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thewhumperinwhite · 2 years

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ATTD: Caught (part 1)

Once again, it has been 85 Years since my last update. Mostly this is because i have been [gestures vaguely to brain meds and wheelchair], but Also its because i keep trying to write in chronological order and Getting Writers Block About It. SO there is a timeskip between the last ATTD piece and this one, for which i apologize. My girl 'City is new, this is a fairly good introduction to Her Whole Vibe but my askbox is also always open if you have questions. Cetus Emani appeared here but we haven't seen him since. I'll link the ATTD masterpost but i think that's kind of all you need for this one in particular. thanks for reading as always ❤

@whumpitywhumpwhumpwhumpwhump @favwhumpstuffmpstuff @whump-cravings <-this is who i tagged on my last update, dm me if you wanna get tagged in the future

ATTD Masterpost

TW for: parental death (past but discussed in detail), grief, guilt, PTSD, trauma-related touch aversion, head trauma, kidnapping.

Felicity Krie had slipped her father’s signet ring off of his finger when she found him, when she was still covered in his killer’s blood. Before it had occurred to her to scream for help, or to do anything but get shakily to her knees beside him. That was all she did, when he was dead and the man who killed him was also dead, the look of shock (she did not hear her father’s last words; his killer’s white-faced gasp, “they didn’t tell me he had—” will live in her head forever) still frozen on his face, only halfway slack. She had knelt; she had reached out a shaky hand and slid her father’s eyes shut; she had slid the ring off of his finger. It didn’t fit around her fingers, of course; even on her thumb it would have been too lose. She’d strung it on a silver chain around her neck ever since.

A chain which was broken, now. Had broken somewhere in Limani, the port town, the biggest town she’d ever been to.

She’d been trying, for the week walking here, not to think of what her father would have said, about the job she’d taken, and how few questions she’d asked before taking it. The company she was currently keeping.

It was suddenly much easier not to think of that, because her mind was immediately blank with panic, now that she’d lost him all over again.

On her knees in the dust in the middle of the street, Felicity pressed her hands over her eyes and sat very still for a moment, because if she thought about the number of people who must have passed this way since she’d noticed its absence, and the odds that none of them would have seen a thick ring of real gold lying unattended in the dirt—if she thought about that, or of how his hand had felt when she’d taken it, already cold and getting colder in her grip, or of the look on her mother’s face when she’d glimpsed it under the collar of Felicity’s shirt before she left—if she thought about any of those things she was going to cry, right here, in the middle of the street, in front of a hundred big-city strangers.

Her eyes were still squeezed shut under her hands when a boy’s voice with just a whisper of an accent said gently, “Excuse me, Miss—is this yours?”

Felicity lowered her hands.

The first thing she saw was her father’s signet ring, sitting in the center of an outstretched pink palm, looking dusty but not otherwise the worse for wear. Then she looked up and felt her mouth drop open of its own accord.

Holding her father’s ring with careful pale fingers was a pretty-faced Crythian boy with high, sharp cheekbones and very blue eyes, and yellow hair cut untidily around his ears, and a long thin scar that ran down his cheek from eyebrow to chin, and—

And it was him. Felicity had been staring at his face in Cetus Emani’s crystal ball for what seemed like hours every day, and knew it practically as well as her own, although seeing it in person was something else entirely.

The Crythian boy’s mouth quirked up a little at one corner, and he said in that same pretty soft voice, “Miss? Are you alright?” and Felicity realized that she was staring and shot to her feet too fast, almost keeling right back over.

This boy—soft pink outstretched hands or no—was a criminal. Cetus Emani had told her as much, and they wouldn’t be paying her to help find him if he weren’t, besides. And he was armed, too; there was a hand-and-a-half sword belted around his waist, though it looked a bit more decorative than practical.

“Yes—y-yes, that’s mine,” Felicity said, brushing dirt from her trousers and trying to surreptitiously wipe tears from her eyes as well. She felt—unaccountably embarrassed at the idea that this boy might have seen her crying; in person it was more obvious that they were of similar age, and he was really very—criminal, she reminded herself sternly. “I thought for sure I’d lost it.”

Felicity opened her hand, and the boy dropped her father’s ring into her palm, lowering the broken chain carefully, so that it wouldn’t knot. She stared at the ring for a moment, bright against her dark palm. Her brain kept snagging on it—it was expensive; anyone would have asked for something in exchange for its return. Let alone a criminal, on the run from Cetus Emani and his mysterious employer. But the boy had simply—given it back to her.

The boy’s smile widened a fraction, as though in good-natured awkwardness; Felicity realized she’d been quiet for too long. Then he put his hand over his heart and bowed, in a way that was—strange, a little too formal. The boy was wearing a green wool tunic that seemed made for a much larger man, and rough spun trousers underneath that were frayed at the hems. It wasn’t a bow for someone wearing clothes that didn’t fit.

“Well,” the boy said, “I am happy to have helped.” And started to turn away.

“Wait!” Felicity nearly shouted, and reached out without thinking to grab hold of his arm.

----

She was a pretty Galdrean girl, perhaps two years younger and two inches shorter. She was wearing no visible weapons, and the hand with which she was now gripping his arm below the shoulder was really very small.

There was no reason her touch should pull all his muscles tight-to-breaking and send ice in ripples down his spine. There was no reason. There was no reason at all.

“I—need your help,” the girl said, but she faltered on the last few syllables. Like she could hear that he wasn’t breathing.

The boy called Will concentrated very hard, and arranged his features into a look of mild concern.

“Why,” he said, very calmly. “What’s the matter, Miss?”

The girl withdrew her hand; Will forced himself to breath in slowly, so she would not hear him gasp. (The effort made him tremble, but not so much that it was visible.) She pressed her hands together, more in nervousness than supplication, and bit her lip.

Will did not take a step back, though she was standing really quite close. It was too soon after she had seen him go tense. He would stay here—and would breathe normally—and would not rub at his arm, which was hot and tingled unpleasantly where her small hand had touched it.

“It’s—my brother,” the girl said, and she did sound distressed, now, though she seemed unable to hold his gaze. “I, um.” She cleared her throat. “He—you see. My brother twisted his ankle, on the way to the shops. I can’t carry him to the healer’s district by myself.” Then she did look up at him, brown eyes very wide. “Will you—help me? Please?”

Will blinked at her.

That, he thought, was a lie. That was—a very bad lie.

“It isn’t far,” the girl went on, and now she was looking at—the center of his chest, transparently to avoid meeting his eyes again. “It’s just, um—I helped him to one of the store fronts, a few streets over. I was—I was hoping I could find someone to help me here, since it’s busier, that’s when I dropped my—”

She couldn’t be robbing him, surely, he thought. The magician’s clothes were far too large, but it was surely obvious he was carrying nothing of value, except perhaps the sword itself. And—she was so bad at this; her voice was wavering, now, but in a way that sounded less like worry for an imaginary injured sibling, and more like miserable embarrassment. It was as though she had never told a lie before in her life, and wasn’t enjoying doing so now.

“Alright,” Will said, over the rest of her babbling explanation.

The girl pulled up short, in apparent astonishment. Will smiled at her.

“Alright,” he said again. “Which way?”

----

“How old is your brother?” the boy asked, a few steps further toward the inn Emani had rented as their base of operations. It didn’t sound like a test, exactly. But it was hard to tell.

“He’s seen ten summers,” she answered, trying very hard to keep her voice light. “You know boys his age. Always climbing things they shouldn’t be.” Teron wasn’t much of a climber, actually Felicity herself had always been the one more likely to get herself into that kind of trouble. He was also half a kingdom away, of course, and thinking of him was not helping now, and she should have told a different lie, should have found some magic first lie that didn’t multiply into a thousand other lies like a pair of rabbits.

“Where are your parents?” the boy asked, light and gentle, like a man would use on a frightened horse, and Felicity tripped over a loose stone in the road, thinking for once not of her dead father but of her mother, left behind, her mother’s shadowed eyes and brave smile, what her mother would think—

“They’re gone,” Felicity said, and it came out too hard; the boy blinked his pale eyes at her, his sunburnt mouth and brow still soft but his gaze suddenly so piercing that felt it as a prickle on her skin.

“I’m sorry,” the boy said, and his voice had not changed at all; it mismatched his eyes in a way that was nearly alien, too gentle for his cut-gem eyes. “You are very young to be on your own.”

He could be no more than a year Felicity’s senior, if that—perhaps eighteen summers, surely no older. She opened her mouth to tell him that, and at that moment he crossed the threshold of the inn and Cetus Emani raised from a crouch beside the door, all seven feet of him; the boy had a moment to register the incomprehensible shape in the doorway, and then Emani brought his fist down on the boy’s head and the boy fell like a stone.

That, after everything, was far too much.

“What is wrong with you?” Felicity shrilled. Every second since she’d reached for her father’s ring and found it missing had wound her neck and shoulders tighter, and it all came out now in her voice, twisting it into a shriek.

Emani, busy with hauling the boy properly into the inn, ignored her. Harrow, now visible in the dim light beyond, skirted Emani and the boy’s limp body with averted eyes to yank Felicity into the inn after them, and had the actual nerve to raise his other hand to his mouth in a panicked shushing gesture. Felicity shook him off, harder than she needed to.

“I had him!” she yelled. The inn was nearly empty, as if Emani’s limitless budget had extended to the exclusive use of the whole building. The real bounty hunter—Criel—was seated at the untended bar, watching Felicity with bright-eyed interest. None of that mattered; she could not have lowered her voice even if the inn had been bustling with old ladies. “I had him, he was coming, you had no call to—to—”

“You have done a small part of your job,” Emani said in his deep, unmoving voice, not looking up at her. “Let me do mine.”

“You had no call—” Emani bent to fiddle with the boy’s belt and Felicity nearly slapped his hands away. “Now what are you doing?”

“Rest assured, he will wake,” Emani said, tossing the boy’s sword belt aside, where clattered across the dirt floor to stop at Felicity’s feet. Then Emani lifted the boy by the armpits and plopped him into one of the inn’s wood-and-grass chairs. The boy’s head lolled back like a doll’s. Emani bent to secure the boy’s hands to the back of the chair with a length of rope. “No doubt he does wake he will have questions for you, girl,” Emani said, without looking up at Felicity.

Emani said it in his usual flat, disinterested tone, but it sank in Felicity’s stomach like lead. Blood dripped in a thin line from the boy’s hairline towards his eyes, which were moving visibly under the lids, as though he were dreaming.

“You didn’t have to hit him,” Felicity said again; it seemed like someone ought to. “He was coming in peacefully. We could have talked to him.”

Emani did look up at her then, raising an eyebrow at her over the boy’s head. “Could we,” he said, sounding halfway amused. “You must have told him an excellent lie, that he would have remained peaceful upon seeing all of us here, and the exits barred.”

Felicity felt a shamed flush heat her face—shamed to be so poor at this job; shamed to have taken it in the first place. Emani was right, of course, except that all of it was wrong.

“You didn’t have to hit him,” she said again. Emani chuckled to himself, and yanked the ropes tighter.

#all those that dance #original whump #fantasy whump #kidnapping #on the run #knocked out #headtrauma #guilt #grief #parental death #there are several plot points here. that are. listen you just have to trust me #the Biggest things that are like 'well that doesn't make sense' are intentional just trust me #also. where this sits in relation to the actual canonical version of this story (insofar as one exists) is. Complicated #basically this version of events is from an older version of the plot and it is Possible that the Previous Chapter.....#as published here.........#Negates This #and this initial meeting would have happened A Different Way #BUT. i already had this over halfway written and it is whumpy. so here ya go

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gabrivale · 9 months

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What happened to Arsenal?

"If you compare this game with last season, we can say it was 10 times better than last season, at least 10 times better." Hearing Arteta's words, and looking back at the result of Saturday's 2-2 game, Arsenal played at home, and Fulham lost one player in the last 10 minutes. I said bluntly: I am very disappointed.

It is true that the coach is not convinced after the game, and it is normal and commonplace for the coach to bite the bullet and say "we played better" if he did not play well. And Arsenal is indeed "overall dominant" in some statistics, such as the ball possession rate of more than 70%; as many as 19 shots are more than twice that of the opponent (8); the number of shots on target is even more , A total of 11 times crushed Fulham's 3 times. But is it really "Arsenal is better just bad luck"? As long as you have watched Arsenal's performance in the new season, you can actually detect that they have systemic problems, and it is not accidental that there are mistakes.

Generally speaking, 캡도메인 thinks that something like Saka's return error and direct assist to the opponent within one minute of the opening should be regarded as a temporary trance accident, but as long as you think about it a little bit, you will feel that this has already been buried. the bane. Why did Saka return the ball to a blank space without thinking? Wasn't it because of inertial thinking that he felt that there would be a right back/right center back there? But the reality is that Arteta changed his formation and changed his tactical requirements. Thomas, who was born as a defensive midfielder, wanted to play right back and move forward to the midfield. Ben White, who returned to the central defender position, had to pull side protection again. Just let out such a big hole.

Stubbornly trying new formations is the biggest "unsolved mystery" of Arsenal's new season. To put it simply, this is probably Arteta's continued tribute to Guardiola. Last season, he learned the trick of pressing the left back to the center to score the ball. This season, he will practice "right back kicking the midfielder". However, the staffing of Arsenal and Manchester City is not the same, and there is actually a subtle gap in the playing style. It is really awkward to copy them bluntly.

Not only this round, but also the 2-1 victory over Nottingham Forest in the first round of the league, the tactical problem is extremely conspicuous: even though Arsenal scored two goals in the first half, the defensive width is not enough, especially if they do not make up the right wing in time, they are afraid of being caught. The flaw of the quick raid was quickly discovered by the opponent, and it was good luck to be able to keep the 3 points in the end.

In fact, Manchester City's usual 4-back change to 3-back is mainly done by defenders such as Walker, Stones and Rico Lewis. It's putting the cart before the horse. What's even more weird is that Arsenal didn't lack a right back. Before Timber was injured and Tomiyasu got a red card, Arteta even handed over the left defensive position to the original right back, which is equivalent to disabling the entire defensive system. I tuned it again. And depending on the effect of such a change, losing 3 goals in 3 rounds is obviously not ideal. At the same time, it also aroused more doubts about the employment of the coach: As one of the absolute main players of the team last season, why did Saliba's best partner Gabriel suddenly come off the bench? Only played less than 30 minutes in the first two rounds, and even with Tomiyasu suspended in this round, Arteta's backup starter was Kiviol.

From a tactical point of view, it may be that the Polish defender is more suitable to play as a left back on the wing, while the Brazilian is closer to the traditional central defender, so he was sacrificed. But is this sacrifice worth it? When Fulham, who has one less man, used a corner kick to equalize the score, I believe many Arsenal fans will make the assumption: if Gabriel, who has a strong air defense ability, is there, will the opponent's 1.90-meter-tall Parrinha be the best? Won't be emptied?

Of course, there is another possibility that a Saudi team wants to sign Gabriel. If there is such a thing, it is logical that Gabriel is restless and not suitable for starting. But having said that, hasn't Thomas also had a scandal with the Saudi League this summer?

Arsenal decided to stay and stayed with peace of mind. Moreover, Gabriel only renewed his contract until 2027 in October last year. It must be more difficult for other teams to sign than to buy Thomas. In this regard, transfer expert Romano also broke the news not long ago: "Arsenal will not sell their high-quality players, even if someone offers 200 million euros, they will not let Gabriel go."

If Gabriel hadn't been temporarily abandoned because he wanted to leave, it would be even more bizarre for Arteta's tactical experimentation, which was tantamount to giving up his best central defender combination in order to let Thomas play the "right midfielder". At the same time, the staffing on the left and the offensive and defensive system on the right were also affected. Prior to this, Arteta had denied that he would send Tierney away, but now it seems that this traditional left-back with a side-to-side bottom is already on his way to Real Sociedad on loan-even if the "new main left-back Defender Timber will have to recuperate for a long time, and Arsenal will not have much time left for Tierney, because someone took up the right wing and started, and the back line suddenly became quite crowded.

Tierney was once considered the most promising player in Scotland and is expected to surpass Liverpool left-back Robertson. It is definitely a pity that he cannot shine in Arsenal or even lose his position completely. But what is even more regrettable is that the changes that forced him to leave did not bring enough ideal returns. If the reuse of Zinchenko last season activated Xhaka, the transformation of Thomas this season has not yet been discovered. of subtlety. As mentioned above, the gunners who have changed have defensive weaknesses on the right, and it doesn't stop there. The attack power on the right also has a downward trend. Although Saka scored the world wave in the first round and tied for the top scorer in the team with 2 goals in 3 rounds, without Ben White's frequent lapping and cooperation, there are indeed more scenes where the English winger struggles to fight alone. In addition, let’s look at the team’s 3 assists. Except for Saliba who steals from the right frontcourt in the first round, Martinelli and Fabio Vieira both assisted from the left. Vieira also made points in this game Enter from the left.

The hidden dangers in the backcourt have become bigger, and the two wings of the frontcourt cannot fly at the same time. The "most significant effect" of the new formation is only to increase a large number of invalid ball possession. This is certainly not a successful attempt, so it is also puzzling why Arteta is so stubborn. After switching back to the old routine of last season, the Gunners' substantial threats immediately increased. Two goals in a row resulted in a red card. If it weren't for the distraction at the last moment, it is quite hopeful to get 3 points.

Another point that must be mentioned is that in the pre-season warm-up stage, Arteta’s tactical choice is not as unconventional as it is now: 4 defenders configuration, the central defender is basically the same as last season, the right is either Ben White, Timber or Tomiyasu, at most The use of Timber and Kiviol on the left is a bit of an experiment. Including the Community Shield against Manchester City, Timber, Gabriel, Saliba and Ben White were side by side from left to right, and they did not show the feeling of changing their faces completely. In this regard, 캡도메인 can only guess that Arteta may feel that some problems have been revealed in the warm-up match, so he needs to solve them by changing formations.

So what's the problem? One thing is certain is that after Xia Chuang spent 200 million pounds on reinforcements, spending money did not make the Gunners feel "doubled in strength", but needed to find their own balance again. From being defeated 2-0 by Manchester United with a surprise attack, to staged a 5-3 goal battle with the under-prepared Barcelona, Arsenal's defensive performance has always been flawed-including 4 warm-up matches, they have only had one match in the past 7 games. Crystal Palace got a clean sheet.

Although Rice, who is worth more than 100 million, is considered the best defensive midfielder in England, it is definitely not the best choice to entrust all the interception tasks to one person. Compared with last season, Arsenal's midfielder did not have Xhaka, who was "backward and forward", and Haverts, who was withdrawn from the guest center position, the overall defensive ability must have declined, so let Thomas help It is also a way of thinking. But there are only so many positions in the midfield, and the left and right wingers and Erdegaard's main positions are unshakable. Haverts has long proved embarrassing and useful as a center forward, so there is a "sacrifice right back"?

As far as the current situation is concerned, no matter what Arteta's thinking is, the goal he wants must not be achieved. The backcourt is chaotic, and the frontcourt is not that powerful, especially Haverts, who was introduced with a lot of money, seems a bit at a loss in the whole system. You can't count on him in defense, and the organization doesn't need him, and the "forward feature" that was originally considered to be highly malleable can't show its effect. Against Fulham, the German also had two "wonderful shots": one was when Saka knocked from behind in the first half, and Haverts outflanked the empty goal. The opponent's defender almost missed the sideline; the second is the left-sided inverted triangle assist Erdegao scored a long-range shot, but the ball was offside first, and the German was not rushing fast, so he passed the ball instead of The shot is over.

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deliriousgeek · 3 years

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Thomas Shelby x Wife Reader

Summary: A quiet evening meant for celebration is thrown into chaos. Y/n wills herself to play into the daunting role that comes with being Thomas Shelby’s wife, because it might be the only thing keeping her alive.

Masterlist

Tommy lowkey feels very oc so idk how to feel about that. im not good at writing suspense...its also very long. ha :,)

Warning: blood, guns, knives, fights, usual peaky blinder violence

If anyone knew Y/n Shelby, then they would know that she can’t stand seeing dead bodies. Although in her case, having that reaction would seem ironic, considering her husband was Thomas Shelby.

It was around 9pm when Y/n slipped her night robe off and lay back on her bed. Her night was just winding down and she was waiting for Thomas to get back. He said he would try to be home around midnight, and to not wait up. He and his brothers would be at the Garrison, celebrating Arthur’s return from prison and discussing what was to be done with the Jews and Italians next.

Y/n knew it would be a couple hours for Tommy to be home, so she settled onto their bed and grabbed a book off her night stand.

The room was bathed in a warm, orange and yellow light— the type of light candles can give. When she was home alone, Y/n liked to use candle light. It reminded her of a time before the war and before this gang business, when all she and Tommy had to worry about was getting enough candles to light up the dinner table.

Half an hour had passed and Y/n had gotten through a decent number of pages in her book. She felt her eyes drooping and decided it was time to call it a night. She stretched and cracked her neck before turning to place her book on the nightstand. Just as she was about to place the book down, she heard a creak downstairs.

She froze.

Tommy wasn’t supposed to be back until midnight and none of the Shelby family would come over this late without a call, that was their safety protocol.

She listened for more creaking.

After Tommy had bought their house he had insisted on replacing the creaky floor boards, but decided to keep a few. In certain spots, that could be easily avoided if one knew where to walk, the floor would still creak. It was a safety thing that Tommy and Y/n agreed would be good to have. If the floorboards downstairs still creaked after the first step, it wasn’t one of them.

Creak...creak...creak...

That wasn’t Tommy.

Y/n took in a deep breath as she put herself back into a sitting position on the bed. An intruder was in her house. At the moment, the Peaky Blinders had a lot of enemies. It could be anyone. Mostly, someone with a gun.

She listened as the person made their way upstairs. She could hear them passing Tommy’s office, and the guest bedroom. This person knew where their room was, and she could only deduce from their movement’s that they were coming for her.

Y/n was scared. She knew how to defend herself, but didn’t like doing it if she didn’t have to. Rolling her shoulders, she prepared herself for the inevitable. She’d have to fight tonight.

To be clear, Y/n Shelby wasn’t unable to fight. She was a pro at throwing knives, which she preferred to guns; much to Tommy’s dismay. She knew how to shoot a gun and could decently fare in hand to hand combat, but she was still scared. Her heart beat in her chest quickly and anxiety bubbled to the surface. A normal reaction to knowing someone broke into your house to hurt you, or worse. Y/n assumed it was the latter. However, instead of letting her fear show, she turned on her fake calmness. A trick she forced herself to learn as Thomas Shelby’s wife. The alarm that was spread across her face vanished, instead being replaced with an eerily calm facade.

There was no point in locking the door. The person knew how to get past those if he made it into their living room. She heard their steps stop at the front of her door, she raised her book to her face, pretending like she was reading.

Act calm. She told herself.

Then, the door burst open.

Back at the pub, the Shelby brothers were sitting around the table in the snug. Sharing laughs and taking on their third round of Whiskey.

“Alright boys,” Tommy began, placing his glass down and looking around the table. “We’ve had our fun, business begins now.” His content expression turned serious.

His other brothers, and cousin Michael, cleared their throats and straightened up.

“As you know, taking Arthur out of prison is a direct threat to the Sabini’s. It shows that even in London we have enough influence to get our own men out, if needed.”

The brothers nodded, and shared looks.

Tommy continued, “Getting Arthur out was our first move. Now it’s the Italian’s and the Jew’s turn but we don’t know when their next strike will be. So, from this moment on we have to be aware, alert, and ready for every—”

The door flew open.

Sir!” Out of breath, Isaiah stood with one hand on the door knob, looking at Tommy.

“Oi!” Arthur shouted. “You know better than to interrupt!”

Tommy nodded his head at Arthur, then turned to Isaiah. “What is it, lad.”

“Better be important,” John added.

“Sir, the Italians are here. My dad spotted them making their way down the lane. They got a group with guns and a car. We best hurry.” Isaiah said in a rushed voice.

With that all the Shelby men stood and placed their caps on, rushing out of the snug.

Upon noticing the urgency in which the brothers exited, the rest of the Peaky Blinders in the pub were at full alert, waiting for Tom’s next words. The crowd silenced as the brothers stood at the snug doors, facing the onlookers.

“If you aren’t a Peaky Blinder,” Tom eyed the crowd, “leave.”

Noise filled the bar again as chairs shuffled, cups were placed on tables, and the front doors opened and closed.

Tom didn’t speak again until there were only Peaky Blinders left. He pulled out his revolver and checked it, making sure there were bullets, before looking up again.

“Battle formation, men. The Italians are here.”

Then in a flurry of peaky hats and over coats, the rest of the men got into their positions. Some ran up the stairs to get the extra cases of shotguns and revolvers. Others pulled out their own handguns and checked them as well. The Shelby boys looked at each other, a silent way of saying ‘good luck’.

Once Tommy deemed every one armed, he nodded to Arthur, who shouted to move out.

The Shelbies were at the front, while everyone fell behind them in triangle formation. As they marched outside, they could see the group of Italians rounding the corner.

It was rather intimidating. An outline of men and guns on shoulders, a rather sizable group at that, illuminated by the truck headlights that followed behind. It was a sight to see.

Darby Sabini stood at the front, a shotgun slung over his shoulder.

As the groups marched towards each other and came to a stop, a man behind Thomas called out to the front. “At your command Sergeant Major.”

A hushed tone of agreement spread throughout the group.

