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ninyard · 3 years

Note

more stefan/andrew au? the last one was fucking amazing

(following on from pt 2 kinda following canon a lil bit but imagining their relationship panning out earlier than it did in the series? Fab)

Part 1 / part 2

“Andrew?” Neil was woken up by Seth’s pissed-off, tired moan. “Get the fuck out of here, you fuckin’ freak.” Neil heard the rustling of covers and Andrew’s footsteps coming into the room. “Yo, hey, are you deaf?!” It’d been a couple days since the incident in Columbia, and Andrew and Neil hadn’t really spoken since then. Coach had tried to get them to make up when Neil came back to his apartment, but his attempts futile. They’d only had a short conversation before Andrew got bored and left. All Neil got from Andrew’s lot since then was hostility and cold shoulders. Now, in the middle of the night, Andrew was breaking into the room of the three people he actively seemed to hate the most. Neil pretended to sleep, until he felt weight on the rungs of the ladder on his bed, and hands on the back of his T-shirt. Andrew practically pulled him off the bed, immediately waking him up from any bit of sleep he had left in him.

“Car. Ten minutes.” Andrew didn’t lower his voice for Neil’s half-asleep roommates. “I don’t like waiting.”

“I don’t care.” Neil retorted back in a hushed voice. “Leave me alone and let me sleep.” Andrew got real close to Neil’s face. The dim light of the moon outside the window showed Andrew unsmiling face. He was presumably sober, and Andrew sober was a much scarier sight than him being medicated and violent.

“Ten minutes.” He repeated again, matching Neil’s volume, hazel eyes burning a hole through Neil’s natural blue. Andrew put a finger to his lips and switched to German. “This is the only chance you’ll get.”

Neil had almost forgotten he’d spoken to Andrew in German in Coach’s apartment. He was startled at the sudden language change, and obliged when Andrew finally left the room. He got dressed underneath his covers as best he could, and decided against putting in his contacts, before jumping down off the top bunk.

“Bring that monster around here one more time and you’re moving out.” Seth groaned, but fully meant what he said. He turned around to face the wall and through the muffle of a pillow, Neil heard him say, “Now fuck off.” Matt, sleeping like a rock, was snoring on the other side of the room, totally unphased and undisturbed by Andrew’s swift entrance and exit.

Andrew was alone at his car when Neil pulled the sleeves of his hoodie over his hands in a desperate attempt to stay warm, the door of the dorm building shutting behind him. It was freezing outside, and Neil hadn’t realised it was literally the middle of the night until he saw a clock in the hallway reading an early 3:54am. The wind blew leaves across the parking lot with a whistle and a rustle, the dry fall leaves swirling around like tiny twisters on the tarmac. The campus was silent, on the night of a weekday, so Neil didn’t expect anyone to be out. Yet here Andrew was, leaning on the bonnet of his car with a cigarette between his lips, smoke quickly disappearing in the biting wind.

“You never answered my question on our little night out.” He spoke through the smoke, as Neil approached closer. “We’re going for a drive.”

“Do you ever sleep?” Neil’s voice was groggy from his own interrupted sleep. Andrew didn’t answer, instead flicking away his cigarette and sitting into the drivers seat. Neil walked around to the passenger side and sat in. When he tried to warm his hands on the hot air Andrew had blowing through the air-con, Andrew turned the heat off. Neil was sure if Andrew was medicated he would’ve laughed, but he instead opted for watching the road as they drove in silence. Neil sat back and tried his best not to fall asleep. His head bumped about on the headrest as they drove, and every time his eyes started to close, his sleep cycle begging him to come back to rest, Andrew would snap his fingers in his face or lay a punch down on his thigh. After a short drive, they pulled up into the empty lot of some National Park Neil didn’t know the name of. He was too tired to pay attention to the signs, but figured Andrew wouldn’t bring him to a park to kill him or let him go. Andrew was a man of truth when he wanted to be; He wanted to know why he was on the run and Neil didn’t have the energy to argue.

“Why are we here?” Neil asked at the same time Andrew said “What brought a runaway to Oakland?”They both paused for a moment, but Neil knew Andrew wasn’t going to answer his question until Neil answered his.

“It was the first place she wanted to stop.” Neil spoke through a yawn. “The others before there made her too paranoid. It was the first time she felt like she could close her eyes and actually sleep without feeling like she was…” He thought about his words for a moment. The last conversation they’d had, he told him he was on the run, but Andrew already knew that. Neil thought he’d got through to him by giving him half-honesty, telling him his parents were dead. He never brought up Riko, or his family, instead choosing the option of trying to appeal to Andrew’s inner child, who remembered Stefan. It was a stupid choice, and Neil knew that the second he chose it. “She could sleep without feeling like she had a target on her back.”

“Did you kill her?” Andrew said it so casually it felt like murder was something so normal, like eating lunch or going for a walk. Like asking if he killed his mother was just like asking if he liked the taste of garlic, or if he was having a good day.

“No,” Neil answered. He’d been thinking about what he would tell Andrew about his life since he seen him in Arizona. Who was he before Oakland? Where did they go? Who was he running from? “Riko’s family did.”

And suddenly Andrew was interested. His face was a mixture of disbelief and boredom. Neil told him his manufactured version of the story; that his parents were killed by the Moriyama family, and that they’d been on the run since the execution of his Father. He kept out the part about the Butcher of Baltimore, or the fact that he was actually still alive, but Andrew’s mind was at work as Neil told the story. If he didn’t look awake before, he did now. Neil spoke for an hour, maybe less, maybe more, flowing from story to anecdote to answering questions that Andrew slipped in whenever he wanted. Neil answered it all with mostly-truths, redacting the stuff Andrew simply didn’t need to know. Neil was a runaway, his family were in some bad business, but Neil was the only one left.

“I really didn’t think you could get any more stupid, yet I am constantly surprised.” Andrew tutted as he shook a cigarette out of the packet, into his hand. He rolled down the window on his side and smoked out of it, seemingly unbothered by the wind that just blew the smoke back into his face. “You knew who I was, but you knew Kevin too? How forgetful do you think people are?”

“I don’t know,” Neil told him honestly. “I just- We were so young. I met Kevin years before I met you. I just didn’t think I was important to anyone.” Andrew laughed a laugh that wasn’t really a laugh at all. It was the sound of dismissal, as though he didn’t believe a word that spilled from Neil’s tired lips. “I didn’t think I’d ever be particularly memorable or mean anything to anyone. That was the most important thing to my mom.”

“What, being unimportant?” Andrew didn’t look at Neil as he spoke.

“Being forgettable.” Neil sighed, thinking about his mother’s words that had been drilled into his head. If you’re too interesting, you’re asking to be killed. Be boring. Be normal. Be forgettable. “You fucked that up for me.”

“See, you keep blaming me,” Andrew shook his head as he took a drag from the cigarette that had been half-smoked by the wind. “I didn’t fuck up your life, Abagnale, you did.” Neil didn’t get the reference, but he didn’t ask either.

“I don’t mean it’s your fault. You didn’t do anything,” Neil tried correcting himself. “I couldn’t help it when I was around you. And all I could do every second of my days after Oakland was blame you because I couldn’t deal with the fact that I let you in. Everything I learned, everything I’d done, you came along and turned the place upside down because I just had to know you. I had to.”

“Why?” Andrew looked at him with that same uninterested look he usually had, when a medically-induced smile wasn’t spread across his cheeks. “What made me any different to the hundreds of other kids I’m sure you met on your travels, hmm?”

“You were real.” Andrew scoffed. Neil frowned at that and shrugged his shoulders. “We’ve been through this. Don’t waste my time getting to know me if you just want me to run. You want me to get lost in the park, is it? Is that why you brought me here?”

“Nothing better than some honesty with a view.” Andrew tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. “How do you expect me to trust you when you’ve spent your whole life a liar? Be mad if you want, but I’m much less gullible now, you see. Once a liar, always a liar.” Neil sent Andrew a look as he hovered his hand over Andrew’s. When he just stared at it, Neil brought Andrew’s hand up to his collarbone where was a small, raised, pink scar sitting just above it.

“The motels phone.” Neil spoke quietly, as if Mary would hear, as if she was waiting to jump out from behind the car to take him and beat him again for letting his guard down, for being unforgettable. “It was the first thing she could grab when we got into our room. I never told her your name, and she beat me harder for it. I never wanted to let her anger ruin your name.” Andrew dropped his hand from Neil’s grip.

“Pretty unintelligent to take hits for someone you thought you’d never see again.”

Then Neil said, “I knew I’d never forget you.” Andrew tensed up at the almost-promise, and the memories came flooding back for Neil like a tsunami sweeping over every other thought he had. “I wouldn’t. I couldn’t.” Neil almost reached out to touch Andrew before he remembered the boundary Andrew had set that night in Columbia. Neil didn’t have a right to touch him anymore, and he knew Andrew noticed as Neil’s hand lifted and then hesitantly fell. “Tell me something I don’t know about this Andrew. I’ve told you my life, tell me yours.” He gestured to Andrew, sat across from him with an almost-frown on his face and a thinking mind hard at work.

“This Andrew doesn’t give a shit about what answers you think you deserve.” He looked Neil up and down. “I don’t owe you anything.”

“Why doesn’t Nicky know you’re gay?” Neil asked, instead of waiting for him to come up with something himself, it was much easier to get honesty from Andrew by prompting him. Neil watched as his jaw tensed for a second, thinking about the answer.

“Nicky is too involved in being the gay cousin to un-assume.” Andrew barely lifted his shoulders in the form of a shrug. “He hasn’t asked.”

“Why don’t you tell him?”

“I don’t ‘come out’,” He brushed off the thought with the flick of his wrist and a roll of his eyes. “I don’t fuck women in my spare time. Who cares?”

“Yeah, sure, but-” Neil had started to speak when Andrew cut across.

“At least I’m out to myself,” He nodded towards him. “You, on the other hand? Was it just Stefan who was into it or is the unnamed you just in denial?”

“I’m not, like…” Neil hated the sexuality question. It was confusing and messy and Andrew and Andrew and Andrew. “There was no one after you. It’s only been you.”

“By choice or by mothers hands?”

“Neither. Both?” He wasn’t sure how to answer. “The foxes are the first people I’ve let get somewhat close since then. That’s the truth. I haven’t wanted to. I’m just not interested in anyone.” The except for you part was silent, but he knew Andrew had somewhat heard it when he sat back, one hand on the steering wheel, the other arm resting on the door, as he took a deep breath that he tried to hide. Neil wasn’t even sure he was still into Andrew like that, because they were so young, after all. Andrew was still experimenting, and they never spoke about those kinds of feelings. They were friends who kissed each other because they wanted to know what it felt like. They kissed each other because maybe they thought they liked it. Maybe they’d have to do it again just to be sure. But that was so long ago, and so much had changed. Neil had had a crush on that Andrew, but this one? He wasn’t so sure. This one was harsh and mean, angry and unmoving. This one had been hard-boiled by life and wasn’t going to crack any time soon. He didn’t know if he felt things anymore. He didn’t know if Andrew was capable of a crush, or a kiss, or a simple, electric touch of fingers to skin.

Without a word, Andrew had switched on the ignition and idled the engine for a moment before pulling out and starting on the drive back to campus. Neil didn’t say anything else, he only rested his head on the window and watched as the morning sun slowly lit up the night sky, the dark navy blue taking over the black sky so slowly it was hardly noticeable.

He had pulled into his usual parking spot not long later, still not looking at Neil or speaking at all. He stayed still in the drivers seat after switching the engine off. Neil took that as his cue to leave. Matching Andrew’s silent treatment, he got up and shut the door without a word. Andrew had rolled down his window again, another cigarette already stuck between his lips. He watched as Neil walked around the car before he tapped the outside of his door twice to catch his attention. Neil spoke before he could.

“Give me a chance.” The wind blew his hair off his face, reminding him how cold it was, and why he should’ve worn a jacket. “Let me stay. I don’t have anything else.”

“Don’t be fooled into thinking I trust you.” He hung his hand out the window finally looking Neil in the eyes again. “It’s a matter of time before your egg timer runs out. Make use of it while you can.”

“I’ll bury Stefan forever, if you ask.” Neil offered in payment for the sudden change of heart in letting him stay, in cleaning his hands of the idea that Neil was after Kevin, or that he was a threat. “Say the word and we start fresh from today.”

“I don’t care,” Andrew took a long drag, one that felt like it was centuries long, like the sun would be up by the time he finished. He blew it out and raised his hands. “Kill what wasn’t real. Prove to me what was.”

Neil wasn’t sure what that invitation meant, but he didn’t ask Andrew to keep speaking. When they broke eye contact, he knew then Andrew wanted him to leave. Neil didn’t look back, heart racing, practically ready to burst out of his chest by the time he reached his dorm room. He opened the door as quietly as he could, careful not to disturb his peacefully sleeping roommates, and he crawled back into bed to try get some sleep before the practice scheduled for the morning. Instead of counting sheep, battling restlessness like a fight for his life, he thought of Stefan. He thought of the heart of Nathaniel that had gotten wrapped up in his blond hair and tiny frame. Neil fell asleep thinking about who he used to be, and what parts of that were real. What parts could he keep? His mind spent its last morsels of energy on dissecting Neil Josten, to make him feel a little more real.

The next time they saw each other outside of practice was when Kevin started coming to find him late at night to go to the court and practice together. Neil realised quickly he was going to become a night owl as a Fox, but it still took him a while to adjust to the late nights and early starts. But him and Andrew kept their distance; they didn’t speak if they didn’t have to, and their conversations were kept to a line or two each. They played their first match of the season, and Andrew had sent out shots for Neil like they were capable of working together. Then there was Kathy Ferdinand’s show, at which Andrew had hands all over him, holding him back from killing Riko on live TV. He had made a deal to protect Kevin, and then he was being psychically held back from doing so. Neil did what he couldn’t, and stood up to Riko, a conscious effort to gain his trust, to prove he was on the side of the foxes. Then there was that touch, that simple, light, barely-there touch, and Neil knew he’d won. He’d earned Andrew’s trust, at least for a moment, but that was all that mattered.

When Andrew ever-so-kindly reminded Neil later that Riko would find out about him, the original “Neil”, as easily as he’d strolled onto that stage to sit across from Kevin, there was no choice but to run. He couldn’t imagine any other option. His entire body went into fight or flight, and he struggled to sit still as Andrew held his collar and told him to stay.

“Why?” Neil asked, throat dry, hands shaking, after Andrew offered him protection for the year if he promised to stay. It was funny to imagine, as if there was anything he could do against the actual, guns-blazing, internationally dominating mafia. “Why would you help me?” Andrew laughed, and just about caressed Neil’s jaw in the most non-affectionate way possible. Neil felt his touch leave blood on his skin, but he didn’t flinch. Andrew was manic, and didn’t care. He looked as if he didn’t even feel the pain of a glass-shattering punch, and was actively enjoying the chaos that the morning had brought with it.

Andrew didn’t give him any sort of an answer until later that night, when he stepped into Neil’s space and told him to remember the feeling; Neil couldn’t run anymore. He had given his word to Andrew that he would stay, and as much as he had started to hate the Present-Day-Andrew-Minyard, he trusted him as a man of his word. Neil had killed the parts of Stefan that were untrue; all that was left was the real emotion he felt when he looked at Andrew. He was an asshole, but he was Andrew, and Neil trusted this five foot blond boy with his life. Perhaps it was crazy, perhaps he was officially, undeniable, finally signing his name on his death wish, ticking down the hours until his past caught up. Whereas running was his old line of defence, his current one was Andrew. Andrew was an unlit fire suddenly gaining embers, and Neil knew it was dangerous to let that fire grow. Especially when Andrew leaned over in Eden’s, crackers on his tongue, a drink in his hands, and whispered in German;

“Mommy’s not here to hurt you anymore.” Neil snapped his gaze towards Andrew, who was coming up on his high, speaking to Neil but watching the crowd on the dancefloor. His breath at Neil’s ear sent shivers up his spine, goosebumps on his arms. “My hands are open to have your back. Give it to me this time.”

#idk if this is bad #I can’t be subjective about my own content anymore #straight up I’ll delete it if someone tells me it’s bad lmao #andreil #Andrew minyard #Neil josten #andreil au #tfc #aftg #the foxhole court #all for the game #aftg fic #tfc fic #as per usual send an ask if u want more/have a specific Andrewstefan prompt

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sidespart · 3 years

Text

The Fall of Romulus Part 5

Summary: Twin Princes Remus and Romulus are cursed at birth with Honesty and Obedience. When Romulus, who cannot disobey any order, is told to kill his brother the next time he lays eyes on him, he changes his name to Roman and runs away. Roman joins up with a misfit group of adventures and plans to never return to his homeland. But the fae have other plans for him...

Warnings (for whole fic not necessarily individual chapters): Violence, mind whammying/memory altering, curse of obedience related consent issues, references to sex, references to war related injuries/PTSD, references to child abuse/neglect (YMMV on that one but just in case), antagonstic-but-not-exactly villian!Janus, Extremly-moraly-dubious-but-not-exacty-unsympathetic-Remus

Feedback appreciated.

NOW ON AO3 :D

Prologue Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4

The first time Virgil had seen Patton, it had been on the battlefield. The larger man was on his knees, three men wearing the same uniform as Virgil strewn around him, fresh blood gushing from deep gouges on his face. He’d looked up at Virgil like he expected to die, his eyes bright with relief.

The first time Virgil had seen Logan, he’d barely been more than a kid. Even skinnier than he was now, drenched to the bone in his threadbare apprentice robes and shaking with rage. He’d thrust a handful of coins across the table at Virgil and Patton, newly minted heroes for hire, and demanded they kill his master.

The first time Virgil had seen Roman, he’d been singing to a horse.

It wasn’t even his horse.

Virgil had wanted a break from the noise of the tavern and the simmering tension between his companions. But standing in the dark in an unfamiliar town had been unappealing and so he’d ducked into the taverns small stables. The hayloft was more of a glorified shelf, set close to the ceiling, but standing amongst the horses meant potentially having to explain himself to the horses’ owners and so he’d clambered up and shimmied his way into the narrow space, ducking down out of sight.

He just wanted a few minutes peace. Long enough to figure out what to do.

Logan had accepted a job. Without consulting either Patton or Virgil. It was a simple enough assignment -to transport a crate full of merchandise to a town on the other side of the mountain pass. So why could the townsfolk not deal with that themselves? Because the pass was full of bandits. Obviously.

Logan said they needed the money and he wasn’t wrong. Patton said they needed a break and he wasn’t wrong either.

They had been travelling from one skinflint town to the next for what felt like an age…but half the reason travel was taking so long was that right now they didn’t have enough coin to even to rent horses. Which meant Patton was going to end up dragging the gods-forsaken chest the entire way. Which was going to aggravate the hip injury- which he still refused to acknowledge existed - and leave all of them vulnerable to attack, since Logan wasn’t winning any fights unless it was a debate and Virgil…Virgil did better with the element of surprise.

Looming out of the darkness, his eyes glowing purple and his crossbow held aloft – Virgil had watched many an enemy turn tail and run at the sight of him with great satisfaction.

Actually aiming that crossbow, in broad daylight, at attacking bandits and successfully hitting one? That seemed less likely to be satisfying for anyone. Except maybe the bandits.

So now there was a stalemate, both Patton and Logan bristling at each other over their meal. Both waiting for Virgil to be the tiebreaker.

Hence the hiding in a hayloft.

Maybe if Logan had just talked to the them instead of making decisions for everyone-

“Who’s the prettiest girl in this stable? Is it you? I think it is!”

Virgil froze.

“My lady fair is pale as night and strong as all the stars that bright th- hey!” holding his breath, Virgil slowly turned his head until he could see the man below, who was currently trying to tug his sleeve out of the mouth of a blond mare. It was the bard from the tavern. Even without hearing his voice, the bright white outfit and ridiculously flouncy red jacket gave him away.

Virgil frowned. It was still relatively early in the evening and the bard had had a good audience – even Patton and Logan had looked away form their argument to appreciate his tune. Why leave now?

“Okay, okay you don’t like the classics.” The bard was back to petting the mare’s nose, “but you’re still stunning despite your terrible taste. And a beautiful horse deserves the most handsome of riders hmm?”

Virgil rolled his eyes and relaxed back against the hay. The movements of over the top performers were none of his business.

“That you singing back there?”

Virgil tensed again.

Two men were blocking the exit. Both big, broad and wearing matching insincere grins.

The one who’d spoken had a knife in his hand. The bard apparently didn’t notice and stepped away from the horse with his arms spread wide.

Under the dim shaft of moonlight spilling from the stable door, the silky material of the bards jacket seemed to shine. It highlighted his pockets, where the thin material was sagging under the weight of his bulging coin pouch

“Always a pleasure to meet my fans!”

He gave them a cheeky bow, his pockets jingling as he moved.

Virgil resisted the urge to bang his head against the ceiling.

If this idiot wanted to get himself stabbed was it really Virgil’s responsibility to intervene? What would Logan call this – natural selection?

“Must’ve made a pretty penny.” It was the second man who spoke, he leaned carefully against the stable door as knife-guy stepped forward. “Nice voice like that.”

He looked pointedly at the bard’s jacket pocket. The bard took a half step back, almost disappearing from Virgil’s view.

“Your town is very generous.”

“Yeah. Good people” The second guy smiled. “Drop it.”

Virgil heard the bard sigh, deep and theatrical. But, much to Virgil’s relief, he threw the bag down on to the ground between them. Murder, Virgil was probably morally obligated to try to stop. But if the two robbers just took the bag and ran? Well. Patton was constantly asking Vigil and Logan to keep out of trouble so he could hardly disapprove.

Knife-guy grinned dumbly and reached down to his prize. Virgil tensed himself, he wasn’t going to be able to leap gracefully into action form his confined hiding place but he could potentially…roll onto the guy if he tried anything.

He didn’t get the chance.

As soon as the wannabe thief bent down the bard was on him. A blur of white and red shot out from beneath the hayloft, slammed the butt of a sword – had he always had a sword? – down on knife-guys skull sending him sprawling to the ground.

The second man let out a shout but before he had chance to take more than a step forward the bard was there, sword swinging though the air before coming to rest less than an inch from the man’s throat.

There was a pause whilst the man just gaped at the bard. Breathing heavily.

“You have a choice. Leave now, with your head still attached or…”

There was a yell and Virgil cursed himself for being distracted as knife-guy barrelled towards the pair, weapon raised high –

Only for it to instantly be knocked out his hand by the bard’s sword. The big man let out a high pitched yelp as blood spurted from where his fingers had been moments before, the knife clattering to the ground. The second man aimed a swing at the bards head but he dodged low, springing back up to deliver a punch of his own to the man’s throat, which left him gasping for breath.

At this point, knife guy clearly decided he’d had enough, running for the door with his bleeding hand clutched close to his chest. The second thief, seeing his backup flee, shot the bard a venomous glare and hurried after.

And then there was quiet.

“Sorry about that.” Virgil startled – was he talking to him? “My precious babies.” No. The bard was heading back towards the horses, who had been remarkably unconcerned throughout his ordeal. This gave Virgil his first proper look at his face.

He looked young. Not much older than Logan. And tired.

“Did those mean old robbers scare you?” he cooed “Not to worry – your hero is here to save the day!”

With the bard facing the horses, Virgil took the opportunity to squirm out of his hiding place, managing to land lightly enough on the stable floor behind him.

“Hey.” He said.

The hero’s shriek of surprise was so loud that the horses reared up in their stalls.

After hasty explanations, Virgil had hired him as extra muscle for their trip. It’s wasn’t t an ideal solution, but the knowledge that there would be extra protection around for Logan and Virgil eased some of Patton’s tension. And since Sir Sing-A-Lot had pissed off two would be thieves who were presumably still in town somewhere, he was willing to leave quickly and for cheap which suited Logan.

He met them the next day about a quarter mile out of town, performance outfit replaced with something moderately more travel worthy and sword strapped to his side. Virgil had suggested he stay the night at the tavern but he had shaken his head. Said if he went back in there the bartender would insist he stay to play another night – and then he’d have to let him down, which would be far too painful to bare.

Virgil privately thought skipping out halfway through the night was probably letting him down worse, but whatever. One mans loss is another man’s gain.

It was only when he’s was making the introductions that he realised Roman hadn’t brought his horse. Which led quickly to the realisation that there were three would be thieves in the stable that night.

Virgil spent most of the first day with his eyes fixed on Roman, waiting for him to betray them and skip off with the loot himself. But as the hours past and the bard did nothing suspicious he slowly started to relax.

It was only going to be three days.

***

Three years later, Virgil was growling to himself in his mother’s language as he swept his eyes across the room again, finding absolutely nothing. Not that he expected to -the small room wasn’t exactly flush with hiding places. All he had managed to unearth in the first frantic search was one of Roman’s notebooks, tossed under the bed with its leafy bookmark a few inches away. Patton had carefully put both away in his own coat pocket, a look of abject misery on his face as his hands ghosted over Romans drawings.

The thing was. It wasn’t like adding Roman to the group had instantly fixed everything.

But-

But Patton got sad sometimes. And Virgil, he’d been through a lot of the same stuff as the big guy but he didn’t know how to reach him when he got like that. Virgil was pretty sure he actually made things worse. But Roman – Roman distracted Patton without even trying half the time. He’d sing, weave a story out of nothing, disappear down a side street and reappear with a gaggle of kids and two puppies he seemingly conjured out of nowhere. The two of them had the same bright energy and when they got together they laughed loud enough to banish any shadow.

And Logan – Logan had this need to prove himself. All the time. He needed a challenge to throw himself against or he wilted. Patton hated arguing and Virgil frankly didn’t have the energy but Roman? Roman loved it. The two debated everything, from poetry to politics and threw themselves into preparation with more gusto than seemed healthy. The first big blow up they had, Virgil had looked over at Patton, panicked, before realising both men were grinning ear to ear. Relishing the debate in a way that Virgil didn’t really understand.

And as for Virgil himself…well actually he had always been perfectly fine and Roman basically drove him crazy.

But that wasn’t the point.

The point was, the four of them worked better as a four. They balanced each other out. Even if they sometimes went too far and hurt each others feelings, they always apologised and moved on. And even if having four meant that their could never be a tiebreaker and every decision had to be discussed around and around until someone gave in…that was just what family was like.

And now Roman was just going to walk away from them? Without even saying goodbye?

Unacceptable.

“This is all my fault.” Patton wailed for third time. “I never should have left him alone.”

And on top of everything he’d upset Patton? Virgil was going to find their wayward bard and bring him home. And then kill him.

“Tell us what he said again.” Logan demanded imperiously, notebook and pen at the ready as he stared Patton down.

