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dpressadpresso · 19 days

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Where was your Greek Pride

Ft: Bernard Dowd, Son of Hecate

Just a silly crossover between PJO and DCU that's been gnawing in my brain for the past 2 weeks or so and I needed to get it out of my system!!

Crossposted to AO3, so if you happen to see it there... it's mine!!

Cerulean blue eyes met steely blue eyes, one pair seething with barely contained contempt, the other exuding an air of indifference. Bernard’s lip curled into a sneer as he watched her sit across him in the dining room of Wayne Manor. The Amazon sat with an ease that grated on his nerves, her regal posture a sharp contrast to the storm brewing within him. If he had been a dog, his hackle would be raised, ready to leap across the table and tear her apart.

Bending down to feign tying a loose shoelace, Bernard discreetly retrieved the celestial bronze dagger from his boot, slipping it into the waistband of his pants as he straightened. The presence of his blade was a reminder that he wasn’t powerless, not entirely, if a fight were to break out.

“Thank you for having me over, Bruce,” her voice warm and sincere.

“No problem, Diana. It’s always a pleasure to have you over,” Bruce replied, a warm smile gracing his features.

Gods, Bernard wanted to do nothing more than lunge across the table and wipe that smile off her face. The urge to lash out his anger was almost overwhelming, but he forced himself to stay seated, his hand inching toward Tim’s under the table. The half-blood grasped it gently, careful to not betray his rising irritation. Tim’s fingers squeezed his own, his thumb tracing soothing circles over Bernard’s knuckles. The simple gesture anchored him, even though Tim was blissfully unaware of the turmoil raging within Bernard.

“Please, dig in and once we’re done with dinner, we can move on to business,” Bruce said, inviting everyone to eat.

“Go to the crows,” Bernard muttered in Greek under his breath and stuffed a forkful of salad into his mouth. He caught a brief, questioning glance from Diana, and his stomach churned with loathing. The demigod let out a derisive snort, and the salad-turned-traitor decided that it was the perfect time to lodge itself in Bernard’s throat. Tim was quick to react and immediately thumped his back.

Bernard’s face burned with embarrassment as he spat the chewed-up salad onto his plate. He couldn’t bring himself to meet anyone’s gaze, instead accepting the glass of apple juice that Tim handed to him. The taste of artificial apples and sugar-coated his tongue, momentarily making him forget about his blunder and dulling the shame simmering beneath his skin. Had Bernard looked up, he would have seen that stupid fond smile on Tim’s face as Bernard downed the drink.

“So, Tim, how have you been?” Diana asked, her tone conversational as she cut into her steak.

Bernard fought the urge to roll his eyes but knew the gesture hadn’t gone unnoticed based on the disapproving look he received from Bruce. He ducked his head sheepishly and chewed on his fork. The half-blood couldn’t help it. He despised everything about her—her voice, her presence, even the way she breathed. It grated on his nerves like how the sound of Styrofoam made his ears hurt.

“Well, I recently met up with Cassie, Kon and Bart for movie night and it was kinda fun,” Tim began, his eyes lighting up in excitement. “Though Bart did ask an interesting question though—if we were demigods, who would our godly parent be?”

Bernard’s grip tightened around his fork and he clenched his jaw shut. The last thing he wanted to do was to engage in a friendly conversation with Diana, but Tim was talking, and for Tim, Bernard would endure it—even if it made him want to die.

“I think I’d be a child of Athena, even though she’s a maiden goddess,” Tim continues, oblivious to Bernard’s growing irritation. “Bart’s dad would definitely be Hermes and Kon would probably be Dionysus’ spawn.”

Bernard hummed in agreement at Tim’s answers. With his intellect and blue-grey eyes, he could easily pass off as a child of Athena. Bart’s mischievous nature and speed were textbook Hermes traits, while Kon’s charisma and love for fun reminded Bernard of a pair of twins back at camp before one of them perished. A small, wry smile tugged at Bernard’s lips as he made a mental note to never let the three teens meet any of the campers—he could only imagine the chaos they’d unleash on others and themselves.

“And Bruce here would for sure be a child of Nemesis, right? Mr. I-am-the-night, I-am-vengeance,” Tim added, pulling a chuckle from both Bruce and Diana.

Huh, did all rich people chuckle like that? You know, those rich people type of chuckle. It made Bernard wonder whether Tim would develop one in the future because Rachel and Piper would occasionally chuckle like that too. Their laughs sounded expensive when the two ladies were first warming up to each other, but now they would cackle like hyenas around each other.

“What about you, Bern? If you were a demigod, who would your godly parent be?” Tim’s innocent question blindsided him after he was lost in his own thoughts.

Caught off guard, Bernard choked on his drink, the apple juice burning his throat as he coughed violently. Once again, Tim was there, his hand on Bernard’s back and Bernard grumbled. Twice in one night—were the Fates laughing at him from wherever they were?

“Maybe you should take it easy on the drinks tonight,” Bruce joked, but Bernard could sense the underlying concern in his voice.

He managed a weak smile, nodding in response to the older man as he tried to regain his composure. Bernard took several deep breaths and turned to Tim.

“Hecate,” the son of magic declared, his cerulean eyes shining with pride as his mother’s name rolled off his tongue like a badge of honour.

A cold gust of wind swept through the dining room, causing everyone to turn towards the source. One of the windows was cracked open, allowing the cool night air to flow in. As the wind touched his skin, Bernard felt the familiar warmth of his mother’s magic wash over him. It might have been a trick of his imagination, but Bernard could’ve sworn he felt a pair of lips brush lightly over his browbone.

“Oh?” Diana tilted her head, one of her eyebrows cocked in curiosity. “Why her?”

“Why not?” Bernard shot back, his temper flaring once more.

“She’s just known to be… stingy with her magic,” Diana mused. “I highly doubt that you’d receive many benefits from being her child.”

Bernard bristled at her comment.

Unlike ancient demigods, who were merely more durable and agile than regular mortals, modern demigods are blessed with specific skills or abilities that reflect their affiliation with their godly parent. Children of Apollo are gifted in medicine, archery, prophecy, and more. Children of Demeter are blessed with chlorokinesis—they basically have a green thumb but on steroids. Children of Athena excel in craftsmanship and war planning.

As a proud member of Cabin 20, Bernard can proudly say that Hecate was very generous with her gifts. Everyone from Hecate’s cabin could manipulate the Mist and some could even travel using it. However, their most impressive aspect is their natural affinity for magic. Each of Bernard’s siblings has their own niche: Alabaster specialises in protection spells and runes; Lou Ellen excels in transfiguration; and Bernard himself, is quite talented in the darker aspects of magic. Basically, anything Harry Potter can do, the Hecate Cabin can do better.

“Children of Hecate are known to be manipulative and violent, as seen from Circe. So, if you were to come across any of them, I would urge you to turn around and run away as fast as possible,” Diana warned him sternly, her voice edged with contempt. “Who knows what they’d do to you,” she added with a shiver of disgust.

Bernard’s eyes twitched, his hands instinctively drifting toward the dagger tucked at his waistband. The meal before him, once enticing, now seemed as appealing as a plate of ashes. Diana’s careless and venomous words had pierced him deeper than any blade, not just insulting him but every one of his siblings. A storm of fury swirled within him, threatening to burst free. But he was seated at the table with Batman and Robin—both vigilant and dangerous. He knew that the Bats would not hesitate to subdue him should he last out. Yet, he held himself back. It wasn’t that he couldn’t fight; it was that he couldn’t bear to fight Tim. He’d rather die than hurt him. So, instead of giving in to his instinct to spill blood, Bernard gripped the steak knife and attacked the meat on his plate.

Tim, ever perceptive, caught the shift in Bernard’s mood. His eyes flicked between Diana and Bernard, concern tightening his expression. Bernard’s eyes met Tim’s and felt his silent question: Did she say something wrong?

Bernard fought the urge to blurt out his truth – yes, she just insulted me and my siblings whom she knows nothing of. Her entire existence is an affront to my own exitance—but he couldn’t. Not here. Not now. He forced a small, brittle smile and shook his head instead.

Across the table, Batman was observing him, his gaze sharp as a blade, dissecting Bernard’s every move. Bruce Wayne, Batman, knew that Bernard was fuming, and he could feel the weight of Bruce’s scrutiny, cataloguing every twitch, every clench of his muscles.

“Are you saying that there are other demigods out there?” Bruce and Tim asked simultaneously, their tones thick with curiosity; one with fascination and one bordering an interrogation.

The question cut through Bernard’s fraying composure like a knife. He glanced around the table, noting how the others continued eating as if this conversation were completely normal. His appetite, however, was long gone. The topic was treading dangerously close to revealing the existence of half-bloods—an ancient secret, guarded for millennia. His stomach churned. The very idea of Batman and Red Robin learning about his people – of hunting them down, discussing if they were threats, developing contingency plans to neutralise them—was unbearable. Would they torment the children of Athena with their arachnophobia? Use snakes against the offspring of Apollo?

His hand unconsciously drifted to the beaded necklace hanging around his neck.

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine.

Nine beads, each one marking a year of his survival since he first arrived at camp.

I have fought against gods, titans and monsters. I fought through wars and came out alive each time. My friends and siblings are safe.

They were all safe. For now.

Diana’s voice broke through his thoughts, her words as cold as ice. “The gods never stopped procreating, and I don’t foresee it stopping anytime soon. However, if you do come across any half-bloods, not just children of Hecate, do not approach them at all costs. Unlike their predecessors, they are quite violent, and one would even consider them savages.”

Bernard’s grip on his necklace tightened, his knuckles white. She was wrong. So fucking wrong. The children of the gods were dangerous, yes—but only when provoked, only when forced to fight for their lives, or in a match of capture the flag. They were not savages. They were survivors.

“Are you calling Cassie a savage, then?” Bernard asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm. He tried to keep his temper in check, but Diana was seriously pushing him to his limits.

Their eyes locked, blue against blue. Bernard’s were burning with barely restrained fury; Diana’s were cold and unyielding.

“Never! She has never come across those heathens and I refuse to allow it—which is why I avoided Montauk at all costs,” Diana exclaimed, her voice thick with offence as she shivered at the thought of her dear mentee being exposed to such company.

A mental record scratch momentarily halted Bernard’s rage. Did she just reveal where camp was to mortals – to Batman and Red Robin, no less? His mouth gaped open, then closed, as he processed her words. Surely, she couldn’t have been so careless, so reckless.

But then Bruce spoke, confirming Bernard’s fear. “And Montauk is where all these half-bloods or demigods, as you say, reside?”

Yeap. Diana had done it. She had revealed the general location of Camp Half-Blood to the world’s greatest detective and his protégé. Bernard’s heart hammered in his chest, his palms growling slick with sweat. The Mist would obscure their path, but with time, determination and aid from the Justice League Dark, they would find it. And then what? What would Batman and Red Robin do once they located camp?

Bernard didn’t want to find out.

Unbeknownst to him, Batman had already figured it out. Bruce’s keen eyes saw through the cracks in Bernard’s façade, and now, he was watching the young demigod not with suspicion, but with cold, calculating interest. A threat assessment.

“Hold up, you’re saying that there are other demigods around, but Cassie doesn’t know they exist?” Tim asked, his voice breaking through Bernard’s spiralling thoughts.

“Gods, no,” Diana replied, shaking her head, amusement colouring her voice. “Like I said, they’re not the right type of company for Cassie. I understand that you are close friends with her, but you must never tell her of what I just said. She must never meet any of those people for they will corrupt her or even brainwash her. As you know, Cassie if blessed with powers from her godly heritage, and some of these other demigods have this ability called ‘charmspeak,’ which can bend other to their will without them even realising it.”

Bernard’s hands trembled as he pushed his plate away. “Nah, I think Cassie deserves to know that she’s not alone in the world, you know?” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. His voice was weak, barely a whisper. He wasn’t sure why he was pushing this. Maybe he wondered how things could have been different if Cassie had known her heritage. Would she have fought with him or against him during the wars? Maybe he was angry that Diana had kept her away from the only people who could truly understand her. His heart ached with the thought of what could have been.

“Do not speak of things you know nothing about,” Diana scowled, her eyes blazing with anger. “Cassandra is the daughter of Zeus, King of the Gods, and with her lineage, these half-bloods would use her for their own gain. And if she refused, they would kill her. You have not seen them with your own eyes, but I have. They will, and have, killed each other for their own purposes, or for having differing views.”

