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jangofctts · 4 years

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Don’t Push Your Luck (Boba Fett x Reader)

Rated: Explicit

Word Count: 4.9k wooF

Warnings: smut, language, handjobs, oral (male receiving), fingering, heavy petting, there is SOFT. I REPEAT SOFT FLUFF. but only SOME

Chapter (1), (2)

a/n: hey y’all...welcome...finally this bITCH IS OUT. thanks to @djxrxn WHOMST HAVE BEEN THE MAIN MOTIVATOR BEHIND THIS. I LOVE YOU SO MUCH 💖🥵🤠

(also lmk if you wanna be tagged or just wanna YELL at me)

It’s impossible not to count down the days, the hours, the seconds leading up to your untimely end. A sleep cycle and half to be exact. A perfect amount of time to finish counting each loose wire and rusty screw holding together this heap of junk—a miracle really, that it’s able to jump to hyperspace, let alone fly.

You’re no expert on the inner workings of a spacecraft, but your familiarity with Imperial grade cruisers gift you the impeccable skill of deducing that the hiss of air every couple minutes out of the hydraulic piping is not ideal. Nor is the solar light overhead that flickers and hums, skirting the precarious line of exploding in your face or simply plunging the cargo hold into murky darkness.

At this point you’d take either.

You sigh, resting the back of your head against the wall as the barbed tendrils of an oncoming headache settles behind your eyes.

Between that, the stupid light, and your boredom; it’s enough to make anyone stir crazy. Stars—even the arduous task of talking to Boba Fett is morphing into something akin to craving. Even if his idea of a conversation runs parallel to the art of smug, male pride and snide words meant to pick and prod—it’s better than whatever this is.

Scoffing, you curl your knees up to your chest and rest your chin over your knee. This is pathetic.

You should despise him—feel like kicking his teeth in—or helmet—whatever. He aided in the killing of you friend—probably took care of all the other poor souls who even dared to breathe your way too. Boba Fett is a despicable, no good bounty hunter who finds far too much fun in the misfortune of others.

And yet…

The task of attaching your hate to the man is proving to be more difficult than you would’ve guessed. You don’t regret what you’ve done with him—far from it in fact—but your tolerance, bordering enjoying his company, is concerning. To say in the least.

Nothing good will come out of the conflicted ball of knots that settle in your chest, ensnaring your heartstrings into that endless monstrosity.

Though none of it stops the way your chest constricts, heart skipping a few vital beats at the familiar sound of his spurs resonate through the ship. They chink against the metal pegs of the ladder, boots settling on the ground with a heavy thump. A moment later Boba steps into your line of sight, tattered cloak and chipped armor in all its battered glory.

He isn’t an immanent threat, but your eyes still track each movement. The rational part of you knows he won’t lash out, but you’re still his quarry and even a wolf with a severed head has the power to bite. No part of you wants to brave the sharp points of his teeth.

Not even a fraction of his attention is thrown your way as he does his routine inspections of your fellow captured quarries, frozen in their carbonite prisons. You just hope none of them spontaneously reanimate—you’re not too keen on another shipmate. Your little corner is crowded as is and forget sharing your blanket. It’s tattered and smells like dust and mothballs and you have a sneaking suspicion it’s just one of Boba’s old cloaks he outgrew—but you’re thankful for it anyhow.

You flinch as he punches in a code, the loud grate of metal on metal piercing your ears as the carbonite slabs swing back into their storage space. With an incline of his head, his weighted gaze settles on your person.

“Still nervous?”

You sniff and shake your head. “You just…startled me is all.”

Boba snorts in disbelief and pads closer. He reaches the toes of your boots and squats, one gloved forearm resting over his knee as the other reaches out to capture a lock of your hair. He twirls it between his fingers and gently tugs, quiet as he studies you behind the visor. The action is familiar—doesn’t scare you as much as it once did, but his closeness still overwhelms.

“I see you’ve found some courage, gentle Rabbit,” he surmises, untangling his fingers from your hair to tap beneath your chin. “While we’re at it…any last favors I can provide?”

It’s whiplash—so stupefying it renders your tongue speechless, a heated blush rushing up your cheeks and to the tip of your ears. He snickers and shakes his head, rocking back onto his heels to stand as you sputter for words.

It’s a joke—a garbage one at your expense. Always at the butt-end of things with no room to snap back. Yet, as he turns on his heel to return to the cockpit—it’s the perfect opportunity. Not the sort of favor he’d be expecting, but a favor nonetheless.

“Can I—“ He pauses and casts a glance over his shoulder as you muster enough bravery to follow through. “Do you think I could—could sit in the cockpit? Just for a little while…”

It’s a long-shot—like launching a flimsy javelin at a target no larger than a thumbtack three thousand clicks away. Not happening—more likely to beat a rancor in a fucking wrestling match then sway the bounty hunter’s opinion. Regardless, the question must stun him—the terse silence drags on for an agonizing amount of time, amping up your anxiety tenfold.

“I’m sorry—I just—I wanted to see the stars one last time,” you mumble, curling into yourself with a wince. “It’s stupid—“

“It’s hyperspace—not much to look at.” He curtly interrupts. “An asteroid if you’re lucky.”

Your spirits plummet further—scraping against the dirt like a crashed speeder geared to the highest velocity and headed straight for a brick wall. Maker this was dumb—

“The second you try anything funny—“

You perk up, your spine straightening as he turns swiftly on his heel and marches back. He leans down at the waist, firmly ensnaring your chin between his forefinger and thumb, straining the muscles in your neck. “—you’ll end up in there.”

He jerks his head over his shoulder at the carbonfreezer. Yeah. No thank you. Absolutely zero interest in becoming a human popsicle.

“You won’t even notice I’m there,” you breathe, holding your stare steady. “Promise.”

Boba hums in thought, releases your chin and pats your cheek. He straightens and taps at his vambraces and with a hiss of air the stasis cuffs around your wrists clatter to the floor. You stand and sigh, rubbing at the angry raised lines, just shy from a dark bruise.

The bounty hunter ushers you towards the ladder, his hand anchored to your shoulder. You stop yourself from scoffing. The action is useless—you’ve got no clever scheme up your sleeve or malicious motive but you can never be too cautious you suppose—not with this line of work.

You try not to snoop once you clamber up into the second level—but Maker—it’s interesting. There’s a small bunk on the other end of the short corridor, messy blankets thrown on top and a deconstructed blaster that’s seen better days. Gray and off-white undershirts hang off the metal rigging on the bunk and the sight of his laundry is undoubtedly jarring. It’s silly not to think he doesn’t do laundry but—imagining the most feared bounty hunter in the Galaxy washing his tidy whities is hilarious.

“Come on,” Boba urges, nudging your shoulder with his own.

Your tiny smile never falters as he leads you into the domed cockpit, the neon blue of hyperspace reflecting across his chipped armor with miniature streaks of light. He gestures at the co-pilot’s seat tucked beside the com board, a litany of buttons blinking and flashing as you gingerly sit.

The hinges squeak as the chair spins, your eye catching the mess of beaded and jeweled necklaces that hang on a tiny hook above the board. You recognize a few—Kashyykian ceremonial beads, the glittering coil of pure, refined diamonds from Pantora and the braided strands of bantha leather common on Tatooine. Your fingers drift up and thumb at the carved wooden Wroshyr beads.

Trophies—

“Don’t touch those.”

You jump and yank your hand back. “So...all I can do is...sit?”

“Isn’t that what you asked for?”

You have to agree—there isn’t much to look at. Hyperspace, as fascinating as it is, looses its charm once the vertigo sets in. To be honest—you weren’t expecting to get this far.

Oh well.

A change in scenery is always nice. Different loose wires and screws to count…

And the seat spins. Score.

Boba however, does not share in your bemused sentiments. Your mopey sighing and the constant squeak of loose bearings on your spinny chair is not pleasant to the ear, apparently.

“If you’re that bored, Rabbit,” he sighs, casting a sharp glance over his shoulder. “You could always put those hands to work.”

You pause and swipe a finger through the dust between the toggles on the comm board and absentmindedly respond. “I don’t think I’d be much help. I’m not very technically inclined and oh—“

Your cheeks flush when he tilts his head. “You, uh...didn’t mean that sort of work, did you?”

Boba snorts and crosses his ankle over his knee and rests his helmet on the headrest. The stretched out figure of his body is alluring—fascinating to studying each nick and scratch on his armor without the repercussions of him staring back. His vambraces clink against his cuirass as he laces his fingers together, resting his hands just above his codpiece.

“Do you need something, Rabbit?”

You swallow, your eyes flicking back up to a more respectable place for them to linger. “Um..n-no. I’m fine. Just…”

He rolls his head to the side, the shadows from hyperspace carving out the sharp lines of his helmet into an even deeper dramatic cut. You squirm and focus your eyes on the frayed laces of your boots.

“It’s alright. You can tell me, sweet girl.” His goads, tempting you out onto that slippery slope of desire.

He uncross his legs and uses the tip of his boot to languidly spin himself around, his knees spread wide in a display of mock easiness. Boba’s thumbs drum against his ammo belt, the quiet, rhythmic tap…tap…tap…the only sound filling the charged silence. It’s the Academy all over again; sat down and scrutinized until you crack—spill every secret until they’re satisfied— and Boba Fett is no different…

You scramble for words, wrangling your thoughts into something somewhat comprehensive. “I’m—I—well—“

He cocks his head, light bouncing off the silvery pockmark on his helmet. Boba’s hand idly travels lower, brushes off imaginary dust on his thigh and settles his fingers over the clasps to this codpiece. His thumb flicks it open then closed, all too keen on where your eyes are glued to.

“You want your hands on my cock again? Is that it?” Boba purrs in amusement. You tongue passes over your lip as you wrench your eyes off of him yet again.

“There’s no need to be play coy, girl,” Boba snickers, “Tell me.”

The words jump out of your mouth—no forethought and apparently not an ounce of self control. “Yes—I want...to p-put my hands on you.”

“On me or my cock?”

You mouth goes dry as you mumble out a feeble agreement. “Your…cock.”

Boba huffs in self satisfaction. “Come here then.”

On already shaky legs you stumble out of your seat and plant yourself in front of him. You have no visual confirmation but the hair-raising sensations as his eyes rake down your body sends shivers up your spine.

Your mouth parts, but before you’re even able to ask what he wants—he beats you to it.

“Your choice, Rabbit.”

Not helpful, you think.

Regardless of the lack of direction, you chew on the inside of your cheek and slowly lower yourself onto your knees, sliding easily between his parted legs. The only indication you know he’s aware you’re there is a quick shift of his hips, settling further into the leather cushion.

His leg jumps involuntarily as your fingers skim up his knee. If you weren’t interested in receiving a lovely black eye, you’d have the nerve to accuse him of being ticklish.

Biting the corner of your lip to stave off your coy smile, your hand continues its path up along his inner thigh. There’s a short huff of air that filters through the vocoder as your fingertips reach the codpiece. They brush over the circular dent left by a blaster, curiosity piqued at the strange location.

You want to ask—but—the thought is fleeting, far more interested in finding the tiny clasps on the side that easily pop open, the offending piece of armor going lax in your grip. You toss it to the side with little hesitation, greeted by the firm outline of his cock filling out the front of his trousers.

Boba Fett is not a patient man and your lecherous gawking, enough to notice, irks him. With a grunt he snakes his fingers around your hand and presses it against his cock. He rolls his hips, guiding your hand into applying a firmer touch until you’re palming him without the extra help. You give the hardening flesh a rougher squeeze, a bolt of liquid heat settling in the pit of your stomach as a stifled moan reaches your ears.

By the time your hand sweeps up to ease off the heavy ammo belt around his waist, the bulge in his pants is considerable—a fucking pain to maneuver around as you tug down his trousers into a dramatic ‘v’. Boba’s hand, hanging off the arm rest, jerks the moment your fingertips brush along the dark curls, trailing up and taking a hold of his cock with a careful grip.

He’s heavy in your hand, thicker than the circumference of your forefinger and thumb pressed together, and harder than kriffing durasteel. You can feel his watchful gaze carve a burning path over the contours of your face, drifting to where you hold him.

He grumbles an inaudible complaint under his breath, curling his fists by his sides. Despite his obvious irritation with your feathery touches, he lets you continue without so much as a grumpy sigh or snippy redirection. You preen at the small victory, delighted you’re able to explore before the short rope of his patience runs thin and snaps.

A sharp hiss of hair passes through the vocoder as you lightly tug on his cock, mesmerized by the firmness and the searing heat beneath your palm. From the base up you pull, fixed upon the dark flesh, flushed and pulsing as wetness pools at the tip as you pull down the foreskin, exposing the entirety of the wide head.

With your thumb you spread the bead of liquid around, intent on continuing your little exploratory endeavor until Boba shifts and grumbles out an order to stop.

“Not like that,” he huffs, laying his fingers over yours that hold his cock. “Harder.”

A fiery blush licks at your cheeks as he squeezes both sets of fingers into a firm fist, leading your hand into the pace he desires.

It’s rough, much firmer than you’d think would be pleasurable—but you oblige. The wetness that dribbles from the flushed tip lessens the friction but with quick lick over your palm, he glides easily in your hand. Boba’s head rolls back against the headrest, exposing a sliver of brown skin beneath the lip of his helmet.

It’s not long before your wrist aches—just shy of a couple moments. Luckily enough for you and your poor hand musculature, it doesn’t take more than a handful of minutes—rough and with no real discernible technique other than just fucking into your fist. Boba’s knee jerks as he lifts his head and arches his hips, chest heaving with shallow inhales.

“Take it in your—in your mouth,” he orders in a rough rasp. His chest heaves as his hand finds purchase in your hair, jerking your head closer to his cock. It stings—Maker, why does he pull so hard?

With a huff, you listen and part your lips. The tip of his cock slips into your heated mouth, twitching as your tongue rolls against the small slit leaking a near continuous stream of precum. With a couple short tugs and a gentle suck around the head, his fist clenches tight and drags you further down his shaft.

You gag around him, a low grunt rattling through his diaphragm as he cums. It’s warm, thick and fills your mouth, but the heavy weight on the back of your head leaves you no other choice than to swallow. Boba curses, cock still twitching when he lets you up and pulls out of your mouth. You gasp for precious air as you wipe off your lips with your sleeve, sparring a look up at the bounty hunter.

The reclined figure of his body molds into the chair, a strip of dark skin peeking out from beneath the cowl has his head rests back against the seat. His fingers twitch when you shift, squirming as the twisting heat in your lower stomach festers and grows.

You watch his throat bob as he speaks, “If you want something...take it.”

The hard enamel of your teeth cut into your bottom lip as you carefully rock forward, dragging yourself off the ground. It takes a moment to shuck off your pants and perch yourself over his knees after shimming his trousers further down his legs. Boba only bothers to look up with lazy interest once your cunt, soaked and smeared over your inner thighs presses against his upper legs, wetting the muscled limbs.

You steel your nerves against the sharp analytical gaze through the carved lines of his vizor and give your hips a tentative roll along the length of his softening cock. For all you know he could be asleep—yet you have a sneaking suspicion as to what his eyes are glued to. You’re no idiot.

Boba’s gloved fingertips skim up your thigh, tempted to go higher but instead they drop back onto the armrests. You chew the inside of your lip, shooing away the urge to frown. Whatever—dwelling upon the quick movement is best left in the dark.

He sucks in a sharp breath of air as you rock your hips for a second time, your slick folds gliding smoothly along his member. It’s a light pressure, no more than a gentle caress so as not to overwhelm—but nonetheless still pleasurable, sating that untamable fire that burns bright in your belly.

Your eyes drift back to those white gloves, his fists balled and stationary on the armrest. You want them on you. You want to feel his callouses scrape over your skin—one last craving you need to put an end to.

It’s a risk—a big one. Yet, throwing your worries out the window is easier than your indecisiveness.

Both your hands slowly crawl over the white gloves, cautious in pulling them off as if he were some rabid Nexu ready to bite. He is, in a way and your sneaky little ploy certainly does not go unnoticed.

Boba jerks his hands up the arm rests. “What makes you think you’re allowed to touch me?”

His tone is scathing—knocks you so far off that small pedestal of bravery you’ve mustered and leaves you wilting. You should’ve known, stopped while you were ahead. Though knowing in the back your mind that something like this would happen, doesn’t take away from the razor sharp embarrassment that cuts through your chest.

Your forearm shoots up to rub away the burning itch of tears that threaten to fall, your head turning away in a mixture of shame and regret. Stupid—

You’re about to retreat, slide off his lap like a miserable pile of goo, but the delicate touch on your chin, coaxing you to face him startles you. Even more so when he tugs at the offending glove and brushes a bare finger down your cheek, a mere whisper against your skin. “You have a soft heart.”

Your heart leaps into your throat, your pulse roaring in your ears as he slips the other glove off, settling one of his bare hands over the swell of your hip while the other tentatively slip between your legs and presses against your clit. You gasp and arch into the light touch, your thighs involuntarily jerking as he increases the pressure.

He trades his hold on your hip to slide his hand into your shirt, palming and kneading your breast through your bra as you roll and whine against his fingers. The tight circles he's drawing over your clit burns through your abdomen, drags you closer to the precipice that you’re all ready so close to. You whine his name as wicked heat licking up your body and spreading to each limb. You arch into him and with a firm hand, he parts your soaking cunt and thrusts two of his fingers inside, grinding the heel of his palm into the little bundle of nerves.

With a chuckle his hand leaves your shirt to pull you against his chest, the vocoder rumbling against your ear. “Good little Rabbit—cum on my fingers.”

Your body seizes as white hot heat sears through your core. Stars, brighter than a dying sun burst behind your eyes, a long whine filtering past your lips as shake and fall apart in his arms, your cunt clenching tight around his fingers.

You whine as he pulls out, little aftershocks of pleasure wracking through your body after your euphoric high. You’re barely conscious of your actions as he lifts your head and pushes his digits, coated in your juices into your mouth. You lick them clean, tasting the tang of your own arousal and the salt on his skin. With a satisfied hum, he slips them out, allowing your head to finally rest against his chest.

His hands are warm around your hips, tracing little patterns into the exposed skin—so light you’re sure you’re imagining it. You chide yourself—there’s no space for these kind of things. Not now.

The beskar is an uncomfortable thing to lay your cheek on—cold too—yet his soft sigh convinces you to stay put. Just for another second, suspended in a strange intimacy that neither of you should be dipping your toes into.

A gentle hush encompasses the cockpit, lulling you into a light doze. Though as your eyes struggle to stay open, the subtle inhale before a sentence is spoken keeps them from shutting. You wonder if he’ll muster the courage to speak or if he’ll let the words settle back into that lake teeming with uncovered mysteries and things better left unsaid.

“What would you do...” The beginning of his words tapers off as if he could pretend you wouldn’t hear it. It’s low, almost...uncertain. Well, as uncertain as Boba Fett could be with a head so full of his arrogance and pride.

His fingers drift higher up your back, ghostlike and teasingly soft.You hate the goosebumps that are left in the wake of his bare fingertips crawling up your spine. Swallowing, your fingernail taps at the chipped paint and circles the little brand on his cuirass. “Do what?”

He doesn’t answer right away—chewing on his words like they’ve stuck to the roof of his mouth and don’t intend to leave. He shifts and you’re afraid he’s about to shove you off his lap and storm away, but all he does is clear his throat and settle a palm on your upper back. “If I...if I let you go. What would you do?”

Your brows furrow, your heart kicking up into a rapid flurry of panic. That’s not fair—that’s not fair of him to say. You look up, your own twisted features staring back at you in the muted spectrum of blacks and grays in his visor. This is a joke—another one of his games to push you over the edge while he gets to bask in his idea of proclaimed hilarity. “That’s not funny.”

“It’s not supposed to be.”

You ball your hand into a fist as a tidal wave of resentment, followed with chilly anguish washes over you. Your head spins and battles with opposing opinions and reasons why he should just go through with delivering you to his employer. Be done with it and get his moneys worth without any consequence.

And yet, there’s a minuscule part of you, sprouting away from the dark cloud of inevitability, that wonders. Wonders if you should fight—convince him you deserve to live, untangle you from the disastrous web the Empire has cast around your limbs with no hope of escape. You sigh and shut your eyes.

“I’d never escape from the Empire even if you did,” you murmur. “The only time I’d be free is if I were dead.”

<><><><><><><><>

He promised himself that this would never happen.

Never let his own desires and emotions interfere with a job.

It’s irresponsible, bad for business and frankly quite stupid. This could cost him his credibility, his credits, his life.

You don’t double cross your employer—it’s the first rule of business that even a child would understand.

Boba Fett is cunning and clever; always one step ahead of his enemies. Always methodical, refusing to leave any loose ends that even hint at coming back around to bite him in the ass. He’s convinced himself that a will of iron is necessary—the only way to survive and to grow stronger than those who’ve hurt him—bested him in the game of life.

Cold, methodical, a legend.

And you…

You are soft. Gentle and too kind for someone to be caught up in this sort of mess. He shouldn’t be delivering you to Death’s doorstep in exchange for credits. You should be off living on some remote planet, far out of the reaches of the Empire. Away from him. Billions of miles from his bloody fingertips that stain your skin like black ink against a white canvas.

But you’ve made your choices and he’s made his.

And none of it soothes the festering storm, with winds more forceful than those on Kamino, that rattle through his ribcage. It tears through his sternum, cuts through the beskar and leaves an open wound—raw and tender that grows tenfold the second your eyes land on him.

You don’t beg when he hoists you up from the floor, no blubbering tears or last minute bargains to spare your life. Not even as you both reach the loading ramp, one mere tap of the button that would reveal you both to the man waiting on the landing platform. One button and he’d be free of you. You’re braver than most.

He’ll give you that.

