#this one is just so much gloomier with patches of hope | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

blueprint-han · 3 years

Text

ex.

↪ so many what if’s. who would give you those answers?

— where in you stumble into your ex at a friend’s wedding, and the subsequent conversation leads to new hope blooming in your relationship.

pairing: chan x reader

genre: ex au; angst with a fluffy ending.

⇥ warnings: themes/mentions of break up/make up, mentions of alcohol, please let me know if I miss a warning. please note that i, by no means condone any toxic relationships. this fic here with bang chan and Y/N is NOT an example of a toxic relationship or an implication of bang chan’s actions in real life. please take it as fiction.

word count: 3.3 K

type: one shot.

⇥ disclaimer: this fiction does not represent the activities of the real Bang Chan, nor is associated with JYPE in any form. Events are pure fiction. ♡

↯ note: I decided to merge your request with the prompt because it’s angst and guess who’s the queen of angst? You !! 😌 This was picked up from ex, as you can see and again your url ~vibes~ so uwu hope you enjoy it, this is my first time writing angst tho so please go easy on me. <3 Love you mom <333 ⇥ dawn.☀️

The dance hall’s fairly crowded when you take another shot of your martini, drowning in its essence as you make a desperate attempt to disconnect yourself from your vicinity. You wanna believe you’re drunk, though it’s not true in the slightest — you can still feel, hear, see everything around you clearly — the alcohol’s clearly not having its effect today. You wish, oh so dearly wish it did, because the man standing about two tables away from you really doesn’t deserve the attention you’re giving him right now.

The last thing you’d expected when you entered the hall to attend your friend’s wedding was to stumble right into the one man you’d been trying to avoid for the past two months. At that very moment, you cursed all the odds for making you face the man of your nightmares, the one who broke your heart.

Bang Chan.

Sure enough, just like when he’d dropped the news on you, all the butterflies in your stomach drop dead one by one, gloom and desolation taking over. The mere sight of him is enough to send you into a frenzy of confusion — you feel the flutter in your heart to know that he’s doing okay, but you can also feel that pit of sadness, anger and heartbreak mixed to wash over as one of the most conflicting feelings ever.

“O-oh, hi there, Y/N.” Chan had waved a hand and bowed down, but you shakily nodded your head, not bothering to give him any words of acknowledgement as you stumbled into the hall. How is it that you didn’t notice him until half the wedding was over? How could you forget that he was supposed to attend, because he was the bride’s friend alike?

Was it wrong that part of you still wished that you could be standing next to him, watching him as he introduced you to his friends, calling you “his girlfriend”?

You wondered what the look on Chan’s face would’ve been when you left his greeting hanging in the cold air like that. Was he broken on the inside too? Or did he simply not care? He’d been the one to end it, after all. He looks smart right now — adorning a luxurious black suit, his brownish hair slicked neatly to the side and parted. The delicate silver chain you’d given him on his birthday is oddly still on his neck — you promise yourself to not think about it much, because you know it’ll give you hope — and hope’s a dangerous feeling, at least for you.

When the music starts blaring through the speakers and the couple start dancing together, you sigh, straightening your posture from where you’re leaning against the shot table. Your friend has the prettiest smile plastered onto her face — it comes naturally to her, you figure, seeming as to how she’s married to the love of her life right now. They both seem lost — almost peaceful — as they stare into each other’s eyes. Soon, more and more couples join, until the whole hall is filled with everyone dancing on their heels, twirling and smiling and dancing gracefully. Everyone except you, of course.

You sigh, fixing the hem of your swan-white dress. Way to go for your mood to be ruined — all because you happened to stumble upon your ex boyfriend, and thoughts consumed you as a whole. Was it so wrong of you to wish that you could go back in time and change his decision? You’d moved on from this — you’d told yourself you’d moved on a month ago. You wiped him out of your memory — all the things that reminded you of him — but what if you’d only patched up the wound, not healed it in the slightest? What if the person who held the key to repair your broken heart was held by a person who you’d let go, and by all means, couldn’t reach out now?

So many what if’s. Who would give you those answers? He surely hadn’t, when all he did was just break it out to you over a meeting at the park that he’d fallen out of love with you.

You never understood what happened. It just started with the less frequent messages and meet ups, the excuse of always being busy, and that slowly morphed into him ignoring you for days, until one day he broke the news and ended it, on good terms. Or at least you thought so.

You sigh again, asking the bartender to lend you one bottle of the drink — which he does without question — before you walk over to the staircase that seems to lead to the terrace. Away from the risk of your eyes landing on him and your thoughts going all over the place again. If only you could walk away from the pit of emotions in your heart the same way. If only.

When you kick the almost rusted door open, the fresh blast of cold air that hits you makes you sigh in relief. You tuck several strands of hair neatly behind your ear, walking to the edge as you glance at the view. Leaning against the concrete, you let the lights coming from the night cityscape blur your vision, along with the faint, distant echoing of horns coming from the roads fill your ears. It’s a distraction, after all.

You pop open the cork of the bottle, letting the fizz bubble down before pressing your lips against the rim. One gulp, two, you then gaze up at the night sky. Rinse and repeat, until the whole bottle is almost finished. You ignore the void in your heart, filling it with the essence of alcohol and ignoring the feelings bubbling in it right now.

Chan was like a drug — so addicting and so hard to get rid of once you got into the habit of consuming it regularly. You wanted to reach out and hold onto those memories you shared with him — he was the first person where you let your heart do the talking, and all it took was a look at another person to change lanes, leave you alone in the dust of your crushed heart — only to come to the disappointing note that you’d lost those memories forever. They existed merely in a place you couldn’t reach, couldn’t see, but could only recall. It was pure torture to you, but you’d ignored it all for so long, certainly you could ignore it again.

“Need a refill?”

Your head snaps back in the direction of the voice. A familiar, one soothing voice that now brings pain to your heart, now threatens to bring back the wave of emotions you’d kept at bay.

Your eyes meet the hazel brown orbs, and not diverting from their strong, fierce gaze; you scoff, turning back around to stare off into the distance.

Chan frowns, tilting his chin as he tries to soothe the burn from your two reactions. He doesn’t back away though, because now he maybe understands what you felt like when it all fell apart, when he wrote your ending with a shaky hand.

He walks front to where you’re leaning against the concrete, silently drinking out of the glass he holds in his hand.

Should I say something? He thinks. He should, right? When you ended it, you did end on peaceful terms, even though your reaction felt like you were more affected by it. Even after three months, he still feels the warmth that flowed through him whenever he looks at you — you who clearly don’t want to speak to him. He feels crazy now, for wanting to let you go.

You hadn’t even bothered to curse at him that day — just looked at him with eyes that honestly pierced through his soul, and hurt him more than any of your words could’ve. But maybe that was what he deserved, right?

“Why did you come here?” You ask, swirling the almost empty bottle in your hand. Oddly enough, you don’t feel like walking away, feet frozen in position. You’d ended it on good terms, didn’t you? You’d promised to each other you’d be good friends.

“I noticed you were alone.” The man feels himself say.

“Didn’t you bring your girlfriend along? Isn’t she alone right now?” You counter, taking another sip of your drink. Again, the alcohol is having no effect on you. Why did your tolerance have to be so high when you needed it to be low?

“I-” He takes a deep breath, tilting his head to either side to relieve the tension in his neck. “Broke up with her. About three weeks ago.”

You only chuckle. Somehow, your feelings are strong when he’s away, but when the cause is right in front of you, somehow they fail to make an appearance.

“Did you come here so you could win me back?” You ask, straightening up as you avoid Chan’s firm gaze on you, and his face goes gloomier and gloomier with every statement you spew at him. But then again, who could blame you for being angry? You had every right to.

“No.” He shook his head, fixing his position so his shoulders are about an inch away from yours. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“I’m alright.” You say, softening at the edges at his concerned tone. You don’t know why you’re listening to him and not going back into the hall, but your legs are still frozen in place, something in you, your heart, doesn’t let you move.

Why do you feel like it’s your first time meeting him all over again?

He’s your ex, a part of your life you’re supposed to forget. Instead, you’re here, reminiscing it with the very person who left you in the first place. The situation you’re bound in is so weird — you almost don’t know what to do — but nonetheless, you just stand there, ignoring the slight flutter in your heart — just like the first time again.

“How are you doing?” You give yourself the liberty to ask him that question — just to know how he’s doing. Just another way for you to answer your countless what if’s, another method to try and fill the void in your heart.

Chan sighs, straightening up himself before looking at you. “I missed you.”

At the simple admission, you soften around the edges some more. It was wrong, so wrong that you were giving him to permission to get into your heart again — but what if you never wanted him to leave in the first place?

Hope — the dangerous feeling — starts resonating through your chest. It’s the tiniest emotion, one you can’t quite sense, but still feel. You can feel yourself grow warm, feel his gaze burn into the side of your face as he awaits a reaction.

“I-I don’t know what to say to that.” You reply, tucking some of your hair behind your ear again, before curling it with your index finger. You don’t look into his eyes yet — you’re not so brave to do so — focusing your bored, almost sad gaze as you count all the lights flashing at you on a skyscraper. Anything to distract you from this feeling.

Chan notices your stare, and sighs again. He’s battling himself too, right now. Should I say it? He thinks.

“I-I’ll be honest and confess to you, okay?” Chan turns to face you properly, while you bite your lip, waiting for his next words. Oddly enough, you feel more nervous now than you felt that day when Chan ended it with you. It’s so weird to feel it all over again.

“I’ve missed you and… I truly regret what I did that day.” He runs his hands through his chocolate brown hair, which seems to look particularly soft today. It reminds you of when you’d casually back hug him when he was working, pecking the back of his neck as you’d comb your fingers through his hair.

“Chan, no.” You feel your voice crack, the sadness overflowing out of its cup, spreading to all your senses as you close your eyes, letting out a single tear.

“Y/N…” Chan places his hand on your shoulder. You don’t flinch.

“Y-You l-left me.” You feel your brain cloud over, having no control over yourself as the words start spilling out of your mouth, piercing Chan’s heart bit by bit. “Y-You l-left me when I thought you’d stay… And you left me alone.” You feel his thumb rub against the bare skin of your shoulder, and this time, you stare up, looking straight into his eyes.

“I loved you,” You stammer, inhaling deeply as you take note of Chan’s expression. Surprisingly, he’s crying too. The rims of his eyes are filled with tears, his whole face goes red as he tries not to violently sob. “I love you.” You correct yourself.

“But you left me. You left me when I thought all I had was you and - and, what? Three months later, you tell me you miss me? Is this because your girlfriend broke up with you? You wanna win me back?” You spew, slamming your hand against his chest as you shake in his arms.

He wordlessly pulls you into his embrace, and you don’t complain — you don’t know if it’s because of your brain being cloudy and your eyes being all itchy from crying, or if it was because you missed his hugs, but you feel yourself clutch onto the material of your shirt as you cry, cry and cry until you feel like your tears don’t remain.

“I’m so sorry…” Is all he can say, wrapping his arms around your shoulders as he tries to comfort you.

“I hate you, Chan. I hate you so much.”

Something in him shatters when he hears your words. He wordlessly mouths “Alright.” and doesn’t bother controlling his tears anymore, letting them flow down his cheeks and settle into your hair, not bothering to hold back the sounds of brokenness he makes either.

“I’m so sorry, Y/N.” He pulls away, holding your chin to force your gaze into his eyes. “I shouldn’t have done that to you, it was so wrong of me. I regret it now, so much.” He curls his lips inwards, and watching him cry is soul-crushing. You should be hating him for leaving you, screaming, crying, but you hate yourself for reaching up to rake through his hair, sliding your hand down to his soft cheek before gently swiping your thumb against it. Wiping off his tears.

“We’ve already forgiven each other, right? It’s okay.” You take deep breaths to calm yourself down. Leaving him behind seems hard enough, but seeing him cry in front of you seems impossible. Are you still in love with him?

“I’m still sorry.” He mutters softly, gazing into your eyes as he takes hold of the hand that rests on his cheek. “I was so horrible to not know that I had you beside me all along, and instead I turned my back at you and left you. It was so wrong of me.” he breaks into tears again, and this time, before you can pull him into a hug, he grabs both your hands in his own. Holding them in between each other.

Yep, you’re still in love with him.

You look at him, absorbing all his features, and suddenly you’re thrown back to the first time he ever asked you out. It seems all too familiar — all too real. You find yourself holding your breath once again, waiting for what he has to say. He rests his forehead against your grasped hands, sighing brokenly as he speaks up.

“I won’t ask you to accept me again, Y/N.” He says as a matter of fact. He understands that the things that happened may not allow you to let him into your heart again. “I won’t ask you to date me either, because I know what I did isn’t that simple to forgive.”

Chan feels so stupid now. You were there for him all the time, yet he left you for someone else. You were beside him to help him when he felt desolated, but somehow he became a cause for your desolation. It shocks, confuses him and makes him seethe in turmoil.

“But,” he begins, holding his breath. “I still want to try. I wanna try being the person I couldn’t be when I was with you. I-I wanna change and win you back, b-but…”

“But?” You ask mindlessly, totally overwhelmed and dazed out by his honest words, the newfound emotion thrums to your chest. It’s love, for sure. But it isn’t that special kind of love, at least not yet.

“But I wanna do that only if you let me. It’s your choice, Y/N.”

Your eyes widen as you try to grasp his words, noticing how his warm hands holding onto yours still, only grow warmer and tighter.

“I r-really love you Y/N, a lot. And… well, I know you may not be able to make this decision soon. But please, just give it a thought?”

You shake your head, a soft smile tugging at your lips as you look up into his eyes again. They’re red and puffy by now, but they’re still gorgeous, they still remind you of the time you’d gently kiss over his eyelids whenever he cried like that.

You roll your eyes to the back of your head in deep thought, before tucking your bottom lip under your teeth and nodding. “Okay.”

“Okay…?” He asks, hopeful. You can almost feel his nervousness in the way his palms sweat, but you simply smile.

“We won’t date yet.” You said. “But I’ll allow you into my heart one last time. Don’t break it.”

And at your acceptance, Chan beams, feeling more tears roll down his eyes as he pulls you into a hug. This time, you don’t spare any restraint, wrapping your arms around your waist as you press your cheek against his chest. “Thank you, thank you, thank you…” Chan keeps mumbling and repeating, to which you only shush him gently, telling him it’s okay and he doesn’t have to thank him.

He still does. You only smile to yourself, and for the first time in three months, you feel somewhat at peace. There’s a long way to go — you have to adapt to this relationship, let your heart join back bit by bit and build each other’s confidence again. But you’re certain you can do it together. This story deserved a happy ending, and you were going to give it one, no matter how hard you’d have to try.

“Hey guys!” You hear someone walk through the door, immediately parting away and clearing your throats.

“Yes?” The both of you say at the same time, tensing up and then laughing at each other. If Chan’s tears were crushing, Chan’s giggles were truly healing. The way his eyes would scrunch up into the cutest crescents and his dimples would make an appearance always made you want to peck his cheeks. Now wasn’t the time though.

“Dinner’s being served, so Y/F/N told you to come downstairs.” The person at the door says, immediately running downstairs, as if to not interrupt your moment any further.

“Alright.” You laugh, taking Chan’s hands in yours as you intertwine your nimble fingers with his long, slender ones. “Let’s go shall we?” You don’t bother picking up the alcohol bottles, because you’ll be coming back here with your friends later anyways — they can be tended to later.

“Of course,” Chan pulls you along with him, running to the door — both the ones that lead to the diner and the ones that signified your new start.

Curse at me all you want, as long as you let it all out, and we can go back to how we were.

*:･ﾟ✧ find the other fics here !

424 notes · View notes

tsarisfanfiction · 3 years

Note

Colour Prompt :)

#22 - purple: bruise, pain, mystery

For Scott & John (& Gordon?)

A Little Ruthlessness

Fandom: Thunderbirds Rating: Teen Genre: Hurt/Comfort/Family Characters: Gordon, John, Scott

First thing I've written in a good week and a half, and the longest thing I've written in... a while (thank you, rl, for hitting me hard enough to wreck my muses when I was planning on celebrating finishing my dissertation by writing lots). Also highly self-indulgent because why not.

So we have some Scott&Gordon&John, which is a highly entertaining combination and I loved writing this. I think I actually hit all three of those prompts with this...

Colour Symbol Prompts

“He’s late,” Gordon huffed, fog erupting from his mouth as he rubbed his arms to stave off the winter chill. “What’s taking him so long?”

Leaning against a nearby wall nonchalantly, bundled up in so many layers Gordon had laughed when he’d first seen him and poking at his tablet, John shrugged. If Gordon didn’t know his brother as well as he did, he’d think the ginger wasn’t worried at all.

There was an urgency to the way he was poking at the screen, though. John didn’t do big, flashy, displays of emotion, but when you knew what to look for, the deliberate placement of each digit as he manipulated whatever was on the screen screamed unease, and even a little bit of frustration.

Their brother was supposed to have met up with them an hour ago, as soon as he escaped the social gathering he’d been coerced into by what Gordon could only assume was an old flame from high school. For all that Scott was naturally charismatic and popular, it was an open secret in their family that he hadn’t managed to keep any of his old high school friendships. Teenagers were fickle things, and he’d been too busy raising four younger brothers to fill the social quota they’d expected of him at the time, let alone after they lost Dad as well.

Still, the high school reunion had called, and for some reason, Scott had answered.

He wasn’t supposed to stay there so long, though. Gordon and John had both determined that there was a high chance Scott would be leaving the reunion reminded of all the reasons why he hadn’t been able to keep those friendships and decided to make their own arrangements for the evening. Nothing outlandish – not when John was involved – but a trio of brothers hanging out without the stress of their otherwise busy lives hanging over them.

Not the usual trio of brothers that might be expected to hang out, but as much as Virgil would always jump to help Scott, where they had planned really wasn’t for their softer brother – and Alan was underage anyway.

Beating casinos at their own money-laundering game required just a touch of ruthlessness, and that was very much John’s area of expertise. Gordon found it fun, and Scott always enjoyed taking selfish rich snobs a peg or several. It also required enough strategic thinking and brainpower to cut off any unwelcome dwelling their big brother might otherwise land himself in.

That meant nothing if Scott wasn’t even showing up in the first place.

“Have you called him?” Gordon shot over at John, who was still poking away deliberately at his tablet.

“No answer,” the ginger replied, breath fogging in front of his own face. He didn’t even seem to notice – then again, all those ridiculous layers were probably doing their job to keep him warm. Gordon’s had failed him about half an hour ago. In his defence, he hadn’t exactly planned to be hanging around in the cold this long. “He’s not read any messages, either.”

If they’d gone to all this trouble to plan a pick-me-up for Scott after an expected downer of an evening, their big brother had better not have managed to find some entertainment and forgotten to let them know.

But that wasn’t like Scott at all – even if he had initially forgotten, a call or message from John would have reminded him instantly.

Gordon shivered again. Something didn’t seem right.

“So now what?” he asked instead, not because he didn’t have any ideas – crashing the reunion was an obvious one that sprung to mind – but because John was probably already enacting a plan or several of his own already.

“His phone’s location transmitter’s off,” John said by way of answer. “Actually, his phone seems to be dead in general.” The same phone John and Scott had both checked was fully charged on the way here so he didn’t lose contact with them?

Gordon’s eyes narrowed.

“So what have you got?” There was no way John hadn’t got something by now.

“His watch isn’t transmitting, either,” his brother reported. “But…” He trailed off, staring intently at something Gordon couldn’t see on the screen.

The temptation was there to prod him – verbally or literally – but unlike when John was a mere hologram that may or may not be transmitting, this time Gordon could see that he was mid-thought, still working, still doing something to figure out why their big brother had gone dark, and held back.

It didn’t take John long to finish whatever he was doing.

“I’ve got a location.” The astronaut kicked off from the wall he was leaning against and started striding forwards, long legs uncaring that Gordon’s were much shorter. It took a second or two to jog to catch up.

“What have you got?” he repeated.

A map of the area flashed up above the tablet; orange and yellow highlighted their own position, moving quickly down the street, while a flickering blue icon blinked in and out of existence unsteadily down a side alley four blocks away.

“You said it wasn’t transmitting?”

“It’s not,” John said shortly. “I triangulated all the signals within the appropriate parameters until I picked up traces of its electronic residue.”

Residue didn’t sound promising. Gordon resumed his jog, knowing that John was fully capable of keeping up with him, and mentally mapped out the shortest route to the weakly flickering blue dot. It was staying in the exact same location, not even a slight waver in position, and that, Gordon really didn’t like.

Scott wasn’t one for staying still.

Unconsciously, his pace hastened further. By the time the alley loomed ahead, visible in person and not just lines on a hologram, he was all but sprinting. John was a little way behind him, but that was fine.

Gordon’s instincts screamed for him to keep going, to charge straight into the alley and find out what was going on, but he reined them in, forcing his legs to slow to a walk, and then a stop at the entrance to the alley.

