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spidermiguell · 1 month ago

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For pain is what I yearn for. — Feyd Rautha (18+)

—fem!reader x feyd rautha harkonnen

—synopsis: You were sent to interrogate him, not touch him. But Feyd-Rautha was never meant to stay chained—he got under your skin, into your blood, and made you break every rule you swore by. Now he’s free, bruised and grinning, and you’re the one left exposed when the doors open. It wasn’t supposed to get this intimate. And it’s going to cost you everything.

—warnings: power imbalances, dubious consent, manipulation, explicit sexual content, physical violence, emotional violence, blood, injury, psychological tension, coercion themes, non-traditional power dynamics, emotional degradation, Stockholm Syndrome undertones

—songs recs while reading: creep — radiohead + where is my mind — pixies

It had been twelve days since the fall of the Harkonnen stronghold on Arrakis. Twelve days since the blood-soaked sands bore witness to the defeat of one of the most feared names in the Imperium. The Atreides emerged from the chaos victorious—scarred, battered, but standing. And among the prisoners taken from the wreckage was the infamous Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen: heir to the throne of Giedi Prime, sadist, killer, war-trained spectacle of brutality. A man raised on violence like it was scripture. Many had called for his execution. Public. Swift. Cleansing. But Paul Atreides had stayed the blade. “Let him rot,” the Duke said. “Let him be studied. Understood. He’s more useful alive.”

That’s where you came in.

Not a soldier, not a torturer. You were sharp where others were brutal—trained in observation, rhetoric, psychological warfare. You’d spent your life learning how to make people talk without touching them. So when they handed you Feyd, it wasn’t with weapons. It was with silence. Patience. Intellect.

And he hated that.

He was used to screams and fire, to proving himself with fists and blood. But you offered none of that. Just cold eyes and measured words. You treated him like a subject. Like a thing to be understood. And maybe that’s why he smiled at you like that. Like a dog shown a new kind of cruelty. Or maybe… something worse.

The first time you entered his cell to fully talk to him and not just watch him with others in silence, he didn’t even look up.

He sat on the edge of the cot, wrists bound in a high-security restraint that pulsed faintly red against his skin. The room was dim, lit only by a single glowglobe embedded in the ceiling, casting sharp lines across his face. He looked younger than you expected—more sculpted than monstrous. But the moment he glanced at you, you understood why the others avoided him. That gaze was sharp. Not just watchful—but calculating. Cold and amused all at once, like he already knew what kind of person you were and was just waiting for you to prove it.

You didn’t introduce yourself. You didn’t need to. He knew who you were. The Atreides shadow sent to interrogate him—only you weren’t using chains or drugs or blades. Just words. And maybe that offended him more than pain ever could.

“Another silent one,” he muttered, voice low, amused. “You people really know how to drag out the inevitable.”

You ignored him. He watched you with a tilt of his head, like a predator in temporary captivity, studying the hand that held the key to the cage.

“What’s your name?” you asked, finally.

He smiled. A slow, curling thing that didn’t touch his eyes.

“you know my name. You’ve been coming to observe me with the other Atreides freaks for the past 12 days. Glad you’re finally speaking though”

A pause.

You didn’t answer. You just stared. That always unnerved people eventually.

But not him.

No, he leaned into it.

“You’re not going to get what you want from me,” he said, voice lilting like he was reciting a joke only he found funny. “Not with patience. Not with politeness. If you want answers, you’ll have to dig. Hurt me. Break me.”

He grinned.

“Please. Try.”

There it was.

That glint in his eyes when he said hurt me. Not taunting, not bluffing, but longing. You knew that look. You’d seen it before in broken men trying to reclaim control through pain. But in him, it wasn’t weakness. It was power. A weapon he’d learned to wield before he could read.

And in that moment, something inside you shifted.

You didn’t pity him. You didn’t fear him.

You understood him.

And that was so much worse.

Because now you couldn’t unsee it. That hunger behind his words. The way he leaned into cruelty not as a tactic, but as comfort. Like pain…his or someone else’s, was the only language he’d ever been taught to speak. You weren’t sure if that made him more dangerous, or just more tragic. But it made him harder to hate. And that… that was the most dangerous thing of all.

You didn’t move from where you stood, didn’t let your breath falter or your spine ease, but inside, something shifted. Just slightly. Like a hairline fracture in glass—small, invisible, but growing. He felt it. Somehow, he felt it.

“There,” he said, voice low and pleased, almost reverent. “You feel it too. Don’t you?”

Your eyes met his, unflinching.

“What I feel is irrelevant,” you said calmly.

“Mmm.” He leaned forward, slow, as if savoring the space between you. “That’s not a denial.”

You didn’t rise to it. You refused. Letting him rile you was exactly what he wanted—feeding the fire he burned inside. He was waiting for you to break. Waiting for your hands to tremble, for your voice to crack. You gave him nothing.

But his smile didn’t falter. If anything, it deepened.

“You’re very good at pretending,” he said. “But you’re not hollow. You burn. I can feel it from here.”

You kept your face blank, but the truth of it prickled at the back of your neck. You were burning. Not with fear, but with the slow, grinding frustration of being studied like you were the subject. He was flipping the dynamic, piece by piece, and you were letting him.

“You think you know me,” you said, voice like ice. “You don’t.”

“Not yet,” he echoed, his smile turning razor-sharp. “But you’re so fun to peel apart.”

There was a moment—too long to be comfortable—where neither of you spoke. His breathing had steadied. His posture loose, familiar, like he was settling into something. And the silence between you no longer belonged to you. He had taken it, claimed it like territory.

You needed to take it back.

“You’ve never known anyone who didn’t hit back, have you?” you asked, stepping forward just slightly—just enough to shift the air. “Anyone who didn’t play your game?”

He blinked, just once. That was the tell. A flicker.

“Is that what you are?” he asked, voice quieter now. “Something else?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Because deep down, you weren’t entirely sure. Not anymore.

And that terrified you.

Feyd tilted his head with that same, infuriating, almost crazy look in his eyes—like he was watching something beautiful unfold. Something inevitable.

“You think they sent you here to tame me,” he said, voice like heat dragging over skin.

“But you didn’t come to clip the monster’s wings. You came to see if he’d recognize something in you.”

You clenched your jaw. Hard. The tension bloomed in your chest and settled behind your teeth, bitter and slow. Don’t react. Don’t give him that.

You stepped back, cold air rushing in to fill the space he’d taken in your lungs. Your fingers curled at your sides.

“You’re not special,” you blurted out, far too loudly for your liking. “You’re just another twisted little tyrant who thinks manipulation makes him interesting.”

But even as the words left your mouth, you felt the hollowness in them. Like a shield you knew had already cracked.

He laughed. Quiet, indulgent.

“You’re adorable when you lie to yourself.”

Your control, once unshakable, pristine, rippled.

He shifted on the cot, the chains tugging as he leaned forward.

“Come on,” he whispered. “Say what you really want to say. No one’s watching. No command, no eyes behind glass. Just you. And me.”

You froze.

Not because you didn’t know what you wanted to say.

But because you did.

And when you moved, it was sharp. Unthinking.

Your hand grabbed the front of his collar and dragged him forward, yanking him off balance until his knees slammed against the edge of the chains that held him back. He barely reacted—eyes wide, breath caught, lips parting in something too close to wonder.

“Is this what you want?” you snapped, voice low and dangerous. “To be broken open? To be punished?”

He stared at you like you’d answered a prayer.

“Yes,” he whispered. “Yes. Finally.”

You shoved him back hard—back against the wall, his breath knocked out in a short, stunned laugh—but he was grinning, grinning like he’d won, even in chains.

“Hurt me,” he breathed. “Make it mean something.”

And you almost did.

Your hand trembled where it fisted in his shirt. Your other curled at your side, aching to strike. To burn. And for a split second, you saw yourself doing it—saw the violence, the release. Saw the understanding in his eyes turn to devotion.

And god help you, you wanted it.

Because you didn’t want to save him.

You wanted to ruin him.

And the scariest part?

He wanted it too.

You should’ve let go.

You knew you should’ve let go.

But he was laughing under his breath, low and breathless, like every second of your fury was a gift he’d been starving for. And somehow, his chains didn’t make him look powerless. They made him look offered. Like he was giving himself to you in the only way he knew how.

“Come on,” he rasped, breath warm against your cheek. “You can do better than that.”

You shoved him again, harder this time. His back hit the wall with a dull, satisfying thud. The way his eyes fluttered shut—fuck…he loved it.

“You like this?” you spat. “Being thrown around like trash?”

“No,” he whispered, eyes opening again—dark, fevered, locked on yours. “I like that you’re the one doing it.”

The sound you made was half fury, half disbelief. Your fingers twisted tighter in the front of his shirt. You raised your hand—open at first—but when he didn’t flinch, when he tilted his head slightly like he wanted it, the shape of it changed. You struck him.

A slap. Sharp. Loud in the stone chamber.

His head snapped to the side.

A breathless laugh escaped him—wrecked and giddy.

“God,” he groaned. “Do it again.”

And you did. You weren’t thinking anymore. You were feeling. Letting the weight of everything he’d said, everything he was, crash through your carefully built walls. You hit him again, and again—until your palm burned, until his cheek bloomed with red. He groaned through one of them, head lolling back against the wall, lips parted.

And that was the moment it shifted.

Not just violence. Not just power.

Something else burned in the air between you.

Your chest heaved. His too. Your hands fisted in his collar, dragging him close, and for the first time, he didn’t speak. He just looked at you—mouth swollen, cheek flushed, chain links clinking softly as he moved.

And he smiled.

But not cruelly. Not mockingly. It was… soft. Filthy. Grateful.

“You’re so beautiful like this,” he whispered.

Your breath caught in your throat. You hated how it sounded on his tongue—like worship. Like reverence. Like he meant it.

“You don’t get to—” you started, but the words tangled in heat and breath.

His lips brushed yours.

Not a kiss. Not yet. Just the ghost of one. The possibility of one.

“You could do anything to me,” he murmured. “And I’d let you. I’d fucking thank you.”

And you hated him. You hated him. But your body betrayed you—every nerve lit up, your grip didn’t loosen, and your mouth stayed far too close to his.

“You’re putrid,” you whispered.

“And you’re still holding me,” he breathed.

And you were.

Fingers curled into him like he was yours.

And he was still smiling.

That same, unbearable, feral smile—like you were divine, like every word you spat and every bruise you left was love to him. You wanted to wipe it off his face. So you did.

You shoved him back against the stone so hard the cot behind him scraped against the floor. His head hit the wall, but he didn’t flinch. He only looked up at you, breathless, chest rising and falling beneath the wrinkled fabric of his shirt.

“You hit like you’re scared of liking it.”

That snapped something in you. Again.

You struck him once more—this time with your whole body behind it. Not just a slap—impact. The kind that echoed through your bones. The kind you weren’t supposed to like either.

He groaned. This time not with mockery, but something deeper. Darker. His eyes fluttered shut, lashes brushing past his bruised cheekbone. He was drunk on this. On you.

“Again,” he begged.

Your hand fisted in his shirt and dragged him forward—and when he fell into you, you didn’t push him back. Not this time. You shoved him against your body, against your heat, your fury, your restraint finally gone.

He gasped softly, like he hadn’t expected that part. Like pain, he understood—but this? This closeness? It rocked him.

