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novoaa1writes · 3 years

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candles

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pairing(s): dark!wanda maximoff x reader

summary:

you’ve been feeling strange for the past month, particularly when it comes to dating.

you do your best to ignore it, thinking it’ll resolve itself on its own—given time, that is.

it doesn’t.

(and it’s got everything to do with wanda.)

[also available on ao3]

word count: ~5,300

rating: mature

warnings: dark!wanda, NON-CON spanking (with a belt), NON-CON BDSM play, mental manipulation, partial mind control, emotional manipulation, mental coercion, trauma bonding, toxic dynamics, drinking, possessive!wanda, non-con mind-reading, vandalism, adultery (not in reference to you or wanda), brief instances of slut-shaming

notes: [requested by anon] reader’s sexuality isn’t explicitly stated, but ex-partners of different genders are referenced/mentioned

— —

wanda uses a couple bulgarian terms of endearment for reader here, so below is a lil’ list in the order of which they appear.

*note: all of these are exactly one letter away from being precise matches to synonymous terms in russian. HOWEVER, the bulgarian alphabet and the russian alphabet are different—granted, in fairly minor ways. for one, while both are comprised of cyrillic lettering, russian has 33 while bulgarian only has 30.

— —

You have no fucking clue what’d gotten into you.

One moment, things were fine—good, even. And the next… well.

You’ll explain.

It was something like 11:30 on a Saturday night, and you were drunk.

Well, not drunk. More like buzzed.

But whatever, right? Considering the week you’d had, you deserved to let loose, even if only for a night.

Monday night saw a very angry and decidedly unhinged soccer mom banging on your door, screeching vehemently about the ‘two-faced slut’ who ruined her marriage and demanding to be let in so that she could ‘make her sorry.’ Turns out, the older guy your roommate had been sleeping with as of late was married—not that he’d bothered to share that particular bit of information with her, obviously.

The two of you spent the better part of the evening barricaded inside, passing a bottle of cheap wine back and forth while trying to explain to the 911 operator that you weren’t messing around, that there really was an angry soccer mom on your doorstep and you were actively fearing for your safety.

She eventually left around 10:00pm—no thanks to the police, since the 911 operator hadn’t even bothered to give them a call. It wasn’t until the next morning when you left for work that you saw the woman’s parting gift to the pair of you: the word ‘HOMEWRECKER’ spray-painted across the front door in obnoxious red lettering.

Bye-bye, security deposit.

That same night, you made your roommate promise to start dating people in a similar age range—because really, the both of you were stressed enough as it was without worrying about coming in between yet another middle-aged couple’s dying marriage.

The rest of the week wasn’t much better.

On Thursday, your balding creep of a boss had made yet another blatant pass at you in the workplace, making you seriously consider (and not for the first time) the prospect of just quitting and being done with it.

Then, at shit o’clock on a Friday morning, you awoke to an urgent phone call informing you that an ex of yours (one you were actually on semi-decent terms with) had gotten into a fairly serious car accident, and still had you marked down as her emergency contact.

30 minutes later found you showing up at the hospital just moments after your ex’s current girlfriend had arrived, which then prompted the whole ‘you still being your ex’s emergency contact’ revelation when the current girlfriend demanded to know what you were doing there, which ended up being… well, you’ll just say it wasn’t pretty, and leave it at that.

And your ex was going to be completely fine, anyways. She just had some minor cuts and abrasions, and would need to undergo a fairly minor (read: minimally invasive) surgery over the next couple days.

Before leaving, you instigated a quick check-in with the doctors to ensure they had everything they needed—which then turned into you providing a list of allergies, as your ex wouldn’t likely be conscious for another couple of hours, and apparently the current girlfriend didn’t know of her sensitivities to penicillin and phenobarbital… which the current girlfriend was less than happy about, if the daggers she glared at you were any indication.

Whatever. You were just trying to help.

You thanked the doctors, told them to feel free to call you if anything went awry, then asked if they might tell your ex to call you when she awoke. You thought about offering some words of comfort to the current girlfriend as she sat vigil at your ex’s bedside, but the murderous glower she shot you the moment you got within ten feet of her was more than enough to make you think better of it.

With that, you left.

So… yeah. It’d been a shitty week.

And now, here you were: a girls’ night out at the lively nightclub you and your roommate had scoped out just last weekend, tossing back $12 cocktails and letting the trashy EDM beat blaring over the speakers drown out the rest of your thoughts.

You’d been feeling a little weird all week—all month, really.

As far as you were concerned, this was exactly what the doctor had ordered.

So, when a cute guy wearing black jeans and a white T-shirt that was at least a couple sizes too big yet did well to compliment his well-muscled torso came up to you and started chatting you up at the bar, you didn’t blow him off.

The exact opposite, in fact.

He was nice, and funny, and had a gorgeous smile that made your chest feel warm for reasons that had nothing to do with the alcohol. When he flirted with you, you flirted right back.

You felt a little guilty for doing so, though you couldn’t exactly put a finger on why that was. Either way, you didn’t allow yourself to dwell on it for very long.

After all, you’d been feeling hints of that for the past month, if not longer. It seemed to happen whenever you flirted with a cute guy, or went out on another Tinder date with a pretty girl, or even hugged one of your close friends.

You’d get this painful tightening sensation in your gut, nausea roiling in your abdomen… a distant, lofty voice in your head telling you that this was wrong, that you already belonged to someone else.

Which was pointless, really. Stupid.

You were single.

Your last serious relationship (barring the one with your now-hospitalized ex-girlfriend) had been over seven months ago with an eccentric guy named Lukas. He was kind, well-meaning… a bit of a dork at his very core, but you always found that more endearing than anything else. You’d dated him for four and a half months before deciding to break it off; because as much as you cared for him and enjoyed being around him, you didn’t love him, and you knew by then that you never would.

You thought about him, from time to time—even missed him now and again.

And yet, the strangest thing about the shameful feeling you’d get whenever your roommate so much as brushed a friendly kiss up against your cheek—it had absolutely nothing to do with Lukas.

You didn’t know how you knew that, but you did.

Whatever.

This guy was not Lukas.

His name was Des—short for Desmond, you learned over your fourth sugary-sweet cocktail of the night. He was charming and slightly foul-mouthed, but conscientious and passably polite where it mattered. He didn’t grope your ass or stare at your tits, nor did he make any lewd commentary about your body in any capacity.

He also smelled… really good, like Old Spice and spearmint gum and the barest hint of cigarette smoke.

That was more than enough for you.

(Whatever, alright? Decent guys were in short supply these days.)

You smiled and let him buy you another drink, even after you’d insisted that he really, really didn’t have to. And when an obnoxious pop song with a beat that was far more catchy than you’d have liked to admit came over the speakers, you let him coax you out to the dance floor with minimal resistance.

It was… fun. You liked the way his hands rested on either of your hips—gentle, almost careful; holding you like he understood he didn’t have a right to your body, like he was more than content that you allowed him this to even think of demanding any more.

Despite the twinges of guilt flaring in your gut, you let yourself get a little more comfortable… dancing closer and closer to him amidst a packed crowd of writhing bodies, letting your breasts graze up against his chest.

It was teasing—provocative, even. A test, of sorts—one that Des passed with flying colors.

He didn’t do a thing to rush you, just kept dancing across from you with his hands on your hips and his darkened gaze on yours—seeming fully content to let you set the pace for the moment. And God, but the way he was looking at you… patient but eager, like he wanted nothing more than to crush your body against his own and grind himself into you like an animal—and yet, still, he held himself back.

You couldn’t help but find that attractive as hell.

Looping your arms around his neck, you let your body to press flush against his as you swayed to the beat of the song, not shying away from the slight stiffness you could feel growing against your hip.

That guilty, nauseous feeling in your gut pulled tighter.

You ignored it, and, when he leaned a little closer to shout over the deafening music, “Would it be alright if I kissed you?”... well.

You wasted absolutely no time in lunging up on the tips of your toes to capture his lips in a messy open-mouthed kiss, the strobe lights of the club fading into obscurity around you. His lips were warm and gentle against yours—tentative, at first, until you pressed a little harder and traced the seam of his lips with your tongue… and, yeah; that did the trick.

A moment later, his lips parted to let out a quiet groan directly into your mouth as he began to reciprocate in earnest, setting every nerve ending on your body alight with electrifying want.

And that’s when it happened.

Seemingly out of nowhere, a twisted sort of clarity hit you square in the chest—slowly, and then all at once.

The next bits were something of a blur.

You tore yourself away from Des, turned to forcibly elbow your way through a floor of grinding bodies. You thought you heard him call out your name, and more than a couple people on the dancefloor turned to glare at you as you rudely brushed past them without care—but, whatever.

You texted… someone, telling them you were headed back to the apartment, so they shouldn’t bother waiting up. The group chat, maybe?

And now… Now.

Before you can blink, the past crashes into the present, and you find yourself back outside in the pitch-black night.

It’s dark… chilly. A brisk wind catches you the moment you stumble out onto the sidewalk, assaulting every inch of your exposed skin like scores of needles piercing your flesh. You whimper, shudder, and hug your arms around your body—trying to warm yourself back up like a scared little kid who forgot their jacket.

For the first time that night, you regret the tiny black babydoll dress you’d chosen to wear for the evening—and that’s not even to mention the four-inch heels.

It’s miserable, to be sure, but you can hardly focus on it for very long.

No, you have to go somewhere. You feel sick, and cold, and wrong in a way you’re loath to even begin explaining to anyone else.

And your head… you’re positively aching for something—someone to make this better.

You need… Wanda.

Yes, Wanda is the person you’re looking for. She can make all of this better.

You don’t know why, but you’re sure of it. You just need to find her. Hopefully she’s spending the night in her apartment on that super cozy sofa of hers, drinking hot chocolate and binge-watching something on Netflix like the two of you did a couple weeks back.

A fond grin curves your lips at the recollection as you stumble off down the sidewalk, headed for the nearest subway station.

Another wintry gust of wind hits you square in the chest, and you pinch your forearm hard, silently willing yourself to focus.

The station should be less than a block down, if you’re remembering correctly.

At the next street corner, you manage to brandish your pepper spray in one hand while you rummage around in your purse for your MetroCard with the other.

It’s cold as hell, and you’re probably a little too drunk to be walking through the City streets alone right now, but you don’t much care.

All you gotta do is find Wanda. That’s all.

She’ll make everything better again.

— —

Where everything else is confusing, there’s one part that seems to make sense—Wanda.

You nearly pick a fight with the card reader at the subway entrance when it makes you swipe your card three times to let you through, and even the stairs leading down to the lower tracks are more of a challenge than they probably should be… and yet, somehow, the rest of it is blessedly simple. A no-brainer, really.

You know which train you need to take… the blue one that arrives in four minutes. You know you need to stay on it for five stops before getting off.

Once you’re up at ground level, you’ll have a short walk ahead of you—one that you know like the back of your hand despite only ever having been to Wanda’s a couple of times.

You’ll enter Wanda’s apartment building, take the elevator right up to floor four, and boom! Home free.

You do exactly that.

It takes a short time (thankfully) and there’s not an ounce of uncertainty within you all the while, like you’ve done this 100 times before.

In seemingly no time at all, you’re there—standing on Wanda’s doorstep, knocking a couple times just beneath the burnished bronze ‘4A’ nailed into her door.

Your head feels all light and dizzy; you’re still shuddering from the time you spent out in the cold; but—

“One sec!” Wanda’s muffled voice comes from inside, the mere sound of it washing over you like a soothing balm—promising relief.

You’re safe now.

You made it.

— —

The moment the door swings open to reveal a bleary-eyed Wanda Maximoff dressed in tiny grey pajama shorts, an oversized Star Trek T-shirt, and nothing else, it’s like everything falls back into place.

It’s like… like you can breathe again.

You’re still drunk, and shivering, and more than a bit confused; but now that Wanda’s awake and here and smirking like she knows exactly what’s happening even if you don’t, you feel… better, somehow. Not nearly so lost as you were before.

“Y/N,” Wanda greets, stepping aside and offering out a hand to help you inside. You’re quick to take it. “I was not expecting you,” she drawls, though everything about her demeanor is saying the opposite as she shuts and locks the door behind you.

You pay it little mind. “Yeah, I... ” you trail off, turning to face her even as an embarrassed flush warms your cheeks. All of a sudden, you can’t help but feel rather ridiculous for knocking on her door and barging in so late—especially without calling first. “I’m so sorry, I... I don’t know why I’m here.”

Wanda just tilts her head, appraising you curiously even as the ghost of a knowing smile curves her lips. “Are you sure about that?”

The heat in your cheeks seems to intensify tenfold at that. “I… I need to tell you something,” you hear yourself say, and the moment it’s registered, you realize that it’s true.

You feel… guilty, all of a sudden. Nauseous, too. Scared.

You danced with that guy—Des. You flirted with him. You let him touch you… You kissed him. Why would you do that?

In the present moment, Wanda nods, like that makes perfect sense. Like all of this makes perfect sense.

“Okay,” she acquiesces lightly, flares of crimson flitting through her measured gaze. “Is it something I’ll have to punish you for?”

‘Punish’ me? What—?

You feel Wanda’s presence in your head… inconspicuous tendrils sifting through your thoughts, worming their way through your scattered memories.

No point in lying.

“Y-Yes,” you hear yourself say. Much like earlier, it isn’t until the moment you’ve confirmed it aloud that you know it to be true. You danced with someone else. You flirted with him. You let him touch you… kiss you. “I… I’m so sorry, Wanda; I-I don’t know what I was thinking.”

You see the moment Wanda finds it—your memories of the nightclub. Meeting Des at the bar. Flirting with him… Kissing him.

The look on her pretty features goes from bemused to disbelieving to absolutely murderous in zero seconds flat, and the realization hits like a freight train that you’re really in for it now.

Fuck.

“Go to the bedroom,” she snarls, her typically blue-green eyes burning with scarlet light. “Then take off that slutty dress. I want you on the bed, face down, naked. Do you understand?”

Your head is spinning; confusion rears its ugly head in your gut even as every ounce of your being screams at you to just obey—‘cause if you can just do that, the rest of it will start to make sense. (Maybe.) “O-Okay.”

— —

You don’t know how you know the way to Wanda’s bedroom, but you do.

You slip inside a room shrouded in darkness, and no matter how it strains your eyes to look around, you don’t dare turn on the light.

It’s a modestly-sized bedroom with hardwood flooring, fairy lights along one wall, and an adjoining bathroom just opposite the entrance. There’s a tall, wooden dresser pressed up against the wall directly across from a large, king-sized bed. That’s pretty much all the detail you can manage to make out in the darkness.

Well, either way, you suppose it isn’t really your business.

Wanda gave you specific instructions, and you intend to follow them.

Not for the first time tonight, you’re quite happy about the babydoll dress you’re wearing—particularly for how easy it is to pull it up over your head and off, leaving you in panties and a strapless bra in a matter of moments.

You fold the dress neatly in your hands, then leave it atop the dresser. Your panties and bra come next. In seconds, you’ve formed a small, tidy pile.

As you step out of your heels and approach the neatly-made bed, you’re struck with the strangest sense of déjà vu… like you’ve done this before.

It lingers in the forefront of your mind as you crawl up onto the bed, biting back a groan at how easily the plush mattress gives way under your hands and knees.

God, you’d kill to have a nice nap in this absolute cloud of a bed.

You shake the thought off, simultaneously willing the haze of intoxication fogging up your brain to abate.

You’re not here to nap.

You settle face-down onto the bed, just like Wanda said. You’re careful not to rest your face on the pillows, though, since you have the distinct feeling that’s not something Wanda would want you doing without permission.

Instead, you fold your arms and rest your head atop your forearm, staring straight down into nothing. You scrunch up your features and let out a quiet huff as the black duvet tickles the tip of your nose.

It smells like her—all of it does. Cinnamon, vanilla, and something indefinable; something that belongs to Wanda, and Wanda alone.

You feel your body stiffen as a familiar set of footsteps draw near, approaching the room where you lie—naked and vulnerable atop Wanda’s bed.

The patter of Wanda’s gait becomes almost soundless as she enters, circling around the bed over towards the nightstand. You don’t dare to turn your head and watch as she pulls out one of the drawers, rummaging through it until she finds… well, whatever it is she’s looking for, you suppose.

A moment later, there’s the telltale chk! of a match being struck, and a hiss as the phosphorous tip lights itself aflame.

It’s quiet for a minute... then two. The only sounds you can hear are your breathing and the strike of a match every time Wanda lights another.

Gradually, gentle flares of light grow in your periphery, bathing the room in a dim, yellow-y glow. She’s lighting candles—a lot of them.

You’ve always loved candles.

A couple minutes later, she’s finished, and she returns to tuck the matchbox safely back in the drawer.

You lose track of her as she retreats once more, and your mounting curiosity is more than piqued when you hear her rummaging through the dresser near the foot of the bed; still, you don’t dare turn and look.

Instead, you wait, fetid nausea churning low in your gut, pinpricks of apprehension dancing across every inch of exposed skin. Your heart thuds painfully against your ribcage as she takes something out from the dresser drawer, then shuts it with an audible thud!

You swallow the lump in your throat and urge yourself to focus on your breathing.

In, out.

In… out.

“I’m disappointed in you, Y/N,” Wanda’s voice comes from somewhere behind you, genuine hurt coloring her hushed tone.

You have to fight the urge to shudder as a chill runs down your spine. “I… I’m sorry, Wanda,” you say meekly, pathetically, cheeks hot with shame.

And the worst part? You’re not lying.

You listen carefully for the sounds of her bare feet padding across the floor as she circles the bed once more, crouching down right beside you in the very corner of your periphery.

“Look at me,” she orders, gentle yet firm.

You do.

The moment you meet her gaze, you can’t help the errant thought entering your mind that she looks so pretty like this—face bare of makeup; long brown hair piled into a messy bun atop her head; dainty features cast into darkened shadows by the low, yellow light of burning candles clustered together atop the nightstand.

The muted light seems to soften her anger, her pain… allowing her to really look her age for the very first time since you’ve known her.

“You think too loudly, Y/N.” Wanda’s words are dry, almost teasing as they jolt you back into reality. “Focus on me, please.”

You do.

“You belong to me,” she asserts after a beat of silence, an uncharacteristically intent and almost solemn look splayed across her dimly-lit features. “I thought you understood that.”

The words confuse you even as they seem to resonate poignantly with some fundamental part of you… a part of you that categorically refuses to be ignored.

“Wanda…” you trail off, bewilderment and contrition warring violently within your chest until it aches to draw breath. “I’m confused, Wanda,” you whimper out finally, overwhelmed tears burning in your eyes. “I-I-I don’t understand what’s happening—”

Wanda cuts you off with a derisive snort. “Yes, clearly,” she agrees, her tone ripe with sardonic ire. “You’ve forgotten yourself. You’ve forgotten who owns you.”

You worry your lower lip between your teeth, desperately trying to make sense of it all. “Is that why…” You search Wanda’s eyes intently. “... I-I felt sick, an-and… guilty about dancing with Des.”

Something like anger flares in her gaze, hot and bitter, and you have to resist the urge to shrivel beneath it. “That boy had no right to touch what’s rightfully mine.”

“B-But then… why didn’t I remember?” you ask, utterly forlorn. “I-I felt it last weekend, too, but I… I didn’t—”

“Last weekend?” Wanda repeats, features hardening.

Oh, shit. You feel your cheeks get hot again. “I… I shouldn’t have brought it up, Wan’, I’m sorry—”

“What happened last weekend?” she interjects, her tone cold and hard like a double-edged blade. “You can tell me yourself, or I can start looking.”

You shiver. “I… I went on a-a… a date with a girl that I met online,” you admit, tears welling in your eyes even as Wanda’s jaw visibly tightens. “I-It was just the one time! A-And nothing happened; we didn’t even k-kiss! I just… I didn’t… I didn’t know—”

“Yes. You’re right; you didn’t know.” Wanda stands abruptly, then, and it’s at that moment that you see the folded belt in her hands—thick, worn leather with a sterling silver buckle.

An icy sense of dread blossoms in your chest, chilling you from the inside out.

Is she going to—?

“I was indulgent before… I let you get away with far too much. I will not make the same mistake again.”

With that, she turns to circle back around the bed, the belt buckle audibly jangling in her hands with every step.

“I have to punish you, принцеса,” she continues, her voice scarcely more than a whisper as she comes to stand near the foot of the bed—and somehow, you know beyond a shadow of a doubt that there’s no convincing her otherwise.

She’s going to punish you, and it’s going to hurt. Bad.

All at once, panic seizes you. You squirm, writhing in an effort to get up and off the bed—

Only to be stopped by tendrils of lurid crimson curling around either wrist, forcing them together just over your head like magic—glowing crimson cuffs holding both arms fast to the headboard. On a whim, you test your legs—tensing and pulling, only to be met with iron-clad resistance encircling either ankle in a tight, unrelenting grip.

Well, fuck.

“W-Wanda,” you plead, hardly paying any mind to the way your voice trembles. “Please, I—I don’t want—”

“I do not enjoy punishing you, мила,” she laments, almost sounding genuinely apologetic. It tugs at your heartstrings in a curious way—something you really don’t have time to examine right now. “But you did something bad. And when you do bad things, there are consequences. You understand that, don’t you?”

A tear trickles down your cheek, warm and wet as you steel yourself for the first hit. “Y-Yes.”

“Good girl,” Wanda lauds, and you can’t help the surge of warmth that washes over you at the simple praise—the pride that blooms in your chest at knowing you’ve finally done something right. “Now—try and relax, принцеса, okay?”

It’s all the warning you get before the first blow comes down upon your bare arse with a resounding Crack!

White-hot pain flares across your bottom, racing up your spine like wildfire and tearing a strangled whimper from your throat.

Jesus fucking Christ, that hurt—

Crack!

Holy fuck.

The impact of the leather against your naked cheeks leaves strips of fire burning in its wake, expelling all the air from your lungs in a choked-out rush.

“P-Please, no, Wan’,” you beg breathlessly, struggling in vain even as coils of vibrant scarlet hold you fast, “it hurts, please—”

Crack!

“This is for your own good, baby,” Wanda coos, sounding for all the world as though she truly believes every word of it.

Crack! This one lands directly across your sit spot, ripping a shriek from your lips as molten agony rocks you to your core.

“Wan’—Fuck, please, no—”

Crack!

“G—God, fuck, pleasestop, please—”

Crack!

“P—Please, hurtssobad, I’m—”

Crack!

“FUCK !”

Tears stream down your cheeks, wetting the black duvet beneath your face. You’re absolutely beside yourself with torment, your bare ass aflame with a pain unlike any you’ve ever known.

Crack!

… And the hits just keep coming—raining down stripes of blistering heat across your sore, bruised buttocks; pummeling your throbbing, exposed rear until it feels as though the entire area has just become one puffy, pulsating bruise.

Crack!

All the fight has completely gone out of you; now, your body completely slack—devoid of any resistance even as every hit seems to sear itself into your impossibly tender bottom like a third-degree burn… The pain is absolutely incredible, unlike any else you’ve ever known.

You’ll do anything—and you really do mean anything—to make it stop.

“P-P-Please, stop it, Wanda, PLEASE—”

Crack! Another hit directly across your burning sit spot rips a watery sob from your throat, followed by—

Crack!

It’s all you can do to keep yourself from hyperventilating until you pass out.

Crack!

Agony blackens the edge of your vision, fresh tears streaking down your cheeks as you await another strike…

But it doesn’t come.

Wh—?

“Have you learned your lesson, мила?” Wanda asks, and this time, her voice comes from closer… like she’s right beside you.

You don’t have it in you to be startled when a feather-light kiss lands itself between your shoulder blades, nor when one hand begins stroking up and down your heaving torso in soothing motions.

“Y-Yes! I—please, God, yes,” you babble, overwhelmed by the sensation of unadulterated pain branding every inch of your battered arse. “I promise I’ll never, ever, ever do it again, Wan’—Won’t ever be with anyone else—jus-just please stop hurting me—I’ll be so good, please—”

“Shh,” Wanda shushes you tenderly. You feel yourself twitch as the mattress suddenly dips beside you. “It’s okay, любима,” she soothes, coming to rest beside you. “Just breathe, okay? Breathe.”

‘Breathe’...

Your pulse thunders in your ears; your ass is on fire with an anguish far beyond your years; and yet, there’s something undoubtedly soothing about her words as they wash over you in gentle waves… something that tells you you’re safe.

Were you a little more lucid, you might’ve found that quite the nonsensical paradox—this feeling of safety and security with the woman who’d just beaten your arse raw without mercy no matter how you wailed and sobbed and begged for her to stop.

But as it is, you’re not.

Instead, you’re just broken and teary-eyed and in pain, and Wanda’s tenderness is a most welcome respite to alleviate that excruciating ache.

You take a deep, shuddering breath, even if it burns your lungs something awful, and force yourself to let it out slowly.

In, out.

In… out.

“That’s it, мила,” Wanda praises gently, tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear. “You’re doing so well… Just like that.” Her fingers come to rest beneath your chin, urging you to turn and face her…

And you do, far too exhausted to even think of doing anything other than what she tells you to. Your lungs burn; your nose runs; and the pain in your bottom hasn’t abated any—if anything, it’s intensified.

You’re more than happy to be given something else to focus on.

When you look at her, her blue-green eyes are wet—glossy with tears.

“Wanda?” you manage weakly, feeling your brow crease with worry. “You ‘kay?”

Wanda sniffles, huffs out a watery-sounding laugh. “Yes, Y/N, I’m alright,” she whispers, then leans forth to plant a gentle kiss upon the tip of your nose. “I’m just so very, very proud of you.”

Despite yourself, you feel a pleased flush spread throughout your body at that. “Really?” you mumble, exhaustion drooping your eyelids until it’s a challenge just to keep them open.

Wanda nods, a tear sliding out of her eye that you yearn to reach forth and catch with your thumb—but alas, you’re far too weak. “Really.”

You hum, burrowing your face further into the duvet beneath your cheek—even if it is still damp with your tears. “‘M sorry I was bad, Wan’,” you murmur, feeling darkness near on every side. “Didn’t mean’ta make you upset.”

“I don’t like punishing you, принцеса,” she says once more, and this time, you have no reason to doubt that she means it. Honestly, you don’t know how you ever could. “It hurts me just as much as it hurts you.”

You hum again. Your eyelids feel too heavy to open. “‘M sorry,” you say. “Gonna do better… make you proud… I promise.”

Wanda chuckles. The sound of it makes your chest feel loose and warm and happy. “You already do, darling girl,” she murmurs. You don’t know if it’s because she’s whispering, or you’re fading into sleep, but you can barely hear her when she repeats it once more: “You already do.”

Sleep descends upon you, then, and you succumb to it willingly, feeling safer and more at peace than you have in a very long time.

— —

tagging:

[marvel]: @normanijauregui

— —

end notes: yeah i don’t know what this is either. i was only aiming for maybe 1,000 words or something, but things happened and...

look. i haven’t been to therapy in a hot minute, ok?

link to masterlist

#stuff i wrote #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff x f!reader #f!reader #dark!wanda maximoff #dark!wanda maximoff x reader #dark!wanda maximoff x f!reader #dark fic #mcu fic #marvel fic #scarlet witch x reader #dark!scarlet witch x reader #dark!scarlet witch #reader-insert #requested

593 notes · View notes

keilemlucent · 3 years

Text

pretty eyes & starshine: ii

(NSFW)

hawks | takami keigo x reader

ao3

part i || part ii || part iii (epilogue)

beta’ed: @shadowworks & @firein-thesky

word count: ~15.2k

Healing takes time, but it’s easier with someone else around who’s on the mend with you.