They had no idea what they were walking into, and despite all the signs pointing to not, Gordon really didn’t want to interrupt if Scott had simply found entertainment and forgotten about them. More realistically, he also didn’t want to charge into a hostile situation unaware.

There were no sounds coming from the alley. Nothing to tell him what was going on, but also enough to tell him what wasn’t. With one glance back to see how far behind John was – not far, only seconds out – Gordon slipped around the corner.

Alleys were always somehow gloomier than the surrounding streets. Lighting never seemed to work quite so well; John could no doubt explain it, but an explanation wasn’t important right then.

What was important was that, in the resultant gloom, something was slumped over on the ground. Something that Gordon approached carefully, glancing around to make sure nothing else was laying in wait with a nasty surprise.

Nothing appeared, even as he took the last few steps, and his rigid restraint snapped.

“Scott!” His knee protested as it hit the street sharply but that was insignificant in the face of the ragdoll impersonation his eldest brother was doing spectacularly well. “Hey, Scott?”

His cold fingers found his brother’s throat, pressing up against the pulse point. Scott’s skin was almost as cold as his own, but the steady thrum of his heartbeat beat reassuringly against his fingertips.

Hurried footsteps behind him announced John’s arrival.

“Give me some light,” Gordon ordered, not looking up at him. A blink later and a pale, holographic blue washed over the pair of them. Tablets didn’t have the best torches in the world, but it did the job.

Scott’s eyes were closed, although the lack of response had already implied their brother was out cold. One had a spectacular ring of colour around it, matching the blotches that covered every visible section of skin. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth in a way that had Gordon fearfully inspecting his lip in the hopes that it was just a cut.

The light quivered a little as John knelt down on Scott’s other side.

“His watch is smashed,” the ginger reported. It made sense, considering how difficult it had been to track, but their watches were IR standard. They didn’t smash easily. “Broken wrist, too. How’s his head?”

“Bruised, like the rest of him,” Gordon replied. “Looks like he cut his lip on his tooth, and he’s going to have a fantastic shiner.” He gingerly felt around. “Splitting headache, too. His head’s not bleeding but it’s taken a hard knock.”

“Try and get a response while I deal with his wrist,” John ordered. The tablet light moved away from Scott’s face, leaving it shadowed by alley-gloom, but Gordon could still see well enough to lightly tap a less-colourful portion of his cheek.

“Hey, Scott,” he coaxed. “This isn’t a great place for a nap, you know, bro.” Rustling indicated that John was deploying something medical. Gordon wasn’t even surprised he had something on him, although it was probably brought along just in case gravity got the better of him, and not because he was expecting to patch up their brother when they’d left home earlier. “C’mon, Scotty.”

The faint groan he got was music to his ears.

“That’s right,” he encouraged. “Really not a good place to nap.”

In the gloom, he couldn’t make out the exact moment familiar blue eyes edged open, but he heard the second, louder, groan, followed almost immediately by a sharp inhale that could only be pain.

“G’don?”

“Right here,” he confirmed, resting his hands lightly on Scott’s shoulders in case his idiot of a brother thought attempting to sit up was a good idea. “John’s here, too.”

He got a pain-smothered grunt in response. Muscles twitched under his palms, and then he was predictably forced to keep Scott still.

“Nope,” he chirped. “No moving for you just yet. How’s his wrist, John?”

“Strapped up,” the ginger answered. “How aware is he?”

“’nuff,” Scott rasped weakly before Gordon could reply. “W’ah-ow.”

“Hospital or home?” Gordon looked away from Scott to glance at where John was once again poking at his tablet, somewhat awkwardly as he was also holding Scott’s arm still with one hand.

“’ome,” Scott interjected.

“We’re closer to Thunderbird One than the hospital,” John agreed. “Once we reach her we can run a scan.”

And if the scan showed up something they couldn’t handle at home, Thunderbird One could get Scott to a hospital faster than an ambulance. Gordon nodded.

“Sounds like a plan,” he agreed, looking back down at Scott. “I’ll need a hand picking him up.”

“Ic’n-”

“Nope.” He overrode Scott’s protest. “I doubt you can even see straight right now. You’re not walking.”

The wordless noise he got in response told him he was right, and that Scott didn’t want to admit it.

John’s tablet vanished somewhere in amongst the multitude of layers he was wearing as the ginger left Scott’s wrist to kneel opposite Gordon instead. “How do you want to do this?”

Gordon considered his options, quickly realising that the one that would hurt Scott the least was also the one his brother would hate the most. With no idea what damage he’d taken to the ribs, putting any substantial pressure on his abdomen could spell disaster.

He drew Scott’s unbroken wrist up, to renewed protest, and looped it around the back of his own neck. “It’s not far,” he said. “Bridal’s safest.” Not the easiest, but Gordon was always up for a challenge.

“No,” Scott huffed, but John nodded, like he’d come to the same conclusion. He probably had.

Between them it took no time at all to get Scott loosely in position, broken wrist cradled limply on his stomach as Gordon and John slipped their arms beneath him and prepared to shift.

“Whenever you’re ready,” John said, and Gordon’s mouth twisted into a wry grin.

“On three. One, two, three.”

Scott wasn’t light by any means, but despite his protests he didn’t resist as between the two of them they got him into the air, suspended between them for a moment before John carefully shifted his grip until the battered body of their big brother slipped neatly into Gordon’s arms.

His shoulders protested at the weight, but Gordon ignored them in favour of immediately starting to move. He wasn’t Virgil; he couldn’t carry Scott around as though he weighed nothing, and there was a definite, short, time limit before his muscles gave out.

Scott gave a pained huff, the air brushing past Gordon’s jaw. “Ic’n walk,” he muttered again. Gordon appreciated that he wasn’t trying to prove it, because if Scott actually tried, he’d almost certainly end up dropping him and probably injure them both in the process. At least Scott was mentally aware enough to recognise that.

“Not until we know how badly injured you are,” John told him firmly. “One’s not far from here.” Gordon let him lead the way, trusting him to pick out the shortest route to where the Thunderbird was secured. They left the gloom of the alley for the better-lit streets, and Gordon almost wished they hadn’t. The bruising had been bad enough in the half-light conjured by the tablet; under the powerful street lighting, Scott looked even worse.

When Gordon found out who did this to his brother, they were going to regret it.

Blue eyes, one barely able to open, were regarding him worriedly, as though Gordon was the one that needed fretting over. The hand slung over his shoulder squeezed shakily when something made him stumble, and Gordon grinned down at him thinly once he regained his footing.

“Nearly there,” he promised, both his brother and his protesting muscles. In front of him, John had reproduced his tablet from the volume of clothing he was wearing and was tapping away even as he led Gordon around another corner.

Thunderbird One glittered in the darkness of the park, tucked away mostly out of sight. The stealth coating Scott rarely bothered to use since the Zero-X had done its job at preventing gawkers gathering around, although now John had turned it off it was only a matter of time before late night crowds gathered.

Gordon stumbled again as he approached, muscles burning, and Scott let out an almost silent hiss. A hum of a hover stretcher murmured its way into earshot, guided by John, and Gordon gratefully let it take Scott’s weight, slipping his screaming arms out from underneath him and ducking away from the arm slung around his shoulder.

True to form, Scott immediately started to sit up, but John was there with a gentle but firm touch. In his other hand, the medscanner flickered yellow.

Rubbing at his protesting shoulders, Gordon was reluctantly relieved to hand over responsibility to his older brother as John somehow managed to keep Scott laying down long enough to get the stretcher inside Thunderbird One. Gordon followed, just in time to hear John sigh.

“-broken foot, so no, you couldn’t walk, Scott.”

“So,” he interrupted before Scott found a reason why that wouldn’t stop him. “What’s the verdict, Johnny?”

“Don’t call me that,” John snapped back automatically. “Nothing’s flagging up as beyond our facilities, but I’ve sent the results to Grandma for final verdict.”

Grandma, Virgil, and their arsenal of medical equipment could handle a lot, so that by itself wasn’t completely reassuring, but it went a little way towards it.

“Do we know what happened?” he asked, rather than dwell on that for long. “Scott?”

“N’dea,” his brother mumbled. “D’n r’mber ‘thing ‘fter th’arty.” He sounded put-out enough for it to be the truth.

Gordon caught John’s eye and the ginger’s lips thinned. They’d find out who did it, one way or another. No-one messed with their family and got away with it, no matter how much that contradicted with International Rescue’s philosophies.

Sometimes, a little ruthlessness was necessary.

#thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds are go fanfiction #tsari writes fanfiction #scott tracy #gordon tracy #john tracy #thunderwhump #drabbles #purfectpurple #a little ruthlessness

50 notes · View notes

levisnackajack · 3 years

Text

The Wrath of War

Chapter Twenty One

Whether it was her nerves blended with the anxiety of the upcoming mission; or the butterflies ravaging her from the inside-out, Eden could not sleep that night.

Perhaps, she managed to rest her eyes for three and a half hours or so, spending most of her time curling around in her bed; listening to the piercing songs of the grasshoppers outside her window.

When they began quieting down, the fatigued girl slipped one almond eye open; watching as the dawn sky began growing lighter. It was still dark outside, the air cool and crisp; and Eden wanted to make sure she was up and ready to go before Captain Levi could find a reason to be irritated with her.

Shoving the covers off her body; she hastily got ready, spending a meticulous amount of time swearing under her breath as she fastened her hooks over her body, tightening them a breath away from asphyxiation.

She pulled her hair into her usual tight bun as she made her way down the somber staircase- the eerie silence deafening and thick around her. Eden wondered whether the Captain was awake yet; or if he had even gotten a chance to sleep that night.

Both her and Levi’s horses were still secured inside the stables. Rubbing their muzzles, Eden spoke to them softly, telling them that they’ll need to prepare for yet another assigned expedition. Her horse whinnied at her words; whilst Levi’s ink-colored horse stood solemnly staring back at her.

“Even your horse is moody, gosh,” she muttered under her breath, holding the reins of both creatures as more sunshine began spreading evenly across the terrain.

Her pacing grew slower at the sight of Levi emerging from the front doors of the HQ. The longer strands of coal hair stood pushed behind his ears whilst the shorter ones perfectly framed his face.

His tired eyes settled against her approaching figure as he continued making his way towards Eden; his uniform well-pressed as always, whilst the green cape flowed with the gentle breeze.

“Good morning, Captain,” Eden spoke up first, eyes shifting from his metal ones over to the darkened circles painted underneath them. He looked so strained and tired, it made Eden’s heart falter for a split moment.

“Morning.”

“I brought you your horse. I figured we can start heading to Trost as soon as possible in order to retrieve the report,” the girl chirped, her eyes glinting as she extended the hand holding his horse’s reins.

Levi’s eyes dropped to her hand, slowly craning his own hand towards the harness.

“Sure,” he replied rigidly and as much as Eden was irritated by his cold exterior; she couldn’t help but feel her insides warm up at the tender brush of their fingers once he took the reins out of her grasp. They lingered, even if it was for a split moment and it was enough for Eden to relax and smile at him warmly.

The Captain’s brows furrowed at the younger girl before turning around, softly calling for his horse to follow. Eden chewed the skin on her bottom lip, trailing after the Captain and his beautiful horse.

After they both checked that everything was intact and settled against the saddles, Levi whipped his head in Eden’s directly; his soft lips pursed into a thin line.

“I have faith that you will not disappoint me,” he told her in a clipped tone, pulling the hood over his head.

Eden nodded her head in affirmation; heated hazel eyes never leaving Levi’s jeweled hues. “I hope to never do such a thing,” she replied meekly, earning a nod from him in response. He seemed satisfied with her words, albeit the mask that remained intact against his hardened features.

The girl swore to herself that she would do anything to see his physiognomy tamed, peaceful and soft. She knew deep down, that her heart would simply burst as the image of a gentle-looking Levi.

She took one last glance at the headquarters before it disappeared behind a thick wallpaper of forest trees.

Eden would always be a sentimental creature.

Their horses strode along the pathway in silence; both individuals trying their best to focus their gazes ahead. Eden would always try to sneak a glance at the Captain’s sunken face when he wasn’t looking.

But, unbeknownst to her, Levi was very good at picking up on every little detail happening around him. Regardless, he decided he would let her assume she was being enigmatic; the ghost of a light smile threatening to pull at the corner of his lips.

Eden tried to strike up a conversation before giving up entirely. She was too tired and feared that she’d say something out of line, which would subsequently pull Levi into an even gloomier mood. And, she felt perfectly comfortable basking in the silence, listening to their horses’ hooves clattering against the ground.

Whether it was due to the lack of sleep or the sudden memories of the previous expedition flooding through her mind; Eden could vouch that from the corner of her eye; she caught sight of a titan. She panicked, pulling at her reins rapidly; causing her own horse to sense her fear; rearing its forelegs off the ground.

She fell off the saddle with a thud, wincing at the way her elbow collided with the ground. Her lungs begged for air as she gasped out loud, squeezing her eyes shut at the sudden assault of colors before her eyes. Eden grew very nauseous.

After a split moment; a set of cold hands pressed against her, awkwardly holding her off the floor. She looked up as Levi irritably clicked his tongue; gently urging her to sit up. He crouched beside her, one of his knees brushing against the outside of her thigh as he steadied himself on the terrain.

“Are you hurt?” He asked, almost impatiently as his eyes searched her body, fingers prodding against the bones in her arm.

“I’m okay, I just thought I saw something,” Eden replied grimly, rubbing her elbow as she looked away, fearful that he’d notice the way her cheeks grew pinker at his touch.

Levi sturdily pulled her to her feet, his hands lingering against her arms for a moment longer. “Well, be careful, brat. I understand it could be overwhelming for you after everything that happened; but now is not the time to lose track of your focus.”

She timidly bobbed her head in affirmation, “I’m sorry, Captain. It won’t happen again.” Her fingers grazed over his fist that still gripped her by the elbow. Levi let go off her timidly, pursing her lips as his eyes washed over her; inspecting her one final time.

“Well, unless you’ve got any more surprises hidden in your sleeve, I suggest we continue. We should be there soon.” He marched back towards his horse, turning to glance back at her after settling against his saddle.

With plump lips pressed into a thin line; Eden followed his suit, masking a snort behind a breathy sigh after his words reached her ears.

Sauntering through the Trost District made Eden feel highly uncomfortable. All the stares directed towards their dark emerald-colored capes made her palms grow sweaty as she wordlessly guided her horse to follow Levi’s direction.

The girl continued silently following her superior’s orders when he asked her to tend to the horses before disappearing into a tall, luxurious-looking building. She stroked their muzzles, gently letting them know they would be able to rest in a moment’s time. After securing them in the designated stables; she clasped her hands behind her back, walking in the direction that Levi had disappeared in.

Stepping into the building was overwhelming. People craned their necks to scrutinize the soldier with the ‘Wings of Freedom’ patch against the fabric of her cloak. Clicking her jaw, Eden pushed all the staring out of her mind and headed towards Levi.

His back was facing her and once she reached him; she immediately recognized the utterly disinterested stare that was etched against his features. A short, balding, overweight man shifted his stare from the Captain onto Eden.

One of his brows arched as a vile smile carved itself below his this mustache; framed by the hairs of his beard.

“Dimo Reeves. I didn’t know pretty girls like you enrolled in the military. Especially with the Survey Corps. What a shame, really.” He extended his hand towards Eden, capturing her palm before she could react.

She snatched her hand away as soon as he pressed his lips against her knuckles, her scowl revealing just how repulsed she was by his attitude.

“There’s nothing shameful in devoting your life in order to see change, sir.” Eden sharply retaliated, wiping the back of her hand against her trousers as Reeves continued stared at her through darkened brown eyes.

Levi remained quiet, his chiseled jaw tight and unmoving; his eyes never faltering off of the greedy businessman.

“If you say so, doll. Now if you follow me, we can discuss the matters concerning your visit in a more private setting.” Reeves gestured towards the extravagant hallway behind him; eyes continuously flickering towards Eden.

She felt her teeth grind together in her mouth, palms trembling due to the anger. Her bloodstream had become a cocktail blended with adrenaline and she tried her best to lower her head and avoid his probing eyes as her and Levi followed him down the hallway.

“Allow me to confirm, Dimo, we are not here to waste time on your bargains. You’ve contacted the Scout Regiment regarding undisclosed titan information. Let us know what you want in return and I’ll decide whether it’s worth the risk,” Levi said in a bored voice, his arms crossed against his chest as he stood in front of Dimo Reeves’ cluttered desk; with Eden standing closely behind him.

She could feel the stares of the other two acquaintances as they loomed on either side of Reeves’ chair; narrowed eyes glaring at the soldiers in distaste.

It took all within Eden not to glare back at them, instead, focused on training her face into a blank expression, lacking any emotion. Much like Levi’s everyday physiognomy.

“Ah, yes, of course,” Reeves responded, craning his head downwards as his chubby fingers retrieved a cream-colored folder out of one of his drawers. He threw the folder against the papers scattered against his desk. “It’s a known fact that you soldiers are desperate for any drop of information. I stumbled upon these documents disclosing personal findings on the topic of titans.”

Levi snatched the documents off the table, his nose scrunching in disgust at the mess. His grey eyes rapidly skimmed across the information ebbed in ink on paper. Eden remained silent beside him, her head facing forward whilst her own eyes rested against the papers in Levi’s hands.

“A diary? How are we supposed to know whether this is coming from a reliable source?” Levi growled in irritation, placing the documents back onto the desk nonchalantly. Reeves’ eyebrows shot up as he quickly straightened into his seat.

“It is reliable information. I was going through some of our personal belongings in the family vault and stumbled upon this report. Quite frankly, we Reeves’ men never keep something unless we know we can capitalize on it at one point in life. And since I have absolutely no interest in venturing beyond the walls, I offer you a deal.”

Levi tipped his head to the side; dull, narrowed eyes glaring intensely at the merchant.

Reeves continued hastily. “Captain, you can keep this diary and utilize the information within it for whatever way you desire and in return; I only ask for your assistance with protection if by any chance; another titan attack bestows our district.”

The pause was thick with tension as Levi contemplated his words carefully. The weight of these pages could potentially cost them a fortune; but perhaps it was worth it.

He nodded slowly at the businessman. “Very well. If there is indeed an unexpected attack, the Scouts will ensure your protection. However, that does not mean that in that moment; we will be risking the civilians’ lives in order to save yours. In addition to that, I’ll have you know that if we do take this report with us and we find out that it was all a farce; you better beg we never meet again.”

Reeves let out a nervous chortle, placing his hand over his heart. “Times are tough, you know. Gotta be prepared for everything. And, I would never risk our civilians’ lives for the sake of saving my own.” Levi huffed in response.

“I see we have a deal. You’re welcome to stay for a cup of tea with your little soldier whore. I’d love to get to know her a little better,” Reeves replied, licking his lips as he stared up at Eden.

Her lips parted as she prepared to throw a snarky response back at him; only to have Levi beat her to it. “Refrain from talking to her in such a sleazy way. It doesn’t suit you and it’s inappropriate.” He stepped closer towards the desk, fingers picking up the report as irritated eyes settled onto the businessman’s angered face.

“Captain Ackerman; I never took you for the possessive type of man. I assumed that you’d be willing to share delights like this. You can color me disappointed.”

Albeit the aggravation taking over his mind entirely; Levi chose to turn away towards the door. Levi’s jaw clenched tightly.

“I’ll be more than willing to color you black and blue if you keep this up. I’d rather willingly give myself over to the titans than to sit here and have tea with you. Thank you for the report.” His demeanor was cool and intimidating; voice low and absolute. It sent chills down Eden’s spine as she tailed after him; ignoring the sensation of Reeves’ eyes checking her out from head to toe as she slammed the door of his office shut.

Her stomach flipped in distaste as she continued glaring out into the nighttime. Levi’s eyes flickered off the pages and onto her figure. He was sitting in an armchair in the shared room they were forced to rent for the night due to the worsening weather. He had said it was either that or camping out in the wilderness. Naturally, Eden picked the luxuries with a shared bed through gritted teeth.

“What happened, brat? Why are you being so sulky?”

Her head whipped back to look at him before she let go of an exasperated sigh. Shaking her head, she bit her tongue, pulling the hair tie off her head; massaging her fingers over her skull.

The more she thought about Reeves and his words; the more frustrated she became. And it was unfortunate enough that the only person she could reveal her irritations to is Captain Levi.

“Why are you being so stubborn? I asked you a question,” Levi inquired once more, putting the papers down before resting his forearms against his knees; glaring up at her.

“Do you agree with what Reeves called me?” She barked the question at him a little too viciously; her bottled emotions filled to the brim.

His silver eyes widened slightly, lips parting in confusion. “What are you talking about?”

Eden pushed her body off the wall as she stood in front of him, her slender arms folding in front of her chest as she looked down at his sitting form. “You know what I’m talking about...when he called me a ‘whore’.” She huffed in annoyance when all Levi did was blink up at her in a perplexed manner.

