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olivia-anderson-fanfic · 3 years

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Stalker X Stalker, Part 8

First

Perma tag: @nathleigh @peachmuses

Stalker x Stalker taglist: @aespades @jayjayspixiepop @blueslushgueen @fan-written @seraphichana @nerd-nowandforever @toodaloo-kangaroo

Tim woke up the next morning, because that’s how things work.

He fought back a groan as he slowly flexed each muscle individually, making sure that everything was still working. To his surprise, it actually was. His brain stuttered to a stop. Why had he been asleep, then? He was pretty sure it wasn’t his usual sleep day…

Then, he finally processed the fact that his face was pressed to something that definitely wasn’t his pillow.

He cracked an eye open. He was laying on top of Marinette, head resting on her stomach. She was still asleep, he noted, one of her hands was thrown over her eyes and the other tangled in his hair.

He vaguely considered just staying there. He could stay in that position forever…

Except he couldn’t. He had responsibilities. He was pretty sure that if he skipped both patrols and work his family would assume he’d been brainwashed in some way.

So, reluctantly, he pushed himself up and reached a hand out to poke Marinette awake.

She grumbled a little and caught his hand, blinking her eyes open. She looked up at him for a moment, uncomprehending in her sleepy state, and he couldn’t help but smile. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to her forehead before clambering away from their tangle of limbs so he could take a quick shower and get ready.

First, though, he started up the coffee machine. He’d known that she’d had coffee, he’d been there when she bought it... but, really, if she was worried enough to lie about it he’d at least try and alleviate those fears a little.

That done, he took a quick shower. He already had a towel and toothbrush at the house -- wow, Marinette really wasn’t joking, he had basically moved in already, oops -- so he used those.

Then he pulled on the outfit she’d made him. By the time he needed help lacing up the corset, Marinette had stumbled into the room in a daze.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hello?”

She held out one of two mugs for him and he was forced to hide his smile behind his cup.

“Could you help me with this,” he asked.

She nodded and downed her entire mug before walking behind him. He felt her forehead tip forward to rest against the back of his shoulder as she worked and he was very glad she couldn’t see his face because he was sure that he was beginning to get redder than their costumes.

She pulled the lace tight and tied it off and he had no clue if the tightness in his chest was because she had laced him too tightly or because of nerves but either way he didn’t really mind. He turned back around, pressing another kiss to her forehead.

“I’ll see you later?”

She smiled at him. “I’ll make some bacon for you to eat on the go. Don’t want you to be hungry.”

He considered saying no but, really, he didn’t see her all that often in the morning and he had to admit that it was pretty cute. “If you remember to make some for yourself then sure.”

She hummed a little and turned around to go make food. He’d check on her in a few minutes to make sure she hadn’t fallen back asleep while cooking.

For now, he absently checked his clothes over for bugs. It was an old habit from years of living with the bats and, had he been even slightly more awake, he wouldn’t have done it.

Except he did. And there, hidden in the cuff of his shirt, was a bug.

… he hadn’t even been this happy when Damian had bugged him for the first time. She cared about him and his well-being! He was accepted!

When he made his way back into the kitchen he made sure to give her a long hug.

Marinette was so tired. She had been working on attaching the diamonds to Cassandra Wayne’s dress and there were so fucking many.

So, when Robin climbed through her window, all she did was give a vague wave of acknowledgement.

“You need better window locks,” he informed her.

“Most people don’t know how to pick every lock in existence, kid.”

“But some do.”

She thought about whether or not she really wanted this to be the argument that took up valuable work time. The answer was no, definitely not.

She finally turned to face him, resting her cheek against the couch. She didn’t know Damian personally outside of messing with Tim when they were in their superhero identities, she wasn’t even completely sure that this was Damian (though he did match up with the measurements she had for his outfits), so there was no good reason for him to be there.

She squinted suspiciously at him. Now that she was paying attention, she could see that he had his hands behind his back.

“What do you want?”

“I saw on your lease that you are allowed to have pets in your apartment.”

Oh no.

“Please tell me you didn’t,” she whispered, her voice close to begging.

He slowly brought his hands out from behind his back to reveal a black cat with almost luminous green eyes. She rested her head in her hands, taking deep breaths to remain calm.

“I wish to coparent with you.”

“... your dad didn’t let you get another pet?”

(Yes, she knew about the pet problem. She had seen Batcow. She had seen the Batbats all over the cave that he had apparently taken in.)

He cleared his throat awkwardly. “Possibly.”

She slowly lifted her head from her hands to glare at him. Unfortunately for her, he puffed out his little baby cheeks in a pout and, even if most of what she did was played up to mess with Tim, she was weak for little kids that look sad.

“Fine. But you’re paying for everything and you better actually help me take care of it.”

“She! And her name is Vanelope!”

“Van --?” She decided she didn’t care. She glanced at Damian’s still disapproving expression and rolled her eyes before leaning down to be at the cat’s eye level: “I’m sorry for calling you an ‘it’, Vanelope.”

He nodded, apparently satisfied by her begrudging apology.

“C’mon, put Vanelope down, we’re going to the pet store.”

Damian beamed. She pulled the front of his hood down over his eyes in retaliation for the dumb situation he’d put her in. Revenge achieved, she transformed and ducked out her window before she could get stabbed.

Scarecrow’s parties were always the best.

For one thing, there was the haunted house. Scarecrow took the whole ‘scaring people’ thing very seriously, it was his whole shtick, so you could always count on him to dream up the best haunted houses. Even better, he’d give out brownies laced with minute traces of fear toxin to make the whole thing just a little bit scarier.

Speaking of brownies: the food. Tim was pretty sure that some of the stuff served at the parties could rival the things Marinette and Alfred made.

Then there were the venues he picked. They had to get bigger every year, what with Bruce’s adoption problem and the Rogue’s ever-expanding roster. This year the man had rented out an entire park and the building nearby. The building had a dance floor and a kind of second floor that overlooked everyone. The park held all the people that the building could not.

Add in the fact that every single person was probably clinically insane in some way or another and you’d have the reason for why he was always excited to go.

Tim attended the party as a Red Robin employee. He had to, it was on brand.

Marinette raised her eyebrows when she saw him. She’d gotten there before him, which had been a little bit of a surprise. He’d thought she’d at least wait for a few vigilantes to come to make sure it was safe --.

Oh. Nevermind. He stifled a grin when his eyes landed on a blonde in an outfit he recognized as Cassie’s. He was pretty sure dressing up as Wonder Girl was betraying the bats but he wasn’t going to be the one to call Steph out on it. Cassie was pretty cool...

Cassie -- no, Steph -- was suddenly grabbed by the arm by an excited Marinette and pulled her over to him. Marinette was wearing a pirate costume and he suspected that the bottle of wine in her free hand was more than an accessory.

“Red Robin, yum~,” both women chorused.

He rolled his eyes. “They’ve infected you already. Soon you’ll be disappearing into the shadows without ending conversations.”

Marinette grinned, the corner of her mask (now tinted black in some places to mimic a pirate’s beard) twitching. “It’s about time you assholes got a taste of your own medicine.”

Tim rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Whatever.” He leaned down and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Y’know, for someone who didn’t like the idea of the party before, you sure did get into your outfit.’

“Please, I put effort into all my outfits.”

“Except for the Ladybug one,” teased Steph.

She huffed. “I was on a time crunch --.”

Tim grinned. “That’s no excuse.”

“... you had thought about it for who knows how long and not only did you come up with the name Drake, but you also came up with an ugly brown outfit. You don’t get a say in this.”

Steph grinned. “And me?”

“Your outfits are okay,” said Marinette after a few second’s thought.

Tim gasped in mock offense. “And I thought we were friends.”

“Friends call each other out for their stupid fashion choices.”

Steph smirked and slung her arm around Marinette’s shoulders. “And, really, you need an intervention.”

When did they start ganging up on Tim?

“Whatever. This outfit is nice, so that makes up for all past mistakes.”

“It’d be nicer if you didn’t make the same joke every year,” Steph teased.

He huffed and pouted, but then something caught his eyes. Dick had arrived, Tim could see him perched on a second floor railing in his work clothes… of course, the name tag marking him as Nurse Grayson was gone, but it was still the same light blue scrubs.

He paled a little under his domino for two reasons. The first was the instantaneous worry about their identities; sure, Gotham had many medical workers, but who knows, Gotham and Bludhaven twitter both insisted that Dick had a very distinct body. The second was Marinette was going to end up liking Dick quite a lot -- she already looked up to him for his fighting style, there was no way she was going to be able to resist the signature Grayson charm that had won over every superhero, vigilante, and villain on Earth (and a few other planets as well).

He knew that, inevitably, Dick would win her over… but he was definitely going to stall it as much as he possibly could.

So, he pulled a grin to his face. “Oh, Ladybug, you haven’t gone in the haunted house yet, have you?”

She gave him a slightly wary look. “I don’t do good with scary things.”

He grinned. “I’ll protect you.”

She raised her eyebrows slightly before sighing. “Fine.”

So, they made their way across the park to the haunted house. Scarecrow had, somehow, built an entire house in the one month since he had broken out of Arkham. It looked like it had been torn right out of a video game, with the blackened, decaying, and peeling wood and rickety steps.

Jonathan Crane smiled when he saw the two of them approaching. He was dressed as a scarecrow, but the one from the Wizard of Oz instead of the creepy one he was usually dressed as.

“Crane!” Tim greeted.

Crane held out the plate of fear toxin brownies for them. “Nice to see you, Red Robin. And nice to meet you, Ladybug.”

Marinette blushed a little, her head tipping to the side. “I’d shake your hand but you haven’t set down that tray the entire time I’ve been here. Starting to think you can’t.”

He laughed a little. “I appreciate the sentiment.”

Tim smiled a little and popped a brownie in his mouth. Fear toxin tasted a lot like chili powder and, he had to admit, it was pretty good.

Marinette took a brownie with a lot more hesitance.

“Oh! Have you been exposed to fear toxin yet?” Asked Crane before she could take a bite.

Marinette looked a little worried about the use of the word ‘yet’.

Marinette shook her head, though. “No.”

“Then your immunity isn’t built up. I’d suggest just eating half of that.”

She nodded thoughtfully and broke the brownie in half. She held the halves in her hand awkwardly, unsure what to do now.

“I’ll take the half you haven’t eaten,” suggested Crane.

He set down the tray -- Tim swore he could hear a cartoon sound effect as the man struggled to unstick his hand to the metal -- and took her other half.

“Since it’s a lower dose it’ll probably take longer to take effect,” said Tim. “We’ll have to wait a bit so you can have the full experience.”

Marinette took a tentative bite and her eyes lit up. “This is really good. What’s your recipe?”

Apparently, Crane had once tried to replicate the taste with normal chili powder and had fallen short. Tim watched the two of them theorize what it could be that his attempts had been missing. It was clear that Marinette had missed living in a bakery more than she was willing to admit and, unfortunately, none of the bats were particularly good at even cooking basic meals, let alone the kinds of things she was able to do. Alfred was the only exception and, even then, Bruce wouldn’t let him near her most of the time because of Identity Reasons. Tim was glad that she had someone to talk to about it, he just kinda wished that that person wasn’t a Rogue.

Tim jolted out of watching them when Marinette started rubbing up and down her arms absently. Ah, the toxin must be setting in for her now.

“Ladybug, ready to head inside?”

She blinked and looked up from the conversation. “Oh. Sure. I’ll talk to you later!”

“I’ll try not to get thrown into Arkham by anyone else while you’re gone,” joked Crane.

Tim grinned and took Marinette’s hand, pulling her inside.

It turns out she actually wasn’t all that good with scary things. Or, at least, jumpscares. She clung to his arm, dull nails doing their best to dig into his skin.

On one hand, he kind of felt bad for telling her to come along. On the other hand he thought it was kind of cute, maybe the next movie they watched together could be a horror.

He would probably be able to enjoy it a little more if he wasn’t tripping out on fear toxin himself. There was a creepy little girl following them around and he wasn’t going to acknowledge her and her creepy little white clothes because talking to hallucinations is always bad.

But then, towards the end, she disappeared.

He didn’t like that either. It set him on edge. It shouldn’t, the fear toxin was just wearing off… but he didn’t feel like it was wearing off. He was still a little shaky and the buzzing under his skin was still present, so maybe she’d been real and something was up.

He got his answer when he heard the sound of little feet dashing overhead.

Marinette squeaked and her grip on his arm tightened, somehow.

When the end was in sight and Tim was waiting anxiously for the final scare, he heard someone running towards them. High pitched laughter echoed around them.

“Oh fuck no,” he yelped when he saw the little girl running towards them, arms outstretched, pretty white dress splattered with red.

Marinette seemed to agree with the sentiment. She nearly pulled his arm out of its socket as she pushed herself into a sprint. He stumbled awkwardly a few steps before catching his footing and returning the tight grip.

And then, like the vigilantes with nerves of steel they were, they ran from the child.

She tried to look calm when the door swung shut behind them. She was pretty good at managing her emotions, she thought (or, at least, good at pushing them down).

But it wasn’t necessary because, when they reached the safety of the outside, they were handed a framed picture of them sprinting away from the creepy little girl, horror written plainly on their faces.

She blushed, more than a little embarrassed.

Thankfully, she was quickly distracted from her embarrassment. Her eyes landed on Bruce, who was dressed as a vampire. She waved for his attention, intending to point out the similarities in their outfits to mess with him, only for his eyes to zero in on the wine bottle in her hand.

Marinette mumbled a curse.

She turned and pressed a ‘kiss’ to Tim’s cheek through her mask. “Gotta go,” she chirped, before promptly disappearing into the crowd.

Alright, time to avoid Bruce. Where is the last place she’d be? Actually, no, he’d probably check the last place...

Her eyes landed on where Poison Ivy and Harley Quinn were hanging out by the drinks.

Hm... a negative (people she was wary about) and a positive (drinks!) to balance each other out. A good middle ground.

She walked over and picked up a weird drink with a lot of different candies sticking out of it. She did not know why Scarecrow felt the need to sully the good name of alcohol with American candies but, since it was apparently the only option, she slipped a straw under her mouth to drink.

The drink was taken from her fingers.

She looked at her now-empty hand, brain struggling to catch up, straw hanging limply from her mouth. Then she spat out the straw and cursed.

She slowly turned to look at the person who had stolen it from her, expecting to see a disappointed Bruce, only to meet eyes with Poison Ivy.

(Ivy had dressed up as a stereotypical martian. Marinette wondered, vaguely, if actual aliens were ever offended when people dressed up like the movie versions of them.)

“I’d like that back, thanks,” she said, reaching for the drink.

She held it out of reach -- holy shit she was tall -- and raised an unimpressed eyebrow at her. “You’re a child.”

“I’m nineteen.”

“Exactly: a child,” she said.

Marinette rolled her eyes. Was this how Damian felt? Damn, no wonder he was always so angry about it… but, to be fair, Damian actually was a child. She was nineteen. She had a job and an apartment. Completely different.

But, since convincing Ivy she wasn’t a child wasn’t working, she had to come up with a new approach: “I’ve been drinking since I was six.”

For some reason, this didn’t seem to soothe the woman in front of her.

Thankfully, Harley Quinn -- who was wearing a knockoff Riddler costume -- decided to take pity on her: “Let her drink, Ives, Europeans drink differently than we do.”

Marinette and Poison Ivy exchanged confused looks. Marinette hadn’t gone out drinking with anyone properly in America outside of occasionally dropping into bars to trick old men into giving her drinks and then disappearing. Poison Ivy just, apparently, wasn’t aware of the difference.

“For them it’s a social thing, they don’t really get drunk like we do.”

Ivy hesitated. “You don’t get drunk?”

“I mean… we can get drunk,” she said slowly. She cringed visibly. “I did, once. The day I turned eighteen my mom told me ‘Just this once, to see what it’s like’... the pictures… they deleted them, but I will never live it down...”

She reached for the drink again and, this time, Ivy gave it to her. She was lucky she had her mask to hide the smirk on her face.

When Poison Ivy didn’t leave after that, Marinette knit her eyebrows together. The woman blushed (she blushed green?) and Harley pushed her towards Marinette a step.

“I would like to apologize for how we met…” Ivy said slowly. “Joker was an asshole in Arkham and I’d had a fight with Harley and I guess I just…” She snapped her fingers.

Marinette raised her eyebrows. “It’s fine. It’s not the first world-ending event I’ve had to stop because someone had had a bad day.”

Harley hesitated. “That’s… different.”

She shrugged. “New city, same shit… just sometimes easier, I guess. People are actually scared of Joker?”

“Now, that isn’t very nice!” Said a painfully cheery voice behind her.

She’d summoned him.

Marinette took a long, deep breath, before turning around to greet Joker and Punchline. They were dressed as circus clowns, because of course they would. “Hey! Still alive, I see.”

Joker smiled, like he always did. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Pretty sure you’ve died more than B-man over there,” said Harley.

“No clue why they keep bringing you back.”

Marinette’s eyebrows scrunched together. The man had died? And they had brought him back? Willingly? Weird.

“It’s ‘cause I’m Batsy’s favorite,” cooed Joker.

“Favorite punching bag, maybe,” said Ivy.

Marinette, wisely, decided to back up a step so she wasn’t between the two fighting groups.

“At least people pick him as their first choice,” said Punchline.

“You’d be the expert on what it’s like to be the second choice, I guess, since you’re just me but purple,” said Harley.

“I’m you but self-aware,” Punchline corrected her.

Ivy raised her eyebrows. “Some would say that’s worse.”

Punchline almost punched her.

She didn’t stop because of some amazing show of self-restraint, of course. Nightwing had just chosen that moment to drop down between the two groups. And then Nightwing, with his all-amazing powers of getting pretty much everyone on his side, got them to declare a truce and go to opposite sides of the room.

Marinette was a little disappointed as she took a sip of her drink. It had just started getting good.

But also: Nightwing!

“Is it true that you can do a quadruple somersault?”

Nightwing smiled widely.

Tim was beginning to think that maybe Marinette was so interested in Dick because she was secretly his long lost sister or something. They had the same ability to make even some of the worst people like them.

But, no. Dick having a secret half sister or something? How stupid would that be?

Still, Tim had seen her making friends with: all of his siblings that lived in Gotham, Scarecrow, Poison Ivy, Harley Quinn, Dick (damn it, he’d hoped he could keep them apart just a little longer)... the only people she hadn’t gotten to like her were Punchline and Joker, and even then she was choosing to annoy them, who knows what would happen if she actually tried to befriend them… and now she was hanging out with Riddler...

He sat next to them on their bench. “I’m beginning to think you can’t make friends with anyone normal.”

She grinned. “It’s a blessing and a curse.”

Riddler (dressed as the gameshow host he would probably be if he hadn’t gone off the deep end) looked over at Tim with barely hidden disdain. “Red Robin,” he greeted coolly.

Marinette frowned. “Why don’t you like him?”

“Him and all the bats… they always answer my riddles before I finish telling them.”

“Well, that’s an easy fix: Red, wait until he finishes telling the riddles before answering.”

He scoffed. “Why would I?”

“For the drama!” Riddler said in a tone that made it obvious he thought it was obvious.

“Half the time you have people’s lives on the line. Lower the stakes and maybe we’ll be more attuned to the dramatic tension.”

Riddler scowled. “You bats just don’t appreciate my art.”

“You’d think that they’d be all for drama.”

“Right? They have a whole brooding cave! But I want high stakes and suddenly I’m too concerned with the vibes of things.”

Marinette grinned and leaned towards Riddler conspiratorially. “They have more than a brooding cave. They have brooding gargoyles, brooding rooftops, brooding cars… I once caught Red over there brooding on his motorbike. Who can brood on a motorcycle? It’s a motorcycle!”

Tim huffed. “I thought we agreed to keep that a secret.”

“Sorry, darling, it’s just too easy to mess with you.”

Tim started to respond, but then he realized something.

‘Darling’?

That could mean one of three things. He needed to excuse himself from the conversation to figure out which was the truth.

He sent the two of them a halfhearted glare. “I will not put up with this bullying any longer.”

“Fine, fine. If you’re going to come back, bring me a cookie.”

Tim rolled his eyes. “If I must.”

With that, he turned on his heel and strode off, a man on a mission.

After questioning all of the family she had talked to (she had yet to meet Jason, apparently), he determined that she didn’t use nicknames all that often. When she did it was usually just to make things quicker for herself. The only people outside of him that she ever used nicknames for were Bruce (‘B’) and maybe Damian (‘kid’).

And he had a nickname like that, too, of course. She called him ‘Red’ from time to time, probably just because she was too lazy to go through the hassle of saying his entire codename.

