#It all goes completely out the window he's so /reduced/ and nothing hurts worse than that ughughugh | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

shurisneakers · 3 years

Text

shut in [8]

Summary: When your high profile mission goes terribly wrong, you’re forced to hide in a safehouse with a man you’ve never met before. With seemingly nowhere else to go, you’re forced to work together to figure out who is trying to have you assassinated before it’s too late. (Sam Wilson x Reader, Hitman AU)

Warnings: cursing, implied abuse, death, implied ptsd, injuries, guns, anxiety

Word count: 4.2k

A/N: oh my god oh my god sam stans how are we feeling djkghdfjkhgdf. no thoughts only sam wilson in ep1 of tfatws <333

i also appreciate feedback so if you would like to, please consider dropping me an ask or comment ly guys!!

here’s my ko-fi if you’d like to support my writing <333

Previous Part || Shut In Masterlist

“Hey, I’m just going to step out for today.” You looked up from the doodle you were making on the corner of the paper. “Catch you later? Just find me if you need anything.”

“You okay?” You automatically sat up straighter, blanket creasing under you. Something was amiss in his body language.

“Yeah, just-” He seemed like he was struggling for words. “-Brooklyn.”

You didn’t get what he was making a reference to until it suddenly dawned on you.

It was the codeword he had suggested right at the beginning of your time in the house. If he was in danger you were sure he’d tell you, at least an inkling of information.

But no, this was for some time alone, further confirmed by the distant look in his eyes.

“Oh.” You blinked. “Take all the time you need. I’ll be here if you need.”

He gave you a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, turning around and leaving the room.

You were left staring after him, the drawing you were making of the house layout discarded on the bed. You were working on strategies, vantage points- anything that could help in case something went wrong.

Was it because of the dumb ‘moment’ you had shared two days ago? It didn’t seem like it because he hadn’t brought it up at all and God knows you would never. Was it something else that had happened, something you did?

Stop overthinking. He probably just needs a day to himself.

You had spent almost a month in each other’s company and he had never once complained. He had a tendency to be petty about minor inconveniences, like you trying to watch a movie when his favourite segment on the local news channel was going on. He liked the cooking show they hosted.

He had never made it a point to specifically tell you that he needed some time to himself, much less use the word.

“Get yourself together,” you whispered to yourself, shaking off the nagging feeling you had.

If he had an issue, he would have voiced it. He never shied away from doing that before and you knew he wouldn’t start now.

You forced yourself to think about something else, grabbing the copy of American Gods you had already gone over once before but were subjecting to a reread. Opening the page you had last left it at, you were determined to distract yourself.

Nearly twenty minutes later and exactly zero pages since you had started, you realised that no matter how much you forced yourself to get into it, you went over the same line over and over again, not a single word registering in your head.

“Motherfucker,” you groaned, letting the book fall on your face. You took a long look outside the window, mind drifting.

It was a nice day out. Maybe some sun would help.

You lifted your legs off the bed, taking your book with you to the kitchen. You could get a nice sandwich-- the same as the last three fuckin’ weeks but you digressed-- a glass of water, and you could sit outside for a while. A mini picnic.

You opened a new packet of sliced bread, taking two out before stopping. You pondered over whether you should make him a sandwich for when he returned, knowing that he didn’t eat lunch before he left.

You thought about it for a good minute before rolling your eyes, pulling out two additional slices to make him one as well. It was just a sandwich. It wasn’t a big deal.

Tucking your book under your arm, you carried your lunch and a glass of water to the patio around the back.

The wind rustled the leaves and the sun wasn’t harsh. The low buzz of insects was the only sound that kept you company.

The air was crisp and you instantly felt better than you had all day in the room.

Setting your stuff down on the bench, you sat down, inhaling deeply.

The book suddenly didn’t seem so impossible to complete as you tried once more, slipping into the pages easily. Even after you finished your food, you continued to lounge about there, too engrossed and content to move.

You didn’t notice the afternoon go by, evening coming and going just as swiftly. You swatted at the occasional fly but nothing else bothered you.

It felt like summer break. At least what you thought it would feel like. You never had one, being homeschooled about things from various people in the organization. There wasn’t a singular, long break. You were just forced to adapt.

You didn't know how to deal with the suffocating realisation of knowing there were so many things you missed out on. It grew the longer you spent time away. You just shoved it away, forcing yourself to deal with it another day.

He comes back when the sky is slipping into shades of orange, a backpack on his shoulder. There was a patch of sweat around his neck and his head was hung low as he walked.

“Hey,” you hoped it didn't look like you were waiting for him. It could easily be taken as you camping out there, waiting for your husband to return from a hard day in the fields.

Sam looked up at your greeting. You noted that the bruise on his nose was starting to change colour but the swelling had reduced from how bad it used to be.

“Left you a sandwich on the counter if you’re hungry,” you added. He nodded in acknowledgement, making his way up the stairs and into the house without another word.

You let out an exhale, feeling a little better knowing that he was at least back in one piece. No reason to believe otherwise other than the anxiety you had developed over imagining the worst case scenarios.

You picked up your book again, intending to finish off the last bit before you went back inside for the day.

About half an hour later Sam re-emerged from the house, your attention snapping to him as the door opened and shut. He had changed into a new pair of clothes, looking a little cleaner like he was fresh outta the shower. He had a sandwich in his hand that he had already taken a few bites out of. You wondered if it was the one you left for him.

You didn’t expect him to take a seat next to you on the bench. He didn’t look at you or open his mouth to talk so you followed suit. You continued reading, or at least tried to, as he just sat there, finishing his sandwich without any kind of other interaction.

There was a strange tension he wasn’t addressing. He instead leaned back, arms crossed behind his neck to support his neck and closed his eyes. His foot tapped against the wooden floor and rather than getting annoyed, you found solace in the repetition.

“They recruited me on this day,” Sam said to no one in particular. His eyes were still closed and his feet still tapped against the ground. “Parents died when I was a kid, I got shifted around orphanages and homes a lot. Finally Ransone had someone pick me up.”

You closed your book softly, setting it down beside you. That’s what was bothering him.

Secret adoption is what they called it officially in the business, but around the organization it was just known as the recruitment process. Every record of Sam being alive would have been destroyed to maintain anonymity.

To the world he just… disappeared.

It was a day that clearly brought with it so much pain. You were too young to remember when you joined, and no one had kept track either. You supposed it was for the good.

It was supposed to be a happy day, one filled with new beginnings. Maybe that’s what he would have thought when he got picked. It’s what you did.

“I’m sorry,” you said, not having anything else to offer. You relieved your memories everyday in your head. Having a morbid anniversary of sorts would no doubt drain the life out of you; remembering one singular day that would trigger the rest of the decisions you made in your life.

He didn’t say anything in return. You turned your attention to the sky, finding it easier to look at that than the disturbed look on his face.

“Do you regret this?” he asked out of the blue.

“All of it,” you replied, without skipping a beat.

“Every single one, huh?” Sam’s one eye opened to peer at you.

“It wasn’t up to me to take someone’s life away.” You were just a child. You knew nothing other than what you were taught; so then why was it so fucking hard to forgive your past self for straying into this. “Even once I realised that I couldn’t leave.”

You didn’t form any relationships while you worked with Ransone. Whoever you did allow yourself to care for ended up dead or worse, sometimes as a cruel lesson to not make friends in the organization you worked in because all they served as were distractions and liabilities. Others were plain scum; people who you knew were using you but you didn’t care. The loneliness hurt worse.

“What about you?”

“I’d give anything to go back and change things,” he admitted. He didn’t have a say either. It didn’t make things easier.

“You regret all of ‘em too?”

“Mostly,” he said. “One of them I don’t.”

“That one must have deserved it then,” you deduced. It was the only logical explanation you could think of; the worst of the worst.

“Nah. I let him go.”

It took a while to register what he said.

“What?” You twisted your body to look at him.

“First mission I ever did.”

His hands were shaking lightly, barely holding on to the gun. This wasn’t what he was taught. Stay calm. Stay calm. Stay calm.

He had already managed to get his way into the house through the back. His partner had taken care of most of it and Sam only had to knock people out. He hadn’t had to kill anyone yet.

But now his partner was injured outside the door. Quick shot to the leg, a punch in the face and he was out cold. Sam was already in the master bedroom by the time it happened. He had no idea about where his partner was, only the crippling fear of being left alone and the nerves from the threat posed to him if this didn’t go right.

He knew he didn’t have enough time. He had only a few minutes to kill him and get out of there before his family returned.

The man itself was sitting at the study table, his back towards Sam. Just pull the trigger and get out of here. It was deadly silent.

“I know you’re here to kill me,” the man said suddenly. Sam nearly jumped but instead tightened the grip on the gun.

“Stay where you are.” He sounded confident.

“I’m not planning on going anywhere.” His chair swiveled around, letting him face Sam. His hair was white with a beard that matched. He was dressed down in his pajamas, a robe covering him. He didn’t look nervous.

“Stop talking.”

“You’re younger than what I expected,” the man observed, not paying heed to what Sam was in. He was a considerable distance away. “You’re not even legal yet, are you? I got kids, I would know.”

Sam didn’t say a word, only lifted his gun up to align with his forehead. “I said, stop talking.”

“I’ve made mistakes. Several, actually,” he mused, “It’s why your boss sent you here. I’ve accepted my fate.”

“Then it should be easy.”

“Oh, it never is,” the man chuckled. “It doesn’t get lighter. You learn to ignore it but it’ll weigh on you for the rest of your life.”

Sam’s jaw clenched. It would get easier. It had to.

“I doubt that’s what you heard, however,” he continued. “Ransone’s a bit… unstable. It’s in his blood, but you- you don’t look like you could live with it.”

Ransone’s history was well known enough that rival gang leaders knew it too, apparently. The man would have been delighted at his infamous reputation.

Just shoot him. Just shoot him and end this.

“What’s your name?” the man asked, taking a sip from the tumbler he had in his hand. “You’re going to be the last person I talk to. It’d be nice to have a name.”

“Sam,” he whispered, inwardly cursing himself.

“Sam. That’s a strong name,” the man said, clicking the roof of his mouth with his tongue. “Are you sure this is what you want to do, Sam?”

It wasn’t.

“I don’t have a choice.” He hated how defeated he sounded. It was a weakness.

“They want you to believe that. It takes away your freedom. I would know, I’ve used it.” The man smiled, setting down his glass. “I’ll tell you this though, Sam. You always have a choice.”

“Stop talking, man.” Sam pulled the safety off.

“Once you go down this way, there’s no way you can escape. Someone will always have to die; either him or you.”

“That’s not true.” He could leave at any time. He just needed-

“You’ll see for yourself.” The man leaned back on his chair, resigned. “But for now, go ahead. I’ll make it easy for you.”

He simply closed his eyes and sat back.

You waited for Sam to continue.

“Couldn’t do it,” he said, shaking his head lightly. “Son of a bitch got in my head and I knew what he was doing too. Told him to get the fuck out before my partner shot him in the face.”

“Does Ransone know?” You were still reeling from the incident he recounted. You didn't know what else to say.

“Holds it over me every damn day,” he scoffed. “Some fucked up way of saying that I owe him one.”

To be frank, you were surprised Sam was still alive to tell you. Everyone knew that Ransone forgiven the first mistake someone made, but this was huge. If it were anyone else, he would have had someone try out a hundred different ways to push Sam to the brink of death and back; having him begging for the release that death would bring.

“He hasn’t ever cashed in that favour?”

“He did. Had me take out the leader of the Ten Rings after that.”

“So then why did you still continue?”

“I did something extremely dangerous a couple of years ago that he found out about recently. Used that to get me to come for this mission.”

He didn’t elaborate what he meant and you didn’t ask him to. You supposed it was a story for another day. This was heavy enough.

“He wants to get rid of me as much as I want to get away from him, trust me. We’re the weird, toxic relationship those self-help Instagram pages warned you about.” Trust Sam to make a dumb joke during a conversation like this. “Probably the only time someone from the gang let their target go and not died.”

That wasn’t as true as he thought he was but you didn’t want to seem like you were one-upping him. You didn’t want him to think you were making this about you.

“You remember the big break you were talking about?” you tread carefully, gauging his reaction before you continued. “The one that pushed me up the ranks or whatever.”

He gave a small hum of acknowledgement, bringing his hands from behind his head to fold across his chest.

“Similar story, ‘cept Ransone doesn’t know.”

“What?” His eyes shot open. “How?”

“I was so tired of him treating me like a child. Everyone around who joined after me was out there doinghardcore missions and I was stuck with petty shit.” You didn’t know any better. You wished you had. “So he told me if I made it through this one, he’d send me on more.”

This wasn’t your first mission. You had handled hits before, mostly in the shadows, from a distance.

This was different. It was broad daylight, waiting behind a wall near the gated entrance of the house for a car to pull up.

A challenge, Ransone had posed, with strict instructions to do it in broad daylight. If you got out of this undetected, he’d consider sending you on more sophisticated missions.

“Highly stealthy. They’re dangerous,” you were warned. “You won’t know what hit you if you’re caught off your game.”

The low rumble of the car outside the gate alerted you of your target’s arrival. The gates weren’t going to open, the guards were dead.

The car stopped, waiting for the path to open up. When it didn’t the car’s engine slowed to a stop. The man in the driver’s seat got out to open the gate, giving you a clear shot.

You took a deep breath, clenching your eyes shut for a second before taking aim.

The body hit the gravel and you quickly made your way to the car. You could see the woman in the backseat gaping at where the man was standing a few seconds ago. She was struggling against the door, trying to escape.

She finally succeeded, the door opening suddenly as she stumbled over herself trying to get out.

“Stay there,” you commanded. She slowly looked up at you, face white as a sheet.

“Please,” she croaked. “Don’t hurt us.”

“I’m sorry.” You truly were.

Her face changed, dropping the facade immediately. She just looked on in acceptance, not making an effort to move. Manipulative. She almost had you convinced

You held the gun over her, pulling the trigger. A single shot. Her body slumped over.

You stared at her in silence, expressionless. You let out an exhale, tucking the gun back into the waist of your pants, stepping over her body to leave.

A small, staggering breath made you stop in your tracks. It was so slight you barely heard it. You took a step back, trying to trace where it came from.

You ducked your head to peer into the car, your heart stopping. Your hand instinctively reached for your weapon.

“What the-” you muttered, facing a boy who looked only a few years younger than you. He was staring straight ahead, muscles in his jaw tight.

The son wasn’t supposed to be here. He was supposed to be abroad, according to the case file. Unless there were two of them you didn’t know about, this boy wasn’t supposed to be here.

“Listen,” you began, but he didn’t look at you. Just stared straight ahead, body trembling. He was scared. He didn’t show it.

“Show no mercy,” Ransone’s voice rang in your head.

“He’s a child,” you murmured to yourself. Your gun felt heavy in your hand.

Show no mercy.

You could only imagine what would be in store for you if you returned to Ransone with some tale of sympathy. This boy was only a few years younger than you. He didn’t have anything to do with this.

Show no mercy.

“Kid,” you called out. He slowly turned his head. “Go on. Get out of here.”

“What?” he asked, voice hoarse.

“Leave. You can’t be seen if someone comes back,” you urged. “I won’t be able to help you.”

“You killed my mom,” he jeered, unmoving.

“I’m sorry. I had to.” Your voice was quiet. Your hand clutched at the hood of the car to keep your balance. “But I don’t want to hurt you. Go.”

When he didn’t shift, you slammed the hood of the car, scaring him enough to pull at the door and stagger out of the car.

You turned your back to him, not waiting to see where he was going. The more deniability you had, the better.

“Did he make it?”

“He did,” you divulged the information you had found out a while ago. It was a messy confrontation to say the least but you got out unscathed.

“And Ransone doesn’t know.”

“There’s no record of this kid. He thinks he was at boarding school.” You shrugged. “Wasn’t going to correct him either.”

“If he did find out-” Sam trailed off.

“I’d be dead,” you concluded. “Being his favourite wouldn’t matter.”

“Why was it such a big deal, this mission?”

“She was a part of a major gang that Ransone was losing to.”

Sam just nodded knowingly, looking ahead again. You knew he’d done missions like this as well. Things like this were common so it didn’t need further elaboration.

“This job sucks,” he let out.

You gave a short laugh. That was an understatement.

“I want out. Can’t keep doin’ this for much longer,” he continued, however, to your surprise. “Don’t wanna keep doin’ this.”

You bit your lip, eyebrows knitted in concern. “You will.”

“How?” You hadn’t seen him like this before, this hint of desperation in his tone that left as quickly as it came. “I’ve tried, everything just comes up short.”

“I’ll help you.” You wanted to, God you did.

“You gonna kill him for me?” He looked at you. “‘Cause that’s really the only way out of this.”

If you were pushed to the limit, if he was on his knees in front of you and there was a gun in your hand pointed at him; would you be able to pull the trigger? Would you be able to kill the only constant you’d had for more than half your life?

“I can’t,” you muttered, dejection making its way into your thoughts.

“I know,” Sam said softly, “I wouldn’t ask you to either.”

You took a moment to observe him. The sun did him good. There was a soft glow to his skin, the colours of the sunset dancing in his dark eyes. Laugh lines were becoming more prominent around them, only adding to its charm.

He was a good man. He deserved better.

“I’ll find a way,” you sounded determined, “I promise.”

You didn’t say that very often. Your word didn’t mean a lot to people in the business, but it seemed to, to him.

“Thank you.” He appeared taken aback but didn’t show it in his words.

You simply sent him a smile, a reassurance. You knew what you had to do, just weren’t sure how.

He was right. There wasn’t a way out of it other than the one he proposed, but it wasn’t an option. You had to find another.

You would. You’d figure it out.

“It’s Cinnamon, by the way,” he said without any context.

You looked at him in question.

“My embarrassing nickname.” This was not where you saw the conversation heading but you were delighted all of a sudden. “My ma used to call me that all the damn time. Mortifying.”

“Cinnamon and Buttercup.” You didn’t bother hiding the grin that spread across your face. “World’s best assassins.”

“If that name ever leaves this conversation, I’ll know who to murder.”

“You couldn’t even if you tried,” you said playfully, nudging his shoulder.

He shrugged, face relaxed. “T’was worth a shot.”

An unintentional pun you snickered at. You didn’t tease him any further, just filed the name away as a memory. Maybe you’d use it later.

“Have you ever let anyone go after that?” You didn’t want to keep coming back to this conversation but you liked having someone to relate to.

“No.” Sam shook his head. “Didn’t want to test my luck.”

“Me too.” One had been enough. You lived in fear for so long, waiting for someone to pull the plug and tell him what you’d done. That fear only grew everyday, finding a place at the deepest corner of your mind to fester.

“It’s what I meant when I said Serpentine had a motive to want me dead,” Sam said, piquing your interest once more.

“Huh?”

“The man I was supposed to kill- he was their old head. He disappeared after that and no one heard from him but it pissed off everyone, right from Ransone to their stupid gang’s janitor,” he explained, your eyes going wide with every word. “So the irony is, if we’re right, I might have led us into this situation. They’re looking for revenge.”

“Holy shit,” you uttered under your breath.

“I just assumed he died of old age if someone didn’t get to him first. He looked like he was one birthday away from the grave anyway.”

“How are you still alive, Sam?” you asked in wonder.

“I’d do it again.” He laughed, a deep one from his stomach.

He was reckless, clearly. Happily and unashamedly so. And if you continued to hang out with him after this was over, he’d probably get you killed in some stunt or two.

But maybe you’d deal with that if the time came.

He leaned back again, this time no creases on his forehead from stress. He looked at peace.

You sat together in silence. You occasionally stole glances at him as the sun set in front of you, a small smile on your face.

You leaned your head on his shoulder tentatively. You could feel him tilt his head to look at you and you prepared to have him ask you to move.

It never came. Instead, he scooted closer to you, letting you rest against him more comfortably. Your heart skipped a beat; barely but surely.

A realisation quickly hit you, suddenly before consuming you. Your stomach sank.

“Fuck.”

Next part

211 notes · View notes

lit-in-thy-heart · 3 years

Text

Gwaine’s fingers hadn't stopped burning since the beginning of the training session. He'd been able to feel the sweat clinging to the pores of his skin and crawling up his hands as the sun had glared down on them. It hadn't been this bad for weeks. The summer, by usual standards, hadn't even been as terrible as it usually was; apart from one painful patch on his palm where the skin had split, Gwaine’s hands had remained largely clear of any eczema, but training had brought out a rash-like appearance that Gwaine knew would transform into clusters of dry and inflamed skin in a matter of days.

Still, he'd struggled until the end of the session and had resisted the urge to scratch the irritated areas by retrieving the scrap of material he'd used to wear before becoming a knight and tightly winding it around his hand. Unfortunately he only had the one, so he'd simply curled his second hand into a fist and had slipped away.

And now he was currently staring at a bucket of water in his chambers, contemplating whether or not plunging his hands in it for temporary relief would be worth the agony of having to dry his skin afterwards. If it didn't disappear before the world grew colder, then winter would be hell.

Mouth pressed in a thin line, Gwaine unwrapped the cloth and shoved both hands into the bucket of water with a suppressed groan. As a child, his eczema had largely been contained to the joints of his elbows in warm weather and, after the age of around five, had disappeared altogether. Its return had coincided with his father's death as a teenager and that's when it had been all over his hands.

Most of the time it was manageable. There was the rare occasion where the skin did split open and caused all hell to break loose for a couple of weeks before it healed up, but for the most part Gwaine could get on with his life. But then there were times like this, where the fluctuating weather and physical activity pushed his skin to breaking point and his fingers were left feeling stiff and inflamed and he wanted nothing more than to scrape everything off.

But he gritted his teeth and moved through it. Or tried his best to, at least. There was a sound at the door and Gwaine started, reflexively removing his hands from the water and delicately drying them off with a cloth by pressing down on his hands. It stuck to his skin and pulled at his fingers but he forced himself to remain as impassive as possible as Merlin and Lancelot, holding hands that were completely smooth to the touch, entered the room.

Lancelot dropped a kiss to the top of his head as he approached the table. 'Hey, love, you disappeared after training.'

'Was getting too warm,' Gwaine replied, kissing Merlin’s cheek clumsily as they rested their head on his shoulder to examine the water. 'You both alright?'

'Fine,' mumbled Merlin. 'What are you doing?'

'Just washing.'

Gwaine knew there was nothing to be ashamed of, but he couldn't help but feel like the condition would be nothing but an impediment if it was discovered. Alone he could manage it. It was a nuisance, but he could do it. If the others knew then they might tell him to take a break or, worse, to get a grip of himself. It meant that he wouldn't be able to hold either of his partners' hands for several weeks until the flare-up died down but they probably wouldn't have wanted to touch it anyway.

Lancelot frowned. 'Since when have you washed alone?'

Gwaine shrugged, avoiding his gaze and standing up. 'It was too warm and I couldn't wait.'

'That's twice now you've said it was too warm,' observed Merlin.

Gwaine opened a window and kept his head turned away. 'It was.'

'Are you hurt?' Lancelot asked, dropping Merlin’s hand and approaching Gwaine again. He pressed one hand to the small of Gwaine’s back. 'Gwaine?'

'No, I'm fine,' Gwaine quietly said, glancing around with a small smile. 'You don't need to worry.'

'You kept flexing your hands in training.' Merlin had joined them. 'Are you sure you're not hurt?'

'I was just readjusting my grip on the sword. Honestly, it's fine.'

'Let me see,' Merlin softly demanded. 'Show me your hands.'

'It's fine—'

'Gwaine,' Lancelot sharply cut in, 'just show us.'

Steeling himself, Gwaine turned around and flung out his hands, palms facing down. 'There. Satisfied?'

With a frown, Lancelot traced the rash scattered across Gwaine’s fingers. 'Is it some kind of infection? Were you wounded and you didn't tell us?'

