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zgvlt · 2 years

Text

aimer rook hunt x reader

summary: Rook, appreciator of stage plays, finds himself enthralled by you, an ensemble member. Though he finds you beautiful from the very beginning, he comes to discover the difference between attraction and love

author's note: rook and i have the same hobby: stage play appreciation, and i've been really into this french musical lately called "romeo et juliette", and a song from there titled "aimer" has been stuck in my head for two, three weeks now? it birthed this

tags: gender neutral reader, sfw, fluff, friends to lovers, 7.2k+ words

you can also read this on AO3

It isn't so much love at first sight as it is attraction at first sight, something both special and not. It is special in the sense that there’s always something new and wonderful about each person he finds himself attracted to, and, for he who calls himself fickle with love, not special in the sense that the experience is not out of the ordinary by any means either.

Watching a play, for instance, would result in his attention being grabbed by multiple actors one after the other even as he evaluated the show as a whole. He simply could not help it, the shining passion and star power performers emanated on stage was incomparable to anything else!

Though perhaps it is a little unusual, Rook thinks, to draw his eyes towards a member of the ensemble while the lead actress is singing her heart out on stage. Singing an incredibly beautiful ballad, an award-winning one, might he add.

Now, he absolutely adores ensemble members; lovely as you are, you're not the first case of his attention being taken by one! Especially in productions like this, it was clear they had unmatched energy and dedication despite not being the leads. They were essential in bringing the world on stage to life, to make their fellow actors stand out, but in a scene like this, tone somber and spotlight on one being alone, he should not be looking at you.

But he looks at you.

Is it because you’re beautiful? You were most definitely beautiful, and he would be willing to tell you as much later should he get the chance, but so is everyone else on stage, thus that is not why he looks at you.

At this point in his life, Rook would describe himself as a master of stage play appreciation, and as much as he can praise, he can criticize all the same, and… your expression. It is your expression that draws his attention to you, for the simple fact that you should not have much of one present on your face.

Your fellow ensemble members are straight faced and still, unemotive until cued to be otherwise, but you, oh you, doe-eyed in amazement, looking just as enthralled as the audience as you watch your fellow cast member sing, a rookie mistake that only an actor making their stage début could make.

Still, mistake as it was, the pure adoration on your face, genuineness clear as a blue sky on the sunniest summer’s day, he could not help but adore it. How poetic was it that among a sea of people faking their emotions, people pretending to be one or the other, there you stood showing something real.

Among the cast, it is clear to him you are the baby bird amongst them, the little fledgling who cannot wait to be able to soar skies as vast as the others have. Would you be able to reach those heights? Rook isn’t completely sure, how could he be from one performance alone? Still, he thinks he would love to see you try and do so.

As an actor, you have much more to experience, but thinking of your potential brings him excitement, and your visible excitement he finds adorable, so who could blame him if he comes looking for you after the play? He’s more than ready to talk your ear off about the performance and give his comments, mostly praise of course, and he’s enthused to have spotted you backstage.

You don’t notice him approaching. It’s understandable when he’s still quite a distance away, and he generally makes sure most creatures hardly ever do see him coming, but he slows his tracks anyway. He doesn’t do it to not alarm you, a shocked expression would have been delightful to witness as well, but more so to have more time to observe you without your knowledge.

You should be reveling in your success, the collective success of opening night, but you’re not— you stand away from your fellow castmates, slumped against the wall as though you were to perform a requiem. Oh sorrow, what a sweetly cruel mistress she must be to try and visit you at a time like this! It is why Rook decides to step in, to shine a light so that she who is unwanted may depart.

“Petit oiseau, this dark cloud looming above you, what could be causing so?” he gives you credit for not being too alarmed by his sudden presence, though your feathers do appear quite ruffled. “What is it that ails your soul, that which prevents you from celebrating tonight’s sh-”

“Petit… what?” you interrupted, some of the previous tension on your face leaving to make way for perplexity. “Who are you?”

He meant to answer, but you suddenly cleared your throat before he could so much as open his mouth.

“Oh, um, I mean… Do you need me for something, sir? Or, rather, monsieur?”

How cute. Were you suddenly worried he was some important figure who shouldn’t be crossed?

“No one you should worry too much about, but if you must know I am Rook Hunt, le chasseur d’amour, at your service.”

“Amour? Huh? Er, it’s nice to meet you, Monsieur Hunt. Oh, right, as for myself,” there’s bewilderment evident on your face but you nod along anyway, introducing yourself as well. For an actor, it’s amusing how you choose to not hide your judgment of him. You also don’t seem to want to answer his previous question, thus Rook decides to change his approach.

“Is this your first show? You looked quite skittish, my—”

“Was it really that obvious?”

Your defenses had dropped quicker than Rook had anticipated, needless worriedness shown in your face, traces of nervousness and the like seeping through your tone and voice. He had wanted to placate you, but instead you had wound up startled, almost like the docile but wild critters he would often come across in the forest.

It is rare for him to think so, but perhaps he had initiated this conversation the wrong way.

“Non, non, I am simply more observant than most.” A minimization of his true abilities, but that was unimportant to the current situation. “But you have no reason to fret, oui? Mistakes can be avoided and skills can be improved, but you’ll be fine as long as you continue to carry one thing through each and every performance of yours.”

“...Which is?”

“Fire,” he responds, “blazing, burning, fire— in your heart, and in your soul, and in your spirit. Set the stage alight and dance in its flames, so that with just a glimpse the audience may ignite.”

“Fire,” you repeat, as if to taste the word for yourself, to see if the word burns your tongue, “do you think I have that?”

“Oui! I speak from experience, of course, for your fire has enraptured me and set me ablaze.” Rook, ever honest when it comes to this hobby he adores, does not lie. You may have a ways to go but you have it— it is your friend, dormant within, and what he wants is for you to not simply recognize it but to embrace it with all that you have.

“Even talking to you now, as you are, as you begin to recover your pep and passion, I find myself melting-”

“Okay! I think I’ve heard enough for tonight!” You wave your arms around wildly. “My castmates might be looking for me, so… you know.”

Rook could pout at how often you interrupt him, not just once or twice but thrice, but he accepts it all the same. He has other people left to give his praises to, after all! The other actors, the costume designers, the pit orchestra… Oh, he simply couldn’t wait!

“It’s a pity to bid you farewell so soon, but if it can’t be helped then I shall-”

“Wait- oh, sorry, I keep interrupting you, don’t I?” Rook couldn’t help but laugh at that, not that he had any plans of preventing himself in the first place. At least you were self-aware. “I just wanted to say thank you. You were right— it was my first show, and I knew I made a few mistakes… but thanks for cheering me up, even though I’m just an ensemble-”

“Oh, but there is no just, is there?” It’s his turn to interrupt you, and he smiles while doing so. “Just like anyone else, you’re still bringing this story to life. If you were just someone, you wouldn’t be trying to work so hard, would you?”

“Well, no-”

“Then continue to work hard no matter what, and if you want to expand your horizons and do even more roles, work even harder. There is nothing quite like the beauty of someone dedicating themselves to whatever it is they’re doing.” With that, he bids you adieu, tipping his hat in farewell. “I hope to see you on stage once more, little bird.”

“A while ago, that petit you said… little bird… hold on… monsieur!”

Before he fully turns away he manages to catch you blink your pretty little eyes once, then twice, and at thrice he knows the realization has finally sunk in. He can’t help but grin widely, sneaking one more look at your expression, before leaving to chase after another member of the cast. Yes, he would definitely like to see you again soon.

When he had received the playbill for tonight’s show, it was a delightful surprise to see your name printed on the paper. To be casted in another show, how wonderful to see you continue reaching towards an inspiring dream! Ahh, if only he had known you were performing tonight, he would’ve prepared a rose, no, a bouquet to congratulate you!

And, oh, congratulate you he must! After that splendid performance of yours? He could shed a tear or two at your zest and zeal, beautiful, simply magnifique! It is why when the curtain falls he cannot help but jump up from his seat to look for you, a thousand words that cannot help themselves from wanting to pour all out at once.

“Monsieur Hunt!” He spots you before you spot him, but you greet him before he does you. Oh, even after you’ve long left the stage you are simply beautiful, residual gleam and glow from the high of the show. He would not deny there was some beauty, a heartaching beauty in seeing you upset, but you are simply radiant as you beam at him. A bit of that fire has simmered out, likely out of exhaustion, but your beauty is blinding in the way the sun is, and what is the sun if not a ball of fire?

Gas. Plasma. It’s a big ball of gas and plasma, but he’ll push scientific accuracy aside for poetic imagery.

“Le petit oiseau remembers me? Who uses the language of love to address me? Had I perhaps come across a shooting star, and if not perhaps a four leaf clover, for how could such fortune be bestowed upon me? A hunter of love I may be, but still a humble man who is simply undeserving, who falters at-”

“Sorry, I’ll be interrupting you again,” you had the courtesy of informing him this time, laughing softly as you pulled him elsewhere, “because I’m not sure if you’re allowed to be here backstage, so let’s go somewhere more hidden.”

He was, actually. Allowed backstage, that is. With how long he’s possessed his hobby, he’s managed to be well-acquainted with a few people in the world of stage plays, including the director of the show you were in. He wasn’t going to tell you that, though, deciding it would be more entertaining to let you have your fun with this little secret.

“Oh my, merely our second encounter and we’re already having a clandestine rendezvous?”

“Monsieur,” you sound a little exasperated this time, miniscule warmth disappearing as the tips of your fingers escaped the grasp of his gloved hand, “and for the record, I called you that because you seemed to prefer it, given how you talk. Should I just stick to sir or mister?”

“You may call me as you wish, for whichever way you choose to address me, they all carry the sweetness of honey, the brilliance of silver bells, the melody of a song— and oh, how melodious was the song you sang tonight! I’ve heard you sing in a chorus before, but to hear your voice singled out was simply a gratifying experience like no other!”

You looked more than a little embarrassed at his proclamations, feigning a cough into the palm of your hand. He wonders if your cheeks, or at the very least your ears, have heated up. “I had five lines in that song… It wasn’t that big of a deal…”

“Oh but it was, wouldn’t you say? That’s five more lines than last time and, if I do say so myself, your fiery flames of passion burned five times brighter as well! Fire no longer a simple, common red, but a dazzling white! Très bien! You should be more proud, mon ami!”

“Mon ami? Really, all this time I thought you were flirting! So you really just talk like that to everyone?" You said, more to yourself than him, with a shake of your head, and Rook had to wonder if he was simply romanticizing the scenario in his head or if you were actually even the slightest bit disappointed.

Is there one scenario he prefers over the other?

“But you’re right… again. Seriously, are you some type of expert in theatre? Actor? Director? Maybe a stage manager or PA? Professional critic? Ugh, it’s the last one, isn’t it? You’re here during opening night, and last time, too…”

“Non, no professional!” he laughed as he watched you go from skittery to relieved, like a nervous prey accidentally caught in one of his traps only to be released. How cute! “I suppose you could call me a critic, though I much prefer to be called an appreciator of the arts of the stage.”

“So you heavily analyze shows?”

“Yes, exactly. You’ll find it very rare for me to have missed a detail. I could even recite to you every scene which you appeared in the background of.”

“I see…”

You were muttering something underneath your breath, something unintelligible considering even he couldn’t understand what exactly you were saying, but when you decidedly looked up from the ground to him your eyes had shone with resolve. It was a determination the origins of which he had no clue of, but one he could admire all the same.

“Then could you tell me? What you think about the show? As in depth as possible?” you suddenly asked. “It doesn’t have to be about me, it can be in general! I just, you know, want to listen to what you have to say.”

“Really? You want to listen to me talk?” Rook found himself a little stunned at that. He was well aware he was quite the talkative person, truly an understatement, and that most people tried to find a way to either get away from him or to stop him from talking on and on and on and-

“I must warn you, my friend, it might take me hours to simply finish talking about the first act. Perhaps, if we were to discuss the play in its entirety, right up to what I think about the play in comparison to previous adaptations I’ve watched in the past, it might take me until tomorrow’s sunset.”

“...Then give me your phone number. It’s getting late, so you can tell me all about it through text.”

A phone number? A phone number! That was unexpected, but so, so very interesting. It was more than clear to him now that you were just as worthy a person to observe, or rather get to know, even off the stage. If you were responding in kind instead of merely tolerating his presence or chasing him away, that must have meant you felt similarly, no?

“Fufufu. The little bird has gotten quite assertive, oui? Ahh, but that side of you is quite beautiful too, is it not?”

“Monsieur Hunt, has anyone ever told you you give mixed signals?”

“Not exactly. I’m a fickle person who grows absolutely enraptured at anything beautiful, and most people seem to know so.”

Your expression turned pensive as soon as he said that, but before he could ask if something had been wrong you turned to look at him once more, seemingly excited over something.

“So do I fit in that standard? A person you find beautiful?”

“But of course!” Had his words failed to convey as much if you had to even ask? Next time for sure, he will have to do better. In fact, he should begin preparing a few poems just to really instill it in your mind.

“Then that’s good enough for me!”

It’s rare for Rook to be at a loss for words but he finds himself in that position. It was only for a few seconds, yes, but that was a few seconds more than usual. The problem is that Rook can’t quite pinpoint if it was because of the uncertainty of your intentions, or the bright smile that had returned on your features, blooming even without the light of the sun.

It’s adorable, Rook thinks, how you refuse to tell him what your latest role is. When you tell him you successfully bagged another one for a new play he’s so excited for you, excited to see you on stage once more, but you refuse to tell him any details whatsoever! Oh it’s excruciating, having to wait over two months to find out—

Or he could just search it up. If you, as he expected based on your cryptic messages, achieved your goal of getting a role with even more speaking lines than the last, he’d probably be able to spot your name next to what character you’d be playing.

But there was no fun in that, was there? Clearly you had wanted to surprise him, so he would not let your efforts go to waste! He will let himself be surprised.

In turn, he would be surprising you by not telling you when he planned on showing up— he just hoped it would be a day you were actually there instead of being replaced by an understudy. He would more than likely find a way to enjoy the production nonetheless, but as a fourth year he was making a considerable trip just to see you, so he at least hoped the stars would align and… on second thought, Rook might not want to rely on fate, at least not this time.

Fate was romantic but she loved missed connections as much as she loved connecting people.

Opening night. It was at an inopportune time, a weekday where he would have been tired from attending to his studies, and the day after would be filled with research once more, but he could do it for you, he thinks.

You have grown to be a most dear… You are someone he is very endeared to.

He still won’t tell you when he’ll be there, but he certainly was going to up the ante when appearing before you. By that he meant preparing a bouquet of the nicest flowers he could find for sale that day, a bouquet he planned to present to you as soon as the curtain call finished. After all, it was in poor form to give it to you on stage, when the attention should be on you and your fellow actors rather than him.

Besides, he thinks the reactions you have backstage, particularly when you’re not holding back at all, are just as lovely to look at as the ones on stage, if not more so.

“Oi! Your boyfriend’s here! With flowers for you!” Someone, the dance captain of the show, if he remembered right, called for you.

Unsurprisingly, more than one head turned to look at him. He doesn’t blame them, not at all, it is only natural to be curious about the affairs of your fellow castmate, someone you spent weeks practicing with for hours on end, although…

“Oh, that’s the boyfriend you’re always texting? The one you were talking about a while ago?”

“Haha… hah. Already told you, not my boyfriend…”

“Right, okay, not that I believe you, but if you’re serious then I can go for him, right?”

“I’m sorry?!”

Rook stood there, shirt still nicely pressed and flowers still in hand, watching you bicker with a few of your castmates with fond amusement, one he knows must show on his face. He could wait for a minute or two longer, especially if that meant getting to see more exciting expressions out of you. How could it be that even something like frustration looked beautiful on you?

“Sorry for taking so long, Rook,” at some point you decided to just make your escape by running up to him abruptly, tugging on the long sleeve of his shirt. “We can talk now, just ignore them! Please ignore them, actually, unless it’s play-related. If it’s me-related and they’re not complimenting me, ignore it. Although maybe we should move somewhere? What if we get eavesdropped on? Maybe around-”

“Let’s have dinner together, then.”

You paused in your tracks, head tilted sideways, and Rook took that chance to place the bouquet into your free and waiting arms. Thankfully you don’t drop it, your hands quickly moving to hold the present properly.

“Huh?”

“Is it so surprising? Or do you have plans to celebrate with other people? If so, I-”

“No, no! No one! There’s no one! We can get dinner!” you interrupted, rather hastily in fact. It was quite endearing that you were making sure he wouldn’t be offended whatsoever. “I was just, you know, I thought you might want to stay back a bit more. Talk to the others, like you usually do? I was for certain you were going to serenade the cast with a few poems…”

Oh.

That… had not even crossed his mind, actually. Not to say he wasn’t appreciative of the production as a whole because he was! Everyone was spectacular, especially for an original as compared to an approved and well-loved adaptation, and everyone was absolutely beautiful on stage, but…

“I simply couldn’t, not when it’s opening night! I don’t want to take up their time, especially when I already got to spend 2 hours admiring them from my seat!” he said as he led the both of you towards the exit. “Plus, in exchange, I get to spend more time with my favorite performer of the night!”

“You don’t have to butter me up, Rook. If you want an autograph, or maybe a prop after the show closes, I’ll get it for you. I’ll even relay, word for word, every praise you want to give them. As long as mine’s the longest!” you winked at him afterwards, and oh, when it comes to you his luck has been spectacular, hasn’t it? You showed him your charming side just like that? For free? Without him having to lay down any traps or bait? No having to catch you off-guard?

“But was I really your favorite? Come on now… I know I actually got to sing one full solo song this time, a whole four minutes of it, but-”

“Of course you are!” he exclaimed, loud enough for him to spot a head or two turn towards your direction. “Do you think me a liar now? Oh, what pain you’ve come to bring me, after all I’ve done for you!”

He watches you let out a breathy exhale, a barely hidden laugh hidden underneath as you roll your eyes at him. Unfortunately for you, there’s no hiding that smile of yours, the truth of your emotions shining through teeth threatening to show themselves and quivering corners of the lips.

“Dramatic as ever! I was just making sure. It’s fine if you have a different character you like more!” So you said, but there was a certain skip to your step just now, like the beginning steps to a dance with nothing but the street and a lamp as your setting, and something told him if he had mentioned anyone else as his favorite he would not have gotten to see that just now.`

“Tell me, would I have given you those flowers if you weren’t my favorite?”

“Absolutely! You got them for me because I’m, as you would say, ton ami, and not because you knew what role I was going to play. You could have totally not liked the character, no matter how well I played them.”

Now that simply wasn’t true! Call it favoritism because that was exactly what it was. He was no professional to score and rank each actor, so was it not natural to simply enjoy and find your favorite person among the cast the most captivating?

“I’ve liked you in every role you’ve played so far, even when two out of the three were ensemble parts!” He made sure to remind you of that fact. He was a fan of yours from the very beginning, why would that change so suddenly? Why else would he come all this way for you? He would support you to the ends of the earth, especially when it was clear that you were improving your craft day by day, that slowly but surely you were steps closer to fulfilling your dream.

“I’d get you those flowers regardless of what role you played. No matter who you were, I knew you'd be beautiful up there.”

“Rook, you are so…!” you groaned into the palm of your hand, “ugh, never mind, I don’t have the words for it!”

He chuckled, “That’s alright. I’m certain I have more than enough words for the both of us. Now, will you let me praise your performance properly? I’ve been waiting to do so all night.”

“Do you not get tired of doing that?” you asked, your previously playful mood settling down into something much calmer and subdued, matching the mostly quiet night outside. “Praising me practically every day… or just, praising everyone, I guess.”

Did he get tired? No, not really— rather, he would say it was something that energized him. Finding beauty came to him easily, saying so was down to his honesty, but actually having his compliments received so gleefully, eagerly, and maybe even a little greedily by you… he could not get enough of it. More than seeing you on stage, it was your warm reception to his words that had him coming back to tell you over and over again.

“Well, I like hearing it, so I’m glad you do so. No one and nothing motivates me the way you do!” Your laughter comes like a cool breeze on a hot and humid day, one he instinctively relishes because he knows it’ll be gone quickly, like a flash of lightning. “Speaking of which, I haven’t thanked you yet, have I?”

Thanked him? What for? The dinner either of you had yet to partake in?

“Come closer for a bit.” A huntsman, for the most part, must always stay calm and collected when their prey crosses their path, no matter how exciting, but he cannot stop his heart from racing at the sight of you nearing him. Just what are you doing now?

He closes his eyes, just for a few seconds. You chuckle slightly in return, before pressing a kiss on both of his cheeks— no, not even quite a kiss, but the barely there press of your cheeks against his own, almost like a ghost. A social kiss. A belated greeting. Nothing special.

Except it is special. It is, to him. It’s the first time you’ve ever done anything like that, and firsts are always special aren’t they?

“I know you’re busy, so thanks for coming all this way to see the show. You’re probably one of the few people who bother coming to watch me… you’re easily the most thoughtful friend I’ve ever had.”

It’s common for people to heat up when discussing a lover, or confessing to a crush, but it might have been Rook’s first time to see someone bloom so daintily, not so much in color but more in movement, lips etching upwards so gently while talking about friendship.

“My dear friend, Monsieur Rook…”

Rook had not wanted to do anything, say anything knowing how his words could easily be interpreted in certain ways, so he stayed silent. You don’t follow up on it, moving on to talking about something else, so you’re okay with his rare lack of a reply.

Or maybe, just like your skills in theatre, you’d gotten better at hiding things from even someone as perceptive as him.

He is a fickle, fickle man who pursues anyone beautiful, yet when his epitome of beauty stands in front him, merely a few steps away and willing to be caught, he cannot bear to take it.

Rook’s running after a prey who cannot be caught— time. If sorrow was always cruel but not ever present, and fate was always present but not always cruel, then time… time was always cruel, but she was most cruel when she wasn’t present.

Closing night. Closing night. Had it really taken him until closing night?

You called him opening night. You refused to show your face on video but you called him, said it was the first thing you did after the curtain call. You said you looked for him instinctively in the crowd and behind the stage, forgetting that he told you he wouldn’t be able to make it. Or maybe you thought he said it to surprise you, just like he did last time.

But he isn’t there, and you tell him it’s okay when he apologizes. He believes you when you say you’re fine, believes that you’re happy because you think you did the best you could, but belief isn’t enough to stop the ache for good.

You don’t sound hurt but you do sound lonely, and though he tries he finds it’s different assuring you when he’s not there in person. He wishes he could praise you too, but praise based on assumptions was hardly ever as good as those based on experiences, and he thinks you wouldn’t appreciate them as much.

He tells you he’ll make it next time and you believe him, outlandish he may be but dishonest he is not, but the one week turns two turns three and he still can’t make it. You understand, you tell him as much with nothing but sympathy in your voice, and again he believes you, but you stop asking if he’ll come see the new show, or really just you, soon after.

It’s frustrating, Rook thinks, and he’s hardly ever frustrated so the discomfort is disconcerting.

He’s not obligated to attend, you told him, friends or otherwise. You wouldn’t be much of a friend if you tried to force him into coming when he was too busy, you said, you wouldn’t be much of a friend if one show was all it took to break your connection to him.

But Rook’s never done any of this out of obligation. It’s not out of obligation that he visits you when he can, or that he praises you for every little thing; it’s definitely not out of obligation that he books a ticket for closing night even though he’s not sure he can make it, not out of obligation that he moves around his schedule just to make sure he can make it, not out of obligation when he finds himself dressed to the nines and most certainly not obligation when he asks to see you backstage.

It is not obligation, because Rook is a man who runs primarily on wants and desires, but it is neither out of want nor desire that he reaches for your hand either. It is need.

You don’t pull him closer, but you whisper his name, “Rook,” and he knows you want him to stay.

He speaks your name in return and you look a little stunned. “Huh, no more petit oiseau? Not even mon ami?”

“Neither really fit you anymore,” he tells you honestly, “the heart chooses the name, and it is the heart that chooses to let it go… But do you happen to like that nickname? Little bird?”

“I suppose it’s more sentimentality than the nickname itself,” Rook understands, those were his first words to you, weren’t they? “But does the heart have a new nickname for me?”

That was the thing— the heart didn’t know what to do when it came to you.

You were, by far, one of the most confusing subjects he has ever had the pleasure of observing, which was amusing a thought considering you were quite honest, if not obvious, about your attitude and feelings towards him— or feelings towards most things, but that was a topic for another time.

At this point, Rook has accepted that he is more than merely enraptured by your beauty, by you. Enchanted might have been the word for it. But was enchantment the last step before falling in love?

Aimer. To love, what is it to love? Is the beating of his heart enough a tell-tale sign?

After a minute passes, he chooses to respond, “The heart does not know yet, still troubled with indecision,” he calls it the heart, but he knows the heart has long chosen. It was the mind all along, the knowledge of the type of person that he was, preventing him from reaching a conclusion.

Was this even about nicknames anymore?

You let out a quiet laugh, and it’s only with your lack of volume that Rook remembers the two of you are still backstage, although when are the two of you not? He’s only grateful, for the sake of your potential embarrassment and his unwillingness to be seen even the least bit vulnerable, that the two of you are somewhere more secluded.

“Then the heart will eventually think of something. I mean, I remember you talking about what you called some of your schoolmates. Roi so and so, or Chevalier something… Those all sound kind of cool, right?”

You talk a bit more about his naming conventions, but Rook… he isn’t really there anymore.

“You’ve always been beautiful from the times I’ve seen you, especially on opening night, but there’s a certain kind of beauty to seeing you pour your heart out to the audience as this character one last time. You were simply magnificent, incroyable,” he closes his eyes as he says it, as though he had burned that sight of you behind his eyelids so he could relive it again and again, “but rather than satisfaction, a part of me wishes I got to see you multiple times and not just tonight.”

Your hand is still wrapped around his and he feels it clench in his grasp, “Rook, you know more than anyone else how much I appreciate you coming to see me, your company in general, but I wouldn’t have gotten mad if you didn’t.”

“I know you wouldn’t,” you’re already looking at him when he opens his eyes to turn to you, and your gaze sends shivers down his spine despite not being fiery or passionate or anything of the sort. Even now you look at him with nothing but affection, and though he’s undeserving he cannot help but etch that into his mind as well. “But the point still stands. I wish I got to see you more.”

There’s something raw and honest about how he says it, and you must realize it isn’t simply about watching you on stage anymore.

“...I’ll admit, I was disappointed, upset, and a few other petty things I’m a little embarrassed to recall,” you began to say, laughing a little at yourself, “but I just pushed away those feelings. It was stupid, and I didn’t really, you know, have the right to feel that way.”

He furrowed his brows, “Non, you don’t need the right to feel, no matter how stupid you think it is! Feelings are… complicated matters that just happen, that’s just the way they are.”

“Guess so,” you agreed rather easily, though there’s a certain shakiness to your voice that he knows you’re trying to hide, “when I saw you in the crowd a while ago, I was so excited to see you I think I almost broke character. I thought I was going to cry and I felt dumb but… ugh, I don’t know, a part of me though you might have lost interest in me, so it’s… yeah, you know.”

Rook knows you don’t want to make him feel bad for something out of his control, hence your hesitance to let him know how you feel, but the image, even just the idea of you feeling upset due to him has him in shambles. It’s one thing to see you cry on stage, but the expected ache in his heart at seeing that is far different from the wrench in his gut at even a mere somber look in your eyes.

It’s not hideous, you could never be, but he hates it all the same.

If possible, he’d like it if he never made you upset ever again.

“I could never lose interest in you,” he says. For him to lose interest would equate to him not finding beauty in you, and there was nothing more impossible in the world than that. “I’ll always be your number one fan.”

“So you’ll continue watching any plays I’m in, right?”

“Does that even have to be said? Of course I will!”

It’s a sentence with four words, with none of his signature flowery language, but you light up all the same. No, not quite the same— you’re smiling and it is as if he’s on fire, and he knows if he could manifest that flame from within and lift it up high to the sky it would rival the sun with its intensity.

If there’s nothing more he’d hate in the world than seeing you hurt, then there’s nothing he finds beautiful than seeing you happy.

Aimer. Amour. It might have been simple and obvious and crystal clear to anyone else and he laughs at the thought, but it doesn’t matter anymore, does it? That it took him nearly two years to be sure of it?

The timing is hardly right so he doesn’t say anything, merely fixing his hold on your hand to hold it more delicately, as if he was holding your heart. The both of you can wait a little longer. Rook knows what you are to him now, it’s amour.

Rook isn’t known to stick to just one place at a time, and his travels have gotten more frequent since graduating, but when you tell him you want to send him something through mail he delays any and all trips for you. He can stay in one place for a little longer if it means what he thinks it means.

There are two things in the envelope and though he knows what the other one is, recognizes the shape and the width even against the envelope, he takes the time to take in your ink-written words— every stroke and line and dot.

The paper is scented, too, clearly spritzed with some cologne or perfume and though you’ve never worn it, he would have remembered if you had, it reminds him of you all the same.

With each line he reads he feels himself trembling in excitement, exemplified by finally pulling out the present you had prepared for him.

A ticket to opening night.

He would get to see you again.

When he sees the date he promptly cancels all his plans, for that day, the day before, and at least three days after— admittedly, Rook just knows he’ll be too focused on you to the point that he’ll need to watch the play a second time just to pay attention to everyone else.