Something in Bernard snapped. All the anger he had been trying to suppress and all the rage he had buried deep within, burst free in a torrent.

“Fuck you,” he snarled, standing abruptly. His hands slammed onto the table, causing it to tremble. His chair toppled over with a crash, and the chandelier above flickered ominously. Magic, heavy and dark, filled the room, wrapping around him like a cloak, Bernard’s face contorted with fury, the air crackling with his power. “You’re the one who doesn’t know shit. Why the ever-loving fuck would we kill one of us when we’re already so small in numbers?”

All three stared at him, stunned. Bruce remained calm as if he had expected this. Tim’s eyes widened in shock, his breath catching as he took in the flickering lights and the shaking table—he had never seen Bernard this angry before or knew of his magic. Diana’s flicked with between surprise and alarm as she instinctively stepped back, her instinct kicking in at the sudden surge of power in the room. Her gaze darted around the room, then back to Bernard, a mixture of caution and readiness setting in her eyes.

“You’re a half-blood,” she said, her steak knife now tightly gripped tightly in her right hand.

Bernard scoffed, pulling out his own weapon—a celestial bronze dagger hidden at his waist. He twirled it effortlessly, letting it glimmer under the manor’s light. “And you’re an art project gone wrong,” he spat back.

Despite the tense atmosphere, Tim couldn’t suppress a snort at Bernard’s jab. Bernard’s anger briefly waned as he glanced at Tim, relieved to see his boyfriend’s amused reaction. Maybe, just maybe, things wouldn’t end as badly as he feared if Tim still found him amusing.

A flash of silver in the corner of his eyes brought him back to the moment. Diana lunged at him; her knife aimed for his head. Bernard ducked, the blade whistling above him and embedding itself in the wall behind him. If he hadn’t moved, it would have been lodged in his skull.

Bernard’s eyes darkened, the dining room plunging into near darkness with his fury. The shadows clung to him like a second skin. Bruce and Tim screamed in alarm as they realised what just happened—Wonder Woman had attacked Bernard with the intent to kill in front of them, breaking their Bats’ no-kill rule.

“Stand down,” Batman barked, his voice deep and gravelly.

“No, no,” Bernard grinned, audacity filling his body as he tossed his own celestial bronze dagger at her feet, his eyes glinting with a dangerous challenge. “Go ahead,” he taunted, his voice low and menacing.

Diana’s eyes flashed with rage as she accepted his challenge. She picked up the dagger and lunged at him with deadly intent, ignoring Batman’s and Red Robin’s protest. Thanks to Bernard’s enhanced reflexes, he sidestepped her attack, the blade plunging deep into his flesh and embedding itself deep above his collarbone.

For a moment, the room went quietly still except for his blood dripping onto the pristine marbled floor. Then, Bernard heard a sharp intake of breath, not from himself, but from Diana, who dropped to the floor, writhing in pain. He grinned; his expression twisted with dark satisfaction. He turned himself into a living voodoo doll, transferring his pain onto hers. While his body bore the physical marks, he felt no pain until he chose to release the spell.

“Bernard Dowd, Son of Hecate, at your service,” he mocked, bowing low and winking at Diana. “It’s a displeasure to meet you, Diana Prince, Princess of Themyscira.”

“Hecate,” Diana hissed in disdain, glaring at him murderously. Bernard’s grin only widened.

In a fluid movement, Bernard dropped to the floor beside her, sitting cross-legged as if they were simply having a chat. Diana winced, likely feeling the knife shift within his flesh. But Bernard didn’t care, the pain was all hers.

“You call us uncivilised and quick to violence, yet you’re the one who drew the blade first,” Bernard’s voice was steady but his eyes gleamed with a dangerous intensity as he pointed to the steak knife embedded into the wall and the dagger sticking out of his body.

“I should have known you were her spawn,” Diana huffed, ignoring his words. “How cowardly of you to use such underhanded tricks. Where is your Greek pride?”

For a moment, Bernard blinked in confusion, his mind stumbling over her words. He mouthed them silently, trying to make sense of her accusation. Then, something inside snapped. He blinked once, twice and then he lost his shit.

“Where is my Greek pride, oh mighty Diana of Themyscira?” His voice low and venomous as he grabbed her by the hair, yanking her head up to face him. His breath was hot against her skin as he snarled, “You bring up my Greek pride but where was yours five years ago, huh? Where was it when were out there, literally fighting for our lives against the Lord of Time? I was out there with everyone else, holding Manhattan without aid from the gods. I watched my friends and family get ripped apart alive by monsters and people we thought were family; I stayed with them as Thanatos claimed them. I killed and I bled for the Greeks— the very same Olympians that you and I worship. That is my Greek pride. Where was your pride then?”

Bernard’s eyes pricked at the last memories of some of his families, sharper and more vivid than ever. He could see it all again: the desperate bloodied faces of his friends, the dying gasps of children too young to have known anything but war. Little Elenor, his eleven-year-old sister, crying out for her father. The child of Demeter, screaming as a pack of hellhounds tore him apart. The battlefield was littered with bodies—Greek and Roman alike—torn apart, eyes wide and unseeing.

“Bear, darling,” Tim’s voice, soft and full of worry, pierced through the raging storm in Bernard’s mind. His iron grip on Diana’s hair slacked, letting her head thud heavily onto the cold marbled floor.

The trembling demigod slowly turned to face his boyfriend, his breath hitching as Tim’s face swam into focus. The worried lines of Tim’s brow, and the way he was chewing on the inside of his cheek, all pushed away the blood-soaked visions clawing at his sanity. Tim’s calloused hands cradled his face with a gentleness that broke through the last of his defences.

The raw, agonised sob that ripped from Bernard’s chest was the sound of a man who had held on too long, who had seen too much. He collapsed into Tim’s open arms, clutching him as though he were the only thing tethering him to the present as if letting go meant being lost to the darkness of war.

#dcu x pjo

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the-iceni-bitch · 4 years

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A Birthday Gift

Pairing: Nomad!Steve x fem-Reader

Word Count: 5665 (I know, I know)

Summary: The nomad crew have been holed up with you for months and tensions are high. Nat, being an unrepentant pot stirrer, decides to arrange a pleasant birthday surprise for you.

Warnings: Explicit language, explicit sexual content, explicit descriptions of consensual violence, SMUT! PORN! 18+!

A/N: Hello my fellow hoes and sluts! My birthday is today and it has me in some kind of mood, so I hunkered down and blasted out this fic. @stargazingfangirl18‘s lovely Tree Trimming fic has my holes quivering for some hot Nomad sex, so please sit back and enjoy my birthday present to all of you!

You had always hated your birthday.

Fortunately, Nat was completely willing to take your mind off it with a good sparring match. The snow was falling heavy outside of the large windows on the side of the gym, but the minor exertion was keeping you pleasantly warm. You’d been on the mat for almost an hour, but you still couldn’t seem to get your mind to focus.

Of course, it didn’t help when Rogers came in, glowering, to work the bags, giving you a wary look before he settled into his routine.

Nat and the rest of the team had been with you for almost 3 months now. When she had called you after the events in Berlin, to arrange a potential safehouse for her and her compatriots, you of course offered to have them join you at your isolated lodge on the Snæfellsnes peninsula. You were as off the grid as they come, and with the help of your Wakandan friends, still able to provide the modern creature comforts you were sure they had become accustomed to at the Avengers compound.

You had missed Nat, after all. It had been almost 7 years since you last saw her, but the grin she gave you when they landed in the early Autumn made it seem like she’d never left. You got to know everyone else over the months as well. Sam and you bonded quickly after you introduced him to Aquavit and spent the next 2 days helping him slowly move back to solid foods. Vision of course took everything that happened in stride, and while you couldn’t say you were friends, you had developed a mutual respect for each other. Wanda took longer to warm up (understandable after everything she had been through) but when you told her about the time you had spent in Sokovia, she quickly came out of her shell, and the two of you would often stay up through the night reminiscing about your homes. Even Barnes had softened once he got a look at your weapons room and you took it out to the Fjord to test out some next gen tech Shuri had sent you.

The only problem was Rogers.

No matter what you tried, it seemed that every time you got near him his hackles went up. You could feel him watching you constantly, and whenever you met his gaze, he would simply clench his jaw and stalk off like a cat.

“He’s just overprotective.” Nat always said. “He’s a big papa bear protecting his cubs. He’ll warm up.”

You snapped back to the present as Vis and Wanda wandered into the gym chatting idly. She had convinced him to join her out in the snow for a brisk hike, and was now laughing lightly as she brushed a dusting of soft flakes off his shoulders. Bucky was working his way down from the weights level, patting his neck dry with a towel. You heard the pounding on the bags stop, and glanced over to see Rogers unwrapping his hands as he stared at you, but this time he didn’t break eye contact when you met his gaze.

Those deep blue eyes disarmed you, and you lost your concentration for a split second. Nat seized her opportunity and crawled up your back, wrapping he legs around your neck and shoulders to try to get you into a submissive position. You tried to regain your composure, but your instincts kicked in for just a moment, and when you drove yourself back into the mat to break her hold, you landed quite a bit harder than you intended and thought you heard a snap as she gasped out in pain.

“Shit, Nat you good?” You scrambled onto your knees and looked at your friend with concern. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Rogers striding over, jaw clenched and brow furrowed. Vis and Wanda stopped their conversation to glance over and Bucky moved quickly to intercept his best friend with a hand on his chest.

Nat broke the tension with a laugh, and everyone in the room relaxed. “God, Y/N, guess you’re still an aggro bitch. I though I might’ve had you for once.”

“Jesus, Nat. I’m sorry, lemme grab you some ice. Anything broken?”

“Don’t think so, just a bruised ego. Look at you, you haven’t even broken a sweat.”

You tossed a pack to her from the freezer, along with her typical post spar electrolyte drink. She gave you a wink as she pressed the pack to her ribs, and you could only shake your head at her.

“Steve, you wanna take over for me?” She said to the large man who was now leaning against one of the windows, only half listening as Barnes tried to distract him, while glaring at you.

You both snapped your heads around to stare at her and started protesting over each other while she grinned back and forth between you.

“That’s probably not a great idea…”

“Don’t want to hurt her…”

“Oh my god, you two are ridiculous. Y/N, you obviously still have to work out your birthday issues, and Steve, you’ve been complaining for the past 3 weeks that me and Buck are getting too predictable.”

“Y/N, it’s your birthday? We should bake you a cake!” Wanda exclaimed, always the little ray of sunshine.

“That’s ok Wand, please don’t.”

“Should we perhaps sing?” Vision was now adding his two cents to the discussion.

“No singing. Thank you, so much, for that, Nat.”

“She’s right Rogers, you’ve been looking pretty bored during our sessions, change of pace might be good for you.”

While you were eternally grateful to Bucky for getting the topic off of your birthday, you really didn’t think Rogers was going to go for this.

“Fine, we’ll give it a shot.”

You looked at him with surprise, but gave a shrug and nodded. You definitely still needed something to take your mind off the day. You loved Nat, but always felt the need to hold back during your sessions, and it might be nice to take the safety off.

Nat looked like the cat that ate the canary for some unknown reason, as she giggled and clapped her hands before setting down onto one of the stools to observe. Bucky looked relieved as he leaned back against the wall, chugging the contents of his water bottle. Wanda and Vis went back to their flirty conversation, content to let you two do your own thing.

You unzipped your hoody and threw it to the side, stretching your neck and bouncing on the balls of your feet to loosen up. Rogers looked you over, eyes lingering over your tattoos that you realized he’d never seen since most of them were easily covered by a long sleeve shirt. He pulled his own sweatshirt over his head, and you had a hard time not taking a second to appreciate just how good his torso looked in a simple grey tee.

“Jesus, you two, just get to it.”

The look you shot Nat was pure poison. You weren’t sure what her game was, but you’d be sure to break out the vodka later tonight and get it out of her.

You squared up with the captain, keeping a loose stance on the balls of your feet while he brought up his fists and shrugged his shoulders.

His first strike seemed sluggish, and you slapped it aside easily, frowning at him. He shuffled forward, throwing a few more jabs that you also dodged. Was he holding back on you?

The next few shots he tried to take all but confirmed it; he was pulling his punches. You ducked around them easily, starting to get frustrated. You stepped inside his reach and delivered three quick strikes to his abdomen, followed by an open-handed push to the center of his chest, causing him to take two steps backwards.