… but ‘darling’ was different. He had a pet name. In both identities, apparently.

Which meant one of two things:

a) he was special to her in both identities

or b) she knew he was Red Robin.

He was kinda hoping for the first one, but he wasn’t about to let emotions cloud his judgement. He sought out the world’s only accurate lie detector.

He found her surveying the crowd with Jason. They looked like they’d been transported directly from the renaissance, with her plague doctor outfit and his Shakespeare costume.

Tim grinned at them despite his slight anxiety. “Nice of you to bring a Green Arrow costume back from Star City, Flamebird.”

Jason touched the ugly goatee and mustache that both of them shared before sending him a glare. “And you all wonder why I don’t come home more often.”

“Really? I thought it was because you and Roy were --.”

Jason’s face reddened with either anger or embarrassment, Tim didn’t know and didn’t particularly care as his brother left them in a huff.

He couldn’t see Cass’s face but he could feel the disapproval.

“I just… I wanted to ask you something in private…”

Cass didn’t leave, so he assumed it was okay.

“Does Ladybug know our identities?”

Cass was motionless for a moment and he wished she didn’t have such a bulky outfit because it was hard to get a read on her…

And then she nodded, tapping the side of her forehead (the sign for ‘know’) to further emphasize the point.

He looked down at where Marinette was excitedly describing something to an enthused Riddler.

He’d been anxious about her finding out but, now that she had, he found that it was a huge weight off his shoulders. She knew who he was and she accepted it.

He leaned against the railing, a smile threatening to make its way across his face.

She accepted him.

#stalker x stalker #maribat #timari #timmari #shutterbug #timinette #marinette dupain cheng #ladybug #tim drake #red robin #it isn't important but #duke went as miles morales's spiderman #damian went as batman #also pediatric nurse!dick grayson lives in my head rent free

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cuddlepilefics · 3 years

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Nap time, baby

Fandom: Stray Kids

Little: Chan

Caregiver: Felix

No one’s POV.:

Working on their new album, 3racha and especially Chan were getting back to the dorm later and later each night. Today was especially tough because JYP rejected almost half of the songs they had been working on. When the clock was nearing two in the morning, Chan sent his two dongsaengs home. It was obvious that Changbin had been struggling with a headache for the past few hours and Jisung was spacing out so much, the leader doubted he was as awake as he claimed to be. The two also didn’t put up as much of a fight as he had them expected to, though they begged him to go back to the dorm with them. Chan couldn’t afford going back yet. There was still so much work to do and it would only continue to pile up if he didn’t get it done with now. Sure, he was beyond exhausted but even if he went home with his friends now, he wouldn’t be able to sleep, knowing what was waiting at the studio for him the next day. To make matters worse, Chan started do doubt his composing skills with how many of their new songs had been cancelled. He had poured his heart out on the paper and hearing that that wasn’t enough for Stay hurt him more than he wanted to admit. Still he didn’t want to give those songs up completely, so when Changbin and Jisung left, he opened those files and played around a bit. Maybe with a bit more editing, they would be good enough.

When Chan finally locked up the studio and went home for the night, it was five in the morning. He shuffled into the dark and quiet dorm, knowing he was the only one still up. He didn’t even bother to take a shower because he knew he had to be back at the company in only a few hours and he wanted to get the most sleep out of the time he was given. Tiptoeing into the room he shared with Changbin and Felix, he found both of his dongsaengs knocked out in their beds. Changbin’s face looked so much more peaceful and his eyebrows weren’t furrowed in pain like they were earlier. Just to be sure, the leader quickly collected painkillers and a bottle of water and placed them on the rapper’s nightstand. Hopefully Changbin wouldn’t need them and would be fine when he woke up. Then he took off his shirt and slipped into bed, letting the softness of his blanket envelop him. As his tense muscles relaxed into the mattress, it took almost no time for sleep to pull him under.

Everything was dark around them, the music had just ended and now there was silence. No reaction from the crowd in front of them, the lightsticks turned off. Looking around, he found the terrified faces of his dongsaengs, waiting desperately for the usual cheers that they got after a performance but there was nothing, just a black ocean of silence and it was slowly drowning them. He hadn’t worked hard enough, didn’t produce good enough music. He was the reason his members, his brothers had to experience their first black ocean. When the first tears fell from the youngers’ eyes, Chan couldn’t take it anymore. This was his fault because he was a terrible leader, a terrible friend and a terrible hyung. He just wasn’t enough. His head started to spin and slowly got fuzzier as his throat tightened with the urge to cry. He felt like falling as the darkness swallowed him.

Panting Chan shot up in bed, still feeling fuzzy and still surrounded by darkness. He couldn’t see anything in the dark that surrounded him, he felt lost and alone as a sob tore from his throat. There was some quiet shuffling, which Chan couldn’t hear over his cries, before the darkness disappeared, illuminated by a bedside lamp on the other side of the room. Then there were arms around him, he wasn’t alone anymore. In the dim light, Chan blinked at his Aussie brother through tears and buried his face in the worried boy’s shoulder. “Hey, hey, it’s okay mate. Whatever you thought was happening, it was just a dream”, Felix soothed in a low voice, running his hand up and down the older’s bare back. The only reply he got were more sobs and he looked over at his other hyung, who was still knocked out on the third bed in the room. Carefully, the dancer grabbed Chan’s arm and pulled him to his feet, guiding him to the living room. The leader was clinging to him like his life depended on him, like he would lose him in the darkness, that could return at any moment.

“Hyung, …too dawk – not enough”, Chan whimpered, while Felix tried to wipe the tears that just continued to run down the leader’s cheeks. Finally, it clicked and Felix realized the other had slipped into his headspace. He removed his hands from Chan’s face and let the little bury his head in his chest. Chan soon started to suck on the fabric of Felix’ sleep shirt, leaving a wet spot, and slowly his breathing evened out and the tears stopped falling as the only thing he focused on were Felix’ heartbeat close to his ear and the calming scent of his shirt. When Felix felt the other had calmed down enough, he whispered: “You’re okay now, kangaroo. It was just a nightmare, not real at all.” Chan nodded and glanced at the clock, realizing he had only had about two hours of sleep. Whining, he pressed himself closer to Felix, who chuckled and ruffled his head. “Want to try and sleep some more?”, he asked, ready to tuck the little back in. Chan shook his head and whimpered. He knew the bad dreams would come back to haunt him, if he dared to close his eyes again. The caregiver sensed his fear and turned on the TV, searching for a cartoon to distract the little. It seemed to work and Chan even tolerated him leaving the room for a moment. He wanted to get the little a hoodie and make some hot chocolate. The leader giggled cutely when Felix put the hoodie over his head and pulled the hood over his face for a second. When his eyes fell on the cup of hot chocolate, covered in marshmallows and sprinkles, he immediately made grabby hands at it and the caregiver had to remind him to slow down or else he’d burn his tongue. The nightmare long forgotten, the two Aussies enjoyed their cartoon and cuddled on the couch waiting for the rest of the group to wake up. Sure, Felix was tired and cursed having to get up early but it wasn’t earlier than necessary. If he could get up early for their schedule, he could get up early for his little too.

Before they knew it, an hour had passed and the members sleepily shuffled into the kitchen to quickly force down a small breakfast before they’d have to head to their schedule. Minho was the first to spot the two Aussies on the couch and approached them, asking what they were doing up so early. Felix sighed and sat up with Chan still in his lap, explaining: “Our little Channie here woke up about an hour ago from a bad nightmare and he was too scared to go back to sleep, so we just stayed here.” – “Oh, he slipped?”, the second oldest asked. They all knew about their leader’s headspace, although it had been a while since he last slipped. Felix nodded, whispering that it was about time after neglecting his little side for weeks. Minho could only agree and promised Felix he’d find a way to let both him and Chan stay at the dorm today. The leader wouldn’t like taking a day off but he needed to rest and hopefully being little would make him comply easier. After breakfast, Changbin sat down next to his roommates on the couch. “Don’t worry about today, Jisung and I will have it handled at the studio and Minho and Hyunjin said, they’d just teach you they dance moves for the new choreography some other time”, the rapper smiled, “Just please get our kangaroo here to rest because I’m honestly surprised how he can still go on with how little sleep he has had recently. It’s good he finally slipped, so he can let go of the stress for a bit.” – “I’ll try my best. Right baby? We’ll spend a nice day full of cartoons and naps”, the caregiver cooed. Chan bit his lip, feeling guilty as he watched his members leave the dorm for work. Memories of his dream kept resurfacing, despite being little, he could feel that he should pull himself out of it and go to work too because he wasn’t working hard enough. He was letting his brothers down who had to work harder now that he stayed home. He wasn’t enough.

Felix watched the leader’s face grow sad and was quick to pull him from his thoughts with a lighthearted hair-ruffle, laughing: “Let’s make breakfast, cutie. Hyungie hasn’t made pancakes in ages.” The dancer quickly mixed the batter together and let the little stir the finished batter, so he’d be occupied while Felix got the pan ready. Chan watched in wonder as his caregiver flipped the pancakes like it was the easiest thing in the world. Felix also chopped up some fruit and decorated the little’s pancakes with a cute smiley face, while simply stacking his own pancakes and adding some fruits on the side. He put the bowl of chopped strawberries into the fridge for later and carried the two plates to the dining table, Chan following him and clapping his hands excitedly. The first difficulties started when the little got emotional over having to destroy the cutely arranged food on his plate. Felix dried his tears and when the leader was ready to finally eat, he fed him his breakfast. After cleaning the dishes, they moved to the couch again to watch some more cartoons and nibble on the strawberries. The morning seemed to be going well, especially because Felix knew about the little’s love for strawberries and continued to feed him while watching TV. Sadly, the mood soon took a turn when the bowl was empty and he asked Chan to go brush his teeth. “Nuh! Nuh wanna”, the leader frowned, stomping his foot when Felix dragged him to the bathroom. After a bunch of threats and the caregiver counting down, Chan gave in and brushed his teeth but continued to sulk afterwards.

He sat on the opposite side of the couch from Felix and when the dancer asked for cuddles, he shook his head and shifted further away. The little hadn’t said another word to his caregiver and still didn’t feel like it. He was upset at him for making him brush his teeth and threatening to take his favorite plushie, a stuffed husky, away for the rest of the day. Suddenly, the screen in front of him turned black and he turned to Felix with a shocked expression. Felix sat there with the remote in his hand, giving him a challenging look and stating: “Wow, you’re finally looking at me.” – “Tuwn on!” – “No, mister. First you listen to me. You need to drop your attitude right now because you’re being cranky for now reason”, the caregiver warned sternly. Chan’s eyes started to burn. Felix wasn’t mad yet, just warning but his voice sounded scary. Felix sighed and set the remote down on the coffee table. He could see the other’s wobbly bottom lip, so he hummed: “What’s really going on, Channie? You’re usually so well-behaved and never cause trouble for your hyungs. This is not like the sweet little boy I know, so please talk to hyung.” The caregiver’s voice had gone soft and his face showed nothing but worry, so the little couldn’t do anything but break down. Felix opened his arms an invitation because he wasn’t sure the leader wanted to be touched right now.

Sniffling, Chan crawled into his caregiver’s lap and tried to absorb as much of the other’s warmth as he possibly could. Felix petted his messy curls, which felt so comforting that the little just melted into his touch. “Channie tiwed”, the little whimpered, “Nuh feel good, evewything huwts.” The dancer frowned, he should have known. His baby was extremely overworked and sleep deprived. He always gets a bit cranky when he’s tired and Felix couldn’t even imagine how tired the leader must be. It also didn’t come as a surprise that he felt achy from working so much and resting so little. The dancer rubbed his back and kissed his forehead, whispering: “I know, sweetie, I know. Do you want to take a nap?” Chan shook his head and sniffled a bit, he knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep. “Insomnia?”, Felix questioned and the little nodded with a pitiful whine. Then the dancer had an idea. He stood up, koala-carrying the other to the bathroom and starting a warm bath. “It’s okay, Channie. Why don’t you take a nice and warm bath and relax for a bit? Look, hyungie got you a pretty bathbomb too”, the caregiver promised, pulling out a large purple bathbomb. Chan calmed down and removed his clothes. The warm water relaxed his muscles and he giggled when the water started to bubble from the bathbomb Felix had dropped in.

Soon the water had turned a deep purple shade and lavender scented steam drifted through the bathroom. Felix had left only for a second to get the little some fresh and comfy clothes but his heart broke when he saw Chan just laying in the tub and staring at the ceiling above. The bath toy, his beloved rubber ducky sat untouched on the rim of the tub, the little not having the energy to play. The caregiver placed the stack of clothes down on the sink and crouched next to the tub, humming: “Hey kangaroo, want hyung to wash your hair?” Chan nodded and with some struggle sat up, turning his back to Felix. The dancer took some shampoo and made sure to take a few minutes to massage the little’s scalp he also used some conditioner afterwards because he knew the other didn’t take care of his frequently died hair enough. Chan yawned when he climbed out of the tub, a large fluffy towel wrapped around his shoulders. He put on the clothes Felix had picked out and sat on the closed toilet lid while the caregiver dried his hair and applied some moisturizer to his face. “Want hyung to make you a bottle?”, Felix asked, guiding the little to the couch. Chan nodded and curled up with one of the cushions while the other went to the kitchen.

Felix still had hopes to get Chan to sleep, so he decided to feed him the bottle in bed. While the leader sat in the center of his bed indecisively, holding his plushie in his lap, the caregiver placed the bottle on the nightstand. Pulling his favorite blanket off his own bed, he smiled at the little: “Now, let’s get you all comfy. Hyung will lend you his favorite fluffy blanket to wrap you up all nice and cozy. You can cuddle Skye (plushie) and have your bottle.” Felix sat down against the headboard of Chan’s bed. He parted his legs and let the leader sit between them with his back against the caregiver’s chest. Then he pulled the blanket over them and tucked it around Chan’s broad shoulders. The leader was always a bit shy about his little side, so it was easier for him to drink from a bottle when they weren’t facing each other. Felix ran one hand through Chan’s damp curls to get him to relax and used the other to raise the bottle to the little’s face, who was quick to latch onto it with his lips. The more time passed, the more the caregiver could feel the little relax and by the time the bottle was empty, Chan had completely melted into him. Felix set the bottle on the nightstand and shifted them into a lying position, with the blanket tucked around them comfortably. The leader certainly seemed sleepy now.

They lay in comfortable silence for almost half an hour and Felix was certain that the other was asleep. At least till the boy on his chest whimpered: “Hyung, Channie nuh can sleep.” His voice was weak from exhaustion and muffled from the fabric of Felix shirt and the blanket. The caregiver’s heart broke. He had hoped so hard that his little was finally getting the rest he needed. “It’s okay, little kangaroo. You don’t have to sleep, we can just lay here and cuddle. Do you want hyung to read you a story?”, Felix cooed. He knew the harder he tried, the harder it would be to fall asleep. He pulled out his phone and pulled up a random bedtime story he found on the internet. Making sure to keep his voice low and his accent prominent, Felix started reading, a small smile on his face when Chan played with his fingers. The little seemed so fascinated by the dancer’s tiny hand that, like the tiny baby he is, he had to take it into his mouth. Felix got startled for a second but chuckled when Chan started to suck on two of his fingers. He really needed to buy the little a pacifier at some point, so he wouldn’t just take anything like Felix’ shirt, hoodie strings, his sleeves or Felix’ fingers into his mouth. Though it didn’t really bother him because he saw how at peace the leader looked and he wouldn’t dare pull him hand away. Felix almost squealed with joy when he finally heard soft snores from the boy in his arms but stopped himself to not disturb the little’s rare sleep. He kissed Chan’s head and put his phone away, whispering: “Alright, it’s nap time, baby.”

#stray kids #skz #whump #angst #fanfic #fanfiction #little #little space #litlespace #headspace #agere #age regression #bang chan #lee felix #chanlix #fluff #comfort

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in-tua-deep · 4 years

Note

Daemon AU? Yes PLEASE!

I will give u the pre-canon material exploring Five and his daemon’s relationship ;3c

---

Pancha prefers small forms. Five never knows for certain why, and when he asks her she just tilts her head and shrugs at him because she doesn’t know what to say, either.

She likes being a hummingbird, flitting around Five’s head and hovering in front of his face before nesting in his hair. She likes being a mouse, scurrying up Five’s arm and tucking herself into the pocket on the front of his blazer. She likes being a rabbit, feet thumping against the floor as she zoomed around the room at top speed.

Five never knows, or maybe just never vocalizes why the representation of his soul prefers to be small.

But when Reginald Hargreeves gives him scathing performance reviews, his cane clicking against the floor in time with the soft clicking of Aryia’s claws as they look down their noses, as Five stands with his back straight and proud while -

While Pancha curls up tight in his pocket, a mouse biting the end of her own tail so that she would not whimper aloud. They know then, even if they never voice it aloud. The reason that Pancha prefers to stay small.

---

The thing that people learn early is to watch daemons. Not directly, that would be rude, but to keep them in the corner of your eye and observe. Daemons are the representation of a person’s soul after all, and souls can’t lie.

If someone is nervous, their daemon will shuffle anxiously. If someone is angry, their daemon will puff up in fury. When someone is scared, their daemon will cringe and cower. It’s easy to spot a liar in a world where the heart lays outside of the body.

Five’s very good at lying with his own body. He stands up straight and proud. He bares his teeth in furious smiles, licking blood from his lips and refusing to back down. He speaks loudly, with purpose, with challenge in his voice and in his words. Five is hard-headed. Five is disobedient. Five is an unruly little monster.

Pancha shifts into a hummingbird, because everyone knows hummingbirds flit around to keep aloft. It doesn’t look like nervous energy when it’s for a purpose. Pancha shifts into an australian tiger beetle, because they don’t have lips to draw back in wordless snarls. Pancha shifts into a gerbil and hides in Five’s pockets, because what you don’t see cannot betray you.

They call her adaptable, laugh when their siblings’ daemons begin to settle. They tolerate the speculation about who is going to settle next and what they will become.

They both dread the day Pancha will settle, even if they don’t say anything to one another. They don’t address the fact that she changes from one form to another, cycling through dozens within the space of a day even though their siblings stick to perhaps three. They don’t talk about the buzz under their skin that drives Pancha racing around their room at top speed until they crash on the bed panting together with something clawing desperately inside their soul.

They don’t talk about a lot of things, but they don’t need to. They’re two halves of the same whole.

---

Luther snaps at Five for cheating, for running ahead on a mission. They’re twelve, and Andromeda looks down on Pancha with something cold in her eyes and says, “Of course they can’t obey. They’re still unsettled.”

She says it like an insult, lip drawing back to show off too sharp teeth, says it like it’s something for Five to be ashamed of. Says it like what she’s really saying is that Five is a child. Like they aren’t all twelve-years-old and just settling into their own skins.

She says it like it’s Five’s fault that Pancha can flit through forms like she can’t shed them fast enough. Even as Andromeda speaks, Pancha is a bat, is a wren, is landing on Five’s shoulder as a sugar glider, is curling around his neck as a ferret.

She says it like it’s his fault that he’s twelve-years-old and his daemon is unsettled. Like half the twelve-year-olds running around aren’t doing so with daemons just as unsettled as his.

(Five read once, in a book, that trauma can make daemons settle earlier. There are so many cases of children as young as nine, seven, six with daemons tiny and scared and permanent.

The same book mentioned that abused children’s daemons often fell into one of two categories: large predators, to protect themselves and bare their teeth and intimidate any who try and hurt them. And the small ones, who are tiny and scared and do their best to be beneath notice.

Luther and Diego’s daemons are large, with teeth that can tear flesh and muscles beneath their skin.

Pancha likes to take small forms. Five doesn’t think about it too much.)

Five curls his lip and snarls back at Andromeda in a way that he never does when they’re in front of cameras, because etiquette says that people don’t talk to other people’s daemons, “If you weren’t so slow then maybe I wouldn’t have had to go in alone.”

Pancha shifts from a ferret to a squirrel to a kangaroo rat. The others are used to her rapid changes, but they also mean that they can’t pin down Five’s mood based on his daemon’s body language. She’s shifting too rapidly for that, clawing down his jacket as a hispid cotton mouse and settling into his arms as a pika, as a pygmy rabbit, as a stoat.

“Maybe I should hear a rumor about everyone calming down.” Allison threatens, her hands on her hips and tapping her foot impatiently. Amraphel is wrapped around her shoulders like a scarf, lazily flicking his tongue out.

(Allison has been of ill temper and short of patience ever since Raph settled a month ago. The whole house had heard her shouting about it, and none had dared to address it when they came down to dinner with Raph draped over the back of the chair instead of his customary place in Allison’s lap.