Virgil sighed and answered for him:

“He told him he wanted to leave the city. And now he’s left the city.”

Logan frowned. “The city gates are closed at sunset – unless he had a royal decree he would have been unable to leave last night.”

Virgil grit his teeth, “Okay, so, assuming he didn’t know that – because none of the rest of us knew that – he left the inn to try to leave the city.”

“So then why leave the inn at all?” Logan continued, pacing up and down the limited floor space and utterly ignoring Virgil “Why not just wait till morning? It makes no sense unless.” He paused at the window. “Unless he was taken against his will.”

Patton and Virgil exchange wide eyed looks. Virgil was normally the one jumping to worst case scenarios, not Logan. “You, uhh, you got any evidence for that one Lo?”

“He left his sword.” Logan pointed. “Amongst almost all his other possessions – he told Patton he wasn’t safe and then he leaves without taking a weapon? It’s illogical.”

“I’m not sure he was thinking logically.” Patton said softly, looking at Romans neatly piled possessions. “You didn’t hear him guys he – he sounded so scared.”

Virgil flinched. Fingers flexing uselessly. “Okay. Okay so. What spooked him? Something in the forest?” He asked, thinking guilty of Romans thorn scratched hands after he’d got himself lost trying to escape Virgil foul mood. “He was totally spaced out last night.”

“He seemed fine this morning.” Patton said with a frown “Logan?”

“He was fine before we saw The Crone.” Logan murmured, “he was, if anything, too effervescent. But when we left he seemed…” he trailed off, adjusting his glasses before glaring defensively at both of them “he didn’t say anything so I can’t be sure – but, he was very quiet. The Crone was northern so I thought perhaps homesickness? But I don’t believe he was scared. Not until the episode.”

Virgil nodded, Logan had already described the episode – Romans sudden sprint through the city street and subsequent panic attack – in detail, although he’d been unable to pin point what had set him off.

“Um I’m sorry …The Crone?” Patton looked horrified, “Logan, do you mean our customer?”

“I. Uhm.” Despite everything Virgil couldn’t help but grin the flush of embarrassment that quickly took over Logan’s face. “She was from the North” Logan told them with great dignity, “Roman has told us many time that it is considered rude to ask a strangers name on first meeting.”

“But, did you…know she was form the North? Before you started calling her crone?” Virgil couldn’t resist teasing.

“Logan that is so rude!” Patton said, giving his best disappointed dad eyes.

“SO rude.” Roman ginned “honestly Patton – Virgil - this kind of behaviour reflects poorly on you as parents. I personally think you should send him to bed without supper.”

And Patton laughed, a secretly pleased smile at being compared to a parent and Virgil rolled his eyes and shrugged Romans hand off his shoulder and Logan let out an offended humph before reminding Roman, again, that he was only a few years older than him and if he was a child Roman was too and a brat besides – an old and well-worn argument that made all of them laugh, tension broken.

Except it wasn’t. Because Roman wasn’t there.

Instead Patton’s exaggerated disappointment mellowed into real sadness as he glanced around the room again and Logan hunched his shoulders, burying his face in his notebook. Silence filled the room.

“I’m going to uh, look outside again.” Virgil jerked his thumb awkwardly to the door and set off without waiting for a response.

Definitely kill him, Virgil thought. Once they were sure he was okay.

Apart from his unusual eye colour, pointed ears and a youthful complexion well into his thirties, Virgil had inherited very little from his mothers people. But his night vision was undeniably better than his fully human companions.

Not that it was doing him much good right now. Didn’t matter how good your eye sight was if there was nothing to see.

It was easy enough to track Roman from the open window, down the wall of torn climbing plants to the ground, but after that the trail immediately went cold. If this was a small town with a dirt road there would at least be footprints, but on the cobblestone streets of the well-to-do there was nothing to follow.

He could be anywhere.

Virgil kicked a pebble with a snarl, sending it clattering across the square. Reluctantly he started to prepare himself for the long climb back up to their room, when he was distracted by a faint whinnying.

The tavern connected to stables.

Huh.

Well….he knew Roman had been prepared to steal a horse before…

Quietly, Virgil slipped around the corner and into the stables. This was a far cry from the glorified shack where he had first met Roman. The ‘stables’ was more of a courtyard, with various coaches and waggons parked in the centre, and an enormous number of stalls ringing the outside. Virgil guessed it was shared between the tavern and the several other buildings that bordered the square.

His heart began to race.

He hadn’t really expected to see much – how would he know, after all, if a horse was missing? But with this much money in one place, there had to be a guard. Someone who might have seen Roman pass through.

He took a deep breath, trying to keep his expectations low, and began to search.

“Virgil. Did you kidnap a child?!”

Virgil winced. The force of Patton’s disappointed dad glare was a lot less funny when it was directed at him. “I mean,” he tried “is it kidnapping? She lives here! It’s not that bad!”

“I would say it’s significantly worse that calling a woman a crone in the privacy of your own head.” Logan muttered under his breath. Virgil glared at him.

“And I don’t live here,” the girl offered brightly “I just work in the stables.”

They were in the inn’s kitchen. Somewhere that they were absolutely not allowed to be. But between cancelling the promised performance, negotiating a week’s stay in an already overbooked establishment and then almost immediately afterwards cancelling that too and the panicked interrogation of the few remaining customers when they’d first discovered Roman missing; Virgil didn’t think the inn’s landlord could really get more irritated with them.

Although the whole kidnapping thing was probably not going to help.

“Here you go sweetheart.” Patton said, pushing a mug of sweet tea towards the girl and taking a seat next to her. He did not offer Virgil or Logan a cup.

“Thanks Mister Pat!” She smiled sweetly up at Patton before turning away from him and sticking her tongue out at Virgil. Virgil gestured wildly between the girl and himself but Patton just sipped his own drink, nose in the air.

Virgil slumped in his chair, glowering.

He’d found her sleeping in one of the empty stable stalls. The space was clearly being used as a hut for the stable boy – or in this case girl – with a small wooden bed pushed against the back wall and a desk covered in half cleaned riding gear near the entrance.

Elated to have found a possible lead he had rushed towards the bed and shaken the occupant awake immediately. And released in one horrifying instant that he was a fully grown man shaking a literal child who probably couldn’t even see him in the darkness.

She yelled.

He yelled.

She threw a horseshoe at his head.

He had managed to bundle her half way back to the inn - one hand clamped over her mouth despite the fact that she was biting him - before Patton appeared, ripping them apart with a growl and then blinking a Virgil in complete confusion when he realised who the would be kidnapper was.

“I – we – just want to ask you some questions.” Virgil said in his calmest I-am-not-deranged-I-have-just-had-a-very-long-day voice “Okay, um, sweetheart?”

All three of them stared at him.

“’Sweetheart’ sounds odd when you say it.”

“I know it does Lo’.”

“It might be the tone of voice.”

“I know it is, Lo’.”

“I’m Lucy.” Said the girl. Lucy sat back in her chair, swinging her legs back and forth. “Are you gonna’ pay me? The last guy gave me five gold pieces.” she grinned at them expectantly.

Virgil rolled his eyes. “Okay well, that’s ridiculous.”

“We don’t have much money.” Patton told her, “but I can make you another tea?” She considered him for a minute but was clearly already besotted with her ‘rescuer’, so she just smiled and held out her mug.

“Now,” Patton asked gently as he poured a refill. “What guy is this? And…what did he ask you to do for that kind of money?”

She shrugged, unconcerned. “Just some rich guy. He wanted to know how many people had come in today, and then for me to let him hang around in my hut until his friend got there.”

“So you left your post?” Logan said disapprovingly. “What time did he arrive? What did he do? What friend was he meeting?”

“He paid me five gold pieces so he could sit in a shed” she told him. “If the guy wanted a horse he could have just bought one. And I just went and sat on the roof anyway, the market was way too busy.”

“Smart.” Virgil said. She glared at him, just long enough to let him know that his approval meant nothing, before continuing.

“He came just after four o’clock, that’s when Tommy goes home and I take over. And he didn’t do anything. Just sat there all grouchy. Then he left with the pretty guy.”

“Pretty?” Logan asked sharply, making Lucy giggle.

“Yeaaaah he had pretty eyes and a lute and really cute short hair. He was way better looking than the rich guy. I think he was a musician.” She sighed.

The three men glanced at each other, excitement building.

“Was he being taken by force?” Logan asked, steepling his hands “Could you see any sign of a struggle? Was he restrained in some way?”

“Logan don’t scare the kid for fucks sake.”

“Oh sorry, the one you kidnapped?”

“Guys.” Patton’s glare quelled them both into silence. Lucy took a long sip of tea, thinking before answering.

“He just walked up to him and they left together right away. I couldn’t hear nothin' but, they didn’t have time to say more than hello before they left.”

“So much for that theory.” Virgil muttered, disappointment settling in his chest. Not that he wanted Logan to be right, that Roman had been taken away by force but- this meant he really had just decided to leave them.

Logan wasn’t convinced. “A physical struggle is not necessarily required to move someone against their will – he could have been coerced.”

“How coercive can you be in one sentence??”

“If he was lying in wait and recognised him instantly the obviously we can assume they knew each other.” Logan told him snottily “Groundwork could have been laid beforehand.”

Virgil frowned, he hadn’t thought of that. But Roman hadn’t arrived until well past four – how had the mystery man known to come to this particular inn?

“Can you tell us anything about the first man?” Patton asked Lucy, “What he looked like or – ooh how about you draw a picture of him!” he produced Romans notebook from his pocket and opened it too a blank page.

“He was just some old rich guy,” she insisted “he was wearing one of those fancy patchwork coats. Pink and blue, and he had dark hair…” she shrugged. ”I don’t remember anything else, sorry Mister Pat.”

“What about an emblem?” Logan asked.

“What’s that?”

“A symbol of his house. Lots of rich people have them, maybe on a bit of jewellery or embroidered on his clothing?”

“He had a cape clasp with a pattern on it.” She said doubtfully, “it wasn’t fancy though just- here – “ she took the note book from Patton and hastily scribbled three interlocking Vs, the largest in the centre.

“We can go to the library and look for it when they open.” Logan told them brightly “If it’s one of the noble houses in the city we should be able to find an address.”

“And we can go see the cro – the customer too” Patton added putting a hand on the scholars shoulder, “Logan says Roman seemed down after they left- she might know something.”

“Right.” Virgil nodded absently.

“One of us should go to the city gates before they open,” Logan continued, “If he still intends to leave the city we can watch for him there.”

Virgil thought of the hordes of people making their way through the city gates. Spotting one man in amongst that throng was going to be near impossible. And even if they found a symbol that matched the child’s drawing, there was no guarantee they would be able to track down the owner. And from Logan's description, Roman hadn’t left his sight whilst they were at The Crones house, what could she possibly tell them that they didn’t already know?

And even if they found him. What good was that, if he truly wanted to leave? It’s not like they could order him to stay.

He felt one large, warm hand land on his shoulder and squeeze gently. “We’ll find him.” Patton told him reassuringly. At the table, Logan was scribbling in his note book again, eyes bright with excitement as he continued the barrage of questions at an amused looking Lucy.

Virgil nodded, and did his best to smile back.

It had been a long week on top of a long month of traveling, and none of their leads were things they could follow right now. They needed to sleep. Get enough rest for a full day of bard hunting in the morning.

And then, well.

If Roman wanted to leave he could leave.

But he was going to damm well explain himself to his family first.

Virgil glanced at Lucy who was watching them with open curiosity.

“I don’t suppose we could convince you not to mention the whole…kidnapping thing to the land lord right?”

She smiled at him. “That’s gonna cost you more than tea.”

Vigil sighed.

chapter 6

#TS: Fall of Romulus #virgil sanders #patton sanders #logan sanders #roman sanders #sanders sides fic #sanders sides #what is writing virgils POV?#is it just a thounsad rehtorical questions?#maybe?#sidespart writes

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whitexwingedxdoves · 3 years

Text

you want me [request]

Pairing: Negan x Younger Reader Pronouns: She/Her Warnings: Language Era: Pre- Apocalypse Summary: Falling for your dad’s friend, you do everything in your power to make him yours, only problem being you’re far to young for him.... for now! A/N: thank you @jinxeee for trusting me with this request and for being my MUSE <3 I hope you love it just as much as I loved writing it <3 ITS IN TWO PARTS BECAUSE I GOT FAR TOO ENGROSSED WITH THIS!

You hated your parents stupid parties they insisted on throwing almost every month, you’d watch as your mother would scramble around the house like headless chickens making sure everything was perfect. Your father would keep himself busy with trips to the store to get whatever food or drinks were on his list. There was only one thing that made the night worth making small talk with your parents, co-workers and friends, Negan, oh god even his name sent your stomach into a whirl. Negan had been friends with your dad for a while now and became a regular face at your home, it was almost love at first sight for you, the way he held himself with so much confidence and talked to you like an adult. You’d find yourself thinking about him during class, when you’re out with your friends... hell you’d even dream about him.

Your parents didn’t realise that you’d actually put effort into your appearance now, they probably just thought it was some teenage hormone thing. You stood at the bottom of the stairs, watching your mum run over the wooden flooring with the vacuum for the 5th time today. Your thumbs pulled at the hem of your skirt, hoping your parents wouldn’t notice how high it rested on your thighs. They weren't, of course, far too occupied with the lay out of party food on the counter of the kitchen. Your mum however did comment on how nice your hair looked curled and how you should do it more often. You listened to the same lecture they gave you every time someone was coming over, how to behave and all that patronising crap.

As people came spilling in, you knew not to get your hopes up just yet, Negan was always the last one to swagger through the door so you just sat on the sofa, twirling one of your curls between your fingers. Without warning, a large hand grabbed a hold of your shoulder, your eyes immediately finding who the hand belonged to. The butterflies in your stomach became more and more aware of the gaze that sat on you. “Hey kid! Shouldn’t you be asleep... isn’t it a school night” your eyes rolled at his teasing words but on the inside you became instantly weak at the tone of his voice.

“I'm not a kid!” you retorted pulling yourself up from the sofa. You followed the man into the kitchen presumably looking for your dad. You managed to get ahead of him, your walk changing almost instantly attempting your best sexy walk but to any onlooker it was just plain awkward. You peered around at him, catching his confused gaze which only made your teen heart throb much more aggressively. “What? You don’t like my outfit?” the teasing tone of your voice made the older man shudder a little as he reached the counter, placing down a bottle of gin he brought along with him. You leaned against the counter directly opposite him, your fingers finding your curls again, your lip taking the brunt of your teeth as you naturally eyed up the tall man.

Negan kept his eye on you, watching your actions with caution as he unscrewed the lid from the bottle. Once his mind had come to a conclusion as to what you were playing at, his muscles relaxed and he allowed a chuckle pass his lips.” What are you doing kid?” His question made you stand up straight almost immediately, catching you completely off guard. “You wanna be some sort of jail bait for one of these losers?” his words felt like daggers going straight through your heart.

“No!” you snapped at the man, pulling at your tight shirt attempting to become a little more modest. He gave you an unsure nod before he met you on your side of the counter island.

“Look, i'm a flattered kid but erm – you not exactly my type” you couldn’t bear to look up at him, the embarrassment was far too much for you to deal with right now “You’re just a kid, far too young for me!” Though he was teasing, he couldn’t help but feel slightly guilty. He remembered how strongly girls loved at that age and he couldn’t bear the thought of having to break your heart like this but it had to be done.

You didn’t speak a word to anyone else that night, you took yourself to your room and cried yourself to sleep, well that was the plan anyway but you couldn’t. The rage wouldn't allow it. If he wanted a mature girl, you’d give it to him. You spent most of the night throwing things out of your closet that seemed too adolescent for ‘grown ups’ and watching videos on how to do your makeup to make you look more mature. You had approximately two weeks to get your act together until you saw him again at your dad’s big birthday barbeque.

You spent the last two weeks changing almost everything about yourself, all for this day. You sat in your garden watching over the brim of one of the books you stole from your mum, Women are from Venus Men are from Mars. You had no idea what it was about nor did you care to find out, it was all part of your plan to prove to Negan you were in fact a woman. Everyone was in their own little circles talking over cold beers and almost burnt hot dogs, your gaze looking through each and everyone of them before settling at the large gate that allowed access to your garden. You saw it move ever so slightly, causing your heart to stop for a moment... There he was, looking as irresistible as ever, time seemed to slow down as he made his way in allowing you to take in every inch of him. Time came rushing back as soon as you saw his perfectly sculpted hand pulling something in with him. A girl.

Your book dropped from your face, allowing the fluster of red that gathered in your cheeks to show. Who the hell was she!? Why is she here and why the hell is she hanging off his arm like some cheap bracelet. Despite wanting to, you just couldn’t look away as she flaunted her win over you, your breathing became uneven without you even noticing. Negan looked for you in the crowd of people and once he saw you, all flustered and angry he shot you an innocent smile accompanied with a wave to be sure he got your attention. He made you watch as he pulled the women he had dragged in, into a hug. What the fuck was he playing at.

You couldn’t move from your spot, you thought everyone was pointing and laughing at you for even thinking your plan would work. It could have but you never got the chance to try it, not now that miss big tit’s, blonde hair was here. Granted no one was actually even looking your way at all and it wasn’t like you had a ‘I heart Negan’ shirt on but still the situation was far too embarrassing for you to even try to socialise right now. You buried your head in your hands, attempting to cover up your crimson cheeks.

“Y/N, Come here!” The ringing of your dad’s words caused you to groan before you reluctantly pushed yourself away from the deck chair and dragged yourself to his side.

“Y/N, This is Jennifer... Negan’s girlfriend.” Finally you had a name for the bitch, you plastered the best fake smile you could possibly muster at this moment and held out your hand for her to shake, she did of course.

“So nice to meet you, Tiffany!” you smiled, your hand gripping hers a little tighter than you initially planned.

“it’s Jennifer” she finally pulled away making you feel like you already had the upper hand

“Whatever” at the sound of your cheery tone you felt your dad’s arm nudge you slightly, your eyes rolling underneath your sunglasses.

The night was going fine, all things considered. Negan continued to wrap his arms around Jennifer whenever you even looked in his direction but you decided to go the grown up route about it and simply avoid him. The sun had set and the air was getting pretty cool, a few of your fathers friends had already left. Laying back in the swing chair that occupied the back porch, you let your thoughts occupy your mind. Why was he even doing this? Did he really think that getting a girlfriend would prove some sort of point? Like getting Jennifer would prove some sort of point? Your thoughts couldn’t get away with you too much because at that point you were brought back to your dull reality at the sound of someone clearing their throat. Your eyes circled the area before they settled on the exact man you were just thinking about. He stood tall over you, a sinister smirk occupying his face. You snapped up as soon as your thoughts caught up with you, sitting straight now on the chair though at the velocity of your movements, it made it swing slightly.

“What’s wrong, where’s Tiffany?” your question only caused his smirk to grow as you allowed your head to hang slightly.

“Jennifer and she’s waiting at the door for me. We’re heading home” his voice was so deep it sent vibrations through your body. Allowing your gaze to finally meet with him. “Just saying bye!” a small laugh left his lips before you stood up.

“Bye” you answered simply before pushing past the man.

“What, not gonna say bye to Jen?” you stopped dead in your tracks, your face starting to flush again and your hands slightly shaking, taking a moment to process your actions. Finally you turned to him, mimicking his smirk.

“Oh so you did all this to make me jealous?” you teased, stepping a little closer to him. The power you felt as you watched his expression go blank. “You really didn’t have to go through all this trouble, Negan... really!” Finally standing so close to him, you could feel his body heat against your cheeks. Standing up on your tiptoes, you wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him into a tight hug allowing your lips to rest against his ear. “You can have me whenever you want” you whispered as seductively as you possibly could, ignoring the swirling of butterflies that swam around your stomach. You couldn’t soak up the feeling of his body against yours for long as he pushed you away as gently as he could. His hands landed on your hips, as he came to your level.

“Never gonna happen kid!” You’ve heard it before but it still stung, not giving you any time to react, the older man made his way past you and out of sight.

Every holiday or party after that he would bring a new Tiffany to the house, flaunting her in front of you at every chance he got but you never backed down, you did everything you could possibly think of to degrade her in front of everyone and at the end of every night you’d hold onto him a little bit too long like a lioness marking her prey. Nothing prepared you for his last minute appearance at Christmas though! Strolling in, in that stupid Santa hat and that stupid bimbo. The audacity of him to ruin my Christmas like that, to corner me like that! What made it worse was the gift he got you, a fucking Barbie. You made some quick retort about how you were too old for Barbie’s and how Tiffany would probably enjoy it more, he’d correct you on her name like usual but the boxed doll was a constant reminder of how he managed to get under your skin every single time

Part Two

#negan x readrer #negan x y/n #negan x you #negan x younger reader #twd negan fanfic #twd fanfic #twd x you #the walking dead Negan #the walking dead fanfiction #negan x you pre apocalypse

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capcarolsdanver · 3 years

Text

A Christmas Carol

Summary: You’re left with the disappointing fact that you will likely be spending yet another Christmas without your girlfriend, Carol Danvers. Your friends offer you support, but all you really need right now is your girlfriend to return from space to be with you for your favourite holiday. Can you count on a Christmas miracle? Pairing: Carol Danvers x Reader A/N: Well... it’s not quite Christmas still, but I severely underestimated how busy I would be over the holidays, so please enjoy this late Christmas fic! Feedback is always appreciated so please let me know what you think! Please do not repost any of my writing anywhere else without my permission.

The annual Avengers Christmas get together is in full swing, and your eyes sweep out across the room to all of your closest friends around you. Of course, everyone’s having a great time, and the open space of the large party hall at Avenger HQ is full of laughter and joyous chatter amongst the guests.

Thor, who still doesn’t exactly understand Christmas, just seems happy to get to spend time with his favourite people. He brought along a generous supply of Asgardian alcohol for those who have what would be classified as a very high tolerance to alcohol, so as expected everyone is in a very joyous mood.

You yourself had found a spot on one of the couches surrounding a small table and had barely moved the whole night, feeling more in the mood to spectate in the festivities rather than participate this year.

Not to say that you’re sitting on your own in some miserable slump, because you are genuinely trying to enjoy everybody’s company, but you can’t deny the Carol-sized void that is particularly evident anywhere you go. Especially during the holidays.

As if to emphasise it, Steve, who’s sitting opposite you from across the small table, catches your eye.

“So, Y/N. When’s your lady coming home?”

He asks you kindly, with a warm smile, as Steve always does. Despite this, you can’t help it when your own smile falters and everyone sitting in your immediate proximity grows quiet, regarding you with sympathy.

“Shit, I’m sorry,” Steve rushes to say when he seems to realise his mistake.

“No, don’t be,” you’re quick to reassure. “I knew what I was getting into when I started dating Carol. I can’t exactly expect space crime to conveniently stop in time for the holidays, can I?”

You choose not to bring up that this will be the third Christmas in a row that you have to spend without Carol, but you still feel the pity practically radiating from every person in the group.

“Okay, who else thinks it’s time for shots?” Sam yells loud enough to be heard over the music by everyone, and the group seems to loudly agree. You remind yourself to thank Sam later for successfully shifting everyone’s attention from you.

Everyone scrambles to each grab a shot. You remain seated on the couch, and moments later Nat takes her own spot on the couch next to you and presses a shot glass into your hands just in time for everybody to simultaneously start counting down from 3.

Somewhere between shouting and cheering, everyone downs their shots, and you all seem to collectively wince. You and Nat both grimace at the burn of the alcohol and it manages to get a chuckle from you.

Nat drops her shot glass on the table before she turns to face you again.

“So. Real talk,” she raises an eyebrow as if warning you not to try to back away from the conversation. “When did you last speak to Carol?”

“A couple weeks ago,” you admit, sighing. “She left on some mission about a month ago. But you know how it is when she’s working up there. It’s so hard for either of us to contact the other.”

Nat smiles sadly. “I’m sorry.” She pats your knee and you shrug at her, though you feel like you’re able to let your guard down a bit now that everyone else in preoccupied.

“Yeah, it sucks,” you let out, feeling Carol’s absence hit you all over again. Your eyes fill with tears that threaten to spill over.

Unexpectedly, and uncharacteristically, Nat pulls you into a hug. You give yourself little time to think about her rare show of affection before you gratefully wrap your arms around her and rest your chin on her shoulder.

“Did she tell you how long the mission might last?”

You shake her head. “No, she just said she might not be able to contact me until she was done.”

“Okay, I think you need another drink,” Nat says, releasing you from her arms. “I’ll be back.”

You quickly wipe at your eyes at the chance of any rogue tears that managed to fall and smile at her before she stands up and heads towards the bar.

————————

On the morning of Christmas Eve, you wake up with a start to some kind of commotion going from somewhere outside the room. You quickly survey your surroundings, remembering that you had decided the previous night to just stay at Avengers HQ after the party, like almost everyone else had. You’re in your old room that you used to live in before you and Carol had moved out together.

The commotion that had woken you up appears to still be going on if the shouting from somewhere outside your closed door is any indiction, so you begrudgingly get up to go investigate.

You follow the loud intrusion of sound into the kitchen, where you aren’t all that surprised to find Bucky and Sam shouting and gesturing wildly at one another.

“Dude, don’t lie. You literally stole my pop tart straight from my plate!” Bucky looks livid. Opposite him, Sam throws his arms out away from his body, matching Bucky’s outrage.

“You have no proof, you moron.”

“Why do I need proof when there was no one else around? It couldn’t have been anyone else.”

You continue watching their exchange, entirely unsurprised that they are blowing up over something as small as a pop tart. You’re half considering just heating another pop tart to shut them up when Nat leans on the wall next to you, taking a sip from her steaming mug of coffee while her eyes also land on the boys.

“Bet you’re glad you don’t wake up to this kind of thing everyday in that fancy apartment of yours, huh?”

“You can say that again,” you laugh. Though, of course, you probably do prefer waking up to these regular early morning antics from the boys than to the empty silence of your apartment whenever Carol isn’t there with you.

“You’re still coming with us to look at Christmas lights tonight, right?”

To be honest, you’d completely forgotten about Steve’s plan for you all to go on some Christmas light trail that night, and although Christmas is generally your favourite holiday, you find yourself not really in the mood to celebrate it this year.

But then again, anything to take your mind off of Carol’s absence sounds appealing to you right now.

“You bet.”

————————

You trail the group, looking around you at all the incredible Christmas displays people have decorated their homes with. There was absolutely no denying how beautiful the entire street is, but as much as you try you just can’t seem to get out of your own head.

Steve’s leading the group and you can hear them all excitedly chatting, pointing out particularly well decorated houses, but you’re content to linger towards the back of the group and take everything in on your own. You know you’re lacking the Christmas spirit needed to participate with them right now, anyway.