“You're sick,” you whispered, voice thick and low. “You get off on being hurt. On me hurting you.”

“Yes,” he breathed into your throat. “Only you.”

Your grip tightened, forcing his head back so you could look at him—really look. His lip was split, cheek flushed from your palm, and he looked ruined. Beautiful. Like art dragged through ash.

And still, still. He leaned into your touch.

“I could kill you,” you said.

“Then kill me,” he whispered. “But do it like this.”

And then—your lips were on his.

It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t soft. It was a collision—teeth, heat, breath. His chains rattled as he surged forward into you, mouth hungry, answering yours with bruising need. You bit his lip harder than necessary and he moaned into it, pulling you closer with every inch of movement he was allowed.

You hated how much you wanted him.

How good it felt to ruin something already so beautifully broken.

His hands, still bound, brushed your hips—begging without words. You didn’t stop him. You didn’t stop yourself. Your body pressed into his, heat against heat, and the friction made you both gasp.

“Say it,” he growled against your mouth.

“Say what?”

“That you want this. That you want me.”

You pushed your forehead to his, panting.

“I want to break you.”

You heard the sound before you understood it— groaning under pressure, warping like clay. You froze.

Then, snap.

One link shattered. Then another.

You looked down just in time to see the chain unravel from his wrist like it had never belonged there. It hit the ground with a hollow clatter. The second followed without ceremony.

It was so easy. Too easy.

Your heart slammed against your ribs.

And when your eyes snapped back up, Feyd was already watching you—head tilted, hands free, fingers flexing slowly like he was remembering what they were really for.

“Huh,” he murmured, inspecting his palm. “Almost forgot what it feels like not to be restrained.”

His voice was too casual. Too slow. You didn’t trust it.

You took a step back, instinct pulling at your spine. But he moved too—one step, then another, smooth and unhurried, like a predator circling something it knew wouldn’t get away.

“You…could’ve done that anytime” you breathed.

He grinned, and there was nothing sweet in it.

“Of course I could’ve.”

Your pulse jumped. Your hand brushed your hip like it might find a weapon there. It didn’t.

“Then why—”

“Because I wanted to see how far you’d go thinking I couldn’t touch you,” he said, taking another step forward. “I wanted to see what you'd do with a monster in chains. If you'd flinch. Or if you'd play.”

He was closer now.

You could smell the heat on his skin, the sharp tang of metal and blood still clinging to him. His fingers reached for your chin—but didn’t touch. Just hovered, maddeningly close, enough to make your breath catch.

“You surprised me,” he said. “You took control.”

His tone dipped—low, rough. The kind that slithered into your stomach and coiled there.

“And now?” you whispered, trying to keep your voice steady.

“Now,” he said, finally touching your jaw, thumb tracing just beneath your lower lip, “I’m wondering what happens when the monster decides to play back.”

Your knees almost buckled.

Because his hand wasn’t rough—it was glorifying. Like he still worshipped you. But now you knew he didn’t have to. He wasn’t kneeling anymore. He was choosing to touch you this gently.

And it made your skin burn.

He leaned in, lips brushing your ear.

“Do you want to run?”

You didn’t answer.

“No?” His smile widened against your neck. “Good. I’d hate to chase you. Unless you wanted that too.”

A chill danced down your spine.

You hated the way your body responded.

but deep down, you knew you loved it.

Unexpectedly, before you could even think or speak, Feyd moved viciously.

One moment he was smiling—lips split, blood on his teeth like a kiss he hadn't finished tasting—and the next, your back collided with the wall. The impact rattled your bones, but the gasp that escaped you wasn’t fear.

It was thrill.

Feyd didn’t hold you like a prisoner. He didn’t have to. His hands bracketed your head, palms flat against the stone, arms tense and caging—but you felt the restraint in it. The pullback. The control.

He could crush you.

But he didn’t.

“You’re trembling,” he murmured, his breath hot against your ear.

You scoffed. “Not from fear.”

“No,” he breathed. “You like this. Being wanted like this. Being seen.”

He leaned in slowly, dragging the tip of his nose along your jaw, and you hated how much your body betrayed you. Heat curled low in your stomach. He could feel it. He always could.

“I spent days chained for you,” he said. “Let you examine me. Let you pretend you were in charge.”

Your hand shot up before you even thought about it—crack. His face snapped to the side, blood spattering onto his cheek. His breath hitched.

He turned back to you, lip split wide, grinning.

You hit him again.

Harder.

His head thudded back against the stone, and this time, when he looked at you, something darker lit his eyes. Something holy

“Keep going,” he rasped. “Don’t stop now.”

“i fucking hate you; you piece of shit.”

He did nothing but laugh.

You shoved him back, but he let it happen again—let his body go limp just long enough for you to feel like you were winning.

Then he surged forward, grabbing you, and kissed you so hard your teeth clashed. His mouth was blood and heat and brutal want. You clawed at him, fingernails raking down his back, dragging skin. He hissed, gasped, moaned into your mouth.

“I should tear you apart, tell the Duke what an animal you are.” you breathed against his lips.

“Then what’s stopping you?” he whispered back, eyes wild, chest heaving. “Do it. Ruin me.”

“Don’t tempt me.”

“Too late.”

He reached for your hand, brought it to the side of his neck, pressed it there—your palm over his pulse.

“Take it,” he said. “Take all of me.”

Your fingers stayed at his throat, your palm pressed over that racing pulse—and something in you couldn’t help it.

You crashed into him like violence made flesh.

Mouths colliding. Blood mixing. Nothing soft left in you. Or him. He groaned into your kiss, the sound ragged, needy, as his hands finally touched you without caution. They gripped your hips hard enough to bruise, dragging you against him like he wanted to carve your shape into his body and keep it there.

You clawed at his back, dragged your nails down the muscle and bone, tearing open old scabs. He hissed loudly, but it wasn’t pain. It was pleasure. Your lips tore apart just long enough to see the red streaks you’d left on his skin, and the way he smiled through it made your breath catch.

“You like that?” you spat.

He laughed psychopathically.

“I’m a whore for it.”

Then his hands were everywhere. Sliding beneath your clothes, tugging at them with frantic purpose. You gripped his shoulders and kissed down his throat like you wanted to taste where your hand had once threatened him. He arched into it, chest heaving, grinding up against you without shame.

“You’re mine,” you whispered.

“I’ve always been yours, your animal,” he groaned, biting down on your shoulder hard enough to mark.

You slammed him back against the wall this time, the stone cracking behind his spine. He moaned like it was a blessing. Like you were ripping him apart in all the ways he’d ever wanted.

Clothes tore.

Fabric ripped.

Skin met skin with no room left between.

You shoved his shirt down his arms, raking your hands across his chest, and when your nails found the deep ridges of scars and fresh welts, he shuddered. His head dropped to your shoulder, and you heard him whisper, almost broken:

“Only you. Only you make me feel it.”

And still, he let you lead.

Even with his strength, his fire, his bloody mouth and brute hands—he let you choose how rough, how fast, how much.

But you didn’t hold back.

You bit him, shoved him, slammed him harder until he was panting beneath you, his knees threatening to give out, his hands clawing at your back like he was begging without saying it.

His eyes locked onto yours, wide and glassy.

“I yearn for you,” he gasped. “I dream about you breaking me.”

Right there against the cold stone, with blood drying on his lip and your name gasped against his throat like a prayer, you made sure to break him. Snap him. Throw him around like your toy.

Feyd was already gasping—eyes blown wide, skin slick and bruised beneath your hands—but he never told you to slow down. Never asked for mercy. He only watched you like you were holy fire, and he was desperate to burn.

You dragged him to the floor, hard, and he took it with a snicker—grinning even as his back hit the cold flooring of the cell, arms splayed, his bare back bleeding from your scratches beneath him. His chest rose and fell like he’d just come back from war. Maybe he had.

You straddled him without hesitation, knees braced on either side of his hips, and his hands flew to your thighs—but didn’t push. Didn’t grab.

Waited.

Even now, he waited for your permission.

And you gave it to him—with your entire fucking body.

You leaned down, lips crashing into his again, messier this time, soaked with blood and spit and teeth. You kissed like you were starving, and he kissed you like it would kill him not to. Your hips ground against his, the friction sharp and perfect, and when you shifted just right, he bucked up with a sound so guttural it vibrated in your bones.

“Fuck,” he gasped. “Please. Please!”

You laughed against his mouth.

“Didn’t know the great Feyd-Rautha begged”

“you’re the—fuck—exception” he groaned, clutching at you now, his fingers digging into your waist like he was afraid you’d vanish.

You moved again, hips rolling, slower this time, meaner. And he shook. He was writhing beneath you, but never taking control, never even trying. Just laying there, trembling, undone, letting you use him like he was built for this.

Because maybe he was.

Your hands gripped his wrists and pinned them above his head. He didn’t fight. Didn’t resist. Just looked up at you with glassy eyes, breath catching as your fingers tightened.

“You want it rough?” you whispered.

He nodded.

“Say it.”

he breathed. “I want to feel it for days.”

And you gave it to him.

You rocked against him, body colliding with his in a mess of heat and bruises and blood, the tension in your spine snapping with every grind, every breathless curse between clenched teeth. He arched, back bowing like he wanted to disappear into you, whimpering when your nails raked down his arms, when your teeth grazed his throat.

You bit him, drawing pools of blood from his collarbone.

And he came apart.

His body jerked beneath you, spine taut, his breath ragged as he shattered in your hands—loud, unashamed, eyes locked to yours even through it. Like he wanted you to see him break.

And god, you did.

You followed with a strangled moan, hands gripping his chest, forehead pressed to his as your body convulsed, your orgasm tearing through you like fire. You rode it out together—sweaty, shaking, feral and consumed.

When it was over, you collapsed on top of him, both of you gasping, chests rising and falling in chaotic sync. His arms wrapped around you, gentle now. Almost reverent.

“I let you win,” he murmured, lips brushing your temple.

You smirked against his throat.

“No,” you whispered. “You wanted to lose.”

He chuckled softly, body still twitching beneath yours.

Your limbs were still tangled with his skin. Hot, breath uneven, sweat cooling between every bruise and bite. You should’ve moved. Should’ve said something. Should’ve done anything but lie there like you weren’t already ruined.

Instead, you shifted just far enough to pull away, sitting back on your heels. The air hit your bare skin like a slap, but you didn’t reach for your clothes. Neither did he.

You didn’t dare look at him.

“You’re disgusting,” you muttered, eyes fixed on the stone floor.

Feyd laughed—soft, smug, and fucking dangerous.

“And yet,” he said, stretching his arms behind his head like he hadn’t just been begging beneath you minutes ago, “you still gave me everything.”

He stood, naked and unbothered, covered in bruises and blood—his own, but not from interrogation. He was supposed to be untouched. That’s how you operated. You made them crack without laying a hand on them. You were better than that. You didn’t let anyone get under your skin, didn’t lose control.

But Feyd? He made you forget that line. He made you forget everything.

You watched him from the corner of your eye, jaw tight, disgust mixing with something deeper—a quiet kind of fear.

“Tell me,” he said, walking toward you slowly, casually, like you were prey that had already surrendered. “How’s it feel… knowing you lost?”

You stood too—too fast—your knees still shaking. His body was inches from yours, radiating heat and something worse: certainty. He didn’t touch you. Didn’t have to.

“You think this means you’ve won?” you spat.

He smirked.