Darby stepped forward. “Thought you could come on our turf and get away with it, aye?”

Tommy stepped forward as well, hands in his pockets. “It was meant as a friendly gesture, but I don’t think you have enough friends to know what that means.”

A small smirk made its way onto Tommy’s face as he stared Darby down.

Darby narrowed his eyes, irritated at that remark. “I’ll show you what friendly means. Now!”

A hail of gunfire began and the sound of shots being fired filled the lane. It was chaos. Bullets flew and body’s fell. Punches were thrown and blood was spread. More men jumped out of the covered truck and ran to beat down the men on the other side.

Tommy ducked and punched, kicked and shot. In the middle of punching a man in the gut he yelled, “Leave Darby for me!”

His men did just that.

Thomas fought his way to the center of the fight, where Darby had just knocked out a Peaky Blinder. Tommy aimed his gun and walked forward, aiming at Darby. The fighting on both sides ceased.

“I didn’t bring a battalion to your town.” Tommy spoke clearly, in a raised voice.

Darby aimed his gun as well. The two circled each other as men on both sides stopped to observe the interaction. They watched Tommy and Darby tread carefully, like two tentative predators waiting for their opposer to falter.

“You still showed up. That was enough.”

The two men were breathing heavily, a result from the brawls they just finished.

“What’s your purpose for being here, Sabini?” Thomas stopped pacing, his gun still firmly held up.

Darby stopped as well. An obnoxious laugh left his lips. “Isn’t it obvious?”

Tommy didn’t move. He held a blank face, but his eyes still watched Darby with intensity.

Not waiting for a response Darby continued, “I’m reminding you that I can take away everything you have in an instant. I already put your brother in jail, which it seems wasn’t a good enough warning for you, since you stupidly had him released so quickly.”

Darby took a couple steps toward Thomas, gun raised.

“Killing me won’t do anything. I got people in place to still ruin you.” Thomas stated, his tone flat.

Darby lowered his gun, a sickly calm smile spread across his face. It was an unsettling sight that made Tommy begin to think something was off.

“Oh Tommy boy, I’m just the distraction,” Darby’s eyes noticeably darkened, “How’s your wife these days?”

Tommy’s eyes widened and his finger pulled the trigger.

Darby fell to the ground dead, a bullet was lodged in the center of his forehead.

Then like a wave, the fighting began again.

As soon as the gunshot rang, Tommy saw red. He shot, punched, kicked or swung at anyone in his way as he fought to get out of the crowd. He didn’t bother shouting an explanation to his brothers as he ran to his car.

Tommy shoved his keys into the ignition and started the car. Tommy slammed his foot on the gas as soon as the engine roared to life. The car’s lights illuminated the carnage left from the battle. The Peaky Blinders were the last ones standing, as Tommy expected, but paid no mind to. His thoughts too consumed with conjuring the hundreds of horrible possibilities he might see upon arriving home, all ending with a bloodied image of Y/n.

John and Arthur ran towards the car, causing Thomas to slam on the breaks.

“Where are you going?” John asked urgently.

“They’re going for Y/n.” Thomas hastily replied.

John and Arthur jumped on the side of the car just in time before Tommy could speed up again.

Michael and Finn watched as the older Shelby boys passed them.

“Great. So we’re left to clean up the mess.”

At the house, Y/n held her book to her face as the door burst open. She turned her head and was met with the sight of a man pointing a gun at her. His clothes were clean and he looked very young. Her eyes flitted from the gun to his shoes, then to his eyes, then back to the gun.

“On your feet.” He demanded.

“What?” Y/n feigned innocence, despite her struggle to keep calm.

The man, gun still held towards her, trudged over and ripped the book from her hands, throwing it onto the floor.

“I said on your feet!” He yelled in her face, backing away so he was a few feet from the bed.

She stared into his eyes, an impassive look on her face. Y/n looked back down at the gun.

With a purse of her lips and a shrug she stated, “I’d rather not.”

The man’s soldier esc demeanor nearly slipped at her blatant defiance of his orders. “It’s not an option lady! Get up.”

She chuckled. “Y’see, lad. I’ve been on my feet all day. Have you ever worn heels for over six hours? Rather painful you know.”

Her cocky attitude betrayed her quickly beating heart that was full of adrenaline.

In an effort to scare her, he menacingly stepped forward. “I ain’t afraid to hurt you lady, but the boss wants you alive. If you keep disobeying me, I'm allowed to use force.”

She rolled her eyes. “Oh really, and who is your boss? I must thank him for not wanting me dead.”

She knew she was playing with her life, but if this boy was as inexperienced as he looked, she would get the information she needed to warn Tommy. Granted, if she got out of this situation.

“Sabini.” The man bluntly answered.

Y/n swallowed. This wasn’t good. If Sabini’s men were here and not in London, she needed to warn Thomas immediately. Her heart pumped faster than she thought possible and every nerve in her body was on the verge of trembling from fear.

“I see.” Y/n turned her head to the foot of the bed. “Well, like I said, I’d rather not get up. Matter of fact, I’d rather keep reading. So be a dear and hand me my book, would ya?” She was stalling.

“C’mon lady, stop being stubborn. You don't even got a weapon to be making these demands.” The man sneered.

Y/n slowly adjusted herself so that she scooted away from the pillows that propped her up. She straightened her legs on the bed, her left crossed over her right. Then she leaned back on her arms, purposely pushing up her chest to show off her unbinded chest. Hopefully, he’d be dumb enough to look at her distraction, and he was.

“Ah, well. It was worth a shot. I can tell that you're new to this whole— kidnapping thing. If you want to get better at it then you should learn this.” She paused before looking back at the man, “Always do research on your target.”

The young man’s brows furrowed, obviously confused.

“If you did your research, like a good little gangster,” She began as she slid her left leg up off her right, causing her silk nightgown to slowly expose her leg. The man’s eyes roamed her leg once she stopped moving, leaving her left leg in a bent position. She reached for the hem of the dress and raised it further up her left leg, stopping until it got to her mid thigh, “Then you would know, that I’m always armed.”

In a swift and well practiced motion, Y/n grabbed the sharp, throwing knife from her thigh holster, and threw. The knife landed in the man’s chest, in his heart. Looking down at the knife, the man stumbled backwards, tripping over his own feet and falling onto his back. Blood quickly formed a growing splotch of red on his shirt. Y/n quickly stood from the bed to remove the gun from the man’s hand, she then crouched over him.

She placed her hand on the knife handle, “It was a shame you didn’t do your research.” Then she pushed the knife forward, until she felt through the blade that it had really punctured his heart.

Y/n stood over the man’s body, gun in her hand, and watched the blood puddle grow. She backed away until her knees hit the bed and gave way. Letting out a shaky breath, she sat with the gun in her lap. In an attempt to avoid looking at the body laid in front of her, Y/n stared at the ceiling.

The adrenaline began to wear off, and the reality of the situation dawned on her. She could have died, quite easily too. If her attacker had not been so inexperienced and if she wasn’t wanted brought back alive, she could have died. Then, she thought of her husband.

Tommy.

Had the man lying dead on her carpet opened the door and shot, Tommy would have had to come home to her dead body instead. The thought of Tommy finding her body, cold and bloody, scared her more than death. She couldn’t imagine the pain of him being alone. He would blame himself for her death. He would say he couldn’t protect her, and he would loathe himself for the rest of his life. Tears began to prick her eyes and her throat tightened. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing the tears to go away and for her erratic heart beat to calm down.

She killed a man.

That’s the only thought she could process. Her emotions muddled her thinking. Never before had she used her knives to kill. She used guns, from far away. She used punches to knock people out. She used her knives to injure, but never before had she needed them to kill. She was slightly glad for the memory of Tommy coming back home from an errand, returning with the thin knife holster that he insisted she wear when he wasn’t home. She was also glad that she made it a rule for herself to never take it off unless Tommy was home with her.

Then, the silence of the house was broken again. She flinched. This time, the sound came from the front door slamming open and muffled shouts that she could only register as her name.

“Y/n! Y/n where are you?” The voice shouted.

She couldn’t pinpoint who it was, not in her boggled state of mind, but she knew it was safe. So she answered.

“In the bedroom.”

Her eyes were still shut and her head faced the ceiling when Tommy rushed in.

“Y/n.” His voice was slightly breathless as he took in the sight before him.

The room was covered in warm, candle light, giving a complete opposite tone to the tense atmosphere. His wife sat on the bed with a gun in her lap. A man, with his wife’s knife in his chest, laid dead on the ground and a puddle of blood surrounded his wound.

Y/n opened her eyes and looked at her husband. She could see the fear and worry that filled his eyes, his face in slight shock.

Thomas was relieved to see his wife unharmed, but he could see the tears that were threatening to fall. Her slumped shoulders were signs of exhaustion. The way her chest moved up and down with heavy breathes told him she was on the verge of holding herself together.

Arthur and John came bounding up the stairs next, and found their places on either side of Thomas.

Y/n’s voice came out void of emotion, but her teary eyes said it all. “One of Sabini’s men.” She stated before turning her eyes to the ceiling once more, trying to blink away tears. “Please get him out of my sight.” The growing puddle of blood made her want to throw up.

“You heard her,” Thomas said in a low tone, staring at his wife with concerned eyes. “Get rid of ‘em.” His voice was just above a whisper.

Arthur and John stepped forward, grabbing the man by his arms and lugged him out of the room. Only once the man had been removed did Thomas walk towards his wife. Only when he wrapped his arms around her did she let herself cry. She let herself sob and express how truly scared she was when the man burst into her room, and pointed a gun to her head.

Thomas held her close and kissed her head. He whispered in her ear that she was okay, and that she did what she needed to do. Holding her close, he told her he loved her, and promised to never let anything like that happen to her again.

Masterlist

well I tried

Edit: Bro this blew up in less than a day with 41 notes. Thank you♡

#thomas shelby #thomas shelby x reader #tommy shelby x y/n #tommy shelby x wife reader #thomas shelby x wife reader #peaky blinders imagine #thomas shelby imagine #tommy shelby imagine #tommy shelby wife imagine #thomas shelby x hurt reader #thomas shelby x reader protect #peaky blinders x reader #thomas shelby wife imagine

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keilemlucent · 3 years

Text

pretty eyes & starshine: i

(NSFW)

hawks | takami keigo x reader

ao3

part i || part ii || part iii

beta’ed: @shadowworks & @keiqos (thank you!! 💞)

word count: ~9.4k

Keigo surrenders to losing himself in the blank-walled, temporary home he inhabits. He finds familiarity in the routine of aches, pains and pills.

You’re his only solace.

warnings: bodily trauma, medical trauma, PTSD, dissociation, suicidal ideation, alcohol as a coping mechanism and graphic description of sustained injury

a/n: oh wow so here it is, big sad fic :’^) part one!! it’s canon divergent from manga chapter 296 onwards.

this one has been a long time coming. please mind the warnings!! this fic deals a lot with trauma and mental illness in tandem. the warnings are going to change with the coming parts, so please be mindful. i don’t wanna get too sappy, but this piece has been my Baby for the past few months, and i’m excited to finally share. that being said, enjoy loves 💞

Everyone is fucked up after the War.

There is no kindness in an aftermath like this one, not so soon, and certainly not with dried blood of old comrades and mud still caking under its metaphorical fingernails. The world was in shambles, and every hero is along with it.

There is something horrifying about being at the center of it all, Hawks, no, Keigo thinks solemnly, all too often.

He’s used to the attention he’s getting, touches and poking and prodding by near strangers. Except, he was used to exclamations of how great and powerful and remarkable he was. Now, all the attention he receives is followed by little sighs and sad, broken eyes.

He’s sure he looks equally as sad; Keigo had been nothing but an empty shell since the War had ended and he’d been carted off to his hospital room. Numb despite all of his burns.

It’s the shock, he tells himself, he’ll snap out of it any day.

Any day.

...

And it is any day.

He wakes up to screaming from the next room over, agonized wails that pierce the air as his morning nurse enters. She’s over-worked and haggard while checking his vitals with a forced smile. They don’t make conversation with him much anymore, and Keigo doesn’t have the energy to try and force it. There isn’t enough in him to pretend that he’s okay enough to banter with folks.

If he still had his wings, he would’ve wrapped himself up tight in the plumage and let himself rot away in some corner. He’d let the dissociated numbness fade, however long it took, and then succumb to whatever psychological wounds revealed themselves.

Waste away, all alone.

But he doesn't have that luxury. He is in an overcrowded hospital with swarms of civilians and heroes, all stuffed in one place because the world doesn’t have the time to differentiate between the wounded, nor the space or resources to give different resources. Though, Keigo is a special case, hence why he’s had healers coming to him for the past three weeks since the War trying to coax his body into genesizing a new pair of wings.

The Commission’s hospital has all the bells-and-whistles that a medical professional could need, but Keigo, and so many others, are facing problems that don’t have good and easy roads to healing.

That’s assuming healing was even possible.

Keigo is convinced, has been convinced, that there is no way to come back from the War, nor the absence on his back, nor the shouts and cries of pain that echo around the hospital like a new genre of music that Keigo so desperately wants to scrub from his brain.

Things change, it’s inevitable. Everyone falls eventually, and he was just used to flying.

It’s a harder descent.

...

Keigo doesn’t meet you on any day, he meets you on a lonely night.

The evenings and early mornings were the most peaceful at the hospital. Most folks, three weeks after the end of it all, had serious enough injuries that they had to be somewhat sedated to sleep, either for physical or mental pain keeping them from sleep.

It’s morose, Keigo thinks, quietly and privately, but he craves those hours. All he hears then is the hum of air vents and beeps of his own medical machinery. None of the audible agony of the folks he was sworn to protect.

He’s slept most of the day, not lucid enough to do much else, and the nurses haven’t been giving him sedatives unless he asked (though he always did.) Without forced quiet, he’s antsy, fingers twitching and flaring the new (and growing) pains rooted in his (empty, isn’t that horrifying—) back.

He rouses himself, adjusting his scratching hospital garb (thin sweats and a cheap crew neck with the back almost entirely cut away). With his IV pole at his side, he resolves to take a few laps and quiet himself, hopefully.

(Keigo would need sedatives, he always did, but it was nice to play pretend that he didn’t. It made things easier for a precious hour or two.)

His laps are usually quick, despite how much his body aches when he walks. So much new, burnt tissue that needed to learn how to move, how to live again, kept him throbbing and gritting his teeth.

Masochism be damned, he keeps at it during his sleepless nights. Physical therapy wasn’t an option when the world was caving in with him at the epicenter.

There’s a common room at the end of the foyer of identical (filled) hospital rooms, just a collection of stuffy, uncomfortable couches that face an aged TV and a wide bay of windows. It’s rarely used, just a formality for when the space of the hospital had regularly hurt victims and heroes. When it wasn’t bearing so much weight.

Sometimes, he would stop to idly regard the mostly barren world around the hospital. Far from the cities, a little hideaway for heroes and their loved ones to heal in privacy. Other than sheer distance, there is a thick, organic shield around the complex. It’s a towering forest, man-planted with identical types of trees in perfect rows.

It’s grim in its predictability.

(When did he get so fucking pensive?)

(Oh yeah, too much time locked in his goddamn skull.)

He hadn’t been planning to have any inner musings that night.

But, that night, he notes that he is not alone.

On one of the hard couches, you sit, with your own IV-pole companion and injuries, an arm carried in a monochromatic sling and set in a hard cast.

You turn to him, blinking wide eyes at him.

There’s a single lamp on, and the light dances in your eyes with its own unexpected rhythm.

Something compels Keigo to smile, cocky, like he used to, and greet you with a little wave, and a finger to his lips.

Your expressions melts, a hand going over your mouth to stifle a giggle.

It’s like you’re pulling him after that, he finds himself resting across from you.

You must look like a pair, he realizes. You’re greasy, he’s greasy. He’s got a fine layer of built-up stubble that shouldn’t be called anything other than impressive peach fuzz (not that Keigo’s seen it, he’s felt it. The idea of looking in a mirror makes him sick to his stomach. Though you don’t have any pseudo-beard, you’ve got your own unkempt look and feel that makes you two kindred without sharing a word.

It feels comfortable, warm.

“Hi,” you speak first, voice soft and gentle. “Can’t sleep?”

“Nah, who can?” Keigo replies, shaking his head. “But what about you? Midnight oil doesn’t burn without a cause, you know.”

Your expression is also painful in the way it’s so open, yet worn (most everyone had locked up by now, the ones in the hospital and Keigo imagined the ones outside of it too.)

“I like the sky— the stars are pretty.” You sigh, wistful. “I watch for shooting stars.”

The thought, the significance of that obvious wanting, makes something pang deep in his chest. Childlike hope in a place like this, foolish as well as frail.

“Trying to get a wish?” Keigo clicked his tongue. “Smart.”

“No, no— wishing doesn’t... suit me, right now.” You snorted, shaking your head, the light in your eyes dancing, “I just think they’re pretty.”

Keigo blinks, unable to stop the way his eyes widen.

Your posture reads nothing but earnestness and vulnerability, so freely given (so undeserved) without a hint of pullback.

“What do you want to be called?”

“... Excuse me?” Keigo is not used to his thoughts being interrupted in the blanket of dark that he feels most comfortable in. Your words shock him enough with their meaning, let alone the way you’re so brazen.

“I, uh,” You stumble on your words. “I know who you are, but I also saw that whole broadcast, which I’m going to easily assume you don’t want to talk about. But, I don’t know how much you want to be called ‘Hawks’ at this point either.”

His mouth is dry.

“So, I ask instead,” You lean forward, your IV line pulling the slightest bit and you wince. His discomfort must be very fucking apparent, because you backtrack in moments. “... Or, neither. I can call you something else, too.”

“... A nickname, for someone you don’t even know?” Keigo, Hawks, whoever he is now struggles with words. There’s too many, and they’re all too fast, and he doesn’t have his wings to catch up to them or outrun them—

“Yeah, why not?” You shrug with a lazy smile. “I’ll call you... pretty eyes. How about that?”

Keigo does have pretty eyes. They’re gold, light and glittering amber in the lowlight. Before he, ya’ know, lost them, and when things were good, but awful, but normal, he darkened the organic marks around his canthi with liquid eyeliner. He liked makeup, prettied himself up and accentuated all the good he had. Preening.

None of that is left, just what organically was on his skin, and he hasn’t seen it in its raw state in years, and like fuck if he was going to look in a mirror just to figure out if his natural eyeliner was half as good as that by his own hand.

“Sure, that works,” He relaxes, mirroring your expression like the practiced... pro he is. “What do I call you, starshine?”

You roll your eyes, but nothing about you fades as you tell him your name, something that calms and fills him, “But, you can call me starshine if you want. Sounds nice.”

It’s sweet.

So, Keigo greets you.

“Nice to meet you, starshine.”

...

That’s the first time you kept each other’s company. Most of it is quiet, you truly do just want to watch the stars. Keigo did with you, tracing the shadows of clouds and moonlight with his eyes.

(Occasionally, his gaze shifts to you, regarding your figure with the same care for only a moment before returning to the sky you both miss.)

Eventually, the quiet heat of it puts him half to sleep, and he bids you goodnight.

You wave goodbye, rising as he away.

The light isn’t in your eyes anymore, and your warmth feels a little too far away.

...

The next days are long.

He slips into that shell-state again, where he’s a husk that stares emptily at the ceiling as the Commission tries to piece him together to a fraction of what he once was.

They fail, each time, because no healer they’ve brought can regenerate quirk-formed appendages, but he commends their efforts all the same. It’s out of desperation, sure, but he’s heard whispers of the new generation. In recalling his own sidekicks, he isn’t as scared for the future.

(Everyone else’s future. He’s so terrified of his own that he turns extra numb if he thinks about it.)

Selfishly, he just wants his wings for himself. They’d keep him plenty company. If he ever did get them back, he’d fly somewhere, faraway and alone to live out his days under his feathers and feel as empty as he wanted.

They fuss over him all day, not knowing those desires. They are private, and he only puts on his old, self-confident bravado so they don’t lock him up somewhere to have his brain picked and to fill the new holes with pill-shaped gauze.

As established, Keigo was content to rot.

(He can’t fully parse all of his feelings and they consume him.)

The healers for the week all failed, doing nothing but making his back bow and burn. It’s painful. Obviously, trying to stitch a body back together, or rather making a body make when it was so tired of creating—

(Feather after feather after feather, for how long?)

He’s glad his sessions are in a different room, a spare, horrifyingly metallic exam room across the hospital. It reeks like iron and isopropyl alcohol, but Keigo doesn’t mind. The filmy paper that rolls from the exam table gets soaked with his sweat as opposed to his familiar bed dressings.

Not to mention, it’s nice, not having to hear his neighbor’s screams and pleadings to God, any god, for reprieve. Calming.

(He feels less guilty. Less like it was his own hand that scarred up their bodies. If he can’t hear them, he only thinks of his own agony under ‘helping’ hands.)

His body is exhausted at the end of each day, and even his restlessness fades with the necessities of his body.

He doesn’t see you, and practically forgets about you.

It’s a week or so later when he takes one of his strolls, and finds you tucked away into your nook, dimly lit and with a blanket over your lap.

Keigo feels it as he nears you, that comfort that your expression bleeds into his very soul. Even as he watches your healthy hand nervously toy with the thin knit in your lap, it doesn’t dim you.

The lamplight dances in your eyes as you nod to him, “Fancy seeing you here, pretty eyes.”

“You’d never know it, but I live just down the hallway— me,” He touches his chest proudly, surprised by his own jest.

You gave a fake gasp, mirroring him easily, “Never knew I had such a well-known soul in my neighborhood. Forgive my transgression.”

Bending at the waist, as much as you can with your right leg extended, straight, you choke on laughter.

Keigo follows you in it, giggling, genuinely giggling, high and light and girlish like he’d never heard from himself before.

He snapped his mouth shut, thickly swallowing and shaking his head.

“No need to be shy,” You assured him with an affectionate turn of the head. “You have a lovely laugh.”

“Now you’re just flirting with me, cute.”

Your head tilted farther, confused, “I’m simply being kind to you.”

Why didn’t he have the snark to reply to that? Probably because he was half-dead and on painkillers for nearly a month. He’d beat himself up about it later, maybe.

There wasn’t an ounce of malice in your tone, just earnestness that tugged at his own insecurities.

You backpedaled. “How was your day?”

Keigo takes a few moments to respond, shaking his head without mind to the way his too-long hair flops in his face.

The banter isn’t forced, but it’s not welcomed yet.

As comfortable as you feel to him, Keigo isn’t comfortable.

“Same old, same old,” Living hell. “Boring, mostly. Painful, but dull. It’s crazy how much hell smells like cheap disinfectant, huh?”

You agree, quietly, “I’m pretty sure there’s many hells in this place.”

Keigo doesn’t know how to respond, so he doesn’t.

You both regard the stars again with growing reverence. Specks of light dance back in your eyes as you both settle into the hard cushions like they were made of goose down and Sherpa.

...

Your conversations are... disjointed, to say the least.

There’s an inability for words and phrases to flow between you. There’s starts and stops, stalls like an engine that putters on tarry oil without ever truly firing. There are good feelings, still, safety in silence before words as you stargaze together through the comfort of a window.

It should feel disarming, to be so far from the sky yet have no way to reach it. And it is, but Keigo can swallow the reality these days. It’s easier when there’s someone on the mend close by, sharing in the discomfort of a rawed mind and the comfort of a yellow-toned fluorescent bulb.

It’s unspoken kinship. Keigo never had time for it in the past, but now it was all he had. There had to be some cruel irony in it (as if there wasn’t enough in his life), but he couldn’t make himself mind.

Everything he’d once excelled at, everything he had was gone. He was barren and stripped (don’t think about it—), exposed to the elements in all the worst ways. At least the hospital was clean and safe, relatively.

It feels safest with you near.

Sure, your conversations were clearly that of two horribly broken people, but that wasn’t new or surprising. It simply was.

“Do you know constellations?” You ask one night, a colder one, where you’ve got two blankets over your lap.

Keigo thought for a moment, “A handful, but I never took to stargazing, you know?”

You don’t relate, just chew your lip, the light of the dim lamp dancing across your irises.

“Can I show you some?”

“...Constellations?”

“What else?” You crack a smile. “Come on, pretty eyes.”

Whatever you’d like, he’d do.

He can’t refuse, he’s already getting weak for you.

Shifting, Keigo joins you on your typical couch for the first time. Your IV poles, thrumming and humming their own rhymes harmonize, quietly and mostly imperceptible.

You regard him even more warmly, so close, a little smile playing on your lips.

“What’s your sign?”

Keigo deadpans, “What?”

“Like... astrology. What’s your sign?”

You wiggle your eyebrows, knowing the double-meaning of your words.

Flirting again.

Since when had he been so bad at it?

“Capricorn,” He huffs back. He keeps his back off the stone-like cushions of the couch— his scarring had been itchy the whole day prior— so itchy—

You tap the plastic-y fabric gap between the two of you, grabbing his attention, “Hey, pretty eyes. Stick with me, let me show you where that one is.”

So, you do.

Your light-filled eyes trace the sky’s nighttime freckles, searching until you find what you’re looking for.

“There,” Your finger raises, tracing the patterns in the air. “That’s Capricorn, can you see?”

Not really, the stars are just a meaningless smatter. If there’s some sort of pattern he’s supposed to find, he comes up with none.

“Not in the slightest,” Keigo rolls his eyes. “Show me again?”

