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linos-luna · 6 months

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Please I'm so sad now because I cant bare the fact that changbin actually needs us to survive in the changchan yandere fic, like I'm guilt stricken, please give me a part three with a happy ending 😭

👌 Okay Bestie 👌

——————————————————————

Our Doll (Pt. 3) 🔪

Yandere!Chan x Reader x Yandere!Changbin

Warnings: Yandere, stalking, obsession

(Pt 1) (Pt 2) (Pt 3) (Pt. 4)

——————————————————————

Getting back to normal life was hard.

Of course you went to the police, but they couldn't do much. You didn't know where they took you. it wasn't Chan's place and so maybe it was Changbin’s. But you’ve never been to his house before on any other occasion. All you could do was file a police report, so that they can ‘investigate further.’

You knew that not much would happen and you tried getting back to your life.

But now you’re just paranoid…

You didn’t even want to stay at your own home. You often stayed with some friends, hoping that the two men wouldn’t find you. You hoped to save enough money to move but couldn’t even bring yourself to go outside, let alone go to work. You became secluded, only interacting with friends that would come see you.

~~~~ ♡

Meanwhile, Changbin was depressed. The man couldn’t stand you not being there. He wanted you so bad.

Chan did his best to cheer his friend up but nothing seemed to work. He’s done everything to locate you to no avail. It was driving him crazy as well. But he was also a little sour as well. How could Changbin let you escape?? Why didn’t Changbin understand that you’re his too??

Chan was angry and annoyed. How could you do this to him?! He wanted to find you to punish you. Then to lock you away for himself.

Eventually Changbin opted to go out and get some food, then maybe drive around to find you… again. Chan thought he was like a lost puppy and felt bad…

~~~~~ ♡

After a month you started going out more, trying to a off the weight of paranoia and depression. At the grocery store, you had a small list, a reminder of both what you needed and your budget.

While browsing, a you felt a presence behind you, making your heart race.

"Oh thank god I found you!" the man exclaimed, and before you could react, he covered your mouth, pulling you into the employee backroom.

“Changbin?!” You muttered against his hand.

"Stop moving! I don't wanna hurt you!" Changbin's plea echoed in the dim backroom, and defeated, you ceased your struggle. Tears traced down your cheeks as you surrendered.

"Baby, you don't understand how much I missed you!" Changbin's voice softened as he planted a kiss on your cheek. "Why did you leave?!"

Feeling constrained, you desperately tapped his hand until he released his grip. Turning to face him, you took in the sight of his disgruntled appearance, hair a bit overgrown and eyes desperate yet exhausted.

"How did you find me?!" you yelled.

"Y/n, I missed you so much!" Changbin said, ignoring your question, and grabbing your hands.

"I'm a wreck without you! Please, please, please!!! Stay with me!!" His plea echoed in the employee area, and you awkwardly backed away, surprised that no one had kicked you guys out yet. Despite your attempt to retreat, his grip on your hand remained firm.

"No, don't go!" Changbin pleaded, tears forming as he clung on tight, his desperation evident. "Don't leave me, dolly! Don't leave me!"

"Changbin, stop!" you said in a loud whisper, glancing around, embarrassed."Get up!"

"I want you back! I can't live without you!"

As sick as he was, you felt your heart breaking. But why? He kidnapped you??

"Binnie, where's Chan?" you questioned in a hushed tone.

"At home," he replied, his eyes glassy. "We've been looking for you... I just wanted to find you myself."

"You want to bring me back to the house? Whose house is it?" you asked, now curious.

"Mine... I bought it for you," he sighed.

“You bought a house just for me?”

"Mmhm..."

"Do you... do you like sharing with Chan?" you asked, getting an idea.

"Well… He's my best friend."

"B-but do you like sharing?" you pressed, seeing if you could cast some doubt in him.

"I—well..." Changbin stuttered. "You're... you're the love of my life..."

"Yes, but..." you paused. "You... you don't like sharing..."

Changbin found himself caught in a dilemma, torn between his best friend and the love of his life

"Binnie... h-how about you come home with me...?"

"Really?!"

"Yeah," you replied with a weak smile, putting your finger to your lips in a hushing motion. "Just don't tell Channie, okay?"

“Ok! Okay! Anything!” He nodded desperately while getting up.

~~~~~~~~ ♡

The drive home was awkward. You drove with him in the passenger seat as he desperately confessed his love for you.

As you entered your home, Changbin's was ecstatic when you closed the door and gave you a tight hug. "I love you, doll!"

"Binnie, are you hungry?"

"No. I just want you," he quickly replied, making you roll your eyes.

"Well, then I'll make myself a snack..." you sighed, realizing that you hadn't bought what you needed at the grocery store.

For now you had some grapes and strawberries, bringing them out in a bowl with you.

You nervously sat on the couch and patted the spot next to you, indicating for him to sit.

Changbin excitedly sat down and kissed your cheek.

“Binnie… can you promise me something?” You asked while popping a grape in your mouth, followed by a blueberry.

“Yes yes! Anything!!” He replied quickly.

“Promise… you’ll never hurt me…”

“I’d never!”

“Changbin I mean it!” You interrupted. “No choking, no hitting, no nothing!”

“Okay yes! I promise!” He replied while grabbing your hand. “I’ll never hurt you! Never ever!”

You nodded and started to think, wondering what were you going to do about his friend now. At least for now, you don’t have to worry too much about one of the two men. Heck, maybe he could be like some type of bodyguard…

"Maybe I can buy you dinner," Changbin suggested, interrupting your thoughts.

"Oh. Sure," you replied awkwardly, checking the time on your phone; it was barely 3 pm.

"Can we take a nap first? I’m kind of tired.”

"Oh! Yes!" Changbin eagerly agreed, clearly exhausted and in need of rest himself.

Leading him to your room, you watched as he lay down. As you removed some jewelry and your sweater, you turned around to find that he had already fallen asleep. He looked so peaceful and you couldn't help but lay down beside him, facing him. Gently brushing your fingers against his cheek and down his chest, you marveled at the peacefulness that had settled over him. He didn't move much, exhausted and in a deep sleep.

~~~~ ♡

“God, where is he??” Chan was pacing in the living room, wondering where the hell his friend went. It worried him actually.

He honestly doesn’t understand how he hasn’t been able to find you. He thought he was cunning and smart enough to figure it out but no. You’ve managed to evade him. It saddened him. Now he knows what Changbin feels. Sad but also alone.

The man held on to a shirt you left behind, your sweet scent still lingering. If only he could touch the real person… he just wants you in his arms.

It wasn’t until way later that Changbin came back. He seemed nonchalant and went to his room. Chan followed after him.

“Where have you been?” Chan asked while standing at the door.

“Looking for our dolly…”

“Any luck? Clues? Anything??” Chan asked, his heart racing.

“No…”

#kpop #kpop x reader #kpop imagines #kpop smut #fanfic #stray kids #skz x reader #stray kids smut #stray kids x poc reader #stray kids yandere #yandere stray kids #skz yandere #yandere skz #yandere changbin #yandere chan #yandere Changbin x reader #Changbin x poc reader #kpop yandere #yandere kpop

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heich0e · 1 year

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the wake - miya osamu/f!reader (haikyuu!) part 8 in the bff!osamu series word count: 2.5k tags: angst, childhood friends to pining, every miya fic i write is just a thinly veiled love letter to the miya brotherhood and that is very clear here, angst gets worse before it gets better so be nice to me, ps: u ever heard the song vienna by billy joel?

The longest that you have ever gone without speaking to the Miya twins was thirteen calendar days—a single day shy of a fortnight—when the three of you were eleven years old.

It all happened because you’d invited the twins over to see the brand new lava lamp you’d gotten for your birthday—the one you had been longing for relentlessly, and talked about incessantly in the lead-up to your big day—and, well, one thing led to another (as it often has the tendency to do when Osamu and Atsumu are involved) and the beloved lamp had ended up shattered across your bedroom floor only a few hours after you’d torn it from its pretty purple wrapping paper.

Neither of the boys had been willing to take responsibility at the time, each pointing an identically vehement finger of blame towards the other, and they both refused to offer you anything remotely close to an apology—lest that somehow imply an admission of culpability.

Your mother had sent them home after a stern, disappointed talking to and a call to their own mother (which she then echoed in a far less civilized tone when they returned home to her) and then they didn’t hear from you for almost two full weeks. It felt like an eternity back then, when life was small and days were long and just a couple of hours felt like a lifetime. You refused to come to your door when the two of them showed up knocking, didn’t answer any phone calls or instant messages they sent, and outrightly ignored them at school each day—hiding in classrooms on breaks between classes or behind the backs of other girls to avoid the increasingly desperate attempts of the twins to get your attention.

And so, on the two week anniversary of The Incident, the twins showed up at your door one last time—sheepish but earnestly remorseful—with a new lava lamp in tow. Thus the silent treatment was ended, reconciliation was struck, and there has scarcely been a day that passed since then where you had not been in some form of contact with the twins.

Osamu hasn’t heard from you in 6 weeks.

After the night of Atsumu’s party, he’d waited with bated breath to hear from you. His phone was on, sound at full blast and never too far from his reach. He knew it wasn’t really his place to reach out first. Knew you probably needed time to process things. To forgive him.

That first night he’d barely slept a wink, staring up at the ceiling of his living room, sprawled across the couch the two of you should have been sleeping on together, regretting every single moment of his life that had led him to this misery. He had texted you a simple: Let me know when you’re home safe please. It was a message he’d sent you countless times before, but never with so much urgency—but it went unanswered. It didn’t surprise him, even if it hurt. Even if it only added to the twist of anxiety turning his stomach into knots. More time passed. Seconds bleeding into minutes that turned into hours, each more agonizing than the last. He thought about calling you. Texting you again. Pulling on a jacket and chasing after you like he should have when you walked away from him hours prior. But he didn’t.

Osamu texted Atsumu first thing the next morning, with bags under his eyes and exhaustion in the marrow of his bones, asking if you’d made it back to the party safely. He’d wanted to reach out sooner—he’d had an entire sleepless night to think about nothing else, after all—but he’d waited for the sake of saving face with his twin.

When Atsumu finally woke up and saw his message, replying back with a frightening ??? didn’t she leave with u?, Osamu’s worst fears were realized.

After hearing from his brother, Osamu immediately texted your roommate—a girl you’d gone to college with, who might even have been considered your best friend had the twins not beaten her to the punch by about two decades. She and Osamu had always been on good terms, seeing each other semi-regularly over the years by virtue of their shared connection to you. You’d even once implied she had a little crush on him after Osamu had met her for the first time, though he had (for obvious reasons) never acted on the information. He felt no hesitation reaching out to her about whether or not you’d made it home the night before.

Yes.

Her icy reply came through almost immediately—even though it was early in the morning, even though he rarely ever texted her. The message was just three letters and a full stop, but it told him everything he needed to know: you were safe, and she knew what he’d done.

Osamu knew that the very least that he could give you in this situation was space, and he really did try, but he only made it two days of silence before he was reaching out to you again. His text had gone unanswered on that horrible, sleepless night where he had ruined everything, so after two days he finally tried to call.

It went right to voicemail.

His subsequent texts (and eventually calls) over the following days were similarly ignored, and every day that passed without hearing from you felt worse than the last.

Atsumu’s concern took root the day following his party, thanks to his brother's early morning text, and it only continued to grow. You were ignoring him too, the reason for which he had not the faintest idea, and the blonde inundated his twin for details as to what exactly had happened when the two of you had left his apartment that night.

But Osamu couldn’t tell him.

He couldn’t.

So he started avoiding his brother's calls and texts, too.

Osamu’s feelings for you were the only thing he’d ever, ever kept from his twin in all of their shared lifetime. And look where it had gotten him.

But eventually—inevitably—Osamu finally broke.

It was to be expected, really. He was hardly eating, scarcely sleeping, and any hours not spent robotically going through motions of keeping his business running were spent holed up in his little apartment. The apartment that now somehow reminded him far too much of you—like you had inked yourself as indelibly into the walls as you had the paint that you helped him apply when he'd first moved in.

Osamu showed up at his brother’s place at 11 o’clock on an otherwise completely unremarkable Wednesday night, still in his Onigiri Miya uniform, and as soon as Atsumu opened the door he burst—violently, spectacularly—into tears before he could even manage a greeting.

It must have been shocking, frightening even, for Atsumu to see his twin in that state. For him to have to help his brother’s crumpled frame across the threshold, over the step in the genkan, and to the couch in his living room—supporting the entirety of his weight to keep him upright. Atsumu had shown up a hundred times at Osamu’s door in not dissimilar states of heartbreak, but that was the first time he’d ever seen his twin—largely credited as the level-headed, rational one between them—like this. He’d always thought Osamu was just stronger than he was when it came to heartbreak; his relationships fizzling out with relatively little fanfare, and no substantial distress, and his exes sort of just faded into the background like they’d never even been there at all.

Atsumu never realized it was because his brother’s heart had never been theirs to break in the first place.

Osamu came clean that night in his brother’s apartment. Confessed to the sins he’d kept locked away in the recesses of his chest for so long, more fully and unequivocally than he had ever voiced the long-held secrets to anyone. And Atsumu listened. He didn’t tease him for his tears. Or berate him for keeping his feelings from him. Or yell at him for harming you and jeopardizing the friendship that the three of you had spent so much of your lives building.

He just hugged him. Comforted him. Cried with him. Because that was what his brother needed from him more than anything else.

When Osamu calmed slightly, many hours later, Atsumu quietly admitted that he’d suspected there may have been feelings that his brother was harbouring but he’d never really known for sure. I figured ya’d tell me when you were ready. Those were the simple words he’d offered, with a little shrug and a gentle, wobbly smile. And it was the first time in all his life that Osamu realized that his brother had far more tact than he’d ever given him credit for.

Atsumu reached out to you again that night, though his messages to you for the past week had gone unanswered like his brother’s. He put his message simply. He told you that he knew what had happened. That he wanted to talk. That you were his best friend and he needed to see you.

The twins were laying side by side in Atsumu’s bed, neither asleep nor fully awake, when your reply came through.

I need some time, Tsumu.

The brothers shared a look across the mattress of Atsumu’s bed in the dim light of his bedroom, their eyes sore for crying and the harsh glare of the cellphone’s light.

They yielded.

A few day later, you finally reached out again, and agreed to meet Atsumu for dinner.

Just Atsumu.

The evening that Osamu knew the two of you were meeting without him, he was a mess. He burned half the food he tried to prepare at the restaurant, got a nasty cut on his finger when he was chopping carelessly, and almost charged a customer 250,000 yen for their 250 yen purchase. When the restaurant finally closed, he slumped over the counter with his head in his hands and waited.

Atsumu showed up not long after.

“It was weird," his brother confessed, fiddling with an edamame pod but never moving to bring it to his lips—curled down slightly as the corner as he spoke. "But I can’t go between the two of ya like this, and she can’t see me without thinking of you."

“She hates me,” Osamu rasped, a familiar, suffocating tightness swelling in his chest that had made a home there over the past two weeks.

“She’s just upset,” Atsumu tried to console him, but Osamu could hear the wisp of frustration creeping into his twin’s tone. It wasn’t Atsumu’s fault—Osamu knew how hard this entire situation must have been for him, all as a result of the circumstances for which only he could bear the burden of blame. You’re Atsumu’s closest friend too, as much a part of the elder Miya twin’s life as you are the younger's, and Osamu didn’t take that fact for granted. Atsumu shut his eyes, sighing. “I think she’s confused, Samu. Hell, I’m confused and we shared a womb.”

Osamu’s eyes began to burn with a familiar, unpleasant prickle. He didn’t cry much about it anymore, now two weeks on, like he’d somehow run the well dry. But he’d occasionally get phantom pains behind his eyes, like the precursor to tears he knew couldn’t come. It was almost worse.

“I know,” the dark-haired twin finally muttered, his head hanging dejectedly.

“We’re gonna figure this shit out, but she’s gotta take some time to get things straight in her head first, alright?” Atsumu said softly, nudging his brother’s hand with his own, lending him encouragement in the warmth of their knuckles meeting. “Just give her that.”