“I’m asking you whether you think of me as a whore?”

A sharp “tch” escaped through his lips as he ran a hand across his tired face; dropping his head to the ground. “Of course I don’t. Why would you say that?”

Eden paused as her messed up mind attempted its best to formulate a valid response. She felt so blinded by anger and other emotions; every single thought seemed to integrate with another.

“Because that’s how you make me feel sometimes. You’re so goddamn hot and cold with me. One moment you kiss me and then you ignore me for days. Then you see me again and you decide you want to punish me for no apparent reason. Why are you doing this to me?”

Levi listened to her intently, his softened grey eyes focused on the hardwood floor. “I don’t know, Eden.”

The silence was deafening. His words bothered her more than if he had just not replied at all. Balling her hands into fists, her knuckles cracked as an angry blush peppered her cheeks. She began pacing back and forth as she spoke again.

“What do you mean you ‘don’t know’? That’s not a good enough answer, Captain. You’re Humanity’s Strongest Soldier; someone people respect because you bring hope back into the walls and you can’t answer a simple question? I don’t think you truly understand how much you’re messing with my head,” her words trailed off, but Levi heard every single bit of it.

He remained silent, fingers interlinked together, brows furrowed and jaw tightly clicking. All of a sudden, his eyes flickered back to hers and he glowered at her.

“Know your place, Eden. Don’t speak to me with that tone.”

She let out a humorless laugh, running a hand through her hair as she finally stood in one place, glaring at him menacingly. “How the hell am I supposed to know my place when you keep bringing me up and down whenever you feel like it? What makes you think you can treat me like that?” Her voice began shaking and the anger displayed itself as a thinly failed peachy mask against the skin of her face.

Levi watched her curiously, his eyes widening even more before shooting up out of the seat and towards her.

She felt a wet, warm liquid trickling down her lips. As soon as the taste hit her tongue; she immediately recognized the coppery taste of her blood. She mentally swore, stepping back away from Levi; fingers fumbling for her nose. “Don’t change the subject, I’m asking you something.”

The Captain’s eyes narrowed in frustration as he whipped a handkerchief out of his pocket. She battled against the grasp he had on her wrist before her back collided with the wall of the room. He pressed her against the wall in place as he gently tipped her head upwards, allowing the handkerchief a chance to soak up all the expelled liquid.

“Stop being so hotheaded. Look what you’re doing to yourself,” he muttered, cleaning her nose so tenderly, Eden could barely feel the fabric against her skin.

She leaned her head against the wall, looking into his eyes as he meticulously focused on the blood, brows scrunched together. “I’m not doing this to myself; you are. All I ask of you is answers; nothing more.”

Levi looked into her eyes with a strained expression on his face. He remained silent as he wiped the last droplets of blood staining her lips and cupid’s bow; his body still pressed against hers.

His eyes were a painting filled with so much turmoil. They were so stormy; Eden felt like she could drown in them. She pulled the bloodied handkerchief out of his grasp before lightly pressing his fingertips against her cheek. Tilting her head into his touch, her heated gaze did not falter as she suffocated under his own stare.

“You don’t need to hide anything from me,” Eden said softly, closing her eyes for a split second as he grazed his thumb against her cheekbones; his other fingers moving over to her jawline.

When Eden opened her eyes again, she watched as he leaned his head in towards her. But there was that strained look of his face; and the way his brows furrowed- making him back up slightly. She blinked at him through her velvet lashes, lips parting as she wordlessly asked him not to move away.

He inclined his head to the side, the inner turmoil growing more visible as he squeezed his eyes shut for a long moment; fingertips continuously brushing against her skin.

Levi let go of a shaky breath before craning his head back to fully face her.

“Tell me not to kiss you, Eden. I’m begging you,” he said in a smooth, low voice; sending a jolt of electricity along the girl’s spine. It caused her to arch her body into his; each gentle brush causing them both to lose control of their breaths.

“I-,” Eden began in a shaky, mellow voice; but Levi didn’t give her the chance to finish her sentence as his lips crashed against hers desperately; swallowing whatever she had planned to say.

The kiss was intoxicating and urgent. Levi’s grasp on her face tightened slightly; as though he felt like she’d disappear if he let go of her suddenly. Her arms flung around his neck as he kissed her hard, soft mewls escaping through her lips. She pulled him impossibly closer; the pressure of his body pressed against hers so intimately sending heat all throughout her body.

His lips were soft and sweet; yet the way he kissed her- leaving her breathless like that- Eden couldn’t deny the rough undertone he graced her with. Levi grunted into her mouth in pleasure when her slender fingers slipped through his soft hair- something she had dreamed of doing for a long time.

She gasped against his lips when he effortlessly picked her up; lips never leaving lips as he carried her towards the bed; his hands pressing against her thighs. Eden gulped a breath of air as he loomed over her; before kissing her heavily once more. Her legs wrapped around Levi's waist and she tried pulling him closer. He thankfully accepted the gesture.

Levi’s tongue dominated her mouth as he explored every single inch of her; appreciating her delicious taste more than he could ever admit to anyone. Eden’s fingers found refuge in his hair once more, tucking at it gently as she sighed against his lips.

The sound of her calling him “Captain” in such a sweet, sinful way made Levi kiss her harder. He finally moved away from her mouth; his lips pressing against the flesh of her jawline and throat in a lazy, sloppy way. Pulling him closer, Eden’s eyes fluttered shut; feeling the way her lips burned pleasantly as she squirmed under his touch.

Goosebumps ghosted over her skin when she heard Levi sigh her name against her throat. Her mind spiraled and she felt like she had melted in his arms.

It was in that moment when Eden confirmed to herself that Levi Ackerman would be the death of her.

Tags: @idiot-juice-enthusiast @hadassackerman

Link to the story in AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28919136/chapters/70952145

30 notes · View notes

haberdashing · 3 years

Text

Biting Your Own Neck (6/?)

Mid-season 2, Jon’s life is abruptly upended by the intrusion of two unexpected and eerily familiar visitors.

on AO3

Chapter 1 / Chapter 2 / Chapter 3 / Chapter 4 / Chapter 5 / Chapter 6

A brief moment passed in which Jon, Martin, and Tim all sat in silence before Tim finally spoke up.

“I still want to know why I don’t have my own spooky future double.”

“Perhaps it has to do with the ‘incident’ that apparently led to you being employed here in the first place.” The words came out sharper than Jon had intended; honestly, he was more surprised that his recent investigation into his archival assistants hadn’t uncovered anything about this so-called “incident” than anything else.

“It had better not.” Tim’s tone matched Jon’s own in sharpness. “If it does, well, ‘Jonny’ and ‘Kay’ will deserve what’s coming to them.”

“Wh-”

Jon stopped himself mid-word. Jonny had warned him against asking questions outright, and while Jon certainly didn’t trust Jonny and his cryptic warnings, when the best case scenario was “ask a friend about a probably-sensitive topic” and the worst case scenario was supposedly “steal a friend’s trauma” (whatever that meant), it probably didn’t hurt to be a bit more circumspect in his approach.

“I’m curious about this ‘incident’ Jonny mentioned, and what he knows about it that I don’t.”

“Of course you are.” Tim’s voice wasn’t as sharp as before, but there was still an undercurrent of bitterness within it.

“Jonny, er, said it involved trauma. A traumatic experience, then.”

Tim let out a bark of a laugh. “Yeah, that’s one way to put it.”

“And, and given that it brought you here, I’m guessing it has some connection to the supernatural.”

“Yup.” Tim popped the P at the end of the word.

“So, you came to the Magnus Institute because of a traumatizing encounter with supernatural forces.” A statement, not a question.

“Jon...” Martin said. Jon could hear the unspoken warning in Martin’s voice, but he wasn’t about to let that stop him.

Tim looked away from Jon, pointedly staring at an unexceptional patch of wall as he responded. “Yeah, that’s right. Does it matter?”

“Well. Erm.” Jon cleared his throat before continuing. “I suppose that makes two of us, then.”

“Wait, two of you?” Jon hadn’t expected Martin to be the first one to respond to that statement, and he certainly hadn’t expected the bewilderment in Martin’s voice.

“Sorry, should- should that be three of us, then?”

“What? No, I just- both of you dealt with the supernatural before coming here?”

Jon and Tim exchanged a tense glance before nodding nearly in unison.

“Jesus, am I the only one whose first run-in with that stuff was with Prentiss?”

“Maybe Sasha-” Jon started, but Tim shook his head and interrupted before Jon could finish his train of thought.

“Sasha worked in Artifact Storage when she got here, remember? She knows- she knew as much as any of us did about all this. And look where that got her.”

“If she knew the most of any of us, and she still...” Jon couldn’t bring himself to finish the sentence, to acknowledge that Sasha was gone, to admit that the “Sasha” he thought he knew had apparently been an imposter for months now. “What hope do the rest of us have?”

Another silence filled the room for a long moment, this one gloomier than the last.

“The only thing we have going for us that she didn’t is that apparently I have some, some kind of power, if Jonny’s telling the truth, something to do with asking questions... Perhaps we should test that, see how far it can go, in case I need to use it down the line.”

Martin and Tim exchanged a glance, but neither of them said a word.

“Would either of you be willing to volunteer?”

Both Martin and Tim quickly said “No,” though Tim’s response was half a beat faster than Martin’s.

“Why not?”

Tim made a face before repeating Jon’s words in a bitter tone. “Why not?”

“Yes, Tim. For all we know this power might be the only thing saving us from... from the next Prentiss, perhaps, or another thing like the one that got Sasha. Why not see what it’s good for here and now, so we know what the limits are before it comes down to some life or death situation?”

“Why should we?” Tim’s words came out fast and quick. “Why should we go along with being your guinea pigs in some spooky magic experiment just so you can get something out of it? A spooky experiment based on the words of someone you obviously don’t trust in the first place, no less!”

Tim stood up, shoving his chair roughly aside and throwing his hands in the air. “Though I don’t see why you don’t trust Jonny, I mean, it’s not like Jonny stalked your house and took pictures of it, or, or accused you of being a murderer for some reason, after you’d been friends for years... what the hell would we even get out of killing you, anyway? Because if you think we want your job, believe me, I want no part of this mess, I would quit in a damn heartbeat if I could...”

As Tim’s speech slowed to a halt, he pulled his chair back towards him, the chair making a loud noise as it was dragged against the tile floor, before collapsing in it. He was shaking slightly by the time he stopped speaking, though after a brief moment he spoke up again, looking Jon right in the eye as he did so.

“I... I didn’t mean to say all of that.”

It took a moment for Jon to realize what Tim meant by that, but once he did, his stomach sank.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-”

“Oh, you’re sorry. You’re sorry you used your spooky magic to make me spill my guts. Well, that makes it alright then, doesn’t it?”

“Tim, Jon, can-”

“I didn’t say it was alright, but-”

“Jonny tells you not to ask people questions, and what’s the first thing you go and do?”

“It wasn’t the first thing I did, we had an entire conversation-”

“Will you two stop fighting and realize what this actually means?”

Martin’s voice came out sharper than Jon was used to, and the unexpected harshness in his tone was enough to get both him and Tim to quiet down.

“What are you talking about?”

“Jonny was right, clearly, about the whole question thing. He knew something about you, something you could do, something that you didn’t even know about yourself yet! Even if he was, was some sort of mind reader or something, he couldn’t manage that much. So isn’t this proof that maybe Jonny and Kay are telling the truth about all this?”

Jon thought for a moment. “Well... either they’re telling the truth, or the rabbit hole goes even deeper than I thought.”

Jon didn’t see who, but he heard somebody else let out a long, dramatic sigh.

#tma #tma au #tma fic #tma fanfic #the magnus archives #the magnus archives au #the magnus archives fic #the magnus archives fanfic #personal #my writing

9 notes · View notes

silence-burns · 4 years

Text

Please Hate Me //part 21

Fandom: Marvel

Summary: Based on "Imagine having a love/hate relationship with Loki." by @thefandomimagine

Loki wouldn't call himself a master of lockpicking, but he certainly possessed his fair share of skills regarding the matter.

Their origins were varied, some including childhood punishments requiring him to be locked in his chambers. Some came from the times his curiosity whispered to him from places people didn't want him to peer into. Both of those gave Loki a rather good hold on what he was able to do in just a few minutes under no supervision.

Most of his skills, unfortunately, required a lock to be picked.

Loki stared at the wall and a panel next to the door. In the hopes of not gaining your attention, he tried to look utterly disinterested in the room you brought him into some time ago, but now he regretted not noticing how you opened the door.

He was sure you fished something out of your pockets. He just didn't think it could be something other than keys.

The panel didn't have any visible buttons, so guessing the code was out of the question. The whole thing seemed blended with the wall, as many things in the damned Tower did.

Loki left the matter of the door for later. The opposite side of the room held a large window, now looking more inviting than ever.

Loki grabbed a handful of chips on his way there. The sandwich you gave him earlier, although (surprisingly) not awful even with the heart on top, did little to completely satisfy his hunger. He sneered at the memory of it.

The window was big enough to allow a proper way out, Loki noticed with professional assessment. He had slipped through enough windows to know his own flexibility and the importance of right angles.

His heart dropped a little when he looked through it, only to find the night view over the shining city be a very high one. Loki wasn't really bothered by heights, but a look down the Tower's side made him hesitate a bit. He remembered he told you he wouldn't sneak out anytime soon, but it was important to know his options in advance, right? Besides, the drop wasn't even that steep, come to think of it…

He turned, a little guilty, when you walked back into the room. Peeling off the dirt and dried fluids of varying sources did wonders to your presentation, only for the effect to be immediately killed off by the disgusting gray outfit, twin to his own.

"What, you thinking about jumping out?" You asked as if reading his mind.

Loki didn't answer as you approached him, throwing your towel on a nearby chair. The chair didn't protest, already carrying a few items you forgot about. You peered outside.

"Damn, it's already snowing. I personally wouldn't recommend sliding out this way anytime soon."

Loki raised his eyebrows. "You make it sound like you've already tried that."

"I made it 4 floors down before I got to the one without any good outside handles. I mean, there were a few, but I kinda slid by them, thanks to the frost."

"Was it worth it?" he asked with actual curiosity.

"It was a bet—of course it was worth it."

"I see."

He watched you settle on the bed, bringing all the food closer, and turning the TV on. A spare blanket was even found for him, and laid to your left. He had to ask, though.

"What do you plan on doing?"

"Watch something mind-numbing, eat, regret I ate so much, and go to sleep."

"Mind if I join?"

"You're my bestie, of course I don't mind."

With a tormented sigh, Loki laid on the mattress, pushing your legs to make more room for himself. "Is that really necessary? It's so crowded here."

"With your bloated ego, I'm surprised the Tower is capable of housing you at all."

He watched you fill your mouth without skipping a beat.

"Can't you use a plate? You're making a mess. I'm not going to sleep on the crumbs," Loki complained, brushing some off the sheets already.

"You can always sleep on the floor. I won't mind, it's all yours."

"I hate you."

"Can't blame you."

He took the muffin you'd been consuming out of your hand and finished it out of sheer malice. Your shocked face made him feel a little better.

"You truly are evil, Loki—to starve the injured and weak…"

"Don't call those few bruises an injury," he scoffed, gesturing to the few cuts on your cheek.

"A few bruises? You see this? My arm is going to kill me tomorrow!" You put your elbow in his face, showing a growing mark that already darkened a large patch of your skin.

It didn't hurt much yet—only when you touched it—but you had enough experience to know it was just the beginning. It was a surprise you could move the arm at all. You remembered falling on it quite a few times, so a broken bone or some joint injury could have been expected at least.

Loki pushed your arm out of his face. "You call that bad? Look at my poor ribs and guess whose knees are imprinted on them!"

He pulled on his shirt to reveal the damage, although he had to admit it wasn't as dramatic as he wished to. His stark white skin contrasted with the grayish bruise, but it looked like the damned bracelet didn't stop his body from healing faster than a regular human's. A few more hours and there would hardly be any trace left of it.

You laughed in his face. "Poor baby. At least I can say I didn't have any choice in that, as I was hauled into the trunk right after you. Do you want me to remind you of the time you basically threw one of those monsters at me? And pushed me off a bridge?"

"How many times do I have to remind your tiny little human brain that it wasn't my fault—"

"You're already looking for excuses—"

"Because normal arguments completely miss you—"

"Shut up, my phone is ringing."

If your hand didn't cut him off with a slap to his mouth, he might have made a remark about your injuries being an obstacle only when it suited you best. Instead, he had to resort to peeling it off his face while you looked for your buzzing phone through the blanket with the other one. Your so very painful injuries didn't seem to be slowing you down.

He stole another cupcake. It wasn't awful.

"Damn, Peter is facetiming us.” You seemed happy.

That alone made him wary. His mood only grew gloomier as the boy's cheery face appeared on the screen in your hand.

You moved closer to Loki to let Peter see the both of you. Loki's ribs were not spared in the process and neither were the sheets as the crumbs left his mouth along with an undignified whimper.

"My favourite teenager, you have no idea how happy I am you're not dead and Aunt May won't be hunting my ass anytime soon." You sent Peter a blinding smile. Loki only shot you a dark glare, trying to free his right arm from under your body.

"Yeah, it didn't go as bad as I thought," Peter laughed as well, although the cut on his lip made it visibly uncomfortable. "I'm just grounded forever, but I'm fine. I've got super-healing, remember?"

You sighed. "Why am I the only normal one here? It's unfair."

"I feel so sorry for you," Loki spit the words with venom coating every one of them.

Peter's face lit up immediately. It got bigger on the screen as the boy peered in closer.

"I'm so happy you're okay too, Mr. Loki! I'm so sorry we kinda dragged you into that, you probably hate our planet already, but it's not that bad all the time, there's plenty of—"

"Peter, how badly are you grounded?" You cut through his rambling, sparing Loki (and yourself) from the never ending stream of words.

"Well, I'm not dead, but if I'm one minute late back home, I might be," he admitted, earning a chuckle from Loki.

"But you're still going to school tomorrow?" you made sure. "I kinda want to grab some shawarma with my bestie, so you could join us during your lunch break?"

"That's so cool! There's a place I can get to in like 3 minutes, so it's a perfect—"

"When exactly did I agree to that?" Loki frowned.

You patted his bracelet. "When you didn't throw our friendship bracelet away."

"I told you I've already tried everything I can to get this thing off me."

"Sounds like a you problem."

Peter nodded silently from the screen, not really minding the fact he'd been forgotten for a moment.

A muscle shifted in Loki's jaw. He muttered with all the politeness he managed through gritted teeth, "And when exactly did your brave and just Avengers agree to that idea?"

"Tomorrow," you answered with all the confidence that had Loki's blood boiling. "Have you no trust?"

"In you? Please, don't get me started…"

You shifted your attention back to Peter, only to find him staring at the both of you with hearts shining in his eyes.

"What?"

"Nothing," Peter said with a smile suggesting the opposite. "See you tomorrow, guys!"

"Huh." You looked at the suddenly dark screen. "He never hangs up so quickly."

Loki muttered something inaudible. He focused on feeding the rage within him with another cupcake. There weren't many left. You assessed the image.

"Are you mad at me?"

"Yes."

"Is watching a compilation of fails the Avengers wish could be erased from the surface of the world going to make you feel better? Thor's included."

Loki hesitated.

"Yes."

The internet was truly a wonderful place, if used right. That truth was only beginning to dawn on Loki, as just a few minutes through the videos worked wonders on his mood.

"How do you even come up with so much footage?" he dared to ask as the replay of Steve slipping on some loose debris during a fight played.

"It's the internet, darling. We've got footage of everything that ever happened on those streets and of a few things that never did."