He shouldn’t have said anything—saved himself from the steady ache that comes with having to look you in the eye. Drives a stake so deep into his chest the second you spare him a precious smile that twinkles like unrefined coaxium and thank him. You’re thanking him for the barest amount of kindness he offered to you on your last days of life.

Boba isn’t sure who he hates more; himself or you.

He must be staring too long—committing each soft slope and contour of your cheeks, the freckles, your softly parted lips, to memory—because the gentle nudge to his arm startles him.

“I’ll be alright,” you grin. You make a poor impression of a blaster with your finger and thumb and mimic the sound of it firing. “One shot to the head and I’m gone.”

“I know how blasters work.”

You shrug and glance at his hand that hovers over the button. “Then why are you hesitating?”

The million credit answer. One that you both know the answer to.

“Because you won’t be dying. Not today and not while I’m still alive.”

<><><><><><><><><><><>

The outfit is garish.

Too white.

Too clean.

A color that deceives his true nature and masks what he truly is— a viper laying in wait for unsuspecting prey and witless victims. The smile that curls along the man’s unshaven face is meant to charm, but all it does is unsettle.

Boba has never once trusted a man who relies solely on the weight of his words rather than his own actions. All that this man has are words. Words, and a flimsy position within the ranks of the Empire. That, and twelve heavily armed Death Troopers that guard him, if you count them as well.

Orson Krennic.

A man that’ll get what’s coming to him. Perhaps not Boba’s own plasma bolt through the middle of his finely pressed uniform—but something equally as satisfying.

Grey hairs that escape his hat glint like shards of metal shrapnel in the midday sun, the Director’s smile steady as he speaks. “Took you long enough, bounty hunter.”

Boba’s teeth clamp onto his tongue, the metallic taste of blood flooding his tastebuds. “Too bad you have to rely on one, Director.”

Krennic snorts, folds his arms behind his back and saunters closer. “And your bounty? What of her?”

“Dead.”

#boba fett x reader #boba fett x you #UH OH CLIFF HANGER KJDKFJ #star wars #boba fett #fanfic #my writing #the last favor series #orson krennic #reader insert #FINALLY THIS HOE DONE

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yandere-sins · 4 years

Note

heya, for the supernatural prompts, could I request Ghost Nagito with 23? tysm!

I went a bit alternate universe there, hope you enjoy it! Thank you for requesting :D

“It’s been centuries since I felt like this, I’m not letting you go that easily.”

»»————-———— ♡ ————————-««

The old door to the mansion was as loud as you would expect from hinges as rusty as your grandparents. But after taking on such a long trip to reach the abandoned mansion, this was quite comforting, as the path from the bus stop to here had been eerily quiet already. “Wow,” you muttered, looking around the grand entrance. You could imagine what kind of people must have come by back in the days when this mansion was still in use.

Even though everything was covered in dust and plants that had broken through the windows, you still admired the great chandelier above you, and the grand piano standing in one corner of the room. Ruins, yet, memories of the greatness of the Komaeda family, who once reigned all the lands around this mansion, before the Great Despair took over the world.

By now, life was much easier again, world leaders settling their disputes, cities being rebuild. Only ruins like this one remained as a reminder of the time, and you were here to discover them. Traveling was a luxury, but you couldn’t help yourself from wanting to learn more about the history around you, curiosity always having been one of your vices. Thus, you came. A fateful decision.

You were careful as you entered through the first door, into what seemed to be the dining room. Wooden planks squeaked under your weight, but you still felt safe to continue. Excitedly, you took in the still decorated table, the huge, rotting paintings on the walls. Of course, you were not going to touch anything that looked moldy from all the years exposed to air and wetness, but looking wouldn’t hurt. It only spurred you on to see more, and so you went back into the main hall, and up the stairs, holding on to the handrail just in case a step was going to give away underneath you.

As you reached the top of the staircase, you immediately went stiff. Looking from side to side you tried to make out the sudden sound lingering in the air, something you hadn’t heard before. It wasn’t a creak, or even the singing of a bird, no. It sounded more tender, like a composed piece of music. Curiosity got the better of you, as you followed its sound, trying not to be audible yourself. The last thing you wanted was to meet some kind of vagabond and have him attack you.

Cautiously, you peeked through the gap in a door, seeing nothing and no one moving in the room as you decided to enter. The door was tough to open, old carpet stuck beneath it, so you only managed a gap big enough to squeeze through. Immediately, your eyes caught on the source of music, an old music box standing in the middle of the room, on top of what must have been a coffee table back in the days.

You approached it with great curiosity, opening the lid gently, a little afraid it might break if you handled it too roughly. It wasn’t very special, no ballerina pop-up came out, just the old gears turning to create the music, but you were still fascinated by it nonetheless.

Worse was the scare as a sudden loud bang behind you made you drop the box, and you twirled around to stare at the door, holding your breath. Despite you never open the door very wide, it shouldn’t have been able to fall close so harshly, considering it was still stuck from the carpet beneath it. You scrambled to put the fallen box back on the table, wanting nothing more than to leave. But when you tried to push the door open, it wouldn’t budge under your tries to make it move.

“Do you like it?” you heard, making you flinch so hard, you threw yourself with your back against the wood of the door. “W-Who...?” you asked, unable to make anyone out from turning your head from side to side. “Me,” the voice chuckled, and you squinted your eyes as you made out some fog building up behind the coffee table. It slowly formed itself into a shape, a ghostly hand brushing over the music box. As if prompted by the touch, it started playing again, and the fog kept wandering, settling down into a chair in the corner.

From the hand, an arm appeared, then a body. From its neck, a head rose and down to the knees, you made out a mostly human shape. Just... it stopped after the kneecaps, disappearing into nothingness. A thousand thoughts ran through your mind, as you tried to understand, but really, you had no idea what you were really seeing. It must have been a ghost, but did you even believe in those?

“It was my favorite. I’d always listen to it before going to bed when I was still a young boy.”

His eyes moved from the music box, still playing leisurely in its place, to you, and you felt the air grew colder around you. “How about you? Do you like it?”

Maybe you were going insane. Perhaps you hit your head or something, but nonetheless, you nodded, and he smiled happily. “A-Are you...?” you tried to ask, but there were too many questions to decide which one to go for first. “Hm? Oh, yeah.”

Standing up, you were able to witness the form in its full glory, though he probably wasn’t that much taller than you, especially not with his missing underlegs. When he patted his chest, a cloud of fog, or maybe simply dust, came from him, his hand briefly disappearing before reshaping and coming back into view. “I’m sorry to scare you, it just has been a while that someone came over to talk. I am Nagito,” he introduced himself, and you really believed it had been a while he met someone, considering his... condition.

“I’m [Name],” you replied sheepishly, taking some time to look around the room. Perhaps, jumping out of a window would be an option if you couldn’t find a way out. After all, you still weren’t sure what to make out of the ghost in front of you. “What brought you here?” he asked, his movements nothing less than gliding as he walked around the table.

“Oh, just... exploring. The- The family who lived here was quite influential in the times of the--”

“--Great Despair, ah, yes. What a time to be alive,” he finished your sentence, letting out a fond sigh as he remembered. You used the time to move along the windows, creating some distance between you two, while you also trying to figure out if one of them would open.

“So you... were there when it happened?”

“There? Oh, I was part of it!” he announced, and you halted, furrowing your brows. Lowering your hand from the last window handle, you looked him straight into his slightly milky eyes. “You were? So you are a Komaeda too?”

“Oh, definitely,” he laughed. “It was so much fun! I helped my family to understand the joy of it when Junko started her rise.”

This time, it was him taking a few glides back, settling down on the old bed, with sheets corroded by moths. He patted the space next to him, and you were hesitant to follow his invite, but at the same time, intrigued by the knowledge he must have. “I’ll gladly tell you about it if you want.”

Maybe you were just dreaming this all, but you wanted to know what he had to say, so you approached, sitting down furthest from him.

With a pleased hum, he started his tale. Hadn’t you researched so much about the Great Despair before, you would have been shocked by all the gruesome details he didn’t spare you. Nagito spoke fondly of the time that was nothing more than history to you now, but at the same time, the most awful tragedy in all of mankind's story. He shared new insights, stories that were lost in between the flames and war, things you would have never been able to research on your own. You soaked in the knowledge he had, time passing as you two were caught in conversation.

Only when you started to rub your eyes, did you avert your attention for a second, looking back to the windows, noticing how the sun was going down behind the tree crowns of the forest surrounding you. “[Name]?” he asked, confused by your sudden lack of attention. “Ah, sorry!” you were quick to apologize to him, and he forgave you with a smile. “It’s just...”

With another glance over your shoulders, you hesitantly got up, walking backwards to the door again. “It’s so late, I really should go.”

As you tried to open the door again, you found it as shut as it was before, even when you pushed with both hands it still didn’t budge. As if something was forcing it shut despite your best efforts. Panic rose as you realized your chances to leave slimmed down significantly, bad throughs sprouting in your mind. “Go where?” he asked innocently enough, for the first time standing right beside you, the fog feeling incredibly cold as it touched your hand.

“I was just getting to the good parts of the story...”

“I know!” you were quick to calm him as he seemed distraught by your sudden need to leave. “And I’ll be back, but I can’t miss the last bus!”

Again, you put all your strength into opening the door, jiggling the doorknob roughly in hopes it would loosen up. “What if I don’t want to let you go?” he mumbled next to you, and you peaked up at that, worried. Nagito surely was an enigma, less human than you wanted him to be. And his concerning state of life that you had worried about before now felt more prominent than ever.

“Talking to you... sharing a good laugh, oh, I missed that.”

“And you will have it again, I promise to be back, just trust me!” you were quick to retaliate, remembering there was one last window you hadn’t tried to open yet. Scooting over to it, you tried to ban the bad thoughts of having to jump out of the second floor, but it was better than to starve to death here, where no one would find you.

“Where are you going?” he called after you, following your every step. Needily, he tried to touch you, but every touch went right through your body, leaving only an icy sensation behind that made you more uncomfortable. “Listen... I just want to go home tonight. I loved your stories, but I am still human, I need to go and sleep... eat. You remember that, right?”

Leaning against the window, you were surprised he didn’t just slide through that too, but his gaze was none of understanding, frustrating you. Letting out a deep sigh, you calmed yourself, knowing anger wouldn’t get you anywhere. He was just lonely, a little desperate maybe. You came here of your own free will, it was only natural that he might expect you to help him with his... ghostly problem.

“Please,” you whispered, looking directly at him. “I swear on my life, I’ll be back and help you move on. I will listen to all the stories you have and we’ll find a way, okay?”

“Move on?” he mumbled, lost in thought for a second. “I don’t want to move on.”

By now, your knuckles were turning white as you held on tight to the window handle. If you had to jump out, it better had to be timed well, but you knew it was time to take action and not just stand around and argue with him. “Okay... you leave me no choice.” He raised an eyebrow when you suddenly moved to open the window, ready to throw yourself out and be gone in a matter of seconds.

But the window never opened.

Instead, you heard Nagito laugh. He increasingly got louder and more sickening as he kept on laughing to his heart’s content. “Despairingly, isn’t it?” he asked in between his chuckles, and the glare you shot him only amused him more. “I love this.” His hand brushed briefly over your cheek, immediately turning your skin cold with his touch before he waltzed back to the bed, patting the space next to him as an invitation to join him.

“It’s been centuries since I felt like this, I’m not letting you go that easily.”

You knew he meant it. If you wanted any chances of ever leaving again, you would have to oblige, even though, deep down, you agreed. It really was a situation to despair over.

»»————-———— ♡ ————————-««

Feel free to request from the Supernatural Prompts too!

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bluesora · 4 years

Text

【10.30am】

they say a picture speaks a thousand words, but what if even the image you captured could not convey the complexity of your profound feelings?

what would happen then?

“did you have fun?”

he nodded with a satisfied hum, the device on his hand felt much heavier than it should’ve been when he first held it.

“well...what did you take?”

kenma hesitated for a moment, his thumb hovering just above the tiny trash button. the sharp gaze of his lingered over the smallest of details he couldn’t help but notice, while every new discovery seems to tug on his heartstrings like an angel on the harp.

“kenma?”

there were many thoughts running through his mind when he contemplated his options, but somehow, the thought of seeing your reaction intrigued him more than the natural route of deleting that particular picture.

“some photos...of what i like.”

“oh? can i see them?”

the obvious excitement dancing in your bright hues was more than enough to have him let out a sigh as he passed your camera back to you.

it was just a split second.

“kenma, are the clouds only what you like?”

you chuckled, observing the subtle differences in each picture of the sky he had taken.

“i do like them...but there’s something else...”

or someone else, but he couldn’t bring himself to say it.

he was threading his sentence lightly, eyes flickering from his phone to the images you were previewing.

when he was playing with the depth of field and trying to refocus the lens manually; it was in that one moment.

“hmm? and what’s that?”

you nonchalantly asked, still going through the series of skies and some random photos of blurred fingers and sandy ground. his sudden shift in the type of silence lingering in the air did not go unnoticed by you as wondered what was wrong with him today.

“ken—”

then, you saw it.

that one particular picture that had him in a bundle of nerves like a ticking time bomb.

you were gazing at the endless stretch of the deep blue sea, seemingly getting lost in its beauty when each crush of waves was like an orchestra—playing right into your heart.

and in that tiny viewfinder of a rusty camera, it was as if the whole universe held its breath together with him at that magical moment; the way your hair was carried by the breeze in a slow dance, to the way your eyes were soft and curious; as if you were lost in the wonders of what the sea had to offer.

if he had admired you a second more or rushed a second less, he wouldn’t have captured the rarity of your profile.

“since when did you...?”

there was a million train of thoughts going through your mind when you brought your attention back to the very male you may or may not have a huge crush on for years. kenma wasn’t exactly the type of person who’d notice your feelings for him when you were practically close to him since birth. and yet, there was something odd in the way he was looking at you that day.

“sorry...”

he thought you might understand what he was trying to say immediately, but he realized maybe he wasn’t all that clear about it.

“i thought of deleting it but...”

you knew. you knew exactly what he meant but at the same time, you were afraid.

what if that wasn’t what he was thinking? what if you were just jumping to conclusions because if he hadn’t liked you since before, why now?

“but...?”

but what?

what could he say?

that it was too beautiful for him to delete?

that you had been watering his garden of love for you for years and only to have the flowers bloomed in that miraculous of a moment because he was a blinded fool? that kuroo was right about him taking you for granted or that he owed that annoying male twenty bucks now because of it?

how could he express his feelings without actually saying them?

“you know...i got it. i mean, i think i got what you’re trying to say but...do you really?”

you placed the once treasured device next to you, eyes staring right back at the sea. and this time, wishing the waves could pull you back into the water as they retreated.

“i mean...of course i’d be happy to know that you finally saw me in a different light but, do you really?”

it was his turn to watch the waves crashing against the shore, and for him, he wished they would just drown out all of his hesitations.

“i—”

“do you really want something more?”

but what more could he ask for when you had always been enough for him. he was just too comfortable with your affection that he failed to realize how it was only meant for him.

“i—”

“are-are you sure it wasn’t just a spur of a moment? i don’t want to...you know...get my hopes up only to realize—”

he really was an idiot, wasn’t he?

the way you were trying so hard to make sure you didn’t accidentally slip those actual words out, the way you were trying to make sense of his own inability to string the right words.

“—you didn’t actually feel the same way.”

a pause. a beat. a shift in his gears.

“i thought of deleting it but...”

“i couldn’t do it.”

“i knew i—what?”

“because i finally realized the reason behind your every smile when you look through that tiny hole.”

you had seen the way kenma would light up whenever he bought a new game, or when he was playing volleyball with that new orange head of a friend.

and yet, you truly regretted letting go of that camera, for the smile tugging at the corner of his lips was slowly dying your cheeks crimson from the fondness you could gently feel.

“so...what’s the reason...?”

he mulled over the right words to say this time.

“you could really see a whole world through it.”

#haikyuu!!#haikyuu x reader #haikyuu imagine #haikyuu drabble #kozume kenma #kenma fluff #kenma x reader #kenma imagine #hq kenma #hq x reader #hq fluff #haikyuu fluff #hq imagine #kenma scenario #timestamp series

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waveypedia · 4 years

Text

Home is Wherever I’m With You [HDLW Sibling Week]

Day 1 - Adventure

Ao3

“You guys are gonna love this one!” Webby crowed, her face pressed against the glass of the plane window. “Della and I have crafted the perfect adventure. It’s full of traps, puzzles, and opportunities for daring stunts!”

“So what’s in store for us today?” Dewey called from the pilot seat. It was his first adventure as a solo pilot, even though he’d been taking lessons from Launchpad and Della for months. “Death-defying stunts? Villanous curses? Bad baddies?”

Webby grinned back at him enthusiastically. “We might see a sword horse!!”

Huey flipped through his Junior Woodchuck Guidebook. “Statistically, the chances of us encountering a unicorn are little to none. From our travels, unicorns mostly reside in glades deep in forests. We’re flying over the tundra.”

Dewey pulled a hand off one of the Sunchaser’s contraptions to gently punch Huey in the shoulder. “Look at you, calculating the likelihood of a unicorn spotting. Nerd.”

Huey rolled his eyes and shut the guidebook. He leaned back in the copilot’s seat, where he was keeping a careful watch that everything was running smoothly - just like Donald when Dewey piloted solo during full-family adventures. “The numbers don’t lie.”

“But did you take snow sword-horses into account?” Webby asked, finally turning her attention away from their descent to look at Huey. “They’re incredibly rare, but they live solo lives out here in the tundra. They canter at the speed of the wind!! Some brave adventurers report sighting one, but no one can ever get proof.”

“Sounds like a glorified Bigfoot,” Louie offered from his place in one of the Sunchaser’s seats.

“But we can fight it!!” Webby interjected enthusiastically. “And earn its trust!! They say if you do, it’ll grant you one piece of sage advice for your future.”

Dewey frowned thoughtfully. “Well, not many people can say they’ve been granted advice from a snow unicorn. Anyway, coming in hot!!”

The Sunchaser made a less-than-graceful landing (Launchpad was his teacher, all right), sending snow flying up in clouds of soft sparkles around them. The four kids grabbed their gear and buckled up the last of their snow-protective clothes before stepping out of the plane and onto the snow. Webby was first, and her eyes sparkled with excitement as she took in the terrain for a moment.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” Webby exclaimed, gesturing to the expanse of snow sparkling brightly in the sunlight. “And to think! Today, we’ll be one of the first to see and conquer a real snow sword-horse!!”

Louie slipped a canteen out of his pack and took a sip of some hot chocolate he had saved. “Yep, looks pretty snow-y.”

Dewey punched a fist in the air. “I’m ready to fight a unicorn!!”

Huey snorted affectionately and pulled out his rusty, trusty compass, emblazoned with the Junior Woodchuck logo on the side. “We go north first, right Webby?”

Webby opened her backpack and took out a slightly torn map, tied with a piece of glittery pink string. She was nodding before she’d even unfurled the map, but it confirmed her answer. “Yep!! We go left until we hit the rock shaped auspiciously like a tornado, and then we turn right. And then, when we get to the lone pine tree hidden behind the stone hills, we walk in a circle three times around it and follow the sun!”

Huey frowned. “A rock shaped like a tornado? That’s an… interesting description.”

Louie raised his head to the sky and covered his forehead with his hand to block out the blindingly bright light, reflecting off the snow and clouds. “Uhh, Webs, we can’t see the sun.”

Webby shrugged, positive as ever. “No worries! All the legends say that won’t be an obstacle. We’ll figure it out when we get there!!”

Without further ado, the pink-adorned duck strode off in the direction of their adventure. “Let’s go!!”

Dewey followed quickly behind her, rambling excitedly about how fun it would be to fight a unicorn. Huey and Louie exchanged a glance and a shrug, and then tagged along.

As they walked, Huey tried to start off a round of some of the hiking songs he had picked up at the Junior Woodchucks, but was quickly rebuffed. However, when Dewey tried to start a rendition of “1,000 Bottles of Apple Juice on the Wall” (the Uncle Donald-approved version he regretted teaching Dewey when they were on a road trip when the boys were five years old), Webby and Louie were suddenly much more enthusiastic about Huey’s options. He was more than happy to oblige, and even got them going on some sea shanties when the tunes started getting overly repetitive. Dewey grumbled for a bit, but before long, Huey and Webby’s collective, contagious enthusiasm had infected him, and he was singing along as loudly and proudly as the rest of them.

When the tornado-shaped rock first came into sight, the group of four was lagging behind Huey’s precisely-calculated pace for the best optimal productivity on adventures. But the sight spurred Webby’s already-high excitement, and she nearly sprinted the rest of the way.

When the rest of the group reached Tornado Rock, panting, Webby was leaning against it with barely contained enthusiasm. “Took you long enough,” she said cheekily, but with no malice and a beaming smile.

Louie shrugged and flopped down on the ground. “Ugh, Webs, why’d you have to run? There’s no time limit.”

Webby shrugged, still beaming. “The spirit of adventure!” She checked her watch and sat gently on the ground next to Louie. “So, lunchtime?”

Dewey plopped down beside her, and Huey followed suit. “I thought you’d never ask!!”

Louie rolled his eyes. “Yes, yes, we know, you were flying the plane, you didn’t get a chance to snack.”

Dewey ripped open his lunchbox and grabbed impatiently at the first thing he could - a sandwich. He opened the foil easily and stuffed it in his mouth. “I’m hungry, Louie!”

As his brothers squabbled in the background, Huey glanced up at the rock towering above them. “Huh, I guess it really is actually shaped like a tornado,” he conceded quietly as he unpacked his lunch. “Accurate description.”

Webby followed his gaze, tracing the grooves and cracks in the rock with her eyes. “Yeah. You know, Isabella Finch, Uncle Scrooge’s inspiration, was the one who named it!!”