So he did.

Osamu gave you another full month of time.

Of space.

Of absence.

And now he’s here, six weeks to the day since everything went wrong.

Osamu drives home to Hyogo on a whim—the idea of spending another weekend holed up in his apartment, wondering each day if it would finally be the one where you call, is enough to make him feel sick. His apartment has never felt more suffocating than it has in your absence. Never felt smaller than it does without you in it, no matter how contradictory that sounds. It’s been a while since he went home to visit his mother and the boys from high school who stuck around into adulthood, and even though his childhood home is as rife with things that remind him of you as his current one, he can’t help but hope that the change of scenery might do him some good.

The Miya family home hasn’t changed much, if at all, since the twins were kids. As an adult, Osamu takes comfort from this fact—finds stability and familiarity in the walls and windows and roof that endure today in just the same way and in the same shape as they always have. His mother’s car isn’t in the driveway when he pulls in to complete the picture, but he hadn’t told her he was coming so he can’t blame her for not being there to welcome him.

Osamu grabs his hastily packed duffle bag from the passenger’s seat of his truck, walking up the stone pathway his feet have trod upon so many times, in all their different sizes, to the door. He keeps his mother’s house key on his own keyring, because the last thing she’d said to him the day that he’d moved out—her hands, smaller than his own now that he’d grown so big, clasped around his as they held the little silver key—was that no matter what this would always be his home.

The genkan is the same. The coats in the closet are the same. The air smells the same, though there’s the faintest whisper of citrus in it as Osamu closes the front door behind him and toes off his shoes. His mother keeps two pairs of slippers at the door for him and Atsumu when they visit but his are missing for some reason, so he stuffs his feet into his brother’s designated pair before he pads off further into the home.

He can hear the television—the faint hum of a variety show or something similar drifting through the halls—and he laughs to himself that his mother has never quite been able to correct her bad habit of leaving the TV on even when she’s not watching it. He turns the corner into the living room, the sound of the television having grown louder the nearer he got.

And then he freezes.

The duffle bag he’d held loosely in his hand falls gracelessly to the floor.

And even though the television is right there, he can’t hear it anymore.

Because between him and the LCD screen, tucked under the kotatsu with a satsuma poised in hand half-peeled, is a face he hasn’t seen in six long weeks.

There, in the heart of the place that would always be his home, is you.

#osamu miya x reader #miya osamu x reader #osamu x reader #miya osamu #hq drabble #hq writing #writing #bff!osamu #WE'RE BACK BABY

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allandoflimbo · 1 year

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Touching Himself

Bucky touches himself for the first time since coming back to his regular life. Then, he remembers how much he loves edging. He even calls himself a dirty little slut.

18+ ONLY. No minors. Seriously. This is filthy.

Fandom: Marvel/MCU/Bucky Barnes

This is a drabble. Just practicing some writing in between larger WIPs. There might be more coming, maybe.

———-

Three hours. That’s how long he’s been going at it.

By it, he means his cock.

He’s denied himself this ever since the blip. Not so much because he didn’t feel like he couldn’t do it, but because he never had the time or the privacy.

Between missions and saving the world, he rarely ever found a time where he had the energy to cum.

Some nights after his missions with Sam, he’d come him to his Brooklyn apartment, and take a nice warm shower.

He’d stare down his chest, watching as the droplets ran down his pecks, over his stomach, and over his aching dick.

It ached to be touched, stroked, milked, to be fucking ruined.

He would hold himself back. He’d drag his hand over his pelvis and sigh. He was too tired.

He had been tired for years. All he thought of for years was fight after fight. If the blood that ran down the drain, mixing with the water creating a pink haze was anything to go by.

He’d get dressed and tuck himself into his sheets.

The first time he was able to finally sleep in a proper bed, he finally did it. He felt relaxed and awake enough.

Legs stretched out, the left slightly bent in, his right hand lingered over his thigh. He tried to stay focused on the tv, the cool and inviting halo in the darling night cascading a glow over his sheets and his body. The volume was barely high. Low enough that when his fingers crawled towards his crotch, the sound of the fabric on his hand echoed in the room.

He looked down at this pants, noticing how hard he already was. He wrapped his hand around his shaft, just over his pants, and let out a long moan.

Finally.

Those were the words that hit him. During the day he would be whatever they needed him to be out there; fighter, Avenger, agent, whatever the fuck else. But here, alone, he would be a man.

But if there was one thing about Bucky that decades of warp did to him, was that he loved being a kinky little slut.

He even says it out loud as he flicks his pointer finger over and over and over and over…and over again over his dick, on that one little spot.

He didn’t even jerk himself properly that night. Just his finger flicking over that one spot, a inch off his eight inch dick, was enough to have him gasping in seconds.

“Come on, come on,” he started grunting through clenched teeth, his head shooting up at he looked down at his finger flicking his cock over his pants. His legs widened a bit more and he gasped, flicking harder, “make me cum. Make me fucking cum.” He was gasping at this point, his own hips thrusting up to meet his finger. His eyes didn’t leave his hand as he watched him doing this to himself, “that’s it,” he whines, sitting up slightly, finger faltering slightly from a cramp, but it works out perfectly because his finger moves up slightly just about a centimeter, right under his tip and against that one pulsing vein and spot, “yes!” He screams, flicking over and over and over and over and over again, “god yes.” He pants, watching as his grey sweat form a dark patch from his cum. He doesn’t stop flicking and a shudder runs through his body, “yes, yes, yes.” He repeats it, even through agonizing whimpers of over sensitivity.

Eventually he couldn’t take it anymore and his hand dropped over the damp spot on his leg.

That was the first time. Then there were the ninety others after that.

Needles to say, he was orgasm hungry. Seventy plus years did that to a man. Especially one who lived ninety percent of his days with no privacy and no time to properly date.

Weekends were usually the most convenient time for him. His favorite discovery of the new century were toys. There were so many.

He invested in three to start with and he got the hang of all three fairly quick. He experimented with himself. Different positions, different sensors, and his all time favorite activity; edging.

He loved edging so much.

There was something about the being on that peak of pleasure for minutes that made him obsessed with it. Not to mention, that he also loved dirty talking himself through it every time. And then when he’d let himself cum, it was worth it. He was his own little cock slut.

The only good thing to come out of this serum was the amount of cum that he was able to produce. It was enough to fill a cup to its peak. On night where he’d edge maybe four or five times, he’d be drenched in it. His stamina was also one for the books.

To be able to edge for so long and then edge again after cumming was unbelievable.

So he played with himself, literally and figuratively. He set goals to see how long he could edge for.

At first, five minutes was already brutal, then it was twenty, thirty, fifty, an hour.

He gasps as he felt his edge approaching. He quickly pulls his fleshlight off his dick with a groan.

“God.” He groans, stretching his legs farther apart, and throwing his head back.

His cock twitched viscously in the air, begging for that release that it’s been on the edge of for the last three hours.

Bucky was half sitting on the edge of his bed. His ass was barely on the sheets, almost sliding completely off, and his legs were stretched apart. He was covered in a thin sheet of sweat and he felt amazing.

His left hand was balled up into the sheets, gripping it tightly, almost ripping it. His right hand was holding the toy so hard, his knuckles were glowing white.

Bucky took in heavy breathes to bring himself back from that edge, staring at his dick with a wrecked look on his face.

When he felt safe enough to where one touch wouldn’t make him cum immediately , he took in a deep breath and raised the fleshlight back up.

The second the fake slit touched his tip he stopped and whined.

He could do this.

He bit his bottom lip and gasped, sliding the toy a littler farther down.

“Take it, fuck, wreck me” he growled, sliding the toy over himself slowly, “fucking destroy me,” his voice turned into a sob as he continued to move his hand, feeling his end again, especially as it ran over that one spot that made him see stars and lose any sense of control or dignity he had, “that’s it, that’s it,” he tilted his toy a little more to the right and he groaned, “that little spot, just like that, oh shit, oh shit,” he whined, he needed to hold it, he wanted to so bad, he didn’t want it to end, but it also felt too good to stop, “just a little,” he stroked it once more, way too close, so close it was almost dangerous and he could feel his semen stop halfway up his cock the second he pulled the toy off his dick, “more.” He cries.

He throws the toy aside and rubs his hand over his Adonis belt. He could feel the precum all over him. He was drenched in it.

Just the thought itself made him have to clench his teeth to stop from cumming.

“Not yet, not yet.” He repeats it over and over again.

He sits himself down properly, this time on the floor in front of his bed.

He’s in a daze and his heart is in his ears.

He looks down at his cock and he wraps his fingers around it.

He moans, letting his head fall back against the bed.

He strokes once, twice, and a third time.

“I can’t hold back.” He whimpers, tears prickling in his eyes.

Without hesitating, he grabs his shaft, and without even needing to stroke, he cums harder than he ever has in his life.

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes smut #sebastian stan #marvel fanfiction #bucky barnes fanfiction #marvel #marvel fanfic #fanfiction #MCU #TFATWS #Winter Soldier

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maybeitsalivescribbles · 3 months

Text

VH - Divide And Conquer

(Tw: attempted torture)

“I can't believe we finally have caught the legendary Vampire Hero”, said Villain.

The two Heroes glanced at each other and shrugged. The taller one frowned.

“Legendary ?” he repeated.

Villain looked at him with interest.

“Oh yes,” he said. “Many have fallen before your might, Vampire Hero. At least two or three of my opponents are behind the bars because of you.”

“Two or three and you call that legendary ? You're easy to impress.”

The other Hero was nervously following the exchange. Compared to his companion, he seemed much younger and frailer. His eyes were shinier and shinier with tears that did not quite fall. When at least it looked like he couldn't take it anymore, he stepped between the two, saying:

“Stop ! It's my fault ! It's all my fault if we got caught. Hurt me, not him!”

Villain gave the young Hero an amused look:

“Why is that little thing with you, Vampire Hero ?”

His interlocutor shrugged:

“You know. He's new. I'm supposed to show him the ropes or something. You have to teach them some way or some other. ”

“Is that so.”

Villain lift the smaller Hero's chin with a finger:

“My dear little one, how can I hurt him ? Many have tried and many have failed. I'll just make him have a nice little sunbath so he's neutralized. But since you've asked so nicely, I will take care of you.”

“Surely there must be another way ! I'm sure you can do better. I-I'm sure that deep inside, you're a little pure of heart.”

“ You heard your protector, you need to learn.”

He grabbed Hero by the arm, who turned his head toward the man who accompanied him. The latter just shrugged.

“Do you think he cares ?” simpered Villain to his ear. “Oh, he doesn't. He might be on your side, but Vampire Hero is evil. You're better off with me.”

Hero whimpered but didn't resist as he was dragged into the stairs.

“There are seventeen steps. Do you hear the sound they make ? There's an echo, so the prisoners down there can hear me coming. It’s all in the anticipation.”

In a sweet voice, he kept describing their surroundings while they were both descending into his torture room. During all the way, the small one didn’t dare fight back. He soon found himself tied up to a chair, helplessly squirming, his eyes giving a pleading look more than ever.

“So, young Hero,” purred Villain, “as it is your first time, I will make you a favor.”

“R-Really ?”

“Yes. Do you see all these instruments in the shelf in front of you ?”

Hero looked at the whips, the canes and the nails, and shuddered so violently it almost looked fake.

“I'm going to let you choose one among them. If not, I will choose, and you won't like it very much if I do.”

“You don't have to do this ! I-You just will make Vampire Hero angry and you don't want to !”

“You think he will rescue you?”

“I know he will.”

“How touching. But for now you're mine. So make your choice, before I get impatient.”

Hero pondered for a few seconds, then whispered:

“Um – the taser ? Yes – the taser, please.”

“If you ask so nicely.”

Villain delicately took the black rectangular shape in his hand and switched it on.

“Why, if I might ask ? Do you think it will hurt less than the others ? Let me prove you wrong.”

The half-hour that happened then looked much more pleasant for Villain than for Hero. And yet, as time passed, Villain felt somewhat uneasy. That had nothing to do with torturing a man, of course. He liked the thrashing, he liked the begging, he liked the naive faith of the innocent who was certain that he could be saved. Maybe that had something to do with the other Hero. While Villain was amusing himself, Vampire Hero was out of his sight. He might have been careless. He glanced at his watch, but Hero making a rather unconvincing whimper forced him to turn his head.

Perhaps that was the problem. Villain was used to the sounds of pain – the gasps, the moans, the howls, the cries and the pleas. He loved all of them without distinction, and of course he knew that they were a little different with each person. It was a familiar melody that Hero was singing, but thinking about it, it was slightly out of tune, and it got progressively worse. It was getting on his nerves. These rookies these days – they didn't even now how to scream right.

“Let's have a break,” he said.

“Oh well, I guess I’ve held that long.”

Villain raised an eyebrow, amused:

“Getting defiant, are we ? Careful, you sound like you’re disappointed.”

He stared into his prisoner’s eyes, hoping to get a look of terror, but all he got was a frown. Hero...genuinely looked displeased.

“Sorta”, he said. “In my time I didn’t have this kind of toys to play with. I guess having a little blue spark in your hand looks fun, but that doesn’t look like it does that much damage.”

“In your time ? What are you talking ab- wait.”

Hero tilted his head. For a moment he sounded impassible, but he broke soon enough. A loud, loud laugh resonated in the room, while the prisoner was squirming in his chair for a very different reason than before. His way of moving betrayed no pain at all.

“Are you shitting me,” said Villain, whose voice was now icy.

Hero grinned:

“You tell me, pal. I can’t believe you swallowed my “pure of heart” bullshit. I was laying it on so thick.”

Villain glared at him.

“Not that you were especially subtle either”, Hero added. “Oooh, the anticipation !” Do that again?”

Villain stood up and went to the door as fast as self-respect allowed. There was no one left under the sunlight. The guards were on the ground, unconscious.

“How -”

He turned back. Hero was now standing up, neglectfully throwing away the remnants of the straps that held him a moment before. He dramatically exclaimed, a hand on his heart:

“Oh no, he got away ! My, my. Poor little me. Tell you what, though. If Vampire Hero were so legendary, you should have bothered to know what he looks like. I didn’t mean to pass for someone else, but you’ve so graciously given me the opportunity.”

“It can’t be ! How could the – the other have escaped then ?”

“I hate to break it to you, but they are several heroes with super strength.”

Villain blushed and stayed quiet, his lips pursed. Hero picked up the taser, looked at it with curiosity, and switched it on. With a smile – a very worrying smile - he got closer.

“Hey, I warned you. I told you that Vampire Hero was going to rescue me.”

Vampire Hero is a recurring character. His job is to troll current villains. Check the Vampire Hero Masterlist or Tag for more snippets with him.

Or back to Hero x Villain Masterlist.

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jake-g-lockley · 1 year

Note

I'm back :D

OKAY so I have TWO prompts you can feel free to pick from whichever you want!! if one has already been written/requests then thats okay (its mainly why i picked two jUST IN CASE!!!!!)

How aboutttttt the cutie pie moon boys with either prompt #15 or #21?! I DONT MIND EITHER WHICHEVER WORKS BETTER FOR YOU (im so indecisive and they're both so cute?!?)

THANK YOU LOVELY!!!

Poison Tree (Moon Knight x reader)

Masterlist | Spotify Playlist | Wanna be Tagged?

Prompt: the spider-man meme where they're all pointing at each other but it's a conversation like *i said i didn't like you like that because you said you didn't like me" "but i said i didn't like you because you were literally in love with someone else" then "i only said i was in love with them because you didn't want me!

A/N: Heya lovelyyy!! Thank you so much for the ask, I switched it up a tiny bit but I hope you like it ehhehe.

Warnings: everyone here is an idiot istg, a touch of angst, them not being able to say what they need to say, seriously; they have three people in their head and they’re that dumb? AHAHAH, light allusions to smut.

Word Count: 2.1 k

☾ .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

Buying things was something that plagued you like a weird disease that never went away. You didn’t have this type of luxury when you were younger, your mother always forced you to save whatever money you made and scared you into thinking that you would not have a single cent on you when you truly needed it. Funnily enough, when you started earning your own money, you gave in and started to spend on things that your mother would frown upon.

