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after-witch · 4 years

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Birthday Gift (Yandere Overhaul x Reader) Part 1

Word Count: 2,602

Synopsis: It’s almost your birthday, which means it’s been almost a year since you were taken to your new “home” by Kai Chisaki. You don’t fight (much) anymore. You do what he wants and follow his strict rules. As you brace yourself to ask for a special gift, you remember how you came to live in Kai’s small, oppressive world.

Notes: Yandere, kidnapping, abuse, manipulation, mentions of food control

You stare at the same book page you’ve been “reading” for the past hour and try not to think about difficult things. Thinking about difficult things makes you upset, and when you get upset you tend to act out, and you’ve been trying so hard to behave lately.

Your birthday is coming up, and you want to ask for something special. Something you normally can’t have. Your captor is rigid and unbending, refusing to be questioned on any of the rules he’s forced you into following, so your hopes for your special request rest on the slim idea that your good behavior may make more affable to change.

So. You try your best to envision your request being granted, and you try not to think about the fact that your upcoming birthday will mark almost a year in captivity, held in the oppressive and unrelenting grip of Overhaul--Kai Chisaki.

Your eyes scan the words in your book, hoping to dive into a nice escapist story to pass the time, but your mind refuses to let you drift away.

So you think about the past, instead.

****

Your life used to be very different.

Before you met him, before he took you away, you used to live in your own little apartment on a less-than-ritzy side of town. It wasn’t much, but you could afford it on your own, which was exactly what you wanted. Your mom had begged you to stay with her--she worried about you, poor quirkless young woman living by herself.

But you told her that you needed your independence and off you went. You worked on your budding small business during the day and left for your part time job at a little 24/7 mart in the evenings. You always walked the long way home, because it was lit up by endless neon signs and ads for late-night businesses.

But a split-second decision to take a shortcut down a dark side street one evening changed everything. You heard the sounds first. There was an anguished cry, cut short by a noise that made you think about chopping meat; the cry was swiftly replaced with a low, throaty gurgling. A dull street lamp finally revealed the source: a short older man, wild and flailing, grasping his throat which appeared open at the seams. Blood fell out of the gaping hole in waves. A man stood in front of him, tall and imposing, facing away from you.

You were frozen to the spot. A small sound escaped your throat, and in a moment, the second man had whirled around and stalked up to your frozen form. You felt like you were trapped in a nightmare as you slowly gazed up, body shaking uncontrollably, at the visage of a man wearing a strange mask around his mouth. He was wearing an expensive looking suit, and his hands were gloved.

“What’s your quirk?” he asked.

Your chest heaved. Just like mom said. Poor, quirkless young woman: the perfect target. You thought about bluffing, maybe he would leave you alone if he thought you were strong. But the sight of the old man, now grey and slumped over in a pile of his own blood, made you realize how foolish the thought was.

“I--I don’t… I don’t have one…” you managed to whisper. “Please, please don’t kill me. I can’t even fight back.”

Something about your words seemed to surprise him. There was something unreadable and foreign in his eyes. Was he delighted to find you were helpless? Did he find you pathetic? You looked down at the ground in fear. You saw him raise a gloved hand towards you and you closed your eyes, thinking a thousand thoughts in what you assumed were your last moments alive. Mom, friends, home, dreams--tears spilled over your cheeks unknowingly.

You felt a gloved finger brush your cheek, then the other, wiping away your tears. You shivered uncontrollably and finally gathered the courage to open your eyes. He was watching you, saying nothing as he wiped away the tears his very presence had caused.

Finally, he spoke: “Don’t go down these streets at night. It’s not safe for a woman like you. Go straight home.”

He took a step back, and you felt as if you’d finally regained control over your muscles. You stood for a second more, gazing in fear at the man who could have ended your life, before bolting away.

When you reached your apartment, you could barely get the key in the door with your shaking hands. You slammed and locked the door shut behind you before collapsing on the floor, exhausted and terrified. You thought about calling the police, but stopped yourself. What if he had watched you go home? What if he knew where you lived? He would know you called and--you rushed to the bathroom and emptied the contents of your meager dinner.

From that day on, you felt… watched.

It wasn’t long before gifts showed up at your doorstep. Clothes--high end but simple, chic. New books you’d been eyeing at the bookstore but couldn’t afford. You gave the clothes to your mom (“Found them at a discount store, can you believe it?!”) but kept the books stacked on your increasingly overstuffed shelf. Then, you tried to give your landlord the rent and he waved you away, muttering that someone had paid up your rent for the year.

After that, you changed your locks.

Of course, that didn’t stop your stalker-turned-captor from breaking into your home one night and sedating you. You’d woken up the next morning in an unfamiliar, sterile, terrifying new reality.

****

You sigh and drum your fingers on the book page. Maybe if you hadn’t accepted the books--maybe if you had insisted in paying the landlord--maybe if you hadn’t moved out of your mom’s place at all, none of this would have happened.

Your world has now been reduced, compressed, carefully cut away into a few small rooms.

Your room is… well. Boring. White walls, clinical and clean. A few months ago, Kai surprised you with some things to decorate your room with: little fairy lights (sparkly and bright, like the kind you used to have in your apartment) and generic flower photo prints with sticky backs and a small mirror with a striped fabric frame. A child’s mirror, not made from real (and thus sharp, and thus dangerous) glass but some finicky shimmery silver stuff. You don’t care. You love the change in scenery and have spent hours since then rearranging your meager possessions.

Of course, you have a bed (a sterile hospital blanket at first, but since you started behaving more often, he let you pick out a comforter in whatever color you wanted--sky blue, so you could remember it); a tall wardrobe for your clothes, built into the wall (he keeps the doors locked, since he insists on picking out all your outfits); a short desk and a table for reading and, since you’ve been so good, a small craft boxed with paper, pencils and paints.

Your bedroom “suite” has an attached bathroom, where the cabinets are dutifully locked and child-proofed and the water in the bathtub is turned on remotely to keep you safe. Kai doesn’t watch you bathe, but he listens outside the door, just in case. No mirrors. Sometimes you wonder if he’ll get you one for the bathroom, if you’re good enough.

Kai lets you visit his office, sometimes, if he thinks you are being exceptionally well-behaved. The change in scenery is a wonderful incentive and sometimes before you go to bed, you daydream about the first time you were allowed inside. You can still feel the mental thrill of seeing two big bookshelves stuffed with books and a leather couch and a mirror not made with crinkly aluminium staring back at you. Kai let you sit on the leather couch with a pile of books for hours until your legs and eyes were equally strained.

But, the past is the past. Your life now is the present, an ongoing stretch of routines that he insists you follow. You grimly realize that you don’t have much trouble playing by his rules anymore. When did you stop fighting?

You no longer flinch when Overhaul--Kai, he says, call him Kai, and lately you’ve remembered--enters your bedroom in the morning to help you start your day. You used to do more the flinch, though. You used to scream and cry and tell him to go to hell. You used to cling to your bed posts and refuse to get dressed. You used to try to scratch him. That got you locked in a new room, small and bare, and the thought of going back there (for that wasn’t the only time you were terribly bad) sends goosebumps up your arm.

You rub your arm and remind yourself: you haven’t been locked in that little room for a long time. You haven’t even been bad enough to get scolded for refusing to eat or demanding you pick out your own outfit. You’ve been so, so good. Now, in the morning (and evening, and afternoon) you comply quietly with the life Kai wants for you.

In the mornings, you’re quiet and yawning when he opens up your fortified bedroom door; you rub your eyes and cling to your pillow to soak up the last bits of dreams sprinkled there. Most days, you even answer him when he says “good morning,” in such a soft and mild tone, as if he’s afraid to startle you out of behaving.

In the morning, your routine is simple: Out of the bed. Make the bed. Lift off your pajamas--he turns around and never looks. Change into the daily outfit he’s picked out for you. Then, to the bathroom. Wash your face, brush your teeth, brush your hair. Moisturize, then put on sunscreen. (You’ve stopped reminding him that there was no sun down here, and you no longer demand that if he insisted you slather on SPF50, he could at least take you outside.)

Then you eat breakfast. Sometimes together. Sometimes alone. It depends on how busy Kai is. It’s healthy and carefully planned down to the exact nutrient. Sometimes you stare at your bowl of carefully chopped vegetables, expensive fruit and your singular boiled egg and you yearn for your favorite breakfasts, the kind you used to eat in your old life.

You used to pop two pieces of bread in the toaster and then toss a careless dollop butter on top of the crispy toast, then plate it with slices of fried bacon and eggs. Sometimes you’d feel lazy and simply munch down a bowl of sugary cereal or heat up leftover takeout from the night before.

But what you missed, and what you wanted, didn’t matter anymore. Kai had made it clear from the start, during one of his rambling monologues that had you covering your ears: your habits were unhealthy and abhorrent and they made you sick, so sick. He was going to help you get better, and that started with your diet. No more junk food, no more treats, because they weren’t necessary for your health.

Now you ate healthy meals with wholesome nutrients and large, bitter supplements that sometimes still make you throw up. He doesn’t get mad when you throw them up, though, especially when he realized you were telling the truth about not doing it on purpose. But that doesn’t stop him from wiping them off and making you try again until you manage to swallow and keep them down.

Sometimes when you don’t want to finish your food he chastises you, and reminds you of what you used to eat and how horrible you felt. (But did you? You don’t remember feeling awful, but he says you did, and he obviously knows more about nutrition...)

He asks you if you feel healthy, and you always crumble under his intense and prolonged gaze and admit the truth: yes, you do.

Sometimes you clench your fists when you answer and want to scream again, want to tell him how his control over your diet and what goes into your body makes you really feel. Helpless and humiliated and angry--but you don’t scream, because screaming isn’t polite, and impoliteness means you’ll get another lecture that leaves you feeling small and weak. So you pick up your utensils and finish your dinner and Kai gives you an approving nod and a ghost of a smile, as if you hadn’t almost misbehaved.

In those moments, deep in the the pit of your stomach, you recognize that you’ve begun to crave his approval. The thought makes you feel like you’ve swallowed a bitter pill.

Your mind feels suddenly blank when you hear the door to your bedroom begin to unlock from the other side. You feel startled, unprepared. It was already dinnertime, and you’d been staring at the same book page since the afternoon, wandering round and round in your thoughts.

Kai Chisaki walks through the door, a dinner tray for two in hand, and shuts it swiftly behind him. He��s maskless, the usual for meals, and he meets your gaze with the faintest hint of a smile. He always looks relieved to see you, like seeing you takes something off his shoulders. Lately, you realize, his visits lift a weight from your shoulders too.

You smile back without realizing it. He says nothing, but sits down and waits for you to move your book before sliding your dinner tray to your side of the desk.

“I trust your afternoon went well. How is the new book I gave you?”

You nod, unfocused, and look down at your dinner plate. It’s nutritious and portioned perfectly and something deep inside you hates it for what it represents.

“(Y/N)?”

You look up suddenly. You never answered his question.

“Kai, there’s…” You struggle to find the words. You hadn’t exactly felt confident about your request before, but faced with his deceptively impassive gaze, it is difficult to muster the courage to even ask.

He raises his eyebrows, and waits for you to collect yourself.

You take a deep breath and fold your hands neatly in your lap. You start to feel prim, good--deserving, even, of what you’re about to ask for.

“I wanted to ask about my birthday…”

(End Part 1)

#yandere overhaul #yandere bnha #yandere x reader #yandere chisaki kai #yandere mha #afterwitch writes

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mandalorewhore · 3 years

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Two Steps Ahead

PART THREE OF HUNTER (formerly hunter and prey)

gif by @princessxkenobi

Rating: Explicit Content Warnings: SMUT, Fighting as Foreplay, Rough Sex, Penetrative Sex(PIV), Unprotected Sex, Dirty talk, Praise kink, Size kink, Big Dick Mando, Top Mando, Sub/Dom elements, Very slight Pain Kink, possible CNC elements although I didn’t write that I also want to warn anyone who doesn’t want to read about rough sex with physical fighting as foreplay Words: 6.9k AO3 LINK

Summary: Reader and Mando start tracking their first bounty together

A/N: i believe things are happening...interesting

***

“I feel like you have a distinct advantage here.” A bead of sweat drips over your brow as you mop at your sweltering forehead in irritation. Your temple throbs as you press on it, pain shooting down your neck at the pressure.

It’s so fucking humid here. You’re tracking one of Mando’s bail jumpers in the middle of a boggy swamp planet that you never caught the name of and you’ve been walking through the forest for at least 24 hours, only stopping for water and ration breaks. Based on the holo-map you’re currently staring at, this entire planet is one big swamp, with no escape from the damp, sticky environment.

The thing barely makes sense, a jumble of colors and shapes that worsens your headache the longer you try to figure it out. You had borrowed a thin shirt from Mando before setting out, but it does little to protect you from the buzzing swarms of insects, while at the same time it reflects just enough heat to have you sweltering.

Mando acts unbothered under all that padding and armor, trekking through the trees without any visible sign of struggle. You don’t understand how he can stay awake for so long without caf, yourself being covered in caf-patches to keep from passing out. It’s probably somewhat dangerous to have so much of the stimulant coursing through your veins, but oh well. If my heart gives out then at least I’ll escape the bugs.

“Footprints aren’t the only way to track a quarry.” He returns mildly, moving swiftly over tangled tree-roots to avoid the pools of murky water that litter the forest floor. You move with less grace behind him, trying to climb slippery wood and juggle the holo at the same time. The twisted trees of this planet seem to reach inward to point at the forest floor, giving you the impression of being trapped within their clutches. The eerie feeling isn’t helped by the distinct lack of light, odd lichen tendrils drape between branches to create a blanket that absorbs most natural light from the sky. A faint glow emanates from the tendrils, basking the forest with ghostly illumination. You scramble to the top of the particularly tall root he’s perched on then plop down to catch your breath.

“No, it’s not the only way,” you pause to take a swig from your water skin, dabbing off the spilled drops from your chin with your sleeve, “but the footprints you track are apparently all glowy and red. I get to look with my naked eyes for shit like depressions in the ground, which is so fun considering the only paths here are solid wood.”

Mando rolls his helmet on his shoulders, the effect similar to someone rolling their eyes. When he speaks it’s short and gruff, annoyed by your attitude. Which is… appropriate. The hours you’ve spent walking in this heat together is starting to snap both of your tempers. “Stop complaining.”

He’s not wrong about the footprints. You’re mostly annoyed because of how useless you feel, more like you’re tagging along than assisting him on the hunt. Drawing your eyebrows together you try to come up with a plan. Most of those mercenary skills you talked up for Karga don’t apply here, this naturalistic setting is too messy and... wild. Unpredictable. You’re used to the structure that comes with starships and cities, places engineered and civilized.

Tracking people isn’t very hard, you’ve done it plenty of times before. The only issue is that all of your practice came from environments where they left clear signs of direction, displaced gravel indicating a shoe-print, broken branches, a trail in sand. It also helps that your targets didn’t know they were being stalked. The only path here is over hard wooden tree roots, with nothing to indicate direction, not even moss grows over the foot trail for traveling feet to mark. You take in a deep breath and hold it for several seconds before letting out all your air in one huge swoop.

“I’m sorry, “ you tell him sincerely, “I want to help you -and not just for a bigger cut. Is there anything I can do?” You truly do feel bad for snapping at him even if you know you’re right about his advantage. Just because you don’t have fancy thermal settings and footprint tracking doesn’t mean you’re useless. The Mandalorian settles his hands on his hips and surveys the area, looking for a task to assign you. His helmet tilts up and lingers on the trees, and you’re already two steps ahead before he can voice his idea.

“I can climb,” you interject, standing up swiftly and moving. “Trees can’t be more slippery than a spacecraft.”

He nods in acknowledgment. “Find something and your cut goes up by five percent.”

“Ten percent.” You grin at him cheekily, wanting to tease him even if he won’t give it to you.

“Eight, if you find somewhere to camp.”

“Deal.” You return, already halfway to the widest tree you can reach without getting your feet wet. The trunk is covered in knots and twisted vines, ugly but providing fantastic handholds for your hands and feet. Grabbing hold of a sturdy looking ledge you begin your ascent.

The climb is fairly easy even with the woods damp surface, and you reach the forest canopy with minimal effort. Carefully squirreling around the thin top-most branches you attempt to find a break-through point, the wood beneath you bowing a little from your weight.

When you finally poke your head through and see the sky you gasp, taken aback by the sight. You hadn’t hung around in the cockpit during landing, instead choosing to pack the bags while Mando skillfully piloted his ship. The forest floor is all you’ve seen of the planet and apparently you’ve missed a lot.

The sky here is beautiful, a color palette that is completely opposite from the dark, damp underbelly of the forest ground. Swirling aquamarine clouds float lazily in the sky, speckling the orange hued atmosphere above you. There are at least 6 pale moons lined up on the horizon from edge to edge, stars twinkling around each orb as if drawn to their orbit. You drink in the sight greedily, the ache in your head lessening in the natural light. This is so much better than the cold stark metal of space stations that you’re used to living on.

It’s hard to tell the time based on the sky alone, the moons must be constantly present in the sky no matter the time of day and you can’t find a single sun. Maybe this planet lives off the light and heat from each moon, reflected from a distant star? The thought is lovely but you don’t think it’s possible. You file the image away for your daydreams then divert your eyes back to the thick forest, searching for anything useful to tell Mando.

The line of trees is unbroken, a sea of dark green leaves and glowing lichen. An orange sky helps to warm up the pale glow from the lichen but it’s eeriness still sends a shiver through you. Everything on the horizon is of even height, betraying nothing within its depths. It isn’t ideal. You gnaw your lip anxiously, dreading to return to Mando without any information especially on your first hunt together. Eyes flitting around desperately, you try to analyze any possible breaks in the natural pattern of trees.

Could that be a settlement there? You think, looking at a slightly thinner section of forest that might roughly be three miles away. You aren’t sure about the planet’s curvature and how flat the terrain is so you double check the holo, looking for the information.

Something catches your eye as you’re pulling up the data, just substantial enough in your peripheral version that you stop what you’re doing. There is a mist rising from that thinned area, far enough away that you mistook it as some sort of lighting effect from the overwhelming color palette here. That has to be steam right? It’s too thick to be naturally occurring from the bog. There must be machinery over there. A settlement hopefully.

You’re about to climb down when you pause, looking at the still lit holo with renewed curiosity. Something about the map visually paired with your clear view of the forest allows the pieces to fall in place. When you compare the shape of the map to the trees you’re finally able to make sense of what you previously thought was a topographical mess. A built pathway lies here, a body of water there. And clearings. Several clearings not too far from where you are now, the perfect size to settle down in. Hopefully they’re dry.

Either the caf-patches are finally sending you into cardiac arrest or you’re manically happy to finally be of help to your hunting partner, but either way, you’re grinning so widely that your teeth clatter together.

“Hey Mando! Guess what you owe me?” You shout down at the ground, beginning to descend. You’re so excited that you practically slide down the vines, jumping to the ground when you’re several feet high in the air, sore muscles creaking at the impact. The Mandalorian is sitting now, resting with his elbow propped on his knee while he waited for you to come back. There’s a soft pang in your chest and you wonder if he’s tired. You brush it off, feeling as though you’re just projecting, and instead grin widely at him in triumph. “7 percent increase for me!”

He lifts his helmet and looks you up and down. “What did you find?”

You reply chirpily, hands grasped behind your back and shit-eating grin still plastered on your face. “There is a settlement of some kind roughly three miles that way,” you point in the direction where you saw the steam, “and several clearings nearby suitable to camp in, if we don’t want to head in right away. Oh, also we aren’t on the actual path used by locals here, the asset must be making an effort to hide.”

“That isn’t very smart of them,” Din observes, shaking his head at the concept. “Busy path hides more prints.”

“Hm…” You take that in, wondering what other techniques a quarry may use to shake its hunter.

It occurs to you that there is a lot you could learn from the Mandalorian, since so far hunting someone has been notably different from your mercenary missions. You’ll find a moment to ask questions later once you’re settled down for the night, wherever that’ll be. “Do you want to camp or find the maybe-settlement?”

“We should camp,” he responds immediately, rising from his seated position and walking closer to you, “we don’t know what we’ll face there. You can choose the area, since you climbed the tree.”

You pull up the holo-map again and zoom in on the different options, feeling far more energized now that you actually know what you’re doing. There are two spots that seem encouraging, both a short hike away from where you are now but removed enough to grant you some privacy. You’ll still need to set up a watch to prevent ambush or stray travelers from finding you but it’ll be easier if you make an effort to hide. One of the clearings seems to have a running water source, you hope it’s cleaner than the still-water you’re currently surrounded by. Maybe you can bathe there too.

“Lets go here,” you pull up the coordinates for Mando, “that looks like a stream, right?”

He leans into your body for a closer look, broad chest just brushing against you in a way that sends flutters through your tummy. You know he can zoom in with his visor, there is no reason he needs to be so close to you except for your benefit. He seems to enjoy messing with you like this, throwing you off with unexpected touches, looks, and gestures. It’s like a game he plays and you’d be far more annoyed by his teases if it wasn’t so exciting.

“Looks good,” he rumbles low in his chest. “Fresh water would be nice.”

Your heart quickens, but you tried to hide your reaction by teasing him back, tapping your fingers on his helm and stepping away. “I was hoping to clean myself up, actually…”

Mando straightens up at this, visor locked on your face.

“Lead the way.” He returns quietly, giving away nothing. Trying not to smile, you start off in the direction of the clearing, for once moving faster than your armored companion.

Your goal isn’t very far, only about 3 miles north of your previous position and a mile adjacent to the settlement you’ll pay a visit to tomorrow. Large, fuzzy fronds of an alien fern droop down the sides of the hollow clearing, providing a barrier between the forest and empty space in between. The trees still tangle above the open area, blocking out part of the beautiful sky, save a few of the large moons, and old pieces of charcoal are ground into the sandy earth here, a sight that makes you a little anxious. This spot must be used by others, you’ll have to be more careful with setting up the watch than expected.

The water source turns out to be a small spring set on the edge of a cliff at the far end of the clearing, a sizable waterfall cascading down the side and gathering in a crystalline pool. Skipping ahead of Mando to the edge of the pool you crouch and dip your fingers in the cool water, sighing in relief as it relieves some of the warmth in your overheated body.

You’re unable to hear Mando’s approach - how he is so stealthy under 50 pounds of metal escapes you, but you feel him behind you. You smirk. Arching your back as you rise, you turn around slowly and begin to make eyes in his direction however, when you actually see what he's doing, you cringe at yourself in embarrassment. He’s not looking like you assumed, instead he is surveying the clearing skeptically, body-language imbued with disapproval. Your heart simultaneously sinks to your stomach and contracts in frustration. You thought you had finally done something right.

“What? Is something wrong?” You ask him tightly, subtly shrinking in on yourself in disappointment. You try to hide this by fiddling idly with a stray thread on your tunic, stubbornly keeping your head lifted high despite wishing you could disappear. He doesn’t respond right away, instead turning and walking the length of the clearing then back, stopping just in front of you sharply. You meet his visor with your eyes, holding the look until you feel like you’re burning up in shame from the pressure of it.

“It’s too… open,” he finally says, voice halting as he tries to find the correct words. “Anyone could walk into our camp.”

“I figured we’d set up a watch. There’s only one entrance-”

He interrupts you. “One ground entrance. Anyone can climb down from the trees.”

“Maybe, but this planet isn’t supposed to be dangerous, is it? Practically abandoned,” You huff out, fists clenching at your sides as you argue with him. “Besides. It’s… pretty here.”

The Mandalorian sighs, pinching the helmet just below the visor where his nose bridge would be. “Fine. I’ll take the first watch. No fire.”

Nodding in response, you cross the clearing and set your bag down on a log, letting out a sigh in relief. That’s fine by you, you don’t need the extra warmth and the glowing lichen provides enough light to get by. You really did not want to hike again after moving for 24 hours straight. Mando mirrors your movements, leaning his rifle next to your pack before settling on the sandy earth. A loaded pause passes between you, earlier implications at the forefront of your minds.

Letting out a shuddering breath you crouch down and pull your old tunic from your bag, slinging it over your shoulder before making your way back to the small pond. The water is completely clear, an inviting sight after the marshy puddles that made up the forest ground on your way here. You’re facing the water now but you’re still well aware of the man behind you, the intensity of his gaze burning even through the impassive visor. The invitation is clear. Take it off.

But you aren’t sure if you want to give him that yet. The exhaustion from today has wrung you dry, small bickerings between you and your work partner dampening the sweet mood leftover from Nevarro. Apologizing with sex isn’t really your thing. You’d rather stoke the mutual respect between you as allies instead of start up a pattern of fighting then making up.

You crouch at the water's edge, peering into the depths for a moment before splashing your face with cold water, fresh scar throbbing as blood rushes to the surface of your face. The spare tunic you grabbed just brushes the surface of the water, sending ripples throughout your reflection. Curious, you lean over and observe the way the mirror-like pond breaks off into fragments, bits of you here and there mixing in with the moons that lay on russet sky.

