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schrijverr · 8 months

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I Found Myself a Cheerleader 15

Chapter 15 out of 28

Bumped to the lowest step on the social ladder after his fight with Billy, Steve gets roped in with the cheer team. What starts as a favor to help them out when one member breaks her leg in turn for protection from the brunt of the bullying, sets the universe on a different path.

In this chapter, everyone’s life seems to be going in the wrong direction as Vecna rolls into town as they all seem to distance themselves from one another. Meanwhile, Robin has developed a crush on a certain cheerleader and it isn’t Steve.

On AO3.

Ships: steddie & buckingham

Warnings: internalized homophobia, homophobia mention, f-slur, bullying mention, HIV/AIDS crisis mention, racism mention, eating disorder mention

~~~~~~~

Chapter 15: The Arrival of Vecna

After new years, Steve feels like his life has been spiraling further and further out of control. Yet he cannot do anything, but stay. He can only watch and cling on as the roller coaster continues in a way that seems safe enough, but also like it can fall apart at any moment.

It’s just been a compilation of things, honestly. It feels like his fight with Eddie was a turning point and now, in a horrible domino effect, it is all getting worse from there.

Insecurity has been creeping up on him with the words of his father in that stupid clothing boutique and the fight with Eddie that came afterwards. Eddie, who is still ignoring him. Neither of them have said a word to the other since then.

He still feels conflicted about it. He hates what he did to Eddie and he wants to tell him how he didn’t mean it, but Eddie has taken to staying behind and sending the kids ahead, so he won’t have to see Steve’s face.

Steve has stopped getting out of the car. Just watches the school entrance in case he catches a flash of curly hair that he adores so much. His heart aches to make it right, to have dimples and chocolate eyes back in his life. Another part of him thinks it might be easier to be rejected, left in the dust. To be hurt, so he can get over it. To find love elsewhere.

Chrissy fake breaks up with him two weeks into the new year. Ever since then, he has been throwing himself at every girl that has come into Family Video in an attempt to cover up for all the emotions he’s feeling, but can’t put into words.

A few girls have actually taken him up on his offer and Steve has gone through with it, because he doesn’t think a straight boy in his position would refuse. It hasn’t been the most comfortable, but nothing he hasn’t done before and it’s just a task to get through.

Chrissy and Robin both have expressed concern about his behavior, but Steve will not listen to them.

The two have been hanging out quite a bit, since they’re stuck in school together and Steve is glad they’re getting along, but it’s annoying that they now team up together. It can be quite funny when they’re just ribbing each other, but more recently they’re being concerned together, which makes Steve want to walk into the forest never to be seen again. He doesn’t know why.

Right now is such a moment, where he can feel their eyes on his back as he leads a girl through the store, putting on his charm.

Steve is pretty sure she has a boyfriend, so hopefully this won’t end in another disastrous date. And for now he tries to feel validated by how she giggles and twirls her hair. No one will question him if he goes on like this. Next time, there will be more evidence needed than a few slurs, a picture in the year book, or the fact he isn’t married yet. Next time, he’ll be safer.

It’s for the best, so he ignores the stares of Chrissy and Robin as he flirts with the girl, whose name he does not know, pretending to be disappointed but understanding when she tells him about her boyfriend.

He rings her up, having to bump Robin out of the way, before watching her go with smile in place that he drops with a sigh once she’s out the door. Robin takes the moment to pipe up: “You don’t have to keep doing that, you know that, right?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he grits, playing dumb, because he isn’t in the mood for a lecture. He already feels uncomfortable enough in his own skin.

“We’re just worried, Stevie,” Chrissy says with those big eyes of her that Steve has always been a little weak for and she knows it.

Steve sends her a glare and scowls: “Nothing to worry about.”

“Dingus,” Robin huffs, a little annoyed by how he’s avoiding the topic. It hasn’t become a thing yet, Steve could never not show up when she needs him or vise versa, but he knows how much she hates that he’s shutting her out.

And he does feel guilty about it. Her remembers how she once confessed to him how everyone always seems to leave her behind. In the darkness of the night, Steve had promised he never would, but now he’s pushing her away.

The guilt eats at him and he doesn’t want to do a repeat of his behavior of when he fought with Eddie. He doesn’t want to fuck up like that again. So, he takes a deep breath and pleads: “I know, okay, I know. Please, just- just drop it, okay?”

It is the closest he has come to acknowledging it and Chrissy and Robin both share a look before looking back. Robin reacts first, she takes his hand and gives him a crooked smile: “Alright, dingus, okay.”

“We’re here if you want to talk,” Chrissy offers, also smiling.

Steve does not know what he did to deserve friends like this, but he feels incredibly fortunate. He smiles back and softly says: “Thanks.”

He wants to move on from the topic now, but he doesn’t know how. Luckily, Robin can practically read his mind, so she turns to Chrissy and says: “Hey, Chris, how is cheer going? Band is already practicing for the prep rally, you guys too?”

Chrissy lights up and excitedly starts talking about the new routine they’ve been working on. On another day, Steve would immediately get sucked into the topic, however, today he takes a second to recover before going to dive in.

Because he’s taking that moment, he suddenly notices how Robin is looking at Chrissy. Chrissy is smiling brightly as she talks about cheer and Robin is watching her, only following along, because she’s friends with two cheerleaders, thus has learned too much through osmosis, partially against her will. However, she doesn’t seem to mind, she’s smiling along, a little blush covering her freckles, as she stares at Chrissy.

Holy shit.

Robin has a crush on Chrissy. It just hits him as he watches her. He hasn’t heard her about Vickie for a while, but he hadn’t realized that was because she likes someone else. Because she likes Chrissy.

He isn’t subtle about his realization either. Well, he is, but not for Robin. He is still holding her hand and squeezes it in surprise when he notices, looking between the two.

She looks at him when he squeezes and sees him glancing between them. Her eyes grow wide and he can see in her eyes that if he even thinks about uttering about saying anything while Chrissy is still in a 1 mile radius of Family Video, she is going to murder him.

Steve knows the feeling, so he quickly nods to let her know he gets it, before jumping into cheer, so that Chrissy won’t notice the hiccup.

Of course he had noticed the two getting closer and retrospectively the first time Robin saw Chrissy was pretty gay with how she spluttered and was rendered quite speechless, but he never really thought about it like that. A part of him still can’t fully fathom that anyone would be attracted to either of them, even if they are objectively attractive.

However, he manages to keep being normal until Chrissy has to go home. She hugs Steve first and he squeezes her back, before he watches her hug Robin, who seemingly explodes. He hadn’t know she could blush like that and has to bite his lip not giggle at her.

Though Steve has to admit, Robin is not the worst, not like he’s seen her with other girls she has liked. She isn’t tripping over herself rambling, instead just does an awkward smile and doesn’t really hug back, as she splutters a goodbye.

They both wave as Chrissy leaves and Steve drops it the moment, she gets into the car and he turns to Robin. Robin, who is blushing and not meeting his eyes. A shit eating grin creeps up on his face and he leans against the counter next to Robin as he drawls: “So… Chrissy.”

“Oh shut up,” she squeaks, pushing him away without looking.

Steve pouts and comes right back into her space and whines: “Oh come on, you bullied me about Eddie, I told you everything. You can’t just leave me hanging like this.”

Now Robin looks at him and she doesn’t look like Robin at all. Steve stops and looks at her, frowning as he takes in how she is hunched over, bites her lip anxiously, plays with her fingers, loosing the liveliness he loves about her. Gently he asks: “Hey, you okay?”

“You’re not mad about my crush on Chrissy?” she asks in a small voice that he hates on her. He likes how she cackles and rambles, not this.

“Of course I’m not mad,” he tells her. “Why would I be mad that you like her? She is super nice and a cool girl. Was inevitable, honestly.”

“It was not,” Robin scoffs, before she asks: “Isn’t it, like, against bro code to like someone’s friend?”

“Robin, you are also Chrissy’s friend,” Steve points out.

She has the audacity to look surprised by that statement and to then ask: “I am?”

“Yeah, Robs, you are,” Steve says, unsure how she can’t know that. “You two are always hanging out together, you eat lunch together. She asks me how you’ve been when you have to work while we hang out, because I’ve seen you last.”

“Oh, I thought she only did that to me, because you’re friends and I’m just also always there,” Robin says, scratching the back of her head.

“Gods, I love you, but you’re also an idiot,” Steve informs her.

“Hey, I take offense to that,” Robin pouts, but she is also grinning, which is a win.

“You can be offended later, tell me about your crush now,” Steve demands. “You finally developed taste, I have to know more.”

“Screw you, dingus,” Robin exclaims as she pushes him.

Steve wrinkles his nose and replies: “I’d rather you not.”

“Iewww,” Robin shudders, but she’s laughing too. Both of them taking a moment to giggle, before Robin sighs wistfully and says: “She’s just so pretty.” Then Robin groans and boinks her head on the counter. “And painfully straight. I listened to her talk about Tom Cruise for like an hour yesterday. The worst thing? I didn’t even mind, because she looks cute when she’s excited.”

Steve graciously suppresses the urge to laugh at her and just pats her back in a sympathetic manner, because he knows how much that sucks. “You’re gonna be okay, Robs. It sucks to have a crush on a straight person.”

“How would you know?” she asks, coming up from where she has buried her head in her arms to glare at him. “Eddie has taken to parading around with a hanky in his pocket, like I won’t know what that means. You had a chance.”

Had a chance, Steve repeats to himself, feeling a little stab. He could have if he hadn’t been so scared and such a dick. But Robin is lamenting her own crush, so he’s not going to be sad about his love life, especially because that will be an invitation to talk to him about how he’s flirting with girls everywhere and Steve knows what Robin is doing. She hopes he’ll bite and won’t ask more about her new crush that she has been trying to hide.

So, instead he doesn’t bite and just says: “I’ve had crushes on other people, you know. And I didn’t have a chance with them.”

“Who?” Robin demands, now fully dropping the gloom, much to Steve’s relief, he hates seeing her sad.

“Jonathan,” he admits, wanting to jump into a ditch and hide the moment he does.

“What?” Robin exclaims with glee in her voice. “Why didn’t you tell me that, dingus. That is important to know. You had a crush on the guy that stole your girlfriend.”

“I mean, we fought and it kind of made me realize some things,” Steve shrugs in embarrassment.

“You had a crush on him because he beat you up?” Robin asks, eyes nearly falling out of her sockets as she interrogates him.

“No,” Steve scowls, crossing his arms. “And we were talking about your hopeless crush, remember?”

“We can do that later, I have to hear this,” Robin waves his protest aside. “If not because he beat you up, then why?”

“He just made me realize I didn’t want to keep being King Steve when he beat me up,” Steve explains. “And then when I went to apologize we had to run from the demogorgon and he grabbed my hand and pulled me to safety. And I realized I liked that a little more than I should.”

“Oh my god, that is the best thing I have ever heard,” Robin squeals.

“Shut up, shut up, shut up,” Steve replies, hands over his ears.

“No, come on, this is great,” Robin grins. “I’m never going to let you forget that you had a crush on Jonathan because he held you hand.”

“Fuck off, I also held your hand, didn’t get a crush on you,” Steve pouts.

“Not really the right demographic, now am I?” Robin counters. “Unlike what you want to make everyone think. What happened there? Are you okay?”

“No, we’re not turning it around on me,” Steve snaps. “I meant it. I don’t want to talk about it. Let’s just talk about your crush and let me forget about it, okay? Please.”

Something in his voice must tell her how serious he is, because she nods seriously, despite obviously not wanting to and collapses back over the counter, lamenting about Chrissy in her cheer uniform and her soft cheeks and adorable giggle.

Despite having been friends with Chrissy for about a year now, Robin mentions things that Steve has never consciously registered about her. It’s odd but interesting to look at his friend through different eyes. Like, he never really noticed Chrissy had dimples, but when he thinks about it, she totally does.

It’s actually really cute how much Robin likes Chrissy, but Steve is also scared for her. He knows Chrissy is cool about the gay thing, though that might not translate to lesbians, since Robin hasn’t come out yet. However, that does not mean, she won’t break Robin’s heart.

Steve cares about both of them very much, but he will probably choose Robin, if this crush blows up in their faces. He might not have known Robin the longest, but they’ve been through so much together. You don’t just forget about that. And, despite how he is partially ignoring it, Robin is also queer, he will always support her and understand her struggles. Even if that means loosing Chrissy in the process.

Fuck, he just hopes Chrissy is at least cool about it, or that Robin’s crush blows over before something can happen.

Over the following weeks, it seems like life hates him more and more, as it continues to get worse and worse. It’s nothing big, but life seems to get lonelier.

Robin, of course, still fills his every moment when she can, but she still has school and finals are coming up as well. So, he sees her primarily when driving her to school, or at work, or when they’re both failing to fall asleep.

Mike has never liked him, so his lessening in appearance doesn’t come as a surprise. While Dustin still comes by, but less often than he used to, swept up into Hellfire club, robotics team and the never ending homework of high school. Meanwhile, Lucas has made varsity team, so he is also busy. Steve is so proud of him, but he just hopes that the basketball team doesn’t chew him up and spit him out while Steve can’t look out for him.

Lucas and Max have also broken up, so he doesn’t hang out with Lucas at the trailer park anymore either. He still has gone by to check on her, but she isn’t around or doesn’t open the door. Whenever he is there, he can feel Eddie’s trailer judging him from behind. So, he stopped.

However, he still trains with Lucas from time to time, teaching him things about basketball that he still remembers from when he was star player on the team. Like today, just the two of them shooting hoops on the Sinclair’s driveway.

It’s Wednesday and Chrissy canceled on Steve. She has been doing that more often and Steve doesn’t know what to do about it. Whenever they do hang out, she is still herself and Robin doesn’t note much out of the ordinary if the amount of times she waxes poetry about Chrissy’s smile is anything to go off.

For now, he tries to put it out of his mind and focus on Lucas. He yells: “Don’t dribble too hard, just above the knee. Stay in control.”

Lucas switches up his dribble slightly and Steve immediately has a harder time taking the ball from him. He can see in Lucas’ grin that he notices it too. They twirl around each other for a little longer, before Lucas can make a shot.

Both of them turn to watch as the ball arcs through the air, before bouncing on the rim once, twice, before falling next to it and rolling away with a slight bounce. Steve grimaces and forces a cheer in his voice as he says: “You’ll get it next time.”

He goes to get the ball, leaving Lucas a second the wallow in private, before turning back. In that time, Lucas has slumped on the steps of the house in a way that suggest that he isn’t getting up again. He seems done for the day, but the defeated pose doesn’t sit right with Steve.

So, he sits down next to Lucas and lets the quiet hang over them for a second. Then he asks: “You doing okay?”

The boy next to him sighs in a way that makes him seem way older than he should be. He shrugs, then pauses, before shaking his head. “Not really, no.”

“Wanna talk about it?” Steve offers. He might not be the best at comforting, but he at least knows what Lucas has been through, what he has seen. Sometimes it’s enough to be understood.

“Max has been distant lately,” Lucas says. “She barely talks to us in the hallways of school and we never see her anywhere else. It’s like she’s a ghost sometimes. I don’t know what’s happening. She seemed fine a few weeks ago.”

Steve has noticed the same thing, but he doesn’t want to worry Lucas more when it’s obviously eating at him. So he takes a moment to think. Then he replies: “Max is a tough cookie. She just needs a little bit. Billy’s birthday is coming up, I’m sure that must mess with her a little. She’ll reach out again when she’s ready.”

“You really think so?” Lucas asks, finally looking up from where he’d hung his head. It’s a little like he’s perking up with the glimmer of hope.

In all honesty, Steve isn’t sure. He likes to think she will, but he could be wrong. However, he doesn’t want to rip away the hope he has given Lucas, so he just smiles: “Yeah, I do.”

Lucas smiles back and Steve feels a little guilty, but also glad to see him smile like that. Lucas has already been through much, much more than he should. He wants Lucas to be happy. He still remembers how terrified he looked as Billy had him pinned. It still appears in his nightmares, the what if he hadn’t been on time plaguing him.

So, he pushes away the guilt and moves the topic to something more fun. “You’re becoming really good at avoiding my blocks. A little more and I won’t stand a chance against you.”

“Thanks,” Lucas huffs with a small laugh. “Now if only coach saw that and I could be on the court next game instead of being a bench warmer.”

“Don’t be to hard on yourself, man,” Steve tells him. “You already made varsity in your freshman year, that’s huge. Most don’t make it until the second semester sophomore and then they’re still bench warmers, because coach wants to give the older players scouting chances. Trust me, next year you’re going to be star player.”

“You think so?” Lucas asks.

“Yeah, I do,” Steve says, this time not lying. Lucas is a talent. He adds as a joke: “I might not have been on the team in a while, but I still remember Jason’s try outs for varsity when I was star player in junior year. All his talk is a recent development.”

Lucas is smiling at the start of the sentence, but as he goes on, he sees something dim in how he holds himself. Steve doesn’t think he said anything to get that reaction and frowns: “Hey, where is your mind going off to?”

“The team,” Lucas says, sounding a little hesitant.

Steve still remembers what dicks the team used to be, both when he was on it and when he got bullied away. His heart stops beating as a fear seizes him. “Are they being assholes to you?” he asks immediately. “Because I still have the nail bat and I can have a talk with them.”

“No, no, not that,” Lucas quickly says, which is good to hear, but there is something in his tone that makes Steve suspicious.

“But…” he prompts when Lucas keeps his lips together as if he is keeping something in.

Lucas looks away and rubs the back of his head. He lets out a deep breath, hyping himself up, before looking back at Steve and admitting: “They’re just saying really messed up things about you.”

Oh.

“Oh,” Steve says out loud, he didn’t expect that. Well, he did. He had just hoped the shine would have worn off by the time the kids got Hawkins High, but apparently it’s still bad enough that it got to Lucas. Though Chrissy mentioned how Jason seemingly still has it out for him ever since she rejected him for Steve.

A flash of embarrassment goes through him as he imagines what the others on the basketball team might have said about him. He is well aware of what rumors those boys spread. About how he’s a fag, and a whore fag at that. That he’ll get on his knees for anyone willing to give him the time of day. That he was a filthy queer that stared in the locker rooms. That he was a pussy that hid behind a group of girls. How easily he goes down after a punch. How easily he takes it.

He has heard it all when he still walked those halls. He learned to ignore it and he learned to lie about it to the kids, because he didn’t want them to ever hear that about him. To have the image he held with them be tainted. But they had.

At least Lucas had, because if Max had heard Billy didn’t keep his promise, she would have been upset with Steve and come to him. And Dustin obviously wouldn’t have kept his mouth shut about it.

Fuck, Lucas knows those rumors.

Lucas has heard how Steve might be gay, something he has kept away from all the kids except Will, because Will needed to know it. And now he is still in that limbo, where he knows it about himself, but is working so hard to keep others from seeing.

What if Lucas is looking closer? What if he has guessed? What if all of them know? What if they’re all disgusted by it and that’s why they’ve gotten too busy to hang around Steve anymore?

He doesn’t know what Lucas sees in his face, but he looks like he wants the ground to swallow him up. Yet, he tries to comfort Steve with: “It’s not too bad.”

An involuntary laugh escapes Steve at the placating lie, the disbelief obvious. There is no way it’s not still terrible, but the fact that Lucas is trying to comfort him, eases his nerves a bit.

“Okay, so it is quite bad,” Lucas winces, wringing his hands. “Why didn’t you ever tell us what was happening at school?”

Steve scoffs, can’t help the reaction, and says: “Lucas, I would never drop my shit on a bunch of kids. You all had enough to deal with. I was doing fine anyway. It wasn’t that bad.”

“They’re calling you all sorts of slurs and saying that you’re going to die of AIDS, how is that okay, Steve?” Lucas exclaims, startling Steve with the volume of the outburst.

“Well, it’s not true, so it doesn’t matter,” Steve snaps back.

He doesn’t want to think about how he knows exactly what slurs Lucas is talking about, how they have always clung to him, adding weight to all that drags him down, because he knows they’re true, how he’s been scared shitless of AIDS ever since he last saw his father, even though he has been extra safe when he does fuck, and how those are girls, which make him uncomfortable, a thing he also doesn’t want to think about.

Lucas reels back again by how forcefully Steve says them and Steve internally cringes at how that probably doesn’t help his point, though he keeps a poker face despite it.

He studies Steve for a second and Steve practically holds his breath as he keeps it up, he hopes that Lucas will drop it. He doesn’t, instead, Lucas gets a little quieter. He looks at the ground, then glances back up at Steve and softly says: “But it still hurts, doesn’t it?”

The comment goes deeper than this conversation. It is a cry for recognition. A plea to be heard. To be seen in a pain. A pain that Lucas thinks they might share.

Steve might not be the smartest, but he’s also not an idiot. He knows why Billy went after Lucas but not Dustin for hanging around his sister, knows that fag isn’t the only slur the basketball team throws around, knows that Lucas will hear that too, even if they don’t target him directly and how that can still hurt.

And while he doesn’t want to say anything that might be suspicious, Lucas is one of his kids and he needs to not be alone right now, so he matches Lucas’ quiet tone and admits: “Yeah, it does hurt, a lot. And it fucking sucks.”

Lucas looks relieved by the admission, though an air of sadness still hangs around them. Neither of them can fully know what the other is going through, but for a moment they aren’t alone in their misery and sometimes that can be enough. Lucas huffs out a small laugh and agreed: “It does fucking suck.”

“Don’t tell your mom I used that word,” Steve jokingly threatens. He is glad he was able to help Lucas feel better, but he needs this conversation to be over now. To not have Lucas go poking further than this.

“I won’t,” Lucas laughs. “Besides, she’s heard worse from Dustin.”

“Dustin got some of that from me, I have to be honest there,” Steve comments with a grin, making Lucas laugh more.

Steve wants to move on to other things, however, something is still gnawing on him. He is not there to protect these kids and he cares so much about them, so he needs to be assured that Lucas will be okay on his own in the basketball team. “The others aren’t targeting you, right?”

“No,” Lucas assures him. “Patrick has taken me under his wing a bit, which is nice. He’s also black and good friends with Jason, so they mostly leave us be.” He’s quiet for a second, then adds: “It’s some of the other kids that get targeted. I never really do anything and I feel like I’m the worst because of it.”

“Don’t,” Steve immediately says and Lucas looks surprised, as if he expected Steve to say something different. After all the times Steve threw himself between them and danger that is pretty valid, but that is so much different than this. That isn’t a permanent slight in the eyes of the town, Steve knows how that feels. It is very much not the same.

“Don’t?” Lucas repeats with a confused frown.

“It’s not worth it, trust me,” Steve tells him. “The next time they rag on a poor kid, who also doesn’t deserve it or talk shit about me, you stay quiet, you hear me? You keep your mouth shut. Me and some random kid, aren’t worth being an outcast over. I know it sucks, but it’s how to survive high school. Promise me?”

“Okay, yeah, I promise,” Lucas says, unsettled by the intensity.

Steve isn’t under the illusion that he is the first to say this to Lucas. His parents must be worried sick about him as well, but Lucas might be more willing to listen to Steve than his uncool parents, especially since Steve has a hero status in Lucas’ mind. So, he says it anyway.

“Good, just keep your head down and stick to Patrick,” Steve nods. “Patrick cool?”

“Yeah,” Lucas says with a small smile. “He’s a little withdrawn, but he has this sick fade away long shot that he’s been teaching me.”

“Sounds great. Show me?” Steve asks, getting up and holding the ball out to Lucas. It’s a way to get out of their heads again, away from the heavy conversation, something Steve thinks they both need right now.

Fortunately, Lucas takes the ball with a grin, both of them getting back in position, so that Lucas can show off the shot. It’s a fun way to forget about all the bad and Steve sees himself in Lucas, how he used sports to get out of his head for a bit. That afternoon, he vows to go to all of his games, even if he’s on the bench every time.

Over the following weeks, Steve is there at all Lucas’ games as the team slowly climbs their way up through the championships. Steve has to admit they’re good, they might stand a chance at winning this year.

Meanwhile, life goes on in other places as well, in its own rickety way.

Chrissy cancels more and more, it’s been weeks since they stunted together, even if they finally got their handstand stunt. Steve misses it more than he wants to admits. Misses Chrissy even more, only glimpsing at her during Lucas’ games, her smiles looking fake and her cheer uniform loose.