You stared up at the shelf of books before you, sighing frustratedly as you gazed at the beautiful new covers. You cursed yourself for walking into the new luxury bookstore that opened in the mall, your mother’s voice echoing loudly in your head. You screwed your eyes tightly and tried to imagine something that would pull you away from both the thought of buying the book and the sound of your mother’s grating voice.

You were laying down on the couch, your body aching deliciously from the weight of something covering you. Your hands were preoccupied, carding through soft curls as large hands squeezed your sides. You were smiling down at the person who was cuddling you close and the person looked up at you, big brown, doe like eyes meeting yours.

“You know I have those books in my flat?” a voice pulled you out of your little daydream making you gasp as you whirled around and your eyes met the same brown eyes you were imagining.

Steven Grant was smiling at you, his lopsided grin matching his curls that flopped to his forehead. Steven always looked comfortable and you always had the inevitable urge to squeeze him. Oh, how you yearned to press your nose into his chest as you hugged him close. You faked a scowl and Steven’s grin got wider as his hand shot out and gripped your wrist.

“If you behave, I’ll let you borrow them someday.” his voice twisted your insides as he pulled you away from the shelf.

Your heart swooned whenever you were around Steven. He and the other two were your poison tree, the bunch you had intended to stay far away from but couldn’t get enough of. He gently pulled your book bag off your shoulder and slung it on his own as the both of you walked to the cafe that the both of you hung out at on a weekly basis. You’d mark your student’s exercise books while Steven did his research on the ancient artifact he was writing about.

At times, you’d feel his eyes on you and you knew it wasn’t exactly Steven looking at you anymore

“Hi, Marc.” you said, without looking up from what you were marking.

“I still don’t get how you do that.” The deep Chicago accent makes you shiver slightly.

“Your posture changes, dummy.” you said, earning a chuckle from him.

“How are the kids doing this week?” he asked, leaning forward to take a look at what you were marking.

“Pretty good actually, their grammar is getting better and I think they enjoy my classes.”

“I’m sure they do, princesa.” came the beautiful spanish drawl.

“Now, what did I say about switching mid conversation.”

A long pause greeted you and you finally looked up from the book you were marking to see Jake staring at you with a satisfied smile.

“That it’s rude?”

“Mhmm.”

“I made you look though.” he winked at you and your insides turned into pure mush.

Outside, you rolled your eyes and casted your eyes back down onto the exercise book, holding back a grin of your own.

“So, how is Mr. Daniels?”

Your eyebrows furrowed and you looked back at Marc who was now leaning back in his chair, his arms crossed in front of him. You didn’t get why he would always ask you about the math teacher, you only called Mr. Daniels cute once in your life.

“He’s good, I guess.” you took a sip of your coffee and bowed your head, not letting Marc see what was clearly written all over your face.

For months, you have been trying to get rid of the feelings you felt for the three men. They were absolutely beautiful and had personalities that fired up your very being, but an unfortunate incident stood between you and them.

Flashback

You and him were a little too close, you could see all of the little details of his face. You and him had demolished a bag of doritos and the empty wine glasses made the both of you giggle incredulously. You didn’t know who you were looking at, the alcohol muddling your brain as your eyes zeroed on the doritos dust at the side of his mouth.

“You know I was thinking of asking Dylan out, the tour guide at the museum.” Steven’s voice burned a hole through your heart and you smiled, hiding the pain that coursed through you.

“You should.” you whispered, trying your hardest not to let your heart betray you.

“Jake suggested for me to take her out to that steak shop.” he leaned back into the sofa and stared up at the ceiling.

“And what are you gonna eat there, silly.” you stifled a giggle.

“I dunno, bread, salad?”

You tried to laugh the best you could despite the achy feeling at the pit of your stomach.

End of flashback

“How’s Dylan?” you asked.

“She’s alright.” Steven said softly.

“Hmm.”

Your eyes caught a couple behind Steven and you smiled gently as one of them kissed the other one’s knuckles.

Jake noticed and turned around too, turning back to you with a grin and plucking the red pen out of your hand before suddenly taking your hand in his. Your heart blazed when you felt his lips on your knuckles and your breathing stopped for a second, his eyes shining with mischief. You quickly snatched your hand away from him and you could note the change in the way his eyebrows furrowed slightly.

“Hey, you know I was just joking, it didn’t mean anything.” he said quickly.

It didn’t mean anything.

“Yea, I know, Jake , you don’t like me like that.” you said before you could stop yourself.

Jake’s thoughts raced as Marc and Steven panicked inside his head. They weren’t supposed to like you like that but they do and they wanted to stand on top of the table that you both were at and scream that fact at the top of their lungs.

You couldn’t mark anything anymore, with the way he kept reminding you of your failed love life. Your failed, unrequited love for them. You snatched the pen back from him and tapped the book in front of you, thinking of your next move. You quickly grab your phone and text one of your friends, Sam. Code red, the code you always used to get out of situations you didn’t like and you were feeling really uncomfortable with the energy you had created.

A few minutes later, to your pure relief, your friend called you.

“Oh, umm, I have to go, Sam is stuck in a … situation.” you say as you frantically shove your stuff into your bag.

“Right, let me help you with that.” Steven said, standing up, a worried look on his face.

“It's okay, I got it.” you gave him a reassuring smile and tucked a five pound bill under the coffee.

“I’ll see you.”

“Yeah.” Steven rubbed the back of his neck, wondering if he had said anything out of the way, his heart pounding as he watched you walk out of the cafe.

☾ .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

You woke up hours later to a knock at your door. Your face was wet and you checked your phone for any messages, absolutely shocked to see about 14 missed calls from the boys, another five from your best friend and dozens of messages. You flung yourself out of bed and ran to the front door

You opened it to see a frantic Jake standing outside, his hair a mess. Without a word, he wrapped his arms around you and hugged you close, mumbling something into your hair in spanish.

“Shit, I thought something happened when you didn’t answer your calls. I called Sam and she couldn’t get a hold of you.” Jake’s voice was bubbling with tears and you looked up at him in shock.

“Jake, I-” suddenly, his lips were on yours and you felt yourself being lifted off your feet.

The kiss was as frantic as he looked and you became putty in his arms as you tried your best to steady yourself. You pulled away and stared at the man in front of you, only to see Steven’s eyes staring back. Your hands came up to touch your lips and you couldn’t help but touch his lips too.

“Sorry, fuck, I know you’re with-” you cut him off with another kiss and you felt all of your worries wash over you.

Your hands grip his face and you hold onto him until the both of you are out of air.

“Fuck, what about Dy-” you pulled away and started to say, but Marc pushed you against the wall and caught your lips with his again, wordlessly asking you to jump as he gripped your hips hard.

You jumped and wrapped your legs around his torso, your bodies sandwiched together. Your hands carded up his curls and you pulled on them for purchase, causing him to groan against your lips.

“Wait, Marc, Jake, Steven, what’s happening.” you pull away, your confusion creeping up the satisfied feeling that you were feeling.

You couldn’t tell who had control of the body as they pushed their forehead against yours, just holding you against the wall.

“I don’t know,” you heard Steven’s voice whisper as he ducked his head lower.

Your hands were still in his hair and you pulled him closer.

“Put me down.” you whispered after a while and unlocked your ankles.

Their eyes were casted downward as they tried their best to not look at you. You pulled them to your dining table and busied yourself with making a cup of tea, chewing at your swollen bottom lip, wondering what had just happened. You wanted to feel it again so bad, the passion they pushed upon you was so fiery that you wanted nothing more but to have it course through your veins again. You sighed as you pushed the cup of tea in front of them.

“Whoever is fronting, could you please just explain what happened?” you calmly asked.

When their eyes met with your’s, you could clearly see Marc’s sadness and it crushed your heart.

“We’re sorry we springed on you like that.” he whispered. “The truth is, I- we are in love with you.'' The last bit of his sentence came out like it was a harsh secret, clawing its way out of his voice box.

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

“Fuck.” was all you could say as you swallowed down your own tears.

“But we know that you don’t feel like that for us, so you-” he continued.

“Wait, who said that?” you cut him off, your heart thudding in your chest.

“You did.” Steven mumbled. “Just now, we only said that we didn’t like you like that because you made it clear how you felt about us.”

“But- but I only did that because you have feelings for someone else! You know? The woman you are dating!”

“We only said that because you said you found the math teacher at your school cute!” Marc slammed his hand down, making you jump. “We’re not dating Dylan!”

“I was joking, you dumbass! Oh my fucking god!” you slammed your hands down and stood up, pushing Marc’s chair back and straddling him without another word.

You kissed him like you meant it, putting your soul out there so that it would meet theirs. All the anger you felt was channeled back into the kiss and you wanted them to choke on their own passion with the way you pressed yourself against them. Marc sighed against your lips and melted away, letting the body switch frantically between Steven, himself and Jake. When you finally felt satisfied you pulled away and gave them a small smile.

“You boys love me huh?” you brushed their fringe away from their face and looked into the eyes that held the only three that you would hand your heart to. “Well, I love you too, cowards.”

“Hey, watch who you’re calling a coward.” Steven’s hands gripped hard at your hips as he grinned up at you, leaning in and kissing you softly.

After a while he brought his lips next to your ear, he whispers “This coward won’t let you borrow his books until he makes you forget your own name.”

Your eyes widened and you shook your head, wondering what awaited at the top of the poison tree you managed to climb up on.

Reblogs are appreciated ~~~

Taglist: @fandxmslxt69 @randomnessfangirl @in-between-the-cafes @bodhisattva11 @marc-spectors-wife @nyotamalfoy @steven-grants-world @jbearre85 @whatsliferightnow @excitedcurtain864 @minigirl87 @wonderfulboiledcoldpotato @alexxavicry @autismsupermusicalassassin @flordelalunas @marygraceee @lia275 @euphoricosmo @sky-robin @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction @sugarpunch-princess @violet-19999 @celiaswife @swiggy-needs-mental-help @ghostheartbeat @kierramofficial @ryebreadsworld @your-voice-is-mellifluous @lil-stark @absolutelybloodyhopeless @mintpurplemnm @spookyysilverr @bubblezuku

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raina-at · 1 year

Text

Tick, Tick, Tick, Boom

Tick, tick, tick.

“I’m sorry.”

Tick, tick, tick.

“What?”

“I can’t… I can’t do it, John. I can’t defuse it. I don’t know how.”

“That’s a load of bullshit if I ever heard one. You’re Sherlock Holmes, you can do anything!”

“You’ve always had too much faith in me, John. I told you, I’m not a hero. I’m not even a good man.”

John turns away, and Sherlock can see his shoulders shake with how tightly he tries to keep his emotions under control. He can also see that he’s beginning to seriously frighten John, and he feels sort of bad about it, but he’s come this far, and he’s committed now. He knows John needs a bit of a shake-up to forgive Sherlock, that he won’t do it as quickly as Sherlock wants to on his own terms. So a bit of adrenaline, a bit of a chase, and a bit of a scare should be enough to bring John’s emotional walls down far enough to admit what they both already know. John has already forgiven him, because that’s what John does.

“I’m sorry,” he says, upping the emotional pressure a bit. It’s the truth, too, which helps. He lets it flow into his voice, enhance his performance, how sorry he truly is, how much he fucked up, how much he misses John.

John turns around, and the hurt in his eyes, the fury, is difficult to bear. “You don’t mean that,” John whispers. “You’re just trying to get me to say something nice.”

“I do mean it. I am sorry. Please forgive me,” he says, trying to show how much he truly means it. He’s manipulating the circumstances, yes, but he does mean every word he’s saying.

“I don’t believe you. Why should I believe you? All you ever do is lie.”

“Please, John. Please. I do mean it. I am sorry. Please, forgive me. Please,” Sherlock says, pleading now, still on his knees next to the bomb.

John doesn’t move. He looks straight at Sherlock, suddenly unafraid. “You want me to forgive you? You want me to believe you? Then I suggest you stop. Fucking. Lying.”

Tick, tick, tick.

The only sound in the silence is the bomb, ticking down the seconds. John holds his eyes, so much raw emotion there, so much hurt and anger, so much distrust and wariness, all so very justified, and suddenly Sherlock realises what he’s doing. He’s frightening John half to death, he’s lying and cheating and manipulating, and he’s doing it all for one reason, and one reason only: Because he finds John’s continued anger inconvenient. Because actually earning John’s forgiveness is tedious.

What is he doing?

Without breaking eye contact, he reaches over and switches off the bomb. Because John is right. He can’t expect John to believe him if he keeps lying, keeps manipulating. He can’t trick John into forgiving him. He has to earn it.

The silence is absolute now. He holds John’s eyes, wills John to see.

He swallows hard. “Please forgive me,” he says, finally, quietly, honestly. “I never meant to hurt you. I know it sounds stupid, but it’s true. I had to jump, otherwise you would have died. I know it doesn’t make it any less awful, but I jumped to save your life. I swear that’s true.”

He can see John gauge his words. “Get up from the floor,” he finally says, hollow and raw and a ghost of his old self, but there’s some echo of John Watson in there, and it gives Sherlock hope. “You look like you’re about to propose. Or be sick. And I can’t deal with either right now.”

Sherlock huffs a laugh and gets off his feet, dusts his trousers and his coat off.

“Why didn’t you take me with you?” John asks, still watching Sherlock warily. “Don’t you know that I would have gone anywhere with you?” he adds, voice almost breaking with suppressed emotion.

Sherlock swallows. “I can’t lose you.”

They hold each other’s eyes, raw and wary, but finally honest, finally real.

“Why?” John asks, so quiet it’s almost a whisper. “Why me? Why am I so special?”

Now or never, Holmes, he thinks. Be honest. Last chance.

“Because I love you,” he answers.

John looks at him, and Sherlock can see John process what he just said. It’s the longest three seconds of Sherlock’s life before John finally says, in a tone of exhausted exasperation, “You absolute fucking idiot,” and hauls him in for a kiss.

Sherlock’s impressive brain takes a few seconds to respond, then he winds his arms around John and kisses back like his life depends on it. He feels dizzy with relief and adrenaline and the feeling of John’s body against his, John’s lips, his tongue, his hands on Sherlock’s back, the smell of his skin.

The sound of sirens and boots in the distance announce that the Metropolitan police has finally deigned to show up.

They break apart, but John keeps a hand fisted in the collar of Sherlock’s coat. “You did call the police, you fucking bastard,” he says, but he’s smiling a bit.

Sherlock shrugs. “Of course I did, I’m not a complete idiot.”

“I beg to differ, you’re the biggest moron on the planet,” John says, somewhat between teasing and serious. Sherlock guesses the adrenaline is making John feel as loopy as Sherlock feels. “For the record, if you ever die on me again, I’ll kill you with my bare hands, are we clear?”

Sherlock grins, because that’s the most John Watson sentence he’s ever heard in his life. “Kill me,” he scoffs, “that’s so two years ago.”

John bites down on an undignified, slightly hysterical giggle. “Shut up,” he says, “and kiss me again.”

Sherlock complies, and they kiss and kiss and kiss as the boots and the torchlight and the urgent voices move closer and closer.

“Now people will definitely talk,” Sherlock mutters against John’s lips.

“Let them,” John says, pulling Sherlock back in. “Let them.”

A bit if a TEH fix-it of a scene that always bothered me. Thank you @notjustamumj for the prompt, which was time.

Tagging the usual suspects @calaisreno @meetinginsamarra @keirgreeneyes @helloliriels @lisbeth-kk @jrow @peanitbear @catlock-holmes and anyone else who wants to play.

I've written and posted a ficlet for fourteen days straight, hopefully I can keep it up until the end of the month ;-)

#johnlock #bbc sherlock #johnlock fic #my fic #microfic #teh fix it #notjustamom may prompts #time

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igotanidea · 2 years

Text

We're all broken here: five hargreeves and reader.

Summary: Five is known to say exactly what is on his mind, even if it may hurt someone else. What if he takes it too hard and aim at the one person he really cares about. Will she understand?