Huey perked up. “Really? That’s interesting. I don’t think I remember an expedition to this specific tundra in her journals.”

Webby shrugged, smiling. “It was a group expedition with some other seasoned adventurers. George Mallardy, for one.”

“The guy that Uncle Scrooge sort of was responsible for his death?” Huey asked apprehensively, raising his eyebrows. “I’m not entirely sure I want to be following in his footsteps.”

“But they’re the only other people to accurately depict and record tundra sword-horses!!” Webby exclaimed, leaning forward. “Wouldn’t it be so cool if us, for our first solo adventure, were the ones to do it second?”

“I’d rather be first!!” Dewey called.

Huey shrugged. “I guess so. I am curious about snow unicorns. If there’s only one depiction of them, even if it is from Isabella Finch, how do we know it’s accurate?”

“I guess we’ll have to find out,” Webby replied, her eyes sparkling.

The kids packed up their lunch, making sure to leave no trace behind, and continued on their trek. Webby tracked their progress with a map, watching carefully for the hills of stone that would eventually rise out of the fog. Snow started to fall gently while they walked, and Dewey made it a game to see who could catch the most snowflakes on their tongue. Soon they were all running in uneven paths and laughing - or laughing as best they could with their tongues stuck out. By the time the first gray hints of the stone hills crested out of the clouds, Louie was winning staunchly, but Dewey refused to be beat. He nearly fell forward into a snowbank, but stubbornly kept going.

Their amicable chatter died down as the hills came close enough to touch - and Webby did touch, reaching out a purple-gloved hand to wipe away a few errant flakes of snow. The group paused, speechless at the sheer size and gentleness of the rolling hills.

Webby took in a deep breath, in and out, making a large cloud of breath in the cold air. “Snow sword-horses, Isabella Finch’s legacy, here we come.”

With Webby in the lead, the four ducks rounded the hills and finally made their way into the small clearing in the middle of the stone. And found…

“Nothing,” Webby said, her word hanging in the quiet air. Surprise and disappointment were etched across her face as she stared at the empty clearing.

Huey, ever the Dad Friend, snapped out of his stupor first and stepped forward to lay a hand on Webby’s shoulder. “Hey, it’s okay. Maybe we made a mistake.”

“Yeah, a mistake,” Louie echoed. “It was probably George Mallardy. He almost caused our uncle’s death. Can’t really trust that guy.”

“Maybe the sword horse is still around here somewhere,” Dewey added.

Webby pressed her beak tightly together. “Yeah, you’re right! Let’s keep looking.”

They scoured the clearing for any hidden passages. Huey analyzed the map carefully, looking for any possible errors or misleads. Dewey took it upon himself to rap each and every inch of the stone hills, looking for a secret passage. Louie walked in circles around the hills, looking for any other landmarks.

After an hour had passed of searching with no luck, the group reunited in the center of the clearing, where the pine tree would be.

“Any luck?” Huey asked grimly, already knowing in his gut what the answer would be.

Louie shook his head regretfully.

“No,” Dewey muttered, the disappointment clear on his face.

Webby rubbed her toe anxiously against the snowy ground. She opened her mouth, clearly unhappy, and then froze, surprise overtaking her features.

“Webby?” Louie asked cautiously, but she ignored him in favor of leaning down and brushing snow away from a certain spot on the ground. Her brothers stared, frozen, for a moment. But when a splash of dark green peeked out from the snow, Dewey instantly dropped down into a crouch to help her. Huey and Louie followed suit in realization, and in no time they had cleared a little patch of snow away, revealing a tiny pine tree sprout.

“Huh,” Dewey said, breaking the tentative silence that had lain between the four of them while they dug. “I did not expect this.”

“It’s only a baby,” Webby breathed.

Louie frowned. “That’s weird. Isabella Finch and George Mallardy probably came here like a century ago. How could the tree be only a sapling?”

“Maybe it got cut down and replanted,” Huey reasoned logically.

“Or maybe it’s like a phoenix,” Webby breathed, the corners of her beak turning up. “It’ll come back!

Dewey smiled. “It already is.”

Huey stood up, and held out a hand for his siblings. “We should get back to the plane. Maybe back at home we can do more research on magical pine trees and mystical tundras.”

Webby smiled softly and pushed herself to her feet, the last out of the four of them. “I’d like that.”

She unfurled the map again, and they trekked back to the plane, a little subdued but still energetic. Despite this branch of their adventure being mostly complete, their return seemed to go by in a blink. Soon they were boarding the plane and shedding their snow gear. Dewey settled into the pilot seat and, after a moderately smooth takeoff, they were in the air.

After about a half an hour of flipping through his Junior Woodchuck Guidebook, Huey slipped out of the copilot’s chair and made his way over to Louie and Webby. Louie was scrolling through something on his phone, and Webby was reading one of the books Scrooge had given her for her birthday. Darkwing Duck was playing idly on the Sunchaser’s tenuously supported TV in the background, but neither were paying attention to it.

“Look at this,” Huey announced, sliding into the seat next to Webby and holding out his book. It was open to one of the pages about plants and fauna. Huey tapped a small paragraph in the corner with his finger, and Louie and Webby leaned in to read.

“Longer-living plants, like redwoods, go through many stages in their lives, many of which last long periods of time,” Louie read aloud. He glanced at Huey. “That’s purposefully vague. I don’t think it relates to the pine tree.”

Huey’s eyes glinted, like they always did when he got excited about a research project. “Maybe it’s purposefully vague. Either way, it’s a good starting point for an investigation!”

He smiled. “We may uncover the mystery behind this pine tree and the unicorn just yet.”

Louie typed in a search on his phone. “Heck yeah we will. Ducks don’t back down, remember?”

Webby tucked a colorful bookmark in her book and set it on the chair beside her. “You’re right.” She pulled out her own phone and started to search too.

“This adventure is looking to be bigger than ever!!”

hi this is very messy n bad cause i wrote it in an hour but i also have a lot of other big projects goin on (i’m writing the script for an instaronpa!) but i don’t usually have the motivation/time to do events like these. i’m going to try to do a little bit each day, so the parts will be shorter than what i usually write, but hopefully there will be 7 of them!! what i did was i set a timer for 30 minutes and tried to do just that, but i was only halfway done so i kept going. idk if i’ll have the motivation to keep doing that though

anyway i think this is gonna be like a connected story btw. all the more pressure to finish it ahaha. i hc that in this story, they’re all a little older, like teenagers (hence why they’re on an adventure by themselves). there’s one comic where dewey really wants to learn how to fly, so i snatched that headcanon when i realized if they’re on their own, they need a pilot. i considered briefly having Launchpad fly them in and not go, but I like Dewey flying. The whole “Webby planning an adventure” shtick is a brief nod to a couple lines from my group chat fic, where Della inspires Webby to plan an adventure. Since that happens when they’re at their canon ages, this isn’t the adventure they’re talking about. it’s just my inspiration.

title is a lyric from Home by Edward Sharpe & the Magnetic Zeroes. (two for two on using secular songs I sung at camp last year for fic titles haha)

see you tomorrow for the next installment of Home is Wherever I’m With You!

@hdlwsiblingweek2020

#ducktales #ducktales 2017 #dt17 #huey duck #louie duck #dewey duck #webby vanderquack #hdlw #wavey writes #my fanfic #ducktales fanfiction #hdlwsiblingweek

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yuthoe · 4 years

Text

Practice Makes Permanent (PENTAGON: Yeo One)

Hello, friends! This fic is entirely inspired by this post made by Changgu SO LONG AGO, and it looked so cute that I couldn’t get it out of my head. I’m a big theatre geek--I love acting and I was even in an org for it in college, and was cast last minute for a film, too. it’s one of my biggest passions, and hearing news of changgu being in something rotten! made me extremely happy. i needed an excuse anyway to get into the show, and this is the perfect opportunity!

this one took sooooo long to finish. it’s been in my unfinished folder for the longest time, and i’m so glad i’m finally finished with it. changgu’s last performance as Nigel Bottom is today, so i really tried to wrap it up before then. nothing like a deadline to get your ass in gear, am i right lol. but i do apologize if this one seems messy.

btw, the title is something my director would tell us to keep in mind: practice doesn’t make you perfect, it makes you and your body remember what you’re doing, whether it’s correct or not. so you have to practice things in the correct way before it becomes a habit and you keep repeating things the wrong way.

PAIRING: Yeo One x reader. GENRE: fic, general. WARNINGS: N/A. WORD COUNT: 1,635.

---

You knock twice on the door of a dance studio in the company building, before opening it a smidge and peeking your head through, immediately spotting your boyfriend sitting cross-legged against the floor length mirror, his script for the upcoming show he’s in on his lap. Changgu turns to the door at the knocks and smiles wide when he sees you.

The door clicks closed behind you as you skip to where he’s sitting to give him a peck on the cheek. “Hello, handsome,” you greet as you put your messenger bag down on the floor near you; he murmurs a quiet hi as you settle down beside him. “So what did you ask me to come here for?”

He lifts one of your hands to his mouth and presses a soft kiss there. “Okay, so you know I was cast as Nigel Bottom in Something Rotten!, right?”

“Of course, and I’m exceedingly proud of you for landing the role,” you gush, leaning forward and smacking him on the lips. “I know you’ll do great in it.” You’ve seen the musical before, and it’s hilarious, so when Changgu told you the news, you couldn’t help but feel that playing Nigel would suit him to a T.

Changgu chuckles, grinning widely as he kisses you back. “Thank you, love. But yeah, I have a love interest in the play. And much of Nigel’s character development is helped forward by her, so… you know… if you’re okay with it… could you--,”

“Help you memorize your lines with Portia?” you ask with a smile. It’s been a while since you’d done any acting, apart from what’s necessary for your group’s comebacks. The last gig you could remember was for a short film two years ago that was screened during a film festival, and you’ve been itching to get in front of a camera again.

Your boyfriend shrugs nonchalantly, as if it’s no big deal. “Only if you want to, though. I know you’ve been busy lately.” He levels you with a disarming smile and soft caramel eyes. “But I’d really appreciate it if you could help me.”

You had been ready to say yes to the request even before he gave you that look, so you gently cup his face, press a light kiss on his nose, and say, “I’m never too busy for you, love.”

***

“Okay,” Changgu says, sitting on the “bench” (three chairs you’d put in a neat row), sheaves of papers in his hands. “Act 1 Scene 8… action!” He taps his rolled-up script against his palm, quickly unfurls it again, and starts scribbling on the cover with an invisible pen.

You stand a little ways away, clutching a piece of fabric you found in the corner around your head and shoulders like a cloak. Your feet want to move, want to pace around a bit from nerves of seeing and possibly talking to Nigel.

Nigel groans in frustration. “Uggggh, no you can’t.” He sighs, makes to stand up, and you spur into action, walking straight into him as he begins to walk away. “Oh, apologies. Good day, mistress.” He avoids your eyes, defeated.

He begins to side-step to excuse himself when you say, “‘Good days were those when lit with love, till dusk of death did herald th’eternal night’.”

It puts him to a stop, and he finally looks at you properly. He recognizes the line and confusion is written plain on his face, obvious in the way his brows furrow. “Hey… I wrote that.”

“Yes, I know,” you say, trying to fight the smile growing on your face as you lower the “hood” of the cloak. The cloth precariously hangs on your shoulders as you pat your pockets for the paper you stuffed in one of them earlier. “I accidentally took this after our first encounter,” you fumble with the blank page and show it to him. “Your sonnet. It’s--it’s perfection.” You’d never read something so deeply sorrowful and yet yet incredibly hopeful.

“Really?” Nigel’s eyes had lit up when you took off your hood, and now he’s fiddling with his hands, embarrassed but flattered. “You thought it was… good?”

You clutch the paper to your chest. “It touched me in places I did not know could be touched.” Instantly, your eyes widen and you inwardly curse yourself for making it sound like something sexual. You try to backpedal. “Forgive me. Poetry is forbidden in my house, especially poems of earthly love.”

You take a step forward, lifting a hand in front of you like you’re reading a marquee. “OH, IS THERE NO PITY SITTING IN THE CLOUDS THAT SEES INTO THE BOTTOM OF MY GRIEF?!” you yell, and press a hand to your heart with an impassioned sigh.

Nigel points a finger at you, the play coming to him easily. “Romeo and Juliet, Act 3, Scene 6!”

You whip your head towards him, more excited now. “You’ve seen it?”

He nods, just as elated as you. “Six times! And you?”

“Eight! If my father knew, he would disown me,” you reply.

“My brother, too.”

“I adore Shakespeare.”

“Me too! I’ve got Comedy of Errors, first edition,” he says proudly.

You smile. “I’ve got ‘Sonnet No. 1’.” You hold up a finger. “Signed.”

Nigel’s jaw drops. “Wow.”

“I know,” you say, giggling. Talking about literature always makes you so excited that it’s taking all of your willpower to not jump around right now. Nigel chuckles with you, overjoyed to find someone just as in love with poetry as he is.

The laughter dies down after a while, replaced by embarrassed smiles from both of you. As you move to tuck a hair behind your ear, you remember the paper you’re still holding and the reason you sought him out in the first place.

So you take a breath and look at him, completely serious now. “I think you’re his equal--if not better.”

Nigel is already shaking his head. “No, no way.”

“Oh yes,” you insist. “Your sonnet has Shakespearean sophistication mixed with the complexity of Daniel Webster and the sensitivity of Samuel Daniel.” The analysis has been eating at you since you first read the poem, that the words just tumbled out of your mouth. You needed someone to talk to about it, and who better than the author himself?

Nigel looks at you fondly, mouth upturned in an amused smile that shows his teeth. “You really love poetry.”

You sigh, grinning so wide it feels like your face is going to split in two. “Oh, I do. I really, really do.”

“And cut!” Changgu says. “This is where the song comes in, so we’ll skip that.”

“That was a good run!” you say, pulling off the fabric and folding it into a loose square. “I mean, I’m a little rusty so I could use some more practice, but you were good!”

Changgu does a tiny fist pump and gestures to his script. “Can we do another scene?”

“Yeah, sure,” you say, eager to try again. You didn’t think you’d miss acting this much, but Changgu just ignited that fire in you that absolutely loves being on stage. “What did you have in mind?”

***

Hours later finds you both in a cafe, you sitting across Changgu and exchanging notes from your mini-rehearsal earlier that afternoon. He nods in understanding as he highlights his lines on the open script, occasionally scribbling notes and tips in the margins. The serving of iced coffee sits half-empty beside him and you carefully sip your warm latte.

You like this, you think. You like practicing lines with Changgu, acting out scenes together, and delivering a whole new dynamic to your characters’ relationship. It makes you want to actually act with him on a legitimate project and, not for the first time, wish you auditioned for Something Rotten!, even as an ensemble character.

You hear the clack of Changgu capping his highlighter; it takes you out of the spiral of envy you were slowly tumbling into. He looks up at you, eyes soft and gazing at your face.

“Thank you for practicing with me earlier, Y/N,” he says, smiling.

His smile is literal sunlight and has you grinning back. “Anytime for you, Changgu,” you say with a giggle.

He chuckles and sits back on his chair with a sigh. You study him as he studies the highlighted pages.

“I wonder what it would be like if we worked on a project together,” he muses. “I bet it’d be so much fun. We could practice lines together, have loads of inside jokes…”

His eyes focus on you again. “And it would be an excuse to spend more time with you.”

It still amazes you sometimes, how much you two are on the same wavelength. Because of your packed schedules--comeback preparation for you, and musical rehearsals for Changgu--you hardly have time for each other lately. Truth be told, you miss him, and you know he misses you. Today is just an excuse to see each other after such a long time, and you’re just making the day count until you have free time again. And who knows when that’ll be?

You shake off the solemn vibe and say, “Okay. Next time, we audition for a musical together, yeah? Something… darker, maybe? More drama?”

Changgu grins at you conspiratorially. “Are you thinking romance? Or possibly a tragedy?”

You hum, tapping a finger on your chin in mock thought. “Why not both?”

“Oohh, Sweeney Todd? Chicago?” He starts humming the hook to “Cell Block Tango” while doing vogue-like moves, and it’s taking everything in you to not kiss him right now. You’re in a public place right now, and though there aren’t many people in the shop, public decency is still a thing.

No matter--you’ll make sure to shower his face in kisses later.

#pentagon #kdiarynet #uninet #pentagon yeo one #pentagon changgu #yeo one #yeo changgu #pentagon scenarios #pentagon imagine #pentagon yeo one scenario #pentagon changgu scenario #universe net #fic: yeo one #fic: not spicy #fic: mine #yeo changgu scenario #yeo one scenario #changgu scenario

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strifescloud · 4 years

Text

my blood once was my own

3.7k words, big boss/revolver ocelot, mature rating

ocelot in love, through the years

Fifty years is a long time to love someone.

read on ao3

Adamska falls in love for the first and only time at Tselinoyarsk.

He’s there to stall, to create an opening for this man - this American that the CIA sent after The Boss, and so he kills and he grandstands and he puts on a show.

The way he is dismantled so efficiently, thrown to the ground amongst the corpses of the men he’d just slaughtered, plants a seed in his chest that never leaves.

You ejected the first bullet by hand, didn’t you?

It’s breathtaking.

He keeps the bullet, of course, hanging on a chain right above where that strange feeling had lodged in his sternum - after all, he doesn’t get to keep the eye he eventually steals.

Fallen for him? Volgin asks, and Ocelot does not, cannot answer, because it doesn’t feel like falling. It feels like something is growing, crawling through his capillaries, burst vessels expanding like unfurling leaves to cast shadows under the sun.

But quietly, privately, he thinks yes.

He feels its roots curl their way into his arms, his legs. It is what takes him to the WIG, in the end, the force that works his jaw muscles open to compel him to ask for a name.

John.

He wouldn’t forget it.

He’s not expecting the call, but it’s not unwelcome, even though he can tell Big Boss - Snake - John - is lying through his teeth about being in battle.

I’m keeping busy, though - care to join me?

He had the frequency now.

He wonders who named him Adamska - if they had cursed him to a lifetime of succumbing to the temptation of snakes. The roots within him had grown deep, unyielding, suffocating his lungs with the weight of absence. He makes the call, takes a bite of the forbidden fruit.

They arrange to meet.

It’s as remote and non-descript a hotel as they come - which is to say very, in their line of work, staffed with the kind of people who tend not to look you in the eye.

Ocelot doesn’t notice. He only has eyes for the man at the bar.

He greets him with Snake and receives Ocelot back, sliding into the seat beside the imposing figure. Snake had not lost a single bit of his edge, the aura around him both tangible and restrained, and Ocelot feels something in his chest constrict again.

It turns out Snake is still just as oblivious, but Ocelot thinks there’s no way to misinterpret the way he slides his hands up the other man’s thigh just under the bar table, whispering fuck me, Snake into his ear.

There’s a darkness that settles in Snake’s eye at the words, and he wants to unravel it.

The sex is perfect in its imperfections.

It’s the way Snake growls and bites harshly at his throat, but still lays him on the bed with hands too gentle to be stained with so much blood. It’s the way he’s not as experienced as he wants Ocelot to believe, and Ocelot pretends not to see through the false bravado.

It’s the way he sinks down onto Snake, taking all of him, and John whispers Adamska.

He answers in kind when he comes, John falling from his lips like a confession. In a sense, it is.

They lie in the aftermath in silence, John’s hand curling over the bumps of Adamska’s spine the way one would pet a housecat, but he does not feel tamed. He leans up, presses his lips to John’s neck, and the weight on his lungs subsides long enough for him to whisper his devotion into the skin. John’s breath shallows, but his hand does not still.

Later, Ocelot wonders if he was the first to pledge his life to Big Boss. He certainly wasn’t the last.

They stay there as long as they can, a dreamlike haze of sex and sleep and words whispered in each other’s ears, and when the time comes for them to part ways Ocelot doesn’t feel the ache of loss.

The thing in his chest expands, brightens, spreads its branches further across his ribs.

He wonders if it has a name, aside from being his purpose.

He is not at Snake’s side during the MSF, but the distance does not burn as it should.

He is fulfilling his purpose, after all - working his way into organisations, a curated selection of secrets, of contacts, of whatever may be useful to Big Boss one day.

The thing is his chest always pulls, though, drawn like a compass to a place across the sea, and Ocelot knows that when he needs it to, it will guide him home.

He is not at Snake’s side, but their reunion is inevitable, and when it comes Ocelot will have everything Snake will ask of him.

The man he has tied to a chair spits blood onto the floor, and Ocelot frowns at the splatter that streaks across his boots.

“That’s all I know!” The strained, desperate voice heaves from within broken ribs, “That’s all, so please - please-”

Ocelot draws one of his revolvers slowly, running his other thumb across the polished, smooth barrel. His spurs clink in the silence, echoing off the concrete walls as he takes a step forward, and his informant chokes on a blood-soaked sob. He levels the revolver at the man’s bruised face, slowly shifting the barrel across the skin to rest on the right eyelid.

He thinks he does miss John, he muses as he pulls the trigger, but they’ll see each other again soon.

He is not at Snake’s side during the MSF, and the ice that grips his heart when the transmission comes through is new to him.

Snake - John is -

He does not panic. He wills his hand not to tremble as he makes his first call.

When Zero finally contacts him he’s torn between the festered resentment and something almost like relief - the location is safe, at least, and he can start making preparations to be there immediately.

“You won’t say no, will you?” Zero asks him, and Ocelot half-wonders if he’s being mocked.

“I have no choice.”

The thing that lodged itself in his chest in Tselinoyarsk, withered with cold fear, burns again with purpose.

“Thanks.”

“Save your thanks.”

His words, tainted with bitterness, leave the taste of blood in their wake.

The hospital is quiet, the air heavy with the smell of antiseptic and the sound of machines.

Ocelot watches.

John’s chest rises, the slow inhale of breath.

Beep.

Exhale.