(You and Keigo learn to start living again.)

warnings: codependency but make it sexc, injured reader, post-trauma symptoms, reader has abandonment issues, angst, ouchies <3

a/n: part 2 :’^) we made it!! soft hurt and very horny codependency that involves keigo’s immaculate d*ck. all that is left after this is part 3 which will be more of an epilogue :’^)

enjoy loves <3

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

The doors to exit the hospital scare you.

How can they not?

They’re... automatic.

The glass panes are wide, sliding and slapping as folks come and go, the quiet ring of metal on metal and the slap of the plastic padding makes your heart race.

Get over it, get over it, get over it—

It’s just some doors, they’re normal.

You’ve walked through automatic doors so many times. Never before had you even taken conscious note of them.

(But that was before you heard them let in that man who—)

Without thinking, you take a little, tentative step back from them.

Consider you are leaving your own slice of healing hell; you are shakier and sweatier than you would’ve liked. Your clothes are like the ones... he used to wear, cheap garments obviously pulled from some industrial multipack that stank like plastic and rubbing alcohol.

You hate it.

But you didn’t have another choice. Your old articles were bloodied and disposed of long ago, and the hospital gowns you wore during your stay were far more uncomfortable than your scratchy, wide pants and crewneck long sleeve the same pale, lifeless blue as your old bed sheets.

It would be enough.

You shift the crutch under your right arm and shuffle the backpack on your shoulders. It contains just enough to get you to the shelter, where they’d supposedly have a bed— a cot, more than likely. You had a toothbrush, some extra socks, and a prepaid card for a single, one-way train trip across the country and into the unknown.

Tears stung your eyes as you lingered by the doors.

It all feels so uncomfortably real. The world kept moving, and you’re reentering it far-more battered and perpetually bruised.

And completely alone.

(The thought horrifies you to your core, but you try to ignore it.)

Despite the time you spent at the hospital, you were leaving without a hint of reverie. Everyone, nurses and doctors and anyone who has fucking eyes is too busy dealing with the casualties that had lasted months.

It didn’t matter how long you stayed. You were just a body. A fucked up one too.

You count yourself lucky to even have the backpack, as cheap and sterile as it smells.

It all unnerves you, but you didn’t have a choice. Numbness settles over you as you accept your future.

There... is a little glimmer that he will show up.

(He won’t. Empty promises.)

(Everyone leaves.)

(Why’d you call him, anyway?)

(Because no one had spoken to you like a human in a month.)

Solitude makes people desperate and crazy.

You are a little crazy, you know. Maybe not in a bad way, but certainly in a way that is eating you up and out in ways you don’t understand. You don’t have the energy sort through it all. You just have to finally start moving forward. Or try to.

Tentatively, you walk toward the doors, stepping out and onto the pavement. You lurch and you would’ve tripped if not for the crutch shoved under your arm.

For the first time in a long time, you suck in fresh air and the trickling sunlight. It feels fresh, cleansing you with each little inhale as you face your cheeks to sky. You have your moment, basking before your journey.

Then someone whistles. You ignore it at first.

The person whistles again, calling out—

“Your ride’s here, starshine!”

Your breath punches from your lungs. You whip your head to the sound.

Though it’s overcast, you do see your morning sun.

Your steps stutter as you nearly trip over your feet.

He is standing, not far at all, leaning against a shiny black car, sleek and expensive and out of place. He’s all overgrown hair and lazy-expressions, one which stretches into a grin as he sees you.

And you see him.

(He really came?)

(Of course he did.)

Your crutch nearly clatters to the ground as you stumble toward him. The moment you waver, he’s running to catch you.

You meet each other halfway.

And without a goddamn lick of shame, the moment you near him, your arms lock around him. Your face buries into the hollow of his throw and you inhale. The scent of him, a bit spiced but mostly skin and sweat fills you. Not a hint of antiseptic.

And you shudder at how good it feels.

He stabilizes the two of you, greedily wrapping his arms around your waist and squeezing as if to give a much-needed greeting.

There’s a moment of heat between you, familiar and blessed and so damned missed that you both share shuddering breaths.

“It’s good to see you, starshine,” He soaks up any part of you he could get to. So casually, he touches like he wants to consume you.

You squeeze him just as hard.

“You came?” Your words muffled into his skin.

He simply nods, and the only confirmation you need to sink into him. Perhaps, there’s onlookers, but neither of you have the mind to care. All you care about is the shift of his muscles beneath your fingertips, the heat of him, his golden, pretty visage—

Like he had so many times, he tucks hair behind your ears and tension drains from him.

So tenderly does he squeeze around your middle where he holds you up, “Let’s go home, starshine.”

You want nothing more.

...

The drive to your new home is long, but you don’t mind.

The world has changed in the months you’d been tucked away in the forest-hidden hospital. As disconnected as you were, you still heard of the unrest and upheaval across the country. The political clashes are marked by the... contrarian billboards lining the highway, new slogans battling each other every mile or so.

The scenery slowly goes from flatlands, to wetlands, to rolling hills that are a lush green. From the safety of the car, you could see that the air even looked wet, and you could imagine the way it would stick in your throat and tacky the tips of your fingers.

“Where do you live?” You finally ask, voice soft in the melancholy softness of the light mist that sprayed the car.

“In the mountains, high-up,” He squeezes your hand (the one he’s been holding the whole ride). Quietly, he adds. “I still couldn’t bear to be too close to the ground.”

He laughs, though it fades into the suddenly heavy air.

This is the world, isn’t it?

You blink, gulping at the face of your reality, and let your eyes go half-lidded as you trace the shapes of growing evergreen as your drive takes you higher and higher.

...

Keigo had made up the guest room for you.

He doesn’t have much for extra sheets and softness, let alone decor, but he does what he can. The bed is made and pressed with clean lines, freshly washed. The curtains on the windows hang heavy, but warm up the room with their clement, tan fibers. It’s a start, with lots of space for you to add your own touches as well.

He’d spent the night prior on it, laboring, like he was preparing a nest as opposed to a simple bedroom.

(It is a nest, but he doesn’t need to accept that just yet.)

There wasn’t anything else to do for a while when he first escaped that fucking hell. He’d really given up. Keigo was uncomfortably content to rot away as he had dreamed of since he’d been burnt. The little, dusty corners of the cabin would’ve made perfect places to waste away in peace and alone.

Except, he didn’t.

Keigo started to make the home better.

He isn’t sure if it was out of some need to just do something, and the outdated, worn cabin was his most available canvas. Part of him is convinced it’s some buried avian instinct, and without the Commission’s constant hovering, he has no reason to suppress those more animalistic urges. The need to nest somewhere cozy and safe took him over, and he had gotten to work.

The cabin is cleaned up incredibly well. New appliances, floors patched and polished. The furniture is mostly old, but it’s obviously been shined and tended to. The living area isn’t horribly large, but it’s more than enough space for the two of you. It has wide windows that looked down upon the slopes and peaks that your home is nestled in. The colors are warm oranges and tans that are easy on the eye. Nothing too red and nothing too blue.

Nothing too imposing.

(Nothing too reminiscent.)

He leads you from the car, gingerly helping you up the rickety stairs to the front door.

The wound on your leg may be ‘healed’, but you don’t appear comfortable in the slightest. Your expression pinches with half of your steps, the bending of your scarred flesh undoubtedly painful. It makes something in his chest squeeze as he navigates you into his house, from the snow into somewhere warm. A place that he crafted all on his own. Shaped with his own hands. A real possession, all his own.

When you enter, you don’t say anything, only tightening your grip on his hand.

“I like it,” You smile, soft and dreamy, worrying the strap of your backpack. “... Are you sure it’s okay for me to stay?”

“Of course,” Keigo assures you. Of course, it was okay for you to stay. “I’m happy to have you here, especially when the other option is one of the shelters.”

You wouldn’t have lasted a day with your bum leg and natural softness.

The thought has him gulping, the heat flaring in his chest as he tugs you closer, ghosting his lips over your temple.

With only a bit of stumbling, he shows you the rest of the home.

...

You’re quiet the rest of the day, curled up on the couch in the same clothes you left the hospital in. There’s clear exhaustion in your face, from the dark circles ringing your eyes and the tremble in your hand and leg. Keigo is content to cover you in a nice knit blanket he purchased down in the nearby town, and let you rest.

His own back burns when he catches glimpses of your scar. It ran down all the way to your ankle, even bleeding onto the top of your foot. The gnarled flesh brings back memories of screaming and metallic exam rooms.

And he, like you, stares at a wall for a while before making dinner.

You can’t manage much.

The TV glows with some show you might’ve watched and been engrossed in it. But the hollow feeling in your chest keeps you submerged in the static of your skull. It’s more comfortable than acknowledging how quickly the picture moves in front of you.

Your only motion is a ‘light’ scratching over the thin fabric of your pants.

‘Light’.

He enters sometime later, bearing food and an easy smile that falls all-too quickly.

“Hey, starshine— oh fuck,” His voice clips as he enters, setting down steaming plates on the coffee table and pulling your hand from your thigh. The tips of your fingers are stained with enough blood to make your eyebrows shoot up.

Your eyes shoot to your leg, where you’d apparently tore through the thin fabric of your pants and torn your skin up without even thinking. So close to the scar—

Heat flares between, light bouncing in your eyes as you cover the hole, “S-sorry, fuck, I didn’t even realize.”

“It’s okay, it happens,” Keigo assures you, softer than you’ve ever heard him. “Let’s clean you up quick and then eat, okay?”

You nod, exhaling a weight from your chest as the light skitters out of your eyes.

And the heat fades from the room. The absence of it chills Keigo, and the abruptness makes his nose scrunch.

He patches you up quickly and with a precision that screams ‘yes, I have done this far too many times.’ The wound isn’t too severe, just a nasty-looking scratch. The dried blood on your finger is wiped away.

You both settle onto the couch, eating in silence.

Something hangs in the air, thick and unsaid. Questions and paragraphs that have been ignored up until now. Not out of will, perhaps just tired negligence.

But, Keigo has always been the blunt type, so he finally asks one of the many facets that needs to be broached.

“What’s your quirk?”

A little surprised sound lodges in your throat with a bite of baked fish, “My quirk? I thought you figured it out already.”

Keigo raises a feathery eyebrow, “I’m a bit slow these days, starshine.”

The nickname makes something settle pleasantly under your ribs, and the light, little orbs of yellow and orange return to your eyes.

And heat fills the room, like it had so many times before. Like those first nights in the common room, stargazing in the lamp and starlight. It’s warmth that bleeds between his bones and tendons, through and through.

Keigo puts it all together, jaw going slack and eyes going wide.

Had he never realized it?

It does make sense, in retrospect and without a sinfully heavy dose of painkillers swimming in his veins. The heat that permeated all of the nights you sat, eyeing the stars and each other.

The odd heat of it all.

You’d been warming the two of you. Souls cold from the sterility of it all.

“That’s your quirk?” Keigo leans in closer, inspecting the little specks of light in your irises. The tell. “This whole time?”

“U-um, yeah,” You worry a hangnail. “I don’t mean for it to be activating all over the place, but it has been since everything happened.”

“Why’s that?”

You chew the plump of your bottom lip, brows pinched.

Without thinking, Keigo bows to the will of the ever-present, needy feeling in his chest and presses a little kiss to your forehead, willing it to smooth away some of your worry.

I’m not upset, the action says, but the cabin is quiet.

“... You know how cats purr?”

Keigo quirks an eyebrow, “I do.”

“Well, I think it’s kind of like that,” You met his eyes, the light returning and the fire-like warmth tickling the hair on your arms. “Cats purr when they feel good, but sometimes, they purr when they’re not doing well.”

“... ‘Not doing well’?”

“If they’re in pain, or if they’re really scared,” You go quiet, tracing a seam on Keigo’s jeans. “They’ll purr to comfort themselves. It’s like that.”

Comfort themselves.

No wonder all those nights you spent together, you felt so warm. It was your quirk—

And you must’ve felt awful.

Part of him feels betrayed, just for a moment, before it dissolves with the watery look you wear as your injured finger traces over his knuckles.

And the heat of you flares.

Your quirk is a part of you.

“I didn’t think to tell you.” Your voice wobbles, yet remains vacant. “‘M sorry.”

You don’t need to apologize.

If anything, the knowledge only strengthens Keigo’s resolve.

...

The first weeks at the house are odd as you both settle into rhythms of living. There’s an orbit to how you choose to live, though it’s not predictable or reliable. It can’t be, there’s no way for it to be. You float around each other like little planets to a fickle sun, unstable and wavering, but elliptical, nonetheless.

You’re both learning to be human again with your own rhythms.

Keigo’s biggest challenge is dragging himself from bed each morning. The lazy bones he thought the Commission had broken and beaten out of him still remain somehow. Now that he has no obligations to tend to at the break of dawn, he thoroughly enjoys lazing about in the sheets, even if he’s just staring at his wood-paneled ceiling wishing that Dabi had finished the job and burned him dead.

He’s doing great.

Despite his sluggishness, you move about on your own.

You make coffee each morning, and curl up on the couch under the same knit blanket. A few patches of the multi-colored throw have been pulled apart by your restless hands.

Neither of you comment on it.

Though Keigo takes longer to rise, you move far less during the day during those first weeks. You’re tethered to the cushion until the sun goes down.

It’s like the nylon straps at the hospital never left your wrists.

Your vacant nature scares him, if he’s honest. There’s an unspoken, massive wound you carry with you, both physically and mentally, and its manifestation is a little haunting.

Keigo knows about trauma, knows about how the mind worked and how to, you know, deal with it. He is— was, a hero, for fuck’s sake. Trauma is in the job description and he’d had his fair share of bruises before he went undercover, before he killed Jin (REALLY don’t think about it—), and lost his wings. He’s stitched himself up by filling up his schedule with anything he could. Distractions. Things to occupy him, help him forget for a while. If that didn’t work, he always had a bottle or two of imported soju that he could nurse.

Again, coping.

The state you’re in is the opposite of coping, it’s being. Existing. The strain you carry from everything shows in you, and the way that it’s manifested terrifies him.

Keigo is smart enough to know to keep a few boundaries. He can’t fix you and he can’t get it in his head that he can. He’ll smother you; he knows he will. The solace he finds comes from being there when you need him, and always being close by.

It’s all he can do to soothe what’s obviously an open wound. He has his own, that you tend to in your own way as well when you can. It’s all give-and-take, naturally and easily.

You’ll find yourselves on the couch together, leaning and touching so naturally, but with no intent. Your little fingers trace shapes over his clothes, hearts and lettering he can’t catch. The heat of you will cling to him, whether your quirk activates or not.

He holds you, simply and truly. Tries to be a new, kinder being.

...

You don’t have much that is solely yours.

You’d been living in an odd combination of Keigo’s clothes and the single outfit you arrived with. It works, enough. Most garments are worn until they’re filthy, but it takes you a little too long to notice.

Keigo notices.

One day, he sits down with you and his heavy, black credit card and helps you pick out... whatever you wanted. The guy is loaded and will be until he dies, and he’s smitten to help you pick out whatever you need.

You’re more challenged by the task.

“I’m fine, you don’t need to do this,” you murmur into his collarbones, narrowing your eyes at the laptop screen. “I have enough.”

Keigo clicks his tongue, rubbing the fraying fabric of your shirt, the same, cheap scratchy fabric from the hospital. Your pants are soft cotton, old ones of Keigo’s that he should probably throw away. You adore them, and spend most of your time in them, too.

“You deserve some nice things that are yours, don’t you think?” He coaxes with some extra soft touches as you glare at the screen.

Perhaps, you think to yourself. Your jaw locks.

You deliberately avoided thinking about your lack of... things. The absence of all the bits of you that you had once carried tugs at something deep in your chest. Grief, probably. Loss at the very least. Your home has been torn apart and you have nothing. Not a single remnant of then except you. And you’re hardly a good cast of the existence you once lead.

The world feels dimmer with the thought.

...

The house gets cold at night.

It’s inevitable, with the chill of the snowy valleys and peaks slipping through drafty windows and cracks in the woodwork. It slunk into the house once the stars rose, sinking bone deep. It’s easier to ward off during the day. The little stray touches and the ambiance of shared presence helps.

But, you slept separately.

It’s cold— so fucking cold in your beds. Keigo hates it. Despises the way how it makes his eyes droop and his body heavier than it should be. Despite not having wings any longer, his other avian traits lingered, and torpor was definitely not in his top three faves. He can only be thankful that he thought to invest in an electric blanket for himself, for his nest.

Though it would be a lot better with you in it, the last thing he wants to do is push you. You’re fragile. Everything is fragile. Keigo has laid awake on more than one night, trying to make sense of all of it, everything and coming to the conclusion that sleeping in his too-big, too-cold bed would have to do.

Sometimes, there’s no way to swallow the state of things.

...

“Your packages are here.”

You look up, eyes wide and sweet.

Oh, yeah. Material goods.

Clothes.

Objects.

It takes a while, but the result of your shopping spree is a small horde of packages down at the town post office, all with your name attached. The idea of so much newness is daunting, but your few remaining garments are threadbare and practically falling apart. It’s necessary, you acknowledge, even if you’re terrified of not living in Keigo’s worn crewneck.

(Change can be good, you remind yourself. The thought is quiet.)

Keigo stands by the door, buttoning up his coat and lacing up his boots as you watch from your soft perch on the couch. The blanket has a new, wide hole picked in it, but you don’t notice.

“Would you like to come with me and pick them up?” Keigo flicks his gaze to you with a careful, easy smile.

You hadn’t left the house since you’d arrived.

The thought sends your stomach knotting and sweat gathering in your palms. You jerk your head side to side, sinking back down into the cushions.

Keigo doesn’t hold it against you. You can tell by the way his expression softens around his eyes.

He leaves after kissing you on the forehead a few times, telling you he’ll be quick to return. It’s not often that he leaves, though he’s always timely on coming back. His excursions are never more than a trip to the town market, thankfully. An hour or two feels like a lot, but the too-still air and quiet of the floorboards without Keigo’s pacing unsettles you.

Not having him near unsettles you. The thought of having him gone for too long shoots something hot and needy in your chest.

(Don’t leave, don’t leave, don’t leave—)

Thankfully, just like always, Keigo isn’t gone for long. And he returns bearing a few armloads of packages and some takeout curry. You take it all, and him, greedily.

(Thank you, thank you, thank you.)

...

It’s a few days later when Keigo wakes to you knocking on his door in the early hours of the morning.

It had been a... rougher day. You had been a bit livelier early on, joining him on the snowy patio for morning coffee and even taking a quick walk around the neighboring forest. With the snow so deep, you could only go so far though. The motion of it aggravated your injury, left your gasping and clawing at Keigo’s arm as the scar tissue pulled.

The scar is still dead, thank god, but the impact is just as present physically as it is mentally for you.

The rest of the day you spent curled up on the couch, taking little sips of water between short naps. That night, you hardly touched your dinner. Keigo was smart enough to cut up some fruit and lay it with a handful of crackers and offer it to you throughout the rest of the night. You nibbled at the bits, but hardly consumed much at all.

You went to bed early, giving him a hard hug before retiring to your lonely room.

Those days are the worse, the bad ones. They’re the ones where Keigo wants to break all the boundaries he still has. The little touches and kisses he gives you are one thing, but there’s much more he wants to do. Craves doing. But, pushing you too far or too hard would break you. He’s smart. He knows that. So, Keigo doesn’t wait. He satiates all those protective needs.

He accepts circumstance, just as he always has.

(He doesn’t understand how much you crave him, but that’ll come later.)

That night, things begin to shift.

His voice cracks with sleep as he calls for you to enter. You linger in the door frame, clutching a pillow to your chest, like a scared child who’s had a—

“Nightmare?” He asks, sitting up and tugging a blanket with him to cover his bare chest.

The cold air of the cabin hits his scars. He hisses under his breath, shoulders drawing tense. You must notice, eyes going a little wider as you recede from his room. The darkness of the hallway nearly dissolves you. His chest aches, hands tightening around the fabric in his fists.

“Come back here, starshine, come on,” Keigo calls, praying you’ll heed him. “It’s alright. What’s wrong?”

Keigo half-recognizes that that’s a very loaded question, but you’re both a bit sleep addled. Maybe it will slide.

Your eyes alight in the pitch of the room, sputtering with little orbs of amber. Your atrophying arms squeeze the pillow, and you take a few more tentative steps closer.

“... We’re safe, right?”

The question surprises Keigo, enough to make his old wounds ache.

One loaded question answered for another.

It’s reasonable to ask. It’s very reasonable to ponder. Keigo has wondered about it too. The townsfolk don’t know who he really was, and he was quite secretive about the initial move. The world hadn’t caught onto the fact that ‘Hawks’ had moved him and his new love to an isolated little cabin in the woods, and hopefully they never would. Society had a lot bigger problems, according to the over-processed news channel he tuned into on occasion.

Keigo was old news at this point.

So many heroes had been called out for poor behavior. Scandal after scandal, coverup after coverup. Corruption, everywhere. It was an industry secret, all of the bullshit behind closed doors. Keigo’s little double-agent schtick and you know, murder of a good man (for the love of god, do not fucking think about Jin) was still bad, but the public had a whole new slew of bullshit to torch people at the stake for.

Still.

He’s glad no one knows about your little hideaway or you.

“We’re safe, starshine. Very safe.”’

It makes his answer easier to say, more honest.

You inch closer from the doorway. There’s a tremble in your shoulders that runs to your hands. You’re only wearing a t-shirt and thin shorts, maybe just panties, he can’t tell. Your scar runs down your thigh and calf, gnarling and twisting the flesh it dared to mar. The seam of it is a shining black that Keigo had failed to notice before.

It reminds him of why you’re so scared and the types of nightmares you must have.

“... Promise?” You stop at the foot of the bed, throat bobbing with a thick gulp.

Keigo gives a sympathetic smile, patting the sheets next to him, “I promise. You’re safe. We’re safe.”

You look skeptical, but climb into bed with him all the same.

Something stirs in Keigo’s chest as you do. As he watches you clamor over the sheets and blankets he... nests in, the heat of it fills him. A combination of yours and his own, spills through his ribs and down to his toes.

He shudders with it, something needy wriggling down from

You sit up on your knees, sinking into the mattress and holding the pillow tight to your chest. Watching, eyes still alight and wide.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Keigo asks.

You don’t, you both know that, but breaking the silence is a start.

You push the pillow against the headboard, trading it to link your fingers with his, over his chest and pressed to the linens.

You squeeze and let out a breath you’ve been holding. There’s a weight to it, like there’s something you’re actually carrying. There has been something you have been carrying, but only you are able to see it— feel it in its actuality.

But, that doesn’t mean you have to shoulder the burden alone, especially on darkened, lonely nights.

He tugs you closer, mindful of your tenderness and the scars you both bear. The night is only lit by starlight, and the room is dark with the new moon. It makes it easier to be closer as you settled into the bedding next to him.

It’s uncomfortable for a few moments.

Despite how much contact you share, this feels different. The little touches, kisses and caresses you trade throughout the day are second nature. Comforting someone else who so obviously needs it. His person who needs it.

(He wonders if you think of him as your ‘person’ too.)

You lay on your side, facing away from him as you fall into his nest, still tense, still on edge and unsure. It reminds him of those first days at the hospital, when you both had lost your tongues and yourselves and just enjoyed the stars together in oddly comforting silence and broken conversation.

It’s a process, he reminds himself.

Keigo slides closer, throwing an arm over waist and adjusting the blankets with his other. There’s plenty, piled on top of each other without much reason. Careful hands properly tuck you into it all, next to him, with him. He brings them up to your chin, pressing stray hairs back into place and laying a trailing kiss or two over the back of your neck.

“... Is it okay if I stay?” Your voice sounds far-off, like the question is more for yourself than for him.

He can feel the unease and fear still bound up in your shoulders. It’s always there, whether it’s a moonless night or a snow-glitteringly, sunny day. The tension he presses his thumbs into is held in all of the muscle of your back, in your hips, your hands— everywhere.

It makes part of him ache.

A few little coos, soft little rumbles, roll from the back of his throat.

Normally, he’d be a bit embarrassed. But at the birdish chirps, you’re falling deeper in the sheets, the nest, and against his chest.

“Please stay,” He assures you with a squeeze. A small comfort, one he’d keep giving.

The odd quiet returns, sans the little sounds in his chest.

Slowly, tentatively, you turn in his arms. Your own lock over his waist, splayed low on his spine. The pads of your fingertips brush scars, the old ones and the new. It makes him writhe a bit in his own skin. It’s unfamiliar, compared to all of the cold prodding and meaningless pleasure he was used to.

It is the closest anyone of familiarity has been to the scars in a long time, and you, preciously, grace him with the softest touch. No expectation in it, just some much-needed, shared bits of love. Once again, precious.

And you both relax into it all. The ambient thrum of the other's body, the shared breath and smells that mingle between you. There’s little pains and stings that never really go away, but with the other so close, neither of you mind.

It’s hard to tell when your quirk settles, and the organic heat you create together fills the rooms and your lungs.

All Keigo knows is that he falls asleep with your lips brushing the hollow of his throat, still and warm against his chest. The feeling of the living rhythm of your body with your breath lulls him off, content and hazy.

...

You never sleep alone after that night.

Keigo pulls you into his room, or you pad in after brushing your teeth and pulling on your soft, soft sleep clothes. The bed feels a lot less big and lonely with the two of you wrapped up in each other, fully giving in.

It puts Keigo at a remarkable amount of ease.

The urge in his chest to ‘keep you safe’ feels the most sated at night, when he can keep as close as you both can bear. Your hands always make their home at the base of his spine, or the fat and flesh between his lower back and his rear. The pads of your fingers rub away years of stored tension and weight, quietly and kindly before you fall asleep each night.

During the day, you’re equally as needy, though you’re slowly becoming a bit more independent. You’re more lucid in general. Though the couch and worn blanket are your greatest comforts (other than him), you’re beginning to stray and poke around the house a bit more.

The shelves have a few more familiar comforts, things Keigo had slowly accumulated to pass the time. There’s a video game console or two he’d never used, a few stacks of books he’d heard were good, and some tucked away art supplies if inspiration struck.

As much as he urges you to take and use whatever you’d like, you’re still tentative. The first few times you pluck a crisp book from the shelf, Keigo’s back aches with how the old muscles that once controlled his wings tried to puff-up non-existent feathers. Despite how it tugs at all the wrong parts of him, he still glows at the progress.

You start to help him with dinner too. That’s some of your favorite time.

There’s a rhythm to it, when you both start preparing meals together. Keigo can’t season food for shit, (though, he’s made leaps and strides with cooking that pats himself on the back for) but he’s quite skilled with a knife. Remnants of his training that have domestic applications.

He doesn’t tell you that that’s why he’s so good at dicing vegetables and paring meat, he just chatters to fill the air. You tend more to the process of cooking, seasoning and watching and nodding along to his words.

The more meals you share in creating, the more you start to speak up.

It’s progress, even in something so small.

...

But progress isn’t linear.

It’s not even a goddamn line and it’s fucking infuriating.

...

The depth of winter bears down on the hills, the house, and the two of you. You’re coping, both of you. But the momentum of it is fragile.

It scares you, secretly and privately.

You feel fragile, and you have for a long time. Your scar remains tender, gnarled and ugly on your leg. You avoid looking at it at all cost, though Keigo has free reign to graze tender touch nearby it.

That’s how you find yourselves, leaning on each other on the cushion of the couch and idly watching the glow of the television. Your cheek tucks over his shoulder and you watch with half-lidded eyes. You’re only half-there as Keigo changes the channel.