Raph and Allison haven’t sat properly together since he settled, and no one talks about it.)

But Allison’s words settle Andromeda and Luther, both of them backing up in a way they wouldn’t for any other sibling.

Pancha is a bush baby now, climbing up to Five’s shoulder and tugging lightly on the hair behind his ear.

Five holds his hands behind his back and twists his fingers together to the point of pain.

“No need for that.” Pancha says, voice clear and level and almost haughty. “They’re only jealous they can’t be as adaptable as us.”

Luther snarls and lunges forward, only to be blocked by a bristling Andromeda. “They’re not worth it.” She growls, low and deep in her chest with flashes of white teeth. Luther and his daemon try so hard to be respectable, to be cool and aloof like their father and his daemon. It’s almost sad, really.

Pancha is a manipur bush rat, scurrying to Five’s other shoulder. Five untwists his hands from behind his back and reaches up to grab her when she shifts into a black jackrabbit.

“Have you looked in a mirror lately?” Five says, with all his twelve-year-old wit, “Your face isn’t worth it.”

The black eye he sports for three weeks is, in fact, worth it.

---

Pancha is the last one left unsettled. It shouldn’t bother them, they don’t even really want Pancha to settle, but it does in some terrible inexplicable way.

Pancha flits between forms, and none of them feel right.

“We’re obviously going to be something that can jump properly.” Five muses, tapping a pencil against a little black notebook as he thinks. “You said the kangaroo mouse didn’t feel right?”

“Nothing will feel right until the moment we settle.” Pancha points out, flicking the tail of her current ginger-tabby-cat form back and forth, “Val was definitely a wolf a few times before she settled.”

“Yeah, well, I’m like 90% sure Val settled out of pure competitive spirit.” Five dismisses rolling his eyes.

Valencia had settled two hours before Andromeda had, and has lorded it over the other daemon ever since. Diego still preens about how he was the first of the siblings to settle before even Luther.

(Five kind of wants to tell them both that Tamaya settled a week before Valencia and Andromeda both. No one noticed because Ben hadn’t brought it up, and Tamaya had always favored hiding to confrontation. Instead, Tamaya ‘officially’ settled around three days after their siblings.)

“I’m probably not going to be a big animal.” Pancha says, her claws pricking into his skin through his pajama top as she leans against his shoulder to peer at his list. “You can cross kangaroo off.”

“I thought you said you couldn’t be sure?” Five says, eyebrow raised.

Pancha just stares at him blankly. He stares back. Pancha shifts into a Florida king snake.

“Not having eyelids is cheating.” Five scowls, crossing his arms.

Pancha easily swaps into a possum, shaking out her fur. “It wasn’t cheating, it was adapting.” She tosses his words back in his face, “Besides. You thought I could be a kangaroo.”

Five grudgingly crosses an entry out. “Well why are you a possum now?”

Pancha shrugs as well as she can as a possum. “Dunno. It’s a marsupial or whatever, isn’t it? Besides, I’m sort of digging the fingerless gloves aesthetic.” She offers a foot out for Five to inspect.

“You look like you just climbed out of a trash can.” Five informs her.

“No, that was last night.” Pancha shoots back, shifting into a pine marten to crawl into Five’s lap and bat at his notebook. He just holds the notebook a little bit higher, making her huff in irritation.

“Dad really needs to feed us more.”

Pancha nuzzles against Five’s stomach as comfortingly as she can, even though she can feel the slight pang of hunger gnawing at her belly as well as he can. Their power takes so much out of them sometimes, it’s difficult to justify taking more to a man who sees them as an experiment instead of a person.

“I could turn into a tiger and eat Aryia.” Pancha offers, shifting into an otter and making another grab for the notebook that Five easily avoids.

“You don’t like taking big forms.” Five dismisses easily, as though it’s nothing. As though it isn’t something they don’t discuss between them.

Pancha is silent for a few minutes, and even Five stops scribbling away as he waits for her response.

Finally she says, very carefully, “Just because I don’t like to, doesn’t mean I can’t.”

They both are silent after that, Five lowering his arms to curl around Pancha’s latest form in something just a little bit too loose to call a hug.

“It’s safer.” Pancha whispers, breaking the silence between them, “I don’t know why, but it’s safer this way. Smaller daemons - they aren’t looked at as closely. When a tiger daemon bristles, people pay attention. When a mouse daemon bristles, no one even notices.”

“Is my soul really mouse shaped?” Five huffs a laugh, but they both know that he wouldn’t be disappointed in her being a mouse so much as he would her being trapped a mouse.

Pancha nudges at his chin with her broad muscular head, “Hey, don’t knock mice. They’re survivors. Practically anywhere you go, you’ll find mice. Inside, outside, they know how to get around.”

Five hums, dropping his notebook on the bed and bringing his hands up to run them through Pancha’s fur.

“Maybe we should be something with a beak.” Pancha whispers, knowing that Five will hear her no matter how softly she speaks. “No one bothers to look at bird daemon expressions, either.”

“Maybe you’ll be a swan, able to break someone’s arm and look pretty while doing it.”

Pancha snorts, “Yeah, you’d like that wouldn’t you. Vicious representation of our soul, that.”

Instead of saying anything more, Pancha shifts from an otter into a meerkat. She curls into a tight little ball in Five’s lap.

“Not this one either, then?” Five says with a smile.

“Shut up.” Is Pancha’s intelligent response. “Next time you ask, I’m going to bite you.”

---

The moment they figure out what they can, theoretically, do, the buzzing under their skins gets louder than ever.

“Ask dad again, please.” Pancha begs, shifting from a budgie to a canary to a superb fairy wren as she flits about close to the ceiling of their room.

“You ask Aryia!” Five shoots back, bouncing lightly on the top of his bed even though it’s sort of childish. If anyone comes in though, he’ll just say he was trying to catch Pancha and they’d probably believe it.

Pancha turns into a magpie and immediately tries to divebomb Five in irritation, who stands there unimpressed and she’s forced to veer back towards the ceiling or crash into him. “You know she’s a mythic bitch!”

“And you think dad isn’t?” Five asks incredulously, bouncing a little more frantically.

“You don’t get lectures on how you’re -” Pancha flies to the floor and shifts into an impressive rendition of a marble fox identical to their father’s daemon, “Still unsettled Pancha, honestly, I expected better of you. Why can’t you be like the others, you’re so unruly and disheveled and I have no idea why dear old Reggie didn’t do away with you long ago -”

Five is cackling, his bouncing having come to a stop so he could slap a hand over his mouth to muffle his laughter at Pancha’s, frankly, spot on impression of their father’s daemon.

Pancha grins, shifting from a fox into a jack russell terrier and jumping on the bed with Five. “Spot on, wasn’t I?”

“Absolutely impeccable.” Five manages, sticking his nose haughtily in the air, “Why, I almost thought our dearest Aryia was in the room with us!”

Pancha nips at his heels, making him flop down onto the bed with her automatically. The shift in weight and position makes them both bounce a few times before they settle down. They’re still buzzing with energy though, even sitting still.

“I bet time travel would fix us.” Pancha says finally, voice strangely serious in the face of their previous jostling and cheer.

“We aren’t broken.” Five says equally seriously, watching as Pancha shifts into a grey collared chipmunk, then a harvest mouse, and then an antelope jackrabbit. She uses that form’s legs to launch herself from the bed to the desk across the room and back again.

“There’s something wrong with us, Five.” Pancha corrects him fiercely, clawing up his arm as a pallid bat to his shoulder. “The others weren’t like this. We’re thirteen, now. Statistically, we should have settled by now. Or - or slowed down at least.”

Now she’s a margay, precariously balanced on his shoulder with her tail whipping into his face. Five brings up a hand to gently grasp at the twitching appendage, “The average is twelve to fourteen, technically.” He corrects her gently, “We practically just turned thirteen, we have time.”

Pancha hisses, hopping down off his shoulders in the form of a mongoose. “If we just - we have to try, Five. Can’t you feel it?”

Five bops her gently over the head, half scolding. “Of course I can, I’m you aren’t I?”

The buzz under their skin gets stronger by the day, and Pancha hasn’t been able to hold a form for longer than five or ten minutes in almost a year. It takes more effort not to jump than it does to actually jump, these days. Pancha shifts into a brush rabbit and levels him with an unimpressed look.

Five heaves a sigh, foot bouncing against the floorboards as though Pancha has transferred her nervous energy to him. “You know what dad’s gonna say, anyway.” He brings a hand to his chest and put on a nasally fancy tone, “Maybe we can revisit this topic when you’ve matured a bit, Number Five.”

Pancha gnashes her teeth together as a beaver. “You know what that’s code for.”

Five’s look is just as bitter as his daemon’s tone. He does know. Everyone knows. It’s a whole thing - people have weird ideas about what it means to settle. That it means, in some weird way, that it’s a transition into adulthood and responsibility.

How many hospital dramas and detective shows make it a point to draw attention to a child actor’s shifting daemon? How many true crime shows have grieving parents wailing about how the daughter or son wasn’t even settled yet, as though it might have been less of a tragedy if the kid’s daemon had been permanently stuck as a woodchuck. How many courtroom dramas have dismissed eyewitness testimony on the basis of the kid isn’t even settled yet.

Five and Pancha thinks it’s stupid, the emphasis put on settling. Thinks it’s dumb that he’s somehow considered less mature than a nine-year-old with a settled hedgehog daemon, even though he’s thirteen. But his age doesn’t matter. Just his daemon’s settled status.

“What if time travel fixes us.” Pancha proposes again, fluttering over to the desk in the form of a cardinal. “What if it helps. What if it’s what we need to - ”

Settle, she doesn’t say. Because to settle is to know yourself, and they don’t even know they extent of their powers.

Five shakes his hands out, blue sparks flying down his wrists as he does so. Anything to try and get the buzz out from under his skin.

“I’ll ask dad again tomorrow.” Five says finally, “And if he says no - ”

“Then we do it anyway.” Pancha is a coyote, lips pulled back in a wordless snarl before blue lightning runs down her form and she’s suddenly pressed against Five’s side.

“Then we do it anyway.” Five confirms, grim.

---

Time travel does not fix them.

Time travel breaks them.

They stand in the rubble of the end of the world, howling for their family with something that tastes like desperation on their lips, and no one answers. Dust swirls across the ground, glittering and gruesome as the smoke chokes the air from their lungs.

They claw through ruin until they find what they’re looking for, until Five shoves a piece of debris off of a face that belongs to a wrist with a black umbrella inked upon it, dark and final.

He finds Luther. He finds Allison, finds Diego, finds Klaus. He does not find their daemons.

Pancha is a falcon, is a racoon, is a wolf howling desperately into the crackling air, hoping, praying for an answer. But the only thing they hear are the quiet roar and crackles of the fires and their own footfalls.

It’s eerily quiet, at the end of the world. There’s no movie soundtrack, or screams, or howling winds. It’s just the pops of distant fires and the sound of rock across rock as their feet dislodge pieces of the wreckage.

“We can fix this.” Five says feverishly, “We have to go back.”

“It’s not working.” Pancha grits her teeth, pushing and pushing and pushing against the wall of their powers. It’s about as useful as trying to break down a brick wall with her shoulder.

“We’ll make it work.” Five vows, “We’ll go back. We’ll save them all.”

Pancha nods, equally grim and equally serious.

“What we need,” Pancha says slowly, sounding out each word. She has Five’s full attention on her, “Is an equation.”

Math isn’t something they technically need anymore. It’s a crutch from their younger days, something that soothes them and calms them and helps them focus. They can jump without it, their brain doing most equations automatically.

But when they’d first been figuring out their limits on distance, when they’d first figured out the differences between jumping in water and jumping in air - they’d used math. When they were figuring out time travel was possible, they’d looked at the math.

“Okay.” Five says, breathy and small and scared, “Okay.”

---

They don’t figure out until a week in that the buzzing under their skin is - not gone, but lesser somehow.

In their defense, they have a lot bigger things to worry about.

Five is scooping cold spaghetti-o’s directly into his mouth with a spoon he’d buffed against his shirt when he finally looks at Pancha and realizes that she’s been a barbary macaque for… hours now. She has a box of children’s sidewalk chalk by her side and is concentrating fiercely on writing while Five takes a break.

“Pancha - ” Five starts, and then finds himself at a loss for words when she looks up at him.

“Hmm?” She asks absently, little monkey face still scrunched up in concentration. Five can’t help but wonder when the last time Pancha stayed in one form long enough for him to pick up proper expressions from her face.

“...Never mind.” Five says, and watches Pancha turn back to her work.

They have more important things to worry about now anyway.

---

“This is a bad idea.” Pancha informs him, tongue lolling out the side of her mouth as she pants in the scorching heat. She’s a dingo today, has started experimenting with bigger and bigger forms.

(Five is seventeen-years-old. She still hasn’t settled.)

“We’re literally starving to death, Pan.” Five says dryly gripping bright packaging between thumb and forefinger like he would prefer not to be touching it himself, thanks. “Look, I definitely remember something about these things never going off.”

“That doesn’t sound right.” Pancha frowns, “But then again, I don’t know enough about twinkies to dispute it.”

They both look at the innocent little treat that Five has managed to unearth from inside of what looks like it used to be a child’s backpack. They don’t think about the child the backpack might have belonged to.

“Don’t those things have like, cream in them or something?” Pancha asks doubtfully, leaning forward to sniff the treat suspiciously, “Pretty sure anything with dairy in it went off like, years ago.”

“They’re like, 90% preservatives probably.” Five says, bringing it closer to his face so he can sniff it as well. “What do you think?”

“I think this is a terrible idea.” Pancha shrugs, which looks strange with a Dingo’s shoulders, “But then again, we are starving to death. Not sure we can afford to be picky.”

“We also can’t really afford to be sick.” Five points out sensibly.

They both take another pause to consider the twinkie.

“We’re so going to regret this.” Pancha sighs, laying down and putting her head on her paws. “But hey, if we die, we die.”

“We’re not going to die.” Five scolds her, peeling open the twinkie finally and giving it a distrustful look, “We totally aren’t going to regret this. Power of positive thinking, right?”

They absolutely regret it.

They don’t die, though.

---

The bright side of Pancha being unsettled is that she’s actually very useful in the apocalypse. She can take on the form of an elephant, acting as a one-daemon construction crew to clear out debris when they need a place to stay. She can run through the rubble as a mouse, squeezing through cracks in search of anything useful.

She takes the form of a chameleon, snagging insects from the air and offering them to Five when his skin starts looks paper thin and his ribs stick out prominently.

Pancha lays in the body of a tiger, curled around her human to protect him from the cold nip of the night air. The weather is turning, and soon enough there will probably be snow on the ground.

“We’re twenty-one this year.” Pancha says quietly.

Five hums, fingers twisted into her fur. “Five more years and then we’ll have officially been here longer than we were there.”

“Doesn’t matter how long it takes us.” Pancha says, squeezing her paws around his shoulders in warning, “We’re going to get back to them.”

Neither of them are sure they really believe it anymore, but oh how they want to.

They let the silence sit for a while between them before Five speaks up with a snort, “Not this one then?”

The question is almost an old joke at this point. Thirteen was a late bloomer. Sixteen was maybe-we-should-get-you-checked-out territory. Twenty-one was practically unheard of.

Pancha gives him a punishing lick with her sandpaper tongue over his forehead, making Five squawk with outrage. “Don’t ask questions you already know the answer to, idiot.”

“You know, calling me an idiot is really only calling yourself an idiot.” Five bites back, but they both know he’s not really offended. If he was, he wouldn’t still be cuddled into Pancha’s fur. Even their arguments are performative these days.

“I can call you scruffy without offending myself, I suppose.” Pancha says dryly, “What is wrong with your face.”

“If you can find a good razor kit in the apocalypse then be my guest.” Five says grumpily, but he ruins it by nuzzling his face into Pancha’s chest fur making her huff with laughter.

Pancha squishes him closer, mindful of her big paws and powerful muscles. But even in this form - her hip bones are too prominent and her ribs can easily be felt through her fur. They’ll go out scavenging again tomorrow, but for tonight they can just… lay here. Bask in one another’s company.

“Stop thinking so much.” Five draws his head back a little to sleepily scold his daemon, “You’re going to keep us both up.”

“Shut up then.” Pancha shoots back.

“Night, Pancha.” Five’s words are muffled against her fur, but she hears him loud and clear.

“Night, Five.” Pancha says softly.

---

Pancha hops tentatively through the first snow of the season, her white fur blending in well. “Five,” She says, not sure how she’s planning on following up.

“I know.” Five says quietly, reaching down to pick her up. She rubs her face under his chin comfortingly, feeling the scratch of his beard across her fur. “Happy birthday to us, I guess.”

“Twenty-six.” Pancha whispers.

“It was - it was 2019, right?” Five asks suddenly, “When the apocalypse happened?”

“April 1st, 2019.” Pancha confirms solemnly.

Five hums. “They’d have been, what, thirty?”

“It was still April.” Pancha corrects, shaking her head gently, “Our birthday is in October. They’d have still been twenty-nine.”

Five is very quiet for a long time, and Pancha keeps her own silence as they trudge through the wasteland. They’ve been doing a little better food-wise recently. They’ve discovered that while Five doesn’t get much out of Pancha eating, they get something out of it. She’s taken to wearing herbivorous forms and munching on grass and other plantlife where she can. The coming winter may make that trickier, though.

“If we go back before we hit thirty, we’d be about the same age.” Five says finally.

Pancha hums in agreement.

“But - ” Five hesitates, “We have to go back to, to before Ben dies, right?”

“They were what, sixteen?” Pancha taps at Five’s chest in a request to be put down, which he readily complies with. “Maybe we could get them out. Be the responsible adult.”

Five snorts, “Adopt our siblings?”

Pancha grins, “Hey, don’t tell me you wouldn’t enjoy the hell out of bossing Luther and Andromeda around.”

“We’ll see who’s the kid then.” Five chuckles before they both fall silent.

After all, Luther’s entire thing about Five being a brat was because - well. Pancha silently shifts into a husky with thick fur, coming over to nudge at Five’s leg as they walk side by side.

“We never really talked about what we’d do about - about me once we get back.” Pancha says carefully, warily.

They don’t need to change like they used to. Don’t shift between forms with the blink of an eye. They’re more solid now, Pancha tends to take a form for hours or entire days now unless she finds another form more useful to their current situation.

But they aren’t settled.

Five offers her a strained smile, “We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.”

“Maybe if we get back, it’ll fix us.” Pancha offers, but her voice is soft and a little bit wistful. She doesn’t believe what she’s saying any more than Five does. They already travelled down that road before, and look where it got them.

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.” Five repeats firmly, before his face softens a little bit, “Happy birthday, Pancha.”

“Happy birthday, Five.”

---

“Do you remember how old we are now?” Five whispers, his hair and his beard have gotten streaked with grey. Pancha’s not exactly a spring chicken herself anymore, allowing Five to card his fingers through the feathers in her wing and straighten them out.

“Too old.” Pancha complains, “What’s the point in keeping track anyway? It’s not like we know what day it is.”

“We should probably keep track in general.” Five sounds amused, “Gotta remember how far to go back after all.”

“Fuck it.” Pancha declares, nipping at Five’s fingers when he’s a tad rough with a tender spot, “Just overshoot. Either we’ll pop out when the family are babies, and we can just steal everyone, or we don’t and bam we’re right on track.”

“You’re suddenly finding a motherly bone in your body, somewhere?” Five removes his hands from her wings to brush them off on his pants. Pancha gives them an experimental flap or two. “I, for one, could not be paid enough to deal with a baby Diego. Can you imagine?”

“He’d have fantastic aim when he’d throw his toys at you.” Pancha snickers.

“Can you imagine baby Allison?” Five demands, and they look at each other for a heartbeat before they both break down into laughter.

“Oh my god,” Pancha gasps, burying her face into her own wing, “Can you imagine what she’d rumor? Everyday would be Disney world day and she would be the prettiest princess of all.”

“Ruling the world with an iron fist and a sparkly tiara.” Five manages to get out, his own face buried in his hands as he wheezes.

“Klaus would be right next to her, tiara and all.”

“Fuck you’re right.” Five laughs, a deep belly laugh they neither of them hear very much these days, “There would be so much glitter.”

That statement makes Pancha dissolve into giggles again where she was just getting control of herself.

“If we ever get back, I’m going to buy both of them the sparkliest tiaras available. No, wait. Gonna buy the whole family a bunch of those little kid birthday tiaras, and never explain why.” Five declares, grinning, “They’d be so confused.”

“When.” Pancha corrects, and the mood suddenly turns serious. “When we get back.”