Taglist: @writerjmlove @drakonwild @eeveesjourney @lokislilcaribbeanprincess @oatballsoffury @inumorph @ejectur @nerdybabywrites @twhgirl @nikkoliferous @unlikelygalaxygiver @multifandomreaderinsertfanfics @dreamingofonceuponatime @iamfelixc @bluebunnlee @effmigentlywithachainsaw @sadwaywardkid @ravenclawpossum @waitforthehurricane @absentmindeduniverse @unicorniorosacomefrutillas @toboldlyscream @waitforthehurricanrose @cluelessnitwhit @iamverity @absentmindeduniverse @the-corruptor @just-another-romantic @breakawayfromeveryday @oh-no-a-whovian

#Pleas Hate Me #Loki x reader #Loki x you #Loki/reader #Loki/you #Loki imagine #loki laufeyson x you #Loki laufeyson x reader #loki laufeysonxreader #Loki laufeyson/you #Loki laufeyson/reader #Loki #Loki laufeyson #Marvel #Mcu loki #Please Hate Me

223 notes · View notes

fiction-in-my-blood · 4 years

Text

MC and Estranged Father (Scandel In The Spotlight)

This isn’t really a HC or coupley thing, just an idea I had and couldn’t stop writing. I hope you enjoy it and I would love to hear your thoughts!

~~~~~~

It had been a dreary few days in the Revance house. Masami’s temper was far shorter than usual, ever since she got a letter in the mail that she wouldn’t even let Nagito see. Not even when Kyohei teasingly threatened her. She was too distracted by the contents and no one knew why. It was like her current mood had affected the beautiful spring weather. It had been raining cat and dogs for the past week!

The contents of the letter, from her father, were locked away in Masami’s desk draw. He had rarely been around in her childhood. He was a workaholic, who somehow had time for plenty other women than her mother. He sent her money on her birthday and hardly ever showed up to her parent-teacher conferences- his excuse was being on the other side of the world at a concert he was holding. They always seemed to occur in the most important times in her childhood.

She still got those montetary gifts on her birthday- it was the only one she got this year as no one else in the house actually knew it was her birthday and since her mother passed, she didn’t care much for it. But, this year was different. This time, it came with a note.

That letter expressed his regret for the way he treated her and her mother- the two had never married as Masami was an accident, but he was a man with pride and would support his own offspring no matter what. Financially anyway. Masami didn’t care much for an apology from the man she hardly knew anything about except for what the press told her. Her mother was a kind woman who never told her anything bad about him, so she grew up not believing anything she told her. This man didn’t even come to her mother’s funeral, why was he suddenly getting friendly now?

However, the thing that really angered her about that massage was his wish to meet her. He had somehow found out she was living with a group of male superstars, and she wasn’t sure how. However, knowing his connections in the industry, it was likely someone from Revance’s managerial company. Her father was his own type of superstar, however slightly niche to the younger generations.

The letter told her he would be visiting the house on a specific day, after he finished one of the last concerts he said he was ever going to do. He told her he was quiting performing his music to the masses and was going to concentrate on the personal life he had abandoned for too long. Masami thought it was too late for that, but she wasn’t going to make herself scarce- it would just cause trouble for the others for a random stranger to show up on their doorstep, asking for her.

So, on that faithful day a week after the gloominess on the usually ‘peaceful’ house settled, the rain had finally let up. Not metaphorically, physically. Masami was in an even worse mood than she had already been and the sky outside was covered in white clouds, but at least the plant life wouldn’t, or shouldn’t, be flooded today.

“Hey, um, Masami... Are you feeling okay?” Nagito sheepishly approached her as she sat at the dining table, where she had holed herself up lately. At the beginning of this week-long, slient, rampage, the dirty idol had been able to tease her without trembling in fear of her wrath. Now, he was too scared to even speak in her presence.

She had been trying to distract herself with work until the door bell rang, but it wasn’t much use. This was like the worst type of writer’s block she had ever had. She could write just fine, just not the stuff she should be writing. The lyrics she wrote were hateful and annoyed when she should be writing about young love and growing old with your significant other. Takashi definitely wouldn’t be happy if he saw the scrawlings in her journal.

“Just peachy.” The sarcasm was thick in her venomous words, not looking up to see the rest of Revance grouped together behind Nagito, peering and waiting to see what would happen next. Lets just say he lost a game of Rock, Paper, Scissors.

“Th-That’s great!” Not knowing what else to say, Nagito retreated, only to get rapped up the side of his head.

“That did nothing!” Kyohei glared in a hushed tone, not wanting Masami to know he had sent in one of his lieutenants to gather information.

“But Kyoo~, I don’t know what else I can do! She didn’t even blush when she walked in on me in the shower room yesterday.” Nagito sulked. It wasn’t like Masami to get used to the sight of his body and he knew she was too deep in thought in the moment to even see him. She almost started stripping herself before he could escape. The loud and long sigh she let out didn’t go unnoticed, but he was much too scared to ask at the time.

Before the boys could go about hashing another plan to find out what had been bugging her so much, the door bell rang.

“I’ll get it.” Kota grumbled, being the closest. However, just as he was getting up, he was pulled back down by an unbelievable force on his shoulder.

“It’s not for you.” Masami glared down at him and even Iori showed a look of bewilderment at the harshness of her eyes. It was like they could see fire raging behind them.

Masami wasted no time in leisurely strolling to the door, although in her head it was the hesitance to open it that made her so slow. She really, really didn’t want to see her father or hear anything he had to say to her, not after her mother died, but what was the use of pushing him away? One thing she believed about her father that her mother had told her is that he persistent and ambitious. How else could you become one of the most famous and sort after composers in the world?

With a growling sigh, she forced herself to let her hand rest on the door handle before turning it, throwing it open just to get this awkward reunion over with.

Only, the victim of her contempt wasn’t her father, but none other than the group’s kind-hearted manger. “M-Mr Sasayama?” She finally showed an expression other than irritation, which was shock and shame. Sasayama had an astonished look of his own face to see the usually happy, yet sometimes defeated, girl so angry.

“Masami, have the boys been difficult? Do you want me to intervene?” He was quick to offer his help, but that only reminded Masami why she had opened the door in the first place. She almost felt like tearing up, but she promised herself she wouldn’t. Her father didn’t deserve to hurt her like he had.

“No. No, thank you, Mr Sasayama, I’m fine. Would you like to come in?” She forced herself to smile, just to get someone off her back for a bit so she could sort out her thoughts and emotions. The constant questioning and seemingly worried members had been grinding on her already worn nerves and she certainly didn’t need any sympathy from someone else she looked up to.

As Sasayama was walking through the door she held open, her expression falling just while his back was turned, another voice called out from the street. Both turned, both surprised by what they saw. It was a man, no surprise there because the sound of Masami’s name had been very low, with greyed and some white stranded hair. It was long enough to reach the bottom of his ears, the front curtains pushed back by circular, black-framed glasses resting on top of his head. He held a fabric hat screwed up in his hands, either a beenie or a flat cap niether could tell. His face, wrinkled and aged by cigarettes, was contort in a worried expression, part of his bottom lip pinched between whitened teeth. He wore a grey blazer with black elbow patches, a black turtle neck and grey suit pants that matched his jacket. His whole aura was gloomier than the overcast weather.

“M-Masami?” Through panting breathes, the man’s tone was asking, unsure if the woman that stood before him was really his own flesh and blood. He shouldn’t be so unsure, she was the spitting image of her gorgeous mother- except for the unimpressed and stressed expression on her youthful face.

Masami didn’t let go of the door, nor did she make any move to voice an invite, so the manager that still stood beside her felt the need to speak up. “M-Mr Sakamoto! What are you doing here?” Sasayama couldn’t hold back his surprise to see such a world-renouned man standing at his band’s doorstep, the slightest shine on his forehead and the deepest crease between his brows.

“Mr Sasayama, go inside, would you?” Masami tried to be polite, but since she had calmed herself down from meeting the manager instead of her estranged family member, she had been caught off-guard. Her mood was a hundred times worse than moment before- if that was even possible.

“Miss Masami, I don’t th-.”

“Is he the one you asked?” Masami cut the man off, something she would never usually do, but she was just so pissed off. It was bad enough to suspect someone at the agency would leak information like this, but their own manager? He could have caused a lot more trouble than this mess.

“N-No, an old friend of mine...” Her father led off, awkardly avoiding eye contact as he felt himself relax. It was a relief to know he hadn’t just gone up to a random woman and assumed it was his daughter. One hand reached up to his neck to pull at the now suffocating fabric around it. For once he wished he had a different taste in fashion.

“Get in then. Or are you just going to stand there and waste more time than you already have with me?” After a sigh, Masami spat those words out like they were covered in deadly poison. Sasayama didn’t know what to say, nor did the men standing at the end of the hallway, having listened in to see what all the fuss was about. The composer gulped before nodding and Masami let him in, slamming the door behind him to try an let out some frustration.

After taking his shoes off, Masami guided him into the garden, the Revance boys escaping from her sight before she found out how they were about to invade her privacy. They would have discussed their confusion about the man’s appearance, some aware of who he was and some not, but they were too eager to speak in case they missed something in the tense conversation that was sure to arise.

Sitting across from each other at the outside dining table, Masami’s leg crossed over the other with her arms overlapping each other and the celebrity sitting with his hands clasped together and head drooped like some sort of pray, the two definitely didn’t seem any sort of related. It was like Masami was reprimanding him with just her decerning gaze, which was fair. The man had been an awful dad to her and a more than terrible lover to her mother. The minimum he had done for her was offer child support while telling her mother he loved her, which was definitely false if he was able to sleep with whatever woman came up to him after a show or red carpet.

“Are you going to start talking or do I need to gain clairevoyance?” Masami’s tone was dull and low, something the boys couldn’t hear but could definitely see her lips moving. Sakamoto shot up, his wrinkled hat crushed even more in his hands.

“Ye-Yes... Yes, sorry, I’m the one who asked to meet you.” A quiet and unsure tone was odd for this man, not that any of them knew as no one had actually met him, but the rich aura he gave off gave them a clue he would usually be confident in himself.

“More like you announced you would be coming without even asking if I wanted to meet you.” Masami glared and Sakamoto almost felt like laughing if he wasn’t so scared. Her mother always had a stern glare when she was mad at him and Masami mimicked her so well. Instead, he settled on trying to hide a dopey grin.

“I knew you wouldn’t want to see me but I need you to know... I... I’m quiting composing.” This was a lot for her father to say and anyone could see that in the slight quiver in his voice. His posture was now straight, his true height bearing an air of sanguinity and positivity if he wore his usual confident grin.

“You said.” Masami couldn’t care less what this man did with his life, he didn’t when she was growing up. But she still didn’t know what he wanted her to know or why he was doing it. It did make her a little curious, but not enough to ask. Not enough to even allow him to think she cared.

“Yes, I guess I did. Well, I know I didn’t say I’m moving back to Japan.” The attempt to lighten the mood drastically failed when Masami’s facial expression didn’t change in the slightest. Sakamoto lived in Australlia. Masami was told she had gone to his house a few times, but she didn’t remember. She only remembered his absence.

“Why would you do that? Isn’t your life in Sydney?” Masami blurted out without thinking. The question gave her father a little hope.

“I know you hate me for what I did to you and your mother. I know I wasn’t a father to you. I know I ran away from that responbility. From raising you. And... I’m done running.” Sakamoto finally met her gaze with something other than defeat. He was determind to reconstruct the bridges he had burnt with his last living relative. It hadn’t been made public, but he had a health scare not only a month ago and it gave him the existential crisis he needed to realise how wrong he had truly been. He regreted what he had done and wanted to meet the woman his truest love had raised. Was that so wrong?

“Are you... Are you fucking kidding me?” Masami finally raised her voice for the first time she has been living in this house, and maybe ever, and that made everyone but her jump. She was a monster, standing up in an attempt to ease her fury. She didn’t like getting mad, but there was no other option when it came to this man.

“You didn’t come to my high school graduation. You didn’t come to my 18th birthday party. You didn’t even call me, ever, when I was growing up! Even after mom’s funeral I never heard from you on the subject except for a condolence letter! And you think you can come here and say some cliche words, which I’m sure I’ve heard in a movie, and think everything will be a-okay?” Masami started listing off her father’s shortcomings, even going the extra mile to raise a finger for each one. She paced back and forth, trying so hard not to cry. She was so, so mad...

And so, so happy. For once in her life she felt like her father loved her, or at least accepted her, even if they were just empty words. But, that made her feel guilty. The man that had ruined her mother’s life by abandoning her with a baby to raise on her own when she was just as young and as ambitious. She was a violinist, but she had to quit to take care of this girl that had fallen into her lap.

“I know I was an accident and you didn’t want children, but, god, even the worst parents stick around for their child. They don’t abandon them to a single mother with dreams of her own! She was too good to you, you know that right? She had nothing else but compliments for you! She made you out to be this hard working genius, even though you were in the tabloids every other week! And no amount of money is going to be able to pay back that pain.” Pulling a familiar envelope out of her back pocket, Masami slapped it on the table in front of her. It was far thicker than anyone else who had seen it remembered it being. It wasn’t even possible to seal it again.

“This is..?” Sakamoto led off as he picked up the envelope and peered inside, eyes wide at the millions of yen that were stacked there. Ever since Masami was her own person and made her own money, she never spent any of the money her father had sent her. She didn’t want to, she felt like it was blood-money, and she had waited for the day to shove it back in his face. Showing him she didn’t need him.

“It’s all the money you sent me since mom died. You can count it if you like. I don’t need it, I have my own job.” Masami scowled, crossing her arms in an attempt to reject anything further he would try to offer her.

“How... How did you do that?” Sakamoto was at a lost for words, the bills in his hand as heavy as the weight of the world. All that time he thought he was helping her and this is what happens?

“I sold stories to a publishing firm and comissioned poetry to couples. It’s not hard. I guess I got that creativity from you? It’s the only useful thing, anyway.” Avoiding eye contact, the boys darted out of the door way, hoping she hadn’t seen them before she looked in their direction. Even Sasayama had joined them now, although guiltily.

“...Masami... You need to take this.” Sakamoto’s tone was finally strong, his voice heavy with demand. The daughter jumped, surprised to hear those specific words and looked back at him to make sure she had heard him right. He seemed... angry?

“I don’t need it. I’m sure you’ll find a use for it, going into retirement.” Masami’s voice faltered for a moment, but her resolve to hinder any further reason for him to get in contact amped her up. There was no sign of her budging in the sterness of her own tone.

“Noriko-”

“Keep her name out of your mouth.” Masami was quick to interrupt her father from belittling her mother by reguarding her so casually. She may be dead, but that only made it worse. She wouldn’t be hear to defend herself.

“...I got a letter from your mother before she died.” Sakamoto sighed, placing the money softly on the table and reaching into his own back pocket. Sliding along the table under his fingertips was an old-looking piece of paper, the edges curled with time and what might have been stains from a clear liquid. When Masami snatched it from him and brought it to her face, she could smell the distinct scent of vodka.

Masami wasted no time in unfolding the letter apparently sent by her mother and instantly started tearing up at the familiar but forgetten handwriting. Her mother’s penmanship was poor, to say the least, but that didn’t mean it was illegible. Still, Sakamoto announced a summary on the letter, just in case.

“She told me to support you whole-heartedly and critised me for the I’ve done so far.” Sakamoto let out a low, soft chuckle at the memory of the only woman he’s ever loved. She was a strong person, stronger than him, and he knew he let her down. It’s what made the usually positive chortle sound so depressed.

“She told me to make sure you got through college, so I set up the scholarship program at the place she said you wanted to go to. She told me to help you find your first car, so I sent the money and a brochure. She told me to help you get your first job, but I didn’t even know what you wanted to be. She told me to do so many things that I hadn’t been able to do because I was selfish, and I’m still failing her. I... I loved her and I wasn’t there for her...” The weight of all those years of guilt pushed down on Sakamoto’s shoulders. Usually, if she wasn’t so distracted by the letter from beyond the grave right in front of her, Masami would be screaming bloody-murder so even suggested he cared for her mother. Abandoning someone isn’t love. It’s cowardice and fear. You can’t throw away someone’s life for a one-night stand and call it love. That’s what she believed.

“She sent me letters about you every year. Telling me how much you had grown and how you were doing in school. I never replied because I didn’t know what to say...” Sakamoto took a deep breath to go off on another tangent, but no words came when he saw his daughter, alone for so many years, with tears gliding down her face and onto the paper in her hands. She sniffled when she noticed him staring and turned, using the sleeve of her jumper to dry her face quickly.

“She was too good to you...” Her voice came out hoarse, both from her crying and yelling, and Sakamoto let out a relieved sigh to know she was too emotional to scream again.

“You said.” Was words that shouldn’t have been said, really, at such an emotional point in their relationship and how traumatic this was for Masami, but she couldn’t help but let out a low, breathy chuckle that no one heard or saw with her back still turned. He was as cocky as her mother had told her.

“... Masami?” Sakamoto called out again, his tone high and questioning once again, asking if it would be alright for him to speak again. Masami turned to see him reaching out for her, but the distance was too great for either of them to meet each other and he was still sitting down. She didn’t make a move towards him, but by holding his eye contact the composer knew he was permitted to continue.

“I know you hate me. You should. Really, you should never forgive me...” Sakamoto led off as he thought of things to say.

“This is meant to help your case?” Masami chuckled, turning fully towards him but not growing any closer. The boys remerged now that no one was looking in their direction.

“I ruined your mother’s life, and she gave me the greatest gift I could have asked for. She told me to keep composing and working to be the best I could be while she raised a daughter everyone could be proud of and happy to be around. She didn’t want to give up on her dream, but I, admittedly, gave her no choice. You’re right, I didn’t want children...." Even though he was a man with extraordinary talents, Sakamoto didn’t seem much to be one with words. He stumbled and shared too much, but Masami appreciated that about him. She had that same issue when she was writing her songs. She got too excited, wrote too much, and had to cut out a lot. It took practice and time to be able to just say what needs to be said without rambling.

Maybe...

Maybe that’s what their relationship needed?

“But I want to know you, Masami. We’re all we’ve got left and you’re all I have left of her. I’ll give up anything to prove to you I want to be your father.” Sakamoto met her discerning gaze with that same determinded glare he had given her moments ago. Now it was her turn to say the wrong thing before turning it around.

“You’ll never be my father.” The words drifted out of her mouth as she clenched her fists at her side, slightly crinkling the old, hardened letter in one hand. Sakamoto’s heart broke right there and then.

“My mother was my father. And my aunt. My sister. She was my best friend. She raised me as if we had a huge family and I never felt alone... But...” Masami stopped herself before she could go off on her own tangent, telling herself not to beat around the bush.

“... I guess you can work on becoming my dad?” Masami grew shy, clutching her hands in front of her as she glared at the ground. She had always wanted to know what he was really like. Who wouldn’t? It’s your father. Even if she hated him, if there was a chance, that little girl who didn’t have anyone to meet her first boyfriend and warn him about getting overly-friendly wanted to know him. The girl who didn’t have anyone to protect her at fairs when her mother as busy with work. The girl who wanted to play wrestle with her father but her mother was too tired to act like that. They wanted to have him in her life.

Sakamoto shot up the second he heard those words. Sure, he wasn’t a much for true affection, but one time couldn’t hurt, right? He inched closer to her, timidly lifting his hands up to her shoulders and closed them around her. He was stiff and awkward, not knowing how to hold his daughter.

Which made her giggle. She laughed and laughed at how formal her own father seemed and couldn’t keep it in. Her whole life was an extraodinary circumstance, so when everything got weirder, like now, when she was reuniting with the man she hated for so long, she couldn’t help but find it funny.

“You think she’s finally cracked?” Iori mumbled, cringing as he watched the babbling idiot trying to cover her tittering with her hand as the two leaned away from her.

“It really was a roller coaster, huh?” Nagito laughed sheepishly, earning another rap around the head for being so loud.

“I’m going to sleep.” Kota grumbled, acting tired and bored. Really, he wanted to get away before Masami surely noticed them in this sensitive time.

“Her dad’s Hanzo Sakamoto?” Takashi could help but mumble to himself as he glared at the ground. The famous composer was a sort of inspiration for him.

“Hopefully now she won’t bite our heads off the second we speak in front of her.” Kyohei sighed, getting up with the others but leaving a quick glance at the newly formed family in their garden. The skies cleared for weeks after that day.