Steve worries about her, but knows it isn’t his place to talk about her struggles with Robin. So, he just gives Robin a little too many snacks and hopes she knows how to share. However, Chrissy is no longer sitting with Robin during lunch, another worrying development that has other consequences as well.

“She totally knows!” Case in point. Robin is hanging over the counter, looking defeated. She has been the only person not falling apart around Steve and he needs her to be okay. He hates to see her sad like this. Especially when he can’t fix it.

“How would she know?” he counters, knowing it’s not enough, but having to try anyway.

Robin glares at him, before throwing her hands about: “I don’t know, dingus. Maybe I stared at her too long or said something embarrassing and weird, because I keep on humiliating myself around her and she caught on and now she hates me.”

“Chrissy doesn’t hate you,” Steve insists. He is 99% sure of that, despite the lack of contact between them now. There is something else going on with her, he just doesn’t know what and that bothers him to all hell.

“Did she tell you that?” Robin counters.

“You know she didn’t,” Steve glares at her, before taking a deep calming breath. They both have been on edge and the last thing he wants to do, is snap at her and have yet another friendship fall apart.

Robin is observing him and when he looks at her again, normally this time, she says: “Sorry, I didn’t mean to push.”

“It’s okay,” he sighs. “It’s not like you’re in control of her pulling away.”

“And what if I am? What if I’m right and she did notice my crush on her and now she’s disgusted and pulling away? What then?” Robin rambles anxiously.

“Then she’s a dick and we don’t want to be friends with her,” Steve states, because that is obvious in his brain. “But that’s not the reason, she’s too nice for that.”

“You sure?” Robin asks.

“I’m sure,” Steve confirms.

They’re both quiet for a second, then Robin speaks up, her voice an odd mix of disbelief, awe and skepticism, as she asks: “You would really drop her if she wasn’t okay with my crush?”

It’s an echo of when Steve figured her out, when she was unsure if Steve would be okay with it and it still amazes him that she doesn’t know that he would do anything for her. “Yeah, I would. Of course, I would. Why wouldn’t I?”

“I don’t know,” Robin shrugs, not meeting his eyes. “You two have been friends longer than we have. I wouldn't hold it against you.”

“Robs, 1) if she is homophobic, I don’t want to be friends with her and 2) you’re my platonic soulmate, I’m always going to put you first,” he says, putting as much intent and genuineness in his voice as he can in the hope she’ll believe him.

“Platonic soulmates, eh?” she grins, not fully acknowledging it, but tentatively daring to believe by not countering it or questioning him.

“With a capital P,” Steve grins back. “You’re stuck with me now, Buckley.”

“I’m holding you to that, Stevie,” she replies, knowing he doesn’t like his last name.

The next day are the championships. Steve is in Family Video alone, waiting until he can go clock out and get the girl he’s bringing for show. He’s a little self aware around the basketball team since his talk with Lucas, so it will be good to be seen with a girl on his arm.

He’s bored out of his mind, so glad when the phone rings. He picks up: “You’ve reached Family Video, this is Steve. How-”

“Yeah, Steve,” Dustin cuts of his standard greeting. “I need you to play DnD with me and the rest of Hellfire tonight.”

“What? Why?” Steve replies, unsure why they would be playing tonight.

“Because it’s the ending of the campaign and we need someone else,” Dustin says. “Eddie is on our ass to find someone, please.”

At the mention of Eddie’s name, a shiver goes through his body. He cannot face Eddie. Not like that. The need to hide away comes over him and he throws out: “No, I can’t, I have a date.”

“Just move your date this one time,” Dustin demands. “Come on.”

Usually Steve is a pushover and would easily bend to that demand, but he can’t. Lucas is playing tonight, it’s the championship. And it’s Eddie. Eddie, who hates him. Eddie, who makes him feel things. And he just can’t.

His brain goes to a patented method and a little meanly he says: “What? To hang out with you and Eddie “The Freak” Munson? Uh, yeah, I’ll pass.”

The moment he says it, he hates himself. He vowed not to do this anymore and now he is. Fuck, why is he like that?

Dustin doesn’t notice, luckily, and just says: “You’re just jealous because I have another older male friend.”

And a part of Steve is jealous. Jealous that Dustin gets to hang out with Eddie without feeling like he wants to explode, either from horniness, fear or embarrassing mushy feelings. Feelings that also make him want to hide away.

He knows he has them, that they won’t go away, but every time he thinks he can accept that, another voice speaks up and crushes it. It’s a constant battle and at this point, he isn’t even sure what team he’s on.

But he doesn’t tell Dustin that, instead he says: “Iew. Ugh. Whatever,” before making up some story about really digging this girl, whose name he has already forgotten, before pretending a customer comes in, so he can hang up on Dustin.

It’s not until, he’s getting ready to go for the game, that he is centered enough to realize that Dustin was looking for a replacement for Lucas. That Eddie isn’t postponing the session so Lucas can be there and make the championship.

If they were still friends, he would’ve said something about it to Eddie. Then he realizes that this might be Eddie outing his anger at Steve and all his jockiness that he showed Eddie when he stomped all over him. And he feels a little sicks with it.

Fuck, hopefully spring break will be what they all need to get off this roller coaster again. A little bit of a break away from it all will be good for them.

A/N:

Robin being surprised that Steve wants to be her friend, that she is also friends with Chrissy, that they want her around, it’s breaking my heart </3

Also Lucas deserves so much more and the Duffers keep doing him dirty, I’m so mad about that actually >:(

(Disclaimer: I am white and probably not the best to write about this, but it wanted to note the fact that Lucas is dealing with other shit too in there as well. Hopefully that came across okay and if I said anything offensive, please let me know)

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riahlynn101 · 1 year

Text

"Let Go (I'll See you Again)."

Trigger warnings: Blood, gore, and major character death.

Summary: Written for Dad for One December day 31: All For You | Coronation

31. All For You | Coronation

“You have to keep going ninth! Stopping isn’t an option!” The second yells at him.

Izuku wheezes, vision going blurry for a moment. But it’s only a moment, so he chooses to keep fighting.

“O-kay.”

Shigaraki-and it is Shigaraki, not the All for One parasite-taunts him. It should annoy Izuku, but all he can feel is relief that all the work he’s done (that the other heroes have done) hasn’t been for naught.

“Do you really think you can win!?” Shigaraki stretches his arms open, as if telling Izuku to just try and come at him. His lips twitch into a smile, the same one he gave Izuku back at the mall nearly a year ago today.

Izuku wants so badly to collapse. His body hurts - and it always hurts, but this pain is deeper than the normal aches and pains of hero training or the new but still expected joint pain. It’s a mixture of bone-deep weariness (the kind that comes with working with the pros in a vain effort to prevent his loved ones from being hurt or worse) and a burning, fiery pain radiating from his lungs outwards.

His legs feel like jelly. There’s spittle and spots of blood dirtying his face. Each inhale is a struggle and every exhale is pure agony.

In short, he can imagine he looks every bit a “Deku” as his hero name suggests.

Wiping his mouth with the back of his fist, Izuku gives a forced, toothy grin back at Shigaraki. “Who said anything about winning?”

Shigaraki cocks his head. He opens his mouth to retort. Izuku never gives him the chance.

The second is always-always-urging him to find any and all openings. Anything to beat Shigaraki, and by proxy, All for One.

The split second of confusion is enough for Izuku to shoot forward, aiming for his chest. Summoning all his remaining strength, calling upon his predecessors to help him.

The hit lands. Of that, Izuku is certain.

He hears the squelching of Shigaraki’s inwards being rearranged and the sickening crunching sound of ribs breaking. Hot, sticky blood coats his fist and arm. His arm bone strains with the pressure of so much power, reminding him of his first fight with Muscular, but doesn’t break.

The hit does little more than stun Shigaraki. He narrows his wine-red eyes and uses one of his many (stolen) quirks to send Izuku flying backwards.

He lands on his back, not ten feet from where Kacchan lay. Best Jeanist looks at him but then quickly resumes trying to revive his mentee.

Izuku gasps for air, but his lungs refuse to help him.

Seven of eight of his predecessors stand above him.

“I…” He coughs; he tries to lift his arm to cover his mouth. It- he can’t move.

Oh, Kami, he can’t move!

Tears prick the corners of his eyes. “I…I can’t move.” His voice trembles.

“Come on, Ninth, you have to…” The second continues to hound him, but his face is decidedly kinder and there’s less bite to his words.

All the surrounding sounds, including the pleas of Nana and the Second, start to become garbled. It reminds him of going for a swim and dunking his head under the water.

“I-I’m sorry,” he says. And he means it, because by being so weak he’s doomed his loved ones, all of Japan, and perhaps the entire world. He sullied the line of One for All with all its heroes who died with the hope that, one day, their deaths would mean something.

But he can’t go on.

But he has to.

Right?

His vision tunnels, darkening.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, giving in to the urge to close his eyes. “I-”

-x-x-x-

They say all parents have a sort of intuition when it comes to their children.

All for One would call it bullshit, but he himself has a wide array of quirks whose sole purpose is to monitor the well being of his son. Quirks he picked up way too late to use on Yoichi but years before Izuku was born.

All of them go unexpectedly quiet.

They aren’t supposed to be quiet.

The only way they would stop working is if….

No! He refuses to believe it. Everything-

Everything has been for his family. He can’t lose another family member.

The young, burnt-out, hero with such a versatile feather quirk, is spouting off his hero nonsense in an obvious attempt to distract him.

All for One brushes passed him, taking off into the sky. Not for the first time he’s grateful that he “found” air walk when he did.

U.A. shouldn’t be too far from here.

-x-x-x-

It’s hard to put into words, but somehow the heroes designated to protect the grounds just outside U.A are in even worse shape than the other ones.

All for One lands, taking in all the carnage. Despite his imposing presence and notoriety, no one looks at him. Either that or no one’s noticed him yet.

Heroes, young and old, lay strewn about. Their blood pools into small puddles, dirtying the ground.

He’s not squeamish in the least, but the way All for One’s too-old heart pounds in his chest and his eyes grow wide with every passing moment he can’t find his son, you wouldn’t know it.

His eyes land on the Bakugos’ brat, Katsuki, first. Well, less on him and more the tips of his blond, spiky hair, because his body is hidden behind the one hero with the quirk that wouldn’t have paired well with Tomura’s deposition. There’s even more blood. A lot more.

Further away, alone but no less injured, is his-

he fights the urge to vomit. On trembling legs, he stumbles over to his son, Izuku.

“Sensei!” Tomura calls, bitterness clear as day in his voice.

Stay calm. Stay calm. Stay-

“It took me a while,” Tomura continues, not coming any closer, “but I think I finally figured it out.”

All for One can’t bring himself to look away from his son's slack face. In his peripheral vision he can see Yoichi watching him.

His hands hover over his son. There’s no telling what adding another quirk could do in his son’s current state.

Behind him, Tomura clicks his tongue. “The one and only thing- the only person you ever cared about is,” he stops to laugh at him. “Is that little hero right there. Little Midoriya Izuku. The hero, Deku.”

The heroes gasp, the ones that have retained consciousness and aren’t busy saving their comrades lives.

All for One grits his teeth together.

Turning, just slightly to address the Shimura pest.

“How bright you are,” he praises, voice monotone. “You’ve grown.” At least he isn’t lying when he says that. Tomura truly has grown in all the ways that matter since he’s met him.

“I have.”

“What a pity you won’t grow anymore.”

“What-”

A snap of his fingers and a pull of his quirk (because it’s still his quirk no matter how long it’s been inside the Shimura brat) is all it takes to silence Tomura, forever. There’s a loud bang, like a whole showcase of fireworks going off all at once.

Somewhere behind him, Nana openly sobs. She calls him every name in the book.

Perhaps, if he were a better man. A more noble one, he’d feel an inkling of guilt or regret. But he’s not, and the only regret he’s capable of is not doing more to protect his family.

All for One, Hisashi, scoots closer, pulling his son onto his lap. His head lulls to the side. All too gently, he cradles Izuku’s head.

His son lets out a pitiful wheeze.

Looking upon his son, Hisashi remembers a simpler time. When Izuku could fit into the crook of one of his arms.

A time when Izuku was a chubby cheeked, giggling baby, with nothing but love and adoration for his mom and dad.

He hugs his son closer. His heart twists with every reaction he doesn’t receive from Izuku.

“Please,” he begs, “please. Izuku, baby, wake up.” Grabbing his son by his chin, Hisashi lightly shakes him. “I can’t go back. Your mother can’t…”

Izuku wheezes in response, grimacing.

A touch, feather-light and freezing cold, taps him on the shoulder.

“Brother?”

Hisashi ignores him, rocking back and forth.

Yoichi nudges him, trying to get his attention. In any other circumstance, Hisashi would be overjoyed that his brother was so willing to be next to him. But not right now.

“Brother?” Yoichi asks, a little more urgently. “You need to let go.”

“No, no, no, no.” Hisashi shakes his head, holding on even tighter. He must sound like such a child, but he can’t bring himself to care. Maybe this is his karma.

It has to be.

“He’s in pain. Izuku is safe with us. With me.”

“No, I refuse. You can’t have him!” He swats at his brother’s ghostly form. “Mine! He’s mine!”

Another presence, Nana Shimura sounding weirdly happier than he'd expect given the circumstances, joins his brother in pleading with him.

“Nothing is harder than giving up a child-”

“Shut up!” He screams. “You understand nothing.”

“-but you have to. Izuku is hurting. By holding on, you’re hurting him. Please see reason,” Nana begs.

Tears streaming down his face, Hisashi looks up at the ghostly predecessors of One for All. He catches a glimpse of a smaller figure with short dark hair and gray eyes, they duck behind Nana before he can think too much of it. Forcing a smile, he says, “sometimes you have to hurt the ones you love to keep them safe.”

If he thought Yoichi couldn’t look any more disappointed he’d be wrong.

“Everything I’ve done in the last couple of decades has been for him. All for him.”

“I’m sorry, big brother, but I wasn’t asking.”

He watches Yoichi reach out. He brushes Izuku’s blood-soaked hair back. The minute his fingers graze his nephew’s forehead, Izuku falls limp.

“What did you do!?” Securing his son in his arms, he makes a move to stand up. “Izuku, baby? No, no! Wake up! Wake up!”

His son’s face doesn’t contort in pain or to wheeze out a pathetic breath.

All his strength leaves him, and Hisashi collapses to his knees. “No,” he rasps.

“Daddy?” A small voice, familiar and sweet, and a tug on the back of the stupid hero costume he was forced to steal, gets his attention. “Daddy, I’m okay.”

Laying his son down, Hisashi rounds on the person that dares to mock him.

“How- Izuku…?”

In front of him is his son. No older than three or four. He’s wearing an All Might T-shirt, the one he always used to insist on wearing. He has on his infamous clunky, red shoes, the velcro ones that Hisashi bought him for his third birthday. His face is clean of blood and soot, and he looks…. happy.

“I’m okay, daddy,” he insists. “I’ll be okay. I have Uncle Yoichi and Grandma Nana, all the predecessors of One for All, and Tenko.”

And indeed, behind his now much too-small son, are all the predecessors his brother and Shimura included. Next to Izuku is Tenko. The two boys hold hands. All of the previous resentments have obviously not carried over.

“But baby…baby, what about mommy? Don’t you think she’ll be hurt? What about me? I can’t lose you.”

Izuku looks down at the ground, eyes oddly serious on such a cute face. But then again, with all the things he’s seen, maybe it’s not so weird.

“I…tell mommy I love her. But I’ll see her again. Right, Uncle Yoichi?” He glances up at Yoichi.

He crouches down to Izuku’s height “Yes. And hopefully one day your father can join us as well.” The last part of this is directed towards Hisashi. Standing, he holds his hand out. “C’mon it’s time to go.”

“Okay, goodbye, daddy. I love you.”

A flash of light leaves Hisashi temporarily blind.

By the time he regains his sight. He’s alone with the murmurs of the remaining heroes to keep him company.

He has the upper hand, finally after all these years. But he can’t force himself to stand. Standing would mean leaving the last piece of his son alone.

What is he going to tell Inko? She’ll be destroyed by their son’s death. And he’ll be in jail, so it’s not like he can comfort her.

As he’s tackled to the ground and restrained, All for One can’t find it within himself to resist.

After all, if it’s not for them, then what’s the point?

#major character death #mha fanfiction #mha izuku #mha my hero academia #dad for one #yoichi shigaraki #shimura tenko #the past one for all users #cross posted on ao3

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dr3amofagame · 2 years

Text

heyo :D been super busy in college and a little (very) creatively blocked - i have a couple big projects im really hoping to finish soon so i can noodle around a bit more both here and on twt. until then, have this really messy one shot that maybe makes sense, i think. if you squint and try not to think too hard about the premise. it’s also kinda really ooc, whoops.

tws: pretty heavy suicide warning, mentions of torture, abuse, and violence. lots of really fucked up coping mechanisms and patterns of thinking bc c!dream is you know, Like That.

it starts like this: the Plan fails on a wednesday.

he thinks, in the brief moment of clarity that results, that maybe he expected it to be louder. he thinks there should be explosions, screaming, the world cracking under his feet like the bedrock has shattered and now everything is falling into empty void. that doesn’t happen, because of course it doesn’t. instead, there’s something like silence but not quite, something like quiet but not enough (not since the sound of bubbling lava and dripping not-water and the haunted calls of trapped guardians wormed their ways into his skull) - punz looks at him, eyes blue, and dream doesn’t quite know what happens except that his hands are one block away from completing a nether portal frame and he looks at the tendons of them gripped around a block of obsidian and only dully feels something in his chest give.

“dream?”

it’s not a physical thing, but the ache fully punches the air out of him all the same - he’s used to these ghosts of pain, now, but it doesn’t make them hurt any less. he chokes on thin air and never places the obsidian, staring at his hands and his ragged nails and the boniness of his knuckles and all he can really think is - oh, they’ve changed.

oh- he’s forgotten what they were like, before.

and it’s this, more than anything, that has him dropping the obsidian to the floor with shaky hands (always trembling, because somehow even with health pots that have left his skin and muscle and bone shiny and new and perfect he thinks his nerves have twisted in on themselves in a way that haven’t quite been pulled straight, that rebel against him still) and there’s no mistaking the concern in punz’s eyes, now, even if dream’s gaze only lingers on them for a second before drifting to his hair - it’s longer than it used to be. it’s changed. they’ve changed.

“hey, dream,” punz waves their hand in front of his eyes, “you there?”

he’s changed. the world has changed. and he’ll light the portal and they’ll all come because he’s planned it, because he’s run this plan through his head so many times that he knows the feel of it pressed against the gaps of his teeth, because he’s threaded it through the broken chips of his arm bones he’d scraped off the cell floor and written it on his ribs when an axe split his abdomen in two and he could see the lines of them through the blood spilling onto the ground, and it doesn’t matter. it doesn’t matter, because they’ve changed and dream reaches for one of the memories that had always kept him going and alyssa’s face is just a smudge smeared against the sun and george’s voice is a warble he can’t quite make out and he doesn’t know whose laugh it is coming from behind him, and oh fuck, he doesn’t remember what month it’d been when they entered this world and he doesn’t remember when he got the scar he’s staring at on the third knuckle of his left hand and-

and-

“punz?” dream’s voice trembles before he even realizes he’s speaking at all, looking through the unlit portal to the planes of a meadow still untouched by player hands, the windswept grasses in the middle of nowhere in a shapeless formless spot in the map of his memories that he’ll visit and leave and forget because none of these places mean anything to him- something snaps in his chest, petulant like a child, and he only manages to grab ahold of it by the teeth before it leaves his lungs in a ragged scream. punz is looking at him, eyes wide and worried, but dream can’t look at them, not when he’s like this, not when there’s something empty and terrible opening wider and wanting in the space where the Plan had always stood sure, not when he looks at his world and doesn’t recognize it at all. “i- i gotta go.”

and he runs.

—

the world ends on a wednesday, but no one knows that yet. instead, a crowd of people arrive at some random portal leading to a meadow that none of them recognize, some circles of trampled grasses the only evidence that anyone’s been around there at all. punz chases after dream for a while, but even like this there’s no quite catching him when he wants to get away so it’s not long before they are forced to give up as well, and the world is ending and nobody knows it and dream is running through a forest when he suddenly realizes he has no idea where to go.

his notebook is empty of next steps, backup plans. the community to-do list has long meant nothing to him and to everyone. there are no paths here, nothing he recognizes, just the ever increasing weight of the sky as it falls and his skull caving in and his lungs still lacking the air they need - he tries to listen for threats but can’t make anything out past his heartbeat thundering in his ears. he thinks he might be losing his mind.

maybe he should. maybe it’d be easier.

he doesn’t know what really sparked it. the realization had been so sudden, so jarring - almost divine, but he’s never been one to put too much weight in the supernatural. maybe it had been something building up, subconscious, a dam that had finally broken at the sight of the end so close and yet impossibly far. maybe it really had been that quick, lightning fast connections happening before he realized what he was thinking at all. he’s not sure. a part of him balks at the uncertainty, the unpredictability threatening to pull him under - mostly, he wants to go back, but he knows that it’s futile even before he starts. he might be much more uncomfortably adept at denying what he doesn’t want to see than he’d originally thought, but even he can’t keep running from something this obvious. this certain.

the plan is solid, still. he knows he could go back to that meadow and say every word he’s prepared to say for a year and then some and everything will still go accordingly, just like they had in the vault, just as they eventually had in the prison. he is not sloppy - he knows, all too well, the price to pay for his carelessness. it will work.

only - somehow - he’s managed to miss something simple. immutable. the bedrock beneath the dirt and stone and deepslate, underneath mountains and oceans and countries made, countries fallen. the foundation of this world and all they've built on it, what little that rings true between biases and propaganda and outright lies - and he’s missed it. the forest clears, trees becoming more sparse, and he skids past a row of spruce to look up at the crown of a range of mountains stretching towards the sky, taller than any he’d ever seen before pandora, and his throat goes tight.

the world has changed. somehow, only now does he realize exactly what that means.

—

for once, he doesn’t think about what comes next.

he’s gotten so used to weighing the results of every action, to contingencies and backups and still more cards kept close to his chest just-in-case, cataloging what he knows and what he’s supposed to know and what he lets people think he might suspect, the masks he shuffles through as easy as breathing to be whoever he needs to be. even when he was forced to work on the fly, he never let himself lose sight of his goals - short-term and beyond. now, there is nothing but emptiness when he dares stretch his sights a step further, a hungry, roiling thing that makes his stomach turn. he doesn’t think about it.

he doesn’t think about much, and yet his mind moves far too much, far too fast - he blinks, and the sun has gone down, blinks again and it’s midday. he’s terrified by the time he’s losing but at the same time can’t really bring himself to care - he’s gone through the motions long enough to keep himself alive, even running on fumes like this. for as much as things didn’t go to plan in the prison, one could hardly say he didn’t learn from it. the notebook he’s kept on him for so long goes untouched, but he can’t get rid of it either - every time he thinks about how he doesn’t need it anymore, he feels a little more of himself give way.

at one point, he retraces his steps back to a building he hasn’t seen in ages, a base that lasted him and punz all of a week or so for them to do what they needed. he swallows thickly and finds a few old books, still blank, from the chests - revives vikkstar and lazarbeam, mostly because he has no damn idea what else to do. the world is ending. what is it to him, to have two more people that hate his guts?

he’s not a total idiot, so he makes sure to beat them around a bit, remind them not to squeal about him or punz - not that it matters, much, considering how far out they are. they don’t seem very eager to get back to the mainland and dream hardly cares about what threats they could possibly pose - it’s not like he can’t dispatch them if he needs. he leaves them to their own devices with a bucket of lava and an empty book, settling somewhere else with no one else around to stare into the sky.

“hello,” and dream rolls his eyes, glaring at the deity that cocks its head at him, face still an eerie replica of dream’s own. it smiles widely, twirling in the air with a huge pair of white wings that dream recognizes, distantly, as being new. “what do you want?”

dream shrugs. for once, he doesn’t have an answer.

“you had a plan,” the deity hums, otherworldly, and dream snaps.

“had. not anymore.”

the deity sighs, shakes its head. it almost looks like it’s pouting. “really? aww. i thought you’d be fun.”

dream’s lip curls. “is that what you care about?”

