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sweetestlamb · 3 years

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Bad Idea

Summary: Cha-young has a bad idea that involves one dangerous Italian.

Author's note: It's really just smut that I couldn't get out of my head, these two have no right having this much chemistry. It's only been 4 episodes. Read at your own risk. Also disregard anything I say about the law I'm making this shit up lol I don't know anything and I couldn't be bothered to look it up. I wanted to write more(aka make the smut smuttier) but life is getting in the way so please accept this and except more in the future when I have more time.😏

*Plays Ariana Grande- Bad Idea*

She has broken the law, after spending years learning the nooks and crannies of the justice system; hours spent soaking the ink into her fingers and absorbing the knowledge until it became a part of her very fiber. Arson. She was liable to seven years if penalized, Babel would surely flex their corrupted muscles to imprison them for even longer if they were found. She'd seen first hand what they did to those they believed were in their way, the loss of her father still pressing on her heart in aches that ebb and flow like waves on the coast.

She thought she would feel conflicted, when he had shared his plan she'd stared at him in concern, only then realizing that he was not bluffing about the lengths he would go- she was following him to the pits of hell and there would be no turning back. It was told that the road there was paved with best of intentions, but she wouldn't delude herself into believing she was a martyr.

No, this wasn't selfless or self-sacrificing for the greater good. It was revenge. Plain and simple, she had never seen eye to eye with her father seeing his earnestness as naivety especially after losing her mother, hating him for abandoning them; his heart was so huge yet he had no room for his own family. She was his only child but he hadn't come to her on bended knees pleading for her forgiveness after her mother died, no he had committed even harder to fighting for strangers. She didn't care what others said about how good and kind he was, she was angry. Devastatingly filled with resentment and that hadn't dissipated with his untimely passing, her last words to him had truly been what was in her heart.

But, it wasn't all that was in her heart.

He'd been a first love, the first man to show her unconditional love. Then he'd broken her heart and taken that unconditional love and spread it thin until she barely had a sliver left.

Despite all of these thoughts swimming in her mind like a tornado whirling until her brain feels dizzy she's proud of what they've done. Watching the factory burn ruthlessly made her skin feel like it was similarly enflamed, flames licking at her skin and looking over at the man who'd made this all possible set other parts of her body on fire.

He was infuriating, a wolf in sheep's clothing where she just wanted the wolf without the sham.

Squirming in her seat, she pretends to stare out the window sneaking glances at his profile. Cataloging the parts of his face that are still visible, the point of his nose that looms over the smooth lines of his lips and those eyes, they are docile now none of the killer intent that had been there in the bathroom as he asphyxiated a man in a dirty bathroom with merely a wire hanger. He was dangerous but that didn't make her want to keep her distance, no it lured her even closer like a moth to a flame.

Her entire life had been a series of barely thought out mistakes, what was one more? At least this one would be fun. She was hoping he fucked like he fought, rough and with singular focus. Betting on it.

"Should I drop you home Cha-young ssi?," the voice of her father's right hand man breaks the silence they'd been enduring. In her peripheral Vincenzo moves tuning into the conversation, no longer muttering to himself in what she can only assume is Italian.

"No. I'm going with him, we have something to discuss." She replies with confidence, nodding over to the man with pursed lips. He stares back at her with a lifted brow to which she responds with her own brow, exaggerated so far that it makes her mouth falls open and he tilts his head at her looking dumbfounded. She shrugs patting his knee, he doesn't need to know. They have plans he'll get on board soon enough.

Joo-Sung quickly looks between them clear questions in his eyes, she stares at him hard and he flinches before focusing on the road. Still fearing her more despite seeing first hand what Vincenzo is capable of she almost preens from the satisfaction, there's nothing quite like invoking that level of fright in another.

It's the little things in life.

Shockingly enough the Italian Korean doesn't argue, sighing before leaning back further into his seat seemingly deciding that it's not worth the headache. It won't be that hard to train him it seems, she silently hopes that he's more defiant behind closed doors she needs the aggression tonight.

If he could see the salacious things running through her head she wonders how he would react, would it make him hot under the collar? Make him pin her to the car and rip the protective suit from her body until all that remained was her quivering breasts and aching core, even Joo-Sung sitting right beside her isn't enough to qualm her imaginings. She needs his hands on her twisting her into position and hungrily devouring everything she's offering, desperately wants to use one of his many ties to render him motionless as she takes him apart.

The wetness pooling between her legs is slippery now, dripping into the delicate lace of her panties she shifts to relieve some of the pressure but the opposite happens and she rubs against her already swollen bead her imagination quickly making her spiral out of the realm of acceptable behavior. A small moan falls from her lips and Vincenzo stiffens next to her, acutely aware of her now she can feel his eyes on her as he tries not to look.

She swallows the moan that threatens to escape as she watches him lick his lips from the tail of his eyes, he picks up a bottle of water with an ever present air of nonchalance that she wants to shatter to pieces, her deviance the sledgehammer. His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows and she wants to be the nectar sliding down his throat, she hasn't had sex in months and everything about him screams good fuck.

She just needs scientific proof to back up that hypothesis.

Keeping her eyes straight ahead she places her hand innocuously between them, slowly walking her finger over to his thigh until she reaches the thick meat of his leg and feels him jump under her coy touch. At first, he tenses the muscles coiled tight under the pads of her fingers. They always look so enticing wrapped in the expensive material of his dress pants, they'll look even better bracketing her thighs as he pounds into her.

"What the hell are you doing?" He hisses at her through clenched teeth. She smirks in response basking in his annoyance.

She answers by running her manicured fingers up the line of his thigh until she reaches the vee of his groin, he instantly grabs her hand in a tight grip before she can complete her journey. She flexes her fingers in his grip and he tightens ever slightly answering her wordless challenge. Biting her lips discretely she reaches up with a free hand to lower the zip of her safety suit, blowing at the skin as its revealed bits of sweat linger on her skin and she wipes at it before running her hands across her neck peeling away the thick curtain of her hair. A few strands sticking to the nape of her neck.

He's watching her, she can feel his eyes trailing her every move. He squeezes painfully at her fingers when she starts to bring the zipper lower, just about passing over the swell of her breast.

"Are you hot Cha-young ssi should I turn on the AC?" Joo-Sung asks trying to be helpful, she barely responds to him nodding her head in decline as she focuses on her prey.

"No. I'm fine, I don't mind the heat." She's talking to Joo-Sung but her message is for Vincenzo alone, anything he can dish out she can take it, will gobble it up eagerly and ask for seconds she's not looking for love, no they're too fucked up for that. This thing between them is purely animalistic.

She fights his hold on her hand with futility, being sighing and pretending to admit defeat. He releases her hand carefully watching her, waiting for her counter attack and she places the dejected hand in her lap before trailing down to vee between her thighs. Pressing one finger against her mound she looks over at him with liquid eyes, he's fixated eyes unblinking as they watch her finger at her clothed entrance. She runs two digits down and under, tilting her head back in faux exhaustion and when she looks over and his gaze is penetrating her face she smiles, playful and mischievous.

"We're here." Joo-Sung states, turning down the radio which had done a great job of smothering her sounds. She'd turned it on initially for that purpose.

Before Vincenzo can even grasp the door handle she clamors over him, straddling his lap lips falling open at the hard line that presses deliciously at her hot center, Joo-Sung sputters in his seat glancing back and forth between them in shock, Vincenzo's face is a storm- his brows furrowed and his lips twisted in a sneer. After minutely grounding down into his hard cock she finally grabs the handle, pulling the door open.

"You were taking too long. Let's go," she easily says with a straight face, swinging her leg over she jumps out of the car, "I'll see you tomorrow." She waves at Joo-Sung before looking back at Vincenzo and beckoning him with a hand. After a moments pause he silently gets out of the car, slamming the door emphatically. Joo-Sung wastes no time before peeling away, racing like the devil is on his tail the car gone within seconds.

"Are you crazy? Why would you do that in front of him?" He immediately grabs her arm tugging her into his face and she almost giggles at his punishing grip on her elbow.

"He won't think anything of it. I've done way worst things to men." She shrugs not fighting his grip instead stepping even further into his orbit, as if he has his own gravitational pull. His eyes flash minutely before he slams into her, grabbing the side of her head and thrusting his tongue through the loose seal of lips eagerly she responds, dragging him down by his shoulders to similarly lick at his mouth, sucking earnestly at his tongue. The kiss is fast and furious, both of them battling for dominance it's wet and messy and she hopes that sex will be the same. She's getting hot and bothered just thinking about it. Suddenly he bends low breaking their kiss catching her off guard before slinging her over his shoulder easily. Her hair tumbles down over his back nearly touching the ground and she squeaks when he slaps her ass, hard.

"You'll do worst things with me." He promises, walking to his apartment with her slung over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. If she wasn't so turned on she would hate this macho man display but this is what she was waiting for all night. She can hardly look a gift horse in the mouth. But she still grumbles and pounds at his back for show, she has a reputation to uphold after all.

He unlocks the door with her dangling from his shoulder and after stopping to drop the keys in a glass bowl he effortlessly tosses her down onto a couch, she looks up affronted by his callous move but her complaint dies on her tongue as she sees the way he's looking at her, dark eyes undressing her as he looms over her body.

There's surely no need for that.

Feeling generous she leans back unzipping her suit, this time not stopping sliding it down her chest and the cool air makes her nipples perk up under the tight thin material of her tank top. His eyes are like beads of coal as he hungrily stares at her. He reaches out for her, hands barely cupping her breasts before he freezes, searching her face before drawing away. With a groan he spins around before turning back to her, grabbing his hair before taking a deep breath.

"Your father's dead and we just burned down the Babel factory."

She stares at him as he stares at her, waiting for her to have some kind of reaction. Maybe break down into a puddle of emotions.

Honestly she's bone tired of that, riding him all night sounds like a much better use of her time and energy.

"I'm wet enough to end a drought." She replies dryly, tugging the zipper as far as it'll go before stepping out of the restricting article of clothing. Naked smooth legs rubbing against the couch, he follows her movement like a lion stalking its prey.

"What?" His eyes dart down to her newly revealed panties, peering between her legs as if to check the accuracy of her statement.

"Oh, we're not just stating random facts?" She teases playing with the thin straps of her tank top the only thing preserving her remaining dignity.

"What do you want from me?" He looks nervous now, her first time seeing such an expression on that stoic face. It's an easy question to answer though she doesn't even need to think about it.

"Fuck me until I can't think straight."

She will have to deal with the emotions bubbling up beneath the surface, address her complicated relationship and feelings for her father, admit the role that she played in his untimely demise by helping those bastards for years but right now none of that matters, all that matters is the ache between her legs. She wants to stop being guilty for one night.

"Can you do that?" She looks at him pleading, and he peers back she can see the thoughts rolling over in his head and as the seconds drag on longer than she'd anticipated she wonders if she misjudged, maybe she should have accosted her bumbling intern but she'd been terrified he'd want an actual relationship- that was the last thing she was looking for.

She starts to plot how exactly she can seduce him when he unzips his own suit, making her gasp when her eyes land on smooth bare skin his six pack glistens with the light sheen of sweat coating it.

"You wore nothing under? You slut." The corner of his lip lifts in amusement before he stalks over to her, shoving her back onto the cushion and crushing her with his weight she eagerly welcomes it with open arms. Picking up right where he left off her cups her breasts running twin large thumbs across the pebbled skin, it feels good but not quite enough through the cloth of her tank top. Impatiently she shoves the material down baring herself to him, he looks at her with heated eyes before grabbing the naked flesh, twisting the hard points before swallowing her without warning.

She jolts at the sensation, arching into his wet suckling then pushing his head down onto her and whining as he runs his teeth against the swollen mounds. She wraps her legs around his waist grinding into the hard erection jutting from his tight boxer briefs. Only he would have Versace boxers, if he wasn't thoroughly dismantling her she would be ribbing him. Pompous jack ass. Harshly pulling him away from her chest she stares at his face, his eyes are glossy and his lips are red and shiny, he looks like sin. Sexy pompous jack ass.

"Are you sure about this?" He asks her stupidly and she tugs her shirt over her head before lifting up and pulling down her panties, completely nude underneath him. She doesn't get stage fright.

"Are you sure? Can you handle it?" She bites out rocking her naked pussy over his clothed hardness and he hisses at the motion, something foreign falling from his lips. Immediately it makes her hot, boiling hot admittedly him speaking Italian is a thing for her, even when he's cursing at her and his spittle is flying everywhere. Fucking sexy as hell. It turns her wild in his lap, grounding onto him until his boxers are completely drenched from her a dark spot forming. This time he grabs her, forcing her down to bite at her neck before swallowing the moans from her tongue.

They twist around each other like serpents, tongues and bodies entwined. He's running his hands through her hair, tugging at the strands and using them to reign her in whenever she breaks free to gasp for air. Her hips are relentless as she grinds onto him, never pausing as he rubs against her swollen clit lust drunk as arousal consumes her brain. The smack of the elastic of his boxers snaps her back to lucidity and when she peers down she sees his long rigid pole, standing at attention the waist band of his boxers just under his heavy balls.

He grabs her hips before sliding through the sopping wet fold of her center and she screams at the intense pleasure that quakes through her body, all her synapses are firing off simultaneously. All connected to the spot deep instead her core.

"You got us....ahhh this far. You...hmmm finish it." He can barely get the words out groaning and thrusting up to meet her downward grind and she doesn't need to be told twice, she grabs the base of his thick cock rubbing the blunt head at her entrance once, twice before lifting higher and holding him tightly as she slides down, down onto him until his balls are nuzzling her bottom. He's big, bigger than she's used to and she whines at the burning stretch, muscle sore from not being used. Pushing through the discomfort she drags up slowly, carefully before throwing caution to the wind and slamming back down, the slap of their skin connecting loud in the quiet room.

He groans loudly, fingers sinking into her hips as he pounds into her. Not an ounce of gentleness in his plundering of her body. There will be bruises, she's looking forward to it.

He lets her ride him, filthy sounding Italian words falling from his open mouth the rhythm is fast, almost ridiculously so with both of them slamming back together each time they pull apart as if they can't bear the separation. When a particular thrust nudges him perfectly against her clit, she screams scratching down the smooth expanse of his belly, red lines left in her wake. He hisses at the pain but doesn't slow down, yanking her down faster to meet his thrust upwards and it feels so good she collapses onto his chest, drooling from the intense pleasure. She feels his fingers twist in the thick cord of her hair before her head is drawn back, "You look like you're still thinking, I'm not fucking hard enough."

He's smirking. She knows what she looks like, she's basically jelly in his arms. She looks shameless, seducing a man she barely knows and letting him fuck her like this on a couch. Her head lolls in his hand and she almost misses the small smile that stretches across his lips before he sits up and pushes her out of his lap, she cries out at the sudden departure but seconds later he pushes her over the arm of the couch, spreading her thighs, sticking a long finger inside her and humming in satisfaction at the sloshing moisture before slamming back in.

"Ti piace quello?" (Do you like that?) She doesn't have the slightest idea what he said but she moans anyway, nodding frantically. He switches back to Korean whispering into her ear, "If I'd have known this was all it took to shut you up I would have done this much sooner." This time she hisses at him, curling her hand around his neck and bringing them face to face, twisted over her own shoulder. He fucks her as they breath the same air, mouths wide open as they pant into each other. Reaching under her he thumbs at her breasts, she jumps at the dual sensation mind heady as he pounds into her over and over again.

When he brings one hand down her expertly finding her clit and rubbing at it ardently she loses her mind, gasping and sputtering about; her body tingling as he assaults her from all angles his cock big and piercing inside of her.

"Say my name."

She's too busy losing her goddamn mind, the arm rest the sole thing keeping her afloat then he growls from behind her, squeezing her breast in perfect synchrony as he thrusts deep inside her and his fingers play her clit like a violin, she wails tightening around him as she feels a red hot burn from deep inside her bursting to the surface. She's so close.

"Say my fucking name." He demands slapping at her ass cheek and she arches at the stinging blow, her back curving beautifully.

"Vincenzo!" With barely any air in her lungs she rasps out, hoarse and breathless. He grabs her neck, pulling her back taut she shivers under the rough treatment.

"Again."

He curls his hands around her neck, not quite cutting off her airway but making it harder to breathe. She feels light-headed but then he releases and air rushes to her lungs, he groans as she melts further onto his hardness every inch of him encased in her.

"Vincenzo," she begs, tears pooling in her eyes.

"Questa figa è mio." (This pussy is mine.) He whispers darkly, the bastard knows what he's doing, that smug grin on his face confirms it but her body reacts regardless lighting up like a Christmas tree for her. Her body is one giant pleasure point and he is pushing all of her buttons, one by one.

She feels like she's going to explode but just when she's on the edge, so close to the precipice seconds away from falling over and reaching nirvana he stops, the bastard. He stops everything, pulling out of her achingly slow until she's empty and unsatisfied she growls in frustration spinning around with fire and brimstone in her eyes.

"I've thought about fucking you. A lot. It can't end too soon." She glances down at his burgeoning hard on swinging between them, ahhh so she wasn't the only one about to explode. Interesting. But her throbbing center feels no sympathy, too upset about the premature stop of pleasure.

"I didn't think Italians were the type to leave a woman unsatisfied. Next time I'll fin--" She never gets to complete her sentence because he slaps a large hand over her mouth.

"St 'zitto." (Shut up.) He barks and her face is drenched in a familiar downpour, he was definitely cursing at her but before she can retaliate he's lifting her off the couch, forcing her legs around his slim waist. She latches onto his shoulder for balance too, rubbing her naked chest against him enticingly ready to start back where they left of.

"If you want me to understand you need to speak Korean. Translate." She complains and he slams her into a wall causing her to cry out as her back hits the hard surface, his hand is large around her head softening that blow gratefully.

"I think you understand well enough."

He stares directly into her eyes, reaching down to force her legs further apart and before he can move she forces her feet into the dimples of his knee, he tumbles forward and with that momentum she sheathes him once more purring at the burn and stretch. He slams her hands above her head and she snaps her teeth at him, aggressively thrusting forward onto his cock forcing him to drill deeper into her.

She gasps when he unexpectedly grabs her wrists in one hand and twists them behind her back. She tugs, but his grip is too tight. Too powerful. She can't move not without his permission.

"What are you doing?" She groans fighting his hold without success.

Leaning forward he tugs her ear lobe into his scorching mouth, feeding the words straight into the organ. "You're still thinking. I'm not doing a good job."

She opens her mouth to scoff but the sounds shrivels up and dies when he slams her up the wall, sliding out before dropping her and impaling her on his thick column, his hand tightens on her wrists as she fights to break free. He does it again, driving deeper and harder and her screams are breathless and soundless, all she can do is feel. He ravishes her chest, swallowing the swollen buds and biting at the ruddy tips until her chest is sore and wet with his spit. With her wrist behind her back he steps back, placing her back on the wall and creating an angle to better fuck into her, loud smacks filling the air every time he plunges in, hammering at her walls with singular focus. She's a whimpering mess, high pitched sighs all that she can produce.

"Cha-young ssi?" He seductively whispers in her ears, she can barely hear him over the blood rushing to her head but she nods, groaning in response his thrusts are relentless and unyielding. Why isn't his brain mush too?

"Who's pussy is this?" Her brain stutters at the question, she's only heard things like that in American porn. Never had words like that uttered to her by a partner, if she did she would laugh in their face and promptly leave. But he looks deadly serious as he awaits her reply. Slowing down his movements, but grinding deeper circling on her clit with each languid motion. She really wants to fucking come. He's such an unnecessary tease.

Swallowing her pride, she mentally curses her pussy this was all its fault.

When he starts to stop she panics and tightens her legs around his him, shouting, "Yours! It's your pussy!" Goddamit, why did he have to be this persistent? It was his for tonight.

It's the right answer, he lets her come.

Multiple times.

Until her toes curl and her legs feel like jelly.

She doesn't think about anything else for the rest of the night, even when he breaks her apart and she blacks out and falls asleep, bad dreams chase her but he fucks her awake preemptively cutting off those thoughts too. Turning her screams of terror into screams of pleasure.

This time she puts his ties to good use, one bounding his wrists together and another wrapped around his eyes.

Tomorrow, she'll face reality. Tonight is for bad ideas.

What's a one night stand between enemies?

#vincenzo #hong cha young #vincenzo cassano #smut #I know they would be kinky #i feel it in my bones #the plot is sex #no regerts

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spectralscathath · 3 years

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Fria's Day Out- RWBY drabble

Ruby spent all of volume 6 trekking across Mistral and nearly getting killed due to the stupid Relic of Knowledge, and now General Ironwood's trying to give it back to her? When there's a perfectly good Vault there?

Absolutely not.

(AKA this was not your best plan ever, Jimmy)

Ao3 link

"You're giving the lamp back to us?" Ruby asked, brows furrowing in confusion as James held out the relic. He thought it was a good idea, at least until the vault could be safely opened.

"Who better to safeguard it than the people who already protected it?"

Ruby reached out, hand resting on the relic, before she shoved it hard against his chest, looking aghast as she darted back like it had burned her.

"Are you crazy? That thing's a Grimm magnet, we nearly died, like-" she paused to count on her fingers, "three times?" She glanced at her teenage friends for clarification. "Three, was it three?"

"Manticores on the train, Apathy at the farms, Leviathan at Argus." Weiss rattled off, ignoring Winter's horrified gasp.

"And you want us to keep carrying it? We came here to throw it in the Vault in the first place!" Ruby stared at him like he was an idiot, and right now he was able to somewhat understand her reasoning.

Still, he pulled up some bluster. "Well, Fria's bedbound, so the Vault can't be opened right now. She's in no state for it."

"I mean- this is Atlas, right? Do you have hoverbeds? Wheels? You guys have invented the wheel, right? Just push her along, it can't be that dangerous."

"Well-" James started before Winter cut in.

"Actually, sir, it might be good for her to get out and about." Winter noted, face completely impassive as he beheld her treachery.

"She'd be remaining in the military base as well, Mr Ironwood!" Penny chirped cheerfully, oblivious to how he was beset on all sides by treason. "And we could set up a guard!"

"See?" Ruby squeaked determinedly. "I vote we throw that lamp from heck into the Vault and never look back!"

"We can't just wheel Fria to the vault," James rolled his eyes. "That's preposterous."

James pushed Fria's bed along, one of the wheels clicking on every rotation like a shopping trolley. "This is undignified."

"Oh, I'm having a great time, pet," Fria chuckled, a Barstucks takeaway cup held in her shaking hand. The concoction inside was some awful pink monstrosity that looked incredibly malevolent. "You ignore him, Winter, my son's just taking himself too seriously again."

"Mom, please." James groaned as Winter laughed, no restriction on the bell-like sound. Fria really brought down her guard.

"I can't believe you've got a mom, Mr Ironwood." Ruby skipped alongside them, holding the relic like it was about to jump up and bite her. James didn't know which of his scientists gave her the tongs but he was going to have a word with his R&D about loaning equipment for frivolous purposes. "I always thought you were raised by a pack of soldiers."

"You should have seen him at your age, he was a hellion," Fria gossiped with her, Winter's eyes sparkling as she hid her smile with a sip of coffee. "Running around Mantle and constantly getting into trouble, I think some of your old graffiti is still down there."

"Graffiti?" Ruby's eyes lit up with mischief. "But he's so serious!"

"I'm standing right here."

"Is that what he does now, walks around all serious?" Fria cackled. "Dear me, James, you haven't gotten boring, have you?"

"I'm afraid he has," Winter jumped in before he could defend himself, her tone dour and her twinkling eyes anything but. "It's quite a shame, from your stories he sounds like quite a rabble rouser."

"Oh he was!" Fria snorted gracelessly. "I could tell you stories- have I told you stories? I can't quite remember-" she frowned, James's gut twisting as the damnable memory loss wiped some of her spark.

"You have, Fria," Winter reached down and took Fria's hand, black gloves gentle as she clasped wizened fingers. "But I'd be happy to hear them again, if you like."

"Aren't you good?" Fria smiled again. "And you, Ruby, I swear, you Huntresses get younger every year."

"Oh, well, I'm just a prodigy," Ruby preened like a peacock under the praise. "I got into Beacon two years early."

"Really? My, that's impressive. Did the old man let you in himself?"

"Ozpin?" Guilt flashed over Ruby's face. James decided she should never play poker. "Uh- yeah, um, he did. It was cool."

"How is that old coot anyway? Still talking in riddles?" Fria asked as Ruby grew more and more uncomfortable, James keeping half an ear on the conversation as they reached the lift down to the Vault. He wheeled Fria onto the platform, shivering slightly at the chill in the air. The cold always gnawed at him even with extra coats on.

Ruby's babble broke off as the platform under their feet moved, bringing them down the passage before it opened into the cavern in the heart of Atlas, Ruby's eyes going wide with childlike wonder. "Wow…"

James felt a bit of pride at that. Atlas's Vault was very nice indeed. The geometric blocks floated in the air around them, icy blue flames flickering in torches as they descended towards the platform, a cavernous drop awaiting below. "Impressive, isn't it?"

"Yeah!" Ruby looked around, awestruck. "I never saw the one in Haven, Yang did- and she doesn't like talking about it aside from saying it was weird and there was a tree and a desert, but this is amazing! How are those blocks floating? Why is the fire blue?"

James opened his mouth to answer before realising he didn't have one, jaw clicking shut as he was left to shrug. "Dust?"

"Oh, not magic?" Ruby pouted for a moment before something shiny caught her attention. "That door is huge! What's it like inside, Yang said the Haven one led to a desert, how cool is that?"

"I don't know. I've never seen inside." He couldn't help be curious as well. "The Atlas vault hasn't been opened since Ozpin lifted the city into the sky, in a past life. It was before my time."

"I remember, I think." Fria piped up. "I was only a girl, but a floating city is rather spectacular."

"I can imagine." Winter mused. "Fria, would you like me to hold your Very Berry Hibiscus Coconut Milk Refresher with Extra Whip?" She said it with a straight face, because she was a stronger person than James could ever hope to be.

"Oh, yes, thank you. It's very nice," Fria handed it over, a quaver in her hands.

James raised a brow. "You need to hold her coffee?"

"Well, you'll have to help her up to the Vault, sir." Winter stated like it was obvious.

"Huh?"

"James, pet, did you think you were going to roll me up the stairs?" Fria laughed, tiredness beginning to steal across her eyes. They didn't have much time left before the excitement of the day turned to fatigue.

"What stairs, there's no stairs- oh my gosh there's stairs now!" Ruby squeaked excitedly as the staircase formed, practically bouncing in place. James sincerely hoped the relic clasped in her tongs didn't go flying. It would be such a hassle to get it back if she dropped it off the edge.

James hesitated. "Mom, are you sure?"

"I can't walk well, but if I'm going to open a Vault for the first time, I'd like to get up there myself." Fria stated with that rock-solid determination he'd seen a million times, dark blue eyes steady and firm, and that was that.