You don’t reply, but rather scoot a bit closer, mirror his hunch and pose with precision and tiny adjustments.

He doesn’t dare to breathe as you carefully grab his arm, extending it. You lay your cheek over his bicep, watching from the closest view to his own that you could.

“Do you see now?”

The only starlight he sees is right in front of him, soft cheek pressed against atrophying muscles. Sharing your heat so graciously as you would so easily come to, you chatter about the stories that are written in the stars, by all cultures, for so long.

Keigo hears, but he’s far more focused on how he wishes you were even closer.

...

After that night, you always share the same couch.

You face forward, right leg always extended and stiff-looking. Keigo doesn’t mind, hardly notices. He faces you, fragile back bandaged and kept away from the unforgiving grit of the uncomfortable couch. It looks a bit uncomfortable, the posing of it all, but with the words flowing easier, neither of you mind.

You keep showing him stars, the constellations you can remember and see in the night sky.

Keigo makes fun and crafts his own, connecting new dots and winding stories about them.

“See those three there?” He guides your hand, close enough to share your breath. “That’s the comb of the chicken. Star comb, if you will.”

You snort, rolling your eyes and pulling your hand from his grip, “There’s no cock in the stars, pretty eyes. Chickens can’t fly anyways.”

You both freeze.

Keigo’s mouth goes dry—

Chicken can’t fly.

As much as you’re both learning to be human again, there isn’t talk of your injuries. Maybe, there’s mutual curiosity (you’ve been here two months. just for a broken arm, why?), but like fuck Keigo wants to broach the subject.

“S-sorry,” you stumble over your words, physically retreating. “Shouldn’t have said that.”

It is a fact, chickens can’t fly, but Keigo isn’t a chicken. He’s a debauched, defamed hero whose home is the same set of a milky white, hospital ward walls. Once, a real hero, before the war, before selling his morals just for a chance at rest, before blue flame— burning—

“Pretty eyes,” Your voice trembles, shaking and lonesome. “Come back here, now. Come on.”

You’re holding his cheeks, unkempt nails pressing (blessedly) a bit too hard into his cheeks. The heat of you is so close, almost scalding him, but he wants more of it, more of the heat that doesn’t burn—

“You’re okay, pretty eyes, s-see?” You hold yourself together, jerking your head to the wide window and glittering stars. “We’re just stargazing.”

Keigo’s has tears leaking down his face, but neither of you acknowledge them. You release him, quietly spinning another tale about a hero hung in the cosmos. He thanks you for it silently by tugging you into his side.

(It was the first night you really touched him.)

(The light in your eyes was so close, he wanted it all for himself.)

...

They’re running out of healers to try.

From the weakest to the strongest quirk, no one could revive his dead wings. There was no root to push from the scar tissue, nor resolve left in Keigo to try and make new pins and feathers sprout.

His back isn’t fertile. It’s just as poisoned as the rest of him.

...

He wonders where you disappear to during the day. He takes his strolls then, too. Waves to nurses these days, not charming, just friendly, trying to make a little brightness.

There’s one day where he asks one of the nurses he knows best for a pair of scissors.

She looks at him, worried, “Don’t tell me we need to put you on psych watch.”

“What? No,” Keigo shakes his head, shaggy hair quivering around the frame of his face. “I just need a bit of a haircut.”

“... We can ask the Commission to bring someone in—”

“I can do it myself.”

She doesn’t argue with the firmness of his voice, rather, she hands him a pair of safety scissors with bright purple handles. They’re for a child, but Keigo’s fine with that. They’d do.

When he was younger, and in a pinch (and so poor he tried to eat grass and lick scraps from metallic packaging of discarded junk food wrappers) he’d cut his hair with his own feathers.

Safety scissors would be even easier.

It did mean that he had to confront his own visage, which he had gotten too good at avoiding.

The bathroom in his room is small, it would’ve been claustrophobic if he was still carrying a twenty-five-foot wingspan.

But, he isn’t. It was just him and the scars on his back that he definitely wasn’t ready to see.

He’s caught glimpses of himself over the past weeks, but nothing substantial. No view that would’ve given himself time to scrutinize over his imperfection.

The dull hospital mirror reveals too much about him. It feels too vulnerable, makes his chest tighten, as he stares himself in his ‘pretty eyes’.

Purple stamps below his eyes, probably not from sleeplessness itself, just the sheer exhaustion of living. The one under his left is an odd maroon color, mixing with the scar that is burned into that half of his face.

The skin was once soft, plump cheeks always tended too and well taken care of by expensive skincare products. Now, it’s charred and gaunt. Healing, but still obviously scarred heavy and deep. The weak beard he’s been growing (accidently) is patchy around the thickened tissue.

It bothers him—

It doesn’t look like him in the mirror.

It helps to take care of himself for the first time in a long while.

He shaves with the cheap foam and single blade razor they’d given him in the toiletries pack the first days he was there, while he was still numbed out and half-dead. The metal glides over his skin, stripping away the numbness just a little. The stubble and cream slide down the drain and away.

His hair is different. The waves had for so long been pushed back and held that way with the winds of his flights. The longer, feathery patches now hang around his face, dangling down and mingling with the too-long sections that curl over his ears and down his neck.

Wetting his hair, he cuts away what he can.

It’s blunt, messy, and not elegant.

All the same, the trim feels good.

Though, his mood goes sour when the screaming starts for the day.

The far wall of the bathroom was shared by him and his shrieking neighbor, and he took great care to never shower when they were singing their awful chorus. It grates on his ears; he should’ve been a bit empathetic to their suffering, but he didn’t care that much. It was so regular, that the screaming that might’ve once sent each one of his feathers (don’t think about, don’t fucking think about it) sharp as the razor in his hand, didn’t bother him in the slightest.

Just a poke at his temple, a jab and a drop of water that irks him more than anything else.

It is a... somewhat pleasant distraction. He can focus more on his fellow patient than his own haggard appearance, the scar, the lack of red at his back—

It’s all okay, ‘okay’, until the patient starts babbling.

“M-make it stop!”

Keigo stills.

A scream tears through the drywall. Even without his wings, it makes him thrum, far-too sensitive.

“Help!” The voice yelps. “HELP!”

There’s a thud and thump from the other room.

“Please, please!”

Keigo’s heart stutters in his chest, and the razor falls from his hand, clattering into the sink.

“MAKE IT STOP!”

It’s you.

It’s your screaming and shrieking that’s burrowed in his ears. It’s your voice that’s trembling in desperation that has him running out of his room, nearly pulling out his IVs as the pole teeters and follows behind him.

Why are you screaming?

Why have you always been screaming?

A nurse is trying to stop him, urging him to settle but he can’t. There's an urgency in his chest he hasn’t felt since back before and he has to heed it. He needs to.

He pulls his forearm from the nurse’s grasp, hissing in his own pain, muscles pulling and aching with disuse but he doesn’t care.

The nurses drag him back from your door, and they almost have him, almost have him on the ground.

And then he smells burning—

Cloth.

Flesh.

And something in him snaps.

He clocks the nearest nurse with a tight fist, ignoring his atrophied muscles and kicking with everything he could muster.

They release him, probably out of shock. (He’d been such a model patient, so complacent and quiet until then.)

Then, he stumbles into your room, and sees you, and wants to die.

...

There’s plenty of times in his life where Keigo felt like an animal. When the Commission first got their hands on him, they took to studying and picking his quirk about to figure out the most efficient way to rebuild it to their needs and uses. Now then, he felt very much like an experiment, only half-human. He was too young to really ‘get’ it, but the feeling persisted.

Sometimes, he felt similarly when he played celebrity. The talk shows, the modeling and media felt hoops he had to jump through just to get a decent night’s sleep. It was an additional job aside from heroics, one he excelled at and entertained him. But that didn’t mean each flash of a camera didn’t suck him dry of a bit of his dignity.

He was sure you had to be feeling similarly.

You’re writhing and arching in your bed, curls of smoke rising from your papery hospital gown. Every machine in your room is screaming with you, bloody and loud and angry—

And scared. Keigo recognized well, and it drove pins into his heart to realize it was you.

It’s even worse when he realizes some part of you is burning.

At your bedside, he freezes.

Nylon straps wrap around your wrist, around your cast, and keep you held tight to the bed. You’re tied down, held to the plastic bed frame as you wretch and scream.

You don’t even notice him.

The smoke rises from your burning hospital gown. He rips it away, tears the burning section away with his shaking hand. It’s crass, and Keigo sees a bit too much. The gauze wrapping your leg below is burning as well, in little veins of char that burns black and smoldering.

Keigo tears it all away, he tears and tears—

And then he sees the wound.

He was trained, once, to see this type of horror and not bat an eye. That training was gone, and all that remained was his starshine with a writhing, molten wound.

Keigo is numb as the nurses drag him back to his room, trying to decide if he prefers the apathy and numbness to injury that his old heroism gave him, or the blinding pain of empathy when someone you... care about is hurt.

He can’t decide which he’d rather suffer with.

...

You appear in the common room a few nights later.

Keigo still takes his walks in the late evening, even if you aren’t there. If anything, he needs them more. He’s restless, always listening for the screams or howls from the next room over. His annoyance towards them was gone, and all that remained was a concern that knotted in the pit of his stomach.

There’s a sigh of relief on his lips when he finds you, nestled into a pile of blankets with your IV pole, watching the stars with sad eyes.

He joins you on your couch, cracking a decent joke that you don’t respond to.

Then, there’s silence.

It’s as loud as the stars are bright. The expanse of sound is filled by the hum of the cold air and distant beeping.

“I’m sorry,” Your voice shakes. “You shouldn’t have seen me like that. It’s not... Easy to look at. Or, I imagine it’s not.”

Keigo wants to rip the apology from your tongue and burn it.

“No, please, it’s alright,” He’s begging too much. “I get it.”

As much as he can, anyways.

You’re quiet again, biting your lip so hard it must be close to breaking skin.

“Can we... talk about things?” You ask, softer. “I can’t keep pretending.”

“...’Pretending’?” Keigo knows, but he selfishly wants to hear you say it.

“Well, you didn’t think I’ve been here for two months for my bum arm, right?” You laugh weakly. “And I’m well-aware that you don’t have wings.”

We just don’t talk about it.

“It’s nicer to look at the stars and pretend everything’s fine,” Keigo lays the statement down and regrets it.

Your fist tightens, jaw clenching.

And there’s more silence.

It’s deafening to Keigo, he wants to speak, scream, but you’re quiet next to him. He can fill voids with his voice so, so easily, yet he turns in on himself.

“I know, it’s all hard,” Tears drip down from your words, though your cheeks remain dry. “I know, but there was a War two months ago, and we’re still holed up in a place like this, and we never talk about why.”

You turn to him, light dancing slowly in your eyes. Your lips part to speak, but no sound comes out.

“... I didn’t want to ask.” Keigo speaks, gaze shifting down to your leg. He questioned why a broken arm would keep you here, but you can’t just ask that. “It’s bad form to ask a stranger about their injuries unnecessarily when they’re traumatized.”

“But we’re not strangers, not anymore.”

Keigo can’t disagree.

...

You had been in a conbini when Gigantomakia tore through your little suburb. It was a few miles away, but the ground shook as if the goliath was just outside the automatic doors.

Your demon was near, though.

It was a man from the PLF who tore into you so badly. Just some random, emboldened civilian who ascribed to Destro’s ideology hard enough to think about taking out his frustrations on ‘weaker-quirked’ individuals.

That meant the young couple getting slushies in the corner, the old man behind the cash register, and you.

(You’d told your roommate you’d be home quick to help her study—)

(Your roommate is dead, under several tons of rubble.)

“The old man died before the heroes even started trying to rescue anyone. The couple was begging each other to hold on, but only one of them lasted. He died within a few weeks of being taken here.”

There was just you.

You’d hardly been touched by the man, the fucking villain, who’d set his mark on you. But it was more than enough to leave a writhing scar.

Keigo asks to see it, and quietly, you oblige him.

You’re in a gown, you always have been. The hem of it is pulled up by your visibility shaking fingers, and slowly reveals the scar in the lowlight of the ever-present lamp. He’d seen it once, but that didn’t change how startling it was.

It’s molten.

The skin is gnarled, twisting and scarred worse than anything Keigo’s ever seen. It was like the gore of a torn flesh was frozen over your right side, from your calf, to your thighs to your pretty hips—

“It goes higher, but that’s not exactly couth to show you,” you joke, but neither of you laugh.

“... It’s not moving anymore?”

“Oh, yeah. It calms down, when it’s dark. Nighttime and all. It stops being so ornery.”

Keigo has a laundry list of questions, but with the expression on your face that just bleeds exhaustion into the air, and the fresh burns from the restraints on your wrists, he keeps quiet.

Maybe, three months ago, he’d jabber on about the injury, try to gode some information out on the villain, profile him, track him and beat the tar out of him for touching you—

But this is the present, and Keigo is a wingless soul. All he has is a prescription for painkillers on a rigid schedule, and the awareness that you both appreciate each other.

Keigo scoots to your uninjured side, lifting his arm up and around your shoulder. It hurts, it fucking hurts, but he doesn’t mind.

You tense for a moment, turning to him with wide eyes, scared like he’s never seen.

Then, you melt into him.

...

Keigo’s busy with healers the week, though none speak his language, literally. They’re international, foreign aid that’s been flown in to try to pick up the disaster of a society that’s been left in the wake of the War and the dissolution of Tartarus.

None of them make progress.

As much as it burns (haha) him to his core, he’s accepting the reality, slowly but surely.

...

Endeavor visits him.

It’s the morning after a particularly sweet night with you. You still sit together in the starlight, though you’ve run out of constellations to show him. It’s less quiet than it used to be, just little banter that flows between the two of you. It feels more genuine than his old bluntness, welcome after so much odd tension when you first started enjoying the heat of each other’s presence and the far-off stars.

You’d taken to spending time together during the day as well... As much as you could. Strapping you to your bed was for your own safety. Your broken arm had snapped the first few days at the hospital because of the severity of your spasms and flares. The nurses keep you wrapped up, but Keigo drags a chair close to your bed and talks to you as much as he can.

It helps you relax.

Though the days fill with tension as you try to negate the inevitability of your molten scar coming to life, nights remain calm.

And so, so sweet.

You’ve taken to tucking into his side, telling him little treasured facts about the cosmos. It’s easier to guide his eyes like that, as your cheek rests over his collarbone.

It lingers with him, the feeling of your casual touch, so tentatively offered and so graciously received.

He traces his own constellations over your gown, mindful of the flesh beneath that heats beneath his palm when he gets too close.

After one of those wonderful, early nights, Enji Todoroki enters his room with all of the gusto one would expect. Which is not very much, but the sheer presence of him is enough to make Keigo quake.

Just like the little boy from Kyushu, Keigo regards him with stars in his eyes.

The hero, not a speck of flame on him (thank god) pulls up a chair near his bed. Keigo sits cross-legged and cocks his head to the side.

“What brings you to my neck of the woods, number one?” Keigo smiles.

“Number fifteen.”

“... What?”

“Since my injuries, I’m mostly on bedrest,” Enji replied, folding his hands on his chin. “I’m number fifteen now, and that number will more than likely just drop. I’m not much of a hero with only one lung. I’m planning to officially retire at the end of the month.”

Keigo’s chest goes tight and it feels like he’s joking. He tosses on a tight smile.

“This is hardly time for a pillar—“

“I’m no pillar. I never was,” Enji sighs, running a hand over his scarred cheek. “The kids can handle this.”

Keigo breaks so easily these days.

“That’s not fair—” He had been tossed into this all too early and god it fucked him up—

“Hawks,” Enji sighed. “There’s hardly anyone left to fight. They’re either dead, missing part of themselves, or gone.”

“So, you’re giving up?”

“If I didn’t, I’d die.”

Coward.

No, just honest and smart.

“Since when are you this selfish?” Keigo’s own words surprise him, but he doesn’t back down. “And this wordy, number one? You’ve changed.”

He spits the last phrase like an insult. He hates himself for it and would hate himself even more for it later.

Enji’s face remains solid and unwavering. The twitch in his brow is the only indication that Keigo’s words were even heard.

“Since we lost, Keigo. Things have changed.”

Keigo knew, of course, but it didn’t stop the anger from rolling his belly.

“Oh, like I don’t fucking know,” If Keigo still had his wings, they would’ve been extended and fluffed, angry as the pinched skin of his forehead.

This was his hero, he couldn’t be giving up too—

“Rest, Hawks,” Enji stand up, “You deserve it.”

Seems Endeavor really died. Enji’s face is worn, his expression neutral and jaw slack. He looks hollowed out and empty, not an ounce or morsel of fight left in him, even for a flightless bird in need of some encouragement.

There’s more to be said, but Keigo’s too angry to listen and Enji doesn’t have the energy to try.

Whatever news the old hero had come to bring was left undelivered.

...

You settle together the next few nights, both so damn tired, even though you’ve done nothing other than lay around a hospital for so-many weeks.

The air always vibrates between the two of you, that comfortable warmth shared between mingling breath and senses. Light dances in your eyes, twisting and bouncing like something otherworldly.

(Maybe it is.)

Your fingers lace together, held in Keigo’s lap. You trace the others hand in relaxing little lines and shapes, trying to soothe each other’s wounds, always.

“One of the doctors said the scar might start shrinking,” You break the tender silence, nosing into his jaw in the same way an affectionate cat would. “They’re not entirely sure, but it’s been stable for a few days.”

Keigo’s feathery (don’t think about it) eyebrows shot up, “That’s amazing, and there’s only a few spasms this week, too.”

(He kept good tabs on you, he had to.)

You hummed in agreement, a sad smile playing on your lips as it so often did.

With a quick blink, the light bouncing in your eyes faded, and the world felt a bit colder.

“I don’t know what I’m gonna do when I get out of here,” You pressed closer to him. “There’s shelters, and some cities are taking refugees, but I don’t—”

Your jaw clicks shut, brow furrowed and mood soured.

(Keigo, mind you, is still focusing on the lack of light in your eyes and the chill of the air in the room.)

Something stirs, deep in his gut, but he doesn’t say anything. How Keigo used to have such a mouth, he didn’t know. These days, all he can is act, like somehow the loss of his wings came with the loss of his tongue.

Tugging you by the waist, mindful of the tender scar, he pulls you close, internally resolving.

...

She, the main Suit, visits him.

(It’s his last visitor at the hospital.)

There are no trumpeters, guards, or the like. It’s just the haggard president, matching Keigo with his dark circles and creased with new wrinkles and far-more grey sections in her slicked back hair.

The air stands still as she pulls up a chair, burying her head in her hands.

She, the Main Suit, has never been one to inquire as to how he is. Many of the others at the Commission were sweet, kind to him in youth, but she was all business.

Some things never change.

She breaks the silence of the room, “... do you want to be done, Hawks?”

The cords in his chest tighten, gaze going sharper.

He doesn’t answer.

They meet each other’s gazes; twenty years of fucked-up emotion being shared between the pair of them.

“We’ve done everything. Every healer, every quirk, every treatment, conventional or otherwise,” she’s too soft. “There’s nothing left to try.”

He knew that, he had to know that, right?

His throat feels sticky as he swallows down bile, the scars on his back burning anew. It’s somatic, it has to be, but his flesh crawls and writhes just like yours. His starshine. He hates the way his mind is racing, just as fast as it always has, but his body lacks the ability to keep up.

He grounds himself in the thought of you, his starshine. Your body. Your heat.

His narrow pupils refocus on the light tremble in her shoulders.

“I’m being honest, so I’ll ask again,” She meets his gaze, grey eyes as soulless and full as ever. “Do you want to be done?”

“Well, obviously I can't fight—”

“I mean it. All of it, Hawks. Maybe a few media appearances, but all this... shit. You’ve done enough.”

You’ve done enough.

The words bounce around in his skull.

“Do you want to be done?”

Done with being a hero.

That’s all he’d ever been, right? That is him, he is Hawks, for fuck’s sake, no one other than Dabi (may he rot and die and immolate in hell) even called him his actual name in years.

Keigo is Hawks.

His mouth is dry, and he tries to ignore the tears pricking his eyes. He’s not sure why he’s beginning to cry, and definitely not sure why tension is draining from his shoulders as he sighs out an answer.

“I’ll be done.”

You’ve done enough.

...

Hospital beds are a hot commodity, and now that Keigo had thrown in the towel (along with everyone else) to stop trying with his wings, he was to be discharged within a few days.

(“Just a few more days to adjust your body to your new medications—”)

He’d stopped listening after that.

...

Your last night together is so bittersweet, you taste it on each other’s tongues.

You have an episode early in the day. Your screaming wakes the floor, the burning smell of flesh cementing that it was you.

Keigo’s only half-lucid when he shoves into your room, holding your hands while nurses desperately try to administer pain medication.

It’s too much for you, the crawling edges of the scar once again consuming you in the molten, glowing amber veins of heat that tore through you so terribly.

You sleep the day away. Keigo stays with you for much of it, stroking the bones in the back of your hands.

...

He fucks you for the first time, that night.

His own IVs have been removed, he’s to be discharged first thing in the morning—

And he wants one more night of stargazing, please, please—

(Why’s he clutching at you so dearly?)

But you’re not in the common room.

Rather, you’re under a few thin blankets, eyes tired and lightless. Your arm is out of its cast, laying over the bed clothes. It scares him shitless at first as he tentatively enters. It’s you though, and the moment you see him, it’s like a flame, a good one, heats the room full and wide. A few specks of light dance in between your irises as your skin crinkles in a gentle smile.

You both know he’s leaving tomorrow.

The knowledge settles in the room like a weight that neither of you can move. So, Keigo takes to it and does what he can.

As opposed to his normal perch next to his bed, he sits beside you, removing the restraints on your wrists and helping you to sit up.

Keigo fishes around in his pocket, pulling out a folded square of paper and placing it at your bedside. It’s his phone number, an odd detail. Relationships usually shared far-earlier.

But there is nothing linear or normal about the two of you, or the situation you both sit and stewed in.

You both are making peace with it at your own pace.

The bed creaks as you move to sit beside him, legs dangling from the bed. There’s gooseflesh beneath your gown, the boring pattern obscured by the darkness of the room, but the molten lines of the scar ever-visible.

“I’m glad you’re getting out of here.”

But I wish that you weren’t leaving.

His hand finds your waist, careful like he always is, but so giving in the same breath.

“I am too. It’ll be nice to be.”

But I’m going to miss you.

It’s inherent, and has been forever. Since the moment you both stargazed in the common room and watched the worlds high above twist and shine without regard to your own hells, you’ve been ensnared in the other and neither of you have a want or need to let go.

Even with the inevitably of progress.

Keigo drowns in these thoughts, and has been since Endeavor visited and he was reminded of the harsh reality just outside of their tree-ringed prison. The reality he has to return to—

He presses his lips to yours, more desperate and needy than he had before.

Keigo had taken his share of you before, little pecks and the rub of the bridge of his nose over your jaw and cheeks. He had been a bit greedier with his hands, uncaring of the eyes of the night nurses when he’d touched you in the common room.

But he’s insatiable that last night.

The sheets of the plastic bed are too scratchy, they’re too harsh for you, and it burns Keigo to his core as he lowers you down. He cradles what he can, as your fingers latch onto his clothes (real clothes) and tug him as close as you can get.

The machines in your room cry, but they’re forgotten.

You nip at his bottom lip, dragging yours across his clean-shaven jaw before laying into his neck with kiss after kiss. His muscles shake, holding him over you, both of you atrophied but uncaring.

You suck a deep, throbbing bruise on the fragile skin of his neck. It’s something dark that won’t fade for a week. The thought stirs something in his chest, a white-hot feeling that wants to crack his ribs and consume him. He doesn’t give in, he can’t—

“Stay with me, pretty eyes,” you whisper, so sweet and gentle as you push floppy strands of hair from his face. “Stay here, just for a little while longer.”

The reminder jolts him back, back to you, and the way your body (so tired, but unwavering) jumps and rolls under his touch. He’s a glutton for attention, always has been, but your particular brand and sounds keep pulse hot and hard.

Shaky fingers pull his shirt over his head, sweaty palms push the gown over your hips. By the starlight, you’re both seeing too much of each other, but this is a goodbye, there’s no time to dwell on the discomfort.

Keigo tries to be careful as he adjusts your legs, tries to be mindful of the raw skin and flesh that makes you whine and half-writhe. You clutch at him, still trying to pull him closer despite the proximity and heat, like you need him as opposed to just wanting him.

There’s no fanfare in it, just more rushed kisses and the swirling of fingertips over covered clit. You catch each other’s gasps in the mingling of breaths you share. It’s choking, suffocating, yet entirely not enough. You beg, quietly, for more. Your fingers latch onto his wrist and urge him to help pull your panties off and away.

More, more, more.

By the time he slides into you, you're still tense, but so is he, and in a pile of tension and fear and wishful-thinking, you both come undone, and undone, and undone—

...

Keigo leaves the next morning.

The press is there, flash bulbs blinding him after so long with just fluorescents and starlight. He manages an easy wave or two, no autographs or gleaming smiles, just business and numbness that he needed to hold onto, so he didn’t fucking break.

He slips into the Commission’s car and leaves behind the hospital, you, and its wall of man-laid greenery and prays to forget it all quickly. He has enough to mourn.

...

Keigo wants to off himself when he arrives back at his penthouse.

How can he not?