“Look at me,” he said softly.

And you did.

That’s when it hit you.

His body was marked. Blood splattered across his chest, dripping from his lip, a gash at his side. No one would believe this was from the controlled discipline you were known for. It was messy. Wild. Uncontrolled.

And worse? He was still standing. Still smug. Still victorious.

You had let him get to you. You’d broken every rule you ever had—and he was still here, smirking, like nothing had happened.

Oh god.

Anyone who walked in now wouldn’t see an interrogation. They wouldn’t see the stoic, disciplined you—they’d see this.

They’d see him free from the chains, with your marks all over him, like you were the one who had let him win.

“You realize how this looks, don’t you, I mean come on, look at me again darling.” he murmured, leaning in, voice like a secret wrapped in a knife.

“They’re not going to ask what I did to you,” he whispered, smiling. “They’ll ask what you, did to me.”

Footsteps.

Shouts in the corridor.

Closing in.

Feyd didn’t flinch. Just smiled wider, teeth stained black yet mixed with blood.

“You gonna tell them what happened?” he whispered. “Or should I?”

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mochinek0 · 9 months ago

Text

Senorita (song fic)

Alya and the girls had once again lost sight of Marinette, in the club. She hadn't wanted to come out. They were just hoping not to find her passed out at someone's table.

"There!" shouted Alix, pointing to the dance floor.

"What?" Alya shouted, "Wh-" but she caught sight of her friend dancing.

I love it when you call me Senorita

I wish I could pretend I didn't need ya

But every touch is ooh, la-la-la

Ooh, I should be running

Ooh, you keep me coming for ya

Marinette was dancing with a guy and they were pretty close. Closer than anyone they had seen Mari with and trip into just about everyone.

'That’s not the Mari I know!'

"Guys, how much has she had to drink?" Alya panicked.

"The one shot you made her take." Juleka responded.

Land in Miami

The air was hot from summer rain

Sweat dripping off me

Alya spotted Adrien and grabbed onto his arm.

"We need your help!" she pleaded, "I'm pretty sure Marinette is plastered. She's dancing with some guy and-"

"Jason wouldn’t hurt her." Adrien declared, spotting them.

'Ugh, gonna need eye bleach.'

Before I even knew her name, la-la-la

It felt like ooh, la-la-la

Yeah, no

"How do you know?" Mylene questioned.

He smiled, "Her boyfriend wouldn't hurt her."

"Boyfriend!" they cried out.

Sapphire moonlight

We danced for hours in the sand

Tequila Sunrise

"Oh." he spoke, "You didn't know?"

"No!" they shouted.

"When did she get a boyfriend?" Alix asked, eyeing them dance.

'Didn't expect Mari to be a grinder.'

Her body fit right in my hands, la-la-la

It felt like ooh, la-la-la, yeah

"Two years ago." Adrien sighed, leaving them speechless, "I'll wait until the song is over and then bring her to talk. How's that?"

They just nodded as the song continued to play.

I love it when you call me Senorita

I wish I could pretend I didn't need ya

But every touch is ooh, la-la-la

It's true, la-la-la

Ooh, I should be running

Adrien walked over to the couple. They could see Mari was pissed when she crossed her arms. Adrien pointed at the group. Her boyfriend seemed to find the situation amusing and laughed. Marinette on the other hand, smacked her forehead. All three of the left the dance floor and walked over.

Ooh, you know I love it when you call me Senorita

I wish it wasn't so damn hard to leave ya

But every touch is ooh, la-la-la

It's true, la-la-la

Ooh, I should be running

Ooh, you keep me coming for ya

"Hey, Mari." Rose waved.

"So, uh, you-you have a boyfriend." Alix commented.

"Yeah." Marinette answered.

Alya rapidly glances at Adrien told her all she needed to.

"Why did Adrien know before us?" Alya asked, a bit disappointed.

"Because this goofball is my roommate." Mari sighed.

Adrien shouted, "Hey!"

Marinette simply rolled her eyes.

Locked in the hotel

There's just some things that never change

You say we're just friends

But friends don't know the way you taste, la-la-la

'Cause you know it's been a long time coming

Don't you let me fall, oh

The girls glanced at Marinette's boyfriend to gauge his reaction. He seemed unbothered by the revelation.

"Th-That doesn't bother you?" Mylene asked, "Them living together?"

"Nah." he answered, waving his hand, "Mari's told me plenty of embarassing stuff about him to have him practically be another brother added to the mix." Jason answered.

"You what?" Adrien shrieked, "Why?"

"Revenge." Marinette answered.

"It was one time!" he shouted back.

"It was one time too many!" she shrieked back.

Everyone glanced at the two roommates confused. The girls had never seen them at odds before. To Jason, they just reminded him of his siblings, during a quarrel.

Ooh, when your lips undress me

Hooked on your tongue

Ooh, love, you kiss is deadly

Don't stop

"So, uh….how did you two meet?" asked Rose.

"In Mexico." Jason declared.

"Huh?" Alya replied, confused.

"I had that client two years ago." Mari answered, "I left for a six months trip to Mexico."

"We met in a café by the beach." her boyfriend continued, "They were trying to hustle her. Pixie started yelling at them in full on Spanish. Their faces when they realized she spoke Spanish fluently . They ran around and grabbed her order so fast! It was glorious! I paid for her meal and asked her to sit with me."

"I was in a rush and they were messing around." Marinette growled.

Jason smiled, "I told her to relax for five minutes or she could fall and create a bigger mess. She sat down and ate with me."

"It's not my fault I'm clumsy." she pouted.

I love it when you call me Senorita

I wish I could pretend I didn't need ya

But every touch is ooh, la-la-la

It's true, la-la-la

Ooh, I should be running

"We talked for a bit." Jason spoke, "I saw her there just about every morning. I decided to ask her to grab food with me at a different place."

"We got tacos." Mari smiled.

He sighed, "I still can't believe you eat snails, but you won't eat octopus."

Marinette glared at Adrien, "Yeah. There's a reason for that."

"I'm sorry!" Adrien shouted.

Ooh, you know I love it when you call me Senorita

I wish it wasn't so damn hard to leave ya

But every touch is ooh, la-la-la

It's true, la-la-la (true, la-la)

Ooh, I should be running

Ooh, you keep me coming for you

Jason laughed, "What?" I don't know this story."

Marinette leaned up and kissed his cheek, "I'll tell you later."

"No!" Adrien shouted, "Please don't!"

"You don't understand he would understand you more than I did?" Mari suggested.

Adiren grabbed Jason's hands quickly, "If you really love me like a brother, keep an open mind."

Jason glanced at his girlfriend, who only shook her head. He nodded and got a bright smile in return.

'Oh god; original Jon.'

"Hey, I tried the tacos de lengua." Marinette declared.

"Tacos de what?" Alix questioned.

"Tongue." Mari spoke, "Cow's tongue; it's wasn't bad."

"Eww." the girls replied grossed out.

"Cool!" Alix smiled.

All along I've been coming for ya (for ya)

And I hope it meant something to ya (ooh)

Call my name, I'll be coming for ya

Coming for ya, coming for ya, coming for ya

For ya

For ya (oh, she loves it when I call)

For ya

Ooh, I should be running

Ooh, you keep me coming for ya

"So you met in Mexico and kept meeting when you both came back to Paris?" Juleka questioned.

"Actually, we've been in a long distance relationship." Marinette answered.

"I live in the United States." Jason continued.

Mari smiled, "I didn't expect you to be here."

"I was gonna visit your place tomorrow." he admitted, "You said you were busy with work. Liar."

Mari scoffed, "I was busy. The girls were the ones who dragged me out complaining I'm a work-a-holic."

"See Pix, this is why you fit in." he smiled.

"Fit in?" Mylene asked.

"With what?" Alya pushed.

"My family." Jason explained, "All work-a-holics, except my sisters. Between Tim and you…..i don't know who drinks more coffee."

Marinette giggled, "Well, we'll find out this summer, won't we?"

"Oh, is your family comign to Paris?" Rose asked, smiling, hoping to meet new people.

"I'll be visiting his family." Mari declared, "Jason and his older brother are here in Paris, right now, but his other family are busy. Tomorrow, I'm taking them to meet Maman and Papa. Actually, it's probably best if we leave now. Bakers wake up super early."

Jason sighed. He had been ready to spend all night with Marinette at the club.

"You get super fresh pastry." his girlfriend teased.

"I'm in!" Jason smiled.

"Me too." Adrien exclaimed, inviting himself along.

"Sure, Adrien." the baker's daughter replied.

After the couple had left, the girls turned to Adrien.

"What do you think?" Juleka questioned.

"I've never seen her happier." Adrien smiled.

Some of them shifted uncomfortably, hoping to push the two roommates together.

"Hey, how come we didn’t know you two were roommates?" Alya pushed.

"I'm shocked you didn't, but I guess I'm usually out at the bakery or with Luka." he replied, "Marinette put padding in her room to make it soundproof so her sewing didn't wake me up. I probably came home sometimes while you were there and you didn't even hear me."

Alix smiled chaotically, "So, have you accidentally seen her?"

Adrien sighed, "She forgot to lock the bathroom door twice and her right hook was enough for me to start knocking on doors. I think I was half asleep and knocked on my own door, once."

Alix began to laugh. Rose started to giggle and Juleka just look amused. Alya was still reeling with the fact that her OTP was outdated and seemed to have moved on to a sibling bond instead.

Jason held Marinette's hand as he walked her home, "So, are you gonna tell me about the octopus thing and Adrien?"

She palmed her face and sighed, "I went on a trip with my uncle for two weeks. Adrien had to study for finals and his laptop was broken. I told him he could use mine. I was planning on taking my tablet, anyways."

Her boyfriend nodded, along.

"I came back a day early." Marinette explained, "I booted up my laptop to transferring my sketches I worked on. There-There was just so much….hentai on it. It felt like there was fifty tabs open."

Jason immediately started cracking up with laughter.

"Next thing I know, Adrien walks in. I'm just standing there, pointing at my laptop. He dropped to his knees and started apologizing that he had been stressed and was gonna delete the search history that night, before I got back."

"Oh my god." Jason cried, "You know what, I think I might know someone he might get along with. They both have Daddy issues."

Mari giggled.

"Roy is a single dad." he added.

Mari smiled, "Adrien loves kids."

"Bring him to Gotham and we'll set somehting up." Jason smiled.

"Uh, we should probably stop and see Roy first." she pushed.

"Why?" he asked.

"I'm pretty sure Selena would adopt him on the spot, if they met." she declared, "He's my unofficial brother and he loves my parents but….something tells me they would get along like thieves."

Jason winced, "Roy first. Got it."

#marinette dupain cheng #jason todd #jasonette #long distance relationship #jason in paris #adrien agreste #platonic adrienette #and then they were roommates #mlb x dc #dc x mlb #mochinek0 #song fic

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annabelle-creart · 2 months ago

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WAS SOMEONE GOING TO TELL ME THAT TROLLHUNTERS HAS 6 BOOKS NOVEL-TYPE AND ON THEM, DRAAL’S MOTHER APPEARS, ANGOR ROT HAS SOME KIND OF DEVELOPMENT, GUNMAR TRIES TO REBUILD HIS SON, THE FIRE BALL’S NAME FROM FIRST SEASON IS ROB, JIM HAD GREEN WHIPS, THE TEAM KILLED A POLYMORPH THAT HIDED AS BLINKY, STEVE AND ELI ACCIDENTALLY SENT THE TEAM TO THE PAST AND BROUGHT ANCIENT TROLLS TO NOWADAYS, ELI GOT A GRIT SHAKA, AND JIM DOES ACTUALLY FEELS GRIEF FOR DRAAL’S DEAD???