Beep.

Regret is useless. John will wake up.

The nurses and doctors have left them alone, and so Ocelot feels safe to press his lips against John’s forehead before he leaves too.

It’s foolishly sentimental, but he makes sure the Star of Bethlehem flowers are always fresh, all through nine long years.

He follows Zero’s plan for the phantom with only a fleeting scrap of remorse. Just another body in their wake, another sacrifice to keep Big Boss safe. It’s no different to any of the others.

He can’t help himself from snapping at Miller whenever they talk, even though he knows Snake would disapprove. The man’s attitude is irrationally grating, blind emotion clouding his judgment, and Ocelot hates the familiar grief that he sees weighing down his shoulders.

He feels it on his, too, even if he tries to ignore it - John will wake up, after all.

His footsteps through the hospital hallway are hurried, and though he hates how telling they are he cannot bring himself to slow down. The nurses and doctors do not try to stop him when he flings open the door, ignoring the figure of the phantom that still lies asleep, and rushes to the other bed.

Nine years.

A familiar smirk crawls across John’s lips, and Ocelot’s heart unfurls like a blossom seeking the sun.

“Kept you waiting, huh?”

A rusty laugh crawls out of Adam’s throat as he steps closer to his Boss, red-tinged with anger and relief and something he doesn’t care to name.

“For a long time, Boss.”

John looks so much smaller in the hospital gown, propped up by pillows and his eyepatch gone, his muscles diminished by the years of disuse - fragile, though Adam finds it difficult to think it at first. Weakness guides him to reach out, leather-clad hand wrapping tightly around John’s, and though it is steady he wonders if John can feel the heavy nine years in his grip.

He waits for John to pull away - waits for a familiar half-smile, for a pointed jab about the watching eyes of the nurses that pace the halls, for the way John never seems to know what to do with his naked affections.

But John’s grip tightens on his, and Adam feels the weight of nine years begin to ease their burden across his shoulders.

“Tell me.”

Ocelot straightens up, but does not move his hand as he reports in to his Boss.

He doesn’t get through it all before he has to leave - nine years of him and Kaz and the world, all the tiny pieces moving apart and together, too much for the Boss to take in all at once. But he returns as soon as he can, armed with cassettes and reports for when he is gone, and Adam tells John a little more - too much, he thinks sometimes, from the way John’s eyes narrow at innocuous words, seeing something in him that Adam doesn’t know he’s revealing.

He does not ask, though, because no part of him needs to be a secret to John.

By the time word spreads that Big Boss has awoken, they’re not quite as ready as he would like, but Ocelot does not panic. For Big Boss, he would make the impossible happen - help the phantom spin his legend, while John creates Outer Heaven in its shadow.

“How are you back on your feet so quickly?” Ocelot prods, having finally tracked John down outside of his room, directed in hushed tones by the nurses.

“It’s a non-smoking ward.” John drawls, and Ocelot shoots him a flat look.

“Boss.” He sighs, but he cannot help the smile that tugs at his lips, exasperated and fond in equal measure. But he is here for business, and even as John continues to explain the gears are spinning in his head.

He lays out the facts as he knows them - they are out of time. He gives a vague outline of their plans with the phantom, their many years of work, even as John’s brows furrow in thought. There’s an odd reluctance in the set of his shoulders, but Ocelot presses on - the medic had given his life for Big Boss once, the way any of them would, and though Ocelot can’t help but empathise he’ll throw the shell of him in the firing line once again.

The phantom, the hospital staff who directed him today with kind eyes and whispers, the other patients - all of them trivial, if only John could be safe.

And Ocelot, none the wiser.

“Can you keep it up?” John asks, peering at him with one sharp eye, “It’s a hell of a lie.”

The question twists Ocelot’s face into another bitter smile, half-amused and half-resigned.

“It won’t be a lie.” He replies, voice steady, “I won’t know his secret either.”

He doesn’t know how to interpret the way John sighs at him.

Ocelot presses onwards, laying out the rest of the plan - to fool his own mind into keeping Big Boss’s secret, erasing the knowledge he holds close to his heart.

It should be agonising, he thinks, and the way John looks at him is so oddly inscrutable - is it worry that furrows his brow, regret, or mere concentration, he wonders - but Ocelot is nothing but determined.

“All right...John,” he says when he is done, keeping his voice and his heart steady, “I’ve never forgotten you in these nine years, but I have to forget you now.”

It is strange, he thinks, how saying it aloud makes it real - how he suddenly feels unstable, wanting to reach forward but trying to stay professional out in the open, some foolish pride in him not wanting to show another tremor of weakness.

John shifts forward, his stare piercing, and even barefoot and in a hospital gown there’s an impossibly commanding presence about Big Boss - Ocelot doesn’t move.

A hand comes to rest on his cheek, and the thumb that sweeps across his cheekbone is slightly awkward and gentle in a way that Big Boss never is. A fleeting moment, soon to be forcibly forgotten, and yet Ocelot does his best to burn it into his heart.

“Adam,” John murmurs, “I’m counting on you.”

Soon after the truth is revealed to the phantom, Big Boss calls him across the sea.

The adjustment once the self-hypnosis was no longer necessary had been difficult - though the hypnosis itself had not been perfect, the focus on his duty had kept him grounded through the worst of it. After all, his Boss had been right there, and so Ocelot had been where he had always belonged.

But the phantom is no longer real to him. The distance between him and John burns as it never had before, and when the call comes in he goes without a second thought.

Last time he had not been at his side, Mother Base had gone down in flames. Adam would not let it happen a second time.

He is shown to the Boss’s quarters as soon as he arrives, late as it is in Outer Heaven - and how impressively Snake has worked from the shadows, Ocelot thinks as he wanders the halls of their new compound. There are fewer and fewer guards the closer he gets to Snake’s room, and he shakes his head even as he smiles - bold to the point of arrogance, but he’s not sure he can bring himself to remind Snake about security just yet.

After all, the last time they had been truly alone - not phone calls or whispers in hospital rooms or Adam’s warm hand on John’s cold wrist, begging him silently to wake up - was well before the fall of the MSF.

He raps on the door sharply with his knuckles and it is flung open almost instantly. Snake is half-dressed, stepping to the side to let Ocelot in, and Ocelot feels an odd but nostalgically familiar constricting in his chest.

“I came as soon as I could, Boss.” He says, eyes flitting around the sparsely decorated room. He can sense Snake staring at him like a predator and so he turns away, divesting himself of his coat and letting it hang over the back of Snake’s spindly desk chair. He removes his belts and holsters just as slowly, a deliberate show of trust just as much as it is a taunt, and scatters them across the desk.

Snake makes it halfway through Ocelot peeling off his gloves, pale fingers tugging at the red leather, before he speaks.

“Ocelot,” he drawls, and Ocelot feels the burning gaze on his back, “stop playing games.”

The laugh he answers with is nothing but fond - because somehow, in all their years apart, he forgot his Boss knew him just as well, inside and out.

He turns and meets Snake’s gaze before his smile fades, before he can think to temper the affection that swells in his chest and shines behind his eyes, but Snake doesn’t say anything else. He only reaches out, hands warm through the thin polyester of Ocelot’s shirt.

“Did you miss me, Snake?” He purrs as he slots against Snake’s broad frame, letting Snake’s hands work at the buttons of his shirt. Snake huffs a laugh at him, fingers fumbling for a second in their haste, and Ocelot thinks he hears his answer in the silence.

Snake maneuvers him until Ocelot’s knees hit the bed and he falls backwards, pulling Snake with him - and this, Adam thinks, is where he belongs.

I missed you, he doesn’t say, because he knows that John will hear it in the longing way he finally kisses him, even when I didn’t remember that I did.

But these are the thoughts he keeps wrapped up inside himself, tangled like overgrown vines around his heart, and aloud he only sighs as Snake’s fingernails scrape over his back.

He lets Snake fuck him as slow as he likes, as if the moment could stretch into infinity to make up for all the years they’ve missed, his forehead against Snake’s shoulder as hips roll into his and calloused fingers.

Snake’s hand moves to his throat, the sudden pressure on his windpipe stopping just shy of choking, Ocelot stilling beneath the warm constriction.

“The phantom?” Big Boss asks above him, the other hand running up Ocelot’s thigh like a reminder. Ocelot smiles back up at him, unable to help the way it comes out unspeakably fond, bringing his hand up to cup Snake’s face.

“Never,” He rasps, running his thumb over where the eyepatch meets cheekbone, the mark he left on Snake for everyone to see, “I’m only yours.”

The hand on his throat relaxes, John’s lips twitching to almost match the fond smile that can’t leave Adam’s own face.

And you’re mine, Adam thinks to himself, leaning up to gently kiss where his thumb had just been.

The years pass slowly and in the blink of an eye, the phantom taking his place in Outer Heaven as Big Boss finds his in FOXHOUND. Ocelot is wherever and whatever his Boss asks him to be, his purpose leading him ever forward. He goes out on missions when asked but always returns as soon as he can, a force pulling him ever back to where he belongs.

After his return one night he stretches cat-like across Snake’s bed, naked but for the thin sheet that covers his body and resting his head on his arms. As he watches Snake do paperwork at the rickety desk, hair greying and brow furrowed in concentration, he thinks this is what contentment is.

It is fleeting, as all things are.

Outer Heaven falls, and Ocelot feels a slight regret for the phantom - but it was not Snake that died there, and that is what mattered.

Now that Big Boss is presumed dead they spend most of their days in Zanzibar Land, and though it’s not truly what John wanted Adam feels a selfish pleasure in how much of their lives now overlap.

He is always at his Boss’s side, lingering behind his right shoulder to cover for the eye he stole a lifetime ago - or Snake is just behind him, watching as Ocelot tortures their informants just to the brink for all the intel they need, and Ocelot revels in the chance to show off his craft.

He looks in the mirror one morning as they dress and it’s like he’s seeing them for the first time - his own hair was more white now than silver, hairline beginning to recede and wrinkles marring his face, and as he turns his eyes to the reflection of John he wonders when they got so old.

They’ve grown old together, some foolish part of his heart reminds him, only-

“You know, John, it’s been 35 years since Tselinoyarsk.”

Snake snorts at him.

“Getting sentimental in your old age?” It’s still more fond than scolding, and so Ocelot doesn’t snap at him as Snake comes over to run a hand through his thinning hair, “Your hair’s getting longer again.”

“You said you liked it long.” Ocelot says absently, and lets the deflection slide.

“Did I?” Snake asks, but doesn’t wait for an answer, “Come on. I want an answer out of our latest guest.”

Ocelot falls into step beside him as naturally as breathing.

His compliance with John’s every word is his undoing.

He is away when Zanzibar Land falls, despite his unease - after all, John had asked him to go.

He wonders if John had known.

His grief crawls wordless out of his throat, a loss that will shake the world reverberating off the shattered glass in his hotel room.

John is-

It is memory that moves his every step in the years to come.

Ocelot joins FOXHOUND, his machinations beginning to unfold beneath Liquid’s nose, manipulating John’s young clone into playing right into his hands - or rather hand, he thinks, the other replaced with Liquid’s own after his death.

All because of the Patriots - no, all because of John.

The time passes quickly, at least, the years fleeting in the monochrome haze of grief.

The decision to erase himself is an easy one, too. His true purpose is gone, left only with regret in the world he helped create, the warmth that once bloomed behind his ribs cold and withered as he keeps himself going for the sake of Snake’s dream.

He hesitates only briefly over once again erasing his memories of John, the only thing he had left. There were many things he dwelled on that he was alone with his grief, things he wished he had said, had done.

When he was very young, he had wondered if the feeling that crawled through his chest around Snake had a name. Curious, he thinks, how it is only at the end that he has the courage to call it love.

But it is the last necessary step, so he turns himself into Liquid without a second thought.

Ocelot wakes up again on the roof of Arsenal Gear, muscles aching and the heavy pressure of the drugs in his veins, and from the way his heart beats sluggishly he knows he doesn’t have much time. Solid Snake - David, God, he looks so much like his father, Ocelot thinks deliriously, and when a fist slams into his face he feels an odd ache of nostalgia.

It’s 2014, a part of his mind supplies when he finally collapses, fifty years since Tselinoyarsk.

He looks up at the clone of Big Boss, fifty years after love first took root in his heart, and flicks his wrist in a facsimile of a familiar gesture.

“You’re pretty good.” He says, and he means it.

John, I’ll see you soon.

Adam closes his eyes.

#mgs #bosselot #revolver ocelot #big boss #strife writes

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myssamyss · 5 years

Text

Everything Stays, Part 4 of 6

Featuring Jojo’s comic, “Malink past” Part 4: When You Turn It Around

The next morning, Link woke before the sun, readied his gear, and crept out the door. He made his way to the stable as dim light began to color the ranch. A mercifully cool wind swept in from the fields; the heat had finally broken. Link reached the large stable door and pulled at the latch, only to haul the door open and freeze in surprise.

Malon stood in the middle of the stable, running a coarse brush through a spotted mare’s mane.

She turned and gave him an accusing glare that made his limbs turn ice-cold. They stood there, still and staring, neither speaking. Link swallowed in the back of his throat, but he didn’t back down. Malon broke the silence first.

“You’re up early,” she told him dryly.

“So are you.”

Malon gave him a strange look and he sucked in a breath, but then she turned back to the mare and continued brushing. The stable was quiet but for the slow, rhythmic rustling of brush against mane.

Taking her silence as understanding, Link exhaled and strode into the stable. Straw crunched beneath his boots, and the sound of Malon’s brushstrokes was drowned out by his swift steps. He began readying Epona’s tack.

“So you’re just leaving?” she asked him after several long minutes. A half-hidden hurt laced her words.

He turned back to her. Her hands gently stroked the mare’s muzzle, but her blue-eyed gaze was sharper than any sword.

“I’m not ‘just leaving’,” he replied, taken aback.

She shook her head and her bangs went flying. “Really? Because it seems to me that you were fixing to leave here before we had a chance to talk.”

Link felt stunned. He’d been trying his best to do right by her. At least, he thought he was.

“We did talk. And I even stayed for dinner. I came here to give a proper goodbye, like you deserve.” And I didn’t have to, Link thought to himself bitterly as he mounted Epona. Maybe coming to the ranch had been a mistake. Maybe this was the problem with long goodbyes and explanations. Maybe they only made things worse. Just leave, he told himself.

Her voice rose. “Why though? Why are you leaving now? I thought we were finally getting, well... close.” She glanced away with her last word.

“I don’t get close to people,” he said sharply. She winced.

“But if there’s anything I’ve learned,” he continued, “it’s that there’s always a parting. Nothing ever lasts.”

Malon stared past him to the open stable door with a silent frown. Link nudged Epona’s side with the heel of his boot, spurring the horse to a walk.

“You’re right.” Malon’s quiet voice cut through the air. “We’ve been friends since childhood, yet there’s very little I know about you, or even the world. What does a dumb farm girl know?”

What? He pulled back on Epona’s reigns and turned back to Malon, shocked. “Malon, no, I-I didn’t mean…”

Her face softened and her voice grew sincere. “But I’d like to,” she said with a small, hopeful smile. “I’d like to know... Ever since that day you played my mother’s song, I’ve wondered.”

She stared at him with deep blue eyes full of such care and longing. His resolve melted away. Because anything was worth this—the way she was staring at him now, shoulders squared with passionate hope and her bottom lip held half-open in plea. His chest ached at the few meters of distance already between them. Maybe... he could turn back. Maybe he could explain things and let her in. Her honest, fierce need for him was worth abandoning his self-imposed rules.

He nodded to her slowly and her face brightened with joy, encouraging him. He swung a leg over Epona and dismounted. The aching in his chest faded, and an intoxicating warmth rose to take its place.

“I’m not sure where to begin,” he admitted. He sat down on a nearby hay bale.

Malon waited a few quiet moments, then she came to sit by his side. She smoothed her long purple skirt over her knees, tucked her red bangs behind a delicately pointed ear, then met Link’s eyes with a disarming stare.

“Why does nothing ever last?” she asked simply.

“Well…everyone leaves...even you…” he murmured.

Malon’s brows drew together in confusion.

“Well, not you,” he backtracked. “Another you. And I suppose I’m the one who left then... I’m sorry. I’ve never really tried to explain it all before, to someone on the outside.”

She placed her hand against his arm just beneath the sleeve of his green tunic. Link started. He knew she was trying to comfort him, but her gentle touch felt like an electric shock. Though unlike real-life electrocution (which Link was too familiar with), the feeling was admittedly pleasant, and the memory of danger primed his mind, emboldening him. He looked down at the straw-covered floor and gathered his thoughts.

“You remember the first time we met? I was going to the castle?” he asked.

She nodded, enthralled.

“Well,” he began. “I broke into the castle, and there was this prophecy…”

***

Wild trailed behind the other heroes as they walked along a wooded path. He didn’t often take up the rear, as he was well-accustomed to walking long distances (unlike poor Wind). But today he craved the familiar comfort of solitude.

He kept a handful of pleasant memories in relief to fall back on when he felt overwhelmed, a collection built before the Calamity’s defeat when thoughts of failure and Zelda’s long-suffering threatened to overwhelm him. As he walked, he shuffled through the series of memories, imagining himself darting after little Cottla through cool grass above the hills near Kakariko, trading iridescent insects with a wide-eyed Beedle in a warm stable, or standing in the golden Tarry Town sunshine during Hudson and Rhondson’s wedding. He enjoyed escaping to these moments when he’d been nothing more than himself, without expectation or prophecy.

Wild’s thoughts were interrupted as he noticed Time falling back in their group’s walking order. It wasn’t unusual for him to double back to chat with Twilight, but Time didn’t pause beside the fur-clad hero now. Instead, he kept his pace suspiciously slow, until he was nearly even with Wild. His armor clanked with each step.

Wild fixed his eyes just above Wind’s crop of bright blonde hair ahead of them.

“Wild,” Time began, his voice quiet. He slowed his pace even further, widening the gap between Wind and the two of them. Wild matched him, but said nothing.

“I wanted to apologize,” Time said. He sounded sincere. Wild turned his head to show he was listening.

“I’m sorry for coming down on you at the pond, over the kid. I was just…worried. Lately you’ve been…” Time searched for a word, but seemed to think better of it. “Anyways. I know you can handle yourself. And if you want to talk, about anything...” Time shrugged.

Wild nodded. He wasn’t angry with Time. The man just made him uneasy, and Wild wanted to be left alone. Still, he appreciated Time’s willingness to humbly apologize, even if it took clear effort. Wild pushed back against his own annoyance and resolved to make an effort, too. Besides, Wild thought, if he couldn’t be alone, then maybe he ought to face his simmering unease head-on instead. He was good at throwing himself into the thick of things.

“Why’d you get married?” Wild blurted, hurling himself into the very subject he felt so keen on avoiding. He didn’t dare look over at Time. But the older man surprised him by taking the seemingly random question in stride. From the corner of Wild’s eye, he saw Time cocking his head and considering his answer carefully.

“Hm,” Time mused. He gave a small, uncharacteristic smile. “I guess… I got married… to share trust with someone.” He paused. “It wasn’t easy, at first. I mean, none of us are big on talking.” Time threw a glance toward the rest of their party. “Well, maybe Legend. But never about anything real.”

Wild nodded, listening guardedly.

“But having someone to listen? It keeps you sane.”

He heard a bite in Time’s voice. Wild’s gaze flicked to the red and blue marks that flanked the ruined eye.

Time caught the quick glance. “She knows about all of it.”

Wild let his head fall down toward the ground in minor embarrassment. He of all people knew the discomfort of a curious gaze. He resisted the urge to scratch at his scarred ear.

He kicked a rock instead and thought about Time’s answer. True openness sounded very difficult to put into practice. Wild might have once shared that kind of trust, that kind of love with another. ‘Might’ being the key word, as he could never be completely sure. A vision of Mipha’s delicate face swam in his mind. They might have been planning a life together...

Hard to share my honest thoughts when I can’t even remember them, Wild thought coldly.

“It wasn’t easy,” Time added softly, breaking the silence. Wild had barely noticed the long pause between them. Damn, still rusty at carrying on a conversation. Monologuing in his mind certainly didn’t help. He focused in on Time’s words.

“And there were bumps, she isn’t perfect. And I’m not either. I wasn’t sure it would last,” Time said. “But she hasn’t left yet.”

Wild nodded. “Thank you,” he told the older man.

Time clapped him on the shoulder, then began humming a vaguely familiar song as he picked up his pace and made his way to the front of the group, leaving a relieved Wild behind. The older man respected solitude, and seemed to understand Wild’s own need for it.

***

Malon knocked twice on the door to Link’s room, but there was no answer. Maybe he was sleeping again? He’d been taking on more than his fair share of ranch chores lately, she figured he was bound to be exhausted. Didn’t he know that his work ethic already far outstripped her father’s expectations without any of the added effort? She knew her father was already impressed. Link didn’t need to prove himself further. He was easily their best ranch hand, and he fit well in their little family. Besides, Talon had apparently already given Link his blessing years ago. Link needn’t be nervous now.

She pushed the door open quietly, but was met with an empty, neatly made bed. No sign of her Link.

Her eyes fell to something lying on the bedside table, an item that she had only seen a handful of times before: the ocarina. The ocarina whose notes had first sown the seeds of adoration deep in Malon’s heart as Link had impossibly played Malon’s most treasured song. For years she’d believed that Link’s unexplainable knowledge of the song was a sign from above, perhaps even from her own mother, that she and Link had a future together. Now she knew his true past, and the instrument had taken on an entirely different legendary nature in her mind. She crossed the room and ran her fingers across its glazed surface without thinking. It was smooth and cool to the touch. She gathered it in her hands—

“What are you doing?”

She spun around to see Link standing in the doorway. For the first time in many months, his face was a closed door. A painful lump caught in Malon’s throat as she realized her grave mistake. She carefully returned the ocarina to the bedside table with a small clink and stepped away as hot embarrassment rose in her chest.

