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aggressive-positivity-network · 3 years

Note

Do you have any autistic Scout headcanons? :P

Hell yeah!

I’ve actually thought about this a lot. A lot of people might think that Scout has ADHD, but I think he either has both ADHD and autism or just autism.

This is both because labeling Scout as having just ADHD is kind of a low-hanging fruit, and I also want to explore his symptoms a little more. So, in a word, I do, and thank you for asking about them!

*****************

Scout’s Spectrum:

So, where exactly does Scout fall on the autism spectrum?

First of all, he probably has both ADHD and autism, but wasn’t diagnosed with the latter until much later. This means that some of his symptoms were taken into account, but not all.

The ones that were paid attention to ramped up out of control, and the ones he didn’t hear about were stuffed away.

His ADHD symptoms include impulsiveness, need for stimulation, hyperfixations, forgetfulness, and insomnia; his autism symptoms include trouble with social skills, stimming, near inability to remember names and faces, lack of eye contact, hyperfixations again, and sensory processing issues, especially with noise and touch.

He used to have a lot of meltdowns when he was younger, usually about wearing new clothes and the amount of noise his eight brothers generated.

However, he was teased and pushed into masking nearly all the time, and made his whole personality about his ADHD, since that was what everyone accepted.

As he got older, he usually wrote off any autistic tendencies as either his ADHD or just “little habits” of his.

During his middle school years, he used energy drinks to bounce back from being exhausted every day after school. This would work, except those energy drinks would upset his ADHD, and would make it much harder to focus on even basic conversation.

After a while, he got such bad grades and had such a hard time making friends that Scout just stopped going to school altogether.

Baseball helped his focus, and the quick movement and thinking made a lot of sense to him. He never had to wait very long for the next development, and the instant gratification and community it provided supplemented what he never got at school.

With sports on his side, he rarely ever drank any energy drinks (the coach would never let them on the field), and he drank bucketfuls of water during every meet and game. Those teenage years were probably the healthiest he ever was.

However, with the amount of rumbles he got into with his brothers, and the turf wars that constantly raged in those neighborhoods, it was only a matter of time before his crime caught up with him.

After his first incarceration, he was booted from the team, which led to a downward spiral of unhealthy coping mechanisms - which included fighting someone tooth and nail whenever he could.

Even if he lost the fight, it not only catered to his impulsive nature and impatience, but also gave him roughly the same sense of friendship and camaraderie that baseball had.

One thing led to another, and by the time Mann Co. found him, Scout was a monster in hand to hand (and bat to bat) and had racked up quite the criminal record.

A perfect mercenary, ripe for the picking.

On The Team:

Scout very quickly adopted the “stupid, scrappy Boston boy” persona.

It was the only thing that made sense, and it kept him from having to try too hard in both the battlefield and socially.

Besides, that meant that he could be as silly, forgetful, and fidgety as he wanted, and no one would bat an eye.

And if he ever needed to take a break from the team, he figured everyone would appreciate the quiet.

The only thing that ever gave him away was him occasionally dissociating right when battle began, especially if the day had been stressful.

It was usually how he calmed down after a fight when he was young, but now he sometimes slid into that state when he was overwhelmed.

However, a yell from one of his teammates would usually snap him out of it.

Medic noticed this pretty early on, and wanted to look more into it, but Scout would keep making excuses not to get a mental examination.

He would blame it on zoning out, being tired, drinking too many Bonks - whatever it took for people to stop asking.

And, eventually, they did.

Even Medic stopped asking after a while - he couldn’t get a thing out of Scout.

This “try so little that when you do try it’s above average” charade worked for a long time. In fact, it went on for so long that Scout forgot how much he was actually capable of.

He began to internalize the stupidity, the exacerbation, the many comments on how dumb he was, everything.

The only time he ever gave his all was on the battlefield - moving fast, memorizing strategies, doing complicated footwork, knowing exactly how much force it took to crush someone’s skull with his bat.

That was one of the only things that he felt good doing, the only thing he could really work on without him being “found out.”

That and drawing, though he never showed the actual pieces to anyone. It was all stick figures and crooked lines with everyone else.

Sometimes, though, Scout wouldn’t be paying attention and he’d let something slip.

One time, Engineer was looking for his screwdriver, and couldn’t seem to find it anywhere.

Scout, not looking up from his comic, said, “Under the couch cushion, hard hat.”

Engineer bent down and reached into the couch, and his hand came back with his red and yellow striped screwdriver.

“Well I’ll be damned…”

At first Engineer thought Scout had just hid it, but Scout explained, still not paying attention:

“Last time we went out on th’ field, you had it on your belt, like always. But I was walkin’ by your workshop, you were usin’ a quarter to tighten a screw or somethin’. Your screwdriver had to be somewhere between the battlefield and your workshop. Engie, you’re like freakin’ clockwork. Every day, after a fight, you go to the kitchen, get a water, go to that couch, between the second and third cushion from the left, and sit there. Then ya go back to the fridge to get lunch and a beer, and ya go to your workshop until somebody needs you for somethin’. Your back loop in your tool belt is looser than all the others, ‘cause the screwdriver pulls against it when you sit down. The shank was probably in between the two cushions, and when you got up, it fell in. Demo, Pyro, and Heavy all sit on the second or third cushion at some point, so it got shimmied down. And since that’s the only time you sat down, ‘cause you woulda heard it if it dropped on the floor, and I…uh…”

“I’ll be damned,” Engie repeated, and felt the back tool belt loop. It was indeed loose.

Scout finally looked up, and realized what had happened.

“Uh, uh - l-lucky guess, huh Engie?”

Engineer squinted behind his goggles. “Yeah…real lucky…”

What ensued was Engie trying to get Scout to turn into a B.L.U Spy by chasing him around with his wrench. After a few good hits, though, Engineer saw that it was the teammate he knew and loved.

“But…how didja…?”

Scout threw his hand up, the other rubbing the back of his head where he’d been hit.

“I toldja Engie! Lucky guess! Jesus!”

Ever since then, Scout chose his words more carefully.

The Breakdown:

But, unfortunately, Scout could not pretend forever.

There was one week where Scout’s assignment count was so high that, if he wasn’t in a fight, he was on a mission.

Usually, Pauling wouldn’t trust him with so much, but no one else was available - or willing - to do the jobs.

Even when she was getting concerned about the amount of hours Scout was putting in, he blew it off.

“It’s no sweat, Miss Pauling! Their practically givin’ me the pay day. Those yahoos don’t know who they’re messin’ with.”

Over time, though, Scout had a harder and harder time staying focused and alert.

He’d sleep through alarms, stare off into space, zone out completely during briefing (not that he didn’t already do that), have a hard time hearing people in battle - even through his headset - ignore Spy’s taunts, and even forget to bring his bat onto the field.

Nothing seemed to help - Bonk!, warming up, stretching, cold showers, setting reminders, nothing.

And the team was starting to notice.

At first it was with the regular frustration - maybe Scout was just being lazy.

But as time went on, and his condition grew worse, their scorn turned into worry. They implored Medic to do something, but he had no way of getting through to Scout.

The doctor wasn’t above simply sedating him and dragging him into his lab for a check-up. However, he had a feeling that this was more than a physical issue.

The worst came when Scout was doing a routine battle with the B.L.U team on the field.

Everything had started out okay - he even remembered to bring his bad this time - but suddenly, everything was ear-splittingly loud.

He couldn’t focus on more than one sound at once, much less communicate the best course of action to his teammates.

He ended up hiding in a dilapidated shed, in a dusty, dark corner, somewhere between zoning out and panicking.

Scout’s head was in his knees, he was shaking, close to crying, when a sudden splitting of wood roused him.

A B.L.U Soldier had kicked his way into the shed, either having heard Scout or to hide from the other team.

Scout was stunned at first, but something of a blind terror filled him. He picked up his bat, screamed, and started pummeling the surprised Soldier.

At some point, he threw aside his bat and began to swing punch after punch, just like he did in his gang days when he had felt overwhelmed. Still screaming. Still crying.

By the time Scout had dissolved into a rocking, sobbing mess, the Soldier was long dead, with a gigantic pool of blood staining Scout’s shoes.

No one even knew where Scout was until a few hours later, when Spy heard a faint note of “Sexbomb” coming from Scout’s Walkman.

Scout had crawled into the shed’s framework, between the outer and inner wall, and was playing a specific verse over and over and over again, looking like he was on another plane of existence.

Spy immediately called for Medic, who had to lift Scout out by the underarms through a jagged hole in the side of the building. By then, the fight was over, so they could take him directly to the lab.

Medic’s Evaluation:

“I’m guessing zhis is your first mental breakdown?”

“Mental…doc, I ain’t crazy. Wait, you’re not goin’ to put me in a straight jacket, are ya?”

“If you’re not doing anyzhing later.”

Medic started to laugh, but quickly realized this might not be the time.

“No, Scout, everyvun has a mental breakdown at least vunce in their lives. It’s a…how do you say…a vake-up call of sorts. Vhen your body has no other options left.”

“Whaddya mean?”

“For zhe past few months, you health, both physical and mental, has been deteriorating. You eat less. You talk less. Your attacks are lackluster. You have bags under your eyes. You flinch vhen somevun yells for you. You stare off into space. Your routine, vhich usually has at least some changes, has become stringent, as if you can’t possibly expend any more energy into extra activities. You have avoided Demoman on zhe battlefield, even though you usually use him for cover.”

Medic flipped through his notes.

“I have pages and pages of your decline. However, as a scientist, I believe it is caused by zhe same source. And, though I usually respect my patient’s right to privacy vhen it comes to these sorts of matters, I believe you’ve been keeping something from me. Something that I should know as your general practitioner…your doctor.”

Scout shrugged, already shutting out the conversation.

Medic sighed.

“Maybe I tried to talk to you about zhis too soon. After all, you’ve just had a very sudden and exhausting episode. But…perhaps…”

Medic took a sheet of printer paper from his clipboard and a spare pen from his pocket.

“…zhere is an alternative.”

Scout was still unresponsive, but Medic continued.

“Zhere is a patient in my vaiting room vis a metal pole through the chest. It vill take me at least an hour to properly remove it, and a few minutes more to heal zhe area. Vhile I do zhat, vhy don’t you draw how you feel?”

Medic smiled.

“I know how much it grounds you.”

It wasn’t until Medic left that Scout actually picked up the pen, but he began drawing immediately.

For the first time in a while, he wasn’t trying to hide his strokes or scratch up the cleaner lines. No more stick figures. No more pretending.

Five minutes later, he was fully engrossed.

Medic started to walk in at one point, but, seeing how relaxed Scout was, decided to give him a few more minutes.

He deserved it.

#tf2 #tf2 scout #scout tf2 #tf2 headcanons #headcanon requests #tf2 mercs #autism #autistic community #autistic culture #red team #blu team #valve games

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sondepoch · 3 years

Text

Lighter (3/5)

Breaking the Collar

Nine months in the human trafficking circuit has destroyed every sense of normality you ever knew. For you, it's commonplace to be ordered on your knees for your owner, his clients, anyone else Childe deems necessary—and you've reached a point where you accept it this misery, just going along with the motions of life because there's nothing else to do.

Diluc and Kaeya change that.

They enter your life on a regular workday afternoon, stepping inside Childe's massive office under the pretense of sorting out a business deal, but a single hastily written message makes it clear that they're not here to hurt you: they're here to help you.

The only issue is that you have no idea how to escape Childe.

MASTERLIST

There’s something demeaning about the outfit Childe has picked for you today. It’s nothing unlike what he had you wear when he last took you outside the apartment, when he brought you on a train to Xiangling’s restaurant, but the blouse and skirt he has you in today are looser than before, and skimpier, too.

The thought confuses you until you realize that it’s because where you were previously dressed like a regular girl, in fairly modest clothes that were designed to shy away from attention, you’re now dressed like a slave once more: like a little sex toy that can only wear thin, loose clothes so her owner, alongside all her owner’s friends, can have easy access to the pretty tits and cunt beneath.

It should make you sick.

Yet, as Childe slips his hand underneath your skirt to grip your thigh, the only thing that disgusts you is how easily you find yourself relaxing into his touch.

“Angel,” Childe murmurs into your ear, voice hovering lowly under the quiet buzz of the van you both sit in. “Angel, I have a present for you.”

That catches your attention. You turn your head to your owner, eyebrows lifted in confusion, as Childe pulls a box from his pocket.

Immediately, you know what’s inside.

The first few gifts Childe gave you were all varied: the very first was, of course, the necklace he gave you in place of the ugly, metal collar all the other girls have to wear. The second was his jacket, too tattered for him to use anymore but literal paradise for someone like you, who had already grown used to spending every waking moment naked. Then, his presents began to come in the shape of services rather than material objects—the decision to allow you to sleep on a bed, the decision to let you eat better-quality meals, the decision to spare you from being sent to Scaramouche for a beating as punishment for a stupid blunder you once made—but after a certain period, Childe had granted you all the freedom he could give.

Then, his presents had to change.

He began gifting you jewels, all of them in different colors but always unfairly expensive, to make your collar sparkle.

You make no haste in opening the black, velvet box Childe gives you, eyes bright. You don’t think twice about how embarrassing it is that he’s conditioned you to associate these little gemstones (probably worth mere pennies to a man as wealthy as Childe) with happiness, but even you can’t keep the smile off your face as you snap open the box and see a blue twinkle staring back at you.

“It’s a sapphire,” Childe explains, pulling the gemstone out by the short, silver chain it dangles from. “Since you told me that you like colorful stones.”

You remember saying that. It was true: being Childe’s favored toy meant that you were always by his side; it gave you no room for pastimes, and so you found that the most entertaining thing to do was toy with the shiny stones that dangled off your collar and angle them into the light to trace patterns into the ceiling. It’s an activity that works best with larger, colorful stones: the dainty diamonds Childe always used to gift you didn’t work half as well.

“Do you like it?” the man asks, staring down at you. “I thought you deserved a reward so behaving so well last time we went out. If you’re good this time as well, I’ll give you another one.”

I won’t be here for you to give me another one, you think.

“I like it,” you say, ignoring how your heart instinctively speeds up with—is it fear? concern? hesitation?— when that thought runs through your mind. “Thank you, Sir.”

Childe grimaces.

“I mean, Ajax.”

Calling him by his name is still a hard habit to get into, but you find that the syllables roll off your tongue much smoother now. Alas, you shouldn’t need to worry about it too much longer. Not if today’s meeting with Diluc and Kaeya goes as planned.

“Here, lean forward so I can put it on you.”

The way you arch your neck forward is familiar. You and Childe have been in this position countless times before, him always being the one to fasten his gifts to your collar, and it shows in how quick Childe’s fingers are in attaching the short chain of the sapphire to your necklace. Within seconds, you feel the task’s completion as you lean your head back and smile at your owner, the weight around your neck marginally heavier than when you both stepped inside this van.

“It looks good,” Childe says, squeezing your thigh gently. “You look good.”

“Thank you,” you say like a good little slave. Then, you decide to go the extra mile. “Ajax.”

The man doesn’t respond to that, opting to glance out the window as his driver speeds down the highway that’ll doubtlessly bring you both to the office Diluc and Kaeya share, but you can see the edges of his lips curling upward. It’s rare, after all, for you to address him by name. No matter how much he loves it, your tongue still says “sir” on instinct, a little crack in the homey picture Childe is building with you in his mind.

It’s not like it matters, you think, stopping yourself from thinking too much about your owner before you can begin to feel bad. If all goes well, I won’t ever have to see him again.

The thought instinctively brings a smile to your face, but it falls just as fast.

If.

Looking back, the message Diluc and Kaeya gave you was cryptic. ‘WE CAN HELP YOU’ provides no accurate timeline to place your hopes in. The second message, ‘COME WITH TARTAGLIA NEXT WEEK AND WE CAN FREE YOU’ was of the same nature. Up til now, you’ve been vaguely interpreting their words to mean that they would free you immediately if you managed to go with Childe to this meeting. But the human trafficking world is so complicated, and you can’t help but think that things may be delayed even longer.

All you can do is hope for the best and pray that reality won’t disappoint.

“How much longer?” you ask your owner after the view outside the window has changed from a highway to a cityscape.

“Impatient, aren’t we?” Childe chuckles. “We should be there any time soon. Keep an eye out. Their office is in one of the big buildings.”

That doesn’t tell you much, given that nearly every building this van drives past is over fifteen stories high.

You’re in the middle of scoffing at Childe’s poor description of the office when the car finally stops: and only then do you understand that when he said “one of the big buildings,” he meant the biggest fucking building in the entire city.

You’re gawking like a fool as Childe helps you out of the car, mentally overwhelmed at the sheer size of what has to be the tallest office in Snezhnaya.

“It’s…”

Big doesn’t begin to describe the grandeur of this place. It’s nothing you’d expect from two men who are working undercover to free people from human trafficking: it's got to be the most eye-catching thing you've ever seen, one hundred stories high or taller, with every inch of the exterior covered in wall-to-wall windows. It looks like an upscale version of Childe’s own office, and if you thought his building was lavish, then this is full-on opulent.

Your owner has to forcibly pull you forward to get you to move.

You almost forget to tuck your precious jacket—the one you so foolishly forgot when you last went out in public, the one Childe insisted you bring this time in case you have another episode—underneath your arm because you’re so busy marveling at the exterior of the building, though you thankfully remember to do so right before the van door closes.

“It’s nothing impressive,” Childe grumbles as he pulls you past the professional double doors. “Diluc and Kaeya are only renting the top ten floors here. They’re not even rich enough to purchase them.”

“Ten whole floors?” you ask, eyes round as you stare at the inside of the ground floor. Childe tugs you towards the elevator, and you’re just barely able to slow him down so you can stare at the marble floors, the expensive-looking paintings on the wall, the embodiment of wealth unlike anything you’ve ever seen. “Why do they need ten—”

“They’re sex traffickers, angel,” Childe tells you when the elevator doors shut. (You have to force yourself to refrain from marveling at how even this elevator seems posh and refined.) “They use the top floor for their own operations. The other nine are where they run their prostitution rings.”

Your face darkens at that. It must be the exact same as Childe’s office, where he has you and his other favored prostitutes up at the top with him, and all the girls he doesn’t want to show favoritism to are forced into the life they were meant to follow when they were brought into the human trafficking world: either as unpaid sex workers that are sold by the hour from Childe to other equally-awful clients or as human trafickees to be shipped to someone else if they prove to be too much trouble.

But then, you remember Diluc and Kaeya’s message.

‘WE CAN HELP YOU,’ they said.

There’s no way that they’re running a sex trafficking front up here. Childe must be wrong. It’s probably just a lie they told him to gain his trust so that they could best help you escape this life.

“They’re so arrogant,” Childe grumbles, crossing his arms. “I bet they chose this office just to piss me off. It’s bad business, too. They’re losing out on money by choosing such a fancy place. Not even the Snezhnayan sex work model will boost their profits.”

“What’s the Snezhnayan sex work model?”

“The system we use in the Fatui. It’s supposed to be the best, money-wise. You hand-train the elite girls as prostitutes so that the best ones become magnets for high-caliber clients. You sell off girls who don’t show promise early on. And then there’s a handful of average-quality, compliant girls you keep for the low-caliber clients that want a good fuck but can’t pay as much.” Childe folds his arms as he leans back against the elevator wall. “It's the most profitable method, even if it means that the girls you sell will always be low-quality.”

“Wouldn’t I be an elite girl?” you ask, staring at your owner. “You trained me, but I never had to work as a prostitute. And I only sometimes have to meet your clients, and—”

“You’re different,” Childe says, avoiding your eyes.

Immediately, you want to ask what he means by that. Unfortunately for you, the elevator doors open at that precise moment, and Childe leads you forward by the hand into an office that, now that you think about it, definitely was designed to upstage Childe’s own place of work.

“Come on, you can do it, baby.” A low coo from the left side of the room draws your attention, and your eyes widen in a mix of confusion, concern, and finally, horror.

“Ignore Kaeya. Focus on my fingers. Relax your throat, doll, yes, just like that…”

Even Childe stiffens when he sees the three men splayed out on a couch: Diluc and Kaeya sandwiching a youthful-looking boy between them as Diluc shoves his hand down the boy’s throat and Kaeya strokes the boy’s small cock.

For a moment, you don’t understand why the boy looks so wrecked, his braided hair dampened with sweat and his face covered in tears, but when your eyes watch as a trickle of sweat trails from the boy’s neck to his stomach, joining a copious amount of white fluid you can only imagine to be the result of countless orgasms, it’s clear that Kaeya’s overstimulating him. Add that to the way Diluc’s entire hand is slotted down the poor boy’s throat, and how the redhead is still stubbornly trying to get more inside, and it becomes clear that whatever this boy is feeling is far from pleasant.

The picture makes it irrevocably clear that this boy is to Diluc and Kaeya what you are to Childe.

Instinctively, you imagine how you would feel if you were in such a position. Your worst memory under Childe, after all, is from the time when you were handed over to four men who fucked into your G-spot so vigorously that you cried at any sensation for hours. Your second worst memory is from the time when a client forced a massive dildo so big you couldn’t breathe down your throat and left you like that until Childe intervened.

The idea of those two memories being combined into one makes you want to vomit.

“Fucking hell,” Childe grunts once he’s past processing the image before him. “Get your toy out of here. Do you have to be so disgusting?”

“Oh, please,” Kaeya responds, not an ounce of hesitation in his voice. He doesn’t stop stroking the boy’s cock. “You had your little angel out during our last meeting. Let us have a little fun now, alright?”

“Hell no. Even I don’t dabble in…” Childe sneers when he sees how young the boy seems to be. “Children.”

Diluc laughs, a deep, rich sound that reverberates through the room. “He’s older than he looks. We’re not scummy enough to deal in children, either, Tartaglia.”

“You’re scummy enough to have to share,” Childe says, scoffing. “What, did you guys spend so much money paying for this building’s rent that you couldn’t afford more than one kid to suit both your needs? The two of you look pathetic, you know.”

“I wouldn’t call it pathetic,” Kaeya offers. “It’s more like we know exactly what we want. And if we both want the same thing, we’re not going to waste our time with…” The man’s single eye skirts over your figure with purpose. “Cheap replacements.”

“Really, now?” You can sense Childe getting offended for you. “You think your little toy is better trained than my angel?”

“I don’t think it, Tartaglia. I know it.” Kaeya grins. He gives the boy’s cock another few strokes, going at the same pace, the small, red-flushed thing twitching furiously in response. “Just watch.”

Kaeya abruptly pulls back from the boy, lifting his hand in the air for dramatic effect, and one, two, three seconds pass where nothing happens. The little organ he’d been stroking still quivers, either from overstimulation or from desire, but the boy suppresses his orgasm, and you can see the desperate, shallow breaths he tries to take from around Diluc’s hand.

Then, it happens.

“Cum, Venti.”

On command, the boy keens, eyes rolling to the back of his head as his hips spasm and jerk up into nothing. Venti’s cock looks abused, a thought demonstrated by how little cum actually shoots into the air and onto his stomach, the substance looking more watery than it looks healthy.

You grimace when you understand how far Venti must have been pushed to reach this point.

The boy practically melts into Kaeya’s hold after the orgasm has left his body, boneless after something so intense, and the final shreds of resistance he’d been offering Diluc’s hand disappear as the redhead’s wrist edges deeper into his throat.

“Such a good boy, isn’t he?” Kaeya says, grinning as he strokes Venti’s hair, brushing the sweat-stained bangs from his forehead. “He’s ‘Luc’s favorite. We haven’t had any discipline issues from him in years. Same goes for the rest of our merchandise.”

Kaeya’s words are a shameless flex on Childe: a reminder that your owner’s girls are so often poorly-trained and that even you, the star of his trafficking business, are secretly planning on running away.

You don’t need to look up at your owner’s expression to see the raw annoyance plastered onto his face.

“No discipline issues?” Childe grunts. “So if I bought him from you and ordered him to kill himself right now, he’d do it?”

There’s a beat of silence.

Whatever response Kaeya was expecting, that wasn’t it.

Finally, Diluc speaks up.

“Venti, much like your toy over there, isn’t for sale.” Diluc withdraws most of his hand from the boy’s mouth, leaving only the tips of his fingers in such that Venti cranes his neck forward to suckle at them. “But if you want him gone that much, it’s fine. He has to go to work now, anyway.”

You can feel your eyebrows shoot up at that. Kaeya watches your expression, and he laughs.

“Sorry, girlie. I know your master over there likes to exercise preferential treatment with his pets, but we don’t do that in Mondstadt.” Kaeya gently pushes Venti to his feet, holding his hand until the shake of the boy’s feet subsides. “All our toys have to work. Favoritism should only go so far in a world like this.”

With that, Kaeya pats Venti’s butt and sends the boy off, and you watch in a mix of awe and horror as he stumbles towards the elevator to “work.”

If it were real, you’d be mortified.

Venti was overstimulated to tears, his legs wobbling the whole time as he stumbled past you, the apples of his fair cheeks flushed a feverish red. There was saliva dripping down his chin, cum still smeared on his stomach, and the reek of sweat and sex wafting off the entirety of his stumbling, nude form.

But you comfort yourself with the knowledge that it was all just an act.

You close your eyes and hold your jacket closer to your body as the elevator releases a low ding, forcing yourself to remember the message Diluc and Kaeya left for you that filled your heart with so much hope. What happened with Venti just now looked bad, but you’re certain that it was all part of their master strategy to deceive Childe until you’re free from him.

(If there’s a sudden thump of a body hitting the ground and a low groan from behind the elevator doors as soon as they shut, you force yourself not to pay attention to it.)

“Fucking finally,” Childe mutters as soon as Venti is gone. He shuffles forward and flops down onto a couch, pulling you with him. “Listen, I don’t want to be here any more than you guys want me here. Let’s get this over with quickly, shall we?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Kaeya mumbles, using a sanitized cloth to clean his hands before slipping his usual gloves back on. Next to him, Diluc does the same. “All we need to do is fix a transportation route for the merch, right?”

“Yeah,” Childe grunts. “I already have some ideas. I own a parent company that sells furniture. If we can legally frame our transactions under the branch of…”

You zone out as soon as they begin using human trafficking jargon you barely understand.

This meeting is much more civilized than the previous, if the whole incident with Venti can be forgotten. The jabs Diluc and Kaeya make towards Childe are much more subtle, popping up rarer, too, and Childe doesn’t openly taunt them with your body the way he did in the first meeting.

It takes nearly an hour before your owner even remembers you, and even then, his touches remain somewhat innocent. He only ever ghosts his fingers against your thigh, oft going down to drum his fingers against your knee while he continues to work out the logistics of his business deal. The touches honestly end up keeping you on edge with how delicate they are, and it’s right when his fingers have finally flitted up to the innards of your thigh, right when you’re holding your breath, right when Diluc and Kaeya’s eyes are fixated on where his palm has crept beneath your skirt, that his phone rings.

Immediately, Childe’s hands are off you.

“I have to take this,” he says, wrapping a protective arm over your shoulder as he beckons you to stand next to him. “In private.”