THEY EVEN DID ONE FOR THREE BELOW!!!

Also, Draal’s mom name’s is Ballustra and she’s something like a blacksmith

Also, it was quite funny to see Eli, Steve, Nomura, Strickler and NotEnrique trying to scape problems with time-travel and gum gums

Also, who would say Eli and Steve killed a gobling with a bomb and Jim was finally hit by the third trollhunter rule…

ALSO, who would knew pixies don’t need to get literally into someone’s head to haunt them when said pixies use grave sand…

What I still can’t understand is Angor’s connection with moonlight

And also, JIM HAD A PUPPY FOR LIKE TWO HOURS AND DAMN PUPPY ALSO GOT HIS OWN ARMOR OHMYGAH😭🌟💖

#trollhunters #toa #trollhunters jim #james lake jr #eli pepperjack #steve palchuk #angor rot #trollhunters gunmar #tales of arcadia #draal the deadly #trollhunters draal

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poppinspops · 9 months ago

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Can you pretty please make a story on Peter pan x reader (female reader) who is a crew mate of captan hook enemies to lovers (before or after wendy visited neverland) and how she's kinda a younger sister to captain hook and his crew? And how she might have to choose Peter pan or her found family in the end (choose whichever ending you want)

Take my hand

Paring: Peter pan x pirate!Reader

Genere: Hurt/comfort, enemies to lovers

Warning: none just my writing loll and spelling/Grammer mistakes as always!

A/N: GOSH THIS WAS A TRIP DOWN MEMORY LANE. ALSO, HAPPY BIRTHDAY BESTIE!!! Listening to the crane wives whilst writing this so if you know their music u know this isn't gonna be happy.

You had decided to go on a stroll as it was a nice day out, and you had wanted to get away from the crew for a bit to have some peace and quiet

As you walked on the beach near the boat, taking in just how beautiful neverland could be when there wasn't an annoying flying pesk, always trying to get you to leave behind your pirate life and to join him be a lost girl.

But you always declined his offers as you couldn't possibly leave the people who took you in with open arms when you had nothing but the clothes on your back and your heart. You promised you'd never leave them, and you never broken a promise before and don't intend to now

So why are you now thinking back on all those times he's offered to make you a part of his family?

Why did those little words always leave your mind frazzled, cheeks red, the snarky remarks you were going to make died in your mouth until the only thing you could manage to get out was a rude no.

but you where brought out of your thoughts by a loud shout of your name, hook, followed by to another yell at you return back to the ship, making you sigh a small smile dancing on your lips as and turn around making your way back to the ship

But you turned quickly back around at the sound of that pixie, your hand flying to your sword that was in its scabbard, taking it out and ponting it at pan that was standing behind you the sword pointing at his throat now

That boyish smirk that always seemed to be on his face was there as always as he spoke, "Have you given it more thought?" Jumping back as your sword swung at him

Peter eventually, after dodging your swings, took out his sword from its scabbard and swung it at you. Your eyes widened as you rather Messily raised your sword quickly, blocked it with your own sword

You weren't expecting how hard that collision from the swords was until you were knocked off of your feet by the forced making you fall onto the sand sword flying out of your hand to your left side

Peter put the sword back into its scabbard on his side, taking big strides towards you, looking down at you from your new spot on the sand. "Come with me," was all peter said, looking at you with a calculating gaze

You watched his face with an unreadable expression on your face. You got up dusting yourself off of any sand that was still on your person walking away from him to grab your sword him following after you with furrowed brows

"Leave me alone, pan.." you muttered, getting your sword that had landed near the shore line where the water met the sand, wiping it off with your sleeve before placing it back into its scabbard before turning to face pan again "you already know my answer. It hasn't changed." You said as your hand unconsciously went over your scabbard

He gave you that look he always did looks confused on why you just wouldn't go with him no matter how hard he tried but of course he always held that childish hope with him his confused and almost hurt look turned one of determination "Than I'll continue to try! We have all the time in the world, I have all of the time in the world to try and get you to come with me."

Peter pan had that stupid smile on his face, that fairy finally decided to come back landing on his shoulder staring at you as you shook your head at him a smile tugging at your lips at his strange unwavering determination that never ceased to amaze you truly.

You took a step forward towards him leaning in and pressing your lips to his cheek before quickly turning away from the boy leaving him standing there in the sand as hurriedly walked back to the ship cheeks turning a deep red color

Pan raised a hand to his cheek eyes wide, a smile taking over his face as he stood there, the fairy just crossed her arms and huffed but Peter pan ignored the angry fairy on his shoulder as he replayed that moment again

Maybe one day you'd except his offer, taking his hand in yours and running off with him one day

But for now, he was peter Pan, a lost boy, and you were just you, a pirate, one of Hooks' crew mates, and Peter pans sworn enemy.

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suzukiblu · 7 months ago

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WIP excerpt for Jan behind the cut; "the one where Clark is trans and Kon is not". tw: internalized not-technically-transphobia-but-it-kinda-reads-that-way. (( chrono || non-chrono ))

The team’s meeting up this weekend and Kon didn’t have anything else to do before said meet-up, so she’s at Mount Justice earlier than everybody else and trying to be, like–trying to be a boy about it. Like, just–however she’s supposed to do that.

However he’s supposed to–supposed to–

She goes to the training room and punches the reinforced heavy bag ‘til it splits.

That’s what a boy would do, right? If a real guy were upset, or frustrated, or–whatever, he’d go take it out on a punching bag or something like that.

Except a real guy wouldn’t be upset about this, because this wouldn’t be happening to a real guy.

Part of Kon thinks she’d probably do that kind of shit anyway–punching out her problems and whatever instead of talking to somebody about ‘em or anthing like that–but would she? Like, for real? Would she really do that, if everyone didn’t think–if everyone hadn’t always thought–

Everyone calls her a boy. Everyone’s always called her that. Cadmus was trying to make a man when they programmed all her mental uploads and education and Serling talked about cooking up hybrid-effective hormones for her and Mickey told her they could work out the surgeries for her when she was old enough–even if she wasn’t still working there, even–and–and–

Kon’s not a boy. She’s not.

But she’s not Supergirl either.

And she’s never gonna get to be.

Kon leaves the split-open and wrecked heavy bag hanging there leaking ball bearings and sand and leaves the training room without bothering with hitting the locker room, wishing she could just strip off the binder she isn’t supposed to wear when she works out anyway and ditch the packer and the Superboy suit and–and she doesn’t know, exactly. Maybe grow out her hair, or just cut it different. Get a fucking pixie cut, for all she cares. Try out–try some things. Paint her nails, or buy some eyeliner or lipstick, or just . . . whatever. Wear something different.

She could pierce her other ear, maybe. She could get a different costume. She could . . . she could just . . .

She couldn’t do any of that. She can’t do any of that. Kara gets to wear a skirt and have long pretty hair and be–and Match just could if he wanted to, because it wouldn’t matter because why the fuck would anyone at the Agenda care as long as he kept being an asshole for them when they told him to, but she–she–

How even would she, when–

Kon crashes on the couch and turns on the TV and puts on Wendy the Werewolf Stalker for all of four seconds before Wendy pops up on-screen in a cute little crop top and ruffled skirt like Kon could never, ever wear and it takes literally all of her self-control to not dissemble the remote. Or the TV.

Or the base.

She turns off the TV, buries the remote in the couch, and storms off to the kitchen to, like–get a fucking snack or something, she doesn’t know. The others are gonna be here soon, it’s gotta look like–like a boy was here. So like–breaking the heavy bag and leaving a mess and vegging out in front of the TV and raiding the pantry and–and shit like that. That’s what a boy would do, right? Take over the space, take up space, be–be–

Just be one, Kon guesses.

But she’s not, so she just has to do what she thinks other people would expect her to and hope she’s getting it right.

She digs through the pantry and gets out, like–the greasy, salty snacks, and leaves the sweet ones behind. Doesn’t go for any of the chocolate or the candy or–just, just what a boy would eat, would like, would–

This is so stupid. She’s so stupid. She–she knows it’s not just–just stupid shit like if she eats fucking chocolate instead of chips or pretzels. She knows it’s not just if she flirts up other girls or takes up space or makes a mess or if she’s loud enough.

If she was actually a boy, she’d just be a boy, no matter what.

But she’s not.

Kon rips open a bag of pork rinds, eats exactly two, and then just spits them out in the trash and leaves the whole messy pile of snacks on the counter and stalks off again, her hands jammed down hard in her jacket pockets and shoulders hunched up and glasses shoved up tight on her face. She just–she just wants to go. She wants to leave.

She wants to be like she’s supposed to be.

#kon el #conner kent #superboy #wip: trans clark and cis kon #jan

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felonytaxevasion · 3 months ago

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While we're making up worm fandoms to be mad at: My theories on how well I think a 2025 TikTok fandom would handle each Undersider:

Taylor: yea she's fine. New influx of cosplays and sanding down her character to fit in quirky TikTok soundbytes but like. She's fine

Rachel: would have a STRONG opening three weeks before someone living in opposite land made some kind of post about "butch stereotypes" and "how unprogressive it is to write WolfSpider without Rachel getting to be the soft feminine one sometimes" starting a trend of drawing Rachel in dresses. Partial credit for the early influx of good Rachel content though

Lisa: RIP bozo I truly think the teens would turn on her. I don't think they could handle Lisa Wilbourn. Girls who act a little bitchy for fun are routinely sent to execution over there. She'd get picked up as a martyr by the all pink girly pop bimbo-core crowd maybe but at that point just put Lisa to death. I've seen what they say about Princess Bubblegum we have to protect Lisa from them

Alec: eternally sad soft boy who's never done anything wrong in his life. Gets the best content along with Taylor but at a certain point it becomes infuriating. BIG increase in Alec Taylor as a consequence of Taylor being used as a self insert and TikTok youths wanting to date a sad pretty boy

Brian: I truly don't think there would be any change from the current Brian posting. Would become the new Least Posted Undersider

Aisha: would actually thrive among a new TikTok based fandom (provided they actually read to her part) would be at a cost of getting boiled down to Alecs quirky manic pixie dream girl best friend BUT I think but she'd get the biggest increase in Amount Of Art. She's a sparkledog come to life the hazbin hotel teens would love her

Sabbah and Lily: lol. Two new Sabbah Lolita dress designs at best.

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slippinmickeys · 6 months ago

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CHAPTER ONE (1/16):

Not far above the pavement of US-220, the forest dripped. The rain was gentle but steady, the highway as black and slick as a surfacing seal. Ahead, they could just make out the panning red and blue lights of a tangle of squad cars. The trees that edged the roadway pushed in and down, oppressive as low-hanging clouds. Beside her, Mulder sighed.

They’d been awoken early by a call from a Sheriff three counties down and four over, who’d heard of Mulder by reputation. They had a body and a bit of a situation and would he and his partner come take a look? It was the first time that Scully had stayed over, and she’d felt embarrassed that she was there when the call came in though it wasn’t as though either of them had trumpeted her presence. She’d rolled out of bed and refused to meet his eye as he hung up on the Sheriff and dialed Skinner.