Like a painting. You think in awe, having only seen a couple of the artifacts in person. The richest target you were assigned to owned two pieces of art, real paintings on real paper, encased in transparisteel viewing cases before you smashed open the backing to wonder at them. You close your eyes and try to recall the texture of the paint before the rest of your memory catches up and sours the whole thing. The man's home had to be burned in order to erase evidence, his paintings too large to smuggle out of the city.

When you open your eyes the pond has settled with your reflection only- you’re not alone.

“Maker!” You jump at the sight of the Mandalorians gleaming helmet appearing in the reflection. “What the fuck, you sneak.”

He just chuckles in response and offers you a hand, which you take firmly while rolling your eyes and standing. He leads you back to sit with him on the sandy earth, taking ration bars out of his pack- not yours, and breaking them evenly between you. The gesture is surprisingly tender and none too appreciated what with your stomach growling audibly at the bland meal. All at once, you are reminded by the spattering of caf-patches on your limbs, the jitteriness becoming more apparent now that you’re finally still. You’re shaking. Mando notices as well.

“You may explode.” He remarks, prompting you to start pulling off the stimulant, crumpling each piece and setting them neatly in a pile at your knee.

“Good, let me explode. You’re too bossy to work with.” You return with a smirk, hoping your sarcasm lands. He hums in response, pulling one of the patches off of your forearm and flicking it in your direction for you to catch.

Tutting, you roll the patch into a ball and set it at the top of your pile. “Don’t leave a mess, this forest is ugly but at least it’s untouched,” you tell him firmly. Mando just nods.

The ration bars are hardly a delicacy but you shove them in your mouth all the same, appreciating the engineering behind them. They are so calorie rich that a piece the size of your palm can keep you going for hours. However, your body can’t seem to relax despite the food lining your belly- perhaps you actually overdid the caf. You should be tired right now. Staying awake for more than a day isn’t exactly the average schedule but your knee bounces uncontrollably in a frantic pattern, stirring up puffs of sand between you and the warrior.

“You need to tire.” Mando mutters, firmly placing a glove on your thigh and holding the limb down. “Stop that.”

“Sorry,” you reply, trying to freeze yourself and sit as still as he does. Mando always exists so sagely, like a monk. Completely calm when he wants to be before exploding into action, no warm-up necessary. You wonder if he had some sort of meditation training to achieve that. Is that why he sits like that in the cockpit, his back rod straight like a statue? Weirdo.

“Hey…” The palm at your thigh presses again and you suck in a sharp breath. You didn’t even realize you were twitching again. “Do I have to hold you down?” He growls.

You gulp. “Tempting. But no.” Your words come out steadier than you feel. The caf becomes all too much in that moment so you lurch to your feet, his gleaming helmet following your body as it rises jerkily. You feel far too energetic, needing to get the energy out somehow so you can finally pass out. Your idea leaves your mouth before you can truly think it over.

“Wanna fight?”

“...What?” Mando sounds truly surprised even if his body betrays nothing.

“You heard me,” you’re bouncing on the balls of your feet, swaying back and forth like a green sailor on the oceans of Mon Cala. “Let's practice our combat, I rarely get to do that.”

He’s standing before you can blink causing you to jerk back, startled by his speed. The Mandalorian poses right in front of you, too close to not be a challenge with his weight settled on one leg breezily.

“Okay. Hit me.”

What a taunting mother fu- You swing your left hand out as if aiming for the unarmored spot on his ribs, which he blocks with ease… leaving his throat open for your right fist to sharply jab.

The bounty hunter doubles over, coughing and clutching his neck with one hand.

“O-Oh shit! I’m sorry, I- I didn’t mean, let me-” You scramble with lost movements, trying and failing to help him straighten upright. It leaves you awkwardly placing your palms on his back while the crown of his helmet presses into your belly. “I, um… Mando?”

His arms wrap around your middle in a flash, pulling you tightly against his chest and throwing both your bodies to the ground. It happens so fast that you can’t even shriek before the air is knocked out of you, hitting the sand hard enough to throw it into the air around you. Gasping, you smack full force at the Mandalorian on top of you, his arms still crushing you against him while your legs lock straight together with his knees on either side. It’s sexy, but you’d really like to breathe. He lets up just barely.

“Nice punch,” he rasps, throat clearly affected by the hit. “Don’t think I’ll hold back after that though.”

“Don’t… want… you to…” You shoot back at him, sharp as you can manage while wheezing. Mandos visor raises ever so slowly and pins you, hidden eyes holding you down more effectively than his body. After a drawn out moment of this, your head spinning as you calculate your escape strategy, he crawls up your body to prop himself above you, locking your wrists in one large hand with the other presses against your chest, shoving your back into the earth. It is just enough pressure to squeeze some air out of your lungs and it is then when you know he isn’t kidding about not holding back.

You’re so fucking happy that he isn’t letting you win.

In other instances, you’d panic at the hopeless feeling of being trapped like this, by someone twice your size and clad in the galaxy’s most powerful steel. But the way he spars with you now, full force and not playing easy... it has implied respect for your skill. He knows you can fight and doesn’t spare you the opportunity to prove it.

Only a second or two has passed since he fully immobilized you and you’re still locked in your flattened position. When he motions to stand, pulling your wrists as if to drag you, you know you must make your move now or it will be too late. The only spot he has open on his body right now is… well, right between his legs. The first thing a smaller fighter learns about combating larger foes is to fight dirty and there is no reason you should hold back if Mando isn’t. Your legs had been pinned tightly together before he moved to drag you but now there is just enough room to swing a knee up and hit him between the legs.

Mando doesn’t wear a full codpiece but luckily for you, the padding on his groin isn’t enough to block your kick. A choked sound rips out of his throat and he falls to one knee, the fingers encircling your wrists loosening slightly while he struggles to fight his body’s natural pain response. You wrench one hand free and use it to grip his cowled neckline, planting your feet against his cuirass and swinging yourself into a hanging position before his grip tightens again. He's steady but you try to dig your feet in to throw him forward, hoping to twist around and land on his back with his face down. He totters for one frozen second, both your bodies on the precipice of falling but unfortunately, he manages to wrench himself backwards and land heavily on his back with you on top.

You’re both gasping and groaning at the shock of hitting the ground so hard, and for one breathless moment all you do is stare heatedly at each other on the forest floor, eyes locking through his visor and somehow you know he is grinning.

His smile mirrors on your face when you feel his hands rip at your clothes, wrenching the thin pants off of you down to your thighs forcefully enough to knock your legs together with a dull thud.

“Did I not just kick you in the dick, Mando?” You laugh, working at his belt at the same time. He palms your ass through your underwear greedily, squeezing so hard that you know finger shaped bruises will blossom there.

“You missed.”

“Must’ve hurt either way…” You mutter, finally managing to reach under his thick layers and wrap your hand around his length, producing a low growl from the man beneath you. “Maybe, it's good I missed.”

The only response you get is his hands pulling both your hands to lay on his chest plate then traveling back down your body to tug aside your underwear and grind you down onto his hips, rubbing your now bare slit against his bulge. You vaguely remember deciding against coming onto him as a form of apology, but for some reason, since he started first that all ceases to matter. It feels like a game you’ve begun to play with each other, playing with the tension between you and the Mandalorian until you find out what breaks your resolve. Maybe it started even before you entered this forest, perhaps back on Nevarro or even on the station.

You can’t tell but you don’t want to question it either.

A moan falls from your throat, your hands moving on their own volition to try and remove his belt entirely, or at least enough to pull his cock out. Mando’s glove flashes up again to circle your wrists, immobilizing them and harshly pinning you down with his vambrace lain across your back.

“You yield?” He asks, voice dripping with a sickly triumph. A chill runs down your back and you feel as if he just dunked you into the pond.

“W-What?”

“You yield… I win?”

“Wha- No!” You cry out indignantly, struggling against his iron grip. “I didn’t realize we were still sparring!”

He laughs, fully bodied and dark with some emotion that swirls deep within your core, and you can’t put your finger on it exactly but you know you’ll have to do something before you’re swept up entirely. “Oh, but we are. What shall the winner gain?” He asks, so quietly that it is almost lost in the warped modulator, barely a question and more so a crackling of static.

Fuck, you’re so wet.

You lick your lips and shakily respond. “I am not one to give up, however-”

“Then don’t. Keep fighting.”

Oh, and you love what he implies. There is no reason to argue further and less time to act, so you immediately struggle hard with the upper half of your body, wrenching your wrists to try and distract him from the way your legs are free to swing into his ribs. But Mando doesn’t fall for your feint a second time. In fact, he seems to have expected it, his leg is more than prepared to hook around the back of your knees and hold you against his body, rolling to the side to throw you underneath him.

You’re pinned on your back with nearly his full weight, unable to do more than weakly punch at what you can reach- unfortunately for you all you can reach is armor. Your cry of anger is cut short when Mando flips onto your front, your chest pressed roughly to the floor of the forest.

The helmet appears over your shoulder, his ragged breathing right by your ear. “T-This okay? You want this?” You can’t find your words to respond with the way you're held so tightly against the earth, so you nod as best you can with one cheek pressed into the ground. Mando snarls something furiously, one hand leaving your back to fumble with his pants and pull his cock out, lining himself up at your soaking entrance and running the head through your folds.

His helmet drops back down to your shoulder, the visor turning and burying itself into the line of your neck and you know that if he weren’t bound by his creed then he would be kissing dark bruises there.

“You know this means I win,” he hisses, pressing his cock to breach your tight opening ever so slightly.

“I-I know.” You whimper weakly.

With that, he fully pushes himself into you and if you weren’t so wet you know his size would be unbearably painful. Instead, the stretch is pure bliss, a slow burning sensation that has a hint of sting to it, his dominance lending to complete submission and all you can do is lay there and take it. There is still the strain you grew to know from when he allowed you to use his body on Nevarro, but something about Mando topping you encourages you to open yourself for him with more ease.

He quickly bottoms out then holds himself till, allowing you to adjust to his size. You’re writhing as much as possible under the way he crushes you to the floor, knees carving grooves in the soft sandy earth.

“Fuck,” Mando grits, teeth clenched together so hard that you swear you can hear the grinding in his jaw. “You’re so fucking tight, fuck.”

The position is hard to maintain on the soft ground, his hands keep sliding ever so slightly on either side of you forcing him to adjust every few seconds. His patience breaks after the third time this happens, a growl crackling through the helmet as he settles his hands on your lower back and hoists his body up, knees planted on either side of your thighs, crushing them together with intense pressure on your clit. Your body is locked tight, pussy clenching harder around his cock when he rises into an upright position.

You let out a genuine scream when he draws back then thrusts sharply into you, pain mixing with pleasure in a manner far more biting than on his ship, when he had let you take control entirely, never even doing so much as to thrust into you. It is almost too much for you but even while you struggle to take his cock, you don’t dare tell him to stop, nor do you want him to stop. You’re so blinded by the stretch that you don’t realize he is speaking until you miss several, distorted words.

“Fuck, why did I wait, why did I wait? I should’ve fuck-fucked you back on the station, approached you in that hangar and made myself fucking clear-” Each gritted word is accentuated by a mean thrust, his dick is so big that he has to shove himself inside of you rather than glide, breaking you open in a way that burns so sweetly. Your legs are held together, knees locked and straight, which doesn’t help how tight you are but you can’t budge at all to open yourself to Mando, his hands pressing down at your lower back so heavily that you’re short of breath.

A garbled moan is forced out of you when Mando grinds his length into your pussy as deep as he can possibly reach, hips smashing against your ass while he pulses inside of you and for a second you think he's cumming. But no- he draws himself from your depths and starts to rut his cock between your cheeks, head resting on your upper back and hands by your head.

A powerful hand wraps under your side and settles at your sternum, pulling you back against his cuirass and lifting so that you end up seated together, fitting against him without even an inch of space between your bodies. His hand lifts your hips, other appendage snaking around to position his cock back at your entrance before allowing gravity to do the work, your legs spreading to rest on either side of his thighs as you sink down on him to the hilt.

Once settled, Mando starts to work you on his cock, lifting you like you weigh no more than a pebble then letting go. The head of his cock slams full force into your pussy with the weight of your entire body, each brutal pounding sending sparks of pleasure up your spine. Lungs free and no longer crushed to the floor, you’re unable to stay quiet, broken sobs and moans puffing from gritted teeth as he takes what he denied himself on his ship, the memory a thousand miles away as your processing center is fucked stupid.

You can’t say how long this goes on for, maybe minutes, maybe hours, but the next thing you know is that your cheek is back on the sand, burning from the way it chaffs against the floor with each rhythmic thrust that claps against your thighs. You’re don’t even know if you’ve cum yet but it doesn’t matter, not with the way he is fucking the life out of you here in the wilderness. Mando is still talking, still uttering filth and praise through the helmet and all you can think about is how badly you want to hear his real voice speaking that way to you, you’re so close to asking him to take it off but you can’t find the words, you can’t think, you can’t-

Abruptly, he grinds to a halt at the deepest point in your body then pulls himself free, pushing your shirt up lighting fast before cumming across your back with a choked exclamation. You’re both still for a second before your knees collapse, landing flat on your belly and gasping desperately. There is a shuffling noise behind you, accompanied with heavy breaths from the bounty hunter. It sounds like he’s rummaging through something then, yeah- your train of thought is confirmed when a wet cloth wipes his pleasure from your skin, gently trailing along your spine and ass.

You reach behind you and hold his wrist, feeling the fluttering pulse there. “I’ll win next time…” You whisper, drawing his hand along the soreness on your bottom, the area he bruised, you suspect. He laughs- or pants you can’t really tell, but either way his touch becomes more gentle on your body, smoothing out the tense muscles and cleaning you up. Today's travels with the man have suddenly caught up to you and you might pass out right here, half clothed and dirty.

“Come on, get up. Don’t sleep here.” Mando firmly states, helping you up and guiding you across the clearing after you pull your leggings up from where they gathered at your ankle. You’re trembling like a leaf, fragile in your spent state but glowing all the same. Mando sets you down on a log and brings you a canteen of water which you gulp down thankfully. He chuckles. “Wait up or I’ll have to drink from the spring.”

That gives you pause, reminding you of something he said while you lay beneath him. You’re slightly nervous to ask but you do it anyway, warm and satisfied on your perch while he cares for you. “You.. When you were, um- fucking me. Well, you said something about how you shouldn’t have waited. Does that mean what I think it means?”

He nods, “I noticed you for other reasons too, burc’ya.”

“Maybe you should’ve fucked me back then.” Taking another gulp then handing the canteen back, you stretch then slide down to sit on the ground with him, back against the log. “You said that word before, ber-borshaw?”

“Burc’ya.”He corrects,“It means friend in Mando’a.”

“Oh.”You cheeks heat, feeling silly and rude for not recognizing the use of his people’s tongue, also noting that he used it to refer to you twice now, endearingly. It is an honor, one that makes you nervous. You feel like you should apologize, somehow. “Y-You speak Mando’a? I’ve never heard you use it before.”

Mando settles against the log, leaning his broad shoulders to rest against the wood near your side. A few moments pass before he responds, “I chose to not use it around the others. Didn’t trust them.”

“Oh, so you trust me?” You giggle, tapping the side of his helmet with your elbow. Questions burn within you and you may as well ask now, in the quiet afterglow of sex where everything is warm and slow. “Why didn’t you trust them if you started the company with Ran? How am I any different?”

“You aren’t ruthless,” he surprises you by answering immediately, and you can’t decide whether you're insulted or not before he continues. “Ruthless and cruel is all that group ended up being, and it didn’t start out that way. We weren’t just mercenaries, we had a code. In the early days, attacking a slave ship would’ve been out of the question. Ran wasn’t always so full of greed.”

Silence falls after he speaks, letting you mull over his explanation for a while while the waterfall rumbles in the background. Really, his perspective confuses you when you think back on your actions as a mercenary. Desperate to climb the ranks, to make a name for yourself, to earn credits and reputation. You suppose you conducted yourself with empathy, avoiding selection for hits that targeted innocent people if you could help it. You never had much choice in the area but it seems your actions spoke louder than realized. So much energy spent to avoid seeming weak and you never considered that your aversion doubled as strength.

“Friend…” You whisper, not of your own accord. The word floats on your tongue, a specter within your vocabulary. In your adulthood you’ve had allies, you’ve had teammates, you’ve had acquaintances, but to have a friend… it terrifies you as much as it warms your heart. You considered yourself partnered professionally with the Mandalorian and didn’t dare to consider yourself lovers, no matter how much you privately hoped. But a friend is a luxury you didn’t hold close, mainly out of fear. You lost too many as a child. For a faceless man he manages to strike areas that are quite intimate.

You decide that you’ll enjoy being his friend, a bit surprised that you aren’t too hurt by what is essentially a romantic rejection of the crush you held for so long. Probably because this is real , solid and built within reality instead of the silly fantasies you built prior.

This is better than lovers, you tell yourself, the slight ache in your heart melting into the background of your desires, behind lock and key for another world.

“I’ll take ‘friend’, Mando.” You grin, extending a hand to him cheekily. He stares for a second before taking it and shaking, helmet tilting in a respectful nod.

His next words send an unexpected pang throughout your chest, taking all the careful walls you worked hard to set up and throwing them into a blazing inferno.

“Let’s see where it goes.”

Fuck.

----------------

Leather boots prance lightly through thick branches high in the trees, footfalls landing silently with all the grace of an athlete. Through the delicate glasses perched on the pursuers nose, a red glow blooms on the shadowy floor of the swamp, two sets of footprints lighting up to reveal a steady path made by the travelers. A musical giggle bubbles out of the darkly dressed woman as she pulls a small holo-watch from her bag and straps it onto her wrist, pale light mixing with her lavender skin, transforming it into a sickly grey.

Xi’an claps a hand over her mouth to prevent her cackle from ringing through the trees as her plan takes form.

***

TAG LIST (working on it slowly, message if you want)

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dizzydancingdreamer · 4 years

Text

Best Friend Things | Kol Mikaelson

Hey Lovelies, surprise, I'm back! I missed you all so much! Thank you to those special people who checked up on me faithfully! You know who you are and I hope i can repay that kindness one day! Y'all are honestly amazing!! I hope you all like this, it's more of a drabble so I am sorry for that but I needed to submit something :) All the best loves, I hope to see you soon again!

Description: Honestly just a Drabble about Y/n and Kol becoming best friends with a small storyline about him protecting her from a bad home life, nothing too bad, sorry for the weak description LOL

Pairing: Kol Mikaelson x Fem!Reader

Warnings: mentions of abuse, hospital, completely SFW though (unfortunately)

Word count: 3526

Tags: FLUFF, a lil angst but not much SO MUCH FLUFF

(Pics aren't mine but the mood board is <3)

You don’t know how you and Kol became best friends, it sort of just happened. You were in high school when you first met him. He was a year above you, the senior to your junior. Not to mention the captain of the football team. He was everything you weren’t. Popular, athletic, known. You were just a shy girl with a paintbrush who flinched a little too much. The first time he spoke to you, you almost fainted.

You wipe the sweat from your forehead, refusing to move from the autumn heat until your sketches are finished. It’s the first week of school and the football team has been practicing every afternoon. It’s perfect for life drawing. Jogging, stretching, catching, tackling. It’s the best practice, especially if you plan on getting into school and as far away from Louisiana as possible.

Your hands tremble, the charcoal between your fingers stuttering over the page. You sigh, ready to rip the page out and start over.

“No, keep it, love,” your hand jerks again, along with the rest of your body, at the unfamiliar voice, “I like the way it looks. It’s unique.”

His accent is thick and enchanting, pulling your eyes from the drawing to the boy standing above you. Kol Mikaelson. Your eyes widen and your breath catches in your throat. Your cheeks flush but it’s thankfully hidden with the summer sun. He’s not looking at you, anyway, his eyes glued to your sketch pad. It's filled with football players which wasn’t weird until now.

You run a still shaking hand through your hair, pushing it out of your sticky face, “I, ah, thank you. I think.”

You pull the sleeves of your jacket further down your arms, trying to hide the tremors. His eyes are now on you, skimming over your curled form. You can feel his eyes land on your face but you don’t meet them with your own. Your heart picks up when he sits down next to you, staying a couple feet away, but still pretty close. You sit as still as you can, trying desperately not to fidget. For a guy who’s been running in the heat for a couple hours he still smells really good. Like pine trees and liquorice. Who even smells like that?

“Aren’t you warm in that hoodie?” His question seems harmless but it makes you freeze up even more.

You look over your shoulder, spotting a familiar black truck in the parking lot, mumbling, “I’m fine.”

You close your sketchbook, tucking it into your tote bag along with your pencils and charcoal. You stand up, stretching your legs slightly, stiff from sitting on the grass for the past two hours. You can feel the indents in your legs and know for certain there are green stains on your bottom. You don’t check though, not with Kol next to you. You go to walk away but a hand on your shoulder stops you.

The breath leaves your lungs as he presses unknowingly on a bite carefully tucked under your shirt, “are you sure, love?”

It’s all you can do to not look at the truck again, staring at the ground, doing your best not to wince at his fingers, “I, uh, yeah. It’s fine.”

“It’s fine?” His finger draws your chin up to look into his eyes, which are delightfully carmel and burning with questions.

“I mean I’m fine.”

You can’t tell if you're trying to convince Kol or yourself. Both, maybe. It doesn’t matter though. You don’t plan on ever speaking to him again. You pull your face from his grasp, stifling another groan when you haul your tote bag onto your shoulder, heading towards the parking lot. You already know your step dad is in that truck, tapping his hand impatiently on the steering wheel, watching your every move. You can feel Kol’s eyes like laser beams on your back.

“See you tomorrow then, love?”

You don’t answer, you just keep walking.

The second time you saw him, he didn't let you go as easily. A week had passed from your first encounter on the football team. You hadn’t realized yet but he had followed you home that night. He knew something was wrong, he saw every flinch, heard every breath. Call it intuition. Call it being a vampire. Call it whatever you want, that was just Kol. And with Kol comes his frustrating tendency to never let things go. He had seen it all, and he was furious.

You reach up, standing on your tiptoes to get your books from the top shelf of your locker, wincing at the action. When you had put your things there for the weekend, you hadn't expected to walk into school the following Monday with bruised ribs. Your stomach pulses with pain, the kind that’s white hot and makes you want to throw up. You have to roll back onto the balls of your feet to avoid collapsing. Crap.

You stare at the books longingly, knowing you only have a few minutes until first period starts. It will only take a second to grab them, right? You can do it. You’ll be fine. You have to be fine. It’s fine.

You reach up again, your shirt lifting with your movements. When the breeze that accompanies the busy hallway skims your back, the wind is knocked from your lungs. It feels like someone kicked you all over again. You power through it though. You need those books. They’re just a little further. The more you move your arms, the more your shirt raises. There's more wind, followed by the same burning sensation. You’re going to throw up.

You fall back on flat feet again, bumping into something hard. Probably another locker. The locker’s hands grip the bottom of your shirt. Definately not a locker. You spin around so fast you can’t help the groan that slips out, your back screaming at you from all the activity. You feel tears threatening to spill. Everything hurts.

You’re greeted by none other than Kol Mikaelson, whose eyes are still, glued to a spot just in front of you. The spot where your back had just been. His hands are still balled into fists, like he’s still holding your shirt. He looks confused. No, scratch that, he looks angry. When he finally looks at you his eyes are pitch black. You take a step back out of instinct, the cold metal of your locker searing into your back through the thin fabric of your tee.

“I, ah, Kol,” your eyes dart around the hallway, checking to see if anyone else was watching, only to find it completely empty, “what’s, uh, what’s up?”

He cuts right to the chase, “what’s on your back?”

Your eyes widen automatically at his question. He can’t know. Right? No of course not. Unless he saw. But there's no way. He moves closer to you, his arm landing right beside your head with a slight bang. You flinch. He’s caging you in slightly, sending your heart into overdrive. Your lungs constrict. His eyes are burning into yours. He’s pissed and you’re not sure why. You can’t breathe.

“What do you mean?” Of course you dodge the question, that’s what you’re supposed to do.

He runs his other hand through his hair, tugging at the roots, “love, don’t play games with me you will not win.”

Your mouth goes dry, your voice is too quiet, “what do you want from me?”

He closes his eyes, squeezing the fist that’s still beside your head. You’re not sure what to do. You could run but you would probably only get a few feet before he’d catch you. Would he catch you? Would he even run after you? No, he doesn’t care. Then again, he’s here. He’s pushing you for something. You’re not sure if you’re ready to find out what.

When he opens his eyes again he looks directly into yours, his pupils dilating, “I want you to show me your back. Now, love.”

“I’m going to show you my back,” you know you’re the one speaking but it’s almost like you’re listening to a recording of yourself.