“Take the elevator down to the second floor if you want privacy,” Diluc offers. “It’s not being rented out, and there aren’t any cameras there.”

“Thanks,” your owner says, leading you towards the elevator.

“Wait,” Kaeya calls, right as you’re about to step in behind Childe. You glance behind your shoulder to stare at him, and the devious expression on his face concerns you.

Kaeya winks at you a second before Childe, too, turns to face him.

“Leave your girl here with us, will you? Give us a treat to nibble on to kill the time.”

Immediately, you think that Kaeya has said the wrong thing. Childe is a fiercely protective man, over you more than anything else. There’s no way he’d leave you in the hands of two men he barely even likes, and it’ll probably only cast suspicion in his mind to hear Kaeya ask for you so candidly.

You shut your eyes, instinctively preparing to hear Childe’s rejection.

Instead, his tone is light when he speaks, almost amused. “Finally seeing how high-quality she is, eh?” Your owner is smiling at Kaeya, not an ounce of irritation, anger, or protectiveness on his face. “Fine. This call will take a while anyway. Just make sure you don’t wreck her too much.”

With that, the redhead steps into the elevator and leaves you with nothing more than a featherlight kiss to the temple, and you’re standing there, dumbfounded, for a full ten seconds before you process what has happened.

Alone, you realize with a start. I'm finally alone with them.

Immediately, you sprint forward, grabbing Kaeya’s hand in an attempt to tug him off the couch, not caring about how you dropped your jacket on the floor in your rush.

“Come on,” you say, eyes wide. “If—if you want to set me free, we have to go now while he’s busy!”

But Kaeya doesn’t move an inch off the couch, instead pulling you onto his lap with a strength you didn’t realize he had.

“What are you—”

“Shh, baby. We have to put on a show in case Tartaglia comes back, yeah?” You feel Diluc shuffle behind you, and the redhead is quick to wrap his hands around your hips from behind.

The slowness, the casualness, the feigned normalcy of their actions dumbfounds you.

“Why aren’t we leaving?” you whisper, hands going up to grip at the fabric of Kaeya’s suit. “You said you’d free me if I managed to come to this meeting, so—”

“Relax,” Diluc mumbles into your ear, gloved hands sliding beneath your blouse to grope at your breasts. “Freeing you isn’t something we can do at the drop of a hat. It’s not just about you being here.”

“Right,” Kaeya says, his fingers slowly undoing the zipper on your skirt. “We asked you to come to this meeting to first check if it would even be possible to free you. A test, if you will. We weren’t sure you’d pass it. But if Tartaglia is willing to give you enough freedom to wander around with him, we figure you should also have enough freedom to do what needs to be done for us to free you.”

“What?” you whisper, trying to force back the tears that are pooling in your eyes. This is everything you’d feared: that Diluc and Kaeya’s idea of freeing you would be more complicated than you’d realized and that the whole process would require more time. “What do you need me to do to be free?”

“Aw, don’t cry.” Kaeya tosses your skirt to the floor right before he goes up to wipe away the tears from your face. “It’s not hard. We just need you to get ahold of Tartaglia’s fake documents on you.”

“His...what?”

Confusion is ultimately what brings a halt to your tears, and you cock your head naively at Kaeya right as Diluc speaks up.

“Fake documents,” Diluc explains, beginning to rub the front of his pants against your naked arse. “Every human trafficker has a series of documents for their merchandise that they can use for transportation and claim purposes. We need to get yours from Tartaglia.”

“Why can’t you take me away without them?” you plead, still clinging to the hope that you might be able to go free today. “Why do I have to—”

“Because, depending on how smart Tartaglia is, he can use those documents to rightfully get you back, even if we set you free.”

“What?” you ask. “How?”

“Think. If he has you listed on those documents as a minor, then the State can only do so much to protect you. Especially if he has himself listed down as your guardian. Even if you try to speak out against him, the Snezhnayan police won’t care. They’ll send you straight back to him, and you can bet that whatever freedoms you have now will be forever lost to you the second time around.”

“B-but, if I can prove that I’m not the person in his fake documents—”

“You can’t prove that,” Kaeya interrupts. “If you’re lucky, Tartaglia’s fake documents would be low-quality. But if he was smart, which we both know he is, then his documents will be of a high-enough quality that people will believe them when they see them. And unless you happen to have your official documents on you, there’s nothing you can do to protect yourself except steal the papers from Childe before he can use them.”

The annoyed, almost bored inflection of Kaeya’s voice shakes you to the core. They rattle this information off so quickly, so intuitively, so earnestly that you have no choice but to believe them.

“Okay,” you whisper, voice shaky. “Okay, I’ll do it. I’ll get the documents you want.”

“Do you know where he keeps them?” Diluc asks.

“I think so. He has a locked briefcase that he always keeps in his office. I don’t know the combination to open it, but I should be—”

“Good,” Kaeya interrupts. “You seem like a smart girl. I’m sure you can figure it out.”

“Y-yeah,” you say, hesitant. The man’s words seemed like a compliment, but his tone felt much more derisive. “Um, is that all, or is there anything else I—”

“That’s all,” Diluc says. “Two weeks from now is when we’ll be ready to get you out of here. We’ll be staying in the hotel across from Tartaglia’s apartment. The two of us will be in rooms 213 and 214. Come find us at any time, and as long as you have the documents on you, we’ll be able to set you free.”

Your heart beats a little faster at that.

“Really?” you whisper, almost not believing it. The goal you’ve been given is finally real: it’s tangible, so clear that you can already see yourself using something sharp to tear into Childe’s briefcase and retrieve your documents before you’ll finally be able to live a life you can be proud of.

Kaeya smiles when he sees the look on your face.

“Really,” he whispers, reaching a rough, gloved hand up to cup your cheek with infinite care. The kiss he coaxes you into is gentle, soft, and sweet. It’s everything he is, everything Childe isn’t.

“Thank you,” you whisper, leaning forward to wrap the man in a hug. You don’t care about the fact that Diluc has unbuttoned and pulled off your blouse now, leaving you effectively nude as you embrace Kaeya, but he doesn’t seem to mind either. “Thank you so much.”

“You’re welcome,” the man whispers in response, and you can hear the smile in his voice.

The next minutes are marked by more peace than you’ve felt in months. Sandwiched between Diluc and Kaeya, you feel oddly safe. The roughness of their gloves stops bothering you, the silky brushes of their hair stop tickling you, and the closeness of their bodies, the warmth and the heat that radiates off them as naturally as light off the sun, only relaxes you in their arms.

When Kaeya begins playing with the jewels on your necklace, you don’t stop him.

“Tartaglia gave you this?” he asks, tugging gently at a diamond.

“Yeah. They're all presents for being good.”

You can’t help the smile that blooms on your face as you say that: it’s like a reminder that you’re special, that you’re important, that even though you’re down in a world where your life isn’t even your own, you still have worth.

Behind you, Diluc’s fingers reach over your shoulder and begin lifting up individual stones to the light. “These are expensive,” he mutters, twisting a ruby among his leathered fingers. “More expensive than what someone would normally give to a slave.”

“I know,” you say. “It's because this is supposed to incentivize my good behavior, and—”

“No,” Diluc interrupts, voice soft. “It’s supposed to manipulate you.”

Your voice catches at that, and you glance at Kaeya for confirmation because you doubt it can be true. Not when Childe always seems so sweet when he gifts you these presents. Not when you've come to look forward to them as the one light in your life in this dark, dark world. But when the blue-haired man’s face twists into sympathy, your heart falls.

“B-but...I like…”

“You’re supposed to like it,” Diluc’s voice, rich and deep, rumbles out into your ear. ”But you need to understand that it’s not a necklace, doll. It’s a collar.”

“I know that,” you say, now wrapping your fingers around the chain protectively. “But I don’t—I don’t want—”

Kaeya kisses you, bringing two hands to your cheeks to cradle your face in his fingers.

“We’re not going to take it away from you, baby.”

He kisses you again.

“Relax.”

Those words soothe you in a way you can’t quite explain; the idea of losing your necklace, even being told that your necklace was a ploy to manipulate you (though you already knew that, to some extent), was unsettling. You much prefer the notion that it’s an innocuous gift: mainly because you’ve grown far too attached to it for it to represent human trafficking and all the pain you’ve had to endure thus far.

But, right when you’ve calmed yourself and forcibly stopped yourself from panicking, you feel a sharp tug on your neck.

“What did you—”

“Nothing,” Diluc says, holding two gemstones—two diamonds, one blue and one pink—in his palm. They still have their chain attached to them, but that's it: there's nothing connecting the diamonds to your necklace, the chains having been ripped off. You feel your expression change as you see what he's done. “Just—”

“What did you do?!” you blurt, panic beginning to overtake your heart. “Childe—Ajax—he’s going to notice! I—I’ll get in trouble, and—”

“Shh,” Kaeya whispers, trying to calm you down with a kiss, but you pull back before his lips can touch you. “It’s not—”

“Put it back. Put it back!”

You've turned around and are about to hit Diluc when the man grips both your wrists, holding you with such a force that it freezes you. The look in his eyes is fierce, fiery, red eyes shining brighter than the rubies dangling off your neck—and for a single second, you can’t help but think that the man looks furious.

Then, the expression is masked, and you’re both left calmer for it.

“Tartaglia won’t notice. Unless he makes a habit of regularly counting what’s on your neck, only you’ll be able to feel the difference.” Right. That makes sense. Childe likes to look at your necklace, but you doubt that he’ll actually know how many presents he’s gifted you. Not when he barely touches the thing, dexterous fingers always reaching out to feel your body instead.

“And besides,” Diluc says, easing you back into your earlier position with your back resting against his chest. “It’s a promise. The two diamonds.”

“A promise?”

In front of you, Kaeya smiles in understanding.

“Right. It’s a promise, baby. We’ll give you these two diamonds back once we’ve freed you, and until then, they’re our weight to bear so that every time we look at them, we remember that we’re waiting for you so we can set you free.”

“It...is?” you ask, hesitant. You haven’t been in the outside world in a while; is this how people do promises now?

“Yes,” Diluc mumbles, kissing your ear as he strokes your hair. Every brush of his fingers against your head instinctively relaxes you, until you’re almost as calm as you were before he took two stones off your necklace. “Do you trust us to return them to you?”

It’s a disguised question.

What Diluc is really asking is this: Do you trust us?

“Yes,” you breathe. It’s the only right answer.

Then, the two men go silent. They focus on relaxing you once more, running their gloved fingers up and down the sides of your body, almost massaging your skin as you sit between them.

Unfortunately for you, all you can think about is your necklace.

It’s the first time you’ve had it be lighter than before: Childe only ever adds to it; he never takes. Now, right when you’d grown used to the weight of the sapphire he attached this morning, you’ve got the odd situation of it being even lighter than it had been when you woke up.

You know that you should feel freer now: less chained down to Childe and to the Fatui.

But deep down inside, you miss the weight.

Minutes later, when you’re a little less emotionally overwhelmed and a little more relaxed as the two men gently run their arms around your body, another thought surfaces.

“A-also,” you say, hesitant. “Um, everything you said at the beginning of this meeting…”

“All lies,” Diluc says, pulling you closer against his broad chest after you slink too deep into Kaeya’s embrace. “Tartaglia had a negative impression of us coming in, so we had to play to that. Everything we said was just for show.”

Your shoulders sag in relief at that, but another thought continues to poke at your brain.

“And Venti?” you finally manage to ask, remembering how ruined the boy had looked as he stumbled away from the two men holding you.

“He’s a masochist,” Kaeya blurts. “We asked him beforehand if he’d be okay with participating. Not sure he realized how all-out we were going to go, but I’m certain that he enjoyed himself.”

That...makes sense! You’ve heard before about masochists, and looking back, everything Diluc and Kaeya did to the boy really did seem to be for the sake of his pleasure. You’ve heard countless times about overstimulation being something sexy, something desired, something liked by the select few who could bear it. Similarly, the way Diluc had his hand down Venti’s mouth...that’s the equivalent of Childe having you suck on his fingers during sex, right?

You laugh a little when you realize that everything you’d been scared about had an explanation. You should have known better than to doubt Diluc and Kaeya, two people who are saving you from hell itself. If anything, you should be on your knees thanking them instead of raising questions over what they had to say to be able to help you out.

“I’m sorry for all the questions,” you confess, sheepish as Kaeya’s fingers begin toying with your breasts. “I’m just...really nervous. And a little scared.”

“Who wouldn’t be?” Kaeya asks, a tinkling laugh spilling from his lips. “We were the same way when we first came out here to save people from human trafficking.”

“Really?” you ask, eyes round. “Do you guys do this for a living? How many people do you save?”

“Uh...whoever we can, really. We use our covers as human traffickers to identify targets that would be easiest for us to free. You seemed like one. Before you, we helped that boytoy from Zhongli. Before him was some Khaenri'ahi girl, and…”

Zhongli? You ask yourself, trying to figure out where you know that name from. It’s familiar, so familiar, and…

“Wait!” You blurt, sitting up straight and nearly knocking Diluc backward in the process. “You guys were responsible for freeing Xiao? The one who’s always by Zhongli’s side?”

You remember the short little man, beautiful in his own right, from when Childe had a business meeting with Zhongli. That was the first time you learned of Xiao, the last time being just last week when you heard Scaramouche say that the green-haired boy had somehow disappeared.

Hope blooms in your heart as soon as you realize what that disappearance was: the successful removal of one more slave from the human trafficking network, something you're next in line for.

Diluc lets out a light laugh when he sees how your entire face has brightened up now that you have genuine proof that these two men are for real, that they’ve helped people escape in the past and that they’ll help you escape in the near future.

“Wait, if you guys freed Xiao, then were you also the ones responsible for setting, uhm…”

Your brain blanks out as you try to remember the second person Scaramouche mentioned when speaking to Childe. What was her name? Amine? you think, but that sounds off. Umino? Lumina? You continue to guess names in your head, brain fixating on Childe’s interaction with the other Fatui executive until finally, you remember her name.

“Lumine!” you declare with pride. “Were you the ones who set her free, too?”

Kaeya stares at you with a shocked expression. His lips part and his face freezes, eyebrows lifted comically high on his forehead, and you turn around to glance at Diluc, but the redhead is in a similar state.

“You’re telling me,” Kaeya begins, “That Lumine...”

He can’t bring himself to finish, and so Diluc steps in to complete the question: “Lumine belonged to Tartaglia?”

You glance back and forth between the two men, unsure of why they seem to be regarding this news with such shock.

“I think so?” you say, now beginning to doubt yourself. “I’m not sure. But Scaramouche said something like that to him, so I—”

You’re cut off by a sharp cackle of laughter from Kaeya. You stare at him in shock, and then behind you, Diluc has begun chuckling, and then Kaeya’s laughing even louder, and within seconds, both men are laughing their heads off at something you barely understand.

“Oh my gods!” Kaeya blurts between fits of almost-hysterical giggles. “You’re telling me that Tartaglia? Fucking Tartaglia? Was the one to lose Lumine?” He laughs some more, loud and merry and cheerful. "So I was right when I called you a—a—" Kaeya stutters in his laughter. "A cheap replacement?"

You stare at the blue-haired man in confusion, not understanding a word of what he's saying nor why he seems to find it so hilarious that Childe and Lumine are connected. You want to open your mouth to ask why, but you have to stop yourself because it's at this precise moment that your owner returns; and this is the picture that Childe sees when the elevator dings with the announcement of his arrival: you, completely nude and squashed between the two Mondstadt business partners, Kaeya in front of you, laughing his ass off as if you’ve told the joke of the century, and Diluc behind you, the most stoic man in the room losing his composure in an equally graceless manner.

“What the fuck…” your owner mutters at the sight, but seeing Childe only makes the two men around you laugh harder.

It takes a full minute for them to calm down, and in that minute, you rise from their couch and move back towards Childe like an obedient slave, only wearing your clothes when Childe nods at you that it’s okay for you to do so.

“So,” Childe deadpans once Diluc and Kaeya have finally stopped laughing, though Kaeya still releases a giggle every now and then. “Did my girl tell a funny joke or something? You guys sounded like a bunch of dying hyenas.”

“Something like that,” Kaeya says, smiling at Childe, but you sense something deadly in his eyes.

“Alright, well…” Childe awkwardly tries to steer the conversation back to what they’d been discussing before. “I guess the final details will have to be ironed out once I actually use this company as a cover to ship the girls to you, but is there anything else we need to talk about? Transportation-wise, we seem solid.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Kaeya drawls, a strange smile on his face. “But, real quick, I want to talk about prices one more time.”

“For fuck’s sake,” Childe grunts, annoyed. “We already agreed on five-hundred thousand mora per shipment. Don’t try to haggle with me again on this.”

“Ordinarily, you’d be right,” Diluc says, crossing his arms. “But we just learned some interesting information.”

Childe’s eye twitches in annoyance. “Right,” he blurts, leaning back. “What is it? Did you find out that I’m giving a better deal to someone else? Because that sucks, but that’s how this business works with new partners. I’m not going to—”

“It’s not that,” Diluc interrupts, lifting a hand. “It’s moreso that before, we thought we were purchasing merchandise from a valued, respected dealer.”

Diluc’s lips quirk into a cruel grin.

“Not from the infamous idiot trafficker who lost Lumine.”

You can hear the ice settle over the room before you feel it, the abrupt, chilling silence suddenly making every second feel like an hour. You’re almost scared to move, scared to pull your eyes to your owner who, for the first time since you met him, looks like the child his codename was assigned for.

Childe doesn’t try to speak, but his every thought is displayed in his eyes alone, the cerulean blues giving insight to a hurricane of emotions wilder than the sea. In his eyes is fear, horror, despair, and pain, so much pain.

Something about the look on his face makes your heart break.

Diluc and Kaeya don’t care.

“I think charging five hundred thousand mora is a tad much for a douche who almost brought the entire industry down. Hell, you should be paying us for even being willing to deal with you, but…” Kaeya glances at Diluc, a single blue eye flitting down to where Diluc extends three fingers against his knee. “We’ll settle for a drop in the price instead. Three-hundred thousand mora per shipment. That good with you, Tartaglia?”

You’re expecting your owner to bargain, to argue, to scoff, to do something other than stare into the distance with those bright blue eyes that now look more blank than anything else.

When you hear Childe mutter a meek “Okay,” you nearly recoil in shock.

Even Kaeya is surprised. “R-really? Damn. Actually, I think we should go even lower, y’know? Every trafficker in the world was scared for their life because of you, so maybe drop the price some more as reparations for that? Whaddya say, two hundred thousand? Per shipment?”

You stare at your owner, silently begging him to do something. Even you can tell that he’s being taken advantage of now, and that awful look in his eyes is something that even you’re unfamiliar with.

“Okay.”

“Fu...okay then? But also, you were kind of a dick to us last time, so how about you make it one hundred thousand? Seems more fair to me.”

“O—”

You grab your owner’s hand before he can agree, and the touch seems to snap Childe out of the awful fog that had been wrapped around his head. The look in his eyes is only less marginally troubled when he abruptly stands up, gripping your hand in a silent plea for you to move with him.

“I’m going,” Childe announces.

He begins walking away so fast that you just barely have time to grab your jacket before you’re at his heels.

The man completely ignores Diluc and Kaeya as he waits for the elevator to open with a rigid posture, seeming to feel uncomfortable or fearful or panicked or a mix of all three. Kaeya begins laughing behind you both, and you almost want to tell him to stop: tell him that yes, Childe is an awful human trafficker and yes, you hate him as well—but the poor man looks like he’s on the verge of having a panic attack, and you know first-hand how awful a feeling that is.

You’re grateful when the elevator finally opens, more grateful when the doors close and you and Childe are finally in isolation together.

Only then, in the silence of the box as it moves you both down to the ground floor, do you hear Childe’s shaky breathing. It’s jagged, uneven. Then, you take note of the way his hands are clenched into fists, palms enclosed so tight that his arms are shaking—and despite everything he’s done to you, you feel some semblance of pity for him.

“Ajax,” you mumble, hoping that the name will calm him. “Relax.”

A moment of silence.

“I am relaxed,” he responds, and when you glance over at him, he’s completely back to normal: breathing even and palms loose.

His eyes, though, are just as pained as when the two of you were sitting upstairs on that couch.

“I’m sorry,” you say. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that you’re the one who let it slip that Lumine and Childe were connected. Even if you don’t understand the scope of what you said, it's clear that it had an impact. “I didn’t—”

“It’s not your fault,” Childe says, not looking at you. “Don’t apologize.”

More silence. It feels heavy, unlike the usual, comfortable stretches of quiet that you and Childe like to bask in.

“What...were they talking about?” you ask quietly, still staring at your owner. “Diluc and Kaeya said that—”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

A moment of silence.

It feels so heavy that it seems to crush you under its weight.

“Who is she? Lumine?”

More silence.

This time, Childe is the one to break it.

“The only girl I ever loved before you.”

That’s a lie, and you know it. If Childe loved you, he wouldn’t be bringing you around to meetings, dressing you like a cheap slave, and handing you off to other men to flex how ‘high-quality’ you are. If Childe loved you, you would be long gone from the human trafficking circuit because he would have set you free. If Childe loved you, he wouldn’t force you to stay by his side because he’s your abuser, your trafficker, the monster that haunts your life.

Most importantly, if Childe loved you, he would have given you a proper answer to your question. Not some flimsy skirt-around that only furthers his attempts to manipulate you into loving him back.

Your eyebrows furrow the slightest as you feel the elevator hit the ground floor, brain still focused on everything Diluc and Kaeya said. Everything Childe didn’t want to talk about. Lumine.

Curiosity begs you to stick around and learn the truth.

Logic, reasoning, and the desire to lead a life of your own tell you that you’ll be long gone from Snezhnaya before that’ll ever happen.

MASTERLIST

Word count: 7.9k

Notes: eyyyy i'm alive! i promise i never forgot about this fic, it's just that after i missed the original due date, my mind was just like 'eh, it's already late, what's a few more days?' and that's the story of how this is two months late. thank you to all the kind commenters from the last chapter - to the people who checked in on me, ily; to the people who sent me those wholesome asks on tumblr, ily ily; and to the people who made guesses on what would happen in future chapters - guess what :D you acc helped me shape this :3 i originally meant for lumine to be a passing thing mentioned once and never again, but she'll end up being important for chapter 4 ^^ so thank you to everyone who'll still be here after i disappeared for so long. hope you liked this chapter (lmk your thoughts!) and i can't wait to see you all in the finale <3

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Next Update: 6/11

I do not own the rights to Genshin Impact or any of the characters within it.

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sweetpickolwarrior · 3 years

Text

The Three Times You Didn’t Want Them To Hear You, The One Time You Did (Part 3)

Established fic

Small!Brown!Female!Reader

Not too apparent but just letting you know in case.

Fic summary: You have been travelling with geralt and Jaskier for quite some time, you had always been told that your voice would take you places before you had no choice but to abandon your previous life. You still loved it though. This fic explores the times you let go and let yourself sing. We also explore your backstory and the developing relationship with your older and protective companions :)

PART 1 HERE PART 2 HERE

Chapter summary: Bit of a filler chapter, the wait was more so to plan out the rest of the story clearly. Y/N wants to repay geralt for his kindness and show Jaskier that she does not hate him, but has trouble with words and such. Further apologies for the wait... enjoy!

The fact that you had not been sober enough to truly appreciate the room that Geralt had decided to treat you with left you with a pang of guilt, but a wavering reluctance to bring up anything about that night lest he unnecessarily recall the sound of your voice. You don’t suppose he cared much, as far as you could pick out from that night, it wasn't something that mattered very much to him… but then why the room? The situation slightly baffled you. You much preferred going from contract to contract, tavern to tavern, losing yourself in the endeavours of your companions. You roamed the streets of this new, unusually pleasant town, the bustle of the morning bubbling through. Your mind turned to the small sack you had swaddled at the very bottom of your pack buried beneath your myriad of gatherings from your travels. A small, worn leather sack with a drawstring through the top, wrapped in an old sock that had outlived its original duty a few winters ago sat almost full, the weight of the coin inside at most an apple or two. You had kept it for emergencies, a few loaves of bread and some meat if rations had become sparse, a promise payment for a healer or mage, should one or more of you fall incapacitated while coin was low, an emergency room should the cold threaten to settle in someones bones too cosily, and should you feel the need to express gratitude to a generous but stoic witcher, apparently.

You wandered past a bakers stall, sweet pastries dusted with sugar beckoned, small honey dipped loaves with specks of lavender peeking through the golden slopes glinted in the morning light, puffy buns that had been baked with a clever twist in the top to result in a soft swirl sat in a neat row identical to the sweet fresh bread Jaskier had pressed into your palm earlier. You cringed at the thought of leaving so abruptly and didn't like all this coaxing going on, and hoped he would drop the subject so you could shove the topic down your tunic and carry on your simple shenanigans with the bard.