#sits #scandel in the spotlight #kyohei rikudoh #nagito aoshima #kota igarashi #iori enjo #takashi ninagawa #voltage fanfic #voltage games

24 notes · View notes

rwbydrivels-blog · 6 years

Note

Hello, I’ve recently had a really rough time with a bad breakup followed closely by family troubles and losing my job and was wondering if maybe you could write a short fic with Qrow comforting his crush or S/O after a similar events? I’d imagine he’d be a little awkward, but he’d genuinely try, and I feel like it’d be nice to just hug the drunkle (and maybe have a good cry hidden away in his chest).

i do apologize this took so long to get to. if you need someone to talk to, don’t hesitate to message me. this goes for everyone. times are very difficult and i hope, even if not just through writing, i’ll be able to support you through this rough patch! stay strong.

SILENCE

The rain always made things gloomier, and with the heavy weight that continued to build, it didn’t make your mood any better. As you watched the rain droplets hit against the glass and slowly trail down your window, you sniffed, ignoring the soreness of both your eyes and nose. You looked to your faint reflection through the window, looking at the redness of your sclera and circles underneath your eyes.

It was too recurring, the constant grief that filled you. The conflicted thoughts that loitered in your mind, shifting from temple to temple, drew out more inner pain and it exhausted you. Why was it always when you were least expecting it? Why was it always when you were trying your hardest? Were you not good enough? Were you just making a big scene? Were there steps you needed to take but didn’t see?

As you sat silently on your bed with your knees pulled to your chest, you couldn’t make anything of it. How pathetic you must’ve looked, sitting in the dim light of your room as it poured down raining. By this point, feigning any and all smiles were null and void. Exhaling deeply, you felt the water form at the corners of your eyes, but your face did not visibly release your physical sadness.

If you had performed better, they told you, you would still have it. If you paid more attention to the marks of tardiness that affected your attendance. If you “toughed it through” and didn’t let your anxiety get the best of you, causing you to call off so often. You promised us an outstanding employee, and you failed to meet your promise to us. Things happen, right? It’s not that you didn’t try, just…

Wait.

Maybe they were right – especially your family. The constant fighting and unhealthy passive-aggressive nature of your parents, less than approving of your shortcomings – and now your termination – made them think less of you. “Home” was more of a foreign land for you now, and the years of complications made the lump in your throat appear even bigger. You rubbed your temples, murmuring something to yourself incoherently as you felt the rush of anxiety take hold of you.

It squeezed you, the clasp most heavy on your heart and around your throat, causing you to shake. The one thing – the one that did tie you together, and help you – One of the most dreadful hits to your heart that happened ontop of it all – losing the one you cared about the most. Not being able to see their smile, having them here, when you needed them most. You did something, you knew it, and they wanted to separate. Nothing to do with you. It just kept building. One thing, after the next, after the next, after the next.

It hurt, it hurt, it hurt, it hurt, it hurt…

“Hey,” a deep, gruff voice snapped you out of your spiraling, and you almost immediately lifted your head. Your swollen eyes looked frantically around the room before you landed them on a raven-haired figure, leaning distance from you against the wall.

“Oh,” you uttered, blinking. “Qrow… I didn’t–” You exhaled and relaxed your posture, straightening your back. He narrowed his eyes, a slightly embarrassed you laughing nervously. “Sorry, I promise I’m not–”

“You weren’t at the mission briefing today.” He interrupted you from your would-be lie, eyes never left yours. “Figured you’d be here.”

You lifted your hand, as if you were going to make a point to the former teacher, but sighed, knowing it was useless. You lowered your arm, focusing your eyes elsewhere. While you were not going to discuss everything to the scythe-wielder, you knew you couldn’t exactly walk your way around the Huntsman. He knew you too well, knew too many of your quirks.

“Just a lot is going on, Qrow.” Your statement was vague, and it prompted the male to cross his arms tightly against his chest. “I… Sorry.”

He walked towards you, the sounds of his shoes clicking against the hardwood floor. While he was closer, he gave you breathing room. You both were on good terms with the other, but never really had… this sort of conversation. Ever. Qrow was never the type to display his emotions so outwardly – deeper ones, at least – and drowned himself in booze whenever he could.

“Look, I’m not gonna get all sappy, and I see you’re going through… Something.” Qrow hesitated. “I’m worried because you’ve been doing this more and more. And I need to know if you’d rather just–”

“I’m sorry, Qrow, I’m just going through something and it’s not going well and I can’t exactly be around people right now and–” you found yourself rambling and looked away from him as you felt the wave of tears come once more, affecting your voice slightly. “I didn’t even hear you come in. Sorry I’m like this. I’m fine, just, I’ll… I’ll talk to you later.”

There was a tension in the silence that followed. So much so that Qrow felt the need to exhale loudly, drawing your attention. He rolled his eyes, sitting next to you and clearing his throat. Arching an eyebrow, you looked to him quizzically and watched as he took out his canteen. Expecting him to drink from it, you waited, and were surprised as he simply took the cap off.

“I don’t know… All of what you’re going through.” He began. “But I can tell you that you’ll get through it. Can’t give up on yourself. You’ll end up like me.”

You shoved his shoulder playfully, laughing. “You say that as though that’s a bad thing. Hush up.”

Hardened, crimson irises met yours and the Huntsman remained silent. The look he had, a solemn one, made you anxious so you created more space between the two of you. Just from that he chuckled, and you held your arm. “You must apparently think highly of me to say that.”

His cheeky remark made your cheeks warm and you shoved him again, “Be quiet, I…”

You withdrew into yourself again, unsure as to why your emotions were all over the place. Qrow caught note of this, studying his rings before speaking. “I can’t speak for you, and I don’t know all the ins and outs. We’re close, but.. Y’know. You want your privacy, and I get that.” He listened as it thundered loudly, a crack of lightning piercing the sky faster than you could turn your head to turn to see it. “Shit, even I got crap I need ta deal with.”

It made you jump, feeling his hand suddenly on your shoulder. The male Branwen didn’t meet your gaze at that moment and instead looked out of your bedroom room, continuing. “It hurts, I know it. It’ll hurt like hell. But this’ll make it easier for you to get stronger. To bounce back.” He glanced down to the brown liquid within his silver canteen. His voice became quieter, but more stern.

“And I’ll be here for you when you need it.”

#Qrow Branwen x Reader #Qrow Branwen #Reader #RWBY Fanfiction #RWBY Requests #RWBY Writing #RWBY x Reader #Content Warning // Anxiety

82 notes · View notes

eiswolfzero · 6 years

Text

Alright, since that anon did sound desperate about batflash, have my other abandonded Batflash story.

Shoutout to my one and only Bruce Wayne @queertamil - we did an rp based on this but in a different setting

Same warnings as before, unfinished and probably too many errors

Wally rarely needed immediate medical attention. Small cuts were gone in minutes and bigger injuries usually stopped bleeding rather fast as well. Fast enough that a good meal and a bandage usually did the job.

From time to time there were the major ones but those usually occurred during a Justice League mission, which meant someone tended to cover for him and he got sent to the Watchtower to be dealt with.

But this. This he didn't know how to deal with.

It had been a simple thing. There was a suspicious warehouse -when wasn't there? - and some guys who thought mixing acids would be fun and bring money when sold to the right people.

Unfortunate for them then that Wally had known about it and had acted as soon as he could get off work.

Simple.

Wally had stopped those guys but he had also been injured. One of those criminals clearly wasn't a genius and thought tipping over one of those canisters was a great idea. Without knowing what it would do when coming into contact with human skin.

Lucky for that guy that Flash had been there and had whisked him out of harm's way. Only to get some of the spillage on his left side, the suit soaking it up.

He had held his breath then, waiting for something to happen.

Nothing had happened. Which was great. Perfect. The best outcome in all of this.

Then the itching started. Only a minute after he was done tying up those guys and informing the police.

Not liking the itching at all he had made his way home. Maybe it was just the suit being wet or maybe it was his imagination because he expected something to happen.

Maybe it was reacting with his skin.

It made Wally nervous.

Looking down at the wet patch, Wally gently took it between two gloves fingers and pulled it away from his skin. The itching stayed and actually turned into some kind of tingling.

So it was a reaction.

Wally frowned down at the wet patch and fought the urge to run into the shower. Who knew if water would make it worse? Certainly not Wally and he had no way to find out.

He stood there, unsure what to do first. Though he knew he needed to get the stuff off. A damp towel then, to gauge the reaction to water. That would be the best course of action.

Nodding to himself, Wally started to move but stopped again when the part of the suit he was still holding away from his skin slipped away from between his fingers.

To his horror he saw the material dissolve, revealing angry, red skin underneath.

Wally's breath got stuck in his lungs when he saw how the skin looked. It was almost like a rash, small bubbles forming, the skin starting to feel too tight around that part.

Then pain set in.

An involuntary twitch of his fingers, a nervous step forward and suddenly the pain slammed into him.

Any air he had in his lungs left him as if he had been punched in the stomach.

Wally needed to act. He needed to act fast.

He tried to reach his kitchen but stumbled over the coffee table and fell to the floor beside his couch. A startled shout that quickly turned into a painful whimper came from him and Wally needed a moment to gather himself.

The suit needed to get off. But it would be useless, the contaminated part already dissolving, his skin slowly following by the feel of it.

Wally needed help.

With a shaking hand he reached for the earpiece on his cowl and tapped it. “Bruce,” came the strangled call, his stomach feeling like it was burning.

-------------

Nights like these were always busy for Bruce.

Criminals always tended to choose the darker, gloomier days of Gotham to pull stunts like this. As if the rain would provide enough cover for the smuggled drugs.

The only thing it did was wash said drugs away when Bruce was done with them.

Using the lenses of his cowl to enlarge the view of the warehouse on the other side of the street, Batman kept watch over the proceedings.

Only the other party was missing now and Bruce was ready to wait the night out in the rain on this roof. He would get them.

A soft noise alerted him to the fact that someone contacted him and he frowned for a moment, before activating it.

“Bruce,” came his name through the com and it sounded strange. Maybe Wally’s communicator was acting up.

“Names, Flash.” Wally knew better than to use his name over the communicator, no matter how save Bruce deemed it to be.

Even if they had recently begun to grow...closer, this surely wasn’t an excuse to call him for trivialities over the com.

“Whatever it is Flash, it has to wait. I’m bus-” the choked sob over the come made Bruce stop in the middle of the sentence and listen closely to the speedster on the other end.

“Flash?” The deal on the other street forgotten for the moment, something nagging at the back of Bruce’s mind that something was wrong. Wally usually didn't make sounds like these.

Bruce felt impatient all of the sudden. “Fl-”

“Pain. There's...my side...Bru-... I don't know what to-” Wally seemed to take breaks whenever he drew in air. His sentences more like sudden thoughts then real sentences.

The drugs, Bruce decided, could wait.

“Where are you?” Bruce demanded in a tone that he hoped sounded reassuring. At the same time he sent the Batmobile home while ordering Batwing to pick him up.

Of course Wally would get hurt at a time when the teleporters in the Watchtower were offline, due to an attack not too long ago.

As soon as Wally provided him with a pressed “Home,” Bruce was walking to the other end of the roof, feeding the navigation system with the address.

Batwing didn't take too long after that. The jet took off and followed the programmed route as soon as Bruce pulled himself into it via his Batclaw.

“I'm on my way. Tell me what happened,” Bruce said in a calm tone, trying to reassure the younger that he was on his way.

Silence followed and Bruce feared for a second that whatever was wrong had already killed Wally. Which sounded wrong. So wrong.

Wally dead? Surely it couldn't have happened that fast. Wally’s body worked too fast for anything to kill him that fast.

It just wasn't-

A pained sound reached him over the com and the tension Bruce hadn't even been aware he had build up was leaving him bit by bit. But not completely. He wouldn't be able to relax until he got there and could assess the situation.

For now he had next to nothing.

“Flash...Wally..”

“I think...I think something's wrong,” the words sounded slightly slurred. Bruce liked to imagine that this was how Wally would sound if he could get drunk.

He would prefer for Wally to be drunk right now.

“Tell me what happened,” Bruce said again but Wally didn’t really seem to hear him.

“I’m cold, I'm never cold. I'm sweating too Bruce, I need to take the cowl off,” Wally rambled, pained breaths in between.

“No! When you take the cowl off you won't be able to talk to me. You need to keep it on and-” There was the sound of rustling clothes and then a whimper that sounded too far away.

The cowl was off.

Cursing under his breath, Bruce willed Batwing to reach his destination faster. Whatever was going on was affecting Wally too fast.

------------

Batwing turned to hover silently over the building and Bruce dropped onto the roof, the silent landing natural to him.

With haste he made his way down the fire escape and reached Wally’s window. The lights weren't on but the fading light still provided enough for Bruce to make out the red clad figure on the floor in the living room.

He made quick work of the window, sliding it open within a minute and entering the flat.

Bruce was at Wally’s side in a second. Kneeling beside Wally made one thing obvious. The speedster had trouble breathing but it didn't seem to come from the lungs. No, it was probably due to the pain.

Gently he guided Wally to unfurl from his tense, small position on the floor so that he might lie on his back.

Wally reacted instantly and almost slapped Bruce but the movement was too sluggish and Bruce managed to catch the hand coming his way.

“Wally, it's me calm down,” Bruce said in a clear voice, trying to show that the other wasn't alone anymore.

But Wally only stared at him with big, red rimmed eyes, his face flushed and his hair sticking everywhere.

If the situation wouldn't have been so dire Bruce might actually have called him cute.

Heat was radiating from Wally’s body and Bruce instinctively knew that he was running a fever. That wasn't good.

Wally rarely got sick enough to actually run a fever, his body most of the time too fast to even develop one.

Bruce didn't know what a feverish Wally would say or do, he had never witnessed it.

“Do you recognize me?” He asked the other when nothing more happened, his gaze slowly traveling to the other side of Wally’s stomach where something like an angry rash peeked out of a whole in the suit.

Without thinking too much about it, Bruce took of his cowl as well, hoping it would help Wally recognize him.

“Wally you need to talk to me,” Bruce said softly and placed both hands to the side of the hurt skin, gently pulling the suit away to get a better look. “It looks like a burn but you've had burns before.”

Slowly Bruce let his gaze travel back to Wally’s face. The other was still staring at him, his breathing shallow and fast. One of Bruce's gloves hands found its way into Wally's hair, trying to sooth the others frantic mind. He knew that the speedster’s thoughts were racing. What concerned him was that Wally hadn’t voiced any of those yet.

“Wally…” he repeated and just stared at him.

Something seemed to have reached Wally then. He blinked several times, tears falling down the side of his head. “Acid, there were….canisters...mixed?” Wally sounded insecure about this information.

Was he afraid to remember it wrong?

#batman #bruce wayne #wally west #flash #batflash #personal art #unfinished #writings

16 notes · View notes

jarienn972 · 7 years

Text

The Right Place - Chapter Four

Just discovered that this chapter didn’t post over the weekend as I thought it had so trying again. This chapter has Emma spending time trying to process what she’s learned so far while she waits for Killian to fill in the blanks. For anyone wanting to read ahead, Chapter Five is already posted on FF.net and AO3 and here are the links to the earlier chapters here on Tumblr:

Prologue/Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three

Note: AO3 lists the prologue as Chapter One so the numbering on that site is a little different than how I have them set up. Sorry for any confusion.

Tuesday afternoon, Portland Medical Center

Deputy McCallen dropped Emma off in front of the hospital entrance approximately an hour and a half after they'd left – or roughly half an hour later than she'd promised her son, but neither of her boys seemed upset with her. Henry still had his earbuds in, fully engrossed with whatever he was viewing on his phone while Killian remained motionless on the bed, and now that she knew more of how Killian reached this moment, her curiosity was only heightened. He'd been stranded with a damaged sail and most likely had attempted to contact her once he'd purchased the rope necessary to repair it – thankful that she'd made him take a couple of 20 dollar bills with him as merchants here weren't as likely to have accepted his doubloons.

She had contemplated everything Jean Scott had told them about the robbery as she rode up in the elevator – about why Killian had come into her shop; about how he'd been interrupted before making his phone call home – assuming that's what he'd been heading outside to do. All of it left nearly two hours still unaccounted for and what happened next was still a mystery to them. She wanted to see the security video that McCallen had referred to hoping she might pick up on some nuance that the deputy wouldn't have noticed.

And she couldn't help but think about her interaction with Deputy Aaron McCallen. His mannerisms stuck her as odd, but earnest. How many modern investigators still used a notepad and pen for case notes? Emma used electronic devices whenever she could or simply committed the information to memory until she had a moment to record it. She may have been born into a fairytale kingdom but she'd been raised with technology and she fully embraced it. McCallen, on the other hand, for such a young investigator, was either very old school or very inexperienced. He certainly seemed diligent enough, although perhaps a bit reserved. He'd seemed almost embarrassed to ask about the significance of Killian's jewelry – not that she was able to give him the whole honest answer, but either way, he'd been hesitant to touch on any personal subjects. Of course, most investigators probably wouldn't take Emma's more cavalier approach. It just worked for her.

"Hey, Kid," she'd announced as she stepped through the doorway. "Sorry we got back a little late. Any changes while I was gone?"

"It's okay, Mom," he assured her as he yanked on the cord to his earbuds, removing them. "Nothing changed here. Hope you and the deputy were able to get some new info though."

"We did. We've got a better idea of how Killian ended up here in Portland and we know for certain that he did voluntarily allow himself to be taken hostage to protect a shop owner."

"So what happened?"

"According to the store owner's account, the bowline on the mainsail broke. Killian apparently didn't have enough rope onboard to fix it and had to take a ferry from an offshore island to a shop on the harbor. He was waiting for the ferry to head back when someone tried to rob the place. Killian offered up doubloons from the Jolly Roger if they'd leave the woman running the place alone, but right now, that's all we know," Emma sighed as she lowered herself onto the chair next to her husband, reaching over to grasp his hand as she sat down. "We know that two men were involved, but they wore masks the whole time so the store owner couldn't identify them. Maybe he saw their faces after they took him hostage or maybe he overheard something he wasn't supposed to so they tried to kill him? We just don't know what went on after he left the store with a gun to his back except that he didn't get shot, he got stabbed instead."

"I'm sorry, Mom. He'll wake up soon and then you'll be able to ask him."

"I hope so," was her crestfallen reply and her son decided to change the subject there before the room became any gloomier than it already was.

"Now that you're back, do you mind if I head downstairs to the cafeteria to get some lunch? I'm really getting hungry…"

"Sure," she replied having not even realized that it was nearly 1PM now, the thought of food not even crossing her mind.

"Want me to bring you something?" Henry offered.

"No, that's okay. I'm not really hungry right now. I'll get something later…"

"Okay, then. I'll be right back." She watched her son as he headed out into the hallway, disappearing behind the pulled curtains and almost instantly found herself struck with the same sensation of loneliness that Henry had felt earlier. After two days without her husband close to her, without hearing his voice or being able to gaze into his sparkling blue eyes, she longed to get lost in his smile once again and yet all she was able to do presently was simply stare at his unconscious form as he lay there so still and so silent. This wasn't where they were supposed to be. They were supposed to be at home in Storybrooke dealing with the latest dwarf crisis or sitting at Granny's having lunch with her parents – anywhere but here in a Portland hospital room where despite the nurse's earlier cautious optimism, Emma still found herself fighting off the lingering apprehension that she might be planning for a funeral.

That horrid thought was quickly chased from Emma's mind as a nurse appeared in the still open doorway carrying a tray covered in supplies, startling the sheriff for a moment as she hadn't heard anyone enter.

"I'm so sorry to startle you, Mrs. Jones," the young nurse who'd been at the desk earlier when Emma arrived apologized. "I just came in to change the dressing on his wounds. I'll only be a couple of minutes…"

"No need to apologize," Emma responded. "I guess I zoned out for a moment. I'll get out of your way here…" She stood up, placing Killian's hand gently back at his side as she rose. The nurse drew the privacy curtain around the bed in case someone else were to walk into the room and sat her tray atop the rolling table that had been pushed over to the foot of the bed. Emma retreated back toward the window as the nurse attended to her husband assuming the young woman wouldn't want an audience.

"It's okay for you to stay," the nurse insisted. "As long as you're not overly squeamish, I might even be able to use your assistance. This is sometimes faster with two sets of hands," she paused as she realized that her choice of wording might have been offensive, but Emma didn't react to the faux pas so the young woman completed her statement. "Or I could page an orderly if you'd prefer…?"