Later, when he walked into his kitchen, dressed and shaven, he’d said, “Listen, Scully, if you regret what we’ve been—”

“I don’t,” she interrupted him, handing him a steaming mug of coffee and finally bringing her eyes to his. “I don’t.”

“Mea cuppa,” he’d said quietly, raising the brew to his lips. She’d been forced to smile at the pun.

It hadn’t been fair of her to seduce him, though it had been a glacial, intellectual courtship, inevitable, really, in every sense of the word. Mulder was tender-hearted and obsessive and after their second time together, she should have known that no amount of her stoicism or sense of workplace propriety would keep them from wanting to be together all the time. Last night, she’d had a foot out the door and was pushing him away with one hand and pulling him back with the other, his fingers tangled in her hair in rapacious bliss.

They still weren’t sure how to be with each other, and that morning they’d walked down to Mulder’s car in a loaded, restless silence.

Mulder eased up on the gas as they approached the cluster of khaki police cruisers and cut the windshield wipers. There were deputies leaning against hoods, wearing those ridiculous plastic rain beanies over their service caps and trying to appear important. Mulder pulled over, parking haphazardly on the berm, and looked out his window where a small inland lake spread out to the east and west, the body they’d come to investigate prostrate under a blue tarp on top of a thin strip of dark, mealy sand.

They got out of the car and the Sheriff, holding a large black golf umbrella, pushed his way through his men, stepping up to Mulder and holding out a hand.

“Thanks for coming,” the man said by way of greeting, and Mulder nodded toward him and introduced him to Scully.

“Call came in this morning,” the Sheriff said after trading introductions. “Dog walker found him.” He turned to one of the deputies, a younger man with blond eyebrows and a pixie-ish nose, freckles smattered over the bridge of it. “Avery, you got the file?”

Deputy Avery stepped forward. “Right here, sir,” the younger man said, handing over a beat up file folder—a brown, vintage-looking thing with a faux-wood finish. He gave the two agents a friendly smile and stepped back.

Scully nodded at the folder now gripped in the Sheriff’s hand. “You got an ID?”

The Sheriff sort of shook his head and nodded at the same time. “That’s why we called you out,” he said, handing over the file. “No apparent cause of death,” he added as an afterthought. “Forensic unit out of Richmond are on their way.”

Mulder flipped the file open and read for a moment before looking back up. “Daly Carmichael. Missing persons?” The older man nodded, looking uncomfortable. “Must feel good to close such a cold case,” Mulder went on before looking back down at the paperwork. Scully leaned over to get a look at it. The victim was male, was in his early twenties when he’d gone missing in 1974, last seen wearing white sneakers and jeans and a yellow striped top.

“You’re confident of the identification?” she asked dubiously, ‘74 being a quarter of a century past.

The Sheriff swallowed. “There was no ID on the body, but…we’re pretty confident.”

Mulder flipped the file closed. “Let’s take a look,” he said.

“Andy!” The Sheriff called out, and a deputy who had been standing near the tarp-covered body waved back. “Andy was first on scene,” he said to the two agents.

Mulder noticed that when he and Scully began to pick their way down the embankment towards the small beach, none of the members of the sheriff’s department joined them.

As they approached, Mulder got a better look at Andy the deputy, who barely looked old enough to drive. It was likely he’d pulled corpse-sitting duties in an act of hazing. His arms were crossed over his chest while the walkie clipped to his shoulder gave a steady susurration of dispatch chatter. He gave off an air of indifference, but he was plowing through a stick of gum, working his tongue at it elaborately, snapping it nervously through his teeth.

“What time did the call come in?” Scully asked, crouching down next to the body, her knees softly popping.

“About six am,” he answered, then added, “ma’am.”

“Someone walking their dog, the sheriff said?” She lifted up a corner of the tarp to get a look at the victim’s face. Mulder watched as her eyebrows furrowed into a chevron of confusion.

The deputy nodded, continuing to gnaw on his gum, and hooked his thumbs through his shiny utility belt.

Mulder noted pawprints and the shoe prints of the dog walker who’d found the body. The sand underneath them was damp, but firm, and showed only a few other prints, all of them looking to be standard police-issue.

A couple of bright green leaves cartwheeled across the marks, propelled by a gust of wind, one of them briefly catching on the deputy’s shoe before going on its merry way.

“Did you examine the body?” Mulder asked him, finally looking up.

“There was no pulse, no ID on him,” the deputy replied.

“How did you—”

“Hey Mulder?” There was a sharpness to her tone that made Mulder stop talking. “Can you take a look here?”

Scully peeled back the corner of the tarp, revealing a young-looking man with dark hair. He was dressed in jeans, white tennis shoes and a yellow striped tee shirt. He couldn’t have been more than twenty-five. Mulder glanced down at his hand, which was still holding the archaic looking missing persons file. “Huh,” he said. Scully reached up and touched his wrist, finding his pulse suddenly beating rabbit-quick.

“If you don’t mind,” the deputy said, clearing his throat. “I’m going to…” He hooked a thumb up toward the rest of his compatriots and beat a hasty retreat.

“Those clothes don’t look twenty years old,” Mulder said.

“Twenty-six,” Scully corrected, still hunched close to the ground. “Can I see the file?” Mulder handed it over without a word, and Scully flipped through it quickly, her eyes scanning the contents.

“This can’t be right,” she said.

Mulder shrugged. “Let’s ignore that particular elephant in the room, and see what else we find,” he suggested, and gave Scully a moment to collect her thoughts. “What can you tell me about the body?”

Scully turned back to the victim in front of them.

“Lividity isn’t fixed. Temperature is more difficult with the weather and exposure. I’ll have a better idea on the time of death after the autopsy.”

“Anything else?”

“Well, the victim appears to be male. Cursory examination, I’d say he’s early twenties, if that.” With this, she shot him a look. “No obvious cause of death, though I suspect drowning. He’s on the shore. His clothes are wet.”

“It has been raining,” Mulder said, snapping on a pair of latex gloves that he’d produced from his pocket. He leaned down and started unlacing the man’s shoes.

“Mulder, we should wait until the forensics unit can come in and process the scene.”

“I just want to check something, before the rain gets any worse,” he said, and carefully removed the victim’s shoe. He pointed to the top of the man’s foot. “Look,” he said, and Scully had to bend down to look at what he was trying to show her. The sock on top of the man’s foot was dry. He hadn’t been submerged in the lake.

Mulder carefully put the shoe back on, and moved to reach inside the man’s pockets.

“The deputy said there was no ID on him,” Scully reminded him.

“I want to know what else is in here,” Mulder said, and pulled his hand back, producing several gold coins and a small dark rock.

He flipped them all over in his rubber-covered palm. “Odd markings,” he observed, looking at the coins.

Scully leaned in to look. There were faces on the coins, but not the profiles of presidents or queens or even Caesars. They were clearly old, the etchings worn down, but she could still make out faces; some laughing, some looking angry, one wearing a crown of leaves and looking ghoulish. “I don’t see a country of origin,” she said. “They could be archaic. Maybe he was a collector.”

Mulder gave her a sideways glance but didn’t reply. The rain had turned to more of a mist and was curling the hair around her face, lending her beauty a neoclassical verve. He had to stop himself from reaching out to touch it.

“What’s the rock?” Scully asked, reaching forward to graze it lightly with her finger.

“I think,” Mulder said, squinting at it. “I think it’s an ingot of iron.”

Mulder looked up and out around the lake and trees that surrounded it. There were no waves to speak of, but above the water was a line of algae in an undulating, unending rope, lying along the sand where the water had pushed it when the wind was stronger. The shore was dotted with round, smooth stones and the sharp carapaces of invasive zebra mussels. Twenty yards beyond the body, Mulder could see a child’s abandoned plastic bucket with no handle, and closer to the corpse, a beer bottle with a faded orange label. The hem of the forest looked impenetrable, the edge a solid mass of thick cedar and bracken with one small opening due east of where they stood, as dark and forbidding as the mouth of a cave. Mulder gave an involuntary shudder and turned back to his partner.

“Okay,” he said, turning to her. “Let’s talk about the elephant.”

“Our victim appears not to have aged since 1974,” Scully sighed.

“My kind of case,” Mulder smiled.

“Our kind,” she corrected, which widened his grin considerably.

“What do you know about the fae, Scully?”

Good Christ, he had a theory already, Scully thought.

“Probably a whole lot less than I will five minutes from now,” she sighed, crossing her arms over her chest and settling in. After a moment, she realized he was waiting for her to actually answer, but she was having none of it; she knew the precise trajectory of his thoughts. “You think this man was taken by fairies, Mulder? That’s a stretch, even for you.”

“It’s been suggested that fairies live in dimensions parallel to our own. String theory posits that there are up to ten or eleven dimensions that exist in the universe, not just the four we humans experience. We can move within those four dimensions. Who’s to say other beings can’t move among more? Or move us with them?”

“So this man hasn’t aged because he went to live with the fairies? Mulder, string theory smooths out the mathematical inconsistencies that currently exist between quantum mechanics and the theory of relativity. Yes, there may be other dimensions we can’t see, but time—one of those dimensions that we can measure—only moves one way: forward.”

“Doesn’t the theory of relativity posit that time slows when you’re moving faster than the speed of light?” Scully heaved a sigh. Only Mulder would pick a physics fight with her. “Eminent theosophist E. L. Gardner likened fairies to butterflies, whose function was to provide an essential link between the energy of the sun and the plants of Earth. They would travel between. He claimed that growth of a plant which we regard as the customary and inevitable result of associating the three factors of sun, seed, and soil would never take place if, and I quote ‘the fairy builders were absent.’”

“Please don’t tell me that you’re about to suggest that fairies are actually aliens. And that they’ve found a way to travel faster than the speed of light.”

“You said it, not me.”

“Mulder!”

“What?”

“Little gray men are a far cry from ethereal sprites who use protective charms and mischievously lead travelers astray. You can’t have it both ways.”

“I’m not trying to have it any way, I’m merely suggesting avenues of inquiry lining up with the facts of the case as we have them. Anyway, Gardner described fairies as having no clean-cut shape but rather ‘small, hazy, and somewhat luminous clouds of color with a brighter sparkish nucleus.’”

“You’re describing a proton.”

“So was he,” Mulder shrugged. “But taking away the strange coins and the ingot of iron—historically believed to repel fairies, I might add—how do you account for the fact that this man hasn’t aged in over twenty years?”

“Good genes?”

“The only person I know with genes that good is you. And don’t you have Celtic forebears?”

Scully blushed. It wasn’t fair, flirting. Their relationship was new, and their romance improbable.

Mulder threw a look up to the local law enforcement leaning against their vehicles and watching them work. He reached out and squeezed Scully’s hand once. She looked at him with the same kind of embarrassed moue as when a stranger's dog sticks its nose in your crotch.

“I know this is hard for you,” he said, his voice low.

“It’s fine,” she said, an old safeword.

He remembered her sitting in her bed in the oncology ward, small and slight, as withered as a new chick emerging from a shell. Her eyes had been sunken and her small shoulders stuck out from beneath the hospital gown like wire coat hangers. I feel fine , she’d said.

Mulder felt her skin’s warmth before releasing her hand and he walked over to the bottle of beer, picking it up and turning it so that he could read the label. “Huh,” he said, holding it up so that Scully could see it. “Oberon.”