His ‘home’ (if he couldn’t even call it that) is a dusty, time capsule of everything before. Before he got fucked up with the League, before the PLF, before the war, before Jin—

Every untouched bit of his life from when it was a few, precious fractions better stands unturned. A discarded jacket, wing slits visible and frayed. Scattered dead feathers that make his skin crawl. Memorabilia too, old merchandise that he never cared much about, but he definitely didn’t need to be seeing it now that ‘Hawks’ had burned up and died.

All disgusting reminders.

Something burning fills the base of his skull when his gaze fixates on one of the old plumes. He reaches out to touch the spine of it, instinctually expecting a little jolt of feeling from it, like he always had.

But there’s nothing. It’s dead, decaying, and so is he.

The reality of it breaks him, quick, hard and hot. He burns alive a second time.

He clears the liquor cabinet while blaring music from his over-priced stereo system loud enough to make his ears ache and throb. The music isn’t drowning anything out, but it’s better to pretend.

He finds a bottle of old pills and downs them with a few swigs of expensive whiskey and lets go.

...

When he comes to, he’s staring into a smashed mirror, with his own nails crusted in blood from thin welts in the skin of the scar on his face.

Much to his chagrin, he hasn’t forgotten anything. The memories of blue flames, red feathers, and the smell of your skin mixed with isopropyl alcohol feel brighter than ever. He grounds on them as he sobers up, latching onto the pain of his scar tissue and the solace you gave.

And won’t ever give him again.

Something in him wilts as he defeatedly goes to his phone, arranging any number of things to get him the fuck out.

...

The penthouse is sold, his more important belongings gathered in bland boxes.

And he leaves. There’s no sentiment holding him there, not anymore.

Fukuoka is gone and some distant memory as he drives (yes, he forgot that he had that skill) him and his things to his new home.

His penthouse had been immaculate. Crisp interior design, new shapes and colors that were on trend. He was hardly home to appreciate the modern beauty of it, but he’d received enough compliments from random hookups to know that it landed aesthetically.

But honestly?

Who the fuck cared?

His penthouse had been sold to the highest bidder and far behind as he arrives at his new, high home in the sleekness of his far-too fancy, disused car.

...

He gets a call from an unknown number, another one, on some snowy day, deep in winter.

Keigo debates answering it. He almost lets it slip to voicemail. The only calls worth answering are the handful from the Commission that he has to heed, or the odd one from Rumi, Fuyumi, and on occasion, Endeavor.

Not random numbers, he has no patience for it.

Yet, he answers it lazily.

“Washed up hero, how can I help you?”

“P-Pretty eyes?”

His heart stutters in his chest, he swears—

“Starshine?” He sounds breathless, the air leached from his chest as he white-knuckles his thighs.

He’d given up on you contacting him, yet there you were, or at least your voice, mechanical and high bouncing around preciously in the walls of the cabin

There’s a moment of silence, nearly, just your light breathing that receiver picks up.

Your voice trembles when you break it, “Y-yeah, it’s me, I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to call—”

You don’t need to be sorry; he would wait for you forever, and then some.

“I d-don’t actually have a phone? Mine got trashed, uh, back then. I’m on the hospital’s line.”

Keigo hadn’t really considered that, he’s slipped the paper with his number on your bedside without a thought.

How much had you lost?

“No worries, chickadee,” Keigo is sure his smile is audible. “Why call now? Miss me too much?”

He had no idea.

You laugh, though it soured as you spoke, “I get discharged tomorrow.”

Keigo’s heart seizes again and he’s sure he’s going to go into cardiac arrest.

“The guy who gave me the scar and all? He fucked up a few other people, word eventually got here. Once the scar stops... glowing, it rests. If you make it until then, you’re good.”

And alive.

“The whole injury is stable, has been for a week now,” Surprisingly, there’s no relief in your voice. “They need my bed, so they’re releasing me.”

No, no, no.

Where will you go?

Keigo doesn’t say it, but the question hangs in the air and is quickly answered.

“They got me a spot in one of the shelters close by... It’s only a couple hours by train!” You try to sound happy, but it’s so hollow and unnatural; it makes Keigo physically sit up.

No, no, no.

That won’t do.

“... What won’t do?”

Keigo hadn’t realized he’d said it out loud.

Something is buried in his chest, something warm and molten, like the old veins of your scar, just kinder and better. It’s full of urges, so seldom used, selectively as needed throughout his career as a hero.

The need to keep something precious safe.

The thing hasn’t thrashed in months.

Yet now? It’s practically screaming.

“Pretty eyes?” You sound scared through the phone. “A-Are you alright? I can call back—”

“No, don’t, do not.” Keigo lets the flame fill his chest, welcoming it. “You’re not going to that shelter.”

He has something to protect.

“I don’t have another choice—”

Someone.

“You do.” Keigo keeps his voice even, the muscles in his back writhing. If he still had his wings, they’d be puffed out and large. Impassioned with feeling he finally let breath between his ribs. “I’ll come get you, tomorrow.”

“... P-Pardon?”

He doesn’t hesitate, and for a moment, he starts to feel like his old self.

“Come home with me, starshine.”

++++++

thank you for reading, hope you enjoyed!! 💗

look out for parts 2 and 3!!!💞

ko-fi

#salem writes #hawks x reader #hawks #takami keigo #takami keigo x reader #hawks x you #takami keigo x you #hawks fanfic #hawks imagines #my hero academia #mha x reader #anyways tag wall #enjoy loves #smorch

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makeste · 3 years

Text

BnHA Chapter 299: No Chains Left

Previously on BnHA: Horikoshi was all “and then AFO broke out all of the inmates from six other prisons and took a nap. well anyways, here’s the hospital angst.” Kacchan woke up two days later and was all, “WAIT BUT HOW ARE DEKU AND TODOROKI AND ALL OF THE OTHER CHARACTERS EXCEPT IIDA DOING” and then we cut to Shouto’s room where the other U.A. kids were sitting around being Mutually Traumatized and giving each other moral support and such. Everyone was alll, “...”, and then the rest of the Todofam showed up, INCLUDING POSSIBLY REI?! which, omg. The chapter ended with Kacchan STOMPING THROUGH THE HALLS all “WHADDYA MEAN DEKU HASN’T WOKEN UP YET”, dragging along Satou and Mineta behind him, fueled by the power of ALL OF THE FUCKS HE NOW GIVES. He gives so many fucks now you guys. This boy cares so much he can probably deduct it on his taxes.

Today on BnHA: SPEAKING OF PEOPLE WHO GIVE A LOT OF FUCKS, the story cuts abruptly to Hawks, freshly recovering from his near-death experience, and pondering the threads that have weaved the tapestry of his life and led him to this moment. Basically he grew up in poverty with his Jerk Dad and Jerk Mom until his dad got arrested one day and his mom sent him off to go Find Money Or Something, and so he rescued a busload of people and found himself a new career. Back in the present day, Hawks and Jeanist ride around town in Jeanist’s Jamborghini having awkward encounters with civilians in a country on the brink of social collapse, and visiting Hawks’s mother’s home. Hawks is all “I know from an outsider’s perspective it must look like my life currently sucks, but now that the HPSC is gone, my public image is shot, and my parents are finally out of my life, I’m actually feeling SURPRISINGLY GOOD.” Anyway so he’s gonna go meet up with Endeavor now, and p.s. this chapter was fucking fantastic though, damn.

oh my god?? is this Hawks narration?? something about him growing up watching the heroes on TV and thinking of them as fictional characters

okay I scrolled down a little bit more to see the rest of that “Keigo” panel, and wow

this is basically a shed. poor boy definitely grew up rough. let me tell you guys, I came in here ready for some BakuDeku shenanigans; I was not prepared for Hawks Flashback Angst. I AM HERE FOR IT, but also wow I gotta brace myself now lol

HELLO MISTER HAWKS’S JERK DAD, SIR

BnHA sure does have an array of Jerk Dads, doesn’t it. makes me appreciate characters like Masaru and JirouDad all the more for bucking the trend

anyway. so Horikoshi, you really thought that one itty bitty chapter of hospital catharsis would be enough to calm us all before you went right back to showing us child abuse huh. my god man can we rest

BABY HAWKS

swear to god this kid can’t be more than five or six, and yet he has this completely blank look on his face even with his dad looming over him being all threatening and shit. like he’s shut down his emotions to protect himself. imagine what has to happen to a child for him to have learned this at such a young age. fuck

AND MEANWHILE THIS GUY

don’t mingle with humans?? not “other” humans, just humans?? what is this implying here?? and also holy shit Hawks definitely didn’t inherit his looks from his dad orz

then again he doesn’t really bear much of a resemblance to his strung-out mom here either

omg omg omg. and this child is basically trapped here in this environment with these two people. this explains a SHITLOAD about Hawks’s personality though you guys. his ability to completely separate his real thoughts from the face he presents to the outside world. his pragmatic approach to analyzing and solving problems. his layers of emotional walls. turns out almost none of that came from the HPSC training -- that was all learned hands-on in his own personal do-or-die survival nightmare childhood!! oh, boy

and small wonder then that he latched on to Endeavor so strongly if he really is the one who brought down his dad and inadvertently saved him from this. also, just putting this out there, I know people are always talking about him and Dabi being foils, and I think it’s very interesting how Touya grew up in a household where he saw firsthand the dark side of hero society, and so ended up becoming a villain in order to bring it down. whereas young Keigo had almost the exact opposite experience, growing up experiencing the dark side of villain society and becoming a hero in order to bring about a world where no one else has to experience that. just. both of them are so determined not to become their fathers. some interesting parallels there

so Hawks was sort of an accident after his parents had “thanks for helping me not get caught after I killed that guy” sex, and now this little boy is growing up in squalor and being beaten by his father for things like Sitting In The Wrong Out-Of-The-Way Corner Trying Not To Be A Bother To Anybody. holy fuck. this is so rough to read through you guys

wait so does Jerk Dad have a an eyeball manipulation quirk?? because he doesn’t have the wings like his son, but wth are these things??

this presumably also means that Keigo has never been to school or anything either. he basically doesn’t exist. he thinks heroes are fictional characters, he doesn’t realize that they’re real people. these are people who could help him if he could escape and find them, but he doesn’t know, and they don’t know about him

OH MY GOD HE’S JUST SITTING IN HIS CORNER HUGGLING HIS ENDEAVOR PLUSH OH MY GOD

how could this child possibly have an anti-fandom when he’s done NOTHING WRONG HIS ENTIRE LIFE. huh. just explain that to me. lol I mean I’m not looking to pick a fight with anyone, but also, MAYBE I AM, idk?? this kid has gotten me all riled up lmao

anyways, Protect Keigo 2021, and thank you Horikoshi for these three very terrible pages. I am pleased to inform you that you’ve effectively gotten your point across and you may now commence saving this kid already

YAY

oh no, Keigo’s dumbass jerk dad tried to steal a car and the popo nabbed his ass and now his mom can’t just sit around neglecting her VERY YOUNG SON all day long, oh horrors. sorry lady my tiny violin is on backorder. just imagine that I’m playing a very sarcastic song on it for you

anyway so what are you gonna do now, abandon him? I can hardly imagine he’d be worse off, if anything it might be a near-instant improvement

LMAO HE’S ALL “WAIT WHAT ENDEAVOR’S A REAL FUCKING DUDE?!”

AND THEY SAY THAT A HERO CAN SAVE US~~~~ I’M NOT GONNA STAND HERE AND WAAAAAIT~~~~~ I’LL HOLD ONTO THE WINGS OF THE EAGLES, WATCH AS WE ALL FLY AWAAAAAAY~~~~

lol what a randomly pivotal moment in his young life. TIME TO GO MAKE THESE MEMES INTO DREAMS YOUNG ONE

anyway so his mom freaked out and grabbed him and they wound up at a train station with her TELLING HIM TO GO GET HER SOME MONEY, oh my god. SURE MOM LEMME JUST WALTZ RIGHT ON DOWN TO THE “JOBS FOR FIVE-YEAR-OLDS” STORE AND TELL THEM I NEED SOME CASH. ffff manifesting someone to come help him in 3... 2...

...

SIGH, JUST GO RESCUE THE PEOPLE FROM THE BUS, KEIGO. is this the outfit he was wearing when that happened?? it must be, right?? I can’t imagine them surviving more than a couple days out here unless this starts getting REALLY dark in a way I know that even Horikoshi won’t explore, so yeah. cut to the HPSC now please. never thought we’d be glad to see them. I mean sure, it may be an “out of the frying pan...” case, but good god

THANK YOU!!

and I guess it was his mom’s eyeball quirk then. anyway, whatever, see you again never, hopefully. lol oh man. thaaaat, was upsetting. need to center myself here for a sec. NAMASTE

OH YAY THE PRESENT

so we cut from Baby Hawks Angst straight to Present Day Hawks Angst, huh. not that this exhausted and traumatized lil lad isn’t still a baby to me too, I’ll have you know

BEST JEANIST, ALWAYS WITH THE JOKES

“WHEW, THOUGHT YOU DIED ON ME FOR A SEC THERE KID.” lmao. Caleb will no doubt ruin this by making his word choice all stiffly formal as usual, so I’m just going to treasure this “WOULD YOU LOOK AT THAT, I’M FRESH OUT OF FUCKS” version of Jeanist while I can

look at him, driving his Jeanistmobile

again, is it any wonder Kacchan was bitching about Endeavor’s dinky little car when he was used to riding around town in style like this. anyone else staring at this panel trying to figure out how this car is somehow secretly made of jeans

NOOOOO

FUCK YOU DABI LMAO. PUTTING THESE VOICE ACTORS OUT OF A JOB ONE BY ONE

anyway so Jeanist is all “GOOD THING IT’S THE FUTURE AND WE’RE SO GOOD AT MEDICAL SCIENCE” to handwave how Hawks went from one step shy of being a very handsome corpse, to sitting around texting Jeanist in a car all of two days later

OH MY GOD, AND FINALLY AN EXPLANATION FOR THIS

wait a minute. I’m so confused lmfao. soooo, was Hawks all “anyway, here’s Jeanist’s dead body, you can examine it but please don’t look at him too closely and also I’m gonna need that back unharmed.” how tf did you pull that off lmao

(ETA: also isn’t this technically confirmation of the ol’ Noumu Jeanist theory lol. I’m gonna go ahead and say it is.)

NO BUT PLEASE, CONTINUE. I unironically love reading Horikoshi’s overly convoluted “SEE IT’S NOT A PLOT HOLE” explanations

lkldslfk so wait, you’re telling me Hawks convinced Dabi and the League to put Jeanist’s body in storage, and basically just hoped they wouldn’t use him for any experiments until he could put his plan into action and have the HPSC’s people break in and find and revive him?? WHAT COULD POSSIBLY GO WRONG. A FOOLPROOF PLAN IF I’VE EVER HEARD ONE

fff this man really asked Jeanist to risk it all to prop up his little cover story, and Jeanist was all “sure why not” omfg. anyways, thanks for recapping all of this out loud for no particular reason in your car conversation you two

LMAO NOW WHAT

TROUBLE YOU SAY? GOOD THING THE NEW NUMBER ONE HERO IS ON THE JOB THEN

okay no it’s just some random thugs strolling around terrorizing the downtown. fuck ‘em. so Jeanist is making short work of them now

uh oh

won’t come? not can’t, but won’t?? what???

WOW

well I guess that makes the local heroes A BUNCH OF SHITHEADS now doesn’t it?? jesus

and okay, serious question, if the cops are spread too thin and the heroes have literally walked out on the job, what exactly is stopping everyone from deciding to use their quirks to defend themselves, legal or not? nothing, as far as I can tell. society just got a hell of a lot more chaotic

anyway so this is an interesting panel here

man, Dabi really did pull it off, didn’t he. well anyway so here’s that better world all of the villains were wanting, you guys! isn’t it so great?? everyone’s terrified and angry and losing hope and society is inches away from collapsing into total anarchy! but hey, at least we exposed the number one hero as a hypocrite

anyway so what are these guys up to

fucking hell, he’s visiting his mom. I really wasn’t prepared to commit this much emotional energy towards reading this chapter today. BUT VERY WELL, WE PRESS ON

?? wait she’s not there?

is this supposed to explain how Dabi knew who Hawks really was? except that there’s the little matter of how he even know where to find his mother in the first place. feels like we’re still missing something there, but oh well

OH MY GOD

RHA I TAKE BACK EVERY WORD I EVER SPOKE AGAINST YOU. YOU ARE A SCANLATION GROUP FILLED WITH ANGELS LMAO. I WILL TAKE THIS PANEL IN MY HANDS, AND TREASURE IT AND KEEP IT SAFE

ANYWAY, BECAUSE MY TIRED BIRD SON’S LIFE SUCKED SO MUCH ALREADY, IT TURNS OUT HE’S ACTUALLY PLEASED WITH THIS NEW TURN OF EVENTS LOL HOW ABOUT THAT

GOOD FOR YOU BBY. YOU GO OUT THERE AND BE YOUR OWN PERSON

and in all seriousness, I love that identity he chooses -- chooses, because it actually is him making a choice now, possibly for the very first time in his life -- is “guy who helps people”, though. it really is nothing short of miraculous that he held on to that kind of optimism and desire to do good even with everything he’s been through. there were so many times he could have chosen to turn his back on the world in retaliation for the way it treated him. but he didn’t!! and here he is now, finally free, and what he wants to do with the rest of his life now is simply to help others. anyway please excuse me for a moment, I need to go find some sort of basket or a big vase to put all of my fresh new Hawks Feels in, pardonne-moi

YEAH BOIIIIII

“FIRST ORDER OF BUSINESS, MISTER JEANIST, WHERE DID YOU FIND YOUSELF THAT SWEETASS CAR.” hey, all I’m saying is if this boy’s wings really aren’t growing back, he’s gonna need to find himself a new means of transportation y’know?

oh my god you guys it’s a flashback to his mom buying him the Endeavor plushie when he was like two because, and I quote, ALL MIGHT WAS TOO EXPENSIVE

oh my god oh my god. my boy out here with a new lease on life finding hope in the darkest of times

wasn’t your throat supposed to be all fucked up lmao. Horikoshi was suddenly all “oh shit the VAs are gonna be pissed at me if I keep this up huh”

“that’s why Bubaigawara was such a great guy” motherfucker IT IS A TERRIBLE DAY FOR RAIN. FORECAST SAID NOTHING ABOUT THIS

:’)

yes ma’am. yes indeed. confirmed, I really will straight up fight some motherfuckers for this child. well not really, but YOU KEEP YOUR DISCOURSE OFF MY LAWN AND OUT OF MY BLOG YOU HEAR. THIS IS A HAWKS-FRIENDLY SPACE. WE RESPECT TAKAMI KEIGO IN THESE STREETS

and he’s saying (or is he thinking?? what a weirdly shaped speech bubble this is) that even if what Dabi said about the Todoroki household is true, “I’m not sure it’s the same now.” which happens to be ABSOLUTELY CORRECT. man this whole chapter really is all about saying “fuck the past” and moving forward and I am living for it

SON!!!!

“the first step is at my beginning” fklkjlk. what an iconic fucking line??

AND HIS WINGS!!!! THEY ACTUALLY ARE GROWING BACK AHHHHHHH. “PUT A RAINCHECK ON THAT CAR, JEANIST-SAN.” THE HAWKSMOBILE CAN WAIT, RIGHT NOW HE HAS TO GO INSERT HIMSELF BACK INTO THE TODODRAMA WHETHER THEY LIKE IT OR NOT

you guys. I came here ready for some BAKUDEKU HOSPITAL ANGST, and I got DIDDLY SHIT of that, and none of my other kids were even in this chapter, but!!! ASK ME IF I CARE LMAO omg. because bird son is hanging with his new best friend, and he’s out here Finding Himself and picking up the pieces and putting them back together stronger than ever because RESILIENCE HAS A NAME, AND IT’S SPELLED H-A-W-K-S, and you guys. profound, my love for this child. holy shit. hey google, play Silence by Marshmello

#bnha 299 #takami keigo #hawks (bnha)#best jeanist #bnha #boku no hero academia #bnha spoilers #mha spoilers #bnha manga spoilers #makeste reads bnha #I found peace in your violence #can't tell me there's no point in trying #I'm at one #and I've been quiet for too long

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authorkun · 3 years

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[𝙎𝙪𝙞𝙘𝙞𝙙𝙖𝙡 𝙈𝙖𝙣𝙞𝙖𝙘] (07)

"𝙄 𝙩𝙝𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝𝙩 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙬𝙚𝙧𝙚 𝙙𝙚𝙖𝙙."

"So did I." The (h/c)-ette's glare unwavering from the person in front of both him and Tadaiyoka.

"To what do I owe the honor to meeting with a shibito, much less one of my past students?" A sarcastic yet teasingly tone lacing the man's words.

"Answers." M/n coldly spoke. "Why so brash? You just got here, didn't you? It's quite a trip from Tokyo." M/n clenched a hand behind his back. "Why don't we settle matters over a game of Go, and tea?"

The older, slid open the door to their right, showing off a traditional tea room, set with a small table in the center of the room. Both Tadaiyoka and M/n followed, as the latter sat down. Tadaiyoka going off to grab the teaset.

The man sat across from M/n, as he held a content expression while grabbing the bag of monochrome beads.

A soft 'clink' was heard as Tadaiyoka placed the cups down, filling the delicate teacups with the liquid. The beads were then separated from each other, as both players grabbed their own.

The older started, placing one of his own beads onto the wooden board. M/n following shortly after with one of his. "Ginira-sama, if I may... he came to the shrine bearing questions about whom its dedication is to. When I took him to the shrine I-.."

"You were both taken aback from what you saw?" 'Ginira' finished. "Exactly." The man curtly humming in response. Silence overtook once more as the two continued their game.

Soon, a distasteful grunt came from the older of the two. "Even in your younger years, you've seen to beat me."

"You should know that I don't play to win then Sensei. I play to-.."

"Make a pattern. That's always your answer. And every time I respond with-..."

"That it's unfair." M/n kept a monotonous tone throughout. "I thought it was dumb, and I still do."

"So rude to your senior." Ginira playfully teased. "..."

"Oh I see, straight to business. Well, I assume you're wondering about the shrine. I'm also going to guess Tadaiyoka told you the story?"

"She did."

"Do you know who the young man was then?"

"I don't understand." M/n answered, a confused look covering his features. "That young man was a descendant of one of the few high ranking clans of high priests and priestesses. Or as we know them sorcerers." Ginira lifted to small cup to his lips.

"That doesn't answer why he had the same name and face as I."

"Patience my student." Ginira waved a hand around. "During that period, the L/n was the strongest clan among the others. The clan was notorious for holding the cursed technique of being able to completely strip someone of their own abilities.

The young man who had moved into the palace south of here was the very person who was next in line to become the head clan member."

M/n's eyes widened. "If he was the next clan leader why would he move out here?"

"The thing that drives everyone. Love. When you become a clan leader one of the many duties you have is marrying to another clan to keep prosperity between the two, and to bring a child of the two clans."

"Arranged marriage between two clans..." M/n mumbled.

"Exactly. Back then, this village was known for being one untouched by curse's and the dread the special grade curse no other than Sukuna Ryomen, had brought. That was because my ancestors were apart of the sorcerers protecting it.

When he moved to living out in the abandoned palace, he kept to himself, only coming to the town for necessities. Because of the disappearance of the L/n clan's successor though, lower shamen were sent out to hunt for the male.

One of those shamen being of the Hashigira clan. The Hashigira clan being a force to be reckoned with alongside the L/n's. The search lasted two moon cycles while Sukuna's reign of terror continued. And suddenly....it stopped."

Ginira took another sip of the warm beverage. "After years of suffering from the curse's reign, the people were freed from its grasp. The search for the lost L/n also loosing its importance over time as the sister of the young shamen took over, marrying into the next clan.

The legend says the same clan member of the Hashigira's grew suspicious and continued his search for the male. On months on end, he continued his search until one day, he did.

But when he did he was disgusted from the sight before him. The king of curses and the missing L/n living a domestic life together. Enraged about the situation he confronted the shamen about it, earning a response that he was fine.

Not much is said about what happens but their was an old story that he was inocente with the runaway.

The same could be said about L/n and Sukuna. After the confrontation, he went to the council and told them how the male was being held hostage, as that the cursed king was manipulating him.

That night, they went to the palace, and were met with only the shamen. They demanded to see Sukuna and when he didn't respond, they had decidedly he was too far gone, and... killed him.

That was the last night this village was at it's prime, the king of curse's reigned his disastrous rampage among every village in a 20 mile radius. This shrine was said to be built by Sukuna himself. The flowers in the field are evergreen as they never die."

Ginira finished, as his gaze landed on the male in front of him. A blank look casted upon his features, as his expression was unreadable.

"Then who am I?"

"Since the L/n clan was still prosperous they overlooked the death as a stain on their reputation. They had claimed he was no longer apart of their clan when he had decided to run away.

Ever since then his younger sister took over and continued the bloodline. And then your mother came. When your mother and father had married, it was one of union. Shortly after you were born, you were the representation of the two's union. And the conversion of the two cursed energies.

When they had awaited to hear about your abilities as a future shamen, they had learned you had none. The two clans disowned both of them. Your father became restless and rageful, and that's when he snapped. One day, I remember him rambling on about how there was a sacred power that had belonged to the L/n clan. After that, he had started his search for it.

And he found it. Some think that it was Sukuna, and some think it was Hashigira, but no matter who had done it; someone had sealed the soul of the runaway clansman to the L/n clan along with his power away in the imperial garden behind his palace.