"Alright." He carefully, carefully helped her out of the hospital bed, struck by how small and frail she was now. He supported her with an arm under her shoulders, and wondered if she'd let him get away with carrying her up.

Fria's eyes glowed brilliant blue, azure flames springing to life for a moment as she formed a walking stick from thin air, gnarled wood and ice crystals melding together to perfectly fit her hand and height.

Seeing her perform magic never got old.

Fria rested some of her weight on the stick, most of her weight on James, her legs shaking as she set her jaw and started hobbling towards the Vault with him.

"Mom, are you sure?" He didn't want her to hurt herself.

"James, I'm feeble, not dead." She informed him briskly.

"Uh- if you want I can scatter you guys up?" Ruby offered, having gingerly shifted the relic into her actual hand, holding it at arm's length. "It's fun, like being in a tornado. And it'll be quicker?"

"I'm not sure about that-" James started, remembering the tournament footage of Ruby's semblance before Fria nodded eagerly.

"Well that sounds exciting, scatter away, dearie!"

"Mom, please-!" James suddenly found himself caught up in a swirl of red, shooting forward like a bullet from a gun and broken apart into pieces (he felt like it should have hurt but it didn't), before suddenly he was on his feet again, too fast for him to comprehend as rose petals floated in the air around him and Ruby collapsed to her knees.

"Wow, you are heavy, Mr Ironwood, what are you made of, metal?" She leaned against the golden metal of the Vault door. "Whoo- okay, I'm never picking you up again, no offence."

He dearly wanted to tell her the answer to her question was 'yes' and refrained, instead checking on Fria. "Mom, are you alright?"

She laughed, her hair a mess and her eyes bright. "That was fun!"

He sighed in relief. "I really think we should get this done sooner rather than later. I'm glad you're okay." She was in a very good state today, they'd waited for that, but he didn't know how long it would last. How long until she forgot where she was and who she was and who he was.

Fria nodded, leaning most of her weight against his side as her eyes blazed with fire, her hand shaking as she touched it to the Vault. The sharp lines of the overlapping rectangles began to glow pale white, the light racing up to the top of the door. The golden facets of the door began to drop, and a wave of roaring heat washed out over the three of them, bringing with it the smell of sulphur and brimstone.

Ruby coughed and covered her face, her nose already turning red. “For a Vault of Creation, I was expecting something- I dunno, more cheerful?”

Cheerful was not how he would describe the cavern within, thick streams of magma dripping from the walls and pooling around a slender path of rock that led to a pedestal, heatwaves shimmering in the very air. It was like the inside of a volcano, maybe it was one, and there above the pedestal, the relic of creation floated, a pearlescent white gem that had been sculpted into the handle of a paintbrush, golden filigree elaborately ensconcing the jewel as snow white threads formed the brush.

“Ruby, place the lamp in there and we’ll close it up.” He ordered, sweat forming on his brow.

“Right!” She ran in, careful to avoid the edges where molten rock bubbled hungrily, setting the lamp down in front of the pedestal and scattering out, her petals catching fire from the sheer heat in the air. James waited for her to pass them by, scooping up Fria as he walked down the stairs, eager to get away from the heat at his back.

“Are you okay?” He asked as he carried his mother back to the hospital bed, holding off on any feelings of joy at a task completed. Until the Vault door closed and Fria was back in the safety of her ward, there was still danger.

“Yes, James, I’m fine,” she smiled weakly at him, her eyes returned to the dark blue that was so similar to his own. She looked so drained, even that small bit of magic sapping her strength. “I’m just tired. Not as young as I used to be… the magic takes more of a toll now…”

“Well, rest up, alright?” He gently placed her down, tucking the quilt around her. “You did good, mom.”

“I did my job.” She stated, whispers threading through her voice and undercutting her surety. Because she was an Ironwood, much like himself, and they did their jobs no matter the cost on themselves. “But yes… I think I’ll rest a bit... Winter, will you keep my drink cool for me?”

“Of course.” Winter studied him. “Sir, shall I stay here until the Vault’s closed again?”

“No. I’ll guard it. You take my mother back to her room so she can rest.” He smiled at Winter, before he gave Fria a gentle hug, always careful with his right side. He didn’t think he’d see her again. The transfer of power had to be kept secure. This was already too much of a risk. “Thanks, mom.”

“I had fun,” Fria smiled as she nodded off, a large white Beowulf with cyan eyes forming from a glyph, grasping the hospital bed in its claws as Winter guided it to walk with her, escorting Fria to the lift out.

James watched her go, ready to wait for the vault door to close. He could still feel the heat from here. “Miss Rose, are you alright?”

“I’m good, in the red but good,” she sat on the ground, staring up at the Vault. “I know that I knew it was a paintbrush, but I was really expecting a spear, or a staff, yunno, something more impressive?”

“You don’t think painting’s impressive?” He chuckled slightly, choosing to return to somewhat of a good mood.

“That feels like a trap question.” Ruby eyed him suspiciously, her hands and belt looking empty without the relic she’d been guarding on the trip here.

“Fria paints.”

“Definitely a trap question.” She smiled a bit, and it reminded him of Summer. She really did look so much like her mother. “Your mom is cool.”

“I know she is.” He hoped she slept well, and could remember today. If she had happy memories, he’d rather she was lost in them, rather than anything else. “At least the relic’s safe now.”

“Yeah. It would’ve been really stupid to just carry it around in the open up here, I mean, it draws Grimm. Yeesh.” She looked up at the open Vault. “Well, at least now it’s locked away and no one can get to it. Ugh, could you imagine if I took you up on your offer?”

“... I'd rather not." He hoped he lived that particular idea down soon. It really wasn't his best.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A quick drabble about what would have happened if Ruby remembered The Entire Point of Volume 6. Toss Jinn into the Vault already, she'll live with it.

#rwby #james ironwood #ruby rose #winter schnee #rwby fria #Fria Ironwood should be canon #my writings #apparently I never got over this

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simplysnexual · 4 years

Text

Got inspired by @doctor492 ‘s SCP!au with Erasermic! I don’t often post my stories so have mercy! I took some creative liberties with their abilities and such. I’m also not terribly educated when it comes to all the SCP lore.

Excerpts from a guard’s journal.

Day 1

My first day in this sector of the facility. There are 4 keter class anomalies in this sector. Two of which I am in charge of dealing with. These two are kinda...humanoid in appearance but I have yet to see more than quick glances. Training is extensive in this sector as one wrong move either means death or worse: the escape of a dangerous creature. Training has mostly been computerized and kinda boring. Can't wait to get to the hands on stuff.

Day 5

Finally onto some interesting stuff. I’ve had my first encounter with the SCP nicknamed Eraserhead. He...well I suppose it, though it does have a masculine body type. Plus its kinda weird calling such a humanoid creature an it so I’ll just say him. Anyway, he is a shadowy figure that appears to be made of an ever shifting inky mass. He has bright, misty yellow “eyes.” These eye-like features could be something else entirely their own but appear to act like eyes, blinking and fixating on whatever his attention is on. White cloth-like ribbons float around him constantly like thin snakes writhing in the air. Wispy outlines that look like hair also frame his head and face. I don't know much else about Eraserhead but I’m excited to learn more.

Day 7

First encounter with the “Voice Demon.” Yet another humanoid anomaly, this one more so than Eraserhead. The Voice Demon appears to be a 6’1” white male with long blonde hair. The most jaring and notably inhuman feature is its mouth. A wide maw stretches past the normal stretch of a human mouth, wrapping around all the way to its ears. Its, well I’d called this one a he too. He has lacerations around his throat that appear to have been stitched up and plucked at only to be stitched again. I don’t know for sure but I believe those injuries were inflicted by the Foundation…

Day 10

Something rather interesting happened today. On my usual rounds to check on the anomalies, I discovered Eraserhead standing at the plexi glass window of his containment unit. Mirroring him on the other side of the hall was the “Voice Demon.” The demon’s spirling green eyes seemed softer than his usual jaring glare. As could be said for Eraserhead. But shortly after they noticed my presence, they went back to the darker corners of their units.

Day 12

I’ve finally found out more about my two favorite SCPs. Turns out Eraserhead has the ability to not only control the writhing ribbons around him, but can also erase one function of the human body, such as the respiratory system or cardiac system. Pretty scary stuff right? A few guards have fallen to this creature’s abilities. I guess I have to be wary not to piss him off huh? As for the Voice Demon, his name is very fitting. His voice can reach beyond 177 decibels, a range passing which is dangerous to humans. This level of sound can burst cells in your lungs, shake your bones and even cause long term damage to your joints. I believe the facility tried to sever his vocal chords but found that not to be the source of his ability. I’ve yet to hear (hehe) of his ability being used or how they keep him from using it.

Day 16

First incident on my shift, A fellow guard wasn’t being so careful around Eraserhead’s unit. There's an existing rule that you don’t stick around the plexi glass viewing window of his unit. Apparently this guy forgot or didn’t listen to the warning. Dude’s respiratory system shut down and I found him after hearing his gasping wheezes. The SCP medical team took him away. I’m not sure where to but I have a feeling it wasn’t to a hospital…

Day 18

Caught my favorite two charges interacting across the hall again. I hid around the corner to see what they did away from prying eyes. They seemed to be making gestures to each other and after a bit I noticed the Voice Demon fogging up the glass with his breath and drawing things, cats and flowers and the like. Eraserhead’s yellow slits of eyes squinted like how mine do when I smile. Strange...but endearing. Humanizing almost...

Day 21

Found out what the Voice Demon’s smile looks like...Seems I made him laugh, not sure I can call it that but I’m guessing it was a laugh. I tripped on my idiot coworkers spilled coffee and kissed the floor. Once the Voice Demon made his laugh like noise, I turned to him and saw his lips had curved up and his eyes squinted. Eraserhead matched his squinting. I couldn’t help but smile myself...heh I guess I’m just as strange huh? Smiling at the strange and deadly creatures I guard from the world everyday. But hey it’s the little things that remind you of your humanity when you’re stuck in sterile white hallways all the time.

Day 25

A few guards went into Voice Demon’s unit to try to draw blood or something. Most came out with bleeding ears. Two came out in body bags after a gas filled the room to incapacitate the creature. I’m beginning to doubt the Foundation’s care for its employees…

Day 26

After reviewing the security footage of yesterday’s incident, I noticed the shifting form and writhing ribbons of Eraserhead had increased in their violent motion. His inky, ever-moving form had gone rough around the edges and his ribbons whipped as if in a tornado. Almost like...he was upset? Angered that his neighbor, maybe even his friend was hurt?

Day 31

Eraserhead and the Voice Demon are definitely friends of some sort. Yes I know I’m not supposed to humanize the anomalies but I can’t help myself. Their interactions continue and grow in complexity and frequency. It's kinda endearing to be honest. I don’t see much friendly interaction in this place. I feel just as trapped as they do sometimes…

Day 40

My first interaction with the Voice Demon. Guess I pissed off the facility or something cuz they sent me in ALONE to try to draw blood. I’d pretty much accepted my death sentence the second the doors closed behind me. But to my surprise the creature looked at me...curiously? I knelt down to try to seem less threatening and spoke to him like I would a scared child, like my siblings when they hid from a storm. Across the hall I caught a glimpse of Eraserhead’s form shifting violently again. I sat cross legged for a while, slowly trying to coax him over. I couldn’t believe it when the creature approached me and extended his arm for me. I held his wrist like I had when my little sister scraped her elbow. I spoke softly like I had to her as I took the Voice Demons blood, totally unaware of why but fixated on the sentience in his eyes.

Day 45

The facility sent me into Eraserhead’s unit after my success with the Voice Demon. They didn’t send me for blood, I don’t even know if he has blood?? I think they sent me in for the hell of it, to watch a keter class at work or see what this one did with a human actually in his unit not just outside his window. Turns out, not much. The creature merely stared me down before shifting away and turning his back on me. Without anything really interesting happening for a good while, the high ups let me back out. I’m just as much contained as they are these days. I haven’t been allowed to leave since the interaction with the Voice Demon. But I can’t find it in myself to regret it.

Day 50

I don’t trust this place anymore. The staggering number of guards lost in a month is beyond what could be just “accidents.” The measures they go to “contain” these creatures they label monsters are beyond what’s right. Nearly worse than what the creatures do themselves. A place which considers beating what I could nearly call a person into submission just doesn’t seem right.

Day 51

I treated the Voice demon’s wounds today. He seemed sedated as I worked with him as gently as I could. I talked softly to him, about nothing in general but just to give him some comfort, something to focus on. My heart nearly stopped when I heard his voice. It was only a soft. “Thank you.”. His voice was soft but raspy from lack of use. I met his gaze and that’s when I made my decision. I’m getting them out of here. Him and Eraserhead. After all, what use is it freeing a lone creature to face the world outside without a friend?

Day 55

This Foundation is run by idiots. All this secretive crap covers up their incompetence. But this plan isn’t going to go through without sacrifice. It’s worth it. Without my family around to need me anymore I’m happy to die for a good reason. I’ve faced death before just for this stupid Foundation’s fun. Tomorrow during shift change I’m cutting the power on the sector where Eraserhead and the Voice Demon reside. It’ll be just long enough for the locks to fail and let them escape. I hope they get far away from this hell hole and pathe their way in the outside world. And maybe….just maybe, remember me fondly.

This was the last entry written in the young man’s journal. SCP guard Scarleton lay dying in the glistening blood pooling around him. The red flashing of alarms briefly illuminating the hall in intervals. His dying sight was the Voice Demon’s toxic green eyes spilling over with tears as he grasped the only guard, hell the only human to treat him like anything other than a monster. One more little smile found the man’s lips as he showed his blood stained teeth, eyes sliding closed. “Go on….be free.” He let out a wet laugh and went still. A shifting black form took the arm of the green eyed creature and drug him away to follow through on the guard’s dying words.

#doctor492 #scp!au #erasermic #fanfic #erasermicscp!au #hizashi yamada #shouta aizawa

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milkchu · 5 years

Text

❝anyway the wind blows❞ ten.

Summary: (Y/N) Mercury’s journey of love, fame, and pain, alongside what would become one of the most legendary bands ever, Queen.

Pairing: Borhap!Queen x Reader, eventual Brian May x Reader

Warnings: swearing (as usual), angst, some ass-grabbing, kissing, a tiny bit of cute bri x y/n action, p**l pr*nt*r

A/N: so this chapter will introduce a new character but she’ll only be appearing in this one so she’s not that important or is she?, and it’s not mentioned but (y/n) is bisexual. also the gif above is how brian looks at (y/n) all the time ok enjoy! happy (or sad) reading! 💓

{previous chapter} {next chapter}

When the party finally ended, you walked around your house, sipping on a glass of wine whilst all the waiters cleaned and fixed up the mess of a mansion that looked like a tornado has gone through all the rooms.

You weren’t drunk, maybe a little, but all you wanted to do was to be alone and just drink all the worries away, Brian’s words still echoing in your mind, your heart ached every time you remembered his voice. A voice that pitied you. Pathetic.

Once you had stumbled upon the living room, you walked towards the piano, placed your drink on top, and started to play a random tune.

Whilst playing, a waitress had come to your side, grabbing all the empty glasses from the piano top. She was a redhead with smooth, pale skin, her nails painted black, lips painted blood red, her short hair tied in a ponytail, and not to mention, she was really pretty.

As much as you claimed you were sober and not drunk, your right hand had somehow managed to pull away from the black and white keys, and towards the girl’s bottom, giving it a little squeeze.

The girl gasped in surprise and looked towards you with an annoyed glare, “You’ve got a set of balls.”

You scoffed, then sent her a smug smirk, “Go fetch me a drink and find out.”

Completely ignoring your statement, she said, “I may work for you tonight but put your hands on me again and I’ll thump you. Got it?” Then started to walk away.

Before she could leave the room, you called out for her, “I’m terribly sorry,” You stammered, “I didn’t mean to offend you, I’m sorry.”

When she stopped right by the door, you continued, “I won’t do that again, all right?”

She sighed, and turned back to face you, “Let me get you a beer,” You smiled.

“I wouldn’t mind a beer,” She shrugged.

“Can you just tell me where they keep them?” You chuckled, “You’re very beautiful. I love a woman in uniform,” resulting in her smiling and going out of the room to find some beer.

Every worker had already left so it was just you and the girl, whose name you learned to be Jasmine, both of you sitting on the couch.

“So, all your friends have left you alone?” Jasmine asked, untying her ponytail, letting her short curls fall to her face.

“They’re not my friends. Not really. Just distraction,” You sighed, taking a sip of your beer.

“From what?” She raised her eyebrows.

“The in-between moments, I suppose,” You said, “I find them intolerable.” “All of the...darkness you thought you left behind comes creeping back in.”

Jasmine nodded in understanding, “I know what you mean.”

“Really?” You leaned in a bit closer to her, “What is it that you do with them?”

“Spend them with real friends,” She said, matter-of-factly, “You look like you could use a friend,” She nodded towards you.

You looked down and sighed, but then looked back up to see Jasmine’s face leaning closer to yours, before she finally cupped your right cheek, and pressed her lips against yours.

You sighed into the kiss, but returned it, your lips moving softly against hers while your hand softly grasped onto her wrist.

But something inside of you wanted something else. Or someone else. Especially when you felt her soft curls brush against your cheeks.

When Jasmine pulled away, your not-so-sober self decided to blurt out, “I like you.”

She let out a chuckle, her hand now lingering against the side of your neck, “I like you too, (Y/N).”

Her hand then retreated from your neck, “But you should learn to like yourself first.”

Such a simple sentence yet you suddenly felt all the tipsiness from the alcohol disappear into thin air. The whole picture being a little clearer than before.

Jasmine immediately stood up from the couch, before walking towards the door until you stopped her, “Good night, Jasmine.”

She smiled, “Good night, (Y/N). Or should I say good morning?” before she finally left, probably the last you’ll see of her.

Brian sat on the drum risers, tapping his foot against the floor impatiently, waiting for you. At the same time, thinking about last night, when he called you something he very much regretted.

Chrissie looked at Brian in empathy from the couch, whilst the other wives beside her chatted with their husbands.

It has been well over an hour, until Brian decided to waste no more time, “Screw her.”

He stood up, “Everyone up on the drum risers!”

“Up on the drum risers!”

Chrissie then stood up, gesturing for everyone else to come, “Come on!”

Brian nodded at his wife, “Thank you, Chrissie. Showing some enthusiasm,” Before placing a soft kiss on her cheek.

“Wives and everyone, Brian?” John asked.

“Yes! Come on, John. Everyone!” Brian nodded, “I’m not waiting any longer!”

Dominique and Veronica then followed, John coming in, “Bass?” He pointed towards the instrument.

Brian plopped down from the drum risers, “No, you don’t need it,” Before kicking his bottom up to go on the drum risers, “Get up.”

“Come on, Rog, take your time,” Brian patted the drummer’s back.

“All right,” Roger stepped up, “What’s this about?”

“You remember our last concert? The crowd were singing our songs back to us. I mean, it was deafening, but it was wonderful. They’re becoming a part of our show. I want to encourage that, so I’ve got an idea to involve them a little bit more. Let’s start with this.”

Brian then stamped his foot rhythmically with two beats, “Stamp to this beat.”

“Genius,” John smiled, before looking over at a grinning Roger. “Thank you, John.” Brian replied.

“Come on!” Everyone then started to stomp their feet as Brian did, “Good.”

“Now, I want you to clap on the third beat.”

They all did what was told, not knowing that they were making history with a simple beat that blew everyone’s minds.

Whilst they were doing this, they didn’t even see you walk in. You didn’t have time to put much thought into your clothes, so you decided to just throw on a somewhat thin, white button-up shirt with the first few ones unbuttoned, revealing several necklaces adorning your collar, tucked in a denim miniskirt.

So, you leaned against the piano top in the background, watching as they did this beat that was quite catchy.

“Don’t speed up!” Roger said whilst the wives giggled.

Brian pointed over to the drummer, “Rog, keep that time,” before walking over to the piano, playing some notes before finally noticing you were there.

“No Prenter? It’s unusual to see you without your pet.”

“It’s unusual seeing you be so bitchy,” You smirked, getting back at him for last night.

Brian waved you off, before he went back to face the drum risers, “Ah, you kept time, Rog. Good.”

You slowly walked over Brian’s side, hands on your hips, “What’s going on?”

Their stomping and clapping was then silenced, “You’d know if you were on time,” Roger quipped.

You squint your eyes at the blond before retorting, “I’m a performer, darling, not a Swiss train conductor,” The air suddenly becoming painfully awkward.

Your expression then softened, turning to Brian, “Sorry I’m late.”

“Again,” John sassed.

You sighed, “All right,” before turning back to Brian, “Now, will you please tell me why you’re not playing any instruments?”

“I wanna give the audience a song that they can perform. All right? Let them be part of the band. So what can they do?” Brian then resumes the rhythmic stamping and clamping, everyone else joining in.

Your eyes then scanned his feet, before looking up at him with a small smile, finally joining in.

Both your eyes kept in contact as you stomped and clapped together before he said, “Imagine...thousands of people...doing this in unison. Huh?”

He then sent you a proud smile that made your heart flutter, waiting for your response.

You smiled back, “What’s the lyric?”

Madison Square Garden

Buddy, you’re a boy

Make a big noise

Playing in the street

Gonna be a big man some day

You got mud on your face

You big disgrace

Kickin’ your can all over the place

Singin’

We will, we will rock you

The stamps, claps, and voices of the enormous crowd of New York City pounded in your ears, almost acting like your heartbeat.

Buddy, you’re a young man, hard man

Shouting in the street

Gonna take on the world some day

You got blood on your face

You big disgrace

Wavin’ your banner all over the place

We will, we will rock you

Roger banged on his drums to the beat, mouthing along to the lyrics.

Buddy, you’re an old man, poor man

Pleading with your eyes

Gonna get you some peace some day

You’ve got mud on your face

You big disgrace

Somebody better put you

Back into your place

Brian clapped to the beat, his mouth parted at the sight of the participating crowd and then to you. John also decided to throw on his own moves to the beat.

We will, we will rock you

Brian’s guitar slowly sounded until the chorus ended, performing his heart out with his solo, you dancing along beside him before prancing around all over the stage, cheers of your name ringing in your ears.

When the song finally ended, Brian looked over to you with a huge smile, sending you a small nod, whilst the whole arena erupted in cheers and shouts.

“All right! I feel like taking a bite out of the Big Apple!” You said into the microphone.

“Who wants to take a bite out of me?” You smirked, your other mates chuckling at your words.

You then stood on the side of the stage, closer to the audience, “All right, play with me now.”

“Ay-oh!”

Ay-oh!

“Ay-oh!”

Ay-oh!

Unaware of a crucial discussion going on, you entered the after-party venue clad in a silk robe, until you heard a voice you missed so much call your name, “(Y/N)!” Matthew.

“Oh, there you are!” You grinned before giving Matthew the biggest hug, even jumping on him, your legs wrapped around his waist.

He grunted then let out a laugh, before putting you down on your feet.

“You were brilliant!” Matthew said.

“Ah, that’s only because I knew you were watching.”

“We have so much to catch up on,” You said, before a blonde woman came up to you both with some drinks. You assumed she was a server, “Oh, thank you-”

“This is my girlfriend, Daisy,” Matthew smiled, putting his hand on her lower back.

Your smile immediately fell before Matthew said, “Daisy, love, this is (Y/N).”

You couldn’t help but feel a slight pang in your chest, until Daisy sent you a sweet smile, “Magnificent show.”

“Thank you,” You forced a smile, Matthew noticing, before offering your hand to hers to shake, “It’s so kind of you, I appreciate it. Thank you so much.”

Matthew’s eyes then landed on your ring finger, which still held the ring he gave you. He felt a tug on his heart, his smile almost faltering.

Paul then noticed a tension between you and the couple, quickly walking over to you, “(Y/N), there are some people here for you to see. You’d promise you’d say hello.”

“Oh, did I?” You said, Matthew quickly noticing the slight bitterness in your voice.

Paul nodded, “Mm-hmm.”

“We should go, will I see you soon?” Matthew’s hand grabbed yours, and didn’t even notice his own finger brush against the ring. He always did that. You know, when you were still together.

You let out a forced chuckle, “Yes, of course. Of course,” before placing a quick kiss on Matthew’s cheek. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Daisy.”

“And you. And well done again,” She smiled.

“And you.”

Then they started to walk away, “Bye,” Matthew said softly, his hand on his new love’s waist.

“Thank you for coming such a long way.”

When they were finally out of sight, your smile fell. Your hands fumbled together, fingers brushing against the ring, pulling it up momentarily but then pushing it back down.

“Then you’ve got the MTV interview...and the plane to Houston for the special. Back here on Friday.”

You looked out the car window, a glass of scotch in one hand, not even paying attention to Reid going through your tiring schedule.

Until Paul handed you a small pill, Reid stopping his read momentarily to watch you take it in before taking a gulp of the scotch. Just a little something to ease the pain.

“Listen to me now,” Reid started, “Do you know who sold four percent of all the records purchased last year? Worldwide?”

“Michael Jackson. Not the Jackson 5. Michael Jackson.”

“And I think you could do even better. In fact, I’ve had an offer from CBS Records. It’s a lot of money for you, (Y/N), and I think you should consider it.”

Your head slowly turned to face Reid, “Are you asking me to break up the band?”

“I’m just pointing out what awaits you if you go solo. An end to your frustrations.”

“My frustrations?” You questioned.

He then turned to Paul, “Paul?”

Paul then started shaking his head, “I don’t know what you’re talking about, John.”

Reid then sent him a look of disbelief and anger at the same time, “Perhaps I misunderstood.”

You immediately pressed the button for the driver, “Yes, ma’am?”

“Pull over. Stop the car, pull over.”

Reid shook his head in disbelief until he felt the car stop and heard the tires screech.

“Get out. Out now!” You demanded Reid.

“What the hell?” Reid sighed heavily, shaking his head.

“Get out of this car. You’re fired.”

“What are you talking about ‘fired’?”

“I said get out.”

“(Y/N), you are high!”

“I said get out!” You snapped, “Out! Out or I’ll kill you!” You gritted your teeth, “Get out, you treacherous piss flap.”

“You’re not thinking clearly-” “Get out!” You screamed before opening his door and forcing him out.

“You’re firing the wrong snake, (Y/N),” He looked over to Paul, “You’ll regret it.”

“GET YOUR ASS OUT OF HERE!” You exploded, before slamming the door shut, leaving the fired manager out on the street, “Drive!”

You then finished the whole glass before Paul let out a huge sigh, you looking over to him, “Did you know anything about this?”

Paul shook his head innocently, “I warned him against it. Pure greed.”

“Tried to break up my family.”

“We can manage the band. We don’t need him.”