Fickle he could be at times, he’s always wanted to become a man faithful to his own heart, just like the huntsman of tales was, and though you’re quite a distance away his heart lies with you; it doesn’t matter where you end up performing, because what else can he do if not chase you?

Chasing you has always seemed easy, and he thought capturing you might be as well, but then he sees you up there, and…

He’s known for a while that you’ve long moved past being a fledgling baby bird, and even back then he’d already found you wonderful, but now… Now your passion is searing, a trail of scorching fire left in your wake, and you’re soaring the vast skies like the most radiant phoenix, one he must climb up high to even touch the wings—

No. Rook stands corrected because he thinks you’ve done more than soar the vast skies. His little songbird has become the stars themselves. Stars are a whole other entity than any beast he’d ever laid eyes on, an entity close enough to see but much too far to touch. A hunter can capture a bird just fine, but could his arrow of love reach a star?

He isn’t sure, but when you catch his eyes before the curtain comes to fall, he thinks he might give it a try.

When you drag him somewhere backstage there are a thousand things he could say or do. He could give you the flowers he’d grown and preserved just for you. He could spill his endless praises for you and you alone, the poems forming in his head by the minute simply waiting to be said. He could take you in his arms and sway you around, humming a love ballad the both of you know. He could even stop you in your tracks and lock his lips with yours, uncaring of who would be there to see.

He does none of those things, at least not until a little later. Instead, he asks you a question.

“How could one such as I obtain a star without plucking it from the sky where it now resides?” he wonders if you understand, and when you turn to look at him with wonder in your eyes he knows you do.

“You wish upon it,” your reply is quiet, as if you were telling him a secret. “Whisper that you want it to be yours, and it will give itself to you.”

There’s still much he wants to confess and flowers may bloom in his chest for how he aches to speak of his love for you, but he has the whole night and, if you’ll allow it, the day after, and the one after that, and the one after that, and for as long as you’ll have him.

“Thank you, mon étoile.”

“Your star?”

“Oui, my star, mon étoile.”

#rook hunt x reader #twst x reader #rook hunt #twisted wonderland x reader #twst x you #twst imagines #twst #twisted wonderland #nathya twst writing

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samstree · 3 years

Text

A Study in Blushing

In which Jaskier makes a surprising discovery and decides to test it out.

(tooth rotting fluff, blushing geralt, soft jaskier, love confessions, kissing, winter at kaer morhen, rated teen, 3000 words)

Also, I know witchers can't blush in canon but seriously we should all know better.

read on AO3

“Gods damn it, bard! I know Geralt tolerates all your shit because he’s in love with you, but you gotta put things back where they belong!”

Lambert grumbles something more all the while putting the training swords back on the shelf, and Jaskier’s mind stops.

The world zeroes in on the words he’s in love with you and suddenly Jaskier can’t form words.

“W...What did you—”

“I said—” Lambert throws down the last one with a clunk. “—the swords go back on the shelf!”

“Geralt...is in love with me?” Jaskier breathes, unbelieving.

Lambert pauses, “Don’t you know?”

“No...?”

“Fuck. Pretty boy can’t get his head out of his ass and now I have to suffer.”

With that, Lambert tries to shoulder past Jaskier but the bard is having none of it. “No!” he puts a hand on Lambert’s chest. “Don’t even think about it. How? Since when? And how do you know?”

Lambert mumbles something unintelligible, before sighing long-sufferingly. “It’s too obvious, Buttercup.”

“How is it obvious? Does Geralt walk around with the words ‘I’m smitten with my bard and all the grumpy face is faked’ written on his forehead? How, pray tell, is it obvious?”

“Yeah, pretty much.” Lambert, the bastard, raises an eyebrow in amusement. “Did you truly not know?”

“No!”

Jaskier is so close to grabbing Lambert by the collar just to shake some answers out of him, and finally, the youngest wolf takes pity on him.

“He looks at you differently when he thinks you are doing something cute. He trips over his words after you call him sweet names. The worst of it all—he blushes any time you are close. Blushes, like a fucking maiden. Urgh, I’m gonna throw up.”

“Oh,” Jaskier deflates, “Witchers blush?”

“See for yourself.” Lambert rolls his eyes, walking past Jaskier with a few long strides. “And put the swords back!”

Jaskier decides to test it out, because there’s no way Geralt is in love with him.

Loving him as a friend, sure, why not? Despite what ignorant folks claim about witchers, Jaskier knows by experience that Geralt has a heart bigger and more capable of love than most. But Geralt being in love with Jaskier? Like, he-wants-to-kiss-him in love with him? No way.

Blushing because of him? Ha! More like in Jaskier’s wildest dreams.

Although that would be really cute.

“Pass me the salt, honey?” Jaskier reaches out a hand to the other end of the table, and Geralt passes the salt without thinking.

Hmm.

No tripping over words.

“Thank you, dear heart.”

He’s putting as much sweetness in his voice as possible and Geralt is…normal. His eyebrows are raised to the roof, and there’s a faint smile by the corners of his eyes. But that’s just how Geralt is…right? He’s home and he’s relaxed, he smiles with his eyes rather than his lips, and it’s got nothing to do with Jaskier.

Jaskier chews, staring at Geralt subtly.

Not subtle enough.

“Something on my face?”

“No—” Jaskier chokes, hacking like a fool and tipping sideways. “Just—too much salt.”

Geralt scoffs, the faint smile turning into a brief grin, and hands over a cup of water.

Jaskier wants the ground to swallow him whole.

The snow is terrible.

The whole keep is freezing like an ice cube, and Jaskier has to blow on his hands from time to time just to function in the library. He’s the lucky one, in the grand scheme of things. The witchers still need to go outside to fix up the walls and tend to the animals.

Geralt hasn’t been back in a while.

Jaskier puts down the quill he’s been chewing anxiously and rushes out the door—

And bumps right into Geralt’s chest.

“Sweet Melitele, that’s a lot of snow!” Jaskier spits out the snow knocked into his mouth, before looking at Geralt properly. “Oh, you’re hurt.”

The cut on Geralt’s eyebrow is a small one, but Jaskier worries nonetheless. Geralt doesn’t look impressed, only walks straight towards the small medkit sitting on a shelf.

“Repairment has to wait. The wind is bad.” Geralt grunts, trying to touch the wound and missing by a mile.

“Here, let me.”

Jaskier takes the salve from Geralt’s slightly shaking hands and pulls out a handkerchief from his pocket. Geralt is frowning so hard he can crack a walnut with those eyebrows.

“Relax,” Jaskier murmurs, blowing gently at the cut while dabbing at the blood. Upon deeming it clean enough, he applies a scoop of the salve that smells of celandine and mint. “Don’t move. It’ll only hurt a bit.”

Geralt keeps shying away from Jaskier’s ministration so he has no choice but to wrap his other hand around Geralt’s jaw, which manages to still him instantly.

“There,” Jaskier smiles. “Shouldn’t need anything more. Your witcher healing will kick in soon.”

Geralt tilts his head with that soft look in his eyes. “My thanks. Wouldn’t have survived without you.”

“No shit! Who goes out in a storm like this one? If you ask me, Vesemir is too tough on you. Look at you…” Jaskier coos, taking Geralt’s hands. “You are like a popsicle, dear heart.”

He tries to rub some heat back into Geralt’s freezing hands, his skin dry and rough. There’s still some hand cream left in Jaskier’s room. Maybe he can fetch it later. Geralt needs to take care of his hands better when his living depends on them.

Geralt groans, looking away. The frames of his ears are beet red too; he must have been outside without a hat for all this time. Jaskier wants to cover them with his warm palms, only to have his hands batted away.

“No, there’s—I’m fine,” Geralt mumbles. If Jaskier didn’t know better, he’d think the way Geralt avoids his eyes is a result of shyness. The bard can snort at the ridiculous idea and stubbornly presses his hands over Geralt’s ears.

Oh.

His ears are red because they are so warm, not cold

Now that they are standing so close, only a hand’s breadth away, Geralt looks stunned, his eyes dilating, only leaving a ring of gold around those dark pupils. There’s even a layer of pink dusting over his pale cheeks.

A blushing witcher.

Oh, this is interesting.

“Geralt, sweetie?” Jaskier husks, lowering his voice especially on the pet name. “Are you warm enough?”

“Um, sure…not cold.”

And he watches as Geralt’s mind ceases to work in front of his eyes, the blush deepening. It’s still a subtle thing. No wonder Jaskier has missed it all this time. Calloused hands wrap around Jaskier’s wrists, and the bard finally relents, letting go.

If he spends the rest of the day sitting at the desk with a quill in hand, thinking about the way Geralt’s skin feels against his and the warmth of his cheeks, nobody needs to know.

Jaskier doesn’t know what to do with this piece of new information.

Geralt does blush.

Because of him.

He tries to repeat the experiment. Just to be sure, he tells himself. And every time it yields the same results. As soon as he gets into Geralt’s space, the witcher either stumbles through his words or gets all flustered all over. The fondness is there too, just in a very Geralt and very unnoticeable manner, soft and almost smiling.

Jaskier is so drunk on power.

The only thing left is to tell Geralt that he loves him too. That he’s also in love in love with him, as in an I-also-want-to-kiss-you kind of way, and then… they can finally kiss!

Oh, just inwardly rehearsing the scene makes Jaskier dizzy, and somehow he ends up smiling to himself when he’s so deep in thoughts planning the conversation, once even in front of company.

Lambert throws him a side-eye and a disgusted grunt, but Jaskier can’t care less.

He finds the perfect night, and even takes a sip of White Gull from Eskel’s cup just to calm his nerves.

And he realizes too late that, perhaps, the strongest witcher brew might be a mistake.

The effect is stronger than he anticipated, and Jaskier is giggling through the fog in his mind within mimutes, somehow ending up on Geralt’s lap, draped over his shoulder in a heap of soft, pliant mess.

He rests his temple against Geralt’s and nearly tips backward if not for the strong arm that catches him by the waist.

“Oops, thank the gods I have my big witcher here!” Jaskier runs the tips of his fingers across Geralt’s stubbles. It tickles, and the blush is back, unmistakably, since Geralt is as sober as the day. “I’d fall over on my butt without you! And falling over doesn’t look good before saying important things, does it?”

Huh, he’s said it out loud.

“Saying what things?”

Well, if it’s out there…

“Where do I start again? Right of course, with how beautiful you look when you’re like this!”

His fingers move to tuck the curtain of white hair behind Geralt’s ears. No matter how much Jaskier loves it when Geralt wears his hair down, he needs to look into those amber eyes without obstruction. The molten gold gleams with surprise and Jaskier wants to drown in it.

“I’m not…” Geralt splutters, before closing his mouth with a pop. The flush is stretching down his neck now, and Jaskier chases it with a hand.

“You are!” he insists petulantly. “You are blushing and it’s beautiful. Adorable too! I wouldn’t know if Lambert hadn’t told me—” he burps. “—um, everything.”

“Told you what?”

The alarm in Geralt’s voice should wake Jaskier up immediately, but alas, the White Gull is no joke.

“Shh!” he stage-whispers, “It’s a secret! Don’t tell Geralt! I need to do it right!”

Jaskier lets out a happy sound and leans into the comforting embrace that he loves so much. Under his fingers, he can feel heat still gather under Geralt’s skin, making him look equally annoyed and fond.

“You are not making sense, Jask.”

“Nothing about you makes sense either, but I’m here. And ready.” Jaskier smiles and presses a chaste kiss on Geralt’s cheekbone, humming another happy sound.

Kissing Geralt is nice, gives Jaskier all the fuzzy feelings.

But somehow, that was also the wrong thing to do, because Geralt has gone stiff under Jaskier’s body. The next thing he knows, the witcher is struggling to untangle their limbs and leaving him empty and cold.

“Don’t…do this,” he murmurs, upset. “Just…don’t.”

The anguish the seeps through Geralt’s voice somehow manages to get through the muddy cloud in Jaskier’s mind.

“Wait, what?” Jaskier rights himself on unsteady feet, but his witcher is long gone. Eskel and Lambert are still nursing their tankards by the fire, and Jaskier wobbles past them without a care. He needs to find Geralt, who apparently charged right out of the great hall and into the cold night.

The heavy wooden doors open and Jaskier is hit with the unrelenting wind. The snow has stopped and partially melted, and frozen all over again. It’s the worst kind. Jaskier takes his steps with caution but still, it’s too slippery.

Okay. Mind. Clear. He needs it to be.

“Geralt?” he calls out, churning with anxiety. “Geralt, where are you?”

Damn his witcher speed. Now Jaskier is walking in the dark and freezing his balls off without an ounce of idea where Geralt might be. Oh, the stalls. Roach must be the first thought Geralt has when he needs to talk. Jaskier shudders, hugging his doublet tighter to fend off the wind and searches for the stalls blindly.

“Geralt, are you—ow!”

He walks right into a pillar and falls on his butt. Before Jaskier can register the pain, a pair of hands are picking him up by the armpits and he stumbles into Geralt’s embrace.

There’s a familiar sizzle of Igni, and the torch by the stalls is roaring with life.

“What are you doing out here?” A coat is tossed over Jaskier’s shoulders and he’s ushered back towards the building.

“Looking for you, you idiot!” Jaskier squawks, albeit grateful for the thick fur coat. A few more minutes he would lose all feelings in his toes. “Running into the night like this, who knows what can happen to you!”

“So you followed me out drunk and with no coat and I’m the idiot? Gods, I don’t know why I even…”

The doors creak open and there’s light and warmth and the smell of mead, but Jaskier’s heart sinks.

“I don’t know why you even bother too,” Jaskier muses, suddenly feeling like a scolded child.

Geralt steers Jaskier past the other wolf witchers and straight into his room, where the heat feels like a furnace on Jaskier’s frozen fingers—Geralt has been secretly tending to Jaskier’s fire for weeks after the human came down with a cold upon arrival at the keep. He’s too good to Jaskier.

“You are too good to me.”

“And you are a pain in the ass.”

Geralt sits Jaskier down in front of the fire rather grumpily, before joining him and pulling the coat even tighter. He’s still mad, just a smidge, but the droop of his eyes speaks more of sadness.

“Hey, talk to me,” Jaskier coaxes, squeezing Geralt’s knee in reassurance. Whatever argument coming their way, he can’t stand Geralt being sad.

“How drunk are you?”

“Not very.” If Geralt walking out hadn’t put Jaskier out of his daze, the wind sure finished the job. “White gull passes quickly. Hmm, who would have thought…”

“I need to tell you something.”

“But I need to tell you something too! It’s important.”

“Let me go first?”

The plead comes out in a whisper, and who is Jaskier to reject Geralt like this, wide-eyed and earnest?

“I never meant for you to know, and certainly not on a night like this, but Jaskier…” Geralt heaves out a breath, determined and so so brave. Jaskier is drawn closer to Geralt’s body like a magnet, ready to soothe, to meet him halfway. “I am in love with you.”

“Geralt.”

“I know you don’t feel the same, and it’s okay. You make a living singing about loving. Hell, you make a living simply by loving. Music, adventures, people, so many people. It’s okay that your heart is too big for me. But, Jask, I can’t take it anymore.”

“I don’t…not…”

“You flirt with people. You…touch them and kiss them and praise them. It’s okay. It’s the way you are. I understand that when you do the same with me it doesn’t mean anything more, but, Jaskier, I need you to stop.”

“Oh,” Jaskier breathes. “Do you hate it? I thought…differently.”

The smile that tugs at Geralt’s lips can only be described as crestfallen.

“The opposite. I love it too much. I’ll always want more. Always. I’m greedy like this.”

The guilt weighing down on Geralt’s shoulders is not a good sight, a personal offense to Jaskier. His hand reaches out on its own volition, tilting Geralt’s chin up so their gazes meet. The blush is back.

What did Jaskier do in his past life to deserve this man?

“That’s what I was going to say.”

“That you are greedy?”

The frown remains on Geralt’s face, and Jaskier smooths it with the pad of his thumb.

“No. That I am in love with you. Gods, for someone who’s not a bard, you sure know how to steal someone’s line from the beginning,” Jaskier chuckles. “I’ve been trying to tell you that I return your feelings. But alas, you know the coward that I am.”

“You are…not,” he protests, blinking.

The way Geralt defends him on instinct only makes Jaskier’s insides melt into a pool of fuzziness.

“In this, yes. How I fucked up so bad is a mystery. That’s just me I guess, trying to love you but ending up hurting you, making you feel like I’m stringing you along like anyone else.”

“I’m not?”

“No, you oaf.” Jaskier bops his nose. “You are the most important person in the world for me. This is the most important thing in the world to me! I love you and I love it when you blush. Also, I’d very much like to kiss you, if you want it too.”

Jaskier bites into his lips and watches as Geralt’s gaze drops to them, the pink of his cheeks spreading into the most gorgeous crimson. “I want to. Kiss you, that is.”

“Good.”

Jaskier wets his lips with a peak of the tongue and watches the same gesture returned. Even if the alcohol has left his system, the intoxication remains, only this time because of Geralt’s slightly dilated pupils and quickened breathing. He leans in, not being able to resist—

“Did you say ‘return my feelings’?” Geralt dodges away, looking incredulous. “Jaskier, did you know? And what was that about blushing?”

“Um…” Now Jaskier is the one to splutter. Luckily, he has a trick up his sleeves or two that can make sure Geralt forgets about every last thought there is.

Jaskier lunges forward and tackles his witcher onto the soft rug and kisses him within an inch of his life, deepening it like there’s no tomorrow. Judging by the dazed look on Geralt’s face as he comes up for air, the method is working.

Cupping Geralt’s rosy cheeks, Jaskier croaks proudly, “Tell you later?”

“We have all the later we need.” Geralt’s smile is blinding, and equally mischievous. Without a moment of pause, Jaskier ends up the one flipped onto his back and being kissed until he shudders with pleasure.

Jaskier has to thank Lambert properly one day, considering Geralt will certainly go after him with a vengeance.

For now, having Geralt on top of him and slowly melting into a contented mess should be enough. If he’s allowed, Jaskier vows silently, he would really like to make Geralt blush for him for the rest of his life.

Jaskier will totally make it his life's mission to tease Geralt endlessly and see his beautiful blush. 🥰🥰

On another note, I challenged myself to write 2000 words exactly, and this ended up, um, 3000 words exactly. I’ll count it as a win anyway ;)

Tagging: @wanderlust-t @rockysstupidity @flowercrown-bard @alllthequeenshorses @mothmanismyuncle @percy-jackson-is-sexy- @constantlytiredpigeon @behonesthowsmysinging @kitcatkim3 @endless-whump @rey-a-nonbinary-bisexual @llamasdumpsterfire @dapandapod

Please feel free to tell me if you want to be removed or added to the list <3

#geraskier #geraskier fic #geralt x jaskier #fluff #tooth rotting fluff #getting together #requited love #kissing #hand holding #winter at kaer morhen #soft jaskier #geralt of rivia blushes

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aminiatureworld · 3 years

Text

Needled Words

Characters: Childe, fm!reader

Word Count: 1,691

Warnings: Swearing

Premise: When does a joke go too far, when is a jab more than just friendly? Where does the line blur and where does it stop?

In which Childe’s teasing becomes too much for the reader

Author’s Note: For some reason this prompt made me think of Nancy Mitford, mostly because she was known also for being a slightly mean-spirited teaser. Ah Childe, my beloved. Communication in a relationship is key y’all.

Childe

You knew that Childe was only joking. After all, didn’t he read his letters to you? Brimming with little asides and jokes.

“Dear Tonia, I would say I was happy to get your letter, if only it was sopping wet. Did you leave it out in the snow again? I swear, if you were in the illustrious Tsaritsa’s army, you’d probably end up attacking your own regiment, and then I’d be forced to execute you for treason!” No one could mistake such an opening for anything except a slightly barbed bit of teasing.

Nor were the younger one’s exempt. Teucer’s antics had resulted in quite a bit of teasing. “Teucer, I think the Mr. Cyclopses have better survival instincts” and “I didn’t take you for someone who spent other people’s money!” This latter statement was made after Teucer spied the hand-crafted, very expensive, fireworks that were sold in Liyue. Of course, Childe had bought him the fireworks, and of course he never begrudged doing things for you when he teased you either. Still, you somehow felt as if things were different when directed at you.

Not that they really were. It wasn’t so much that you were picking up a different tone, it was more that, unlike Childe’s siblings and other friends, such as Zhongli, who was subjected to endless old man jokes, you couldn’t seem to take them well. When he joked about how many times you ran into the countertop you began to wonder if you truly had something wrong with your hand-eye coordination; when he said you were the laziest person, he’d ever met you wondered if you weren’t sleeping in too late; when he teased that he had to be your personal babysitter you wondered if you were truly good enough to be an adventurer. It wasn’t Childe’s fault, it really wasn’t, but that didn’t mean it hurt any less.

Of course, you could tell him, could finally let it all out and stop pretending that it wasn’t painful to try and keep all your emotion sunder wraps. But you couldn’t help but feel as if that would in some ways disappoint him. He was a Harbinger, tough, aloof. No words could ever hurt Childe, of that, you were sure. So how would he take it, the knowledge that his part was all too liable to shatter at every poke and prod? You couldn’t blame him if he turned out to be ashamed.

So, you kept it to yourself, smiled through all the jabs and teases. It didn’t matter, it really didn’t. You were fine! Or if you, weren’t it wasn’t worth it trying to change anything. You didn’t want to lose Childe, didn’t want to see the change when he went to say something before stopping, looking at you’re with barely concealed disappointment. Childe lived with his emotions to the forefront after all. And you wouldn’t ask him to change something you ultimately loved about him.

Thus, the days continued on, as did the teasing and the feigned smiles. Some days it was worth it, some days you were left with nothing but happiness bubbling up inside, the love that humans reserved for a very few number of friends and lovers. Yet those days were often days with minimal teasing, and you couldn’t help but notice the layer of anxiety that pressed on your love the days that were filled with Childe’s jabs. Lying in bed, limbs tangled with his, you stared up at the ceiling, wondering what you should do. You felt trapped, by your emotions, by your pride, by Childe’s words. They were all encircling you, and you could do nothing to defend yourself. You tried to keep the tears to a minimum; after all your partner slept so little already.

You didn’t know when the subtle shift happened, when it all became too much to handle. Maybe it was after Childe’s recent trip to Snezhnaya, where, surrounded by Harbingers who saw their coworkers as enemies rather than allies, he had sharpened his wit even more so than before. If his earlier teasing was unfocused, general quips, then his current ones struck quite closer to home.

“Wow my dear I didn’t peg you for a Treasure Hoarder, I don’t think that arrow could hit anyone if it tried!”

“I think you truly have the makings of someone who gets scammed by a Mondstadtian duke, or perhaps a Fontaine prince who has lost all his mora in a flood. Remind me to never go shopping with you.”

“Honestly, I think if you ran into the Electro Archon, she’d think your vision was fake. It’d be an easy way out.”

The whiplash of Childe’s proclamations of “princess” mingled with sentences that, had they been geared at anyone else, would surely be insults was shocking, and you found yourself less and less able to keep these two aspects of your partner compatible in your mind. Even less did you find the ability to simply brush it off.

You didn’t know why it was a comment about your socks that finally caused you to break. Really, it was too juvenile.

Laundry in your shared apartment was often seen as a punishment, the chore that each of you pushed onto the other. As such there was often a pile of laundry in the laundry basket, and incredibly slim pickings in your drawers. That being the case you often found yourself wearing mismatched socks. Perhaps it was a little odd, or a little childish, but it was certainly preferrable to spending all day at the river scrubbing your hands red. Who cared anyways? No one would notice such a small thing, especially once you had put your boots on.

However, nothing could get past Childe’s wicked sense of humor, and apparently your clothing choices were prime fodder for him.

“Nice socks.”

“Oh, thanks,” you replied, already having a sense of where it was going. The smirk that played across your partner’s face was full of mischief, and usually that only led to one place.

“I think that you’ll be quite the icon among toddlers all throughout Liyue. People will be asking you if you’re lost all day, or maybe they’ll ask you how it feels like to be nine.”

It was really a silly comment to get so upset over, such a small, insignificant thing to cry over. Yet there you were, standing in the kitchen, frozen in horror as your vision became fuzzy with tears. Unsure about any other course of action you buried your face in your hands and prayed Childe wouldn’t think about what you were doing.

“What’s wrong? Are you alright?”

You could hear the panic and concern mingling in Childe’s voice. Almost immediately a warm hand was on your shoulder, and you were suddenly flooded with the presence of the person you loved so much, the person you were now crying about. You could tell Childe was saying something, was whispering soft words of comfort, but in the moment your thoughts felt all too loud. Overwhelmed by the situation you turned into your partner’s shoulder and let yourself cry.

Eventually sensing you had lost all your tears Childe drew back slightly.

“Would you like a glass of water?”

“Yes please,” you replied, voice still small. Nodding Childe moved towards the kitchen. Within a few moments he was back, glass in hand.

“Was it the teasing?” He asked as you drank. Whatever you had to say about your partner, he certainly wasn’t stupid.

“Yes,” you mumbled, nodding for affect.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize I had gone too far. I promise I’ll be more careful from now on.”

“But Childe, it, it’s not just this time.”

“What do you mean?” Childe asked, voice flooding through with concern once more.

“It’s, I’m sorry, it’s just that, it’s all the time. Not all the time, every time you tease me. It’s not your fault! Of course, it’s not, it’s my fault. I don’t know, I just, it really hurts sometimes, all the time? I don’t know. I just, I’m sorry.”

Childe’s expression was one of abject horror. Taking your hand, he rubbed small circles on the top with his thumb. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize how much it was affecting you. I should have been more careful.”

“But I don’t want you to feel like you have to, I don’t know, I know you tease everyone, I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“You aren’t making me uncomfortable.” Childe’s voice seemed just as hurried as yours. “It makes me more uncomfortable to think that you’ve been burying this the whole time. You’re damn good at hiding things you know. But this isn’t a war or something, you don’t have to hide what you’re feeling, for whatever reason. Better if you tell me, y’know?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. Doesn’t look good on you, or sound good. I’d rather hear you happy.” Childe leaned in to press a soft kiss against your forehead. “I love you, okay? You mean more to me than a little bit of teasing.”

“You don’t think I’m being weak?” You managed to make out as your anxiety lessened its grip on you.

“Weak? Girlie you’re one of the strongest people I know! Weak my ass. If you wanted to rule the world you could give me a run for my money. Of course, I’d win though. I mean, I would be there right with you.”

“I know you would,” you smiled, despite yourself.

You knew that Childe probably would still retain the odd sense of humor and levity he already had. Old habits die hard and all that. Still, you had managed to say what had been haunting you all this time and, more than that, you had been assured that you were good enough, strong enough. Those few words, no matter how short, meant the world to you.

#genshin impact #childe x reader #childe #tartaglia #genshin impact fanfiction #oneshot #requested #my writing

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hawks-supremacy · 3 years

Text

Fairytale Soulmates

summary: you gave up on the idea of soulmate's being real when your parents split up, but the cherry blossom on your wrist says otherwise.

pairings: ushijima x reader

warnings: fighting, yelling, hints at abuse, a little angst, mostly fluff

word count: 2k

a/n: i'm thinking about doing a soulmate series, i just love the idea of soulmates. i also like reading soulmate au's.

You never enjoyed the idea of soulmates, to you it was a fairytale you heard the other kids tell during lunch break. Hearing them retell the stories their parents told about how everyone has a person that was made for them. How people were originally created with four arms and legs and two heads and faces, but fearing their power Zeus split them in half. Now people spend their whole lives looking for their other half. The person that finishes the other half of your soulmate mark. You didn’t believe the stories. Even as your half of a cherry blossom stares up at you from your wrist, you couldn’t bring yourself to believe in soulmates, and why should you?

Why should you believe in soulmates when your parents were miserable together. Constantly fighting and yelling, often ending the night in tears. If soulmates were real then why were you the result of two people who didn't love each other unconditionally like soulmates were supposed to. Why were your parents so unhappy just because they weren’t soulmates? If you couldn’t find your soulmate were you destined to be unhappy? All of your questions went unanswered as your parents avoided the topic.

You weren’t always like this, and neither were your parents. You used to be happy, a complete family who never fought and loved each other despite the flaws. Sure you noticed how your father had half a sun and your mother had half of a water lily, but they didn’t seem to care and you didn’t ask. They always laughed at each other's terrible jokes and cared for one another. You used to enjoy the stories of soulmates, listening as kids tell the stories of how their parents met. The stories of soulmates searching the other side of the world to find their other half.

Then one day your parents started fighting and the illusion of happiness ended. You weren’t sure what happened, but one day you came home from school and they were yelling. Maybe they’ve always yelled and screamed until their faces turned blue and they faked being happy for your sake. All it took was one day for all you believed in to fall apart.

You came home early from school on a half day, you were excited to go home and spend all day with your parents. You didn’t stay excited for long, walking through the doors you heard screaming coming from the kitchen along with glass shattering. Hesitantly you made your way to the entrance and poked your head around the corner to see what was happening. Seeing you home your mom wiped the tears from her eyes and greeted you as your dad walked past you and to their shared bedroom.

After that it seemed like the veil fell, the thin sheet protecting you from the real relationship your parents held disappeared. They stopped pretending to be happy, no longer laughing at dumb jokes instead rolling their eyes. You stopped eating dinner as a family, your dad eating before he comes home and walking straight to his home office. They tried not to fight in front of you, waiting until you go to bed to start their dispute, but they were never quiet. They kept you up at night with the shouting that reached your bedroom door, knocking like a reminder your family is no longer really together.