“well, of course! you mortals can be so- entertaining.” it smiles at the last word, all teeth, and dream doesn’t bother holding back his scoff.

“it wasn’t about entertainment,” dream bristles, the comment stinging far more than it should - behind his eyelids, he sees the dazzling lights of las nevadas, glitz and glamor and nothing underneath - sees the theatre always snaking underneath wilbur’s words, the performance he hadn’t let go of even when he died in the flames of his country burning from his own hand. it wasn’t about entertainment because dream had never tied himself to something so meaningless, because even in the tight smiles and tighter masks that had governed him through half-truths and complete lies and the set and stage of a finale that was never truly final, it had never been about pleasure.

the deity waves to the side, dismissive. “eh. doesn’t matter to me.”

dream opens his mouth, lets it shut with a click. he’d told sam, maybe lying and maybe not, that evil was about doing terrible things for no reason - and it’s not like he cares about evil, not in the way that people here like to think they do, not in the way that let them damn him to death and damn him to that cell and damn him to hell in the name of justice as if they had any goddamn right - but still, the memory makes him falter, stumble.

he had reasons, he’d told sam that day, and he did. the ends justified the means just as it always had - until the ends were impossible. until the ends were always impossible, until he’d realized just about two years too late that he’d staked his claim on something long gone, went all-in on a dog buried six feet underground.

he laughs, wheezy and cracking and out of breath. maybe he’s more like sam than he thought.

the deity leaves. dream thinks it said something else, but the memories fall away like said through his fingers - it doesn’t matter. none of this fucking matters anymore. he thinks that maybe it should be a comfort, maybe it should leave him angry - instead, he curls into himself in the middle of fuck-knows-where and feels nothing at all.

—

of all people, of course it’s techno who finds him.

he says as such when he sees him, words muffled through his mask because he’s not bothering with speaking loud enough to be heard clearly - techno stands across from him, a few feet away, and dream is about to ask him why he’s looking at him like he’s grown a second head before he remembers how he was holding a sword to his own neck before techno stumbled on him.

his fist tightens, and the metal is cold against his neck.

“bruh,” techno looks at him, then over his shoulder. “you’re literally right next to my house.”

dream blinks - sure enough, when he looks to the side, he can make out the beacon that marks the location of the arctic commune, bright against the evening sky. huh. he hadn’t realized how close he’d ended up to spawn.

“oh.”

“so, teletubby,” techo ribs immediately and making dream roll his eyes with familiar irritation, “you want to tell me why this random dude in a hoodie started bangin’ on my door yesterday screaming about you?”

the comment is actually enough to throw him off guard; he takes a moment to realize what techno’s talking about, another for panic to swell up in his lungs and choke him.

“punz?” he says, voice pitching higher than he means - he forces himself to settle, play things off. he’s not really sure if he succeeds. “what- why would they come here- what do you mean he was talking about me?”

it’s fine. techno’s an ally- at the very least, he’s not sam. he’s not quackity. out of everyone, better techno than just about the entire server - it’s not like punz has been the only one that’s been careless, over the last few days. techno’s expression is strangely serious, and he tells himself to breathe.

“i dunno,” techno says, finally. “i thought you’d be able to tell me.”

“i-” dream shakes his head. “tell you about what? you haven’t even told me what they said.”

“i told you. they were talking about you.” techno looks him up and down, expression tightening. “about how you were freakin’ out. looks like he was right.”

dream hisses- “im not freaking out,” wincing as the movement makes his sword dig in more than he wanted. fuck.

“how about you put the sword down and then we talk?”

dream huffs. “this- it’s not about freaking out. it’s not- it’s not like that.”

“dude, i know what your ‘freak outs’ look like, and they’re literally exactly like this. come on bro, my retention is going to take such a hit.” techno shakes his head, almost sounding bored- dream wants to snipe back at him about how techno is one to talk considering how his whole deal is cracking stupid jokes with Chat at the worst times possible, deciding against it when he figures that it’ll just make him look even more like he’s having a- like, panic attack or whatever it is techno’s thinking. which is wrong, by the way. he’s perfectly calm. he’s never been calmer in his life.

“they made it through sitting in a box for three months. i think they’ll be fine.”

“true, true,” techno shrugs. “still, im probably going to get demonetized for this.”

“im so sorry about your ad revenue.”

“i’m just sayin’ dude. you know, friends are supposed to care about this kinda thing.”

“guess it’s a good thing i’m not your friend, then,” dream snarks, looking away, and techno sigh comes slow and heavy a few moments later.

“guess so.”

dream doesn’t look up at him again, stares at where his boots have sunken into the snow, toes long numbed from how long he’s stood here. his footsteps form a crooked line over the tundra’s hills and he follows them with his eyes, wanting to take his thumb and press it to the snow filling his vision and smudge all the imperfections away. his arm aches from holding the sword up for so long, but he doesn’t want to put it down - not now, and not in front of techno. that feels far too much like admitting defeat.

honestly, he hadn’t planned on holding it up for very long at it all - it’s not like he doesn’t know how easy it’d be to slit his own neck.

“so.” techno shuffles a little closer to him, and dream jerks back. “what’s it, this time?”

“i have no idea what you’re talking about.”

techno inclines his head. “isn’t that usually what this is about? provin’ something?” his head tips to the side. “the lava and whatever, too. you do remember that i was with you for three months, right?”

dream’s jaw tightens. “are you seriously- is this therapy? are you trying to psychoanalyze me right now?”

techno snorts. “i mean, you need it.”

“thanks for reminding me. again.”

“can’t blame a guy for tryin’,” techno shrugs again, grinning at dream like they’re sharing a joke, and it stings. he doesn’t know why.

“i’m not- i’m not proving anything,” the fight leaves his lungs in a rush of air, the truth of it ice at the back of his throat. “not much to prove, anymore.”

“really?” techno looks at him from the side of his eyes.

“not anymore,” dream repeats, shaking his head. clouds claw across the sky when he looks up, dark along the horizon with an approaching storm. he’s not going to see it arrive. he’s not going to see much more at all.

dream slants a look at techno, grip tightening further on his sword. honestly, he’s not the worst company for a dead man walking.

dream opens his mouth to speak, but techno blurs into motion before he can get a word out - stilling in panic, he doesn’t even manage a scream before a hand has reached out, whip-quick, and grabbed onto his wrist. he twists away, brain finally kicking into gear, but techno had caught him by surprise and he’s rusty anyway so despite his best efforts, his sword ends up held tightly in techno’s hand. dream narrows his eyes, steadying his stance, watching as techno lets the sword slip into his inventory and meets him with a level gaze of his own. there’s a flash of light bouncing off of something in his opposite hand, and it takes a moment for dream to recognize it as a regen pot.

“sorry bro, uh you know youtube terms of service? they just updated and your whole thing was absolutely going to get me flagged.” techno drones on, completely unbothered, and there is something hysterical and writhing and alive caged within dream’s ribs. “you know how it is.”

“i think i understood about half of what you just said.”

“see? Chat, this guy gets it, don’t worry.” techno waves at him again and dream is honestly a little too confused to even snap at him, wonders for a second if that was the whole point. “listen, there’s a blizzard comin’ and i’d be a terrible host if i left a homeless dude out here in this weather. let’s finish this up back at my place.”

dream shakes his head, arms tight across his chest. “i’m not going.”

“bro-”

“i’m not,” dream hisses, trying not to think about how much he sounds like a child throwing a tantrum. “it’s pointless, alright? i fucked up. i fucked up and i didn’t fucking notice because i’m an idiot, because i made this whole fucking plan and never realized that it was pointless. the vault, the prison- it was all pointless. it’s gone. it’s-” he chokes on the words, fury and grief battering against the inside of his skull. “it’s gone.”

“uh,” techno stares at him, and dream’s face burns hotter. “what’s gone?”

“the-” dream stutters, struggles to find the words; golden, sun-stained days, quiet evenings rattle around his brain, memories knocked loose with no plan to anchor them. “the server. everything that was good about this damn place- the way it used to be. before-” before l’manburg, before the deaths, before the prison. “it’s all different. there’s nothing left.”

techno doesn’t reply for a long while, and dream falls silent too - he hadn’t meant to say all that. it doesn’t matter. he might as well tell techno the whole damn plan, at this point. it’s not like it’ll mean anything anymore.

faintly, he realizes that he’s started shivering.

“alright.” techno swivels around to look at him, cloak fluttering behind him from the wind that’s begun to sweep over the tundra as the storm creeps closer. “so, what now?”

dream balks.

“what do you mean, what now?”

“well, it looks like you don’t have anything to do anymore. you know that just because i said you were homeless once doesn’t mean that you have to be homeless forever, right?”

dream’s jaw snaps shut. “i have a base.”

“uh-huh,” techno doesn’t look particularly convinced. “does it go to another school?”

“oh- oh my god,” dream huffs in exasperation. “you’re so annoying.”

“seriously, dream. if you need a place to stay,” techno’s voice trails off, head tipping in the direction of the beacon’s glow. “we have some room, you know. real estate is pretty tight these days.”

“what, not even going to make me pay rent?” dream snarks, and techno laughs.

“nah. not really my thing.”

“whatever. i told you, i have a house. i don’t need another base for people to bomb,” dream snorts, short and without much humor. “s’not like there’s a point.”

“you’re uh. really focused on this whole ‘point’ thing, huh.”

dream rolls his eyes. “and what’s that supposed to mean, mr. no-government?”

“dude. you know you can like. just chill for a bit, right.” techno waves in the direction of his house again. “like, just because i’m an anarchist doesn’t mean that i spend all my time planning for war. you can do other things you know - like build a base.”

“when will you shut up about this base thing?”

“honestly, probably never. Chat loves it.”

“joy. i’m glad the voices inside your head love my misery.”

“you win some, you lose some.”

dream sighs, looking out into the distance. honestly, he’s not really sure what he wants anymore; he’s cold, he’s tired, he’s hungry. he’s probably gone a couple days without eating or sleeping again - he has a bad habit of doing that now, with the amount of time he ends up losing. it’s late, the blizzard is near, and techno’s still got his sword- which, what the fuck man. not cool.

“if i come over until the storm ends, will you give back my sword?”

techno hedges. “well…”

“techno.”

“you know, you technically owe me a sword-”

“and you technically owe me a favor, remember? because i used the revive book on ranboo?”

“details, details.”

“come on, techno.” dream repeats, trying not to feel like he’s pleading, and techno laughs.

“sure, nerd. let’s get outta here- maybe you can get the other guy to stop ranting”

“the other guy- wait. punz is still here?”

“oh yeah, them. yeah he’s still around, been causing a real ruckus.” techno shrugs. “don’t worry about it- we’re used to the noise.”

dream sputters, following the red of techno’s cape as they head towards the commune. honestly, this is feeling more like a bad idea by the minute, but it’s not like he’s got anywhere else to go - he picks up to the pace to catch up, crinkling his nose at the stiffness of his legs.

the sun’s gone down. dream catches sight of the moon, worries his lip between his teeth; he’s not sure how many days have passed since the Plan crashed and burned and he fell down with it.

“hey, techno- what day of the week is it?”

“uh- sunday, i think?” techno looks over at him from over his shoulder. “going to be monday, soon, if we don’t hurry up.”

“oh,” dream nods, weighing the days in his head as they start moving a little faster. four days, then - maybe closer to five. the world ended on wednesday - his world died, long before - but the sun still rises, still falls. he’s spent so long preparing himself for the apocalypse; for the first time, dream allows himself to think about the aftermath. dream’s fist tightens at the sight of the axe still in his inventory, but another breath has it loosening at his side.

the Plan fails on a wednesday. maybe tomorrow, he’ll turn the page and write something new.

#tw suicide #tw torture #tw abuse #tw violence #my writing :D #> my writing #long post

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xxsmokeyy · 4 years

Text

Levi x Reader (F) It’s The Tea

genre: fluff, canon divergence — coffee shop setting

summary: a misplaced table and a pair of hands that had a knack for good tea; you wonder what brought Humanity’s Strongest to your shop.

wc: 6,262

part II

“I’ll have one flat white,” a customer says as she picks money from her coin purse. You give her a smile after receiving her payment, the exact amount saving you the task of calculating change.

“Coming right up.” And you make your way to the coffee beans to make the blend she ordered. She watches in patience as you skillfully maneuver around the counter, getting everything done along the process. You incline the porcelain a little to make for the finishing art, steamed milk piercing through the coffee and creating a signature shape. In no time, you hand her the drink on top of a saucer.

She silently nods as brief thanks, and as soon as she turns her back to you, you dart your eyes on a table of one by the far right windowpane. You carefully spectate her and what direction she’s going. She’s going to the table!

The make-do suspense keeps you on your toes as you look at her intently, breath slightly hitching, waiting for her to sit on the lone chair. The woman navigates across the room, heading straight for your wishful desires. Your hands fly to your mouth in shock, witnessing the life-changing moment unravel before your eyes. No way. She really is.

The cup of coffee on her left hand, she uses her right to move the chair to take a seat. But just when she’s about to pull it back, someone calls her from another table, waving at her excitedly.

You stand upright and alert while your scrutinizing gaze follow her movements. She looks at where the voice is coming from, and almost immediately, her face brightens upon seeing who. Her right hand lets go of the wooden furniture and proceeds to where the caller sits. You look at her destination and find three people on a table of four. It doesn’t take long before she takes the free seat and starts chatting with them.

Your body slumps back with a disappointed sigh. Looks like no one’s sitting there yet again.

It’s the closest call you’ve ever had after years of this shop’s existence. Why no one chooses to sit there is beyond you. Either your customers are not alone, or they are, but only to take out their orders. Actually, even if they’re alone, they’d take the table for two instead. Do they not want to look lonely that bad? You groan in annoyance.

The table consists of a small, circular table and a single chair by the window. In your mightiest opinion, it’s the perfect place to just sit down, enjoy a cup of hot coffee, and read a book. But nobody’s ever done that through the passing years, and you can only witness the table being neglected by people.

It irks you a little. Could there have been another way to maximize the space that stemmed from unproportional construction? Maybe it really is time to remove those. Maybe it’s not really a big deal.

You’ve been contemplating too many times replacing it with a plant vase or a decorative ornament to take up the space since it’s of no use anyway. But something just tells you you shouldn’t. Besides, just thinking thinking about feels costly.

The rest of the day goes by quickly, and before you know it, you’ve opened the store again, serving customers after customers. This time, you never gave the table another glance. Surprisingly enough, you spent the whole night debating with yourself on what decoration you should fill the space with. A nice bookshelf would’ve been good, but you decided to go with a monstera plant to make use of the window right by it. Not until your day off, though, which is still on Sunday.

Having consecutively served around six customers and cleaned used tables, you sit and take a breather, resting your eyes by reading a book to let a couple minutes go by.

You slowly get sucked into the story, the marvelous art of prose bringing you into the plot’s little universe. The way the writer used the most fitting descriptive words possible astounds you, making a smile of enjoyment involuntarily creep up your lips. Somehow, you think writing is similar to making coffee, mixing different elements to create the perfect blend, the sole goal of making an exquisite taste that will leave people aching for more? Oh, and they both smell good, books and coffee. A chuckle leaves your lips.

Just when you’re deep in thought, things starting to stir up in the narration, someone speaks in front of you.

“One black tea,” a stern voice curtly orders, interrupting your peace. Harshly brought back to reality, you rise to your feet to resume to work. First tea of the day, huh?

Sure, your shop is known for its good coffee, but your tea can put up for a competition, too. It’s just that these days, coffee is more on the popular side, since tea can be made in almost any household now.

You close your book to attend to the customer, but not without leaving a bookmark on the current page. When you look at him, you almost freeze in your tracks. Well if it isn’t Humanity’s Strongest himself!

A pair of dazing stale eyes bore into your own with an unreadable expression and you compose yourself. Crap, you must have been caught giggling to yourself. You feel heat speedily cover your cheeks, turning you to a blushing mess. How shameful.

“Pardon me,” you excuse, clearing your throat before telling him the price. He wordlessly fishes for his wallet and pays. He does find you a bit weird, laughing at nothing, but pays it no more mind. He’s supposed to be on leisure, not meddling with some brat’s uncanny actions.

As you turn your back to make his beverage, you squint your eyes in loss of face. It really is the Captain Levi, and you probably looked like a creep in his eyes. Now what will become of your shop’s repute?

You shove the thought to the back of your head and start working. The ravenhead watches back as you work your hands into making a, hopefully, good blend. Your heart is beating wildly inside your chest like it’s about to jump off your rib cage, but you try to ignore it. The thought of a widely known persona such as him inside your very shop is crazy. To what do you even owe this pleasure?

Oh well, you’ll just pour your heart into making his tea, that way you might erase his ridiculous impression of you in his head. Hey! What’s so bad about giggling while reading? your subconscious tries to defend while you strain the boiled tea leaves into a clean china. The earthly smell hits your nose, making you want one, too.

You smile as you hand over the teacup. “Thank you for your service,” you add, even going as far as bowing. The moment the phrase escapes your lips, you regret it right away. Chills shoot up your spine. It sounds so awkward and unnecessary, but should you just treat the Captain like any other people knowing he’s done so much for your country?

Your cheeks flush into a faint, pink color. Thankfully, you’re slightly angled downwards, he might not see. Levi only eyes you for a second before nodding and taking the cup of tea in his hands, his calloused fingers grazing your hands fleetingly.

When you hear his footsteps fade, you rise and rub a palm against your face. You hesitantly take a glance toward the Captain, and shock takes over your whole system. To be totally honest, you never thought you’d see the day someone would sit on that table.

He looks perfectly placed on the table, like it’s reserved a long time just for him. He’s in civillian clothes, probably to not attract a lot of people. The sunlight gives his face a pretty sheen, the air from the window blowing lightly on his dark fringes. Your heart continues to skip several beats for no clear reason. Maybe that is the reason why your instincts keep telling you to not replace it.

Meanwhile, Levi sips on the freshly brewed tea, the strong flavor staining on his tongue just right. As he occupies his mind somehwere else, the taste hits better. Everything feels evenly distributed, the base smooth and pleasant, the amount of water not brimming. The temperature isn’t so bad as well.

Then and there, he guesses you source fine leaves from the innermost walls, which is a luxury at this point, not to mention your non-overpriced charge.

Not bad, he thinks.

You’re dumbstruck as you sit back in awe. You weren’t able to decipher what he’s thinking, but you know for sure he doesn’t hate it from seeing that he emptied the whole thing and left a generous tip.

You grab your tray and proceed to cleaning up the table he previously seated on, the whole decision of shopping for a plant on Sunday going down the drain.

—

It’s been a whole month since the Captain’s visit, and you think of the once in a lifetime moment often, and at times randomly. You sure as heck won’t be removing the table now that something has happened.

“Thank you,” you say as you hand the cup of coffee, serving the last one for the queue. It’s a late, cloudy afternoon, looking like it’s about to shower, and the shop is pretty dull. Well, that only means you can read more.

“Is this the shop they say sells well?” you hear someone from the ordering area. “Yeah, you go ahead,” they converse. You’re making coffee for yourself at the moment and you can’t peer to look at whose voice it is.

“What? You do it!”

“Just go! We don’t have time!”

“What the fuck? You’re the one holding the knife, aren’t you?!” a man shouts in a whisper. You can’t hear crystal clear due to being far into the counter, although you know they must be disturbing the atmosphere.

Vexed by their rowdiness, you turn around and stop making the blend. You walk to the front of the counter, “Excuse me, please lower your—”

“Give me all your money, lady. Let’s transact in peace so nobody gets hurt,” the man grabs your collar, knife pointed straight into your neck. Another man of his companion moves to the side to cover their actions. You don’t feel the sharp edge prick your skin due to intense panic.

You look around frantically, worried if there are other people harmed. To your relief, they seem to not notice anything, if you can even call that relieving. Now there must be no saving you.

“It’s alright, we won’t bring someone else into this, just do what we ask,” the other guy says, wide, haunting eyes looking straight into you. You feel cold sweat drip from your forehead.

“Now hand us what you got.”

On the other hand, Levi finishes with his errands around the capital and stumbles within your shop’s vicinity. Walking mindlessly, he checks the skies to tell the time, but sees the dark clouds instead. It seems it’s about to pour.

He’s already in front of your shop, but the threatening rain will be bigger trouble, he might get stranded if he stops by. Plus, he probably didn’t bring enough money, so he’s got no choice but head back now.

Just when he’s about to leave, his peripheral vision miraculously catches sight of your horrified expression through the window, putting him to an abrupt halt. He turns to see better, and finds two men roughing you up while trying to hide the commotion.

He clicks his tongue and spins to turn away. It’s not his business anymore, it’s for the Military Police to deal with. They might be loan sharks for all he knows, and you’d be held entirely accountable for that.

Unable to take the view of the knife pointed to your neck out of his head, he sighs defeatedly and eventually discovers himself inside the store, else it’d slowly eat at his conscience.

“Oi, what’s going on here?” he questions with a firm voice, turning heads his way.

“It’s Captain Levi from the Survey Corps!”

“What a lucky day!”

People stir up upon seeing the Captain to which he only ignores, full attention on you and the two criminals.

The robber without a weapon quickly turns around to check, shaking in fear. As he makes terrifying eye contact with the Captain, he makes haste for the door in desperate hopes of escaping, but to no avail. Levi grabs the back of the poor guy’s head and slams it against an empty table, putting him to deep sleep. Then turning to your armed assaulter, Levi closes in with big steps and takes the knife down before swinging the side of his hand, striking a nerve on the man’s neck to knock him out.

Levi perceives they’re complete amateurs and wonders why they even steal. Atleast one of them tried to run, he thinks as he looks down on the passed out crooks.

You’re not exactly sure if your heart calmed down or speeded up even more—maybe both, but you feel safe and more at ease.

Tying the last knot, he stands from his kneeled form and dusts his hands off to rid himself of the filth.

You only watch silently, mind clouded in confusion of what to do. Captain Levi came just in time and saved you and your shop of possible bankruptcy. Say, it could have been the worst timing considering you haven’t cleared your cash box for weeks now. You’re reminded of how much you owe the Captain.

“Don’t worry, they’ll be out cold for a while, just call the MP’s on them,” Levi assures before taking a glance at you and fails to understand your expression, your face looks like it’s leaking shit in his opinion.

You look at the two robbers dozing off tied together by the help of Levi and your spare rope before giving your savior another bow. “Thank you so much!” you exclaim and raise your head to meet his fierce gaze.

“And sorry for the trouble, people around here can get belligerent, especially to us business owners,” you add.

He observes you from head to toe, eyes particularly lingering on your neck, and you blush in embarrassment, feeling his hot stare.

“Is there—?”

He takes something from his pocket and offers you a handkerchief which you cluelessly accept. You later on realize what it’s for, finally feeling a sting on your neck. You wipe the bleeding area and see trails of crimson on your apron as well.

With no reason to stay any longer, Levi steers to leave, but is just in time to witness the rain pour down heavily, big droplets washing against the windows. He sighs, it’s just as he guessed.

You, on contrast, get an idea to show your gratitude, feeling a physical candle light up in your brain. “Captain Levi, please stay and let the rain pass while I brew you some coffee,” you negotiate with strong willed eyes, fixed on returning him a favor. It’s the least you could do from within your limited skills, and you’d like it if he’d accept. Actually, you won’t accept if he rejects, fully wanting to pay him back atleast a tad.

He looks back at you, slightly surprised. You seem like a more persistent person now rather than an easily flustered mess. Could he be so insensitive as to decline your generous offer after seeing your firm resolve? But more importantly, coffee? Could he be so thick-skinned as to ask for something else other than that?

When he stays quiet, you decide to go ahead and make him a drink from one of your premium coffee beans, but you’re put to a stop as he speaks.

“I’d prefer tea.”

Oh, right. He did ask for black tea a month back, didn’t he? You give him a smile and a thumbs up of approval before turning your back to make his tea.

Levi massages his temples and takes a seat, eyeing the immobilized crooks and the outside, thinking what he got himself into. It won’t be so bad to stay for a while and let the rain ease down, right?

You wait for the water to boil before dropping a bunch of mint leaves, then waiting for it to simmer. You prepare a porcelain cup and saucer and pour in the hot liquid, adding honey for a natural sweetener. You mix in a couple droplets of lemon to balance the flavor and you’re good to go.