He hums after a few moments.

“There’s a storm coming tonight,” Keigo tells you, lips just a touch dry against the shell of your ear. “I’m going to go to town and—”

Oh wow.

You interrupt, fisting the front of his shirt, “Can I come?”

The question stuns both of you.

Your eyes are honest as you peer up, genuinely unsure if you can.

“Of course, starshine,” Keigo assures. You notice the way his eyes, his pretty eyes, look wide and bright. All for you. Wow. “Let’s get you out of the house, hm?”

Getting out.

Time has stretched out and you can’t remember the last time you left for anything more than a little stroll on the backroads, Keigo on your arm. Going to town and seeing people strikes something odd that has your stomach churning.

You’re nervous when you finally pile into the car, both bundled up with hats, mittens and scarfs (Keigo wears a mask to better hide his identity, but he’s sure some of the townies have figured him out.) The tasks are simple. Stock up for the coming storm and make sure he pays to plow their little backroad out once the storm passes. Easy, things that wouldn’t take too long, but it still makes your palms sweat.

Keigo massages your thigh as you drive into town. The comfort of the snowy hills and evergreens disappears, and it has you in goddamn knots.

You squeeze his hand, locking your jaw.

“I’m scared.” You break the silence as the small structures of the town come into view. “I don’t know if this was a good idea.”

You haven’t decided again.

He kneads his thumb into the tension in your thighs with a little smile, “Let’s give it a try.”

“It’s scary, though.”

“I know.”

You pull at a hangnail with your teeth but say nothing else as you roll in and park at the small market.

The first thing you notice is the goddamn doors. Automatic doors.

When you see them, you want to climb back into the car, maybe the trunk for fuck’s sake, and hide like you’ve never hidden before. Go home and bury yourself in a snow pile with how your heart hammers in your chest and your breath catches.

Deep breaths.

You catch yourself, just a little.

You keep walking, Keigo’s hand in yours and you enter the market like nothing feels as wrong as it is.

The store is small, but there’s a decent selection, all things given. Keigo places a basket in your hands, tells you to ‘go nuts’ and ‘literally get whatever you want, especially if it’s salty or sweet’ and you heed him the best you can. He busies himself talking to the clerk, organizing with that honey-voice you crave.

You take a few deep breaths and walk around the market like a normal person.

(Even though, the last time you were in a situation close to this, you got that nasty, cute scar on your leg.)

(You suppress the thought for as long as you can.)

The basket gets filled quickly, but you stuff it to the brim. Keigo picked out plenty of good food, and had learned how to cook decently, but having some... agency felt nice, if not fucking terrifying.

You’ve got your back turned to the entrance of the store when the (automatic) doors suddenly swish open.

A chill so cold and hard shoots down your spine and you freeze, hovering over a box of breadcrumbs.

One...

How long was it between that sound and when he touched you?

Two...

This was a terrible idea.

Three—

It was four—

Four—

Four seconds, you propose, as your heart beats out of your chest and you sweat under your arms. Four seconds from the door opening to pain.

You wait.

And wait.

Nothing.

Just more voices from the front of the store, a figure entering your aisle and then leaving.

You hate the way you're so rigid, tense enough in your shoulders for it to hurt. The ghost of the wound on your leg makes you want to fall to the ground and writhe, but you grab the box of breadcrumbs and try not to think.

It works, and you land next to Keigo, presenting your filled basket to be rung up.

You bury your face into his shoulder and take a deep inhale. Keigo keeps you close, tucked in your side with an arm around your waist. Your anxiety must’ve been quite visible, as he takes to quietly rubbing your shoulders over your sweater.

Things get hazy as you feel safer. Keigo laughs and sways the two of you as he speaks to the clerk.

(Her sons are going to blow your little house out when the storm passes. The family cat recently got out and came back pregnant. Her husband has been reading some odd literature he found on the internet. Something about ‘the strong triumphant over the weak’. Her daughter might be able to return from her foreign university now that the travel restrictions had been lifted.)

Everything moves forward, even if it’s unpleasant.

It’s an awful reminder at an inopportune time.

You watch your feet as you crunch your way back to the shotgun side of the car, only relaxing when you hear the doors lock and the engine thrum.

...

The storm comes, just as the faces on TV said it would.

You’re in the country, in the hills and mountains where the weather is already turbulent and changeable. All the same, the overcast skies dump snow over the land and blanket the world in quiet and cold.

Snow silence sucks the sounds from the air, sans the howl of angry wind.

You’re tucked away and safe. It’s Keigo’s only solace.

After going into town, you keep more to yourself as the storm takes it sweet time rolling in. He recognizes the far off look in your eyes; it’s the one you wore stargazing, but there’s no kind smile on your face. Just a thoughtless frown as you go through the motions of your day.

It makes his chest ache.

(Part of him regrets bringing you with him to the market. It rots part of him, and he can only hope it sprouts again.)

Finally, when the storm truly comes and the hills get heavy and crisp white, a bit more of you returns. Keigo wants to take the fragments you’re willing to give him and tuck them close, horde them and squeeze. The way he’s gotten abashedly greedy for you has him handsier and needier.

He’ll take what he can get, and give what he can too.

It’s easiest to bear at night, probably out of habit. Maybe the time in the hospital fucked both of you up (yes, for sure, it did), but nighttime was the time where you were open and easy with each other.

The storm gives the perfect opportunity to all of your time shamelessly twisted together, only leaving for brief coffee breaks and light meals. Otherwise, you’re both nested.

Pillows and blankets piled on the oversized mattress, all soft against your scars and old scratches. Keigo’s still fond of the color red, he can’t let that go, but he trades in the scarlet that was once his ‘brand’ for a deeper burgundy. All the sensations are rich and velvety, whether it’s the bedclothes you’re wrapped in or the touches you share.

It feels safe.

The feeling is something almost foreign to Keigo. He’s been getting used to it, even as the isolation weighs down on him. No one around means no reason to be so alert. The house isn’t bugged, there’s no villains or Suits watching his every move. He’s just a flightless bird, with no cage, but no captors either.

It feels amazing.

It feels even better that you’re always the heat against his side. That you and your perfect, sweet hands always know how and where to touch. Your words flow easier when you’re so close, so surrounded and so deliciously suffocated.

Keigo fills you up in all the best ways, and you’re finally able to breathe easier.

You tell him your secrets, little stargazing facts and facets of you that you’d held away and far from him before.

“Do you know what cosmic microwave background radiation is?” You ask, sweet as your lips nip at his jaw.

“No, not a clue,” He laughs, the giggle only you get to hear.

You hum, shifting your thighs so it lies over his. Your hips grind, slow and unhurried as wind rattles the windows.

“It’s this ambient radiation that’s just everywhere, all the time, forever,” You tell him, voice going a little huskier despite the fact you’re talking about theoretical astrophysics. “It’s left over from the Big Bang. A little bit of the beginning that never stops.”

“And how do you know all this?”

“A documentary, love.”

The questions fade as your lips slide together, lazy hands sliding into each other's hairs. You pull, only lightly, just to bring him closer. Keigo gets greedy, (again, always), licking into your mouth and tasting you. It’s all cheap coffee and the stale mint of toothpaste, and he drinks you down like the finest nectar. He sucks on your tongue, moaning at the way you keen and shift next to him.

It’s not enough. It never is, so he rolls to sit himself over your hips and grab your jaw in a tight grip. He can’t be too forceful, he can’t— his little birdbrain won’t let him do anything too rough to you, even if neither of you would mind it. He tilts your head just right.

You roll your hips up, breath mingling with his as it hitches and shudders from you. It’s so much, so much good, but it still doesn’t feel like enough.

Keigo pulls away, eyes half-lidded to take in your own blown pupils. It makes something purr in his chest, to see your eyes already glassy and wide for him. Your neck is thoroughly covered in darkened splotches, already sucked and bitten while the storm sang.

Little marks of him.

“You’re all mine, you know?” Keigo nearly moans at the way your expression goes gooey and sweetened. He tightens his grip on your jaw just a fraction, enough to make you gasp before he licks and nips below your ear. Just to make sure you hear him. “‘Everywhere, all the time, forever’, I’ve got you.”

“Y-you do,” you gasp as Keigo shifts your sleep shorts off, pushed away forgotten in the nest. The thin tank top you’re wearing is hardly covering anything, not that either of you care. The nearly-sheer fabric of it stretches over your collars and curves beautifully. It does nothing to hide the way your breaths heave or the sweat and heat gathering on your neck.

You’re bared to him.

And if Keigo’s being honest?

You own each other, in the most pleasantly fucked up way.

“Y-You’re so good,” The word holds weight, so much heaviness. Keigo groans, palming one of your breasts and rolling one of your nipples. It’s ambient, something to occupy himself as he resists your words. Just a little—

Your hand slips into the front of his sweats, bare beneath, and wraps around the velvet of him. Thick and hot, firm in your hand but not close enough.

You squeeze, almost in warning.

“You are good.” You gasp as Keigo pulls off you, leveling gazes with you, all pretty eyes reflecting the starshine and snow. He is good. There’s so much more to it than that, but your poor, fucked up little mind can’t synthesis it yet. Only that Keigo is good, warm, safe, and wholly yours. And you’re his. You stretch to ghost a kiss over his lips. “My good boy, always keeping me safe. You keep me so well.”

He stills, even as you slowly pump in his cock. It twitches in your hand, your thighs squeezing between his hips.

Keigo’s mind races, in the best way.

“That’s it, isn’t it?” He murmurs, head tilting and body sagging to drink down your kiss-bruised lips. More, more, more— “You just need to be taken care of.”

“I don’t need to,” You lie, huffing.

Keigo raises an eyebrow, biting his lips as your grip floats down to his balls, massaging them in your soft grip. It’s tender, weirdly vulnerable, as the whole of you two are.

“Maybe you don’t need to, you’re very capable,” Maybe not right now, but he knows it’s in there. “But you want it.”

“I-I like it,” You scramble the wording, shoving down his sweats, huffing again and urging Keigo to kick them away. Your palm goes to his cheek and drags him closer. “I like you a lot, love you, you know. You make me feel... safe. It’s a good feeling.”

It’s the most honest you’ve been in a long time, and it sits in the air. Keigo remains silent for a moment, silent and trying to control the way his birdbrain wants to take you. Wants to fuck you up and ruin you for anyone else.

You’re his, aren’t you?

“Good girl,” Keigo breaks the tension, squeezing your hips to the point of bruises. His, his, his. “I keep you so good, don’t I?”

You nod, spitting out little affirmatives between kisses. They dot his cheeks and forehead, slipping to his nose and downward. You pull his bottom lip into his mouth, letting out a little half-sob as Keigo’s touch drifts to your cunt, to your clit that’s swollen and untouched.

More, more, more—

“You keep me so good,” You gulp, whining and grinding into the heel of his hand. Slick coats your sex, sticky and hot. “So, so good—”

Keigo drops down the bed, ignoring the flare of his scar tissue, to seat himself between your thighs. They get thrown over his shoulders with a squeeze. His hands cup your ass, slipping a pillow beneath your hips before eating your cunt like he’d die if he didn’t.

It’s one of his favorite things. Stuffing you full of him until your belly swells is another, or seeing the way his cock opens and stretches you until you’re gasping for breath and begging for more, more, more—

Keigo slips a finger into you without resistance. He curls it, unyielding as he massages the little knot of nerves in you that makes you arch and beg for more, for him.

You choke on a sob when he adds another finger, and he hushes you so sweet, tears prick your eyes.

“Starshine,” He coaxes, withdrawing only to give your clit, a few kitten licks and slow kisses. His gaze flickers towards yours, holding your wet eyes. “Doesn’t it feel good?”

You nod, the meat of your thighs squeezing around him. Keigo would be happy to die like this, you soft and opened for him, crying for him. Broken and cracking for him, by his tongue, by his touch, Him. His.

“Who takes care of you?” He curls his fingers, and you throw your head back into the nest of pillows.

“Y-You,” Your voice breaks and you rub at your cheeks.

“Who knows just how to keep you so well? How to make you feel so good?”

He presses a third finger in, tending to your clit as you cry above him. You’re molten around him, and he laps you up until the smell and taste of you is all he comprehends.

This is what you both need, isn’t it?

Each other. All of each other.

Your cries turn sour quickly, and it has Keigo jolting up, fingers withdrawn and leaving you to feel empty. The little sobs turned into hiccupping cries, one's stifled with the back of your hand.

Keigo rises over you, tugging you hand away to get at your cheeks, kissing them soft and sweet.

It isn’t often that you cry, surprisingly. You probably should more often.

“Tell me what’s wrong,” Keigo urges. Please, please, just tell him what the fuck is wrong. He knows, you know, the meat of it all. But please tell him something he can tend to. Something he can stitch up because god, he needs to be useful— “What’s making your cry sweetheart? Tell me.”

You paw at your forehead, “It’s silly.”

You sniffle and look at him with the most unguarded expression he’s seen you worn. The vacancy is gone, the hollowness and pain has been pulled away in the safety of that perfect nest and all that’s left is—

“‘M scared,” You mumble. Your arms curl over your chest, covering what’s primitively most precious to you. “I’m scared.”

Your eyes grow bright and heat, hotter than anything he’s felt from you, explodes over the room.

He’s half-choking and he fucking loves it.

Something in his chest snaps and he worries your hair, bringing his nose to yours, nuzzling and nudging your hands away. He nips you. His poor little birdbrain.

“I’m afraid you’re going to leave.”

Keigo stills.

He sits with your fear for a few beats.

“I’d never leave,” He says easily, truthfully and fully. He couldn’t.

Those long nights in the hospital and the warmth passed between you had so easily gotten you wormed his chest, right next to his second and third rib. He can feel it, always; you’re ever present. He grabs your arms and holds them to yours sides. You’re exposed, soft flesh and squirming a bit beneath him. He wants to mark you purple and near-bloody, so that no one would think of you as anything other than his.

His, his, his.

He shows you.

Worn hands, a bit chapped with the dry air, pull your high to rest on his shoulders. He massages your calves, kissing your ankles.

“I mean this real lovingly, starshine,” He breaths deep, fisting his cock with a few slow strokes. “I’m not going anywhere.”

You don’t get a chance to protest as he slides into you in one stroke. The stretch of him has you burning; he can tell by the way your hands fly to his shoulders, nails digging into his shoulders as your little cries only get harder.

“Bear it, I know you can,” You had before, and you would many times more. The stretch feels amazing, even if it burns something in your core. You like it, how the pain pricks something that shoots into your toes. Only Keigo gets to fuck you up, gets to own you. “You’re always good f-for me— f-fuck, so fucking good—”

His, his, his.

There is, of course, the inverse.

You grab his jaw, your grip tight like his was earlier, and you meet his gaze. You blink away tears, sniffling, but expression set with determination.

“You’re mine too,” You squeeze around him, grinding down to the root of his cock. “‘M only good for you because you’re mine too, Keigo. All of you.”

Without thought, your hands ghost over his scars.

You have avoided them for so long. It was an untouched spot, something tender and from a time where Keigo was being that was entirely and wholly different from who he is now. It’s a piece of him that’s always been off-limits.

But you’re both so cracked open, you do it without thought.

And something in Keigo snaps.

He pushes you down by the backs of your thighs, folding your legs to your torso. And he fucks you.

His hips slam against yours, opening you up with pants and groans. You feel full, full of him in every and all ways, everywhere, always, and forever.

You’re greedy with your touches, tugging him closer and uncaring of the way your nails scrap over his shoulders and arms. His body is yours and you’re his. It’s disgusting, it’s fucked up and perfect the way you slot together. It’s like little, scared pieces of existence slide together, and everything feels whole, yet open and uncracked.

Keigo fills you up with a sob, tears dripping down his cheeks as you pressed down on the burns and scars that rack down his back.

“Fill me up,” You demand, the heat of you swelling as his hand dips to your clit, circling and rolling with the little pleas falling from both your lips.

The world drips as his thrusts go harder, sloppier as you tip your head back and scream. Your voice breaks, hoarse from all your pleading and possession.

Keigo stuffs you, tip of his cock pressed to the deepest parts of you. His cum, all him, leaks from around his cock as he gives a few more weakened grinds. He makes sure you’re full, content and sated and his.

He falls over you, coating your cheeks in kisses and praise. You sputter little sobs for him, begging for him to be closer, despite the way he still fills you even as he softens.

It never feels like enough, the closeness. But you’ll settle for all of him that you can get.

...

The storm passes, and you spend your time much the same way. Fucking, feeling, and for a little, blessed while, forgetting.

Eventually, the snow stops falling. The wind that has been whipping the power into tree trucks and your windows falls still. It’s peaceful, then. Not that it wasn’t before, but without the weather bearing down on you, you’re both less hungry. Still greedy, just not starved.

You share the first morning after the storm outside, on the porch. Keigo had shoveled a little clear patch and you’d brushed off the two, brittle lawn chairs that had seen better days. You fixate on the task a bit too much, the steaming coffee you’re to share is forgotten. The straining plastic of the chairs is a yellowed-white and bright red. It felt strong enough under your fingers, cold fingers, as you cleared away the snow.

It feels like a remnant

Whatever fixation you have on the object passes as Keigo runs a hand up your spine. His hand is wide and warm, still a bit warm from the toasty mugs.

You rearrange your chairs and yourselves to be close as can be, in your little patch of snowless porch, and sip at your coffee as the world begins to wake up.

...

Oddly enough, the storm helps you make forward progress, at least a little. You take up making breakfasts on your own, occasionally carrying plates into the bedroom with a big, previously unseen grin

Keigo returns the smile so big, his cheeks burn for hours.

You take to a few of the little crafts and things Keigo has been hoarding. Paper folding and little canvases with acrylic painting are your favorites. Sometimes, you paint your little strokes and press creases from the comfort of the couch. Other times, you make you place for the day at the kitchen island while Keigo makes his day-long meals.

There’s a rhythm to it that’s so good.

It’s progress, and seeing it visibly start to the fill the walls feels good for both of you. Your little canvases get hung around the cabin, little portraits of the stars and their mother, all for you and Keigo to admire. ;;

...

He gets the call exactly three weeks after the storm passes.

Keigo awakes before you to the shrill ring of his cell. It vibrates against the bedside table, loud enough to wake the both of you. You both startle out of sleep, squeezing each other.

He takes the call in the other room, after he sees the contact name.

[Suits] Calling...

He paces as he listens to her drone on.

There’s no greeting, no “hey, how does it feel to be a flightless fucking failure?”. It’s business. Just business. It’s always been like that with her, and the lot of suits that treated him like a fixture until he got particularly cracked and unsightly.

“So, you come into Tokyo, we’ll do a small event—”

“The event you’re describing really doesn’t sound small,” Keigo tilts his head and gives an angry smile to his own reflection in the mirror. “It sounds like a circus that I really have no interest in being a part of.”

“It’s for the people, Hawks—”

It makes him snap.

“Stop fucking calling me that.” He growls into the receiver, grip tight enough to hurt. “Stop calling me, stop asking me, I am not coming back.”

The woman is silent on the line for a beat, before spitting, “What if I didn’t give you a choice?”

His blood runs cold before burning in his veins. And he laughs.

“You think you could?” He only feels a little hysterical. “You don’t have any power, not over me, not over anyone else as far as I’ve seen, Madam President!”

“Hawks—”

Shut up, shut up, shut UP.

“The Commission is dead, the world is in chaos, and putting the corpse of a hero on the big screen isn’t going to convince anyone that this is all fixable,” Keigo chest gets tight, and he can’t tell if it’s from the uncomfortable laughter he’s spitting or the sobs that are locked in his chest.

“So, you’d rather turn your back on the people you swore to protect?” Suits speaks with no emotion, not an ounce of feeling. “Selfish.”

Selfish, selfish, selfish. The word echoes in his mind, worms its way down his throat and suffocates him.

“You’re really going to say that to me? Of all fucking people?” He feels his nails break skin where he’d been clenching his fist. “Me, selfish?”

“You left, didn’t you? Ran away?” The woman has the stones to fucking laugh. “Everyone’s lost something. You’re not special, and it doesn’t justify—”

“What the fuck are you getting out of this?” Keigo interrupts, burning, burning— “Did you call me to go to this little gala or did you call to dig into your perfect little hero? You told me I could be done. Should’ve known you were lying, you always lie—”

“You’re being childish.”

“Oh my GOD!” Keigo nearly screams and doesn’t notice how you’ve tip-toed from the bedroom. “Do you hear yourself?”

“I hear you screaming at me, the woman who practically raised you, like some petulant brat. Get a grip, Hawks.”

He snaps.

“STOP FUCKING CALLING ME THAT!” He screams into the phone, vision going white and scarlet. “I am not Hawks! Hawks is DEAD! Why can’t you understand that? There’s no fucking hero to attend your little ‘healing’ gala, there’s just me. ‘Childish’, ‘selfish’, and wingless, babe. That’s what I’ve got, and this is what I am.”

Suits takes an audible sigh, and Keigo can almost see how she’s shaking her head at him, “You’re being ridiculous, Hawks. Take at least a goddamn ounce of responsibility for your actions that helped cause all... this.”

Ah, there it is. The thing Hawks has so properly compartmentalized, tucked so far back in his psyche that it’s almost impossible to reach.

How much of the dissolution of... everything is on him?

Something in him snaps, and it slips through his own fingers.

“I’m not going and this, Madam President? This is for me.”

Selfish, selfish, selfish.

He hears her unspoken words echoing in his skull as he hangs up, slamming the phone on the countertop.

Something hotter than rage and more poisonous than pain fills his blood, and it makes him want to both wretch and break his fingers in the same breath. He slams a fist onto the phone, cracking it against the countertop. He can buy a new one—

“S-Sweetpea?”

Keigo freezes.

You’re at the mouth of the hallway, hardly out of the shadows, eyes wide and fearful. His chest somehow gets even tighter.

Normally, he would’ve rushed to comfort you, calmed himself down to console you for seeing his little outburst.

But he doesn’t that day.

He breaths ragged with his lips slowly curling, panic’s ugly cousin turning his spit acrid behind his teeth.

“Here, let’s go back to bed, okay? We can—” You take a few steps closer, hand outstretched and eyes beginning to light.

Oh, and Keigo’s hit by fucking envy, and it’s over.

“Don’t.”

You freeze, “Pretty eyes—”

“Don’t, just don’t.”

You don’t move as Keigo trudges to the door, throws on his thick parka and snow boots, pocketing his keys and grumbles to you that there’s leftovers in the fridge.

It’s shitty and selfish.

And he just doesn’t care.

He can’t make himself care as the door slams shut behind him, the sound echoing off the trees and so quickly dampened by the snow.

...

Keigo drives, white noise in his ear that echoes the wind in the treetops of the mountains he’s descending. He’s only half there as he leaves town.

It’s still too much.

...

You, on the other hand?

You’re frozen, stuck-still, as you watch Keigo climb into the car and drive off. Maybe your mouth has gone a bit agape, you aren’t aware of your body.

You panic.

There’s no other word for it, not that you were able to think of as you were untrenched in it.

There’s something thick and knotted that is rolling unraveling in your chest. The... thing is worse than a feeling and runs deeper and hotter than you can manage.

You tried to manage it.

While Keigo is god fucking knows where, you paced the house, always within eyeshot of a window. Hoping for a glimpse of his dark parka, or the tufts of his blonde sticking out in the snow, a return—

Fucking nothing.

He just left.

No return time, no destination, just a departure with no explanation. He’d obviously left the cabin before, you’d handled those times quite well, but he’d never stormed out. Never raised his voice and screamed and then just left.

Is he okay?

(You heard most of the call, at least his side of it. Is that awful Hero Commission he told you about calling him back? Or even worse, dragging him away.)

(He’d tell you, wouldn’t he?)

(Guess you’ll never know! Because he’s fucking gone.)

It made something seize in your chest, hot and awful as you walked your circuit, praying. Worry is damning.

How could he just... leave?

You need him back.

You alone without him.

Your thoughts rot you, despite the winter’s cold outside. The chill of the cabin seeps into your bones, coats them and leaves you sticky and downright paranoid. The lack of... presence (his presence) was driving you up a wall. The air is too still, the floors quiet and without the telltale old creaks of movement that you’ve become accustomed to, and the cabin is silent other than your breathing and rabbit’s heart.

Beneath the anger was a thick layer of fear.

You are alone.

The feeling rolled its way into you as the sun began to dip lower in the sky.

What if he never comes back?

Of course he is, you remind yourself, hurriedly, worrying the scary on your leg and picking at the core of it. He wouldn’t leave.

Why wouldn’t he?

The thought gets your poor little heart racing faster, air choking in your lungs. Your head whips to the window to see the empty, snowy driveway.

“I-I’m alone,” You break the silence of the house, the walls answering with their pensive quiet and the wind shaking the fresh snow from thin branches just outside.

All alone.

All fucked up and broken and fucking alone.

“He wouldn’t leave,” You start talking to yourself, threading a hand in your hair, gripping. “He cares, he wouldn’t just leave.”

He cared about being a hero too and he left everyone else.

What if things changed?

Insecurities, new ones and old ones, cloud your mind and vision and stuffed your lungs. The grip on your hair goes tighter.

All alone in the mountains.

All.

Alone.

It scares you more than anything, how much you need him.

Tears prick the corners of your eyes as you tug at the roots of your hair. It hurts, but everything is starting to hurt very quickly, and a bit of hair pulling is child’s play to how it feels like your chest is being hollowed out.

You really have so little. It stuns you in the moment as you choke back a sob. The little house in the mountains, Keigo, and the starlight you still both enjoy— that’s fucking it. You’d never returned to your ‘apartment’, or rather the remnants of it. Any possessions you had were lost to destruction and unsalvageable. Your meager relationships and friendships had fallen away when you were bound to hospital for months.

He’s all you have.

“No, no, no,” You nearly trip in your pacing, dragging your feet as you accept your reality. “He can’t l-leave.”

The world responds with silence. The mountains are cold and lonely, just like you are. It’s cruel, it all hurts and after being in a daze so often, the reality of your situation hurts like a hot brand.

He’ll come back.

He cares.

You desperately try to convince yourself as you tug your parka on, throwing on your boots. You don’t bother to fasten or tie anything, you just stumble onto the deck blindly and scan the hill of the drive.

Not a single soul.

Something rotten curls up behind your teeth. Bile climbs the back of your throat and you have to swallow to keep from vomiting. Your chest is too tight, the world is too bright, and you’re terrified.

You’re not sure what to call the type of panic response you have; it doesn’t make any logical sense. Your heart runs in your chest, your breath is hot and tight, and you simply slip to the ground in the fresh snow.

And you wait.

...

Keigo drives until he’s nearly out of town, into some flatlands near the river that gurgles and churns nearby. The surrounding forest is the perfect place for a pensive walk.

It’s the best place for him to just get it out.

It had been a long time since Keigo had just talked to himself. Audibly sorts himself as he walks along the bank of the almost-frozen river. He doesn’t keep his voice quiet, no, its full volume complaining. It’s anger that’s bundled up in his chest that’s finally being lit and the smoke of it nearly chokes him out.

It’s not fair.

He does feel a bit childish, thinking about it like that. But hadn’t he done enough? Hadn’t they told him that he’d done enough? He lost it all and was just starting to the plant the seeds for a new life to sprout. Couldn’t he just have that? He’s not the shiny thing he used to be he’s fucking worthless. And that’s fine. He’s made peace with it and can find worth outside of saving people.

He’s capable. Adaptable. And he’s doing it all at his trademark speed.