“I’m gonna take care of you now, (Y/N). If you’ll let me.”

tags: @yoonlatte // @geek-and-proud // @everything-you-dont-wanna-be // @itsametaphorbriansblog // @marequeenii // @killer-queen-xo // @jedi-dreea // @achernarsaa // @nevaeh-potter15 // @banana-tree-freddiemercury // @rogertaylorssunglasses // @pyrotechnic789 // @mirkwoodshewolf // @stuff-exists // @toger-raylor // @langdonzvoid // @imamazzellhoe // @tbird20165 // @destiel-stucky4ever-loki-queen // @theswedishblonde // @oliviaharddyy // @sunflower-borhap-boys // @rocknrollsavedmysoul13

others: @b-hardys // @spideyyypeter // @hunterswearingplaid // @livingforrt // @bensrhapsody // @jennyggggrrr

this means i can’t find you anymore.

please do send me a message if i missed you or accidentally tagged you!

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banashee · 4 years

Link

Feels like home

"What are you doing?"

Phil stops in his tracks as he's entering the living room that’s connected to an open kitchen. Because where this morning, everything had been tidy and clean, it’s now covered in a thick layer of flour. There are egg shells strewn about, several bags of something and there are bowls stacked in the sink, handles of various utensils sticking out. Three more bowls rest on the counter, covered with tea towels.

In the middle of it all, Clint stands with his sleeves rolled up, gorgeous arms on full display and scowling at a pile of dough that he’s working harder than is probably necessary. It’s not like Phil could tell, because he’s pretty much useless in the kitchen when it involves anything that’s more complicated than cooking pasta with premade sauce or chucking raw potatoes with salt and pepper into the oven.

Barton doesn’t even turn around, and grumbles, "Baking." as he proceeds to turn the pile of dough over, pours more flour onto it and viciously hits it with the palms of his hands.

“I can see that.” Phil replies patiently, “What are you baking and most importantly, why are you baking? A blown up safe house isn’t accounted for in the budget for this mission.”

“No offence, but fuck you, Sir.”

Clint turns briefly to glare, then he goes back to beating the crap out of the dough under his hands. It doesn’t look like he’s interested in having this conversation. Or any conversation at all, that is. Phil definitely catches on to that and moves to the opposite counter, which isn’t nearly as covered in flour as the rest of the space.

The only thing not dusted in baking ingredients in this kitchen seems to be the coffee machine but that’s not surprising, given that it’s Clint who created this tornado. He lives off of the stuff, and so does Phil. Which means there’s always a fresh pot ready or brewing. Phil pours himself a cup, leans back onto the counter and inhales the heavenly scent of coffee before taking a long swig.

After a few moments of silence, Clint starts talking, though.

“I’m making bread because we’re stuck here for at least a little while and if I don’t keep busy with anything useful I’ll go insane. We did the debriefing, my report is finished since last night and you can only clean your weapons so many times before it starts getting ridiculous. So, baking it is.”

He sounds resigned, frustrated.

To most people, a bit of unexpected off-time due to a snow storm would feel like a vacation, but Phil is actually one of the very few people who understands.

Both him and Agent Barton are workaholics and infamous for hogging every available space on the holiday cover lists. As for Coulson himself, the jokes within SHIELD about him actually being an alien life form that doesn’t require sleep or down time are almost as old as his career there, even though people usually quickly shut up as soon as they notice him nearby.

Truth is, Phil doesn’t really have anything to come home to.

An empty, dark apartment with nicer furniture than he’ll ever need because he’s barely there and a fridge full of mold because it’s been too long since he actually had time to do anything about it. He doesn’t even have a house plant, because they simply die when he’s gone and don’t get watered. So don’t even ask him about having any pets - how is he supposed to care for a living creature that depends on him when he can’t even keep a fucking cactus alive?

Relationship? Not so much. His last one ended years ago and ugly at that. It’s probably what Phil gets for dating a civilian and work following him home one night. He understands why his partner bolted in panic and ended it later via phone call because he’d been terrified to come back to the apartment after the break in and the nightly attack. Phil didn’t blame him one bit, and told him as much.

So this was when he learned the hard way that a relationship with anyone outside his line of work most likely would be impossible in the long run.

Phil didn’t try after, a one-night-stand or two aside. It’s easier than getting his heart broken again and again, easier than losing a loved one due to his job that he just can’t give up.

“This is probably gonna be too much for just two people.” Clint’s voice rises him back out of his thoughts, and Phil blinks before looking over to where the younger agent is standing, putting the first loaf of bread into the oven and starting to knead another, darker looking batch of dough.

“Hope you like bread, Coulson. I’ll give it to anyone who doesn’t run away fast enough. Might just put the leftovers into the break room at headquarters. Nothing stays there for long.”

“I like bread.” Phil answers, because that’s certainly true. Especially when it’s homemade, which he really doesn’t get often. Then, another thought crosses his mind.

“The baked goods that keep turning up in the break room. Those are coming from you?” He asks, because chances are, whenever you enter it something sits there, no note or anything, and people happily go to town on whatever it is that day.

Phil especially loves the days when there are chocolate chip cookies, because they’re always the perfect mixture of crisp on the edges and gooey in the middle and they usually disappear faster than you can blink once people know they’re there. There are other types of cookies, too. Sometimes it's pastry, perfectly flaky and filled with something delicious. Cake, breadsticks, all sorts of snacks. They always seem to appear out of thin air, and everybody is interested to see what is there in the mornings, because most of the time, the baking must take place in the middle of the night because you can almost never see anyone delivering it during the day, unless it’s somebody's birthday and they bring cake that they dump there for their co-workers.

Even Director Fury takes a detour in the mornings to see what kind of treat appeared there some time at night and snatches a piece or two for himself.

Clint hums in response to the question.

“Not everything, but most of it is mine.” He shrugs, and looks back at Phil for a moment,

“You know I don’t sleep too well. It’s one way to stay busy, besides training. And people seem to appreciate it, so…” he shrugs again, a little bit self conscious and turns back to working on his dough, although a lot less violent than before.

“It’s good. Really good actually. I had no idea you baked, or I wouldn’t have joked earlier.” Phil refills his cup of coffee, and, without thinking, fills up Clint’s mug that’s sitting on the counter in a semi-safe distance of getting knocked over or flour sprinkled into it and nudges it a little closer to him.

“Thanks.” He means both the coffee and the statement, and smiles at Phil. It’s one of his small, honest ones, not the over enthusiastic, fake kind of smile that he plasters on around people in an attempt to make them like him while he's actually hiding in plain sight. Then, surprisingly, he turns around to really face Phil and looks like he’s chewing on his words for a moment. The older man waits patiently, knowing that it’s usually not a good idea to push him.

“I used to work in the cooking tents back in the circus. Worked in kitchens and bakeries after, too. You know, after the army kicked me out.”

Phil nods, and keeps quiet. He knows Clint’s file and his personal history, starting with his messed up early life all through the sketchy circus and after. Phil knows that he illegally enlisted in the army while being too young but he had nowhere else to go. He knows that Clint spent time on the streets and working odd jobs, both legal and illegal, but Phil never knew that many details because not everything left data for SHIELD to go after, and Clint was and still is tight lipped about his history. He doesn’t share unless forced, and that never ends well.

But now he’s providing personal information to Phil, out of his own free will and Phil knows and appreciates it for the rare sign of trust that it is. Even after two years of almost always exclusively working together, the younger agent keeps a lot to himself. Sometimes though, something small and personal might slip through his iron control. But never this much, and certainly not in broad daylight in a casual conversation.

So Phil nods silently, smiling back and waiting for Clint to finish his thought.

“Not having a fixed address always fucked that up, though. Stuff happened, you know the rest.” He rubs one hand over his face and leaves a track of flour all over his cheek and forehead. Some of it clings to his hair and eyebrow. He looks withdrawn and tired, now that Phil actually looks closer.

“Sorry, I haven't slept in a while. Didn't mean to talk your ear off, Boss.” Clint adds, and quickly turns around facing the counter to go back to kneading his current batch of dough. He doesn’t say anything after that, concentrating on his work and carefully avoiding any further eye contact.

“That’s okay, I don’t mind. You can talk to me anytime. " Phil replies, and he doesn't crack a single joke about Clint's habit to repeatedly break the silence over comms. Phil is serious with this, and he calmly keeps drinking his coffee while they share the room in comfortable silence. Then, when he’s done and is about to leave the kitchen again, he quietly adds on to his reply from several minutes ago.

“Thank you for trusting me with this.”

He didn't get an answer before and he doesn't expect one now. But he does notice that the tension that Clint holds in his shoulders relaxes significantly.

When they make it back to New York three days later, they do so with bags full of several different kinds of bread, two kinds of cookies half a chocolate cake carefully wrapped up in tin foil, leaving it in the break room. But when Phil moves to place the contents of another two packets into a plastic container, Clint stops him and says,

“That’s yours, Sir.”

And before Phil has the time to thank him, Clint has left the room, leaving him with mouthwatering delicious sourdough bread, cheesy garlic bread, salted caramel and chocolate chip cookies and a whole new train of thoughts.

*+~

Living on base comes with a list of pros, and an equally long list of cons.

One of the pros being that everything is close at all times and Clint saves a lot of time which he’d otherwise spend with commutes and other tedious crap. The probably biggest con, however, is that there’s no fucking privacy.

Yes, he has a small apartment with a separate bed- and bathroom for himself but that’s really all there is to it. The walls are paper thin, and even with his shitty hearing on the left he knows every single detail from when his next door neighbour on the right has a nightly visitor. Clint knows just exactly how long they’re going at it and what stupid names they call each other.

Too much information, especially when he has to look both “Sexy Beast” and “Hot Mama” in the eyes over a conference room table in a meeting about upcoming missions the very next day. Which gets increasingly hard when he has to hold himself back from expressing this condolences to “Hot Mama” for the 10 minutes of disappointment she’s enduring on a regular basis. Loud 10 minutes, filled with fake moaning but still. It's physically painful to keep his mouth shut and stay focused these days.

Clint is pretty sure that spending this amount of time with literally anything else would be time spent well in this case, from what he can tell. Which is a lot. More than he ever wanted to.

When he started working for SHIELD he’d never have thought that this particular problem would be part of his daily life on base, and yet here he is, knowing entirely too much about his co-workers.

More importantly, the thin walls also mean that he’s got no privacy of his own. An apartment on base could be described as a screen to shield someone from view, provided with a door that locks and a security system. That one doesn’t make him feel too safe, though. Anyone who wanted to could enter, given time and a little bit of skill. Clint tested that theory pretty early on, breaking into his own quarters in the matter of a few minutes. So he doesn’t fool himself about privacy and safety. It’s still better than anything he’s ever had before in his entire life.

Besides, he always avoided getting too comfortable where he is, even to this day. Just in case he needs to run again. No roots attached, no commitments. Moving out of basic SHIELD quarters would be one hell of a lot easier than leaving behind a life in a space of his own.

But he likes his job, and Clint started to think, only since recently but still, that he actually might have a real place within this organization.

Lack of privacy for him is not so much a problem when it comes to hook ups - Clint is not with anyone and the desire to go out and find someone to fuck with doesn't surface that often.

If he does, he’s always, always spending the night at their place or a motel, though. The ladies or gents usually don’t mind that and there are never any last names or phone numbers exchanged. It works, for the most part.

Sometimes, depending on his current state of mind, these encounters leave Clint wanting to scrub his skin off with bleach.

It’s not his dates fault, just his brain going places. But there are nights, when he waits for them to fall asleep, happy and satisfied and a bit warmer than before, while he keeps himself still, hoping they won’t notice anything odd.

Clint is well aware that he is just lonely, not even a “probably” about it. But he also knows that going out for random hook ups doesn’t help.

Sometimes, he enjoys those nights, for a while. But more often than not, being close to strangers that way sends his mind spinning and his skin crawling, to the point where even the feeling of someone's arms wrapped around him in their sleep doesn’t ease the loneliness and craving for physical contact that for once, is non-violent.

At that point, the whole thing turned pointless, and he leaves to return back home, to wash off the smell of aftershave, perfume, smoke and sex and shake apart on the tile floor while the shower runs, covering up whatever little sounds escape him behind hands clamped tightly over his mouth.

Running water really is a godsent - the sound drowns out most smaller things going on, and insomnia is common enough among SHIELD agents that no one bats an eye when they hear a shower running at three or four in the morning. Logically, Clint also knows that most of them would have an understanding about PTSD and its various shitty friends as well, but he doesn’t feel like sharing, doesn’t feel like letting anyone know anything more about him than the files already give away. And those are a lot more detailed than he’s comfortable with.

SHIELD has it’s ways to find data and turn it into valuable information. It also has a psych department with shrinks that poke and needle all the right spots in new recruits to get the personal information that they’re looking for.

Clint has left their offices telling them to go and get fucked on more than one occasion. “Defense mechanism” and “deflecting” they say. Also “trust issues” and “unprocessed trauma” but it’s not like he didn’t suspect that before, even when he doesn't know the correct terms because he's basically trailer trash.

It makes him nauseous just thinking about how much they find out, how much of his personal crap is written down in files, ready to be accessed by anyone with a high enough clearance or skill and determination to get their hands on that sort of information.

Meetings with shrinks always leave him jumpy and on the edge. Practically, he knows this sort of thing is supposed to help, however, he doesn’t trust a single one of the doctors assigned to him. How things are supposed to get better that way, he doesn’t know, but he’s good enough at faking it to make it through.

He’s used to faking whatever he needs to fake to get forward. He can always hide and fall apart about it later, once the job is done and he’s back some place semi-safe and semi-private.

Which leads him back to the apartment issue. He’s getting sick of it. After two and a half years of working for SHIELD, he can afford to move out of base and get a place of his own, especially now that he finally might be comfortable enough to do so. It’ll take more planning, responsibility, adulting and most of all commitment but he’s found that this is a price he’s more than willing to pay for a little piece of freedom and privacy.

It’s also overwhelming, and he doesn’t really know how to go about it. Well, technically he knows he’ll have to talk to Coulson about the paper work and get it going, which he knows, realistically won’t be any trouble at all, because Coulson is good . He’ll help him with the paperwork and figuring out where to go and what to do. he trusts him, too, which is rare enough.

But Clint has caught himself on more than one occasion, talking to Phil about things more personal than the job. Most notably just the other day while they'd been stuck in a safe house due to the weather and Clint had one of his stress baking binges, in the middle of the day and Coulson walking in on him - not surprising, given that the wooden cabin consisted of only three rooms, counting in the bathroom. But Clint had shared more personal information with him than he has with most people before. Ever, if he counts the occasions where he'd shared those things willingly.

It scares him, if he's being honest. Randomly sharing things with someone might end badly for him one day - there is a reason he usually keeps all this shit to himself damn it. But Coulson, Phil , is different, somehow. He's patient and kind where others are not and he's a capable badass. Clint likes him, and most of all, he not only respects him - he trusts him like he never thought he'd trust somebody.

He realizes that it might be a little sad that his only true friend is his supervisor. You can count someone you spend most of your time with as a friend right? Even Christmas and Thanksgiving, thanks to the fact that both Clint and Phil always volunteer to work these days.

They call each other by their first names, sometimes, when they're not on comms. Also the fact that they've been in tight spots together before and occasionally holding each others guts in before medical help arrives to put them back where they belong. They trust each other with their lives (part of the job, but still) and all of this should be enough to call it a friendship, right?

Clint finds himself just a tad more pathetic for thinking this but whatever. It's not like anyone could read his mind while he lies face first on the floor at two in the morning while the couple next door is busy with their very short amusement once again. It makes him want to rip his hair out, just a tiny little bit.

Ok so fuck this. First thing in the morning he'll seek out Coulson and tackle the paperwork thing for his off base apartment.

Clint groans and turns to lie down on his good ear, hoping it'll drown out the obnoxious sounds that are coming from the room over.

It helps, but only a little bit. On the bright side, given the last 8 months of experience, it should be over very soon.

When the moaning stops a little later than usual, Clint can make out somebody giving a round of sarcastic applause another apartment over, and snorts a laugh into the darkness of his own room.

But honestly. Fuck this.

He makes himself get up from the floor and crawl into bed. Clint is tired, but not the kind of tired where sleep would be any help. It doesn't stop him from trying though, and some time, way too close to the ringing of his goddamn alarm clock, he drifts off into restless sleep just to be startled awake again way too soon.

Another glorious day.

*~+

When Phil enters his office, the scent of fresh coffee wafts into his nostrils, and he's greeted by his asset, seated on the couch with a big coffee mug in one hand. It reads "Let's keep the dumbfuckery to a minimum, shall we?!" in bold rainbow letters, his own idea of a joke because he gifted the dang thing to Coulson last Christmas.

The other mug, another gift, from the previous years Christmas, is a horrible fake knock off Captain America mug, obnoxiously large but it holds sooo much liquid and it's Cap so naturally Phil loves this monstrosity. Especially since it's steaming in the middle of his desk, being partly responsible for the heavenly coffee scent filling the room.

"Good morning, Agent Barton."

"Hey, Boss. Got a minute?" Clint asks, looking up with a lopsided smile but it doesn't fool Phil, not anymore. Clint looks like he's slept like shit or not at all. Which, knowing him, he probably has. Phil has seen the way the younger agent sleeps or doesn't sleep when they shared a room on missions. Sadly, it is quite common for him, but Clint always manages.

"Yes, of course. Thanks for the coffee, by the way. Oh" Phil adds, feeling an excited little spark at the sight of a big blueberry muffin near his mug, but manages to stay professional.

"Thanks for that, too. Is everything okay?" he asks then, because while it isn't unusual for Clint to start his day by entering Phil's locked office to start coffee and hang out a bit while they do paperwork or discuss work related things, it's not often that he seeks him out with anything particular to talk about. At least not unless anything happened, which, as far as Phil is aware, wasn't the case. It's their first day back in the office after the latest mission that lead to the baking marathon.

Clint hums into his mug, then considers his words.

"Yeah, I'm fine. So uh, I'd like to get an apartment off base and I was going to ask if you could help me. With the forms and all that?" he asks and doesn't sound nearly as awkward as he'd thought he would. Thank fuck.

"Yes, absolutely. Did you have anywhere specific in mind?" Phil asks, opening a drawer on his desk to get the correct form for them to fill out so they can file it as soon as possible.

"No, not really. Well, I don't feel like traveling through half of New York to get here in the morning but other than that… Just some place quiet with walls that are thicker than rice paper." he adds with a small smile and Phil nods, corner of his mouth quirking upward.

He remembers the on-base apartments from his early days and he doesn't miss it one bit. He only sleeps there if absolutely necessary and is quite impressed that Barton managed to stay there for over two years without murdering anyone. Phil moved the hell out of there as soon as he collected a few decent pay checks and managed to afford it.

"I'm sure we can figure something out. Let's start here…"

*~+

Clint is equal parts excited and overwhelmed. He's never had this much space to call his own, and he feels a bit childish and stupid about how much this makes him feel, but thankfully, he's on his own here. No one around to witness his small breakdown over two rooms, a balcony and a real fucking good kitchen. It's enormous and he can't wait to get his hands on it to stock it with everything he needs, now that he's got space.

With Phil's help, he'd found a two-room apartment in Manhattan. It's much, much nicer than anything he's ever lived in before and part of him doesn't want to touch anything, afraid of messing it up. The other, excited part of him has ordered Ikea furniture online and spent most of the day assembling it in his new space, coffee already brewing when Phill showed up on his doorstep, wearing jeans and a flannel shirt instead of his usual black suit. That almost stops Clint in his tracks because his brain is starting to slowly catch up because holy fucking shit, he looks good .

Phil also brought tools and a six-pack of coke. That alone is one of the reasons why Clint likes him so much. He'd not only offered and provided much more help and he deserves, he's also made sure to think about the fact that Clint doesn't like alcohol and doesn't ever drink it unless he's undercover and needs to blend in. Most people would have dropped off beer on moving day. But Phil didn't, because he pays attention.

'Don't fall in love you hopeless dumbass' Clint thinks to himself, but the heart wants what the heart wants. Well shit. Better keep that to himself.

When all is done that night and they spend it on the newly assembled couch with Pizza and drinks. It's not unusual for them so share spaces like this, but this feels a bit different somehow. They're close to each other, close enough for legs and elbows to touch on occasion. It should be uncomfortable, being this close to another person but Clint doesn't feel anything but tired, happy and comfortable after a day of work.

Phil leaves around 11 that night, walking the two blocks to his own apartment and thanking Clint for the pizza (he'd insisted on buying as a thank you for helping him spending the day neck deep in Swedish furniture). When he's on his own again, Clint takes his time to walk around the place, carefully running his hands over everything. It still feels a little bit surreal to him, having all of this .

Clint is wide awake, and he knows he won’t be able to sleep that night. So he starts another pot of coffee and spends hours in the kitchen, producing several sheets of oat and raisin cookies, mango-vanilla and chocolate-mocha cupcakes, as well as a batch of thick and fluffy cinnamon rolls. When finally, 6 am rolls around, Clint has left the kitchen, wiped down and clean, to hop into the shower. Then, he snags one of the cinnamon rolls for himself, pours coffee into a travel cup and makes his way to the New York SHIELD office.

When Phil arrives at work this day, he finds a brewing pot of coffee in the corner and a big plastic container on his desk, but Clint is nowhere to be seen. Curiously, Phil steps closer to check what no doubt mouth watering treat waits for him inside of the box. Stuck to the lid is, for the first time ever, a small note. It’s hastily scrawled onto a purple sticky note, and it’s only two words, but Phil smiles widely when he reads it.

Thank you.

*+~

No matter how much they plan and prepare, sometimes a mission just goes ass over teakettle in a matter of seconds.

One moment, literally nothing happens and Clint is chatting to Phil over the comms to keep himself awake. He’s been in his perch for roughly 48 hours and watching the goons play cards and pick their noses in boredom. Literally nothing else happens for two days, and Clint is quietly bitching about it over the comms while fighting the urge to rip his own hair out. Then, their mark shows up but before Coulson can even give a kill order, all hell breaks loose. Nothing prepares anybody for the chaos that ensues, and suddenly there are panicked shouts and then something explodes, sending wood and stones and people flying, while flames quickly eat their way further through the scene.

People from both sides of the law are scrambling to get to safety. Clint is running and yelling “Explosion! Get out, get out!” over the comms, loud enough for there to be a nasty backslash of the sound. The agents who just entered the building to collect the necessary information, now that the mark has left the room where it’s located, turn on their heels to get the hell out but Clint can’t make out their answer if there even is any, and he feverishly hopes it won’t be too late.

There is a stabbing pain in his upper body and his ears are ringing, blood dripping from his head and into his eyes. He can’t see very well, even for someone with his vision, and the dull sound filling his head prevents him from hearing anything over the comms. Clint doesn’t waste any time in trying to find out what the hell is happening. He just keeps running, as he can feel the blaze of heat is close to his back, tinting everything into a reddish light and rapidly spreading out.

In front of him, he can make out vaguely human figures, and with his vision still impaired, he can only hope that they’re SHIELD. But he never finds out, because the next thing he knows is that, a piece of ceiling breaks down under the fire and yanks him down to the floor, and everything is pain.

Thankfully, he passes out very soon.

When he wakes up, he does so in a white room that smells of hospital, because it is a hospital. Oh, Fuck.

Clint groans, trying to get his eyesight to clear up from the swimming mess that it currently is, trying to shift himself up into a sitting position and get the hell out of here if possible, but his body screams at him in protest, so he falls back down vocalizes,

“Ow, fuck.”

“Don’t move too much, Barton. You’re safe. No need to get up and injure yourself any further.”

The dry, calm tone of the voice he’d know anywhere makes him smile a little.

“Hey, Boss. What happened?” he asks, in an attempt fill in his very spotty memory of the last mission. Phil patiently explains. The unforeseen leak in the plan, the explosion, the fire. That Clint got hit with debris and suffered second- and third degree burns form it, as well as broken bones and other tissue injuries. He’ll have to stay in medical for quite a few weeks, and at home after that, but the doctors say he’ll probably be okay after it all - it’s just a lot at once that his body will have to deal with.

Clint nods along to the explanation, fragments of memories slowly returning while Phil is filling out the gaps for him - he looks tired and unusually disheveled, suit rumpled and dark beard stubble all over his cheeks.

“What about you, Sir? Are you okay? You look a bit- uhm.” he cuts himself off.

“Lot’s to do with the aftermath of this. And I was waiting for updates about your status, so there’s that.” Phil runs one hand over his gaunt face. “I’m fine. Glad you woke up, too.”

This last statement moves something in Clint. He’s still not used to somebody caring about him on a personal level.

“Thank you for not leaving me behind. and I’m sorry I fucked up. Couldn’t get a shot in time.” he says quietly, and Phil’s face moves from a small smile to a frown.

“You didn’t fuck anything up. You made sure that you and everyone else got out in time to survive the explosion. That’s the most important thing for now. Another team will get the mark. None of this is your fault, Clint.” He locks eyes with him, and it feels strangely intimate. “I will always have your back and I will always and come get you.”

Phil doesn’t utter the word “promise” but this is very much what it is.

Clint just keeps up the eye contact for a few more moments, then exhaustion pulls him back to sleep. He is on pretty strong medication, and it mostly keeps him under, at least for a for a while.

The length of time he can stay awake increases over the days and weeks, and the day he can leave medical, Phil picks him up and helps him enter the car before he gets behind the wheel and turns over to Clint.

“If it is okay with you, I’d like to stop at your place to help you pack some things and then we’ll get over to my apartment. You wouldn’t be alone all the time and I can help you when you need it.” Phil states, and Clint considers it for a moment. But the small, mean voice in the back of his head keeps whispering “useless” and “You’re a burden” so he answers,

“You don’t have to. I’ll be fine.”

“I know I don’t have to. It’s an offer, and it’s not a chore. Unless this makes you uncomfortable?”

“No, no. I- I trust you. Just don’t want to invade your space for so long.” he says, still giving Phil an out of this if he wants it. They have grown closer over the time, and although neither of them would hesitate to call the other “friend” by now, this is… Different. Never mind the romantic feelings that Clint is still stupidly developing. Spending time with Phil sounds amazing, but on the other hand, this won’t help him ignore his crush on him at all.

“It’s no bother at all. You’ll heal faster with the help, and believe it or not, but I actually enjoy your company. So, the offer is there if you want it.”

“Okay, then. Thanks, Phil.” He shoots him a quick, but grateful smile and his heart is beating faster, so he looks away, watching the city of New York fly past the window as they head to their destination.

*+~

Living together, even if temporarily, is neither new or awkward to them. Over the years, they have spent so much time together out on OPs, in safehouses, and around each other both on and off the clock, they’re like a well-oiled unit together.

Still, living together at Phil’s place is kind of new at least, and it sends a spark of longing through Clint but he shoves it right back down. It’s no use. So he ignores it, and does what he needs to do in order to heal up. Which is mostly taking it easy, resting and showing up for his PT sessions.