His eyes narrowed at you. He was just hoping to get Nat and Buck off his back. Nat had been trying to get him to interact with you for months, but there was something about you that set off warning bells in his head. He trusted Nat and Nat trusted you, which should have been good enough, but he couldn’t get over the thought that there was something dangerous about you that he couldn’t figure out. He’d hoped that a quick spar would appease Nat and get whatever was bugging him about you out of his system, but he had expected you to be on Nat’s level of physicality. The contemptuous way you slapped his blows aside, and the way you got under his guard fast, only made him more wary.

You saw him adjust his stance and tucked in his arms, and gave him a small smirk as you stepped back and raised your fists again.

He moved forward quickly this time, throwing a quick combo of punches aimed at your head and torso and trying to get his arms around you for a hold. You still dodged his strikes easily and when he tried to put you in a hold, you delivered a swift knee to the juncture of his waist on his left side, dancing back again.

His long hair had fallen into is eyes at this point, and when he straightened back up, the look of appraisal he gave was laced with frustration.

Your breathing was still even and relaxed, and Nat had been right, you hadn’t broken a sweat at all in the past 45 minutes. You loosely rolled one tattooed shoulder and gave him a grin, practically begging him to try again.

He clenched his jaw and rushed you. You kept dodging his blows or batting them aside but when he brought his foot around suddenly you moved a little too slow and felt it glance off your cheekbone. He took advantage of your brief surprise and moved behind you whip fast, wrapping one arm around your neck as he braced the other around your right shoulder and he tried to force you to the ground. You sprung your legs off the mat, raising them above your waist before swinging them back down as you got your left hand behind his head and grabbed the back of his tee, then used your momentum to fling him over your shoulders and toss him 15 feet across the room.

He shot up fast and turned back to with a look of complete shock on his face as he crouched into a protective stance. He stared at you like that for a beat before clenching his jaw and straightening up, rolling his head to right.

You followed his line of sight, perplexed. Bucky had jolted off of the wall and looked ready for a fight, flicking his gaze between you and Rogers. Wanda was staring at you with surprise, but was still relaxed. Vis looked at everyone around the room in confusion, trying to understand where the sudden tension had come from. The only person who seemed unfazed by what happened was Nat, all doe eyed innocence as she sipped her drink, not making eye contact with you or Rogers.

Poor Sam chose this moment to wander in. “Hey, Y/N, I heard it’s your b-day. You ready for me to drink you under… What happened?”

“Fuck’s sake Nat, you didn’t tell them.” You hissed at her.

“It didn’t really seem important, Y/N. Besides, it’s your secret.”

“Not a secret Nat. Jesus.”

“Someone want to tell me what the fuck I missed?” Sam was still flicking his gaze around the room, trying to figure out what was happening.

“Y/N just threw Steve across the room like a ragdoll.” Bucky said.

“Oh, word? Interesting.” Sam said.

“Someone want to explain this situation to me, slowly?” Rogers was looking murderously between you and Nat, and you honestly could have killed her yourself.

“Oh, did everyone not know about Y/N’s brain implants?”

All of you looked at Vision when he piped up, and he got a grin on his face like he had just solved an especially difficult puzzle.

“Baby, I think it’s safe to say only you and Nat knew.” Wanda whispered to him.

“But wasn’t that why we came here? Y/N has been hiding from multiple governments for years and her expertise has been very helpful in shielding us from both the United Nations and Stark industries.”

“Yeah, honey, just assume that you’re the only one who knows what you’re talking about.” Wanda said exasperatedly.

“Oh, well then, Y/N was part of an experimental program run by HYDRA under the guise of SHIELD during the 1990s where adolescents received brain implants designed by Dr. Emil Zola to increase sensory perception, decrease pain receptors, and specifically, maximize the efficiency of fast twitch muscle fibers via the phosphagen system, allowing use of these muscles for longer periods of time without negative effects. This was of course after multiple failed trials with a new super soldier serum.

“The program’s graduates were deployed at the beginning of the second Gulf War, purportedly to hunt terrorists, but were also used as HYDRA’s own assassination squad in the eastern hemisphere. The program was discontinued at the end of 2007 and it was thought that all the graduates were culled, but Y/N simply disappeared on mission at the Wakandan border. I admit, I was a bit surprised when she greeted us as she’s presumed dead by most intelligence agencies, but I thought her history was the reason we chose this location. Did I miss anything?” Vis looked at you with genuine interest.

“No that’s pretty much it, thanks.” You said flatly, running a hand over your face.

“See, not that big of a deal.” Nat shrugged.

“Well, Vis and I are going to head to bed.” Wanda chirped up, looking nervously between you, Nat, and the two super soldiers who were now staring at you again. She ushered Vision out of the room quickly and shushed him as he tried to ask if he had done something wrong.

“You really didn’t think this is something I might have wanted to know Nat?” Steve had now turned his attention back to your friend, murder written all over his face.

“No, Steve. Like I said, this is Y/N’s business and it changes literally nothing about how much I trust her. I can’t help it that you got your panties in a bunch over some perceived threat when I told you over and over again that I would willingly put my life in her hands in any situation.”

“You should have told them Nat.” You shook your head at her. She was still playing some sort of game, you could tell, but you didn’t know what.

“Ok, fine, I’m sorry. I just didn’t think you wanted the drama, or to have Barnes look at you like some little lost lamb.”

“Aw geez, Buck, stop looking at me like that or I’m going to punch you. I’m fine.”

“Ahm, sorry.” Bucky’s look of overwhelming sympathy would have been heartbreaking if it had been directed at anybody but you, and you really couldn’t handle that right now. “I’m here to talk if you ever need it.”

“Thanks, Barnes.”

“Besides, you and Steve are both in desperate need of a good fuck, and I thought an impromptu discovery like this would give you the push you need.”

And there it was.

“Well, I’m going to have to make it a rain check on those birthday drinks Y/N, look at the time, it’s… 6 PM. Let’s go Barnes.” Sam was now looking everywhere except at you and Rogers as he did his best to drag Bucky, who was doubled over crying with laughter, out of the gym.

You and Steve glared at Nat as she just sat there grinning, looking overly pleased with herself. A flush was creeping up Rogers neck as his fists tightened and loosened. You could see his jaw clenching under his beard and the tendons on his neck stand out in a look of absolute fury.

“You are such a meddling bitch, Romanoff.” You growled at her. Sure, it had been a while, but you were plenty capable of taking care of yourself, which you had told her after she plied you with three bottles of good Russian vodka.

“Yep.” She hopped off her stool and tossed her ice pack into the freezer. “I’m gonna leave you two to it. Talk, fight, fuck, do something. Your sexual tension is bringing down the vibe.”

She easily dodged the kettle bell you lobbed at her head with a laugh as she scurried out of the gym, closing the door behind her.

After about a minute of uncomfortable silence, you and Rogers turned back to each other. His face was no longer bright red as he looked at you, but you noticed something new in his gaze. His pupils were dilated as he peered at you through the hair that had fallen into his eyes. His breathing was deeper as he stepped closer and looked down at you. You were quite a bit taller than Nat, but still only came up to his eyes. He had moved his gaze to your chest, which was rising and falling in a slightly faster rhythm as he took you in, before moving it to your lips, then back up to your eyes.

“Wanna talk?” he asked.

“Nope.”

“Fight?”

“OK.”

You both took several steps back, retreating to your corners. Some unspoken agreement passed between you and Steve ripped off his t-shirt and sweatpants, until he was down to only his boxer briefs. You removed your sweats as well until you stood there in your sports bra and boy shorts. Neither of you examined whether you were doing this to increase your range of motion or for some other, hungrier reason.

You gazed at each other for a beat, drinking each other in. Steve rolled his broad shoulders and neck, bending from side to side briefly as you watched the muscles in his abdomen tighten and relax as he stretched. You reached your arms over your head before folding yourself over to wrap your arms around the backs of your thighs, twisting yourself to loosen your back muscles and feeling his eyes on you the whole time.

After straightening back up, you each gave each other a swift nod then rushed forward wordlessly.

You managed to gain the upper hand first when you vaulted over him as he dove at you, wrapping one arm around his throat as you carried your momentum and brought him to the ground, coiling your legs around his torso like a snake and stretching his right arm out with yours, pinning it in place.

He reached his left arm over his shoulder and punched you in the face.

You let go of him with a grunt and rolled up quickly, but he was able to get behind you and grabbed your left wrist with his right hand, hauling you over his shoulder while his left arm wrapped around your thigh and he drove you backwards into the mat, knocking the air out of your lungs before rolling over to try to pin you.

You got one leg between the two of you and drove your foot into the center of his chest, sending him flying across the room to crash into the free weights. You didn’t give him a chance to recover before charging back into him driving a fist into first his ribs, then his hip and causing him to buckle over before you wrapped one knee around his chest and rolled forward, slamming him into the ground so hard the floor cracked as you went to straddle him.

He caught your knee and carried you into a kneeling position before throwing you into the sandbags with enough force to knock one loose. You landed heavily and grabbed a kettle bell, whipping at him. He barely dodged it as he covered his head and it glanced off his forearm, giving you enough time to rush forward.

He caught you in the center of the mat and twisted you over him until you were pinned; one of your wrists in each of his hands above your head, legs wrapped around your thighs forcing them apart as he pressed his whole body weight into you.

You stopped struggling finally and stared up at him. You both were breathing heavily and covered in sweat. Steve’s hair was falling into his eyes, which were now lust blown as he stared at your lips. You could feel the muscles in his torso twitching against you as he held you in place.

He suddenly released your wrists without a word, and brought one hand behind your head to pull your mouth to his hungrily. His tongue ran along your lower lip and you opened yourself up to him, sighing into his mouth.

His other hand worked its way down your back as his legs loosened their hold on yours and he pressed your hips into his. You felt him start to grind his hardened cock into your mound and let out a low moan. He growled into your lips before releasing your head and started to kiss and bite his way down your neck, drawing soft whimpers from you as he did.

When he reached the tops of your breasts he pulled away from you suddenly to skim one hand up your abdomen before hooking three fingers under the edge of your sports bra and slowly drawing it over your head, eyes boring into yours as he did so. Once his obstacle had been removed, he nuzzled his face into the valley between your tits before gently sucking a bruise there as his beard scratched against your skin. He then moved his mouth to first your right nipple, then your left; rolling them between his teeth and tongue as you pressed your chest further into his face with a gasp.

He continued his downward journey, dipping his tongue into your navel before he reached the top of your shorts. He slowly drew them down your thighs and off until you were laying underneath him, fully bare and wanton, your cunt clenching around nothing as he stared up at you, resting his chin on your lower abdomen as his eyes asked you a silent question and you nodded, almost imperceptibly.

He drew your knees over his shoulders and pulled you down until his beard was flush against your mound. He nuzzled into the soft hair there before kissing the inside of your thighs slowly, his beard scratching the soft skin there as he gently ran the edge of his teeth up to your juncture then back down at an agonizingly slow pace. When you felt him breathe against your entrance, you wrapped one hand in his hair and moaned, and when his tongue found your clit you screamed and arched your back into him.

His tongue slowly circled your clit as he brought up his right hand and brushed his pointer and middle fingers through your arousal slowly, before inserting one finger into your pussy at a deliciously slow pace. You felt him smile against you as you moaned, wrapping your thighs around his neck as he moved in and out, curling his finger against that soft, spongy spot over and over again before adding another finger.

His tongue had stopped drawing it’s slow circles and was now pressing and releasing against you at faster intervals, causing your breath to hitch in your chest as you writhed against his face. He held a third finger at the edge of your entrance and when you pressed yourself into it, he inserted it into your canal, stretching you so good you let out a thin whine. He shook his head back and forth quickly but gently, adding a brand new sensation before he began to suck on your clit.

All the breath rushed out of you at once as you brought your second hand to press his head further into you. His fingers were fucking into you fast now and you felt the tension in your abdomen building as he alternated between sucking and licking at the small bundle of nerves. When he finally latched on, at the same time he curled all three fingers against your g-spot, you came apart around him, screaming his name as your thighs wrapped around his head like a vise as every muscle in your back tightened, thrusting your torso off the mat violently before you sank back down, relaxing as Steve helped you ride it out.