'It's not an infection,' whispered Gwaine. 'It's a skin condition. It's fine, mostly, just the heat and the physical activity today made it flare up. It's fine.'

Merlin delicately slipped their hand beneath Gwaine’s palm. 'Does it hurt?'

'It could be worse. It has been worse.'

'But does it hurt?'

'Not really. It's more of a burning sensation, that's all. Just feels hot.' Gwaine withdrew his hands and shoved them in his pockets, allowing the friction of the movement to momentarily soothe him. 'It goes away for a few weeks, then returns again. Nothing can be done about it.'

As Lancelot rubbed his shoulder, Merlin bit their lip. 'Gaius might have a salve that can reduce the inflammation. It won't cure it, but it would make it easier to deal with?'

'I wouldn't want to waste it for people who might actually need it,' Gwaine quietly replied.

Lancelot's grip tightened. 'You need it, love.'

Merlin pressed a kiss to his forehead. 'Give me two minutes, I'll be right back.'

With a nod, Gwaine fell against the wall, avoiding Lancelot’s eye. As much as he loved him, there was always the niggling idea that he had to be as good as Lancelot in being able to protect Merlin if needed, and the thought that he wouldn't be if he could be slowed down by stiff hands—

Fiercely, he shook himself. It was ridiculous to think that. He wasn't any less capable of protecting Merlin just because his hands felt like they were on fire. He'd managed to protect himself, in the years alone and wandering, with blistered and broken skin. And if he could do that, he could protect Merlin.

It was Lancelot’s voice that snapped him back to reality. 'How long have you had this?'

'Since I was a teenager. On and off. It's alright, I'm used to it now.'

Lancelot cupped Gwaine’s cheek with a flawless palm. 'Still. It can't always be easy.'

'Lance, it's fine, really. I make enough of a big deal out of it already.' Gwaine sighed. 'It's worse during hot nights, when I just want to tear off my own skin. During the day it's usually okay.'

Kissing him gently between his eyebrows, Lancelot rubbed his shoulder. 'Hopefully the salve will help.'

Gwaine rested his forehead against his partner's. 'Hopefully.'

'I have it!' came a triumphant voice. Merlin had returned, in seemingly record time, and held a small pot in their hand. 'Hopefully it won't make it worse.'

'Don't say that,' Gwaine said, leaning into Lancelot as Merlin approached.

Grinning, Merlin removed the lid and put a large amount on his fingers, holding them out to Gwaine. When Gwaine offered up his hands, he kept his lips tightly sealed as Merlin lathered the salve over his skin and ignored the intensity of the burning sensation. If it hurt, it meant it was working, that was what he'd always been told.

The smell wasn't unpleasant but he couldn't quite define what it was but, as Merlin continued to cover his hands, Gwaine decided it didn't matter. There was a slim possibility that his condition might improve and, if not, then at least he could enjoy Merlin and Lancelot refusing to let him carry anything for himself for the rest of the week.

#i wanted to write something like this several months ago after a bad flare-up but never got round to it #luckily for you bright sun and physical activity apparently causes it to return at double the intensity :D #it's all fine though it could be much worse #they probably didn't have any treatments for it in camelot's time but fuck it gwaine deserves a little relief from it #gwaine #merwaincelot #lancelot #merlin #bbc merlin #merlin fanfic #lit writes #eczema

45 notes · View notes

script-nef · 3 years

Text

Presents (and other things)

Category: fluff

2k words; Shopping date [3/6]

← Previous chapter | Masterlist

Out of everyone in the whole world, the person you love most in the world is Nanami Kento, your brother. He was the one who saved you from the cursed spirit that haunted you and took your parents’ lives. He was the one who took you in so that you wouldn’t be put in the system since you were still a minor. He made sure every day that you were safe and healthy even if he was injured or exhausted after a fight.

That's why in the weeks nearing his birthday, you made sure that he would have a relaxing time. He said you didn’t have to and he’d rather have you not fret over him, but that is unacceptable. He needs to have a good birthday. If you could, you would make the whole month just about him. But the last time you tried that he sat you down for a long, scolding lecture about how it’s unnecessary. So that’s out of the option.

Right now, just a few days shy of his actual birthday, you have a problem. Because you were buried in work and have a terrible memory.

His present.

You forgot to buy a present.

“I forgot to buy a present! Why am I so dumb… Why am I like this, Gojou? It’s literally one of the most important things with birthdays and I forgot it. Because I’m an idiot. I wish the ground would swallow me up… I deserve it…” Thuds reverberate through the room as your head makes contact with the table. Repeatedly. Hard.

Wallowing in self-hate is great but your brain starts spitting out all viable present options.

Shopping for Ken-chan is hard because he’s not materialistic in the least. He also doesn’t have a lot of hobbies. “I don’t need presents.” is a regular phrase every time his birthday or holidays come up, but then he gives presents to you and you end up feeling worse. This is all while your brain is getting thrown around.

A hand comes between your forehead and the desk, gently bringing it up. Gojou has a small pout as his cold fingers try to soothe the burning sensation.

“You still have a couple of days left! Don’t bang your head against the table, your brain doesn’t work enough as it is.” He easily moves out away from your slap. But returns in time to stop your head from falling again.

“I should have remembered this weeks ago. There’s no use trying to make me feel better, Gojou. I’m a terrible sister. I deserve this pain.” His fingers poke against your cheeks and he smooshes and stretches them. It’s uncomfortable but you let him.

“I haven’t bought a present either.”

“You’ve never given him a present.”

“This is the year to start! I have to get on his good side!” That’s weird since he never cared about what Ken-chan thought of him.

“Why?”

“We can shop together!” Classic ignoring. His face comes to level with yours. “Let’s go to Shinjuku, I’m sure there are things even Nanami will like. Also, I found a new sweets shop.” You stare at him. “But I will focus on the present for today! C’mon, I can fly us there. You’ve never flown before, right? I think it’ll help.”

For some inexplicable reason, floating in mid-air with nothing to save you other than Gojou is amazing. Adrenaline pumps through your veins at the thought of crashing down to Earth if Gojou lets go. You know he won’t though.

The air is chilly up here and there’s constant wind makes your hair whip everywhere, getting in your mouth and eyes. It doesn’t dampen your mood.

Your arms tighten around Gojou’s neck, watching the city blink with life way underneath your feet. Well, his feet, since you’re bunched up in his embrace.

“This is so cool! Do you do this every day?”

“Yup.” He pops the p and slowly walks closer to your destination. The world looks like a child’s playhouse.

“No wonder you’re constantly in an amazing mood! I would do this every time I’m feeling down!” Gojou’s chuckle reverberates through his chest and into your body.

“I can take you out again when you’re sad.” A buzz takes over your body at the thought sparkles come to life in your wide eyes.

“You would do that for me?” Gojou is an incredibly important asset and therefore also very busy, needing to take care of special-grade curses that others can’t while also teaching and looking after his three students. He couldn’t be at your beck and call, you can’t ask that from him. But the gentle smile he gives is so warm and sure, assuring you that his words are true.

“Of course I would. Any day.” His grip around your body tightens.

Something weird fuzzes in your chest. It’s not uncomfortable or bad but… unique. And foreign. You got a good report back from your physical evaluation last month so it’s not something physical. Questions about what the cause could be takes over your mind but the sudden sensation of zero gravity makes all of them fly out the window. Burying your face into Gojou’s neck, you prepare for the worst.

“And we have arrived! M’lady.” Chipper as ever, Gojou’s feet touch the ground with a light plop and he lets you down gently. You look at him in confusion until realisation kicks in. And you kick him.

“Don’t do that! I think my heart stopped!” He cackles at that, finishing with a “Won’t do it next time.” If there is a next time. The probability is reduced significantly because of what he just did.

Taking your hand in his, he escorts you down the stairs from the rooftop and into a department store. The people who couldn’t see mere moments ago high up in the sky.

As expected, it’s loud and crowded. There are hundreds, maybe thousands of people shuffling about and sweeping everyone to move even if they wanted to. It’s fortunate that Gojou has a firm grip on your hand because otherwise you’d be completely lost. Still, it’s nice to be buried in the commotion of everyday lives. It helps you forget about the whole war that’s looming over everyone.

“Any ideas on what to get?” The question you’ve been asking yourself for the past hour or so is echoed by Gojou. “We have all the time in the world, so don’t worry. I’ll keep you company for as long as you want.”

Blisters form on the back of your feet thanks to the amount of times you walked around the huge place. Gojou bought you bandaids even though you said Shouko can fix you up. It hurts a lot less thanks to that. Finding a present is still a challenge. Every time you think you have one, your brain comes up with a rebuttal for why Ken-chan won’t like it. Two hours and nothing to show for it, you’re on the verge of collapse. Even a quick snack break didn’t help.

Gojou sets you down on a bench, letting your head roll on the backrest. The sight of thousands of coats and jackets running around upside down makes you giggle. Maybe the stress is finally getting to your head. The mantra of “I’m a terrible sister” tries to sneak in and wreak havoc. You’re just about to let it when the upside-down brand of a designer clothing shop catches your attention.

“Gojou.”

“Yup?” His head comes into view as he copies your posture. It must look really weird to passersby but you don’t care at all. “Got an idea?” You point to the brand. Or at least you think you do. The lack of blood in your brain is making everything dizzy. “Clothes?”

“I wanna buy him a good suit.” Standing up, swaying a little from the sudden oxygen influx, you try to drag him towards the shop. He tries to make your attempt harder by using his weight and height, but a firm glare makes him concede.

“I thought he said he doesn’t want suits.” Oh yeah, you told him that when it was rejected. Ken-chan did say that, years ago, when you bought him one for your first present. While incredibly appreciated, he reasoned that there is a high chance of it being ruined since he has to fight in them. And this was around the time when you started getting paid. It was his way of saying that you should invest it in something more durable and preferably for yourself. How does Gojou remember this when it was just a fleeting complaint that you barely remember?

“He said it’s because there’s no point in spending so much money on something that might be damaged so quickly. But I’m going to buy it for a different reason.”

Collections of suits, varied by colour and pattern, line the huge shop. Skimming over a lot of them, especially ones with questionable designs, you turn to the monochromatic area. Simple is best when it comes to Ken-chan’s taste. Shuffling through the shades, you contemplate between either beige or blue.

“What’s the reason?” Gojou’s voice calls from the change room. You wonder when he got there.

“For him to wear it if he goes back to work in an office after the war has ended. Or just when he goes out, without the worry of getting attacked and ruined. It’ll be like a promise! That he’ll do his best to survive the war to wear it.”

Gojou is silent in response. It drags out and now you’re sort of embarrassed about what you said. Your partner loves taking advantage of others’ sappy moments, teasing them mercilessly over it. That little speech is basically perfect ammunition against you. You expect his high voice to make fun of you.

What you don’t expect is for him to pat your head, slowly and softly, like he won’t ever get to do it again.

“Nanami must have used all his luck when he became your guardian.” Voice low, bringing shivers down your body, he cards his fingers through your hair. Like he’s combing them. Seconds tick by and it feels sort of nice, telling you to relax, but your body’s on high alert for some reason.

“I think he’d like the blue one. Since he already has a brown suit, beige is too close.” A black suit adorns his body when he comes into view. Even the shirt is black. It fits him perfectly and he looks really good in it, courtesy of a good body proportion. He could possibly pull off the hideous suits you elected to shy away from at the front of the display. You clear your throat.

“Wow, you look really good in that.” His hands smooth down the creases on the jacket, preening at your compliment. “You should buy that. Wear it to dates or whatever. Ladies will fall to your feet if you show up with that.” Holding up two blue suits, your eyes scrutinize them and you try to imagine which shade will look better on your brother.

“Ladies will fall to my feet? Really?” Amusement tinges his words. The left one looks better.

“Yeah, probably. Girls love guys in suits. Well at least, I do. If they wear the right one for them, it’s really hot. Left one is better, right?” He gives a nod, a wide grin playing on his face. “Alright, this one then. Are you buying the suit?”

“Yeah. I think it’ll be put to good use.”

The checkout is quick, and it’s night when you step out.

“You wanna go back by flying? We can try doing the Howl thing.” That’s really tempting, being able to reenact one of the most iconic scenes in the movie. But not today.

“No, I prefer being in your arms.” Gojou stares at you with such intensity that you can feel it even with the blindfold. Then he immediately barks out a laugh, one so loud that people nearby flinch at the sudden noise. You flinch at the sudden noise.

“Ah… You really keep me on my toes, you know.” Before you can ask what that means, he takes your hand again and starts walking to the stairs. His steps are faster than usual.

Next chapter →

#gojou x reader #gojou imagine #gojou satoru x reader #gojou satoru imagine #gojo x reader #gojo imagine #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru imagine #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk imagine #jujutsu kaisen imagine #jjk #jujutsu kaisen #gojou #gojou satoru #fluff #series #female reader

264 notes · View notes

themoonlitsojourner · 3 years

Link

Chapter 2: Need you here ‘cause I’m a mess

Emotions are messy, unruly, and a complete mystery to Raven. But she can't leave her friend to endure this alone. Not once she sees the state Gar's in.

Emptiness. One word, but a whole world of hurt behind it. How can Gar feel nothing and the throb of his bleeding heart at the same time?

‘How.’ It’s the only question on his mind.

How could she? Did the months of teamwork and friendship, of welcoming Tara into their home with every reassurance and smile mean nothing to her?

Gar bites down on his lip and tastes blood.

Didn’t their nights spent stargazing, their shared glances and whispered secrets mean anything to her, when they meant the world to him? Was every shy brush of her hand against his fake? Was every kiss a trick?

He’ll never know. The worst part isn’t the betrayal. It’s the fact that she’s never coming back. She’s never coming home.

A scene flashes through Gar’s mind, the memory that plays over and over every time he closes his eyes.

A katana piercing the bandages wrapped around Tara’s stomach, the vicious twist as Slade yanks the blade from the last wound he will ever give his apprentice. Tara’s shocked expression as she collapses, Garfield’s terrified cry as he cradles his first love in his arms. As he watches her bleed out with every throbbing heartbeat and gasping breath. As Tara dies in his arms.

In just a few hours, she betrayed him and died. He lost her twice that day.

The anger Garfield worked so hard to stoke and feed fizzles out, replaced by the sharp ache of pure loss tearing through his chest like a wild beast, ripping into his heart and lungs until he can’t breathe. Why couldn’t he save her? Why wasn’t he enough?

Tears roll down his cheeks, soaking his fur as his shoulders tremble. He wants to stop, to take control of himself and shut down. Anything to stop the pain.

Anything to stop missing her.

~~~

“He’s been in there all morning.” Richard sets the TV remote down and sends a worried glance at the hallway leading to the team’s living quarters. “Do you think we should…?”

“He doesn’t wanna talk about it.” Victor passes an empty soda bottle from hand to hand, never once looking up. He tried to reach out to Garfield again yesterday. When he returned, his expression told the others exactly how it went.

Raven’s gaze flicks to Koriand’r as the redhead sighs loudly and props her chin on her hands. “There is truly nothing we can do to help?” She sends Richard a pleading look, undoubtedly wanting to make Garfield another present. It’s a sweet thought, but ultimately futile. Just like everything else they’ve tried.

“Not if he won’t let us,” Victor replies. He finally lifts his head, turning to catch Raven’s eyes. “You tried yet?”

“I’ve been giving him his space.” He wouldn’t want to see me. Not if he turned away Richard and Kori. Not if he won’t even talk to Victor.

“It has been two days since he has emerged from his room,” Kori points out, voice and thoughts drenched in sorrow. She’s right to be worried.

“I’ll try.” Raven stands. “But I don’t think it will help.”

“Will it hurt?” Victor says quietly, gaze returning to his soda bottle.

The question is rhetorical, of course. Nothing could hurt Garfield any worse than what’s already happened.

With each step toward his room, the pain in Raven’s head grows. She closes her eyes and stops to lean on the wall, bracing herself against the waves of guilt, regret, anger, sorrow. And grief. So much grief, in every shade and variation she’s ever sensed, present all at once in a single boy.

Taking a deep breath, Raven centers herself. She closes the distance to Gar’s room and knocks on the door. No answer. Not even a rustle of movement. If it weren’t for the hurricane of emotion flooding from him, she might think the room was empty.

“Garfield,” she says to the closed door. “It’s Raven.”

Nothing changes. Not with the door and not in his mind.

She didn’t come before because he needed time to process and mourn. But now that she’s here… Garfield’s in too much anguish for her to just turn around and leave. He shouldn’t be alone with this.

“I’m coming in.” Raven’s hand rests on the doorknob for a few seconds, giving him a chance to protest. Silence. She opens the door and steps inside, shutting it quietly behind her.

The room is dim. The only trace of light seeps through the half-shuttered window, filtering between storm clouds and raindrops to drench the room in an even gray. Garfield lies on his side in bed, the covers tangled beneath him. He stares out at the downpour, expression distant and blank. Tired. Empty.

Raven closes her eyes again, just for a moment. Her head pounds, her chest tight and aching with the agony pouring from him like the rain from the sky. She forces herself to open her eyes.

“I don’t wanna get out of bed.” Garfield’s voice breaks the silence, raspy and flat. “I don’t wanna do anything.” His dull eyes trace a raindrop trickling down the glass. “That’s never happened to me before,” he whispers.

“I’m sorry.” Raven’s throat feels thick, like a knot has tied the middle shut, and breathing past it is difficult. Her thoughts slow and blur, a numbness settling upon her. This… this is how Garfield feels. The sensations that plague her mimic the heaviness of grief upon his chest, the darkness of apathy draining the color from his being. This is the extent of his pain.

If Raven had the words to comfort him, she’d give them freely. If she knew how to help, she would stop at nothing. But that is an ability her mentor Azar never taught her. A skill she’s never learned, despite the years spent surrounded by caring, whole people who do know how to soothe and comfort. It’s yet another area where she has failed them.

Dark streaks trail the fur on Gar’s face, marking the path of tears. Another falls as Raven watches.

“Why can’t I just hate her?” he chokes. “Why do I have to miss her?”

“Because you care, despite what she did. Because that’s who you are.” It’s the truth. She knows how to give him that, at least.

Garfield inhales shakily. “Yeah. And it’s how I got hurt.”

Without that openness and trust, you wouldn’t be Garfield. But even if Raven argues, she won’t be able to make him believe. Not when he’s still so deeply wounded.

She searches for something to say as Gar falls silent again. He crosses his arms and pulls his knees to his chest, curling into a fetal position. “There’s so much I never got to tell her,” he whispers to himself.

Watching him feels like an intrusion and there’s nothing she can do to help. Raven turns to leave and give him his privacy, but his voice stops her.

“Please.”

When she glances back, Garfield is looking at her for the first time since she stepped into the room. His emerald green eyes, normally so full of joy and mirth, are dark and pained. They reflect the ache throbbing inside him, the one pulsing in Raven’s head.

“Don’t leave me,” he whispers. “I don’t want to be alone.”

His words hit Raven like a shot to the chest.

After Tara left, in more ways than one, after what she did to him… He’s afraid to be left alone again. And he’s asking for Raven, of all people, to stay.

The pressure in her head builds until she wants to scream. “Let me get you something to eat.” She needs an escape.

Garfield’s shoulders drop. His head falls back to the pillow, eyes returning to the gray sky. “Sure.”

Just like that, any emotion in his voice disappears as he slips back under the numbness. Another dagger pushed into Raven’s heart. She shuts the door behind her with shaking hands, working to calm her breathing. His pain, his grief… It’s too much.

She walks to the kitchen without thought. Kori looks up hopefully as soon as she enters, Richard and Victor following suit.

“How is he?” Richard asks.

“Not good.” Raven wrenches the fridge open, searching for something Garfield would never turn down, not even in his current state. “He’s depressed.”

The word lies sour and dark on her tongue, the reality of it sending dread rolling over her. Sunny, ridiculously optimistic Garfield, depressed. Beast Boy, the light of the team, caught in the dark of his own mind.

Her fist slams down on the kitchen counter with a crack. “Curse you, Tara,” Raven hisses.

Sharp pain travels up her nerves, the sensation delayed by her anger. Feeling her friend’s wide eyes on her, Raven snatches a container of last night’s garlic tofu and rice out of the fridge and marches from the room.

No one will ever put Garfield through this again. Not on her watch. If she’s the one he’s reaching out to, then Raven will do whatever it takes to make him whole. To bring back the smile to her friend’s face and the light to his eyes. If it means hours of extra meditation afterwards to maintain her control, then so be it. It’s more than a fair price.

“I brought garlic stir-fry.” Raven sets the container on his bookshelf, next to a picture frame turned face down. Her gaze lingers there. It isn’t hard to guess who’s in the photo.

“You came back.” Gar glances at her, then away when she faces him. “I thought that was just your excuse to get away from the mess in my head.” He makes a finger gun and taps it against his temple. “Not that I blame you.”

A shudder runs down Raven’s spine. Her mouth goes dry. “Don’t do that.”

“I’m just joking.” His voice is small and quiet.

The dark part of Raven is angry that Tara will never see what she did to him, the shell she reduced him to. Gar cares more than anyone else can ever hope to, and Tara used that. Troubled or not, a victim of manipulation or not, nothing can ever change that truth.

Raven pushes the darkness back and locks it away in a far corner of her mind. Tara is not her concern now. Garfield is.

“How can I help?”

Gar blinks. “You can’t. Not unless you can take away the pain, like when I get beat up on a mission.” He laughs once, a bitter huff.

Raven steps forward. “I can’t.” She sits next to him on the bed. “But I can share it.”

Garfield’s eyes widen and he jerks to sitting, showing the first bit of life she’s seen in two days. “Raven, no.” His ears droop, his brow furrowing. “That’ll hurt you.”

“If you can handle it, then so can I.” The situation calls for comfort she doesn’t know how to give. But her friends do. So she mimics the way she’s seen Victor reassure Kori and cups Gar’s cheek, fingertips finding still damp fur. She lets her concern show, her lips falling into a frown. “And I’m more worried about you, Gar.”

His eyes glimmer. Just a spark, for just a second. “You called me Gar.” Slowly, he shakes his head, gaze still fixed on Raven. “You never use nicknames.”

Despite her teammates’ best efforts to the contrary, Raven always uses their proper first names. It makes it easier to pretend she isn’t as emotionally involved, as attached to them as she knows she is. It’s silly, honestly. She uses the nicknames in her head anyway.

“Yes,” Raven confesses. “I did.”

“I knew you thought it was cool,” Gar mumbles, curling up on his side again. But this time, he lays his head in Raven’s lap.

She freezes for a moment, scrambling to comprehend this new turn of events. Her hand ends up in his hair, so she tentatively smooths it, careful to avoid the knots. She’s never been comfortable with touch. It’s a strange and unfamiliar sensation to her, having experienced it only rarely on Azarath. But she tries to set that aside now.

“Promise you won’t leave.” Garfield’s vulnerable like she’s never seen him. So small and afraid compared to who he usually is. Or maybe he’s always hidden it well, even from her. “I just… I need…”

“I need you here.” His thoughts say what he can’t. “I need you.”

No one has ever needed Raven before. All her life, she has brought this world only darkness and the promise of death and destruction at the hand of her father. But somehow, Gar sees something different. That ability to find the best in people, regardless of who they are… it’s his greatest quality.

“I promise,” Raven answers. “I won’t leave.”

Closing her eyes, she bows her head and lowers the walls around her mind.

Emotions seep in, flowing from the broken boy with his head in her lap. Forceful, potent feelings, far stronger than any she’s ever experienced through her empathy before. They whip through her mind in blinding colors, mingling with and amplifying each other, complex and interconnected. When she lets herself appreciate them, they’re almost beautiful, despite the monumental effort it takes to keep them from overwhelming her.

Raven breathes carefully and slowly, the tightness in her chest returning threefold. Inhale… Exhale… The sound is her point of focus as she works to channel the pain from Gar and release it into the void her powers come from, allowing herself to be a conduit.

A hand reaches up to touch her cheek, the contact pulling her mind back to this world. Gentle fingers wipe away a single tear that managed to escape her control. “Rae…”

Raven opens her eyes to see Garfield watching her with concern. Just two days ago, he endured tragedy that no one should ever have to experience, trauma that would break most anyone. Yet he’s concerned for her.

“Get some sleep.” Raven brushes Gar’s hair from his face and he obediently closes his eyes, too exhausted to fight. She feels his tight muscles ease as she pulls the brunt of his emotions into herself, taking the edge off his pain.

The technique is beyond dangerous and it hurts. But if she can offer Gar any comfort, she won’t withhold it. No matter the ferocity of the storm within her.

As Garfield’s breathing deepens and he drifts into slumber for what she suspects is the first time since Tara died, Raven repeats her promise.

“I won’t leave you.”

(Chapter 1) (Chapter 3)

(Previous fic in series: Slow dancing in the Darkness)

(Next fic in series: The Sound of the Sword)

#just use the link to read the first chapter and the previous fic in the series #bbrae #beast boy #raven #garfield logan #teen titans #teen titans animated #teen titans animated series #fanfiction #fanfic #ao3 #mine #writing

10 notes · View notes

the-mighty-jellybean · 4 years

Text

Fallen From Grace

A/N: Hi this is my first time writing anything like a/b/o dynamic stuff, so be kind, I’ve been reading a lot lately and I’m quite liking it. I’m hoping to make this a series, just gonna test the waters and see how this goes.

Series Summary: Before the incident she was one of the most powerful Alphas on the Avengers team; admired, idolised and possibly feared, nothing could stand in her way. However, after a mission goes terribly wrong, and she is brutally attacked, the injuries she sustains take all of her Alpha strength, reducing her status to a weakened Omega. By the way of nature, the team can’t help but treat her in a completely new way. Especially her two closets friends, who now see her in a whole new light.

Pairing: Steve Rogers X Bucky Barnes X Reader

Series Warning: a/b/o dynamics (and the fun stuff that comes with that!), strong language, sexual content (smut is coming much later, and there will be added warnings on those chapters), fluff, angst, manipulation, corporal punishment (18+ only readers)

Part One// Part Two// Part Three// Part Four// Part Five// Part Six//Part Seven// Part Eight// Part Nine// Part Ten// Part Eleven// Part Twelve// Part Thirteen// Part Fourteen// Part Fifteen//

Part Sixteen: Mission Complete

Chapter Warnings: Strong Language

Word Count: 3.5K

“Why do you have to go?” you had your arms and legs wrapped around one of Steve’s legs, as he and Bucky packed. They had just been called out on a mission, and you were not happy about it.

“It’s only gonna be a few days, sweetheart.” Bucky sighed as he tried to pull you from Steve’s leg.

“But I don't want you to go, I want you to stay here with me.” you whined, squeezing even tighter on Steve’s legs.

“Come on, baby. Be a good girl for us. Don’t make us punish you, just before we leave.” Steve warned you, pulling you up by your armpits, and wrapping your legs around his waist.

“I want you to stay.” you pout, looking deep into his blue eyes, you can tell he doesn't want to leave either, but he has no choice.

“We’ll be home soon, pretty girl. Then we can get back to our real mission.” Bucky smirked at you, as he watched your cheeks grow hot.

You had been having sex 24/7, both super soldiers desperate to get you pregnant with their pups. You had come round to the idea of being a mother, when you saw how much your Alphas wanted to have pups, it made you adore them even more, the only thing you wanted to do was please them, and if that meant having their pups, then that was what you were going to do.

