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lunar-jimin · 4 years

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i can be temptation, you can be my sin

Pairing: Jimin x Fem!Reader

Rating: 18+

Word Count: 4.5k

Genre: smut, tiny side of angst and fluff, office!au (not the TV show), coworkers!au

Warnings: unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), dom!Jimin, sub!reader, spanking, fingering, semi-public sex, dirty talk, degradation, reader sends nudes

Summary: Between bragging about his prolific sex life and his horrific design ideas, Jimin has managed to make your work life a living hell. Then one little accident sends you hurtling towards him, and as hard as you try, you can’t seem to stop yourself.

A/N: This is a commission for @ppersonna for @ficswithluv‘s ChangesWithLuv project dedicated to raising money for BLM. I’m so sorry this fic took forever to write (I’m not sure why), but I hope that you enjoy it! A huge shout-out to my lovely beta-reader, @jinterlude. She’s the best!

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“Jimin…” a groan tumbles out of you, “that shade of yellow is-“

“Bright and comforting?”

“-awful.”

His thick lips curve into a pout, eyes doing little to conceal his mock hurt. Exasperation runs through your body, grasping your brain in its clutches. Your entire week has been filled with Jimin’s progressively hideous design ideas for a book cover, to the point you’re beginning to wonder how he got hired at all. The piss-yellow mock-up in front of you is just another straw in the stack that is going to break your back.

“What?” he looks confused, “You said you wanted something eye-catching, and I would have to say this is pretty darn, eye-catching.”

“It’s blinding is what it is. Maybe if we toned it back a bit…” your eyes drift over the design, horror twisting in your gut.

You want to cry. A week ago, your boss had enthusiastically paired you with Jimin to design a book cover for an up and coming YA author, claiming the two of you were the best designers she had, even promising the both of you a promotion if things went well. You aren’t sure what designs Jimin had produced in the past, because what he was bringing to the table now wasn’t much better than a shitty college club poster.

Jimin didn’t make for great company either. Sure he had legs that went for miles, and a face that would outshine angels, but his mouth was filthy. If the two of you weren’t bickering over fonts and hex codes, you were stuck listening to him brag about how loud he could make a girl scream. What’s worse is that while your brain was logical enough to know that Jimin was no good for you, your body had other ideas. As a result, you often went home after a long day, frustrated in more ways than one.

With a little luck- and quite a bit of compromising- you manage to make it to five ‘o’clock without murdering anyone. You manage to talk Jimin down off the yellow in exchange for completing the pitch presentation by yourself. Presentations are time-consuming and tedious, but it’s better than being out of a job because Jimin is set on making the cover look like a neon highlighter.

A half an hour later, you're collapsing on your soft couch, ready to do absolutely nothing for the rest of the weekend. A sigh of relief carries an iota of the stress out of your body as you sink back into the welcoming cushions. You grimace as the tension in your neck became apparent, and you feel the growing ball of angst you have for Jimin tighten. You were going to send him the bill if you had to go to a chiropractor.

In an attempt to move on from your hectic week and into your relaxing weekend, you wander to the kitchen, searching for the merlot you have yet to open. The tall green bottle greets you from the counter. You find a glass and watch as the red liquid quickly fills it. You savor a long sip as you let your mind stray away from the thoughts of work and stress and into notions of self-care and relaxation.

An hour later, having eaten a frozen pizza, you find yourself soaking down into the hot bath suds. The heat begins to draw the ache out of your sore muscles. Once again, Jimin flashes through your mind, coupled with resentment. Your eyes prickle at the thought, sick and tired of Jimin living in your mind rent-free. Why is he preoccupying your brain instead of Seokjin, the cute cook you matched with on Tinder?

While you had yet to meet in person, you and Seokjin had hit off right away when he opened with the cheesiest pick-up line you’d ever heard. He worked at a five-star restaurant a few blocks from your office, but you’d never met in person. That didn’t mean that you hadn’t had a few scandalous conversations. You weren’t usually one for sexting, but Seokjin’s way with words left you little choice.

Eager to take Jimin off your mind, you grab your phone from the side of the tub, quickly opening your messages. You’re much too impatient for small talk, so in the interest of sparking some saucy dialogue, you take a few snaps of your bubble-covered nude body. You suck in a breath as you hit send, anxious for your reaction. It wasn’t the first time you had sent him a nude photo, but it didn’t make you any less nervous. Seokjin was one of the most attractive men you had ever had the privilege of laying eyes on, and it was only natural for you to question your appearance in comparison to his. He would always reassure you, though, flattering you with compliments, both sultry and sweet.

When he doesn’t respond fifteen minutes, a knot forms in your stomach. What if he didn’t like them? What if he was seeing someone else? What if he lost interest? You check your messages with hurried concern. What you find on your screen mortifies. In your haste to tease Seokjin, you had accidentally sent the photos to the last person you texted: Jimin. Worse yet, the little grey “read” sits just beneath the last picture. As you stare at the screen with abject horror, a little speech-bubble pops-up. Your stomach twists in knots, anticipating of what he might say striking you with fear.

The Office Brat: if you wanted a piece of me baby girl, all you had to do was ask 20:33

You suck in a breath when he immediately follows the text with a picture of his own. He’s shirtless, lip between his teeth as he grabs his prominent erection through grey sweatpants. You can’t help the whine that slips out of your mouth at the image. You try to ignore the heat that rushes to your core as your legs rub together. When your senses finally return to you, you drop your phone on the bath mat before sinking into the water, leaving only your face out. The photo is still seared into your brain, taunting you with his delicious abs and what turned out to be a healthy sized dick.

You immediately resolve to forget it ever happened. You spend the rest of the weekend attempting to distract yourself through a binge of every cheesy rom-com you can find on Netflix. You sent Jimin a quick text, informing him that the photos weren’t actually for him. He hadn’t responded, and you didn’t know if you should be relieved or not. It certainly didn’t aid the dread building in your stomach at the thought of having to face him again on Monday.

When you walk into the office two days later, you’re relieved to find that Jimin seemed nowhere to be found. You pray that he actually had an iota of shame and quit out of humiliation. Your hopes are crushed when not five minutes later, you notice him prancing toward your cubicle, his ever-present smirk plastered across his face. When he reaches you, he plops down in an extra desk chair, arms crossed across his chest, eyes looking you up and down. You can’t help but shiver at the knowledge that he knows precisely what you look like underneath your work clothes.

“What do you want, Jimin?” you sigh.

“Haven’t I made that obvious, baby?” He grins. “I want you.”

You roll your eyes.

“Jimin, what happened this weekend was an accident,” you give him a firm glare, “so no matter how much you claim to want me, I want nothing to do with you.:

He raises his eyebrow, eyes locked on yours, before standing and walking to you. His breath is warm on your neck as he leans over to whisper in your ear. You clench your thighs in an attempt to extinguish the heat beginning to burn in between them.

“We’ll see about that, now won’t we, baby girl?”

He pulls away with a smirk, before turning to head to his desk. Your eyes trail to his ass as he leaves, only worsening the situation in your underwear. You silently vow to yourself not to fall for his tricks. You have more self-respect than to allow yourself to be yet another notch in Park Jimin’s bedpost.

Brushing thoughts of your troublesome coworker from your mind, you turn back to your bright computer screen, determined to lose yourself in your work. Your eyes widen when you find an email from Jimin taunting you in your inbox. Heart pounding fast, you click on it, half afraid to find another nude of his (it wouldn’t be beyond him). Instead of a naked Jimin, a PDF with the details for the cover design presents itself. You’re taken aback. Not only had Jimin swapped the yellow for soft coral, but he practically redesigned the entire thing. Scrolling through, you’re embarrassed to admit that it was nearly as good, if not better, then some of your best works.

You immediately realize that this means he’s been pulling your leg for over a week. A groan escapes you, and your head falls forward, smashing into your keyboard. Of course, he was a fucking amazing graphic artist; you shouldn’t have expected anything less. Fury floods down your spine as it dawns on you that it was all a trick to get out of doing the PowerPoint. Now you were stuck making an entire presentation, just because Jimin had pretended to love piss-yellow.

It takes every ounce of your self-control not to march to his desk and strangle him. White anger flashes in front of your eyes, resentment growing to cover every waking thought in your brain. When you finally calm enough to rationalize that murder isn’t going to get you anywhere, you decide that your best course of action is to avoid him until the day of the two of you are scheduled to present to the board.

The world isn’t being kind to you today, because when you finally head to the break room for lunch, you immediately run into your new worst enemy.

“What’s got your panties in a knot now, love?”

You glare at him, not trusting yourself not to stab him with your salad fork. He smirks in response, before turning to leave. At the last second, he turns back to you.

“Have fun with that PowerPoint.”

You want to scream.

“Jimin, I swear to god, you little shit, I’m gonna-”

“You’re gonna what? Spank me?” His cheeky grin widens. “You know, baby, I’m usually a dom, but if it meant feeling your sweet pussy, I’d definitely be a sub.”

You are lucky that no one else is around to hear his words because you are mortified enough. Red creeps across your face as Jimin winks at you. When he finally leaves, you collapse back onto the counter, trying to get a grip on your surroundings. You swear to high heaven that you’ve never hated someone so much in your life, yet feel so attracted to them at the same time. As infuriated as you are with him, you are even more infuriated with your inability to control your body’s reaction to him.

Why did he have to know exactly what to say to soak your panties? Why was he so hellbent on getting you to sleep with him? Why did you ever have to be assigned to him in the first place? These questions plagued your mind as the week trickled slowly on. Your anger with Jimin was beginning to be diluted with anxiety about your upcoming presentation. No part of you looked forward to standing in front of the company board to make a potential career-changing pitch with the person you hated most in the world. Not to mention public speaking made you want to hide under a rock and never come out.

Thankfully, Jimin is kind enough to offer to do most of the talking- even if his original deal included a blow job- but it also meant you had less control if things started to go south. By the time Friday rolled around, you’re shitting yourself with fear. Jimin does his best to calm you down as you sit in hard plastic chairs outside the boardroom, waiting to be called in.

“Look, we’ll do fine. You made an amazing presentation, and I’m pretty brilliant at charming people if I do say so myself.”

He reaches over and gives your hand a small squeeze. You’re just nervous enough to offer him a small smile. For what it’s worth, he wasn’t terrible at comforting people.

“Thanks, Jimin. I’m sure everything will go great.”

Everything did not go great. In fact, it went very, very badly. Somewhere out there, someone must have hexed you because that’s the only reason you can think of that would explain why you placed Jimin’s original yellow design in the slideshow instead of his new one. You feel terrible. Not only have you fucked up in front of the entire company, but you’ve put both of your jobs on the line.

As soon as the meeting ended, you rushed off to the bathroom. You already embarrassed yourself enough as it is, you don’t need everyone to see you cry too. Tears roll down your face as you sit on the toilet, praying for the sudden end of your existence.

You had one job and somehow you had managed to fuck it up. You managed to ruin your career. You’re going to end up jobless. Broke. Destitute.

You’re jolted out of your thoughts by a knock at the door.

“Doll? Are you in there?”

Jimin’s voice is soft and comforting, and if you weren’t so afraid of humiliating yourself, you would have gladly welcomed his arms around you. But you are, so you try to stifle your sobs in an attempt to make him go away.

“Doll? I know you’re in there. I can hear you crying,” he sighs, “Please just let me in. I just want to talk.”

A sigh escapes your lips as you debate your options. If he already knows you’re crying, what difference will it make if he sees you? You stand up from your seat on the toilet, make a quick attempt at cleaning up your ruined makeup, and hesitantly open the door to let him inside.

He immediately takes you in his arms, closing the door behind him. The feeling of his body wrapped around yours only serves to induce more tears, and you find yourself crying into his shirt collar.

“I’m so, so sorry, Jimin,” you hiccup, “I don’t know what happened. I don’t know how I used that one. I’m so sor-”

“It’s okay, baby.”

You pull away to look at his eyes.

“What? How can you say that? I ruined the presentation, and we’ll be lucky if they want us to come back to work tomorrow.”

“They loved it.”

“What?”

“They loved it. They thought it was bright and innovative and really demonstrated that we understood design enough to push its limits.”

You look at him in shock. They loved it. They thought it was great. Your job was safe. You weren’t going to be fired. You may even receive a promotion.

“Feel better, doll?” He smiles down at you.

For once in your life, you return his smile, while shaking your head in affirmation.

“Well, then…”

You’re still smiling but suddenly unsure of what to do. Jimin’s hands are still on your waist, and you hated how aware of them you’re becoming. He seems to notice at the same time and quickly pulls them away.

“I have a question.” His voice is soft and shaky, and his eyes shift from side to side, seemingly unable to focus on you.

“What?”

“Why do you hate me so much?”

You’re taken aback. Jimin, who was usually so confident and larger than life, is now standing before you, small and meek, like an underfed puppy begging for scraps.

“I, I don’t hate you, Jimin.”

“But you must,” his voice is curt, “You never flirt back with me, yet I see you tease Hoseok all day long. You never laugh at my jokes. You never praise my work. As soon as I come anywhere near you, you close up. You snap at me, and you have no patience with me. You avoid me at all costs. So let me ask you again: why do you hate me?”

This time, instead of avoiding eye contact, he stares at you like he’s trying to read your soul.

“I really don’t hate you, Jimin.”

He raises his eyebrow.

“I just don’t want you to hurt me.”

He looks genuinely confused at your statement.

“How could I possibly hurt you?”

“The same way you hurt all those other girls.”

“What other girls?” His voice rises with defense.

“You know, the ones you sleep with in bathrooms, only to leave them broken-hearted when you never so much as glance their way again? The one’s you brag about fucking every chance you get until I want to slam my head into a brick wall? The ones that prove you’re nothing but a narcissistic fuckboy whose only goal in life is to get his dick wet? Those are the girls I’m talking about.”

Jimin looks shocked before his face morphs into an angry scowl, eyes heated and alert.

“That’s what you really think about me? That I’m a no-good player who uses girls for their bodies? Do you really think I trick girls into sleeping with me? Because you're wrong. They know what they’re getting into when they agree to restroom rendezvouses, but they always seem to convince themselves that they can convince me that I should be in a relationship with them. That’s not my fault. I would never sleep with someone under false pretenses. And I bragged about them because I wanted you to like me! Do you not get that? I don’t ever try this hard to get anybody to sleep with me, but I like you. I like you a lot, and this whole time you just thought I was a misogynistic fuckboy because you never cared to get to know me better.”

Jimin is seething, like a dog that went feral. His chest rises with heavy breaths as he backs you into the wall, eyes staring down yours. You let out a small whimper when he leans into your ear, hot breath ghosting your neck.

“If you think I’m such a fuckboy, then a fuckboy is what you are going to get.”

Before your brain can properly register his words, his lips are covering yours in a desperate kiss. Despite your lack of cognizance, you respond immediately, lips moving against his as your arms wrap around his neck, pulling him into you. His hands ghost down your side before he grabs your ass with a rough squeeze, eliciting a whine from your mouth.

He flips you around before bending you over the sink, eyes holding yours in the mirror reflection.

“I think you’ve been a bad girl, don’t you agree? Leaving me with blue balls just because you think you’re better than me.”

Words fail you, so you nod instead. His hand slips under your skirt, softly massaging your ass.

“Don’t you think Daddy needs to punish you?”

You whimper, eyes struggling to hold his in your shared reflection. His gaze was burning with lust and fiery.

“I need you to use your words, baby.”

“Yes, daddy, I need to be punished.”

He grinned before flipping up your skirt to reveal the supple curve of your ass to his waiting gaze.

“Fuck, baby, do you know how long I’ve stared at this ass walking away from me, trying not to pop a boner in front of the whole office?”

He grabbed a rough handful.

“So long, baby, much too long. I think ten should suffice. Count for me.”

“Okay, daddy.” You whine.

“Say ‘red’ if it gets to be too much.”

“Yes, daddy.”

The first spank sent shocks running through you. While you expected the pain, you hadn’t anticipated how hard he would hit you, or how the contrast of his warm palm and cool rings would send pleasure singing through your body.

“O-one.”

The word barely made it out of your mouth, your brain hazy with lust.

The subsequent slap on the opposite cheek once again jolts you, and you fall forward, bracing your hands on the cold porcelain sink before you.

“Two.”

By the time he made it to five, tears had begun to well in your eyes, and you were sure your ass was painted a nice shade of crimson. By the time he made it to ten, tears had streaked your cheeks as moans and whimpers left your mouth alongside your garbled counting.

Jimin takes a moment to step back to admire his handiwork, his smirk only widening as he takes in his handprint bruised into your ass.

“Holy shit, baby, you’re so hot. You took your punishment so well. Look at how much of a good girl you are.”

Even in your hazy state, you beamed at his praise.

“Thank you, daddy.”

“I think you deserve a reward, baby girl.”

You nod vigorously at that, eager to feel him finally inside you.

“What do you want, baby? Use your words.”

“Your fingers, daddy, please.”

In an attempt to convey your desperation, you grind your hips into his crotch.

“Patience, baby girl. Where do you want them?”

“In my pussy, daddy. Please. I’m so wet for you.” Your sentence ends with a light sob, the need for him overwhelming you.

“Ask and you shall receive.”

With that, he pulls your panties to the side as he cautiously rubs his pointer finger up and down your soaked slit, before slipping inside.

“Fuck, baby, your dripping. Did spanking you turn you on that much? Is my baby girl that much of a pain slut?”

“Yes, daddy. I’m a pain slut just for you.”

He adds a second finger, and your head drops between your shoulders as he begins to move his digits in and out of you at a quick but intentional pace. Moans fall from your lips, and you let out a sharp squeal when he crooks his fingers and brushes against your g-spot.

“Fuck, daddy, right there.”

He quickens his pace, rubbing you perfectly over and over again as he brings you closer to the point of no return.

“Shit, baby, I’m so hard right now. Your pussy is so tight and wet around my fingers; I just want to sink my cock into you.”

“Please, daddy, I want your cock too. I want you to cum inside me. Fuck, I’m gonna cum, I’m gonna cum, I’m gonna-“

Words fail you as you are sent hurtling into your orgasm, waves of euphoria crashing down around you. Your body is shaking as you collapse against the sink.

Jimin lets out a groan at your fucked-out state, removing his hand from your pussy and bringing it to his lips to taste you. He lets out a moan as he does, freehand going to the front of his pants to rub his prominent erection through the black fabric.

After you recover enough to stand, you turn around and replace his hand with your own, pussy clenching at how big he was.

“Will you fuck me now, daddy?” You look up at him under your lashes, and his head falls back at your mock innocence, a light whimper escaping his lips. He tilts his head back up to look at you, hand coming to grab your waist to pull you to his lips.

You taste yourself on his tongue as your hands come to play with his hair, tugging on the strands. He ruts up into you, desperation getting the better of him. He pulls away, revealing his swollen lips and hazy eyes.

“Fuck yeah, I’ll fuck you now, baby girl.” He makes quick work of his belt zipper, shoving his pants and boxers down just enough to let out his cock and balls. The tip is an angry red, beautifully contrasted with the white of his dress shirt. Your mouth waters as you take in its wide girth and slight curve. You’re desperate to taste it, but right now there were more important matters at hand.

You drop your panties, before hopping up on the edge of the sink. Jimin gives his cock a few short tugs before lining up with your dripping entrance. You let out soft moans as he sinks into you, your legs wrapping around his waist to pull him as close as possible. His hands grab your ass, pulling you to the edge of the sink, before slamming back in. He sets a slow but intentional pace, the sound of skin and desperate moans echoing throughout the small bathroom.

You aren’t going to last long, having already come once, and judging by his quickening pace, neither is he. Your lips meet each other in a messy kiss as he pulls you tight against his body. It’s hard to discern what is a part of you and what is a part of him. Your limbs are so intertwined, that it feels like you are one body.

As his cock continues to drill into your g-spot, stars begin to cover your vision. With the force of a freight train, you come unannounced; your mouth opens in a silent scream. Jimin follows right behind you, painting your walls white with his seed. He lets out a groan of your name, his head coming to rest on your shoulder.

Both of you silently shake as you take a moment to catch your breath and process what just happened. He slowly pulls his softening cock out of you, watching as his cum pours out of your cunt.