Five doesn’t apologize, doesn’t sputter or claim it was just an error of speech. He just inclines his head a little bit and says, “Right. When we get back.”

---

They’re old and broken and creaky and tired when their endless days of bouncing math off of each other and testing at the boundary of the blue that stays frustratingly solid to them changes.

Five’s hair is entirely grey now, and his beard is long and scraggly where he hasn’t taken a knife to it in a while.

Pancha is a european hare and she’s the one that first senses danger.

The thing about living in the apocalypse, is that it’s quiet. There’s no hum of electric lights. There’s no brawls between stray cats or dogs. There’s no squirrels or rats or mice scurrying around.

So when Pancha’s sensitive ears pick up the sound of footsteps she feels such an intense sense of - of something that it makes Five drop his chalk and swing around to look at her with alarm.

She’s glad her form today is swift, because she’s across their little ‘camp’ in seconds and in his arms, clawing her way up to his shoulder to press her mouth to his ear, “There’s something out there.” She whispers, somehow terrified and she doesn’t know why.

To his credit, Five doesn’t even hesitate despite the impossibility of her words. He scoops her under one arm and turns and picks up the gun (they don’t talk about why they have a gun) with the other. He turns around and points it at -

A woman. They both freeze like deer in headlights.

“Hello!” The woman calls, picking her way down the debris in high heeled shoes.

“Five.” Pancha swallows, making her human look at her, “Five, where’s her daemon.”

Five’s head whips back around, and they both stare. It’s entirely possible that the woman’s daemon is just small, just out of sight and out of mind. It’s even possible that she’s a witch, and her daemon is off gallivanting about.

But Pancha can feel a scream trapped behind her teeth, feel her ears go back as she fights the urge to run run run away from this terrifying woman who tastes of empty empty empty. Something is wrong.

She can see the way Five’s fingers tremble as the sense of wrong wrong wrong reverberates through their bond.

“Who the hell are you!” Five snarls out, and Pancha takes the opportunity to squirm and wriggle so that she’s balanced precariously on Five’s shoulder, freeing up his other hand to steady the gun.

“I’m here to help.” The woman says brightly, still picking her way towards them.

“Five.” Pancha whimpers, and as she feels her paws tremble she watches his hands go still and steady.

“Tell me why I shouldn’t just put a bullet through your head right now.” Five raises the gun further, but the woman doesn’t even hesitate.

“Because,” The woman says, smiling a carefree smile as she adjusts her hat and pulls her sunglasses from her face. “Then you wouldn’t hear the offer I’m about to make you.”

Five and Pancha are more tense than they’ve ever been before in their lives, and considering some of their childhood missions - that’s saying a lot.

“Which would be rather tragic given your…” The woman looks around and even though she doesn’t look disgusted the implication is there anyway which makes them both bristle, “...Current circumstances. I work for an organization called the Commission. We are tasked with the preservation of the time continuum through manipulation and removals.

“Why are you telling us this.” Five manages to grit out, never letting his gun drop.

The woman just looks at him like he’s a child and she’s disappointed he asked such an obvious question.

“I’ve come to offer you a job, Number Five.” She says simply.

They don’t miss the way she only offered the job to him, not to Pancha.

There’s a lot after that. The woman explains that she wants to hire him - them - to, to eliminate threats to time caused by humanity’s free will. She tells him that her organization has had their eye on him. That he has potential. That Five can retire with a pension plan for the low low price of his soul.

Well, he’s paraphrasing.

She at least allows him a moment of privacy to discuss things with his daemon, telling him that she will be back in an hour to pick him up and that he should take the time to gather what possessions he wishes to take with him. She seems awfully confident he will take her deal.

“She doesn’t have a daemon.” Pancha shudders against him, “She’s so empty inside. She scares me, Five.”

“I know.” Five says, smoothing his hands over her fur comfortingly, “But - Pan, the chance to get out. If they know how to properly time travel - ”

“Then we can finally get out of here.” Pancha says softly, longingly. “It’s been so long, Five.”

“I know.” He whispers.

“She wants us to kill for her.” Pancha tells him, “Removing the problems - she just wants us to become an assassin. She wants us to be a weapon.”

“Would we kill to get our siblings back?” Five asks, but it’s a rhetorical question. They both know that they’d probably let the world burn all over again if only it meant saving the people most important to them.

“We’d have food.” Pancha offers finally, “If it’s a job, we’ll have money. No more scavenging. We could focus more time on, on - you know.”

Five nods solemnly, “So, do we take the job?”

A shudder ripples through Pancha’s body, “What about me, Five?”

“What about you?” Five asks, brow furrowing.

“I’m not normal.” Pancha states tightly, watching Five’s face light up in comprehension. It’s been a long time since they discussed Pancha’s ability to shift. After so many years, it almost seems normal. “She’s already seen me as a hare. So do I just - pretend to be a hare?”

Five bites his lip, “Just until we figure out how to get back.”

They both know that’s not a real answer. They both have no idea what they’re going to do when they show up, old and decrepit and still unsettled.

“She can’t know.” Five says, because at least that much is certain. “She doesn’t have a daemon. She can’t know.”

Pancha sighs, but they both already know what their choice is going to be. “Okay. Okay let’s become assassins.”

---

They’re in a hotel room, and Pancha shifts a few times just to prove she can. She likes being a hare, but sometimes it just gets itchy. Wrong. Sometimes she needs wings, or fangs, or something.

She feels like she needs fangs a lot around the Handler. Or like she needs to be something small, like a mouse and curl up in Five’s pockets again to hide away. Usually she just hides behind Five and lets him deal with the woman, which is perhaps unfair of her but Five hasn’t protested yet.

(Actually, Pancha doesn’t speak to anybody. Not after the doctor and his capuchin daemon looked entirely scandalized when she addressed him instead of his daemon. Apparently missing out on socialization for an estimated forty-five years led to… some not so great manners.)

Five methodically cleans his gun as Pancha shifts from a lion to a gazelle to a pallas cat and back into a hare to jump onto the bed with him.

“Today?” She asks him.

He looks up at her and frowns, his hands pausing.

“Something feels different. More right.”

Five tilts his head a little bit in though and then nods. He’s been quiet, since they got back. When they’re alone together at least. The opposite of Pancha. Sometimes she wonders if they’re just switching off, the way they do when it comes to shows of emotion sometimes.

Pancha crawls into his lap, nudging at his hands until they put the gun aside and bury themselves in her fur.

“We’re going to save the world, Five.” She says, projecting as much confidence as she can into her voice, as much confidence as she can into him. “We’re going to save them all.”

Five’s hands tremble in her fur, and they both politely pretend that they don’t.

“You aren’t going to do this alone, because you have me. We’re a team.” She cranes her head back so she can offer him a smile, “Team Adaptable, right?”

“Right.” Five rasps out, touching the silver patches in her fur.

And then they get up, and move out. They’re on a mission now.

#daemon au #yeAH #long post #far tua long #i started writing it and then got super busy oops #but this probably would have been the first chapter #just establishing five and pancha as the main characters #and their whole relationship #and what it means that pancha is unsettled and why she hides it #there's a level of shame involved in a world that treats settled as matured #i'm 100% sure there are parties thrown when a kids daemon settles #like it's a BIG deal in this au #and they don't want to settle because they're so adaptable #but they also desperately want to fit in rip #the handler does not have a daemon and pancha is terrified of her #dolores is not super necessary in this au bc they have each other #i only have like six and a half more google doc pages written tbh #and they're not great bc writing the coming back was awkward #me: i struggle with juggling a lot of characters in a scene #daemon au: oh? double the amount of characters you said?#Anonymous

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itskateak · 4 years

Text

Mint Ice Cream & Bubblegum Kisses - Chapter Two

(Bucky Barnes x Single Dad!Reader)

Series Summary: Y/N L/N works as an intel specialist at the Avenger’s Compound. He scans chatter on the international - and intergalactic - level for any information that might be helpful to the Avengers and other agents. But he’s also a single father to a beautiful eight-year-old girl: Angelica L/N. It’s tough raising a little girl on his own and working a full-time job, but he’s managing. A promotion has him launched up in rank at the Compound, leading him to work directly with the Avengers team. The only problem is it’s a 24/7 job. Life around the compound gets a little strange when his daughter is added to the mix of enhanced humans and ex-assassins.

Chapter Summary: Adjustment to a new environment is always difficult, but Angelica seems to be taking it well. Y/N meets the other members of the team and watches as they take Angelica in as one of their own.

Word Count: 3.3K

Warnings: Fluff, mentions of bullying, like one swear word

A/N: The Scott mentioned is not Scott Lang. I'd like to make that very clear just in case there was any confusion. Updates should come much quicker. I just got hung up on this chapter for some reason. :P

Taglist is still open! If you want to be added, come stop by my inbox and send me a <3!

Masterlist

✿°•∘ɷ∘•°✿ ... ✿°•∘ɷ∘•°✿ ... ✿°•∘ɷ∘•°✿

Y/N brushed his hands off and sighed. He'd just finished unpacking the last of his things. The last week had been filled with packing boxes and making trips back and forth from the house. It was tiring and strange to move from the house they'd been in for ten years. He placed his hands on his hips, looking around his new quarters.

The room was large with more than enough space for all of his things. Books lined up neatly in bookshelves, other trinkets scattered along the shelves. Pictures of Angelica hung on the walls, only broken up with a few nature shots. He straightened his shirt out and jumped as arms wrapped around his waist.

"Papa!"

"Holy - Angelica! You scared the living daylights out of me." Y/N placed a hand on his chest, his heart beating strongly. Angelica giggled and bounced past him to flop on his bed. Her hair was pulled up out of her face since she'd been working to set up her room, too.

"I need help hanging my fairy lights." Angelica rolled onto her stomach, propping her chin up with her hands. She kicked her feet back and forth idly, looking up at him with doe eyes.

"Well, I just finished up with my things so let's go do that," Y/N sat on the edge of the bed and gestured for her to climb onto his back. She wrapped her arms around his neck and he stood, shifting her further up. "We can finish unpacking the rest of your things, too."

"And then can we get some ice cream from Pop's?" Angelica asked, her legs swinging as they walked down the hall.

"Kiddo, I have to get some work done to set up my office for Monday. Maybe after school and the library tomorrow." He said, letting her slide a little. She squealed, tightening her grip around his shoulders.

"Papa! Stop! Don't let me fall!" Angelica laughed, her hands clawing at her father's shirt.

"Baby, I'd never let you fall," Y/N grinned and squeezed her leg gently. "That time on the boat in Cape Cod should be evidence enough."

"I'd never heard you swear so much."

"The water was cold and I didn't expect to fall!" Y/N defended himself. When she was six, they had gone to Cape Cod with a friend for summer break. On a particularly warm day, that friend had taken them out with a speed boat. Angelica had gotten a little too close to the edge when they were anchored and had slipped. He'd caught her, but in turn, fell overboard into the cold water. "I don't swear often around you but it just slipped out."

"Yeah, fourteen things just slipped out." Angelica snorted. "And the combinations used were just - mwah - Magnifique."

"Angelica Ellaine L/N, I will drop you right here, right now." Y/N threatened playfully. "And where did you learn that? Magnifique?"

"Our neighbor, Scott! He comes to visit Miss Irene sometimes to play dress up." Angelica waved her hand in a poor imitation of a drag queen's flamboyant gesture. "You better work, dahling! Yas!"

Y/N laughed and nudged her bedroom door open with his foot. She was just down the hallway from him, but with enough space in between to have some distance and privacy. He turned and let her fall onto the safety of her bed.

"Where do you want the lights?" He asked and picked the strand of lights up. They were little warm lights in plastic jars that mimicked fireflies in jars. Angelica liked them the most out of all of the ones she had since they reminded her of her favorite movie: The Princess and the Frog.

"Above my bed! They're really nice to read by." Angelica sat up and pointed to a location near her pillows. There were at least four piled up, as she liked having many, claiming that it felt like sleeping on a giant cloud.

"Okay. Scoot, then, so I don't step or fall on you." He gestured for her to move and she scrambled off with a giggle. "Be prepared to hand me the command hooks."

"On it!" Angelica rifled through a plastic bag, looking for the package of hooks. She poured a bunch into her hand and bounced back over to where her father was.

Y/N carefully stood on her bed, balancing on the soft surface. He dropped the lights at his feet and held his hand out for a hook. He centered the hook with the wall, thankful the bed was centered as well, and firmly pressed it against the ceiling. After giving it a second, he bent down to grab the lights.

"Do you want them to hang low?"

"And to wobble to and fro?" Angelica countered, placing her hands on her hips. "Can you tie them in a knot?"

"I'll tie you in a knot." He mock threatened, looking at her over his shoulder. She stuck her tongue out at him and he returned it. "Do you want them to hang low?"

"Can we play with it?" She asked, head tilted, her sass melting away now that she was focused on something else. He swore his child had the attention span of a goldfish or the brain of a monkey. She would see something shiny and get distracted very easily.

"Well, I need to know where to put the other hooks, you dork." Y/N hung the lights on the hook, perfectly centered. He grabbed one end of the strand and held it up, moving it to show different degrees of slack. "Tell me when."

"Uhhh.....there! Perfect!"

"Yeah, that looks perfect." Someone said from behind them, startling them both.

They turned to see who it was and were greeted by a red-haired woman leaned in the doorway, arms folded over her chest.

"Hey, little monster. Don't think we've met." She smiled and gave a small wave to Angelica. "I'm Natasha Romanoff."

"You're Black Widow!" Angelica beamed, eyes wide. She was nearly vibrating with excitement, bouncing on the balls of her feet. "I'm Angelica."

"Nice to meet you, Angelica. I saw the door open and thought I'd come say hi. The others might stop in, too. Barnes and Rogers are on a mission right now, though, so don't go looking for the fossils." Natasha hitched her chin at Y/N. "Might want to move that to the right just a touch so it can be even on the other side."

"Thanks, Natasha." He held his hand out for a hook again. "Kiddo, you're starstruck. Hook, please."

Angelica didn't move and he sighed, shaking his head in amusement.

"If you ever want to learn how to defend yourself, little monster, then talk to your dad and come find me. I like the lights." Natasha winked and disappeared from the doorway.

"Are you gonna hand me a hook?" Y/N teased, turning to look at his star-eyed daughter.

"Black Widow likes my lights." She grinned.

✿°•∘ɷ∘•°✿ ... ✿°•∘ɷ∘•°✿ ... ✿°•∘ɷ∘•°✿

"Okay, lunch break?" Y/N asked, stretching his legs out. He'd been on the floor for an hour or so unpacking the rest of her decorations and trinkets. The muscles in his thigh seized up and he hissed under his breath, massaging the side of his leg gently.

"Ugh, yes, please." Angelica bounced off her bed and onto her feet. "Carry me?"

"Ha, that's funny. You have two legs. You can walk." He snorted. "Come on, let's get some lunch."

Angelica slipped her hand into his and they walked together to the common room. She skipped along beside him, humming some random tune. She was settling into their new home well. He was afraid she would be uncomfortable with the new change and struggle to adjust. But everyone had been welcoming so far.

"And I told her she was crazy for doing it, but she just went in, guns blazing. Literally." A voice drifted from the kitchen followed by laughter. "I hate it. She's gonna get us killed one day."

"But you have some good stories to tell." Another voice, accented, floated into the hallway.

"Damn straight."

Y/N poked his head into the kitchen and smiled. "Hey, Sam. Wanda."

"Hi, Y/N. And mini Y/N." Sam Wilson leaned against the counter and waved at Angelica when she came into view. "I'm Sam Wilson and this is Wanda Maximoff."

"Nice to meet you. Angelica, yes?" Wanda's eyes crinkled up when she smiled. Her chin was resting in her hand and an unopened bottle of water rested just in reach.

"Yeah! And you're Scarlet Witch and you're Falcon, right?" Angelica bounced on the balls of her feet, her excitement lighting up her eyes.

"Wow, yeah. That's who we are." Sam said, looking to Y/N with an amused smirk.

"She's kind of a fan." He shrugged, looking at his daughter who was practically bursting with enthusiasm. When he'd told her the full details the week before, she had gotten up from the dinner table and bounced around like a kangaroo on a sugar high. Like many other kids her age, she looked up to the Avengers as heroes.

"Well, now, I guess you're an honorary Avenger. Welcome to the team, little one." Wanda glanced at the clock and her eyes went wide. "Oh! I'm supposed to be training with Stephen in ten minutes. I should run and change."

"Yeah, you should. You know how he gets when you're late." Sam snorted, rolling his eyes dramatically in Angelica's direction. She giggled.

Wanda hopped off her stool, swiping her water bottle, and wiggled her fingers in a wave, red energy floating through the air around her hand. "See you around, little one." She left through the kitchen's other door.

"C'mere, kid. Let's pick a name for you." Sam rounded the counter and picked Angelica up, setting her on the stool. "I'm thinkin' something magic-related."

"Hey, Sam, have you eaten lunch?" Y/N asked, moving to the fridge to see what he could make. He looked through the drawers, finding it easiest to make sandwiches with what they had.

"Nope. You offering to cook?" Sam sat on the other stool and reached for his phone.

"I'll make you a sandwich. I'm not cooking anything special." Y/N placed a packet of cheese and a container of ham on the counter. He grabbed the bread and a couple of knives, starting to make Angelica's favorite sandwich: ham and cheese with brown mustard and mayonnaise. Where his kid had picked up a love for brown mustard, he had no idea, since he didn't really care for mustard.

"Thanks, Y/N. So, Angelica. Let's get you a team name."

✿°•∘ɷ∘•°✿ ... ✿°•∘ɷ∘•°✿ ... ✿°•∘ɷ∘•°✿

Y/N shifted his desk to face the door, moving it to be perpendicular to the right wall. That was one thing he hated about being in a cubicle. He had always hated it when people snuck up behind him. Now, with the glass walls, he could see when people came up to his office. The windows behind him also brought natural light. Another thing his cubicle hadn't had.

He rolled his sleeves up to his elbows, a little too warm from moving things around. He dragged his desk chair around and sank into it, leaning back. There were plans he wanted to implement into his office, but that would happen over time. So far, he had a desk and a couple of monitors. Picture frames and smaller trinkets would decorate his desk and walls soon.

At least there was a couch and an extra chair. He'd have to get an end table and a coffee table for visitors. But those plans were for later and not right now. What mattered was that he could work comfortably for the time being and have space for Angelica to do homework.

"Ooh, fancy!" Angelica, speaking of the little mischief-maker, appeared in the doorway. She ran towards the couch and jumped over the armrest, flopping onto the cushions with a squeal. "So, this is where all the super-secret stuff is gonna happen?"

"It's not that cool. I just have to stare at a screen and make sure no one's doing anything bad." Y/N swiveled in his chair with an amused smile. Maybe he should get a plant or two, he thought. Or one of those small fountains that provided bubbling water as background noise.

"Catching bad guys before they do the bad things is pretty cool," Tony said from the doorway, hands sunk in his pockets. "Nice to see you're getting all settled. If there's anything you'd like to add, just tell Friday and we'll get it for you."

"Thanks, Tony." Y/N straightened up, shifting to face the door. A teenage boy stood just behind him, looking like he didn't know what was going on. "Angelica, you remember Tony, right?"

"Hi, Tony!" Angelica sat up, her knees over the armrest. She waved enthusiastically.

"Hey, munchkin. I just came by to introduce one of our team members. He's here over weekends for training. This is Peter Parker. Pete, this is Y/N L/N, our intel specialist." Tony placed his hand on the shoulder of the teenage boy and pulled him forward.

"Hi, Mr. L/N." Peter smiled and waved shyly. He didn't know what to do with his hands after that, moving them to his hips, then clasped them in front of him before folding his arms over his chest and tucking his hands against his chest.

"And that's his daughter, Angelica. You two will get along famously," Tony pointed to Angelica, who rolled backward on the couch and bounced to her feet.

"Which superhero are you?" She asked, straightening out her skirt and using her foot to pull the leg of her leggings down since it had bunched up on her calf.

"I'm...I'm Spiderman," Peter said, lifting his shoulders in a slight shrug. He seemed very nervous like he wasn't sure about meeting them today. Y/N wondered if Tony had just dragged him down to his office without telling him what was happening.

"No way! You used to swing by our apartment like once every week!" Angelica grinned. "That's so cool!"

"Knew it - I called it. Didn't I call it?" Tony pointed between Angelica and Peter before turning his finger to himself. "Anyway, Pete. If you have any intel from in the field or if you need intel, Y/N's your man. It's gonna be great!" He backed out of the room with a smile. "Gonna be great!"