But the thing that makes his gut twist is facing everything he (ran away from) left behind. The only short statement he’d given after Dabi’s video was nearly as viral as the actual video of him killing Jin (don’t think about it, don’t think about it—)

He’s not sure what possesses him to pull out his phone and pull up the video. It’s not hard to find.

It hurts to watch, but he does it anyway. Fucking masochist.

He’s standing beside Enji and Tsunagu, all of them in hastily tailored suits. They all had their visible injuries. Scars and brands that had just been carved and burned into skin. They look haggard, they look beaten.

Because they were.

Keigo watches as he adjusts his microphone in the video and gives his statement. Stupidly simple and vague, all at the same time.

“The villain Dabi did not lie. I am the son of Takami, and I killed Twice of the League of Villains. It was all necessary. Please accept my apology for the upset I have caused.”

His voice doesn’t even sound like him. It’s manufactured and broken. He remembers how the smoke had charred his throat and lungs for the first few days, before he was transferred from Central to the big facility in the tall-tree-ed forest.

He bows on the video and Enji begins his statement. Something solemn about the suffering he’s caused his family, how he wants to atone and how he is atoning. The public was too angry to listen and is too angry to listen. And the world Keigo ran from is the result.

He lets himself cry.

Finally.

His shoulders shake as he hunches over himself. The tears slip down his chilled cheeks and make little divots where they fall into the snow beneath him. His little gasps turn into sobs, the kind that hurt your chest and give you a headache that lasts for days.

He repeats a little mantra between scratchy breaths—

“I’m still good.”

He falls against the thick bark of a tree and slides down to the ground.

He let’s go.

It’s good for him, cleansing. Maybe it’s the rushing of the nearby river or the snow he's buried his hands in, but with each ragged breath he can feel some of that filth that’s clinging to him fall away. Not all of it, not by a long shot.

But feeling the worst is the first step to feeling your best.

So, when Keigo’s ready, he stands and moves forward. Trudges onward, albeit a bit slower.

...

Keigo returns home just as the sky begins to change from red to indigo with the night. It paints the pines and evergreens an eerie, dark color, shadows long and deep against the fluffy snow.

His gut twists in knots as he gets closer to home.

He’s tired. Exhausted. His eyes are still puffy from his tears, sore and aching. His body still feels tight, tense in his shoulders and arms as he grips the steering wheel. He needs rest. A good cup of tea and maybe a beer later.

And you.

As weak as Keigo feels, he knows he fucked up... just a bit.

It wasn’t fair to storm out. He isn’t dumb. All the same, if he stayed with you in the cabin, he probably would’ve said something he regretted. Or locked himself in the bedroom all day. It wouldn’t have been good or fair for you or him.

(Coward.)

Probably, but he was also burned alive fairly recently, so he had to give himself a bit of credit.

As he nears, his stomach drops.

You’re on the porch. You sit on the steps, parka pooling around your waist as your head rests on your knees.

Something’s not right.

Some of his old, honed senses trill to life, seeing you. Something in his gut twists, the muscles in his back tense, the old ones that controlled his wings.

You must be cold.

Keigo leaves the car and slaps on a smile, “Waiting for me, starshine?”

You twitch, curling over your body harder.

Something is very wrong—

He calls your name, your actual name, and you hardly stir. You all but twitch from where you sit, head tilting up just the slightest bit. It’s not enough to ease any of the worry pulling his old muscles, if anything, it makes it worse.

He falls to his knees in front of you, ignoring the crack his bones make.

“How long have you been out here?” Too long, he knows the answer, but he still has to ask.

“... A while,” You murmur, barely audible. “You’re back.”

“I am,“ Keigo pushes you up by your shoulders, scanning your face as more fear curls in his gut.

Your eyes are glassy and unfocused.

“We need to get you inside, now,” He isn’t sure if he sounds scared or angry (probably both), and he can’t make himself care.

You’re freezing.

Too cold, way too cold.

Keigo had to take plenty of survival courses during his training with the Commission and he had learned plenty about hypothermia. His avian anatomy made him more susceptible to the cold and knowing the symptoms for himself kept him from turning into a bird-adjacent popsicle more than once. He’d rescued his handful of civilians—

(Don’t think about being a hero right now or you’re gonna start crying again.)

You’re not some civilian, you’re you and you’re in front of him with darkened lips and dull eyes and full panic breaks his ribs.

...

You remember how pretty red the sky was.

You like sunsets.

You should see if Keigo wants to watch the sunset sometime.

Keigo’s gone.

You could drive—

Keigo drove away. You’re alone.

You aren’t sure how long you sat in the chill, but it was comforting despite how your fingers and toes began to ache. Outside, there were plenty of sounds and sights to keep you company. The wind whistled through trees, and the sky echoed a few, far-off sounds from distant civilization.

It was nice. Peaceful, at the very least.

...

“Inside, you need to be inside,” Keigo sputters, pulling you up under your arms. Your feet drag for a moment before going flat, and you sway in his arms.

Getting you inside makes his body ache in new ways, your weight mostly on his side. Old pains crawled to the surface as he dragged you to the couch, setting you down on the cushion and assessing you better.

His hands run over your body, over curves and divots he knew and loved and the chill of you filled him with dread.

“Your pants are wet from the snow,” Keigo swallows, rising. “I’m going to grab you dry clothes.”

As soon as he tries to move away, you catch his wrist in a weak grip.

And finally, half-lucidly, you regard him with terror in your eyes.

“You l-left,” You spit, lips curling over your teeth. “You left, Keigo.”

You use his real name and he really wants to die a little.

Sure, Suits used it on the phone with him and it made him see blood fucking red, but it’s you, and you saying the name he never really had, for the first time, so fucking angrily makes part of his secretly fragile heart break.

He freezes, breathing hard through his nose as he looks down at you.

“I’m sorry,” He says softly. “Let me get you warm, then we can talk, okay?”

You don’t look convinced, tightening your grip on his wrist and pulling him closer.

Keigo gives in, so, so easily, dropping to his knees and pulling your icy hands into his. He rubs warmth into them, bringing them to his lips and breathing hot over your knuckles.

“Please, starshine. Let me get you warm.”

“I’m already warm,” Your voice slurs, entirely unconvincing.

“I say this very lovingly,” He says, somehow cracking a smile, “but you’re genuinely hypothermic. You can be as mad at me as you want, but you need to get warmed up.”

You chew your lip, cupping his cheeks with your freezing palms, “... You’re not leaving?”

Your voice drawls and Keigo makes a note to turn up the thermostat.

“No, god, no, I’m not,” He tries to assure you, shaking his head, but your grip only gets harsher. He placates you with a squeeze to your knee. “Please let me help.”

He can’t tell you how much he needs to. How hyper aware he is of your chill and of his own thumping heart. That protective urge in his chest wants to just pull you to his chest and wrap you up in him, in his heat, but that’s for later.

Your eyes' gaze goes softer, little specks of light bouncing between your irises. The room fills with blessed, familiar heat and Keigo can feel his shoulders slacken and some of the worry in his chest dissipate.

...

He returns with some of his own soft joggers, fleece-lined and well-loved. He grabbed a few layers, and an armful of blankets and pillows. Anything he could carry gets brought as his little, avian mind craves something he suppressed for years so well.

Nest, nest, nest.

Heat them first, then nest.

He helps you slip into your new, dry clothes as your teeth begin to chatter. Thank fucking god. Keigo is smart enough to check your toes as he slips onto fuzzy, thermal socks, and they all look to be healthy and functioning.

You’re quiet during the whole ordeal, save for soft breathing and snapping teeth. You occasionally grab his hand and hold it to whatever part of your skin was bared, mumbling something about how warm he is.

Keigo eventually gets you settled and surrounded by blankets and pillows which you sink into, eyes hardly open. Only then does he feel like he can pull away enough to start the nearby fire.

It feels somewhat unnecessary, given you’re still heating the room. It’s probably somewhat for the atmosphere, considering the sky is nearly fully black. A bit of crackling flame and light would do you both good.

(He rarely lights fire, but considering the flame is a kind red and not a fucking disgusting blue, he can bear it. Especially now.)

When the fire is stoked, he turns back to you and deflates.

“I’m sorry,” You say, all soft and half-lidded from the blankets. “That was... dumb.”

“It was.”

Keigo can’t fight you on the obvious.

There’s a goddamn list of questions he wants to ask you. ‘Why’s and ‘what’s, but he has a pretty good idea of why you were sitting outside and what you were thinking.

He’s not sure you’d want to talk about it anyway.

The couch creaks when he sits down a few feet from your little nest, running a tired hand over his face.

“... You know, this couch folds out,” You shift a little, slow and lethargic. Still cold. “We should sleep out here tonight.”

He turns to regards you, and it takes everything in him not to fucking break.

“Why?” His voice shakes and he knows you can tell.

You hum, leaning toward him, “Change of scenery. I think we could both use it.”

“Later.” Keigo agrees. The urge to wrap you up in his (wings) arms feels unbearable, the little avian tickings in his skull loud and needy. “Warm first. Futon later.”

You huff weakly, but lift the blankets to let Keigo slip behind you. His body curls around yours, finding the coldest parts of you and tending to them first. His hands clasp over yours and your feet get tucked between his calves.

“Thanks,” You murmur, neutral and vacant.

Keigo doesn’t push you.

Instead, you stay tucked in his arms, still shivering, but significantly less cold. Your lips and cheeks look a far healthier color and they’re warm to the touch. He traces his fingertips over the curves of your face and neck, preening in the only way he can muster up.

You eventually break the silence, when the fire is all but embers.

“I heard some of that call…” Your voice trails off. “It sounded bad.”

“It was,” Keigo agrees with a little nod. He really doesn’t want to think about Suits and, you know, the rest of the world, but it feels necessary. “Very bad.”

“Who was it?”

“Old boss.”

“… And?”

Keigo sighs, squeezing you probably a little too tightly, “Why don’t we focus on warming you up from your hypothermic excursion and not my shitty life as a shitty hero—”

“You weren’t a shitty hero, Keigo,” He can hear the mourning in your voice and it makes him want to die, just a little. You cup his cheeks, eyes sad and soft around the edges. “You were a really good one.”

“Was I? News to me.” He laughs, the bitter sound tasting like bile. He hates it, the feel of it mixed with the heat and softness of you. It feels wrong. “I don’t want to talk about all that, starshine. Please just drop it.”

Your face hardens.

“No.”

“… No?”

“No, I’m not done,” You sigh, big and hard. “I think we’re more fucked up than we talk about, Keigo.”

He winces, but you keep going, and he doesn’t move to stop you.

“Probably.”

Your jaw sets like stone on stone. It makes him internally wince as your hands go to cup his cheeks.

“I’m fucked up, you’re fucked up, everything is fucked up. We can ignore it up here, quietly, but it’s true, isn’t it?”

Yes.

“Yeah.” He feels his gut roll, but he doesn’t stop you. His grip goes tighter on your hips. “You’re not wrong.”

“Can we just… Acknowledge it? Please.” You ask, beg, softly as you rub his cheeks with your thumbs. “Please, Keigo.”

He doesn’t know what to do at first. He really wants to lock up. Shut down. Lock all the nasty feelings in chest, behind his heart, so they can burrow into his spine and keep him moving forward.

He wraps his hands around your wrists.

Your eyes look glassy, tears sticking in your bottom eyelashes, but not daring to fall. Not yet.

“Keigo, I’m fucked up, I know that, and that’s okay,” You deflate a little. “I’m getting better. We’re getting better. I know we are.”

“We a-are.”

Keigo’s voice cracks, hoarse in his throat and tight as the uniform belt he used to wear. His lungs feel hot, too stuffed even as he tries to swallow the heat that’s welling up on the very back of his tongue.

“You are good, Keigo, I promise,” You lean in to give his forehead the lightest kiss and Keigo feels part of himself die in the best way. “Please, let’s just talk.”

And so, he does.

…

He tells you about Jin first.

You’d heard about him, the villain Hawks killed during the War. Published for the world to see, over and over, forever. The video was one you’d only seen once, during your early days at the hospital, but you could recall the footage on your grainy hospital television.

Your pretty eyes, pretty Keigo, cut him down. One of his old feathers, hardened into a stiff blade, struck Jin across the chest, arcing up to his neck and slicing a few important arteries and veins. It was an imperfect job, one that probably made his death more painful and prolonged than it needed to be.

You don’t let go of Keigo’s cheeks as he tells you the story. You can’t, you’re too busy thumbing away the little tears that roll down his cheeks.

He speaks between sobs that break from his chest. Underused and much-needed.

“He was good, starshine,” Keigo curls in a little on himself, but you keep him mostly upright. “I had to, y-you know? I didn’t have a choice, if I didn’t—"

How many more people would be dead?

His body convulsed, the little tears turning fat as he collapsed into your chest and buried himself in you. Like he was hiding, and god, did you let him.

You hushed him, soothed him with little kisses, and listened.

“And then Dabi—”

You hate him, obviously. You only know his name and visage, and you hate him so much it hurts. Part of you wants to rub at his scars like he lets you, but you decide against it in Keigo’s fragility.

He tells you of the blue flames, how the boot felt against his back, how his throat burned for weeks from the heat and smoke. His grip on you goes so tight, you’re afraid he’s going to tear your shirt to shreds.

“He took them, starshine,” Keigo’s voice muffled into your shoulder, the sound of it rattling you. “He t-took them!”

And he slumps against you, well and truly, and can’t muster up another word. All you could do is hold him, rocking him from your little, shared spot on the couch and whisper to him little comforts. You’re crying a little too, breath tight and hazy as you let Keigo shatter in your arms.

He’s not ready to talk about his wings and that’s okay. More than okay.

So, you soothe him. He soothes you right back, rubbing at your sides, hips, thighs— whatever he can reach and touch and claim. You’re good, you’re the closest he’s going to get to permeance and he’ll be damned to let you go when you feel so good and he feels so fucking awful.

You fall back onto the chest, pulling Keigo with you so he can lay atop you. His ear presses to your chest, heart thumping in his ear while you lock your arms around him. Caged in and held, with the lightest pressure on the thick skin of his scars.

“I’ll never truly get it, I can’t,” You admit, quietly as you smooth back some of his tear-matted hair. “But I want to be here. I want to listen when you’re want to talk. Need to talk. You can dash off on your own, Keigo, that’s okay. Just know that I’ve got you to, okay?”

Keigo sniffled, peering up at you with wide eyes, “Are you sure you can handle it?”

“I am now, aren’t I? Just a few hours out from nearly being a popsicle,” You hum and joke, glowing from the inside out when Keigo graces you with a little smile.

It takes a few more moments for him to cover, haul himself up to the crook of your neck and breathing hard and deep for a while. Like he’s trying to absorb you through scent alone.

“… Are you okay?” Keigo asks, squeezing you so tight it hurts. (And you want more of it.) “You’re not as cold anymore.”

“I’m feeling okay,” You paw at your face a bit, rubbing your cheeks like they’re still numb and not flushed with blood and sticky with drying tears. “I just freaked out a little.”

“… Because I left?”

You nod, chewing your lips.

“I don’t want to be alone, Keigo,” You whisper it, though he already knows your admission. “I’m terrified of you leaving.”

“When I left,” Keigo rises to meet your gaze, gooey and cobbled. “Did you think I wouldn’t come back?”

“… Maybe,” You shake your head, refusing to look at him. “You didn’t say anything about coming back, just about… leftovers.”

You both frown.

“I panicked.” You shake your heard.

“… That’s what happens when you panic?”

“I guess?” Your mouth feels too dry. “I don’t know. I got scared. I panicked. What else was I supposed to do?”

There’s an obvious answer or two, but it’s unspoken.

“I’m not leaving,” Keigo rubs at your cheeks. “You’re gonna have to try pretty hard to get me gone, starshine. I love you too much to go easily.”

It’s a declaration, a strong one, and god does it feel fucking good to hear.

“… Promise?” You ask him as his palms cup your cheeks and jaw.

“Promise.”

“I heard on the call—”

Keigo interrupts you with a kiss, hard and long that steals your breath and makes your head spin.

“Promise.” Keigo breaths, pretty eyes meeting your heat-filled ones. “Everywhere, all the time, forever. I promise, I’m not going anywhere.”

It’s a start, even if that insecurity is so deeply rooted. The adoration in his eyes, and the sweetness of his touch tempers it all. It’s there still, just like how there’s so much unspoken that needs to be sorted, chewed on, and digested.

But now?

The embers in the hearth need another log or two. The futon needs to be folded out and I’d be best if you shared a cup or two of tea. Preferably something with lavender that’ll scent the cabin with the smells of spring and herbs.

Now, you’re both more than enough.

…

thank you for reading!!💞keep an eye out for part 3! 👀

ko-fi

#salem writes #hawk x reader #hawks #takami keigo #takami keigo x reader #mha x reader #my hero academia #anyways ouch <3 #kiss it better keigo #enjoy this big boy heheh #kith kith :'^)

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ashintheairlikesnow · 4 years

Note

As you can see, I’m ALREADY pepped for

✨Kauri with sick jake✨

So don’t worry about that

Honestly, this is for @eatyourdamnpears and everyone else encouraging my silly whims

CW: Description of migraine visual aura, migraine, sick whumpee, some consensual spice refs/flirting at the end

It starts as a dot in the center of his vision, a bit of gray he can’t quite see around. Jake frowns, closes one eye and then the other, but it’s there in both of them when he tries to look at the clock on the oven. He checks his text messages and there it is, little gray dot, making it... not impossible, but difficult to read the message.

“What are you doing?” Kauri asks the question from the doorway, standing with his shoulder leaning on the frame and his arms crossed in front of himself, wearing nothing but one of Jake’s shirts, hanging off his frame in a way that somehow makes him seem more graceful, not less.

“Go get pants on before Ant comes down and blacks out from blushing so hard,” Jake says, voice still upbeat, but... is the spot getting bigger?

He picks up his phone and types in ‘signs of seizure’ into Google.

Nope.

‘Sudden changes in vision.’

Oh, well, the potential answers to that one are definitely fucking terrifying.

How about... ‘gray dot in center of eye’.

“What the fuck is retinal detachment?” Jake mumbles, squinting. The dot is definitely getting bigger, and it’s in both eyes, not just one. So... not retinal detachment, unless his eyes both did it simultaneously, which seems impossible, but...

Google seems very convinced he might be dying. That is not comforting him at all as he tries to read around the spot.

“Jake?” Kauri pads across the kitchen tile on bare feet, and his hand presses cool to Jake’s bare back, long fingers against his spine. “What’s up?”

“I’m having a weird-... a thing in my eye... or my eyes?” Jake leans slightly back into Kauri’s touch. He hasn’t stopped being grateful for Kauri’s presence, and so deeply aware of it. It feels fragile, whatever is happening now, even though Kauri has always been made of steel underneath his insistence that he was nothing but tissue.

“What kind of weird thing?” Kauri moves around him, to lean his back against the counter next to the stove, head tilted to look up at Jake.

Jake looks down at him, tousled black curls and the way his face has changed with time, cheekbones and jawline more prominent, but his eyes have never been anything but the widest, brightest blue, and he can see Kauri through the arc that the gray dot is forming in his vision as it expands.

“I can’t-... I keep seeing gray,” He confesses, shaking his head - and he feels pressure there, a sense of something just... sitting behind his eyes, over his eyebrows. Like the weight of a small animal is there, and getting heavier. “Just, like, a dot, but it’s getting... bigger. And... like, breaking up?”

He tries to look at Kauri again, and the dot is a half-circle now. There’s a flash in the rounded curve of it, and then another. Then a third, but this one is colors, and there are small rainbows flashing lights along the arch as it grows.

“Am I-... is this a fucking seizure? Or a, a brain tumor? Or...”

Kauri, to Jake’s shock, laughs. “Oh! No, Jake. No, that sounds like - you said it’s getting bigger?” He reaches up, going up on his toes as Jake leans down, and presses his cool hand against the side of Jake’s face. “Is it, like, turning into a circle? Do you see lights?”

“Um... yeah. Yeah, like, like a fucking rainbow strobe light on the right side.” Jake closes his eyes, and the pressure is getting worse.

“Jake.” Kauri’s voice is soft. “You’ve got a migraine. Or you’re about to have one. When did you last sleep through the night? Or, like, at all?”

Jake snorts. “You’re one to talk.”

“Answer the question, you.” Kauri pokes him in the side, with gentle affection, and Jake wishes he could focus on his face around the widening, flashing arch at the right side of his vision. At least it’s sort of framing Kauri, now, and Jake wonders at Kauri just... here.

No backpack by the door next to his shoes, ready to run. The backpack is in Jake’s room, and it’s empty. Kauri’s fucking... pet Roomba Keira is in her place of honor in the living room by the Christmas tree. One of the new rescues is convinced they can fix her broken wheel even though it’s been actual years since Keira could roll around on her own.

For her part, Keira informed Kauri in that... unsettling metallic female voice that her visual sensors were enjoying the shifting colors of the Christmas lights and that she didn’t mind playing a sort of living Wikipedia for the rescues - all former Romantics - learning about a world they were forced to forget.

Keira reported to Jake that the most common question she received was some variation on how many pets run away, and how many go back?

The numbers are getting bigger - and the amount that end up back in WRU custody or with their former owners is going down. That alone drives Jake to keep working, harder than ever, to give as many as he can somewhere safe to land.

“I don’t know. Chris is here for Christmas break, we have new rescues, there’s-... just been a lot going on, and-” He sighs as Kauri’s hand moves up, thumb rubbing soft little circles just above his eyebrow, and the pressure building behind his eyes seems to lessen, just a little, at the touch.

“So the answer is that you’re stressed and not sleeping. So this is definitely a migraine. Is it still getting bigger?”

Jake opens his eyes and looks down at Kauri’s face, giving a slight smile. “Uh, yeah. It’s... almost all off to the right, now. You’re pretty with a rainbow around you.”

“Well I’m gay as hell, so I should hope I look good in rainbows,” Kauri says, smiling with his nose scrunched up the way he does when he’s not being self-conscious about it, and then he takes Jake by the hand, pulling him back across the kitchen. “Come on, you. Time to lay down.”

“Kaur, the rescues will wake up any second now-”

“Antoni can feed them as well as you can - way better, honestly. He can just reheat those little pocket things with the cheese in them.”

“... Hot Pockets? I don’t think-”

“No, the thingies. The, um. The pirouettes?”

“Piroshkis?”

“Sure, that sounds right, too.”

“Well, pirouette is a ballet term-”

“Jake. Not important. Let’s just be happy I remember anything at all. Come on.”

Jake doesn’t feel like he follows Kauri so much as, like always, Kauri is a planet on its own orbit that Jake is drawn to, has always been drawn to, long before he could have had a moment with him like this. “But Chris-”

“Chris is twenty-three years old,” Kauri points out. “More or less. He can take care of himself, and right now you need someone to take care of you. And trust me, I have a lot of experience with migraines - and so does he.”

The rainbow flashes are fading out, moving so far to the side of his vision that they are effectively gone, but the pressure is still building and Jake squints against the way the first hints of sunlight hurts, a little, to see coming through the windows. “You do?”

“Of course I do.” Kauri’s legs are pale where they show under the hem of the big shirt he wears, and Jake swallows against the way something in him stirs at the sight, but that bit of pain that had come with seeing the sun isn’t leaving. It’s getting worse. “When I stopped blacking out, I started getting headaches, migraines, lasted for days. Fucking hated it. I used to get them in training a lot, too.”

“You did?”

“Mmhmm.” Kauri pauses, briefly, at the top of the stairs. “When I relearned how to read, and when I looked at myself again, they came back. But I had to keep trying, anyway.” He glances over at Jake and gives him a slight smile. “All that time I spent trying to figure out what you were seeing when you looked at me. Migraines come with the territory.”

“Why don’t I know that you were getting headaches?”

“Because I didn’t tell you about them. We’re, um. We’re good at ignoring pain.” Kauri smiles, still, but there’s something a little more brittle in it now. “Chris got them, too, learning to read. And... probably before. But everything-... hurts so much, in training. You get used to doing everything with the pain instead of waiting until it’s over. You don’t have a choice. There we go, I’ve distracted you with a sob story long enough to get you back to your room.” Kauri helps Jake inside, closing the door, and Jake sighs in relief as the room is beautifully, perfectly dark.

“Our room,” He says, and his head is starting to really hurt, now. “I don’t have time to lie down, Kaur.”

“You sure as fuck do,” Kauri says cheerfully, getting him back to the bed, hands running over Jake’s shoulders, back, and sides as he lays down on his stomach, groaning. Kauri presses a little, here and there, gnawing on his lower lip. “You’ve got some serious fucking stress in your back, Jake.”

“When do I not?” Jake asks, muffled by shoving his face into a pillow.

“... good point. I’m going to get you something for your headache and tell Antoni he’s in charge today. You... don’t move. Or I’ll be very unhappy with you.” Kauri’s voice teases, effortlessly flirty, just a little with the graze of his fingertips before he pulls away.

He’s gone, for just a few minutes, and Jake’s headache seems to worsen by the second, moving from the first hints of pressure to a full-on pounding pain. He doesn’t dare pull his head up, afraid even the slightest sliver of light will be too much. His stomach twists and turns, too, and Jake’s glad he got up here before he ate anything.

That Kauri got him up here.

Kauri reappears with two pills, a glass of water, and a surprisingly bright smile on his face. “Well, I’ve embarrassed Antoni by stretching and forgetting I’m not wearing any pants, so... good thing I look good naked. Here, take this.”

Jake swallows down the pills and drinks the water until it’s gone, then hides his face back in the pillow. “What’re you gonna do?”

“Stay right here, dumbass,” Kauri says, softly, and he crawls up into the bed, lying down on his side next to Jake. Jake can feel the soft brush of his hair before he leans in and kisses Jake’s neck. “Stay right here with you. That’s my plan for the day.”

“I’m gonna be real boring,” Jake mumbles into the pillow.

Kauri’s voice is low, situated just above a whisper but below the threshold that would make Jake’s head pound any harder. “I spent years alone with a talking Roomba and some plants on a balcony. Boring doesn’t bother me. I’d rather sit in this bedroom in the dark with you being a big whiny baby than be anywhere else.”

“... ‘m not whiny.”

“He said, whinily,” Kauri teased, and snuggled up next to him. Somehow he’d taken his shirt off and Jake slid one arm over the warm skin of his back, pulling him close. “Hey now-”

“Isn’t sex a pain reliever?” Jake asks, eyes still closed, nuzzling into Kauri’s neck, the warm smell of his skin, with the faintest hint of Jake’s own cologne. Something about having known Kauri to never smell like the same cologne twice for so long, and to know now he only ever smelled like Jake...

“Not for migraines. Wait til your head feels better, dumbass.”

“Thought you liked my ass,” Jake murmurs, kissing just under Kauri’s ear, a spot he knows Kauri likes, a spot Kauri didn’t know he liked, because nobody ever bothered to explore Kauri the way he deserves. His hand slid down and between Kauri’s legs-

And then he winces and turns his head back to the pillow. “Ow. Okay, I can’t right now.”

“Told you so,” Kauri says, moving Jake’s hand back over his waist. “No sex until you feel better, Doctor Kauri’s orders.”

Jake pauses, and says softly, “I must be the only guy on earth who fucking loves hearing you say ‘no.’”

Kauri pauses, and then kisses Jake’s hair, the top of his head, and slides back into his embrace, the warmth that came with lying together under the blankets together.

“Yeah, maybe. But I like that you want to hear it.”

“Always. Whenever you need to say it. I love you, Kaur.”