A solid hand is suddenly falling around your shoulders, successfully shaking you from whatever broody train of thought you were on as you almost jump out of your skin. Your head snaps to the person you were now attached to, seeing Thor’s wide smile. He tugs you closer to him in an almost brotherly fashion.

“Lovely night, isn’t it?”

“I suppose it is,” you manage, after your heart beat finally slows back down to a normal rate again.

“Ah, you’re yet to hear from Carol, I presume?” Thor asks. You’ve gotta give him credit. As much as he’s completely enthralled by the Christmas lights surrounding you, Thor can still pick up on your solemn mood with remarkable ease.

“You presume correctly.”

You see Thor hesitate for only a moment before he speaks. “Might I offer a few words, Y/N?”

“Sure,” you say, sighing. What could you lose from hearing what he has to say? Plus, the Asgardian usually provided you with some pretty solid advice.

“Please give Carol a little patience. I know firsthand how difficult it can be to communicate with you all while I’m not here.” You soften at Thor’s words, not even aware of how tense your body was. “You all are my family. And it hurts when I’m unable to talk to any of you whenever I’d like,” he explains. “So, please just remember that Carol is likely just as anxious to speak with you as well.”

“Right,” you say more to yourself. Thor’s words somehow do make you feel some kind of comfort in the fact that Carol wasn’t choosing to go so long without talking to you. Not that you thought she was, but the reassurance helps.

Thor squeezes your shoulder in comfort and loosens his grip from around your shoulders, but before he can leave your side again you grab his arm.

“Thank you, Thor,” you say sincerely, and he gives you an understanding smile before leaving you to your own thoughts again.

At some point a little later, Steve seems to notice from his spot at the front of the pack that you’re still lagging behind, because he drops his pace to fall into step with you.

“Are you having a good night, Y/N?”

“Yeah, it’s nice,” you smile. As distracted as you’ve been, it’s hard to miss how much fun the others in your group are having. “Thanks for organising this, Steve.”

He returns your smile and nods. “Well, for most of us, we’re all we’ve got. I figured it was time to start making some traditions of our own.”

“Well I like that sound of that,” you say. You really do appreciate everything Steve does for every single one of you, and he was right. You are family. Personally, if it weren’t for the Avengers, you would have no one else. You know the same applies for many of you, the man you were currently talking to included.

“Hey, listen,” Steve says in a considerably more careful tone. “I wanted to apologise again for bringing up Carol last night.”

“You have nothing to apologise for,” you reassure him, shaking your head.

“I know, but-” He shrugs. “I just feel bad about bringing her up when we were supposed to be getting into the Christmas spirit last night. I mean, what is this, your second Christmas without Carol?”

“My third, actually,” you mutter, clearing your throat and dropping your eyes to the pavement in front of you.

“Shit, here I go again,” he curses, watching you. “I’m sorry.”

“Steve, stop apologising,” you say firmly. “Seriously, you’ve done nothing wrong.”

You take a scan of your surroundings. The street sign catches your eye and you realise you’re only a few blocks away from your apartment, which sounds like an awfully appealing place to be right now. You were exhausted from your previous late night, plus, what little Christmas spirit you did have has been all but spent this far into the Christmas light trail.

“Oh, you know what? We’re pretty close to my apartment. I think I might call it a night.”

Steve’s eyes widen and his features settle into a look of guilt. “You aren’t going to come back to HQ with the rest of us?”

“Nah, I think I just want to head home. I’m pretty tired.”

“Oh man, I totally ruined your night, didn’t I?” Steve shakes his head at himself, his look of guilt deepening even further. “I can’t believe I brought Carol up again.”

You interrupt Steve’s inevitable continued apologies before he can even start.

“Steve, no. My brain was never going to turn off tonight, anyway. It wouldn’t matter if none of you mentioned Carol the entire day, I still would have thought of her.”

Steve looks fairly unconvinced, still clearly internally scolding himself. Though you notice his features soften and eventually he nods.

“Do you need someone to walk with you?”

“I’ll be fine. It’s really not far at all.”

“Alright,” he hesitantly agrees. “But we’ll see you in the morning to exchange gifts and everything, right?”

“Right,” you laugh. “Hey, do me a favour and let everyone else know I left early. Nat would never let me leave a group activity early if I told her I wanted to.”

“No problem,” Steve laughs.

You give his forearm a quick squeeze in thanks, waving to him before you make your way towards your apartment.

————————

You’ve barely even made it a block before your phone starts ringing. You fish it out from your pocket, assuming that it’s Nat, calling to berate you for leaving the group early. Without even checking the caller ID, you answer.

“I don’t want to hear it, I’m not coming back,” you say, not leaving opportunity for the person on the other line to get a word in first.

“Coming back to where?”

The voice on the other line is not Nat. In fact, it’s the last voice you were expecting to hear tonight.

“Carol?!” You practically squeal into the phone, stopping dead in your tracks.

“Hey, baby,” she says and you instantly melt, having gone weeks without hearing her voice.

“Oh my god. Hi,” you greet back, feeling like you could burst into tears at any given minute.

“You okay there?” You can practically hear her smirk and the image of it in your mind makes you smile.

“Yeah, I just can’t believe I’m hearing your voice right now.”

“Well you better believe it, babe, because it’s definitely happening.”

Your brain finally recovers from the shock enough to ask a vital question. “Wait, does this mean your mission is over?”

“Mmhm,” she confirms. “Finished a couple days ago, actually, but this is the first chance I’ve had to be able to call you.”

You can’t help the sudden hopefulness that you feel. If the mission ended a couple of days ago and she was already on her way back to Earth, then it was entirely possible that she could be back within the next day.

You let out a deep breath, your emotions almost getting the best of you. With your mind racing a million miles a minute, you subconsciously start taking some more steps forward. The snow beneath your feet crunches slightly with every step you take.

“Where are you?” She asks curiously, and you assume she’s heard the sounds of your footsteps.

“Uh, I’m on my way to the apartment.”

“Wait, you’re walking to the apartment? Alone?!”

“Hey, I can handle myself,” you chuckle. “I am an Avenger, remember? Besides, I’m only a couple of blocks away.”

“Oh yeah?” Her voices lilts slightly. “Why are you even walking the streets at night, anyway?”

“How do you know it’s nighttime? Doesn’t everywhere look like night in space?” You can’t help but tease and Carol laughs.

“Well, is it nighttime?”

“…Yes,” you admit. “But that’s nothing more than a lucky guess.”

“Uh huh,” Carol replies, and you can hear her smirk through the phone again. The things you would do to see that smirk in person at this moment…

“Anyway,” you interrupt your own train of thought. “I was with everyone up until a few minutes ago. We were out looking at lights.”

“Lights? What kind of lights are so special that you’ve gotta go out in a group to go look at them?”

You’re left dumbstruck for a moment. She surely hasn’t forgotten what time of year it is, has she? You’d only reminded her about a month ago, and she knows how much you love the holiday. You assumed she would have remembered.

“We were looking at Christmas lights,” you clarify.

“Oh. Well now it makes sense,” you laughs. “Isn’t it a little too soon to be looking at Christmas lights, though?”

You’re hit with the fact that she’s actually forgotten what time of year it is. You try to shake off the sudden disappointment, though you’re a little too aware that if she has forgotten the date then she likely hasn’t begun her journey back to Earth just yet either. Which means another Carol-less Christmas for you once more.

“It’s Christmas Eve,” you eventually mutter into the phone.

“It is?” She sounds vaguely surprised at your clarification. “Huh. I guess it’s pretty easy to lose track of time up here.”

“Yeah, I bet.”

“So you’re heading back to the apartment?” She continues on as if you hadn’t just revealed to her that your favourite holiday is mere hours away. You can’t exactly be mad at her, though. As she said, it’s easy to lose track of time while she’s doing important work up in space. “Why not HQ with everyone else?”

“I just felt like being home, I guess,” you explain. “I wasn’t in the Christmas spirit and we were pretty close to the apartment, so I decided to head home early.”

You hear Carol hum in acknowledgement as you use your keycard to get into your apartment building. You start up the flight of stairs leading to your apartment.

“So, when do you think you’ll be back?” You can’t help but ask. Realistically, you have known for weeks that Carol likely wouldn’t make it back in time for Christmas. Though, with Christmas Day only a few hours away, and your short-lived hopes of her returning any day now, the disappointment of her not being here is fresh once again.

“Soon,” Carol says vaguely and you frown.

“Soon? That could mean anything,” you complain. “Don’t you have at least some idea of when you’ll be back?” You can’t help the slight bite to your tone, the frustration of everything seemingly growing by the minute.

You fumble with your keys, your current conversation leaving you preoccupied enough to struggle with the basic task of locating the correct key on your keychain to grant you entrance into your apartment.

“I don’t know, babe,” you hear Carol say and you finally unlock the door, pushing it open and walking into your apartment, slamming the door shut behind you. “Why don’t you tell me?”

Her voice sounds suddenly different, louder, and you twist around on the spot until you’re facing your living room.

You gasp when you see her. Carol is standing beside your Christmas tree. Her eyes are on you and she still has her phone pressed to her ear. The only thing that rivals the bright lights of the tree is her wide grin, bright enough to light up the room all on its own.

Your wide eyes refuse to blink as you look back at her. You’re suddenly all out of words.

You watch as Carol takes one step closer, and then another, until she’s closing the distance between the two of you. The closer she gets to you, the softer her smile grows.

“You’re here,” you whisper into your phone. Carol lowers her own phone, coming to a stop directly in front of you.

“I’m here,” she returns, her own voice barely above a whisper too.

“Hi,” you say dumbly and Carol smiles adoringly at you. She gently takes your phone from your hand and drops it down onto your couch along with her own.

“Hi.”

Before you know what you’re doing, you abruptly tackle her in a tight hug. If she weren’t Captain Marvel you might have been worried about her balance, but she remains steady, wrapping you up in her strong arms.

Without even realising it, tears are spilling out of your eyes and running down your cheeks, and you let out a deep breath you weren’t even aware you were holding, pressing your face into Carol’s neck and breathing in her scent. You feel the lightest you’ve felt in months.

Carol hears your sniffling and takes a step back to look at you. She keeps ahold of your sides.

“You okay?”

“Are you kidding?” You choke out a laugh amidst your tears. “I’m more than okay, Carol. What are you even doing here?”

You still can’t believe your eyes. You can’t believe that the love of your life is standing right in front of you when only moments ago you still believed that she was in outer space.

“What, you really thought I’d let you spend another Christmas without me? It’s your favourite holiday, you know?” She lets go of her hold on your left side to tuck an errant strand of hair behind your ear. “You know how much it killed me having to miss the last two Christmases with you.”

You shake your head in disbelief, completely in awe of the woman in front of you.

“I love you so much, Carol.”

“I love you too.” She barely has time to get the words out before your mouth is pressed against hers in a kiss that’s long overdue. You only pull back for a moment when your smile literally grows too big to continue kissing Carol. You both break into laughter, giddy at the joy of finally being together again.

“I can’t believe you’re here.” You say the words that repeat over and over in your mind. Carol’s intense gaze regards you and she smiles at you sweetly.

“Merry Christmas, Y/N.”

“Merry Christmas, Carol,” you reply before your lips are meeting hers again.

————————

The next morning, you wake up to the sound of Christmas carols playing from the living room and the smell of fresh coffee drifting in through your open bedroom door. You can hear Carol softly singing along to the music, and you smile sleepily.

Nat was right. You’ve never been more glad to wake up to the sounds of your apartment than you are right now.

#carol danvers imagine #captain marvel imagine #brie larson imagine #carol danvers x reader #captain marvel x reader #brie larson x reader #mcu imagine #carol danvers #captain marvel #avengers #mcu #mine #fic

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chaseatinydream · 3 years

Text

pirate king (60) || atz

“You shouldn’t have done that, Wooyoung-ah.”

At the sound of your voice, the head gunner turns away, completely silent, dark anger boiling beneath his skin. He’s clearly not in the mood to have a talking to now. But you have no fear, not anymore, anyway, and seat yourself next to him on the bed. Your bed, you realise.

Wooyoung’s mouth is pressed in a tight line, edges of his lips curling white in something crossed between a frown and a sneer. There’s a big bruise on his cheek, presumably put there by Jongho again, and he’s looking away very determinedly, set on not meeting your eye.

Unfortunately for him, your stubbornness more than rivals his own, and you’re not about to let him off the hook so easily. He punched his captain, for god’s sake. That’s not typical Wooyoung behavior. “We can sit here all day, you know? I have all the time in the world.”

You really don’t (haha brain, very funny joke), but fingers scratch irritably over the cover of your pillow, Wooyoung chancing a quick glance at you before his eyes have flitted elsewhere. The tension is so thick it’s practically suffocating the two of you alive, but you’re not about to give in anytime soon.

You wait.

Waiting doesn’t take long. Wooyoung’s personality loves comfortable silences or noise. Awkward silence? Not so much. He opens his mouth once, hesitates, closes it, and opens it again with a swallow.

“How... how’s your hand?” He’s still not looking at you.

“This?” You raise the empty stump, the phantom itch still throbs strangely. You’re strangely calm for someone who’s just lost their hand, but knowing death is right on its tail really puts things into perspective. “I’m fine. I was injured by Gunho during the battle and, well, you know the rest.” you shrug, turn away yourself. He really doesn’t, but it’s easier not to go into the specifics.

Wooyoung flinches a little, but you see it. Then an angry growl leaves his chest, fingers digging so hard into your pillow they turn white. “I should have killed that bastard when I had the chance.”

“You couldn’t have known what he was going to do.” You tell him gently, glance out of the porthole and watch the sky outside slowly turn from inky black to midnight blue. Silence lingers between the two of you for a moment before Wooyoung finally puffs out a breath, licks his dry lips.

“How’s Captain?”

Your captain snorts a little as you dab water at his nose. “If Wooyoung had been serious about beating me up, I’d have a lot more than a broken nose.”

“Well,” you shrug, bringing your knees up to your chest, “you nearly broke his nose, gave him five different bruises, very big ones, I may add, and almost gave Master a heart attack.” Wooyoung makes a satisfied noise, patting his raw knuckles fondly.

“He deserved that much, at the very least.” He mumbles, drags a hand across his face, but he looks relieved. “Five bruises was letting him off too easy.” You glance at him for a second, turn back to the world outside, the sky and sea separating as the first hints of day draw a line of light across the horizon. Beyond the heavy wooden door of the sickbay, orders are called, the thud of boots resounding across the deck as the crew rush to carry out said orders.

“I’ll be fine, really.” You find yourself saying, though he hasn’t asked. His eyes find yours and more words start to spill out of your mouth unchecked. “I might have lost a hand, but at least I’m not dead, am I?”

The second you say that, you feel like you’ve somehow slapped both Wooyoung and yourself in the face, metaphorically, of course. At least I’m not dead, your heart gives a little self deprecating chuckle, and you resist the urge to cut off that loose tongue of yours for its stupidity.

Great job, you.

“Get ready to storm the island! I want every one of us to find that Captain Kang and drag him to the Treasure by the knees! Do you understand me?” You hear Mingi shout from behind the door of the sickbay and you make to rise to your feet, “we should go check out what they’re up to-”

But you’re stopped by a familiar hand. “Wait.”

Frowning, you turn back, arch an eyebrow. “Why?” You ask, a little confused. Wooyoung glances up at you with deep green eyes, soft and serious with emotion, and one by one, his fingers lace around yours, squeezing gently. Your heart skips, tumbles a beat, but you keep your eyes on his face. “Wooyoung?”

“Just listen to me for a moment.” He says, voice pleading and for some reason, it makes you nervous, like you’re not ready for whatever emotionally weighted words he’s about to unload on you. “I just need to say something.”

The two of you probably really should get going, but something about the way he’s talking makes you pause, nod for him to go on. “When I was on that island... and we realised that it was a trap for the Treasure...” a shudder runs down his spine, the pad of his thumbs tracing small circles on the inside of your wrist, “I can’t begin to say just how damn terrified I was. And while I was running back to the ship, all I could think about was just how stupid I realised I had been.”

“You couldn’t have known it was going to be a trap, Wooyoung.” You remind him firmly, intent on stopping him from blaming himself just like his captain did, gods were all of them going to be like this? “No one knew, not even Captain, and we all came out fine, so there’s no harm done-”

“That’s not what I meant.” Wooyoung interrupts. The chains rattle as his hand falls to his side, as heavy as his words. “What I meant was... pushing you away, thinking that by distancing myself, I was keeping you safe, but in reality I was just a coward who didn’t have the balls to face my feelings.”

What?

“When I was running back to the Treasure, one thought kept replaying in my mind.” He bites on his lower lip, an agonized look crossing his eyes as he stares at you so longingly, so painfully. “What if the last thing you remembered of me was leaving you alone on that mast and removing myself from your life without knowing how I really felt? What if...” he chokes, head bowed, “what if the last thing you had thought of me was that I hated you, and you died without knowing just how untrue that was?”

You don’t even know what you’re hearing right now. The words, you hear them, but you don’t really hear them. Wooyoung doesn’t hate you, that... that’s amazing to know, but why do you feel like that isn’t the end of it quite yet?

“Chin Hae.” He looks into your eyes, so piercingly you couldn’t look away even if you tried. “I’m scared of women. I’m terrified of them. I have scars all over my body, and I can’t forget the way they touched me, how I was forced to serve them until Captain rescued me. After I left that life behind, I played women like toys because I wanted to convince myself that I was no longer the victim, no longer the powerless.” He takes a deep breath, searches you with a defeated smile. “But it seems like I was wrong, and I find myself powerless in front of a woman once again.”

Your thoughts swirl like the raging waves, a jumble of noises and words and so much emotions. “Wooyoung, what-”

“I love you, Chin Hae.”

“Wait, give me a moment-” You try to collect yourself, but Wooyoung smiles gently, squeezing your hand lightly again and that affectionate, familiar gesture grounds you like a lifeboat in the middle of a storm.

Gentle eyes meet yours.

“You don’t need to love me back.” He tells you, smiling a little wistfully. There’s peace in that lopsided grin, as if a massive weight has finally been lifted off his shoulders, as if he hasn’t just dropped the emotional equivalent of his 42 pound cannon right into your arms. “I just wanted you to know. You... you’re really precious to me, Chin Hae.”

You try to find words, and only one comes to mind. “Buh...” You’re immediately disgusted by your own apparent inability to form complete sentences. What is your brain made of, clay?

...probably.

At your flustered state, Wooyoung breaks into peals of laughter that resemble an entire pod of happy dolphins, slapping his thigh in amusement. Fumbling about, you throw your headrest at him, only making him laugh harder when it bounces off the wall next to head. “Wooyoung!”

“I’m sorry!” He laughs, not sounding sorry at all. You glare at him, not amused, but squeeze his hand back, like you always have.

“I don’t know how I feel yet.” You tell him honestly, linking your fingers together. Wooyoung nods earnestly, purple hair falling into his eyes. “You... you might only be saying this because you almost lost me, so I want you to think about what you feel again, after all of this has calmed down... before you tell me this again.”

Wooyoung shrugs. “I know what I feel, but if it makes you feel more assured, alright then. I’m fine with waiting.”

A breath of relief escapes you, and you nod seriously, but before you can say anymore, there’s a knock on the door, and it swings open to reveal-

“Captain.” Wooyoung rises to greet his captain a little awkwardly, scratching his head. The corner of Hongjoong’s lips lift in a slight, weary smile at the sight of the two of you seated on the bed, pausing slightly at the door.

“Am I interrupting something?”

“Not at all.” You wave your captain over and Hongjoong takes a step, but his toe dances lightly at the door right before it crosses into the room, and stops to squint a little at his head gunner.

“You’re not going to throw another punch at me the second I step into this room, right?”

Wooyoung lets out a humored chuckle. “God, no, even if I wanted to.” The ice broken, he bumps shoulders with his captain and Hongjoong finally cracks a smile, although it seems a little... off, somehow. “Though I still think it would have been an improvement to your looks if I’d broken a few things on your face.”

Your captain gives a good-natured snort for someone who’d just been beaten up less than half a day ago. “Well, it’s good to have you on the same side again. I was wondering if I could borrow your gun and your eye in,” he glances out of the door onto the deck with a grim smile, “maybe about a few minutes or so.”

Something about the way he says that has something sinking in your chest.

“Just my gun and eye?” Wooyoung tries to lighten the tension by joking with a raised eyebrow, similarly on edge at the tone of his captain’s voice, his fingers shifting towards the long flintlock at his hip as he gestures at himself. “You know you have to get me too, right? We’re kind of a package deal.”

“I might throw in a bonus if you come along.” Hongjoong shrugs, still gazing out of the door. The angle the two of you are at, you can’t quite see what’s happening on deck, but the shouting from outside is loud enough to reach your ears and you’re immediately tensed.

“Appreciative enough to spare me bilge bailing duty for a week for rearranging your face?”

“Maybe. If you ask nicely. Actually, no.” Hongjoong replies, turning to look at the two of you with a smile that’s a little too strained for your liking. “Well, someone has just approached the ship from the island, and-”

“Captain Kang says he wants to talk.”

#ateez #ateez fanfic #ateez fanfiction #hongjoong #seonghwa #yunho #yeosang #san #mingi #wooyoung #jongho #ateez pirate king #w; ot8 #w; pirate king #w; fanfiction

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lorei-writes · 4 years

Text

My Sun & Stars

Mitsuhide x Witch!OC Smut Fantasy AU

None of the MCs from the game seemed quite fitting, so please, welcome Zora. I wonder... Should I write more stories with her?

If you like this work, then please, go check out the blog of my dear @cheese-ception . <3 It’s only because of her that you’re able to enjoy it without striking errors.

Word count estimate: 2,6k Contents / Content Warnings: magical restraint, OC in position of power, (plenty?) teasing, vaginal sex

“Sly fox, aren’t you?” she jested. “I’m unworthy of such praise,” his voice dropped low, mischief playing at the corners of his mouth. “Well then, I wonder, shall I improve my spells? If you’re unworthy, then you shouldn’t have slipped past them in the first place.” “Only if you please to keep me away.” “And wouldn’t you try to crack them again? My, my…” she feigned discontent. He leaned down, his gaze meeting hers.“Alternatively, whisper one word and you’ll be free again.”

Zora shifted under his weight, her laughter flying up and circling below the ceiling, dispersing into separate sweet notes in the labyrinth provided by knots of drying herbs and flowers. His fingers trailed her waist, tickling her mercilessly while she squirmed – and her eyes crinkled happily, her bed creaking heavily as she tried to free herself.

Her world turned to white and amber, his irises seemingly pulling her in, his lips brushing lightly against hers, only to return to her with newly discovered fervour. She hummed into the kiss, irking a quizzical brow when he pinned her hands above her head. Mitsuhide pulled back, giggling – much to her discontent, his free fingers crawling to torture her a little more.

“Sly fox, aren’t you?” she jested.

“I’m unworthy of such praise,” his voice dropped low, mischief playing at the corners of his mouth.

“Well then, I wonder, shall I improve my spells? If you’re unworthy, then you shouldn’t have slipped past them in the first place.”

“Only if you please to keep me away.”

“And wouldn’t you try to crack them again? My, my…” she feigned discontent.

He leaned down, his gaze meeting hers. “Alternatively, whisper one word and you’ll be free again.”

Her eyes narrowed – and that very instant, he knew he was a mouse who had just invited a cat to play. She straightened one finger and pointed it up, an invisible force pulling him by the collar and turning him upside-down, leaving him hanging up in the air. One leg thrown over the other, his lover pushed herself up, sitting at the edge of the bed. With a gesture of her hand, she ruled for him to be pulled forward, just until he found himself just close enough to feel her breath on his neck. Her fingers slipped into his hair, brushing it gently, only for her to cup his face a moment later.

“My sun and stars, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you like being in this state,” Zora whispered, her teeth grazing his Adam’s apple. “Or should I rethink it? Perhaps tie you up with a ribbon? Blue would suit you well, you’re so pale…”

She kissed along his jawline, stealing glances at him to probe how her words affected him. She licked her lips.”Or perhaps you’re after my spells? Wizardry, and magic, and what not do seem to be of interest to you…”

Mitsuhide opened his mouth, but she pressed a finger to it before a single gust of breath managed to escape his lungs.

“E-e-e,” she chirped. “I want to hear nothing, not from this lying place. I know that being a royal informant does come at a price of truthfulness. Although I wonder… Would you like it if I prohibited your tongue from uttering lies for the duration of your stay? A nod for yes, darling.”

His head moved before he even fully registered it, her face lighting up in contentment. Zora whispered an incantation – and somehow, although he wasn’t sure how, he was changed.

Her fingers moved again, twisting him as if he was a mere doll. Still hanging upside-down and held by her power in place, he appeared to be sitting on an invisible chair.

“Well. Tell me then, is it really the court that sought my help?”

“Yes.”

“And whose idea it was?”

His lips pressed into a thin line, her entire form seemingly rising in excitement.

“I haven’t heard you just yet. I do have an eternity to spend here, love.”

“Mine,” he murmured.

“Louder, please?”

“Mine,” Mitsuhide repeated himself. “The court wasn’t aware of the power you posses.”

“Oh? Then did they change their minds and arranged this… Visit? Because if so, then I’m afraid we’ve diverged from the topic of business quite –”

“I came of my own intent,” he cut her off, causing her to smirk. A blush came over his face, prompted by sudden, albeit forced, openness.

“And what intent exactly was that? Did you miss my face?”

“I presume you’re more than aware of the reason, Zora.”

She rolled her eyes, her skirt rustling as she got up from her place. Zora walked towards her working desk, her fingers curling around the backside of the chair.

“Zora?” he called after her.

“Oh, don’t mind me, I’m only giving you enough time to muster courage to tell me,” she stated, her back turned towards him. Her elbows resting over the table, she leaned forward, seemingly reading something – although that much he couldn’t possibly tell. She swayed her hips from side to side, humming to herself. Mitsuhide could have sworn he’d choke on the air.

“I missed you,” he admitted finally, red adorning his face. It’s only blood, he reasoned with himself, the tips of his ears only growing pinker. Her shoulders stiffened for a second, relaxing the very next one, her lips curling into a smile as she turned around and walked towards him. Another gesture – his world spun. Still held by her magic, he was suspended above the ground, almost completely immobilised. Something gleamed in her eyes as she sat in his lap, facing him directly.

“And what exactly did you miss?”

“Everything, save for the creaking bed,” Mitsuhide jested, meeting her gaze.

“I’m afraid you need to be more precise, lest you want to get nothing,” she tilted her head to the side.

