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my-emotional-self · 3 years

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Toxic Love Chapter 16

Pairings: Steve Rogers x Reader, Bucky Barnes x Reader, Steve Rogers x Reader x Bucky Barnes

Summary: Finding out your soulmates were Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes was one thing. But when someone from your past comes back to haunt you, you have to figure out if a relationship with two super soldiers is something you really want to pursue or if you’d rather go back to your comfortable single life.

Series Warnings: 18+, Swearing, Angst, Fluff, past mentions of rape, self-harm, attempted rape, domestic violence, stalking, death threats, possible Dark!Steve?, Steve will be an asshole a LOT in this series but I don’t know how dark it will get, explicit sexual content, mental health issues, kind of A/B/O dynamics but not really (no they are not actual wolves, more like the hierarchy), mentions of suicide, flashbacks of suicide, nightmares, panic attacks

A/N: There will be no taglist for this story! I apologize in advance!

“Do you have your taser?” Steve and Bucky said collectively as you gathered your purse in your arms and slipped on your shoes.

“Oh my god,” you giggled your response. “Yes, I do.”

It was the day after your surprise birthday party and since you were now going to be heading to St. Lucia tomorrow, you realized you didn’t have much clothing for any kind of tropical place. Darcy had quickly agreed to go shopping with you and that’s why you were leaving the tower.

In the last month you barely left the tower. Not that you felt imprisoned at all. No. It was that you were comfortable. Now that everything was out in the open with Steve and Bucky, you didn’t feel the need to leave the tower much. The last time you left was for your appointment with Dr. Wang and both Steve and Bucky took you there.

They were the ones who normally liked to go with you out of the tower, but since they would be on vacation with you for a whole week, they needed to get some last minute things done for any upcoming missions. So, it would be you and Darcy and you were really excited to spend some time with her.

“Be safe and be good,” Steve said as he gave you a chaste kiss to your lips. You smiled at him, nodding your head.

“I don’t want to get a call that you are in jail,” Bucky joked as he kissed you next.

“It’s only going to be me and Darcy going shopping and out to brunch,” you replied, folding your arms in front of your chest.

“That’s what we’re worried about,” came Steve’s smart ass remark.

~~~

“How many swimsuits do you own?” Darcy asked as the two of you walked down the sidewalk where all the good shopping was. Clint had dropped you two off seeing as neither Steve nor Bucky wanted you two walking that far and you had agreed to stay within a certain radius of where the shopping and dining was. Especially after they found out that John or John’s friends had been sending you threatening letters and messages. But what you didn’t know, was that the bracelet that Steve and Bucky got you for your birthday, also had a tracker in it. They planned on telling you while on vacation, but it brought them a piece of mind and set them at ease while you weren’t with them.

“Umm, I honestly don’t think I even own one,” you remarked.

“Shut the front door. How do you not even own one swimsuit?”

You gave her a shrug. “I don’t know. I guess I just didn’t really have any time or anywhere to go swimming recently. Before meeting Steve and Bucky, I never really got out to do much at all.”

Darcy linked her arm with yours and smiled at you. “Well, I’m glad I’ve met you because now I get some more girl time. With Nat being away on missions more often than Clint, I get stuck with him a lot.”

“Oh come on. You love him and you know it,” you teased back.

She sighed, “I do. I really do. But he is obsessed with going into the vents at the tower and he always wants me to go. He doesn’t realize that I have boobs and a butt that most certainly won’t fit in those vents.”

The two broke out into laughter and you loved how easy it was being around your friend. You didn’t have many friends growing up. With your parents mental health issues, you didn’t want to bring anyone over to the house and when you were invited over for a sleep over or to hang out somewhere else, you always said no because you felt like you had to keep an eye on your parents.

“Oooh, get this one!” Darcy put the slinkiest red bikini in your hands and your eyes grew wide at how little fabric there was.

“Darcy, there is literally nothing to this bikini,” you whispered to her, heat flooding your cheeks at the thought of wearing something like this at the beach.

“That’s the point! You’re on vacation with two of the hottest men in the world whom, by the way, you have wrapped around your finger. And plus, Tony’s place has its own private beach meaning no one else but you three get access to it,” Darcy spoke as she continued to look at more bathing suits. She did have a good point, but you would still feel utterly exposed in something like this. “And we’ll just get you a few more suits for when you want to go to the public beaches.”

“How many suits do you think I should get?”

“Uhh, at least seven. You’re going to be there for a whole week so you need to have one for each day.”

While you had more than enough money in your bank account, you realized Darcy had a major shopping problem and she was to help you drain it dry. At least she offered to buy you lunch today.

The two of you shopped for a few more hours. The sun was shining high in the sky and it felt so good to get fresh air and spend some girl time with Darcy. She helped you pick out a bunch of new clothes including some light weight dresses as she thought all your clothing was too dark and heavy for some place tropical, swim suit cover ups and her personal favorite, lingerie. You didn’t own anything more than a few matching pairs of bras and underwear and they weren’t even lace. Darcy was an expert at lingerie, stating both Natasha and Clint loved seeing her in it.

While you had spent a bit more than you wanted to, you knew it was for something good. Spending an entire week with your two soulmates on a tropical island for a vacation sounded heavenly and you couldn’t wait for it to be tomorrow already. Never in your life had you gone on vacation, let alone a vacation that is fully paid for.

After lunch, the two of you went to Target to pick up some last minute essentials and a few travel sized items. Darcy explained that Tony would have everything covered at the beach house but you just wanted to be on the safe side.

Once done, Darcy called Clint to pick you two up and you headed back to the tower. Your feet were killing you, even though you wore your comfiest pair of shoes. It was a long day on your feet and you couldn’t wait to get this vacation started.

“Honey I’m home,” you sand as the elevator doors opened to your apartment.

Neither Steve nor Bucky were in the living room or kitchen as you walked into the apartment. There was however a note sitting on the kitchen counter for you.

Y/N,

We hope you had fun shopping with Darcy today and we can’t wait to spend the next week with you in paradise. We had a few errands of our own to run and will be back in time for dinner.

Xoxo

Steve and Bucky

While they could have easily sent you a text telling you they would be out for a little bit, you couldn’t help but smile at how old fashioned they were. Honestly, you loved the notes they had left around the apartment for you to find. Sometimes on your pillow when you woke up, or a sticky note attached to your mirror in the bathroom. It was little sentiments like that, that made your heart swell with pride knowing they were all yours.

With your numerous bags in hand, you headed to your bedroom so you can begin packing for your week in paradise.

Dumping your purse and bags on your large bed, you went into the closet and you pulled out the suitcase that Darcy lent you. Hauling the suitcase onto your bed with a grunt, you opened it and admired just how much space there was in the suitcase. At least you didn’t have to pay extra for the large suitcase since you were taking Tony’s private jet.

Just thing, your phone alerted you to a text message. Rummaging it out of your purse, you turned your phone on. The smile instantly wiped from your face. Your blood running cold as you started at the words.

I’ll be seeing you soon babe. I can’t wait to get my hands on your precious body. –J

Your heart began to race. It was getting harder to breathe.

“Miss Y/N,” F.R.I.D.A.Y.’s voice echoed faintly in the room. Your vision started to get blurry and you didn’t know if that was from the tears or if you were having a panic attack. “I am calling Captain Rogers right now.”

Your knees buckled from under you as you reached onto the bed to somewhat break your fall. This couldn’t be happening. How did he get your number? He knew where you used to live, but you had changed your number and made sure to not give it out to anyone. How could he possibly have gotten your phone number? Your breathing was ragged and you were beginning to gasp for air. If he had your phone number, that meant he was closer than ever to you. Closer to finding you. But he was still in prison, he was still locked up. Right?

“Sweetheart,” Steve’s voice came over the speakers. “What’s going on? F.R.I.D.A.Y said your heartbeat is skyrocketing.”

“He-he, John,” you couldn’t get the words out as you were gasping for air.

“Breathe doll,” now it was Bucky’s voice you were hearing. “Just breathe. We are in the elevator right now coming to you but you have to breathe.”

You tried. Fuck did you try to breathe but it was so hard. It felt like someone was squeezing your chest. It hurt. You hurt. Your vision began to go dark as you faintly heard your name being called over and over again.

Slumping down on the ground, you thought this was it. This was how you were going to die. Alone. Terrified. This isn’t how you wanted to die. You wanted to die old and wrinkly with Steve and Bucky by your side, not like this.

Before you could full go unconscious, you felt yourself being picked up in strong arms. Your vision slowly coming back and you realized you were on your bed, sitting down with your back against something hard and firm, yet soft at the same time.

“Y/N? Sweetheart can you hear me?” Steve’s worried voice consumed your mind as you slowly began to blink, seeing him kneeling in front of you on the bed. It was then that you realized you were laying against Bucky, his metal arm around your front and holding your chest tightly to him. “Good girl. There’s our girl. Now I need you to breathe. Feel Bucky breathing behind you. Match his breathing sweet girl.”

You took a few gasping breaths and you could feel Bucky’s heartbeat against your back. Doing as best you could, you could begin to feel your heartbeat starting to regulate. Reaching up, you placed your hand over Bucky’s metal arm, wanting to keep anchored to him.

“F.R.I.D.A.Y, what happened?” Steve’s voice was calm and collected now as he watched you start to finally relax, eyes closed.

“It appears Miss Y/N had a massive panic attack,” the A.I responded.

You could hear Steve take a deep sigh and you opened your eyes, finding his blue orbs staring back at you. “What brought this one sweetheart?”

Instantly your chin began to quiver. “Wh-where’s my pho-phone?” you choked out?

Steve looked around the floor for your phone as you Bucky kept you anchored to him. You felt as if you were to move from your position you would fall apart.

Once Steve found your phone, he handed it to you. You didn’t want to look at it. You couldn’t. Instead, you shook your head and with the saddest voice, you told him to open it.

He looked between you and Bucky and then down to your phone in his hand. You didn’t have a password on it so Steve pressed the button on the side to light your phone up. He didn’t even need to swipe to open. He saw the text. It was right there, staring back at him. Steve’s hand gripped your phone so tight you were honestly shocked he didn’t break the phone in half.

#steve rogers #steve rogers fanfic #steve rogers fanfiction #steve rogers x you #steve rogers x reader #bucky barnes #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes smut #steve rogers smut #dark! steve rogers

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theres-an-impulstor-among-us · 3 years

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Prompt: Skizz discovers Impulse is a traitor early?

well hello there :D hope this is as good as whatever you had in mind! cuz i dont think i got exactly that lol

...

You whisper to impulseSV: We need to talk. ASAP.

Skizz paces back and forth in his room, anxiously waiting for a response. He hasn’t told anyone what he saw yet; even though he knows he probably should, he just doesn’t want to face it. Something inside him is telling him it’s not true, that there has to be a reasonable explanation. He can’t spread this information before he finds out whether or not it’s true.

impulseSV whispers to you: okay, meet me at my villager hole

Skizz jumps into action and rushes out of the building. He doesn’t tell anyone where he’s going, which might be a big mistake.

He runs all the way to Impulse’s villager hole and bursts in through the non-trapped door. But Impulse is nowhere in sight.

Frowning, Skizz spots a trapdoor with a ladder visible under it that wasn’t there before. He carefully climbs down the ladder and finds himself in an almost pitch black underground room, about the same size as the interior of Dogwarts.

Skizz walks out into the middle of the room, looking around in awe.

“Skizz,” comes Impulse’s voice.

“Gah!” Skizz nearly jumps out of his skin. “Don’t do that! Where are you?”

Impulse materialises out of the darkness. “Hey. Did you come alone?”

“Yeah, I did. I gotta talk to you.”

“So talk.”

Skizz takes a deep breath. “I, uh… I saw you earlier today, meeting with the crastle people. I didn’t hear much of what you said, just something about “gaining their trust”. That… Impulse, you’re on our side, right? You’re just pretending to be friends with them?”

“Yeah, ‘course,” replies Impulse easily. Too easily.

Skizz frowns. “Impulse, please tell me it’s not true. Tell me you’re not betraying us for THEM.”

“I’m not betraying anyone,” says Impulse defensively. “You know me; I’m not capable of that. You… do know that, right?”

“I…” Skizz stares at his best friend. “A few hours ago, I’d have said no. But now… I think you’re capable of anything. Tell me the truth, Impulse. Whose side are you on?”

“Yours, of course.”

“You’re doing it again! Switching on the ol’ Impulse charm and saying exactly what the other person wants to hear. You know that doesn’t work on me, buddy. I’ve known you far too long.” Skizz narrows his eyes. “You’re a mole. You pretended to join us but you’re on their side and you’re gonna betray us for them. Am I wrong?”

After a moment, Impulse wordlessly turns away, all but confirming Skizz’s suspicions.

Skizz’s stomach drops. “Oh, god… I trusted you! You- You traitor!”

Impulse sighs. “This is just like you, Skizz: running over here to confront me alone cuz you couldn’t POSSIBLY fathom that you might’ve been wrong about me. Did it ever occur to you that maybe this world changes people? That you can’t truly trust anyone but yourself?”

“No!” Skizz snaps. “I trust Ren and I trust Martyn and Etho and I DID trust YOU!”

“And that’s gonna be your downfall.”

He suddenly shoves Skizz to the ground. Before his friend can react, Impulse brings his foot down hard on Skizz’s ankle.

Skizz screams as they both hear it crack. The pain is immense; it’s definitely fractured, if not broken completely.

“See the thing is, I can’t have you running around blabbing about this to anyone,” Impulse says casually. “But at the same time, I can’t just kill you because that would show up in chat. So I think it’s time I test out my brand new trap and see how deadly it is.”

Tears of pain and anger fall from Skizz’s eyes as he stares into the cold, harsh eyes of the man he used to call his brother. “Wh-Why, Impulse…? Why would you d-do this to me…?”

Impulse just shrugs. “I’m just playing the game, Skizz. Sorry.”

With that, he turns and walks away into the darkness.

“Impulse!” cries Skizz, his vision completely obscured by tears. “IMPULSE! DON’T LEAVE ME! PLEASE!”

He hears the click of a lever being pulled in the darkness, followed immediately by pistons moving. His breathing quickening, he rolls onto his side and pushes himself up, but as soon as he puts weight on his left ankle, he knows he’s not going to be able to use it.

A familiar growl pierces the air, causing him to freeze.

A zombie.

More growls.

A LOT of zombies.

The first one that appears through the darkness nearly gives him a heart attack. He manages to slice it down with his sword, but by then, three more have ganged up on him. Trying to back away, he finds himself completely surrounded by a horde of at least two dozen zombies.

“NO!” he screams. “HELP ME! SOMEONE PLEASE HELP!”

The zombies’ claws dig into his skin, and at least two of them manage to bite his arms. Players are able to resist being turned into a zombie through a bite but that doesn’t make it hurt any less.

Accidentally putting weight on his injured ankle again, Skizz collapses to the ground and curls up in a ball, trying to protect his head and neck. Impulse was clever; he hurt Skizz’s ankle on purpose so he could neither run nor fight for long.

This is it for him. They’re going to kill him.

All of a sudden, a battle yell echoes in the darkness, followed immediately by the sound of zombies taking damage. Multiple zombies taking damage at once. Someone’s come to save him.

The zombies attacking Skizz move away to target this new threat, but they’re no match for whoever it is. Within a minute, all the zombies in the room have been eliminated.

“Skizz!” comes Etho’s voice. “Are you okay?!”

Severely weakened and on the verge of passing out from the pain, Skizz looks up at his friend, unable to muster the words to reply. His vision is swimming, but he can just about see two figures kneeling beside him.

Etho and Martyn. They came to save him.

That’s the last thought in his mind before he passes out.

…

“-is definitely broken. But not like he fell from somewhere and landed on it. More like someone stomped on it until it broke.”

“What?! Who would do something like that?!” “I don’t know. Hopefully Skizz can shed some light on this when he wakes up. Oh my goodness, Ren, you should have seen how many zombies there were. I don’t think it was a coincidence.”

“So… you’re saying someone tried to murder Skizzle? Broke his ankle so he couldn’t get away from the zombies?”

“Yeah, I think so. And we think it was Impulse, too. Etho and I didn’t see anyone else around except him, and the hole was under his villager place as well, so we- Oh, look! I think he’s awake!”

Skizz lets out a quiet groan, his eyes slowly opening. As his vision adjusts to the light, he registers Martyn and Ren by his side, and the interior of his bedroom back at Dogwarts behind them.

“Hey, Skizzles,” says Ren gently. “How are you feeling?”

Blinking slowly, Skizz looks down at his arms and finds them covered in bandages. Beyond them, he can see his ankle elevated in a cast. Nothing hurts anymore, to his relief.

“Alive,” he rasps. “For good or for bad.”

“What happened?” Martyn asks. “Do you remember?”

“Oh, I remember.” Skizz tries to suppress a sniffle at the traumatic memory. “It was Impulse. He’s a backstabbing traitor and he tried to kill me to stop me from telling you.”

Ren gasps, but Martyn just shakes his head, an anguished expression on his face. “I should’ve known. There were so many little clues but he explained them away so well, I just…”

“He had us all fooled,” Ren murmurs. “I’m just glad we managed to get to you before he got away with murdering you. If he had, we’d never have known, and we would’ve continued to trust him.”

“How- How did you find me?” Skizz asks. “I didn’t tell you where I was going.”

“Etho and I went looking for you cuz we hadn’t seen you in a while,” replies Martyn. “We just happened to be at Impulse’s villager pen when we heard you screaming. Luckily, Impulse had just left and I don’t think he heard you, or he might have tried to kill us too.”

His upper lip curls in an expression of disgust. “We bumped into him right there and it was like nothing was wrong. It makes me sick to think that he was up there chit-chatting to us about his villagers like everything was fine, knowing full well he’d literally just abandoned you to be murdered by a horde of zombies. That goes beyond 3rd Life; that’s… that’s just pure evil.”

Skizz nods slowly. “Yeah, something’s not right with him anymore. Whoever that was… it’s not my Impulse. Something’s changed him.”

“Well, either way, at least you’re alive and his treachery has been exposed,” Ren says. “And we will take our revenge on him for trying to kill you. As soon as he’s red, we take him down.”

“Why wait?” asks Martyn, frowning. “Why not kill him now, while he’s on yellow?”

“Because if we do, he’ll harbour a grudge and try to take revenge on US for killing him once he’s red. And if yellow life Impulse is THAT dangerous, imagine what he can do on red. It’s better to wait and come up with a plan so when he becomes red, we can take him out immediately and prevent further carnage.”

A shiver runs down Skizz’s spine. It feels horrible to be discussing killing his best friend when they had been so close only hours before. Despite everything Impulse has done, he doesn’t actually want him to die. He still loves his brother, no matter what.

Even though he’d love nothing more than to punch him in his stupid face right now.

“Skizz?” says Martyn softly. “You okay?”

Skizz clears his throat. “Y-Yeah. I think I will be.”

Eventually.

#3rd life smp #3rdlifesmp #skizzleman #inthelittlewood #impulsesv #rendog #etho #vaunna’s requests

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grailfinders · 3 years

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Fate and Phantasms #188

Today on Fate and Phantasms we’re building the greatest robot ever built in Sengoku period Japan, Katou “Black Kite” Danzo! This amazing automaton is a Thief Rogue to speed up her limbs and get some ninja mobility, as well as an Alchemist Artificer so she can really fly, make objects disappear and reappear, and even make those awful rice balls.

Check out her build breakdown below the cut, or her character sheet over here!

Next up: Welcome to the CHK!

Race and Background

Danzo’s a Karakuri Puppet, but D&D races don’t get that specific, so we’ll just have to call her a Warforged instead. This gives her +2 Constitution and +1 in any other ability, and we want Dexterity. Her Constructed Resilience gives advantage on saves against being poisoned, and she gets resistance to poison damage. She also doesn’t need to eat, drink, breathe, or sleep, and she can’t get sick. As a bonus, this means she doesn’t need to take any of the Fuuma clan’s medicine, thank god.

She still has to take long rests though, but a Sentry’s Rest reduces the time to six hours. You’re still conscious, but you can’t move if you want the rest.

Thanks to your wooden body, you can use Integrated Protection to fuse yourself into your armor, granting you a +1 bonus to AC, and preventing it from being removed against your will. Your Specialized Design also gives you proficiency with Medicine and Woodcarver’s Tools.

Like Paraiso, you’re also a magic assassin, so Volstrucker Agent is pretty accurate. This background gives you proficiency with Deception and Stealth.

Ability Scores

As usual, we’re using the standard array for maximum replicability. From high to low:

Still a ninja, still starting with a really high Dexterity. Unlike Kotarou, your ninja tricks come from your Intelligence. Also, you’re a robot; you’ve got to be pretty smart to know how you work, and you have a big chunk of the Fuuma clan’s history stuck in your head. Third is Constitution- you’ll happily sit in a cave for several centuries and not die, which is pretty impressive. Your Wisdom is above average, because I can’t think of anything specific you do that uses wisdom, but it’s still probably better than a regular person’s. Your Strength is probably lower than it should be, but it’s not like we really need it that much. That means we’re dumping Charisma. You don’t really “get” people that well.

Class Levels

Artificer 1: Starting off as an artificer is pretty neat, giving you proficiency with Constitution and Intelligence saves, as well as two artificer skills- Arcana is the closest thing we have to science in D&D, and Sleight of Hand will probably help with the bull swallowing we’ve got to do later. You also get Magical Tinkering when you start out, letting you tack minor magical effects onto tiny objects. A pebble that constantly sounds like someone walking around is a useful distraction. Despite artificers being a half casting class, they also get Spells this level, which you can cast and prepare using your Intelligence. For cantrips, I suggest picking up Mending to patch yourself up, as well as Create Bonfire for a quick and easy firestarter. Literally setting places on fire is also a great distraction, if a bit more obvious. For first level spells, I suggest picking up the classic suite of “barely spells” spells, like Grease, Alarm, and Snare. You should also grab Cure Wounds for some quick and dirty rice balls, as well as Jump and Feather Fall for Katou Danzo’s wind manipulation. There aren’t many offensive options for wind in D&D, but I can promise you’ll be very mobile by the end of this build.

Artificer 2: The big reason we started as an artificer is to grab Infused Items as quickly as possible. Starting at this level you can hold onto four blueprints for magic items, and can make up to two of them at a time, switching them out between long rests. Now you can make a Bag of Holding for some real bull swallowing (not literally though, those suckers are several times your weight limit), a Rope of Climbing for a grappling hook that attaches itself, a Returning Weapon so you’re not stuck picking up your kunai after every fight, or you can apply Enhanced Defense on some armor for even more AC.

Rogue 1: Now that your initial ninja tricks are set up, we still have to, y’know, get good at ninjaing. (Ninjing? Whatever.) Bouncing over to rogue gives you Investigation proficiency for expert analysis plus Thieves’ Tools for dismantling traps, as well as Expertise in Acrobatics and Stealth for double proficiency bonuses on all your ninja techniques. You also get a Sneak Attack once per turn, dealing an extra 1d6 damage to your target while using a finesse weapon and if you either have advantage on the attack, or have an ally within 5 feet of them. Also also, you get Thieves’ Cant. It’s a language.

Rogue 2: Second level rogues get a speed boost thanks to Cunning Action. Now you can use your bonus action to Dash, Disengage, or Hide. All very ninja-y, I assure you.

Rogue 3: Going into the Thief subclass lets you overclock yourself even further thanks to your Fast Hands. Now your cunning action lets you make sleight of hands checks, use thieves’ tools, or use objects as a bonus action. Plus, your sneak attack is 2d6 now! You’re also accustomed to Second-Story Work, so you climb as quickly as you walk, and your running jumps get boosted by your dexterity modifier. Combining this with Jump starts your ascent into a proper Black Kite- with a running start you can jump almost 40′ across, or almost 20′ straight up. You can also jump over most humanoids, clearing seven and a half feet on long jumps.

Rogue 4: Use your first Ability Score Improvement to bump up your Intelligence for stronger artificer spells and medicines.

Artificer 3: Now that we’ve got a base level of ninjositude down, we can bounce back to artificer for more clever tricks. Right off the bat, you can always create The Right Tool for the Job over the course of a short rest, though you can only make one kind of tool at a time. (If you make new tools, the old ones get jealous and leave, I guess.) You also get goodies exclusive to the Alchemist subclass though, like proficiency with Alchemist’s Tools, Healing Word and Ray of Sickness as prepared spells, and the ability to craft Experimental Elixirs. When you finish a long rest, you can make one such elixir, with a random effect you find out when you create it. There’s a lot, so I’m not going to list them all here. The elixir only lasts until your next long rest, so you can’t stock up. That being said, you can create more elixirs at a time as you level up.

Artificer 4: Use this ASI for more Dexterity, for more accurate and deadly kunai strikes.

Artificer 5: Fifth level alchemists become Alchemical Savants, adding their intelligence modifier to spells that heal or deal acid, fire, necrotic, or poison damage. Playing to character means you won’t be using this much aside from the healing, but you also get second level spells! You get Flaming Sphere and Melf’s Acid Arrow for free, but we’re here more for the other spells you can prepare, like grabbing Levitate for some discount flight (hey, if you use your rope of climbing to grapple onto things you can probably get some good speed going...), Invisibility for better bull swallowing that can actually swallow a bull, Enhance Ability to just try a little harder, and Blur for some swirly wind nonsense that makes you harder to fight. If King Arthur can do it, so can you.

Artificer 6: Sixth level artificers get Tool Expertise, doubling your proficiency with any tool check you’re already proficient in. You can also cast Message at this point because you’ve worked in Chaldea too long for them to not give you a freaking walkie talkie, and you learn two more item infusions, and you can build one more at a time. Boots of Elvenkind will silence your footsteps, and Boots of the Winding Path can help you ninja vanish back along the steps you took this turn. There’s an obvious problem that you can’t wear both sets at once, but you’re probably not even making both at once, so...

Artificer 7: Seventh level artificers get Flashes of Genius, letting you add your intelligence modifier to an ability check or saving throw happening within 30 feet of you. You can use this Intelligence Modifier times per long rest. If scifi has taught me anything, all robots are calculating the seven billion ways an event could go at any one time, so finding the three that lead to success shouldn’t be that hard.

Rogue 5: Bouncing back to rogue for a bit brings your sneak attack up to 3d6, and also unlocks your Uncanny Dodge, spending your reaction to halve the damage of an attack coming your way.

Rogue 6: Sixth level rogues get another round of Expertise, so double down on Investigation and Arcana for extra robosmarts.

Rogue 7: Your sneak attack gets as good as it ever will at 4d6, and you learn Evasion, supercharging your dexterity saves. Successes completely negate damage, and failures only deal half damage. Just... don’t stand in the fireball. Why do so few people get that?

Artificer 8: We’re back in artificer to stay now, so bump up that Intelligence for stronger spells as well as more and stronger flashes of genius.

Artificer 9: Ninth level alchemists stick Restorative Reagents in their medicines, adding 2d6+ your intelligence modifier temporary hit points to your experimental elixirs, regardless of their other effects. You also learn how to cast Lesser Restoration Intelligence Modifier times per long rest without using spell slots. The Fuuma clan’s medicines are effective, if nothing else. You also learn how to cast third level spells, like Mass Healing Word and Gaseous Form. I mean, I guess the latter spell is flying, but it’s not Fly flying, you get me? You can also use Tiny Servant to create puppets of your own, Water Walk to walk on water like the ninja you are, as well as Haste and Blink to supercharge your mobility.

Artificer 10: Tenth level artificers are Magic Item Adepts, letting you attune to one more magic item at once, and you can craft common or uncommon magic items faster and cheaper. You also get two more blueprints for infused items, and one more you can make at a given time. Boots of Striding and Springing will make your jumps even more ridiculous, and the Ring of Jumping will clear up some prep space and save you a spell slot or two. Using both of those items at the same time basically let you fly without the spell, letting you jump 120 feet forward or 63 feet straight up, and your long jumps can pass over obstacles that are 22 feet tall. You can leap small buildings in a single bound.

Artificer 11: At eleventh level, artificers can create Spell-Storing Items, stuffing magic into weapons or spell focuses. You can stick a 1st or 2nd level spell in the object, and creatures can cast the spell from that object using your spellcasting modifier and the creature’s concentration. The item holds 2xIntelligence Modifier charges, but you can only have one SSI at a time.

Artificer 12: Use your last ASI to max out your Intelligence for super strong spells, better Flashes of Genius, and more Spells in your items!

Artificer 13: Your capstone level gets you fourth level artificer spells, like the freebies Blight and Death Ward. You can also use these slots to cast spells like Leomund’s Secret Chest for more effective bull swallowing. The bag of holding can still be messed with, and turning stuff invisible doesn’t get rid of it, but the Secret Chest will just hang out in a different dimension til you need it again. Also, you only have to cast it once every two months! You can also Summon Construct to make your own dolls to help out in combat. Sadly there isn’t a wood option, but this is as close as we’re gonna get.

Pros and Cons

Pros:

Flying is good. Like, really good. And you’re so mobile you can fly without flying. You’re so good at jumping you take falling damage just by making a long jump.

With your expertise, enhanced ability, and flashes of genius, you can be pretty good at most skills if you really need to be.

Artificers make really cool toys, but most are limited by only having one action per turn. Thanks to your fast hands, you can make even better use of your infusions by using your bonus actions to either double up on item uses or multitask.

Cons:

We didn’t take that many levels of rogue, so your damage is a lot lower than your fleshier ninja counterparts.

While your magic and infused items are useful, they all get shut down immediately in anti-magic zones, giving you a big weak point most DMs won’t hesitate to smash.

While I wouldn’t call having extraneous spells a weakness, especially from a player’s perspective, it is kinda sloppy building on our end. Outside of healing word you really wouldn’t use the other subclass spells you get if you’re playing to character.

#fate grand order #fgo #D&D 5e #dnd #Katou Danzou #Rogue #Artificer

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emilyoftheshadows · 4 years

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Person A catches a bus home everyday, but today, they're so exhausted that they fall asleep, suddely they feel a light tap on their shoulder and open their eyes to see a cute guy/gal/person smiling at them. "Sorry to wake you, bit this is your stop, i hope you slept well"

So, this is the first piece I have written and posted here! This is a fluffy drabble loosely based on the prompt above as well as some tik tok ideas i've seen. I hope you enjoy and don't judge too hard :)

~~~~~~

Aelin never knew that she could feel such a wide range of emotions in such a short amount of time. The hectic events she had endured earlier in her day had left her drained and in dire need of sleep.

She started out her mornings as usual - brewing her coffee with the help of an overly excited Fleetfoot. On the subway ride to work, coffee in hand, she explicitly remembered checking her emails for any important notices regarding her job. As an advertising agent, she dealt with multiple clients at one time. With her meticulously organized calendar and the help of her overworked assistant Marion, she was usually able to keep everything in check. Today was not one of those days.

As she entered her office, Marion greeted her with her tablet in hand- Aelin’s schedule color coded, labeled and sorted by hour.

“Good morning Ms. Galathynius, ready to hear your schedule for today?” Aelin nodded, sipping her coffee as Marion listed her client meetings for the upcoming day. As they entered her office, Aelin paused.

“Marion, could you please repeat that first meeting again?”

“The Havilliard Scotch pitch at 12?” And that was when Aelin knew she was fucked. This pitch was meant for a well known drinking company in New York, fast on the come up. Havilliard Sr. was known to be picky about his branding, scrutinizing most agencies that had helped him before. She had barely gotten this client, practically begging Nehemia for the job. As she worked the branding, she had become worried about the content she was producing.

She was so worried about this pitch, that she had taken her laptop home last night in hopes of triple checking her work for mistakes and to fine tune some details. And that's where her laptop was at that moment. At her apartment, across town, sitting on her desk, collecting dust. Her mind raced at how to solve her predicament. The subway ride to and from her apartment was too long of a trip to make before the meeting and, like an amateur, she hadn’t saved her files anywhere else but her laptop. She was completely fucked.

Marion stood in the doorway, confused on what was going on in Aelin’s head. Aelin decided to finally release herself from her stupor. “Marion, could you please go find Aedion for me? And tell him it’s an emergency.”

With a determined look on her face, her assistant went as fast as her short legs could carry her to Aedion’s office on the adjacent part of the building floor she was on. Within minutes, Aedion was standing at her door, panting like he had just sprinted the fastest race of his life. The good thing about having her overbearing cousin work with her, is that she knew that in any problem he would help in an instant. And this was one hell of a fucking problem.

“What happened Aelin? Are you okay? Were you hurt? Do you need an ambulance?”

“You idiot I am physically fine, but still screwed and I need your help.” Aedion released the first breath Aelin had seen him take since entering her office.