Jake thinks he hears the faintest hint of hidden tears in Kauri’s voice when he answers, “Love you, too.”

---

Tagging: @burtlederp , @finder-of-rings , @endless-whump , @whumpfigure , @slaintetowhump , @astrobly @newandfiguringitout , @doveotions , @pretty-face-breaker , @boxboysandotherwhump , @oops-its-whump @moose-teeth , @cubeswhump , @cupcakes-and-pain @whump-tr0pes @whumpiary

#erase to control #sickfic #sick whumpee #migraines tw #migraine #referenced consensual spice #headache whump #visual aura #migraine aura #trauma recovery #conditioning referenced #deconditioning #jake the shelter guy #sick fic #caretaker #whumpee as caretaker #caretaker whumpee

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gayestnerdsinfiction · 3 years

Note

Scriddler headcanon- Jonathan absolutely hates Ed’s taste in music

see this is interesting bc i think i have controversial opinions about Jon's music taste 👀

“Got everything?” Jonathan asks, looking up as Edward makes his way down the front steps to the car. He’s loading up the car with everything they’re taking on their little trip.

“I think so.” Edward sees Jonathan’s Scarecrow costume and gear, a small medical cooler, and two duffels crammed into the trunk of the rusty old Ford that Jonathan refuses to get rid of. That car is probably older than Edward himself. “I don’t really know what one brings on a road trip to buy drugs.” He places his own black bag into the trunk, carefully nestling it between the duffels for maximum padding. He assumes one of the bags contains Jonathan’s personal effects, but he’s not the kind of person to bring two bags for a three day trip. He resists the urge to unzip the bags and take a peek inside.

Jonathan closes the trunk, giving Edward a look. “For the last time, this is not a road trip and we are not buying drugs. This is a business trip, if anything, and I’m getting chemicals for my toxin.” He walks around to the driver’s side and opens the door, pausing to look back at Edward before he gets in. “And if I happen to familiarize myself with New Jersey’s recreational marijuana industry, then that’s my prerogative as an American.”

“Whatever you say, Willie Nelson.”

“You’d better shut the fuck up before I drive off and leave you here,” he grumbles as he folds himself into the driver’s seat.

Edward smiles to himself but doesn’t push his luck. He gets into the car and they pull out of the driveway and onto the road. Which sounds like a road trip as far as Edward’s concerned, but apparently that’s a point of debate.

“Can I pick the music?” Edward asks.

Jonathan’s jaw tenses visibly. “Sure,” he says, eyes fixed on the road. “I think there are some CDs in the glove compartment.”

“Oh, that’s alright. I came prepared.” Edward produces a small, leather CD case filled with music he knows Jonathan will absolutely despise. “Since your car is from the stone age and doesn’t have Bluetooth or even an mp3 player, I dug around in the box of things I’ve hoarded from my wretched childhood and found all my favorite CDs from high school. There’s some really good stuff in here, too,” he adds, unzipping the case and flipping through it. “We’ve got Hanson, Destiny’s Child, Backstreet Boys—oh, Spice Girls, of course. A classic.” He turns to look expectantly at Jonathan. “What do you think?”

Jonathan is making that face he makes when he’s annoyed with Edward but doesn’t want to give Edward the satisfaction of being annoyed with him. “You said you wanted to pick.”

This is one of the little games Edward likes to play with the other man. When they’re at home, his favorite way to torment Jonathan is by playing the most manufactured, inane, bubblegum pop music he can find. Jaunty showtunes, songs made by seventeen year old social media stars, boy bands who act like teenagers despite being well over 25. He’s never been able to infiltrate Jonathan’s car before, though. Usually when they’re driving together it’s away from the scene of a crime, so not really an appropriate time for tunes. But now they have a two hour drive to sit and listen to whatever Edward wants. The mere thought of it is delicious to him. What makes this game so fun is watching Jonathan’s internal struggle between his hatred of Edward’s taste in music and his enduring need to never express any emotions under any circumstances.

Jonathan likes music. He spends a surprising amount of time with headphones on, listening to God knows what. But he’s not willing to turn off whatever Edward wants to listen to if it means revealing his own secretive taste in music in the process. No, he’d much rather sit and be miserable instead of letting another human being know him.

Edward keeps looking through his CD collection, briefly getting caught up in the nostalgia of his adolescent taste in music. He remembers dancing alone in his room to Madonna, discussing Britpop with his friends over lunch at school, getting into his first car crash with Britney Spears blaring on the radio. To this day he gets a sick sort of feeling when he listens to “Baby One More Time.”

“This TLC album is pretty good,” Edward says after a while, sliding the disc out of its sleeve. “We’ll start with this, maybe move on to a little Spice Girls, top it off with some Cher?”

“Whatever you like,” Jonathan says evenly.

Edward pops the CD into the player, sitting back in his seat as the beat kicks in on the first track. “What are the bags for?” he asks.

“What bags?”

“The duffels. In the back.”

“Cash and clothes.” They pull onto the highway. “Cash for the drop, clothes for… my body.”

“Yes, Jonathan, I know what clothes are for.” The brief intro song fades out and the second track begins. Edward turns up the volume.

They drive in silence for a little while. Edward watches the trees blurring past the window as they get further and further away from Gotham. It will be nice to get out of the city, even for a few days.

Edward hears a soft tapping sound and he looks over to see Jonathan drumming his fingers against the steering wheel in time with the music. Could it be that Edward has achieved a completely unprecedented win and found a song that Jonathan actually likes?

“So, we’re a TLC fan, are we?” Edward says coyly, straightening up.

Jonathan’s hands still and he tightens his grip on the wheel. “I’m not really a fan of anything,” he says.

“Liar. You like music. You like this music.”

“It’s fine.”

“Please, I saw you tip-tapping along. I know you liked it.” He grins at Jonathan whose flushed face is still looking pointedly at the windshield. “You can’t hide from me, Jonathan Crane. I know your tells.”

“I can appreciate a good beat. That’s all.”

“So you admit you like the beat!” Edward says triumphantly. “And the beat is a core element of the song, implying that, at its core, you like the song.”

“Edward—”

“You know I’m right.”

“The only thing I know is that I’m on the verge of running this car off the road and killing us both to save myself the strife of being in this conversation any longer.”

Edward slumps back in his seat, giving Jonathan an exaggerated pout. “You can’t threaten me with physical violence any time I say something that annoys you.”

“Why not?”

#jonathan crane #scarecrow #riddler #edward nygma #dc #batman #my writing #my fic #music #i really firmly believe jon has a very eclectic music taste and likes almost everything except for like the kitschiest stuff #so i think of the artists named in this fic he'd be most into TLC cuz they're more hip hop/rnb and i feel like he can get down with that

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kezibun · 3 years

Text

A storm of a hunt part 3

Part 1

You hesitantly tell him your name, maybe he was actually just being nice?

"Huh… cool name..." He mumbles.

A waft of coldness crawls over your skin, making goose bumps rise. You can't stop the shiver that follows it.

"Oh shoot." Papyrus sighs. "That damn heater."

He stands up, then kicks the little heater a few times and presses the button, but nothing happens. He seems to give up on the heater and you watch him as he walks over to the box labelled torture. Your whole body is tense but you keep you're eye on him as he rummages through the box. He's looking for something that you can be sure of.

After all this was he really going to hurt you? After what's been said? What will he find in there? What does he want? Maybe he's looking for something to tie you up with.

He's just playing some kind of sick game again, like everyone else in this hell hole. You shouldn't trust anyone, not even down here. You just can't especially since all you've been met with is manipulation, lies and treachery.

Maybe now you could try to escape, slip away while his back is turned. But as you try and sit up, a sharp pain burns in your side, there is no way you're going anywhere while you're in this agony. You sit back down and instinctively hold your injuries, not that it helps. Why does everything hurt worse once you've had a minute to rest?

Papyrus comes over with something. It looks like a big metal tin. How Is he going to hurt you with this?

He kneels on the floor, setting the tin down, he's filled it with wood and sticks. Then he snaps his fingers over it, an orange spark floats down settling on a twig, it fizzles briefly as it sets alight. The fire is slow to grow but it already feels warmer than the small space heater. The flames grow and dance as they cast an amber glow. You're mesmerised for a moment.

"Do your injuries still hurt?" His question snaps you out of it.

"Yeah, those traps did quite the number on me." You say with a nervous laugh.

"Let me check your HP."

"Wa-"

In that second the world around goes dark, an encounter? You feel fear creep over you, this wasn't good.

"-It…."

Damn is he going to fight you? Or just check you like he said? If this was going to be like any of the other monsters you'd encountered before? you're sure it won't be fun.

You look over to your HP. There's something weird about it, it doesn't seem right, and that makes your stomach churn with even more nerves. You don't know what's wrong but It can't be good.

He stares at you intently for a second.

'Papyrus cheeked your stats he doesn't seem happy with what he sees.'

It's your turn now. His name is yellow, you know what that means. You're tempted to take a peek at his stats but you really don't have the energy right now and you're pretty sure he won't appreciate it. You are definitely not up for a fight, so you choose mercy. Everything fades back to normal. That wasn't so bad.

He then just walks out, leaving you behind and alone. The only sounds that keep you company are the crackling fire in front of you and the howling wind outside.

You sigh and huddle up by said fire, pulling the jacket around you again as you wonder what on earth he saw that he didn't like. You hope whatever it was won't get you hurt. How did you ever end up in this situation? If only you could remember.

You feel the warmth of the fire almost wrap around you as it seeps in and you finally start to thaw. Your toes almost sting like pins and needles as the feeling starts coming back to them.

It wasn't long though until Papyrus was back, he entered silently like he'd just appeared in the room.

He holds a brown paper bag out to you, "Eat this."

You take the bag, inside is a donut with black icing and a purple cobweb design on top. You usually would have been suspicious of such a gift, just in case it was poisoned. But at this point you don't really care, you're just happy to get some food. All you can do now is sort of trust him right? as much as you might dislike it. What other choice do you have?

"Thanks."

You take a bite of the donut, the first flavour you get is sugar, it's very sweet, there also seems to be a bit of a spiced flavour then you taste the weirdest thing, you're hit with a faintly meaty flavour like chicken, mixed with a slightly fishy taste? and there's a dubious crunch to it. Then following it is a sandy texture that tastes smokey, but it's all then taken over by the alcoholic aftertaste that hits next. Despite the weirdness it's actually pretty good, better than snail pie to say the least, possibly the second best thing you've eaten since falling down here, the first being that candy that kept you alive through the ruins. You finish off the whole donut.

Wait. A sudden strange feeling washes over you, you feel the urge to check your stats. Did you just level up? That's kinda mysterious but cool, why would that have happened?

He then sits in front of you.

"What are you doing?" You ask.

"Your wound…How's it?"

"It um... feels a little better."

"Let me check it?" He asks.

You pause and take a moment to think. "I… don't know…" Is the only reply you could conjure up.

"It's ok."

He pulls the jacket off your shoulder.

"Hey don't." You grab his wrist.

He takes your hand and moves it off his wrist with a scowl. Then he pushes your ripped top up enough to see your wound.

You flinch as his cold phalanges brush against your skin.

"Sorry." He mutters, but he doesn't stop what he's doing, he looks over your badly wrapped wounds.

Now that he's so close you notice how his cheekbones seem to have a faint rusty glow to them, and he's actually pretty cute. No you can't be thinking like that. He's a skeleton monster that just hunted you down in a snowstorm, and scared you half to death. Not to mention you're now in his torture shed.

"The trap had some magic that stops it healing. I'm gonna to treat it. Can I… um...?" He gestures to your injuries and you fill in the gap.

You think for a minute… Is it smart to let him treat you? Probably not. But it might be your only chance, if anything he's saying is true.

"I did a pretty shoddy job with wrapping it up didn't I? Just be careful... I'd rather not die today you know…" You mumbled. Maybe that hint was a little too obvious, you feel like you basically just yelled please don't kill me. Would it be better to just beg for your life? Would that get you anywhere? Could you let go of what little pride you have left?

"You're lucky. I... can't have you dying yet." He takes his phone out and gets a first aid kit from his inventory. "Could ya hold your shirt up?"

You do as he asks and hold up your top, the cool air is sharp to your newly exposed skin, you can't help but shiver some more.

"You humans sure feel the cold don't ya?"

Is he trying to strike up a conversation? Or just making an oddball comment?

Either way you don't really answer him…

And with that he quickly warms his hands over the fire before he ever so carefully unwraps your bloody makeshift bandage. You watch his every move carefully, making sure there's no foul play. He then gets out a small round pot from the first aid kit, it's white with a green symbol on the lid.

"This'll sting but it'll help."

He applies the light green cream, it has a peculiar scent that can only be described as warm and kind, but it feels like he's just rubbed nettles over your flesh, that means it's working right? For you're benefit you hope. He then wraps your wound up, it's not too tight but definitely tighter then whatever you'd managed before. He pulls his jacket back around you.

"You should try and get some sleep." He pats your head before he sits down next to you.

"Are you staying?"

"Yeah. Rest. I'll stay guard."

"Why are you helping me?" You query.

"It's complicated." He huffs. "No more chit chat. Just sleep already." He pulls the hood over your face roughly.

"Ok." You yawn as you lean into the corner of the shed, the wooden wall is cold and hardly an ideal pillow but you are so tired it barely bothers you, you close your eyes and soon enough you're asleep.

. . .

"MUTT! have you lost your mind?"

"Hush M'lord, They're sleepin'."

"YES SLEEPING AND NOT DEAD."

"I can't kill em."

You open your eyes slightly, stirring awake from the commotion and loud voices.

You see Papyrus and the other skeleton, his brother?

"Then let me at the darn human." He snaps.

"M'lord you can't." Papyrus stops his brother from getting closer.

"AND WHY NOT!?"

"I told you. I need to figure it out. Trust me."

"You're going soft, don't forget your duty Papyrus! You have a week! NO THREE DAYS! Figure out whatever the heck you need to then get rid of that pest, that rodent." He starts walking off. "If Alphys finds out, I'm dead, this will be the end of my malevolent career. The Queen will have our heads for this! YOU KNOW THAT RIGHT?" He huffs as he storms out.

You're still so tired… your eyelids are too heavy to keep open… With this new silence you can't stay awake for even a second more.

#a storm of a hunt #rus #black #sf!papyrus #sf!sans #swapfell papyrus #swapfell sans #swapfell #sf papyrus x reader #x reader

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but-first--tea · 4 years

Text

LFRP: Omori Kaya

THE BASICS

Full name: Omori Kaya

Pronunciation: Oh-Moh-Ree Kay-Uh (Omori is her surname, Kaya is her given name)

Nicknames: n/a

Height: 5'6" (quite tall for a midlander hyur)

Age: “A lady never reveals her age.” (adult)

Nameday: 32nd Sun of the 3rd Astral Moon

Languages: Doman, Common

Occupation: Not getting caught.

Current Residence: "Traveling abroad.“ (Basically living a tourist’s life in Eorzea, hoping to never be called out as the fraud she is. She’ll spend time as someone’s guest here, staying in a hotel elsewhere the next month, etc…)

Relationship Status: While she has never actually been married, the identity of the woman she pretends to be is a young widow and heiress. (Single)

PHYSICAL CHARACTERISTICS

Hair color: Black

Eye color: Pale, silvery grey

Skin tone: Fair

Body type: Slender, athletic but not in an obvious way.

Scars: none

Accent: Doman

Posture

Poised, athletic– though she’s no master shinobi, she is her mother’s daughter. Her training began at the age of four, and it’s still evident in the way she moves, observes, and behaves. Others who have trained would likely notice it easily. She carries herself with quiet dignity, and moves (or refuses to) deliberately, as if she expects each action to be read for significance, and takes great care not to reveal too much unintentionally. Though, in the very rare instances when she lets down her guard, this facade can fade away, revealing that she’s still a girl who can be amused, and charmed, and is easily mesmerized by beautiful places and things.

Accessories

She’s almost never seen without jewelry, though all of it is merely decorative– the trappings of the life she’s stepped into. None of it is personal, or carries meaning beyond appearing as she’s expected to.

Apparel

Her taste ranges from the classically dramatic to the outright exotic- not out of a sense of vanity, but in an appreciation of what is more or less wearable art. She most frequently wears black and white, though she also favors blue and occasionally red. In keeping with her heritage, she tends toward modesty in her dress. Of course, most of these clothes once belonged to a woman whose identity she has stolen, and she’s begun to add Eorzean fashions to her wardrobe to stand out less. The more she blends in, the fewer questions about her past she needs to dodge...

CHILDHOOD

Place of Birth: Doma

Siblings: none she knows of

Parents: The samurai Masanari and an Imperial Shadow named Harue, though Kaya has never known her biological father, as she was still less than a year old when he disappeared.

Upbringing: Raised initially by her mother, and later trained by grandmother once her affinity for magic became apparent. (More details can be found in her character history.)

PERSONAL

Personality

Outwardly, she is polite and mysterious, with a demeanor ranging from businesslike toward strangers, to an unexpected sort of mischievous and rebellious streak around the rare soul she’s begun to feel comfortable around. She’s evasive and distant. She rarely connects with others easily, which leads to most people assuming she’s either very shy, or rather snobbish, at first impression. She doesn’t trust easily, isn’t prone to showing any emotion in public if she can avoid it, and is often the one who, from an outward appearance, seems to be just another quiet wallflower enjoying the view.

Beneath the surface, however, she feels everything perhaps far too much, watches everyone with the wariness of someone who knows all too well what people are capable of, and deeply craves the connections to others she doesn’t seem to be able to form easily. She’s always searching for the few who can see the world the way she does- as something equally beautiful as it is deadly, meant to be lived in, not just endured. She’s a powder keg of passions always kept under a tight lid, hidden away for safe keeping.

Still, she is difficult to anger, and it’s a cold anger when it happens. She knows that engaging in violence and revealing her training would likely break character entirely, and being discovered as a fraud wouldn’t end well for her. As a result, she’ll try to think her way out of any situation, instead.

Motivations/Goals

If asked what she wants more than anything else in the world, she’d probably say to be able to do what she wanted, not what she was told, or allowed, or expected to. She craves freedom in all its definitions, but nearly always denies it to herself out of fear or pragmatism. While playing the role of a young, noble heiress she feels the restraints of her gilded cage all too keenly. She must behave in the way one raised to the role would be expected to. As a result, she finds small ways to rebel that aren’t likely to be noticed. Her fierce and defiant nature, thus repressed, will see her doing seemingly pointless things like rearranging the furniture in hotel rooms, stealing small items she could easily afford, or finding ways to secretly get even with those who have behaved poorly.

Financial Status

Ostensibly wealthy, though not one gil of it was ever truly hers. Still, she feels no guilt in obtaining the Omori family’s accounts considering they would have otherwise been seized by the Garlean government following Lord Omori’s assassination.

She has been quietly seeking a way to invest ‘her’ money in a way that would divorce it from her stolen inheritance, make it more truly hers, and greatly reduce the risk of losing everything should her false identity be uncovered.

Weapons

While she was raised to the blade and bow for most of her childhood, she hides her training and doesn’t carry a weapon openly, if at all. If cornered and forced to defend herself, she’d mostly likely attempt to disarm an opponent and steal theirs, or improvise.

Vices

Seemingly none, as she has striven to present herself as a woman of proper graces. However, she is prone to self-indulgence and spending far too much gil merely because she can, which she considers a vice in herself and tries to resist.

Likes

People who are intelligent, interesting, vibrantly passionate and alive. Watching people do things that require specialized skill, especially combat training or constructing something.

Constructive debate and interesting challenge. Trying/learning new things.

Music, dancing. She’s often wished she could play an instrument, but has never learned to.

Nature, gardens, fireflies, birds, waterfalls, the ocean/seaside. Traveling to anywhere with a spectacular view or vibrant culture. Learning about said cultures.

Exotic spiced foods or just about anything she hasn’t tasted before that doesn’t look absolutely disgusting. Tea. Fruits, chocolate, and spiced cider or tea. Have I mentioned tea?

Unusual crystals and/or gemstones. While she’s generally unfazed by wealth or status, she appears to be positively mesmerized by sparklies.

Dislikes

Politics, rumor mongering, cattiness, insults, and general poor behavior.

People who think getting drunk is the best kind of fun to be had.

Addictive drugs, and those who sell them.

Being forced to do anything, feeling not in control over her own life.

Overly objectifying unwanted attention, awkward social situations/obligations/expectations.

Being cold, biting insects.

Hobbies

Reading, especially the arcane.

Learning the history of different places and cultures.

Collecting small, easily transportable items (generally clothing or jewelry) in local styles from each new place she visits.

Pets: None, currently. She once had a magpie as a pet when she was younger, and maintains a fondness for birds of all kinds.

RP HOOKS

She’s looking (quietly) for a way to launder, er... invest her money to gradually eliminate the need to rely on her stolen identity and foreign contacts for access to funds. Have an opportunity?

A trusted lady’s maid, retainer, or guard type to help her maintain appearances.

It’s possible that someone from her past in Doma might recognize her, or perhaps have known the real Omori Kaya.

The woman she is impersonating is an ill-fit for her. She is fierce, independent, and rebellious... the exact opposite of the demure and soft character her stolen identity demands. But, her mother risked everything to secure her new identity, and she won’t cast it off unless forced to. Still, she isn’t perfect. Someone could catch her in a mistake, and become curious...

The Lady Omori Kaya appears elegant, mysterious, ...and wealthy. Potential suitors aren’t unlikely. (Romance is an option, though she’ll be hard to pin down at first, for obvious reasons.)

She has a (stolen) soulstone in her possession, and has been working to unlock its secrets.

Open to brainstorming other connections, past associations, or jumping into -your- existing plot!

OOC

I make my own schedule. I can be available pretty much any time from 8 am to 9pm CST. Sadly, I can rarely do late nights because I need to do that sleeping thing.

OOC communication is a priority for me.

I have been RPing for 20+ years. I am comfortable with both in game or Discord RP, and anything from short, quick posts to multi para. I do this because I enjoy writing!

I am not interested in random ERP outside of a long-term character interaction. I do love writing ships as long as there's strong chemistry between the characters, and both the character and the writer of said character are mature adults. However,I will not consider ships with alt or AU characters, as this is my one and only RP character. (No multi-shipping.)

I prefer a RP style that works with what is plausible within the scope of the lore. I'm open to creativity, as long as it makes sense. I prefer to stay away from void-heavy, AU, inserts from other universes, and anything involving cross-breeding with non-playable races/beings. (These are only my personal preferences, and everyone else is free to do whatever they like!)

Absolutely no: rape, harm to children, or graphic torture.

I do enjoy game content as well, and prefer company over doing so alone! I am currently sitting in my own personal FC house, but would consider joining a real FC if it makes sense for my character.

Confession: I probably spend way too much time decorating virtual houses.

#ffxiv rp #updated character sheet #Omori Kaya #hyur midlander #Doman

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sparkie96 · 4 years

Note

If you have the time. I’m curious about a soulmate AU whereLeon is soulmates with Dante and Vergil you can add any other verses to it if you want just to spice it up even more. :D

(Okay, so this is a sort of AU from a Soulmate Idea I had in my head for a long ass time (though originally, it’s for a Chreon Fic). Pretty much, you have the same tattoo or marking as your soulmate, say, a specific marking on your hand. Your soulmate would have the same exact mark on their hand as well. The color is that of a birthmark until you get close to one another. Yours glows a red, and theirs glows blue until you two touch. Then the colors “Blend” and make violet/purple.

Same concept here: Except both of Leon’s forearms are marked up with two different marks. Not Omegaverse, and no incest.

But now I might write a whole fic for this idea XD)

______________________________________________________

When one is born, they are born with a tattoo. Apparently, their soulmate bore the same exact mark in the same exact location on their own body. The coloration matches that of a birthmark...until they either meet their soulmate or are close to them. When that happened, the mark would glow the color of their soulmate’s, well, soul. If the soulmate died before they could meet face to face, the mark would fade and the person would be considered “blank”.

Leon had seen all of that happen in the past, from seeing Claire’s mark fade to seeing Ada’s own blank body. Sherry and Jake’s twin marks glowed a beautiful green when their hands met in China. And then there was Helena at the DSO who’s mark glowed a specific color, glowing a bright yellow when she met Nadia of the BSAA, who’s own mark glowed a bright red when she and Helena danced at that conference last year. When their hands met, the colors bled into each other and made their marks glow a harmonious orange.

Oh, how Leon envied them, or anyone who had “normal” markings.

When Leon was born, he had odd markings that ran up both of his forearms. They looked like the bodies of snakes or dragons that snaked their ways down his arms, the heads sitting on the backs of his hands, smacked dab on his wrists. Though the dragons looked to be twins, there were distinct differences between them.

The one on his right arm had a scarier looking face than its twin. Its teeth and claws were noticeably sharper but its scales were smoother in shape, not jagged like the left one. The eyes were intense, staring into Leon’s very soul. The left dragon had more jagged scales, but the teeth were not bared in anger. The claws were also noticeably duller in appearance. Its eyes were softer, kinder even, but they didn’t meet his own like its twin did. It was like the left dragon was more shy but welcoming.

What they meant? Who the hell knew, but according to several matchmakers and even readers Leon visited for the hell of it...the markings were unlike anything that they had ever seen. One reader was in awe, saying that he was special. Another had scoffed at their appearance, saying that Leon was either indecisive...or a whore. Leon merely laughed aloud at that before leaving.

Regardless of what anyone said or thought, Leon was unable to get any real answers for his troubles, left even more confused and conflicted than before. Above all of those emotions...he admittedly was upset.

What did these strange markings mean? Why did he have not one, but two markings? Did he have two soulmates? Was it just one with strange markings of their own? When would he meet them? He was turning thirty-eight next year...would he meet them before they perished? Before he inevitably fell to this never ending battle against BOWs and the bastards that made them? Chris’s mark had faded on the plane after New York...would the same happen to him? To his own soul mate or mates?

The thoughts and questions made his stomach churn and the stress got to him after New York, so Leon extended his vacation, despite Hunnigan’s and Adam Graham’s pleas and negotiations. Leon’s excuse was that he was next to useless in this stressful state, so he wouldn’t be able to help them. That, and the BSAA rudely interrupted his vacation, so it was only fair that he take back the time lost.

So, here he was; in a quaint little diner in a small town called Redgrave. Although the sign on the front had said “Restaurant Fredi”, it looked and felt more like a nice little diner. They had equally nice food, Leon all but devouring his simple breakfast of sunny-side-up eggs, buttered toast and bacon. He also had a cup of orange juice turned into mimosa after sneakily pouring some alcohol into it from the flask in his coat pocket.

After looking around and surveying the place, he noticed that he was one of few occupants in the diner. Granted, it was still early in the morning and the place had opened up not too long ago, but it was Leon’s cup of tea, so to speak. He preferred the quiet.

Well, the quiet lasted the equivalent of five minutes until an odd looking crew of ragtags pushed through the doors of Restaurant Fredi. The agent perked up slightly, more so out of pure curiosity more than anything, mainly because he wasn’t one who liked surprises very much. His brain started taking in details once he laid eyes on them mainly because they looked a tad out of place.

The group consisted of five people in total; three men and two women. Two of the men were freakishly tall and wore leather jackets that nearly brushed the floor when they walked. The one had a rugged look to him, a mop of messy white hair atop his head and scuffy, unshaved facial hair on his, well, face. Tired blue eyes merely gave the restaurant a careless once over. He looked like he didn’t sleep much. His jacket was blood red in color, wearing a loose navy blue top and tight jeans that ended at booted feet.