You strolled through, eyes on the dry dirt of the worn path through the centre, ladies walking with shawls wrapped tight around their shoulders gave you curt, tight-lipped greeting smiles as you passed through looking thoroughly disheveled. You had given up on dresses, petticoats, stockings and other such extraneous garments when tripping up on hems or sweating through layers upon layers had become more trouble than your chagrin had been worth. A tunic and breeches were sported now, along with unkempt, thick jet black hair. You tended to forget what a sight you would be to normal folks, constantly surrounded by the bard in his gaudy and intricate clothing (you still didn't know how he survived on the path) and a burly witcher clad almost always in armour and under that, similar garments to yourself. you supposed the three of you stuck out like an arrow between the eyes. Your mind flashed to what your mother may have said should she see you like this. It confused you for a moment, these memories suddenly deciding they were welcome in your conscious thoughts over the past few days. you stuffed the sudden pang of guilt and shame back into oblivion as your hands moved to your tangled mop, carding roughly through so you may find some semblance of being put together.

~~~~~~~~~~~

You tried hard not to cast your eyes down to your fingers, out of practice as they were. You tried to feel the sections, pick up more as you went, comb through soft with your fingers lest the ends get tangled, keep hold of the ribbon. Roach was being very patient with you. The fire warmed your back as you sat on your knees, tending to a horse who had decided to sit for you. You didn't know much of equine tendencies, but had heard that horses do not sit save for when it was going to rain. Your mind moved to days where your little troop had no choice but to trudge through hail, rain and thunder. She did not object and kept on wonderfully through these times and was rewarded with kisses and slips of dried fruit from you later on.

She had decided to understand what coaxing her to the floor with a brushing, soft words and rubs on her neck had meant that night and folded her legs, coming down with an impressive and somehow graceful thud. You supposed you couldn't know everything about everything and the clearest answer was that she’s just a very good girl. You relaxed as your fingers fell into a rhythm - right strand, left strand, ribbon, taking care to adjust the material so the nicer side was showing. “Expensive.” Geralt stated simply from behind. He was checking through his own pack, counting off vials of witcher potions and such. “Yes, well - an extra room must have cost.. and the food I didn’t touch” you focused on your hands, knowing Geralt was probably trying to avoid eye contact, too. After hearing a somewhat soft “hmm”, your attention returned to your fingers, having now grown a mind of their own. Roach’s auburn mane turned a dark coal in your minds eye, her soft huffs to small complaints of tugging too hard “hush now, or it won’t look nice” you barely whispered as her head jerked, it was an impossible task to try tie the hair of any child into a neat row, your sisters no exception. Your breath slowed as your mothers lullaby sat in between your lips, you tried to grasp the first note of the soft song.

Sisters? Here?

Your knees were cold and sore, kneeling on the ground so long, knobs of grass settling aches into your muscles; your hair unkempt and hastily scraped back, with a small leather tie, bumps hilling over your scalp that you had no care of. Your hands were dirty, grubby from foraging scraps of dry wood to keep warm through the night. Calloused from the past few years of plucking the string of your bow with arrows that reminded you with every swift hit that death was something permanent, immediate, inescapable. These hands were not the same ones that softly put braids in your sisters’ hair. These calluses were not the same ones that came from making music.

The first note of that bloody lullaby froze on your toungue.Best to stop trying to live in the past. Not that you were, trying that is. You wanted nothing more than those memories to keep sitting in the little box in your mind where they were meant to be. Happy, silent, unbothering. Instead they kept feeling the need to rise up, to pester you and drag you away, remind you that those days would never come back, that your whole life had vanished.

Well, this was your life now and different as it was, you needed to live in it. You pushed away the offending memories for the second time that day, focusing on finishing Roach’s mane.

Impeccable timing as always, Jaskier came strolling through after having washed everyone’s clothes in a nearby stream, no doubt a vein of the river you had found yourself in those few days ago. “Honestly, why do I bother? They're bound by fate to stink of ash and dirt anyway- I know! I could write a shanty about the smoked Witcher’s shirt - a real pub sway! Sometimes he smells of heroics and adventure! The whiff of a lady’s perfume often, but will always return to the ash of a trusty campfire” he leaned to put the folded pile down neatly. You were in awe of how these thoughts came running from your musical friend, you were convinced that he could write a song about watching clothes dry and still make it magnificent.

Ah. Exactly.

A dramatic gasp came from the bard, no doubt with a soft hand upon his chest. Your fingers tensed as you pat roach and tried to seem as nonchalant as possible.

"Now! Which one of you has been able to tie a bow so pretty all this time?”

You had laced the ribbon, as careful as you could to not disturb the strings, behind where they were pulled taut to the tuning pegs of Jaskier's lute, taking care that the tails would not brush against the front or impair his hands while playing. The ribbon you had bought was a soft lavender colour, embroidered with a deep violet, floral and feathery motifs weaving through the sleek fabric. You turned to see Jaskier caressing the fine fabric “I shall have to have an outfit made to go with this! Oh what a look that could be for the bardic competition this autumn! Simply revolutionary, a great stride forward in musical fashion! Bows woven through lutes, gods-” a theatrical palm to the forehead “How had I not thought of this before- and Roach! Oh! Exquisite, Y/N,” it seemed he had finally clocked onto the fact that this was your doing, both you and Geralt huffing amusedly as he was practically flying with excitement “I daresay Roach could be a fine show horse! Beautifully healthy and muscular, a shining coat, those deep glistening eyes- “She’s not a show horse” Geralt grumbled "I said could or rather might've been, had the twines of fate been wound a little looser.." You chuckled softly as your trusty bard rambled on into the night about how he knew a thing or two about show horses (being one in a past life, most likely) and you prepared your bedroll, smoothed it out with your hands and checked how close your damp clothes were to drying. When you reflected on Jaskier's words, you thought about how the warm and bitter smell of ash and smoke and fire made from Witcher magic was comforting to you. As you settled, you tried to smell other things, maybe someday you could smell half as well as a witcher if you trained hard enough. Ash, smoke.. the small burnt remnants of a meagre fish dinner, the distinctly horsey smell of Roach, the faintest traces of lavender lingering in your hair. You supposed you could try to hone in your hearing, too. You got comfortable, wriggling a little further in, catching a glimpse of the fine ribbon you had bought before closing your eyes...it was nice to see the splashes of the bright colour woven through your little group. You could first hear Jaskier mumbling on, the scratch of his quill onto the notebook he carried, the pops and snaps of the fire, the wind breathing contentedly through the leaves above, the last clinks of Geralt's potion bottles, then the slight crunch of careful steps in leather boots, his hands patting roach and hushed, almost inaudible whispers of him calling Roach his "pretty girl".

A/N : Hello, dears! I hope you've all been well and taking care of yourselves - I know it has been a tremendous wait. i've been planning the rest of the story out (i'm rly annoyingly particular about it) and lots of things have been a bit crazy the past two months. I hope this chapter isnt dissapointing given the wait but get ready for big angst, hurt/comfort and further progression of the story and characters in the next two chapters. I feel this filler was needed to transition into the next part of the story. I might change the description some as this story is not only about the fact that Y/N can sing, but also focuses on the way that changes her relationship with the boys.

More on the interactions of this night for the boys' POV in the next chapter probably x

I'm hoping the story is well fleshed out and flowing, and that its clear that singing is a great comfort and big part of Y/N's character. I hope its easy to immerse yourself and such. Again, its such a pleasure to receive likes and comments, and i'm very grateful to anyone who has read so far... be ready for great developments! As always, constructive criticism is welcome xxx Thanks gang!

Also yall thank my lil sister for helping me write this, she doesnt have an tumblr account so I cant tag her or anything but she super cool and rambling to her rly helps me organise my writing.

stay blessed!

tagged people:

@ladylizzieofdarbyshire i cannot find @sihxm i did try xxx

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artificialqueens · 3 years

Text

Something More (Taywhora) - pureCAMP

A/N - Hi Ortega, love you xx

Here’s a cheeky little girl band au in which A'Whora is sort of in love with her bandmate, Lawrence is sort of in love with her makeup artist, and Bimini has no idea what’s going on. Enjoy, bing bang bong <3

Death by a thousand cuts lingers on A’Whora’s mind. There seems to be a million ways to express how she’s feeling; the straw that broke the camel’s back, the final tipping point. The way that little things just build and build and build until their crushing weight is suddenly made noticeable to the poor fool trapped beneath them, already without any hope of survival.

Maybe she’s being dramatic, maybe poetic. Maybe that’s why she’s good at writing lyrics, why she scribbles them down in glittery notebooks that Lawrence makes fun of her for buying. They can hardly use what she writes in her free time, the need for fun, relatable and light-hearted lyrics far outweighing the demand for her emotional ramblings, but nevertheless she’s still alright at it.

More than anything, it’s the numbness that bothers her. This pain isn’t jarring, soul destroying, artistically tragic like she wishes it was. She mostly feels an ever-present nothing, with the occasional empty hole like a vacuum in her stomach that weighs on her late at night, alone in bed. The feeling is heavy and cold, but she can’t describe it any better than that. She’s tried, and the scrunched up paper and furiously crossed out words provide more than enough explanation as to how that endeavour went.

Is she ridiculous to be angry over wanting a little communication, knowing she herself hasn’t done it either? Is she hypocritical for internally begging Tayce to explain when she knows full well she’s not explained her side?

Whatever the answer, she’s an idiot for hooking up with her bandmate.

Sighing frustratedly, she throws her pencil across the room, likely to never be seen again, and shuts her notebook. The pencil flies through the air and hits the wall just as Lawrence enters, missing her head by mere centimetres. She reels backwards out of shock and then clings onto the doorframe, one hand on her heaving chest.

“Fuck me! You trying to kill me or something?” Lawrence demands, her expressions every bit as big and blown up as they are on stage.

A’Whora flops onto her bed as Lawrence sits on hers - they’re sharing the hotel room, Tayce and Bimini paired up across the hall.

“Not you, babes.” She rolls her eyes at herself, stretching her legs out as her head crashes into the pillow.

Lawrence snorts. “Trouble in paradise?”

“It’s far from fucking paradise and you know it, you nasty bitch.” A’Whora shoots back, relieved that neither of them are stupid enough to interpret any malice in the harsh way they speak to one another.

Truth be told, A’Whora and Tayce’s hooking up is probably the worst kept secret in all their band management. Tayce seems to think nobody knows, and she’s all the happier for it, but A’Whora knows for a fact that Lawrence, the entire style team and their management all know what’s going on - it’s really only Bimini, bless her, who’s in the dark about it. The second worst kept secret is Lawrence and their makeup artist, Ellie, but that’s the farthest from A’Whora’s mind currently.

“It used to be fun, you know what I mean, like? Like it’s just me and Tayce and we’re having a good time and everything, there’s no pressure for dating or nothing like that, ‘cause she weren’t ready for it.”

Lawrence blinks. “Am I supposed to be sensing a problem here, or?”

A’Whora groans. “Shut up, bitch, I’m trying to do a fucking monologue for you! Anyway, it’s just weird because I swear like I haven’t done anything and nothing’s changed at all but her texts are really friendly rather than like flirty now?”

“And you haven’t sent me off to Ellie’s room in a while so the two of you can fuck like rabbits.” Lawrence finishes, a sly grin on her face knowing that she’s just pissed A’Whora right off by interrupting the aforementioned monologue.

Crude as she is, she’s right - and A’Whora probably would’ve worded it in a way more disgusting manner herself. It’s a decent system that they’ve rigged up, honestly. Whenever Tayce texts, or A’Whora texts her, she sends Lawrence off to go find Ellie, makes up some lie about why their bandmate isn’t sleeping in their room tonight, and then they can spend some quality time together. It’s simple but efficient, hence its brilliance.

“Sorry babes. You know you can still go see her even if I’m not seeing Tayce?”

Lawrence snorts. “Nah, you’re fine. To be honest she’s fucked me right off recently so I’m not in the mood to see her.”

It’s horrible, but A’Whora’s secretly glad that she’s not the only one entangled in some kind of romantic or sexual turmoil. “Aw, what did she do?”

“None of your business, you nosy bitch!” Lawrence half-yells, but bizarrely, she’s still not mad. “You were ranting about your secret lover?”

“Fuck off,” She shoots back, “I was done, anyway. She’s just, like, reset. I don’t get it.”

She’s not strong enough to confide what she really thinks. It clouds her mind constantly, a small part of her brain daring her to just come out and say it in the malicious hope that she’ll find out how it feels to broadcast. Her stupid, selfish brain is worried that Tayce has met someone, someone she likes, someone she’d be willing to, or interested in, pursuing a romantic relationship with. Because romance has never been part of their deal, something they’d agreed on. Romance was off the table for Tayce because she wasn’t ready, and A’Whora was fine with that.

Maybe she was in the wrong for going along with the hook ups and flirting under false pretences. A’Whora had hoped, secretly, that over time, Tayce’s aversion to love and commitment might begin to soften, and surely the most natural, safe way to ease into it would be with someone who she already knew could have a fun flirty rapport with her, not to mention a metric fuckton of sexual chemistry?

Behind every flirty text held the secret hope that Tayce’s feelings would one day find the strength to break out. A’Whora hadn’t meant to get attached to her bandmate like she had, but there seemed to be fuck all she could do about it now.

“Well,” Lawrence announces, rolling onto her back and gesturing up in the air with her arms, “You’re fucked off, I’m fucked off, I say we go and get absolutely steamin’ and forget that we’ve ever felt a positive emotion towards someone who doesn’t give a fuck.”

A’Whora closes her eyes, heart sinking. “I’d actually love to, but we can’t just go the two of us, because then we’re leaving out the others. Bims’ll wanna come, and if Bims comes we have to invite Tayce and I literally don’t wanna see her because it’s so weird that I’ve been like, demoted to friend.”

“She removed the benefits,” Lawrence nods understandingly, “In many ways, we could compare her to the Tory government.”

“Could we fuck,” A’Whora laughs in spite of her own heavy misery. “You’re literally insane. Loz, what the fuck do I do about this?”

Lawrence shrugs. “I told you, my best solution is to go and get smashed! If we just drink here then we didn’t go out without anyone so we didn’t break any friend rules and they’re none the fucking wiser to our collective romance issues.”

The word romance makes A’Whora tense - it’s uncomfortable to think about it like that, almost embarrassing to dwell on her own feelings as having a romantic nature about them from a purely sexual relationship. Luckily for her, a sneaky or perhaps Freudian slip catches her attention and drags it away from her own issue, A’Whora bolting upright to stare at her friend.

“Lawrence Chaney. Did you just say collective romance issues? I thought you and Ellie were just fanny friends!”

Understandably, Lawrence is horrified at her turn of phrase, but A’Whora doesn’t miss the telltale reddening of her ears that suggests she’s said something she shouldn’t have. An eye-roll powerful enough to induce a tsunami follows Lawrence shifting herself up, glaring at A’Whora, and then scowling.

“First,” She replies, one finger wagging in front of her, “Never fucking say fanny friends ever again. Second…”

A’Whora gasps, already anticipating some gossip.

“You’re gonna get me a fucking gin if you’re gonna make me talk about this.”

More intelligent girls, or perhaps just less heartache-y ones, would know better than to get wasted in their hotel room the night before a show, but A’Whora and Lawrenced have never been the best at smart decisions. Ironically, it’s the deceptively smart bimbo Bimini who usually is able to reign them in, though she often chooses not to. Left to their own devices, there’s a lot of gin and a little bit of lemonade that seems to mysteriously disappear as tongues get looser and inhibitions get lowered. Before they even know what’s happening, both girls are sitting on the floor between their beds, legs stretched out before them, bemoaning their woeful, humiliating love lives.

It’s almost as if they think that if they don’t get it right now, they never will. To some extent, in A’Whora’s mind, that’s true, even when she knows, realistically, that she’s only in her mid-twenties and life goes on. But really, what is love if not an agony freezing you in time, a force that makes the past a mere blur and the future non-existent? Love is present and now, and if she misses her chance, who says there’ll be another?

(Almost everyone says there will. But A’Whora is drunk and her words are happy and her mind is sad.)

Luckily, Lawrence has been talking for long enough that A’Whora doesn’t have to spill all her thoughts into a drunken spiel that she knows wouldn’t make a lick of sense. She keeps swearing and avoiding the point, but somewhere in her long-winded ramble confessions start to unravel themselves, and a good scandal is enough to distract her for the time being.

“So I fuckin’ - aw fuck, hen, do me a favour and refill me?” Lawrence asks, A’Whora just passing her the bottle and gesturing for her to continue. “I fuckin’ asked her, y’know, are we just doing this or are we something more, like, fuckin’ stupid thing to ask honestly and I regretted it as soon as I did but then she answered and fuck me.”

She makes an effort to impersonate Ellie - a slightly higher pitched, slightly less intensely Scottish accent with something of a mockingly nervous whine to it as she repeats, “I’m keeping my options open. Fuckin’ options! I’ve no’ had anyone since her and I wouldny’ fuckin’ want to either and she’s fuckin’ got A, B, C or D all the fuckin’ above! It’s fucked.”

A’Whora gasps. “Bitch, you proper like her! You like Ellie!”

“Say that any louder and I’ll box your fuckin’ ears,” Lawrence threatens, only half kidding judging by the glare in her eyes. “Am I wrong to feel fuckin’ betrayed that I didn’t know she was seeing others as well as me?”

She snorts. “Loz, babes, I’m losing my mind at the very idea that Tayce has found someone, look who you’re talking to.”

Lawrence shrugs in agreement. “Makes me feel sick.”

There’s a pause. “Actually, that might be the gin.”

Another pause. “Oh, it’s the gin.”

She all but launches herself up and towards the bathroom, A’Whora instantly going into a flap. If Lawrence is sick on the carpet she’ll literally never forgive her, but she needs to help her friend, but fuck if she’s gonna stand there in the bathroom gagging at her. She decides, vaguely last minute, to run out into the corridor and grab some cold water from the machine, panicking and shouting her plan in the general direction of the bathroom before dashing outside. Embarrassing, but at twenty five years old A’Whora still can’t handle someone being sick.

A brief but unwelcome thought flits into her head - I’d help Tayce. She shakes it away, tells herself she wouldn’t, but a sad stupid part of her knows she could sit there and painfully gag her way through helping Tayce if she needed to, because she’s a spineless idiot who fell for her bandmate. There’s a flash of guilt for the fact that she wouldn’t do the same for Bims or Lawrence, but reasons that she has to draw the line somewhere.

The hotel has this awful chintzy carpet, a weird swirly print on a red base that reminds A’Whora of weird-smelling care homes and outdated grandma’s houses. Just looking at it makes her head spin uncomfortably - maybe she’s a little drunker than she thought. Perhaps she’ll get two cups of ice water instead, sober herself up a bit and all.

Then Tayce is standing in front of her all of a sudden and A’Whora has no idea how she’s got there.

(Did she… summon Tayce? Manifest her presence?)

“Girl, you alright? You look a state,” She greets, her accent charming enough to rid the words of their potential offense.

A’Whora vaguely points ahead of her, aware of how dumb she probably looks. “Goin… getting water for Loz. She’s absolutely pissed.”

Tayce laughs, baffled. “Babes, what are you playing at getting drunk the night before a show? Gotta make sure you shake off the hangovers before or else you’re done for!”

“Water fixes all.” A’Whora has no idea what to say. Why would she? She’s been lamenting this girl’s very existence for the past…. God knows how many hours, and now she’s here and she has to slip the besties facade back on except she’s a bit too drunk to remember how to do it properly. Sober A’Whora is going to cringe for days over this, she already knows.

Unsurprisingly, Tayce starts to follow her to grab the water, declaring “Well I’m coming with you, sounds like you’re gonna need someone sober to put you both in bed, you absolute lunatics.”

They’re just walking next to each other and yet A’Whora has never analysed her own way of walking so much in her life before this moment. Are her steps too large? Her arms swinging too much, or too little? Which foot comes next? Is Tayce thinking about how weirdly she’s moving? Should she be trying to keep pace with her or will that be even weirder and she’ll realise what a creep she’s been hooking up with all this time and fully decide against any possibility of something more between them?

They’re just walking. Just one foot and then the next.

Ahead of them, the water cooler glistens like a mirage in a desert, a tantalising goal signalling the end of their journey. A’Whora almost feels like she’s been trekking for hours next to Tayce, unsure of what to say, unsure of what her own act to keep up with is.

Naturally, she fumbles in her attempt to get a flimsy plastic cup from the stack, and then all come crashing down before she can even realise what’s happening. She turns to look at Tayce, the both of them momentarily stunned.

“Oh my god, you absolute beast!” Tayce screeches, her voice hushed for the sake of the late night but laughing all the same, clutching the cooler for balance. “We gotta pick all these up now!”

They do; A’Whora thinks about accidentally brushing her fingers over Tayce’s as they scramble to get everything, and then doesn’t. She thinks about abandoning the water and fumbling keys into locks until they fall into one another and forget everything else. She thinks about just blurting out the truth.

By the time all of the potential scenarios have flown dizzyingly through A’Whora’s drunk mind, she finds herself with two cups of water in her hands, Tayce with the same, leading her back to the hotel room and giggling as she instructs her not to spill a drop. A’Whora laughs, pretending like she’s not struggling to figure out how tightly she should be holding them.

Pretend is easy and she’s always been good at it. Pretending she’s a real rockstar with her Sing Star microphone and Playstation 2 in the living room. Pretending she’s not nervous the day before the biggest audition of her life. Pretending she’s a real musician in a band and not one of four girls shitting themselves backstage at the biggest arenas in the city. Pretending like Tayce might fall for her one day.

Once they get inside - it takes four swipes of A’Whora’s key and brief panic that she’s somehow got the wrong one - it’s clear that Lawrence is done with throwing her guts up and has settled herself in a chair, furiously typing on her phone.

“This room smells like a minibar, you hounds!” Tayce half admonishes, her grin entirely downplaying her words and making A’Whora’s heartbeat jump into overdrive. “Lawrence, what are you doing?”

“Communicating-my-feelings,” She answers through gritted teeth, each word punctuated with a particularly aggressive stab at her screen.

Out of curiosity, A’Whora peeks at the screen, and upon seeing a horrifically large wall of text typed out in the chat box with no end in sight, snatches the phone immediately. “Tayce! Hide it! She’s writing a fucking essay!”

Whether A’Whora’s drunk coordination is better than when she’s sober - hopefully not - or Tayce is just talented, she deftly catches the device and locks it.

Lawrence all but springs up, incensed. “Fuck off with that! Ellie needs to know- I’m fucking pissed!”

“Ellie?” Tayce pauses, looking down as if she’ll still see the message. “As in, makeup artist Ellie?”

“Who fuckin’ else?!” Lawrence lunges and misses.

“Knew it.” She’s adorably smug, so much so that A’Whora decides against telling her that literally everyone knows. Her perceived victory makes her face light up and she’s already so beautiful that ruining childlike glee like that should be considered blasphemous. It would be a sin to wipe that smile from her face using anything other than her lips.

She holds the phone up in the air above her head, unreachable. “Right. Well, Lawrence, you can have this back after you’ve drank this water here, brushed your teeth and got into bed, okay? I think that’s a fair deal.”

“Get fucked,” Lawrence responds, totally deadpan as she snatches the plastic cup, spilling half of it down her front and not noticing. “I will drink your magic water and then you will fuck off and I will tell Ellie that she’s a slimey wee bitch.”

Tayce laughs, unfazed. “On second thoughts, darling…” She tucks the phone into her bra and gives a little flourish. “Sort yourself out and I’ll get it back to you in the morning. I’m not having you abusing our lovely Ellie ‘cause you’ve had a lover’s tiff.”

Lawrence squints. “Fuckin’… A’Whora will get it for me. I’m sure you won’t mind feeling her up, eh hen? Though I bet your girlfriend might have something to say about it. OOP!”

A’Whora feels her face flushing, and the panic slams into her like a wave hitting the beach full force, washing over everything. At first she was glad Lawrence was drunker than her, hoping to make less of a fool of herself in front of Tayce and direct the attention onto their favourite Scottish menace, but Lawrence being drunker means Lawrence with an even looser tongue, and for someone who loves to crack a joke and make a cheeky observation at the most inopportune moment, A’Whora finds herself wishing she’s passed out snoring instead. Tayce just laughs and manages to mother hen her into the bathroom, where A’Whora spots her in the mirror, grumpily brushing her teeth like a petulant toddler in the midst of a tantrum.

“Tell you what, I could never have kids, this is bloody exhausting!” Tayce explains, her big bright smile distracting A’Whora, thankfully, from the bulge of Lawrence’s phone. At least, it’s easier to pretend, even mentally, that that’s why she keeps looking at her chest.

“God, I know!” She laughs back, faking it harder than ever and sipping her cup of water. She feels sobered up already, though she’s sure she’s probably not, all too aware of her red cheeks and Lawrence’s loose tongue and terrified something else will be said.

“I mean, what on earth was that? I don’t have a girlfriend, I can tell you that.” She chuckles as if the idea’s ridiculous. A’Whora wonders if she genuinely thinks that, if she doesn’t realise just how many beautiful men and women would fall down at her feet if she so much as paid them a glance.

Lawrence stumbles out; in the two minutes she’s been gone, she seems to have forgotten entirely about her phone, and she looks at the pair with lidded eyes. “Fuckin’ shattered, girls.”

Tayce beams at her. “Get your arse in bed, then!”

A’Whora finishes her water, and Lawrence is asleep in seconds. For good measure, they poke her a couple of times, but since she’s very clearly breathing and seems fine, they decide to stop tormenting her and to just let the poor girl sleep. Tayce sets down Lawrence’s phone on the nightstand next to her, making sure to plug in her charger so it won’t be dead when she wakes up, and the tiny act of thoughtfulness makes A’Whora’s heart swell in a manner she’s wholly embarrassed of.

As if she’s swooning at a girl charging her friend’s phone? It’s ridiculous and she knows it.

“Shall I walk you to your door?” She offers, holding her arm out. Tayce laughs and takes hold of her elbow, waggling her eyebrows suggestively.

“Ooh, promenade!”

“You’ve been watching far too much Bridgerton, you have,” A’Whora teases her, jabbing her side as they make their way back down the empty corridor. “Do I have to start calling you My Lady or something, babes?”

Tayce swats her away. “In bed, maybe. Oh, I’ll happily be a Duke or a Duchess, I mean have you seen the pair of them? Bloody gorgeous!”

A’Whora’s chest seizes up at the casual mention of being in bed together. Is the stalemate over? Is Tayce about to explain why she’s suddenly frozen on her and decided she no longer wants to hook up? What the hell even is the reason if there’s no girlfriend? She’s just gone off A’Whora now?

“Oh my God. Tayce, I can’t do this.”

It’s out there. She can’t go back now, can’t reel it back in. She’s fucked.

Tayce stops mid-hallway and frowns, worried. “You alright? If you don’t feel well you can go back, you don’t have to walk me to my room.”

“No, not that,” A’Whora massages her temples, trying to encourage some kind of eloquent thought to help her out, trying to stimulate the part of her brain that writes lyrics, to no avail. “This, us, the weirdness, I can’t do it. I have to know what’s going on, I’m literally going spare over it.”

“I don’t- I don’t get what you mean.”

“Us!” A’Whora cries, then shushes herself, acutely aware of her volume and the people sleeping adjacent to their conversation. “You- you don’t text me the same, and we haven’t- in ages, and I just… Tayce, do you like me?”