“Link, I’m sorry...” she began. Link crossed the room to place himself between her and the ocarina. She glanced up into his eyes and found deep pain staring back. The few inches of space separating their chests felt like a vast distance.

“Please go,” he told her quietly. She nodded solemnly and left his room, easing the door shut behind her. As the latch clicked, despair welled up inside her heart. She had repaid his trust with unchecked curiosity, and all the sorries in the world wouldn’t take back her trespass. --------------------------------- Author’s Note: thanks as always to @clumsydarknut for beta-reading.

#Linked Universe #linkeduniverse #LU #Time #Wild #Malon #MaLink #Breath of the Wild #Ocarina of Time #Majora's Mask #Legend of Zelda #LoZ #Hero of Time #Hero of the Wild #Everything Stays

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crapitskizaru · 5 years

Text

Step On It. (Driving School!AU)

Chapters: (0), (1), (2), (3), (4), (5), (6), (7), (?)

Summary: you’re desperately trying to learn how to drive, but the instructors at your local driving school happen to be quite…eccentric, doing more harm than good. Will you be able to pass the exams before New Year’s Eve and win the bet with your friend?

Word Count: 1,1k

“You’ll be drivin’ the shit out of those rusty cars in a straight line, then just go back here, where you started.”

How the fuck did I end up here, you thought to yourself, glancing sideways where Drake looked like he was about to get both a heart attack and a stroke simultaneously - so exactly the same mix of feelings you had, with the slight difference that you were the one sweating in the car and he was standing outside, with one hand placed on Luffy’s shoulder; the boy kept bouncing slightly, surely aching to be the one racing.

“Just get out of the car, (Name),” Drake sighed, keeping Luffy in place. “I’ll drive you back to the office.”

His words died out in the roar of an engine - the courtesy of Bonney smacking the gas pedal to the board and taking off in full speed with screeching tires. It acted as a trigger to your tired, petrified brain, causing you to follow in the girl’s steps; it felt insanely satisfying to finally be able to step on the gas full-on.

The sudden acceleration jerked you backwards onto the seat - somewhere from behind the window Kid’s laughter reached your ears before every sound subdued for you, leaving only the pleasant hum of the engine and the rumbling tune of Shout It Out Loud in the radio. It seemed as if Kid had the whole KISS discography playing in a loop.

If you don't feel good every way you could Don't sit there broken hearted Call all your friends in the neighborhood And get the party started

What will Drake say, once you get back? What will Law say when he hears about this? You gripped the wheel, trying to let go of those questions. Adrenaline mixed with scorching heat started to spread along your whole body when you realized how fast the car was going as you climbed up the gears.

Not daring to as much as glance in Bonney’s direction, you were able to notice the hood of her car pulling ahead anyway. That definitely wasn’t as worrying as the question whether you get back to the finishing line in one piece - keeping that in mind, you started slowly lifting your foot from the gas pedal as you began to approach the point, marked with a pole, where you were supposed to turn the car around. Meanwhile, Gene Simmons didn’t exactly share any of your concerns.

Don't let 'em tell you that there's too much noise They're too old to really understand Let's get rowdy with the girls and boys Time for you to take a stand, yeah, yeah

Your hand ached to shut down the radio but it felt way too risky to let go of the wheel. Going down one gear, the vehicle swung back and forth from the sudden change in speed. At this point, the suffocating lump in your throat prevented you from breathing properly but you barely registered that; what mattered was to keep reducing the gears to slow down enough for the car to make a turn without a rollover.

It seemed as if only a split second passed when you last saw the pole and then you were already passing it, taking a right turn while trying to hold your nerves.

The tires screeched louder than you’d have thought they would, but it was mostly muffled by Paul and Gene, the duo shouting at you as if you’d done something to piss them off.

Shout it, shout it, shout it out loud! Shout it, shout it, shout it out!

Come on! You've got to have a party Shout it, shout it, shout it out loud Come on, turn it up louder!

When you saw the straight path ahead of you, you almost exhaled deeply with relief. The lump in your throat still wasn’t gone, however, keeping you on the edge till the crossing of the finishing line. All the adrenaline in your veins giving you a rush of excitement, not paying attention to where Bonney was anymore.

You tried to pulse on the brake pedal gently. The frantic beating of your heart suddenly stopped, as if turned off - the car wasn’t slowing down at all. So you stepped on the brake harder, but received no reaction.

The line where you were supposed to finish kept approaching you stunningly fast, all the cars parked there, instructors and students waiting in anticipation and, at least some of them, in fear. You were even able to make out specific figures - Drake, still standing near Luffy, Kid and Shanks, now connected in some sort of brotherly embrace. Your hands clenched on the wheel harder when you spotted someone else as well; Law was just getting out of his car, looking around the area.

Come on, everybody! Shout it, shout it, shout it out loud Yeah, everybody, shout it now Shout it, shout it, shout it out loud Oh yeah!

You drove straight past the finishing line, not being able to hear Kid’s roaring laughter through the noisy duo in the radio and the purring of the engine. The dark line of the forest that surrounded the maneuvering area was getting closer and closer - Law already managed to spot you and in the spur of a moment, you took in his confused expression and furrowed eyebrows as you approached the place where he parked.

Is this the end? you thought, your hands frozen on the wheel. The sight of Law acted as a calming veil to your petrified brain; such a strong veil that you barely registered Law yelling over to you - due to Gene and Paul not stopping in their frenzy for even a second, you read the words from his lips rather than heard them. “Handbrake!”

It hit you like a wall. There was still the handbrake, hopefully working. You estimated the distance you had left before you crash into the edge of the forest - it could be possible to slow down, using the gears. Something told that if you used the handbrake now, you might have as well hit a tree - the outcome would be pretty much the same.

Trying to keep a clear mind and sharpening your vision was pure torture, your brain practically begging to just let go and get it over with. Gritting your teeth, you changed into the fourth gear and the car swung dangerously. Then the third gear. At this point, the engine was roaring, itching from the sudden change.

Every tree and every branch was already visible - you could see the pine needles and the mossy trunks. You got to the second gear, making the car jolt, and then you pulled the handbrake all the way up with a sweaty hand.

The car screeched loudly, this being followed by the unnatural stillness and the ringing silence in your ears - and also the goodbye lines of Paul as he was leaving the scene.

Whoo! We love you! Good night!

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sapphic-sustrai · 5 years

Text

Team DMNO Bios: Melanie Hertz.

So, last time I shared the leader of DMNO Douglas Craig’s bio. It’s now time to talk about my yeehaw daughter, Melanie Hertz! If there are any errors, I will go back and fix them eventually.

Previous DMNO Bios:

Douglas Craig.

That being said, more will be underneath the cut.

Full Name: Melanie Celosia Hertz.

Alias: The Sizzlin’ Striker, The Monster Duo {an alias that she shares with Olwen, that was given to them by the Atlas Academy student body}.

Nickname{s}: Mel {used by everyone}, Melly {only used by Douglas}, Buttercup {only used by her father}, Annie {only used by Phlegon}, Flame Brain {only used by Douglas}, Blaze {only used by Olwen}.

Age: 18 {Vol. 1-3}.

Gender: Cis Female.

Race: Highland Cow Faunus, she has cow horns that curve upwards.

D.O.B/Star Sign: August 12th/Leo.

Romantic/Sexual Orientation: Biromantic Demisexual.

Handedness: Right-handed.

Complexion: Tanned.

Height: 5’3 {160cm}, 5’6 {when wearing 3-inch heels}.

Weight: 115lbs {52kg}.

Cup Size: C-Cup.

Body Type: Pear body shape, short, athletic build, medium-length legs, strong leg muscles, small amount of muscle on her arms.

Hairstyle{s}:

Low-hanging braided pigtails, bangs side swept to the left side {Youth}.

Long-length style, tied into a high ponytail, bangs side swept to the left side {Vol. 1-3}.

Hair Colour{s}: As of right now, honey brown. When she was younger, she had much lighter hair, but it got darker as she got older.

Eye Colour: Hazel.

Aura Colour: Burnt Orange.

Emblem: An outline of a burning heart, with the bottom points separated and curved outwards like a cow’s horns and a miniature heart in the center. The burning heart outline is burnt orange and the miniature heart is honey orange.

Weapon{s}: Blazin’ Buckaroos.

Blazin’ Buckaroos are a pair of buckaroo-style cowboy boots, with a firing mechanism built into them {similar to Yang’s Ember Celica & Mercury’s Talaria}.

The Buckaroos are primarily beige, with honey orange fire designs etched in and mahogany brown bottoms. The branding iron soles are copper, with a rusty look. The spurs of her boots are bronze, with built in flint.

Alongside her kicks, she’ll primarily fire explosive rounds or streams of fire {almost like a flamethrower} from her boots.

Using fire dust, she can heat up the branding irons at the soles of her boots, causing her feet to become searing hot. Clicking the spurs at the back will ignite the boots completely, causing her boots to blaze up for a short amount of time. Combining these two elements is a deadly combination that adds tremendous fire power to Melanie’s kicks.

Dust can be inserted vertically into the two chambers located in the heels of her boots.

The boots are made with a fire-resistant leather.

Types of Dust Used: Primarily fire dust. However, she’ll sometimes use rock dust in tandem with fire, creating a magma element. She’ll also use air dust, allowing her to kick in order to jump higher into the air {it looks as if she’s walking on air}.

Other Equipment:

Dust Pouch {where she keeps her dust crystals and it’s kept on the right side of her belt. It is hickory brown}.

Fighting Style: Melanie’s fighting style is a combination of Savate {French foot fighting}, aggressive precise kicks, and grapples. Sometimes she’ll incorporate quick jabs as well.

Semblance: Engine Burst - A semblance that allows the user to develop engine-like protrusions made of aura that manifest around her calves. This grants the user increased speed and extra kicking power for a brief period of time. She can only use her semblance in short bursts, otherwise it will cause her legs to lock up for about a minute or two. There are three gears, First, Second & Third. First gear is the standard, Second will give a bit more of a boost, and Third is the semblance’s, “overdrive”, mode. As of right now, Melanie can only access the first two gears, but cannot access the third. She’s attempted once, but this caused her legs to lock up for 24 hours.

Other Skills, Talents, etc…

Vast knowledge of farm animals & how to take care of them.

Very athletic.

Has good driving skills, thanks to learning how to operate farm equipment at a young age.

Even without the use of her semblance, she’s the fastest member of her team on foot.

Current Affiliation: Atlas Academy

Previous Affiliation: Pharos Academy.

Place of Origin: Vale, in the agricultural district.

Current Occupation{s}: Student, Huntress-in-Training.

Team/Status: DMNO. Currently active, but will become inactive soon after the Fall of Beacon. Won’t be active again for quite some time.

Team Members: Douglas Craig, herself, Norbert Beaufort & Olwen Kunik.

Partner: Olwen Kunik.

Team Role: Melee DPS.

Status: Alive.

Positive Qualities: Optimistic, big-hearted {always willing to lend a hand to those who need it}, passionate, encouraging, nurturing, athletic, protective, daring.

Neutral Qualities: Stubborn, outspoken, dominating, assertive.

Negative Qualities: Impatient, hot-headed {impulsive & a bit reckless}, brash {in a noisy & overbearing way}, overconfident, blunt.

Likes:

Horseback riding.

Apple picking.

Being outdoors.

Knitting.

Going on hikes with friends.

Kickboxing.

Gardening {she loves growing vegetables & flowers specifically}.

Spending time with her niece.

Dislikes:

Green apples {she finds them too bitter}.

Ghosts {she has phasmophobia}.

People who talk trash about their families for no reason {however, she does understand if someone has a bad relationship with their parents}.

People who chew with their mouths open.

She’s not the biggest fan of romantic comedy movies.

She hates it when people make comments about her height.

Favourite...?

Food: Apples {red delicious are her favourite}, breakfast foods {ham & cheese omelettes, hash browns, peanut butter on whole wheat toast, bacon and pancakes are her favourites}.

Drink: Apple cider & orange juice.

Season/Weather: Autumn/sunny & slightly cloudy.

Colour: Marigold & hickory brown.

Animal: Horses.

Movie Genre: Thriller & action movies.

Music Genre: Country & hip-hop.

Relationships:

Ignatius Hertz:

Relationship: Biological Father, good overall, but he can be overprotective of her.

Status: Alive.

Melaina Chastain:

Relationship: Biological Mother, good.

Status: Deceased.

Phlegon Hertz:

Relationship: Biological Older Brother {by 8 years}, good.

Status: Alive.

Ashley Keen:

Relationship: Sister-in-Law, married to her brother, good.

Status: Alive.

Hestia Hertz-Keen:

Relationship: Niece, daughter of Phlegon & Ashley, good.

Status: Alive.

Hephaestus Hertz:

Relationship: Paternal Grandfather, good.

Status: Alive.

Melantha Chastain:

Relationship: Maternal Grandmother, good.

Status: Alive.

Brooke Mathers:

Relationship: Closest Friend, grew up next door to each other, good.

Status: Alive.

Norbert Beaufort:

Relationship: 2nd Closest Friend, teammate, good.

Status: Alive.

Olwen Kunik:

Relationship: Close Friend, partner, friendly rival, good overall, but sometimes Olwen has to reel her in when she gets, “intense”.

Status: Alive.

Douglas Craig:

Relationship: Close Friend, teammate, good overall, but they do clash often because of their differing personalities.

Status: Alive.

Team RWBY:

Relationship: Friends, good overall, gets along with Yang the best, gets along with Blake the least.

Status: Alive.

Team JNPR:

Relationship: Friends, good overall, gets along with Nora the best, gets along with Ren the least.

Status: Alive {Pyrrha’s alive in this AU}.

Penny Polendina:

Relationship: Friends, good.

Status: Alive, then deceased, then rebuilt and brought back to life.

Ilia Amitola:

Relationship: Friend, crush, they don’t meet until much later on.

Status: Alive.

Early Life {Backstory}:

Melanie was born and raised in the Kingdom of Vale, in the agricultural district.

She grew up on a ranch called, “Woolwood Meadows”, that primarily raises sheep for wool. The ranch was started by Melanie’s paternal grandfather years ago. Her grandfather also started up a forge on the property called, “Hertz Ironworks”.

For most of her life, it’s just been herself, her father Ignatius, and her older brother Phlegon. Ignatius attended Atlas Academy and soon joined the military after graduation. Eventually he decided to settle down with Melaina and take over the ranch from his father, Hephaestus. Phlegon has taken over the forge on the farm and lives on the property with his wife Ashley and their daughter Hestia. Phlegon will eventually inherit the farm when his father retires.

Melanie didn’t know her mother Melaina very well. Her mother passed away when she was around 3 years old. Melaina was a Huntress who sustained fatal injuries while out on a mission. Her death was unexpected and the family took it hard… especially Ignatius. From then onward, he became overprotective of both of his children.

Phlegon decided that he wanted to inherit the farm when he was older, so he wasn’t the one he had to worry about as much. His worry over his son disappeared over time. Melanie on the other hand has always wanted to become a Huntress just like her mother… that worried Ignatius beyond belief and he continued to worry over his daughter’s safety.

It took plenty of convincing and begging from Melanie for Ignatius to allow her to attend a combat school. However, he wanted her to attend a school that was close to home and she would have to call him every weekend to let him know how she’s doing. So, Melanie decided to attend Pharos Academy.

When it came time to pick the next academy that she’d be attending, Melanie wanted to attend Atlas, but her Father wanted Melanie to attend Vale instead because it was closer. This caused the two of them to have the biggest argument that they’ve ever had and they didn’t speak to each other for about a week.

Phlegon stepped in and got the two of them to talk to each other. Ignatius finally opened up about how losing his wife made him fear about what could happen to his children if they weren’t careful. Melanie understood where her father was coming from, but that was no excuse for how he was treating her. Melanie finally told her family that the reason why she wanted to become a huntress was because she wanted to use her strength to protect those that couldn’t protect themselves. She also says that she wants to attend Atlas because it was the school that her father attended in his youth. She states that her two biggest inspirations in her life are her mother & father, that they’re the ones that inspire her to do what’s right.

Ignatius reconciled with his daughter and promised that he was going to try and ease up on his over protectiveness. He supported his daughter’s decision to attend Atlas and Melanie promises that she’ll call home every single weekend to check in. Not because she was instructed to, but because she wants to.

Primary Attire {Youth}:

Baggy Button Up Shirt {honey orange, top two buttons left unbuttoned, long sleeved but they’re rolled up halfway}.

Plain Shirt {daisy white, crew neck, long sleeved}.

Denim Overall Shorts {Blue, with gold buckles, a heart outline was sewn into the front flap}.

Shortie-Style Cowboy Boots {mahogany brown}.

Atlas Academy Uniform:

Melanie pretty much wears the standard Atlas Academy girl’s uniform. The only exception is that she wears her cowboy hat with the uniform.

Primary Attire {Vol. 1-3}:

Bull Rider Cowboy Hat {straw, with a mahogany brown hat band, brim & chin strap, usually wears it whenever it’s hot outside or during battle, when not in use it hangs on her back from the adjustable chin strap around her neck}.

Button-up Blouse {orange & brown plaid, first three buttons are left unbuttoned, short sleeved}.

Henley Shirt {daisy white, top two buttons left unbuttoned, sleeves cut off halfway}.

Leather Horseback Riding Gloves {hickory brown}.

Leather Belt {mahogany brown, with a gold belt buckle, dust pouch hangs from the right side of the belt}.

Denim Dungarees {brown, with mahogany brown straps, gold buckles, with belt loops, her emblem is on the front, the front is left open on the right side, while the right strap hangs from her side, she moves the right strap back on her shoulder during fights, pant legs are always tucked into her boots, 100% flame resistant}.

When not wearing the Blazin’ Buckaroos, she wears a pair of carpenter boots {hickory brown, with beige laces}.

Other Notes About Appearance:

Has dimples.

She doesn’t have a tattoo yet and is still trying to decide what she’d want.

Used to have her ears pierced as a child, hasn’t re-pierced them in a while.

Has a burn mark on her left calf. She was around 10 years old and there was an incident where she accidentally burned herself.

If She Had a Voice it Would Be: Cassandra Lee Morris.

Misc. Trivia:

Melanie’s reasons for making her weapon a pair of cowboy boots was not only because of her fighting style, but also because she finds them very comfortable to wear. She has around 10 pairs of cowboy boots in her closet at home.

On the ranch the family deals with sheep, alpacas and goats. However, each member of the family owns a horse, Melanie’s is named Autumn. There are also the three dogs named Bramble, Hazel & Maize. All of the dogs are Border Collies. Finally, there are the three barn cats named Pumpkin, Butternut & Big Max. All of the cats are all tabby, except for Butternut who’s a Maine Coon.

Melanie can play the fiddle, the banjo, and the guitar. She prefers playing acoustic guitars more than electric because It fits her style more.

She speaks with a strong Southern accent. When talking to someone that she likes {whether it’s platonic or romantic}, she’ll often refer to them as, “Sug”, which is basically the short form of sugar.

Aside from becoming a Huntress, other careers that Melanie has thought about pursuing were professional kick boxer, physical therapist or firefighter.

Melanie’s last name Hertz is derived from the German word herz meaning, “heart”, and was used as a nickname for a big-hearted person. Melanie and most members of her family are often described as some of the most big-hearted individuals in all of Remnant.

Melanie never skips leg day.

That’s all that I have for Melanie right now! Any comments or critiques would be greatly appreciated and my askbox is always open! I’m thinking that I’ll be posting the next member of DMNO Norbert’s bio in the next few days or at least by next weekend. I’ll be posting again soon, so keep your eye out for it!

#rwby #rwby oc #team dmno #melanie hertz

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whenjoshisjoseph · 6 years

Text

TODODEKU/KIRIBAKU VIGILANTE AU: THE ART OF HAPPY ENDINGS

I am so, so pissed. The WiFi threw a tantrum and I couldn’t upload this on Halloween, and it’s still not letting me upload on AO3. So here, have this one shot that’s 5k words about my fav children and let me feel at peace.

The Art Of Happy Endings (whenjoshisjoseph)

Rated T.

Summary: Bakugou, Midoriya, Todoroki, and Kirishima attend UA, a prestigious music school. Bakugou has a crush on Kirishima and vice versa, and the same is true about Todoroki and Midoriya crushing on each other.

Simple enough, right?

Wrong, because all of them are also a vigilante team that work together without knowing who the others are, and it stops them from pursuing relationships

.Until Shigaraki hatches his evil plot, that is.

full fic below the cut!! expect the italics doesn’t work :/

Midoriya recognises the song before Todoroki even starts to play, simply by looking at the way his slender fingers are poised. However, he still feels a rush of pride when Todoroki does indeed, begin with the opening note of Chopin’s Waltz in A Minor.

And of course Midoriya would know it; how could he not? It’s the first song he’d ever heard the other play, as well as the first song they’d played together. Part of him wishes that he could be on stage with him, accompanying Todoroki’s piano with his own violin. Then again, he’s content to watch from his special spot backstage, flowers hidden behind him.

Because this is the moment, the perfect opportunity: tonight, after the recital is over, and Todoroki is still on a high from his stunning performance (there’s no chance that his performance will be anything less than stunning), Midoriya will present Todoroki with the bouquet of red roses that he’s oh-so-carefully picked out, and with the roses, present his feelings too.

If he’s honest, it’s slightly daunting to think about, but it’s time. His best friend must know.

The gorgeous sound of Todoroki’s playing resonates within the concert hall, and the audience hold their collective breaths at the sheer beauty of his performance. Every trill and swift note vibrates throughout the space, and Midoriya, much like the rest of the audience, is transfixed.