Recovery bores him out of his mind though, and Clint is indeed very happy to see Phil in the mornings and evenings, spending weekends together. They talk about anything and nothing, share quiet time together when Phil is doing paperwork he’s brought home. He leaves SHIELD way earlier than he usually would, and Clint is well aware that he’s doing that for his benefit. It’s still new, but it makes him incredibly happy, to know someone cares this much about him.

Another thing is, Clint has always had trouble sleeping. Phil knows this, intimately well, from sharing spaces and occasionally beds with him when they’re out in the field together. In the first few years, Clint would leave the room whenever possible, either trying to get his mind off of it while doing something else, or, when he couldn’t hold back for any longer, to hide in some place small and safe to quietly deal with his overboiling emotions.

Later, when Clint trusts him enough to let him, Phil helps him calm down, talking to him for hours on end, staying however close Clint would need or let him at the time. In the last few years, he’s even started to accept physical contact as a form of comfort. Sometimes, when he’s in a really bad place, he’ll even ask for it, non-verbal but very, very clear in the way he’ll lean close to Phil and hold onto him. Phil always hugs back, holding him close and secure, never pushing, never pulling away, never saying anything about tears or fragments of personal information that escape him in moments like these. He’ll simply reassure him that he’s safe, the no one is here to watch and that he’s got him. It’s okay. And in the end, it always is.

After the mission that left him with the injuries he’s currently healing from, Clint is suffering from even more nightmares than usual. This is another reason Phil had offered him to stay with him, but he knows that flat out mentioning that probably wouldn’t go over too well, no matter how much Clint trusts him.

So, they spend many nights together as well, and it works out like it always does.

It’s those nights that Clint realizes just how touch starved he really is. Those nights, as emotionally painful as they may be, he is happy to find a bit of relief, and, most importantly, he knows that it is possible to be close to another person without having to sleep with them in order to get it.

Although, another, increasingly growing part of his brain lets him know, in this particular case he wouldn’t mind that at all. Or, he wouldn’t mind it if he wasn’t so terrified of losing Phil as a friend if that happened.

So he doesn’t say anything, just burrows his face in Phils soft shirt whenever he can, and hopes that at least this won’t be ripped away from him one day.

On a brighter note, Clint has also taken up on learning how to knit. Usually, he’d take over the kitchen and turn it into a non-licenced bakery, but as it is now, he’s not supposed to walk or stand for too long. So, he browsed the internet and sent a quick e-mail to Phil, asking if he could pick up a few things for him at the store on his way home. That evening, he receives a bag with several, colourful balls of yarn, different sizes of knitting needles and a bright smile from Phil, and when he asks how much he owed him, Phil just waves him off and dumps the contents of his other bag, boxes of chinese take-out food, onto the table and asks how Clint’s day has been.

So, the next few weeks Clint spends working in turns on either a scarf, a patchwork blanket, or a pair of red, blue and white socks with a little star at the ankles. He’s well aware of Phil’s adorable fanboy crush on Captain America, and, one evening, presents the socks to him with a lopsided grin and gets the brightest smile and warmest “thank you” in response. He can’t help the blush that creeps up onto his cheeks, but Phil is blushing too , goddammit, and he happily wears the socks that evening (and many after for years on end until they're starting to fall apart) when they share the couch. They’re leaning against each other without even thinking, Clint knitting and chatting away about the latest episodes of crap TV he’s been watching because “where do they even find those people willing to humiliate themselves on national TV?!” and Phil laughs along, and informs him over the latest gossip from the office.

It’s the happiest Clint has felt in… Maybe ever, he can’t even remember. He’s even happier when he slowly but surely gets better, and is finally able and allowed to walk and move around and finally being able to do so without his crutches, for longer periods of time.

So naturally, one evening Phil opens the door to his apartment and is greeted with the mouth watering smell of baking (boston cream pie cupcakes and fudgy brownies, he’ll find out later). There is also the sound of his kitchen radio turned to a country station with Clint singing along, and it makes Phil smile in an instant, because it feels so right and so domestic.

He’s loved coming home in the last few weeks, and it has been a long time since he’s felt like that. Phil no longer comes into an empty, dark and cold apartment. Now, there is the presence of another human being. Now, his home is filled with warmth and light and on days like today, even the heavenly scent of home made food and the very, very decent singing of Clint.

Phil would never admit that he takes his time in taking off his shoes and coat, deliberately waiting to go into the kitchen because he enjoys listening, enjoys soaking up this feeling of somebody’s company in his own space. He also just likes to listen to Clint’s singing because he's got a great voice and Phil is secretly afraid that he will stop if he notices that Phil is here, but he wouldn’t have had to worry.

Clint just turns slightly when he notices movement in the doorway and he’s carrying a steaming hot tray across the kitchen to the rhythm of the music, calls out a cheerful, “Hi, Phil!” and then continues his little performance like nobody is watching or listening.

Phil can feel his heart almost exploding in his chest with happiness and, dare he think it, love .

The two of them are friends. Best friends, even. It’s more than Phil ever thought or hoped would be possible with Clint, but he’s come such a long way since he started at SHIELD almost 5 years ago. He’s much more comfortable than before, both with himself and the people around him. He trusts a small handful of them. Most of all Phil, which he knows too well.

It’s one of the reasons why he’s very hesitant in making a move in the direction of anything romantic, because he doesn’t know if it would be welcome. Phil doesn’t want to break this hard earned trust, so unless Clint let’s him know otherwise, he’s not going to say or do anything about it. He’d much rather swallow his feelings and keep a friend than losing both Clint and his trust in him, both in and out of the field. He values him way too much for that.

By the time Clint is healed up enough to go back home and on light duty, both of them have gotten so used to each other that spending their separate lives at their own apartments feels kind of odd, and neither of them wants to think too much about this fact, because so far, both of them are successfully hiding their mutual romantic feelings for each other.

So they take to spending most evenings at either one of their places taking turns, and if they wouldn’t try so hard to ignore their growing affections for each other, they would have realized that they’re practically already dating.

*+~

Time is a funny thing. One moment, Clint just returned to full active duty, finally , and one blink of an eye later 8 months have passed and he returns back to base in a battered plane, with Phil by his side and the Black Widow on his other - he’s pretty sure that his assessment of her has been correct, and kind of happy that he was able and allowed to spare her life. Things might be difficult at the start, but they soon realize that it is the right decision, and so does Director Fury, even when some parts of the agency are on the fence about that.

The results and success of Strike Team Delta speak for themselves, though.

One day, Clint is getting his ass handed to him by Natasha on the sparring mats. Nothing unusual there, because she’s good and even though he is one of SHIELD’s top agents himself, she could snap him in half if she really wanted to. So naturally, he adores her and takes every opportunity he can get to learn more. The two of them quickly form a friendship, and Natasha warms up faster than anyone would have thought. Mostly to Clint and Phil, because she knows and trusts them the most, but still.

“So, you and Coulson. How long have you been dating?” she asks while casually throwing Clint over her shoulder even though he’s taller and heavier by quite a bit.

“Huh?” he asks as he get’s back up and into fighting stance. “We don't.” he answers lamely, hoping the scarlet red on his face can be blamed on the fact that they’ve been sparing for over an hour and not his stupid little crush. (Little though? Not so much but he’s not getting into that, not even in the privacy of his own head)

Natasha lifts one perfect eyebrow at him.

“Oh?” She shrugs. “Could have fooled me.”

They leave it at that, but Clint can’t get this conversation out of his head. He’d love for there to be more than friendship between him and Phil, but he’s terrified of messing up what they have right now. It’s too good to be true already, and he doesn’t want to risk it.

Natasha doesn’t ask again, but Clint can feel her watching him and Phil. He’s pretty sure she doesn’t believe his statement about them not dating. His only grace is that she’s even more socially awkward than him though, so there’s that.

A little while later, the three of them are crammed onto a tiny sofa in an equally tiny safe house in North Dakota, shoulders pressed together as they scarf down peanut butter bars that Clint quickly threw together that morning and the TV is running with a super bowl match. Neither of them is particularly interested in the sport itself, but they have joined the betting pool back at home in the office, so they want to catch it and mercifully, they have a day and a half to kill until their ride home arrives.

Phil has one arm wrapped around Clint, who sits pressed close to him with Natasha half on his lap because this couch really isn’t constructed for three people but neither of them cares. It’s cozy and comfortable, and they have fun spending a bit of down time together.

The three of them work well together. Their success rate within the agency is one of a kind, even though they’re one of the smallest teams.

When they get assigned with other teams or agents, these people are, more often than not, convinced that the Agents Coulson, Barton and Romanoff communicate via telepathy instead of comm units, and even then, sometimes all they need is calling each others names in a certain tone of voice to indicate that something is happening. It’s equal parts scary and fascinating to watch.

One lazy weekend where all three of them are free, Clint has taken over Phil’s kitchen once again. He starts out with making lemon curd from scratch right after breakfast, and spends the time while it’s cooling to make some more of his infamous salted caramel cookies - those have Phil close to proposing marriage, all the complicated feelings be damned.

He can feel Natasha’s curious look prickling in his neck as he’s watching Clint from his spot on the kitchen table, munching on one of the cookies with a no doubt besotted look on his face because he’s off the clock and surrounded by friends and life is good to them for once. He doesn’t care.

Clint then proceeds to work with the lemon curd, from which he’s separated two dessert bowls because certain someone's keep stealing spoonfuls of it. As soon as he's turned his back, they’re at it, like two overgrown children. Natasha and Phil are a force to be reckoned with when it comes to having a major sweet tooth, especially together. Clint doesn’t mind, because it means that whatever he makes will get eaten and appreciated. And he makes a lot. Sweet, savory, bake and no-bake. Even cooking, which he’s taken up quite a bit, lately. Anything that keeps his hands busy when he needs to do something that isn’t destructive.

Today, Clint turns the curd into a lemon cheesecake and takes his sweet ass time decorating it. They devour parts of it after dinner, and when Natasha leaves to go home, she does so with three more pieces of it wrapped in tin foil, smiling a real, happy smile as she hugs both of them good night.

Clint throws himself back onto Phil’s couch after that, and they start a movie while sitting close together - unnecessarily close for just two of them on a fairly spacious couch. But it’s cozy and comfortable, and later that night, Clint nods off with his head on leaned Phil’s shoulder. He lets him sleep, keeping half his attention on the movie, until he falls asleep, too.

The next morning, Phil and Clint wake up in the living room, sunlight slowly filtering through the windows and they’re wrapped tightly around each other.

They don’t talk about it after, since it's hardly the first time they fell asleep together. It's not even the first time they've been cuddling, but it is the first time that they've really, properly been cuddling just because and not in an attempt to comfort one another or just to keep warm.

It's the best night’s sleep either of them has gotten in a long time.

*+~

Despite pretty much being a package deal these days, on occasion, Strike Team Delta get’s sent out on separate missions.

Natasha has spent about a month in russia so far, only with very limited contact to SHIELD. She’s taken up on sending private messages to Phil and Clint, disguised as spam e-mails. Clint’s personal favourite had been an offer for certain cosmetic surgery procedures of private body parts, consisting of several bad puns that had him under a table with howling laughter.

It is, however, a very effective way of communication, because who even opens these kinds of junk mails? So they know that she’s mostly fine, aware that she can’t share any sensitive information, although the fact that she can construct these messages mean that she’s probably not being watched all the time.

Then, Clint get’s called out with Sitwell’s team. They get along fine, and the mission is mostly successful. If you can call a mission successful that ends with secure intel, a dead drug cartel boss and two unconscious and handcuffed goons in the back of a van, even when two agents return to the home base with either a broken arm or twisted ankle.

Of fucking course, Clint manages to mess up his left arm. The one he shoots with and uses for most everyday things. He’s more annoyed than anything, because it benches him for active duty. Again.

When he returns back to base, he escapes from medical as soon as he can and makes his way up to Phil’s office to bitch to him about it. But when he arrives, he finds the office locked and empty, and soon finds out that Phil got called out last minute because a situation got very hot very fast and they needed someone who can handle it without panicking.

So, Clint doesn’t expect to hear from Phil for a few days at least. He does, however, get a text from Phil at 11:30 the following night, asking if he’s awake and if it’s okay if he comes over?

It worries Clint, because Phil has never asked like this before, so it must be serious. Clint types a reply with his right hand, as quickly as he can, telling Phil to get over here. Then, he starts a pot of coffee because if nothing else, it’ll keep them awake and warm.

When he opens his door about half an hour later, Phil looks like shit. He’s limping a bit, and holding his side carefully enough that Clint thinks he probably broke a few ribs. Most of all though, the haunted look in his eyes is what worries Clint the most. He pushes a mug of coffee in his hands, and they share several minutes of silence, just sharing the space and Phil slumps against Clint, remaining there. Clint has his good arm wrapped around him, slowly rubbing the spot on his upper arm where his hand rests.

“Phil, what happened?” he breaks the silence, keeping his voice low and even. It takes a while to get an answer, and Phil just shakes his head before he answers.

“Two agents died yesterday. I miscalculated the situation, and now they’re dead.” He sounds hollow and dead inside, but his eyes tell a different story. He’s absolutely heartbroken about it.

It’s his job to keep track of situations, to keep his agents safe. He cares for all of them, wants them not only safe and alive but also as happy, comfortable and well-fed as the mission parameters allow. He cares , on a human level that is very rare amongst SHIELD’s higher up’s.

Some certain, lucky agents, he cares even more about on a personal level.

It’s one of the reasons why Clint trusts and loves him so much.

Phil spends a lot of time planning and calculating these situations, talking through them with the team as much as possible, to cover every little detail, every little “what if”. Because when Phil Coulson makes a mistake, people die or at the very least get hurt. One mistake he makes can cost a family a mother or a father, a brother or a sister. One of his mistakes can cost a person their loved one, their rock they hold onto.

This is why Phil works so much and so hard, to avoid these mistakes at all costs.

But they still happen sometimes, and then he has to live with the guilt and responsibility.

Clint knows all of this. So he doesn’t offer any platitudes, doesn’t object when Phil says, “This is my fault.”

He simply pulls him into his arms and sits with him through the grief, wishing there was anything more he could do to help him. But as it is, they spend the next few hours on the couch, carefully minding each others injuries while they’re wrapped around each other and Clint runs his right hand through Phils dark brown hair in an attempt to comfort him.

Phil stays with him for the rest of the night and the two following days, simply because he doesn’t want to be alone and because Clint flat out refuses to leave him alone and let him go home on his own in this state of mind. After all, he knows what it feels like to have blood on his hands, intentional and not intentional.

*+~

Clint is covered from head to toe in flour and melted chocolate when Natasha enters his apartment after an uneventful day on the helicarrier. He’s spent most of the day in his kitchen, because Fury had been up his ass about overtime and taking a day or two off for months now. So, he’s spent the free time making cookie dough truffles, s’mores brownies and chocolate cream horns, and Natasha takes in the mess, wiping a bit of chocolate off of Clint’s face and stealing a truffle from the counter.

“How’s work?” he asks, and Natasha smirks knowingly, and fills him in on the office gossip of the day. They hang out and talk shit about their co-workers while Clint starts on yet another recipe, and Natasha snags pieces of ingredients to snack on, ignoring every single one of Clint’s complaints because she knows he always counts the stolen parts in, out of sheer habit because he’s baking around her and Phil so often.

The evening is still young when they get a call from Phil. They need to come in ASAP.

*~+

Looking back, Clint wouldn't be able to tell everything that happened. He knows the mission parameters, knows the key points, even knows exactly how and when things took a turn in the wrong direction. He knows roughly how and when they were taken captive and what happened in the warehouse.

Clint has no memory about them stabbing his ear drums and this bothers him, because shouldn’t he be able to recall this, when every word spoken and gory details from the rest have burned themselves into his brain?

It leaves nothing but a blank.

He remembers pain and blood and taunting their captors, hoping they’ll keep their attention on him so they’ll leave the other agents alone, remembers Phil trying to do exactly the same, looking at him with a desperate, warning look in his eyes that clearly says “please just shut the hell up and don’t antagonize them even more” but he knows it’s useless because he knows that Clint will not let other people get hurt when he can take their place. It’s one of the very few things they have frequent disagreements about, because Phil would very much like for Clint to stay in one piece if it's possible.

Clint remembers blood and pain and desperation, and then a duller, darker pain and feeling like he’s under water. But he’s not, nothing around him has changed, except the world has grown silent and distant even when there’s people screaming around him. His throat hurts, like he’s been screaming, too, but he doesn’t remember that, either.

Things get fuzzy after this, and when Clint wakes up again, he’s in a bright and white hospital room. There are machines blinking around him, people walking in and out of the room, talking to him and no doubt about him - he doesn’t hear anything at all. It’s because of the thick bandages around his head, he keeps telling himself to ease the anxiety, but deep down he knows that’s not the case. He fears the day when they will come off because then, he will no longer to be able to try and convince himself that these fucking bastards didn’t take away whatever was left of his ability to hear.

Phil is there to see him every day, and so is Natasha. They stay with him and write little notes to communicate, some of which he verbally answers, some he ignores completely.

Doctors say that the damage is permanent this time.

When his hearing first got damaged all those years ago when Dad was drunk, it mostly returned over time. Now, however, it nearly doesn’t and leaves him with a much, much smaller percentage intact. Healing takes a while, and by the time he’s well enough to be fitted for hearing aids at the ripe old age of 31, he’s left medical to hide out in his apartment and isolate himself from the world as much as he can.

Both Phil and Natasha have offered to stay with him, or have him come over for a while, but he always declines, even though he appreciates the offers. He appreciates them more than he has words for, but he still chooses to stay home on his own, not wanting to burden anyone while he figures out life with hearing loss and a whole new set of nightmares to deal with.

Nat texts and threatens to kick down his door, so he types a half hearted reply to let her know he’s still alive, even if not well. He doesn’t say that last part though. Natasha still shows up with two boxes of Pizza and a DVD in her hands, shoving him onto the couch and starting the movie with closed captions and not leaving his side for the rest of the night. He falls asleep with his head on her shoulder, crouched down in a way that makes his neck and back hurt like hell when he wakes up the next day, but it’s the best night’s sleep he’s gotten since that OP that fucked everything up.

Clint is still on medical leave, partly because he won’t talk to any of the shrinks assigned to him. They’ve had this dance before. It’s an uncomfortable routine by now and he’s a master at it.

He thinks about getting his own doctor to talk to, someone with no ties to SHIELD but he doesn’t have the energy to do anything about it. That, and he doesn’t touch his phone unless he uses it to text back to Phil or Natasha.

Damned, useless fucking thing.

Hearing aids take a lot of tuning and getting used to - half the time, he doesn’t wear them at all. Sometimes, the paranoia kicks in and he’ll scramble to get them, pacing his apartment on high alert for hours on end. Other days, he’s too tired to deal with them and just leaves them out, even though he knows they’re supposed to help him.

It’s been a busy week for everybody else, and Clint doesn’t hear much from anyone, doesn’t reach out and keeps himself busy with monkey bread, lemon cookies and peanut blossoms. His kitchen is a mess, but so is he. Clint is covered in flour and crusty bits of dough, hair limp and unwashed. There are dark circles under his eyes, too much stubble on his cheeks. It’s been too long since he’s slept, but lately, he’s alternating between staying in bed all the time, sleeping however much he can in between nightmares and keeping himself busy and awake over the course of too many days.

Today, he’s on his third day of no sleep and it shows. Clint is jumpy, anxious and on the edge. It’s one of those days where, if he starts to think for too long, he’ll just stop entirely, staring right through the wall while tearing up without noticing or caring about it.

He burns the fucking bread.

The smoky smell coming from the oven rises him out of his funk - cursing, he tries to salvage whatever is possible but it’s turned rock hard and black like charcoal. He dumps the scalding hot pan into the sink, spewing another string of profanity. A blinking, red light over his head tells him that his smoke alarm is going off, but he can’t make out it’s sound.

"Fuck!" He wants to kick something.

Better replace the smoke detector, because it’ll be useless to him now that he might not even notice it until it's too late. Another responsibility, why didn’t he think of it sooner?

“Stupid”, the mean little voice in the back of his head hisses, “Useless.”. It’s a well known mantra by now.

Clint takes in the mess around him, dead on his feet and emotions bubbling up. He just sits down in the middle of the cold tile floor, staring ahead into the open, cooling but stinking oven and doesn’t do anything about it.

There are vibrations on the floor - footsteps, probably. Clint startles badly but when he is halfway up and about to grab a kitchen knife he realizes that there is no threat because his visitor is by no means a burglar. The face that appears in his field of vision is very much friendly and familiar - Phil has one hand stretches out, the universal, peaceful gesture for ‘It’s just me, I won’t hurt you.’ and his lips are forming something along the lines of,

“I’m sorry.” and “I didn’t mean to scare you.” Then, to Clint’s great surprise, he finger-spells “w-o-r-r-i-e-d a-b-o-u-t y-o-u”. He spells it slowly and just the tiniest bit clumsy, but very clear nonetheless.

Clint blinks at him. He doesn’t know what he expected, but it’s not this.

He used to be fluent in ASL, back when he was a child and his brother had stolen books from the library for them to learn it together. After the “accident”, it was a necessary relief and frequent way of communication, but he hasn’t actively used it in decades. But he remembers. He’ll always remember.

“You sign?” Clint asks sheepishly and looks at Phil like he’s never seen him before.

“I’m learning. Maybe you can help me get better?” Phil replies, and just as slowly as before, spells out individual words to make sure that Clint knows what he’s trying to tell him, and even though he doesn’t say it, it is obvious that he’s doing this for him.

It’s the last straw of the day and Clint feels incredibly stupid, but he hasn’t slept in far too long, he’s overwhelmed and he can’t stop himself from cracking open. One second, he just stares, then he’s sobbing on the same cold and dirty spot on his kitchen floor. In a matter of seconds, Phil is by his side, both arms securely wrapped around him in an protective embrace. He’s not leaving his side and he's slowly, gently stroking his hair. Clint feels emotionally drained, but also just a little bit loved.

He has no clear memory of how he got to his couch, but he ended up here somehow, buried under a blanket, with a warm and familiar presence next to and arms still wrapped around him. Right, Phil is here. He probably came in with the spare key, which he’s had pretty much ever since Clint moved into the place all those years ago. Phil said he’s worried about him, which is probably fair. The rest of the night begins to creep back into his mind, but the gentle hand is still running through his hair and he leans into the touch, soaking it up like a sponge.

Clint tightens his hold and falls back asleep for a little while.

As the day starts again sometime around noon, they share a pot of coffee and mostly silence.

Clint is a lot more rested than before, but he’s still thinking too much. Phil stays close to him, offering comfort and company. Somehow, he manages to get him to eat a bit and even shower but it is a slow process. By the time he’s done, Clint is exhausted and slumps sideways against Phil, who just lets him, pulling him close with enough space for him to get away should he wish to.

Maybe it’s the fatigue, maybe it’s his thoughts running wild. Maybe it’s the fact that Clint can’t hear himself talk, or the fact that he has known that he feels this way for years now. But he exhales, slowly, and then he turns to look Phil in the eyes as he blurts out,

“I love you.”

It’s a simple statement, no long explanation or declaration. But it holds so much truth, and it’s simultaneously the scariest and most beautiful thing he’s ever said out loud. Phil blinks, eyes wide, and he seems to be at a loss for words for a moment. But then he replies,

“I love you, too.”

He says the words out loud, and when Clint stares back like a deer in the headlights, he signs it back - not spelled out, like the previous night, but the full, proper sign. It means the world to him, and Clint smiles, small but honest and happy, even in this chaos of complicated feelings and a few stray tears escaping him. Phil gently wipes them away, and he smiles back.

“We can talk about this once you’re in a better headspace, okay? But I’m here, for as long as you want me to, and I love you. Very much.” he offers, and yes those absolutely are agreeable terms for Clint, and he says as much.

“To be honest I’m a bit of a mess right now, but I mean it. I really do love you. So, talking later would be a good idea.” he admits, and they’re on the same page.

There is time and they simply share the space, share their body heat and hold onto each other.

Phil bends forwards to press a kiss into Clint’s dirty blond hair, and he happily leans into it, practically melting into the touch. He’s finally starting to relax a little bit more, lightly running calloused hands over the soft fabric of the back of Phil’s shirt.

He can feel the muscles and the warmth under his fingertips and the familiar scent of a woodsy, fresh perfume in his nose that he couldn't name but easily recognize anywhere put him at ease. He’s burrowed into Phil, like a hundred times before, but it's still different now and it’s just right. They are wrapped around each other, legs tangled and arms slung around waists and shoulders in a blissful cocoon of warmth.

Clint thinks, that this is what home truly feels like and even though his life is even more of a dumpster fire than usual, he also has hope that things might finally turn out okay for him - he’s not alone.

And that’s enough to keep him going, enough to face the mess and slowly start sorting it out.

*+~

Prompt No. 9 - Stress baking

Notes:

I made a pinterest board with the stuff that Clint bakes in this story, because 1) I needed a bit of inspiration 2) writing this made me hungry 3) I'm not some kind of awful person that would leave my readers craving the stuff mentioned with no idea how to make it ;)

https://www.pinterest.de/annibanashee2/clint-barton-stress-baking-fanfiction/

#banashee writes #phlint #marvel fanfiction #slow burn

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shels-kpop-main · 5 years

Text

Moments, Part Two

Ben!Roger x Reader

Warnings: none, a bit of slow burn

Word Count: 1744

Part One: Moments, Part One

Life on the farm was simple for you. Sleep, eat, take pictures. You had come to England at the insistence of your mother and uncle. They agreed it would be best (even though you were an adult and could make your own choices) if you spent some time away from Texas. Especially after everything that had happened last year.

So you packed up your things and boarded a flight to Heathrow. It had been six weeks and you had yet to consider going back. The sudden death of your father forever ruined Dallas for you. In fact, it ruined many things for you—including music. You just didn’t find the same joy in it that you used to. You still enjoyed dancing and watching live performances, but listening to music by yourself usually just made you feel empty. Like something was missing.

But being surrounded by what was possibly the world’s most high-maintenance band offered a great distraction. Although the farm was quiet and nestled away in the countryside, the arrival of Queen and their crew reanimated the once empty grounds. Their schedule was simple, too. Eat, sleep, and record an album. Simply put, they were there to make noise. Beautiful, brilliant noise.

On this particular morning, the wind howled outside and the skies had darkened. It wasn’t raining, but it was still miserable outside. You could hear Freddie downstairs, playing the piano and singing softly. You shuffled down the two flights of stairs to the ground floor, yawning into the sleeve of your sweater.

“Good morning, darling!” Freddie called as you walked by the door to the piano room. You gave him a sleepy smile and wave, but he had already turned back to the keys. You stepped out of the front door and into the fresh air, and immediately regretted it. The gusts threw your hair across your face, and you quickly scurried over to the small wooden building next to the main house. You all but threw yourself inside to get away from the wind, howling through the spaces in the doorframe.