A/N: This is just some story focused mostly on family relationships and supporting each other. no romance, just brother-sister stuff. Located somewhere in season 1. no "y/n"s

***

„Shit! Why you gotta be so stupid?!”

This last words echoed through the rooms and hallways of Hargreeves mansion leaving all of the siblings frozen. Despite the fact that Five was the one to use them he already regretted it.

“Eight, I …” he stuttered

“No. You know what, it’s fine. I’m stupid and you’re mean. Let’s settle here and move on. No sorries, no I didn’t mean it, because for a matter of fact you did mean it.” It took all of her courage and inside strength not to fall apart at this adjective. She was used to being called weak, pathetic, distant, unattractive and plump and that did nothing to her. Aiming at her intelligence however, the only thing she was building her confidence on was just too much. But of course she would never let her idiotic 80somethign year old brother in a kid’s body know that.

“Eight….”

“Save it. We are good. I’m gonna go, but by all means you stay here.”

“Oh, no, honey, wait, wait for me! I’m not leaving you alone with your misery!” Klaus stood up immediately and stumbling a bit followed his sister with a bottle of alcohol in one hand.

“Low blow Five. Really in-style” Alison , aka number three mocked.

“Oh, just shut up and give me a break” Five hissed with clenched fist in his best attempt to teleport back to his room and move on with work and equations that did not make any sense.

“You’re not gonna do this” Diego, number two pointed a knife in his direction. Eight was his favorite sister, always there to calm him down after a fight or to help him with his stuttering or whatever else he had going on and inside he always felt the need to protect her. She might have been gifted with seeing people’s auras, manipulating their emotions and occasionally getting into their thoughts but she couldn’t use that on herself. And at this moment, surely she had a lot. “You’re gonna go to her and apologize.”

“I do not have to listen to you, Diego” Five squinted and took a sip of coffee, which was his inherent accessory. “And as a matter of fact, I will not. I’m out.”

“He’s a prick” Luther, number one mumbled with his mouth full when Five excused himself in a flash of blue light. “But that is nothing new.”

“He never was for her” number seven, Vanya shook his head “this whole apocalypse business must have really got into his head if he’s acting like that.”

“Nope” Luther pointed “you seem him differently cause you two always had a connection. But Five is an ass.”

“Hear, hear” Alison nodded

“Hate to say it, but Luther’s right.” Diego stood up.

“Do you think I should check on Klaus and Eight? Don’t know which one will have worse influence on the other.” Vanya was truly the only one who wasn’t afraid to show she cared.

“Leave them be. She can handle herself. In fact, I see Klaus getting advice from her not the other way round. He’s been acting strange lately.”

“Can’t remember the time when he was not.”

***

Meanwhile in eight’s room she was sitting on her bed with legs up to her chest, staring blankly into a space. Well, in fact she was staring at the wall bordering her room from five’s but it was not intentional.

“My lovely sister!” Klaus stumbled into her room and fell on the bed making the girl jump a little. “Do not torture yourself with Five’s words. This is unhealthy.”

“Look who is talking about unhealthy” she smirked pointing towards the bottle “care to share?”

“Um…. Sure, yeah, why not? Here you are.” He took a long sip before passing the alcohol to her “enjoy.”

“Klaus?”

“Yes, dear?”

“It’s empty, you ball of fuzz. You drank the last drops”

“Ups. Sorry.” he grinned “I’m sure you can do without, right?” he hid his face in the bed sheet and groaned

“You left me no choice. Anyway, anything I can do for you, brother?”

“Me?” he raised himself on the elbows and looked straight at her, his hair being a mess, confusion all over his face “Oh, no, I’m fine. I’m fine.”

“Klaus.”

“Yes.”

“I can see your aura, remember? I can feel your emotions.”

“And what do you see, sister my?”

“Brown.” She raised an eyebrow

“You have to be more specific on that.”

“Well, you are either high, but that’s usual or you’ve been dealing with your ghost powers. I bet the latter.”

“I’m working hard you know, I’m trying” he cried “I even let Diego tie me to a chair so I would keep on track”

“So that’s what it was all about. Cute.”

“Don’t mock me” Klaus fell on his back dramatically “It’s exhausting.”

“Sure is. Ben giving you a hard time lately?”

“Not more than usual.” Number six, Ben, died at 17, but was still showing himself to Klaus and on some occasions Eight was capable of feeling his presence and emotions.

“It’s so good that at least you believe me I see him” Klaus grabbed her hand “He’s terrible. Won’t let me do a single thing.”

Liar.

“Oh, shut up, Ben”

“He’s here now? Where?”

Come on, eight, focus. I’m …. right…. here….

“Sitting on the window sill. You feel him?”

“Somewhat. I see yellow from that side. He’s mad. Not sure if It’s about you being a liar or ….”

The other one, obviously. Tell her, Klaus!

“Yeah, it’s about Five. Now, come here, sis. Let me hug you and make the pain go away. You do know you are not stupid, right?”

“Of course I do. But thank you Klaus.” She was more than happy to let her brother embrace her.

***

There was no denying that this damn upcoming apocalypse had an effect on every one of the siblings. Each of them reacted in their own way, leaving Luther and Alison spending the rest of the time together, Diego doing his vigilante shit, Klaus crying his heart out on Eight’s shoulder and Five going crazy. More than usual. Doing stuff he was not supposed too.

“Eight.” It was his best chance to make things right with her, so he appeared inside her room startling Klaus.

“Ah! Five. Don’t do this.”

“Go away. I need a word with her.”

“I don’t know if she….”

“If you don’t leave in like 5 seconds I’m gonna ….”

“Ok, fine, fine. I’m leaving. Jeez, threatening, Five? Seriously? I’m fragile!”

“Get out, Klaus!”

“Come on, Ben. We’re out.”

Nope. I’m staying. This will be interesting.

“Don’t you disobey me, now!” four yelled at the air making both Five and Eight look at him in confusion. Five more than his sister since she saw a bit of red in the air. Ben was angry for being told what to do. She shook her head not sure what to do with three brothers, one dead inside her room.

“You know what, since you all act like lunatics, I’m gonna go. Whoever has a business with me, feel free to join. I’ll get coffee and wait in the garden.

And with that she left Klaus bantering with Ben and dumfounded Five behind.

***

“Come out now, blue, I can see you” couple minutes later she was sitting on the garden bridge, legs hanging from the edge, sipping coffee, watching the street.

“Stop calling me that” Five took a step towards her, hands in pockets, his whole posture a little slouched.

“I can’t help you just radiate this color.”

“And what does that mean to you. Sadness? I am not sad.”

“Of course not. Blue is not sadness, it’s more … thinking, considering. I can almost feel the wheels in your brain turning. So, the question is, what is on your mind to leave you like this?”

“Stop playing around. You know damn well what this is about.”

“Guilt?” she tilted her head

“Don’t push me Eight! You can say it to yourself.”

“Maybe” she refused to look at him “but I want you to express it.”

“I never should have called you that.”

“If that’s what troubles you ….”

“No. Don’t interrupt me!”

“How could I. After all you are older than me.” She fixed her gaze on the tree on the opposite side of the road.

“Look, Eight” he sighed in exasperation and rubbed his forehead “I saw you all die. I have lived through the apocalypse, and came back here looking like a kid. Surely you understand it is not… normal.”

“I do. And?”

“And…. This may have some effect on how I behave.”

“I call bullshit, Five.”

“Fine!” he yelled “you are infuriating, you get the craziest ideas, you make me mad and small, you constantly undermine what I do and …..”

“And what?” she finally looked at him. The second she laid her eyes on his face he could not hide anymore. She saw right through him like an open book. Not only because of her abilities, but because she was always the one closest to him. Challenging, yes. Demanding, yes. But at the same time so ambitious that it made him want to do more, to do better. To outsmart her, to impress her and to prove that he was in fact worth her friendship. He sighed, feeling utterly defeated.

“I hate you, Eight.” The boy shook his head in frustration “But at the same time you are my sister and after some snarky comments and spiteful words I would jump into the fire for you.”

“I know. That is why I did not take what to you said to me personally.”

“It didn’t look like that to me.”

“Well then you are no smarter than me, dumbass. We are family, we are all broken, messy, chaotic and a bunch of individuals. We fight, scream at each other, get mad and even do not talk for … how many years?” she smiled at him “but at the end of the day we resist the urge to kill each other and that is the progress.”

“You want to kill me, Eight?”

“Sometimes, yes. Do you remember that?” she moved slightly so he could see a carving on the bridge.

“Fight” he smirked “Like Five and Eight combined.”

“How old were we when we made that up? Six?”

“Possibly. It’s good to see some things stays the same.”

“You know Five, we may have grown up, but seems like our relationship will always come down to this one words. Fight. Each other or other people, never mind. To me it just mean we are here for one another.”

“I’ll drink to that.”

“Good” she raised her cup “but stay away from my coffee. If there’s anything about you I know is that you are an ass, mischievous, spiteful, vengeful …”

“Careful there sister….”

“I’m not done yet… you act on impulse and do not mince your own words, but you are not cruel.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve seen my fair share of people who wanted to hurt another. Their faces when they told words that were meant to tear each other apart and to cause damage. There were so much viciousness inside. That single purpose on their mind to break and destroy. Whatever you may think about yourself you are not like that, Five. You are not evil. Just a menace.”

“So touching” he mocked “I think I’m about to cry.”

“Don’t mind my presence than” she took another sip and having finished the coffee put the cup down ”“Now. You got silver sparkling in your cloud. Who are we fighting with today?”

“Have I ever told you about the Commission?” he squinted at her.

“Nope. But it seems like a long story. I’m listening.”

Yes. After all, they were family. And at the end of the day they were up to get rid of anyone who would threat a member of it.

#five hargreeves #five hargreaves x reader #five x y/n #five x reader #number five #five hargreeves x y/n #five hargreeves x reader #five hargreeves x you #five imagine #five x you #fivexreader #the umbrella academy fanfiction #the umbrella academy #tua five #tua #tua x reader

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corinthianism · 7 months

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last kiss | sam winchester (3)

pairing: sam winchester/f!reader additional tags: best friends to lovers (?), fluff, angst

masterlist | previous chapter | next chapter | ao3

CHAPTER THREE: A BRUSH WITH DEATH (AND PESTILENCE)

Serenity Valley Convalescent Home was quite a sight, in that it was the most depressing building you’d ever seen. There was no way Pestilence wasn’t there.

The two brothers agreed with you on that. Dean said it looked like a four-color brochure for dying young. It earned a chuckle from you and a small smile from Sam, despite the anxiety simmering in your gut from coming face-to-face with another Horseman.

All three of you walked into the building, chests heavy with anticipation. If the brothers did feel anxious, they were damn good at not showing it. You had to keep your wits about you as well. As soon as you stepped in, all you could sense was disease. The whole place reeked of it. You glanced at your companions. The look on their faces told you that they were thinking the same thing. In a room oozing with sickness, you stood out like sore thumb.

Dean approached a security guard, asking him if he’d seen his “grandma” Eunice Kennedy. Of course, that was before Dean knocked him out. Sam eyed a monitor, thinking that he may have found their culprit. You shared a look, interrupted by Dean briefly falling in and out of consciousness. You needed to find Pestilence and you needed to find him fast. Even staying here for too long could kill all three of you.

Even you could feel the sickness clawing at your lungs.

As you traversed the hallways of the convalescent home, the staff and patients were dropping like flies. A doctor puked all over the floor, dropping to his knees whilst angry red spots broke out on the skin of a shrieking nurse. Seconds later, they were dead.

Sam coughed, and with it came blood, “Must be getting close.”

“You think?” Dean grunted, trying desperately to stay upright and walking. You, on the other hand, could feel your lungs constricting. Each minute you spent in this damn building brought you closer to death, and you’d be damned if you didn’t save the world before you went down. As much as Pestilence tightened his grip on you, the plague injected into your bloodstream, you could not falter. Not now.

So you marched onward, trying to ignore the sight and stench of corpses littered in ugly and painful boils. You made your way to one of the rooms, but before you could investigate it even further, Dean fell to the floor. Immediately, you and Sam were at his side, trying to hold him up but eventually, you all fell. Coughs echoed through the hallways and this time, they’re yours.

A nurse walked out from the room you intended to enter, and she blinked. Black eyes. Fuck, if you could just gouge them out right then and there, you would.

And as if things couldn’t get any worse, she went ahead and pulled out a cheesy one-liner, “The doctor will see you now.”

Sam pulled out a knife in one last attempt to save you and Dean. He heaved as he swung weakly, his knees giving out whilst the knife clattered to the floor, forgotten.

Right on cue, Pestilence appeared, a victorious smile on his face because he had the fucking Winchesters rolling on the floor, “Ah, the Three Musketeers. Come right in.”

He had his demon henchmen throw you all into the room like ragdolls. On the bed, there was woman who was barely recognizable underneath the abscess, boils, and whatever-the-hell Pestilence infected her with. If it weren’t for the fact that you could barely breathe yourself, you would’ve vomited from the sight alone.

“Hmm,” Pestilence pretended to inspect you, his sickly hand brushing against your forehead. “You don’t look so well. It might be the, uh, scarlet fever or… uh, the meningitis. Oh! Or the syphilis. That’s no fun.”

He eyed you, “I think I’ve got one with a… hah, healthy dose of pneumonia here.”

His tone rose with each disease he named with what you could only assume was excitement. He was excited that he would be the one to exact revenge on the three of you for what you did to his brothers, and that he was the one who would end the Winchesters once and for all.

“However you feel right now? It’s gonna get so very, very much worse. Questions?” he smiled sadistically. “Disease gets a bad rap, don’t you think? For being filthy. Chaotic. Uh, but really, that just describes people who get sick. Disease itself… very… pure… single-minded. Bacteria have one purpose. Divide and conquer.”

Pestilence stepped on Dean’s hand, and the sound of his pained scream tore at you. You wanted to get up and fight; to grab this Horseman by the fucking collar and to bash his head into the wall. For Dean. For Sam. For that poor woman on that hospital bed… but you didn’t have the strength. It’d been siphoned from you. It only served to worsen your anger.

“That’s why, in the end, it always wins. So, you’ve gotta wonder why God pours all his love into something so messy and weak. It’s ridiculous. All I can do is show him he’s wrong, one epidemic at a time. Now, on a scale of 1-10, how’s your pain?”

You looked back and forth between Dean and Sam. The feeling… the impending sense of doom that swirled inside of you and blackened your hope was familiar. You’d been through this before. Countless times before.

You’d felt it at that hospital, when Dean nearly died and John made a deal with Azazel to bring him back. You’ve watched Sam die before; impaled by Jake, and you mourned him for all of a day before Dean went ahead and followed in his father’s footsteps and did the same stupid thing of dealing with a demon. And again when Lilith had her hellhound maul Dean and send him to hell, and you and Sam could do nothing but hold each other as you listened to the screams of his older brother and your best friend.

And all the times before that, back when your world was smaller and all you had to worry about was Yellow-Eyes and the breadcrumbs John left behind. That felt so far away now. Now, you were at the mercy, or lack thereof, of one of the Four Horsemen.

Still, something told you this wouldn’t be the end. Not now, at least.

Hope came barging in in the form of Castiel. His name fell from Dean’s lips like a prayer answered, and you couldn’t help but let out a shaky laugh of joy.

“How’d you get here?” Pestilence barked, annoyed.

“I took a bus.”

Priceless. Leave it to Cas to save the day.

As much as you wanted to see Cas absolutely kick Pestilence’s ass, dark spots were already clouding your vision. Your throat had closed up some fifteen minutes ago, forcing you to draw short, quick breaths to stay alive.

Before you knew it, you passed out.

▼△▼△▼△▼△▼

“Sleeping Beauty’s awake,” you could hear the sound of Dean’s laugh. “Had a good nap, sweetheart?”

“Not now that I can hear you,” you squinted, your eyes adjusting to the light. It took you a while to realize that you were at Bobby’s.

“Ouch,” Dean brought a hand to his chest in mock hurt, before shooting Sam a look of disbelief. “You act like we don’t have history together. Sammy’s not the only Winchester in your life, you know!”