The other tall man wore blue everything, from his jacket to his vest and even his pants and boots. His own snowy white hair was slicked back and well kept. His face was clean shaven and he looked like he got sufficiently more sleep than the other man. If Leon didn’t know any better...and he didn’t, he could only guess that they were twin brothers due to their uncanny resemblance.

The third man, younger than the other two, wore a leather coat of his own, but wasn’t as tall as his companions. He also had white hair that was scruffy but clean cut, much like his bare face. It kind of reminded Leon of Chris’s hairstyle of choice, but white. He wore a torn up red shirt and equally torn jeans. He too wore boots and fingerless gloves, Leon noticing that all the guys wore them. He looked like the other two, so Leon could only guess that he too was related, possibly a son, cousin, or nephew to one, or both of the men. Well, a son to one of them.

The women were equally as odd as the men, though, very good looking. One woman wore all black and leather, wearing a corset with what looked like a lightning bolt shape cut through the middle and tied together with string. Golden locks cascaded down her shoulders and back before ending at her rear.

The next woman had chopped black hair that was above her shoulders and had the most interesting eyes Leon had ever seen; one eye blue and the other brown. She wore a dress shirt that had either been purposely styled to be cut right before her stomach, or accidentally. She wore black pants and boots too, wearing her own pair of fingerless gloves.

All in all, they certainly were interesting, at least in Leon’s perspective. The other diners didn’t seem to notice them, or were so used to them that they paid them no mind. So, regulars then, or at least locals.

“Hey, Dante. Party of five?” The waitress greeted and then asked cheerfully.

“Dante” was the scruffy looking guy, who merely smiled a friendly smile and gave a nod, “Hey, Cindy. Yep. Decided to treat my coworkers for breakfast.”

The black haired woman scoffed at that, “More like we’re treating you to breakfast, Dante.”

“Can it, Lady.” Dante replied, wrapping an arm around her neck affectionately as the waitress led them to the booth across the diner.

Leon’s brows furrowed at the exchange. Coworkers? What the hell did they do for a living? He feigned interest in his cellphone, occasionally stealing looks at the group as they sat in the booth while also eavesdropping on their conversation. Whether it was out of boredom or genuine interest...Leon would decide later.

While he continued to eat and scrolled aimlessly through his phone, he picked up little conversations here and there. He gathered that “Lady” was indeed the black-haired woman’s name and not a generic title, the blonde woman was “Trish”, the youngest white-haired man was “Nero”, and the blue clad man was “Vergil”. They talked about different things, but mainly “demons” and other seemingly ridiculous things had Leon not had the experience that he had.

Were “Demons” code for BOWs? Did these people run a secret group that hunted them like Leon did?

When Leon looked up again, he noticed that “Vergil” had taken his coat off...and was staring at the blue glowing mark on his right arm. Leon’s eyes all but bugged out of his head. No fucking way…

Vergil nudged Dante, who noticed the glowing mark before his brother even needed to grab his attention, taking off his own jacket and noticing that his own mark, on his left arm Leon noted, was glowing the same shade of blue before looking around at the other diners.

Leon’s eyes immediately looked down at his plate, his heart beating loudly in his ears like the drums of war. While doing so, he could see that the markings that peaked out between his jacket and gloves glowed as well; the left one glowing red and the right one glowing dark blue. His mouth suddenly felt dry, so he took a swig of his OJ.

Well, the motion caused his jacket to slide down and expose his left arm, exposing more of the glowing red mark…

...coincidentally at the same time Dante settled his eyes on Leon.

#Sinday Requests #WIP Day #Leon S. Kennedy #Dante Sparda #Vergil Sparda #Lady #Trish #Nero #Soulmate AU #DanteLeon #VergilLeon #Send Me Asks #Send Me Prompts #maybe an upcoming fic?

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miracul0us-multishipper · 5 years

Text

Welcome to the Back (Part 6)

First Chapter Previous Chapter Next Chapter

Felix’ home was... not what she’d expected. From the street, it had looked pretty similar to the Agreste Mansion: high walls, pointy fences, and security cameras.

But as soon as the gate closed behind them, the similarities ended. The plot was wide, but the actual house was almost tiny. It had two stories, and was by all standards still more than enough for two persons, but for a family this rich, it was almost ridiculously modest. The garden was just a bit too messy, the house just a bit too... homely to compare it to Adrien’s.

“Mum? I’m home.”, Felix said in English as they entered the house, Marinette hurrying after him. The inside of the building was illuminated by sunlight falling through the high windows, tinted green by the leafs of the maple tree outside. There were shelfs as long as the diameter of her room covering the walls, filled to the brim with fashion magazines, novels and poetry collections. One wall was completely plastered with pictures of a sulking, gloomy looking boy in various stages of childhood. The photographies didn’t look like results of a professional photo shoot, but rather like snap shots of a phone or amateur camera.

They were utterly adorable.

“Sorry for the mess.”, Felix pulled her out of her reverence. He looked a bit nervous, bordering on embarrassed. It was... cute.

“We only moved here a couple of weeks ago, and my mother tends to overcompensate by... well, giving the room her personal flair.”

“And I did a damn good job, Mister Misery Guts!” yelled a chirping voice from the stairs in the back, just before a tall, red haired woman stormed into the room, beaming like a Christmas tree. Her curly hair was pulled up into a bun so messy Marinette almost mistook it for a nest, and there was a reddish smudge of lipstick on her cheek. At least a dozen pins and needles were stuck between the folds of her yellow dress, and Marinette would bet the bag on her belt contained even more. And was that a string of yarn wrapped around her hips?

“You must be Marinette!”, the cheerful woman greeted before basically throwing her arms around the girl. “I’m Evelyn, and so happy to meet you!”

“U-Uh, likewise!”, Marinette stammered back. This woman could only be Felix’ mother, but she was so... different. All hugs and smiles and loud positivity. If she didn’t know better, Marinette would have never guessed the two were even distantly related.

“Mum, remember the talk we had about personal space?”, Felix groaned and shooed her off so Marinette could breath. Evelyn jumped back immediately.

“Right! Sorry! I’m just so excited. Felix told me so much about you!”

“He- He did?” Marinette asked with a side glance at her friend, who became weirdly stiff next to her.

“How about we have lunch now!”, he all but yelled, his eyes burning into his mother’s with something akin to panic. She shrugged and pouted innocently.

“Sure! It’s not like like I would’ve said something embarrassing. But you were right, her pigtails really are cute!”

“MUM!”

Lunch was delicious. After hearing Felix complain about the english cuisine for weeks she’d been a little worried if she was honest. But the Fish and Chips Evelyn presented out of seemingly nowhere were wonderful! And after realizing Evelyn knew all sorts of embarrassing things about her son, Marinette had given Felix the most devilish grin possible, before starting to worm every little detail out of his mother. But her friend didn’t give his dignity up easily, so the meal turned into a verbal battlefield quickly. Marinette’s attempts at revealing yet another embarrassing childhood story were countered by Felix’ creative solution of changing the topic as fast as possible.

Finally, Felix secured victory by bringing up Fashion, something all three of them could get behind.

“Flowers! Oh, I love flowers!”, Evelyn exclaimed, pointing at Marinette’s shirt. “There’s nothing quite as timeless as plants!”

“Absolutely!”, Marinette agreed. “And they’re not limited to any culture as well. You can have flower prints on Kimonos, T-shirts, Saris; they have a huge significance in fashion all around the world. As a pattern or as accessories!”

“They’re available everywhere.”, Felix chimed in, listing several of their characteristics. “They symbolize similar things in almost every culture. They’re associated with life and health, and their color schemes cover a wide range. They come in both extravagant and discreet shapes. So why the hell would Audrey Bourgeois want to promote glitter? It’s too flashy!”

“And too reminiscent of the 80’s!”, Evelyn insisted. “Not to be rude, but Bourgeois has no in-depth perception when it comes to fashion. No clue about history, or cultural significance.”

“Or parenting.”, Felix and Marinette deadpanned simultaneously and Evelyn laughed.

“From what I’ve heard, absolutely.”

Her hand gestures through the air, as if to swat a fly or get rid of a distraction.

“But to get back at what I originally wanted to say, I adore your clothes. Felix told me you design and create everything yourself, by hand! I’m impressed, especially given your young age.”

Marinette shrugged, but beamed with pride. Evelyn Leanne liked her designs!

“I started a bit out of necessity. My favorite color is pink, but almost every pink article of clothing I found in shops was too much, or too gaudy, or too impractical. And then there was the issue of combining! But when I made my own clothes, I could make them exactly as I needed them. And it was so much fun, I just couldn’t stop! Last month I even won the Agreste’s bowler hat competition.”

“Neat! That guy’s hard to impress. I remember doing a collaboration with him last year, and it was a total disaster. He just couldn’t compromise on a single thing! If we had done it his way, the entire show would have been monochromatic black and whites. And on the day of the show...”, she trailed off, the smile fading from her face. It was dead quiet for a second, before Felix chair scraped over the floor with a screech, startling both of them.

“I’ll do the dishes.”, he stated calmly, but his mouth was tense as he spoke. She watched him as he left the room, worried about the sudden change in the atmosphere of the room.

“Is everything alright?”, she asked his mother. Evelyn sighed, looking after him as well.

“I hope so. He didn’t do this for a while, but since he started school, he’s become a bit more sensitive to the topic again.”

She looked at Marinette.

“I was hoping you knew why, to be honest.”

The student shook her head in confusion.

“I don’t want to pry, Madame, but what topic do you mean?”

Now Evelyn looked uncomfortable.

“It’s... See, that was his first fashion show, and I might have put a bit too much pressure on it, on him. He was so excited, and I went a bit overboard with what I promised. And he was doing great, he really was! But another model... he didn’t mean any harm, the poor boy. He just didn’t understand the situation, and Felix took the brunt of it. If anyone’s to blame, it’s me.”

She sighed, rubbing her temples.

“You should probably ask him, if you want to know. I shouldn’t interfere too much in your friendship, and what he wants to share, or how fast.”

Marinette was dying to know what had happened, but nodded. Felix was adamant about his boundaries and kept things close to his chest. She wouldn’t like her parents to spill her worries either, especially not to someone who had only visited once.

“I understand.”

“Thank you.”, Evelyn said, her voice so serious and genuine she sounded awfully similar to Felix. “He’ll appreciate that.”

A smile crept back into her freckled face, chasing the frown away.

“Really, I’m proud he has a friend like you. I can’t remember the last time he brought someone over, and I was a bit worried. He likes to be by himself, but... he’s so different since he knows you. He walks lighter, he smiles a bit more... it’s subtle, but I think he’s happier now.”

Marinette laughed nervously, a fuzzy feeling in her stomach at the thought that she affected him that much.

“Was he that grouchy?”

“No! I mean, yes, but that’s just how he is. His default mode. But now you’ve unlocked the Smiling Grouch Premium Pack, and that’s more than I could’ve ever hoped for. Who knows, maybe I’ll even hear him hum one day! Or, God beware, whistle!”

They talked on for a while, and Marinette realized she’d been wrong, earlier that afternoon. Evelyn and Felix weren’t that different at all.

Both were tall and slender, both had the same thin nose and eyebrows. They shared their sarcastic humor, their passion for clothes, their respect and care for each other. Even in their bluntness they were the same, though Felix spiced his with a scoff and a bit of rudeness.

Their relationship truly was miraculous to witness.

“Done.” Felix announced his return and went back to his seat. “Mum, you have lipstick on your cheek. And your neck.”

Evelyn gasped and fumbled with her napkin to remove the red smudge.

“O-Oh? Really? Clumsy me, must have gotten there when I paired the makeup and outfits for next week’s photoshoot.”

Was that just her or did Evelyn look a bit too embarrassed? Just when Marinette decided to ignore it, a door opened and a dark skinned woman with short hair peeked inside.

“Miss, you’re 15 o’clock call is waiting.”, she informed Evelyn and gave Marinette and Felix an apologetic smile.

With lips that wore red lipstick.

Lipstick that looked suspiciously similar to the smudges on Evelyn’s skin.

“I regret the intrusion, but it’s important.”

“Of course, right away!”, Evelyn replied dutifully, turning to Marinette. “This is Cordelia, my assistant. Sorry to bail on you now, but work’s calling.”

Still trying to get rid of the quite obvious traces of lipstick on her neck, she followed Cordelia through the door.

“I hope I’ll see you around, Marinette! Felix, don’t forget your lessons later. Have fun you two!”

And off they were.

Surprised, Marinette turned towards Felix.

“Was that... Are they...?”

“Not officially.” Felix shrugged. “But the word “subtle” does not register in my mother’s vocabulary, so... yes.”

He walked towards the stairs and gestured her to follow.

“They want to keep it secret from me, in case I need time to adjust.” he informed her, before giving her a sly little grin. “Little do they know, it was me who set them up with each other.”

Marinette snorted.

“For real now?!”

“Of course.”

The room Felix lead her to was obviously his own, but the sheer difference from the rest of the house startled Marinette. It was small and tidy, white walls, bedsheets and lamps dominating the room. A few books were stacked on his desk and a black violin case stood in the corner, but a few pictures and green succulents aside, there were no knickknacks or decorations. The notebook with his poems rested on his bed, the sheets around it wrinkled as if someone had laid there after making the bed.

She wondered if Felix liked to stay on his bed for a while after getting up, writing down what went through his head before all sleepiness faded. Did he write something new, just this morning? Maybe even about her?

“Marinette?”, Felix asked and she realized she’d stared at him.

“Oh, yes? Sorry, I spaced out.”

She felt her cheeks warm up.

“The room is very... you.”

Felix blinked and hurried to look somewhere else.

“Do... Do you like it?”, he asked with feigned casualness.

She looked around again, over the room that looked so impersonal at first glance. Then at the wrinkled sheets. The notebook. The well cared for plants, the pictures on the wall and the books that had been read so often their pages started to look yellow.

She smiled.

“I love it.”

Lila was careful. She waited until half past 15 o’clock until she called Madame Leanne, knowing full well she wouldn’t answer the phone now. Her number, she’d taken from the pictures of Felix’ calendar.

“This is Evelyn’s private phone, for business calls please contact my assistant. Otherwise, leave a message after the tone!”, chirped an energetic voice and Lila prepared herself.

“Hi!”, she cooed as soon as it peeped. “This is Lila Rossi, I’m the class representative and a good friend of your son, Felix. I wanted to speak to you personally about some matters regarding his situation in our school, but if you’re not available now, maybe I could come over later? Felix gave me the address, it won’t be a problem. It’s really important. Thank you in advance, see you later!”

She hung up, her smile widening. Not leaving her a chance to decline was crucial, as her lies were most effective when she could see her target face to face.

But once that was the case, Evelyn Leanne would be a piece of cake.

And Felix would have no choice but to give her a chance.

“Can I ask you something?”

Felix shrugged.

“You do so all the time. I haven’t figured out a way to stop you yet.”

She chuckled.

“It’s impossible, Alya already tried and failed. But seriously now, it’s okay if you don’t want to answer.”

He straightened and nodded, so she went ahead.

“Earlier, when you left... Your mother said that there was a problem at your first fashion show. Involving another model.”

She noticed his shoulders stiffen.

“There’s tons of problems at every show.” he mumbled and she wondered if this was a good idea. Still, she couldn’t turn back now.

“Did... Was the other model Adrien?”

He stood up so fast the couch shook.

“Is that all you ever ask about?”, he snapped. “Adrien this, Adrien that, he’s oh so perfect and can do no wrong! Can you take off your rose colored lenses for one minute and think about something - anything! - else than obsessing over Agreste?!”

Felix regretted it as soon as he said it. He didn’t know why he said it in the first place, his head clouded by undirected anger and hurt and the instinct to run. The best defense is the offense, he knew, completely forgetting that this was Marinette; that she wasn’t the one he needed to protect himself from.

But now the words were out, and he could see exactly how shock and pain twisted her face into an angry grimace.

She had jumped back at his sudden outburst, but quickly took a step forward and bore her index finger into his chest.

“Stop yelling at me!”, she snarled, hurt worse than she’d like to admit. “Contrary to what you and Alya seem to believe, my world does not revolve around Adrien! And if your petty grudge against him is why my crush on him is a problem, it’s definitely yours, not mine!”

She stepped back, chin raised and hand clenched to fists at her side.

“I told you you don’t have to answer, and I asked because I want to understand you, and that includes whatever happened that day, and your dislike of Adrien. So either tell me you don’t wanna talk or explain it to me, but you have no. Damn. Right to talk to me like that!”

She grabbed her purse and wanted to storm off, but his voice stopped her before he even realized he’d opened his mouth.

“Wait”, he asked stifled, all aggression faded from his voice. She turned around. He couldn’t look at her, eyes locked on the floor in beneath her feet, lips pressed together in a tight line. Hurt and Anger were faint memories now, his chest constricted by shame. What had gotten into him?

“I’m sorry.”, he pressed out, trying to keep his voice calm and failing miserably. “That was unfair, and I shouldn’t have said that.”

“Yeah, you shouldn’t have.”, she said, but without any fervor behind it.

“I like you.”, Felix blurted out in panic, still not able to look at her. Was she angry? God, what if he’d made her cry? “You’re important to me, and I don’t want to lose you.”

If he had ruined this just because he couldn’t keep his damn mouth shut about Agreste...

“I shouldn’t have said that.”, he repeated, wishing he could turn back time and slap himself before hurting his first and closest friend. “It’s not true that you’re obsessed with him, and I-I don’t know what possessed me to lash out like that.”

God knows he didn’t get what she saw in Agreste, but she had told him that in confidence; she had trusted him with something this personal, and he’d used that against her. If their roles were reversed, he wasn't sure if he would’ve even sticked around to yell at her. He only knew that if she left now, she’d never look at him like before and he wouldn’t be able to bear that.

“Please don’t go.”

When she didn’t move, he slowly dared to look up. She stood in the doorframe, body facing him but head turned away. Her hunched shoulders and tense frown filled him with anxiety, but when she turned to look at him, her eyes were calm.

“Okay”, she said and relieve made him dizzy. “Okay.”

“What did my mother tell you already?” Felix asked, his voice steadier now. They sat on the couch again, Marinette with crossed legs and Felix with his usual posture. He was still more tense than usual, she noticed.

“Not much”, she answered honestly. “Just that she put high exactions on you, another boy messed up and you took the harm of it. She blames herself.”

He shook his head.

“She does that often, but she’s wrong. It wasn’t her fault.”

He sighed, slumping a bit.

“I... I want to take over the company one day. I’m not good at designing, but I’m interested in marketing and business economics. As CEO, I wouldn’t do much of the designing myself anyway, but rather take care of the business side. My mother supports me, of course, but she thinks it’s too early to get me involved. Wants me to enjoy my childhood and so on.”

Marinette listened attentively, resting her chin on her hands.

“My parents divorced last year.”, Felix continued, his voice growing bitter. “Don’t know what took them so long, my father is an asshole. Only cares about his own image, and what kind of scandals he can milk for profit. He’s... He had his issues about the divorce, just wouldn’t accept it. Mum had a restraining order against him in progress, and the security she hired had strict orders to not let him near me.”

He fidgeted.

“During the divorce, he used to... forgo recommended ways of behaving towards a child. And even before, he was dismissive at best.

“When I had my first show, I made Mum promise me to involve me more in the company if I did well. I had already worked with Adrien a couple of times, and thought it wouldn’t be a problem.”

So her suspicions had been correct: Adrien had been the other model. And that Felix had accidentally used his first name implied that he’d liked Adrien back then, maybe even thought of him as a friend.

“And the first half went well, really. I knew my dad had wanted to be the journalist reporting about it, but Mum had my back and the security did their job. During my second walk... he barged in anyway. Started to shout at my Mother in the first row, and I just... froze.”

He wasn’t looking at her, eyes locked on his own hands.

“He took a lot of pictures, despite the security dragging him out. Of me, looking admittedly horrified. Of Mum looking angry, and of how I ran out. Not only did I ruin the show, he made up stories about how the great Evelyn Leanne mistreated her son, used him for publicity and who knows what else.”

A bitter laugh escaped him, not reaching his eyes.

“It didn’t last long, of course. Our lawyers stomped him into the ground, he lost his job at the newspaper and our reputation recovered. But the damage was done.

“Our company lost much value for a while. Mum went through a lot, before we were exonerated. And my reaction and withdrawn behavior afterwards convinced her that I wasn’t ready for more responsibilities, that I needed normalcy and support. She didn’t mean to punish me for how I acted then, of course. Just to protect me. She’s not at fault.”

His face turned sour and Marinette braved herself, already expecting his next words.

“Agreste is.”

He closed his eyes in something akin to resignation.

“He let my father in, through the private entrance. I told him how I feel about my father, but all it took was some “I just want to make things right” bullshit from him to convince Adrien I was wrong.”

Marinette opened her mouth to defend him, more out of habit than conviction, but stopped herself. What did she want to say, anyway?

What excuse could she make that actually worked out?

“I... I’m sorry.”, she said instead. She couldn’t think of anything else. All she knew was that Felix was hurt, and he trusted her enough to show it, and she had no idea how to help. No idea how to show him she cared.

So she remained quiet and nudged his leg with her knee, just how he had done earlier that day. Their silent way of support.

He didn’t speak, but his hand tentatively grasped hers, as if not sure how. She squeezed it lightly, watching his profile.

Calmer now. Relieved, almost.

He squeezed back.

They sat like that for a while, not speaking as Marinette processed his words, and he processed his inner turmoil.

Felix wasn’t good at that.

He didn’t face his own feelings. He figured out which were productive and acted on them, then found a way to work around the rest. Easier that way. More efficient.

But it had been convenience or his friendship with Marinette, so he had had to swallow the bitter pill and hope for the best. And... this was the best possible outcome he could think of.

In retrospect, he didn’t know what he had been afraid of in the first place. This was Marinette.

The girl who stood up for him when no one would listen.

The girl who’d rather risk being labeled a thief than keep something from a boy she’d barely exchanged a word with.

The girl he could joke with and talk to, without feeling pressured to perform.

The girl he loved more than- Wait.

He stumbled over his own thoughts, his mind coming to a screeching halt.

Where did that come from?

When did this happen?

He shook his head, trying to shake the thought off.

He was under-socialized. He was interpreting too much in this feeling. He just didn’t have enough experience with friendship. There was no way he-

Marinette, seeing him shake his head, quickly pulled her hand away and he found himself grasping for it again, holding onto her and the feeling of warmth she radiated. He froze mid movement.

Oh.

He loved her. He wanted to hold her hand, and he wanted to be close to her, and now that he thought about it, kissing her didn’t sound so bad either. Oh no. Oh crap.

He’d messed up. His first real friendship, and he went and fell in love.

What was he supposed to do? Should he tell her? Oh hell no. No, no, no.

Maybe this was more of a passing infatuation?

He threw a hesitant glance at her, just to see her smile at him.

Nope.

Definitely not going away that quickly.

He didn’t know what to do. Wasn’t prepared. Mum had told him more about love than he’d liked to hear at the time, but now he couldn’t remember a single thing. All he could think of was that his mother had been friends with his father for years, fallen in love with him, and now hated his guts.

What if he’d hate Marinette eventually? What if she would hate him? She was in love with Agreste, wasn’t interested in him that way, what if she-

“Are you okay?”, she asked him, blissfully unaware of the thoughts racing through his mind.

“I’m not sure”, he answered honestly.

She bit her lip, and the idea of kissing her came back to the forefront of his mind. Not now!

“I’m not sure either.”, she confessed. “But I’m happy you told me. I meant what I said earlier. You can be hard to read from time to time, and I really want to understand you. And.. now I do that a little more. And can support you when you need it. So... that’s something, right?”

Felix took a deep breath.

She was right, more so than she knew. This might not be an easy realization, nor a convenient one. But... he liked the feeling of holding her hand. The feeling when he thought about her, or when she looked at him like this. It felt... good.

And maybe that would change, for the better or for the worse. But for now... it was something.

And that was enough.

- - -

@crazycookie13o @a-6-yearold-inside @sinfulfoxbeast @kuroko26 @sternsneeze @zeyheartstaylor @elliecake5 @kristycocopop @yamadochie @sofmimis @enigmaticagitator @offically-over-it @earth-demon @juhavs @omgelisahagemanuniverse @owllover132 @kaydenth3gayden @janaikam @mewwitch @bluerosette23 @fanboy7794 @slytherin-batbitch @fanatic-kay @shadowberrybinch @salty-r-a @loosescrewslefty @im-here-for-the-content @lexysama @anonymouse-thoughts @chxtons @ilseofskadi @fafik7 @bloody-no-kissu @himevampirechan @goldenmoonbeam @chrismarium @akiyukiko @heaven428 @magnitude101999 @jazzybabycakes @edith-of-the-moon

#welcome to the back #wttb #miramu writes #marinette dupain cheng #ml felix #Felix leanne #ml felinette #felinette #felix month 2019

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reeesea · 4 years

Text

Something Sweet: Part Five

~sweeter shifts~

one ~ two ~ three ~ four ~ five ~ six ~ seven ~ eight ~ nine

pairing: minsung, jisung/minho

warning: mild language

words: 2k ish

summary: That feeling you get when your friend visits you at work? yeah that. Thats all this is...

a/n: Its been a little rough, but heres a short chapter i hope u enjoy <3

-----------

Felix stood behind the counter at the convenience store on the corner of two intersecting districts. He was a few hours into his overnight shift. Usually he could do homework on these late nights, but with it being summer, he found himself antsy and daydreaming his shift away. His brain was busy re-running his dance routines for upcoming performances and auditions that he had been working on, as customers periodically filtered in the store.

Not many customers came in other than the few students pulling all-nighters and night shift workers coming in for a bite to eat. Felix had begun to recognize a few faces as some had solidified themselves as regulars.

A black hooded figure came in close to 3am. Even though Felix had never really seen much of the guy's face he recognized the black hoodie and mask wearing guy as a regular around his late night shifts. He was interesting, not like the obvious tired student of the late night business worker. He had no idea what it was that brought him to the convenience store at the ungodly hours of the morning.

Felix always liked to make guesses as to what lives his especially mysterious customers lived. He had already imagined the black hoodied regular as a b-list idol group member. Then a gym instructor, but mostly due to the one time he came in with a cut off shirt and Felix was taken aback by the size of the man’s arms. Most recently he imagined that the other could’ve been a bartender, because of the pretty consistent time he arrives in the late am on weekends.

This random Thursday night though, the dark figure, back in his usual hoodie, gathered various energy drinks and cup ramens from the back shelves, and brought them out to the check out.

“Is this all for tonight?”

“Oh yeah thats all”

Felix began ringing up his purchases when the other spoke up suddenly.

“We’ve met before, I’m not crazy or anything right?”

“Huh?” Felix looked up confused as the man usually seldom said anything during his late night purchases.

“Yeah I thought I recognized your name, You’re Minho”s, Jisung’s friend’s, roommate, right?” Felix nodded in return but the confused look on his face sparked the other to remember that he was wearing a mask and hat that covered most of his features. Removing the mask revealed that behind it were the sharp features of Changbin, one of three artists that formed 3RACHA, that Yes, Felix had actually just met that past weekend.

Felix’s eyes widened at the sudden realization that one of his regulars was actually a member of his favorite group of artists. ‘Holy fucking shit, I am actually blind, godamn it Felix’

“Y-Yes, thats me. Sorry I didn't recognize you, I-uh didn’t realize that you, were uh- you.” ‘Smooth Lix wow’

Changbin chuckled at the freckled boys stutter. “That’s alright, I tend to forget that I'm wearing my mask sometimes. Anyway I recognized you when you were dancing last weekend, and when you had introduced yourself.” Felix was trying his best to internalize his anxious starstruck feelings. “We watched your performance, and I was trying to find a day to come here and tell you that your crew’s performance was really good.”