“Ah, good morning, Y/N!” Your eyes were watering from the cold but you recognized the voice to be Brian’s. You smiled and shuffled over to the kitchen counter. Brian and Deaky sat at the bar, which was covered in papers. Song ideas and lyrics, you assumed.

“Morning, fellas,” you replied, spitting hair out of your mouth with no pretense of grace. Deaky grinned.

“Bit windy out this morning, innit?”

“Yes, it certainly is. God, I’m starving. There anything to eat?” You asked, pulling open the fridge. There was one carton of eggs and a jug of milk. This didn’t leave you much to work with. But after sniffing through the cabinets, you found some tomatoes, an onion, and some salt and pepper. That, you could work with.

Are y’all hungry? I can make omelets, or eggs and salsa.”

“Eggs and salsa?” Deaky questioned, wrinkling his nose.

“Sure, just scramble some eggs and throw salsa on ‘em.”

John continued to look concerned while Brian just squinted at you.

“It’s a good combination. Just trust me,” you assured them, and got to work. Twenty minutes later, you handed them each a plate.

“Go on, try it.” They each took a bite, then swapped glances.

“It’s decent,” Deaky allowed, trying to sound nonchalant. Brian, however, offered no pretense, and began scooping more eggs onto his plate.

“Is this a Southern thing?”

“You bet it is,” you grinned at them. Before long, Brian and Deaky had finished almost half of the large amount of eggs you cooked. You swatted Deaky away as he came back for thirds.

“Save some for the other two, now.”

At that moment, Roger and Freddie strolled in. Rather, they fell through the door along with a whirl of leaves and another howl from the wind.

“It’s like a bloody tornado out there,” Roger spat, fixing his hair in the decorative mirror on the front wall. Freddie tousled his own hair back into place, and sat next to Deaky at the bar.

The boys spent the next half hour making quick work of the remaining eggs and discussing their song of the day. You mostly just stood and watched them, peering over the edge of your coffee mug. You loved watching the songwriting process of these four brilliant idiots. There was no organization to it, and sometimes their choices came down to their individual moods. It was chaos, but it was magic.

You spent the rest of the day as you always did, following the guys around and taking pictures. Your camera was starting to feel like an extension of your arm. You no longer noticed the weight of it.

By the time evening had rolled around, the wind was no closer to dying down than it had been that morning. You walked back to the main house after dinner, deciding that tonight would be the night that you would attempt to light a fire.

The living room was small but featured a pretty large fire place. Someone had stacked firewood next to it, but the weather had been so mild it had gone unused. Not tonight.

Pushing the door open, you stepped into the house, grateful to be out of the cold. You left your shoes by the base of the stairs and started putting wood into the fireplace. You heard the door open a moment later, and looked up to greet them.

“Hey,” you smiled.

“Hi.” Roger sat down next to you, resting his elbows on his knees.

“I’m making a fire,” you told him, determined. He looked amused.

“I can see that. How are you planning to light it?”

“With a lighter, of course. Jerk.”

Before you could ask, Roger reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a lighter. When you accepted it from him, he frowned.

“Your hands are freezing. You really must be cold.”

You rolled your eyes and gestured toward the fireplace.

“I am. So, you know, fire.”

He chuckled as you held the small flame under the logs, watching the fire slowly catch. Once you were confident that the fire was strong enough, you handed the lighter back to Roger. He had pulled a cigarette out, and lit it. You watched him as he did so, lit on one side by the glowing fire. The other half of his face was dimly lit by the small lamp in the stairwell. After he put his lighter away, he looked up at you and laughed.

“Do you ever put that thing down?”

You frowned, pulling your Nikon away from your face. In truth, you hadn’t even realized you picked it up again.

“Oh. Uh, sorry.”

“It’s alright,” he smiled, taking another drag.

“If you’re ever uncomfortable with me taking pictures, just let me know and I’ll stop.”

“Oh no,” Roger corrected you, “I love having my photo taken. I think I make a damn good subject.”

You gave him a wry smile, setting your camera down on the hearth. You grabbed a blanket from the couch and wrapped it around yourself. You were sitting cross-legged, facing Roger. The heat from the fireplace warmed your left side, and you shivered.

At that time, you noticed something. As much as you watched Roger—the way he talked, the way he moved—he watched you just as much. It seemed that your eyes always followed each other around the room. You smiled to yourself at the thought of it.

“I’ve never smoked before,” you said, without really thinking about it. Roger looked surprised.

“Really? Like, never even tried it?”

“Nope,” you replied, shaking your head. “I wasn’t a cool kid in high school. Besides, my parents would have killed me.”

“Well, you’re a cool kid now. Have a try?” He wagged the cigarette towards you. You shrugged and then nodded, thinking, When in Rome…

You reached out, expecting to take the cigarette from him. But instead, he leaned forward, and held it up to your lips for you. You shivered again at the feeling of his fingers against your mouth, and hoped he hadn’t noticed. He smiled, indicating that he had.

His blue eyes were trained on you, watching as you closed your lips around the paper stick. His fingers relaxed a little as you inhaled, resting gently on your lower lip.

You were focusing too much on Roger’s face, and not enough on how much you were inhaling. You pulled back, coughing and sputtering out smoke. Roger laughed, a sweet and perfect grin pulling at the corners of his mouth.

After you stopped coughing, you chuckled to yourself.

“Hey, now I can say I’ve done it. And I don’t see what all the fuss is about.”

“It’s probably for the best,” Roger replied. “These things’ll kill you, you know.”

You looked at him, amused by his ironic nonchalance. He was a total badass—you couldn’t deny it. But in the soft orange glow of the fire, Roger didn’t look as tough as he sounded. His blond hair was messy, and he brushed it out of his eyes often. His features were actually quite delicate. Thin lips curved into a shy smile. Those big doll eyes.

“You’re right,” you breathed. It was barely audible, but he heard it. He leaned forward ever so slightly.

“About cigarettes?”

“You do make a good subject,” you said, finishing your thought. Roger gave you a cool half-smile. But you could have sworn you also saw a slight blush coming to his cheeks. He opened his mouth, that perfect mouth, to reply.

But whatever it was that he was going to say, you never heard it. Because at that moment, the remaining three members of Queen crashed through the front door. It was clear they had had more to drink after dinner, and it struck you as odd that Roger was the only one sober out of the group.

The next hour was spent around the fire with the guys. Laughing, telling stories, making fun of Roger for his cupboard tantrum. You eventually bid them goodnight, and trekked up the stairs to your attic room.

Burying yourself under the thick quilts, you closed your eyes and replayed the events of the evening. You saw Roger’s face clearly, as if he was still sitting in front of you by the fire. You could still feel his fingertips, rough and warm against your lips. You fell asleep shortly after, holding onto the feeling.

#roger taylor x reader #shit gets real next chapter #roger taylor #ben hardy #queen #bohemian rhapsody #bo rhap #brian may #john deacon #freddie mercury #rami malek #gwilym lee #joe mazzello #fanfic #slow burn #moments series

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katiekat1321 · 5 years

Text

The Master and The God (part 9)

Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 4 / Part 5 / Part 6 / Part 7 / Part 8 / Part 9

A/N: In the Last Chapter... You met with a cosmic entity named Infinity who has asked you to help prevent a Universe changing event that is coming.

You walked up to Loki’s door, still wondering if your choice was right. Was it fair to Loki? Not really, I’m essentially a parasite feeding off his seidr now. But Infinity said this would make things better and I think it’s fair to assume a cosmic entity knows what she is talking about. You thought to yourself, then again, she could have just said that to manipulate me into agreeing. Infinity’s goal is to make sure the universe is safe; she probably would have said anything to get me to agree. Y/n, what have you gotten yourself into?

You heard one of the guards clear his throat and you realized you had been lost in thought in front Loki’s door for at least a few minutes. You smiled awkwardly and went to knock on the door but heard a something crash into the wall by the door. You jumped back a bit and looked at the guard, expecting him to rush in and see if everything was okay.

He just shrugged and said, “He’s been in a mood since you left. Yelling and breaking things.”

You nodded and knocked on the door. You could hear the soft thud of something being dropped to the floor and a cold “Enter,” from Loki.

Loki saw you peek around the door, a little scared of being hit by a projectile. He took a deep breath before greeting you, “Y/n?”

“I’m back,” you said as you walked in and set your cane down next to what was a dresser when you left, but now all the drawers were missing and broken, and the clothes were everywhere. “What happened in here? It looks like a tornado rip this place apart!”

Loki gave you a once over like he could tell something was different about you already. “It’s fine, just,” Loki paused for a minute. He tried look like he was searching for the right words, but you could feel the lie on the tip of his tongue before he said it, “a little, how do you say it on Midgard? Cabin fever?”

You nodded, that was probably not a lie. It was more of a half-truth. Loki was tired of being under house arrest and stuck in here, but that was not why he destroyed his room. You waved a hand around the room and everything repaired itself. “How about a little prison break then? Maybe a change of location will make continuing our earlier conversation a bit easier?” You offered.

Loki raised an eye brow but agreed nonetheless. He sat down in a chair and gestured for you to sit in the one facing him. You sat down in front of him and immediately allowed your astral form to be released from your physical form. You looked to Loki but knew he couldn’t see you. You put a hand on his cheek and watched him jump slightly in surprise before you moved your hand to his forehead and pushed his astral form out.

“Fancy meeting you here stranger,” you said before waving a hand over his body and floating towards the door and Loki followed. “Where shall we go? And just so you don’t think to try something I put a spell on you. If you leave the palace grounds, you’ll be shocked and forced back into your body. It’s not very comfortable. The Ancient One would use that on us in training.”

“The sun recently set, I know a of a small balcony off Odin’s private library that is great for viewing the night sky,” Loki offered. As soon as you nodded Loki headed off, leading you there. You breezed past countless empty rooms, up a few stairwells, and shelves of books in the library before reaching Odin’s private collection of books. You saw Loki go out the glass doors leading to the balcony, but one section of books caught your eye. You stopped to read the spines of the books and translated the runes. They were about Midgard’s history.

You pulled the first one off the shelf, flipped it open, and saw a picture of Master Agamotto. The caption under it explained that he was a master of magic known as the mystic arts and taught many disciples. It also noted that he was entrusted with the time stone and placed it in the necklace he is often pictured wearing.

You stared at the picture of Master Agamotto and tried to work through that this all meant. Odin had kept Earth’s history of the Mystic Arts existence a secret from the people of Asgard. He himself knew the history and it seemed Frigga did as well but destroyed all other books on the subject. That was some extreme censorship. Is it to make Asgardians feel stronger? You wondered, I want to believe Odin is a good person, was it to protect us from something? But from what?

You were lost in thought, trying to figure out what Odin’s intentions were when you heard Loki right behind you. “Y/n, what are you looking at?”

You slammed the book shut and put it back on the shelf, hoping that didn’t make enough noise to raise suspicion that someone had snuck into the library. Before you could make up a response Loki continued speaking, “It’s not actually a blank book you know. It only appears that way to people less powerful than Odin. Mother once told me only she and Odin could read any of these books.”

“Oh, um,” You weren’t sure how to reply to that, but if you wanted Loki to be truthful to you about everything leading up to the Battle of New York you should be truthful to him too. “They’re supposed to be blank? I was looking at a picture of the Agamotto, the founder of the Masters of the Mystic Arts.”

“You can actually read it?” Loki asked incredulously.

You nodded, worried you had messed up again today and this would only upset him more. His eyes lit up a little as he pulled another thin book off the shelf at random, opened it to page, and held it out to you, “What does this say?”

You leaned in a little closer and translated the first paragraph. “Something about Dark Elves and the Ether returning one day.”

Loki closed the book and looked confused as he read the spine again. “This book is supposed to be about the final battle of Bor and the Dark Elves. We were taught that Bor killed every last one of the Dark Elves and destroyed the Ether on Svartalfheim.”

You took the book from Loki and put it back on the shelf from where he had grabbed it. “It seems that Odin has censored your history and kept the real records hidden away in this private collection.”

“Why?” Loki asked quietly. You knew the question wasn’t directed to you, you expected Loki didn’t realize he even said it out loud. It was more of an internal pondering.

“I think I know why actually, but I need to talk to Frigga more about it before I say anything more.” You replied and turned towards the door to the balcony, “Let’s just go outside and talk. The fresh air will do you good.” Loki agreed without protest and followed you outside.

Loki sat on the stone railing, legs dangling over the edge. You followed suit, sitting with a small gap between the two of you. “I still don’t know where to start.” Loki said softly.

“You can start wherever you want to. I wasn’t here when any of this happened so tell me your side of the story. I’m not sitting here with a negative image of you already.” You told him.

Loki scoffed, “How can you not have a negative image of me? I helped an army of aliens attack your planet in exchange for the promise of being named its king!”

You placed and hand on his. Loki’s eyes widened and he glanced at you in his peripheral. “I am not holding that against you. I never did. I’ve spent all my time at Kamar-Taj studying Asgard. I know your past and I know what Midgardian Norse Mythology says of you. I also know Frigga speaks of you with so much love and that she still has faith that you will do great things. Your mistakes don’t have to define you. I want to help you Loki.”

“Okay, I’ll being where I think everything started to fall apart, the day that Thor was supposed to be crowned king,” Loki said, turning toward you slightly, “I felt that Thor was not suited for the throne. He was too foolhardy and just wanted to fight and win glory. He didn’t really care about the people’s well-being. I didn’t feel it was fair for Odin to dismiss my claims to the throne so blatantly so I allowed a diversion to prevent the coronation from proceeding. I snuck a message out to Jotunheim and told them to send a couple warriors to reclaim the Casket of Ancient Winters. I hated the Jotuns, and I still do, but they were the easiest of Asgard’s enemies to trick. They were desperate and never fully recovered after they were cut off from the rest of the realms so I knew they would be willing to accept an anonyms message offering to help them; I knew they wouldn’t succeed and the Destroyer would kill them. I planned this all as a harmless trick to stop the coronation, to ensure that the date would get pushed back and I would have more time to talk to Odin and convince him Thor wasn’t worthy of the throne. Then Thor decided to go to Jotunheim to fight them. I admit I might have supported the idea, but I didn’t think Thor would be so quick to agree. I told a guard where we were going and to send Father after us after we left so that Thor would be punished and we would end up dead.”

You made a small sound of surprise, but Loki noticed and paused his story. He looked to you and asked what happened. “It’s nothing, you just finally called Odin your father.”

Loki looked away and you were worried he was going to stop talking and close up again but to your surprise he started speaking again, “Anyway, I was touched by one of the Jotuns and turned blue rather than getting frost burn so I knew something was wrong, after Thor was banished I spoke to Odin about it and that’s when he told me that I was not his son, but would have been the crown prince of the creatures I grew up being taught to hate.”

“That would be enough to fuck anyone up,” you commented.

Loki seemed amused by your response, “Your Midgardian simplicity refreshing as always Lady Y/n.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” you questioned.

“Nothing negative, darling,” Loki defended himself, “The brashness of your replies is quite amusing. It’s so unapologetically honest. It’s very different from most people here and rather endearing,” you blushed in response so Loki changed the subject, “anyway after that Odin fell into an Odinsleep and being the only heir left on Asgard, I became the acting King. I wanted to finish the Jotuns off like they should have been hundreds of years ago, but now, looking back on my emotions, I realize that I was also wanting to erase my true past. I wanted to cut any and all ties I could have to them so I formulated a plan to sabotage them and elevate myself to the strong hero status Thor held. For my plan to work I knew I would need to keep Thor away on Midgard so I lied to him, telling him father died and though I was king, he would have to remain banished. Then I went to Laufey, claiming I wanted to betray Asgard, but as you know it was just a ploy to kill him, which was obviously successful,” Loki’s words trailed off.

“And then Thor returned,” you offered.

This seemed to refocus Loki’s mind, “Yes, Thor returned and stopped me from fully destroying Jotunheim by destroying the Bifrost and I fell from the bridge. Odin could have saved me, but he didn’t, and I fell to my doom.”

You could hear his throat tightening as he neared the end of his sentence so you tried to urge him to continue, “And then what happened?”

“It’s getting rather late isn’t it?” Loki said, ignoring your question entirely, “I think we should turn in for the night and continue this conversation another day.”

You knew what Loki was trying to do, he was trying to get out of continuing this conversation. He only shared what you already knew, but you appreciated the fact that he was willing to open up, even this much. “That’s okay, we can continue tomorrow. Thank you, Loki,” you said and held a hand up to his face, making him disappear and rejoin his physical form back in his room. Before you returned to your body as well you took one last glance at the shelves in Odin’s private library. How much else has he hidden? Everything about the Masters, everything about Hela, and apparently the truth about whatever happened between King Bor and the Dark Elves.

You were torn between confronting Odin directly about all this or just privately sneaking back in at some point and reading through more of the books. There was nothing you could do at the moment anyway so you returned to your body in Loki’s room.

“I’ll be back early tomorrow Loki,” you told him as you stood up, stretched, and cracked your neck. “I know this is difficult for you. It must not be easy to relive whatever happened to you, I can see the pain in your eyes.”

Loki refused to meet your eyes. “What happened to you out there, Lady Y/n?” He asked.

“What do you mean?” You asked in response.

“What did Heimdall summon you for?” Loki clarified. He watched your smile falter and knew he needed to press the topic further, “You’re stronger. I can feel your Seidr burning and the energy in you,” Loki placed a hand over the center of your chest, “I can feel it coursing through your veins.”

“It seems I’ll have some explaining to do tomorrow as well,” you agreed and removed his hand from your chest, but instead of releasing it, you held it for a moment in both of your hands. “But you’re going first.”

Loki’s eyes crinkled into a smile as he agreed. “Goodnight darling,” he said simply and walked away from you towards his bed.

“Goodnight my Prince,” you quipped back as you walked to the door, holding out a hand and your cane soaring into it. You could feel the mirth radiating from Loki at that comment as you left his room and headed to your own.

As you made the short walk back to your room you thought about what your next step should be. I obviously need to hear the rest of Loki’s story first, you thought. Then it’s a toss up between returning to Earth to begin the tasks of making sure these twins are properly enhanced and everything is on the path it should be or stay on Asgard a bit longer before that and figure out why Odin has been lying to his people.

It was moments like this that you wish you had the Eye of Agamotto to see what different futures held. Though even without the ability to see the future you knew fate would pull you down whichever path is more pressing.

You were so distracted by your own thoughts you didn’t even notice Thor until you actually ran into him.

“Lady Y/n?” He said as he steadied you, “What are you doing wandering the castle at this hour?”

“I’ll admit I have no idea what time it is, but I’m sure it isn’t that late Thor,” you said with a kind smile, “sorry, I should have been paying more attention to where I was going.”

“What is on your mind?” Thor asked. He really was like a human, or rather Asgardian, golden retriever; all blonde, friendly, and kind.

“I had an interesting meeting with… a friend of your mothers earlier this evening and I’ve only just finished speaking with your brother. I’ve learned a lot tonight and I’m not sure what to do next honestly. I’m not even sure if I should be telling you this much,” you confessed. Just saying that much to another person was relieving some of the metaphorical pressure you felt on your shoulders.

“I didn’t know mother had a friend visiting her,” Thor replied.

“It was just a quick visit. I’m guessing she was in the area so she thought she’d just pop in,” you lied.

“Well if it’s about Loki then I can talk to him,” Thor offered, “I’m well aware you can handle yourself Lady Y/n, but I’m happy to help you however I can.”

You reached up on your tiptoes to ruffle his hair a bit, “You’re very sweet Thor. But Loki has been nothing but a gentleman to me. Honestly! You must know your brother well enough to recognize that he is not a bad person. Misguided maybe, but not evil.”

Thor flattened his hair and sighed. “I’m not sure what to think of him anymore. He’s changed so much from when we were kids.”

“Well of course, everyone changes as they grow and learn life lessons. I believe one dashing blond god-man recently learned that fighting isn’t always the best answer, especially for a king.”

“You are very wise for a Midgardian,” Thor murmured. You raised an eyebrow at his comment and he quickly realized what he said came out wrong. “I meant that you have the wisdom of someone who has lived hundreds of years, Lady Y/n”

“Of course, you did,” you joked. “Well, I should be getting to bed. Loki still has a lot more to explain tomorrow and I have a feeling I will need a lot of energy to get it all out of him.” You were about to walk away when you thought of something. “Actually, maybe you talking to Loki would help. But not quite yet, he still needs more time. Goodnight Thor”

Thor bid you goodnight as you continued down the hall to your door. As soon as you reached your bed you collapsed onto it, the day’s mental strain finally catching up with you.

**If you would like to be added to the tag list for this fic send me an ask!

Tag List: @missaphrodite23 @sidemenaremylife @casuallyobsessivewitchcraft @alfoos @fiftyshadesofriri @dammitkatt @awkwardnesshabitat @fiery-feyre @serrure-ikol @bone-ankle-tree @shysaladewriter

Part 10 -->

#loki x reader #loki x plus size reader #Loki Laufeyson #loki fanfic #loki odinson #loki imagine #reader insert #loki x you #Loki #avengers imagine

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evalynnmesserli · 6 years

Text

A Bit Different Chapter One: The Meeting

Fandom: Sonic the Hedgehog

Summary: Sometimes, who you think you are isn’t you. Sometimes, the easiest answer isn’t always the right one. Sometimes, the truth you believe is a lie.

A/N: Two chapters posted so close together? Don’t get used to it. I’m sick and stuck at home and somehow managed to write this through the medication. Sonic’s in this chapter! Whoo! Also depending on if I manage to not pass out in the next ten minutes, there might be another chapter posted today. I was inspired to write this by @squigglydigglydoo, @spiritsonic, @monpian , and @whatisthisnonsense’s “Sonic is an alien” theory. So yeah.

Extra Notes: I spelt Robotnik as Robootnid the entire time I was writing this due to meds but I think I caught them all. If you see that I didn’t then now you know why.

————————

Doctor Robotnik was, in his (delusional) opinion, the greatest genius the world had ever known, in both his own world and in this one that he’d found himself trapped in over twelve years ago after wandering onto that blasted floating island that had disappeared into thin air and was nowhere to be found even though he had searched everywhere and--!

He really needed to learn to stay on track.

Ignoring disappearing floating islands (that leave him stranded as the only human on the entire planet--!), Dr. Robotnik felt that he could solve any problem that came his way. Any question or oddity, he could easily figure it out. Except for this. Except for the fact that on his screen showed him someone that should be dead being perfectly alive and healthy.

Sure, he looked older, it had been six years after all and he’d just been a small child when the incident had happened, but that didn’t matter because he still should be dead. Dr. Robotnik had seen his body himself. There was no way.

Yet there he was, on the cover of South Island’s newspaper. “Local Hero Sonic the Hedgehog Saves the Day Yet Again” the headline read. Dr. Robotnik thought for a moment then turned to the egg-robo at his side.

“This might actually be him,” he said to the robot. “All the facial recognition scans match up perfectly, but I know I saw him dead.”

The robot was silent.

“I know! It’s impossible, but here he is! Perfectly fine and healthy!”

The robot beeped quietly.

“Don’t use that kind of tone with me!”

The robot went silent again.

“The question is how? How did he survive? And why is he using a stupid name like Sonic? Seriously? What kind of a name is that? Does he think he can hide from me?”

The robot remained silent.

“You’re right. It might not actually be him. Hmmmmm, how about this, I put my Life Data plan into action. If he’s the real deal then I can capture him and harness the Chaos Emeralds to power Robotnikland. I’ve improved since the last time so it will succeed.”

The robot beeped.

“I was getting to that! If he’s not who I think he is then it’s simple: he’ll die and I’ll have already started my conquest so there would be no point in stopping then. If I really need to I’ll just find some Chao to use.”

The robot beeped twice.

“Good talk! Now if you’ll excuse me, it’s time I had a bit of a reunion.”

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

“Thank you so much, Sonic!” the cat said, taking her books from the young hedgehog. “I really need to watch where I’m going huh?” She laughed loudly.

Sonic nodded, internally wishing she would actually follow through on her comment. This was the third time today that Garnet had tripped over something and nearly gotten one of her books trampled or destroyed. One more time and he was just going to leave it.

“--not thank you enough,” Garnet continued even as Sonic grew impatient. She finally seemed to get the hint though because she smiled and said, “Anyhow, I’ll let you get back to whatever it was you were doing. Bye!” With that she ran off...and bumped into at least six people on her way to round the corner. Sonic shook his head in exasperation. When would she learn? He decided not to dwell on it and leave before she called for his help again. He had no problem with occasionally helping the villagers, but he really didn’t want the them to start depending on him too much.

So, he turned around and ran.

A normal Mobian can run rather quickly when needed or even just casually a with a lot of training, but Sonic was no normal Mobian. He didn’t know how and he didn’t know why, but he could run much faster than anything else on the island. Trains, cars, planes, whatever it was, he easily beat it. Some found it strange but it was normal for him. He’d been able to do it as long as he could remember and even before that. He never questioned it.

As such, he ran and ran and ran. Out of the village and all the way to a small shack that he called a home. Most wouldn’t be alright with a random twelve-year-old living on his own in a worn down hunk of wood that looked like it would collapse under its own weight with the slightest disturbance, but those who lived on the island had grown used to it. Sonic was strange and they had learned to live with it.

When he made it to the shack, Sonic immediately went around back to the banged up red plane which sat, rusty and unoperational, just a few feet away from the hunk of wood Sonic called home, where it had been for six years.

Sonic put his backpack down as he walked around it. He’d named it the Tornado when he first learned that most people named their planes. It had no special meaning to him, he’d just thought it sounded cool. The words written on the plane however, meant something.

Sonic ran his hand along the blocky white letters on the side of the plane. His name sat there, startling against the red and gray. Noticeable. Demanding attention. Sonic had taken it as his name when it was discovered that he couldn’t remember his. In fact, he couldn’t remember anything before waking up in the village infirmary years ago.

There had been an explosion on the opposite side of the island and when a search group had gone to investigate, they found Sonic lying unconscious surrounded by rubble from a house that no one had even known was there. They tried to question him when he woke up, but found that he could neither speak nor remember anything. Not even his own name. Nothing from the rubble was salvageable enough to figure out who Sonic was, but they had found an old plane that had managed to survive somehow, though it was completely broken and useless. Still, Sonic took it and the name painted on as his own.

Six years later and he was trying to get the Tornado working again so he could leave the island. Don’t get him wrong, Sonic liked the island and the villagers well enough, but he wanted to explore the world. He wanted to find what else was out there and go on adventures and face off against dangerous foes like Fang the Sniper or even find someone who could keep up with him to race. He didn’t want to be stuck on this island where he was already an outsider his whole life. He was going to get out. He was going to fix the Tornado and find somewhere new. Even if he had no idea how to fix a plane. He’d figure it out. It was only a matter of time.