“Don’t worry, Dean. You’re my second favorite Winchester.”

“There’s only two of us!” he exclaimed, exasperated.

Sam tried to stifle his laugh and the heat blooming on his face. It was known that he was your favorite; he was your best friend after all… but to hear you say it?

Well, let’s just say it brought him a sense of belonging he hadn’t felt in a hot minute.

“Okay, okay,” he placed a hand on Dean’s shoulder, urging his brother to calm down so they could get back on track. “We got three of the Horsemen’s rings. We just need Death’s.”

“You should be an actor, Sammy. You say it so casually,” you nudged his shoulder teasingly. Dean barked a laugh in agreement. Sam rolled his eyes at you and crossed his arms, a sigh leaving his lips when the gravity of the situation really dawned on him. There wasn’t much you could do about Death, was there?

“Well, at this point, there’s not much we can do but go off of the last clue,” Sam remarked. “Pestilence said something about it being ‘too late’, what does that mean?”

“I’m freaking out a little here. Does he have a bomb or something?” Dean shot Bobby a pleading look. “Please tell us you have some good news.”

Bobby paused, a heavy feeling stewing inside. It was so painfully obvious, especially to you. He always did wear his heart on his sleeve, or perhaps age just softened him.

“Chicago’s about to be wiped off from the map. Storm of the millennium. Sets off a daisy chain of natural disasters. Three million people are gonna die.”

The room fell silent, the lightheartedness present just moments before now completely eviscerated by Bobby’s update.

It was Cas who spoke up again, “I don’t understand your definition of good news.”

Bobby explained to the angel how it was a blaring alarm for where Death was going to be. Three million deaths didn’t just mean that another once-in-a-lifetime gathering of reapers was in order; it meant that the head honcho himself would be there. He had to be.

You sank further into your seat, the same old couch you’d sit on whenever you read lore books with Sam all those years ago. You had never felt so small. Compared to the other Horsemen, you knew deep down that Death was just different. You couldn’t possibly comprehend his existence or his power. Three million people? Gone just like that? For the first time since this whole fucked-up journey started, you felt like you were way in over your head.

Sam sat next to you on the old worn-out couch, flashing you a small smile of comfort.

“Hey,” he whispered.

“Hey.”

“We’ll be okay.”

You forced yourself to look at him, and the fear tore away at another piece of your chest. You were only days away from what would possibly his death. So far, there seemed to be no alternative to his current plan of letting Lucifer possess him. It was ironic, and cruelly so, that you were here chasing after Death with him when it seemed as though death would come for him sooner rather than later.

“I don’t think we will, Sammy,” you finally answer him. The crack on your heart grew bigger.

He swallowed down the lump in his throat, unable to say anything else. He knew what this was about, and he wished he could tell you that it wasn’t going to happen the way you thought it would. That he could make it out of this whole thing alive.

But that would be a lie, and Sam was tired of lying. All he could do now was to savor every single moment he could. To remember your face just in case it would be the last time he’d see you. Nearly two decades of you and your friendship and your kindness; God, he was so grateful. He wished he had more time. Eighteen years spent taking your love, and he wished he had the time to give it back, but he didn’t. Not after this.

So you were right, both you and Sam were not going to be okay.

It made him take a step back, the haze of hunting and saving the world clearing for the first time since he left for Stanford. He’d spent his life chasing after monsters and it made him wonder if he’d done it for so long that he didn’t really need to chase after them anymore. The monsters were just there because he was Sam Winchester, and all that came close to him had a target on their back. Wherever he went, there was a black mark that burned through the soil and flesh and he prayed to whoever would listen that you would be clean of it; that you would be clean of him.

He’d never seen you so broken down. Sam realized that no matter how much he gave up, this world and this life would still keep taking from him. It angered him, it truly did, because there was this bitterness that stewed in his chest from the fact that it was his family that paid the price of peace. Peace that he couldn’t guarantee for you.

Sam thought he was a curse, and it killed him to know that you wanted him here with you still. He wanted you to hate him because at least you’d be far away from him and out of harm’s way, but here you were: you loved him, he loved you, and it would poison the both of you until eventually, someone broke. It would have to be him.

“It’s fine,” you smiled weakly at him. “We don’t have to talk about this now. We have things to do.”

For a few seconds, he just stared at you, as if he was willing the words to come out of his mouth but they just couldn’t. Again, there was his “kicked puppy” look. It made you laugh, just a little bit, so you placed a soft kiss on his cheek. The warmth of his skin under your palm brought you back to happier days.

“We have things to do,” you repeated even though it hurt. All he could do was place his hand over your own. For now, that was enough.

▼△▼△▼△▼△▼

“Things to do” was a massive understatement for what you were about to do. Sam, Cas, and Bobby headed to a Niveus Pharmaceuticals warehouse after discovering Pestilence’s plan to spread the Croatoan virus worldwide. You, Dean, and Crowley headed to Chicago to intercept Death, whatever that meant. Even with Death’s scythe in your possession, you could feel Dean’s nerves radiating off of him. He was gripping the steering wheel a little bit too hard, something he made a point never to do because he took care of this car like it was his child, but it was an obvious tell.

Your mind was someplace far away, drifting between thinking about this mission and how Sam was faring. He hadn’t updated you yet.

“Miss your boyfriend?” Crowley quipped from the back of the Impala. You groaned, leaning back against the passenger seat.

Before you could say anything, Dean answered for you, “She does.”

“Dean!”

“What? I thought I was your second favorite Winchester, so who else is the first?”

“Now’s not a good time to be discussing my personal relationships.”

“Oh, so you admit that it’s a relationship?” Crowley added.

“Please shut up.”

The demon snickered again before surprisingly keeping quiet for the rest of the ride. Although you’d never admit it, you appreciated the quick distraction. It pulled you away from your thoughts just long enough to maintain some sort of composure, because you had no idea how you were going to get Death’s ring.

“So… where is he supposed to be?” Dean asked Crowley.

Crowley pointed to a large decrepit building, “Big, ugly building. Horseman’s stable, if you will. He’s in there.”

You leaned forward to get a better look. Dean raised a brow, “How do you know he’s in there?”

“Have you met me? ‘Cause I know. Also, the block is squirming with reapers. I’ll be right back.”

You blinked, and he was gone. You turned to Dean, about to say something when Crowley suddenly returned, face flushed.

Death wasn’t in the warehouse, and three million people were about to die anyway. How the hell were you going to evacuate the city?

“I strongly suggest that we get out of here,” Crowley noted.

Both you and Dean were in a panic about how you were going to save that many people when Crowley suddenly vanished again. Rage clouded your vision; how the hell can he just disappear like that? When there was so much at stake?

“Crowley, you fu—”

“No need for that, dear,” he pressed a finger against your lips, making a point to wiggle it around. “I found him.”

Dean drove as fast as he could to the place Crowley provided, and it lead the three of you to a now-abandoned pizzeria. The wind picked up and random objects were now up in the air one by one. You and Dean got out of the car, turning around to see Crowley gone. Of course, he was.

“Are you ready?” he asked you, concerned.

“Not really, but that doesn’t really matter, does it?”

He smiled in agreement, before entering the pizzeria first in case something was amiss, holding a vice-like grip on the scythe. You followed close behind, but there was no one or even anything there except a gaunt pale man clad in black sitting in the very middle of the room. He radiated an aura that was almost eldritch, incomprehensible and unfathomable. Fearsome, but natural. Sitting in front of you was a force of nature, and you were just two humans trying to do the right thing.

“Ah,” the scythe fell from Dean’s hand. “Thanks for returning that. The pizza’s delicious. Sit down. Took you long enough to find me. I’ve been wanting to talk to the two of you.”

“I’ve got mixed feelings about that,” you chuckled nervously. Death only turned his head ever so slightly to acknowledge you.

“So, is this the part where you kill us?” Dean interrupted.

The corner of Death’s lips turned upward, “You have an inflated sense of your importance.”

You let out a long breath. Yes, amazing, like you needed the whole speech about how utterly insignificant you were. You could feel your hands getting clammy from prolonged exposure to… whatever the hell Death was, but every cell in your body was screaming at you to get the hell out of dodge.

“So why are we still here? What do you want?” you gathered the courage to ask him.

“The leash around my neck,” his cold gaze pierced through you. “—off. Lucifer has me bound to him; some unseemly little spell. He has me where he wants, when he wants. That’s why I couldn’t go to you. I had to wait for you to catch up. He made me his weapon. Hurricanes, floods, raising the dead. I’m more powerful than you can process, and I’m enslaved to a bratty child with a temper tantrum.”

When Dean asked him if he thought we were the ones that could unbind him, Death pointed out his mortal bravado once again. Death took of his ring, sliding it against the table towards the two of you.

“I understand you want this, and I’m inclined to give it to you.”

You were confused. You were in the middle of a city-ending storm, with millions of lives on the line, so you spoke up again, “But what about—”

“Chicago?” he continued monotonously. “I suppose it can stay. I like the pizza. There are conditions: you have to do whatever it takes to put Lucifer in his cell.”

“Of course,” both you and Dean answered.

“Whatever it takes,” Death repeated sternly. “I’m quite fortunate that the two of you are the ones that found me. That makes this discussion easier. Sam Winchester is the only one that can stop Lucifer, and I know what he is to you. I need your word.”

There it was. All the fear you had about facing Death himself was replaced by the decades-old fear you had of losing Sam. Death wanted you to promise him, to take an oath to let your worst fear come true.

“You’re going to let him jump into the fiery pit. Now, do I have your word?”

“Yes,” you answered in unison again. The word felt heavy on your tongue.

Sam Winchester was going to die, and there was nothing you could do to stop it.

#sam winchester #sam winchester x reader #supernatural #supernatural fanfiction #reader insert #dean winchester #jared padalecki

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invisible-storyteller · 7 months

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Home is a person

For @kirayukimuraappreciation. Day 1: You Came Back. Pairing: Malia Tate/Kira Yukimura Rating: General Words: 1628 Tags: Post-Canon, Post-Teen Wolf: The Movie (2023), Kira-centric, Kira Yukimura Returns, Derek Hale & Kira Yukimura Friendship, Angst with a Happy Ending Summary: Kira returns to Beacon Hills just in time to save Derek. With everyone alive and the Nogitsune gone, happy end is due, right? Well, Kira needs a bit more convincing to realize why she's come back at all. (Read it on AO3).

It doesn’t take long to understand the situation. It takes even less time to tackle Derek off the Nemeton.

She makes sure to stand guard around the tree stump with another, younger kitsune as Parrish’s arms wrap around the mutant evil spirit and they both go up in flames. The only thing left in the Nogitsune’s wake is silence and bad memories.

Then the illusion is gone and Kira can breathe again. They are all standing on a stadium field, safe, shaken and once again victorious, surrounded by friends she hasn’t seen in over a decade. It just figures that another life-and-death scenario would bring them back together.

“Dad!”

A werewolf boy barely in his teens rushes towards Derek and buries himself into his arms, and as Kira does a 360-degree turn, she notices that everyone's celebrating in varying forms of an embrace while she’s standing on the side. Alone.

A lean body sags onto hers suddenly and she startles by the unexpectedly tight hug. “You saved my dad,” The boy says against her shoulder, relief heavy in his voice. “Thank you.”

From a short distance, Derek smiles at her and walks closer to the pair. “Amazing timing,” He compliments.

Kira smiles but can’t help looking around and thinking: “Actually, I might be too late.”

Derek invites her to dinner as an expression of his gratitude and then follows up with a dozen ‘thanks yous’ throughout the evening. His son, Eli, has a million questions about the Skinwalkers and her powers and he breaks down crying halfway through. It’s a lot, but Kira still feels better on the drive home.

It’s definitely nicer than the nothing that follows.

For every single thing that hasn’t changed in Beacon Hills, there are at least three more that have. Derek, apparently, doesn’t know much about the others since most of them haven’t kept in touch after an allegedly glorious defeat against an army of hunters. Kira hasn’t been there for the war, but she supposes that the pack would have sought her out if she was truly needed.

Reuniting with Scott is awkward, seeing him hold hands with Allison is even more so. It’s not like Kira had much hope for her and Scott, but it still hurts. It doesn’t sting like a heartache but more like another proof that life went on without her.

She talks with Hikari and Liam before they leave for Japan because that’s their home now, not Beacon Hills. Kira has no idea where her home is anymore.

Half of her life has been dedicated to fighting for control with the Skinwalkers, so readjusting to the changes and modern life should be easy, and yet, Kira finds herself debating on a daily basis the idea of simply going back. What is keeping me here? - it’s a question that echoes too often in her head.

Derek is attentive, but more than that, he understands. He invites her over for more dinners and movie marathons (to help her “catch up on what she’s missed”, and he cringes right after saying it), and talks about his travels proceeding the events in Mexico. She realizes by the second-hour mark that the similarities of their experiences are overshadowed by their unbridgeable differences.

Because Derek returned when his friends were in need, but Kira didn’t.

He shows her the garage, the preserve and the school. Coach doesn’t recognize her but asks whether she’s good at lacrosse and if she would like to join, anyway. This leads to Kira practising with Eli on Mondays, since Derek claims he’s always been more gifted in basketball.

Kira knows what Derek’s doing, really, and she appreciates it. She just doesn’t know how to tell him that the issue isn’t with the place. It’s with her.

It’s 12:14 pm on a Friday when Kira walks into the auto shop. It’s been five weeks since her return and as she enters the shop (instead of waiting outside like usual), the realization hits her of how weird it is that she hasn’t talked to Malia in all that time.

“Hey,” Malia greets, like they've just spoken yesterday (they didn't, not in 14 years), kicking her feet off the counter and plucking the earbuds out of her ear.

Kira is ashamed that she can’t come up with a better reply than “Hi”, accompanied by a not-quite smile to make up for the lack of contact. Not that Malia couldn’t have reached out, Kira reminds herself, and feels a dull pang in her heart. It’s an everyday occurrence.

“What are you doing here?” Malia asks as she stands up, soft sweater bunching up at one of her sides. Derek’s been either rubbing off on her or pestering the woman into warmer clothes as the season turned chilly. It’s an adorable sight, nevertheless.

Kira looks behind herself, wondering for a moment if she should wait outside after all. Then she remembers Malia has always been confrontational and feels her nerves settle at the small glimpse of familiarity.

“Derek promised to buy me lunch,” Kira finally says, glancing around for good measure. Derek’s most likely in the back, though, immersed in grease and work.

Malia nods, looks away, pats down her jeans.

“What if I buy you lunch?”

The question catches Kira off guard and her wide eyes are probably telling since Malia immediately shoves her hands into her jeans and plunges into an explanation.

“Derek’s busy with a demanding asshole’s car and sitting here is getting seriously boring. So please? Put me out of my misery?”

Oh. Well. Kira can roll with that.

“Yeah, sure, if Derek doesn’t mind.”

“Wait here,” Malia instructs before disappearing through the backdoor. Three minutes later, Malia is back with car keys dangling from her fingers and a familiar-looking credit card in her hand. “He doesn’t mind. Now, let’s go. I’m fucking starving.”

The lunch is better than Kira expects. Malia's questions are straightforward but her answers to Kira’s inquires are equally frank. It’s refreshing to finally pour out all the feelings Kira's had bottled up for over a month now. It's also the first time she laughs honestly.

“We should meet up again,” Malia suggests while they're pulling up to Kira's home. Or, well, to her parents’ house.

“Yeah,” Kira agrees readily.

Then, she promptly forgets about wanting to leave for a full week.

“Don’t you want to have your own apartment?” Malia asks with her bare feet trudging in the shallow part of the lake.

Kira pulls her knees up to hug them closer as well as to support her chin as she shrugs noncommittally. “I haven’t thought about it yet.”

“Seriously?" Malia looks flummoxed. "Didn’t you make a comment about the absurdity of sleeping in your old bedroom? Right below your One Direction poster?"

Yeah, Kira spent an entire day mourning over that particular change.

“I know, I just never thought I would need a permanent place here.”