“Fuckkkk, that’s hot.” He groans, tucking himself back into his pants, before wetting a paper towel to help clean you up.

“I’m sorry I thought so poorly of you.” You give him an apologetic grin, as you pull up your underwear.

“It’s okay. I can see where I might have led you to think that I don’t treat girls well.”

“Well, now I can see that I was wrong. You seem like you would be a fantastic boyfriend.” You move to exit the bathroom, eager to get away so you can process the rampage of emotions flooding through you now that your lust wasn’t getting in the way.

“I can be yours.”

You pause at the door.

“What?”

“I could be your boyfriend.”

“I-“

“I’ve liked you ever since the first time I saw you, and I think that maybe you like me, and I just really, really want to be your boyfriend.”

Your mind is racing at a million miles per hour, trying to process everything that’s happening. One moment he was fucking you like it was your last day on the earth, and now he’s standing in front of you, pleading for you to make him yours. You aren’t sure what to make of it.

“I think I would really like that too, Jimin,” he beams,” “but everything is going so fast, and I just need a little time to take everything in.”

His face falls a little, but he nods understandingly.

“That’s fair. Let me take you on a date, at least.”

You grin.

“Okay.”

“Coffee on Saturday?”

“Sounds great.”

#changeswithluv #bangtanhq #btswriterscollective #btswritingcafe #btsbookclub #bangtanarmynet #fanfic #one-shot #smut #bts #jimin #park jimin #bangtan #fluff #angst

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snowe-zolynn-rogers · 4 years

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Roman and Logan’s Dark Strange Son: Rewrite

Pairings: Romantic Logince, Platonic Loginceit/Roloceit

Word Count: 1,088 Words

Summary: Roman and Logan meet Deceit near Spider Woods to talk.

Warnings: Sympathetic Deceit, Unsympathetic Patton, Spiteful Roman, Petty Logan, Slight Arachnophobia Mentions, Trust Issues, Mentions of Death (in the means of ‘fading’), let me know if I should tag something else.

Chapter 2

Upon arrival, Roman and Logan found who they assumed was Deceit quite deep in the forest, though seeing yellow in a black forest wasn't hard. As it seemed, Deceit was attempting to help a newly hatched baby dragon out of it's egg as the small being flapped its wings for assistance.

Eventually, he noticed Roman and Logan sitting on their picnic blanket, Roman lovingly watching the snake assist a youngling out as Logan was impressed that the deceitful side was motherly enough to assist something that was clearly reptilian out of its shell and to the freedom of life without a second thought.

Deceit finally helped the stuck dragon free and returned with it to the blanket on the forest floor. He was tense, hands petting the dragon a bit shaky and he looked stressed.

It was quite obviously him, despite the different clothing. Snake features prominent even though the bell sleeve top, and lace up sided jeans, and yellow flannel around his waist was quite different. But a good different.

He sure held up to his aesthetic. Logan sputtered at first but then Roman led straight in, despite Deceit fidgeting with the newborn dragon's wings in quite obvious distress to know why he'd been called here.

"Alright. To calm you down, we aren't mad. Like, at all. We asked you to be here because we wanted to hear your opinion with the debate today since you didn't get to speak at all and we couldn't figure out what you were saying." Deceit looked confused and shocked by Roman's explanation.

"Oh...um...it was stupid anyway." Logan grabbed his hand, seeing him about to leave.

"No opinion is a stupid opinion unless it doesn't pertain to the conversation." Logan immediately assured him.

"I don't know, it's dumb." The deceptive side seemed antsy not to share, maybe protective? Then it seemed to dawn on the logical side. Maybe trust issues? Those might make sense. Trust didn't seem common amongst the dark sides if Virgil at the beginning of his stay was anything to go by. And, with his housing situation in the grey area, trust must run far below zero in Deceit's world.

"So, wanna have dinner with us and talk about your opinions?" Roman asked him. Deceit seemed to settle with that. Maybe trusting they'd listen?

Logan had a hundred scenarios at once of what he could possibly be thinking, none of which he spoke aloud. But they settled themselves onto the blanket and Deceit seemed to work up the nerve to share his opinion.

"Thomas is getting reckless. He's pulling himself all these ways and stretching himself thin and I'm just worried that, if he keeps ignoring how reckless he's getting, eventually, he won't have any self-preservation left." Deceit finally managed to explain. The way his eyes shone, he was definitely telling the truth.

"You're not..." Roman reached his hands to grab Deceit's hands, making sure they didn't slip through, that their Deception wasn't fading.

"No. Not yet, at least. But if he keeps like this, it might happen." He sounded teary. Logan wanted nothing more than to hug him and tell him that he could cry, but he didn't want to overstep. Plus expressing and explaining emotion wasn't his forte, not did he do it very well. He could let Roman handle that for now.

“We need do make sure you won't then.” Logan determined.

“You…You could?” Deceit asked, near incredulously.

“As much as possible. We could use your ideas into our debates with Patton and Virgil. It's no harm to change our arguments for a while if it keeps you from fading long enough to figure out what to do for longer-term in fixing the problem.” Logan assured him.

“You don't have to.” The shortest trait wiped his eyes and kept tears from falling over, the baby dragon nuzzling his face and huffing. This obviously meant a lot to him.

“You're right. We want to.” Roman agreed. And Logan couldn't agree more. They spent a total of another hour listening to Deceit's opinion, both encouraging him to keep going so they could learn more on his side of the debate both that morning and in the past.

It all boiled down simply to, don't over-give and to make sure Thomas could take care of himself, make sure Thomas didn't push too far. It was reasonable. Loga got hints that his home life wasn't what it seemed like. It could really be a toss up of any kind, Logan didn't know any details and it seemed Deceit didn't want them to.

There were also very clear trust issues that they got the simple explanation that someone he trusted had left before. This wouldn't stand, Logan determined. The other half hour of the conversation was him gently convincing Deceit to take it easy, make sure he didn't overstress himself and, eventually, the conversation turned to dragon care between Roman and Deceit. And, thus, Roman and Logan were now formulating a plan in the debate room again.

"We could have him stay in one of our rooms to keep an eye on him. So we can make sure he doesn't start fading." Logan suggested. He was far beyond stressed. If their Deceit faded, then their Self-Preservation faded too. There may be no saving him if he began fading, there was only hoping at that point that he could come back from it somewhat stable.

"He'd have to stay in there a lot so he wont be caught by Patton or Virgil. He might get corrupted if he were in one of our rooms. It wouldn't be any better." Roman shot the idea down.

"We could make him a room." Logan suddenly suggested, far too excited and ended up slamming his hands onto the desk of the debate chair he sat at.

"A-A room? They'd notice!" Roman exclaimed.

"Not if we said it's ours or a Shorts character is having an extended visit. There's already that old extra room across from ours. Remember? You made it a while back for one of those Shorts characters when they were made before they went off to live in your kingdom." Logan poked his head to remember. It seemed to come back to him now.

"Oh yeah, Remy's old room! That's perfect. We could totally do that!" Logan smirked seeing that he'd finally seen sense.

"Let's get to work. We need him close to us to keep an eye on him and we better get it done as quickly as possible." Logan alerted him.

Taglist: @zozomind @im-default @imma-potatoo @genderfluidmoma @brain-deadx0 @knightinsoftpastels @wasinotwantedatthisexactsecond @lgbtforeverything @fandersides1234567 @that-gay-satanic-trash @messcentral @turtleluv799 @theenbyregressor @katelynn-a-fan @13hisss

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shenanigans-and-imagines · 4 years

Text

A Study in Allies

Until We Meet Again: Part 2/?

Thrawn x Senator!Reader, Female Pronouns

Summary: You and Thrawn meet again, your fascination only growing.

A/N: I’m not exactly sure where this is going. I plan this to be a series of one shots revolving around this Senator!Reader. If your interested in reading more about her and Thrawn, feel free to send any request my way! And remember REBLOG AND COMMENT IF YOU LIKE THIS!!!

Word Count: 3.7K

As much as you tried to fight it, Lieutenant Thrawn did not fully leave your mind for the next twenty-four hours.

You had spent the rest of the evening performing your duties, shaking hands and introducing yourself to as many of the movers and shakers of Courscant as you were able. But as you finally made it home and drifted off to sleep, your conversation with Thrawn was the only thing to remain in your memory.

The next day was relatively light. As soon as you finished your morning calls, you spent your time researching what you could on the Chiss and Thrawn in preparation for your next meeting.

A small twinge of guilt twisted your stomach, but you suppressed it. All Thrawn’s military exploits were public record. It wasn’t as if you were digging up private, personal information. Besides, you had no doubt he was doing the same thing with you.

You ought to have been embarrassed by this strange new obsession, but he couldn’t help holding your fascination. You hadn’t met anyone like him before.

You had heard stories about leaders in various systems throughout the years. Conquerors, emperors, generals, all of which were described as having a strange aura of power and charisma. An unflinching confidence that inspired people to rally behind them.

You had met many political leaders over the years, from kings to admirals. None possessed the air described by the stories, except Thrawn. It was a rare quality, often lamented as occurring only once in a lifetime. Was it so strange then to want to be in its presence again?

Your comm rang, pulling your from your thoughts.

“Yes?”

“Pardon me Senator,” Cora, your aid, called. “But there is a Lieutenant Thrawn here to see you.”

You straightened, feeling a small smile touch your lips.

“Please, send him in.”

You stood from your desk as the door slid open.

Lieutenant Thrawn stood before you just as he had the night before; tall, confident, and dressed in his Imperial navy uniform. A part of you wondered if he possessed any other type of clothing.

The light of day also helped to clear a suspicion you had been harboring; he was handsome.

“Good afternoon, Senator,” he greeted, inclining his head in respect.

“Good afternoon, Lieutenant,” you replied, matching his movement. “Please, make yourself comfortable.”

You gestured to a small table and chairs placed just to the right of your desk. On the table was a small selection of fruits, meats and vegetables, along with a range of alcohols. You hadn’t been sure how long the meeting would go and wanted to be prepared.

If Thrawn was in any way affected by the spread, he made no indication.

“Thank you.”

He took his time choosing a seat as his eyes wandered your office, pausing at each of the paintings and sculptures you had scattered throughout.

You followed his gaze, noticing how it lingered on one particular painting; an impressionist interpretation of the sky of Danu just as the sun was rising; it’s pinks and oranges contrasting and over powering the purples and dark blues of the night sky. It was a gift to your family by one of Danu’s prominent art museums, and one of your personal favorites.

You turned your eyes back to Thrawn, whose attention still remained on the painting.

“See something you like?” you asked, with just a hint of teasing.

Thrawn blinked, before turning to you. His glowing red eyes now focused with inquisitive intensity.

“It is an interesting collection,” he said, smoothly. “Were these all selected yourself?”

“Yes. A bit eclectic perhaps, but I like them,” you said, taking the seat just across from him.

“And those in the reception area?”

You frowned, thinking of that rather gaudy display of golden vines and multi-colored flowers. “Those were chosen by Governor Lir. I’ll be replacing them once the commissions are finished.”

Thrawn nodded in consideration. “If you don’t mind, I would be interested in seeing them once they’re finished. I assume you asked the painting to be done by an artist from Danu?”

“Yes,” you said carefully. “How did you come to that conclusion?”

“Some of the sculptures have been done relatively recently,” Thrawn answered, easily. “Their subject matter and style match current trends in Danu art. I assume if you’re having a piece commissioned you want to keep them in continuity with your office.”

You wanted, very much, to ask him how he knew anything about current artistic trends on Danu or even how it was relevant. Upon brief reflection, however, you realized you didn’t have to.

You had done your research on him, he had done the same. His searches simply lead him to invest an interest in Danu’s art scene. And, considering what he was able to discern from the mural, it wasn’t so strange.

“I will say to make fast work,” he continued. “I understand you’ve only been on Coursant for a few weeks.”

You gave a casual shrug. “This will be my place of work and home for a long time if all goes according to plan. I might as well make myself comfortable.”

He raised his eyebrow slightly with an amused, possibly even impressed, half smile on his lips.

“Indeed.”

You couldn’t help but smile yourself a little. “Now Lieutenant, I believe you’re here to listen to some stories. Where would you like to start?”

You weren’t sure how long the pair of you talked and you didn’t really care.

You related to him all the stories you could bring yourself to remember about the Chiss. The image you had painted in your mind of honor bound warriors wasn’t as far off the mark as you believed they might have been, according to Thrawn. But, like all stories faced with reality, there were some more nuanced shades of grey.

He didn’t openly share any new information. But from small hints, decisive silences, and rather obvious dodges, you were starting to get a slightly clearer picture. The Chiss were warriors certainly, but they had their own bureaucracy to contend with, family squabbles, and pride which was always found within such systems. A pride Thrawn most certainly possessed, whether he wished to acknowledge it or not.

“May I ask you a possibly personal question?” you asked, pouring you each another glass of wine.

“You may ask,” Thrawn said, a note of suspicion in his voice.

You gave a small laugh. “It’s nothing too terrible, I hope. I simply wanted to know if Thrawn is your true name. From what I’ve come to understand, Chiss usually have much longer names.”

His shoulders relaxed slightly. “We do. Thrawn is my core name.”

“Then, what’s the rest of it? Or are outsiders not allowed to know?”

“Others may hear it. It is more a matter of efficiency,” he explained. “Those with Basic as their primary language have a difficult time pronouncing it. But, if you truly wish to know, my full name is Mitth’raw’nuruodo.”

“Mitth’raw’nuruodo,” you repeated back.

“Mitth’raw’nuruodo,” he corrected.

“Mitth’raw’nuruodo.” This time you tried rolling the “r”s as he did.

“Mitth'raw'nuruodo.”

Your lip pursued in concentration. You could hear how you were saying it wrong, but couldn’t quite figure out how to correct the mistake. But you had to try at least once more.

“Mit-thra-nur-uod-o,” you said, deciding to disregard the “r” roll and simply pronounce each syllable as best you could.

“Better,” Thrawn conceded. “But not quite.”

You let out a sigh. “I will get it eventually.”

A small amused smile came to his lips. “You may try.”

It linger there a while longer, but a small shift in his eye convinced you it was about something else.

“Is there something else you find amusing?” you asked.

“More interesting,” he said, diplomatically. “Your selection of stories is very different from others I’ve heard.”

“How so?”

“Ensign Vanto recounted stories of The Chiss’ military exploits or combat abilities. No doubt you have heard the same. You, however, chose to tell stories referring to our culture and traditions.”

“Maybe I assumed you have heard them before.”

“Perhaps,” Thrawn said. “But, unlikely. You stated yourself how you admired the times of peace in the Republic. Tales of war do not hold your interest.”

“Guns and battleships don’t hold my interest. It’s the people behind them that do,” you corrected. “Like you for instance.”

“How do you mean?”

You gave him a doubtful look. “Don’t play that game. You’ve done your research on me, it’s only fair I do the same. I only wish to parse out facts from fiction.”

Thrawn watched you closely. His glowing red eyes burned into you, but you did not look away as you did before. You held your ground, until finally he relented.

“What have you learned?

“Very little, I’m afraid,” you admitted, with a small smile. “Your recent military exploits speak for themselves. By all accounts a series of miraculous victories pulled seemingly from thin air orchestrated by a brilliant military mind who should by all accounts be an Admiral, but is instead the first weapons officer. This most recent encounter with the Dromedar being emblematic of that.”

He nodded. “You’ve heard about my court marshal, I take it. “

“There had to be some reason why you’re here,” you said, your expression turning apologetic. “I am truly sorry. The navy has no right to pursue you in such a way. As far as I’m concerned you made the right decision. Life should always be valued over profit. If there is any way I can help, please let me know.”

“I will,” he said, in a tone that made you feel as if not only did he mean it, but truly appreciated it. A small part of you had to wonder who, if anyone on Coruscant had offered him help.

“What else have you heard,” Thrawn prompted.

This part was tricky and for the first time that afternoon, you looked down.

“I understand you were discovered in exile, though the reasons why vary from telling to telling.”

“Which of these tellings do you believe?”

You glanced up again.

Thrawn sat coolly in the chair. His body and positioning were relaxed but still ultimately in control as he stared unblinking awaiting your answer.

You thought of the man before you, and the one described in the reports. You thought of the priority of minimal casualties on both sides. You thought of the crew of the Dromedar. And you thought of the calculation in his responses when talking about his people.

“You ordered a preemptive strike on an enemy,” you said with a confidence foreign to you. “But I have a hard time believing it was done in a fit of blind ruthlessness.”

“And what do you believe?”

He learned forward. It was just a hair, not many would notice, but it was enough for you to know you had to choose your next words very carefully.

“I think you would do whatever is necessary to protect who you perceive your people to be, whether it be your crew or The Chiss.”

“Do you?” he questioned.

You nodded. “I know a little something about that.”

For a long moment, neither of you spoke.

“Yes,” Thrawn said, quietly as if to himself. “I believe you do.”

Something flashed across his features. Understanding, perhaps? Or maybe admiration?

You didn’t have time to question it as all too quickly, he leaned back and his unreadable mask slipped easily into place.

“You’re quite perceptive, Senator,” he commended.

“Not really,” you said, with a shrug. “In my experience people are very open about what they want either through their actions or outright stating it. The only ones who aren’t are those who have yet to make up their mind. You don’t strike me as the indecisive sort.”

“Perhaps,” Thrawn said. “But do not belittle your abilities. Stating one’s wants is one thing, but often actions can be misinterpreted, their true meaning plagued by personal bias. Being able to clearly see someone’s reasoning for their actions is a rare skill.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” you said, feeling your cheeks warm slightly. “But you’re avoiding the question.”

“Which is?”

“Am I right?”

Thrawn was silent for a moment.

“You are right in the ways that matter,” he said. “I will always do what is necessary to protect my people.”

You frowned, but knew better than to ask further. Perhaps he wasn’t allowed to talk about the true reason for his exile. Which itself only lead to more questions.

“Something else?” Thrawn asked.

“Yes…” you said. Your stomach twisted, unsure if what you were about to ask truly was crossing some invisible line. But, you had come this far.

“Why join the Empire?”

Thrawn stared a moment as if surprised by your question. You didn’t blame him, but instead of anger or even indignantly you expected, there was just confusion. “As I have stated, and you have observed, I will do what I feel is necessary to protect my people.”

“So why not go back to them? How does joining the Empire do that?”

Thrawn’s eyes darkened, his expression going distant, almost regretful. “There are many dangers in the galaxy. Dangers greater than The Chiss Ascendancy or The Empire can face alone. I believe an alliance is necessary to face such a danger.”

“Assuming the Empire doesn’t turn on you.”

He glanced at you, titling his head curiously. “Do you believe it will?”

“It doesn’t matter what I believe,” you dismissed. “You obviously believe it won’t.”

“But you do have your doubts.”

It was your turn to remain silent as your own mind flashed to darker times. The Clone Wars. Your father. Danu torn apart and only now starting to rebuild.

You let out a tired sigh. “I suppose we each have to settle for an uneasy alliance to maintain peace for our people.”

“Spoken like a diplomat,” Thrawn said, dryly.

Your lip twisted into an ironic smile. “I have to get my practice in somewhere.”

Thrawn’s own lips turned upward slightly, giving just a hint of amusement. It softened his features, if only a little. You found you rather liked it.

His expression then shifted into an oddly thoughtful expression.

“Do you have a question for me?” you asked.

Thrawn shook his head. “Not a question. I was just musing on how you have heard so little of me and my people and yet are able to construct a fairly accurate picture. While I comparatively have heard much of you, and yet the reality speaks to something entirely different.”

“And what have you heard of me?”

For the first time since you met him he appeared uncomfortable. “I hesitate to say. As I said, the reality is much different.”

“I can take it,” you assured. “I promise not to shoot the messenger. And besides, you said it yourself; it’s often illuminating to hear stories about yourself from an outside source.”

Thrawn nodded in consideration.

“I understand you were made Senator four months ago,” he began. “Your family has lived on Danu for generations and is highly regarded within its sphere of influence. Your father was governor during the time of The Clone Wars, but was killed in a Seprestist attack.”

He bowed his head to you, his voice growing surprisingly gentle. “My sympathies.”