Okay yeah that was it, Felix’s eyes were practically falling out of his head with how wide his expression was. “Really? You liked it? That’s really awesome. Thank you so much. That really means a lot coming from you not gonna lie.” Felix’s pride for his crew was nothing small and the validation and praise from someone he is a fan of himself, makes his heart soar.

The smile on his face is so wide and genuine and the light that flickers in his eyes lit up the whole store, even in the middle of the night. Changbin thought that his smile felt something like sunshine, and reminded him of the warmth Jisung emitted when he was at his happiest, but of course he would never tell the other that. Changbin caught himself smiling back involuntarily.

“Yeah, we’ll have to come watch you guys again sometime.”

Felix nodded vigorously at that and finished checking out the items the older had brought to the counter. Neither of the twos smiles seemed to completely fade from their faces.

“Thank you Felix-ssi, have a good night.”

“You too!” Felix replied and bowed respectively to the older.

Changbin replaced the mask on his face but found himself still smiling at the encounter with the boy as he walked bac home.

[~roomies uwu~]

3:25 am

Lixie:

someone please fuking tell me how stupid i am

Minnie hyung:

we usually dont, to spare your feelings

Lixie:

I just embarrassed myself in front of CHangbin-ssi!!!

ALSO since when did 3RACHA live in this neighborhood

Hes been coming into the store for months

But i never recognized him until now???

I must be idiotic

Someone change my name to ‘blind fool’

It is now the only title i deserve ;^;

Jinnie bby:

It is way to early for you to be this dramatic luv~

Lixie:

The overnight shift drama sleeps for no one >:}

---

“Alright, I’ll put that right in for you. I hope you enjoy your cocktails in the mean time.” Minho flashes his sickening sweet server smile at the couple, before heading to his station to input the orders. There had been a steady flow of customers at Menu 98 keeping Minho busy for his dinner shift. Thankful to not be closing, Minho was doing his best to maintain his polite persona without glancing at his watch too often. Time always passed slower, when he found himself counting his hours.

Before moving on to check on a previous table, Seungmin waves him down letting him know he has a new table to wait, but not before catching his arm. Usually he would find a Seungmin attached to his elbow if the other wanted to share some gossip about a recent customer, or something of the sort. Expecting the same Minho’s ears peaked with interest.

“You got a new table.” That’s unsurprising. “And they’re asking specifically for you.” That’s more surprising.

“Wait, what?”

“I don't know, you tell me. Any rich, wide-eyed, twenty-somethings, you forgot to tell me about, hyung?”

Minho thought the eyebrow raise from the younger was a little much given the circumstances. The few seconds of silence that pass between them gave Seungmin all the information he was looking for but a sigh still escapes his lips at the stubbornness of the other.

“Well one, Han Jisung, is waiting in section B for you.” Seungmin scurries off to return to the front, a suspicious look in his expression. Minho hadn’t really brought up much of his personal life to Seungmin, but the host hadn’t stopped his prodding ever since he had turned up to work, as Seungmin says it, glowing and smiling like a newlywed. Minho wasn’t sure if he was actually acting much different since beginning to talk to Jisung, but apparently the shift in his mood was enough to confirm to his coworker that something was up. Minho already knew that Seungmin would have a field day if he found out that he had actually first met Jisung at the restaurant and hadn’t told him. But keeping his work friend on his toes, spices up his otherwise monotonous job.

---

“Good evening sir, would you like to order any appetizers or drinks to start off?” Minho found himself instinctually throwing on his polite grin and playing the part of a perfect waiter. Well, at least for the time being.

“Hm idk Min-hyung, you ordered for me last time, got any suggestions.” Jisung, seemingly unphased by Minho’s generic opening line, barely looked up from the menu as the older had approached him. Being sure to make direct eye contact, Jisung then smiled cheekily, “but I think we both know I didn’t come here for the fancy food and fruity drinks.”

Minho tried not to roll his eyes too obviously, as his smile morphed into a smirk to match the younger’s, “Perhaps, but if you don't order anything, I'll have to ask you to leave, because sadly, you can not pay just to look at my pretty face.”

“That's a shame I would've ordered five hours of that up front if it was on the menu.” The chuckle coming from Minho was enough to already ease the nerves that Jisung had been feeling since he last saw him.

“Well, Lucky for me, sad for you, I’m not working for five more hours, sorry to disappoint.”

“When do you get off then kind sir?” The goofy voice he used brought back the smile he had been aching to see, and made any of the embarrassment he may have felt worth it.

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“I would yes.” JIsung smiled, batting his eyelashes, a part of him knew it probably wouldn’t be that easy.

“Well not to worry, it looks like I can start you off with some water, and complimentary sides, while I give you some more time to look over the menu.”

“Hyung wai-” Minho walked off but not before sending a subtle wink the other’s way. Jisung ears may or may not have turned bright red, but thankfully, there was no one there to tease this time.

---

Jisung ended up ordering another one of Minho’s suggestions, this time it was a marinated sea bass filet that came with a similar fried potato side to the burger he had chosen the first time. Although the fish was perfectly cooked and seasoned, to Jisung it still felt like a fancy version of fish and chips. Minho had giggled at that when Jisung suggested they rename it some bass-related pun, ‘for the kids, ya know.’

“So are you going to tell me how what time you get off, or are really gonna let my dumb ass sit outside the restaurant and wait for how many hours it is until you’re done”

Minho laughed at the image of Jisung waiting for him like a stray outside. “Tempting I'm not gonna lie, but It's not for much longer. AND if you're interested there's a bar next door that may or may not be my usual after dinner shift destination.”

Jisung couldn’t help but smile at that. “REally? That sounds great.” He couldn’t lie that he had spent most of his free time thinking about when he could see MInho next. Probably not the best timing granted that 3RACHA has been busy preparing for their album debut, but a part of him couldn't help but feel all warm inside at the prospect of getting to know Minho better in person.

“Okay, well then i'll see you there? Yeah?”

Minho nods gently with his own giddy smile to match.

The infamous heart-shaped grin was in its full form once Minho had suggested their next meeting place, and Minho could feel his heart leaping at that happiness that Jisung’s smile emitted. Jisung about leaped out of his chair after paying. Practically dancing his way next door to said bar, and for the first time that week Jisung felt like a song was writing itself in his head.

---

“It's him isn't it”

“Who?”

“The reason that your smiling so much, but like actually, not that dead inside expression you give me when I tell you ‘cheer up’”

“Hmmm” Minho’s ability to play dumb? Top tier. Sadly Minho’s ability to lie to Seungmin? Absolute trash.

“Come on Hyung! Just tell me!!!” Seungmin was exasperated. This wasn’t the first time he had confronted Minho about what was going on, and maybe one too many times had resulted in Minho’s signature move, the ‘I don’t want to tell you, so instead will change the subject’.

Fine. “HMM hmmmmmmm….ok….maybe we’ve been talking for a while-”

“OH MY GOD FINALLY! I knew it as soon as he walked in the door. He was all heart-eyes asking for you, and for when you get off.”

“Wait, did you tell him when my shift was over?”

“God no, that's gotta be against some employee code.”

“Oh okay good.”

“But you're off now anyways right? Is he going to wait for you? Are you going out- oh my god he's definitely waiting for you. Have you seen how much he tipped? You sure he isn't some bizarre 20 year old sugar daddy?”

“Seungmin!”

“Okay Sorry, I'm just excited for you. You never tell me anything. All I know about you is that you’re a dancer and you worked in a bar before here.”

“Its was a host bar actually”

“Wait what?!”

“Well, if you look at the time. As you’ve said I have a sugar daddy waiting for me, bye bye now”

“Wait hyung what the fuck!”

---

one ~ two ~ three ~ four ~ five ~ six ~ seven ~ eight ~ nine

#minsung #lee minho #han jisung #straykids au #skz #straykids #straykids han #straykids lee know #i still can tag for shit #kpop fanfic

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19mrs-barnes17 · 4 years

Text

Wrong Turn

Summary: It’s the final stand as you find yourself taken with unexpected company in the basement of your family’s old cabin.

Part: 3/3

Pairing: Dean Winchester x reader

Warnings: a little blood/gore

Word count: 2,112

A/N: Final part! Enjoy!

“So, The Spice Girls, huh?” His eyes narrowed, brow knit as confusion painted his expression. It really was too easy. “It’s a nice touch, but I was never much of a fan.”

The moment his gaze landed on the poster it was gone, crumpled on the cement floor and you sort of regretted bringing it to attention. Now the walls lay barren, the shifter watching you silently from the steps that led up to the cabin. Somehow his eyes were not filled with hatred, they were dead, and that made his cold stare all the worse. He couldn’t have been older than 17 and yet he looked as though he would critique a murderer’s technique while they were committing the crime right before his eyes. The emptiness made your skin crawl.

You had killed his mother and yet he didn’t seem angry with you. He seemed bored.

“You two play nice, company is on its way. And I still have so much to do.” His footsteps receded and your eyes scanned the room. Who else was here? The lighting was so poor only certain spots received the limited natural light entering the room. It was already morning, the drive from the motel only a day’s drive. And with Cas preoccupied the boys would be a bit behind on the road.

“Marco.” Chains clinked against one another, the sound emanating from somewhere to the right of you. You narrowed your eyes, praying they could focus enough to see who was bound in the darkness.

“Polo.” Your heart dropped at the sound of the voice, the soft chuckle that followed calming the panic that had been building in you.

“Samuel Winchester what the hell are you doing down here?” Another chuckle sounded from the shadows and you shook your head. “Last we knew you had left behind a note that said you were on a case.”

“What are the odds I was hunting the same monster you were after.” You smiled softly, hissing as the shackles dug into your already sensitive skin at odd angles. “How long do we have?”

“Back up is due in at least two hours, we’re on our own for now. I think he took my blade, so we’re not off to a great start.” The door creaked open and the two of you remained silent, watching a new shifter slowly make his way to the concrete floor.

“I hate to interrupt the reunion, but you’re needed upstairs beautiful.” A chill crept down your spine as the stranger held a rag over your mouth, you struggled against his force even though you knew it was useless. Sam pulling on his restraints began to fade as your vision blurred and your brain was sent into shut down, his shouts turning into nothing.

It hurt. Your skin tearing so easily. The way the blade cut across you made you want to scream, but you held it in. Only muffled sobs escaped your lips. The crimson seemed to decorate your flesh, flowing down your arms and dripping from the tips of your fingers. You refused to give him anymore satisfaction, refused to make a sound or let another tear fall. It was probably one of the most difficult decisions to go through with, the stinging and numbing occurring throughout your body driving your nervous system mad.

The blood loss was weakening you, but it didn’t last long, just enough to decrease your threat level. You probably couldn’t even lift your arms any longer, twitching your finger was a chore. Not long after they brought Sam upstairs, you were bandaged and tied to a chair as you watched the same technique be used on him.

“Though this is totally fucked up, I gotta say… you’re the most clever monsters I’ve come across.” The son made no indication he even heard your sloth-like speech, but the stranger was pleased to hear your praise even if it was sarcastic.

“And to think he wanted to just kill you two, what a waste that would have been. We wouldn’t have had the chance to take out the top three hunters in the country and two Avengers. Now we’re doing it in one fell swoop and make a killing.” That’s when you noticed the cameras, the laptop, and the fact that both were wearing altered faces to hide their identities.

You suddenly felt violently ill, stomach churning a mile a minute as you began to realize what was happening. They were going to sell you, well in parts, to monsters. It wasn’t a popular thing to come across but you had heard a story passed along by hunters, the Monster Black Market was the most famous myth in the community. Everyone had heard of it but anyone who had actually seen it never came forward, probably because they had been chopped up and sold on it.

“At least we’re making history, eh Sammy?” Your head bobbed, eyes blinking rapidly to keep yourself awake. He was moved from the table to a chair beside you and replied with an eye roll, muttering how you were spending enough time with Dean that you were beginning to sound like him. “Ouch. I thought I was more original than that.”

“Well hey, maybe you’ll get new material from this.” You attempted to chuckle but instead it turned into a coughing fit, small droplets of blood dripping onto your pants.

“Quit it, you’re lucky these are black.” He smiled lazily your way, sluggishly shaking his head at you. “Hey upside to this, we can probably donate the blood.”

“Shut them up will you. The transporters will be here soon and I can’t have distractions.” The stranger plunged a syringe into Sam’s neck before approaching you, the door busting open and a silver bullet halting him in his tracks. Your vision was less than trustworthy, only focusing on the face before you when it was a foot away.

“Hiya handsome, you get em all?” He furrowed his brow and turned in time to be struck across the face with a hardcover book, he was momentarily dazed but quick to fight back as your leg extended just enough for the shifter to trip over. “Wow, about to pass out from blood loss and I’m still helpful.”

“Yeah, yeah. What do you mean by all of them? Just those two or are there more?” You slowly began to drift off, eyes fluttering shut before shooting back open as he shakes your shoulder. “Hey, you stay with me ya hear?”

“I think I can answer that question for you.” Dean walked over to the window where Steve had the curtain pulled back, his eyes not liking what he saw. Two sets of headlights peering from half a mile out, an uncertain number of unknown monsters coming and only the weapons in the trunk for the three and a half able-bodies to defend with.

“Anyone got a candy bar? Anything with sugar?” Dean had untied you and his brother, moving the unconscious Sam to the table. You slowly rose and kicked over the camera, knocking the laptop to the floor. “Sadistic pigs.”

Everyone was armed, you included even despite the argument against it. In the kitchen you found your coat, the snacks you kept in your pocket still there. The chocolate bar was pretty much a chocolate blob, but you could care less. This wasn’t the time to be picky. By the time the fight was near you felt at least semi-prepared, nowhere near full strength but well enough that you weren’t going to pass out. Sam was still out, whatever they gave him, strong enough to tranq a moose it seemed.

“I’m gonna go set up this thing upstairs, good luck gentlemen. Try not to miss and I’ll try not to die.”

“Mhm, I think you mixed those up.” You paused with a smirk, arching a brow at the hunter.

“Or did I? What am I supposed to try to die and you’re supposed to miss your mark?” Dean facepalmed before waving the whole conversation off, smiling to himself as you climbed the stairs.

“You love her, don’t you?” Dean almost didn’t catch the words that slipped from Steve’s mouth, his eyes softening as he returned his gaze to the window.

“She more than I ever thought I’d get. Love is rare in our line of work, especially with someone who knows the risk of the life.” Steve nodded softly, eyes watching the approaching vehicles.

“So I’ve been told.” He didn’t miss the soft smile tugging at Dean’s lips as he thought of you, it reminded him of something he hadn’t felt in a long time.

As the cars pulled up to the cabin everyone stood in position, your eyes carefully watching as the men stepped out from the car. You needed them to congregate, the more you could hit in the limited time you would have, the better. A woman exited from the second car and waved the men toward the building and in doing so became the prime target. You let the men approach the house, watching as her group surrounded her.

The moment the shot rang out and she fell to the ground you had lost your opportunity for a mass target, only getting one or two others before the bullets flew your way. Bucky, hidden somewhere in the woods took over and never missed a mark. Steve and Dean were in the middle of it all, their hand to hand combat unparalleled. Each was in their element as they took the monsters down one by one. Steve sliced and jabbed with the silver blade and shoved the vamps toward Dean who was swift with his machete. Bucky focused on the outliers who were still zeroed in on your position, wood splintering as you began to crawl from the room.

Dragging yourself out of the room you started to feel even dizzier than before, the rush in your blood began to fade alongside your focus and strength. With the remainder of your strength you sent a prayer to your only hope, voice barely above a whisper as your eyes began to flutter shut. Everything that hurt began to fade and nothing had ever scared you more, nothing was more terrifying than not feeling anything at all. You barely felt the fingers on your forehead, eyes too tired to open up as your mind slipped into a deep sleep.

Dean ran into the house as soon as the fight was over, his heart racing as adrenaline pumped in his veins and pulse pounded in his ears. He froze as his eyes fell on you in Cas’ arms, the only comfort he found was in the rise and fall of your chest.

“Where the hell have you been?” You were transferred into his hold, the emerald green in his eyes shifting to a lighter shade as he looked at your peaceful expression.

“In heaven, I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner. I’ve already healed Sam, both of them should be alright after a night’s rest.” He looked upon the scene with a perplexed gaze. “This situation is most unusual. Why sell people when they don’t need money to live?”

“Because they can.” Bucky’s words drew the eyes of every person in the room, Steve’s growing concerned.

“Because some people are just twisted. We should get started on the clean up. Get them back to the bunker? ” Dean placed a kiss on your forehead before handing you back to Cas. He was gone in a flash and Dean turned to the two men who stared at him with slight concern. “You boys ever burned a body?”

Ever since that day S.H.I.E.L.D. began to keep a watch for supernatural activity, always sending a call your way if anything came close to one of their facilities. The relationship was mutual, a call from you if you ever came across something alien or in their ballpark. You were mostly just grateful they didn’t throw you back in a cell, but it seemed Steve made a compelling case.

Finally all your belongings were safely in the bunker, half of Dean’s closet now open for you much to your surprise. After that day it was almost like a door had opened in his heart. Suddenly he became more vocal about his feelings, because he had been reminded of what he could lose. And he didn’t want to waste another minute.

You sat on the bed as he placed a single picture frame on his dresser, the photo of a day you would always recall with nostalgia and fondness. It was the day he told you he loved you.

Tags: @qtmeryr @broken-hearted-barnes @asphalt-cocktail @cantnkrusshedevil @gstran18 @xoxoaudreymarie @royal-sunflower @greenarrowhead @rando10k

#SuperMarvel crossover #supernatural #marvel #dean #dean winchester #dean x reader #dean winchester x reader #steve rogers #Bucky Barnes #Sam Winchester

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shuheather · 4 years

Text

50 questions

tagged by: @azfool ty these are fun !!

1. What is the color of your hair brush? I use a thick toothed comb these days and it is black

2. Name a food you never eat? Beef

3. Are you typically too warm or too cold? Lately I’ve been too cold like every day but my heat tolerance is miserable

4. What were you doing 45 minutes ago? Probably checking my work slack

5. Whats your favorite candy bar? Twix all the way bb

6. Have you ever been to a professional sports game? Yes, mostly baseball (at least Cubs, Indians, Orioles, and Red Sox but maybe more), I’ve been to some indoor football games if that counts? Also do you consider yoyoing a professional sport because I’ve been to a million yoyo competitions because of my brother

7. What was the last thing you said out loud? Something in response to one of my brothers about a video game probably

8. What is your favorite ice cream? Chocolate Chip Cheesecake from J. P. Licks (if they ever bring it back I WILL go great lengths to get some) but of the attainable variety honestly anything that has a good amount of chocolate, no fruit, and no nuts

9. What was the last thing you had to drink? Water from my water bottle

10. Do you like your wallet? Honestly not really I never use it, I just keep one of those pockets on the back of my phone for the three cards I need most at any given moment

11. What was the last thing you ate? I had a bowl of Frosted Flakes for breakfast

12. Did you buy any new clothes last weekend? No but the weekend before I thrifted a flannel that I am very excited about

13. What was the last sporting event you watched? Stanley cup final

14. What is your favorite flavor of popcorn? I could eat any sort of lightly salted popcorn for years on end but buttered is good too as long as it’s not too much. Movie theater popcorn makes my stomach upset though so no more of that

15. Who was the last person you sent a text to? Olivia

16. Ever go camping? Yes but not since I was a child

17. Do you take your vitamins? I don’t buy them on my own but when my mom tries to get me to eat gummy vitamins I say no

18. Do you regularly attend a place of worship? Whenever I’m outside I stop to look up at the treetops and the clouds a lot does that count

In all seriousness no my parents never cared about religion much so it’s not something I’ve ever been into

19. Do you have a tan? My Chaco tan from this summer is still going pretty strong but it is fading

20. Do you prefer Chinese or pizza? Chinese 100%

21. Do you drink soda through a straw? I don’t drink soda so undefined

22. What color socks do you usually wear? I always wear funny patterned socks that either I buy or other people buy for me. Common themes include cats, space, and food

23. Do you ever drive above the speed limit? Honestly yes but I try not to do more than 10 mph over

24. What terrifies you? The future of my country, that everyone I interact with secretly hates me, suffocation (but especially drowning)

25. Look to the left, what do you see? Phone, water bottle, pencil holder I sculpted in high school containing pens and honey sticks, my wall of art/letters/quotes/etc that makes me happy

26. What chore do you hate doing the most? Doing the dishes is hard sometimes

27. What do you think when you hear an Australian accent? I’m bad at separating out Australian accents from English/NZ/etc accents tbh so usually I’m just like ??? trying to figure out where they’re from

28. What’s your favorite soda? I don’t drink soda so undefined

29. Do you go in fast food places or just hit the drive thru? So I don’t eat a ton of fast food these days because their vegetarian options are often few or nonexistent however if I go to Taco Bell I always go in or order online because I do so many modifications that I would be embarassed to dictate it to a person and I would rather just input it on an order screen. Otherwise if I have my order together I’ll drive through as long as the line isn’t significantly longer than the line inside

30. What is your favorite number? I know it’s basic of me to pick my birthday number but 24 probably

31. Who’s the last person you talked to? like, out loud? My youngest brother

32. Favorite cut of beef? I don’t eat beef so undefined

33. Last song you listened too? I listen to music while I work a lot but it’s never music that I know because then my brain latches onto it, so I’m currently listening to Lucky Sue by Men I Trust on my discover weekly but the last song I knew was Just the Two of Us by Grover Washington and Bill Withers

34. Last book you read? I am currently in the middle of The Starless Sea by Erin Morgenstern and it is wonderful so far would recommend

35. Favorite day of the week? Saturday because I work 9-5 so it is the only day I am truly free rn

36. Can you say the alphabet backwards? I just tried and my brain went “zyxcvbnm” so no

37. How do you like your coffee? I don’t drink coffee so undefined but as a loophole I will say cookies with coffee in them are REALLY good

38. Favorite pair of shoes? In the summer my chacos, right now my feiyues, in the winter my docs

39. Time you normally get up? I am currently working hard to maintain a sleep schedule so my alarm goes off at 9 but left unsupervised I will wake up any time between 9 and noon

40. Do you prefer sunrise or sunset? If I am seeing the sunrise it usually took some level of sleep deprivation to get there which is usually not good for me in any respect so sunset

41. Describe your kitchen plates? I’m living at home rn so we have a variety which includes my plastic Barbie plate which I think is actually older than me but also these plates that were supposed to be fancy dishware and my mom was like “if we don’t just use these they will sit in a box forever” so now they are our normal dishes

42. How many blankets on your bed? I sleep with a sheet (look I also used to be anti sheet but sleeping in a place with no AC changed me okay) and a comforter. In the winter I might add another blanket but I get warm when I sleep so extra blankets are usually not necessary

43. Describe your kitchen at the moment? There is such thing as having too many spice mixes

44. Do you have a favorite alcoholic drink? I do not drink so no

45. Do you play cards? I used to a lot when I was a kid but now I mostly just play solitaire on my phone

46. What color is your car? I don’t have a car of my own but the car I share with my brother is maroon

47. Can you change a tire? I might need to follow instructions but with instructions I believe I could

48. Favorite state? I don’t think I have a favorite state but if we were doing some sort of mathematical analysis a large amount of my favorite places are currently in Massachusetts

49. Favorite job you’ve ever had? I think probably my current one which is Database/IT stuff for a racial equity nonprofit

50. Tagging: @alnasak because it’s just like the good old days

#me

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hollenka99 · 4 years

Text

The One Where Jackie Meets The Others

Summary: Chapter 4. Jackie enjoys a couple trips out with Marvin.