Malia freezes in the water at once and aimes her eyes at her submerged feet. Kira can't parse the emotion on her friend's face, and it makes the anxiety that she hasn't felt around Malia yet emerge with frightening intensity.

“You want to leave.”

There's no accusation behind the words but they aren't exactly warm in nature. Kira doesn't want to lie, not to Malia, so she settles on a shrug.

“But you just got back." And now the hurt is audible in Malia's voice.

“Why should I stay here?" Kira asks, pleading for her friend to understand. "Our friends aren’t here anymore, the pack isn’t here anymore, my life isn’t here-“

Kira bites her tongue. When she got back two months ago, she was filled with exhilaration to reunite with her family. Her mother made occasional visits to the Skinwalkers, but it was nothing compared to the almost forgotten scent of his father's cooking or the sound of her mother's singing as it floated through the house. There was no happier moment in Kira's life than when her mother had called about the Nogitsune's return and the Skinwalkers bid her farewell for good. Her training was over.

But Kira didn't live in Beacon Hills for long and she didn't have childhood memories to anchor her to the town. The only thing that was ever valuable in Beacon Hills were her friends and even they had left a long time ago. Kira has no reason to stay.

“I’m here,” Malia's words break through her thoughts, and Kira meets her eyes curiously.

“Why? What holds you back?”

Malia doesn't answer. She simply walks out of the lake and sits beside her in the grass. It's an unusually sunny day.

“Parrish?” Kira chances, and her heart soars when Malia shakes her head lightly.

“I guess... I was waiting for everyone to come back.”

Kira hasn't considered it yet - what it must have felt like to be left behind by all their friends. The worst is, though, that she doesn't remember if she ever said goodbye to Malia.

They listen to the forest while soaking in the pale light of the Sun, and at one point, Malia decides to lie down on her back and just watch the vagrant clouds as they swim past the treetops. Kira hasn't known this kind of peace in... 14 years.

“I guess..." Malia suddenly speaks, quieter but somehow braver, "I was waiting for you to come back.”

Kira looks at the other woman, at the challenge and hope in her eyes. At the evident fear that she bares open for only Kira to see.

She leans onto her side until she hovers above Malia, and slowly, tentatively, takes hold of her hand.

“Will you help me look for an apartment?”

Malia beams, and just like that, Kira no longer regrets coming back.

#kiraweek2023 #kira yukimura #malira #derek & kira #original: teen wolf fanfic

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whumpshaped · 10 months

Text

hi i wrote fanfiction of you can't follow your heart if there's a stake through it by my beloved friend @dismemberment-on-a-tuesday-night (go read it its so good) because jacob was so gross i had to steal rurik

tw kidnapping mention, captivity, lady whump (brief), nonhuman (vampire) whumpee, murder, betrayal, implied future torment and conditioning

Zoya took a deep breath, trying to talk herself out of this whole thing one last time. She had so many reasons not to go into the hunters’ lair; like wanting to protect the half of a life she’d been cursed with when she was turned, or even just the fact that she didn’t necessarily know Rurik Markarovich. On the other hand… she’d seen the same hunter circle the vampire’s gravesite many times, entirely unlike how she’d known those kinds of people to go about such a thing.

Usually a hunter would find an empty coffin and immediately return the next day to stake its owner, similarly to vampires killing the foolish things on sight. This one was bizarre. This one came back several times, lay in the coffin, stuffed his pockets full of the dirt of Rurik’s burial ground, acting almost like a lovestruck teenager. Zoya didn’t know Rurik, but she was growing more and more concerned for the other vampire.

Finding out a hunter’s identity wasn’t something she had ever done before. It wasn’t impossible, but it wasn’t such an easy task that she would’ve attempted it just for the fun of it. When she got a hold of the name Jacob Amity, the dopamine rush of a job well done was drowned out by the little voice in the back of her mind that said, “Why did you even bother? What are you going to do with information you had no need for?” Now, staring up at the ominous building full of humans specialised in killing her kind, she still didn’t know what she was doing.

Maybe she was mistaken. Maybe this was a suicide mission she was about to embark on in vain, because maybe Rurik was completely fine, and she just hadn’t bumped into him for a while. Maybe he’d moved on, and that was why his casket was also missing. The idea that a hunter would’ve kidnapped one of them was something unheard of, and Zoya briefly wondered whether she’d lost her mind. Jacob Amity seemed obsessed with Rurik, but what use was kidnapping a bloodthirsty monster? What use was keeping him alive when he was a threat to all humans’ safety? Surely, if he had gotten his hands on Rurik, Rurik was dead.

The sound of footsteps approaching from the other side of the door forced her to make the decision quickly, turning into a small, unnaturally coloured butterfly to escape the fate of so many of her acquaintances. She knew the hunters would take notice even of a creature that was supposedly alive, so she tried to settle on the handle of the heavy door, thinking she would be able to make her way inside from there before the hunters closed it again.

The handle burned her thin little insect legs as if it were fire, and she lifted herself back into the air without the string of curses that would’ve usually accompanied such a mistake, had she been in her more humanoid form. Of course the door was silver, what else would the door of a hunter stronghold be made of? She flew further up, deciding to simply circle around in the air above the hunters’ heads and hope they weren’t going to look up.

The door opened shortly after, three women in full hunting gear exiting the building without a level of precaution Zoya would’ve expected. Well, all the better for her plan, she wasn’t going to settle on their shoulder and explain vampire-safety.

She just managed to escape being crushed by the door on the way in, cutting it a little too close for her taste. This whole adventure was a little too much, and as the bang of the heavy thing shutting behind her echoed in the narrow corridors, she wondered whether it would even be worth it; even if she somehow found and saved the strange, possibly-in-trouble vampire. It wasn’t her responsibility, Rurik wasn’t her family, in fact, Rurik’s kind was the one who had turned her into some half-dead monster, fated to watch her actual family banish her and slowly die of old age while she lived on, feasting on the blood of innocents.

Zoya would’ve sighed if a butterfly was capable of such a feat. She was an idiot.

Following the sound of Jacob Amity’s voice was easy, even through layers of walls and closed doors. There was something about him that grated on her nerves from the first moment she’d laid eyes on him, something sinister and deranged, something even worse than the dead walking the earth at night. She could hear another voice as well, one she assumed had to be Rurik’s– no, that was jumping to conclusions based on the story she’d fabricated in her head days prior. It could’ve been any other hunter with a deeper voice. And a Russian accent.

Okay, maybe it was Rurik.

She turned back in front of the door she was sure would be hiding her… acquaintance, immediately getting reminded of her scorched feet and crying out in pain before she could stop herself. The conversation inside the room came to a screeching halt, and she could soon hear someone carefully approach the door. Unfortunately for her, she could also hear other hunters moving around, and she tried to get ready to pounce despite her injury. She needed to free Rurik and hope he would be thankful enough to give her a piggyback ride outside.

She realised at the last moment that she knew the hunter’s name. Would he be able to recognise everyone’s voice at the stronghold? Surely not.

“Jacob!” she cried with some urgency she didn’t need to fake. “That vampire you took in, he has friends–”

The door flew open in an instant. “What vampire?” Jacob demanded. “How do you know–”

Zoya grabbed his throat before he could finish his question, crushing his windpipe within a split second. His hand didn’t even find the stake secured to his belt in time. It was clean, efficient, and didn’t put too much strain on her injured feet.

Her gaze landed on the earth-filled casket on one side of the room, then the vampire it belonged to in a corner, shackled and shaking like a leaf. She wasn’t going to get a piggyback ride from someone carrying a whole casket full of dirt, she realised with some disdain. “I’m here to help,” she said in Russian, hoping that their shared mother tongue would invoke feelings of comfort. “Can you walk?”

“Who are you?”

“I’ll tell you later. There are hunters coming. Please, can you walk?”

Rurik got to his feet and showed her the padded silver cuffs. “Can you take these off?”

“If you don’t need them off right now, we’ll get back to it later. Grab your casket and come with me. We need to get out before we both get staked.”

There were no more questions after that. Rurik didn’t even spare the hunter’s corpse a single glance as he lifted his resting place and ran past Zoya in the hallway. She followed him in her animal form, too hurt to attempt to run with him. She turned back before they reached the front door, yelling out, “Don’t touch it! It’s silver!”

Rurik spun around, eyes wide with fear. “How do we get out?”

“Kick it down! I can’t do it for you, my feet are burned, but you can just kick it down and go!”

“Fuck, these things killed Jacob,” Zoya heard from a distance. “Well, I’d say that’s not a big loss overall. Could’ve been worse.” She almost wanted to turn around and give them a piece of her mind on camaraderie, or even not letting widely disliked and gross people into their little hunter union, but she decided against it when she heard the door come crashing down under Rurik’s strength.

They didn’t stop until they were far away from the stronghold, hidden deep within the woods where Zoya’s casket lay. Rurik put his own next to it, collapsing from either exhaustion or fear. She sat next to him, gently taking his wrist in her hands, examining the silver cuff.

“I don’t know how to get these off,” she admitted quietly, and her new friend gave a dejected little sob in response. “I’m sorry.”

“Who are you?” he asked again, desperate to find footing in a situation he probably didn’t understand in the slightest.

“My name is Zoya. You, uh, you don’t really know me, I don’t think. You might’ve seen me around these woods, but we never actually talked.” The explanation only made the crying worse.

“Am I supposed to love you too?” he choked out, and Zoya felt her stomach churn. Just what exactly was Jacob Amity doing to him in that cell? Was he really the lovestruck teenager she had pegged him as on that first day?

“No, that’s not– just let me finish, and if you don’t want to see me after that, you can go on your way.” Rurik didn’t object, which she took as a sign that he was willing to listen. “I saw that hunter around your casket several nights in a row, for weeks on end. I wanted to tell you, but… Vampires aren’t pack animals, are they?” She told him about the quest to find out the hunter’s name, how she realised Rurik had vanished shortly after along with his casket, and how she went against her better judgement to try and save him.

Rurik seemed at least half-convinced, and he slowly recounted his own experience, and the things the hunter had told him while he was trapped with him. He looked haunted. “I thought being turned into a bloodsucking monster was the worst thing that could’ve happened to me. I… I’m not sure anymore.”

Zoya gave him a sympathetic look. “We could look out for each other,” she suggested softly, “like in the old days. When we were still human, looking out for our friends during the winter, sharing our food so everyone had enough.”

He didn’t respond for a few seconds, staring at her casket next to his. He wiped the tears off his eyes and cheeks, trying to compose himself after his initial freak-out. “Wouldn’t a pair of vampires draw too much attention?” he asked quietly.

“Not much more than a single one. There are only so many deaths you can sell as an accident.”

Rurik nodded, picking at the leather on his wrist absentmindedly. “We could look out for each other,” he repeated. “Like friends.”

Zoya tilted her head to the side, smiling at him sweetly. What more could she have asked for? A vampire so traumatised that he was acting all dependent on her, stuck in silver cuffs he needed her help to get out of? Unable to turn? Really, she should’ve thanked the hunter for this opportunity. She could’ve never made it this seamless if everything had gone according to the original plan, and she had struck up conversation that night when the sight of a hunter rolling around in Rurik’s burial ground stopped her.

@ashh-ed @whumpsday @whump-queen @the-scrapegoat @hidden-dreamland @rosewriteswhump

#if ur my friend and im obsessed w ur blorbos... im sorry ur subject to this #whump #whump writing #kidnapping mention #captivity #lady whump (brief)#nonhuman (vampire) whumpee #murder #betrayal #implied future torment and conditioning #rescue #escape

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sweetearthandnorthernsky · 5 months

Note

33 for anyone you'd really like to plinko :D

33. protector/sacrifice (leaning more into sacrifice because i'm. mean lol) me @ me: how to save candaith while also having a dead character to give the troubled dream sequence the Weight ™ it deserves [redacted]: bonjour c: me: oh. thats how. FUCK anyway! spoilers for the forsaken road :') ish.

The wind screams in the caverns, cutting through Saelinriel's cloak as if it's made of paper, and she shivers. Her hands shake as they hold her torch as she ventures further into the cavern, following closely behind Radanir.

There is a howling gust and all the torches, not just hers, go out in a single puff, drowning the Grey Company in darkness.

The darkness is all consuming, until, breaths later, blue light flickers into being, like corpse-candles.

They are tall columns, indistinguishable from shadows in the evening at first, before steadily growing clearer and clearer until Saelinriel can see each face with perfect detail. Saelinriel can almost feel the anger that radiates from them like a heatwave, and they get only angrier when Halbarad challenges them.

Finally, the leader seems to call off the other shades and look straight at her, so intently as if they are trying to turn her into a shade by sheer force alone. Chill clings to her bones as the leader instructs her to find Britou, who speaks with all who pass through the Forsaken Road.

Then, as quickly as blowing out a candle, the shades disappear.

They are not gone, she still feels the chill of the air that lingers around the Dead, but they are no longer visible, and that is better than nothing. Halbarad tells her that he and Radanir will search one side of the cavern, and tells her to find Candaith, who ought to be down that way.

Just as she is about to go down into the tunnel where Britou awaited, something catches her elbow, and she nearly jumps several feet in the air. There is an apologetic chuckle, and Tadan steps out of the shadows.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he says ruefully, as she shakes her head, trying to calm her heart rate. “Where are you headed?”

She shrugs. “I was told that Candaith would be down this way, and to find him before speaking with Britou.”

“Mind if I come with you?”

If Saelinriel has to tell the truth, the company is more than welcome. The chill makes her teeth chatter, and the Dead sets her on edge, so she nods, and they find Candaith, and the three of them go see Britou.

The stones crack underneath Saelinriel’s boots as she walks, and her shoulders brush the wall of the tunnel before it spits them out into a bowl shaped cavern, where a shade – bright in the dimness, with horribly keen, piercing eyes - waits in silence.

He studies them keenly, and there is a coldness in his eyes. He feels much more alive than the other shades and something about him makes her chest twist into knots.

“All who stray here belong to the Dead.” Britou speaks the word dead with a horrifying finality, and it is all she can do to not step back. “It was unwise to come here, warm-bloods.”

"You came to this place to escape your curse, Britou. But there was no escape, was there?" Candaith says, coldly. “You will never know the peace of death until you fulfill your oath.”

Britou scoffs and summons shade after shade, trying to wear them all down, until Candaith steps forward, eyes blazing underneath his hood and mask. “Enough of this!" he commands fiercely. "We need prove nothing to you.”

Britou laughs and five shades appear this time. Saelinriel and Candaith and Tadan barely manage to defeat them – if defeat is the right word, since they cannot truly be slain for they are the Dead Who Do Not Rest.

"End this, Britou! I command you to end this!" Candaith says, every inch one of the Dúnedain.

"I need not listen to your commands, warm-blood!" Britou raises his hands for the spirits to come again but--

"Hold!" Candaith's voice echoes with power, like the roaring sea, and Saelinriel nearly claps her hands to her ears with the way it bounces off the stone walls. “I have the authority to command you and all your kind, Britou!”

Her heart freezes in her chest and she almost chokes on her breath. She and Tadan share a look that says the same thing: What is candaith doing?

Britou scowls, his faint blue light growing brighter by the minute. "Impossible! What evidence dost thou have that this be so?” He hisses the words out, his voice shuddering off the walls, as if there is a multitude of him instead of one.

Candaith pulls his glove off without lowering his sword and his bebarahir glints in faint blue light as he holds it aloft. “The ring of Barahir, heirloom of isildur's line!"

Britou snarls, his face going dark. His eyes narrow as he studies Candaith, and the small room gets even colder – Saelinriel’s teeth chatter faster than before. “I see…”

She does not know what Britou is looking for in Candaith’s face, but try as she might, Saelinriel cannot see over Candaith's shoulder.

A few moments pass.

She can tell by the way the cavern goes still – more still than before – that something passes unseen and unspoken between them.

“We will fulfil our oath at last, that the heir may lift the curse. thou may tell thy men.”

Ever so slowly, Candaith turns to face her and Tadan.

The relief that flooded her at Britou's admission slowly ebbs away, draining out of her and leaving the dregs of worry and fear in their place – instead of a triumphant smile, a grimace graces Candaith’s face, like he is bracing himself for something unpleasant.