“The way life with you flows. Your humour, your smile, your laughter…” he trailed off, her hand reaching to cup his cheek. He leaned into her touch.

“Yes?”

“Your body. Your kisses. How you look when you sleep,” he uttered in a husky voice.

“Well then. I presume I can grant you that much, my sun and stars…”

Zora leaned forward, her lips brushing his and parting for him. It was brief, so very brief that it was over before it fully began – and she withdrew, much to his dismay. Mistuhide followed her with his eyes, an unreasonable anxiety that what he said was out of line growing in his stomach. She sat at the edge of the bed, turning him to face her.

“My, my, slower, darling, slower,” she hummed, looking to the side. Two thick braids swept forward, Zora began to untie them unhurriedly, brown hair unravelling to form waves. Freed from its restraint, it fell long over her back, spilling past her shoulders and down the length of her back. She brushed it with her fingers, glancing his way to see him staring at her in anticipation.

Zora rose from her place, bare feet touching the wooden floor – and somehow, she felt oddly aware of her surroundings, of her every movement and every rustle of fabric. In a practised motion, she untied the ribbon keeping her blouse closed, and pulled it out completely, letting the azure string fall to the ground. The material opened, slipping down to expose her collarbones, threatening to descend further if little help was offered. It was abandoned, however, her attention turning towards the skirt flowing down freely to the very floor. Seemingly begging not to be discarded, it appeared to struggle against her attempts, the buttons in the back refusing to come undone.

Fresh air cooled her skin, goosebumps rising over her thighs, seemingly brought to life by his careful gaze. Mitsuhide studied her from his place, as if trying to remember what detail he could save – the mole on her shoulder, blooming just over her collarbone, the heaving of her chest, how her blouse ended just below the place her legs met, her hair falling forward, slipping from behind her ear… The strange sort of confidence in her gaze, one he knew all too well.

Zora straddled him again, crossing her arms behind his neck. Her eyes gleaming, she ground against his thigh, the corners of her lips curling up as something hard pressed against her through the fabric of his pants. She nibbled at his lips and trailed a path of kisses down his neck, sucking at the very base of it until a red mark came to life. She brushed it with her fingers and pulled back, a blush reaching the tip of his ears betraying his stoic face.

“I think you found yourself trapped, love. And I do not plan on letting you go,” she whispered, stroking his cock through the garment. Mitsuhide bit back a gasp.

Preoccupied with her ministrations, Zora somehow let her guard slip, her spell losing its intensity. Feeling the restraint lessen, he moved his arm, careful to stay otherwise still as not to disturb her magic any further. Inch by inch, Mitsuhide freed his hands, finally allowing himself to touch her, his fingers tracing paths up her thighs, daring to reach for the hem of her blouse and hike it up… Zora opened her eyes wider, invisible force pulling him back into his previous position.

“Sly fox, I didn’t give you permission for that, did I?” she sighed and shook her head. “When did you grow so impatient?”

“The sun’s going down…” Mitsuhide noted, a familiar sorrow following the mutual realisation. As if to wash the bitter taste of it away, she kissed him again and again, until he couldn’t help panting heavily into her mouth. Something changed while her hands hurried to remove his shirt, dexterous fingers making quick work of the buttons, a rush of sorts guiding her movements until he was completely bare. Zora pushed on his shoulders and he fell back, lying down while suspended in the air. He watched her, her hand rubbing at the bud of nerves between her thighs as she straddled him. As if somewhat hesitantly, she pulled her legs up, keeping them suspended by the same power that held him. Having adjusted to her new position, Zora rose – and then, while the sun died for the day, she sank onto him.

Mitsuhide groaned, the shadows around them beginning their dance. The room gleamed, odd specks of glittering dust raising from the floor while a sudden bursts of light erupted behind Zora’s back, tinting her skin in shades of blue, purple and red. Zora leaned onto her hands, her nails digging into his thighs as she moved her hips again. Another flash – he saw her face, her teeth biting into her lower lip. She let herself fall, grinding hard against him, gasps spilling into the night. Having found her rhythm, she let her head tilt back, her eyes closing as she chased after her own pleasure – and he watched, carefully observing her in every flare that graced the room.

Light painted her in gold, her skin glistening with sweat. Her lips parted, her movements becoming faster and soon turning erratic. Frown came over her face – she was desperate, her release being so close, yet so far away. Tiredness overtaking her limbs, she whimpered, the need getting the better of her. Still moving, Zora opened her eyes, his fingers rubbing at the bud of nerves between her thighs, his other hand reaching to hold her backside.

“Mi… Mitsuhide, we’ll fall…” she uttered, blush adorning her face.

“I’ve learnt my lesson the last time, let me–”

Her body tensed, her eyes turning hazy. Breathing heavily, Zora fell forward, the foundation below them shaking dangerously. Her head resting over his shoulder, Mitsuhide brushed hair out of her face, cautious as not to move too much. A moment passed and she looked at him, a certain kind of clarity having returned to her gaze. She pushed herself up, her hair tickling his neck – and she kissed him, hungry for his affection.

“Hold onto me,” Mitsuhide rasped and she obeyed, crossing her arms behind his neck. Much to her discontent, he slipped out of her, his chuckle causing her to frown. Adorable, he mused in his mind, sitting straight and lifting her up fast enough for the spell to still last.

Mitsuhide set Zora on the bed, the frame creaking as he positioned himself between her legs. Stroking his cock with one hand, he brushed her cheek with the other, her eyes crinkling happily.

“You shouldn’t have used your magic if it tires you out so much, little one.”

“Hush, or else I’ll make you, my moon and stars,” Zora sneered, biting his thumb. He smirked, rolling his hips into her, her composure faltering. Leaning onto his forearms, he stared in her eyes.

“I’m looking forward to it then,” he paused, thrusting into her, “because I do have questions that I wanted to ask.”

Zora whimpered.

“Firstly, have you missed me?”

“Mitsuhide…” she moaned, his pace increasing.

“You have my attention.”

“Hnn, yes.”

“Secondly, will you miss me tomorrow?”

“Don’t make me think of this now!”

His hand reached down to her breast, his fingers pinching her nipple through her blouse. Zora bit on her lip. “Fine, yes! I will,” she forced out of herself, her lover smiling in contentment.

“And lastly–”

“I do love you, you idiot, so shut up for once,” she cut him off, her eyes closing as she tilted her head back.

“Very well then,” Mitsuhide grunted, straightening his back.

He caught her thigh and threw her leg over his shoulder, pulling her towards himself, the hem of her blouse hiking up. Before she reacted, however, he pressed his thumb to where she wanted him most, another whimper escaping her lips as he rubbed on the sensitive spot, thrusting into her mercilessly. He could feel her muscles beginning to clench, her back arching – and then it was only pulsing around him, her lovely lips gasping for air as world came crushing down on her. Her hands covering her eyes, the shadows around them had already died, only the moonlight coming from outside daring to disturb the darkness – in it, she was his silver, precious and otherworldly. Utterly dishevelled, Zora stole a glance at him, her lips glistening. What did she say? He couldn’t hear it quite well. Whatever it was – ‘Please’, ‘I love you’, ‘Faster’ or a mixture of all – it had its effect, pushing him forward to chase after his impending release. He was so close…

Mitsuhide pulled out of her, tainting her stomach with his cum. Still catching his breath, he looked around. He reached for the towel waiting atop the bedside table and wiped her clean, collapsing on the bed next to her a moment later – and it did creak heavily, the damned thing.

Having regained some strength, Zora curled into his side, resting her head over his shoulder.

“When do you have to go back?”

“Before the dawn.”

“Good. So you’ll still be here, when I wake up…” she trailed off, her eyes closing as she fell asleep.

***

The nights were short, much too short for his liking – and although he should have rested before a new day, Mitsuhide just couldn’t help watching the woman next to him. Her chest rose rhythmically, not a sorrow crossing her face. Feeling a chill sneak up his spine, he reached for a blanket, her blouse sliding a bit further down. Mitsuhide frowned, old scars peaking from below the fabric. Hot iron, he recalled, clenching his jaws. He shouldn’t have been surprised anymore – caught witches were marked.

He turned onto his side, pulling Zora into an embrace. She was hurt three times – he wouldn’t allow for the fourth one to happen. Ever.

Tag list: @cheese-ception , @nad-zeta

Notes: I am keeping a separate tag list for smut. If you want to be tagged for it, let me know (if you want to be tagged for all of my works, please, specify that). ^^

#mitsuhide akechi #ikesen mitsuhide #ikemen sengoku mitsuhide #ikesen #ikemen sengoku #ikemen series #my ff #my writing

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lyndiscealin · 3 years

Text

Akio - Part III

content warning: depression and thoughts about suicide.

It was interesting, really. Riko had imagined that you, when you woke up in a hospital, would hear the beeping sound of the heart monitor first. But the first thing that happened was that he felt being in a room. Then he felt the bed. And this was interesting in itself, because the last thought he had, had been about dying. The last thought he had, had been about not keeping his promise to Arthur, not keeping the ‘later��. The last thought he had, had been about the ring in his pocket and the life he wasn’t allowed to live.

After realising being in a room the beeping sound came slowly, then came the pain. It was hazy and dull, but it was there. Like his body consisted of thousands of stiff muscles. He hadn’t felt like that even after the last game against the foxes.

He drifted off again without opening his eyes, dreaming about orange and red and pain.

It needed days until he was long enough awake to be able to take in everything. Everytime he had woken up before, Arthur had been by his side. But now that his mind wasn’t as foggy anymore, he realised that he had hallucinated. Of course he had. Josten and Minyard probably have shown Arthur the newspaper articles around the Nest and himself after his presumed death. No one would stay at his side if they knew about that and he desperately wished that he had died in that alley. Whoever saw him and called an ambulance could go fuck themself.

Sometime that day two Police officers came in and for a brief moment he thought someone had told them about him. Maybe Arthur, maybe Josten or his midget goalie. But they just asked about the injuries, explained that the hospital called them in as a standard procedure. Of course.

He told them some story about a stranger he couldn’t remember properly who thought it’d be fun to kill the asian guy and the police was okay with that. Easy to file, no way of pursuing anything, because there was no evidence. Not even the knife was found. Josten and Minyard would probably be far away by now and the police too relieved to be able to let this go to a cold case. Minyard wouldn’t have done this if there had been even the slightest possibility to get caught. Not after all these people had seen them in the restaurant.

Riko swallowed a hard lump down his throat and hoped with every fiber of his body, that they didn’t hurt Arthur.

After one of the nurses told him that his hand probably wouldn’t fully heal and that he lost a kidney and he probably would have pain in his right knee for a long time, he lay in bed the whole night, staring at the ceiling. He would live a life in pain and without anyone to spend this life with. He would have tried to kill himself, if he had been able to get out of bed. He had time, though. He had all the time in the world.

When he opened his eyes the next day, Arthur was there again. Riko looked away. Maybe… maybe if he just ignored the image, it would vanish again.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there yesterday. The nurses send me home to rest. Are you angry with me?”

The low, soft voice of Arthur sounded exactly like the original one and it tore Riko’s heart apart.

Wasn’t he hurting enough? Had his head to do this to him, too?

“Go away”, he said weakly, when everything he wanted was to just be held.

“What? Akio-”

He shook his head and closed his eyes. Perhaps… perhaps when he just went back to sleep, this would go away again.

“Whatever painkillers they are giving me, this isn’t worth it.”, he mumbled to himself. He had to tell them he needed something else. Something less strong. Fuck physical pain, this was far worse.

“They told me you could react like that. Because of the attack and the trauma and because you are in pain. But no, Akio. I won’t go. I will stay here until you are better, at least physically and then we can talk. If you want me gone by then still, okay. But I know you have no one. You didn’t even text the others about what happened. If you are too proud to ask for help, so be it, but I, at least, will stay here until I know you are able to make a rational decision.”

Of course… Maybe he should crawl up to the roof and throw himself over the edge. If it was busy enough in here he might be able to do it before anyone noticed he was missing.

The weeks crawled by agonizingly slowly. At some point Riko had to admit that Arthur wasn’t a hallucination, but it didn’t make the pain less intense. They would talk as soon as he was allowed to go home again, and then Arthur would drop the friendliness. If Riko could, he would have sent him away, but Arthur had been right: He needed help and there was no one else. There would never be anyone after this.

He was three weeks in the hospital and when he was released he still had the cast around his arm and a brace around his knee. He wasn’t allowed to fully walk on it yet, but was able to do some steps with a crutch.

Arthur helped him to his apartment and didn’t say anything until Riko was laid out on the couch.

“So”, Arthur began and stopped again.

“So”, Riko answered, waiting for the inevitable. Seconds ticked by and no one said another word. It was Riko who broke first. “You did enough, Arthur. More than enough. You shouldn’t have done it. It was a waste of your time. No one ever will say anything because you left me. I understand.”

Arthur blinked. “Is this some ‘I am a cripple and a liability now’ bullshit? Because we both know you weren’t the easiest person to deal with in the first place and I don’t know what I’ve done in the past two years that makes you think I can’t take this. Also… while your temper tantrums might never go away and while you might never let me stay at your place for more than a night, your physical inabilities will mostly heal with time. Your other kidney is healthy as can be and most likely will never produce any problems. So don’t give me this shit. You know very well I would drive you to dialysis and back every damn day and would not complain.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Riko asked impatiently. Why didn’t he come to the point. “I’m not a cripple.”

“Okay, what is your problem? I waited and waited in the hopes you would explain, but since these assholes showed up - and don’t think I don’t know that they did that to you and not some stupid racist - you have a stick up your ass and won’t let me near you. Spill it, Akio, because I really don’t get it.”

“My name isn’t Akio and I don’t know why you still call me that!”

“What?!”

Now it was Riko who blinked. “What?”

#Akio #riko moriyama #aftg #tfc

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claraoswaldfics · 3 years

Text

Halloween Night, part 2

(Continued from part 1)

It took me a few minutes and a good chunk of breakfast before my memories had lined themselves up in an order I recognised. And let me tell you, there was one memory in particular in there I’m surprised I ever forgot. I still get a rush thinking about it now.

I’d love to tell you I was a suave and charming flirt that night, or a beguiling seductress, because I can and have been both before. Seriously, give me a little black dress or a tailored suit and I am an irresistible force. I’ve wriggled into a cocktail dress and draped myself over a piano once. What I’m trying to say is I draw confidence from the way I dress and tonight I was dressed as a sixties cartoon character.

But that wasn’t the only reason I was nervous. There was a girl; strike that, a woman; strike that, a flame-haired goddess sat next to me, and the two of us were in a taxi back to my place. She was also dressed as a Scooby Doo character, but maybe not for much longer.

We didn’t go back to Amy’s in the end. Mine was closer anyway, and Priya, traitor that she was, had actually arranged a backup Halloween party for her to go to should ours fall apart. That left my flat empty for the night.

I wouldn’t describe myself as calculating per se, although I have been accused of it, and looking after children and travelling with the Doctor (the same activity a lot of the time) does mean I’m working out plans in my head a lot of the time. But finding out that no roommates would be home that night meant I did find myself shamelessly plotting and pursuing the little turns in conversation that might take me and her to where I wanted us to go that night.

I picture myself as a chess player, and not just because I really fancy female chess players.

The Doctor always says it’s a matter of picturing your goal on the other side of a chasm and building a bridge as you jump. The problem is that picturing my goal very much distracts me from the general architectural effort, to put it lightly.

As a result, I don’t remember much of the taxi ride. I was too focused on not making an absolute blubbering fool out of myself to delegate much brainpower to long-term memory storage. Conversation with intent to flirt is a challenge, and not one I’ve had the time to perfect. And while I may not have been my best witty siren self, but I hadn’t stuck my foot in it, and I’d even made her laugh a few times, although not as much as she made me laugh.

If there were times when I felt in control, it was all because of her. She was cool, she was calm, and her smile could switch from wicked to understanding in an instant.

We didn’t kiss in the taxi. I really thought we might; the tension was certainly there and I did a lot of really top-level pouts on the ride. But she seemed intent on putting me at ease first. So we talked. We talked about all manner of things – her modelling work, November 1st hangovers, her first kiss with a woman; that last one didn’t have the calming effect she was going for.

“I’d tell you about mine,” I quip, “but you were there for it.”

“If you want, I can be there for your second, too.”

I blinked; is this really happening?

As if to confirm, her warm hand graced my bare knee.

I leaned in.

Then the driver knocked on the divider to tell us we’d arrived, shattering a potentially magical moment.

Amy gave me a pat on the shoulder and rolled her eyes. She left the taxi and paid the driver while I was momentarily stuck in my reverie. I had half a mind to cuss him out there and then, but in retrospect, I may have inadvertently gotten my revenge by leaving a damp sweaty patch on his back seat.

After that the night stalled for a bit.

I had some problem with the locks that took a few minutes of fiddling with my keys in the biting cold to fix. And Amy had to pee the moment she got indoors. My train of thought went off the rails for a bit here, I’m ashamed to admit. I’d hoped she would press me against the wall and stick her tongue in me the second the door closed behind us. But instead it had gone like this:

“I might just go and freshen up a bit.”

“Maybe I’ll join you”

“Oh. If I’m honest, Clara, I just meant I needed to use the loo.”

“I thought you were talking about the shower.”

“No. Do you need the shower?”

“No.”

“Do I need a shower?”

“No, you’re very clean. And you smell very nice.”

“So the toilet is…”

“Up the stairs, yeah.”

And then I shut up for a bit.

Was this a ploy? Was she using this chance to put on makeup and make herself look nice? Was she trying to look less like she was in fancy dress? Should I be doing the same – making myself look less like Velma? Or… more like Velma? Maybe she was into it?

Or maybe… Had she drunk too much? Was that why she was on the toilet? Or maybe the alcohol was why she was with me here in the first place? No, she’d only had two, and she’d been very articulate in the cab (although don’t ask me what about).

Why did I say “I’ll join you”? Obviously she meant the toilet! Come on Clara. Get your head in the game!

And stop thinking about toilets, I told myself, or else…

Amy slunk back into the room, framed herself against the doorway and leant against the wall. She’d mussed her hair up a little, and the hem of her dress was further up her thigh than she’d worn it at the club. I’d paid a lot of attention to that hem.

“So,” she asked, in a low, Scottish, purr. “where were we?”

“Um,” I replied, one leg already shaking, “I’m really sorry, do you mind if I… y’know…”

“Oh, sorry, of course.”

“It’s just we only have the one and I had a bit to drink…”

“Yeah, yeah. Gotcha.” She cleared her throat. “Hurry back.”

Mood ruined. Again.

From atop the porcelain, I looked down at the flagging fabric around her ankles. Sorry, bi panties, tonight might not be your night. Not while fate is twanging my libido like a guitar string. Vibrating my every thought to a melody of rapture and anxiety. What I’d give for a moment of clarity!

Pulling myself together, I fixed my face for the second time in five minutes. Okay, so the tone of the night was currently a bit more bathroom farce than I’d have liked, but did that mean there was no way to salvage it? That I’d have to let the fire in my loins die out? Hell no!

In a stroke of what felt like genius, I lifted off my jumper and shed the layers beneath it, stashing both bra and top in the cupboard beneath the sink. As I pulled the jumper back over my head, I felt practically gift-wrapped.

(I then had a brief flirtation with leaving even the jumper off. I decided against it)

When I returned to the living room, breasts freer than usual, Amy had already made herself at home, adopting a very relaxed slouch across the sofa, and was waving a DVD box at me.

“We’re watching this”

I didn’t have time to object or ask before the screech of bats came from the telly. The DVD was already playing. With something approaching horror, I realised what film was in the machine. The live-action 2002 Scooby Doo movie.

I questioned briefly exactly what percentage of this woman’s identity revolved around Hanna-Barbera productions, and how high that number would have to be to stop me fancying her.

“Oh, come oon, sit down. It’s a laff.” Amy propped herself up by her elbows. “Look, I know I’ve been winding you up a little, making you nervous, but…”

“I’m not nervous.” I spluttered.

“It’s okay to be…”

“I’ve never been nervous”.

“Right. Okay. Good.” I got the impression she’d seen through my act. “So why don’t you sit down and we can watch the film and not be nervous together?”

“Yeah, I can do that.” I nodded, and started walking.

“If you like, we can even not be nervous on the same couch.”

“Okay, yeah.” And again, after a pause “yeah.”

I sat down on the other side of the couch. Not presuming to touch her but not far enough away to make it look like I was distancing myself from her. I pulled down the hem of my skirt, then took it back in a bit, to be flirty, then took it back in again. I wondered if I was overthinking this, and then how many times I’d already asked that tonight. It was a lot, but did that in and of itself qualify as overthinking?

Had Amy seen all of that? I gave her my best “everything is fine, I’m relaxed” smile, and she smiled back. “Sure you are,” she seemed to say.

We made a reasonable dent in the movie that night. My fears that Amy might turn out to be a rabid Scooby-Doo superfan were assuaged quite early on, as she kept asking questions over the top of it. Small talk like that did set me at ease a little more. Yes, that actress was in ER. No, the CGI hadn’t aged terribly well. I don’t know why Mr Bean is here either. That sort of thing. It helped that I happened to know a lot of trivia about films from around this time. Young Clara had spent a lot of time on trivia quizzes after she’d learned the electric joy that came with being right all the time. And right now that feeling of moderate control was really helping to steady the boat.

“Wine?”

Amy was very receptive to the idea. Thankfully, Priya had a bottle of red in her half of the kitchen (it was a whole political situation, don’t ask) that I was very happy to leave an IOU for. As shaky as my hands were, I could still easily uncork a bottle, and I managed to carry both glasses in without spilling a drop. We sat, more snuggled up than last time, and raised our glasses “to Scooby Doo!” Everything was going to plan.

“Do you think Shaggy says Zoinks when he orgasms?”

I spat out my wine.

“What??”

“He says it every time he’s even slightly scared. You expect me to believe he doesn’t say it…” and then her voice went spicy and French “...in flagrante?”

“Yes, but scared and horny aren’t the same thing?”

“Are they not, Clara Oswald?”

She put down her wine glass and centred me in her double-barrelled stare. I was suddenly very aware of her height. Parts of me began to boil under her gaze. She was right. Oh god was she right.

“So tell me, what does Velma say, in the heat of it all, when the moment comes?” She drawled, darkly.

All of a sudden, there were no words in my brain.

A switch had been flipped. Amy’s hand was on my knee. More accurately, the very tips of her fingers were, and they were delicately making their way upwards. I gulped as they traced their way beyond my knee-highs and onto my flesh. She angled her approach so that as her wrist brushed the hem of my skirt, her palm was gracing my inner thigh. And she showed no sign of stopping.

I responded in kind, wrapping my right hand around the inside of her left knee, our arms crossing each other, mine over hers. If I moved my hand further in, so would she. The sensation of her cotton tights on my skin thrilled me, the fabric barely concealing her warmth beneath it.

“Mmmmmm.” The sound of her voice was much closer to my ear than I expected. As I turned my face, hers was already there. “Not so nervous now, are you?”

The warmth of her breath on my lips was too much for me to take. I leaned in, eyes closed, and kissed her. Her hand paused on my thigh, as if contemplating how to proceed, mere centimetres away from my panties. I couldn’t see her reaction, but I pictured her blinking in surprise, before feeling her press right back into my face. She was returning my kiss with abandon.

Beneath my skirt, I could feel the squeeze of Amy’s hand on my thigh and I broke the kiss to gasp. I swear I felt the curl of Amy’s lips into a smile as we parted.

“Now that’s not fair. I was going to kiss you first.”

“Well you’ve got to be faster next time.”

“Faster, yeah?” She beamed.

With that she swung her leg over and straddled my right thigh. Her hands fastened onto both sides of my face as we once again locked mouths. Every part of me was clamped by her warm embrace. It felt like returning home after a long, cold night. My hands quickly found work snaking through her hair, her roots bunching in the gaps between my fingers; my palm graced her cheek on her left, and my other hand soothed its way up the back of her neck, exerting a small pressure to keep her lips on mine.

Amy pressed forward, shifting me sideways on the sofa. Her leg had moved up my thigh and was rubbing right up against my mound. The heat from it radiated up and through me, stirring every sinew like mulled wine. It was like I had a second, lower heart, thumping down below, pulsing want and need through my body.

I moved my hips up so she could feel like this too. The chub of my thigh encountered some elastic resistance from her tights, but I was soon met by a warm damp patch as I made contact. She responded like a vice to that and was soon rolling her hips up against me. I tensed my wide but muscular thigh in a rhythm with her and soon we were both just as wet as each other. And with every movement, our cores came closer and closer together, the hems of our skirts forced back above the waistline.

All the while I was thinking, I’m doing it! There’s a girl on me and she wants me as badly as I want her! And now our boobs are touching! Oh my stars!

Almost as one, our hands pawed at each other’s backs and pulled our midriffs into contact. While Amy’s hands pressed down, hoping to circumnavigate under my jumper, mine found their way upwards, having located the base of a zipper on the back of her dress, and chasing the potential that offered all the way up.

As my fingers gently tugged at the plastic zip slider at the base of her neck, she pulled her face away, but no more than an inch. A string of saliva still connected our lips. I could still feel her heartbeat on every part of us that touched.

“Don’t touch that zipper.” She said, her voice a mix of steel and cheek. “Not yet. Not while I’m still having my fun.”

I had visions, let me tell you, of biblical, pornographic revelations on that couch. Desperate visions of Amy taking me right there and then, her flinging me back down onto the cushions and spreading my legs with her glorious caber-throwing arms, of her diving in and ripping my panties off with her teeth, eating me out with my jumper and skirt still on, her glorious mane clamped between my thigh highs.

The thought alone could have got me off.

But then I heard keys in the door. My eyes sprang open. My bastard Judas roommate was back. Damn you, Priya!

But Amy was on the case. “Bedroom?” She asked.

“Upstairs,” I replied.

I shooed her through the hall and up the staircase as fast as I could. When I had opened my eyes for that split second, Amy’s eyes had been right in front of me, focused and dilated. No doubt mine were the same. I wasn’t going to let that slip through my fingers. Though the stairs were nearby, there was no way to get up them without going past the front door, and sure enough.

“Who’s this, Clara?” Priya, always so smug.

“Shut up,” I muttered, still hurrying Amy upstairs.

I could hear the giddy smile on her face as she shouted up the stairs.

“Where are you off to with your friend, Clara?”

“Shut up!”

I could tell Amy was stifling a giggle. Probably tempted to turn around and introduce herself, maybe give Priya a little wave. I’m sure they’d have got on like a house on fire, but the making friends part of my brain wasn’t in control at that time.