“You know, when Marion power walked into my office saying you had an EMERGENCY and she didn’t know what was wrong with you, I definitely thought you would be passed out on your floor with blood on your face. But, you know, thanks for the heart attack. Really woke me up this morning.”

Aelin rolled her eyes at him. He was more dramatic than her, and that spoke volumes in itself.

“Aedion, please it really is an emergency. I have the big pitch for the Havilliard Scotch today and I left my laptop with the presentation at my apartment.” Aedion’s eyes widened in surprise. He knew that Aelin had been obsessed about this pitch and that mistakes like this only happened to her once in a blue moon. Aelin saw understanding dawn on his face and took that as a sign to continue.

“Now, I know a while back I sent you the rough drafts of the branding from when I first got the pitch. Is there any chance that you have the email or presentation saved still? If I have the basis of the presentation, I have an hour to build on it and hopefully fix this.”

Aedion’s face fell at the request. “We can go look, but you know I’m not the best at organizing my files Ace. It could be anywhere on my computer or not at all.” With those reaffirming words, Aelin and Aedion walked at a brisk pace back to his office. Combing through Aedion’s computer was an agonizing process. There were files saved from years ago that should’ve been deleted, and backtracking through all the contents of his computer made Aelin want to stab her eyes out. But it was all worth it, because hidden in the depths of this man’s terribly organized computer was the presentation. With a quick click of a button, she emailed the document to herself. She gave a half ass hug to Aedion, then practically ran to her office to start reworking her pitch on the computer there.

Aelin believed it was pure adrenaline that enabled her to finish her pitch in time for the Havilliard meeting. With a strong foundation laid out before her from her first draft, she had constructed almost her exact pitch that was left at home. Aelin waited for the Havilliards in the boardroom, smoothing out her clothes as she paced at the front. Far too soon, Marion escorted Havilliard Sr., Dorian Havilliard, and their close friend and partner Chaol Westfall into the room for her presentation. The three men had sat down in silence with no introduction, except for a small encouraging smile from the younger Havilliard. Taking that as her sign to start, Aelin cleared her throat.

“Hello gentlemen, today I want to present to you the future of Havilliard Scotch…”

---

As the men had exited the room single file, Aelin finally allowed herself to relax. That had felt like the longest pitch of her life. Going into the meeting, she had known the men were notorious for being extremely serious and critical of their agents. What she had not expected was the whispered words between the men after she had finished her presentation. As she looked on, Dorian Havilliard had finally broken away from their circle to address her.

“Miss Galathynius, thank you for your time. We will get back to you shortly about our decision to run with this branding or not.” With a quick nod and gesture to his companions, the trio had stood up and left the room. She was utterly shocked. Aelin had poured her sweat and tears into this pitch, quite literally, and they had just thanked her and left. No critiques, no opinions, no nothing.

Quite honestly, Aelin was exhausted. She had spent most of her brain power reworking that pitch in that 45 minutes before that meeting and she had nothing left to give today. Yet, she still had a full schedule left to woo clients and work on her other projects. By the time Aelin trudged back to the subway, she was ready for a nice dinner at home followed by a restorative night of sleep with Fleetfoot at her side.

Now, as she entered the subway, she immediately noticed the mystery man sitting down a few feet away from her. The man was moderately built, with muscles that were outlined by the fabric of his long sleeve t-shirt. His style was simple with a pair of nice jeans and Doc Marten boots, but that just allowed one's focus to settle on the beautiful creation that was his face. Mystery man had a strong jawline, lined with a bit of stubble and scruff. His eyes were a beautiful shade of green like none that she had seen before, his head topped with luscious silver hair. As the subway started, Mystery Man continued to sketch drawings into his book. Now, Aelin was never one to back down from an opportunity to flirt with one of the most attractive men she had ever seen. She was a single woman in a big city, why the hell not. But her day had taken a toll on her, and she just didn’t know if this was the right time or place. So, she opted to put in her headphones as she waited for her stop, listening to relaxing music to calm her anxieties regarding the failed Havilliard pitch.

Seeing that her stop was next, Aelin rose from her seat to wait in line for the doors to open. As she waited, she felt a light tap on her shoulder. Low and behold, there was the Mystery Man standing next to her with a piece of paper in hand. As she pulled her headphone out, the man silently handed her the paper. Looking down, she saw a pencil sketch of herself on the subway. The drawing was beautifully done with bold lines and harsh shading, contrasted by highlights created from the fluorescent lights of the subway. Her eyes welled up, immediately grateful for this thoughtful gift after such a horrible day. The Mystery Man saw her emotions, startled to see tears welling up in her eyes.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude on your privacy. I just… I like to draw and when I saw you… I mean, it’s just you’re so stunning..” The man’s face flushed red as he tried to justify his beautiful art. Aelin laughed out loud for the first time today at his misunderstanding of her swell of emotions.

“Oh no, these are just tears of..uhmm.. happiness? I guess…” She started to flush at her own awkwardness, trying to explain her emotions this time.

“I just had a really rough day and feel like shit. But this drawing is beautiful and I really am grateful that such a talented artist like yourself chose me as your muse today.” Aelin watched as the Mystery Man reacted to such a lavish compliment, somehow developing an even deeper blush with a shy smile . Gaining confidence from his reaction, she decided to make her move before she exited for her upcoming stop.

“Hey, Mystery Man, why don’t I give you my number? Seeing that I am your muse and all, I would really like to learn more about your art.” It was a subpar pickup line at best, but hey, she had a long day and for the circumstance she thought it good enough. The man gave a deep timbered laugh at her pickup line, clearly enjoying their conversation now.

“I think I might be one step ahead of you actually. Flip the drawing over.” As she flipped the paper, she saw a messy scrawl with the name Rowan, and what she could only assume was his number. The sight of these two things brought her complete giddiness. Giddiness that made you want to jump in the air and pump your fist because you're so excited. She looked up at Rowan, smirking as she tucked the piece of paper into her purse.

As the subway doors opened and they were pushed apart by bypassers, she turned around one last time to look at the man who had brightened her day beyond belief. She winked at Rowan as she walked away, not missing the wide smile he gave in return as the subway doors closed and continued on to the next stop.

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scoopsgf · 4 years

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can i get a good night’s sleep? can i PLEASE get a good night’s sleep?!

or: five times peter parker doesn’t sleep + the one time he does

my contribution to the @friendly-neighborhood-exchange! this is for @snarky-drabbles - I hope you enjoy it!

The first time is actually just the first in a while. Peter’s had problems sleeping ever since he was a little kid; it was just one issue of many that stacked up on top of each other, resulting in his personal belief that he must be the most difficult kid to look after on the planet.

Asthma meant hundreds of dollars spent on inhalers, covering what their shitty insurance didn’t. His poor eyesight was the same story and the bullies that used to break his glasses had never helped. But it wasn’t just physical crap, of course: he’s had anxiety for as long as he can remember.

There are cute side-effects like panic attacks and nausea, not to mention the constant sense of impending doom he’s been nursing since… well, birth, probably. When he was younger he’d worry about whether or not the taxi driver had enough gas in his car to get them where they needed to go, or maybe Ben would get shot at work (ironically enough, he’d never worried that Ben would get shot off-duty, and there is a teeny superstitious sliver of him that believes maybe if he had considered the possibility it never would have happened, like some kind of a reverse jinx or something).

One of the other cute things that comes along with it is insomnia.

So here he is, pacing in his kitchen at three in the morning because May isn’t home yet.

Her shift ended at two. She’s usually back within a half hour considering the hospital isn’t far, hence his agitation.

He’s tried calling and texting to no avail, and he keeps telling himself that everything is fine, that she probably just got held up; meanwhile his subconscious provides a great slideshow of mental images that speak to the opposite—her getting kidnapped because somehow someone links her to Spider-Man, her getting hit with a car, mugged, shot, slipping on black ice—and that’s actually not far-fetched considering it’s January, there’s a lot of it, and so he pulls out his phone and types, You didn’t slip on black ice and die did you? to May.

No little dots appear to signify that she’s typing. The message doesn’t even change from ‘delivered’ to ‘read’.

She has her read receipts on. She’s promised him. There’s no reason she’d change that, right? But maybe she accidentally switched them off when she was scrolling through her settings.

He calls her.

“Hi, this is May Parker, I’m unavailable at the moment but if you leave me a message I’ll get back to you as soon as—”

Peter hangs up with a dissatisfied grunt.

It’s only then that he realises, to his great dismay, that he’s paced all the way onto the ceiling.

In his shock he loses concentration and falls. “Ow, fuck.” He pulls his aching knee to his chest. It’ll no doubt be bruised soon. “God has forsaken me.”

He picks up his now cracked phone and texts Ned:

I just fell off the ceiling at 3 AM in the morning

Don’t ask me what I was doing on it

Every bone in my body is broken :(

No reply comes which is pretty typical; Ned probably passed out in front of his PC like, hours ago. Peter can picture it: the light of his computer screen casting a blue glow over everything in the room, his head probably tucked into his arms to muffle his snores (and there’s also probably a bowl of stale popcorn spilled across his floor at this point), his creepy mother lurking in the doorway—or worse, trying to find out how to snoop through his laptop while he’s out of it.

Peter could totally go swing down there and help the guy out. It would be something to do anyway.

But no. The door is too far. His suit… too much work. It’s definitely better to just stay here curled up under the table like a little turtle.

But wait—a blanket.

Is it worth the effort? Probably. Peter scans his immediate surroundings and, oh boy, Lady Fate is actually on his side tonight because there’s a gigantic purple fluffy one hanging off the couch and it only takes a little bit of physical exertion to yank it down and wrap it around his body.

He burrows deeper into it and scrolls through Instagram. MJ posted a picture of a banana today. Literally like, just a banana. No caption, no explanation on her story, nothing.

Peter double taps it and comments: i hope u asked before u took his jacket

No like. No reply. That makes sense. It is three in the fucking morning, after all.

No. Three thirty. It’s been an hour and a half.

What had May said once? That it was okay to call someone if she was two hours late?

Peter tries texting and calling one more time and then just sits there, staring at his home screen and watching the minutes pass. At exactly four AM after much deliberation and stomach churning, he calls someone else.

Three rings later: “I’m in Vienna right now so this better be good.”

Peter feels even more nauseous than before. “Oh,” he says. “I guess—never mind, then. Sorry.”

“Wait, wait, that was just for show and I’m greatly intrigued as to why you’re calling me so… early? Late? Anyway I’m out of the conference room now so lay it on me.”

Against his will, Peter’s lip quirks up. “Um, it’s kind of stupid—”

“Nothing is ever stupid,” Tony says. “Especially when it’s coming from the brain of a kid with an intelligence quotient of 260.”

He feels his cheeks heat up and then it all just comes tumbling out, “It’s really late and May was supposed to be off at two and home by two-thirty, but she’s not and I don’t know what to do. I tried calling and texting but she’s not replying and I know that I’m probably just building it up in my head but I can’t help freaking out because like, what if she got stabbed or slipped on black ice or—”

“Hey Pete?”

“Yeah?”

“Breathe.”

Tony’s voice has softened immeasurably. Something uncoils in Peter’s stomach. He flops onto his side and closes his eyes. “I’m breathing.”

“That’s good, kiddo. Now just hang on a sec, I’m gonna call the hospital.”

“What? Why?”

“Well she works there, right?”

“...Yeah.”

“And you haven’t tried calling them yet, correct?”

“...Correct.”

“Ergo,” Tony says.

“But I—”

“Yeah?”

Peter bites his lip and then he just blurts it: “I don’t want you to hang up.”

He feels like such a child but the thought of losing connection with Tony is literally making his heart palpitate and his palms sweat. He needs someone. He needs an adult.

“Well lucky for us both I have two phones.”

Peter cracks an eye. “You what?”

“I’m Tony Stark, don’t question it. Hang on, let me just—hello, hi, um, I need this room. No, it can’t wait. Yes the whole room. Yes locked. I don’t know, five minutes? Ten? An hour? No, I’m not joking. Thank you. Thanks. Yeah. Okay. Bye now.” Something slams shut—the door to the office Tony just stole, probably. “Okay, just a sec, I have the number for the reception desk she works at in my phone.”

Peter, for some reason, feels immeasurably comforted by that. He sits in silence gnawing on his lip while Tony has a somewhat muffled conversation he can’t hear the other side of. Then, “You still there?”

“Yeah, I’m here.”

“Okay, well, they said she’s covering for someone and can’t get to the phone because a baby had to have emergency surgery so she’s literally in the OR as we speak. Pretty badass and not bad as far as excuses go. Now that you know she’s fine and not dead by ice, how about you get some shut-eye, okay kid?”

Peter swallows. “Yeah. Okay. Thank you, Tony.”

“No Mr. Stark this time, huh?”

“It’s too late for formalities.”

“I see,” Tony replies. “Sleep, okay?”

“Okay.”

The line goes dead. Peter, slightly relieved but not fully consoled, rolls over to face the door. He doesn’t sleep at all that night and is still there when May comes home at six in the morning with bagels and apologies.

—

The anniversary of Ben’s death is always super weird.

This time it takes him a few minutes to remember what day it is: he’s in the middle of brushing his teeth and then it hits him like a train: oh, it’s been three years.

Then comes May. She usually tries to cook something for breakfast but like always it burns. He leaves the bathroom to the sound of the smoke alarm and fans a cookie sheet at the screeching little device while she swears up and down in Italian.

“It’s okay, May, really—”

“No, it’s not!” She snaps, tossing a batch of blackened cinnamon rolls into the trash. “I just want this day to be easy for you!”

Peter goes over to her and, after kicking the oven door shut with his foot, pulls her into his arms. May starts to cry even though she tries not to; sniffles turn into barely stifled sobs. He knows that it’s harder for her than it is for him. Ben was her husband and they’d been married for thirteen years when he died. Sometimes he still catches her looking to see if he’s laughing too when they watch TV, only to find an empty recliner.

“It’s okay for it to be a bad day,” he whispers. “You know that, right? I mean, I love you to pieces, May, but I don’t wanna see you bending over backwards for me.”

“But that’s my job, doofus.”

Peter pulls back. He’s an inch taller than her now. “No it’s not. We take care of each other, okay?”

Then comes school. Ned usually hovers nervously like an agitated gnat, too afraid to say anything, not sure if he should act normal or be sad in solidarity, which means it’s kind of Peter’s job to set the tone. As he’s putting his combination in for his locker he asks, “So did you beat that level of Obra Dinn last night?”

Ned, shoulders slumping with relief, starts to ramble on about how hard it was to do and how it took him like, thirty whole tries.

They go to class. Peter zones out. He doesn’t bother making more web fluid or ditching and he gets so inside his own head that Coach Wilson compliments him again during gym class. Peter deliberately slows down after that, even if it’s kind of irritating; being physically active actually helps work off his anger.

Because that’s what he is more than anything else: angry. At the mugger, yeah, but at himself more than anything else. It was his fault that they were out that night, anyway. It’s a wonder that May doesn’t hate his fucking guts.

When school is up Peter comes home to an empty house. He thinks about going on patrol but doesn’t really feel up to it, and then he feels bad for not wanting to do it because like, what if someone is dying?

So he puts on the suit and swings from rooftop to rooftop, but there’s no action today. Peter eventually settles on a fire escape with a burrito. A stray cat hops up after a while and, despite his matted fur and crazy eyes, Peter decides he has a kind of quiet dignity about him and names him Charles.

“Do you like beef?” He asks, holding some out for Charles to sniff. The cat yowls and, without any warning other than that, nearly chomps Peter’s fingers off to get the meat.

“Ow, jeez!” Peter shakes his wrist. “I was literally giving it to you for free, but go off I guess.”

Charles blinks his big brown marble eyes and then literally jumps off the fucking ledge. Peter leans over and watches him scamper across the street, somehow not getting hit by any traffic. Sometimes he thinks his spidey sense is more like feline sense in that way: he could probably manage the same thing with his eyes closed.

After a while the sun sets and all of the streetlights turn on. Peter does another patrol around the immediate vicinity but again, nothing. He stays out anyway though because he’d rather do his Chemistry homework behind a dumpster than sit alone in the apartment with nothing but the quiet for company. At least out and about there are sewer rats and mangy dogs and shady characters who actually just turn out to be skateboarders.

Peter is almost done with his assignment when the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

He looks up and finds Iron Man himself coming in for a landing. The suit drops with a barely audible clunk; it’s Mark 54, the sleekest and most lightweight model yet.

“Oh thank God,” says Tony’s voice, “you’re not dead.”

Peter frowns even though Tony can’t see it. “No,” he agrees slowly. “Why would I be dead? What are you doing here?”

“Well, your aunt called me in a panic at around four when she got home and you weren’t there, and then I checked the scanners and saw that you’d been here, completely stationary, for like five whole hours—needless to say I had a little bit of a heart attack and here I am, relieved and also mildly infuriated. Care to explain, young padawan?”

Peter opens his mouth to speak. Closes it. Opens it again and, “It’s four AM?”

“Four fifteen,” Tony corrects.

“I didn’t even—I didn’t know! Shit, May’s totally gonna kill me, I might as well be dead—”

“Woah woah woah,” the faceplate lifts, “calm down, okay? No one is mad. Just, uh, concerned, I promise.”

Peter is still frantically packing up his school supplies and not really listening. He only stops when Tony gently touches him by lightly gripping his elbow. “Kid?”

Peter stares down at the older man’s hand. Behind the mask his eyes start to burn. “Ben died.”

“Pardon?”

“Ben died,” he repeats louder. “In this alley. Two years ago.”

All at once Tony’s face falls. He moves to sit by Peter on the grimy floor of the alley while the suit hovers nearby, a hollow shell, just the way Peter feels now.

“Kid,” Tony says, “take off the mask.”

“What? No, I’m in public—”

“No one’s around,” Tony says. “Just take it off, okay?”

Peter does, reluctantly peeling it back to reveal his tear-stained cheeks. Tony stares for a second and then, almost hesitantly, he wraps his arms around Peter. “Do you wanna talk about it?”

“I—” he chokes. “I’m just so tired. I’m tired of having to watch May be strong for me when I can’t be strong back, and I’m tired of Ben not being around. I miss him and it—it’s not fair.”

“Of course it’s not. It’s never fair. That’s why it hurts, kiddo. You’ve got all this love and no place to put it.”

Peter bites his lip to stop it from quivering and looks away, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes. “I just feel pathetic.”

“Don’t,” Tony says firmly. “I felt the same way after my mom died and it… In some ways I don’t think the feeling ever actually went away, but uh, take it from someone who’s had a lot more time to process: no one is expecting anything from you, okay? And I can guarantee there’s not a single human that thinks two years is long enough to be perfectly fine again. You’re allowed to still be upset about this.”

And Peter is. He’s really, really fucking upset about it and so tired of holding it in. Tony pulls him against his chest when Peter starts to cry and it sort of seems like he’ll never be able to stop. There’s just so much, so much guilt and pain and all kinds of other bullshit that he refuses to lay on May.

So he lays it on Tony. And it’s surprisingly not horrible or awkward or even the end of the world.

“You good?” the older man asks, when Peter finally sobers up enough to wipe his cheeks dry and take a few steadying breaths.

“Yeah,” he says, voice ragged and awful-sounding. “Um, sorry. For freaking you and May out and ruining your shirt, I mean.”

“You know there’s this really snazzy invention called a washing machine—”

“Oh my god, shut up.”

Tony laughs and it makes Peter laugh too, and the tension between them just sort of dissipates. “Speaking of clothes,” Tony claps his hands together, “you got any to wear in that backpack?”

“Uh, jeans and a hoodie?”

“Fantastic, incredible. Throw them on, I’m taking you out for breakfast.”

“But what if someone sees?!”

“Let ’em. I’ll have Pep release a statement claiming you as my personal assistant or head intern or something.”

“That’s totally unrealistic.”

“Do I care? No. Just—okay? Up and at ’em, make haste, come on. What do you feel like, pancakes or waffles?”

They bicker about which is better the entire way to the little diner Tony choses, and Peter comes home full an hour later. May is fast asleep at the kitchen table. He kisses her forehead and starts on breakfast for her.

—

He’s thirty minutes into helping MJ study for her AP French test when she finally gets a question wrong. “‘Il n'est pas clair que’?” Peter queries, holding up the flash card.

“‘It’s not certain that’?”

He makes a pitying noise. “Close. ‘It’s not clear that’.”

“What’s not clear, exactly? That if I see one more word in French I’m gonna blow my brains out?”

Peter snorts. “No, actually it says more clarification is required on how much you like your boyfriend. Suggestions to improve that include: a hug, a kiss, both—”

“Neither?”

He pouts. “Mean.”

MJ rolls her eyes, but she kisses him first. She tastes like the Twizzlers they’ve been eating and her hands are in his hair and she laughs when he presses his lips to her cheeks and nose and forehead.

They somehow end up in an incredibly compromising position. “You know,” MJ muses, “I don’t think I’ve been studying the right kind of French.”

Peter, hovering over her (oops), nods in agreement. “This kind is definitely way better.”

She wraps her arms around his neck and he’s so consumed with this: her and him and the smell of her jasmine shampoo—that he almost doesn’t hear it.

Almost.

Peter rips away abruptly. “What was that?”

She groans. “God, you’re such a dog sometimes.”

He ignores her, sitting alert with his eyes narrowed at the window and, sure enough, there it is again: a faint, blood-curdling scream. “Someone’s being attacked or something. Maybe four blocks away tops.”

MJ squints. “Don’t tell me you can echolocate.”

“I—” Peter’s mouth snaps shut and then opens again. “I actually don’t know. Anyway, I gotta go.”

He presses a quick kiss to her cheek, throws on his jacket, and quickly ducks out her fire escape (which happens to be the same way that he came in). He slips the mask on and tosses his hood up; it’s raining in heavy, icy sheets and Peter is drenched within seconds of swinging. He remembers the first time he’d gone out during a storm; the webbing he’d made hadn’t held up because the chemical formula hadn’t accounted for the massive amounts of water-based reaction, so the biocables had evaporated as they left his shooters. Thankfully he hadn’t jumped first that day, otherwise he would be a Peter Pancake.

Another scream sounds. Peter follows it and winds up latched onto the side of a two-story brick building. There’s an incredibly dark alley below, but a quick flash of lightning tells him everything he needs to know: one man is trying to wrestle a woman down, while another is rifling through her purse. He’s also holding a gun.

“Oh, cute,” he mutters sarcastically.

Peter tries to time it right: he takes aim and shoots a web right at the weapon with the next bout of lightning, but to his immense misfortune, the armed mugger had already seen him and was aiming right back. The bullet hits Peter in the side.

“Ow,” he says, “that was uncalled for.”

He drops. His side is throbbing and hot but he ignores it in favour of disarming the guy who shot him. It’s a brief struggle but Peter ends up whacking the gun out of his hand and webbing it to the wall opposite. Then he knocks the guy out with a solid upper cross to the temple.

Peter rounds. The assailant has already fled, leaving the woman shivering but relatively unharmed.

“You okay, ma’am?” he asks.

“Me? That guy shot you!”

Peter looks down at his side which is now stained with blood. “Oh, yeah.”

He’d actually forgotten for half a second. Now that the adrenaline is wearing off, he’s starting to really feel it: a burning sensation in his abdomen, an aching that pulses from his stomach to his chest. Ah. Wonderful.

A little dazed, he shakes his head. “Don’t worry about me. Super healing. Are you good? You need me to call you a cab?”

“What? No, um—the police station is like, down the block, I can go get them.”

“Are you sure? Because I can totally do that—”

“I can handle myself,” she says sharply, bending down to pick up her purse and the discarded items within. “It’s just… there were two of them and there was a gun and—”

“I get it,” Peter says, his hand pressing harder into his side as the world grows blurrier around the edges. “You really don’t want me to at least walk you down?”

“I’ll take a taxi,” she says. “You just, um, get yourself fixed up, okay? And thanks.”

“Yeah, sure, anytime! But, y’know, preferably never again,” Peter says, and proceeds to swing away.

—

Tony doesn’t expect to get woken up at two AM after only just falling asleep five minutes before, but such is life; FRIDAY’s voice bleeds through the speakers above to inform him that Spider-Man is currently rifling through the Med-Bay and bleeding from a wound on his side.

Pepper looks at him. “You heard that too, right? That was real?”

“It was real.”

They both scramble out of bed. Tony takes the lead, throwing on his jacket as he runs toward the elevator. It’s times like these when every second stretches out into an eternity; it takes maybe five of them to get from their floor to the Med-Bay, but it feels like forever.

The doors open and there’s Peter, perched on a gurney with his shirt gone and a whole lot of blood staining his side. He’s bent awkwardly, clearly trying to feel his way around whatever wound he’s got.

“Um,” Tony says, approaching, “What.”

Peter looks up and—yeah, he’s lost a lot more blood than Tony had originally thought. His face is fucking drained. “Hey,” he says, offering a jaunty wave before returning his attention to his side. “I got shot.”

“Oh!” Tony nods. “Oh, okay. What the fuck, kiddo?”

“I know, right?” Peter glances up. “Hey, Pepper.”

“Peter,” she returns. “Do you mind if I wash my hands and take a look at that?”

“If you want. It’s kinda gross, though.”

“Believe me, I’ve seen worse.”

Through this exchange Tony was already washing up, and now he dons a pair of gloves and sits on the rolling stool. “Looks like it’s through and through,” he tells Pep over his shoulder. “Could you grab a couple suture kits and, uh, the stuff?”

Pepper makes a face. “The stuff?”

“You know,” Tony says, “The Good Stuff.”

Her eyes widen. “Oh, that stuff.”

Tony feels around the area. “Do you know what kind of gun was used?”

“Looked like your standard nine mil,” Peter replies. His voice is growing a little slurred.

That’s good though, about the gun. Means there’s probably not any bullet fragments to worry about. Tony grabs a load of gauze and presses it against the wound. He checks Peter’s pulse while he’s at it and finds that it’s slowed considerably. “We’re gonna have to get you some blood, too. A neg, right?”

“Yuppers.”

Tony excuses that because after all, the kid is bleeding out on a table. Said kid actually starts to swing his legs back and forth and, yeah, that’s not gonna fly. “Do me a favour and lay back? I’m gonna put this towel right under you for now.”

Peter doesn’t have any arguments, or if he does, he doesn’t vocalise them. Pepper comes back in with the kits and drugs and, because she’s just smarter than him like that, bags of blood.

Tony grabs the vials first and loads up a syringe. Peter is pretty numb to all of it until the needle goes in. Then he frowns. “Why are you injecting me with alien blood?”

Tony rolls his eyes. “It’s not alien blood, it’s a pain killer. A serious one at that, so you’re probably gonna feel a little out of it for a while, okay?”

Peter frowns. “Is it for Steve?”

Tony tenses, but it’s only for a second. “Yes,” he says, somewhat tightly.

“Ugh. What a turd, Mr. Stark. You’re giving me turd vitamins!” Tony scoffs while Pepper laughs. Peter notices. “See? She thinks I’m funny.”

“You’re not helping me here,” Tony says to her.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Here, have some thread.”

Tony sighs. “Just stay still for me, okay?”

Peter does. Pepper passes him various supplies and they work together to sew up both ends of the gunshot wound. By the time they’re done, Peter hasn’t moved once, but his eyes are open and he’s frowning.

“How do you feel?”

“Wired,” he says.

“Seriously? Bruce never said anything about the side-effects, but I figured they’d be like normal pain-killers; make you drowsy and all that.”

“No,” Peter sits up quickly and doesn’t even flinch. “I feel like I just got steroids or something. Are you—are you actually telling me that Captain America’s drugs are infused with a stimulant? What, so he can keep fighting even when he’s in the middle of dying?”

Tony blinks. “Well that was smart of dear Banner.”

“Yeah, or insane.” Peter flexes his hands. “I feel like I need to go for a run, or like, break something.”

“Let’s avoid that,” Tony says, pushing him back down. “You need to heal, not mess yourself up even more, understood?”

Peter stares. “Is it normal to see sounds?”

Pepper bursts out laughing again. “I’m sorry,” she says when Tony glares. “Really, I am, I promise. Peter, honey, how about we get you to a bedroom where you can rest up? We’ll call your aunt and explain everything.”

—

Everything is going fine until May asks, “How did you get to the Tower so quick, then?”

Peter blinks. “Hmm? Pardon?”

“If you were at Ned’s,” May says, “how’d you manage to swing all the way across town?”

Peter opens his mouth and closes it. “I, uh… well, funny story, um… I wasn’t actually at Ned’s?”

There’s a pause over the phone. Pepper, who’s holding it, raises an eyebrow. May says: “You told me you were going to Ned’s, Peter.”

His face feels hot. He hopes it isn’t red. Both Pepper and Tony—from the doorway with his hands stuffed in his sweatpant pockets—are staring. It’s almost as bad as if May were really here.

“Well I was going to Ned’s, but then I changed my mind and went somewhere else and oh—look at the time! I think we’re going through a tunnel—”

“Don’t even try to pull that crap! That’s it, I’m coming over there—”

“May,” Peter says, serious now, “you’re in the middle of a shift, there’s people dying. Just—I’m perfectly fine, I took my Captain America drugs and everything is gonna be okay.”

“But you lied to me.”

“No, I changed my mind.”

“And went where?”

“Irrelevant.”

“Peter.”

“May.”

She groans from the other end of the line and demands to speak to Pepper one on one. Tony’s fiancé grins and switches off speaker, before slipping out with a bright laugh to finish off the conversation. Tony stares expectantly. “So where were you?”

“Oh my god, not you too. You know, on second thought, I actually am completely exhausted and—”

“Uh, nope,” Tony flops down onto the bed. “Fess up.”

Peter sighs. He squirms down and covers his pillow with a head. “No.”

Tony joins him under it. “Tell me.”

Peter scowls. He rolls onto his side so they’re facing one another. “I was with my girlfriend.”

“Oooo—”

“Shush! It’s… it’s really not a big deal and I haven’t told May yet because MJ and I haven’t even really talked about it and it all happened super fast and—” he remembers to breathe, “I just… I always tell May everything, you know? But I kind of just felt like… this was something I had to figure out first on my own. Maybe it’s stupid, but I know she’s gonna be super hurt when she finds out it’s been a month and I haven’t said anything—”

“Kid,” Tony cuts in. “Calm down.”

“I’m calm,” Peter promises, because he is. He’s also just incredibly hyper and stressed.

“It’s a normal instinct to want to figure things out and define them before you start announcing them to the world. I get that. But you’re still a kid, Pete, and even if you don’t want people prying into your love life, we still need to know where you are in case something goes wrong.”

Peter harrumphs as he turns away. “There’s a tracker on my phone and my suit. It would be easier to find me than anything else.”

Tony clicks his tongue. “You got a point there.”

“I just wanted time.”

“I know.”

“But I really like her, okay? Like she’s so smart and she’s got this really dark sense of humour and she’s actually kind of terrifying sometimes—”

“Oh, the scary ones are always fun.”

They stay up talking through the night and, when the sun comes up, Pepper joins them with a tray of freshly made blueberry waffles. May arrives around the same time and, looking too tired to be mad, simply drops onto the bed with them and steals what’s left of his food.

—

Peter is on patrol when he hears it:

a soft, quiet yelping coming from somewhere down below the rooftop he’s perched on.

At first he figures he’s imagining things, but then his ears perk again. He leans over the building’s edge to find the source of the noise.

In the dark it’s hard to make anything out, so he climbs slowly down the side of the wall, squinting. There’s another yelp and a low whine, almost pained. Peter zeroes in on the sound and creeps toward a set of dumpsters; they’re so full of trash they’re overflowing, and it’s underneath a broken down cardboard box that he finds it...

A puppy.

Now, Peter is no liar. He’s wanted a dog since he was like, a fetus. The words ‘A dog’ have been on every birthday and Christmas list for as long as he can remember. It’s only recently, in the years since Ben’s death, that he’s pretty much given up—after all, May is so overworked and they can barely afford to feed themselves. How could they afford a pet?

But also…

This is the cutest dog he’s ever seen.

It’s tiny and fluffy and brown and has the biggest, saddest eyes he’s ever seen.

Peter kind of just stands there staring like an idiot for a good few seconds and then slowly kneels down. “Um, hi,” he says, in the gentlest voice he can manage. The puppy, who can’t be older than a few weeks and looks completely starved and exhausted, whines in response.

Peter holds out his hand for the dog to sniff. It lifts its head lazily and leans forward, nose twitching and dry. “You need water, huh? Come on, I know a place.”

—

“Shelob,” Tony greets without looking up from whatever project he’s working on. “What can I do for you at… one in the fucking morning?”

“I need your help with something, but you have to promise you won’t get mad or make me get rid of him—”

“Oh, for God’s sake, what have you done now?”