Sonic was so deep in his thoughts (at least for him anyway) that he didn’t see the flicky flying straight towards him until it landed smack in his face, surprising him to the point where he fell backwards onto his butt.

The flicky flapped desperately around Sonic’s head, panicked chirps escaping its beak. Sonic stared at it a moment after he stood up, trying to figure out what was wrong when suddenly a robotic blue wasp came flying at them and snatched up the little creature. It looked at Sonic for a moment before quickly flying off back in the direction where it had come from.

For a moment Sonic just stood there, unable to process what exactly had just happened. Then he realized that whatever that robot was must have been what the flicky had been afraid of. Without a second thought, Sonic raced after the robot and flicky, easily closing the distance between them. He was about to jump up and grab the helpless animal when he was thrown into a tree by a beetle-like robot.

Sonic groaned silently as he stood up only to come face to face with a strange creature he had never seen before. It was almost egg shaped and had a pale and shiny peach head and giant orange mustache. It also wore a bright red shirt, black pants that looked like they were also its shoes, and a tiny yellow cape. The creature grinned at him before turning to the robot that still held the flicky.

“Do it,” the Egg Thing commanded and the robot shoved the flicky into another beetle looking robot. Sonic watched in shock as the robot trembled for a moment before opening its eyes and rolling away, the flicky still trapped inside. The Egg Thing turned back to Sonic and grinned wider.

Today was the weirdest day in Sonic’s life.

“Hello, ‘Sonic’” the Egg Thing said. “Long time no see, huh?”

Yup. Weirdest day ever.

#sonic the hedgehog #sonic the hedgehog fanfic #fic #fanfic #sonic fic #dr eggman #dr robotnik #classic sonic #classic robotnik #classic eggman #oc #the tornado #badniks #squigglydigglydoo #spiritsonic #whatisthisnonsense #monpian

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the-elemental-sides · 6 years

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Urban fantasy AU: The Sides are four spirits trapped in an amulet. When Thomas finds it and puts it on, he gains the powers of the four elements…or that’s what should have happened, but mistakes were made. Now the Sides have to coach him in their respective elements while Thomas deals with both his new powers and his ability to see into the magical realm. Not only is magic real, but there’s some pretty intimidating stuff out there, and only Thomas and the Sides have the power to stop it.

A/N: That took a little while, but the next chapter is here! It’s the longest one, too, so I hope you enjoy the following shenanigans.

Taglist: @shinylyni, @hissesssss, @vexation-virgil, @madd-catter, @rptheturk, @ed-tries-to-be-cool, @nienna14, @ryuity, @asofterfan, @robanilla, @k9cat, @ab-artist, @absoluteamethyst, @a-box-o-jills, @captain-loki-xavier, @lynisnotamused

1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5

***

Of all the spirits, Thomas knew Virgil the least.

While Roman spent most of his time bickering with Virgil and Logan, Virgil was rarely fussed enough to argue back. He seemed intent on blending in with the shadows on the floor, and when he did speak up, he seemed cynical and almost mean compared to the others. Patton was the only one to sing his praises.

So trying to figure out a way to approach the lesson made him pretty nervous. Thomas sat on his couch, alone; he’d chased all the others out to give them space. He hesitated, then took a breath. “Vir—“

“Don’t bother, I’m out.”

“Ah!” Thomas jumped when he saw Virgil standing over him like a gloomy Grim Reaper. “Oh, sorry. I didn’t see you there.”

“Clearly not.”

“Okay. Well, it’s good to see you, Virgil. I sure am ready to learn these water powers.”

“All right, all right.” Virgil sat on his coffee table without looking inclined to move.

“You’ve used your powers before, right?”

“I mean, yeah, I had them for like eight months. Sometimes I boiled water for coffee and stuff.”

“Um, okay.” Putting on his best ‘Picani’ voice: “How did using your powers make you feel?”

“Anxious.”

“Somehow, that doesn’t surprise me.”

“Let me just get this straight: I hate working hard,” said Virgil. “So hey, if you really want me to supervise, I’ll supervise. But I think you can do it on your own.”

“Fine,” said Thomas, relenting.

Thomas filled a pot with water and sat, staring at it. He wiggled his fingers over the surface like a witch casting an enchantment.

“Are you trying to boil it?” asked Virgil.

“Yeah.”

“No, don’t do that just because I mentioned it,” he scoffed. “Find something easier to start out with.”

“You’re not making this easy, Verge,” Thomas said, laying down his hands.

“Sorry I’m not as a good a teacher as Roman.”

“None of you guys have been super clear about this, actually...no, you know what? Let’s chill. Let’s regroup. We have time to figure this out.”

Thomas took a deep breath, adjusted his position, and focused on the water again, trying to fill his head with water-y vocab words. Bubbles. Spring. Droplets. Steam. Was that condensation forming on his fingers…? He might be onto something. A drop plunked off his finger. There!

“Impressive,” Virgil said, scrutinizing him. “You totally failed to move the water in the pot, but you made some out of thin air.”

“Oh.”

The morning continued like this, with Thomas practicing water magic while Virgil occasionally took off his headphones to make snarky comments. Privately, Thomas wondered why he was still hanging around, but he thought it was because the other spirits weren’t out and about. Virgil seemed kind of glad for the peace and quiet.

“All right, watch this,” Thomas said at last. “Water!”

Sploosh! The water in the pot jumped up briefly to touch Thomas’ fingers.

“Earth!” He made a fist and then rolled a newly-formed pebble into the water. “Fire! Foosh!” He lit his other hand on fire and flicked some flames off to the side. “Air!” With the same hand, he stirred up a little tornado that whirred a few feet away before dissolving.

“Yep, those are the elements.”

“Wait, I’m not done. Long ago, the four nations lived in harmony, but everything changed when the Fire Nation atta-“

“I get it,” Virgil said. “Congratulations.”

“Is that it?” Thomas asked. “Did I do it?”

“No, actually. Not if that’s all you can do. Can you control anything more than that?”

Thomas stared down into his pot of water. “I think that’s all I’ve got.”

“Well, hey, keep practicing. I’m out.”

“Hold up,” Thomas said, and Virgil paused, giving him a wary look. “I need to know something else. I think the others are hiding something from me.”

“Of course they are,” Virgil said with a half-shrug. “You didn’t think four spirits would come free of baggage, did you?”

“Was that rhetorical, or….?”

“Forget it. Hey, they might not have trusted me, but I was pretty good at reading their emotions. Patton felt guilty because he felt like he could have prevented this whole mess. Logan was way too stressed because the whole procedure was resting on him. And Roman sort of resented us because all his life’s plans were tossed away to get in on this.”

“And what about you…?”

Virgil just kept looking at him. Finally, he said, “Table that question. But if you want some answers, you’re ready for the next step in your training.”

“Sounds ominous,” Thomas said, a little nervously. “Does that mean we’re done here?”

“I should go talk this over with the others.”

“Okay. Hey, before you go. I thought of something cool.”

“Yeah?”

“I keep thinking of you guys as ‘the spirits,’ or sometimes just ‘those guys,’ but I think I’ve thought of a better name,” said Thomas. “You’re the ‘sides!’ Because you all make up a side of my new powers.”

“....I don’t know why, but that’s really appropriate,” Virgil said after a pause.

“I know, right? I’m glad I came up with it.”

“Huh.”

***

The next morning, Thomas went grocery shopping. According to Logan, this was necessary. It also happened to be necessary because Thomas was a pizza fiend who did not have enough healthy things in his fridge.

Thomas pretended to lock his car while the spirits (sides) briefed him.

“This quest will open your eyes to a whole new side of the universe, Thomas,” Roman said. “Are you ready?”

“Yeah, I’m hyped,” Thomas told his keys. “What’s the game plan?”

“Well, you have to be in spirit mode for it to work.”

“Spirit mode.” Thomas frowned. “Don’t three of you have to be in regular human mode for that to work?”

“Yup!”

“But—everybody else will see you that way! I can’t have three Thomases running around.”

“Never fear, Thomas, we’ve prepared for this,” Logan said. “As you might recall, we’re only borrowing your form. We have the capability to look however we wish.”

“And I choose to look—“ and Roman turned around, and suddenly he resembled someone else entirely—“like this!”

“Joan?!”

“Yes!”

“I was going to be Joan,” Logan muttered.

“That’s incredible,” Thomas said. “You’ve got their voice and everything.”

“Indeed!”

“Is this fitting?” Patton asked, popping into Thomas’ face.

“Woah! Terrence. Yup, that’ll do.” Thomas’ hand suddenly fell through his car door, but he was too excited to care. “Okay, we need one more.”

Virgil started to speak up, but Logan interrupted. “Me, of course. I will be your friend Talyn. I believe their short and nonthreatening stature will prevent unwanted confrontation.”

Thomas raised his arms to see that he had become translucent. “It worked. Nobody can see me now, so it’s up to you guys. Let’s go shopping!”

***

Thomas walked side-by-side with Virgil, the only one still stuck in spirit mode. The other spirits bounded ahead. Well, Logan was serious as ever. But even he had more of a spring in his step.

Or, ‘their’ step? The spirits’ impressions of his friends were almost too good.

“What am I supposed to see?” Thomas asked Virgil softly, even though nobody but the other spirits could hear or see them.

“Keep an eye out...especially on the other customers.” Virgil’s eyes were darting around warily. “It might take you a little bit to adjust. In the meantime—“

“Hey! Patton! That is not your dog!”

“—keep them under control,” Virgil finished under his breath as Thomas rushed forward to prevent Patton from taking a pomeranian out of someone’s shopping cart.

“Look at how cute she is!! Why don’t you have a dog, Thomas?”

“Because there’s no space for one, Patton. Do not kidnap this dog. Put her down.”

“Thomas, is this your shopping list? Really?” Logan said from somewhere off to his left. “You need more fiber in your diet. Where are the vitamins located?”

“Logan, stay here—he’s gone.”

“What nerds,” Roman said confidently. “They look like they’re yelling at nobody! I, however, possess the acting skills to not act as if I’m talking to an invisible companion—oh my gosh, is that Moana on Blu-Ray? Why is that in the clearance section? I’m out!”

“Roman, please...no…” Thomas hit his forehead. He looked up just in time to see that Patton was following the lady with the pomeranian as if being drawn by an invisible thread. “Okay, nope. Patton, you’ve lost your human privileges. Virgil, I’m trusting you.”

“Aww!” Patton complained, but he turned back into a translucent Thomas. Virgil sputtered a bit, but he took Patton’s place immediately. Thomas flickered opaque for only a second.

“Give me a little warning next time,” Virgil growled in Terrence’s voice. Then he felt his face. “Huh. Wow. I haven’t actually been human yet.”

Thomas breathed a little easier. “Okay. Guys, it’s really important that three of you stay human at all times so that nobody sees me appear out of nowhere. And you were the ones who told me it’d be dangerous if all four of you were human at one time, so uh, try not to do that either. Let’s find Logan.”

Logan was in the breakfast aisle filling his shopping cart with healthy bran cereals. (Hidden under a pile of granola clusters was a single box of sugary kids’ cereal with space facts printed on the back, and it was advertising a chance to win free tickets to the Air and Space Museum.)

“Nope. No. That stuff is gross and it’s too expensive.”

“We’ll compromise, then. What are your thoughts on prune juice?”

Thomas took a deep breath. “Virgil, please help Logan put the cereal back. You guys are the rational ones, and I’m trusting you, okay? Patton, let’s collect Roman.”

The two spirits raced across the store. Thomas had to persuade Patton not to get too distracted with the toys and board games. They finally found Roman browsing a stack of CDs in the music aisle.

“Roman,” Thomas sighed, “why.”

“Sorry, Thompadre! The pop songs beckoned. So this is what the kids are listening to nowadays...Kidz Bop 37. A tragedy. A travesty!”

“Ooh! Can we get that?” Patton asked.

“Focus, please, guys.”

“Uh oh,” Roman said suddenly. He pointed at Thomas’ chest. Thomas was opaque again.

“What are they doing??” he cried. “They’re supposed to stay in human mode! All right, come on. No more getting distracted!”

Virgil and Logan were no longer near the cereal, where Thomas was sure he’d at least implied they should stay, so they made another mad dash across the store: Thomas, who, while opaque, was unable to touch anything and could only hope that he didn’t fall straight through anything placed in his path; Patton, who was freely able to run through solid objects and scout ahead; and Roman, who’d stopped being Joan and switched to Valerie at some point.

“They’re in the freezer aisle!” he heard Patton call, so Thomas followed his voice. They eventually came across Virgil, who leaned on a shopping cart while Logan (in spirit form) had merged with a shelf of ice cream. He appeared to be checking the ingredients on the backs of the cartons.

Virgil shrugged when he saw them. “He wanted to find frozen vegetables. And I couldn’t say no to ice cream and sad microwave dinners.”

“You’re supposed to be the sensible one, Encyclopedia Clown!” Roman shouted at Logan, forgetting that the other people in the aisle could hear him apparently yelling at nothing.

“Shh! I had to check whether these contained potassium.”

“You couldn’t take them out like a normal person?!”

“This is more efficient! Oh, sorry, Thomas. Did I cause problems?”

“Thankfully, not yet,” said Thomas. “Uhhh...Patton, can you turn human again?”

Patton walked smartly into an unoccupied aisle and came out as Talyn. “Focus up, kids, we have to keep the tally even...the tallykat3!”

“That was pretty bad,” said Thomas.

Everything was finally back under control, so Thomas found himself relaxing. He rubbed his eyes. He thought being invisible for an extended period of time might be affecting his vision, because suddenly everything looked blurry, the colors too saturated.

“Ugh, I’m ready to go home already,” he said aloud. “Except I’m still not sure why I should be here. What was it you guys wanted...me...to see…?”

His voice trailed off when he realized the spirits were all fixated on something behind him. He whirled around to see a massive dark shape, radiating malevolence, that hung silently in the air.

“...that.”

***

Next Chapter

#sanders sides #sanders sides fic #sanders sides au #chapter #the elemental sides

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imgoldielikehawn · 7 years

Text

The winning fic is....

Just A Dancer Part 9

Word count/ 2,100

Rated M

ENJOY

JAIS POV

In the coming weeks there were several things that I was goin to learn about Cora. Fa one; she is a force to be reckoned with and fa two this woman would be the mum of my kids. If we weren’t rooting like rabbits we were fightin like dogs and the root after the fights were even betta. Fucks sake every time she opened er mouth there was a part of me that was dyin to hear every word she said and the other part wanted to see her perfect mouth on my well…. ya get the point. I was sittin at the bar readin the newspaper when she came walking out of the bedroom in one of my shirts and nothing else.

“Damnit woman do you ya want me to attack you before breakfast, walkin around like that.” I peered over my newspaper as she walked to the coffee pot.

“I’m sorry; does my lack of clothing distract you from your morning paper?” She grinned over the top of her mug.

“Everything about ya distracts me Sheila.” I was feeling my shorts becoming more uncomfortable by the minute.

“Well I wouldn’t want you distracted Jai. Speaking of shouldn’t you be halfway out of the house by now?” She leaned against the counter taking another sip of coffee.

“Yeah well Mila n me already went on our morning jog and I got that meeting at 12 so I’ll leave in an hour or so.” I watched her walk over to me and spin the barstool around. She placed her hands on my shoulders an pulled herself up into my lap. I obediently wrapped my arms around her waist and my hands spread over her perfect ass.

“Well alright, we start back at rehearsal today so I guess I’ll see you later tonight?” She leaned forward and kissed my lips.

It was never just a kiss with her; it couldn’t be, not with me around. I kissed her back and before she could say no I brought my hand around from her backside to where her legs were wide open for me. I smirked at her small sharp intake of breath when my fingers brushed over her clit.

“Ya wanna give me a proper send off.” My deep voice sent a shudder through her that even I could feel.

“You know if we keep on like this, were going to have a baby.” she said against my chest. I was still stroking her clit making her fidget.

“Oh we’re gonna have Sprogs, maybe sooner than ya think but fa now I need ta get more practice.” I moved my hands under her Thighs and carried her off into our bedroom.

CORAS POV

After Jai left for his meeting I realized that more than anything I needed a shower. When I stepped out I could hear Mila barking loudly. I hate it when she barks because it’s so loud and she’d been trained to only bark in an emergency or when she couldn’t get my immediate attention. Wrapping a towel around myself I opened the bathroom door and saw why she was making such a fuss.

Standing in the door way was Mecki. A thousand things went through my brain in that moment. What the fuck was she doing here? Why did she still have a fucking key? Did I really have to be standing in a towel right now? Irony has no self-respect I swear!

We both looked at each other with disdain and annoyance and I finally broke the silence.

“What are you doing here Mecki?” I said in a tired tone.

“I should be asking you that!” she snapped back.

“Now look here, I don’t know what happened with you and Jai because its none of my business; but you damn sure aren’t going to storm up in here like you own the place and question me, whose name is on the lease, why am I here.” I Frowned and crossed my arms. “You can talk to me like a woman or you can get the hell out.” I watched her eyes widen as I scolded her.

“Listen bitch, there was a me before there was ever a you and damnit I deserve an explanation as to why he chose… he chose... YOU! OVER ME!” She screamed.

I was a perfect lady until she called me a bitch. “Excuse me, but I could have sworn I heard you call me out of my divine and fabulous name, Ya two-bit hooker. Now you have two seconds before I beat your ass and show you just how much of a bitch I can be darling.” As I bristled so did Mila beside me sensing my anger.

Mila squared off with Mecki in front of me and I watched the fear creep into Meckis eyes.

“She’s 105 Pounds Mecki, so unless you want to be mauled to death I suggest you take your shit and go.” I said as Mila started to growl.

“This isn’t over.” She cut her eyes and backed out of the front door.

I laughed and said. “It was over when I moved in trick!”

JAIS POV

When I got home from my meeting the house was really quiet which is not normal. I knew Cora had practice but it was almost nine at night, she should have been back already. No matter, I undid my tie and popped the first three buttons on my shirt while I continued to walk through the dark apartment. I stopped in the kitchen and opened up the fridge...

“Hello Jai...” a voice said in the dark making me jump and curse.

“Damnit Woman! Why the fuck are you sitting in the night like this! Scared me half to death!” I flicked on the light and saw Cora standing behind me leaning against the counter frowning.

“Mecki payed me a visit today, in our home… using her key Jai.” Her chocolate eyes were like daggers.

“What the fuck! She’s fucking mad! What did she say?” I raised my voice.

“Be a gentleman and ask her why don’t you.” She looked at the floor and scoffed.

“Wadya mean by that Cora?” I could sense the situation had changed and I needed to proceed with caution.

“She had her own key Jai; she just barged right in like she didn’t know I live here with you!” Her eyes flicked to mine and her jaw was taught, she was angry and hurt. I didn’t say anything and the room grew cold and silent.

“She doesn’t know about me does she?” her long lashes brushed her cheeks.

“No.” I hung my head and there was a reason for it to, I want really ready to have this conversation with Cora and I felt trapped.

“Why, why doesn’t she know about me? It’s no wonder she looked so shocked to see Mila at the door!” Her voice was pained and I could feel my chest tighten and fill with guilt.

“I just hadn’t gotten around to it yet...” I said weakly.

“Why would it matter if she knew or not, she’s not in your life any more right Jai? Right?” Her Small shoulders rose and fell.

“Cor, please...” I trailed off.

“No, I’ve had enough. Your lies won’t impress me! I am out of here. I’m not some dirty little secret to be kept hidden while you have your cake and eat it too!” She tunred from me and headed towards the bedroom.

“Damit Cora Don’t! Let me explain myself!” I stood stalk still by the fridge as she fluttered round gatherin her stuff. I wanted to grab her and make her listen but what could I say? This looked bad from every angle. Best for me to let her leave an hope she’d answer her phone later.

CORAS POV

I felt like a fucking tornado as I ran back and forth around Jais and mine apartment. I was too angry to sit down and hear what was actually going on with him and Mecki. When I piled everything by the door I turned around to find Jai staring at me almost in desperation. I lifted my index finger and motioned for him to come to me.

“I don’t know what is going on with you two but I want it over, or I won’t come back god damnit I am fucking excellent and what I do and what I bring to the table and I will not share. Not with anyone for anyone.” He towered over me and I could see his eyes fill with yearning. His strong hands gripped my waist and he walked me backwards against the apartment door.

“I wan ya. I don’t wan her.” His voice was low and inviting.

“Show me.” I whispered against his lips.

His large hand spread against the door in the space above my head. I looked up into his lust blown blue eyes and his lips found mine with ease, the moments between us languid and arousing. I hissed when his knee separated my legs and he pulled my arms over my head. Our sensual grind sent my body into overdrive with only the sound of our breath in the sexual tension filled air. This man knew my body so well it shocked me. The power he had over me was so much more than I was used to and when I was pulled up into his embrace against the door all my willpower faded. His strong shoulders felt like they were made for my hands; I wrapped my legs around his solid torso. If it’s possible to come completely undone from a kiss and a well-placed grind then that’s exactly what was happening.

When we reached the bedroom Jai Placed me on the bed and loomed over me casting a shadow in the soft lamplight. Each kiss he planted on my coco skin left me wanting more and desperate. He stopped just above my hips and ran his tongue beneath my panty line. I bucked my hips at the warm trail his tongue left. “You taste so good Sheila now I wanna taste ya drippin cunt too.” He said pulling my sweats down. I sat up and watched him kiss me through my black lace panties. Jai pulled them to the side and kissed my sensitive bud again. My back arched as his tongue delved into my aching folds and I began to roll my hips in motion with his tongue strokes.

“Don’t Stop” I whimpered and he started to suck firmly on my clit.

“I wan ya to cum fa me.” His voice added to the sensation as he worked me over the edge.

Jai slipped in one finger and my walls gripped him in welcome and when he added a second one I closed my eyes as his tongue flicked my clit and his fingers brushed my spot over and over again until I was a writhing mess above him. I could feel the damp space beneath me spread as I came on Jais hand and mouth. He wasted no time replacing his fingers with his throbbing cock. Being filled by him so suddenly made me gasp but when I tried to sit up he forced me back down placing his hand against my throat. His motions were steady and slow, making me feel tortured.

“Faster Please” I pleaded.

“Oh Sheila, I love it when you beg. ya wan me ta fuck ya?” He chuckled continuing his pace.

“Yes” I whined watching his torso glisten with a thin layer of sweat.

“Yes wut?” Jai asked, picking up my legs and pulling me to the edge of the bed.

“Please”

His pace picked up immediately and so did my desire. He slammed into me over and over again showing no mercy. I was halfway between crying for him to stop and screaming for him to go harder when my legs went over his shoulders and his fingers were on my clit. Sex with jai was never a bore that’s for sure and when I came again he came with me; His warm cum filling my pussy along with his cock, his shuddering figure a magnificent sight. He pulled out and flopped on the bed beside me face down. I used the opportunity to gather my sweats and panties and tip toed out of the bedroom while his soft snores filled the air. My Mind hadn’t changed even with amazing makeup sex. A woman like me wasn’t made to share, it was either her or me and only Jai could make that choice….

#jai courtney #jai courtney smut #jai courtney fanfiction #jai Courtney fandom #Followme #and cora #just a dancer #part 9 #iamgoldie #romanceby iamgoldie #reblog #heart #fanfic

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mvssmallow · 7 years

Photo

Cloudy With A Chance

Part 18: …of October sky.

Masterlist

It’s October. People probably think he’s mad but he can always feel a change in the air when it’s October. Or maybe it’s not as crazy as it sounds. October was the first thing he knew after he was born. He knows it’s different compared to all the other months.

October with it’s mild sky and intermittent sunshine, when leaves are turning shades of earth and trees are looking lonely. It doesn’t have the sharp sting of December’s Winter nor does it have the carefree warmth of June’s Summer. It’s not as optimistic as March’s Spring but he finds all that optimism overbearing after awhile anyway.

October just is. October lets him lay low and be who he wants to be. It lets him start to steal more of Jiwon’s clothes to wear underneath his jacket, like a hug he can walk around with when he goes and does errands by himself. Maybe it’s pathetic, he’s sure it is, but it’s nice having Jiwon so close to him, even if it’s just through an old t-shirt.

This is their first October together and he’s lying if he said he wasn’t at least a little bit irrationally anxious about it. He wants Jiwon to love October. He needs this to be good.

“How’s the book going?” Jiwon asks, fingers running through his hair as they sit on the couch watching late night Evangelion re-runs.

“It’s okay.” He sighs. “It’s a lot of research.”

“Are you ever gonna tell me anything about it? Or let me read it?”

He snuggles closer into Jiwon’s chest. “No. It’s not ready. And you haven’t won a mic night yet. You know the rules.”

Jiwon groans dramatically above him. “Seriously? But that might take months! Come on.”

He slides his hands under the soft fabric of Jiwon’s hoody and lets his fingers catch on the bumps and ridges of defined muscle. “Well, if you want to read it so badly, you should try to win the next one then. I told you, you’re better than him, it shouldn’t be hard.”

Jiwon chuckles softly. “Better than who? Mino?”

“Yeah. He’s too controlled and too handsome or something. It’s okay if you like that kind of thing.” He says with a slack shrug.

The fingers in his hair freezes for a beat. It always makes him smile, the way Jiwon reacts to some things and pretends it doesn’t affect him.

“You think he’s too handsome?” Jiwon asks casually.

“Well, he’s not ugly. Who cares what he is anyway. He’s not my type. He’s too clean or something. I’m not into that sort of thing.”

There’s a reflective hum. “Oh really? What’s your type then?”

“Dirty. Messy. Shreds everything I buy. Doesn’t let me touch his car stereo. And always forgets to turn the dryer on.”

“That’s weirdly specific, Hanbin. I don’t know anyone like that.”

His fingernails drag across Jiwon’s abdomen and he can feel the muscles flexing in response. “Hmm, I don’t either. Guess I’ll settle for you until he comes along.”

“Thanks, I feel so much better about myself now.” Jiwon says flatly. “Aren’t you going to ask me what my type is?”

“Okay, what is your type?”

“Not you.”

He bursts out laughing and turns over to hit Jiwon in the chest. “Rude!”

Jiwon lets out his dorky wheezy laugh as he dodges the punches. “Yeah I love guys who are really ugly, really dumb and bad at doing laundry. Know where I can find one of those?”

“Maybe on sale at the boyfriend store?”

Jiwon’s face turns serious then, smile softening and fingers brushing strands of hair away from his face. “Actually, if we’re being honest, I didn’t even know I had a type but I knew it was going to be you by the time we got to that cafe.”

He lays down with his chin resting on Jiwon’s chest and eyes him skeptically. “What?! Don’t lie. How could you possibly know? We met for like 15 minutes.”

“I’m not lying! I knew. I knew it’d be you.”

He stares at Jiwon’s face, trying to look for something that might be insincere or the start of a joke but Jiwon doesn’t back down and just stares right back.