“I’m so sorry about my roommate.” I said, shepherding Amy through the first door on the right. “She’s cool, I promise, but I don’t want to spoil the mood and...”

Amy wasted no time. As I turned to close the door after us, Amy was behind me, pressing me into the door, her hands snaking their way around my waist and her words slithering into my ear.

“Oh Clara.” She exhaled, before giving me two quick pecks on the neck. “I think I’ve teased you long enough tonight, don’t you?”

With that, her hands went to work. Before I could believe it, her left hand was up my jumper, and her right was beneath the waistband of my skirt. I gasped as the tip of her middle finger made its first contact with the absolutely drenched fabric of my underwear, and as her left hand found its way to my uncupped breast she let out an “mmmmmmm” of admiration.

“You sexy thing” she drawled, part of a honey trap before grabbing my breast in a tight squeeze.

I squealed.

She continued her conquest of my body. Kissing my neck. Circling my nipples. Massaging me over my panties. I was at her mercy and all the better for it. I pressed myself back into her, hoping to feel her warmth from every angle. I could feel her breasts against my back and her core against my arse, and she responded in kind, pulling me in and strapping me against her with her arms.

“Amy” I squeaked.

“Clara” she moaned.

She gave my nipple a cheeky twist and I momentarily lost all feeling in my legs. I stumbled backwards, but she effortlessly supported my weight against her. It barely slowed her down. The elastic of my panties thrummed over her fingernail as she explored further down. She kept playing my body like a cello and I was more than happy to sound out her music.

When I next opened my eyes, there was a mirror in front of me. I must have stumbled back further than I thought. But what I saw in it- for a second it was like a different person.

The woman in the mirror locked eyes with me. Her hair a mess, her breathing haggard and primal, escaping between a sigh and a whine. Her lover’s hands under her garments created a pale diamond of flesh, its north exposing her shivering ribcage and its south teasing the peak of her pubic mound, all of it glistening with sweat. Over her shoulder, a curtain of sleek red hair, as a blood red mouth devoured her neck. With every desperate breath, the woman’s body shook, positively writhing in ecstasy.

And her eyes…

Pupils dilated, between rapture and fear, gazing into the sublime, on the crest of a revelation.

The woman is me.

The woman on her neck is my lover.

And I am so irrevocably, irrepressibly, incandescently gay.

There’s a wisp of cold air on my throat and I notice that Amy has moved, her eyes meeting mine in the mirror. She has a sly purse to her lips; she knows the effect her fingers are having on me and has no intention to stop. But I can see I’m affecting her too. I can sense it in the redness of her face, the pressure between her fingers and the synchronous rhythms of our hips.

“Liking what you see, eh, Velma?” She teased.

“Oh shut up”

I’m going to claim it was the breathlessness in her voice rather than the name Velma that set me off, but whatever the reason, every part of my body switched into overdrive. Lust controlled me bodily. Gripping the back of her skull, threads of hairs through my fingers, I pushed her open mouth onto mine and slid my tongue straight in.

For a split second, her hand on my clit was shocked out of its rhythm, but I wasn’t about to allow that. Something was building under my skirt and I was going to usher it out. My palm gripped the back of her hand and steered her back into tempo. My fingers, like hers, were instantly sodden and they glided frictionless back and forth over me. Faster… Harder… Building up. Building up...

Oh God I was so close…

“Amy” I moaned into her mouth, not for a second letting up on our kiss. “Amy, Amy, mmmmmmm, fuck, Amy.”

Her voice cut through everything, clear as day.

“Cum for me, Clara”

And I did. Oh how I did.

The ball of passion inside me erupted, rolling up my body at a spine-snappingly fast pace. It shot through to the ends of my fingers and the tips of my toes, before contracting my whole body in convulsions. I lost control of the hand on my clit, but Amy’s soldiered on, her fingers compelling waves and waves of pleasure out of me.

I would have shrieked her name, if I could think at all in those moments, but all that escaped my mouth were guttural grunts, rising, rising, rising in volume. For minutes, for hours - I’d never felt anything this intense in my life. It was like I was pure electricity, nothing but sensation, and it was you, Amy, you that did this.

My vision went white.

“Jinkies”

And then I slumped onto her like a ragdoll.

End of part 2.

#clamy #Amy!Clara #Pondswald #femslash #doctor who #clara oswald #amy pond #femslash fix fairy

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insfiringyou · 4 years

Text

BTS - Finding Solace (Jungkook x Young-soon)

Contains: Angst. Family discussions. *Trigger warning for upsetting scenes involving an ill family member*

Set between ‘Jin’s Wedding’ and ‘A Reunion’, Young-soon’s father is taken ill, and Jungkook agnosies over how to support her during such a difficult time.

You can find out more about our headcanon universe and ongoing storyline here and more about our headcanon girlfriends here.

To read all headcanon fics chronologically, go here.

To read each member & their girlfriend’s headcanon universe fics in order, follow the links here: RM / Jin / Suga / J-Hope / Jimin / V / Jungkook & our full masterlist of fics and art can be found here

Content below the cut

PART ONE

The strip light overhead buzzed incessantly as Jungkook punched a code into the vending machine at the end of the hall, watching the spiralled dispenser twirl before dropping a candy bar in the tray below. He paused for a moment, before ordering another. He knew Young-soon would not be hungry when she left the ward, but it was a long drive home and her appetite was sure to return before they reached Seoul.

The corridor was strangely silent, with only the humming bulb and the distant squeak of a nurse’s shoes keeping him company, but he couldn’t help feeling relieved. During their first few visits, Young-soon’s relentless, pained sobs had echoed from the room where her father was kept, and he had felt powerless to stop them. That first long and silent drive from her apartment in the city to the suburban hospital at the edge of Incheon still played on his mind; the way she automatically reached for the handle on the driver’s side of her car after receiving the call, and how he had stopped her, knowing she was in no condition to attempt the journey. She was shaking the whole way, gaze fixed on the road ahead as he steered through the city, following the Satnav which promised to find the streets with the least congestion. Her eyes swam with tears, but she kept her jaw tightly clenched, only letting go when he finally pulled into the hospital parking lot and her mother met them in the foyer. Stepping back, he allowed them space to hug; their embrace tightening as they clung to each other; her mother briefly meeting his gaze over his girlfriend’s shoulder, with a thankful nod.

He hadn’t known what to do when they reached the third floor. The door to her father’s suite was open, and Jungkook caught a glimpse of the older man’s pale, chalky face in the hospital bed. His eyes were closed, and for a moment he feared the worst, until the doctor led the two women into the room and murmured that he was stable. The younger woman’s shoulders dropped in relief and she turned, for the first time that afternoon, to face her boyfriend, letting out a long sigh.

Wanting to give them their privacy and feeling a little worn from the unexpected drive, he stayed in the corridor. There was something he needed to do and looked around the ward for a phone-zone, where he could make a private call without disturbing the staff. Several signs dotted around the walls clearly forbade their use in the corridors, but he finally found one which pointed to a small room near the nurses’ station and followed the direction of the arrow, closing the door quietly behind himself.

It took longer than expected to be connected to the right person but, satisfied he had done all he could, he looked around the ward, seeking out somewhere to sit. Slowly, he walked to a line of plastic chairs which lined one whitewashed wall and leaned back, pressing the pads of his thumb and index finger against his eyes. It seemed as though he had been awake for days but a quick glance at his G-Shock told him it was not yet seven pm. His heart seemed to stop when, a moment later he heard Young-soon let out a single cry, quickly muffled by, presumably, her mother’s shoulder in another tight embrace. He considered getting back to his feet and rushing in to see her, but knew he couldn’t help. The quiet, reassuring tone of the doctor’s voice floated down the hall from the private room, followed by that of her mother, before the door closed behind them, muffling the sounds from the outside world.

Jungkook waited patiently, ignoring the nagging, itchy feeling behind his eyes, until he could no longer keep them open. Settling back, he urged himself to stay awake, wanting to be there when the door eventually opened again; to be told how the older man had been affected by the stroke which had occurred while pottering around the garden earlier in the day. Jungkook remembered observing the weather from Young-soon’s apartment window as he got out of the shower and towelled himself off; thinking that if he did not have to make a video call to his management it would have been the perfect day for a long stroll through the park. There had not been a cloud in the sky, and the layer of fog which usually filled the streets early in the day had been absent. He recalled thinking that Young-soon would be thankful; that her asthma which sometimes played up when the air was badly polluted would not bother her while the day was so bright and, suddenly, he felt a little guilty; as though his cheerful mood and optimism had somehow cursed the day, causing things to become messy and complicated. He thought of her father, who always hugged him so fondly when they met and seemed so proud of him the last time they spoke, when Jungkook revealed he was laying the groundwork for a solo album. Other than his own parents, he had never met somebody who welcomed him with such warmth and affection. It had crossed his mind more than once over the last two and a half years that he would feel honoured to call such a man his father-in-law and hoped, more than anything, that he would be okay; that the other man would get to enjoy another sun-filled day in the garden, admiring the bright variety of flowers he had so lovingly planted over the years.

It wasn’t until he heard the loudening sounds of footsteps against the vinyl flooring and his eyes snapped open that he realised he had fallen asleep. The door to the hospital suite was wide open, and Young-soon was walking towards him, dabbing gently at her eyes with the back of her fingers. He got to his feet at once, wondering vaguely how long he had been dozing.

“How is he?” Jungkook asked, reaching out for her hands as she closed the gap between them.

She sniffled quietly, voice trembling. “We won’t know until he wakes up.”

His heart sank and he looked over her shoulder, towards the open doorway. He couldn’t see from this angle, but he suspected from the almost-silent atmosphere, that her father was alone.

“Did your mom go home?”

She nodded. “She’s just picking up a few things. They’ve said it could be a while…”

“I’ve called your boss.” He reassured her, squeezing her fingers gently. “He said to take a few days off and call when you can.”

A frown lined her face, crumpling her features. “I didn’t even think of that…”

“You shouldn’t have to worry about work.” He murmured softly and she sighed, clearly drained and feeling at a loss of what to do next.

“I’m worried about my mom.” She admitted.

“Is she planning to stay at home?”

Her shoulders moved in a shrug. “I doubt she’s thought of booking anywhere. I just don’t want her to be on her own.”

He thought for a moment, realising that he had never been in a situation like this before and wondering whether he was doing the right thing; if there was more he should be doing. The thought seemed pointless, but it troubled him nonetheless and when he spoke next, he was a little cautious. “Do you want me to stay?”

Her eyes met his, but her gaze was soft and grateful. “Don’t you have a photoshoot tomorrow?”

He shook his head. “I’m sure they’ll understand.”

That had been two weeks ago...but the look of worry on her face as they left the hospital together still haunted him.

Pocketing the spare candy bar, he reached for the cup of lukewarm instant coffee he had left sitting on one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs and sipped it with a grimace as a young woman opened the door of the nurses station and joined the corridor to begin her evening rounds. She looked freshed out of training, her short black hair tied neatly in a bun, and cast a double glance in his direction as she walked past. Nervously, he moved the polystyrene cup from his mouth and pointed at it.

“Am I okay to drink it here?” He asked, thinking he had been caught out. There were no signs telling him not to but, like the cell phone policy, he suspected the nurses could be pretty strict. She hesitated for a moment before nodding with a smile.

“Yeah, sure. Just be careful not to spill any.”

It took him a moment to work out the expression on her face and realised it was a look he had seen before. For a second, she seemed to hesitate and he wondered whether she would ask for an autograph. The timing would be incredibly inappropriate, but it would not be the first time. Instead, she surprised him by straightening up, as though catching herself and realising where she was and, with an internal sigh of relief, Jungkook cut the silence.

“I will.” He promised, before nodding in the direction of the door down the hall which was undoubtedly one she would be visiting on her round. “How is he?”

Following his eyeline, she pointed. “In there?” She turned back to him. “A lot better than he was. He’s got his appetite back…and his communication’s improving.”

“Has he been out of bed yet?”

She shook her head. “Not on his own.” She must have seen the sunken expression on his face, because her gaze softened sympathetically. “...It just takes time.”

“I guess.”

She thought for a moment. “The woman in there with him now…do you know her?”

“She’s my girlfriend.” Jungkook confirmed, realising as he said it that it was the first time he had told someone other than those he knew. It didn’t feel like such a big deal anymore. “He’s her father.”

“Oh.” Her mouth opened, as though desperately wanting to ask more, but she quickly closed it, remaining professional. “If you need anything, I’ll be right down the hall.” She pointed vaguely in the direction of the station and started to walk away before turning back, just remembering... “Visiting hours are almost over.” She warned softly. “If you want to stay a few more minutes, I won’t tell…”

Jungkook nodded with a grateful smile. “Thanks.”

PART TWO

Three months later…

She took the towel as it was handed to her with a quiet thanks and began the work of wiping the cutlery which lay on the draining board, dropping them by type into the draw behind her as her mother washed up. She noticed the silver in the older woman’s hair which seemed to cover almost her head; a few strands of black still clinging to the strands in the centre while the edges were consumed. It had only been two and a half weeks since her last visit, but the stress of the last few months had finally started to take its toll. Her face was likewise adorned by a few extra grooves and lines which Young-soon did not remember being there at the time of her father’s hospitalisation, and she wondered vaguely whether she too was beginning to show physical signs of her worry. She had recently found a few greys of her own while brushing her hair in the bathroom mirror and had plucked them out with a quiet “fuck.”

Catching her gaze, her mother smiled softly; the crinkles at the corner of her mouth strangely loving as they both turned ahead to look out of the wide window in front of the sink. The view overlooked a small patch of decking and, beyond that, the stretch of lawn which was currently being mowed by Jungkook. He moved along the push-mower with some effort; its metal blades noisy as it cut through the grass in a straight line. Beside him, Young-soon could just about make out the shape of her father standing under the shade cast by the garden shed; his oversized stomach hanging over his shorts as he watched the young man carefully. This too seemed strange. She remembered her father as lean and trim when he entered the hospital, but it seemed that months of spending most of his time in bed had rounded him.

The two women subconsciously held their breath as Jungkook stopped mowing and reached for a potted plant which blocked his path at the edge of the grass, picking it up and discarding it gently by a row of sunflowers.

The older woman tutted with a smile. “He’s going to ask him to move it.” She warned softly, under her breath. “You know he likes it in the shade.”

Young-soon watched and, a moment later, her father’s short, stubby finger shot out and pointed in the direction of the shadowed decking.

Her mother chuckled lightly, handing her a freshly washed plate.. “I told you…I wonder how much longer he’ll continue if your dad keeps bossing him around.”

Young-soon shrugged. “Probably all night.” She mumbled dryly, stacking the plate onto the drying rack. She sensed her mother looking at her out of the corner of her eye.

“I hope you don’t order him around like that.” She taunted, a little too knowingly.. “He seems like he has trouble saying no.”

Her eyes rolled in reply, voice little more than a grumbling whisper. “Tell me about it…” The tone of her answer made her mother frown and, changing the subject, Young-soon nodded towards the outline of her boyfriend as he resumed mowing. “It was his idea to come and help.”

The older woman looked at her a moment longer before she too continued the task at hand; dipping her worn hands into the bowl to find the dishcloth at the bottom. “He’s a sweet boy.” She commented fondly, as though stating a fact, and Young-soon couldn’t help but sigh in agreement.

“I know.” She murmured, finding herself looking in his direction once more as he stopped what he was doing to reach for the hem of his white shirt and lift it above his head. The day was unseasonably warm and his tanned skin glistened with sweat; his tattoos becoming visible as he discarded the fabric on the stone walkway which ran alongside the neat patch of lawn. She watched him wipe his forehead with the back of his hand and could almost imagine her father’s sarcastic, and slightly chastising comment at the sight. Jungkook cast a timid grin in his direction, muttering something in reply before reaching once more for the handlebar. Despite having seen him topless almost every day for the past few months as he spent more and more time with her, it still made her heart beat rapidly in her chest. Catching herself, she shook her head and glanced down at the growing pile of plates she had missed being handed to her.

“I caught him looking at apartments the other day.” Young-soon said, ignoring the churning, fluttery feeling in her lower stomach.

“Oh?” The other woman seemed interested.

She nodded, laughing softly. “Here in Incheon...he was trying to minimise the website when I came in, but he clicked zoom instead…”

“Do you think he wants you to move in together?”

She sensed the curiosity in her mother’s voice and couldn’t help but feel guilty that she was not as entirely convinced by the idea.

“It’s a big step.” She spoke slowly. “I’m not sure if I’d want to commute.”

“It’d only be for the weekends.” Her mother reasoned, voice raising in pitch as though unable to hide her excitement. “You could stay in Seoul with your aunt.”

Young-soon pulled a face and she tutted dramatically, hiding a smile.

“She always asks how you are…”

“Then I’ll call her…”

The clattering sound outside came to a halt; the mowing evidently finished and Jungkook began the task of sorting the plant pots he had shifted back to their original place, under the watchful eye of her father.

“It’s good of him to support you going part time.” Her mother eventually murmured, cutting the silence.

“I didn’t ask him to.” She protested weakly. “But I’m glad he does.” Young-soon admitted with a small sigh. “My wages only just cover my rent.”

“You know we’d help too…”

She shook her head sadly. “Dad’s treatment...” She argued, feeling a small hand brush her shoulder.

“You’re our only daughter.” The voice beside her was soft, reassuring. “We’ve been putting money aside for years...for when you get married…”

Her lips twisted in a small, sarcastic smile. “That’s optimistic.”

The other woman shook her head in disagreement. “He’d make a good husband.” She reasoned, but found herself frowning a moment later when Young-soon did not answer. “You’re not sure?”

Sighing, she admitted defeat. “I suppose he would be…”

“Haven’t you discussed it before?” Her mother raised a questioning eyebrow. “If you want a family?”

“Once or twice...” She admitted, looking down. “But not in a while.” Glancing back through the window, she was lost in thought for a moment. “He seems fixated on this house thing...”

“It’d be nice to have you closer.” Her mother’s tone seemed hopeful. “Your dad would appreciate it too.”

Young-soon nodded. “I’m glad he’s getting better.”

“They want him back in next week to run some more tests.”

Her stomach sank. “You didn’t say…”

“It’s just precautionary. They don’t want him to exert himself too much. And he has a new diet plan. No red meat whatsoever.”

Young-soon’s lips curled in a guilty smile and she eyed her mother playfully. “He won’t like that.”

“I told him I’d try it too.” The older woman laughed quietly. “But he doesn’t know about the dried pork in the cupboard.”

“You rebel.”

Their conversation was interrupted by a small knock on the kitchen door which opened onto the garden. They both turned in unison to look towards the doorway as Jungkook’s face appeared in the frame, his forehead shimmery with perspiration.

“Hi…” He waved, a little out of breath. Young-soon suspected some of the plant pots were heavier than they looked and hadn’t been moved in years. He looked past her, directing his question at her mother. “He asks where you keep the weed killer.” He blushed, a little embarrassed to be following such an errand.

“In the same place I’ve kept it for thirty six years.” The older woman called cheerfully, voice full of sarcasm.

The young man looked from her to his girlfriend, who seemed more than amused, before nodding curtly, anticipating he would end up rewording the instructions so as to not frustrate the other man any further.“Alright, thanks...” He gave another timid wave, before disappearing back through the doorway, coming into view a moment later as he joined the stretch of lawn and walked over to the man now sitting in a deck chair. Young-soon and her mother both watched Jungkook open the garden shed and duck under the low-hanging door frame to delve into its depths. He reammerged a moment later, clutching a bright green bottle.

“He cheated on me.” Young-soon suddenly said, cutting the silence.

“What?” The low, emotionless tone of her daughter’s voice masked the meaning for a moment and her smile faded as she turned to face her.

“Jungkook.” She sighed softly, pulling her eyes from her boyfriend’s silhouette to look her mother in the eye. “He cheated...a while back.”

The woman opposite opened her mouth, lips flailing for a moment, before pressing them tightly together; eyebrows knitting in a frown. “With who?” She asked softly, confused.

Young-soon shrugged. “I don’t know.” She admitted, suddenly feeling pathetic. “He doesn’t either. It was at a party.”

The older woman was stunned into silence, eyes roaming over her daughter’s face as though trying to read more into the situation, but finding nothing more than what was already said. “I’m surprised.” She murmured after a moment, wanting to say more, but unable to find the right words.

“So was I…” Young-soon admitted, turning back to finish the drying. Jungkook was, unsurprisingly, sprinkling liquid into the cracks between the decking, targeting the long, ugly-looking flowers which had started to sprout through the slits of wood while her father had been in hospital.

Although there were a few stray items of crockery still submerged in the soapy water, her mother ignored them, instead watching her daughter carefully as Young-soon slotted the last few plates into the remaining gaps on the drying rack. “Why didn’t you tell us?” She quietly asked.

Young-soon shrugged feebly. “I didn’t know how I felt…” A frown formed on her face as she watched the young man stride back down the garden and kneel softly beside a plant pot, reaching for the small sack of soil which lay beside it. She shook her head, backtracking. “I was ashamed. Should I have been more mad?”

Her question was directed more to herself than the woman opposite and her mother was once more silent for a few moments, before speaking up. “Has he told you he’s sorry?”

She nodded, letting out a small, humourless laugh. “He begged my forgiveness for a year.” There was a moment of hesitation before the continued, a hint of residual pain in her voice, as though unearthing old wounds. “But that doesn’t mean it’s right...what he did.”

The voice which came from beside her was beyond tender; understanding. “Of course it doesn’t.” Her mother agreed. “But things aren’t always perfect.”

Young-soon turned to look at her, gathering herself together. “Does it change your opinion of him?” She asked, realising that she was a little anxious for the anwer.

“As he is right now?” Her mother looked through the window, watching him for a moment. “He’s potting begonias in your father’s old gardening hat…” She commented, telling the other woman all she needed to know.

Surprisingly relieved, her shoulders dropped and she wiped her damp hands on the towel, running it across her fingers. “I just needed to tell someone.” She confessed quietly, glancing back towards the garden, eyes fixing steadily on the figure kneeled in the distance. “Before we move in together.”

“Do you feel better?” Her mother asked.

“No…” She admitted with a small shrug. “But I can’t hold onto it forever.”

“No, you can’t…” The woman agreed, falling quiet. Young-soon watched her dip her hands back into the now lukewarm water and reach for the chopsticks which had fallen to the bottom of the bowl. “So you’ve made up your mind? About the move?”

Young-soon nodded, unable to stop herself from feeling bashful. “I think I did, just now.”

“That’s good.” Her mother whispered, relieved to hear her daughter sounding more like herself again. The confession still played on her mind, but it seemed the younger woman had worked things out for herself. “I’m glad you told me.” She confirmed gently. “I can’t believe you got so grown up…”

Young-soon rolled her eyes, but felt her stomach grow warm at the pride evident in the woman’s voice. “My twenties are far behind me mom…”

“Your dad still sees you as his little girl.” Her mother said fondly, nodding towards the garden where the older man was seen to be shuffling forward in his chair and reaching for Jungkook’s outstretched hands as he was pulled steadily to his feet. “Let’s just keep this between us.” She said gently, pressing her lips together tightly.

Young-soon nodded silently, watching the two men walk, side by side, across the garden. Her father was helped along by the cane, as well as the reassuring grasp of Jungkook’s hand as he accompanied him, matching his slow pace as they joined the shaded decking.

“Looks like they’re nearly done.” Her mother observed, gaze softening at the sight. It had been a hard few months, but she was relieved her husband was well enough to walk again. “Go and ask if they want something to drink. They both look like they need a lie down.”

***

Thank you for reading. To read each member & their girlfriend’s headcanon universe fics in order, follow the links here: RM / Jin / Suga / J-Hope / Jimin / V / Jungkook

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angrylizardjacket · 4 years

Text

mouth full of white lies {Machine Gun Kelly} 3

3. i thought love was a kind of emptiness

Summary: So you’re in love with him. Not great. And you wanna tell your brother about it, but that means coming clean about everything, and you’re not gonna do that! So you’re just gonna suffer, because it’s for the greater good. And you’re not gonna make things weird. Speaking of weird though, how is this even going to end? Colson sounds kind of like a masochist when he talks about it, but there must be a way to make neither of you seem like the bad guy... When this all ends. Which it will, much to your chagrin.

A/N: watch me have no idea about american geography

the brainstrust: @sataninsatin @silvertonguedserpent @juliarose21 @kellysimagines @estxxbritt @machine-gun-casie @harringtonstudios @misscharlottelee @narcvissa @hiworlditishumbleme @angelwarner28 @nevilles-insinuations @rumoured-whispers @mgkobsessed @edwardtriggerhandzz @suckerforbarnes @wastelcve @bakerkells @local-troubled-writer @freddiessmallnipples @oopsiedoopsie23 @mayaslifeinabox @mrs-machinegun-norris @hxbbit

----

For the record, and if anyone asks, when Colson sends you a photo of himself in full Tommy Lee makeup, your heart definitely doesn’t skip a beat. The long wig, the sharp contouring, the eyeliner, it does absolutely nothing for you. You definitely don’t spend a good five minutes contemplating how much you want his lipstick to stain your mouth. Because he’s not your real boyfriend. You’re doing this to minimize the amount of nasty messages you get online. The fact that he’s hot and funny and surprisingly kind and weirdly observant, and god, have you already said hot? Because he tends to walk around your shared hotel room in shorts and little else and it’s really not doing great things for your productivity.

The point is, all those things are a bonus! A happy little accident, if you will, a positive side-effect of this whole arrangement. Like getting a job and realising that you’ll be working with your brother, who currently is quickly becoming very, very close with your fake boyfriend.

There’s no-one you trust more in the whole world than Douglas, but if you tell him that your relationship is fake, you’ll have to tell him why you’re in a fake relationship, and he’s not above starting an online rampage against people sending his little sister death threats. Which, by the way, you’re not getting a lot of since dating Colson, honestly you might even be getting less than before, so it’s working.

Your absolutely fake relationship with Colson Baker, whom you have no feelings for whatsoever is functioning exactly as intended.

Except for the fact that when you’re on set, and you see him in costume, smiling, it kind of makes your day. Watching him play drums? He just looks like he’s having so much fun, and you can’t help but be endeared by it! This was outlined as low commitment, high reward, and now your feelings are ruining it for everybody. Well, just for you. Because it’s just a small crush, and he’s your friend, so you’re not going to make it weird.

Which, right now, it isn’t. He hogs the blankets, which you pretend you’re annoyed by, and sets about fifteen different alarms for himself that have you waking up at the crack of dawn so that he can go in early to get his tattoos covered, even though you don’t need to be there until much later than he is. So you grumble into the blankets, and when you get to set there’s always a hot drink waiting for you.