It feels like your body turns on its own accord, one minute you're facing him and the next you're staring at the locker, in a trance. You don’t remember wanting to lift your shirt up but you do it anyway, exposing your back to Kol Mikaelson. You feel the tears start to fall. You want to run, now, not just debate running, but you can’t, you’re stuck. It’s like your feet are glue to the floor.

“Fucking hell,” Kols words are strangled, “what are they doing to you.”

He touches your back lightly, no doubt skimming the blackened marks on your rib cage. His fingers sting and you can’t help but hiss. You lean away from his touch still holding your shirt in place. You can feel yourself trembling but you start to space out.

Kol’s finger tilts your head to meet his eyes once more, “you can put your shirt back, love. Thank you.”

With those simple words you pull your shirt down, whipping around to face him. You look like a deer caught in headlights, waiting for an impact. Time feels frozen still. Kol reaches to touch your face, his eyes fading back to their usual cola colour. Time unfreezes. And you run like hell.

After that day you had started to see Kol more and more. Staring at you from across the cafeteria, shooting pool in town at the local pub, jogging on the sidewalk in your neighbourhood. Wherever you were, there he was. Seeing him became a normal part of your day but you never spoke to him, not after that day at your locker. You wouldn’t talk to him for another three weeks after that day.

When you open your eyes it’s to the sound of machines beeping. There’s a sanitary tinge of bleach and lemons in the air. Your bed is stiff, the room dim. Your arm burns with a kind of deep itch you’ve never felt before. When you go to scratch it, you find a tube and a needle at the source. That’s when it hits you, you’re at the hospital.

Your heartbeat picks up, the machine beeping faster with it. A lady dressed in scrubs sprints into your room but before she can touch you there’s a hand on your face and then one on your neck, against your pulse point. When you look up you’re greeted by someone that you’re not actually that surprised to see; Kol Mikaelson.

“Kol, what-,” you want to continue talking but your throat burns, like you’re swallowing glass with every syllable.

You end up coughing up a storm, something the nurse must have anticipated because she hands you a glass of water. Her hair is a pretty chestnut colour, pulled into a long ponytail. She has a warm smile on her face.

She picks up the chart at the end of your bed, looking at it while she speaks, “you’re going to want to go easy on that throat for a while, sugar plum. You had quite the little accident. You should feel lucky your boyfriend here found you when he did or you would be in a much worse condition.”

Her voice is like honey, slow and sweet. Every word she says brings you closer to calming down. Until she says boyfriend. As soon as she says that word the heart monitor goes wild. He is not your boyfriend. Yes, he is cute, more so than the average boy. Alright Kol is gorgeous, but that’s not the point. Why does she think Kol is your boyfriend?

You look to Kol for the first time since meeting him for help, hoping he can understand your confused expression.

He nods and looks at the nurse with a smile on his face that doesn't quite reach his eyes, “Sarah, darling, do you mind giving us a moment? I think she needs a second to catch her breath.”

She looks like she’s about to protest but he leans a fraction closer and she smiles back, walking out of the room without another word. Your chest falls for a moment when he calls her darling and you’re not sure why. Kol means nothing to you. Well, that’s not true. You’ve grown fond of seeing him around, but it’s nothing that would warrant being jealous, if that’s what this is.

When she closes the door, Kol turns back to you. That’s when you notice his eyes, and the deep purple circles underneath then. Your breath catches in your sore throat. How long has he been here? How long have you been here?

What happened? The heart monitor starts it’s assault on your ears again.

“Love, listen to me,” he pulls the chair he must have been sitting in next to your bed, “if you want me to tell you what happened then you’re going to have to calm down, alright?”

“Ok,” you whisper back, trying to push past the fire in your lungs.

He picks your hand up with his own and you don’t protest, letting yourself be comfortable with this small touch. There’s a small smile on his face when you glance up at him. He rubs small circles near your wrist, avoiding the IV taped on the back of your hand. He looks lost in thought, his carmel eyes somewhere far away.

“Kol,” his name feels funny in your mouth, like you’re not worthy of it, “please talk.”

Just those few words are torture, something that desn’t go unnoticed by him, “shhhh, don’t talk, ok? I’ll explain everything. But I need to ask you something, and you need to tell me the truth. I can’t help you if you don’t tell me the truth. Please, love.”

It takes everything in you to keep your heart from spiking. You could lie and say you have absolutely no idea what he wants to ask you but that’s a lie. You’re too tired to lie, too tired to hide, and much too tired to run. You just sigh and nod, letting him have his way.

“Do you know that your step-dad is a vampire?”

Oh. So that’s what he chose. That wouldn’t have been your question, but you let him have it. The short answer is yes. Yes, you do know that your step-dad is a vampire. You had figured it out pretty quickly the first time he cornered you in the kitchen after moving in and sunk his teeth into your neck. The longer answer, to a harder question, is no, your mother doesn’t know. And it has to stay that way.

Instead of saying that, though, you just nod your head. Kol’s hand tightens around yours. You don’t miss the way he sighs. He doesn't sound sad though, instead there’s relief on his face. You give him a pleading look.

“Well, love, it seems like your step-dad had been trying to kill you. I’m not sure exactly how or why. Well, that’s a lie actually. I know how. He was draining you of blood. I do not know why though. Why he would want to hurt you.”

The heart monitor picks up yet again and Kol gives you a funny look that you smile softly at. His eyes widen when he sees it, a small smile spreading over his face as well. The heart monitor slows easily.

“I’m just glad I was jogging when he attacked you. I heard you scream. I'm sorry, I kind of broke your door,” he gives you a shy grin, like that's what matters right now, “when I got to you I thought you were dead. There was so much blood, love. I don’t know where your step-dad went. I just wanted to get you here.”

Your cheeks warm at his words. He was the one who brought you here, the one who found you on the brink of death. He must think you’re such a handful. You bite your lip, looking up at him. You hold back tears, ones you didn't know were welling up in your eyes, and breathe deeply. Of course he notices them.

He draws your hand closer to him as Sarah walks back into the room, “what’s wrong love?”

He brings your hand to his lips, gently kissing your knuckles. Your mouth falls open. The heart monitor starts screaming.

He looks around the room and then at Sarah, his eyes fiery and his tone demanding, “what the hell is going on?”

Sarah only smiles, shaking her head lightly, “her heart skipped a beat, hun.”

From that moment the two of you were inseparable. You weren't fully comfortable with him yet but that didn't bother him. Well, not often at least. Sometimes when you flinched, though, his heart squeezed a little bit more than it should have. He knew it wasn't him that you were scared of. That it would just take time. You didn’t know it then, but that was one thing that Kol had plenty of; time.

The glass is icy in your fingertips but the contents make it all worth it. You barely suppress a moan at the strawberry goodness slipping down your throat. You don’t notice the way Kol’s eyes darken from across the booth.

“How is it that you’ve never had a strawberry milkshake?”

The two of you are sat in a diner that’s not special to either of you. It’s just another burger joint. The booths are apple red and faded but comfortable. Music trickles from a retro looking jukebox in the corner. Waitresses flow by in pastel uniforms. It's just the right amount of busy. Kol picked well.

Your eyes close as you take another sip, revelling in the sweetness, “I don’t get to go out that much, what can I say?”

You open your eyes to a stone faced Kol, his shoulders tight and his jaw clenched. There’s a heaviness to the atmosphere but that’s nothing new. Since the hospital you’ve both silently agreed to ignore it. Maybe that’s not the best plan but the first time he tried to talk with you about it you shut down. Not own your own accord, you wanted to tell Kol about it, you just couldn't. It was like you lips were sealed shut. Kol had left it after that.

“Well, then, I guess it’s up to me to show you the ropes then, love,” he leans his face in close to yours, his woodsy scent fogging your mind and lighting your body on fire.

You close your eyes once more, breathing in as much of the dark haired boy as you can. When you re-open them you catch Kol sneaking a sip from your milkshake. His glass now empty and pushed to the side.

You slap his arm gently, gasping with mock anger, “that’s not nice!”

He laughs abruptly, some of the strawberry shake landing on his lips instead of in his mouth. Without thinking you reach a hand to his face, wiping the melted liquid off his buttery soft lip. His chocolate eyes lock on yours, his pupils blown wider than you’ve ever seen. Your heart pounds so loudly in your chest you’re almost certain he can hear it. But that’s impossible, right?

It only takes a few seconds for your brain to catch up with your actions at which your cheeks flush on cue. You go to pull your hand back but he grabs it before you can, his fingers wrapping gently around your wrist. He draws your fingers, the ones coated in syrup and ice cream, to his mouth. His tongue swirls around them and you have to bite back a moan. You can honestly say that nothing has ever felt as exquisite as Kol’s mouth. Not that you have much experience with it. You can’t deny that you wish you had more.

“Kol,” your voice is barely there and breathy, “what are you doing?”

His eyes never leave your own, piercing you as he continues to lazily lick off the ice cream that, in all honestly, is definitely gone by now. A foreign kind of heat pools in the pit of your stomach when he gently bites down on your fingertips. You can’t stop the sigh that falls from your lips. Your whole body is singing from such a simple touch.

He takes his time pulling your hand from his mouth, releasing your digits with a pop, “only making sure you aren’t sticky, love. We wouldn't want that, now would we?”

He doesn't return your hand to his mouth but he doesn't let go of it either. He just laces his fingers through yours in the middle of the table, your heartbeat still echoing through the diner.

When you look across the table again your heart flutters. You see a popular, football star, a fierce protector, one of the most caring people you've ever met. When you look across the table you see your best friend.

And maybe more but that’s for another day and another diner.

#the originals #the vampire diaries #tvd #to #kol mikaelson #kol mikaelson x reader #Kol Mikaelson Imagine #The Originals Imagine #The Vampire Diaries Imagine

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kafka-ish · 4 years

Text

stuck between a rock and a hard place | s.u.

after one fateful night, stan uris finds himself stuck between a rock and a hard place when him and his friend like the same girl.

word count: 5,428

warnings/included: pining, love triangle, fem!reader

request: (from anonymous) “could you write a bill denbrough, reader, and stanley uris love triangle? maybe where they’re always trying to one up each other for her attention? ty”

“I don’t get what you see in her.” Stan was eyeing y/n from across the cafeteria while Bill droned on for what must have been the fourth time that week about how amazing she was.

“Wuh-well, you wouldn’t under-st-hand.” Bill shook his head. He wasn’t about to try to convince his friend how amazing she made him feel. It was just how he felt.

“Yeah, I wouldn’t get it.” Stan squinted at the girl’s figure. Sure, she was pretty, but looks aren’t everything. “And I don’t get why you insist on sending her things anonymously.”

“If yo-you liked some-someone, wuh-wuh-wouldn’t you want t-to sh-show them?”

Stan’s gaze which was previously fixed on y/n switched to Bill. He gave him a glare because he didn’t understand. “If I liked someone, I would tell them,” he scoffed.

Bill could see where Stan was coming from. The only issue was that he was just too nervous to tell y/n, let alone talk to her. The two shared chemistry and a study hall period together but Bill still hadn’t found an excuse to talk to her. He also hadn’t found a way around his stutter. He wanted his moment with her to be perfect; no stutter, no embarrassment; just the two of them sharing a mutual conversation about whatever… and her finally realizing he’s the perfect match.

He shrugged at Stan’s remark. So, what if his friend didn’t understand? That only meant less competition.

“Hey guys!” Beverly drew both boys’ attention away from Bill’s crush. “There’s a party tonight. Whatd’ya say we all go together?”

“Count me the fuck in!” Richie was the first to reply, enthusiastically at that.

“I have a test tomorrow.” If Stan had a nickel for every time the Losers wanted to do something irrational, he’d be loaded.

“All the more reason to get drunk off your ass.” Richie Tozier had a grin on his face that there was no use wiping off.

And if Stan had a nickel for every time the Losers had convinced him into doing something stupid, he’d be stupid loaded.

The party was at who-knows-where’s house serving who-knows-what.

“Stanny! Stan the Man!” It was Richie Tozier, the convincer himself. He slurred Stan’s name and tripped his way over to the corner Stan was huddled in. “Yougottatrythis.” Richie’s words were incoherent and if he hadn’t been friends with Stan for so long, or were shoving a red solo cup full of something Stan didn’t want to know was in, Stan may have never guessed what his friend was trying to say.

“No thanks—”

“C’monnn.” Groan. “Don’t act like you’re above us, just cos yer sober.” Richie gave him a mopey look that Stan was sure was just another way to mock him.

‘Stan the Man’ did eventually take the cup. Not because he wanted to, but because of the way Richie was jerking it so much, he was afraid some of the contents may spill on his shirt, which he just pressed. Curiously, he brought the plastic cup closer to his nose so he could examine the contents inside better.

His nose twitched at the scent.

It reeked of stale beer, vodka, and was that someone’s mom’s wine?

And although the thought of drinking alcohol before an important day was tempting… Stan knew better. Making an appearance at a lame party rather than studying would be the worst of his crimes tonight. He held the cup away from his face, as far as possible, and started watching the morons around him.

They were drunk to their stomachs; happily grinding against each other to the beat of the music that blasted on the radio. They wouldn’t remember this night if they tried.

Stan, however, would remember. He would remember every detail of this boring party, where no one talked to him; where there’d be throw up in the pool to clean out the next day; where the cops would show up in an hour because the houses next door called in complaints. And Stan would be able to pass his Algebra test with ease the next day while everyone else would be using what was left of their braincells to remember how to factor an imaginary number.

“Hey!” Oh god. It was y/n. What was she doing next to him? The two barely knew each other. In fact, if Bill hadn’t taken a liking to her, or if Stan weren’t friends with Bill, he doubted he’d even know of her existence.

“Hi…” Stan looked skeptically at the girl who was practically throwing herself at him. “Do you need something?”

y/n only hummed in response. She was swaying to the song playing in the background, but her movements didn’t match the beat at all, and she looked just as wasted as the rest of the room.

“Do you speak English?” Stan’s eyebrows furrowed. He leaned down to meet her height. His eyes widened with surprise when she, once again didn’t reply, but wrapped her arm around his neck. Her touch was velvet and she smelled like roses.

Until she opened her mouth.

The potent stench of that cheap alcohol potion, Stan had briefly been intrigued by, hit his nose. He wanted so desperately to get away from her—pass her on to Bill, or something. But she placed a sloppy kiss on his lips just in time.

He’d been embarrassed to admit that was his first kiss.

You were supposed to have your first kiss with your girlfriend, or the girl next door, or best friend. Not with a stranger at some raunchy house party you were dragged to by your idiot friends. And certainly not with the girl your friend liked. But here Stan was, breaking all the rules.

There was something encapsulating about her cherry lip gloss which was smeared from when she kissed him and the way she stumbled terribly because of her inebriated state. Maybe Stan did understand.

y/n’s arm was still wrapped around his neck and her lips were dangerously close to his. He thought she was about to go in for another kiss until words made their way from her lips.

“Take me home?” Stan couldn’t believe what he was hearing. This girl who he’d never met before was taking a chance on a total stranger to take her home, trusting that he wouldn’t kidnap or murder her.

“I don’t even know you.” Stan tried his best to look bored when, in reality, this offer was tempting.

“Pleaseeee.” She was now clinging to him for dear life. “I think all my friends left me.” Her pouty expression was the final catalyst to Stan’s reaction.

“In that case… How could I say no?” It was as if his whole personality flipped a switch. His once stone cold and albeit, annoyed, features washed away, revealing a kindhearted guy only the Losers really got a chance to see.

A drunken giggle left her lips and y/n’s arm removed itself from Stan’s neck only to find itself tightly coiled around his arm. This was y/n’s signal for Stan to start making his way through the crowd in order to search for the front door. A task the boy already knew would be horrible.

He started awkwardly shifting and contorting himself just so he wouldn’t have to feel the sweaty bodies surrounding him. He also made sure not to lose y/n, but that task served pretty much impossible due to how fixed her grasp on his arm was.

It didn’t take long for Stan to finally reach the front door (which was somehow trashed). Thank god his shoes, and none of the other items on his being, for that matter, had come into contact with sticky liquid or bodily fluids. But the doorknob was covered in a substance that made Stan visibly cringe when he touched it.

“God, what do people do here.” y/n, still lazily hanging on was about to open her mouth. “I don’t want to know,” Stan said, quickly, looking at her from the corner of his eye.

A laugh so pleasant it made puppies look like beasts fell from y/n’s perfect lips. The longer Stan spent with this girl, the more he found to like about her.

A crisp breeze blew its way to the two of them and Stan wondered how it was this cold already when just last week it reached the seventies. The transition from summer to fall always bewildered him, no matter how many times he’d experience it.

“How far did you park?” She grew impatient and Stan couldn’t blame her. If he were in her shoes, he wouldn’t even want to stand. Fortunately, he could see the hood of his car peeking out from behind a someone’s Ford.

“Only a few more steps.” Stan reassured. His pace picked up and before another complaint could slip out of y/n’s mouth. “Oh, look at that, we’re already here.” He opened the door for her, but she didn’t budge. “Are you… gonna get in?” Stan waited rather impatiently for the girl who was lollygagging in front of the open door.

Wordlessly, she turned to face him and held her arms open and Stan understood.

Even though he sighed, Stan still picked her up and placed her gently in the passenger seat of his car.

“Such a gentleman,” she mumbled into his neck before he parted from her. Stan couldn’t help but smile at the remark.

It took awhile for him to find her address. y/n was too out of it to form any coherent sentence besides “you must be the coolest guy ev-ur” and what happened to be the lyrics to Highway to Hell. But after (uncomfortably and frantically) rifling through her purse, after asking where her house was and y/n only pointing to inside her bag, Stan had found the tag of the purse marked with her address in pink sharpie also signed with a heart.

Neither said much on the drive there. Stan was inexperienced with talking to drunk girls, besides Bev, and y/n looked like she was inexperienced with talking. Nonetheless, he tried to make the best of it. He turned on the radio to his favorite station and let the songs carry him through the night.

“Thanks—thank you.” y/n said once Stan had arrived at her place. He walked her up to the porch; her figure stabilized by his arms. Her eyes burned holes through his under the moonlight and Stan was rendered speechless. “I don’t know what I would’ve done without you.” She started to sway again like she did at the party, but there was no music to dance to.

“You’re welcome.” Stan had finally mustered the courage to say, but he scolded himself internally for how lame he probably sounded.

“Well… goodnight.” y/n giggled drunkenly before her lips grazed his left cheek softly. It blossomed pink once she touched him. Could it even be considered a touch? It was so light, almost feather-like, and if Stan weren’t watching her like a hawk, he would have missed it.

The door shut with a slam and he cursed in his head for doing this to Bill and he cursed in his head the next day when his mind drew a blank on his functions test.

This was just great.

He scratched his head, as if that would somehow release the numerical knowledge he needed in order to at least get a sixty percent. Alas, it did nothing but relieve the itching on his dry scalp.

He silently racked his brain, yet nothing came. The only thing that came to mind were the events of last night. Are you kidding?

The bell rung.

Stan looked down at his paper only to find his name written neatly and compactly on the line reserved for it in dark lead and a measly ten questions out of the twenty answered. He pressed his lips together so hard, he thought they may bruise. Everyone else was already out the door, except for the slower kids in the back who took their sweet time.

“Uris.” The hairs on Stan’s arm stood to attention when he heard his name being called. He looked around to find the classroom was empty except for him and Mr. Burgess.

“Yes?” Stan looked up to the authority figure and he was wondering if he should pathetically ask for extra time on his test during another period or if he should turn it in as is.

“Don’t you have another class to get to?” Mr. Burgess was patient, but there would be another round of students filing in any minute now.

“Yeah.” Stan stood up and gathered his things. He was hasty but took enough time to put each item in their designated place. “I didn’t get a chance to finish.” Stan was aware third period was now replacing the empty seats and he lowered his voice.

“I see…” Mr. Burgess eyed the paper, both front and back, and then set it on a stack of papers from Stan’s class. “You can finish tomorrow. Either come in early or stay late.”

And at that, Stan was on his merry way to Mrs. Baker’s World Civilization class- or would be. He stopped dead in his tracks when his path crossed y/n’s, a detail he never noticed. Her hands were covering her face to hide the blush that quickly raced to the apples of her cheeks. She was admiring something in her locker, but he couldn’t tell what. One of her girlfriends was standing with her, sharing the same giggles and same look of awe in her eyes.

Stan soon found out her blush was the work of Bill Denbrough’s when the Losers met up at lunch. They were sitting together like they always did, too engrossed in conversation to worry about what the lunch ladies’ specialty was today.

“I h-h-hope y/n luh-likes wh-what I g-guh-gave her,” Bill said all too suddenly.

“I’m sure she will,” Beverly reassured.

“What’d you get her.” It was hard for Stan to contain the jealousy that leaked from his words and instead of a question it sounded more like a demand.

“W-wuh-well usually I ju-just stick a skuh-skuh-sk-hetch in there or-or flow-flowers or something st-stupid an-and sm-small.” Bill cleared his throat as if that would rid him of his speech impediment. “Bu-but thi-this t-t-time I told her-”

“Did’ya sign your name?” Richie inquired. Usually he wouldn’t be interested in this sort of sappy stuff, but he was eager to see the development between Bill and his crush—rather, if Bill would ever grow the balls to reveal himself as y/n’s admirer.

Bill swallowed and kept silent.

“So, no.” Stan rolled his eyes. “I’m not surprised.”

Bill gave his friend a skeptical look. He was confused. While Stan was usually the most passive aggressive of the group, he was never this… insolent. But he shrugged off the countless possibilities for why Stan was acting this way.

“Are you ever gonna tell her?” Richie seemed about just as annoyed as Stan was.

“Wh-when the t-t-time’s ruh-ruh-right.” Bill looked to both Stan and Richie sternly, but the two knew better than that. When the time’s right.

Yeah right.

Stan thought back to the scene at y/n’s locker from earlier. The morally sound thing to do would be to tell Bill. Tell Bill how y/n and her friend gushed at the sight of what was inside of her locker. Tell him how y/n’s knees were practically weak while she hid her face furiously with the sleeve of her shirt.

But nothing came out of his mouth. In fact, his mouth never opened. Stan stayed quiet for the last fifteen minutes that the Losers all had together. He stayed quiet as he stared at his salad and thought of y/n.

The y/n who was in an inappropriate state when he took her home. The y/n who was his first kiss. The y/n who was Bill’s crush.

Stan sat on this fact for a while.

He was at his desk, his eyebrows furrowed, and nose scrunched, while thinking this ridiculous inner conflict over. Something in his gut told Stan that Bill was never going to tell y/n how he felt. Bill Denbrough was not someone you’d label a coward, but god, when it came to girls, he was a pussy. On the other hand, there was something else that twisted his insides in another manner, telling Stan even if Bill never told y/n how he felt, that doesn’t mean he should swoop in either.

Stanley Uris was in a pickle.

His lips, once again, pressed against each other tightly, so tight he could feel bone. The mental wheels in his mind were turning, but no matter how far they spun, he still reached no conclusion.

An hour had passed when Stan finally looked at the analog clock that stood on the edge of his desk.

“If I tied a noose around my neck, I bet I’d come to a better conclusion,” Stan said darkly under his breath. He was still staring at the clock. It was getting late, but Richie Tozier would say that’s just when the fun’s starting.

Personally, Stan liked getting a head start on his bedtime routine. The other Losers made fun of him for it, but it kept him sane. He stretched, still sitting down and a yawn left his mouth. He padded his way to the bathroom just across the hall so he could brush his teeth and then change.

When his head full of curls hit his wrinkle free pillowcase and his arms pulled over his comforter to his chest, he assumed all thoughts of y/n would be gone. He would go to sleep, leaving the unconscious to take over his mind and body and he would forget.

He would forget the flowery scent that lingered on his shirt that night because she pressed herself so close to him. He would forget the feeling of her fingers that swept against him in the gentlest way and he would forget how he ever longed to feel them against the rest of him. He would forget that she kissed him—twice. When he would wake, he would have no recollection of that night and for all he knew, he’d never been kissed.

But Stan woke up to the burning want—no. The burning need to tell y/n how he felt. He knew he’d only known her for a fleeting moment, and it was absurd to catch feelings for someone you barely knew. But telling her would be the only way to ease the funny feeling in Stan’s stomach which seemed to be in knots lately.

At least that’s what Stan told himself as he walked up to y/n’s locker during the five-minute passing period they had between second and third period.

Luckily, y/n was there, and he wasn’t just about to confess to a slab of metal. She was chatting up the same friend from yesterday and the same glow lit up her eyes as she was explaining something to her.

“Isn’t it so thoughtful?” Stars replaced her pupils and she ran her fingers over the inked piece of parchment that was slipped into her locker from today.

“There’s no name,” her friend deadpanned. She, too, was looking at the note with y/n. But instead of fawning over the piece of work, she stared unimpressed—bored, almost.

“So?” y/n huffed. “It’s the thought that counts.”

“I think it would count more if you knew who it was from.” Stan wanted to smirk and tell Bill I told you so as he overheard their conversation.