You sat at the top of the stairs listening as your dad left your mom because he found his soulmate. Listening to the rolling of his suitcase across the wooden floor as he walked out the door. Listening as your mom broke down sobbing as the door slammed shut. Listening to his car driving off as silent tears rolled down your face choking back sobs that you couldn’t let out. You never brought it up to your mom, a silent agreement the next day as you both had puffy faces from crying the previous night.

Now you were starting your first year at Shiratorizawa and your best friend Tendō refused to let you be pessimistic. He dragged you to the gym to sign up for the volleyball team manager. His logic being you can’t be pessimistic if he doesn’t let you, and if you’re constantly around Tendō it's the less time you can be a “debbie downer” in his words.

Tendō and you became friends in middle school when you ran into each other turning the corner. He quickly befriended you after learning about your pessimistic view on life claiming he was gonna turn it around so you’d be happy again. You rolled your eyes at his explanation for wanting to be your friend but let him anyway. Since then you’ve been inseparable, always with one another. Tendō was the best thing that could’ve happened to you.

So here you were meeting the volleyball team as Tendō all but skipped to the gym for the first practice. “This is gonna be so fun Y/n, we’ll get to hang out all the time. Now you’ll have no opportunity to go back to your dorm room and think about how much life sucks. Which it doesn’t by the way.” He said as you went to say something about him finally agreeing about your life sucking. “I know you’ve had some hard times but believe me, it’s not always gonna be that way. You’ll meet your soulmate and learn that happiness does exist for you.”

You shook your head at his blind optimism, you knew he wasn’t always like this. That he had his dark moments too and you were right there to pull him out of his dark space like he was you. “‘Tori, we both know I’m better now. I’m not 100% all the time but that’s fine. I appreciate you doing this though.”

He nodded, slowing his pace down so you could catch up to him. “I know you are, but you’re still on the fence about soulmates and I’m determined to help you find yours so you know they’re out there.” You sighed as you walked into the gym having been through this conversation hundreds of times with Tendō before. He’d keep having this conversation with you until you realize it yourself. Just because your parents didn’t work out doesn’t mean that soulmates aren’t worth it.

Tendō soon realized after that maybe you were right. Maybe your soulmate wasn’t worth it, maybe you would be better off just living with Tendō forever like you discussed in middle school. Maybe you were right because Tendō soon found out that your soulmate was Ushijima Wakatoshi. Tendō wasn’t sure if you noticed that Ushijima held the other half to your soulmate mark or not. If you had, you didn’t say anything.

Tendō spent the better half of middle school trying to convince you that your soulmate would be the best thing that happened to you. Then he spent the better half of first and second year listening to Ushijima say he didn’t believe in soulmates either, that his home situation was much like yours. His parents weren’t soulmates and ended up getting a divorce leaving him with his mom. He realized the universe was playing a cruel joke on the both of you. Making you both believe that the other doesn’t exist and if you do it’s some kind of fluke.

It was the start of your third year and you were moving back into the dorms after having a break for the summer. “‘Tori, why are you insisting I hang out with Ushijima so badly? He’s been your roommate for two years now and suddenly you want me to hang out with him? It doesn’t make sense.” Tendō had been trying to convince you to hang out with Ushijima because he couldn’t take not telling you anymore. It was eating him alive that your soulmate was right there and nothing was happening. It was your last year before you possibly never saw Ushijima again and Tendō would never be able to live with himself if he didn’t tell you. “I wanted to tell you, believe me I did.”

“Satori, what did you do?” You said, narrowing your eyes at him. “Ushiwaka is your soulmate. I was going to tell you but it turns out you have the same outlook on soulmates. So I thought maybe it was best if you guys never met, but I’d feel bad if I didn’t tell you. I’m sorry I just didn’t want you to get hurt.” Tendō said, speaking fast and pacing back and forth.

You sat on your bed rubbing your temples. “Are you mad at me?” Tendō asked quietly. You sighed and looked up, resting your elbows on your knees, “No ‘Tori, I Could never be mad at you. I wish you told me sooner, but I’m not mad at you. I’ll hang out with Ushijima but there’s no guarantee that it’ll work out, especially not if you say he has the same outlook as me.” You talked for a few more minutes before Tendō led you to his shared dorm with Ushijima.

Tendō walked in, “Ushiwaka! I have a gift for you!” He said before gesturing widely towards the door as you walked in. “My surprise is Y/n?” Ushijima said, confused. “Yes! Y/n here is your soulmate! Your other half! Now talk!” Tendō said excitedly before walking out and shutting the door behind him, leaving you two alone.

You glanced down at Ushijima’s wrist and saw the matching half to your cherry blossom match. You showed him yours as you sat down on the chair by his and Tendō’s shared desk, “‘Tori tells me that you have the same views as me when it comes to the whole soulmate situation. Don’t particularly believe in them, but ‘Tori’s been trying to convince me otherwise for about four years. I guess I don’t really know where you stand with all of this.” By the time you were done speaking you noticed that his eyes never once stopped looking at you.

“My parents divorced, yes, but they weren’t soulmates. Perhaps it’ll be different with us since we’re actually soulmates.” He said moving closer towards you. “You want to try the soulmate thing? You’re sure?” You asked sheepishly. You spent nearly your whole life swearing up and down that you didn’t believe in soulmates and now that you’ve found yours, you don’t know if you still believe that. “Yes I want to try, but I do get busy with volleyball so I might not have much time for us.” He said and you nodded. You knew that, you’ve been friends with Tendō long enough to know volleyball takes up a lot of time. You’ve also been the volleyball’s team manager long enough to know how passionate Ushijima is about volleyball. You knew you couldn’t ask him to put you first.

“And that’s how I single handedly got Ushiwaka and Y/n together. So you can thank me for this lovely wedding we’re all attending.” Tendō said after telling the story of how you and Toshi met. You rolled your eyes and you jokingly mouthed ‘thank you’ to Tendō. You turned to your now husband who had his hand on your knee while he was laughing at Tendō’s story and smiled. He turned his head and smiled back before giving you a peck on the lips, “I’m glad I met you Y/n.” He said lovingly. “Me too Toshi, me too.”

#ushijima headcanons #ushijima wakatoshi #hq ushijima #ushijima scenarios #ushijima imagine #ushijima hcs #haikyuu imagines #haikyuu drabbles #haikyuu imagine #haikyuu!!#haikyu x reader #haikyuu headcanons #soulmate au #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu x gender neutral reader

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joucearchived · 3 years

Text

The Hell In Your Eyes - 3

Summary: Loki doesn't meet her until two weeks after his initial imprisonment, but he knows he hates her. He has to hate her. Because the way she talks to him and helps him and saves him meals can't mean anything. She is too soft to deal with Loki, who is hardened with pain, pain, and more pain. And Loki hates soft things.

Have you ever seen the hell in someone’s eyes and loved it anyway?

Characters: Loki Laufeyson/(f)Reader

Warnings: brief mentions of violence

Word Count: 4836

Previous Chapter

Loki is annoyed.

Loki has sat through thousands of years of political dinners, exchanging thinly veiled insults under a layer of diplomacy, all while smiling through his teeth. Loki has spewed sensical nonsense, charming naive, innocent maids and sweeping young stable boys off their feet. Loki has endured Odin’s wrath — in all its horrible glory — countless times, and never once had he shed a tear, nor had a single cry escaped his lips.

The whole of Asgard had coined him the Dark Prince — and who was Loki to disappoint?

He had long since learned people saw what they expected to see.

And so as the entire realm rejoiced in his demise, as Laufey left him to die, as Odin condemned him for eternity, as Thor abandoned him, as Frigga had sided with her husband again and again and again, Loki maintained his carefully constructed front.

Yet one encounter with a mortal, and he had unraveled at her feet.

If physically kneeling before the wretched creature wasn’t enough, he knew she had seen past his mask. By the time he had regained his composure, he was sure she had seen him.

It won’t happen again.

Loki is a god, and gods do not crack. Gods maintain their image, regardless of circumstance. Gods do not show weakness, do not show vulnerability.

This is a lesson Loki knows well, a lesson etched into his skin countless times by Odin’s hand.

And yet for each time Odin reinforced this lesson, the very same lesson was burned away by Thanos a thousand more.

Loki tried, he truly did. Loki maintained his godly facade for an impressive amount of time, resisting as his body was taken apart over and over and over again. Perhaps it wasn’t as long as he thought. Loki feels as if his entire life was spent doused in agony, spent with his flesh melting off and his bones withering away.

Ultimately, a god is no match for a Titan.

But a mortal is no match for a god.

And yet, Loki has found himself at her feet — at her mercy — twice.

Even after, Loki couldn’t bring himself to summon his cruel exterior. Perhaps it had to do with the way she had waltzed into his space, all soft and defenseless, carrying that deplorable drink as if it was the elixir of eternal life (unfortunately, it tasted just as divine). Perhaps it was his body, still sated and full for the first time in months, reminding him of the food — the debt — he owes. Perhaps it was the way she held out her arm towards him, even though he could see it shaking.

Whether it was any of these things or none at all, Loki’s cool mask of indifference was rendered utterly useless at her delicate, mortal hands.

Loki hates her.

His hatred fills every fiber of his being. It’s a scalding, fiery hatred, much unlike the frozen excuse of Loki’s heart. His frost giant heritage seems to reject her very being.

Loki hates her voice, hates her hands, hates her. He hates how she makes him falter when there is no place for mistakes.

Loki’s thoughts are interrupted by Thor, who enters Loki’s quarters without an ounce of hesitation — ever the righteous, confident, arrogant bastard.

Ah, but Loki almost forgot. Thor is not the bastard — Loki is. How despicable; for really, Loki can not even call himself a bastard. Yet, ‘the Bastard Son of Odin’ has a certain charm to it. Perhaps another false title for his collection.

“Loki!” Thor booms, “Here are your clothes that Lady Angel washed. You should be grateful brother, for she offered of her own volition — ”

Is it so surprising someone would offer to help Loki without external influence?

“ — to see and visit you! You are doing well. I am happy to see you are finally making an effort to get to know all of our friends — ”

Thor is happy? For Loki, or for himself? Why must Loki, even now, strive to prove himself to Thor? Why is Loki’s worth solely dependent on Thor’s judgement?

“ — and Lady Angel is absolutely wonderful. I am delighted to see you two getting along so well! I can’t believe you finally made a friend— ”

At this, Loki’s composure cracks for the second time that day.

“What am I? A pathetic child wandering aimlessly through a school corridor? A helpless hatchling at the mercy of others — groveling for the bare minimum? Who are you to congratulate me for ‘making a friend?’ She is not a friend ,” Loki spits out. He can feel his teeth grinding against each other, his fingernails once again digging into his palms. “She is nothing more than another worthless mortal, unworthy of even breathing the same air as I, and yet you suggest I be grateful?”

Thor advances on Loki, his eyes hardening. The atmosphere is tense; unlike the typical bickering between the brothers, Loki identifies something distinctly different in the way the air vibrates. The space between the two gods crackles. “Watch yourself brother —”

Brother. The word grates upon Loki’s nerves. How can Thor so carelessly throw the word around, even knowing of its false implications — implications and lies Loki foolishly believed.

Sometimes Loki wonders if Thor does it on purpose.

“Do you hear yourself Thor? Bending yourself over backwards to defend this wasted excuse of consciousness — you are the King of Asgard. What is she? She is nothing.”

And now Loki is no longer staring at his brother, but the ceiling of his prison. His back is slammed against Stark’s hardwood floors and there is sharp ringing in his ears, likely the result of the crack in the floor right behind where his head is currently embedded.

Loki almost laughs.

Truly, it is comical — comical that even now, Thor’s first instinct is to physically threaten Loki. As if Loki doesn’t almost enjoy it.

But Loki’s laugh catches in his throat, prevented from escaping by the large hand tightening around his airway.

Thor’s hand is around Loki’s neck — a mirror of His.

A thousand years Loki has known Thor. A thousand years of childish brawls, foolhardy battles, pointless arguments. How many times has Loki betrayed Thor? Thor betrayed Loki? And yet, Loki believed he knew his brother’s character.

A thousand years Loki has known Thor, but never once has he thought Thor to be cruel.

Oh how wrong he is.

Thor’s hands are gripping Loki’s neck and for the life of him Loki can’t breathe. He tries to draw air into his lungs — lungs that are screaming with a familiar ache — and fails. Phantom pains flicker across his entire body and somehow, in the second before his vision goes black, Loki manages to croak out a strangled wheeze of a laugh.

Loki is once again strapped upon a bed of coals, once again stabbed with blades of flame, once again torched with fire so hot he freezes. Loki remembers the only other time he begged — begged and pleaded for the sweet mercy of death, all while knowing death was a pleasure he was never to be granted.

Loki is once again kneeling — boneless — at the feet of a Titan, looking up into a face promising endless pain, a face painted with the patience of a thousand moons and splattered with the ruined blood of a Frost Giant.

Loki did not know that a Frost Giant’s blood could boil.

Ah, but the Mad Titan knew, and he ensured Loki would never forget.

Loki recalls the moment he let go — an eerie echo of his fall from grace, his fall from the Bifrost. And he remembers the horribly invasive power of the scepter, along with the blessed relief and utter disregard for self preservation that followed.

And it is this — the relief — that plagues Loki. He does not fool himself; Loki may be the God of Lies, but he has no reason to lie to himself . It is not the destruction of New York nor the deaths at his hand that weigh upon his shattered mind. No, it is the fact that Loki found solace in his actions.

Make no mistake — Loki does not rejoice in his crime, but nor could he say he regrets it.

For if Loki were given the choice, he could not — would not — choose to spare Midgard at the cost of his own sanity.

(But Loki was never given a choice.)

Alas, Loki is already insane.

The Mad Titan has taken so much from Loki.

Physically, Loki has long since disregarded his own body. He remembers the beginning of his torture, when he still held the title of 'Prince of Asgard,' when he spoke with arrogance and oozed of indignantion. Oh how naive he had been. When the first whips had landed across his skin, Loki's thoughts could never have anticipated what the coming months would entail. Loki did not once stop to consider how he would escape the clutches of his captor — oh the confidence he held! — but instead lamented the scars he would surely have to bear. Dimly, Loki recalls worrying over his marred skin, irritated at the blemishes he would surely have to cover when taking future lovers.

Loki scoffs.

Loki does not recognize the man who spent time thinking of lovers. Or of his physical appearance. Or of his interests. Or of any other insignificant pleasure that ultimately contributes to the annihilation of a soul.

(Even now, Loki carries with him an irrational fear of physical touch — a seed planted by the Mad Titan that Loki cannot gouge out, not even if he tore open his very being.)

In fact, Loki wondered if his corporeal form had even existed anymore. But most of all, more than the ruination of his physical form, Loki mourns the damnation of his mind.

Ultimately, the Mad Titan did triumph over Loki. For no matter how many times Loki escapes, fakes his death, runs away, he can never evade the visions that haunt his mind, the voices that infect his thoughts, the termites eating away at what remains of Loki’s sanity.

(If Loki were given a choice, he would have chosen death again and again and again.)

Alas, Loki was not — is not — given a choice, for suddenly he is not lying on a bed of coals, but on his apartment floor again. Thor has since removed his hand from Loki’s neck and Loki half wishes Thor just kept it there. Just kept on squeezing and squeezing and squeezing until Loki died on that bed of coals.

Loki wonders, if he were to die at Thor’s hand, would his brother feel remorse? Or perhaps, more realistically, relief?

Unfortunately, Loki is not dead, and Thor is gazing at him, concern evident in his gaze. As if Thor wasn’t the one who put Loki in this condition — wasn’t the one who greedily snatched all of Odin’s affection, wasn’t the one who pushed Loki out of favor, wasn’t the one who led his brainless minions in a brash suicide mission, as if Thor wasn’t the one who stared Loki in the eye as Loki let go into the abyss.

As if Thor wasn’t the first domino in a long ripple effect that eventually drowned Loki in his sins.

Thor was the smooth pebble that young children skipped over lakes, just barely skimming the surface of a tempting downfall — nevertheless gracefully leaping unscathed across the reflective waters. Yet Loki was the jagged, unskippable rock, destined to fall through the air and fall through the water with no hesitation. Loki has long since come to terms with this simple fact.

No longer does Loki resent his brother, for he understands: light can only shine in the presence of darkness. And if Loki is condemned to darkness — so be it.

Loki does not resent his brother, but oftentimes Loki despises his lightness . What some might say is endearing — the inability for Thor to give up — is just a burden. Even now, Thor still thinks he can change Loki, can fix him. Thor still thinks that by vouching for Loki and providing Loki a place to live and surrounding Loki with Thor’s friends that he can mend Loki’s broken soul and bring back the brother he once had. Thor is still in denial — he refuses to grasp the very simple concept that Thor’s brother — the Second Prince of Asgard, God of Lighthearted Mischief — is long dead. And so Thor continues to try. But light yelling into the darkness does not change it.

And even now, with Thor looming above Loki, Loki does not resent his brother.

But Loki resents Thor’s very being — the core of who Thor is. Thor is a duality; one of naivety and compassion, yet tainted — or perhaps embellished — with a smidge of cruelty and arrogance.

And as Thor is speaking to Loki, mouth forming words Loki is too tired to hear, Loki simply lies on the floor, limbs relaxed around him, throat sore, and does the only thing he can do when feeling so utterly empty.

Loki laughs.

______________________________

Midgard is rather charming in some regards.

Loki will eventually have to investigate the laundry process, for he has just now made the curious discovery that freshly dried clothes are warm . He suspects they were warmer right after they were dried, but he can still feel the presence of the heat, lingering within the very fabric of his garments. He wonders just how much they were heated up to — would it have burnt his frozen hands at the peak of its fiery glory?

No, Loki’s hands are too well accustomed to fire now.

But he doubts that her hands are. He envisions Angel pulling his clothes out of the dryer, her hands touching the same clothes that he has worn, that he will wear, that he is currently touching.

Yet is it entirely possible Loki is standing around, imagining a scene that never played out, for it was not Angel who brought Loki’s laundry back to him, but his dearest brother. Looking at his pile of clothes again, Loki takes in the telltale signs of Thor. The messily folded shirts stare back at Loki, mocking him.

He wonders if she ever even did any part of his laundry. Perhaps she only offered it as a way to ease the uncomfortable tension that had arisen earlier. Or rather, (and his stomach twists uncomfortably at the thought) she lugged his laundry basket downstairs and dumped it straight into Thor’s arms.

Why else would she refuse his help to accompany her?

A twinge of something rises up within Loki as he realizes she accepted Thor’s offer to bring his clothes back. Or, much more likely, she had pushed the task onto Thor in a desperate attempt to avoid encountering him again.

Not that Loki could blame her.

And yet the uncomfortable sensation within Loki only grows, and he realizes that he feels something akin to disappointment. Loki cannot allow himself to feel disappointment. He had long since learned not to expect anything from anyone — or perhaps, much more cynically, to only depend on — to trust — himself.

Trust, Loki knows, is a fickle concept the naive embrace. Trust itself is ill fated, the certainty of an inevitable betrayal the same as the certainty that one day everyone living on this cursed realm will perish.

Loki hates Angel. He hates how she pretends to care for him, hates how she imitates Thor, hates how she always finds a way to break him, and Loki hates how Angel makes him feel.

Loki's silent anger boils inside of him — like the steady countdown of a ticking bomb — manifesting itself out of him as the laundry basket is violently launched across the room.

He hates how he feels absolutely no satisfaction at the way the freshly clean clothes scatter across the floor, hates how he lost control, and hates how the damned mortal forces him to feel emotions he does not want to feel .

Sometimes all Loki can do is hate.

______________________________

The heat from the clothes have long since seeped into the floor.

The sun is just now setting, dousing Loki’s room in a fiery glow. Warm light spills across Loki’s bookshelves, his impeccably made bed, the clothes strewn around his floor. Loki sits on the ground, bare of his illusions, allowing himself to just be .

Staring across the room, he notices tendrils of light carefully curling around the air, miniscule particles of dust dancing in the golden glow. This is a gold Loki enjoys. Unlike the brash, loud character of Thor’s gold — of Asgard’s gold, this is a much softer, gentle color. The comforting hue reminds Loki of his mother, and against his will, he feels a wall of despair beginning to build within his chest.

For a second, Loki loses himself as the wall crashes over him. He drops his head, allowing his hair to dangle in front of his face, obscuring his view of the floating particles. He feels like a child — wants nothing more in this moment than to run to Frigga, for her floral scent to fill his senses as she envelopes him in her arms. What Loki wouldn’t give to have Frigga’s delicate fingers comb through his hair just once more, for her soft lips against his forehead, murmuring words of comfort.

But he can’t have that. Instead, here he is, sitting on the floor of a glorified prison in the midst of a community of people who hate him, with nothing but Thor to act as his buffer.

Looking up, Loki gazes at the honeyed light as it glides over a particular heap of clothing. He watches, mesmerized, as the light gently moves, unhurriedly bathing each corner of the fabric in its rich glow.

If he were still on Asgard, Loki would most likely have been reading, thoroughly immersed in some story or another. The sun would have showered his pages in its quiet glow, lighting the words aflame. He would have taken a stroll in his mother’s gardens, breathing in the sweet scent of her flowers as he sat in his favorite hidden alcove. He would have taken out his book and continued to read, read until the golden hue of the sun was replaced by the tender shine of the moon. Only then would Loki return, serenely walking back to his chambers, stopping only to retrieve a cup of tea, and resume his reading on his balcony.

Loki wants that.

Loki wants an afternoon to himself, with no worries plaguing his mind.

Loki wants to be able to read, and to do so in an environment which permits him to let his guard down.

Loki wants to sit outside, surrounded by flowers, and watch as the sun transitions into the moon.

Loki wants to indulge in a hot cup of tea as he watches the moonlight spills across the pages of his book.

Loki wants so many things — and he can’t have any of them.

Standing up, Loki decides he has spent enough time reminiscing over what he cannot have today. He feels sticky and hot and cold and hungry and all he wants right now , is a long shower.

And so Loki walks over to the same pile of clothes, now dull and abandoned by the sun, gazing disapprovingly downwards. Thor is truly an imbecile, for he has not even managed to separate their clothes correctly. Loki is currently staring at a dark green sweatshirt, one he knows for a fact he has never seen before. Tiredly, he tosses it upon his bed and scoops up a clean change of clothes, then turns around and trodds slowly into the bathroom.

______________________________

Water droplets rain all around Loki, swiftly sliding down his body.

He doesn’t particularly enjoy showering — it reminds him too much of another substance: denser, stickier, and much more red, trickling down his skin. Loki much prefers baths. Baths, however, render their subject very much vulnerable, and Loki does not fancy risking any more vulnerability than strictly necessary.

So Loki is standing in the shower, unabashedly soaking up the shallow warmth the water provides. Surely if Thor could see him, his brother would lecture Loki on wasting Midgard’s precious resources. But, Loki reasons, if Stark truly possesses the excess of wealth he boasts of, Loki’s water usage will not be of much concern to the man. And so this is a luxury Loki will grant himself.

The shower is one place where Loki feels the safest, where he allows his thoughts to wander and drift into otherwise forbidden territories. Today especially has been challenging, and even his muscles seem to ache, the fibers pulling away from each other, trying to rip Loki apart from the inside out. His mind is exhausted, filled with swirling thoughts of Frigga and Angel and Thor, with the occasional Odin and Titan intruding whenever a particular body part cries out.

And as Loki gazes down at his body, the disfigured canvas of scars stare back at him and he attempts to soothe away the countless aches. No matter how much time has passed and how much magic Loki pours into himself, the pains never seem to retreat. Rationally, Loki knows it doesn’t make sense. He knows his magic is fully capable of healing himself, knows that by all accounts he is healed.

But Loki also knows he does not imagine the sharp pains coursing through his veins.

He is fighting himself — the part of himself that does not want the pain to stop. Because all Loki knows is pain, and he fears the absence of pain almost as much as he dreads its glorious presence.

Loki raises his head, allowing for the stream of water to bruise his face. And if Loki’s closed eyes leak the occasional tear, no one would know.

______________________________

Loki’s self destructive spiraling is abruptly cut short by three succinct knocks from his bedroom door. Still soaking in the shower, Loki debates whether or not to answer; after all, he truly has no desire to see his brother again today. Or preferably, ever again. Unfortunately, Loki is all too aware that if he does not answer the door to let Thor in, Thor will simply let himself in. And if there’s anything worse than seeing Thor, it will be seeing a displeased Thor while Loki stands nude and wet.

Reluctantly, Loki turns off his shower, changes into his freshly washed ‘sweatpants’, and leisurely walks towards the door. He is honestly surprised Thor hasn’t invited himself in yet. He is more surprised when he finally opens the door and is promptly met with — not Thor’s brutish face, but the goddamned mortal.

She stands there, in front of his door, barely out of arm's reach. Loki can’t help but drink her in. He notices her hair, laying loosely around her face, framing her profile. She’s sporting a sweater, much too warm for the present weather. Its collar is stretched out over years of use, teasing his eyes with a fraction of her collarbones peaking through. Her legs are barely covered by absurdly short shorts, and Loki feels the back of his ears heating up. Hurriedly, he averts his eyes, falling down to her feet, once again hugged by soft looking socks — mismatched.

His scrutinization is interrupted by her voice; so soft.

“Hey! Sorry if I interrupted you. I heard you were in the shower but I was going around taking everyone’s dinner orders. We’re getting Chinese.” She tilts her head to the side, lifting her chin ever-so-slightly, distractedly exposing the tantalizing skin of her neck. She swallows, and Loki’s eyes discreetly follow the bob of her throat. “I was just wondering if you wanted anything?”

It takes a moment for Loki to register her question and another for him to process it. She is going to order dinner? For him? And she is asking him for his preference? Loki has not had the privilege of preferring anything in a long, long time. Damn this mortal.

“I am not familiar with this particular cuisine, nor Midgard’s in particular.”

She meets his eyes then, and only after does it occur to him that her eyes had been previously glued to his abdomen. His abdomen, he realizes which has been bare this entire interaction. “That doesn’t answer my question.”

He forces himself to roll his eyes, running a hand through his still dripping hair to hide the scarlet his ears have surely become. “I am saying that I do not have a preference, woman.”

She lifts her shoulders briefly in a gesture Loki has come to associate with Midgard’s daftness and promptly moves closer to him. Instinctively, Loki takes a step back, then curses himself for doing so. He truly must be losing it, backing away from a defenseless mortal. But she doesn’t push further, instead tilting her head at that angle again, asking him another question.

“Can I come in?”

Loki hesitates. He doesn’t understand her motives, doesn’t know if this is a trick the Avengers have set up or perhaps a test designed by his brother. All he knows is that Angel is staring at him with her eyes wide and innocent and completely devoid of deceit.

Angel must carry magic or Loki must be possessed by the Mind Stone again, for against his will, Loki steps to the side, allowing her to brush past him. The sleeve of her sweater comes into contact with Loki’s stomach, and he jerks away.

Awkwardly, Loki closes his door and turns to face the mortal, noting how hilariously out of place she looks, standing in the midst of Loki’s domain. With a wave of his hand, the previously scattered articles of clothing fly onto his bed, meticulously folding themselves. Angel’s surprised, quiet gasp does not escape his notice. She walks towards his bed, small hand landing on Thor’s sweatshirt.

“Take that when you leave.” Loki internally bristles at his own tone, noticing how Angel’s shoulders locked up when he spoke and did not relax when he stopped. “Please,” he adds.

To his surprise (again), Angel approaches him, sweater in hand. “Why?”

At this, Loki is caught off guard. Without warning, he is overwhelmed by distaste. His patience has been tested over and over again, and he does not have even a drop more to deal with this mortal’s incompetence. His hatred for her rushes back, multiplied a thousandfold. Who does she think she is and why will she not leave Loki alone? Why must she cut short his relaxation, intrude upon his personal space, inquire after him when he knows — he knows — she does so unwillingly? Why is she holding up Thor’s goddamned sweater, pretending not to know why Loki hates it so? As if she doesn’t know it belongs to Thor.

In fact, Loki is positive she is intimately aware of whom it belongs to, undoubtedly so. He hates Angel, hates her for reluctantly offering her help, hates her for her smoothies, hates her for asking him about his preferences. Briefly, he envisions snapping her neck. Effortlessly. But the image makes him recoil, bringing about not satisfaction, but horror.

His fists clench, his broken fingernails once again digging into bruised skin. It costs Loki an immeasurable amount of self control not to simply throw her out, hurl her from his quarters. Instead, he snaps at her.

“Girl, do not test my patience. I am warning you, it has been a very long day and if you do not exit extremely promptly, it will not end well for one of us.”

Loki hates the way her shoulders tense up again, hates the way she physically flinches away at his dismissal.

Loki hates how though he can sense her increasing heartbeat, her nervousness, Angel still looks him in the eye and informs him, in a terrified voice coated with forced calm, “I’m sorry to hear that Loki. I added this sweater into your laundry after it was done, but I should have known it would not have been welcome.”

Loki hates how she then drops her eyes, staring intently at her mismatched socks.

“I’ll just leave your dinner outside.”