“No way.” He shakes his head in disbelief. “No way you could’ve known we’d end up like this. No way.”

“Well, I didn’t know we’d end up exactly like this. But I knew it was going to be you.”

And right there, standing in the forefront of his mind, is the same insecure teenage that never even got a date in high school. He doesn’t want to ask but he knows the kid inside needs him to make sure. “Do you….still know?”

“Yeah, of course I still know….” Jiwon says defensively before trailing off.

He watches as Jiwon’s mouth opens and closes without anything coming out. It’s not because of a lack of thoughts. It’s because there’s too many.

“Don’t say it.” He cuts in, fingers sliding into one of Jiwon’s waiting hands. “Whatever you’re going to say. Just….save it for later. Okay?”

He rests back down, cheek against Jiwon’s rib cage, listening to the fast heartbeat underneath as his own thunders in his ears.

“Yeah…okay.” Jiwon replies, confused but not protesting.

Evangelion gets ignored for the rest of the night. He watches the pictures and hears the sounds but the only thing he can think about is if he’s really ready for the next phase of his life. He’s spent so long dwelling on the past that he feels totally unprepared for the future.

There was so much to think about all of the sudden. He doesn’t even remember falling asleep after that but he remembers arms carrying him to bed, tucking him into the sheets and a soft voice telling him to dream.

****

October 5th.

“HANBIN?!!!”

“WHAT?!!”

“HAVE YOU SEEN MY LUCKY BOXERS?”

He rummages through their drawers in a panic, like a storm blowing right through the streets of Hanbin’s neat town but this a DEFCON 1 situation. He can’t do a mic night without his lucky boxers.

A hand grabs his wrists. “Jiwon. Stop. You’re just messing up the drawers. Go shower. I’ll find them.”

“It’s the purple ones with the-”

“…yellow killer bees. I know.” Hanbin gives him a dimple grin as he kneels down on to pick up all the socks and clothes that littered their floor.

It’s always the smallest things that hit him right in the gut. The way Hanbin folds his t-shirts or writes him random notes or how he always seems to know exactly where everything is. Things that he almost takes for granted on his bad days but thanks God for on the good ones.

“Jiwon?”

“Huh?”

“Go shower. I’ll find them okay?”

By the time he’s done and wrestled with his hair, their bedroom is empty and the tornado of clothes has been tidied away. On their bed, he finds his lucky purple boxers folded next to a pair of jeans, his white shirt ironed and hanging from the wardrobe door handle. He could really go through the rest of his life sustained by all the small things.

Hanbin is sitting on the couch in their small living room, eating an apple and scrolling through something on his phone, hair slicked up to one side and dressed in a black jacket and black jeans that he didn’t even know Hanbin owned. Now that he’s working on his book from home, he hasn’t seen Hanbin dressed up in awhile. It still takes his breath away. Like his brain keeps wiping the memory so they have to re-live the moment like it’s the first time, every time.

“Hey.”

Hanbin looks up, apple hanging from his mouth as he types out a message using both hands. He looks ridiculous but somehow, still the most beautiful thing in any room, anywhere in the world.

“Youlooknice.” Hanbin mumbles around the apple in his mouth.

He shakes his head. The irony. “You look nicer.”

Hanbin pockets his phone, nibbles on the rest of the apple core and walks over to him. He’s seen Hanbin plenty of times. Every day for the past few months. But the way that thin frame walks towards him, all shy confidence with tight jeans and collar bones peeking out from the deep v-cut of his white t-shirt, still makes his stomach drop and his heart race out of time.

There’s a sweet and sticky kiss pressed against his lips but it’s gone before he’s had time to respond or demand more. As Hanbin walks into the kitchen to throw away the apple core, there’s a ghost of that cologne that always reminds him of the ocean for some reason. It’s ridiculous, he knows. The ocean smells like salt. The only other thing that reminds him of salt is the taste of Hanbin’s skin, especially down his neck. Maybe it’s not so crazy.

And then his mind does that thing that he sometimes loves and hates. It takes the smallest hint of a spark and roars into a fire, engulfing him with all the images he remembers from That Morning In Bed spliced together with all the dirty things that they haven’t even done yet.

He’s completely inside of his head as they ride the train to the club. Mental images of skin and hip bones and that pouty mouth he loves so much. He’s restless, frustrated and he knows it annoys Hanbin whenever he has to readjust himself. He’s grateful that his jeans are at least baggy enough to hide how hard he is. His hand searches out for something to touch, settling over Hanbin’s knee, where the rips in his jeans are large enough for his fingers to slide in and out.

It’s not until they’re stepping onto the platform and walking to the venue that Hanbin suddenly sighs loudly.

“Oh my god. What’s up with you? Are you actually high or just nervous?”

He forces himself out of his head. “What? Neither! I’m just thinking about stuff. I’m allowed think about stuff sometimes okay?!”

Hanbin stops walking and looks sternly at him. “Like what?”

He feels the warmth creeping up his neck. “Like….uh, rap stuff.”

There’s a exasperated groan and he really wishes he didn’t find that hot when Hanbin is clearly just annoyed at him for being a bad liar.

“What’s it gonna take?”

“For what?”

“For you to focus? You’re on stage in 2 hours. You can’t go like this. You look all spaced out. So what’s it gonna take?”

He bites his bottom lip and raises an eyebrow. He doesn’t know what he looks like but all Hanbin does is glare at him for a few seconds before rolling his eyes.

“You are so predictable.”

And that’s how he finds himself sitting on a wooden crate in the dark alley behind the club, jeans undone, soft hair between his fingers and Hanbin’s hot mouth between his legs.

He wants to say that getting blown right before mic night might not really help but then again, only an idiot would put a stop to something like this.

The bass thumps in the background, drowning out most of the sounds they’re making but he doesn’t need sound, not when he has sight. And really, if he died right then, he’d die happy.

It’s not long before he feels the familiar tight tension building, like waves of electricity rolling closer and closer every time Hanbin swallows him down into that wet heat.

Without warning Hanbin looks up at him with those big dark eyes that are soft and adoring one minute then dangerous and wild the next. It catches him off guard, something vaguely passing as fear makes his hair stand on end, and he knows Hanbin must see the surprise on his face because there’s a wicked smile and the light scrape of sharp teeth over the underside of his cock.

It’s enough to push him right over the edge. He leans back too fast, head colliding with the wall behind them and cums with a loud groan, fingers pulling Hanbin’s head forward by his hair to keep that mouth exactly where he needs it.

He can feel the startled surprise as Hanbin’s throat gags around him. He tries not to but he can’t help fucking into that soft pliant mouth, riding out the high and chasing the heat as Hanbin swallows everything down with a long satisfied hum.

Once he stops seeing stars, his body collapses against the wall, completely blissed out and only vaguely registering Hanbin’s fingers tidying him up. He opens his eyes just in time to see Hanbin wiping his mouth like a cat. He loves watching him do that.

It’s the same every time they do this. He feels invincible afterwards. Like a champion boxer ready for a KO in the ring. Like the luckiest guy on earth. Ready to destroy everyone in the club, if it means seeing Hanbin’s wicked smile again. If only his legs would work….

Fingers comb through his hair in some attempt to fix it. It’s gentle for a few seconds before there’s a sharp tug pulling his face forward until it’s inches away from Hanbin and his sharp teeth.

“You better fucking win tonight.” There’s a snarl in Hanbin’s voice, sharpness in his tone and all it does is send a jolt of electricity down his spine and shocks any remaining lethargy out of him.

“Okay.” He says obediently.

Anything.

I’ll do anything you want me to.

There’s a laugh then, the dimpley one that he hates for its manipulative effect. “Come on, let’s go get a drink. My jaw hurts.”

They walk back slowly to the club. His fingers unable to stop touching something, anything, attached to Hanbin’s body. He knows he’s pushing it but he doesn’t unhook his fingers from Hanbin’s jeans as he pushes them through the crowd. More surprisingly, Hanbin doesn’t complain and just holds onto the back of his jacket.

They find June and Yoyo at the bar, bickering about something as usual.

“Dude, your hair.” June motions to Hanbin’s head with a laugh. “You look like you just-”

Yoyo elbows him sharply and clears his throat. The blush that colours Hanbin’s cheeks gives them away.

“Oh….Jesus. Disgusting.” June gags in the background. “Don’t tell me you guys just fucked before you got here.”

“WHAT?! NO!” Hanbin splutters out, caught off guard by June’s bluntness. He doesn’t say anything, he doesn’t care if everybody knows.

Yoyo scrunches up his nose. “Was it on the train? Because that’s so …unsanitary.”

“Ahh, I really need a drink now.” He announces, ignoring the questioning stares from his friends and dragging Hanbin to the other side of the bar.

“It’s not that obvious is it?”

“What?”

“My hair. Is it obvious that-”

“-you just blew a guy in an alley way behind a club? Yeah it’s obvious.” He chuckles apologetically. “Sorry.”

Hanbin touches his swollen lips gingerly but makes no motion to fix his messy hair. He reaches across and tries to help but his hand gets pushed away.

Oh. Weird.

He’s learnt a lot of things about Hanbin at this point but right at that very minute, he gets an inkling of what might become his new favourite thing.

“Actually, I’m not sorry.” He says, leaning in with his lips barely touching Hanbin’s ear. “You look so hot like this. And you like it don’t you? You like people guessing who you’ve been with and what you just did.”

He sees something hungry and unhinged flashing across those dark eyes and he knows he right. It stirs the animal inside him, the one that’s only just gone back to sleep.

“But they can’t have you, can they baby? Because you’re mine. I want them all to know you’re mine.”

Those lips open to say something but the bartender comes over with their drinks then and he leans back, leaving Hanbin opened-mouthed, mid-thought and staring at him with the kind of intensity that is destined to get him committing crimes and walking through fire one day.

He pushes the glass of gin over. “Drink this. And stop looking at me like that. You’re gonna get me hard again.” He says with a laugh. “Then we’ll be in a whole lot of trouble.”

He watches Hanbin down the entire glass like a shot and lick his lips wet. He can feel it, the angry frustration humming around Hanbin’s body, like a lightning rod or live wire that’s just been cut. This was going to be a long night.

*****

3 drinks in and he’s still so restless. Nervous-excited energy causing him to bounce his legs up and down to the point where Jiwon’s hands clamp down on his thighs to stop him moving.

At quarter to 9, Jiwon takes off his jacket and rolls up his shirt sleeves. That doesn’t help either and things just go from bad to worse. He leans right into Jiwon’s space without really meaning to, head resting on a broad shoulder and fingers already finding the skin of Jiwon’s smooth back.

4 drinks in and Jiwon slowly loses the rest of his restraint. Calloused fingers are jammed underneath the holes of his jeans, drawing some kind of pattern across his leg. He knows what they must look like now. He can see it in the surprised and curious faces of fans and rappers who come over to their couch to meet Jiwon. If there was any doubt last time, there probably wouldn’t be by the time this night is over.

And he knows.

He knows he needs to worry about rumours spreading and his parents finding out but by the time his 4th drink arrives, those concerns just make less and less sense. If he stops, he gets less Jiwon. But if he keeps going, he gets more. And he definitely wants more.

It’s maths.

It’s logical.

So why should he stop?

He plays with Jiwon’s fingers as they bicker with June and Yoyo about cars and tattoos and how subconsciously possessive Jiwon gets whenever someone looks in his direction. He doesn’t remember a time when he felt this happy, this carefree, this drunk…..

“Honestly, cut this shit out.” June says with a grimace. “That last guy didn’t even do anything. Are you gonna get pissed off at every guy who looks at him?”

All it does is make Jiwon’s hand tighten across his thigh.

“Urghhh. Get a fucking room.” June groans.

“I would. But I gotta perform soon.” Jiwon replies with a poke of his tongue. It makes him giggle like an idiot.

“Aww, it’s kinda adorable.” Yoyo says, nodding in that happy way he does when he’s had one drink too many. “You both look so dopey. Good luck with the hangover tomorrow though.”

They look across at each other. They do look dopey. At least Jiwon does, with his big bunny grin and ugly laugh. He wonders if he looks the same. He definitely feels dopey.

At 9:30pm, the rappers get called and he frowns when Jiwon’s body stands up.

“Babe, it’s time.” Jiwon says with a smile, trying to tug his fingers free. “You gonna let me go?”

He shakes his head and his thoughts just slosh around all bathed in the warm glow of citrus alcohol.

“Fuck, you are so cute right now.” Jiwon kneels in front of him and kisses his fingers. “I promise I’ll come back.”

“After you destroy all those guys?”

“Yeah, after I destroy all those guys.”

He relunctantly lets go and watches as Jiwon leaves, disappears and re-emerges on the stage as Bobby. He watches as rappers come and fall. Even Mino gets caught out by the slower backing track coming through the speakers. But that slack bassline and the too-fast-too-slow-trap-beat is as unpredictable as Bobby. It takes a certain kind of crazy to ride that kind of rhythm.

It’s our kind of crazy.

He lets Bobby get eaten up by the crowd that loves him, calls his name, touches his face and shakes his hands. They can have Bobby. Just leave him Jiwon.

They make out all the way home on the train. It’s past 1am. There’s 16 drinks between them, a winners check in Jiwon’s back pocket and hands on skin everywhere. He doesn’t care who sees it. If this is how October is going to play out, he wants it to be October forever.

#CWAC #another 1 day re-write #i am so in love with jiwon #i mean gdi #he is just everything #double b #hanbin #bobby #ikon #text #Cloudy With A Chance