~~~~~

“How long has it been?” you groaned, your feet hanging in the air, as you sat upside down, on the large couch in the screening room.

“Two days, four hours, 23 minutes and...27 seconds.” Wanda said checking her watch, as she mirrored your position on the couch next to you.

“I want my Alphas.” your bottom lip jutting out.

“Me too. Well I don't want your Alphas, I want mine.” she corrects herself.

“Why do they have to go away for so long. All I want to do is...is someone cooking onions?” you pause, propping yourself up on your elbows, looking towards the door, your nose following the scent.

“I can’t smell anything.” Wanda looks at you confused.

“No, someone is definitely cooking something oniony.” you say, swinging yourself so you’re now sitting the right way up.

“How can you tell, we’re three floors below the kitchen?” Wanda matching your upright position.

“Can’t you smell that it. My God, it’s making the whole place wreak.” you cover your nose and mouth with your sleeve, making a make shift mask.

“FRIDAY, is there anyone in the kitchen?” Wanda asks

“Yes, Colonel Rhodes, and Mr Parker.” FRIDAY responded, promptly.

“Call in to the kitchen.”

“Dialling in now.”

There was brief sound of dialling, before you could hear the sound of Rhodey and Peter talking to one another.

“Hey, what’s up.” you hear Peter’s cheery voice, ring through the speakers of the Screening Room.

“Hey you guys cooking something?” Wanda asked.

“No, we’re just staring at the food, hoping it’s gonna cook itself.” Rhodey sarcastic tone, fills your ears.

“Very funny.” you shout through your sleeve, “has it got a shit ton of onions in it?”

There was a brief silence, and the distant sound of banging of pots, and cupboard doors closing.

“Not a lot, literally like half a bulb.” Rhosdey reasoned.

“Well, you’re stinking the whole compound out.” You shouted, the smell of the onions only getting worse, making you gag.

“Dude where are you?” you hear Peter ask.

“Miss Y/L/N, and Miss Maximoff, are in the Screening Room.” FRIDAY answered on your behalf.

“Bro, that’s like fifty levels away.” you hear Peter over-exaggerate.

“Yeah well, open a window, I can smell it. FRIDAY, end the call.” There was a sound of a phone being put down. You huff trying to block your nose as best you could.

“Come on let’s go for a walk, it’s nice out.”

You nod, the thought of the fresh air, and being far away from that smell, suited you perfectly.

~~~~~~

“Can we sit down a second.” you gasp, a little breathless, as you crash onto a fallen tree. You had only been walking less than an hour, and your legs were already beginning to ache.

“Um...sure.” Wanda said helping you sit on top of the dead wood, “We’ve only been working a few minutes. Are you feeling okay?”

“Honestly, I don’t know. I’m just so exhausted all the time. I thought I’d been getting more sleep, what with Bucky and Steve gone. But I’m still so tired.”

“First off; ew, don’t need to know that much about your sex life. Secondly, do you think you’ve still got an infection from your bites?” She tries to look at your neck, to see if there was any swelling or redness, but it all appeared to be fine.

“No, Steve and Bucky took me to see Dr Cho, before they left. She said I was all clear, and my marks were healing normally now.” You say whilst rubbing Steve’s mark on your neck.

“Then what do you think’s causing this?” Wanda looked at you with her eyes full of concern.

“I don't know, maybe I’ve just got a viral thing. Whatever it is it’ll pass in a few days.”

~~~~~~

A few days passed, and you were only beginning to feel worst. And things weren’t helped, when at 5:30 in the morning you woke, stumbling out of bed, as you hurried yourself to the bathroom, where you proceeded to expel the contents of your stomach, into the toilet.

You groaned when you finally finished heaving into the porcelain bowl, your knees were numb, from where you had been kneeling on the cold, tiled floor. You roll onto your bottom, and prop yourself up against the bath, leaning your head back, giving a silent prayer, to ease your aching stomach.

“Miss Y/L/N, do you want me to call Dr Cho?” you heard FRIDAY, whisper.

“No thank you, FRIDAY. I’ll be okay.” you croaked, you didn’t want anybody to see you like this. You just wanted to go back to bed and curl up into a ball.

You wiped your tear stained cheeks, before heaving yourself up from the bathroom floor. You look at your pale reflection in the mirror, you prod round your face, looking for any signs of obvious ailment, but your face looked nothing out of the ordinary.

You let a heavy sigh fall from your lips, as you take your tooth brush out of the holder. You reach for the toothpaste tube, but let a huff of annoyance leave your mouth, when you discovered that the tube was empty.

“Great.” you puff, slinging the empty tube into the trash, before bending down to look in the cupboard for a new one. Your eyes grazed over the assortment of bathroom supplies; shampoos, conditioners, your eyes catching on the shaving cream, as it made you think of your Alphas, who were so far away. You swallow back the tears, as you are surprised by your sudden wave of emotion.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Y/N.” you told yourself, becoming flustered with yourself at the idea of getting emotional over shaving cream. You quickly move your stinging eyes away from the bathroom essential, but your heart drops a little when they move onto two other objects.

Your eyes freeze when the land upon your supply of tampons and pads, untouched.

Oh shit. Realisation slowly hitting you, as you pick a packet up, and hold it between your fingers, deep in thought.

Your mind was desperately searching for a date, but it was proving a challenge.

“What’s the matter, baby. Is your tummy hurting?” Steve asked as you curled in on yourself, letting a small whimper escape your lips.

“It hurts, Alpha.” You cry, trying desperately to grab for him, needing nothing more than your Alphas near you.

“It’s alright, sweetheart. Do you want me to rub your tummy or do you want a hot water bottle?” Bucky asked you, crouching to your level, on the couch.

“Just want you.” you whimper, holding your arms out to them.

Bucky carefully lifted you up, placing you over his lap, cradling you. He placed his warm hand on your stomach, and gently rubbed over it; the movement and the heat soothing on the cramping below it.

Steve disappeared into the kitchen, only to return shortly, with a cup of water, and two tablets in his hand.

“Here, sweetie. Can you sit up a little for Alpha?” he asked you softly. You whined a little when Bucky shuffled you upwards, so that your mouth could meet with Steve’s fingers, as he placed one of the white discs on your tongue. Then gently bringing the cup up to your face, allowing you to drink the tablet down. Before repeating the action for the second pill.

“Good girl. That’ll make you feel better, honey.” Steve said, before placing the glass down on the table, and joining you and Bucky on the couch. He placed his hand on your ankle, and smoothed his thumb over the skin, relaxing you.

“Just think, when you’re carrying our pups, you want have to deal with this for nine, whole months.” Bucky reassured, bumping your noses together.

Although you were still hesitant at the idea. The thought of not dealing with this, for nine, long months; sounded like a dream.

“Oh shit.” you repeat only this time out loud. That dream looked as though it was going to become a harsh reality.

No. No that can’t be the last time. The memory surfacing from four weeks ago. Which meant you were supposed to be due on.

You threw the packet back into the cupboard, grabbing the new toothpaste tube. You slammed the doors, most likely waking the whole compound, quickly brushing your teeth. Rinsing your mouth out, you abandoned your toothbrush on the side, before striding out of the bathroom, and looking in the floor length mirror in your bedroom.

You lifted up your shirt to reveal, your normal stomach, no new lumps and bumps, it looked exactly how you left it.

You place your hands, across your lower abdomen, beginning to poke and jab, feeling around your belly, for any signs of change, but there was no different.

“I can’t be. Not yet.” you defy. Pulling your t-shirt down, you roll back into bed, looking up at the ceiling.

“There’s no way, I am pregnant.” you say out loud, to nobody but yourself, as you were the only one there you had to convince.

~~~~

“You need to take a test.” That was the only piece of advice Wanda gave you, when you went to find her to seek consolidation.

“No I don't, because it can’t be right.” you disregard, your eyes not meeting hers, as you played with the draw strings on Steve’s hoodie, which you had stolen. You needed your Alphas’ scents more than ever now.

“You’ll never know, unless you take a test.” She presses once more.

“No.” you respond flatly

“Y/N, you can’t just bury your head in the sand. This is serious.” She tried to reason with you, but you didn’t respond, only twisting the strings round your fingers.

“If you don't take a test, I’m calling Steve and Bucky.” you head snapped up at the sound of your Alphas’ names.

“You can’t do that.” you accuse, dropping the strings, and glaring at her.

“Wanna bet?” she threatens, arching her eyebrow.

“You can’t tell them, they’ll fly home. And as much as I want that, they need to finish their mission, you know what they’re like, if they don’t complete their mission.” you remind Wanda, she sighs knowing what you’re saying is true.

“Y/N, you’re leaving me with no choice.” Wanda sighs.

“But I can’t be pregnant.”

“Okay, so say by some miracle you aren't pregnant. How do you explain; throwing up every morning, feeling nauseous whenever anyone cooks anything, and you can’t walk longer than 10 minutes, without needing to take a break? Huh, how do you explain that.” Wanda lists.

“I don't know.” you mumble.

“What was that?” She cups her ear, pretending to have misheard.

“I. Don’t. Know.” you repeat slowly, with a large amount of sarcasm, accenting your words.

“That settles it then. I’m gonna get you a test.” Before you have a chance to object, Wanda has sprung off the couch, and left you to wallow in your own worry.

~~~~

“So, what am I meant to do?” you say looking at the packaging like it is written in some sort of foreign dialect.

“You just pee on this end, then it says we wait three minutes for us to tell us the result.” Wanda says, taking the box from you, and actually reading the instructions.

She hands you the stick, and arch an eyebrow at the peculiar, space age. looking stick, that you twiddle around your fingers.

She leaves you in the bathroom, promising you she’ll be just outside the door.

You take a big deep breath, before you go and take a seat on the toilet, and begin to take the test.

Once you’re finished, you place the lid on the test, and wash your hands, before telling Wanda she can come back in. She starts a timer, and you both sit, waiting anxiously for the answer. Wanda’s sat in the bathtub, whilst you sit on the toilet seat with your head in your hands.

“It’ll be okay, Y/N. Just think how happy Steve and Bucky are gonna be.” Wanda tried to convince you. That’s all you were thinking about, because that was the only thing stopping you from spontaneously combusting, with anxiety.

“I know. They’ve both wanted this for so long. But what if I’m not a good mom?” you say through your fingers, as this was turning into the longest three minutes of your entire existence.

“Y/N, you’re gonna be an amazing mommy.” Wanda, stands up from her sitting place in the tub, and crouches down laying her hands over, the ones pressed tightly against your face.

“But what if the baby comes out, and it looks like Steve or Bucky, and they feel left out, or don't love the baby as much, because they’ll have that constant doubt that they aren't the father?” you ramble, curse your damn hormones, your eyes stinging with tears.

“You know that Steve and Bucky would never do that, Y/N. They love you too much. They’ll just be over the moon, that you’ve given them a pup.”

The timer on Wanda’s phone begins to chime, and your heart start to pound, a mile a dozen. Wanda takes you hands, and make you take a deep breath together, before she reaches the stick, she holds it out to you, you take it from her but close your eyes, squeezing them tightly.

“It’s gonna be alright, Y/N.”

Those are the final words, Wanda says to you before you open your eyes, gazing down at the small, white stick in your hands. They begin to shake, as you read over the word, written on the small screen.

Pregnant

“What does it say?” Wanda’s voice breaks through the ringing in your ears, and you can do nothing, but pass her the test. She takes it from you, and she drops her gaze from your eyes, to the tiny window.

“It says I’m pregnant.” you say, when she doesn't say anything.

“Oh my God, Y/N. Congratulations.” she shrieks throwing her arms around you. You just let her hang off you, as your whole body goes numb.

Pregnant.