“He was just so helpless and cold and small and…” Peter swallows and reveals the puppy, presently wrapped up in his hoodie. “Meet Nugget.”

Tony’s face is the epitome of Disappointed Dad. He stares, open-mouthed, and after a second his shoulders fall. “Well, fuck.”

Peter snuggles Nugget against his chest and steps closer, but then Tony holds up a hand to stop him. “Nah-ah! Not until that thing gets a flea bath!”

Hope sparks in Peter’s chest. “You mean we can keep him?”

“I mean there’s no way I’m getting near him until I know I won’t break out in hives.”

“That’s not how fleas work.”

“Do I care? No. Come on, let’s go to the bathroom.”

—

“Why do you have flea shampoo?”

Peter’s inquiry is made tentatively. They both have their hands in the sud-filled sink as they systematically wash Nugget’s fur.

“There was… an incident a while ago. I don’t wanna talk about it.”

Peter stares. Blinks. “Okay. Well, I think he’s clean.”

Nugget barks as if in agreement, and so Peter and Tony lift him out of the basin and set him on a pile of no doubt expensive, fluffy white towels. Tony takes the lead after that. He’s surprisingly gentle and patient with the yapping, impatient puppy—even when Nugget tries to claw at him and shake himself dry, Tony never loses his cool.

A few minutes later they’re sitting on their stomachs watching Nugget stomp around on a blanket. There’s water in a bowl for him at one corner and a plate of chopped up chicken at another.

“I can’t take him home,” Peter says morosely after a few minutes. “May won’t let me keep him.”

Tony raises an eyebrow. “Where does she even think you are right now?”

“...In my bed.”

“Wow,” Tony says, deadpan. “Okay, well, I most certainly can’t keep him either.”

“What?! Why not?!”

Tony sighs. “I’m Iron Man, if you hadn’t noticed, kiddo—”

“Oh, what, so you’re too tough to look after him?”

“No, I’m too busy. I spend like, twenty-three out of twenty-four hours in a day in my shop and the rest of the time I’m on my knees apologising to Pepper and begging for forgiveness. There’s no time in-between to feed the pup, walk the pup—”

“I could come by,” Peter blurts. “Like, once a day, and I could make sure he’s eaten and play with him and stuff. You wouldn’t have to lift a finger—”

“Except to press ‘purchase’ on my shopping cart full of dog food—”

“Tony,” Peter cuts in, pleading, “please? I can’t just drop him off at some kennel so they can—” he covers the dog’s ears, “so they can euthanize him in a week when no one buys him. He deserves so much better, you know?”

Tony frowns, considering it, and Peter waits with his breath caught in his throat until, “God, fine.”

“Yes!”

“But! But! A pet is a serious responsibility, okay? You might as well be adopting a child—”

“What would you know about raising kids?” Peter asks, only jokingly, but Tony just stares and then, for some reason, smiles.

“You have to make sure he’s happy,” Tony says. “You have to be there for him in whatever way he needs, alright? I’ll set up a pen in the penthouse and you can make sure he works off his energy there, and if I have time I’ll even take you both to the park. And if he ever happens to pee on my carpet, I’m counting on you to clean it up.”

“Don’t you have, like, housekeepers for that sort of thing?”

“Yeah, but this is character building stuff.”

“Ugh, fine, I’ll clean up the pee.”

They continue to iron out the details for a while and bicker over whether Nugget’s last name should be Parker or Stark, and it’s only when Pepper walks in—still in her pajamas, bleary eyed and complaining that they woke her up—that they both decide it should be ‘Potts’.

—

5. (+1)

It starts with a headache.

He’s bent over his desk studying for a Calc test when the throbbing begins. It’s not so bad at first, but after a half hour or so his vision is swimming and he keeps having to take breaks to massage his temples and close his eyes. The equations are all blending together and he can’t think straight anymore.

Peter decides to give up right around then. After all, if he’s not gonna retain any of the information, why bother?

May pokes and prods through dinner. Peter tries to fool her by acting like everything is normal and okay and even manages to make her laugh once or twice.

Inside, dread is coiling through his stomach like an irritated snake. He knows what’s coming next; after all, he doesn’t really get sick anymore, so what else could it be?

Peter tries to sleep but ends up tossing and turning for most of the night. He falls into some kind of half-conscious daze at around four in the morning and rouses about twenty minutes later, soaked with sweat and aching everywhere.

Feeling like he’s gonna vomit, Peter kicks off his blankets and strips the sheets off his bed. He takes his shirt off because the fabric is too abrasive against his skin and it’s like he can feel every fibre tickling against it, grating and chafing. He curls up into a tight ball and covers his ears with his hands to block out the now amplified sounds of the city: car alarms, dogs barking, music playing.

Normally Peter loves the way New York is never silent. Now, he just wishes everyone would shut the fuck up for once.

When he stumbles out of his room a little while later, May is already gone. She’d told him the night before that she had an early shift and for once he’s actually grateful. Haltingly, Peter gets ready for school. He’s already skipped three days this month and if he misses this Calc quiz he’s gonna fucking bomb the class.

May would kill him.

It’s better to suffer a little than die.

Brushing his teeth makes his head spin and the minute he wriggles into his clothes he feels like a caged animal about to claw his skin off. Everything takes so much longer than normal. He doesn’t eat because the mere thought of food makes the back of his throat sting with bile.

On the train, he closes his eyes and rests his head against the cool glass of the window, trying to tune out the constant screeching of the rails. One day, on God, he will make it a personal project to oil every fucking line in the subway.

At his fifth stop, an old lady boards and all the seats are taken.

Peter swallows thickly and stands. Black spots dance in his vision and he grabs onto the overhead bar—something he hasn’t actually needed to use since he was a little kid—and tries not to pass out.

He almost misses the stop to get to school, but slips out at the last second, millimetres away from getting his backpack caught in the doors. Peter is hot all over and lightheaded as he makes his way out of the station. It’s even hotter up above, what with summer coming now and all.

Peter is late and he doesn’t need his watch to tell; Flash’s car is already parked out front instead of zooming through the drop off to run him over (which, hey, silver lining), and the majority of the student body is already inside.

Peter has to stop multiple times on his way to Spanish just to breathe. By the time he gets there he’s at least ten minutes late for roll call.

“Mr. Parker,” his teacher greets, unimpressed. “So glad you could join us.”

Peter makes a noise and takes the proffered quiz. He wonders absently why some people choose to teach. What is it, like, some kind of power trip for them?

He has five minutes to finish the quiz but doesn’t make it past the first question. Ned volunteers to collect them and stops at Peter’s desk while Professor Scott outlines today’s lesson plan.

“Dude,” he whisper-hisses, “you look like complete shit. What on Earth are you doing here right now?”

“Test,” Peter mutters dully, resting his cheek on his hand and closing his eyes. “Here you go. Didn’t finish it.”

Ned takes it carefully, holding it with two fingers like it’s covered in disease. “Do you want me to get the nurse or something?”

Peter hums. “No. Just… headache.”

Slowly Ned backs away. “Um—”

“Mr. Leeds!” Professor Scott says, loudly. Ned jumps. “Is there a problem back there?”

Yes, Peter thinks. You’re the human version of nails on a fucking chalk board. Please, for the love of all that is holy, just start on the vocab.

Only he accidentally says all of that out loud.

The whole class is staring. Flash is slack-jawed. Betty Brant’s eyes are the size of small moons.

“Parker,” Scott grits out—and Peter has denominated him to just Scott now out of reciprocation and spite; “You just earned yourself a shiny new detention. I’d like you to take this slip to the principal’s office. Please.”

Oh, thank God. At least it’ll be quiet there.

Peter stands and brushes past Ned and it literally feels like flames of hell are licking against his skin. He almost vomits. This is decidedly not good.

He takes the paper. “Gladly, good sir.”

When he’s gone, there’s an outburst of muttering that his enhancements let him hear. It only makes the overload worse. Peter covers his ears with his hands again and, overcome with a sudden wave of vertigo, ducks into the bathroom.

He barely makes it to the toilet before emptying his stomach of last night’s food.

Peter sags against the wall, panting. He keeps his eyes closed and waits for the world to stop spinning. About ten minutes later, the smell of jasmine shampoo—normally welcome—causes him to lean over and retch again.

MJ pokes her head inside the unlocked stall. “Jesus,” she whispers. The second her hands touch his body he flinches and she immediately retracts them. “Fuck, sorry. Ned said you wigged out in Spanish. I looked for you in the Principal's office but you weren’t there and... What’s—what’s wrong? I thought you couldn’t even get sick.”

“Bad headache,” he mutters, spitting into the toilet. It’s easier than explaining about his freakish mutations and how they sometimes go completely haywire, leaving him on edge and nauseous and irritable.

MJ grabs him some toilet paper to wipe his mouth with. “Did you take anything?”

“Pain meds don’t work on me.”

“Does May know? You should have called in.”

“Couldn’t. Can’t miss my test.”

She sighs. “Your final is like fifty percent of your grade and you could pass it with your eyes closed. You can miss your test, you’re just afraid of getting anything lower than an A.”

Peter is silent. “You got me there.”

MJ’s hand twitches like she wants to touch him but knows she can’t. “You need to go home. Lie down, get some rest.”

“May is working,” Peter says, “and if I have to take the subway again right now I’ll die. I really will. It’s so—the smell and the noise and I can’t sit down and—”

“Give me your phone.”

“What?”

“Just give it.”

She’s holding her hand out for it and giving him a no-nonsense expression that kind of reminds Peter of Pepper Potts on a rampage. He’s seen what happens to Tony when he crosses her, so he fishes his phone out of his pocket and hands it over.

“Hold on.”

She stands and leaves. Peter closes his eyes again. He tunes out her conversation because if he doesn’t, he’s absolutely gonna vomit again and nobody wants that.

MJ slips back inside the stall. “Okay, solved. Do you still feel like you’re gonna vomit?”

Peter thinks about it. “No.”

“Good. We’re gonna go to the nurse, okay?”

“Oh boy.”

—

Tony Stark walks into Peter’s school and finds the hallways empty. The classroom doors are shut and the muted sounds of teachers lecturing are the only signs that anyone is here at all.

He finds Peter in the infirmary, sitting on the examination table with the heels of his palms pressed against his eyes.

He’s at his side in an instant. “Kid?”

It’s surprise that gets Peter’s eyes open, but the little spider baby immediately regrets it. He flinches and sucks in a sharp breath. “Tony,” he whispers, like the name is all he can manage and the questions will have to wait for later.

Tony looks him over. There are no obvious injuries. The girl on the phone had said it was just a headache, but Tony is way more experienced with Peter’s brand of bullshit and knows there’s usually something else going on beneath the surface.

“I’m gonna go talk to the nurse and then get you out of here, okay?”

A nod.

It’s always a bad thing when he doesn’t argue. Peter Parker would start a fight about what kind of pizza to order, even if you suggest the kind he really wants, just to be a stubborn little shit about things.

Tony slips out of the exam room. The nurse looks up when he enters her office. “Oh my—Mr. Stark?!”

“Yes, hello,” Tony takes a cautious step forward as she stands. He doesn’t bother to sit. “I’m here to pick up the little gremlin in there.”

Her face flushes. “I didn’t know you’d been called, I—I figured I would just let him wait it out, you know? He didn’t want to be touched, so it was hard to figure out what was up and—so it’s real? About the internship?”

“Of course. Why would he lie?”

She opens her mouth. Closes it. “Well… you know how kids can be.”

“Do I?”

She doesn’t seem to know what to say to that.

Tony sighs. “Look, Nurse—uh, Timms—Nurse Timms, can I please just sign the kid out and take him home? He’s clearly in pain here.”

She starts rifling through her desk for a form. “I mean, I can admit you to take him home, but I really suggest you talk with the principal first—Peter was given a detention before he was brought to my ward, see, and I was—” she shakes her head. “I thought he might be faking.”

Tony stares without blinking for a whole five seconds and then, “Detention? For what?”

“I heard he bad-mouthed a teacher or something. But to be fair, Professor Scott isn’t exactly what I’d call patient.”

“Well, be that as it may,” Tony takes the form she hands him to sign, “my kid doesn’t fake. He has a condition, see. Gets uh… overloaded. Sounds, smells, it can be too much for him. Probably why he snapped.”

“That… that makes sense.”

“Yes,” he says succinctly, and hands the paper back. “You’d know that if you bothered to ask. Anyway, I’ll be going. Thanks for the help, Nurse Times.”

“Uh, it’s—it’s Timms—”

The door shuts behind him.

—

MJ was forced to go back to class. She’d argued and protested but Nurse Timms was insistent. So, MJ had relented. She’d pressed the lightest of kisses on his forehead and it surprisingly hadn’t felt that bad, and then she’d gone.

Tony Stark had shown up about twenty minutes later and it’s just when Peter’s starting to think it was all just a vivid hallucination that the smell of coffee and motor oil fills his senses again. It’s overwhelming but not debilitating.

“Kiddo,” Tony whispers, “is it okay to touch you?”

Peter cracks an eye. Everything is bright but Tony’s suit is mercifully black, so he focuses on that. “I don’t know. I don’t wanna move.”

“Well I gotta get you outta here somehow.”

“But my detention—”

“I already got you out of it,” Tony says breezily. “Nothing to worry about.”

“Tony,” Peter says, cheeks flushing. “You can’t just bribe my principal into—”

“I didn’t bribe anyone. I just explained the situation and besides, Morita’s an old friend.”

Peter closes his eyes again as he frowns. “You’re friends with my principal?”

“I’m a benefactor for your school, too,” Tony says. “But don’t tell anyone, it’s a secret.”

Something shifts in the air. Tony is sitting now. “Happy’s waiting outside,” he says, “but whenever you’re ready.”

Peter thinks about it for a few seconds and decides it’s gonna have to happen at some point, anyway. Might as well rip the band-aid off now. Slowly he takes a deep breath and manages to sit up with Tony’s help. The older man tries to avoid touching him as much as possible, but surprisingly enough the weight of his hand against Peter’s spine isn’t crushing or aggravating. It doesn’t hurt.

“Baby steps,” Tony says softly. “We’ll take you out the side door, okay?”

Even getting to the door is slow going but Tony doesn’t seem to mind. Right before they open it, Tony stops and pulls his sunglasses off. “Here, try these.”

Peter puts them on. He feels ridiculous because like, they work on Tony who was literally born in the seventies, but Peter really doesn’t dig the groovy shades. Regardless they’re better than nothing and even help a little.

The halls are empty again. Most of the students will be in the gym right about now, or the cafeteria for lunch. They don’t run into anybody on the way out and as soon as they’re in the back of the car, Peter sags against Tony’s side. He feels like he’s just run ten miles.

“Drive, Hogan,” Tony says, and then the partition glides up.

For a few seconds it’s almost completely quiet. Noise suppression tech, Peter realises, and he feels like he could cry from relief. For the first time in hours there’s just… nothing. No traffic, no dozens of students talking at once. The air conditioning unit is filtered, so he’s not being attacked with the smell of body odour and clashing perfume scents and Axe cologne. There’s just Tony and beautiful, amazing, showstopping silence.

Tony shifts a little. “Better?”

Peter nods, figuring it’s still probably not safe to speak.

“We’ll be there soon,” Tony says softly.

—

Peter doesn’t remember much after the car ride. He can vaguely recall protesting getting out of the Audi, and he remembers Tony assuring him that everything would be okay, and the next thing he knows he’s lying on his back in an utterly dark bedroom. The walls are insulated just like the car had been, so there’s just no sound, and the bed sheets probably have the highest thread count of all time.

Something shifts beside Peter and he realises Tony is there, feeling his forehead.

“What—?”

“Oh, hey,” Tony greets. “I think you might’ve blacked out there. All the noise hit you at once when we got out of the car and you just…”

“I fainted?”

Tony snorts softly. “Relax. It happens to the best of us. How do you feel, Webster?”

Peter hums. “Bad.”

“Let’s try a scale of one to ten.”

“Okay,” Peter says. “Ten.” Tony lets out a little grunt at that and so Peter elaborates, “It was at like, a twenty this morning, so.”

“Ah, I see.” Tony’s grip shifts to Peter’s wrist to measure his pulse. “This okay?”

“It’s fine.”

And it really is. He doesn’t feel like burning his skin off or anything. Tony’s hands are just warm.

“Any idea what brought this on?”

Peter shifts a little. “I uh… haven’t been sleeping a lot lately.” He swallows. “Like, at all.”

“And how long’s that been going on for?”

“I don’t know. On and off for a few weeks, I guess.”

“Jesus,” Tony sighs and pulls his hand away. He rakes it through his hair. “Kiddo, what have we said about communication? Does May know?”

“....No?”

There’s a long pause where Tony just kind of sits there thinking, like he wants to say whatever comes next carefully. He massages his temples and then: “Alright, scooch over.”

“What?”

“Make room for me.”

Peter blinks and then, tentatively, scoots over a little to allow Tony room to lie down. The older man does, arching his back a little and grunting in pain because he’s like, ancient. They’re not touching, but very slowly Peter starts inching closer again. Eventually he works up the courage to try resting his head on Tony’s chest, which is terrifying not only because it’s Tony Stark, but also because he’d rather not have his brain implode.

Nothing happens. “Your fabric softener must be like, super expensive,” he whispers, because this is actually better than the sheets.

Tony snorts. “I’ll ask Pep about it.”

Peter makes a noncommittal noise and before he knows it, his eyes are closing. For once they actually feel heavy, and the steady rhythm of Tony’s heart beat is soothing, dependable.

Tony’s hands brush lightly over Peter’s hair and then thread through it. “Too much?”

“No,” Peter promises. “Good.”

And so Tony’s fingers run through his curls over and over, gently, lightly. His thumb sweeps over Peter’s cheek once, too, and then he starts muttering in Italian.

Peter cracks an eye. “Are you telling me your grocery shopping list?”

Tony laughs a little. “My mom used to do it for me,” he says. “Something about just hearing her speak the language made me feel… relaxed, I guess. Didn’t matter what she was saying.”

Peter smiles and wraps an arm around Tony’s torso. “Tell me something else.”

“You wanna hear about the time I almost blew up a Chem lab?”

“Uh, duh.”

So Tony launches into it, speaking in a low voice and absently twisting one of Peter’s curls around his finger. It feels nice and the headache is fading fast.

Peter sleeps.

#marvel #irondad #peter parker #tony stark #my writing #friendly neighborhood fic exchange #may parker #pepper potts #michelle jones #spideychelle #pepperony #nugget the dog #insomnia

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goodluckchenle · 4 years

Text

your love would be too much

pairing: haechan x gender neutral!reader genre: ANGST vibes: enemies to lovers, trainee!au, tw for body shaming , anxiety attack , yelling , swearing , NO HAPPY ENDING word count: 6k

author’s note: aaaaaaaaa this took so l o n g. i spent forever and a day writing it but i’m kinda proud of it! definitely didn’t proof read the last couple of paragraphs but it’s Fine

you and haechan should've been friends, or at least that’s what everyone else thought. you were the same age, you’d auditioned for sm at the same time, and you were widely regarded as two of the most talented 2000 line trainees. the two of you had a lot in common, but one thing stood out beyond the rest of your shared qualities: you’d both never hated anyone more in your entire life.

if opposites attract then you and haechan were practically the same person. all you did was get on each other’s nerves. you liked to think that you were a mature person, someone who chose to take the high road, but when it came to haechan all bets were off. the two of you were petty in every way imaginable; you took every chance to get under each other’s skin. you would go out of your way to make haechan’s day worse, and he did the same. your relationship wasn’t hard to understand; it was sneers in the hallway and cruel insults under your breath. it was looking him in the eye as you took his favorite sandwich in the cafeteria or him clicking his tongue just because it drove you insane. it was simple, it was immature, and it was petty. and you still did it anyway.

the funny thing was that no one could’ve told you how it started. everyone’d just kinda assumed something went down one day, but the truth was you didn’t really have a reason to hate haechan except that he hated you. if you thought at least a little bit about your relationship you could probably figure out that there was no fair reason for you two to hate each other, you just rubbed each other wrong and neither of you were humble enough to back down. but we don’t talk about that. the point is, lee donghyuck was your least favorite person in the world, and it was always going to be that way.

but no matter how much you hated him, the trainee grind went on. which meant that you could never truly avoid each other. today was your monthly performance evaluation and as fate would have it, you and haechan went one after another. you were first up. you’d prepared for this performance like it was your last, practicing the choreography for weeks and memorizing every run and adlib until you could sing them in your sleep. you had chosen this song even though it was a challenge and you were proud of how far you’d come to be able to pull it off. after you finished you bowed deeply to the trainers and bit back a smile when you saw the awe on your fellow trainee’s faces. but as you returned to your spot in line, you heard haechan scoff under his breath. you raised an eyebrow.

“got something you’d like to say, donghyuck?” you said quietly, emphasising his name. the moment lee sooman had changed his name haechan let it go straight to his head and you refused to feed his ravenous ego.

“not really,” haechan quipped back. “just that maybe you should try not to do something so...above you. watching you butcher that was painful and the fake smile didn’t help.” you scowled as his name was called and haechan stepped forward, bowing with a charming smile as he introduced himself to the coaches. right before he started his performance he looked you in the eye, and you swore you could feel rage bubbling up within you.

haechan was infuriatingly impressive. he’d picked a song that played to his strengths and his facial expressions were on point, two areas that were still stinging after his comments earlier. you kept a straight face as he performed, imagining all the things you’d say as soon as you walked out of this room. unsurprisingly the other trainees were enthralled with haechan’s performance but when he made his way back his eyes were only on you, one eyebrow cocked in a confident smirk. now it was your turn to scoff.

“you know, that was actually a smart choice,” you muttered so only he could hear. “play it safe and you won’t disappoint anyone. but maybe turn down the facial expressions a smidge? felt like i was watching a third-rate comedy sketch.” you relished the look on his face as he struggled to remain nonchalant. you shrugged and turned towards the trainee about to perform, leaving haechan to stew in the silence between you two. you were sure this wasn’t over, but did you really want it to be? you were almost looking forward to the fight you knew was coming.

the moment you left the room all eyes were on you and haechan. you wouldn’t say that the two of you made your hatred public, but you definitely didn’t try to keep it private. you were sure haechan felt the same way; you both felt fully justified in your distaste for the other and you kinda expected everyone else to take your side. to be honest haechan's friends thought the whole thing was kind of ridiculous and as for you, well you didn't have anyone close enough to care. you were a little annoyed by the audience you'd amassed but you would never let that stop you. however you needn’t worry; the moment you'd cleared the doorway haechan was already on you. "you always have something to say, don't you?" he said, glaring. you couldn't help but chuckle.

"and you don't?" you shot back. "you literally started this conversation."

“i wouldn’t have, but i just couldn’t bear the thought of you actually thinking whatever you did back there was ‘art’.” more infuriating than his words was his tone, one that dripped with condescension and mockery. unfortunately, you were never one to back down.

“ah yes. because you’re clearly the expert here,” you spat, arms folded.

haechan looked you up and down in a way that made your skin crawl and your blood boil. “between the two of us? that’s not even a question.” you were starting to get pissed.

you scowled, saying, “you really think you’re the shit, don’t you?”

“no,” he admitted with a cocky grin, “i know i am.” it was taking everything within you not to strangle him at this point.

“you know what’s funny about you? no matter what you do, you always end up thinking you’re the best.”

“are you saying i’m not?”

“you’re a lot of things, donghyuck, but you’re sure as hell not perfect.”

“what am i then?”

maybe you weren’t thinking very clearly anymore.

“well the first word that comes to mind is stupid, but clueless and obnoxious work pretty well too. try-hard’s a little informal but it fits the bill, and- oh, duh! you’re replaceable.”

you’d never seen haechan look more serious than when that word came out of your mouth. the shift in mood was immediate. “excuse me?”

you raised an eyebrow, a little shocked that he didn’t have more to say. “you heard me.”

haechan’s voice was calm, but something about it seemed deadly. the onlookers watched with bated breath as they anticipated haechan’s response. “no, please, elaborate. i want to hear more. how am i replaceable?”

there was a pit forming in your stomach but you didn’t stop. “there’s nothing special about you. you’re not unique, you’re not remarkable, you’re not even bad enough to leave an impression. you’re completely average. and therefore, you’re replaceable.”

haechan barked out a dry laugh, hollow and numb and absolutely terrifying. suddenly he walked forward, brushing past as he muttered, "that's rich, coming from you." his friends rushed after him, the youngest ones looking at you with wide eyes before darting after them. you shrugged, trying to bury the panic growing within you. how did you get here? if anyone had looked closely, they’d see that your hands wouldn't stop shaking.

you went about the rest of your day, pushing your latest episode with haechan to the corner of your mind. you went over the notes you got earlier, practiced for a few hours and headed back to your dorm early, something you rarely allowed yourself. you cleaned your room, ate a sparse dinner, and studied for your exams, but even though you were highly productive something still felt wrong. you did everything you knew to do, but you couldn’t shake the restless feeling in your stomach. did it have something to do with you and haechan today? absolutely. but what good was dwelling on it? then you’d have to address the complex and slightly concerning nature of your relationship. and we don’t want to do that.

it’s well past midnight and you’ve accepted that sleep is out of the question. you decide to start your day early, maybe get a jump on your next assessment. so that’s why you walk out of your dorm at quarter to three in the morning, fully dressed and prepared to dance like your life depended on it. you wander down the corridors of practice rooms, but just as you find an empty one (you clearly weren’t the only one who couldn’t sleep tonight,) you hear a familiar voice. is that,,,donghyuck? your rational brain would’ve said to mind your own business. unfortunately, your rational brain was probably the only part of you asleep right now.

you walked into haechan’s practice room, waiting for him to notice you. from what you could tell he’d been singing (which begs the question, why is he in the dance hall?) and taking notes. he was hunched over on the floor, legs crossed and scribbling away on a notebook page. you cleared your throat and he sat up, annoyed by the interruption and now you. “late night, hyuckie?” you ask, feigning concern.

“leave me alone,” haechan muttered, returning to his work.

you stepped further into the room. “you sure? you don’t look too good.” and as much as you were mocking him it was true. his hair was a mess and under the light his cheeks seemed hollow, his skin mottled.

“i said,” haechan asserted, a growl in his voice, “leave me alone.”

“jeez, touchy much?” you quipped. your tone was playful and there was a gleam in your eye, one that said to haechan that he was nothing more than a toy. he didn’t feel like playing.

haechan stood up and walked towards you, so that you were standing maybe 3 feet away from each other. his voice was quiet, and you finally realized that maybe this wasn’t a good idea. “do you not know when to stop, y/n? get out. now.”

you don’t know why you kept going. everything in your body was screaming at you to go, to leave, to shut your damn mouth for once in your life. maybe you were tired. maybe you wanted to see how far you could push him. maybe you’re an idiot. whatever it was, there was no excuse for what you said next. and once you said it, you couldn’t take it back.

“make me.”

and all hell broke loose.

“what the hell is wrong with you?!” haechan shouted, voice breaking. “what did i do to deserve this? is this some sort of game to you? you win, y/n! you broke me!” you stood there, frozen. you watched your worst enemy shatter in front of you, watched as tears fell down his face. one by one they came as you stood in shock, until they poured like rain. did you do this? choked-back sobs fell from haechan’s lips, chest heaving with the weight of them. was this really happening? “you broke me,” he whispered. you could’ve sworn you heard him shaking. “just leave me alone. please.” you stayed paralyzed only a few moments longer, then turned around and walked out the door, down the hallway and back to your bed. it was safe to say your early start was over.

if sleep wasn't out of the question before it certainly was now. all the thoughts you'd been avoiding flew to the forefront of your mind and you could practically see them swirling in front of your eyes. obviously haechan was upset, and it was because of you. but how? you didn't think you'd said anything out of the ordinary; the two of you were always coming at each other. your conversations ran on repeat in your mind as the discomfort you'd suppressed all day rose to the surface. haechan insulted you first, so you were good right? and yeah, maybe you’d been a little harsh, but he deserved it, or at least that’s what you tried to tell yourself. but something else was nagging at you too. why did you care? haechan was a nuisance; you hated his guts. he was always treating you trash. so why did his tears prompt those of your own? you didn’t care about haechan, not in the least. you couldn’t. you were enemies, and that was how it was supposed to be.

the next day was odd to say the least. you couldn’t help but look at haechan just a little bit differently, and you figured he knew, because he seemed like he was trying to compensate for your behavior with his own. if he was petty before, he was downright cruel now, but for some reason you didn’t have it in you to come at him. every time he scowled at you all you saw were the tears streaming down his face, the whispers that’d fallen past his lips and lodged themselves in your conscience. when haechan took your food you’d simply get something else, when he brushed past you with a little too much force you stepped to the side and kept going. you were sure people picked up on it, but as usual you took little notice. even haechan’s friends had noticed the difference and though you rarely spoke to them, you noticed their lingering glances whenever you encountered each other. you could’ve figured that they too were wondering what had changed between the two of you (something they’d tried to pull out of haechan before) but the chances of them figuring it out were slim to none. secrecy was yet another of you and haechan’s shared qualities.

but there’s only so long you can go without falling back into old habits. after all, donghyuck still is your greatest enemy. you’re walking down the hallway and you turn a corner to see none other but haechan and his crew heading your direction. their excited chatter grinds to a halt as haechan turns to sneer at you, expecting a quip or a snarky face in return. the only thing you give him is a look of poorly disguised pity, and that’s what does it. haechan’s scowl deepens as he grabs you wrist and pulls you back the way you came, around the corner and away from his friends. “what the- get off me!” you hiss, yanking your arm away from him. “what’s wrong with you???”

haechan completely ignores you. “you need to stop,” he snaps, and the fire in his eyes ignites your own.

“the hell d’you mean ‘stop’?” you snap back, angered and a little bit confused. was this because of that night? you were being nice to him. was it just because you felt guilty for making him have a breakdown? sure. but it was still something. he could be a little grateful at least.

“whatever this is,” haechan gestured between the two of you violently, “needs to go back to the way it was” he was far too close to you and you took a step back, a scowl settling over your features and matching with his. you don’t- you can’t- think about what he means by that. but you can be angry.

“i’m sorry, i didn’t know i was taking orders from you,” you spat. “but next time i’ll be sure to. God forbid i’m actually kind to someone for once.”

hyuck took a step towards you, and now you were even closer than before. “i don’t want your pity. i want you to stop. understand?” you hate how intimidated you feel right now.

you looked haechan in the eye with a face of pure contempt before stepping around him and walking down the hall, making brief eye contact with his posse and quickly making your way past them. unbeknownst to you, hyuck deflates as he leans against the wall, eyes closed and breathing out a sigh of relief, that is until you pass and his friends rush to his side.

“yah, what was that?” a pastel-haired boy said, eyes wide with an incredulous grin. all of a sudden haechan noticed the floor was real interesting.

“it was nothing,” he replied, trying to remain nonchalant. “i just had to say something.”

another one nodded, his eye smile betraying his mock seriousness. “you just had to tell y/n something?” the boy raised an eyebrow, his implication crystal clear. the two youngest friends looked at each other, surprised that jeno had said what they’d both been thinking.

haechan scoffed but still refused to make eye contact. “shut up. you know that’s not what i meant.”

the last one chimed in. “what do you mean then? that you don’t have any feelings for them? at all?” renjun looked doubtful, which only frustrated hyuck even more.

“no, i don’t,” he asserted, “do i look like i like them?”

from the way the rest of his friends looked at him, the answer was probably yes.

“all i’m saying,” jaemin insisted, “is that you can’t hate someone that much without caring about them, at least a little bit.” the others nodded in agreement.

haechan finally looked up, and jaemin took a step back, hands in the air. “i hate y/n. i wouldn’t go out with them if they were the last person on earth. they mean nothing to me. okay?” with that he began to walk to their intended destination, and the boys went to follow him. the others made eye-contact, a look that said they didn’t totally buy it but it wasn’t worth fighting now. they’ve got better things to do than play matchmaker.

so now things are back to how they used to be, and you’re okay with that. in fact, you’re glad about it. your last encounter with haechan renewed your distaste for him, and now more than ever you felt justified in your hatred. he had some nerve to come at you like that when you were trying to be nice to him. thinking about it made your face heat up and your fists clench and somewhere deep down maybe it hurt your heart a little more than you’d like to admit, but there’s no reason to address that. now you didn’t have to worry about that night anymore, or how it made you feel. all that mattered was making haechan feel worse.

monthly evaluations roll around once again and maybe you weren’t on your a-game. maybe you got settled a little. maybe you were spending more time in your head than the studio, and maybe it showed. you tried, you really did, but when you got in front of those coaches you knew it wasn’t gonna be a good day. the actual performance was foggy, but what came after was clear as day. the coaches ripped into you, critiquing your technique, style, even your appearance all in front of the other trainees.