"Is he always like that?" Y/N asked, laughing. Of all the people he'd met so far, Tony was by far the most entertaining. He was unpredictable and had quite the personality.

"Uh, yeah. He's, uh...He's always like that." Peter nodded for a moment too long and the silence became a touch awkward. "It's nice to meet you, Mr. Y/N. You, too, Angelica." He held his hand out like he was offering to shake someone else's, but since they were so far away...it didn't quite work.

"Please, just Y/N. It's nice to meet you, Peter. What you do is pretty incredible." Y/N smiled and watched as Peter's shoulders relaxed. He seemed to be an anxious individual around people he didn't know.

"Oh, uh...thank you." Peter's face turned pink and he looked at his feet with a shy smile.

"Hey, kiddo. Don't you have some homework to catch up on?" Y/N turned to his daughter. Getting the attention off of Peter would probably help his nerves.

"Awww, but it's Friday!" Angelica whined, wrinkling her nose up and looking at her father with disdain.

"And you have a week's worth of work to catch up on." Y/N raised his eyebrows in a typical fatherly way. It had been easier to just pull her from school for a week to move everything from their house into the compound and to get used to the new environment.

"Uh, I have some homework, too. We could do it together?" Peter suggested, hooking his thumbs under his backpack straps.

"You wouldn't mind?" Angelica asked, spinning around with a dazzling smile.

"Yeah. It's totally fine. I could use the company while suffering through geometry." Peter wrinkled his nose up in a similar manner, obviously not fond of the subject.

Angelica turned to her father with wide, questioning eyes. She was barely concealing her enthusiasm, beginning to bounce on the balls of her feet again.

"Why are you lookin' at me? You live here and I trust you not to get into trouble." Y/N said with a laugh. "You know the rules."

"Don't terrorize people. Pranks should be harmless. And snitches don't get cookies." Angelica recited, counting on her fingers.

Peter looked between them with amused confusion. "Snitches don't get cookies?"

"Our neighbor, Scott, taught it to her at three years old. It's just been a thing since then." Y/N explained. "Scott's a personal accountant by day and a drag queen by night."

"I'm gonna miss seeing Scott." Angelica looked at her feet sadly. "He always brought the prettiest shoes."

"Nothing against us visiting Irene and Scott from time to time, kiddo. Now, go on. You've got a bunch of homework to do and I know your math teacher gave you a good amount." Y/N gestured with his head for them to go.

Angelica perked up suddenly. "Did you say geometry earlier?"

"Yeah?" Peter raised an eyebrow.

"You should show me some! I'm learning percentages right now, but it's super boring." She took Peter's arm with a grin and pulled him out of the office.

"Have fun and don't be a devil child!" Y/N called after her and she gave him a thumbs-up before passing his office front.

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Y/N scrolled through his phone aimlessly, laying on his stomach in bed. He still wasn't used to calling it his, since he'd only been living there for a week. The room was dark because of the late hour, but he wasn't quite ready to sleep. Having a kid didn't mean much time alone to just exist, so he would take every moment he could. Not that he didn't love his daughter, he did, but he needed those few hours alone at night to recharge and relax.

His phone buzzed with a text from a number he didn't recognize.

???: Hey, Ciara. This is Larry. :)

Y/N: I'm sorry, I think you have the wrong number. I'm not Ciara.

???: Are you sure this isn't right? This is the number Ciara gave me.

Y/N: Considering I'm a guy and my name is Y/N, yeah. Pretty sure she gave you a random number. Sorry, buddy.

???: Oh...dang. Thanks for being so nice about that.

Y/N: No problem. Have a nice night.

???: You, too.

Y/N deleted the conversation, not worrying about it. It had happened to him before - on both sides - so there really wasn't anything strange about the interaction. He sighed and switched back to Facebook, looking at his feed. A memory popped up and he smiled.

Angelica's first day at school in kindergarten. She was smiling, a gap in her front teeth from losing her first tooth. Her hair was in braided pigtails and she was wearing a dress with a pair of Disney sister characters on the front. My little girl's growing up so fast. Lost her first tooth yesterday, and now she's off to school for the first time.

He remembered that day vividly. She'd been so excited when she came home, talking up a storm about the friends she had made and the things they were learning. When she went to bed that night, she slept like the dead.

The next day, though, was one he really remembered. She was supposed to do a "my family" drawing at school, and a few of the kids had noticed she had only drawn her dad. After saying she didn't have a mom, they'd teased her until the teacher made them stop.

When he picked her up, the only thing she said when he asked how her day went was: Why don't I have a mom? The car ride had been awkwardly silent after that, and he explained it to her over dinner.

I'll always be here for you, though, Angel. I promise. Nothing in the world can take me away from you.

✿°•∘ɷ∘•°✿ ... ✿°•∘ɷ∘•°✿ ... ✿°•∘ɷ∘•°✿

Taglist: @supernaturalwintersoldier @shadowolf993

#mint ice cream & bubblegum kisses #bucky barnes #james buchanan barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x male reader #bucky barnes x single dad!reader #mcu fanfiction #bucky barnes fanfiction #marvel fanfiction

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yeojaa · 4 years

Text

TO THE MOON AND BACK - ft. ???

You feel winded and you're not sure why. Like you'd been walking on cloud nine and were now falling through the atmosphere, plummeting toward the ground at incredible speeds. When you speak, it doesn't really sound like you. "Yes." Because he was exactly right - you were a hopeless romantic. Always had been. It was hard not to be when your parents were childhood sweethearts and love was the thing you'd been chasing your whole life.

alt summary. You use your one brain cell for love. It doesn’t always end well.

pairing. who knows, honestly. the obvious ones are kim taehyung and jeon jungkook, though.

tags. blind date, strangers, strangers to friends, strangers to lovers, getting to know each other, alternate universe, alternate universe - modern setting, romantic comedy, fluff, slow burn, smut, pining, unrequited love.

rating. ... 18+

word count. ~4000

chapter 9.

FLASHBACK September 1, 2018

"Just post it," you're chiding, indignant and exasperated and still, so incredibly soft. You're prone against his shoulder, bone of your chin digging into the muscle that lines his back and undulates with every breath. He moves forward, not to dislodge you from your position, but enough to shift the sharp turn of your jaw. You say nothing further and settle into the warmth that radiates off him, nose lost to the hood of his sweatshirt.

The mouse sits heavy in his palm, an anchor rather than 67 grams of nothingness. There's too much power in the little black device. It makes his jaw ache and his brow furrow. You can feel the uncertainty radiating off him in waves, invading your senses in an unwelcome assault.

"Kook, come on." Again, softer this time, laced with tenderness and belief. It spills off your lips, buttery and sweet like carnival kettle corn. Your arms find a home around the slant of his frame, fingers locking neatly over his chest, right where his heart lies beneath flesh and bone. The steady thud of it is a reminder of his humanity. "You've worked so hard for this."

This, being his portfolio. His life's work made reality, brushed with the most utmost care and so much talent you're not sure where it all goes.

Gouache portraits, vivid blues and greens splashed over cream; wondrous proportions laid out bare, rendered to perfection with a keen eye and careful hand. Production of stories you'd never be able to express, painted with the most glorious skill and cut to maximize impact. Melodies woven in between and above; the sweetest sound you'd ever hear, awash with the light and shadow.

His finger hovers over the button on his mouse as if it's a Doomsday device. You want to scoff but bite it back, pressing your face into the freshly-washed powder puff that is his hair. It smells of peaches and honey, mingling with the distinctly Jungkook scent that lingers on his skin.

"I can't do it." He whispers the words like they're shameful, yanking his hand away and stuffing his hand into the kangaroo pouch bundled around his waist. You sigh. It's quiet but with your close proximity, he hears it and it's an echo that repeats over and over in his ears. Eyes squeeze shut, dent forming between his brows as he exhales a shallow breath. "I heard that."

"You were meant to," you return easily. Because while you'd always be in his corner, supporting him when he needed it most, you also weren't about to let him rest on his laurels.

Before he can stop it, you've got the mouse in your hand. Click - like it's the easiest motion in the world.

"Did you just—" You're retreating as soon as he's speaking, skittering back five steps and out of reach when he whirls around in his stupid red and black gaming chair. The fury is immediately apparent in the baring of his teeth, the tension in his jaw. It propels him forward and he's so much taller, his strides so much longer, that he's upon you in a second.

"You needed a push!" It's a meagre excuse, squeaked out in indignation as you anticipate death by asphyxiation.

Instead, he's crushing you against him so tightly you really do feel like you can't breathe, though it’s different. Still, it's better than what you'd anticipated and you pat his back where you can reach, arms locked to your side by the intensity of his hug. You think he might squeeze the life out of you but you don't move to untangle yourself from him, instead mumbling soft reassurances against his chest. "There, there."

"Thank you." It's so hushed you think he might've meant it only for his ears, but you feel the way the words ghost over the shell of your own. It sends a shock straight to your toes, rousing an adoring smile along the way.

"You're welcome," you hum in a voice thick with satisfaction. You loved being right. It didn't happen often - at least, not with Jungkook - so you revelled in it at every opportunity, allowing your ego to triple in size and engulf everyone in the immediate vicinity.

Not one to let his defeat go so easily, he huffs. The way he rolls his eyes makes you worry he'll sever an optic nerve. "Still a brat, though."

"Yeah, well—" You're returning his childish petulance tenfold, tongue sticking out from between lips that taste like too-sweet plum wine and Sprite. "—takes one to know one." And boy, did you know one. Had, for the better part of three years. Sometimes you loved it; sometimes, you didn't quite hate it. At least, that’s what you told yourself.

The boy snorts from above you, withdrawing just enough that you can breathe and wiggle your arms. He really was a muscle pig - your shoulders thrum with a dull ache. "Shut up."

"Don't think I will," you answer, watching the way his eyes glint and his jaw ticks. He tongues the inside of his cheek as he glares down at you, silent. You know what that means. You brace for the feeling, feet planting into the hardwood like you're an oak taking up root. It's futile.

In a second, you're upside down, suspended over his shoulder like a toddler. Well, not a toddler, because that would be incredibly bad parenting. It's something funnier - a six year old playing airplane. Except you're in your twenties and you've got much longer limbs than a child and they flail wildly, elbow knocking into the back of his head with a painful sounding thud.

"Watch it!" He exclaims, fingers digging into the meat of your thigh. He doesn't sound too bothered, though, the words dropping off into a laugh that bounces around the room and pitches higher. "I wouldn't want to drop my precious cargo."

It's a threat that has you stilling, if only for a minute. The last thing you want is to have your face make friends with the floor. That'd happened once - on concrete, even - and you'd felt awful for days after. Of course, he'd felt terrible, too, leaving an enormous fruit tart from Maybell Bakery outside your dorm the next day.

"Go ahead. I've been craving some fresh bread."

"That was one time."

You can tell you've struck a nerve by the way he tenses beneath you, forearm flexing over the small of your back. You can't help but snicker, swatting his sweatpant-covered ass just enough to jostle him.

"I was kidding, Mr. Sensitive."

He doesn't dignify that with an answer, instead shifting into action. His bare feet carry him in a tight circle before he deposits you onto his bed and not a minute too soon. You'd started to feel a strain in your neck, blood rushing to your head the longer you were hung like a rag doll.

"You're a pain in my ass sometimes." Though the words are unkind, his delivery is not. There's far too much tenderness in his eyes, the way they crease and nearly disappear when he offers you one of his trademark bunny smiles.

You return the expression with ease, wiggling your thin, piano-honed fingers at him. "Literally."

"Yeah, literally." With another exaggerated roll of his eyes, he flops face-down on the bed beside you, arms curling around a pillow and dragging it under his cheek. His knees hang off the edge before he's dragging one up, locking it over your legs in some contortionist cuddle. He peeks at you from beneath his fringe - it's just the right side of too long, curling prettily over his doe eyes and obscuring his eyebrows. Despite the eye contact you carefully maintain, he says nothing, merely peering up at you like he's trying to read his future or see the stars.

Finally, you speak, turning your gaze back to his popcorn ceiling as your hands find comfort in the weight of his leg, the tendons flexing in the joint of his knee. Your neck was beginning to kink. "What?"

"Thank you, again." Because once isn't enough. Never will be, when it comes to the two of you. You've always pushed him to do what he needed, even when he wasn't so sure himself. He can't thank you enough for that - or for the fact that you're always there, right at the edge with him.

You smile then and meet his stare again. "You're welcome, Kook. Happy birthday."

"What is this?"

You're half-asleep and groggy, struggling to push past the awful clutches of Sandman and his dreams. They linger in every crevice, coating your lashes in dust and your tongue in cotton. Luckily, there's no ache behind the fatigue, no lurking monkey about to crash its cymbals in defiance of you and God.

Through the frame of lethargy, you make out the familiar slope of shoulders, of a delicate pair of hands. Past that comes his adorable smile, all squishable cheeks and barely there eyes, mouth contorted into that peculiar shape. He's not where he should be - in bed beside you, fast asleep. Instead, he's statuesque, barely dressed in a pair of soft cotton shorts and nothing else with your breakfast tray held aloft. There's a pile of waffles - they look surprisingly good - and two mugs. Somehow, there's also an assortment of flowers thrown into what looks like a water glass.

Had you died and gone to heaven? Surely not.

"Happy birthday," your - yes, your, you remind yourself - golden Adonis sings in a voice so rich, so tender, you immediately feel a lump forming in your throat. He's looking at you like a kid on Christmas morning,0 hopeful and filled with childish wonderment. It stokes the warmth that spreads through your veins, lava in place of platelets. It burns from the inside out but it's pleasant - sitting too close to a fireplace on a chilly winter evening rather than an open flame.

Nails bite into the fleshy underside of your palm in a belated attempt to rouse yourself from the very pleasant daydream. It stings but nothing comes further. You're not imagining things.

You have to applaud your past self for whatever she'd done to deserve this.

"You really didn't have to." A moment after it slips off your tongue, you wish it hadn't. The last thing you want to seem is ungrateful. Luckily, Taehyung is steadfast and unbothered, dropping forward onto a knee to slide the tray over your clean white linens. He looks so good, all honey skin and tousled bedhead, that you can't focus when he catches your lips in a lingering kiss.

His laughter crowds your mouth, along with the taste of peppermint toothpaste and, just behind it, honey and what tastes like tea, floral and earthy. "I wanted to."

A sound most similar to a sigh - maybe a bit needier, filled with adoration - meets the air when he withdraws, settling himself on the edge of the bed with that same heartbreaking grin. He pushes your birthday breakfast toward you, earnest and lovely. He even unceremoniously shoves your utensils between your fingers, forcing them into your grip like a toddler.

"Eat," he commands, though his tone is too light to really elicit any movement from you. It's only the way he looks that prompts you to dig in, cutting a generation portion of waffle loaded with what looks like whipped cream and strawberries. You raise your fork aloft, gesturing for him to take the first taste. He simply shakes his head and with gentle pressure, redirects the forkful back to you. His loss.

The strawberries are surprisingly sweet yet incredibly tart, their freshness breaking up the honey glaze. The fact that you haven't even brushed your teeth isn't lost on you; you can't bring yourself to care when you're melting into the flavours and humming delightedly.

"Is it good?"

"If you'd just try some, you'd know." You answer with hearts in your eyes and affection blooming like roses across your cheeks, sparkling shades of warmth springing across fields of baby's breath. Another forkful is raised and this time you won't allow him to redirect, holding the mouthful aloft and meeting his stare with purpose.

A moment passes, then another. The edge of his mouth ticks higher. Your eyes burn from your refusal to blink.

When he accepts the bite, you allow an exaggerated breath, the sound expelling from pursed lips with triumph. "Yum?" You question, giddy and grateful. You sneak another bite while he chews, tongue feathering across his bottom lip to catch some residual cream from the corner.

"I did good." He sounds so proud, chest puffed like a baby bird that's learnt to fly. You're torn between the intense desire to squish his cheeks or kiss him silly and you stare at him for a long moment as you swallow, the intoxicating flavour of honey and strawberries sitting like a spring picnic on your tongue. It sinks into the spaces between your teeth - a shot of loved-up sugar right into the veins - and you set your fork down.

Free hands find the slope of his jaw and act as a cradle, thumbs smoothing over the soft dry petal of his bottom lip. He peers at you curiously, strands of silk brushing over his gaze as he works to meet your stare.

"What?"

You want to pass all of your affection into the smile you offer and the kiss you press, chaste and light. "Thank you." The emotion in your voice rings true, echoes heavily in the breath you pair it with. "You really, really didn't have to." But I'm really glad you did, are the words you don't say, allowing them to hang between you like a gossamer thin thread - a spider's web interconnecting all the different ways you adore him.

"I know," he hums as he moves in for another kiss - one that lingers and pulls and draws you deeper into the abyss that is him. Careful hands slide the breakfast tray to the farthest corner of the bed, far away from wandering limbs, and then he's dragging you closer, over the soft white duvet. Fingers find a home in the small of your back as you find the same nearly in his lap, knees caught against the line of his side. Like this, he envelopes you, all sharply angled shoulders and imposing, but you don't mind. It feels nice being wrapped in his embrace.

FLASHBACK April 24, 2019

You need to get this done. You can't stop until you've finished because you've been losing steam the entire week and now you're running on fumes, halfway to the finish line and about to collapse. The strain behind your eyes feels miserable, like hot coals have replaced your usual organs, and you've nearly chewed a hole through your bottom lip. It feels like a punishment in and of itself to feel the constant throb and the metallic tang on your tongue.

Why did you always do this? You'd had all semester to work on this and yet, here you were, stark raving mad and exhausted on a random Friday.

No, Saturday now. It was almost five in the morning.

Frustration colours your complexion, marks the tired skin in patchy shades of red, and you blow a sharp breath out under your breath. You know you have no one to blame but yourself but you try to ignore the guilt that licks up the column of your spine and settles like a heavy collar around your neck. You can't linger on it too much - you're too busy trying to hack this artist's block to dust.

Lids squeeze shut of their own accord and the heels of your palms dig into the sockets, as if that'll help drive the emptiness from your thoughts or, at the very least, alleviate some of the mind-numbing pressure that's been building since you started this futile task six hours ago. The consistent press helps a little - draws blossoms of light against the back of your eyelids - and you exhale a beleaguered sigh, head dropping ever so slightly. Between the headache that's settled in like an unwelcome house guest and the general tiredness of being up for nearly twenty-four hours straight, you're not sure which is worse.

You also don't have much time to think about it when your phone starts going off, vibrating madly across the flat top of your desk. It's face-down - you'd wanted as few distractions as possible - and you consider ignoring it for a moment.

Only when you consider the time do you decide to answer it. After all, nobody just called at this hour. It might be important.

You hardly hazard a glance at the screen before you're swiping across, dimly noting the familiar silly photo of your classmate and friend plastered across the pixels. "What's up, Jeon?" The words come out scratchy and for the first time, you realize how parched you are. You're not quite sure when you'd last drank or stood up or anything. God, you were a poor excuse for an adult.

"Open the door."

It's equal parts impressive and irritating how chipper he somehow sounds, as if he's just woken up from the best sleep in the world and powered his way through a strongman's breakfast. Chapped lips twist, descending into a pout you know he can't see, and you force yourself to focus on what he's said and not how you'd give anything in the world to trade places with him and his sunny disposition.

Wait— what? Open the what?

"What did you say?"

You can practically imagine the lines at his nose and around his eyes, the dimples that you're sure are carved into those cheeks of his. "I said open the door!"

Before you can think anything of it, you're rising from your chair - nearly knocking over your neglected glass of water with the movement - and allowing your slipper-wearing feet to carry you out of your bedroom and to the front door. You bump into the table in your hallway, earning a grunt and sharp inhale of breath as your fingers soothe what you know will be a bruise in the morning. Maybe you should've turned on the light. Maybe you should've stopped at the washroom to make sure didn't frighten him with your insane hair and sleepless pallor. Maybe you should've done a lot of things.

Instead, you slide the lock, open the door, and nearly shriek when Jungkook’s upon you faster than you can react.

"Happy birthday!" A single solid arm is crushing you to his chest, his breath warm against your temple, before he engulfs you fully. You feel your feet leave the ground momentarily, fuzzy slippers clattering to the floor as he squeezes you with just enough force to steal your breath away. It might be why you're not reciprocating - you physically cannot - or it’s the fact that your brain is playing catch-up and your limbs are already a little boneless from lack of sleep.

"What are you doing here?" You manage to squeak against the smooth fabric of his jacket. It's the same one he always wears - black with Yohji Yamamoto embossed across the left-side of his chest - and it smells intoxicating, a familiar blend of his cologne and laundry detergent. You inhale the scent like it'll sooth your half-asleep, ragged nerves. It does, a little, and you're grateful for that. You don't even pull away when he finally releases you, stepping back just enough to let you slide back into your slippers and peer up into his face.