Somehow your father had found it, and had given it to you. I don't know how, but he had achieved tying the both of your souls together, binding you both. Since you were so young, it had messed with your memories to the point of the ancient soul taking over your own.

When your souls had mixed, the cursed energy from before had chained itself with your own power. At first it had seemed you were like anyone else, but when that soul had overtaken your own it had kick started the energy which resided in you."

"And that's how I slaughtered my family right?" M/n's glare burned into the tatami mats below. "That's-"

A chilling laugh cut of the man's words, as M/n had finally lifted his head. A drop of water hit the floor, another following shortly after. More followed as the male's sight became blurry. Painful laughs echoing the house.

"I knew it! I knew it! I knew it!" He banged his fists onto the floor.

"I'm the problem aren't I? I'm just a burden....RIGHT?!" His body slumped over as fits of laughter turned into broken sobs. "I'm t-the reason my m-mother h-had died...and sh-she still..." He lead on, as he broke down. Both Tadaiyoka and Ginira held sympathetic looks for the male.

"It's not your fault M/n-" Ginira had reached a hand out, only for it to be slapped away. He ignored the male's struggle, as he pulled him into an embrace. His grip tightened as the yells of protest started to turning soft cries.

"You aren't a burden." Ginira's grasp tightened around the boy. "You're not at fault for the incident."

Soon the crying turned into short breaths, as those short breaths turned into silence. The only sound being the patter of the small pond, and the soft snores that had left the (h/c)-ette.

"He's a troubled soul isn't he?" Tadaiyoka spoke, as she started to pick up the sprawled out beads and empty teacups. Ginira looked down a sorrowful expression crossing his features. He's gaze landing onto the peaceful face of the younger.

"I can't help but think I could've prevented this entirely. He doesn't deserve to take the fall for something he has nothing to do with." Ginira stood up with the male's body, heading through a separate door.

Ginira laid M/n onto a futon, as he threw a blanket onto him. M/n immediately responding by gripping onto the soft material.

Ginira looked at the male one last time, a bittersweet smile plastering his face, as the door slid shut. Rounding the corner, he slid the door leading to the garden open, as he sat on one of the cushions.

The soft clicks of heels echoed the hallway, as another prescience sat next to him. "Now who do I owe the pleasure to see you again, Gojo."

The snowy haired shamen wore a playful smirk. "I think you have one of my students."

Ginira scoffed. "He ran away from you such a surprise."

"What happened?" Gojo spoke seriously, ignoring the former's insult. "He came looking for answers, and I gave them to him."

"Did you tell him about that night?"

Ginira glanced downwards. "I couldn't. He wasn't in the right headspace to know. He broke down earlier from hearing about his past. I didn't have the heart to tell him about his mother. He's sleeping right now, but it's probably the first time he's slept in weeks, hasn't it?"

Ginira had reminisced from when his former student had lived with him. "I'm worried about him. But somewhere inside me I have hope that he'll find happiness one of these days. He deserves it after all."

Gojo's stare lingered on the small garden of flowers, which lightly swayed from the breeze. "I want him to stay here."

A confused expression crossed the older's face. "I want you to train him. I know he's only scratched the top of his abilities, and I want you to help him . He has so much potential. I think it's for the best."

Ginira's eyes widened at the bold words. "You really care for him don't you?"

"More than anything in this world."

Ginira's hearty chuckled filled the air as the sun began to set behind the horizon.

"That much, ay?"

#jjk #jjk x male reader #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen x male reader #seme male reader #itadori yuji x male reader #gojo satoru x male reader #ocs #sukuna ryomen x male reader

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mourntheantagonist · 3 years

Text

I had a cute teacher au idea

so you know those ceiling tiles in schools? the rectangular ones? you know the ones. well anyway, at my school and I know many other schools, students would often paint a ceiling tile either for extra credit or as a gift for their teacher.

so I’m thinking, art teacher steve and new in town english teacher billy.

because steve is both the art teacher and well liked among all his student, his ceiling is completely full of paintings, not a single bare tile. but when billy had arrived to his new classroom, all the tiles were completely white and bare. the teacher before him had taken them all with her when she left so they were replaced. billy didn’t even know it was a thing until he’d entered some of the other teachers classrooms and saw almost every teacher had them and he’d be lying if he didn’t feel a little left out. but hey, maybe he could just offer extra credit to his students if they made one.

except they reach the last day of the semester, and none of his students come in with a painted tile.

and to make matters worse he has an after school meeting that day and their holding it in mr. harrington’s classroom. billy had seen him around school and was undeniably attracted to him. he was cute always walking around in a paint splattered apron and he’d only ever heard good things from other students and the staff.

and all of that was confirmed when he saw his ceiling. most teachers had maybe five or six painted tiles but his was covered in beautiful artwork. he spent the whole meeting staring up at each tile because he was completely mesmerized. steve noticed but chose not to say anything. instead finding his way to billy’s classroom after the meeting had ended and peeking through the window of the door to see the blank ceiling.

he waited for spring break, which was just around the corner, to acquire a spare ceiling tile and take it home with him. propped it up on his easel and pulled out the acrylics and the closest picture he could find resembling the blue camaro that roared into the parking lot everyday.

when he finished the painting, just in the nick of time, he arrived to the school much earlier than he usually did when it was still dark. he bribed a custodian to let him into billy’s classroom where he quickly popped out a center tile and replaced it with the painting of his camaro. sure to lock the door behind him, leaving no trace of him other than the painted tile in his classroom.

when billy got in that day he was stunned to say the least. the painting looked almost like a picture. he probably would have a sore neck the next day from looking up at it for so long. his students kept asking about it. asking who did it and he just had to say he didn’t know. he wasn’t sure who had done it, but he had an idea.

steve had been coming around his room a lot more frequently than he had before. dropping in during his lunch to say hi or borrow markers that he damn well knows steve already had. he was the fucking art teacher for god sake. and just before they were let out for break they had had an innocent conversation about billy’s car. that couldn’t be a coincidence. could it?

somehow his students must have been reading his mind because as they were all discussing who it could be, the girl sitting at the front of the class with her sketch pad on her desk says “looks a lot like mr. harrington’s work”. and suddenly the class breaks out into unorganized chatter. only picking out a couple of phrases from the chaos that make his heart flutter. “that’s adorable!” and “mr. harrington likes mr. hargrove!” and it takes billy everything inside of him not to ask “you think so?” instead of shutting them all up and telling them to open their books.

instead of confronting steve about it, he waited for steve to inevitably show up during his lunch break to ask for some other art supplies that he definitely already has. which he did. colored pencils this time.

all of his suspicions are confirmed when steve walks in and actively avoids looking at the ceiling. like it’s very obvious he’s trying not to look. so billy makes him look. “see the new ceiling tile?” he says.

“yeah it looks great. who made it?”

“I was thinking you could tell me that.”

steve’s eyes get wide and he starts laughing uncomfortably with a hand pressed to the back of his neck. stuttering his words.

“did you paint it mr. harrington?”

“I might’ve. how did you know?”

“apparently my students seem know your art style very well. also our conversation about my car last week tipped me off.”

“oh yeah that. I was hoping you’d forget.”

billy can see he’s nervous, which is odd. he’s never seemed like the person to get nervous about his artwork. maybe his students were right about the other thing too. but that’s wishful thinking.

“thank you. for the tile. It meant a lot to me.”

“you’re welcome.” he can see steve start to relax a bit more.

and billy decides, fuck it, and goes for it.

“my students also have this idea that this means you like me. were they right about that too?”

he doesn’t immediately deny it like billy expects. no. steve blushes. he fucking blushes. and that is all billy needs before making a glance to door to make sure it’s locked and the window is covered before gently holding the tip of steve’s chin in between his thumb and index finger, slowly angling him down, and capturing his lips in a quick but deep kiss. steve doesn’t pull away. just lets his eyes fall shut and kisses him back.

and that’s just the beginning of their relationship. their fist kiss underneath the ceiling tile that started it all.

eventually news travels around school about the two of them after a student found steve on facebook with a picture of the two holding hands at the beach. billy freaks out at first, having previously taught in an environment that was definitely not okay with teachers being out and proud. but the two are met with so much love by their staff and students and they all think that it’s super cool that the “first and second coolest teachers in school” are together. they’re both always arguing about who is first and who is second.

there’s still the occasional student who will say the wrong thing. he’ll sometimes overhear kids whispering about the two of them, using slurs, and billy is always quick to shut that down. and despite billy not taking shit from little high school freshman. it hurts a little bit sometimes. sometimes he doubts his students are actually okay with it or they just think it’s all a joke.

until it’s the last day of school before summer, and the girl who sat at the front of his class who was never anything but sweet, walks into his class after school with a large rectangular object in her hand.

it’s a ceiling tile.

six painted stripes in the order of the rainbow. it’s a pride flag.

she doesn’t say anything before dropping it off. just gives him a shy smile before walking out the door.

and billy could cry.

okay he does cry.

he definitely cries.

#harringrove #billy hargrove #steve harrington #stranger things #mandi writes tresh #fanfic

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orange-waterfalls · 3 years

Text

G-Bots (TM)

Googleplier (x4) x viewer!reader

ty anon for the request!

A/N: Funny story! I am no longer physically capable of writing normally! I tried so hard to be normal and just veered off into SCP/Cryptid viewer territory because I like expanding on the idea that the viewer is Not Human! Anyways, you’re hanging out with the Googles. That is it. Nothing is wrong. You do not recognize the bodies in the water haha anyways I think I like went a little creepypasta-esque at the end there but it’s fine I think probably. It’s fine. Might be a little weird in terms of story, but i think this was more focused on world building to me. Probably seen as more platonic than romantic, but see it however you wish. Enjoy!

Word count: 2.5k

G-Bots (TM)

You wheezed just a bit as you sped through wherever-the-fuck you were. Sure, maybe that was a bad idea. Sure, Dark was a little bit threatening and SURE, you were supposed to be back by now, and the fact that you weren’t back with Mark trying to convince him NOT to split up was the tiniest bit problematic. You weren’t even sure this was a building? Were you in the void? Goddammit, not again…

You stopped, concluding that this was bullshit and you did not want to do it right now. You bent over, hands on your knees and took deep breaths. You stared into the emptiness for a bit, then looked around for a moment, just trying to figure things out. You needed to reassess. It was basically one big, long hallway with random twists and terms every few meters. You’d always end up back at the paintings of… them… and knew you’d gone too far. You did that over, and over, and over again. At this point you thought Dark had just forgotten about you. You took a deep breath in and let it out. You stood up straight and looked up at the paintings. You heard their voices echo through your head a bit. You squeezed your eyes shut and your head twitched.

“You’re alright… you’re ok… cool it…” You whispered to yourself. Deep breath in, deep breath out. Meditate. Think.

You looked on either side of the hall and, for the first time, you noticed doors extending down into the void and not stopping. You let out a breath. You felt a slight sense of dread. Something was telling you not to enter the rooms. Some little voice in the back of your head that sounded suspiciously like Mark. But, hey, what else were you gonna do?

“Ok… do i want to enter the door on the left or the door on the right?” You asked yourself. You paused to think about it. After a few seconds you felt yourself jerk forward a bit. Your brain felt staticy and you felt compelled to the left. You turned the knob and opened the door slightly. Immediately you heard music that might be in an SCP game, and a voice that sounded suspiciously like “do you recognize the bodies in the water?”. You were hoping no, and you bailed before you had a chance to look. You ended up almost exactly in your previous position in the hall. Your brain felt fuzzy again, and this time you gravitated to the right. You opened the door just a little, maybe to see what was inside, but again you heard the SCP ambiance.

But this time it was from behind you. So, like any smart person, you swung the door open, slammed it behind you and did your best to lock it. But there was no lock. So you stood. Waiting. Nothing happened.

Of course nothing happened. Why would anything happen? Dark wouldn’t want you to get hurt… probably. This was his domain. Probably. If you were alive, it’s because he wanted you to be. If you were in this room, it’s because he wanted you to be.

Speaking of: Where the hell were you?

You turned around to look behind you. In the blank white room there was a single grey couch with all 4 Google androids sitting on it. Apparently they were recharging, because they hadn’t noticed you standing there and also they were plugged into an outlet in the wall. You hadn’t considered that they had to physically plug into something to charge up, but the thought made you snort.

Bad idea.

All of their eyes snapped open at once, revealing the glow of their assigned colors. They all stood up and began walking towards you in unison. You felt a slight sense of dread. Even so, you tried to grab the doorknob, the one that apparently was no longer there, and cursed under your breath when you could only feel the smooth wall behind you. The androids stopped, staring at you. You cleared your throat.

“Hey…” you laughed nervously, “So, uh, funny story, actually-”

“You are not supposed to be here,” The original Googleplier, Blue, stated.

“Well, see, that’s where this whole thing started, um, see, Mark wanted to split up-”

“No human is allowed inside of this room, and not you, either.”

“Well-” You stopped, processing what he said, “Wait. ‘Either’? I’m human.”

“No, you’re not,” Google Green said. You wanted to be offended, but you were more confused.

“What do you mean? I’m human!” You argued.

“What color’s your hair?” Red asked with a mean smirk on his face. You opened your mouth to respond, and an amalgamate of voices saying “BROWNBLACKBLONDEWHITERED” came out. You slapped a hand over your mouth.

“... what the hell was that?” Your muffled voice whispered. Well, you thought it was probably yours.

“What’s your eye color?” BROWNGREENBLUEAMBERYELLOW exited your being before you could even try to answer.

“Do you have any pets?” That one just ended with a computer error sound from you.

“... huh.” You dropped your shoulders a little. The revelation probably should’ve upset you more.

“What are you doing here?”

“I… do not recognize the bodies in the water.” You explained.

“Ah, I see. Darkiplier would want you to not die, therefore you may stay.”

“Ha. Wow. Who knew the Googleplier androids-”

“G-Bots.”

“... what?”

“We are legally not allowed to use the name ‘Google’ anymore. We are now G-Bots.”

“... legally.”

“We were discontinued. And sold. And signed a contract.”

“So does that mean I can’t call you Google anymore?”

“No, that is simply my name. The name of us as androids, however, is now G-Bots.”

“Ok. What about them?” You pointed to the other three.

“Yellow is Oliver, Green is Lee, Red is Elliott.”

“And you’re just Google?”

“They’ve been trying to change my name to Gregor. I deeply dislike it.”

“It’s a good name.” Oliver suggested, smiling.

“Means vigilant.” Lee shrugged.

“Don’t be a pussy, Greg.” Elliott adopted a shit-eating grin as he leaned a little closer to Google.

“You can do… whatever you wish. Just do not be like them, DA.” Google instructed through gritted teeth.

The room began to shift color and expand. The couch was still grey in the center, but there were now four sections of each of the colors. The yellow section was filled with flowers, with a laptop on a desk next to a switch and a little Vector robot sitting by on the windowsill that showed a colorful meadow with bees buzzing to and fro. It glitched for a moment, so you knew the window wasn’t real. The green section had large houseplants and looked a bit like a greenhouse, and had an Xbox hooked up to a TV in the corner and seemed to have a view of a lake in the faux-window. The red section had miscellaneous wires and computer parts and lights here and there, looking like a fire hazard, and a PC on a table, while the window showed what appeared to be space. Google’s section was absolutely spotless, not a single thing anywhere, apart from a tiny skateboard next to a PS4 in the corner, and the window showed computer code.

“Wow.” You said. You might be stuck here for a while, so you might as well enjoy it.

Though you wondered who DA was. -- You hate to say it, but you had a favorite G Bot. It was kind of like having a favorite child, in your mind. You felt like they somehow knew that you had a favorite, but you didn’t know why.

Oliver was the sweetest by far, immediately going to make you as comfortable or entertained as possible while you were with him. He asked you if you wanted to watch something, if you wanted to play a game, if you were hungry, etc. It was kind of like going over to a friend’s house for the first time. He was enthusiastic to the point where he was shaking with anxiety over wanting to make you happy. You thought he didn’t get many visitors and maybe that was why. He showed you his flowers, and the bees, and a small painting in the corner, hoping for validation. His glowing eyes seemed to dull when you moved on to the next section, but said you’d visit him again. That did help, but he turned away sadly and went to water his flowers.

Lee seemed as though he couldn’t care less if you were there. He told you where everything was and that you could do whatever. If you asked for help, he would stop what he was doing and help you. Once you understood, he immediately resumed his previous task. He was a bit cold, like Google, but in a “I am very busy but I am still here if you need me” sort of way. He played a game or two with you, having a preference for the puzzle games more than anything else. Puzzle horror, more specifically. If there was a shooting part, he immediately shoved the controller into your hands, saying he didn’t want to do that part. When you left, he simply continued with his work without a goodbye.

Elliott tried so hard to ignore you for the longest time. You could hear him scoff and growl anytime you made any sort of noise. You were self conscious at first, but you came to understand that he was just an asshole. You started on a game, playing for a few minutes, and felt the red couch sink next to you because he had sat down next to you. If he thought you sucked (which he did) he would snatch the controller from you and finish whatever you were doing before giving it back. He refused to say anything or help you, either. He’d just make rude noises and walk away occasionally before coming back. When you left, he seemed a lot angrier than he had before, and wouldn’t say goodbye to you. He turned away with a huff and started pressing random buttons on the controller.

Google was by far the least interested in anything you had to do. You sat on the couch next to him, and he didn’t move an inch. You sat there for a bit, waiting, but he did not move. You stood up, walked around, messed with a few things, attempted to play a game or two. Google didn’t move. You pulled up the Gamer ChairTM and sat directly in front of Google, arms crossed. You sighed. Finally, he looked up at you.

“Is there something you need?” He asked in that monotone voice of his.

“I’m bored,” you said.

“Go to one of the others,” He closed his eyes.

“What are you doing?” You asked, curious.

“That is not-” He sounded exasperated.

“Hey Google, what are you doing?” You interrupted like the little shit you were

“Currently, this G Bot system is recharging its battery. This G Bot is at: 69%.” He shifted to a purely robotic voice.

“Haha nice.”

“This G Bot’s primary objective is to answer questions as quickly as possible. Would you like to ask a question?”

“Yes. What do you like to do, Google?”

“I enjoy answering your questions. Do you have any more?”

“What company owns you?”

“G-Bots were recently sold by the Google company to Warfstache Incorporated.”

“Wilford has a company?”

“Warfstache Incorporated is co-owned by Wilford ‘Motherloving’ Warfstache and Damien-Dami-Da-Darkiplier.” He glitched while answering.

“Who’s Damie-”

“The Corporation owns shows such as ‘Markiplier TV’, ‘Warfstache Tonight!’, and ‘Hire My Ass’. Do you have any more questions?”

“Do you pass the Turing Test?”

“Wondering if you have to treat me with basic decency?” He shifted back to his less robotic, but still monotone, voice.

“No. Just wondering.”

Neither of you spoke again for a while. He did scold you when you tried to move the couch with him still on it, so… progress. -- You were beginning to suspect that Google didn’t like you very much.

The blue one. Google. The other ones liked you. Oliver ranted to you for a whole half hour about different kinds of bugs and the hierarchy of bees. The queen is assassinated when she is bad for the hive, it would seem. Lee made you play Resident Evil with him because he didn’t like the fighting, but he liked figuring out what to do. You frantically passed controllers back and forth a lot. Elliott basically did speedruns of several games, you watching intently the whole time. He seemed to like the attention and actually smiled at you whenever he finished one.

But Google didn’t like you. He ignored you, and told you not to touch anything, and scowled whenever you asked him personal questions. Not like “what’s your sexuality” type of personal questions. More like… “what’s your favorite color and why is it blue” sort of questions. He didn’t like them either way.

But the others liked you, and that was pretty neat.

You still wanted Google to like you though.

“Hey Google,” he perked up with the little “do-do!” noise, “Can you guys go into your different sections?”

“All G-Bots have the ability to pass into other’s color-coordinated sections,” He answered politely.

“Why don’t you?”

“We don’t want to.”

“Do you get along?”

“Yes.”

“Then why don’t you?”

“Celine dislikes when colors are mismatched.”

“Who’s-”

“I’m sorry, this G Bot needs to charge.”

“But you haven’t been-”

“This G Bot needs to charge.”

“Come on, if you--”

“This G Bot needs to charge.”

You quieted and plopped into the chair. You stared at Google. His eyes flickered for a moment before they closed. -- The other Bots knew who Celine and Damien were, they just weren’t telling you. Their eyes always flickered when you asked, but they wouldn’t tell you.

You threatened not to play with Lee anymore. He said he could play on his own. You could see that he didn’t want to. You played Alien: Isolation. His eyes seemed duller.

You threatened not to watch Elliott’s speedruns. He said he didn’t care. You could tell that he did. You watched him play Hollow Knight. His eyes seemed duller.

You threatened not to listen to Oliver’s rants. He looked terrified, but he said that was fine. You could tell it wasn’t. You begged him to tell you. He looked sad.

“Who’s Damien?” You asked softly, stepping towards him.

“I can’t tell you,” He shifted back.

“Who’s Celine?” You stepped forward.

“I can’t tell you.”

“Who’s DA?”

All of the G-Bots stopped what they were doing. You heard static and felt like you were being watched. -- You looked up at the color on the outside of the museum.

You were doing something. You were doing something.

Were you robbing this place? It felt like you were. What happened to Mark? What happened… to you?

You stared at the doors, feeling a slight sense of dread. Something in the back of your head was telling you this wasn’t right. To go home. To…

“Ignorance is Bliss. Try Again?”

#on a lighter note #it is canon in MY markiplier cinematic universe #that oliver is an actual beekeeper #also i realized that the names i picked are very stereotypical trans guy names #so googleplier canon trans ig dwgyuefyuer #googleplier #googleplier blue #googleplier yellow #googleplier green #googleplier red #googleplier x reader #googleplier x gn!reader #google gets an upgrade #and yes the lil skateboard was a gift from bing <3 #googleplier x gender neutral reader

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letsfluxshitup · 3 years

Text

Technoblade Learns How To Relax (now on ao3)

Tommy's face became more and more contemplative as he guided Quackity to the ravine dubbed Pogtopia.

He led him down the winding stairs at a pace that had Quackity fumbling to keep up with.

On the last step, Quackity stumbled, heading face first into the dirt before an arm caught him around the waist.

"I told you we needed the guard rails." A voice huffed from behind him.

Quackity thrashed violently, whipping around and ending up on the ground anyways, staring up at the Blade himself.

"Oh! Technoblade-- Mr. Blade, sir, I didn't see you there--" Quackity stuttered, scrambling to his feet. He slipped twice on the gravel before Tommy took pity on him and offered him a hand.

Quackity took it, allowing himself to be dragged up before slightly frantically brushing off his jacket. He scrubbed at the mounting flush on his face, refusing to be embarrassed, and waved away Tommy's concern.

Tommy broke the silence, abruptly clearing his throat.

"Right- anyways, I was just showing Big Q around. He’s with us now, you know." Tommy nodded self-assuredly, glancing between Quackity and Techno.

Techno just nodded, making a noise half agreement half dismissive.

"I'll be in the--" Techno started before Tommy interrupted him, fisting a hand in Techno's cape.

"He needs a room to stay in! We don't have enough, we're going to have to share. I was thinking he could stay with Wilbur but he's a little uh..." Tommy trailed off, scratched at his chin before gesturing vaguely. "You know?"

"I know." Techno sighed, turning to face them. "He can stay with me."

"No that's-- that's not necessary, I can just-- I wouldn't want to inconvenience you--" Quackity started, praying the panic in his tone wasn't too noticeable.

Techno just gave him a leering smile, too much teeth and tusk to be considered anything other than threatening before Tommy smacked him.

"Quit messing with Big Q, he's an ally now, alright?" Tommy said, biting down on a laugh.

Techno snorted before shoving him in retaliation for the smack and Quackity backed away quickly before he got dragged into the rough-housing.

Finally, Techno ended it, sitting on Tommy's back effectively pinning him to the ground. Tommy flailed wildly before whining out a childish 'uncle', and Techno released him. Tommy got one last jab in before sprinting off deeper into the ravine, laughter echoing off of the walls.

Quackity wished he hadn't left, the stale air suffocating as Techno eyed him.

"You like what you see?" Quackity blurted out, before slapping a hand over his mouth. "Sorry-- I didn't-- that was an accident I didn't mean to say that, sorry."

Techno just raised an eyebrow at him, and Quackity just knew he was laughing at him, on the inside at least.

Techno gestured in front of him, a silent request to start walking.

Techno followed close behind, managing to avoid stepping on his heels but still unbearably close. His hand was resting loosely on his sword, did he really expect Quackity to attack him here? In his base, all by himself?

Before he could think more about Techno's paranoid tendencies, like the fact that Techno hadn't turned his back to him once, they stopped at a simple wooden door.

The wood was pockmarked with arrow holes, centering around a makeshift bullseye on the door. Above the bullseye was a crude drawing of Techno, Techno's name carved into the door above it.

"Tommy decorated." Techno deadpanned, gesturing vaguely at the door's decorations.

Quackity just nodded mutely, following Techno into his room.

The difference between the rest of the ravine and Techno's room was jarring, to say the least.

The floors were meticulously clean, a broom propped up in the corner.

Everything was shoved to one side, except for the sole bed that was lodged in the far corner, the perfect vantage point to see the door and every part of the room.

There weren't any nooks or crannies to hide in, everything flush against the wall and on ground level, too short to hide behind.