“did you even practice at all?”

“i expected more from you,”

“is this the l/n y/n i’ve been hearing about, or should i be looking for someone else?”

“fixing your face is easy, but when everything needs work? do you think you’ll ever debut like this?”

“you’re a disappointment to this company,”

every word felt like a jab to your stomach, but if you had anything it was a high pain tolerance. you did your best to disguise your hurt, and most of the people in the room didn’t notice. you bowed and apologized after the cutting remarks ended, and walked back to your favorite spot on the wall. you blinked rapidly, refusing to tear up, or at least not in public. you knew how to regulate, deep breaths and muscle control, and everyone brushed it off as you relaxing from your performance.

that is, everyone except haechan.

as much as he hated to admit it, haechan knew you. when you were happy he knew wrinkles on your nose, when you were angry he knew the flush on your cheeks. when you were triumphant he knew the look in your eyes and when you were hurt? he knew that one best of all. haechan wouldn’t call himself a sadist, but he’d be lying if he never got a sort of sick satisfaction every time he got under your skin. that’s what enemies are for, right? but this, this was different. at first he watched with a cocky grin, excited to have something to rib you about later, but when the comments kept coming it started being a lot less funny. when your face began to harden his face fell because he knew how much you were hurting. and even worse, he wanted to make it go away. every word hit him as they did you, and that’s when he realized.

holy shit. i caught feelings.

of course haechan’s performance went off without a hitch, which was somehow worse to him than doing as poorly as you did. he barely registered the comments he received and he had to pin his eyes to the wall in order to keep them from darting over to you. he pushed through the motions until his time in the spotlight was over, and when he returned to his spot in line he too was tense, struggling not to let his concern show. while you and haechan were both passionate people, one of you was far better at hiding it. it clearly wasn’t lee donghyuck.

you were out the door almost immediately after you were dismissed, and haechan almost went after you. but before he even had the chance to move he remembered the last thing he said to you, the way he made it clear how much he hated you, and he froze. everything in him wanted to chase you down, ask if you were okay, say he was an idiot and he was sorry for every time he tried to make your life hell because he never knew how much you mattered until you meant everything to him. but he couldn’t. he told himself there were a million reasons but in reality there was only one: he was scared, terrified of upsetting whatever the two of you had. so he spent the rest of his day avoiding you. it wasn’t hugely noticeable but to him it was glaringly obvious. were you that ingrained in his life? or was it that you were just always on his mind? apparently jaemin was right. you can’t hate someone without loving them, at least a little bit.

haechan wasn’t usually an early riser, but for some reason (read: you), he couldn’t get a good night’s sleep. so at four a.m. he found himself wandering the halls of sm entertainment. he'd figured the building would be empty, and for the most part he was right; only one room was taken. his growing curiosity led him to the door, but the sight before him replaced it with dread. it was you. and you looked bad.

the irony wasn't lost on him as he opened the door, and the memory of his night in the studio only filled him with concern. he didn't want to break you the way you broke him, but at this point he couldn't even be sure if you already had. you were dancing, or at least trying to, running your monthly performance over and over again. you would stumble practically every other move and you looked absolutely exhausted. you'd stop for a moment, leaning against a wall with your eyes closed and chest heaving, then force yourself up and start all over again. it was a sickening cycle of abuse, and it didn’t look like you’d stop it if you could.

he didn’t mean to startle you. you were so out of it you didn’t even notice haechan until he was looking you in the eye. you tried to turn away from him but your balance betrayed you, landing you on the floor. a rough growl of frustration what all you could muster as you tried to get donghyuck away from you. it wasn’t clear whether he didn’t hear you, or chose not to listen.

haechan slowly suck to your level, crouched on his knees. “y/n, y/n are you alright? can you hear me?” he asked quietly.

“of course i can hear you,” you slurred, “now leave me alone.”

“i can’t do that,” he replied, “you can’t even stand by yourself. you need to rest.”

you scoffed, but even that seemed weak. “why should i listen to you? you’re tricking me, hyuck. you want me to fail.”

it hurt because you were right. up until today, that was something haechan would have thought. he would have pounced at the chance to set you up for failure. how could he prove to you that he didn’t feel that way anymore? “please y/n. you’re not thinking straight-”

“stop!” you cried, voice trembling. “i-i need to keep working. i’m not good enough. not yet,” your breathing sped up, your body seized with each gasp. “they-they said i wasn’t good enough-i have to be good enough,”

haechan knew that feeling. he’d felt it a million times. the one that sat in the pit of your stomach, the one that chanted over and over again every harsh word said against you. after all, you were the one who’d given it to him that night. he could have laughed at the irony if he wasn’t so close to tears. hyuck clutched your shoulders, voice shaking with urgency as he said “y/n, i need you to listen to me. you’re not okay. we need to leave. we can come back after you’ve slept,” (he had no such intentions.) “okay? just come with me for now. can you do that for me?” he attempted to pull you to your feet. key word: attempted.

you writhed your way out of his arms, landing violently and curling into yourself on impact. “no!” you shouted. you began rocking back and forth on the ground, muttering to yourself over and over again, “i have to be good enough, i have to be good enough, i have to be good enough,” your chest heaved with broken sobs, a sound almost as heart wrenching as the sight. if haechan’s heart was already broken, the damage was irreparable now. hyuck dropped to his knees in front of you, tears welling up in his own eyes and threatening to spill. you were beyond reason. panicking, he did the only thing he could think to do. he held you.

he pulled your shaking form towards him, flinching at the cold of your skin. rocking with you he clutched you tighter, as if by surrounding your body with his he could shield you from all the horrors in the world. he took deep breaths and tried to steady you, a slow process that only proved effective after several minutes. you felt him gather you into his arms, felt every one of his inhales and exhales, and though you weren’t in a place to speak- to think clearly, really- a thought pushed past the fog in your mind and out through your lips.

“i thought you wanted to go back to the way it was,” you whispered.

“i did,” he whispered back.

and neither of you knew what to say.

if you thought things changed after hyuck’s episode, you had no idea what was coming after yours. it started with conversations, cautious approaches on haechan’s part to get you to crack a smile. then it was surprises. he’d come up to you with food you liked or something that “just reminded him of you.” he started sitting with you during meals, ditching his usual friends for your company instead. he said hi in the hallway, he popped in when he knew you were practicing, he told jokes and played nice and did all the kinds of things that friends do. and as odd as that was, it wasn’t the oddest of it all. the weirdest thing was that you didn’t stop him.

you wanted to, God did you want to, but for some reason you just never told him. part of you appreciated it, craved it really, it wasn’t often you got this much attention. a smaller part of you wanted it more because it was donghyuck who gave it to you, because even when you fought with him you always had something. an even smaller part tried to hide what you really felt, and the smallest part said maybe, just maybe, you didn’t want hyuck to be your enemy anymore. but all of that was drowned out by the discomfort that consumed you every time he got close to you. it wasn’t the actions, though that did feel...odd, it was more like...it was more like you didn’t know what it meant. well, you did, but you weren’t ready for that yet. this isn’t how you two were. it was different. you didn’t like different.

and on top of that there was the attention. haechan figured it was bound to happen. the two of you clearly had a dynamic relationship and among trainees you both were some of the best; there’s no wonder word had gotten around. hyuck continued to deny his feelings for you but by now his friends had figured out at least part of the story, and they teased him almost constantly for it. no one asked you about it, the main reason being that they’re kinda sorta maybe definitely terrified of you, and that was probably the only reason you made it as long as you did. but still, you didn’t try to stop him. or at least you never planned to.

you were eating lunch one day, almost relaxed in the solace you so much cherished; in between classes and practices you hardly had time to think anymore. per usual you refused to think of one thing, (we all know what it is at this point) which would have been fine if that thing wasn't heading this way. you didn't look at haechan coming even though you knew he was; you were tired and glowingly stressed by his actions. plus, you figured, it wasn't like you could stop him. he made his way over and hopped on top of your table, grinning. hyuck ruffled your hair, chuckled and asked, "you miss me?" you ducked downwards, not really up to dealing with haechan's antics, and tried to continue to eat. he huffed (and pouted if you had to guess,) as he continued the conversation with himself, saying, "I guess not," he slipped off the table and sat next to you, still painfully cheerful, and continued to talk to himself, filling your once comfortable silence with somewhat unnerving chatter. you zoned out and apparently your discomfort became more and more obvious because it wasn't long before donghyuck asked you, "hey y/n, are you listening?"

you didn't know why you were getting so upset, and you didn't like it either. you weren't sure if you could do this anymore. you shook your head, trying to stay calm, and haechan leaned towards you, clearly concerned. "are you okay?"

"why are you doing this?" you asked him, your voice shaking just a little bit. you hadn't looked up yet, but your food also seemed last appetizing by the second.

"what do you mean?" he replied, oblivious.

"why are you doing this?" you repeat, gesturing between you two. "is this some kind of joke? or a dare?" internally you begged for his answer to be yes. at least then you wouldn't have to deal with what you knew it was.

hyuck's face scrunched up in confusion, before sinking into realization. "what? no! am i not allowed to care about you?"

you raised your head, finally making eye contact. frustration bubbled up inside you. why did he have to make this so difficult? "no, haechan, you're not."

"y/n, are you alright?" his voice was infuriatingly kind. it almost made you feel bad, well actually it did, but you were too upset for that to stop you.

"why does it matter?" your anger mounted with every word. “we’re not friends. we don’t get along, we never have.” you were getting tense. this was escalating. haechan was getting nervous.

“i know, and i’m sorry, but i’m trying to change that-” haechan’s voice was rising, even though he didn’t mean it to. you could hear- feel even- the sincerity in his voice.

your voice was rising too. you knew people would hear you. you could sense the whispers about to come. you couldn’t stop now. “why, haechan? so you can feel better about yourself? you think this can erase everything else?” you were angry, so angry, so desperate for his pain. but this wasn’t like before. this wasn’t petty. this was terrifying. and maybe if you were scary enough, mean enough, strong enough, you could make it go away.

he tried to get a word out, but you wouldn’t let him. you were yelling now, saying, “this doesn’t work! whatever this is, whatever we wish this was, could never happen!”

he backed away, standing up as he tried to reply, “why can’t we? y/n, i lik-”

“we can’t do this!” you shouted, “look around, donghyuck! don’t you see where we are? who we are? we’re trainees, and even if we weren’t this wouldn’t work!”

“y/n, listen to me! you know how i feel about you!” haechan yelled, finally cutting you off and catching you off guard. his tone lowered, and you could see the emotion welling up inside him. “and i’d like to think that you care about me at least half as much as i care about you.”

you couldn’t say he was wrong.

“i get that it’s scary, i get that it doesn’t make a lot of sense, but i want this. i want you. isn’t it worth trying? even if it hurts?” there were tears in his eyes. there were tears in yours.

you were quiet now, barely above a whisper. “we can’t do this haechan. i can’t do this.”

and neither of you knew what to say.

so now you and haechan don’t talk. you don’t make eye contact in the hallways, you don’t stand next to each other during evaluations. you don’t take each other’s favorite food or click your tongues or make cruel jokes. you don’t even think about each other. or at least you try not to.

people don’t talk about you either. they used to; right after it happened everyone had something to say. they all had questions, comments, concerns, but they also had the decency not to ask while both of you had tears streaming down your face. you never explained what happened. haechan never did either, not even to his friends, the ones he eventually debuted with.

secrecy was one of your many shared qualities.

but it's not like you died or anything. you went on with life, went on with the trainee grind until you left, switching companies to make your debut in a smaller company years after you’ve seen donghyuck’s face plastered on every tv screen.

and part of you wondered, what if you’d tried? what if you waited, what if you didn’t fight him that day and let things go until haechan either got over you or confessed to you himself? would you still be together? would it have worked? would it have hurt as much as that last fight? would you have gone back to the way it used to be? you tried not to ask those questions, after all you made the right choice. you got your dream. to get that and have haechan? that would be too much.

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delicrieux · 4 years

Note

Hello! May I have a one-shot with Kylo being injured and reader, who is part of the resistance, finds him and takes care of him? Thanks!

idk how this turned out to be 5k words but WHEW i mean if ppl want me to continue it im down so send in sum request of wat u think should happen!! xoxo gossip girl

requests are open! | masterlist | part 2.

Fear. The kind that makes it hard to breathe as if you are kept underwater; the kind that makes your muscles clench and freeze as all senses flow out one by one. Today had been almost too typical — you woke up, you trained, you talked to your comrades and learned battle strategy — and you were certain your evening walk would be just as uneventful. The breeze in your hair was playful; the setting sun provided warm light and set your surroundings in a pleasant, rosy glow. You like the fresh air; you like exploring; you like the freedom that comes with being alone in wilderness. And in turn, it serves as a reminder for why you are fighting in the first place. To preserve this peace, this freedom, that now has been tarnished when you stumble upon a body.

For a heartbeat you think he’s dead — his expression is lifeless and his face, pale as first snow, is bruised, covered in soot and dried blood. Willing your legs to move, you approach cautiously, not breathing, afraid to break the shrill, sudden silence — no birdsong, no wails of wind passing through trees… nothing. Life had, at that moment, stilled completely. But as you draw closer, grass crunching under your feet softly, you intake a breath of both relief and surprise. Dark locks of hair spray on his forehead and obscure the minuscule knit of his brows, his trembling lashes. He’s alive. The thought consumes you and you fall to your knees, skidding beside him, pushing his hair from his face and landing your palm on his forehead.

It’s awfully cold. Chilling. Almost biting at your sensitive flesh, urging you to pull away. It rolls in waves, this sudden cold, sudden sickness, as if it is a virus that spreads and you have caught it with this minimal contact. But you don’t pull away, despite the near overwhelming urge to do so, despite the fear returning with a new blow. Instead you glide your fingers down his jaw and press on his neck, breaking into a small, crooked smile once you feel a slow drum against them. He is alive, but barely. You glance about him, looking around the area. Nothing out the ordinary, no branches broken, no bushes disturbed and no trails left on the grass. How he got here is a mystery that will have to be solved a different time.

You hope he will tell you once he wakes up, if he even wakes up at all.

That, and, his name, too.

Your base is small and tugged away in a dense jungle, the tall trees and heat warding from unwanted visitors — the First Order. The compartments are small; there are barely above a few dozen people here; it serves more as a safe haven for lost wanderers looking for a cause or shelter, or a backup base in case others were destroyed and the rebels had nowhere to go. It is far away enough from war. Everyone here is, to some extent, safe.

You had never been on the front lines. You had never faced a Storm Trooper, had never seen the Force at work — if there even is such a thing, speculations speculations, nothing consistent, merely gossip — and you had never seen a dead body. Perhaps that is why you froze up so terribly at the sight of him. Perhaps that’s why you felt as if a void opened within you, swallowing up the last shred of light, of life, and leaving you hollow.

You should get used to the sight, though. There will be many dead in battle.

He’s the only one occupying a bed in the Medical Wing and he hasn’t woken up for two days now. His vitals are stable — no internal bleeding, no disease detected, nothing out of place as it seemed. But he is lost in deep sleep, constantly dreaming about something that made him tremble and muss and toss and turn, but never wake. It is entirely bizarre how his state is simply there, caused by no injury, no blow, nothing. And the more you take care of him… the more questions you get.

You eat in the cafeteria, a vast enough, pale walled space occupied by few people during lunch time. Next to you sits a blue eyed, blonde haired cherubic woman – she serves as the doctor, the only doctor here. She smiles lightly at you when you catch her gaze. You had always wondered why her name is Vendetta.

The amount of denizens is small here, so small in fact that the only ones serving under this branch is a rag tag team of scavengers, travelers, nobodies that had abandoned their old lives to fight in this war. Rebels, quite literally, with a cause. Many have taken new names. Vendetta, too, had a name before this, a life, a different purpose. Though her odd choice leads you to believe that what ever had happened to drive her here was painful and severe, deserving justice. In front of you sits a tall, bony, brown haired, brow eyed mechanic with a scar running down half of their face – Q. And beside them, July – you had never seen him smiling, had never heard his voice hold a tender note in it. He is always displeased. Always with a frown.

“Seven.” Vendetta calls you, noting your blank stare, the untouched food in your plate. Seven. You chose this because you were the seventh child in your family, and, subsequently, the seventh person to join the Resistance when this base first opened.

“She’s probably thinking about the stranger.” Q mutters, taking a sip, “His origins are…” They glance about, leaning in slightly, “ A hot topic, after all.”

“We get injured wanderers all the time.” Vendetta waves them off, “As if he’s any different.”

“I don’t think we should be so quick to dismiss him, V.” July grumbles, his voice low, the sound of crunching gravel. He sits with his arms crossed over his chest, observing the three of you with something akin to hostility, “You never know who may be working for the Order.”

“You can’t just assume that.” You pipe up, “He might just be another gambler dropped by the Floating Casino because he couldn’t pay his debts.”

“Or he might be a spy.” July stresses, glaring.

“No one knows there is a base here.” You continue, unrelenting, “Half the Resistance doesn’t know it exists, how can someone from the Order?”

“Still, I advice we exercise caution.” Q says calmly, a pleasant smile on their face — if anyone can defuse an argument before it starts, it’s them, “You never know what people are hiding, Seven.”

“Okay,” Vendetta chimes, “I will certainly not disclose this vital information when the man awakes from his comatose state. I shall make sure to confuse and frighten him further by chaining him to his bed.”

“Good.” July says.

“That is not what I had in mind, and you know it.” Q mutters, a tad disappointed, “I was thinking more along the lines of… An interview.”

“Too civil.” July mumbles, “I say we go with Vendetta’s idea.”

“That was not an idea,” She hisses, “it was sarcasm.”

“Fine, interview.” You submit, “Either way, I doubt anyone from the Order would not say they are from there. They are feared. Probably would think he has the upper hand, or something. Plus, our disguise is impeccable. We look like a research facility. Better yet, a shelter if no one wanders up to the main rooms.”

“I also sincerely doubt anyone, Order or not, is so good at lying first thing when they wake up.” Vendetta agrees.

July narrows his eyes at her, “That is an awfully naive observation to make.”

“Really now? It is a known fact that people half-asleep always tell the truth.”

Another hour of this and you feel drained and sore and with a mild headache. As much as their company has helped you, they can be a bit too eager to prove one another wrong. On most occasions you’d enjoy the chatter. Today, however, you feel too distracted to focus on anything. Q makes some good points, July argues, Vendetta and her biting comments pick at your skin. Always the blazing look in her eyes, always a certain gleam of anger hiding within her mellow, sweet tone. You excuse yourself when you finish your meal and they do not keep you from leaving. Perhaps they noticed you being out of it. Perhaps they were too caught up in their new topic – Lo and Chester’s sudden break up.

It does not take you long to come to the Medical Wing. The door shuts with a silent sweep and your heart drops – the bed is empty. Before you can do much else strong arms wrap around you from behind. With a yelp you feel a hand squeeze your throat and your breath leaves you with a helpless whine, sparks flying in your vision. Your reflexes kick in before you can control them. In a panic, you elbow your attacker in the chest and the grip loosens a bit, enough to allow you to escape and put some distance. Inhaling mouthfuls of air, you turn to the man that had been sleeping since you found him in the wilderness.

You never quite realized how tall he is, or how angry he could be. He’s confused and you see fire in his eyes, a sneer on his face, and he stands unmoving, waiting for you to try something, anything, so that he could grab you and try to kill you again.

You raise your hands, palms up —a fragile, harmless motion to indicate you mean no harm. His guard is still up. He’s heaving and his shoulders are tense, his gaze not once leaving your form, “…Hi,” You wheeze, almost voiceless, “I’m not here to hurt you.” You indicate softly. Cold, again, as if thrown into a bottomless ocean; body heavy, like a stone. You gulp. “Are you alright?” You question gently, afraid to provoke him again. “You must be tired. You’ve been out for a while.”

“Where am I?” His voice is deep and scratchy and it seems to set him off. He trembles from anger, you can almost feel the steady build up of rage in his chest, ”Who are you?”

“I’m Seven.” You introduce, “I found you outside our base. Do you know how you got here?”

He takes a threatening step forward and your arms shoot higher, “I’m not your enemy.” You insist, “You are not a prisoner here. You were dying and I wanted to help you.”

He regards you for a silent moment as if unsure whether to believe you or not. However, you sense that he will not try to hurt you, for now at least. You give him a shaky smile, trying to ease him — you cannot imagine how frightening it is to awake in some room among strangers and not knowing where you are or what had happened. “Do you…know your name?” You continue your questions, your arms slowly falling by your sides. After another pause, he nods curtly, “Good. That’s good.” you step away from his bed, “Please, lie down. You’re still recovering. No shady business, I promise.”

You are a bit surprised that he listens, but you don’t show it. He’s cautious, regarding you as if you were some dangerous animal cornering him, and his walk is sluggish. You can tell it’s hard for him to move, but don’t say anything. You doubt it would do any good. He finally sits down and just stares at you. You try to smile again, “Do you know how you got here? It’s okay if you don’t.”

“How long have I been here for?” He asks instead.

“Two full days in the base.” You say calmly, “But out there?” You vaguely motion with your head to the outside world, “I don’t know.”

Your answer unnerves him. For the first time his frown falls and he stares at you with big eyes and a trembling lip, as if a lost child not knowing what to do. That expression warps suddenly and he looks away, his hands gripping the side of the bed so tightly his knuckles turn white.

“Well, if there is…anything you need…” You start mildly, “You can call upon me. Or Vendetta. She’s the doctor here, so if you feel any pain or sickness, you should tell her. She’s sweet.” You smile, “And she will help. But right now, just try to rest…I’ll…leave you to it.”

You bolt past him to the door but– “You don’t know who I am, do you?”

You turn back to him, shaking your head lightly, “No. But it doesn’t matter. A lot of adventures come through here, lost and injured. You aren’t the first one. Now rest, please.”

He’s volatile, is what you learn upon the first days of his resurrection. His mood can change in a flip of a coin and he goes from placid to enraged in a blink of an eye. Tantrums, yelling — all signatures of a spoiled child not knowing what he has but simply wanting to break it. He’s nobility, or so your peers gossip. You hear snippets of all sorts of things, each more outrageous than the one before. The one that he is a prince kicked out of home for adultery seems to be the most popular one.

And he’s egotistical. He had not been, besides the attempted murder, that hostile and untamed towards you — the choking you told no one about as you concluded he simply felt threatened and scared. Though his other tantrums you are not so quick to chalk up as self-defense. Vendetta, exasperated, one evening told you that she somehow offended him — ”All I said is stop pouting because you need my help!” — and he, with a bruised ego, so high and mighty promptly jumped out of bed. Whatever he was trying to do backfired — perhaps he was trying to leave, or trying to grab something and to hit her with — but he slipped and fell and hit his head into the sharp corner of table. “And I said to him, oh I said: look what you’ve done now! Off to bed, quickly!” Vendetta finished bitterly, stabbing her fork idly into her food, possibly imagining his face there. His nose, much to V’s displeasure, was not broken, but an ugly gash and a dark bruise split his skin in half and he laid in bed sulking for at least a day.

As the week passed, he seemed to favor your company the most. It is not that he smiled and joked and laughed in your presence, and you were not exchanging secrets or hugging or even calling each other friends. He simply seemed to be more mellow around you, possibly because you oddly knew what to say and what to keep silent. It is as if you sensed the subtle shift of his moods; could read his expressions in a way no one could, perhaps no one tried. And you would come and visit him as often as you could when relieved of your duties — you felt responsible for him in a way, and you wondered if you would still feel this weight on your shoulders when he eventually left this place. After all it was you that had found him lying in the grass; it was you that had insisted to help him; and now, it is you that brings him food and tries to provide some comfort in a form of conversation. You don’t pry into his past, don’t even ask for his name, because you know he does not want to give it, and you won’t risk questioning in fear of another explosion of his temper. You talk about inconsequential things: what’s happening around the base, what sort of plants grow around here, what bugs could kill him before he took two steps. He especially enjoys hearing the rumors about him, even if he is too prideful to admit that they amuse him greatly.

“And what if I am?” He questions one evening, something akin to a small smile pulling at the corners of his lips. His eyes, a kind hazel color that could be beautiful if not for the persistent angry spark within them that is now, seemingly, vacant, watch you closely.

You frown softly, “Are what?” You question, “A prince?” He nods. You snort, “Well then, your majesty, I shall make sure to inform the others. What will be your first decree?”

He pretends to think, “No more slacking around.” He says sternly, “This is supposed to be a military base, isn’t it?” He ends on a cheeky note. You gulp. Ah, yes, you might have let it slip that he’s in one of the Resistance’s safe houses, though you did not disclose the coordinates.

“On a mission to make fun illegal, are you?” You ask with a raised brow.

He frowns, “Am not.”

“Are too.”

“Am not.”

“Are too!”

Childish, really, though you suppose it is better than arguing with July.

You feel it before you hear it— rain and thunder. The merciless patter on the roof and on your window. In night the sound is almost deafening — a loud roar of an engine, followed by cracks of lightning and flashes in the dark sky. You would have slept through it if not for the pins and needles washing your skin behind the warm sheets thrown on your body. You stir. Thunder roars and a flash of bright white light illuminates your room and seeps through the cracks of your lashes. Cold, again, as if standing in the middle of a storm.

You finally sit up, rubbing your face and then looking around to see if your friends are playing some sort of joke on you. You were almost certain they had dragged you outside and left you to get drenched. But you are alone in your room and you frown and shiver from the biting cold. Groggily you throw the sheets away and leave your bed, not entirely certain where you are going but there is a pull in your gut and half-asleep you follow it. You think you might still be dreaming —the rain on your dry skin feels real, though all dreams feel real until you awake. You leave the dormitories and take the elevator to the first floor. The base is silent, save for the shrill of machinery. Finally, still in your pajamas and almost fully awake, you step past the main entrance and stop.

It’s pouring, a curtain of rain obscuring the confusing contours of trees and leaves and bushes. The darkness does not help. A bleak light pulses to life once you pass the sensor and your surroundings illuminate. Thunder, lighting, more rain. You stand safe and dry under the roof, and he stands at the very edge of it, half soaking, his face kissed and washed by the rain.

You are not sure what to think. He seems lonely standing there surrounded by darkness and water. It’s whispers, or something akin to that, that urge and beseech that he does not want to be alone. You hear them somewhere in the back of your mind. If he noticed you, and he should have with the light suddenly on, he does not show it. You approach him slowly, your footsteps concealed over the heavy drum of rain.

“Not used to it, are you?” You ask, your voice followed by a bolt of thunder. He stirs, head tilting in your direction. Your heart skips a beat when your eyes meet — there is no hostility in them, no anger, just a distant sadness. You give him a soft smile, “I can tell you don’t see it often. I didn’t, either, at first. I grew up surrounded by deserts and I had not seen a drop of rain for at least eighteen years. But, here… Well, there’s no shortage of it. We have storms at least once a week. You’ll grow sick of it before you leave, trust me.”

He says nothing, still looking at you. The light sniffs out. Both of you stand unmoving.

“Why are you here?” He asks, a note of genuine confusion slipping past his calm tone.

“I… don’t know.” You admit. A frown pulls on your brows and you bite your lower lip, staring into the heavy curtain of rain, “I…I really don’t know.” You turn to him, “Why are you here?”

He doesn’t answer for a moment, savoring the silence. Then, “I got bored laying in bed.” Somehow you feel that anxiety has more to do with his sudden nightly venture, rather than actual boredom. Though, you suppose it is quite tedious doing nothing all day. You imagine he is active, judging by his built. He has a strong character and he knows what he wants (most of the time), or rather has a distinct sense of what he doesn’t want. You imagine he’d be a good commander, or leader, with his deep voice and unrelenting stare, if only he wasn’t so sensitive. He’s too unpredictable. Too uncontrollable. His emotions get the better of him too quickly for him to be unbiased. For that reason alone you deem him unfit to be a spy, or a soldier, or a figure of military power. He’d burn all he would build if that were the case. No, him being of noble birth and being stranded here as some sort of twisted punishment sounds believable enough.

“What are you thinking?” He questions, drawing you out of your thoughts. You hum, ponder whether you should be honest with him or not. “Don’t lie to me.” He says suddenly and you jolt, heart drumming painfully in your chest. For a frightening moment you figured he could read your mind. Then again, you have been spending a lot of time together. He must have noticed how gentle you are with him, how carefully you pick your words. His signature frown is back, you see it for a second when lightning strikes.

“I was thinking about your life.” You admit, “Your work. Whether you really are a royal as most of my crew mates seem to think.”

Flash. You see half a smile blooming on his lips.

“But I know you won’t tell me. Don’t worry, I get it. Ladies love a mystery.”

“What?”

It’s your turn to grin, “Oh, please, it’s almost all I hear about. Seven brought a brooding stranger with a secret past into the base. Lo…Michel… Two of your rapid admirers. I already told you that your arrival has sparked many speculations.”

“I…I haven’t…” He sounds uncertain, flustered almost, as if embarrassed, but there is no way he is, you refuse to believe it. He stumbles upon his words and lastly says nothing. You snicker silently. Another flash of lightning and you see the same confused, puppy-like look on his face you have had the pleasure of seeing once or twice. He does not shield it this time, this moment of vulnerability. He probably doesn’t see the point because darkness obscures everything again.

You extend your hand to him as a silent offering. How many things have you offered him now? Life, health, your company. He regards it, ponders a bit, lastly gently clasps his hand over yours. You jerk. Electricity courses through you and your eyes go wide, tingles rushing all over your body. Lightning strikes. You see wonder on his face, a mimic of your own surprised expression.

“Come on,” You stutter, tugging him, “you’ll catch a cold.” He follows after you. The light blinks on. You don’t know what is happening. Couldn’t have been the thunder, the feeling is not as intense. It felt more like a build up of energy; like you accidentally touched a circuit and it zapped you.

Impossible, you hear something alike his voice but not quite — it’s quiet, distant, muddy.

“Hm?”

“What?”

Once inside, the door sweeps shut behind you, “What did you say?”

“I didn’t say anything.” He sounds a bit ticked now, and you decide to drop it.

“Oh,” You mutter, “must’ve imagined it, then.”

His hand is cold in yours and you squeeze it just a bit, hoping he won’t notice and hoping that you will warm it. When you reach the Medical Wing, you tilt your head and say, “Wait here. I’ll get you dry clothes from the storage.”

But as you turn to leave he doesn’t let go, though doesn’t say anything either. He’s choked up — either he doesn’t know how to say it or doesn’t want to say it at all. He doesn’t want to be alone. Those whispers come again, ringing in your ears so quietly you aren’t sure they’re even there. You give him a soft smile, catching his gaze, “Okay, we can go together. You’ll probably stay here for at least another week, so, it’s best you know where the storage is anyway.” There’s no rush in your words, no annoyance, just simple acceptance. It eases him, relieves him of saying and admitting things he’s not willing to bring to light.

The walk is quiet and you still hold hands. His is much bigger than yours, rough, though not unpleasant. They are hands of a man that uses them often — for better, or for worse — and a twinge in your heart, a sudden thud of uncertainty, informs you that your previous speculations might have not been correct at all. His hand doesn’t feel like that of a prince (not that you would know what that would feel like), no, it feels like a hand of a soldier. But that inching of something amiss is swept away by warmth, silent happiness, a certain deliriousness that starts blooming within you and spreading all around. You feel him, somehow; feel a connection. You can’t put it into words exactly, you doubt you could ever explain it to anyone. It’s fragile. And beautiful. And maddening that such a devout emotion is sprung by something as innocent as holding hands

You wonder if he feels it. You somehow know he does.

The storage room is not big. Your hand slips from his as he chooses to stand by the doorway and you rummage to get his things. You feel braver. Perhaps it’s the tiredness that leaves you so open and bold, but searching you can’t help but ask, “So tell me…” You start, handing him some towels, “What were you actually doing? Besides being melodramatic.” You add, your lips quirking upwards.

He regards you with lively eyes and you see a grin lift his cheeks. He’s smiling, actually smiling, and you know this action is precious and rare and you can’t help but beam at him in return, “You think I was being melodramatic?” He questions.

You laugh a little, a breathless bell-like “Yes” falling from your lips as you fetch him dry clothes from the upper shelf, “All you needed was a cape to swing around.”

His expression abruptly falls and the temperature drops with it.

“Right, no cape.” You mumble, a tad disappointed, handing him his clothes.

As you make your way back, you can’t help but saying, “I just thought it would suit you, is all.”

“What else do you think would suit me?”

You raise a brow, trying to keep up with his drastic shift in moods: again, hes smiling, then he’s pensive, now he seems lighthearted, genuinely curious. “You like to ask a lot of questions.” You conclude.