He really had no business looking so good. Despite the early hour, his dark hair is neatly styled or at the very least, freshly washed. It's fully dry and surprisingly fluffy, falling over those big doe eyes in a way that makes you want to run your fingers through it. It's a little longer than usual, too, and you reach a hand out to smooth strands behind a silver-adorned ear.

"It's your birthday," comes his response, as if it's the most obvious answer in the world.

A brow quirks - tries to, at least - and you regard him with something not quite suspicious but definitely confused. It plays across your features in shadows, peeking around the fan of your lashes and the frame of your mouth. "It's also... four in the morning."

"Five, actually." There's that stupid adorable smile of his, presented like a gift and topped with squeaky laughter. "And I told you I was coming over."

"No, you didn't." You'd have remembered that - right?

"I did." As if to drive his point home, the glaringly bright screen of his phone is all but shoved into your line of sight, artificial light burning your retinas. You shift away, swatting at his wrist as he watches in barely concealed amusement. He thinks you're frustrated by his very 'I told you so' smile that fits snug over his mouth and wrinkles the delicate skin around his eyes; he's surprised when you take the device back in your hands and peer at it like it's the strangest thing you've ever seen.

Well, he certainly hadn't lied. A handful of texts - maybe more than that - mock you, text bubbles indicating he had indeed sent you messages all throughout the night. Little one-liners asking what you were doing, followed by a gentle head's up much later that he'd see you soon. Of course, you'd ignored them all, far too engrossed in making near zero progress on your semester-end project. It leaves a bitter taste in your mouth - equal parts tentative embarrassment and residual fatigue. Lips purse, straighten into a firm line, and arms fold over your chest. It's reminiscent of a spoiled child and frankly, beneath the burnout, you know it's not a good look. Unfortunately, you can’t find it in yourself to rearrange your expression into something more socially acceptable.

Luckily, he's seen you like this enough times to not mind - you always fell into ruts like this when your procrastination met a hard deadline - the irritation seemingly unable to penetrate the sunny turn of his mouth and slope of his wide, open shoulders. "So, are you ready?"

"Ready for..." You trail off, partially out of confusion and partially out of a lack of capacity to consider the question.

"We're going on an adventure."

Again, so simple and yet so cryptic. It draws your eyebrows into a little knot, consternation setting into every thread. "I have a project to do, you know." Despite this, there's a pearl of longing that dangles from your syllables.

He zeroes in on it without hesitation, drawing you easily against him. "I'll help you with it later," he says, as if that's a good enough excuse. You suppose it is. "In the meantime, go get ready? You look like you have a rat living in your hair and I don't want you getting mistaken for a homeless vagrant on the train." Despite the mockery, his expression is soft, smile sweet and playful as it always is.

It's impossible to deny him when he's like this, cherubic and enticing.

With a sigh that blows past chapped lips and disappears into his chest, you relent. "Fine." You're careful to keep your tone just a little grating, as if you're somehow doing him the huge favour. You know he can see right through it but neither of you mind; it's all a part of your silly routine. "Come in and wait for me and don't eat my cereal."

"No promises."

notes. here, take my weird birthday-centric chapter. i wanted to add more to this but my brain hasn’t been cooperating with me lately.

i swear the next chapter will be better - with more exploration of the present! - but thanks for reading. :)

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lu-undy · 4 years

Note

Sniper is a lone man, talks very little even asa kid. When we gets hurt he doesn't say anything, he doesnt whine, he doesn't want to be a bother. But his back hurts a lot. Sniper (tries to) ignores the pain as always, but Spy notices. And he tries to convince Sniper to let him give him a massage because the pain is affecting his job. So yeah, just a massage, a professional one. But Spy's hands touch just the right places, and the ambience is amazing, and maybe that massage has a happy ending❤️🐑

Funny you mention that! I have already written it in one of my fics ^^ But here is something completely different from what I already wrote in the past, I hope you’ll enjoy it! :D

The tall man grumbled.

He wished the windowsills were higher so that he didn't have to spend his day slouched that way. He sometimes would sit on a wooden crate but that would end up giving him a sore bottom. Everyday, for every battle, the choice was there: sore bottom or back pain?

That day, he had gone for back pain with a side of slight headache, the former causing the latter.

Sniper took his shots, his jaw clenching and his shoulder contracting more than was necessary to compensate for the pain in his back. He reloaded and shot again. The cycles of reloads and shots spiralling for the entire duration of the match, along with his pain growing and his posture degrading.

After the battles, he went back to spawn and put his rifle in his locker. It needed a good clean but he just wanted a hot shower and a nap, or maybe just lying down for a while. He put his hand on his shoulder and tried massaging himself but of course, it was to no avail. A massage only works if one is completely resting while someone else did the job.

Had he been back home, he would have asked his mother. But she was thousands of miles away and he knew that calling her wouldn't help.

Sniper walked back through the base.

Nah, it wouldn't help. She would worry from far away and he didn't want to be a bother for anyone and especially not his dear mother. What about his father then? Nah, he would get told off for sure.

"Told ya, gunman's no proper job, son. And you'll get hurt."

"Dad, it's only back pain…"

"Does it hurt or not? It does! And is it because of shootin'? Yeah it is! So the point stands."

He opened his van's door and shook his head as if to shake away his father's voice that echoed in the walls of his mind. This entire discussion had rolled in his head as if he had it for real.

Sniper threw his hat and sleeveless jacket away before sinking on his couch. Oh it was an old, worn out thing that couldn't possibly be less comfortable. He wouldn't usually mind but he twisted his back left and right, trying to find a position that would hurt him the least.

"Bugger…"

He unbuttoned his polo shirt and slid a hand behind his back. It hurt… The pain growing stronger and weaker under the waves of his hand.

Knock, knock.

He raised his eyes to the door. Sniper hadn't heard anyone come to the door, which immediately gave away the identity of his visitor. He rose from the couch and, his hand still behind his back, he opened the door.

"Hey, Spy, what d'you want?" He asked.

The Australian watched as his colleague's face went from his usual suave smile to something else, something between distress and rage.

"Bonjour first maybe? And I'm sorry to interrupt, I shall come back later." The French accent was strong, not too much, but thicker than usual.

"What do you think you're interruptin'?" Sniper asked, confused.

"Well, look at you! Your shirt is open, your hair is completely disorganised, you are not even wearing your hat or your glasses!"

The tone of the Frenchman's voice had grown louder and louder as he spoke. By the end of his sentence, he sounded irritated. Sniper's eyes snapped wide. Why was Spy being so pissed off?

"W-wait, what?!"

The Frenchman sighed and lowered his head.

"Nevermind, Sniper, nevermind. Forget it. Forget… me."

He turned on his heels and walked away, shoving his hands in his pockets angrily.

"Spy, wait!"

The Frenchman turned to face him.

"Non, Sniper. I'm going back to my room. See you, maybe."

"Ugh, bugger…"

As if his day wasn't bad enough, he had to give the wrong impression and piss off his only friend… Sniper grumbled and fell deep in thoughts.

Need to apologise and tell him…

The Australian went to the Frenchman's room and knocked.

There was a moment before Spy opened.

"And you have the nerve to come to my door?" Spy asked.

"Spook, there was no one with me, I was alone! Can I come in and explain now, please!?"

Spy lowered his head and opened his door wider, as if to invite Sniper in. He entered and the Frenchman shut the door after him.

"What the-?! You're the one expectin' someone!" Sniper exclaimed his arms extended towards the unusual object standing in the room.

Spy had all the lights off apart from the flames of the fireplace and… some candles? Sniper looked around him. The Frenchman had put candles here and there and there was a gentle smell in the air… It smelled like a forest, fresh trees and leaves. But the most bizarre thing was the physiotherapy table there in the middle of it all.

"Indeed I was expecting someone. And he arrived." Spy answered, very calmly, with a smile.

"Well, as someone said, if I'm botherin' ya in the middle of somethin', I might as well leave…"

"Non."

Spy stood between the Australian and the door.

"You imbécile, I was waiting for you."

"What?!" Sniper was utterly confused. "What the bloody hell's all this?!"

"It's to relieve you. I do believe your back is killing you."

"How did-mh!?" Spy had put his index finger on his colleague's lips.

"Had I gone to your van and just asked you to come, you would have said you were too tired and you would have refused. So I had to think of another way to make you come out of your den of a camper van." Spy explained with a smirk and Sniper's eyebrows shot up.

"Now, don't make me get angry for real this time and go to my bathroom. You'll find a pair of shorts that I might have borrowed from your van. Put them on and come back here, lie down on the table."

Spy released his finger on his friend's lips and nodded his head towards his bathroom. Sniper thought he was hallucinating or dreaming. What the bloody hell was all that?!

He did obey though, in a brain-dead way. He went to the Frenchman's bathroom and found his old pair of grey short on the edge of the sink. He closed the door and slipped them on. When he came back, the Frenchman was waiting. He had removed his jacket and vest, his tie had gone too and he had opened the first few buttons of his shirt as well as rolled up his sleeves.

Sniper looked at the physio bed and back at his colleague. Spy's eyes were riveted on the bed. He had noticed how prude his friend was and how he wrapped his arms around himself and hunched his back, as if it hid his bare chest and back.

"Where did you ever find this…?"

"I borrowed it from Medic."

"You nicked it from Medic?"

"I intend to give it back. So it's a loan that he might not be completely aware of. Now, please, lay down."

"Roight…"

Sniper had gone too far to refuse. He lied on his stomach.

"Bien, put your arms along your chest, that's it, very good. Now, my hands are a bit cold but they will warm up, bear with me for a while."

"Alroight…"

"Shush, you close your eyes and don't think about anything."

"Spy?"

"What did I just say, Bushman?"

"Can you lock yer door though…?"

Spy sighed with a smile.

"Fine." The Frenchman moved to the door and locked it. He came back and removed his socks.

"Why the hell…?"

"And to think that you are the least sociable of us. Now you never stop talking…" Spy said. "But to answer you, I cannot proceed if my feet are not in contact with the ground."

Sniper heard the noise of some liquid being squeezed between Spy's hands and then he felt them on his back.

"When you massage someone, you are not just running your hands on someone's body. You are in a way taking the tension from that person, onto you, in your palms and your fingers. But all this strain, you have to throw it somewhere. I do believe it circulates through my body and I'm giving it away to the ground through my feet and the wooden floor."

Spy's voice was soothing Sniper.

"Also, I do hope you like the smell. I didn't have kangaroo and desert scented candles, but I thought that fresh forest would do."

"Spy… Your hands…"

"They're getting warmer now with the friction."

"No… They're… bloody… good…"

Spy smiled.

"Let me know where it hurts."

"Top, go all the way up."

Spy slid his hands left and right from his friend's spine, his feet anchored in the floor and his eyes closed.

"Shoulder blades… please… and shoulders…"

"Fine."

Spy took more oil in his hands and went for it. The Australian grunted and moaned under the Frenchman's efficient hands. He felt like some dough being rolled and kneaded. He had no idea Spy could be that skilled with his hands. Sniper was waving and rolling in his mind, his eyes closed, the smell of the candles and of the oil gently washing him from the inside.

And it lasted a long time, in silence. Spy thought that after the racket of the battlefield, the solitary hunter that Sniper was would appreciate some peace and quiet.

"Spy…?"

"Hm?"

"Talk…"

"What do you want me to say?"

"Any… Thing… Just… Talk…"

Spy's smile widened. His friend sounded so different.

"Well, I can start by asking you if you don't mind turning on your back."

"Five… More… Minutes…"

Had Spy not been used to keeping his emotions for himself, he would have chuckled at least.

"Fine."

His hands traced circles and loops, his palms pressed, his fingers following closely.

"Oooh… Spy… How…?"

"Sshh… Just enjoy." He whispered.

He kneaded his back slowly, paying attention to not neglect a single muscle. All of them were massaged and accounted for. Spy bent to Sniper's ear:

"I want to see your face now, mon beau."

Sniper's eyes snapped open. He turned on his back and saw Spy upside down, bending above his head and smiling.

"What's that mean?" The Australian asked.

"What?" Spy put a bit of oil in the middle of his palm and rubbed his hands together. He put his hands on his friend's collarbones and massaged down.

"Mon beau?" Sniper repeated with a twisted accent.

As Spy pushed his hand down Sniper's chest, his back slowly bent down until his mouth ended up next to the Australian's ear. He whispered:

"Literally, my handsome one."

Sniper's eyes popped wide open and his heart accelerated. His friend's hands on his naked chest didn't help and the Australian turned red as a brick.

"Breathe slowly, I can feel your heart pounding."

Spy's hands were working wonders on Sniper's chest and stomach, such that his entire body had no choice but to indeed relax.

When the Frenchman finished with the torso, his fingers moved to the Australian's face. Sniper looked at him, still seeing him upside down, with questioning eyes.

"Close your eyes." Spy whispered.

"I-I can't."

Their faces were a few inches apart.

"Yes, you can, just trust me."

Sniper took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He felt Spy's fingers on his chin, his cheeks, below his eyes, his temples and his brow. He repeated the motion for entire minutes without tiring, sometimes spending more time on Sniper's cheeks, next to his both hideous and attractive sideburns…

Spy moved around the table and slowed the movements down. Sniper felt that something was going on. He opened his eyes. The Frenchman's face was above the Australian's. Their eyes locked.

Sniper saw Spy's eyes. They were half-closed and blinked very slowly, the long dark eyelashes brushing the air like the wings of a butterfly.

"Thank you." Sniper whispered. He didn't want to break the silence too hard.

"It is my pleasure…" Spy brushed his friend's cheek down and stopped next to his mouth.

"You're the weirdest bloke I've ever met. Stealin' this bed, puttin' on a show with the candles, the smell, and the comedy you played back at my van…"

"Qu'est-ce je ne ferais pas par amour?"

[What wouldn't I do out of love?]

"What's that mean?"

Spy ignored Sniper's question and his fingertips moved closer to his lips. The Australian smiled and lifted his hand to put it on top of the Frenchman's.

"I'm sorry I can't say it in French but uh…"

"If you can't say it, make me understand it… Show me…"

Sniper's fingers laced between his friend's and his heart beat fast. He put his other hand behind the Frenchman's neck and pulled him in closer.

The Frenchman rolled his eyes up when Sniper's lips touched his. All he had wanted was to help the poor man who was too shy to ask for anything. But now the Australian was saying thanks, and maybe something else…?

#tf2 sniper #tf2spy #sniperspy

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eggos-world · 4 years

Text

Complainers (A MHA fanfic)

Midorya x Fem! Reader

(A/N : So this is my first fanfic EVER and I've really been into MHA for a while now and I LOVED reading all the fanfics, and I saw this particular ask to a blog if the reader had a writing quirk and how would Midorya and two other characters would react (I am so sorry I forgot the blog who wrote that) but I wanted to put my spin on it and make the reader be into slam poetry and let their tongue be their weapon. This particular poem is by Rudy Fransisco!! Not my original poem!! Hope y'all enjoy!)

youtube

When you write, it's like the whole world around you finally goes silent. You live out the daydreams in your own head feeling the words on the page a safe space. This was your quirk. Even if it didn't seem as great to be in combat fighting villains, at least it's something to fight your inner demons. That to you was enough.

Midorya was well use to the song and dance of getting you to snap out of your world when the bell rings, apologizing in advance. In truth he hates breaking your concentration, he knows full well that he hates the feeling being separated from writing his notes. But he knew you would sit there for hours on end just writing in your book, even if you finish it all in one go you wouldn't notice that you were writing on the desk. (And yes he had to get you out of there and insisted to clean it up for you). Even after all of this he still admired your quirk no less.

The bell had rung for lunch and everyone stood up and packed their books away and walked out one by one. You feel a tap on your shoulder not a minute later, and a familiar soft spoken voice breaks you from your concentration. " Hey, Y/N, I-Its time for lunch" He says with a smile and you close your book and packed it into your bag, walking with him side by side to the lunchroom.

"So what was today's story in your book?" He asked with a smile looking to you.

"Not a story today, I've been into poetry for a while. So I figured I might try something different. " You say smiling back.

"Woah, I didn't know you were into poetry. That seems really cool! What was it about? "

You were always so surprised that he was interested in your work. Since it was such a personal thing to you and you haven't really shown off your work due to self consciousness, he was always very supportive even from the beginning. Later on you realized that he also loved writing. That was one of the many things that formed a great friendship between you both, besides from your love of heroes and nerding out with each other of course!. You both carried out your conversation while getting your lunches. Sitting down on the table along with everyone else smiling and joking you all causally eat your meals. You pull out your notebook, sliding it over to Midorya to take a look after you promised him too. He smiles and opens to the bookmarked paged, but a soon as he does a hand flashes and snatches the book out of his hands.

"Please tell me you don't think your sorry excuse of a quirk would get you into the top ten!" Bakugou loudly exclaiming with a smug look.

Well shit.

While he was chuckling you were about to stand and get it back, but Midorya beat you to it trying to pry it off of his hands, but Bakugou only lifts it up higher. "What's your deal nerd? Trying to stick up for your little girlfriend?" He says chuckling louder.

"S-she's not my girlfriend kachan! Give back her book! It's not yours!" Midorya says with a blush forming on his face. But Bakugou shoves him away and faces you.

"What makes you think that writing fairytale lands and princesses would make you pro hero? That's not going to save you from the real world. What's going to happen if a villain comes in and starts destroying everything around you? You're gonna write him a love story with a happily ever after!? Give me a break! " He says with a laugh.

"Kachan! You need to stop this" Midorya says stepping back up to him. "Not everyone's quirk is perfect!"

"Heh! If you really think she could handle the world on her own-" He says before holding out the book "Let's give her a chance to prove me wrong! "

And just like that, your notebook, your work your safe haven was blown up to flames. Bits of burnt paper flown into the air, your book quickly into ashes. You didn't notice midorya quickly moving to get his water and put the fire out, your eyes was fixated on Bakugou. A smirk had formed on his face that made your heart sink into your stomach. A lump forming within your chest as you fought the urge to cry. He moved his arms and raised his eyebrows, waiting for you to make the next move. But you felt a hand around your arm.

"Y/N, you don't need this now. Let's just go-"

"No... " You say stepping up to Bakugou. Taking one last look at your destroyed book you turn your head back to him. "It's a shame, because the poem I was just writing... Was about you. " You say with a sad smile and a nod. He blinks back in surprise, his smirk growing larger than before. "That's not a good thing.. " You later say. Even though it was still in the works, even if you didnt get to finish it you felt your tongue burn. An unfamiliar sensation forming in your mouth. Usually you would feel it within your hand as you write, a soft glow transferring onto the words you'd write on the page. But now that feeling had made it's way from your throat and to your mouth.

And it's telling you to speak the fuck up.

You took a breath, looked him deep in the eye and let your mouth took the wheel.

"The following are true stories.

May 26th 2003 Aron Ralston was hiking, a boulder fell on his right hand. He waited four days, then amputated his arm with a pocket knife.

On New Year’s Eve, a woman was bungee jumping in Zimbabwe. The cord broke, she then fell into a river and had to swim back to land in crocodile infested waters with a broken collarbone.

Claire Champlin was smashed in the face by a five pound watermelon being propelled by a slingshot.

Matthew Brobst was hit by a javelin.

David Striegl was punched in the mouth. By a kangaroo.

The most amazing part about these stories is when asked about the experience they all smiled, shrugged, and said “I guess things could have been worse.”

So go ahead.

Tell me that you’re having a bad day.

Tell me about the traffic. Tell me about your boss. Tell me about the job you’ve been trying to quit for the past four years. Tell me the morning is just a town house burning to the ground and the snooze button is a fire extinguisher. Tell me the alarm clock stole the keys to your smile, drove it into 7:00 AM, and the crash totaled your happiness.

Tell me! Tell me!

Tell me, how blessed are we to have tragedies so small it can fit on the tips of our tongues?

You see, when Evan lost his legs he was speechless. When my cousin was assaulted, she didn’t speak for forty eight hours. When my uncle was murdered, we had to send out a search party to find my father’s voice.

Most people have no idea that tragedy and silence have the exact same address!

When your day is a museum of disappointments hanging from events that were outside of your control, when you find yourself flailing in an ocean of “Why is this happening to me?”, when it feels like your guardian angel put in his two week notice two months ago and just decided not to tell you, when it feels like God is just a babysitter that’s always on the phone, when you get punched in the esophagus by a fistful of life, remember that every year two million people die of dehydration so it doesn’t matter if the glass is half full or half empty, there’s water in the cup.