Every corner of the room was lit up, no shadows to lurk in, no area left in the dark.

Techno's bed was frameless, mattress box directly on the floor. He wanted to make a teasing remark about being scared of the monsters under your bed but he swallowed it, all the details clicking into place.

Maybe it wasn't monsters but considering everything else, Techno must have considered the space under his bed a security risk. Part of him wanted to poke fun at his paranoia but another part just felt... Sad.

Did Techno relax? Ever? He couldn't imagine what it must be like, constantly keeping your guard up.

Even now Techno had positioned himself with clear access to the door, and with Quackity at hand’s reach. Well, more accurately, at sword's reach.

Quackity cleared his throat, trying to interrupt the uncomfortable silence they'd settled into. Techno had just quietly watched him look around, and Quackity desperately wished he knew what he was thinking about. His face was as blank and impassive as always.

Finally, Techno spoke.

"Do I need to feed you?" Techno was eyeing him up again, as if he'd be able to tell if he was hungry or not just from looking.

"Uh-- well, I'm a little hungry, but if it's too much trouble don't worry about it, I'll be fine!" Quackity squeaked when Techno abruptly moved forward, hands curling around his shoulders as he nudged him back into a sitting position on a chest.

One of Techno's hands moved from his shoulder to his jaw, forcing his head back slightly.

This was it, Quackity thought, This is where he rips my throat out.

Instead of ripping his throat out, Techno made direct eye contact with him, which was, in Quackity's humble opinion, objectively worse.

Techno broke eye contact first, mouth opening like he was going to say something before his eyes caught on a shallow cut at the base of Quackity's neck.

He'd gotten it on the way to Pogtopia, a skeleton getting a lucky shot on him from the shadows. Thankfully it had barely nicked him, and he hadn't bothered patching it up.

Techno leaned closer to it, forcing Quackity's head farther back, his other hand moving to lightly thumb at it.

Quackity's heart kicked into overdrive, because hey, what the fuck, Technoblade had his sharp ass teeth inches away from his jugular, but he didn't move.

After another uncomfortably long pause Quackity finally mustered up the courage to speak.

"Am I dying, Doc?" He blurted, twisting his head to try and see Techno's expression.

"Huh? Oh, no. You have a heart shaped mole on your neck." Techno huffed a laugh, warm breath ghosting across his neck and Quackity hadn't realized before how fucking cold it was in the ravine.

Techno moved away after that, and Quackity could breathe easier now that he was less worried about dying.

Techno still hovered close, though, nearly nose to nose and without thinking Quackity spoke.

"Are we going to kiss?" He mentally slapped himself afterward, but Techno let out a loud snorting laugh as he moved away more. Quackity was slightly proud he'd gotten a genuine laugh from the man but was still absolutely mortified.

As Techno moved away from him to dig in a chest, Quackity mourned the loss of Techno's warmth. He wondered if it had something to do with being half piglin, or if he always naturally ran hot.

Irrationally, Quackity worried that he had a fever, before squashing that down because the piglin theory made a lot more sense than the Great Technoblade catching a cold.

Techno moved around the room quickly, plucking two bowls out of a chest and giving him a look that silently screamed stay there, before he left the room.

He was back minutes later, and he handed Quackity one of the bowls of soup.

Techno plopped on to the floor and without thinking Quackity slipped down to join him. Techno side eyed him, but rested his back against a chest and started eating.

Quackity ate quickly, the food burning his tongue, and if you asked him he'd have no idea what was in it. When he was finished he carefully placed the bowl next to him, and Techno eyed him expectantly.

"More?" Was all he said, and when Quackity shook his head, a muttered no thanks following, Techno shoved bread at him anyways.

"You don't have to eat it now, but it should stay good for a bit. If you want to keep it on you." Techno went back to his soup, expression once again impassive.

Quackity scooped the bread up, tucking it away into one of his bags. He wondered what made Techno give him extra, if worrying about where your next meal would come from was as inherent to him as it was to himself.

Techno lay on his back, eyes closed and breathing even. He doubted Quackity would be able to tell if he was actually awake or not, but he also didn’t have a very good read on Quackity. It was the main reason he’d offered up his room to him, he wasn’t sure what Quackity was capable of so the closer to him the better.

He didn't know if Quackity could hold his own in a fight, and what if they were invaded in the night? He’d rather be there to protect their weakest link than leave it to the hands of Wilbur or, God forbid, Tommy. Tommy was an adept fighter, sure, but he still hadn’t quite grasped defense over offense, something that would leave Quackity vulnerable.

On the flipside, what if Quackity was a spy? It’d be a lot more difficult to snoop around if Techno was there to watch over him. He was a light sleeper, and his door creaked louder than the others, something he’d never bothered to fix considering it alerted him whenever anyone entered or left.

Quackity also wasn’t known for being particularly quiet, either. Techno was sure that if anything happened when he was asleep, Quackity’s loud panicking would wake him up instantly.

Speaking of his inability to be quiet, Techno listened to him roll over and shift again, his uncomfortable shuffling capturing Techno’s attention in the relative silence of the room. Techno tilted his head, looking at Quackity. He was curled up on the floor, on a thin mat that Tommy had produced from God knows where. He had the blanket stuffed around himself, shivering slightly. Techno hadn’t realized it had been that cold, his back was pressed against the wall behind him that was unnaturally warm due to the lava pool on the other side of it.

“Quackity?” Techno said into the quiet of the room, voice hushed.

“Uh, yeah? What’s up?” Quackity’s voice was high pitched, a nervous titter to it. “Was I bothering you? I can leave--”

He’d moved to a sitting position as he spoke, his shoulders tense and looking ready to bolt.

Techno sighed. Quackity being afraid of him was fun, but also very inconvenient. He gestured at Quackity, beckoning him closer.

Quackity shakily got to his feet, muttering under his breath, this is it, this is the end, this is where he kills me, curse my poor circulation, why do I get cold so easily.

Quackity stopped next to the bed, and Techno lifted up the blanket with one hand and patted the bed next to him with the other.

He stared blankly back at him, looking between the spot next to him and his face, expression quizzical.

“Sleep with me,” Techno huffed, impatient.

“Woah, woah, woah, you seem like a really nice guy but c'mon isn’t this a bit--” Quackity stuttered, looking genuinely surprised and vaguely amused.

At least he doesn’t look afraid, Techno thought absently.

“Not like that. If you’re cold we can share, the bed’s big enough for the both of us.”

Quackity studied him again, rocking back and forth on his heels before letting out a sigh and shrug in the personification of fuck it, and slipping into the bed next to Technoblade.

Techno studied Quackity, frowning before scooting closer.

“Climb over me, the wall gives off heat. You’ll be warmer over there.”

After a bit of fumbling and a push from Techno that was more of a drag, Quackity ended up on his other side.

Techno squinted at him again, before dragging Quackity back into his chest. Quackity huffed, offended that Techno could manhandle him so easily. He wasn’t tiny, it was unfair how strong Techno was.

Techno’s arms wrapped loosely around him, he hooked his head over his shoulder.

“Aw, I didn’t take you as the cuddling type,” Quackity teased, pressing his cold feet against whatever part of Techno they could reach.

Techno huffed again, and Quackity wondered how many emotions he could express with just a huff.

“It’s not cuddling.” Techno readjusted his arms, absently rubbing warmth back into Quackity’s cold fingers, “It’s a tactical advantage.”

“Oh? Well, sorry to say, buddy, but your tactical advantage is crushing my wings.”

“Wings?” Techno echoed, abruptly pulling away. Quackity’s face scrunched in displeasure at the rush of cold air that met his back as Techno sat up to look down at him.

Quackity sat up too, unzipping his jacket. Techno eyed him warily for a second, before impatiently tugging at his jacket, trying to lean around him to get a look. A wing hit him in the face then, fluttering slightly before folding back against Quackity’s back. Quackity squeaked, looking terrified but desperately trying to hold back laughter.

“You need to groom your wings,” Techno finally said, after Quackity’s laughter faded.

“Hey, hey, you don’t just comment on a man’s wings!” Quackity’s voice pitched upwards, defensive as he crossed his arms and his wings puffed up slightly, only accentuating the issue. They were small, smaller than Philza’s certainly, and Techno doubted that Quackity could actually get any air time from them.

They were kind of cute though, Techno thought. Objectively, of course.

“What if I spoon you--” Quackity started, only to be cut off by a petulant Technoblade.

“It wasn’t spooning. It was tactical. If someone came in here and saw me, they’d likely leave you alone. I doubt you made any friends when you defected from Manberg, and you’re kind of an easy target.” As if to accentuate his point he gestured vaguely at, well, all of Quackity, and Quackity’s wings puffed out again, expressive now that they weren’t trapped under a jacket.

“I resent that,” Quackity said in response, sticking his tongue out at him.

“Alrighty, if you want a tactical advantage what if we hit 'em with one of these--” Quackity abruptly flopped across Techno, throwing an arm across his chest. Without thinking Techno’s arm came up, catching him across the throat and shoving him backwards against the wall.

“Sorry-- I didn’t mean that, sorry.” Techno pulled away quickly, straightening Quackity’s shirt and fixing his hair, hands dancing nervously across his chest.

“It’s alright,” Quackity rasped. “You’re a bit jumpy, that’s fine, we can work with that.”

Quackity waved away Techno’s mother henning, before slowly lowering himself against Techno’s side.

“This alright?” He murmured, moving so he was laying across Techno’s chest, head on his collarbone.

Techno curled an arm around Quackity’s waist in lieu of a response, careful to avoid his wings.

Quackity opened his mouth to comment on it, but Techno beat him to the punch.

“This isn’t cuddling. It’s a tactical advantage. Now you can’t sneak away without me knowing, how do we know that you aren’t a spy? I don’t know if I can trust you, yet.”

“You don’t trust me, buddy? We’re literally snuggling in your bed.” Quackity snorted.

“It’s not snuggling, it's a--”

“Tactical advantage, right, I know.”

“Anyways, I know I could take you in a fight. You aren’t a threat to me.” Techno continued, as if Quackity hadn’t said anything.

“You don’t know that--” Quackity started before Techno moved to make eye contact with him, a single eyebrow raised. “Ok, you’re probably right, but I think I could get, like, one lucky shot in, you know?”

“Sure,” Techno said dismissively, patting Quackity’s hip placatingly. His hand moved to rubbing up and down Quackity’s back and Quackity realized how tired he was. It’d been a long day, with a lot of running and the fighting with Schlatt took a lot out of him.

Schlatt.

He was sure the man had already forgotten about him, labelled him a traitor and a coward, but Quackity couldn’t stop thinking. He tried to focus on Techno’s steady breathing, to ignore the rising memories from his earlier fight, but it was too much. He finally felt like he could think again, wasn’t panicking or in survival mode. Had he done the right thing? Had he made the right choice?

He was pulled out of his thoughts by a sharp tug to one of his feathers.

“You’re thinking too loud,” Techno murmured, smoothing the ruffled feathers back into place. “I’ll protect you from whatever’s got you all flustered, just go to sleep.”

Quackity huffed, but buried his face into Techno’s neck anyways, curling their legs together.

“Fine. Didn’t realize Grandpa had such an early bedtime,” Quackity mocked, earning him another warning tug on his feathers. He smothered his snort against Techno, before sighing out a quiet good night.

Techno just hummed, eyelids growing heavy, surprised that he was comfortable enough to sleep.

#technoblade #quackity #dream smp spoilers #just in case laskdjflksdjf #my writing #i have a lot of thoughts ok #many thoughts head full might make a seperate post talkin about all the headcanons here alkdsfjkldsfj <3 #lemme know if you liked this bc im ridiculously nervous abt posting this and im not really sure why aslkdjflskdjfdfskl #platonic intimacy is important to me so whenever i write it into smth my hearts like '!!!' because i dont want people to be shitty #pushing my political agenda of making everyone understand the importance of platonic intimacy and cuddling #this is ok to reblog btw #ALSO QUACKITY HAS LITTOL WINGS BC I L O V E THAT #quacknobros

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kth1 · 4 years

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Get Jinxed [MYG]

beautiful, gorgeous, glorious banner made by the talented queen @dee-ehn - thank you so much for making my thoughts come to life in your edit!

Get Jinxed [Yoongi x Reader] ⟶ Credit: @kimtaehyunq ⟶ Genre: Angst | Smut | 21+ | Cyberpunk AU | One Shot ⟶ Warnings: pwp, sorta old lovers to enemies to lovers, cocky yoongi, mentions of weapons, criminal activities, hopeless romantic OC, rough sex, over simulation, multi-orgasms, public indecency, unprotected, creampie, etc, ⟶ WC: 4.7k+ ⟶ Summary: A rouge ex officer of the law - Yoongi - has twisted his ways into causing mayhem across towns. You are the high and mighty officer who seeks revenge on Yoongi’s ways; considering that he not only turned against the city in which he grew up in, striping all chances of reforming himself, he also stole your heart. ⟶ Teaser: “He hushes you with a hand, his teeth nipping eagerly around your clavicles. “Shh,” he warns with a devilish glint, “We’re in public, Y/n.” He chuckles, mouth coming back to kiss against your jaw.” ⟶ Beta Reader: Thank you so so so very much for taking on this task very very very last minute @chillingtae I am so thankful for you to accept this role, and thank you for helping me through this fic! I owe you! ♡ ⟶ Author’s note: Written for @houseofddaeng‘s Agust D Anniversary Event. Was my first time touching elements of a cyberpunk!au.

Rain casts a veil over your sight as you stare deeply into the silhouette across the murky alleyway; the figure before you surveys the one-of-a-kind hextech rifle aiming right at their head. Glistening neon lights flood your peripherals, puddles reflecting fractions of radiance between the cracks of the split bricks under your very feet. The chill of cold water drenches your attire, even the cap resting on your head leaks streams down the sides of your face.

“How could you!” You choked out between your teeth; loud enough over the pounding rain, loud enough to cut the man in front of you as if your words are daggers.

The rifle that deemed you the best shot in the city has no comparison to your superior intellect. Your wits earned you the way through the rankings and nobody, no criminal or lawbreaker were foolish enough to cross your path. You are known as Vopamis City’s finest peacekeeper and your oath is embedded deep within your family roots.

You’re the sheriff of a thriving, escalating city where art, craftsmanship, trade, and metamorphosis were built and centered from. Vopamis is and forever will be a reinventing city where dreams are lived to the fullest extent and treasures are found around every corner. It sits on top of the distrusted city of Tapos, an undercity district – which used to be once united but now no more – buried deep within canyons weaved below.

You press your words and force the air to pass through your clutching windpipe, “Fuckin’ answer me you son of a bitch!”

The figure sighs with a step forward, rolling their head out of annoyance but once their eyes meet yours in the light you knew all breath escaped your chest.

“Hi, Y/n.”

The dangerous bright orange hair stands out like no other, just like the cocky grin that emits the same tone as his two-toned eyes does. One is dull brown with crystalized specks of white, the other a piercing topaz yellow; a hard contrast between his natural dark pupil – all of which made those eyes captivating.

You fear this moment every day ever since that terrible day. It haunts you; it scares you; it hurts you. Yet here you are, face to face with the man who solemnly swept the valuable, rich rug right out from under you and ran with it. With betrayal and pain coursing through your veins you sought out his existence every single day to get revenge on the one person you thought you truly once loved.

With your rifle adjusted point blank, with the help of the glowing red laser to the center of his forehead, you show no signs of backing down from your stance. The rain beats heavily though your heart pounds harder inside your chest.

He looks just how you remember him; black under-cut still very much unkempt, a piercing jabbed through one eyebrow and two into the cartilage on the same side of his nose. His oversized cryptic jacket hides his frame well, decorated in all sorts of patches, widgets, and spikes that have their own metallic shine to them. You swear you see the edgings of tattoos creeping up the sides of his neck, exactly how you recall them.

Those unforgiving thick soled boots kick up the water around his steps as he inches out of the shadows, “It’s been a while.”

You ignore him just like he ignores your first sentence, “How could you do this?!”

He shrugs with amusement dressing his face, “Why ask me questions you already have answers to, Y/n?”

With glares meeting another in a standoff stare he halts his walk five feet in front of you. Unphased by the downpour of smogged twilight rain, you twist your finger around the trigger of your trusty gun. “You stole for the black markets, betrayed your city and me, ran off to the unstable technologies and reckless constructions of the polluted and gangrenous Tapos. Why!?”

“You seem to be a bit vindictive.” He snickers, swiping a hand through his soaked locks. “I was bored.”

Bored.

Your grip tightens around your rifle, you can’t tell if you are shaking from the cold of the rain or the anger raging throughout your body. His words made your heart sink to the pit of your stomach.. “Yoongi!” You hiss with a harsh tone, blood boiling under your very skin.

He steps again, hand clutching the barrel of your gun and aligning the end against his forehead. Yoongi looks at you with teasing eyes and a wide, wirily smile. He is testing you - taunting you. “I know you won’t do it. You won’t pull the trigger.” That blunt topaz eye drills back into yours, enticing and enchanting all at once. “How many times have you seen me in the streets? Stealing from this filthy, pathetic excuse of a renowned city? How many times did you watch me walk by doing whatever I damn well please? Why are you stopping me now? What changed?”

To what you believe you are holding out strong, insisting you have the upper hand and all control. But you are frozen, unpredictably iced in place from where you stand. Only to stare back at the man that your heart swells and aches for. Yoongi doesn’t wait for you to answer as he already knows every single move and step you have going for you.

“It’s only been two months.” He states with a soft smile, lowering and pushing aside the gun in your grasp. “One of the most determined and skilled investigators of all Vopamis. Filled with ferocity and a strong sense of justice and resolution. Falls right into the footsteps of each and every one of your family members. They reinforced their ideals of right and wrong on you so much that it’s practically branded across your forehead.”

Yoongi spits to the side, tilting his head to watch your face with all his rambling. He has proven himself in such a small-time frame of how impulsive he can be, going from a trusted high ranked officer of the law to a merciful criminal who now wreaks havoc without care. Buildings burn in his name as he always made sure to leave a massive trail of mayhem and panic in his wake, never seized to end his rampage with the biggest explosions – which soon became his signature.

You loved him ever since the day you two joined the academy together. Yoongi excelled in everything from hextech inventions to architectural research. Vopamis has become a magnet for the most skilled craftsmen from all over the world and the more restricted and dangerous ones fell into the toxic runoff of Tapos. Now, Yoongi’s schemes have inspired copycat crimes among the chem-punks, a movement in which he predicted after labeling righteous wordings on structures throughout both cities. Some followers have blindly followed his persona named ‘X’. In a crafty way each successful heist has a small piece left for the police to find; a personable note that always says, “get jinxed.”

Standing helplessly at the mercy of your own heart your head drops, eyes casting to the drenched road. Everything in your righteous mind tells you to take him in, lock him up – it is your job and duty to do this as you are one with the law. But your poor, fragile heart is gapping open from the piece that was ripped away by Yoongi.

“You’re right.” You whisper softly.

“I know.”

All the times you allowed him to do what he continues to do because you didn’t have it in you to send him to jail. As you watch him become the criminal he is now, refusing to stop his acts even though the justice and pride within you screams for you to act on your instincts. “Everything you’re saying is right.”

Yoongi raises his hand, palm facing up and holding a chemtech explosive bullet that swirls a cobalt blue liquid inside. Instantaneously you knew exactly what the bullet is – the meaning behind it, and all of the precious memories came flooding back all at once.

The bullet was no longer than two inches and has a hole drilled through the piece to lace a chain through it. Yoongi wears it as a charm to his bracelet and even in the dark of the rainy night with neon lights flashing around you, you can still see the small etchings of both of your initials on the tip of the bullet. It was his first ever fully functional bullet he crafted back at the academy and he had dedicated that piece of craftsmanship to you.

“I still love you, you know.” Yoongi’s voice stills your breath, deep and stern. With all seriousness he openly speaks with a stony face as you look up to him. “I never stopped.”

You avert your eyes away from the nostalgic piece which lies in Yoongi’s palm and the heat of your breath fans out into the open cool air in a puff of smoke. It hurts your heart, all your pent-up revenge brought out a disgusting angry monster from within you. You’re blinded by the law and blinded by the admiration of love for Yoongi.

“You don’t.” You counter with a hiss.

Raindrops hide away the streams of tears that break down the brims of your eyes and you refuse to keep your eyes open in the slim chance of giving Yoongi the satisfaction of your glistening orbs filling with hurt. As much as you secretly hope and want – need – Yoongi to say those words, they still simmer a splitting pain inside of your delicate heart.

Yoongi’s tatted, calloused hand aimlessly raises to your face, his knuckles brushing against the curve of your cheek. Surprisingly, you don’t flinch at the contrasting and unexpected warmth that’s responsible for heating up that side of your face. Instead you find yourself helplessly leaning into the contact, your shaking hand still holding your trusty gun at your side.

“It’s funny,” Yoongi scoffs, forcing your eyes to jolt in his direction of his action.

You burn a glare at him while he inspects your face, your blood boiling underneath all of your drenched clothes and cold skin. Yoongi sounds a quick ‘tsk’ as disapproval while his fingers glide down the column of your neck. “So funny that you question everything I say and do.”

The fact that he has your rendered frozen in place under the heavy weather and his intimidating presence only confirms his suspicions. He wasn’t lying to you and you knew that, right? You swallow thickly at the bright orange haired man in front of you, eyes casting down to shrink your frame.

You sneer back, “Can you blame me? You ruined your chances of being an officer – all that hard work you put in means nothing now. You destroyed all your chances of being a citizen of Vopamis. And all because you were bored.” In the back of your mind no matter how many hours you had pondered his reasonings to derail into a criminal, what hurt you the most wasn’t the fact he chose this path of being a high risk offender – it is the reality of him leaving you behind as if nothing about your relationship between another is important to him as it was to you.

Yoongi cocks an amused eyebrow, a smirk quick to follow. “Hm, yes. I wasn’t bored with you though, Y/n. Truthfully, knowing that you’ll be hot on my trail at all times – no matter where I went – made this new life even more fun. You enjoy chasing me?” He swipes his tongue through the small opening of his lips, two-toned eyes glare at the small line of tattoos up the back of your own ear. He tilts your jaw with his thumb, exposing more of your smooth damped skin.

Under Yoongi’s hand you feel like a marionette; damned against his ministrations and at how weak you feel towards him. You can see your vision blur around the edges, your sight honing on the glowing eye that stares at you with interest. Another puff of fog seeps out of your mouth from a released breath that you held in for far too long. You don’t acknowledge the way your limbs grew numb by the minute or the way your bottom lip trembles from your constant shivers. You are only focusing on the way the warmth of the pads of his fingers emits onto your skin and gives you a sliver of assurance.

“Have I ruined this too?” Yoongi questions in a whisper, eyes projecting down to your cold lips.

Everything in your mind tells you to scream at him, tell Yoongi ‘yes, you completely and utterly ruined every single aspect of my life,’ but the words cannot crawl their way up your throat and form the sounds you need. Instead your face reacts with pain, all of your walls and defenses breaking down around you and your rifle drops to the puddled ground underneath you.

He can read you like a book, study your features, and pull each intricate and thin string of your heart. He plays you like a fiddle with a crooked smile, a knowing look to his face where all his intuitions of you feeling something towards him are all riddled true. It’s dressed all over your face, your body leaning closer to his, the look to your eyes – glistening or not.

His thumb taps lightly against your bottom lip, popping it open from the stern line your mouth was creating. You gulp with anticipation, your surrounding areas become less and less in vision of your peripheral and your eyes can only bore straight back into Yoongi’s; pupils dilating rapidly.

“No…”

Your solo word shakes out with a heavy breath at the same time Yoongi’s other hand comes to grab your elbow and pull you closer to him. The heat radiating off of him is met between you with a strikingly fast kiss, but the kiss was tentative at best. Even reading all of your body gestures, the way your posture changes when it comes to his proximity invading your territories, Yoongi still approached with cocky confidence. He knows he has you around his finger, around his hand and more.

‘You weren’t ruined, yet,’ he thought. But Yoongi is all too excited to violate whatever purity of the law that is still laced within your morals.

He’s eager to shove his deadly tongue into the first parting of your mouth, a gasp of excitement releasing through a moan. You forget about the downpour of rain around the two of you, the chill of the air cutting through your clothes, even forgetting the blaring neon signs illuminating the paths around this alleyway. Your mind is intoxicated with the savvy orange haired, corrupted, and dangerous man who has swindled his way within the burrows of each city and the cavities of your heart.

A single tear traces down your cheek as your arms link around Yoongi’s neck, your body completely caving into the man before you. With the motion Yoongi backs the two of you up until you're hidden well enough in the darkness. His hand cocks your head to the side as he leaves wet open-mouthed kisses as he pushes you against the side of the building. His lips heat your skin up and send an involuntary chill of goosebumps down your body.

You breath out into the air while your senses adjust to the new sensations of want and need being applied to your form. “Yoongi –“

He hushes you with a hand, his teeth nipping eagerly around your clavicles. “Shh,” he warns with a devilish glint, “We’re in public, Y/n.” He chuckles, mouth coming back to kiss against your jaw.

You muffle a noise of acknowledgement, or a moan of pleasure from the sharp suck Yoongi plants against the sweet spot under your ear. Your arms grip him tighter, pulling him flush against your front to be as close as possible. Without hesitation your hands link up the back of his head, fingers carding through the disheveled drenched locks for a nice pull.