“Yeah but—” y/n’s friend was waiting for her to finish but she stopped once she recognized the boy in front of them. “Hi!” She smiled at Stan and it was now his turn to say something.

“Hello.” He looked between y/n and her friend to which her friend then spoke up.

“I guess I’ll be going now.” And then three became two.

“What’s up?” y/n was oddly cheery considering it was eleven a.m. on a school day.

Where should I start?

Stan looked to her awkwardly and scratched his shoulder. He then noticed the piece of paper that most likely Bill had slipped in her locker that morning. It was a landscape drawing of Main Street, but there was a hidden message written within the building signs. Stan couldn’t quite make out what the message said, but he was sure it said something along the lines of: my heart beats for yours. Something Stan would never understand.

“Can you make this quick? Or maybe you can tell me at lunch?” y/n offered. The drawing was now out of sight—either back in her locker or tucked away in her backpack which was slung over her shoulder.

“I’ll tell you at lunch.” Stan felt his toes curl in his shoes and his heartbeat quicken under his skin.

y/n nodded and walked off. They didn’t need to say goodbye to each other because they’d be meeting each other in an hour, give or take.

y/n would be sitting by herself at a table in the far corner of the cafeteria. Stan spotted her easily because ever since that night it was as if the image of her was ingrained in his brain.

“I’ve been on the edge of my seat ever since you came up to me at my locker,” y/n admitted. There was sort of a shyness that carried itself through her voice that Stan didn’t recognize. She was different under the influence. Confident. Bold. Affectionate. Different. But here she was, in front of him; hunched over, exposing her insecurity of the situation. The fact that she had told him she was anxious for this moment was big for her.

“Really?” Disbelief marked Stan’s face. Girls didn’t usually jump at a chance at Stan and Stan didn’t usually jump at the chance at girls. His studies took too much time away from his social life and the Losers proved to be enough social interaction for him, no matter how many times they’d encouraged him to get out there.

Bill, Stan, Eddie, and Richie were all hanging out in Bill’s room. Richie leaned against the cracked window while he smoked and Eddie sat next to him, taking puffs from his inhaler similarly to how Richie took breaths of the cigarette. He was cautious of the secondhand smoke he feared would enter his lungs. Bill was busy messing with his new record player.

“Record players are so old.” Eddie’s nose scrunched when The Cure started playing but no sign of malice could be detected from his voice.

“Sh-sh-shut up.” Bill laughed and joined the other three, crossing his legs as he sat.

Stan faintly recalled him then going on about y/n and he could sense the others internally groaning with him.

“T-today, her h-h-hand brushed uh-against mine when we were g-getting beakers… ff-for our lab.” His lips curled into an even bigger smile just thinking about it. But he was always smiling at the thought of her. He was now laying on the hardwood floor. His fingers were laced together and stretched behind his head.

It was just a simple interaction, but Bill remembered every detail. He felt his body transport itself to dream world.

Bill was sitting at the lab table with his two other partners—a football player named Jack and a blonde girl named Stacy. He knew as much about them as they knew about him and it wasn’t in his plans to make buddy-buddy with the two. He took the cue to leap from his stool when their teacher announced that one person from each group gets supplies and y/n y/l/n was the designated supplies-getter.

Hastily, he walked over to the cabinet where the beakers were stored. There was already a crowd of unenthusiastic students lined up to get their share and luckily, they cleared the air soon enough. It proved no difficulty for Bill to reach the top shelf, as he had done many times before, but he found it hard to breathe once another, smaller, hand came into contact with his own. Her nails were filed perfectly and painted a deep shade of blue that were chipped to infinity, reminding him of Richie. A silver band hugged her ring finger that felt cold compared to the rest of her hand that pressed against his.

“Excuse me,” she whispered, and Bill gladly stepped aside.

“You can be a sap sometimes, Big Bill,” Richie said, shaking Bill from his daydream.

Bill rolled his eyes and sat up. He wasn’t in the mood to make a jab at Richie, but it would’ve done him good. “I-ih-t’s called having a h-h-heart. You sh-should t-t-t-try it sometime.”

“Oh, it hurts me that you think I’m heartless.” Richie sighed and leaned a little too close for Eddie’s liking. “You don’t think I’m heartless, do ya, Eds?” He started making kissy faces before he doubled over into his lap.

“Shove off.” Eddie pushed him so his side was pressed into the floorboard as he continued to laugh.

“Wuh-wuh-what ab-out you Stan?” Bill turned his attention towards Stan who was listening quietly. His back stood straight, and he hadn’t changed his position since he sat down.

“What about me?” Stan wondered. He was sure this conversation was going to lead into some sort of back and forth girl talk that he had no business being apart of. It wasn’t like Stan wasn’t attracted to girls. He just hadn’t found the right one yet.

That was, until now.

The sound of her backpack unzipping made his ears perk. She was digging for something Stan couldn’t see. Maybe if he was at a different angle…

“You did this, right?” She shoved the neatly folded drawing from earlier in front of his face.

“Wait, what?” Stan looked at her incredulously and took the paper in his hands. Carefully, he unfolded it and smoothed the wrinkles out—not like there were many. He studied his friend’s work. It was obvious Bill had put great effort into it; into liking y/n. To take his credit would be a new low, even for him.

“You’re the one who’s been putting stuff in my locker!” y/n insisted. “I wasn’t really sure until a few nights ago…” Her eyes broke contact from him, all the sudden becoming nervous. “You know… When you took me home?” She faced Stan again and this time Stan was too nervous to look at her.

“No,” He finally said. He wasn’t looking at her so he couldn’t see her confused expression. Stan passed the paper back to her.

“No?”

“I mean…” Stan was wondering how to word this. He didn’t have all day, but he also didn’t know how to get himself out of this dilemma.

How do you tell someone you like them, but you’re not their secret admirer—your friend is?

“I’m not the one who’s been sending you stuff,” Stan said smoothly. Like that.

“You… aren’t?” y/n’s voice started to falter but was soon swallowed by a chuckle. “Well, this is embarrassing.” She haphazardly shoved the parchment into her bag only for her to smooth it out later in the day when she got home.

“No, it’s not.” Stan’s monotone voice served no reassurance for y/n, no matter how much she wanted to hear those words. But she didn’t say anything, only cocked her head, prompting for him to continue. “I’m not the one who’s been putting stuff in your lockers but that doesn’t mean I don’t like you.”

y/n’s already tense muscles relaxed at this, but she was still left with a problem.

“I was so sure of it,” she said in a mumble so low Stan almost didn’t catch.

“What’s wrong?” Stan asked. “I like you. Don’t…” Embarrassment crept up the back of his throat as the next sentence spilled out. “Don’t you like me?”

y/n nodded but didn’t say anything. She readjusted herself on her seat, robbing him of an answer.

“Do you remember what happened that night?” Nothing bad happened. Nothing even remotely, as Richie would put it, hot, happened. But it was the night that changed everything.

“Yeah.” y/n sucked in a deep breath as she remembered.

y/n hadn’t planned to get so drunk off her ass that she couldn’t walk. In fact, y/n hadn’t even planned to go out. But there she was, on a Tuesday night. Her friends had left her to suck the skin off each other’s faces and y/n had become a little too good at beer pong.

Whoever was in charge of the alcohol had no taste buds, but she needed all the liquid courage she could get, because tonight was the night. Tonight, was the night y/n y/l/n was going to face Stanley Uris.

Of course, she had known of the boy. She’d gone to the same school as him ever since she could remember. It wasn’t until this year when she was aware of his existence.

He usually stayed behind the scenes; his nose burrowed in a textbook whenever she saw him alone and when she didn’t, he was usually hanging out with the same group of friends from middle school.

Lately, however, something about him just seemed to make sense. The idea of her and him together made sense. Coincidentally, her infatuation with the boy had picked up around the same time anonymous drawings and knick-knacks had found their way in her locker.

Was it so wrong to believe that it was destiny working its magic?

Or maybe the belief of Stan being anonymous was just the workings of her silly little school crush.

Either way, she took the chance; finding the perfect time to fall into his arms. If she had confessed to him any earlier, she would’ve gotten an unwanted response.

“Can I ask?” y/n started, but Stan knew she was going to ask the question afterwards anyway. “Do you know? Do you know who’s been sending me the stuff?”

Stan swallowed. He swallowed so hard his throat burned. He didn’t want what they had to end like this.

What they had. They didn’t have anything.

“Bill Denbrough.” He looked down even though he had nothing to be ashamed of. “Do you like me or do you like the person who’s been sending you the stuff?” Stan asked. It was a fair question. An easy question. But y/n, for some reason, couldn’t tell the difference between the two.

It was clear as day that Bill Denbrough and Stanley Uris were two different people. y/n just couldn’t fathom Stan not being her secret admirer—as cocky as it sounds. For two months, she’s imagined him as the one sending her landscape sketches and confessing his love for her. Her heart couldn’t help but fall into an endless pit, also known as the void.

“I guess I just thought of you as the person sending me the stuff,” y/n answered honestly, and an odd sort of sadness washed over Stan when she said that. They were truly stuck in a catch twenty-two and he still failed to understand how he got there. “Do you like me?” The question was ridiculous, but it was reasonable for her to ask.

“Yes,” Stan said, but he was hesitant. His mind couldn’t help but track back to Bill and the countless times he had swooned over y/n. Stan may be the one telling her how he felt but he wasn’t the one who never failed to stutter her name in conversations and make googly eyes at her from across the room.

What Stan had felt these past few days was what Bill felt these past years.

If y/n were stupid she would have accepted Stan’s answer. She would have given him his third kiss right then and there and proclaimed they were dating as they left the lunchroom. But she wasn’t stupid. She was anything but.

“I really like you.” Stan swore this was something she’d said before, but it wasn’t. It was new. It seemed as if everything was new. “Or… liked you,” y/n spoke again, and maybe the rose-colored glasses she was wearing were coming off.

Stan nodded. He knew what this meant and stood up from his seat. There were only five minutes of lunch left when he looked at the clock that hung from the brick wall and he was going to make perfect use of it.

“Good news.” Stan walked up from behind Bill who was sitting with the rest of the Losers. He ignored Beverly’s where were you’s and took a seat facing his friend. “y/n likes you back.”

#it 2017 #it2019 #it chapter 1 #it chapter 2 #it x reader #it imagine #it fanfic #it fic #stanley uris #stan uris #stan uris x reader #stan uris x reader fluff #stan uris x reader angst #stan uris imagine #stan uris fanfiction #stan uris fic #stan uris fanfic #stan uris fluff #stan uris angst

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illshowyourhurricanes · 4 years

Text

Castles Made of Sand

All credit goes to Jimi Hendrix for this borrowed title. After way too much time (thanks to our good friend Writer’s Block and hating the first route I took with this which lead to a complete rewrite), I am finally getting back to finishing up my last two remaining requests for my milestone event. This one was requested by @something-tofightfor, who chose image 5 for Benjamin Greene x reader. In lieu of going to the actual beach, stay inside, social distance, and imagine yourself there with this sugarplum instead. I hope you enjoy!

Image prompt 5: Benjamin Greene x reader

Rating: R solely because B. Greene is one sexy mofo. If you haven’t watched Gold Digger, there are spoilers you’ll come across in this one.

Word count: 2889.

Tag list: @obscurilicious @the-blind-assassin-12 @something-tofightfor @logan-deloss @lexxierave @madamrogers @yannii04 @gollyderek @carlaangel86 @maydayfigment @vetseras @thisisparadisemylove @malionnes @thesandbeneathmytoes @my-rosegold-soul @delos-destinations @luminex3 @fireeyes-on-teller-dixon-grimes @tenhargreeves @witchygagirl @fific7 @pheedraws

If you’d like to be added to/removed from my tag list, please just send me an ask or shoot me a DM.

Special thanks to @the-blind-assassin-12 for beta reading!

Once again, enjoy and thank you for reading!

Benjamin’s mouth had embarked on a journey. He’d made his way down the straight line of the back of your neck, and now was tirelessly pressing light kisses down the column of your spine. The heat of his breath was a sharp contrast to the air conditioning in the room, and he was sending literal shivers up your spine. Your eyes had fallen shut when he’d started on your neck, his long fingers threading through your hair.

“You taste like saltwater and sunshine,” he stopped just long enough to murmur into your ear. He’d changed direction, rerouting and taking a detour up toward your other shoulder. Gathering your hair to sweep it out of his way, he ran a palm over your skin, brushing off several grains of sand that had been stuck there, reticent to let go. I understand completely, he thought to himself, a shadow of a smile curving his lips as they landed on you once again: one soft feather of a kiss followed by his mouth closing over a spot at the base of your neck, gently swiping his tongue over a patch of skin, tasting saltwater again before sucking gently, his intention to leave a mark clear.

You hummed softly, appreciatively, and grinned lazily as you opened your eyes. Benjamin hadn’t been excited about your idea for a weekend at the beach; he’d actually been a bit tight-lipped any time you’d mentioned it, which was strange-- you found that Benjamin was usually forthcoming about most things, with just a short list of exceptions: his childhood, his brother Kieran, and his ex-wife Julia.

“I never knew you had hard feelings toward the beach,” you’d joked with him good-naturedly. You’d purposely avoided the topic for three entire days, and Benjamin had finally breathed a sigh of relief, thinking that maybe you’d given up your idea of a weekend away. I’d love a weekend holiday, just one that doesn’t include sand, he’d thought to himself, every time you’d made the suggestion. But Benjamin knew it had not so much to do with sand at all. It had everything to do with Kent.

He did everything he could to avoid returning to the area. He’d done everything possible to leave his childhood and years in Kent behind, to start a new life, and he’d succeeded in doing so. But when Benjamin thought about the place, his heart dropped and his pulse raced at the same time. He felt like the former version of himself, the name Sean White haunting him, circling over his head like a vulture. It was always there. Benjamin was, down to his bare bones, a taller version of the boy with the name he could never escape— the boy who had spent time behind bars, who had nothing, who spent the most desolate and miserable years of a life he’d love to forget—in Kent.

*** *** ***

“We used to spend half of the summer on the beach,” you had continued, your voice light with excitement, words spilling from your mouth quicker than usual. “We’d deviate here and there, but we spent most of our beach days in Broadstairs. Joss Bay. Just as beautiful as Botany, but without so many tourists.”

Benjamin had just watched and listened, expressionless. He wasn’t the type to keep at reading, his usual task at hand, while someone was speaking, whatever the topic… even if it was highly irritating.

But you, well, you just laughed, getting to your knees and knee-stepping the rest of the way to where he was sitting, a high-backed and slightly-distressed armchair. The end table and lamp were perfectly-suited for his academic pursuits and cerebral hobbies.

Benjamin’s eyes followed your movement, unable to help a small, wary shadow of a smile appear, vanishing as suddenly as it had come on. You were there then, your forearms resting atop his knees and looking up at him with wide doe-eyes, unconscious of just how beautiful you always looked from his view.

You had only met three months ago in an otherwise empty corridor at university, but things had gone swimmingly between the pair of you. Benjamin was well aware, and quite often, that he was falling for you, hard and fast and much too much all at once. He knew that if he wanted your relationship to progress much father— I do, I want her, I want to need her out of love, not from dependency—he’d have to tell you everything; the absolute truth. I want this, with her: the antithesis of what I thought I had with Julia.

That thought, each time it invaded his mind, caused his heart to pound irregularly, his surroundings to tilt before his eyes. Perhaps he needed you already.

He heard the music of your laughter, the quick glossy look in his eyes vanishing within a split-second. Her smile could illuminate entire cities.

“I know,” you continued with a slight wrinkle of your little nose, “That it’s quite popular, and the waves are rather choppy, but the sand is still white and the view…” you trailed off, shaking your head slowly as a warmth of nostalgia flooded your senses.

You were still enamoured by the beach, as you always had been— the horseshoe shape of the coast, the white chalk cliffs, the carefree atmosphere and the smell of the saltwater. Your times there at Botany Bay in Broadstairs were some of your favorites, hands sticky with ice pops melting too quickly, briefly staining the sand.

“What do you say, B? I’ll find a nice place to say, we’ll spend a long weekend in Kent. It’s lovely there, you—“

Benjamin spoke your name softly, but there was a strange firmness to his tone. Never one to interrupt, you were a bit caught off-guard. As he removed his glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose, you lowered yourself down to your haunches, allowing your arms to fall from his knees to your sides. You’d seen Benjamin tired. You’d seen him dejected, frustrated over a paper or two that he’d gotten stuck writing, but this… this was something different. And perhaps you were being a bit sensitive, but your feelings were a bit hurt.

To top things off, you didn’t know how to react to an emotion you’d never seen before from the man you’d been seeing for just three months. Operating on instinct, you just nodded— though you were thoroughly confused— and stood, offering him a soft apology as you went to your small kitchen to put the kettle on.

Just as you placed the kettle on the stove to heat, Benjamin appeared in the doorway. You forced a smile, hoping it was convincing enough to pass. “Chamomile or lemon balm?” you asked. He took a few long strides and pulled out a chair, sitting at the table, and bit at his bottom lip.

“Chamomile… There’s.. I’ve…” Benjamin scrubbed his hands over his face in irritation. His nerves were getting to him. Anxiety was thieving his words. “I can’t go to Kent, Y/N.”

You turned to lean against the countertop. Crossing your arms over your chest as you furrowed your brow, it was obvious you were concerned. Benjamin had grown up in Newenden, a small port village immediately north of the River Rother, as an only child. You searched his face and saw tension in the set of his jaw. The rise and fall of his chest seemed almost labored, and when he looked at you, you were startled by the look of pain in his eyes.

“My childhood.. it wasn’t like yours.” His voice sounded thick. “My mum was not an attentive mother. All of her care was concentrated on landing her next fix, and Kieran and I—“ He stopped short and shook his head, staring down at the table, tracing a knot in the wood with his index finger. “My… brother.” He struggled with the word, his jaw flexing.

Your eyes widened and you opened your mouth to speak, but all that spilled forth was silence. He’s lied to me. You felt your chest seize and it was like his words stole your breath from your lungs. Your heart thrummed erratically. He’s been lying to me.

“Older brother.” Benjamin continued, and his voice became unsteady as he went on. “Kieran had no father figure and mine was… fucking useless.” Upper lip curved in contempt, his nostrils flared in anger as the kettle began its shrill whistling. Quickly, though you felt as if you were in a haze, you darted to the side to quiet the sound, wondering how long you could keep your hands busy preparing two cups of tea.

“When my mum died, Kieran did everything in his power to make everything normal, to watch over the two of us. We had no money and no place to go. Just 50 quid, mate, to get us through the month. He already had a plan on how to get the money… ‘Just stand and keep watch, alright? Just keep watch.’”

Benjamin was unaware, but he was sneering-- his jaw clenched, brows knotted, his mouth set in straight line. But the part that was most jarring was the wildness in his eyes. Benjamin, what have you done? Your hands shook as you brought tea to the table, and you wondered for a moment when you’d managed to steep the tea bags. You had no recollection. Benjamin’s words were ricocheting in your head. You felt angry for being lied to, betrayed. You felt a dull ache in your chest for Benjamin and all that he’d been through. You felt a heavy guilt for unknowingly being so inconsiderate in badgering him about a beach trip. You felt like the foundation of your relationship had been cracked irreparably, like the fault lines in dry earth from an earthquake. Setting one steaming cup of tea in front of Benjamin, you sank into a hard kitchen chair across from him.

He scrubbed a hand over his face. “So I stood there, and I stood there… and I heard something and then… there was all this blood…”

Benjamin’s voice was shaking and as you looked up at him, you saw that his face was wet with tears, droplets falling from his cheeks and onto the table. He swallowed hard. “I took the blame, Y/N. I took the blame and I paid for it and he… he let me.”

“Oh, Benjamin.” You rose from the seat you’d just taken and walked to stand in front of him. You could see the agony in his eyes; there was no way anyone could fake that. “Benjamin, I’m sorry.” Tentatively you sat on his knee, and he shook his head.

“I should’ve told you, I planned to. When’s the right time to--”

You interrupted him by wrapping your arms around his neck and resting your cheek atop the crown of his head. Your anger melted away and the only thing you wanted to do was take it away. It was impossible, you knew, so you’d have to settle for offering comfort. For being there.

“There isn’t,” you said, frowning into his hair. You softly ran your nails over the back of his neck and the two of you sat in silence for a moment. Closing your eyes, you turned to press your lips to his head before pulling away to look down at him. You opened your mouth to speak, but no words would come out. They were stuck someplace between your heart and your throat.

“As soon as I could,” he continued, blinking tears away, “I left. I got out of Kent, and I made a new life for myself, changed my name, got a job, and an ex-wife.” Benjamin attempted to smile, but the corners of his mouth just twitched instead, and no light reached his eyes. “Shawn White follows me every step of every day and I can’t go back. I can’t.”

“I don’t know a Shawn White.” Just saying the name felt strange on your tongue, and you vowed to never speak it again. “I know Benjamin Greene. I know that he helps strange women carry loads of sketchbooks to her office.” You smiled softly, the memory of how you’d met a vivid memory in your mind. “I know that he’s a diligent student, and smart, and is a great copywriter.” Pausing, you kissed his forehead. “I know his favorite foods, the type of music he likes, that he’s funny and attentive.” Finally, you caught his eyes, a touch of sadness and sour regret still there. “I know that I care about him immensely.”

Benjamin had taken to lightly running both hands up and down your back, one on either side of your spine. He couldn’t believe your reaction, or lack thereof. There was no accusation. There was no venom in your tone, no indication that you didn’t believe him. He had confessed to you that his life was a lie, and there you were, beautiful on his lap, reassuring him of all that he was. And when you kissed him then, there was no bitter aftertaste of pity. And when Benjamin smiled afterward, it was genuine, and it reached his eyes. She’s unbelievable.

*** *** ***

“You’re so pale. B,” you’d teased, all in good fun. “C’mere.”

You slathered Benjamin in sunscreen— SPF 45, to be exact. He’d helped you with the hard-to-reach places of your own, his warm palms and long fingers working the lotion over your skin.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather spending our time in the air conditioning?” he joked, voice low in your ear. One last time, he rubbed one hand over either shoulder and leaned forward to kiss your temple. Despite the heat, you felt goosebumps popping up In gentle pricks.

“Are you trying to make me forget about my mission? Because it’s working.” You turnED your head, narrowing your eyes playfully at Benjamin before turning your attention to the array of sandcastles littering the beach. Most of them looked more like sculpted sand dunes or ant hills more than anything else, but there were some valiant efforts all the same. Your mission was to thwart them all.

“Really, I desperately want to impress you with my architectural skills,” you kidded. . Reaching to your right, you swiped the tote bag you’d brought down with you and pulled out a bright red, plastic sand pail. It held two smaller sand molds inside and a small, yellow shovel hung from the bucket’s handle. You beamed triumphantly. Benjamin threw his head back in laughter.

“What?!” Your voice dripped with feigned indignence, but his laughter was absolutely contagious. A giggle bubbled forth from your throat before it turned into full-blown laughter. “These are fully functional multipurpose tools!” You defended the vividly colorful kids’ toys as you unloaded the smaller molds from the pail.

“You are utterly bonkers,” Benjamin said decidedly as he slid his sunglasses downward to shield his eyes. He leaned back on his readily-spread beach towel, leaning back on his elbows with his long legs stretched out in front of him.

And you are a vision, Benjamin Greene. The rest of Botany Bay— the horseshoe shape of the coast in the distance, the sapphire blue water sparkling brilliantly in the sunlight, the clean, whit expanse of sand and the picaresque pillars of chalk in your periphery— they all paled in comparison. You loved Benjamin irrevocably.

And he felt the same way, you reminded him. “You love me, especially the utterly bonkers part,” you chided, setting your building supplies to the side. Joining him on your own beach towel, you rest your chin in your hand, propped up on your side to look down at him. You couldn’t help but press a kiss to his lips, your tongue teasing his bottom lip before pulling away.

“Remind me again what I am?” you teased. Your eyebrows were raised in question and your mouth quirked upward in a smirk.

Benjamin groaned in response, dropping his upper body down into his towel unceremoniously.

“Brilliant at baiting,” he answered, rolling his head toward you. He was smiling, and your heart danced in your chest. Here you were, with Benjamin Greene in Kent, and of his own accord. You’d be returning to work soon, and he’d planned an end-of-summer beach vacation, at the very one you’d mentioned all that time ago. He’d remembered. And he was happy.

You sat up with a burst of energy. Sliding in your own sunglasses, you readjusted the messy bun you wore atop your head. It was time to get down to business. “Now, are you going to help me build our castle before the tide rolls in?” You paused and turned your head to glance at him over your shoulder. “I can offer a promise of air conditioning as an incentive.”

Suddenly invigorated, Benjamin pushed himself up to sit as well, nudging your shoulder with his own. “Move over, Y/L/N,” he said, reaching past your legs for the lemon- yellow shovel. “Let me show you how it’s done.”