You set the tea on his chosen table of two, giving the free seat a momentary glimpse. You wonder how it would feel like to have a proper conversation with Captain Levi, only to quickly dismiss the thought of joining him as you hear someone call you from the counter. Thankfully, people are back to minding their business and don’t bother the Captain anymore. You excuse yourself and return to work, still a couple hours away from closing time.

Levi sits back and enjoys the tea you made, soon learning it’s a fresh peppermint tea. Though it’s only the second time he’s having your brew, he doesn’t know why he already has high expectations. The choice of blend is perfect for a rainy day, and it’s exactly what he would have made when he returned back to the headquarters. You don’t really look like someone who prefers tea, but he’s impressed nevertheless.

He sips on the cup, letting the weather pass and the taste line his tongue. A variety of things occupy his mind involuntarily and before he knows it, the rain has calmed down into a shower.

He stands to leave but suddenly notices an umbrella left on his table. When did that get there? He takes a glimpse at you and finds you looking back at him with curious, alert eyes like that of a cat, immediately averting your gaze and resuming to pick up the dirtied tableware onto your tray.

Levi confirms it’s from you, and it’s another one of your acts of gratitude. He’s left with no choice and grabs it, wraps his slender fingers around the handle, and takes his leave.

Satisfied, you sigh in relief as you watch his back drift into the darkness. You look at the handkerchief in the pocket of your apron, smiling. Despite rumors of him being an unrelenting leader and a ruthless thug that stretched way back, the Captain is a kind man, isn’t he? If there really is such thing as coincidence, you’d like to consider yourself lucky for having experienced it.

—

About two more weeks pass when Levi finds himself hooked into the sweet aroma of the tea you make, the ambience of your shop’s environment, and something else he can’t put a name on. In actuality, he may or may not be using your umbrella as an excuse to go to your store right now.

He takes a glance at his hand holding the same umbrella. He briefly questions himself what he’s doing but pushes the thought aside with the use of his well thought of excuse. True enough, he can’t just go around using other people’s possession, can he?

He begins to sense the growing familiarity of your shop as he closes in. The choice of location being just at the mouth of the city, the distinct line between rural and urban is visibly emphasized.

As Levi enters through the saloon door, his eyes almost immediately find your form, leisurely reading while leaning on the counter, back turned against the entrance, your hair up in a braided bun which he finds neat. He clicks his tongue as he approaches to order.

“It’s easier to mug you that way,” he says and you jolt in surprise. Recognizing the stone cold voice, you spin to see the Captain in front of you, inside your very shop once again. This is no coincidence anymore!

“Captain Levi!” you greet with a beam, utterly delighted to see him. “Pleasant afternoon, what can I get you?” you ask and look him straight in the face. He’s in casual clothes, so you guess it’s another one of his day off’s. His sombre eyes of a unique bluish grey color take on your gaze fiercely. It’s true that the eyes convey one’s entire personality, as you feel his menace even though he doesn’t intend to display it.

“Black tea,” he says without a hitch, giving you the exact amount of money, and you proceed to your working space. Boiling of water, straining of tea leaves, pouring it into clean china; as you hand it to him, they start to resemble a routine.

He goes ahead and takes the corner table, and you couldn’t be any happier, thinking he seems to like the spot, choosing it among every other free seats. Levi takes a sip, and enjoys it with no wonder. You didn’t fail to make an exquisite blend.

A couple moments later, he’s still there. While everyone else chitchats with their company, he sits in silence with his beverage, ocassionally looking at the sky freely laid out by the window. He’s never really one to catch up with the bulletin and read daily papers, he’d prefer books for that matter.

As you wipe with a rag the empty tabletop just beside him, you see him looking at the window, cup of tea in hand. He, however, feels your stare, and wordlessly slides an umbrella on the table without batting you an eye. You recognize it as yours and take a step towards him.

“You better not have arrived home drenched that night,” he says. It’s only until he returned to the headquarters that he had realized you must have given him your only umbrella.

A chuckle leaves your mouth, aren’t you concerned. “I might have.” He clicks his tongue.

You grab it in your hands and follow his gaze, soon looking vacantly at the view as well. “You can see the skies from there, right?” you ask, earning a low hum in response.

“I wonder how far they stretch from outside on… Some say they’re boundless,” the words unconsciously slip from your mouth as you watch the clouds move. Something about relatively slow afternoons just hypnotize you to no end.

Levi shifts his gaze to your figure upon hearing a frame of your mind, finding a glimmer of ambition in the mesmerizing pools of your eyes. He can hear your train of thoughts out loud, while you wonder if you could ever get to experience the outside world. He remembers a couple friends thinking the same thing way back, and he realizes, it’s people like you that he hates to see drift away, one of those whom he feels he has to protect, though it’s not like you know each other to great extent.

He brings his cup to his lips and frankly speaks, “It’s not pretty out there.”

His words interrupt you from your daze, making you look at him. You notice he grips the teacup oddly, holding it around the mouth instead of its handle. You heave out a shallow sigh. “Figured you’d say that,” you say with a sad smile. It’s undeniable, coming from him.

You fish something from the pocket of your apron and leave it on his table, then making your way back to the counter. A seemingly little exchange of borrowed objects. He eyes his cleaned dry handkerchief and leaves a comment before you can stray farther, “It does seem endless.”

The corners of your lips upturn into a grateful smile. He really is soft. “Thank you.”

He doesn’t know exactly what you’re thanking him for.

—

Time and time passed, and he always comes every week without fail. Sometimes, when days are light, he even visits twice a week. You could say you have developed quite a relationship with the Captain, though not something that can be considered close to sentimental. The distance is still present, but you’d have small talks here and there, sometimes you’d lend him your books just so he doesn’t bore himself to death, or maybe so he’d stay a little longer.

You gradually learn to read his moods through the language of his orders. You find that he’s more of a tea lover based solely from the fact that he never once asked for coffee. Black tea is his regular, Oolong tea is when something probably turns out good or successful, since the price a little higher and you guess it’s his little way of celebrating, Chamomile tea when something is roughly off, you figure as he never speaks excessively when he orders it.

You never end up joining him, though. Of course, he always takes the table of one, there isn’t room for another.

“The usual,” Levi briefly says and hands you the exact charge. Never faltering, you smile and continue to make black tea for the man. “You still haven’t hired a helper,” he points out and you hum in agreement.

“I can manage by myself,” you inform as you stir his tea. You’ve managed years by your own, what use is there for an extra hand? Besides, it’s not like your shop gets hoarded by huge amounts of people. Coffee shops attract a moderate number, and you’re fine with that.

You slide the finished drink to Levi and he accepts, heading to his own little corner. Ever since he first came, you labeled the corner seat as his own, and you never thought of removing it again. He doesn’t seem like a very social person, like he’s a man of few words if talking is unnecessary. You always wonder how it must feel to have a conversation with such a persona; must be novel and inspiriting. Problem is, you don’t have the guts to initiate it. You don’t want to be overlooked as a fangirl of the sort. If possible, you want to converse casually.

It’s the looming distance between a coffee shop owner and a country’s renowned soldier that obstructs you from feeling on level as him.

Still, you don’t know why you’re currently grabbing a book from one of your drawers and why you’re currently making your way toward him, tray still in hand to clean afterwards as an excuse.

“Fancy a book?” you offer as you set one of your favorite titles on his table. He darts his eye on it and studies the cover for a brief moment, seeing if it’s up to his standards. It doesn’t really pique his interest, but you made an effort, and it’d be of great companion with the tea.

Levi accepts the book in his hands and starts reading, later learning about the main character’s introduction. “You have a lot of books,” he comments out of observation. This isn’t the first time you offered him one, nor is it just the second. He’s come to a conclusion that you have a liking for it.

You hum in agreement. “I like collecting them, but they’re still not enough to fill a shelf, though. I’m thinking about putting one here,” you say, already envisioning where to place it.

He almost immediately thought of the Headquarters’ library. A lot of books there just get covered in dust, unmoved. Cadets these days don’t take reading as hobby. He considers the idea of bringing some for your shop to make use of it. “I can hand you some,” he says, flipping the page.

Your eyes widen in an equal mix of delight and surprise. He’d go that far? For what? Is the Captain really like this? “Really? From where?” you try to hide the excitement in your voice, but it doesn’t escape his ears. Well isn’t that great? An upgrade for your shop and a chance to see him again. Not that he’s not showing himself enough.

“Scouts’ library,” he says, flipping another page, and you’re deep in thought. Is that allowed? Do I have to pay?

Just a couple of pages in, he seems partially engrossed. The protagonist is a traveller who encounters metaphorical life obstacles and is most likely to find self-discovery through it, that’s as much as he knows.

He notices you still haven’t left and bats you an eye. You look troubled and euphoric at the same time, he couldn’t understand entirely what you’re thinking but he has a clue. “It’s free. Some of it are old anyway,” he informs, which seems to bring your face relief. So his hunch turns out to be right, you were thinking of the burden.

“Oh, I wasn’t thinking that!” you deny right away, waving your hand dismissively, cheeks blushing. You definitely were.

He stays quiet, and you feel ashamed. Does he think you’re a cheapskate? Or thick-faced? Hey, he’s also reading, you must be a distraction. Oh god, how can you make acquaintances with him now?

You aim to leave and give him his space, afraid that you might be bugging him for too long now, but Levi suddenly speaks just in time.

“You have an allurement for things about the outside,” he asserts in heed. When you don’t answer, he continues, “It’s not all rainbows out there, you know.” His perception of you still stands as he’s continuously reminded by you of people who go through great measures to reach their dreams, and those he lost due to wanting to seek for more.

You don’t know if it’s a positive connotation or a negative but he doesn’t sound so enthusiastic. Your grip on the tray tightens. The way he puts it… is he trying to make you drop your interest?

“I do know that. I just,” you pause, contemplating what to say. You’re stuck with I just want to dream, is it so bad? or I just want to experience the forbidden, I’m sick of being stuck in this birdcage, or an impulsive one: I just want to see, would you bring me outside?

Instead, you settle with “I wouldn’t know, I’m a mere shop owner. I don’t have the chance to sit and talk with someone who’s gone beyond the walls.” Like you, sir.

He studies you as you look back at him with firm eyes. Brat, you already live a life with fair peace. The resolve in your eyes didn’t waver, not one bit. He thinks, will you be content with knowing about the outside? Levi heaves out a sigh and closes the book before leisurely taking a sip on his tea.

“Maybe if you’d put another chair, we’ve been talking for months now,” he then says, an even amount of sarcasm in his tone, enough to not come off as rude.

Dumbfounded, you gawk at the Captain for a good five seconds, eyes slightly enlarged in surprise before laughing your head off, turning a couple heads your way for a fleeting second.

“What’s funny?” he quizzes, thin brows furrowed together, and you wave him off, wiping your euphoric tears away.

“Well, I didn’t know it’d be that simple, Captain!” you giggle, eyes genuinely happy and hearty. Just put a chair in? In all seriousness, he doesn’t exactly look approachable with those half lidded dark eyes and a permanent scowl now, does he? That’s one of the primary reasons you have trouble making advances to him.

Levi looks at you, taking in the undeniably beautiful sight before clicking his tongue and averting his gaze.

He’s absolutely certain he paid no attention to the way you tucked your hair behind your ear in a timid manner, the way your silky locks sway gracefully by the wind’s cool breeze, the way your delicate fingers held to the tray tightly as you try to compose yourself, and the way your glowing eyes looked back at him with a gentle gaze once you’ve finally calmed down. Yes, he likes to think he paid no extra mind to those details.

“Tch, did you think I’d bite you or something?” he deadpans, taking another sip on his cup.

“No, absolutely not!” You absolutely did. “I’ll put another chair some other day,” you say and wave him goodbye upon seeing a customer enter, returning to your working place.

He shakes his head lightly and finishes his cup, bringing the book with him as he takes his exit. The smile in your face never disappeared throughout the day, chest booming in an unrelenting speed.

Sunday comes, and you decide to do a general cleaning. You also buy a small shelf from the nearest furniture shop and have it delivered, filling it with some of your books. You squeeze in a chair to the corner by adjusting the other tables’ distances, and you can only laugh at yourself for not thinking of this long ago. You think, why not just sit on a table of two? but figure maybe the Captain’s already grown fond to the spot.

You feel like a schoolgirl as you mindlessly prepare things to talk about and questions to ask. How much does he know? Are titans really that big? Is the ocean real? What brought him to your shop?

But after that, you never saw him again. You think maybe he’ll arrive later or the next day, but more weeks pass, and not even his shadow appeared.

The slowest weeks achingly turn to months. You’ve been awfully attentive to the morning papers since then, looking for the slightest news about him, or their operations. You think it’s completely understandable, being perfectly aware that the Captain is a busy man. You know that visiting little tea shops isn’t actually a luxury that a guy like him affords, but it tugs at your heart a teeny bit, a small part of you involuntarily longing for him. Eitherway, you just wish for his and his people’s safety.

About five months have passed since you last saw him. Levi, on the other hand, has gotten busy those said times. Expeditionary Operations came after another, and he’s buried with work once they arrive back. His squad got promoted to Special Operations Squad, and intensive training was mandatory. The amount of free time he had back then was generous, and in those five months, he had no time to slack off.

But he never forgot you, every single time he drinks tea, he starts doubting his own blend as compared to yours.

“That’s the last of it,” Levi says as he hands over piles and piles of paperwork to the Commander. Erwin only grunts his response.

The ravenhead contemplates for a few moments before finally speaking, “I’ll be out. I’ll return before dinner,” he informs and turns his back, words more of a statement than asking for permission. The higher ranking officer only stares at him as his figure leaves the room. Fair enough, he’s done with his current tasks as a Captain and it’s his first day off in a while. He leaves him be.

Levi dismisses his tan jacket and fixes his cravat as he heads to the shop he favors. He ends up forgetting the books he’s supposed to give but pushes it aside. Oh well, just another excuse for him to visit.

Minutes of walking on foot, steps a little quicker than normal, and he finally arrives, the ambience hugging at his aura. It’s been long since he last set his foot here. He pushes at the saloon door, a ton of improvisations greeting his sight. The interior is now painted a beige color, the warmth going along with the wooden accents. You’ve added the shelf you said you wanted to put, a fair number of books in it. Lastly, his preferred corner seat already has two chairs opposite to each other.

Your back is turned against the door again, leaning on the counter as you occupied yourself with a book. He notices that your hair has gotten longer in a span of months. He shortly wonders what else has changed.

“Oi, the usual,” a familiar voice says, stoic tone resonating in your ears and you immediately feel your soul light up, like it’s been ages since you last felt so giddy. A chaotic mix of worry, excitement, longing, and bliss surges all throughout your body.

When you face the stale eyed man, your tingling heart shamelessly speeds up, a smile rising on your lips.

—

You wave him farewell as he leaves, and as he cuts eye contact, heat shoots up into your cheeks like crazy, which he totally misses out on.

One step out and Levi feels the presence of a stalker just around the alley. He gives her a bored look and starts walking away, which she then reveals herself and follows suit.

“So this is you and your secret lover’s getaway, huh?” Hange teases, obviously aiming to pry for more. Now what, she’s spying on him? This insane woman.

“Don’t be ridiculous, she has good tea,” Levi answers in nonchalance, staring right ahead the road. The woman makes silly noises at his response, similar to those sounds only she can produce when learning new discoveries about titans.

“Precisely,” the redhead says in satisfaction, nodding her head with her hands stroking her chin as if she got the answer she’s waiting for.

He shoves her actions aside, couldn’t care less about whatever conclusion she came up with. But no matter how much he keeps convincing his subconscious, it’s the tea that draw me in, he just can’t bring himself to believe in it.

2K notes · View notes

biisexualemma · 3 years

Text

home. pt 4. bucky barnes

word count: 4.1k

warnings: implications of sex (blink and you'll miss it), nudity (again nothing descriptive) but generally lots of fluff and tiny bit of angst

requested: yes and no but it's here anyway lol

plot: you're recovering from your mission with sam and his family, patiently awaiting for bucky to come home

a/n: thank you for the support on this series loool i hope you like this! i think this will likely be the last part! it rounds off quite nicely i think so hope this is a satisfying ending! i loved writing this, especially the bathroom scene! enjoy! comment! lmk what you think! (also sorry this is so long i got carried away when editing oop--)

pt.1 / pt.2 / pt.3 / marvel masterlist / multi-fandom masterlist

you huffed, swatting away the tiny hand prodding your forehead. when it persisted, you let out a throaty groan, forcing open your groggy eyes, to see cass, sam's nephew, nose to nose with you. you scrunched up your nose, squinting at him with tired eyes, before letting out a breathy laugh and shoving his face away with the palm of your hand.

"can't a girl get a lie in around here?" you grumbled, rubbing the sleep out of your eyes as aj came running into the sitting room following his brother. you shot him a small smile, cautiously pushing yourself upright on the couch. you bit down on the inside of your cheek, the familiar sharpness shooting through your ribs as you repositioned yourself, trying to mask any pain you felt.

"nope," cass hopped on the end of the couch, sitting himself on top of you, shaking his head with a toothy grin. you let out a strained yawn, stretching your arms up over your head, having to force yourself awake. you winced, the stabbing pain returning as you dropped your arms back to your side. you tried to disguise it with a small laugh, ruffling up cass' hair, who was sat watching you from his end of the couch.

"mom had to go down to the harbour with uncle sam," aj informed you, positioning himself on the arm of the couch beside you. you nodded, sighing lightly, you slumped your shoulders, you were still tired. you had gotten pretty close to sam's family in the past week or so you'd spent on their couch, but it was so easy to love these kids. they were the sweetest, cheekiest kids you'd ever met. they reminded you so much of sam. "'told us to look after you."

"no," you shook your head, quickly protesting. "i'm the adult here."

"maybe," aj wore a wide, cheeky smile, dragging out the word. "but uncle sam says you're a hot mess, and that we gotta' help you out," you could hear sam saying this to his nephew. your eyebrows knitted, glancing between the two boys who were giggling as you feigned a look of hurt. you couldn't help but crack a small smile after a while, they were too easy and they were too cute to even pretend to be mad at.

"your uncle sam doesn't know what he's talking about," you waved away his comment. "i'm fine," you insisted quickly before a small, insubordinate smirk began forming on your lips. their faces lit up with small smiles, watching your every move, taking in everything you were saying. that was one thing you loved about kids, you could tell them absolutely anything and they would believe you, no questions asked. you turned your attention back to cass who was still sat, legs crossed, his weight crushing your feet a little (though you didn't mind so much). he had the cheekiest smile of the both of them. "so," you quirked an eyebrow. "are you gonna' sit on me all day or do you wanna eat some pancakes?" you had to suppress your laughter when his eyes widened, knowing just how much he loved breakfast food. kids were too easily persuaded.

his lips tightened, trying to hold back an excited smile. he glanced over at his older brother, trying to figure out if he was allowed to accept your offer, before his eyes moved back at you. you tilted your head, giving him a look. "well?" you teased, knowing you had him.

"pancakes!" he caved, just like you knew he would. you couldn't blame him, who could resist pancakes. his voice raised an octave higher in his excitement. you giggled as cass hopped off of you, running towards the kitchen with his older brother following behind him, just as enthusiastically.

you let out a soft humph, your smile falling a little as you dragged your feet over the side of the couch, letting them hang there for a moment. you were healing well, you just constantly felt wiped out now you had finally taken a breather. you hadn't realised how much you'd been pushing yourself during this mission, until you stopped. sam had noticed too, so he wasn't letting you contribute much around the house.

you had been hesitant to accept his offer at first, the last thing you wanted to do, after everything, was impose. you knew sam had his own stuff to work out too. but it was sarah, in the end, who reassured you that you were more than welcome to stick around as long as you needed. something about your presence around the house being much needed as she was currently outnumbered three to one. so, to try and make yourself somewhat useful, you offered to watch the boys anytime she needed.

you were grateful to them both for letting you crash, and, truthfully, you were happy you did take the offer in the end, it was much needed. it also helped that literally every single person you had met was kind and welcoming, something you hadn't felt in a while. that, along with sam's lovely family, was enough to keep your mind off things for a while.

things being bucky, who you hadn't heard from since the fight with walker. he hadn't checked in with you once. you knew he had his own stuff to handle but it still didn't make you feel great knowing he was out there god knows where, doing god knows what. it stung a little when he up and left you like that without a second thought. if he wasn't willing for you to tag along, you expected for him to communicate his plans to you, at the least. but you should've known, bucky had never been very good at communicating.

"y/n, c'mon! it's pancake time!" you were pulled out of your thoughts by aj, whose hand latched onto yours, urging you onto your feet. you forced a small smile, pushing any thoughts out of your head that didn't involve making pancakes, and ignoring the dull ache in your chest that came whenever you thought about him. if you just kept busy, you wouldn't have to think about any of it.

you lifted your hand to your face, wiping away the beads of sweat dripping from your forehead. the sun was high and it was sweltering, you hadn't adjusted to the louisiana heat yet and you weren't sure you ever would.

you peeled off the jacket that was starting to stick to your clammy skin, tossing it aside, deciding that now was a good time to take a break. collapsing onto an upturned crate, you let out a weighted sigh, squinting, using the back of your hand to shield your eyes as the sun shone down into your line of sight.

"here," sarah appeared behind you, handing over a cold bottle of water. you mumbled a quiet thank you, before quickly gulping down the refreshing water. you let out a content sigh after quenching your thirst, your shoulders slumping. she rested her hand on your shoulder, squeezing it gently before taking a seat beside you. "how y'getting on?"

you shrugged, your eyes watching your feet, feeling the subtle sway of the boat floating on the water. "sam won't let me help with the heavy duty stuff, so he's got me painting," you motioned to the bucket of paint and the brush sitting on the ground where you had left them.

she nodded. "and how you feelin'?"

you straightened your back, lifting your gaze to meet her stare for a second. "i'm getting there. but this heat doesn't quit," she let out a soft laugh, nodding again.

"yeah, that's something you never really get used to," she patted your shoulder again, another soft, reassuring squeeze. "i gotta' run to the store, i'll be back in a half hour. need anything?" you shook your head, mumbling a quiet no thank you. "alright, well, don't strain yourself."

you rolled your eyes, halfheartedly. she wore a teasing smile, one that reminded you of sam. they were so alike, it was weird sometimes when you thought about how this was the life behind the man you had known for so many years. "i won't," she nudged your shoulder when you shook your head again. "not with sam around anyway," you joked, scrunching up your nose.

"hey," she called, edging away from you as she made to leave. you looked over at her, blocking the sun from your eyes with your hand. she quirked an eyebrow at you. "he's looking out for you! we all are," you tightened your lips, trying to disguise the smile growing on your lips. you nodded, waving goodbye as she left the boat.

it felt nice to have the small circle of people who cared for you, starting to grow.

a loud noise emitting from the other end of the boat caught your attention, your eyes widening when you spotted a cloud of steam gushing from one of the pipes. you darted over, your hands frantically hovering around the pipe as you tried to figure out how best to fix whatever it was that was broken. you rummaged through the tool box sitting next to you, and grabbed a wrench, purely because it felt the like the right tool to grab. in truth, you had no idea what the hell you were doing. you clapped the tool around the pipe, trying with all your might to stop the steam from spitting out.

"sam!" you hollered over your shoulder, trying to catch the mans attention so he could help you. "i have no idea what the hell i'm doing!" you called blindly in a panic, hoping someone would swing in and take over before you made this any worse.

"here," you felt a hand tap your shoulder, so you let go of the tool and stepped back. only it wasn't sam like you had expected. you stumbled backwards into sam, his hands touching your forearm as you regained your balance. it was bucky who had his hands clamped round the wrench, fixing the pipe with relative ease.

you gulped. you couldn't figure out how you were feeling now he was in front of you. your feelings were mixed. mainly you felt relieved that he was in front of you in one piece. "thanks," was all you managed to croak out once he turned to face you. his eyes focused on you, squinting from the sun in his eyes. he opened his mouth to say something to you when sam cut him off.

"why didn't you use your metal arm?" you raised an eyebrow, watching as bucky shrugged, his eyes dragging away from you and towards sam.

"i don't always think of it immediately," he admitted honestly. "i'm right handed."

you sighed. you sometimes wondered how this was the same man who traipsed around for ninety years as the winter soldier. you rolled your eyes, moving away from the two of them, returning to the painting you'd been hard at work with before all this commotion.