“What?”

“The kind of beer. Bell’s Brewery. It’s called ‘Oberon.’”

“The king of the fairies?” Scully said dubiously.

Mulder shrugged once again, and she sighed. “Leave it where it is,” she said, casting another glance at the local boys in brown. “Let the forensics unit bag it.”

A big blue van had just pulled up behind their fleet sedan. The team from Richmond had arrived.

Mulder set the bottle carefully back down where he found it. When he straightened, he looked towards the forest and could have sworn that the hole through the bracken of the woods looked bigger than it had a few minutes before. He took a few steps toward it.

“Mulder?” called out his partner.

“I just want to check something out,” he called over his shoulder without looking back.

The forest was restless, the tops of the trees agitated and shivering.

A thought occurred to him and he turned around. “You want to come with me?”

The look she gave him communicated quite clearly that she did not, but she turned to follow him nonetheless, another sigh passing between her lips in a steamy vapor.

“Look,” she said, pointing forward toward the trees when she reached his side. “There are footprints coming out.”

Mulder peered down. Sure enough, there was one set of human footprints leading from the dark opening, the edges of the prints crumbly and ill defined from the rain.

They traded a glance and went in.

#the x-files #fanfic #my fic #msr #the unseelie court #NOT a WIP #I'll be dropping two chapters today #and one chapter a day after that

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frostyblustar · 4 months ago

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So I really want to indulge and tell you all about how I think On The Borderline by Blixemi is a near-perfect song for Queen Clarion and Lord Milori as someone who read Wings of Starlight.

So the song is based on forbidden lovers who are separated by a political border, but it’s still dangerous to cross all the same. Crowfeather (the man in the song) is more excited at the prospect of crossing and changing things, while Leafpool (the woman in the song) is more conflicted as she is torn between her duty, what she’s always known, and love.

Now let’s get into the lyrics:

Am I a fool to even come?

Crowfeather, who I see as Milori, is waiting at the border and is wondering if his waiting is for nothing.

So I stand on the edge of this line. Counting every single breathless beat to pass the time.

I mean I wonder what Milori does while waiting at sunset sometimes. This feels plausible.

Between my head and my heart

Leafpool, who I see as Clarion, is torn between her head (duty as queen) and her heart (her love for Milori)

But the path laid out here in sand shifts below no matter where I stand, but all I want is not a choice.

Clarion cannot just choose to not be queen. There is no other option, no matter where she goes she will be a governing-talent fairy. She will always make the sand shift.

All it took was a moment, all my plans had changed. Everything I thought I wanted now is not the same.

Clarion has been told to rule a certain way all of her life by Elvina, but she is later convinced to find her own way of using her magic and ruling. She finds that she wants to be different from Elvina.

So I pray for a break in the time. Counting every single reason I should cross that line.

Clarion wants time to visit Milori and cross the border to meet the winter fairies, and she counts on those reasons to cross.

I'm on the borderline of breaking down all the rules, and the dreams I built my whole life around.

Here, breaking down is emphasized by Blixemi. Its shows how torn she is. Despite being so close to breaking the rules, she still feels it’s wrong to do so because she was told she was supposed to be this one thing her entire life.

Am I a fool to chase the sun?

Crowfeather, who I see as Milori, expresses this. I think seeing Clarion as the sun is cute is all.

Laid before me is an unchanged course… I want to change my tide just once.

Clarion cannot abandon her people, and yet she still desires to make changes and rebel against what she is told.

I'm on the borderline of making a mistake-would-be to hold back, I've gotta know what this means.

Clarion knows that she needs to find out what she can about the nightmares. For that, she crossed the border. This could be considered a mistake by her friends and the current queen, but she rightfully believes it would be a mistake to abandon the winter fairies instead.

Still I wait here every time, for a chance of a glance by her side, I'd ask the sun not to rise.

Milori and Clarion meet at sunsets on the border, and Milori would be more accustomed to nightly cold. I think this would be him wishing to spend more time with her.

Still I waste each day and night fighting shifts

Clarion has to go about royal duties, aka shifts, but feels she is wasting time instead of going to fix the nightmare problem with Milori.

It's a breakdown or a breakthrough. My sanity can't seem to choose. I'm losing a war between logic and you.

This is coming up to the point where Clarion is realizing she and him would only bring each other, and potentially the other fairies, suffering while being together.

I can't stay… on the borderline.

Clarion wants to stay with Milori, but knows she can’t, so she expresses they can’t be together.

Our heart is on the line.

Instead of treating their love as the number one focus in their lives, they separate for the sake of Pixie Hollow, having to disregard their feelings.

Anyways those are all the lyrics I felt like touching on! Just trying to convince someone out there that this song is perfect for these two >-< Thanks for reading!

#frostytalk #blixemi #wings of starlight #clarion x milori #milarion #lord milori #queen clarion

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five-rivers · 1 month ago

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providence 5

[Prompts used are from @kinglazrus@lexiepiper and @ash-rabbit. Special thanks to @jackdaw-sprite@datawyrms and Lexie for beta and encouragement! You can read the full fic here.]

“... anyway, I was hoping that you could point me in the right direction to find these rivers,” said Danny. “That’s all I really need. I brought my own bottles and everything.” He held up the pair of two-gallon jugs he’d brought from home. They’d gone through a bunch of them last month, when the plumbing got contaminated with ectoplasm via a sample left in the kitchen sink.

Pandora frowned down at Danny from her throne, leaning forward slightly. “Little warrior,” she said, “are those plastic?”

Danny, who hadn’t expected Pandora to know what plastic was, nodded. “Yeah? Is that a problem?”

“The Phlegethon is often called the River of Fire,” she said. “That is because it burns. Correct me if I am wrong–” she tapped one of the jugs with a nail that was very nearly the same diameter, “--but plastic melts. As for the Styx… No. You require something more solid.”

“Oh,” said Danny. “Well, maybe I’ll get some glass jars…”

Pandora snapped her fingers, and the Box Ghost appeared at one of her four elbows. “YE-esss?” he said, modulating his volume halfway through the word. “What do you require of the GREAT AND– Ahem. The great and powerful Box Ghost?”

“Fetch two of the amphorae that were fired last week. The larger ones, if you would.”

“The amphora, not the MIGHTY PYXI–”

“The amphora,” confirmed Pandora.

“Okayyyy…”

“Pixie?” asked Danny, when the Box Ghost was gone.

“It is a type of box,” said Pandora.

“That makes sense.” He put the jugs back into his bag, then paused, looking up at Pandora. “The Observants didn’t tell me much about why they wanted this stuff, or what they were making. Frostbite said they’re reliable and they watch the timeline, but I don’t know much else about them.”

“Nor does anyone. They do have a tendency to recruit seers and diviners. All of Greek history to draw from, and I have only three oracles, thanks to their machinations.” Pandora shook her head. “I cannot say I care for them. They hoard knowledge like a miser hoards coin, never mind that knowledge shared is often knowledge increased. But I know that even Clockwork bows to their wisdom, at times.”

“What would it mean if he’s not bowing to their wisdom this time?” asked Danny.

Pandora frowned. “Nothing good. But in what way, I could not guess. If I thought this endeavor altogether unwise, I would not help you, but from your questions, I think you see something amiss. A contradiction.”

“Maybe,” said Danny, shrugging. “I’m not sure. I was kind of hoping you'd know more? At least about what they're making. They won't tell me anything, and neither will Clockwork.” Although Clockwork had spent hours going over the basics of how the time viewers worked with him, so… maybe that was a hint? Danny didn't know. Clockwork already had time viewers, after all.

“Read your list to me again,” said Pandora. She leaned back in her throne and closed her eyes as Danny rattled off the six entries. “Hmm. I am not well-versed enough in the mechanics of time to guess at the end goal. However, between the Phlegethon, the Styx, and the metal… I would presume they mean to forge something, using the fires of the Phlegethon, then douse it in the waters of the Styx. Such a method often makes the materials more durable, and binds them to their task. As for the time sand, I would expect them to use it to make something out of glass. What, I couldn’t say.” She smiled at Danny. “If it were just the sand, I might suggest an hourglass.”

“That would make sense for fixing time, wouldn’t it?”

“But the other items suggest something more mechanical. Perhaps a pocketwatch, or something that could prune away excess time. Shears, perhaps. Or a guillotine. Although the former would not need chains, and the latter should not need glass.”

Danny would prefer it if it wasn’t a guillotine, all things considered. That sounded disturbing. On a number of levels.

But if it was, what would it be used for? Danny would like to say that he couldn’t imagine, but that would be untrue. For something like that, the most obvious leap would be cutting a specific person out of the timeline. Executing them and making it so they wouldn’t exist all at once.

Pandora was right, though. That wouldn’t explain the glass. Unless the parts that were usually made of wood were made of glass instead? That didn’t seem very robust, but Danny could make ice that didn’t melt, so he was sure ghosts could make glass that didn’t follow any of the usual rules of glass. But Clockwork wouldn’t let Danny help the Observants, or anyone, make something like that.

Right?

(He didn’t need something like that, anyway. He was perfectly capable of un-personing someone through the butterfly effect alone.)

(But, at least in Danny’s case, that didn’t kill the person at the same time.)

“Maybe it’s a clock,” said Danny, finally. That was the only thing he could think of that needed metal, glass, and chains.

“That isn’t an impossibility,” said Pandora. “But I cannot imagine that there is a clockmaker better than Clockwork. Even among the Observants.”

That was true. “A really big telescope?” He made a face. “Have the Observants ever had you–?”

“THE TERRIBLE AND AWFUL BOX GHOST HAS RETURNED!”

He had. And he was carrying two clay vases with stoppers. Amphoras. Amphorae?

“Thank you,” said Pandora. She stood, and plucked them from the Box Ghost’s hands before passing them on to Danny. “Come, let me lead you to the rivers.”

The Phlegethon was just as Danny had imagined it, when Pandora told him it was made of fire, except for one vital detail. The Phlegethon had no banks. Unlike an earthly river, it flowed through the air, twisting, spiraling, climbing, falling, flattening, and stretching, all without any regard for the laws of physics. It looked almost as if someone had made a sculpture of wire, doused it in oil, and then lit it on fire.

“It isn’t always like this,” said Pandora.

“Do you mean on fire, or one of the other things it’s like?” asked Danny.

Pandora chuckled. “It does not always flow through the air. There are several islands that it travels across, but this is closest. And, in my opinion, the most interesting visually.”

“Well, I’d say it was really cool, but I don’t think that’s really appropriate right now…” Smoking? No, that had the same problems as ‘hot,’ and, despite being on fire, there wasn’t actually any smoke coming off of it.

“And I would direct you to scoop up some of the flames, but you are a cold-cored ghost, yes?” She held out one of her lower hands.

“I can make fire,” said Danny, handing her one of the amphorae and pouting a little.

“Yes, quite an unusual talent for a cold-cored ghost.” She pulled out the stopper, then leaned forward to dip the vessel in the river. The flames licked her fingertips, but did her no harm. “But why risk harm when a fire-core is willing to do the job?” She pressed the stopper back in, then handed the amphora off to Danny.

Although the Phlegethon seemed to be made entirely of fire, the amphora was heavy, and when it moved Danny could both hear and feel the movement of water (or at least some kind of liquid) inside. The clay sides of the amphora were warm. Between the movement of the water and the warmth, it almost felt alive, like a heartbeat.