Tayce frowns even deeper. “Of course I like you, Rory.”

“Do you proper like me? Do you like me like I like you?”

She feels like a child, enacting a schoolgirl crush with a scribbled note that asks them to tick a yes or no box drawn in pink felt tip, the kind fuzzy from little fingers pressing too hard. If anything, it’s worse than that; at least some prior planning went into those, and a clear question with a yes or no response indicating some kind of confidence. A’Whora has no idea what she’s doing, where she’s going, anything.

“Rory… do you-”

A’Whora cuts her off. “Lawrence thought you might have a girlfriend because I thought you might have one because I was ranting about us to her and how shit I feel that you’ve lost interest in me. We got drunk to ignore how shit we both feel and it didn’t work because she almost blabbed to Ells and now I’m here blabbing to you but I literally can’t help myself. I never can when I’m with you.”

It’s only when she’s finished that she realises Tayce’s expression is full of fear, and her heart sinks like a lead balloon.

“You told Lawrence about us?”

She swallows, guilt seeping in like cracks in a dam. “Tayce, I… We’re not the big secret you think we are. A lot of people know, or suspect. Is… Is that the issue?”

Tayce chews her lip, eyebrows furrowed. Every millisecond that she doesn’t speak is agony, each second another stab to A’Whora’s heart, tiny needles of time cutting into her as she waits and waits for the ugly truth. This is it, now, the swirling nausea in her stomach tells her, this is when it all ends. This is where you scare off the love of your life.

The… what? The fucking what? The who of her what?

Too late now.

“I haven’t lost interest in you. I don’t think that’s even possible. I’m like, obsessed with you.”

A’Whora freezes, expecting virtually anything but that. “You- what? But- huh?”

“Yeah!” Tayce laughs nervously, unsure of how to react - they have that in common, at least. “I mean, girl, look at you, you’re gorgeous. I was getting freaked out by how much I, like, feel, so I just shut everything down and denied it all. I mean, I figured if I was freaking myself out, you must think I’m a right old weirdo. Have I got this all wrong?”

The ice melts. A’Whora can feel the shards shrinking, the wounds closing up, the warmth returning to her in a blossoming not unlike the flowers of spring, freshening the air and sweeping away her anxieties.

“I’ve never been so happy to call you an idiot in my life,” A’Whora tells her.

Tayce cocks an eyebrow. “You dirty liar, you love calling me an idiot,” She bites back, not leaving room for A’Whora to reply before kissing her right then and there, in the middle of a hotel corridor, leaning up against the wall for support. A million chemical reactions spark off all at once, a frenzy of activity rendering her incapable of doing anything but wrapping her arms around her bandmate, her best friend, her everything, and kissing her until she can’t breathe.

When they have to come up for air they do, all gasping and pink cheeks and dazed eyes. Every cell, every nerve, every neuron in A’Whora’s body is awake and alive, drawn towards Tayce like a magnetic pull. She can’t ignore it, and can’t think why she’d ever want to.

“Will you fucking stay still?”

“I haven’t moved an inch, hen, your shaky hands are not my problem.”

Ellie huffs, big pink earrings dangling from her ears swinging as she moves her head. They’re shaped like hearts, the word ‘doll’ in cursive across the middle in sparkling letters, and it’s adorably Ellie Diamond in every way possible. Even irritated, she’s oddly cute.

“Lawrence! I’m not trying to make you look ugly, stay still for me!” She pleads.

A’Whora watches from her chair, face already expertly done. She woke up pleasantly early, nestled happily in Tayce’s arms after everything. They’d decided to go back to A’Whora’s room, just in case Lawrence woke up and tried to send reams of abuse to Ellie, and ended up laying together cuddling until they fell asleep. No matter how sober A’Whora swore she was, Tayce just giggled and told her there was no chance of anything more than a cwtch, at least until the morning.

Thankfully, they’d kept Lawrence’s phone away from her, but there was nothing she could do but watch helplessly as Ellie and Lawrence engaged in a battle of attrition while doing makeup.

Lawrence rolls her eyes so hard A’Whora can practically feel it from across the room. “Not to worry hen, there’s more than one girl in the band, I’m sure you’ve got options on who can look pretty and who can’t.”

A’Whora winces at the low blow, and judging by Ellie’s expression, all pouty lips and big sad eyes, she’s hurt. More than anything, she wants to rush in and fix things for them, help them do the big talk and work it all out, but she knows it’s not really her business. They have to do this for themselves, so she sits quiet and prays that they will.

“Oh my god.” Ellie sets down her brushes and stares Lawrence in the face, awfully bold and completely unexpected. “Are you gonna hang this over me forever? I just - didn’t want you to think I was too forward! I’ve been regretting it all night, I regretted it as soon as I even said it! I can’t stand you being upset with me.”

Lawrence’s expression softens. “What?”

“You’re, like, the best person ever. I look up to you so much, I don’t think I could admire anyone more than I admire you. I really didn’t mean to upset you, I didn’t want to come on too strong.”

There’s a pause - A’Whora holds her breath, and notices that just across from her, Bimini is suddenly paying attention, her phone long since abandoned in her hand as she gapes at the two of them, dumbfounded.

Lawrence throws her arms around Ellie, squeezing her in an embrace that seems too tender to be looking at, the next best thing to a kiss when in the middle of painting someone’s face. Ellie squeezes back, her lips mouthing words that the other girls can neither hear nor try to. This is for them and them alone.

Tayce enters just as they break apart, throwing herself into the seat next to A’Whora and grinning. “Hiya, gorge, what’d I miss?”

She leans over and kisses A’Whora’s cheek.

Bimini’s eyes pop open. “You and- and then her and- what the fuck? Babes, I think we skipped a few chapters!”

“You just haven’t read the book,” A’Whora winks at her.

“Right, right,” Bims nods understandingly, ever one to just go with the flow. “And is the big lesbian orgy before the concert or after?”

#rpdr fanfiction #rpdr uk #purecamp #taywhora #ellie x lawrence #tayce #a'whora #lawrence chaney #ellie diamond #bimini bon boulash #uk2 #lesbian au #popstar au #something more

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considermewhelmed · 3 years

Text

Achilles Come Down by Gang of Youths- Tim Drake

TW: attempted su*c*de/su*c*dal thoughts, anxiety, depression.

a/n: hey remember in the Master when I said these would be short fics? Ha. Yeah. Me too. Good times.

Tag list: @river9noble

Master

“Achilles, Achilles, Achilles come down/Won’t you get up off, get up off the roof?/You’re scaring us and all of us/Some of us love you/Achilles it’s not much but there’s proof.”

“You may feel no purpose/Nor a point for existing/It’s all just conjecture and gloom/And there may not be meaning/So find one and seize it/Do not waste yourself on this roof/Hear those bells ring deep in the soul/Chiming away for a moment/Feel your breath course frankly below/And see life as a worthy opponent.”

Tim stood on the edge of the building, overlooking the city. His cape billowed lightly in the cool air, and he took a deep breath.

‘Red Robin, report.’ Barbra’s voice asked in his ear.

Tim remained silent, his eyes scanning the streets, but his mind far away.

‘Red Robin, report.’ She repeated.

‘Red Robin, are you okay?’

A new voice broke onto the comms.

Dick.

He had been thinking a lot. About Dick. And Damian. Bruce. Steph. Babs. Duke. Luke. Cass. Kate even. There were just… so many of them. So many. One less surely wouldn’t matter?

He imagined he wouldn’t get a huge memorial like the one for Jason in the batcave- he was choosing this, he did it himself, there was no honour in that. He didn’t mind though, he wasn’t sure he even cared to be remembered.

They barely remembered him alive, why would death help?

He wondered how long it would take them to forget him. The voice is the first thing you forget about a person, when was the last time he talked to them all?

‘Red Robin, where are you?’ Dick.

‘Is his comm offline?’ Steph.

‘No, it’s online. It should be working. Receiver and all.’ Barbra.

‘Red Robin?’ Dick.

He looked down. He’d survived some pretty unlikely things, but this was too much. Too high. There was no way his heart could take his fall, let alone the pavement below waiting for his body. It called his name, whispering the promises of sweet relief with every breeze, the streetlight spotlight marking his entrance to his final bow.

‘Can you get his tracker online?’ Dick.

‘Red Robin, come in.’ Bruce.

‘No. He’s bypassed the security.’ Barbra.

‘Really Drake?’ Damian. ‘Sneaking off during patrol?’

‘Red Robin, report.’ Bruce- and Tim imagined he sounded worried in the way only Batman could be.

‘Where was his route?’ Dick.

Tim tuned them out, but couldn’t bring himself to turn the comms off completely. He didn’t have the heart to be alone- he was selfish and desperate.

He shrugged off the cape, letting it fall to the rooftop, and quietly unclipped his utility belt. He wished he felt scared, or sad, or anything, but instead he just felt numb. Human instinct should be trying to get him back safely to the solid roof behind him, but instead he just swayed in the wind, as if even his own body was impartial to the decision.

He closed his eyes and sighed quietly, rolling his shoulders back, resigning to his fate. There was no use in fighting anymore.

That was it. He felt something. Tired.

Not just tired. Exhausted. Bone deep exhaustion, the kind of exhaustion that made even sleeping a chore. Tears gathered in his eyes, and with each drop his mask got looser and looser. He thought of something to say- some sort of goodbye. Not for them, but for him, for closure. His own eulogy. Last words, maybe?

Did he deserve last words when the villain he lost to was his own mind? Internal, eternal, and inevitable? It was a dance he’d been a part of for far too long and he was just tired.

“Hey Replacement.”

Tim expected his whole body to go rigid, for his instinct to take over, for any kind of fight to bubble up inside him, itching to get out. He and Jason reconciled, sure, but sometimes when he caught him off guard, Tim still had the same knee-jerk reaction.

Instead, his body just stood there, open and unarmed. It solidified his resolve- even his instincts knew it was over. The idea that Jason could easily shoot him, or push him off the roof didn’t scare him.

Why would it?

He could hear Jason’s quiet, heavy steps as the older boy approached.

‘Red Hood, status, have you found him?’

Dick’s voice came over the comms.

Tim didn’t look at Jason. There was a soft click.

“No, not yet. I’ll keep looking. Just cover my area Dickhead.” Jason said before the soft click happened again.

The two boys were quiet for a minute.

Behind him, Tim could hear the familiar whirring of the mechanics- mechanics he helped design -that indicated the removal of Jason’s Red Hood helmet. A thump after indicated Jason had opted to ditch it on the roof.

Normally, Tim would yell at him for being so careless with his equipment, especially since Tim worked hard on the last updates, but he couldn’t even find his voice.

He heard the clatter of weapons hitting the ground, and Jason stepped closer.

“Come on Timmy,” Jason said softly, and Tim’s chest tightened at the nickname. “You’re shaking. You gotta be freezing.”

It wasn’t until Jason said something that Tim realized he was vibrating. Even the air was unforgiving in Gotham, and somewhere between his decision to step on the ledge and the loss of his cape, it turned into an icy grip that cut through the thin material of his suit.

The wind stung his face where the tears had started to slip beneath his mask. His knees buckled and he sucked in a sharp breath of air.

“I can’t.” He choked out, his hand gripping at his chest. “I- I can’t move.”

‘Red Robin?’ Dick’s voice cut through the comms. ‘Come on buddy, where are you, I’ll come get you.’

Tim couldn’t hear him over the roar of his own blood in his ears, and took his comm out of his ear, throwing it off to the side.

It was then he caught sight of Jason, and was shocked by the lack of not only helmet, but mask as well. Jason’s eyes had a green shine to them- a side effect of the pit -and they were trained on Tim.

Jason held out his hand to Tim. “Take my hand baby bird.” He murmured.

“No,” Tim cried. “I want- I should- I have to- I’m going to fall Jason-”

“No.” Jason said sternly. “No you won’t.”

Tim inched closer to the ledge. “It doesn’t matter-”

“Of course it matters dipshit, you matter. I wouldn’t be here if you didn’t.”

Tim’s lip trembled and a sob tore from his throat as his knees gave out from under him and for a split second he was falling-

And the next he was wrapped in a tight hug.

Tim reached out instinctually and grabbed onto whatever he could hold, staying as close as possible to the smell of leather, gun polish and sweat, a surprisingly comforting combination.

Maybe it was just because it meant safety.

“I’ve got you baby bird,” Jason mumbled, and he could feel Jason bury his nose in Tim’s hair. “I’ve got you.”

“I’m sorry,” He sputtered through his tears. “I’m sorry, Jay, I’m sorry,” A whole new breakdown washed over him, and he couldn’t get a grip on his emotions.

“You have nothing to apologize for,” Jason scolded him lightly, and rubbed little circles on his back. “I’ve got you.”

“I was going to do it,” Tim cried.

“I know.” Jason whispered.

“They hate me. They’re going to hate me more!” Tim whimpered. “I can’t- I don’t want-”

“I know.” Jason repeated. “But no one hates you, Tim,” He promised. “Hell, even Barbra threatened to get out here to find you.”

Tim buried his face in Jason’s chest and just stayed there. “I’m nothing more than a placeholder,” He mumbled. “I’m a pretender. A replacement.” He sniffled. “I didn’t- I didn’t even want to be Robin. God. I wanted Dick to be Robin. Batman needs Robin.” He was close to hysterics, and god Jason still didn’t know what to do.

“Maybe,” Jason agreed. “But Bruce Wayne needs Tim Drake.” Jason said quietly. “I’m pretty sure the old man would be lost without you Timmy.”

Tim shook his head and Jason snorted. “You set up the system in the batcave, make sure the Wayne business is intact and running smoothly, you’ve updated all the security, you always make sure there’s coffee in the manor, and no one makes him smile with bad jokes like you do.”

Tim stayed quiet, and Jason alternated between rubbing his back and running his hand through Tim’s hair. The boys stood there for as long as Tim needed to and Jason realized how small Tim was because Jesus Christ this was just a kid in a costume and he just wanted to be loved.

“Can we go back to the Manor?” Jason murmured. “My bike’s not far.”

Tim didn’t move.

“We can watch a movie?” He suggested. “I’ll let you pick.”

“Why are you being so nice?” Tim mumbled.

“Well… I could punch you instead if you’d like. Not sure that’ll make you feel better though.” He offered, and was rewarded by the smallest, quietest laugh. “C’mon, we can raid the kitchen.”

“You aren’t going to make me talk?” Tim asked.

Jason shook his head, tightening his grip on him. “I’m not going to make you talk about anything you don’t want to baby bird.” He said softly. “But if you want to do that, I’m here for that too.”

Tim tightened his own grip and kept close- Jason was keeping him grounded and that’s all that mattered. “What was it like?” He whispered.

Jason was quiet for a long moment, and Tim regretted asking almost immediately.

“Long.” Jason decided. “Dark. Quiet.”

“Good quiet?”

“No.” Jason said softly. “Too quiet.”

“I’m sorry.” Tim whispered.

“Me too,” Jason mumbled. “You’re not alone Timbo. I’m right here, alright?”

Tim nodded and pulled away after a moment when he felt like he could stand on his own. Jason collected their things and handed Tim his mask, cape and belt, putting his own mask and helmet back on, clipping his holsters on.

The ride back was quiet- Tim’s comm must have busted when it hit the roof, and if Jason heard anything he wasn’t giving it away. Jason came up with some half-assed lie about what happened to Barbra and the other Bats over the comms, and immediately claimed the living room for him and Tim, heading upstairs.

Tim was asleep by the end of the opening credits, tucked safely into the side of his big brother.

Maybe Tim couldn’t fight the villain in his head on his own, but having someone like Jason Todd on your side certainly made it easier.

#thebatfamplaylist #tim drake #red robin #jason todd #red hood #batman #bruce wayne #dc #dc comics #dick grayson #nightwing #damian wayne #Robin #barbra gordon #oracle #sorry this is so sad

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btsslowburnfic · 3 years

Text

Chthonic Love Ch. 14

Series Summary: A Greek Mythology AU featuring Yoongi/Suga as Hades and reader as Persephone. Olympian ruler Namjoon has delivered you, Persephone, as a gift for his brother, lord of Death, Yoongi

Previous Chapter here

The next day inevitably came. Yoongi walked to the Enchanted door on the far end of the castle. He was ready to begin his defense assessment with Penthos and get this part of the day over with. He rubbed his eyes and yawned, he had barely slept the night before, wondering what he should do on his date with Persephone. He had been so shocked by the confession, he had immediately suggested a date. A date in the Underworld. He had never been on a date. He wondered if you had. He hummed lightly to himself as he approached the Enchanted doorway. He placed his hand on the sigils, and opened it. He pulled out his pocket watch, more a habit than anything. Penthos should be here any minute.

Yoongi heard clacking down the stairs and saw the demigod enter the antechamber. “Alright, let’s begin. Walk me through your investigation and let’s work from there.” Yoongi said, turning to head down the earthen staircase.

“Yes m’lord.” Penthos said, quickly walking past Yoongi to walk down the stairs first. Yoongi dutifully lit the torches along the walls. The two men heard scraping sounds, which Yoongi assumed were Arachne’s children skittering away from the lights. They reached the bottom of the stairway, the air musty and damp.

“Go head to the Golems. I need to speak with Arachne.” Yoongi commanded. Penthos hesitated for a moment. “Privately.” Yoongi added. The servant turned and headed towards the Western chamber. Yoongi stepped further into the cavern, Arachne’s hearing was better than even his, she should be here soon. He hummed lowly to himself once more. Would the sunken pools be better or the forest? He wondered, thinking about the few suitable locations to take you to.

“My Lord.” He heard Arachne’s strained voice as she entered the space. She bowed down upon her pincers.

“Arachne.” Yoongi greeted, waving at her to rise. “Penthos tells me you and your children have been hard at work protecting us. Well done.”

“Thank you Lord Yoongi. It’s the least we could do since you give us a home. But you know we hear things. We hear things down here. And we see things. So many eyes. So many ears. So. Many. Things.” Arachne clicked her eight legs against the floor.

“Oh?” Yoongi indicated he had heard her. This was unsettling even for Arachne.

“We hear things in the Northern Passage. What once was silent is no longer.”

“The northern passage? Hmm…” Yoongi tried to not show his fear. To the North were the mountains. There shouldn’t be any sounds. But he hadn’t checked on Tartarus in a long time, nor had he traveled to the other side of the mountain in centuries. “I will be checking it here shortly. When I depart can you please set some webbing and traps along there?”

“Oh yessssss…..We live to serve. If we catch anything may we eat it?” Drool began to pool within her maw.

Yoongi sighed. “If it seems human, God, or demigod you must keep it for me. Otherwise, consider it yours.”

“Yess yesssssss.”

“Arachne?” Yoongi spoke quieter now.

“Yes?” She matched his volume.

“If anyone else comes down here other than me, unescorted by me. Stop them. And I mean anyone. Do you understand?”

“Yes m’lord.”

“Excellent. Now, onto more pleasant items.” He returned his volume back to normal. “Lady Persephone would like to thank you personally for her clothing. I know you generally don’t like company. However, I thought I would ask.”

“The lady would like to speak to meeeee?” Her scratchy voice peaked in surprise.

A small smile formed on Yoongi’s lips. “She would.”

“Oh I don’t know. There’s so much cleaning to do for a lady. The floor is all dirt and I have so many eyes and my children are so loud.” She clicked her pincers together in worry.

“Well it’s your decision Arachne but I am sure she wouldn’t mind. Give it some thought and let me know. Also if you have some time, some new clothing for both of us, more suitable for traveling. Use your creativity.”

“Yes m’lord. Thank you. We live to serve.” She bowed once again.

“Take care Arachne, “ Yoongi said, wandering through the antechamber and to the Western passage where Penthos was waiting. The demigod was standing up on a platform, raised above rows upon rows of golems. Yoongi climbed the ladder to join him. He raised his hands, causing the golems to rise from their slumped figures into upright warriors. Four of the figures remained slumped. “I see. Yes, Hephaestus should be summoned.”

Penthos looked at Yoongi, “May I ask my Lord, if we are expecting trouble?”

Yoongi bent over, placing his large hands on the railing. He puffed out his cheeks in thought for a moment. A few weeks ago he wouldn’t have hesitated to tell Penthos anything. But lately, he had grown weary due to Penthos’ treatment of Persephone. “My brother has grown too comfortable with allowing himself access to my realm whenever he feels like it. Additionally, I eventually expect a visit from Hoseok. While I don’t anticipate any aggression, it would be best to remind people of their place.” Yoongi looked up and over at Penthos. “I rule the Underworld. I decide who enters and when.”

“Of course, my lord.”

Another movement of Yoongi's hands and the golems returned to their stationary positions. The two men exited the platform. “Penthos. You should prepare for trouble. Arachne says she has heard movement in the Northern Passage.”

“I found cracks there earlier this week. I reinforced them with Obsidian. What do you think it is?”

“I do not know. I cannot travel to the other side of the mountain without leaving the reapings. Be quiet.” The two men slowed down as they approached the darkened corridor. They continued to get closer. Penthos indicated to Yoongi several cracks running throughout that he had patched up with Obsidian. The damage was much more than Yoongi had anticipated. The two men finally arrived at the terminus and Yooongi slowly filled the space with blue light.

“M’Lord I just repaired this yesterday.” Penthos said, his voice filled with a rare tinge of feeling. The feeling was fear.

Large holes and fissures were forming along the wall. Yoongi pressed a hand up to them. Feeling nothing, he stepped back.

“Patch these up again. Arachne will also be laying out traps. I need to think about what else to do.” Yoongi ordered and turned to leave. “Do not disturb me.”

Penthos had already begun repairing the cracks with Obsidian, “Of course m’lord.”

----------

Yoongi paced angrily in his office. He had not been expecting that. Usually Penthos tended on the dramatic side so he had expected a few natural cracks within the stone. This was bad. He stopped for a minute and looked out over the Sea. Surely the Titans remained locked up. He did not wish to go to war again. The freedom of the Gods had been hard-fought and bloody. It wasn’t something he would wish upon anybody. He picked at his cuticles and thought about what to do next.

He heard a knock at the door and sighed in irritation. He had asked not to be disturbed. He walked over and opened it a crack, ready to lay into whoever it was. He was surprised to see you standing there. “HI Yoongi.” You said shyly. The two of you hadn't agreed upon a time for today so you had hoped to catch him before the afternoon reaping. “Did I miss the second reaping?”

Yoongi took a few seconds to recalculate, not wanting to take his anger out on you. He took out his pocket watch. It was almost time for the second reaping. Shit. And he had said he would take you on a date. Shit. The defense breaches had totally caught him off guard. “Persephone. Come in.” He opened the door all the way and walked back over to the window. “I should be getting ready for the second reaping, it’s a good thing you reminded me.Charon would be quite cross if we missed too many in a row. How are your hands today? " He looked over at you.

You raised an eyebrow. What on Earth would cause Yoongi to forget about a reaping? Lethe had changed your bandaging this morning to a looser wrap." they're getting better. Thank you. Is everything ok?”

Yoongi tapped his fingers against the window ledge. He didn’t want to worry you. But he also didn’t want to keep anything from you. He took a deep breath. “There’s been some problems with the walls in the area underneath the castle. The foundation is cracking. Arachne is hearing things on the other side of the wall. We don’t know if it’s natural or an offensive measure being taken against us. I don’t know. I haven’t had to actively defend in so long.” Yoongi let it all spill out. “I have no way of checking on Tartarus. I can’t leave here to check because of the reapings. Penthos is repairing the cracks and Arachne is laying more traps but I have no idea what else to do.”

You listened while trying to think of ways you could help. “Well, I can go and check for life signs to see if there’s anything on the other side of the wall. Would that be helpful?”

Yoongi looked over at you, surprised. “You can do that?”

“Yes. I can detect life signatures. I can also usually at least discern between animals, humans, and Gods. Demigods throw me off though.”

Yoongi nodded. “Ok. That would be a good start."

“Do you trust any other Gods who could go check on Tartarus? I know Namjoon isn’t high on the list but maybe Jungkook or Apollo could go? Or you could ask the fates. But their interpretation of things is always questionable…” You listed out various suggestions.

“Sorry, but in case you didn’t notice, there’s not a lot of allies in the realm of the Underworld. Jungkook would never fly down here. He’s terrified of me.” Yoongi shrugged his shoulders. “And I don’t want to bargain with the fates. They always take more than they give. Their prophecies are so vague they are useless. But I appreciate the suggestions.” Yoongi sighed. “I have to write a letter to Hephaestus and then we can leave. I’m sorry. I meant to plan out a real date for later today, but then I got so caught up in this.” He gestured to the realm out the window.

“Hey, it’s ok. I would expect the defense of a realm to be more important. We can’t exactly enjoy a date if Titans are getting ready to bust through a mountain right?” You attempted to lighten the mood.

Yoongi gave you a small smile and headed over to his desk to begin writing. You walked over to the bookcase and perused the titles. Most appeared to be private notebooks.

"Alright, let's head out and give this to Charon." Yoongi stood up from his desk.

You stepped back from the bookcase and looked over. He looked exhausted. He sealed the letter and walked over to you, “Shall we?”

The two of you exited the castle and walked across the desert. Your arms wrapped around Yoongi's since your hands were still bandaged. You walked over to the Sea while Yoongi summoned the ships. You kicked at the rippling water and then stuck your hand in, feeling for any life. You waited to see if any signatures returned. You felt a few. Animal. Strange animals, but animals nonetheless. As predicted, and thankfully, there were no Gods or humans detected.

Yoongi had already started walking over to the channel, paralleling the movement of the ships. You wandered back that way, catching up to him. “You trying to ditch me?” You asked, playfully pushing against him.

He let out a low laugh, “Never. I need to make sure Charon gets this letter. Hephaestus is one of the few Gods who will come down here and we need repairs done.” He pulled the letter out and waved to Holly to open the gates. As he followed the ships into the cave you stayed with Holly.

“Hello pretty.” You said, petting one of the three heads. “Such a good doggy. Yes.” You scratched and petted him for several minutes while waiting for Yoongi. It was taking longer than normal today, you thought. You hoped everything was ok. The news about the caves was troubling. You were too young to remember the Titan wars and had taken peace for granted. You left a surprise for Yoongi and then headed back to the beach.

Yoongi exited the caves a few minutes later. He had received a letter from Taehyung, given a letter for Hephaestus, and had to deal with Charon complaining that he technically wasn’t a courier. Yoongi rolled his eyes and walked over to Holly. “You’re a good boy Min Holly. Wait a minute. Down boy.” Yoongi commanded the giant white animal. Holly gently rested next to the gate. Yoongi got closer and saw that three flower crowns had been placed on Holly’s heads. “Aish...what? Holly. You’re only supposed to listen to me.” He whined as he pet one of ears. One of Holly’s heads gave a perplexed look. “No boy, it’s fine it’s fine. But no one else. Ok? Only me and Persephone.” He found himself smiling. Now where did you go? He wondered.

You sat on the beach watching the strange black water ebb and flow. You had been here just over a week now and found yourself beginning to understand how time worked here and also finding it difficult to imagine ever leaving here. “Hey, you think you can just decorate my dog?” You heard Yoongi yelled with a smile on his face as he walked toward you.

You laughed. “It’s not a dog, it’s a Cerberus, remember?” You teased.

“Very funny. You’re right. And you’re lucky he didn’t bite you.”

“Yeah right. Holly loves me.”

Yoongi blushed, “You’re probably right about that too.”

“Well. This was supposed to be our date time, right?” You asked.

“It was.” He lamented.

“Where were you going to take me? What secrets does the Underworld still hold?” You gestured to the space next to you.

“I was still deciding between the pools or the forest.” He said as he sat down on the black sand.

“You really didn’t name anything else did you?” You asked, looking over at him.

“Nope. You can name them after you visit them. You’ll do a better job.” Yoongi kept looking out at the sea, afraid that if he looked at you he would start blushing and wouldn’t be able to stop. He was glad he found it so easy to talk to you.

"oh yeah? You just going to let me name everything here?" You flirted, looking over at him. You saw him. Smirk but he didn't respond. “Hmmm...well I suppose after we see if anything is trying to kill us, we can visit the forest first. But, the Stygian Sea is always a good date.” You smiled and put your bandaged hand gently on top of his.

He shook his hair out of his face and looked over. “This is a date?”

You laughed. “Yep. This is it. I’m making it official. This is our first date.”

Yoongi looked away blushing. “I’ve never been on a date before.”

“Whaaaat?” You let out before you could stop yourself. “Really? I mean, you’re just so handsome I find it hard to believe.”