Loki hates how she leaves, her hands gripping Thor’s — his — sweatshirt tightly, footsteps moving at a much brisker pace.

Loki hates how Angel closed off, how he closed her off.

Loki hates how Angel clearly did do his laundry.

Loki hates how Angel thought of him, giving him an extra sweatshirt, offering him a choice for dinner.

Loki hates Angel more than he hates Thor, more than he hates Odin.

Loki hates Angel more than he hates the Mad Titan.

The only person Loki hates more than Angel is himself.

Fuck.

______________________________

We don't even ask for happiness, just a little less pain.

- Charles Bukowski

______________________________

Previous Chapter

Taglist: @spacedaddydinn @doct0rstrange

#Loki Laufeyson #loki x reader #Loki Laufeyson x Reader #the hell in your eyes #thiye #loki x you #friends to enemies to lovers #reader insert #loki fic #jouce writes

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slasherholic · 3 years

Text

Michael Myers x Doctor! Reader | The Check-Up

behold, a drabble that went on for 1500 words too long.

synopsis: you are a doctor at smith’s grove administering the patient’s monthly physical exams. your next patient is michael. sadly, there is no world where this ends pleasantly for you.

contains: gender-neutral reader, michael being a toying asshole and giving the reader a nasty scare.

The exam room is small and drab, too intimate a space for work to happen comfortably. Its walls are not thick enough to dampen the noise of shuffling feet and voices passing by outside, and occasionally, the strident yelling of an upset patient will cut above the murmur, making you drum your fingers against the steel countertop with a renewed fervor.

On your sheet, half way down the list, the name is printed innocuously there in blue ink:

M. Myers.

You take a deep breath in and let it out slowly; it does not calm your nerves. Since you relinquished your last patient, the unease has been twisting in your gut like you swallowed a whole eel. Now, it feels almost determined to come back up.

It’s only a physical, you reason. The guards will be right outside. He’ll be restrained.

And such things might have been a comfort, if only “M. Myers” was still just a name on a list with a gruesome reputation to precede him. You are not fortunate enough for that to be the case; you have worked with Myers before. You know what he is like.

Your eyes flit to the clock on the wall while your fingers tap tap tap away on the counter. The guards have been gone eight minutes now. Some patients make a fight out of it every time they are taken from their rooms, requiring transport around the sanitarium in wheelchairs fit with heavy leather straps. Not Myers. In all your time employed at Smith’s Grove Sanitarium, you have never heard of one such related incident involving Myers. He lets himself be escorted without a fuss.

The incidents only happen after he gets to where he’s going.

It is not another full minute before there is a knock at the door.

“I’m ready,” you say promptly. The handle twists to the side. The door opens.

Four guards bring him in, double the standard patient security detail.

They lead him to the exam table while you thumb through your drawer for his file. In the corner of your eye, you watch him sit. One guard produces a key ring. The guard squats. Shortly, you hear the resounding metal “click” of a lock turning into place.

“Alright,” the guard says, standing. “All’s good over here.” After some consideration, he adds, “Want us to stick around for this one?”

“No, but thank you,” you tell him, pulling out the file. “I trust you did your job.

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

The guards leave the room, one by one.

“Holler if he gives you any trouble,” the last guard states, closing the door behind him.

The silence in their stead is woeful and everything within it altogether too loud. The clock on the wall ticks. Your stool squeaks sharply when you sit upright. The open drawer screeches as you push it shut.

And you can hear him breathing.

Your heart should not be racing already but it is. You suppose it isn’t too late to call the guards back in, but in the end, it wouldn’t matter much; if Myers is determined to toy with you, he will. Their presence will not deter him.

Clipboard in hand, you swivel on your stool, and face him.

Myers sits atop the paper-sheeted table with an attentive posture. He wears his usual white patient’s garb, canvas pants and a cotton shirt, the latter too tight around the breadth of his shoulders. Short metal cuffs link his wrists closely to his waist. His ankle has been chained to the chipping grey tile; and, despite the elevation of the table, his feet touch the floor with ease.

Alarmingly, he is staring right back at you.

Ice-blue eyes consider you steadily. No hint of emotion occupies his face. The look is somehow effortless, and you are reminded of how a housecat might regard a person of mild interest, intrigued enough by the happenings to observe, but caring not to involve itself further—yet.

Your throat tightens. There have been times during these check-ups where Myers feigns detachment, pretending wholly as if he doesn’t care. Not today. Already, he is casually toying with you.

Your eyes fall to your clipboard as you stand from your stool, eager for an excuse to cast your gaze away from him.

“I’ll be administering a quick check up today,“ you say, depositing your pen in your breast pocket. “Weight, heart rate, blood pressure, nothing invasive.” It is all you can manage if you are to maintain some air of professionalism. Your voice has already begun to thin.

The physician’s scale rests against the wall beside the exam table, wholly too close to Myers for your liking. You feel his eyes following you across the room as you go and stand next to it. Adrenaline surges in your veins at the proximity.

“Stand here, please,” you say, eyes fixed on your clipboard, as though very much involved in your work, and very much not falling prey to your patient’s lingering stare.

For a beat of time that stretches on into discomfort, nothing happens. Michael’s breathing fills the room. You do not look up from your sheet. He doesn’t budge an inch in your periphery. It is as if you had not spoken at all, only imagined it. Perhaps he didn’t hear you. Perhaps he’s decided not to cooperate.

The instructions are almost past your lips a second time when Michael stands. His weight shifts fluidly onto his feet, almost soundlessly, were it not for the clank of his ankle restraint hitting the floor. The scale creaks as he steps on—the length of chain allows it, barely. Your breathing is far from measured now. While you slide the weights along the top of the scale you grip your clipboard tremendously tight.

It is a strange and terrible thing, you think, to exist next to a body that has taken so many lives. Would you lose your job if you were to obey the way your feet seem to want to charge as fast as you are able out of this room? Why, the situation doesn’t seem ethical; your higher-ups, the doctors, the psychologists, all know what dreadful acts Michael is capable of; are you seriously expected to treat this man as though he’s just the next patient on your sheet?

A series of terrible things occur to you all at once; If Michael wanted to, even in his chains, he could hurt you very easily. It is by the mere fact of the building surrounding him that he has not.

Contained in this place, to harm you is to tighten his own restraints. Michael knows this. He knows the keys to the castle must be attained through docility, or at least an act of it, which he is very good at faking. Whether he believes the game is eligible for a second round, now, with so much fresh blood on his hands, he is going to play. In fewer words; only by the grace of brick and cement are you allowed to exist within an arm’s length of this man, and still keep breathing.

On your sheet, you scribble a barely legible 210 lbs in the blank white space next to “patient weight”. In a retreating voice you ask Myers to please sit back down on the table. He decides instead to linger next to you first, broadening his chest with a few more steady breaths; after that, he sits.

The stethoscopes are stored in the stainless steel cabinets above your desk. You set down your clipboard as you dig for one, trying all the while not to think the unthinkable—you have to touch your patient now. You have to touch Michael.

Stethoscope in hand, eyes fixed to a point on the floor for the sake of your own sanity, you drag your stool across the room, its one stuck wheel screeching across the linoleum.

You settle your stool inches away from Myers and put on your best mask of doctorly calm.

“Looking good so far,” you say, not believing that Michael is actually paying attention to your words, only speaking because it seems the comfortable thing to do. “I need to listen to your heart next, so please, don’t move.”

Michael’s towering body doesn’t budge a muscle in response to your new proximity. He continues to breathe in and out, chest expanding beneath his too-tight shirt, and you can see the individual muscles of his torso rising and contracting, ribs filling out, pectorals broadening, their outline obvious beneath his meager layer of clothing.

You install the buds of your stethoscope in both ears and reach out with your dominant hand toward his chest, pressing the circular tool just above his heart.

Lub-dub. Lub-dub. Lub-dub. The pounding echoes in your skull. You can feel it beating up through his coiled muscle, throbbing so adamantly beneath your touch that you can see his pulse lifting your fingers up and down, up, down, a power which you try to ignore by filling your thoughts with numbers, counting the beats as your task demands.

Touching Michael is nearly unbearable by the fiftieth second. You withhold your heavy swallow as you shove away from him, wheeling back to the safety of the counter where your sheet rests, jotting in his results, which are incredible, but nothing short of expected—Michael has the resting heart rate of a trained athlete.

As you ink in his results in the empty box, it occurs to you that he must be getting some sort of pleasure out of this. Some carnal need of his is gratified by the symptoms of your unease—the miserable tension in your voice, the fact you cannot look him in the eye. Michael is devouring all of it.

You feel suddenly very faint as you reach again above the counter, this time taking a hand light from the cabinets. Two more empty boxes remain unfilled on your sheet; two more tests to administer. Half way done. You suppose that fact should help settle your nerves, but it doesn’t. Instead, a different angle on the matter takes form in your head; a whole half way in, and Myers is still pretending as if he’s only going to sit there and watch.

You leave your clipboard on the counter this time, because it can’t save you. To perform this next part you are going to have to bite the bullet and look Myers in the face.

Distressingly, his expression has not budged a bit. His cold eyes are still upon you.

Keeping your concern off your face seems a losing battle now. You know Michael can detect it in the tightness of your features as you roll your stool across the room, and perhaps you imagined the oh-so-faint dilation of his functioning pupil as you approached, and perhaps you didn’t.

“I just need you to follow this light for me.” You tell Michael, brandishing the hand light in front of you.

His eyes, or you suppose the one good one, survey the thin silver tool in your hand. Nothing on his face changes. He looks back up at you within three beats of your racing heart, apparently ready to comply.

Your thumb meets the little button on the side of the light and it illuminates a harsh circle on his pale cheek. A flick of your wrist aligns it with your target. Michael’s pupil contracts to a pin-point. He obliges your instructions, tracking the light as you move it left, then right, his reflexes behaving beautifully, flawlessly, in fact…

...and you are still contemplating the flawlessness of Michael’s pupillary reflexes when it occurs to you that he is no longer following the light. Instead, he is staring at your face.

You remember seeing tigers hunting on a nature show. You remember that head down, fixed-eyed look, a predator’s unbreakable concentration. That is how Myers is staring at you.

Terror rolls through you, gripping your heart in a cold fist. It makes you smaller and smaller until you feel like turning on your heel and sprinting for the door, away from this ruthless predator, because Myers is so obviously that.

“Follow the light, please.” You barely squeeze the words past your constricting vocal chords. Michael does not follow the light. He looks at you with that same deadly gaze, the darkness spreading to overtake his whole face.

You recoil from him like you’ve been shot.

His cuffed hand shoots out. Chain links rattle as he seizes your elbow. A gasp leaves your throat at the horrible pressure of his fingers digging into bone.

Very quietly, you tell him to let you go.

Michael doesn’t. His hand continues to grip your arm as if cemented there. He meets your eyes with a piercing look that says you are about to die.

Suddenly, the fact of the sanitarium walls surrounding you no longer matter. Your world swings sickeningly sideways. You know only one thing; Michael is going to murder you on the spot.

Tears cascade freely down your face. His grip hurts but the fear hurts worse. You tell him you are going to call in the guards. Michael, unperturbed, holds you, just watching, perhaps even daring you to.

“Please let go.” You are pleading with him now. Pleading with a murderer. Pleading with the monster that has already decided your fate.

The very moment before you raise your voice to scream for the guards, Michael does let go. His hand comes free and you spill to the floor with a yelp, knocking over medical supplies on the counter which clatter loudly as they fall. The doors swing open. The four guards step in.

Michael sits innocuously on the exam table as you heave and tremble on the floor. By all accounts, it would appear as though you’ve fallen due to your own clumsiness.

One of the guards rushes to your side to help you to your feet. You insist in a tight, quivering voice that you are fine; that you only tripped. You spit out that you have everything you need from Myers, and if they would please take him away, and bring in the next patient, that would be excellent.

Michael is still watching you as the guards begin to unlock his ankle cuff. You cannot bear to return his stare. Bending down, you start to pluck a tray of spilled cotton swabs off the floor, trying to occupy your shaking hands, but even long after the guards have removed Myers from the room, your hands refuse to stop their trembling.

#Michael Myers #michael myers x reader #halloween #slashers #writing #horror #fanfiction #dead by daylight #reader insert #slasher x reader

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spinchip · 3 years

Text

I Will Answer to Knife

Word Count: 3600 Pairings: Gen Warnings: Post s11 Ice Chapter. PTSD, mentions of blood/murder, Zane isn’t in a good headspace.

Summary: Zane struggles with weapons he isn’t used to. Zane struggles with what he offers.

Wouldbelove, do not think of me as a whetstone until you hear the whole story: In it, I’m not the hero, but I’m not the villain either so let’s say, in the story, I was human and made of human-things: fear and hands, underbelly and blade.

He overcompensates, loses his balance and skids across the courtyard. His side takes the brunt of it, and if he were human the bruises would be layered one on top of the other, each time he slips imprinted onto his skin in a motley purple-blue-yellow. He’s not human, so all he has to show for his fumbling is radiating pain not unlike cracked ribs, a dirty gi, and tight-lipped irritation that barely masks shame. The impact sends his shuriken out of his hands, arcing in an unrefined fling that has one stuck out of the gate across the yard and the other lying, like him, in the dirt.

He rolls to a stop, flopping back onto the ache of his shoulder blades to stare up at the sky. Without thinking, he balls his hand into a fist and bangs the side of his palm against the edge of the training mat he can reach. Frustration seeps hot across his throat and down his chest, like blood from a fresh wound. He rolls over on his sore side by mistake but doesn’t dare suck in a hissing breath, not with the others watching so closely, gathering his legs underneath him and rising to his feet.

Kai looks sympathetic from his spot on the blue mat that is not big enough to keep his failure contained, the dirt on his gi proof of his mistakes spilling over. The wooden swords in his hands are awkward and out of place, their weight different from his normal weaponry yet even with this disadvantage, he puts Zane down over and over.

Well, Zane does most of the work for him, really.

Lloyd watches with a pinched expression as Zane dusts himself off, his position at the head of the training session a solid presence, “I think that’s enough for today.” He says, and he almost seems apologetic.

“I can go again.” Zane insists, and refuses to stumble as he collects his discarded weapons, wrenching the edge of his blade out of the gate with his dwindling strength.

He’s exhausted. They’ve been running basic drills, ameatuer hour stuff Zane should have been able to do in his sleep- but it’s been years. Decades upon decades stuck on the throne of the Never Realm, and now he’s out of practice and off balance. Nindroids don't have muscle memory, and his regular memory has been shredded enough that things like this didn’t bother to stick. He can’t get through a single move without losing the dexterity that used to come easy and sending himself to the dirt- Lloyd had gone from advanced moves to novice to beginner slowly throughout the day, yet the result was the same: Zane in the dirt of his own accord, aching and weak.

To add insult to injury, Kai is obviously holding back. Jay had been too, yesterday, Nya the day before. In the span of a week he went from the most formidable man in the realm to an uncoordinated child who needed to be treated delicately. He could barely land a hit on the training dummy, and it didn’t even move.

“Maybe you can try your bow again?” Zane can’t meet Kais eyes, the pity he’s trying to mask making his wires curl.

“We saw how well that went.” Jay mutters not uncharitably, another string of disappointments a few days prior where his aim left much to be desired, and quite nearly took his eye when he’d lost his grip.

The others had been training too, but they’d stopped to watch as Lloyd summoned Kai and Zane to spar.

“We need to assess your skills in combat,” Lloyd had said earlier that day, the so we can make up for your shortcomings going unsaid but heavy all the same. Or maybe Zane is the one being uncharitable- but he’s in pain and tired and his mask of calm is harder to keep a grip on now.

And Kai had hesitated on the edge of the mat, holding the steel of his swords, and with his head down had swapped them for wooden fakes. The insult threatened to make Zanes lip curl, but he’d been forced to concede to his foresight when dull wood blades cracked against the side of his thigh and forced him to the ground, in one of the few times Zane had managed to stay on his feet long enough to be taken down by something other than his own shortcomings. He should have been able to dodge.

The shurikens are so small in his hands, and he hasn’t used them in so so long. He's rusty.

“I can go again.” He insists, stepping back onto the mat. In a real battle, he’d be less than useless. They couldn’t protect him, he had to be able to take care of himself. He had to keep going until he could at least survive. He was good at surviving, he’d spent decades hanging on by a thread- countering a wooden sword shouldn't be so difficult compared to parrying the knives from assassins or the swords of dead men walking. He’s weak.

Lloyd gets that look on his face that he only gets when he has to do something he really doesn’t want to do, mostly when he must flex his status on the others when they're being particularly stubborn. It’s a pained stony sort of expression, “That’s enough for today.” he says more firmly, shoulder squaring. He loses the soft edges of the boy he used to be, Master Lloyd filling in the spaces rigid.

Protest raises on his tongue, “The longer I go at the skill level I am at now, the more dangerous it becomes.” fear, frustration, and desperation simmers below the surface, “I am a liability on the field, I cannot stop until I can hold my own.”

“We can continue training tomorrow.” Lloyd says, unyielding. Green eyes trail down to Zanes' sore side, assessing.

He bristles and tries to tamp it down, “You do not need to go easy on me-” he starts.

Lloyd interrupts him, “Yes we do-” frustration cracking the facade of the master, the others looking on in wide eyed worry.

“Lloyd, Zane, enough.” Wu's voice rings out in sharp tones, his presence slamming the lid on the boiling over pot, “I believe I have a suggestion to solve our problem.”

Problem. Zane tries not to let that sting as he spins to face Master Wu.

The man is descending the stairs of the monastery into the courtyard, the others parting like the red sea, his cape trailing on the edge of the steps as he comes down. In his hand is-

Zanes vision tunnels, Lloyd, Kai, the others all fading away as he takes in the smooth metal, leather bound handle, the wicked curved blade- a piece of him howls, jagged and frozen fingers scrabbling at the corners of his mind, the sight of that staff is like going snowblind. All at once he’s standing in the courtyard amongst his friends and the throne room at the same time, realities overlapping in brutal contrast.

His shuriken bounces off his foot and he is thrust back into his body, his hands empty where he’d dropped his weapons in shock. Wu approaches him with the staff and he takes a shaky step backwards, wiping at his mouth with wobbling hands, half expecting to wipe away spit- salivating at just the sight of it. His wrists and fingers ache, begging him to take it in his hands.

Wu disregards his reaction, walking into his space among the group on the mat. He thunks the staff down in front of Zane, the weight of it digging into blue, like it is the answer.

He’s so spooked he doesn’t dare move, looking at it with wide eyes. Now that he’s more present, he realizes it’s nearly identical to the Staff of Forbidden Spinjitzu, except this one is notably missing the scroll that gave it the corruptive power. It’s just a staff, plain and simple.

No one says a word. Zane stares at it, trembling.

Lloyd is quiet, then, “Are you sure that this is a good idea, Master Wu?”

Wu looks sad but he’s trying to mask it, “You are their teacher, Lloyd. When Zane falters, what do you see?”

Zane is listening, sort of. He’s tracing the edge of the blade with his eyes- sharpened to a fine point, clean and perfect. It looks heavy, the whole thing does, he can nearly taste the weight of it on his tongue. He wants to take it so badly it hurts, and in the same breath he wants to cast it off the side of the mountain or freeze it solid and shatter it against the stone under his feet.

“He’s off balance. He’s compensating for a weight that’s not there.” Lloyd looks like he’s swallowed a lemon, “The shuriken are too small.” He admits.

Wu nods to the weapon in his hand, glancing from Lloyd to pin his eyes on Zane, “You’ve had a lifetime of practice with this weapon. You’ve wielded a staff longer than a shuriken or a bow, perhaps it is time to embrace that.”

Zane doesn’t even look at him. He can almost feel the whisper on the back of his mind- it’s not there, the staff is a replica without the extra power, but Zane can imagine it all the same.

He reaches out and takes it.

The feel of it in his palm is like a starburst of agony, an ice burn that jumps up the metal of his forearm and digs into the plane of his chest. Flickers of memories flash in his mind's eyes all like looking through a pane of frosted ice-glass, cold seeping into his skeleton. A memory rises unbidden, a man he did not freeze, who had been close enough to strike with the blade- red red red

He chucks it across the courtyard without thinking, staggering away from it, “I can’t.” he nearly gags, before darting past Wu and Lloyd and narrowly avoiding Coles worried brush of his fingers. He takes the stairs two at a time, throwing open the front door and not bothering to shut it behind him.

He holes himself away in his room, sitting on the floor next to his bed, trying to hold himself together.

Too much too soon, the staff wrenched memories he’d been ignoring and hiding away free.

He doesn’t want to admit it, wants to choke it down and pretend it didn’t happen, but he can’t deny that- even with the pain and shame and bloody wounded guilt overwhelming him- taking that staff had felt like coming home.

Home was supposed to be Ninjago. Somewhere along the way, it became the throne room, too. He’d been split in half, pieces of him trapped in a realm he could never return to. The closest he’d ever get to sating the pervasive homesick itch is to hold a facsimile of his tool of violence.

Perhaps it is time to embrace that Wu had said, holding out the weapon he’d bloodied his hands with.

Evening comes and goes, and he skips dinner again. He’s crawled into bed at some point, staring up at the ceiling, trying hard not to think. He swallows down the threatening urge to crack under it all. In the darkness, he stares at his palms.

Vex is standing at his side, the throne room an open doorway behind them, and the staff is a curling presence he’s never without. It’s hard to think about these memories because he doesn’t form thoughts like he did when he was broken, the memories jagged and warped. Trying to understand is like catching a blade you’ve dropped- a falling knife has no handle. It hurts.

But in this memory he and Vex are walking through the palace hall. Grand windows might as well be painted white with the snow obscuring the now frozen wasteland, but the Emperor had no desire to see the outside world, or anything at all. This is before he had snuffed out the rising rebellions, this is before he’d flexed his power and made the people afraid, this is before they’d even given him the moniker Ice Emperor. He is nameless now, even Vex only calls him by his title. He doesn’t even know he is missing something so vital.

Vex says, “You don’t need to worry about the inconsequential things,” he’s a step behind Zane, and when his emperor slows he can prod him so he keeps moving, “You are an instrument of power, these things are beneath you. I will handle the day-to-day for you, my Emperor.”

The click of his staff ticks across the hall as they walk, “And what am I to handle?”

“Nothing. Simply keep your hold on our eternal winter, and raise your staff when I ask it of you.”

There's a stirring of thought in the empty caverns of his head and not a hint of it is kind, “I am your attack dog, then.”

To his credit, Vex doesn’t falter, “You are my Emperor.” he says immediately, and then- carefully, and almost genuinely curious, “What do you have to offer other than violence?”

Zane lays in bed and stares at the shapes in the dark that might be his hands. Shurikens don’t fit right any more, his arrows shoot askance. If the next threat arises in the morning, what can he do except cost his friends focus?

He is a bleeding wound. They need to treat him gently and delicately- but life is not gentle and delicate, and perhaps it is time to take a knife over a fire and cauterize the injury.

He slips and goes horizontal and his blood spills across the dirt. It’s metaphorical until it’s not and the newest adversary forgoes fake wooden swords for real ones, sharpened blades sinking home. If he were human he would bleed red blood. He’s not human, so it’s oil and coolant and hydraulic fluid seeping into the soil.

He is a liability. Weak-link. He has to learn to fight again. He has to embrace it, even if it feels like frostbite chipping away at him, even if it hurts. Vex had forged him into a knife, forced him into the shape of a blade and sharpened him with blood instead of water, if he can accept these pieces he can make himself useful once more. It was all he had.

He wants to feel strong again.

Morning comes in slanting lights though his window, the blanket is too hot under them. He hadn’t slept enough but he rolls out of bed and changes into a clean gi anyway and trails out of his room. Conversation falls hushed when he comes into the kitchen, and he eats breakfast despite the way his stomach churns- it tastes like it always tastes, bland and unappetizing. The ache in his side had faded over the night, nearly non-existent. He can spar fresh.

“We didn’t think you’d be joining us today.” Nya tries, smiling over her bagel.

He doesn’t shrug, putting his fork down, “I meant what I said. I cannot stop until I can protect myself.”

Nya’s face grows pinched and worried, “You can, though.” She reaches across the table and sets her hand on top of his, and she doesn’t jolt or comment at all about how cold he is, “You can take a break, Zane.”

Wu had called him a problem. Zane knows that’s not what he meant, but it weighs his shoulders like lead, and he doesn’t respond. He stands up and takes his plate to the sink, and her hands falls flat against the table.

The staff is sitting on the porch, leaned up against the wall. He focuses on it the moment they walk outside, and Jay ducks his head nervously- he was probably supposed to put it away so Zane didn’t see it again, but they thought he was going to skip like he had the first few days after he’d come home. Never put off until tomorrow what can be done today.

They do warm-ups, then Lloyd pairs them up for sparring, and his eyes skate over Zane reluctantly until, “Cole… Zane. Come spar.” The others don’t need for Lloyd to supervise them, or the training mat. Zane needs both.

They both go to the weapons and Cole, like Kai yesterday, avoids his hammer. He reaches for the wooden training swords but Zane catches his wrist.

He looks up, startled, “Zane?” He asks, confused.

He manhandles his hand over to the grip of his hammer, “Do not hold back.” He says firmly, and then jogs up the stairs and wraps his fingers around the staff.

Expecting it this time, he compartmentalizes the memories the instant they surface, shoving them back. In the absence of pain there is comfort, the weight so achingly familiar a hole inside of him he didn’t know he had is filled. Like coming home, he’d felt it yesterday. Confidence pours into his system- he knows how to hold this, to swing this, to fight with this. He picks it up and it’s perfectly balanced, a missing limb reattached.

Carrying it down the stairs, he’s aware of their stares.

Kai and Nya break formation, moving back to give Cole and Zane room. Jay follows their lead, and they settle back to watch.

Cole is holding his hammer and his expression is grim, “Are you sure you can handle this?”

He feels like he’s being filled with ice, chill threatening to frost over his eyes. He’s not sure at all, but he says, “Don’t hold back.” Again anyway.

Shurikens are small. To fight, he has to stand back, give space, evade and dodge. Bow and arrows are much the same. They are largely defensive. Before the Never Realm, he was good at defense.

“Whenever you’re ready.” Lloyd says and Zane carefully tunes out the apprehension in his voice.

Now he is more comfortable on the offense.

He moves.

The Ice Emperor rarely fights in close combat- he rarely fights at all, actually. He waves his staff and freezes, he calls ice and allows that to do the work for him, but when he does face off one on one, he does so as brutally efficiently as he can. He is all offense, blow after blow after unrelenting blow- he pours bone-shattering strength into each strike, driving rebellion leaders to their knees, knocking back a town's most elite soldiers, and if they don’t go down on the first hit he wastes no time lashing out again. He rushes his opponent, he overwhelms them, and he offers not a single second of reprieve.

He hauls back, crossing the mat in half a second, and slices through the air in a clean and powerful swing. The crack of his staff against the handle of Cole's hammer sounds like a gunshot with the terrible force behind it, and before Cole can gather his bearing he swings again.

He beats him back faster than he expected- Cole underestimated him, and it cost him precious ground. He tries to put distance between them to get a moment to make his move, but Zane is with him step for step, suffocating any moves before they can breathe.

To fight with his shuriken or his bow is like oil against his water, they don’t mix now that the staff has imprinted itself onto his mind. He cannot reconcile the difference, not yet. He compensates for the weight of the staff, keeps his balance, and advances on his target with brutal efficiency.

He sweeps his leg out while splitting Cole's attention with a strike intended for his side, and Cole goes down with a startled shout. Zane twists the staff so the flat side of the blade is sitting on his chest- the intent is clear, but there’s no danger he’ll accidentally cut him. It’s over in heartbeats, and Cole looks up at him, astonished.

“Holy moly.” Jay breathes.

Zane moves the blade aside, shifting the staff to hold it upright. He glances over at Lloyd, who looks a shade paler than before the fight, whose eyes are a bit too wide. He was the only one who’d seen the Ice Emperor in action, and the last time he’d held the blade against someone's chest it had been him- sharp side down, the intent had been clear then, too. Zane averts his eyes, guilt threatening the progress he’d made even picking the staff up, and focused on holding out a hand so he could bring Cole back to his feet.

Cole winces as he pulls him up, “Zane…” He says, staggering, “That was like nothing I've ever seen from you.” He flexes his fingers, the blows stinging his hands even now.

He doesn’t flinch or shy away from his friends' looks, “It’s how I fought.” He’s hoping he doesn’t have to put any more context to that sentence, he doesn’t want to say the Never Realms name out loud.

“How?” Nya asks, “You left so many openings, how did you win?”

“Overwhelming force.” Zane says.

“The openings mean nothing if I can’t even swing.” Cole shakes his head.

Master Wu smiles from the doorway, “Very impressive, Zane."

The pieces of himself snapped clean down the middle don’t mend, but they aren’t bleeding anymore either. Satisfaction, purpose, strength floods his system. He is not striped with dirt or bruises, he is no longer a failure- he is formidable, dangerous. He can fight, now.

What does he have to offer other than violence?

Zane cannot be the man he was before, but he can be a weapon. He can't remember any other way to be.

The staff sits comforting in his hand.

I like to call myself wound but I will answer to knife.