“Thank you,” you said, feeling your heart ache at the old wound. “Please, continue.”

“Governor Lir was appointed to the position soon after although not to the same success. He was the one to suggest the previous senator, Senator Trask. Unfortunately, Trask was eventually charged with corruption after being found in league with a pirate gang stealing and reselling food stuffs on the black market. Governor Lir was cleared of any involvement. It was then, your name was selected to be Trask’s replacement. From what I gathered, you made a name for yourself on Danu for various public works and, given your father’s legacy, it was the logical choice.”

You nodded in understanding. Governor Lir needed his name associated with your father’s to maintain his reputation. The thought made your stomach twist unpleasantly.

“As Colonel Yularen explained it to me, Danu lost much of its influence after the Clone Wars,” Thrawn continued. “It is now in direct control of its governors who are themselves controlled by Grand Moff Tarkin.”

“So, I’m a puppet head. A naive heiress, picked out of a hat because of her father’s accomplishments,” you said, feeling like you were about to be sick. Was that why Lir had been so insistent on showing you around, introducing you as some non-threatening, pretty young thing?

You gave a dry scoff. “Not a very flattering portrait.”

“No,” Thrawn agreed.

You laughed again, sincerely this time. “You really need to work on your interpersonal skills if you’re going to survive Coruscant,” you said dryly. You then let out a sigh. “Well, I’ve certainly got a much harder job ahead of me than I anticipated.”

“Perhaps,” Thrawn said. “Perhaps not. As I said before, what I have been told and what I have observed are very different. You may use that to your advantage.”

“How?”

“They will underestimate you.”

It was said so calmly, so matter-of-factly you couldn’t help but be taken aback.

“That implies I am more than what they make of me.”

“You are.”

And there it was again, that unwavering confidence that what he was saying was unquestionably right.

He raised an eyebrow. “Do you doubt me?”

You blinked, pulling yourself back to the moment.

“I believe, you believe your words,” you said. “I can only hope you’re right.”

“Time will tell.”

It was at that moment, your comm buzzed.

“Yes?” you asked.

“I’m sorry Senator,” Cora answered. “But you asked to remind you about your appointment with Governor Lir.”

You frowned, but a quick look out the window told you she was right to do so. The sun was just starting to set, and Governor Lir insisted on meeting before the next round of parties you needed to attend.

“Yes, thank you for reminding me. Please message the Governor to let him know I’ll be a few minutes late.”

Cora offered an acknowledgement before clicking off the comm.

You gave Thrawn an apologetic look. “I’m sorry, I really do have to attend to this.”

“Of course,” Thrawn said, rising from his seat. “I will not keep you from your duties any longer.”

You rose as well. “I only wish you could. You’re certainly more interesting company. Will you be joining in any of the festivities tonight?”

“I do not believe so. Ensign Vanto and I must meet with the high command tomorrow.”

“Of course,” you said, feeling a twinge of regret. It may be some time before you saw him again, if at all, but you pushed it down. You each had your duties.

You met his eye then with a gentle smile. “Thank you for your stories and advice. And, please know you have a friend on Coruscant, should you need one.”

Thrawn gave you an odd look. “Are we friends?”

“We were able to discuss art and politics without feeling compelled to throw things at each other. If that’s not friendship, I don’t know what is,” you said, dryly. “But, if the word is too familiar, could we at least part as allies?”

You offered your hand.

Thrawn hesitated a moment, taking your words into careful consideration.

“I do not believe either term is exactly the right one, but for the sake of simplicity, friend will have to do.”

Your brows furrowed, unsure about what exactly he could mean.

He gave not further explanation as he took a small step forward and took your hand in his. His skin was warm, warmer than you anticipated. He held you hand in an oddly gentle, but firm grip; his palms rough from years of experience and untold battles. It was a strange combination, but not unpleasant.

He held your gaze. You couldn’t even guess what he was thinking, all you knew was that your throat was going dry and your heart was beating rapidly against your chest.

“Until we meet again, Senator,” he said. “I look forward to your career with interest.”

“So do I, Lieutenant,” you managed. “Until then.”

He released your hand, and it was over.

You watched him as he walked out of the room, staring after him even after the door had hissed closed.

You let out a breath, willing your heart to calm to a walking pace. What could he possibly mean by neither friend nor ally?

Without thinking, you flexed the hand he had touched as if to make sure it wasn’t truly burning. Had he felt it too?

Mentally, you shook your head. It didn’t matter. You had no idea if and when you would ever see him again. He would undoubtedly get out of this court marshal and accelerate up the ranks of the Imperial Navy. Meanwhile, you had your duties here on Coruscant. Duties you had to attend to.

You quickly gathered your things, and walked briskly out of your office.

“Excuse me, Senator?” Cora said, her words stopping you in mid-stride.

“Something wrong?” you asked.

“No ma’am. It’s just…” she hesitated as if unsure if she was even allowed to know what she was about to say. “Lieutenant Thrawn asked me to give you a message.”

“Which is?”

“He asked me to remind you he would like a holo copy of the pieces you have commissioned for the reception area. And if it wasn’t an inconvenience, he would be interested in having holo copies of the pieces you have in your office as well.”

You blinked unsure whether to feel flattered or utterly exposed.

“Should I tell him you’re unable to,” Cora asked, tentatively.

“No,” you said, shaking out of your temporary shock. “No, go ahead and collect holo copies of the pieces and send them along. Contact Ensign Vanto of the Imperial Navy, I’m sure he will pass them along.”

Cora gave a look of confusion, but seemed to know better than to question a Senator.

“Yes ma’am. Goodnight.”

You barely gave her a wave of acknowledgment as you walked out the door, the same question reverberating in your mind; friend, ally, or something else?

#thrawn #grand admiral thrawn #thrawn x reader #grand admiral thrawn x reader #star wars #sw rebels #timothy zahn #thrawn x senator

181 notes · View notes

whoareurl · 5 years

Text

Causing Chaos in Pyjamas (6/9)

While Q dozed restlessly, he had fleeting snippets of dreams involving guns and monsters and 007. He tried not to examine the significance of James Bond saving him from ankle-grabbing tentacle monsters in too much detail, especially considering he was technically the damsel in distress in that particular scenario. When he woke up, it was to the man himself securing a bandage around his injured foot, a small first aid kit open at his side with its guts scattered haphazardly around Bond’s knees.

(Bond’s shirt had a small rip on the right side of the chest just below his collarbone and Q had to try very hard not to look at it.)

“You must be really out of it,” Bond noted when he saw Q’s eyes were on him. “You didn’t even flinch when I used the alcohol.”

Q wriggled his toes experimentally, feeling the bandage shifting against his skin. Bond had done a good job but, then again, he was something of a practiced expert in field first aid so perhaps it wasn’t so surprising.

“Thank you, 007,” said Q with all the formality he could muster.

Bond’s smile was soft.

For a moment, Q found it all to easy to forget that they were currently hiding out at the old MI6 emergency base to avoid being captured and...killed? Q hadn’t given it much thought. He wasn’t entirely sure what the hackers wanted with them, exactly. They had their data - or so they thought - so what possible reason could they have for this bizarre pursuit? Q was well and truly baffled; a rare occurrence in and of itself.

“Have to get you some shoes,” Bond muttered, breaking the companionable silence with a concerned glance at Q’s bare and battered feet. “I should have thought of it sooner and then you wouldn’t have had to run through the tube like that. You’ll be lucky if you don’t get an infection.”

Q tried to smile. “I’m up to date on my vaccinations, I assure you.”

Perhaps as some sort of show of solidarity, Bond chuckled amiably and patted Q’s knee. By now, his pyjamas were dirtier than pyjamas ought to be with dirty marks on the knees and a general discolouration around the ankles. They weren’t exactly built for outdoor use.

Glancing around, Q noticed that the base looked very different than it had during their time there. The desks were bare and several were missing. A few stray wires lay scattered across tables and on the floor (Q would have to see about reprimanding whichever of his minions were careless enough to leave them behind) and the room was shrouded in darkness. When he looked up at the ceiling, Q realised that was because only the light on the far side of the room had a working bulb. Typical of MI6, really. Typical of the British government, in all honesty.

Q sighed, a wet, heaving sound that crackled on its way out. He winced immediately at the sound of the obvious thick congestion clogging his poor chest. As he gave his chest a soft rub with the palm of his hand, he caught Bond’s eye.

“Don’t suppose they left the kettle behind, did they?” He asked hopefully.

Bond grinned and sauntered off to the little kitchenette just through one of the doors.

“You’re in luck,” Bond’s voice called, muffled by the walls. He reappeared in the doorway, waving a white plastic kettle which Q suspected was from Argos. Still, if it could heat water, Q didn’t particularly care.

Minutes later, Bond placed a steaming cup into Q’s hands and his chilled fingers sang with the warmth as they curled around the curves. The cup was one of those cups that Q absolutely loathed; it was a cup sporting an inspirational quote in curled lettering which changed colour on a gradient.

Reach for the stars.

If he’d managed to eat anything, Q might have vomited. No doubt this had once belonged to R who was nuts about things like this.

Wistfully, Q thought of Q-Branch, his branch, and the minions who even now were working there tirelessly to keep the country safe. Q had a deep affection for his subordinates, especially the clever ones (like R), and would defend any one of them against whatever threat stood in their path.

He took a sip of his tea.

“Christ,” he sputtered, quickly swallowing the offensive substance Bond had had the nerve to present to him and call tea. “What the hell is this?”

Bond’s face sported a look of self-satisfied mirth. “No Earl Grey, I’m afraid. You’ll have to make do with the cranberry and raspberry stuff I found in the cupboard.”

Q grimaced, shooting a withering scowl in Bond’s direction as he took another sip, this time more prepared for the sickly sweet flavour to his his tongue. It wasn’t what he’d been hoping for but he knew that beggars could not be choosers and right now, on the run with a cold and a smarmy double-oh, Q would definitely classify himself as a beggar.

“Bond, I’m reassigning you,” he muttered grumpily as he swallowed another mouthful. “This is an affront to Queen and Country and it needs to stop.”

While Bond smiled back at him, Q let the steam clear his sinuses. It made his nose run but thankfully it didn’t trigger those horrid itchy sneezes he’d spent most of the morning cursing. There was only so much the steam produced Q’s small cup of tea could do in the face of his aggressive congestion but even the slight relief it granted him from this gruesome headache was welcome. He still felt like there was an entire orchestra in there playing in dissonance, the pressure of the noise making his temples pulse and swell in an effort to contain it, but in the absence of painkiller this would have to do.

“I believe this particular brand is manufactured in the US,” said Bond offhandedly and Q grimaced.

“Even worse,” he muttered and thankfully Bond didn’t comment on the fact that he finished the entire cup anyway.

With the comfortable heat of the tea in his stomach and its residual warmth settling nicely in his chest, Q was starting to feel somewhat better. The breakdown Bond had suggested he save for later didn’t appear to be making a comeback. That was something, he supposed. Handling mental health issues didn’t feature nearly as prominently on MI6’s extensive list of required training for field agents as Q thought it ought to, given their penchant for dragging innocent and frightened civilians into the mix with them. Bond, of course, was particularly guilty of this; he couldn’t resist a pretty face.

The improvement was short lived, however, as Q suddenly found himself shrinking into himself with another wet, rumbling cough. Before he could curl up in a pathetic ball, Bond’s hands were on his shoulders. Bond moved to sit beside him and curled one arm around his waist to keep him upright. Q could only rub uselessly at his chest while Bond did the same to his back, waiting for it to pass.

“You need a doctor,” Bond stated plainly while Q’s lungs tried to clear themselves to no avail. He could barely breathe and Bond’s hand on his back was a welcome comfort. “We need to get you to MI6. You sound like you’ve got the Thames in your lungs.”

When his chest finally stopped spasming, Q gave a hum of agreement. “Not to alarm you, but I fear I might be developing a chest infection,” he said nonchalantly. He didn’t want to put Bond on even higher alert by suggesting that it might - might - be pneumonia. He’d had it twice before and it had certainly felt a lot like this.

The Thames comparison was rather accurate given how little space Q felt had been reserved for air in his crackling, wheezing chest. Really, it was getting to the point where Q could be attacked by a savage rhino and think well, this might as well happen. However, a potential chest infection was hardly worrying him as much as trying to lose their pursuers. Besides, he’d still been able to run even if the experience had left him terribly breathless. Even if it did turn out to be something a little more serious- well, they could deal with it later.

Apparently, Bond didn’t agree with Q’s order of priorities.

“It’ll be no good outsmarting them if you die of dysentery before we can get you somewhere safe,” he grumbled and something about the way he said ‘we’ made Q’s thick chest feel just a little lighter.

“This isn’t the Oregon Trail, Bond. I don’t think dysentery is a typical complication of the common cold,” Q quipped.

Bond grunted. “It’d be much easier if I could take you to a safehouse.”

(Q chose not to point out that Bond had insisted they head for MI6 not moments before.)

“I can do much more good from HQ,” said Q instead with an absent wave of his hand.

“Maybe,” Bond conceded. “But I’m sure your immune system would appreciate some help. Rest might not be a bad idea.”

Q could feel his headache returning. “Bond, I know you mean well, but my agents are in danger because of me,” he said with steel in his tone. “If I can be doing something useful, I can’t justify resting.”

Bond muttered something that Q couldn’t hear but he didn’t ask Bond to repeat himself.

After a beat of silence, Q added, “We should get going.”

Bond shook his head. “Another half hour. Then we’ll go.” He ignored the look Q was giving him (which was incredibly vexing) and continued, “Call it instinct but I’d rather wait a bit longer. Besides, you’re dead on your feet and you’ll be a liability if you can’t even stand.”

Q wanted to protest because he was certain that Bond’s reasons for staying had much more to do with Q’s health than they should have done considering how many agents were currently in danger. But he had to concede that last point. He needed a clear head or he’d end up getting them both caught.

Reluctantly and with all the grace of a downed elephant, Q slumped over on the floor again with Bond’s one-armed suit jacket draped over him. It didn’t do much to stem his brutal shivers but it was a nice gesture nonetheless. It smelled of Bond - all cologne and alcohol and charm. Q couldn’t help but find the familiar smell comforting. Of all the people he could be stuck with in this situation, Bond would definitely have been his first choice. Quite aside from the fact that he was a trained spy with a licence to kill and a poorly-hidden protective streak when it came to his Quartermaster, he was also Q’s favourite double-oh to go toe-to-toe with in a war of wits. Bond could give as good as he got and Q could well appreciate a sharp tongue and a quick mind.

“Stop thinking so loud, Q, or they’ll find us in a heartbeat,” Bond teased.

Never mind. Q would much rather be stuck here with anybody else. He made a half-arsed attempt to flip Bond off and let his mind wander. He tried to think of his meditation CDs with their soft ocean waves and creaking forests. Bond would probably tease him about it if he knew but Q would be quick to tell him that 00-bloody-7 was 90% of the reason he needed them in the first place.

Listen to him, having arguments with James Bond in his own bloody head.

Half an hour passed but it was closer to forty-five minutes before Bond roused him, helping him to his feet and helping Q slip his arms (well...arm) into Bond’s jacket in a way which was almost motherly. Bond’s poorly containing smirk at the sight of Q’s pyjama-clad arm sticking out of the hole where the right arm should be, however, was distinctly reminiscent of a teasing older brother.

Q shot him a withering scowl. “Not one word, 007.”

For once in his life, James Bond said nothing.

#q sickfic #chaosinpjs #acefic #sickfic #acefic 007 #acefic 00q

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mohini-musing · 5 years

Text

A blindness that touches perfection

Chasing Ghosts universe, set not long after Tasha reentered James’ life

Tasha’s reappearance in his life in a lecture hall brought the two halves of his existence into conflict, a Venn diagram melding slowly together - the before and the after stretching out to meet, converge, and the confluence of those two parts of him would either be his undoing or salvation.

Now here they are three weeks into the semester in his living room, hunched over a cheap coffee table and assembling what he can only think of as atomic model tinker toys in preparation for an exam he’ll be happy to scape a pass out of.

Her hand is trembling as she reaches for the little colored baubles, meticulously constructing a representation of the compounds they have to deal with for this unit. Organic chemistry should have come with a warning about this particular endeavor for those lacking in all original parts, James muses, before he registers that the tremor is making it impossible for her to connect the little sphere to the corresponding cylinder.

“Tash?” he asks, voice low enough to be barely heard. The startle his question evokes scatters plastic atomic model pieces all over the carpet, and she curses before looking up at him.

“Dammit.”

The word is more hiss than anything, and he clenches his fist to keep from reaching out to her.

She presses balled up hands hard against her eyes, chest heaving as a gasping breath whistles through gritted teeth.

He wants to grab her, pull her across the space that divides them and hold her close. He wants to ask her what is going on, but he waits. Tasha hits harder than half the guys he fought alongside in the desert. Provoking her is a bad choice in the best of moments and right now it’s a particularly ill advised one. Long seconds pass before she looks up with red, watery eyes.

Her face contorts in what he supposes she intends to be a smile. It’s all teeth and no joy; lips chapped beneath perfectly applied stain. Deeply wired training makes every tiny detail stand out, each small tell seared into his consciousness and igniting instincts he thought he left behind in a home where every door held secrets and every utterance subtext he didn’t care to read.

“I hope you don’t think you’re getting out of telling me what that’s about,” he tells her dryly. Tasha doesn’t go for coddling. Better to be direct and hope for the closest thing to truth. She’s too good a liar to give him the actual thing, but he stands a decent chance at getting a shade of it.

“Give me my bag.”

He obeys, reaching behind him for her small canvas pack. There’s the rattle of a couple different plastic vials within as she rummages and withdraws a hand clutching a brightly labelled bottle. It promises magical fat burning and appetite suppression.

“Tasha,” he begins, his lips moving before his brain engages. No one on the planet needs to lose weight less than the girl in front of him. She’s always been thin, but this new version of his former baby sister is all sharp angles.

“Shut it,” she interrupts.

Spindly fingers dig a couple beige capsules from the bottle and she knocks them back without so much as a glance at him. Her throat works a couple times to get them down before she shakes her head one quick jerk and drops the bottle back into the depths of her bag.

She doesn’t look up when she speaks.

“It’s not like it’s cocaine.”

He doesn’t know why he still has her micro-expressions embedded in his brain, but right now it’s immensely helpful. She’s biting at the center of her lips, but the set of her forehead tells him it’s not nervousness. It’s searching for a believable lie.

“And we both know how safe you are with that,” James shoots back when the silence stretches a little too long.

“I’m not a fucking child.” The petulant look she gives him almost makes him regret the words. Almost.

“You never were. What’s up with the not cocaine, then?”

“Hangover,” she mutters.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“I have a fucking hangover. I don’t have time for a fucking hangover, so I’m drugging up and moving on. I presume you’re familiar with the concept?”

Now that he looks closely, her eyes are a little bit on the glassy side. He’s wired to think of her as perpetually a little bit buzzed, though, so it hadn’t been noticeable as anything worthy of further study. He doesn’t know where he stands, what the boundaries are right now. Years ago, he knew her as well as he knew himself. Now she’s as good as a stranger, while also being absolutely his baby sister.

“You have a hangover, which means you’re dehydrated, and you’re popping amphetamines?”

“Thanks, Captain Obvious, for that astute contribution,” she snarks back.

He resists the urge to snap at her, to tell her she’s being an idiot. Instead, he heads to the fridge, grabs a bottle of Gatorade, and passes it to her. She takes it without a sound, twisting off the orange lid and downing most of the contents in a few long draughts.

“Why do you have a hangover on a Tuesday night?” he asks her. Even as the words pass his lips, he sees the problem. She’s going to hear accusation, and she’s bound to shut down hard. He hears the word on a ghost of a memory – incoming.

It’s not a projectile heading his way or a kid with a gun bigger than his arms. But it’s no less hard to witness. Tasha’s face transforms into marble, cold, hard, empty.

“I don’t have to answer that.” The words hold no inflection but they are true. She doesn’t. She has no obligation to him or anyone else to explain the hows and whys of what she does to her body. It doesn’t stop him wanting her to offer them, but it does keep his lips closed and the rest of the questions unasked.