He fidgeted. “Psh, well. I don’t know if I agree with you, but it’s not exactly easy to meet people in the Underworld. And before that we were at war.” He added, slightly embarrassed. “You’ve been on a lot of dates then, I suppose?”

“Oh, not really. I’ve been set up on a few dates through Jimin, you know being the whole God of Love he felt it was his job.” You rolled your eyes. “But never because I necessarily wanted to; just to be polite.” You squeezed his hand tighter. “You’re the only person I chose.”

Yoongi sat there for a minute, feeling like his cheeks were a million degrees. He had gone from happy to embarrassed to jealous to excited in a matter of about ten seconds and he was still replaying your words in his head. You’re the only person I chose. You’re the only person I chose.

“You’re the only person I would choose too.” He added quietly. “Not just because you’re like the only woman here.”

You laughed.”Oh gods, I didn’t even think of it like that but now that you mention it...”

“No. No that’s not how I meant it!” He became flustered.

“I know. I know. I’m just teasing you. Really.” You smiled and leaned over, kissing him on the cheek. “It was a very sweet thought, I’m sorry I ruined it by teasing you.”

Yoongi sat very still, afraid that if he moved he would find out this whole moment had been a dream.

You pouted for a second at the lack of response. Maybe he didn't like it and you shouldn't have kissed him "Well. I hope you forgive me. When do you want me to go check the mountains for life signs?” He turned towards you, his brown eyes full of an emotion you hadn’t seen before.

“Tonight if you don’t mind. I don’t think I can sleep soundly knowing there’s a chance something could happen to you under my protection.”

“Alright,” you said. It was your turn to blush. You had been on dates before, but nothing like this. Most were polite picnics in the forest where you started by telling them that you didn’t even want to be there, but were more than happy to hang out for a few hours. Most of the guys had been good sports, understanding that you weren't thrilled about being on a blind date.

Yoongi turned his face back to the sea. He didn’t know what he should do next. He knew what he wanted to do, but he didn’t want to seem improper or scare you away. “I got a letter back from Taehyung. He’ll be coming in two days.” Yoongi said solemnly.

“Alright,” You let out a breath. Things had suddenly seemed to turn more serious between the two of you. “So...I feel like I know the answer. But, you can’t ever leave here can you?”

Yoongi looked over, surprised by the question. “No. I can’t.” He suddenly felt sad, like it was the wrong answer even though it was the truth. Silence stretched between the two of you,but inside Yoongi's heart and mind were racing. "Is that a problem for you?" he asked so quietly you weren't sure if you heard him at first.

"No." You responded quickly. "I was just curious. That's all."

"Oh. Ok." he responded but still sounded sad to you. You scooted closer to him and rested your head against his shoulder. You felt him stiffen at first and then slowly relax against you. You tried to not notice him figuring out what to do with his arm. You giggled at his awkwardness. “What?” He asked.

“You’re cute.” You responded and pulled his arm so it wrapped around your waist. “There. Much more comfortable. If we were on Earth the sun would be setting right now.”

Yoongi settled into his new position, his fingers gently pressed against your side. “Do you miss it?”

“What? the sun setting?”

“No. Earth.”

You felt like you knew the reason he was asking. It was the same reason you had asked him he could leave. Neither of you wanted to say it. You shrugged your shoulders. “I miss the plants and animals. It’s strange being in a place devoid of so much of it. But, there are animals here. Just not right here. And there are plants here. At least in the castle. And maybe other places."

"If you weren't trapped here, when would you go back?" he forced himself to ask the question.

You tilted your head up towards his, trying to see his face. You couldn't. You sighed, "I don't know. I like it here." You felt a low rumble in his chest as he let out a small laugh.

"That's not an answer."

'It's the truth though." You snuggled into his shoulder some more.

“Well, I'm glad you like it here.” He responded and gently pulled you closer. NEXT CHAPTER

#bts fic #BTS suga #bts fanfic #bts writing #bts fanfction #bts suga x you #suga x you #suga x reader #suga fluff #bts au fanfic #yoongi fluff #yoongi scenarios #yoongi imagine #bts yoongi x reader #bts yoongi #yoongi x reader #yoongi x you

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alexlabhont · 4 years

Text

I didn’t mean to fall in love with you

Chapter Eight.

Book: Queen B - Choices (Universe)

Pairing: Poppy Min-Sinclair x Trans!Male MC (Beck Hughes)

Genre: Canon re-write (Because I can)

Rating: Anyone can read it, really

Tags: @dopeyouth @theymakemegayer @save-me-the-last-dance @poppysmc (If anyone want to be tagged in, just tell me)

This is me trying to write by and for the Trans community, specially FTM community, meaning, trans guys, but I actually took the liberty to use They/them pronouns for everyone out there who´s interested (Also, the name Beck was the most neutral one I could find, trying to use the cannon Bea Hughes)

If you have any comment, PLEASE BE RESPECTFULL and patient with me. This is also my first english fanfic and english is not my mother language, so... i’m sorry fo the grammar errors

CHAPTERS

Chapter seven

ONE-SHOTS

Just a dance (Zoey x MC)

——————————————————————

When Poppy told that guy to send a pic of her and Farmsville kissing to The T, she wasn't trying anything but to declare a message, to make clear to everyone in Belvoire, especially to that Wonder Warden Wade of theirs, one little thing: Beck was hers now.

But no.

As usual, things with Beck were completely out of her control, whenever Poppy did zig, somehow Beck always managed to do zag. And this time "Zag" were lots of photos where Beck was hanging out, laughing and even hugging Zoey Wade. Sharing classes, walking side by side. Being together.

Students were talking, The T was speculating. That girl’s happy face making fun of her right from inside the photos and that stupid threat of hers didn’t. Leave. Her. Mind! That New Money was winning, and there it was just one person to blame: Beck Hughes.

So when she finally saw them in the hallway, she was decided to tear them down for good, hiding behind her reputation, behind a failed plan, when she knew deep down herself that she was mad for something else… Sometime hurtful…

But it all went down to shit when what she saw a few seconds later was Beck’s back hitting hard against the wall, and that stupid animal grabbing them by the clothes. For a moment, she completely forgot how to breathe, a loud gasp taking all the air in her lungs, and the pain and rage clutched her heart with such a lightning force and speed that Poppy couldn’t understand; all she knew was she couldn't stop looking at the scene, wanting so badly to be in the middle just to kick his balls so hard that they'll stop working forever. The strawberry blonde really tried to end the fight sooner, but that bunch of assholes that Belvoire had as students started to stand around as disgusting moths, hungry for a fight, so the last thing Poppy saw of the attack for a moment were Beck’s smile and then the pain written all over their face.

And that was it.

She could feel her blood boiling, something weird taking over her body. She was familiar to this feeling, the blonde felt it each time Farmsville proved to be a pain in her ass… but this one's was stronger, deeper, and incontrollable. Her nails were eager to meet Carleton's face until nobody could recognize him ever again. But when she finally got there it was Beck who was doing her job, smashing their fists against his face over and over, growling each time. A quick twist.

Naturally, that bastard was expelled latter that day, everyone totally noticed it because… well… she had her ways. And although it was one less problem without him, that didn’t make up for Beck’s rib.

Yes, she literally dragged them to the hospital to get that X-ray, what was that I'm-Tough-I'm-fine shit? Who were them? Rambo? Beck had that stupid frown through all the way, like a spoiled baby, but it didn't matter, because now everyone was sure that Beck didn't have a broken rib. They were fine.

“Told you.”

“I don't fucking care, Hughes. Now hold that tongue of yours, would you?” The silence she asked for only lasted two seconds.

“You know I told you.”

“Oh, my god. What are you, five?” she rolled her eyes quickly. “Why are you so mad about it anyways? Of course I needed to know if you were ok!”

“I told you I was fine!”

“You’re not a fucking doctor!” Neither of them giving a shit about the driver hearing the conversation. “You don't have anything to prove when it comes to your health!”

She said, why it was not basic information? Why was it something so hard to swallow?

“Poppy?” God, this one just won't stop, right?

“What now?” The blonde didn't even bother to look at them, focusing her attention to what was outside the window.

“You’re right.” Wait what? “I shouldn't be upset about it. After all... You were just taking care of me, so… Thank you.”

Poppy will never admit it to anyone… but that weird but honest and beautiful smile she received made her tremble a little~ bit. Just a little bit. It was kind of like seeing them for the very first time, discover them, a fraction of their very own core shown to her…

But anyways

Right after that, just right after all she did, after that fucking day Poppy hadn't heard a word from that bastard.

So all Belvoire may be asking themselves: what was doing the great, the beautiful, the one and only queen Poppy Min-Sinclair walking through the campus with a fruit tree in hands? Obviously not her hands, an employee's hands, but whatever. Same thing.

Well, the answer was simple: Nobody, and that’s nobody…, could ignore her. No one. Poppy can and do ignore people, but be ignored? Hell, no. She hadn't seen Beck in school neither, no text messages, no social media updates, nor shit, so she was going to pay them a visit, giving them something that surely will make them to never forget about her.

So yeah, a fruit tree. That was an acceptable get well gift, right?

Poppy knocked at Beck's place, waiting, of course, for a quick answer… and waiting, and waiting… and waiting.

“Ms. Min-Sinclair…” shyly spoke that man whoever he was. “Can I put the tree down for a second?”

“No.” Maybe if it were any other time the guy could do it, but not today. Today, when she was going to deliver it personally. Today, when she was giving one of the very few gifts meant from her kind spot. Today, when she was getting angrier and angrier because she hated to wait.

She knocked again. Harder this time, but the results were just the same. And that's when something weird started to happen. Yes, she was still angry, but a stitch-like feeling started to grow inside her. She knew for a fact that Beck was in there, the doctor was clear: They needed to rest and there it was no absolutely way Zoey would let them do anything else. So they had to be there.

“Maybe they're taking a nap or something. Nothing weird, right?” She thought while her eyes wandered through the hall, searching for some magic and very hidden way to get inside the dorm. Because maybe… maybe… they weren’t sleeping.

“No. They’re fine! They’re just doing something stupid like playing the ukulele or whatever musicians do.” Her mind chuckled a little, if she could joke about it, then there it was nothing bad going on… But it didn't work quite well. She was starting to feel preoccupied.

“Er… excuse me?” Poppy turned, a deadly, cold, scary glare piercing that poor bastard's self so hard as the blonde knew she was capable of, making him tremble. It would've been funny if it wasn't for the situation.

“You have exactly two seconds to tell me why anything you have to say is relevant or I'll fire you. Starting now.”

“There’s some guy behind that corner watching us for quite a while now.” The employee said, the strawberry blonde followed the man's sight direction, what kind of creep were stalking them? Seriously, fucking weirdo.

To her fortune in at least this case, Poppy recognized that nerdy, greasy hair guy above a pair of glasses and a suspicious look behind them. Ew, Benji What’s-his-name. Well… desperate times call for desperate measures…

“Hey you!” Poppy called him as demanding as only someone like her could be. “Come closer.”

“W-why?” He asked, reserved.

“Because you’re last place and I basically command you. So stop talking and get your pimpled ass over here.” The guy walked towards them, looking hurt, angry maybe, but who cares? It wasn't her fault he was a looser that nobody cared about. Eat or be eaten, there’s people in this world with the potential to be a force of nature, and there it was people like Benji as well. They’re just there to be used. “I need you to open this door for me. ASAP.”

“What?! But that's against the dorm's ru…!”

“Excuse me, do I look like I care?” Poppy was pretty close to lose her patience completely, but she managed to behave a little, after all he was right. If they get caught, most likely the problems would arrive sooner than later. “Just do it and you're free to leave. Nobody’s gonna know.”

“God, they’re gonna know…” he whispered, playing with his own fingers, making then crack. “But let’s make this quick, ok?”

“That is so what I actually asked you to do, you dumbass.”

Benji looked around like if he was about to rob a bank or something, Poppy rolled her eyes at this, tapping her foot to try and give him pressure to do the job in that instant; the only “big move” he did was swiping his master key on the door, then nudged it open with his foot.

“See? It wasn’t that hard, wasn’t it?” Poppy said, not even looking at Benji. “Now disappear before someone see us talking.”

The strawberry blonde didn't even know if Benji did go away or not, she just went straight into Beck's bedroom, opening the door of the first room she saw.

Bingo.

Beck was sitting on their bed, their laptop over their lap; a pair of big, black professional headphones covering their ears and little Fran--- Pepes comfortably sleeping, snugging next to Beck’s feet. When they saw her, their eyes went wide, taking off the headphones completely surprised and confused, a what's going on written all over their face, especially when the employee came along with her gift.

“Poppy? What the…? How the hell did you…?”

“Shht.” She didn't let them finish, chuckled a little of the incredulous expression they had. The reality was that, now that she knew Beck was ok…, she was… weirdly relieved… and pissed, but that's something she could deal with latter. “I want you to place the tree over there… next to the window… perfect! That would be all. You're no longer required.”

The employee left the room almost immediately, the sound of the principal door closing was the only indication that both of them were completely alone.

“Well… are you going to tell me now what are you doing here or not?” Beck spoke.

“I was just passing by and suddenly I wanted to come. Why? Is there a problem?”

“And what's with the tree?”

“It’s a get-well gift from yours truly.” Poppy shooted a playful wink, receiving a flicker of their eyes, disbelieving.

“A tree?”

“It’s a fruit tree.”

“Right…” Beck said, sarcastic painting their voice as they put their headphones around their neck, placing their attention on the screen once again. Like… hello? Poppy was right there!

“I was knocking for a long time out there. Where are your manners? Did you leave them in the farm?” She joked trying to make them mad, while petting Pepes softly, who kept sleeping as if nothing happened right after opening one eye and closing it again.

“No, sorry. I didn’t hear you… How did you get in?”

“I have my ways.”

“Gosh, that’s so messed up…” Beck murmured, their gaze still on the laptop.

“Seriously? That’s it?”

Feeling like a fool, Poppy clenched her teeth. She was waiting for Beck to do something, to look at her again, to ask her to leave, anything! But no, they kept tapping and clicking while biting the insides of their cheeks.

“Jesus, Hughes!” tired, Poppy walked towards them and took drastically their notebook away...

“Hey!”

… and replaced it with herself, sitting over Beck’s lap trying not to hurt their rib. They were warm, pajamas still on, messy hair and even though the bed was made, you could tell they hadn’t gotten up from there in a while.

“Give me that back…” The determination was in their eyes, but Poppy knew better. She knew for a fact they didn’t want her to obey. Their hands around her waist, the whisper in which they were talking and that dork yet attractive smile on their lips were telling otherwise.

“No.” She said. “I came all~ the way here just to see you. The least thing you could do is give your full attention to me.” Poppy demanded.

“I thought you were just passing by.” Beck said, a mocking grin lighting up their face.

“Just shut up already.” She said, causing them to laugh a little.

“Make me.”

Oh… that’s new.

But she was happy to oblige, so she kissed them. A spicy, hot kiss where her lips and her tongue played with theirs, trying to take control, to make them forget about the whole world, their own name, and focus on her taste, her touch on their neck, her fingers caressing their skin, traveling down, discovering Beck’s clavicles… but it was hard, because she wasn’t the only one trying to take over the other one… Beck was doing it so as well, so how could Poppy concentrate if she could feel the warm moves of the tip of their fingers tracing an intense map on her back, that she could almost feel as if it was on her bare skin? How can she prove herself superior when Beck’s slow bites in her mouth, savoring her, burned so good?

“How are you feeling, Tushi-face?” Poppy murmured, ending the moment just before she completely loses control. This was still a plan, and the blonde always had to be the one who they can’t live without. She needed them to be hopelessly devoted to her to make it work, not the other way around. “I’m not hurting you, am I?”

“Nor a little bit.” Beck took a deep breath, regaining their lost air. But there it was: that lamb face. “I was just trying to pick a good song for an audition.”

“Audition? To what?”

“A metal band. You know, some… stuff.” Poppy frowned, why would them wanted to be on a band? Beck had recognition on their own, fans all over Belvoire and, she can surely bet, even New York. Beck didn’t need anyone else, that’s why she had choose him. Because she knew the potential they had alone. Together… they both would be the power couple of the entire school… and, with her guidance, even more than that.

“Why would you do that?” Poppy asked. Beck responded with a shrug.

“I don’t know. Sounds fun. Besides, there is going to be a battle of bands and I want so badly to show them who's the boss...”

That’s when Poppy saw it for the very first time. The spark on their eyes made of ambition, confidence… arrogance.

“I see…”

All this time, she thought Beck was one of those people that just were going with the flow. A diamond in the rough who couldn't see its real potential… But she was wrong all along… There were more on Beck than they show, and she just figured it out a little more. The music was the answer all this time. She should've seen it before.

“Uhm… Ok. Just pick a song that reminds you of me.” Beck cracked a chuckle, letting their mind wandering thought their music repertoire.

“Oh, I think I have one.” They suddenly said with a playful grin on their face. “I’m sour candy … so sweet then I get a little angry, yeah… Sour candy, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah…”

“Seriously, Hughes? Blackpink?” They didn't care, they even closed their eyes and kept on singing, dancing their arms in a funny, annoying way.

“I'm super psycho, make you crazy when I turn the lights low… sour candy… yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah…”

That was it. Two can play the game just fine.

“Ask me to be nice and then I’ll do it extra mean… tteutbakke pyojeong hanae neon danghwanghagetji...” Poppy sang suddenly, surprising Beck so hard that she couldn’t help but laugh a lot because of their face. “Oh, honey… let me close that for you.” The strawberry blonde used her hand to gentle taking their jaw up. God, how can they be so cute while being dumb?

“You speak Korean?!”

“What kinda question is that? Do you actually know what the Min on Min-Sinclair means?”

“I-I mean, yeah. I just didn't want to assume… what does it mean? That thing you sang?” The blonde raised an eyebrow.

“I thought you knew.” Beck shook his head, that surprised look still into their eyes, but now had a taste of interest and wonder… A chance that she didn't miss. “Well… it actually means this…” Slowly, like a panther hunting her prey, Poppy reach out for Beck's neck, pouring out sweet but dangerous kisses over their skin… Oh, their reactions… Beck sigh, shaking a little, their body was tense, but slowly begun to relax, enjoying the attentions.

Both of their hands started to touch Poppy's body, eager, needy, intensely. Beck's caressed burned more and more over her body to the point where the blonde couldn't take it anymore. She needed them to take her clothes off…

Beck kissed her lips hungrily, tasting her as if they were starving, gripping her hips while doing so. She grinded down on them, stealing a gasp from their lips in between the kisses, driving her mad. Poppy needed to touch them, to feel them, so she put her hands under their shirt, enjoying the burning skin of their actually hard abs… touching careful and slowly up, and up…

“No, Poppy, wait…” Beck suddenly said, nervous and sounding a little scared. Confused as fuck, Poppy moved a little away, shooting them a question-mark-look. What happened? She wanted so badly to ask, but the stupid door opened abruptly, an annoying voice right behind it.

“Beck, I'm home! I got you some soup…”

Zoey was literally in the house. The stupid look on her face when she realized what was happening make Poppy really angry.

“Fuck you, Wade. Don't you see we're in the middle of something?” Something clicked inside the girl, because her astonished expression chance in one second to an indignant one just before slapping the door.

“Shit…”

—-

#poppy x mc #queen b choices #choices #trans #ftm #malemc #queen b benji #poppy min sinclair #bea hughes #Beck Hughes #choices stories you play #choices poppy #choices queen b #choices queen b mc #mc x poppy #queen b

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likesomekindofcheese · 4 years

Text

Expectation (The Great oneshot)

Pairing: Grigor Dymov x fem! reader

Word count: 1699 words

Warnings: mentions of sex and pregnancy, swearing, an arranged marriage, mentions of food.

From @foxinaforestofstars request: So... I have a Grigor request, if you don't mind. Grigor and reader are married. It was an arranged marriage, but they really do love each other. One day reader realizes that she hasn't had her period in two months and after confirming it (as much as possible in that time) she tells Grigor and they're both overjoyed. Thanks in advance!

A/N: You’re welcome! I hope you like it! I love writing for The Great!

“Y/N, come back to bed, darling,” you husband mewled out to you.

You had sat up and placed your feet on the floor. Turning to look at him behind you, he was laying himself on his side smiling up at you. He was a beautiful man and sometimes looked like a Greek God in the morning sunlight, you admitted to yourself. It made you forget the sour churning in your stomach you have had for a few days. The churning that concerned you.

Feeling the bed shift with his weight. You smiled under the feeling of him moving aside the collar of your nightdress to kiss your shoulder.

“It’s already daytime…” you answered, “the birds have been chirping forever,” you said.

“Let them chirp all they want. They aren’t in here with a pretty lady in their beds.”

Obliging, you gently leaned back and let him cuddle you for just a bit more. Crawling partly on top of him, you let your head rest against his heart. It was beating slowly. His skin felt hot against your cheek and the nightgown you were wearing contrasted with his skin.

“I was remembering…the day you arrived here. When we married…” Grigor recalled, his eyes looking up at the red bed post.

Part of you let out a little laugh of embarrassment.

“Oh god…” you blurted. “Which one? When I tripped when I got out the first carriage?”

“No, no…I remember how…how scared you seemed…” he recalled, his voice low, scratchy, and sleepy.

“I was scared. Remember-I forgot my own wedding vows, Grigor! Archie had to prompt them to me twice!”

“But…I was just as scared too.” he continued.

“I…I just didn’t know who you were. How wonderful you were,” he complimented.

Your cheeks grew red. Your head shot up and he looked down to see you.

You did recall that wedding. Your legs were shaking beneath your gown as you walked down to the dark chapel.

When the wedding night arrived you nearly cried as you were changed out of your gown into your nightdress and heard his knock. As everyone else excused themselves to give the betrothed couple privacy, you thought your heart would knock itself out of your ribs. Could you just lie down, lift your skirt, open your legs, and pray for it to be over soon?

To your shock, Grigor asked for nothing of you. You wound up drinking a little vodka and talking. He offered to sleep on the chair or in the other room until you were comfortable with him. He spent his wedding night curled up on a chair in front of the fire.

This soon became longer hours of talking and learning more about each other. He had become your friend in a way. Then he only held your hand and began kissing you when you let him. As you talked with your new husband more and more, you began to know him, dance with him, and let him kiss you more often, then to sleep beside you in his bed, and then to make love to you to consummate the marriage.

And you found you enjoyed it. A lot. And a chance hardly passed for both of you to jump into each other’s arms and be at it like rabbits.

The birds were quieter. You pulled yourself up to look at his face.

“I…I don’t regret marrying you…” you confessed. “In fact, I think I…I….”There was another word right on your lips, but you could hardly think. A pressing matter was to your mind. Several pressing matters. You wanted to say it. And you wanted him to say it too so badly. Someone had to say it. It was right on the tip of your tongue when a serf burst in bringing breakfast on a tray.

“I don’t regret it at all…” Grigor said, pressing a kiss to your forehead appropriate enough as they opened some curtains for sunlight placed silverware on the tray.

Crawling out of bed together, your nose crinkled at the smell of toasted bread, but the smell of the eggs was almost overwhelming. You went to the desk to check your journal to check for today’s date. Some of the ladies were amazed and poked fun at you for being literate. You didn’t care too much. You liked to sometimes track and write things in quieter moments.

August the twenty-second was today’s date.

Glancing back, Grigor was occupied more with rolling up his stockings before having poached eggs, bread, and chopped melons for breakfast.

“Would you like anything?” he asked.

“I’ll be there in a moment,” you answered, confident he was far enough from you to peek. You pulled back a few pages to see your own notes.

June 15th: began bleeding today…

The smell of the new pages began to drift in your nose, replacing the strong egg smell as you checked each day of the next month where you wrote. There was no day to mark when you bled in July.

It had been two months.

You were supposed to bleed around August the 15th. And there was nothing.

Sitting down, you ate a bit of bread and a few bites of melon. You had to hurry. A matter like this couldn’t wait.

“I…I have to meet Lady Svenska for tea, I will see you later, my dear,” you excused.

The words slipped out so causally, if not fast. Grigor blinked and then smiled.

“Oh. Goodbye Y/N.”

He took your hand and kissed it in farewell before you dressed and scurried out. Walking down the wooden halls, you kept your eyes fixed to the end of it until a butterfly at the end of it got your attention.

There was a tall, auburn colored wig and a few more butterflies accompanying the first one.

“Oh, Madame Dymov!” she greeted.

“Oh-er-Elizabeth! What are you doing?” you asked.

“On my way to see the Empress!” she chirruped dreamily with a proud smile.

You noticed a bundle of wheat in her arms.

“With wheat? Are you going to make bread?” you teased lightly.

“Oh no- it’s annual! She must urinate on the wheat and if it blooms she’s expecting an heir!” she explained.

Your stomach dropped at the words. You were going to be sick, you really felt it. You eyed the bundles, tempting as they looked. Maybe you could ask for one. But…you couldn’t. Especially out in public where anyone could see, and a rumor could spread easily. Who knew how Grigor would react? And, you had to visit someone who could without fail tell you yes or no.

“Why, what is it, Y/N? You look flushed!” she wondered.

“Nothing, I uh- I was only thinking that-uh- the wheat it reminded…r-r-reminded me of my duty towards my husband. You know.” You improvised, folding your hands in front of you meekly.

“Well, if you have any problem performing, just lie back and think of Russia. Find some erotica. It’s the best for stimulation. I have plenty of art in my chambers that may inspire you to try doing a position like a table while he…”

“Have to be somewhere, have to hurry! Goodbye Lady Elizabeth!” you interrupt, walking away to the green corridor.

Heart beating harder than ever, you reached the door to the physician’s office and knocked.

The words were still ringing in your ears along with the mixing of your stomach as you walked out. Everything went dizzy as you stood there, still processing the words from the court physician.

“Congratulations, Madame Dymov!”

First things first. There was one person who needed to know. Soon.

Hurrying back to the apartment, you rang for a servant. You asked where your husband was and as soon as he was free to come back.

Minutes ticked by slow as honey. You paced before the fire, turning by the large golden bathtub, and staring outside at the gardens. You looked down at your stomach in your dress. It seemed perfectly normal. No sign of anything. But that meant that everything was normal. Half an hour stretched by agony came and went.

Finally, the door opened and Grigor walked through. His eyes were bright from movement. He wore a looser white shirt-probably playing tennis against the wall with the emperor again.

“Hello there, Y/N…you’ve summoned me? Is something wrong?” he asked worriedly.

You paused, frozen. The words half in your mouth. Staying there, almost choking to get out.

“Grigor I…I…”

Your throat knotted up. He walked closer.

“You’re…you’re not sick with the pox or anything, are you? I don’t see any marks…”

“Grigor I’m pregnant,” you announced flatly.

He turned white and then pink.

“Y/N…is this…is this a prank?” he questioned, head shaking but his voice getting higher in pitch.

“I’ve not bled for two months. It’s no prank, I just got back from the court doctor. You can talk to him,” you confirmed, bobbing your head.

His jaw dropped low and he took your hands.

“We’re going to be parents…” you told him in disbelief.

“Y/N…”

He took your face in his hands. And then he began to kiss you passionately and you kissed back, your hands wandering to his back. Looking up, you saw a few tears in his eyes and his smile had a slight crinkle to his face. Once he let go, you began smiling back.