You were actually carrying a small bit of you and Steve or Bucky, inside of you. Your Omegaself, warms from the thought. You had done it, you had actually achieved your purpose as an Omega. You were finally complete on your Omega journey.

~~~~~~

You had butterflies in your stomach, Bucky and Steve were coming home today, and you were gonna finally get to tell them, what you had been up to.

You had done a second test, and bought two, small boxes to put them in, decorating them both with a bow. You placed them on the bed before heading outside.

You stood on the landing strip, along with Wanda, and Peter, all three of you were bouncing on the heels of your feet, your Alphas only a few moments away.

The jet coming into sight, made your heart skip a beat, the thought of telling your Alphas that you were going to give them everything, they had ever wished for.

Finally the wheels touched down, and like Wanda and Peter, you took off running towards the opening doors. Wanda was the first to be swept off her feet, as Vision came soaring out of the sky, and landing on the tarmac, before embracing Wanda the moment her little legs, carried her to him.

Then Peter shot a web, pulling himself closer to the jet, pushing past, Sam and Clint, to reach his beloved Alpha. Then finally you saw them, the sight of which made your pace pick up, before you were launching yourself into Bucky’s arms. He caught you easily and brought into his chest, as you wrapped your legs around his waist.

“Hi, baby girl. You miss us?” He says, sprinkling your face with little kisses. You can't hold your emotions together, as you burst into tears, pushing your head into the crook of his neck, whilst letting a very watery ‘yes’ escape your trembling lips.

“Oh baby, we’re home now. Don't cry, sweetheart.” You felt Steve’s arms wrap around the both of you, you hum in content, the feeling of both your Alphas’ strong arms, holding you close.

“I’m sorry, Alpha. I just missed you so much.” you blubbered, Bucky pushing your head further into his neck, so you could be closer to his scent gland, hoping to help sooth you.

“It’s alright, darlin. We’re home now. We’re not gonna leave you that long again.” Steve whispers into your ear, running his hand up and down your back.

“Come on, let’s get you in side. It’s cold out here, I can feel it on your nose.” Bucky chuckles, as you all began to make your way inside.

Steve practically kicks the door down, as he and Bucky hurry you into your room, Bucky already kissing your neck, covering you in his scent.

“Oh honey, we’ve missed you so much. But we’re back now, time to get back to the real mission at hand.” he speaks, in-between kisses. In all the passion, you got caught up in, you forgot about the two small boxes, laying on the bed, until Bucky through you onto it, making them bounce into the air.

“Wait.” you try to pause Bucky and Steve in their movements, but they’re desperately trying to remove their belts, as fast as possible.

“We’ve been waiting nearly a week, baby. I need to put this knot to good use.” Steve growls, but you manage to push him off of you, and grab the rectangular boxes and hold it out to them.

“Presents later, sweetheart. You’re all that we want right now.” Bucky, grabs the boxes from you hands, and places them on the bedside table.

“But you’ve already put your knots to good use.” they halt in their actions, and stand over you looking at you with great confusion. You get up from the bed, and grab the boxes, the two Alphas sit at the edge of the bed.

“These are for you.” you say handing them to the two men, who still looked utterly bewildered.

They take them from you, before undoing the bows, and popping the lids in sync. Bucky drops his head, hand covering his eyes, as his shoulders begin to shake.

You begin to feel worried, when he lets a loud sob escape his lips.

“Did I do something wrong?” you asked.

“Far from it, my beautiful, little Omega.” he chokes through his cries, he grabs hold of you, pulling you as tightly as possible. Steve was yet to react, he just sat and stared at the little test in his hand.

“I’m so proud of you, my baby girl.” Bucky kisses you all over your face, making you giggle.

“Is this real, Y/N. Like really real?” Steve asks you in disbelief.

“Of course, my Alpha. I would never joke about this.” you assured him, resting your hand on his cheek.

“I love you, my Omega.” he says with a water grin, as his eyes begin to swell with tears.

“I love you too, Alpha. Both my Alphas.” you kissed them both on the lips, Bucky pulling you backwards, you grab hold of Steve, pulling him with you.

“You’re amazing, little one. Did you do this all by yourself?” Steve asked, twiddling the test in his hands.

“Well you helped.” You giggle, causing both of them to chuckle.

“No I mean finding out. Did you have to do it on your own?” his voice had a hint of sadness, the thought of you going through this all by yourself, made him feel guilty.

“No, Alpha. Wanda was with me.”

“You should have told us, sweetheart. We would have come home sooner.” Bucky said, pushing hair out of your face.

“I thought it would be a nice surprise.” you smiled. You grabbed your Alphas’ hands, and pulled your shirt up, placing their warm palms on top of your stomach.

They both rubbed gently, face splitting grins stretched across their cheeks. You laid their content in the arms of your Alphas.

In the arms of your little family.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~TO BE CONTINUED~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N: Sorry that I didn’t post this yesterday, but I was having a great day celebrating VE Day with my family.

However, this unfortunately concludes: Fallen From Grace. I’ve absolutely loved writing this story, and I’ve been overwhelmed by the response from all of you. I have got some ideas for a sequel, and I’ll begin production on that very soon...so watch this space.

xxx

TAGLIST:

@mikariell95 @sexyvixen7 @booboobella01 @rororo06 @vickstaahh @krazykatkay456 @winchester-wifey @nightlygiggles @coonflix

#alpha!steve #alpha!bucky #reader insert #omega!reader #steve rogers #steve x reader #steve fic #bucky barnes #bucky x reader #bucky fic #marvel fanfiction #a/b/o dynamics #avengers a/b/o #stucky x reader #stucky

250 notes · View notes

jeminy3 · 4 years

Text

A Kingdom of Isolation. (NaruMitsu Frozen AU Snippet + Outline)

Next to the Titanic AU, I also attempted this one during late 2019 after seeing Frozen 2 in theaters and getting a lot of ideas about Edgeworth as Elsa and the flaws of the first Frozen film. Once again, this was fun to work on while dealing with life at the time, but after spending so much time and energy just building a believable setting and plot, I no longer have the energy or interest to properly write this.

The following is a summary of chapter 1 and the snippet for the end of the chapter.

Read the rest on AO3

Read the rest on Google Docs.

Click here for old art of this AU and the ideas I had.

+This is the end of what would have been the first chapter. Phoenix was the prosecutor of 1-1 with Franziska as co-counsel, who whipped and berated him the whole time for being bad at his job, which he is, losing handily to Mia and Maya on defense. After talking to them in the lobby, accepting defeat with grace because Larry is Larry after all, he is whipped again and eventually sent home to the Von Karma/Edgeworth Law Firm, punished with mindless paperwork for the rest of the week. Phoenix grabs lunch at Eldoon’s and is reminded of the white streak in his hair and scar on his head, which he thinks is from an accident 15 years ago. Then he goes home, mulling about his life and what’s led him to this point.

+His memories include parallels to “Do You Want to Build a Snowman?” wherein he attempted to get Miles out of his room with offers like “do you want to build snowdogs,” “do you want to help me study,” and now this part:

-Phoenix arrives at the law firm, puts his leftovers in the break room fridge, goes to his desk and begins doing paperwork. He gets bored enough to have a dumb idea, and heads down the hall to Miles’ office, and once again tries to connect with him.

He knocks on the door. “Edgeworth?”

No response.

“I know you’re in there… you always are. Um… Do you… want to help me build some case files? For practice, y’know.”

Silence. Despite knowing better, stupidly, Phoenix continues.

"I had my first trial today, by the way! I lost, of course, but I mean- Larry was the defendant, so he was innocent anyway. He was just at the wrong place at the wrong time. You know how he is. If something smells...”

Still no response. Phoenix clears his throat awkwardly.

“Y- You know I was never great at prosecuting. So I mean, of course this would happen. I’ve told Von Karma SO many times, but you know him. ‘Defense is the WEAK side of justice. Prosecution is the ONLY way.’” He dips his voice into a nasally, gravel-like tone to mock their mutual mentor. The effort makes him laugh, between the ridiculousness of it and the way it tickles his throat.

Suddenly Phoenix hears shuffling, and the soft sound of footsteps approaching the door. They’re the same heavy footfalls that usually preceded Edgeworth opening the door for a crack wide enough to peer at Phoenix with one cold, grey eye and tell him to leave, he’s very busy. Again. As always.

Phoenix swallows, and decides to jump to that possibility first. “Now, before you come yell at me to go away again, I just want to say-”

The footsteps stop, suddenly. (Huh. That actually worked. Now what?)

Phoenix swallows again, feeling a chance to release at least a little bit of the heavy, choking weight in his chest.

“Um. I… I know you don’t like me anymore. And I don’t blame you, y’know, I’m… impatient, and reckless, and- I can barely pay attention to textbooks, so I just kind of wing everything, and I know that’s really annoying to you, since you take your work so seriously all the time- And like I said, I’m really bad at prosecuting, I don’t know why anyone bothers with me honestly, or what anyone expected today…”

His voice grows watery as he goes on, and he decides he’s letting out a bit too much, so he stops. He’s also noticed the footsteps coming closer, but much quieter now. And he can see the shadow of a figure in the foggy, frosted glass of the door’s window. It draws close, but makes no move to open the door.

“...Miles?” Phoenix dares to whisper.

He thinks he hears a muffled sigh, and the figure’s head bows, coming to rest against the glass in a circle of pressed hair and skin.

Something flutters inside Phoenix – it’s the closest he’s ever been to seeing Edgeworth's face again in years. He feels the need to also lean forward, bow his chin and rest his forehead against the glass, near Miles’ own.

“I… I miss you,” he says quietly. “We used to be really close when we were kids, and… I just... I miss it.”

“So do I,” the voice of Miles Edgeworth finally says, quietly, through the door – not only responding, but recognizing the pain and distance between them.

Phoenix squeezes his eyes shut, forces back the tears welling up as best he can. “I’m sorry,” he chokes out.

“Don’t be, Wright, it’s not…” Miles stops, then sighs again. “Just- Stop selling yourself short. You’re certainly not the worst prosecutor I’ve seen.”

Phoenix snorts a little. “Well, I guess that’s better than nothing.”

Edgeworth makes a quiet breathing sound that must be him laughing under his breath. “I don’t hate you, Wright. I never did. It’s just... “

Phoenix, feeling the weight of fifteen years pressing down between them, makes an educated guess.

“...It’s our parents, isn’t it?”

“...Yes,” Edgeworth eventually says with a deflating sigh, his breath fogging the window glass further. “The case never was solved… technically, it’s still open. The statute runs out in only a week... Then it’ll be off the records completely.”

Phoenix startles a little, lifting his head. “...You’ve looked at the case files?”

“I have,” Edgeworth says. “Here and there, over the years. I don’t know why, I never find anything new, and it only feels worse. I just…”

“...You want closure,” Phoenix finishes.

“...Yes.”

“So do I.”

Silence falls, heavy with the pain of wounds that never fully healed, questions that were never answered. Phoenix breathes, closes his eyes, remembers the way his mother crinkled her eyes when she smiled, the warmth of Gregory’s laughter. He lets the memory hurt him, just a little, before pushing it away and climbing up through the waves of grief before they wash him away again. He has a bold, potentially stupid idea.

“Maybe… we could look at the files again? Together? See if we can… I dunno, find something...?” (This is a terrible idea…)

Edgeworth chuckles again, louder, as its clearly audible through the door. “And how would that be helpful when I’ve failed to find anything new or substantial in all these years on my own?”

(Good question…) “Uh… I don’t know, honestly,” Phoenix says. “But- they always say, two heads are better than one! At the very least, it’s worth a shot before the statute runs out.”

Edgeworth hums softly on the other side of the door, and his head finally moves from the glass. His silhouette shifts on its feet before he speaks again. “Actually… I just might take you up on that, Wright.”

(Wait, really?!) “Wh- Really?”

“Maybe,” Edgeworth replies, “After the inheritance ceremony, of course, and if I can make time from the case I’m working on.”

“Uh- y-yeah, of course! Any time! That you’re free, that is. Uh- shoot, I’ll have to make some time too, but- Yeah, yeah, let’s try it!”

Edgeworth lets out another small, muffled laugh on the other side of the door, and Phoenix is only glad to hear it. “Someone’s certainly excitable… You never change, Wright.”

Phoenix scratches at his neck, finding himself flushing there. “Aw, well…” He wants to say, Well, you’ve changed too much, but considering the small miracle he’s achieved just now, the thought is quickly pushed aside.

“Well,” Phoenix starts again, his heart pounding in his ears, “I’ll uh, see you later then?”

“Later, yes,” Edgeworth says, with just enough hints of warmth and giddy awkwardness that Phoenix can believe he’s just as excited about this too, and no words can encapsulate just how incredible it is that this is happening – well, going to happen. Hopefully.

It’s more hope than Phoenix has allowed himself to feel for a long time, so he takes it in both hands and grasps it more tightly than anything else in his life. Spending time with Miles, just seeing him again, is worth that much and more.

After bidding him goodbye and goodnight, Phoenix could almost skip down the office halls, he’s so excited.

–

On the other side of his office door, Miles Edgeworth listens to Phoenix’s fading footsteps and sighs to himself, a hand on his door’s window.

He studies himself and his surroundings – all over the skin of his hand, and the furnishings of his office, is a layer of sparkling ice and frost, glittering with a strange, ethereal light.

He closes his eyes and concentrates, calming the small storm of emotions the recent conversation had awakened within him. In response, the unnatural ice around him begins to recede, vanishing with tiny crackles of sound, not a drop of water left behind, until its reduced to a small halo of white around him.

He looks at his surroundings again, somewhat satisfied, mostly forlorn. He bows his head, studies the now-bare skin of his knuckles.

“I’m so tired of hiding,” he says quietly, to himself. “...And if anyone deserves the truth, it’s you, Phoenix.”

#narumitsu #wrightworth #frozen au #phoenix wright #miles edgeworth #jeminy writes

18 notes · View notes

utopianvoices · 5 years

Text

blind | k.yeosang

∞ genre: hanahaki au; angst

∞ word count: 2.2k

∞ description: You were the most beautiful painting— but he was blind.

∞ a/n: weLp i cried writing this.

∞ warnings: explicit language, mentions of death

You hate love.

Why would you go through something so painful? So unfulfilling?

What’s so great about love, when all it does is leave you feeling empty, hurt, completely dependent?

It’s like all functions halt when you’re with the one person you love. You can’t smile without them, you can’t eat without them, you’re basically handicapped without them; so why was it still so celebrated?

Perhaps it is because of the warm feeling that spreads in your chest when you lay eyes on your lover. The feeling of home when you’re in their arms, no matter where you are. Or the reassurance you get, that even when you are left with nothing—stripped completely bare—there will always be someone for you there, watching over you like a guardian angel would. Except they were much better than any guardian angel could ever be, because there was love binding the both of you, and love is the most powerful emotion to exist.

Even with such beauty that love holds, you still hate it because it becomes your downfall when you’re caught in a situation where the one you adore does not return your love—where everything you feel for them is one-sided. Only your heart flutters; butterflies only fill your stomach when your enamoured smiles at you; these feelings are felt by no one else but you, even though it takes two to love.

But most of all, you hate love because on top of the pain you feel while looking at your loved one everyday and having to smile like your whole world wasn’t shattered, you had to deal with the physical pain that accompanied it.

You’re hunched over on the floor of an empty classroom, your best friend clutching onto your arm to make sure you don’t collapse onto the ground with how much you were coughing.

Your eyes were red, tears blurring your vision, as you taste the blood in your throat from your incessant coughing for the past three minutes. You’re about to give up, convince yourself that you should give up, when finally you feel your airway clearing, your ability to breathe returning to you.

And right there in front of you, lay a single red petal.

Rose; his favourite flower.

“You know, whoever it is that is making you cough up a fucking lung every single time, doesn’t deserve you, Y/n,” your best friend starts, earning your attention. “It’s time you let it go.”

You can’t help but chuckle at his words, at the irony of his words.

If only he knew.

“I’m fine, Yeosang. I’ll be fine,” you finish off, pushing yourself off of the floor with the remaining strength you had left in your arms, only to fall back down.

Yeosang rushes to your side, securing his arm around your waist as he helps you up, and you almost want to throw up petals again because of how fast your heart was beating at such a simple action.

If only he knew that he was the one you were in love with.

You were in love with your best friend, Kang Yeosang, and there was nothing you could do about it.

Oh, how I hate love.

ii.

“I can’t believe she gave us two days to complete this dumb project!” you wail, flopping onto Yeosang’s bed as you stare up at the glow-in-the-dark stars scattered across his ceiling.

They were completely out of juice, but he had not taken them down because he was simply “too lazy”, and you think of all the times you and Yeosang lay beside each other, counting how many stars were up on the ceiling, until one of you messed up and you’re suddenly reaching for pillows to hit each other while screaming “it wasn’t me!”.

The simpler times when you didn’t have complicated feelings that made you go crazy.

Your best friend chuckles as he joins you on the bed, plopping himself down on the empty space beside you. As he does so, his hand brushes yours ever so slightly, and your heart is sent into overdrive—along with the growing urge to throw up some petals.

You hadn’t told Yeosang, but you were coughing up way more blood and petals than usual, and you almost passed out the last time you threw up. You knew you weren’t going to last long, but there was no way you were going through with that surgery.

There was no way you were forgetting your best friend, even if he was the cause for your pain. He was both the worst and best thing in your life, and you weren’t willing to lose him.

Suppressing your feelings, you discretely move away from Yeosang, trying to put more space between the both of you as he continues talking (more of complaining) about the project.

Your literature teacher had assigned a project to be completed in two days just that day, earning groans from everyone in class. It was, however, to be completed in pairs, and you’re met by the sight of students scurrying around the classroom, finding for their best friends. You also see students who are slumped in their chairs, not being picked by anyone because none of their friends were in that class, and you feel pity for them.

But you pitied yourself the most, because when you turn, you’re met with your best friend’s gorgeous smile, your heart already preparing yourself for the pain you were going to go through. All because you had to fall for that one person you spent most your time with.

And now you were lying next to the boy you loved, your heart aching with both the love and pain you felt, thanks to him.

“You know every time I look at the stars on my ceiling, I just think of the time you used to mess up counting the stars,” Yeosang breaks the silence, his eyes sparkling at the thought of one of his favourite memories.

You let out an offended scoff as you sit up on his bed, hands crossing over your chest as you stare at him.

“It wasn’t me!”

At this, Yeosang bursts out in laughter, sitting up along with you as his eyes shone. “That’s exactly how you sounded like then too!”

And just like old times, you’re grabbing the pillow closest to you, hitting your best friend over his head as your laughter mixes in with his—creating the most beautiful piece that tugs at your heartstrings.

You’re so busy having fun with him that you don’t realise he’s towering over you, legs on either side of you as he pins you down while repeatedly hitting you with the pillow.

When you finally get a glimpse of the sight in front of you, your hand goes limp, captivated by the face right above yours. Eyes reduced to crescents and teeth fully displayed, as he revels in the joy of reliving his childhood with his best friend.

You want to feel the same way, you really want to. But as long as you have feelings for him, you’ll never be able to feel the happiness of recalling precious memories made together.

And with that, you push your friend off of you, rushing to his toilet to cough out the petals that had risen up.

One, two, three, four...

You were losing count of the amount of petals escaping your mouth, as Yeosang held your hair back and rubbed your back.

Little did he know, he was making it a lot worse for you, because every time he was even near you, you weren’t in control of your emotions, and you started coughing up way more petals than you usually would.

Gathering your strength to push him away, you finally feel better, leaving the bathroom as quickly as you could while collecting all your things.

“Where are you going? You can’t leave in this state!”

“I have to leave Yeosang. I have to. I’ll see you in school.”

And with that, you leave his house, running as fast as you could, just to get rid of the pain caused by the roots of the plant gripping onto your heart.

iii.

Drip drip drip.

You stagger around the empty classroom, trying to find for anything that could stop the blood dripping from your mouth onto the ground, but you were slowly losing the ability to walk.

It had been three weeks since you started coughing up petals, and it had only gotten worse from then on. You started coughing up stems along with tons of petals, leaving your throat feeling abused and tattered.

Of course, you still didn’t say anything to Yeosang in fear of him asking you questions that would make you just burst and tell him the reason behind your situation. But all thoughts of hiding it from Yeosang flies out the window as the classroom door opens to reveal your best friend.

“Hey, I got us some-” he’s cut off by the sight of you bleeding while holding onto the chair for support. His eyes widen and he freezes for a millisecond, before dropping whatever he was holding, to rush to your side.

“Y/n, what the fuck is this? Why are you bleeding so much?” he demands, his hands automatically lifting his shirt to wipe the blood dribbling at the side of your mouth, as you lean against him for support. “Why are you still throwing up petals?”

You close your eyes and take a deep breath, eyes watering at the urge of throwing up again. But you force it down as you open your eyes to stare at the boy beside you. You knew you didn’t have much time left, and he did deserve to know the truth.

“It’s because I love you,” you say, smiling sadly, as your eyes close on their own accord. “And you don’t love me back.”

And it’s like his whole world stops.

You loved him? This whole time?

He stares at his you, his best friend, watching you cough up petals, as blood spurts out with every cough. All this time he had spent cursing the idiot who was causing you such pain, because they couldn’t see you for the gem you are.

All this time, and he didn’t realise he was the idiot all along.

“I-I.....” he starts, choking up at the thought of losing you. “Why didn’t you tell me earlier? We could have gone through with the surgery!”

He feels the guilt well up in him, for not noticing the pain you were going through. For not helping you out way sooner.

But mostly for not being able to return your feelings.

“No no no, I would have never told you, Yeosang,” you shake your head vigorously, clutching onto the nearest table for support as you put more distance between you and him. “And there’s no way I would have agreed to that surgery. I’ll forget you if I did.”

“It’s better than seeing you die!” Yeosang shouts at you, hands gripping at his hair at the high possibility of losing his best friend. You can see the tears streaming down his face, and you’re not sure you’ll be able to feel more pain than what you felt from seeing him in that state. “I’m sorry... I’m so sorry. This is all my fault. If only I hadn’t-”

“Shhh...” you calm him, taking his hands into yours as you lean against his shoulder. “It’s not your fault. Don’t blame yourself for it. I chose not to go through with the surgery, not you.”

His grip on your hand tightens as he feels yours loosen, the fear building up in him as he realised what was coming next. You were going weak, and you didn’t have much time left.

“We have to go to the hospital now. I don’t care if you forget me,” he finalises, trying to pull you towards the exit of the classroom. But your resistance makes him turn back, looking at you with urgency.

“N-no, I don’t want to go to the hospital. I don’t have much time left anyway,” you laugh softly, tears already gathering in your eyes. “Please just, sing for me.”

And sing he does, with words barely audible with how much he was trying not to break down, as he lays you on his lap, tensing up every time you had a coughing fit.

The blood you were coughing out decorated his pants, but he was in no position to care, as he looks at you smiling at him softly. It was the most beautiful smile he had seen, and you still looked ethereal even at the brink of death.

And just as the first yellow leaf floats down from the huge tree in the school yard, signifying the start of your favourite season, your eyes close with the image of your love imprinted in your mind and heart.

You hate love.

You hate it so much because even at the brink of death, all you could think about was the one boy you loved with all your heart, even if the mere thought of him brought you about so much pain.

You hate love, because you know that no matter how much you try, you’ll never be able to hate it.

#ateez #ateez imagines #ateez scenarios #kang yeosang imagines #kang yeosang scenarios #kang yeosang #dee scribbles #me??? writing angst????#NEVER HAPPENS #so idk why i wrote this #but i already started crying at the idea of writing this angst so.....#i listened to the truth untold while writing this #and That Was Not A Good Idea

68 notes · View notes

strange-n-unbluusual · 4 years

Text

Pink! Ch. 5: The Stick Up

*Beetlejuice/Original Female Character. Adult situations. 18+ only.*

Summary: After six breather years away, Beetlejuice returns to find the house on the hill overrun by coeds. Lydia allows him to stay, but has rules. Things get more interesting when Beck, one of the housemates, reveals she can see him. Following a sordid affair, Beetlejuice finds himself lingering around Beck more and more. But will her affection last? And why does it seem to bother Lydia so much?

Chapter 1: The Setup

Chapter 2: The Buzzkill Date

Chapter 3: The Ex Lover

Chapter 4: The Late Date

DMs are always open for thoughts, feedback and suggestions. Ty. On AO3 as CopperContessa_13

Beetlejuice was in denial and Beck was stubborn.

He thought it would only be hours until she fell into his arms and confessed her love. It bruised his ego a bit when she didn't. She thought he’d get over it and fuck her mouth or something. Alas.

At least she got to finish some of her work at home now that Beetlejuice was holing himself up in the attic. Beck was pouring over a project one day when the sound of his laugh rumbled through her ceiling vent. She could hear Lydia’s voice, too, faintly. It sounded like she was telling him a joke.

Hm.

Beck paused to look at where the snowman outside her window used to be. In the week or two that had passed, it’d been reduced to nothing more than an icy pile under layers of new snow. She’d removed its scarf before it, too, got buried. Not because she wanted to keep it or anything, she told herself, it was just because she didn’t want it to ruin the house’s shingles.

She stared at the scarf, now neatly folded on her dresser. As soon as he stopped pouting, Beck convinced herself, she'd give it right back.

The sound of Beetlejuice and Lydia laughing reverberated through the vent again. Beck sighed audibly before going back to her work.

She truly did not miss him, but his absence was notable.

As the days passed, Beetlejuice became hungry for any kind of attention from Beck— positive or negative.