#dani's150 followers event #drabble requests #image 5 #benjamin greene x reader

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yourdeepestfathoms · 4 years

Text

in aeternum, little lamb

(Read Anne as Courtney!Anne)

Word count: 4756

Prompt: “Look, I know we don’t know each other that well, but I’m still worried about you. No one deserves to be alone.”

———————

It was raining. Again.

Usually a rainstorm was serene and peaceful, normal for London, but there was a certain sticky humidity in the air that made going outside a chore. It was cold, yet uncomfortably warm at the same time with no wind blowing to ease the mild heat that has settled its oppressive, sultry murk over the city. It spilled into every street, every alleyway, every house that dared to open the window, thinking that it would help with the clamminess that fogged their home, but to no avail.

This, of course, brought upon complete and utter dreariness that coated every person making their rounds through their daily lives.

Anne’s forehead was dotted with beads of sweat by the time she arrived at the theater, only then really regretting her decision to walk to work. She hadn’t been expecting the humidity to be that bad, but here she was, feeling like she was leaking steam from every pore.

“God, this weather is miserable,” Jane was grumbling in her dressing room when Anne peeked in. She was currently attempting to tame her wild blonde hair (and losing the battle), which had a small (read as: large, high, anything but small) tendency to frizz up in high vaporous atmospheres like the one drenching London on that day.

“You look great, Jane.” Anne laughed, leaning on the doorframe. She gets a piercing grey glower shot in her direction, but isn’t phased by it. The coldness of the stare almost eased her internal temperature.

“Why is it so damn humid?” Jane finally exclaimed. “We live in London! Not Florida or whatever the fuck it’s called—”

Anne bit both lips, trying to hold back her laughter at the proper fit the queen before her was throwing.

“It’s supposed to be rainy and cold. Not rainy and a LITERAL SAUNA!”

Kitty, who was sitting nearby at her own makeup table, giggled softly. She got up and picked up a brush to help with her mother’s wild hair, which was definitely puffing up as if she were an angry cat or a distressed Studio Ghibli character.

“I don’t know, Jane,” Anne laughed slightly. “Well, I’m going to go get a cup of coffee. You two need anything?”

“Yeah,” Jane said. “A word with Mother Nature.”

Anne laughed again, waved a hand, and walked off to the break room.

Well- it wasn’t really a break room, per se. Theaters didn’t really have those. It was just an extra dressing room that nobody used and had a microwave, mini fridge, and coffee machine inside. In some way or another, a round bar table, small couch, and two beanbags ended up inside- Anne couldn’t really remember how they got there, but they were there and, thus, the room became a nice place to chat and relax when nothing was going on. Kitty had once even hid under the twin beanbags during a game of hide-and-seek (which was also her idea).

Upon stepping inside the break room, the scent of coffee bombarded Anne’s nose. The coffee machine was still on, but little was left in the pot. She walks over to it, thinking it was enough to sate her- she didn’t really like coffee, but she needed the extra rush to help her combat the dreariness the weather was inflicting upon her.

“Sorry,” A voice from behind suddenly said. “If I had known you wanted some, I would have made more.”

Anne actually jumped and she whirled around to see none other than the music director sitting in one of the beanbags. She jumped, too, and straightened up, nearly spilling the mug she had placed beside her pillowy seat.

“Sorry!” She said again. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Anne placed a hand over her racing heart and waved the other dismissively, laughing.

“It’s alright!” She assured the girl. “I didn’t see you at all!”

Joan smiled slightly, humoring her comment, then slumped back over to continue reading the book she had in her lap.

Anne studies her for a moment- as everyone said, Joan wasn’t much for conversation, despite always lurking on the edges of a group discussion. It was like she wanted to join in or just talk to someone, but didn’t have the courage to do so. Perhaps she was worried about being ignored or rejected, so, instead, she just watched in silence.

Maybe that’s why a few younger stagehands who were working there for college credit started calling her the “Theater Ghost.” Anne couldn’t really deny that that title wasn’t accurate- her not noticing the girl at all just proved that it was.

“Did you drink all of this?” She asked, trying to strike up a conversation to make things less awkward. Tenseness was as thick as the humidity outside in that room.

“It’s not that big of a pot...” Joan sort of mumbled.

So, yes. She did.

Anne frowned slightly. She vaguely knew of Joan’s caffeine addiction, but never really saw it first hand. She just knew that the girl drank more coffee than everyone working on the show combined.

“I see,” Anne chuckled. “Well, alright.”

She turned around while waiting for the pot to fill to see that Joan was looking at her. However, when she noticed, Joan snapped her head back down to her book. Anne furrowed her eyebrows.

“What are you reading?”

“Huh?” Joan seemed...surprised that Anne was asking her something. “Oh, it’s just- it’s just some silly book.” She kicked her leg anxiously against the beanbag, seemingly trying to hype herself up for something. “It’s, umm- it’s called Wings of Fire.”

She brandishes the book, keeping one finger inside the pages to mark her spot. On the cover was a flying gold and black dragon with four insect wings, spines along the back, and funny little glasses on the snout (something about dragons having eyesight care and possibly dragon eye doctors stood out as silly to Anne).

“It looks good,” Anne said after inspecting the picture.

“Oh, it is!” Joan said, perking up slightly. “It’s about these ten dragon tribes and five baby dragons were supposed to be born on The Brightest Night and be the Dragonets of Destiny to stop the war between three Sandwings fighting to be queen. So they’re kept underground, but their caretakers are kinda abusive and mean. Probably because the Skywing egg was destroyed so they had to replace it with a Rainwing egg, which are supposed to be the laziest tribe and that makes Kestrel- the really mean guardian- mad. So she’s kinda a jerk to the five dragonets. But then they break out of their cave before they’re supposed to leave when they’re six, because they have to wait until they’re seven, only to be captured by the Skywing queen! And they’re forced to fight to the death and they’re almost killed because this one character, Peril, can burn everything she touches! But then it’s revealed that Clay, he’s the Mudwing, has fireproof scales! And Glory, she’s the Rainwing I was talking about, can spit venom!! Then they escape and go to the Seawing kingdom and Tsunami- the Seawing- is actually the missing Seawing princess and a statue was killing all the other eggs. Then they go to the rainforest and Glory becomes queen and Starflight goes blind in the fourth book and the end of the war happens in the fifth!!” She’s babbling about a hundred miles per minute- Anne can barely keep up. “We should- we should read it together! If you’re interested. Like a book club! Except I’m on the twelfth book right now and I don’t know how fast you can read and I just basically spoiled the entire series, hahaha...but only for the first five!! But the next arc isn’t that good if you ask me. It completely throws everything that has happened out the window and just puts new characters in a school? Which they barely even stay at! So why even make the school, Tui? And my favorite character in that segment is in a coma for, like, three of the five books in that arc!! Arc three is pretty cool, though. I like the new tribes. And Sundew is supposed to be a lesbian! With an actual girlfriend! And it’s a main plot point!!” She’s beaming now. “I just—I think you would really, really like it and, I dunno...it would be fun! I can read it aloud? N-not because I think you can’t read or anything, I just—like talking. To someone. And to make sure you don’t doze off and miss any of the really good parts! Because there are SO MANY even though Tui doesn’t seem to remember any of her world building half of the time, but—”

“Joan?”

“Yeah?”

“Breathe.”

Joan’s face flashed deep crimson. She hunched her shoulders around her neck and ducked her head, almost using her book as a shield to hide herself. It seems she just realized that she had been talking the green queen’s ear off.

“Sorry,” She whispered. “I-I just thought that you wanted to...” She shook her head. Her hands clench around the sides of her book. “Nevermind.”

“Joan-”

“Your coffee is gonna get cold.”

Anne looked at the full coffee pot, then back to the girl, and then walked over to get herself a cup. She can hear Joan shifting anxiously in the beanbag behind her.

Honestly, she found the girl’s deep interest in what she was reading quite endearing, she just didn’t know how to reply to her monologue in a way that showed that she actually was interested in what she was saying.

“Maybe send me the link to the book sometime?” Anne offered while heading for the door. “Or if you have a physical copy...”

“Yeah,” Joan smiles thinly- weakly. “I have some at home. I’ll give them to you tomorrow.”

“Sounds great.”

“Oh, and— Anne?”

Anne stopped right as she was walking out.

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

“What for?”

Joan looked down shyly, shifting her legs.

“For talking to me.”

———

“She thanked me. For standing there while she was ranting about a book!”

The other queens looked rather amused by the story they were given during dinner. It wasn’t exactly the reactions Anne was hoping for- was nobody else concerned by the oddity of the situation?!

“Joan’s a...quirky kid.” Jane merely said. “She’s always been a little strange, Anne. I’m almost positive she was raised by literal street rats, so that might have something to do with it. Rats aren’t exactly much for conversation.”

Anne looked at her in shock. Of everyone to say such a thing, she hadn’t expected it to come from Jane “Protective and Loving Mom Friend” Seymour.

“Did you just—”

“Anne,” Jane sighed. “You know what I’m talking about. She worked for you! She’s just a weird kid. Kids are weird!”

“‘Weird’ is when a kid likes to watch snails go over salt and get burned, Jane. Thanking someone for listening to them talk about a book is concerning.” Anne argued.

“Cathy does it all the time.”

“Cathy doesn’t thank us!”

Anne was really getting worked up over this and she wasn’t exactly sure why. She really only got this way for Kitty or Maggie- she theorized it was those maternal instincts kicking in or just a natural protectiveness for an ex-maid in waiting.

Whatever it was, it sure seemed to be amusing to the others.

“Okay, calm down, Anne.” Cleves said, laughing slightly. “We get it, you think it’s worrying. No need to start a food fight over it.”

“I’m not going to-” Anne broke off into agitated grumbling, which caused even more giggles in reaction.

“I said thank you to Catherine when I read to her yesterday,” Cathy said.

“That’s because you were asking her opinion on a chapter you wrote!” Anne struck back. “It is NOT the same thing!”

Cathy shrugged and took a bite out of her pork chop.

“It’s nothing you should stress about, Annie.” Kitty said. “Maybe some people are just meant to be alone!”

Anne gave her a look of disbelief.

“Like Henry.” Cleves put in helpfully.

“Like Henry, yeah!”

Now, don’t get Anne wrong, she loved her little found family with the queens very much, but, at that moment, she wanted to hit all of them with the salad bowl at the center of the table as hard as she could.

Maybe not Aragon, though (unfortunately). The woman hadn’t told Anne to forget about the situation or just move on- she was thoughtfully silent, eating her dinner in reserved peace. Whatever her opinion on the argument was, she didn’t say it.

Anne sighed, putting her head in one hand as she picked at her dinner until Aragon finally spoke up to tell her to get her elbow off the table. She begrudgingly obeys.

Like that, the conversation is dropped and something new, something Anne really didn’t care about was talked about.

After dinner, Anne decided to do some snooping on her laptop. First, she looked up historical information on Joan, only to find nothing. Every website was just the same thing over and over again- literally. It was just copied and pasted from the extremely short and vague Wikipedia page on the girl. The names of her parents weren’t even recorded, nor was any childhood information. There was barely even anything on her time as a lady in waiting, which only covered her work under Jane and not either of the cousins.

She had a son named Hercules, though. If that meant anything.

Next, Anne went to Joan’s Instagram page. It had several hundred followers, mainly from the fans who insisted on following everyone associated with the show, and was filled with the normal posts the actors usually had- although there were very few compared to the queen’s and other ladies in waiting’s accounts. Most of the photos were of her work or her playing the songs on her piano or of selfies of her in the band costume.

In almost all of them, she was completely alone.

Anne searched for something- she didn’t know what exactly, just something- in the seventh-five posts on the account, then went to the photos Joan was tagged in. There weren’t many- just group photos and a few good shots of her from a MegaSix and a single appreciation post (she vaguely remembered Joan telling them about it and how giddy it had made her...nobody had really listened to the babbling at the time).

And then Anne found a certain photo- the first one she was ever tagged in: it was a photo of her costume laid out on a table with the caption, “Here’s the lady in waiting costume! I’ll be posting about SIX more on my other account, so follow if you’re interested!”

The name of the account was @force-be-with-ewe.

Anne clicked on it.

force-be-with-ewe

i just really like drawing sheep

Johanna-She/her-Asexual lesbian-Musician and artist

That’s the first thing Anne saw when she clicked on the account, along with an adorable profile picture of a sheep playing a piano, then the whopping twelve followers (most of which were ghosts or bots) and three hundred and nine posts.

It took Anne just a moment to realize that this was Joan’s personal account.

And she went through all of it.

The profile was a mishmash of drawings and piano videos and sheep. The latest post was actually a photo of a bird with a caption talking about how the little guy had been visiting Joan’s bedroom window every morning and “giving her a reason to get up because she had someone looking forward to seeing her.” She maturely and proudly dubbed the bird “Minecraft.”

After that were drawings of dragons with #wingsoffire and #wof in the descriptions, leading Anne to believe that they were characters from the book she had been told about earlier that day.

And they just kept going.

Among videos of Joan playing the theater keyboard when presumably nobody was around, were drawings of sheep playing various instruments and sleeping and being adorable, drawings of more dragons, drawings of a few Pokémon (mainly Snom, Wooloo, and Sobble). There were stunning drawings of giant creatures from a game called “Subnautica” and beautiful drawings of castles and scenery. There were even drawings of the queens!

Usually fans would tag them in art, but it appeared that Joan was too shy to do that. So, instead, she just left them floating in her profile with no ways to see the masterpieces, since there weren’t any hashtags on those.

Anne was genuinely amazed by the attention to detail in the sketches of her and her fellow queens and even more amazed by the drawings with watercolors. She swore the painting’s eyes had more color than her own and the costume was as vibrant as the actual one in real life.

It was beautiful. They were all beautiful.

Why didn’t Joan want anyone seeing these?

Anne kept scrolling and eventually came upon rather...concerning posts.

The first was of a messy, but haunting colored pencil sketch of a pitch black ram with inky, bleeding red eyes that seemed to stare through the screen and directly into Anne’s soul. The caption simply said, “Black Philip.”

Another was a drawing of a blonde girl, presumably Joan, leaking coffee from every single orifice on her face and was drawn with such detail that it would easily make an emetophobic’s stoamch churn with nausea.

And then there were a few of an ice dragon, slightly similar to one of the dragon tribes from the book, but this one notably had more icicle spikes, frayed scales, and jagged wings. It was moon silver in color with ice blue hues and eyes like a raging blizzard.

All the drawings done with this beast, which was apparently named “Killer Frost” (and has no ties to the Flash character of the same name), were normal- just it laying around, flying, standing atop icebergs menacingly or breathing a freezing death breath. But there were a few that stood out to Anne as worrying.

The first was of Kitty, actually. She was wearing her show costume and her eyes were closed with a peaceful expression on her face. And then there was the glittering paw of the ice dragon reaching down from the top of the image and cupping one of her cheeks with its serrated, barbed claws. The caption read, “The Chosen One.”

The second and much more concerning drawing was captioned, “Envy truly is a deadly sin.”

It was a drawing of Killer Frost crouched in a feral position, staring forward with blazing eyes, jaw hanging open and teeth bared, absolutely soaked in blood.

There was just blood everywhere. Blood on the body, blood on the claws, blood dripping in horrifying realistic threads from the mouth, blood all over the blank, white floor beneath the beast, blood squirting from the remains of the carcasses that had presumably been gored.

The image left Anne with so many questions- What did this represent? Who were those corpses? Was Joan jealous? And if yes, who was she jealous of?

One thing was certain, though- Joan was startlingly good at drawing gore. A sketch of Killer Frost holding its own gooey, bloody esophagus and larynx in another photo just proved that. There was even one of the dragon ripping its own throat out while the faint outline of what appeared to be three ghosts encouraged it.

It was strange to see such mishmashes of horror shoved in between adorable sketches of sleeping baby lambs and fluffy Wooloos. It also left Anne with growing worry for the artist.

When she finally finished going through the profile, Anne decided the follow the account and became the thirteenth follower.

This time, thirteen would not be an unlucky number.

———

Five books were left on Anne’s dressing room table the next day, all with a colorful dragon on the cover, and a note that read, “I didn’t know if you only wanted one book or all of them, so I just left the first arc. Let me know what you think! :) -Joan”

“Fan mail?” Cleves asked, peeking over to the table from where she was getting ready.

“Nah,” Anne replied. “Just some books.”

“Sounds very cool,” Cleves chuckled before returning to dousing her hair with hairspray.

“Extremely.” Anne said, then set out to find and talk to Joan before the show. She could get her hair and makeup done later!

Except she couldn’t find the girl anywhere. She asked around, but nobody knew where she went. And she was definitely there because Anne saw her onstage right before the performance, but, by then, it was too late to speak to her. Anne just decided to see her afterwards, which was easier said than done because, once again, Joan was nowhere in sight.

Anne was about to give up, since it was almost time to leave, but then she spotted the girl in the break room playing a card game by herself at the round bar table. She considered charging in and barking at her about where she’s been, but she didn’t want to freak her out, so she just walked in calmly.

“Hey, Joan,” She said cooly, noticing the way the music director’s hand froze as she was setting down a card. She grabbed a water bottle from the mini fridge and sat down at the chair across from Joan. “Whatcha doing?”

“Just...playing a card game my brother taught me.” The girl replied meekly.

Joan had a brother? The articles on her said nothing about him...

“You had cards back then?” Anne asked, as if she hadn’t been born in the same time period.

“No, we used strips of wood we would tear off from people’s houses and carved symbols on them with knives.”

Anne blinked.

“...Oh. That’s...”

“Concerning?” Joan finally glanced up from her deck of cards to look at Anne. A ghost of a smile graced her lips for a moment before she tilted her head back down with a light laugh. “I know.”

“Mind if I play?”

She’s glanced at again- scanned, as if Joan was expecting her to pull something and make a joke out of her. But then she gave in and began collecting the cards from how they’re laid out on the table.

“This game is too complicated to explain,” She said. “But we can play Speed?”

After a quick rundown of the rules, Anne agreed and the game began.

And honestly? It was great. Joan genuinely laughed and smiled as they playfully bickered and argued over the card game. She almost looked like a happy little lamb frolicking in a field of flowers.

On their third round, Kitty peeks into the break room.

“There you are, Annie!” She said. “I was looking for you!”

“Oh, hey, Kit!” Anne said. Out of the corner of her eye, she definitely saw Joan clench her jaw. The drawing of Kitty and Killer Frost’s claws and then the bloody sketch briefly flashed in her mind. “What’s up?”

“We’re leaving,” Kitty informed. “We had dinner plans tonight, remember?”

Joan sighed softly and began to pick up the cards. Anne gently pressed her hand down.

“I think I’m going to pass tonight, Kit.”

Both blondes looked shocked- Joan more than Kitty from the way her head whipped up fast enough to give her whiplash.

“How come?” Kitty asked, clearly confused. “I thought you really wanted to go to this pub...”

“I know, but I’m hanging out with Joan right now.” Anne said. “Just bring me home something if you can!”

Kitty blinked several times, glanced at Joan, then nodded and walked out.

“You didn’t have to stay,” Joan whispered.

“I wanted to, though.” Anne assured her. She gently took the deck of cards from Joan’s clenched hands and began dealing them out. “Wanna keep playing Speed or try War? I’ve played with Aragon before. I swear, she ALMOST broke my nose in anger!”

“You followed me last night.”

Anne blinked.

“Yeah, of course,” She said. “I had no idea you could draw so well. You’re very talented.”

A hot pink blush dusts Joan’s cheeks and she looked away. She anxiously plays with the corner of an ace of spades. The slight drizzle that had been tapping on the window starts to pick up.

“I-”

She’s embarrassed, Anne realized. Embarrassed and horrified because she knows Anne saw the gruesome drawings she had made.

She believes that Anne thinks she’s sick. Or a freak. Or a monster.

Anne would admit that they’re a little weird, but a lot of artists liked to make horrific art. Nothing wrong with that, especially if they were vents.

“Joan-”

“Why are you doing this?” Joan asked quietly. She looked up and centuries worth of loneliness and neglect and pain reflect in her stormy grey eyes. “What do you want?”

Finally, Anne understood.

“Look,” Anne said. “I know we don’t know each other that well, but I’m still worried about you. No one deserves to be alone.”

Joan froze. She just stared at Anne in shock for a long time before tears fill her eyes and start to run down her cheeks. She tries to stop them, but it’s clear she’s been bottling this all up for a long time and won’t be able to hold it back any longer.

“Y-you want to be my friend?” Joan whispered.

“Yes, Joan.” Anne answered her honestly, not missing a beat. “You deserve someone who cares about you.”

The most heartbreaking whimper Anne has ever heard strangled itself out of Joan’s throat. The tears start to come down faster.

“N-nobody— Nobody has ever w-wanted to—”

“Oh, Joan...”

Anne quickly got out of her chair and walked around to Joan’s side of the table. She wrapped her arms around the girl and she immediately slumped into her embrace, clinging back like Anne was her life line.

“Oh, Joan,” Anne said again. “Oh, you poor, sweet little thing...”

Joan began to openly sob against her shoulder. Her hands claw at the back of Anne’s shirt, desperate for a good hold.

“I’ve- I’ve been alone f-for so long—” She wept.

“Shh, shh,” Anne hushed her. She began to rub her back soothingly. “I’ve got you now, honey. I’ve got you. I won’t let you go.”

That elicits a sharp whimper from Joan, who burrows herself even closer to the queen’s warmth. And she stays like that, half slid out of her stool, clutching onto Anne Boleyn like her life depended on it until she was able to choke back the rest of her tears.

“Feeling any better?” Anne asked. She was still rubbing Joan’s back, as the girl had yet to pull back from the embrace.

Joan shrugged weakly. “A-little.” She croaked. “N-not...not good. But better. B-because you’re here.”

Anne’s heart simultaneously broke and melted.

“You sweet girl,” She said lovingly. “I want to be here for you from now on. Is that alright?”

Joan nodded. “Please...”

“Alright,” Anne said. She gently pressed Joan back and gave her her water bottle, which she never actually opened. “Drink something for me, sweetheart.”

Joan obeyed and took a few small sips of the water. It soothed her dry throat, which was weak from the outpour of emotions.

“Good girl,” Anne said encouragingly. “Hey, here’s an idea! Why don’t we go back to my house and watch a movie? I know there’s a tray of lasagna we could heat up! If you want to, that is.”

“N-no, that’s-” Joan sniffled. “I would really, really like that...”

Anne smiled warmly at her.

“Wonderful.”

———

When the other queens came home later that evening, none of them were expecting to see Anne sitting on the couch with the music director’s head in her lap, but that’s the sight they were greeted to.

They both looked content, Anne with a loving smile on her lips and Joan with a peaceful expression settled on her face as she slept. One of Anne’s hands was stroking through Joan’s hair and the other was holding a book, which she looked up from when the front door opened.

“Hey, ladies,” She said, momentarily setting down Wings of Fire- The Dragonet Prophecy. “How was dinner?”

———

A day later, Anne got a notification on her phone saying that @force-be-with-ewe had posted. When she checks it, she sees a digital drawing of Killer Frost being nuzzled lovingly by a large, emerald green dragon.

The caption simply reads, “Thank you for giving me a chance”

#six the musical fanfiction #six the musical fanfic #six fic #six fanfiction #six fanfic #anne boleyn #jane seymour #katherine howard #joan on the keys #anna of cleves #catherine parr #catherine of aragon #nana boleyn #in aeternum little lamb

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gofordrakgo · 5 years

Text

Dwelling Chapter Two

“ ‘You’re like a mom,’ she blurted, her mouth still sticky with peanut butter. Only after the words were out of her mouth did she realize what she said. His eyes went wide, and jam spilled down the crust of his half of the sandwich as he squeezed it too tightly. ‘I… I’ll ignore that if you tell me why your skin is green.’ ”

Dwelling Summary

Dwelling Chapter One

Dwelling Chapter Three

The apartment building itself smelled like mildew and microwaved fish, and Shea couldn’t help but flinch when the smell hit her. Only one overhead light brightened up the entrance and it flickered enough to be headache-inducing. The man working at the desk, an older guy wearing an oversized cross on a gold chain, looked like he hadn’t showered even once since the invention of running water. He looked her up and down, then winked in Drew’s direction.

“Feel like sharing, Lipsky?” He asked. His voice sounded like someone with a permanent cold trying to speak by submerging their head in water. Shea hated everything about him instantaneously.

If it weren’t for the fact that she didn’t want Drew to freak out and decide she couldn’t actually stay the night, she would have plasma blasted the slimeball out of the building. And, to be honest, because of the fact that Drew’s only response was to look appalled, and immediately, though subtly enough that anyone else might have missed it, move to put himself between her and the creep.

Despite her assumption that Drew knew less about real fighting than a toddler at a ninja-themed birthday party, Shea had never felt so protected. Her brothers knew as well as she did that she could handle herself against the worst of the worst, and they never bothered to stand up for her anymore.