Underbelly by Nicole Homer

#zane julien #lloyd garmadon #wu ninjago #ninjago #ns11 #zangst #cole ninjago #kai ninjago #spinchip fic #vex ninjago #ptsd #blood

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serendipityunho · 4 years

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Cheat Codes (M)

❀ Genre: smut, angst, college au ❀ Pairing: dom!Seonghwa x brat!Reader (fem.) ❀ Word Count: 5.3k ❀ Warnings: explicit language, intoxication, brat taming, hair-pulling, fingering, biting kink, blowjob, teasing, clit play, dirty talk, begging, explicit sexual intercourse, a little bit of a fight between seonghwa and yunho, yunho got his feelings hurt :(

❀ Synopsis: "This party's boring, wanna get out of here?", may have perhaps led you to make the biggest mistake of your life by sleeping with your best friend's other best friend, your best friend who happens to be in love with you.

Another year, another number changed on his age. Despite that change, Yunho would always remain a child at heart, getting excited and wide-eyed at the birthday cake you’d always bake him. But for the past couple of years, there’s been a twist, he was able to drink legally. Since then, parties and gatherings were always wild, bringing a new meaning to the word ‘celebration’.

You’d do anything for your best friend, and he’d do anything for you. Yunho was there for you since you could remember, he was the first to show up with a bandaid when you fell off your bike or when you tripped over the rock chasing him around his house. It was an unbreakable bond, everyone knew it, they could see it, how close the two of you are.

“One time for the birthday bitch- Ow! What was that for?” Mingi shot Yunho a hurtful look as he rubbed his arm from Yunho’s warning punch.

“Call me a bitch one more time and let’s see where that leads you,” he was obviously kidding, who in their right mind would ever dare to harm Mingi? All he does is just vibe in his own little world, smiling at every living thing.

This year, it was a whole lot more different compared to his usual birthday bashes. The girls, the beer kegs, the rave lights, the party animals? Not a single one in sight. Yunho thought it was time for a change in the annual scenery, it definitely let the both of you breathe a little bit more.

To be honest, it felt quite unusual without the booming music and sweaty bodies sexually grinding against one another. Not that you were complaining, it was a relief not to witness any more wild scenes.

Last time, San had to get stitches on his head as a result of slipping off the diving board. And Mingi? Let’s spare the details and just say his chest was in pain from a Hennessy-drunk-Wooyoung trying to vacuum his ‘tiddies’. Don’t ask how he managed to secure a vacuum in the first place.

“Happy birthday, shithead,” was the first thing you say to him, pulling yourself onto one of the kitchen stools as you watch him gulp down a cup of whatever mix of alcohol he had swirling in there.

“Thank you, shithead, want a drink?” Yunho always offered you drinks whenever he had the chance, getting you drunk was always his favourite thing to do. Why? It was so he could freely express his feelings for you without the fear of you remembering it the next day.

How did you know that? Yunho had once underestimated your drinking ability. It was quite a night to remember when Yunho mistook your fuller cup of alcohol for his, making him spew out the most cooing confession you’ve ever heard.

It honestly didn’t come as a surprise. One of you was doomed to fall for the other, he just happened to be the first.

“No thanks, we’re keeping it calm this time, remember?”

“Right, right. Calm.”

Several of his friends had been invited to Yunho’s little birthday gathering. They had just been as confused as you were when you were told there was no big party this year. But, of course, none of them questioned the birthday boy of his intentions.

You’ve familiarised yourself with their faces around campus, but San and Wooyoung were the only two you’ve actually brought yourself to talk to beside Mingi occasionally. The two were tight-knit, maybe even more so than Yunho and yourself. A pair who wreak chaos and havoc everywhere they go. No one could ever forget the time Wooyoung walked the walk of shame with nothing but a pizza box covering his lower region and San’s beanie on his head.

“You never told me what’s with the sudden change,” no one had really asked Yunho, maybe that’s what he liked about them, the suppressed urge to ask a million questions. “No girls accepted your party invites? Shocking.”

“No, it’s not that,” Yunho sighed, leaning back against the counter with his hand wrapped on the edge. “I can’t have big loud parties for the rest of my life, you know?”

“And what about it?”

“Don’t know, I just felt like having people I actually care about here,” it was rare to have a friend like Yunho, sure he was easy to talk to but that doesn’t automatically make someone his friend. “A time where I don’t have to fake a smile for an entire night because that shit just makes my face cramp.”

“Oh, please, don’t get all soft on me now. It’s your birthday, cheer up a bit, yeah?” You punched his shoulder playfully before hopping off the stool, grabbing his hand to lead him to the yelling boys in the backyard.

“Pftt- I’m not getting soft, you know it’s the Vodka.” oh, the excuses always amazed you.

You could feel goosebumps poking out from under your cold skin, the night was chilly with a few waves of shivering breezes, you couldn’t help but mentally scold yourself for forgetting to bring a jumper with you. Yunho probably had none left considering you’ve stolen almost all of them to bring home.

It was a mystery how none of these boys reacted the way you did to the cold, it was as if their skin was ice itself. They just continued yelling and throwing arms around each other like it wasn’t a single care in the world. The brooding effects of alcohol, you could say.

Yunho wasn’t particularly a wild drunk, but when he was, it was something that needed to be recorded and watched the morning after. He was never wildly drunk at his big birthday bashes but tonight was, as said, different. Drowning himself in bottles of soju until his pale skin flushed bright red, Jongho could probably mistake it for an apple and break his skull. God hopes that doesn’t happen.

Despite familiarising yourself with the new crew, there was one who you couldn’t help but pay attention to more. He wasn’t like the others, he didn’t give off San and Wooyoung’s chaotic behaviour, he didn’t carry Hongjoong’s talkative manner and he definitely doesn’t seem like he would replicate Mingi’s clumsiness or Jongho’s bright personality.

The best you could assume from this boy was that he would probably share the same bluntness as Yeosang. Cold and blunt. Nothing else.

Park Seonghwa.

There was something about him. Maybe it was the sense of mystery that caused him to occupy most of your headspace. He looks like he holds a lot of mystery, mysteries you were eager to explore.

You didn’t even realise you were staring blankly at him until the brooding pair of dark brown eyes met yours from across the circle of fold-out chairs, making you choke on the cheap liquor before quickly snapping your gaze away from the boy and to the drunken group of boys looking like they were playing ring-around-the-rosie.

It was just the two of you. Sitting in the array of seating with live entertainment before your eyes. Entertainment as in watching Mingi trying to lick his elbow. You could’ve sworn the people in front of you were simply just children in the bodies of grown men. Where did Yunho even find these boys?

Amusement from watching the chaos unfold before you quickly washed away as you kept your seat warm, watching your liquor hitting the sides of your cup as you lazily mixed it. Laughter boomed recurrently throughout the backyard, something that was honestly keeping you awake for the night.

You hate to say it but, you were bored as fuck.

Sure, it was nice to stray away from Yunho’s regular birthday bashes but a little more entertainment rather than alcohol and snacks would’ve been a little nice. The several bodies of young men seem like they’re having the time of their lives just dancing on the edge of the pool right now, one was surely destined to fall in and cause a chain reaction.

Seeing Yunho so happy and not actually fake smiling was enough to convince you to stay and not drag him to the closest nightclub. What the birthday boy wants, the birthday boy gets.

“Hey,” the voice was nothing like you’d expect, soft and comforting but deep and brooding at the same time, making you snap your attention to the boy sitting down on the chair next to you.

“Hi,” was he as bored as you were? Looked like it. His cup was nearly as empty as yours.

“How long have you known Yunho?” Seonghwa asked, slouching back against the flimsy chair as he downed the last of his drink.

“Since we took our first baby steps. Childhood friend, and you?”

“Known the big guy since highschool,” that’s weird, Yunho never mentioned a guy named Park Seonghwa once in his life till now. Let alone, you’ve never even seen him around school since the two of you went together.

“I don’t remember him telling me about you until now. Did you go to the same school as us?”

“I studied abroad in Australia, that’s why he never mentioned me. Thought our friendship wouldn’t last by the time I got back so there was no point in bragging about it.”

Well that explains it then.

“Huh, interesting,” despite sitting a few feet away from the pool, the lights had illuminated his face perfectly, showing off his sharp features you were able to admire from up close when he moved seats next to you. There was one thing you were captivated by the most. His eyes.

They were very alluring eyes, it was as if they were hand-sculpted by an almighty deity itself.

His leather jacket framed his figure perfectly, a beautiful man with a sense of style? Makes you wonder if he has a girlfriend.

“Yeah, look,” Seonghwa sighed, running a hand through his sleek black hair before inching closer to you. “I don’t know how to say this but, this party is getting boring. Wanna get out of here?”

And so you were right.

“As much as I would like to, I don’t think I should keep him out of my sight.”

“We can just go somewhere more calmer like upstairs if you want?” You wanted to snort at his desperation. It was clear what his intentions were and he obviously wasn’t trying to hide it. Yet, you weren’t willing to hide yours either.

“Yeah,” you smirked, licking your top row of teeth before pushing yourself off the chair. “We can go upstairs.”

Seonghwa didn’t even bat an eye before taking a hold of your hand in his, literally dragging you back inside the house where he discarded his empty solo cup in the trash along with yours. The source of laughter grew quieter as the two of you descended further into the house, silently navigating up the staircase with nothing in mind other than the fact that both of you were obviously desperate for some sort of action.

Your easy agreement probably made it sound like you were one of people who slept with anyone they could, but that wasn’t the case. Turning down boys was practically your profession. But with Park Seonghwa? You wanted a taste of that.

You wanted a taste of his mystery, you wanted a touch of that tattoo strip on the side of his neck and the ones on his fingers. You just wanted to feel the flexed bicep underneath the tough leather jacket and the alcohol kissed lips against your neck and preferably on every inch of your body.

Who could blame you for wanting to?

“I didn’t think you were the desperate type,” Seonghwa lows, pushing you against the bedroom door as he locked it.

“I’m not,” your eyes flicker up to his, smirking as you place a hand on the side of his neck, tracing his tattoo with your finger. “You just happened to catch my attention recently.”

“I’m flattered, really,” Seonghwa smirked, eyeing your features with his arms caging you between his body and the door.

“Just fucking kiss me already.”

“Oh, you’re so desperate for me to just fuck you right now aren’t you?” Seonghwa growled, grabbing your waist and pushing you backwards onto the bed until you were flat on your back.

“You’re delusional if you think I’m going to beg for it,” patience wasn’t really on your side, you weren’t gifted with it at all. Especially when it came to fucking.

“Alright, bet.”

A pair of luscious lips slammed against yours in a matter of seconds, Seonghwa was pushing your body deeper into the mattress as his knee pushed open your legs and hands sliding up from your sides to your hands. It was as if you were kissing nothing but mouldable chocolate that tasted of a faint strawberry chapstick, kissing it so hungrily.

“You think I can’t make you beg? Just watch,” Seonghwa’s lips hovered over yours, barely parted as he pushed your legs further apart with his knee, fingers popping the button of your jeans before pulling down its zipper.

“I don’t give in ea- shit,” your head lurched forward as Seonghwa pressed his fingers against your clit, rubbing it slowly before guiding it down to your folds and cloaking his fingers with your wetness.

“Fuck, what was that? Starting to get wet for me?”

“Don’t act like you don’t have a stiffy here,” you could feel Seonghwa’s hard-on underneath his jeans rubbing against your thigh, making you smirk before subtly moving your leg.

“Are you trying to make me beg? No, I don’t play like that,” Seonghwa lowered his face against your neck with a low groan, sinking his long fingers into your pussy with ease before pumping them in and out, earning a quiet whine from you.

“Tsk, tsk, I can do this all night, you know?” You could feel a smirk against your neck, the chilling inhales and exhales against your skin sent shivers down your spine as Seonghwa quickened the pace of his fingers pumping in and out of you, causing your knees wanting to shut close.

“Fuck- Seonghwanggha,” he wasn’t kidding when he said he could make you beg. You were literally on the verge of it. His fingers weren’t enough and he knew that, they were just enough.

“Aw, are you getting needy? Hm? Do you want more?” The tease sent your brain into a frenzy, cloaked with a thick film of haze as Seonghwa starts to rub your clit with the palm of his hand while still fucking you with his fingers.

“Yes, jesus fucking christ- yes!”

“Yes what? Hm? What do you want?”

“You.”

“I need you to say it.”

“Ohmyfuckinggod- I want you to fuck me.”

“Sorry, I couldn’t hear that.”

“Fuck me, I want you to fuck me- ughhnah fuck,” a sharp pain brews against your neck, Seonghwa had caught the flesh of your neck between his teeth, biting it while pulling your jeans and panties down to the floor.

A moan slips out of your mouth as Seonghwa licks the spot on your neck, kissing it before sucking on your jawline. The sudden idea of where you were and what you were doing left your mind like a flash, all you could think of was being touched, touched by Seonghwa and kissing his tattoos on his fingers that were knuckles deep inside of you.

“Told you I would make you beg.”

Underestimation was always your weakness, tonight was a clear sign you should probably stop doing that.

“You flatter yourself too damn much,” you grit, flipping Seonghwa onto his back before lowering yourself onto the waistband of his black jeans, eyeing his bulging erection with a smirk.

“But was I wrong? I don’t think so,” Seonghwa sits up, holding the side of your face in one of his hands before sliding them up to your hair. Your mouth shoots wide open as Seonghwa suddenly grabs a hold of your hair, pulling it back to expose the bruised skin on your neck.

Oh, how much you wanted to just rip his tongue out for his reckless teasing. It was driving you wild, too insanely wild. But you love it.

His belt unbuckled with ease as you yank his jeans and boxers down to his ankles, freeing his hardened cock that just hit his stomach. Your shirt already found itself discarded onto the floor with the rest of the items pulled off your body, as if they were just another decorative piece on the floor.

The longer he watched you with a cocky smirk, the more you wanted to just slap it off. But you were so turned on. So, so turned on you could practically feel your wetness smearing between your thighs.

A small wince shot out from above you as Seonghwa hissed through his gritted teeth, staring down at his dick in the palm of your hands, squeezing it lightly before slowly pumping. You knew if you decided to tease him, it wouldn’t end well for you, what else could you expect from a man like this?

“Jesus fucking christ,” Seonghwa moans, head falling back as he props himself up with his elbows. The tip of his dick was itching to hit the back of your throat any second now, just waiting for him to buck his hip up into your mouth.

It was the brief groan from the back of your throat that sent Seonghwa’s thighs squirming and abdomen tensing hard. You could tell he was enjoying the way your tongue swirled around the base of his cock, pressing against his length with enough pressure to have him gripping your hair.

Just the sound of him reacting to your mouth sent your head into a cloud full of lust. You wanted more and the best you could do at the moment was just rub your thighs together in anticipation as your eyes shot up to Seonghwa’s, droopy and filled with nothing but desperation.

“Fuck, you’re good,” his scrunched up face said it all. “Come here.”

You remove your lips from his throbbing length with a kissing sound before climbing on top of him only to be flipped right around, wrists pinned down on either side of your head. It was impressive how he could do that so nonchalantly with nothing but a cocky smirk.

“I should’ve guessed you were a brat,” Seonghwa hissed, brushing his tip against your clit. The urge to just buck your hips against his was killing you but you knew it would only do more harm than pleasure.

“Then I guess you better fuck me like one.”

The fire in his eyes was more than any sentence. His desire was fuming inside him, eager to cloud his judgement the moment your hole stretched from his length suddenly sliding into you.

He sure knew how to work his dick right when a grunt outed from your mouth as Seonghwa hooked his hips at an angle before thrusting. The eye-rolling pleasure only lasted a few seconds before Seonghwa quickened his pace, starting to snap his hips into you as he hooked both of your legs over his shoulders.

Fuck, you wanted to kiss him, but he knew what he was doing to you. He was doing it on purpose. There was no way he was going to let you kiss him. No way to busy your mouth as moans escape it recklessly.

“Ohffuck-” your head was growing lighter and lighter by the second, back arched off the mattress by now if it wasn’t for Seonghwa pushing your knees against your chest.

It was quite embarrassing hearing just your moans bouncing off the walls of this room as Seonghwa was pile-driving you deep into the bed, it only made you more desperate to crash your lips onto Seonghwa’s to deafen them. You really didn’t want to bite down on your arm, but you were more desperate than ever.

“Aw, why are you being so quiet hm? Is this dick not satisfying you enough?” Seonghwa smirks from above you, parting his lips so you could finally hear his staggered breathing.

“Y-Yeah, something like t-that- unghh,” sarcasm was undoubtedly your go-to method to cope with certain situations, but this time it was sarcasm that would get you more than you asked for.

“Oh? You really want to fucking play like that? You’re not going to be able to walk once I’m done with you.”

Emptiness looms in your heat as Seonghwa pulls out, latching either side of your waist before flipping you around on your stomach in a flash. A surprised gasp left your lips as he stingingly squeezed the flesh of your ass with a chuckle, hoisting you onto your knees.

“You really think you’re different from everyone el- mhmmh,” your snarky remark was cut short when you felt a hand push the side of your face against the mattress, legs twitching as Seonghwa thrust himself into you once again.

“You’re getting on my goddamn nerves,” Seonghwa snarls, keeping a tight grip on your hair in his fist as the other hand smoothes over your side.

The pumping pleasure coursing through your body felt electric, making you feel like you were above the clouds with each hard thrust. You could feel your ass bouncing as Seonghwa’s thrusts became sloppy, louder as the room echoed with nothing but a mix of your lewd moans and slapping skin.

“Tsk, I can feel you shaking underneath me. Regretting it yet?”

“I can fucking handle it, shut up,” you weren’t raised as no weak bitch.

“I really hope so,” well fuck. You could feel your thighs quivering as Seonghwa slowly pushed your legs further apart, stomach falling closer against the mattress. Just barely above it. “Impressive.”

It was a new angle that had you wanting to cry, with the way his cock hit deep in you and both of his hands either side of you holding him up. You couldn’t help but let your face fall against your arms, breathing as if it were your last and brows furrowed so hard you could feel your face about to cramp.

“Seonghw-aaahhmhm,” your legs twitched, pushing themselves higher off the mattress as your ass hits Seonghwa’s stomach with no choice. You couldn’t hold the position any longer unless you wanted to burst into tears from the burning in your thighs.

“What’s the matter huh? I thought you could handle it.”

“P-Please,” you cry.

“What do you want?”

“Kiss me- just please fucking kiss me,” your voice grew deeper and louder, desperation dripping from your tongue like poison as you push yourself off the mattress and flip Seonghwa onto his back with no time wasted in hoping your soaking wet cunt back on his length.

“Get your pretty lips here then,” your lips crashed harshly onto one another, teeth clashing as saliva coated your lips. The weak taste of his strawberry chapstick was still there and you loved it, love the way his lips moulded perfectly with yours each time as his hips snapped up into yours.

Seonghwa’s hands grip your hips roughly as he tries his best to hold them up with your legs quivering. His hips were snapping up briskly with a slap, shooting immense pleasure through your body like little sparks bottling into a ball in the deepest pit of your stomach.

“Oh fuck, right theremhmmgh right there,” you whisper a moan against his lips before letting your face fall in the nape of his neck, hand cupping the side of his face as the other grips the bedsheets.

Seonghwa just couldn’t control the loudness of his breathing anymore, grunting through gritted teeth as he shut his eyes close and glutes on fire with how rapid he was moving his hips. It was a breath-taking moment with your knuckles turning white and nails on the verge of tearing into the bedsheet as the pleasurable feeling of his cock pounding into you from below just pushing you to the edge of your combustion.

“Uggnghh- shitohmygod!” your fist loosened on the bedsheets before slamming them closer to your body, pushing yourself off of Seonghwa’s chest with a high-pitched moan and wide mouth as your brain turns into mush. Nothing but electrifying pleasure washed over you like a tsunami, making you clench tight around Seonghwa’s cock and gazing into his droopy lust-filled eyes.

A white film casts over your vision as you lower your lips onto Seonghwa’s, giving him a slow intent kiss as his hips calm down. Legs still quivering with the slightest movement as you lowered yourself with him, making his length slide out of you with ease and just poking at your stomach.

Seconds which felt like minutes went by with nothing but silence. Just basking in your own silent thoughts in your own heads.

You should’ve felt anything. Anything but guilt.

Why guilt? Out of all emotions, why guilt after fucking a stranger you just met? A stranger who was brought to you by your best friend. Your best friend who once confessed he loves you.

“This was a mistake,” you didn’t think twice before scattering to get your clothes, rushingly putting them back onto your body as Seonghwa was left there with confusion written all over his face.

“Wait,” he booms, “what do you mean this was a ‘mistake’?”

Seonghwa replicated your actions and started putting his clothes back on in a swift, still waiting for an answer after you responded with nothing but silence. He should’ve known, he was Yunho’s best friend too after all.

“Listen, just forget this ever happened, please,” just thinking about this night would eat you alive, and it would definitely kill Yunho from the inside.

Before Seonghwa could say anything, you dashed out of the bedroom door, skipping down the stairs with your heart pounding like crazy, ready to jump out of your chest. It wasn’t long before you could hear footsteps following you closely behind, which made you even more uneasy as you could tell he was desperate for answers.

“Hey, what the fuck is your problem?” Seonghwa grabs you by the arm, halting you in your escape before letting go with a piercing stare. “You can’t just beg me to fuck you like that and say, oh, ‘this was a mistake’.”

You could tell he was mocking you, but you really couldn’t blame him. The only person to blame here was you. You should’ve known better than to sleep with one of Yunho’s best mates, especially when you knew the boy had deep feelings for you.

“Because it is a mistake,” you grit, “we can’t tell Yunho what happened… it’ll break him.”

In all honesty, it would break you more than him. Guilt was a more deadlier disease than heartbreak, it was worse when it came down to friendships more than love itself.

“Wha-”

“Can’t tell me what?”

Your eyes widen in shock as you snap your attention to the familiar voice behind you, already feeling a pang in your chest as your eyes locked onto Yunho’s innocent ones. Seonghwa kept quiet as you tried to choke out a few words to Yunho, flickering his gaze back and forth between the two of you.

“Um, nothing! Nothing, we were just getting to know each other, that all,” you try your hardest to make your fake smile not obvious, but it clearly wasn’t working with Yunho’s confused gaze turning into a suspicious one.

“Getting to know each other huh?” Yunho poked the inside of his cheek with his tongue, running his eyes up and down the two of you.

“Yeah.”

“I could tell,” an octave drop in Yunho’s voice sent you breathing harder as his facial features hardened, soft brown loving eyes turned into a cold glare. “You fucking bastard.”

Yunho’s attention wasn’t on you anymore, it was focused on the person standing behind you. Everything happened so quickly, next thing you know, Yunho was pinning Seonghwa up against the wall by his collar, faces close in proximity with jaws clenched and fists balled.

“You fucking knew,” Yunho snarled, “and yet you still fucked her. I thought you were my best friend, Hwa. What the fuck happened to that huh?”

“H-How?” could he smell Seonghwa’s cologne on you? What the heck.

“Your shirt is inside out.”

Well, fuck. Not only did he catch you lying straight to his face but he caught his two best friends fucking each other, his best friend and someone who he had poured his heart and soul to.

“Yunho, please. I can ex-”

“You can explain? Yeah, alright go ahead, let’s hear what you have to say and if this motherfucker has anything else to add to it.”

“Yunho, get your hands off of me or we’re going to have a problem,” Seonghwa tries his best to pry Yunho’s grip from his collar, standing on his toes as he faces his deadly glare.

“We already have a problem, Hwa,” Seonghwa drops down with a thud as Yunho finally lets him go, throwing his glare back onto you. “Go ahead, say what you have to say.”

“I-I… we just… we were desperate, Yunho,” it wasn’t the best and most plausible excuse but it was honestly it.

“Desperate. Out of all people, you choose him? Are you serious? I don’t know if you got my hints, but fuck!”

“Yunho, I am so so sorry. Please, just-”

“God, I hate being in love with you!”

It was at that moment, you could see your world crumbling down as Yunho bites back a quiver. His eyes glossy and starting to frame with red as Seonghwa also couldn’t help but wear a remorseful face.

“Hey-”

“Don’t fucking touch me, Hwa,” Yunho aggressively brushed off Seonghwa’s hand on his shoulder, throwing him a side glare as he lowers his head. “Go home.”

“Woah, what is going on?” all three of your heads snapped up to a red flushed, drunk Mingi with a half empty bottle of soju in his hands stopping mid way with a questioning look on his face. Soon enough, the whole group of boys were here, standing behind Mingi with a replicated confused face.

“Everyone, go home. I’m not feeling good tonight,” Yunho pushed through the group of boys, passing to the kitchen where he grabbed a new cold bottle of soju from his fridge.

“Man, you sure? Want us to stay just in case?” Jongho spoke, brows raised as he was concerned for his gloomy looking friend.

“Mingi can stay, I don’t trust him alone at home while he’s drunk. Everyone else go home, please.”

“Yun-”

“I said leave,” you could barely even choke out his name before getting cut off again, guilt slowly but painfully chewing away at bits of your soul.

“Alright, you heard the man. Leave him be,” Yeosang took the liberty to usher everyone out with swaying arm movements, clueless of what had unfolded before everyone had walked in.

Mingi smiled brightly, waving his goodbyes and yelling his goodbyes as he joined a slouched Yunho in the kitchen. You couldn’t help but plaster a fake grin to fuel his happy hour before leaving out the door, embraced by the cold once more. But this time, you weren’t just cold on the outside, you could feel it inside of you. As if you had just turned yourself into a cold-blooded killer.

Murdering whatever trust and happiness Yunho had left in that big body of his.

Like everyone else in the entire world, you had to live with what you got, what you’ve done, what you can’t take back.

#ateez smut #seonghwa smut #kpop smut #park seonghwa #smut #fanfiction #ateez oneshots #kpop oneshots #ateez imagines #kpop imagines #ateez angst #kpop angst #seonghwa angst #yunho angst #badboy!seonghwa #bestfriend!yunho

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thoughts-on-bangtan · 3 years

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“Let’s BTS” asks about “I like you the most” and Jin’s reaction

by Admin 2

First of all, I want to wish you all, far away in the world of Vmin and BTS, a healthy and peaceful Easter, if you celebrate it, and a nice weekend for those who don’t! Since Admin 1 is quite busy right now and currently also participating in Camp NaNoWriMo, I (Admin 2) will take over our blog for a little while though Admin 1 will still be lurking and checking comments etc. I want to emphasize right away (you will probably notice it anyway) that I have no literary talent compared to Admin 1. I'll try to worthily “replace” Admin 1 for the time being and talk to you about Vmin and more.

Unlike Admin 1, I am not so careful with shipping discussions (and I even like them) as long as everything is done respectfully and we’re all sticking to the truth about the BTS members. I don't like criticizing other shippers because I understand that other fans may love their favorite members and ships just as much as we love Vmin or Namjin, but sometimes it’s inevitable that I have to say something.

So, I invite you to a discussion. I am open to discussion.

We got two interesting questions about “Let’s BTS” and specifically Jin’s reaction to vmin and I want to discuss them.

From anon: Hi, just wanted to see what you made of Jin’s reaction to Tae’s message to Jimin on the Let’s BTS show. I’ve seen some people say he looks so done and even annoyed with it. I can understand him looking apprehensive at first because Tae is a bit of a loose canon, but everyone’s reaction after is to laugh and smile and shout but Jin is very stoic. I’m kinda new and wondering whether he isn’t a fan of Vmin’s brand of declaring their love on national TV. Although when I think of how he behaves with Joon - I’d struggle to wonder why he doesn’t like it. Any thoughts?

From anon: Hi, I cannot believe what I’m reading about Tae on some platforms. What is wrong with people? Anyways I wanted to ask you what you thought of Jin’s reaction to Tae’s message for Jimin? I’ve started seeing people saying that Jin hates the fact they’re close that’s why his reaction was weird. I’m a vmin shipper but Jin is my bias and I can’t get my head around the fact that Jin doesn’t love them both dearly. He did look “apprehensive” perhaps but I’d say with Tae being Tae; that isn’t surprising.

In order to answer these two questions and to form my opinion on the matter, I’ve looked at the situation with regard to Jin and other members several times.

I admit that I’m surprised myself that Taehyung went this far. Actually, it's not even about the content of his words, but about the whole circumstance and the atmosphere that he created around his "confession". I don't know who added the music, whether it was a Taehyung hint or simply something the editors and PD thought of, but the whole situation and phrase gained even more "meaning" and "seriousness" through it.

I seemed as though the background music was supposed to make the moment remind everyone almost of a scene from a K-Drama (or one of vmin’s playful roleplays), but it only added to the effect of this being a serious, sincere and weighty moment instead.

Taehyung joked around by turning the table and pretending the envelope was not intended for Jimin, but this just led to an increase in the tension displayed by the members and the moment itself, and yet still Jimin was immediately convinced that he was the one for whom the envelope would be. Everyone was acting (which makes it sound like they were faking it which isn’t what I mean) like they were curious, but you could clearly see everyone's tension and nervousness, especially when looking at Jimin. Taehyung added that the contents of the card within the envelope were for Jimin's eyes only, emphasizing the seriousness and intimacy of what he was about to say. As a result, Jimin’s reaction led to uncertainty, nervousness, and at the same time an awareness of the sincerity and seriousness of Taehyung's words.

The words "I like you the most" are (on a superficial surface level) nothing big when compared to "I love you", but they still had the biggest reaction. Jimin wrote "I love you" to Suga and absolutely no one reacted nervously, everyone joined in on the declaration, and the situation was relaxed and even funny. Why did Taehyung’s words cause such reactions then? Why?