“I could pick you up…would that be…” he wondered.

“As long as you’re gentle. It won’t hurt the little one, yes.”

He picked you up and turned you around in an embrace. Tears began to well up and fall once you landed and you started to sniffle, holding onto each other. He placed a careful hand on your stomach. It was quiet for a moment.

He looked up, grinning ear to ear.

“Y/N…I’ve known this for a bit but…as mad as it is, even though we’ve been married for a long time, but I… I…I think I love you…”

There it was. The words you wanted so badly this morning. The words you wanted for a while. The words that would make having this child easier. You kissed him again.

“I…I think love you too.”

Taglist: @foxinaforestofstars @queenlover05 @sgt-stardustkillerqueen @itsametaphorgwil @grigorlee @vintage-and-hypnotic @joeneslee @rhapsodyrecs @yourlocalmusicalprostitute @bens-jawline @themarchoftherainbowqueen @isitstraightvodka @silverrose02

@deck-heart @iwritefanficnotprophecies @simonedk @panagiasikelia @fueled-by-novocaine @xviiarez @raerae27 @i-wished-upon-a-star-one-night

#carrie writes #the great #the great fanfic #the great fanfiction #the great oneshot #girgor dymov #grigor dymov x you #grigor dymov x y/n #grigor dymov x reader #grigor dymov x fem! reader #grigor dymov x fem! y/n #tw: pregnancy

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lnarizakis · 4 years

Text

critical thinking | a. keiji

masterlist | cards against humanity x haikyuu!!

pairing: akaashi keiji x gen!reader

foreword: this is around 2k words and honestly I’m kinda proud of myself like i think this is the longest fic I’ve written on here!! I hope you guys enjoy hehe

look out for: no warnings!

PREFACE. The setting: Akaashi Keiji and (L/N) (Y/N), with a painfully obvious crush on the former, are studying in the library. It’s one of the only days where the setter’s not practicing hard for nationals after school. They’re not really aware of the time, but it’s probably around 4:30. The sun’s shining brightly through the window, hitting all the right spots on Keiji’s face perfectly. He’s such a gentleman for choosing to sit facing the sun. It’s awfully quiet in the surrounding air, but between the two of them hushed whispers fill the atmosphere. From afar, it could be assumed that they’re having a heated discussion about the literature homework in front of them, debating the true meaning behind the significance of the light in the character’s eyes, but they’re discussing something a little unrelated. Well, perhaps the concept of “true love” could have been branched out from how (Y/N) suggested that the light in the character’s eyes could have been lit up because of the love he had for the deuteragonist, so in a way they’re still discussing the literature homework. But, no. Not really. I mean:

“Wait, so you don’t believe in true love? Like, the kind where you look into someone’s eyes for the first time and think— ‘Wow. I’m in love with them,” blurted out (Y/N) in a hushed whisper, absolutely exasperated with the fact that Keiji outrightedly stated that he does not believe in true love. Well, as far as (Y/N) interpreted the words “I really don’t think there’s such thing as love at first sight” goes, Keiji does not believe in true love.

“No, you’re getting the two mixed up. The kind you’re thinking of is love at first sight, as I’ve previously mentioned. True love is something else. True love is…” Keiji thought for a minute. He stayed silent, wondering what true love really is. He tapped his fingers on one hand, and played with his pen with the other. The notebook underneath both remained blank.

“True love is critical thinking.”

(Y/N) sputtered out, “You thought for a good one minute, and all you could think of what true love is is critical thinking?! You weren’t critically thinking there, Akaashi-san.” Keiji chuckled. That was funny. He smirked, as he let his eyes bring themselves down towards his still-blank notebook.

“We should get back to work, (L/N)-san. We’re here in the library for a reason,” Keiji stated, as a matter-of-fact. Dejectedly, (Y/N) muttered out that he’s right, and they get back to work. They agreed to disagree with their previous argument, about the significance of the light behind the main character’s eyes, and decide to write their own answer in their notebook.

After a good fifteen minutes, (Y/N) let out a sigh as they dropped their pen onto the table. They stretched out their arms, cramped from being used to write several paragraphs of pure BS-ing. Impulsively, they suggested, “You think true love is critical thinking, huh? Is there any way I can show you that it’s not all that?”

Keiji thought for a couple seconds, then pointed his pen towards (Y/N).

“See? I had to think for a minute if you were asking me out on a date. Critical thinking at its finest.” Oh, how he loved to tease (Y/N). They playfully rolled their eyes. “But alright. I’m game. Convince me, with everything you can, that true love isn’t all critical thinking.”

ONE. The setting: Akaashi was in his room, staring at his closet. It’s a neatly done closet, with all of his clothes sorted by color. He had just come out of his shower, and he had just finished drying off. His hair was still a little wet, but since it’s several hours before his first date with (Y/N), it’ll dry beforehand. He just needed to find an outfit. He had planned on doing so last night, but extended volleyball practice called and asked for all his energy to be spent. Bokuto just had to get those cross spikes in before nationals. He couldn’t forget, like last time. That was… a little embarrassing, to say the least.

He pulled out a pair of black skinny jeans along with a gray sweater that he hadn’t worn since his first year in high school, but it seemed to him that his shoulders have gotten a little too broad to fit loosely into that sweater. Looks like it won’t do; he might feel a little uncomfortable with the snug fit, and (Y/N) might feel a little odd with his constant shuffling, attempting to stay comfortable throughout the date. Back to the closet those two went.

Oh my. Black joggers and a hooded sweatshirt. Absolutely not. It was too casual. Keiji imagined himself wearing that while (Y/N) was wearing the nicest thing in their closet (well, perhaps not the nicest thing, but something still pretty first-date nice).

Keiji found a pair of looser jeans— but what to pair them with? He found a collared shirt and a lighter-colored sweater to go on top. In the depths of his closet he also found an overcoat, as well as an expensive belt the third-years of his volleyball team bought him for his birthday. He would definitely look nice with this. But wait— what were they going to do again? Just a simple outing at the cafe, right? This outfit was definitely too fancy for something like this. He couldn’t simply wear something like this at a cafe like that. Nope. Definitely not. Back to the closet the whole outfit went.

He gave up. He decided to go with the first outfit, the skinny jeans and the sweater. He was going to have a collared button-down underneath. He thought this would be best. Definitely. No doubt about it.

—

Walking towards the cafe, Keiji felt more uncomfortable by the minute. He felt his pants were too tight, or his collar kept unfolding itself every time he moved his shoulders. He felt like a clown in a circus; with everyone staring at him as he walked by different people on the sidewalk.

When he opened the door, he found (Y/N) sitting at a table by themself. They hadn’t ordered anything yet, but they were on their phone. Oh gosh, they’ve been waiting for him. It was all because he spent too long finding an outfit to wear. He really shouldn’t have put so much thought into that outfit. It was so unnecessary to think that much!

“Hey, you.” It was (Y/N). They stood up from where they were sitting, and beckoned Keiji to come closer, as he was currently blocking the entrance. He followed the little hand wave, and profusely apologized for being late, to which (Y/N) replied that it was completely fine; they actually had just arrived.

“You look nice.” (Y/N) broke the silence once more. They scanned Keiji up and down, smiling softly.

TWO. The setting: The sun’s setting and the sky’s a really pretty purple and pink. They’re walking home after what seemed like their fourth or fifth date. They weren’t really sure themselves, since (Y/N) keeps spontaneously asking them out on several dates. So maybe it was even the sixth. But who was he to judge, because right at this moment he stood underneath a street lamp that shone a bright yellow light with the love of his life. He was so proud to call them his. What he wasn’t so proud of, however, is how they haven’t had one, single kiss yet. That’s a little embarrassing. However, right here, seemed like the best opportunity to share his first kiss with (Y/N).

Uh-oh. How was he supposed to kiss them? Does he… place a hand on their shoulder? Or does it go on their waist, as he leans in and softly kisses them? No, that didn’t seem right. Maybe he places that hand behind the neck and brings them closer to him? No, that didn’t sound right either. Where does his other hand go? Does he keep it hidden in the pocket of his coat, or does he hold their hand? You know, for support? Or maybe he uses both hands to hold them by the waist. That seemed like the best option.

But wait— how does he… lean in and kiss them? Does he do it slowly? Just quickly give them a little peck on the lips and look away like a tsundere? Oh gosh, his lips were chapped; maybe he shouldn’t kiss them after all—

He’s given no time to think any more before (Y/N) leans towards him and places their lips against his. The kiss was a little forceful, and he felt their teeth, but it was still nonetheless wonderful. Once they pulled away, Keiji softly placed the tips of his fingers over his lips, ghosting the touch of what he had just felt.

“You just… kissed me,” he stated.

They smiled a toothy grin. “I did. You were taking too long; you were staring at me like a dead fish. Critical thinking, aren’tcha? It doesn’t get you anywhere,” (Y/N) taunted.

THREE. The setting: (Y/N) and Keiji stood outside the door to the gym, hand in hand. It was some time after practice had ended. The former felt Keiji’s hand getting clammy and sweaty, a result of keeping their relationship hidden for so long. Currently, they were about to announce to Bokuto Koutarou, proud captain and ace of their volleyball team, also being Keiji's best friend and closest confidant, that they were dating.

What was he to say? Akaashi was to word it in the most precise way, or else (Y/N) would get the wrong idea about what they meant to him, and their relationship might be extremely damaged. Or Bokuto might think that Akaashi’s setting volleyball secondary on his list of priorities, which is extremely worrying as part of the starting line-up for nationals.

Right on cue, the doors to the gym swung open. It was Bokuto. His skin glistened with sweat, a product of his hard work. He gave a long sigh, exclaiming his thanks for the cold air outside. His eyes were closed. Bokuto opened his eyes to see his junior and someone else that he had never seen before holding hands. Akaashi looked worried, to which Bokuto expressed his concern with an “Oya? Akaashi, what’s the matter?”

“Hi, Bokuto-san. My name is (L/N) (Y/N), and Akaashi and I are dating. We just wanted to tell you that.” (Y/N) blurted out, and Akaashi felt his cheeks grow slightly warm because of the sudden outburst of their confession. To Akaashi’s surprise, Bokuto laughed heartily. The ace clasped a sweaty hand on the setter’s shoulder.

“Oh! I’m proud of you, Akaashi. You managed to get ‘em! You’ve been crushing on them since forever.”

FOUR. The setting: It’s late at night. Akaashi’s older now; he’s a little more experienced with all of this “dating stuff.” He’s getting the hang of it— well, he should be, since there’s a little black velvet box sitting in the drawer of his nightstand in his bedroom. Akaashi has his own little apartment now, and (Y/N) has their own. They haven’t moved in together yet. Akaashi’s ready to propose to them. He’s got the best plan ever. He knows exactly what to do. There’s nothing that can disrupt the plan. First, he’s going to walk over to (Y/N)’s apartment, and they’re going to spend the whole day together, out and about. He’s then going to treat them to a nice dinner, which once they’re done, he’s going to present to them the ring. It’s going to be beautiful and meaningful. Memorable, even. Or, well, it was going to be beautiful and meaningful.

“You can’t sleep?”

“No… I had a nightmare that you left me.”

“Okay, come over and we can sleep together.”

Akaashi hung up the phone. Around ten minutes later, he heard a knock at his apartment door, and there he saw (Y/N), cold and out of breath. He let them in, and he led them into his bedroom.

—

And so we have it: Akaashi and (Y/N) were lying side-by-side on his bed, neither of them being able to go to sleep. The former setter turned to (Y/N) and they replicated his actions. He stared into their eyes.

“You know I love you, right? I could never leave you,” Ever the stoic boyfriend. (Y/N) still smiled softly, though, knowing he meant every word he said. Despite his cold exterior, his eyes radiate warmth.

“I know. I love you too,” they whispered.

“I want to marry you,” Akaashi accidentally blurted out. His eyes widened, and so did (Y/N)’s. Oh God, did he really just say that? Did he really mean it? Of course he meant it, what was he thinking?

Still in shock, (Y/N) asked, “Wait, do you really mean it?”

“I just… said that, right?” Akaashi let their question slip in and out of his ear.

“Yes. To both questions.”

Getting out of bed, Akaashi lowered his voice as he asked himself as well as (Y/N), “You’re serious, right? This is super spontaneous…” He reached for the closed drawer of his nightstand, and opened it up. He grabbed the black velvet box and opened it. Behind him, (Y/N) was sitting up in bed, wondering what he was doing.

And there he was, inching his way closer to (Y/N), holding out their engagement ring, to which they held out their ring finger. He slowly eased the ring onto their finger, face flushed with warmth and love while doing so. He looked up into their eyes.

“Looks like I wasn’t critically thinking there. Thank you for teaching me what it means to love from not just the mind, but also from the heart.” (Y/N) playfully slapped him on the arm.

“Keiji, you’re supposed to say that at our marriage, not right now!”

#haikyuuwritersnet #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu!! x reader #akaashi keiji #akaashi keiji x reader #cadekagi

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aponderingcharming · 4 years

Text

Just a post-Age of Ultron Steve and Nat scene...just got the feels for some reason and had to get something out! Enjoy :) Steve had been watching her for hours now. Outside of training the team and getting them up to speed on how things worked around here, she hadn’t said a word – and Nat liked to comment. Bruce disappearing weighed heavily on her every movement, her limbs that little clunkier than usual, the snap of her skills a little soft, and he noticed how the light that once danced in her eyes began to dim. As the day dragged on, Steve could almost literally see her walls coming back up and entrapping her in her own fortress of protection once again.

He wanted to help.

Natasha had been a friend to him. Someone that he trusted. Someone that he cared for.

So when he found her up late, looking out over the star-filled yet empty training grounds, he made a decision.

“Couldn’t sleep either, huh?” he posed quietly, sidling up alongside her, resting his arms on the metal rail.

The woman glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, a small, sad smile forming on her lips.

“Never been good at sleeping, actually. Always on alert. One of the downfalls of being in the spy business.”

They stayed in silence for a few moments, comfortable in each other’s presence. Steve noted that it always felt like that when he was with her; familiar, normal. Safe, he even mused internally.

It was a beautiful night. There was a stillness about the way the stars just hung there in their place, keeping watch over everything below, keeping watch over them.

Finally, “I’m sorry about Bruce.”

Her shoulders stiffened.

“Yeah, well…” she took a short pause to look down, “I don’t even know…” she cut off, swallowing hard.

“You deserve to be happy, Natasha,” Steve interjected for her, wanting her to know that he understood. “It’s not wrong to want things. It’s the most natural thing in the world.”

She let that settle between them and he took that as a good sign. He wasn’t sure how many times, if ever, someone had said that to her. But it was true, and she should know that.

“So do you,” she whispered eventually, this time making sure to look at him. Sincerity coloured her words and he inhaled deeply, allowing himself to soak in her words, too, letting them flow into the parts of him that needed to hear that.

“You know, ever since I was a kid-”

“You mean like 100 years ago?” she jested, a tad brighter.

He smirked and rolled his eyes. “Yeah like 100 years ago,” he joked back fondly. “But all I ever wanted to do was to be a soldier. End injustice, bring peace, help make the world a safer, better place for everyone. But I always saw an end to it, you know? We’d win the war, I’d come home, get married, have a family, grow old. I mean, I knew there was always a chance that I might not make it out alive, but deep in the back of my mind was this longing to have a life after the war. I’d do my part and then I’d settle down.”

“With Peggy?” Natasha asked in a quiet voice. She was looking at him intently now, eyes only on his.

Steve nodded. “Yeah, if she would have me,” he tagged on with a short laugh.

“How could she not? You’re like the perfect gentleman, Steve. The solider with a heart of gold.”

“Ah, I don’t know about that.”

“I do. I’ve known that since our first mission together. Trust me; she would have been all yours.”

He couldn’t help but smile but sadness weighted his heart. That future with Peggy was all gone now, and as much as he saw a life after war before, now it felt like war was an inevitable part of him, and that whole other part of his life didn’t exist anymore. This was his life now.

But maybe he was okay with that. Making the world a better, safer place was why he was made after all. Maybe this was his greater plan.

“Yeah, well...turns out I missed the boat on that one. She was happy though,” he said, breaking his gaze to watch the night sky again. “Lived a good life.”

Slowly, Natasha’s hand reached over to cup his upper arm, just briefly. “I’m sorry, Steve. Sometimes it’s easy to forget what you’ve lost because we get so wrapped up in everything else that’s going on.”

“Thank you,” he replied. “But we’ve all lost things. Everyone here, each Avenger, has a reason to do what they’re doing and it all stems from some experience, some loss, or longing. I suppose it helps us focus, it spurs us on. I know not everyone is vocal about it though,” his words became softer now, “and Nat I want you to know that you can trust me, okay? When we’re out in the field, there’s no one I trust more than you, and no one I would rather have fighting alongside me than you, so if you ever need to talk, I’m here.”

For maybe the second time in all the time he had known her, he could see tears shining in her eyes and she moved just that little bit away from him as if to protect herself again.

“Peggy was in my vision,” he offered, opening up more, willing her to know that she could trust him. “We were at a celebration, the war was over and we had won. She told me that we could go home. We danced, and then everyone was gone and I was left alone.” Pausing, he set his jaw and closed his eyes just for a breath of a second. “The vision showed me what life I could have had and then showed me that that life wasn’t attainable anymore. That everyone was gone and I was still left fighting a war.”

The air grew heavy between them, the truth and honesty huddling around them. It was as if they were somewhere else entirely, in a whole other realm where it was just the two of them. He waited, sensing the emotional wrestle within her body, knowing that she was struggling. Maybe he shouldn’t have said anything; maybe it was wrong to add another level to their relationship, but she had lost something today and he had learned of a part of her he didn’t know existed – the part of her that ached for a sense of home. And, boy, could he relate to that.

“I was back in Russia in my vision. At my final graduation,” she finally ground out, her voice thick. “And just being there it…it made me remember the kind of person I was. I spent years trying to run away from it all and live differently – better - and all of sudden, with a flick of a wrist, I’m brought back to that place, and all I can think about is how….how I’m a monster. That I’m a machine built for one purpose and one purpose only: to kill. And that’s all I’m good for.”

“You’re not a monster, Nat. So far from it.”

The words shot out of him before he even knew they were forming on his lips.

“Yeah, well you don’t know everything I’ve done, Rogers.”

“I don’t need to know.”

She snorted and then sniffed, tears escaping.

“No seriously,” Steve continued, this time leaning down so that she could see his face. “Natasha I’m not going to pretend that I know everything about you or your past or what you’ve done, but I do know you. I know who you are now. Are you highly skilled and a formidable opponent to anyone who gets in your path? Yeah, absolutely. You’re one of the best, if not the best fighter I’ve seen. There’s a reason you’re on this team. You don’t need super serum running through your veins to make you someone.” That drew a smile from her and his heart warmed knowing that he put it there. “But I also know that you’ve dedicated to your life to fighting for those who can’t fight for themselves. You joined SHIELD because you wanted to make an actual difference and to put a stop to those who do the things that were done to you. That doesn’t sound like a monster to me. Almost sounds like a hero, don’t you think?”

Another beat of silence.

Another sniff.

And then, “No wonder they call you Captain America,” she mused, voice still a little deeper than usual. “That was some speech.”

“Glad you liked it. But I meant it. Every word.”

The woman straightened now and turned her frame so that they were face-to-face. A gradual and tentative hand came up to rest on the side of his face, and Steve noted how he leaned just that little bit more into the touch. “Thank you, Steve. For everything. I don’t say it a lot and I don’t express it very well but-”

“Anytime,” he interjected.

Natasha moved to kiss his other cheek, her lips warm and soft. It was quick but it was tender. “Same goes for you, too.”

When she broke away, he tried to ignore the pang of disappointment. It was as though a spell had been broken and part of him wanted to reach out and pull her in for a hug, but he didn’t want to ruin the moment.

“Well, I guess I better try to get some sleep,” she announced, her body that bit looser now and the grin that formed on her mouth was definitely more like the Nat he knew. “Goodnight Steve.”

He smiled in response. “Goodnight.”

“Oh and don’t tell anyone about this, okay?” she said playfully with a wink as she was leaving.

Steve shoved his hands into his pockets and fixed his smile on the ground, nodding in agreement. “About what?” he teased back, pulling a laugh from her.

He stayed there for a few minutes longer, feeling the lightest he had felt since the mission had ended.

He hoped she felt the same way.

#steve rogers #natasha romanoff #captain america #black widow #romanogers #stevenat #capwidow #steve x natasha #avengers #marvel #age of ultron

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agerefandom · 4 years

Text

Evenings of Eternity (Chapter Two)

Fandom: Good Omens

Words: 2,500

Summary: Crowley has been many things throughout the millennia, but he’s never been a child. He finds himself curious about the idea of childhood, and Aziraphale offers to help him explore that curiosity. (regressor!crowley, cg!aziraphale)

Content Warnings: None I can think of! New, voluntary, and uncertain regression: Crowley and Aziraphale are still figuring out how everything works.

Notes: This is the final chapter for Good Omens so far, but I do plan to write more! Let me know if you have any specific requests or ideas for this fandom, and I’ll be happy to add them in ^-^

(Don’t forget to read chapter one if you missed it!)

In the end, they settled on a date and wrote it on the calendar, just like their weekly game nights. Crowley protested having it on the calendar in the kitchen, but Aziraphale found him staring at it one morning, drinking his coffee and smiling slightly.

The date grew nearer and Aziraphale made his quiet preparations, occasionally asking Crowley’s opinion on this or that. He was picking up some of Crowley’s nerves, hoping that everything would go well and he wouldn’t do anything wrong. From his research, age regression could be a very vulnerable experience, and Aziraphale didn’t want to make Crowley feel that he’d made a mistake trusting Aziraphale with it.

They agreed that for the first try, Aziraphale would make the plan. He would create a space where Crowley could be surrounded by the external factors of being a child, even if he couldn’t create a mental space for it yet. Discovering from scratch what childhood felt like wasn’t going to be easy, and both of them were aware of it. They agreed that there was no pressure on either of them, that both of them could step back at any time, and that it was perfectly alright if it didn’t work out.

Knowing all of that didn’t make it any easier to fall asleep the evening before, and Aziraphale found himself lying awake for an hour that felt like a century. Eventually, he managed to drift off to Crowley’s familiar rasping breaths beside him.

The late morning light shone into the cottage, the leaves of the plants casting shadows across the shelves and the floors. Aziraphale walked down the hallway, taking a deep breath as he paused in front of the bedroom door.

He was ready for this, for whatever the day would bring. If it was awkward and it didn’t work at all, that was fine. They had already planned a movie to watch in the evening as adults. If it did work and he was responsible for a five-year-old today, that was fine too. If it was anywhere in-between, he was prepared to adapt and ready to learn. Everything was fine, he just had to open the door, wake Crowley up, and start their day together.

He brushed his hands over his apron and then rested his palm on the doorknob, twisting it open and pushing his way into the dark room with a decisive motion.

“Crowley? Crowley, love, it’s time to wake up.”

“Hrrrn?” Crowley rolled over in bed, already twisted up in the sheets. He wasn’t a blanket hog when he shared the bed, but as soon as Aziraphale left he always made himself into a little burrito. It was adorable.

“Come on, sleepyhead.” Aziraphale sat down on the edge of the bed and ran a hand through Crowley’s hair, scratching gently at his head. “Breakfast is already on the table.”

“Oh nooo,” Crowley muttered, turning his head into the pillow so that his voice was muffled. “It’s today.”

“It is today!” Aziraphale said, continuing to pet Crowley’s head. “I made chocolate chip pancakes.”

“Sounds good.” Crowley’s voice was reluctant, and his face was firmly in the pillow.

“I know they’re your favourite, so I made them just for you,” Aziraphale told him. “Only the best for my favourite little one.”

Crowley finally rolled over, but only so that he could put his hands over his face and make an embarrassed whining sound. Aziraphale almost raised his eyebrows: it wasn’t a reaction he’d seen from Crowley before, and he hoped it meant he was on the right track.

“Alright, I’m opening the curtains, so keep your eyes closed!” Aziraphale said, rising from the bed and shaking out his skirt. He was wearing his favourite baking outfit, a yellow tartan dress with a floral apron tied around his waist. It made him feel like he was on the cover of a magazine, and he loved the colours.

He opened the curtains with a flourish, and sunlight came streaming into the room. Crowley had slept in late to give Aziraphale time to prepare, and the day was already nearing noon.

“Do you want to choose your outfit today?” Aziraphale asked, as if it was a question that he asked Crowley every morning.

“Yes,” Crowley said, and finally sat upright. He was so loveable in the mornings, his hair a mess and his pupils narrow slits against the light. “I want to choose.”

“Alright, do you want the blue shirt or the red shirt?”

“Red shirt.”

Aziraphale obediently pulled out one of the shirts they had bought together, a plain red t-shirt that wasn’t too far out of Crowley’s comfort zone, but was miles away from his previous outfits. “And shorts or pants, sweetheart?”

“Pants.”

Aziraphale had expected that, and he pulled out a pair of black jeans. Again, not too unusual, but still looser than anything else that Crowley owned. He scooped out a pair of underwear and a new pair of striped socks, putting them all in a pile at the bottom of the bed.

“Do you want me to stay?” Aziraphale asked, as Crowley reached towards the clothes.

“Stay,” Crowley nodded.

“Do you want me to help?”

Crowley shook his head, so Aziraphale waited and watched Crowley get dressed, tossing his silk pyjamas carelessly on the floor. He stood patiently by the door until Crowley had all of his clothes on, even his socks.

“That’s not where your pyjamas go, little one,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley blinked at him with genuine surprise before glancing back at his crumbled pyjamas. “Could you put them away for me?”

Crowley frowned, but he obediently picked up the pyjamas, folded them, and walked over to put them in the right drawer.

“Good job!” Aziraphale praised, holding out his hand. “We can make the bed later, I think it’s time for breakfast.” Crowley already looked slightly overwhelmed, so Aziraphale wiggled the fingers of his outstretched hand. Crowley immediately walked over to hold his hand, and Aziraphale guided him out through the living room and into the dining room.

“There are the pancakes!” Aziraphale said, pointing to a very large stack on the table. “Are you excited?”

Crowley nodded, although Aziraphale could tell that he was still more anxious than anything. Aziraphale pulled out his chair and let him get settled, before sliding two pancakes onto a plate and starting to cut them up. Trying to decide what kind of a child Crowley wanted to try being had been hard: being a baby, a toddler, a seven-year-old, were all very different from each other and equally foreign to the two immortals. They had settled on an older toddler for the first try, so Aziraphale carefully cut the pancakes into bite-sized pieces and added the maple syrup before setting them in front of Crowley with a plastic fork.

Crowley scowled at the plastic fork, but used it to stab a piece of pancake. Aziraphale beamed, proud of how hard Crowley was trying to push past his own discomfort and how little he was trying to hide from Aziraphale at this moment. It was going more smoothly than he had expected, and as Crowley put the first bite of pancake in his mouth, his eyes lit up and he started to eat the rest at a much faster rate.

Hiding his fondness, Aziraphale turned to the counter and began stirring together some chocolate milk, pouring it into a sippy cup and giving it one last shake before putting it in front of Crowley.