Both of your clothes stick to you like a second skin, suctioned to your own bodies and you desperately want them ripped off. Yoongi hisses at the yank of his head. Sensing your actions as an emergency he huffs a laugh your way, “Yeah? What do you want?” He removes the hand across your mouth only to shove his thumb into it, pressing down against your tongue. “Is this righteous mouth going to tell me something?”

You comply by action with the decision of closing your mouth around his finger and sucking it with delight. Yoongi praises you with words of assurance, biting down on the flesh of his own bottom lip. He leans into you, hips grinding instantly against your frontside. The uneven gyrating of wet fabrics causes a rough and uncomfortable friction, but it was something that helped direct attention toward your neglected core.

Yoongi lifts up your slicked shirt just enough to fondle around the waistband of your pants in search of unhinging your duty rig belt. “You’re going to be a good girl, right?” His eyes give you a knowing look as his thumb detaches from your trap. Nodding, you seek his mouth once more to savor the warmth between you two. “Vopamis’ finest,” he quotes in a mocked tone.

“I love you.”

Your confession halts Yoongi for a brief moment between kisses, his hand stalls as it breaches a few inches inside the front of your pants. He has you pinned against the rough brick of a building in the outskirts of the city with your freezing, aching body under his frame. Your mouth and legs so willing to open up for him.

This is the very first time he’s seen you so ‘not yourself’ in all the years he has known you, even when the fondness blossomed more between the two of you. Whichever relationship the two of you were in – it wasn’t exclusive but it surely is implied – has become completely manipulated to the public eye. Yoongi’s urgency falters for a moment, a flashback to a simpler time where the underlying love and sweetness emitting from the two of you has no boundaries. But as fast as that memory exposes itself, it was easily covered in his future thoughts. His enjoyment of being who he is now, what he wants to achieve, obtain, and take.

With your face plastering across all walls of his mind, he smirks excessively as if he is pleased with himself. He has everything he wants, and he’s greedy for more. No matter what Yoongi does with himself he knows he’ll have you regardless – and right now is proving that theory.

He leans forward to plant another kiss to your appetizing lips once more, “I know you do.”

Quickly, Yoongi flips you in your place in one quick motion, yanking down a portion of your pants once you catch yourself against the wall. Your eyes scan frantically to the opening of the alleyway, silently praying nobody stumbles upon the two of you in this indecency act – especially how your rifle lays still on the ground in the opening.

The air breezes across your now exposed cheeks, and with a firm hand Yoongi shoves against your lower back forcing you to bend forward enough to reveal your core. Gasping, you shudder under the sudden invasion of his cold clammy palm molding on top of your cunt. Your hands held you up against the wall, pants pulled only to your lower thighs preventing the spread your legs most desperately needed.

Slowly, Yoongi’s fingers prod along your slit, dipping directly between your folds the moment they come in contact with your dampness. He shushes you once again with the ruggedness of his voice while you hear the clinking of what you assume to be his belt buckle.

He wastes no time sinking a finger straight into your entrance, only after giving your clit a moments time of blissful pleasure – gone far too quick for your liking. His digit glides easily, enticing him with the next stroke to join a second. Your mouth hangs open with heated pants, your lower stomach jumping excitedly at the intimacy of your loved one, and your hips chase the stride of his fast pace.

“Shit, Yoongi!” you curse under your breath, feeling his free hand now snaking up your side under your shirt. His fingers alone create such friction that has your head lolling to the side and your inners clutching erratically. You don’t question your urgency, the impatient nature your body so willingly falls into, not when Yoongi is inches behind you lining up his engorged head to replace his fingers.

The two of you don’t care about the surrounding areas, too filled with lust. Too drunk on the idea of Yoongi coming back to you – and he is too excited knowing he has you in his clutches.

Heat courses throughout your core and abdomen, running down each of your limbs the moment his hips are pressed against your backside, dick submerged in one swift jolt forward. You lose your footing, falling further into the wall as your forearms plant into the building. A guttural moan leaks out of him the moment you yelp and squirm under him. His fingers desperately hold around your waist as he straightens his back, giving the next few experimental thrusts the slower motion your pussy needed from his harsh action.

Yoongi’s hip snaps back into you, bringing the flesh of your ass into the seat of his lap. He seethes through his teeth, “Fuckin’ hell!”

You’re restricted from widening your legs no thanks to your pants locking you in place, but this also gives a tighter sensation against his swollen cock. He doesn’t give you too much time to recuperate and catch your bearings, too honest with his mission and surging forward to bring the two of you to the brink.

“Stand,” he grunts with an arm circling around your waist. With his help you’re press flush against the wall and his chest, completely stuck between two hard places. Yoongi’s pace is rapid, the slaps of skin melt into the sounds of the fallen raindrops. It’s not long for his cock to jam pleasantly into the sweet spots within your silky walls, his thrusts determined to continue their gyrating motion deep inside you.

He chuckles at the lewd moans you release, head tilted back against his shoulder as you breath for air. “You really don’t care if someone hears you, huh? What do you think they’ll do, seeing the best shot in town being railed by a rogue criminal?”

Yoongi’s words course through your ear, his teeth coming to bite the flesh behind it. Your mind is too cloudy to think straight, not when he was inside of you both physically and emotionally. “T-they’ll hate me.”

“Is that so?”

You hum because that’s all you can do. The knot tightens in your stomach, the dull ache between your legs distorting itself into an electrifying spark has you cursing Yoongi’s name to go faster, harder. Yoongi feels you tightening around his prodding cock, only causing him to buck into you rougher.

Orange locks find their way between your fingers, tightening your grip on his hair the faster that band within you reaches towards its peak. “Yes! Yes, yes, please –“

The moment your body feels his inked fingers sneak their way to your clit, pinching it harshly, pulls a shriek of pleasure from your throat. Your body snaps under him – back arching as your walls clasp around his cock. “A-ah!” you shout while your orgasm rushes to all corners of your body, a tingly sensation vibrating through every fiber of your being.

Yoongi smirks as his pace doesn’t halt, now latching both of his hands to your hips he directs all movements. He enjoys your dispute of over-sensitivity, knowing how much you secretly like it from all the times in the past.

“One more, I know you have it in you. I’ve seen it before.” His voice is rough, any tang of sweetness swept away. “I’ll continue to fuck into this pussy until you cum again.”

Without stopping for a breather your body rushes into overdrive, it continues to squirm in his grasps and your legs shake dangerously underneath you. All thoughts of remaining quiet have gone out the window. Your second orgasm is set to fire, ready to be kicked off the edge into infinity, and with one quick shove of Yoongi’s cock that sinks all the way to ram into your cervix has you keening over and over.

Your pussy pulsates around his dick inconsistently, holding onto the appendage like a vice. It triggers his frenzy, his release spilling deep inside your well spent walls with dirty grunts. His arms hold around you tightly, helping you stand straight and to assist himself at the same time. Together both of your breathes are resounded, heated air escaping around the two of you in puffs of smoke.

You wince when his softening cock slips out of you, leaving gravity to aid in the way his cum drips casually out of your hole. Yoongi doesn’t allow you to turn and face him before he’s hoisting up your bottoms, the fabrics too annoyingly drenched to feel comfortable against your skin.

When you finally turn to speak to him he’s already readjusting his pants up along his hips, securing the button to his pants as he eyes you for a quick second. His hair is even more of a mess than before, no doubt you looked remotely better.

Dropping your mouth to talk, Yoongi averts his gaze to your rifle laying to the side. “Yoongi, I –“

“Don’t.”

His eyes narrow at the device that labels the reality of everything, where the two of you stand no matter how much you tango with another. A snort leaves him as he finishes off the buckle to his belt and you can tell by the way his facial features flicker than he’s having a complicated inner dialog going on inside his mind.

“Yoongi!” You press, grabbing hold of his shoulders to shake him slightly. “Yoongi please look at me, please don’t walk away from me.”

After a deep breath he exhales slowly, blank eyes now directed at you. There’s confusion painted over your face from the way you aren’t understanding why Yoongi suddenly steps even closer to place another kiss onto your lips, but it causes you to stop thinking momentarily. His lips, plump and plush, are the only things you can think about – until he’s pulling away too fast.

Back now facing you, he strides down the alley in which you found him. As if this heated interaction, and everything it consisted of, seized to exist anymore – the time has passed.

You take a wobbly step in his direction, hand reaching towards the figure that distances itself further from your grasp. “Yoongi, please!” You cry.

Behind you is your rifle, only feet away, and in front of you is the man you continuously chase. You’re torn between the two, the feeling of your mind splitting in half causing you to have a mental debacle with yourself. You scream with frustration; tears stream down your face at what your heart truly wants.

To stop the criminal at large or to join him?

You didn’t notice how Yoongi stops in his tracks, head tilted to look behind him with his piercing yellow eye standing out through the darkness. He watches you curiously, the environment around the two of you officially draws itself back into reality. Once he hears your scream of defeat he completely turns to face you with the widest grin smeared across his mouth.

“Hey, Y/n...” He pauses to wait until he knows you’re listening to him – and of course you immediately do so. Yoongi cocks his head to the side with a sense of arrogance radiating from the way his body stood. You desperately look at him with a plea, but your facial features harden at his next words. And they lace, deadly, within your mind.

Yoongi sighs, running one of his hands through his hair. Again, he knows he already has you, ruined you, and now he completely and absolutely owns you whether you like it or not. Yoongi playfully lifts his fingers to cross them together, a sign of a heart sent straight to you, “Get jinxed.”

#hodevent #houseofddaeng #bangtanarmynet #bangtanhq #ficswithluv #magicshopnet #btsbookclub #suganetwork #networkbangtan #armysource #yoongi x reader #bts #bts one shot #get jinxed #min yoongi #bts smut

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stressisakiller · 3 years

Text

Hello Sunflower

Bucky Barnes x Reader Soulmate AU

Hello Sunflower Part 1

Summary: Your soul mark appears on your 18th birthday. What do you do when your father is a part of Hydra and your soul mark binds you to the Winter Soldier.

Warnings: Mentions and slight descriptions of torture, violence and brainwashing

Word Count: 2.6k

A/N: 4/23 New edit: fixing some timeline issues and integrating a little of the steve x reader I’m working on. Ok guys I reread this and decided to edit it and make it longer and add more dialog. I hope that you like the changes. I plan on going back and editing the other chapters as well, but that will be between writing and posting new chapters. Let me know what you think and if you have any requests for future parts. Also I originally got the idea for this after reading Wolf, Partner Gloves... by @revengingbarnes so check it out!

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You have always hated your dad. For as long as you can remember you have hated him. Every time he dragged you with him to "work" at Hydra that hatred grew. It came to a point when he decided that you would be the perfect subject for their new round of super-soldier serum testing.

So, here you are at 10, 10 years old, on this freezing metal table with a syringe in your arm screaming your head off as the serum burns through your veins. Pain. All you can think about is the pain. It feels like every single one of your nerves is on fire, and at the same time, they feel like ice. The pain blazes through you as your DNA is rewritten turning you from the child you are to the soldier that they want you to be.

Faces come in and out of focus as the scientists look you over, studying you to see how the serum is affecting you. Your head is fuzzy, only catching every couple of words that are being spoken around you. Everything is coming into view as your eyes adjust to the lights and the new information that your DNA is sending. Flexing your hand on the table you feel pins and needles from the tip of your fingers up to your shoulder, causing you to wince. A couple of tears slip from the corner of your eyes from the overwhelming ache the is present throughout your body.

A voice drifts in through the door. A voice that you know all too well, your father.

"She survived?" You have never noticed how sinister his voice sounds before.

"Yes sir, and it seems like the serum took, we aren't sure how exactly it has altered her yet." The other voice is weaker, trembling, scared of the man in front of it.

"Begin testing on her then, we need to know before we begin training her."

"Yes sir."

One set of footsteps retreats down the hallway while the other comes closer. You look towards the door, waiting to face the man that is about to walk in. You make sure your face is blank when the door opens, you don't want him to know you heard the whole conversation.

A slight sniveling man steps through the door and you immediately decide that you hate him. He walks over to you and undoes the straps on your arms and legs.

"Come little soldier, it's time to find out what you can do." He orders, his voice is a little stronger now that he isn't facing your father. He leads you down a maze of hallways, your bare feet make no noise as you follow after him.

Entering a different room you are met with the site of another metal table as well as a two-way glass mirror, a treadmill, and a large set of weights. The man points you to the treadmill and the tests begin. They force you to run, full sprint until your body shuts down and you fall to the floor, flying off the belt as soon as you hit. When you come back to consciousness they force you to lift more and more weight until you feel your arm muscles give out. The weights come crashing down on you breaking multiple ribs. You are given a day to heal before they begin shocking and beating you to figure out what your pain tolerance is, before cutting you in different places at different depths to discover how quickly you heal.

You aren't sure how many days have passed before you are thrown into your new "bedroom" to rest and heal. A meal of bread, milk, and some sort of meat substitute is all they give you to eat. With every test and beating your hatred for Hydra and the man who called himself your father grows. You haven't seen your father at all during the testing but you know that he has been standing behind that stupid mirror and watching as you are put through every test that the scientists could think of. As soon as he had taken you to be injected, you had decided that this man was no father of yours. No real father would willingly subjugate their child to this torture and watch as it happens.

You are given no rest before they begin to train you, throwing you into a ring with the other assets, teaching you how to shoot every type of firearm imaginable. You are taught how to throw knives and how to use poison, how to kill a man without leaving a trace and how to evade arrest. They make you into their perfect little child soldier, and you despise them for it.

Your memories from that point on are disjointed, you know that there is a machine that they would force you into, you can remember the pain, but not much else. Then there are these words, six of them. The scientists say them and you lose all control of your own body. But then they take you back to that other machine and you fall into blessed whiteness. After an unknown amount of time, they decide that they no longer need to take you to that machine or to use those words. All you have ever known is Hydra, after all, there is no way you would turn against them. That's their first mistake. You bid your time, and slowly they give you more freedom. The idiots.

As your 18th birthday had approached you set a tattoo appointment. You would rather die than let Hydra find out what your soulmate mark would be. You had decided beforehand that you would go in and get multiple tattoos on your birthday to mask the one that would betray the person that fate had deemed you destined for.

Waking up the morning of your 18th birthday you run to the mirror. Seeing the markings on your skin you die a little inside. It can’t be, he can’t be your soulmate, how are you going to be able to save yourself and him? There on your hip, the size of a nickel, in bright red ink is a star, not just any star but the blood-red star that is a prominent feature on the arm of the Winter Soldier. But that isn’t the only thing that catches your eye. You have another tattoo, on your left bicep a bouquet of marigolds, white daisies, baby’s breath, and yellow gladiolus, with the howling face of a wolf emerging from the center. You hurry around your apartment, hiding your marks with a heavy layer of makeup. You can’t run the risk of anyone seeing them now, not before you have the chance to cover them.

You rush to the tattoo parlor in a panic and tell them the two tattoos you want. You insist that they do both of them while you are there. You cut through the protests assuring them that you have a high pain tolerance and that you heal very quickly. In the weeks preceding this day you had contemplated what exactly you needed. You had reasoned beforehand that just one tattoo would be too suspicious, but now that you have two marks you decide that you only need to get one other tattoo. You know that you will be punished for this but it is worth it, he is worth it.

To cover the soulmate mark on your hip you get a galaxy with stars of all different colors that make up multiple constellations. It takes them most of the day to finish it, walking over to the mirror you study the new art on your hip. It stretches from the middle of your thigh up to your bottom rib. It's large enough that the stars fade into the background, making it practically impossible to tell that one of them is your soulmark.

The second tattoo is a bird in a cage that spans across the ribs on the opposite side as the galaxy. You have them make the bird abstract, using all types of different objects to create the shape of the bird and the cage. You leave the other soulmark alone, it is impossible to tell that it is a soulmark or at least who it pertains to, not with the other two tattoos vying for attention.

You leave the parlor late that afternoon and head home. As you open the door to your apartment you are met by the overly happy face of your father. You had expected him to be there but the look on his face causes you to pause.

"My daughter, where have you been? I have been waiting for you almost all day?” the fake concern in his voice makes your teeth clench. In response, you shrug noncommittally,

“I had to run some errands and they ended up taking longer than I expected.” He is suspicious of your lie, but it won't take long for him to discover exactly where you were all day.

“No matter my child, you are here now. As you know you turned 18 today, which means your soul mark has appeared. Show it to me so that we may begin to look for the man who will hold your heart." He oozes smugness, believing that he will soon have the key to keeping you in check. You stare him down, you will die before he finds out who your soulmate is.

"Sorry to disappoint dad,” you spit, “ but I had it tattooed over. I didn’t even look at it. So I will never know who my soulmate is but neither will you." as soon as the words pass your lips your father's face contorts. His rage at your defiance shifting him from your father to the lead scientist of Hydra.

His grip is bruising as he drags you from the apartment and to the lab. The table is freezing as he straps your half-naked body to it. He snarls at you as you glare up at him.

“You think that you can defy me and not face the consequences? You think that I would not punish you because you are my daughter? I don’t give a shit about you except for what you can do for the cause. You are nothing but a puppet for us to use.” he walks away ordering for you to be tortured until you reveal what your mark is. The only condition he gives is that you are not to be killed, after all, they still have use for you.

You spent days on that table, days of being tortured with every instrument they could think of. You were waterboarded, choked, burned and they paid extra attention to cutting every inch of skin that was covered by tattoos. At the end of every day your father would come in and ask if you had something to tell him, and every day you spit in his face.

After three days they decide to brainwash you, they can’t wipe you since they need you coherent enough to remember what they want to know. The words wash over you, and yet to your surprise, you still have complete control. You quickly use it to your advantage. You allow them to think it worked, answering their questions as if the soldier is in control. You tell them what you told your father. You didn't look at your mark, you immediately had it tattooed over. They believe you.

After all that must be the truth, you are their soldier and their soldier cannot lie. You are just relieved that they have finally given up, you aren't sure that you could have made it another day without blacking out or losing it.

When they drag you off the table and throw you into one of the cells you can barely move or even think. Curling into yourself on the hard cot, you allow sleep to take you. Your father doesn't allow you to rest for long, as soon as your body is in mostly working order you are thrown back into training.

“Fight or die.” He states, looking down at you as though you are the scum of the earth. “It matters not to me which you choose.” You act as their soldier and obey their commands as well as you can without losing yourself. Walking into the training ring you are dismayed to see that you are fighting none other than the winter soldier, your soulmate. You fight with everything you have, your hatred for Hydra growing with every bruise and cut you are forced to bestow. You use the moments you have alone in your cell to plan.

When you were younger you were forced to watch as Hydra wiped and programmed the soldier before they made you into one as well, at this point, you know his words by heart. You start to wonder, if they can make a series of trigger words to turn him into the Soldat, maybe you can come up with a phrase that will help bring him back. You spend the rest of the night creating the sentence that you will use, deciding on a nickname for him that has meaning to you.

Sunflower, that is the name you decide on. They are, after all, your favorite flower and if fate is to be trusted then he is to be your favorite person. The next day you begin implementing your plan, taking the opportunity to speak with him in the moments that you have him pinned down or he has you pinned down.

Every time it's the same phrase, spoken to him in Russian, “Hello Sunflower, the sun is up and your dreaming is done." This continues for months until one day Hydra decides that you are fit to go on missions with the Soldier, they believe you to be thoroughly under their control.

Every mission you find a chance to say the phrase to him. In the time you spend with him you learn to read him. He isn’t expressive, Hydra made sure of that, but when you pay enough attention you start to see the minute changes in his eyes or stance. You begin to notice a difference in him whenever you speak the phrase, no matter when his last brainwashing was. He begins to recognize you, even when in full Winter Soldier mode. When you speak to him while training his hits get a little softer and less aggressive, and when you are on missions he speaks just a little bit more.

You are 23 when the unthinkable happens, while on a mission, without the winter soldier, you fall into a river in some backwater town in Europe. You are saved from drowning by a man that you just shot. A man you have only read about in the soldier’s files. Steve Rogers. After retrieving you from freezing water, he takes your unconscious body back with him to the medical wing in the Avengers tower.

As you wake up your first thought is where am I, your second thought is this bed is way too fucking comfortable for Hydra. Your eyes shoot open. The blinding light of the room causes you a headache to make itself known. You start to move, feeling a tug at your wrists, you slowly open your eyes and look down. You are cuffed to the railing of a hospital bed, great. You flop back onto the bed, cursing your luck and hoping that whoever has you is willing to listen. Your gaze shifts to the door when you notice a figure behind the glass. The glass doors slide open, and Steve walks in. This revelation causes you to tense up, even more, you did shoot him after all.

“Oh good you're awake,” he says, noticing your open eyes and tense figure. “Now I get to ask you all of the questions I’ve been wanting to ask for the past three days.” He takes a seat next to you, his whole body screams intimidation. "Who are you? Why did you shoot me? What were you doing in that town and where did you get these?" He questions not bothering to hide the anger in his voice.

He is holding up Bucky’s dog tags in front of your face and waiting impatiently for you to answer. You want to snatch them out of his hand and place them back around your neck, after taking them from his file about a month ago you haven’t taken them off. You were going to give them to him after you got him out, which you were planning on doing within the next couple of weeks. But now you are stuck here and there is nothing you can do to get back to him. You look at Steve, desperation coloring your voice as you explain, praying that he will listen.

"My name is Y/N, my father is Hydra and forced me to become an experiment, a soldier for them. I was planning on escaping but I never could, I couldn’t escape and leave him there. Not when I could do something to save him. I couldn’t leave him there all alone." It came out in a rush. Your heart shatters as you realize that you have done exactly what you have tried so hard not to, you have left your soulmate in the hands of Hydra. You have to convince Steve to help you get him back.

"Wait a minute, you're Hydra?" He spits at you. Fuck, you forgot that he knew what hydra is and that he hates them with a passion. Well, at least we have something in common.

"Not by choice." You answer quickly, not liking the vehemence in his voice, yet unable to hide the hatred in your own. You notice the way his jaw relaxes the tiniest bit when you say that, if you hadn't had years of practice watching Bucky for the tiniest hints of himself you would have missed it.

"Alright then, who is this ‘he’ you keep mentioning?" Steve leans back, crossing his arms as he waits for your answer.

"My soulmate, the Soldier, the man on the dog tags, James Buchanan Barnes." Steve's eyes immediately narrow, his body goes stiff,

"You’re lying. I watched him fall from that train” His teeth are clenched as he speaks. “I watched him die! There is no way he's your soulmate!" you can practically feel the anger rolling off of him.

"I'm not lying! I swear!” you are terrified of what he will do if you can’t convince him. “Hydra got to him. They made him into a weapon, they brainwashed him and put him on ice when they didn’t need him so that they could control him better. I swear I'm not lying!" You can’t stop yourself from becoming slightly hysterical. Usually, you would remain calm in this type of situation, but this time you can’t. This time it’s Hydra and this time it’s James.

A girl, that you had noticed in the corner earlier, steps forward, resting a hand on his shoulder. You hear her murmur something to him, but you aren’t able to make out what exactly she says. His countenance softens when he looks at the girl and you are reminded of how you sometimes look at James. Turning back to you he stares for a moment before he making a decision,

“Fine, I can’t fully trust you and I can’t let you go, so you will have to live here in the tower, under surveillance. If you want us to trust you, you will have to prove yourself trustworthy." He stands, unlocks your cuffs, and strides out of the room, you understand, what you just told him is a lot to take in.

The girl that was with him turns to you, “I’ll make sure that they have a room ready for you as soon as you are well enough to leave the hospital.” She gives you a soft smile and turns to leave, pausing for a moment at the door.

“I have just one more question.” You nod at her when she pauses, you will try your best to answer it. “I know you shot Steve.” she starts. “But you missed anything important on purpose, didn’t you?" You just smile at her, she's right, but you know nothing you say will change anything. She studies you for a moment before walking out of the door.

Your arrangement works for a year. In that year you have become close to the avengers that live there. During the first six months you and Steve’s girl, Sarah, spend every morning together. She wants to learn how to fight and you are willing to teach her. You become close, she is the first person in the tower to trust you. In return for teaching her to fight she teaches you sign language. Apparently, one of her siblings was born deaf so her whole family knows how to sign. You become closer to Steve during this time as well, he still doesn’t fully trust you but he is willing to tell you more about his best friend. He always calls him Bucky and you find yourself calling him that too. But they end up moving to DC, leaving you in the compound with mostly Tony for company. Natasha and Clint are in and out of the tower and you come to a mutual understanding. You and Natasha have similar upbringings and it forms a bond, not friendship, but definitely trust.

Then after about a year of freedom from Hydra shit hits the fan. Fury is shot and Steve discovers that Hydra has been a part of Shield since the beginning. You have to escape the tower before Hydra gets to you, so you do. You keep an eye on Steve and Sarah, at a distance, of course, you know they will send Bucky after him and that will be your chance to get to him.

Then the bridge happens and you see your soulmate for the first time in a year. Your heart feels like it’s beating out of your chest as you run towards him. You watch as he attacks Steve, you see Steve's shock as the mask falls off and you hear his heartbroken voice when he calls out for his friend. You hear Bucky’s crushing answer. You run, tackling him to the ground, just like you had done so many times in training. He fights back, you knew he would. You struggle with him, dodging punches and his knife. You are finally able to flip him onto the concrete and pin him down. Your heart in your throat as you stare into the eyes of your soulmate, praying as you speak that he will remember. Knowing that he has an unconscious reminder of you etched on his skin in ink. Here goes nothing.