Drink it, and stop FUCKING complaining.

Muscle is created by repeatedly lifting things that have been designed to weigh us down. So when your shoulders feel heavy, stand up straight and lift your chin – call it exercise. When the world crumbles around you, you have to look at the wreckage and then build a new one out of the pieces that are still here.

Remember, you are still here.

The human heart beats approximately four thousand times per hour.

Each pulse, each throb, each palpitation is a trophy engraved with the words “You are still alive”...

You are still alive...

Act like it."

When you felt the sensation cool from your lips and the tip of your tongue, Bakugou's eyes were wide. His smirk had fallen. Silence filled around you, even from Midorya. Everyone has seen and heard the whole thing. Just as you were about to walk back to your table to grab your things and leave, you hear a slow clap. Then another. Then another. You turn your head to see everyone clapping and cheering. You smile a little. Bakugou steps back and walks off with a smack of his teeth.

"Tch, whatever weirdo.. " He mumbles under his breath.

You walked over to Midorya smiling and he quickly gives you a hug. "That was amazing! The way you kept firing words at kachan was incredible! I never seen him so speechless like that! " He pulls away with a smile and a blush.

"Oh hehe! It was nothing really" You say forming a blush yourself, looking away shyly.

"I'm really sorry about your notebook though. I could buy you another one and bring it to you tomorrow! "

"Oh no it's okay! I have extras at my house-"

"Nope! It's my treat." He smiles and the bell rings again, making everyone pack up and ready for the next class. Midorya grabs his bag and hands you yours. Making your way back into the building he stops you for a second. "Hey, speaking of treat, d-do you think we could both head out f-for some ice cream after school? " He says with a heavier blush and fiddles with his tie. He always did looked cute when he blushed. You smile and giggle a bit.

"I would love to.. "

(Woah hey! First fanfic done! Hope you all enjoyed that!! 🤣💕)

#my hero academia #midoriya izuku #poetry #slam poetry #deku midoriya #mha fanfiction #mha #izuku x reader #mha bakugou

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teacupcedes · 4 years

Text

Year 18

INVOLVED: Mercedes Jones, Samuel Evans, and Carter Evans TIME FRAME: Saturday, April 25, 2020 LOCATION: Jones-Evans Condo; Atlanta, Georgia SUMMARY: It’s Samuel’s 18th birthday and they couple celebrates at home, cuddled up on the couch watching the new Trolls movie.

Mercedes moved around the kitchen, leaning over a bit, her hand gently cupping the back of Carter’s head as he rested against her chest in the Moby Kangaroo Wrap. She opened the oven and checked on the cake that she had made from scratch for Samuel’s birthday. Humming softly, she decided it needed a few more minutes just to be sure, before she pulled it out to cool. Closing the oven back, she looked down at Carter as he looked around the kitchen with wide and curious eyes. The corners of her lips twitched into a small smile and she let out a hum before she turned back to the counter and continued whipping the icing that she had made to go along with the cake. Over the last few days, she had begun to feel a bit more like herself. She still felt a sadness that she couldn’t quite put her finger on and she still found it a struggle to connect with Carter a bit, but she was trying. She made an effort, that was worth something, right? Softly, she began to hum The Sweetest Gift by Sade to Carter.

Samuel moved into the house with a card and a gift bag that Dallas wanted him to come outside to get. Moving into the condo, he closed the door behind him and locked the door seeing Mercedes in the kitchen. He moved up the steps with the gifts moving into their bedroom and sitting the card down on the counter before he moved to place the wad of cash into a bookbag in their closet, putting it back into his hiding spot. He moved to pull the pound of weed his brother gave him as a birthday gift and he hid that into his sock drawer. He grabbed the card and moved back down the stairs opening up and looked at the card his dad gave him with a gift card for Carter and he smirked. “Right,” he said as he sat the gift card down to Buy Buy Baby for Mercedes to see.

Mercedes dipped her finger into the icing before she tasted it a bit, humming out. It was good, perfect actually. Dipping her finger in once more, she gathered just a bit before she brought her finger to Carter’s mouth, letting him suck the icing off, watching his reaction with a small smirk before she moved to wash her hands. She dried them, then grabbed some plastic wrap, placing some over the bowl as Samuel walked into the kitchen. Looking at the gift card on the counter, she let out a soft chuckle. “Well, Carter appreciates it…” she said, trying to joke a bit. She knew Samuel had been a bit overworked and on edge now that she had been talking things out in therapy and she wanted to try and return things to normalcy as best she could.

Samuel nodded his head. “Yep, we know who he truly loves,” he said sitting the birthday card down against the counter. He moved to watch her, going a little in the kitchen and then looked at his son. He moved for the fridge and grabbed a Mike’s Hard Lemonade that his brother had purchased and brought to him. He opened the bottle and began drinking it down slowly, he licked his lips and moved back towards the couch sitting down.

Biting her lip gently, Mercedes looked down at Carter as his mouth watered and he drooled all down his chin from the taste of the sweet icing. She lifted the bib around his neck and wiped his mouth a bit before she smiled at him as he cooed and smiled at her. She looked up at Samuel, watching as he grabbed the liquor from the fridge and she followed behind him idly, her hand on Carter’s back gently.

Samuel leaned all the way back on the couch taking another sip before he sat the bottle onto the table. He just wanted to relax today and nothing more of this day honestly, he was fine with being at home with Mercedes and Carter. He didn’t want to go out or hang out or anything. Closing his eyes gently he sat there for a moment before he moved to lean up opening his eyes and grabbing the remote.

Walking behind Samuel, Mercedes moved to sit down on the couch beside him and she tucked her feet under her butt, leaning her head on his shoulder slightly, mindful of Carter against her chest. She rubbed soothing circles into Carter’s back as she sat there quietly staring into their son’s beautiful eyes.

Samuel looked for something on TV as Mercedes joined him and he looked over at her gently. He pecked her forehead sweetly before he said, “you okay?” to her curiously. He found himself doing that a lot but that was only because he was so damn scared of what may happen if she wasn’t okay.

Mercedes tilted her head a little, looking at Samuel before she said, “yeah, I’m okay,” gently, a soft smile on her lips from his tender forehead kiss. She shifted slightly, leaning against him a bit more before she said quietly, “the meds are helping…” She looked back down at Carter sighing a bit, “and the therapy,” she added. “One day at a time… right?”

Samuel nodded his head at her words. “Yeah,” he told her softly as he looked at their son and then to the TV. He turned the channel a few more times before he stopped sitting it aside now. “Can I hold Carter?” he asked her with a small smile.

Nodding a bit, Mercedes looked at Carter at Samuel’s question and she said, “yeah…” softly before she leaned up and began to carefully unwrap the cloth that held the child to her chest. She gently tugged Carter’s long body out of the fabric once it was loose enough and she held him out to Samuel.

Samuel watched Mercedes unwrap Carter and hand him over; he kissed the baby’s cheek and smiled. “Hey bud,” he said, easily laying him against his chest as he rubbed his back. “Did you like being in that thing?” he asked him curiously.

Mercedes watched as Samuel took Carter from her and she let out a hum before she finished unwrapping the wrap from her body. She stood up slowly once she had it off and she moved for the kitchen once more, checking on the cake. With a hum, she grabbed her mittens and carefully pulled the cake pan out of the oven, sitting it on the stove. Pulling off a mitten, she grabbed a toothpick and stuck it into the middle of the cake carefully.

Carter cooed at Samuel, staring up at the man with his wide gray eyes. He drooled a little, the slobber sliding down his chin as he wiggled a bit against Samuel’s chest, kicking his little legs a bit.

Samuel moved to wipe Carter’s mouth and chin with his fingers and he wiped them on his sweatpants. “Where are you going?” he chuckled at the boy. He moved to sit Carter in his lap and he said, “are you going to watch Trolls with daddy?” he faced him towards the TV.

Mercedes pulled the toothpick out slowly, smiling softly as nothing came off on it. With a satisfied hum, she left it to cool down a bit. She turned off the oven before walking back over to the couch, resting back down beside Samuel. She watched him with Carter and had to bite back a small laugh. He was such a softy with Carter. “Trolls?” she asked him curiously, a tiny smirk twitching her lips.

As Samuel wiped around his mouth and chin, Carter smiled, gurgling a little as he continued to kick against Samuel happily. He looked off to the side for a moment, something else catching his wandering eye before he looked back at the TV and he giggled softly.

Samuel looked over at Mercedes before he looked down at Carter with a smirk. “What?” he asked her. “It’s for Carter to enjoy,” he lied to her easily, he turned the movie on for him but he knew it was a child’s movie. He bounced the baby only a little in his lap before he stopped, rubbing his stomach.

Mercedes pulled her bottom lip into her mouth, finding much amusement and happiness in the fact that Samuel wanted to watch the children’s movie and was using Carter as an excuse to do it. “Oh, is it?” she asked him sweetly, a bit of a spark in her eye.

Carter cooed as Samuel bounced him and his little hands mushing together before he looked at Mercedes and he smiled his gummy smile at her. As Samuel rested him down and began to rub his stomach, his eyes began to feel heavy and started to flutter.

“Mhm,” Samuel said to her, nodding his head as he was still watching Carter in his lap. Carter was tired and he smirked. “You are sleepy bud,” he breathed as he hoisted him back up and onto his chest. Samuel rubbed up and down the babies back soothingly rocking him a little. “You are supposed to stay up to party with me,” he chuckled.

Mercedes smiled softly, her hands coming up to rub her sore cheeks. She hadn’t smiled this much in a while and now that she was doing so, it took a toll on her muscles. Looking at Carter, she watched his eyes flutter and she said, “it’s about time,” softly. “He fed an hour ago,” she said looking at the clock.

Carter lulled into sleep easily as he rested against Samuel’s chest, his face mushed against the man.

Samuel continued to rub the boys back and he looked at her. “Is he asleep?” he said chuckling, unsure he couldn’t tell from the angle he had him in.

Mercedes looked at Samuel, then at Carter before she nodded and she said, “yeah he’s out like a light,” softly with a smile.

Samuel nodded his head as he shifted Carter into his arms, supporting his head as he did. He pecked his forehead looking down at him as he slept sweetly. He was the cutest thing he ever had laid his eyes on. “I should put him down,” he told her.

Mercedes bit her lip softly, clasping her hands under her chin a bit. She looked at their son before she nodded at Samuel. “Probably,” she told him quietly, shifting on the couch a bit. “Your cake is almost ready,” she threw out randomly before she moved to stand up, walking back into the kitchen.

Samuel nodded his head at her, “okay,” he said sweetly as he moved to stand up with Carter and he took the child to his room. Laying him down and tucking him in nicely before he grabbed his monitor and moved back to the couch. He looked at Mercedes and moved to sit down gently as he looked at the movie playing once more.

Standing in the kitchen, Mercedes flipped the cooled cake out of the pan and into a dish before she placed the pan in the sink and moved over to the counter with the dish. She paused for a moment, moving to wash her hands, before she returned to her task and she peeled the wrap back, grabbing the icing spatula and began to ice the cake with a soft hum.

Samuel looked over at Mercedes as she moved around the kitchen and he sighed to himself. All he really wanted for his birthday was some ass, he didn’t care about the other things.

Mercedes finished icing Samuel’s cake and she bit her lip as she reached into the drawer and pulled out his candles. She placed the 1 and the 8 in the center and lit them before she picked up the dish carefully and moved for her fiancé, singing softly. “Happy birthday to you… Happy birthday to you… Happy birthday dear Sam...” she smiled softly coming around the couch. “Happy birthday to you…” she leaned down and placed the dish down on the coffee table before him sweetly.

Samuel got into the movie a bit watching it idly and sitting the monitor on the coffee table. He licked his lips hearing Mercedes and he looked up at her happily as she sang to him. He smirked at her and looked down at the cake as it sat before him.

Mercedes rested on the couch beside him once more now and she said, “make a wish,” softly. Tentatively, she reached out and stroked his cheek with her hand, her heart fluttering in her chest as she gazed at him.

Samuel looked at her as she told him to make a wish and he leaned in, his lips crashing with her gently. He pulled away looking at her for a while before he kissed her again. He moved to the table and cake again, leaning in as he closed his eyes. He didn’t want anything but to be able to provide for them for the rest of his life and that she overcame this. He blew the candles out sighing to himself as he leaned back up. “Thank you very much,” he told her.

Mercedes eyes closed as Samuel kissed her and she kissed him back gently, her hand stroking his beard softly. As he pulled away, she bit her lip gently. They hadn’t really kissed much lately but that felt great and it made her feel more like herself. With a hum, she watched as he blew out his candles and she smiled. “You’re welcome baby,” she told him before she leaned in and pecked his lips once more.

Samuel smiled, pecking her back as she did a third time, he looked back at the cake before he leaned against the couch once more. He nodded his head a bit, maybe things were getting to be a little more normal for them. He looked at the TV again watching the movie.

Mercedes pulled back slowly, her hands clamped together in her lap as she gazed at him before she got up slowly and she walked into the kitchen, grabbing a plate, a fork, and a knife. Moving back to the living room, she leaned down and cut Samuel a slice offering the plate and fork to him.

Samuel watched her walk off and move to the kitchen before he looked back at the TV. He took the bottle from the table and he drank it down taking it to the head before he sat it back down. He looked at her as she cut him a slice and he said, “thanks,” again grabbing the plate and fork. He dipped his fork in and stuck the cake into his mouth chewing lightly. “Mm,” he said softly. “It’s really good babe,” he told her quietly.

Mercedes sat the knife down as Samuel took the plate and fork. Sitting down beside him once more, she curled up against him, resting her head against his shoulder lightly. “I’m glad you like it,” she said quietly. “I love you Sam…” she muttered.

Samuel ate more of the cake and she licked the fork clean of the icing on it. “I love you too baby,” he told her quietly.