Once, when she was twelve or thirteen, a local news anchor commented to her, on live television, that like most other men, he was counting down the days until she turned eighteen. Her brothers, though they later claimed to be discomforted by his words, said nothing.

Heath's only contribution was to reprimand her afterward for storming off and leaving scorch marks on the wall backstage. Merrick whined for the rest of the day about how she had gotten all the attention when the broadcast should have focused on the way he’d taken down the villain of the week. Wendell and Westley, she forgave because they were too young to understand what the implications had been, but it was still annoying when they cried all evening about not getting to eat the candy that had been left out for them to have after the interview, even after Shea had snuck them both candy bars from her hidden collection.

It felt kind of nice, in a simultaneously uncomfortable way, to have someone act protective over her. It seemed as though he were a momentary barrier between her and all of her past troubles. He felt like a personified version of… oh. She knew then, more like an unspoken instinct than a conscious realization, that she and Drew would, somehow or another, become much closer than some runaway brat and the college student who wanted her gone by the next morning. Everything about Drew screamed out home in a way that home hadn’t for years. The way he placed himself in harm's way for her, the way the lapses of silence seemed natural rather than awkward, even the way they had bickered the whole walk screamed of home to her, of safety and warmth and something else she couldn’t quite place. Love crossed her mind before being quickly dismissed. Acceptance. That was it.

Still standing between her and slimeball, he began to usher her up the steps. After all the walking they had done, they still had to climb six flights of stairs.

Somewhere between the fourth and fifth flight, Shea finally looked down at Drew who trailed just a few steps below her. “Hasn’t this place ever heard of elevators?”

“Just keep walking,” he grumbled, his eyes focused on the stairs like he’d miss a step if he looked up. Never one to like being bossed around, she immediately stopped to glare at him.

A moment later, Drew crashed right into her. She kept her balance easy enough but worried he might actually go falling backwards down the steps. She grabbed his shoulder to steady him without thinking. Was that a hero thing? Or just something normal people did? She hated that she could no longer tell the difference, and hated the idea of having to question her every choice even more.

Once he seemed stable enough she snapped her hand back. “Watch your step, poindexter,” she warned, hoping he understood the double meaning behind her words.

“Nngh- stop calling me that,” he snapped, sending her a glare of his own. He stormed past her, leaving her to actually have to run up a number of steps to catch him. By the time she did, he was in the process of shoving open the door to the sixth-floor hallway. He didn’t hold it for her the way he had when they first entered the building, and she rushed to catch it before it shut and locked her out. She had a feeling, even as angry as he seemed to be, he would have come back to let her in. Eventually.

The silence had officially become awkward as he unlocked the door to his apartment. The keys kept sticking, and it took him three tries to get the door open. When it finally swung open he, once again, didn’t hold it for her. She inched inside before the door could swing shut.

The apartment was, as expected, not very spacious, though it was pleasantly, if sparsely decorated. A navy blue sofa and matching loveseat were angled towards a tv stand. Though the television itself looked old, his collection of VHS tapes could rival her own. For the first time since she slipped away earlier that day, she actually missed Go Tower. Her quick scan of the movies showed a ton of nostalgic children’s movies, every sort of sci-fi and fantasy out there, and every season of Mighty Martian, but not one good horror movie. Well, no horror movies at all, good or bad.

She considered commenting, but when she glanced over at him the anger still radiating off of him slapped her in the face. He had his back turned to her, and for a moment she watched him as he dropped all of his books on the counter that marked the end of the living room and the start of the kitchen. He still didn’t look at her, as he rounded the corner and threw open one of the cabinets. Hunger twisted at her stomach, making her remember with near painful clarity that she hadn’t eaten anything since noon.

She trailed into the kitchen behind him, putting the books she had been carrying in a neat stack beside the ones he’d thrown everywhere. She leaned against the counter and asked, “So. Um. Is Lipsky your last name?” trying to alleviate some of the tension.

He glanced at her over his shoulder, then turned back again. She continued to watch him as he pulled bread and peanut butter from the pantry and barely stopped herself from grabbing him when he brushed past her to get to the fridge.

She fidgeted with the hem of her t-shirt, green like most everything else she owned. After what felt like hours of internal debate, but had actually only been long enough for Drew to start slathering peanut butter onto a slice of bread, she decided she should probably apologize if she wanted to try asking him for food again.

He had just finished making the sandwich when she mustered up the courage to mutter, “I- um. Sorry.” He glanced at her, sighed, then looked away again to cut the sandwich in half. He took a bite out of one half, holding the other half out towards her. She snatched it from his hands, worried he’d change his mind. He gave her a startled look.

“Your room-for the night- is through that door,” he said, jerking his thumb behind him. “Um. The sheets on the bed should be clean, I think I changed them a few days ago.” He shrugged and added, “if they’re not there’s extra in the closet in the hall.”

“You’re like a mom,” she blurted, her mouth still sticky with peanut butter. Only after the words were out of her mouth did she realize what she said. She felt her face heat up knowing that if he somehow hadn’t noticed the green skin before he would definitely notice now.

His eyes went wide, and jam spilled down the crust of his half of the sandwich as he squeezed it too tightly. “I… I’ll ignore that if you tell me why your skin is green.”

“Would you believe me if I said I ate too much broccoli as a kid?” She asked. He stared at her, which she took to mean he would not. “I didn’t mean it as an insult, you know.” Every bone in her body begged him to just let it slide.

“You realize you’re eating my food in my apartment, right? The least you could do is tell me that you’re not carrying some deadly virus I don’t know about!”

“Well, I’m not,” she snapped. “My skins just green, okay? It’s not deadly! It doesn’t come off! And it’s not contagious!” He took a step away from her as she began yelling, and she forced herself to calm down. She didn’t want him to be afraid of her, despite her earlier attempt at threatening him. She’d actually started to like the guy and she didn’t want to completely ruin her one sort-of chance at having a friend.

She hoped he wouldn’t notice her looking at her hands to make sure they hadn’t caught fire. They hadn’t, which gave her the barest hint of relief.

Right as she considered that she might have to apologize for scaring him he asked, “Are your brothers green too?” He didn’t seem all that scared to her anymore, which, gah, he annoyed her just as much when he wasn’t scared as he did when he was. What was it about him?

“No.” She jumped up to sit on the counter, letting her legs dangle over the side. “But they’re not… I don’t know, normal, either.”

“Is it a genetic thing?”

“Not exactly.”

“What makes your brothers abnormal?”

“I think every question I answer should get me an extra night. This is personal stuff, Drew.”

He hesitated, then his startled look turned into a smirk. “Counteroffer, five questions get one free night.”

She finished the last bite of her sandwich and crossed her arms. She loved nothing more than a challenge. “One big question or three little ones gets a free night.”

“No. There’s no way I could know for sure which questions are big and which are little. Five questions for a free night. But you can pick and choose what to answer.”

“Three questions but I still get to choose what I answer.”

“Five questions and I’ll throw in one free meal a day.”

“Three questions for a free night, two more gets the meal.”

Drew stayed silent for a long moment, staring at her. And then he stuck out his hand. “Deal.”

She slapped her hand into his and shook on it. His hand was sticky with the jam that had spilled earlier. Though she elected not to say anything about it he seemed to realize as they pulled away.

“Sorry,” he muttered and passed her a dampened paper towel. She shrugged off his apology and wiped her hands clean. “So. What is supposedly so abnormal about your brothers?”

She sighed and tossed the paper towel over his head into the trash can behind him. “My oldest brother is kinda blue. Not that most people can really tell. They can tell his hair is blue, though.” She paused.

Drew did exactly what she hoped he would do. “What about the other?”

“That counts as two questions!” Her grin widened as she took in his glare.

He crossed his arms and yawned. “Fine. Just answer it. And then I want to go to bed.”

“He’s purple. Like really purple. His skin, his hair, even his eyes. Also, I have two other brothers.”

“I suppose I might as well ask what’s abnormal about them, and just let you stay tomorrow night as well,” Drew sighed.

Hesitant as she’d been to answer his questions at first, she found herself enjoying talking about it. At least he didn’t know to ask about her powers.

“They’re twins, Wendell and Westley.” Of her brothers, they were the only ones she still liked and the only ones she worried about missing. “Their hair and eyes are red. Not ginger red, but more like that little drop of blood after getting your finger pricked.”

“Lovely. I imagine almost every word of that was a lie, but nonetheless, I suppose you can stay tomorrow as well. Cups are here,” he knocked on a cabinet above the dishwasher. “Use the filtered water in the fridge. And… well. Don’t drink my cocoa moo.”

“I’m not ly- wait… Cocoa…moo?”

“Yes. It’s mine. You can’t have any.”

“What exactly is cocoa moo?”

“Nngh! It’s chocolate milk.”

“Why do you-”

“Because I do, alright?”

“Whatever.”

Drew ran his hand through his hair, yawning once more. “I’m going to bed now. Your door locks but only turn the lock halfway if you plan on locking it. Otherwise, it’ll stick and we’ll have to call someone to get it open.”

“Okay. Um… thanks, by the way.”

“Sure. Just. You know.” Drew shrugged, but she saw the blush that spread evenly across his cheeks. “And yeah. Um. Lipsky is my last name.”

And then he turned on his heel, locked the front door, and disappeared down the hall into what she assumed must be his room. Shea stayed on the counter, staring at the second hand of the clock as it tick-tick-ticked. It seemed unreal.

In a weird way, Drew Lipsky’s apartment reminded her a lot of home, before the comet. They hadn’t been a rich family at all, back then. Heath and Merrick shared a room that had barely fit their bunk beds, let alone Heath’s desk and Merricks toy box. Sitting on Drew’s counter now, she imagined she could still hear them fighting over who got to sleep on the top bunk that night. Heath almost always came out victorious, until Merrick went screaming and sobbing to their mother.

Shea had shared a room with the twins, for the first couple years of their lives. Her dad built her a lofted bed before they were born. The crib, which had been built to split into two as soon as the twins were old enough, fit neatly underneath. The babies would have been put to bed an hour before her own bedtime, and she learned quickly to sneak in silence up the ladder to her bed if she didn’t wish to wake them up. She’d get a silent half-hour, reading from a pile of books next to her pillow by the dim glow of a flashlight. Most nights Heath and Merricks fighting would wake the twins. More than once their cries had interrupted her in the middle of the best part of her story, in which case she’d climb back off her bed, and make the older boys fight worse than it had been, adding her own screams and wild punches into the mix.

Those nights her mother would come in, long before Merrick had the chance to lose the fight, and decide who slept where. Then, she’d take Shea downstairs, pour her a glass of chocolate milk, and they would stay up late, curled up together on the couch, both reading their books.

That was back when her father was just a carpenter, and her mother was just a teacher and they were just normal children.

Shea glanced over to the fridge, the temptation to pour herself a glass of chocolate milk was strong, despite Drew’s earlier warning. He was already letting her stay with him, despite her being able to contribute nothing except some half-answers to his questions, which he didn’t believe anyway. And already today she had done one thing that he had made a point of telling her not to do. She swung her legs out and leapt off the counter.

“Maybe some other time,” she said in the direction of the fridge, feeling ridiculous even as she did. Still, hero or normal person, she thought following Lipsky’s basic rule was, in general, the better idea. “Thanks again, Drew,” she whispered, glancing down the hall towards his door. It was easier to say when she wasn’t looking at him.

Her bedroom, or rather her bedroom for the next two nights, held nothing but a double bed. The blank white walls begged to be painted, covered in posters, anything to stop the room from looking like a hospital room. Even the thought made her sick. She’d spent far too much time in hospitals after the comet struck to be comfortable with them.

Any notion she’d felt that she was meant to meet Drew strengthened ten-fold when she looked at the bed. As if he’d known she would be the one sleeping in the bed, he had covered it in green sheets, a dark black blanket folded neatly at the bottom. The sheets themselves were soft beneath her fingertips, and the clean lavender scent that wafted off them made her feel incredibly grimy in comparison. She almost wanted to take a shower, before climbing in, but the pillows looked so inviting.

With a contented sigh, she closed the door behind her, slipped out of her jeans, leaving her t-shirt on and crawled into the bed. She left the door unlocked.

#drakgo #drakken #drew lipsky #shego #shea go #drakken x shego #shego x drakken #drakken and shego #drakken and shego origin story #team go #kim possible #kp #drakgo fanfiction #Dwelling #chapter two #update #works-in-progress #gofordrakgo

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whumping-newbie · 5 years

Text

The Cache

So I reblogged a prompt a while ago from @whumpster-dumpster and then decided to tweak it just a little bit. This is my reluctant whumper/accomplice finding one of my whumpee’s stashes whilst still in captivity. It’s close enough and it inspired me.

The caretaker discovers that the whumpee has been stealing and stashing food in various random places – in coat pockets, behind couch pillows, under sheets.

It’s also part of my ongoing Michał arc, set just after the Thanks to Me piece, in which Michał has recieved a promotion for his efforts in uncovering a resistance hideout.

Tagging @givemethatwhump and @straight-to-the-pain because you both love Michał and I never tire of hearing it.

POV: Michał

The glass shattered against the wall, just narrowly missing the window by an inch. The crystal clear contents of the glass splashed to the ground, staining the deep maroon walls with its sticky residue.

I wrung my right wrist in my left hand, holding it tightly for a few moments before I ran my hand through my hair as I tried to rack my brains. What can I do now to help? I tried to get Aleksander out so that they would help me protect the girls. But what on earth can I do now that they have been discovered?

The words of that resistance woman still rang in my ears as I contemplated my situation, the words she uttered to me after the men left, way back when I first met her in the library.

I do not trust you, at all. I would rather cut you up and send you back to your boss with a few appendages missing.

The sheer malevolence in the tone of her voice had been bone chilling. In some ways, she scared me more than Emil did.

But you’re useless to us like that. I meant what I said. I will kill you if you do anything that lets him die.

I can’t remember how or even if I responded to her threats. I promised I’d get her man out of here, and I meant it, but now I have no idea if they are even alive. They could be dead for all I know, they could have been rounded up with the others. I have no way of knowing, but all I know is, that if she is alive, I am probably not going to survive for much longer. I’ve been credited with those arrests. She won’t forgive me for that.

I was in the hospital for a week after the fight I definitely did not come out on top of, and honestly, I was more miserable now that I was out of that bed. My wrist and ribs were healing as well as can be expected, but I was still covered in bruises and cuts that were unlikely to go anywhere anytime soon.

I knelt down in front of the broken glass by the floor and attempted to gather it up into one spot so that I could clean it up properly. It nicked at my skin, but I truly didn’t care for that anymore. Emil had promised me multiple rewards for my service once I was back on my feet, the first of which was a promotion in rank.

Not quite enough to get me anywhere I couldn’t already, I was still to do his dirty work, but it did mean I had command over a few men.

Part of that promotion meant that I now had my own office, just like Emil did, only smaller. It still doubled as my quarters, but it was marginally easier to conceal contraband in when you are the only one living in the room.

As I cupped my hand and slipped it behind the bookshelf, trying not to instantly slice my hand open on the glass I was expecting to be there. However, I froze when I felt something solid. Something larger than the glass shard, but softer in texture. I tapped it gingerly a few times, just making sure that there was something there.

I clutched at whatever it was, tugging it my way from under the shelf. I frowned when I realised it was a small cache, a very small fabric bag that was no larger than the span of my hand, and it was tied shut with a ribbon. There was something in it, and I untied the ribbon in order to ascertain what was inside.

I put my entire hand into the bag and pulled out the first thing I grabbed. An apple. I set it down on the floor, there was more in this bag. There was a few broken pieces of cracker. The final thing the bag contained was a handful of nuts.

There will be certainly be rats if this is left out. I collected up the bag, replacing the contents and carrying it away from its hiding spot. I was just about to drop the bag into the waste bin beside the desk before I stopped, a single thought slipped through my mind.

How did it get there?

Ignoring for the moment that there is a pitiful amount here, certainly not enough to live on, why was it hidden in such a place? That left one question.

Who is desperate enough to put a small stash of food behind a bookshelf?

I didn’t need to ponder the question, because the answer came as soon as I asked it.

A small, barely noticable knock at the door. I opened one of the drawers in the desk and dropped the stash in there for the moment, settling it on top of the papers that rested in there. I opened the door for whoever it was, not caring that I had my jacket undone for the moment. I was momentarily surprised to see Irena in my doorway.

She shuddered at the way I opened my door so suddenly, but relaxed for a moment when she recognised me. It’s Irena, she was wearing that same damn dress as Matylda, the open backed one. I could not see whether or not she had any scars there or not, but I was filled with a slightly morbid curiosity to find out. The bespectacled girl looked to be in a similar state to that of her friend - absolutely no marks on her face, nothing that signified any kind of mistreatment was there except for her expression. No happy grin, just one of total neutrality. She had a similar looking collar to Matylda, but Irena lacked the red marks around her wrists. That, or I just couldn’t see them very clearly. She always did have a darker skin tone, her and Zofia shared that trait at least, but even so...

“S-sorry to interrupt your evening, sir,” she apologised, bowing her head down before looking at me again. She was clutching a metal bucket filled with soapy water and a cloth in her hands, “I... I was sent to clean the floors.”

She wasn’t curled in on herself like Matylda had been. She stood tall, despite the clear yet disguised hatred for the situation she had been put into. She didn’t seem... as badly affected by any of this. Her eyes did seem haunted, though. Haunted by the memories of what things were like before - she was nothing like the Irena from my memories. I remember what Irena was like - she was the jovial, happy-go-lucky trickster of the group. Honestly, I saw sides to all of the girls that very few people would ever get the chance to see - I got a glimpse at their private lives, the sides of them they shielded from both the public and the King himself - and Irena was always the one to bring a smile to everyone’s faces. She had a knack for making people laugh. She liked to play practical jokes, just harmless practical jokes like filling a letter with glitter and posting it through their doors.

I don’t think she would dare try any of that now. She looked like she hadn’t smiled in a long time, much less brought a smile to someone else’s face.

I stood to the side, granting her entry without a word. I closed the door behind her, pausing there for a moment before locking it. I heard her draw in a breath, but she just crouched to her knees and put herself to work, starting on the farthest side of the room away from the door, away from me.

She didn’t face me as she worked, and that was fine with me. For a moment, I just watched her. Dare I ask her about the stash of food? Even if I did, I have no way to prove that it is hers.

But then again, what are the chances that she is being fed well? Extremely slim. Just looking at her I could see that, she didn’t seem to have nearly as much body mass as she did the last time I saw her. She was not a skinny girl to begin with, so the difference was striking and easy to see.

I pulled the cache of stolen food out of the drawer, and wordlessly stood behind her, dropping it to the floor directly in front of her. She froze, I saw the hesitation, I saw the panic that flared as she gripped the cloth she had been scrubbing with, she gripped it so hard that the water was expelled from it, spilling out onto the floor, mingling with the water that she had scrubbed with.

I crouched down beside her, watching her. She pointedly ignored me, keeping her eyes on the small bag. Her breathing was sharp, I could tell she was waiting for me to say something about it first, She didn’t move, either.

“Is this yours?” I asked quietly, pointing at it.

I watched Irena carefully, I noticed her eyes flicker in my direction for barely a moment before they were back down to the floor. I could see the glisten of a tear as it formed in her eye.

“I... I’m sorry, sir,” she croaked, closing her eyes and letting the tears stream down her cheeks as she bowed her head further still, “I, I was, um, I... I was...”

“I’m not going to get you in trouble for this,” I put my hand on hers, feeling the tension in her clenched fist, “is it yours, Dąbrowska?”

She looked up at me, finally, for just a moment before she gazed at the floor again.

“... Yes, sir. It is mine.”

She had closed her eyes, and waited, almost like she expected me to hit her for that. I grabbed the little bag and got back up to my feet.

“When was the last time you ate, Irena?” I asked, walking back to the desk, rummaging around my drawers.

“I, erm... sir?” She asked, turning her head to face me but not rising from the floor.

“When was the last time you ate? You don’t hide food in an office unless you know you’ll need it eventually,” I said over my shoulder, “you must be starving.”

“It’s not... It’s not for me,” she admitted quietly, turning her whole body around on the spot to face me.

“Who is it for if not for yourself?” I turned back around, looking at her wring the cloth in her hands. She looked at the door, and then at me, her blue eyes betraying her. She wanted to keep it a secret, I could tell. She didn’t know what to tell me, she didn’t know whether or not to trust me, “Look, I want to help you,” I whispered, taking careful steps closer to her.

“Help me?” she asked, “how do you propose to do that?” she shook her head at me, a certain brand of hurt flitted across her face, and it was contagious. The way she sounded so unconvinced by my own words really stings worse than the throbbing in my wrist. “You know what they’re doing to us. You know that they’re hurting us, and you’re just standing there watching them. I know you might not think it, but we do talk to one another. Matylda told us you were covered in someone else’s blood the last time she saw you. She said you were working for Emil, actually doing things for him. Hurting people for him. And you expect me to believe that you want to help us?”

I can’t contest her argument at all, because everything she says is true. Everything. There was nothing I can say in my defence here because I would be lying to her if I was to defend myself, to say anything to refute what she knows is true. She’ll be more alert and attentive than ever, especially when not being alert could mean brutal punishment for her and the others. Irena is an intelligent young woman, there is no dispute there. It would be an insult to say anything against her on that front.

“I’m sorry, Irena,” I apologised, “I... I’m trying. I want to help, but -”

“Do you, Michał ?” she asked, her voice breaking, threatening to overcome her with tears, “tell that to Matylda, who is suffering with Emil. Tell that to Anastazja, who is putting herself in danger to earn food and secrets for us. Tell that to Zofia and Karolina, who are personal servants to the General, and are hearing nothing but what he is going to do with the country now that he has control. Tell that to me, who got beaten up last week because the duty guard blamed me for his stash of cigarettes going missing. You’re no better than them. Don’t tell me you want to help when you’re letting this happen.”

Her voice began to trail off towards the end, I could tell she was struggling to finish what she wanted to say. She had been bottling this up for a while, and I honestly wonder if she felt better for saying it. If she felt more at ease for saying something that had been preying on her mind like an unrelenting plague.

And honestly, I was heartbroken to hear her.

I had thought about this in one way or another since I started my posting here, but hearing her say it, almost like she’ll never forgive me for this, nor accept my help.

That trust, all of it gone.

That faith in me, I had betrayed her. All of them, all for my own stupid, selfish reasons.

She didn’t even let me finish, she turned around and continued the job she came here to do. I remained speechlessly stood there, her cache of food still in my grip. I was suddenly overcome with a new, almost refreshing renewal of motivation. I felt the resurgence corse through me, the desire to want to help her.

Even if she doesn’t see it now, I need to help them, I want to.

I have to.

By the time she had finished with the floors half an hour later, I forced the cache into her hands.

“I’m going to leave food for you here, every day. Come by when you need some, I promise, I am going to get you out of here. Just keep your heads down, I’ll find a way, I promise you.”

#my writing #my OC's #michał #irena #broken glass #Blood #a little bit but anyway #referenced/implied torture #it's not great #I am aware #it's a filler piece tbh #I figured that Michal needed to see someone he's trying to help #but they are so uncertain of him #I'll probably rewrite this in the future.

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wroteclassicaly · 5 years

Note

Goodbye prompt please !!!!

Smut Prompts - Michael Langdon

69. Goodbye - Our muses have one last night before breaking up/leaving each other

A/N : Calling this one ‘Goodbye Means‘

Pretty happy with the turn out. It’s a lot longer than a drabble or a starter, lol. Most of the time my brain takes off. Fucking Michael. Anyways, hope you enjoy, nonnie! And I hope all of you like it too! Lemme know!

Warnings : Language and explicit smut.

You try not to look at him, not wanting to, not being able to tolerate it. Michael has this way, however, of changing your entire resolve. You know what is going to occur before the next sunrise, is for the best, necessary for you both to attend to the next stages of your separate lives. Doesn’t mean it feels entirely right or doesn’t hurt any less. You try to keep that suffocating choke back from clouding your senses.

You want to be open for this last stolen night with your boyfriend. This is the hardest fucking thing you’ve ever had to do, knowing you won’t get this anymore after it’s all over. He’ll find someone else when he finally reaches the purpose in his life that he’s always been meant to. And this is all you can think about, well, besides the obvious horizon. You no longer look forward to them, they’ll just remind you from this point on.

You feel the bed dip, Michael’s cologne attacking your senses and increasing the burning in your eyes. You turn your head, wanting to run from this, go with him, forget all of everything until you’re okay again. It isn’t possible. You don’t need his sigh to tell you that. He noses your shoulder, lips pecking your flesh.

“Please don’t shut me out, Y/N.” Michael pleads, his voice on the verge of cracking.

You want to laugh but you don’t. Shrugging him off you, you move in front of your dresser, wrapping your arms around yourself, his lips already a ghost to your skin. There’s this fleeting moment where you desire to push him out the door and forgo your agreement.

Look at you trying to tell yourself it’s a simple business arrangement to lessen the pain you’re denying.