Are you drinking every day? How much? Are you sleeping? Well? Food? Are you safe? – All the things he wants to know and can’t badger her with. Pushing too hard is a recipe for being shut out entirely. Failing to push tells her he doesn’t give a fuck. Tasha’s an expert at subtext, skilled enough that she can find it where it doesn’t exist. Every time.

“Point,” he says instead, before kneeling at the floor and gathering the model components and placing them back in front of her. It’s message enough that he’s heard her, that he’s giving her space to say what she’s ready for, and to keep her silence if she isn’t. He’ll keep the electrolyte drinks coming, stick a bottle of Motrin on the counter, and wait until she’s ready to explain. Patience has never been his virtue, but tactical planning – that’s a thing he knows well. Tasha is often best approached as a mission with unclear parameters. He has plenty of experience with those.

They’ve put together a half dozen more compounds when she stands, walking with long strides down the hall and hitting the rug before the toilet with a soft thump of knees on shaggy discount store fluff. He hears her cough a few times before the Gatorade makes its reappearance. Going to her and rubbing her back, holding her curls, offering comfort, all of those options filter through his mind and are discarded. He was on her path from the room. If she wanted him, she would have grabbed his hand and pulled him along. It was always her way as a child and so little else has changed he can’t imagine that has either.

The toilet flushes a third time before stumbling footsteps announce her return. Her face is a sickly grey, a vague flush beneath prominent cheekbones. He pats the space next to him and she drops into it, knees drawn to her chest as she slips sideways against what is now only some of an arm. A moment of alarm as he wonders if she’s going to be upset by the prosthetic. She doesn’t stare at the glove on his hand the way most people do, but that’s a far cry from cuddling metal and silicone.

A tiny sniffle pulls him from his insecurities. Tasha doesn’t do tears. Except she’s going to now. She plops her head onto his shoulder and he reacts on instinct, curling her into his body and wrapping his arms around in the embrace they knew as kids. She’s boneless, her trembling form going where he guides as he holds on for all he’s worth. She’s not crying, exactly. More like leaking saltwater from clenched eyelids while her breath forces warmth through the fabric of his shirt in shallow gasps. Regardless, he begins the litany he learned in another world.

“Just breathe,” he tells her. It’s all the comfort she’s ever allowed. He could tell her she’s not alone, that she’s safe, that he’s got her, but none of those have ever helped. Simple orders, direct but gentle, those are the way to go when Tasha needs whatever it is she needs right now.

“I have a new caseworker,” she whispers when her body has stilled. “She called me darlin.”

They’ve never really discussed specifics of what happened to Tash before she turned up in the group care home. James does know that there are words, phrases, snippets of everyday life that send her hurtling back to places she’ll do terrible things to herself to stop seeing.

“How long?”

“First visit was yesterday morning,” she murmurs. “I started drinking when she left.”

James doesn’t need to ask how much she had. He can’t smell alcohol on her so she must have had little enough to not leach it through her pores. That doesn’t rule out an exceptional amount consumed, but it does mean that it’s not a habit, not in a way that he needs to worry for her safety. He’s no idiot. Tasha needs her vices the way other people need oxygen. For now, he can trust that she’s hungover on a Tuesday evening but that she’s safe enough in her skin.

#chasing ghosts universe #natasha romanoff #james barnes #AU - foster care siblings #amputee bucky barnes #veteran bucky barnes #emeto #alcohol #hurt/comfort

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jaqucssx · 5 years

Text

⚜ — Have you seen (JACQUELINE AINSWORTH) around New York? They look a lot like (KATIE MCGRATH) but i don’t think they’ve even realized it! Some people say they are (OBSERVANT AND INTELLIGENT) and (IMPRUDENT AND ALOOF) but all we know for sure is they are (THIRTY-TWO), (CIS FEMALE, HOMOSEXUAL) and work as a (SPECIAL AGENT). I guess only time will tell but for now we’ll just call them the (CATACLYSMIC).

TW: death, violence, mentions of serial killers, mentions of mental health, alcohol

⚜ — If anyone would rather skip the lengthy background, scroll down until you find the Barricade section - that's strictly Jaques's personality and little facts about her !!

Blink

Am I just a creation of my upbringing? My monstrosity but a trait, the blood permeating my veins but poison. My lungs were bound to rotten with my first intake of air. Or am I the apple that fell far from the tree? The abnormality none dares talk of, a grim shadow lying in wait. Sunk in debauchery, afloat in a sea of destruction. The whys and hows matter little, in this narrative. No use delving deep into psychology, or theories. I am what I am, no lamentable excuses or justifications will change that.

Jacqueline Ainsworth understands enough of human nature to perceive her morals; nor black nor white, but shades of grey. Most are darker than others, more prominent. Some are hardly noticeable, but the danger is still unmistakable. In hindsight, it should be said her morals are questionable, simply put. Menace is part of Jaques’s nature; it’s in her blood, her instinct. She is an Ainsworth, after all, and destroying people is what they do best. (Or so is what she has been told in clarity by an angry mob, over and over and over again - until her name was forgotten, until Jaques was buried in their hatred and there was nothing left of the girl but a silhouette and the taste of dirt in her mouth)

Jaques remembers, if faintly - bitterly - of a time when her family’s name was not shared in hushed whispers, disdain tones, and sharp glares.

A time when the Ainsworth’s were Britain’s finest. Her parents were widely respected lawyers, their smiles kind and warm - full of love. Their only daughter - if a tad strange, was known to be well mannered, wearing the prettiest fake smile when needed. She hardly spoke to anyone besides her parents and the occasional school colleagues, but she could often be found trailing after her father in his office, or in her mother’s arm during boring functions. The perfect picture of prim and proper, the Ainsworth family were loved by neighbors and clients alike, not a single bad word on the tongues of those who met the family.

But on occasion, one finds oneself immersed in dark waters; trouble.

Sat in the back of an ambulance, the police lights bright and vibrant amidst the darkness, Jaques hardly paid mind to her mother’s yells, which were daring to disturb the ghostly silence plaguing the night. Her attention was solely on her father, his calm eyes staring at her through the car window. Now, Jaques vividly remembers of the strangeness creating roots in her lungs at the sight of her father in the back of a police car, officer and agents crowding their house and invading their space.

Your father killed a bunch of people, the agent with kind eyes had informed her, and Jaques noticed how she struggled to speak the words - had to force each syllable and consonant out, her brain surely wondering how to best tell a girl her beloved father was a serial killer. And as her blood continued to stain the blanket wrapped around her shoulders, her mother’s cries pierced the night, and her father’s eyes never showing any sign of emotions - Jaques knew, if she was in the agent shoes, she would be struggling too.

Breathe

Jacqueline Alexandria Ainsworth was thrown to the wolves, then. Shoved into the spotlight with little guidance. They devoured her, tearing into her with their bare fangs, trying to find similarities between her and her father. The same striking green eyes carry madness in them, people would comment.

Jaques was only fifteen, then, and the weight of her father’s sins left red angry marks on her shoulders. Her nervousness was apparent by how she carried herself, how she would often hide and avoid outings. It was all there – the fear, anxiety, doubts, and darkness. She pushed it deep into the base of her spine, a place so dark it would unable to flourish under the sunlight. It threatened to rise, to shoot up her veins and consume her – But every time Jaques could taste it, she would swallow it back through the knots in her throat.

I am not my father, Jaques would say, over and over again - to police officers during questionings; to journalists inquiring about her affairs; to herself when the demons in her mind were speaking too loud for her sleep; would murmur it when asleep, tossing and turning while her mind was lost to nightmares.

And, truthfully, Jaques is not her father. She didn’t need to convince herself of it - even if her hands still shake and she can see nothing but ghosts in the mirrors, at times. Her morals might be questionable, but that has little to do with the sins of the father, and more with her completely clueless of humanity and what is socially acceptable. Space child, her mother used to call her, slowly learning our customs.

The space child grew into an oddity - replacing her ballet classes for fighting; shoving her piano to the side of her room, filling the empty space with books and red threads. Friends became fewer and fewer - as if they hadn’t already abandoned her when the news of her father broke out - And Jaques shaped herself into something capable of good; a linguist, an author, a doctor. Options which were all dancing on her mind, but every time she closed her eyes, Jaques could see her father’s sharp smile, the monster underneath. It took so long for her to notice, but she couldn’t unsee it once it was brought to light. You must watch the details, her father had told her once, for the secrets lies with them.

Jaques had always been an observant person, gifted, and when she found out what to look for, she didn’t want to stop looking - exploring.

You are too smart for your own good, she had been told at the academy, at college, by the occasional people she struck a conversation with - And your curiosity will get you killed, her father had warned during her rare visits, amusement in his smile.

You are far too young to die.

But the seed had been planted, and Jaques found herself following down a path she could hardly return from.

None would guess the child of a monster would grow into a skilled criminal investigator. Perks of living with a serial killer all your life, Jaques had dared joke, when inquired how she was so good at what she did.

No one laughed. And the curtains fell.

She was contacted by the secret intelligence fairly young, defying expectations and solving complicated cases, barely flinching when seeing a crime scene. She would much prefer to stay with her papers and boards, but Jaques would more often than not be sent to the field, to investigate the pieces of evidence, create a scenario - find a killer.

She had a gift, she was skilled - You can think like one, you can get inside their head, her superior would say - but the brutality of it all took a toll on her. You can’t leave this life unscathed, she had heard - and Jaques couldn’t decide if they meant the job, her father, or both.

You had no right to play God, she had told her father and plenty killers, the bitter taste of sadness and anger never leaving her mouth.

She had watched colleagues and victims die, had saved lives, and put some behind bars. Her body was marred by scars and stories, bruises she would find herself poking and disturbing. After a particularly rough case, Jaques could not get something out of her mind - You are my child, her father had once said, his tone laced with a possessiveness she never heard before.

You are not your father’s, her mother had once said, holding a damp Jaques after a particularly bad nightmare - you do not share his genes. You can’t become him. And despite the blurriness of her mind, Jaques understood. She understood when her mother told her about Martyr, the next day, and the story of how she met Jaques step-father when she was pregnant - how he knew, and made her his own daughter.

She knew, and she avoided the fact for fifteen years, but after a bad case -

She had nearly died, and she would have gone without knowing him - and him without knowing her. With her mind words apart, Jaques was advised to take a break from the job, was sent to New York by her superior, in the excuse of - Find your damn father and quench the questions in your mind, then do your goddamn job right.

She has yet to unpack her bags - But Jaques hopes that with time, she feels less on edge.

Backfire

Jaques Ainsworth is an oddity and an enigma - an unsolved problem and a puzzle missing its key pieces. Not intentionally, mind you - but as Jaques will say if inquire, my brain works in its own frequency. Her intelligence has never been questioned, it had been painfully obvious Jaques had a mind like no other - one perhaps that work on its own terms - but brilliant, nonetheless. A young genius, she had been called by teachers - who proceed to ignore her ADHD and offered little to no guidance on how to coexist with her brain.

Intelligence hardly means substance, however - And in Jaques’s case, that too is painfully obvious.

The girl is smart, smart beyond what would appear at first glance - if the cheerfully pink flamingo shorts she occasionally wears are of any indication - but her personality surely leaves to be desired.

Her social skills are very limited. Jaques hates socializing, and the unspoken rules of life in society. She can hold a conversation, of course, but Jaques would much prefer not. She is fond of her silence, and her thoughts - even if those often threaten to drown her in the tempest that is inside her mind. She can come off as cold, sarcastic, annoyed - naive, even - unintentionally.

People are complicated, she would say, fingertips tentatively tapping the keyboards of her piano, head close enough to feel the vibrations, you can't pick them apart and put them back together - can't know what they are thinking.

Jaques had a gift for reading people, yes, but her own thoughts and assumptions were unreliable, made only by watching and guessing. She could not understand people - no matter how much the eyes can tell - and for a girl who only understood facts and certainties, patterns - the not knowing could be terrifying, as if she is navigating in the darks and sharks are biting the edges of her boat.

Her own extravagances and quirks would keep people away, too. Her own extravagances and quirks would keep people away, too. Despite her quietness, when faced with stimulation - ideas and theories and passion - Jaques can babble and stumble upon her own words, talking until her lungs run out of air. But if idea stroke in the middle of a conversation, Jaques has no problem in simply leaving - no matter who is speaking or what is being said. Her silence, too, can be deafening, and Jaques often came off as uninterested. She had always been lost in her own world.

Social skills aside, Jaques is sensitive - she can’t deal with certain things; if a light is bright, it will surely give her a headache; she often flinches and jumps at noises, her ears hurting; she feels anxious in crowds, and generally does not appreciate eye contact; she tenses when someone touches her more often than not.

Jaques is not an easy person to deal with, but she tries - tries to be social, or, at times, make herself as small and unnoticeable as possible.

Jaques's problem is that she feels too much; fears, anxiety, empathy, darkness, curiosity - A turmoil of emotions and thoughts - All destroying her, and leaving her breathless and shaken. Diagnosed with anxiety at a young age, Jaques had little guidance in that department as well.

Her thoughts would often consume her, and for that reason, Jaques has always been labeled as unstable - unpredictable. You can read the mind of a serial killer, and people fear you might slip - physiatrists would tell her, and she hated their analysis. But, despite fear, it was well known Jaques wouldn't slip - no matter how deep her understanding and knowledge of sociopaths would go, the girl was far caring - and thankfully, not in that particular spectrum.

Still, her thoughts and emotions could be overwhelming, and Jaques often questions her sanity, and feels - at times - like she is losing her grip on it. Perhaps because of the cases, mixed with traumas and her PTSD - or perhaps because she was not raised to know how to deal with her emotions - but Jaques, despite the bitterness and hatred against people analyzing her mind, has frequent therapy sessions.

Her nightmares, however, will not leave her - and Jaques often finds herself waking up drenched in sweat, the images of a bad dream still lingering in the back of her eyes.

Little facts about her;

Jaques can be charming and fun, she just don’t see the point in doing that.

Is a ballet dancer - or, was. She still dances when she needs to unwind - Dancing until her legs collapse and her lungs ache.

Knows how to play the piano, and that's something she does very often.

Can draw, and carries a sketchbook everywhere.

If life had been different, Jaques would’ve been an artist.

She does hook-ups and has tried her hand at relationship, but work would always get in the way.

Jaques know languages - she was on her way to becoming a linguist when she became obsessed with solving crimes.

She can fight, and often trains to let the steam off - but she much prefers not to.

She is a special case agent, not officially or formally, but people know Jaques can crack complicated serial killer cases like no other.

So she has seen some shit.

Is actually really chill and friendly when you get to know her - in her own way.

Does not talk about her father, although she can crack some jokes about it.

My father was a killer, is not a fun party joke, however - so she hardly mentions the fact, unless if it’s necessary.

Her family is known and so is Jaques. Because of her father, because of her mother's job - a lawyer that could put even the hardest to catch criminal in jail - and because of her own cases.

Drinks coffee like water.

Drinks alcohol a lot, although she can never smoke. She hates the taste.

Her house is full of books, piling on the floor and bookshelves.

Jaques is messy, especially when she is solving a case. Any surface will be full of papers and empty cups of coffee.

Doesn't sleep often - not because she doesn't want to, but because she often forgets.

Can go from wearing only black suits to wearing a floral shirt and pink shorts.

Jaques was torn when she found out about her father - But she is determined to find the man now and tell him the truth.

If only because she can’t stand the thought of not knowing something.

She is terrified, however.

This girl, despite being a genius, is a complete idiot and don't let her fool you. Can't tell you what day of the week it is and will often trip and bump into doors.

Love dogs and has one, as well as a cat.

Is always touching things and she can't stand still.

Is probably married - I haven’t decided yet rip.

#lydintro

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philipronans · 5 years

Text

for all the ghosts that are never gonna catch me

happy (late) halloween, and happy first day of nano! no one’s gonna care that i have an update for this fic, but i do and here have it i’m tired of looking at it

Necromancy, all things considered, isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Sure, sometimes you get to do the exciting stuff, like talking to the dead, or sitting in musty old basements waiting for the souls of the damned to visit. But most of the time it’s a hell of a lot more boring than that. Stumbling through a graveyard at the ass crack of dawn, looking for one particular headstone, level boring. At least Koutarou didn’t choose a public cemetery, this time. Trying to explain to grieving members of the public that seances are neither illegal, or dangerous is a mistake Tetsurou has sworn to make only once. A glance at his phone tells him they’ve only been here for ten minutes, at most, and that includes the circus that was getting out of Koutarou’s rust bucket of a car, but he already wants to go home. Not that that’s a surprise, necessarily, given that he’d wanted to go back to bed moments after he’d clipped himself into Koutarou’s rust bucket of a car. But Akaashi had levelled him with one of his looks, and any argument he might have had had shrivelled to dust on his tongue.