The housemates used to be just apathetic to her presence, but they started to despise her. Kendra got mad when she found her leftover containers in Beck’s trash can. Ash cried when they found their poetry journal had the word “shit” written on every page in Beck’s distinctive handwriting. That made Cici furious. Lillian was willing to ignore all the drama until the art project she had laid out on the floor was destroyed by someone stepping on it. The footprint suspiciously matched the tread on Beck’s boots.

Lydia didn’t want to intervene, but decided she had to do something before retaliation started.

When she entered the attic, Beetlejuice was laying across the sofa. At least, what remained of the sofa. In his plight to make the space more homey, he’d torn up the cushions and made something of a nest out of the fluff.

One hand propped his head up while the other was draped along the curve of his body. His tie was loose and a couple of shirt buttons were undone.

He started talking as the door creaked open, but quickly changed gears when he realized who it was.

“I knew you'd be ba-- Oh! It’s just you again. Hey, kid.”

“I really wish you’d stop doing that. She’s not going to come back until you stop.”

“Stop what, Lyds?” he said innocently. “I don’t have the faintest clue what you're talking about.”

“Don’t play dumb,” she drawled while crossing her arms. “I know you ate Ken’s food, mimicked Beck’s handwriting to ruin Ash’s poetry and stepped through Lillian’s art. You need to stop before they do something back.”

“Fine. Be that way,” he smirked while readjusting his shirt and tie. “And for the record, babes? Beck was the one that stepped through Lil’s canvas. That one is all on her.”

“There’s still consequences for the other things! I know you listen to her through the vent all the time. Don’t you hear her calling around asking about other lease options? Is it really going to be any better for you if she moves?!”

Beetlejuice turned to lay on his back. He kicked his feet up on the armrest and casually started picking at something under his fingernail.

“I could follow her if I wanted to. And whatever the housemates can retaliate with isn’t even half of what I can do. Trust me, Lyds. I could make things a lot worse for Beck.”

Lydia’s expression darkened. He looked back at her smugly, unaffected by her glare.

“Make them worse?” Lydia asked, stepping towards him threateningly. “What, are you going to kill her if she doesn’t give you what you want? Are you going to threaten her like you did my family?”

His not-beating heart dropped when she said those words.

“My own father wouldn’t speak to me for two whole months after I told him I let you come back. I told them that you’re different, but it’s not really a coincidence that they haven’t stopped by in the last eight months. Adam and Barbara were just as upset!” Lydia fumed.

Beetlejuice’s arrogant confidence disappeared completely. He sat up, purple starting to rise from the roots of his hair.

“This is how you repay me for all the grief I've gotten?” she continued. “By sleeping with my ex-girlfriend and then messing with the whole house because she won't commit to you?”

“I’ll stop antagonizing everyone, I promise,” Beetlejuice pleaded. “I’ve changed. You know I have, Lydia. It’s just that some habits are harder to shake than others.”

She stared at him for a long time before letting out a breath she seemed to be holding in.

“Okay. But I mean it, Beej. No more hurting people.”

He nodded, but mumbled something under his breath.

“Do you have something to say?” Lydia challenged.

“No, I don’t. It’s just…”

“What?”

“I-I don’t know why you’re defending Beck after… everything.”

“Why’s that?”

Beetlejuice rolled his eyes and sighed.

“Well, it's not like you love her or anything,” he said.

“Do you?” Lydia replied, slightly scandalized.

Sprigs of pink shot into his hair. He babbled while running a hand over his scalp in a subconscious gesture to hide it.

“Well, I don’t think I love her but—”

“Because what you’re doing to her is not love,” she interrupted.

His expression fell.

“I’m not sure if I’ve ever really loved someone romantically, Beej, but I know what it’s supposed to look like. Love is being kind to someone even when you’re mad at them. It’s about caring for them despite their flaws.”

He hesitated before responding.

“It’s not like I’ve had a bunch of good role models to show me how it’s done, Lydia,” he chuckled nervously while rubbing the back of his head.

“Hey,” she said, walking over to sit on the armrest closest to him.

“Yeah?”

“I love you.”

“Gross,” Beetlejuice snorted.

Lydia giggled. He leaned his head against her arm as she reassuringly stroked his hair. He didn’t say much to her for a minute, but she knew her words meant a lot from the bolts of lime green that popped up under her palm.

“You just have to be patient,” she said while flicking a dead bug off his shoulder. “I think she’ll come around. It might take until after winter break, but—”

“After winter break?! How long is that for?” Beetlejuice whined.

“I dunno. It starts in mid-December and goes on for a few weeks? So, early January?”

He groaned.

“I know it sucks, but you need to give her space. You need to stop sabotaging your relationships with people.”

“When have I ever sabotaged anything?!”

He shrank under the glare she shot him.

“Alright, alright. I get it. Stop looking at me like that.”

⁂

Beetlejuice didn’t think much of it when he heard someone ascending the attic steps early on a Saturday morning. The floorboards outside the attic door creaked like someone was waiting there. No one came in, though.

Weird that Lydia wouldn’t just walk in like always, he thought. Maybe she forgot something in her room and went back downstairs?

Seconds later, realization hit him like a bus.

“Beck!” he called.

Beetlejuice nearly fell over himself as he rushed to the door, anxious to let her in.

He was suddenly overwhelmed with want again. His nerve endings felt like they would burst at just the thought of holding her again. He couldn’t wait to hug her tightly and breathe in the sweet smell of her hair. He’d kiss her and caress her until she moaned his name three times.

Then, he’d plow her into the fucking floorboards— no! Wait! He’d make love to her.

Make. Love.

The epiphany came too late, though.

He flung the door open just in time to hear the lock on the front door click.

Beetlejuice wanted to chase after her, follow her home, even. But the memory of Lydia's words rang in his mind's ear. Beck needs to be the one to make the next move.

Sullen, he closed the door. Beetlejuice walked back to the nook by the attic window and sat down on its sun-faded cushion. If he craned his neck just right, he could see the driveway below. He watched her load the taxi with suitcases even though the sun’s reflection off her hot pink puffy jacket made him squint a little.

Before she entered the cab, Beck turned over her shoulder to look at the house one more time. Their eyes locked when she looked to the attic. Beetlejuice pressed his hand against the window. She gave him a small wave back before getting into the car.

He watched her ride drive away until it disappeared over the horizon.

“She’ll be back,” he assured himself out loud.

Curious to see how the house had changed (eager to go through Beck’s things...), Beetlejuice descended to the second floor. All was quiet aside from Lydia’s room. Slow jazz music lilted out of the crack in her doorway along with a soft beam of light.

Desperate to sneak past her unnoticed, he tiptoed gingerly over to Beck’s room and passed through the door like a ghost.

On the other side of the threshold, he paused a second before shucking off his shoes. Everything seemed the same aside from a few missing artifacts— her laptop, her sketchbooks, her art portfolio folder. A chuckle escaped from his lips when he noticed a familiar black and white striped scarf on her dresser. His hand grazed against the knit material before sliding down to grasp the drawer just below it.

He yanked it open and grabbed a handful of the disorganized panties inside. While shoving half the wad into his jacket’s inner pocket, Beetlejuice noticed he’d uncovered something. His eyes bulged.

In the middle of her underwear, unmistakably, was a dildo at least seven inches long. Just seeing it made Beetlejuice's lust more rabid, but he managed to close the drawer without messing with it. He’d spend the better part of the time she was away, he decided, thinking of the things he’d do to her with it.

With some of the panties still clenched in one hand, he dove onto her bed. The plush feeling of the down feather comforter had been sorely missed. The sun illuminated the room's white walls beautifully. The pillows were thick with her scent which turned his arousal into euphoria. Beetlejuice paused to take it all in before fumbling with his pants.

He sure missed watching her wake up next to him on days like this.

One hand pressed the panties and pillows against his nose and while the other got to work.

He didn’t hear the doorknob jiggle open. Thank goodness the pillow obscured most of him.

Lydia still screamed in surprise, though.

“What the fucking hell, Beetlejuice?!” she yelled from the other side of the now closed door.

He fell off the bed in his scramble to make himself decent. His head bent at an awkward angle from hitting Beck's side table.

“C’mon! Can you really blame me?!”

“Yes I can! Put everything away!”

“What am I supposed to do until she comes back?” he whined.

“I said put it away!!”

Begrudgingly, he adjusted himself, shoved the panties back in the drawer (save the ones in his jacket) and haphazardly threw the pillows back on the bed.

“You’re an animal,” Lydia said when he opened the door.

“I’ve been called far worse by far better,” Beetlejuice scoffed while popping his head back into place.

Lydia playfully punched his arm before motioning for him to follow her. When they got to her room, she sat down at her desk. Beetlejuice sat on her nearby bed. On her desk, he noticed a paper towel was laid out along with rubbing alcohol, neosporin, black ink and what looked like a needle taped to the back of a pencil. He didn't think much of it at first.

"Everyone else seems to be gone for the holiday, Lyds. Why are you still around?"

"To make sure Beck still has underwear in that drawer when she gets back."

"Is that it?"

"No," she drawled while placing her left forearm face up on the table. "I've told you how exhausting my half-brother can be. I love Ezra, don't get me wrong, but toddlers are a handful. I thought I'd give dad and Delia another night to get the house back in order. It doesn't matter to me, but she gets really embarrassed if things are messy."

Lydia dipped the needle in ink and positioned it over her arm.

“Hey! Don’t do that! You’ll hurt yourself!” Beetlejuice said, shoeing away the hand holding the tool.

“Relax. It’s called a stick and poke tattoo. Do you want one?”

“I usually keep my body mods au naturel, babes.”

“Sounds like something a pussy would say.”

“I’ll show you who’s a pussy!” he said while rolling up his sleeve.

“Okay,” she giggled. “Just let me touch up mine first. Besides, it’s a little too late to tell me I shouldn’t.”

When Beetlejuice looked at her upturned arm again, he noticed there was already a tattoo there. It was about the size of a half dollar coin and near her elbow. The dots already on her skin were arranged to look like a magnolia flower. Despite how faded it looked, he was transfixed by the skillful way the simple dots were arranged to mimic light and shadow.

Lydia didn’t wince as she pricked the ink-soaked needle against her skin.

“It’s not my best work, but it’s still one of my favorites,” she mumbled. “I don’t think everyone can say that about the tattoo they gave themself at 17.”

“Chuck must’ve lost his shit when he saw it.”

“Only for a little while. This kind of flower was mom’s favorite.”

Beetlejuice relaxed his posture a bit, transfixed by the way she worked. He liked watching the greying dots become vibrant black. Lydia tapped her foot to the beat of the slow, smooth music still playing from the turntable in the corner of the room.

It was nice that they could still have moments like these.

“Have you thought about what tattoo you want me to give you?”

“A crown.”

“Why?”

“It’s kind of a long story, but you know that movie about the labyrinths by Jimi Hendrix?”

Lydia froze. She calmly set down her tool and turned to look him dead in the eye.

“First of all, it’s Jim Henson. Second, I’m not letting you get a tattoo for Beck.”

“Why not?! I’m a grownup! I can make my own choices. I’m older than you!” he said indignantly.

Lydia rolled her eyes and pulled on the neckline of her shirt to reveal her shoulder.

“See that? A tiny green shamrock with the letter ‘L’ on the side. ‘L’ for Lydia, you may ask? Nope! ‘L’ for Laurel McCann,” she deadpanned. “Beej, I’m not even Irish and I have a shamrock tattoo. Moral of the story is don’t fall in love with the first person you sleep with in college.”

Heeding her advice, he thought about the question again. Beetlejuice propped his head up on one hand and tapped his chin thoughtfully. His eyes lit up.

“Oh! Okay. I got it. What about this: ‘my mom’s a bitch.’”

“You can’t be serious.”

“I want it on my forehead!”

“Absolutely not. Not your face or butt or anywhere else sensitive like that. I’ve seen enough of you today.”

Beetlejuice groaned dramatically and flopped back onto her bed. He laid there, trying his best to think of something else. It felt like an impossible task, though. All he could think about was Beck and also how Lydia’s comforter wasn’t as comfy as hers. After a some time had passed, Lydia lightly kicked his leg.

“Okay, I’m done. Beej, I have an idea for you. What about—”

“Nah, don’t tell me. I love surprises. Just stick it in me.”

“Don’t say it like that.”

He laughed and laid his right forearm out on the desk just like she had earlier.

“It’s going to sting a little bit,” she said while rubbing his wrist with an alcohol pad. “Do you want to try a little dot first before committing to the whole thing?”

“Nah, babes. I’m dead! Nothing hurts wh— Fucking hell!!”

She tried not to smirk at his reaction to the first pinprick.

“Are you really sure you want to go through with this?” Lydia asked.

Beetlejuice just grunted in affirmation.

She started to work on the middle of his wrist. For a demon, he had a surprisingly low pain threshold. Beetlejuice got used to the stabbing sensation, but the longer she worked, the more it felt like torture. Lydia let him take small breaks and told him he had to be careful about clenching his hand while she worked. He wanted to whine, but managed to power through.

“Done! You can look now,” Lydia said after what felt like a lifetime.

Beetlejuice smiled at the new artwork on his wrist. She had used negative space to make it look like the pale eyes of a black and white striped beetle were looking back up at him.

“Now we match!” Lydia said while showing off her own wrist. “I designed it myself.”

She’d clearly visited a studio to get her own done. However, for a freehanded stick and poke tattoo, his wasn’t half bad either.

“You did good, kid! Chuck and Diana didn’t send you to art school for nothing. But tell me, can yours do this?”

Lydia nearly fell out of her chair as the bug on Beetlejuice’s arm came to life. It scuttled around his wrist and ran part way up his arm before returning to its original place.

“Cool trick,” she said breathlessly.

He studied her face for a moment before asking his next question.

“Why did you want to get something like this in the first place? To immortalize your trauma?”

“No,” she said thoughtfully. “I got it to remind me that family will always be there for you when you need them most. It reminds me that, even though what we went through was hard, it made us stronger. We lived.”

Lydia clasped Beetlejuice’s shoulder and smiled at him.

“Maybe it’ll help you remember that, too.”

Beetlejuice smiled back, reaching up to squeeze her hand with his own. His smile drooped slightly as he considered what he was going to ask her next.

“Hey, Lydia?”

“Yeah?”

“I think it’s time I proved to everyone that I’ve changed,” Beetlejuice sighed. “Do you think you could help me figure out… how to do that?”

“Hell yeah, Beej.”

#Beetlejuice #beetlejuice fanfiction #Beetlejuice Fandom #musicaljuice #beetlejuice musical #Drama #writing #fluff #original female character #adult Language #nsft #beetlejuice nsft

8 notes · View notes

warmau · 5 years

Text

Model!AU: Minghao

getting closer and missing hao inspired this. heavy content + mentions of violence+ mentions of medicine/mental health + onesided feelings so be forewarned. tldr; modeling is hard. minghao breakdowns. good ending, i promise.

it should have been obvious since the beginning of the shoot that there was going to be a problem

but, naively, you had thought nothing of it at all

he’d been on edge all week from a packed schedule

first a trip to italy for fashion week, then a branding meeting in france, a non-stop flight to korea followed to discuss plans for his face to grace the streets of myeongdong, three interviews for three different magazines, and now here - in china - for a campaign that was paying at least triple what they usually would just so they could get him

xu minghao

and him snapping at the designer for picking out the wrong size for the first outfit was to be expected

but then there was the bickering with the photographer, the calling of names of the poor and terrified interns, and then his wrath turned upon props

fake flowers began being flung across the room

his hermes paris loafers scuffed and dirtied from when he’d put his foot through the background screen in angry disapproval of its color

his hand, clad in rubies and sterling silver, clutching at one of the light bulbs that had powered his background light

clenched perfect teeth, seething broad shoulders

“ill crush this thing and use the shards to cut your neck if you make me look like an idiot - i swear you won’t get away with it”

that’s where you’d realized it had took a turn for the worse

not just because of property damage, or bad character, but because minghao was literally threatening someone

his violent outbursts had become more common as he grew in popularity - but this was the first time he’d said something like that

something that could be filmed, recorded, leaked to the press

and then his career would be over

as his personal assistant, you had to do something

so you pushed forward onto the set

making apologizes to everyone as you grabbed minghao by the sides of his jacket and whispered in the lowest -but calmest - voice you could

“hao, let me get you back to the hotel - ok?”

his eyes, flaming amber settled into yours

you’d always been his friend, even before his modeling career, and out of all the people in the world

you could smolder any fire that he set ablaze

so rolling his shoulders and straightening himself out

minghao took one last look around the set

the poor photographer, probably thirty years older than him, too scared to meet his gaze

and said - in monotone, emotionless mandarin - that they could do this all again tomorrow

and that they better do it right

he’d marched forward, through the doors to where the rest of his team was waiting

his chauffeur, his bodyguard, his manager, his makeup artist

you stayed behind an extra couple of minutes for damage control

bowing, hanging your head low and apologizing - assuring that you’d pay for the ruined background, the stomped out flowers, but most of all

you promised you’d have minghao back here tomorrow

in a more,,,,,,positive,,,,,,,,mood

after it all, you’d climbed into the black jaguar that waited outside of the building somewhere in downtown beijing

and heard minghao groan

his face illuminated by the screen of his phone

“look at this, they completely twisted what i said in the interview!”

he tilted his phone to show you the news title

“millennial model and chinese breakout fashion sensation xu minghao says that sometimes he hates his job?!?!”

you see that the publisher is grazia, you make a note to call and get it fixed up

you take the phone from minghao, exit out of the browser and instead open up his messages

“your mom texted while you were on set, you should answer her”

minghao’s long fingers graze yours as he takes the phone back, he reads the message - but you see him close the chat

resting his head against the window he mutters that he cant deal with her right now

“she’s your mo-”

“i know. stop policing me like im some sort of kid, ill get back to her when i do.”

he snaps, not even giving you the decency to turn back your way

you don’t huff or try to pick a fight, instead you just look straight forward past the partition

onto the road ahead of you and wonder

when did he become such a ,,,,,,,,,,, monster?

the night is sleepless for you, it’s been that way for a long time now

you spend it sending out emails and responses to the millions of business inquiries an hungry brands that want minghao to model for them

you spend it on the phone with the company back in korea, explaining what happened today - getting yelled at for it - and then making sure the money is wired over so you can pay back the photographer like you said

you spend it double, triple, even quadruple checking minghao’s schedule and updating it or fixing it

so that not a moment is to spare

even though it hurts knowing how much all of this is taking a toll on the boy you were once best friends with

for a while you drift into memories

minghao, not as tall and slender as he is now but still a head above you, in his school uniform in your backyard

your favorite song at the moment on blast from your phone

how he’d take his shoes off and dance - try to get you up and to copy him

but you could never match his natural talent, the way his long limbs moved like water

you remember the days where minghao laughed, loud and shameless

the days where he’d flip through magazines and point out big names and say, with confidence, that he’d one day get to represent them

wink your way and ask “isn’t my face the best in china?”

you’d crinkle your nose, but the reality was his face was the best in china - maybe even the world

and now that he’d earned that title from everyone else

it was like that cheerful, playful boy had been buried deep under layers of expensive fabrics, makeup, and diamonds

and all you had now was the shell of your best friend

a body and a face that resembled xu minghao - but had lost all of the light within it

you had to snap out of those thoughts, noting that it was nearing 4am and even if it was an hour of sleep - it was an hour you’d need to deal with what was to come

minghao was late, but you had planned ahead and told the photographer to take him time setting up

he showed up in maison margiela pinstripe trousers, a gucci medusa sweater, burberry hightops, the interlocking necklace sent from versace as a gift and vintage dior homme shades that blocked the lazer like intensity of his already annoyed gaze

all together he cost roughly the same amount as most people made in half a year - working five days a week fulltime

and he had worn it as a “sorry im late, i didnt want to come” kind of laidback outfit

you bit back the urge to ask him what he’d been up to

the faint smell of floral cologne and refusal to look directly into the light told you all you had to know

minghao had developed a kind of ritual - you’d call it that to avoid slandering him

when things didn’t go right, he’d find someone pretty. take two or more of those depression meds mixed in with something a little more fun. and in the morning

he’d cover it up with expensive accessories and for some reason let you - and only you - be the one to fix him up

letting the perfume stuck on his skin fill the space between you two as you’d reach up and move strands of hair from his eyes or make sure any blemish - that were hardly ever there - was hidden

you didn’t understand why he did that to you

did he enjoy seeing the pain in your eyes? the feeling of betrayal radiating between your bodies?

it had been an unspoken oath between you two as teenagers, that you really and deeply cared for each other

the word “love” was never uttered - but it was obvious

how you looked at one and other, how minghao had a sharp tongue but kept it under locks around you

how you looked up at him with adoration that could only be rivaled by old, married couples

you had been called the soulmates of your hometown

and now you were stuck in a dizzy cloud of his one night stands stench,,,,,,and worst of all,,,,it was on purpose

“is- is he ready?”

the photographer asks, to which minghao scoffs

“im right here, just ask me if im ready. don’t ask my assistant.”

you swallow as the photographer gives a small nod to his team

the designer comes to get minghao ready - but minghao ignores him and sways his way over to you

you try not the take any deep breathes, the undertones of rose dance around him in blaring waves

“can you make sure i look alright?”

he demands, stating it like a question just for the audience. you know you aren’t under the pretense to say no

“of course”

your answer is flat - but you do follow through, taking a step closer and searching his face for an imperfection

he’s statuesque - the features on his face look like they’ve been hand molded to be perfect

when you reach to take off his glasses, you’re met with eyes that look like onyx now that they’re makeup free and up close

the shape is unworldly, long and accented against the backdrop of his clear, clean skin

you trace from the eyes to the lips: perfect, perfect, perfect

you waver because you could keep looking, let your eyes travel downwards over his godly proportions

elegantly long neck, strong collarbones, incomparable body with arms and legs you’ve imagined being tangled up in

so you don’t

you restrain yourself and tell minghao

“you look fine.”

you wait for the complimentary smirk, the click of his tongue, but instead he just continues to stare

till you feel like he’s reduced you to dust in his eyes

and turns to make way toward set

the shoot goes much smoother, there is no destruction and no yelling

and everyone signs an agreement that prohibits them from leaking any of the events that transpired

minghao finally changes from the last outfit, looks uninterested in all the praise thrown his way

and snaps his fingers toward his bodyguard who steps into line beside him and sternly explains that the shoot is over - no autographs or photos can be taken now

you don’t ride in minghao’s jaguar back to the hotel

you need to pick up some of the orders minghao has placed with stores around town

and you are grateful for the time spent apart

because every now and then you feel that spiraling feeling haunt over you

the unrequited devotion you’d developed for minghao when you before young

and the sting of his lowly treatment

sure, you were still the sole person to calm him down, to keep him from lashing out in public, from almost attacking anything or anyone that as much as made him twitch in annoyance

but he wasnt an angel to you either

you were convinced he knew how you felt- how you used to feel

and making you stand in front of him like a fool after he’d spent the night frolicking from one pair of lips to the other was embarrassing

his respect for you had turned to obligation, talking to you sometimes like he was doing you favor bringing you along

when in reality this job was a nightmare on your body and mental state just as much as it was for him

you were no model, your face wasnt on magazines, and you didnt have fans falling at your feet everywhere you went

but your body ached from sleepless nights and constant travel

your head spun from trying to remember dates, dealing with huge design teams, rude press, problems with the company, and of course from having to live day to day in minghao’s shadow

you didnt want his fame, you saw what it did to him

but you did want your friend

when he’d made you his personal assistant after his debut, he didnt even dare to call you an “assistant”

he introduced you with your name - told designers and photographers and fans that you were the one always there to keep him sane

that he would be nothing without you

and now,,,, he was treating you - and everyone else - like they were nothing

and you just didnt understand why

how was this the boy who’d always been concerned about you in the winter when you went out without a scarf

how was this the boy who’d once told a fellow friend of yours that in the future - you were were going to get married and make the world a better place together

you throwing a half eaten chunk of bread at him, redfaced and going “why would i marry you - xu minghao?”

and he’d chuckled and said “who else are you going to marry? everyone knows we’re each others destiny!”

had all of those moments been a lie - sometimes you were scared you made them up in your head

but you had photos and video and years of experience to know, that at one point, minghao was different

grateful for the mediocre jobs he got, grateful for his family, grateful for you

you had been there when he was teaching himself to pose in the mirror

when he was begging brands to give him a second chance, to even just consider his portfolio

you had been there when that portfolio was three cheap headshots that you and him had pooled your money together for

you were always there ,,,,,,,, and you didnt know if you could handle that anymore

when you returned to the hotel, dragging what had to be eight different bags out of the elevator and into minghao’s private suite

you called out to let him now you’d arrived

for a second, there was no response

and you vaguely assumed he’d fallen asleep or that he’d stepped out to speak to the manager or something

but then you listened

and heard the water running in the bathtub

your mind snapped into action and you rushed inside

you’d seen minghao practically naked for covershoots before - so you weren’t at all shy of walking in on something

you were more terrified of what could have been going on

and minghao was inside

the water was overflowing in the tub and he was standing in fornt of the large scale mirror