But the sound is only half of Todoroki’s allure, and Midoriya unabashedly stares at the man as he plays. A single strand comes loose from the tight ponytail Todoroki’s hair is in, the colour matching the shade of roses that Midoriya holds. His chin is held high in the perfect pose to catch the light, and his heterochromatic eyes closely follow the notes he plays, building to a mesmerising crescendo.

Todoroki himself is, without a doubt, easily as entrancing as the song he plays.

Just before the piece finishes, though, a rough hand grabs at Midoriya’s shoulder, and he swivels in shock. Bakugou stands in front of him, gesturing for him to follow.

“K-kacchan?” he whispers, dreading what the blonde may be about to tell him.

“We gotta go; it happened,” Bakugou replies gruffly, sparing a glance at Todoroki, then at the flowers in Midoriya’s hands. His gaze softens a little.

“P-please,” Midoriya says quietly, voice beginning to tremble, eyes starting to water. God, but he’s so weak, he thinks to himself. “Not now, not now, anytime but now.”

This isn’t only the perfect chance to confess to Todoroki; it’s also his last, because Todoroki’s father has demanded he train internationally, and Todoroki has acquiesced to his father’s request. After this recital, Todoroki will be packing his bags and heading to the airport.

(The thought of it just further threatens the tears in Midoriya’s eyes to spill over.)

Bakugou steps forwards and ruffles Midoriya’s hair in sympathy.

“I know what it means to you, Deku, but there’s no waiting. It’s a shitty situation, but we gotta work with what we got. We have to be there. Now.”

And as much as it breaks his heart, Bakugou’s right; this is dire, and he has to put others above himself.

He allows himself one last glance at what could’ve been before he turns and rushes away with Bakugou, just as Todoroki skims the wings with his eyes for Midoriya, looking for support. When he realises that the person he perhaps cares about most in the world has stood him up, he steels his expression and begins Chopin’s Nocturne Op. 9 No. 2, the opening notes played with a dissonant detachment that does not fit the mood of the song at all.

The roses lay on the floor, forgotten, and a single petal falls from what was the freshest flower of them all.

The term vigilante is a little harsh, and the term villain is in a league of its own in terms of guess again, shitty ignorant civilian.

Bakugou prefers to be called a hero, please and fucking thank you, but it’s at times like this where he could maybe understand why some people disapprove of his team.

“Dude, calm down!” Red Riot pleads, holding Bakugou back lest he explode yet another rusty satellite. The friendly words juxtapose the strangely modulated voice that Red Riot’s chosen (they all wear voice modulators for the sake of protecting their real-life identities, although they all know that ‘Ground Zero’ and ‘Small Might’ know each other in real life. And no, Deku doesn’t sound any less annoying with his voice modulated).

“But Shouto’s fucking late as usual, and I’m pissed,” he growls in return, but allows himself to go limp in the hero’s grasp. There’s only one other person who can get him to calm down like this, and it’s not shitty Deku.

He glances over to Deku, or ‘Small Might’, as is his hero name, and notices the pain that flashes in his eyes at the mention of that name. It’s a bitchy coincidence, really, that Deku’s crush and his sidekick should have the same name. After tonight, it’s going to be a lot more difficult for him to face his emotions, and Bakugou once again curses the villains and their dumb-as-shit timing for hurting his nerdy ass friend like that.

No matter, though. Tonight, they’re going to take them down once and for all. Well, that is if the lame hero who calls himself ‘Shouto’ would fucking appear already.

As if spurred on by Bakugou’s grumbling, the tall man lands on the roof in an elegant crouch, straightening up and striding over to the other three in his team. His face is covered in an ornate mask that seems to be composed of half ice and half fire, like his ‘ability’, but Shouto had once explained that he’d had it made from Kevlar material to mimic the textures. Ever since, Bakugou can’t help but tease him about being a rich kid. And damn right, too. The hood that covers Shouto’s hair and the costume that cover his body are both made from freaking expensive material, and Bakugou can’t help but wonder what the fuck the guy must do in his free time to be able to afford such high quality. Not that he cares. Bakugou’s outfit is still the best.

“Fucking finally!” Bakugou exclaims, and Red Riot laughs. He turns to glare at him. “What’s so funny, Shitty Hair?”

(It’s true; the dumbass has his hair styled in some weird spiky style that really doesn’t flatter him. Not that he thinks that he’s attractive anyway. Because he doesn’t.)

“Nothing, nothing, just happy that the whole team has assembled,” Red Riot replies, grinning profusely. Deku, however, doesn’t seem to share his energy.

“Small Might, is something bothering you?” Shouto asks immediately, and Bakugou is tempted to tell Shouto that his gay is showing. But the last time he did that, the hero had burst into flames, and he’s not to keen to see that shit again.

“Personal life,” Deku mumbles, but perks up (honestly, can’t he make up his mind? Bakugou doesn’t know which one the shitty nerd is more head over heels for: his posh ass piano friend, or his posh ass hero friend). Shouto smiles sadly.

“Tell me about it,” he mutters. Red Riot, like that massive puppy dog he is, senses the morale lowering, and inserts his bright personality smack in the middle of the gay shit going on between the other two heroes. Bakugou breathes a sigh of relief.

“Don’t worry, guys; tonight’s the night we finally nail the bad guys!” he says enthusiastically. Bakugou snorts, and Red Riot flushes. “You know what I mean, bro, don’t make this weird.” Bakugou is about to reply when Shouto cuts in:

“Everyone know what they’re doing?” He looks pointedly at Bakugou as he speaks.

“Hah?” Bakugou sneers. “What you looking at me for, half n’ half? Wanna fight?” Todoroki raises an eyebrow.

“Yeah, I do ‘wanna fight’. To elaborate, I would very much like to fight the villains, Ground Zero, but of course, we can also wait until after I’ve knocked you down a notch or two.”

“Okay, okay, let’s all just…concentrate, right? This is our chance to take down the league once and for all, you know!” Deku tries to persuade, and Shouto simply nods, all glimmer of snarkiness gone from his eyes.

Liking someone can do that to you, it appears, and Shouto is all too obvious about how much he has fallen for Deku (although the stupid shitty nerd doesn’t realise it).

Bakugou shares a look with Red Riot, who has as much insight as he does, and rolls his eyes.

“Let’s go, already,” Bakugou announces, cracking his knuckles as he steps up to the edge of the roof. “We’ve got some villains to take down.”

And with that, he steps off the edge, all geared up to kick ass.

The mission yesterday had been a success. Well, duh, Bakugou had freaking smashed those weird ass freaks.

(The others were admittedly cool too, though he’d never let them know that he thinks that).

Bakugou tries not to dwell on the fact that the leader was the only member they weren’t able to apprehend (the man had yelled something to Deku about revenge as he’d ran, and god if that wasn’t so fucking cliché). But what’s a single guy gonna do by himself anyway? It’d been his underlings who’d been the real threat. Then again, Shigaraki had gotten pretty far alone before he’d recruited new members, so Bakugou thinks that he should maybe get together with the other three to see if they can track him down or some shit.

He goes from the fifth bar again, playing double time just because he can. The regular tempo’s too chill for him anyway, and drumming is meant to relieve his stress, so he can do what he fucking likes. The ride symbol harmonises perfectly with the hi-hat that he hits with his right hand (crossed underneath his left, because it’s easier like that).

Now this is real music, not whatever nerdy music Deku’s always playing with his half n’ half crush. As if some dusty uptight piece would ever beat simple, free sound. But the music school they go to offers both, so Deku can do as he likes; it’s none of Bakugou’s concern.

“Bakubro?” A voice pulls him out of his thoughts, and Bakugou comes to an abrupt halt to look up across the dimly lit practice room at his best friend. The streetlamps outside inform him that it’s after sunset, but as far as he’s aware, he’s got some time off from hero-ing tonight.

“Yeah?” he grunts, lifting himself off the seat and strolling over to where Kirishima is sat, acoustic guitar in hand. “Hold up; what’ve you got an acoustic for?”

Because Kirishima Eijirou, his best friend (and okay yes, goddamn crush too, who cares anymore?), plays the electric guitar. Although that’s sort of an understatement, he supposes. Kirishima doesn’t just play the guitar, he absolutely shreds it; his talent is unrivalled by the rest of the school.

When Bakugou had first met the cheery boy with straight, limp hair and a whole load of insecurity, he’d never expected him to be quite so…awesome.

But in the two years that he’s known him, Bakugou has never, ever seen Kirishima pick up an acoustic guitar. That’s always been something Kirishima keeps to himself; he has to practice with it, but he doesn’t do so when Bakugou is present.

“I,” Kirishima begins, taking in a deep breath. “I sorta feel like the acoustic guitar is my private self so I’ve never shown you what I can do with it, and I know it’s stupid-”

“For fuck’s sake, dumbass, it’s not stupid. Okay? You don’t have to feel pressured to-”

“No, no, no!” Kirishima hurriedly refutes, before slowing down. “It’s nothing like that. It’s just- I’ve been working on something for you, a cover, and I thought maybe you might wanna see it?”

Kirishima smiles at him so dazzlingly that Bakugou can hardly hold his gaze.

“Well, if it’s for me, you gotta fucking show it to me, dumbass. So yeah, let’s hear it.”

Bakugou sits down beside Kirishima and looks at him expectantly, so the other boy starts to strum.

It’s…it’s really good. It’s as if Bakugou is experiencing another side of Kirishima, something softer, something more personal, and the way his rough fingers gently pluck the opening of ‘Wake Me Up’ by Avicci hits Bakugou straight in the chest. But he’s not even remotely prepared for what Kirishima does next.

“What’re you all sad about?” Uraraka greets Midoriya, setting her tray down opposite him. It’s past ten in the night, but the school is still open and the cafeteria is all Midoriya’s. Well, his and Uraraka’s now. Uraraka is in the same class as Todoroki and himself, and plays the flute so brilliantly that the music practically floats about in the space. She’s also his best friend, and knows him almost inside out.

Note the almost.

Midoriya looks at her pointedly, but she doesn’t relent.

“What? Did the night end too soon?” she giggles, offering him a wink. He blinks at her in confusion.

“What?”

They stare at each other for a moment, before Uraraka continues, slowly:

“Okay, so let me get this straight: when Todoroki rushed out of the recital early last night without even finishing the last song, and spread an announcement through the media covering the concert that his father could go to hell and that he was staying right where he was, that wasn’t all…for you?”

Midoriya spits out his noodles.

“Wait, what?!”

“He was especially off after he finished Waltz in A Minor. That Nocturne was just…wrong,” Uraraka muses, oblivious, until she catches Midoriya’s expression. “What, you didn’t know?”

It seems that the term ‘what’ is commonly used in their conversations. Or at least in this one. But before Midoriya can even process the fact that Todoroki isn’t gone, and he has another chance, let alone launch into the whole ‘I got him roses but I had to leave early so the whole thing flopped’ story, Todoroki walks into the dining hall.

And as soon as he glimpses Midoriya, he turns on his heels and walks straight back out again.

“Wait, Todoroki!” Midoriya yells, scrambling to his feet. He glances apologetically at Uraraka who waves him off, and then runs after the taller boy. It’s like Todoroki’s some sort of mirage or something, the way that he’s only seen around the corner and never close enough, but Midoriya finally catches up to him on the steps outside the large entrance to their school.

“Todoroki!”

Said person stiffens, but stops.

“Midoriya.” The words are cold and detached, and they send an unpleasant shiver down Midoriya’s spine. Nevertheless, he runs down the steps so that he’s facing Todoroki.

“Listen, about last night-”

“Don’t. I get it; I’m not worth your time. You’ve had enough of pretending to be my friend, so you didn’t bother to show up.”

“No, I was there! I…I left after the Waltz,” Midoriya tries to explain, but Todoroki isn’t even meeting his eyes.

“Isn’t that convenient? I looked for you after that very song,” Todoroki says, chuckling humourlessly. “Stop lying to me, okay? You can’t redeem yourself, and you don’t need to. We’re clearly not meant to be friends.”

Tears fill Midoriya’s eyes, and Todoroki has the decency to look guilty for a second or two. This can’t be happening, not after everything he’s already done. Midoriya lets go of his inhibitions.

“I was there for you! I was there, listening to your music and watching the way the shortest strand of your hair come loose like it always does!” Midoriya shouts, the tears spilling over at last. “More than that, I was there with red roses behind my back that I could give to you after the concert was over because surprise, surprise, I’ve fallen for you! I really, really like you, and I would never stand you up.”

Todoroki steps closer, a dangerous fire in his eyes.

“Who told you? Who told you that I…used to like you? Was it my father?”

“I…no! A-and…used to?” Midoriya manages to say. Todoroki nods, glare so livid that Midoriya thinks he may be paralysed.

“Yes, used to. Up until yesterday. Because I can’t bring myself to like someone who stands me up and then lies about it. Leave early? Really? Why? Was it a matter of life and death that you couldn’t have stayed just a little longer for me? I think not. You liar-”

“I’m not-”

“Shut up!” Todoroki roars, the loudest Midoriya’s ever heard him, and he flinches. Even Todoroki realises he’s gone too far, and almost reaches out for him, as if to console him like he usually would. But he controls himself this time. “Just…shut up,” he says quietly, walking down the stairs and away from Midoriya, who stands there for a few minutes, frozen, before breaking down. He doesn’t know how long he weeps for, out in public, before something buzzes in his pocket; his phone.

Unknown number

I’ve found you, finally

Who is this? you may ask

I’ll give you a hint

S H G R K I

But sshh

Don’t tell anyone

Come alone to the address attached

Cos I’ve got Shouto and you reallllly don’t want me to hurt him

Be there ASAP

Midoriya reads the texts three, four times. He’s just lost Todoroki, and now, Shouto’s gone too. Kidnapped. Unless he walks into a trap for him. How the hell is a person meant to withstand this? But he’s not just Izuku, he’s Small Might, too. And he knows who to go to.

His conviction doesn’t stop the tears, though.

(He wonders if anything will ever stop the tears).

“Feel my way through the darkness,” Kirishima sings, almost whispering, so shy and unsure in his own ability, that Bakugou wants to yell at him that he sounds like an angel. Since when has Kirishima been able to sing? And where did he learn to sing like that? Bakugou recalls that Kirishima is doing this for him, and something begins to click into place. “guided by a beating heart. I can’t tell when the journey will end, but I know where to start.”

And Bakugou can’t help it; he joins in. He misses a line, before singing, falteringly:

“’Say I’m caught up in a dream...”

Their voices are low, hesitant, and so fragile together that even the slightest wrong movement could shatter them. But this is something they could build on. Bakugou understands now, and the moment is perfect; he wants nothing more but than to make this, the way he feels, the way Kirishima looks at him, to last for an eternity.

Which is exactly why the universe has to cut it short. The shitty nerd slams the door open, face tear-soaked. Kirishima instantly stops playing and nearly drops the guitar in surprise. But Deku is fixed on Bakugou.

“Kacchan,” he chokes out, voice cracking, “I need your help.”

And Bakugou wants to say no, wants to close the door in the nerd’s face and pretend that he and Kirishima are alone, completely alone with no-one else but themselves.

He can’t do that, though, because if there’s anything he’s learned from his shared history with Deku is that Deku is not a foe; he’s a friend. A fucking good one at that, and damn but Bakugou’s gone soft because he can’t just say no to his oldest friend anymore. And judging by the tears, it’s probably got something to with someone he cares about.

Bakugou knows how that feels.

“I’ve gotta go with him,” Bakugou mutters to Kirishima, and it breaks him to hear how much it sounds like a rejection.

“Yeah, cool; I’ll be packing up and heading home now, I guess. See you tomorrow?” Kirishima replies with forced cheeriness.

Bakugou simply nods before grabbing Deku and stomping out of the room. He turns to confront his short friend.

“Now fucking what?”

“H-he, he’s got S-Shouto, and, um, he left me, uh,” Deku stutters between tears, “a t-threat. He I have to c-come alone or he’ll, he’ll…” But he doesn’t get anymore out before he openly starts sobbing.

Bakugou sighs and pulls the nerd into a hug.

“You go after him,” Bakugou commands quietly, “but attach the comms unit and take the signal locator so Red Riot and I can follow you there. We’ll be there in half an hour to give you some time to assess the situation.” He pulls Deku back slightly so he can look him properly. “Don’t do anything stupid, don’t fall into any dumbass traps, and don’t you fucking worry; we’re going to get him back for you. Got it?”

Deku sniffles, but nods, eyes taking on a determined glimmer.

“Got it.”

And then he’s off sprinting down the hallway, and Bakugou pulls out his device, sending an emergency signal to Red Riot. But there’s one thing he’s gotta do before he join the redheaded hero:

He’s gotta stop at Kirishima’s house and sort their mess of a relationship out, because he never wants to see the guy he’s half in love with fake anything towards him again.

He wants Kirishima to be genuinely happy, for as long as humanely possible.

Todoroki sits uncomfortably, blindfolded, and hates himself.

He hates himself for overreacting. He hates himself for making the one he loves cry. He hates himself because he can’t stop loving him. But most of all, he hates himself because the whole situation distracted him so much that Shigaraki was able to kidnap him. And even if a future with Midoriya is gone, he could’ve maybe had something with Small Might. But Small Might is inevitably going to end up hurt if he comes after Todoroki alone like he’s meant to. Todoroki only hopes that he at least consulta Ground Zero first. As rash as the hero is, Small Might and Ground Zero know each other in person, so there has to be some sort of backup Ground Zero can offer.

“Oh, Shouto; I can scare you, you know,” the deluded villain taunts. Todoroki grits his teeth.

“As if.” Physical pain is nothing to him.

“Hmm, but I know who you are, who you really are, and I’m sure if I revealed your true self to, say, Small Might, for instance, he’d somewhat recognise your face from the media. Your cover is blown.”

Todoroki’s blood runs cold. Of course, being him, the son of the musician Endeavour, most people in the city know his face, his voice, and even his hair, which is why he so completely covers himself up with his costume. Small Might would instantly recognise him. All the…the stereotypes and the rumours about Todoroki would cloud Small Might’s judgement.

He’d lose the special connection they had.

“You’re bluffing,” Todoroki growls. Shigaraki laughs.

“Are you sure about that? Only, that was an awfully long pause…Todoroki.”

Shit.

“Now,” the villain continues. “Do you think I can scare you?”

No reply. The villain snarls and repeats his line.

“Do you think I can scare you, Shouto?”

“What does it matter? There’s nothing wrong with being scared if you can be incredible anyway!” The voice belongs to neither himself or Shigaraki. Todoroki would recognise that modulated sound anywhere: it’s Small Might.

“Small Might, don’t! Don’t come any closer!” Todoroki pleads, but it seems that Small Might isn’t going to listen, because the sounds of heavy steel boots get louder. And it’s selfish, he knows; he’s primarily trying to stop the other hero from finding out that he is a Todoroki. But his concern isn’t just for himself – he has to keep Small Might safe, too.

The echoing sound of multiple guns resonates throughout the space, and Shigaraki pulls Todoroki’s blindfold off. The hero is faced with a grotesque, peeling face, before Shigaraki steps away and says, gleefully:

“Behold, my two henchmen!” Either side of Small Might appear two men holding guns at point blank range to the hero. Shigaraki reveals his own gun and aims it at Small Might, so that the only way he can go is backwards. “Oh, it was a struggle to get anyone so short notice, but these two kind men took my limited money and accepted the job! So now, Small Might, you have a choice: flee, and live, or try to protect your dear hero friend, and die.”

“I’m not leaving.”

Shigaraki laughs, louder this time.

“But of course not; you’re a hero!” He turns to Todoroki. “So really, the choice is yours, Shouto; reveal your identity to Small Might, and allow him to live, or refuse to, and be the cause of his death.”

The air is silent for a short while, before Todoroki manages, shakily:

“My hood and mask. Take it off.”

There really isn’t a choice, and Todoroki only prays that Small Might will accept him for who he really is, and not confine him to the Todoroki Shouto that the public knows.

“Why, certainly, Your Highness,” Shigaraki quips childishly, stepping up to Todoroki again. “Brace yourself.”

And with that, he whips the mask off and shoves the hood back. Before the villain can even announce his real name, Small Might blurts:

“Todoroki?!”

Shigaraki grins, and Todoroki feels like he may possibly throw up.

“Oh, who was I kidding, of course Small Might would recognise you! You see, I also know who Small Might truly is, and you two…well, I’ll let your eyes speak for themselves.” He pushes the gun into Todoroki’s temple harshly, and turns to Small Might. “Mask, off, or I shoot him.”

And it’s the same situation, except Small Might doesn’t even hesitate for a second. The green material flops onto the floor, and the sight he sees knocks the air out of his lungs. It can’t be.

Izuku Midoriya is stood before him.

And this is the worst time to think back to yesterday, and to think back to how Midoriya said he had to leave early. Was it a matter of life and death? Todoroki had asked. And now it all makes sense.

The tears spill before he even realises he’s going to cry.

Bakugou hadn’t accounted for traffic. He’s now only got ten minutes left before he’s got to be with Deku, which is why he barges into Kirishima’s room without knocking. Kirishima’s parents had let him in, and Bakugou doesn’t have a second to waste.

But none of that prepares him for finding Red Riot in Kirishima’s room.

Kirishima steps out of the bathroom in his full Red Riot outfit. He’d gotten an alert from Ground Zero about twenty minutes ago, and it takes him at least five minutes to get his hair set, so he’d responded immediately.

(And he wants to see Ground Zero as soon as possible, too; is that really such a bad thing?)

But now he has to explain why he’s dressed like this to Bakugou, his year-long crush, and he really doesn’t know what to say.

“…Red Riot?”

Okay, so Bakugou’s heard of him. Maybe he can spin this to his favour.

“Yup, that’s me!” he starts fully intending to pretend that ‘Kirishima is out and we’re friends, haha’, but then realises he’s yet to put his voice modulator on.