“And now,” said Pandora. “The Styx.”

Luckily for Danny (who was starting to feel very sensitive about the time and how much of it he’d have to sleep, even if it was the weekend), the Styx wasn’t far away. That river, apparently, had the same headwaters as the Phlegethon, along with several others, although Danny was pretty sure that arrangement wouldn’t have been possible in the real world. He wasn’t the best student when it came to geography (or anything else), but he did know that rivers tended to flow together rather than splitting up.

Then again, rivers in the real world generally weren’t made of fire. They didn’t even catch on fire all that often anymore, even if Sam was prone to showing old video clips of rivers catching on fire to illustrate various points against pollution and big business.

The Styx wasn’t on fire, but it did look like it was going to catch on fire. The river was black. Where it rippled, there were oily, iridescent rainbows. Its path through the air and across the nearby small islands was much… calmer than that of the Phlegethon. It flowed at a slight angle, except when it suddenly dropped in waterfalls or spiked upward in… water-rises? Or were they just… Well, gravity wasn’t only one way, here. If Danny flipped upside down and stayed that way for a while, his sense of gravity would reorient.

Danny wondered if ghosts had names for this stuff. It would make things a lot easier to talk about.

“Is this… safe to touch?”

“Compared to the Phlegethon, yes,” said Pandora. “But I would advise against drinking it. Or touching it more than necessary.”

“Wasn’t there a story,” said Danny, “about Achilles, I think?”

“There was a legend that Achilles’ mother dipped him in the Styx, granting him some measure of invulnerability, with the exception of his heel, which she dangled him by. But you will notice that she did not touch it herself, even to dip her child in it more completely. There is a seed of truth in the story, but there are risks to overexposure. Too much honesty. Difficulty with promises, or even changing one’s mind.”

“Oh,” said Danny. “That doesn’t sound great.” It was petty, but Danny had actually wanted to fill one of these up himself. Getting some water sounded like such and easy thing, but he wasn’t even really doing it himself…

“But it should be safe enough for you to fill an amphora.” She nudged him forward. “Go ahead.”

Danny approached, and carefully dipped the jar into the river, making sure to keep the handle he was holding far away from the dark liquid. He waited until it seemed to overflow, poured out a small amount, and equally carefully put the lid back on.

“Very good,” said Pandora, giving his head a pat. “That should be enough for whatever the Observants will make.”

“Really?”

Pandora shrugged. “If it wasn’t, they should have written down an amount.”

Danny felt like lugging around two jugs of magic water (at least one type of which was flammable) for an indefinite period of time was a bad idea, so, before he returned home, he went to the Observant’s headquarters.

(He didn’t remember the official name of the place, and he wasn’t going to ask.)

When he got within sight (well, his sight) of the place, he slowed. He’d gotten the impression that the Observants didn’t like him being there all that much, and he didn’t want to give them any reason to take offense.

(That he felt so… threatened… when he was just dropping off something they’d asked for wasn’t a good indicator of the Observants trustworthiness, but both Pandora and Frostbite said the Observants were legitimately interested in preserving the timeline, and Clockwork, well, Clockwork hadn’t said much about them at all.)

But before he could get very close at all, one Observant started to fly towards him. As they grew closer, Danny could see that they were the same Observant that had first approached him. Or, at least, they felt like the same Observant.

They didn’t look happy to see him.

“Phantom,” they said, folding their arms to hide their clawed hands in their sleeves, “you are aware that the fate of time itself is at stake.”

“Yeah,” said Danny, even though that had sounded more like a statement than a question. He held out the amphorae. “So, are you going to take these, or what?”

The Observant glared. “You ought to be more prompt with your deliveries. You delay our work.”

Danny sucked in his lower lip. “I get that,” he said. “I don’t want the timeline to be destroyed, either, but I really work better with a deadline, if you know what I mean.”

The glare intensified.

“I’ll also work better if you take these,” said Danny. “I might have ghostly strength, but I’m not a zombie. I don’t want to hold my arms out like this for the rest of my afterlife.”

Grudgingly, the Observant unfolded their arms and took the amphorae, holding gingerly by the handles, as if Danny had somehow contaminated them. Which, rude.

“Seriously, if we have some kind of actual time limit or countdown or whatever, I’ll try to get you the stuff before then, but, otherwise, I do have other stuff to do.”

“None of which are more important than the preservation of the timeline itself.”

“Maybe not,” said Danny. “But if we’re talking about priorities, feeding yourself is more important than cleaning your toilet, but if you don’t clean your toilet, things in your bathroom can get pretty dire.”

The Observant stared at him.

“I can’t tell if that’s just your normal face or if you don’t understand something I said. Are you not getting it because ghosts don’t eat, or because they don’t have bathrooms? Because I’m pretty sure I’ve seen Technus in a bathrobe, and the Far Frozen definitely–”

“You ought to take this seriously,” said the Observant in a rather severe tone.

“You should take it seriously and tell me if there is a deadline.”

“Do not make light of our oaths, child,” growled the Observant.

“Are they heavier than, you know, the timeline collapsing? Because that’s what you’re telling me here.”

Instead of answering, the Observant whirled and started flying back to the headquarters building.

What a jerk.

#danny phantom #phic phight #phic phight 2025

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violetsiren90 · 1 year ago

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The Lighthouse Keeper

~a What the Moon Saw drabble~

Pairing: Yoongi x f!Reader (What the Moon Saw universe)

Genre: drabble; non-idol AU; friends to lovers; childhood friends, angst

Summary: Life moves on. The moon blooms and wilts. The tide sinks away from the sands and returns with new waters. Yoongi stays.

Content warnings: PG rating, but ALL my content is off-limits to minors; drinking and drunkenness (set in a cantina); cigarette smoking; Yoongi gets hit on; longing and pining; sad Yoongi 😔; some ogling of a female character by Hoseok; reference to the death of a minor character; allusions to domestic violence; allusions to semi-homelessness; allusions to casual sexual encounters; this is just pure angst, honestly.

Word Count: ~1600

Author's Note: This has been sitting in my WIP folder, and in the wee hours of the morning last week I sat in a hospital cafeteria with the shittiest cup of coffee I've ever tasted (that I was nonetheless grateful for) and finished it up. Poor, sweet Yoongi . These two are my comfort couple and coming back to them has a way of reminding me that "nobody knows how the story ends - live the day, do what you can."*

As always, if no one has told you today, please know that you're loved, and worthy of love! 🧜‍♀️💜

*"Nobody Knows", the Lumineers

"Alright, old buddy, what's got you down?"

A slim, dark-haired young man slid into the booth across from Yoongi. The older man's eyes softened slightly, and his mouth quirked up into a small smile as he regarded his companion over a swig of Pacifico.

"Who says I'm down?" he asked in a mildly affronted tone, drawing a hand over his beer-slicked lips.

The other man's mouth broke into a toothy smile, his lips pulling into a heart-shaped grin as he let out a boisterous peal of laughter.

"You never call these days unless you are," he rejoined, grabbing a foggy acrylic standee from the center of the table and squinting at its small list of beverages. "Geez, they really don't have much of a selection here, do they?"

Yoongi snorted.

"Since when are you an alcohol connoisseur? You don't even drink, Hoba."

"I do too!"

A waitress sidled up to their table and slid a food menu in front of Hoseok, who trailed wide eyes up her tattooed arm to her bright blue pixie cut with a thick swallow.

"Our mango ahi tacos are on special tonight," she hummed with a wink.

The young man's ears flushed a bright shade of crimson as he stammered something about passing on the food but wondering if they had any ciders. She pocketed her tongue in her cheek as she flicked her eyes to Yoongi.

"You hungry?" she asked, cocking an eyebrow and tilting a hip clad in low-slung cargo pants and a studded belt in his direction. Yoongi looked up at her and shook his head, taking another sip of beer.

"Hm, damn shame," she hummed, flicking her eyes over him a last time before sauntering back to the bar.

Hoseok tracked her every move with a slack jaw, craning his neck to watch her slip through the kitchen door before turning his face - features, still frozen in lascivious astonishment - back to his friend.

"Holy shit, hyung," he murmured, covering his mouth with both hands, "You could see her nipple piercings right through her shirt!"

Yoongi grunted in assent, trailing a cloudy gaze over the table's waxy surface as he picked at the bottle's damp label.

"You gonna get her number?"

"What?" Yoongi shifted in his seat, eyes refocusing on his friend.

Hoseok sighed.

"Nope, you're not. How long's it been, hyung?"

Yoongi glanced down at his beer again, then raised it to his lips and drained the bottle.

Jung Hoseok had met Yoongi the summer between freshman and sophomore year of high school. He had attached himself instantly to the older boy, an unusual experience for Yoongi, who was used to people as sunny as Hoseok steering clear of his little storm cloud. He was one of the few friends from those days that Yoongi still called up, on occasion. One of the few who knew the context of his life - the sandy paths on which he'd come of age...what he'd found there, and what he'd lost.

"Don't, Hoba," Yoongi murmured lowly, his voice suddenly thick in his throat.

Hoseok hummed, lips pulled into a thin line. The waitress returned with a hard cider, a Pacifico, and a plate of nachos they hadn't ordered. While Hoseok changed shades like a chameleon on a tomato and attempted to stammer his thanks, Yoongi cast his eyes out the window.

The sun was hanging low in the sky, the gulls pushing their yellow legs from weathered wooden perches to soar beyond the edge of the pier and into the little golden space between the fading light and sparkling waters. The sandy beach stretched around the edge of a rising rockface, dappled with lush green ice plant and yellow sea asters, a few miles to the north. Around the other side of the stony promontory was a place Yoongi knew well. The shore there drew inward and curved into another swell of land as the cliff rose; near its highest stretch an old wooden stairway weaving down its face.

Tucked away to the side of those stairs was a ledge - a few meters wide and about as deep - that jutted out as the cliff sloped down to its base. It was smooth and fairly even, nearly level with the closest steps; a perfect little hideaway barely visible from above or below. Perfect for two children to sit, huddled against the rock, as they whispered their dreams and fears; for a boy and a girl to hold each other through nights that couldn't be spent at homes far less warm and gentle than each other's arms; for a young man and woman to give themselves to one another at last and too late.

It was where Yoongi had sat utterly broken, on the last morning of a summer ten years past, his head tilted back against the stone as he wept up to the sky, praying to any god that would listen that you would run fast and run far - that you would finally spread full your beautiful wings...that you would forget him.

But Yoongi never forgot you. Not one word that you spoke, not one touch of your gentle fingers or your soft lips.

He had left the ledge that day, but he had carried you with him - down the beach and back into the horrid little shack where three nights later Yoongi's father hit him for the very last time. Yoongi had carried you with him to the doorstep, as he threw the man out into the dirt. Then he had carried you with him to every couch and car and dingy apartment that served as a night's shelter until he had saved up enough for a little place of his own; had carried you around with the tools and lumber as he spent long, hot days building the tiny workshop beside it. And he had carried you, on a some miserable nights, into the beds of strangers - who, through no fault of their own, could never ever compare.

"My dad died," Yoongi said drawing his eyes away from the window. He said it with a quiet simplicity that he seemed to embody more and more with age.

Hoseok looked up from the plate of nachos, mouth full. He looked as if he were sorry, but didn't want to say that. Instead he got up and slid onto Yoongi's bench of the booth, gently shoving the older man over to stay flush with his side. Yoongi wouldn't usually tolerate that sort of closeness, but with Hoseok it was different. Hoseok knew.