He’s out most nights, not late enough that he’d need to oversleep to be functioning the next morning, but it’s not uncommon for you to be curled up on your side of the bed, usually scrolling through social media, and he’ll come in, sometimes humming something, sometimes chattering away on the phone. Sometimes he’ll shower, but he always smokes, watching the stars, right before he comes to bed.

Or you’ll join him.

On the weekends, you’ll grab dinner together after filming, and he’s in his eyeliner, the foundation sometimes a little worse for wear, and you’ll explore the nightlife that LA has to offer, seeing live bands, or going to clubs. Of course, as a famous musician, DJs will pull Colson up into their booth, to play a song or two, and you, without fail, always managed to feel out of place. So you hang back, maybe have a dance, or maybe get a drink, or even just people-watch. You enjoy it, but you enjoy going back to the hotel more.

Tabloids, or the modern equivalent at least, get familiar with your name, and it’s not long before your image starts to change.

About six minutes into a twenty minute ‘tea spilling’ video, the host says your name.

“Now, [Y/N] Booth, DuckDuckBooth, whatever you know her as, has been all over the mainstream media lately because - shock horror - she’s in a relationship with someone with a bad reputation! Because that’s what we love here, ladies and gents; rumours and slander,” the host, a young woman with bleach blonde hair and a thick English accent rolls her eyes, sarcasm dripping from her tongue, “so a bit of a run-down for those who don’t know, [Y/N] is a lifestyle and, I don’t know, entertainment industry insider - YouTuber? She makes videos on what it’s like to work all different jobs in the industry. And her brother’s famous? I think?” She looks to a point off-screen, presumably where her laptop was sitting, letting her look him up. “He was in Jupiter Ascending, he was the weird prince-dude; Douglas Booth, and he was in a bunch of stuff that was only really released in the UK.”

It cuts to a new shot of the host tucking her hair behind her ears.

“So [Y/N] recently started dating Machine- MG- uh, I don’t know how to say it, it sounds wrong coming from me; Machine Gun Kelly? He’s a rapper I think? He’s been in a few shows on like, streaming services? I don’t know, I don’t know him that well, but apparently he’s one for scandal - allegedly.” She emphasises, before taking a deep breath, “and now he and [Y/N] are working on the same project, and have started dating, like two adults who like each other might start doing!” It’s condescending, as if directly responding to some less than polite criticisms she’s seen online, but she shrugs it off flippantly.

“Anyways, I’ve been following [Y/N] for a while, I’ve seen her recent uploads and Instagram stories and such; they’re cute, okay? I don’t personally enjoy his music, but that’s just my tastes, you know? And I don’t understand all the negativity she’s suddenly receiving; you all know she’s an adult, right? Like not just in the UK, she’s over 21, she’s allowed to go out and drink, and be a human being. It’s not like she’s suddenly become a different person; just because she’s not acting in the way your overly-sanitized view of her should, doesn’t mean she’s a different person, or that she’s corrupted or whatever. She’s not a bad person for enjoying herself.”

“Everyone speculating about whether it’s fake or not, like they have nothing in common, well it’s almost like you don’t know them personally; if it’s fake, who even cares, that’s -” she laughs a little, “that’s Hollywood, isn’t it? I think the people hating on her, or on him, or wanting them to admit it’s fake or just break up, are jealous, honestly, because even if it’s fake, it’s a hell of a commitment.”

“Do you ever worry?” You can’t help but ask, it’s late, much later than you know you should be up, but he’s awake too, yawning, looking at his phone. Both of you tucked up in bed, he takes a moment before looking at you. There’s something about the shadow of eyeliner he hadn’t quite been able to remove that just makes him look edgy and gorgeous.

“I try not to,” he answers candidly, “but about what?”

“About people finding out about us.”

“Usually,” he cracks a half smile, “when a girl asks me that, it’s about people finding out that we are together,” and he’s smiling, but you just frown in the dark, unable to appreciate the humour.

“What’ll they say? Of course you’ll be fine, but I-” you swallow, shaking your head, “sorry, asshole thing to say; of course I care about what they say about you, just as much me, but -”

“But you’ve got a lot further to fall than I do,” he says with a surprising honesty, and you meet his gaze in the glow of his screen light, “honestly I have no idea how this is gonna end, I thought you did.” And you feel your stomach drop.

How were you supposed to respond to this?! There is absolutely no way you can say what you’re thinking, that you don’t want this to end because you’ve started to catch real feelings.

“I’m winging it,” you admit softly. Something about his expression softens, but his screen goes dark before you can see it, “I know you’re a good person but-”

“Then you don’t know me that well, Ducky,” he laughs a little, though the sound is hollow, and you can hear him rustling around as he looks up at the ceiling in the dark, “kid, you don’t know me at all -”

“Don’t call me kid,” you bristle, quietly defiant, but he just seems to ignore you.

“I know I’m a bad dude, okay? And if you want this whole thing to end with everyone thinking I’ve broken your heart, then do it, I’ve been through worse. I’ve done worse; if you wanna just worry about yourself, you can.”

“So it’s black and white; I’m red riding hood and you’re the big bad wolf? That’s how we end this?”

“You think in fairy tale analogies,” he huffs an almost disbelieving laugh, “I’m just saying that if you didn’t have to be with me, you wouldn’t be; you wanted scandalous but not a scandal, I get it, okay? I’m good at that; good at both, actually, but I guess you’re cute enough that you can pick one and not the other.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” You snap, feeling angry, almost betrayed by his callous words. In the dark, you can make out the shape of his silhouette against the stars.

“You’re all clean and shiny and shit, you’ve got a philanthropist big brother, and a life in the entertainment industry without the actual pressure of being an actor, and yeah, YouTube is hard, I get that, now more than anything else, watching you ‘s definitely given me a new appreciation for the effort that goes in, but -”

“But what? It’s not a real job?”

That shuts him up fast.

Fuming in the dark, you clamber from the bed, and head onto the balcony, slamming the door behind you. The night air is cool and crisp against the warm anger bubbling just beneath your skin, and you take a few deep breaths. Why you’re out here, you’re not sure; you should have gone down the hall and stayed with Douglas, but here you were, cooling off on the balcony.

You’re in his seat, the seat he always sits in to smoke before bed, and it feels strange, but you’re not going to give up the seat, even as he opens the door. He doesn’t look at you, instead, he leans against the railing, looking out at the ocean glittering with stars.

“I wasn’t -” he starts, before sighing, “fuck, I know it’s a real job, okay?”

But he’s met with silence.

“I was gonna say - fuck, there’s like, a quote thing someone once told me, I think it was Shakespeare or some shit - there’s more things in Heaven and Earth, you know, than are dreamed in your philosophy.” He paused, “I’m dealing with more than just your shit, you know? Every fuckin’ person wants to hate me right now; your shit is small fish, Ducky. If you’re not getting hate, then it’s worth it, okay? And after all of this, I’ll still be averaging the same amount of hate as I always get, not that I give a shit. It’s pebble in a stream stuff.” When again, he’s met with silence, he sighs gently, hanging his head, before heading back inside, though he doesn’t close the door.

On your own, for only a moment, you feel your insides twisting, frustrated at overreacting, heart warming at his words, just a little.

“Pebble in a stream stuff?” You ask quietly, when he joins you once more, this time with a joint and his lighter.

“Immutable,” he says, voice flat as he focuses on lighting up, before taking a long drag. After a moment of holding the smoke in his lungs, he breathes out, watching it as he speaks, “like a river, if you throw a pebble in, it creates a ripple, but the current always corrects itself. No matter what you do, the river just keeps flowing in the same direction.”

“Deep,” you muse.

“It’s from X-Men,” he responded, and there’s a beat, before the two of you break out into laughter at the absurdity of it all, of his philosophical ramblings being ripped from a comic book movie, of the idea of the two of you ever getting into this situation in the first place.

When the laughter dies down, you find yourself smiling at him, watching him while his grin is turned up to the stars.

“You say I don’t know you, even though we’ve been doing this for almost a month and a half now; I wanna know you,” you tell him as genuinely as you can manage in your tired state, and he turns to you with an unreadable expression, and you catch yourself before you act on the fluttering in your chest, “to make it more believable.” You add, and he nods, and his gaze goes back to the sky; if it was a little disappointed, you try not to think about it too hard, “so you don’t like cutesy dates like fairs, what do you like?”

Licking his lips as he thinks, he finally turns to you, eyebrow raised.

“Honestly?”

Why does his gaze right now make your pulse race?

“Honestly.” You dare not break his gaze.

“I like going to clubs with you, to see bands and shit,” he tells you, and... oh, you weren’t expecting that. There’s that soft, unreadable expression again, though he seems endeared by your genuine surprise, “but I sometimes get the feeling that you feel, uh, out of place?” He seems concerned.

“I mean, not really, it’s fun and all!” You try, but he gives a smirk.

“You don’t have to sugar coat it -”

“It’s sticky, and it feels weird with all the dudes trying to grind up on me when I’m like, meant to be with you. I always feel like someone’s about to pull out their phone, snap a photo and accuse me of cheating.” You blurt out, and Colson’s expression turned from surprised to amused.

“Stick with me then -”

“I don’t wanna be a bother; I’m not a music person, I shouldn’t be in like, a DJ booth I don’t think.”

“You’re with me, you can go wherever you want.”

The night is cool and crisp, and he’s got an early start, but the two of you sit out there, talking, laughing, actually getting to know each other. He tells you all about Cassie, about how proud he is of her, how much he misses her, and how proud she is of him in turn. You, in turn, tell him stories of yourself and Douglas from your childhood, of how he’d always been your biggest fan, and your first defender, and how you’d been to all of his premieres. At this, Colson’s eyes glaze over a little, lost in thought.

“I have no idea how this is gonna end,” he says gently, before looking to you, “but whenever you wanna call it quits, say the word.”

But you hear I’m read to cut and run at any moment, and you know it’s selfish, but it’s not what you want to hear.

“Thanks,” you respond, with a small smile instead, “same to you; don’t just stick around for my benefit,” you try to laugh, but it doesn’t quite come out right. It’s quiet after that, though it had to be said, and it’s not long before the two of you go to bed.

It’s a turning point, it’s where you start to really try to get to know each other, rather than just being around each other. Maybe it’s just hope, but it feels a little more real with each day that passes.

“Hello! Hello and welcome back, ducklings! Today we’ve got a very special guest! And if you’ve read the title of this video, you know who it is! That’s right, my boyfriend is going to try and teach me the basics of drumming!”

The comments of the video tell you that you both look so happy, look so cute, look so in love.

“You’re a good actor,” Colson tells you, as if he believes the starry-eyed looks you give him are a carefully calculated ruse. You, on the other hand, feel like a fool only moments from being outed as being in love with your fake boyfriend, which was ridiculous; he’s the only person who needs to believe it’s a ruse after all.

Even Douglas tells you the video is good, and suddenly you’re starting to feel like an asshole for lying to him for so long.

But it’ll work out. It has to. And neither you nor Colson is gonna be the bad guy. Because he’s not, no matter what he says .

He keeps buying you hot drinks if his alarms wake you up, and he keeps you close whenever you go out, and he gives you a blanket whenever you fall asleep in his trailer during breaks, and -

“Has Duck ever told you about how she found a frog when we were little, like a live frog,” Douglas was grinning over lunch, while you were slowly becoming more embarrassed by Colson's side, your forehead pressed to his shoulder as your brother recounted one of his favourite stories, “and she named it after me, because she was always a bit of a menace, but it got free, and mum and dad almost lost their minds when she came crying about how ‘Doug was missing in the woods!’” He grinned, both fond and a bit sharp, “they only realised she was talking about the frog when I joined the search party after getting home from a friend’s house.”

You heave a sigh, but Colson gives you a gentle, reassuring pat.

“No, that’s fuckin’ adorable, but no she hadn’t told me that; but I had heard about how you made the both of you duck costumes for your school’s Halloween,” and Colson gives him a toothy grin as Douglas flushes with embarrassment, though he seems endeared by the nostalgia of it all, “primary school, was it?”

“Not Halloween, it was a book fair,” Douglas corrected, and you surfaced finally, leaning into Colson, who wrapped an arm around you, and you level a soft smile at your brother, who returns one in kind, before his gaze flicks to Colson’s, and back. A smile. A nod. A silent approval. Fuck, you hate lying to him.

But you’re not above a little white lie to the internet for some advice.

r/AmITheAsshole posted by u/idkquackythrowaway

AITA for falling for my fake boyfriend and lying to my best friend about it?

So hello, throw away account because if either of them find this, I’ll be mortified and have to run away to canada and live as a goat farmer.

So I started ““““dating”“““ my “”””boyfriend””””, let’s call him C, a few months ago, because all of our friends kept accusing us of dating, and it was easier to just go along with it than deny it - there’s a lot of extenuating circumstances here; and yes I have issues lying to my friends, but I can deal with it for the greater good. It’s better for C and me in the short-term anyways.

Anyways so my best friend, D, is someone I’ve never lied to, we’ve always been so incredibly close, but now he’s getting to be good friends with C too, and approves of the two of us, but I’m just worried he’ll be betrayed if I tell him it wasn’t real.

Also, I might have real feelings for C, which he Does Not Have for me, so I feel like I’m betraying him too, by pretending that it’s not fake. ANd I wanna tell D about this, but then I’d have to come clean about everything, which....... its a lot.

So Am I The Asshole for catching feelings in a fake relationship, and lying to my closest friend about it?

[324 comments]

The reaction is mixed.

And mostly unhelpful.

A lot of people are calling you the asshole, which, ouch, but you had kind of already come to terms with that. A lot more people, however, are just abstaining from making judgement, considering there was definitely more to the story. You’re not sure how to deal with those comments; you want to defend yourself, or give more context, but you also know you absolutely cannot.

Eventually you decide to come clean.

“I’m in love with Colson.”

About the wrong thing. To the wrong person.

Douglas blinks slowly at you, a smile slowly spreading across his face.

“Really?”

“Really really.” You sigh, with an air of defeat, though this has him frowning, putting his fork full of pasta down.

“What’s wrong, did he do something?” Douglas is playing the protective older brother, just as he has done for as long as you can remember, but it’s all you can do to shake your head.

In truth, Colson’s been fucking perfect; despite his reputation, he’s a fantastic - fake - partner. Perhaps it’s that you work together, so he doesn’t have to find a distraction outside of his main focus.

“Duckling,” Douglas says it so gentle, taking your hand over the dinner table, “I’m happy for you, as long as you’re happy.” And what can you say to that? Another lie? You feel like you’ll be ill if you let another lie pass your tongue in front of Douglas.

“I love him,” you say, weakly, and you feel your eyes misting at the implication, the reality of your words.

“What’s wrong?”

“I-” you choke on your words, and tears start to gather, threatening to spill, “I think I love him more than he loves me.” It’s not a lie, but it’s enough for Douglas.

“I’m sorry,” he sounds so genuine, holding your hand tight in his, finishing dinner, and taking you both back to the hotel. He does the only thing he can think of to cheer you up; put on a movie on his laptop and wrap you up in blankets like he would when you were kids. The movie’s a little outdated, but he’s trying, and that alone makes you feel a little better.

“Hello! Hello and welcome back, ducklings! Today we’ve just got a low-effort video, it’s just a top ten comfort movies from childhood that survive a modern rewatch! As decided by me and Douglas!”

Filming is set to move locations soon, from being on-location on the Sunset Strip to a back-lot about an hour away, somehow closer to the hills, and you feel like you can hear the ticking of a clock counting down.

“When filming’s over, we can end it if you want,” you tell Colson as you’re packing up your suitcases.

“Oh,” he seems surprised.

“Oh?”

“That’s soon,” is all the clarification he gives, but he doesn’t sound happy about it, “are you sure?”

“I mean, I don’t wanna outstay my welcome,” you try to joke, but he makes a noise that you can’t quite decipher, “what?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Just thought it would maybe go until the premiere.” He admits, and you pause, actually surprised at his words, and he clears his throat, “it would be weird seeing you there if I was with someone else, right?”

“Right,” you muse quietly, before going back to folding your clothes, “that’s a year away still, I’m pretty sure.” You tell him, and he hums, but doesn’t seem bothered by it.

“Well I’ve got a few events before then I need a date for,” he says, noncommittally, “and we’ll see each other before then; if you wanna be convincing you can crash at my place if you wanna, in The Hills, at least for a bit, if you ain’t got anything else to do sort of thing,” he actually sounds a bit hesitant, and you swallow hard, before letting yourself smile, pleased.

“I think you like having me around.” When you look at him, he’s trying to hide a smile of his own.

“'course I do.”

#mgk #mgk x reader #mgk imagine #machine gun kelly #machine gun kelly imagine #machine gun kelly x reader #colson baker #colson baker imagine #colson baker x reader #the dirt #the dirt cast #the dirt imagine #the dirt cast imagine #douglas booth #douglas booth & reader #the angry lizard writes

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kinnsporsche · 4 years

Text

you're in love with a beautiful boy, and he won't tell you that he loves you (but he loves you)

Set after the events from 24.03.2020, Ben and Callum finally talk about everything and Ben comes to a realization; he’s in love with Callum Highway. And he has to tell him.

word count: 5.2k

read on ao3

When Ben wakes up, it’s to an empty bed.

He doesn’t realise at first until he reaches his hand out to Callum’s side of the bed, intent on coaxing the man’s arm around his waist and letting himself be held, but instead all his hand hits are cold sheets. He grapples around for a few seconds, thinking maybe Callum has just rolled out of his reach in his sleep; it was rare for him not to wake up with Callum’s warm body next to him, but it had been known to happen from time to time.

“Cal?” he calls out, voice raspy from sleep. He knows even if Callum does reply, he won’t hear his response, so he swings his legs over the side of the bed and gets up.

The sweatpants he pulls on are his own, but the sweatshirt isn’t. The sleeves come down well past his hands so only the tips of his fingers are visible, and it’s a little tight across the shoulders. Ben had teased Callum about the little green alien holding up a peace sign that was embroidered on it when he’d first worn it, but now it made him feel safe.

He finds Callum downstairs at the kitchen table eating breakfast with Lexi and Lola. He’s laughing at something Lexi’s saying that Ben can’t hear but he bristles when he sees Ben leaning against the doorframe.

Ben smiles at him, a small quirk of his lips that was apparently the wrong thing to do because Callum’s pushing his chair away from the table and putting his bowl in the sink and grabbing his jacket from the back of the chair like he’s about to leave.

“Callum-” Ben tries, taking a few steps forward, but he’s cut off by his daughter barrelling into his legs and throwing her arms around them.

“Morning, princess,” he’s saying, gently coaxing Lexi back into her chair and telling her to finish her breakfast.

He only just manages to catch Callum’s wrist as he reaches for the handle of the door.

Callum isn’t looking at him, and Ben can’t figure out if its because he can’t or because he won’t.

“Callum-” he says again, and then, a little softer, “-Cal, please.”

That seems to work, because Callum’s turning his head to face him and the hand that was reaching for the door drops back down by his side. Ben feels like he can breathe a little easier.

“I’m meant to be meeting Stuart,” Callum’s saying, and the fact that Ben can’t hear the tone in his voice scares him more than his words. “I have to go.”

“We need to talk. Properly talk, I mean.”

“I don’t have time, Ben.”

Callum smiles over his shoulder, and Ben glances behind him to see Lola ushering Lexi out of the room, presumably to get her ready for school and to give them some space.

“Later, then?” Ben asks when he turns back to Callum.

He sees it then, the exhaustion in his eyes and the dark circles under them. The way Callum’s holding himself a little tighter than he normally would, the tension in his shoulders. Ben knows it isn’t all his fault, but it’s enough that he put at least some of it there.

Callum doesn’t hold his gaze. His eyes flit around Ben’s face for a few seconds before he’s looking down at the floor and shaking his head. “Ben I-”

Ben doesn’t waste any time when he leans in and kisses him. It’s the only thing he can think to do; the only thing that makes sense. His life is terrifying and confusing and the only time it seems to stand still is when Callum’s kissing him.

Callum’s not moving, and he isn’t kissing him back, but Ben can’t stop. He can’t let Callum walk out without him knowing how much he means to him. It’s not a risk he’s willing to take. So, he kisses him and kisses him and kisses him until he feels Callum pressing back into it and his hands are on his waist and Ben feels like he’s grounded again.

It’s not like their usual kisses. It doesn’t get heated; Callum doesn’t nip at his bottom lip and Ben doesn’t repay him by sliding his tongue into his mouth and teasing him until they’re both breathing heavy and moaning. Ben’s never been good with his words, so it’s a kiss that says everything he can’t.

Please don’t go. Promise me you’ll come back. I can’t do this without you.

And Callum answers back in his own way.

I’m still here.

And Ben thinks that’s enough.

Callum’s resting his forehead against his when they pull back from the kiss, and they both keep leaning in like they want to keep kissing and find solace in each other again. But they need to talk. And they both know that.

Ben feels Callum’s breath against his lips when he speaks and leans back enough so that he can see what he’s saying.

“I said I have to go.”

Ben feels his blood run cold.

Callum can more than likely feel the way he tenses a little, if the way he moves one of his hands from Ben’s waist to his chin and tilts his head up to face him is anything to go by.

“I’ll be back later. I still need to see Stuart.”

Ben doesn’t say anything, just nods his head once, twice, and lets Callum pull him in for one last kiss before he leaves.

I love you; Callum’s kiss is saying.

I think I might love you too, Ben thinks to himself, and the thought hits him like a shockwave.

He’s still reeling from it even after the door’s shut and Callum has disappeared from sight.

Ben runs his thumb across his bottom lip like he can imprint the memory of Callum there until he sees him again and leans back against the counter when Lexi and Lola come back into the room, snapping him out of his thoughts.

Lola’s looking at him like she knows everything and as far as he knows, she probably does. But she’s looking at him like she feels sorry for him and Ben feels exhausted all over again.

“Right princess-,” he starts, leaning down to help Lexi zip her coat up, “-Daddy’s going back to bed for a bit. You be a good girl for Mummy when she takes you to school, alright?”

“I’m always a good girl,” Lexi bites back, rolling her eyes. “If you’re tired you can borrow the unicorn from my room! It has magic sleeping powers that are only for me, but I’ll share them with you this one time.”

Ben pulls her in for a hug and peppers kisses across her forehead and on the top of her hair. He laughs when she moans about him getting her braid messy, so he holds his hand up in surrender and stands back up.

He watches her walk to the door Callum had just left through, watches as she waves at him whilst she skips across the room. Ben doesn’t take his eyes away from her and he can’t help the grin that spreads across his face when she signs at him.

I love you, Daddy.

Ben signs it back. It’s a little messy, but Lexi seems to understand the point. He watches her leave out of the kitchen window, sees her holding tightly to Lola’s hand as she skips down the street until she disappears from view and he’s alone again.

It’s almost ironic, he thinks, how a house this big can feel so suffocatingly small when he’s alone in it.

He takes the time to clear the table of the plates and bowls and rinses them in the sink and when he can’t manage to distract himself with anything else, he heads back up to bed. He sleeps in Callum’s sweatshirt because it makes him feel safe and purposefully doesn’t let himself think about falling in love with Callum Highway.

When he wakes next, it’s to someone shaking him awake and he sits bolt upright, his fight or flight kicking in.

It takes a second for his eyes to adjust to the dark, but when they do, he can make out the familiar silhouette of his mother standing by the door, hands raised in surrender like she’s trying to placate him. She’s saying something, but Ben can’t see or hear what it is.

“What?” he’s asking once he manages to fumble around and grab his glasses. He blinks a few times when everything suddenly becomes clearer and tries to focus on what she’s saying.

“I’m sorry,” Kathy insists, flicking the light on. She feels a little guilty when Ben squints and hides his eyes against the harsh intrusion. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You didn’t scare me,” he insists, defensive. His mum just gives him the look and he gives up on pretending. “What are you even doing here anyway? Trying to make sure I’m keeping out of trouble?”

“No. Why? Should I be?”

Ben just rolls his eyes. “Well, thanks for the concern, Mum. But I don’t need a babysitter.”

“That’s not what yesterday suggests.” Kathy sighs and holds a hand up to cut Ben off before he can get even more defensive. “Look, I didn’t come here to have a go at you, I just thought you could use the company.”

“I don’t need company. I’m fine.”

“And I knew you’d say that. Which is why I brought over some lunch from the cafe. It’s downstairs if you want to join me.”

Ben narrows his eyes. “That’s blackmail.”

“I prefer the term bribery.”

They stare at each other for a while, wondering which one of them will break first.

It’s Ben. But only because his body betrays him and his stomach growls like it knows there’s an offer of food on the table.

“Fine. But I’m not here for a therapy session, I’m here for chips,” Ben says, standing up from the bed and catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He debates changing and maybe putting his contacts in, but this sweatshirt still smells like Callum and he doesn’t want to change out of it. He makes a mental note to be extra careful when he’s eating so he doesn’t spill anything on it.

The food’s already waiting on the table when he gets downstairs, packed tightly in one of the plastic takeaway containers from the cafe. Ben grabs two plates, one for him, and one for his mum, before he starts eating.

His mouth is half full when he feels the hand on his arm and looks up.

“I saw Callum earlier.”

Ben chews slowly to give himself some time to think. “So?” he says once he’s swallowed.

“So, he looked tired, Ben. Like he hadn’t slept. And you don’t look much better yourself,” Kathy says, her hand still resting on Ben’s arm.

“Well thanks for that, Mum. Way to boost my ego.”

“You know that isn’t what I meant by that. It’s just that I’m worried about you. He’s worried about you,” she says, and Ben can’t hear it, but he knows her voice is dripping with worry and it makes him feel sick. He pushes his plate away.

“I know,” Ben says, swallowing hard around the lump that had managed to form in his throat. He tries not to think about their fight, about the bone deep fear he’d felt when Callum had said I don’t want to do this anymore, but the house has been empty and it’s easy to let his mind wander when he doesn’t have any distractions. “Believe me, Mum. I know.”

Kathy taps Ben’s arm to get his attention again. “Are you two alright?” she’s asking, and Ben doesn’t even begin to know how to answer that question. So, he just shrugs.

“We had a fight,” he admits when she presses him for more. “He tried to leave; said he didn’t want to do this anymore. I convinced him to stay and we went to bed.”

He purposefully doesn’t tell her that he spent half the night shaking in Callum’s arms. It was like a dam had broken and once he’d started, he couldn’t stop. Like everything he’d been trying to ignore flooded to the surface all at once.

Losing his hearing. Dennis’ death. Callum’s kidnapping. Lexi getting hit by that car. The operation.

There’s more, Kathy knows there is. “And?” she prompts, giving Ben the room to say as much or as little as he wants. She knows her son, and she knows that if she pushes too far, Ben will clam up.