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readbookywooks · 7 years

Text

Percy and Padfoot

Harry was first to wake up in his dormitory next morning. He lay for a moment watching dust swirl in the ray of sunlight coming through the gap in his four-poster's hangings, and savoured the thought that it was Saturday. The first week of term seemed to have dragged on for ever, like one gigantic History of Magic lesson. Judging by the sleepy silence and the freshly minted look of that beam of sunlight, it was just after daybreak. He pulled open the curtains around his bed, got up and started to dress. The only sound apart from the distant twittering of birds was the slow, deep breathing of his fellow Gryffindors. He opened his schoolbag carefully, pulled out parchment and quill and headed out of the dormitory for the common room. Making straight for his favourite squashy old armchair beside the now extinct fire, Harry settled himself down comfortably and unrolled his parchment while looking around the room. The detritus of crumpled-up bits of parchment, old Gobstones, empty ingredient jars and sweet wrappers that usually covered the common room at the end of each day was gone, as were all Hermione's elf hats. Wondering vaguely how many elves had now been set free whether they wanted to be or not, Harry uncorked his ink bottle, dipped his quill into it, then held it suspended an inch above the smooth yellowish surface of his parchment, thinking hard ... but after a minute or so he found himself staring into the empty grate, at a complete loss for what to say. He could now appreciate how hard it had been for Ron and Hermione to write him letters over the summer. How was he supposed to tell Sirius everything that had happened over the past week and pose all the questions he was burning to ask without giving potential letter-thieves a lot of information he did not want them to have? He sat quite motionless for a while, gazing into the fireplace, then, finally coming to a decision, he dipped his quill into the ink bottle once more and set it resolutely on the parchment. Dear Snuffles, Hope you're OK, the first week back here's been terrible, I'm really glad it's the weekend. We've got a new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, Professor Umbridge. She's nearly as nice as your mum. I'm writing because that thing I wrote to you about last summer happened again last night when I was doing a detention with Umbridge. We're all missing our biggest friend, we hope he'll be back soon. Please write back quickly. Best, Harry Harry reread the letter several times, trying to see it from the point of view of an outsider. He could not see how they would know what he was talking about--or who he was talking to--just from reading this letter. He did hope Sirius would pick up the hint about Hagrid and tell them when he might be back. Harry did not want to ask directly in case it drew too much attention to what Hagrid might be up to while he was not at Hogwarts. Considering it was a very short letter, it had taken a long time to write; sunlight had crept halfway across the room while he had been working on it and he could now hear distant sounds of movement from the dormitories above. Sealing the parchment carefully, he climbed through the portrait hole and headed off for the Owlery. 'I would not go that way if I were you,' said Nearly Headless Nick, drifting disconcertingly through a wall just ahead of Harry as he walked down the passage. 'Peeves is planning an amusing joke on the next person to pass the bust of Paracelsus halfway down the corridor.' 'Does it involve Paracelsus falling on top of the person's head?' asked Harry. 'Funnily enough, it does,' said Nearly Headless Nick in a bored voice. 'Subtlety has never been Peeves's strong point. I'm off to try and find the Bloody Baron ... he might be able to put a stop to it ... see you, Harry ...' 'Yeah, bye,' said Harry and instead of turning right, he turned left, taking a longer but safer route up to the Owlery. His spirits rose as he walked past window after window showing brilliantly blue sky; he had training later, he would be back on the Quidditch pitch at last. Something brushed his ankles. He looked down and saw the caretaker's skeletal grey cat, Mrs Norris, slinking past him. She turned lamplike yellow eyes on him for a moment before disappearing behind a statue of Wilfred the Wistful. 'I'm not doing anything wrong,' Harry called after her. She had the unmistakeable air of a cat that was off to report to her boss, yet Harry could not see why; he was perfectly entitled to walk up to the Owlery on a Saturday morning. The sun was high in the sky now and when Harry entered the Owlery the glassless windows dazzled his eyes; thick silvery beams of sunlight crisscrossed the circular room in which hundreds of owls nestled on rafters, a little restless in the early-morning light, some clearly just returned from hunting. The straw-covered floor crunched a little as he stepped across tiny animal bones, craning his neck for a sight of Hedwig. 'There you are,' he said, spotting her somewhere near the very top of the vaulted ceiling. 'Get down here, I've got a letter for you.' With a low hoot she stretched her great white wings and soared down on to his shoulder. 'Right, I know this says Snuffles on the outside,' he told her, giving her the letter to clasp in her beak and, without knowing exactly why, whispering, 'but it's for Sirius, OK?' She blinked her amber eyes once and he took that to mean that she understood. 'Safe flight, then,' said Harry and he carried her to one of the windows; with a moments pressure on his arm, Hedwig took off into the blindingly bright sky. He watched her until she became a tiny black speck and vanished, then switched his gaze to Hagrid's hut, clearly visible from this window, and just as clearly uninhabited, the chimney smokeless, the curtains drawn. The treetops of the Forbidden Forest swayed in a light breeze. Harry watched them, savouring the fresh air on his face, thinking about Quidditch later ... then he saw it. A great, reptilian winged hcrse, just like the ones pulling the Hogwarts carriages, with leahery black wings spread wide like a pterodactyl's, rose up out of the trees like a grotesque, giant bird. It soared in a great circle, then plunged back into the trees. The whole thing had happened so quickly, Harry could hardly believe what he had seen, except that his heart was hammering madly. The Owlery door opened behind him. He leapt in shock and, turning quickly, saw Cho Chang holding a letter and a parcel in his hands. 'Hi,' said Harry automatically. 'Oh ... hi,' she said breathlessly. 'I didn't think anyone would be up here this early ... I only remembered five minutes ago, it's my mum's birthday' She held up the parcel. 'Right,' said Harry. His brain seemed to have jammed. He wanted to say something funny and interesting, but the memory of that terrible winged horse was fresh in his mind. 'Nice day,' he said, gesturing to the windows. His insides seemed to shrivel with embarrassment. The weather. He was talking about the weather ... 'Yeah,' said Cho, looking around for a suitable owl. 'Good Quidditch conditions. I haven't been out all week, have you?' 'No,' said Harry. Cho had selected one of the school barn owls. She coaxed it down on to her arm where it held out an obliging leg so that she could attach the parcel. 'Hey has Gryffindor got a new Keeper yet?' she asked. 'Yeah,' said Harry. 'It's my friend Ron Weasley, d'you know him?' 'The Tornados-hater?' said Cho rather coolly. 'Is he any good?' 'Yeah,' said Harry, 'I think so. I didn't see his tryout, though, I was in detention.' Cho looked up, the parcel only half-attached to the owl's legs. 'That Umbridge woman's foul,' she said in a low voice. 'Putting you in detention just because you told the truth about how--how--how he died. Everyone heard about it, it was all over the school. You were really brave standing up to her like that.' Harry's insides re-inflated so rapidly he felt as though he might actually float a few inches off the dropping-strewn floor. Who cared about a stupid flying horse; Cho thought he had been really brave. For a moment, he considered accidentally-on-purpose showing her his cut hand as he helped her tie her parcel on to her owl ... but the very instant this thrilling thought occurred, the Owlery door opened again. Filch the caretaker came wheezing into the room. There were purple patches on his sunken, veined cheeks, his jowls were aquiver and his thin grey hair dishevelled; he had obviously run here. Mrs. Norris came trotting at his heels, gazing up at the owls overhead and mewing hungrily. There was a restless shifting of wings from above and a large brown owl snapped his beak in a menacing fashion. 'Aha!' said Filch, taking a flat-footed step towards Harry, his pouchy cheeks trembling with anger. 'I've had a tip-off that you are intending to place a massive order for Dungbombs!' Harry folded his arms and stared at the caretaker. 'Who told you I was ordering Dungbombs?' Cho was looking from Harry to Filch, also frowning; the barn owl on her arm, tired of standing on one leg, gave an admonitory hoot but she ignored it. 'I have my sources.' said Filch in a self-satisfied hiss. 'Now hand over whatever it is you're sending.' Feeling immensely thankful that he had not dawdled in posting off the letter, Harry said, 'I can't, it's gone.' 'Gone?' said Filch, his face contorting with rage. 'Gone,' said Harry calmly. Filch opened his mouth furiously, mouthed for a few seconds, then raked Harry's robes with his eyes. 'How do I know you haven't got it in your pocket?' 'Because--' 'I saw him send it,' said Cho angrily. Filch rounded on her. 'You saw him--?' 'That's right, I saw him,' she said fiercely. There was a moment's pause in which Filch glared at Cho and Cho glared right back, then the caretaker turned on his heel and shuffled back towards the door. He stopped with his hand on the handle and looked back at Harry. 'If I get so much as a whiff of a Dungbomb ...' He stumped off down the stairs. Mrs. Norris cast a last longing look at the owls and followed him. Harry and Cho looked at each other. 'Thanks,' Harry said. 'No problem,' said Cho, finally fixing the parcel to the barn owl's other leg, her face slightly pink. 'You weren't ordering Dungbombs, were you?' 'No,' said Harry. 'I wonder why he thought you were, then?' she said as she carried the owl to the window. Harry shrugged. He was quite as mystified by that as she was, though oddly it was not bothering him very much at the moment. They left the Owlery together. At the entrance of a corridor that led towards the west wing of the castle, Cho said, 'I'm going this way.Well, I'll ... I'll see you around, Harry.' 'Yeah ... see you.' She smiled at him and departed. Harry walked on, feeling quietly elated. He had managed to have an entire conversation with her and not embarrassed himself once ... you were really brave standing up to her like that ...Cho had called him brave ... she did not hate him for being alive ... Of course, she had preferred Cedric, he knew that ... though if he'd only asked her to the Ball before Cedric had, things might have turned out differently ... she had seemed sincerely sorry that she'd had to refuse when Harry asked her ... 'Morning,' Harry said brightly to Ron and Hermione as he joined them at the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall. 'What are you looking so pleased about?' said Ron, eyeing Harry in surprise. 'Erm ... Quidditch later,' said Harry happily, pulling a large platter of bacon and eggs towards him. 'Oh ... yeah ...' said Ron. He put down the piece of toast he was eating and took a large swig of pumpkin juice. Then he said, 'Listen ... you don't fancy going out a bit earlier with me, do you? Just to--er--give me some practice before training? So I can, you know, get my eye in a bit.' 'Yeah, OK,' said Harry. 'Look, I don't think you should,' said Hermione seriously. 'You're both really behind on homework as it--' But she broke off; the morning post was arriving and, as usual, the Daily Prophet was soaring towards her in the beak of a screech owl, which landed perilously close to the sugar bowl and held out a leg. Hermione pushed a Knut into its leather pouch, took the newspaper, and scanned the front page critically as the owl took off. 'Anything interesting?' said Ron. Harry grinned, knowing Ron was keen to keep her off the subject of homework. 'No,' she sighed, 'just some guff about the bass player in the Weird Sisters getting married.' Hermione opened the paper and disappeared behind it. Harry devoted himself to another helping of eggs and bacon. Ron was staring up at the high windows, looking slightly preoccupied. 'Wait a moment,' said Hermione suddenly. 'Oh no ... Sirius!' 'What's happened?' said Harry, snatching at the paper so violently it ripped down the middle, with him and Hermione each holding one half. ' "The Ministry of Magic has received a tip-off from a reliable source that Sirius Black, notorious mass murderer ... blah blah blah ...is currently hiding in London!"'Hermione read from her half in an anguished whisper. 'Lucius Malfoy, I'll bet anything,' said Harry in a low, furious voice. 'He did recognise Sirius on the platform ...' 'What?' said Ron, looking alarmed. 'You didn't say--' 'Shh!' said the other two. '... "Ministry warns wizarding community that Black is very dangerous ... killed thirteen people ... broke out of Azkaban ..." the usual rubbish,' Hermione concluded, laying down her half of the paper and looking fearfully at Harry and Ron. 'Well, he just won't be able to leave the house again, that's all,' she whispered. 'Dumbledore did warn him not to.' Harry looked down glumly at the bit of the Prophet he had torn off. Most of the page was devoted to an advertisement for Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions, which was apparently having a sale. 'Hey!' he said, flattening it down so Hermione and Ron could see it. 'Look at this!' 'I've got all the robes I want,' said Ron. 'No,' said Harry. 'Look ... this little piece here ...' Ron and Hermione bent closer to read it; the item was barely an inch long and placed right at the bottom of a column. It was headlined: TRESPASS AT MINISTRY Sturgis Podmore, 38, of number two, Laburnum Gardens, Clapham, has appeared in front of the Wizcngamot charged with trespass and attempted robbery at the Ministry of Magic on 31st August. Podmore was arrested by Ministry of Magic watchwizard Eric Munch, who found him attempting to force his way through a top-security door at one o'clock in the morning. Podmore, who refused to speak, in his own defence, was convicted on both charges and sentenced to six months in Azkaban. 'Sturgis Podmore?' said Ron slowly. 'He's that bloke who looks like his head's been thatched, isn't he? He's one of the Ord-- 'Ron, shh!' said Hermione, casting a terrified look around them. 'Six months in Azkaban!' whispered Harry, shocked. 'Just for trying to get through a door!' 'Don't be silly, it wasn't just for trying to get through a door. What on earth was he doing at the Ministry of Magic at one o'clock in the morning?' breathed Hermione. D'you reckon he was doing something for the Order?' Ron muttered. 'Wait a moment ...' said Harry slowly. 'Sturgis was supposed to come and see us off, remember?' The other two looked at him. 'Yeah, he was supposed to be part of our guard going to King's Cross, remember? And Moody was all annoyed because he didn't turn up; so he couldn't have been on a job for them, could he?' 'Well, maybe they didn't expect him to get caught,' said Hermione. 'It could be a frame-up!' Ron exclaimed excitedly. 'No--listen!' he went on, dropping his voice dramatically at the threatening look on Hermione's face. 'The Ministry suspects he's one of Dumbledore's lot so--I dunno--they lured him to the Ministry, and he wasn't trying to get through a door at all! Maybe they've just made something up to get him!' There was a pause while Harry and Hermione considered this. Harry thought it seemed far-fetched. Hermione, on the other hand, looked rather impressed. 'Do you know, I wouldn't be at all surprised if that were true.' She folded up her half of the newspaper thoughtfully. As Harry laid down his knife and fork, she seemed to come out of a reverie. 'Right, well, I think we should tackle that essay for Sprout on self-fertilising shrubs first and if we're lucky we'll be able to start McGonagall's Inanimatus Conjurus Spell before lunch ...' Harry felt a small twinge of guilt at the thought of the pile of homework awaiting him upstairs, but the sky was a clear, exhilarating blue, and he had not been on his Firebolt for a week ... 'I mean, we can do it tonight,' said Ron, as he and Harry walked down the sloping lawns towards the Quidditch pitch, their broomsticks over their shoulders, and with Hermione's dire warnings that they would fail all their OWLs still ringing in their ears. 'And we've got tomorrow. She gets too worked up about work, that's her trouble ...' There was a pause and he added, in a slightly more anxious tone, 'D'you think she meant it when she said we weren't copying from her?' 'Yeah, I do,' said Harry. 'Still, this is important, too, we've got to practise if we want to stay on the Quidditch team ...' 'Yeah, that's right,' said Ron, in a heartened tone. 'And we have got plenty of time to do it all ...' As they approached the Quidditch pitch, Harry glanced over to his right to where the trees of the Forbidden Forest were swaying darkly. Nothing flew out of them; the sky was empty but for a few distant owls fluttering around the Owlery tower. He had enough to worry about; the flying horse wasn't doing him any harm; he pushed it out of his mind. They collected balls from the cupboard in the changing room and set to work, Ron guarding the three tall goalposts, Harry playing Chaser and trying to get the Quaffle past Ron. Harry thought Ron was pretty good; he blocked three-quarters of the goals Harry attempted to put past him and played better the longer they practised. After a couple of hours they returned to the castle for lunch--during which Hermione made it quite clear she thought they were irresponsible--then returned to the Quidditch pitch for the real training session. All their teammates but Angelina were already in the changing room when they entered. 'All right, Ron?' said George, winking at him. 'Yeah,' said Ron, who had become quieter and quieter all the way down to the pitch. 'Ready to show us all up, Ickle Prefect?' said Fred, emerging tousle-haired from the neck of his Quidditch robes, a slightly malicious grin on his face. 'Shut up,' said Ron, stony-faced, pulling on his own team robes for the first time. They fitted him well considering they had been Oliver Wood's, who was rather broader in the shoulder. 'OK, everyone,' said Angelina, entering from the Captain's office, already changed. 'Let's get to it; Alicia and Fred, if you can just bring out the ball crate for us. Oh, and there are a couple of people out there watching but I want you to just ignore them, all right?' Something in her would-be casual voice made Harry think he might know who the uninvited spectators were, and sure enough, when they left the changing room for the bright sunlight of the pitch it was to a storm of catcalls and jeers from the Slytherin Quidditch team and assorted hangers-on, who were grouped halfway up the empty stands and whose voices echoed loudly around the stadium. 'What's that Weasley's riding?' Malfoy called in his sneering drawl. 'Why would anyone put a flying charm on a mouldy old log like that?' Crabbe, Goyle and Pansy Parkinson guffawed and shrieked with laughter. Ron mounted his broom and kicked off from the ground and Harry followed him, watching his ears turn red from behind. 'Ignore them,' he said, accelerating to catch up with Ron, 'we'll see who's laughing after we play them ...' 'Exactly the attitude I want, Harry,' said Angelina approvingly soaring around them with the Quaffle under her arm and slowing to hover on the spot in front of her airborne team. 'OK, everyone, we're going to start with some passes just to warm up, the whole team please--' 'Hey, Johnson, what's with that hairstyle, anyway?' shrieked Pansy Parkinson from below. 'Why would anyone want to look like they've got worms coming out of their head?' Angelina swept her long braided hair out of her face and continued calmly, 'Spread out, then, and let's see what we can do ...' Harry reversed away from the others to the far side of the pitch. Ron fell back towards the opposite goal. Angelina raised the Quaffle with one hand and threw it hard to Fred, who passed to George, who passed to Harry, who passed to Ron, who dropped it. The Slytherins, led by Malfoy, roared and screamed with laughter. Ron, who had pelted towards the ground to catch the Quaffle before it landed, pulled out of the dive untidily, so that he slipped sideways on his broom, and returned to playing height, blushing. Harry saw Fred and George exchange looks, but uncharacteristically neither of them said anything, for which he was grateful. 'Pass it on, Ron,' called Angelina, as though nothing had happened. Ron threw the Quaffle to Alicia, who passed back to Harry, who passed to George ... 'Hey, Potter, how's your scar feeling?' called Malfoy. 'Sure you don't need a lie down? It must be, what, a whole week since you were in the hospital wing, that's a record for you, isn't it?' George passed to Angelina; she reverse-passed to Harry, who had not been expecting it, but caught it in the very tips of his fingers and passed it quickly to Ron, who lunged for it and missed by inches. 'Come on now, Ron,' said Angelina crossly, as he dived for the ground again, chasing the Quaffle. 'Pay attention.' It would have been hard to say whether Ron's face or the Quaffle was a deeper scarlet when he again returned to playing height. Malfoy and the rest of the Slytherin team were howling with laughter. On his third attempt, Ron caught the Quaffle; perhaps out of relief he passed it on so enthusiastically that it soared straight though Katie's outstretched hands and hit her hard in the face. 'Sorry!' Ron groaned, zooming forwards to see whether he had done any damage. 'Get back in position, she's fine!' barked Angelina. 'But as you're passing to a teammate, do try not to knock her off her broom, won't you? We've got Bludgers for that!' Katie's nose was bleeding. Down below, the Slytherins were stamping their feet and jeering. Fred and George converged on Katie. 'Here, take this,' Fred told her, handing her something small anc purple from out of his pocket, 'it'll clear it up in no time.' 'All right,' called Angelina, 'Fred, George, go and get your bats and a Bludger. Ron, get up to the goalposts. Harry, release the Snitch when I say so. We're going to aim for Ron's goal, obviously.' Harry zoomed off after the twins to fetch the Snitch. 'Ron's making a right pig's ear of things, isn't he?' muttered George, as the three of them landed at the crate containing the balls and opened it to extract one of the Bludgers and the Snitch. 'He's just nervous,' said Harry, 'he was fine when I was practising with him this morning.' 'Yeah, well, I hope he hasn't peaked too soon,' said Fred gloomily. They returned to the air. When Angelina blew her whistle, Harry released the Snitch and Fred and George let fly the Bludger. From that moment on, Harry was barely aware of what the others were doing. It was his job to recapture the tiny fluttering golden ball that was worth a hundred and fifty points to the Seeker's team and doing so required enormous speed and skill. He accelerated, rolling and swerving in and out of the Chasers, the warm autumn air whipping his face, and the distant yells of the Slytherins so much meaningless roaring in his ears ... but too soon, the whistle brought him to a halt again. 'Stop--stop-- STOP!' screamed Angelina. 'Ron--you're not covering your middle post!' Harry looked round at Ron, who was hovering in front of the left-hand hoop, leaving the other two completely unprotected. 'Oh ... sorry ...' 'You keep shifting around while you're watching the Chasers!' said Angelina. 'Either stay in centre position until you have to move to defend a hoop, or else circle the hoops, but don't drift vaguely off to one side, that's how you let in the last three goals!' 'Sorry ...' Ron repeated, his red face shining like a beacon against the bright blue sky. 'And Katie, can't you do something about that nosebleed?' 'It's just getting worse!' said Katie thickly, attempting to stem the flow with her sleeve. Harry glanced round at Fred, who was looking anxious and checking his pockets. He saw Fred pull out something purple, examine it for a second and then look round at Katie, evidently horror-struck. 'Well, let's try again,' said Angelina. She was ignoring the Slytherins, who had now set up a chant of 'Gryffindor are losers, Gryffindor are losers,' but there was a certain rigidity about her seat on the broom nevertheless. This time they had been flying for barely three minutes when Angelinas whistle sounded. Harry, who had just sighted the Snitch circling the opposite goalpost, pulled up feeling distinctly aggrieved. 'What now?' he said impatiently to Alicia, who was nearest. 'Katie,' she said shortly. Harry turned and saw Angelina, Fred and George all flying as fast as they could towards Katie. Harry and Alicia sped towards her, too. It was plain that Angelina had stopped training just in time; Katie was now chalk white and covered in blood. 'She needs the hospital wing,' said Angelina. 'We'll take her,' said Fred. 'She--er--might have swallowed a Blood Blisterpod by mistake--' 'Well, there's no point continuing with no Beaters and a Chaser gone,' said Angelina glumly as Fred and George zoomed off towards the castle supporting Katie between them. 'Come on, let's go and get changed.' The Slytherins continued to chant as they trailed back into the changing rooms. 'How was practice?' asked Hermione rather coolly half an hour later, as Harry and Ron climbed through the portrait hole into the Gryffindor common room. 'It was--' Harry began. 'Completely lousy,' said Ron in a hollow voice, sinking into a chair beside Hermione. She looked up at Ron and her frost mess seemed to melt. 'Well, it was only your first one,' she said consolingly, 'it's bound to take time to--' 'Who said it was me who made it lousy?' snapped Ron. 'No one,' said Hermione, looking taken aback, 'I thought--' 'You thought I was bound to be rubbish?' 'No, of course I didn't! Look, you said it was lousy so I just--' 'I'm going to get started on some homework,' said Ron angrily and stomped off to the staircase to the boys' dormitories and vanished from sight. Hermione turned to Harry. 'Was he lousy?' 'No,' said Harry loyally. Hermione raised her eyebrows. 'Well, I suppose he could've played better,' Harry muttered, 'but it was only the first training session, like you said ...' Neither Harry nor Ron seemed to make much headway with their homework that night. Harry knew Ron was too preoccupied with how badly he had performed at Quidditch practice and he himself was having difficulty in getting the 'Gryffindor are losers' chant out of his head. They spent the whole of Sunday in the common room, buried in ! heir books while the room around them filled up, then emptied. It was another clear, fine day and most of their fellow Gryffindors spent the day out in the grounds, enjoying what might well be some of the last sunshine that year. By the evening, Harry felt as though somebody had been beating his brain against the inside of his skull. 'You know, we probably should try and get more homework done during the week,' Harry muttered to Ron, as they finally laid aside Professor McGonagall's long essay on the Inanimatus Conjurus Spell and turned miserably to Professor Sinistra's equally long and difficult essay about Jupiter's many moons. 'Yeah,' said Ron, rubbing slightly bloodshot eyes and throwing his fifth spoiled bit of parchment into the fire beside them. 'Listen ... shall we just ask Hermione if we can have a look at what she's done?' Harry glanced over at her; she was sitting with Crookshanks on her lap and chatting merrily to Ginny as a pair of knitting needles flashed in midair in front of her, now knitting a pair of shapeless elf socks. 'No,' he said heavily, 'you know she won't let us.' And so they worked on while the sky outside the windows became steadily darker. Slowly, the crowd in the common room began to thin again. At half past eleven, Hermione wandered over to them, yawning. 'Nearly done?' 'No,' said Ron shortly. 'Jupiter's biggest moon is Ganymede, not Callisto,' she said, pointing over Ron's shoulder at a line in his Astronomy essay, 'and it's Io that's got the volcanoes.' 'Thanks,' snarled Ron, scratching out the offending sentences. 'Sorry, I only-- ' 'Yeah, well, if you've just come over here to criticise--' 'Ron--' 'I haven't got time to listen to a sermon, all right, Hermione, I'm up to my neck in it here-- ' 'No--look!' Hermione was pointing to the nearest window. Harry and Ron both looked over. A handsome screech owl was standing on the windowsill, gazing into the room at Ron. 'Isn't that Hermes?' said Hermione, sounding amazed. 'Blimey, it is!' said Ron quietly, throwing down his quill and getting to his feet. 'What's Percy writing to me for?' He crossed to the window and opened it; Hermes flew inside, landed on Ron's essay and held out a leg to which a letter was attached. Ron took the letter off it and the owl departed at once, leaving inky footprints across Ron's drawing of the moon Io. 'That's definitely Percy's handwriting,' said Ron, sinking back into his chair and staring at the words on the outside of the scroll: Ronald Weasley, Gryffindor House, Hogwarts. He looked up at the other two. 'What d'you reckon?' 'Open it!' said Hermione eagerly, and Harry nodded. Ron unrolled the scroll and began to read. The further clown the parchment his eyes travelled, the more pronounced became his scowl. When he had finished reading, he looked disgusted. He thrust the letter at Harry and Hermione, who leaned towards each other to read it together: Dear Ron, I have only just heard (from no less a person than the Minister for Magic himself, who has it from your new teacher, Professor Umbridge) that you have become a Hogwarts prefect. I was most pleasantly surprised when f heard this news and must firstly offer my congratulations. I must admit that I have always been afraid that you would take what we might call the 'Fred and George' route, rather than following in my footsteps, so you can imagine my feelings on hearing you have stopped flouting authority and have decided to shoulder some real responsibility. But I want to give you more than congratulations, Ron, I want to give you some advice, which is why I am sending this at night rather than by the usual morning post. Hopefully, you will be able to read this away from prying eyes and avoid awkward questions. From something the Minister let slip when telling me you are now a prefect, I gather that you are still seeing a lot of Harry Potter. I must tell you, Ron, that nothing could put you in danger of losing your badge more than continued fraternisation with that boy. Yes, I am sure you are surprised to hear this-- no doubt you will say that Potter has always been Dumbledore's favourite--but I feel bound to tell you that Dumbledore may not be in charge at Hogwarts much longer and the people who count have a very different--and probably more accurate--view of Potter's behaviour. I shall say no more here, but if you look at the Daily Prophet tomorrow you will get a good idea of the way the wind is blowing--and see if you can spot yours truly! Seriously, Ron, you do not want to be tarred with the same brush as Potter, it could be very damaging to your future prospects, and I am talking here about life after school, too. As you must be aware, given that our father escorted him to court, Potter had a disciplinary hearing this summer in front of the whole Wizengamot and he did not come out of it looking too good. He got off on a mere technicality, if you ask me, and many of the people I've spoken to remain convinced of his guilt. It may be that you are afraid to sever ties with Potter--I know that he can be unbalanced and, for all I know, violent--but if you have any worries about this, or have spotted anything else in Potter's behaviour that is troubling you, I urge you to speak to Dolores Umbridge, a truly delightful woman who I know will be only too happy to advise you. This leads me to my other bit of advice. As I have hinted above, Dumbledore's regime at Hogwarts may soon be over. Your loyalty, Ron, should be not to him, but to the school and the Ministry. I am very sorry to hear that, so far, Professor Umbridge is encountering very little co-operation from staff as she strives to make those necessary changes within Hogwarts that the Ministry so ardently desires (although she should find this easier from next week-- again, see the Daily Prophet tomorrow!). I shall say only this--a student who shows himself willing to help Professor Umbridge now may be very well-placed for Head Boyship in a couple of years! I am sorry that I was unable to see more of you over the summer. It pains me to criticise our parents, but I am afraid I can no longer live under their roof while they remain mixed up with the dangerous crowd around Dumbledore. (If you are writing to Mother at any point, you might tell her that a certain Sturgis Podmore, who is a great friend of Dumbledore's, has recently been sent to Azkaban for trespass at the Ministry. Perhaps that will open their eyes to the kind of petty criminals with whom they are currently rubbing shoulders.) I count myself very lucky to have escaped the stigma of association with such people--the Minister really could not be more gracious to me--and I do hope, Ron, that you will not allow family ties to blind you to the misguided nature of our parents' beliefs and actions, either. I sincerely hope that, in time, they will realise how mistaken they were and I shall, of course, be ready to accept a full apology when that day comes. Please think over what I have said most carefully, particularly the bit about Harry Potter, and congratulations again on becoming prefect. Your brother, Percy Harry looked up at Ron. 'Well,' he said, trying to sound as though he found the whole thing a joke, 'if you want to--er --what is it?'--he checked Percy's letter--'Oh yeah--"sever ties" with me, I swear I won't get violent.' 'Give it back,' said Ron, holding out his hand. 'He is--' Ron said jerkily, tearing Percy's letter in half 'the world's--' he tore it into quarters 'biggest--' he tore it into eighths 'git.' He threw the pieces into the fire. 'Come on, we've got to get this finished sometime before dawn,' he said briskly to Harry, pulling Professor Sinistra's essay back towards him. Hermione was looking at Ron with an odd expression on her face. 'Oh, give them here,' she said abruptly. 'What?' said Ron. 'Give them to me, I'll look through them and correct them,' she said. 'Are you serious? Ah, Hermione, you're a life-saver,' said Ron, 'what can I--?' 'What you can say is, "We promise we'll never leave our homework this late again," ' she said, holding out both hands for their essays, but she looked slightly amused all the same. 'Thanks a million, Hermione,' said Harry weakly, passing over his essay and sinking back into his armchair, rubbing his eyes. It was now past midnight and the common room was deserted but for the three of them and Crookshanks. The only sound was that of Hermione's quill scratching out sentences here and there on their essays and the ruffle of pages as she checked various facts in the reference books strewn across the table. Harry was exhausted. He also felt an odd, sick, empty feeling in his stomach that had nothing to do with tiredness and everything to do with the letter now curling blackly in the heart of the fire. He knew that half the people inside Hogwarts thought him strange, even mad; he knew that the Daily Prophet had been making snide allusions to him for months, but there was something about seeing it written down like that in Percy's writing, about knowing that Percy was advising Ron to drop him and even to tell tales about him to Umbridge, that made his situation real to him as nothing else had. He had known Percy for four years, had stayed in his house during the summer holidays, shared a tent with him during the Quidditch World Cup, had even been awarded full marks by him in the second task of the Triwizard Tournament last year, yet now, Percy thought him unbalanced and possibly violent. And with a surge of sympathy for his godfather, Harry thought Sirius was probably the only person he knew who could really understand how he felt at the moment, because Sirius was in the same situation. Nearly everyone in the wizarding world thought Sirius a dangerous murderer and a great Voldemort supporter and he had had to live with that knowledge for fourteen years ... Harry blinked. He had just seen something in the fire that could not have been there. It had flashed into sight and vanished immediately. No ... it could not have been ... he had imagined it because he had been thinking about Sirius ... 'OK, write that down,' Hermione said to Ron, pushing his essay and a sheet covered in her own writing back to Ron, 'then add this conclusion I've written for you.' 'Hermione, you are honestly the most wonderful person I've ever met,' said Ron weakly, 'and if I'm ever rude to you again--' '--I'll know you're back to normal,' said Hermione. 'Harry, yours is OK except for this bit at the end, I think you must have misheard Professor Sinistra, Europa's covered in ice, not mice--Harry?' Harry had slid off his chair on to his knees and was now crouching on the singed and threadbare hearthrug, gazing into the flames. 'Er--Harry?' said Ron uncertainly. 'Why are you down there?' 'Because I've just seen Sirius's head in the fire,' said Harry. He spoke quite calmly; after all, he had seen Sirius's head in this very fire the previous year and talked to it, too; nevertheless, he could not be sure that he had really seen it this time ... it had vanished so quickly ... 'Sirius's head?' Hermione repeated. 'You mean like when he wanted to talk to you during the Triwizard Tournament? But he wouldn't do that now, it would be too--Sirius!' She gasped, gazing at the fire; Ron dropped his quill. There in the middle of the dancing flames sat Sirius's head, long dark hair failing around his grinning face. 'I was starting to think you'd go to bed before everyone else had disappeared,' he said. 'I've been checking every hour.' 'You've been popping into the fire every hour?' Harry said, half-laughing. 'Just for a few seconds to check if the coast was clear.' 'But what if you'd been seen?' said Hermione anxiously. 'Well, I think a girl--first-year, by the look of her--might've get a glimpse of me earlier, but don't worry,' Sirius said hastily, as Hermione clapped a hand to her mouth, 'I was gone the moment she looked back at me and I'll bet she just thought I was an oddly-shaped log or something.' 'But, Sirius, this is taking an awful risk--' Hermione began. 'You sound like Molly,' said Sirius. 'This was the only way I could come up with of answering Harry's letter without resorting to a code--and codes are breakable.' At the mention of Harry's letter, Hermione and Ron both turned to stare at him. 'You didn't say you'd written to Sirius! said Hermione accusingly. 'I forgot,' said Harry, which was perfectly true; his meeting with Cho in the Owlery had driven everything before it out of his mind. 'Don't look at me like that, Hermione, there was no way anyone would have got secret information out of it, was there, Sirius?' 'No, it was very good,' said Sirius, smiling. 'Anyway, we'd better be quick, just in case we're disturbed--your scar.' 'What about--?' Ron began, but Hermione interrupted him. 'We'll tell you afterwards. Go on, Sirius.' 'Well, I know it can't be fun when it hurts, but we don't think its anything to really worry about. It kept aching all last year, didn't it?' 'Yeah, and Dumbledore said it happened whenever Voldemort was feeling a powerful emotion,' said Harry, ignoring, as usual, Ron and Hermione's winces. 'So maybe he was just, I dunno, really angry or something the night I had that detention.' 'Well, now he's back it's bound to hurt more often,' said Sirius. 'So you don't think it had anything to do with Umbridge touching me when I was in detention with her?' Harry asked. 'I doubt it,' said Sirius. 'I know her by reputation and I'm sure she's no Death Eater--' 'She's foul enough to be one,' said Harry darkly, and Ron and Hermione nodded vigorously in agreement. 'Yes, but the world isn't split into good people and Death Eaters,' said Sirius with a wry smile. 'I know she's a nasty piece of work, though--you should hear Remus talk about her.' 'Does Lupin know her?' asked Harry quickly, remembering Umbridge's comments about dangerous half-breeds during her first lesson. 'No,' said Sirius, 'but she drafted a bit of anti-werewolf legislation two years ago that makes it almost impossible for him to get a job.' Harry remembered how much shabbier Lupin looked these days and his dislike of Umbridge deepened even further. 'What's she got against werewolves?' said Hermione angrily. 'Scared of them, I expect,' said Sirius, smiling at her indignation. 'Apparently, she loathes part-humans; she campaigned to have merpeople rounded up and tagged last year, too. Imagine wasting your time and energy persecuting merpeople when there are little toerags like Kreacher on the loose.' Ron laughed but Hermione looked upset. 'Sirius!' she said reproachfully. 'Honestly, if you made a bit of an effort with Kreacher, I'm sure he'd respond. After all, you are the only member of his family he's got left, and Professor Dumbledore said--' 'So, what are Umbridge's lessons like?' Sirius interrupted. 'Is she training you all to kill half-breeds?' 'No,' said Harry, ignoring Hermione's affronted look at being cut off in her defence of Kreacher. 'She's not letting us use magic at all!' 'All we do is read the stupid textbook,' said Ron. 'Ah, well, that figures,' said Sirius. 'Our information from inside the Ministry is that Fudge doesn't want you trained in combat.' 'Trained in combat!' repeated Harry incredulously. 'What does he think we're doing here, forming some sort of wizard army?' 'That's exactly what he thinks you're doing,' said Sirius, 'or, rather, that's exactly what he's afraid Dumbledore's doing--forming his own private army, with which he will be able to take on the Ministry of Magic.' There was a pause at this, then Ron said, That's the most stupid thing I've ever heard, including all the stuff that Luna Lovegood comes out with.' 'So we're being prevented from learning Defence Against the Dark Arts because Fudge is scared we'll use spells against the Ministry?' said Hermione, looking furious. 'Yep,' said Sirius. 'Fudge thinks Dumbledore will stop at nothing to seize power. He's getting more paranoid about Dumbledore by the day. It's a matter of time before he has Dumbledore arrested on some trumped-up charge.' This reminded Harry of Percy's letter. 'D'you know if there's going to be anything about Dumbledore in the Daily Prophet tomorrow? Ron's brother Percy reckons there will be--' 'I don't know,' said Sirius, 'I haven't seen anyone from the Order all weekend, they're all busy. It's just been Kreacher and me here.' There was a definite note of bitterness in Sirius's voice. 'So you haven't had any news about Hagrid, either?' 'Ah ...' said Sirius, 'well, he was supposed to be back by now, no one's sure what's happened to him.' Then, seeing their stricken faces, he added quickly, 'But Dumbledore's not worried, so don't you three get yourselves in a state; I'm sure Hagrid's fine.' 'But if he was supposed to be back by now ...' said Hermione in a small, anxious voice. 'Madame Maxime was with him, we've been in touch with her and she says they got separated on the journey home--but there's nothing to suggest he's hurt or--well, nothing to suggest he's not perfectly OK.' Unconvinced, Harry, Ron and Hermione exchanged worried looks. 'Listen, don't go asking too many questions about Hagrid,' said Sirius hastily, 'it'll just draw even more attention to the fact that he's not back and I know Dumbledore doesn't want that. Hagrid's tough, he'll be OK.' And when they did not appear cheered by this, Sirius added, 'When's your next Hogsmeade weekend, anyway? I was thinking, we got away with the dog disguise at the station, didn't we? I thought I could--' 'NO!' said Harry and Hermione together, very loudly. 'Sirius, didn't you see the Daily Prophet?' said Hermione anxiously. 'Oh, that,' said Sirius, grinning, 'they're always guessing where I am, they haven't really got a clue--' 'Yeah, but we think this time they have,' said Harry. 'Something Malfoy said on the train made us think he knew it was you, and his father was on the platform, Sirius-- you know, Lucius Malfoy--so don't come up here, whatever you do. If Malfoy recognises you again--' 'All right, all right, I've got the point,' said Sirius. He looked most displeased. 'Just an idea, thought you might like to get together.' 'I would, I just don't want you chucked back in Azkaban!' said Harry. There was a pause in which Sirius looked out of the fire at Harry, a crease between his sunken eyes. 'You're less like your father than I thought,' he said finally, a definite coolness in his voice. 'The risk would've been what made it fun for James.' 'Look--' 'Well, I'd better get going, I can hear Kreacher coming down the stairs,' said Sirius, but Harry was sure he was lying. 'I'll write to tell you a time I can make it back into the fire, then, shall I? If you can stand to risk it?' There was a tiny pop, and the place where Sirius's head had been was flickering flame once more.

#OrderofthePhoenix #HarryPotter

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