Another double-take at the brightly coloured cup, but Crowley picked it up soon enough and started sucking at it, clearly enjoying the chocolate milk. Aziraphale had more of a sweet tooth between the two of them, but he’d never seen Crowley turn his nose up at something that was chocolate.

“Is it good, sweetheart?” Aziraphale prompted, sitting down to his own plate.

“Uh-huh!” Crowley ducked his head after his energetic confirmation, seeming embarrassed. Aziraphale beamed at him.

“I’m glad.” Aziraphale tucked into his own breakfast, watching Crowley struggle with the blunt plastic fork. He had chocolate smeared across one cheek and on the back of his hand already. I’ll have to wipe that up, Aziraphale noted absent-mindedly, and was struck by a wave of newness, mixed with an odd nostalgia for something he’d never had.

Sure enough, at the end of breakfast, Crowley’s face and hands were smudged with chocolate, and Aziraphale wiped him off with a wet cloth, dropping a kiss on his forehead when he drew away. Crowley squirmed under the attention, but even that was unusual. Crowley usually tapped on the nearest surface when he was uncomfortable, but now he was just wiggling back and forth slightly, his hands wrapping around each other. Aziraphale gave him a reassuring smile and rinsed off the cloth.

“Alright, love, do you want to go outside or stay in to watch some cartoons?” Aziraphale asked as he cleared the table.

Crowley thought about that for a few seconds.

“Outside,” he decided.

“Outside it is.” Aziraphale left the chocolatey plates by the sink for later and returned to Crowley, who was pushing his chair back from the table. “Up you go!” he said, scooping Crowley into his arms and propping him on his hip. Crowley, although tall, had always been quite light. It was easy for Aziraphale to carry him with one arm wrapped under him and another one around his back.

Crowley settled against him easily, curling his hands into the fabric of Aziraphale’s dress.

“Maybe it was silly to wipe all that chocolate off,” Aziraphale murmured to himself as he carried Crowley down the hallway. “You’re just going to get all dirty outside.”

“No I won’t,” Crowley said defiantly. His voice sounded no different from normal, but somehow Aziraphale could tell that he was finding an inner child instinct much faster than Aziraphale had expected.

“Alright, I believe you,” Aziraphale told him, and pressed another kiss to Crowley’s cheek before setting him down on the front-hall bench. “Do you want to wear your new shoes?”

“Yeah!” This got a more excited response than anything else had before, Crowley swinging his legs forwards energetically. “Lights!”

Aziraphale knelt down in front of him, his skirt spreading out on the tile floor as he reached over to pull out the sneakers. Undoing the Velcro, he guided Crowley’s feet into them one by one and then did them up. Crowley resumed swinging his feet when Aziraphale stood up, testing how tight they were. He grinned at Aziraphale freely, kicking his heels into the bench he was sitting on and laughing when the shoes lit up with bright red lights.

“Very hip,” Aziraphale assured him. “You’ll be the talk of the town.”

“Uh-huh!” Crowley popped up to his feet, a sudden surge of motion. Aziraphale stopped him before he could run for the door, offering him a pair of plastic-rimmed sunglasses with little car stickers where they hooked behind the ears.

“Here you are, it’s very sunny out there.” Crowley reluctantly slipped them on. “But still don’t look directly at the sun,” Aziraphale added. “It’s very dangerous.”

“I know that,” Crowley grumbled.

“Good. I like your eyes the way they are,” Aziraphale said, and put on his own running shoes before opening the door.

Crowley was out like a shot, running down the garden path and into the sunshine before Aziraphale could step outside.

“Don’t run too far!” Aziraphale called after him, and Crowley’s carefree laughter came back to him. Crowley was spinning in the sun, just outside the garden fence, his arms out-flung to either side and his face tilted upwards.

Aziraphale relaxed when he saw that Crowley wasn’t going anywhere near the cliffs, and turned back to close the door. He wandered down the path, checking on the flowers and the tomatoes as he made his way towards the still-spinning Crowley.

“You’re going to fall over if you keep that up,” Aziraphale admonished. They could consciously stop dizziness, of course, just like any other function of the bodies they inhabited, but he doubted that Crowley was in a space to do so at the moment. At least the grass looked nice and soft under his feet.

Crowley obediently stopped spinning, and then tried to take a step forward towards Aziraphale and fell over sideways with a comedic shout of surprise. His shoulder hit the ground hard, and he rolled to a stop on his back, staring up at the sky.

“Are you alright?” Aziraphale called, suppressing the urge to run forwards and make sure Crowley wasn’t hurt. They were made of tougher stuff than that, and there was no need to hover.

“I… yeah.” Crowley pushed himself up to a sitting position, and looked over to Aziraphale. “I’m fine.”

Aziraphale couldn’t put his finger on what had changed, but he was well aware that the tumble had jolted Crowley out of the relaxed headspace he’d found. He was back to the Crowley that Aziraphale was familiar with.

“Do you want to go back inside?” Aziraphale asked, still fighting the urge to run forwards and scoop Crowley into his arms.

“Yeah.” Crowley pushed his sunglasses up so that he could rub his eyes. “I think I’m done for today, if that’s alright.”

“Of course.” Aziraphale finally approached, sitting cross-legged on the grass next to Crowley. “You can be done whenever you want.”

“It was short,” Crowley sighed. “But it was nice.”

“Oh?” Aziraphale could feel himself brighten at the off-hand comment.

“I think I’d like to do it again, either with you or by myself.” Crowley rolled the hem of his t-shirt between two fingers. “It was nice.”

“I would be happy to do it again with you,” Aziraphale said. “I had quite a bit of fun.”

“Did you?” Crowley was watching him from the corner of his eye, unwilling to meet his gaze head-on.

“Absolutely.” Aziraphale nodded enthusiastically. “You know how much I love playing the housewife every once in a while, cleaning the cottage by hand. This was even better than that, I’ve never felt so… human.” There was no other word for the feeling, like all the centuries could fade away into a single lifetime, like there was nothing above and nothing below but only the here and now. As though there were no obligation to how they had been made, and only the life they created together.

“An angel who wants to be a housewife,” Crowley chuckled, lying back on the grass and letting the childish sunglasses slide back over his eyes. “Sounds like the plot of a terrible romance novel.”

“Hallmark card, romance novel… at least I’m not someone’s idea of a tragic gothic hero,” Aziraphale said, poking Crowley in the side and relishing his laughter.

“You get one novel written about you and they never forget it,” Crowley griped. “Stop tickling me and lie down, angel. The sunlight is warm and you’re blocking it.”

“Oh, if I’m disrupting your basking,” Aziraphale said graciously and laid down next to Crowley, shifting closer to him and letting Crowley wrap an arm around him. The two of them laid under the noonday sun, breathing in the seaside air and closing their eyes to better savour the warmth. Everything that wasn’t them and their cottage seemed very far away, and Aziraphale felt properly at peace.

#sfw agere #agere writing #agere fanfiction #agere fic #agere fics #agere fandom #nsre #agere community #good omens #good omens agere #good omens fic #regressor!crowley #evenings of eternity

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langdvnshepherd · 5 years

Text

A Change of Heart (Michael Langdon x fem!Reader)

Summary: Michael Langdon drunkenly stumbles into your dorm one night at The Hawthorne School for Exceptional Young Men.

Word Count: 6.5k

Warnings: use of alcohol, angst, smut, heavy petting, fingering, cum play, oral (female receiving), a lil bit of fluff I suppose

A/N: I’ve been seeing a bunch of posts floating around about the bed-sharing trope, and I wanted to write it SO BAD. It took me a while and ended up being wayyy sweeter than I wanted it to be, but this is finally what I came up with! I hope you guys enjoy. Reblogs/likes/comments are always appreciated! Let me know what you guys think! Also, I did no proof-reading whatsoever so I apologize but what’s knew lmao

Masterlist in bio!

Weekends at Hawthorne were a blessing. You cherished them, counted down the minutes until your Friday lecture was dismissed and you were left to your own devices for the next two days. There were no classes, no nitpicky professors, no being bored to death for hours on end with countless spells and potions that you’d already mastered back at Robichaux’s (you’d come to conclude that the warlocks were eons behind the witches, despite how advanced they swore they were). While your prolonged stay at Hawthorne was turning out to be quite miserable, the weekends worked wonders for the permanent furrow in your brow from Mondays to Fridays.

Most witches and warlocks left the boarding school on the weekends, charming their way into trashy clubs and finessing fruit drinks from whoever they could seduce with their powers. It was as if they never slept for the entirety of those two days. They left early on in the night and returned late the next morning, often looking like they’d just been hit by a truck: messy makeup that was smudged to hell and back, blazers wrinkled beyond belief, sometimes one of them even would be missing a shoe. Some of them never returned until the following Monday, getting caught up in the bustling city of Los Angeles and wishing to forget their duties as students of the supernatural.

But not you. You rarely went out, if ever. Instead of leaving Hawthorne to escape your studies, you stayed within its walls, escaping the people. Your classmates annoyed you, and you used every ample opportunity to stay as far away from them as possible. Everyone left Hawthorne on the weekends, so staying indoors meant you’d be able to avoid the chaos almost completely. It was the only time you were glad to be trapped within the underground of the school for warlocks. No one bothered you. No one beat on your door at night asking you to help them cheat on their upcoming exam. It was peaceful. You could catch up on your latest tv binge, indulge in an extensive skincare routine, relax your bones that ached from putting up with absolute imbeciles for five straight days.

And that’s exactly what you were doing. It was late Friday night, almost too late for any sober person to be awake. You had just gotten out of the bath, this time treating yourself to a lavender soak that successfully worked its way into the sore muscles of your back. Your favorite, oversized t-shirt felt especially cozy against your bare thighs, the hem exposing only the slightest sliver of the bottom of your underwear.

There were no noises coming from outside of your dorm. No shuffling of loafers. No clicking of heels. Just silence. Thank Satan, because you had a long night of catching up on some much-needed sleep ahead of you. That was until you heard a series of offbeat knocks on the dark wood of your bedroom door.

What the fuck? Who could possibly be beating on your door this late at night? You were almost certain that any student that normally harassed you for your assistance during the week was out partying, and it couldn’t be one of the Hawthorne professors. They’re far too old to be up this late. Maybe something went wrong. Maybe someone was in danger. Maybe it was Cordelia coming back for you to tell you you could leave this godforsaken bunker. There was honestly no telling.

You padded over to the door, reaching out to grab the cool, metal handle of the knob. You kept your body hidden from behind the thick of the door, because whoever needed you this late at night certainly did not need to see you in your underwear.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” you huffed as the door came ajar and you saw the slender, tall figure that was waiting for you on the other side.

His body towered over yours, much like his ego, his lanky arms leaning casually against the door frame. He was still clad in his Hawthorne uniform that he wore to class earlier that afternoon, only the top of his undershirt was unbuttoned and his necktie hung much looser around the base of his throat. His eyes were still as aquamarine as the Santa Monica oceans that you once visited on a long weekend. It was none other than the Boy Wonder himself, the supposed Alpha, Michael fucking Langdon.

His appearance was quite comical if you were being honest. On any other day, you wouldn’t catch Langdon with a single hair out of place on his perfectly quaffed head or one speck of lint on his onyx black blazer, but given his current posture and the reeking stench of liquor that hit you head on as soon as the door cracked open, you knew he wasn’t in any state of mind to be caring about his appearance in the slightest.

“Oh, come on. You can’t be that surprised to see me,” he daunted, that iconic, shit-eating grin plastered clear across his face.

“It’s the middle of the night, Michael. What do you want?” you asked, disdain dripping from your voice. Your hand went to rest on your hip as you impatiently waited for his answer.

“What you mean, silly? I came to see you. My favorite girl,” he sneered, emphasizing the word ‘favorite.’ His words slurred together as he leaned in to bop your nose with his pointer finger, his drunken state unraveling further and further with each word that left his mouth.

You scrunched your nose up in disgust as his finger made contact with your face. “First of all,” you spat, “I am not your girl. And second, you’re drunk, Langdon. Extremely drunk. How did you even get here?”

Michael chuckled lightly as the cogs in his brain tried to process what you’d just asked him. He ran the palm of his hand up and down his jawline in order to form his next response.

“IIIII don’t realllly knowww,” he mumbled, “Alex called an Uber, but...”

He trailed off, scratching his head in concentration.

“I thiiink they got out at another bar? I kept walking and then I got cold and remembered that I could just use telekinesis and now here I am!” Michael shrugged his shoulders in satisfaction with the nonsense that he’d just spewed from his glossy lips that were sticky from all of the alcohol he’d tossed back like cold medicine.

You stared at him with your brow raised, gobsmacked with the story he’d given you. He was clearly drunker than your intuition led you to believe.

“Transmutation, Michael. It’s transmutation. Not telekinesis.”

“Okayyy. Whatever,” he sassed back, rolling his cerulean blue eyes far back into his head.

“I’m here now, so...Why don’t we have some fun like old times?” his syllables were drawn out and his voice was low, an embarrassing attempt at trying to be seductive. He reached for your sides to give them a playful pinch, but you swatted them away before they could even get close to touching you.

“Michael I already I told you I-”

You were interrupted by Langdon pushing the door to your room open with his foot. He waltzed in casually as if it were his own space, his feet tripping up just slightly as the scuffed the polished hardwood of the floor. There was a sudden shift in the atmosphere as the brazen boy entered your dorm for the first time in weeks. The feeling was all too familiar, but only this time it was under completely different circumstances. Your arms went instinctively to pull down your already oversized nightshirt to cover yourself, as if it mattered. Michael was the last person that cared about your indecency. It wasn’t like he hadn’t seen you in far less before. And more than a handful of times at that.

“I know, I know, sweetheart. You told me. I’m an, ‘insolent, repulsive excuse for a man,’ and you, ‘never want to speak to me again,’” Michael babbled while using air quotes with his fingers as he recalled the explosive argument you’d gotten into where you ended your arrangement with him permanently. You were surprised he could even recall that much of the fight given the way his eyes were glossed over and his cheeks were consumed by a rosy, drunken glow.

“But you know something, Y/N?” he asked as he crossed his arms behind his back and began pacing around the room, “I never understood why that bothered you. It really wasn’t that ba-”

“You told the entire school, Michael,” you interjected, clapping your hands together for emphasis.

“Sooo? Is that such a horrible thing?”

“Yeah, it is!” you were growing angry now at his persistence, wishing he’d just leave and go back to wherever he came from before he’d ruined your quiet night in. His presence was bringing up feelings you had repressed deep into your psyche, and it only got worse as each second passed.

“You need to caaaalm dooown,” Michael began rubbing his temples with each of his middle fingers as if to say your increased volume was giving him a migraine.

He sobered up suddenly, walking right up to you to and taking both of your shoulders into his hands. “I’ve told you one thousand times already, sugar. I never meant to upset you when I said that shit. Honestly, I didn’t think you had a problem with anybody knowing.”

“Well, I did have a problem with it, Michael. What we did-,” you gestured back and forth, referring to the both of you, and the long history you shared before Michael betrayed your trust, “-was private. Personal. It was our thing. And you ruined that by telling everyone. It was so embarrassing, walking into class every day knowing that everybody was staring at me and calling me a ‘dirty whore’ behind my back.”

Michael nodded silently at your words, his lips pressed into a thin line. For a split second, you almost thought he took what you said to heart. That maybe you’d even get a genuine apology from him. That was until he leaned into your ear and you felt his warm, inebriated breath trickle down your neck as he spoke.

“But you’re my dirty whore, right?”

You should have known, Langdon was never one for taking things seriously. You shook his palms away from your shoulders, walking to the other side of the room to be as far away from him as possible.

“You know what? I’m done with this shit, Michael. Get the fuck out of my room. Go find another girl to entertain you for the rest of the night because I’m not the fucking one. Not anymore,” you demanded, crossing your arms against your chest.

A flicker of sadness danced across his face at your harshness. Had you not been staring a hole into his soul, you wouldn’t have caught it. Michael kept his feet planted on your shaggy area rug, not moving one muscle. He was quiet, for once. The only sound coming from him was his heavy breathing that you assumed was due to your outburst.

“What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?” you spat, “Does the magnificent Boy Wonder have nothing to say for once in his fucking life?”

Michael continued to stare at the floor like his pointed, Louboutin oxfords were the most captivating thing since the invention of the wheel. Maybe you’d actually managed to hit him where it hurt. Maybe the disintegration of your relationship had affected him more than he’d let on. Or maybe, hopefully, he’d finally leave you alone so you could permanently forget about everything that had (or hadn’t) happened between you two.

“I think I’m gonna be sick.”

That was all it took. Not even one second later, your favorite, faux-fur rug was covered in vomit. Michael dropped to his knees as he hurled, clutching his heaving stomach to ease the queasy feeling. It was like watching the water at Niagra Falls continuously cascade down its steep drop; you had never seen anyone puke that much in your entire life.

“Ohh, shit,” you muttered to yourself as you padded your way over to where Michael was sitting on the floor.

You suddenly felt bad for Michael. He had tears in his eyes from the strain, and you could feel the fevered hotness of his skin radiating from his blazer. His helplessness compelled you to reach out and stroke his spine comfortingly while he continued to empty his guts out onto your bedroom floor. Michael leaned into your touch, resting the side of his head against your bare thighs to steady himself.

“Are you okay?” you asked when the waves of his vomit had subsided.

“Peachy,” Michael snapped back, wiping the corners of his mouth with the back of his hand.

As much as you hated him at the moment, the thought of Michael being left alone to tend to his impending hangover filled you with the slightest bit of guilt and pity. You expelled a loud sigh from your throat before you spoke again.

“You should probably just stay here. I don’t think you should be left alone tonight,” you posed, your tone in great contrast to how you were screaming at him to leave just minutes before.

“No, no, no,” Michael stated. His voice was woozy again, still drunk even after all of that puking. “You wanted me to leave, remember?”

He tried to stand up, planting one of his large hands on your nightstand for leverage, but he stumbled again much like how he had when he first entered your room. You caught him by wrapping your arms around his torso before he could faceplant into the vomit that had pooled at his feet.

“Okay, but that was before you threw up everything you’ve eaten in the last week onto my carpet,” you began walking him back to your bed so he could be more stabilized, making sure to avoid the pile of bile, “And I’d rather not walk into another lecture on Monday morning about the dangers of teen drinking when John Henry catches you puking again in the hallway on your way back to your room.”

Michael let out an unexpected chuckle to himself at your mention of the Hawthorne instructor.

“I’ve got John Henry under control. You don’t need to worry about him,” he waved his hand in the air nonchalantly, clearly still unable to shake the alcohol from his system, even after the damage he’d just done to your rug.

“Umm, why?” you asked whilst simultaneously digging through your drawers for a shirt Michael could sleep in.

He flopped back on the bed, his arms crossing behind his head like a pillow. “We have a little, arrangement, I guess you could say. He definitely won’t be up my ass about anything anytime soon.”

You paused your rummaging to turn around and give Michael a quizzical expression, confused as to if he was being serious or if it was another one of his drunken rambles.

“Well, that’s not entirely true. He will be up my ass. Just in other ways, I suppose.”

“You’re disgusting,” you huffed, your fingers finally settling on the sweatshirt you’d been looking for. You wadded up the top and launched it at his face, suddenly wishing it was something much harder than a ball of fabric.

“Put that on.”

Michael took the sweatshirt in his hands, his faded vision trying to comprehend where he’d seen it before. It was one of the heather grey gym pullovers that every warlock was given when they arrived at Hawthorne, so he knew it wasn’t yours. He knew it wasn’t his either, because you’d thrown that at him also when you broke things off with him a handful of weeks ago. Which only meant one thing...

“Where did you get this, Y/N? Whose is this?” he demanded, his body shooting straight up from where he had been laying on your down comforter.

There was no reason to, but your face immediately flushed with embarrassment. What happened between Michael and you was in the past, even though you often wished it wasn’t. You had to move on, and in some ways, you had. It was what you were supposed to do. You’d hoped he would be too drunk to even notice that it was another warlock’s pullover, but Michael Langdon always had a way of catching you off guard.

“Don’t worry about it, Michael. Please, just put it on so we can both go to sleep. You’re not wearing your vomit-soaked clothes in my bed.”

“No. Tell me,” his eyes were pleading for an answer. You could see the rising anger in his chest, how his nostrils flared just slightly with every breath he took.

“It’s not a big deal, Michael. Seriously. Now put on the fucking sweatshirt before I make you sleep on the floor next to your puke.”

Michael rolled his eyes at your digression from the subject, wishing he was sober enough to be able to read your thoughts. He made a mental note to do that first thing in the morning. If he would even remember.

“I’m not wearing your new fuck buddy’s clothes, love. It’s not gonna happen.”

That struck a nerve. Just because the relationship between you and Michael never strayed from casual fucking, and lots of it, who was he to imply that that’s all you’ve ever been interested in from other guys? If the supposed Alpha was so good at reading people, why hadn’t he caught on to your own desires?

“Who said he’s my fuck buddy? Do you not think I’m capable of being in an actual relationship with someone?”

“Not saying that at all, princess. I just have a feeling there aren’t very many people you’re interested in. Especially not a warlock anyway,” he said disparagingly.

(Well, shit. Maybe he was good at reading people.)

“Honestly, I’m tired of arguing with you. Can you please just take off your clothes so we can both get some sleep?” you jeered, utterly exhausted at just the presence of the tall blonde.

“Mmmm, yes ma’am,” Michael replied, wiggling his brows at you flirtatiously. He seemed to have forgotten about his bubbling rage for a brief moment. Of course, that’s where his train of thought went to.

You didn’t even have the energy to fire back, you simply rolled your eyes at the mess of a boy in front of you with your arms crossed sternly at your chest. It got your point across.

Michael huffed a low, “fine, but I’m not wearing the fucking sweatshirt” under his breath before he began fumbling for the necktie that had come completely untied at this point. He tried to take off his blazer, but got caught in the thick fabric and began helplessly trying to shrug it off of his broad shoulders.

“You’re pathetic, Langdon,” you groaned, trudging over to where Michael was sitting on the bed to help him shake the remainder of his unkempt uniform.

He was tired now, seemingly floating in and out of consciousness as he tried to keep his heavy eyelids open. When you finally unlatched the last button of his undershirt and your fingers gently grazed the dip of his protruding collarbone, you paused. Just weeks ago, this action would have brought you great joy, a spout of arousal seeping from your core at what was to follow. But for some reason, this evoked a twinge of sadness in your heart. Michael wasn’t yours anymore. He wasn’t yours to touch, wasn’t yours to think about. Despite the suggestive things Michael had said throughout the evening, you knew it was the alcohol speaking on his behalf. He certainly didn’t feel the same way you did about him. You were nothing more to him than a hole to be filled, as he’d let the entire school know it.

You snapped out of your daze after hearing a loud hiccup escape from Michael’s lips. He chuckled like a child at the high-pitched sound it made, only causing you to roll your eyes at him for the millionth time tonight.

“Okay, you’re good,” you said to him whilst giving him a gentle pat on the cheek, “Go to sleep.”

Michael nodded sheepishly, falling back to rest his head on the extra pillow at the head of your bed. He seemed to fall asleep almost instantly as his hiccups subsided and were replaced with small snores that trickled out of his open mouth with each breath.

You walked around to your side of the bed and crawled in, savoring the cool satin of your sheets and the feeling of being off of your feet again. As you threw the duvet cover over both yourself and Michael, you considered stuffing a body pillow in between the two of you. Assuming he was far too intoxicated to even think about trying to pull anything, you opted against it. You’d most definitely wake before him anyway. By the looks of it, he’d surely sleep until well on the next evening.

Just as you felt the beacon of sleep crawling towards you, you remembered the overflow of vomit on the floor next to your bed, as it was beginning to smell more and more foul. With droopy eyelids, a half-hearted wave of your wrist and a low mutter of Latin under your breath, the stain evaporated.

Michael stirred at the commotion, swimming about in the excess of the duvet to turn towards you.

“Y/N?” he beckoned, not even bothering to lift his head from the pillow or open his eyes as he spoke.

You didn’t answer, seeing as it would most likely be another attempt to piss you off with his intoxicated bullshit.

“I’m sorry,” he muffled through scrunched up cheeks and the material of his pillow.

“For what?” you asked him. For interrupting your quiet night in with his nonsense? For puking on your floor?

“I just wanted everyone to know you were mine.”

It felt borderline cruel, the way he’d been talking all night. This was no different. He’d sworn up and down that all your relationship ever was was casual, but everything he said in the last hour, regardless of whether or not he meant it, seemed to contradict that statement.

Before you could question him further, although you were almost positive you knew what he was referring to and that he wasn’t being truthful, he had fallen back asleep. His breathing evened out and his body stiffened, succumbing to his drunken slumber.

But it was alright. You wouldn’t have known how to respond anyway.

Your brain paid no mind to the fact that it was the weekend, as your biological clock withdrew you from your sleep at a rather early hour. Especially given that you’d spent a lengthy amount of time tending to the presumably hungover Boy Wonder that was fast asleep next to you. As you motioned upwards to outstretch your stiff limbs, you realized your body was being constricted by an overbearing force.

Michael’s arms.

In the midst of his slumber, or most likely, on purpose, he had found his way over to your side of the bed. Go figure. Michael had his lanky, toned forearms wrapped tightly around your middle and his head nestled comfortably in between your shoulder blades. You felt the ends of his golden blonde curls just slightly tickling the back of your neck each time he took a breath.

You could move. Shake yourself out of his grasp or shove him back over to his side of the bed, or even kick him out of your room and send him back to his own. But a handful of reasons kept you from doing so.

For starters, he had certainly had a long night. Him puking on your carpet was only the aftermath of what you had assumed was an extremely eventful evening, meaning he could definitely use the sleep.

Second, you couldn’t help but be reminded of how things used to be with Michael. There were only a handful of times that you ever slept together through the night, but when you did, you savored every moment. He was much softer when he slept, a great contrast to how harsh he had always been with you earlier on in the evening, when he had you on your knees, forcing his length down your throat, making you gag on your own saliva as well as his cock while he fucked your face with no mercy whatsoever. He cuddled into you like a child does their teddy bear when he slept, tangling his limbs with yours, tucking his head into the crook of your shoulder. The first few times you’d woken up being practically smothered by Michael’s body on yours he’d tried to play it off, tried to pretend like he hadn’t meant to grab onto you at all. After you’d failed to show any type of discomfort, he stopped making excuses and shamelessly grappled onto you as often as he could. You loved it quite a bit more than you were willing to admit, hence why, right now, you opted to stay put. If lying here for an extra 20 minutes was the closest you would ever be to Michael again, so be it.