“And now I don’t know where we stand. I woke up and he wasn’t there, he tried to leave when he caught sight of me. He said he’d be over later so we can talk.” Ben takes a breath and balls his hands into fists to get them to stop shaking. “I can’t lose him, Mum.”

“Ben we all do stupid things sometimes. Maybe not almost-cheat-on-my-boyfriend-steal-a-car-get-arrested type stupid, but my point still stands.”

Ben gawps at her for a second, and he sees her mouth a confused ‘what?’ at him. “You think I was going to cheat on him?”

“Ben, I know you left together. And Tina told me what she’d seen when I spoke to her.”

“Does Callum think I was going to cheat on him?” he asks, voice a little breathless. He tries desperately to remember the fight now, to remember everything Callum had said. Everything had been so loud and fast and his ears had been ringing since Callum had almost walked away.

Kathy narrows her eyes, confused. “He was there when I got the call from Jack, he knows you and this guy left together.”

“Because I wanted his car, Mum. Not because I wanted to get off with him.” He’s panicking again, he knows he is. “I need to see him. I have to talk to him.”

Kathy reaches out and grabs Ben’s hand when he tries to stand, and she can feel how hard he’s shaking. “Ben, calm down,” she’s saying. “Running around the square looking for him isn’t going to do you any good.”

“I don’t care, Mum!” Ben insists, pulling away from her and letting the sleeves of Callum’s sweatshirt roll down over his hands. “I just… I can’t lose him again, I almost lost him once and I can’t do it again. I won’t.”

He grips the edges of the counter and squeezes his eyes closed to try and fight off the ringing in his ears. “Nothing in this world scares me more than losing him.”

He flinches when he feels a hand on his back.

“Don’t you think he needs to hear that from you?” Kathy asks when Ben finally turns his head to look at her.

He knows, Ben wants to say, but doesn’t.

He thinks back to their argument – to what he managed to understand of it, anyway. He thinks about Callum saying he’s tired of taking a backseat, of him thinking Ben walks all over him. He thinks about Callum asking do I even cross your mind? and wants to tell him that he never leaves it. That he’s the first thing he thinks about in the morning and the last thought he has before he goes to sleep.

Ben nods and leans into his mum’s arms when she pulls him in for a hug and drops a kiss on the top of his head.

“I have to get back to work,” she tells him when they pull apart from the hug. “Talk to Callum, alright? He’s good for you. You’re good for each other. And anybody with eyes in their head can see that the two of you love each other.”

It’s the second time today he’s thought about the idea of loving Callum, of letting himself love Callum and the thought is just as terrifying as it was this morning.

By the time he remembers how to speak, Kathy’s already smiling at him from the door and leaving without so much as a goodbye from him.

Ben sinks into one of the chairs at the kitchen table and holds his head in his hands. He’s fucked. He’s completely and utterly fucked.

He’s in love with Callum Highway.

[From Ben, 14:38PM]

Can we talk?

[From Callum, 14:45PM]

Still with Stuart. Tonight?

[From Ben, 14:46PM]

Sure. Yours? We might actually get some privacy there.

[From Callum, 15:01PM]

You saying you don’t like Lexi’s constant interruptions?

[From Ben, 15:05PM]

My biggest regret in life is not enforcing the knocking rule sooner.

But this is important. I don’t want any interruptions.

[From Ben, 15:06PM]

Please?

[From Callum, 15:08PM]

I’ll kick Stuart out for a bit then. Does 7 sound good?

[From Ben, 15:08PM]

7 works. See you then.

[From Callum, 15:10PM]

See you.

Ben turns up a little before seven. He debates waiting outside for a bit but decides him lingering outside Callum’s flat would be weirder than turning up early. His hand closes around the key in his pocket that Callum had given him a few weeks ago, and wonders if he should let himself in.

He rings the buzzer.

“It’s me,” he says once Callum answers, and then the door’s opening and he’s walking up the stairs.

Callum’s waiting for him when he gets to the top. He’s leaning against the wall with his arms folded across his chest in that way he only does when he’s feeling particularly vulnerable – like he’s trying to hold himself together.

“Hey,” Callum says, his voice soft.

“Hi,” Ben says back. He doesn’t know what to do here; doesn’t know what the protocol is. He wants to kiss Callum the way they always do when they haven’t seen each other for hours, but he doesn’t know if he should. Instead, he settles for unbuttoning his jacket and hanging it up on the pegs near the stairs.

“Do you want-” Callum starts, but cuts himself off when he remembers that Ben can’t hear him. He pushes himself up from the wall he’s leaning on and puts his hand on Ben’s shoulder to get his attention.

Ben flinches, which isn’t exactly the reaction he’d been expecting. He’s nervous. Callum doesn’t need to feel the tension in his shoulders to know that, he can almost feel the nervous energy radiating off of Ben in waves.

“Do you want a drink?”

“I’m good, thanks.”

He puts his hand over Callum’s for a second and smiles up at him when he walks past and into the flat. He sits on the sofa and Callum follows a minute later; he’s got himself a beer which he clutches in his hands like it’s his only lifeline. Ben knows it’s only a matter of minutes before he’ll start anxiously tearing at the label and making a mess.

“I wasn’t going to cheat on you,” Ben starts. It’s important that he says that first so that Callum knows. Ben needs him to hear it. “It never even crossed my mind, Callum. Why would it?”

“You tell me. You were the one trying to leave a bar with another man.”

Callum can’t look at him and, just as Ben had thought, he starts tearing at the label on the beer bottle.

“I don’t know what I was thinking. I just wanted to prove that I still could, you know?”

Callum shakes his head and takes a swig of the beer. “No, Ben. That’s just it, I don’t know because you don’t talk to me. So, what was it then? You just wanted to prove to the world that you could still go out and pull some random bloke? Isn’t it enough that I love you?”

“Of course it is Callum I-”

“And then you go and nick a car too? Did you ever stop to think about what I would do if you went to prison? What Lexi would do?” Callum pauses for a second to catch his breath. “Do you really want to see her growing up without a dad all because you felt like you had something to prove to the world?”

“Callum you’re… you’re talking too fast,” Ben mumbles. He doesn’t want to admit it at first; wants to carry on pretending like he can understand what Callum’s saying when he’s only catching a handful of words that tumble from his lips.

Callum looks guilty when he apologises and even after Ben reassures him that it isn’t his fault, they’re both still tense.

“I can’t-” Callum stops and draws in a breath when his voice comes out shaky. “I can’t keep putting everything I am into us and getting scraps of you in return, Ben. It isn’t fair.”

His words hit Ben like a punch to the face, but he can’t argue because he knows there’s some truth behind them. He knows that whenever Callum tries to pull him closer, he responds by pushing him further away; it’s been his default for as long as he can remember.

“You’re right,” Ben says, avoiding Callum’s gaze when he speaks. “I thought I could do this on my own, that I could go on like everything was normal when I know it isn’t and the harder you tried to help the more I pushed you away. And then everything with Danny happened and I just felt… broken, I guess? Useless?”

Callum looks like he wants to protest, or reassure him, but Ben cuts him off by shifting a little closer on the couch and reaching out to take his hands.

“There is nothing in this world that I’m afraid of more than losing you, Callum.” He brushes his thumb across Callum’s knuckles, feels the way the grip on his hands tightens a little. “When I thought I’d lost you once it almost destroyed me. And yesterday when I thought you were going to walk away from me, I was terrified. You asked me if you even cross my mind, but the truth is you never leave it; I’m never not thinking about you.”

“Ben…” Callum trails off, but clearly his boyfriend isn’t finished.

“And I know I need to do better, that I need to stop pushing you away and taking things out on other people. I know I need to change.”

Callum drops one of Ben’s hands and reaches out to cup his cheek when he says that, thumb brushing softly over the skin there. “I don’t want you to change, Ben. I just want you to know that you don’t have to do this alone. You’re allowed to be angry and upset about it all because no matter how much you try and deny it, this is a big deal. And it’s okay to be scared.”

Ben nods and turns his head to press a kiss to Callum’s palm.

“You know, when Kathy told me that you and that guy were supposed to be leaving together, it hurt, Ben. It hurt like I’d never felt before and I can’t go through that again. I can’t be constantly worrying that when things get tough, you’ll go out and try and pick up some bloke to make it easier. I can’t be a second choice.” It hurts to say, but Callum knows it needs to be said; that he needs to say it just as much as Ben needs to hear it.

“You’re not a second choice, you never could be a second choice, Callum,” Ben’s insisting and he’s squeezing his hands like he’s afraid Callum will disappear if he doesn’t hold on tight enough.

Callum wants to believe him; he really really does.

“You’re my first and last choice. Why would I even look at anybody else when I have you? You’re funny, and sweet, and smart, and incredibly sexy, and you can do things with your mouth that should probably be illegal-” Callum laughs at that, and even though Ben can’t hear it, it still manages to spread warmth through him.

“And I…” Ben trails off, drawing in a deep breath. He has to tell him. Callum has to know. But that doesn’t make it any easier. It doesn’t change the fact that the last time he said those three words to somebody, they ended up dead.

But Callum deserves to know.

So he tells him.

“I love you.”

His voice is shaking, and it’s softer than it’s been all night, but he’s said it. He’s said it and it feels like he can remember how to breathe again; like a weight’s been lifted from his shoulders.

Callum looks at him, lips parted like he can’t quite believe what he’s heard, and Ben wonders why he’s waited so long to tell him when it feels like he’s always known.

“What did you say?” Callum asks, breathless.

“I said I love you, Callum. I love you and I’m in love with you and it feels like I’ve loved you forev-”

He’s cut off by the feeling of Callum’s lips against his own, and it takes less than a second for Ben to kiss him back. He scoots closer on the sofa until their legs are pressed together and Callum’s cupping his cheeks and Ben has one hand on his thigh. Callum kisses him until he’s breathless and then keeps going.

Ben doesn’t know how it happens, but when they manage to tear their mouths away from each other he’s got one of his legs thrown over Callum’s lap so he’s straddling him with his hands in his hair. Callum’s hands have managed to push his shirt halfway up his back and are running across the exposed skin, making Ben shiver.

“We should-” Ben starts but is cut off by his boyfriend before he can offer a suggestion.

“Bedroom?”

“Yeah.”

Ben scrambles up from Callum’s lap and goes to offer him his hand, but he’s already rising to his feet and pulling Ben against him for another kiss as he walks them towards his bedroom. Callum’s hands on the small of his back make Ben feel safe even as he’s being walked backwards.

Somewhere along the way Ben loses his shirt, and Callum’s belt isn’t far behind it.

Callum kicks the door shut once they’ve stumbled into the bedroom together. The curtains are already closed and have been so for days. He hasn’t been spending much time here as of late, preferring instead to stay over at the Mitchell house with Ben and the others. The only time he’d been back here was to pick up some clothes whenever he’d needed them.

Ben gasps when the back of his legs hit the bed and he’s pushed down so that he’s laying on it. He barely gets a chance to breathe because almost instantly Callum’s on top of him and kissing him again and it’s Ben’s turn to slide his own hands up the back of his shirt.

“Cal!” he moans, tilting his head back when the other man kisses his way from Ben’s lips, across his jaw, and down to his neck. It hadn’t taken Callum long to figure out that Ben’s neck was his weakness, and he exploited it as much as he could.

Callum continues his assault on Ben’s neck – leaving marks in the shape of his mouth that won’t be fading any time soon – until his boyfriend is whining and gripping onto his shirt like it’s the only thing keeping him anchored.

“Off,” Ben says, tugging at the shirt in question until it gets caught on Callum’s shoulders.

“Say please,” Callum replies, with the most shit-eating grin that Ben’s ever seen.

Ben narrows his eyes as he hitches his legs up around Callum’s waist and uses the momentum he gains from pushing himself up from the bed to flip them over so that he’s the one straddling Callum now.

“Are you trying to get me to beg?” he asks, pinning Callum’s wrists down either side of his head against the bed. It’s not hard enough to hurt, and it’s loose enough that Callum could get free if he wanted to. But Ben knows he doesn’t want to.

“That depends on whether or not it’s working.” Callum makes sure he can read his lips when he speaks, but then he’s leaning up and kissing him again. He sinks his teeth playfully into Ben’s bottom lip when he pulls back just enough to catch his breath, and Ben responds by licking his way into Callum’s mouth when they next kiss and teasing his tongue against his own.

Their back-and-forth is one of the things Ben loves most about this; it’s something he’d never got with any of his one-night stands. Callum gives as good as he gets, and it gets Ben going more than it probably should.

“I might need a little more convincing.”

Ben’s teasing, and it’s definitely the wrong idea because Callum’s rolling them over again and working his way down his neck. He sinks his teeth into the juncture where Ben’s neck meets his shoulder which tears a moan from his mouth. He soothes the sting that leaves with his tongue before working his way down his chest, alternating between leaving a litany of kisses and bites as he goes.

“I think that can be arranged,” Callum bites back, holding Ben’s gaze as he unzips his jeans and shoves them down for him to kick to the floor.

And then he’s got his mouth on him and Ben buries one of his hands in Callum’s hair and curls the other into the blanket beneath him. He’s swearing and moaning, and it doesn’t take him long to start begging, something which he knows makes Callum feel smug.

“Fuck, babe, I love you…” he trails off, tipping his head back against the pillows and letting himself get lost in the feeling of Callum.

It’s late when they finally roll apart from each other. Neither of them know how long they’ve been at it but the streets have long since gone quiet so it must be pretty late. The room smells like sweat and sex and them and Ben thinks he could spend the rest of his life in this room with Callum and he’d die a happy man.

It takes even longer for them both to come down off the high of each other and catch their breaths, but when they do, Ben has his head resting on Callum’s chest and an arm slung over his waist and Callum’s arm is around Ben. He’s tracing the tips of his fingers up and down the length of Ben’s back absently. They both feel safe like this – wrapped up in their own little bubble.

Eventually, Callum cups Ben’s jaw with his free hand and uses it to tilt his boyfriends head up to face him. Ben’s smiling at him all soft and sweet and he thinks about how he might have gone his whole life not knowing that love could feel like this. Like anything could feel like this.

“Say it again,” he hums.

Ben rolls his eyes and leans up for a chaste kiss. “I love you,” he says once he pulls back, and he can feel the way Callum’s smiling when he leans in for another kiss.

They still have a long way to go, they both know that. And it won’t be easy or simple. But they have each other. They love each other. And maybe that’s enough.

#eastenders #ballum fic #ballum #ben x callum #ben mitchell #callum highway #ee fic #ee fanfiction #**#ee*#writing*

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notaparty-trick · 4 years

Text

All Those Senseless Scars - Chapter 3

By @notaparty-trick for @asyouleft

@friendly-neighborhood-exchange

Rating: T

Relationships: Tony Stark & Peter Parker, May Parker & Peter Parker, Michelle Jones & Ned Leeds & Peter Parker

Characters: Peter Parker, Tony Stark, May Parker, Pepper Potts, Michelle Jones, Ned Leeds

Summary: There is a rule to the way Peter lives now. He didn’t know it at first, but he learnt it.

It’s simple.

To earn what he needs to survive, he has to make sacrifices.

---

Peter Parker's life is derailed when he's kidnapped and kept in a white-tiled room with nothing: no windows, no cameras, no food, no water, no phone, nobody else. Only his own thoughts keep him from losing his mind. If he asks for anything, he must take punishment. Tony Stark will stop at nothing to bring him home.

Archive Of Our Own link here

“What would you like?”

Peter tried not to cry. “Blanket.”

He’d warred back and forth all night, worrying himself to pieces over the possibility of a little extra warmth. Asking for it felt like admitting nobody would come to rescue him. But his fingers and toes were blue.

“Please don’t hurt me,” he found himself begging as he was thrust onto the floor on his stomach, jarring his misshapen hand. Though he knew it was utterly useless, the words spilled forth from a well of fear in his mind without filter. “I didn’t do anything, I just wanna go home. Please.”

At the first smack of the whip against his back, the breath was driven from his lungs.

Peter gasped in a shuddering breath, writhing at the unbearable burning sensation that immediately enveloped him.

The second had him moaning in agony.

The third, fourth, fifth, had him pleading.

“Stop, please, don’t touch me,” he sobbed. “I - I don’t want the blanket.”

The sixth followed all the same.

Peter remembered the History class where he’d seen on the page of his textbook the image of ‘Whipped Peter’, the awful scarring across his back, like something had eaten into him.

He cried at the irony of that name.

His skin broke at the tenth lash. He screamed.

---

“God, oh, God, oh - shit!”

“May, don’t take his hand. He’ll crush it.”

“C’mon, baby boy. You’re strong. You got this.”

“Hurts,” Peter hiccups, bracing himself for the agony of the wound cleaning substance against his ruined back.

“I know, kid. Just a little while longer.”

A team of nurses has him on his side, hospital gown untied to reach the web of welts at his back, restraining him so his reflexive flinches don’t worsen his injuries. His heart pounds.

“O- oh, crap,” he falters, pulling at the burns on his face as he screws it up instinctually. The shower he’d been assisted in taking just hours ago has been made superfluous by the sweat that’s breaking out all over him, brought on partly by the sheer torture of the procedure and partly by recollections of being held down and made to cry out in pain in his box.

“Deep breaths,” Tony reminds him softly from where he and May are crouched right beside him, inches away but forbidden from touching him until his wounds are cleaned and re-dressed.

Peter obliges, pushing out a rasping breath. His vision is too blurry to make out Mister Stark’s expression.

The burn arrives again, too quickly, too overwhelmingly, and he jerks against the hands keeping him in place. “No, sto’, too much!”

“We’re very nearly finished, Peter--”

Mister Stark rises from his seat in an instant. “He told you to stop.”

The pain recedes, leaving a residual sting, and a few shuffling footsteps sound behind Peter. He drags his face across the mattress of his bed, hoping to scrub away the tear tracks there but mostly just increasing the throbbing in his nose.

Then a calloused hand is in his hair, a softer one gracing a thumb over his forearm, and he sags in relief.

“You’re okay, Pete, you’re okay,” comes Tony’s low murmur, but he’s not.

“Th’nk you,” he breathes all the same.

“Nobody does anything without your consent, okay?” There again is the fierce yet uneven tone that Peter can’t decipher while the phantom lash of the whip still rings with harsh clarity in the back of his mind.

“’m good now. Jus’… get it over with.”

“You can keep taking a break.”

“No, I gotta do i’.”

Almost the moment the comforting hands leave him, the pain ramps up again, albeit only for a few seconds before a clean dressing is applied.

Peter knows what comes next.

A plastic tub held in a stand is wheeled to a stop beside the burned side of his face, lukewarm water tossing a washcloth back and forth inside. The nurse who had positioned it wrings out the cloth a little, steadies a gloved hand on an unharmed section of his head, and gingerly presses the wet cloth to the dressing just as Peter lets out a forcefully measured exhale.

He feels his flesh melting.

No. He shuts out the memory with gritted teeth.

This isn’t even the worst part. The worst part is after the dressing has been soaked enough that it peels off, when the cream is washed off and replaced.

Peter had stupidly presumed that the moment he staggered through the door of the Compound would be the moment his pain would end.

This time, he can’t even move his face, although every nerve in his body begs him to turn away from the razor blades of the washcloth against his raw skin.

“Mff!” he cries instead, his empty hand fisting in the sheets.

“Good job,” he hears May coaxing over his outbursts. “You’re doing amazing, baby.”

The truth is far from her reassurances. He’s whimpering like an idiot. Pain is a thousand times harder to cope with now, and with a superhero side gig like his, it scares him to contemplate how much harder it might become now.

If he ever heals enough to get out of bed, that is.

As the new dressing is being prepared, a morbid part of him speaks. “I w’nna see my face.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Tony’s head fall forward into his hands. “Kiddo.”

“Show me,” he insists with all the shaky determination he can muster.

Both May and Mister Stark��s heads remained bowed as Tony taps a few times on his phone to enable the camera app and angles it towards Peter’s face.

Peter’s horrifying, ravaged, broken face.

He hadn’t even noticed that a patch of his hair had been singed off by the blowtorch and a further area shaved to a blunt stubble to bare the flayed brown edges of half-healed scalds. Like a disease that’s taken over his features, scraps of angry red, fragile pink and near-white mark the skin of his chin all the way up past his forehead. The dark pools of his eyes only point out more severely the bright, unnatural colours that ring them. Flecks of blood stand out at the palest areas.

Unable to articulate the gaping well of dismay that tears into him at the sight of himself, Peter lets out a sound between an exhale and a sob.

“You look just fine,” May rushes to tell him.

“Plus, you have super healing, remember? It’ll clear up real fast.”

At Mister Stark’s remark, Peter meets the eye of the man he gained the scars to see, simply staring at him. Tony’s face drops its false veneer of encouragement.

He doesn’t blame Mister Stark, not at all. He had no idea. But the more primal part of him, the part that boils over with rage, with shame, with despair, wants desperately to blame someone.

His disfigurement is the price of his freedom. It’s not fair. Not one other person in the room with him now has had to pay for the return of their own autonomy.

Except…?

The hot, stinging trail of a liquid down his cheek startles him out of his rumination. “S’mthin’ on my face.”

“Hey, he’s - yeah.” Mister Stark frowns even more deeply as a nurse dabs at Peter’s face with gauze. “It just comes out? That’s alright?”

“Wha'?”

“You’re bleeding a little, kid.”

“It’s nothing out of the ordinary,” the nurse assures them.

Peter feels nauseous.

When the medical team finally leaves him alone, he trades trembling exhaustion for the murky arms of sleep, passing out in a mess of IV lines and broken limbs and sweat.

May is the first to sit back in her chair with a vehement, “Shit.”

Tony realises he’s forgotten to breathe again in the way he seems to regularly forget basic human functions at the moment. Dragging in a pained breath, he shakes out his twitching hands and echoes, “Shit.”

Above their weary heads whine artificial squares of light. Tony blinks against their harshness, the white behind his eyelids recalling a light with the harshness of the sun against the kid’s cheekbone.

“When I became Peter’s guardian,” begins May quietly, “I knew he had a number of health conditions. I knew there would be hospital visits, examinations - I knew I’d have to see him suffer. But I never - I had no idea. Never this . This was never a thought, this… why do you think they did it?”

“It was because of me, I think,” grits Tony, eyes fixed on the floor.

“Tony - what?”

“When I - God.” The words are razor-edged, nauseating, painful to force out. “They brought him out to me, and then they - he looked like he knew what was coming. That’s when they burnt him.”

Curling into herself, May presses the back of her hand to her mouth. “Fuck.”

“He said - he told us he took punishment, right? And then they’d let him have things? Food, water, a blanket--”

“You,” May finishes for him, sombre.

Tony screws his hand into a fist and brings it down jarringly on his knee. “I was such an idiot. Just waltzed on in there - no plan - no backup - no thought of what they might do to the kid.”

May’s expression begins to change then, morphing into a look she’s seen directed at Peter countless times, the look reserved for flareups of self-sacrificial complexes. “Tony, you--”

“I couldn’t have known, sure. But I could’ve. That’s the thing.”

These thoughts have plagued him from the moment he declared the kid missing.

A pail of filthy water, his face jerked forward to meet it. Yinsen’s face inches from a glowing lump of coal. Sweat rising from his temples as he was screwed into a hulking metal suit that could have been his salvation or his downfall. And most of all, hand-trembling, muscle-knotting, mind-melting terror. Terror that the kid has lived with for twenty-one days.

“I’ve been through it, May. I know what they do, the twisted way they think, and I could have thought about his safety for a second instead of barging in there at the cost of--” he jerks a shoulder in Peter’s direction, his beaten, gauze-swathed body collapsed heavily atop his mattress.

“You barged in because you were desperate,” May counters with fiery sincerity, tearing her gaze from the kid to search for Tony’s eyes. “Because you love him. You had a chance to get him out and you couldn’t pass it up.”

Tony gestures to Peter again, failing to paper over the breaks in his voice as he says, “That isn’t love.”

“But you didn’t do that to him.”

“It sure feels like I did.”

Both of them are aware of the sudden shift in the tone of their conversation; with a hardening of her face that Tony has seen a less intimidating version of on Peter’s face, she flattens her tone and pins him with her gaze. Tony doesn’t dare to interrupt the point she begins to make. “Okay, I can’t - it’s time to cut the bullshit, Tony. I will not have you wallowing right now. I cannot handle it while my kid is still like this.”

Almost unbidden, her gaze strays again to Peter - Tony wonders if she’s worrying about the same things he is. Will he ever heal completely?

“We are going to be strong for him, okay?” she continues as if she’d never faltered. “Forget about the things we could have done or changed. You’ll forget about the way you came to get him, forget about passing out on him. I’ll forget that I let my sixteen-year-old child beat up criminals and didn’t consider that one day somebody with a grudge might choose to act on it.”

“There’s no way that was your--”

“That’s easy to think when it’s not you. And it’s not the point.”

May is filled with a grief-stricken, worn-down kind of wisdom just then. It flows from fidgeting fingers and lashes clumped together by old tears; it grips Tony and doesn’t let him forget the words being spoken to him.

“The point is that our kid is in a bad way, and we’re gonna be his pillars of strength. He is not going to worry one bit about how we’re feeling for once in his life. We’re gonna co-parent the shit out of this awful situation, and all three of us are gonna come out the other end, so help me God. I would prefer not to have to drag you behind me too.”

For a moment, Tony simply sits in stunned silence, marvelling at the fortitude of May Parker.

“How are you like this?” he says eventually, speaking his mind. “Why can’t I emulate your - what would Peter call it? Boss-ass parenting?”

“Because - and I’m just making an observation here - you flail around with your emotions and don’t know what the hell to do with them.”

The dry remark is punctuated by a laugh.

Abruptly, the intense sincerity of moments before gives way to Tony’ favourite coping mechanism: joking uselessly about anything and everything that comes his way. The levity eases the hearts of them both.

Raising his eyebrows, he sits back in the hard hospital chair and replies, “That’s bold of you to say.”

“So you acknowledge that I’m right.”

“Well, my own dad was more of an advocate for not having any emotions, so I feel like I’m doing alright.”

May just offers him an affirmative smile.

---

“Sure you aren’t better off in the chair?”

“I’m fine, mom,” retorts Peter good-naturedly. “Besides, if I get tired, you can carry me back.”

There’s the sassy kid Tony loves.

Still, it’s not easy to watch said kid wobbling at a snail’s pace out of his room in the MedBay, his walking stick the only thing keeping from splattering across the floor.

“C’mon, bud, you’re killing me. At least lean on me.”

“No. I’d rather look like a grandpa than an invalid.”