you'd just have to speak to bucky later, when you could be alone. right now, you were helping sam.

bucky had reluctantly agreed to stay the night after a long day working on the boat. you had been carefully avoiding him all day. you didn't feel much like hashing things out in front of sam and his entire family, so you stuck your head down and got on with your work.

but now it was pretty late, a lot of time had passed, and you had yet to catch your boyfriend alone. you figured a shower would do you good, to clean you up and hopefully clear your head.

your eyes were deeply focused on your own, watching yourself in the foggy mirror after finally leaving the comfort of the hot shower. your eyes were sunken, hollow almost as you looked back at yourself. you didn't look like yourself. you looked tired all the time, mainly because you were tired all the time.

you hadn't been sleeping as well without bucky next to you. along with sam's nephews waking you up at the crack of dawn every morning, you weren't getting as much sleep as you should be. though you couldn't blame the boys, they were excited to have someone in the house that let them do whatever they wanted to do (though it got you in trouble a fair bit). bucky, however, you could blame. if he had just told you straight where he was going, what his plan was. if he'd just contacted you so you knew he was ok all that time he was away. but he didn't. he left you behind to finish his own mission, not thinking twice about how it would make you feel.

your fingertips grazed over the skin of your neck, the bruising was finally starting to turn an ugly yellow colour, meaning it would start to fade away soon. most of your wounds had healed, you were mainly left with bruises and scabs and a subtle ache. nothing too serious. but it certainly made you look like hell.

you pursed your lips, your fingertips trailing down your chest, until gently brushing against the large purple-green bruise running across your ribs. you twisted your abdomen to get a better a look at the bruise that circled round to your back, wincing and gritting your teeth as you did. sam mentioned something about your ribs taking longer to heal than any of the other injuries, you just didn't think he meant it'd take this long.

you startled, flinching from the knock on the door, drifting you out of your thoughts and back to your current state. you grabbed a towel from the rack beside you and wrapped it around yourself. "yeah?" you called out in response to the knock. you wiped away the droplets of water covering your face with your hand, sniffling as you secured the towel around your chest.

"it's me," the soft, familiar voice muffled through the door dividing the two of you. you gulped, glancing at your reflection one last time, before turning away.

you hesitated, but ultimately unlocked the door and pulled it open. you turned back to the mirror, leaving the door to hang open as you stood with your back to him. he let himself in, locking the door again behind himself. he hovered by the door, falling back against it, his eyes watching carefully as you ran your hands over your face.

you glanced at him in the reflection of the mirror, out the corner of your eye. his eyes lingered over your body, only his eyes were just as hollow as yours. after a moment of silence, he let out a sigh, and edged across the small space to be closer to you. "hey," he mumbled softly, his hands gripping your waist over the towel. you took in a sharp breath, your hands quickly moving to his to pull them away from your tender bruises. you turned yourself to face him, still holding his hands that hovered over your waist now. his eyes widened slightly, moving back and forth between yours, looking for you to tell him what he'd done wrong.

"sore still," you scrunched up your nose, the ache slowly fading away again after he'd let go. it wasn't his fault, he wasn't to know.

his eyebrows creased together, his eyes trickling down to the visible bruises marked around your throat. he gulped, he gave your hands a soft squeeze before moving them to your shoulders. he couldn't pull his stare away from you, he was taking you all in. his fingertips pressing into your shoulders gently, his lips pursing.

"m'sorry," he mumbled in a whisper. his eyes lifting back up to yours again, soaked with guilt.

you shook your head faintly. "y'didn't know--"

"no--" he shook his head. "i'm sorry i left like that," his hands slipping from your shoulders, his soft touch trailing down your bare arms before gripping your forearms. he hadn't noticed the bandage on your wrist until his fingers grazed against the material. he scrunched up his face, his touch leaving you as he turned away. he moved a hand to his face, his forefinger and thumb trying to unknit the crease between his eyebrows.

"it's alright, buck," you spoke softly. it wasn't really ok, at least, not how he left. but you didn't want him beating himself up about you being hurt, that was part of the job, that had nothing to do with him. "i'm fine, really."

"you're still a terrible liar," his voice was cold, and your chest tightened. "i should've held back longer before i left," he shook his head again, his gaze dropping to the floor. "i should've said something," you let out a sigh, reaching out, your fingertips grazing his arm. he turned around under your touch, his jaw clenched when he met your eyes again. he never imagined being this much under someones control ever again. but here you were, and he would do anything you asked.

you pursed your lips. "maybe," you shrugged. you had given it some thought throughout the day. you couldn't hold a grudge against him forever, he made a split second decision, and he knew he was leaving you in capable hands. "but what's happened has happened. there was a lot going on. i'm sure you're still processing a lot of it."

he was pouring so much emotion into you with just a stare, your eyes fluttering as you held his gaze. "i was angry-- i didn't think everything through-- i just-- i knew i needed to deal with zemo."

you sniffled, gulping down the lump in your throat. "i get it. you didn't want me there to see any of it," you thought back to when bucky told you he never wanted you to have to see him as the winter soldier again. you thought back to watching bucky fight under zemo's control. you understood why he needed to do what he did, you'd said time and time again, you would kill zemo yourself when the mission was over.

"i didn't kill him," he admitted hesitantly. "the Dora Milaje took care of him."

you raised an eyebrow. "oh, that's so much worse for him," bucky nodded in agreement, his lips pursing. "good."

"yeah," he trailed off, his eyes glossing over for a moment as if lost in thought. you wished sometimes that you could see inside that head of his. you nudged his side after a while, mumbling a quiet hey, his eyes focusing back on you. he frowned. "what was the damage?"

you shrugged. "i think walker had a hearing--"

"no-- no--" he cut you off quickly, your mouth hanging open as he stopped you mid-sentence. "you. what's the extent of your injuries? how you feelin'?"

"oh," your eyebrows unknitted, shrugging again. "i--uh-- had a mild concussion. a few broken ribs and just a lot of bruising, some open wounds but it wasn't too bad considering i went up against a super soldier," you forced a smile, trying to ease some of the tension that bucky was creating with that frown on his face.

you moved your hand up to his face, cupping his cheek. your thumb grazed his cheek, and you remembered the gash across his face had healed since the last time you saw him. you gave him a genuine, soft smile in hopes of reassuring him. "i really am fine. sam says i just need to take it easy for a couple weeks."

he nodded faintly. he hovered his hand over yours, turning his cheek and pressing his lips to the palm of your hand. your eyelids fluttered feeling his lips touch your skin tenderly. made you realise just how much you had missed bucky since he'd been away. he squeezed your hand affectionately, his lips lingering on your skin.

your free hand quickly moved to your towel when it loosened around your chest, just catching it in time. bucky's eyes moved to your towel for a split second, like he was suddenly reminded that you were standing in front of him in practically nothing. his eyes remained soft as he looked at you though, he cleared his throat before moving his hand to your cheek, slipping his fingers into your wet hair gently.

"how're you healing?" he mumbled in a whisper.

you gulped, his eyes locked on yours as he spoke. your eyes darted back and forth between his. "bruises are still there but they're fading," you spoke softly now that he was close enough to you. you could feel his breath fanning against your skin. he nodded, biting the inside of his cheek as he tried to keep his eyes from drifting downwards. "wanna' see?"

his eyebrows twitched into a frown for only a second, unsure that he heard you correctly. "uh-- yeah," he breathed out, his breath grazing your skin. you untied the towel from round your chest, letting it fall to the floor beneath you with a soft thud.

bucky's jaw tightened. usually, quite happy to see you standing in front of him wearing absolutely nothing, he couldn't shift his eyes for a while from the enormous bruise covering your abdomen. his eyebrows unknitted, unsettled by the nasty bruise spread over your soft skin, his eyes shooting up to yours quickly.

"fuck walker," he muttered under his breath. "this is all from him?" you nodded faintly, eyes fluttering and your breath hitching in your throat when his fingers carefully brushed against the discoloured stretch of skin.

"it was a lot worse," you spoke in a hushed voice. "it's healed a lot."

bucky didn't speak for a while and neither did you, his eyes trailing over your body, unclothed facing him. after a moment, he got down onto his knees. you gulped, his head tilting back for a second, eyes meeting yours from beneath you. your breaths grew rapid the closer he got, his forehead gently falling against your bare stomach before pressing a soft kiss to the purple--green lesion covering your skin. you let out a shaky breath, shifting your arms so you could run your fingers through his hair. you still weren't used to the length.

"i love you," he mumbled against your skin. your hands stilled where they rested in his hair, moving to tilt his head back, forcing his eyes to meet yours again. he pressed another sweet kiss to your stomach before moving himself back up to your height. your eyes were wide slightly, your fingers slipping out from between his locks. both his hands moving to either side of your face now. "don't freak out on me, you don't have to say it back. 'just needed you to know what i was thinking."

"and you're thinking-- that you love me?" you reiterated. he nodded, the corner of his lips turning into a soft smile. you couldn't help but mimic his expression, your heart beating a bit harder now, the sound rushing through your ears. it had been a long time since someone had told you they loved you, and meant it. a warm feeling spread through your chest, you were on such a high, soaking in the way he was looking at you with tender eyes. "pretty sure i love you too, buck."

you were a hundred percent sure, you just didn't want to seem too keen. you were already standing in front of him naked.

his lips stretched into a wider smile, ducking his head for a second, remembering suddenly that you were in fact completely naked in front of him, and he hadn't done anything about it. you swallowed a small laugh escaping your lips, watching a realisation hit bucky before he ducked down to your height and pressed his lips against yours. you relished in the feeling. "i love you, i love you, i love you," he muttered repeatedly, his lips pushed against yours, your smile growing wider every time he said it. you choked out a laugh, pushing at bucky's chest so you could catch a breath.

"i get it," you scrunched up your nose. "you love me," you teased, laughing wholeheartedly. you felt warm and comforted and somewhat normal for the first time in a really long time. you nudged his chest once more, his hands gripping your hips to pull you back to him. "so show me."

bucky's smile grew with your words, his mouth hanging open for a second. he didn't know how things managed to work out this good for him, but he wasn't going to question it. he was going to enjoy every moment with you for as long as he could.

"oh, god," he let out a throaty wine. "gladly."

taglist: @lo-manburg @bluemoon-icecream @farfromjustordinary @stolenxkissess

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thekingslover · 3 years

Text

Jetski For Sale (Lokius fic)

He stops riding the jetski.

He keeps it on the small trailer at the end of his driveway beside his modest split-level home and covers it with a blue tarp.

Every morning, in his brown button-up pajamas and a bathrobe, he walks to the end of the driveway and collects the morning paper. He’s careful to hold his coffee mug steady as he leans down, but he always manages to spill a drop or two. His slippers are covered in tiny coffee spots.

He tucks the newspaper under his arm and turns back toward his house. He left the television on; through the window, the screen flashes with the bright white letters, Breaking News! Two houses down, his neighbor is already out mowing the lawn. Further away, a dog barks.

Though he lives alone, it’s a perfect life. Everything’s simple. His mortgage is affordable. His brown sedan is paid off. And the jetski...

He doesn’t remember buying it. He always wanted one, dreamed of it. He had a savings set aside for someday. Yet... his savings is still there, and he still has this jetski.

He looks at it now, at the way it bulges under the tarp. A shame to leave it like that. He should take it out again. But the last time he did that...

Shaking his head, he walks back to the house. He drinks his coffee and reads his newspaper. He goes to work, comes home, goes to sleep, and does it all again the next day.

“Something’s different about you,” his sister says on the phone, their weekly call. “You sound different.”

“Same old me.” He’s good at keeping back his feelings and pushing forward the cheer.

She knows, though. Older sisters always seem to. “Are you sure you haven’t been seeing anyone lately?”

This sends him laughing. “A secret boyfriend? Come on, you have quite an imagination on you.”

“Laugh all you want,” she says, stern. She’s not backing down, though her voice does soften as she adds, “It’s only that you... Well, you sound... heartbroken.”

“That’s...” He should deny it. He hasn’t dated anyone in a good long while, but, well, now that she mentions it... He’s had his heart broken before, long ago, and it felt a little something like this. Like something crucial is suddenly missing. Like you spent so much time learning someone and adapting to them, shaping whole parts of your life around them, and then they are just... gone.

There’s a person-sized hole in his life now, but he can’t quite remember their shape.

No, that can’t be.

“That’s crazy,” he says, thinking, maybe I’m crazy.

“Why don’t you come visit us for a while?” she says. “The kids would love to see you.”

“Yeah,” he says, shaky. “Yeah, maybe that’s a good idea. Tell them I love them. Love you too.” Then he hangs up.

That night, he lays on his back in bed and stares at the ceiling, afraid to look to his right. He used to sleep sprawled across the entire width of the bed, a true bachelor enjoying his bachelorhood. When did he start picking one side?

He turns over, facing away from the barren expanse of the rest of the mattress, but the bookshelf offers little comfort. Most of his books are about history, biographies on interesting characters from the past. There’s a couple of jetski magazines wedged in, too. But what catches his eye... He remembers buying it, knows he did, the morning after watching a documentary on the perception of time and space. The documentarian had written a book. The Mobius Strip.

Frowning, he doesn’t find any sleep that night, no matter how many long minutes he closes his eyes, or how many sheep he tries to count in his head.

Mobius.

It’s a mathematical theory. Not a name. But it wedges between his ribs and stays buried behind them.

He’s not even a maths guy! But he can’t shake it. It feels heavy, too important.

He tosses and turns. He reaches out to the other side of the bed, realizes its empty, and snaps upright, dread overtaking him for one sharp moment before he remembers that its supposed to be empty.

This is normal. This is his perfect little life.

He flops back into bed and runs a hand down his face. Maybe he should go visit his sister, before he fully loses his mind.

His hands shake the next morning when he walks out to get the newspaper at the end of the driveway. Half his coffee spills when he leans to pick it up, but its fine. Maybe he should give up coffee entirely. Maybe too much caffeine is his problem.

He doesn’t know what’s wrong with him.

Turning towards the house, he spots the jetski, there under the blue tarp. The mysterious jetski that he doesn’t remember buying. The one, when he’s out on it, he sits too far forward, like he’s making space for someone behind him. But there’s no one there. There’s never anyone there.

The jetski, he decides, was the start of his problems. Maybe if he... If he...

Storming back into the house, he leaves what’s left of his coffee in the sink and the newspaper forgotten on the counter, and hurries into the office. He rips off a long sheet of dot matrix printer paper. Biting off the cap of his pen, he scribbles on it in large block letters, all caps, FOR SALE.

Back in the driveway, he removes the chocks from behind the wheels of the trailer, and flips off the tarp. He wheels the trailer and the jetski to the end of the driveway, right up against the road.

He must look like a mad man, out there in his brown button-up pajamas and coffee-stained slippers. The neighbor’s mowing the lawn. The dog’s barking further away. Everything’s perfect in this perfect little neighborhood, this perfect little life. But he feels like he is going insane.

He slaps the for sale sign on the front of the jetski, and starts back for the house. The sooner that thing is out of his life... Maybe... Maybe things would go back to normal.

His heart pangs in a way he doesn’t understand. Heartache. So much heartache. Why?

Does he even want normal?

But if not that, then what? What is he missing?

He’s at his front door, hand on the doorknob, when someone politely coughs behind him. He pauses a moment, there’s no way someone is there... But when he glances over his shoulder - yeah. Someone’s behind him, only a few feet away.

Not just someone. The most gorgeous person he has ever seen, wearing a sleek black suit and a pair of sunglasses. Long dark hair is slicked back and pushed behind their ears.

He should probably feel self-conscious, standing there in his brown pajamas in front of this god of a person - probably a model - but he doesn’t. Strangely, he feels more at ease now than he has in weeks. His whole body relaxes like he finally exhaled a held breath.

But that doesn’t make sense. They’ve never met. He would remember.

He would never forget a face like that.

“Hello,” the person says, and the word tremors slightly.

“Hello.” It tremors when he says it too.

There’s no car on the road. No bicycle on the sidewalk. However this person got here, it’s like they dropped down from the sky.

The person clears their throat. “You’re selling the jetski?”

“You...” He blinks. He knew jetskis were popular - hell, they are the best - but he hadn’t expected an offer before he even got his pants on. “Yeah. You interested?”

“Yes, I...” They drop their head a moment, taking their time to think. When they lift their head again, their shoulders lift too, like they are preparing for a battle.

He supposes negotiations can be seen as a battle, but he can’t bring himself to match the person’s pose. He’s ready to give up the jetski for free at this point. Whatever gets it gone.

The person asks, “What’s wrong with it?”

“Nothing’s wrong with it. It runs like a dream.”

“Then why get rid of it?”

His heart hurts, so he laughs through the pain. It’s silly, but he can’t help feel his sister was right. This person wouldn’t know either way, so he finds himself telling them, “I’m heartbroken.”

The person goes very still. Their mouth opens and they take in a shaky, noisy breath. When they say, “What?” the word is bone dry and crumbling.

“It’s something we did together... I think.” He’s making it up, but it feels right. So he keeps talking. “And now. Well. It kinda reminds me of... I’m pretty sure I forgot a lot of things, but I can’t forget that. There’s supposed to be someone else. And I can’t... I can’t...”

He’s not making any sense, but the person is hanging on every single word.

“Anyway,” he says. “I’ll let it go cheap. Too many memories... or... I don’t know, feelings?” He sighs. “Just make me an offer, okay? I have to get ready for work.”

He wants nothing more than to keep this beautiful person on his doorstep, but... well, life isn’t always about getting what you want. This person wants a jetski, he has one. A transaction will occur, and this person will move forward like he never existed.

He’ll be left behind again.

Again?

Now, he’s the one to stand a little straighter. “Do you ever get deja vu?”

“Deja vu?”

“You know, where you feel like you’ve lived an exact moment already, once before. I’ve been reading this book about mobius strips and...” There’s that pang again, in his chest. A subtle ache that is swelling. He wants to ignore it, like he always has, but he’s finding he can’t really anymore. “Don’t you think that’d be a cool name? Mobius. Mobius M. Mobius.” He laughs, and it hurts. It hurts.

The person doesn’t laugh. Instead, they take a small step back. “I shouldn’t have come here.”

His laughter dies quickly. It wasn’t real anyway. “You don’t want the jetski?”

“I do,” the person says with naked longing. “More than anything.”

“Then its yours.” He shrugs. “You know, it kinda feels like it was already yours? Like, maybe its just been waiting around for you to show up and claim it.”

The person shakes their head. “It’s better off without me. It finally has a chance to... to... live the way you - it deserves...”

“I mean, that’s a nice thought. But in practice... wouldn’t it be better for jetskis to decide for themselves the kind of lives they want? Whose to say that their life before was all that great? Because let me tell you, this perfect little normal life I’m living? Kinda sucks.” He doesn’t really understand what he’s saying, but the words still fall out of him, like ripping a scab off an old wound and all the blood starts running again.

The person takes another step back, but this time, he follows, taking a step forward. Somehow, it feels crucial that he not let this person leave him behind again.

There, another again. What is he not remembering?

“There’s something terribly wrong with all this,” he says. “I’m forgetting something important, but whatever it is - whoever - I don’t think I can be happy without them. Not really. Not in any way that matters.”

“Mobius...” the person says, soft, under their breath. Stronger, “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

And the dam breaks.

“I know exactly what I’m saying, Loki.” The name, that name. How could he forget that name?

The person - Loki - exhales again, watery this time.

“Maybe if we never met, this would be enough. Maybe it was once. But not anymore. Never again. Not since you. And not even your little mind hocus pocus could change that.”

Mobius takes another step forward. This time, Loki does not move back. They stay just as they are and let Mobius close the distance. Mobius lifts his hands to Loki’s face and slowly removes those sunglasses. Loki’s eyes have always been the most expressive - the easiest to read. No wonder they would try to hide them. Because now they shine with sorrow and regret and... love. So much love.

And that, Mobius knows, is exactly what he’s been looking for when he reaches out to the empty space beside him on the bed. When he sits in his kitchen and stares at the pulled-out chair across the table. When he rides his jetski and turns, ready to laugh with the missing person behind him.

“I’m not angry,” Mobius says, tossing the sunglasses aside. He takes one of Loki’s hands in his. Loki grips hard onto his fingers. “I understand why you did it. It’s kind of flattering really, to know you’d give up your own happiness to try to give me mine. But there was a very big problem with this latest Loki scheme.”

“What’s that?” Loki asks in a whisper.

Mobius gives them a smile. The first real one since they parted. “You’re unforgettable.”

Loki laughs once, a burst, like they’ve been holding something in and now its escaping. The hard lines of their face smooth out. And they look less like a frightened, broken shadow and more like themselves, god of mischief, with a small but growing smirk. “Of course. I suppose I should have considered that.”

“Big flaw. Ruined the whole thing, to be honest.”

Loki leans closer. “I hate to admit to fault, but I fear there was a second issue that I had not considered.”

“Oh, yeah? What’s that?”

“Your absolute stubbornness.”

“Stubborn? Me? You should look in the mirror, pal.”

Loki closes their eyes a moment. Mobius studies the planes of their perfect face, and wonders how, in all the infinite timelines, he ever forgot it.

“Loki,” Mobius says. “Do me a favor, though, huh? Don’t do this again. I... uh, well. It wasn’t the most fun for me.”

“Me, either.” Loki presses their forehead to Mobius’s. “I regretted every moment, but I... The TVA stole you from your life. I wanted to -”

“I know, I get it. I’m not mad. But communication is key to a relationship, yeah? So maybe next time you want to do a grand gesture of love for me, we should talk about it first?”

Loki leans back. They blink. But it’s not the love that trips them up, it’s, “Relationship?”

Mobius runs his hands along Loki’s arms, up to the shoulders and back down to the elbows. “Yeah. I mean, we’re partners, right?”

“Partners.” Loki doesn’t say the word with disgust, more... intrigue.

“Boyfriends?” Mobius tries.

“Boyfriends.” Loki frowns at that one.

“Lovers?”

Loki’s eyes are bright and full of wonder. How they could look at Mobius, someone so normal, like that... well. Loki makes Mobius feel like a god himself, no wonder he couldn’t go back to his old life.

“Lovers,” Loki says and kisses Mobius. Mobius smiles against their lips. Lovers, it is, then.

Kiss turns to kisses, and they linger. It’s right, so right that it further amplifies how wrong everything else was before. Mobius belongs here. Right here. With Loki. Forever, if possible.

When they break, they both laugh, and it’s light and true this time, for both of them.

“Hey, Loki,” Mobius says. “Want to buy a jetski?”

Loki pulls an annoyed face, but its all an act - Mobius sees right through it, and Loki’s not trying that hard to hide it. “I believe I’m the one who acquired that jetski for you. You have no right to sell it.”

“It was a gift,” Mobius says.

“It remains a gift. One I insist you keep.”

“Alright, alright,” Mobius laughs and Loki kisses him at the corner of his smile. “But only if you promise to keep me.”

“Oh, dear Mobius.” Loki brings their mouth to Mobius’s ear. “I hope you appreciated this display of selflessness, because I will not be repeating it.”

“Good.”

“I am a selfish god.”

“Uh, huh.”

Loki’s arms grip tightly around Mobius’s waist. “And from here to eternity, I will be keeping what’s mine.”

The last remaining knots in Mobius’s chest untangle. “And the jetski.”

“And the jetski,” Loki says and kisses him again.

#lokius #loki x mobius #post-canon #established relationship........ >.>#mobius pov ////#hey its another one of those loki enchants mobius to forget him and sends him back to his old life fics #angst with a happy ending #mcu ts ///////////#i wrote something else

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fruitcoops · 3 years

Note

ahhh *le gasp*

you know what would be even better?

Pads meeting Harry for the first time 🥺😳

Thank you for suggesting this, anon! Sweater Weather credit goes to @lumosinlove!

“You okay?” Remus murmured, sliding his hand around Sirius’ waist. They had been standing on the doormat for an eternity, his hand poised to knock without actually moving. Sirius nodded. “Do you want me to do it?”

“No, I’ve got it.” He took another ten count to steel himself, then knocked carefully. The soft sound may as well have been a sonic boom in his ears.

The door opened a moment later, revealing Lily, who was wreathed in the warm light of the house. She looked tired, but the vibrancy that made her so fantastic remained. “Hey, you two. Come on in, it’s cold out there. James, they’re here!”