His name was the first thing either of you had said in almost 15 minutes, and he didn’t want to break the silence now. He was afraid if either of you spoke, you’d break the spell that seemed to have settled over you. Instead of saying anything, he gently pulled you down until you were straddling his waist, then nuzzled his face into the juncture between your neck and shoulder before resting his forehead on yours and staring into your eyes.

You looked back at him, blinking slowly as you moved your hands down to his hips and slipping your fingers under the edge of his boxer briefs. You slipped them over his hips slowly, and you felt his legs shifting in between yours as he moved himself to help you remove them, never breaking eye contact with you. You matched each other’s breathing as he shifted his hips and lined himself up at your entrance, his eyes giving you a pleading look. You shifted your hips closer to him, and he slowly breached you with his tip, closing his eyes as he did so and letting out a low moan from the back of his throat. He started thrusting into you slowly, trying not to collapse on top of you as he held himself back.

You brought your face up to his and slowly kissed him, gently drawing your tongue along the outside of his lips. The hand you didn’t have buried in his hair moved to his lower back and pressed him into you further, and you softly whispered against his mouth “Please…”

He let out a feral growl and settled his full weight on top of you as his hands moved from their supportive positions. One moved underneath you to hold you against him as he fucked into you fast, the other buried itself in your hair as he wrenched your head back and ran his teeth over your throat, nipping at the small hollow at its base. His hand on your back tilted your hips so each drive of his brought him flush against your clit, and you started breathlessly whimpering as he drove into you at a punishing speed.

Your second orgasm came almost without warning. You felt yourself flutter around him one moment when he suddenly tilted your hips just right and you were seeing stars, your body spasming as an uncontrollable wave of pleasure crashed over you repeatedly.

Steve still wasn’t finished though. He gave you a kiss like a starving man before pulling out of you suddenly. You groaned at the loss before he flipped you over fast and slammed back into you, causing you to let out a cry as his tip kissed your cervix.

He maneuvered you into the position he wanted quickly; one knee hooked over his leg and brought up close to your side with your other leg stretched behind you. He brought one arm underneath you to wrap a massive hand around your throat while the other tangled itself in your hair and drew your head back enough for him to kiss you hard, shoving his tongue down your throat as he continued to drive into you.

You had another orgasm almost immediately. Your pussy was fluttering and clenching like crazy as your body almost vibrated with pleasure. Steve still wasn’t slowing down and you were having so much trouble catching your breath you were worried you were going to pass out. You couldn’t stop driving your hips back into him though, matching his pace and feeling the tension in your core begin to gather again. You rolled your eyes back in your head and let out a thin whimper as you moved a hand between your thighs, trying to gain some sort of control over your own pleasure before your brain short-circuited.

Steve ripped your fingers from your throbbing clit with a growl and replaced them with his own, drawing harsh circles around the overstimulated bundle as you gasped and whimpered. He moved the hand he had at your throat to cup your chin, and tugged at your bottom lip with his thumb. You opened your mouth to gently nip at the rough pad as you felt his hips start to stutter, and he when he bit into your shoulder harshly you let out a scream and came apart violently, shaking underneath him uncontrollably.

His own release was right behind yours, and you felt his hot spend coating your insides as you fluttered around him and he wordlessly roared into your ear. He collapsed on top of you, burying his face in your neck and breathing deeply as he moved his hand from your face to softly cup your breast, lazily rolling one nipple in between his fingers and you came down from your respective highs.

You felt him softening inside you as you started to untangle yourselves. He slowly pulled out and you let out a small sigh at the loss of him. You heard him groan as he caught the sight of his cum slowly leaking out of your swollen cunt, and he left a slow trail of kisses down your spine before gently turning you over.

You wrapped one hand around the back of his neck and pulled your face up to his, kissing him deeply as your other hand trailed through the hair on his chest before coming to rest on his abdomen. He rested his forehead against yours again as you both got your breathing under control, before he broke out in an absolutely sinful grin.

You both started laughing then, the previous tension completely broken as you buried your face in his neck and he held you close to him, shaking with laughter.

“Oh my god, I really did need a good fuck.” You said breathlessly, tears leaking down your cheeks.

“Yeah, well I’d say we shouldn’t give Nat the satisfaction of knowing she’s right but I doubt she wasn’t listening in this whole time.”

“Jesus, of course she was. She’ll never stop meddling now.”

He grunted in agreement before giving you a brief kiss to the top of your head, then you separated yourselves to stumble around and locate your clothes.

The gym was an absolute wreck. Aside from the crack in the floor, the weight racks had fallen over in a domino effect after you had kicked Steve into one and two of the sandbags were leaking everywhere.

You were both covered in bruises from the sparring session and the stiffness you always felt after overexertion seemed to have multiplied tenfold as you struggled to pull your sweats back on, groaning at how tight your muscles were. Steve seemed to be feeling it as well as he let out a hiss through his teeth when he pulled his sweatshirt back over his head.

Once you were both dressed, he stalked over to you like a cat and wrapped his arms around your waist and pulling you in for one more kiss.

“Guess we should go face the rest of them.” He said, resigned.

You groaned as he dragged you out of the gym, hand in hand, to endure what you were sure was going to be a chorus of cat calls and innuendos, but when the two of you arrived in the living area, it was just Nat curled up on the sofa, giving the two of you a satisfied smirk.

“Where is everyone?” You asked her, looking around to see if maybe they had moved into the kitchen.

Nat threw back her head and laughed. “Oh they all ran out into the snow once you two really got started. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone look as embarrassed as Bucky did in my entire life. He forgot his shoes.” She was crying with laughter.

“Outside, Nat, it’s freezing out there!” The sun had already gone down with how late in the year it was and once that happened, the temperature would drop severely.

“I told them but they couldn’t handle it. Bunch of prudes.”

“Yeah, while you sat here and listened, you pervert.” You and Steve started pulling on boots and coats to head out after them.

“I’m the pervert! While you two had the world’s loudest fuckfest less than 20 feet away from the rest of your housemates, hey!” You had thrown her coat at her face and she caught it to shrug around her shoulders. “They probably had to go out five miles before they weren’t able to hear you.”

Steve growled at her as he ripped the front door open and headed out with you on his heels.

“Oh, you’re welcome by the way! It sure would be nice to get some appreciation for your birthday gift, Y/N… shit.”

Steve had lobbed a snowball the size of a golden retriever at her that she barely dodged at the last minute, cursing under her breath.

Steve wrapped an arm around you as you headed out into the fields to find your poor housemates and apologize, nuzzling himself into your hair with a grin. “Happy birthday.” He murmured to you, giving you a quick kiss before ruining the moment by bellowing “Barnes, get your dumbass back here, you forgot your boots!”

You grinned at him, looking up at the sky where the borealis had started and thinking that maybe birthdays weren’t so bad after all.

#chris evans smut #smut #steve rogers #nomad steve #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x you #steve rogers x y/n #writing

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extasiswings · 4 years

Text

How we feeling clowns? Wrecked? Anyway, here, have an episode tag for both the crossover and Buck Begins. Also on ao3.

Eddie’s driving nearly on autopilot, the roads familiar as they get closer and closer to El Paso. Part of him almost wishes he hadn’t taken the driving shift to get them to his childhood home, even if it made the most sense—he can feel the tension in his jaw and shoulders creeping in, curling tighter with every mile they come closer, and his fingers itch for his phone, for the commiserating sympathies of his sisters who understand what he’s likely to walk into much more than Buck or Hen.

Technically they could have skipped the detour. Eddie hadn’t even planned on telling his parents he was coming to Texas at all—it was Christopher who let it slip, and then Eddie had been immediately put on the spot and he hadn’t been able to come up with a good way out of stopping by after his weak deflection that it wasn’t a social trip was met with well, you have to stop and eat somewhere, don’t you.

Sophia told him to lie and say the department said no. But she’s always been much better at lying to their parents outright than he is. Adriana shrugged and said if he didn’t want to go he didn’t need to give them a reason and should just say he wouldn’t be coming. But then, that’s her tactic as well and always has been—putting her foot down to establish hard boundaries, forging her own path and bucking all expectations. Eddie’s always fallen somewhere in the middle, which he supposes is fitting—struggling to set boundaries, often getting there only when pushed, wanting approval but lacking Sophia’s talent for gentle manipulation that usually leads people to think that whatever she wants was their idea.

So. Here he sits. Driving to El Paso.

“Eddie?”

He blinks and clears his throat as he registers Buck’s voice, the edge of concern that says it’s not the first time Buck has called his name.

“Yeah?”

“I was going to ask if you could pass back the aux cord,” Buck says. “But now I think I should ask if you’re okay.”

Eddie glances over his shoulder—Hen is in the back of the truck, head pillowed against the window, dozing with her eyes closed. He swallows.

“It’s been awhile since I’ve seen my parents is all,” he replies. “And usually when they call it’s to talk to Christopher so...it might be uncomfortable.”

Buck’s voice drops. “Have you talked to them since the thing? Other than about this I guess.”

The Thing, also known as the huge fight they got into when Eddie decided that if he was going to keep working he couldn’t live at home for awhile and they tried to once again insist that he take Chris back to live with them. Like some terrible combination of the arguments they had before he moved to LA and after Shannon’s funeral, only even worse because Eddie had been raw enough over the decision to move in with Buck and let his abuela take care of Chris for awhile and really didn’t need to hear anyone tell him that choice made him a bad parent—

Sophia had been spitting mad when he told her and while he doesn’t know what she said in her own subsequent call to their parents, he knows that the next time they called him, the subject didn’t come up again. Which, he supposes is as close to an apology as he’s ever likely to get.

He probably could have used that as an excuse to not visit. But then, that’s not really how they are. Don’t apologize, pretend you don’t hold grudges, act like everything is fine, and repress until it feels like it is—the Diaz family way.

Eddie sighs as he focuses on the road.

“Not really,” he replies. “They’ve called Christopher every few weeks, but we’ve only talked directly...three times maybe since then? Things seem to go south more quickly when we’re in person though so I guess I’m…”

“Bracing for impact,” Buck fills in quietly. “I get that.”

“Yeah?”

Buck shrugs. “I don’t talk about my parents,” he points out. “Don’t talk to them either if I can avoid it because they always have a way of managing to just—anyway. The last time I even called was after everything with Maddie and Doug. Haven’t seen them since...since before I started with the 118 at least. So. Yeah. I get it.”

He hesitates, then adds, “You know I have your back, right? You’re my best friend and you’re an amazing father. I’m not going to let anybody get away with talking badly about you in front of me, even if they are your parents.”

Eddie glances back and manages a faint smile, some of the tension leaving his shoulders.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he admits. “Even if you did try to steal a fire truck in the middle of the night without me.”

Buck laughs and shoves at his shoulder. “At least it wasn’t this truck. Besides—you caught up before I did it anyway.”

“Yeah, my Buck’s about to do something dangerous senses were tingling, couldn’t let that slide,” Eddie teases.

“Just give me the damn aux cord,” Buck shoots back, but he’s grinning.

And as they pass the next exit, Eddie feels like maybe things won’t be quite so bad.

***

Buck hates Eddie’s parents.

It’s not the most charitable thing to think about someone you’ve only just officially met—he saw them at the ceremony when Eddie passed his probationary period, but he’d been on pretty strong painkillers at the time and Maddie had shuffled him back home as soon as possible—but he really does.

He hates the tense, anxious set of Eddie’s shoulders, hates the way his smile looks forced—it triggers the same fierce, protective instinct that rears its head whenever he gets between his parents and Maddie, and, well, he did promise, so—

He really doesn’t feel bad for interrupting the very first digs about how seeing Christopher over video isn’t the same as in person, but it’s nice to have the option and technology really is wonderful, Zoom calls must have been a great improvement from your army days, right son with—

“You know, it is wonderful isn’t it? Did Eddie tell you how amazing Christopher is handling hybrid learning? It’s really so great how his teachers have adapted, I can’t imagine he would have kept up so well anywhere else.”

Buck smiles brightly as Eddie’s mother’s lips thin. Hen coughs and takes a long sip of lemonade. Eddie blinks in surprise from across the table and clears his throat, grasping at the lifeline.

“Yeah, top of his class,” Eddie says.

“He even has a reading group once a week with some of the other kids in his class that Eddie started to help them stay social. I know a lot of the other parents appreciate it,” Buck adds, and Eddie rubs at the back of his neck.