You don’t have to turn around to be aware of the hurt you caused Michael. Rejection doesn’t bode well with him, especially when he’s already tangled in a sea of emotions, having lost Ms. Mead only days ago. It kills you to be the one doing it to him, but you can’t help it. If you two have sex then won’t it be harder to let go in the morning?

This is so stupid, fucking crazy and absurd.

He can’t choose you after you have been loyal to him, with him every step since you two met. You support what he has to do to finish this, begin his true mission, avenge Mead. But he’s leaving you behind and it’s more than you can bear. Thus, your heart begins to override your head, speaking for you.

“You might as well just end me before you end the world,” You whisper, eyes now fully glassed over by the hot tears.

Nothing but watery shapes are visible in your vision, everything losing all meaning, your heart splattered all over your feet. You can feel yourself detaching like you were before you met Michael, obliterated beyond repair. It has your soon to be ex who just wants to shove his cock inside of you one last time, on the verge of a panic attack.

No, he loves me, it’s not just sex for him. It’s becoming one together before we can’t be anymore.

Rationality is trying to reason with your painful anger. You can’t fight, too tired and defeated. You can’t go through with this, because that means it’s true. Michael has a bigger and better purpose than you. And you’re not fit to travel the journey with him.

He has disagreed but you state it fact. I’m nothing when it all boils down.

Michael is wrapping his arms around your waist from behind before you know which end is up, making your lungs stutter, stumble, trying to remember the simple art of breathing. It hurts, you’re scorching, skin singeing. You try to bite back how your entire body feels safe in his hold, how nothing can ever harm you, how you’re both at your best together. Your hands, how laying them atop his own sends an electricity so powerful through you that you can’t feel your feet on the hardwood.

You unravel quickly, panicked adrenaline twisting through you, poisoning out all emotions in a vile wash.

Michael tries to speak and you tug your jean skirt down with your panties, bending over to hold onto your dresser, watching in a sickly trance as your tears sprinkle the floor below. You’re sour, closing those iron doors off, wanting to slam them in Michael’s face, in fate’s smug form. Your lips stretch around a crackling chap, throat dry and wet with anguish, sending your heart back out to reveal. “Take what you want and get the fuck out of my life. It’s all just time after this, doesn’t matter anymore.”

It’s all still, like a fresh snowfall on a quiet morning when nothing exists but the cold beauty of nature. You take the opportunity to assume he’s done and you close the door but a crack, heart splintering in the first few shattered pieces. He isn’t fighting for you anymore. Relieved, disgusted, confused, you are at your bedroom door and you have it open, vice spinning every last ounce of strength you can create-out of you to look directly at Michael. His shoulders are rolled back, his breathing eerily husky, eyes dangerously glaring daggers through you.

You aren’t afraid of him, not really. But right in this moment? His lips are pursed, hands balled into fists. You might’ve just sliced his last rope of sanity. Something inside you is hungry to keep pushing him, make him hate you and go.

He will destroy you soon when he offs the world and that means you can collide into your solitude.

You almost turn your head from his heated lockdown when he’s biting back at you. “Fuck. You.”

The door slams shut, ricocheting off your entire body, leveling you breathless. You gape at him, suddenly wishing you’d kept your clothing on. You rudely wipe the back of your hand over your eyes and start to slide around the door to go, find your breath. Michael is there by your side in seconds flat. You jolt, a reaction so strong that your palm is snapping across his cheek before you can stop yourself. It doesn’t help you, it only releases the flood gates inside you that come barreling through you, forcing the gates back open.

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I can’t breathe, I can’t–” You begin gasping, verging a double over.

Michael is clasping your cheeks in his hands, hit forgotten, forehead sloping to fit to yours. “Shh, shh. Y/N–”

“Please don’t leave me, Michael, please.” You begin to struggle, choppy gapes of air brutally clawing from your throat, puffing past your lips.

You fall into him and you both hit the floor, your lips meeting his in animal instinct, inhaling the air he shares with you, his breath warm, cool like the toothpaste he uses. You fist your fingers into his soft curly hair and pull, spreading your legs to secure him between. There’s a new mission, your hesitation gone. You do NEED this. You’re swelling, teetering into that violent ache.

Clipping your right hand around his neck’s nape, you break a wet kiss, saliva matted to both your mouths. You’re uncaring, Michael’s moving in to leave his marks behind on your neck, teeth scraping, lips sucking to soothe. You maneuver your free hand to his crotch and squeeze, sliding your hand back and forth to console his hardness. He attempts to unsnap your blouse and tires, ripping it open, tearing your bra down to free your breasts. You arch into his awaiting mouth, plump lips closing around your nipple, the stimulation spreading like wildfire down to your already soaked cunt.

You uncuff your other hand to yank at his belt, undoing his pants and shoving them down below his ass with a wild cry of starvation to have him. You’re more than ready to coat him and bring him inside you, legs trembling at the thought of his cock parting your swollen folds, leaving him sticky with your creamy arousal. He uses all his power to quit, pinning your hands in his gently, both of you panting endangered animals.

“I want to savor you, go slow, touch, taste every inch of you,” He brings his mouth down to kiss your jaw, nosing you. “fill every single opening with my cum.”

You lick at his mouth, getting him to part for a sloppy kiss, shaking your head.

“You said earlier before we made this deal for one last night, that maybe someday we’d have another.” His blue eyes drown in tears, he nods, brushing some of your hair off your forehead, letting you continue. “Let’s go slow after the world ends. If I find you, promise me that night.”

“Whether you’re with me or not, my nights are always going to be yours. My moments. I love you more than what is inside of me. Know it, Y/N, please say you know that.” You’re rapidly melting, uncurling with a crash.

Your heart spills out into Michael’s hands, forever with him. “You’re my whole world.” Is all you can get out, the sobs pounding your chest, launching out of you.

Michael slides his fingers into your mouth for you to suck and he’s preparing you, stroking, memorizing you so slowly it hurts. By the time you’re ready he is shaking, damn near falling apart. You hold him close to you, both of you locking eyes, you guiding him inside of you, relishing in that deep set pushing pull, that prickling stretch that causes goosebumps to puncture your flesh. You curl your legs around Michael and move in rhythm with him, tears dropping off your cheeks and onto your breasts. Michael intercepts, licking the salt off you, pressing his nose back against yours, not taking his eyes off you, neither of you daring to look away.

He’s so beautiful you smile through your cries, Michael kissing you through his breakdown, his cock swelling inside you. He looks at you in apology and you wrap an arm around his neck, hand resting in his hair. “Please…. please come inside me.”

Michael shakes, wanting you to have yours too. “Together.”

He has his hand hovering over where you’re joined, prepared to rub your clit but you opt out of it. “Just let me feel you.” You slide your fingers through his in a clasp, arching off the floor and clenching around him, jaw dropping.

“Baby, please come,” Michael whispers as if he’s drunkenly wedding your soul here and now, and fucking help you it hits you both that this is a turning point, that he is. The next time you meet things will be different, a new world. Your combined breathing is an echo surround sound in your sex steamed room.

Please.

Pleading pleas.

Please

You both can’t deny.

Your muscles lick you sated, holding Michael deep inside you, his cock pulsing, swelling. You’re holding each other’s hands so tightly your fingers are turning white to the knuckles. You let the tickle flame you down, your vision darkening around the edges until all you see is Michael’s blue eyes holding yours. His brows pinch together, innocent, he cries out, a warmth drenching your sensitive pussy, gifting you with every piece of his essence he can offer. He collapses atop you in a fit of sobs, both of you shattered.

Goodbye.

~*~

When the sun rises you find yourself tucked into bed, alone with Michael’s scent. You climb from your bed, sore, reminding you he was really here hours ago. You open your blinds to watch the pink sky catch golden hues in her blending magic.

Goodbye.

~*~

Some time later, many empty nights, you are following your unusual routine. With your chips, copy of your newly purchased DVD Misery and Big Gulp in hand, you head into your house for a night that means nothing in hindsight. But when you go to your dresser to pull out your pink cardigan sweater, an envelope is stuck to it. Your heartbeat gallops full speed ahead, taking your throat hostage.

You don’t think about possible intruders, danger, who could’ve gotten in here. You are opening its contents and sliding down into the floor, a disbelieving cry cartwheeling out of you. Your fingertips stroke the paper, wide eyes alert. Gates flashing a welcome sign.

Y/N,

Goodbye means I never left you.

From the ashes I will forge a paradise.

When the smoke of winter clears, I will bring into fruition, our promise.

Sanctuary is salvation, only if you are by my side.

Bring what matters to you, I have provided the rest that you will receive upon your arrival. Someone will be coming for you by sunrise.

You will be taken to a familiar place, one where you will be safe.

There’s a woman there, she has a face you will recognize, but she isn’t aware of what you and I know. She is under direct orders to make sure you’re taken care of. Trust her.

Things will be rough there for a while and you will not see me until it’s time. I have given your last name as Langdon. They’ll refer to you as such. What’s in this envelope, please accept it.

They won’t question how you got in, but in case they do, Ms. Mead left me a fortune that also belongs to you. I’ve used some to gain you entry. To them you are just another rich body of bones.

I dream of rebuilding the night with you.

Goodbye means I’ll see you after the world ends.

Goodbye means I will ask you after we go slow.

Goodbye means

I love you,

Michael.

You dip your fingers into the paper to pull out a gold band.

“Goodbye means I will ask you after we go slow.” You repeat out loud, rocking into yourself, holding onto what Michael left, reality settling in.

He chose me, he needs me.

“Goodbye means yes.” You answer, sliding his ring onto your left hand.

~*~

The ride was long, scenery catching you into memory lane. By the time the black limousine is arriving, you recognize this place as Michael’s old school. A woman with Miriam Mead’s face is greeting you as you stare, eyes sparkling in wonder.

“Welcome to outpost 3.” She speaks curtly, leading you. You focus on your ring finger, serene, whole.

Goodbye means I’ll see you soon.

#michael langdon #michael langdon fanfiction #michael langdon x you #michael langdon x reader

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mareebrittenford · 5 years

Text

A bit of a new thing I’m working on

He was too pretty for this place, and Cravy didn’t like it.

The bar felt like the final manifestation of all sad bars across the galaxy. As if all the hopelessness and drown your sorrows feelings spilled in all those bars in all of history had coalesced into this one perfect iteration. From the tables, made from the same ancient scarred gray polymer as the floors (someone got a bulk discount on that stuff) to the smell that was practically a sentient entity.

Somewhere along the line someone had made a stab at decor, but the nautical themed (in space?) items had been printed from the same cheap polymer as the rest of the place, and it had warped and distorted almost beyond recognizability.

The West End (cleverly named after the wing of the station it was on) was not a place that Cravy liked to spend time. But this was where her kids had sent the mark.

Abby and Zigg had both been so excited when they’d come tumbling into the abandoned storage locker that she’d claimed for them. Almost giggly. And those kids didn’t laugh much.

They’d spotted a flashy new ship in the port. One of the kind they called Space Yachts. Stupid pretentious rich people.

But they were sure the owner of this particular yacht was the one. The sucker they’d been waiting for. And these days they were pretty good at sizing people up.

They’d managed to send him here. And now the rest was up to Cravy.

She couldn’t fail her kids.

She moved further into the room and the smell of rancid beer sweat and urine rose up to smack her in the face.

Cravy winced. She’d forgotten how bad it was. And she lived in close proximity to a few hundred other homeless squatters in The Alcoves, the parts of the station that no one else wanted. It could get pretty rank down there, but at least people mostly made an effort to keep their spaces up. In The West End no one had made an effort at anything except intoxication for a long time.

And yet there the mark sat, in all his pretty faced glory. Above him a drooping ovoid life preserver trying to dribble off the wall, a glass of something brownish sitting untouched in front of him. He had his hands folded against his body and his elbows tucked in, like he was trying to avoid touching anything. Including the bench of the booth he was sitting in.

So he wasn’t completely stupid then. That should make things easier. Cravy slid into the opposite side of the booth and attempted to make herself look comfortable and in control on the rippled polymer bench. The man startled and then flashed her a hesitant smile, his white teeth contrasted sharply with his dark skin. Such a clean and well groomed pretty boy.

She knew what she must look like to him. Her big frame in mechanics coveralls that were never fashionable even when they were new, hair that hadn’t been re-braided in weeks. She didn’t smell too good either, it had been days since she’d been able to afford a pass to the public bathing room. (Although in here that probably wasn’t noticeable.)

And she was supposed to convince this pretty boy to trust her.

This was going to go so well.

She owed it to her kids to at least try.

“Are you Foley?” Asked the pretty boy.

She shook her head. “And you should be glad of it. I’m here to save your life.”

He looked around him, as if scanning for an immediate threat. Some of the other patrons were fairly scary looking, but they were focused on their drinking, not some off station pretty boy. Yet Cravy didn’t doubt there were multiple sets of eyes watching this interaction.

“What makes you think I’m in danger?” he asked.

She had to convince him, and fast. But fast wasn’t how you built trust.

“Let me tell you a little story that I’ve heard before. You can tell me if you recognize it.”

He frowned, still distrustful, but nodded for her to continue.

“A certain young man inherited a lot of money. And as rich boys tend to do the first thing he did was buy a flashy fancy yacht, with all the bells and whistles. His mother was concerned, and made him hire a crew through a reputable agency, so even if he got a little too excited partying with his friends she could be sure he was kept safe.”

Pretty boy smiled a little self consciously.

So far so good.

“But then one day when he was visiting a popular party spot, an adventure resort perhaps, several of his crew got very sick. So sick they had to be hospitalized. The rich boy wasn’t a terrible person, he wasn’t going to abandon them there. He’d wait until they were well before continuing his traveling. But then he got a message, someone he cared about was in big trouble, and he needed to fly immediately to a seedy out of the way space station to buy them out of said trouble.”

The cute half smile had fallen from Pretty Boy’s face, and he was starting to look nervous.

“How did you know all that? Are you sure you’re not Foley?”

She sighed again and regretted it. That smell was something else.

“Because, it’s a con I’ve seen play out a couple of times through here. If you’re lucky they’ll just bleed you for cash and steal your ship and your identity. If you’re unlucky…”

“But what about my cousin?”

“Trust me, they’re not here. They’re going to be safe and sound on the other side of the galaxy. Make a few calls and I’m sure you’ll be able to find them.”

He straightened decisively. “Thank you for your help. I’m checking on the information now. If you’re telling the truth I’ll give you a generous reward. What kind of a reward do you want?”

Here was the tricky bit.

“You can marry me.”

A startled laugh burst out of him. “That’s— Are you serious?”

Cravy had never been more serious about anything. She was gambling with her life, and the life of everyone she cared about. He must see the certainty in her face.

“That’s asking quite a lot. How about passage to a major hub and cash to keep you once you get there?”

He was generous, not a surprise, the kids had picked him out. They’d let the last one go by, saying he wasn’t nice to them.

Cravy leaned forward, trying to pass her urgency on to him. “You don’t understand. Your crew is compromised, your ship may even be disabled. I’m a mechanic, and trust me, you’re not flying out of here without my help.”

He leaned forward too, engaged enough to forget his disdain and press his hands to the sticky surface of the table. “Even if I believe you… marriage? I’ll hire you on as crew, bring you on board as a passenger, whatever you like.

I’m not marrying some stranger from a bar on the basis of a crazy story.”

She clenched her fists in frustration. “If you don’t we’ll both most likely be dead within twenty four hours.”

His eyes blow wide and for a split second she thinks she may have shocked him into taking her seriously.

And then— sharp, sickening pain in the back of her head— everything was swirling and she didn’t know which way was up until her head hit the table.

Sucker punched.

What a way to die.

#fictions #my writing #sucker punch #not sure what I'll do with it #but having fun with it

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fishwriter · 5 years

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I did a terrible thing I'm sorry

When I listened to ep 70A, I had a lot of feelings, and I looked and looked for this fic, but I couldn't find it. So I had to write it.

Carlos: It’s a sad letter. A letter about regrets, about mistakes.You know how sometimes you spend a lot of time with someone, and you think that the someone makes you happy, but then suddenly one day you realize… maybe you weren’t happy at all. Maybe both would be better off doing what you love in different places. Without each other. Maybe neither of you were as happy as either of you thought.

x-posted on my ao3

Carlos: I don’t know. Alisha and Doug look really agitated. They’re jumping up and down by the window. The other giant soldiers are running into formation outside. I need to see what’s wrong.

Carlos stares helplessly, the war cries ringing in his ears, as Doug and Alisha tear through his kitchen, grabbing cutlery and various other kitchen implements. As they flee through the door, his cutting board clattering to the ground, a creeping numbness overcomes him at the state of his kitchen counter.

“What a nice place you have, Carlos!” Kevin cooed, running his hands over the countertops. “A little… dry, for my taste, but I think it really suits you.”

Carlos offered him a tired smile. “I arranged it to look like my kitchen at home. My findings show the similarity makes me feel a little less homesick.” Kevin’s smile turned sly, and Carlos felt a chill ripple down his spine at the uncanny familiarity of the radio host’s features.

Carlos: Doug and Alisha are back.

Carlos is writing in one of his notebooks as his computer compiles its data, punctiliously checking for inconsistencies in his equations. Excitement crackles through his scientific objectivity like static, and he sets the notebook down, open, on his desk, so he can compare the graphs he’s sketched with the results from a different experiment.

All of this is just idle quadruple checking, however. Something to do with his hands while the computer works. Something to keep him from staring at the screen in anticipation of the results that will validate the impossible, torturous amount of time he’s spent away from home, away from Cecil . The thought of Cecil swoops through him like a cold wind, and he fights down the nausea, the guilt, the unreasonable bitterness and resentment. He feels the touch of a radio host’s careful fingers ghost-like on his skin, and he grits his teeth, shoving away the intrusive, unwelcome thoughts.

The door bursts open with a violent bang, and Carlos nearly jumps out of his skin, dropping his pencil as Doug and Alisha limp over the threshold, supporting the massive bodies of their comrades. “Are you… okay?” But the question dies off just as it leaves his lips as more warriors begin to flood in, shedding weapons and armour and-- is that a severed leg? The edges of his vision lighten to white, and he worries momentarily that he will pass out. He takes deep breaths, shifting from foot to foot, until he can focus on the army now ransacking his house.

“Does Cecil often help you do science?” Kevin asked, his voice soft.

“Yeah,” Carlos replied, startling himself at the thickness of his own voice. “Yes. He helps—helped—a lot.” He stared at Kevin’s smiling mouth, unable to drag his gaze any higher, and the loneliness clenched his insides with vice-like tightness. Kevin’s face looked so much like Cecil’s. His hair, his ears, his nose, his jaw. His lips. His smile grew wider, as if he could sense what Carlos was thinking, was suddenly imagining, and a horrified flush rose to the scientist’s cheeks as he realised what he was thinking.

“You miss him. Cecil. Don’t you?”

Carlos swallowed. “Yes, I do.”

Kevin: While Carlos tries to get his notes un-bloodied, let’s have a closer look at the weather.

Briskly, methodically, Carlos cleans. He wears thick gloves that protect him up to his elbows and lab goggles over his eyes because he can’t stand the feeling of so much blood on his skin, and he carefully collects the shattered, blood-soaked glass on the floor into a small box, marked with blue dots.

The blood roared in his ears at the warm touch on his wrist. Normally, he’d recoil from an unfamiliar touch, but this didn’t feel like that. It lacked any unfamiliarity at all. He looked down at the tattoos crawling down the hand that had settled over his own, and his heart stuttered in his chest, the loneliness in his head screaming so loud that it drowned out rational thought.

“I’m lonely here, too,” Kevin said quietly, with a sincerity in his voice that Carlos had never heard before. “If you’d like, I think we would both be happier if we were lonely together.”

Impulsively, Carlos turned his hand over so that their palms touched, and he laced their fingers together. “I think I’d like that,” he whispered.

He scrubs every surface, a numb rage swirling in his chest, permeating the air in his lungs, until even the slightest of red tints are gone, quite a feat considering the sunlight in this desert otherworld is always just a little bit red. His gaze flickers to the spatter of blood on his computer’s keyboard, then to the damp rag in his hand, and he decides the risk is not worth it. He just has to deal with it until the computer is done processing. ‘I can do that,’ he thinks. ‘Scientists are excellent at waiting.’ His heart clenches at the thought.

Carlos woke to the faint sounds of battle cries and the syncopatic echoes of marching footsteps, momentarily displaced in his tired brain. He pressed himself closer to the comforting warmth of the man beside him, but a choking feeling rose in his throat, jarring him fully awake. Opening his eyes, he felt a bittersweet ache ripple through him, and he got up to get a cup of water, and perhaps to do science, because when he did science, he didn’t have to worry about the cold shadow buzzing at the back of his mind.

The notebooks are unsalvageable, but he carefully arranges them outside to dry, just in case. It’s not that big a deal, he tells himself. Everything vital is already on the computer. Everything is still fine. He returns to the lab and stares at the screen, the numbers reassuring as they scrolled quickly up the screen.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, Carlos sits down in the freshly cleaned chair at his desk, only to jump up again as he hears the door slam open with a crash. “Are you kidding me?” he exclaims plaintively as a huge whirlwind of white fur explodes into the lab, sending the remaining unbroken instruments crashing to the ground. “Bad dog!” he shouts, attempting to corral Alisha’s massive canine companion. “Outside! Outside now!” The dog skids across the smooth floor, crashing into the desk before scampering towards Carlos. “NO,” he barks, right before the dog’s front paws leave the ground in an undeniable attempt to jump up on his bloodied labcoat. The command seems to work, as the dog hesitates, paws flailing in the air in front of Carlos’s shoulders, and then it’s back on all fours, whirling around in a circle, chasing its tail.

“OUTSIDE,” Carlos orders in his most thunderous voice, and the dog whines mournfully before taking off, full speed, out of the lab. Hands shaking uncontrollably, Carlos looked around at the destruction, seeing the shattered test tubes and spilled chemicals as a cold hollowness creeps into his body. Feebly, he makes his way back to his desk, and he stares at the computer laying on the floor, its monitor shattered and smoking, snapped nearly in half, singe marks dark on the keyboard. He stares at it, his mind utterly silent. He stands there for a long, long moment, gazing down at the ruin of everything he’s worked for, every excuse he’s constructed, every second spent not in Night Vale, where he suddenly, achingly realizes he belongs.

Carlos abruptly turns away and walks to a filing cabinet, opening a drawer and pulling out a blank sheet of paper. He grabs a pen from the floor and begins to write.

#welcome to night vale #wtnv #wtnv fanfic #my writing #carlos the scientist #kevin #unfaithful boyfriends #carlos is a bad boyfriend #i'm a terrible person #spoilers #episode 70A

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quintessentiallygifted · 6 years

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Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: The Gifted (TV 2017) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Clarice Fong/John Proudstar, Lorna Dane/Marcos Diaz Characters: Clarice Fong, John Proudstar, Marcos Diaz, Lorna Dane Additional Tags: Christmas Tree, Glitter Series: Part 9 of 12 days of X-mas oneshots; Underground Edition Summary:

When John agrees to watch Aurora, he’s unaware of just how messy decoration makinging truly is

John was transfixed watching her laugh at something Marcos said, it was breath taking the way her eyes crinkled slightly as a smile lit up her face. He couldn’t stop his own lips from twitching in response. There were so many things he should be doing, Christmas in the underground was always hectic. Between trying to create a sense of normality for the children, dealing with the drop in temperature and the never ending threats he had plenty of jobs to complete. However watching the children decorate the place, seeing the bleak outlook replaced by a sense of festive spirit was enlightening. The fact that he was sorely missing the Christmas spirit was irrelevant.

He was on his way to the study when he stopped and turned as he heard Lorna call him, carrying Aurora in her arms. The not so little baby gurgled, reaching for him. He smiled, easily supporting her as Lorna gratefully handed her over. “Thank god, I need a break” she huffed, examining the stain on her jumper. “Could you watch Aurora while I clean up and de-stress?”

John shifted Aurora, pulling back from the little hands which were reaching for his hair. “Of course. Take as much time as you need. We will start planning a supply run.“ He commented gently rocking Aurora as she kicked her legs.

Lorna smirked “Thanks, and good luck with that. She doesn’t like staying still.”

John chuckled. “Maybe we will go check out the Christmas tree instead.”

“Okay.” Lorna nodded. “I won’t be long.” She replied before rushing off. John watched Lorna leave before returning his attention to the little girl in his arms.

“C'mon Rory, lets go see how the Christmas decorating is going.” Lorna despised the nickname, often complaining she hadn’t had a boy specifically to avoid the name, but it had caught on fast with the younger kids until it was the norm. It was common knowledge to avoid using it when Lorna was around.

The underground was on its way to being decked out for Christmas. An assortment of decorations both scavenged and created were being put up.

Taking Aurora, he sat beside the tree Marcos had found, handing her a soft gingerbread ornament. It was one of the decorations Caitlin had taught the children to make.