He shrugs, “I’m just trying to figure out what you think of me.”

“And why are you curious?”

“Now you are the one asking a lot of questions.” He points out. You snort.

“You started it.”

“Did not.”

“Did too!”

This again, followed by quiet chuckles. You don’t turn to the Medical Wing now, instead stopping by the elevator and pressing the red button. The doors slide open. You glance at him.

“So…” You mumble, “This is not how I imagined my night going, but…” You aren’t quite sure how to finish, how to vocalize the strange swirl of emotions in your chest, “Well, goodnight.”

You step into the elevator, going to push the button—“Ben.” He says suddenly, making you flinch and turn to him. He’s not looking at you, instead staring at the floor, “My name. It’s Ben.”

Again, that same energy, that same shock you felt when you first touched his hand ignites your body with something closely akin to happiness. Trust. Bond. He trusts you. The connection you felt was not an exaggeration. He would not have given you his name otherwise.

“Goodnight, Ben.” You say softly, fighting a smile that’s trying to rise on your face, “Sweet dreams.”

“…Goodnight, Seven.”

As the elevator doors shut, you think you hear him say “Thank you”, but that might have just been your imagination.

hope you liked it! xxx

238 notes · View notes

wingsofkpop · 4 years

Text

Hiraeth - I.I: Stay

pairing(s): Hybrid!Im Jaebeom x Reader, Witch!Mark Tuan x Reader, Werewolf!Jackson Wang x Reader, Vampire!Park Jinyoung x Reader, Supernatural!Got7 x Reader

genre: Supernatual!AU, Dark Magic!AU, Angst, eventual Smut

warning(s): Mature languages, descriptions of death and murder, violence, graphic depictions of fighting, blood and gore, mentions of traumatic experiences, etc.

word count: 6k

synopsis: How far are you willing to go to find out the truth about Moon Dye Bay?...

chapter directory

Once upon a time there was a lone seamstress who lived inside a little house in the woods. Few knew of her existence, and even fewer knew of her name, for outside the safety of the forest, the world and its inhabitants were cruel and corrupt. To relieve the weight of her loneliness, the seamstress sat on her roof every night to speak to the moon as it traveled across the black sky. She spoke to the moon about everything, from the rushing of the river current after a spell of rain to the plumpness of the round, ripe peaches that arrived in the summer, and when she ran out of elements of reality, she turned to ones of fantasy instead. She told the moon stories of massive dragons who breathed butterflies with wings of jewels instead of fire and planets where the seas were composed of golden honey and tall mountains of glass.

The moon fell in love with the seamstress and her fairy tales, for she was just as keen for a companion. She loved the seamstress so much that one night per cycle, when the ocean tides were at their lowest, she would leave her nightly perch and join the seamstress on her roof. No one knew of the true nature of their relationship, whether they were friends, lovers, soulmates, but that did not matter, for the moon loved the seamstress, and the seamstress loved the moon in return.

In order to show her love, the moon gifted the seamstress one of her brightest stars from the night sky. Upon consuming the star, the seamstress was blessed with abilities beyond imaginable: Gifts to heal creatures long past the point of decay. Talents in skill, wit and knowledge that surpassed the most brilliant scholars. And most notably, the miracle of eternal life.

Outsiders soon caught word of the immortal seamstress who lived in the little house in the wood, and some sought to steal her and the moon’s power for their own gain. On a night when the moon was at its fullest, a band of malicious villagers stormed the seamstress’s home right on the very roof where she sat. The moon, unable to intervene, watched the villagers kill the one she loved. In a final attempt to best the attackers, the moon shattered the seamstress’s soul into pieces, which had become one with the star, and scattered them across the world. To this day, the ruins of the seamstress’s house still stands deep within the forests of time. On nights when the moon disappears from the night sky, some say that if one listens close enough, sobs and wails can be heard from the roof of the little home where the moon mourns her lost companion.

Many have tried, but it is impossible to gather enough shards of the seamstress’s spirit to recreate the full power of the gifted star. It is said a piece of her soul resides inside all of us. Though in some, the magic is more prominent than others…

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“—and then she started getting all defensive over it.” You hold back a sigh at Jihyo’s huff, not desiring to make your roommate and close friend aware that her over-the-phone rant is draining what little sanity remains within your mind. To be honest, you actually lost track of the conversation a couple blocks back, and have little clue over who she’s complaining about. Probably yet another one of Sana’s douchebag crushes “Like, I get you like him and all, but the dude’s literally an asshole. I mean, he’s stood her up how many goddamn times, and not to mention, the whole thing with Chaeyoung—

“(Y/N)? Are you even listening?” You immediately snap from whatever headspace your consciousness slipped into at the change in Jihyo’s tone. Your hand raises to wipe the drowsiness of a twelve-plus-hour day from your eyes as you speak for the first time since you left the university:

“Not really, honestly.” You finally release the breath in your lungs, “It’s… It’s been a long day.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Jihyo scolds, “You know you’re free to hang up on me anytime I get too fired up. Or at least snap me out of it.”

“I know,” You peer at both sides of the street before making your way across, pulling your jacket tighter around your body to fight the chilly, night air. “Like I said, it’s just been a long day.”

“You can tell me all about it over some take-out, sound good?”

“Sounds great. I haven’t eaten much today.”

Jihyo’s grumble emerges over the line, earning an amused chuckle from your own chest. You can hear her yell something to most likely Sana, your other roommate, in the background before returning with yet another scold, “You’re in serious trouble now, (Y/N) (L/N). What have we said about skipping meals?”

“I was busy today!” You protest, unable to hold back the smile that spreads along your lips at your friend’s mother-like nagging.

“That is no excuse!” A couple muffled sounds carry over the line, along with a hushed, inaudible conversation between Jihyo and another person. You cross another street and round the corner, preparing to cut through your usual shortcut to your apartment building, when Jihyo finally returns, “I hope you’re okay with Thai because apparently Sana’s going to die if she doesn’t get her Mango Sticky Rice...”

“I’m okay with that. You know my usual?”

“Do you know who you’re talking to?”

You chuckle, “Fair enough. I’ve got maybe another ten minutes until I’m home. Try not to let Sana eat all the food before I get there.”

“No promises. See you soon, babe.”

You hum a wordless farewell in response before lowering your phone from your ear to end the call. Without the buzz of the line and your friend’s voice to fill the silence, you finally notice how quiet and empty the streets seem. During the hours of the day, the town is usually packed with people meandering out and about in the bay’s usual nice weather. Without the sunshine, however, the nights can get rather cold, and by missing your bus, you’re experiencing that fact firsthand.

You can feel goosebumps emerging across your skin underneath your clothing as you traverse further down the path, a flickering, lone streetlamp your only guide through the darkness. The alleyway in which you usually cut through gapes on your left, but before you enter the narrow passage, you pause to peer over your shoulder. While it wouldn’t be the first time your paranoia has emerged for little reason, considering your track record of life experiences, the sight of shadows and stillness does nothing to ease the eerie sensations creeping along the back of your neck.

Passing the strange feeling off to the cold, you finally step into the pitch black of the alleyway, taking quicker and longer steps out of pure instinct. You pilfer through your bag, wanting to find your phone again to light your path, but as per usual, it seems to have dropped to the very bottom of the bag’s contents. A silent groan rumbles from your chest at the discovery that you’ll have to continue through the dark, or at least until you reach the opposite end of the alley. Hopefully there’s no rats or bats or—

Your entire body jumps at a loud clatter that sounds from behind. You quickly pivot on your heel to investigate the sudden noise, finding nothing but darkness, darkness and more darkness.

“H-Hello?” Your call bounces between the brick walls of the alleyway, echoing back inside your ears. You swallow, with your throat as tight as your chest, and call again. The only sound that answers is the violent racing of your pulse and your shaky breaths. Clutching your bag closer to your chest, you begin to walk backwards while keeping your eyes trained toward the entrance you only moments before came through. The idea seems ideal, that is, until your foot catches a divot and your form collapses onto the pavement.

It takes you a moment to recover from the fall, but you’re quick to grab one of the stiletto heels from your foot and arm yourself with as best a means of defense as you can manage. You carefully rise, shuddering as another clatter sounds from somewhere in the alley. Your eyes dart through the darkness, searching for a shadow that moves more than the rest. After maybe another minute of silence, with your makeshift weapon still in hand, you rush toward the exit of the passageway.

A breath of relief leaves your lips as you enter a level of light where your hand is no longer a silhouette in front of your face. Using the lamp post as support, you reach down to grab the second heel from your other foot and toss it inside your bag while its twin remains prepped just in case. You can survive walking the last three minutes to your building barefoot. All else be damned.

Just as you’re about to resume your walk home, something grabs the back of your scalp, and using the roots of your hair as assistance, yanks you back into the dark alleyway. You immediately fight back, swinging your arm as hard as you can to stab the assailant with your heel. Obviously taken off guard, the figure surrenders its hold on your hair and provides the opportunity for you to stab him again. It releases a blend of something between a groan and a growl, grabs your wrist and quite literally, launches you deeper into the darkness.

Your body connects with a brick wall with a violent thud, stealing every ounce of breath from your lungs. You try to clamber to your hands and knees, but your right arm throbs and goes completely limp at the movement. You curse at the broken bone, but still manage to bring yourself to stand. No sooner are you on your feet, the figure, who you briefly forgot about, shoves and pins your back against the wall with a hand around your throat.

“G-get off…!” You sputter, using your good arm to claw at its face. With speed and strength that’s mostly definitely not human, it keeps your flailing body pressed against the brick surface, yanks your arm out of the way and harshly tilts your head to the side. A loud scream sounds from your lips as binding pain erupts from your neck. Warm blood slips down your flesh like raindrops, staining the collar of your shirt crimson red. The pain is so fierce, it disorients your mind and numbs the remainder of your physical strength, leaving no room for you to fight back any longer.

Your vision begins to grow blurry, partly from tears and partly from the painful fogginess exhausting your brain. For a moment, you wonder what will kill you first: The blood loss, the excruciating pain, or the knowledge that your life in itself is slowly slipping from your fingertips.

You are going to die. The thought repeats itself like a broken record on repeat. You are going to die without seeing your students again. You are going to die without seeing Jihyo and Sana and all your friends again. You are going to die right here, in this dark alley, from a brutal monster that came straight out of hell.

Just when you’re on the cusp between consciousness and unconsciousness, the figure is torn away, leaving your body to collapse to the ground. Muffled sounds of what seem to be barbaric snarls and roars spill into your ears, followed by the obvious snaps of breaking bones. Through the pitch black, you can almost make out a human-like silhouette approaching your grounded figure.

The last thing you remember before you slip underneath the waves of exhaustion is the gentle touch of bloody hands and a soft murmur of your name.

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Familiar faces mill about the confines of the graveyard, some as bystanders, whispering rumors behind yellow-taped borders, and some as pursuers, tiptoeing around the grounds as if one wrong step will shatter the tense atmosphere like glass. From his perch leaning against a nearby tree, Mark watches the coroner zip up the black body bag with a blank expression set across his features, contradicting the cloud of sorrow suffocating the means of his soul. Even with the corpse out of sight, he can remember her face—the still-rosy cheeks, the icy touch of fingertips, the unseeing eyes…

The coroner rises to his feet, shaking his head before turning to speak to the town sheriff beside him. Mark continues to observe as both investigators engage in a brief conversation. As if sensing his gaze, they simultaneously turn to peer his way. Mark quickly turns his eyes elsewhere and abandons his post. He heads in the direction of the crypt, attempting to push the persistent, vulgar images out of mind.

“Mark! Hang on!” His steps halt at the frenzied call of the sheriff, providing the opportunity for the older woman to approach. She offers him an apologetic smile and an affectionate pat on his forearm. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to ask you anymore questions.”

“Good. Don’t think I have anything much else to say.” The sheriff doesn’t reply to his weak attempt at humor, instead mapping out the very extent of his face. Trying his hardest to keep his features neutral, Mark stares right back at the female officer—the last thing he needs is to break down right then and there.

After another moment of silence passes, the sheriff finally speaks, “How are you doing, Mark? Really?”

“How do you think I’m doing, sheriff?” Mark releases a sigh, “One of my friends is dead.”

“I know.” She also expels a deep breath, running a hand through her long, brunette tresses. Her grip stiffens just slightly, enough to be able to feel her skin trembling against his. “I wish I could say something to make it better, but I can’t believe it myself—” She chuckles scornfully, “Do you have any idea who—or what, would do this?”

“We’re trying to figure that out.” Mark replies, “Some of us are… taking it pretty hard.”

“Until then, you and everyone else have to be careful.”

Mark shakes his head, “Sheriff—”

“I mean it, Mark,” The sheriff squeezes his arm so tight that Mark wonders if it will bruise. “Whoever did this knew what they were doing, and they knew what she was. Promise me that you’ll keep on your toes?” Flashes of her lifeless body overtake the forefronts of his brain even before he can help it. He hates how his stomach twists at the memory of that foreboding symbol carved into his chest—right next to the confines from where her heart was torn.

“I promise.”

“Good.” A breath that Mark didn’t even know he was holding escapes his lungs as the sheriff removes her hand. “Let me know if you find anything. I’ll keep in touch.”

“Thanks, sheriff.” The sheriff doesn’t say another word, only lays one final pat on Mark’s shoulder before taking off after a group of officers hauling the body bag into the back of a large van. Mark watches as she goes, unable to shake off the feeling of her quivering fingers until she’s out of sight.

Ignoring the staff mopping the blood-stained gravel pathways, Mark resumes his journey up the steps and inside the tall, white-marbled mausoleum. To anyone on the outside, the structure just seems like a normal place to house a passed loved one, but to the specific few, it’s so much more. The coziness of the inside somewhat eases the anxiety flowing through his veins, welcoming the warmth the flames in the fireplace provide. He gazes around the one-room building, past towering bookshelves stuffed with ancient grimoires and cabinets lined with jared materials of all kinds, until his eyes settle on a second figure standing at the lectern placed in the center of the room, flipping through the yellowed pages of a ragged book.

“Any luck?” Mark asks, making his way through the cluttered space beside his busy companion. Youngjae glances up from the tome that’s pretty much falling apart, and sullenly shakes his head.

“Nothing. I tried to track her blood—” Youngjae gestures to a map on a nearby table, its surface decorated with spreading crimson lines and swirls, “—but it’s weird. The trail doesn’t go anywhere. It just…doesn’t stop.”

“What about that mark? Anything on that?”

“I’ve gone through everything we have on runes, symbolism, hieroglyphics, but there’s nothing that even remotely resembles what was on her chest.” Youngjae pauses, hesitant to speak the words on the tip of his tongue, but with a glance at Mark, he continues, “...It’s like whoever, or whatever killed her doesn’t exist, hyung. There’s literally nothing.”

“Shit—” Mark curses, pinching the bridge of his nose with a huff, “There can’t just be nothing! There has to be something—!”

Youngjae shakes his head, “I don’t know what to tell you…” The younger watches as Mark picks up his book. He flips through a few pages before slamming the cover shut with more force than necessary. A moment of silence aside from the sounds of their breathing passes until it is broken by Mark’s yell as he launches the text across the room, knocking over a collection of stacked artifacts.

“Hyung—”

“One of our people is dead, Youngjae!” Youngjae flinches at the elder’s harsh tone, watching helplessly as he shoves a pile of grimoires across the mausoleum floor. “And we have no fucking clue who killed her and why they did it! What if they come back, huh!? What if they come for you next!? Or Lia!? Or Jisung or—” Mark’s angered tangent falls quiet at the shrill call of a cell ringtone. Mark retracts his phone from his pocket, and with a composed sigh, answers the device and lifts it to his ear.

Youngjae watches Mark’s face carefully as it shifts from annoyance to confusion to absolute anguish. He tries to inquire about the subject of the phone call, but Mark only lifts his finger in warning. After a couple cool replies, Mark mumbles a less-than-pleasant farewell and disconnects the line. One of his hands lift to push back the strands of his dark hair while the other frantically reaches for his jacket:

“(Y/N)’s in the hospital. Fuck, I have to—”

“Go, hyung.” Youngjae hums, “I’ll see if I can find anything else.”

Mark’s composure softens. Guilt begins to flow through his veins as he recalls the harsh tone he previously directed at his younger companion. Guided by his emotions, Mark reaches forward to squeeze at Youngjae’s bicep, similar to the sheriff’s actions minutes before. He murmurs, “Thank you, Youngjae.” Youngjae only nods, bending down to begin clearing the remnants of Mark’s wrath as said figure heads out the door.

The forensic team is still cleaning the blood as Mark makes his way toward the exit of the graveyard.

☽ ☽ ☽ ☽ ☽ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾

The first color you see when you open your eyes is white, playing more into your assumptions that you’re currently in the beginning stage of the afterlife. As more and more of your consciousness and common sense return to your brain, the puzzle pieces of the strange situation slowly begin to slide into place. You’re not floating in a cloud at all—but in fact, laying on the most uncomfortable bed known to man. You groan, forcing yourself to sit up as to collect more clues to your surroundings.

A soft murmur of your name and set of hands on your shoulders takes you completely off guard. Immediately, memories of your encounter with the violent creature invade your brain like water to dry soil. You flail your limbs wildly, attempting to defend yourself against the unknown figure with each kick and punch.

“(Y/N), hey! Calm down!” The stranger seizes your wrists before you can knock his eye out, tugging your arms to rest on your lap. It’s painfully aware that his strength outmatches your own, so you make no other attempts to use force—also partly due to the gentle tone of his voice. You allow the stranger to guide your upper body back to lay down on the bed, using the opportunity to peek at his face:

The man is despicably handsome to the point his features seem to be sculpted by the gods themselves. His face is long, with a jawline that is sharp enough to slice your finger if you were to reach up and touch the structure. You can’t tell which is more alluring, between his dark, almond-shaped eyes, or his full, rose lips. Then again, the jet black, fluffy hair atop his head is also a close third…or the milky canvas of his strong neck—

“...(Y/N)?” When the stranger speaks again, you notice a strange lilt to his voice, almost like an accent of some sorts. But like the figure himself, you can’t place where you’ve heard such a figment of speech. “...Can you understand me?”

“I’d hope so.” You murmur blankly, “What am I? A fucking alien?”

The stranger’s lips curl in amusement at your retort. He pulls a lone chair closer to your bedside, not once breaking his gaze from your own. You ignore the strange shivers that crawl down your spine as he takes a seat, leaning forward to rest his forearms atop the edge of your mattress. Through the corner of your eye, you notice the multitude of wires connecting your arm to the machines stationed on the opposite end of the bed—so you’re not dead. What a relief.

“You’re in the hospital—”

“Figured that out already, pal.” You sigh, rolling your head back into the pillows and allowing your eyes to slip shut. The act does little to calm the storm occurring inside your mind, so frustratedly, you open them again and instead, peer at your unfamiliar companion with a raised eyebrow, “Pardon my French, but who the fuck are you and why are you here?”

Before the stranger can settle the confusion bubbling through your entire body, a knock sounds from the door a few feet away. It slides open to reveal a woman in a white coat with a clipboard and pen in hand. With a sweet smile across her face, the doctor enters the room to approach your position on the bed.

She outstretches a hand, “Hi, (Y/N). I’m Dr. Yoo Jeongyeon. I heard you had a pretty rough night.” Too lost inside bewilderment, you accept her formal greeting without saying a word. Dr. Yoo pays no mind to your silence, instead checking the machines at your bedside. “You should be glad Jinyoung found and brought you here.” She finishes recording the results of the pacemaker before requesting you to sit up for a moment. You do so, looking straight ahead as she checks your eyes. “You suffered a nasty concussion—” She switches off the light, “—so how do you feel?”

“I feel…” Your voice fades before you can give a complete answer. It’s not that it wasn’t an easy question—it’s the fact that right now, you feel great… The best you’ve felt in the past couple years as a matter of fact! But that doesn’t make any sense, especially with what you remember from the alleyway. There was blood… and you’re pretty sure your arm was broken too…

“It’s okay to be a little out of sorts. Especially after hitting your head and knocking yourself out.” Dr. Yoo assures, marking something down on her clipboard before nodding, “Everything looks great, but we’re going to keep you here for the rest of the night just as a precaution. You’re free to go home first thing in the morning.”

“Wait, I swear I—”

“Please let one of the nurses know if you need anything else. I’ll see you in the morning.” You watch as Dr. Yoo bids both you, and the man called Jinyoung, a brief goodnight and exits out the same door she came through only minutes ago, leaving your thoughts swirling with even more questions than before.

You shake your head, “I didn’t fall though. I was attacked.”

“Like she said, you hit your head pretty hard.” Jinyoung shrugs, “Your memory is probably a bit off.”

“That’s not—no.” His face grows visibly surprised at the drop in your tone, but still retains his usual neutral aura. “I know what I saw.”

Jinyoung releases a heavy, almost annoyed breath before climbing to his feet. More shivers attack your helpless body as he leans forward, diminishing the distance between the two of you until his nose is only centimeters from brushing your own. You can taste the mint of his breath as he speaks. Calm, collected, and slow:

“You fell and hit your head. Nothing else happened.” Amongst his strange words, you can’t help but notice the rather unusual behavior of his eyes. The ring of his chocolate, brown irises disappears as his pupil grows three times its normal size before shrinking down to a nonexistent dot—you don’t like the familiar ghost of paranoia breathing down the back of your neck.

“What the hell is wrong with your eyes?”

For the first time, actual emotion lifts to Jinyoung’s face in the form of pure disorientation. He lurches backward, as if finally realizing how uncomfortably narrow the distance was between the two of you, and clears his throat. Although it’s probably a trick against the bright, alabaster background, you swear you saw his eyes once again flash to black.

“Nothing. It’s the lighting.” He manages to get over his confused state, or mask it beneath another layer of vacancy, before awkwardly gesturing to your cell phone on the bedside table. “I called your friend, Mark. He was the first contact on your list, so I just thought…”

“That’s… really nice of you.”

“He should be arriving soon…” Jinyoung, once again, stiffly points in the direction of the closed door. “I should wait outside to make sure he finds your room…” He hurries to the doorway, eager to be rid of the tension lingering between the two of your forms, and peers over his shoulder to nod, “I hope you have a goodnight, (Y/N).”

“Jinyoung, wait—” You hurry to sit up, hoping to catch your mysterious savior before he disappears from the room. Thankfully, Jinyoung, with one foot out the door, pauses at your command. This time, he does not turn to meet your gaze—and you curse the longing that sparks in your gut because of it.

“Thanks for… bringing me here, I guess.” Your cheeks burn as you say the words out loud, wondering if Jinyoung can hear the slight waver to your tone. You expect the stranger to nod his head, like before, and high tail out of your sight, but as always, Jinyoung does what you least expect: He turns around and delivers a tight-lipped, but surprisingly sweet smile.

“You’re welcome.” His response makes your insides flutter, “I… I hope to see you again soon.” Jinyoung doesn’t give you the chance to return the conversation, and with one final glance, vanishes through the hospital doorway. Even with his presence gone, your body thrums with the remnants of his aura. Partly because of the lingering aftertaste of his charming presence:

—And partly because of the apprehensive feeling in your gut that grows the more you dwell on the abnormality of his gaze.

☽ ☽ ☽ ☽ ☽ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾

Jinyoung never meant for the night to turn out like this. He only wanted to get out of the manor—well, get away from his brother before he broke his neck. Literally. Jinyoung never meant to catch your scent during his midnight stroll, nor eventually find you in that alleyway, where he watched as you bravely attempted to fight off that crazed, bloodthirsty fledgling with nothing but a single shoe. The logical part of his brain initially forbode his intervention, but watching how you fought that vampire awoke the remaining human component inside his soul.

—He realized that he couldn’t let you die.

So against his better judgement, Jinyoung saved your life… and now he’s paying the price.

“You better have a damn good explanation or I’ll hex you into the next fucking century.” Jinyoung waits patiently as Mark exits the hospital elevator, barely flinching as he shoves his body against the nearest wall. Ignoring the pure rage wafting off of the witch’s body like a Spring scent, Jinyoung raises his arms and replies coolly:

“Please take your hands off of me.”

“Not until you explain to how (Y/N) was almost killed by a fucking bloodsucker.” Mark tightens his hold on Jinyoung’s collar, pressing him further into the surface of the wall. “If this is because of your douchebag brother, then I swear—”

“I already told you that Jaebeom cannot turn other vampires.” He pushes Mark’s body with just enough force to free himself from his hold. “And so help me, if you try to go after my family again, I’ll kill you and your pathetic minions.”

Mark scoffs, “Just because you can’t be killed doesn’t mean you’re invincible.” Jinyoung quickly bites his tongue to hold back his retort and inhales a deep breath to calm the frustration brewing through his veins. His mind, against his own will, conjures up the memory of you sitting and staring at him from the hospital bed. Just the image of your bright, fire-lit eyes eases the tension from his shoulders, washing away whatever anger remained inside his gut.

Jinyoung sighs and changes the topic, “(Y/N) is fine. After I killed him, I fed her my blood—”

“Oh, fucking hell—” Mark curses, burying his face in his palms. “Yeah, everything is just peachy.”

“It was either that, or she die from blood loss. Take your pick.”

“We had a deal,” The witch begins, “The coven, the pack and the league would allow you and your brother to stay in town as long as no other bloodsuckers make an appearance—“

“I can’t keep count of every vampire that comes into town,” Jinyoung replies truthfully. “Last I checked, that’s your seer’s job.” He takes note of the painful expression that overtakes Mark’s face, replacing his frustrated tone with one of concern, “What happened?”

“Nayeon is dead.” He feels an imaginary punch sink into his gut at Mark’s sullen answer. “She was killed a couple hours ago.”

“Killed? By what?”

“That’s what we were trying to figure out when I got your goddamn call.”

Jinyoung shakes his head, “I’m sor—”

“Save it.” Mark finishes just as a couple of chatting nurses clad in sky blue scrubs turn the corner and stop in front of the elevator. Both him and Jinyoung offer the hospital staff polite smiles, waiting a couple breaths for the metal doors to slide open and the passersby to enter. Only when the doors shut and the elevator dings, is when Mark continues: “Where is she?”

“Room 116. I told her I called you.” Jinyoung quickly moves forward as Mark tries to push past him, blocking the doorway so he can’t pass. “Hang on—”

“We’re done talking—”

“She can’t be compelled.” Jinyoung ignores how Mark tries to shove him aside, keeping his body rigid and exactly in place.

Mark rolls his eyes, “Well, no shit. I gave her a ring infused with vervain—”

“She wasn’t wearing it,” Jinyoung insists, “And her blood is clean. You know what that means.”

“Are you out of your fucking mind!?” A couple surrounding bystanders curiously glance their way at Mark’s hiss. The witch releases a heavy breath before dragging Jinyoung to a more inconspicuous corner of the hallway. His voice is quieter when he speaks, “Look, I know this girl. There’s no way in hell she's anything remotely supernatural.”

“Then explain how she can’t be compelled by a Prime Vampire.” Jinyoung argues, narrowing his eyes as Mark scoffs and turns to begin the journey to your room. He purses his lips before calling out, “I know you feel it too.” Mark freezes, but doesn’t say a word. Jinyoung takes his silence as a means to continue, “—that rush you feel whenever she’s around… like you’re the most powerful being in the world.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Mark replies before peering over his shoulder to shoot Jinyoung a stern glare, “Stay the hell away from her. Or else.” And with that, Jinyoung watches as Mark scurries down the white hallway and disappears around a corner.

Jinyoung releases a sigh, lifting a hand to run his fingers through his hair. His thoughts are scattered: Stressing about a witch killer lurking around the town… Dreading his future encounter with his ignorant, dastardly counterpart back at the manor… Pondering over the reasons why Mark lied just seconds before…

But most importantly, Jinyoung wonders when he will be able to see you again.

☽ ☽ ☽ ☽ ☽ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾ ☾

Mark doesn’t understand why he’s so nervous to see you. Maybe it was the look in Jinyoung’s eyes that has him spooked, or the fact that you can’t be compelled by one of the most powerful vampires in existence. Since you came to Moon Dye Bay, Mark has been able to shield the truth of the monsters that go bump in the night from your innocent eyes—the knowledge of your resistance toward mind compulsion proves that he has to be even more careful… especially with a supernatural murderer in the picture.

He inhales a deep breath before rapping his knuckles against the wood of the door. Your gentle call for his entry immediately lifts the heaviness from his chest. With less hesitation than before, Mark opens the obstacle and slips past the doorway into the room, his eyes softening at the sight of your body tucked beneath the sheets of the medical bed.

“Hi.”

“Hey, Mark.” Just the way you say his name spills warmth through his limbs, settling like a warm blanket over his heart. He makes his way to your bed to gather your figure in his arms, appreciating how yours and his bodies fit like puzzle pieces.

He murmurs against the crown of your head, “How are you feeling?”

“Honestly… confused as hell.” Mark pulls back at your weak attempt at a laugh to watch your face instead. His desire to caress the swell of your cheek comes at him so strong that he has to station his hands on your knees as a distraction. “I swear I was attacked by—I don’t even know what—but I don’t even know…”

“It’s okay. We’ll figure it out.”

“I know, I just—don’t understand how things just got so screwed up, you know? I don’t even—Mark, what’s wrong?”

Your question seizes his attention, causing his eyebrows to furrow from confusion. He opens his mouth to inquire about your out-of-the-blue concern, but his words die at the hand that appears on his cheek. He watches in disbelief as you wipe a tear from the edge of his eye, wondering where during the conversation he had begun to cry. Whether it’s the pure compassion in your eyes, or the traumatic encounters throughout the night, Mark doesn’t know… but he allows himself to break down in your hold.

He allows himself to melt into your embrace as you pull him down against your body. He allows the sobs to freely flow from his lips and catch into the crook of your neck. He allows himself to be vulnerable for that one moment… because he can’t show weakness anywhere but with you.

“I… I thought I lost you…” Mark feels your hold tighten at his whisper, “I can’t lose you… Not you…”

“You won’t, Mark…” For a moment, he allows his heart to trick his mind into believing your words meant more than what they’re intended for. Just for a moment, Mark actually convinces himself that here, in your arms, is where he belongs…but he knows it’s far from the truth.

Because even though you may feel like home—Mark can never, truly satisfy his homesickness for you.

120 notes · View notes

mybiasisexo · 4 years

Text

Oh, Brother

Genre: Angst | Fluff | College!au

Pairing: Kai x Reader

Length: 7.5k

Warning: Unfinished | Language | Love Triangle (I know, but hear me out!!)

Summary: You’ve finally started college and are getting the full freshman year teen romcom experience and it’s not as great as you though it would be, but a certain ballerina (ballerino? I googled it and its ballerino in Italian [quote unquote] but in French they are a danseur and im rambling) might be the calmness you’ve been needing...that is until you meet his brother....

Author’s Note: I plan on turning this into a scenario??? Question marks cause idk if I want to turn it into a chaptered fic instead??? Anyways I wrote this back in like 2014 so its kinda dated but it is what it is yall.

MASTERLIST

credit

With the arrival of the bell came the flood.

You got caught in it. Dragged into the depths of the sea that was the main hall. You grunted and fought against the current, as students barged their way past you, slamming roughly against your shoulders as you clutched onto your books for dear life.

It seemed never-ending, it actually felt like you were moving backwards as more and more people rushed, trying in vain to arrive to their next class on time.

You didn’t think that college would be like this.

You thought it would be peaceful and calm, like a pond or a small lake.

Not the damn sea during a hurricane.

It was probably because it was the first day, and everyone was still trying to catch their bearings. Or because this hall was seriously the most used and classes held up to two hundred people. Whatever the reason, you felt a sudden panic attack crawling up your throat like a corpse clawing out of the grave. You knew that very soon you would lose it, and so you began to count in your head to calm yourself down.

“I…2…3…4—” push “—5…6—” shove “—7…..8….9….”

Before you could lose your cool, you broke the surface and felt the cold wind snap deliciously against your damp face. You closed your eyes and sighed with relief as you realized that you had won.

You battled against the human sea and you beat it victoriously.

But could you deal with that every other day?

You shuddered as the thought hit you and decided to ignore it for the meantime. You had to admit, despite that near death journey you had just trekked, your first day as a college student wasn’t as bad as you—and your parents, not to mention your little sister—had imagined. Today was Monday, and on Mondays, you had three classes: English 1102, Math 1143, and Introduction to Art.

You had just left the math department and now had a couple hours to kill before your last class.

You decided to call your best friend, Suho, and see if he had escaped his side of campus.

“Hello?” He answered happily—did he have any other emotion?

“I nearly died just now. This hallway is lethal, I don’t know if I’ll make it.”