And you really hoped he was comfortable, because much to your chagrin, his sharp hip bone was digging into your back. At least you thought it was his hip bone until you accidentally shifted in the sheets and you heard a quiet, hoarse moan spill from Michael’s lips.

To test whether or not your movement and Michael’s subsequent groaning was a mere coincidence, you rolled your hips back again. Another quiet, but more forceful mewl evoked from Michael’s chest, the vibrations muffling against the cotton of your t-shirt.

Now you knew it definitely wasn’t his hip bone. You had been grinding yourself against his impressively hard morning wood, and just the mere thought of it already had you worked up. The girth, the thick, prominent vein that ran along the underside, the way that Michael had the ability to split you in half with it, skewering you onto him until you saw stars. You needed more. To hear his pants and groans while you worked him over and over as you had many times in the past.

Pushing the boundaries even further, you swiveled your hips back once more, this time further back and harder against him. This time, all you got was a low-register grunt.

“Are you having fun?”

His deep, baritone voice filled you with shock, and a little with panic. You’d thought for sure he had been sleeping, as he’d barely even moved the entire time you’ve been awake thus far. Unsure of how to respond, you laid frozen in his arms.

Michael resituated himself on the bed, pulling you closer into him so that he had a better grip around your waist and his cock was pressed firmly against your backside.

“I know you’re not asleep,” he beckoned, slowly trailing his fingers up your stomach and then down again, stopping just before he reached the flimsy waistband of your panties.

“I can smell you.”

“C’mon, Y/N,” Michael teased as his hand crept lower and lower until the pad of his middle finger barely grazed over the fabric that rested above your clit.

“Don’t you want to play?”

He pressed down on your panties gently, eliciting the smallest of whines on your part. You jutted your hips forward in an attempt to grind yourself harder onto his fingers, which did not go unnoticed by Langdon. He clicked his tongue in your ear.

“Not so fast, little witch,” he paused, “You’ve had your fun. Now it’s my turn,” he emphasized with a harsh roll of his hips into your ass.

“Michael, please,” you begged, fighting a moan as he began circling his calloused fingers through your folds.

You could feel your heart beating in your ears, and the flickering of an addictive fire simmering low in your belly. Michael was breathing heavily down your neck, focusing his concentration on your throbbing clit and each desperate sound that weaseled its way up your throat and through your now parched lips.

He clicked his tongue in your ear in disapproval of your begging.

“As I recall, you used to enjoy this,” he mocked, “The chase. The build-up.”

He paused to pull your panties to the side and plunge his index and middle fingers inside of you.

“My fingers.”

Michael quickly withdrew them from your heat, but not without another whine from you. He brought them to his lips slowly, savoring the taste of your sickly sweet saccharine that he’d been denied of for quite some time now. You heard him moan obscenely as he lolled his tongue around his digits, sending another bout of arousal through you, and your patience over the edge.

“Are you done being dramatic?” you posed, the annoyance evident in your voice.

It was obvious where this was going. Why waste any more time?

Your words seemed to have angered Michael, as he abruptly shoved you onto your stomach and straddled your waist all in one, fluid movement. His cock rocked against your ass firmly when he situated himself so that he was hovering just above your face, his silky curls tickling the exposed part of your shoulder.

“What the matter, princess?” he taunted, snaking his arm under your neck so that he could jerk you upwards by the jaw, forcing you to lift your head from the pillow he had just shoved you down onto.

“Does your new boyfriend not know how to treat a lady?”

Michael wiggled his other hand around your middle to toy with your clit through your soaking wet panties once more. You mewled against his tight hold on you, struggling to breathe as he seemed to push his fingers even more harshly against the pressure point on your throat and harder against your swollen bud.

“Or did you just forget everything I taught you?”

Michael released his grip from your throat, hands moving south to yank your underwear from your legs. You were left clothed in only the oversized t-shirt you slept in.

He took your ass in hands, kneading the warm mounds of flesh in circles, admiring the beauty beneath him. As he parted your cheeks, you felt his thumb creep downwards. He began to rub you in circles, from your sticky folds where cum oozed slowly from your core and up to the puckering ring of your asshole. Michael pressed down gently on the skin there each time he returned to it, savoring the exaggerated pants that left your lungs.

“God, Michael,” you moaned against the pillow, fighting tears of frustration and lust.

He was right. All of your hookups since Michael couldn’t compare the racy nights you spend with him, where he teased you for hours, making sure you were a wet, sobbing mess before brutally fucking you into the squeaky, springy mattress in his dorm. You had missed this, but you felt like you might implode if he didn’t do something to ease the aching between your legs, and fast.

“Oh, come on, Y/N. You know better than that.”

From behind you, you heard the sound of Michael tugging his boxer briefs from his hips. Everything inside of you wanted to turn around and look, to see his impressively hard cock bobbing freely against the skin below his navel just before he rammed it inside of you, but you feared he’d only draw out the process further if he caught you gawking.

“There isn’t a God on this earth that could keep you from me.”

“Then what’s stopping you now? Hmm?”

Michael chuckled at your poor attempt to snide him before parting your cheeks again, this time to run his cock through the folds of your pussy and against the quivering ring of your asshole. He made sure you were nice and ready for him, although the overflow of sticky juices that had pooled in between your closed legs spoke for itself.

Your eyes screwed shut as Michael entered you, your fingers moving to pinch the silky fabric of the pillowcase beneath you. He moved slowly, only pressing in an inch at a time. The stretch was unbearable, as Michael was endowed with a cock that was incompatible with any other man you had been with. Even when you two fucked regularly, it was never easy to adjust to his massive size.

When Michael filled you to the hilt and stretched you to your full capacity, he began to rock his hips into your ass. His thrusts were shallow at first, but still caused your breath to hitch in the back of your throat each time he bottomed out. He quickly set a new pace, withdrawing himself further and further until he was repeatedly slamming the entire length of his delicious, oozing cock into your dripping cunt without regard to the small tears that were now falling freely from your eyes at the sheer pleasure that consumed your entire body.

Just when you thought you couldn’t feel any more full with the brazen boy’s illustrious cock, Michael dug his fingers into your hipbones and lifted your backside up, forcing you to bring your knees inward and press the top half of your body even further into the sheets. Your glistening hole was now on full display for him, giving him the chance to penetrate your walls even deeper than you imagined possible. You tried grasping onto the pillowcase even harder, but not even your white-knuckled vice grip could soothe the overwhelming build of pressure pooling inside of you below your tummy.

“Michael,” you whined, embarrassed by the desperation in your tone.

“Don’t you dare, slut,” he scolded, giving your ass one firm, blistering smack, “Not until I say.”

His punishment made you cry out and sent another pool of fresh tears from your eyes as you tried your best to give him an obedient nod of your head. It felt good to be taken care of again.

By the shakiness in his voice, you could tell he was rearing his own end. His thrusts began to fall out of line with his previously remorseless pace and his breathing was becoming more and more erratic by the second. You felt him twitching inside of you, his cock begging for release each time he pounded into the warm, tight hole of yours that he had missed so dearly. He’d never tell, but the pillowy folds and spongy, welcoming walls of your pussy was his favorite by far.

“Fuck, Y/N,” he managed to spurt in between thrusts.

You felt his body heat radiating down onto you, heightening the pleasurable burn inside of you. Michael was panting and moaning and gasping, and his hold on your hips grew so intense that you were almost convinced he’d drawn blood with the crescent-shaped indents left behind by his nails.

You couldn’t take it any longer.

“Michael, can I please cum?” you cried, your sweaty hair trashing against the pillow as you tried to hold out for him.

“What did I just fucking say?” he spat.

“You cum when I tell you to cum.”

His pace quickened suddenly. He began skewering his cock into you as fast and as violently as he could manage. When his hips smacked into your ass particularly harshly, he stilled. Michael’s release was accompanied by a throaty groan. He milked himself in your heat as you felt the thick, rope-like strings of his cum coating your walls.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” you whined.

Before you even had the chance to complain about Michael denying you of your release, he flipped you over, looking you in the eyes for the first time this entire morning.

“When have I ever not taken care of you?” he posed before snaking his body down the bed and stopping when his head reached what laid between your open legs.

He licked a broad, flat stripe up your pussy, eliciting a gasp from you. You watched as he circled your clit with his tongue, your eyes making contact with the vibrant sapphire of his own. Michael was smirking against your folds as he mouthed at them, getting off on the knowledge that he was the only one that could ever see the pretty faces you were making now. He was certain no other boy had the skill or willingness to see you fall apart, with your eyes glued shut, back arching almost unnaturally as you cried out with passion, on their tongue.

Your fingers went to his hair, which was matted to his forehead with the sweat he’d accumulated from splitting you in two just moments ago. You tugged on the curls nestled against his scalp, wanting him to be suffocated by your heat, not able to breathe even the slightest of breaths. And he let you. He burrowed his tongue into your core, his jaw now covered in your slick and nose now pressed snuggly against your clit. Chants of his name echoed loudly against the cinderblock walls of your dorm. You sure hoped no one was awake yet.

“Are you ready to cum now?” Michael asked, licking another tantalizing stripe through your cunt.

As he lifted his lips from your pussy to speak and dipped back down again, you saw the pearly milk of his own release swirling about on the pad of his tongue. He’d been catching it as it dripped out of you, which only spurred you on even further.

All you could muster was a pathetic, half nod of your chin. Your thighs were beginning to tremble and you could barely keep your head up to see the magic Michael was working in between your legs.

“Then cum,” Michael beckoned.

“Let me feel you fall apart on my tongue.

You came directly after he granted you permission, the juices of your cunt soaking Michael as he continued to tug on your clit with his lips through your orgasm. You contracted around him as he held your hips down with his hands, becoming overstimulated almost immediately after you came down from your high.

Michael climbed on top of you, wiping the excess of your release from his chin as best as he could. He lowered himself to your face again, taking in the glowing sheen that now adorned your cheeks.

“You are so beautiful,” he spoke aloud before crashing his lips against yours.

His teeth clashed against your own and you could taste the remnants of his cum left behind in his mouth. Michael held onto your jaw as he pulled back, pulling the flushed skin of your bottom lip gently with his thumb.

“You taste like vomit,” you jabbed, shoving him off of you and onto the empty space beside you on the bed.

Michael chuckled softly at your dig, placing a hand over his heart.

“And you really know how to ruin a moment. Don’t you?”

He missed you and these little moments you shared after fucking each other’s brains out. He wished there was something he could do to get them back. Forever this time. No more “no strings attached.” No more casual fucks. He wanted you to be his and his only. But he had fucked up so badly that he wasn’t sure there was anything he could do to bring that to fruition.

Little did he know, you were thinking the exact same thing.

Tagging:

@avesatanormalpeoplescareme @sloppy-little-witch-bitch26@venusxxlangdon @ccodyfern@readsalot73 @americanhorrorstudies @wroteclassicaly @gold-dragon-slayer @langdonsdemon @langdonshell @1-800-bitchcraft @rocketgirl2410 @hecohansen31 @alice-is-mad @hplotrfan

((I need to work on an updated tag list so if you didn’t want to be tagged and I tagged you/didn’t get tagged and you would like to be, I’m really sorry just let me know and I won’t do it again sorry!!!))

#michael langdon x reader #michael langdon fanfiction #michael langdon smut #michael langdon one shot #ahs #ahs apocalypse #american horror story fanfiction #american horror story apocalypse #my writing #mine #fic

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cagestark · 5 years

Text

Rose-Tints My World

Anon asked for Peter wearing a corset and/or ballgown. This is probably not what they meant.

Warnings: Peter fakes an orgasm onstage lmao. Alcohol, too. Also, this probably requires a semi-decent understanding of RHPS and the characters :/

Read here on AO3.

“Shots!” Ned shouts from the bathroom.

MJ sighs, putting down the eyeliner she’d been using to rim Peter’s eyes dark. They are in the kitchen because the light here in better than the light in the bathroom. May came home a half hour ago, took one look at Peter and MJ’s getup before throwing up her hands and retreating to her bedroom. Peter kind of wished he could do the same, watching MJ pour each of them a shot of tequila.

“The theater has a strict no-alcohol policy,” MJ says, rolling her eyes when Peter makes a face, shot glass held between his thin fingers. “If we don’t drink now, we don’t be drunk at all. Do you want to do this sober, Parker?”

Peter takes the shot. It tastes horrible. The salt they pour into their palms directly from the shaker doesn’t help. Much. While MJ is distracted, gagging, Peter picks up the handheld mirror beside them to look at himself and fuck, he gives a long, horrified groan.

“I can’t do this,” Peter mutters. His entire face is painted white with leftover makeup from Halloween, and his eyes and lips left a vibrant red. That’s the best of the costume, he thinks. The rest is worse: the black corset they’d bought from the women’s department at a lingerie store, the black thigh high stockings, the garters. The gloves. The heels. “Look at me, MJ. I can’t go out in public like this.”

“Peter, I swear to God,” she mutters. “Everyone is going to be dressed the way you are. Trust me. I went last year—”

“What?” Peter cries. “How?”

“I was invited, okay? And—”

“Shots!” Ned cries.

They both roll their eyes, pouring more tequila. This one isn’t as bad, actually. The first two must have burned Peter’s taste buds off.

“Anyway,” MJ says. “I went last year, and everyone dresses like this. Chad from your Women’s Studies class? You remember him?”

“Can’t forget him,” Peter mutters, only a little begrudgingly. Why did all the hot guys have to be straight and fucking jerks?

“He was dressed like this—only he didn’t look half as good. You’re the fucking twinkiest twink. You don’t even have chest hair.”

“I’m a late bloomer,” says Peter, crossing his arms over his exposed chest. His head feels light from the alcohol. How he’s going to walk in the heels, he has no idea. He holds the mirror up higher so that he can see his body better, and at least he has a good physique, because most of it is on display including a two inch section of chest-to-abs visible through the laces of the corset. When he speaks next, his voice is small. “Can I—can I at least have the blue feather boa?”

She pats his head condescendingly. “If you’re a good boy.”

“Shots!” Ned shouts.

“Are you taking all these shots back there, too?” MJ bellows.

There is the rumble of feet and then Ned is in the doorway, dressed in a leather jacket, working hard to get the fake cut on his eyebrow to drip blood. “Am I supposed to be?”

The Uber they call knows where they’re headed without the trio of them asking. Partly because MJ had entered the address before the guy got there, but also because these screenings of Rocky Horror Picture Show are pretty fucking famous by now, and that’s the only place they could be headed dressed like alien transvestites. At least it’s a warm night, he thinks while they all pile into the back of the SUV. At least he’s not shivering with all his bits on display.

“God, tonight is going to be great,” Ned says. He’s dressed like Eddie, right down to the alto saxophone that he borrowed off of his cousin for this purpose alone—under the condition that no one play it, and he doesn’t get it wet. Not guarantee-able things, according to MJ. “Are we meeting Tony there?”

“Tony?” Peter yelps. “Tony Stark? Physics class TA, Tony? Tell me there’s another Tony.”

“I doubt there’s another Tony, kid,” the Uber driver mutters up front.

“Thanks,” Peter snaps. He turns back to MJ, who looks stunning (in a very female way) as a colored Janet, wearing the character’s signature virginal white bra, tattered shirt, and prim skirt. Debauched. “You didn’t tell me that Tony Stark would be there—that we’d be meeting up with him. I’m wearing thigh highs and panties!”

“And he’s going to love it,” she says slyly, rummaging through the large tote of prompts they brought along for the show: rice to throw at the wedding scene, water pistols to shoot during the rain, a package of uncooked hotdogs—Jesus, if they got purse-snatched, the person would probably think that they were off their rockers. “You look fucking hot. I don’t know why you’re feeling shy all the sudden. Remember last Christmas when Rihanna was on the radio and you did that dance—”

“I’ve got the video if you need your memory jogged—” Ned supplies helpfully.

“I remember,” Peter says quickly, catching the raised eyebrows of the Uber driver glancing back through the mirror. “I just—I mean, I had a lot of sangria at that Christmas party.”

“You’ve had a lot of tequila tonight,” MJ sooths. “If you aren’t feeling it yet, you will be soon. Look, I’m not saying you need to fuck him tonight. I’m just saying that if you let your guard down even the slightest bit around the guy that you’ll be leading him by the cock before sunrise. Trust me. Will you trust me? Jesus. Here, drink this.”

She passes him a water bottle, but as soon as he opens it, the stench of alcohol hits him. “Is this nail polish remover?”

MJ laughs so hard her mascara runs and she has to redo it. But after a few long sips (and he’s almost positive it’s nail polish remover), he’s feeling even looser than he was before. Too much more and he’ll get sloppy, or worse, sick. He cuts himself off, capping the water bottle and tucking it back into the bag beside yesterday’s newspaper.

The Uber drops them off a block away, and they walk the last distance. It gives Peter a chance to get used to—everything. Being so exposed, feeling so many eyes on him. Some people whistle when he goes by, and he’s glad his face is painted so that they can’t see him flush in pleasure. When someone catcalls down to them from a balcony, he shimmies the feathered boa around his shoulders, shaking his flat chest and they hoot in delight.

MJ was right, too. Everyone is dressed up: corsets and thigh highs and high heels and exposed bras. It looks like the strangest collection of fetishists coming together, and the air is full of excitement that Peter is shivering. He feels drunk with it. Or maybe that’s just the alcohol. The eyes all over him feel as good as caresses, and he feels a stirring in his groin that there is no chance his underwear will hide—and oh fucking well. Tonight is about letting loose.

Getting into the theater is an entire affair. The place is packed with lookalikes: Magentas and Riff-Raffs and Columbias and Frankenfurters. There’s a blond guy who is doing a very good portrayal of Rocky, wearing nothing but golden panties, his muscular skin oiled and gleaming under the lights. His skin beckons Peter to touch.

But then it all comes to a stop, because Tony is there. Tony Stark, the senior that Peter has been crushing on since the professor of his Physics class introduced Tony as his TA for the year: the dark, fluffy hair, the whiskey eyes, the shadow of facial hair after the weekends when he comes stumbling in wearing sunglasses to disguise his hangover. There’s nothing about Tony that doesn’t get Peter hard, and tonight is no exception. He looks incredible dressed as Eddie, tight jeans, white t-shirt, black leather jacket clinging to his biceps. It’s so carelessly greaser, and Peter wonders if Tony drove his motorcycle here—the motorcycle Peter jerks himself off imagining Tony fucking him on—because that would be the cherry on top of this sin.

Tony’s smoking inside, though on a night like this, that’s probably the theater’s least concern. His face fucking lights up when he sees MJ, Ned, and Peter—Peter, who his eyes drag up and down unabashedly. It all comes rushing back then, like a movie pressed to play. Peter is dressed like Brad during the floorshow, dressed like kinky sex itself. And he looks good. Judging by the way Tony’s eyes grow wide and then narrow, the lids heavy…Tony knows too.

“Damn it, Janet,” he says around his cigarette, grasping MJ’s hand. “Was this a fucking set-up?”

“I wouldn’t have to be nefarious if other people wouldn’t be obtuse and stubborn and—”

“I don’t know who you’re talking about,” Peter says. “But I’m feeling a little insulted nevertheless—”

“Have we missed anything? The traffic was awful, I thought we were going to be late,” Ned chimes in.

“Nah,” Tony says. “They’re rounding up virgins.”

“Virgins?” Peter squeaks. Everyone turns to look at him. He tries not to look panicked. Surely his virginity isn’t tattooed on his forehead. Or at least, it wasn’t until he squeaked like a mouse caught between a cat’s paws. He looks around, feeling like Virgin-Police might suddenly appear with batons shaped like dildos to shame him for his chastity. “Wh-What do they want, you know, virgins for?”

“Virgins, as in, people who have never seen the show live before,” Tony says, eyes glittering brighter than the ember at the end of his cigarette. “They bring a bunch up on stage and make them fake orgasms—”

“We’ve got to get Peter up there,” MJ mutters under her breath, barely heard over the roar of the other patrons. She stands up on her toes to try to find the stage helpers who are rounding up virgins (so to speak).

“I’m sorry, I know I misheard you—"

“I’m getting you on that stage, Peter,” MJ says through her teeth. “And you’re going to fake it like that time you told me about with Flash Thompson behind the gymnasium—”

If Tony’s eyebrows climb any higher on his head, they’ll disappear into his hairline. He takes the cigarette out of his mouth to ask, “What’s all this about faking it with Flash Thompson—”

MJ snags one of the stage hands and points to Peter.

“No, no, no, no,” Peter is chanting under his breath. MJ grabs him by the feathered boa and pulls him a few feet away from where Ned and Tony are watching cautiously. She cups a hand around his ear—the closest they can get to privacy surrounded by other people—and whispers to him.

“Look over my shoulder right now. Look at Tony.” Peter does as she asks. It’s not hard. The guy is so fucking handsome, and for some reason, his eyes are glued to Peter’s legs—Peter has always had thin, shapely legs, and the hairs on his thighs are finer and blonder than they have any right to be. It almost looks like he shaves, thanks to the low lighting. “Tony can’t take his eyes off you. Look at the way he can’t stay still—you think he’s hiding a semi like you are? Don’t squawk at me, Peter, everybody can see you’re half-hard. He’s fucking thirsty for you. Get up there, pretend he’s sucking your cock, and give everybody a goddamn show. I guarantee he’ll be trying to go home with you before the night is through. Trust me, Parker. Trust me.”

She digs in her bag to hand him the water bottle. Groaning, he takes a generous sip, face scrunching. God, that’s horrible.

But it works. The alcohol, the rousing speech. That’s how he finds himself being ushered on stage with a dozen other ‘virgins’. When it’s announced that this is their first time seeing the show live, the crowd goes wild for them. Peter’s always had a bit of a thing for exhibition, for being the center of attention (Ned’s phone has a very incriminating video from last Christmas on it, after all). As soon as the lights and eyes are on him, it’s like a great sense of calm comes over him.

He tosses one end of the feathered boa over his shoulder like a brat might toss her hair, and whistles go up for him. He’s pretty sure that Tony is one of them, his figure barely visible beside Ned and MJ toward the back of the crowd.

Then they begin to go down the line, coaxing each virgin to fake an orgasm for the amusement of the room, and Peter can’t bother hiding how hard it makes him: the muscled boy dressed like Rocky gives out groans and tosses his head like he’s being given the blowjob of his life. A short, heavy-set girl dressed as Magenta makes the crowd go wild for her as she pants, palming at her breasts.

Too soon and not soon enough, it’s Peter’s turn.

“What are you playing at?” Tony asks MJ. He can’t stand still, chain smoking and dropping the butts in the pop cans people leave behind on the disused bar. The moment he saw Peter’s signature head of curls, he’d felt his heart drop to his shoes. His stomach tossed like a boat on the sea. He was known for his confident exterior, but no one knew about the deep-seeded anxiety he worked so hard to mask. Something about the baby-faced freshman put Tony on edge—made the blood in his brain go against the tide and head straight for his cock. “You told me it was just going to be us, that Peter was out of town visiting relatives.”

“That’s weird,” MJ mutters. The white she’s wearing emphasizes her warm, dark skin. If she weren’t so fucking sneaky and irritating, he’d probably try hard to get underneath her skirt. “That’s not true at all. Why would I say something like that?”

“You lying bitch,” Tony mutters, rolling his eyes when Leeds gasps. MJ looks pleased as a peach, regardless of his potty-mouth. “I told you to quit trying to push us together. He’s so fucking shy, you’ve probably scared him back into his shell.”

“Did you see what he’s wearing?” She asks flatly. “Parker isn’t shy. At all.”

Fuck yes, Tony had seen. It was indecent, little Peter Parker dressed as Brad. His legs were impossibly long in the black stockings and high heels (heels which actually made the kid taller than Tony, for once). The tight, satiny briefs that did nothing to disguise Peter’s package. The garters tempted Tony to run his fingers underneath them, to pull them away from the pale, hairless skin and let them snap back into place. The corset itself didn’t change Peter’s masculine figure, and the modesty panel was missing so that beneath the gaping laces was firm, pale skin. Who knew that Peter Parker had a fucking six-pack? More importantly: who knew but hadn’t told Tony?

How the hell MJ had convinced him to leave the apartment looking like sin incarnate, Tony would never know.

“Shut up,” Leeds says. “It’s Peter’s turn. Oh my god, I can’t watch this, this is like watching my brother get off or something—”

Tony turns his eyes to the stage just as the hot spotlight reaches Peter, bathing him in its glow. The kid’s eyes go half-lidded, not squinty. The crowd is shouting to goad him on, but the smile he gives is painfully patient, borderline coy. Tony swallows—his mouth is so fucking dry, but there’s nothing for him to wet it with.

Peter holds the microphone between both his palms, lovingly, like he might hold his cock. His eyes shut fully, and a sound comes out of him, picked up and amplified by the microphone, a low sound of pleasure that Tony might make when he eats one of his mom’s brownies after returning home on break. Tony watches raptly, cock hardening already and the kid hasn’t even done anything yet. Then Peter’s mouth parts in a breathy sigh, his head tilting back in the mimicry of ecstasy.

“Fuck,” Tony whispers. The whole world narrows down to that light beam on stage and the boy that’s caught in it. Peter’s breath hitches the way it might if someone was kissing at his neck and then decided to use their teeth, and a long whine comes out of him that has the auditorium howling. The kid’s chest is heaving like he’s having the fuck of his life, and then he lets loose a long, nearly pained groan that Tony can feel in his bones, he can see it all, Peter spread out beneath him, naked (okay maybe he’s still wearing those stockings), fingers gripping the sheets because Tony’s giving it to him so good—

On stage, one of Peter’s hands comes off of the microphone. He presses it against his heart like he’s trying to hold the organ still, but then his palm slips down, thumb catching on the laces of his corset, strumming them as he runs his hand lower and lower and fuck, there’s only one place it could be headed. There’s a ten in the kid’s black panties, no doubt he is at least half-hard, maybe more—and he runs his palm over his own erection. Right there on stage, with a hundred, two hundred eyes on him. With Tony’s eyes on him. The jolt it gives Tony makes him feel like it was his own cock being petted.

Peter pulls his hand back and then dips the tips of his fingers into the tops of the briefs, and the final noise he makes is somewhere between a shout and a cry, the perfect simulation of an incredible orgasm, and it makes Tony’s cock twitch in his pants.

The crowd loses its shit. Of course. And Tony, dazed as he is, barely is able to clap for the kid. MJ stands there the whole time, cell phone out and filming, shooting Tony these little fucking smug looks. His head is still spinning as the stage hands usher the virgins off stage, and Peter returns to them with damp skin, hot from the lights on stage, curls plastered to his forehead.

“How’d I do?” Peter asks, breathily.

“You melted his brain,” MJ says, face tilted toward her phone as she watches the video.

“I—she’s right.”

Peter’s eyes widen. “I—sorry. Is that a good thing?”

“It’s a very good thing,” Tony says, shifting on his feet and pulling at the crotch of his pants to adjust himself. Peter’s eyes drop to track the movement and his mouth parts a little, like the breath has been stolen from him. Tony knows then, that the image he had of innocent Peter Parker was only a misconception. This kid can handle his attention.

And if he wants it, he’s going to get it.

“You want to get out of here?” Tony asks.

Peter nods.

Consider leaving a tip <3

#starker #college!au #same age!au #Rocky Horror Picture Show References #tw: alcohol #nff

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