eyes wide, pills in the sink, scissors in his hands

“hao - wh-what are you doing?��

you panic, trying to make a plan

should i turn off the water first? should i get the scissors? should i call for backup?

but minghao just stares - as if past his reflection, into something deeper in the mirror

“you’ve abandoned me.”

you blink

“w-what are you talking about hao, im right here-”

“NO”

he grabs a fistful of his hair and clutches it so hard his knuckles pale

his eyes winded, ringed with an unfamiliar agony to them

“no, you’re not. you’re not here. you’re not here. you’re always gone when i need you. you - you -”

he searches for words, but doesn’t find them

instead he brings up the scissors and you ready yourself to jump on him, to grab his torso and hold him back with all your strength

but he’s fast

and the hair he’s clutched, in one clean snip - he cuts it off

the strands fall into the sink and the water from the overflowing bathtub rises to your ankles

“we entered this world together. you used to think of only me. you had eyes only for me. i was like,,,,,like david, like apollo, like the archangel michael and now you just look at me and you see,,,,,,fine?”

his voice cracks and you recall the conversation this morning

where he’d made you evaluate him before the shoot

how you’d just thought he wanted you to suffer, knowing what he did last night

“hao, you know - you know better than anyone that i will only ever have eyes for you. im so in love with you that i let you berate me, torture me, make me a fool - how could you think i would ever,,,,,,ever,,,,,,leave your side?”

the emotions in you shake and pour out like the water that is getting higher and higher in the bathroom

“put the scissors down, you’ll ruin your ha-”

you start and minghao throws his head back

“i dont care about my hair. i dont care about my face. i dont care about my body. because no one - not even you - cares about ME. WHO I AM! LOOK AT THIS STUPID, EMPTY THING IVE BECOME!”

he spins himself around to face you, bringing the scissors up and cutting wherever he can

until you stop him, the clumps of hair falling into the water, sticking to your clothes and the towel that hangs low around his hips

“hao, why are you doing this,,,,what is happening,,,,please tell me why you’re in pain,,,”

he breathes heavily, seething with something - not anger, not fear, but some kind of inbetween

“you think i dont know that i hurt people? that ive become a fucking asshole? i cant stop it!”

he presses a hand flat against his chest

“i cant stop it because it protects me. if im mean and harsh, no one will take advantage. no one will take what ive earned -”

“but why do you take it out on your team? on the manager or the bodyguard? why do you take it out on me?

he shakes, eyes wavering to the door behind you, to the water at your feet, to the spot on your face that he’s focused on instead of your eyes

“because you ,,,,,, you dont love me how you used to. you love me for my price - for my fame. you dont love hao, you love model xu minghao and im not -”

he sinks suddenly, dropping first to his knees and then leaning forward

you follow and catch him so his head lands against your shoulder

the water soaks through your clothes and the steam from the shower is floating around you two like a storm cloud

you hold him tight, and pull him closer, flush to your own body

and minghao’s arms come to embrace you back, to cling to the fabric of your shirt as he speaks into your neck

“i can see that you dont look at me with the same eyes - your eyes used to glow like stars, they used to be warm. and now,,,,they just see past me-”

he doesnt cry, but his voice fluctuates like he’s in constant waves of pain

“hao, im afraid. im afraid of what you’ve become. you sleep around with anyone, then rub it in my face. you yell and threaten and cause destruction - how could i continue to love you,,,”

you say, but your hand travels up into his hair, combing it down - letting it soothingly run over the parts where it’s now sticking out, jagged

“i never sleep with them.”

you take a sharp inhale and your fingers stop

“wh-what?”

“i never sleep with them. ive never even gone beyond kissing. there are intimacies that im going to save for you, even if you never wish to ,,,,, see me the same way”

the sentiment and gentleness of his voice is a sound you havent heard for so long

that you almost forget that this is how he really sounds, how he sounded when you were young

both on the verge of your careers - both so close to being together that you could taste it on your lips

but never having the courage to move it forward

had he been harboring the same avid feelings for you too?

there’s a moment of silence until minghao’s pulls back

the water is up to your waists now that you’re on the floor - you’re surprised it hasnt leaked and that someone from the hotel hasnt come running in

but he looks at you, lips trembling

“do you believe me?”

“hao”

you reach and touch his face, he leans into it - to the warmth and familiarity

to the loyatly and the love

“hao, i love you. i love you so much that im sure someone might call it an addiction.”

he finally lets a smile pull up at his lips

“but this has to stop. you can’t wallow in your anguish and take it out on everyone else. something inside you is hurting, maybe im the cause - or the job is the cause. whatever it is, you - we need to stop it. because i cant watch the man i love turn into the man i loathe.”

minghao reaches up, puts his large hand over yours and leans forward

his lips hesitate just a centimeter from yours

“may i?”

he asks, drawn out and slightly foggy in the tiny little bathroom

“do anything you want”

your voice whispers back

and in a kiss that is full of such intense compulsion, years of harbored and hidden feelings, you fall over

with minghao’s body ontop of yours, your faces still connected in passion submerged under the overflowing water

till the door is kicked open and a horrified maid asks if you two are out of your damn minds

you spend the night with minghao, the emails and your phone abandoned in your room

as you lay beside him and watch the mask he’s had on slowly fall away

as he tells you how hard it’s been

how the medication isn’t working

how he’s begun to hate himself for this fake attitude

you caress his cheek, bring him close, tell him that if he needs a break he can take one

you’ll personally cancel every interview, shoot, and deal if need be

but minghao asks against your lips

if you’re sick of it too, the people - the press - the hours - the constant need to be moving and making money

you say you are

but that it was worth it, to be beside him. even at his worse.

in the morning light of the next day you examine the damage done to his hair, comb it down and let him slip on a cap to hide any split ends

and when you emerge

to an angry, confused manager who wants to know what is going on

minghao laces his hand with yours

“tell everyone that they have to wait. i have lost time to makeup with the person i love.”

you flush at the romantic words, but also remind the manager that the schedule has to be cleared or that the company will get angry

he asks you to do it - you’re the personal assistant

but minghao holds you close

“not anymore. i quit”

you announce and the manager nearly falls over

“so if im not an assistant, what should i do now?”

minghao kisses your temple

“just be mine. we’ll figure it out together. and plus, i kind of have a plan. ive had since i was a kid.”

you walk outside, people stop in the streets

people whisper and ask, “isn’t that xu minghao?”

but you both ignore them

“oh, whats this plan?”

“do you remember ,,,, my promise to marry you?”

#so lets get one thing out of the way: i wrote this to hurt myself and then make myself happy #so its selfindulgent but also i got to write my breakdown scene and im #not sure how you all will like it #seventeen scenarios #seventeen imagines #seventeen au #minghao imagines #minghao scenarios #minghao au #the8 scenarios #the8 imagines #the8 au #member: the8 #model!au #17 imagines #17 scenarios #17 au #xu minghao

1K notes · View notes

delicrieux · 5 years

Photo

pairing: kane x f!mc

fandom: playchoices, the elementalists

summary: after the confrontational and scandalous tea party, (name) finds herself in a wonderland-esque place when her life had just started becoming boring again.

warnings: uh... age gap i guess??

words: 3k (i snapped)

author’s note: jfc this took so long. hours of work. and a few different versions (one was set in a labyrinth but i decided to go with this instead). hope you like it! tagged all the people that wanted. you can view this as kane totally manipulating the mc ..he probably is tbh. anyway, this will suffice till TE is back in a few weeks. i regret nothing for stanning my eccentric mustache man.

tags: @tilliesmarshall - @somegdchoices - @lastfirstcupcake - @peach-space - @magicpijama

feedback is always appreciated xoxo

masterlist | buy me coffee☕

It had been a terrible week full to the brim with nothing but stress and worry. To make it all seemingly worse, none of her friends bore their gentleness with her, and their jubilant smiles, daydream gazes, bell like laughter was washed away by autumn rain. There must be something in the water, they all mutely concluded one cloudy morning during breakfast, with their lips sealed and eyes sunken into fresh cups of coffee. Yet it is as if they all shared a telepathic line, acutely aware of what their seatmate was thinking: Why is no one talking?

In silence they had all decided that this is simply one of those weeks where nothing goes right, and the only salvation is solitude. Even the ever social Shreya seemed to count her words, rejoicing once she had reached their limit. And Aster, ever the tender soul, wore less blooming flowers as days slipped into nights, appearing a bit haunted and even ill. (Name), too, was hardly any better. She is the Sun, the brightest star in the sky, but her light had reduced into nothing but a pale, sickly glow. There must be something in the air, they had mussed wide awake at midnight, listening to the wind howling outside their bedrooms. Nevertheless hope poked and prodded their heads with an impatient thought: Surely this will all blow over and chaos shall resume as it has, never to be disturbed again…right?

It is late again; the evening is inky, full of stars. (Name) sits beside her writing desk with her head in her hands, feeling herself slip into madness once the words in her textbook swim again. She swallows a fit of frustration that wanted to escape with a curse. This will not do. It would appear that being detached from Pend Pals would grant more time to focus on studies, though it has been the last thing on her mind and now she has an exam the next day and she knows absolutely nothing. There is a secret within her heart; a secret that no one knows and cannot know, because she realises just how silly it is. She feels as if the walls are closing in on her; that this room is too small, too crowded, though she is, and has been for most of the week, completely alone.

A knock on the door makes her jolt, and raspy she squeaks, “Come in!” though she fills with dread at the mere prospect of talking to anyone. The visitor waits for no other confirmation and the door opens to reveal her twin, displeased as she always is, glaring down at her.

“What’s wrong with you?”

She blinks, taken aback by the hostile question “My… I’m just…not feeling that well.” She explains clumsily, “Is there something you need? Because I really have to study.”

“Sure you do. Mind telling the truth now?”

“What?”

“Don’t ‘what’ me. I know you. Everyone’s been acting weird. You especially. You’re not as…” She gazes her up and down, searching for the right word, “-dramatic as you used to be.”

“It’s just stress.”

“If it was just stress then you’d be crying that you are literally dying.” Atlas crosses her arms over her chest, her displeasure momentarily melting into concern before she fixes her stern façade again,” So…talk to me. Or whatever. I can’t let you be out of it when Kane’s on the loose. Even if you pulled the stupidest move imaginable and tried to stop Alma from killing him.”

Irritation seizes her breath and she grits her teeth, “Yeah so I got a little heated, sorry for wanting to settle things peacefully. He’s literally the only one that gave me any sort of answers. And –just-ugh! What is with you and constantly being on your guard? Fighting? Can’t I just be a normal student and worry about normal things? Like exams?”

“Normal was thrown out the window when our mother—“

“You know, for someone who hates her so much, you sure don’t shut up about her.”

Atlas pales, speechless. Before she can fire back, (Name) adds, “Just leave me alone. Try to focus on your studies. Because the only danger we’ll be facing soon is Harrington’s stupidly difficult questions.” She turns back to the book, “Goodnight, Atlas.”

Of course Atlas would notice the change – she had always considered herself an outsider, even now, but being rejected by her sister is too much, and the hurt in her eyes betrays it. (Name) can’t see it, the glister of angry tears, but she can feel it; can feel Atlas’ magick pulse about her, unruly. The door shuts and silence falls over her bedroom, as if Atlas was never here in the first place. (Name) sighs. Perhaps she should not have said that. She does not know what came over her. This is all simply too much.

The witching hour has long passed and (Name) haunts the hallways of Penderghast. Strange illusions play on the walls; the air is cool, fresh, much better than the stuffy, perfumed atmosphere of the dorms. Here she feels a bit better. She wonders if there are any professors roaming about this late, and if there are, will she be in trouble if they catch her. There is a sharp ring in her ear that distracts her, one she had tried again and again to get rid of by shutting her eyes, hitting her head, though all it did is worsen the ache and vertigo nearly took her.

A playful gust of wind brushes the back of her neck and she shivers, eyes lighting up from the all too familiar magick. Kane. Her hearts leaps in her chest, though is it from fright or excitement or both she has no clue. At the very end of the hallway she notes an open door, the only open door, from which moonlight spills onto the floor. She moves as if enchanted, enraptured by curiosity, suddenly eager to speak, to run, to rejoice, when just this morning she had barely gotten out of bed.

She enters the Hall of Mirrors and her reflection meets her in a thousand ornate forms. His magick lingers here as if a personal invitation. She finds its source easily, and turns to her side with a grin. It almost feels odd to smile after frowning for the whole week. The tall mirror’s surface ripples as if water. No signs of danger, or perhaps she misses all of them, or she does sense it and embraces it, because she feels the same exuberant energy she always does return to her, as if she’s soaking it all in like a sponge. With a spring in her step she jumps through the mirror, not caring if she is to be eaten by sharks a moment later.

The mirror turns solid behind her, and, slowly, the door to the Hall of Mirrors shuts with a ghastly creak.

She feels a rush of verve pass through her, nearly taking her breath with it. The world is a distortion that clears into a detailed, vibrant scene. The forest oozes in dazing scents; The sky is candy, luminous - shy pinks, spry lemons, calm blues – held by trees so tall she cannot see their tops; flowers, some as big as she is, some as small as the ant crawling on her shoelace, grow and radiate in gentle rainbow colours; birds chirp their melodic songs. It is warm here, humid, as if in a magickal rainforest.

There is no paved path, and with her magick she swiftly parts bushes and flowers alike into a makeshift archway. What is this place? She wonders, taking in the scenery with every step, Am I really somewhere or…in an illusion? A white rabbit darts across her path and startled she jumps. She senses him before she sees him, and with her heart in her throat she cautiously waves her hand and the trees bend into a walkway, revealing a pocket of large, closed space, littered with ruins of old buildings and chest pieces that the forest had claimed as their own ages ago.

“Apologies, my dear (Name).” The wind carries his voice to her in a velvety whisper, “I would have come to greet you sooner, but I was not sure if it was you.” Kane tips his hat in curtsy, a smile stretching on his lips as he eyes her curiously, “I am, however, absolutely delighted to see you again.” In a grand gesture he motions to the area, “Well? Do you like it? I was thinking of all sorts of places to show you after our little tea party. I’m hoping no…distractions this time, however.”

“It’s definitely beautiful,” She agrees. He is visibly delighted, “And…no distractions. I came alone.”

“Wonderful. You were the only one invited.”

There is just something about him that is deliberately strange. He has a child-like exuberance about him, which can become extremely chaotic if not contained. But she hardly minds chaos. In fact, after their last encounter, she grew to enjoy it. Who cares if this is an illusion? What does it matter if the sky falls on her head? Who is to say this is not just a dream? Why spoil the fun with all this thinking, Atlas is the thinker, she is the doer. Two sisters can’t be too much alike – that would be unbelievably dull.

The same tender smile does not leave his face, and with one last longing look, he spins on his heel, his first somewhat contained excitement now spurring into arrogance, “Join me!” He exclaims, jutting his elbow for her to take, not once worrying she might not.

(Name) glides to him as if enchanted, wrapping her arm around his. Hints of his cologne hit her nose with a dreamful inhale; the fabric of his jacket is silky and smooth. They fall into step, she too distracted by his closeness to realise how her magick reacts to his: it dances, sways, traces behind them like a cape.

“I was anxious you might have gotten into trouble for defending me.” He says, catching her gaze, “Though I am incredibly grateful.”

She gulps, tries to think about her answer, yet his eyes – what a peculiar colour – are much too beguiling, “Well…There were…No fights, per se.” She hums, quickly glancing away, “We just all…stopped talking.”

“That is quite unfortunate. Though, it is as I told you, (Name). I will be your friend even when no one else will.”

His words bring calmness and a sense of security, however odd that might be, and she smiles to herself, hoping he would not notice. But he does. “Don’t suppose you want to dance with Wood Nymphs? Smoke cigars with the Caterpillar? Cause a massive storm?”

“Wood Nymphs? Cater—You want to destroy this place?

“I’m simply suggesting activities, my dear (Name). I want you to enjoy yourself. I want you to be happy.”

They lock eyes for a long moment, and her heart begins to beat just a little faster.

“But I am.” She admits in a whisper, feeling rose bloom on her cheeks, “I…haven’t had this much fun since…forever.”

“And you have no idea how long is forever if you have no one to share it with.”

There is a pause before she speaks, “Can I ask you something?”

“Anything.”

“What do you truly want, Kane?” He perks at the mention of his name, quirks his lips upwards.

“The same thing you want. I want to have fun. Your friends and…colleagues pin me for the evil type. I admit I have some…questionable motives at times, but I only have one objective. To have fun. And where is more fun than on Earth? Illusions lose their charm when there is no one to look at them. And this world can become quite lonesome after some time.”

And the activities commenced, all minus the storm. They had first stumbled upon Wood Nymphs, twirling in circles, donned in silk and cashmere robes. One lounged on a branch high up, playing the golden harp. The melody echoed along with the chirp of birds. The dancing Nymphs soon rushed to them, pulling (Name) out of his grasp with giggles and sweet whispers. She looked at Kane as if to ask if it was alright to join them. He merely winked. A grin broke out on her face as she let the women spin her as she joined their strange dance. But as she glided, stumbled, and watched, trying to catch onto the next move, she kept stealing glances at him, finding him greatly amused at her expense, and his magick playing with the saplings which jittered happily.

Everything was unexplainably loud: the joyful tune, the rustling of leafs, the breaths of Nymphs and their sing-song laughter, the faraway sound of dipping water… And the heat was finally getting to her, and once she spun her foot got caught on a root and she tumbled forward, straight into his chest. He did not even budge, simply caught her with ease.

“Careful now.” He warned, regaled, his lips quirking into a devil-like smile, “How am I to take you dancing if you keep falling over?”

Shakily she apologised, not failing to notice his hands resting on the sides of her waist. But before she could even form a coherent sentence, the Nymphs had stolen her back from him once again, and this time he let her go with laughter. Blushed and flustered, she tried to avoid looking back at him, though the idea was tempting.

When they escaped the Nymphs, they trotted along, and (Name) made sure to show off her crown of flowers the women had placed on her head. They moved with no direction in mind, this forest a labyrinth of secrets. But just as she figured they had taken a wrong path to nowhere, they found a glass garden, big and mossy, yet through the glass she saw butterflies sleeping in flowerbeds. They entered and it was even hotter here, crowded. The pollen emitted peculiar scents: from strawberries, to chocolate, to something pleasant but light-headed. She coughed when she breathed it all in. Suddenly, everything was funny.

And yes, perhaps there was a small storm once they stumbled upon a body of water – oh dear, when had he lost his hat? – and perhaps she was too giddy to control her power, and the leaves which she magickally moulded into makeshift boats shattered along with half of the pond.

But the sky was still candy, still luminous. She isn’t sure if it was before or after the water incident that she realised this place is forever. Her life back at Penderghast felt like a millennia ago, dull, and grey, and full of responsibilities, but here she was free to do as she pleases. There is so much to explore that she knows even if she inspected every inch of this forest that she still would miss something. The possibilities here are endless, and summer here, too.

Before she knew she was back at the begging, at the old mirror which’s surface rippled once more. And fear abruptly struck her and she took a cautious step back, letting go if his hand that she, unknowingly, was holding.

“You don’t want to go back?” He questions, brows raised, pretending to be surprised by her reluctance. She shakes her head.

“I don’t want to leave you.” She admits before she can stop herself, and she feels so stupid for her outburst. He grins, all too pleased, yet the look in his eyes is tender. His hand lands on her cheek, his fingers rough against her sensitive skin.

“The first time I saw your face, I knew it.” She leans into his touch, “I knew there is something undeniably special about you. I am…glad you feel the same.”

“I knew it too.” She whispers, “I just…there were…People trying to convince me otherwise.”

“Do they still matter?”

“No.”

“Good. I do not enjoy sharing.”

And it is finally so painfully clear. The secret that had been heavy in her chest burst free and blooms into awe and love. Love? Fascination, adoration, one may choose which ever word one may, but there is no denying the obvious. This feeling is greater than her, greater than him, and the whole world, every accident, every smile, every painful memory was meant to lead her to this moment. Her eyes gleam with fondness and he knows exactly what she is thinking, because he is thinking it, too. All it takes is one gentle pull and his lips connect with her in a delicious, forbidden kiss that leaves her breathless.

It is over much too soon, and when they part their fingers intertwine.

“Write to me?” She asks.

“I am not sure that would be wise.”

She smirks, “Wise? Who cares about wise? Where’s the fun in wise?”

“Ah, a woman after my own heart.”

“Don’t I already have it?”

“And here I thought you had a shy disposition. I’m proven wrong. It is you who is bad for me, not vice versa.”

She takes a few steps towards the mirror, “You sure you don’t want to come with me?”

“Oh, I do. But I can’t.”

“Because of Alma?”

“And the rest of the faculty, yes.”

“Then I’ll make sure to raise a bit of chaos for you.”

He lands a kiss on her knuckles and finally lets go, watching with a pleased smile as she winks and jumps through the mirror. The world is a delirious contortion once again before all falls into the stale image of the Hall of Mirrors. The rising sun is peaking over the horizon, its rays slowly dissolving the crown on her head, which evaporates into gold and orange smoke. She is shivering from the nights events.

Yet she can’t help herself from smiling. Wide awake she wanders back to the dorms, entering the shared lounge and finding Shreya, sleepy, her hair a mess, stopping by her bedroom door to glance at her, “Morning?” Shreya says, voice hoarse from sleep.

(Name) beams, “Mornin!”

“You’re…up early?”

(Name) hums, “Yeah, I’ve been walking around campus trying to clear my head. Anyway, better catch up on some zs. See you at breakfast?”

Shreya only nods, stumbling into her bedroom and shutting the door behind her. (Name) wonders will the table be silent again. With her so…energetic, that is hardly an option. She will talk everyone’s ears off.

And no one will suspect a thing.

thank you for reading! ❤

89 notes · View notes

violetsmoak · 5 years

Text

Pieces of April [3/?]

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21099044/chapters/50202530

Summary: On the anniversary of his death, Jason’s second life takes an abrupt new turn and he’s faced with a challenge that neither Batman nor the All-Caste prepared him for.

Rating: PG-13 (rating may change later)

Warning(s): Past Jason/Isabel, kidfic, minor canon character death (pretty sure you can guess who, not either of our boys!), I’ll add more warnings/tags as I think of them.

Canon-Compliance: Takes place in between the two RHATO series, so after Roy and Kori and before Artemis and Bizarro.

First Chapter

________________________________________________________________

A nurse leads them to an empty waiting room with chairs and a table, seemingly unfazed by the situation that has reduced Jason to as mindless as shell as he was before taking a dip in the Lazarus Pit.

“Normally we do visits with the mother and family in the hospital room, but in this case…” she trails off, sympathetic. “I’m very sorry.”

“Yeah,” Jason thinks he says, looking around the spartan décor.

“I’ll be back with your daughter,” she tells him, and leaves.

Jason opens his mouth to protest that word, but it dies on his lips. Somehow it seems dickish to proclaim it’s not his daughter. He’s not sure he could form the sentence right now, anyway. It means acknowledging the existence of a tiny human who may or may not be his—

“It’s transference.”

Jason blinks, looking over at Drake.

“The nurse,” the younger man says. “Calling the baby your daughter. She’s worried and hoping you’ll form an emotional attachment whether the child’s yours or not. You have no obligation to do that just now.”

Jason grits his teeth. “And you’re telling me this why?”

“Because I know what self-flagellation looks like. You can freak out, you know. I won’t tell anyone.”

“And you can be less of a weirdo! How the hell are you so…” Jason fumbles the word, and then furiously gestures up and down. “This.”

“It’s a tense situation and you’re panicked enough for the two of us.”

“I’m not panicked.”

“Jason, you’re completely tense right now, I can almost see how fast your pulse is going and you can barely think straight enough to give answers to simple questions,” Drake tells him. “Obviously you’re suffering from some sort of emotional shock.”

“Shock my ass,” Jason replies automatically. “I’ve been in literal warzones. I don’t do shock.”

“Have you ever learned you might possibly be a father in those warzones?” Jason’s stomach lurches at the word, blood draining from his face; Drake obviously sees it, because he nods as if satisfied. “There you go. Completely different situation. Look, just take a deep breath and—”

“I know how to calm down!” Jason growls. “Now stop managing me and—”

“Here we are!”

They both whirl around as the nurse from earlier reappears, this time wheeling a see-through plastic crib into the room. Inside is a vaguely wriggling lump in pink blankets and cap. There’s a label at the edge of the crib, with the words Baby Ardila neatly printed.

A rushing noise, starting like the hiss of static and turning into the dull road of a waterfall fills Jason’s head.

That’s a baby, right there. Possibly his baby. Isabel’s gone. Dead. Dead in childbirth. Which means if this is his kid, he’s responsible for Isabel’s death. And if that’s the case…what the hell is he supposed to do? He’s not supposed to have this—was never supposed to have anything like this—he’s going to ruin all of this, every second and minute he’s in this room around this kid, it’s like radiation, growing worse the longer exposed—

“Mr. Ardila?”

Jason blinks, looks up, notices the nurse is addressing him—has probably been doing so for a while, judging by the uncertainty in her eyes. She’s holding the baby, and he didn’t even notice her reach into the crib.

“He’s still processing,” Drake says, explaining and covering for him at the same time. Jason swallows, shaking off the lingering invasive thoughts. “She asked if you want to hold her.”

Not really.

He wonders if his thoughts show on his face, because the nurse hesitates, looking a bit uneasy about handing over the swaddled infant. Compared to the tiny bundle, Jason is a giant—over six feet, nothing but muscle and scars, clad in faded leather that may or may not have dried blood on it somewhere and no doubt smelling like a bar’s back alley.