"Alright, I'm open for pretty much anything. Just let me know what I need to do," Emma replied as the nurse unwrapped the blanket from around Killian's shoulders which allowed her to at last see the patch of gauze taped across the lower portion of his chest and upper abdomen. As the dressing was peeled back, the dull red sutured surgical incision became visible, stretching several inches across the lower portion of his rib cage toward his sternum. Despite having been stabbed in the back, it appeared that surgeons had chosen to go in through his chest for easier access to repair the damage. After a brief inspection, the wound was rapidly and expertly re-bandaged and once that task was completed, the nurse quickly checked his IV and his breathing tube before turning to Emma.

"I need to check the wound on his back now. If you wouldn't mind helping for a moment, I can finish this easier with him still in this position. If you don't want to though, I understand and I can lay him down instead."

"I'll be happy to help. Just tell me what I need to do."

"I just need you to support his weight while I lean his upper body forward a little to access the other incision. If you could come over here…," the nurse motioned toward the opposite side of Killian's bed so Emma skirted around him as instructed. "Okay – now just place your hands on his shoulders as I sit him a little more upright and steady his weight…" The nurse brought her right hand alongside Killian's jaw as her left hand slid behind his back and gently pushed him forward just a couple of inches. She cradled his head in place while Emma supported his torso, gradually allowing his head to tilt forward as well. "Good," the nurse stated as she pulled her hand away from his neck, freeing it up to dress the other wound. "Just a minute and I'll be all finished." She had already removed the old dressing and tossed it onto the tray with the rest of the used gauze and just as swiftly as she'd bandaged the wound on his chest, she tended to the smaller but decidedly more ragged incision at the middle of his back. "There – all done." The nurse smiled as she repeated the gentle hold of his head while lowering her patient's body back against the mattress.

Emma kept her hands at his shoulders until he was returned to his original position on the bed, her head now filled with theories about the type of knife used to stab him. The wound had been delivered with an upward thrust with a blade long enough to pierce completely through his chest cavity so they clearly weren't looking for a pocket knife nor could this injury have been made with the dagger Killian often carried inside his boot. This blade had to have been longer than that, but certainly narrower than a sword. A kitchen knife maybe? Or maybe a fisherman's boning knife?

She finally pulled her hands away as the nurse brought the blanket back up around his shoulders finding herself wondering how much longer they would keep him wrapped up like that. She wasn't really certain what normal body temperature was for a roughly three hundred year old pirate, but clearly the hospital was looking for something closer to the standard 98.6 and he must not have been there yet.

"Everything looks good right now," the nurse spoke up while pushing the privacy curtain back into place at the head of the bed, bringing Emma back around to the present. "His wounds do appear to be healing properly which is a very good sign."

"Thank you," Emma replied with a gracious smile, not that it was really necessary. The nurse was doing her job, but Emma still felt a need to express her appreciation for all that had been done to keep Killian alive, even long before the hospital staff had even known his name. The nurse reciprocated the smile, silently acknowledging the sentiment as she gathered up all of the supplies and trash onto her tray, leaving Emma alone with her husband once again.

"I will find whoever did this to you," she whispered her promise to his ear as she returned to the chair by his side. "I just need you to wake up and give us the rest of the story." Her eyes damp and glistening with tears, she reached over to caress his cheek, her fingertips brushing lightly against his right ear while the pad of her thumb tenderly explored the barely yellowing bruises around his eye noting that his right eyelid honestly looked as though he'd simply smeared it with the smoky kohl he still used as liner. "Hope you left at least one of them with a matching black eye." Her thumb drifted lower across his cheek, then paused to trace the cloth surgical tape which secured the breathing tube in place. She wanted more than anything to help him, but out here - out in what Storybrooke residents still referred to as The Land Without Magic – she didn't have the ability to heal him and that fact was only augmenting her frustration.

Her burgeoning angst was tempered though when she felt her phone vibrating in her pocket. Retrieving it, she discovered that the caller was her father whom she'd promised to contact when they had more information so she couldn't really ignore him.

"You won't mind if I talk to my dad for a moment, will you?" she asked Killian aloud, fully aware that he wouldn't be able to argue. "Hi, Dad," she answered the call. "Sorry I haven't gotten back to you sooner, but it's been a pretty busy day so far… No, there hasn't been any change since Henry messaged you. He's still unconscious and definitely still critical, but the nurse we talked to earlier sounded fairly optimistic… Who knows?" She paused while David replied and then continued with the minute amount of new information that she had: "So Henry told you that I rode over to interview a witness with a Cumberland County deputy, right? …Yeah, it gave us a little more insight about what happened. Killian apparently let himself be taken hostage during a robbery at a convenience store down on the harbor… He had some problems with one of the sails, I guess – won't know for sure until he tells us himself… No – two robbers wearing ski masks were involved and at some point after they took him hostage, he got stabbed and ended up in the Atlantic. That's it so far… Yeah, most of it sounds like he was in the wrong place at the wrong time…"

Emma was listening to her father's next response after she'd given him the highlights of Jean Scott's story when the sight of an ever-so-slight twitch in her peripheral vision garnered her attention. The nearly imperceptible motion of Killian's pinky finger almost went unnoticed as Emma practically dismissed it as an involuntary muscle spasm. It was only the sound that followed it that stopped her conversation entirely – a strangled, guttural cry that emanated from Killian's throat as though he were being choked.

"Dad – I'll call you back. I've got to go." She didn't even wait for him to say goodbye before disconnecting the call - returning her full, undivided attention to Killian who seemed to be desperately gasping for air, unaware that the tube blocking his throat was performing that task for him. Not yet entirely conscious, he raised his hand to his throat as though he were trying to remove whatever he imagined was choking him. "Killian – it's okay…," she spoke in a soft, gentle voice trying to reassure her husband as his eyes flickered open in semi-lucid panic, but not even the sight of his wife or the serene timbre of her voice put an end to his wheezing and clutching at his throat. "Killian – listen to me – you're okay. Just relax… You're safe…"

He'd come to slowly – his mind a disoriented, discombobulated mess as he struggled to find his bearings. The smell of disinfectant assaulted his nostrils first as his fingers shifted around to explore the surface beneath them – something made from smooth cloth. One eye opened scarcely a slit, immediately squeezing closed again as the bright overhead light attacked his retina. No - too bright… He tried to take in the sound instead, listening for clues even if he wasn't yet conscious enough to be aware of what he was doing. He couldn't identify most of the noises – strange, alien cacophony to his ears, but there was something familiar…? A voice…? Emma's voice…? Was she really here? Could he get her attention?

He wanted to shout to her but he found he had no voice. Why didn't he have a voice? He struggled for lucidity as his conscious mind returned, instantly fully aware of the extreme discomfort he was experiencing. His chest ached and burned, his eye throbbed and his throat felt strange – obstructed? Now he was getting agitated – he couldn't call out to Emma because he was being choked. His hand flew to his throat, desperate to claw away whatever hand was wrapped around his neck, but there was none there but his own. What black magic was this? He tried again to cry out to his wife, but the sound only came out as a strangled growl from the back of his throat while his eyes flew open, landing on the wondrous sight of her face framed by her golden locks, but even her calming words weren't enough to quell the feeling that he was drowning all over again. At least if he were to die this time, his final vision would be her face rather than a deserted island cove.

Emma found herself not knowing how to help him, grateful to see the face of the nurse who'd left only minutes earlier return to the room after being alerted by the monitors indicating a sudden spike in Killian's heart rate and blood pressure.

"I think he's choking," Emma tried to explain what she'd witnessed as the nurse brushed past her.

"He's trying to breathe on his own," the nurse replied. "Take his hand and hold on to it so he doesn't try to pull the tube out. It's not uncommon for patients just coming around to panic with a trachea tube in place, but he could do permanent damage to his throat if he keeps fighting it and tries to pull it out." Emma wrapped both of her hands around his and pulled it away from his neck, squeezing as tightly as she could to prevent him from escaping her grasp. "Mr. Jones?" the young woman called out to her patient in an attempt to draw his attention. "Mr. Jones, there's no need to panic. There's a tube in your throat helping you breathe. I know it's annoying right now, but I need you to relax and not fight it…" His gaze shifted slightly from Emma to the nurse, but there was no recognition or focus – just a wide panicked stare. "He's not coherent enough to understand and I'm worried he's going to hurt himself… Hang on…" The nurse had already retrieved a syringe from the pocket of her scrubs and after removing the cap, pushed the hollow needle into some sort of portal attached to the IV tubing. They must have been anticipating this very reaction, Emma thought as the contents of the syringe were emptied into his IV. After a few adjustments to increase the speed of the IV drip so the medication would reach his bloodstream faster, the nurse spoke up again. "This sedative will take effect pretty quickly, but it doesn't last very long. It will help relax him so he doesn't hurt himself while I page the doctor. This is a really good turn of events," the young woman insisted.

He couldn't get his vision to focus. He could still hear the voices – one that sounded like Emma and another he didn't recognize trying to say something to him. His eyes caught a glimpse of the speaker – a woman, but brunette, not blonde but her words weren't making sense. Everything was twisted and garbled in his head but his concern was that he still felt something blocking his windpipe. Why weren't they helping him? Why would Emma stand here watching him suffocate and do nothing? He struggled for clarity, yet he could feel the pull of the darkness lulling him back into sleep. He didn't want to relax but the drug now coursing through his veins was exerting its hold and he gradually surrendered to it.

It took less than a minute for the drug to make its way into his system and Emma could feel his fingers go limp between hers as his eyelids began to droop. Now both anxious and excited, she clung somewhat frantically to his hand as the nurse scurried back to her station to try to locate his doctor. She wasn't thrilled that he'd needed to be sedated so soon after waking but understood that the panicked semi-conscious pirate could have inflicted serious injury to his windpipe or vocal cords had he managed to yank the tube out. The positive note was that he was regaining consciousness and if all went well, it was hopefully only a matter of time until Killian could fill in the missing pieces and help them track down his assailants. It also meant that he was one step closer to getting well and returning home but she found her thoughts interrupted yet again as the nurse returned with a middle aged woman clad in a white lab coat over a floral print dress whom Emma assumed was the doctor.

"We'll just need you to step outside for a few minutes," the nurse politely instructed as another person wearing hospital scrubs – presumably another nurse – entered with a tray full of supplies, none of which were even slightly recognizable to Emma. "The doctor just needs to run a few tests. It shouldn't take long and don't worry – he'll be fine."

"Of course," Emma replied cordially, managing a half-hearted smile. She didn't really want to leave, but she certainly could comprehend that she'd be in their way so reluctantly, she lowered his hand back to his side and backed away slowly, not taking her eyes off her husband until she reached the doorway. She would have remained there had the second nurse not followed her, pulling the door closed as Emma was forced out into the hallway.

"What's going on?" came the voice of her son behind her. Before turning to face him, she tried to conceal the forlorn expression she'd been wearing. He took a sip from the beverage cup he was holding as he awaited her response, but he didn't miss the fact that something was upsetting her.

"Hopefully it's something good," she replied. "Killian started to wake up."

"That's great!" the boy exclaimed, but his excitement was dampened when his mother didn't seem to emote the same. "That is a good thing, isn't it?"

"I guess – well, yes – it is a good thing, but he started to choke on the breathing tube trying to breathe on his own so the nurse had to sedate him so he wouldn't try to pull the tube out himself. Maybe it wasn't actually choking, but that's sure what it sounded like…"

"But it's not serious?"

"The nurse didn't make it sound like it was, but when she got back with the doctor, I got shushed out of the room, so I really don't know…" her voice cracked with the reply.

"Well – what does your gut tell you?" he asked her point blank, trying to remind her that her instincts were rarely wrong.

"I guess my gut says he's going to be fine," she laughed, thankful for the kick in the pants to bring her head back from the doldrums. "I just hate that I can't wave my hand and magically make everything better…" With the deputy on guard duty seated within earshot, Emma halted herself before anything else on the subject of magic escaped her mouth, certain that Henry would know precisely what she'd meant.

"It's going to be okay," he reassured his mother once again.

"And that's what I keep telling myself, Kid," she wrapped her arm around his shoulders once again, actually thankful that he'd defied her orders and tagged along so she'd have his support. "But since we're stuck out here for a few minutes, how about you help me find the vending machines? I think I'm in need of some chocolate therapy…"

Returning approximately twenty minutes later, Emma broke the last section of her chocolate bar in half as she strolled up to the re-opened door to Killian's room popping a portion into her mouth and handing the remaining one to Henry who carried her cup of hot chocolate. While it simply wasn't the same without whipped cream and cinnamon on top, it was the best she could find in this floor's vending area. She took a tentative peek inside before entering, hesitant at what might have transpired in the past few moments. The room was once again quiet and one distinct change caught her attention – a clear plastic oxygen mask now covered his nose and mouth. He hadn't yet awakened from the hasty sedative but watching him breathing entirely on his own was a welcome development.

The redheaded nurse, Jackie, if Emma's memory served her correctly, was busy hanging a new bag of fluids and making some adjustments to his IV, unfazed by her audience. She completed her task and picked up Killian's chart from the nightstand where she'd left it, making a few notes before tucking it under her arm.

"I try to sneak away to get some lunch and I miss all the excitement," Jackie said with a heavy dose of sarcasm, although the smirk on her face was clearly intending to set a lighthearted tone. "I see Kelly took good care of your husband while I was gone. The sedative she gave him should be wearing off soon, but don't be surprised if when he comes around that he still isn't able to speak. His throat will probably still be a little irritated, both from the breathing tube and from whatever volume of sea water he tried to inhale."

"Knowing Killian, he won't stay quiet for long. He'll probably be quite determined to make himself heard," Emma said with a snicker.

"I'll bring in some ice chips which will help soothe some of the irritation and he can have small sips of water. We'll see how he does this afternoon but be prepared for a lot of coughing and even possibly vomiting. He still has some water in his lungs that his body will try to expel. It doesn't help that the supplemental oxygen can dry out his throat even more, but he needs it so make sure he keeps the mask on as much as possible so his levels don't start dropping. We don't want to have to put that tube back in."

"I'll try my best, but I'm fully prepared for a battle. He can be a stubborn ass when he wants to be," Emma laughed as the nurse headed toward the door with a grin on her face as well.

"I'm on until four today. If you need me, just press that call button down there by his right hand. I made sure to place it where he could reach it himself if necessary."

"Thank you," Emma said, noting the location of the controller that housed the call button as well as the adjustment levers for the bed as she settled back into the chair beside her husband, not even noticing until her backside hit the seat that the uncomfortable molded plastic chair had been replaced with a wooden one that featured a padded upholstered cushion. It was as if the hospital staff had prepared for her to be sitting there for some time. Henry made his way back to the room's other chair by the window, but that one was still the plastic variety which didn't really concern the teen. He would have been happy to park himself on the laminate tile floor if necessary and if he'd had his choice, he'd stay here with his mom as long as she needed him, but he'd promised to return home to Storybrooke tomorrow where he would likely find himself grounded by his other mom.

All of the day's activity had Emma worn down so she shifted around to find a comfortable position in this new chair, finally leaning in as close as she could to her husband, her shoulder resting against the sturdy plastic railing on the side of the bed. She wanted to get some rest, but instead she found herself staring at Killian and noting all of the changes that had occurred since he'd first begun to regain consciousness. The head of the bed had been lowered to a less severe angle and he was no longer shrouded with the heavy blankets. He was now dressed in a standard pastel green hospital gown and covered with a crisp white sheet and a pale blue lightweight blanket both of which were pulled up to the middle of his chest. She could tell that the gown hadn't been tied behind his neck so they could easily lower it to access the bandages as needed. His right arm lay atop the covers – again likely for ease of access to the IV but his blunted left arm had been modestly tucked under the covers as though they were attempting to spare him any embarrassment or indignity.

For the first time that day, she found herself wondering how her husband had managed the foresight to bring his artificial hand. While McCallen hadn't mentioned the prosthetic he'd been wearing, Emma now realized that he must have had the gloved wooden hand or perhaps he hadn't been wearing one at all – although Jean Scott likely would have commented on something having been amiss had he strolled into her shop missing a hand or if he'd been wearing a hook at the end of his left arm. Based on Jean's own commentary, she'd spent plenty of time gawking at Killian but she hadn't noticed anything out of the ordinary so his hook must be back on the Jolly Roger – wherever she was moored at the moment.

Emma sighed loudly, overwhelmed with unanswered questions and an absolute mess of conflicting emotions. She was so thrilled to have found him, but simultaneously festering with anger at the men who'd put him here – not to mention the frustration that was reaching a boiling point over those missing hours. How had he gotten from Jean Scott's store out to that island? If he'd been taken out into the bay with a destination of Peaks Island, his abductors must have had a boat. Were they not able to locate the Jolly Roger so they just disposed of him or had he gone on the offensive and ended up failing miserably? All she really knew was that he'd been stabbed in the back – and not likely by accident - and he'd nearly drowned. Had he jumped overboard and somehow swam to she shoreline or had his captors dumped his wounded body into the ocean and he merely washed in with the tide? Did he really ever plan to lead them to his stash of doubloons or was he deliberately leading them astray in an attempt to escape – feeling safest at sea? There was so much she needed him to tell her because conjecture wasn't getting her anywhere. All of the answers lay within Killian Jones.

#cs ff #cs fanfic #cs fanfiction #captain swan ff #the right place

8 notes · View notes

madness-of-void · 7 years

Text

The Luna

Also on AO3

Theme: Pack Mom Stiles (with a twist)

Oh! And check out this link! You’ll find out why ;3

Stiles has no idea when or why he was dubbed the Pack Mom.

In fact, he had no idea he was dubbed Pack Mom.

Didn't start realizing it till until his birthday.

And it all started with Jackson.

Jackson gave him a mug that said World's Best Mom. At first, he thought it was just Jackson being Jackson. Because, well, even after finally accepting the fact that he was part of a pack (which was before Scott's acceptation), Jackson was still a massive douche. Barely calmed down at all.

After Stiles put down the mug, rolling his eyes, he opened his gift from Erica.

Which was an apron. An apron obviously designed in a fifties rockabilly fashion with a pink and white polka dot tie, pocket, neck strap, and bottom trimming. The rest of it was an elegant yellow, adorned with different colored cupcakes. Erica was smirking as he gaped at it in stunned silence. Everyone else, with the exception of Derek (who was just as stunned as Stiles), was laughing hysterically. He didn't understand why he was given such a frilly apron, but hah! Joke's on Erica! He liked it and was going to wear the shit out of this apron when he cooked and baked for the pack!

(No, really. He loved it. A lot.)

On his third gift, a necklace with a bear charm that had Mama etched into it...Stiles finally got the joke.

“Oh, haha. Very funny guys. Just because I like to make sure you losers eat healthy, and are patched up from your scuffles, doesn't mean I'm your mother.”

“Right. He is not our mother.” Lydia said haughtily

For a split second, Stiles was in love with her all over again. Until...

“He would have to be married to Derek for him to be our mother.”

Aaaaaand instant hatred. For the lot of them.

Except for Derek, who looked equally displeased with all of this.

Gift after gift...they were all themed in some way that he was the Pack Mom. Even Scott, even Allison, gave him mom themed gifts. It was growing pretty disheartening. He was losing his birthday cheer, looking gloomier and gloomier with each gift.

Then came Derek's.

It was a large as hell box. Could fit a litter of puppies plus the mother if needed. Which, with how he was feeling, a litter of puppies would be amazing right about now.

Instead, there was a brand new Mets cap, a new glove, a black duffle bag with sewn on Mets patches, an array of jerseys, and...and...

“Are these tickets to a Mets game?! At the actual stadium?!”

Derek ducked his head, sucking on his cheek and poorly hiding the red tints rising on his ears. “You said that you wanted to go. I could...I could sell them if you don't want them...”

“Are you kidding?! No way! Mine! No take backs! No take backs on anything you gave me!”

Stiles didn't miss the tension leaving the alpha's shoulders. Nor the fond grin that emerged.

Nothing after that could kill his mood. And fortunately, Derek must've set a trend, because there were no more mom themed gifts.

Kira got him a wolf hat that flowed into a scarf, or something of the like, that had wolf paws where he could but his hands in. And a fox beanie that she knitted herself!

His dad got him a whole bundle of yarn for his crime board, and markers to go with them.