“We definitely do,” Hen says, glancing at Eddie’s father as she clarifies, “I have a son Christopher’s age. They used to play together all the time before all of this.”

“His therapist said kids are resilient, but I wanted to at least try and give him something normal,” Eddie replies, and his mother’s brows raise.

“Christopher is in therapy?” There’s a note in her tone that makes Eddie tense and Buck’s hackles raise.

“I took him to see someone for a few sessions after Shannon died, mom,” Eddie says evenly. After the tsunami, Buck fills in for himself. “It didn’t seem like a bad idea to go back again to make sure he’s okay during a time that’s pretty unprecedented for just about everyone.”

“Really, I think more parents should send their kids to therapy,” Buck interjects. “If it’s a feasible option, I can’t see that it’s anything other than great parenting to make sure your kid has the best tools they can to take care of their mental health.”

God knows if he’d gone to therapy a hell of a lot sooner, he might not be struggling through sessions with Dr. Copeland now that he’s nearly thirty, but that’s not really the point.

“Well, some people feel those sorts of things are best taken care of within the family,” Eddie’s mother replies.

“With all due respect, sometimes the family’s way of handling problems just makes things worse,” Buck replies, his smile dropping briefly before he forces it back again.

“This lemonade really is delicious, Mrs. Diaz,” Hen jumps in as Eddie pushes his chair back and starts collecting empty plates. “I would love to get the recipe before we leave. If you don’t mind.”

Startled, the older woman blinks. “Oh. Yes, of course. I’ll write it down for you.”

Buck pushes back his own chair as Hen continues redirecting the conversation and follows Eddie into the kitchen where he finds his best friend gripping the edge of the sink.

“Hey,” he says quietly.

Eddie looks over his shoulder and exhales heavily. “Hey.”

“Sorry if I overstepped.”

“You didn’t,” Eddie assures. “I’m just...exhausted. And ready to get back on the road and home to my kid.”

He hesitates, then adds, “you know, my sisters would be impressed. I haven’t seen someone manage our parents like that since they left. I—thank you.”

“I meant what I said in the truck, Eddie,” Buck replies. “You’re an amazing father and a great man and—it’s not right that anyone should pretend any different. So. I won’t let them.”

Eddie glances at the hallway. “Guess we have to go back eventually. I didn’t quite think this escape plan through.”

“Once more unto the breach?” Buck offers. The smile he gives Eddie is far different from the fake one he’s had up since they arrived, and when Eddie returns it, a spark returning to his eyes, it makes Buck’s stomach flip and his pulse race.

He tries not to think too hard about that. They still have a long drive ahead of them—plenty of time to save it for later.

“Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

***

When they get home, Eddie barely manages to shower and plug in his phone to charge before falling into bed and immediately going to sleep. When he wakes up, he finally checks his messages and sees several missed calls and texts from his sisters.

So? Sophia asks. How was it?

<em>You were right</em>, Eddie taps out, and then waits. His phone rings a few seconds later.

“I’ll save the I told you so in favor of asking if I should get Adriana on the line for an emergency Diaz sibling parental grievance vent session or if I’ll suffice,” Sophia greets.

“It’s not that serious,” Eddie replies. “I’m okay—a little annoyed still, but...I’m okay.”

He’s not quite sure what compels him to add, “Buck was there. He, uh, he told them off about it a little actually. Politely, but that kind of polite...you know the one.”

“The one that’s basically go fuck yourself with a smile and/or plausible deniability?” Sophia fills in, and Eddie laughs.

“Yeah, that.” He rubs at the back of his neck and leans back in his chair. “It was—he kept pointing out things about what a great dad I am.”

There’s something about the feeling in his gut that he can’t name. Something he wants to poke at, to explore, but that also makes him wary. Like a yellow caution light—it’s not a do not enter but it’s not risk free either—and he’s not sure whether it’s a risk he can take yet.

Sophia is quiet for a moment. Then she says, “You are a great dad, Eddie. In spite of them. I’m glad you have other people in your life who recognize that too. You deserve that. You deserve to trust that you’re good at things, even if mom and dad say you aren’t. You deserve to be happy, so...”

The silence that follows feels weighty.

“What?” Eddie asks.

“Is Buck—?” Sophia cuts herself off. “—nevermind. Hey, the twins are calling, so I’ll call back again later, okay? Love you.”

Is Buck what? Eddie wants to ask. But he swallows it back.

“Love you, too,” he says instead. “Talk to you later.”

As he hangs up and tosses his phone aside, his mind wanders back to that feeling. Right up to the edge of warning lights and caution tape. And Eddie wonders for a moment if he should—

There’s a knock at his door.

“Dad? You awake?”

“Yeah, buddy,” he calls back. “Be right there.”

Later. He can think about it later.

***

Eddie figures it out at the worst possible time—in the middle of a five-alarm fire when Buck’s trapped inside and he doesn’t know if—

What do you do when you realize you might be in love with your best friend and they could die?

“We have to go back in there,” he says, before he can think of any reason why he shouldn’t. “We can’t just leave him, we have to—”

“You’re right,” Bobby interrupts, and the other captain makes a noise of frustration.

“Captain Nash—”

“You’re right,” Bobby repeats, holding Eddie’s gaze. “We’re going to get him back.”

Maybe it’s stupid, four trained firefighters diving back into an active blaze in an unstable building with unclear direction, but Eddie can’t regret it when he sees the desperation on Buck’s face. The relief. The impending breakdown.

After, he’s assigned to take care of the victim and Buck’s carted off to the hospital to get checked, and Eddie thinks maybe that’s better. It gives him time, at least. Time to figure out what to say, what to do, whether he should say or do anything at all. Part of him doesn’t know. The rest is screaming I love him, I love him, I love him, wants to get his hands on Buck to verify for himself that he’s fine. That he’s alive. That he’s going to stay that way.

But when he gets back to the station, Buck’s parents are there, sitting at the table, and Eddie just—

He thinks about the look on Buck’s face earlier in the shift when he spilled everything, when he explained how he was apparently born just for parts and how he used to throw himself into bad situations because it was the only way to get their attention.

He could ignore them. But he doesn’t.

“He saved my son, you know,” Eddie says, gripping the top of the staircase as the Buckleys look up. And it’s probably somewhat insane to keep talking because he knows they don’t even know who he is, but he can’t help it because he just needs them to understand— “Buck. He wasn’t even working at the time, he was on medical leave and didn’t know if he would ever be able to be a firefighter again. But he saved my son in the middle of a tsunami—my then eight-year-old son, and god knows I can’t imagine losing him, I think that would be the worst thing I could possibly go through, and I’m not sure I would survive it, but I didn’t have to because Buck saved him. And probably twenty other people as well. That’s just the kind of person he is. The kind who saves people.”

They don’t say a word, so he keeps going. “He could have died today. Because he didn’t want to leave anyone behind. Because he is a good man, even if he doesn’t ever feel like he’s good enough. And he hasn’t said a lot about you, but he’s said enough for me to know that while he’s gotten the latter impression from you, he learned the former himself. He built his life here himself. So...I don’t know why you’re here, if you want to explain yourselves or just want him to forgive you because you feel guilty, but I just wanted you to know that. That he’s a good man. The best man that I know. And if you’re proud of him for that, he deserves to hear it. That’s all.”

Eddie walks away then, heart beating too fast, blood rushing in his ears.

The best man that I know. And I’m in love with him.

That wasn’t for their ears though.

It thrums in his veins, the words caught in his throat as he showers, changes, waits for Buck to return to the station. And when he does, Eddie almost—

But something stops him.

“You have visitors,” he says instead. And leaves Buck to it.

Buck finds him in the locker room after.

“So, my parents said they heard stories about me while they were waiting,” he says. “When I asked them who from, they said they didn’t know, but that I saved their son in a tsunami—and trust me, that got a hell of a lot of questions.”

Eddie is grateful for the open locker, the excuse to hide his face as he pulls out his street clothes.

“Yeah, well—just because they’re not going to appreciate you doesn’t mean that nobody else does.”

“Eddie.”

Eddie pulls back and takes a breath before looking over at Buck. There’s a look in Buck’s eyes like he’s trying to piece Eddie together like a puzzle, to work out all the things he hasn’t said. And Eddie suddenly feels exposed, far more than he had when Buck was sitting in his childhood dining room staring down his own parents.

“You’re a good man,” Eddie says quietly. “They should hear that. And...someone should be willing to defend it.”

Buck’s quiet for a moment.

“I have to go see Maddie,” he says finally. “But maybe I could come by later? And we could...talk?”

“You don’t have to ask, Buck,” Eddie replies. “You know I—” I always want you. “—you’re always welcome.”

Buck watches him in silence for another long moment, then nods. “Okay. Okay, I’ll see you later then.”

It’s hours before there’s a knock on the door. Hours in which Eddie burns dinner and then orders takeout because he’s too busy thinking, hours that he spends trapped in his own head, thinking through all the worst case scenarios, through every what if of how things could go wrong.

But also how they could go right.

And by the time he opens the door, he’s almost ready to just let the words trip off his tongue, but before he can, Buck says—

“Please don’t tell me I’m wrong about this.”

—and kisses him.

Eddie freezes, but before Buck can pull back, he slides a hand around the back of Buck’s neck and kisses him back with everything in him—every bit of thank god you’re alive and I was so afraid and I can’t lose you that he can muster. By the time Buck pulls away, they’re both breathless.

“I’m in love with you,” Buck admits. “I’ve been—”

“Me too,” Eddie replies. “I thought—I thought you were—”

Buck kisses him again.

“I can’t believe you told off my parents.”

“Well, you told off mine, so—”

Eddie pulls Buck through the door.

“Chris is in his room,” he says quietly. “But...you should stay for dinner. And…”

You should stay. Just stay.

Buck does.

#chapel writes #eddie diaz #evan buckley #buddie #buddie fic #911 fic #911 spoilers #(just in case)

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sage-nebula · 3 years

Text

So, the good news: Ghetsis was not redeemed, he isn’t going to have a relationship with N moving forward, and although N was shown to wish things could be different between them, ultimately the whole situation was treated with the seriousness and gravitas that it deserved and N never once forgot the abuse that Ghetsis put him through, nor was he at any point willing to just brush it aside. In that regard, I’m very glad for how Masters handled the situation.

With that said, though, the writing in Masters made me realize something else about how child abuse stories are handled in Pokémon, and that something else is . . . not good. Namely, I’ve realized there is a significant difference between how child abuse stories in Pokémon are handled depending on whether the abusive parent is blood related to the child or not.

First and foremost, let’s get this out of the way: There is a social stigma in Japan against adoption. This isn’t to say that children never get adopted, but that culturally adoption is looked down upon in comparison to having biological children, and as a result there are only a few hundred adoptions each year in comparison to the thousands of kids living in orphanages. (Although this isn’t purely stigma, since in Japan the biological parents can still retain legal guardianship over their children in the orphanages and can therefore prevent them from being adopted by families as well. They don’t do this maliciously, but instead might think, “I will be able to care for my child later” even if that never comes to pass.) Additionally, I’ve read before that the stigma is why adopted children often don’t refer to their adopted parents as “mother” or “father” but I can’t find that source now, so take that with a grain of salt.

Anyway, the point of me saying all of that is: Japan has a stigma against adoption and Pokémon is a video game series created by Japanese people. Therefore, it stands to reason that Japanese cultural beliefs (such as the importance of blood family over adopted family) can make its way into the series, even if the series itself is a worldwide phenomenon that they know will absolutely stretch beyond Japan’s borders . . . and I think that’s what has happened here, intentionally or otherwise. Basically, whether an abusive parent in Pokémon is redeemed or not seems to have very little to do with the severity of the abuse (including that which is shown to the audience), but instead everything to do with whether their children are biologically related to them or not.