My thought is this: When the envelope was revealed to be for Jimin, it was met with tension by both members and Jimin. We all know that Taehyung can be a bit of a loose cannon sometimes, even on national television, when it comes to Jimin.

Jungkook immediately commented that "it’s about friendship", Suga laughed nervously and loudly, as if he wanted to end the situation quickly, and Jin had a serious face that didn’t seem all too positive or eager about what would happen next.I'm not going to go into Jimin's reaction here, but rather Jin’s, since that’s what the anons were wondering about.

In my opinion, Jin doesn't like situations that slip into seemingly too private matters. He is definitely the kind of person who gives up the least private information. The situation with Vmin clearly didn't suit him. And not because Jin doesn't like Vmin (because that’s simply not true), but because he knew this program would be broadcast nationally and streamed worldwide, that it would be debated, that every word would be analyzed, and most importantly, because the team that recorded the show wasn’t their own but one that belonged to KBS. Jin doesn't want anyone to have access to BTS's private life, after all he even asked the You Quiz editors to cut what he saw as too sad/depressing about his answers so clearly he thinks about and considers many such things. I think Taehyung didn't care all that much, but Jin did care.

Perhaps I will go too far in my analysis and imagination here, but let's not forget that in the near future Jin is going to have to leave for his military enlistment in the highly conservative Korean army, which holds very homophobic views. Any shadow cast on any of the BTS members (even if some of them are already suspected to be queer) can endanger Jin or make it even more difficult for him to perform his service well and safely. The suspicion that two of the members might be in a relationship with each other would make Jin an accomplice, since they belong to the same group and would lead to him also being suspected of being queer, guilty by associating basically. This is my opinion at least.

Jin is the oldest and feels responsible for BTS, much the way Namjoon does as leader, for everyone including Taehyung, because Jin is aware of the wave of hatred that will be/is poured onto Taehyung across sns after such a public statement. According to Jin, in my humble opinion, this is neither the time nor the place to take such a step in such serious manner. As long as everything was done in form of jokes and witty answers, Jin was joining in and having fun, but when it was Tae's turn his face became serious, as if to warn Taehyung. Jin knew that "Taehyung's atmosphere" could/would fluster Jimin and the entire team, and could become the subject of rumors spread by the staff that isn’t their own.

So no, Jin’s reaction wasn’t because he hates vmin or anything like that, because that’s not true on any level, but because Taehyung’s words about liking Jimin the most were perhaps too sincere for the setting they were in, raising too many brows, and that’s potentially why he reacted the way he did. After all, if you watch the 5th Muster concerts, and especially the one in Seoul, when vmin stand at the very end together, Jin approaches them and throws water at them as though to pull them out of their bubble and back into reality. All in good fun and because he simply cares a lot about them.

Also, an alternative and even more simple answer could be that Jin’s face has no relation to anything I just said and doesn’t tell us anything about what he thought about Taehyung’s words. After all in some interviews he also just sits there quietly and watches/listens to the other members and that doesn’t mean anything at all, or at least nothing negative. But since you asked for my thoughts, here they are, though they don’t have to be right.

I actually have no idea what the reactions are to this show in Korea and among the general public, but I've seen the reactions to Tae’s words across various sns, which one of the anons also mentioned so I’d like to talk about those for a moment as well.

My hair stood on end when I read some of the responses/posts about Taehyung. I never thought that people who call themselves ARMY or fans of BTS would have such opinions about any of the members. A wave of hatred literally flooded Taehyung, like Admin 1 previously mentioned in their answer to an ask.

I just wanted to cry. It shocked me how far shipping can go (literally playing with actual, living people with no regard to their own words and thoughts) that it can cause such extreme emotions in "fans". It's hard to say which is more negative and alarming for some, Taehyung potentially really having (romantic and reciprocated) feelings for Jimin, Taehyung's feelings not being for the “right” person, or the mere fact that Taehyung's feelings are for a person of the same gender.

It’s also interesting to see how deceptive some are. I don’t even mean that “Taehyung and Jimin like each other most” is ignored, which it is, but rather that those mutual feelings were manipulated to twist them into a completely different direction and to another person, or turned into mere jokes or sarcasm. As if all of this simply never happened.

On the other hand, the fact that Jungkook unbuttoned his shirt before going on stage for “My Time”, as opposed to him not doing so during rehearsals, has become very important and an example of J*k*ok being in a relationship, how that’s now even clearer than ever before and is an indisputable fact, according to shippers. Apparently, J*k*ok were flirting with each other throughout the entire segment and show and only had eyes for each other. Somehow Jungkook imitating Jimin is the final piece of evidence to prove everything shippers ever claimed and thus, according to them, everyone must now see that they love each other romantically.

I've carefully watched this show three times, this particular segment and everything else too, and frankly I haven't seen anything that could be called anything even close to flirting when it comes to the two main ML ships. I'm mature and I think I know what flirting is and I can “read” the simplest human behavior, but I really couldn’t see any of it. In my opinion, Jungkook imitating Jimin is clear and open and not a secret. I fully understand Jungkook, I would also follow Jimin in his place :-) Jimin's dancing and looks, as well as his professional work ethic, are truly breathtaking, inspiring and worth imitating. However, this has absolutely nothing to do with romantic affection or a romantic relationship between them, in my opinion.

Hence, I fail to understand these behaviors which in turn lead to a wave of hatred against Taehyung and the, repeated, disregard, belittlement and erasure of Jimin’s and Taehyung’s friendship and relationship bond, and even some going as far as pretending anything vmin was simply not there at all just to make their ship seem more real, booo.

#BTS #vmin #Jimin #Taehyung #Seokjin #Let's BTS #answered ask #answered by admin 2

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songofclarity · 4 years

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The theory that Nie HuaiSang pushed Mo XuanYu to suicide, especially the theory that he killed Mo XuanYu as some kind of eye-for-an-eye revenge against Jin GuangYao for killing Nie MingJue, doesn't make any sense to me because Jin GuangYao never wanted Mo XuanYu alive to begin with. Jin GuangYao was afraid of Mo XuanYu before they even met. In fact, he was likely more afraid of Mo XuanYu than he had ever been afraid of Nie MingJue!

[Jin GuangYao,] “Do you think that I’m in a steady position, here at the LanlingJin Sect? Do you think that I can rise into power the moment Jin ZiXuan dies? Jin GuangShan would rather bring another illegitimate child back than want me to succeed him! You think that I should be afraid of nothing? Well I’m afraid of everything, even other people!” (Ch. 49, ERS)

So Nie HuaiSang getting rid of Mo XuanYu would have done Jin GuangYao a favor. I just can't fathom Nie HuaiSang doing Jin GuangYao's dirty work for him at any point in time after Nie MingJue’s death. After all, Jin GuangYao had done a fine job getting started destroying Mo XuanYu’s life without anyone else’s help.

However, before Mo XuanYu [could] achieve success in cultivation and inherit his father’s position, he was driven back.

On top of that, he was driven back shamefully.

Like adding frost to snow, aside from the event itself, when Mo XuanYu returned, he often behaved in a crazy manner, almost as if his life was scared out of him. (Ch. 2, ERS)

Jin GuangYao was already playing with the dangers of incest, but now he’s going to make it work for his benefit. Claiming Mo XuanYu was toying with incest was possibly the one and only thing Jin GuangShan could not have tolerated. Mo XuanYu could have had anyone he wanted! Jin GuangShan knows it best! But his own half-brother? Absolutely not. Mo XuanYu was so psychologically damaged by whatever happened to him that he can’t defend himself. And to the rest of the family, Jin GuangYao is nothing but the victim of Mo XuanYu’s perversion. Jin GuangYao becomes someone they defend from Mo XuanYu.

[Jin Chan, Jin Ling’s cousin], “Mo XuanYu, you still have the face to return?” (Ch. 47, ERS)

It’s a win-win for innocent A-Yao. But Mo XuanYu could always come back if he’s alive. Reputations can be repaired, especially if they were falsely damaged. Mo XuanYu dead? That would be much better, but it’s not a pressing matter once Jin GuangShan is dead and Jin GuangYao is Chief Cultivator.

But to Nie HuaiSang, Mo XuanYu is far more valuable alive. We only get a few hints of what Nie HuaiSang is thinking, and here’s one of them:

[Sisi,] “But after my savior heard about what happened to me, he decided not to let that pretentious, immoral man continue to fool the world.” (Ch. 85)

Mo XuanYu was just another one of Jin GuangYao’s victims. He was a witness to Jin GuangYao's crimes just like Sisi and Bicao. If Nie HuaiSang went to talk to Mo XuanYu as is commonly believed, the evidence points to him trying to get the dirt on Jin GuangYao. Sisi told Nie HuaiSang about the rape-murder of Jin GuangShan. Bicao revealed Jin GuangYao’s incestual relationship with Qin Su. Mo XuanYu, as well, can reveal Jin GuangYao's ties to practicing demonic cultivation.

This is important because the lack of this information drives part of the story. No one knew Jin GuangYao had a hand in demonic cultivation or the Stygian Tiger Seal until the end at Guanyin Temple. Because no one knew this, there were no other suspects except the Yiling Patriarch wrecking havoc at the Burial Mounds before the second siege, and the cultivation world moved just as Jin GaungYao wanted it to move. Jin GuangYao was able to continue pulling strings from the shadows with Su She.

Xue Yang might have been a slim follow-up after Mo XuanYu to pin Jin GuangYao’s connections down, but even Nie HuaiSang’s role with Yi City is tenuous at best. And then Lan WangJi both killed that evidence and Su She whisked it away via teleportation. Jin GuangYao had many crimes, but the malicious use of demonic cultivation he neatly evaded, just as he evaded having to admit to murdering Nie MingJue.

Again, Mo XuanYu was more more valuable to Nie HuaiSang alive than dead.

Let’s still go ahead with the idea that Nie HuaiSang went to Mo XuanYu to ask questions. What happened to Mo XuanYu at Koi Tower? What did Jin GuangYao do that drove Mo XuanYu insane? What demonic cultivation did Mo XuanYu learn from Jin GuangYao? Where is the entrance to Jin GuangYao's treasure room? How does one get into the treasure room?

Don’t forget that Nie HuaiSang is still looking for the rest of Nie MingJue's body at this point. All he has is an arm. Might Jin GuangYao be keeping Nie MingJue's body close to home? Is that why Nie HuaiSang can’t find him? And he’ll find out not much later that yes, he was partially correct. Nie HuaiSang’s reaction in the treasure room could very well be half and half. Half of him suspected as much, but it doesn't change how shocking or disgusting the reality of it is to the other half. The best lies are based on truth, and Nie HuaiSang showing a weak constitution when faced with horrible news and frightening encounters might not have been completely fake.

(Nie HuaiSang was afraid but he didn’t let fear stop him. It’s the one trait he shares with Jin GuangYao, although their means and ends are quite different.)

Nie MingJue’s head was likely in the treasure room when Mo XuanYu was reading Jin GuangYao’s demonic cultivation collection all those years ago. Mo XuanYu could have told Nie HuaiSang of this, except Mo XuanYu might not have been in his right mind to be telling anyone anything of value.

Worse case scenario here is that Nie HuaiSang, as a willing conversationalist about demonic cultivation, stirred Mo XuanYu up from whatever abused docility he'd succumbed to for years. Mo XuanYu was kept locked up and abused and treated like an animal. Now here is someone willing to talk to him like a real person. Just as Nie HuaiSang saved Sisi from her imprisonment, he could have very well have saved Mo XuanYu from his, but the results were wildly different.

Any hints or reveals that Nie HuaiSang is out for vengeance could stir such wishes in Mo XuanYu in turn, his own trauma provoked, his own need for justice inspired. Mo XuanYu moves forward with his revenge just as Nie HuaiSang is trying to move forward with his.

Perhaps Nie HuaiSang name drops Wei WuXian or perhaps he doesn’t, it doesn’t really matter. Mo XuanYu would already have known who is the Grandmaster of Demonic Cultivation. Mo XuanYu already knows what evil spirit he needs to call upon for help. Demonic cultivation was likely the only thing he had left to make him feel empowered, and so Wei WuXian is the one who will take care to right all wrongs when no one else will.

Sadly, Jin GuangYao is not on the list of people Mo XuanYu wants revenge on -- because Jin GuangYao is already experienced at making himself look innocent. Mo XuanYu would have had no idea how wronged he was by his half-brother. So Mo XuanYu only wants the death of his immediate family. His immediate abusers.

But Mo XuanYu is missing something: knowing he needs to convey his wishes to Wei WuXian. Without it, Mo XuanYu’s sacrifice is in vain and the both of them die. Or that would have been their fate if Wei WuXian had not figured it out for himself in time.

We already know Jin GuangYao can put an extra piece into a cultivation technique, such as the Collection of Turmoil into Cleansing. It stands to reason that he is just as able to take a piece out of a cultivation technique.

After all, Mo XuanYu got the technique from him. The gap of this knowledge is thus a ticking time bomb just waiting for Mo XuanYu to give it a try and cut the wrong wire. Jin GuangYao also immediately knows and is quite happy to tell everyone the details of what Mo XuanYu did, despite finding out this is Wei WuXian in front of him barely thirty minutes ago and Mo XuanYu was banished years ago:

Jin GuangYao continued, “I’m sure that none of you know this, but back when XuanYu was still at Koi Tower, he had seen a copy of the YiLing Patriarch’s manuscript at my place. The manuscript recorded a dark technique that ‘sacrificed’ one’s body. With the price being the soul and the body, one could summon a powerful spirit to seek revenge in place of themself. Sect Leader Jiang wouldn’t be able to test it even if he hit him with a hundred more strikes. It’s because the person who used the technique sacrificed their body willingly. It doesn’t count as a possession at all!” [Ch. 50, ERS]

“I’m sure that none of you know this,” Jin GuangYao says, because this was all a plot of his own secret design. It benefits him now to reveal the truth of Mo XuanYu’s demise just as it doesn’t benefit him to ever reveal the truth of Nie MingJue.

But Mo XuanYu was as much a victim of Jin GuangYao as Nie MingJue. Jin GuangYao made sure they destroyed themselves on their own time rather than holding the blade himself.

Nie HuaiSang might not have been a holy avenger and mistakes were very likely made, but there is a lack of motive and evidence here that he ever wanted or sought Mo XuanYu’s death. Too much damage had already happened by the time Nie HuaiSang arrived on the scene. I can picture him throwing up his arms in despair and letting Nie MingJue’s arm go free onto this already crazy crime scene. Imagine the struggle the whole Lan Sect had had with the arm and now imagine Nie HuaiSang trying to manage it all on his own. He was not having a good time!

Mo Village was already a crime scene and now here was one more piece of evidence. The Lans knew inquiry whereas Nie HuaiSang did not. Let the Lans take the arm and find the rest of Nie MingJue for him. Let Nie HuaiSang continue to play innocent in front of Jin GuangYao. Let the arm claim more of Lan XiChen’s attention than Jin GuangYao.

But then Wei WuXian survived his resurrection trial and was taken in by Lan WangJi.

The next time Nie HuaiSang sees Mo XuanYu is at the Stone Castles, and by seeing Mo XuanYu, he knows immediately that the sacrifice worked.

But just because he knows and he saw doesn’t mean it was Nie HuaiSang’s doing, especially when Jin GuangYao’s bloody fingerprints were already encircling Mo XuanYu’s neck.

#nie huaisang #jin guangyao #mo xuanyu #nhs vs jgy #mdzs thoughts #thinking maybe nhs shouldn't be blindly accused of 1st degree murder #just for consideration lol #saying nhs killed mxy is so weird to me #nhs becoming jgy to defeat jgy feels uninspired #nhs is that meme where the man is like #do you think a depressed person could make this??#jgy was afraid and wanted power #nhs was afraid but he wanted justice #they are not the same person #you can tell how much i'm procrastinating irl #by how long these spur of the moment posts are lol

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coldcocoamilk · 3 years

Text

hey y'all lousy Levihan lovers - I got a new laptop, which means I can finally write comfortably again. we know what that means - a new fic.

as always, this fic is available on archive of our own at this link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/32169334/chapters/79707976

Title: I Went to College and All I Got Was This Lousy Degree

Summary: At the start of Hange's senior year, she's told that she must tutor the ill-tempered Levi Ackerman in Biology if he wants to graduate and keep his baseball scholarship. From that point forward, she does everything she can to keep it strictly business with Levi - until they keep running into each other, everywhere. It takes a little time and some self-discovery, but eventually, she finds herself falling for that baseball boy in the midst of her college career.

chapter 1 under the cut :)

1580.

The numbers were bold against her computer screen and seemed to be burning permanently into her retinas. What was that, like, two questions? It wasn’t fair.

“What did you get this time, honey?”

She turned the laptop to face her mother, who frowned. “It’s a ten point increase, at least.”

“I wanted a perfect score,” Hange moaned. “I hate the College Board. This is some crap.”

“Well, that’s three out of three. You’ve still done better than anyone I’ve ever seen,” her mother reassured her. “Can I take these cups?”

Hange looked over her desk at the array of cups, old bowls, and soiled paper plates. “Yeah, but I want the orange one. I’ll help you bring all this down – sorry about the mess.”

“You’ve been studying hard,” her mom reassured her. “I just don’t want any roaches to be drawn in.”

The warmth from the soapy dish water was soothing on her aching hands. Ever since eight that morning, Hange had been either typing, writing, or highlighting, and when her hands weren’t in use, her eyes flew across text resulting in the typical tension headache she felt directly behind her eyes. Now that it was six, and dinner was almost ready? Done. She was done. Hange thought that senior year would be the worst year for her, but so far, junior year was setting the bar pretty high with the combination of exams, state testing, entrance exams, and college applications.

“Leave the water in the sink. I made you some veggies,” her mom told her.

Perhaps it was weird, but one of the few things that Hange enjoyed out of her mom’s cooking was vegetables. Everything else was either too bland or too salty, too mushy or nearly burnt, but her vegetables were always well seasoned and just cooked right. Going vegetarian had been easy for Hange, especially since it was pretty much all she ate at home anyways.

“Are you going to Nanaba’s after dinner still?” Her mom asked as they ate their dinner together.

“Yeah, I’ll probably sleep there tonight, if you don’t mind,” Hange replied between forkfuls of carrots. “By the way, when does dad come back?”

“Wednesday morning, so you’ll have to take the truck into school, okay? And that’s fine, just check in with me at some point. Go ahead and take the truck tonight, too.”

“Yup, gotcha,” Hange replied, finishing her plate. “Thank you for the food – I really like that new sauce you’re using.”

Her mom beamed, a rare sight for her tired face. “I used balsamic dressing in it! I knew it’d be good.”

Hange grabbed her bag from the bottom of the stairs on her way up. It was way too hefty for her plans tonight, and besides, she really didn’t need her calc II book at Nanaba’s, anyways. She packed the usual: laptop, jeans, cute shirt, a long skirt, cardigan, flats, and some pajamas. Her deodorant and perfume got haphazardly thrown in there too, along with an extra hair tie and her chargers. On last thought, Hange reached for a couple of suspiciously heavy balled-up sock pairs, throwing them in there too. Nanaba would appreciate that.

The truck keys were on the counter next to Hange’s wallet, and she clipped them onto her belt loop on the way out. Everyone in the house had ended up with her trusty carabiner trick: can’t lose your keys if they’re always attached to your pants. Her logic was that if you lose your pants somehow, you’ve got more issues than your keys.

“See ya mom!” Hange called out to the house. Her mom’s jazz music was already audible from the bedroom, and the dishes from dinner sat soaking in the sink. It was always much more laid back when her dad was out on a business trip, and a nice treat in comparison to his uptight antics.

Dusk in southern California during April was always nice – it wasn’t chilly enough to warrant a decent coat, but it was warm enough that you could get away with a dress. Sure, the daytime was utter hell, but at night, her dad’s hoodie on the passenger side of the bench seat in his truck was a welcome blanket on her lap as she drove to Nanaba’s house just fifteen minutes away.

Nanaba had been Hange’s best friend since the sixth grade, and they weren’t planning on changing that any time soon. Once upon a chilly November evening, school had just let out and they sat waiting for their parents to pick them up. Fifteen minutes passed, then half an hour, then a full hour – somehow, the two had ended up being “those kids.” You know the type. Mom fell asleep or lost track of time, child has to try their hardest to remember the house phone number, mom freaks out and arrives in a panic. In that span of an hour, the two started an inseparable bond over Pokémon Sapphire on Hange’s Gameboy Advance.

Hange let herself in with the key under the mat, making her way quietly through the house and up the stairs to Nanaba’s room. She found her with a clear plastic bonnet on her head, cross-legged at the head of the bed on her laptop, and the room reeked of chemicals. “Yo,” she announced herself, dropping her bookbag on the bed and flopping down on it. “That time of the month again?”

“You make it sound like I’ve got my period,” Nanaba complained. “What score did you get?”

“A fifteen eighty,” Hange replied. “You?”

“Fifteen thirty,” Nanaba beamed. “My highest yet!”

“Yooooo!” Hange shot up. “I’m proud of you! That’s, what, a seventy-point improvement? You studied!”

“I took your advice and had my dad buy me that SAT prep book you kept talking about. It really did work, thank you so much,” Nanaba gushed. “I feel like I can finally relax, just a little. Next weeks is finals, but in a couple hours, it’ll be Sunday, which means I’m not studying for a whole twenty-four hours.”

Hange flopped back down on the bed. “Preach. You feel like going out tonight?”

Nanaba leaned against the headboard of her bed, the plastic cap on her head crinkling against the wall. “Nah, I don’t think anything is happening. Besides, I’m doing my hair. I need you to help me touch up the sides again.”

“All right,” Hange replied. “How long do you have left?”

“Ten minutes,” Nanaba closed her laptop and stretched before swinging her legs off the side of the bed. “We’re not going out tonight, but I do have a bottle, if you wanna.”

“I brought shooters!” Hange shot back up, immediately digging through her bag and extracting the balled-up socks. “Some different ones this time, for us to try. What did you get this time?”

Nanaba walked across the room and opened her closet, pulling a bottle of liquor out from a box labelled WINTER. “Eddy orange this time. Haven’t tried it yet, but I thought we’ve abused the lemon enough.” Glass clinked as she pulled out two shot glasses: one shaped like a miniature beaker, and a normal one that simply said BOOBS.

“Beautiful,” Hange grinned. “Today we’re trying… uhh… UV Blue, Jägermeister, and this weird peanut butter whiskey stuff.”

“Did you shoplift again?” Nanaba gave her a glance. “You know, it’s one thing to buy with a fake. It’s another to shoplift entirely.”

“Does it count as shoplifting if your parents don’t drink but keep getting gifted weird alcohol gift baskets from my dad’s customers so it all just ends up sitting in the liquor cabinet for years anyways?”

“God, your dad’s job is weird.”

“Yeah, I know.”

#levihan #my writing #levi x hange #levi x hanji #attack on titan #aot #snk #shingeki no kyojin #fanfiction #ao3 fanfic #stoplookinghere

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my-writings-and-musings · 3 years

Text

Here's a commission from an absolutely wonderful person, with Drift and a human reader going from the start of their friendship to becoming Amica Endura, and being ridiculously cute and sweet all the way.

You'd been confused by the term at first, like you had with all Cybertronian phrases upon initially hearing them, but this one had been different in a way that didn't feel right.

Mostly because it sounded suspiciously like an insult.

Though the group of bots hadn't appeared to be especially troublesome, you had still seen Drift flinch when they'd referred to him as a Carnicon. That reaction alone had stirred immediate concern on your part, but their less than friendly tone and the sense of trouble they carried had made you act on the spot. Though the offending crewmembers had been gone by the time you managed to climb down the ladder attached to your designated lunch table, you'd still made it a point to hurry across the floor towards the lonely ninja bot, hoping that perhaps you'd just misunderstood what had transpired. Maybe the word was a nickname he hadn't heard in a while? Distracted as you were just trying to avoid getting stepped on by the other bots moving about the room, such optimism was still obviously hopeless even to you. Drift had looked wounded by the comment.

"Hey, Drift! Down here, hello!"

Waving your arms for added effect, you called up to the bot as soon as you reached the floor beside his chair. Though somewhat out of breath, you had practiced getting the attention of much taller beings enough times to make elevating your voice quite easy, and you were noticed quickly. Raising his helm in a flash, Drift looked down to the floor with surprise that turned to a soft smile when he recognized you. A hand was offered to lift you as had become customary amongst the crew.

"Hey, Y/N! Finish your lunch so soon?" He asked casually, all traces of his unpleasant encounter already wiped from his face. Hopping off his palm and onto the table, you had to sadly note the half eaten meal of his own sitting on a tray, untouched since he'd been called that word. The neatly organised arrangement of energon cuts and various metals prepared as tasty little morsels was his usual lunch, something you knew because its sushi like appearance had stuck in your mind, especially do to how quickly he always finished it and the delighted mood with which he did so. Something must have indeed been wrong for it to be pushed aside and ignored.

"Yeah! I just wanted to come over, and..." Words failed you at the realization you hadn't actually planned upon what to say, or even how to go about saying it, despite your desire to help. All you'd wanted was to check up on him as swiftly as possible, and due to the distance involved there hadn't been time to think of a tactful way to accomplish that. Perhaps you should just be honest and not beat around the bush? Drift was a bot who could appreciate good intentions, if nothing else. Finding your courage, you ignored your somewhat rapid heartbeat to look up at him, smiling softly and adjusting your stance in a way you prayed came across as reassurance. "Well, honestly, I saw that group of bots go by and... I don't like to assume, but I wanted to make sure they didn't give you a hard time."

"Oh, those guys?"

His tone was casual, but even he couldn't hide the hurt that flashed in his optics. Clearly, and unfortunately, your instincts had been right on target.

"Nah, they're just... Some mechs are a bit abrasive is all, it's how they socialize." He said, politely dismissing your concerns with fake sincerity that might have worked if you didn't know him as well as you did. Though not especially close, you'd spent enough time with him to learn he tried to play peacemaker on the ship, something made quite difficult by the past many crewmembers refused to let him forget. Somehow the particular variety of pain he earned from such a predicament was very easy to recognize. You could hear it in every halting word, and because of that you had to fight to keep your expression neutral as he worked his way through an explanation probably improvised on the spot. "I've been developing a more open energy flow in casual environments. It allows me to connect with others on a deeper level, but can make me a tad more... vulnerable, to such unexpected encounters."

Hearing the pain hidden just below the surface of his voice, you can't help but feel a protective stir in your heart, regardless of the fact Drift towers over you and is an experienced combat veteran. Size and strength clearly aren't keeping him safe from bullies, and you can't bear to think of him suffering that pain in silence. Perhaps it isn't your place, but leaving him to endure even another minute just isn't an option. Sitting down on the table, you keep your worry to yourself and speak plainly, one equal to another. "It wasn't so much them, as what they said that seemed to bother you."

Seeing him deflate a bit makes further conversation almost impossible, but you push forward with your question. "That word, Carnicon, was it an insult?"

"No." He replies, curtly but not aggressive as he looks down at the hands he's folded atop the table. Worried you might have crossed some cultural boundary, despite all but whispering the word in question to lessen its blow, you're relieved when he seems to decide against further deflection. Stroking his thumb over the back of his palm, he is open but not quite unguarded in his tone as he starts to explain. "Well, not in most situations. Carnicon is an older term for Cybertronians built to hunt or engage in combat with purely biological weapons; like claws or venom."

Now at least marginally caught up, though still uncertain how such a word could ever be used against someone, you gently encouraged him to continue when he paused. "But... in other situations?"

"Some look down on bots bearing features that are ascribed to Carnicons. Thus, the name is often levied at those with "beastly" attributes, such as tails, horns, or..." Momentarily worried he'd paused because the topic had indeed proved too much, you were too caught up in the sad implications of the explanation to notice it hardly applied to him in the slightest. It was only when he brought a hand to his chin that the pieces started to click. Tilting his helm, he opened his mouth just enough for you to catch sight of four incredibly pointed tips, all in the same spots as your own canines. Everything made a terribly sad kind of sense by the time he closed his mouth and returned his sad gaze to you with a single word.

"Fangs."

Heartache barreled past your defenses to show on your face in the form of an unrestrained frown, one that almost weighed you down under a dense kind of sadness you'd never experienced. Bots kept surprising you with the downright absurd forms of bigotry found on Cybertron, but this... You didn't even know how to begin processing it. This poor bot may have made some bad choices in the past, but he's worked tirelessly to be better, and the whole time you've known him he's been nothing but kind. More than kind, in fact. Drift is practically smiling every time he sees you. To think he has to endure exclusion for his past, on top of harassment for a physical trait that's impossibly harmless, you find yourself wishing wistfully you were large enough to embrace him. A reassuring smile on his face makes you ache more.

"Although I'm not a Carnicon, the fact that a number of my dentae are unusually sharp in a manner some might compare to those commonly found in Carnicons has occasionally resulted in... heckling." At the last word he cracks, and for the first time his fake unaffected front is completely ineffective, allowing you to see the pain that's almost overflowing just below the surface. Such a sight makes you certain you'll never be able to unsee his suffering again. Suddenly you understand him on a deeper level, as if this little incident has made something click into perfect place. You've never felt more determined to comfort someone than you do as he tries to continue. "But I'm quite accustomed to all of the reactions I provoke, Y/N! It does not bother me. Thank you for your concern though, I hope this feature does not perturb you."