Melissa got him a new plaid shirt with a massive black pawprint on the back that had his last name on it. (She insisted it wasn't a fortune to have it custom made, but Stiles didn't buy it for a moment and vowed to buy her a nice dinner when he could.)

Argent got him a Batman shirt. And a lot of cash. Like...a lot.

Then, it was discovered that everyone else had actually got him real gifts. The whole mom theme was just a joke based on how much Stiles really did behaved like a mom friend.

“Excuse you! I am not the mom friend!”

“You kinda are, dude...” Scott said with what could only be described as a cringe face.

“Am not!”

“Stiles...you really are.” Boyd sighed. “You take care of everyone. Not just your dad.”

“You soccer mommed me the other day.” Isaac pointed out. “You do that a lot, actually. More than Allison.”

“And I already do that a lot.” echoed Allison, shrugging.

“What? You don't like being our mom?” pouted Erica.

Stiles flushed, realizing that, yeah, maybe he was the mom friend. But that didn't mean anyone could torture him with that fact!

“Anyone that calls me mom again is...is grounded!” he huffed, nearly slamming down the Catwoman plush Erica got him. “And I hope you guys give all these mom themed gifts to the actual mom in this room! Except for the apron. That I'm keeping. And, just so you know, you have all been demoted, and Derek is officially my favorite person. Kira is still my second fave. No demotion for her.”

“What am I? Chopped liver?” his dad huffed in an eerily same way as his son. “I'm the one that suggested to Derek to get you Mets crap! Which, good on those tickets, Derek. That's been something he's wanted to do since he was five.”

Stiles looked over at Derek, who was bright red at this point, and cooed.

“Awwww! You asked my dad what to get me? You really do care!”

“Of course daddy cares...” grumbled Jackson with an eye roll.

Immediately, the entire room filled with disapproving shouts and gagging sounds. Lydia had to explain about the whole daddy kink fad, which was what Jackson deserved. Be scarred forever, Whittemore!

The party started to go by without incident. No more mom jokes, at least...

(Okay, that's a lie. Erica made one when Stiles decided to wear the apron as he made dinner.)

As the night wore on, everyone tried to weasel Stiles into giving them the second Mets ticket. Everyone but his father, Melissa, Argent, Kira, Allison, Lydia, and Derek.

His father declined, saying that he had seen enough Mets games in his lifetime. Melissa, Argent, Lydia, and Allison all informed Stiles that they weren't interested in baseball. Kira, although she liked baseball, wasn't a Mets fan, so she wouldn't be able to share his joy as much as she thought was deserved. Derek just kept to himself like always, only really lingering around Stiles when he was asked to help out with something.

Everyone else, however, tried to be all sweet to him. Tried to win him over.

For a time.

“C'mon, mom. You love me more than my other siblings.” Erica teased, arm wrapped around him.

Stiles scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Okay...you know what? Why do I have to be the mom? Why can't you guys have two Pack Dads? What's so wrong with that? And no. You are not coming with me, Erica. Boyd would die of a lonely, broken heart.”

“So...you want to be Pack Dad with Derek?” mused Lydia, this glint of knowing in her stare. “I like the sound of that.”

“I don't like the tone of your voice...”

“Why don't you take Derek to the game? Bond over the love of the game and your children.”

“You're not our children.” finally grunted Derek, ears bright red.

“Some of us kinda are. You did turn us.” Isaac said matter-of-factly.

“Then you're all terrible children.”

“Is this a werewolf thing?” asked the sheriff. “Because this whole Pack Mom, Pack Dad, Pack Dads talk is really, really weird.”

“I think it's just a them thing.” Argent replied with a sigh.

“It's no one's thing!” snapped Stiles. “I get it. I am a mom friend. I fuss over you idiots like I do with my dad. I try to take care of you and patch you up. But why do I have to be called the Pack Mom? Why can't I be Pack Dad? Or just Stiles? Can this not be a joke? Can we just...drop it? Please?”

That was the end of the Pack Mom jokes. The Pack Dad jokes.

At least for a while.

It was pack night a few weeks later when they made a reappearance.

Stiles was in Derek's kitchen, baking treats for the marathon of movies they were going to have. Derek was beside him, helping out and (surprisingly) making small talk. They mostly talked about the upcoming Mets games, since Stiles actually did decide to take Derek. They were cheerful, something rare for the alpha to show freely, and were enjoying each others company.

And then came the pack.

Scott arrived first, brows furrowed in confusion as he saw the interaction between his best friend and alpha. Kira followed closely behind, except she looked more excited than confused. Everyone else that filed in either gave Stiles and Derek weird looks (because apparently Derek smiling and laughing freely was considered unthinkable), or smirked suggestively at Stiles. It was creepy...

“Oh. Are mom and dad making us treats? And flirting? Yuck. Get a room.” Jackson snorted, waltzing in last like always.

Before Stiles could slam down his whisk and tell ex snakeskin to kindly fuck off...

“We are in a room. In my apartment.” spat Derek, eyes flashing red. “If you don't like what goes on in my own apartment, with whoever it is I am speaking or flirting with, then you can leave. And I think Stiles said to drop the Pack Mom jokes.”

Jackson made a disgusted, bratty face, doing some form of sarcastic jazz hands. “Fine. Dad and dad. Whatever. Just don't start pissing on him. Nobody wants him. He's all yours.”

“Hey! Werewolves don't piss on things to mark their territory!” Stiles barked. He then turned to Derek, voice in a low, hushed whisper, asking, “Do they?”

Derek threw him a glare, telling him, with mostly the eyebrows, that no, werewolves don't pee on things to mark them as theirs. Which, yeah. Stiles knew that. Totally knew it.

(Okay, maybe he didn't know. He had a hunch, but Wiki had been wrong before.)

“Wait...were you flirting with Stiles?” Scott inquired, his voice a little high and startled.

“You can't smell it?” scoffed Erica.

“It is so painfully obvious...” sighed Lydia.

“H-hey! We can hear you!” Stiles piped, face breaking out in embarrassed blotches. “We are in the next room!”

“Maybe then you'll finally get it on and save us from smelling or watching the pathetic pining.” retorted Boyd. (Surprisingly, 'cause Boyd never clapped back like that.)

“But then we'd smell the smugness and the s-” Isaac started to whine.

“Shut up!” shouted the men in the kitchen, both sharing the red coloration.

“Yeah. No need for the image of our dads going at it...” mumbled Jackson.

“We are not your dads!” Stiles bellowed, chucking the spoon he was using into the sink. “And I am not your mom! Come make your shit yourselves! I'm out!”

That wasn't a threat. Stiles literally stormed through the living room and out the door. He was done with this. Sick of being teased over something so stupid and pointless. Honestly...who even came up with it in the first place? When did it even get thought up?! Whoever thought of it, shared it with the pack, and decided to make sure it would haunt Stiles whenever it would be deemed fun should be locked in a room with wolfsbane petals!

(Not really. He would never condone something like that. Even though he was pissed off at them.)

As he was about to climb into his Jeep, a hand wrapped around his arm, stopping him mid sitting down. Which was not comfortable at all. He twisted around to the best of his abilities to see who it was. And, no surprise, it was Derek. Dejected as al -

Wait.

No.

He looked...

Kind of sad?

Stiles tried to not read too much into it. Or tried to pretend he wasn't, at least. “What? Gonna drag me back in there to hear them say sorry for the Pack Mom-Pack Dad crap, then do it all over again when they think I forgot it?”

Derek shook his head, biting at the inside of his lip. He was...incredibly vulnerable looking right now. It was weird. Maybe a bit concerning.

“Uhhhh...you okay there, Der? You have this look that kinda makes it seem like you may start crying? Are you gonna start crying? I'm not good with crying, man. I am worse with crying than I am with blood. I'm better with crying than needles...but that's not the point. The point is this: I can't do crying. I'm a sympathetic crier, too. So...please don't cry...”

“I'm not gonna cry, Stiles.” the wolf huffed, rolling his eyes. “I'm here to tell you that I knew someone who got teased just like this.”

“You...did? Who?”

There was a hesitant pause. Much swallowing, too. Like this was going to be difficult to say.

Stiles was about to tell him to not worry about. That he was going to suck it up and resign to his fate. But he was beaten to the chase by a semi choked up Derek Hale.

“My dad.”

Those words made Stiles' eyes round in horror and awe. Horror because, oh hell, Derek may actually cry since, well, the guy never talked about his family for probably the same reason Stiles didn't talk about his mother. Awe because, holy shit, Derek was talking about a member of his family with him. Him! Of all people! If Derek had talked about his family with almost anyone else, mostly someone like Kira or Melissa or even his own dad, that would've made much more sense!

But...him?

“When he was dating my mother, he was dubbed the Pack Mom for the same reasons you are. He cooked and baked, worried about everyone, fussed about health. Which, someone had to. My mother was being groomed to be the next alpha. And she couldn't cook worth a damn.”

The small chuckle that escaped the wolf made Stiles' heart and stomach do somersaults. The shy head dip to hide the equally shy smile and eye crinkle nearly made him fall right out of the Jeep. (And he was barely in it in the first place!)

“It drove him nuts. Not because it was killing his masculinity or anything. But because it almost sounded like a negative to him. Like he was being called a mother because he was doing stereotypical things for a woman. And to him...that wasn't right. Especially when Peter always made it sound like it was a negative.”

“Your dad was ahead of his time...”

“Well, he was dating a strong woman. Eventually married that strong woman. He didn't like the title being said negatively.”

“I don't blame him...”

Derek nodded, a sad smile crossing his lips. “My mother wasn't too keen with it, either. Mostly because it bothered my father. So she took him to my grandfather to discuss a new title. One that didn't feel like it was being said in a teasing, negative manner. They discussed Alpha's Mate. But...Alpha's Mate was...”

“Piling his worth into just being the alpha's pet, or something like that?”

Another nod. “That was vetoed real quick. Vice Alpha was a bit more formal, which was my grandfather's issue with the Pack Mom title, it wasn't formal, but my mother hated it. Dad didn't mind it, but he understood why his wife hated it. How it sounded like a pressured title.”

“Are you saying that he didn't find something else for him to be called and he was doomed to forever be called Pack Mom?”

He shook his head, a strange seriousness enveloping him. “No. He was given the highest title an outsider of the Pack could be given.”

“Which is...?”

“The Luna.”

Stiles blinked, understandably confused. The Luna? What in the hell was The Luna?

“The Luna is the highest honor in the pack. The right hand, the partner, the equal to the alpha. Not just a second-in-command. Something greater. Higher than a mate, even. And that already is high in the werewolf world, even though it does sound a little downgrading to some. If you insult The Luna, harm The Luna, anger The Luna, do anything that would be disrespectful to The Luna...there are consequences. Depending on what is done to The Luna, the consequences can be benign or severe. Mom thought that was perfect for my father, who was as much of a provider as she was going to be. Maybe even more so. My grandfather wasn't too keen on it, especially because my father was not only an outsider to the pack...but a human. Thought it was too high of an honor. My mother fought tooth and nail till it was announced that dad was going to be The Luna.”

That was...wow. That was a lot to take in. And it was mind blowing to find out that tad bit about Derek's family. He had assumed that the Hales were all werewolves, with the exception of the few he had heard about from Argent.

“I didn't know that your dad was human...” he finally said in a small voice, sitting fully in the driver's seat now.

“I tell you all of that...and that's what you got out of it?”

“N-no! Not at all! Just...I...I just...I heard that there were some humans that were in the fire...I just...”

“Didn't think any of them were part of my immediate family?”

“Kinda?”

Derek shrugged, a melancholy glimmer in his kaleidoscope stare. “An aunt, three cousins, an uncle, my dad, and my youngest brother were all human.”

“You had a brother?”

“Yeah...his name was Leoric. Leo for short. He idolized me. Tried to be just like me. Our bonding time was us in the kitchen, baking cookies with dad. Or playing baseball. He was the youngest one to die...only six...”

“Oh fuck...Derek...I'm...you know...”

“Sorry? Yeah. Yeah, I know.”

There was solemn silence between them. Hung sourly, chillingly in the air.

Until Stiles timidly broke it.

“So...why did you tell me all that? Besides saying that you knew somebody that knows my sudden pain?”

Derek's ears went bright red, which started to bleed down to his cheeks. Didn't take long before it clicked, and Stiles was eternally grateful he decided to actually sit down in his Jeep. Because if he was still half up and half not...he would've face planted it onto the gravel beneath him.

“Wait...are you...are you telling me that you want to make me The Luna?” he gawked in disbelief. “Holy shit! You were flirting with me! That wasn't just those assholes teasing us! Oh my god! You like me!”

“I know. I'm surprised by it, too.”

“But...that title? The Luna? Are you kidding me? That's way too high of an honor!”

“And you deserve it.”

Stiles leaned into his seat, gaping and unable to understand the magnitude. It was a bit overwhelming. And it was...surreal...to hear that Derek wanted to give him the same title that his dad had. He wanted to decline it, because he didn't feel worthy in the slightest. It would be a dishonor to Derek's late father.

The amount of faith and trust Derek had to give Stiles this title was...astronomical.

“We'll talk about it with the pack tomorrow. Hopefully it will make this whole parent thing go away.”

“Huh? Tomorrow? Aren't you taking me back up there?”

“No. I'm taking you on a date. The 'kids' have the phone number for the pizza place.”

“What about the stuff we were baking?”

“Isaac knows how to use the food sealer. He promised to seal them and put them in the freezer. Allison and Kira are helping him.”

Stiles nodded, face scrunched up in skepticism. “You said you're taking me on a date?”

“Yes?”

“O-o-okay. Cool. Yeah. Awesome. A date. Um...wow...you were really flirting with me...”

“Proper response to you flirting with me.”

“Oh...oh, I was told you didn't notice that. That's what I get for trusting Scott. Then again...he does miss a lot of things.”

Derek chuckled, a true blue smile following suit. Then, he grabbed Stiles' knees, carefully pulling him out of the Jeep. There was a playful fire in his eyes. Something Stiles hadn't really seen to this caliber before. Made his heart race and his skin buzz.

“Come on. Let's go celebrate your new title in the pack.” cooed Derek, obviously knowing what he was doing to Stiles.

Asshole. Big, huge, pain in the ass asshole.

But a cute asshole.

Who promoted him to the highest honor in a werewolf pack because...he saw his father in him? Or maybe it was because the broody wolf really enjoyed Stiles' company? Who knows? No matter the reason, it was humbling to know that he was trusted and valued enough in Derek's eyes to have the same title as his father. To be The Luna.

And humbled that he was told some things about the late Hales. Maybe in the future he would learn more. He sure hoped so. Because Derek taking Stiles on a date? Smiling like that? Opening up? There was no way in hell that Stiles was going to let go any time soon.

Or ever.

12 notes · View notes

almostafantasia · 7 years

Text

sail with me to someplace new

clexa pirate au | chapter 2/13

Summary: When Clarke learns that her father’s trading ship has been attacked by pirates, she sets out on a daring rescue mission. The only problems – Jake could be being held prisoner anywhere in the Caribbean and Clarke has never sailed a ship before. To help save her father’s life, Clarke attempts to enlist the help of the notorious Captain Lexa Woods, a fearsome pirate who is just as broody and mysterious as she is unwilling to offer her assistance.

Read on AO3.

Once the girl has been checked over for any major concerns and tucked into bed amongst a pile of soft blankets in the spare upstairs bedroom of the Griffin cottage, there’s really not much more that can be done other than to wait for her to rouse from her sleep.

Clarke finds herself on duty as the evening draws in, with her mother busy tending to another patient downstairs, and she sets herself up in the corner of the spare room with a few sheets of yellowing paper and a piece of charcoal, watching over the girl as she sleeps peacefully in the bed. The lighting in the room is almost perfect for drawing, dusky light filtering in through the shutters on the window and a lone candle flickering softly on the table beside the bed illuminates the girl’s face in a hazy orange glow and dark shadows. Clarke amuses herself by lightly outlining the curve of the sleeping girl’s forehead and the sharp planes of her jaw, then traces over her pale sketch with much bolder lines, smudging in the shadows using the residue of charcoal that gathers on the pad of her left thumb as she draws.

The light outside the room shifts, gloomier than before as night starts to fall across the pale face before Clarke in a slightly different way than it did a minute ago, and Clarke has to complete the last few patches of light and dark through guesswork so as to not ruin her sketch with misplaced shading.

Letting the sketch of the girl slide from her lap to the floor, Clarke takes up a second piece of paper and turns her attention to the candle beside the bed. With only a third of the candlestick remaining, the wax drips down the side in a way that is most aesthetic, collecting unevenly at the base of the candle. Clarke takes up the charcoal once more, intent on capturing the beauty of the candle and its wavering orange flame, but no sooner has she put charcoal to paper, does she hear a raspy breath from the bed, followed by some choking coughs.

Clarke is on her feet in no time at all. The paper and charcoal fall forgotten to the floor and she lunges for the small metal bucket that stands near the foot of the bed, thrusting it into the newly awoken girl’s lap just in time for her to retch into it.

“Mother!” Clarke calls out. She backs away from the bed enough to reach the door, which she opens while still keeping both eyes on the spluttering girl, and then shouts slightly louder out into the hallway at the top of the stairs. “Mother, she’s awake!”

Abby arrives quickly, her footsteps getting gradually louder as she races up the wooden staircase and bursts through the doorway into the spare bedroom. The girl, no longer throwing up into the bucket and now slightly more awake and aware of her surroundings, looks around the room with an expression of utter confusion on her face.

“Where am I?” she rasps. “Who are you? Where is my brother?”

“You’re in Nassau,” Abby explains kindly, as she moves away from the bed for just a few seconds to pick up a tankard full of water left on top of the dresser earlier in the evening. Taking the bucket from the girl and placing it back down on the floor next to the bed just in case, Abby offers the water to the girl and continues, “You washed up on the beach here. My name is Abby and I’m a doctor. As for your brother, I’m afraid I can’t answer that until I know who you are.”

Eying the strangers around her cautiously, the girl answers with just a single word.

“Octavia.”

Abby leans over and wraps the blankets tighter around the shivering girl, cocooning her in their soft warmth.

“Where do you come from, Octavia?” she asks.

“England,” the girl answers, her voice still just a croak, and she takes a long swig of water from the pitcher cupped in her trembling hands. “Bellamy and I, we…”

“Bellamy is your brother?” Abby asks for clarification and Octavia responds with a nod.

“We were on a boat bound for Jamaica. After our mother died, Bellamy got a job on a boat but I had nowhere to go. One of the sailors on Bellamy’s ship helped to smuggle me onboard and hid me behind a loose panel in the brig. He said that once the boat made it to the Caribbean, he would bring me to his wife and that she would give me a place to sleep. Only we never made it. Pirates attacked our ship and took hostage anybody they didn’t kill. The only reason I made it out was because I was hidden deep in the ship when it was blown apart.”

Octavia’s face screws up in deep thought as she recalls the painful memories.

“One minute I was holding on for my life to a piece of debris from the ship,” she continues, “and the next I was here in this bed.”

She looks up, first to Abby and then to Clarke, her expression expectant as if hoping for one of them to fill in the gaps in her memory. Clarke doesn’t really know what to say beyond what has already been said – that Octavia washed up on the shore and that the plan is for Abby to take care of her until she is fit enough to be alright on her own. Or at least, that was the plan. Knowing what she does now, that Octavia is all alone on what is not only a completely new island, but one that is on the other side of the world to her previous home, Clarke gets an uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach at the thought of letting the girl go out there on her own once she is back to full health.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Abby says sincerely.

“Bellamy isn’t dead!” Octavia is quick to protest, raising her voice, though the strain is slightly too much for her this soon and she starts coughing once more, her face and the upper part of her neck turning a deep red colour as she struggles to breathe unobstructed.

“I was talking about your mother,” Abby explains. “I’m sure your brother is still out there somewhere.”

Octavia drains the rest of the water in her recovery, her features still slightly red but the nasty wheezing cough no longer there, and then sets the empty metal tankard down on the table beside the bed with a heavy clunk. Abby reaches out for it immediately and passes it across to Clarke.

“Clarke, would you please fetch her some more water?”

Clarke inclines her head slightly in obedience and gets to her feet, the handle of the pitcher grasped tightly with the fingers of her left hand.

“Clarke? As in Clarke Griffin?”

Clarke stills, a prickly shiver slowly makes its way down her spine, almost as somebody is dripping tiny amounts of ice cold water down the back of her shirt. She pivots on the spot, staring at the girl that lies in amongst the sheets and blankets on the bed, and with her voice barely more than a whisper, Clarke says, “How do you know my name?”

Octavia swallows visibly, then answers, “Clarke is an unusual name for a girl. Your father…” Octavia trails off, her teeth digging anxiously into her lower lip as her green eyes flicker between Abby and Clarke, testing for their reactions before she continues, “was the man who helped to hide me on the ship. He smuggled food and water down to me and…”

It is as if the entire world has stopped around Clarke and nothing exists except this moment; Octavia staring up at her with a look of apologetic concern as the implication of her words seep into every fibre of Clarke’s body with a chilling sense of horror. Clarke’s emotions are in turmoil, somewhere between trepidation and pure nausea, and what can only be a fraction of a second seems to drag on for hours as the terror sets in completely.

“Dad was on your ship?” she chokes past the lump that has formed in the back of her throat. Raising her voice as much as she can, Clarke takes a couple of steps closer to Octavia’s bed and says, “The ship that got attacked by pirates? What happened to him? Where is he?”

“Clarke!”

Abby’s hand lands firmly on Clarke’s shoulder, stopping her from getting any closer to Octavia. She struggles slightly but Abby’s grip remains strong, and Clarke has to relent, her shoulders slumping in defeat.

“I don’t know,” Octavia tells them, voice pleading and eyes shimmering with the threatening onset of tears. “I don’t know what happened to any of them.”