“Well, I’m glad you made it out alive. When does your next class start?”

“In two hours. Wanna get lunch?”

“Absolutely, I’m starving. Meet me at the Student Union building?”

“Okay, see you then.” You hung up and tried your hardest to recall just where exactly the Student Union building was located.

Nearly twenty minutes later, you stumbled upon the holy land. You found Suho almost immediately and rushed over to his table.

“What took you so long?” He wondered, munching on a fry.

You plopped down in the seat across from him and let out an exhausted breath, “I forgot how to get here. I had to backtrack like four different times.”

He sighed, “You could have called me, I would have helped you.”

“I’m aware,” you dismissed, stealing a fry from his tray. He frowned, but didn’t do anything to stop you from stealing another one.

“It’s the first day, and I’m already beat,” you muttered after you had returned to the table after leaving him briefly to buy a cold sandwich, a bag of salty chips, and a bottle of green tea.

“And it’s not even over yet,” Suho reminded you with a smile on his face.

“Can you not? I don’t want to think about that just yet.”

“At least it’s art. You can unwind in your last class. My last class is Physics, there is no unwinding in physics.”

“You’re smart, you can literally handle anything.”

He cocked his head to the side and studied you. Once he caught your attention, you stuck your tongue out at him and drained your drink, smacking your lips obnoxiously when you were done.

“it’s a wonder we’re even friends,” he mused aloud around his sandwich.

You shrugged, “you still have time to run.”

He grinned, not missing a beat, “I wouldn’t even dream of it.”

You held out your semi-empty plastic bottle, “I’ll drink to that.”

He chuckled and lifted his own soda can, your drinks clinking exotically together, confirming your status as best friends for life.

Which Suho was. The two of you had known each other since you were five. Your fathers were childhood friends that lost contact after college, but somehow—when the two of you were five—reunited and stuck to each other like glue. Even opening their own music store together. Kim Junmyeon, who was lovingly addressed as Suho, and you grew up at the music store, learning how to play different instruments as well as the ropes to owning a business, and the chemistry between your fathers ultimately rubbed off onto you, causing yet another family-like bond.

“You are taking piano, aren’t you?” You asked him a few minutes later.

His attitude shifted instantly as his smile faltered a tad. It was barely noticeable, but you could read this young man in front of you like a book.

“Junmyeon,” You said warningly, using his real name to show how serious you were.

He sighed, “I want to. I just… so much is already on my plate, and I didn’t want to burden my parents with another credit and…”

“And you just didn’t want to,” You finished for him. You lowered your voice, “I thought you liked music.”

“Of course I do, but that’s something our fathers love. Music is their dream, not ours.”

You pouted. He was right, even you weren’t taking any classes related to music, but you were still planning on practicing the viola on your own time. Music was in your blood, it was just as unavoidable as Suho. You didn’t know what life would be like without it, and quite frankly, you didn’t want a life without it.

Suho adored music more than you did. When his father first taught him how to play the piano, he had to be forcefully removed from the bench. There was nowhere else he would rather be, and as he grew, so did his talent. He was so talented, that he won many competitions, and even wrote compositions for many popular songs heard on the radio today.

He was a prodigy.

You? Well, you just liked to play. You were nowhere near as good as Suho, despite the many things he had told you, and you knew that and was fine with it. For you, it didn’t matter if you won or lost, as long as you got to play. You learned how to play the guitar, clarinet, drums, and even the piano, but nothing called to you like the viola. It was an extension of yourself, and Suho once said that when you played, people could tell you transported into a different realm. You were in your own little universe, and would only return once the piece was finished.

“It can be both, couldn’t it? You play so well…” You could tell Suho felt uncomfortable and would rather not discuss the matter anymore, so you just let your sentence carry. Instead, talking about everything else and nothing for the rest of your time together. “Well, my class is about to start in ten minutes. Luckily, I know where the art building is. I’ve only been going there since I was twelve.”

You tried to laugh, but got nothing out of Suho. His smile still plastered on his face, but his eyes dull as he pulled himself up and collected your trash, throwing it in the trashcan and following you out into the crisp fall air.

The art building was very hard to miss. It was one of the bigger buildings because the college you attended focused mostly on the arts, and was painted a bright blue, while every other building was a tan brick color.

“Paint me something nice, alright?” Suho said once you both stopped outside the doors of the building.

You rolled your eyes, “You know I suck at painting, Su, I’m more of a charcoal person.”

He shrugged, “I still want a painting. Charcoal is so boring.”

You smacked his shoulder, “go. Before I lose my temper.”

He laughed and held his arms up in surrender, “We wouldn’t want that now would we?”

He sauntered away and left you to stare up at the intimidating building. Hesitantly, you pried the glass door open and scuttled into the structure. Noise overwhelmed you. You could hear many people tuning their instruments, and the noise of a teacher counting and the soft thud of footsteps. If you listened harder, you could faintly make out people singing.

It was beautiful.

The cacophony of sound settled around you in a somewhat numbing hum, beckoning you to walk even deeper within the building. Almost all the doors were open and you peered into each one, loving everything that you saw. A chubby boy wailing away on his trombone. A lanky boy with a mop top and a short thick girl with glasses singing a duet. What appeared to be an African dance class. A trio practicing on their violins. A boy twirling about in an empty dance room.

You paused once you glanced inside the dance room. He was doing barrel turns across the room, and when he reached the end, he pirouetted for what seemed like a long time, stopping smoothly with one foot resting in back of him and his arms held out in the perfect stance.

He was breathing hard as he dropped his position and ran his fingers through his dark hair, dragging the strands away from his face, only for them to return. He must have felt your stare, because he suddenly swiveled his head to meet you eyes.

He was gorgeous, to put it simply. He had slightly tan skin and perfectly shaped almond brown eyes and a straight nose, and lips that seemed to be the center of his face. He looked almost ethereal as he attempted to catch his breath and sweat slid alluringly down his lean frame and his eyes remained on you.

“Lost?” He asked. His tone wasn’t mocking, simply curious.

His voice was just as lovely as his features. You shook your head, “Just looking around.”

He walked up to the mirror where a drawstring backpack laid, and pulled a small towel out of it, wrapping it around his neck, “class starts pretty soon, doesn’t it? You might be late,”

“Oh. Yeah, I guess you’re right. It’s so easy to get distracted in this building. There’s so much going on.”

“First day?” He asked with an understanding nod of his head.

You returned the nod with a rushed one of your own, “I’m in sensory overload at the moment.”

“Happens to all of us.”

He turned around and headed back to the corner of the room. You stared at his retreating frame for a moment and then decided it was time to leave. “See you around then.”

He turned his head so that you could see the outline of his nose and raised a hand, “see you.”

You had to forcefully remove yourself from the doorway, and practically run to your classroom, making it in with thirty seconds to spare.

~*~

After your last class was finished, you headed over to the dorms.

You still could not believe you were actually living on your own, away from your parents and sister. And as you stepped into your new home, you couldn’t help but grin.

It was small, but cozy. With a living room that held a couch, there was one bedroom that your roommate and you would be sharing and you got your own bathroom which was nice.

You noticed that your bedroom door was open and you could faintly make out a voice coming from within. It appeared your roommate was in. You hadn’t met her yet, and was nervous. Would you like her? Would she like you? You carefully tiptoed towards the door and paused in the threshold. She was singing under her breath and it was beautiful. The words did not sound very familiar to you, but her voice was so lovely, you found myself creating notes to accompany her with in you head.

Finally, you grew the courage to gently knock on the wall and peek your head in.

She was sitting at a white vanity she must had brought with her, and was clipping something into her jaw length black hair. She spun around quickly, startled.

Once you were facing each other, you carefully examined the other. She was gorgeous, but seemed a bit rebellious with her black lace clothing and scruffy boots. With the light from the window on her hair, you spotted green and blue highlights in it. Her eyes were covered in kohl and her lips were set in a hard line, but you noticed the tips curled slightly in a mischievous grin.

After your slight stare down, she held out her hand, “Park Sunyoung. But I go by Luna.”

You smiled and marched in to shake her hand and introduced yourself as well.

“Like what I’ve done with the place?” She smirked, spinning around to face the mirror again.

The room was placed in such a way that each half was your own. Her side was crowded. The white walls were covered with posters. You spotted both movies and boy and girl groups respectively. She had a purple fluffy mat on the wooden floor, and clothes were strung there and about. She also placed a flat screen television on a dresser that she pushed in the middle of a wall so that it was between your beds.

You glanced at your side, You had only put sheets on your bed, leaned your viola case against the wall, and tossed your suitcases on your bed. It was—and would still be once you finished unpacking—bare compared to hers.

You nodded your head, “you just moved in?”

She nodded her head also. “Bout to grab a bite to eat. Wanna come?”

You bit your lip. You wanted to unpack and maybe practice your instrument for a while, but the need to make friends overwhelmed you, especially a girlfriend. “Sure.”

You watched as Luna hopped off her chair and grabbed a black homburg hat before snatching your wrist and dragging you out of your room.

You entered the cafeteria five minutes later, the building was bustling with life and you couldn’t help but to search around, looking at your fellow schoolmates.

There were a bunch of different stores to choose from, and after watching Luna tap her chin while glaring at each station, you both finally decide on Chinese. You grabbed your plates and then Luna pulled out her phone, dialing a number before she pressed it to her ear.

“Yah! Where are you?” She laughed. Your eyes widened. You were not planning on meeting other people. “I can’t see you! Oh! By the taco station? Mmm… Okay, on my way.” She hung up and glanced at you, tilting her head in the direction she was heading before walking off. You quickly tried to match her pace. You arrived at a round table with seven chairs and two girls sitting there in comfortable silence.

“Hey!” Luna sang as she pulled a chair next to one of them, you quickly followed suite.

The girl next to Luna had brown hair that she had cut really short, a pixie cut. While the girl beside her had straight black hair that cascaded down her body. The one with the pixie cut was sporting a guy tank top and khakis while the one beside her was wearing a black and white stripped dress and blood red lipstick.

“Who’s the stranger?” The girl next to Luna asked, studying you.

“This is my roommate,” Luna beamed with pride and you smiled shyly as she introduced you. “This is my cousin Victoria and our friend, Amber.”

“Nice to meet you,” you greeted.

“Are you a freshman like Luna?” Amber asked, giving you her full attention.

You nodded, “what grade are you in?”

“We’re both juniors,” Victoria supplied, taking a giant bite of her food.

“So… how was your first day?” Amber asked Luna, who rolled her eyes.

“Fine. I guess. All I had were generals today. I can’t wait till my fun classes begin.”

“Are you, by any chance, in choir?” You asked.

She stared at you with wide eyes, “oh god, no! What makes you think that!?”

“Well,” you began nervously. “I heard you singing when I entered the room…”

“Oh~~” The three nodded.

“I do love singing,” Luna informed somewhat sheepishly. “I just…”

“She just doesn’t like to do things when told to do them.” A girl who just walked up to the table finished for Luna, pulling the chair next to Victoria out and unceremoniously plopping down. She was tall and skinny and had long blonde hair. Just like Luna, she was wearing dark clothes and makeup, her expression unimpressed.

Another girl who was the polar opposite took a seat beside her. She had reddish-brown hair that went down to her collarbones and was wearing a pink skirt and shirt and a genuine bright smile. She instantly reminded you of Suho.

“Shut up, Krystal,” Luna barked.

“Make me,” the Krystal girl retorted, sticking her tongue out.

“Choir is just so stuffy,” Luna defended herself. “You have to sing three octaves higher than you normally do, have to wear hideous outfits, and have to move your mouth like this,” she began to open and close her mouth in a way that resembled a fish. “It’s horrible.”

“Plus, she never goes to class, so she’d probably get dropped,” Krystal grinned wickedly at Luna.

“Didn’t I tell you to shut up?!” The two began to bicker, and you locked eyes with the bright girl next to Krystal who was looking at you.

“What is your name?” She asked. You told her and asked for hers in return. “I’m Sulli. Sorry about my friends. They tend to not have manners.”

“I heard that!” Krystal screeched and smacked Sulli’s shoulder, causing her to wince. She then turned her gaze to you. “I’m not that bad, really. I’m Krystal, by the way.”

You introduced yourself to her and she boldly held out her hand for you to shake. Her hand was very soft.

“Are you a freshman?” She asked and you nodded your head. “Cool. So are Sulli and me. Are you Luna’s roommate?”

“Yes she is, so can you stop asking so many questions?” Luna asked, exasperated.

Krystal shrugged, sniffing a cup of fruit, “just curious. I’m surprised you’d invite her along. I know how much you hate new people.”

“I don’t—”

“YES YOU DO!” The four interrupted Luna, causing the whole table to laugh.

“You all suck,” Luna pouted, but a smile tugged on her lips.

“Welcome to our crew,” Victoria said to me, holding up a bottle of apple juice. You lifted your own drink and you all chugged the liquid.

It tasted like a long friendship.

~*~

Back in your room, all unpacked and exhausted, you laid on your bed. Luna was taking her last class of the day, which was at eight, and she wasn’t very excited about that, so you had the place to yourself. You wanted to play your viola, but was so tired, you couldn’t budge.

Vibrating caught your attention and you groaned as you felt around for your phone. Once found, you answered it without bothering to check caller I.D.

“I take it you’ve already eaten?” Suho asked you from the other end.

You grinned, “What makes you so sure?”

“Because you aren’t harassing me about how you will die any second if you don’t get any food in you soon.”

You sighed, “You know me so well.”

“That’s why I hold the title of best friend.”

“Sorry. Are you hungry?”

“Kind of.”

“Did you just finish your last class?”

He was silent for a second, “no. I, uh, finished it a while ago.”

“Well why didn’t you call me then?”

“I was…distracted. Come down. I’m at your dorm.”

“But, Suho!”

“You shouldn’t have unpacked all at once. That’s your fault. Hurry!”

He hung up and you had no choice but to get your lazy butt up and head downstairs.

He was outside the building, leaning against the cool brick.

“What is the rush?” You asked once you spotted him.

“It’s the first week of school, there is so much we could do!”

“Like…?”

“Like visit the art building and watch people.”

Your eyes brightened and you hurriedly pushed Suho, he laughed at your eagerness and you headed over to your favorite building.

“I should have brought my instrument,” you pouted as the doors opened.

Suho shook his head and you entered the first room you found.

There were a couple kids acting in this one. You watched for a minute, but you both knew which rooms you wanted to really be at.

“Let’s just go to the music room,” You ordered. You started running down the familiar halls, eager to enter the one room you had been in over the years.

Suho continued walking, and you wondered if it was because he didn’t want to go to this room after all.

You entered the room and took a deep breath, smiling widely as you were surrounded by all the instruments. You were in the string room, and you bowed to the professor before heading over to decide which instrument to play.

There were a few kids there in a small circle with guitars on laps, so you picked up an acoustic guitar and joined them.

You quietly tuned your instrument as two of the other boys were playing off each other. The music was very bluesy and you nodded along as they continued.

All music stopped and you heard a few gasps. Suho must have entered. You turned to verify his presence and tried not to laugh at his awkward smile. He hated the attention. Anybody who considered themselves piano players knew who Suho was, and anybody in this area who was aware of music knew who he was as well. He was kind of a big deal.

“Please, continue,” Suho said, motioning for the two boys to play. They stared at him instead, either too nervous or starstruck. With a sigh, you held your guitar on your lap and began to play a song you had made up a few years ago. The people around the room blinked over at you, distracted from Suho, which you knew he was grateful. You felt him sit down beside you, but you ignored him and continued playing. Your fingers gliding confidently over the strings.

“You think she’s good at this,” You heard Suho say. “You should see her play the viola.”

You missed a note and lost your train of thought as laughter bubbled up your throat.

“Please stop, Suho,” you chuckled, finishing the song quickly. Once you were done, everyone in the room applauded and you bowed your thanks and Suho and you sat silently and listened to the others play for a while.

“Should we go now?” he whispered in your ear after about twenty minutes and you nodded. You both got up and bowed to everyone before heading out.

“That was nice,” you grinned up at your best friend, his hands in his pockets and his smile somewhat strained.

“Uh… yeah, nice…”

You laughed, “You hated every waking minute of it.”

“No!” He quickly defended. “I just… you know I hate it when people treat me like that.”

“Like a celebrity?”

He sighed, “I hate that word.”

“But, I mean, you kind of are a celebrity, Suho.”

He groaned and covered his face with his hands, “don’t say that!”

You laughed again and dragged him out of the hall. On your way out, you passed the dance room, and you glanced into the empty room. You were somewhat disappointed to see how lifeless it was in there compared to earlier today….

~*~

Your first week went by smoothly. You hung out quite a bit with Luna and her friends and only got lost once. Suho and your schedules did not align very well, and you rarely got to see each other, which frustrated both of you, but you made time—as little as it was—to hang out at least once a day.

It was Monday again, and after a semi stressful weekend, you were looking forward to another week of college.

Your alarm went off and you chuckled as Luna groaned and tossed in her bed, “turn that off!”

She threw a pillow in your direction and you turned the alarm off, and with a whispered ‘goodbye’ you left for your first class.

After your math class ended, and you had once again fought against the ten o’clock rush, you decided to head over to the art building early to goof off for a bit and kill time.

You found yourself pausing in front of that damned dance room again. The door was closed, but you could hear the faint thud of bass coming from the speakers within, and you just knew that man from last week was in there. After a bit of hesitation, you finally pried the door open.

He was there alright. Wearing cut offs and a black wife beater. He was stretching on the center of the floor, leaning against one leg as the music played on. When he lifted his upper body he noticed you, “you’re back.”

You couldn’t tell if he was happy or annoyed by the fact, but you smiled at him anyway, “I told you I’d see you later.”

He laughed once under his breath and shook his head faintly.

“Mind if I watch?”

He opened his mouth, but didn’t say anything.

You deflated, “or…not.”

As you began taking a step back he let out a breath, “no! Wait.”

You glanced at him expectantly and he sighed, “You can stay if you want.”

You beamed and came all the way into the room, closing the door solidly behind you. You sat against the mirror and pulled your legs up to your chin.

“It’s nothing much,” the beautiful boy began. “I’m just going to be doing some stretches and going over some routines….”

“That’s fine,” You encouraged and he paused before nodding his head self-consciously.

After fifteen minutes of warming up, he began to dance. You knew he was not going full out, but even still he was captivating. He moved effortlessly, almost as if he were bored, and he made every move seem easy, although you knew it was anything but.

At one moment he attempted a leap, but couldn’t land right. He groaned with frustration, “I can’t get this jump right.”

You perked up, with him talking for the first time in thirty minutes. He was standing in the middle of the room with his hands on his hips, eyeing himself in the mirror.

“I don’t even know why it is so difficult for me, but I just can’t get it. The teacher told me I was landing too hard but what does that even mean?”

You blinked at him and were silent for a moment. Finally you worked up the courage to speak, “may—maybe you can demonstrate it again? I’ll watch and see if I can spot the problem?”

His eyes flickered to yours questioningly, “you dance?”

“Uh… no, but I’m sure I’d notice if you weren’t landing right.”

He thought about it for a second, but must have seen there was no harm in it because he shrugged and started the music up again.

You watched him as he twirled around the room before going for the leap. He was flawless in the air, but once his foot came down, he was a stumbling mess. He had to hold his arms out to catch his balance and you figured out the problem.

“You’re not distributing your weight properly,” You informed him once he was at a standstill. “You put all your weight on the leg you’re landing on when you need to put it on both.”

“How do I go about doing that?” He asked, twirling the lid off of his water and chugging half the bottle.

“As soon as your foot touches the ground, stretch out your back leg and lift your arms higher.”

The dancer’s eyes wandered above him for a minute, probably imagining the actions he had to take, and then he put his water down and started the music again.

When it got to the troubling leap, you held your breath. He was up, up, up and then he came down. His foot touched the floor and he seemed to spring higher as he flexed his legs and raised his arms, not even wobbling.

“Perfect landing,” you breathed with a grin as he continued on with the choreography. You couldn’t help but to notice how dazzling his face looked graced with that triumphant smile that seemed nearly blinding.

He was now going all out, as if he were performing on a stage, and your heart was in your throat.

You had seen a lot of beautiful things. Watching your father play the trombone, watching Suho play the piano, listening to one of your friends, Yuri, sing, but this fellow in front of you took passion to another level.

Tears began to obstruct your vision as you watched him reach towards the heavens with every jump. Every flex of a muscle seemed to be a part of a story only he knew how to tell, but the story was magnificent and you could not look away.

It ended with him pirouetting before landing on one knee, an arm stretched towards you.

The music ended and the only thing that could be heard was his hard breathing.

“That… that was beautiful.” Beautiful could not cover base to how life altering watching him perform was. He was beyond that, he was something no word could yet define.

“Thank you,” he grinned and bowed humbly.

“No, I’m… I’m serious. I don’t think I have ever seen anything that passionate before in my entire life, and my father lives and breathes music. You are truly talented.”

You watched him bite his lip and scratch the back of his head before repeating, “thank you.”

“No, thank you,” That sounded so cheesy out loud, but you really wanted to thank him for showing you that. You wiped away the tears that had fallen from your eyes and laughed at yourself, “I swear I don’t usually cry watching people dance. Only if I’m moved enough.”

“I moved you?” He asked. You noticed the teasing tone in his voice, but also surprise, as if he didn’t believe he was that good.

“To tears,” You confirmed, holding your hands out to show him the salty wetness on them.

“Thank you,” he repeated yet again, and you blinked up at him.

“For what?”

“For helping me with that turn. Also for letting me know just how good I am. Sometimes you need other people besides those who are always telling you to realize your potential, you know?”

“Absolutely. I definitely understand. I remember when I was first learning how to play the viola, and my father was constantly telling me how good I was, but I felt like I wasn’t adequate. It took my best friend to finally make me realize that maybe I was worthy of the instrument.”

The sweaty ballerina just stared at you for a moment, and you grew embarrassed. Were you talking too much? You were definitely talking too much. This is why you only had two friends growing up.

“You can come watch me practice whenever you want,” he suddenly allowed. His smile grew at your shocked expression. “I realize now I enjoy the company, and you can probably help me on some things. So… whenever you want, if I’m here, don’t be shy.”

He said all of that without even glancing at you, but you could tell the sincerity in his voice. Plus, you found it endearing how he dug the ground with his toes.

It was your turn to repeat yourself, “thank you.”

~*~

You ran all the way to your dorm after art, eager to get this off your chest.

You felt kind of bad that Suho wasn’t the person you wanted to talk to about the matter, but this was strictly a girl thing, and you knew he wouldn’t understand.

“Luna!” You practically screeched when you finally slammed the door to your bedroom open, scaring the living daylights out of your roommate.

“Jesus!” she cried, throwing the magazine she was peacefully reading on her bed onto the floor. “What’s gotten into you?!”

“I’m in like,” You breathed, falling unto your bed with a longing sigh.

“In like?” she questioned.

“Yes. With a beautiful ballerina.”

“Ballerina?”

“It’s a guy,” you clarified, rising up to meet Luna’s gaze. She was grinning from ear to ear, leaning in closer.

“Well, spill it!”

You told her about the mystery dancer who just so happened to be drop dead gorgeous and wanted your company.

“Wow, that is so romantic! What is his name? Maybe I know him.”

“It’s…” Your smile melted off with the realization that you in fact had no name for the face you most definitely would be dreaming of later tonight.

“You don’t know?” Luna’s eyes widened and than she gasped, “that’s even more romantic! It’s like Cinderella! Does he know yours?”

You shook your head and she threw a pillow up in the air. It hit the ceiling before landing on the floor behind her, next to her long forgotten magazine. “Oh my god! The two of you are so mysterious! That is so hot.”

You couldn’t help but giggle. You’ve grown quite close to Luna this past week; she was someone you really needed in your life.

“You have to keep me posted on the development on your unfolding love story. And don’t forget who was there in the beginning when you have to pick a maid of honor for your wedding!”

“Oh, I will def keep you up to date.”

~*~

Sadly, there was nothing to report back to Luna.

Classes started to add pressure the rest of the week, and you were so swamped in schoolwork, that you had no time to eat a normal meal, let alone watch someone dance for a couple hours. you even had a test in art!

When Friday came around, all you wanted to do was relax, but Suho had other plans for you.

“Come on! We haven’t seen each other all week! I miss my bestie!”

“I miss you too, but I’m so tired,” you complained, rolling around in your bed for affect.

“We are all tired, we’re college students.”

“Why can’t you hang out with your roommate? I’m sure he will keep you company.”

“He is hanging out with me. I’m trying to expose you to more people,” You could hear the annoyance in his voice.

“I don’t need more friends. You’re like five friends put together!”

“Please,” Suho whimpered, muttering your name softly. You tensed, knowing what he was doing. “We haven’t seen one another in five days and I just really need my best friend right now. Is that a crime? Is wanting to see you such a bad thing?”

He sighed when you remained silent, “fine. I won’t bother you anymore. Take your nap and be a loser for all your life, but don’t call me when you finally want to settle down, because I would have moved on with a new bestie by then.”

“Fine!” You cried, hopping off your bed. “Jesus, Suho! I’ll hang out with you, damn!”

He chuckled and you heard a muffled ‘works every time’ before he was back in your ear, “you have ten minutes. Dress really cute, we’re going somewhere fun. You better be waiting for us when we get there.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” You hung up before he could guilt you into doing something else you didn’t want to do and slumped over to your closet.

Suho’s definition of really cute was a scary concept, and it made you wonder where he was dragging you. He loved heels and thigh highs. You always joked and told him he was a subtle pervert, and he would reply by simply shrugging, tilting his head to get a good view of the girl he had his eye on at the time.

You groaned and yanked the clothes you knew he was already picturing in his head before getting ready.

Six minutes later, you were standing outside the dorms in a thin pink dress, black tights, chunky black heels, and a glare.

True to his word, Suho was in front of the dorms ten minutes after your call ended. He stepped out of the passenger side of a very expensive looking black car, dressed in dark jeans and a sky blue button down, and you knew that you were dressed accordingly.

His grin grew into a full-blown smile as he took you in, “you never disappoint.”

“Shut up, you perv,” You retaliated. He just laughed, continuing walking up to you. Once you were right in front of each other, he pulled you into a hug and you soon felt a tugging at your hair.

Suho pulled away with a satisfied grin, “you look prettier with your hair down.”

“What is this?” You snapped, as he ruffled your brown hair that he had released from the ponytail you had it in seconds ago. “Are you trying to hook me up with someone?”

“I might be, but I just want you to have fun tonight. You have to dress good to feel good.”

“I mean, I guess?” You let him drag you over to the car. He opened the backseat door for you and helped you get in before crawling back to the front. There were two males sitting to your left, both incredibly handsome and one behind the wheel.

Suho called you and you glanced at him, really nervous. You usually felt at ease around the opposite sex, but Suho made you dress up, and it made you self-conscious, especially since all the men in the car were good looking.

Not as fine as your little ballerina, you thought suddenly, and you felt your cheeks heat up. They definitely weren’t that pleasing to the eyes.

You blinked, quickly focusing back at Suho. He had his hand on the driver’s shoulder, “This is my roommate, Kris, and those two sitting next to you are Kim Jongdae and Do Kyungsoo.”

“Nice to meet you,” you said, nodding towards them. They all nodded in return and you zoomed off to some unknown place.

“Jongdae and Kyungsoo are singers,” Suho informed as you continued driving. “And Kris here is an actor. They all have scholarships and are top of their classes.”

“Why must you talk us up like this?” The one furthest to the window whined. He had a cute voice and a cat like curve to his lips that you couldn’t help but stare at.

“It’s alright,” you began. “It’s in his nature. He’s like a proud father.”

“This girl right here,” he started, and you rolled your eyes. “Is one of the best viola players in the country, if not the continent! She also draws, plays other instruments, and sings.”

You shook your head rapidly, “please do not tell professional singers that I sing, Suho. That’s embarrassing.”

He simply shrugged, “how many times have you sung the lyrics to my compositions?”

“I’m not sure anymore, Suho,” you sighed, your gaze flickering to the singers beside you. They looked intrigued, and you wanted to shrink.

“Exactly, because it’s been too many times to count. If it had been up to me, I would have given you the songs to record. I write them for you anyway.”

“Gross,” you cried, kicking his seat. Sometimes he said things that made it seem as if you were closer than you actually were. It was a habit you were trying to get him out of.

It was around ten when Kris—who had been silent throughout the entire ride there—pulled into a karaoke bar.

“Damn,” you muttered under your breath. Suho was toying with you the entire ride there, the bastard.

“What was that?” The smaller boy beside you, Kyungsoo, asked. His voice was deeper than you had thought it would be at first glance and his wide eyes and plump lips made him seem older than you would have originally thought, more mature.

“I should have known we would be singing,” you said a bit louder to him, although you pushed your knee deep into the back of Suho’s seat.

“And drinking,” the guy near the window, Jongdae, winked at you playfully and you sighed with both content and relief, because he was really cute and you really needed a drink.

“Good,” you breathed as you all headed out.

You followed the guys into the bar, and was led into probably the biggest room you had ever seen in one of these places. It was already filled with about six other people, both male and female.

You felt pressure on your arm and lips at your ear. “Don’t be afraid to make friends, and maybe even get a bit touchy if you want,” Suho winked at you and you grimaced. What was up with him today?

There were only two other girls in the room, and you quickly ran to sit beside them, introducing yourself quickly. They were Hyeri and Hyorin. There was a guy singing a Super Junior song, and he was really good. You just sat silently as everyone got comfortable. Jongdae soon appeared with around four huge bottles of liquor, while Kyungsoo scuttled behind him with shot glasses.

“Whose ready to turn up!” Jongdae’s high-pitched voice rang loudly over the commotion of the room, and everyone—including yourself—cheered. Jongdae and another boy who you weren’t acquainted with poured the shots, while Kyungsoo handed them out. You were the last one to receive a glass, and he sat beside you with a shy smile. You returned it and waited for one of the shorter boys in the room to give the toast speech, “to freshman! To the beginning of the rest of our lives!”

You all held your glasses up high before tilting your heads back and downing the liquid fire with grimaces and coughs.

Liquor made you friendly, to put it simply. It also made you extremely confident, yet also very uncoordinated. You took six more shots of the strongest stuff Jongdae had to offer, and before you knew it, you were singing a duet with one of the boys named Byun Baekhyun. It was an intense balled, and you acted the part, even pressing against each other, his arm around your waist while one of your hands were on his cheek as you both shared his microphone.

You gathered hoots and hollers and you just laughed and laughed when the song ended. He gave you a wink and carried you off the small platform, making you sit on his lap back on the couch.

“You’re fun,” He yelled into your ear, his voice deep enough for you to feel warm from the compliment.

“You give good speeches,” you replied, remembering him giving the toast earlier.

“You sing very well,” he countered.

“Well… you’re very handsome.”

His smile was a million watts.

~*~

(Another lil snippet that I haven’t even gotten to plot wise but I had a Vision™ and wrote it down before I forgot, to give you better insight on what I'm trying to do here haha)

“Jongin….”

“Oh no, silly girl, I’m not Jongin,” his eyes remained piercing into your soul as he pushed a chunk of your hair back behind your ear just to whisper, “I’m Kai.”

You blinked up at him, “who?”

“Kai,” he clarified. “Jongin’s twin brother.”

It was silent for a moment and then you burst out laughing, pushing his shoulder. He looked at you stunned, “stop playing, Jongin. What kind of joke is this?”

He raised an eyebrow, “It’s not a joke, plus, Jongin’s sense of humor wouldn’t allow him to play such a prank. Maybe when we were younger and used to switch classes for the day, but ever since college, all that boy’s focused on is the art.”

“The art?”

“Dancing.”

“Oh… oh!” Your eyes widened as you remembered asking Jongin about his hiphop routine. Your eyes flashed up to the Jongin in front of you, “you were the one doing the hiphop routine!”

He smirked and nodded boldly, “That I was.”

“Shit, you’re telling the truth.”

“Duh. I’m not a liar. But, it seems like Jongin might be…..”

#kai scenarios #kai scenario #exo scenario #exo scenarios #kai drabble #kai drabbles #exo drabbles #exo drabble #kai oneshot #kai oneshots #exo oneshot #exo oneshots #kai

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wayward-mikaelson · 4 years

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Centuries Twelve

Word Count: 1363

Pairing: Reader x Dean

Characters: Reader, Dean, Sam, Rowena, Cas, Jack, Michael, and Hezekiah

About: A new lead is found on Hezekiah. Michael has a new vessel.

Warnings/Trigger Warnings: Language, Angst, Michael’s new vessel (I pictured this vessel super fucking hot so yeah it’s a warning. sue me)

A/N: With this gif, let’s pretend that the boys are at the other end of the table so when the Michale in his new vessel comes in that’s the greeting he gets.