A wonderful burst of clarity nearly makes you laugh, if only because being so caught up actually made you forget something about yourself, but you channel that energy into a bolstering smile as you scoot closer on the table.

"Why would it do that? I've got them too."

Optics going blank, it looked as if his processor had crashed like an old PC before he utters two quiet words.

"Come again?"

Tilting your own head, you gently pull your mouth open and push your lip back to reveal your own canines, all of which extend far enough that all he has to do is squint before his expression brightens in realization. Tapping the pointy tip, you let go to enable yourself to talk once again. Seeing him watch your face a little more intently as you speak is oddly endearing. "See? All humans have these teeth, they're called "canines", but mine are extra big and sharp. It's called Macrodontia."

"I... I never noticed..." He replied after a pause, speaking softly as his processor works over what you've just shared with him. There's hesitation holding back an obvious buzz of excitement, as if he doesn't want to take a risk and believe he's finally found someone who understands, or is worried you might be offput by the true level of his excitement. Equally concerned about not overwhelming him or overstepping, you reply using a casual tone to mask your eagerness to connect with him.

"As small as I am, no one here has." You say matter of factly, briefly wondering if any unpleasant sentiment would have been directed your way if your size didn't hide the feature. Flashbacks of taunts on Earth are overwritten by self admonishment, as you know for a fact nothing you've endured could ever compare to what he faces on a daily basis in terms of sheer isolation. No doubt the teeth also play into bot's assumptions on his "aggressive" nature too. Not wanting to make the moment about yourself, but also determined to let him know you would never do to him what others have done to you, you're left fumbling between what feels like two conflicting ideals. "Sometimes people made fun of me for it on Earth, so I... I know it's not the same as what you face, so I don't want to say I "understand" how you feel or anything, but-"

"Y/N... I think you do. A lot more than most." He says, not so much interrupting as reassuring you that the backpedaling isn't necessary. Letting out a breath you didn't know you'd been holding, the warm satisfaction of being able to help someone in a trying moment settled over your heart with a kind of fuzzy giddiness. There's a renewed brightness in his optics as he looks to you without shame and speaks openly. "Thank you for sharing this with me, and I assure you I won't tell a soul. But if anyone ever does find out, and gives you trouble..."

There's a gentle fade to silence as you lay a tiny hand on his.

"It doesn't have to be secret. I'm not ashamed of the way I am, especially considering who I share the look with." You say, and the effect is so profound his smile actually appears to brighten before the rest of his expression.

"I'll still be here for you, just as you've been here for me."

"Consider the feeling mutual."

---------------------------------

"Then there's this particular blade; do you see how it doesn't have any sharpened edge?"

Due to your size, you could probably see the finer details of the weapon even more clearly than your friend did, and thus the total lack of serrated sides was quite apparent. Thankfully the missing edge also made it easier to observe the features Drift was describing while he held the blade out for you to see, as you could get quite close without having to worry about excessive caution. It didn't hurt that you also wanted to observe as much detail as possible. Following along with him had taught you amazing things, and he actually seemed to grow more enthusiastic when you were attentive.

"Yeah! It's all just tapered to a point, like a stake." You said, sitting casually on the floor amongst the neatly arranged armory of swords and daggers of incredible variety. From the way Drift is gleefully chatting from his own spot in front of you, one might have thought he was discussing something more akin to collectibles than weapons of war, but this behavior had become so normal to you that the oddness didn't even register. As far as you were concerned, he was simply a friend sharing something he was passionate about. Seeing him smile so brightly made it even better.

"Precisely! This style is very unique; it's meant for close combat, either as a last resort in a sword fight or a single strike for assassination." He said, holding up the blade and flipping it elegantly over his palm. Optics almost shining with delight, he spoke so enthusiastically you could see his sharpened dentae peeking through every smile, which he only allowed to happen when he felt truly comfortable. Before you knew it your own cheeks were pushing up in an absolutely beaming grin, one enthusiastic enough to show your own little fangs as well. Seeing Drift this... free just stirred a kind of warm happiness in your heart you didn't know was possible. It seemed to only happen in select moments, but it was definitely becoming more frequent the longer you two were friends, and it was hard to miss how his happiest days seemed to occur only in your presence...

"Oh, and then there's this one!"

You startled as he pulled out a similiar but far more elegant blade seemingly from nowhere, moving so swiftly the fine edge made a whistle as it cut through the very air, but as he began to gush about the particular nature of this weapon you settled back in to listen eagerly. Truthfully you could sit here and let him talk through every weapon he'd ever owned. Being his friend was a reward in itself that you enjoyed each day.

---------------------------------

For the sake of the bot working so diligently, you tried to avoid moving in any significant way, going so far as to take shallow breaths whenever possible. It was resulting in rather minimal oxygen intake, but you saw it as worth it due to how little you disturbed his concentration. Unfortunately your metabolism really didn't approve of the sacrifice.

Thankfully, Drift had become familiar enough with human biology and you in general to notice just as you were starting to get dizzy.

"Y/N?" He prompted, getting you to crack your eyes open just a notch to look at him. Still unwilling to risk his work, you willed up the tiniest hint of air through your throat to respond without moving your mouth.

"Mm?"

A blurry smile came through your narrowly parted eyelids, his sense of reasurance shining bright despite the limited view you had as he spoke softly. "You can relax, I can do this fine with you moving a little."

Opening your eyes all the way, the words admittedly acted as a switch for your lungs, which sucked in a deep breath through your nose to catch up with your deficit. Relieved and feeling a little silly, you took a few more quick inhales as he paused his painting of your face. Apparently you'd been much closer to passing out than you'd realized... When dizziness finally faded away, you looked back to him with a sheepish smile and a permissive look for him to continue. Drift smiled right back and lifted the tiny brush again with another little reminder.

"But even if I were having a problem, you staying conscious is more important than not smudging paint."

"Sorry, just don't want to mess up your hard work." You replied, now content to breathe normally but still doing your best to stay motionless atop his desk. The sentiment seemed to touch him, as there was a hint of a delay in his next brushstroke, but a little merry flash in his optics. Being appreciated in anything was still quite new for him, after all. Even with you his list of true friends remained sadly short.

"Painting these symbols is just as much about the process as the result. Taking the time to get it right, even fixing little details, is all part of it." He murmured as the tiniest touch of a miniscule brush flicked under your right eye, his voice expressing his focus until he pulled back and relaxed with a quip. "Plus, you're actually doing better than I'm used to. Rodimus is always so twitchy when we try this."

A tiny snort of laughter escaped you at the image of a frustrated Lost Light captain getting antsy in a chair. "I can believe it."

There was an unusually long pause as Drift seemed to survey his work, mouth pressing into a thin line before he held up a bot sized mirror and looked at you with an expression just barely restraining hope for approval.

"Here, want to see so far?"

There was no need to exaggerate; you loved it. A part of you wished the intricate red could be permanent due to how beautiful it looked on your features, especially with how perfect the symbols were at accentuating what you liked most about your appearance. Tilting your head from side to side, you admired the expert craftsmanship with a smile impossible to hide, and were emphatic in expressing your thoughts.

"Drift, it looks amazing!"

"I'm glad..." He said on a sigh of relief, backtracking under the guise of a fake cough moments later. "I'm glad you like it! These patterns and colors are a very pure expression of friendship, so getting them right is... Yeah."

Seeing him so vulnerable pulled out the same desire to comfort him that had started your relationship, though unlike then you were totally certain now as you laid a proportionally tiny hand on his. "Marks or no marks, you're still my best friend."

Despite how casual the words left your lips, he looked just as touched as he'd been at your initial interaction in the canteen, and seemed quite affected as he lowered the mirror and replied. "You mean it?"

"Always." Came your automatic response.

---------------------------------

The Lost Light, being as massive as it was, had a wealth of rooms including viewing decks up for grabs at any given time. With one wall consisting almost entirely of windows to view the beauty of the cosmos, and plenty of space to set up furniture or whatever else one might need, they were a naturally popular choice for social gatherings. While some in ideal positions had become more sought after than others, they were plentiful enough that any given bot had no need to worry about being unable to find a space for any occasion. Thus they were perfect for gatherings of any size at any time for all who called the ship home.

Despite the ease of procuring such a space on demand, however, Drift had been quite insistent on the specific one he'd rushed you towards without warning. Accustomed to his often sporadic ideas, you'd happily let him carry your tiny form in his broad arms when he promised explanations would be coming. Admittedly the fact that he'd appeared nervous had given you some pause though...

Until you'd actually seen the viewing deck and what he'd arranged within.

Framed almost as if by hand, a brilliant red cloud of space dust sparkled in the infinite blackness beyond, giving the room a soft glow akin to a warm fire or a fantastic sunset. Spectralism heralded such a color as one of friendship and eternal bonds, and as you took in the recently arranged decorations around the room that made a brilliant kind of sense. From the gem studded light strings wound about the ceiling, to the crystalline flowers flanking the door, and the little table in the center draped in fabric to look somewhat like an altar, it's clear the whole room has become a Spectralist symbol of true companionship. With everything you two have been through together, you have a good feeling as to why. It's so touching you actually have to fight the urge to cry.

"I spent so long getting everything ready, the nebula kind of snuck up on me..." He said bashfully, still holding you in his hands as he walked forward with a little sigh. The story painted a clear image in your head of a studiously decorating bot looking up to be surprised by a giant anomaly in space, as if it was a guest arriving earlier than it was supposed to, and you had to chuckle at his adorable nature. "But I don't want to miss it, so I hope you'll forgive me if things aren't perfect. The backdrop is just too important."

Certain as you were about the purpose of all this, you still decided to open with a question, letting your friend take the lead with you as support. "What is it the backdrop for?"

"I think you know, but..." He said, smiling through significant nerves despite how clear it was you were fully on board. For all of his progress, the poor bot was still easily overwhelmed by doubt. The fact that he'd made this attempt all on his own, even with obvious anxiety every step of the way, made you proud as much as you were touched by his gesture. Approaching the little table, he set you down on it with a deep ventilation. Something quite positive but weighty needed to come off his chest.

"You've only been in my life a little while, yet every day our friendship has gotten stronger, Y/N. You're one of the few people who can look past my mistakes, and you remind me why I want to be better in the first place. I want to let you know how truly I value your companionship."

Though he spoke quickly, enough that he clearly had memorized the words and worried about saying every one, you were absolutely touched near to the point of tears. He'd spoken about Amica Endura in the past, particularly as of late when he'd dropped not so subtle tests to gauge your feelings on the topic, but nothing could have prepared you for him actually requesting such a thing of you. It was the deepest expression of platonic love known to his kind, meant for friendships that endured through their seemingly endless lifetimes. To be considered worthy of such a thing simply made your heart feel like bursting with gratitude.

Lowering his voice a tad, as if to separate his next sentence from everything else, he offered you a hand and smiled softly but warmly in the delicate light.

"If... If you're okay with it... I'd like to become Amica Endura. I know you mentioned the idea sounded good, and that I'm you're best friend, but I just want to check." He said, speaking so tenderly you might have forgotten he was multiple times your own height. Happier than you could convey in words, you nodded and had to sniffle back some tears. To think of the suffering this bot had endured, the exclusion and bullying he went through every day, yet still he found the strength to be so kind... What were the odds a little human would end up meaning so much to him? At your dotting of tears, he tenderly tilted your chin upwards. "Y/N?"

"Sorry, just... You know I can be a sap." You said through a laughing sob, brushing away the wetness from your eyes to see him clearly when you spoke next. Holding one of his digits, you put your heart and soul into every word. It felt somewhat akin to baring a spark of your own. "But I do want to be Amica, for real. You're my best friend and I want that to be forever."

There was an immediate dampness in his optics, but he pushed it back with a few quick cycles of his shutters. Putting on the most wobbly of smiles, he lifted both hands and had you lay your own atop his digits, the closest the two of you could get to clasping them together. "Okay, I... I just hold your hands, say some words, and then you say "today, tomorrow, and always" after I do. Got it?"

Nodding, you watched in awe as he leaned back and opened his spark casing, revealing the brilliant glow of his essence to blend with the soft light already present, making it look like a miniature star was flaring in his chest. Cycling another vent, he looked into your eyes as he began.

"I bid you stand in the glow of my spark, so that you may feel the heat of my words and know them to be true."

The fact that the words were meant to be purely allegorical didn't make them any less powerful. You really could feel warmth from him, but almost on a different level than you'd ever experienced before, as if your happiness and his were filling the air between you. Perhaps the Spectralist beliefs about color connecting to emotion was true in ways you hadn't expected. Light from the cosmic cloud outside almost seemed to give his words the backdrop they needed to truly connect as he wanted, allowing every one to go straight to your heart and fill it with all the warmth and love he felt for you every day.

"I invite you to receive my light and in doing so become my Amica Endura—from now until forever."

You squeezed his hands softly as he hiccuped just a little, encouraging him to continue, and his voice broke a tad as he did.

"Y/N, for your empathy... As you are to me, may I be to you—today, tomorrow, and always."

A bit of coaxing was needed when it was your turn, not because you were hesitant but rather due to how difficult speech was while emotions overflowed your heart. Shamelessly sniffling and letting happy tears fall down a beaming smile, you took a deep breath at his soft look of reasurance. He trusted you to take your time in this.

"Today, tomorrow, and always." You said to seal the bond, meaning it with every fiber of your tiny being to stand by this bot to the end of your days. The two of you had met by chance, had started to bond over the littlest of moments, and now you were here. It was more perfect than things often went for anyone. Yet there was no need to question the how or why, especially when it led to a friendship as pure as this one. As he closed his spark chamber, you felt residual warmth in the air like the lingering of an embrace.

Which became a very real one when he scooped you up for a hug that was wordlessly agreed upon. Unable to wrap your arms around him at all, you settled for holding them wide and letting him press you close, feeling the smoothness of his heated armor as it hummed with life. Despite being as tiny as you were, it seemed quite apparent the hug was as powerful for him as it was for you. Tiny, happy sobs occasionally bounced his shoulders like little hiccups. It was a moment you could have lived in forever.

When he parted to give you a grin so genuine it confidently displayed his sharpened dentae, you did the same, unable to believe such little things could have the most wonderful of outcomes.

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#transformers #maccadam #mtmte #more than meets the eye #lost light #ll #idw #tf #my writing #commission #kofi #kofi commission #human reader #self insert #platonic #amica endura #drift

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re1d · 4 years

Text

different lifetime | spencer reid

→ summary: “only in the agony of parting do we look into the depths of love.” - george elio → warnings: maeve’s death, graphic descriptions of murder, mentions of depression and drug use, basically major angst but a fluff ending → word count: 4.4k (ouchie mama she’s a slow burn) → a/n: based on no.74 from the prompt list ; “let go.” “i can’t.” // cassandra stop making spencer cry in her stories challenge : FAILED // also this is my first time using time skips n i kinda dont like it :[[ i hope u guys enjoy it tho !!

Books are ripped from his shelves, and Spencer can’t see straight. Papers fly around him as he relishes in the feeling of the pages cutting into the skin of his fingers. Blood forms and begins to drip, but he can’t bring himself to clean it up. His mom would’ve chastized him in that moment for damaging the worlds with his reckless touch. However, his whole world had just been destroyed as well. Pictures of Maeve traipse through his brain at an agonizingly slow pace; they mock him and wait for him to snap. And, he feels as though it’s finally time to do so.

Spencer screeches into the silence of his apartment, undoubtedly waking up his neighbors and possibly even alerting the police. He tears through his hair with bloodcrusted hands and debates on wrenching it out from the roots. Sitting on the floor in a puddle of sorrow and anguish, Spencer sobs. It’s the first time in his life that he’s been so consumed with grief and guilt that he can’t even muster the strength to stand. He merely clutches The Narritive of John Smith to his chest and continues to fall apart.

As tears run down his cheeks, he denies everything that happened in the last few hours. Maeve is still going to meet him after work next Wednesday.You didn’t cover him with your FBI jacket after she was shot. The blood that poured from the gunshot wound in her head was fake. It was a joke—a painful, stupid, not-at-all funny joke. Tomorrow, he would enter the office, ride the elevator up, and make casual conversation with all of his work friends. Thoughts race through his mind, and he finds himself laughing. Laughing. A voice in the back of his head tells him that he’s in shock, that he’s not well. Another voice tells him that he’ll never be well.

He doesn’t know who to believe.

A rhythmic knock on his door sounds, and Spencer pretends not to hear it. He knows it’s you. Part of him is screaming to let you in, telling him to accept the comfort you’ve come to give him. But, he decides he isn’t ready. Not yet. So, you decide to wait. For Spencer, you’d wait until time itself no longer existed.

Night approaches faster than you think. The sun is a paintbrush as it dips into the horizon and paints one of the most beautiful sunsets you’ve ever seen. It’s merely a passing thought, but you hope Spencer wills himself to see the pleasant combination of warm oranges and deep reds that are smoothed across the dusk sky. Glancing down at your watch, you read the tiny numbers with tired eyes—8:02PM—and, that’s when you realize you’ve been sitting for so long that your butt has gone numb. You register the pins and needles beginning to poke at your backside, but you make no move to stand or to leave. All you do is lean back, your head thumping gently against Spencer’s door while closing your eyes.

Spencer has no knowledge of the countless baskets of goodies from Garcia or the small notes that JJ has left behind after her short visits come to a close. He doesn’t even know that you’re still outside of his apartment. He knows nothing but the monotonous whir of his air conditioning and the smell of Thai food coming from his living room. Spencer tries to focus on anything but Maeve, but his mind is scattered, fragmented. He grows frustrated at the fact that his thoughts are moving too fast to collect. Blood. Bodies. Sweat. Tears. The feeling of your hands on his shoulders. Normally, Spencer is excellent at compartmentalizing trauma, but not this time. Not when his first true love had been so unfairly stolen from him.

Rage simmers inside of him as the clock strikes twelve. He clenches his fists, resisting the overwhelming urge to scream once more. Instead, he palms for the book nearest to him. With his original, hard cover, full-Russian version of War and Peace in his hand, he swings his arm as hard as he can at his door. Specks of dust fall from the frame at the impact, and a chip is now visible in both the book and the wood. Spencer hears a small yelp from the other side, and finally, something other than grief overtakes him. Confusion and anxiety course through him as he forces himself to stand, grabbing a kitchen knife before launching his door open.

You topple over, crushing his toes under the full weight of your upper body. Profanities are exchanged as your stare flicks nervously between his face and the butcher knife in his grasp.

“[Y/N]?! What are you still doing here?!” He means to sound angry, but the rasp in his voice does the emotion no justice. The weakness in his words is easily detected, and you find yourself studying his features from the ground. You’re profiling him, but you can’t help it. His shoulders are hunched, his five o’clock shadow has turned to six, and his eyes dart cautiously around your face. It’s as if he’s making sure you don’t see the torture his own mind is subjecting his body to.

“Well,” you begin, tone gentle, “I came to see you, but you didn’t open the door. So, I thought that I would wait you out, you know? Just to make sure that if you needed someone to talk to, that I would be there—ready to listen.”

Spencer’s expression is blank, his eyes having stopped their search a long time ago. “How would you have stayed? You have work, [Y/N]. Work that we both know doesn’t stop for time to mourn.” There’s bitter vitriol in his words; he can’t bring himself to care about how they effect you for the time being. But, you don’t mind. It’s only natural. Finally pushing yourself up from the floor, you stare through him and have to fight the need to place a hand on his shoulder, to try to connect with him. The two of you are still separated by the threshold of his door, but it feels as though the Grand Canyon itself is in between.

“Spencer, I can’t even begin to fathom what you’re going through, but—.”

“No,” his retort is clipped, “you can’t. Goodbye, [Y/N].” The door is slammed once again, leaving you stunned to to silence. Sure, you had expected Spencer to be different, but nothing like that. Torrents of rain pound against the roof of his building as dread flows steadily through you at the thought of having to step into it. Nonetheless, you collect your things and head into the office hoping to distract yourself until you’re really supposed to be in for work. The time is 12:54AM, and as you attempt to hail a taxi in the storm, a chill travels down your spine. It’s hard to tell what caused it—the thought of leaving Spencer alone or the copious amounts of coffee you will inevitably be consuming later today.

────

Eight o’clock rolls around quicker than you hope. From the corner of your eye, you spot Penelope and JJ walking in together, their normally bright faces marred with concern. Eventually, the clicking of their heels comes to a halt in front of your desk. JJ takes a seat on top of the files you’re working, moving your recently emptied mug out of the way with a tight smile. Garcia’s crosses her arms with a hmph as she stares down at you. Neither of the women are hostile—it’s moreso agressive curiosity.

“So, [Y/N] ...” JJ’s voice trails off a bit, “You saw Spence?” The nature of the question is pure. Worry is evident in her words, but as you try to answer, nothing comes from your mouth.

Garcia cups your face in her hands, squeezing your cheeks to the point of discomfort. “[Y/N]. All we wanna know is that he’s okay?” She declares, “If you perhaps could comfirm if he has gotten my muffin basket, that would also be nice—but, Boy Wonder’s safety is always first!” The chipper mask she uses to hide the pain is crumbling away, and it’s easy to see.

“Honestly, guys ... He doesn’t look good. Spencer—he, uh, his apartment is a mess, like, books everywhere, three day old Thai food in the living room. I’m worried about him—and, Garcia, he hasn’t touched anything outside his door. It’s kinda like he’s trying to fight reality.” Your explanation is obviously hard for the two women to listen to. JJ’s face is turned down, her bottom lip tucked in between her teeth. Penelope’s colorful appearance seems to dim as words continue to fall from your mouth. She gapes, evidently trying to come up with something to say, but her phone chimes.

“Jeez,” Penelope drags in a sharp intake of air, “this is a bad one. Hotch wants us in the conference room ASAP.”

Sitting around the round table, you take in the information about the case. Two people, a man and a woman, bore holes in the insides of their thighs, exsanguinated. But, there is no other chatter, no normal banter, no tossing around ideas. Only silence, and you feel as though you’re falling. Once you stand, your knees wobble and your hands shoot out to grab JJ’s shoulders. Her presence itself is an ocean of calm as she works to steady you.

“[Y/N] ... maybe you should stay with Garcia on this one? I’m sure she could use the company.” Although not forceful, JJ’s words are more of a command than anything, but you make the executive decision to dismiss them with a shake of your head. As you walk up the stairs leading to the jet, your stomach churns with the intensity of a thousand tigers.

The absolute quietude on the plane is staggering, and until Garcia’s digitalized face appears on the screen, no one dares to say a word. She briefs everyone that another body has been discovered, and Hotch moves directly onto assignments. “[Y/N] and Morgan, go to the ME and see if the blood results have come back, yet. Blake and Dave, head to the newest crime scene. JJ and I will start working with the local PD.”

As you stare out at the clouds, you wish so desperately to be one of them. Oh, to be a big ball of water and ice crystals and not have a care in the world. The sun reflects off of the white, and when you turn away from the window, you can just barely see Morgan’s form sitting in the leather seat across from you. A pensive frown is present on his lips, his eyes tracing your body, looking for something to tip him off as to what you’re feeling.

Eventually, he finds that he can’t pick you apart. It seems as though each layer he tears through, another is waiting to conceal the truth. “Alright, kid,” he starts, a light air of humor in his voice, “I’ll bite. What’re you thinkin’ about so hard over here?” To be completely honest, you’re positive that he already knows the answer.

“Spence.”

“Ah.”

“Yeah.”

Morgan crosses his arms in front of his chest. It’s a tic; he does it when he’s upset. You watch him as he racks his brain for something to change the subject to, but the sigh he omits is a signal that he’s going to try to talk to you about him. Alarm bells shriek in your head, and the sound is deafening. You force yourself to resist the urge to cover your ears, knowing that it wouldn’t do anything.

“So, kid. Even though you’re pretty good at hiding it, you need to tell me what you’re really thinking, okay? I know you saw Reid, but that’s not what I wanna know about. Something else is buggin’ you—I can tell.” He’s beating you up with each word. A punch to the gut, a kick to the face, an elbow to the side—it’s relentless. He knows something is wrong, but you can’t tell him that you’ve been in love Spencer since the third month working at the BAU. It’ll ruin you—not your reputation or your future—it’ll ruin you. Your mind, your body, your heart. Even though you ache to tell just one person, your mouth won’t let you. But, your heart seems to win the fight.

“Derek, I—,” you pause, your voice giving out, “I’m in love with him. I’ve been in love with him. And now, I don’t know what to do.” Your colleague searches for words, but he can’t bring himself to say anything. He merely stares, his mouth a thin line. Discomfort settles in the space between the two of you, its thickness is probably felt by the rest of the team on the plane. You catch JJ’s glances at the both of you, but they go unacknowledged.

────

Spencer goes through the third stage of grief alone. Bargaining. The stage where he’s in grave need to talk to someone, he is only himself. His hands shake as he pours a cup of coffee, attempting to use the caffeine to stay awake. As the sun rises, a thought in the back of his mind sounds. It tells him that he’s been wearing the same clothes for the past four days. His sweat, blood, and tears have collected on the fabric, and even still, he doesn’t care.

The only thing he’s aware of is the fact that if he wouldn’t have tried to meet Maeve, she would still be alive. He curses Blake and his innate curiosity, and he curses the fact that his first words to her were, “I don’t love you. Sorry.” He curses the feeling of your jacket over his shoulders and the immense okayness that it brought to him, even while staring at Maeve’s body splayed in front of him.

Looking around at each book on the floor of his apartment, they somehow remind him of her. Some made him want to remember her happily, others made him want to vomit up his heart and cut it into a thousand pieces. If he had only said the right thing, maybe she would still be alive. Maybe they would’ve held each other tight and moved on. Maybe they would’ve gone out for three or four years, and then maybe she would’ve gotten pregnant. Maybe there would’ve been a miniature version of him with Maeve’s smile and his eyes. Maybe he would’ve been happy.

Spencer spits up bile into his kitchen sink. Happy? He’s not even sure he knows the meaning of the word anymore. Grabbing the handle of his coffee pot, he pours and pours until the scalding hot liquid burns through his mismatched socks. Wordlessly, tears brim in his eyes. Reaching down, he plucks off the soaked fabric and merely stands at the counter, staring down into the seemingly endless mug.

His phone chirps and effectively pulls him from his trance. Although there’s plenty of time to walk over and answer it, Spencer just reads Morgan’s caller ID and lets it ring. It goes to voicemail and immediately Morgan’s words fill the empty air.

“Hey, Reid, it's Derek. Listen, I got a work question for you. The unsub's exsanguinating victims and removing their eyelids antemortem. Does that mean anything to you? Hit me back.”

Ideas are weaving in and out of the genius’ head. Trudging over to his couch, he presses the call button and waits for Morgan to pick up. It takes less than two rings before the line clicks and he’s in the presence of someone else for a change. Spencer sits in silence, not speaking until spoken to. He feels like a kid, but truthfully, he doesn’t have enough energy to say more than he needs to.

“Hey kid, you’ve got me and [Y/N].”

“Hi, Spencer.”

The sound of your voice is a drive taken at the dead of night where all you can hear is nature. It’s a thousand waves of calm. Instead of giving you both an answer, Spencer revels in the small greeting. Maybe if things were different, he would’ve fallen in love with you first.

He opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out at first. He debates on slamming the phone back into the receiver, but decides against it. “Have the cornea or pupils been harmed in any way?” Morgan says no. “If he's taking care not to damage the eyes, then line of sight is probably what's important to him.”

“So this guy wants them to see what he’s doing.” Morgan pauses and the whole line goes quiet. Spencer yearns to hear your voice just once more before he hangs up. And, by the grace of a seemingly wrathful God, he does. But, it’s not exactly a question he’s prepared to answer.

“Hey, Spencer ...” You trail off. It appears as though you’re thinking through your next words, but you settle on a simple inquiry. “How are you?”

“I gotta go,” Spencer replies.

The line goes dead.

────

The case ends up being solved with the help of your Boy Wonder. However, as you board the plane alongside him, it’s obvious that he doesn’t feel very wondrous. Plopping down into the seat across from him—similar to what Derek had done—you shoot him a tender grin. JJ’s shoulder rests above your head, and Morgan stands, taking up the whole aisle.

“So,” JJ begins, “I counted—what—five baskets?”

“Seven, but I think Ms. Cavanaugh next door may have taken a couple.” Her laughter mixes with yours in a melody that brightens the atmosphere in the jet. Morgan snickers in the background, but all Spencer is focused on is your smile. A pang of warmth spreads through him for the first time in a long time, even though a frown is turning his lips down. JJ and Morgan eventually migrate to their respective spots—JJ on the couch ans Morgan with his head against the wall and his earbuds plugged into his ears.

You pick up on the scowl on his features and pat the table to attract his attention. He meets your gentle gaze with hesitant eyes. “Why the long face, Doc?” It’s supposed to be a joke, but he can’t even force out a laugh. Spencer succumbs to the monster that guilt presents itself as, cupping his cheeks and pulling down on his face. He tries to rid himself of the grime, the dirt, he feels on his body, but he doesn’t think it’ll ever go away.

“I dunno,” he slurs through exhaustion, “I was just thinking about how I acted when you came over, and I-I guess ... I just wanted to apolog—.”