First, let’s take a look at the abusive parent that was redeemed, Lusamine. In Sun & Moon specifically Lusamine is not once shown being anything but abusive to her children. Lillie tells a story of how Lusamine was kind to her a couple times in the past (dancing in the rain, co-sleeping when Lillie was sick), but that falls in line for abusive parents. Abusive parents generally aren’t abusive 24/7; there’s a well-known cycle of abuse which contains a “honeymoon period” stage in which, typically after an apology and a promise to do better, the abuser treats the victim kindly, which usually results in the victim believing that the abuser really does love them and that whatever abuse comes later (and it always does come later) is in fact the victim’s fault on some level, for failing to keep things stable. Regardless, we know that not only did Lusamine abuse both Gladion and Lillie terribly in the past (to the point where Lillie has trauma surrounding even the clothes she wears and has trouble getting new ones), but we also see her verbally and emotionally abuse them on-screen, and then we see her attempt to murder Lillie during the climax. While Lusamine was retooled into being a well-intentioned extremist in Ultra Sun & Ultra Moon, we again see her verbally abuse her children on-screen, to the point where when Hau says that Lusamine really isn’t a bad person after all, we see Gladion grimacing in the background. All told, we see Lusamine emotionally, verbally, and (with her attempted murder in SM) physically abuse her children on-screen, and yet she is still forgiven by them pretty much immediately, redeemed, and treated as if they’re a happy family with just a few unfortunate bumps in their history. I’ll note here, for anyone who isn’t already aware, that Lusamine is Gladion and Lillie’s biological mother, and this is obvious by how similar they all look even if you weren’t told repeatedly.

Now let’s look at the abusive parent that is not redeemed, Ghetsis. In the first set of Unova games, Black & White, most of Ghetsis’ abuse of N happens off-screen and isn’t revealed until the climax. Ghetsis had N raised in a castle underground where he was cut off from society. He was brought pokémon that had been abused so that he could be manipulated into thinking that all humans abused pokémon and that pokémon needed to be liberated therefore. Because Ghetsis needed N to act as King of Team Plasma and control the legendary dragon, Ghetsis didn’t directly abuse N during this time. Instead, he neglected him (N was primarily raised by his sisters, Concordia and Anthea), and psychologically abused him via manipulative lies about what the rest of the world was like. It isn’t until the climax when N has decided to disband Team Plasma and listen to what the player has to say that Ghetsis brings out the verbal abuse, calling N “a freak without a human heart” and revealing that he was only ever using N all along. In the sequel games, Ghetsis is similarly openly hostile to N again, showing that he has no intentions whatsoever of being a good father to him. He’s pretty terrible to him, even if we didn’t see very much of it (particularly in comparison to what we saw with the Aether family, whose abuse was also much more realistic than N’s situation), and pretty much no one would want him to be redeemed. But also it’s important to note that N and Ghetsis, despite having the same hair color, are for whatever reason NOT biologically related.

And this is hammered home time . . . and time . . . and time again, particularly in this Masters event.

Now, I think most of us would agree that it would be hard to find a woman who would want to procreate with Ghetsis. Granted, Ghetsis isn’t the type of person who would care about consent, but I do think it’s reasonable to assume that Game Freak probably wanted to avoid those thoughts, even though it could have been very easily solved by having a female Sage who was also Ghetsis’ baby mama / wife (similar to how Ariana, one of Giovanni’s executives, is very obviously Silver’s mother). So I mean, from a taste standpoint, I can see why they wanted to go the adoption route with Ghetsis, even though they still made him and N have green hair despite not being biologically related for some reason.

But.

I still think it’s noticeable that they have the irredeemable abusive parent be the one who both had the least amount of on-screen abuse (and also the least realistic abuse) and also be the adopted parent, versus the one they bent themselves into pretzel shapes to redeem be the one with the most on-screen abuse (and most realistic abuse) who also happened to be the biological parent. The message that sends, to me, is that it doesn’t matter how badly you abuse your children in this world so long as you are their biological parent. In the end, you will be forgiven and they are beholden to you as family. Versus if you’re an adoptive parent . . . well, you were never as important anyway, so. I mean, why else would Lillie leave her loving adoptive parents of Kukui and Burnet to go back to her abusive mother in Sun & Moon? Clearly the blood ties were just that much more important. (Granted, Kukui and Burnet hadn’t officially adopted her, but they as good as. I’ll never stop being infuriated by that ending.)

This is, to a lesser extent, even shown with Giovanni and Silver’s situation. Giovanni was, to our knowledge, never actually abusive toward Silver; in the one conversation we see them have in HeartGold & SoulSilver, Silver’s main issue is that he doesn’t understand why Giovanni is disbanding Team Rocket after losing to Red, and also he doesn’t get why Giovanni needs so many underlings to begin with. He thinks Giovanni is weak, and Giovanni just tells him that he’s wrong without really bothering to explain things. At most, Giovanni is aloof and distant with Silver, which makes Silver angry, but Silver’s bigger issue is with Team Rocket as a whole. Giovanni’s definitely not a good father, but he’s not an abusive parent on par with Lusamine or Ghetsis from what we’ve been shown, and the implication is there that they could potentially repair their relationship in the future. Even in this event, the tension between them wasn’t bad, just complicated.

But . . . they’re also biologically related. Silver is Giovanni’s son, we’ve been told this a million times, and it’s very obvious that Ariana is his mother. They’re biologically related. And so, even though Giovanni is routinely touted as one of Pokémon’s most fearsome villains, Silver will never actually cut him off completely / be able to do that because Giovanni is his biological father. The fact that Team Rocket is based on yakuza probably complicates things even further there, but all the same. If Silver had been adopted by Giovanni, I’m pretty positive that Giovanni wouldn’t care / Silver would cut him off entirely. It wouldn’t be seen as a “real” family.

And this all bothers me, because not only was my biological mother abusive, but my stepmother was the only one who treated me as a mother should treat her child. Similarly, my biological sister was complicit and even participated in the abuse I suffered as a child, but my stepbrother whom I’ve known practically my whole life is the sibling I’d ride or die with. To me, biological ties mean jack shit. Family doesn’t begin or end with blood; to treat non-blood relations as lesser is something that will never fail to raise my hackles. So to see it handled this way in one of my favorite franchises of all time . . . yeah, it’s more than a little upsetting. I understand why it’s happening, I’m fully aware of the cultural context that this series is being written in, but that doesn’t mean that I have to like it, because I don’t.

And before anyone gets it twisted:

Both Lusamine and Ghetsis can rot in hell, NEITHER should have been redeemed. This is NOT me complaining about Ghetsis being treated as the piece of shit he is, but rather my anger at the fact that Lusamine got a pass because she birthed the children she abused, and Masters making that abundantly clear by having N and Ghetsis state in every single chapter of this event that they weren’t blood related.

But anyway, it’s nearly 4am, and I need sleep. I can continue being angry about Pokémon’s handling of abusive parents at a later date.

#pokemon #pokemon masters #pokemon critical

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stusbunker · 4 years

Text

AGA: Word to the Wise

A Supernatural Fan-fiction Denny AU Series

Featuring: Dean Winchester/Benny Lafitte, past Dean/Jo

Other characters: Sam, Bobby, Cas, Mick, Ash, Jo

Word Count: 3000 (whoa)

A/N: Sam gets on Dean’s nerves and Dean ends up taking a late night detour. Big talks ahead.

Special thanks to my beta @cracksinthewalls who puts up with my whiny ass. Also grateful for @there-must-be-a-lock‘s insight.

The bowling league was in lean attendance due to a surprise snowstorm, but that didn’t keep Singers’ Slingers from mopping the floor with their competition. Dean ended on a spare in the last game, putting him just over his average for the night. State bowling wasn’t until spring, but if they kept up their momentum Dean was sure they could place well. And a weekend away would be a welcome break from his usual exhaustion.

Dean still owed Mick a rematch from last year’s trip. Mick drank him under the table and Dean didn’t want to lose two years running, he had a reputation to uphold afterall. Bartending had cut into his training time, among other things.

Ash was the first one to bow out for the night, knowing his side towing business would be busy with vehicles in ditches for however long the storm lasted. Cas bummed a ride with Mick, since his car had never done well in this weather and he was still dragging his feet on upgrading. Dean knew he had been hinting at shopping around, but Dean wasn’t going to push the topic and get dragged into helping or finagling with the salesman for the guy. Cas could figure it out on his own, and Dean was finally in a place where he felt comfortable letting him. Huh.

Sam had been quiet all night, but Dean hadn’t mentioned it, attributing the sour mood to post-break up blues. They bought Bobby his weekly drink, “team dues” as he called it and settled in along the bar.

Dean kept the conversation going, trying to keep the mood light, but Bobby was too tired to ham it up and Sam was not amused by his brother’s antics. Once Bobby polished off his last beer and headed home to Ellen, Dean was rolling his eyes in exasperation.

“Fine, you know what, I’ll reel it in, don’t want to interrupt your sulking,” Dean muttered after another joke fell flat. Sam winced at Dean’s jab, which Dean instantly regretted. Though it did seem to shake Sam out of his funk, if minutely.

“So, tell me about Benny,” Sam brought up with elephantine grace.

Dean stared at Sam like he proclaimed he was quitting the law firm and joining the circus, coulrophobia and all.

Sam huffed. “What?”

“Nice segue there, counselor,” Dean grumbled. “What about him? Hmm, you want a new bowling bag? Because that was already on my list for you for Christmas.”

“Dude, you don’t have to do that. I mean, that’d be great, but no, I was kind of wondering what your deal was? Like do you hang out a lot?” Sam started fishing.

“Yeah, totally, everynight,” Dean deadpanned. “I mean I only work two jobs when I’m not moving your sorry ass back into Mom and Dad’s.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Sam said, waiting to figure out where he was going with this line of questioning and just shot in the dark.

“What I’m trying to say is, is this, like, a Cas thing?” Sam choked out, unable to put it any more delicately.

Dean burned with shame as his hackles raised in defensiveness. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Sam cocked his head and pursed his lips, unamused and unimpressed. “You know what I mean, man. Don’t make me spell it out.”

Dean wouldn’t budge, he dropped his beer with a thud. “Well, you’re gonna have to, because I have no fuckin’ idea what you’re talking about.”

“Dude!” Sam shook his head and rolled his eyes.

“The fuck is your problem? You got something to say, just say it, Sam.” Dean fumed, daring him with a murderous glare. Sam inhaled pregnantly, face still inching towards bitch mode. Sam eyed the bartender who was trying not to listen and the late game bowlers who suddenly decided they could catch up lane side instead.

What Dean didn’t realize was that he needed Sam to say it. He yearned for it, for his truth to be spoken, and known without him having to say it himself.

“Look, I know this isn’t something we talk about. But, I just want to make sure you’re okay. Alright? In the beginning with Cas, it was like you were obsessed, man. And since he just always seemed to need something from you. I just want to make sure you’re not getting used, I guess,” Sam unraveled the heart of his concern without saying too much, which Dean was not expecting, at all.

Dumbfounded, Dean retreated, annoyance trumping any chance at relief.

“I think I can handle myself, thanks,” Dean spat. Petulantly, he took a sip from his beer, the cold glass solid in his hand, giving him something to clutch or even throw, if it came down to it.

“I didn’t say---,” Sam broke off. “Fine! You know what? You’re on your own. Just remember that I should have listened to you about Ruby and now I’m paying the price for my own stubbornness.”

Sam stood and reached for his money clip, tossing an extra five on the bar for the dramatics. He gave Dean one last chance to come clean, to own up to what they weren’t saying. Dean stared straight ahead, eyes unfocusing on the liquor labels behind the bar as if Sam had already left. So he did, just as he came: pissed and questioning his brother’s motives.

Dean didn’t go home after that. Instead he absently followed a plow down the main road until he happened upon a familiar turn off. Which he took slow and steady until it ended in a T. The little brick ranch at the end of the lane held a lot of memories. And it was more inviting than ever with its Christmas card perfection in the falling snow. Dean put the Impala in park and let the radio play, wishing he had a joint just for the sake of something to do.

He wasn’t there ten minutes before his phone rang, which he answered without processing the caller ID.

“You gonna come in or you just gonna sit out there feeling sorry for yourself?” Jo’s voice sliced across the line.

“Didn’t know if you were still up,” Dean bullshitted.

“Uh-huh. Whatever you say. Backdoor’s open,” her unimpressed reply. She hung up before Dean could make up an excuse to leave. He slouched out of the car and trudged down the long country driveway. As soon as he had stomped the snow off his boots, Jo welcomed him in with a firm hug and an appraising glint in her eye.

“Thanks, it’s a real mess out there,” Dean explained.

Jo just shook her head at him. “How’d ya bowl?”

“619 series, finished strong in the last few frames,” Dean answered. “Were you at your folks?”

“Nah, just know it’s Wednesday night, which means the boys were at the alley,” Jo smirked as she reached atop her fridge for the good stuff.