*18+ Content. If you are younger than 18 please scroll/move along. I do NOT want to risk my account being thanosed.

**Please DO NOT copy and paste my work anywhere else WITHOUT my permission and WITHOUT giving me the proper credit. I work too hard on my stories and would hate for them to be stolen.

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It's been two days and there is still no sign of Michael.

Dean tells me the bind removal was successful and that Michael hightailed it out of here with only the words "I'll be back." But I didn't really care, I mean, I did care in someway. He was a ticking time bomb without that bind to me. He could literally kill thousands upon thousands of people. I pray that he found his way to the bottom of the ocean and if that were the case, then so be it then. A door on my life will finally be closed for good.

After Rowena undid the bind and after Michael ran off, Dean told me that it too another twelve hours for me to wake up. And when I did wake up apparently I was still under the influence of that powder that smacked me in the face back at the house. I don't remember much of what happened but I guess that Rowena had been prepared for it cause according to her, I drank a sleeping potion and was out again for the night.

When I woke up again, I was feeling normal.

Now, I sit in the bunker kitchen twirling the spoon in my soup round in circles. Chicken noodle soup. From a can. Once things are back in order and Hezekiah is gone for good and maybe Michael too, I will have to get this kitchen back in order. Making homemade soups and dinner again like the good old days.

"Oh, you got that look on your face," Dean steps into the kitchen. He stops when he see me. The outfit he's wearing, although super normal, is super hot right now. "Whats on your mind?"

Sitting back from the bowl of soup, "Just the possibility that we might hear of a nuclear bomb going off and killing thousands. Plus, I'm not eating this." I push the bowl away from me.

Dean looks a little heart broken when I say that. "I made that and it was all we had. Sort of been busy to go out on a supply run. But no worries, I'll eat and I'll take you to get a greasy burger while we go for that supply run."

I smile and reach across the table and move the soup. Dean looks at the empty space and then at me. "You want to know what I really want?"

Dean swallows whats in his mouth. "And what's that?" He raises an eyebrow knowing what's about to happen and go down.

I get and walk around the table. As I do, Dean pushes the chair he's sitting in away from the table and leans back with his one eyebrow still raised. "Hmmm," I straddle his lap and slowly run my hands up his chest to the top button of his shirt. "I was thinking, something quick. Something pleasurable. And just maybe, something a little naughty."

I feel Dean's member get hard under me. A low growl is heard deep within his chest and came out as a small groan. Dean wraps his arms around me and in the next minute he's pushing me up on a wall next to the coffee bar and knocking a few things off it. My legs are tightly wrapped around him while he pins my arms above my head while his lips attack mine. Nipping and bitting at whatever bare skin he can.

Dean releases my arms and pushes my legs off him. He takes both his hands and grips the neckline of my shirt and rips the fabric in half all the way down to the bottom. Dean looks me over and smirks. "No bra?"

"Nope, I hate those things with a passion today."

Dean licks his lips and attacks mine again before kissing, nipping and bitting his way down to my neck. Down between my breasts as he takes hold of both and gives them a gently but firm squeeze. Down to the button of my jeans. I look down and see his raised eyes looking into mine. Waiting for permission to go on.

"Well," I say softly. "What are you waiting for?"

Dean smiles big and as soon as he gets the button undone, Sam comes walking into the kitchen.

"I heard something fall in here, are you guys-" Sam's voice is cut off by what he sees. I quickly cover myself in my ripped shirt as Dean stands up and positions his body in front of mine. "You know there is something called a room, right? I'm going to just pretend I didn't see what was going to happen."

"Yeah well, you should have just done that in the beginning instead of interrupting." Dean takes his button up off and hands it back to me. I grab it and quickly put it on.

"Well sorry for being concerned for your well being," Sam snaps back. "No worries though, I'll let you get back to it."

I peek around Dean, "Sam, you kind of killed the mood."

Just then, we hear the bunker door open. The three of us walk towards the war room of the bunker where we can hear whoever came in walking down. When we get there, we see a talk blonde hair man in a grey suit walking down the stairs. As he's fixing the cuff links on his sleeves, Dean steps in front of me and pulls out his gun. Sam does the same. I look down to make sure the button down shirt I now wore was actually fixed.

"Who are you?" Dean asked firmly. "How did you get in here?"

"How did you find the place?" Sam adds.

I peek around Deans side and see the man look up and make eye contact with me. His eyes are a piercing blue. The way he looks me over, feels oddly familiar. But I've never seen this man before in my life. "YN," His voice is smooth and not deep. He straightens his body and holds himself high just like...

"Michael?" I whisper walking around Dean. Dean tries to pull me back but I push his hands away. "Is that..you?" I ask tilting my head to the side.

"Yes," he replies taking a step towards me. I feel my back tense up. "I'm sorry, I should have found a way to contact you but I didn't have your numbers or stuff for a simple spell."

"What poor bastard said yes to let you in?" Dean steps beside me and I can feel the the tension in his body.

Michael looks down and smiles. "Ah yes, Gillian Branson. He was an accountant until he was hit by a truck. I found him dying in the the ambulance and told him he will no longer be in pain if he let me in. And with the promise that he will see his lost wife in Heaven."

"Is he, still in there?" Sam asks lowering his gun and putting it away. I look next to me to see Dean still has his gun in his hands. I touch his hand to assure him it's okay. He gently pushes my hand away.

"Sadly, he passed on after he said yes and after I entered him. So it's just me in here." Michale pulls a chair out and sits down.

"Oh, who is this handsome fella?" Rowena walks into the war room and her eyes get wide as she looks over Michael.

"Michael and his new meat suit," Dean finally puts his gun away.

"Oh, such a lovely pick," Rowena walks around Michael. Feeling his shoulders and muscles. "Firm, this lad used to work out. You can hold down a woman with those." Michaels eyes snap over to me. My stomach starts to feel tight. I don't know if it's Michaels vessel stirring something up because his new vessel is pretty attractive, or the way Michaels dig deep into mine trying to find something buried.

"Rowena, you're drooling too much," I say startling the witch out of her day dream.

"Alright," Rowena gives Michael one more rub down before walking away. "I'll get the things for the spell to make his vessel stronger and last longer."

Michaels eyes never leave mine. "Perfect, because I know where Hezekiah is. We can end this tomorrow night."

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flutteringphalanges · 4 years

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The Dracula Bunch

(A Crack/Parody Dragatha One-Shot)

Summary: A crack/parody one shot that takes place in 1917. In which Dracula and Agatha have nine children together and Agatha learns she is pregnant with their tenth. Family fun ensues.

Words: 1,702 *COMPLETE*

Ship: Dracula/Agatha

Read on FFN and AO3

A/N: Hi! Welcome to the crack/parody fic in which Dracula and Agatha have nine kids and Agatha learns she’s pregnant with their tenth. @mitsukatsu and I were joking about the idea and I had to write it! If there are any plot holes it’s okay because it’s a crack fic! Not associated with MV, I just felt like using Sorina's and Ivan's names. Also all names are other Romanian or Dutch! Enjoy! Feedback is greatly loved and appreciated! And the name “Dumitra” is a girl’s name that literally means “The Demeter”!-Jen

The Dracula Bunch Whitby, England, 1917

"And you're sure? Positively, absolutely sure?"

Dracula watched as his wife paced to and fro in their room, her usually neatly done hair in quite a mess. Her brows were knitted tight together as a deep set frown graced her fair features. Agatha was stressed. No. No, she was quite sure she was about to have a panic attack.

"I've gone through eight pregnancies and given birth to nine children, I know what the symptoms are." The former nun exhaled heavily, finally turning to face him. "I know without a doubt that I am pregnant."

Pregnant. Again. Christ-not that he believed there was one, but he was going to have a tenth child. The both of them were. Dracula pinched the brim of his nose, and closed his eyes. He had to hold it together. For Agatha's sake. But while he desired a big family, unlike his wife, never had they envisioned nine children, much less ten.

"But I thought you were tracking your cycle. I thought you said it was okay to have sex when we did."

Agatha wound around, her eyes dark. "Don't you DARE turn this around on me, Count Dracula! You are just as guilty as I am. It takes two," she over exaggeratedly motioned at her stomach. "For conception to occur! So I advise you not to point your clawed finger at me. My hormones are unpredictable!"

Before Dracula could defend his actions, suddenly something smacked against the outside of their bedroom door. Or someone. Without skipping a beat, the sound of crying started and both parents looked at one another.

"Starlene," they both sighed in unison.

Agatha hurried to the door and opened it gently. The three year old stood there, tears streaming down from her bright blue eyes to her cheeks. On her forehead was a visible bump where she had smacked into the wood. Exhaling softly, the mother picked up her daughter, Starlene's arms wrapping around Agatha's neck.

"Star," she murmured, rubbing the girl's back. "What have Mummy and Daddy said about running around in the castle? You could really hurt yourself. Are you okay?"

"I bumped my head." he blubbered, hiding her face in Agatha's shoulder. "Victor was chasing me!"

Dracula's nostrils flared at his toddler's statement. Of course the older boys were rough-housing. Ignoring Agatha's insistence for him to stay back, he strode out of the room with the intent of finding both of his sons. Sometimes they could be really block-headed-Agatha claiming it was from his side of the family. Out of all nine of his children, Ivan and Victor took after him the most-especially the latter. He couldn't help but wonder if he was like this as a teenager those many centuries ago.

"Ivan!" Dracula called out sternly, looking around. "Victor?!"

Something crumbled, sending a few small stones and dust that landed on the vampire's head. Dracula closed his eyes, counting back from ten before opening them once more to glance up. On the ceiling, hanging like the bat, were both boys. Meeting his father's stare, Ivan gave him a sheepish grin before flipping back onto the ground. Victor followed suit.

"Mind telling me why you were chasing your baby sister?" Dracula inquired, arms folded over his chest. "She's just a baby. You two are nearly adults."

"Emma's a baby," Victor corrected, leaning against the wall. "Star wanted to play hide-and-go seek and we didn't see a problem with it. She's big enough to join in. And very good at it too." Ivan nodded in agreement. "Anyway, I stopped chasing her long ago. I picked up on someone else's trail."

"Dumitra, it's against the rules to shape-shift! I can smell you from a mile away! Come on out before I drag you out," Ivan yelled, cupping his hands over his mouth. "I can play just as dirty!"

As Dracula opened his mouth to condemn the action, his eldest son morphed into a large black wolf. With a loud howl that the vampire could almost swear shook the castle, he took off. No running. Was that such a hard rule to follow? It wasn't like he and Agatha ever asked much.

"Where's your sister?" The Count asked, turning back to his other son.

"Which one?" Victor scoffed, cocking an eyebrow. "I've got seven."

"Soon it could be eight." Dracula thought to himself, the idea of another child coming along seeming so surreal. Could they really manage another? "Sorina," he replied. "Where is she?"

"In Luna's and Willa's room, I think," Victor answered with a shrug. "They somehow talked her into playing dolls. At least, that's what she was doing half an hour ago while you and Mum were…" he quickly stopped himself. "You know what? I don't think I want to know what you guys were doing. Can I go now?"

"Just...no running please." Dracula sighed for the umpteenth time that day. "I have enough to deal with when it comes to your mother right now. The last thing I need is something to happen to one of you nine." Or ten.

Luna and Willa had both been a surprise. Not just because they were born after both Dracula and Agatha agreed they were done having kids, but because the girls were twins. Honestly, they did suspect something was up during Agatha's pregnancy. But when she went into labor and delivered Luna, only to then give birth to Willa minutes later, it was still rather shocking. Going from five to seven kids in a single day… Christ, let this baby be only one.

"No, Luna! That's my dolly!"

Dracula peered through a crack in the door to see Sorina sitting cross legged on the floor, both girls at either side. Willa was pouting, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. Arguing over a simple toy, he'd never understand it. Knocking on the wood, he stepped inside, all three pairs of eyes landing on him.

"Papa!" Willa proclaimed, hurrying to her feet. "Luna took my doll!"

"Nuh uh! I had it first!" Her twin declared, hugging the toy close. "'Sides, she's my dolly! Right, Riri?! Right?!"

Sorina's jaw set in an expression of frustration. Clearly, both girls had over exhausted her with this silly argument. "Willa, there is a doll just like that one in the toy chest," she said. "It looks just like the one that Luna has. I promise." Willa still seemed unconvinced, so her older sister stood up and went to the box. Within seconds of opening it, she found the toy and presented it. "See?"

The scowl faded from Willa's face as she left her father's side and quickly snatched the doll away from Sorina. Now pleased, she went back and sat beside her twin. As the girls began to make the two toys converse, Dracula gently took his daughter by her arm and led her out of ear shot.

"I need to talk to you about something." He began, almost unable to meet her eyes. "It's about your mother."

"What's wrong?" The halfling asked, searching her father's features for answers. "Is Mum okay?"

"Yes," he nodded. "Yes, she's fine...she's…"

"She's pregnant again, isn't she?"

Dracula and Sorina both turned to see Mila standing there, Emma happily babbling in her arms. A look of horror spread across the oldest girl's face as she looked from her younger sister and back to her father. When Dracula didn't deny the statement, Sorina covered her face with one hand.

"Really, Dad?! Another one?!" She groaned, leaning against the wall. "Mum's pregnant again?!"

"It was...unexpected," Dracula agreed. "But then again, most of you were!"

"That's not what you should say to someone to make them feel better," Mila snorted, shaking her head. Evidently, she was somewhat enjoying her eldest sister's frustration. "I dunno, maybe another baby would be good. What do you think, Emma?" She bounced the infant in her arms. "Maybe this time it will be triplets-."

"Don't say it!" Sorina cut in. "I'm going to tell you now, Dad, I am NOT babysitting. Mila, congratulations, you've just been promoted!" Grumbling to herself, she pushed past her father, making her way down the hallway.

"Don't mind her," Mila sighed. "Ivan broke her hairbrush by hitting Victor in the head with it today. She's just moody. She'll come around." Dracula blinked as the girl pressed the baby into his arms. "I better find Dumitra. I'm pretty sure she shifted into a bat and got stuck in one of the crevices. You know how she is."

The vampire watched as his daughter hurried down the hall, morphing midair into an elegant, long winged bat. Adjusting a gurgling Emma in his arms, he made his way back to the bedroom. When he entered, he took notice of Starlene fast asleep against Agatha, who currently sat in a rocking chair.

"Hey," he murmured.

"Hello," Agatha's eyes cast downwards towards their child. "Did you have a talk with the boys?"

"As best I could," he admitted. "And I broke the news to Sorina...well, Mila beat me to it."

"Well?" She ventured, careful not to jostle the toddler. "What did she say?"

"She's not happy about it."

"Oh."

He hated it when Agatha was disappointed. Or just upset in general. Dracula cleared his throat, trying to find the right words.

"Don't worry, she'll come around. She always has in the past, right?"

"It isn't her I'm concerned about." Agatha looked up to her husband, her expression one of concern. "Do you want this baby?"

He was taken aback by her question. Until that moment, he hadn't really thought about it. But then again, he hadn't really considered any of his children an option. Sure, maybe he and Agatha had planned for maybe two or three, but all nine of them-soon to be ten-he'd give the world. Dracula offered her a reassuring smile.

"We've managed not to kill any of our nine yet. What's one more?"

Agatha beamed, clearly comforted by the confirmation in his words. "What's one more?"

Suddenly, there came a loud crashing sound from down the hall followed by angry shouts. Agatha and Dracula looked at each other and sighed. Round ten here they come.

#Dracula #Dracula 2020 #Dragatha #Agatha Van Helsing #Dracula x Agatha #The Dracula Bunch

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tsuki-chibi · 4 years

Text

Blackberries (Adrinette April) Day 19: Rain

Or see it on AO3: Blackberries

--------

When Adrien awoke the next morning, he didn't jump out of bed immediately. He took a few minutes to lay there, staring up at the ceiling and remembering the very pleasant time he and Miel had spent on the tower. Pleasant... but also, in a way, bittersweet. As cute as Marinette looked while transformed with the Bee miraculous, they both missed Plagg and Tikki deeply. It just wasn't the same traversing Paris as Miel and Tromper. Much as he hated to admit, Adrien thought he understood now what Trixx had meant when he called Adrien a kitten.

"Are you getting up?" Trixx asked, and Adrien rolled over to see Trixx staring at him from Adrien's desk. He smiled lazily at the kwami. Marinette was still sleeping, and the quiet contentment rolling through the bond was peaceful.

"Yeah, I am," Adrien said, though he made no move to get up. Fatigue weighed down his bones. He really shouldn't have stayed out as late as he had. The sun had been maybe a couple of hours away from cresting the horizon when he'd crawled in his bedroom window. The make-up artists were going to be outraged when they caught sight of the deepening bags under his eyes.

"You could just stay in bed all day," Trixx said.

"Now you sound like Plagg," Adrien said, amused. How many times had Plagg suggested the same thing? Though when it came to Plagg, it was less out of concern for Adrien's welfare and more for the fact that Plagg was, at heart, a lazy cat who liked nothing better than cheese and a day in bed. Unfortunately, Plagg had gotten stuck with a holder who rarely had the luxury of a full night's sleep, never mind the time to spend daylights hour under the covers.

Trixx snickered. "Yeah, I hear that a lot. Wayzz complains that Plagg and I are too much alike for his sanity," he said, violet eyes twinkling with mischief.

Adrien contemplated that for a moment. "You're lazy and destructive too?" he asked after a moment.

"Nah, but I am a fox. I like to play tricks," Trixx replied. "That often creates chaos, and chaos and destruction go hand-in-hand. The last time Plagg and I had fun together, we created the Grand Canyon."

"That's... horrifying," Adrien said after a slow blink.

Trixx gave him a wicked smile. "No, it was fun. I'd like see to Plagg again..."

"I'm not sure Paris can handle that," Adrien muttered.

"Adrien?"

His heart thudded against his ribs as he shot upright. "Yes, Nathalie?" he called out, motioning for Trixx to hide.

'What? What?!' Sensing his panic, Marinette came awake in a confused flounder. Adrien quickly sent a pulse of reassurance her way.

"You need to be ready within two hours for the show. You can practice piano after you have breakfast," said Nathalie. Thankfully, she didn't open the door - both because she would've seen Trixx and because Adrien couldn't resist making a face in her direction.

'Oh,' Marinette thought, slumping back against her pillows with a groan.

"Thanks Nathalie," Adrien said with forced politeness, swinging his legs over the bed. "I'm not hungry right now, though. I'll get something later."

"Very well," Nathalie said. "Then you should start your practice now."

"Right," Adrien muttered. If he listened hard, he could hear the click of her heels against the hardwood as she strode away. He shook his head. Naturally, he had zero intentions of practicing the piano this morning. He and Marinette had plans. But that was alright. It had been sometime since he'd set up his iPod to play music while he was out. And since he'd practiced for a while last night, he didn't feel bad.

'What a wake-up call,' Marinette thought. 'I thought for sure you were being attacked!'

'Sorry, I panicked. Sometimes Nathalie just opens my door and Trixx was right out in plain sight,' Adrien thought, glancing around for the kwami. He finally spotted Trixx, now curled up at the top of one of his bookcases.

'Right,' Marinette thought. 'Well, I guess I'm awake now. I'm going to go see if Maman will let me go.'

'Wait and I'll come over. Maybe she'll be more inclined to let you go if I'm there too,' Adrien thought, climbing out of bed. He got dressed, did his hair, and brushed his teeth, knowing that Marinette was also getting ready. When he was finished, he locked his door, set up his iPod with the classical music playlist, and walked over and pulled open the curtains. Far from the bright, sunny day of yesterday, it was overcast and drizzling. Heavy fog hung over the streets of Paris. Adrien made a face.

"Now see, if I were Plagg, I'd flat out refuse to go out in that," Trixx said from behind him.

"You are not wrong," Adrien said. "Would you do it for a cranberry-blueberry scone? Marinette's papa makes the most amazing scones."

Trixx's eyes gleamed. "You've got yourself a deal."

"Trixx, let's pounce!" Adrien whispered. Orange light washed over him, briefly illuminating the room. Tromper then opened the window and stepped up onto the ledge, wincing as a fine mist sprayed his face. He might be a fox right now, but the cat side of him wasn't terribly pleased by the weather either.

He jumped off the ledge and quickly made his way towards Marinette's house, landing in an alley about a block away. He detransformed, tucked Trixx into his pocket, and walked the rest of the way while mentally following the conversation between Marinette and her maman. As predicted, Sabine wasn't crazy about the idea of her daughter going out so soon after being grounded. The words "you should have thought of that before going out during an akuma attack" were uttered just as Adrien opened the bakery door and walked inside. Both mother and daughter looked up at him.

"Oh, Adrien!" Sabine said in surprise.

"Hi," Adrien said, running a hand through his hair and grimacing when it came away damp. "Marinette, are you ready?"

Marinette winced. "I don't think I can come today, Adrien, I'm sorry. I should have called you before you came, but I was hoping that something might change at the last minute." She shot her maman a pointed look.

It wasn't hard to conjure up some disappointment, since he was well used to no one coming to his shows. Adrien pasted on a smile. "Oh, I see. That's okay. Thanks for trying."

"You have a show today, Adrien?" Sabine asked him. "Will your father be there?"

"Probably not," Adrien said honestly. "My father doesn't really like to go out in public. He usually sends Nathalie in his place to make sure that everything is done properly. Sometimes Nathalie brings along a tablet so my father can see what's going on through Facetime... so I guess sometimes he's there? Though I really prefer when he's not, because things go so much more smoothly otherwise..."

Sabine frowned. "I see."

"But that's okay. I'm used to it," Adrien went on, shrugging. "I just thought Marinette might like to come because she loves fashion so much... and it would've been nice to have a friend in the audience."

'You're laying it on a little thick,' Marinette thought.

He ignored her, adding, "Sorry, I'll go." He turned towards the windows and did a quick double-take when he realized that, during his couple minutes inside the bakery, it was started raining hard.

"You need an umbrella. I'll get you one," Marinette said with another look at her maman. She disappeared upstairs.

"Have you eaten yet?" Sabine asked him. Then, without waiting for him to respond, she added, "Pick out whatever you like, Dear."

"I wouldn't mind a cranberry-blueberry scone," Adrien said shyly.

"Of course!" Sabine took three of the scones and slid them into a paper bag, handing them to him. She shook her head when Adrien reached for his wallet and sternly told him that he wasn't going to pay for it.

"Thank you," Adrien said, touched. He clutched the bag to his chest as Marinette returned with an umbrella.

"Have a good show," Marinette said softly, handing him the umbrella.

"Oh, for goodness' sake. Just go, Marinette. But you're to be home immediately after, understand?" Sabine said.

Marinette lit up. "Really?! Thank you, Maman!" She kissed Sabine's cheek, hooked her arm through Adrien's, and literally dragged him out the door. Adrien got the umbrella up just in time to keep them both from getting soaked. The bakery door swung shut behind them, leaving them out in the chill and damp, but Adrien couldn't keep himself from grinning in triumph.

'Laying it on too thick, huh?' he thought smugly, and she snorted and elbowed him as she grabbed the umbrella.

‘Yeah, yeah, they love you and would spoil you rotten given half a chance. Now let’s go. I want to see Tikki!’ she thought, pulling him forward. Adrien opened the bag, broke a scone in half and slipped half to Trixx before stuffing the other half in his mouth as he followed.

#miraculous ladybug #adrien agreste #marinette dupain-cheng #sabine cheng #trixx #fox adrien agreste #bee marinette dupain-cheng #soulmate au #blackberries #adrinetteapril2020

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nostalgic-pancakes · 3 years

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Room 73- Chapter 5/8

Summary: The plot starts spamming the chat, and plans are made

Pairings: same as usual, but this time with queerplatonic intruality!

Read on AO3

Word count: 3130

Warnings: discussions of therapy and the kind of bullshit that happens to you in the foster system, the concept of loved ones dying becoming very real and mentions of parents that yell a lot (Though never child abuse)

Other notes: Hi! Not too big of a fan of this chapter, but I may as well get it out already, it's killing me. I hope you all like this though, and if you have any questions, leave a comment on ao3/ask me here and i’ll answer gladly!

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“Hi.” whispers Thomas as everyone enters the room. He’s been getting better at talking, getting stronger every day. Nobody knows exactly why, but they’re trying to figure out why now, rather than forever ago.

But that’s not important- it’s the first session of their D&D campaign! Virgil apparently has a lot of plans for this campaign.

Thomas hisses again, after everyone has said their hellos, and Virgil and Janus hiss back. Logan remains confused.

They exchange pleasantries for a little while, Thomas regaling them with stories like Mrs. Applebaum and Mrs. Chase wearing each other’s coats yesterday night and walking away, hand in hand, giggling like teenagers even though they’re old ladies with grandkids off in college. Virgil and Logan proceed to then screech about the new Welcome to Night Vale episode, about Frank Chen, whoever that is and then Patton and Remus quietly announce that they’re in a QPR, and Janus and Logan need some explaining but it’s okay, and then when they finish the setup, everyone’s sitting with their laptops, character sheets loaded up and suddenly… nobody wants to play.

Someone else should be here, playing with them as Virgil (probably) shoves all their characters through the wringer (physically and emotionally) and gives them enough comfort to rest easy but that someone isn’t here, he’s in the corner of the Chemistry room, as far away from the chemical cabinet as possible, resting his voice a bit so that he can start talking again in about half an hour after chatting with them during setup, and they don’t know why, but D&D is not something any of them want to do right now.

“Actually guys, I really don’t want to do this right now. Not without Thomas” says Virgil, looking over to the ghost hanging around in the corner, who smiles at them and motions for them to all continue, even as Virgil starts putting their laptop back in their laptop case, then their bag, and everyone is already doing the same.

“Yeah.”

“Mmhm.”

“Thomas, what do you think made you so strong recently?” asks Logan, zipping up his bag after removing his translation notebook and morse code sheet from his bag. It’s honestly a better use of their time, finding out more about their new ghost friend, and perhaps he could come back for good, at the rate he’s going and that’s exciting too.

“I...don’t know? Maybe… naw, no way.” he responds, speaking but it eventually turning back into garbled hissing.

“Hmm? You can tell us- anything like a clue is better than nothing.” responds Logan, pulling out his pen and laying the sheet in front of him on the cold floor. It’s going to start snowing soon- they really need to stop sitting on the cold stone floor so much.

“Um, the people- the people who killed me” everyone winces, Thomas keeps tapping. “They died, in, the fifties I think. Drug overdose or something along those lines. That’s when I started hissing.” Thomas waits for Logan to finish translating, with additional help from Patton, before continuing. “So…” there’s a pause. “Maybe because everyone I loved back then is getting old? Dying maybe? That might be it.” Thomas doesn’t look very happy about that possibility.

“That doesn’t sound very nice, but that is likely the reason. Have you been noticing any recent changes to yourself?” Logan asks.

“Yes. I can hold conversations a lot longer, and sometimes I’m visible to mirrors. I try not to become too corporeal in class, though.” Thomas replies, clearing his throat- indicating he’s gotten some strength back. It’s only taken a few minutes this time, which is the least it has ever taken. He laughs a little, and it’s clear- he sounds like a kid, maybe around their age, which he is. He’d be a good singer, probably. It feels like Thomas is becoming more alive by the day, and maybe he is.

They go on like this for a little longer, forming hypotheses about Thomas’s condition and how to undo it, laughing some and wincing other times at painful memories and good ones, until Patton and Janus get a text from their foster parents telling them that there’s a fam-ily meeting about to happen, and they need to come home. Patton visibly tenses, and Logan doesn’t really know what to do, but Janus takes his hand, shaking a little himself, and tells them that they’ll be there tomorrow, even though he really doesn’t believe it, as much as he wants to. Thomas knows that feeling.

Either way, on that foreboding note, everyone else makes to leave too. Virgil goes next, saying that they have to speak to their friend Hildi (whoever that is) about something they don’t understand. Virgil doesn’t elaborate, though they don’t look very upset either.

Logan soon after, wrapping up his morse sheets after he and Roman engage with Thomas verbally some more. It looks like it may rain soon, the sky grey-blue outside and the phantoms in the schoolyard running for cover, forms sizzling under rain. In this way, Thomas is lucky he died indoors.

Roman and Remus seem to want to go the least, but the rain looks like it’s getting worse and Roman does need to go eat something- he hasn’t since dinner yesterday and it's not like there are edible snacks in a chemistry room- it’s literally lab rule one. Roman tries to put up something of a half-hearted fight, and Remus rebukes, routine, like they’ve done this before and will do it again. They have, they will. Roman argues like he’s convinced himself, Remus like he’s sad, trying to pull Roman to shore, more gently than his usual bombast. They go eventually, just as a light drizzle begins and the school heating turns off, with even the teachers leaving the premises. It’s cold, and it’s dark and at some point Thomas wouldn’t have minded, knowing that he was the dark and the cold and the static but now...

But now he knows that he is becoming more than that.

There’s a little bit of warmth, like that of a tealight within him, that he hasn’t felt in so long that he feel he has almost (almost) forgotten how to feel it but not yet, not yet and he cradles it close through the dark and the wet and the ever-approaching night.

…

Patton walks into the house full of dread. He knows what’s about to happen, and maybe he could have numbed it over in any other house, but he had let himself want, and this is where it got him.

Gosh, Janus really liked being here too, he’ll be devastated.

Janus, honestly, doesn't look very worried, and Patton worries for him.

They find Remy and Emile on the dining table, their designated coffee mugs full of tea this time- peppermint or chamomile or something, probably promotes calm or whatever. Emile had taught him that. Fuck.

What was he going to tell Remus? Roman? Virgil and Logan? Logan latched onto Janus like a drowning man seeing a life raft, and Janus had clung as hard.

Fuck, what about Thomas?

He’s sitting, all too aware of every little thing happening around him in his dread. He wants to take in all the furniture, where he hid when he had panic attacks and where he saw Janus being comforted after his own. He’s always wanted to reach out, take Emile’s hand or Remy’s shoulder and cry, but he didn’t, squashing the hope before it could go anywhere. Guess he was right then, he thought bitterly.

The chairs are arranged strangely- instead of being forced to face Remy and Emile when they got the news, the chairs were arranged in a row- one two three four with the dining table having their mugs in order of age- Emile, Remy, Patton, Janus.

Emile and Remy were already sitting in their seats, smiling at them patiently expectantly. Stop hoping. It’s over.

Patton gets in his chair first. The thought of drinking his tea, with the perfect amount of milk and sugar makes him sick. He doesn’t pick up the cup. Janus, once again not looking very concerned, takes his mug in one hand, the other still with a death grip around Patton's. It’s probably going to bruise. He doesn’t care.

“Hey there, kiddos! Sorry for the short text- traffic was the worst, today.” starts Remy, and Janus relaxes, smiling a little. Patton doesn’t.

“We really just wanted to ask you two something- though it is a bit personal, and you can say no whenever! All we’re asking you to do is try it first, okay?” Wait. What? The fuck?

“What… Do you want us to try?” asks Patton. It’s the first thing he’s said since they got the text, and he needs to know what is actually fucking happening. Emile’s probably figured him out (and Patton hate hate HATES that he’s let Emile do that, but he also doesn’t)

“Well, Remy and I have been talking, and we think it might be a good idea for both of you to see a therapist.”

A… what?

Therapists are expensive, and (usually) need to have you living in one place for a long time. They’re expensive, so they’re a long-term investment. If therapy’s something Emile is trying to do, then that means that they want him and Janus to stay. For a long time.

He thinks of the papers he sees Emile hiding. It all starts to make sense.

In his defense, Patton doesn’t cry. Until that breakdown with Remus on the phone the other week, he genuinely could not remember the last time he had cried- it’s not easy to get him to. But both Remy and Emile always, always seem to know that something is wrong, even if he doesn’t tell them that something is, and Remys takes his hand, even as he keeps his eyes on the teacup, and Patton’s still feeling a bit weird on drinking it, but it’ll be fine. Janus has already said yes, and has long finished his tea and is texting Logan on the couch, but Patton’s still on the table, and his tea is getting it cold, but he drinks it as it becomes lukewarm, reddish-brown liquid rolling down as one of his hands is held by Remy, and they don’t talk as much as Patton and Emile, but it’s nice to have him around- he gave both he and Janus their latest sewing kits.

Janus probably has figured out that Patton’s been acting weird this whole time, and he’ll have to talk to him, which is going to be one of those Emotionally Taxing Conversations, but apparently, those need to be had.

It almost hurts to hope, and every voice in his head is half screaming not to, but Patton is finding himself hoping anyways, and he opens his phone to text Remus to see if his therapist knows anyone.