Clarke turns her attention to her mother and sees the same resounding sadness that she feels overwhelming her own mind reflected on Abby’s tired face.

“He’s going to be okay, Clarke,” Abby says, her voice determined but shaky, and Clarke wonders briefly how much her mother actually believes those words herself. “The Royal Navy won’t stand for this. They’re rounding up pirates and they’ll catch those responsible to have them hung for their crimes and Jake will come back to us as if it never happened. He’s going to be fine.”

Clarke wants to believe her mother, she really does, but just the thought of pirates destroying her father’s ship and kidnapping him is enough to open up a hole of despair deep within Clarke’s chest that seems to suck all positivity out of her body. She swallows, a tricky feat considering the painful lump still lodged in her throat, and blinks back her tears, willing herself to keep it together at least until she is alone and can let it all out.

“Water, Clarke,” Abby says once more, gesturing to the tankard that is still clutched in Clarke’s white knuckle grip.

Clarke spares one last look at Octavia, whose eyes are filled with a pleading apology, then hurries out of the room and down the stairs to the kitchen. Once there, she places the tankard down on the table and leans against the wall, one of her hands covering her eyes as she takes several deep breaths and tries not to imagine the kind of trouble that her father might be in. It’s difficult not to though, and Clarke can’t help but picture Jake locked up in the brig of an enormous pirate ship, a piece of cloth in his mouth as a gag and his hands tied behind his back with a length of coarse rope.

She’s saved from the terrible images racing through her mind, and the possibility that Jake Griffin’s situation could be much worse than what she’s currently picturing, by a heavy knock on the front door of the cottage. Abandoning the task given to her by her mother, Clarke rushes to answer it, flinging the door open to reveal the sailor from the docks earlier in the day.

“Lincoln,” Clarke greets him, standing aside to let him into the house.

The ever-present frown still etched on his surly face, Lincoln steps through the door and lets Clarke close it behind him.

“How is she?” he asks.

Lincoln follows Clarke into the kitchen and watches as she hastily fills the tankard with water.

“She’s awake,” Clarke tells him, guiding him towards the staircase with the full mug of water clutched in her hands. “You can see for yourself.”

Once upstairs, Clarke re-enters the spare bedroom with Lincoln on her heels to find Abby leaning over Octavia pressing a wet cloth to her forehead and taking her temperature with the thermometer protruding from between Octavia’s lips.

“This is Lincoln,” Clarke tells the girl as she places the tankard down on the nightstand where it is easily accessible for Octavia to reach on her own. “He was there when we found you on the beach. He’s the one who carried you here.”

Lincoln nods a silent greeting to Octavia, who in turn gives the newcomer an appraising glance from head to toe and then, her voice muffled slightly by the thermometer caught between her lips, offers a soft, “Thank you.”

Lifting the cloth from Octavia’s forehead and extracting the thermometer from her mouth, Abby stands upright, her face doused in concern.

“I think she’s coming down with a bit of a fever. I’m going to make some soup for her. Can you stay here with her please, Clarke?”

Abby gives Clarke a certain look, her brown eyes filled with a glare of warning as if to say don’t you dare do anything stupid while I’m gone. Clarke manages to stop herself from rolling her eyes and forces herself to nod as she obediently answers, “Yes, mother.”

Abby has barely left the room before Clarke’s mind is whirring ahead, her mouth moving even faster.

“So, about your brother…”

“I need to find him,” Octavia insists, her green eyes fierce as if to challenge Clarke to tell her otherwise. “As soon as I’m strong enough to leave this bed, I’m going out there to look for him.”

“And I’m going with you,” Clarke says determinedly, through clenched teeth. “If what you’re saying is true, my father has been kidnapped by pirates too. We can find them together.”

Lincoln, still lurking in the shadows by the door, steps forward until his face is illuminated by the light of the candle that still burns beside the bed.

“I think I know somebody who can help.”

The plume of smoke that stretches up from the charred remains of the destroyed ship into the sky like a huge infernal tower is visible from miles away. On a clear day like today, it acts like a beacon, probably visible to half of the Caribbean.

Most pirates know who is responsible for the destruction, and most pirates know to stay away.

Captain Lexa Woods is not like most pirates.

“It’s Nia again, isn’t it?”

Lowering her brass telescope, Lexa hooks it back onto the leather belt that hangs loosely around her hips and turns to address the sandy haired boy at her side, who stares out at the debris in the distance with an expression of dumbfounded shock on his face.

“It is,” Lexa confirms with a nod.

“Why does she do it?”

The tone of his voice, the innocence of the words that are coming from someone who has seen some bad things in his short lifetime, but is still really just a boy, who can’t yet have a true understanding of what evil is, is enough to send a desperate need to protect her youngest crew member straight through Lexa’s weary heart.

“I wish I knew that, Aden,” Lexa answers wistfully.

It is indeed a question that has plagued Lexa’s mind during many long and sleepless nights aboard her ship Polis, but she still can’t work out why Captain Nia seems so intent on destroying everything that Lexa has ever worked towards. In fact, the best and only reason she’s managed to come up with is spite, which still doesn’t feel like a very good explanation. If Lexa has learnt anything in her lifetime, it’s that a pirate won’t usually do anything if there isn’t some kind of personal reward at the end of it.

“Maybe she’s just a bad person,” suggest Aden.

“Maybe,” Lexa replies noncommittally.

“What’s the plan?” Aden asks, his eyes wide in anticipation as he awaits the orders from his captain. “Are we going after her?”

Lexa shakes her head.

“That’s what she wants us to do. We’re going to carry on as normal. We’re docking in Nassau tonight to restock the ship. We’ll spend two nights there I think, maybe three. The crew deserve a little rest.”

Amused, Aden says, “You know that they’ll spend the entire time drinking and whoring, don’t you?”

“Who am I to stop them?” Lexa shrugs, “They’re good men.”

“And what will you do?” Aden asks, his voice full of childlike curiosity.

Lexa narrows her eyes, deep in thought, her gaze not shifting from the smoking wreckage of the ship as she ambiguously replies, “I’ll find something to keep me busy.”

#clexa #clexa fanfic #clarke griffin #commander lexa #pirate au #swmtsn #almostafantasia

15 notes · View notes

teaandgames · 7 years

Text

Making A House A Home - Skyrim, Part 7

In Making A House A Home, I explore what it’s like to settle down a build a house in video games. It’s a completely peaceful life. Promise. First up, is Skyrim.

After determining that the general store was of no help to me, I flounced out of the door with the owner still shouting after me. Ignoring the greetings of the townsfolk, I zoom back to Lakeview Manor. It’s stopped raining now but the door awkwardly leading to nothing makes the house a bit of a sore sight. To get more though, I need that quarried stone. I set off around the perimeter again, looking for any patch of stone that looked even slightly different. So began five minutes of poking my head into every corner of my land.

Are you quarried stone? I asked the mudcrab. It gave no answer, save to burst into flames. Are you quarried stone? I asked the moose. It gave no answer, save to run away. Are you quarried stone? I asked the condundrum vein that was always on my property and would’ve saved me time and money. It gave no answer, save to mock me. Are you quarried stone? I asked the dead conjurer. It gave no answer, save to… well actually, he didn’t do much. Are you quarried stone? I asked the patch of stone right next to the sodding workbench. Yes, it said. So why the bloody hell didn’t I see you earlier?

No matter, no use crying over spilled time. Just before I set to work, I check on my log store. Looks like the bloke in Riverwood delivered, but there seems to be less there than I was expecting. Hopefully that won’t come back to bite me. The quarried stone comes complete with its own pickaxe, but thankfully I liberated one from some dead guy a while back. I hit A on the quarried stone and sit back. I need about twelve more pieces and it comes in groups of four, on every third hit. That’s one piece free. Good-With-Wood isn’t too slow with the old pick and I quickly have enough.

With this freshly mined stone, I can lay the foundations of the main building. It’s plonked down and I notice another feature of Skyrim that doesn’t quite mesh with this house building malarkey: the plants are sticking up through the foundations. Given that the foundations of a building are supposed to be super flat, this seems like it could cause some problems. I guess if you’re unable to cut this super tough grass, just build around it. Either way, I use up half the log store building up the walls and forge some nails for the roof. Finally, we have a proper house! I wander inside and am pretty pleased with the handiwork. Granted it’s generic Skyrim house, but hey at least it’s mine.

It is a little disappointing that every Lakeview Manor is going to look exactly the damn same, though. When Hearthfire was first announced, my hope was for something a bit like how Fallout 4 did it (and we’ll be moving on to Fallout 4), with all the bits and pieces that you can freely place down. Instead it’s just kind of ticking off a bunch of checkboxes. No matter, it’s time to add a cellar to our masterpiece. Unfortunately, that requires fifty quarried stone. It’s probably best not to make a cellar out of wood beams, I guess.

I set Good-With-Wood to work on the quarried stone patch again. It’s destined to take close to forty hits to get all the stone. This time it feels very slow indeed. After sitting there for a few minutes, I decide to open up the wiki and check out quarried stone, too see if there’s an easier way to get it. There isn’t. And as I promised to spawn nothing in but money, I let Good-With-Wood do his thing. Fifty stone later, which Good-With-Wood can just carry without being encumbered, I add a cellar to my house.

I wander inside, noting how drab the place looks. Furniture would come later but the fact that there were no real windows into the place didn’t help. Oh, to see the sun. The cellar was much gloomier. It was creepy, to be honest. There were insets in the walls that looked suspiciously like the shelves that the draugr are often found on. Deciding not to dwell on that, I instead jog back outside and build an animal pen and garden. That’s despite not owning any animals or having many plants. I plant some wheat for good measure and stand back. The house is starting to look pretty good.

#Skyrim #Elder Scrolls #The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim #Hearthfire #Gaming #Video Games #RPG #Making A House A Home #Tea And Video Games #Article

1 note · View note

undertop · 7 years

Text

Part 7—Peek Behind the Curtain

Some time had passed since Frisk first joined the circus. In their time in this mesmerizing place, the child had slowly grown accustomed to seeing monsters of all shapes and sizes, helping with whatever task they could in the meantime. Cleaning the grounds, assisting with the game stalls, and even helping to prepare meals for the other performers—surely, there was no end to all the duties they could perform! In a way, this was a good thing, as it made the days fly by fast, and work proved to be ample distraction from gloomier thoughts. On their free days, the little human would meet with Papyrus to practice with him, steadily improving both their balance and their sense of timing as the two worked on a new clowning routine. Of course, it didn’t help that Sans would pop in at seemingly the most inopportune times, but even this became just another part of an expected schedule. And, all things considered, the pros of living with such a lively (and at times mysterious) crowd proved to far surpass the cons.

Truly, things were looking up for the little human, indeed.

A bit early on one particular evening, Frisk was just finishing up with their chores of the day, sorting through costumes that would be used in an upcoming performance. It was then that they saw a shadow looming over them, covering their own with its larger size. Craning their head upwards, the human caught sight of a slightly-familiar face, smiling up nervously at the man above them.

“Ugh, why do they always move the old suits to this tent…funny, I figured they would have given you a costume by now. Or did you not ask yet, dearie?”

*Hello—uh, um…?

He wore an almost-neon-blue shirt, which hung loosely from both of his shoulders like drapery. His face, while partially hidden by a wall of well-kept hair, wore upon it a friendly expression, his bright lips turned upwards in an expectant smile as Frisk addressed him. Unfortunately, the man’s name seemed to be on the tip of their tongue, but in the end they simply couldn’t remember. This was a little odd, of course, as the daredevil insisted on having his poster appear in nearly every tent, leaving a splash of pink and purple bombast in his wake wherever he went.

“Why, where are my manners? My name is Mettaton, my dear, I’m sure it’s a pleasure for you to make my acquaintance!”

*Nice to meet you. I’m Frisk!

“That’s a rather cute name! Could look good on paper, for sure.”

Shaking the human’s hand, Mettaton straightened once again, biting down against his lip as he looked upon the racks of clothes with visible disappointment, moving like the wind to rifle through outfit after outfit. Certainly, he didn’t find what he’d been looking for on the coat hangers, grumbling to himself before making a dramatic show of leaning against one of the dressers.

“God, I can’t believe that man! He never tells me where he’s put my clothes after they’re moved, that bum!”

Stamping his heel into the ground for emphasis, Mettaton hoisted Frisk from where they’d been and led them out of the tent, heading out to one place in particular as the child stammered in confusion.

*A-ah, I-I haven’t finished my work yet, though!

“Don’t worry your pretty little head over that, dear. I’ll make sure to get someone on that soon.”

Dazzling Frisk with a smirk and a wink, Mettaton carried on, pleased to see that the child was quick to keep up with his wide gait as he strut along, finally letting go of their hand after a few moments.

Soon after, the odd pair had made their way to a shabby, tan-colored tent, which sat on the edge of the circus grounds. Barging in without so much as knocking on the support post, Mettaton stormed inside, with the human following after him in curiosity. It seemed to be filled with nothing but piles and piles of fabric, beads and spools of thread, making the interior seem more like a bizarre art display than any living quarters Frisk had ever seen

“Terrence! Where are you hiding now, jerk!?”

“Can you not YELL!? I’m working on something here!”

From within the tent came a gruff, hostile-sounding voice; to be sure, the source was not as intimidating as the child would have believed. Around a small mountain of costumes sat yet another man on a little wooden stool, whose pale skin was mostly hidden away behind a thick woolen sweater, his blond hair looking quite messy and his orange eyes quite fierce. All in all, aside from the long scar across his face, he looked no different from any other human, although…he did seem a bit more eager to get aggravated.

“Just where did you put my new suit? I couldn’t track it down in all the tents!”

“How the hell should I know? Not like I’m the one who made it. The ol’ man’s got his new special tailor around, don’t he?”

“Ohhhh my God, I can taste the salt in your voice from where I stand. The new tailor’s plenty good, you know! Maybe you should help him instead of being such a stick in the mud.”

“And maybe you could keep out of my business! I dunno where your damn bedazzled tracksuit is, so let me get back to my knitting before I stab you with my needles!”

Feeling a little awkward to be standing there in the midst of an argument that had nothing to do with them, Frisk turned to leave, catching the former tailor’s eyes as his next rebuttal got caught in his throat.

“Dammit, Haps, what’re you doing? You didn’t tell me you had a kid with ya! I nearly blew my top off here…”

Blushing ferociously and settling down far too quickly for words, Terrence exhaled and tried to use his indoor voice, ignoring Mettaton’s smug-as-hell smirk as he addressed the skittish child.

“Yo, kiddo, sorry for going off like that. Do you need something?”

*W-well, uh—

“They don’t have a costume yet! At the very least, if you can’t be of use to me, be of use to them and fashion them something for the upcoming performance.

*I don’t even know if I’ll be performing, though!

Giggling, Mettaton pat Frisk on their head, ruffling their hair before speaking a bit more softly.

“Believe me, with the way Gaster looks at you, I have no doubt he’ll be asking for your help soon. Meanwhile…Terrence, help the cute kid out.”

“Yeah, whatever…”

Getting to his feet with a tired sigh, Terrence looked Frisk over with his sharp eyes, meeting their gaze as he lifted his brow in monotone surprise.

“Kid, are you the one who wants a makeover, or did my dumb cousin drag you over here against your will?”

“How dare you accuse the amazing Mettaton of such a—”

“Blink twice for yes.”

Giggling shyly at this back and forth, Frist shook their head, holding onto their fraying, worn-out sweater with a conflicted look.

*Can I just perform in what I’m wearing?

“Nah, ‘fraid not. But! If you want, I can patch it up a bit for ya, make it look spiffy. Heck, I can do it while you’re still wearing it, if you don’t mind giving me an hour o’ your life.”

*That sounds great! You’re…uh, really nice.

Smiling awkwardly as Frisk gave him a compliment, Terrence cleared his throat and swapped spots with his fellow human, shooting Mettaton a glare as he sucked in a breath.

“You can leave, you know. I already answered your question.”

“No, because I want to see you work. And you can’t do anything about my fabulous butt being planted in your nearest chair.

Muttering curses just under his breath, the tailor shook off his cousin’s annoying behavior, refocusing on the task at hand.

“Ok, kid. Raise your arms up, and I’ll get to sealing up those holes in your sleeves…”

“Well? What do you think, kiddo?”

With Mettaton holding straight an oblong mirror and Terrence looking over his handicraft, he seemed to crack his first genuinely proud look before Frisk, nearly beaming at how well he’d restored the fabric. Meanwhile, the child was very busy looking at the sweater in pure delight, giggling and feeling up the renwed cloth with nothing short of pure joy.

*This is incredible! Thank you so much!

“Nah, this was nothin’. Just don’t go and tear it up so much next time, or you’ll have to sit through watching my dumb mug work again.”

“I must say, you actually did rather well, Madsy.”

“You owe me dinner, man. And use my real name, will you?”

Just as it seemed as though the two would start arguing again, the growling of Frisk’s stomach at the mention of dinner made them stop in their tracks, heated words soon replaced by dumb laughter from all parties involved.

“Oi, come on then! You’re treating me and the kid to dinner!”

As many of the troupe were making merry under another setting sun, Gaster was busy cooped up in his home, sorting through papers and schedules strewn about his desk. One had to work hard to keep such a large-scale circus running, after all, and so he focused at the task at hand, not taking off so much as his top hat as he hoped to finish up earlier.

Or at least, so went the original plan.

After losing himself in his documents for quite some time, the ringleader paused to simply lean back in his chair, absentmindedly weaving a few bits of dark-matter magic in his hand. He watched as the black substance oozed from between the shadowed cracks of his skeletal fingers, winding itself into many shapes; from a spider’s web to a pitch-stained heart and even to a little ringed planet that brought an inexplicable smile to his face, it seemed to re-shape itself in many creative ways. Now of course, this would have been more than enough to keep Gaster content for a good while. However, the moment he let the magic fade, his skull became overwhelmed with a splitting migraine, making the tired ringleader mutter darkly to himself.

*(Agh…dammit all…)

Thinking too hard was bad for his health, of course. And so was exerting himself, but he seemed to be an expert at doing so, anyway. And yet, was it simply too much to ask to unwind using his charming skills?

*(Serves me right for being so over-excited with the performance yesterday…)

Yes, perhaps he should have known by now not to be as bombastic and dazzling as he was known to be on stage, but there wasn’t any fun in keeping to one’s limits! Although, he had to admit that he hated when he couldn’t even think because of his own headaches…

Sighing, he reached for a tissue from the box on his desk, feeling the sting of a viscous substance streaking again his cheek. Gaster tried to rid himself of the thick, black fluid that escaped his eye, trying to brush off it and the headache before conceding to finding himself some medicine for his irksome situation.

*́W͘él̛l. Se͞ems̵ like ̸you’̶r͝e ́g͡ett̵i̢ng ͡al̕o̡n͞g ͟q͏u͜ite̕ well͠ ̨wi͏t̕h̀ the ̵newbi͜e̕,͝ ͜a̢r̡en’t yo̶u͜?̧

Suddenly, the room went cold.

Gaster froze in his tracks, turning his head and staring down menacingly to the figure that floated just off of the ground before him, smiling wickedly in content to meet his gaze. As the hallowed being showed off its teeth, Gaster lowered his eyes to the ground, refusing to play along with its little game and shoving aside his inner fears as he searched for the medication with a bit more concern.

*(…since when have you been able to roam about as you please?)

Stiffening as the ephemeral creature cackled and hopped cross-legged onto his bed, Gaster did not turn to face them, instead rifling through his possessions until he came upon what he’d been looking for.

*Si͘n͟c̡e̵ ̀w͟h͞e̴n h͘av͞e ỳou͝ b̛ee͏n͜ so ҉ne̶rvous͘ ̛t͢o s̸ee̛ m̢e̴, ́Doc͟t̶o̶r͠?

*(I don’t know, probably since the day I met you. Nothing but an unpleasant thorn in my side, now…you can’t do anything in your sorry state, I’m sure of that.)

Keeping his words clipped and icy, the ringleader grit his teeth as they used his old title, clearly taking great displeasure from this little turn of phrase.

*Hehe̴he̕h! ̛Yoú c͝àl͏l ͠t̷ha҉t͝ ҉u҉n͝p̢l̡easant̀?͜ ͠Do̕ct͜or҉,͝ t͏h̵at͞ wa̸s ̕j̛u҉s̷t á lit̸tle̸ ͢op͠e͜ni͘ng̨ a͞c̛t̸, ͘y̕ou k͢n̷ow͟ ͞t͘ha̵t.̵!

That distorted, grainy, snickering voice was enough to make one go mad.

Straightening, the lithe child hopped over onto Gaster’s table, stopping him short of opening the amber bottle in his hands as they brushed their pale fingertips to his face. Gaster was horrified to find that their touch was nearly tangible, and yet he stared up at them without showing any signs of distress, gritting his teeth to hold back nasty words.

*̨You k̶noẃ,҉ ̵y͟óu’̢d̀ ̵lǫok so̢ ̢muc̴h b̛e͢tt͞er̛ ͡if ̨you͝ ̷let ̵me ̡s̀másh͘ ̷t̛ha͝t҉ ̨ot̵her eye̕ óf y̨ou͏r̨s ̶t͏o͠ p̷iece̴s͟.̛ Th̀én ̴a͟ģa̛i҉n,̢ I ͠gu͘es̵s̶ ͟yo̴ú ̢wo̶úld͜n̢’͡t ͘be͡ loo̷k͘ing ̡fo̡r ́mu̶c͜h̶ ̧lon҉ge͜r,͜ hu͘h́?

As they drew back their hands to stifle more hideous laughter, Gaster quickly downed the contents of the bottle, returning to his desk and doing his best to ignore them as he slammed the empty vial against his tabletop.

*(They can’t harm you, nor anyone. Just breathe and go back to work…)

Quickly thereafter, he could almost believe it to be true, as the being clinging to his neck and whispering in his ear faded away with the departure of his monstrous headache, the black liquid finally finding pause from dripping down his face. In what could only be described as the most exhausted sighs of relief, Gaster took a breath before he carried on with his task.

And so, he cast off dreadful thoughts as the last wind-blown murmurs of murderous laughter continued to make him shudder well into the night, the chill of ghostly fingertips still palpable against his jaw.

*R̛u̢n,́ ͏Ḑo͞c̴to̸r G̨ast͟e̵r.͟

*K͟eep run͝n͠in͟g̵.̷ ̴

*T͏ha͡t̵'s̴ all̷ ̢you̵'r̵e̸ g͢o̸o͞d̕ ͠for.̕

ACT 1: 1/2/3/4/5/6

#undertale #undertop #under-top #undertale circus au #gaster #mettaton #frisk #chara #mad dummy #terrence b. mads #Act of Faith #mod t #mod s #mod k #mod T was writing until the early morn and now she's gonna go enjoy her bdaaaay~!

61 notes · View notes