Aurora gurgled as she waved it around, her hands flailing for anything within reach. One of her hands successfully latched onto the tree, John juggled her, gently trying to detach her hand. "Aurora,” he chided gently, “your going to bring the whole tree down.”

The girls got grip, and he has to be so gentle, her bones were fragile. Well everything was fragile to John and just as the tree starts to list, he senses someone appearing at his side, distracting Aurora and she lets go of the tree, instead reaching for a new object.

“I figured you could use some help” Clarice murmurs from beside him, a piece of tinsel in her hand which has enamored the infant.

“Thanks, she has Lorna’s stubbornness” he commented wryly as he turned to face her. Clarice hands Aurora the tinsel, the shiny object now the child’s entire focus.

"I can see that. She’s also as finicky as her mother. Hopefully she develops her father’s temperament.”

Their idle chatter is interrupted as Aurora started gurgling and kicking her feet. Caitlin walks by with some of the teenagers and younger children heading towards the crafts table that’s set up to create decorations and ornaments. Some of the younger children were singing Christmas carols whilst the teens talked amongst themselves.

The noise settles slightly as the group gets into their crafts, though Auroras happiness shifts, frustration settling on the small girls face as her eyes crinkle. Clarice looks at the child warily, attempting to settle her with tinsel again. It fails.

“Maybe we should see how the decoration making is going?” She sing-songed, trying to use a overly cheerful voice to calm Aurora.

John huffs our a sigh, shaking his head at how this little monster wraps everyone around her little hand. “She’s definitely her mother’s daughter.“ He mumbles before standing and walking to the table with Clarice.

They sit at one end of the table, some of the older teens around them threading strings of popcorn for the tree, whilst the younger kids decorate some old light bulbs with markers, paint, glitter and glue.

Being closer to the action works for a moment. Though Aurora’s frustration rises further as she tries to grab anything within reach, letting out a shrill cry as she becomes more agitated upon failing.

“Here you go Rory.” One of the teenagers says offering the small girl a piece of popcorn.

Her ire forgotten, she gurgles happily as she plays with the popcorn.

Clarice grins at the teenager. “Thank you, you stopped Chernobyl.” She turns to playfully glare at John. “Where were you?” She teases.

“She’s a little monster.” He defends, shaking his head ruefully.

They settle in at the table, Clarice helping one of the teens next to her with their string of popcorn. John sits back, taking in the festivities. His productive day has gone up in smoke, but he can’t say he minds too much.

Feeling a gentle tug on his shirt, John turns, to find a small boy clutching a craft project.

“Excuse me, can you help me?” His face is tilted down, but John can make out the faint marks decorating his face. It reminds him of someone else he knows, and he suppresses the seed of anger that blossoms in his chest for the mutants who feel they need to hide, especially here.

“Of course” he scoots closer to Clarice, gestures for the boy to sit by him. Clarice turns to look at him for a second, having noticed him encroaching upon her personal space, when she sees the child climb into John’s previous spot she turns back to her popcorn string.

The boy places a small pile of green and brown popsicle sticks on the table the start of, what looks to be, a tree, though John checks with the boy to be sure.

He makes sure Auroras still content before helping the child create his ornament. His entire focus is on helping the little boy create the tree, adding some glitter for tinsel, in those moments he completely forgets Aurora.

It’s not until he hears a soft cry of alarm that he realizes his charge has been silent; too silent.

There’s no time to stop it, John can only watch in horror as the uncovered tub of glue spills onto his, and Auroras, lap the baby kicking her feet happily in the mess.

As they get covered in glue, John pushes their chair back, trying to prevent any more catastrophes.

"Watch out!” Clarice gasps as Aurora’s feet kick out sending the glue flying ever which way, landing on everyone in the immediate vicinity.

Aurora grabs for the table noticing the distance increasing. She catches a bottle of glitter and throws the container back, showering them.

Dumbfounded at how such a small child could create such mess, it takes him a second before Aurora releases an earsplitting shriek, John winces, his acute senses overloaded. The wailing infant latches on to him, smearing the glitterglue concoction against his skin.

Everyone’s silent, then the teenagers, the children and finally Clarice burst out in laughter.

John looks on unamused as Clarice tries to speak through her tears. “You-“ she gasps "should have seen” Clarice cackles, “your face. It looks-” she barely managed to choke out, “like you swam-” she huffs “in glitter.”

Lorna burst in to the room followed by Marcos, the screech of their daughter having reverberated through the HQ.

They take in the situation, Lorna’s eyes narrowing as she catches sight of John and Aurora. "What happened here?” She asks, glaring at John.

John tries to shrug innocently, the effect ruined by the cloud of glitter that flies off him as he shifts. The shower of glitter has Clarice in hysterics.

"Rory wanted to join in the Christmas arts too.” The little boy John had previously been helping with the tree ornament pipes up.

John withholds his groan, seeing Marcos gesturing wildly before turning away to cough into his fist as Lorna whirls on him.

“Rory?” She whispers deceptively calm, glaring daggers at Marcos.

“Babe, the younger kids have a hard time with her name. I swear I didn’t suggest it.” He defends raising his arms in surrender.

“I’ll deal with you later.“ She bites out before walking to John, giving the boy a smile so he wouldnt think she was mad at him. She reaches gingerly for Aurora, smiling gently as the baby gurgles at her before promptly taking her from the room.

“I think the glitters meant to go on the decorations, or were you trying for the unicorn look?” Marcos teases before following his irate girlfriend.

John groans, reaching to push his hair back from his face, pausing as he feels the glue. He glances up as Clarice hands him a wet towel, a smirk on her face.

"I’m not sure how much it will help. I can blink you to the bathroom if you want, so you don’t track glitter through the building.”

Frowning he nods, wincing as he stands, the sticky mess worsening as it shifts.

Clarice steps back from the group. It takes three tries for her to create the portal, each failure frustrating him more as she burst into laughter. It would be amusing if she wasn’t laughing AT him because he definitely wasn’t laughing.

When he finally makes it to the bathroom, he grips the counter, leaving cracks in the surface as he looks at his reflection. It’s worse than he thought. His jeans are soaked, as is the lower half of his shirt. And he’s covered from head to toe in glitter. Bits of glue and glitter cling to his face and neck.

It takes three long showers before the glue disappears. He avoids Clarice for most of a day, avoids Lorna for a whole day. It takes a week before he stops washing glitter from his hair.

#the gifted #John Proudstar #Clarice Fong #thunderbird #thunderblink #john x clarice #thunderblink fic #12 days of xmas oneshots; underground edition

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xehanortsreport · 7 years

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I Feel So Inarticulate [Fic]

[Hey it’s another Parasite AU fic who would’ve guessed]

The fever came on suddenly.

Just after dinner, Hayato fell ill--so much so that he could barely make it to the sofa in the living room, where he immediately collapsed, Shinobu hurriedly covering him with a blanket and shouting to Kosaku that she was going to make a quick trip to the store to get some medicine.

Kosaku had agreed to watch over the child...something he was barely doing currently, as he sat in the recliner adjacent to Hayato, steadily clipping his nails, clinically observing the length of the pearly clippings before somewhat reluctantly casting them aside. Hayato glared at him. The fever made him doubt his convictions, made him think perhaps he had hallucinated everything he had seen...but in his gut, he knew.

He knew that the creature he was looking at in front of him was not his father.

Kosaku glanced at the boy, and the child scowled back, coughing slightly before spitting out a string of threats.

"Don't think you'll get away with this...I know what you are...I'm gonna kill you..."

"He's still in here, you know."

Hayato's mouth hung open, his speech dying in his throat, his movement stopping as abruptly as a puppet snapped from its strings. All that sounded now was the sharp snapping of metal against fingernail. He knew without that man even saying, there was only one person who it could be referring to...but Hayato was afraid to say it. Kosaku stayed quiet, letting the silence choke the boy until it was too much to handle.

Hayato summoned the courage to finally ask.

"You mean...D--"

"Your father," Kosaku spoke, cutting through the tension, stealing even the relief of being able to finish a single thought.

Silence fell once again, terror overtaking the boy's expression. Kosaku let the silence hang in the air, enjoying the reaction as if he were ripping into Hayato's despair, shoving it down his throat in huge gulps, as if starving, as if needing it. Hayato wanted to reject it completely...he didn't want to believe that anyone could be trapped so entirely, to have their body taken over and held prisoner by some monster.

And suddenly, the atmosphere changed.

Kosaku's shoulders began shaking; the clippers dropped from his hands. His breath hitched, his pitch rose--the voice was the same, but the quality of it had shifted in such a way that Hayato, even in his sickness, could recognize that something was different.

"H...Hayato...please...I'm sorry...I'm so sorry, I'm sorry this happened, please--"

Kosaku's shaking whimpers shook Hayato to his core, and his aching body jolted upward, making him wince--but he ignored the pain, instead desperately reaching out to his hurting father.

"Dad--!"

Kosaku's shoulders immediately dropped, and as he turned his face to meet Hayato's wide eyes, the boy shrank back, a chill overcoming him. Kosaku's eyes darkened, a shadow appearing at the corners of his lips as the barest hint of a smirk scraped at his mask.

"...Oh. Was that convincing, Hayato? My apologies...that wasn't him at all. I'm sorry if I mislead you."

Hayato wanted to run the moment he saw his father's face shift horribly, contorting into something he never thought his father was capable of expressing--and now that he saw it, he wish he never had. Kosaku's eyes widened, his lips stretched grotesquely, his teeth gleaming fiercely with saliva and a giddiness Hayato had never witnessed before. His voice lept, spiking up and dropping down, tearing past his throat as he switched between a mocking voice that was nothing like Kosaku, and a shaking sobbing that was too convincing to have not been him...right...?

"Hayato...I'm still your father...would you really kill me?! Even though I'm still in here?"

"I know we never had the best relationship, Hayato, but please, please don't let me die like this!"

"I'm sorry for not having been there for you--I regret it so much--! I also regret eating all those people...one or two...or five...or twenty! Hahahah, I'm sorry, I lost track! Hayato, won't you forgive your poor father for being so bad at keeping track?! Won't you?! Won't you, Hayato?!"

The way Kosaku's skin stretched sickly over his features, the way his mouth twisted unnaturally as he cackled uncharacteristically, was bad enough. Hayato could only stare, body overtaken by fever, sweating as he flashed between torturous heat and disturbingly cold. But as his eyes searched his father's face, he could notice it--the barely visible glimmer of tears behind the eyes, as if in pain--

That was too much.

With a defiant, cracking grunt, Hayato forced himself to swing his legs one at a time over the sofa. He had to run. To somewhere. To someone. He had to get help. His knees buckled under him, sending him crashing to the ground as Kosaku stopped his sickening laughter, all emotion fading away too quickly as he now frigidly watched his son. Hayato strained, shouting desperately, as he fought through shivers and shudders, pushing himself to his feet, wobbling as quickly as he could towards the kitchen. Fear made his heart beat rapidly, almost too quickly for him in such a weak state. His mouth was cotton, his limbs jelly.

To the phone. The phone could help him. Kosaku did not follow him, opting instead to stay lounging in his chair, not even turning to track Hayato's movements. The boy fumbled a bit as his fingers tried to grasp at the kitchen phone's receiver, clumsily trying to string together numbers--

"Mom," he choked out, lips trembling. "I have to call Mom--"

"I wouldn't try that, Hayato. Not unless you'd like to see her mutate like the others."

Hayato's mind filled with noise. His hand gripped the phone so hard he thought he could shatter the plastic, the sweat of his palm making the receiver unbearably sticky.

Mutate? Hayato had seen those abominations...those hissing and creaking and croaking creatures, former humans whose limbs bent backwards and eyes twisted around in their skulls, whose skin crackled and hardened, whose faces warped and squashed and crushed and enlongated. Whose bodies were permanently morphed into monstrosities of nature, whose clacking jaws and snapping mandibles spit forth one name, reverently....

Who never turned back to the way they once were.

Instinctively, he pleaded, though he knew it was useless, though his heart had already ceased to beat in his chest.

"D--don't touch my mom..." He rasped, futilely. "She doesn't...she can't be infected...Don't even lay a hand on her..."

"Of course she's infected," replied Kosaku, amused and yet blunt, without a hint of surprise, as if he had predicted Hayato's every line.

Toying with him.

"The bomb has been planted, shall we say. I just need to flip the switch."

Hayato's body couldn't support him anymore. His mind rapidly cycled through who he might be able to call, and each option came up hopeless. He didn't know who he could trust--if there was anyone TO trust. Josuke...maybe he couldn't even trust Josuke and his friends, who had been fighting so hard against the worm. Maybe they had been infected, too, and didn't even know. Hayato fell to the ground, curling up, pressing his head against the cool tile, squeezing his eyes shut.

Maybe he was the last uninfected person in Morioh. Maybe this battle had been lost long ago. He was alone. He was scared. He was an eleven year old boy, trembling, trying helplessly to fight a horde that vastly outnumbered him. Who could he tell? Who could he call?

His body shook ferociously as he started hiccuping, snot dripping down his face, tears pushing against his eyes. He didn't want to cry; hadn't he faced enough humiliation? Wasn't this enough? He fought as hard as he could against the pain...but the tears eventually pooled, hot and oppressive, against his cheek, spilling and spreading out over the floor, marking him shamefully.

He barely noticed the soft footsteps of his father beside him, nor the towel roughly thrown in front of his face.

"Be sure to clean up if you vomit. I don't think your mother would want to come home to this mess."

#fic #parasite au

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castawxayaway · 7 years

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Mistaken Identity

we are almost at the end of wedif now, cannot believe how quickly this month has gone! day 25 now

(and as a side note I am in no way trying to steal/copy Julie’s The Math Teacher series idea- so please don’t accuse me of doing so)

- wedif post-

wedif masterlist: coming soon

masterlist / request / submit (the usual stuff)

“Come on, you’ll be fine when you get inside!” My friend encouraged me as we neared the vivid neon sign with our tickets in hand.

Glancing past the entrance I saw various people, some chatting and others smoking. I kept my head low as we walked in, got my ticket checked and quickly followed my friend up the stairs, not wanting to risk losing the only person I feel like I can trust.

Mixed conversations surrounded us as we joined the queue for the bar, five different people working their way through the masses in need of a boost or some sort of liquid luck to get them into the mood. I eyed all of the drinks displayed in bottles or cans, saw the bartenders pour shots messily and have it spill down their hands. Once the shot was on the table it was gone within seconds, but I didn’t want to risk shots, not tonight.

My friend ordered our drinks and we picked them up, my boots clinging to the sticky carpet as we walked away from the bar to find somewhere to stand whilst we waited for the act to perform. The nerves only continued to build up in my stomach as I drank the sweet liquid, forgetting how easy it was to be disorientated with a little bit of liquor. “I, I’m just going to the toilets!” My friend yelled to me as the first act of the evening came on, leaving me stood there speechless and struggling to breathe.

Sighing I tried to calm and cool myself down by taking bigger sips of my drink, ignoring the sharp burn it gave me at the back of my throat. The longer she was gone the less I cared, the more I drank the more hazy everything was getting. A light tap on my shoulder I turned around, unsure who I was looking at in the dark lights. Snapping out of the music and my trance I glanced around, remembering where I was and how I was alone.

Dropping the empty plastic cup I could feel my hands beginning to shake but my arms remained numb. Desperation crossed my face as the person before me motioned to an empty space on the sidelines, away from the gentle sways or pushes and shoves. “Do you need some air?” His accent differed from my own, but his voice was soft, caring even.

Nodding I pulled my phone out to text my friend but struggled with the uneasiness of my thumbs. I merely sent her an ‘I’m okay’ so she wouldn’t worry of my whereabouts, or if she’d be aware for a while. The stranger guided me away from the live music and cheers, we walked slowly towards the stairs leading to the entrance. I could feel the cool evening air wrap around my ankles as my legs trembled down the stairs, gripping onto the stranger and the wall with equal amounts of urgency.

Standing in the doorway I took deep breaths as I lent against the cool wall, ignoring the eyes around us and the wisps of smoke passing outside. “Thank you.” I muttered as I kept my eyes closed, concentrating on my breathing.

“Are you going to be alright? Do you need someone or are you with someone?” He asked with such care, I wasn’t afraid, I didn’t feel the need to be away from the calming voice.

Slowly I opened my eyes which remained focused on my slightly scuffed boots. My eyes began to move away from my own feet and towards his, black lace up boots with larger marks and stains covered the sides leading to black skinny jeans wrapping around his legs. Swallowing the lump that remained lodged in my throat my eyes trailed further up his figure. A white top slashed with holes covered with a black denim jacket, barely hiding his muscles clenching in the restraining fabric.

Focusing on his face I just paused, I wasn’t focusing on my breathing or the fact that everything around us had become a bit out of focus instead all I could do was look at his eyes and a affable smile. His eyes were freckled with green in amongst the warm hazel, coated with thick black lashes. Dark blonde hair that was in slight waves pushed back, tied up in a small attempt at a man bun.

“You alright now?” He placed his hand on my shoulder, the light touch as opposed to being heavy handed.

Nodding I readjusted my dress, pulling it down slightly as the back rode up as I clung to the wall for ease. “Yeah, yeah I’m okay.” Sniffing I checked my phone seeing over ten panicked messages from my friend. “Let me just call my friend.” I moved away from him but stayed in doors, not wanting to willingly walk and hang around in a cloud of smoke and fumes.

“Where have you been?” She spoke loudly down the phone as the band could be prominently heard in the background.

Sighing I glanced back to the stranger who remained patient, focusing on me. “I, I couldn’t breathe, I just needed some air that’s all. And I,” Moving the phone closer to my mouth mumbled to her, “made a friend.” Smiling to myself she yelled nonsense back. “Nevermind, I’ll be back in a bit.” I proceeded to hang up and just send her what I tried to say, knowing that would be a better attempt of communication with her.

Holding onto my phone I pushed myself off of the wall and allowed myself to regain my sense of balance. He rushed over and held onto my arms, looking into my eyes with concern. “Okay?”

Nodding he smiled in response. “Do you, do you want a drink at all?” I asked him, I doubt he would but it’s always worth a try.

“Yeah, yeah why not.” We headed back upstairs and before we reached the intensity of the music he paused at the stairs. “I’m Ashton.” He spoke louder than he had to beforehand but it was clear, he wore a light hearted smile now, rather than a concerned look.

Yelling my name back to him I swear I could see dimples in his cheeks, even in the low lighting. Nearing the bar I ordered myself a new drink, something a bit different. “I’ll have a vodka martini.” I spoke up over the bar and showed my ID, she checked it and gave me the all clear.

Turning to Ashton I waited for him to order something, “I’ll have a whiskey on the rocks.” She nodded and proceeded to make it. Rummaging in my purse I pulled out some money but he stopped me. “My treat.” He winked and after some back and forth I gave up, gratefully accepting the drink.

We made our way down to the live music with our plastic cups in hand as I scanned the crowd for my friend who remained elusive. “I’m sure she was here beforehand!” Yelling to him he merely shrugged his shoulders, sighing I took a large sip at my drink to calm myself down and the feeling of relief spread through me as I saw her dancing on the sidelines. “I’ll be right back!” Giving him my drink he stayed still as I headed over to her, thankful she hadn’t left.

“There you are!” She squealed as she danced to the music in amongst others.

We spoke briefly and agreed to meet outside once it ended, waiting for our lift to get us. Hugging her tightly I yelled into her ear, “You be careful!” Like a Mum would have to do for her child in a playground. She merely rolled her eyes and motioned for me to walk away and rejoin Ashton, whom she was unaware of.

Accepting my drink back off of him we began to move closer to the dance floor without much hesitation. Swaying to the music I sang along, feeling relaxed and more easy going than before. Ashton sang too and as I looked up to him he was focusing on me with a soundless laugh, drowned out by the upbeat music.

Two more empty plastic cups later the band had ended, the music for tonight was over. We all filed out and I relaxed into Ashton as he held his arm around my shoulder and connected his hand to mine. Helping me walk down the stairs with more care I giggled as I nearly tripped. “Come on, watch yourself now.” He joked as he managed to remain fairly intact.

Once we were outside the bitter air nipped at my exposed skin, making me shiver. Removing his black denim jacket he motioned for me to open my arms, to which I obliged. Placing it on I felt goosebumps form on my arms as the warmth radiated through my upper body. “Thank you.” Smiling to him I found myself just staring at him, unable to tear my eyes from his.

Unaware I placed my hands on his shoulders, pushing myself onto my tiptoes until his lips were on mine. They tasted of bitter whiskey and full of warmth, he was delicate and caring but I wanted more. Hearing my name being called with such questionability I pulled away and turned around seeing my friend with her mouth wide open.

Rubbing my lips together I glanced back to Ashton, a nervous chuckle sounding from him as he scratched the back of his neck. “Hi.” I spoke up, giving her a small awkward wave. “Is Tom here?” She nodded and moved closer to us. “I’ll be a minute alright?” Giving her a pleading look she merely walked ahead, still in sight but giving us enough privacy for a goodbye. “Well Ashton, guess this is it.” Sighing I didn’t want to go, the musky smell of his jacket lingering already along with the taste of whiskey clinging to my lips. “But thank you, for you know, earlier.”

He placed his hand on my cheek, stroking my soft skin with a sweet smile. “I’m sure we’ll see each other again. Keep that okay? Gives me an excuse to find you.” Chuckling lightly he put his hands in the pockets before pulling out a piece of paper, along with some old gum wrappers. He glanced around and asked for a pen but instead I just passed him my phone.

“Cliche much?” I raised an eyebrow along with my sarcastic remark and he merely nodded.

“You’ve got to allow yourself cliche moments once in awhile, just let this be one of them.” Giving me my phone back he tightly hugged me before walking the other way.

As he walked I focused on the holes in his white top, his now exposed muscles and sighed as I reached my friend. “Looks like someone had a good night.”

The loud droning beeping of my alarm sounds and reaching my arm out of the warmth and comfort I love I hit the snooze button. Rolling over I rub my eyes and blink rapidly as I adjust to the morning sunshine. Sitting up right I glanced over to my chair where his jacket was laid across the seat and remained thankful that I bothered going out on a friday night for once.

Climbing out of bed my feet rubbed into the carpet, feeling the fibres rub against my skin as I adjusted to the cool room rather than the cosy duvet. I began to get ready and ran downstairs for some breakfast before my lift would arrive. “Ready for a new term?” My Mum asked with some joy to which I blankly stared at her. “Come on, at least try to be enthusiastic. It’s your second to last term dear.”

Forcing a smile she sighed, “You can’t say I don’t try to please you.”

Grabbing something for lunch I take the toast that popped out of the toaster, marginally burnt for once as opposed to filling the kitchen with smoke. “Don’t forget your sketchbook!” She yells as I run back upstairs, panting as I reach the top.

Peeping through my blinds the street remains quiet besides the younger students walking in their uniforms towards the bus. The days of those ugly jumpers and itchy trousers are ones I do not miss. Picking up my sketch book and bag I hover at my door before glancing back at the jacket. Shrugging my shoulders I slip it on, serving as a reminder of Friday night.

Hearing my phone sound I rush down the stairs and slip my shoes on before yelling a goodbye around the house, unsure where everyone was situated and joined my friend in the car. As I sat down she raised her eyebrows at my chosen jacket. “Oh shut up.” I joked as she drove on past the kids who shivered as the bus drivers kept the doors shut, refusing to let them on until it was at least 8:10 whilst they had a cigarette and exchanged small talk.

Once we arrive I climb out and put my earphones in, listening to the band from Friday as a distraction from the screams and squeals of children surrounding me. Walking past them I headed towards art, knowing this was always my morning downtime before things got busy.

In art I could relax, peacefully draw and be left to it without distractions. Mrs Callens always thought I had talent, but I just liked to draw what came to mind that day. Sitting down in my usual seat I opened my sketchbook and just began to draw some rough designs, unsure where it could go. A light tap on my shoulder alerted me as one of my few friends in that class smiled. Taking my earphones out she motioned to the front of the class.

Taking my eyes off of my sketch book my mind flashed back to the club. Music filled my ears although my earphones remained on my lap, the taste of bitter liquor and soft lips against mine, the urge of wanting to know more about him.

Turning to face the class as opposed to side on my breath got hitched in my throat, just like it did on Friday. A small smile was worn on his face as he examined the class, but as his eyes fell on mine it vanished, his eyes widened instead. Pulling on the jacket I swore mentally, I was wearing his jacket.

The sound of heels clicking sounded behind me as I uneasily turned my head to see who it was. “Okay students, I know you’ve only got two terms left but Mrs Callens has had to leave. This is Mr Irwin, your new art teacher. Make him feel welcome like I know you will.” She smiled to Ashton and quickly left.

Ashton remained quiet as all eyes except mine were focused on him. “Well, erm. Hi.” He stuttered and inside I felt myself falling apart. “Right, well like she said, I’m your new art teacher.” I lifted my head up to see him smiling uneasily and my eyes locked with his.

Two terms left, maybe this is one too many cliche moments for my liking.

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