…

“Di, what the actual fuck.” At least Hildi has the decency to look a little embarrassed.

“Sorry, sorry!! We were like, ten and I didn’t know that was a thing till maybe last year?”

That ‘thing’ being, Hildi’s particular brand of witch having Virgil basically absorb some of her magic… whatever like osmosis. Which is why they can calm people down through contact. Why can’t they calm themselves down through contact? That would be fucking nice.

“Uh… the thing is, it only works with women? Or basically, not men. Are you like… okay with that?” asks Hildi, taking their hand and rubbing in circular motions , which she knows calms them down. Well, it’s working.

Virgil thinks.

“Yeah I think so. My gender is still, you know, a bit fuzzy as a concept. For me it’s mostly a presentation thing. Besides men suck- you magic has a point.”

"Our magic."

Hildi laughs, putting her hand to her mouth as she shifts both their positions on the tree branch, thick and low, that they’re sitting in, able to watch the passersby, but too camouflaged by foliage to be seen. Logan used to be with them more often, back in middle school, hiding from stupid kids who kept trying to break his nose. (they didn’t succeed, but they nearly broke his heart)

But, now is not the time. There are more important things to do. Like figure out what to do with this… magic? And maybe see if it can help Thomas come back.

Virgil wonders what Logan and Roman are doing- Logan’s going to have a fucking field day.

…

“Mom?”

“Yes, Lolo?” replies his mother, tying her red hair behind her as she starts weeding their vegetable patch. It’s her little pet project, and it already looks really good.

“You wanted to tell us something this morning, right?” Mom had sat them down about ten minutes before he and Virgil had left for school, telling them that someone was coming over, and that they’d both get more details later. Well, Virgil was at Hildi’s, for whatever reason, so it was just Logan, probably.

“Well,” starts Mom, whacking her hands on her apron and getting herself a glass of water. “Grampa Ev-Your great-grandfather Everett is going to be coming over for a while.” Okay. Logan doesn’t know Great-Gramps Everett, because Mom doesn’t usually talk about her family. It’s nothing bad, but they’re all fairly distant people. But, from what he knows, Great-Gramps is a pretty decent person, and pretty much wholeheartedly supported both Mom getting married to Amma and Logan and Virgil coming out, which nobody had really expected.

“Okay.” says Logan, not sure about what else to answer with.”

“Logan, you see, there’s one caveat. Gramps is really, really old, and he’s going to be gone soon.” Okay. “So here’s staying here for a week or so to say goodbye. He’s been pretty sick for a while, and he doesn’t seem to be getting better.” Okay. That happens sometimes- Logan isn’t spectacularly sad, but his Mom’s going to be pretty torn up.

“Oh, uh, I’m sorry. It’ll… be okay?” Logan tries for some kind of reassurance, but it comes out as confused as he is with this scenario. Mom laughs, a bit wetly, as she takes his cheeks into her hands and looks him in the eye, or as much as she can with how teary her eyes are.

‘Oh, Logie-Bear” (Logan internally rolls his eyes at the nickname) “Don’t worry about me, it’ll be okay, alright? Grampa misses you, so he really wants to see us, now that he’s visited everyone else. I’ll be okay. Don’t you worry, now.” Mom finishes, picking him up even as he squacks light-heartedly, and he remembers the last time Mom cried and he’s so glad that they’ve all gotten better than they were from that day.

“Okay, I won’t worry. Amma and Virgil do plenty of that for everyone.” says Logan, trying for a somewhat lighthearted tone that Virgil sometimes uses with Roman to joke about issues. It’s not great, but it’s better than they were a year ago, keeping it all in.

Mom does laugh, however, still a bit wet, but happy either way. She puts him down on the couch as the next movie in their queue plays, UP or something along those lines.

“You know, Gramps had told me something once.” Logan turns to Mom a little, displaying interest.

“Back when he lived here- the twennies and thirties,” begins Mom, her accent coming in a little. It’s nice. “He had a boyfriend. O’ course, this town was hate crime central back then, but they were happy. Some rowdier kids at school killed his boyfriend, and he was the first to see the body. That's why he hasn’t been here since.” That’s… heavy, and it brings up some unfortunate parallels to Thomas- gay in the twenties, killed.

But that has to be a coincidence, right?

“What was… what was the boyfriend’s name?” asks Logan.

"Hmm?" Mom hums, talking her index along her chin. "Tommy or something. Could've been a nickname for Thomas." Oh, wow. what a coincidence. This also basically confirms Thomas's theory, and as upsetting as that is, Logan's going to think about it later, with his brother, thanks.

Thinking of which…

Logan gets up, suddenly enough to make Mom look up at him questioningly.

"Logan?"

"Sorry, mom- I just need to inform Virgil and the others about something." Seeing the (probably?) concern on her face, he adds on; "nothing bad, there is no need to worry- besides, Virgil would tell on me immediately."

Mom laughs a little. "That he would, baby. Go on- just remember to be back for dinner." She goes to the kitchen to get herself some food, before going back to the movie. Logan takes that as his due to exit, taking with him his carry-bag, which has a stim toy, his phone and charger, and earbuds. These days, it also contains the Thomas Book, and his Morse translation sheets, though he hasn't needed them for a while. He fills his water bottle, taken from his school bag and puts that in too, before leaving the house and going to Roman's, mainly because it's the closest and carrying umbrellas in this weather is a chore with all this wind and rain.

…

Roman's just managed to stomach something, that being pot noodles because mom and dad are not home at the moment, and is currently lounging around the living room, glad to be sitting there without the constant backdrop of yelling. With all this rain, he really was not expecting anyone to interrupt his rereading of Othello (for like, the fifth time, but Roman doesn't give a shit) , and especially not Logan, of all characters.

But there he is, gripping the bottom of his umbrella, and who is Roman to say no? Remus is at therapy with Patton, cheering him on, and mom and dad will not be here to yell. Besides, Logan looks really, really excited, nearly manic, and that's a fairly uncommon look on him.

"Roman, you are not going to fucking believe this."

They have a plan, now. It’s rough, and it’s not the best thought-out thing in the world, but it is a plan.

Firstly, tell Thomas the first thing on Monday about exactly what is happening. Secondly, tell Everett about what is happening, hopefully with photographic evidence and get him to Thomas. Both these steps are doable, as Thomas is notably more corporeal than he was a few months ago, and that can probably be attributed to the fact that all of the other people he cares about have passed away. This may be the final push, but god damn it is Thomas not coming back to life without meeting his boyfriend at least once.

This can work. probably.

#sanders sides #sanders sides fanfiction #ts logan #ts patton #ts roman #vee's writing #series: room 73 #2021 #do not repost

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grailfinders · 4 years

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Fate and Phantasms #104: Geronimo

Today on Fate and Phantasms, we’re making FGO’s best (by default) Native American servant, Geronimo! He’s a skilled tracker and summoner, but still finds the time to be able to gut people with daggers and arrows. Good for him, it’s nice to have hobbies.

Check out his build breakdown below the cut, or his character sheet over here!

Next up: I shot the sheriff, but I did not shoot the deputy

Race and Background

Geronimo’s a variant human, giving him +1 Wisdom and Dexterity, Survival proficiency, and the Weapon Master feat. That last bit gives him an extra +1 Dexterity, plus proficiency with four extra weapons of your choice, as long as they’re simple or martial. (Not entirely sure what that leaves out, to be honest.) Definitely pick up some bows though, we won’t be able to get those from your classes.

You’re a medicine man, but the closest we’ve got for backgrounds is Acolyte, so we’ll make due. This gives you proficiency in Insight and Religion.

Ability Scores

Your Wisdom should be as high as possible. You track, you notice things, and you cast spells. That’s all wisdom. After that is Intelligence. Nature’s an Int skill for some reason, and you’re pretty smart in general. After that is Dexterity; you’re good with knives and bows, that’s all dex. Also-like many servants, calling what you normally wear light armor would be a generous statement. Your Constitution isn’t bad, you survive getting stabbed pretty well. Your Strength is a little low, but you don’t really need it that much. Finally, dump Charisma. It’s not that you’re unlikeable, you’re just not the kind of guy who takes center stage.

Class Levels

1. Rogue 1: You’re going to be a druid eventually, but rogues get more skills and you’re pretty skilled so...

First level rogues get proficiency with Dexterity and Intelligence saves, as well as four rogue skills. Grab Stealth, Perception, Intimidation and Investigation. You can sneak up on people, track them down, and scare the crap out of them. Not necessarily in that order.

You also get Expertise in Stealth and Survival, doubling your proficiency bonus with those skills. You can also make a Sneak Attack while using finesse or ranged weapons, gaining extra damage when you attack creatures you have advantage over or are distracted by other enemies.

You also learn how to speak Thieves’ Cant. It’s a language.

2. Druid 1: Bouncing over to druid learns you some Druidic, as well as how to cast and prepare Spells, based on your Wisdom. You get Guidance and Thunderclap as your cantrips, but like most casters you’re pretty flexible when it comes to your other spells. Since you can prepare spells each day I’m not even going to bother bringing them up in text unless they’re absolutely vital to the build.

As a rule of thumb, healing, tracking, or Things That Could Feasibly Be Done Without Magic spells are a solid pick, but you are a caster, so feel free to go nuts.

3. Druid 2: Second level druids join a druid circle, and the circle of the Shepherd will help you summon totem spirits and support your party. You can use Wild Shape twice per short rest, turning into a beast of cr 1/4 or lower that can’t fly or swim as an action. You can’t cast spells as an animal, but you can concentrate on them. Alternatively, you can spend a wild shape use to find a Wild Companion, effectively casting Find Familiar without a spell slot. In this case, the familiar only lasts a number of hours equal to your druid level.

As a shepherd, you learn the Speech of the Woods, learning Sylvan and gaining the ability to talk to animals. You can also summon a Spirit Totem as a bonus action once per short rest, creating a spirit with a 30′ aura for a minute. Spirits fit into three categories- while they come with animals already attached, you can feel free to flavor them however you see fit. The bear spirit gives creatures of your choice in its aura temporary hp and advantage on strength checks and saves. The hawk spirit lets you use your reaction to grant advantage on an attack against creatures in the aura, and giving you and your allies advantage on perception checks while in its aura. Finally, the unicorn spirit grants advantage on all checks to detect creatures within the aura, and using healing spells inside or outside the aura also heals all creatures within the aura a number of hit points equal to your druid level.

4. Rogue 2: Now that we have one subclass, let’s grab another. First, you have to get a Cunning Action, letting you dash, disengage, or hide as a bonus action.

5. Rogue 3: Again, trying to avoid beating around the bush here; you’re a Scout, getting the peanut butter of ranger all up in rogue’s chocolate. Scouts are Skrimishers, allowing you to react when a creature ends its turn within 5′ of you to move half your speed without provoking attacks. You’re also a Survivalist, doubling your proficiency bonus in Nature and Survival, as well as making you proficient in both skills. This and expertise are not exclusive, so have fun with that +12 to tracking.

You also have the optional feature Steady Aim, spending all your movement as a bonus action to gain advantage on your next attack.

6. Rogue 4: Use your first Ability Score Improvement to bump up your Dexterity for a better AC and better attacks.

7. Druid 3: Third level druids get second level spells. Enhance Ability replicates your entire skillset with a single spell, giving advantage to all of a creature’s ability checks in one category. You can also use Moonbeam now, a (literal) pale reflection of your noble phantasm.

8. Druid 4: If you’re still eager to break character despite your alternative uses for wild shape, Wild Shape Improvement lets you transform into beasts of CR 1/2 or lower, and swimming creatures are now on the table. You also get another ASI, so bump up your Wisdom for stronger spells and better tracking.

You also get a new cantrip, Druidcraft is just plain useful, and you’ll be able to ruin your DM’s attempts at making things more dramatic on the fly.

9. Rogue 5: Fifth level rogues get an Uncanny Dodge, using their reaction to halve the damage from a single attack. Armor isn’t really your thing, so any kind of damage mitigation is a smart move.

10. Rogue 6: Use your second round of expertise to improve your Perception and Intimidation. You’re scary, and good at being a lookout.

11. Rogue 7: Your Evasion means that you’re now really good at dexterity saves; failed saves deal half damage, successful ones deal none.

12. Druid 5: Fifth level druids get third level spells. Not much else is happening here.

13. Druid 6: Shepherd druids are Mighty Summoners, giving your summoned beasts and fey more HP and magical attacks for overcoming resistances. You’re summoning the guardian spirit of your people, they should be better than the average coyote.

14. Druid 7: Congrats on the fourth level spells! Moving on.

15. Rogue 8: Use this ASI to bump your Dexterity up even further to be the sneakiest and stabbiest you can be.

16. Rogue 9: Ninth level scouts get Superior Mobility, giving you an extra 10 feet of movement. This can also be applied to your swimming and climbing speeds, which you won’t have unless you wild shape.

17. Druid 8: Eighth level druids get one last Wild Shape Improvement, increasing your max CR to 1 and removing all other limitations on your wild shape. You also get one last ASI, so bump up your Constitution for a bit more health.

18. Druid 9: Level 5 spells, nice.

19. Druid 10: Remember how I said in the last shepherd feature that you’re summoning the guardian spirit of your people? Now you’re actually doing that. When you summon a Guardian Spirit, summoned beasts and fey that end their turn in the totem’s aura regain half your druid level in HP.

You also get one last cantrip. Gust will help break up any cloud-based hazards you have to deal with, and hide your skywriting.

20. Druid 11: Our final level gets you level 6 spells, and we actually have one to talk about this time! You finally get Sunbeam to fully complete your noble phantasm.

Pros:

Your high stealth and animal army makes it very easy to sneak around in combat. Set up your own distraction, pick off enemies with sneak attacks, and the rare few who notice you will still have to eat a dozen attacks of opportunity if they try to go after you.

Survivalist and Expertise stacking is just silly, quadrupling your survival proficiency. We didn’t stick around rogue long enough for Reliable Talent, but a +28 to tracking is good enough that it doesn’t matter. If something physically exists, you’ll probably be able to track it down.

Mixing Wild Shape with a rogue’s damage avoiding abilities makes you really hard to kill, especially if the enemy’s distracted by your pets.

Cons:

Mixing in rogue gave you some solid weapon attacks, but it also removed your higher level spells. This means you miss out on stuff like Planeshift and True Ressurection. Shooting people really hard is nice, but it might not outweigh the cost here.

Defensively Rogue/Druid mixing is fine, but it’s not as great on offense. Wild Shape and Sneak Attack do not mix at all.

Summoning spells and your Noble Phantasms (Sun/Moonbeam) are both concentration spells. Unless you wild shape, your constitution isn’t that great, plus you’ll have to pick and choose what you’re doing.

#Fate Grand Order #Geronimo #D&D 5e #FGO #Fate and Phantasms

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hedwigstalons · 4 years

Text

High Expectations - Ch7

You know those 1 minute doodles people do? Well this is pretty much the digital equivalent. As soon as I sat down I had a kid perched on each knee and a constant refrain of ‘Can I go on the magic drawing pad?’ which made doing anything just a little tricky. I would love to have half a day to sit down uninterrupted and get to grips with even the basics of digital drawing but that’s not going to happen any time soon. Instead you have to make do with what I could manage around two small humans (literally - I had one tucked into each arm).

More thanks to @willow-salix who has put up with my ramblings every step of the way.

Earlier parts: One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six

AO3 chapter link

Chapter Seven

Gordon was awake long before Virgil the following day. He quietly flicked through the TV channels, the volume down low, until he heard his brother moving around in the bedroom. Experience had taught him not to disturb Virgil’s slumber unless he fancied being in close proximity to a grumpy bear.

As Virgil stumbled through his morning routine Gordon made himself useful fixing breakfast. He searched through cupboards and the fridge and was relieved to see that Virgil kept the apartment well stocked. Both brothers had a voracious appetite and a fast metabolism. By the time Virgil had finished his shower the eggs were in the pan and the coffee was brewing. When he emerged from his bedroom wearing yet another red checked shirt Gordon was just plating up.

“Hey, you can stay more often.” The appreciation was mumbled around a slice of toast from the large stack in the middle of the table. The portions were generous and the eggs were light and fluffy with just the right amount of seasoning. “When did you learn to cook?”

“Right around the time you and John moved out and me and Alan got shipped to the coast. Dad wasn’t often back in time for dinner.”

Virgil could sense there was a story to tell there but knew better than to press the issue, especially before he had had a second cup of coffee. During his own visit back home he had taken on the cooking without even thinking about it and hadn’t given a second thought as to who normally kept the household fed.

“I’ll cook tonight if you want” Gordon said, tucking into his own pile of eggs. “If you want pizza though you’ll have to ask Alan next time you’re back. That kid has a knack for dough. Just don’t touch his pasta, I’ve never known someone find simple boiling so hard.”

“Sounds great, you can show me what you can do. Maybe you’ll end up at catering college.”

Virgil’s joke fell flat as he sensed the shields rising up around Gordon. It seemed any mention of the future made his brother touchy as hell. He made a mental note to avoid all talk of future plans for the rest of Gordon’s stay, even if they were only made in jest. Unfortunately he still had his own work to do, troubled brother or not.

“So Gordon, I’ve got a lab slot today. I was going to take you in and show you around but perhaps engineering isn’t really your thing.”

Gordon shook his head gently.

“Hey, there’s a pool a couple of blocks over, it should be pretty quiet at the moment. How about you put yourself through your paces this morning then we can hang out in the afternoon once I’ve got back from campus.”

This sounded infinitely preferable to Gordon. The routine of swimming was ingrained now and he had thrown his kit into his bag as a matter of habit. The idea of watching Virgil doing…whatever it was Virgil did was not appealing, especially now knowing of his father’s ulterior motive for suggesting he spend time with one of his college based brothers.

With breakfast over and the dishes carefully washed the brothers departed and headed their separate ways; Gordon heading to the pool while Virgil made his way onto campus.

Just a few short minutes later Gordon was stood, bag in hand, outside the pool building. It was shut. A noticed taped to the door proclaimed the apologies of the management for unscheduled maintenance and the assertion that the facilities should be open again the following day.

Gordon dug out his phone and tried to call Virgil but the line connected straight through to voicemail. Virgil had warned him that there was a policy of no phones in the labs and workshops and it looked like he had already missed the opportunity to get hold of his sibling. He didn’t have a key to the apartment either. Apparently the spare set was with the letting agent, whoever that was, but even if he could find the right place there is no way they would just hand over the keys to him even if he did have the right surname. Instead of a morning burning off his frustrations in the water he was faced with the prospect of being stuck in a strange city, alone for the next few hours until Virgil resurfaced from his project.

He wandered back past the apartment and towards campus with the vague hope that he might bump into Virgil but deep down he knew that hope was futile. Shopping didn’t appeal and galleries and museums had never been his thing. He was destined for a boring morning.

His footsteps led him to a small square and he flopped down onto one of the hard, metal benches that lined the perimeter. He may as well wait here as anywhere. The wind was picking up and the enclosed space gave him some protection from the chill air that felt like it was blowing straight off the surrounding mountains. The clouds above looked dark and stormy and the day had turned unseasonably cold. The turbulent sky matched his mood. It felt like the entire world was conspiring to stop him from swimming.

The first rain drops soon began to fall. Heavy, penetrating globules of water that hit the ground with force before bouncing back up again several inches. Within seconds the drops had turned into a raging downpour; the sort of rain that obscures your vision and soaks everything in an instant. The drumming sound of rain hitting concrete and roof slates filled Gordon’s ears with white noise as though attempting to drown out his very thoughts. He sat there as the stinging rain beat against his body, turning the exposed skin of his cheeks a raw pink. In some perverse way the discomfort was enjoyable. A penance for being the sole aquatic element in a family that revolved around the sky and the stars.

A hand landed on Gordon’s shoulder and broke through his reverie. He spun round on the bench to be confronted by a young man in military uniform gesturing to the store front behind him. He didn’t have much choice but to follow as the man picked up his bag and dashed back to the cover of the building.

As the door slammed shut behind him the noise of the storm became muted. Two men were in the room, one sat behind a desk while Gordon’s assailant and bag thief was shaking water off his cap. Both looked to be about 25 and were in contrasting uniforms.

“So, were you aiming on hypothermia or just trying to drown yourself out there?” his attacker come rescuer asked.

Gordon just shook his head mutely. His hair was slicked down against his head and the action caused trickles of water to drip down his cheeks. He unzipped his kit bag, pulled out a towel, and scruffed his hair back to some semblance of dryness.

“I was meant to go swimming but the pool was closed.”

“And swimming in that downpour looked like a better idea than going home?”

“I’m just visiting. I’m locked out until my brother gets back from class.”

“So how long do you need to wait?”

Gordon looked at his watch. “He’ll probably be another couple of hours.”

“Well you can’t go back out in that, you’re already shivering.”

This was true. Stood there with his clothes plastered to his skin Gordon became uncomfortably aware of just how cold and wet his was. He tensed his core muscles in an attempt to still the shivers that made his body tremble.

The man behind the desk stood up and headed over to a coffee pot that was set up in the corner of the room. He called over his shoulder to his companion. “Kid’s not getting ill on my watch. I’ll make some coffee and you can take him upstairs and stick his clothes in the dryer.”

Gordon felt like he had little choice but to follow the man through a door at the back of the office and up a narrow set of stairs. They were right about one thing; he couldn’t sit out in the rain for hours.

The upstairs of the building was converted into a tiny flat and the two military personnel evidently lived up there, despite their conflicting services. There was a small living area with kitchenette built along one wall and a couple of extra doors that Gordon assumed led to a bathroom and bedrooms. Gordon soon found himself kitted out in a pair of dry sweatpants and a hoodie while his own sopping wet clothes were put through a drying cycle.

Back downstairs, with borrowed clothes and a hot coffee warming him through, Gordon began to take more notice of his surroundings and his temporary companions. Emblems of the World Security Patrol and its four component parts adorned the walls. Badges of the World Space Patrol, World Navy, World Army Air Force and Universal Secret Service all had their place.

With nothing else to do until his clothes had finished drying Gordon settled in to make the best of it. The two staff seemed personable enough. One wore the uniform of the World Army while the other was clad in the WASP insignia of World Aquanaut Security Patrol, the submarine service of the World Navy. The pair were good natured with a touch of friendly inter-service rivalry. Coming from a military family himself Gordon was well versed in the different factions although he was more familiar with the United States Air Force that the various world forces on display.

“What is this place?”

“Joint Services Recruitment Office” came the response. “The World Security Patrol has offices all over the place. Good engineers are like gold dust which is why this office is so close to the campus. The different services staff it on rotation, two at a time.”

“So how did the pair of you end up here?” Gordon asked.

“Random allocation for me” answered the World Army representative, who Gordon soon learned was called Daniels.

“I’d just got back from an extended submarine tour and my C.O. thought I could do with some sunshine. Not much of that today though; I stayed drier under water” laughed Green, the WASP who had pulled him in from the storm. “It’s not too bad though, except for the land snails.”

“Hey!” Daniels launched a promotional stress ball at Green. “Less of the land snail you jumped up sardine. Thank goodness I’ve only got to put up with you for another eight weeks.”

The two men evidently got on well together. The traded insults were laced with laughter. It was a far cry from the attitude his eldest brother displayed while in uniform. Maybe it was the lack of officers to keep them in check or maybe Scott just didn’t have a sense of humour any more that accounted for the difference; the pair in front of him certainly weren’t dour or serious.

“I can’t see Scott being happy getting sent to one of these places.”

“Scott?”

“Eldest brother. He’s Air Force. He’s not happy unless he breaks mach three at least twice a week.”

This description was greeted by a double eye roll, evidently WASP and World Army were prepared to unite against a common enemy.

“That’s flyboys for you. I guess this isn’t the brother who locked you out?”

“Nope, Virgil’s here doing his postgrad at the moment. Some sort of engineering project. I’m only here for a few days while Dad is out of town.”

“So you like to swim, huh? Think you can swim 200 meters in under three minutes?”

“Stop trying to recruit the kid, Green.”

“Hey! It’s my job at the moment, of course I’m going to have a try.”

A competitive glint appeared in Gordon’s eye.

“Think I can do it in under three minutes?” he mused, cocking his head as though seriously considering the question. “I know I can do it in one, forty-four point two.”

“Like hell you can. Jeez, that’s gotta be some kind of record.”

Gordon just smirked. Out of the pool and with clothes on he wasn’t particularly recognisable, his father’s policy of minimal contact with the media had seen to that. The pair in the recruiting office only knew his first name and had nothing to go on to connect him to the Olympics. He couldn’t help but feel a little bit boastful at the chance to show off his achievement.

“Yup. Butterfly. Set it out at the Games a few weeks back.”

“Wait? You’re Gordon Tracy?”

Gordon nodded.

“Bloody hell. The guys back at base aren’t gonna believe I had you in my recruiting office.”

Green was now actively goggling at him and even the more reserved Daniels was looking slightly thunderstruck.

“Told you to stop with the recruitment spiel. He’s got better things to do than mess about in your tin cans.”

“Those tin cans are highly specialised submarines I’ll have you know.”

The pair were back to the ribbing that seemed to characterise their working relationship. Gordon looked on enviously at the obvious camaraderie that existed despite their differing career paths. It showed a team spirit that he yearned for and the idea of locking himself away from his family at the bottom of the ocean was sounding pretty good at the moment.

Before his brain had fully caught up with his mouth he blurted out “So what would I have to do other than swim to get my hands on one of those subs?”

Gordon left the recruitment office a few hours later with more than just dry clothes. Stuffed in the bottom of his kit bag was a print out of the scores from the aptitude and reaction tests he had sat there which showed he more than met the standard required for WASP. On top of these Green had placed an application form which, if submitted alongside the test results, would earn Gordon an invitation to a selection week.

He had no real plans and sitting the tests had more been something to do to pass the time until Virgil was back. The military was Scott’s thing, not his, but Green had been animated and engaging in his description of the submarine service giving Gordon much food for thought. The picture he painted of service life was very different to the stories Scott brought home. Perhaps it was because WASP was a peacekeeping entity rather the aggressive environment of Scott’s fighter unit or perhaps it was the idea of exploring the oceans that appealed but something made him keep the forms.

Gordon shoved the whole idea to the back of his mind, burying it as deep as the paperwork that was hidden at the bottom of his kit bag.

xoxoxox

By the time Gordon made it back to the apartment Virgil was there to let him in.

“Good swim?” A mug of the ever-present coffee was placed in front of him before Virgil returned to the kitchen. Gordon picked up the mug and wandered over, leaning against the door frame to watch as his brother made a start on lunch.

“Pool was shut. Should be ok tomorrow though.”

“Shut? You found something else to do, right?” Virgil looked up from where he was buttering a stack of bread for sandwiches, feeling a gnawing guilt at his little brother being left alone in a strange city. The concern was clearly evident in his voice.

“It was fine. Even without a pool I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself for a few hours.”

“I know you are. Do you want tomatoes in with your ham? Or I’ve got mustard if you prefer.”

“Tomatoes please. You got any cheese?”

“Sure just grab the block out the fridge for me and I’ll add some in.”

The pair manoeuvred round each other in the small space, passing ingredients back and forth until a sizeable stack of sandwiches had been created. They carried them over to the table and settled down to eat.

“I’ve rearranged my lab slots so I don’t have to go back to campus for a few days” Virgil mumbled around a mouthful of bread. “I’ll still have to fit in some work here but it means you won’t be on your own so much.”

“You didn’t have to do that. I don’t need babysitting.”

“I didn’t do it because I think you need babysitting, I did it so we can actually spend some time together. Maybe watch some movies. You know, catch up a bit.”

Gordon looked for signs of an ulterior motive but instead saw only genuine honesty in Virgil’s expression. Now it was his turn to feel guilty for second guessing his brother’s intentions. Since when had he got so suspicious of everything? Probably since he found out this trip was yet another attempt by his father to mould him into the narrow ideals of what a good son should look like.

“Sorry. I guess I’m still a bit on edge. Even half a continent away I still feel like Dad is watching and keeping an eye on me.”

Virgil swallowed his mouthful, all too aware that Jeff was rather more than half a continent away. At that very moment he knew their father was somewhere in the South Pacific making sure the island that had been chosen as the future family home was just right before completing the purchase.

“So, this afternoon?”

“Films sound good, just none of that art house stuff.” After his soaking he didn’t fancy heading out anywhere again that day but he also wasn’t in the mood for some high-brow foreign language film or any of Virgil’s other niche preferences. “You sure you don’t need to do any more work today.”

“Maybe just half an hour or so to transfer my notes from the lab but I can always do that later.”

“How about you get that done while I clean up from lunch and fix us some snacks for the film. I think I spotted some corn kernels when I was looking for the salt earlier. Can’t have a film without popcorn.”

“If you’re sure? Kernels are in the top cupboard. I don’t have a popcorn maker here so you’ll have to use the stove, are you ok with that?”

Gordon’s only response was to roll his eyes; of course he would be fine making popcorn on the stove. He started to clear the plates.

Virgil, free of chores, headed over to his desk. He rummaged through his bag and dug out the smart moleskin notebook that he liked to use for rough notes, he found it easier to doodle down sketches on paper than on his tablet. Soon he was completely engrossed in transposing figures and observations into his main files and cross referencing against the work he had done previously.

He was snapped back to the present by the arrival of Gordon on his elbow with a cup of coffee. Once he was in the zone he could completely lose track of his surroundings, he had almost forgotten his brother was even there.

“We can save the films until tomorrow if you want to carry on.”

“No, it’s fine. Just give me a couple more minutes, I’m nearly done.”

Gordon picked up a file that was half covering a coaster to make space for the mug. One or two loose pages slipped free and made a bid for freedom. He carefully put down coffee then dived under the desk to retrieve the pages.

“Oh, sorry”, he took a look at the pages as he straightened up. “I didn’t realise your project was in aviation. That thing doesn’t look like it should be able to fly though, it’s like a bumble bee with those stupid stubby wings.”

Virgil flustered slightly and snatched the pages out of Gordon’s hand with a little more force than was strictly necessary, hurriedly stuffing them back in the folder before shutting the whole bundle away in a drawer.

“Um, it’s not. I mean, that’s not my project. That’s just something I’m working on for, um, after. Please, I’d uh, appreciate it if you didn’t tell Dad what you’ve seen.”

Gordon quirked an eyebrow in surprise. Whatever Virgil was working on it looked like their dad was unlikely to approve, or at least that’s how it came across from Virgil’s reaction. The last time he had seen Virgil acting so guilty was when he tried to deny eating Scott’s Easter chocolate while still having the remnants smeared as evidence across his face.

“Chill, Dad and I don’t exactly have a ‘chats over dinner’ type relationship. So what’s the big deal? I thought I was the only one not toeing the parental line about future plans. Is he pressuring you to go into the Air Force like him and Scott?”

“It’s nothing like that. And anyway, I’m a pacifist, remember? I think Dad knows me better than to suggest the military of all things”

“Well at least he knows what one of us likes. So, is this some PhD topic you’re thinking of? Cos if it’s to do with planes I’m sure Dad will be fine with it. Unless you’re thinking of setting up solo as a competitor to Tracy Aviation, now that would make him pissed.”

“Look, can you just drop it, please?”

Gordon was slightly taken aback by the abruptness, it normally took a lot to get their gentle giant riled up. It was almost impossible to have a fight with Virgil because it just wasn’t in his nature to be argumentative. That wasn’t to say that Virgil didn’t have strong opinions, it was just that he was normally so uncontroversial that it was hard to disagree with him. Perhaps he wasn’t the only one feeling the pressure to conform with their father’s ideals.

“I’m sorry. I promise I won’t tell Dad but, whatever it is you’re working on, don’t let him put you off. I’ll understand if you don’t want to talk about it but don’t let him dictate your life. No point both of us being miserable.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

Virgil felt guilty leaving Gordon with the wrong impression but it was easier to let him believe that Jeff disapproved of his future plans than try and explain away what was really on the cards. He made a mental note to take better care of the notes he had made. Of course it would all be much easier if the whole family knew what was going on but Jeff had been adamant; no sharing anything with anyone he hadn’t personally brought into the scheme, and that included younger brothers.

By mutual consent the brothers treated the future as a banned topic of conversation and by the time Gordon was due to return to Los Angeles he was in a much calmer frame of mind. A few days without the burden of responsibilities or parental scrutiny had soothed his soul and left him feeling lighter and more relaxed than he had for a long time.

Unfortunately all good things had to come to an end; he couldn’t hide out in Denver forever, tempting as it may be. As the plane headed back west Gordon found his mood sinking like the setting sun he was heading towards.

#thunderbirds #thunderbirds fanfiction #my art #high expectations #Gordon Tracy #Virgil Tracy #future plans #career choices #keeping secrets

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