Warnings: death and blood mentions

@bupine @badlypostedeverything

Things don't smoothly transition back to the way they were following that morning. However, they both agreed it was clear Anti's intentions were to divide them. Therefore, it would be dumb to give him that satisfaction. When Marvin asks, out of pure curiosity, about the mullet, Jackie doesn't really have an answer. He'd simply liked the style. But maybe it was time to move on. The chances of him returning to the '80s were particularly slim. With the green having faded weeks ago, he has it cut so it now only reaches his ears. The style is nice but he does miss his old look. He supposes Marvin was pleased with this development. He definitely got a lot of joy from teasing Jackie about how much curlier his shorter hair became following showers. The only quip he has in response is that the hero's hair wasn't much better when wet either. The next thing on the agenda was the excursion to Pizza Hut. The four of them agree to meet on Thursday. In preparation, Marvin offers Jackie a copy of the restaurant's document on allergy information. Marvin faces falls when he learns just how many items he loved posed a certain risk to Jackie's health. Nope, no pepperoni for him. No garlic breadsticks or cheesy fries either. Fried items were a contamination risk too, apparently. He lies when his friend asks about stuffed crust. Jackie trying the crust option was one of the main reasons they'd agreed to visit the establishment. Besides, it wasn't guaranteed it would trigger a reaction. He could possibly get away with sampling a little of Marvin's crust if he didn't push his luck. It is comforting to learn Henrik, the friend who made educational videos for others, had coeliac's disease and therefore had to be wary when eating as well. Jameson was Marvin's cousin of sorts. Their grandmothers had been sisters. Then their mothers were friends, leading to their sons to develop a good relationship while growing up. Jameson was a performer who used his control over time and sound for entertainment purposes. He and Marvin frustratingly run late due to the hero misplacing his wallet. They are apologetic to Henrik and Jameson who have already found a table and ordered drinks for themselves. Jameson has neat brown hair that extends down his face to his jawline and closely surrounds his mouth. Henrik, on the other hand, has black hair which has been swept back as well as glasses. The two of them promise they don't mind the delay. They haven't been here for ages anyway. In time, four pizzas are delivered to the table. There is the pan BBQ americano, gluten free Hawaiian, cheesy bites pepperoni and stuffed crust BBQ beef and onion. Marvin suggests he and Jackie trade a slice. His friend makes a supposedly humourous comment about how he identifies as Jackie's pizza base but it's lost on the former drummer. How someone can deeply relate to dough that's been baked in a pan, Jackie has no clue. He allows Marvin to take a slice regardless. However, when it comes to him returning the gesture, Jackie insists he only wants a little bit of his friend's crust. Half a slice's worth of stuffed crust is placed on top of his own pizza. Jackie regrets it as soon as it enters his mouth. God damn it, it was actually really tasty. He could see why Marvin was so enthusiastic about it. His expression remains neutral as he chews, well aware he has an audience. He hates how disappointed Marvin looks when Jackie gives a bullshit review about the cheese within being too chewy. Allergies and cross-contamination risks fucking sucked. Screw his body for being an asshole who overreacted to a commonly used spice. "Oh well, more for me." Marvin winks as he recovers from the blow before stealing a piece of chicken from Jackie plate. Alright, maybe letting one small inconvenience ruin tonight in his mind was stupid. Marvin had said he'd act as translator. Which was a lovely gesture. Jackie was grateful he was prepared to sacrifice part of his evening to play the middleman so he and Jameson could communicate. Except Marvin got sidetracked at one point and had delved into a whole conversation with his cousin, spoke entirely in BSL. It looked like a funny one too. Jackie was glad the pair were enjoying their evening. He stuck to conversing with Henrik instead. It's a struggle as they don't seem to have much in common. That is until Jackie absentmindedly asked what sort of food Henrik enjoyed. This in turn triggered the German man sitting opposite him to enthuse about fried potato slices with pieces of bacon and onion. Jackie himself launches into a story about how his mother used to work with a woman who had family in West Germany. Then this German colleague would sometimes write down a recipe or two to give to them. In no uncertain terms, those foreign dishes beat jacket potatoes or beans on toast any day. The four men give their stomachs a chance to settle a little while they chat as a group. Then it was time to finish off the night with ice cream shakes. Two strawberries, an oreo and a chocoholic are brought to the table. Although there had been several mentions of what Jameson did for a living, it is only at this point that a proper conversation about is initiated. "Jameson's doing a show on the 4th. I think we should go. What do you say?" Jackie's response is delayed due to Marvin making the suggestion just as he takes a long sip of his strawberry shake. "Oh uh, yeah, sure. What exactly will be in the show? Time stuff, right?" Jameson taps the side of his nose with a wry smile. The younger of the cousins translates this as "I believe he's saying that's for him to know and for you to find out." The performer signs something. "Expect the unexpected." Marvin rolls his eyes with a smile remaining on his face. "Oh yeah, like when you get a younger member of the audience to volunteer for your sound tricks. I once heard Hacker T Dog from CBBC sing Thinking Out Loud, you know. That was an experience." Jameson makes a comment. "I haven't seen the weirdest combinations? Well yeah, I sure hope I haven't. Kids' minds can come up with bizarre things. Henrik, especially, should know that." Henrik nods to this with a sense that this was a profound understatement. The banter carries on and Jackie soon feels like less of an outsider. The ice creams shakes eventually get drained as the evening draws to a close. Once all the goodbyes and "It was nice to meet you"s are over, the tow of them hop into Marvin's car to head home. Bohemian Rhapsody happens to begin playing on the radio as they set off. Jackie doesn't even have to ask before he's turning the volume up for both their benefits. They haphazardly fall into a duet. Jackie's heard Marvin singing absentmindedly to himself before this. He therefore already knows he has a good voice. But it isn't until tonight that he's able to hear it out loud. "I need you to do me a favour. Do you mind headbanging like in Wayne's World?" "What?" "Wayne's World. Never seen the film myself but there's a pretty well known scene where a bunch of them are in the car while this song is playing. Then during the instrumental that's coming up, they really rock out. I've always wanted to do it while in a car but I always seem to be the driver when I get the chance. So do you mind rocking out in a minute on my behalf?" Jackie chuckles. "Sure. My pleasure." As Freddie finishes claiming Beelzebub has a devil put aside for him, Jackie springs into action. He moves his head back and forth in rapid succession to the music. The pair follow along with the next verse as loudly as possible. At least, they attempt to. It isn't long before they have both descended into raucous laughter. "Thanks!" Marvin manages in between breaths when it calms. "We should do that again. With us stationary next time so you can do it too." "Deal." Marvin bursts into laughter once more and Jackie thinks he's growing particularly fond of it. --- Another crime scene, another person fighting to remain alive while bleeding from the neck. Cat is only able to stand by while the paramedics do their job. He'd like to beg them to not take this guy to hospital, to not risk history repeating itself. But it's not like he can ask anyone to skip properly treating the victim. He's sure everyone here knows this situation is a catch 22. However, they can't do anything other than perform their jobs. It takes great deal of convincing but Cat is allowed to stay outside the patient's room for the night. He's been standing guard for a good while when midnight passes. A doctor comes along on her rounds. She speaks to Cat and the other member of security he's been spending the night with. While she's talking, Anti's latest victim begins coding. Any and all resuscitation efforts prove futile. The guy is gone. So is the doctor. If she even existed in the first place. And Cat suspects Anti himself is long gone too. The day afterwards, he catches some reporting of the murder while flicking through channels. The victim has an identity now. There's a name, age and grieving loved ones. The television is bitterly switched off as Marvin searches for his notebook instead. Joining the countless other entries is 27/4/19 - Nick Shaw, 34, wife + 2 little kids The next time he sees Anti, he's not fucking around. Enough was enough. Marvin was putting a stop to this once and for all, by whatever method was necessary. --- The first Saturday of May is a cloudy one. That doesn't stop a crowd from flocking to the Jolly Gentleman's show. Chase is still getting out of the car when Niamh races out, the name Oscar having barely left her mouth before doing so. It is with great relief that Chase witnesses his daughter collide with a familiar man. The pair of single fathers briefly kiss as a part of a greeting while the five year old girl is returned. Her twin sister and older brother hover around as the greetings continue. Eventually, Fletcher drifts into his own group with both of Oscar's boys. The seven of them make their way inside. "So where is this friend of yours?" Oscar asks as they take their seats. "Do you see him?" "Not yet. He should be bringing his new roommate with him." His scanning of the tent is halted. "Speak of the devil." Chase spots Marvin entering the area, along with another man whom his best assumptions identified as Jackie. They seat themselves in the same row as the fathers. The children sit directly in front of the adults. Marvin introduces him to Jackie as Dr Chase Brody, emphasising the title. "I'm just spending the day out with my kids, there's no need to be throwing my doctorate around. Chase." He offers his hand for Jackie to shake. "And this is Fletcher, Ciera and Niamh." Oscar carries on the round of greetings by introducing himself, Milo and Max. They spend a full minute going through the mundane pleasantries before Marvin and Jackie finally stay seated. As the performance begins, Chase relaxes. They'd filled the wait time with small talk and chatter amongst themselves, however, he had intended for today to be a chance to spend time with his partner. He gives Marvin the benefit of the doubt. The thing is, Jackie came across as a decent enough guy. He also understandably seemed a little overwhelmed by the amount of people in the group. If the chit chat served as a distraction, then fine by him. Besides, he only looked like he was in his late teens anyway. They did share a history of drumming when they were younger though which was a nice surprise. That certainly allowed for a whole avenue of conversation. As soon as Jameson emerged to start his performance, the auditory atmosphere changed. There were speakers around the place and at certain points of the show it almost felt as if the sound was travelling around the space as a physical thing. He also seemingly teleported to a different spot than moments before. A woman was completely flabbergasted when she discovered a small thank you card in her handbag that certainly hadn't been there when she arrived with no easy explanation for how it got there. Throughout the performance, one of his colleagues acted as his commentator. Among his other tricks, the Jolly Gentleman sets a row of plants on fire with an elongated lighter. One of his colleagues dramatically shows up with a bucket of water to extinguish it. The performer stops him with a raised hand. He then holds the lighter, still producing a flame, up for the audience. It trails across the plants, erasing any evidence that there had been any combustion taking places. Not a single scorch mark or hint of smoke in sight. A little girl is summoned from the audience. She's about the twins' age, maybe slightly younger. After being asked what her favourite character was (Daddy Pig, of all things) she was encouraged to sing a song she really liked (I'm a Little Teapot). Already familiar with work stories his friend had, he knew what to expect. The crowd was treated to Daddy Pig's rendition of I'm a Little Teapot, complete with actions. Or at least, they were partially treated to it as the volunteer kept giggling into the microphone throughout her performance. It is evident that Jackie is too enthralled by the show to notice the barely subtle yet fond glances in his direction from the one sitting next to him. Ah, so it was like that, huh? Good for them. Chase catches Marvin's arm as they head out, taking advantage of Jackie going to speak with Jameson. It would be more discreet if Marvin's friend wasn't in earshot. With a wink, he teases his friend. "And they were roommates." "Hey, shut up. It's not like that." "Sure. And Oscar is nothing more than my buddy." "Chase-" "Seriously, what have you got to lose? If he's straight then it might get a little awkward for a moment. But I feel like he would be reasonable and appreciate the honesty. Well, you know him better than I do. You tell me." "You sure?" "Listen, I was already married to a woman when I started being cool with liking dudes. But since the split I've been around the block a few times. It is going to be fine." Marvin moves towards his car as Jackie re-emerges from backstage. It's clear he's still very much skeptical about it all. "If you say so, Chase." ---- Joel makes the judgement that Jackie would probably be fine to travel through his portals a week later. His apartment is pleasant. The ledge of one of his windows has a cushion to improve comfort. Jackie notices remnants of blu tack on the wall where something had clear been removed, which was odd. He almost makes a joke about it but decides against it. "Well... fáilte!" Joel spreads his arms to gesture to the whole room. "Wait, you know some Irish?" "Yep. Had an Irish grandmother who got me conversational." "Really? Nice. In that case, go raibh maith agat." Jackie chuckles. "So... anyway, you going to tell me how you know I'm from '86 or not?" "Okay, so you already know about my portals." "Are you trying to tell me you portalled me through time?" "What?! No, of course not. Bold of you to assume I have any control over the 4th dimension. I meant, I have powers and therefore I inherited the ability to have them." "So how then?" "One of my dads has a time based power and I guess, that trickled down to me a little. Stuff like that happens sometimes. I think Jameson might have an unusually strong immune system because his mother has enhanced immunity. Either way, I just have a sixth sense for time stuff." "...Right." Joel huffs in annoyance. "Alright, believe me or don't. The point is I want to help you go back to your own time if that's what you want." Ah. That's where that elephant was hiding. He was slowly getting used to the future but there was an inexplicable longing to return to where he came from. He was never meant to be 20 in 2019. There was no denying that fact. And as much as he enjoyed hanging out with Marvin and the rest of his new friends, it felt wrong somehow. That said, he was particularly good at going with the flow where necessary. If he was stuck in this century for good, then he'd deal with that. But if there was a chance he could be returned to 1986, there was no way he wouldn't take it. "How?" A sly smile appears on Joel's face. "Ah, for that, we will need Jameson and Henrik's help. All we have to do is wait for the right moment to ask for it. And seeing as it's now May, I don't think we'll have to wait that long."

#jacksepticeye #jacksepticeye egos #my writing #writersofjack #jumbled au #tw death mention #tw blood mention

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lepus-arcticus · 5 years

Text

OMENS: CHAPTER FOUR one | two | three trigger warnings apply

KICKING HORSE B&B JULY 23 - 6:23 AM

Pale sunlight streamed into the room, warming Scully’s cheek, a peaceful change from last night’s storm. She grumbled and stretched underneath the covers, rotating a sore ankle on a cool patch of sheets before letting her eyes flutter open. No one could accuse her of being anything resembling a morning person, but she’d never had the ability to sleep in after a night of drinking.

She surveyed the room in the lavender dawn, sober now, and made mental notes for her own apartment before remembering that there wasn’t much point in redecorating when you had a rapidly approaching expiry date. Her nightmare bled back into her memory in snippets, skin and blood and sweetness and dread, tears and panic, Mulder at the door.

She winced and eased herself up on her elbows, and then the headache hit her, a bolt of pain behind her eyes. Oh, fuck. Jesus. Oh. She needed water, and coffee, stat. She hoped Rhiannon was up.

She fingered her wristwatch on the bedside table, squinting to look at the time. Early, but not so early that it was impolite to be up and about in the house. Gingerly, she rolled out of bed and felt around the footboard for her robe. She slipped it around her shoulders, and stiffly padded out into the hall. Her mouth tasted awful, so she dipped into the bathroom to brush her teeth and finger-comb her hair, and then felt inspired to check in on Mulder.

She shouldn’t have been so harsh with him last night. He was only making sure she was okay. But that dream…

The door to his room was slightly open, and she could hear the steady, muffled sway of his snore. She peered inside, careful not to make a sound. He was completely buried in blankets, save for one long, bare foot sticking off of the edge of the mattress, toes twitching. A swell of guilty affection washed over her, and she had the urge to creep over and run her fingernails down the curve of his arch, see if he was ticklish.

Instead, she turned and moved down the hall, descending the stairs as the Bishop women and their dogs looked on. The wood creaked under her feet, and the sound summoned Hypatia, probably the only creature in the house unafflicted with a hangover. She met Scully a few steps up, whimpering in pleasure, slapping her with her tail and blocking the way downstairs. “Hey, sweet girl…” Scully massaged one of the dog’s fleecy ears between her thumb and fingertips, and maneuvered her way around her massive wriggling body and into the kitchen.

There was no evidence of yesterday’s dinner to be found. The kitchen practically sparkled, and something enticingly yeasty scented the air. A large pot of coffee was percolating, black and seductive, on the tiled counter, and the room was suffused in sunrise, beaming in from the attached conservatory.

A bittersweet hum trickled through the air, a melody that Scully recognized. The water is wide, I cannot get o’er, she thought, and heard ghostly strains of her father’s tuneless Navy warble. The memory tugged at her ribs. She followed the sound and found Rhiannon in the lushness of the conservatory, her frizzy corkscrew hair loose around her waist, lovingly plucking mint leaves one by one from a large potted bush propped up on a wooden bench. The conservatory was packed full of plant life⁠—ficuses and string-of-pearls, roses and tomatoes, and an assortment of herbs that would rival an 18th-century apothecary.

“My father used to sing that song to my sister and I when he was home from sea,” Scully said in greeting.

Rhiannon looked up and smiled. “Oh, good morning, Dana. I hope I didn’t wake you.” An embroidered velvet robe in faded garnet hung off of Rhiannon’s shoulders. With the halo of sunlight around her, the scene resembled a Mucha panel, especially when Hypatia left Scully’s side to wrap herself around Rhiannon’s hips. Her hair was so long that a tendril caught in the crimpy fur of Hypatia’s backbone, dragging in an alluring loop.

“No, no, you didn’t wake me,” Scully said, a little entranced. She wondered if she’d ever seen such a pretty scene in her life.

“I’ve got biscuits in the oven, care to join me in the kitchen? How are you feeling?”

“You know, I’d love a cup of coffee.”

Rhiannon chuckled softly at that, pressing a few more mint leaves into the handful she’d collected. “Perhaps the whiskey wasn’t the brightest idea. But the bottle invited itself to the table, and that’s the story I’m sticking to.”

“It was a wonderful dinner, Rhiannon. Thank you. I really wish you’d have let me help you clean up, though.”

“Oh, hush,” Rhiannon said, as she traipsed neatly across the tile past Scully and into the kitchen, depositing the mint leaves into a copper pot on the stovetop. She rattled four mismatched mugs down from the hutch in the corner, picked up the coffee pot, and tilted it over the largest one, the black stream of steaming liquid making Scully’s mouth water. “Now, Dana, how do you take your coffee? Cream, sugar? Or if you’d like, I can make it my way.”

Hell, why not. “Well, usually I just have a little soy milk, but when in Rome…” Scully smiled politely, leaning up against the counter and trying to ignore the pulse in her temple. She watched as Rhiannon caught a curled shard of cinnamon from a corked ceramic jar, and grated a nugget of nutmeg over it into a rough stone mortar. She added a swift dash of some mysterious blend from another jar, and ground it all together, rotating the pestle and humming lightly as she worked. A mound of butter was produced from the old-fashioned icebox, and she slid a generous pat of it onto a knife and into the mug, adding a fat pinch of the powdered spices, catching Scully’s slight grimace and imploring her not to knock it until she tried it.

“Here,” Rhiannon handed her the resulting brew, and Scully dutifully took a sip. A flood of heat and life immediately moved through her head, through her chest, down into her belly. It was delicious. It might have been the best cup of coffee she’d ever had.

“Oh my God, this is incredible,” she gushed over the rim of the mug, amazed, taking another sip. “... I really might never go back to soy.” Rhiannon laughed, busying herself with making another cup. “You’re quite the cook, Rhiannon. You’ve never thought of doing it professionally?”

“No,” she said, at work at the mortar. “No, I love what I do. I’ve always felt so connected with animals. Cooking’s just a hobby of mine, that’s all. An obsessive hobby, I’ll admit, but a hobby.”

“You’re, um. A medical doctor as well as a veterinarian, is that correct?” Scully asked.

“Well, I’m only certified in veterinary medicine, but my mother was a healer of sorts, so I learned a lot from her. I can handle the basic first-aid stuff⁠—when a kid from town needs stitches, when there’s an uncomplicated homebirth over at the settlement and they need assistance, that sort of thing - and I find a lot of concepts and practical applications carry forward. Medicine is such an instinctual practice anyway.”

“Hmm.” Scully cringed internally, but fought back the urge to argue with her. “Rhiannon, you know that you can’t legally practice medicine without a license.”

Rhiannon shrugged. “Is helping a neighbour out in a pinch the same as practicing medicine? Nobody’s going to sue me, Dana. Horizon isn’t New York.”

“That it is not,” Scully agreed. When they’d driven in to the police station the previous afternoon, they’d found it nestled in the middle of all of seven interlocking streets. The rest of the town, in name, was a scattering of isolated farmhouses and homesteads. She took another sip of her coffee. “Mulder mentioned that you performed an autopsy on Hugh Daly’s horse?”

“I looked him over…” Rhiannon said carefully, stirring spices into her own cup. “It was strange… it was as if Ghost just… laid his head down in the river. There aren’t many examples of suicidal behaviour in animals, unless you’re counting that bridge in Scotland where all those dogs are always jumping to their deaths. He was such a beautiful horse, wasn’t he?”

“Mmm,” Scully agreed.

“Hugh, um. Hugh bought that horse for Anna as a wedding gift. Oh, you should have seen her, Dana. She was like a fairy. She rode up to the church bareback, and she… she wasn’t wearing any shoes, and you know, it’s funny… that day… all I can really remember clearly are the soles of her feet, how dirty they were…” Her eyes misted over, unexpectedly, and she blinked up at the ceiling.

“I’m sorry,” she said, pressing her face into one of her wide sleeves and trying to compose herself. Her grief suddenly filled the room like smoke, and Scully couldn’t help but ache for her.

“I never liked that man,” Rhiannon said. “He was trouble from the start.” Scully furrowed her brows, uncomfortable. “You’re, um...You’re taking a look at Anna today, is that right?”

“Yes,” Scully replied softly. Theo’d arranged for a cleared-out room in the police station and had borrowed the requested materials and tools from Rhiannon’s supplies. Better than a bathroom, she supposed, thinking of Home, but if the photographs were any indication, Anna’s body was so thoroughly wrecked that she wasn’t sure there was much she could determine from it.

“I was the one who… who identified her body. Out in that field. Hugh was raving, out of his mind, he wouldn’t even look at her, wouldn’t even come close. God, I don’t think I’ll ever get over seeing her like that… Theo let Marion see her too, that stupid, thoughtless man. He shouldn’t have done that.” She gripped the counter ledge, coffee abandoned, her eyes still swimming.

Scully reached out and touched her arm. “I’m so sorry for your loss, Rhiannon. I don’t know if I said it last night.”

“Those girls, Dana… they’re my daughters.” Rhiannon dashed a tear from her cheek. “And I failed. I failed to protect them.”

“This is not your fault,” Scully said. “You can’t take that on. But what you can do is tell us everything you know. About Anna, about Hugh, about anyone who might have wanted to hurt her. Beginning with how she came to live with you in the first place.”

Rhiannon sniffed, considering this. “It was that brother of hers. She had to get away.” Abel Stoesz, again. “Abel is… he’s controlling, he’s possessive… even after she made it clear she wasn’t ever going to go back to the colony, he’d come here, screaming at her from the driveway…” Rhiannon ran water from the sink into a blue-tinted Ball jar, and sipped at it, regaining her composure. “He’s been especially persistent with her since she married Hugh, though. It’s a good thing Fox is going to talk to him today, although I wish Marion wouldn’t go with him and subject herself to that. Sometimes I wonder why on earth she went into law enforcement. She’s such a sensitive spirit. But anything to impress Theo, I suppose. She worships the ground that man walks on.”

Scully turned this over in her mind. “If it’s any consolation… Mulder, he’s sensitive too, and it doesn’t negate his strength or his capability. I may not always agree with him, but he has this… incredible ability to get to the heart of an issue, to understand perspectives and motivations that other people might not consider. His compassion makes all the difference in our work. I’m sure it’ll prove to be the same with Marion as well.” She left out Mulder’s desperation, his obsessive nature, how wholly and intensely he took on the pain of the people left behind. How every unsolved case was a new gaping wound that would never scar over.

Rhiannon assessed her for a few moments as she sipped at the jar, leaning back on the wooden island across from her. “You two must be very close.”

“We’re partners,” Scully said. “We’ve been through a lot together.” Suddenly self-conscious, she drew deeply from her mug, draining it, willing her cheeks to cool. A timer sounded, and Rhiannon turned her attention to the oven, opening the ceramic door to reveal a tray of fluffy biscuits. The smell was incredible. Scully hadn’t had an appetite in months, but there was something about Rhiannon’s cooking that was just… different. It was nourishing, appealing in a way that her usual diner fare and dry green salads just weren’t.

Rhiannon retrieved a jar of preserves⁠—“Last year’s serviceberries were so prolific that I made fifty jars, can you believe that? And I’m pretty sure that Theo’s eaten forty of those”⁠—and plunked it on the worn kitchen table. She plucked the steaming biscuits from the tray and piled them onto a chipped blue china serving platter, setting it down on the table next to a bowl of oranges. Hypatia paced, looking for a handout.

Just as Scully was working up the energy to ask Rhiannon for a second cup of coffee, the front door was unlocked from the outside, and Marion, stately and clean in a freshly pressed uniform, strolled into the kitchen. “Morning, Dana,” she smiled at Scully, and gave Rhiannon a kiss on the cheek. Scully’s mind lingered on last night’s dream, the scent of cedar, the woman’s bow-shaped lips poised above her own, and she blinked down at the tile.

Rhiannon asked Marion if she’d like a cup of coffee, and Marion declined. “You’re on a real health kick lately, Mare,” Rhiannon complained, but Marion just shrugged and took a jam jar of water to the table.

Just then, Mulder bounded down the stairs in his running shoes and a Knicks tank, rattling the walls, his hair sticking up in every direction. “Morning, womenfolk,” he said, squinting in the sun. Scully pressed coffee-warm fingers to her pounding temple, and wondered how on earth it was possible for him to run with a hangover. Where did he get all of that energy? Hypatia whined excitedly at the sight of him and rushed to his legs, but he sidestepped her, patting her awkwardly on the head after a moment of hesitation, and made for the sink. He turned on the tap and stuck his mouth under the running water, sucking at the stream obscenely. “Mulder⁠—” Scully scolded him, embarrassed, but the other women just smirked.

Mulder leaned against the counter and wiped his mouth with the hem of his shirt. Scully found herself looking at the lines of his hipbones disappearing into his sweats, and ripped her eyes away, but Rhiannon caught her and smiled knowingly.

“I’m seriously outnumbered here without Theo,” he quipped. “Marion, you okay if I go for a run before we leave?”

“Of course. Take your time. I’m still waking up, and it’s not like they’re expecting us.” Marion scuffled her nails on the tabletop, eyeing him openly.

“Fox, do you mind taking Hypatia with you? She doesn’t need a leash. There’s a lake a little way along the path out back, she’ll take you right to it and bring you back,” Rhiannon said, clearly not expecting him to refuse. Scully glanced at Mulder and caught him looking at her, defeated.

“Save some breakfast for me, Scully,” Mulder squeezed her shoulder on his way past her, last night’s tense exchange wordlessly forgiven. He begrudgingly held the screen door open for the dog, who trotted happily past him and down into the front yard.

“Uh, yum, Dana,” Marion laughed, once he was out of earshot. “Fox is a hunk under all that trenchcoat. I think I was too distracted by that awful tie of his to notice last night.”

Scully felt a grin tug at her lips, despite her best intentions. She suddenly realized how much she missed having female friends; Ellen’s cupboard full of cheap, secret wine, her college roommate Andrea’s fresh flower habit. Melissa, of course, with her incense and her crystals and the way she insisted on carefully studying the full astrological chart of every person Scully slept with.

She leaned towards Marion conspiratorially, nostalgia thrumming. “You should see him in glasses.”

8:04 AM

Mulder’s feet pounded mercilessly into the wet, mulchy grass at a counter-rhythm to the ferocious throb in his head. The trail to the pond was a worn, crushed valley through a field of knee-high wilderness. Wildflowers bloomed, silvery wolfwillow spicing the air with a sour, soaked-fur smell. The dog ran gracefully in front of him, darting off into the distance before returning to circle around his feet, panting joyously. Mulder had the distinct impression she was making fun of him.

“You’ve got four legs and I’ve only got two, you foul hellbeast⁠—” he called to her on her next rocket away. “This whole thing is rigged!” She barked happily in response, and reared onto her hind legs before jolting back to him for another relay.

His thoughts turned to Scully. God, sitting in that bed with her… he’d gotten dangerously close to doing something he’d certainly regret. Whiskey always made him dumb as shit, impulsive.

And her nightmare. He’d only been dozing, and her scream through the wall had been like a wave of ice water over him. How he’d wanted to run in there, wrap her in his arms, chase the shadows away. But she was right. She didn’t need him. Not like that.

He smelled the lake before he saw it, a moist earthy fetor tossed over the land like a wet blanket. As he came upon the glittering water, spooking a few mallards into flight, he noticed a rotting boat in the reeds on the far bank, turquoise paint flaking off in sheets. Just for something to do, he circled the lake at a sprint until he was closer to it. The dog trotted behind him, nose to the ground.

“Don’t eat anything weird,” he warned her, almost tripping as he drummed his heels to a stop. He wiped the sweat from his forehead and his stinging eyes. The morning sun shattered off of the surface of the lake and warmed the back of his neck, and he took a moment to kick out his legs a little as he caught his breath, bending to massage his aching right knee. The dog began to whimper irritably, a low growl that crescendoed into a keening whine. She threaded her long snout under his elbow.

“Hey⁠—stop it⁠—” He brushed her nose away, and returned to pressing his fingers around his oft-tortured patella. Scully’d been trying to get him to wear a knee brace lately, but he didn’t think he was ready to admit that he needed one. Maybe he should just swallow his ego before he did permanent damage, and had to resort to pumping on the elliptical with the government trophy wives at the Planet Fitness down the street from his apartment.

The dog moaned low, insistent, and let loose a stream of discontented yips. He looked up at her to find her crouching, her ears plastered backwards on her skull. “What the hell is wrong with you?” He chuffed a knuckle on her muzzle, and when she didn’t look up at him, he followed her eyeline.

The bottom of the boat was pooled with lakewater and blood.

A dead fox was curled in the murk, his toothy maw twisted into a grimace, as if in pain. The kohl tips of his ears were ragged. His eyes were closed. The dog yowled and whimpered behind him, pacing.

The sweet, mushroomy smell of death furled up from the corpse as Mulder leaned over it, looking for a wound. A few flies buzzed in circles around the eyes, nose, and mouth of the creature. As he got closer, he noticed the wriggling white body of a maggot crawl from the fox’s black-rimmed lip. A cold chill pierced Mulder’s stomach, and he retched into the grass beside him as he whirled away from the scene, losing what was left of last night’s dinner. The dog wailed.

He spat, and looked back up in horror.

“Fucking Jesus fuck,” he swore, scrunching his eyes and scrubbing his face with his palms. The dog’s crouching body was a coil of tension behind him. He backed away, but she wouldn’t follow.

“C’mere, dog,” he called, his voice rusty with bile. “Get away from that.”

The dog dainted a wide berth around the boat, starting and stopping, and Mulder called her again. “C’mon girl. Let’s go. C’mon.” She finally worked up the courage to pass it, throwing back a fierce growl as she skittered along. Mulder spat again, wishing for some water, and launched into a punishing pace back to Kicking Horse.

The sense of unease swirled around him. The dog ran in front this time, leaving him in the dust, eager to get home to her mistress. The fox in the boat couldn’t be a coincidence. Not with his name. Not with Scully’s vulpine head of hair.

Two omens in two days. Shit. And this one was personal.

#I FORGOT I HAD A BANK APPT #and I'm an Old who can't figure out the queuueueu time system and whether it matches with the actual time #so it's here an hour early! sorry lol #omens #txf fic

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