So now here he is, freezing his ass off as he watches Koutarou prance about ahead of him, his hair virtually glowing in the moonlight as he flits between the headstones. Tetsurou watches him, hands shoved as far as he can physically get them in his jacket pockets in a futile attempt of fighting off the chill. The dead have no need, and therefore no care, for warm clothing though, and he feels the hair on his arms rise as a breeze winds its way between his legs and kicks up dust and leaves off the floor. Akaashi appears beside him, and if Tetsurou didn’t know any better he would strongly suspect magic. But he does know better, that it’s just one of Akaashi’s many talents, and that it scares the shit out of him, like always. He makes a startled sound, sees the pleased smile Akaashi tries to hind behind the scarf he’s tucked his chin into, and Tetsurou shakes his head. The light of his phone makes the circles under Akaashi’s eyes even more prominent, and Tetsurou tries to ignore the stab of guilt. “You think he’d notice if we just… left?” He asks, rolling his head to look at Akaashi properly. “Eventually.” Akaashi says mildly. He bites back a yawn, muffled slightly by the scarf, but his eyes remain amused. “He’d only pester us about it even more.” “Point.” Tetsurou concedes with a shrug. He curls his fingers in the lining of his jacket. “Okay. The sooner we get this started, the sooner we can go home.” Akaashi hums, pats him on the shoulder, and then wanders off. There’s a fork in the path ahead of them, so he branches left as he fishes his phone from his pocket and uses the dim light to read the names. Tetsurou makes a show of bending to look at a few of the graves, although in the dark the names are nothing more than grey blurs. “Oi!” He calls, ignoring the way his knees crack as he stands back up, and grinning at the way Koutarou’s head swivels to look at him. “Remember who we’re looking for, yeah?” “I know.” Koutarou’s voice is nearing on a whine as he stomps off again, pointedly shrugging further into his jacket when Tetsurou laughs at him. The quiet that settles around them would have been eerie as a kid. As it is, Tetsurou’s spent his fair share of time amongst ghosts, and their attempts at unsettling him don’t work. By the way Koutarou keeps glancing over his shoulder, the same cannot be said for him, however. Tetsurou is about to tease him about it, has his mouth open and everything, when Akaashi calls them over. It comes as no real shock that Akaashi is the one to find what they’re looking for, more because he’s actually looking for it, rather than the fact he spends more time hanging out in graveyards than any self-respecting person probably should, present predicament notwithstanding. “This is the one, right?” He asks when Tetsurou is close enough to barely make out the engraving. He runs his fingers over the stone, and nods. “This is him.” “Huh.” Koutarou says, having finally made his way over to them. He hooks his chin over Tetsurou’s shoulder, hair scratching against Tetsurou’s cheek as he shifts his weight. “I don’t think I ever met him.” Tetsurou gives Akaashi a flat look, winking when his lips twitch ever so slightly upwards. “Your family is big enough to populate a small country.” He jostles his shoulders until he’s a little more comfortable. “Not exactly surprising, is it?” Doing the best he can with the angle he’s got, Koutarou elbows him in the back. There’s enough force that it sends them both stumbling forwards, Koutarou’s arms instantly latching around Tetsurou’s waist in an effort to keep them both standing. They share a beat of silence before they both start cackling at each other. Akaashi ducks the lower half of his face inside his scarf again, but Tetsurou sees the grin before he can fully hide it. “Maybe we should go inside?” “An excellent idea.” Tetsurou says, shrugging Koutarou off and jerking his head towards the urn nestled underneath the engraved name. “The honour’s all yours.” “Thanks.” Koutarou says dryly, hands suddenly very gentle as he delicately picks the urn up and tucks it against his chest. “Now, c’mon! Ghost hunting!” “That’s not-” Tetsurou begins, knowing it’s pointless to argue but unable to help himself from trying. Koutarou shows know sign of acknowledging him, humming under his breath as he wanders off, and Tetsurou sighs. Akaashi passes him, offering him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder as he goes. “Come on.” He says, glancing over his shoulder. “It’ll be over soon.” _____ The Bokuto residence is a large, sprawling plot of land deep in the heart of Tokyo, seemingly at odds with the modern city that surrounds it. Not that that bothers Tetsurou; this place has been home to him for almost as long as he can remember, and there’s an easy familiarity in the way he walks back to the house. The gardens are invariably warmer the closer they get to the main building, the smell of the well-kept flowerbeds helping him relax. They find the back door already open when they reach it, which would worry Tetsurou a lot more if he weren’t aware of the number of wards surrounding the entire building. Being this far away from the bedrooms means they don’t have to worry about being quiet, but they still tread carefully anyway, deftly avoiding any creaky floorboards. Koutarou leads the charge, his movements so light that it almost looks like he’s dancing down the hall. The door he stops in front of is closed, and Tetsurou sees his fingers pause just above the doorknob for the briefest of moments, before his shoulders slump and he steps inside. Tetsurou shuts the back door behind him, sliding the deadbolt into place and kicks his shoes off. He takes a moment to straighten them neatly against the wall, tutting at the way Koutarou’s have been left wherever they landed when he took them off. He glances up to find Akaashi watching him from down the hall, and shrugs. The doorjamb, when he reaches it, is covered in runes; ‘protection’ and ‘containment’ are carved the deepest. The look Koutarou is giving him is sheepish, and Tetsurou grins. “Let’s hope they’re friendly this time, yeah?” He asks, just to watch Koutarou squirm a little. The table Koutarou is sitting at somewhat ruins the effect, but Tetsurou will take what he can get at this point. “How was I meant to know?” Koutarou says, crossing his arms across his chest. “I didn’t ask them to try and possess me.” “They did a little more than ‘try’, Bokuto.” Akaashi points out, voice wry. He fiddles with the cuff of his sleeve so he doesn’t have to meet Koutarou’s eye. “Musta known about all that empty space between your ears.” Tetsurou teases, poking Koutarou in the temple as he moves across the room and settles himself on the floor. He grumbles when Koutarou swats at him in retaliation, reaching out to gently place a hand on the urn in the centre of the table. The ring on his middle finger clinks against the ceramic, and he sees Koutarou pull a face. “This time’ll be different.” Koutarou says confidently, nodding at Tetsurou’s hand. “If you say so.” Tetsurou mutters, shifting his weight and then settling back down. “Now shush, I need to concentrate.” Koutarou pretends to scowl at him, fingers tapping against the table for a moment, before he mimes locking his mouth shut and throwing away the key. Akaashi, now divested of his scarf, instead hides his smile behind his hand and winks so quickly at Tetsurou, he’s half sure he imagined it. There is no ceremony to what Tetsurou does. Sometimes, when other people are watching him, he wishes there were something… more to this. But as it is, all he actually has to do is leave one hand on the urn, the other falling to rest in his lap. He takes several deep breaths, and then closes his eyes. ____ Tetsurou is in darkness. Fully and totally emerged in it with no obvious way out. It wouldn’t be so bad if it were the nice kind that accompany pleasant dreams, but it’s not. It’s oppressive in its complete blackness, anchoring him here in a way that begins to feel more permanent the longer he’s here. He’s had it drilled into his head for as long as he can remember that this is a place to be respected and feared in equal measure, and to refer to it by its name at all times. Personally, Tetsurou thinks this place sucks, and actively avoids coming here as much as he can. Which usually means he can get away with calling it The Void instead of The Astral Plane. Usually. It’s always a gamble, coming here. He's never met Bokuto Kaito, which isn’t a huge problem by any means, but it will make finding him a little more difficult. Trekking through a plane of existence that by all accounts isn’t even technically real, can be tough even when you do know where you’re going. He’s only been here for two minutes, if that, and he can already feel exhaustion creeping up on him, ready to trap him the moment he lets his guard down. “Here goes.” He mutters, slowing his breathing until he’s barely inhaling at all. He doesn’t really need to breathe at all here, but the last time he’d tried not to, he’d sent himself into a panic attack. It’s better if he keeps up pretences. He feels his fingers brush against the urn in the living world, and waits for what seems like an eternity for the responding tug in this one. It’s a tiny part of conscious that feels it, that knows exactly where he needs to go, and that’s great. It just doesn’t help him actually get there. So, he starts walking. At least, he thinks he does. It’s hard to tell the difference between what’s real and what’s not here, and it always leaves his head spinning. He prefers not to think about it. Much like everything else here, time passes strangely. What feels like seconds can be an hour, and vice versa. Tetsurou has long since given up on pointing out how nonsensical this place is. Mostly because you can only shout into an empty void for so long before it starts eating at you. That isn’t to say he stays quiet, though. The one habit he’s never quite been able to break, despite the reprimands and the constant scolding, is talking to himself. Those who come here, at least, the people like him, have an anchor – something to remind them of what is real, and what isn’t. It’s not Tetsurou’s fault if his just so happens to be his own voice. “Uh… Bokuto-san? You here?” Tetsurou calls out into the darkness. His voice is hollow, almost reedy, and it sends a chill up his spine. Move faster. “My name is Kuroo Tetsurou, I’m a friend of the family. I know you don’t know me, but I was wondering if I could maybe talk to you?” Tetsurou frowns at himself. Smooth. He’s never really been good at this part; never quite managed to get over the whole ‘talking to the dead’ thing. “You’re buried at the main house, which means you’re important to Matsuko. She’s basically my grandma, if that helps convince you.” He breaks off with a nervous cough. “Anyway, I promised Koutarou a séance, so you would really be helping me out.” “Talking to yourself again?” A voice murmurs into his ear, and Tetsurou absolutely does not scream. He doesn’t. “Jesus Christ.” He squeezes his eyes shut, and clutches at his chest as he waits for the pounding in his ears to slow down. He doesn’t have a heart here, but that doesn’t actually seem to matter, given the adrenaline hammering through his veins. “Not the name I usually go by.” The voice says again, and although Tetsurou can’t see it, he can hear a smile. “Kenma.” He huffs, cracking an eye open so he can squint at the man in question. Kozume Kenma stands to his right, hands hooked into the back pockets of his jeans as he rocks on his heels. Recently bleached hair, and Tetsurou knows that’s true because he can smell it, swings into his face. He reaches up to tuck what he can behind his ear. “Yo.” He says, glancing over at Tetsurou. His eyebrows are nearing his hairline and he’s still smiling. “‘Yo’?” Tetsurou repeats incredulously. “What the fuck are you doing here?” “Nightly walk.” Kenma says, taking a few slow steps forward to demonstrate. He tilts his head curiously. “You?” “Why do you think?” Tetsurou says, rubbing at his chest as he follows Kenma through the darkness. “Koutarou wanted to go ‘ghost hunting’.” Kenma makes a small noise, pushing at his hair again when it flops back down into his eyes. He’s solid here in a way Tetsurou has never been; almost as if he belongs in this place, instead of just being a visitor. Tetsurou glances down at his own hands, at the way they seem to flicker between realities, and then back up at Kenma. “You don’t want to?” Kenma guesses, spinning on his heel so he can still gage Tetsurou’s reaction even as they continue to walk. “Oh you know me.” Tetsurou says with a tired smile. “Can’t get enough.” Kenma is quiet for a little while. He murmurs to himself a couple of times, but Tetsurou knows that asking is pointless, so he doesn’t bother. He’ll get his answers eventually. The silence that settles around them is almost uncomfortable in how absolute it is, so Tetsurou focuses on putting one flickering foot in front of the other. “I have an idea.” Kenma says eventually, when the quiet is beginning to scratch at Tetsurou’s senses. Tetsurou sees the glint in his eye, the promise of trouble hidden behind the careful indifference, and grins. “We fuck with Koutarou?” The nod Kenma gives him is the best answer he could ever hope to get. _______ “Good evening, gentleman.” Tetsurou says, carefully biting down the smile threatening to ruin this whole thing before it even gets a chance to take off. He watches Akaashi carefully, takes in the way his eyes lift from the book he has open in his lap and shoot straight to his face. He tries to keep his face as neutral as he can, tries to be convincing in his neutrality. It’s not Koutarou he has to worry about ruining things, his excitement will hold the illusion all on its own without Tetsurou’s help. But Akaashi’s role in this whole idea had been long suffering, at best. “I hope I haven’t kept you waiting long. Your friend had some trouble finding me.” “Not long at all!” Koutarou says, leaning forwards across the corner of the table so he’s inches away from Tetsurou, and it takes all of Tetsurou’s control not to involuntarily flinch back. His focus is mostly here, in the living realm, but he is still vaguely aware of Kenma’s presence. Being torn between two planes of existence is… strange. Not unpleasant, exactly. But it’s weird enough to make him feel mildly queasy. “Relax.” Kenma says, voice barely more than a whisper, even though there’s no danger of them hearing him. He slides his hand over Tetsurou’s shoulder, squeezes gently, before reaching up to rest his fingers against the pulse point in Tetsurou’s neck. “Relax.” It’s weird how effective that one word is, how it settles into his bones and makes him feel more at ease. He knows the charade won’t last very long, that either he’ll give himself away, or they’ll catch him out, but it doesn’t seem to matter much. “And you?” Tetsurou asks, switching his attention back to Akaashi. “Did I leave you waiting too long?” “No,” Akaashi says slowly, eyes flitting between Koutarou’s excited grin and Tetsurou’s face. “I’m fine.” “I’m glad.” He knows he’s eventually going to have to speak in actual sentences, but the longer he can put it off, the better. “So, what is it you wish to know?” “How did you die?” Koutarou asks immediately, looking vaguely like the passion behind it surprised even him. Tetsurou frowns deliberately. “We’ve only just met, and that’s what you want to know?” Koutarou looks appropriately chastised, and falls silent for a few seconds. “I’m sorry, that was rude. I’m Koutarou, what’s your name?” “You picked my urn up,” Tetsurou says, tinkling his ring against the urn in question when he wiggles his fingers, “and you don’t even know my name?” “I was just trying to be friendly.” Koutarou grumbles, and Tetsurou has to duck his chin to try and fight the smile. “Um, what did you do for a living, when you were… alive.” He finishes weakly, wincing at his own choice of words. “I was a businessman, down in Osaka.” Tetsurou says, knowing the lie is likely going to be caught by Akaashi at the very least. He sees the moment Akaashi realises what’s going on, and turns his head in the hope Koutarou won’t see him wink. To his relief, Akaashi nods, a small, minute thing that would have been unperceivable had he not been staring at him so intently. Koutarou nods, before he freezes. The beginning of a frown creases his brow. “We don’t have family in Osaka.” “Ah,” Tetsurou says. He hears Kenma snigger in his ear, and tries to swat at him, but with his concentration so fragmented, he isn’t sure it works. “I was kicked outta the family.” “Then why are you buried in the family plot?” Koutarou asks. “And why do you have a Tokyo accent, Kaito-san?” “In my defence,” Tetsurou says, dropping the act, and grinning at Koutarou, “I was trying to find him.” “But?” There’s no trace of anger or annoyance in Koutarou’s voice, and Tetsurou isn’t entirely sure why that surprises him as much as it does. “You get bored on the way?” “I met Kenma.” Tetsurou uses the hand Kenma already has on his neck to pull him into the room. Or rather, he pulls a shadowy imitation of Kenma into the room, almost as if they’re seeing him through a murky window. “Hi.” Kenma says, the sound echoing in Tetsurou’s ears from both versions of his friend. He disappears mere seconds later, the force of it snapping Tetsurou fully back into his own body, and for once the experience doesn't leave him with a headache, at the very least. “That explains some things.” Akaashi closes the book and places it on the table. There’s something about the way he says it that makes Tetsurou tilt his head. “You knew straight away, didn’t you?” “You did a good job of pretending.” Akaashi says, scratching idly at his chin. “But your voice was different.” “You are… eerily perceptive, you know that?” Akaashi merely smiles in response and pushes himself onto his knees in an effort to stand up. “If we’re finished, I’m hungry.” Koutarou announces, stretching his arms above his head and sighing in satisfaction when numerous bones crack. “You sure you don’t want me to actually find him?” Tetsurou asks, watching Koutarou’s flailing limbs warily. “I can, if you want me to.” “Nah, it’s okay. I kinda want food, anyway.” He gets to his feet, pulling at his jeans until they fall back into place. “And I should start heading home.” Akaashi interjects, stamping his feet on the ground a few times in an effort to get his blood flowing again. “I’ll drop you off, I know you’ve got the early shift.” Koutarou says as he turns to Tetsurou and offers him a hand. His arm goes taut as he takes the weight, and when they’re standing side by side, he slings that arm over Tetsurou’s shoulders. “Food?” “Sure.”

#kuroo tetsurou #kōtarō bokuto #bokuaka #kurotsuki #haikyuu fic #vic writes #otp: once in a blue moon #apotelesma

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richietozierluv · 6 years

Text

it was final - (richie tozier) part 3 of 5

part 1 / part 2 / part 4 / part 5

Pairing: Richie Tozier x Reader / Eddie x Reader? kinda

Summary: Apparently, after everything you and your friends had been through, it wasn’t enough. Now you were alone in Derry, and the very thing you thought had an ending, was coming back.

Author’s Note: this is kinda in eddie’s pov but i thought that would help considering richie and the reader aren’t in the same place also i hope someone out there is proud because i persevered even with writer’s block

Word Count: 1,967

Warnings: Swearing

When you had first become friends with Eddie, you would spend every waking moment with him. Even on a far too rainy day, you’d talk to him for hours on the home phone, much to the displeasure of both of your mothers (and Richie).

“Eddie dear, do you know how many germs there are on a telephone? Eddie? There’s more germs than on the seat of a toilet!”

“Y/n, you’re racking up the phone bill! Can’t you stop talking to your friends for one minute?”

In fact, he had been the one to introduce the idea of sneaking into your bedroom, and was the main reason you were terrified of the dark. On one particularly boring Thursday when the phone lines had been cut due to a storm, the tapping on your window had you almost pissing your pants. You thought it was the neighbour’s cat again, trying to paw at a moth, but you became doubly frightened when the curtains opened to show a very much human face rather than a cat’s.

“Eds, what the hell are you doing? My mom is literally in the other room,” you whispered, as you slid open the window to invite him in. If anyone else had called him ‘Eds’ he’d be scowling and throwing fake punches, although whenever you did, his stomach felt sick, but in a good way. The only downside to this, was that Richie had caught on too, and had tried sneaking in a few ‘Eds’ here and there himself. He was met with a, “fuck you Trashmouth,” or the occasional middle finger.

You knew deep down, that Eddie would die for you if he really, really, had to. So it was only by instinct that you had called him first after seeing the clown.

“Y/n? Y-you thuh-thuh-thuh-there?” Bill called, after hearing the phone supposedly fall from your grasp. You kept your eyes on the person or… thing standing outside and fumbled hastily to pick up the phone.

“Uh- yeah sorry Bill, I- I think I have to go, I was supposed to do some ch-ch-chores after school-“

“Y/n, is ev- is everyth-thing oh-okay?”

“Huh? Yeah of course don’t worry,”

“I-I mean, I know tha-that yuh-you and R-Richie had b-broken up, b-but,”

“Yeah Bill that sounds great, I’ll call you soon, okay?” you hung up the phone, still locking eyes with who- or what you had believed to be dead. It had been almost six months since you last saw IT, and that whole ritual had seemed so final, so either you were going crazy, or you were staring death quite literally in the face.

You took a step forward, then looked around to make sure there was nothing behind you, but as you looked back outside the kitchen window, IT was gone. In the few moments it had taken you to bite down your scream, and feel your heart pumping again, you had subconsciously dialled the number for Eddie’s new phone. You hadn’t spoken to him since he’d left, and when his father had passed the phone to him, you almost jumped at the sound of his voice.

“Hello-“

“Jesus please us, Eds! Your voice! Have you started doing impressions now or have your balls finally dropped?” just hearing him laugh in reply was enough to make you forget about your current situation. But not totally enough.

“The first thing you say to me in almost five months offends me, you’re unbelievable.” There was a soft silence that followed, comfortable, as if you both hadn’t gone through hell and back. “Hey, I really missed you,”

And then you were crying. Dear god why am I crying? “I miss you too Eds, you have no idea what it’s been like since-“

“No yeah I know, do you need to catch me up on anything other than Romeo and Juliet’s breakup? Have any of you died yet?”

“Oh fuck Eds, haven’t you heard? Romeo’s skipped town, and apparently Juliet’s gone insane, seeing clowns and shit-“

“What?”

“Richie’s moved-“

“No, I know that. What was that about ‘seeing clowns and shit’?” you could hear the concern in his voice, it was even more prominent as you heard him take a pump from his puffer.

“Oh yeah- that’s what I was calling you about, I was on the phone to Bill, and I just turn around and I see fucking IT outside my window,” now you were twirling the phone cord as if you were gossiping about boys, and makeup, and what Tiffany was wearing last Tuesday; and not discussing the very thing that had almost killed you and your friends numerous times.

“Okay, have you called Richie? He’s moved to this town like an hour from you- I wasn’t supposed to saying anything but-“

“I’m not calling him.”

“What? But he could just ask his parents-“

“Eddie, I don’t wanna get into it. I called you, now what do I do?”

“I dunno, I’m not exactly Big Bill intuitive,”

“If you throw around the word ‘intuitive’ at our age, I’d think you’re pretty close to ‘Big Bill intuitive’. You got us out of that place without a map Eds, just… tell me if I need to… just tell me what to do. I trust you.”

“You have to tell him that you like him!” Eddie’s heart hurt as he said this, but he saw the way Richie looked at you, and as your best friend, it was Eddie’s job to pressure you into doing things you didn’t think you were ready for. “If you don’t do it, I will,” he made a gesture of cupping his hands over his mouth to call Richie over, and laughed as you basically tackled him to the ground.

“I swear to God, Eddie Kaspbrak, you will do no such thing, or I’ll be shoving that middle finger you like so much up-“

“Woah, okay, okay!” he blushed, noticing how close you were, and how you were basically sitting on him. “My mom wouldn’t be so happy with that idea, she’d be disinfecting me for weeks,” and tried to cover his red cheeks with a mock look of horror.

“Eds, what if he doesn’t even like me back?” you sat yourself up, and looked at Richie doing somersaults in the water. You giggled as he came up for air, his hair plastered to his face and his glasses.

“Are you fucking kidding me Y/n?” now he sat up, looking at you in disbelief, “how could anyone not like you?”

“Well for starters-“

“Okay shut up before I do something that not even you would be proud of,” his blush returned at having made you laugh, “but- okay he made us swear not to tell you-“

“Tell me what?”

“Well… everything? He can’t stop talking about you, I’m surprised you haven’t even noticed the flirting. You’ve known him longer than any of us!”

“Oh please, Eds, he talks to me the same way you do,” Ouch. Eddie could feel the butterflies in his stomach attacking each other, a mixture of sadness and guilt of not having made his feelings more obvious to you before it was too late.

The second you had hung up the phone, Eddie’s fingers flipped through the yellow legal pad on the kitchen counter, looking for an answer. He found Bill, which was just as good. Eddie had reassured you that you probably hadn’t seen anything, reminded you what you had all gone through to kill IT.

“Hello, Zack Denbrough speaking,”

“Hi sir, this is Eddie Kaspbrak, I need to-“

“Bill’s already been on the phone today, he’s eating dinner,”

“Please sir, this is important-“

“Honey, food’s getting cold!” his wife called from the dining room.

“But Mr Denbrough,” Eddie couldn’t so much as fit in another word when he heard the phone line ‘beep’ in showing that adults really do not care about anything. He groaned, calling the others one by one but being turned down by mothers and fathers alike. Mike’s at the movies, oh she’s doing her homework, Stan can’t come to the phone right now. Eddie hesitated before calling the last person on the list. He was sure that he’d be willing to help, but unsure that you would want it.