His eyes shoot to Drake who, for the first time tonight—looks just as much at a loss as him. All confidence and strategizing is gone, and he’s looking at the pink-wrapped bundle with the same apprehension as a bomb.

He’s just as out of his element holding a baby as I am.

Maybe more so.

Jason at least has distant memories of doing so. As a kid in Crime Alley, neighbors were forced to rely on each other. If one of the women doing laundry or selling themselves on the corner told you to mind a baby, you minded the baby or you got a slap upside the head.

But that was a long, long time ago. Not as long as for Drake, who likely never had to do that, but long enough that Jason

“Maybe I shouldn’t...” he trails off. “Since she might not be…you know…”

“Yours?” the nurse says, and then turns red, as if she didn’t mean to say that. “It, uh…it wouldn’t hurt, you know. She…her mother didn’t get to hold her at all. So even if she’s not yours, you knew her mother. That’s still more of a connection than anyone else has to her.”

It sounds like spurious logic. Still—

“Okay,” he hears himself say, possibly damning himself with just the one word.

The nurse motions for him to take the chair beside the crib—it’s comically small beneath his frame and he expects the cheap plastic to give, but it never does. Instantly he wants to get back up—eyes flit to the door, the windows, ceiling panels, cataloging possible exits.

Then, the nurse settles the baby into his arms, gently coaching him how to hold her head properly and support the rest of her on his arms.

Jason swallows thickly, trying to become accustomed to the sensation of the slight weight—hell, he’s held guns that weighed more—and immediately has the irrational fear that he’s going to drop or break her.

The baby is red and wrinkled, and hardly even looks like a baby. He’s seen them that small before, sure—as Robin and as Red Hood, he’s been thrown into situations where he had to get pregnant civilians or young mothers to safety. Hell, he’s had to help pregnant women with an emergency delivery.

(Not sure which was more nerve-wracking, when he was a gawky teenaged boy that still fumbled shaving, or the heavy-handed vigilante more suited to holding an AK-47 in his hands than an infant body.)

She’s also very, very small.

“Are they supposed to be that small?” Drake asks, voicing Jason’s question as he peeks over his shoulder. His eyes are wide and a little awed, and Jason can’t recall ever seeing that particular expression on the kid’s face.

“Five pound, fourteen ounces—she’s just within the right weight percentile for her gestational age,” the nurse replies.

She says something else after that, but Jason mostly tunes her out. He probably couldn’t even process it even if he was firing on all cylinders.

He finds his eyes roving over the tiny face, trying to figure out if she looks like him or not. He wants to cite the fact he can’t recognize any of himself in her features as proof she can’t be his, but the fact is…she barely has any identifying features.

Nudging the tiny pink cap she’s wearing upward, he finds feathery strands of indistinct color—could be strawberry blond, like Isabel. Could be red, like his natural color when he isn’t dying it.

Fifty-fifty chance, really.

Her eyes are scrunched shut in sleep, tiny eyebrows—does she even have eyebrows? —drawn together and pink mouth puckered in a frown. Overall, she looks completely uncomfortable.

He waits to feel any kind of affection or connection to the infant, some sort of primal magnetism that he should feel if this is his kid, but there’s nothing.

Only the persistent instinct to make a run for it.

“I’ll give you some time,” she says with a small smile. “There may be a social worker by in the next hour or so. Since we won’t know anything until the tests come back, nothing will be decided tonight, but it wouldn’t hurt to familiarize yourself with whoever is handling the case, even if it is just for the short-term.”

“Thank you,” Drake says politely.

“And if you need anything, the call button to the nurse’s station is right there.”

And she departs.

Jason and Drake stare at each other without speaking for a while. The noise is broken only when the pink bundle in Jason’s arms begins to wriggle and his back goes rigid.

He looks back down at the tiny human in his hands and abruptly realizes he has never been more terrified in his life.

Even in that warehouse, being savagely beaten—he knew what was going to happen. Either he was going to be saved by Batman at the last minute, or he would die. Either way, the pain would end.

It occurs to him that the infant he’s holding has the potential to cause a whole other kind of pain.

“How do I put her down?” he asks through a dry mouth. “She didn’t…she didn’t show how to put her down—”

His hands feel too clumsy, his arms too big and—god, he could crush her.

“Why are you asking me?” Tim asks, an octave higher than normal.

“Because you—”

He cuts off since he has no idea how he was going to answer that.

“Okay,” Drake says after a deep breath. “Okay, let’s try…” And he approaches slowly, eyeing Jason like he’s approaching a wild dog. Jason normally wouldn’t blame him, considering their not-so-great past together, but at the moment, his replacement’s the only one in his corner.

Somehow, thin but strong fingers slide between the space of leather jacket and blanket, maneuvering so that the baby’s head is supported, and between the two of them they get the infant back in the crib.

She only scrunches up her face and mewls in distaste.

Which is good.

Not crying is good.

He thinks.

Unless it’s a sign that something’s wrong.

Aren’t healthy babies supposed to cry? She doesn’t look like there’s anything wrong with her, but how would he know the difference?

I'm not qualified for this.

For a long time, he and Drake stand on either side of the crib, tense and neither really knowing how to break the oppressive silence. Staring down at the little pink creature like it might suddenly rear up and attack.

It would be funny if it all weren’t so terrifying.

Jason hasn’t smoked in almost five years, but just then all he wants it a cigarette. Or a pack.

More time must pass than he expected, because there’s a staccato beeping from Drake’s wrist, and they both look up. Jason watches the other man covertly pull up a holographic screen above his wrist, frowning at the numbers and data blinking at him.

His eyes widen. They’re very blue, Jason notices dimly, in the abstract and tired way you notice strange details in the moments before your life irrevocably changes.

When their gazes connect, Tim Drake’s face says it all.

Jason’s lungs constrict.

“Holy shit,” he croaks, because what the hell else is he going to say?

“Holy shit,” Drake echoes. “This is…not the result I was expecting.”

Jason barks out a bitter laugh and begins to pace, running his fingers through his hair. His throat feels like it’s closing over because up until that moment, he really didn’t think it was real.

Isabel dead, he could believe. Her leaving behind a baby, also believable.

But that the baby is his?

That Jason Todd—the clan fuck-up who never entertained the idea of ever being a father except for maybe a lifetime ago when he also dreamed impossible things like growing up to become Batman—has a kid?

“No!” he rasps, whirling around to face Drake. “No, this is not fair! I’m careful—I’ve always been careful! This is the sort of thing that happens to Bruce. Or maybe Dick, because who knows where he’s been—hell, even Alfred had a kid he didn’t know about.”

“This sort of thing happens more than you think,” Drake tries. “Statistically speaking—"

“It doesn’t happen to me!” Jason hisses back.

Especially since he’s always made it a point to only sleep with people he knew were species incompatible, didn’t have the body parts necessary to get pregnant or on birth control. The few times he’d been with Isabel, she’s even laughed at him because of how intent he was to stop and put on a condom.

“This is…” Jason begins, fighting down the mounting urge to throw up. “It’s too much, I need to—”

“Take a walk,” Drake tells him, a commanding note in his voice that is eerily reminiscent of Bruce. “An hour or two somewhere else to clear your head. Or longer, if you need to. I can keep an eye on things here—especially since she’s here for a few days anyway while we wait for the blood tests.”

The unnecessary blood tests, the ones that will tell them the same thing the Bat tech has already figured out.

“And arrangements will need to be made for Isabel,” he continues, then pauses. “If you want me to.”

Jason should say no.

He should tell Drake to back off, to let Jason figure this out the way he always figures things out—on his own. That he doesn’t trust him or anyone enough to deal with this situation properly.

But the lure of escape is too strong just then, and the hospital room feels like it’s closing in on him like a coffin.

He throws one last panicked look at the baby in the crib and then flees the maternity ward.

Jason is not entirely sure he’s going to come back.

________________________________________________________________

But we all know he's going to come back...

So, I'm really hoping I've portrayed Jason's reactions in a believable way. I just figure finding out he's had a kid would hit him a lot harder and he'd be way more surprised about it than Bruce was when he found out about Damian. I figure he would need time to process. And as for Tim, I always see him as the one who steps in and tries to fix everything even when it's beyond his wheelhouse. He's probably panicking as much as Jason right now...

Your feedback matters! I want to know what you think of my story, so feel free to leave kudos, a comment or as many of these emojis as you want and let me know how you feel!

❤️️ = I love this story! 😳 = this was hot! 💐 = thank you for sharing this 🍵 = tea spilled 🍬 = so sweet and fluffy! 🚔 = you’re under arrest! the writing’s too good! 😲 = I NEED THE NEXT CHAPTER 😢 = you got me right in the feels

Next Chapter

#jaytim #jaytim fanfiction #babyfic #kidfic #violetsmoak #violet writes #accidental baby acquisition #angst #drama #eventual romance #reluctant allies #jason todd #tim drake #original character

6 notes · View notes

whumpqhs · 5 years

Text

Whumptober alt #11: Infection

Continuation of:

Part 1

Part 2

“You done?”

As her hands kept moving to secure the last bit of tape, Sonora looked up at the familiar, smirking face. “No.”

“No… what?” His tone changed, firmer, more threatening, and she couldn’t help but shiver, remembering the way he’d pulled her out of bed at gunpoint with the same voice. For the hours it had taken to bring the patient out of septic shock, he’d been almost professional--asking what she needed, stepping in to help her reposition. As if they were working together, which, in a way, they were. He’d even put the safety back on his blaster at one point, and it was still holstered on his belt. But his voice made it clear: the change wasn’t permanent. Now he was back to his usual self.

“...no, Keeper.”

His usual, asshole, self.

“That’s more like it. What else is there to do?”

“I…” she paused for a moment, considering. “Permission to speak freely… sir?” It was a test, a little one. Would the patient’s needs get back into the way, like they had before? Make it harder for him to be such an ass, make him just a fellow medic again?

“Granted.” A small victory. He accepted “sir”, too, which… she’d prefer not to call an enemy operative sir. But it was better than Keeper.

“I’m not going to be done in the near future. You wanted him out of septic shock, so I performed emergency treatment to get him stable. His infection is still severe and he could go back into sepsis at literally any moment. Besides that, he experienced complete respiratory failure due to the infection and his cardiovascular numbers are… bad. His heart and lungs are overstressed from the infection; they can’t even keep up on their own, which is why he’s been placed on EVACS…” she pointed out the machine to one side of the hospital bed, beeping and chiming along with several others responsible for keeping the patient alive. External Ventilation And Cardiac Support, a heart and lung that functioned outside the body, sort of like dialysis. “EVACS patients need constant, continuous monitoring by a specialist. Unless you can get someone else with the certification?”

“You know we can’t.”

“Then I’m not done.”

“Did you talk to your old Keeper that way?”

She looked away, trying not to fire back with another smart remark. “You asked if I was finished, presumably to take me back to my cell. I’m telling you that I can’t leave this patient if you want him to live through the night. Those are the facts of the situation. Unless you want me to teach someone here to run the machines, I have to stay nearby, in case something goes wrong.” A part of her wished they’d let her rest, and damn the consequences: being paralyzed hadn’t been restful. She’d been awake all those days; every muscle ached and her arm was only getting worse.

“Fine…” he pulled up a chair beside her and sat down, indicating the other seat beside the bed for her. “I’m a medical agent, just like you are. Teach me.”

Sonora took a deep breath and sat down in the chair. She was still wearing all of the isolation gear that had taken the place of letting her clean up and shower, and it looked like she’d just performed surgery. She wished she could take it off, or do something about the throbbing pain in her arm. At least they’d finally taken the saline lock out, and given her some water to drink, but the site was still tender, still feverish. It still hurt all the time.

“Alright… so…” Where was she even supposed to start? The class she took for the certification was years back. “He’ll need labs Q2… we have him on blood thinners because there’s a big risk of clots. Big risk of air embolism, because we’ve got a lot of connections, so check those all the time. Here, and here… and here…” she pointed out the places where the prisoner’s blood entered the mechanical lung and left it, the pump to keep it circulating, the port for IV fluids.

He nodded at her. “Alright. What else?”

She heard the shift in his voice and tried not to notice how it no longer sounded like he wanted her dead.

“Neuro checks are important, but since he’s sedated and on a vent, you’re limited in what you can do…” as she slowly worked from the patient’s head down to his feet, the way her instructor had done, it seemed like he got more attentive, and less... assholish, in general. When she looked up at him, he’d lost that punchable smirk and was watching her, listening. Some small part of her dimly realized that this might be a good time to escape, but in a locked ward full of SIS, one mildly distracted medic wasn’t going to give her much of an opening. She kept going and then started at the machine again, turning to him.

“Okay. Now you do it.”

“Huh?”

“Walk me through it. What are we looking for?”

“Oh. So, he’s on blood thinners… right now we have Kordal on board at one milligram per kilogram, nearest 25, which works out to seventy-five milligrams per 24 hours…”

“Kordal?”

“Oh, you know. Tesinexterase sulfite.”

“Oh, I know.” She tilted her head at him. “I’m just… surprised that you do. Republic doesn’t use trade names… don’t call or label their meds that way…” Even the supplies in their medkits were all generic names, she knew from having to rely on captured supplies on Ossus. When Imperial forces captured Republic medics, they usually had more important things to talk about than meds, but every so often, a back alley cartel deal or incoming shipment would come up during questioning. She remembered “encouraging” the answers out of more than one... and none of them rattled off brand names like that.

What it could possibly mean hung in the air, but as his gaze snapped up and met hers, she got the sudden feeling that saying it out loud was not a good idea.

Keeper glared at her as if she’d insulted most of his ancestors. “What’re you implying? I’ve been a loyal citizen of the Republic my entire life.”

“Nothing, sir. Nothing, just unusual, that’s all. You’re doing really well, so--why do we have him on blood thinners, again?” She felt the little spike of adrenaline rushing her words as she tried to change the subject. A few cycles passed of teaching each other the overview, and he seemed to relax. She hoped he’d forgotten all about it. She tried not to notice when every long and complicated generic got reliably reduced down to its trade name, as if she were back at headquarters on Dromund Kaas, working in their covert medicine wing. Tried not to wonder what, exactly, it meant… and why he was so touchy about it. The patient, meanwhile, seemed to be holding steady. Keeper looked over at her and back to all the variables pulled up in the chart, and sighed.

“...you can sleep in here. When you sleep, I’ll watch the both of you. While I sleep, someone else will come in to watch you and the prisoner.” He finally seemed to be getting it: sending her back to her cell, even though it was just a five-minute walk down the hall, was simply too far. Sonora breathed a sigh of relief, blinking as he tapped a few times on his comm.

“Already?”

“No, I’m calling someone to come get you for a short time. You’ll live, for tonight… so you need to clean yourself up for the next shift. And… when you get back, I’ll look at your arm. Seems to have infiltrated a little.” For once, just once, instead of talking to a prisoner, he sounded like he was talking to another healer like himself.

“...thank you, Keeper.” The words still tasted bitter, but she knew what he wanted to hear. As she turned to walk out of the room with her escort, letting the guard fit the cuffs onto her hands, she caught a glimpse in the reflection of the room’s window: he’d already started his neuro checks, right on time. Her feelings swirled in confusion as the door shut, leaving the patient’s room behind them.

She’d taught an enemy asset how to better save the lives of his comrades. The SIS who dogged their every step, who’d captured her and put her through this… so where exactly was this surge of pride coming from?

I’m late again aaaaaaugh. My brain decided that my whump needed a plot. Why, brain? Why?

#whumptober2019 #altno.11 #swtor #imperial agent #torture mention #medical whump #i guess this needs a title now it has three chapters #oh no #Bitter Medicine

5 notes · View notes

janeofcakes · 5 years

Text

Chapter 109

(John’s breaths are quick and shallow. He tries to look around, but Jim weighs heavily on his chest. He hears nothing in the silence that is left after the shattering gunshot. He swallows hard and tries to move again and then freezes. He can hear fast approaching footsteps.

J: Oh god oh god oh god. It must be Moran. It has to be Moran! He’s the only knows.

John struggles against his bonds as best he can, but to no avail. Jim’s body is too heavy, the ropes are too tight. John tries to ignore the searing pain in his shoulder that moves all through his body at lightning speed. He lets out a quiet, tortured groan and continues to struggle with all of his functional limbs. He tries to make his left arm cooperate, clenches his teeth against the burn.)

S: John!

(John’s entire body goes slack and his mind stops, just stops. It can’t be.

The detective’s face appears next to John’s head, his silver eyes wide and filled with worry.)

J: (breathless) Sherlock. How...how did you...

S: Don’t move. Just hold on.

G: Christ, John. (appearing to John’s left) What’s he done to you?

(Both men vanish until they slowly lift Jim’s limp body off of John and drag him into a corner. Greg remains next to the body and calls for backup. Sherlock rushes back to John’s side. His hands hover around John’s face, taking in the blood trickling from his nose, and running down his cheek from his temple and onto the pillow. Sherlock’s brow furrows, his eyes crinkle, and he bites his lip.)

S: God, John.

(He glances at the bloodied and torn bandage on John’s shoulder. His worry deepening, still unsure whether or not he should even touch his doctor. John swallows and quickly smiles around the pain.)

J: It’s fine. Looks worse than it is. I’ll be fine. (He pauses to just look at those eyes he feared he would never see again and sighs deeply.) I love you. I thought I’d never get to tell you that again. Thought I’d never see you again.

S: Oh god, John.

(Sherlock leans in close and kisses him gently, but urgently. His hands cup John’s face as his lips move. John responds in kind, finally beginning to relax the longer he makes contact with those warm, soft lips. His body melts into the bed sheets, his exhausted muscles reduced to jelly. He finds himself lost in a haze of relief and comfort.

When Sherlock pulls back and rests their foreheads together, they are both panting. John doesn’t try to speak or move. He simply breathes in Sherlock’s scent and relishes in the warm breath passing over his face.)

S: I love you, John. I love you. I’m sorry. I… (He suddenly pulls back with wide eyes and near panic.) What did he do?! Did he touch you? Did he put his hands on you?

J: I’m all right, Sherlock. I’m all right. He didn’t hurt me.

S: (incredulous) How can you say that??

G: Right. They’re on their way. The medics too. Let’s get him untied. (Greg moves to free John’s ankles and Sherlock snaps to attention quickly, focusing on the knots at John’s right wrist.) How many were with him?

J: Only one that I saw. I think they were on their own. He’s worked with Jim before. He was the gunman on Sherlock.

(The detective meets his dark blue eyes, holding John’s hand and stroking it absently with his thumb.)

S: The man who shot Mycroft.

J: Yes. (looking at his fiance with sincerity and then back to Greg, his tone serious) He’s still here somewhere and not a fan of mine.

G: If he’s here, we’ll find him. (nodding at John’s shoulder) What’s all this?

J: He said he had a surgeon take care of it.

G: (scoffing) And you believe him?

S: He would be dead if Moriarty was lying.

(All three are quiet for a moment. The sound of scrambling footsteps echoes through the hall.)

G: Be right back.

(As soon as he is gone, John’s field of vision is full of curls, silver, and cheekbones. Warm hands glide over his bare chest.)

S: Are you all right? Are you cold?

J: Sherlock, relax. Just relax. I’m okay. Thanks to you.

S: (shaking his head) I should have been here long ago. Before he could do any of this.

J: You got here just in time.

S: John… (eyes fluttering over his body, gesturing a hand)

J: Sherlock. (The detective stills at the firm tone and stares meaningfully at John.) You were here exactly when I needed you. You always are.

(A small smile dances across Sherlock’s lips and he seems to relax a bit. Tracing his fingertips along John’s cheek and around his jaw, he whispers quietly.)

S: I always will be. I love you.

(John smiles fondly, but it soon gives way to anxiety.)

J: Oh, god. Sarah.

S: She’s all right, John. She was shot in both shoulders, but quite cleanly. Moriarty needed her to relay his message to me.

J: Oh, thank god. What about Jack and Elsa? (Sherlock presses his lips together and shakes his head slightly.) Oh, god.

S: I’m sorry.

J: They were so young. They had their whole lives ahead. (He covers his eyes.) Shit.

S: It wasn’t your fault. You could not have stopped Moriarty.

J: I know, I know. (He clutches Sherlock’s shoulder in a sudden panic, pieces of his conversation with Jim coming back in rushing waves.) He loves me! Jim told me he loves me. He’ll never leave me alone!

S: John. (Sherlock holds him gently with both hands.) Moriarty is dead.

J: What?

S: Greg shot him when we entered the room.

(John blinks at him, wearing an expression of disbelief. He cannot make himself comprehend the meaning of Sherlock’s words. Jim can’t be dead. He will never die. He’ll always be there to ruin John’s life.)

(John pushes himself up with his right arm. He only pauses for a second or two when pain shoots through his left arm and chest. Sherlock makes to stop him, but helps him instead, knowing John will not be stopped. But he does stop when he sees Jim still in the corner of the room. His black eyes are still open and lifeless, blood fills his mouth and spills out slowly. The bullet must have entered through the back of his head and exited from his mouth. It’s why John didn’t see a bullet hole before Jim fell.

John’s gaze drifts back to Sherlock, relief sweeping over his body. He collapses into his fiance’s firm torso and wraps his good arm around that slender waist. He buries his nose in the open collar of Sherlock’s shirt and breathes deep. Feeling strong arms curl around his small frame, John dares to let himself believe that Jim is truly out of his life forever.

Sherlock rests his chin on the top of John’s head and strokes his hair.)

S: It’s over, John. You’re safe.

* * *

(John sits in a hospital bed, his eyes wide, waiting impatiently for Sherlock to arrive. A burly orderly wrestled the tall man to the ground when medical staff refused to grant him entry to the emergency room. Even John could not convince them as he was being wheeled in and the swinging doors closed. That was the last he saw of his fiance and he is nearly jumping out of his skin to see him. Jim and his threats, what he had been about to do, left John completely unsettled. He was so close to being taken away from his life and everyone he loves. From Sherlock. So close to being defiled again.

John has been on edge ever since, jumping at the slightest noises and he feels ridiculous. He was a fucking soldier in fucking Afghanistan. He has lived through things other men would never recover from. But something inside, something deep down in his being will not be calmed. The only peace he has felt during the last 18 hours was in Sherlock’s arms and now he has no idea where the man is or when he will see him again.

John glances at the wall clock. Suppose Sherlock was arrested. How long would it take for Greg to have him released? Or even realize he was taken into custody? John turns his uneasy gaze to the window. The blinds are closed to block out the morning sun. John’s doctor had told him to sleep. The nurse reminded him before leaving his room. Maybe they weren’t allowing anyone into his room until they were certain he had slept. John glanced at the clock again. God, this is unacceptable. He looks down at the sheet covering his lap and scrubs a hand through his hair.)

J: Jesus, I’m starting to sound like him.

(John jumps when the door to his room opens in a rush, his head snapping to look. Sherlock Holmes strides in with his tousled curls and tailored trousers. He still wears nothing but a white buttondown on his upper half. Its front is stained with John’s own blood.)

J: Sherlock.

(John reaches for him. He can’t keep the desperation from his voice or his face. The detective is next to him in an instant, arms wrapped around his body, one hand resting on John’s nape as the smaller man buries his face in Sherlock’s open collar once again.)

J: (voice shaking ever so slightly) What the hell took you so long?

S: (quietly) John, it’s all right. I’m here.

(The effect is immediate. John’s body relaxes, his muscles begin to unwind. He inhales deeply and releases the air slowly, running his hand up and down Sherlock’s strong back. John pulls away after a few minutes and meets sparkling silver eyes.)

J: I’m okay. It’s fine. I just… Don’t leave.

S: (stroking his cheek with a long, delicate thumb) I won’t.

(The doctor leans forward and kisses his fiance gently. Sherlock returns it readily, giving into the feeling of those smooth lips on his own. He moves to kiss John’s cheek, his jaw, and then his chin as he pulls away to study that perfect face, one he feared he might not see again.)

S: (wetting his lips) Your doctor was able to ascertain the damage?

J: (with a nod) Yeah. Jim..Moriarty didn’t lie. A surgery was performed and every scan confirms by an extremely skilled surgeon. They also confirm that the muscles are not only damaged, but weakened significantly and that won’t heal with the other wounds.

S: Physical therapy…

J: Will keep it from getting worse. It’ll strengthen it, but nothing can fix it. (He looks at Sherlock with a grim expression.) Another injury like this and I will lose my arm.

(Sherlock swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing, steeling himself for the next question.)

S: Did Moriarty assault you?

(John’s eyes widen and then soften. He takes one of Sherlock’s hands in his own and squeezes.)

J: I know what it cost you to ask me that. (He leans in close again and brushes his lips over a trembling cupid’s bow. Looking into Sherlock’s eyes, he raises their hands and holds them to his chest, over his heart.) No. He…kissed me. My face, my chest. He wanted his dick in my mouth. (Sherlock very visibly shudders. He was not prepared for that image.) That’s when you came in.

(John stops talking and watches his detective. Sherlock returns his gaze, looking deeply into dark blue eyes. He can tell by John’s bluntness and the look in those eyes the he speaks the truth. They have both learned from past mistakes at last.

He touches his free hand to John’s face. His fingertips trace lightly along John’s cheekbone. With his other hand, Sherlock can feel John’s heart beat steadily. He licks his lips once more.)

S: Are you all right?

J: Yes.

S: I love you.

J: I love you.

S: I never would have stopped looking.

J: I know.

(Silence falls over their hushed voices. Both men breathe a little faster than normal, their lips parted. Sherlock turns his hand toward John’s chest so his palm rests over his heart. John continues to hold it there with his own palm pressed against Sherlock’s warm skin. The detective cups his fiance’s cheek, a small smile playing at his lips. He wants everything to stop, if only for a moment, so he can drink in all that is John Watson for as long as he wishes. He wants to take this adorable man in his arms and never let go. To bury his nose in soft, blonde hair and inhale the scent until he is certain he will never be parted from him again and never in danger of forgetting that scent, this man. Sherlock smirks. As if he could ever forget John Watson. With Moriarty dead, they can put their lives back together. But first, he must deal with the other matter at hand.