Oh no.

“…Tell me you’re not the Red Riot. The one that works with Ground Zero and stuff. Please,” Bakugou utters. Okay, so now he’s a bit offended.

“Uh, yeah. Yes, I am. Like, the Red Riot, I mean. That’s me,” Kirishima tries (and fails) to assert. Bakugou sits down on the bed and groans.

“Tell me this is not happening.”

“It’s not happening.”

“…Fuck off.”

“No, no seriously,” Kirishima says, “we can pretend this never happened. I know it’s super really weird to find out that your best friend is a vigilante when you yourself are just a normal music student, and I know my motives probably don’t make sense-”

“Tch, think again, Shitty Hair,” Bakugou mutters, and Kirishima stops mid-sentence. There’s only one person who calls him by that nickname.

“Y-you’re Ground Zero?!” Kirishima screeches, and Bakugou rolls his eyes.

“Congratu-fucking-lations, you guessed it,” Bakugou deadpans.

“N-no, it’s just that- it’s good! Really good!” Kirishima backtracks. Bakugou looks at him suspiciously.

“Why’s it good?”

“C-cos….oh god, this is going to sound weird, I’m so sorry, I have to say it,” Kirishima mumbles, before clearing his throat. “Because I have a crush on you and on Ground Zero and I was really torn between the two but now it’s all sort of a lot more clear and also who wouldn’t want to be superhero partners with their best buddy?”

“Huh.”

“What?”

“You…you basically voiced my thoughts.”

Kirishima looks at him for confirmation, wondering if Bakugou could possibly mean what he thinks he means. The red tinge to his best bro’s cheeks says it all, and suddenly, Kirishima can’t stop grinning.

Without giving Bakugou a second to react, he tackles him in a bear hug, and they both topple back on the bed.

“Hey, Kirishima?” Bakugou says from underneath him, and Kirishima pulls himself up a little to look at Bakugou.

“Yeah?” he responds a little breathlessly. Bakugou smirks, surging forward and pressing a chaste kiss to Kirishima’s lips.

“We’ve got people to save.”

“I’m sorry,” Todoroki whispers in his broken voice, and Midoriya catches his meaning straight away, giving him a small smile that’s both sad and hopeful, and it breaks Todoroki’s heart even more to see it.

“Well, as…sickeningly sweet as this all is, I’m afraid it’s all going to come to end,” Shigaraki mocks. “But don’t worry; I’ll position your dead bodies like Romeo and Juliet, if you’d like.”

But then two figures spring down from the walls and knock out the two henchmen; Ground Zero and Red Riot have arrived.

(Really, Shigaraki should’ve hired at least a few more men).

“Maybe I’ll position your dead body like fucking Macbeth or some shit, you twerp!” Ground Zero yells…except he isn’t wearing a voice modulator, or a mask, and neither is Red Riot.

Which is why he’s seeing Bakugou and Kirishima, two people in his year at school.

To call it a coincidence would be the understatement of the century.

“Okay, yeah, yeah,” Bakugou says when he catches Kirishima, Midoriya, and Todoroki looking at each other in bewilderment. “Kirishima and I came clean to each other accidentally, and that fucktard made you reveal yourselves, I’m guessing. Can we kick ass now and ask questions later?”

Kirishima chuckles.

“That we most definitely can do, bro.”

Shigaraki doesn’t stand a chance when Midoriya knocks the gun out of his hand; the four as a team are pretty much invincible, and being able to see each other’s faces does a lot for communication.

Todoroki could get used to this.

“Oh my god, stop sucking face,” Bakugou groans, and Midoriya pulls away from Todoroki guiltily.

“You’re one to talk,” Todoroki says, raising an eyebrow at Kirishima and Bakugou’s joined hands.

“That’s different!” Kirishima exclaims. Midoriya simply laughs, and tucks into his food.

It’s been a month since their identities were revealed to each other, and whilst they’ve gone back to the masks to keep any other villains from finding out about them (they’ve ensured Shigaraki and his two henchmen won’t be talking), they’ve adapted the designs so that they can communicate more easily.

They’ve also discovered in school that highly controlled drums and acoustic guitar really uplift a classical song, and that electric piano and violin add a touch of unique expression that sounds pretty awesome.

But by far the best discovery they’ve made are double dates. After that night, there was no more beating around the bush. Todoroki and Midoriya had a long, meaningful talk which ended in a soft embrace and the beginning of a relationship, and Bakugou and Kirishima…well, they just sat with an acoustic guitar and sang songs together, which was good enough for them. The mutual agreement of a loving relationship came from the sound of their voices melding together (in more ways than one).

“So are we going to patrol tonight?” Midoriya asks, and Kirishima stares at him, aghast.

“Dude! We’re going to the cinema tonight!” he cries. Midoriya laughs sheepishly.

“Oh, right. Sorry, I’m just nervous about that new group…”

Todoroki slings an arm around Midoriya’s shoulder comfortingly and pulls him close.

“Don’t worry about it. We’ll take them down if they’re a threat.”

“Damn right we will,” Bakugou agrees. “After all, we’re famous now.”

“Not us,” Midoriya insists. “Just our hero counterparts. No-one knows it’s us!”

“Yeah,” Todoroki hums. “And let’s keep it that way, this time.”

They’re so engrossed in making conversation and plans that they don’t notice their friends listening from the other table.

“Oh?” Kaminari calls.

“Famous?” Mina repeats.

“Hero counterparts?” Sero adds.

“Keep it what way this time?” Uraraka asks.

The four heroes look at each other, and collectively groan.

#tododeku #kiribaku #todoizu #bakushima #tododeku fic #kiribaku fic #vigilante au #music school au #i am sick and tired #oof #but maybe enjoy it?#ughhhhh #the art of happy endings

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cloudwomensquarterly · 5 years

Text

Store Street By Elena Chapman

Store Street

It was a cold Saturday morning in October. Whilst the usual herds of workers slept in their beds, Kitty Page was heaving herself to Store Street. Friday morning, Kitty was galumphingly searching for her keys, sieving through her puddle of clothes, opening moaning cupboards and slamming timid drawers. She was already ten minutes late for work and spied the set of keys lying on the kitchen table. An hour after slipping behind her desk, her hands ran over the familiar fluffy feel of her keyring in the back of her bag. The borrowed set was quickly forgotten about and remained on her desk. That evening, Kitty was chugging down her vodka lemonade in GAY when her phone rang. She picked up on the third ring. She bellowed over the music that she’d get them first thing tomorrow morning, hung up, and made her way to the dance floor.

A light drizzle fell from the pregnant clouds parading the dark October sky. A breeze touched the trees and whisked autumn leaves around Kitty’s ankles. Store Street’s rusty coloured bricks reared against the darkened sky and Kitty made her way over to the oak door chiselled into the bright bricks. As Kitty fumbled in her handbag for her work fob, a wad of last night’s receipts dropped into a puddle. She fetched a sigh, plugged her stained Oyster card in her mouth, bent over and picked up the receipts. She winced at her reflection in the murky water – black circles ringed her eyes and her straightened blonde hair was spiking at different angles.

Leaning on the oak door, she placed her fob on the sensor, smoothing back her hair, and waited for the familiar beep before throwing herself into the reticent building.

When you enter Store Street’s narrow square entrance, in the middle sits a heavy square lift that has sat there since the 1930s. To your left is the open mouth of the stairwell, spiralling up like a snake up to the top floor, choking the lift’s frame. From the stairs you can spy on the lift’s car and the mechanics through large dusty windows. The once white walls of Store Street are now blemished with dark scratches and paint stains. Like most days, a lonely plastic bag patiently sat by the door, waiting for a volunteer to take it out. Kitty plonked the soaked receipts on top of the bag, wiped her hands against her jeans and started up the stairs.

She climbed just shy of the last set of stairs when she stopped. Last night’s vodka slushed around in her belly, threatening to crawl back up her throat with every step. Her hands planted on her knees, she regained her breath, then carried on up the stairs when, suddenly, a screech like a tortured child rattled up the building. Terror leaped in her and she stood dead still. With a tortured whine, the lift lurched into life and crept up the rail. She gazed in fixed concentration at the approaching car and the strained ropes and wires. Red lights winked through the dust as the lift rose above her.

Kitty gave a measuring glance as the lift stopped on her floor and crept up the last few stairs. The doors creaked opened. Kitty waited a few seconds, but when no one got out she lugged herself through the office door. The lift stood silently, just as it had when she walked in a few minutes earlier.

She stood with her back to the door, short sharp gasps of breath escaped her mouth. She paced her way to her desk and grabbed the abandoned keys. She stole one last glance over shoulder before making her way out of the room.

Daring to look from the corner of her eyes, Kitty’s gnawing intuition made her etch slowly towards the tenebrous mouth of the lift. She plucked her phone from her backpocket and ran the torch around the dilapidated lift. Deep scrapes scarred its wall, splatters of white paint lingered on its floor and a dim bar of flickering light suffocated in its dust and fly-filled coffin.

Her eyes descended to a small wet patch on the dull thin carpet. She dropped to one knee then inched herself back, glanced at the ceiling, then clapped a hand over her mouth. A humming noise began to tickle her ears. There was a moment of silence before plumes of red spray spurted from the walls. Cacophonous snorting laughter and tortured and ululating screams boomed around her. Kitty pressing her hands against her ears and snapped her head following the sounds. Kitty caught a whiff of an iron scent seething from the lift.

A slow repetitive thump began to compete with the choir of screams which seemed to rattle Kitty’s ribcage from the inside out. A red fog drifted from the stairs and coalesced around her feet. The heavy and monotonous thump thump thump grew louder. A muddy pair of feet were spuming up hazes of fog as it marched around the corner. Kitty slowly got up from the floor and gazed up. A woman stared at her.

Her face dead white, the woman’s grey eyes were vacant and inhuman. Half her face was peeling off, exposing raw and pulsing flesh. The woman’s frail body was dressed in a low collar shift dress coated in dirt that hung just above her knees. Her legs and neck were dotted with purple bruises and mud. Her mouth drew back into a grimacing smile and blood leaked from her upper lip. Kitty noticed a hint of scar from her philtrum down to her chin.

The bashing of rushing blood and erupting screams roared and echoed off Store Street’s walls. The woman shifted her eyes and slowly held out her hand. Overwhelmed with dizziness and languor, Kitty only managed to shake her head. Her rubber soles whistled as she took a large step away, anchoring herself against the banister. Then, with a snap, the lift returned to its quiescent state and the woman, fog and blood all disappeared. The sudden crescendo made Kitty trip down the stairs and her head connected with the cold floor. She blinked back the pain and barreled her way out of Store Street.

The next morning, the sun was cowering behind the clouds. A heavy shadow made Melissa Smith look up from her clutter of papers. Fear and panic was scrawled on her colleague’s face.

Hunched over, Kitty fiddled with her fingers and her eyes were shimmered with tears as she relayed the events of Saturday morning.

“I haven’t got time for this silly story, Kitty.” Melissa put her hand up and returned to her pile of invoices.

“I’m not making this up!” Kitty’s voice was thin with fury. Melissa sent Kitty a single peremptory dour look. Kitty locked eyes with her then straightened herself up, her face fervent with anger. She did not have the temerity to argue any further so made her way back to the desk and it was not spoken about again.

Kitty harboured the hope it was all some sort of mind blip or belated illusion from the night’s concussion of drinks but still took Store Street’s steps two at a time. Kitty was also assiduous on removing her shoes, so she could surreptitiously whisper across the floor to not wake the lift. Quickly, her thigh muscles began to tighten and bulge and her breathing began to gain a slow capable rhythm.

Three weeks after that cold Saturday morning in October, the lift cracked and hissed to life again. Kitty was hefting a folder full of reports on a lazy Friday afternoon when a scream ricocheted in her left ear, making her jump. Kitty cut her eyes in the lift’s direction just as its door opened. The same lulling humming rhythm began to brew and the cold prick of fear returned.

Kitty dropped the folder and turned for the exit when she stopped. Her eyes widened. An impregnable power engrossed her. She eased her way closer, her face dead white. The screams and snorting laughter began to crackle like an out of range radio before spurring into full pitch. She began to creep up and then peered in. It was a roaring bloody windstorm. Blood was seeping through the walls and ceiling, now in thicker sprays. A gale was howling, twisting the blood around in crimson sheets.

A shadow of fear fell on her face then an inimical force pushed her in. Her mouth peeled back in a scream but suffocated from dark red blood sliding down her throat. Blood snaked across her and the wind twisted her red matted hair in front of her face. The lift jolted. She looked around in dazed incomprehension. The door was closing. She ran for the door, the treacle texture below pulling her back. The woman from before appeared in front of the door. The peeled part of her face flapped with the wind. She gave a single shake of the head and her face split into a bleak grin cracking her face like a fault line. She shouted over the contending vociferous wind and choir of screams. When the lift’s lips finally sealed, a fire alarm rolled throughout Store Street, swallowing up Kitty’s screams.

Melissa was slumped over her laptop and rolled her eyes when the alarm rang. Knots of workers spilled out of the office and leisurely descend downstairs. Herding the remaining people out of the office, she heaved her bag onto her shoulder before checking the emptiness of the office. As she shut the door, she saw the folder sprawled to the side of the stairs.

A momentary coldness crawled up her spine as she remembered her conversation with Kitty. She darted her eyes at the lift. The sign above her crackled to life: In case of fire please use the stairs. Melissa backed away, balking the idea, and headed down the stairs.

Kitty’s wails began to weaken. Her panic and fear had shifted gear. With her shoulders slumped, she knelt in despair as the blood surged around her. She stared up at the single light and closed her eyes. A single tear cut through the blood on her face as the last person left Store Street.

With several years of academic writing behind her, Elena Chapman saw an opportunity to express her creativity through short stories. Elena was raised in Bristol and now lives and works in London. An avid reader, Elena has always enjoyed writing and hopes her stories will become a strong voice for females by challenging society’s stereotypes. Elena’s passion for running often features in her work. Elena's first short story was published in STORGY Magazine, November 2018.

Photo Creative Commons License Some rights reserved by Onasill ~ Bill Badzo

#CWQJ Spring 2019 #Fiction #Short Fiction #Women

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minhobabyy · 6 years

Text

Spur of the moment ➵ Lee Felix

↬genre: fluff, reckless teens au?

↬word count: 1119 words

↬pairing: reader x felix

↬inspired by: the rain dripping down my window as the clock strikes 3:27 am. The dark greyish blue sky that calls for me to join it in a adventure

↬a/n: sorry i suck at endings welp

➵ description : You didn’t know what pushed you to say those four words that left your chapped lips focused on your newest acquaintance in front of you, perhaps it was in the spur of the moment, but you were glad they did.

read on ao3 here or continue down

He was the colour of the stormy sky outside the small cafe the two of you met in at 3 am in the morning. He smelt like the tiny raindrops rhythmically tapping on the half inch thick glass that separated you and the thick fog that whispered your name. The thick fog that was almost a dense as his voice that spoke to you fifteen minutes after you had arrived promptly sitting down in the corner of the empty cafe.

“My name is Felix,” he said as he sat down next to you though every other seat was vacant. He wore a simple beanie and a jean jacket stained with mud. His hair was the creamy colour of the coffee you had ordered, his eyes the smothering colour that was never once described to tell of its true beauty. You nodded.

“I’m y/n”

Your metal spoon clanked against your chipped mug as you conversed. With both of you having the same quirky behaviour, your conversations were like a push and pull; stop and go, both acting serious yet some playfulness and evident attraction was present.

“I’ve always hated this place. I’ve been wanting to leave forever.” You leaned on your hand watching as he set up the mini cream-cups as a net, “Did i tell you why i got kicked out of uni?”

“no why?” You flicked the small wrapper towards the goal “I printed out the chancellors nudes and posted them all around campus”. He barely blocked you ‘ball’ which his pointer finger looking at you in fascination. “Why?”

“because he deserved it”

“how did you get them?”

“he sent them to me”

Felix opened and closed his mouth “My moms always called me a nosy boy, apparently i always get into everyones business.” Felix stated playing with his fingers, “ Im not going to ask any more questions.” He continues to fidget as you take another sip. He speaks up again.

“How many?” “enough”

“was he big?” You nodded. “How big?” You showed him with your hands then went back to your coffee.

“What your favourite colour?” “f/c” you answer.

“cool”.

Maybe it was of the way his eyes met yours, or the silence that screeched to be heard, or maybe it was the inevitable tug of your heart that the two of you had connected lips tasting the three dollar coffee still lingering on your tongue. The sweet and sour taste of blueberry gum clashed with the grounded coffee beans as the fluorescent tube lights flickered. His hands supported your waist as your hands tugged the black beanie on his head.

You didn’t go far, breaking apart soon after. Both if you sitting in silence. You didn’t know what pushed you to say those four words that left your chapped lips focused to your newest acquaintance in front of you, perhaps it was in the spur of the moment, but you were glad they did.

“Run away with me”

Four words, thirteen letters. Enough to bring the boy out of his seat, and his hand in yours as you shuffled out of the diner and to your car. The car door slammed with giggles and started.

You two were off. Nowhere specific in your head, only the wind combing through your hair. It was perfect. Intoxicated from this feeling you shouted the lyrics of every song that played from the radio. You were comfortable, comfortable with the boy you barley knew sitting next to you that felt like a long time friend, maybe something more.

You’ve been driving for miles. The illumined city the two of you called home was no longer in your rear-view mirror only the forests and boulders along the country road. The radio has been turned off though its far from quiet. Your hands meet on the gear shift, his acting like a blanket on yours. His thick voice flowing in your ears as you drive onward down the abandoned highway with no subject in mind. You two decided to take a rest stop. You pulled up to a lone convenience store that sign read closed. Leaving the car parked behind the building, you were able to use an rusty vending machine to buy a bag of salt and vinegar chips. Felix found a metal ladder screwed to the side of the wall leading to the roof. He picked the lock with the help of your bobby pin and you both climbed to the roof.

The view was beautiful looking out to the forests that stood solemnly. The two of you sat side by side, munching on the $2 chips.

“What now?” you both said simultaneously, you steal another salty chip. “I don't have any money left”

“Me neither”

“We should've planned this out before. We have nothing but a car and the clothes on our backs”

“Then lets rob a bank, you can be bonnie and i’ll be clyde”

“Nonsense you seem like quite the bonnie- hey look the suns coming up”

A rim of deep oranges had formed on the horizon, washing over the two of you sitting beside each other. “Its pretty” you mumble.

The reality of the world and responsibilities come back from the corner they were shoved to when your lips touched his. You needed money, a place to live, food, clothes. What were you thinking that you could actually leave everything behind? You two were moving too fast.

“Are we really going to do this?” You ask. “We need basic necessities, gas money”

“Then lets see where this road takes us. There will be plenty of towns. We can get temporary jobs. Jump from town to town- we can be whoever we want.” It sounded pleasing.

“yah! you two up there!” You had almost fallen off the edge at the sudden booming voice that called up to you. You presumed it was a worker at the store.

Felix quickly pulls you to your feet and you hurry to the ladder sliding down. you sprint to your car and slam the doors shut. “Lets do it” You say and you start the car.

The mans hands skimmed your door handle as you sped off back on to the road. You press on the gas till your foot is touching the floor of the car. Felix starts to laugh,you joining in soon after as you speed off towards who knows where.

You two were now the colour of the rising sun that lead the way. The colour of the feeling in your stomachs. In the spur of the moment you made a life changing decision with only 4 words, a kiss and a affiliation. None of which you regret.

#sk-writersnet #straykids #stray kids x reader #stray kids imagines #stray kids felix #stray kids felix x reader #lee felix #felix #lee felix x reader

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happy-meo · 6 years

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Color in the World of Gray (Jungkook x Reader): Part 1

You became the color in his world of gray, while he became the light in your constant darkness. But will that be enough to discover where you're both supposed to be? And will light and color be enough to spark a little change?

Summary: What fiery passion Jungkook had upon joining the world of adults swiftly dulled as he became swept into the routine of the working life. The world was gray, filled with monotonous motions and half-empty words, exchanged out of necessity and feigned courtesy. But as he settled into the colorless pattern of his present and what he assumed would also most likely be his future-- a bland, meaningless drawling world--, one fateful day had him stumbling into you. And he quickly learned that although you were blind, you envisioned a world far more beautiful than people with sight could ever see.

Jungkook x Reader (ft. some of the BTS members) Fluff, Angst, Romance Warning: This fic will contain a lot of information and does surround itself with someone who is visually-impaired, and other disabilities will be introduced as well. If this topic makes you uncomfortable, then please do not continue.

Parts: 1 | 2 | 3

A/N: Hi everyone <3 I’m back with a new, fresh series! It’s definitely something different that I really wanted to tackle so I hope it’s still it’s as enjoyable as my other works for you all :) I figured I’d give everyone a break from love triangles too :P Also most of this series will be in Jungkook’s POV, but there will be insight into the Reader’s POV too! Enjoy ~

Part 1: The Spark of Yellow

He hadn't always been like this.

He was acutely aware of this truth.

But back then, Jungkook was young--fresh-- enough that he still had fire inside him. The thrill of being part of the workforce and contributing to society spurring him on with unmatched vigor, and yet with each passing day, it began to the simmer, as he became disillusioned to the childhood reverie he had once held being an adult up to.

"Jungkook."

"Hm?" He hummed as he scrolled through his phone mindlessly.

Often his fingers took him across the flat surface even without his mind registering the action. He knows he doesn't need to check anything. He knows all of his chat boxes are on mute because he wants to tune in on his own time rather than being bombarded with a billion messages in a span of a few minutes. Not that any of the conversations were directed towards him anyway. But he constantly finds himself drawn to his phone when things get awkward, when there's downtime, and simply...whenever he can. Looking at his screen was more often interesting than what was happening in the present anyway.