He sighed with relief as he heard Maggie Tozier call her son to the phone.

“Hey Eds, long time no see, seenyor,”

“Just because I am physically unable to punch you, doesn’t mean I’m not thinking about it Tozier,” there was an unspoken tension between the two boys. Whether it was the oncoming fact that you were in danger, or just plain missing each other, they were unable to tell. Both feelings made them sick, as there seemed there was no way to fix any of it.

“If you’re calling about what I did to Y/n-“

“What did you do to her? She called me and – no, it’s not about that,” Eddie could hear Richie’s intake of breath, as if he had just breached out of water for the first time in ten minutes. Or as if he were in the middle of sobbing.

“Eddie, I don’t know how to help her, I did everything I could to make sure she wouldn’t get the fucking barrel,”

“The barrel?”

“Of the gun! Could you not feel it? There was nothing final about what happened when we thought we killed IT. Don’t you think there’d be some sort of explosion, or I dunno, something big?”

“Rich-“

“It’s like Bill said, Derry is IT, and IT is Derry. And Derry, in case you hadn’t noticed, is perfectly fine, which is not perfectly fine-“

“What the hell are you talking about? Derry isn’t a thing, we can’t kill Derry,”

“If we don’t find a way Eddie, Derry’s going to kill Y/n.”

As easy as it was to get out of Derry, no one had given it a thought. It was as if by some other force, the town needed its people, as if it survived off of them. But by the end of 1985, there was a brief period in which that thought had crossed everybody’s mind, like they had woken up from a coma and finally realised how shitty of a town Derry was. Sure, it had its charm, with the town library, and the enormous Paul Bunyan statue, but it wasn’t until now people begun to notice the smell. You couldn’t escape the smell of the sewer. If it weren’t coming from the drains or gutters, the Kenduskeag stream would happily supply its aroma of runoff grey-water. Beverly Marsh was the first of many to leave, and perhaps her leaving had been the one to wake up everybody else. Or maybe it had something to do with the eight kids that had gone into the sewers without much of a notice.

But now the situation had changed, and those very kids that had started the farewell party, wanted to come back. And as hard as the task seemed, to convince their parents to go back to Derry, Bev, Eddie, Bill, and Richie, were already on their way.

You sat on the edge of the sidewalk in front of your house with a cigarette gripped between your teeth, daring Mr Arnold to yell at you to put it out. But despite the exaggerated drags and coughs, he hadn’t even given you a glance, as if you weren’t there at all. You stepped on the cigarette to put it out as you stood up, and as you turned to say, “It was fun hanging out with you, sir!” your feet had hit the curb and sent you falling backwards onto your ass. Mr Arnold seemed to be hanging from his porch light, yet there was no rope.

He looked as if he were floating.

AN: i kept on rewriting the last few hundred words over and over again but i finally! came up with something im somewhat happy with, and i hope you guys are too!!!!

tagged: @riverdalerebel @johnsonxstilinski @littlepaperaeroplanes @tn22220-blog

#richie tozier #richie tozier imagine #richie tozier x reader #richietozierluv #it cast #it cast imagine #it movie #finn wolfhard #finn wolfhard imagine #finn wolfhard x reader #stranger things #stranger things imagine #stranger things cast imagine #mike wheeler #mike wheeler imagine #mike wheeler x reader #it was final

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ninzied · 7 years

Text

Unwritten [OQ]

Robin and Roland take story time out to the courtyards, and a little black cat deigns to join them. Missing Year. 8k. [ffn | ao3]

Happiest of birthdays to @lillie-grey, who has been an absolute joy to have in my life. Thank you for being my friend, and for all those excellent owl gifs.

Also thank you to @sometimesangryblackwoman and @repellomuggletum15 for your wisdom and brains and patience with me.

Robin and his men mostly kept to themselves during those first few weeks in the castle, wary of attracting the wrong sort of attention (the Queen, of course, had already given every indication that they’d long overstayed their welcome as far as she was concerned).

Roland, on the other hand, had no trouble making friends. Within days of their arrival, Leroy had granted him honorary dwarf status, and on the seventh morning he marched right up to sandwich himself between elbows at the royal table, much to Robin’s outward chagrin.

(In secret, he found he rather enjoyed the way the Queen would startle and soften, letting Roland sneak crumbs off her plate while she smiled in a way that made it impossible for Robin to look anywhere else.)

His boy was also quite fond of the cats – strays, much like themselves – that roamed the courtyards when the weather permitted. He took to storing small bits of fish in his pockets for them, until Robin, having grown tired of washing out the smell from his clothes, suggested they ask Granny to stock up on some extra containers of cream instead.

They spent many of their afternoons out in those courtyards, Roland practicing his sparrow calls until the cats slunk out of hiding to join him. Robin would relax his weight into the base of a tree, idly whittling arrows from fallen tree branches while his son chattered at his newfound friends. They would mewl and purr contentedly back, rolling belly-up for him to scratch at once they’d had their fill of the milk he brought them.

They mostly tolerated Robin’s presence, so long as he sat there quietly; truth be told, he had never considered himself much of a cat person anyway, and he was fairly certain he was at least somewhat allergic to them. Once they’d determined him to be nothing more than a harmless, larger-sized version of Roland, they would come sit near him from time to time, batting at his pile of arrows or rubbing their heads against his forearm when he wasn’t paying them enough attention, looking quite taken aback each time that he sneezed.

The majority did not hang around long enough to earn themselves a name, but there were a few regulars: an orange-spotted tabby that Roland took to calling Pepper, a tortoiseshell with prominent brown ears that got nicknamed Pinecone.

One cat in particular would not emerge until the very end of the day, and even then she remained deliberately perched between shadows, just beyond reach of the sun and not a paw more than that. If milk was what she came for, she made no sign of it; rather, she seemed satisfied to stay by her little corner of stone until Robin was forced to grow strict about bedtime, and he would gather a yawning Roland into his arms (reminding the boy of that storybook Queen Regina had lent him when he refused to go easily).

Robin didn’t mean to make a habit of it, but each time his gaze would swing back, searching, to just catch the tip of her ebony tail as it slipped behind columns and became one with the night.

He found himself taking notice whenever she joined them, always poised at the very edge where sunlight met darkness, though whether this was done out of caution or simply by choice Robin didn’t feel he had any right to say.

She was a curious creature, he thought; stunning, really (…again, not that he usually made a point of thinking such things about cats). Her coat was sleek and satin-like, black through and through with the exception of a thin sliver of white just to the right of her nose. There was a decidedly regal air about her, too. Most evenings she would sit there, unblinking, moving only to lick at her paws in a delicate manner before pressing them primly side-by-side again.

Roland was not one to play favorites, but he seemed to make an exception with her.

He must have sensed the royalty in her as well, taking it upon himself to provide her with only the best that Granny’s kitchens had to offer. Robin had already drawn a line with the fish, so Roland insisted on leaving her small dishes of other, less pungent things, juicy slices of roast and spoonfuls of rich, clotted cream for dessert.

(And Robin, sighing, resigned himself to being held responsible for absconding with these extra plates from the table each day, not missing the way the Queen would scowl at him as he walked past her seat in the dining hall.

“For later,” he’d smile by way of explaining, never minding the fact that she always acted as though he’d said nothing at all. It was probably better that way.

He couldn’t imagine she would approve of them inviting any more strays into her castle.)

The cat, of course, never deigned to touch a thing while they were around, though the food would mysteriously vanish by morning when Roland rose early to check. Pleased as this made him, however, he kept a respectful distance whenever she returned to sit by her pillar in the afternoons, waving shyly to her from across the courtyard before turning his attentions back to the others.

When Robin commented on as much to him, Roland would heave an impressively long-suffering sigh and say nothing but a mysterious, “Papa, be patient,” almost in the tone of a scolding.

She didn’t appear to care for the other cats any more than she did the humans, eyeing all the Peppers and Pinecones with what Robin could only describe as disdain; and after a few overconfident males made their advances only to be rewarded by a withering stare and a hiss, they learned to leave her alone as well. Her gaze would narrow dangerously whenever the girls came to sprawl themselves over Robin’s lap, as though she found it indecent of them, her tail whipping impatiently about until Robin grew restless and shook them gently off.

When the days began to lengthen, the air warming enough to serve as a reprieve from the stuffiness of staying indoors, Roland insisted on moving story time out to the courtyards.

“Then Regina can come too,” he declared, stubbornly hopeful as ever. Robin didn’t have the heart to say otherwise; he highly doubted that a night spent in his company would be at the very top of her list of enjoyable things to do with her time.

Nevertheless, there they would sit at the base of that old maple tree, the boy and his storybook against the crook of Robin’s arm. Together they would thumb through the pages, Roland frequently making them pause to marvel over pictures of dragons while Robin’s own thoughts turned to the enchantress who guarded them, cursed to live her life in darkness in order to save the man that she loved.

The other cats, quickly bored by these stories, would slink off to wander other parts of the castle, but she would always stay, her ears twitching on occasion to hear Robin’s voice go heavy and soft when the enchantress became gravely injured while trying to protect her dragons from an evil, masked huntsman.

Roland gasped audibly as the man removed his mask and revealed himself to be the very man the enchantress still loved, now under the spell of her rival. The magic invariably lost its hold over him as he gathered her into his arms, and here Roland began to chant, “True love’s kiss. True love’s kiss!” with his fists pounding the air, emphatic, until Robin turned to page twenty-three.

“I told you that would work,” Roland said a moment later, looking pleased as the two of them embraced before riding one of her dragons off into the sunset.

“I didn’t doubt it for a second,” Robin replied, shifting his gaze toward the shadows again. The cat had gotten comfortable while he read to them, curling herself into a little black ball with her chin tucked over the length of one paw. Her eyes were half-closed, but they drew fully open again, wide and alert, when she sensed him watching her.

“What shall we name this one?” Robin wanted to know, cautiously nudging a leftover saucer of cream forward while she stared, unmoving, at him from her post several yards away. “Midnight? Black Beauty?”

Her expression grew even more dour, if that were possible, giving off the air of one thoroughly unimpressed by all his suggestions.

“She already has a name,” frowned Roland, clearly perplexed as to why he would need to point out such an obvious thing. Bemused, Robin turned to scrutinize the cat as though she might answer, and she immediately stretched and turned, tail flicking haughtily upward at him as she stalked back into the shadows.

Still they fell into an easy routine, the three of them, making their way through the Queen’s storybook while the cat settled into her regular spot and the sun took a leisurely dip behind the walls of the courtyard. Once Robin even thought she might have fallen asleep, but Roland was adamant – almost to the point of combative – when Robin made as though to approach her.

“No, Papa,” he whispered urgently, and Robin, sighing, retreated before she could wake up and catch on to what he’d been planning.

As it was, the first time they made an official acquaintance of sorts did not happen entirely on her terms, either. It was a sweltering day, for the tail end of winter, and while the heat only seemed to fuel Roland’s energy, Robin felt his mind straying further than usual, his eyelids drifting closed, closed…

If the sudden thumping sounds weren’t enough to drag him out of his drowsy state, then the sensation of something very cold and very wet pressing into his cheek certainly did the trick. Robin jerked awake to find the cat glowering down her nose at him while his son sat clumsily on the ground just behind her. Roland’s face was screwed tight with the effort not to burst into tears, and he was holding his ankle remarkably still, the skin around it already swollen and purple.

“I stepped on it funny,” said Roland in a trembling voice, and the cat sidled up to him with a plaintive little yowl. Momentarily sidetracked, he reached out to pat her on the head, and she warmed to his touch in an instant, back arching, face nuzzling into the palm of his hand.

“Thank you,” Robin told her, and she froze to look up at him, evidently taken aback by what he’d just said. She eyed him warily as he bent to scoop up Roland, giving her a crooked half-smile before rushing his son indoors to tend to that ankle.

(He made it about as far as the drawing room when the Queen happened upon them, her lips pursing rather aggressively together at Robin’s rueful expression and Roland’s pitiful cry. She moved brusquely forward while Robin set his son down onto the nearest chaise, but then her face turned uncommonly gentle, her hands looking soft as they reached to examine the extent of his injuries.

She glanced up at Robin, as though to ask his permission for something. The light did not bloom from her fingers until he nodded in quiet consent, and he watched as the puffiness slowly faded away, Roland giving his ankle an experimental roll before beaming brightly up at them both.

“Milady,” Robin broke in when the Queen made to leave, and they were each startled to find that his hand had closed over her wrist, holding her there as gingerly as she had Roland’s ankle.

She blinked at him, waiting, but what he felt extended beyond just gratitude then, and he could hardly muster the words before she began to look impatient with him again and shook herself free of his grasp.)

While the incident hadn’t endeared him any more to the Queen, the cat in the courtyard seemed to find him slightly less intolerable now, or at the very least decided she ought to keep a closer eye on them for Roland’s sake. The following afternoon as they pulled their storybook out, she ambled over to Robin’s other side, sitting just near enough that she could peer past his arm to look at the pages herself if she wished it.

“You’re allowed to get closer, you know,” he told her, which she (predictably) ignored.

In fact, for all that she’d chosen to sit next to him, he may as well have been any other tree stump or stone in the courtyard, given how minimally she seemed to react toward his presence. When he shifted around to get more comfortable, his knee brushed past her and she gave a small start, lifting a paw in an alarmed sort of fashion as though she’d only just noticed him there.

He bit back his smile while she proceeded to clean herself like nothing had happened, licking her paws and rubbing them over her ears, each cheek, the corners of those orb-like eyes. Otherwise she would hold herself very still as he read to them (he liked to think she was only pretending not to listen, anyway). It was a tale about ogres this time, and the princess who found herself lost in their swamps, eventually falling into a most unlikely romance with one of them – much to the kingdom’s horror, of course.

“Will the ogre turn into a prince?” Roland wanted to know, and he held his breath as they flipped to the following page, where True Love’s Kiss awaited their heroine.

“Papa,” he exclaimed next, looking delighted as the princess began to transform into something hideous, green and distinctly ogre-like.

“For as you can see,” Robin continued aloud, “beauty lies in the eye of its beholder, and their love would never know any boundaries, no matter which form they took.” Roland sat back, appearing to think very hard about the lessons to be had with this particular tale. Meanwhile, Robin reached absentmindedly to pet the cat beside him, forgetting for a moment that this wasn’t a perfectly normal thing that they did.

He was startled to hear her purring.

“You’ve a soft spot for these love stories, don’t you?” he murmured, moving his palm around the side of her neck before daring to scratch beneath her chin next. She stretched to meet his touch, eyes closing into content little slits. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say there’s a bit more warmth to your heart than you’d have liked me to believe.”

She cracked open one eye on a withering glare, but she let him go on petting her for several more minutes before deciding she’d had enough for the day. Shaking herself loose from his arm, she abruptly stood with a stretch, pointedly turning her backside to him as she strutted off.

“Heartbreaker, that one,” Robin remarked, closing up their storybook.

Roland only giggled as he set out a bowl of apple-smoked pheasant he’d readied for her, the scent of it infusing the air. It occurred to Robin then that he could actually breathe through his nose again, that his eyes had neither itched nor watered once that evening, and he smiled.

…

Robin was just as disappointed as his son to find that they were nearing the last of the stories. The majority of his day was taken up by countless meetings about witches and a dwindling larder (the tedium broken only by the Queen’s determined hostility toward anyone who so much as breathed the wrong way, while Robin struggled to hide his amusement from her). More often than not the meetings accomplished very little despite the hours put into them, and so he looked forward to these lazy afternoon rituals of reading by their tree.

“Hello, darling,” he’d greet her when the cat would slink across the courtyard to join them, somehow managing all the while to give off the air that she’d only done so by coincidence.

Still, with each passing day she seemed to bother less and less with maintaining such a front of indifference with him, even utilizing his body as a step ladder on her way to settle in Roland’s lap (the boy cuddled her close to his chest without missing a beat, as though it were the most natural thing to do in the world). Robin made a dramatic oofing sound each time, though he hardly minded the extra weight, and she made for an instinctive resting place for his hand in between page turns, her fur inordinately soft and her belly a pleasant hum of motion against his palm and fingertips.

Upon reaching the book’s final page, there was a moment of stillness before they both turned expectant expressions up at Robin.

“Until tomorrow,” he promised, and the cat even bumped her nose into the inside of his hand as he and Roland stood, each of them taking time to stretch out their limbs as though they might make the evening last a bit longer.

(True to Robin’s word, that evening found him lingering outside the Queen’s private study, quietly enjoying how the candlelight played with her features until she noticed him standing there. She set her quill down on the ledger she’d been perusing, eyebrow at a delicate arch as she looked him over.

“I’m sorry, I must not have heard you knock,” she remarked at last, tone dry.

He smiled, pushing his shoulder off of the doorframe. “I didn’t.”

She let out a sigh, but the look she gave him seemed more akin to exasperation than one of genuine displeasure with him. He approached her without reservation, setting the storybook she’d lent him down beside a sheaf of overturned papers and another feathered quill, its tip still half-glistening with a vibrant gold ink.

“I’ve come to return this.”

She trailed a hand over the cover before asking in a neutral manner, “I trust you made good use of it?”

“I did, thank you.”

“And I expect you’ve come for another?”

“I have.”

The Queen rose from her chair, moving toward an empty stand of shelves by her desk with the air of one who’d been greatly inconvenienced by his request. She slid the storybook back in place about a third of the way across one unoccupied shelf, and the spine of it shimmered before simply vanishing into nothing. The Queen stood there, contemplating for a long moment, fingers dancing over titles he could not see, careful in a way that seemed out of proportion to the impatience she’d just shown with him.

Robin had schooled his face into something bland again by the time she turned around and pressed her selection into his hands. It was significantly older than the last book, the corners frayed, its leather binding worn and soft. The gold embossment had faded with use such that it was nearly impossible to make out a name, but there was no denying the weight of it, the magical properties it must contain within its pages.

He could almost swear he felt the book give a quiver before resettling into his arms, startling him before he could mask his surprise.

“It’s not dangerous,” the Queen interjected needlessly, having misread the look on his face. Her shoulders turned to rigid squares, back straightening in a way that let him know she expected some sort of objection from him.

Robin tucked the book against his chest, holding her gaze steady with his. She stared obstinately back while he let his expression soften, the silence gentling into something almost wondering between them until he felt he had neither the will nor the inclination to ever look away. “You know Your Majesty is always welcome, if you’d care to join us.”

She blinked, clearly caught more off guard than he’d planned, and her head tilted almost imperceptibly at him, like he was some riddle she couldn’t quite solve. He kept his smile friendly, not wishing to press her, and a warmth began to spread in him as she pursed her lips and allowed a stiff “Perhaps sometime” while resuming her seat behind a stack of ledgers.

“Well,” said Robin lightly, trailing a finger along the grooved lines of her desk, “I think tomorrow is as good a ‘sometime’ as any, don’t you?”

She jerked her head back up at that, lips half-parted as she stared at him, speechless, clearly thrown by all the liberties he seemed to be taking with her today. The moment was short-lived, lasting hardly more than a second, but she’d paused long enough for him to take nothing less as her answer.

“I look forward to it,” he told her as she swiftly went back to ignoring him, glaring hard at the papers in front of her. She lifted her quill again, poised over her scrolls though she made no move to write a word, and there he thought it best to let her stew over things as she pleased, excusing himself with another smile that refused to abate all the way back to his quarters.)

…

Roland could not sit still in his excitement when Robin presented him with their new book the following day, marveling at its heaviness even as it nearly toppled him over. “There must be hundreds of stories inside, Papa!” He touched the front cover with a reverent hand, clearly itching to take a peek.

“Our friend has yet to arrive,” Robin pointed out, gesturing across the courtyard at the unattended pillars. Roland instantly snatched his hand back, looking put out by the fact that Robin had thought he needed reminding. “She may be disappointed to find that we’ve started without her.”

“She’ll be here soon, Papa,” said Roland, in such a reassuring tone that Robin was startled to realize he hadn’t been so sure of it himself.