She held up the whiskey in offering and Dean nodded, bending out of his coat. He slipped it over the back of a chair and settled in at the vintage kitchen table. She poured him a glass and watched as he inhaled the first round like he had been outside for hours and needed to fight off a much deeper chill.

“Well alright,” Jo resigned herself to playing shrink and poured Dean another drink. “So, what’s got you stuck in your head, hm?”

Dean weighed his head from side to side as he let the whiskey roll over his tongue. He never got far into a pouting session when Jo was around, but he also didn’t know which chamber of his heart he could stand to prop open for her inspection tonight.

“How’ve you been, Jo? You still schooling those truckers on taking care of their own rigs?” Dean sidestepped with ease.

“You know it,” Jo confirmed. “Not a day goes by that I don’t have to put another asshole in his place. Pays good, though.”

Jo had followed in Bobby’s footsteps and became a mechanic, but two Singers were already one too many for the shop and salvage yard. So she took her skills out to the interstate and made a name for herself as the only female diesel technician in four counties. Dean used to hate it when she would fix something faster than him, but it had been more than a decade since her skills had made him feel inferior. Dean knew Jo’d be his boss someday, but he wasn’t too worried about those far off futures; Bobby wouldn’t retire unless Ellen made him or killed him first.

“How’s Rufus holding up?” Jo teased, knowing her dad’s old friend was getting worse for the wear, much like John had.

“Stubborn, and as glib as ever. Good thing your dad rehired him, because he’s a bit too mouthy for most customers,” Dean admitted.

Jo hummed with nostalgia. “I gotta swing by and bug you guys sometime, but it just keeps getting busier.”

Dean sighed. “I hear that. What’s it been? Labor day? No. I haven’t even seen you since the Fourth. Christ!”

“Yeah, well, you’ll see me next week for Thanksgiving, don’t get too sentimental about it now,” Jo quipped. She took a short sip off the bottle as Dean swirled the last of his second helping.

“I’m seeing someone,” Dean staggered the words, like he wasn’t sure if their meanings and sounds fit together.

Jo sighed dramatically, “Finally, the truth is revealed! What’s up? She’s not pregnant, is she?”

“No.” Dean had to bite back his guffaw. “Definitely not.”

“Okay, then why the sad face? Not pulling a Ruby on ya, I hope?” Jo tested the waters.

“No, it’s--uh--- it’s been good. Really good. I just, kind of need to make up my mind if I’m in it for the long haul. Ya know?” Dean clarified, relaxing with each little confession.

“Uh-oh it’s getting serious,” Jo mock whispered.

Dean rolled his shoulders. “No, well, it could be. I don’t know.”

Jo giggled. “I can’t believe you! You’re fucking twitterpated, aren’t you?!”

“Jo, if you start making Thumper jokes, I’m shutting up right now,” Dean warned with a pointed finger. “Care to top me off while you’re at it?”

“Okay, okay, gosh.” Jo rolled her eyes dramatically as she poured him another drink before pointedly putting it back on the fridge. “But you’re in deep. You’re all blushy about it.”

“That doesn’t mean I’m ready to go big. It just means they’re willing to put up with me until I say the word,” Dean tried to downplay his feelings and Benny’s confession.

“So do it! Bust out the grand gestures already,” Jo encouraged.

Dean scoffed, “I’m not built for commitment, you know that!”

“Except you kinda are! You’ve changed, Dean,” Jo insisted, head hung to pour her honesty from her eyes. “I don’t know when it happened, but you’re not that reckless boy that I knew. You’ve always been a good guy, but now?---- Maybe it’s been since Sam came home, I don’t know. But somewhere along the way you grew up.---- It’s okay to let yourself want something more, you know.”

Dean grumbled and rolled his neck, breaking the eye contact. She always could do this to him, just like her mother, see straight through his every defense. “I always thought it’d be you, you know?”

Jo smiled without teeth. “Firsts can do that to people. But, we’re not those kids anymore, Dean. So, if you’re asking for my permission or seeking my approval---?”

Dean dropped his head to his hands, thick fingers poorly hiding him from Jo. “It’s a guy, Jo. I’m--- I don’t know--- Bi? I guess?”

“Dean?” Jo waited until he stopped being sheepish and looked at her, even if it was only out of the corner of one eye. “You’ve been head over heels for Cas for years. If you dare tell me this is about him, so help me, I will throw you out right now.”

Dean couldn’t help but laugh ruefully at that and toss back what was left of his whiskey. “You saw that, huh?”

She didn’t answer, waiting for him to work through it on his own.

“It’s not Cas.” Dean smacked his lips and held up his glass for a refill. Jo stood and brought the bottle back to the table. Dean poured himself three fingers worth and pondered the sloshing liquid before he continued. “Your mom know?”

Jo licked her lips, cocked her head, and sighed.

Dean closed his eyes and asked, “Bobby? Fuck!--- my mom?!”

“No one has ever said it out loud, Dean. I don’t know who knows, honestly. But we’re family, that doesn’t change.” Jo grasped his wrist firmly, he held her hand to his and then she slapped her other one on top. Time stopped long enough for Dean to accept that his secret was finally out, but also that it was safe.

“I can’t believe I’m talking about this with you, of all people.” Dean thumbed her knuckles, staring into eyes he knew as well as his own.

“Really? Who else would you be talking to about it? Sam? Ash, maybe?” Jo giggled. “I’m honored, actually. It means you stopped hating me.”

Dean pulled his hands away and took another drink. “I never hated you.”

“Okay, well, maybe it means you stopped hating yourself,” Jo corrected.

Dean’s brows crooked incredulously.

“Too much?” Jo asked apologetically.

Dean shook his head and sighed. “You are your mother’s daughter.”

“Now you’re the one being rude,” Jo muttered before taking a solid drink off the bottle this time.

Dean let himself relax, let the whiskey and conversation work into his muscles and set his worries aside. They talked like the old days and about the old days. Those in between years after high school and before anyone was ready to face responsibility. When half their friends went to college, they had just kept on working. After another hour, Jo leaned back in her chair and started scrutinizing him once again.

“You know how I know you’re happy with what’s his name?” Jo teased.

“Beh--- I didn’t tell you, fuck! Benny, his name is Benny. Goddamnit Joanna Beth,” Dean cursed through a chuckle; more details dragged out of him than he had planned on.

Jo cocked her head and considered the name.“Benny, right. You wanna know how I know?” Jo pushed.

“Fine, how?” Dean held up his hand, beckoning for her to hit him with her response.

“Because this is about the time of night you start giving me the lazy once over. But not tonight,” Jo proclaimed, chin out condescendingly. She had him, every few years they’d find themselves back in each other’s beds, for a night or a weekend and then they’d move on. He always thought of her as his home, his starting point. But maybe they weren’t the same thing at all.

“You still look good, Jo,” Dean replied, trying to save face.

“That’s not what I meant, Dean. Besides, I know!” Jo snarked, straightening her spine and tossing her hair over her shoulder. Dean couldn’t hold in his laughter anymore and it spilled out over a toothy grin, making Jo almost choke on her drink. God, Dean felt like anything was possible. That life was good.

After the hysterics had calmed down, Dean exhaled. “Thanks, Jo. I needed this.”

“You sure did, nobody else was gonna hand you your ass so kindly,” Jo agreed, standing and taking the bottle and Dean’s glass with her to the counter that held the sink. He whined comically, but knew her timing was right. She leaned back and smirked.

Dean grew quiet and Jo waited to see if it was exhaustion, the alcohol or something else. She didn’t have long to prepare.

“How’m I gonna tell my dad?” Dean asked, the pain and panic pulling at his face until she saw the telltale tears well up.

“Fuck ‘im. I mean it, if your dad can’t get his head out of his ass to see how happy you are, he isn’t worth your time,” Jo said adamantly.

Dean let his thoughts roll to the side of his head and licked his lips, biting against the tremor. He quickly wiped away the tears that escaped and inhaled wet and ragged. Jo slipped to his side and ran her hand through his hair, letting his face fall against her chest as he breathed through the onslaught. Dean couldn’t help but think how motherly the affection felt.

She pulled back to look him over at arms’ length.

“So what now? You want the couch? Or should I call you a ride? I’m sure Sam owes you one,” Jo asked, as no nonsense as ever.

“I’ll be fine,” Dean dismissed her concern, rubbing up his face to wipe off his nose.

“Well, you ain't driving.” Jo held up his keys. Dean blanched, feeling his pockets for them, fruitlessly. He stood to snatch them, but she had already skipped across the kitchen, too far to catch. “Nuh-uh, no way I’m letting you risk your baby. Or your thick skull in this weather.”

Dean put his hands on his hips, and blinked through the dizziness. He realized he hadn’t stood in a few hours. “Sam.”

“What’s that?” Jo prodded mischievously, ear leaning in as if she couldn’t hear him.

“Very funny. Call Sam, will ya?” Dean rolled his eyes as she scrolled through her contacts, murmuring the names under her breath. His keys were raised in victory, as if he couldn’t reach them above her head. He could have snagged them in an instant, if he wanted to.

While Jo woke Sam, Dean checked his own phone. Ignoring some texts from his mom and Cas, he selected the conversation with Benny. There were no new messages since that morning. Dean hesitated before relocking his screen.

“Sam’ll be here in twenty. You want something to eat? I’ve got chips.” Jo offered, opening the cupboard.

Tagging: @flamencodiva @dolphincliffs @dontshootmespence @fookinghelljensensthighs @fangirlxwritesx67 @dawnie1988 @mrswhozeewhatsis @cosicas-cuquis @foxyjwls007 @tumbler-tidbits @wingedcatninja @defenderrosetyler @ericaprice2008 @crashdevlin @mylovelydame21 @cajunquandary @itmighthavebeenintentional @thoughtslikeaminefield @there-must-be-a-lock @tatted-trina6 @cracksinthewalls @atc74

Series Masterlist

SPN Masterlist

Tell me what you thought?

Part 10: Spit it Out

#A Gentlemen's Agreement #Dean Winchester Fanfiction #dean/benny #dean x benny #bi!dean #coming out #aga: word to the wise #dean winchester/benny lafitte #dean/jo #sam's trying he really is #stubborn dean

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thevioletjones · 4 years

Note

Congrats on the kudos, u deserve it! I did not undestand if I'm supposed to choose one of the lines for the prompt or if I have to combine two or more lines lol. But if it is to choose only one: number 5. If more than one: 5 and 45. *---*

Thank you! I used both. Great inspiration, actually. It spun out of control! 😀

Prompt 2: “How much of that did you hear?” + “Why are you helping me?”

Interloper

“Jesus, Iggy, I’m gonna fuckin’ murder you myself one of these days,” Mickey threatened in exasperation.

They were both leaning over, hands on knees, gasping for air, just having run full-speed for at least twelve blocks. The pillars beneath the L tracks were now providing the mild seclusion they needed to wait out a cursory police search of the area.

“Ain’t my fault!” Iggy exclaimed defensively.

Mickey’s face scrunched up to a degree that only his dumbest family members could make it reach. “Yes it fuckin’ was! Who else’s fault would it be?”

He’d always kind of wondered how he was the only one in his crap-ass family to be gifted with at least half a brain. Well, him and his younger sister, Mandy. She was alright. Skanky and crazy, but not a total idiot. He couldn’t say the same for his brothers, male cousins, father, uncle, etcetera. Mickey couldn’t even get his begrudgingly favorite brother to follow a simple goddamn plan that would’ve kept them out of trouble when they were out committing crimes. He was just gonna have to start doing everything himself. Safety in numbers didn’t apply when the other member of your team seemed to have been lobotomized when no one was paying attention. It was probably all the meth. Mickey was smart enough to stay away from that particular bullshit. Didn’t want to become a scabby, denture-wearing, toothpick skinny, low-life with no mind left to lose. He was content to stick to coke and weed like a normal person.

“That old bitch came outta nowhere! Self-defense!”

“It ain’t self-defense if you’re robbin’ the joint, numbnuts! We’re lucky you fuckin’ missed!”

If he had it his way, Mickey wouldn’t be doing these petty robberies anymore. He much preferred bigger jobs, like gun and drug running. But times were tough, and he had to do what he had to do. He’d even considered getting a legit job for once in his life, but the skills he possessed weren’t exactly easily adaptable to the straight and narrow path. Being a criminal was how he was raised, and all he knew. It brought heat, but it was still a comfortable fit. Living without the constant presence of major risk would probably feel so foreign as to drive him crazier than a meth addiction in the long run.