"How's your mom?" he asked softly.

Yoongi nodded.

"She's okay. She's taking it better than me, actually. Already talking about leaving."

"Are you going to?"

"What?"

"Leave?"

Hoseok's voice sounded hopeful. Yoongi's right hand slipped instinctively into his jacket pocket, slender fingers curling around a little whittling knife with a pink heart painted on its handle.

"I don't think so, Hoba."

The younger man sighed through his nose. He was quiet for a long moment before turning to his friend.

"I got an offer from a high school down south. VP. I start there in the fall."

Yoongi raised his gaze, his small smile affectionate and his eyes soft. He wouldn't let the sadness reach them - he'd learned how to push it away.

"They'll be lucky to have you," he murmured sincerely.

Yoongi was used to people moving on. Everyone did...everyone but him. While the world turned, Yoongi stayed.

"Someday, you need to leave, hyung,” Hoseok urged him quietly. “She's out there somewhere living her life. She'd want you to live yours too."

At the mention of you, Yoongi felt his heart squeeze and ten years of carrying your memory well up and into his throat.

Hoseok clapped a hand onto Yoongi's back, and raised the cider to his lips.

Hoseok knew, but he didn’t understand. No one ever really seemed to.

As the cantina closed its door for the night, Yoongi ushered a stumbling Hoseok into the back of a cab.

"You're nah coming?" the younger man slurred as Yoongi stood and moved to shut the door.

He shook his head.

"Gonna walk. Goodnight, Hoba," Yoongi gave his friend a little endeared crook of his mouth before closing the cab door and tapping the back of the car as it rolled away from the pier.

Pulling a pack of Marlboros from his pocket, he watched the cab's red taillights fade into the evening blue. Yoongi lit a cigarette and turned to walk the path that wove along the edge of the cliffs. While he walked he wondered about you. He wondered if you were safe, if you smiled and laughed. He wondered if there was someone who made your eyes sparkle and your smile shy, someone with whom you could share your joys and sorrows. Yoongi wondered if you had found a home.

The moon had risen to meet the stars when he reached the little stairway. He gingerly descended its rungs - neglected of repair and worn with their years - until he reached it, the little ledge in the moonlight. He stepped onto its smooth surface, the lower half of the rickety railing long fallen away, and sinking down he closed his eyes.

The full bright moon washed over him, and for a moment, Yoongi felt it understood. It had seen, after all.

It had seen the boy and the girl and what they had become for each other. It had seen you give Yoongi a home, and it had watched him, in return, teach you to fly - to fly far away.

But Yoongi carried you with him. After all, you were his home, where else would he go? As the wind whipped up off the sea and swept around him, whispering of another summer's end, the moon watched Yoongi stay another season. And if it could have seen his heart, it would have watched him go to its little window, and, as the darkness fell, light a lamp to shine out across the sea.

The moon heard Yoongi pray that you'd never return.

…It saw him stay on the chance that you might.

-Fin-

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ghostofthemost141 · 1 year ago

Text

Serene

Ch.1. Ch.2. Ch.3. Ch.4. Ch.5. Ch.6. Ch.7.

Pairing: Johnny 'Soap' MacTavish x F!Reader

First POV & Third POV

Word Count: 1,707

Themes: Some Fluff

!Warnings!: Near Death Experience

About: You're on vacation to the beach and you think you're about to die when you're caught in a riptide until an unlikely hero comes to your rescue. Precisely a Scottish man that bores a tail.

Notes: Something different for this one! May turn this into a fanfic series who knows 👀 Hope y'all enjoy! Name for you here is Dove and you got two friends named Gem and Pixie with limited descriptions so you can imagine them however you want to imagine them! Italics = Third POV

The waves were crashing against the shore, the seagulls were lively, and the sand was warm. The weather was perfect for the beach and you couldn’t wait to dip your toes in.

“Dove, them waves look rough.” Gem, one of my best friends, told me with concern.

“I know how to swim, girl, you don’t have to worry about me.” I reassure her, as waves crash onto my legs.

Gem looked at you with her bright colored eyes full of concern. She knew that you were a great swimmer but the way the waves were going about, it worried her deeply. It also worried your other friend Pixie as well.

“Just stay in the shallow. Neither of us are great swimmers like you are, Dove.” Pixie mentioned.

“There’s a lifeguard on duty.” I joke, knowing they won’t have to do their job today with me.

Both girls looked at each other with concern, but non verbally agreed to keep an eye on you for your sake. Gem and Pixie laid down their blankets and chairs and chilled on the sand while you were knee deep in the water. The water was at perfect temperature to accompany the hot weather that was out today. But the waves were indeed getting rougher, but that didn’t deter you away. No, it only made you want to go further. You felt a sense of not only pride, but a burst of your ego.

“You can do it.” I mumbled to myself, feeling the waves get stronger.

Gem and Pixie, though promising themselves to keep an eye on you, were distracted by some attractive people and doing everything that they could to grab their attention. From a distance you noticed a sandbar but it was some distance away.

“Pfft. Can’t be that far.”

It was maybe a walk or so away. Granted I won’t be able to touch the farther I get but I’m a good swimmer. I’ve got nothing to worry about.

You pushed forward, suddenly feeling the drop off of how deep it got. It scared you but only for a second as you began to doggy paddle towards the sand bar. It was when your heart dropped when you realized that the sandbar was indeed farther than it looked. It was too late to back out now. For a second you think you hear Gem and Pixie calling for you, but you were too far out to tell. Your heart started racing, but for some reason your own ego took over and you kept pushing forward. The waves were getting harsher and rougher that you decided that now, maybe, you should turn back around. Yes, that’s a good idea, you thought. You swam around and started making your way back to shore. Your arms burned and you felt a cramp start to form in your lower region.

“Why, oh why?” I grumbled to myself, immediately regretting my decision.

This was stupid. Stupid, stupid.

Your arms burned more and more, to the point that you realized you were going further away from shore.

“Sh-Shit.”

The cramp got worse, stinging your insides and taking over. You tried to float, but then you started to panic, feeling the cramp get worse and worse and you were getting further and further from shore.

“No, no, no, please God-”

You were cut off by a big wave crashing onto you, sucking you under water. You inhaled way too much water than your lungs could handle, causing you to choke and try to swim up the surface, but you were sucked in too deep. You fought with every bit of strength you had left to get to the surface. You could feel the sweet relief of air the closer you got to the surface. You were nearly there.

Nearly there.

Nearly. There.

Nearly…there.

Nearly…

…

You went limp just as you reached the surface, the cramps and intense burning taking over your body and making you succumb to drowning. Pixie and Gem had noticed your disappearance and were already calling for help, even though they wouldn’t be able to locate you. Your body floated further and further down from the surface. You felt as if you were floating, but in a weird way and you were asleep. You were consciously fighting to stay awake, even though your body was limply floating in the deep water. You sunk down more and more and the lifeguards were just now getting on to finding your body, but by the time they get to the deep end, you’ll be long gone.

Long, long gone.

A pair of bright blue eyes spotted you from the deep waters. The eyes watched you as you limply started sinking down and down to the deep waters ever so slowly. He knew you were in trouble. He knew he had to rescue you even if he couldn’t be spotted. The creature slowly started making his way towards you. The two of you were in deep enough water that no one would be able to spot you from the surface. You didn’t react or even twitch when he swam up close to you.

“Poor lass.” He mumbled, holding onto your body.

The creature wrapped your body around him and started swimming to the very far side of where the people are at. He knew you had just passed out so he still had time to save you. He couldn’t risk being seen by people, but he would do it for you. He couldn’t help but notice your distinct features. The way your hair flowed in the water, your vibrant skin, and your bright colored lips. He shouldn’t have noticed these features of you in this situation but he couldn’t help it. You were that pretty to him. Once he got far enough from everyone else, he brought you onto shore, laying you gently on your back. He looked back and forth to make sure there were no people around. There wasn’t. Good, he thought. The creature leaned down and immediately started giving you mouth to mouth. Opening up your mouth and breathing his air into yours, while pumping your heart with his hands in unison. As quick as he started, you were back.

Shit, shit what happened? What the hell happened? My head hurts, my chest hurts, everything hurts.

The creature backed up away from you a little as you came to. He has never wanted a human to see him like this until he saw you. Creatures like him never believed in love at first sight, but that’s very much what he was doing.

Who saved me? I forced my eyes open, to find a pair of bright blue eyes looking down at me. Oh my god, he was gorgeous. A gorgeous man.

“Are you my savior?” I asked, feeling slightly delusional after coming back from the dead.

The creature chuckled, hoping you wouldn’t notice his unique features.

“Maybe, doll.”

Oh, he has an accent. A thick accent.

“Where are you from?” I ask.

I could tell the man was nervous for whatever reason.

“Uh..” The man paused.

I felt an eerie silence beckon over us as I glanced down, feeling my heart race. It wasn’t the gills on his side that I noticed, but the fact that he doesn’t have legs. He has a tail. A fucking tail.

“W-What? I must be dead.” I slightly joked, not believing what I was seeing.

I could tell the man, or merman, was a bit unnerved by my comment. His deep, dark blue tail flopped onto the wet sand, making a loud ‘plat’ sound.

“Sorry, it just feels like a childhood liking of mine is a reality.” I say, to try and uplift the mood.

He smiled at me, his beautiful eyes beaming down at me. I glanced down, seeing how fit he was. How on Earth is he this fit for a mermaid? There ain’t no way.

“Well can I know the name of my savoir? Considering I was being stupid.” I admit.

The man smiled at me once again. I couldn’t help but stare at his tail. It was so pretty. The prettiest shade of blue I have ever seen, besides the shade of his eye color.

“Johnny.” He said.

“Johnny, I’m Dove, the dumbass you had to save.” I said, joking.

Johnny chuckled.

“How long have you had a tail?”

“For as long as I can ‘member.” Johnny answered.

You smiled at that, feeling your heart race the longer you stare at Johnny. He was so drop dead handsome, despite being a mermaid, which you could hardly believe he even was one.

“DOVE!!” A familiar voice screamed out.

Before you could even react, Johnny was immediately gone. You felt sad, seeing your savior disappear like that but you didn’t know his relationship with humans, despite him getting that close to you and letting you see him.

“Holy shit! Are you okay?!” Gem frantically asked me, getting into my space.

“Y-Yeah. I am. I think.” I said, reeling in from who I just met.

But if he immediately swam away upon hearing Pixie’s voice, that tells me he doesn’t want to be seen or known.

“How did you get back to shore?” Gem asked.

“I just..swam.” I lied through my teeth.

I could tell they didn’t believe me, but they were more concerned about me being alive versus how I got back to shore.

Gem and Pixie helped you to your feet, commenting about how you keep looking out into the ocean. You lied and told them it was you being proud of yourself for getting yourself back to shore. When really you were searching for Johnny. You felt special, in an odd way. The fact that he let you see him, but fled when Gem and Pixie were coming means you were indeed special. You wanted to see him again. You just didn’t know how to expect to come back to the beach. As Pixie and Gem dragged you away, you could see a familiar pair of bright blue eyes staring at you. This confirmed everything. You wanted to see him again. But until then, he was your secret. And you are thankful you’re still alive to this day.

TO BE CONTINUED?

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