Sherlock fixes John with a sharp eye and presses on, promising himself he will squeeze the stuffing out of John later.)

S: And what of the other man? Moran?

M: Yes, indeed, John. Do tell us about Sebastian Moran.

(The duo look from one another to see Mycroft entering the room. The younger Holmes sneers at his brother and addresses him in a biting tone.)

S: I’m sure John is pleased to know how much you care. Here so quickly and asking after his health so urgently.

M: He has always managed to reign you in, brother mine. Surely there can be no doubt as to how much I value him. (Sherlock bristles, John stifles a chuckle, and Mycroft nods to John.) I am glad to see you well.

J: Ta.

M: You’ll forgive me, but time is of the essence. What can you tell me about Moran?

S: (dismissively) As if you need him to. You already have a file on him, provided by your minions. You should be telling us about him.

J: He’s right, you know. (Mycroft shifts his icy gaze to John, warming it a bit as he does.) I don’t know much about him. Moriarty said they had worked together before and known one another for quite a while. He was his man on the ground watching Sherlock while I was on the island. Moriarty didn’t say it, but Moran may be the one who planted the bomb meant for you in parliament.

S: I’m sure he was. Moriarty wasn’t one to trust his mightiest enemies to just anyone.

M: Indeed. I believe you and I were quite high on that list, especially after Moriarty became obsessed with John.

S: Undoubtedly.

J: But I’m sure you already dug all that up since I’ve been in hospital. (Mycroft gives him a casual nod.) Then, and don’t misunderstand me, what is it you want from me?

M: (looking at John thoughtfully) Moran has worked with Moriarty extensively over the years, but more continuously of late. They are responsible for a great many crimes. (shifting his weight to lean on his ever-present umbrella) Their association has even been more intimate from time to time.

(John closes his eyes and tries hard not to shudder as his blood freezes in his veins. Everything Moran did and said falls into place within the puzzle that is…was Jim Moriarty.

What the fuck is so special about this one?)

S: John, are you all right?

(The doctor opens his eyes to see a worried detective looking back at him. Even Mycroft’s expression betrays concern.)

J: Fine. I’m fine. (turning to the elder) You were saying?

M: (slowly) It is true that a great deal of information has been gathered in the last few hours. However, there is a piece I do not have and, it would seem, cannot be found.

S: (snorting) Something your incompetents couldn’t find? Unbelievable.

M: (ignoring him) And you are the only one who can provide it. What I need from you, John, is a description.

J: (with a befuddled smile and almost a laugh) You’re kidding.

M: I’m afraid not. A thing so simple, so essential, and yet, it cannot be obtained. But you…have seen him and are still alive to tell the tale.

J: (without hesitation) Tall. About Sherlock’s height, judging by Jim’s stature. Short, dirty-blonde hair, hazel eyes. Tan. My skin tone, more or less. Broad shoulders, very built. (puffing out a breath) Must weigh twice what I do.

M: Thank you, John. Would you be willing to work with a sketch artist and put together a composite? I would like to put him on paper.

J: Sure.

S: (speaking over him quickly) Mycroft, John is very tired. Can’t this wait?

M: You would prefer Moran escapes?

J: Sherlock. (He touches the man’s hand and coaxes him to break the glare with his brother.) It’s okay. I’m fine and I’d rather get it over with. I want this bastard caught.

(Sherlock purses his lips and pulls his hand away. He rises and walks away from the bed, his back to John.)

S: Fine.

M: He will be here within the hour.

J: (looking at the older man) He had a scar around his right eye. Very distinctive. A fraction closer and he’d have lost the eye.

(Mycroft cannot disguise his delight and stays for the entirety of John’s description to the sketch artist. Sherlock leans against the wall in a shadow, silently watching.

By the time they are through, lunch has been eaten and afternoon is nearly gone into evening. Mycroft and his artist bid them farewell, leaving the doctor alone with his detective. John leans back against his pillow, exhausted. He looks at Sherlock apprehensively.)

J: You’re angry with me.

S: (sighing) No, John. (He steps lightly over to the bed and sits in the chair he gave up to the sketch artist.) I’m not angry. I’m selfish.

J: (with a quiet laugh) What?

S: I wanted Mycroft to leave. I wanted everyone to leave. I wanted you all to myself. (He takes John’s hand in his and kisses his knuckles before holding it to his own chest.) When Greg called me to the surgery and you were gone, I don’t know what happened. My mind… My mind just shut down. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t deduce. I have never experienced anything like it before. I got a cab and I, I tried not to panic. (He gradually begins to speak faster and faster, his voice growing more desperate. John holds tightly to Sherlock’s hands.) I was frightened, John. So frightened I would never find you, that I would never see you again. But when I got there, it all slotted into place. Sarah told me everything, every detail. And I knew. I knew where he took you. (He abruptly releases John to hold the man’s face in his hands. His silver eyes are soft. His expression is a mixture of loss, relief, admiration. Sherlock tilts his head and inhales through open lips.) He was on you and he was laughing. You were screaming.

J: (voice barely a whisper) Oh, Sherlock.

S: (biting his lip) Then Greg fired. I just… I wanted him off of you and you in my arms. I want you, John. I want you. And I nearly lost you. Again. (licking his lips and swallowing hard) I, I want to be with you. Share my life, my whole life. With you.

J: (quietly) That’s the plan.

(John pulls Sherlock forward and meets him half way for a gentle kiss. He rests their foreheads together, letting out a heavy breath.)

J: We will. Now and forever. To the end of our days. (John pulls away, takes Sherlock’s hand, and guides him onto the bed. He strokes the dark curls now within his reach.) You, Sherlock Holmes, will be my husband and as soon as possible too. God, I love you.

S: And I, you. (He pulls John into his arms and kisses his bruised temple. After a moment, Sherlock stiffens. John opens his eyes and gives him a sideways look.) Speaking of…

J: (clearly not liking this) Yes?

S: Perhaps we should delay the wedding.

(John backs out of his strong embrace, shaking his head.)

J: No. Absolutely not.

S: Just until you have recovered.

J: I will be just fine by the time of our wedding. My shoulder will be sore and… (faltering for a second) won’t have healed, but I’ll be able to pull off the ceremony without a sling, at least. (He looks at Sherlock in hot frustration.) Look, do you have any doubts about this?

S: No.

J: Neither do I. We are not going to put this off, damn it. He wins if he fucks up our lives again. Jim cannot win!

S: John. (He touches the doctor’s shoulder lightly. John goes quiet and looks at him with shimmering eyes. All the anger drains from his body in that one look. Sherlock traces John’s jawline with his fingers and speaks quietly.) We will do whatever you want to do. Whatever you are ready for. I will be by your side always. (He cups John’s cheek and John does the same.)

J: Thank you.

(Sherlock leans into John’s personal space and glides his mouth over John’s closing eyes, down onto his cheekbone, and to his lips. He stops to nibble them open and then covers John’s mouth with his own, their lips moving together, slotting perfectly. His tongue darts out to touch John’s lips, to lick along them with just its tip. Then Sherlock kisses John‘s jaw again, his chin.)

(Sherlock opens his eyes, as does John a moment later. What they do not say with words, they share with a look. Sparkling irises that speak volumes, passing between the two men as they experience the other’s every emotion, every thought.)

S: You need to rest.

(John blinks. He looks at Sherlock with a soft, but deadly serious expression.)

J: Stay with me. (His hand falls and grips the detective’s.) Don’t leave me alone. Not right now. Not for a while.

(Sherlock squeezes his hand. He knows well how difficult it is for John to admit he needs help. That he has weaknesses in his armor.)

S: By your side is where I shall always be. (He pauses and then smirks.) Did I not just say that? Do keep up, John.

(A grin spreads across John’s face to contrast with his moist eyes. He nudges his good shoulder against Sherlock in a shove and laughs. Sherlock joins him as he props his feet on the bed, folding his arms around John’s smaller body and holding him to his chest. He is warm against John’s skin. With his cheek resting on Sherlock’s shoulder, the detective’s lips brushing John’s hair and hand running up and down John’s back, John finally begins to feel safe. He sighs and lets himself relax against the man in his bed. His whole body aches from the constant tension of the last 24 hours.)

J: Tell me about bees, Sherlock.

S: (snorting) God, you must be sick to death of bees by now.

J: Then tell me about our wedding. Tell me what you’ve imagined.

S: (sighing and stroking John’s hair) The sun will be setting on the garden, bathing it in an orange glow. The flowers and changing leaves will look even more red and orange and yellow. And you. Your hair will be like purest gold…

#Sherlock Holmes #Sherlock #sherlockholmes #sherlock loves john #sherlock saves john #sherlock fanfic #johnwatson #John loves Sherlock #johnlock #Johnlock fanfic

5 notes · View notes

waltskinners · 6 years

Text

Rest - an “Unruhe” post ep scene

Scully’s case report sits open on her computer, cursor blinking at the end of her last sentence. It’s been over an hour since she’s finished it, yet closing the document seems impossible. It ads finality to the case – something she’s not sure she’s ready for yet. She can still feel the marks on her skin where the duct tape pinned her down, and if she closes her eyes, she can see Schnauz’s face looming over hers, weapon poised and ready to strike.

Now she leans heavily against her kitchen countertop, eyes trained on the computer. She nurses a cup of coffee, safe from her case report in the other room. She isn’t ready to turn the file in the next morning, where Skinner would read it and lock it away to gather dust. Schnauz’s face is still so clear, his words haunting her. She’s torn between sheer terror at her most recent near-death experience and the realization that she sympathized with her attacker, understanding why he felt the need to reduce her to nothing more than an empty shell. To cope with this, she sips at her coffee, staring into the next room.

Scully really shouldn’t be drinking coffee this late, but she has no intention of getting any sleep. Last night, she had returned to her motel room late in the evening, after going through a harrowing number of police interviews. They finally proclaimed Schnauz dead a few hours later, and after that, she and Mulder had gone straight to the motel. She could almost feel his worry coming off him in waves, but he never said a word to her, opting instead for their traditional silence. Once back in her room, she stood in the shower for over an hour, then sat down and forced herself to watch TV all night. She was scared to sleep, worried that if she woke up she might see Schanuz looming over her again or worse, that she might never wake up at all. Though she knew these fears were completely irrational, Scully sat there the whole night, throwing herself into a mindless soap opera.

In the morning, Mulder kept his silence, only commenting on which airport they were headed to and what time their flight was. He knows she likes to bottle up her feelings, and he respects that about her, never overstepping. His presence is comforting, though, and once Scully is wedged between him and the plane window, she lets herself drift off for an hour, counting on exhaustion to give her a dreamless sleep.

Now, though, her thoughts are a mess, and that paired with baseless, uncontrollable fear was enough to turn her coffee pot on.

A knock rings through the apartment, and the coffee slips from her hands, landing on the floor with a resounding crash. Scully reaches for her gun, limbs flying. “Who’s there?” she calls, edging away from the door.

“It’s me.” Scully would know that baritone anywhere. She sighs and puts down her gun, hurrying to unlock the door.

Mulder fills her doorway, dressed in his usual dress shirt and tie. He takes in Scully’s pulled up hair, glasses, and gray sweatsuit with a small smile. “What are you up to?”

“Just finishing off the case report, why?” When Mulder doesn’t saying anything, she presses on. “Did you need something?”

“No.”

“Then why are you here?”

“No reason. Just … needed somewhere to go.”

Scully is surprised by his honesty, having half expected him to come equipped with a new case or a delusional theory as an excuse. She notices the bags under his eyes, and she wonders if she wasn’t the only one who didn’t sleep last night. She steps aside, nodding to the living room, and lets him in.

Mulder passes the shattered mug without comment, but she notices the way his eyebrows raise a bit. She grins sheepishly, and begins to clean it up, offering no explanation. Mulder makes himself comfortable on her couch, flipping through a discarded magazine on her coffee table.

“Do you want something to drink? A beer?” Scully calls from the kitchen.

“Sure.”

Scully brings drinks over and settles down next to him, careful to keep her distance. She reaches for the remote, and together, they sit through a documentary together, both pretending to be interested in its content.

Scully’s mind drifts, and her eyelids start to close against her own will. Having Mulder next to her takes some of the edge off, but she forces herself to stay awake. Once the documentary finishes, she stands before another one can start.

“I’m going to go to bed soon,” she comments. This is a lie, of course. She’s going to come right back to this couch and force herself to watch something else, but Mulder doesn’t need to know that. Having him stay any longer would make him realize that she wasn’t planning on ever going to bed, and she didn’t want to worry him further.

“Alright.” Mulder stands too, and he starts reaching for the empty bottles. “I’ll clean this up and then I’ll leave in a few minutes.”

Scully nods, excusing herself, and heads towards the bathroom. She’s almost there when she hears a soft ‘thanks’ behind her. Scully offers Mulder a smile, then she heads to the bathroom sink, shutting the door behind her.

There, she takes a good five minutes to scrub her face with cold water, desperate to wake herself up. By the time she’s finished, she expects Mulder to be gone, but he’s still there, standing at her desk and frowning at her computer screen. He looks up when Scully enters the room, expression unreadable.

“Scully …” he trails off.

“Yes?” Scully’s voice is sharp. She doesn’t want to have this conversation now. She’s not sure if she ever does.

“Did it really bother you that much?”

“No,” Scully lies. She’s horrified to feel tears prick at the corners of her eyes, but she swallows the ball in her throat, determined not to cry.

Thankfully Mulder, across the dimly-lit room, notices nothing. “I can’t believe you thought that Schnauz was in the right here.”

“I didn’t say that –“

Mulder cuts her off. “You do know what he was planning to do to you, right? You saw the photo, he was going to leave you for dead just like those other women.” His voice has an edge to it, and once again she’s forcefully reminded just how dangerous he gets when hunting down people who’ve hurt her. Scully files this information in the back of her head for later.

“We have dangerous jobs, Mulder, you know that.” Scully knows this isn’t what Mulder was commenting on, but she knows it’s what’s at the heart of it. “Agents get hurt all the time. Even you. When you were drugged last time with the Teliko, I thought …” This time, Scully trails off, unbidden images of Mulder’s limp body shoved in a vent coming to her mind. This is a dangerous topic for her to talk about when she’s feeling so vulnerable.

“Yes, but, Scully, this happens to you far too often. It’s Duane Barry all over again.” Mulder runs a hand through his hair and closes his eyes.

“It’s nothing like that.” But even as she says this, Scully is crossing the room to stand in front of Mulder. She wraps her arms around him and lowers his head to her shoulder, reminding her of Teena Mulder’s hospital room not too long ago. Mulder hunches over, and she can hear his shaky breathing. She runs her nails along his hairline and neck with one hand, and traces his spine with the other.

If only she could forget about Schaunz and his dark trailer turned prison. Her own voice rings in her mind, pleading with Schaunz to let her go. Gerry, she kept saying, as though whispering his name over and over would get her out of there. Gerry, she called him, using his first name and desperately trying to understand where he was coming from.

But that wasn’t the only name Scully had said in the trailer, she reminders herself. It was Mulder’s name she screamed, voice ricocheting off the walls. It was Mulder’s name she kept thinking about, promising herself he would come for her and promising herself that she would remember his name if he came too late. She had poured all her confidence in him, telling herself to keep talking because he would get there any minute. This dependence scares her a little bit.

But she’s not the only one who has that dependence. She can also hear Mulder’s voice in her head – the way he banged on the side of the trailer, bellowing her name like his life depended on it. She could still his frantic calls as he smashed through the door, gun raised and pupils wide. It touches her that all that screaming was for her. Scully lets herself relax, face pressing into the familiar chest, and she lets out a few stuttering breaths. Mulder rubs circles in her back.

Before long, they break apart, but Mulder moves his hand down to hers, catching her fingertips. She looks at him.

“Are you okay?” His voice is quiet, as if speaking too loud would shatter the night.

“Yes,” she answers. This time, she’s more truthful. There’s still a lot she has to unpack after this case, but she can do it another day. Why worry about Schnauz when there’s someone worried about her? “But, it’s late. I don’t want you driving back in the dark.”

Mulder can tell by her expression that it’s a lie, but he says nothing. “I could crash here,” he suggests.

Scully nods gratefully, and goes to get him a blanket. When he comes back, Mulder has carefully hung his shirt and tie on the back of a chair. “To wear to work tomorrow,” he grins. Scully wrinkles her nose but says nothing, just happy that he decided to stay. She heads to her bedroom.

“Goodnight, Mulder.”

“Goodnight, Scully.”

Scully closes her bedroom door with a click, then reconsiders. She leaves the door halfway open and climbs into bed. She can hear Mulder’s deep breathing, and as she listens she closes her eyes and falls asleep.

The alarm rings too soon for Scully’s liking. She shuts it off forcefully, almost knocking it off the table, and she hears a groan from the other room. Instantly, she’s sitting upright, reaching for her gun, until she remembers who it is.

She walks into the living room, where Mulder is now standing, arms over his head as he stretches out the kinks in his back from sleeping on the couch.

“Hi,” he beams at her.

“Hey.” Scully’s cheeks heat up.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

Thank you, Scully wants to say. For everything you do for me. She wants to say a million things, some personal, some not, but instead she settles with “I hate hearing my alarm go off.”

By the time both of them have finished showering, Scully calling first dibs because this was her house, after all, shut up Mulder, she knows they’re going to be late. She wonders what everyone would think of them walking in late together. She doubts anyone would notice. By the time she’s locking her door behind her and they’re walking towards the street, Scully’s heels clicking on the pavement, they’re definitely going to be late.

They pause in front of their cars. It seems wrong to take two cars after the night’s events.

“Come on,” Mulder says, walking towards his car. “I’ll drop you off here after work. You can buy me a coffee on the way to thank me. I might even run a few red lights so we get there in time.” He grins at her, eyes sparkling.

Scully sighs, exasperated, but she gives him a fond smile and gets into the passenger seat anyway.

#drabbles #i take requests!#txf #fic #the x files #the x-files #dana scully #fox mulder #mulder and scully #msr #mulder #scully #unruhe #txf fanfic #txf fanfiction #fanfiction #the x files fanfiction #walter skinner #WHAT are the tags for this fandom y'all

146 notes · View notes

weloseeveryweek · 7 years

Photo

a change of results

Retrospection is such a human trait, and it seems to come to the fore in sports. Match reports are actually pointless, if you think about it; what for review something that’s already happened and will never happen again? Greatest XIs, players you’d have liked to play with – all these are things that you would have liked to have had but never will. And so this question begs that kind of answer: fantastical, self-indulgent, and nothing more than a wish, a dream.

The go-to result I say when I think of this question is the Champions’ League final of 2009. I remember reading the papers the morning after and being bitterly disappointed. My dad, from the doorway, said, “that was way too easy,” and I said, “but still.” If we’d won that not only would we have been one shy of Liverpool’s record, we would also have been the first team in the modern era to have won it back to back, Madrid be damned.

There are other candidates in this vein, of course. Reversing the 6-1 defeat against City that would have left us with the league; some result in the 94/95 season for similar result; any one of the FA Cup finals we’ve lost; the 1996 semi-final against Germany for England. Any of these are easy to explain. But the real result I settle on, regardless of trophies and glory and everything that’s shiny in our lives, is different from that. Instead of wanting us to win a game, I want us to have lost.

Let me take you back almost sixty years, now. There’s a bunch of fellows dressed in natty suits waiting in a German airport. I assume all their ties were red. They’ve had two false starts, because it’s snowing heavily outside, but they’re optimistic about this third time being their last. They board the plane. They’re chatting, talking about cards and home and football, of course. They’re into the semi-finals of the European Cup – who wouldn’t be cheerful?

You know what comes next. Everyone does. I cried once in the National Football Museum and that was at the telegram Duncan Edwards sent to his landlady – ‘all fights cancelled. Flying tomorrow. Duncan.’ There’s this one picture in the Guardian from the 7th of February, 1958, dull and dark, the sheen of the moon or some kind of light reflecting dimly on the pavement. Hundreds, thousands of people are lined along the road. They’re all waiting for something. You can’t make out their faces but some have their heads bowed, some have their hands clasped. On the back of the photograph it says – Old Trafford at midnight, crowds waiting for cortege of coffins of Manchester Utd.

I don’t suppose I can adequately explain the collective grief that a football club experiences when something like this happens. It happened to Chapecoense and the world mourned with them, as they should have, but when you are a fan of that club tragedy is a completely different thing. To understand this you must understand how fans relate to football. I know that we’re fond of saying ‘it isn’t just a game’, but there isn’t any other way to put it. It’s not just a game, pure and simple. It becomes a part of your life; it is that which defines you and that with which you define yourself. When you become a fan of a club you’re buying into a common identity, a culture, a different society. And tragedy affects all of these things. As a Singaporean I’m still affected by the Japanese Occupation even though I hadn’t even been born, because it is a defining moment in our history that shapes it. So too for tragedy in football, and especially when it happens to the team.

Because the team represents the club, represents its values, represents – as it were – your soul; and the Busby Babes were United. Strong and brave and bright and young. I was reading Arthur Hopcraft’s The Football Man recently and he says that Munich is different from other disasters, like Milan’s, because Edwards and the rest represented the beginning of what could have been a future. It is their unfulfilled, unknown potential that hurts the most. They were already through to the semi-finals – they could have been the first ever English team to lift the trophy. They were already league title winners. They were midway through the FA Cup (and, incidentally, still reached the final that year). Their names could have gone down in history as champions, winners, legends; not sad ghosts so cruelly snatched away, with nothing more than black and white photographs and a memorial every year.

You might think me mechanical for reducing the tragedy to mere trophies. I’m aware that winning isn’t everything, but football is everything, and in football the narrative goes with the most dizzying of wins, the jaw-dropping last minute victories (snatched preferably from reviled opponents). This is not to define their lives in terms of winning – they had families, wives, children, mothers and fathers – but to explain why their loss is felt so keenly. They gave people something to believe in, and taking away a team is like taking away hope. They are your father, brother, son. And you feel the loss just as keenly. Danny Boyle in the Class of ‘92 mentions how the last photograph of the Busby Babes was the biggest photograph in his family album. Eric Harrison says that he was pulled out of class to be told the news, like when a relative passes. In The Football Man, Hopcraft on visiting Dudley (Edwards’ hometown) related this anecdote told by Edwards’ father: lorry drivers with Manchester accents, stopping on the long run home from somewhere south to visit Duncan’s grave.

Sir Alex Ferguson was fond of saying that a club is like a family. When something happens everyone, regardless of how far away they are, feels it. This doesn’t just ripple through support at the time; it ripples through time itself, because of how human it is. At the end of the day eight boys died. The oldest was twenty-eight. Big Duncan was twenty-three. Hopcraft writes about the grief of Edwards’ parents, the way they kept all his medals and England caps and United shirts in his room. In the Dudley Cathedral there is a stained glass window featuring him in his United kit kicking a ball. Football is about remembering. About telling stories. About not forgetting what came before, be it a treble or a tragedy.

The more cynical people in the world have accused Manchester United of turning Munich into a publicity stunt, a circus fest of memorials and pointless sentiment; all right, perhaps there are those who would do that, but I’ve no doubt that any true United fan understands the gravity of the occasion, and behind the so-called memory industry there is a swelling of feeling that manifests itself in the spontaneity of people who gather in the Munich tunnel quiet and solemn. Class of ’92 highlights the comparisons between the Busby Babes and Fergie’s Fledglings, and about the shadow of Munich that settled over the club always. Duncan Hamilton, in his book about George Best, wrote about the 1968 European Cup semi-final against Real Madrid. Bill Foulkes, a Munich survivor, scored the winner, and ‘turns towards his own half, slightly spreading his arms and softly clenching together the fingers of both hands. His face is almost stony.’ Hamilton delves into hyperbole and imagination here, but you can’t help agreeing with him when he posits that one image must have been ‘whirling through [Foulkes’s] mind then. Of men who would never age, would never go grey and would always wear United Red.’

Tragedy has moulded us as a club, for better or for worse. To accuse Munich of being manufactured would be to accuse us of lacking a soul. Yet some stories are better left untold. I know that Munich has added to the club mythology and sense of self and our way of being, but all the same I wish that there was a less awful way of doing this than having to know that twenty-three people died. How much better would it have been for our story, our spirit to have been written in the silver engravings on the bottom of trophies than the stone embossing on shrines. How much more important should the names on that empty lineup against Sheffield Wednesday be filled, that twenty-three families, and United itself, could have gone on.

Which is why the game I would change, even though I know I will never be able to, is a game in the European Cup run of Manchester United in 1957/58. Perhaps instead of winning 3-0 against Dukla Prague on the 20th of November, Pegg and Taylor amongst the scorers, we could have lost 3-0 instead. The next leg was lost 1-0 at home, and we would never have made it through to play Red Star Belgrade. Never stopped at Munich to board a plane. They would have come home from Prague awfully disappointed, their spirits down, a bitter taste in their mouths, faced with insurmountable odds. But they would have come home.

Mark Jones – Roger Byrne – Geoff Bent – David Pegg – Eddie Colman – Bill Whelan – Tommy Taylor

#manchester united #mufc #munich air disaster #weloseeveryweek #submission #prompt response

15 notes · View notes