are. Either way, there will be no more hiding. It’s… it’s almost a relief, to know the other shoe is finally going to drop.

Except it never does.

You wait, quietly, patiently, expectantly. They don’t treat you any different. They never say a word. When they call you down to the lab, it’s just to show off the latest in Fenton ghost hunting technology. Why? Why don’t they ask? Why don’t they administer tests, if not on you than on the house and the Portal? Why does nothing change?

They’re wrong on nearly every count, sure, but you’ve got hurts aplenty to hide. Sam and Tucker have seen the lightning splashed across your skin dozens of times by now, and when they hear the A-listers spreading this bad joke of a ghost story and see you laugh, they laugh too. There wasn’t much chance of hiding it for long from them, after all, when it’s so much easier to patch up the nastier cuts when you’re bleeding sluggish ectoplasm instead of blood pumped by a heart full of adrenaline.

The first time Sam had insisted on unzipping your suit to get a good look at the slash on one shoulder, Tucker cracking a half-hearted attempt at a dirty joke with hands shaking so bad the first aid kit rattled like a live thing, they’d both stopped cold. For ten long seconds, they just stared, pinning you down with matching expressions of horror. It was the longest ten seconds of your life. You’d been scared before, of being found out for the freak you are, of being overwhelmed by powerful ghosts, but this, you’re pretty sure, was the first time you were ever terrified.

But then Sam hugged you, and Tucker had smiled and squeezed your good shoulder, and that had been enough. There wasn’t anything to worry about after all.

They understand now why you gasp when your ghost sense goes off—

(shock like plunging feet first into a frozen lake, shock like drowning with a chest full of dead air, shock like electricity buzzing hot and cold and terrible through your nerves, leaving you breathless and tingling, your fists clenched so tight your knuckles burn white, teeth clenched and grinding as you dart for the nearest lonely corner to gather up your heaviness and summon the starlight in your heart)

—and they know why it took you so long to realize you don’t have a heartbeat when you’re a ghost. The first few times you changed, you’d felt it, felt it like a rush of blood flow to a sleeping limb, but it took weeks to put it together. To realize the stinging, cool pulse radiating from your hand to your chest wasn’t your heart but something else altogether. All that star-bright scar tissue pulses. Involuntary, but without any reaction to how much energy you exert. A constant, steady [unfinished]

Breathing is optional too, when you’re a ghost. You’d found that one out the hard way, choking on mud in that stupid duck pond and tangled in one of Skulker’s nets.

#danny phantom #my writing #deadfic #past me did present me dirty with all these FUCKING italics #you can take my 'danny's got serious anxiety' headcanon from my cold dead hands

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