They preoccupied themselves with the other cats as they waited, Roland playfully batting around a spool of twine to engage them while Robin fended off Pepper, who had gotten very interested in the strips of quail breast he had stored in his pocket.

“I’m afraid these have already been spoken for,” he said, gently extracting Pepper’s claws from his clothes as his gaze found its way back to the pillars yet another time.

Still she did not appear, and as the remaining cats drifted off, the sun now streaking everything in reddish golds and browns, Robin began again to doubt. He heard his voice growing more and more distant in response to Roland each time the boy pointed out a new shade of sunset he’d just discovered, or another sprouting bud on the rose bushes.

Perhaps it had been hopeful of him to expect anything different.

He wondered why it mattered so much.

It wasn’t as though they were friends, not really; more like sometimes-civil acquaintances who happened to occupy the spaces adjacent to one another every once in a while.

Sighing, he bent to pick up her storybook. It shivered again the moment his fingers came in contact with its cover, upsetting the pile of freshly carved arrows that had accumulated there. Roland paused in his current task of plucking wildflowers along the courtyard perimeter to watch as Robin began to pack the rest of their things, offering his boy a rueful half-smile to signal their bedtime.

“Okay, Papa,” was all Roland said, and he dutifully went to retrieve his spools, some of which had gotten lodged beneath the rose bushes. He flattened himself belly-down to the ground (Robin tried valiantly not to picture how the Queen would disapprove of such a sight), briefly obscured from view as he wriggled and reached under the branches again.

At that exact moment, Robin looked up to see her nose peeking out at him from between the pillars.

She stared at him with those large, inscrutable eyes, one paw poised mid-air as though something had prevented her from taking another step forward.

Truthfully, Robin did not think she would care to approach him without Roland as some buffer between them, busy as the boy was with unearthing the rest of his spools. Still he smiled at her, perhaps a little more freely than usual as he set her saucer of cream back down in case she elected to join him after all.

“We were waiting for you,” he called to her, hefting the book as she seemed to consider him. “I think we’ve time for at least one story, yeah?”

“Yeah!” came Roland’s voice, muffled in the leaves as he successfully scooped out another ball of twine.

Her eyes never strayed from Robin’s, and after several seconds of silence stretched on, he let his gaze drop down to the book again, thinking to give her a bit more room to decide what she wanted.

There was more deliberation in her step than before as she neared, an openly inquisitive air to the way she regarded him up close when he turned sideways to greet her, reaching to smooth back the fur between her ears.

“There’s my girl,” he murmured, running his hand along the arch of her spine as she moved to examine his offering, giving it a very careful sniff.

“It’s not poisoned, if that’s what you’re implying,” he told her when she looked suspiciously up at him. “Honestly, I’m offended you would think such a thing.”

She stared at his pockets next, as though she knew exactly what he’d stowed away in them, and he felt his grin slip into something sheepish when she pointedly gave them a very wide berth.

She surprised him then by jumping onto his lap, his hand reaching on instinct to touch her back and steady her landing. Pressing her two front paws into his chest, she stretched with her whole body until her nose came into contact with the underside of his jaw. He pulled a face at the sensation, though it was not an entirely unpleasant one, and he resisted the natural impulse to laugh when her whiskers dragged over his stubble to find the more sensitive spots of his skin.

“So we are friends, then.” He scratched at her neck while she carried on sniffing him. “You know, I’ve been told that I smell like forest.” She paused only a moment before she resumed her exploring, paws kneading into him as she put her nose into his tunic collar next. “Something tells me you don’t mind it as much.”

Roland was making his way over to them, arms full with his cat toys and the stray bits of dirt and foliage they’d picked up from their tumble on the ground. With a wide grin, he leaned forward, losing half his spools as he went, to plant a loud mwah! onto her forehead. She briefly touched a paw to his cheek in an unmistakable gesture of affection, letting out a low, happy mrrow as the boy took a seat beside them.

Robin half-expected her to abandon her perch on his chest now that Roland had returned, but she only settled more comfortably against him, half-curled into his middle with her paws tucked underneath her body.

Her eyes closed, everything humming as he stroked her fur and tickled that spot she favored behind her ears again.

“It’s a shame Her Majesty never took me up on my invitation to join us,” he remarked in an offhand fashion, moving to spread the book open across his lap. “Too busy scowling at everyone in sight, I would imagine.”

“No, Papa,” Roland disagreed, a very serious frown pinching his entire face together, “just you.”

“Thank you for that, my boy,” Robin replied wryly while she began to flick her tail about, an irritable thwip, thwip, thwip against the pages, though to her credit she did not open her eyes to glare at him again.

He flipped to the first story with a solemn “Your wish is my command,” and if a cat had the ability to sigh at him, he didn’t doubt that she would have done so right then.

The moment he began to read aloud, he understood why the book had such a heavy feel to it, what had possessed it to shake and pulse whenever it had been neglected too long.

It was, quite literally, filled with magic.

No sooner had he uttered a “Once upon a time…” than the words sparked off of the page, bright scripted gold that lit up the air before burning out in a dazzling crackle.

“Well that's going to be very distracting,” Robin commented (smiling when the cat appeared to bristle impatiently at him), but the following lines remained firmly affixed to the page.

As he read on, however, the story began to take on a new sort of life, unfolding before their eyes in perfect tandem with Robin’s telling of it. A single brown bean suddenly popped out between pages, rolling to plunk and bury itself into the soil by their feet. A green shoot sprouted upward moments later, the cat yowling unhappily when Robin was forced to make room and nearly knocked her out of his lap.

“Apologies, sweetheart.” He cradled an arm around the length of her body, scooting her further up onto his chest while maneuvering Roland and the book away from an over-enthusiastically shooting stem. He wouldn’t put it past the thing to tear straight through whatever lay in its path, limbs or parchment or otherwise.

“Whoaa,” said Roland as he took in the scene, sitting up on his heels to better investigate this wondrous new shrub (careful not to put his face too close to the little snapping leaves when both Robin and the cat turned sternly matching expressions on him).

Astonishingly, she did not appear to mind having been jostled about, only stretching her front legs around either side of Robin’s neck before resting a paw over the fold of his collar. Her eyes blinked open, once, when he nudged his chin over her forehead, and then they were shutting again, his entire chest vibrating now where she’d half-sprawled herself over him.

“Papa,” Roland reminded when the plant sprouted half of another bud and then seemed to stall, as though waiting on further instructions.

Clearing his throat, Robin gave an apologetic “Yes, of course,” as he resumed reading. On cue, a miniature Jack about the size of Robin’s thumb appeared over the toe of his boot, hauling himself up by the laces, scrabbling over the page they’d just turned to and making a spectacular jump onto one of the rapidly growing stalks as it swayed overhead.

“That’s so cool!” Roland exclaimed – a phrase that Leroy had taught him, no doubt, one that struck a foreign chord and yet rang true as something any excited young boy would say.

She quietened then, her purring subdued by a degree that Robin felt more than he heard. He drew her closer, freeing his other arm to surround her cheek with his palm, rubbing his thumb over her forehead, fingertips circling around to stroke at the other side of her neck, until she seemed to let go of something and relaxed into him again.

Miniature Jack turned, saluting to Roland before disappearing into a puff of cloud that had accumulated roughly shoulder-level with them. Through the fog they heard the sounds of mischief being made, and then Jack was scuttling back down the beanstalk with a handsome sackful of coins and a finger held to his mouth as he winked at them.

“Hmm,” said Roland, looking deeply perturbed about something.

Twice more they watched Jack return, descending each time with treasure more splendid than the last: a golden goose egg the size of a pea, and then a harp with strings that played of their own accord, serenading them all with sweetly tinkling tunes while Jack tiptoed his way back home.

Roland let out a delighted gasp when the unmistakable roar of a giant shook through the clouds, which began to darken ominously as the yells made way for claps of thunder. A pocket-sized bolt of lightning zapped through the air then, singeing a charred little hole through the book (before Robin could so much as wince at the damages, however, the pages had already repaired themselves, the burnt bits disintegrating as the torn parts resealed).

And then it began to rain.

Robin’s first instinct was to throw out his cloak as a shield – there wasn’t a doubt in his mind that she would prefer not to look like a drowned cat if she could help it – but they remained blessedly dry as the raindrops landed, some abruptly diverting themselves mid-plunge to avoid splashing onto them.

Wide-eyed with wonder, Roland extended a hand to see if he could chase the storm even further away, looking positively elated when the rain was successful in evading his every move. He gave the cloud an experimental poke, gulping down a scandalized “Oops!” when a piece of it broke off and drifted, dumping rain onto Miniature Jack just as he reached the front door of his tiny straw house.

“Oi!” came the squeaky, petulant voice of Jack, shaking a fist at them before hauling his magical harp inside. The instrument landed with an operatic thunk against both sides of the doorframe, chiming innocently away while Jack grunted and turned red in the face from his attempts to dislodge it.

“Well my papa says it’s not right to steal,” Roland countered loudly, looking very indignant. “Except when it’s for helping somebody else!”

Robin bent to hide a smile in her fur, giving Roland his moment to take over the story. Her purring had grown louder, and he thought he’d never seen her so content as this, letting him hold her while the dramatic little storm raged on up ahead.

He turned another page, and a warty green foot emerged from one of the clouds, stepping blindly onto a limb of the stalk for purchase. Distracted from his scolding, Roland watched in rapt attention as the giant – a remarkably hideous thing, with a veiny, protuberant nose and thick tufts of hair sprouting from every imaginable surface of his body – began trundling down the beanstalk, howling his fury about his stolen possessions.

Jack was looking very frantic now, shouting something into the house about retrieving his axe so that he might bury the monster once and for all.

“Oh, no,” said Roland, aghast.

Robin gave a small wince, hoping the giant would not meet too visibly gruesome an end. Despite having heard this particular version of Jack’s tale numerous times before, he’d never given much thought to the matter of which was the story’s true villain – if any at all – until now, and it hardly seemed fair that this giant should be written off in such an unforgiving way.

He’d spotted Jack’s house from his perch on the beanstalk, growling out an aggrieved sound to see the lad manhandling his harp. As though sensing its true owner nearby, it began to pluck out a more forlorn tune, its playfulness from earlier giving way to something longing and melancholy.

Roland straightened, his little chest expanding with the air of one determined to set things right, and before Robin could so much as open his mouth – whether to dissuade him or to cheer him on was as yet still unclear to him – the boy had bent resolutely down to remove the harp from Jack’s unsuspecting grasp.

“This is not for you,” Roland said in a firm tone, gingerly lifting the harp between two fingers and returning it to the giant with a winning smile.

“I’m not sure that’s how the story goes, my boy,” Robin tried to tell him at last, as gently as he could manage, realizing how truly ridiculous he sounded the moment he could not take back the words.

Slowly, as though a jar of obliterating ink had been spilled at the top of the page, the gleaming golden script began to smear at the corners before dripping downward, pooling at the bottom edges until the rest of the story had been wiped clean.

Roland looked guiltily up at them, but Robin rather thought he’d never felt prouder. He smiled, pointing out where the leftover words had formed little glinting beads on the grass, dotting his bootlaces, some even finding their way onto her fur until she fairly glittered from it.

There was an unreadable look on her face as she surveyed the scene, suddenly alert, starting only a little when Robin tried to rub some of the drying bits of ink out of her back paws.

The giant, who was looking about as stunned as Jack did just then, could only blink stupidly at Roland for several long seconds. The harp, meanwhile, had brightened considerably; it picked up the pace of its tune, sounding perfectly cheerful again as the giant clutched it to his chest and continued staring at each of them in turn – all of them giants in their own right too, Robin supposed.

Roland had gathered as many of the gold ink blots as he could find, rolling them into a ball to rival the size of the stolen goose egg. With great care, he offered it to the giant, who accepted it from him with a speechless, dumbfounded expression.

The giant jabbed at his chest and garbled out a grunting noise, which Roland evidently took to be his name, grinning and introducing himself in turn with an earnest, “It’s very nice to meet you!”

The giant beamed back at him, his beard expanding into some craggy, toothless approximation of a smile, and then he was nodding jerkily to them in farewell, ascending the beanstalk with his newfound treasure in hand.

They watched him pause with his head just touching the clouds, appearing to marvel at this uncharted freedom. Robin wondered how many times he’d been forced to relive that first fate he’d been given, in this tale that was – he hoped – no longer Jack’s alone to tell.

The harp struck a more resonant chord, cascading loose in a series of crystal-like sounds, and Robin closed his eyes for a moment, feeling nothing else but that rumbling warmth over his chest and belly, the unbelievable softness at the tips of his fingers and palm.

Once the giant was safely back inside his cloud, he reached a knobbly hand down to grip around the beanstalk, yanking it up by the roots with a force that traveled, unearthing dirt in all directions and pulling the ground out from beneath Jack’s feet as his straw abode began to teeter.

“The end!” crowed Roland, and he turned to regard Robin with a smugness not at all unlike the way the Queen often chose to look at him.

“That was quite the story,” Robin agreed, “and quite the book that Her Majesty lent us. I’ll be sure to give her a proper thank you when I see her next.”

Some of the heat in his chest abated a bit as she stretched and stood, front paws kneading down his torso until she’d perched herself daintily back onto his thigh. Warmth of a different kind began to spread when she blinked up at him, content, looking languid and unrestrained in a way that he’d never thought possible with him.

He idly thumbed the bony parts of one paw, smoothing down her fur, feeling the velvet-like pads at the bottom. She retracted her claws from him each time he eased them out, finally pressing her paw against the center of his palm in a reproachful manner, stilling his movements.

He closed his fingers around her, careful to leave her the space to swat him off if she wished it, but she only turned away again, evidently concluding that he and his peculiarities simply could not be helped.

Roland, meanwhile, was sneaking a furtive peek at the pages ahead, the wealth of stories as yet untold. A grubby hand belonging to some sort of gnome took a lazy swipe at him as he darted between tales, a fox’s nose attempting to nuzzle its way out of another chapter that he flipped to with a curious eye.

It was considerably tempting to read just one more (Roland already turning to fix them both with a hopeful expression), to wait out the last bit of sun and welcome the twilight as the first of its stars popped to life. Stalling, Robin traced a lazy pattern over the length of her tail, now draped over his forearm in a way that made him loath to move.

She’d resumed her purring, appearing satisfied to leave matters in his hands for a while longer, but then he caught Roland trying to muffle a yawn while coaxing a just-hatched dragon back inside its egg.

“Shall we save the rest for another day?” Robin asked, giving Roland’s curls a good ruffle as the boy nodded his head in agreement. “Perhaps someone will even let us start at a reasonable hour tomorrow.” He bit into his lower lip when he sensed her spine stiffen, the fur there prickling beneath his touch, and he found he couldn’t help himself, adding a very grave-sounding, “These stories certainly aren’t going to rewrite themselves.”

His gentle teasing stirred her into motion once more, and she leapt gracefully from his lap to land, soundless, onto the ground where the giant had reclaimed his beanstalk some moments before. She didn’t spare him another glance – not that Robin had expected it of her – but her tail brushed up against his knee in passing, lingering there before she sashayed off.

“Until we meet again, then,” he called after her as the pillars and shadows swallowed her whole, his voice unbearably light now from the sound of his smiling. “Your Majesty.”

…

She was making herself look busy, tidying various ink bottles and stacked rolls of parchment on her desk when he returned to her that evening after putting Roland to bed.

“You can’t possibly have finished that book already.” She looked the perfect picture of skepticism, wine-red lips curled up at one corner, that damnable eyebrow of hers cocked permanently skyward at him. But he felt her uncertainty in the half-softened edge of her words, the way her hands would not stop fiddling, and he thought it wouldn’t hurt to humor her another moment longer.

“Indeed not.” Robin lifted his own hands, free of any storybooks and injured ankles, disagreeable felines and other excuses to be near her like this. His smile gentled when she could only blink at him, not bothering this time to mask her confusion with the usual level of ire she reserved for his benefit.

“So what is it you want from me, thief?”

“Well,” Robin started, navigating with great care around the corners of her desk to join her on the other side, “as you very well know, I was hoping to entertain a certain individual’s company tonight.” He kept his tone mild, unguarded, mindful of the way she’d all but frozen to see him approach her so boldly without invitation.

“I was attending to other…things.” She gestured dismissively at the pristine state of her desk, the objects there that did not look a hair out of place from what he’d last seen of them just the day prior.

“Yes, it certainly appears that way,” he said to her, very seriously, his grin going lopsided when her lips thinned together.

She seemed determined to act as though he were no more than a floor lamp or some other thing happening to occupy space in the room, now that he stood there without the boundaries of her workspace between them. Clearing her throat, she raised a lofty hand to straighten some quills, looking indifferently anywhere but him.

Still, she’d shown no immediate signs of pulling away, and he shifted closer, his movements easy and untroubled, leaning past her to toy with a glass vial near the edge of her desk.

He sensed her still as their shoulders brushed together, powerfully aware of the sharpness in each breath that she took, his own gaze growing heavy to take in the sight of her like this. Half-wary, half-open, with something like shyness in the way that she held herself just within reach.

“What’s this?” His words were but a gravel-like murmur as he turned the bottle over in his hand, examining its molten gold contents.

“It’s just ink,” she told him, with a not-quite-scowl meant to thwart any more of his questions, and she reached to tug the bottle back by its little round stopper. When he failed to let go of it their fingers caught, the shock of contact suspending the two of them in place.

“It looks magical,” he observed, watching her gaze fixate on their hands as they lowered, together, back to the table.

“It…serves its purpose,” she allowed, with something that resembled a smile showing through, small and secretive and strangely wistful in a way that twinged deep in his chest. Her voice had lost that last edge of hardness to it, and without it she sounded almost exposed, seductive for her teasing coyness, cautiously inviting him in.

He moved over her, cheek just grazing her temple as his chin angled downward, drawn into her as much as he thought she’d permit for the moment. He felt her stir against him, her silky-smooth hair where it tickled his nose, the shallow warmth of her exhales touching his neck and the open vee of chest at his collar.

She shivered when he lifted his other hand, fingers tangling with the curls she’d swept over one bared shoulder.

“There,” he said a moment later, voice rough as he liberated a wayward gold bead that had matted itself in her hair. “Curious, how that might have gotten there.”

Their eyes locked, her expression a blend of dismay and half-breathless anticipation, everything suddenly still between them.

He reached for her again, cradling the side of her neck in his palm. His fingertips curled to grasp at her hair, brushing a thumb across her cheekbone with a tenderness that seemed to make her breath catch again.

Their noses touched.

“Regina,” he murmured.

Her lashes fluttered at the sound, a sultry heat to her gaze that threatened to wind him.

She learned forward as he slanted his mouth against hers, firm and reckless and utterly incapable of holding himself back any longer. Her arms rose, bracing, to flatten her palms over his chest as though to push him away, but then they pressed upward, fingertips skimming the length of his neck, his jawline. She sighed into his mouth, the sound of it so very irresistible to him, and he deepened the kiss, groaning low in his throat when their tongues came together.

Abandoning any last sense of restraint, he wrapped his other arm around to embrace her more fully, cupping the back of her head and angling her sideways while everything in her unwound for him. The lines of her body relaxed inch by inch to fit against his, her spine arching beneath his touch to better pull him down into her.

Robin gathered her closer in kind, feeling her lighten and ground him in place all at once. She hummed into his mouth, stretching to meet him until he’d nearly bent her backwards over the table, his hands roaming and gripping and savoring the way she sparked and set fire to everything that he had.

Gods but did he burn for her.

His lips moved over hers, hungry, heated, and the rest of him followed as their bodies pressed and coursed together, the pressure between them building to some exquisite degree. He lowered his hand to the small of her back, anchoring her to him with his other hand fisted deep in her hair, and she surged upward, bending easily to his will.

He ached to know how much of herself she had opened to him, how vulnerable she’d let him make her. Still, there was that strength – that temper, as vital as any pulse – that Robin so admired in her, a power that could scorch the earth or make worlds turn in equal measure.

He longed for nothing more than to hold her close while everything swayed and spun around them.

She tugged his bottom lip between her teeth and bit down, gently demanding, and he nearly lost himself with another strangled groan. Their kisses slowed to something sensual then, lazy passes of tongue amidst ragged moans and quiet, broken gasps for air until he was half-senseless in his desire for her.