She watches as Tadan’s eyes go wide.

And everything happens at once.

Britou's lips curl into a devious smile and he looms large behind Candaith, casting a dark blue shadow over him, and Saelinriel’s mouth drops open and she can't- she can't say anything, she can't force a single syllable out.

Britou lifts his spirit-sword high and Tadan only just manages to shout a warning, but it is too late – Britou strikes Candaith down before there is time for him to even do anything.

“But that is not the Ring of Barahir, and thou art not the heir of Isildur.”

The words echo in a deafening judgment as Candaith staggers forward and she tries - though she knows, logically, that she would not be able to catch him easily - to keep him from hitting the ground hard.

He is so still and heavy, and she is frozen and cannot move and Britou's eyes glint as he narrows in on her and Tadan as red oozes across Candaith’s back.

“Get Candaith out of here,” Tadan says, his voice only slightly shaky as he steps between Britou and the two of them and–

Saelinriel wants to argue, she can’t– won’t– just leave him here, (she made a promise in Evendim, at the side of Astiul's cairn, all those months ago) but the red stain on the back of Candaith’s tunic is rapidly spreading and getting concerningly dark.

Her free-hand hovers above her sword, torn, as Britou continues to summon shade after shade.

“Just give me a head start,’’ he says, swords drawn. “I’ll be out in a moment.”

“But–”

Candaith lets out a cough, and blood trickles out of his mouth.

“Go!”

Britou's cold, cruel laughter echoes through the hollow chambers as she is forced – half-carrying, half-dragging a woozy Candaith – through the tunnels, harried by the Dead.

All around them, the cavern shakes, as rocks and dust shudder down from the ceiling and the Dead pursue them as they flee, though more than once she turns, trying to see where Tadan is, but the haze of falling debris makes that impossible. They stumble over planks of wood, over bodies -- and this makes her want to be sick, but to be sick is to stop and to stop is... not an option.

An eternity passes – or so it feels – before the two of them stumble into Radanir, nearly knocking him down as the world shifts and tilts, and Saelinriel grabs his arm with her free hand – partly to steady herself, and keep from toppling Candaith onto the floor at such an abrupt stop.

At once, Radanir ducked under Candaith’s other arm, and some of the weight shifts, balancing out, and Saelinriel’s shoulders aren’t screaming so loudly at her for trying such a task alone anymore.

Radanir looks utterly concerned, his brows drawn together as he tries to limp them toward the exit, but his words floated to her as if he were speaking underwater. “What has happened? All of a sudden, the Oath-breakers fell upon us, and we have only driven them off for the moment!”

“I…” She stumbles over herself as they come nearly to the mouth of the caverns, and Radanir tries to take Candaith further but her feet are rooted to the ground as black spots dance in her vision and her next words scrape her throat raw: “Stop! We have to wait for Tadan!”

The cavern is shaking still, sending more and more debris down on them but...

Radanir says something about her and Candaith being nearly the last ones in the caverns -- everyone else is gone -- and surely Tadan is waiting for them outside.

Another rattling boom as the cavern walls shake harder, throwingg down boulders the size of Saelinriel's torso, and there really is no arguing now.

But, as the three of escape into the fading daylight, stumbling bloodied and pale with the rest of the company back to Lhaunch, she keeps her eyes on the darkness of the tunnels until the very last.

#ty friend!!!!!!#this took me. three months to write alas #og post #ask game reply tag #my fic #listen. for troubled dreams to have the IMPACT i need it to in-fic it needs to be character who is both a) dead and b) actively #with the grey company #now this could be an au because it's a toss up between [redacted] and andreg but. i am leaning slightly toward andreg because #this is lowkey just mean.#i already killed [redacted's] brother i feel like i should let him live lmao #but that is not what wanted to happen here

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nullusreimorio · 26 days

Text

Brooke Rose's adventure

Pairing: Eli Clark/Luca Balsa Rating: General Audience Word count: 1212 words Enjoy ^^

______________________________________________________________

Despite being a mystic creature, the Seer’s owl often displayed a behavior fitting for a curious cat. It wasn’t uncommon for her and Apostle to chase each other, whenever the two factions came together. And just like a curious cat, she would often wander the manor, flying and exploring every possible corner, sometimes giving lifts to Kurt Frank whenever he was in his tiny form.

One day, Brooke found herself tangled in cables, shrieking in hopes to be heard from her companion. It was a dark room full of machinery and blueprints, like a study or laboratory of sort, divided in three different corners where different kind of pieces and metallic shapes took place.

Despite her best efforts, it seemed like her connection with the Seer was not going to work with how dark the study was. But she didn’t give up, trying her best to free herself, and failing miserably, her shrieks turning into soft coos. Did she learn something on today’s adventure? Yes. It’s better to pull Eli’s hair and force him to go with her than be alone and imprisoned in this cold, cruel world-

The sudden light coming from the newly opened door was enough to interrupt her soliloquy, a startled hoot surprising the newcomer. “What the- How did you get in here??”

Gloved hands skillfully freed the cooing bird. Brooke soon flew to rest on top of the fluffy brown hair of her savior, her hero. Yet said hero only made a confused noise, putting the cables into the correct order and checking that everything was alright in his shared studio. It would have been a disaster if Tracy or Charles’ experiments and plans were to be damaged because of that stupid bird.

It was only when Brooke started tugging at his hair that Luca took her off of his head, holding her in his hands and looking at her curiously.

“Stupid, stupid bird. You shouldn’t wander around like this. I saw Eli having to rely on other people to walk correctly since you weren’t by his side. C’mon, I’ll bring you to him.” The only answer Brooke gave him was a soft coo, getting comfortable in his hands as Luca came out of the study. His footsteps echoed through the empty corridor, lulling the owl into a dozing state, interrupted only by the occasional twitch in the inventor’s left hand. She couldn’t get a single moment of shut-in even when his hand relaxed a couple minutes later, as when they turned the corner, they collided against another person, Brooke saving herself thanks to being… well, an owl. Luca wasn’t as lucky though, almost falling on his arse.

“I’m sorry- Oh, Brooke! There you are! Are you ok? Why was it suddendly dark?” At the sight of her companion, the owl immediately nestled in his shoulder, nuzzling his cheek and cooing in reply to his worries. The Seer petted the soft feathers of his owl, but soon stopped and regarded instead Luca, who was looking at them. He seemed nervous, somehow. His usual smirk wasn’t in place.

“I’m very sorry for the inconvenience Brooke caused, mr. Balsa.” “Oh please, I found her by chance- Uhm, call me Luca please. We are all on the same b in this manor, after all.” Eli only smiled. It was difficult to understand if it was a mocking or genuine smile, as his eyes were covered as usual. “Thank you for finding Brooke, Luca. I’m indebted to you.” “That’s… no need for that, Eli.”

The Prisoner looked more and more nervous, playing with his fingers and looking at the owl rather than the Seer. He was fascinated by him and how his powers worked. Since he saw his old mentor alive again and with some powers again, he was more curious about mysticism now. Never would he ever thought that his interest would be matched with a inquisiviness in magic.

“I insist. You know Brooke is much more important to me than a normal pet, so it’s only fair I repay you being her hero” Ok that was 100% mockery. Or was it? His deep chuckles were far from it. He was jesting.

“It’s what Brooke thinks of you. You are her hero, after all, saving her from a dark room full of possibly dangerous objects for her”

Oh. It was genuine. Alright cool, cool. How do you talk to pretty boys again-

“Th-Then.. if it’s not too much, can I ask you-”

Luca couldn’t even finish his sentence. It felt like Eli already knew what he was going to ask, and his lips drew in a tight line. The inventor interrupted himself, the silence between them uncomfortable before Brooke cooed at Luca, detaching herself to nestle on his head once more.

“… Can I ask you how come your owl is on such bad terms with the cat?” The Seer’s mouth opened a bit in shock before releasing his laughter, clearly took by surprise at such a question. Who the hell knew why those two mystic animals had such a poor relationship? “I believe it’s because they are from two different faiths. The same way, Fiona’s key and Patricia’s skull also react negatively oftentimes. But since it we have to live in the same space, I think they’ll get along soon. Isn’t that right, pretty girl?” Luca couldn’t suppress the leap his heart did, hearing how loving and soft the Seer’s voice became when addressing Brooke Rose. He wanted to hear more of it, and if the bird loved him for saving her, that was good enough of an excuse.

“Uhm- Eli, do you like tea?”

Do you like tea???? That was it, he was doomed. That was such a lame question- who doesn’t like tea? God above he was feeling more pathetic than ever. Yet Eli looked so at ease, his gentle smile still in place.

“I prefer herbal infusions over tea, but I will still drink it nonetheless. I’d love it if you would have tea with me, Luca. And maybe a slice of acorn cake? It’s my favourite dessert.” Oh dear he got closer. Oh God he’s actually closer. He can see a tuft of his hair- a different brown than his- peek out of his hoodie. “I… uhm, yeah, I’d.. like to try it.” At that, Brooke hooted happily, ruffling her own feathers in excitement and flapping her wings briefly, preparing to fly back to her companion once more. The mood between him and her savior was satisfactory. She will be flying back to his studio more often, especially since his hair was soft enough to take a nap on.

“I look forward to it. Thank you again for finding Brooke, Luca. Oh, and..”

As he talked, his hands went to the prisoner’s head, fixing the strands that were messed up by the owl’s antics. If he noticed Luca’s eye widen, or how his breath hitched, he said nothing of it, instead gently running his fingers through the interested strands.

“… there you go. I hope you have a nice day, Luca. And good luck with any match you might have.”

“Ah- y-yes, you too, thank you-”

Did Brooke learn a new lesson today? Indeed, she learned that exploring the Manor made her life more interesting.

#smoking jester writing #idv seer #eli clark #idv eli #idv prisoner #luca balsa #idv luca #eliluca #eli clark x luca balsa #seer x prisoner #fluff

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soranihimawari · 2 years

Text

Darling, if you Dare

Pairing: Miya Osamu x reader

Word count: 2.5K

Rating: MOF [miya osamu fluff] //17+ for language

Warnings?: inarizaki shenanigans//being locked in the club room with crushes

Notes: lowercase intentional & these two have this kind of relationship below

“miya osamu! you are insufferable!” your voice echoes across the promenade. surrounding students wait a moment before the chatter begins again and you hastily walk away from the rest of your fellow third years with a notebook in hand. said galaxy gray haired twin smirks up at you, raising his hands to claim his innocence.

“i’ll send ya my part o’the project tomorrow, ok?”

“nine-thirty tonight, miya or else i’m talking to sakamoto-sensei about taking your name off the presentation.”

“what?! can’t ya ask fer an extension?”

“the project is due tomorrow, dumbass.”

he checks his phone’s calendar and in bold letters the midterm project for that class in particular is staring at him in the face. why did he have to take art history, he didn’t know, but it was an elective credit and he needed one more art to satisfy the requirements necessary for graduation. bonus of being in this class was attending it with you. you were desk mates since first year and frankly, when you accidentally left a sketchbook behind in the gym after class one day, the volleyball club thumbs through it only finding case studies of different students from the perspective of the artist. the giveaway hint was one of osamu asleep during morning traditional japanese literature—they had just come back from an overnight away game—the clock read nine-forty. it was a rough sketch, the only detail? the undercut and vbc hoodie he wore with his textbook open. he remembers that day because you covered for him when he woke up to the teacher calling his name to ask a question:

“sir, he wasn’t feeling well,” you cleared your throat. “hay fever, i heard him in the hallway…”

miya osamu mouths his thanks and goes back to sleep. his muscles on his face make him smile peacefully at you. thanks to that encounter, there were many more to be had: lunch the next day, you were feeling kind of blue because you forgot your lunch at home, but you found an extra bento with his handwriting—girls from other classes were crowding your desk jealous of the gift. you stubbornly sit down and see what they were staring at, the box with chipped lime green paint was slightly warmed and inside were onigiris with little salads and cut star fruit. the girls scatter when they hear the twins argue in the halls, but the blonde one stops and points at his brother’s classroom.

“they’re pretty cute,” it’s all miya atsumu says and osamu glances at your smile. you’re three bites into the first umeboshi onigiri and you’re clearly enjoying it. shortly thereafter, when his brother leaves to take a make up quiz, osamu joins you. he introduces himself and after you do too. you thank him with the empty bento, holding the note in your other hand. sliding your phone out of your pocket he noticed the series of numbers you’re saving in your contact list. his vibrates during study hours before final period begins. months later, you’re glued by your classmate’s side as a barrier between the crazy fans of his and the ones for his brother who actually learn to back away when you’re with them. you explain to them the reason why these girls don’t wish to quarrel with you because of your pretty gangster look; the boys laugh. until you said your grandfather ran an underground armstice in hokkaido. you’re visiting him next week for vacation.

“yer kiddin’, right?” atsumu asks worried there was some truth to that.

“nope,” you smirk. “gramps was a bit of an odd ball. always looking over his shoulder, but when you’re in the business of buying guns, you could assume he had a few policemen in his pocket too.”

osamu lets out a low whistle instead. he’s beside you, mentioning he doesn’t care about your family’s yakuza ties.

“like at all,” much to his brother’s displeasure. “c‘ mon, ‘tsumu. yn said it was her grandfather. this was what? post great war two?”

you nod. “so there’s absolutely nothing my favorite sibling terrors should worry about, yeah?”

atsumu reluctantly nods asking for a souvenir while osamu asks for a recipe book about regional fishes. you promise to bring the gifts next week.

presently, you spot a fox with a snack bag from the school store. three years you’re familiar with the volleyball team; three years sharing a room with miya osamu and you’d think he caught on to how serious you are about fine arts classes. suffice to say when you decide to ambush him about the art history project you’re asked to be his partner for (he was absent because of extra practice before nationals), he puts schoolwork on the back burner leaving you to do almost eighty-five percent of the work. that includes creating a replica expressing the themes of what the original artist and painting were trying to express. luckily for you, the project subject you suggested was photorealism and being naked as a natural state. you had two months to work on it and now the day before it’s due, you confront the infernal free-rider with a fury rightfully placed on him. osamu’s gray hazel eyes glimpse up at you and he sees his heart slow down. sure being disappointed in losing a game, being scolded by his ma, and arguing with his brother all made its way to the surface of his face to hide the bit of shame attached to these. but being scolded by you, his other close friend, for honestly not pulling his own weight for this class you convinced him you needed to take to get into the art program at TUA was far worse—it was like being scolded by an ex, although in his eighteen years of life, he’s only had two.

“hey yn-chan,” casually you walk past suna, best friend extraordinaire to the person who had received your wrathful outburst.

“not now sunarin,” you grit your teeth before placing an awkward smile on your face contrary to the irk mark on your brow. “i’ll see you later. and tell ‘im to get his shit together.”

suna walks up to where his friend was sitting, offering a precious chuppet to the would be chef.

“what did you do? yn is pissed,” suna watches you leave and his attention turns to his friend who sighs into his hands.

“forgot about a projec’ we was doin’,” osamu explains. “we had nationals to worry about, but i could have started it and now…”

“it’s due tomorrow and yn did all the work?” suna guesses, osamu groans. “skip the last half of the day.”

“huh?”

“skip the last half of the day, go to the library or museum and work on the project. i’ll cover you because your brother is gonna be a bitch today.”

suna says this and the tea he spills about atsumu being dumped by the class vice president is hitting the rumor mill tonight on the student body’s social media tonight. osamu doesn’t think twice before grabbing his stuff when you’re in the art club room before he heads out of campus grounds. he doesn’t want you to feel like he’s failed you even if it’s a school project. the club, his team, he could handle all that. but you? failing a project worth a good chunk of your overall grade could make or break your transcripts being accepted, that alone, would hurt his pride even more because it was something preventative.

isolating yourself after dinner that night to put the finishing touches on a painting to go with the written report caused your parents to worry a bit. it’s not everyday their talented child decides to forego family game night, but times were changing, as you said. around nine-twenty-seven, your phone lights up with an e-mail notification. you turn on your desktop and once it completely boots up, you open the attachments from one [email protected] you read his portion of the report about american painter chuck jones and were caught scoffing at the selfie he took in front of the exhibit banner. you text him a thumbs up saying you read and received his report.

two weeks go by and as the rest of the third year class makes preparations for the entrance exams for the schools of their choosing, you and osamu are called into the faculty lounge. this was a double whammy of both art history teacher and your shared guidance counselor asking you which schools you were considering taking the exams for and in a surprise turn of events, asking to include your finished project in the sample of sketchbooks being reviewed for admission.