“Be right down!” Jams called back, his voice echoing in the staircase. A happy babbling sound followed it and Sirius froze midway through removing his scarf. “I know, buddy, it’s so exciting!”

“He’s been talking about it for days,” Lily said wryly from a million miles away. Sirius’ eyes were fixed on the stairs. “Pads, is something wrong? Do your ribs hurt?”

Pads. Pads, that’s me. “Quoi?” He shook his head after a moment as reality trickled back. “No, I’m fine. Um, there’s a baby upstairs.” Duh.

Lily’s smile held no trace of judgement. “Yeah.”

“That’s your baby. And—and James’.” His brain was short-circuiting. “Your actual child is upstairs.”

“Your actual godson is upstairs.” Lily practically glowed with happiness. “Come on, the living room is warmer.”

He fumbled to grab Remus’ hand and held it tight, doing his best to take steady breaths as they sat down on the couch. “Alright. Alright, I’m okay.”

“You’re going to be the best godfather,” Remus said, giving his hand a squeeze and kissing his wrist. His chest ached, though whether it was from his half-healed ribs or something entirely different, he wasn’t sure.

Slow footsteps came from the hall and Sirius closed his eyes. Deep breaths. Slow and steady. “Are you ready?” James asked from the doorway. He swallowed thickly and nodded.

There was a soft whine as they entered the room and Sirius opened his eyes, immediately checking for any problems. He heard Remus gasp, and then James was standing in front of him with a bundle of red blankets; there were dark shadows under his eyes and a beaming smile on his face.

“Okay, Pads, here we go.”

“I can’t,” Sirius blurted suddenly, tucking his hands under his arms. “I can’t. He’s so small. I’m going to drop him or—or squish him, or something. My palm is as big as his face, James!”

“Crazy, right? Give me your hand.” James reached out with one arm and both of them reflexively lurched forward to catch the baby. He rolled his eyes and fixed them with a patented James Potter Look. “Guys. I’ve got the kid. Sirius, give me your hand.”

His fingers trembled as he held it out and James carefully adjusted him so his arms formed a cradle against his chest. Sirius could feel his heartbeat in his ears and his throat at the same time as James leaned down; there was a brush of soft fabric, a gurgling sound, and then Sirius was holding the baby.

Harry had Lily’s eyes, and James’ nose. Sirius would swear on any holy book that the stars themselves lived in those eyes. His chubby cheeks were rosy as he stared at Sirius with an open mouth. He let out a shaking breath and Harry smiled, toothless and squishy and absolutely wonderful. A couple drops of water splashed onto his round little face. “Stop crying on the baby, Pots,” he murmured.

James huffed. “That’s not me, man.”

With more care than he would use for the greatest treasures on earth, Sirius nestled Harry into the crook of his arm and reached toward his own face—his fingers came away damp. “Oh. Sorry.”

“Don’t worry, we cried all over him at the hospital and he’s fine. Look at how he’s cuddling into your chest. That means he likes your heartbeat.”

“He’s perfect.” Harry reached two chubby hands toward his face and Sirius leaned down, tracing one finger along the unbelievably soft skin before holding his tiny, warm fist to his cheek. “Bonjour.”

“Abababababa!”

Sirius grinned. “Bonjour, Harry. I’m your godfather. And you’re perfect.”

Harry wrapped his hand around Sirius’ finger—his little palm barely made it three-quarters of the way around, but his grip was solid as Sirius tickled his chin. He squealed and Sirius laughed.

“Oh, god, they’re so cute,” Lily sniffled from her armchair. Sirius hummed his agreement, never taking his eyes off the baby. He didn’t think he ever would. “How’re you feeling, Sirius?”

“Everything. I’m feeling everything right now.” Another tear dripped down his cheek and he quickly wiped it on the shoulder of his sweater so it wouldn’t touch Harry; this baby would never have tears in his life if he could help it. “You are the most precious thing,” he said softly, just for Harry to hear. “I will never let you get hurt.”

“That’s what we all promise.” James’ voice was low and a little choked up from the seat next to him. “I wouldn’t count on it, though. Babies are surprisingly accident-prone.”

Sirius shook his head as Harry made unblinking eye contact with him. “No. Not this one.”

A warm hand curled around his shoulder as James leaned into him, reaching out to tap his baby on the nose lightly. They all laughed when he sneezed, looking shocked at the noise it made. “You’re a lucky kid, Harry. You’ve got the best godfather in the whole wide world.”

“Re, you should hold him.” Sirius finally tore his gaze away from Harry and looked at Remus, whose eyes were red-rimmed. “Woah, are you alright?”

“Fine,” Remus said hoarsely, taking a deep breath as he held his sleeve to his eye. “Totally fine. You’re both just incredible and I love you.”

“I love you, too. Hold the baby.”

“Are you sure you want to let him go?”

“You get thirty seconds before I’m stealing him back.” Sirius cracked a grin. “This is your warning.”

“I better make it count then,” Remus laughed, reaching for the blanket bundle. “Hey, kiddo.”

“Watch his head,” James reminded him as they passed the blanket bundle between them. “He has too many bones right now.”

Sirius blinked. Did I hear that right? “He has what?”

“Too many bones,” Lily repeated. She raised an eyebrow. “What, you thought I was about to shove a full human skull through my hips? Hell no, the baby needs to fold.”

“Fold?” Sirius asked, horrified. “When does he stop folding?”

“Somewhere around eighteen months.”

His jaw fell open. They were barely three weeks in, and the baby wouldn’t be safe for another year at least. “But he’s already out?”

“Mhm.”

“So he doesn’t need to fold anymore.”

“We were thinking about making a bubble wrap outfit for him.” Lily glanced over at Remus and smiled. “Aw, Re, are you okay?”

“No.” Remus’ voice was thick with tears. “Yes. I don’t know. This baby is the only thing in the whole world that matters.”

James smiled at Lily. “Hey, that’s what I said!”

She shook her head. “The nurses were getting worried, I think. He was crying more than I was.”

Remus was whispering to Harry with a small smile as the baby gnawed on his sweater cuff, and Sirius rested his chin on his shoulder. Harry’s eyes went wide again when he saw Sirius and he shrieked, lighting up with a smile. “Did you find your favorite person?” Remus asked, leaning some of his weight on Sirius’ chest. “I know, buddy, he’s the best.”

“We’re about to be outranked by the godfather,” Lily sighed. “I knew it was coming, but still. Ouch.”

“It’s cute that you think we’re giving him back,” Sirius teased, reaching down to feel the pitch-black fuzz on Harry’s head. “He’s got your hair, J.”

“I know.” James sounded absolutely thrilled.

Out of the blue, Harry’s face began turning red. His smile slipped and he began wiggling around, flailing his little fists as he let out the most eardrum-piercing, window-shattering screech Sirius had ever heard. Remus paled and Sirius went still.

“Oh, no, no, shhh,” Remus soothed, rocking him gently. “It’s okay, you’re fine, Pots what do we do?”

“He’s probably hungry.” Lily stood up and stretched her back out. “Come here, parasite.”

“Parasite?” Remus and Sirius chorused with equal degrees of offense.

“Relax, mama bear, you know I love him,” she said, rolling her eyes as she hoisted the baby out of Remus’ arms and let him curl up against her. He quieted immediately and an indescribable kind of affection covered her face. “I grew him for nine months in my belly. This little critter made me eat pickles and ice cream together.” She tickled his belly and he burbled happily. “You did! Do you know how gross that is, honeybun? Do you? Oh, mama loves you so much.”

They all stood up as she left the room, though Sirius couldn’t really place why. James wiped his hands on his jeans and turned to them with a mischievous smile. “So, what do you think? It wasn’t super clear—”

Sirius wrapped both arms around him and pulled him in for a crushing hug. “Thank you. And congratulations. But mostly thank you.”

“Love you, Sirius.”

“Love you, too, J. You are going to be the most amazing dad.”

“I meant what I said. Harry’s lucky to have you.” James squeezed him tight and stepped back to hold him at arm’s length. “Dude, I’ve got a baby!”

“You’ve got a baby!” Sirius laughed, wrapping an arm around Remus’ shoulders as well; they swayed for a moment, all laughing and all slightly in shock. It was perfect.

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once-upon-a-scenario · 3 years

Text

Pretend (Overhaul/reader, Pt.2)

“Call me Kai,” he says again before you go. He demands this increasingly often these days, but you’re a pretender and you don’t question things like this. Childhood friends shouldn’t, after all. “Good night, Kai.” He smiles one of his rare, unreadable smiles, and then the door closes behind you. (OR: Kai is an enemy, but one you know well. You play his game a little longer, hoping that someday, you’ll gain more control over the pieces- just enough to save your little girl.) Part 1 Warnings: same as part one (mild body horror because of Kai’s quirk, child abuse, abusive relationships) Note: the use of Kai’s name without any honorifics in this fic is meant to portray his closeness with the reader. ____ For years you’ve played a waiting game, not knowing what you were playing for or when any of the players would make their moves. Now, at last, the bell that signals the end is ringing, every toll thrumming as your heartbeat against your ribs. You can’t sleep, can’t stay still. Even Chrono, who never gives a shit about you generally, notices. Bags under your eyes, your fingers tapping on every available surface. You’re waiting- waiting for a boy. You’ve never seen his face but you know he has green hair and green eyes and freckles all over and that he is very, very warm. Please come for Eri, you plead in your mind every night. Be the hero I can’t be. ___ (You dream one of those nights, a dream like a memory. You’re sitting in the boss’ study, making origami birds whiz around his desk and he smiles a little, plucking one out of the air and examining it. “You have a fine quirk,” he tells you, one large hand ruffling your hair. “And a finer spirit. You’ll go far someday.” You smile wide- gap-toothed, innocent, warm in the sunbeams that shine through the window- but then there’s a shadow that falls behind you. It’s Kai, not yet taller than you but with an aura that makes him feel like he might be, his golden eyes boring into your soul and his fingers boring into your skin, overhauling your cells from the feet upwards. You’re never going anywhere, he whispers in your ear even as it dissolves into a bloodstain on the wall. There is no “someday.”)

You wake from the dream with a chill running down your spine, even though it’s the middle of summer and the night is warm and humid. Sleepless, you pace back and forth in your room, until you can no longer bare to stare at the where the old stain on the wall used to be and head outside into the hallway. You let your feet guide you. Kai is there when you arrive, his shadow over the bed and the mass of tubes that used to be- You shake your head, trying to clear your thoughts. Overhaul, blood, his hand grabbing at your wrist, no, you won’t think about that. You glance at the face of the man lying on the bed and feel that old ache in your chest. For the boss’ sake. For Eri’s sake. You won’t do anything reckless. “You’re up late,” you say, hoping that you sound conversational and that the shake in your knees doesn’t show. There’s no change in his expression as he stares at you. He’s not surprised to see you. He never is. “There’s work to be done. I trust you know about our current situation.” “Is there anything I can help with?” “No.” He looks again at the boss’ prone body. You wonder what’s going through his head. “Well then. Good night-” “No,” he says again, and you freeze in the doorway, a bird caught in flight. “...call me Kai before you go.” You don’t understand. To tell the truth, there’s nothing about Chisaki Kai you’ve ever understood. Why you used to do origami with him, why you still give him your egg rolls, why he still keeps you at his side and why he reconstructs you every time he breaks you. But if you are a bird, then he is your keeper, and he can dissolve your wings with a single touch. You see it before your eyes- the bloodstain on the wall that used to be you. With all your might, you smile. “Good night, Kai.” ___ You visit the secret room by yourself, once. It’s not quite secret- Chrono likely knows where it is, along with a few more of Kai’s most trusted and the older members of the mafia- but it might as well be, because you are the only other person who can cross the threshold without fearing a bloody death. Kai’s just temperamental that way. Generally, everybody pretends that the room and its occupant no longer exist. The boss is alive, this much you know. His chest rises and falls slowly with every breath, but he looks so small underneath the writhing tangle of machinery that keeps him tethered to life. Nothing like the big, stern man whose coats you used to hide under. You sometimes wonder what, exactly, The Accident was. You know there was An Accident. Kai never explained it to you- he said it was too gruesome. More gruesome than being overhauled? You have your suspicions. Maybe you’re the only person who doesn’t know the truth. But if you’re foolish and gullible and easily trapped then maybe that’s your own fault. You sit by the boss’ bed for another hour, silent and immovable, wondering what he would say if he was awake, wondering how you would face him with your failures but wishing that you had the chance to all the same. But I’ll make it right, for Eri’s sake and for yours. I promise. You gaze down on his wrinkled, sleeping face and curl your fingers into fists. I know you believed I could be a hero. ____ Kai calls you to dinner again. He’s asking your opinion on how to respond to the impending attack. This is the kind of thing you’re good for; you lay out strategies and he listens silently, fingers steepled under his chin. You give him your egg rolls. He eats them while he listens. “You look tired,” he says, finally. “Plan B seems the most stable. We’ll go with that. You go to your room for tonight.” Like a child banished from the dinner table, you bow and leave the room, but “Call me Kai,” he says again before you go. He demands this increasingly often these days, but you’re a pretender and you don’t question things like this. Childhood friends shouldn’t, after all. “Good night, Kai.” He smiles one of his rare, unreadable smiles, and then the door closes behind you. ____ You rock Eri in your arms the next sleepless night and wait with bated breath. She’s walking a tightrope, this child. Her fate hangs in the balance. You’re just waiting for the tension to break and the rope to snap, but every time you look at her empty, listless eyes and the bandages on her small body, you wish you could take hold of it and break it yourself. So nowadays, it hurts to get along with Kai. But all the same, you will. ______ You have another dream; a recurring one. You’re standing at the edge of a cliff, Eri’s hand in yours. On the other side is a boy with green hair and big green eyes, freckles dotted all over his face. Jump, Eri, you’re shouting, screaming, but she can’t seem to hear you. When she looks up at you, there are black, empty holes where her eyes should be. I’m so tired, she whispers. It hurts so much. Why didn’t you help me? I tried, you struggle to answer, I tried, I never abandoned you, but your voice is stuck in your throat and then Eri is no longer Eri but a small child with your face, an origami bird in hand, gazing reproachfully up at you. Stop lying. Is it your fault? But I can’t, and I don’t know, you cry, not yet, not yet, maybe never. Never? You bolt upright in bed, a soundless cry resting like a weight on your tongue, cold sweat on your brow and Kai’s voice ringing in your ears. You’re never going anywhere, liar. ___ “When they come,” Kai tells you, Eri on his lap, her small form frozen and tense as a statue, “you stay with me and Eri.” You bow your head in agreement while your heart pounds on the inside. You’re the type who would only have been a minor lackey if not for your relationship with the past boss- your quirk is weak, your combat skills average, and your best talent lies in diplomacy (which really means striking drug deals). It makes sense for you not to be on the front lines. (At the same time, it doesn’t. Weakness only makes people dispensable, in the Shie Hassaikai that Kai leads and created.) But you agree. There is no other option. You stare at Eri hard and wish you could speak with your eyes, because if so you’d tell her that so many people are coming for her and her only and she deserves to be saved and weak though you are, you’ll try your best to make sure that she gets to the light. As your old client once told you, you aren’t cut out for this work, but for as many years as you’ve been stuck here Eri never had to be. This one truth you know. “Alright,” you tell Kai, and let your heart pound that war drum against your chest. ____ They’re coming. You feel it thrumming in the air. Sir Nighteye is a hero you used to secretly look up to as a child and then came to envy as an adult- what could you have done if you had his quirk? How many overhauls could you have avoided? How much sooner could you have tried to save Eri, or even the boss?- and you wonder what he and his allies will do in the face of the Shie Hassaikai. Maybe it really is like the fairy tales; maybe the heroes will emerge triumphant. You think about yourself, and how you stand shoulders-deep in crime, and how your closest childhood friend is Chisaki Kai of the mafia’s pride. If the heroes find you, will they kill you? Maybe the bigger question is- would you deserve it? (You think of Eri, and decide that the answer is probably.) “They’ll never touch you,” Kai says briskly, Chrono ushering you along as you walk down another narrow passageway, Eri clutching with white-knuckled hands to Kai’s jacket. “Neither you nor Eri.” He says it with confidence, his golden eyes alight as if burning from the inside. You allow yourself a moment to hope that he’s wrong. ____ You are awake when the attack finally hits; the ceiling is echoing with footsteps and battlecries. Eri buries her face in your shoulder. With shaking hands, you smooth down her hair and rearrange the bandages around her limbs. “There’s nothing to be afraid of,” you tell her gently, but maybe both of you know that this is a lie. Kai’s shadow falls over you as he stoops to your eye level. He’s agitated, you can tell. His eye is twitching and there’s a hint of redness to his visible skin, the hives that start up so easily whenever something sets him off. But as of yet, he’s under control- he won’t lay his hands on you right now, when every movement and every choice is so crucial to his goal (not that you know what it is; not that you’ve ever been privy to it; not that someone like you even needs to know). “You trust me,” he says, suddenly. One gloved hand reaches out to grasp your shoulder, brief but tight- it’s an old but familiar gesture, one that he used to rely on when you were children, to get your attention and keep it on him because it was hard to get distracted when his fingers were digging into your skin like that, so fiercely that it seemed as if he’d like to break it. So far, you’ve been a good pretender. So far. Just a little longer. “Always.” You smile. And you can never tell what’s running through Kai’s head, but he turns away; maybe he’s satisfied. For now. You keep smiling.

#BNHA #Overhaul x reader #Chisaki Kai x reader #Overhaul x you #overhaul x y/n #Chisaki Kai x you #Overhaul imagine #Overhaul scenario #Scenario #TW: abuse #TW: blood #gender neutral reader #Mod Eve #this was supposed to end at Pt.2 but oh well lol

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the-final-sif · 4 years

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cw; death, body transfer, me.

Dabi's body is falling apart on him, everyone knows that

He's accepted his own death is coming, and all he wants is to complete his revenge before that happens

Dabi's made peace with his death

But Shigaraki hasn't. He refuses to let his Dabi fade from the world. Even if Dabi’s body is beyond repair, that won’t stop him. He knows Dabi wouldn’t accept anything that required him to give up fighting or his quirk. He can work with that.

Shigaraki spends weeks exploring different option before he finally finds a way to save Dabi that allows him to keep his quirk. The doctor can transfer Dabi's consciousness and quirk into a new body for him.

A nomu body is a possibility, but it comes with a fair bit of risk. Shigaraki is fairly sure Dabi would accept the risk if it would get him strength, but he's not willing to take that chance. Instead, they need an already existing human body highly similar to Dabi's. Then they can do the transfer and once it’s complete they can upgrade the new body so that history doesn't repeat itself.

He starts his search in the most obvious place, scouring hospital records for patients who would be good matches. Any patients currently admitted are obviously preferable so long as they aren't too damaged. It's very easy to get his hands on those.

And just his luck, Shigaraki find an almost perfect match fairly quickly. A long term patient whose health issues are primarily mental. They might not even need to fix those up before the transfer, since the brain would be getting transferred over anyways.

The sex and gender not matching is a bit of an issue, as is the age, the women is older than Dabi, but that's not a big deal. Interestingly enough, she's got an ice quirk. What a lovely counter to Dabi's fire that would be. The more Shigaraki looks, the more certain he is that this is the best possible option.

Shigaraki was planning to bring it up with Dabi, he really was, to run him through all the details first. But there was a skirmish, Dabi got injured and overused his quirk, and sure, there was a good chance he'd pull through, but Shigaraki didn't want to take the risk. Not when they had an alternative so nicely prepared.

He told the Doctor to begin the procedure while Dabi was already out. It'll be a nice surprise for him when he wakes up, Shigaraki decided.

It takes awhile, two weeks to be precise. There's the actual transfer process of course, and then all the bodily modifications that have to go along with it. But Shigaraki is so excited when they're finally done. He even went the extra mile to cut, dye and style Dabi's new hair, so it looks close to what it used to be. White hair is so easy to dye, it’s hardly any trouble.

Shigaraki is honestly impressed by just how much Dabi looks like his old self once his hair is done. Even the faces looked the same after the modifications and ignoring Dabi’s former scars, it's hard to even tell that it's a new body.

Dabi wakes up feeling better than he has in awhile. For the first time he can remember, his body doesn't hurt. His staples aren't pulling, his bones don't ache.

He groans, assuming he must be on pain medication, but then it suddenly hits him the normal haze that brings isn't there.

Jolting up with a start, he tries to figure out what's going on, because he can't feel his staples or his scars at all. When he brings up one of his hands to check for them something feels... off.

It's like someone moved all the furniture 2 inches to the left, but in his body. Still, he's more confused and astounded than upset.

Shigaraki had been talking for awhile about figuring something out to fix his body, promising he'd still be able to fight with whatever he came up with.

Seems like his boyfriend figured it out. Good timing too. Dabi quickly takes stock of himself in a nearby mirror. It looks like... him, but not? He looks less muscular, which is annoying. He'll have to build back up his strength again. But his hair is still the same as it was, so he figures the changes couldn't have been that drastic.

Dabi stretches himself out, wiggling a bit as he does so, and feeling pretty damn good. That's when Shigaraki comes in, brightening the moment he sees Dabi is up. The two of them rib at each other a little, it's just in their nature, but then they get to the matter at hand.

Dabi can't stop looking at himself in the mirror, feeling like he's missing something.

"Man, I was skeptical about whatever healing shit you were going on about, but I gotta admit that this is pretty fucking amazing."

Shigaraki nearly preens under the admission, extremely proud of himself and relieved Dabi’s taking the new body well

"Shouldn't have doubted me." And after a moment, he does have to add. "We did get kinda lucky though. Found a near perfect match for a new body for you in just a few days.”

That gives Dabi pause. He knows they fuck around with corpses from hospitals, but the thought that he might be in one of those is kinda gross. Still, he can put it aside. It's recycling. Sort of.

"Huh. So that's how you did it. Man, I was feeling like something was off. Guess that explains that."

He takes another look in the mirror, trying to figure out why the reflection still looks so familiar to him.

Shigaraki was moving on to different topics, but Dabi drags them back to the prior one.

"Oi, whose body was this before? I feel like I might've met them at some point."

Shigaraki has to grab a paper out of his pocket, he honestly never paid much attention to the name.

"Uh, hang on, she was a chick in long term mental care. I had her name somewhere- Ah. Here. 'Rei Todoroki' ring any bells?"

And Dabi's blood turns ice cold.

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keeper0fthestars · 3 years

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WIP GAME: Last Line

tagged by @gaiuswrites @pedros-mustache who are both so exceptionally talented, whose writing inspires me and also makes me fucking f e r a l 😍 you all should be reading all their stuff ✨💫✨

disclaimer: in reality I don’t have any new lines writing has been a struggle and idk how to fix that so let’s pretend 💕 (and, to make up for not knowing when I’ll get back into the swing of things, here’s a messy little piece of something that’s been sitting in my docs for a while and I’m kinda proud of it? one day it will get finished i promise)💖

... and then he lifts his face, big soft eyes shining like liquid ink in the dim lights of your shared space. Your heart flips and presses on your lungs like it always does when he looks at you like this. Like all his dreams begin and end with you; like you are his oxygen and his gravity.

How does he do that?

How does he make you feel hopeful and happy and breathless all at once. When he says your name like that, so careful and delicate, like he’s dripping goodness down into you.

Like you are deserving of it.

As if the cadence of his voice is enough to erase everything that came before.

As though he sees in you something long forgotten, the you that used to be. The one that was good and whole. Not you now, with less than all the necessary parts.

Though in his eyes, for some reason, you are not separated into before and after. You are whole. You are enough. It’s in the way his hand curls over your knuckles, lifting your fingers from where they’re anchored on his shoulder, turning them over, his mouth glossing over the pulse in your wrist, stubble tickling.

It’s the playful way he grins into your skin when your goosebumps come alive under the teasing scrape of scruff and he feels your reflexes tug, competing with his strength,

because it tickles.

It’s in the amused little sound in your breath when he doesn’t allow you to pull away but instead draws you closer.

Because he wants to hear that sound again.

This time the soft bristles on his chin nip at the pillowy crease of your elbow, a place especially soft and incredibly sensitive and now the giggles are coming from the bottom of your stomach, the kind that dimples your cheeks and crimps your eyes; the kind of laughter that could blur out a lifetime of heartache and makes him want to kiss you so you don’t see the shining happiness collecting in the corners of his eyes.

It’s in the fierce warmth that washes over you when he finally lets you catch your breath, when supple lips press into the flat of your palm right over the groove where your future exists, sharper now.