Tony ends up dawdling uselessly behind the kid as he makes his determined, sluggish way towards the elevator.

It’s difficult to look at the kid and simply see Peter Parker anymore, searching past the arm casts and stitches and dressings and hospital gown and - although Tony hates to admit that it fazes him - the patchwork of burns across his face. He loves his kid to bits, no matter how messed up his face is. It’s the knowledge that, even unintentionally, Peter has them because of him, that makes him falter every time he lifts his eyes to meet the kid’s.

But scars be damned, the look on his face when they make it outside and the sun falls across him is unbeatable.

Ever the motormouth, the kid is silent for once, a sigh purging itself from his chest instead as he squints into the dappled light. It eases just a few of the million knots pulling at Tony’s own sternum.

“How are you feeling, kiddo?” he eventually works up the courage to ask.

“Pretty boss, actually, for not keeling over yet. Didn’t think I’d make it all the way here.”

“I actually meant…”

“Oh. Right.” Instantly, a little of the childlike joy withdraws from Peter’ demeanour, and Tony kicks himself.

There’s another long stretch of comfortable silence while the kid, still gazing out at the open grassland, collects his thoughts, mouth opening and closing minutely. Tony has learned to allow space for this grace period rather than interrupt the kid as he so often used to do, finding that when he let Peter talk in his own time, work past his stammering, he’d come out with some really surprising stuff. Profound. Intelligent. Sweet.

“I guess I’ve felt worse. But, uh, I’ve felt better. It’s just… the world is still here, but it feels like it should have… changed.”

It’s a vague statement, but Tony understands. Staggering out of the shattered remains of his suit, finding the Afghanistan desert around him as undulating and brutally hot as ever, he found himself baffled that the landscape hadn’t undergone the same trauma as him. The rest of the world was no worse for wear while he’d been torn to shreds. He’d felt that the desert itself was mocking him.

“And that’s what I’m scared of most, I think. Everyone’s - you know, they’re just going about their lives like normal and I have another thing weighing me down. Most people don’t freak out when they’re asked, like, a normal question. But it’s questions that get me. That’s all they said to me. They’d ask me what I wanted, and if I agreed to have anything… that was it.

“They wanted - they were trying to make me break, I think. So either I’d… I don’t know, drive myself crazy in there, or refuse everything else they offered me until I… maybe. I don’t know. And I’d forget there were people outside who wanted me with them.”

Tony smiles solemnly.

“I never forgot. I didn’t wanna let go. But it’s like - it was almost easier in there.”

There’s a lifetime of suffering etched into the look that Peter fixes Tony with then, tinged with something that might just be guilt.

“I know that sounds… weird--”

“Not weird at all. I felt that too.”

“You - what?” It takes a few moments, but the knowledge he hadn’t thought to turn over in his mind presents itself to him eventually and he gapes. “Mister Stark. Oh my God. You didn’t - I didn’t think about - you too?”

“Come to me with all your kidnapping queries,” Tony jokes flatly. Peter just widens his eyes.

The ensuing pause is tense. It’s broken by the appearance of a car near the entryway where they stand and a flinch at Tony’s side.

“What are they doing here?” the kid breathes, stricken.

Tony peers over at the opening car doors. “Who?”

He recognizes the kid’s friends, although he likes to pretend he doesn’t.

“It’s just Ted and Emma,” he says deliberately, but it doesn’t draw a laugh or even an acknowledgement from Peter, who appears frozen in place. “What, did you guys fall out over Snapchat? I thought they were nice.”

Swallowing fiercely, Peter turns on his heel and makes a swaying break for the doors.

“Kid!” Although at first he expects to have to run after him, Tony finds the kid is still so slow on his feet that he hardly has to move to address him. There’s no way he’ll even be through the foyer by the time his friends have reached - and after all he’d said about the people he loves getting him through his time in captivity, Tony had assumed he’d be a lot more excited to reunite with them.

It’s when Peter clumsily brings his cast-clad forearm up to cover his face that Tony makes sense of his reaction.

“They’re gonna see me, Mister Stark,” pleads the kid, hints of swollen red protruding from behind his wavering arm.

Although it twists at Tony’s heart to see the kid in such a vulnerable state and encourage him to remain in it, a more earnest chemical that sparks in his veins compels him to stand firm. “Yeah, they are, and it’s gonna be fine.”

“Peter!” comes an enthused shout from the approaching figures.

Stilling in indecision, Peter fixes his eyes on his walking stick, his white-knuckled grip on the handle. Tony simply waits for him to make a choice.

Ned makes it for him, sprinting over like lightning but halting abruptly a few feet in front of the kid, who eyes him with a face tautened by fear.

Tony sees Ned take in Peter’s appearance from top to toe.

MJ joins him then, her deadpan veneer crumbling into horror-struck vulnerability as she beholds the brokenness of the once-mighty boy before her.

Peter ducks his head, hiding his expression behind a curtain of half-shaved hair. “I know,” he croaks.

There’s no reply for a long time. Then, as if he physically can’t contain his outburst any longer, Ned blurts, “ OhmyGodImissedyousomuchI’msogladyou’renotdead.”

Jerking his head back towards his friend a little, Peter lets out a bark of laughter that he surprises himself with.

Tears rapidly filling his eyes, Ned says, “Can I hug you?”

Peter opens his broken arm gingerly. “Don’t cry, dude,” he replies as Ned approaches with overly-hesitant steps, “Gonna make me cry, and when I cry it’s all over.”

The moment of embrace is heralded by a shared damp inhale from them both. Ned settles his arms softly around Peter, who sinks into the embrace, unable to raise his arms to reciprocate but making up for it by burying his face in the shoulder of his friend.

“Spider-Man trouble?” Ned questions him.

Faintly, Tony hears the kid mumble, “Sort of. It was just… they took me. Some bad guys.”

“You could have just told us, you dumbnut,” chips in Michelle, a telltale falter in the undertone of her own words, and goes to join the hug, looping her slender arms around both Peter and Ned.

Tony can’t help but smile at the sight. The kid does have good friends.

“Didn’t want you to freak out,” mutters Peter.

Ned pulls away a little with a frown. “We were freaked out enough,” he insists fervently, “We could take it.”

“He was freaked out to the max,” MJ adds, her trademark smirk ghosting her face for a moment. “I was cool about it.”

The kid isn’t comforted, however; Tony catches the gossamer-like glint of a tear racing down the unharmed side of his face. “It’s not just - I’m, I’m all screwed up now.”

“You’re fine. You’re still Peter.”

Michelle draws him back into the hug, three sets of teenage arms interlinking, comforting one another, all plagued by suffering yet lifting one another up. A string of shaky sniffing noise emanates from where Tony can only guess Peter’s head is nuzzled, but it doesn’t worry him. In fact, he’s comforted by them. He knows the kid, can pick apart the different ways he releases emotion, and these tears signify relief.

It’s almost a minute before the group embrace is broken. Peter raises his head, face paler than when it had disappeared, and says, “Sorry - uh, guys, I gotta sit down.” Tony is baffled to find he’ll let Ned and MJ wrap their arms around him and help him back towards the doors although he’d been so adamant that Tony wasn’t permitted to do the same.

It leaves him idling by the entrance as they retreat, forgotten by the trio of single-track teenage minds heading towards Peter’s hospital room, but he finds himself remarkably unbothered. In fact, his heart is set at rest to such an extent at the sight of the three of them that he waits to follow them back to the MedBay, instead wandering a few steps further from the entrance of the Compound and inhaling the dewy scent of the day.

He’s just glad to see Peter healing.

---

The walking stick is only in active use for roughly a week before the kid’s back and ribs are well on their way to healing and he’s progressed to solid foods, beginning to gain the weight he’d dropped while captive. Usually, his healing might work at a faster rate, but malnutrition got him good. The freaky super-healing of old days resetting bones and staunching minor wounds after the kid’s patrols is only just now making a re-appearance, now the hollowness of Peter’s face is filling with colour again, now wiry muscle is re-threading itself along limbs that had looked fragile enough to snap with bare hands, now there is a hint of a spark punctuating his irises.

Tony, on the other hand, feels like he’s coming out of all this the worse for wear. The damn kid is going to give him a medical condition one day, he’s convinced. If he hasn’t already.

Recovery isn’t linear, it’s a hot mess. Tony knows this well.

Peter cries in his assisted shower, then laughs uncontrollably for a straight minute at a meme MJ sent him while Tony is still drying his hair. He makes requests with distrust, then disquiet, then false confidence. He lets in visitors at last, lighting up from the inside out as he reunites with Pepper and Happy and Rhodey and hobbles out to the SI team that had helped find him to ramble out profuse thanks, then physically wilting when he returns to his room. His casts are sawed off. His hair begins to grow back. He eats his first meal. He cries at dinner. He has a nightmare. He begs to return to school, then begs not to the next morning. He stops writing halfway through a sheet of catchup Physics questions and stands at the Compound’s balcony blankly until Tony fetches him down. He remains blank and unresponsive for three days and nights before bursting back to life in a fit of tremors and tears and panic, then sags back in the arms of Tony and May and sleeps for a solid sixteen hours.

Now, he lies atop a jumble of cushions on the roof of the Compound, Tony at his side, and watches darkness bleed into the sky’s canopy.

Silence pervaded their walk towards the spot, and it pervades now. The gradual brightening of the crescent moon tells more for the moment than Tony’s words could, setting the tips of Peter’s eyelashes alight, spilling a pale wash of light across the fields that fold out from the two of them as if made by their hands.

It’s Peter who breaks the silence. “What’s gonna happen next?”

“What do you want to happen?”

“I don’t… I’m not sure, I guess.” Folding his arms tightly around himself so the ragged old fleece he’s wearing bunches upwards to warm his neck, Peter turns on his side a little, his eyes flickering upwards to meet Tony’s. “Everything was so simple when it was just me and my box. It sucked, but I knew what would happen. And before then, there was no reason to - to think about my life. It just happened. Now, I’m… scared. That if I don’t get it right I’m gonna stay like this, all screwed up, forever.”

The way in which Tony's face screws up at his declaration is overwhelmingly fond. “Peter, everyone's screwed up. Especially superheroes. We volunteer to deal with the blood and guts of the world, there's gotta be something wrong with us."

The kid lets out an abrupt giggle.

"But - you know what? No matter what, no matter how screwed up you feel, nothing's gonna stop you from being my kid. Nothing in the world - no, the universe.”

The truth having been dispensed, Tony sets back his shoulders against the cushions and notes the outlines of clouds dissipating into the captivating gloom of the night. While the kid makes no audible response, his stillness speaks.

“And if you don’t know what you wanna do, May and I can help you out. We’re in your corner.” A deprecating smile breaks out across his face. “I remember leaving Afghanistan, flying back to a world full of people waiting to see Tony Stark’s next move. They needed me to make a plan, crack a joke, do something.”

“What did you do first?”

“I asked for a cheeseburger,” he huffs.

Peter lets out a peal of laughter. It’s carefree in the way Tony only hoped it might return to when he saw the kid beaten and exhausted on the floor of the Compound’s entryway. “Must’ve tasted pretty awesome,” he says with a shrug.

“No, kid, it sucked.”

Peter swivels to study him.

“It sucked so bad that it brought me back to reality.”

“And… what was reality like?”

“In 2008? Reality kind of sucked too.” He pushes away thoughts of Obadiah’s leering face. They’re of no use to him now. “But - it’s crazy, because I think it took the kidnapping for me to figure that out. Not that I’m glad it happened. But… silver lining, I suppose.”

“Yeah,” is all Peter says, the furrow in his brow revealing that he’s deep in thought. Tony waits for him, pressing absentmindedly at his left temple where a low-grade headache buzzes. The night air, the peace of the moment, are helping to ease it.

Eventually, Peter blinks harshly and says, “I think I wanna start patrolling again soon.”

“You do?”

Tony will admit that his blood chills at the admission. It’s the simple fear of a repeat of everything they’re still working to overcome.

“As much as it kind of terrifies me… yeah, I do. I, it’s - helping people, it’s my thing.” Peter smiles at Tony, the burnt side of his face still struggling to sustain the lifting of his mouth but conveying the earnest hope of the expression nonetheless. “It’s what makes my reality good. I mean, it’s - it’s hard, and it hurts, and I see people who are at their worst and people who know no better than lashing out, but I also--”

The kid sobers in an instant.

“Did I ever tell you about the guy I met?” he asks quietly. “At the, uh, at the Queensboro Bridge?”

Tony shakes his head.

“He was standing right on the edge and he - yeah. I didn’t know what to do, but I knew I had to do something. I just - swung by and sat a little way away. He swore something awful at me at first, and I… I was so close to just getting up and leaving. I was sure he wanted me to - to leave, I mean - but I didn’t. Maybe two hours later, he just, he just turned around, walked away from the edge, and got back down onto the sidewalk. He let me walk him home. He didn’t jump. Because I was there. And that was just - you know, wow. I always think about that, that one time someone kept living because I was there to help them. I’m not giving up the chance to do that again, a million times if I can. It’s… it’s my responsibility, I guess, and it also just so happens that I love doing it. It’s my real superpower.” He nods at that, a small, tight, affirming motion. Spreading his arms so they hover above him, oversized against the distant backdrop of the stars, he raises his voice: “So, like, why should bad guys be able to get in the way of it? Screw that.”

“Screw that,” echoes Tony, at a loss for further comment.

He won’t be keeping Peter away from patrolling any time soon. Not when the kid has a sermon like that to back him up.

A chill runs through him at the rippling of a current of breeze along the length of the roof; it jolts a bittersweet memory into his mind.

“I wasn’t alone in Afghanistan, did you know that?”

“No.”

“I woke up to a man in the cave with me. His name was Yinsen. He…”

“Is this the last act of defiance of the great Tony Stark?”

As easily as Tony forgets on some days, on others he remembers so deeply that he can still smell the dust and smoke and sweat and fear in that cave.

“With his last words, he told me not to waste my life. He was my Spider-Man.” He throws out a grin, returned instantly by the kid, who has his cheek pillowed on an arm to watch him. “And look at me now, right? If it weren’t for him, I wouldn’t be here today. Definitely wouldn’t be worrying my ass off about you all the live-long day.”

Tony sticks a hand out of his own bulky sweater and ruffles the kid’s hair, anticipating the kid’s swerve and messing with the curls until they’re irredeemably rumpled. Peter lets his lower lip protrude; Tony just laughs at him.

“So… you’re not wasting your life?” hesitates the kid, shuffling a little closer. There’s a more profound meaning behind the question, one that tugs at Tony’s heartstrings in a million different ways.

He fixes Peter with a level gaze. “Not one second of it.”

As if his words have put his mind at rest, the kid flops onto his back, exhaling in a sigh. He doesn’t bother to fix his hair, leaving it tufting away from his head in countless haphazard cowlicks.

The ensuing inhale Tony hears issue from the kid’s throat holds a new, darker note.

“Mister Stark, what happened to the Oscorp guys?”

“You don’t need to worry about them,” Tony asserts firmly.

“Mister Stark.”

“I made sure they’d never think about taking you again.”

Peter rolls away to the side at that: just a little, but enough to let Tony know that his words have unsettled him. He’d done it for the kid, as much as he knew that it wouldn’t be received positively. Perhaps he’d really done it for himself, then. His own peace of mind, certainly, and relief from the pressure of fury behind his ribs.

All he can think now, however, is that he can’t lose the atmosphere he and the kid have cultivated here, the peace, the honesty.

Turning himself to angle his body towards the kid, he begins, “You know, Pete, I - I really want you to know that you can call me. Any time. None of the crap I pulled before you took down Toomes. I’ll be your Spider-Man. If that sounds… good.”

As hesitant as he’d been, Peter’s furtive smile shows he appreciates the sentiment. He sniffs away the dampness of the evening and says, “That sounds really good.”

“When you get back out there, it’s gonna be tough, I can guarantee. Tough as anything. Nobody can really know what you went through. But I’ll be there, and--”

“I get it, Mister Stark.” The kid’s nose scrunches then in that unique, wonky way of his when he’s amused.

“What did I say about interrupting when I’m being nice?” Tony retorts, affecting offense.

Peter pays the words little heed, instead shifting until he’s tucked against Tony’s side and shyly nudging his head into the nook between his shoulder and neck.

At first, Tony’s stunned into stillness. He and Peter have never been very physically intimate in the past although Tony knows the kid derives a lot of comfort from it: he’s placed hands on his shoulders, squeezed once in a while, steered him one way or another with a hand at his back, even tucked strands of hair away from his eyes once or twice, but the hug barrier has rarely been broken. When he puts his hands on Peter, thoughts of flying fists and broken glass overtake his motor functions, drawing him away.

Perhaps it’s these years of wrestling back and forth that make the simplicity of Peter’s current closeness so breathtaking.

“Thank you,” breathes Peter.

The words encompass a thousand instances of gratefulness. He always forgets the way the kid can do that with a single sentence of thanks.

Tony slowly lets his arm curl around the kid’s shoulders. Far above them, a star pierces the blanket of the night with increased potency.

Caring his throat, he hums, wondering how to bring up the strange thought that’s crossed his mind. “Actually, I also wanted to… a couple of days ago, I found this - you know what, forget it. I said nothing.”

“That’s mean!” Tilting his head so he’s gazing up at Tony from just beneath his chin, he pleads, “Tell me what it is.”

“It’s stupid and sappy--”

“I love stupid and sappy. Please, Mister Stark.”

And there arrive the wide baby browns Tony can’t resist.

“Damn puppy eyes,” he mutters, fishing in the pocket of his pants for his phone.

“They still work?”

Frowning, Tony looks away from the glow of the phone display to find a startling amount of uncertainty in Peter’s demeanour.

“What are you talking about, Pete?” he exclaims, letting his genuine disbelief temper his tone. Before the memories can flood in, he lifts his free hand and brushes it gently across the kid’s patchwork cheek. “‘Course they still work. As long as your head is on your neck, you’ll be able to sway me.”

There’s a faint smile from Peter, but it’s not convincing enough for Tony. He continues: “You look great, by the way.”

The kid ducks his head, huffing out a nervous laugh.

“Still Peter Parker. Still adorable.”

“I’m not adorable,” argues the kid weakly, casting about, “I’m…”

Tony raises an eyebrow. “You're adorable.”

“Okay,” Peter concedes with little reluctance.

Scrolling through his music app until he finds what he was looking for, Tony blows out a breath, feeling nerves unexpectedly rearing their head.

“It’s a song?”

“Yeah. I heard it first while you were out there. Made me think of you. Well, get ready for the sap.”

He presses play.

A soft guitar melody begins the song, slow strumming patterns flooding the rooftop and settling peace across both the figures lying there.

Lying in my bed I hear the clock tick and think of you

Turning in circles, confusion is nothing new

Flashback to warm nights

Almost left behind

Suitcase of memories

Time after...

Peter’s knee settles against Tony’s as he winds himself further around him. The warmth at Tony’s side is elating and calming all at once; he wonders why he was so scared to do this before.

Sometimes you picture me, I’m walking too far ahead

You’re calling to me, I can’t hear what you’ve said

And you say go slow

I fall behind

The second hand unwinds…

An alien but wholly welcome silence descends upon his mind, halting the constant whirring and worrying. Watching Peter’s eyes slide shut on his shoulder, he imagines the kid is experiencing the same thing. There’s a small, confidential smile curling across his face; it’s a thank you of its own.

If you’re lost, you can look and you will find me

Time after time

If you fall, I will catch you, I’ll be waiting

Time after time

Peter’s head bobs in a way that somehow communicates that he understands why Tony connected to these lyrics. They say what he can’t.

Tony is filled with overwhelming affection, so all-encompassing it spills from his chest and fills the Compound, the surrounding forest, the sky itself, for the small boy at his side who has grown an unfathomable amount since the day he first set eyes on a kid in a onesie running around Queens.

---

One month later

Standing before the long mirror in the corner of his bedroom, Peter studies himself and the bundle of bright red-and-blue fabric he holds.

The suit appears innocuous bunched up in his newly-healed hands that way, but it holds more power than he'd before been aware of: in the eyes of some, the power to condemn him. The power to regard him as a test subject.

It had happened out of nowhere , his danger sense knocking him off guard with a sudden blare that pricked viciously at the back of his neck. Then--

BANG

The gunshot sent him scrambling the length of the block to reach the source, slipping and almost crashing to the ground with the misplaced momentum of a haphazardly slung string of webbing. Sprinting the last few steps, he rounded the street corner and came across a woman with a gun to her head, flanked by a gang of four masked people.

"Spider-Man! Help, get me out of here--"

"Shut up!" thundered the gang member who had her pulled against his chest. "And you--" he tilted his pistol momentarily in Peter's direction "--put your fucking hands up! Don't try anything!"

As much time as Peter spent rescuing small animals from the perils of New York City traffic and halting the occasional robbery, he wasn't unfamiliar with the city's more ugly crimes. This was a textbook mugging. In fact, it felt almost... too familiar.

Peter raised his hands for the moment, although he had no intention of keeping them there. The gun was his primary concern, however, and until he had a guarantee he'd be able to keep it a good distance away from the scared lady's brains he was eager to play it safe.

His hurried strategization proved in vain, as did the quip half-formed on his tongue, when a sharp sting in the side of his neck compelled him to turn sharply to the side.

Nothing.

Groping at his neck, he closed his hand around a needle.

The drug hit him instantly, knocking his sense of balance and clouding his vision so severely he hadn't a hope of getting to the hostage.

Or was she even a hostage? Had any of it been real?

"Woah, what the hell," he remarked with alarmingly numb lips. The ground rose up to meet him in the way it always does in movies: the screen fades to black, the music halts - but his senses remained dulled to a blurry grey.

Shedding his t-shirt, Peter clears his throat in a preparatory gesture before twisting around to see the half-healed welts across his back. The angry red swelling that had once ringed each mark has softened to a slightly heightened pink which rings long white lines, forty of them still there but receding.

They're kind of cool, he thinks abruptly. They show that he's still around. That he is strong.

He shucks off his pants then steps into the suit with a deep breath.

Then came the hands, what felt like dozens of them to Peter's wandering mind, gripping, running up and down his suit, searching for something.

He was in deep shit; although he was nowhere near coherent enough to fight off the invaders with his lead-heavy limbs, he knew that for sure. These guys had him in their lap - literally. The possibilities of what might happen to Peter ran through his mind in quick, delirious procession, so vividly reasonable that they brought bile to the back of his throat.

He let out a quiet groan, the only act of protestation he could muster. It only drew a laugh from the hands.

"They hit him hard, didn't they?"

"Not hard enough." It was the voice of the woman he'd rushed to save just moments ago. "Supposed to knock him out."

"Just hit him with another. It can't kill him, right?"

"Got a smaller chance than what's gonna happen once we get him to Norman."

Another furtive, ugly laugh.

A whizzing noise alerted him to the decompression of his suit.

"Fucking finally."

He was pulled back and forth, limp as a ragdoll, as the million hands worked his suit off him, his last shred of protection slipping off his immobile legs and leaving him in his boxers.

"Oh, Christ. He's... young."

"Still Spider-Man. We do our job."

Tapping the spider emblem on his chest, Peter watches as the fabric rushes inwards to meet his skin, as he transforms from boy to superhero.

Though he'd managed to hide the lash marks by changing in corners after gym class, there was nothing he could do to conceal the fading burns on his face.

Peter greets the shining, reddened skin there with a mixture of solemnity and strange fondness. He no longer needs dressings, just time, and acceptance of his new appearance. His hair will grow out again. The marks will fade further and further until they're a part of him.

The hands seized him again and dragged him back down the street he'd entered so quickly, so blindly. His sluggish heart begun a weak chorus of hammering. Torn between utter panic and complete lethargy, his body rebelling against his screaming danger sense, he found to his dismay that the drugs began to win. A screech of tires; he was lifted onto a metal floor.

Oh, God, he remembers thinking vaguely. Mister Stark had better come for me.

The ensuing cacophony of voices was too multitudinous for him to pick out. The second needle in his neck, however, was keenly picked up by his pleading, aching danger sense. The awareness of the fact that a second dose of drugs was about to enter his bloodstream did nothing to prevent his vision fading to black, noise halting. End scene.

He passes out among the million hands and wakes up to white tiles.

Brushing gloved hands habitually through the errant locks of hair lying across his forehead, he watches himself one last time, tries to connect the dots between the suit Mister Stark had re-made for him, the invisible stitching, the black arrow-lines dividing bold red and blue, the graceful shape of the suit around him culminating at his neck in a neat seam, and the scarred skin that grows from that seam and forms the face of Peter Parker, Spider-Man.

"Peter Parker," he repeats under his breath, "Spider-Man."

He'll admit that the murky flashes of the past that mar his mind now scare him a little. Although he hadn't known it the first time he'd stepped into this suit, he makes himself both strong and vulnerable when he's in it. His heart hadn't stopped beating in his box, but it had come close, whether from thirst or hunger or pain or blood loss or sheer loneliness; and yet now it beats a tattoo against his tender ribs as if making up for any doubts of its fervour, beating and beating and beating.

But there's more than one reason why he's donned the suit today.

Peter slips the mask over his head and vaults over the windowsill, emerging into the brilliantly warm light of the golden hour that lays in delicate streaks across the patchwork of rooftops that make up the puzzle of Queens. He's warmed from the inside out by the light. Shooting a web, taking a leap, he swings, revelling in the cool wind, the airy momentum of his movement.

The glass doors of the Compound cast blinding, enchanting reflections of the sinking sun, but if Peter squints he can make out a familiar form waiting for him in the entry.

Letting go of his web line, he twists backwards in the air, arcing into a backflip just for the hell of it, before dropping to his feet outside the doors.

The first thing he notices is Tony's smile. It's an indulgent thing, packed so full of fondness that Peter feels the excess settling in his own expression, and lit up by the golden light.

Spreading his arms, Peter nods at himself, making a beckoning motion as if encouraging praise from a cheering crowd, then turns on the spot so Mister Stark can see every inch of the suit and know that Peter's decision to wear it again is very deliberate. Through the glass, there's a silent laugh from his mentor. Peter hasn't seen him so unapologetically happy since the day he was taken.

Dropping the goofy act, he pulls off his mask and watches the face across the glass brighten further still. Peter unconsciously brings up a hand to his old burns, a flicker of a reflection showing him the ragged skin for a moment before being swallowed up by the vast glory of the sun. Tony just quirks the corners of his mouth, the affection in his eyes unwavering.

Peter steps through the glass door, throwing out a blade of refracted light that pierces nothing but the safe haven of nature around him, and meets him inside.

#fanfic #fanfiction #irondad #spiderson #tony stark #peter parker #whump #angst #hurt and comfort #notaparty-trick

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