"Jungkook. We came here from Busan to visit you and you've just been sitting there on your phone. It's rude to us and the meal in front of you."

His mother's stern voice pulled him away from some funny prank video he was about to click on. Sheepishly, he forced his phone into his pocket and returned his focus to the meal.

"Sorry. Someone was messaging me." He mumbled half-heartedly.

A flicker of interest displayed on her face.

"New friends?"

Jungkook looked away guiltily. The fact that his mom was ecstatic about him possibly having friends made him feel worse about lying.

"Just...work people." He brushed off.

"Oh." She simply stated before picking up her utensil again.

The meal fell into silence once more, and Jungkook felt the urge creeping back to reach for his phone, to be anywhere but here.

He loved his family of course, but they were sometimes intrusive with their expectations. They kept asking him about this and that, and Jungkook was always torn between lying and quelling their worries or being honest and stirring up ten thousand more questions of them trying to get an explanation out of him.

He knew, of course, that their intense interest was only his parents' way to express how extremely concerned they were that his flame of enthusiasm was significantly dimmer than when he first arrived in Seoul. But he couldn't help but be irritated by it. It was his life. He would deal with it.

Even though he certainly wasn't really dealing with anything, he just learned how to ride the waves to get by. Isn't that what adulthood was all about anyway?

Whenever Jungkook did take the time to look around him, be it in the office or just walking through the busy streets, it was surprising to find how odd it felt to be surrounded by people but feel alone all the same. It was as if they were shadows, gray, without faces-- a mirage of fluid black and white. No one stopped to become familiar, to be recognized, to take a focused shape, and frankly, Jungkook didn't care enough to tip over the balance that everyone was so intent on keeping.

Until one unexpected day that is.

People often say that it takes just one very special person, and one fateful moment to change someone's entire world. To change the very fabric of one's thoughts and make one's gears spin backwards, against the grain, and against the windswept flow of society.

And for Jungkook, that turned out to be you.

You were strangers. Just mere beings walking up and down the street every day, heading in the same direction as everyone else. Everyone too busy on their phones or looking straight ahead with a sullen look at the promise of another mundane day, filled with the hope of more work, possible troubles, yet all the more money; too busy to take the time to truly glance around the world they were merely gliding through.

But then there was you.

It wasn't hard to notice you. You always walked through the crowd, on the opposite side of the silently assigned lanes. Parting the crowd silently, disrupting the order, and earning disgruntled looks.

For brief moments you filled his morning thoughts, with an inner monologue about how you were odd. Why walk against the flow? It was infinitely more difficult to evade the rushing passerbys to do it that way. Were you trying to make a point? Stick it to the man?

Initially, he only saw your torso and your face among the crowd, standing out for one, because you were heading a different direction than everyone else, but you also had mismatching colors on; vibrant and discordant. His curiosity got the best of him one day and so, he side stepped near the outside of the sardine can of people to shadow beside you.

And that's when he saw it. The surface answer to his questions.

Gripped in your right hand was a stick, feeling its way ahead of you.

The realization dawned on him: you were blind.

And then he made his descent to being a creep.

A helpful one, yet he still thought of his actions as well--very creepy.

During his morning commute to work, he would walk a few steps behind you on some days, while other days he would walk in front of you to make sure the path was clear; he would take the hit or signal people to shift over. And he was fine with being your silent helper, taking pride in doing a good deed without someone making a big deal about it as they always had. It made him feel undeniably good, like he had a small sense of purpose without expectation of reward. In a world that was so obsessed with gains and losses, it was refreshing. He was satisfied just watching over you in a parallel sphere, never intersecting, never intertwining your lives.

But fate had different plans.

Jungkook was on the shy side, both in his personal life and at work. He could count on his fingers how many people he trusted and felt comfortable around, enough to be loud, obnoxious, and comical. He had always preferred quality over quantity anyway.

But regardless, it took him by surprise when he found himself speaking up against someone who rudely bumped into you, nearly knocking you over. It irked him that the man had no qualms about plowing you over. If he hadn't been close by, you might have fallen and it pained him to think of the struggle you would've had to face in the middle of the sidewalk if the walking stick you held had rolled too far away. But maybe he was just immediately jumping to the worst case scenario.

"Hey." He sternly called out, earning the man's attention.

The man turned around shooting Jungkook a quizzical look.

"You should say sorry. She clearly wasn't hard to spot or walk around." He motioned to you.

The man was caught between being flustered and being defensively aggressive, but decided on the former in the interest of time.

"Sorry, man. Was in a hurry. Didn't mean to." The man stated half-heartedly then went about his way once again.

Jungkook sighed, knowing that wasn't as heartfelt of an apology as he had hoped to elicit, but he realized he had burst the bubble with his blatant interference, so he hurriedly spun around to find you waiting patiently for him to address you.

"Um...are you okay? Do you need help?" he blushed.

You perked up and smiled, "Oh no, I'm okay. I've been doing this forever, but every now and then I make a mistake...but then again who doesn't?"

Jungkook laughed, knowing full well it wasn't your fault, but who was he to argue when it already happened regardless of where the blame lay. "Yeah, you're right."

"But anyway, I should thank you um..."

"Jungkook." He held his hand out then hurriedly retracted it, remembering you couldn't see it.

"Thank you Jungkook." You extended your hand out. "I'm Y/N."

He relaxed and gripped your hand. "Nice to meet you, Y/N."

"Well, I shouldn't keep you any longer. You're probably on your way to work like everyone else." You smiled.

"Um yeah..." Jungkook flustered. He really wasn't sure how to continue the conversation, being quite rusty in that department. "See you around, Y/N."

Then he winced, realizing you couldn't actually really "see" him around. Oh god, had he already been insensitive within the first few seconds of meeting you?

You chuckled, possibly sensing his panic. But you never mentioned anything, simply returning his goodbye with, "See you around, Jungkook."

"Jungkook."

He yawned as he looked away from the coffee machine to find one of his female coworkers looking at him expectantly. Not that he knew her face. Most people on his team had a large red "X" in front of them in his mind. They were very much strangers to him, but held some importance in his life out of work relation, so he had to distinguish them in his imagination. But he did recognize her voice as she was someone who asked him questions a lot during meetings.

"Oh sorry. Am I in the way?" He grabbed his mug and tried to shift away, but she hurried to grab his arm to keep him in place.

"I uh no...I actually wanted to speak to you alone."

"I don't really know anything that happened in the last meeting. Sorry." He hummed as he glanced at the clock. The longer he stayed here, the later he would get out.

"No. I just...I've been meaning to well-- tell you something."

Jungkook nodded for her to continue, although in the back of his mind, he was rushing her to just spit it out.

"Would you like to go out sometime?"

Jungkook fought back the sigh that was clawing its way out of his throat.

Not another one.

Okay, maybe he was being a brat with complaining about how many people have asked him out since he came to Seoul, but instead of making him feel excited and confident, each confession made him feel burdened and honestly, a little disheartened. How was it that all these people who had no face to him could claim to like him, when they didn't know the first thing about him? How could they like someone they didn't know?

Oh right. Because he was good-looking.

It wasn't vanity, no. Jungkook valued himself as someone humble. But he took careful measures to take care of himself, from working out every day, to showing up clean cut at work, to spraying himself with cologne to smell nice. He knew he was somewhat pleasing to the eye for most people, but he didn't want people to like him just because of that. No one tried to befriend him or get to know him. They simply jumped the gun into romance. He didn't want someone to date him for his physicality, so it was disappointing.

Not that he had the guts to say that to anyone.

So simply, he bowed, mustering as apologetic an air as he could, and replied with, "I'm sorry. I can't return your feelings."

And then from there proceeded the awkward giggles and the flustered excuse with the eventual scurrying away out of embarrassment. Once that all played out, only then did Jungkook let out a long drawn out sigh. He sipped his coffee and hurried to his cubicle to get back to work.

Another sigh when he looked at the time. He was off schedule by five minutes.

He wondered if there was more to this or if this was it.

"Yes, mom. I'm fine. I've just been busy with work so I didn't get to answer back." Jungkook stated. "I'm on my way home now. Yes. Okay. Love you. Bye. Mhm."

He yawned once again. How was it that 8 hours at work always made him feel like his soul had been sucked dry? To think it's only one-third of the day, but it encompassed the majority of his life and energy. It was a bit depressing.

Suddenly, he felt a tap on his heel. Curiously, he turned around, gasping a little when he found you smiling warmly at him.

"Jungkook?" You called out.

He blinked, flustered.

"Oh god, did I get the wrong person?" You worried.

"No, no! It's me." He answered quickly, remembering that you couldn't see that it was actually him. "I was just surprised you knew."

"I'm good at recognizing voices, but sometimes I'm wrong." You laughed. "Thank goodness it wasn't one of those times."

Jungkook found himself grinning, "Yeah, thank goodness."

"Talk about awkward." You sang lightly. "Anyway, I didn't mean to eavesdrop on your conversation. I just recognized your voice so I tuned in to figure out where you were."

"That's the coolest excuse I've heard to downplay eavesdropping." Jungkook chuckled.

"I try." You shrugged.

An odd feeling washed over Jungkook in that moment. Call it spontaneity, curiosity -- he wasn't sure, but he knew he suddenly didn't feel like going home, back to his apartment where he would just be alone, scrolling through his phone watching other people's lives to forget about his own. He wanted to do something different and right now, you were that new variable that had thrown him for a loop. But part of him was also fascinated with learning about you, and in turn, how you would view him as a person when you learned about him. It was definitely an odd feeling, one he hardly ever felt.

It was difficult to admit out loud, but he had been intrigued by you since the beginning. The way you held your head high and functioned naturally alongside everyone else, despite being different. So maybe it was his innermost desire for something more or maybe it was just his natural tendency to seek answers, but whatever the reason, it compelled him to lengthen his time with you.

"Hey. Do you want to go grab some coffee?" He asked, his heart racing a little at the possibility of a rejection.

Luckily, it wasn't long until you agreed.

"Sure." You pointed the stick ahead. "Lead the way, Jungkook."

"Um...how do I do that?" He questioned, concerned that he wouldn't do it right.

"Well if you talk and walk, that helps." You responded without a hint of taking offense. "I would ask if I could hold on to you, but it's a bit too soon for arm holding. And I'm not that kind of girl."

Jungkook couldn't help but laugh at her joke. It definitely helped ease him into talking and walking.

"Okay so I know this good cafe close by. We just got to spin around."

"Spinning." You turned around. "So feel free to tell me if I'm being too intrusive with my questions. I often tend to scare people off. Although I have no idea why anybody would be intimidated by me."

Jungkook's lips curled up, sensing she was making another joke about how people treated her. How most people didn't bother because they didn't know how.

"Well ask away." Jungkook shrugged. "Although you should be prepared to answer your own questions, I tend to throw them back at people."

"Ahh...one of those, huh?" she teased.

Jungkook laughed.

"Let's start off with a basic one. What color is your hair?"

"Now that's far too intrusive." Jungkook teased.

"I have this thing against people with brown hair. If you fit that category, I'm afraid we can't continue on this path." You bantered in return.

"How unfortunate. I do have brown hair." Jungkook grinned.

"Yeah, bye." You playfully waved your hand and pretended to turn the other way.

"You're ridiculous." Jungkook found himself stating.

"Oh now we're on the level of stating the obvious? Things sure are escalating." You grinned.

"Do you always joke around this much with strangers?" Jungkook asked.

"Hmm..." You hummed.

He glanced at you curiously then pulled you a little towards him when a group of people were trying to squeeze themselves past you.

"Are we still strangers?" You questioned.

Jungkook was a little taken aback. Your tone wasn't accusatory at all, simply curious.

"I uh...I mean I don't really know about you...other than your name and that you're..." he trailed off, unsure if he should mention the obvious.

"Blind?" You chuckled. "It's alright. I'm quite aware that I am."

"Do you think we're strangers?" Jungkook blinked.

"Probably, but I think we're on our way to becoming acquaintances as we speak." You shrugged. "I guess I never really thought about the transition until you mentioned it."

"Me neither."

He felt himself blush as your shoulders brushed against his. How long had it been since he had talked to someone new and been this close in proximity?

"Are we almost there?" You questioned.

"Yeah. Why? Tired of walking?"

"This is no ordinary stick. It contains superpowers. It's quite heavy with responsibility."

There you go again with your jokes, but Jungkook realized he quite enjoys them.

"Surely, you shouldn't be confessing such a big secret to a stranger." He joined in.

"Mmm well if word gets out, I'll know who you are and how to get rid of you." You cackled.

"With your magic stick?" Jungkook snorted.

"I prefer scepter." You grinned. "Sounds a bit more elegant."

Jungkook lightly guided your back to direct you towards the cafe as the two of you laughed about your insane conversation. When was the last time he genuinely laughed like this?

The conversation flowed easily as the pair of you joined the masses in line.

"Jungkook." You called as he had pulled his phone out of habit when there was a lull in the discussion.

"Hm?" he hummed.

"Tell me what you see." You requested.

He blinked, surprised. "What do you mean?"

"Count for me how many people are on their phones, including yourself." You grinned.

"How did you--?"

"I just guessed." You shrugged.

Jungkook shyly put his phone into his pocket and glanced around. He was a bit taken aback to find that almost the entire cafe was filled with people on their phones or computers despite sitting or standing with other people. Only a handful of people were actually talking to the person in front of them.

"I'd say 80% of the people in here are on some sort of device." He reported, intrigued by this forced observation. "I think the people who aren't, are either on some sort of date or catching up with an old friend?"

He spotted your lips curling up at his assumption.

"Interesting isn't it?" was all you stated before panic set into Jungkook, realizing the two of you were next in line, but you weren't able to read the menu. He should've read it to you during the wait or given you recommendations.

"Y/N -- " he started, but you stepped forward to the cash register.

"Hi, sorry to be a bother, but can you tell me what coffees you have on your menu?" You asked politely.

The worker was quick to pick up on why you requested such an action and kindly talked you through their options. Jungkook relaxed and watched you navigating through the order in awe, until he was brought back to reality when he spotted you fumbling into your purse.

"I got this, Y/N." He stepped forward and pulled out his card. "I'll take a caramel macchiato."

"Thanks." You smiled gratefully. "I should be treating you since you helped me and all."

"Next time." Jungkook chuckled. "I gotta order the most expensive thing when it's your turn to pay."

You laughed and obliged.

"I'll wait for the order. Do you want to go grab seats? Oh..." Jungkook stopped himself.

"I got it." You replied a little tensely.

He spotted you frown a little before starting your search. He bit his lip worriedly. He really wasn't sure how to not offend you.

He kept an eye on you while he listened for your names, and he relaxed as you settled into a table by the windows without much problem. He suddenly felt quite foolish. You had been living in this world like this for about as long as he had. Who had he been to think you wouldn't be able to find your own seat? Way to go, Jungkook.

He picked up your drinks and headed to where you were.

"I'm sorry." He quickly apologized, hating the gnawing feeling in his chest.

"You reacted like everyone does. Don't worry." You waved your hand. "But I'm going to be straightforward and state that I don't like when people make assumptions and determine what I can and can't do just because I'm blind."

"I know. I didn't mean to. I just didn't want to burden you...." he mumbled.

"It's okay. I know you had good intentions. And I know you don't know me well enough yet, but trust me that I know when it'll be hard or not. I'll ask for help and tell you that it'll be difficult to do alone, okay?"

"Yeah, of course." Jungkook nodded.

"Cool." You grinned. "Now help me find my drink."

Jungkook chuckled and placed the cup in your hand.

"Shit that's hot." You hissed as you retracted your fingers.

"Can't handle the heat?" He snorted.

"I usually don't back down on a challenge, but it is the absolute worst when you have a burnt tongue and you can't enjoy delicious food." You explained.

"Agreed."

"Anyway, don't you think it's interesting that we're the most connected generation to ever live, yet we hardly ever truly connect with people?" You threw out a question.

"What do you mean?" Jungkook blinked.

"So phones and computers...it lets us connect to more people, regardless of distance, regardless of economic class, regardless of work field, right? We see into people's lives on a whole different level." You started. "But we hardly utilize it to know someone's depth and get closer with them. In fact, I think it actually forms a rift between people who are in your proximity, because knowing that you have people to talk to without making the effort to see them, makes you care less."

"Wow." Jungkook muttered.

"Sorry." You blushed and took a sip of your coffee. "I get carried away sometimes."

"I um...well..." Jungkook stuttered, trying to form a coherent opinion on this matter. But he was guilty of all of the above and he had no excuse for it. "I'm guilty as charged I guess."

"I didn't mean to call you out! Oh no!" You flailed your hands frantically. "I just...it bothers me... because well-- talking and conversing is really all I have to make a connection with others. So it's a little sad that face-to-face conversations are a dying art."

"I never actually thought about it before." Jungkook admitted. "It was just easily accessible for me...and a good distraction from boredom and awkwardness."

"I get that for sure." You smiled. "But maybe it won't be so boring and awkward if you take the time to talk and fill those gaps with questions and answers."

"Interesting." Jungkook hummed.

"But I might be presumptuous here." You shied away. "I don't mean to sound like I'm lecturing you on how to live your life. It's my silly opinion."

Jungkook's lips curled up. "It's not silly at all. It's been awhile since I heard a freely stated opinion."

"Oh? Why?"

"I mean at work we have friendly discussions, but it's fairly regimented and filtered to be professional. Everyone's on edge to make themselves look good and not get on our Director's bad side, so words and opinions are always chosen carefully." Jungkook explained.

"Sounds stifling." You chuckled.

"Very." He agreed.

"So why are you in that sort of environment?"

"It's a job." He answered, simply.

"Ah." You nodded.

"What's your opinion on that?" he questioned.

You smiled, "What makes you think I have an opinion on that?"

"You seem to be one for having opinions." Jungkook commented light-heartedly.

"I can't argue there." You chuckled. "But I think everyone has their own opinions. I'm just a bit more vocal and attuned to mine."

"So?" Jungkook urged, genuinely interested in your perspective.

"I guess it's normal to be in a job that gets routine." You took a sip, probably to give yourself time to formulate your thoughts. "Routine itself isn't a bad thing. It's stability. But you sound like you hate your time there."

"I like what I do..." Jungkook hummed. "But I guess I just don't know if there's more to all this."

"So reach for more." You shrugged.

"Huh?"

You tilted your head cutely, a hint of confusion in your expression. "Well if you want more to life then go for it?"

Jungkook burst into laughter at the simplicity of it all. You continued to stare at him, probably more at a loss at his reaction to your statement.

"Makes sense." He chuckled. "But where to begin, you know?"

"That's something I can't exactly help you with." You smiled at your cup. "But maybe someone at work can provide you with insight?"

"Uh well..." Jungkook scratched his head. "I don't exactly have any work friends."

Admitting all his worries and how sad of a life he was living to this completely-not-exactly-stranger-anymore was very cathartic. Maybe it wasn't bad opening up once in awhile.

There was an agonizing few seconds of silence before you started cracking up.

"Are you serious?" You breathed.

"Very." Jungkook stated dryly.

"Why? You seem like such a nice and chill guy. I'm sure you'll get along with people! I mean we got on well enough, and we literally have known each other for a few hours."

He blushed at the undeniable fact. It really was amazing how the two of you seemed to just connect. Maybe it was because he was taking the time to truly talk to you, instead of being distracted by the virtual world for once.

"I'm shy, and no one's really reached out to me either at work in my defense." He huffed.

"Now that's immature." You teased. "Just 'cause they don't come to you, that doesn't mean you can't go to them. Maybe they're just as shy as you. Or that big 'fuck off' on your forehead is scaring them away."

"I don't have a big 'fuck off' on my forehead." he argued.

"You not interacting with others is equivalent to having that branded on your forehead. No wonder you're miserable at work." You reached out towards him, clutching onto his arm gently. "Listen, Jungkook. Life is ten times better with people to stumble around with. Most jobs are miserable, if not a majority of the time, at least once in a while. You need to connect with someone that can make it less like a slaughter and more like a battlefield."

He glanced down at your hands on his arm in contemplation. He could feel how much you cared about him and how sincere your advice was. It was peculiar, but it felt nice, warm. Since you couldn't see him smiling, he covered your hand with his, hopefully conveying the depth of his gratitude.

"I'll search out for my partner in crime and see if this opinion of yours works then."

He was never good with expressing his true feelings, but he hoped you would understand all the same. You seem to though because you squeezed his hand and grinned.

"Good luck."

Usually Jungkook would be among the first people to run out of any social gathering, often making up excuses as to why he had to leave early, but it all came down to preferring to be in the comfort of his bedroom than out pretending to be chummy with strangers he works with. But after your coffees (since you two had ordered a few more rounds) had either gotten cold, taking a backseat to conversations, or been completely consumed, you both naturally decided it was time to leave. Jungkook actually felt a bit sad about it, which was yet another new emotion for him.

He was so consumed with his own thoughts as to why he was feeling this type of way that he didn't hear you saying your goodbyes. Then he realized that he had no way of contacting you again. He quickly jolted back to the present as you were a few steps away already.

"I don't know how to reach you!" He called out.

You chuckled and turned around, yelling in return, "We'll see each other again! Don't worry!"

Jungkook smiled.

"Besides, you've always been helping me out this whole time anyway. I'm sure you know where to find me." You winked and waved before departing again.

Jungkook stood there, mouth agape, eyes wide. Had you known this whole time he had been silently helping you?

He chuckled to himself. He had thought he was being smooth and stealthy, but he guessed not. His eyes found their way back to you in the crowd. He could've sworn that he saw a flicker of yellow around you as you walked away, despite the bleakness of the cloudy day and impending darkness of the coming evening. Was it hope? Was it a sign that the gray he had surrounded himself with wasn't going to be like that forever?

Regardless of the answer, he knew for sure that whether this meeting was brief or meant to be something more lasting, his world would never be the same.

PART 2

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