Constant.

Another fleeting moment, one more piece stitched back together and you are beginning to realize this is not a fluke. that nothing he does for you is by coincidence.

It still aches. Being so vulnerable. But it no longer hurts to breathe nearly as much.

He knows you’re going to ask, ‘what are you doing’ in that small innocent voice you only use with him at times like this when your fingers sift through his hair, absently focused where it curls in silvery wisps at his temple and on the crook of his jaw, where it’s softest. The tender words slipping out without a second thought and he knows you’re talking about the here and now- the soft bed, him; the unspoken direction of his attention on you.

But he remembers when you’d first said it. The time he’d stepped in between you and whatever terrible circumstance life had thrown in your path that day and you’d looked up at him from the dirt, your face pulled tight in disbelief when he’d plunged his blade into the man holding shackles meant for you.

What are you doing.

The voice that blows a fuse in his head and overloads him. Unhooks the strings of his heart and threads them through his ribs, adamant in their reach to guard you. As though their only purpose is to surround you. Keep you close.

And now, whenever he hears you utter the words, his arms will tighten around you, and he’ll answer the same way, ‘loving you’

Maybe you’re finally starting to believe it.

Even now, this is a lighthearted little back-and-forth between you, nothing more than a playful habit after all this time, but he knows the roots of such things run deep and that’s why it still slips out inside these bare moments.

He'll keep saying it as many times as it takes.

Tagging only if you want to: @princessxkenobi @thirstworldproblemss @bee-dameron @lunaserenade @thosewickedlovelies and anyone else who wants to post a wip and tag me!

#wip games #*mine: writing #✨😍#thanks for the tag!#do I wanna expose myself and say this is from the breeding kink fic #welp hi

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mikauzoran · 3 years

Text

Marichat/Lila Fake-Dating/Emotional Blackmail: Betting Against the House: Chapter Six

Read it on AO3: Betting Against the House: Chapter Six: Fidelity

Marinette was so engrossed in her sewing project that Tikki had to inform her that Chat Noir was tapping on her skylight.

“What?” She looked up with a jerk, her stitch going crooked as her hands accidentally moved the material.

“Chat Noir’s here,” Tikki repeated, glancing back up towards the skylight. “Or, he might have just left. I don’t hear him knocking anymore.”

Marinette swore under her breath as she pushed herself up out of the chair and sprang into action, ascending the ladder up to her loft at double her normal speed. She didn’t see him at the window, so she pushed it open and pulled herself up onto her balcony.

He turned around from where he’d been leaning on the balcony railing, taking her in with soft eyes she was more used to seeing as Ladybug.

“Uh…hey,” he greeted, raising a hand tentatively.

“Hey.” She blinked, eyes going to the rose in his other hand. “Is that…?”

She pointed.

He followed her gaze, looking down at his own hand in surprise. “Oh. Yeah. Sorry.”

He lifted the rose, holding it out to her as he timidly advanced. “I think you dropped this—I mean, I know you dropped it. I saw you drop it, but… Did you want it back?”

A cloudy expression set into her face as she stepped forward to take the rose and then stared at it thoughtfully.

It didn’t look like her thoughts were positive ones.

“You don’t have to take it back,” he hurriedly added. “I’ll keep it if you don’t want—”

With a jolt like one suddenly waking in the middle of a dream, Marinette’s gaze whipped around to her right, and she began searching the streets below.

“…Uh… If you’re looking for Adrien Agreste, he’s gone,” Chat informed gently, not all together sure that she was even looking for him in the first place.

Marinette looked back to him in surprise. “He is?”

Chat nodded. “I kind of saw the…er…little scene…between you and him. I was here to see you, and I just happened to catch…whatever that was. Sorry.”

She held up her hands and waved them, seeming to come back fully to the present moment and out of her thoughts. “No, it’s okay. It was…” She winced, biting her lip. “It was nothing. Um… Did you want to come in?”

“May I?” He took a hesitant step forward. “I don’t want to bother you. I heard…” His brow furrowed, and he lowered his voice. “I heard a couple things. Are you feeling okay? I heard you were sick.”

She averted her gaze, her cheeks colouring slightly. “Thanks. Yeah, I’m fine. I’m not actually sick. I just…I kind of feel like crap. I probably look like crap,” she laughed ruefully, glancing down at her sweatpants and baggy t-shirt and touching her hair self-consciously.

“You look cute,” he chuckled. “I dig the messy bun.”

She cracked up at that. “Thanks, but it got that way by accident rather than design. It was a fully-functional, respectable-looking bun earlier before I rolled around and pulled on my hair in grief and messed it up.”

He clicked his tongue, waving away her protests. “You’re rocking it, Princess. Trust me. I know what I’m talking about.”

Her lips settled into a soft smile, and she motioned for him to follow her down into her room. “Come in, Minou. I could use a friendly face. For some reason, today, it feels like everyone’s against me.”

“I promise they’re not really,” he attempted to comfort her as they made their way down into her attic bedroom.

She hummed ambivalently, dropping the rose off at her desk before taking a seat on her chaise and gesturing for him to sit at her feet. “Can I play with your hair? Please?”

“Yeah, sure,” he replied, hoping he didn’t sound too eager as he sat between her knees, his back to her.

They sat in silence for a good minute or two, Marinette running her fingers through his hair to comb it and then separating little strands into sections to braid, before she finally spoke up, mumbling, “…Today kind of sucked.”

“I’m sorry,” he whispered a little more balefully than made sense since she didn’t know that he was the chief cause of her strife. “Did you feel like talking about it?”

“No. I mean, yeah, but…” She pursed her lips, shaking her head. “It’s complicated.”

He waited a beat, debating before remarking offhandedly, as if he had no personal stake in the matter, “…I hear that Adrien Agreste is persona non grata around here. Apparently he’s dating that awful Lila girl?”

“Lila freaking Rossi,” Marinette hissed. “I don’t know what the heck is the matter with him. How can he just…? She is worse than awful, Chat Noir. She’s a bully and a liar and—ugh. I don’t even,” she growled. “How can he even stand to let her touch him? He knows what she’s like, and still he…he…” Marinette petered out with another “Ugh!” of frustration.

Chat swallowed hard, guilt wrapping its fingers around his heart and squeezing painfully. “Maybe…Maybe there’s some piece to the puzzle that you’re missing,” he suggested cautiously. “Maybe he has a good reason. Maybe he doesn’t have a choice.”

“There’s always a choice,” she pouted sullenly, her temper cooling somewhat. “He could stand up for himself and say no for once. He’s always been like this, Chat Noir. He never wants to cause trouble, and he always avoids confrontation. He’s spineless.”

Chat winced, feeling the jab slide clean between his ribs and puncture a lung.

“He just appeases everyone and lets them walk all over him. It makes me sick sometimes to watch him cave without a word. I don’t know what I ever saw in him, and I don’t know why I put my faith in him,” she muttered bitterly.

“Maybe it’s more complicated than you think,” he offered in a flimsy attempt at self-defence. “I’m sorry he let you down, Marinette. You’re totally within your rights to be angry, but you can’t know what’s going on inside his head. Maybe he has a good reason, and you’ll feel bad later for being so harsh on him.”

“Yeah, maybe.” She blew out a long sigh, dropping her arms from his hair to loosely hang around his neck and resting her head on top of his. “I’m just really hurting right now, Chaton. He was the one person I thought I could count on in my struggle with Lila, so I’m feeling utterly betrayed,” she whimpered. “It’s hard to give him the benefit of the doubt when I can’t imagine any circumstance that would compel him to date her.”

Chat closed his eyes and forced himself to breathe through the aching pain in his chest. It killed him to sit there useless while she was hurting—while he was hurting her. But he couldn’t explain himself. She’d insist that he stop, and then what would have been the point of submitting to Lila’s ever-increasing demands over the years?

He had to see this through to the finish.

“I’m sorry, Princess,” he whispered helplessly. “I wish I could do something to make it better for you. Know that I would do anything to make it better.”

“Well,” she chuckled halfheartedly, trying to lighten the mood. “You could start by not trying to make me behave rationally and think about things from Adrien’s point of view. It would be easier if I could just demonize him and lash out at him with all of my righteous fury.”

“Sorry to take away your scapegoat,” he laughed weakly.

“Yeah,” she teased, giving his hair a little nuzzle. “Whose side are you on, anyway? Mine or his?”

He twisted around to face her, kneeling at her feet and gazing up at her earnestly. “Yours,” he stressed, desperate for her to believe him. “Yours. Always yours, even when it doesn’t feel like it.”

She blinked at him, taken aback by his vehemence.

Slowly, a warm, genuine smile danced across her lips, and she leaned in to brush a delicate kiss against his forehead. “Thank you.”

His heart nearly exploded as she pulled back and smiled down at him with a soft look that made him think that maybe he had a chance after all.

“Yeah. I mean, yeah. Anytime,” he replied dumbly, struggling to get his brain and his mouth to work in concert. “You’re welcome. Always.”

She laughed—a light, airy sound that made his heart soar—and it was obvious from the smug look on her face that she could tell how smitten he was.

He couldn’t bring himself to care. So what if she knew she had him at her mercy? He trusted her with his heart.

“Wanna play video games?” she inquired, breaking him out of his reverie.

He blinked at her, his brain still scrambled from the memory of her lips against his skin.

“If you have time,” she hastened to add, nerves flaring up at his lack of a response. “I mean, I know you’re busy what with saving Paris and regular life stuff, but…if you weren’t doing anything, I was supposed to be hanging out with my friends tonight, only that’s not happening because Adrien is a traitor, so if you wanted to hang out, play some Smash Brothers, have dinner with me and my family, snuggle on the couch and watch movies…? I could use the company,” she confessed.

“Yes to all of the above,” he replied enthusiastically, finally getting a handle on how his mouth functioned again.

Adrien was still floating on cloud nine when he returned home several hours later.

Lila had pressured Adrien into agreeing to come up with a romantic surprise for her in response to Adrien’s claim that Nino had been consulting with Adrien about a surprise for Alya the previous day (since Adrien was, allegedly, so good at that kind of thing), and Adrien did not aim to disappoint.

He escorted Lila to her locker where she found beautiful orange lilies inside.

“Oh, Adrien!” Lila squealed, leaping into his arms and giving his cheek a joyful kiss. “They’re beautiful!”

He couldn’t tell if she were just putting on a show or if she were genuinely pleased with the gift.

She was certainly satisfied with the response of the other students as they cooed and raved about how sweet Adrien was, what a cute couple he and Lila made.

Marinette stood apart from the others, looking on in a mix of resentment and pensiveness.

Adrien wondered if she knew anything about the meanings of flowers. If so, she might know that orange lilies were not a nice gift. Perhaps she was wondering if Adrien knew the implications of the flowers he had given his girlfriend.

She caught him gazing at her and turned away, going to her own locker. Once there, she gave a start, a soft gasp escaping her lips when she spotted the sunflowers, tucked inside and waiting for her with a little note attached.

Adrien’s heartbeat quickened a little at the pleased smile gracing her lips and the rosy blush rising in her cheeks.

Alya was the first to notice Marinette’s surprise and draw the attention of the others.

“What’s this, Girl? A secret admirer?” she trilled excitedly.

“Alya, don’t—” barely made it past Marinette’s lips as Alya swiped the card and read aloud, “‘For my Princess. I hope these sunflowers brighten your day, even though they’re not half as radiant as you are. Much love from your not-so-secret admirer.’”

The girls chattered excitedly all at once, completely forgetting about Lila to join in the speculation about Marinette’s mystery boy.

Lila turned a venomous glare on Adrien, hissing dangerously under her breath, “Your ‘Princess’, is she? You did this on purpose to upstage me, didn’t you?”

Adrien frowned, leveraging all of his acting skills to feign wounded innocence. “Hey, I don’t know why you’re looking at me like that. Those flowers aren’t from me.”

Lila’s eyes narrowed, scanning him intently.

“He’s just a friend,” Marinette insisted over the din of her friends. “Just a close friend that I play video games online with. He’s a total flirt. He’s not even serious. He knows I had a rough day yesterday, and he was just trying to cheer me up.”

The girls didn’t seem to buy Marinette’s story entirely, but her persistent denials seemed to mollify all but Alya.

“Oh, Honey. I think he’s serious, even if you’re not,” Alya hummed skeptically, pitying the poor boy who had fallen for her rather oblivious best friend.

The other girls joined in with sympathetic hums of their own.

Adrien turned to Lila. “I feel like you owe me an apology for your accusations of infidelity.”

“How about not?” Lila growled quietly, shoving her books roughly into Adrien’s arms as she continued to seethe over Marinette inadvertently stealing the spotlight.

The week stretched on with, luckily, only a few minor incidents to mark it.

Marinette continued to hold a grudge against Adrien, but she was more than happy to spend her evenings with Chat Noir.

He was glad that he could help her feel less alone, even if it were just in some small way, and the time he passed with her was a balm for him too.

It was a relief, after dealing with Lila’s ever-increasingly ridiculous demands all day, to cuddle and watch Disney and Studio Ghibli movies with Marinette, to bake cookies together, to play niche video games, or just to sit in her room working on separating things but enjoying the other’s presence.

Nino kept giving Adrien worried glances, looking like he was this close to saying something several times a day.

It made Adrien sick with anxiety.

He shouldn’t have told Nino. It felt like he had the sword of Damocles hanging over his head and never knew when it would drop, when Nino would break his promise and try to tell everyone about Lila, ruining years’ worth of Adrien’s sacrifices and hard work to protect Marinette.

If Nino asked him if he were okay one more time, Adrien was going to cry.

All he could do was lie and say he was fine, all the while knowing that Nino knew he was lying.

“Just don’t say anything to anyone,” Adrien kept repeating, and Nino would nod, assuring, “Yeah. No. I won’t.”

But Adrien could see the way Nino tensed around Lila, how he clenched his jaw and narrowed his eyes whenever she invaded Adrien’s personal space or asked him to do things for her.

The week was rough and already wearing Adrien down by the end of it.

He felt sick with guilt over hurting Marinette and sick with fear about when Nino was going to crack and spill the beans. That wasn’t even taking into account the hell Lila was putting him through.

Lila was steadily getting worse. She was growing bolder with her public displays of affection to the point where Adrien was genuinely uncomfortable.

The casual touches and the expectation of cheek kisses had quickly crossed the line. More than anything, he was sick of the sensation of Lila clinging to him. The constant contact and her weight and her warmth made his skin crawl. He couldn’t wait for evening to come so his personal space could be his own again to share (or not share) as he saw fit.

Adrien had always been a little touch-starved, but, now, physical contact was something he found himself recoiling from, sometimes even with Marinette.

On the third day, Lila made Adrien move to the back of the class to sit with her, and it was torture to be separated from his friends. Classes had been a brief reprieve from Lila’s presence, an oasis where he didn’t have to think about her for hours at a time, but, now, even that solace was stolen from him.

He missed passing notes with Nino and the little sweets his best friend would often share.

Adrien had considered it a victory when, the previous year, he’d convinced his father to allow him to eat lunch at school with his friends. Now, he found himself wishing he could go home for lunch again because Lila had gotten it into her head that she needed to sit on Adrien’s lap and that they needed to feed one another to show what a lovey-dovey couple they were.

Adrien was quickly finding that he had little appetite during the day. He scarfed down leftover baked goods from Tom and Sabine’s as well as whatever the Dupain-Chengs had for dinner in the evenings when he visited Marinette, but he couldn’t keep much down during the day.

The smell of Lila’s cloyingly sweet floral perfume made him feel nauseated.

He wasn’t sure how much more he could take, but he was certain that something had to give, and soon.

He was afraid it was going to be him.

Adrien was at his breaking point, so maybe that’s why, when Ladybug asked what was wrong that Sunday on patrol, he gave in so easily and spilled his guts to her.

#Marichat #Adrinette #Adrienette #Lady Noir #Miraculous Ladybug #Miraculous Ladybug Fanfiction #Adrien Agreste #Chat Noir #Marinette Dupain-Cheng #Lila Rossi #Hurt/Comfort #Fluff #Angst #Happy Ending #Fake Dating #Emotional Blackmail #Mikau's Writings #Betting Against the House

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lovetorn · 4 years

Text

sex [fratboy!harry]

harry styles x fem!reader

summary: sex by the 1975 but i changed it up - [bestfriend!fratboy!harry] warnings: swearing, angst words: 1.9k inspo: sex by the 1975 (obviously) a/n: a rollercoaster (and a little cliche)!! ahahah enjoy xx

“She’s got a boyfriend anyway, so I don't know why you keep trying,” Y/n said, peering over at him slightly before returning her focus back to the road in front of them, tired of the conversation at hand. Her best friend, Harry sighed loudly, his knuckles whitening with the hard grip he had on the steering wheel. The sky outside was painted pink and was slowly washing away into dark indigo.

Y/n glanced at him in her peripheral and saw he was getting agitated with her, so she decided to hold her tongue. Turning fully to look out the window, Y/n tapped her fingers against her thighs, now eager to get back to your sorority and away from the moody boy next to her. The tension in the car pushed on her chest and it made Y/n feel like she couldn’t breathe properly. She sighed softly, trying her best not to catch Harry's attention.

Once at a red light, Harry’s hands came up to his hair to fix the snapback that rested there, and Y/n had the sudden urge to watch him. It was something about his hands, or maybe it was his hair that made her stomach churn—or perhaps it was the butterflies that fluttered so hard it made her insides hurt. Y/n didn’t want to think about what her best friend could do to her if this was under different circumstances.

“Have you been seeing that guy again?” Harry’s voice cut the silence, catching Y/n off guard. She thought that her brain was deceiving her when she heard his words. Flustered, she quickly looked at him, but soon saw his smug expression and decided against giving him what he wanted.

“Not since Ethan’s party, I think,” She said, tilting her head to the side as she answered. The light changed to green when Y/n turned her body towards him, noticing the way his tongue traced the inside of his cheek. The car lurched forward as Harry met Y/n’s gaze, his eyebrows raising in amusement. Rolling her eyes, Y/n turned her knees to the car door, choosing to look at a dog and its owner instead before she huffed.

“I wouldn’t see him again anyway, he was a shitty kisser.”

Harry hummed and nodded, clearly content with the answer. Y/n narrowed her eyes towards him as she raised an eyebrow; challenging his earlier demeanour.

“And I suppose you haven’t seen her since then either, hmm?” Y/n’s voice was sharp but slightly teasing and Harry sighed in annoyance, his body becoming frigid. He stared at the road for a few moments before telling his prepared answer, “No, I haven’t actually.”

Y/n nodded, a snigger playing on her lips as she fished her phone from the middle console. Her heart hammered against her ribs when she pulled up a particularly scandalous photo one of Harry’s frat brothers had sent her 3 days ago.

As Harry turned into the street of Y/n’s sorority, she decided it was the best time to confront him. Holding her phone up to his face as he pulled in next to the curb, Y/n’s lip was between her teeth, awaiting his reaction.

“Care to explain this then?” Harry had eyes like saucers as she pushed the phone further into his face. He threw his hands over his eyes and groaned loudly, “How do you have that? You can’t show anyone!”

Y/n threw her hands up, “Harold! She’s got a boyfriend, do you know how bad this looks?” She said, locking her phone and placing it into her lap.

“What are you doin’, H?”

Harry leant his head against the steering wheel, “I don’t know.” Y/n sighed and looked back out to the street, shaking her head in the process.

“Well, I’m going inside. So if you want to want to sulk here then go back to your house, you’re more than welcome to, or, you can come upstairs,” She said, hand on the door handle as she looked back at her best friend. Harry huffed and turned the car off before he opened the car door and slammed it closed.

—

Harry laid on the crisp, white sheets of Y/n’s bed, lulling in and out of sleep out of utter boredom. Y/n had gone downstairs to collect their dinner from McDonald’s 15 minutes ago and Harry couldn’t be bothered to open the door and ask where she was. Upon arrival, Y/n was laughing with her friend, Kayley whose room was next door to her own. The two girls joked about the fact that Harry was in her room, again, which caused Y/n to roll her eyes playfully, “Shut it!”

Y/n opened her bedroom door, a paper bag with the UberEats logo on the front in her hand and Harry’s eyes lit up as he jumped from the sheets. Finally, he thought as she placed it on her desk. As he leapt up, Y/n pulled the bag away, eyes narrowed at the boy.

“What are you doing?” She asked as she held the bag behind her back, out of Harry’s reach. His eyebrows furrowed and his head tilted, “Uh, ‘m hungry?” Y/n shook her head, she had to know.

“Not until you tell me what you did with her.”

Harry stood dumbfounded, why would Y/n care so much? He only scoffed and grabbed his keys and phone

“No.”

Y/n looked at the ceiling and shook her head again. Harry blinked at her, “Is there a problem with my answer?” He challenged, his eyebrow raised and tongue in his cheek.

“I don’t understand why you can’t just tell me, Harry,” Said Y/n, her frustration increasing as she moved to block the door. Y/n crossed her arms over her chest, the food still in one hand.

“Because, it really doesn’t matter to you, Y/n!”

Y/n laughed. She laughed in his face and Harry couldn’t seem to wrap his head around why she cared so much. The number of times Y/n was shaking her head, Harry swore it would fall off.

“It does matter to me, I’m your best friend,” She mumbled, “I’m just curious, Harry, in case something bad happens with her boyfriend.” and Harry sighed. His gaze fell to the floor, he didn’t really think about the consequences.

“Have you had sex with her?” Y/n’s voice was barely there but Harry heard her.

“No, we only make out, because she thinks sex would be cheating.” Y/n opened her mouth to counter the reasoning but decided against it, instead, she threw the bag of McDonald’s at Harry. He caught it in his arms, unsure of where to sit as the tension that built around them still hung. He chose the desk chair, pulling it out before he sat down.

Y/n sat cross-legged on her duvet, her 6 pack of nuggets, medium chips, and large coke in front of her. Her eyes were downcast as they ate in silence.

“Y/n...” Her head lifted quickly, meeting Harry’s gaze. His voice was soft and Y/n got nervous when his voice was that low.

“Why do you actually care what I do with her?” There it was; the burning question on Harry’s tongue and the unanswerable question Y/n was wishing he wouldn’t ask. She was at a loss for words as her mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water. After a few moments, she sighed deeply. Harry was suspicious, but he had a hunch, and his entire body ached to hear her confession; it was the main reason he even started seeing the girl with the boyfriend… to get Y/n off his mind—surprise!

“Do you want the truth? Even if it ruins us?” Y/n whispered, overwhelmed by her emotions and feelings and she couldn’t even express how fast her heart was beating. She regretted asking those questions as soon as they left her mouth. She’d ruined it all, and there was nothing she could do to get herself out now.

Harry nodded his lips in a tight line. He’d been waiting for this moment for years. There were years of pent up feelings in his brain that he swore would explode at any given day—and maybe today was the day.

Y/n couldn’t bring herself to say it. The stupid words that meant nothing and everything at the same time. The one thing her psychology course had taught her was that deliberate attempts to suppress thoughts often make them more likely to resurface, and that was exactly what was happening. She’d spent years pushing her feelings down, telling herself she wasn’t good enough for him, that she couldn’t satisfy him the way he needed, telling herself he wouldn’t love a girl like her.

Harry could tell she needed time to gather her thoughts and decided it was best if he left the room for a moment. However, Y/n thought the worst as his hand landed on the door handle.

“Where are you going?” Her voice shook tremendously and it scared Harry.

“You look like you need time to collect yourself, is all.” Wrong choice of words Harold! He was dumb, stupid, and felt like a downright fucking idiot. Y/n nodded once as tears brimmed her eyes.

“No! No, I didn’t mean it like that,” Harry panicked as he held his hands out cautiously.

“I love you!” Y/n froze from the force of his voice and didn’t seem to acknowledge what he was actually saying. The room, more the house, fell silent. Harry stood frigid, his head spinning from his outburst, but more from the weight his words held. His breath caught in his throat as Y/n blinked at the floor. Wait, what?

Her head snapped towards him, “What?”

Harry brought his hand to his hat and snatched it off his head and onto the floor. Y/n sat in confusion, what did the hat do to him?

Realisation overcame her features as she stared at him, her mouth open slightly. Harry felt like he couldn’t breathe, why wasn’t she saying anything?