“i'm considering tokyo u's art program for fine arts and art history,” is your answer. you’re the first one to speak and the last one to concur amongst the adults there of the extreme conditions of the exams, yet you have this indecipherable blaze around you it’s scary.

“culinary school for me,” osamu answers their question too with an equal attitude, shifting the focus to him. "maybe attend tokyo for an internship in the future." the teacher and guidance counselor chuckle saying the two tracks suit the two almost graduates before them.

"yn-san, bring your sketchbooks to the art club room next meeting for critique and review," sakamoto-sensei says clapping his hands. he was the art club sponsor this year and seeing the president of said club with this air of finality in their path, it is clear you are to achieve greatness in small steps.

once classes had let out for the afternoon, you receive a text from suna and atsumu to meet at the volleyball club room. there wasn’t any emergency as one would have predicted when you’re asked to stop by, but today was locker clean out day. the boys wanted both their vice captain and the supposed reason his cheeks flushes scarlet (when he misses a toss) to confront talk about their suppressed emotions. well, more like suna bet atsumu snack-buying for a week that osamu would crack first where the blonde bet that you would not crack one bit. regardless, when you greet the underclassmen from the club, they say their goodnights to you making sure to mention that you’re coming into the room in case anyone else was still in their draws. hearing osamu call out saying that it’s fine, you bump into a half-naked suna, pulling a shirt over his head and one fully clothed atsumu.

“are you guys walking home together?” you have this cheeky grin on your face. you wink at them when they deny everything saying they’d wait for you and samu. "i think that's cute, even if it's a bit elementary school-ish for me."

"oi!" atsumu says, crossing his arms over his chest.

"what? yn-san's not wrong," suna says. he then picks up his stuff signaling atsumu it's time to head out.

“you’re not going to do anything stupid, are ya?” you narrow your eyes. what you don’t see is osamu staring at his brother and best friend as they deny doing anything like, “oh, i don’t know. locking you in here with the person who has a crush on you.” (<-suna)

they leave with this determined look on their faces and you hate the fact you hear the door lock.

osamu sort of blinks then panics when you’re banging your fists against the door calling the two on the other side “dead bastards.”

you regain your composure when you feel osamu’s hands wrap themselves around your wrists, turning you around. he has this slight blush spreading across his face and down to his ear lobes. the space between you is practically non-existent because he asks if you’re ok with a pointed eyebrow since he tends to worry about you more than he does his own brother. it’s a gentle kabedon when he adjusts his grip on your wrists into a lighter touch, his bangs brush against your forehead.

“you’re too close ‘samu.”

holy hell, have your eyes always been this crisp? why, why are you looking at me like that 'samu? your thoughts are linearly curious.

“Oh, hah, sorry,” he said, allowing your hands to slip out of his hold.

you notice his duffle bag filled with clothes and old jerseys from the last three years he had joined and played with this club.

“you were one of the best wing-spikers i heard,” you compliment.

he smiles a bit, raising a hand behind his neck. of all the times for him to be nervous, this was not one of them.

“'m not like aran-senpai,” he says, but his chest puffs out with a bit of prideful air from your comment.

“did i say i was talking about aran-kun?” you arch your brow at him.

“...no.”

you move to sit down on the bench in front of his things. osamu sends this confused look to you as you pick up the second year white jacket with his name embroidered on the chest and his number on the sleeve.

“what're ya doing?”

holding it up against your chest, you’re hugging the cleaned jacket with a definite hold. it smells like the miya house on laundry saturdays–lavender and spring rain softener was used the last time it was done.

“can i have this one?”

suddenly, you’re shyly hiding behind the collar of the jacket. osamu chuckles a little before placing an open palm on the crown of your head, gently tossing your tresses to one side like you have it for picture days.

“i was going to give you my graduation pin,” osamu confides in you when he steps aside to sit down in front of you. the jacket is the only barrier between both your knees from knocking into the other. the weight of his confession knocks you forward with butterflies spilling out of your mouth.

“hah?!”

“ don't pretend ya didn't hear me the first time.”

“...mm.”

he chuckles, covering his mouth like he’d turn into a cough. you, on the other hand, choose to place your hands on his face, checking if he’s feeling alright or if he’s catching a cold. you’re too close again, but neither of you care.

“walk home with me and i'll tell you how i feel,” you say, your lips dangerously hovering over his for a moment before backing down completely. “now text those two assholes to open the door and let us out. please.”

picking up the jacket off the bench, you unzip it to wear outside when the door slides open and suna is seen with a surprised expression as you walk by, tugging the jacket closer to your body. atsumu to this day, swears he was the winner of the bet, however he was seen at the combini buying seven different bags of chuppets.

elsewhere in the neighborhood close to the miya residence, neighbors had said that the vice captain was seen locking lips with the president of the art club, just like he was going to after making yn-san listen to him spill his heart out. you regain your composure when he says something foolish like apologizing for not asking to date you until right now. you hold his hand and bring it to the small of your back. you are sneaky when threading your fingers through the belt loops of his school uniform, jutting him forward to crush your lips on his again. your kiss is hard and deep, and you show him how to tease you tongue into his mouth. it’s appalling you know how kiss him, it’s a shame he hadn’t known you like this either. who taught you how to kiss like this? it didn’t matter anymore because miya osamu obeys your every whim. he isn’t shy at all when he kisses you fervently spelling ‘mine’ skillfully with his mouth. you leave him gasping when you ask him to come over later, your side window remains unlocked.

miya osamu sneaks in around eleven that night. you chuckle saying you didn’t know he’d take up so seriously. alas, when he kisses you again as a greeting, you return his affections when you instinctively kiss him back—every ounce of ‘weak in the knees’ feelings they had harbored together boils to the surface. enough of the residual heat from this passion project causes you to sit on his lap on your bed, half dressed knowing this is as far as you’re willing to go with each other for one night. resting your forehead against his, osamu nudges his nose against yours saying he’s determined to make up for lost time, yet you agree with a hum. he presses a kiss to your hairline saying he should sneak back out before getting you in trouble. you instruct him to lay down, saying sleeping over is an option because you’re worried he’d land in more trouble at home. he faces you and you him, short lived chuckles and giggles echo in your room before kissing each other one final time, holding hands under the duvet.

it is said the pair stared at their future with a bold look of arrogant determination like they always did at school–because long distance is meant to work out for those who are daring enough to win at love.

#sora scribbles 2022 #🌻— flying around collecting pollen—queue #sora after hours #haikyuu x reader #miya osamu x reader #hq fluff: miya osamu

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desastre-gay · 1 year

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If you need me (I'll be in my coffin) Chapter 1: I'll raise hell for you

Wilbur is fifteen when he learns how cruel the world is, running away from another abusive home with his younger brother Tommy in tow. He decides it’ll be the last. The alleys and doorways they stay in are dirty and damp, and Wilbur usually sacrifices his rest so that Tommy can sleep whilst he keeps watch. It’s always just been the two of them against the world, and it’s no different now. During the cold sleepless nights and long lonely days, there’s a comfort they find in one another.

Tommy is twelve when he learns how cruel the world is, he can see it on his brother's face when he tells him they can’t go home, and that they have to fend for themselves now. He understands why they left, he knows why Wilbur hides his face with his long brown fringe, and he knows deep down that it's his fault.

“Here, take this Toms.” The scratchy voice is easy to recognise and Tommy looks up at his brother through his overgrown dirty blond locks. He’s holding an apple, a solid chunk bitten out of it, offering it to the younger. He takes it and starts eating, quickly at first and then slowing down, remembering to save some for the brunet.

They’d been on their own for three months now, food reserves from their previous home long gone, and Wilbur has had no luck with finding a job. Resorting to scavenging for food in bins has taken a massive blow to both boys’ prides - they’ve changed, and they both know it.

The last establishment where the older brother tried to apply for a job had been connected to the alley they were staying in, and after being unsuccessful (as well as discovered behind the building) the owner chased the brother duo from their home.

They settled in a new one nearby, nowhere as nice as the previous and ultimately a massive downgrade. The floor is dirtier, clearly neglected, and rubbish is littered across the floor in piles. And now, sharing an old browning apple, they sit shoulder to shoulder.

“I wish we could go home.” Will knows it's natural for the younger to yearn for home, and yet he still feels a pang of pain at the fact he may not be enough, that he can’t provide for him.

“We can’t, Tommy.” It’s a harsh truth that he’s had to repeat so many times over the last ninety days, and it doesn’t get any easier to watch Tommy’s face droop in despair. He pulls his brother into his chest, resting his chin on top of the dirty curls, sighing deeply. “We can’t.”

“I know…” Water forms in the younger’s tear ducts, bottom lip quivering and eyesight blurring as a shudder racks his frame. Everytime this is how the exchange ends, and yet every time it manages to break the brunet’s heart.

“When I get a job-” He tries to start but is cut off by a frustrated yell.

“You’re never going to get a job! No one wants to hire you, why don’t you get that?!” Tommy turns harshly to come face to face with his brother, “We’ll never have a home again and we’re gonna fucking- die out here!” Harsh breathing echoes through the small alley, the younger Soot keeping himself at a distance from his older brother, face scrunched in anger.

The silence following his outburst is deafening, wrapping around the blond and swallowing him whole. “I didn’t mean that.” It’s instantaneous, an apology without the right words because they simply don’t need to be said.

“I know, Toms.” He settles back against his brother’s warm chest tentatively, pulling his tattered hoodie closer around himself. In turn Wilbur pulls his coat open and wraps it around the younger, dropping a light kiss onto his forehead.

“I promise, Tommy. I’ll get us out of here.”

“Ok, Wilbur.” He doesn’t believe the promise, but acts like he does for Will’s sake, knowing how much the older teen wants it to be true. Time passes in what feels like a minute, the sun setting in the distance and the world falling dark.

“I love you, Wilby.”

“I know, Toms.”

Backed by the star filled sky, the brothers help each other up and move, beginning the search for their new temporary home. Under the watch of the streetlights they inspect each alley and abandoned doorway, getting more and more desperate as the moon rises behind them, tiredness settling into their bones.

Turning the millionth corner of the night, Wilbur comes to a standstill, Tommy bumping into his back and stumbling a little at the abrupt stop. He grumbles at the sting in his nose before maneuvering his way around the brunet, jaw agape at the sight in front of them.

It’s a large alleyway, wider than any they have stayed in before, and it's clean . The floor is practically spotless, as though it has been recently power washed, and the surrounding buildings somehow look even better.

The young blond is ecstatic, and flings himself into the wide space to investigate. The older brunet flinches as Tommy practically flies past, hand reaching out to stop him. The boy does a little spin, coming to a stop when he completes a full 180 and is facing his brother, a huge grin upon his lips.

“Will! Can we stay here? Please!?” A childlike giddiness radiates off of the boy, one which Wilbur hasn’t seen in such a long time. He can’t bear to crush his brother’s excitement and so comes to stand in front of him.

“Let me see what’s around, and then I’ll think about it, ok, Toms?” He tentatively rests his palms against Tommy’s shoulders, showing a reassuring smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, then shuffles past him to get a better look at the surrounding area.

Tommy celebrates anyway, rocking back and forth on his feet as he fist bumps the air, knowing that this little space is perfect for them - perhaps almost too perfect. The brunet’s heart warms at the sight, knowing just how rare it is to see.

He meticulously scans the area, every nook and cranny poked and prodded, before coming to a decision. Wilbur turns to look at the blond, sitting cross-legged and leaning against the left wall.

“Okay, we can stay.” He’s up in an instant, sprinting to his brother and crushing him in a tight hug before he can even continue, “BUT! Only for a few nights, we don’t know how often they clean this place and we don’t want to get caught.”

The boy’s mood is unaffected, and only turns to swing his dusty backpack off, and onto the floor where he can open it. Wilbur does the same with his slightly torn duffle bag. They sort through their small amounts of belongings, pulling out blankets and small tattered pillows to set up in the far corner.

It’s not much, but it’s enough for the two brothers who huddle together to remain warm in the colder nights. By the time their sleeping area is set up it is well past any reasonable bedtime, and so the older brother guides the younger down onto the plush blankets, pulling his beat up trainers off and laying them next to the outer pillow. Before climbing onto them himself, he kicks off his own trainers, placing them next to Tommy’s.

Laying underneath the blackened sky, the two brothers embrace one another. Tommy is comforted by Will’s presence and the looming walls on either side of them, as he drifts off to a deep sleep. Wilbur stays awake, alert to the world around him, eyes constantly scanning each shadow that passes.

The next morning Tommy is woken by the bright sun shining down onto him, eyes fluttering at the sight to adjust. He’s instantly made aware that Wilbur isn’t there, which isn’t unusual - he usually leaves in the early hours of the morning to scavenge for food, or to try his hand at pickpocketing.

Waiting for his brother to return every morning has become part of the routine. Wilbur typically returns within the hour, afraid to leave Tommy by himself for too long, wielding whatever he manages to grab.

This time he returns with a wallet, relatively new going by the state of the leather. Walking past the blankets, the brunet drops it carelessly onto them and then seats himself at the edge of the makeshift bed. Head in his hands, he heaves a sigh whilst his heart clenches, aching at his own failure and shortcomings.

The blond notes the lack of food and is internally disappointed, but outwardly he simply shuffles closer to the older boy and rests his head on the shoulder closest to him. An unsaid conversation is shared in the silence, both used to the bad days by now. A few minutes pass and then Wilbur shakes his head, clearing his mind, placing a small smile onto his blotchy face.

“Let’s see who this belongs to then, huh?” A slight cough follows the croaky words, as the brunet reaches for the leather wallet and opens it. There’s no cash to be seen but a few cards line the small pockets, including a drivers license. A photo of a man is printed onto the left, the name ‘Phil-za Craft’ next to it. The man looks young, thirty years old at most, and blond hair frames his smiling face.

The other cards that remain are loyalty cards, some receipts stuffed between them - no credit cards. Taking out the license, Will holds it up to read the address, noticing the fact that it’s just around the corner from their temporary home.

“At least we can just post it through the door.” Ever the optimist, Tommy chimes in, snatching the piece of plastic and sliding it back into the wallet. Once he secures the wallet in his back pocket, he stands and gestures for Will to do the same.

“Lead the way, sir Wilbur!” And how could he ever deny his brother? Wilbur hastily stuffs the blankets and makeshift pillows back into their bags, throwing the back pack to Tommy, then stands and moves in the direction of the address.

It only takes fifteen minutes for the duo to arrive at said address. Going off of the wallet and loyalty cards, Tommy expected a nice, expensive house. What neither of the two were anticipating was a large building - reminiscent of a hotel, just nicer looking. One oddity which stuck out to the blond was the fact that in broad daylight, all curtains were pulled closed, none being forgotten about nor open just a smidge.

Strolling up to the looming double door, he disregards the quirk and slips the wallet into the letterbox, quickly spinning back around to skip back to Wilbur’s side. Grasping his brother’s arm, he forces him along, and they both run back to their designated home. The brothers are giddy, feeling a true childish nature rise up in them which had been repressed beforehand, laughing as they go.

Making it back to the alley, they see nothing has changed, still as spotless as they left it - still as empty. As they settle back into the area for the day, there’s a peaceful tinge to the atmosphere, humming between the boys. Catching their breaths, they turn to look at one another and break into another fit of laughter.

The day doesn’t seem as long after, and it's easier to breathe with the intensity of life being held at bay for at least a few precious moments. For now, anyway.

#dark sbi #possessive sbi #sbi fanfic #sbi family dynamic #sbi au #vampire au #crimeboys #emerald duo

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