“Spencer.” The severity in your tone shakes him to the core. His eyes widen as his mouth comes to a close. “Don’t apologize to me. You’re grieving, it’s only natural that you’d be angry. It was forgotten after it happened, okay? I promise you—we’re good.” There’s something you want to add, and Spencer can practically feel the words itching to come out. “And, Spence? If you need anything—anything at all—please, just ask. Please.”

His mind wanders back to his messy apartment, and he ponders the thought of asking you to help him clean. His mouth moves on autopilot, speaking before he even knew what to say. “Actually, if you don’t mind, I could use some help with something.”

“Of course. Name it, Spencer.”

When the wheels hit the ground, you and Spencer sit and wait for everyone else to clear out of the jet. Morgan and JJ squeeze his shoulder on the way out, and Blake shoots him a motherly smile. The sorrow in her eyes is blatant, but it travels to the back of your mind as soon as she passes. Standing up, you gesture in front of you, allowing Spencer an exit before you head down the stairs. He offers you a ghost of a grin, and it makes your heart bound in your chest. You didn’t remember signing up to run a marathon after this case.

The short stroll to Spencer’s Volvo in spent in a surprisingly comfortable silence. It is full of shy glances and small smiles, and you can practically feel yourself falling for him all over again. Climbing into his car, you turn on the radio to a classical station. Chopin’s Nocturne in E Flat Major plays at a low volume, causing you to close your eyes and lean back against the headrest. The old car hums to life, igniting a sense of nostalgia deep in your soul. The drive to his apartment passes by in what feels like seconds, and he takes the keys and moves to open your door.

Giggling, you step out of his antique. The gravel crunches against the bottoms of your boots as you walk next to him up to his door. “So, this is the elusive Dr. Spencer Reid’s humble abode?” There’s a lighthearted teasing in your voice, “It’s cute. I like it. What d’you need me to do?” He cocks an eyebrow, looking around at the books scattered across his floor and he wonders how someone could find beauty in this. And then, he realizes that he’s standing next to you—Penelope Garcia’s closest confidant—and another question replaces it. Was there anything you couldn’t find beauty in?

“Well .... we should probably start with the books, and then, we can move on to the Thai food.” A grimace appears on his face and you laugh at the way it scrunches, “And, after that, we can talk.” The statement is more of a question, but it still makes you unbelievably jittery.

With a nod, you bend down to pick up story after story, every so often becoming enchanted by the bindings that surrounded the little worlds. Spencer crouches and pulls out a vinyl, placing it on the record player and lowering the needle. Once more, Chopin’s Nocturne in E Flat Major fills the air, the static of the record scratching every once in a while. “I noticed that you liked it in the car,” he murmurs, “I’m more of a Waltz in A Minor type of guy, but Nocturne in E Flat Major Op. 9 No. 2 is always a good pick.”

“I just love Chopin, to be honest,” you say, picking up the copy of War and Peace sitting at the threshold of his door, “his pieces are all good, really. They’re all great creating pieces, you know? Like, I could just sit, listen to them, and make up stories in my head for days.”

You’re making up one right now. It’s a sunny day, as opposed to the inky blackness outside his apartment window, and you and Spencer are walking down an ambiguous dirt path. Woods surround you as well as sounds of nature, birds sing and branches snap under your feet. There is no air of danger, and all you can feel is the warm pressure of Spencer’s hand in yours. A cool breeze kisses your cheeks, forcing you to stop and take it in. Spencer comes to a halt, his gaze shifting to you. Smiling, you both move towards each other like plants to the sun. Captivation, charm, magnetism. It’s inevitable, like the meteor that destroyed the first inhabitants of earth so long ago. You move closer and closer to one another; it feels as though you’re floating, you’re gravitating towards him—.

“You know, if you’re that fascinated by East of Eden, you could borrow it,” Spencer’s weak teasing breaks you from your reverie, and you realize you’ve been staring at the front cover for over five minutes.

“Ah, uh, no thanks. Reading Of Mice and Men in high school was enough John Steinbeck for me. Personally, I think he drones on and on about things for too long,” you grin while shelving the book. He hums an acknowledgement and picks up a paper container full of week old pad thai, the smell forcing his head in the other direction.

Soon enough, there are only four, thick novels left, and you two are standing side by side at the bookshelf. You gawk at the number of collections and volumes that reside on the freshly dusted wooden panels, eyes wide. Spencer has one hard cover in his hands. It’s in pristine condition, the white of the jacket glaring at you with a vindictiveness that only the dead can muster. Maeve’s memory is held in between his palms, and it becomes hard to watch him struggle with the thought of having to put it away.

“Spencer ...” Your voice is feathery as it rides on the heavy air, “Let go.”

The words are broken as they fall from his mouth. Tears drip gently onto the glossy cover, and it seems as though The Narritive of John Smith is crying along with him. “I can’t.” A sharp pain pierces your entire being. Seeing him so vulnerable, so fractured, is agonizing. He cries over the story, repeating the tale of his whirlwind romance over and over again in his head. Reaching out, you urge his hands towards the only remaining space on the shelf. The book slips in effortlessly, and Spencer collapses to his knees in front of it. His hands are limp by his sides and his head hangs low between his rounded shoulders.

You lower yourself to meet his figure on the ground. He doesn’t move, his spirit completely dulled. As you ghost your hands over his back, he leans into your touch. After depriving himself of physical contact for so long, he wallows in the feeling of your fingers rubbing soft patterns into his skin. Spencer allows himself to sink into your embrace, inhaling the sweet combination of vanilla and jasmine.

For some time, Spencer cries into your chest. He apologizes through his sobs for the darkening spot on your work shirt, but you quiet him each time with a shake of your head. The atmosphere in his apartment lightens to the point of comfort as you do nothing but hold him. It’s poetic, really—something that you’d listen to a Chopin piece to.

“In a different lifetime,” Spencer’s hoarse whisper is barely audible over the quiet buzz of his air conditioning, “I would’ve fallen in love with you first.”

You contemplate his statement, mulling it over in your mind with a giddy optimism not quite suitable for the situation. He can tell you’re thinking over his words, but he doesn’t comment on the length of time you spend with them. A significant amount of time passes before you offer him a small nod that he feels when your chin collides with the top of his head. Smoothing a hand down his curls that are already slicked with grease, you open your mouth to speak.

“It’s okay, Spencer,” you murmur, hugging him closer, “I’ll be waiting. Always.”

#mine #spencer reid #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid angst #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction

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loudblonde · 4 years

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Peter Parker x Male!Stark!Reader

Trigger warning: angst, mentions of murder and death, bad communication between father!Tony and son!reader, depression, recovered self-harmer, self-harm scars, hydra mention, homophobia.

Reincarnation AU, where lovers who were destined to be together will always find each other after they die. They will feel naturally drawn to each other, like magnets. No matter who they are in this life, they always share some of the same physical traits.

(Y/N) pulled the hood further over his head, desperately wanting to escape the situation. The lawyers’ words stitched together, into a long string of nothingness, no meaning came from it, not to a kid.

(Y/N)’s mother had died not even two days ago, killed in front of (Y/N). Now his uncle fought for rights to custody over his father. A pointless battle, (Y/N) didn’t know this at the time, but he would be lucky he ended up with his father.

(Y/N) had never seen his father, he didn’t like him, or at least his mother hadn’t liked him. She had always talked about how arrogant he was and how he would rather just sleep around instead of being a father. How parties were his priority and not his own son. So no, (Y/N) didn’t like his father, not with those words in mind.

The black-haired boy looked over at the lawyer with tears in his eyes, he wanted to get away. He wanted his mother. But even he knew, she was never coming back.

That day had been far too long. (Y/N) had barely even registered the trial ended or that he was escorted out of the room and into a car. Once (Y/N) finally registered what was happening, a burger was offered to him. (Y/N) took it.

“Cheeseburger.” Tony said, unsure how to react, he was not fit to be a father. But he was rich. How would he ever provide what the kid needed emotionally? He wasn’t ready to be a father, but before Catharina had died, Tony had been in the hospital room with her. She had begged him to take in their son, to not let her brother get him.

Something had just screamed at him to take care of her son, no, their son. Something about the desperateness in her voice and eyes or how she had spent her last breath asking him to promise it to her.

But no, Tony was not ready to be a father, he wasn’t even sure he would do a good job, but he would try his best.

He watched as (Y/N) slowly ate. A sigh came from Tony. “I know that this is hard… I’m sorry kid.” Tony didn’t get a respond, not that he thought he would. He looked towards Happy who shrugged. “Drive us home.” Tony looked out of the window.

--------------------------------------

11 years passed quickly, (Y/N) Stark. The only known son and heir to the company. A genius like his father, just in other ways. He had spoken 7 languages at age 10. By the age of 15, that number was up to 16. The media had no pictures of him after his 13th birthday. They could never quite find him or else he was just hidden from the naked eye.

Now, (Y/N) just avoided the public as much as he could. He looked too much like his father. Who wanted a camera in their face 24/7. Definitely not (Y/N). It did help that he was sent off to a boarding school ever year.

Oh, and there was also this little detail called, he was fucking a mutant. A powerful one at that. He could read peoples minds and warp their senses. It’s tiring and often resulted in him getting a nosebleed. Yet he kept practicing, payed off on the exams.

(Y/N) knew very well, that if the wrong people found out, he would be taken away and used for some crazy science experiment. By hydra or someone worse. Someone Shield had no idea were around, (Y/N) was sure it could happen.

So, (Y/N) remained closeted in multiple ways.

Even if he had some destined lover out there, he wouldn’t wanna be with them. He doubted he had one, but just to be safe, he had an escape plan… however if the stories proved true… He didn’t think about that too much, it was not gonna happen.

Which he had been fine with until he came home and saw a guy his age in his fathers’ current workshop. He normally never went in there but felt as though he needed to do it.

“Erm, excuse me, but who are you?” (Y/N) asked the rather cute brown-haired boy.

Peter looked up with wide eyes. For a second, he thought he had seen Tony, but this man was so much younger. Peter scratched the back of his head. “I’m Peter Parker, Mister Starks intern.”

(Y/N) raised his eyebrow at that. “Who are you? I-if you don’t mind me asking!” (Y/N) found something cute about the nervous edge to the young man. (Y/N) smirked ever so slightly.

(Y/N) chuckled as he walked further into the workshop, his body reacted without him wanting it to. He walked all the way over to Peter and looked at what he was doing. Homework? Or… something else? It seemed strangely familiar; though Peter covered it up before he could see anymore.

“I’m (Y/N) Stark.” He said with a friendly smile. (Y/N) looked up as two other people walked into the workshop, his pretend girlfriend and father, happily chatting away about some scientific thing.

“Oh, (Y/N), didn’t see you there. You never told me your girlfriend was smart.” Tony said.

“Well Tony, you never bothered to ask asked.” (Y/N) shrugged as he sat on a table his legs dangling slightly, they didn’t have the best relationship, (Y/N) had never called him father.

Not even to his friends. His pretend and also very closeted fake girlfriend walked over and stood between (Y/N)’s leg, (Y/N) placed his arms around her shoulder, ignoring the hurtful look in Tony’s eyes. He had seen it a lot.

“You never do ask about anything, I didn’t think you would care enough about who I was dating.” (Y/N) shrugged. Peter felt very uncomfortable, he just looked down, hoping to just avoid the whole family mess.

Tony on the other hand sighed. “Look kid-“

“Don’t kid me. I lost all sense of that word that night.” (Y/N) said, without even raising his voice. (Y/N) had forgiven Tony long ago, though he didn’t know if Tony knew this. Being taken away from his uncle, whom he had cared for a lot, to never see him again. Turned out his uncle had killed his mother… yeah that was not fun to know at age five.

“The only reason I’m home now is because I’m required too, I will stay out of your way, as always. Have fun with your intern.” (Y/N) said as he jumped down from the table. He landed soundlessly. Peter caught onto that.

“(Y/N)….” Tony looked after them, but they left towards the direction of his sons’ room, not even bothering to look back.

He loved (Y/N), but something was off, there was something (Y/N) never told him. It bothered Tony, but he didn’t know how to get a bond with (Y/N), he had never taken to science. Or anything else they could bond over. Tony had tried but eventually… just given up.

Not even Pepper could bond with (Y/N) and she had tried. The closest had been one moment when (Y/N) almost opened up.

Tony looked over at Peter, who averted his eyes. “Sorry about that… where did we come from?”

(Y/N) listened as Tony dropped the subject and sighed. What had he expected? A confession that his father Truly cared but just didn’t know how to approach a moody teenager. Or perhaps Tony saying that he had never been a father to him, nor he ever would.

They walked into a living room and sat down, (Y/N) hoped for silence. “He still doesn’t know. Does he?” Elena asked him, she placed a hand on his leg, comforting him.

(Y/N) sighed. “Why would he? It isn’t as though he cares anyway.” (Y/N) wasn’t sure if that was what he truly believed or hoped. “Why would I ever tell him I’m bi. Sure, he is. But why would he care about me?” (Y/N) leaned back in the couch scowling to himself, thinking about his father.

Though he smiled when he heard a familiar pair of heals enter the room.

“What have the two of you been up too?” Clint asked from behind Natasha.

(Y/N) chuckled as he stood up, Elena did the say, they all shared hugs. “Not much, just planning world domination,” (Y/N) joked.

“Yeah, letting the queer people rise up and overthrow all the governments.” Elena joined in. They all chuckled.

“(Y/N)-“ Natasha began but was interrupted. She let (Y/N) speak, knowing damn well he was being an edgy teenager that she would beat the next time he asked to spare with her. Which for some reason he never seemed to learn from.

“Save it, please. I don’t need any pity. He found someone else when he was ready. I was literally thrown at him 11 years ago. He wasn’t ready to be a father and if he is now, then lucky for Parker..” (Y/N) shrugged, pretending it didn’t hurt him.

Of course, Natasha and Clint saw right through that. They shared a look before closing the door to the room and sat both kids down. Somewhat ready to have this conversation.

“Your father doesn’t hate you.” Clint said and sighed. “He just-“ (Y/N) shook his head.

“Doesn’t know how to reach me? I have heard that from seven different psychologists.” (Y/N) leaned his head against the table. Not wanting to have this conversation with two others.

“I was gonna say, afraid. You are distant, he cherishes the little you two have and always get sad when you leave. Just having you around cheers him up, even with your harsh rejections of him.” Clint said, catching (Y/N) off guard.

A slight gasp came from him as he looked up at Clint, unsure if Clint was actually telling the truth. “Tony likes having me around?” (Y/N) looked at Elena for comfort, she placed a hand on his thigh.

Natasha and Clint shared a look before nodding. “Yes, he is always talking about the next time you come home, how he wants to spend more time with you.” Clint said with a small smile.

“Yes, he smiles widely, just like the moments when he discovers something new.” Natasha said, a ghostly smile on her lips. (Y/N) knew that smile, he had seen it a few times. It always warmed his heart when he thought about it, his father actually being happy for once.

No matter how much (Y/N) claimed he didn’t care, he really did care. Seeing his father happy was always something he remembered. For two reasons, always the same two reasons.

One, seeing Tony smiling widely and not drinking was rare.

And two… it hurt. Seeing Tony get a sense of happiness when he didn’t think (Y/N) was around, a sense of happiness that (Y/N) previously wrote off as simply being a dislike for him.

They had some catching up to do, and it seemed as though Clint had read his mind.

“You should talk with him later when Peter goes off to sleep. I know you don’t sleep that much, both of you.” Clint said, waving a finger between them, making the small group last.

(Y/N) thought about it, one hand, he wanted a relationship with his father, but on the other hand. Tony must think (Y/N) hates him…

An idea popped into his head.

He knew what he must do, he stood up, a determined glint in his eyes. “I have to go, Elena, you know the code to my room. I will be back in two hours.” (Y/N) rushed out and into the garage, he grabbed his car keys and drove away to get something he knew his father loved.

Elena wandered off into the compound, looking for Wanda when she found Peter sitting on a couch, she plopped down next to him. “So, you’re starks intern?” She asked curiously. Her eyes glanced over Peters features.

Peter looked at her with a small smile. “Yeah. You are his sons’ girlfriend, right?” Peter asked.

Elena nodded as she shifted slightly, not being a good liar. “Yeah, we are.” She responded, a bit too distracted, Peter caught on.

“Unless there is trouble…?” He asked, really not looking forward to getting between them.

“Oh? No!” She chuckled and closed her eyes. She didn’t feel anyone around. Once she opened her eyes, she smiled. “I listen to girl in red.” She said. Peter nodded, knowing what it meant.

“And he covers?” Peter asked, suddenly wanting to know more about the other. She nodded.

“Yes, he covers for me. We have a whole breakup story planned once we both graduate at the end of the year. The darlings of the school practically married already. No one will see it coming.” She laughed softly; Peter chuckled slightly at it.

“Does Mister Stark know?” Peter asked, she instantly shook her head.

“No, Natasha and Clint know… and now you do. I trust that you won’t tell.” She held out her pinkie finger. Peter gently held her finger with his own.

“I promise and to trade knowledge. I’m bi. I’m Peter by the way.” He said with a huge smile, happy to have made a friend. “What school does the two of you attend?”

“Oh, that old thing?” She dropped her pinkie. “Institute auf dem Rosenberg.” She said with a proud smile.

Peters face dropped.

She chuckled softly at it. “Both of our families are rich; we are both smart. I mean, (Y/N) can’t really do science, but he can learn any language in three weeks. I take after my dad. Hank McCoy.” She beamed. She too was a mutant. She had the ability to feel the presence of others.

“What is it like on the school?” He asked. Everything she had said baffled him. She seemed so nonchalant about it as well.

“Oh, it is really a lot of fun. All the students there are super nice to be around. I mostly enjoy the horse riding or the various biology classes. The instructors are so good. Campus life is amazing. I have my own bedroom and bathroom.” She explained with a huge smile, just happy to be talking about it. She didn’t notice the sky darken outside.

“A-and your father is Hank McCoy?” Peters inner nerd was showing. He turned towards her, not noticing how dark it was getting.

“Yeah, I don’t see him much, but yes. I take more after my mother, I’m not all that blue.” She leaned back and closed her eyes, she felt a presence besides them, a familiar one, so she wasn’t worried.

They kept talking for an hour before Peter had to sleep, he had been up early. Elena just wandered off the bedroom.

Meanwhile (Y/N) had finally gotten home with the cheeseburgers. He walked into his fathers’ shop and placed one down besides Tony. “Tony… dad…” (Y/N) looked away as Tony looked at him shocked.

“I know I haven’t been the best son… or person and I’m sorry for that.” (Y/N) looked down.

“Kid…” Tony began but stopped at (Y/N) raised his hand.

“I don’t blame you for not being close with me. I pushed you away, I’m sorry for that dad.” (Y/N) looked over. “I shouldn’t have pushed you away… but I was just too scared what would happen if we tried to get closer again. Last time we tried anything father son like, you got blown up.” He nodded towards the reactor on Tony’s chest.

“I guess… my mother dying and you almost dying… I couldn’t afford to lose anyone I cared for, not again.” Tony hugged (Y/N) who just stood there, not knowing how to respond to the hug.

Tony pulled away and looked to (Y/N), he gently wiped (Y/N)’s tears away, leaving slightly oily marks on (Y/N)’s cheeks. (Y/N) hadn’t even noticed he was crying. He scrunched the sleeve of his hoodie up and wiped the rest of his tears away.

“You don’t have to be sorry… I haven’t done my part either… I thought you hated me and that you rather wouldn’t see me… I should have reached out instead of just letting you be alone.” Tony smiled gently and sat on the chair, (Y/N) jumped up on the table as he opened his cheeseburger.

“We were both not good at communicating.” (Y/N) sighed. There was so much to say and so little time to say it in. Or at least that was what it felt like.

“Dad?” (Y/N) looked towards Tony unsure.

“Yes?” Tony questioned and stopped opening his burger up.

(Y/N) bit his lip before shaking his head. “I’m gay.”

Tony looked confused. “What about Elena?”

“She’s also gay… We date as a cover. It is easier than anything else.” Tony nodded, understanding the need to keep it hidden.

“You know, it seems to run in the family.” Tony chuckled, catching (Y/N) off guard. “I’m bi. The news just doesn’t report the men I have slept with.” Tony shrugged as he took a bite off the burger.

“I can also read peoples minds.” (Y/N) muttered as he took a bite of his own burger.

However, Tony had heard it. “Read peoples mind?” Tony asked unsure if he heard it properly.

(Y/N) looked at him and nodded, his eyes shifted into a cloudy white colour, it looked as though someone had poured drops of milk into water, the white curled around his iris before finally overtaking his eyes.

“You hope I’m lying and joking around, you want to comfort yourself with that thought but deep down you know the truth, you know that there has always been something off, something you couldn’t see or explain and it wasn’t my sexuality. Something that pushed you away.” (Y/N) said, his voice sounded as though he spoke from somewhere else.

Tony watched as (Y/N) tilted his head to the side. “But you aren’t scared of me, of this. It caught you off guard but you…” (Y/N) shook his head. “You actually want to protect me.” (Y/N) couldn’t believe what he heard. Why would anyone ever protect a monster like him?

Something so vile, that could freely enter and probe around in someone’s mind.

“Of course, I would help you and keep you safe.” Tony took his sons hands in his. “Even with your gift, it isn’t something to be ashamed off.” Tony smiled.

(Y/N) smiled before shaking his head. “I… Why? Why keep me safe?” (Y/N) asked, unsure. His school had a few mutants, but those out was socially isolated and for a school priding itself with creating future relationships for their careers.

Tony looked confused at that question; something just didn’t seem right. Tony had a bad feeling where the conversation was going. “Because it’s the right thing to do and you are my son. If I didn’t protect you… I would be no better than hydra.” Tony said while looking into his sons’ eyes.

The word hydra made (Y/N) flinch and close his eyes. Imaginations of what happened. He had spoken with James for a few hours, before he had been whisked off to Wakanda and then again, every single time he was in Wakanda. He knew what hydra could do and with powers like his…

“(Y/N), I would never let hydra get to you.” Tony said sternly. “And, if they do get you, I will rain hell down upon them before they touch you.”

The words didn’t comfort (Y/N). Tony had essentially said he couldn’t promise safety, that hydra could very much just get to him. That he would never be safe. But (Y/N) put on a fake smile, not wanting to worry his father too much for one night. “Thank you.” Tony didn’t see through the smile.

(Y/N) faked a yawn, he needed to get some fresh air. “I should head towards the bed. I have had a long flight.” He stood up and threw his half-eaten cheeseburger out. “Don’t stay up too late.” (Y/N) joked at Tony who in turn chuckled.

“I was going to say, be safe. But I don’t need that.” Tony finished his own cheeseburger as (Y/N) walked out of the room.

(Y/N) walked into his room and out on the balcony, unbeknownst to him, Peters bedroom was right next to his own. (Y/N) took the hoodie off and dropped it down, scars littered his arms, but (Y/N) knew no one would see that here. It was a blind spot; no cameras could see his balcony.

A sigh came from him as he ran his fingers over the jagged scars, all healed and all going to stay. He had been clean for over a year. He had found a way to distract himself, singing. It sounded stupid when he thought about it. But singing helped him get away from his feelings, for just that moment.

He started off with a quiet song, one he had written himself. A song about a lost boy, trying to find his way home. Trying to live in a world with constant hate towards him.

Peter who had trouble with sleeping, heard someone sing outside his window. A beautiful, almost angelic voice. He looked outside and saw the young stark standing there shirtless and just singing, Peter had been too caught up in it he hadn’t noticed (Y/N) stopping and looking at him.

(Y/N) turned towards Peter with scared eyes. “H-hey Peter.” He chuckled as he scratched the back of his head. “Sorry if I woke you up.”

Peter fell inside his room before walking outside, rubbing his shoulder. “N-no. You didn’t. I just couldn’t sleep-“ he noticed the scars but said nothing, “and then I heard you sing. W-which you are really good at!” Peter exclaimed.

(Y/N) walked over to where their balconies met and leaned on the edge, Peter sat in the chair right next to it. “Come here often?” (Y/N) asked softly. “Every other weekend.” Peter proudly said. “Mister Stark wanted to teach me how to properly make my suit, but he is mostly always busy, so instead I train with the avengers.” Peter looked genuinely excited about that.

(Y/N) laughed softly before shaking his head. “That is what my dad is like. Tell me Pete. Why did my father pick you? He isn’t exactly one to get interns.” (Y/N) knew he was onto something, but he didn’t want to probe Peters brain.

Peter blushed, giving (Y/N) all the confirmation he needed to know he was indeed onto something. “I-“ Peter stopped himself.

“No need to tell the secret if it is.” (Y/N) placed a finger on Peters lips. Keeping him quiet and blushing. “But if you want to, then I never tell a secret.” (Y/N) winked as he removed his finger.

“I’m spiderman.” Peter whispered, (Y/N) heard it.

He moved over the balcony and sat next to Peter. “Really? That is so cool!” (Y/N) said in a voice that was maybe too loud, it made him flinch slightly and calm down.

“You think I’m cool?” Peter asked baffled. His blush only growing.

“Of course. At my school we watched your videos and used them in math, seeing how someone in a split second can change and twist their body. It is honestly amazing.” (Y/N) said without realising what he had just confessed too. But it was fine, right? He had said that they had done it in math class. Totally didn’t sound creepy. Right?

However, Peter blushed madly, even in the dimly lit night, (Y/N) could easily tell Peter was blushing, it made him blush as well. “Erm, sorry if that is weird.” He chuckled softly and scratched the back of his head.

“N-no. I just never imagined that someone that handsome and smart would ever be interested in what I did, nevertheless the only son of my mentor. I always wanted to impress really smart people but to actually-“ (Y/N) placed a hand over Peters mouth, which shut Peter up immediately.

“Pete, you are rambling, it’s cute.” (Y/N) removed his hand just as Elena walked outside. Peter didn’t notice it, instead he just heard the words over and over again. (Y/N) Stark thought he was cute? Or at least what he did was cute.

“Would you two please quiet a bit down. I have a meeting soon.” She pleaded while looking at the two.

“Of course, Elena. Sorry.” (Y/N) waved at her as she walked back in. ”Mind if I stay over on this side for an hour or two? Elena has a meeting.” (Y/N) looked at Peter.

“You can stay!” Peter said somewhat loudly, making (Y/N) smile. He stood up and bend over the balcony wall to get his hoodie. (Y/N) put it on and followed Peter into his room.

The room was decorated with some hero merch. It was honestly charming. To see someone, work this close with the avengers and still be a fan. It reminded him about Phil.

(Y/N) sat on the bed as he looked around the room amazed, the twin sized bed was small, but (Y/N) didn’t mind it. Peter sat next to him, maybe a bit too close, but neither of the boys noticed that.

(Y/N) leaned into Peter. “I really love your room.” He said softly.

Peter placed an arm around (Y/N)’s shoulder. “Really? It isn’t too… I don’t know, childish?” Peter asked, suddenly very insecure about his room. Why was Peter doing this? The most likely very straight (Y/N) Stark was this close, close enough for Peter to just- no, he couldn’t think like that.

“No?” (Y/N) turned his head slightly to look at Peter, his eyes travelled down to Peters lips before looking back into his eyes. “It isn’t childish, at all. It’s normal to have imagery of someone or something you idolise.”

Peters eyes widened slightly as he saw (Y/N)’s eyes travel down again before coming up, so he took a chance and cupped (Y/N) face. Peter leaned down almost all the way, leaving less then an inch between their lips. (Y/N) was quick to fill in the gap. He may not have known Peter for long, but it just felt right.

The kiss sparked a memory he didn’t know he had.

The sun was setting. Two young men had snuck away and into the forest to watch the sunset from the tallest tree. The tallest man had his hands around the others face, while the shorter had his arms around the waist of the other.

“I love you, (Y/N).”

(Y/N) pulled away from the kiss with wide eyes. He looked at Peter with a panicked expression. Peter shared the equally panicked expression. “I’m sorry!” (Y/N) halfway yelled, this time it was Peters turn to place his hands over (Y/N)’s mouth.

“You saw that too, right? I’m not the one going crazy here.” Peter asked, (Y/N) melted under Peters touch, he tried to say something, but Peters hand was still over his mouth.

“Right, sorry.” Peter removed his hand.

“If you talk about the two of us, in these old clothing, sitting in a tree and… kissing. Then yes.” (Y/N) said, moving slightly away from Peter. (Y/N) instantly regretted it, not feeling the warmth of Peter.

“… The reincarnation.” Peter stood up and started pacing the room. “So, it is true, I have heard stories, but they were hard to believe.” Peter stopped and looked at (Y/N) who just blankly stared at the wall.

“I’m a mutant. You should know that before you decide if you want to stay with me. The stories have always been true… never imagined me to be one of those.” (Y/N) stood up and was immediately hugged by Peter.

“Pete, what are you doing?” (Y/N) asked unsure as to why people kept hugging him.

“Oh… sorry!” Peter pulled away slightly but kept (Y/N) within arms range.

“No reason to say sorry.” (Y/N) smiled. “Why don’t we just, sit down and talk this through?” (Y/N) asked as he took Peter with him over to the bed.

They spent the next night just talking about everything they could think. About (Y/N)’s power, Peters school, mental-health, and childhood stories, how they both shared having seen someone they cared about get killed.

At some point during the night, they fell asleep while cuddling on the small bed.

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