They parted a moment to take each other in, every last inch of him weighted with want at the sight of her undoing. Her chest rose and fell against his, heavy and hitching ever so slightly, and it took a monumental effort not to steal what he could from her again in that regard. As it was, he hadn’t quite recovered himself, and so he settled for nudging his nose into hers, mouth quirking up in a drowsy half-smile when she raised her eyes to lock with his.

She looked uncommonly soft as she blinked at him, her lips full and inviting in a way that he could not refuse. He stooped to press a kiss at one corner, lingering there to trail another down her throat, and Regina made a sound not at all unlike a purr as his hold on her tightened.

He was sorely tempted to tease her for it, the ruses and the haughty airs, the failed attempts at keeping her distance when she had thought him none the wiser. But there would be all the time for that yet, to tell of these things and whatever came after, for theirs was a story that had – at long last – just begun.

#outlaw queen #oq ff #oq fic #missing year #dimples queen #my scribbles #unwritten #cat regina

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i-am-not-a-mouse · 7 years

Text

- Growth - (a Stony fanfic)

("Soulmate"AU where you get a tattoo for every person you fall in love with)

Pepper's tattoo is on her hip. Well, the one that isn't faded yet.

There are five dull, grey ones scattered across her body, seemingly random and different in shape and size, but what do they matter? They're done. It's over. The only one she looks at these days are the sunglasses on her hip. They're big. Obnoxiously big and shiny and she knows who they're for, of course she knows. Tony has a little stiletto to match, right there on his ankle, bright blue and sparkly and the first time he showed her, she nearly apologized. It's hideous and the both know, but it means love, so who's gonna complain?

Understandably, no one is happy when the sunglasses start losing colour. At first, it isn't even visible, the fade from black to grey barely noticeable, but then the grey becomes off-white and the glass loses its shine and Tony leaves, a bright blue stiletto still sparkling on his skin.

But Tony is fine, he said. Its fine, he's fine - he's always fine.

And Pepper sighs and strokes the steering wheel on the back of her hand that just appeared the day before.

Tony is fine.

It takes about a year for the stiletto to fade. A few times, Tony thinks it must be over now: when the heel loses some of its sparkle or when the bright blue turns a bruised purple, but no. It always comes back, with a tilt of her head or the freckles on her nose.

Tony doesn't love easy.

The stiletto is his only tattoo and he lets the world know that he likes it that way. Of course he doesn't, not really, but what does it matter? He has everything he needs, materially, and lately even the rest looks somewhat promising.

Natasha moved her stuff into the tower a few weeks ago, Clint followed soon after. He doesn't really get what their deal is - they share a tattoo (a striking blue eye and a curl of red hair), but it's long since faded and they don't seem to care. Bruce has one, right behind his ear. Tony notices at breakfast once, but doesn't dare to ask. Some secrets are better to keep. Especially tiny spiders. He knows Thor has many, they cover most of his back and a great part of his chest. He is a god after all, and he loves as easy as a child. Still, the most prominent one sits above his heart, a golden horn and icy shards.

No one ever asks about that one.

And then there's Steve. Steve who's the only one with a permanent mark, whose tattoo never fades, not even when Peggy dies and her skin is washed clear.

It's cruel, in a way.

It's cruel for two reasons: one, Steve will never recover. Whatever the doctors may say, Tony knows he won't. There's something broken in his eyes nowadays and even though sometimes it melds again, for sweet little moments at lunch with the team or when dummy hands him the right brush, it will never be fixed, the lipstick-stain on his wrist will never leave him. And that is cruel.

The second reason is in the way Tony's left shoulder has been itching lately. There's nothing there yet, but he can feel it happening, can feel his skin rearranging like a Mosaik and frankly, he's freaking out. The first root appears on a Monday, while they're training on the roof of Avengers tower - Tony's aim has been lacking and he wants to test the new upgrade for the suit. Steve throws a waterballoon in the air with a whoop and grins a carefree smile when Tony hits it dead on, the remains of their makeshift target raining down on Steve's head.

His shoulder twitches in pain when Steve giggles and he freezes. Steve notices, of course. "Are you okay, Tony? What's wrong?" But Tony smiles and shrugs it off.

Later, in his own quarters, he can't get his shirt off quick enough. And there it is, a small brown root, still growing on his skin. By morning, the root has a stem and a few twigs, little leaves are sprouting from its biggest branches and it looks like it may grow onto his chest. He supposes it's pretty. It could've been much worse, a shield on his face or wings on his ears or whatever else Tony's sleepdeprived brain had dreamed up ever since his skin started itching.

It's nice.

By evening, he doesn't think it's nice anymore. It just won't stop growing. The stem reaches well past his collarbone now, the branches are encircling his arc reactor as if they're trying to cradle it in a bed of leaves and there are small flowers blooming on some of them. It looks like he walked right through a hippie dreamland.

He puts his shirt on and forgets about it for the day.

Until he gets reminded rather forcefully. Naturally, it's Natasha who notices first. They're having a quiet evening for once, the lounge smells of takeaway pizza and curry and everyone's more or less asleep. Tony is listening to Steve's tale of his newest painting, including a detailed explanation for the streaks of paint the process left on his arm that just won't go away, when Natasha's hand suddenly shoots up and catches Tony's elbow. Her eyes turn into slits as she focuses on his shoulder where his shirt is not quite covering the beginnings of a few roots. "What's that?" she asks, but it's not really a question and it doesn't sound like one. The room goes even quieter than before. Tony attempts a laugh, but it comes out like a cough and now everyone's staring at him. "It's my new tattoo, you like it?" She raises a perfect eyebrow but it's Clint who says something first. "Woah, when did that happen? You dog, have you been seeing someone?" "Yes. Fury. We're getting married next month." "WHAT?!" Tony sighs and stands up, disentangling himself from Steve's legs that somehow always end up on his lap. "Look, it doesn't matter." "But-" "Clint, it doesn't matter. That's all." The others share a few glances, Steve is frowning, Bruce is scratching absentmindedly at a spot behind his ear, Thor is trying to fit a whole slice of pizza into his mouth (he's been distracted since Loki fell into the void), Natasha looks like she's already figured out who it is and Clint is still shaken up from the Fury Comment.

For just a second, Tony considers telling them.

But it's just a second and it passes.

He nearly burns his hand off when Steve says "I have another tattoo", but Dummy catches the blowtorch before it sets everything on fire. "How long have you been there?" Steve smiles slightly. "A while. You didn't hear anything I just said, did you?"

Tony turns around and really looks at Steve. He's nervous, that much is obvious. Hopeful maybe, like someone who's desperately holding onto something but trying to let go at the same time. It doesn't seem to be working. "Sorry, sorry. Could you ... repeat that?"

"Long or short version?" Tony scratches at a streak of oil on his cheek. "... short? For now?" Steve nods and blushes and then squares his shoulders like he's posing for a magazine. "I have another tattoo."

Tony's heart does a backflip. "Y-you - really? How does that work? I mean..." he gestures to his wrist where the lipstick is clearly still bright red and shiny. Steve shrugs. "I don't know. I just... got another tattoo and that's it."

"Okay, so let's just ignore the scientific impossibility of this. Nice. Then why are you telling me this? Shouldn't you be with the one it's fo- Oh."

Steve's blush reaches his neck and he hides his face in his hands. "I know i know, it's stupid, i just... thought you'd like to know." he peeks through his fingers and is met with the biggest shiteating grin he's ever seen. "Tony? What-"

"You like me!"

Steve frowns. "Well. Yes? I thought that much was obvious?" "Obvious?!? Are you kidding me?" "Tony, what do you-" "Can I see it?"

Steve just looks at him. And then he rolls up the sleeve of his jumper, very very slowly. The paint is still there. Red and gold, in strange swirls and brushstrokes, as if Steve accidentally leant against one of his paintings.

It looks beautiful.

"So it wasn't just paint." Steve shakes his head with a small smile "No. I thought it was just very resistent to soap and scrubbing at first, but... it won't budge and- Tony. What are you doing." Tony is very obviously removing his shirt, but that's not what Steve is asking - When the shirt is finally tossed to some faraway corner of the workshop, Steve's eyes widen to a very unhealthy size and he splutters: "Wow, that's big." Tony giggles and mumbles "that's what she said" but Steve doesn't seem to be listening.

Tony's tattoo has grown a lot these past few days. The branches carry ripe apples now, the leaves are a healthy deep green and the arc reactor is fully encircled.

"Wow."

"Right? Guess I like you more than I'd originally planned." He's going for nonchalance, but it's clearly lost on Steve, who looks up to Tony's face so fast he's lucky he doesn't get whiplash.

"Me."

Tony's smile falls. "Yes...? Who else could it be?" For a few seconds, the only sound to be heard is Dummy's confused whirring. "You - that is for me?" "I think I already said that, yes." Steve gulps. "But. But why an appletree?" "Really? That's the first thing that comes to your mind? Because I don't know, okay, maybe you're just an apple kinda guy. You know, as in wholesome American families. I don't know." Steve's hand twitches towards Tony's chest. "Can I -" "Go ahead."

The moment Steve's finger makes contact with one of the apples, a few more branches reach around the arc reactor and create an even tighter net, as if holding in Tony's wildly beating heart. Steve sucks in a sharp breath. "It's still growing!" Tony smiles. "Anything I could say to that would surpass the limit of sap I can take for a day." Steve's blush deepens and he raises his head to meet his eyes."Say it anyway?" "I ... I think if I'm very unlucky, it might never stop growing. At least if ... I manage to keep you around?" There's something beneath his words, something he doesn't dare to say, but Steve hears it anyway.

The paint on his right forearm pulses in deep red to the beat of his heart and he smiles when a few sprinkles of gold extend up to his elbow. "I think you'll do just fine."

Over the years, their tattoos grow.

Steve's gains colours, a diverse palette of Anthony Stark: The brown of his eyes on his upper arm, a few sprinkles of grey in the deep chestnut on his wrist, darker patches of skin on his shoulder, and the dusty rose of his lips right over his elbow, until he has a complete sleeve of brown and red and gold and every other colour that is Tony Stark. He loves wearing tanktops now, although Darcy declares it a crime in fashion about two weeks in.

Tony only smiles. He smiles a lot these days, can't bring himself to stop when his appletree grows stronger everyday, leaves bright and branches thick and when their little daughter says Daddy for he first time and the swings appear on the strongest one and when tattooed birds settle down in the shelter of his chest, the second set of swings already itching on his skin.

And when Steve hugs him tight on the day of Pepper's wedding and asks if he's okay, he touches his chest where his arc reactor lies safe and sound in a bed of leaves and apples and says he's fine.

And for the first time it's not a lie.

Hope you liked it ♥

(Also hi @ir0nshield I’m tagging you because you’re the only one I know who ships them ^^)

#Stony #Captain America #Iron Man #Steve Rogers #Tony Stark #bruce x natasha #clint x natasha #thorki #darcy lewis #soulmates #au #fanfiction #my stories

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writinggeisha · 5 years

Link

Shakespeare said “The eyes are the window to your soul.” When he first coined the phrase, it was considered deep and meaningful. It was, and still is, but you’d better not use it in your writing. Nowadays it’s considered cliché, even though Shakespeare’s premise has withstood the test of time.

Beware of clichés.

If a word or phrase seems like a cliché, it probably is. Look it up in a thesaurus or dictionary and mull over what it means. With a little effort, you can create an alternative that readers will remember.

Check Google, remembering to use quote marks around phrases. If you find 500,000 instances of baby-blue eyes, it’s overused. However, 6,000 results for hyacinth-blue eyes is encouraging. Try jellyfish-blue eyes. Even more promising.

Every cliché started its journey as a memorable phrase. Readers loved it and repeated it, others joined them, and so on … and so on …

Why should you concentrate on eyes?

Eyes broadcast emotions. A person might be able to hide a smirk or pout behind a hand, but the micro-movements of the eyes, eyelids, and brows will usually reveal the truth behind an emotionless face.

That’s part of the reason authors focus (pun intended) on eyes: eye colors, eye movements, arching brows, blinks and winks, and crow’s feet, to name a few. Can you hope to create something new and memorable when millions of writers are trying to do the same?

Yes.

View the adjectives and descriptions in this post, and utilize them as seeds.

Ready to go?

Consider color.

How often will readers tolerate emerald-green orbs, bottomless pools of blue, or doe-brown eyes?

Once.

Your task is to connect with your readers, not to bore them with the same-old, same-old.

While you search for inspiration, remember that nobody has irises of a single color. Go to YouTube, Google Images, or your favorite clip art sites. Scrutinize close-ups. You’ll notice a blend of colors that when viewed from a distance seem uniform.

The closer your protagonists move to one another, the more detail they’ll be able to notice in eyes. The description of an intimate encounter or a face-to-face meeting of enemies can intensify by describing the passion or fire with colors and patterns.

Start with basic hues such as those in the following list. Then add flecks, streaks, or speckles of a different color.

Blue Baby blue, blue-jay blue, bluebell, blueberry, bluebird, bruise blue, china blue, cornflower blue, crystal blue, denim, electric blue, forget-me-not blue, gunmetal blue, ice blue, indigo, lagoon, lake, laser blue, lilac blue, lobelia blue, ocean, river, robin’s-egg blue, sapphire, sky blue, steel blue, ultramarine

Black Anthracite, coal black, crow black, ebony, grease black, ink, jet, leather, metal, midnight, night black, obsidian, oil-slick black, onyx, pitch black, raven, sable, smoky, sooty, spider, velvet black

Brown Acorn, almond, amber, auburn, autumn, Bambi, beige, brandy, bronze, buckeye, camel, champagne, chestnut, chocolate, cognac, cookie, copper, cork, desert-sand brown, drab, ecru, espresso, fawn, football brown, ginger, golden, hazel, honey, kiwi, loam, mahogany, maroon, muddy, nut brown, peanut, pigskin brown, rust, sepia, sienna, taffy, tan, taupe, tawny, teddy-bear brown, topaz, tourmaline, umber, walnut, wheat, whiskey

Grey Aluminum, ash, battleship, boulder, carbon, cement grey, charcoal grey, cloud grey, crater grey, dove, elephant, exhaust, granite, graphite, gravel, gunmetal grey, iron, knife, lead, leaf green, mercury, meteor, mummy, nail, nickel, pepper, pewter, pigeon, rat, sea green, shadow, shovel, silver, slate, slug, smoke, steel, stone, stormy, tank, sword, wax

Green Army, artichoke, asparagus, avocado, blue green, bottle green, camouflage green, cat’s-eye green, chartreuse, clover, cyan, electric, emerald, fern, forest green, grass green, jade, jelly, jasper, leaf green, LED green, lime, mint, moss, neon, olive, pear, Perrier-bottle green, pine, sea green, shamrock, spring green, tea green, teal, viridian, yellow green

Once again, consider the basics and mold them for your purposes.

How else could you describe almond-shaped eyes? Bloodshot or filmy eyes?

We are all born with specific eye shapes, but a protagonist might have plastic surgery to change that. Plot twist?

Why would eyes become bloodshot or filmy? Sub plot.

A Allergic, almond, astigmatic

B Beady, bloodshot, bulging

C Cat-like, clear, cross-eyed

D Deep-set

E Elliptical, elongated

F Farsighted, feline, filmy

G Gimlet-eyed, goggle-eyed

M Moon-eyed, myopic

N Nearsighted

O Obscured by cataracts, oriental, oval, owlish

P Pale, pink

R Rheumy, ruddy, round

S Sensitive, shark-like, shortsighted, slanted, slitted, sloe-eyed, sunken

T Tired, twenty-twenty vision

U Unresponsive

W Wall-eyed, watery, wide

Eyelids might be:

Crinkled, folded, heavy, hooded, monolid, raw, swollen, wrinkled

Or maybe they’re almost invisible.

Did you remember the lashes?

Eyelashes could be:

Dark, dense, full, long, lush, luxurious, pale, sparse, sweeping, thick

Some men have eyelashes that rival those of a make-up model. How would that make them feel?

Brows enhance descriptions.

Try these adjectives:

Angled, arched, aristocratic, bestial, boomerang, burly, bushy, dark, dramatic, drawn on, elegant, fierce, full, heavy, knitted, level, painted, plucked, raised, refined, satanic, sparse, straggling, straight, sweeping, thin, triangular, tufted, wing-like, wispy

Eyes and brows move.

Verbs to show motions of eyes, gazes, lashes, and brows include:

A Anchor on, assess

B Bat, blink

C Caress, cock, cruise

D Devour, dip, drill

F Flay, flicker, flutter, focus, follow

I Inspect, inventory

L Lie still, lift, linger, lower

M Meander

N Narrow

P Peruse, probe, pry

R Raise, rake

S Scan, search, shift, shoot, sight, slam shut, squeeze shut, stray

T Tilt, track, travel, tremble

U Unglue

W Wander, wink, wrench away

Does your protagonist wear glasses or use other eye-assist devices?

Few people have perfect eyesight, but it might not be obvious nowadays with wide access to contact lenses and laser surgery. Exploit poor vision to produce hurdles for your protagonists. For example, they could lose contact lenses in embarrassing places or experience side effects of laser surgery; or they might use eye-assist devices to view things at a distance.

Consider the multitude of props you can use for your characters. Here are a few:

Bifocals, contact lenses, glasses, goggles, horn-rimmed glasses, lorgnette, lorgnon, loupe, monocle, opera glasses, pince-nez, progressive lenses, spectacles, sunglasses

Also see Other Ways to Say “Roll the Eyes” and 125 Ways to Say “Look” (as in “to See”).

But maybe you want a single word or phrase.

If you need a list of straightforward adjectives, try these on for size. Many of the words will break the Show, Don’t Tell rule, but they might be exactly what you need when trying to cut words.

A Angry, anxious, astute, avid

B Beseeching, bewildered, blank, blazing, bright, bug-eyed, burning

C Chaotic, chilly, close-set, cold, come-hither, commanding, cool, crystal

D Dancing, dazzling, dead, demonic, disapproving, discerning, disdainful, disoriented, dispassionate, dissatisfied, drowsy, dull

E Emotionless

F Fierce, fiery, flashing, flat, flickering, frigid, frightened

G Gleaming, glinting, glistening, glittering, glowing, gooey, guileless

H Hard, hollow, hooded

I Icy, impassive, imploring, innocent, intelligent, intense, intent, inviting, iridescent, irritated

J Judicious

L Lecherous, lifeless, limpid, liquid, luminescent, lustrous

M Magnetic, mellow, mocking, monstrous, murky, mysterious

N Narrowed, numb

O Oily, opalescent

P Penetrating, piercing, prominent

Q Quick, quiet

R Remorseful, riveting

S Sardonic, saturnine, seductive, sexy, sharp, shimmering, shining, shiny, shrewd, skeptical, sleepy, slick, small, snapping, sneaky, soft, sparkling, squinting, steely, stretched, striking, surprised, sympathetic

T Twinkling

U Unreadable, unwavering

V Velvet

W Warm, wide-set, wild

#links #tools #advice #word lists

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jbankai89 · 7 years

Text

Fic: The Stag and The Snake, Part I, Chapter Two - Negotiations

My good friend and braintwin @kuriquinn suggested I try posting my actual fics on Tumblr, rather than just linking them, so I'm giving it a try. For those of you following my work on AO3 or AFF, these will be reposts until I'm caught up and everything is posted. :)

Title: The Stag and the Snake

Author: JBankai89

Status: Complete, Part 1: 12/12 Part 2: 22/22

Rating: Part 1: PG-13, Part 2: NC-17

Fandom: Harry Potter

Pairing: Harry Potter/Draco Malfoy, Sirius Black/Remus Lupin

Achievements: None

Warnings: Violence and Gore, Violent Sexual Assault, Minor Character Death

Summary: Vernon Dursley is enraged with the prospect of raising a boy he never wanted. Petunia recalls something that might help them get the child out of their hair more quickly. Overcoming their recalcitrance for anything magical, they invoke The Rite of Betrothal. Who will Harry be forced to marry, and will he be able to cope with all the demands it will entail?

Word Count: Part 1: 46 772 Part 2: 85 442