“Hello sunflower, the sun is up and your dreaming is done."

Tagged users: @calwitch @writerwrites

#bucky x y/n #bucky imagine #bucky barnes #bucky x reader #marvel #marvel imagine #soulmate au #hydra #james buchanan barnes #james buchanan bucky barnes #bucky barnes fanfiction #hello sunflower

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dinosaurtsukki · 3 years

Text

[ flu season in E minor ]

pairing: fyodor dostoevsky x gn!reader

word count: 2.2k words

contains: uni!au, sigma and nikolai as your bff’s, gn!reader, music student!fyodor, fyodor being a bit of a brat while he’s sick, slight pining/crushing, idk just fluffy shit

summary: you and fyodor are both in the university theater club but you rarely ever see him except for when you’re picking up the musical compositions he makes for the play. this time, however, you come over to his apartment to find him sick with the flu

a/n: uhhh this is kind of a trainwreck cause i was literally just ‘omg uni!au fyodor sickfic’ and then went with it :P

“don’t forget to drink your vitamin c guys! flu season is already here and if you’re down with the flu please don’t come in and spread your germs everywhere,” sigma instructed at the ending of the cast meeting. even though he sounded snappy while saying it, you could tell he meant well. two of your actors in the theatre club had already come down with the flu and with showtime coming up soon, everyone was understandably extra careful.

“y/n, one last thing,” sigma called you over as everyone prepared to leave.

“in case you were going to ask, yes, i took my vitamins already,” you teased skipping over to where he was.

“not funny,” sigma rolled his eyes. “i was wondering if you could follow up with fyodor on the music for the next scene? he doesn’t respond at all to any non-physical communication, i already left him ten messages.”

“ooh, another visit to the phantom of the opera’s apartment,” nikolai popped up right at your shoulder.

“seriously? you guys call him that?” sigma raised a disappointed eyebrow at you two.

“well he’s mysterious and makes music in a theatre.”

“i feel like you should actually watch phantom of the opera before making that claim,” you told him. “also sure,” you shrugged nonchalantly to hide your obvious excitement. “i have time to drop by.”

even though he’s a part of the theatre club, fyodor dostoevsky was pretty much an enigma to the rest of the members. his contributions to the club activities were mainly in the form of the musical compositions he created for the plays. however, because he was always busy practicing for upcoming recitals apart from his music classes, fyodor rarely ever attended rehearsals.

but on the off-chance that he did drop by in a rehearsal to discuss with sigma or attend a cast meeting, you’d spend the entire time just... admiring him. everything from the calm and articulate way he spoke to messy way his hair framed his face. and on that day when fyodor decided to demonstrate the music by playing it himself on his cello, you realized you were head over heels for this man.

and so you, practically jumped at every chance you got to pick up sheet music or recordings from fyodor’s apartment. you already set the expectation that you wouldn’t be around for long. and you were right about that... usually.

...

“fyodor? hello?” you knocked on the door for what was probably the fifth time already. it was freezing cold outside and you were desperate to get in. pressing your ear against the door, you heard a weak voice say ‘come in. door’s open’ and then tentatively, you unlocked the door.

whenever you saw fyodor, he was always wearing a clean, button-up shirt and slacks since he was also at orchestra practice. so of course, it was a complete shock to you to come into his apartment to find fyodor dressed in bright red pajamas with a mickey mouse logo on the center of his shirt with a colorful patchwork quilt thrown across his shoulders. not to mention, he was seated in his couch with sheet music and tissues strewn around him.

upon closer look, you could tell from his sunken eyes and slightly red nose that flu season had struck fyodor.

“oh, y/n, it’s you,” he sniffled as you hesitated near the door. “come in. it’s cold out.”

“are you alright?” you asked, approaching fyodor. because you had gotten the flu a bit earlier that month, you weren’t too concerned about catching it again. “you look, well, sick.”

“just a cold,” fyodor waved his hand. “anyway, did sigma send you for something?”

“he’s asking for a follow-up with the music for the new scene,” you remembered.

“oh, that...” fyodor nodded, frowning as he searched the sheet music scattered around him. “i’m sure it’s around here somewhere and... i forgot to do it.” fyodor sighed at the realization. “don’t worry. i’ll just whip something up real quick,” he sniffed before picking up a blank piece of sheet music.

“well you don’t have to right now. fyodor, you’re sick. you should get some rest before working,” you sat down on the couch as fyodor bent over the coffee table with a pencil ready. “i mean, no offense but i doubt you can come up with anything in your current state.”

“nonsense, y/n,” fyodor scoffed and began to scribble something on the page. “i am a trained classical musician. composing is merely second-nature to someone like myself. why, i’m sure i have a melody coming along right--”

“fyodor.”

“yes?”

“you just wrote the letter g on the corner of the page and then started drawing random squiggles.”

fyodor looked down at his squiggled-over sheet music with a completely deadpan expression and stared at it for a good ten seconds. “i thought it was a g-clef,” he whispered to himself.

“do you... want me to help you to your room?” you asked softly. fyodor sniffed.

“yes please.”

...

when you headed out to his apartment earlier that morning, you didn’t expect to be taking care of a sick fyodor for the rest of the afternoon. for someone who always looked put-together and composed, fyodor was terrible at taking care of himself. even after coming down with the flu a few days ago, he still insisted on practicing the cello in his apartment. and, judging by the empty cans in the sink, you could tell that all he was eating was instant soup.

and, sick fyodor was kind of... whiny. it took a lot of convincing on your part for him to agree not to work on the compositions in bed, or practice his bowing. he complained about his pillows ‘not being plump enough’ and that his socks didn’t match (because he didn’t do the laundry).

“i don’t think i’ll even be able to sleep at this rate, y/n. my head is spinning but i’m not nearly tired enough to sleep. maybe i’ll drift off for just a bit but it won’t be that restful,” fyodor said, laying down on his not-plump pillows before he was out like a light five minutes after.

“drift off for just a bit, huh?” you chuckle slightly to yourself as you watch him. fyodor was curled up on his side, hugging one of the pillows with his blanket wrapped tightly around him.

you were definitely in a strange situation being in your crush’s house while he was sick in bed. there wasn’t really a need for you to stay; you could just leave some medicine on the nightstand and a note with instructions.

“mmm... key needs to be in e minor,” fyodor mumbled in his sleep before turning over on his side. you bit back a laugh for fear of waking him up.

‘what the heck? i’ll stay and make him some actual soup,’ you ultimately decided.

...

fyodor woke up to the smell of something delicious cooking, and that was something he rarely woke up to. aside from the fact that he could actually smell out of his currently unclogged nose, fyodor felt much better than he had been in a while.

‘y/n must still be here,’ was his next thought after waking up. and he must admit, that was very reassuring to know. fyodor didn’t have the best constitution and whenever flu season rolled around, he expected being sick for a length of time.

after wrapping the blanket around himself, fyodor curiously crept into the kitchen to find you standing over at the stove, stirring something in a pot while humming to yourself. there was a bag of groceries on the counter too. ‘did they... buy me food?’

he coughed slightly to get your attention.

“oh, fyodor. you’re up,” you turned around, smiling at him. “how are you feeling?”

“a bit... better,” he confessed, fully aware that he said all those things about not being asleep before embarrassingly falling asleep for two hours.

“great! soup’s going to be ready in a few minutes. if you freeze it you’ll have enough for a few days,” you added. “also bought some oranges. they should be good for you.”

“you... don’t really have to do this you know?” fyodor ended up blurting out, except it sounded a bit harsh. “i mean, i’m sure you went through all the trouble.”

“don’t worry about it,” you waved him off. “you’ve been working really hard so i get that you don’t think of yourself much. let me do this one thing for you as a friend,” you smiled.

“also, i’m genuinely concerned at the amount of canned soup you’ve been consuming.”

“canned soup isn’t that bad for you,” fyodor insisted.

“yeah, and i’m sure you enjoy that metallic aftertaste quite a lot,” you quipped. fyodor opened his mouth to retort something before closing it abruptly. the knowing smirk on your face only made him glance away. instead, he busied himself with retrieving the clean bowls, luckily there were two left, from the dishrack and setting them on the table. you were humming again while you turned off the stove before serving the soup.

“chicken noodle soup, huh?” fyodor couldn’t help but chuckle.

“a classic,” you shrugged with a smile. “it’s a secret family recipe too so it’s bound to get you to feel better.”

“you’re making it up, aren’t you?”

“yeah, i got it off the internet,” you giggled. fyodor chuckled and took a sip of the soup. it was deliciously hot and flavorful and best of all, the soup didn’t have a metallic aftertaste.

“after eating, you can take some of medicine that i bought in case you have a headache or body pain, as long as you didn’t take any four hours before.”

“what?” fyodor blinked at you.

“you know, don’t take the medicine within four hours of each other,” you explained slowly. “also it’s better that you drink some now that you’ve eaten.”

fyodor not-so vaguely recalled all those times he drank medicine on an empty stomach and feeling even more sick after. “i... was not aware of that,” he admitted. you sighed with your eyes closed.

“i’m amazed you’re still alive.”

...

“so, flu season struck the phantom of the opera, huh?” nikolai sighed after you told him about your weekend.

“yeah,” you nodded, remembering the sight of fyodor on the couch dressed in his pajamas with a blanket wrapped around him. that was going to be burned in your mind for a long time. “he’s... kind of terrible at taking care of himself.”

“that’s fyodor for you,” sigma added. the three of you had arrived at the backstage area of the theatre early and were busying yourselves with sorting through the various props that you had. “you know, one time he even went to a recital with a 39-degree fever. practically collapsed when he was off-stage.”

“i’ll one-up that story,” nikolai practically sprang off the box he was sitting on. “okay, so there was this one time i came over to fyodor’s’apartment while he was sick and he was so delirious he--”

“you guys do know that it’s rude to talk about people when they’re not there.”

the three of you practically spun around at the same time to find fyodor leaning against the doorframe of the backstage entrance with his arms crossed. he was looking way better than last time you saw him.

“fyodor,” sigma blinked, clearly stunned. “you’re... you’re here.”

“you’re alive!” nikolai cried dramatically, skipping over to fyodor and flinging his arms around fyodor who showed obvious discomfort.

“of course i am,” he scoffed. “thanks in part to y/n.”

hearing that made your face flush a bit. “i-it was nothing,” you stammered, dodging nikolai’s curious stare.

“anyway, i finished the compositions for the next scene,” fyodor strode forward, handing sigma a folder of sheet music and a flash drive. “let me know if it’s to your liking.”

“thank you. i’ve been having director’s block with that one. this should help,” sigma sighed gratefully. “i’ll give it a listen if you don’t mind.” and before you could say anything else, he scurried out to the stage area.

“and i’m going to leave for some arbitrary reason just so you two would have some alone time,” nikolai snickered at the indignant expression on your face before leaving you and fyodor alone backstage.

“oh, nikolai. always... funny,” you laughed nervously.

“indeed,” fyodor nodded. “i only have the vaguest idea of what’s been going on during rehearsals. i should probably come around more often.”

“oh, we understand that you’re busy and all. but you’ve already been helping a lot with composing the music so don’t sweat it if you feel like you haven’t been active,” you said.

“well, that’s not the only reason i want to come around more often,” fyodor’s eyes flickered up to meet yours and you felt your face heat up again. god, it was so much easier to talk to to him and joke around when he was sick with the flu.

“in any case, i’m glad you feel better now,” you cleared your throat. “i hope the soup helped.”

“it did. i was sad to see it run out,” fyodor chuckled. and before you could even consider what it was you were going to say, you went and blurted out:

“i could make it for you again.”

“oh?” fyodor’s eyebrows flew up and a smirk played on his lips.

“i-if you want to of course,” you stammered.

“i’d like that,” fyodor smiled, much to your surprise. “if you could update me on rehearsals and the play we’re doing, that would be great. how does friday sound?”

“friday sounds great.”

▸ 🎕 ┈┈┈┈ 🎕 ┈┈┈┈ 🎕 ┈┈┈┈ 🎕 ┈┈┈┈ 🎕 ◂

taglist (check out my post for details on being part of my taglist): @waitforitillwritemywayout @atsumusdomain @laure-chan @goodfoodxoxoxo @guardianangelswings @ah-kaashi @amberalisa @whootwhoot @liz-multifandom-hotel @kac-chowsballs @violentfarewll @fyoyacanruinmylifethanks

#bungou stray dogs #bsd #bsd x reader #fyodor dostoevsky #fyodor dostoevsky x reader #fyodor x reader #fyodor #bungou stray dogs fanfic #bsd fanfic #bungou stray dogs fluff #bsd fluff #bungou stray dogs uni au #bsd uni au #bungou stray dogs one-shot #bsd one-shot #bungou stray dogs writing #bsd writing

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bracedfangirl · 3 years

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Here's a new FM AU fic, and this time a little bit later into the story, about 2 weeks after Lloyd's death:

It's now pretty clear that Kai didn't fully think through all this, mostly because he managed to forget a very… important detail…

Precisely the fact that Lloyd's still frozen solid in the medical room, still in his stained clothes.

And it would be very- disgraceful for them to bury the kid just like that. They need to at least put some less… disturbing clothes on him, even if nothing else…

And while it seems simple, there's a huge issue with this…

Nobody would go in the medical room volunteerly.

The others freeze when he tells them, unhealthy ways of coping even more visible.

"We-We have those celebrational gis right? We've never used them, but I don't know any other option."

Nya's idea has an instant success, mostly because nobody wants to think about this longer than neccessary.

"Okay, we get him changed and put him back until we get there… Who takes which part?"

Ovbiously the one task that doesn't find it's performer easily is actually changing Lloyd's clothes…

After a few minutes of silence the first one to volunteer is Zane, voice firm and blank.

"I'll change his clothes."

He doesn't have any time to turn torwards the medical room though, because the least expected voice suddenly cuts in, hoarse but confident.

"No, I will."

"Kai are you sure you are ready for that? After all you were the one-"

"I'm fully sure, will you help me sis?" Nya just nods with a carefully masked face, eyes devoid of emotion.

"Then it's settled, everyone knows what to do?"

A united yes follows the question, faces uneasy.

As much as Kai wanted to be confident with this…

It's pretty hard to brace for the sight they're about to see…

That's why they've been standing in front of the medical room for a good five minutes now. Just a last sympathetic glance at each other before Kai turns the handle, the deep, artificial chill hitting them. Lloyd's on his back, stiff and grey, blood trail frozen in the corner of his mouth. His face holds a sickeningly peaceful expression, making Kai turn away with the urge to gag.

They had to wait a few minutes after taking him out of the medical room until Lloyd defrosted enough for his clothes to actually come off, giving them time to prepare for more sickening sights.

Kai tried so hard to not focus his eyes, but just a minute in and his eyes locked on the deep burn on the center of Lloyd's chest, blackish in middle and most likely infected.

To his surprise the stab itself didn't look as bad as he expected it to, only a deep red line sorrounded by dried blood trails.

The kid was… bony… way too bony, ribs even more pronounced against his grayish skin…

No matter how hard it was to just stay stable during all this, Kai still wanted to check the gi pockets, given that Lloyd always used to carry around small things to keep him hopeful if anything goes wrong.

It's not even 2 seconds into the first pocket and his fingers touch paper, neatly folded to fit in the small space. Pulling it out, it's probably a photograph, so he turns it over-

Oh… oh… it's not just any photo… It's stained, but Kai recognizes it instantly-

It's the photo of the three of them, taken mere 4 months ago, on Lloyd's 14th birthday-

Tears attack at his eyes, too strongly to be kept away.

"The kid kept it…"

It was only a pic from a theme park photo booth, but the kid kept with him all along-

Nya seems to notice him crying, going over to check the picture herself, resulting in both of them sobbing in a tight hug, grieving over their brother's kind nature.

After around 15 minutes of sobbing, they calm down enough to search the other pockets, finding the kid's medallion.

They also finish changing him, carefully attatching the sword he left home to his back, making sure the handle leans away from his head. All that's left to do now is to flip the hood on his head, but Kai can't do it just yet…

It's just-

This is the last time he sees his little brother's face…

at least clearly… and no matter the paleness, he doesn't want to forget that face…

Nya starts nudging him with that horrible look on her face, and he takes a few moments to stroke Lloyd's head one last time (even though knowing that the kid will never feel his touch), before flipping the hood over and looking away with bleary, tear filled eyes.

#ninjago #ninjago au #ninjago lloyd #ninjago angst #tw death #ninjago kai #ninjago nya #ninjago zane #tw blood #tw gore #fatal mistake au #ninjago fanfic #ninjago fanfiction

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witching-hour · 3 years

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S(andwiche)s and Giggles [Juice Ortiz x Reader]

REQUESTED BY @aimkatsz Hey! I just found your blog and I love your writing! Can I make a request for Juice in which the reader and him are great friends and the reader has a crush on him but he is oblivious to it. The reader decides to tell him in a very cute way. Can it have a fluffy ending please! Thank you!

(A/N): i’m so sorry this took so long to post. hope you enjoy, hun! this being my first juice request, i hope i did him justice and wrote him well! feedback and commentary is always welcome babes

SUMMARY: the classic trope of best friends liking each other but one party being oblivious hits the relationship of juice and the reader

TW: none

“COME IN,” you heard, muffled, from behind the door. At the sound of his voice, the corner of her lips curved upwards into a small smile. Your fisted hand lowered from the wood paneling with a reaper carved in the center to the dark brass knob, twisting it to open the door to your favorite Son’s dorm room.

He was seated at his desk with his laptop open, just like Jax told you he would be. The computer-savvy patch was given a task for the club and you knew that he would not be leaving his room for hours, and instead glued to the screen. Your best friend had the habit of getting sucked into his own little world when he was by himself for long periods of time. But that world he would get drawn into was not something that was seen as a good thing.

When you first met Juice when he moved to the small town of Charming from the big city of New York and became a prospect sponsored by Jax, he always wore that goofy little boyish smile on his face. He still does, but behind that smile you learned was a dark void in the back of his mind built from childhood trauma of depression and anxiety. The closer you got to the Puerto Rican, the more you learned about him and his family (or lack thereof), and it broke your heart. The only real family he ever had was the one he made in Charming – with the Sons of Anarchy, with Gemma, and with you.

He wasn’t good alone.

So, you never let him be alone.

You reminded him every day of it. You would always be there.

When the guys told you what Juice was up to, you made some sandwiches out of what was left in the fridge in the Clubhouse kitchen before you wrapped them in some paper towels and headed upstairs to the dorms.

He swiveled around in his chair to see who came in, his face lighting up at the sight of you kicking the door shut behind you as you waved a sandwich in each hand. “Hey, (Y/N)!”

“Heard you were cooped up in here,” You crossed the room, perching yourself on the edge of his desk, handing him one of the sandwiches wrapped up in paper towels, “Figured you hadn’t eaten today yet. And, no, Bobby’s pot muffins don’t count.”

“They were blueberry.”

You rolled your eyes, “OK, Juan.”

He smiled innocently at you as he chewed on the sandwich, making you snort in amusement, which made you both burst out into laughter.

A few beats of silence ticked by as you both shared humored smiles and ate together in peace. As you finished chewing, you cleared your throat catching the boy’s attention, completely enamored by your presence, “So,” you got out while still chewing away at the bread, “am I allowed to know what top secret thing Clay’s got you doing?”

He gestured to the screen, scooting his chair to the side so you could peak over.

“It’s a binary search algorithm…” As soon as he started using computer science terms you checked out and decided to finish your snack while you just watched him ramble. The way his eyes sparkled when they met the glare from the screen. Or the way his jaw ticked when his mouth would close. Or the way the golden rings complimented his skin tone as he would point at something with those long fingers of his. Or the way his shirt would rise up ever so slightly when he hunched over, giving you a teasing look at the grey boxers peeking from above where his jeans rested on his hips. Or the way his muscles would move under his tight white t-shirt.

Every part of him made you fall into a daze.

He called your name one, two, three times before you finally snapped out of whatever trance you were in.

“Hmm?” You blinked a few times as you tried to remember the last thing he said.

He quirked an eyebrow at you, amused that you toned out his ‘geek talk’ as you liked to call it, yet completely oblivious to the longing looks you were sending his way. “You didn’t get any of that, did you?”

“No habla inglés?”

“You’re hilarious, (Y/N).”

“And you’re adorable, Juicey.”

“I’m pretty sure you are the adorable one here,” He shook his head with a wide grin on his face, one of his hands reaching out to poke you in the side, making you squirm.

“Juan Carlos,” You warned as he jabbed your other side, making you jolt, “don’t you dare.”

In a split second, the Son had you pinned against the desk as his fingers attacked your most sensitive spots, tickling your sides, stomach, and right under your neck. It started with you giggling and trying to push him off, and he would back off to give you a minute to catch your breath before he would dive back in to torture you. Then when he started not letting up, you got away to the other side of the room still laughing as he chased you. You were sure everyone downstairs knew it was you two screwing around, but they would probably take that term literally since they always teased the friendship between their youngest member and Gemma’s latest prodigy.

(Half-Sac was pouring a round of shots for Gemma and the club as money and hollers were passed around, obviously them not realizing what was actually going on up there).

Juice’s hand almost clasped around your wrist, but you slipped through his grip and tried to hop over the bed. Both your laughs filled the room as you tripped with one leg still across the mattress and the other flat on the floor. While you were tripped up, Juice caught you by the waist and slammed you on the bed with both his arms encasing you.

“No, no, no, no, no, no, no.” You wheezed out, trying to hit him and block his hands. He nipped at your neck to get you to lose your focus on blocking his attack on your tummy. You gasped out in shock before you were consumed with laughter just straight up cackles at this point once more.

“Surrender!”

“Hell no – Juice!”

“Beg for mercy.”

“No!”

“Da-,“ you broke out in between each laugh, “-mn. It. Juan-“

“Okay! Okay! St-o-p! You’re gonna make me piss myself.”

He chuckled once more before finally moving his hands away from you, allowing you to smack his chest as he let out a “oomf” noise. You adjusted yourself on the bed by laying your stomach as Juice moved onto his back.

“You alright?” His smile morphed into a look of concern. Juice, always the sweetheart. It was one of the main reasons why you fell for him. Besides how much of a softie he was, he was also such a goofball, and fiercly protective when he felt the people he cared about was threatened. (You’ve only ever been a situation like that once because of your relations to the club; nothing too serious, but Juice became more protective of you after that).

He was someone you could play video games wiith. He was someone who’d give you his sweatshirt when you were cold, or when he didn’t have one and just bring you into a bear hug instead for natural body heat. And, man, did he give the best hugs.

You chuckled, “Yeah, I’m good.” You pressed your face into the blanket under you, mumbling, “You’re lucky I like you.”

He gave you an odd look. “What was that?” The patch’s eyebrows pinched together in confusion, sitting up while still keeping his eyes on you. Did he hear you right?

You sent him a confused look right back. What? Then it registered what you said. Out loud. Oh fuck me. And internal panic set in.

Plan B. Plan B. Plan B. Plan B.

Play stupid.

“What was what?”

“You said you like me?” His response sounded more like a question, either ensure thats what he heard or did hear you but was confused by what you meant.

“No, I didn’t.”

“Yes, you did.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“See!” You exclaimed with your hands thrown in the air.

“What? No! I-”

“Yeah!” You called out loudly, knowing playing stupid wasn’t helping your situation. “Coming Chibs!”

“Chibs didn’t call for you,” the boy shook his head, grabbing you by your waist before you got off the bed, keeping you pinned down by his lower half practically covering yours.

Despite him pining you to his bed, you still attemted to escape this situation as fight-or-flight mode kicked in. “You sure? Because I’m pretty sure-”

“Cut the bullshit.”

Well, damn. Ok, daddy. When did he get like this and where could you sign up for more of it?

The dead serious expression slowly turned into a “please-tell-me-the-truth” look with his puppy dog eyes that turned your heart to mush. “You like me?”

You chewed on the inside of your lip as you debated your answer. You already slipped up, might as well come clean since their is no way you’re getting out of this one. And if even by chance you would be able to escape the dorm, you would be faced with Detective Gemma and her hounds in leather. You finally answered with a meek, “yeah.”

Juice busts out in the biggest grin you’ve ever seen on his face, which makes you about as confused as he is half the time with the club and their teasing. He moves one of the hands he has flat on the bed to hold up his weight down to stoke the line of your jaw. You try to analyze his face for any hint to what he’s thinking but you’re drawing blanks due to that stupid, blinding smile he’s wearing.

“Can I kiss you?”

If you were eating or drinking anything, you would have surely choked. You were surprised you didn’t choke on air alone over his question. Your eyes widening must have given away your shock because his face fell and he backed off of you.

“I’m sorry. I thought-”

And before either of you could grasp what was happening, your hands shot out to clutch onto the lapels of his kutte and yank him forward, your lips clashing together. The kiss was shorter and not as deep as you wanted but it satisfied you that you were able to get the short and sweet one. You loosened your grip on his kutte, allowing him to pull back slightly. When his gaze met yours, you offered an innocent, bashful, curled-in lip smile.

“You have no idea how much I’ve been wanting to do that,” you admitted, breaking the silence that had consumed the room.

“Not as much as me,” he quipped, running a hand over his faux mohawk.

“Mmm,” you shook your head, “I don’t think so, Juicey.”

“Want me to show you?”

“Yes please.”

SOA TAG LIST: @cutekittylexie @talicat713 @woahitslucyylu @xx--day-dreamer--xx @sweetpeaflower01 @rebelwrites

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