#thread #thread: year 18 #thread with: samuel carlton #thread with: carter aiden

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lovesick-dick · 5 years

Text

happy BIRTHDAAAAY MY DARLIIIIING

So you’ve made a mistake. So what! Mistakes happen to everyone! And yeah, some are worse than others, you muse to yourself as you dash along the rotted, dust-filled aisles of the old pizzeria– you do think this one might be at the top of your personal list, although you can hardly spare the brainpower to consider it in-depth right now, considering the catastrophic crashing sounds that are echoing behind you from a rapidly-shortening distance. “God– fuck, shit–” you wheeze, taking a hard corner around an arcade machine and towards a long stretch of hallway, your muscles aching and your lungs burning. You still can’t quite believe what’s chasing you, but you can definitely hear it, calling out after you in a deceptively smooth voice that doesn’t sound so much as lightly winded. “Come on now, don’t be like that!” you hear out of the darkness behind you, “Can’t a guy just get a look at you?” And, no, you think to yourself, he may not. “Stop it!” you bark back over your shoulder, your senseless panic leaving you with few options– you only glance back for just a second, but that second of faltered concentration is all the thing turns out to need. You hear the horrible squeaking, creaking sound of old mechanical parts being forced to move at speed; and then you’re rugby-tackled to the floor by 200 pounds of velvet-covered steel and you slam into the carpet so hard it knocks the breath completely out of you. You gasp, a weak, painful sound, and as a heavy padded paw comes down on the side of your head, pinning you to the floor, you note distractedly that the carpet is damp and slightly sticky underneath your cheek. Gross. “I’m not gonna hurt you,” the thing breathes above the nape of your neck, “That’d be an awful waste. Do you even know– do you have any idea how long I have been alone in here? Wasting away?” You don’t, naturally, but you’re much too scared to say so. You lie there in silence instead, quivering with fear, your heart thundering in your ears, and wait for your attacker to finish the job it started. Not the way you’d ever wanted to go; mauled to death by a goddamn possessed Chuck E. Cheese mascot. You wait. And wait. And the pain doesn’t come. Death doesn’t come. You can hear the massive rabbit shifting above you, hear the alarming strain of whatever rusted metal parts make up its internal mechanisms, but it doesn’t bite you, or break your neck, or whatever you’d been expecting…and eventually, in fact, that paw on the side of your face pulls back a little. “If you run again,” the rabbit warns you, in a low, cool voice that is almost posh, “Then I really will kill you. I don’t want that. You don’t want that. So let’s make the right choice here, and make nice like civilized folks. So hi! I’m– Springtrap.” “Hi,” you reply breathlessly on autopilot. That seems to please the creature somewhat, as that paw on your head finally withdraws all the way, but that great weight still hovers over you like the specter of Death, and you’re not nearly dumb enough to disregard its very blatant warning. Or, his warning. It sounds like a he, anyway, and thinking of him as such helps to humanize him just a little, so you can cling to the hope that he might still be reasoned with. “What’s your name?” “Ben…” “Lovely. Great! Sit up, Ben, I want to see you.” It’s not as if you have a choice. You push yourself up on shaking arms, moving slowly so you don’t spook– what was his name? Springtrap?– and he helpfully eases off of you enough to give you room to sit up. You rub your stinging cheek and look back at your captor as bravely as you can muster. He’s huge. He was big the first time you’d glimpsed him, and he was big when he’d been chasing you, but now, up close, he seems enormous. He’s more than twice your weight in rusted old metal and broken wires, and although his fur seems to have started out as velvet, some time way back in the past, it has since grown threadbare, matted, and gone somewhat to rot. His steel teeth are huge and blunt in his mouth, and the eyes of his…costume burn hollowly with an empty white light. He’s falling apart. There are gaps and chunks missing out of him, exposed wires that seem thankfully dead, half of one ear gone completely– and underneath the prevailing smell of dust and mildew that pervades this place, you can catch from him the lingering scent of old decay. Suitably Halloween-y, your traumatized brain decides. “Hello there.” he says softly. You don’t know if he even has eyelids, but you wish he would blink. “Hi,” you repeat, meekly. …You don’t know what to say. What can you say, in a situation like this? “–Please don’t hurt me,” you eventually blurt out, holding your hands out to him palms-forward, in a gesture of supplication, “I didn’t know anyone was in here, I’m so sorry, I never would have bothered you if I’d known–” Springtrap rocks forward on his haunches like a kangaroo, and your words turn to ash in your mouth. You cut yourself off and flinch away. “I already said I’m not going to hurt you,” he says, and this time he sounds exasperated, a little miffed. His voice gets rougher and more gravelly as he continues on, and you realize that he had been slinging his voice low and soft on purpose, likely to disarm you. Now he’s sounding more like he looks, “I’m glad you came in! I’ve been so alone…so lonely. Come here– don’t run,” he says, and you flinch again as those massive padded paws come forward to cup your face. He’s surprisingly gentle, for how big he is. Each paw seems big enough to crush your head, but all he does is hold you there, your chin in his hands as he leans forward and wedges his big worn-down snout into the join of your neck and shoulder. You jolt and nearly yelp, but you don’t pull away, and so he doesn’t bite you. Instead, he pushes his button nose against your skin, almost hard enough to be uncomfortable, and…sniffs you. Great, gusty, whuffling sniffs, like a big dog, right at your pulse point. It makes all the hair on your body stand on end, even as it makes your cheeks burn strangely. “What are you– doing?” you whisper, wanting to wriggle away but knowing better than to try. You can feel his plastic whiskers bristling underneath your chin. He doesn’t answer. At least, not with words. Another few snuffles against your skin, his paws squeezing your face, your eyes half-closed in fear; and then he goes and moans, and your eyes snap open in shock as you finally wrench your head away to look at him. You cover your neck where he’d been nuzzling in mortification. He looks back at you with those big dead white eyes and you know you’re in trouble. “What–” He pounces. He snaps into motion so fast it’s frightening, going from a complete standstill to a lion-like lunge– his bulk slams into your chest and sends you sprawling again, skidding out onto your back on the carpet, and then his paws come down on your legs with a steely power behind them where they clutch onto you just above your knees, and he yanks your legs open wide. You don’t have the time for more than an offended yipe before he raises your lower half up completely off the floor and shoves his snout right down between your legs, his nose against the zipper of your jeans. “Get– stop– no! Get off!” you exclaim, writhing and kicking and trying to find a way to get purchase enough to shove his head away, but he ignores you like he’s suddenly gone deaf to the world and takes a few more deep breaths of your scent, his mouth hanging open and those blunt, crushing teeth scarcely an inch from a place you do not want them to be. Your face burns, and you can tell you’re flushing all the way from your cheeks to the tips of your ears. Springtrap nudges his muzzle in against you, rubbing, almost nuzzling with a worrying force, and although it certainly doesn’t hurt, his intentions are still very, very clear. “I need this,” you hear– feel– him mutter. You make a little moaning sound in fright (not all fright, shamefully, but with all the adrenaline pumping through your body, what could you really do?), but you can feel his nose grinding along the clothed length of your slit, bumping against your dick, and a tingle starts to build at the base of your spine until he releases you suddenly and yanks you upright by the collar of your shirt. You spend one dizzy moment just trying to get your balance back, and then his paws come down on the backs of your shoulders and push you down so fast you nearly sprawl again. You catch yourself on your hands and knees, and realize his intentions as soon as something smooth and rubbery brushes against the tip of your nose. He’s got a fucking dick. Or, well, of sorts; you’ve owned enough sex toys to recognize a dildo when you see one, and although it’s attached to his pelvis, jutting out of a little fabric slit in his costume, it’s still definitely silicone, and it’s cool and springy when he nudges it against your lip. “Help me out here, help a fella out,” he urges you, and one of his hands slides over to the back of your head before he starts to push again, the lack of room for argument making something shameful and sticky-hot curl low in your belly. “I need this. Open up.” You open your mouth. Again, it’s not like you have a choice. And yes, while you’re not exactly leaping at the chance to suck this monster off, you’re hardly fighting him as hard as you could be either. …It’s not like anyone has to know. You let him slide his silicone dick past your lips and into your mouth, and then immediately have to fight not to choke as his hips buck on what seems to be reflex and a gusty moan drags itself up out of his throat. You swallow around him and try to pull back a little. “Good boy,” he sighs, his awful eyes rolling in his head as he gives you absolutely no time to adjust before starting to rock his hips, “Good boy, good boy. It’s been so LONG– I’m usually more, mmh, of a gentleman,” he continues, and you get the distinct feeling that that is a lie. It’s not important, anyway, when you’re bracing your hands on his hips and trying to push him back to give you a little room to breathe. It doesn’t work. He doesn’t back off. He moves relatively slowly, grinding his dick back and forth along your tongue, but for what he lacks in pace he makes up for in sheer size, and with each roll of his hips he pushes himself a little farther down into your throat, an insistent nudging that makes your eyes begin to water. It’s only taken seconds, and you’re already in way over your head. You hate that you like it. You like it kind of an awful lot. Inch after inch of silicone presses down your throat, his body creaking as he rocks against you, your heart pounding as you try to steal breaths when you can, and Springtrap musses your hair and tries to pull with big clumsy paws while he pants like he’s running a marathon. Evidently, he wasn’t lying about how long it’s been. It takes some time, and it takes some doing, but eventually he manages to manhandle you all the way down to length of his cock, eight or so inches of him rutting into your throat, and he only stops pushing once your lips are brushing the swell of what can only be some kind of knot. You choke a little and drool down the length of him, tears burning your eyes, and Springtrap makes a satisfied sound in his chest and then lets you slide back a little, giving you a chance to catch a few breaths before he starts to move your head up and down on him again. If you had the breath to manage a moan, you probably would have– it’s mortifying, it’s probably sickening, but the way this creature is treating you like some kind of helpless toy is making you wet in a way that you’re sure is going to soak through your boxers, and you can’t help but wiggle your hips to try and alleviate that pressure a little bit. Springtrap huffs and puffs and picks up speed until he’s finally fucking your throat full-out, and all you can do is make broken little sounds and hope he doesn’t try to wedge that fist-sized knot of his into your mouth too. You’re not sure how long he keeps you like that. There’s no clock, there’s no way to tell the time, and you can’t even look up; all you have is his whining and grunting and the endless thrusting that makes your jaw ache from being held open so wide. Your drool dampens the fur at his crotch, and your own arousal makes your boxers stick to you uncomfortably. When he eventually, finally releases you, he does so with as little warning as he had started with, and all but pulls you off of him to push you back to the floor, leaving you to cough and wipe the tears from your face while he lifts your legs into the air again. “Enough foreplay,” he growls, and this time his voice is scary, a hollow metal roar that makes you want to cover your ears. His expression is an ever-static smile, and you can’t tell how roughly he intends to treat you. You don’t even spare the time to worry or care. Your hands fly down again, but this time, instead of pushing against him to get away, you fumble for your button and zipper and tug your jeans open for him, much to what appears to be his surprise. “Oh, fuck me,” you whine through gritted teeth as you try to kick your pants off, and you watch his one good ear perk straight up into the air like an exclamation point while the ragged half of the other can only wobble to the side. Big, soft paws help to pull your pants away, and Springtrap leers down at you like he’s seeing you in a brand-new light. He looks almost wondering. “Really?” he asks, cocking his enormous head to the side. He sounds like he’s smiling, and as you tug your boxers down and throw the sticky fabric to the side, his pleasure only seems to grow. “Well, Benny boy! I gotta say, you’re not what I expected! Am I not the only one who’s been so lonely? –Oh, look at you. You’re soaked!” he praises you. You’re too wound-up to actively take the time to bask in that praise, but you do mentally file it away for future use. A lot of future use. “Springs– uh, Springtrap,” you mutter, your head feeling a bit fuzzy as you wiggle free of his paws just long enough to shuffle over to him, “Please– fuck, I’m so–” “Needy? Slutty? Desperate?” he teases you, but eagerly helps you along as you clamber up onto him and push him into a sitting position against the wall. You only moan an affirmative, and that makes him laugh, a charmless sound like an old swing set creaking. His paws slide down to cup your ass and dig into your cheeks. “I like you, Ben,” he says roughly, “I like you very much.” To be honest, you think the sentiment might be kind of returned. “Please,” you say again, positioned splay-legged on his lap with his cock jutting up between the two of you, strangely warm and still slick with your drool, “Give it to me hard.” And that’s playing with fire, you think, as he lifts you up like you weigh absolutely nothing and positions you to nudge the head of his cock against your soaking wet pussy– but then he slides his tip along you, finds your entrance and dips in, and then, oh, then all thoughts fly out of your head as his paws shudder where they hold you and he drops you down with a grunt. You distantly hear someone making a sound, a pitiful, broken keening sound, and only realize it’s you once it gets loud enough to make an echo in the empty hall. Just like before, he didn’t waste time or ease into it. He’d literally dropped you down onto him, letting gravity do his work, and so his entire length forces itself into you and stretches you achingly wide all at once as you come down on him with a wet smack against the bulge of his knot (that, at least, remains outside you for now). “Aahh! Ahh, aahh, gghh– fuck!” you gasp, your eyes screwing shut tight and your mouth falling open as you’re forced down on him, your fingers digging into his matted fur and your pussy squeezing down on him as you attempt to adjust to his size. It almost hurts, so suddenly, almost but not quite, and the ache of the stretch is heavenly, makes you arch your back and drop your head against his chest as he moans long and loud in your ear. “Fucking– shit, shit you’re tight!” he exclaims, that posh accent all but lost under the heat in his voice. He bounces you a little, getting used to the feeling of you taking his length like a perfect little sleeve, and each tiny jolt makes you squeak and squeal into his fur with the sensation. “Springtrap!” “Ohh, say it again!” he breathes against your temple, his head craned low. He starts to lift and rock you, careful enough, at least, to work you open a little before he starts to really move, but you can feel the way his cock throbs inside you like he’s something actually alive, and it makes you squirm in his grasp with the need to get railed. There is no breath in his chest, but he makes sounds like he’s panting. “Springtrap, Springtrap,” you repeat, no longer as scared of him as you probably should be as you roll your hips and feel his girth stretch you out in all the right ways, “Don’t tease, I need– please–” Pitiful? Yes, absolutely? Slutty? Indubitably. You’re begging the monster that accosted you to fuck you within an inch of your life, and you don’t feel the least bit sorry about it, not when he bounces you again and his knot pushes smack up against your dick in a way that makes your toes curl. He’s already bigger than any of your toys, and the practical promise of that extra bulge stretching you open even further destroys what little patience you had for adjusting in the first place. “Say it,” you hear him grunt, his legs shifting so he can brace his feet flat against the floor. He trembles slightly with the effort of keeping still, his paws kneading at your ass, but he holds out for the allure of making you beg for it– which, to be honest, you probably would have done anyway. So you beg. You beg him to fuck you, to fuck you hard, to use you like a toy and knot your tight cunt and make you cry from it– and if the ragged, needless inhale he gives in response is any indication, he’s exactly as incensed about it as you are. There’s just no time to gloat before his self-control snaps like a frayed thread and he moves to wrap his arms around you in a crushing hug as he finally starts to thrust up into you, at an instant feverish pace that makes your whole body jolt in his lap. And yes, yes, god, that’s what you’d wanted. That’s what you needed; the furious whack of his hips against yours, rutting his fat cock into you over and over again with zero regard for pacing or care. He treats you like some kind of fucktoy, exactly as you’d asked, and his snarl is a strange, tinny animal sound as he fucks you open on him, your cunt squeezing hard on him in a way that would betray your pleasure even if your bouncing voice didn’t. “You’re such a slut, Benny boy,” you hear him mutter, with transparent glee, “A dripping, needy slut! Do you let– rrrghn– all the monsters fuck you this way? You take it like you do!” And that should mortify you, that should make you angry, but all those crude words actually do is make you whimper into his shoulder and try to push your hips down to meet him, thrust for thrust. That in no way escapes his notice. “Holy shit,” he chuckles, his voice rising up high and giddy, “You like that? Huh? You like it when I’m mean?” He throbs hard inside you, evidently as much into teasing you as you are into taking it, and he slows down to swivel his hips in a circle until he finds a spot that makes you cry out loud, your breath hitching as heat coils tight in your belly. “Go on, say it. Admit that you’re a cockslut,” he demands, grinding hard against that sweet spot until you claw and writhe, and you break down with something like a sob as you obediently beg into his fur. “I’m– I’m a cockslut! I’m a needy cockslut– Springtrap! I need– hah, fuck, fuckfuck please I need your– knot–” “Beautiful,” he moans, low and slow beneath your begging. “Gooood boy, Benny. You’re so– tight– here, take it, take it,” he grunts, releasing you from his crushing embrace to grab your thighs and spread you wider, his eyes heavily lidded as he lifts you up again and drops you hard onto him. He keeps you held open like that as he ruts up into you, his knot an insistent pressure that pushes against your tight pussy, and you squirm, whimpering, as each rough slap of his hips opens you up just a little more, closer and closer to taking it. You’re nearly drooling at this point from the hard, thumping rhythm, fitfully grinding yourself down in an attempt to help him along, and your neglected dick aches to be touched, if you could muster the brainpower to remember how to move your arms. Springtrap keeps up the pace, the mechanisms that make up his body creaking alarmingly, and then he slams you down one final time and holds you there, splayed out on him, as he humps and grinds in harsh little movements, until, with a slow, aaaching stretch– The swell of his knot finally slides into you with a squelch and a pop, and the fat bulge of it forces your cunt open wider than you’ve ever felt in your life, every single inch of you stuffed full of throbbing cock and locked into place around it. Springtrap makes a single, harsh bark of sound, and you wrap your arms around his neck and cling on for dear life as your orgasm hangs on that very edge of breaking. It’s so big, your legs are shaking, tears brimming in your eyes for the second time that night, and you bounce mindlessly against him to no avail, desperately trying to push yourself over. You’re not sure he’s budging so much as an inch. “Springs, Springs, Springs, Springtrap!” you babble, pleading for him to help you cum, and you’re not sure if it’s just reflex or something else that drives him to actually take in your cries and fumble to assist you. One of his paws slides down to your lower back, holding you steady, and the other wedges itself between the two of you to feel for where you’re locked together with clumsy digits, wet velvet prodding your dripping pussy. He manages to find your dick by the way you whimper when he slides over it, and then he makes a sound that’s so satisfied it’s almost a purr as he takes mercy on you and grinds down on it hard, in quick little circles. “Cum on it,” he orders you breathlessly, moving his hips like he wants to thrust even though he can’t– and the addition of his soft paw pad on your dick is all it takes to send you over the edge, with a fire-light building of tension that tenses every muscle in your body as it breaks. You wail when you cum around his knot, so stretched out that your cunt can do little more than twitch around its girth as he pulses inside of you. The silky-soft clench of you around his cock must feel just as good for Springtrap, too, because his foot thumps twice, hard, as you squeeze down on him, yanking at his short fur with your pleasure– and then his cock throbs, once, twice, and he’s chasing you off that edge with a surprisingly weak moan of his own. His cum is cool when it splashes into you, deep into your stuffed pussy with nowhere else to go, and distantly you can feel your body twitching as he spurts into you, your orgasm kindled and further drawn out by the pulsing sensation. You keep on cumming, and cumming, whimpering pathetically with each fitful clench around him… And by the time you’ve continued on over to the edge of overstimulated, by the time he finally stops, you can look down at yourself through teary eyes and see the slight bulge in your belly made by the creampie he’s just given you. Holy…fucking…shit. Buzzing with the pleasure and bone-deep exhaustion of afterglow, you stay slumped against Springtrap for indeterminate minutes, shivering, and listen to him mutter nonsense against the crook of your neck while his knot slowly goes down. It’s only when he finally shifts enough to pull himself out of you that you finally stir again, whimpering as he pops out of you with a wet squelch and a flood of cum gushes out of your over-sensitive pussy. It’s a bizarre, glowing green where it drools out of you and onto Springtrap’s lap and the carpet below, and you blink blearily at it for a few moments before collapsing back against him again, too satisfied and sleepy to bother with anything else. You don’t know if you’d even be able to walk after that. You definitely don’t have the energy to find out. You feel like you’ve actually been fucked stupid. “I…needed that,” you hear Springtrap breathe, his paws rubbing down your back, brushing through your hair, and you muster the energy to sleepily nod and smile against his chest in agreement, dozily petting his fur. This turned out as an excellent Halloween after all.

#BABE HOLY *SHIT*#**JESUS CHRIST HAPPY FUCKING BIRTHDAY TO ME**#AAAAAAAAAAAAH THIS IS SO GOOD #WORDS CANNOT EXPLAIN HOW FUCKING FFLUSTERED I AM RIGHT NOW AAAAAAH #submission

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psyched2b · 5 years

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6, 17, 12 with Bucky? And can you make it angst that turns out fluffy?

Yo, here ya go!

A/N: SO so sorry that it’s taking me forever to get these done. I have 3 papers due Next WEEK and had to get them done prior to the weekend (because I like to pretend I have a life outside of school and work).

Just a friendly reminder that the Dallas Birthday Celebration/300 follower Celebration is still going on! (I would like the masterpost, but Tumblr scares me so I’m avoiding links until I hear it’s safe…is it safe yet? haha.)

Anywho, huge shoutout to @mermaidxatxheart for her support in this. I would have never posted this had it not been for her….but that’s just me. (I blame my new medication…..anyone else fucking struggle with mental health? like…fuck..)

Welp, enough about me, HERE YOU GO!

PART TWO

6. You’re Satan.12. Tell me you need me.17. I’d rather die than do that.

People would often describe you as fearless. There wasn’t much that could strike fear into your heart or shake you to the core.

There was really only one thing.

“We need to train,” Bucky deadpans, giving you a look that lets you know you weren’t going to be able to talk your way out of it.

“Lead the way, sensei.”

You followed the buff super soldier blindly, not paying attention to the route he was taking you.

It wasn’t until the smell of chemicals filled your nose that you realized where he was taking you.

“Abso-fucking-lutely not, James!” You cry, digging your fingers into the cool metal of the door frame leading to the cursed room. “I swear to all that’s holy, I will cut your fucking balls off and shove them back up your ass if you make me do this! No! NOT TODAY, SATAN!”

You could feel your heart pounding harshly against your ribs. So hard, you swore they were going to bruise.

“It’s high time you got over this fear of your, Y/N,” Bucky told you, wrapping his flesh hands around your wrist, trying to encourage you to let go of the doorway. “And that’s exactly what we are going to do.”

A wave a nausea passes over you, the chemical smell suffocating. A cold sweat brakes out over your body. But you were adamant that you weren’t going in.  

You tuck your chin into your chest, eyes squeezed tight and shake your head. “No!”

You could feel your grip start to slip and you try to hold on tighter, pleading to whatever force in the universe that was listening, ‘don’t let this be my demise!’

The ever vigilant Winter Soldier noticed your failing grip. He didn’t bother trying to hide his amusement. “Well, you don’t get a vote.” His warm hand inched its way from your wrist to your fingers and one by one, he picked them from the door.

With a final tug, your grip is released and you immediately go to claw at his arms, not caring that your nails would leave indents on the flesh. “Don’t do this to me,” you plead, digging your heels into the ground. It was a fruitless endeavor as soon as Bucky picked you up and threw you over his shoulder. Nausea rolls through your stomach again and you pray you don’t vomit on the man…as much as he deserves it. “I would ra-rather d-die than g-go in ther-re,” you pant.

Every step closer makes the room feel tighter.

Was this a vacuum? Where was the air going?

Bucky passes through the last set of door and you know this is the end.

“Y/N. I need you to breathe.”

He sets you back down on your feet, keeping both hands strongly on your shoulder. A silent reminder that he was in control.

“I know you don’t want to do this, but I need you to. I lose sleep every time you are on a mission because what if- what if you fell into water? What would happen then? You would seize up and sink to the bottom and die. And I would die with you.” His voice broke off with a crack. You look up and to see watery steel blue eyes watching you, pleading you. “I can’t lose you.”

Your heart aches. You want so badly to do this for him.

But the fear was greater.  

“I-I can’t,” you whimper, wrapping your arms around yourself in an attempt to find comfort. “I can’t.” You close your eyes and try to find your happy place.

You ignore the way his hands tighten their hold on you.

“It’s either learn or you will die.”

You didn’t care the finality of that statement.

“Good. Then I wouldn’t have to put up with your bullying guilt trips,” you quietly simper. You take a deep breath before speaking again-

Only to find yourself airborne for a half second before crashing into the pool behind you.

Your body hits the warm water and you can feel your muscles seizing up, tense and unmoving. Your eyes never close, the chlorine burning as you watch the million tiny bubbles surround you. You swear that your heart has come to a stop. The moment drags on and on and on…

Before you have the need to breathe.

But you can’t breathe water.

That’s how you die.

And not today, Satan.

You break through the fear and break free over the surface, gulping lung fulls of air.

You don’t notice how you are treading in the water, not faltering in your moves.

Once your brain is satisfied that it has enough oxygen to work, it registers where you are once again.

But there’s no time to panic.

Breathe in for five.

Exhale for five.

Breathe in for six.

Exhale for six.

And the world continues.

You’re not dying. Drowning. Suffocating.

You are alive.

“Well, would you look at that.”

You spin around in the water and glare at an amused Bucky. “What the fuck was that?”

He’s crouching down by the side pool, elbows resting on his cargo covered knees. You idly wonder if he has rocks in those pockets of his.

He flashes you his “killer’ smile, the one that usually make you go weak at the knees. Usually. “You can swim! I thought for a moment there that I was going to have to go in to get you.”

You bite your tongue and swim over to the side of the pool before holding your hand out to him. “Help me out.”

“Aw, now you need me?” he teases, easily grasping your hand, bracing himself to lift you out of the water. “See, I knew it was just ‘Mind over matter’. Hey, do you think we can go to Jamaica for our vow re-“ He doesn’t get the chance to finish his sentence-

Because you pull him over your head and into the water behind you.

He reacts much quicker than you, breaking the surface just a second later, spitting water as he does. “What the fuck, Y/N?!”

You’re already out of the pool, sitting just where he was crouched a moment ago and you simper, “Damn. No rocks after all.” You roll your eyes. “Guess I’ll just have to settle for you sleeping on the couch for the next foreseeable future.”

Bucky pulls himself up next to you and wraps his arms around you, pulling you into his embrace. “Sure babe, whatever you say. But seriously. Jamaica? Mexico? Bora Bora??”

“I’m cold.” You lock your arms around his neck, tucking your head under his chin. “Take me to our room.”

The asshole has the audacity to chuckle beneath you. “Woah, babe. How do you go from wanting me dead to sex? I mean-not that I’m complain-“

You sharply tug his hair. “Shut up. I need dry clothes since you decided to yeet me into the pool, ya fuckin’ fool.”

“Screw Bora Bora,” you shout, turning your tablet in your hands and shoving the brings screen into your husbands face. “Let’s go to Australia!!!!”

Bucky gives you a bemused grin before taking the tablet from your hands, scrolling through the pictures.

“Is it because of the manta rays?”

You pout. “And the kangaroos…and koalas….that live in a constant state of being high…..and are like miniature bears. And fluff.”

Your husband just shakes his head and smiles. “Of course, doll.”

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Bri

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in-tua-deep · 4 years

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giftbox

Giftbox is dealer’s choice, and today’s dealer’s choice is... daemon!au ;3c

(other daemon au posts: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, art)