After a while, a smile broke out on her face, “You’re not just saying that?” He shook his head repeatedly, stalking toward the bed before he sat directly beside her and taking her clammy hands in his shaky ones.

“I would never tease you like that.”

Y/n felt like she was floating, her head was light and her throat was closed with emotion.

“I guess I like you too, loser,” She smiled, looking at their hands together. Harry inhaled sharply as his eyes were fixed on her lips.

“Can I-” Y/n sensed his intentions and nodded softly, taking her hand from his and resting it on his cheek. It was the first time Y/n had seen him nervous since their senior formal when he was clasping the corsage on her wrist. The thought made her giddy as their noses brushed, the feeling making both their hearts skip.

“But, what about her?” Y/n’s voice broke the sweet silent they revelled in. It was a long time coming, but they finally got their feelings in check and Y/n was worrying about some other girl he saw twice? Harry wanted to riot.

“She’s got a boyfriend anyway,” He smirked before he placed his mouth on hers.

Feedback is always appreciated xx

#harry styles #harry styles imagines #harry styles x reader #harry styles imagine #harry styles one shot #fratboy!harry #fratboy! harry #one direction imagines #college!harry #college harry styles

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eat0crow · 3 years

Text

Not So Dead

Summary: Kakashi’s regretted a lot of things in his life. More than he can ever hope to put a number on. He never imagined not being more philosophical would make its way onto the list.

Notes: Written for @amusl02 as part of the @akatsuki-gift-exchange. I”m so sorry this is late!

You siad you wanted angst so I tried to be emo about it :D

_____

Kakashi’s never cared enough to worry about whatever bastardization of the afterlife his soul would end up in.

Most shinobi’s don’t as a general rule. How can they when they stain their hands with enough blood to fill hundreds of small basins for a paycheck? Sure, there’s a few like the Hyuga and the Uchiha, whose clan lore glamorizes battle so much they have a clear picture of their soul’s destination. But the general population of nins are more than happy with understanding that wherever their souls go...it can’t be anywhere good, and leaving it at that.

Avoiding the afterlife is a much more pressing, present, concern.

But fuck if the information wouldn’t come in handy right about now. He’s regretted a lot of things in his life. More than he can ever hope to put a number on. He never imagined not being more philosophical would make its way onto the list.

He should have listened to Sasuke when he’d had been explaining, in excruciating detail, to Naruto and Sakura just where the departed go, last night when they set up camp. He would have, but the temptation to remind Sasuke that technically, he was oversharing clan secrets, had been at the tip of his tongue and—

Seeing Sasuke start to open up, even if it was over something morose like death, with progress that was downright groundbreaking for him, kept Kakashi from saying anything. He’d never heard the boy talk even a third as much. So what was the harm in him giving away lore.

Sasuke is the clan, it’s his right to decide what gets guarded fiercely and what gets given away freely.

Tuning the kids conversation out, while immediately satisfying, evidently, had been a mistake. Because Kakashi has no fucking clue where he is. Probably not hell? He feels like his soul would be a lot more tormented than it is right now, if it was. Definity not heaven. Not ever heaven. Not after Rin. Or Obito. Or Kushina. Or Minato. Or—

All he knows for a fact is that he isn’t alive anymore. He can’t be. And it’s not the darkness that’s telling him that, not the nothingness or the weightlessness or the cold that seeps into his bones and bites at him harder than the chakra exhaustion that knocked him out had.

No, it’s none of that.

No.

It’s Obito that lets him know that he’s no longer part of the world of the living.

Obito, who’s older than he was the last time Kakashi saw him, who’s his age, which makes sense and doesn’t at the same time. Death, he supposes, gets to make its own set of rules. Whatever they are, aren’t nearly as important as the fact that Obito is here.

Not as the boy Kakashi remembers, who’d been sunshine and summer, warm smiles and endless hope. Or even as any of the variants he’s spent years creating as the answers to half his ‘what ifs’.

No, he’s here and all hard edges. Mangled and torn and cold and so much more beautiful in that he exists. That he’s in front of him. Kakashi has missed him, more with every precious person he’s lost, and the longer he’s lived. Seeing him with his arms crossed, with an orange, swirled mask dangling from his side that screams Naruto, is like stepping back in time. He feels like a genin. Albeit one with slightly more trauma, not to say he didn't already have his fair share than.

The glare on his face is like none of the expressions Kakashi can remember from his friend, but exactly what he always imagined when thinking about them meeting again in the next life. It causes a weird sense of validation to flood him. How could any of the people Kakashi failed possibly do anything but hate him?

Saving Kakashi was the last thing Obito had done, and for what? Him to turn around and kill Rin? For him to shove his hand through her chest and carve out her heart with lightning? Obito loved Rin, in every way he couldn’t. Didn’t want to, for that matter. Kakashi was happy to let her love him, if it meant she was happy and stayed in his life. Existing in her life, being her friend, was enough—all he was capable of.

Rin, was a butterfly. She was always destined to outgrow him once she found someone who loved her back, in the way she wanted and not just in the ways he could manage. She deserved to. Rin was amazing and wonderful and worth so much more than team seven.

He’d have been more than happy to let her fly away, if fate hadn’t been a bitch that decided thirteen was old enough for her to die.

“Bakakashi.” There’s a warning in Obito’s voice, his eyes are murderous, and it goes against every single one of Kakashi’s instincts to stay where he is. Not that he thinks he can move much. Apparently dying doesn’t come with a healing session, he still has all his injuries, and he feels just as drained as he did in Wave.

“Obito,” he finally says, he’s doing nothing to disguise any of the complicated knot of emotion that’s had more than a decade to tangle up from his voice. Maybe Obito will hear it and be able to understand them more than Kakashi himself does.

All he knows is that he’s feeling something.

Whether it’s a good something remains to be seen.

Though, he doubts that he can be part of any something that’s good.

Naruto, Sakura, Sasuke, they’re proof of that. He’d worried so much about them getting to keep their childhoods, he hadn’t actually prepared them for the reality of shinobi life. Despite team 7’s history of cursed C ranks, he’d let them take this mission with nothing more than academy skills and D ranks under their belts. Fuck.

And now he’d gone and died on them. He’d left them behind in the middle of Wave with no one.

Desperately, he hopes they have the common sense to terminate their mission and return to the village.

Realistically he very much doubts they do.

“Pay attention to me, God damn it,” Obito hisses at him, voice sharp-edged and dripping with venom. He’s standing at Kakashi’s feet, kunai angled toward his throat. When did he get there? It’s hard to focus in wherever the fuck they are. “I guess some things never change, huh?”

“That’s not true,” he answers, he can’t stop himself. It’s Obito. No amount of post mortem introspection is going to prevent him from being at least a little bit of a bastard to him. “I’m taller than you now.”

Obito’s breath catches. He freezes, goes impossibly still, his fingers curling around the hilt of his knife so tightly his arm shakes. “You don’t get it, do you?” That’s not his angry tone. No, Obito's beyond that. This is his furious one. The one Kakashi never actually heard but always assumed he had. “Unbelievable. Fifteen years. After fifteen fucking years, here I am, a living corpse standing over you with a knife to your god damned throat and you still won’t take me seriously.”

“That’s not true,” Kakashi says, only, his words come out thick, slurred together around his tongue and the black spots thickening in his vision. “I always pay attention to you.”

How could he not?

Above him, Obito looks seconds away from dismembering him. He says...something. All Kakashi can hear is the rush of blood in his ears. Whatever cutting remark that Obito has to say—that Kakashi deserves to hear—is lost over the sound of his breathing.

He doesn’t want to pass out. Not when he’s just gotten Obito back and there’s a good chance he’ll wake up somewhere else, alone. He doesn’t know how this whole afterlife thing works. He’s terrified that if he closes his eyes, he won’t have the chance to find out.

It doesn’t seem to be up to him, though. The darkness keeps slipping into his vision, the cotton clouding his brain getting thicker with every second he forces himself to stay conscious.

The last thing he sees before he's swept away in the waves of chakra exhaustion is Obito’s face, hovering inches from his own with something that might have been concern flashing across it.

Kakashi’s next return to the land of the not so living (purgatory?), is a bit easier. There’s less of the bone-deep cold from before and more of the floating sensation. Like he’s stuck somewhere with just enough gravity to keep him steady in one place. He doesn’t hurt as badly, the only aches he feels are the ones he’s always had. It would be stranger for him to wake up with them gone, so he counts himself fully healed.

He pushes himself up into a sitting position, his muscles stiff and protesting even with the simple movement. His side is tender, but, considering Kakashi remembers his ribs being broken by that fucking overgrown sword, it’s nothing more than an inconvenience.

“It’s not the same if you roll over and die,” a quiet voice says, off to his left. Kakashi blinks, his mask is gone, so is his hitai-ate. All he can do is run his hands over his face and blink the last bits of sleep from his vision. Obito’s breath doesn’t catch when he turns to look at him, which makes sense, assuming he was the one to take his mask off in the first place. And really, who else is there to do it? “I have to be the one to kill you.”

“Sorry,” he manages after what feels like a small eternity. His brain hasn’t caught up with his tongue just yet. “You can. If you want to.”

Keeping his shoulders intentionally relaxed, his movements loose and lazy in a way that takes effort, Kakashi reaches toward his thigh, grabbing the tanto still strapped there. For a moment he weights the blade in his hand. It's standard issue, the same one given out to all jounin. Nothing remarkable about it.

Handle out, he offers it up to Obito.

And Obito stares, for a long endless moment that stretches into the next. Around them the landscape echoes the tension in his shoulders, the dark grey nothing rising up into jagged peaks, sharpening with every fraction of tension that makes its way into his frame. “Just like that. After everything, you’re not going to fight back?”

“I would,” Kakashi says, looking away first. “If it was anyone else.”

“Then why?” Obito asks, searching.

Kakashi cuts him off before he can continue. “Because you deserve to. Obito, I’m the reason you died, if anyone has the right to run a blade through me it’s you.”

Long, spindly fingers curl around the handle of the blade, and even though they don’t touch his skin, Kakashi can feel the phantom sensations of them across his hand. “I’m not killing you for me, dumbass.”

Kakashi swallows hard around the lump in his throat. He still doesn’t turn to face him. It’s weird seeing Obito with only a single Sharingan flashing red in his face. In a way, it’s a bit like seeing his own reflection mirrored back to him, and Kakashi has never been good with looking at his own face. “I know, and if Rin or Minato or Kushina was here I would let them kill me, too. But they’re not.”

“So what,” Obito scoffs, harsh and cruel as he throws the tanto sheath. “I’m the consolation prize? A get out of jail free card? I’m here so I might as well absolve you of your guilt like a convenient little escape-goat, is that right? Do you even care?”

Obito laughs. It sounds like a sob. Like something wretched from a wounded animal that’s hurting and has been hurting for so long it’s forgotten how to feel any differently. Kakashi hates that sound, he really really hates it.

Before he can help himself, Kakashi turns, grabbing the hand not clutching the blade between them in a white-knuckled grip that looks painful, and pulls. The tanto goes chattering forward and Obito is mashed against him into something that might resemble a hug and what feels more like a lifeline.

“Of course I care,” Kakashi says into the crown of Obito's hair. He smells like clay and metal and something not quite natural that doesn’t matter nearly as much as his warmth against his chest. “You’re not an escape-goat Obito. You’re the one I owe the most to. I’m sorry I couldn’t find some way to make it up to you before I died and ended up here.”

Against him, Obito stiffens further, pushing away with bony elbows that dig into his stomach until clawed fingers make their way into the skin of his shoulders. Obito holds himself there, arms-length away and propped up enough for Kakashi to have to crane his neck to make eye contact. “Wait. What? Kakashi, where the fuck do you think you are?”

“I’m not entirely sure,” Kakashi says, doing his best to make his voice come out breezily. “I don’t know anything about the afterlife”s geography.”

Obito pinches his side, hard. “You’re not—Bakakashi—I’m not dead. Neither are you.”

“Wait, what?”

“How you—this whole time you thought you were dead?” Obito shakes him, throwing his whole body weight into moving Kakashi’s upper torso. “You were going to let me kill you a second ago!”

“In the metaphorical sense.” Kakashi raises an eyebrow at him, the confused look on his face natural with not even a bit of exaggeration. “I figured after you got your justice, I’d move on to whatever hell comes next.”

“You were bleeding when you came here. You’re sitting in a patch of dried blood right now.”

“I haven’t died before, I don’t know how death works.” Kakashi shrugs.

For all he knows the afterlife could just be a really bland version of...well life.

Maybe if he wasn’t recovering from the after-effects of what he now knows for a fact had originally been a concussion, he’d be a lot more suspicious. Probably not though, because even without the head injury he’d have a lap full of Obito and there is absolutely no way he could be skeptical about his living or dead status with his arms around the ghost of a boy he watched die.

“My heart's beating, you idiot.” Obito protests, reaching down and placing Kakashi’s palm flat against his chest. On reflex, Kakashi tries to jerk it away, the only time he ever touches anyone's chest is when he’s tasked with carving out their heart. Obito’s grip is crushing, though. He holds his hand there firmly in place, not allowing even a fraction of give. “Don’t you think It would be a lot more still if I was a ghost.”

Kakashi wants to say he doesn’t know. Wants to point out that he can’t feel Obito’s heartbeat through the overwhelming panic that's nipping across Kakashi’s skin—and fuck, if he didn’t already have enough triggers, he should have expected to have a little trauma surrounding this. He can’t get the words out of his throat, though. Not through his breathing, that’s coming out in harsh pants. Not over the panic attack that had no business ruining this and is a good chunk of time past due.

For his part, Obito just watches him through it. Immovable as he keeps his grip welded around Kakashi’s wrist.

Eventually, after however long time takes to move here, he forces his mind to steady itself and compartmentalize this into the little boxes in the far-off corners labeled do not revisit. When he finally does feel, not okay, he’s too shaky for okay, but solid, he makes the effort to feel what Obito’s trying to show him.

When he does, he’s met with the steady thump of a heart beating under his hand. It feels like a bird, beating its wings—and that’s enough of the fragile animal metaphors for today, thank you very much. “Oh. Oh you’re real.”

Obito blinks at him, and the final bits of anger that have steadily been falling away, drains out of him. “Yeah,” Obito breathes, letting go of Kakashi’s hand, finally, and slumping forward, back into his arms. “Yeah, Kakashi, I’m real.”

“You’re alive,” Kakashi whispers. His grip must be painful, but he can’t stop himself from tightening his hold. Afraid that Obito will slip away as some figment of his imagination the second he eases up. “You’re alive.”

“Come on now,” Obito huffs. Something hot makes its way to the crook of Kakashi’s neck. He can’t be bothered to check and see which one of them is crying. “You didn’t think I’d actually let Iwa kill me, did you?”

Yes.

Yes, Kakashi very much did. If he had suspected for even a second that Obito was still out there, somewhere, alive and whole, he would have hunted him down with enough vigor to make his ninken jealous.

But saying that feels cheap when actions speak louder than words and enough time has passed for anything along that vein to ring as hollow platitudes.

Kakashi thinks Obito expects him to get angry at him, to demand to know where he’s been for the last fifteen years. Don’t get him wrong, Kakashi wants to know, he really desperately does. But the answer isn’t nearly as important as the fact that Obito is alive and whole and with him, so instead he settles on asking, “Where is here, then.”

Obito lets out a breath, slumping impossibly more against him. “This is a part of Kamui. Somehow when you exhausted yourself, you managed to find your way into the pocket dimension created by the Sharingan. Since we share the same set, we can access the same place. You’re lucky I was already here. You really would have been dead if I wasn’t.”

“Oh,” Kakashi says, simply. He supposes, in a way it makes sense. Their Mangekyou can banish objects, it has to have a place to send them to. Maybe he caught himself in the reflection of Zabuza’s water prison.

Kaskshi closes his eyes, content to just hold Obito there. It’s not like he’s gotten the chance to be close to anyone recently, physically or otherwise. So while he’s hyper aware of every inch of skin Obito is touching, it feels good. In a reassuring, alive, kind of way.

They lapse into a comfortable silence, the only sounds around being their combined breathing which quickly takes the place of white noise.

Obito’s the one to break it, turning his face against Kakashi’s chest and looking up. “Hey, Bakakashi, if I asked to kill you right now, would you let me?” His voice is soft without the venom in it, with nothing to hide the uncertainty.”

Kakashi doesn’t have to think about his answer before he responds, “Yes.”

He’s not his father, he’s not about to throw himself down on his own blade just to run from his ghosts. But, he thinks if one of his ghosts, the one that’s not quite dead yet, wants him to be, that’s okay. It’s different.

“You’d really give me your life, just like that?”

“Just like that,” Kakashi agrees, because it really is that simple. For him at least.

He hopes though, that Obito will want to wait just a little bit longer to kill him. Kakashi’s waited so long to see him again, he’d hate to have to wait until the end of Obito’s life to do it. Though, that would be fitting, in an ironic sort of way.

“In that case,” Obito starts, moving to stand up. Kakashi helps him the best he can, supporting him with a gentle hand against his back even if he misses the warmth instantly. “Will you come with me?”

Part of Kakashi wants to ask Obito what he means, won’t he come back with him? Back to the village, to Konoha and….and a stone carved with the name of almost everyone that made the place a home.

A large part of Kakashi, the part that makes him bite his tongue, reminds him that Obito’s had fifteen years to make his way back to the leaf. Back to him. If he was going to return to the village it would have happened by now. No. If they’re going anywhere it’s going to be on Obito’s terms.

This time it’s Kakashi’s turn to chase after him.

So he doesn’t have to think about it before responding, “Okay.” The only thing truly holding him back is….Naruto, who won’t get another instructor who will look at him as anything but a monster and fuck, he can’t abandon him again, not after finally being allowed to see him. And Sakura who’s going to be flushed out as a paper nin, which is a complete waste of her potential. And Sasuke, who’s going to be snatched up by Danzo’s grimy hands the second he comes back to the village with no one to keep him in the light and away from the shadows and— “But I have some kids I need to pick up first.”

#naruto #crow writes #obito uchiha #kakashi hatake #kakaobi #kakashi x obito #akatsuki gift exchange

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scoundrels-in-love · 3 years

Text

Climb on your tears like a ladder to a rose, baby (There's a time to rest, There's a time to move on)

Three times Brienne doesn't have a birthday party and the one she does.

Also on AO3.

Disclaimer: This work is in no way or form related to author's personal life or personal wish fulfillment. /s

That said, early Happy New Year, everyone! Thank you for sharing so much love and creativity, whether in procuring new content or amazing comments, or pressing that kudos button! Best of wishes in the 2021, may we all find healing or at least a glimpse of hope it is possible.

Brienne is ten and there is a movie on the large, chunky TV that sometimes needs to be smacked to work right. Specifically, there's a birthday party scene, complete with pretty banners and colorful balloons in shapes she didn't know were sold, and they're singing Happy Birthday and the child is blowing out birthday candles. Making a wish. The girl shares it with her friend later and Brienne scoffs, because everyone knows you're not supposed to say your wishes out loud. (That way, your dad's eyes don't get sad when he knows he can't fulfill it.)

Other than that, she doesn't really think about it much, never has. It's as foreign to her as the palm trees and sipping juice from a coconut. She supposes it's real to someone, somewhere, but not to her. People of Tarth have a different song to sing, but most of them don't sing any at all, nor did they blow out candles before they picked the tradition up from Mainlanders recently.

At least, that's what Brienne thinks. It's not like she's been to any birthday parties. But that's what her dad has told her of how he grew up. And that's how it continues in their household.

She gets a tight hug and a kiss on top of her head and a few presents, and a cake that doesn't have a shiny candle in it, but tastes just as good.

It's good and it's warm, when winter winds run hungry for snow to chase, and she doesn't wonder if she'd be like that kid in the other movie, the one to whose birthday party no one came.

She doesn't.

She is twenty three and she is picking out her own birthday cake. Her eyes skip over the number candles, because she's far too old for that kind of thing, and she doesn't even want the cake. She just doesn't want to think how sad he'd be if she didn't buy it. It’s her first after his passing and the thought of his worry is sharp. It’s never been deserved, but inescapable, because that’s what parents do, except she never managed to do what children are supposed to - to provide and take care so the final years are long and kind.

The cake blurs slightly as she exits the store, across the street from her apartment complex that seems to have lost the last of its colors in these winter months and the few strung up Sevenmas lights highlight that.

Brienne thinks her peers would call her insane if she told them she thinks winter in King's Landing is a lot more bleak than the ones she spent on Tarth. There is sharp quality to the contrast between the pale sky and darkening, rich color of water, even the jagged cliff edges stretching toward the horizon. It keeps one vigilant, wakeful. Here, the mild autumn grows more dulled and wraps everyone in an unassuming cocoon that slowly drifts toward spring, which finally hatches not quite rested.

But they have called her uglier things, too.

"Words are wind," her dad would tell her, but the wind isn't the same here, it doesn't take anything with it, only swirls dust around her. Brienne chokes on it, chokes on the echo as well.

Her father had loved the best he could, loved her truly, and if that rent ravines in her ribs, prone to collapsing in on themselves until she stacks them up again like a house of cards, then what hope of being loved gently, wholly, purposefully does she have?

She misses being hugged and told it's okay even when it's clearly a lie. She misses the certainty that her own love wasn't selfish. "He is in a better place now," they had told her, as if it didn't mean she had failed him utterly, repeatedly, until she had carved a crypt in the stone with her pacing?

Brienne falls asleep crying in a bed that doesn't feel hers, but she can't remember last time anything did.

III

Brienne is twenty eight and she pauses at the hallway mirror to fix her ponytail. There is half eaten cake on the kitchen table, bought at half price as leftover from Sevenmas, and a freshly opened wine bottle. It's the same kind her dad had brought her for her eighteenth birthday and she's never bothered to find another one she likes. (It tastes like the kind of summer she's never had.)

In this light, it's hard to tell if the shadows beneath her eyes are from the bit of mascara she had tried to scrub away a minute ago or the exhaustion she unintentionally cultivates like a little succulent garden on the windowsill.

She doesn't focus on the ugly or the beautiful of her face now, it's not what caught her attention. Brienne just stares at her reflection and thinks how she looks neither young nor old, that she just is. And that she has no idea what it means.

Shouldn't she know? Shouldn't she know by now? Shouldn't she be past the age where she is grabbing at dream colored smoke? Shouldn't she...

Brienne looks away before the first tears fall.

She eats her cake and thinks how her dad had told her that hawthorn and cranberries alike turn almost sweet after the first frost. How many frosts have been there now? Brienne's lost the count and the feeling of warmth alike.

She ends up drinking a little too much of the wine and going to bed early, looking at the single candle-look alike flickering on the table and willing herself to sleep after this completely ordinary day that should’ve been something, but it never is. (She isn’t.)

+ IV

Brienne is thirty six and her sides hurt from laughing.

She extracts herself from the couch corner, which Jaime immediately expands into like a lazy cat while flashing her a grin. When she comes back, he might try to coax her into his lap and maybe she will even concede.

She opens another juice carton and refills her glass, leans against the counter and watches her friends arguing over a board game in the living room. It's odd, to know you belong and yet to be so aware of it in this moment, and she cannot quite throw herself back in there, even though it is no mirage she could simply crash through. Instead, Brienne follows the cool and tethering moonlight that has looped itself around her feet.

She steps out into the garden - because that's a thing she has now. There is a thin, crunchy layer of snow that will bite through her fluffy slippers any moment now, chasing her back inside. But for now, she cranes her face toward the sky, sending white little puffs of breath chasing after clouds that slip across the moon.

The door opens behind her and she doesn't look who it is, because there's no one here that she'd want to hide away from. She's lucky, Brienne thinks, that trust was never a truly foreign concept to her, though she's had to learn how to expand it and recognize its many forms like a toddler would with a shape sorter.

Arms wrap around her waist and Brienne allows herself to lean back and rest against Jaime's chest as he props his chin on her shoulder. She considers telling him that she's fine, because she likes to say that, now that she knows how it feels to truly mean it, even if it's not every day. Instead, she allows the bittersweet ache in her chest to mend itself with his quiet warmth.

She hopes that next time she dreams of her dad, she can tell him of this night, to not worry quite so much, and that peace sounds a little like the sound of her friends' laughter drifting through the door left ajar and Jaime humming in her ear.

#Jaime x Brienne #braime #braime ff #rainy writes stuff #my fic

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