The job Mickey’d lined up involved hitting up a few different borderline upmarket stores that’d opened up in their neck of the woods since the gentrifiers had set upon The Yards, then selling the goods to a guy he knew in the online black market trade. Not as lucrative as heavy metal and funny powder, but a decent payday nonetheless. Except fuckface over here who had to ruin everything by getting trigger-happy on Main while they were attempting to heist merchandise from location number two of three. If the pigs nabbed either one of them, they’d be going down for at least five to ten. Years. Mickey was done donating years to the prison industrial complex. The most he could afford was months at best.

“When’d you turn into such a giant asshole?” asked Iggy. “Oh, nevermind, probly when you started gettin’ it railed on the reg.”

A giant smile stretched across his perpetually dirty face, causing Mickey’s eyebrows to lift dangerously high on his forehead. Occasionally, his dumber-than-rocks older brother managed to think up some admittedly clever asides. Mickey didn’t know whether to punch him or give him daps.

Before he could decide, however, he heard a distinct little snicker from the other side of the large concrete column they were leaning on, raising his hackles to invisibly join his eyebrows in their heightened incredulity.

Mickey hastily rounded the pillar and grabbed the giggler by the shirt collar, hauling him to their side and pinning him next to Iggy with his forearm. He looked into the guy’s eyes, and finally registered who it was. He kinda sorta knew him from around town. Used to hang out with his sister back in high school. He was a lot scrawnier then. This version of the dude could probably hold his own with Mickey in a fight. He’d built some definite muscle.

“How much of that did you hear, asshole?” Mickey demanded, seeing Iggy flash the gun in his waistband in his periphery.

This idiot didn’t look as rattled as he should be, though. He just shrugged his shoulders.

“Considering I was here first, I guess… all of it?”

He was wearing an annoying little smirk, his green-blue eyes shining bright, and his red hair distracting Mickey as much as the light dusting of freckles across his nose and cheeks. He had a stupidly ultra-defined chin, and Mickey immediately hated it. His chin hadn’t looked like that when he was a 15-year-old pipsqueak.

“Wipe that smile off your face, bitch,” ordered Mickey, pressing his arm harder against the guy’s pale throat. “You think this is fuckin’ funny? You know who we are?”

The guy shrugged again, like this was all a casual conversation on the corner. “Mickey.” He glanced at his dumb, blonde, curlicue brother. “And Iggy, right? I used to hang out with Mandy all the time. Have a good memory.”

“Yeah? Well I remember your goofy ass too, Gallagher. I know where you live and I know who your family is, so if you know what’s good for you, you’ll keep your big mouth shut or I’ll pick ‘em off one by one and save you for last. Got it?”

The dude snorted, and Mickey wondered if he was some kind of crazy tweaker with no sense of propriety or self-preservation.

“You outta your goddamn mind or somethin’?” Mickey added. “I ain’t jokin’.”

“Look, Gallaghers don’t snitch, alright?” He held his hands up placatingly. “I promise not to say shit to anyone. It’s none of my business, and I really don’t care. That good enough for you?”

Mickey loosened his hold, but sized him up all the while. “Maybe. But it’s possible you need a little lesson to remember it good. Wouldn't want you to forget about the consequences of you breakin’ your word.”

The dude winced and shoved Mickey off. “I don’t need a fucking beatdown, Mickey. I get it.”

“Ohhhh,” Mickey singsonged derisively, meeting Iggy’s gaze. “He gets it.” He thumbed his eyebrow. “Guess I’m just s’posed to believe you, huh?”

“That would be ideal, yeah.”

Mickey had to give it to him; he almost cracked a smile. The kid had balls. Most people around their neighborhood cowered before a Milkovich like spring lambs. Still, he lived by a code, and letting some rando walk away unscathed when he had dirt on him just didn’t fit the rules.

He cocked his fist back to knock it into tall, pale, and red’s pearly white teeth, just as the stunted siren of a cop car rang out very close by. Their collective heads all snapped toward the sound, and after sharing a meaningful look between brothers, Iggy took off running once again, without a word.

Normally, Mickey would’ve followed hot on his heels, but some unknown force was keeping his useless feet stuck to the dirty ground, eyes watching as Gingerballs glanced around the column at the flashing lights, taking a very long look that wasn’t suspicious at all.

Before he could react outwardly, Mickey was pulled against a hard body, Gallagher’s warm breath sending a shiver down his spine as he whispered, “Be cool. I got you.”

Suddenly, big hands were caressing Mickey’s back, and despite a part of him not minding in the least, the rest of him stiffened considerably.

“What the fuck are you doing?” he rasped out, hearing the telltale slam of a car door, and attempting to pull away. But a strong grip held him close, spinning him around so that he was the one up against the concrete now.

“Saving your thug ass. I know this guy, okay? Just chill and follow my lead.”

Okay, what the hell was this surreal turn of events? Gallagher was bold as shit, cradling Mickey all gay like. Sure, Iggy had made a fag joke earlier, kicking off this whole… whatever it was, but still. This guy had no way of knowing it was based in reality. Did he?

And had Gallagher really been gay this whole time? How had Mickey never sniffed this scorching information out?

“What’s going on here, boys?”

The copper rounded the corner, genuinely swinging his nightstick like a cartoon character, and Mickey had to suppress a deep roll of his eyes.

“Milkovich?” Mr. CPD continued, extreme disbelief coloring his voice.

Mickey was abruptly reminded that he was currently stuck between a rock and a hard body, and nothing about their entanglement screamed anything other than gay, gay, super-fucking-gay. Not that Mickey hadn’t come to accept who he was and what he liked, but he didn’t go around spreading the truth all over town either. This could seriously damage his carefully crafted reputation.

“Tony!” Ian interjected, sparing him from having to invent some lame excuse, and the cop’s eyes snapped to him instead.

“Ian?” His tone was still dripping with astonishment.

“Yeah! What's up? How you been?”

Mickey shot him an ‘are you goddamn serious right now?’ look, and Ian just squeezed his hip in tacit reply.

“Uhhh… gooood? Care to explain whatever…” he waved his stick between them, “this is?”

Ian laughed and he figured the dude truly was a nutcase. Mickey was going to jail for sure.

“Um, well,” answered Ian, suddenly playing it very meek and demure, “Mickey and I were just… you know…”

“You and… Mickey?”

“Not fucking or anything! Just... hanging out?”

“Hanging out.”

“Yeah, you know how it is. I’m tryin’ to convince Mick here to come home with me, but he’s being squirrelly.” He shook his head and shrugged. “South Side guys.”

“What the fuck?” Mickey whispered harshly, completely taken aback.

Ian just squeezed him tightly again, which was not helping his whole brain scramble situation.

“Huh,” said Tony, a tone of acceptance seeping in. “Mickey Milkovich, eh? Wow.”

“Come on, Tony. I don’t have to tell you this is all a big secret, do I?” replied Ian.

“And blondie who ran away like there was a damn fire? Did he flee a threesome?”

Mickey frowned and fake-wretched, finally speaking up. “Fuck no, man. That was my dumbass brother. He don’t like cops.”

“Uh huh. And you and your brother didn’t happen to be getting into trouble about 15 minutes ago, did you?”

“No sir,” Mickey said with a mock salute.

Ian kicked at his foot in warning.

“He’s been with me since like 3 o’clock, Tone. Scout’s honor.”

Officer Tony eyed them both with a look of skepticism, but didn’t contradict Ian’s word. The CB sounded from the open window of the black and white, with some cop-speak crackling over the airwaves.

“Stay put,” said Tony, eyes lingering longer on Mickey’s than Ian’s. “Both of you.”

He retreated to answer the radio call, and Mickey let out a deep whoosh of air.

“Goddamn, Gallagher. You’re spinnin’ quite a yarn here.”

“Yep,” Ian agreed. “A big gay yarn.”

“How the fuck did you know—”

“That you’re gay? Well, I heard Iggy make that joke, obviously. Pretty specific bottom joke to make if you weren’t actually into it. Plus, I always had my suspicions.”

Mickey scoffed. “Yeah fuckin’ right!”

“I did!”

“Whatever. Why are you helping me?”

“Out of the kindness of my heart?”

“Try again.”

“I don’t know. Why not? Makes us even or something. Now you know I won’t rat you out. About any of it. I wouldn’t out someone like that, and I don’t give a shit about the illegal crap you’re wrapped up in. Tony Markovich is like turbo gay too. Used to bang my sister, I think, but he came out a couple years ago. He won’t let it slip about you. He’s not a total bastard just cuz he’s a cop, ya know?”

Mickey bit his lip in contemplation. Gallagher seemed pretty genuine. Still didn’t much make sense in his brain, but whatever.

“Fine. But you know what’s gonna happen if—”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, kick my ass, kill my family, got it.”

“You’re a cocky little shit, ain’t you?”

Ian smirked again, and it was pretty sexy, actually. “Maybe.”

He had the gall to push against Mickey more fully, pressing the bottom halves of their bodies closer together.

Mickey gasped. “Gonna have to ask you again… what the hell do you think you’re doin’?”

“You wanna go out sometime?”

Mickey cackled in his face. “You’re off your fuckin’ rocker for sure.”

“Am not! I can tell you want me.”

“Oh, Jesus Christ. Cocky little shit doesn’t even begin to cover it, does it?”

“Come onnnn,” Ian prodded.

“Do I look like I date, Gallagher?”

“A date can be whatever we want it to be, Milkovich. I’m easy.”

“Yeah, I bet you are.”

“Okay,” Tony interrupted, coming back into view. “Get the hell outta here. You wanna bang, do it indoors somewhere, or I’ll have to arrest you for public indecency or worse. And Milkovich… if I find any evidence of what I’m sure you know I’m talking about, I’ll be paying your ass a visit real soon.”

Mickey let the eyeroll loose then, withholding a flip of his middle finger, and deadpanning instead, “Don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, officer.”

Tony sighed loudly. “Whatever.”

“Thanks, Tony!” Ian cried at his retreating back.

“You always kiss cop ass like that? Cuz that’s not the way to get into my pants, Red.”

Ian just grinned, finally pulling his body away as he looked around. “You gonna follow me home or what?”

Mickey wanted to tell him to go fuck himself and swagger away like a badass. But was he not a thirsty man being propositioned by a hot guy who just randomly saved his ass from a trip to the slammer?

He at least feigned protest, huffing and puffing as he kicked at the dirt. “Goddamn it, Gallagher, you drive a hard bargain.”

Ian’s face lit up like a Christmas tree, as Mickey added, “Lead the way, weirdo.”

#ian x mickey #fanfic #gallavich #fanfiction #asks #answers

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straymackerel · 4 years

Note

idk if your requests are open but if they’re not then feel free to ignore this. 😅 id like to request an imagine with dazai having a long, deep conversation with his new co-worker who happens to be a former member of the port mafia but she left for obvious reasons and only fukuzawa knows for now but ofc dazai being dazai, he’s sharp af so he decided to talk to her bc one, he understands her and second he developed feelings for her shortly after she joined ada. thanks in advance! 🥰

➽─{done! they were actually closed, but this was such a fun request i made it 2k long (✿´ ꒳ ` )}─❥

You often wonder if it was something you said.

Ever since you joined the Armed Detective Agency, all of your new coworkers have been nothing short of friendly and accommodating. All of them––except for the bandaged mystery who can’t quite take his eyes off of you.

At first you thought it was just your imagination. When he answered your questions dismissively, you thought maybe he didn’t have a way with words. When he bailed on group trips to Café Uzumaki––but only when you were going too––you brushed it off as a coincidence. And when you first ‘caught’ him fixated on you, looking you square in the face from his own desk, you hoped he was actually looking at something above your head or next to you.

After all, in the Port Mafia, you always felt as if you were being watched, precisely because you were being watched. Your every move was silently documented, your behavior acutely observed within a larger culture of distrust and suspicion. You wondered if maybe you carried that instinctive unease with you to your new day job. (The only proper day job you’ve ever held.)

But there was no need for deft maneuvers to realize that this intimidating brunette was, indeed, staring you down in silence. He has no intention of hiding it; he’s openly tracking your movements, peering into your essence. And the most unnerving part of all: he’s smirking half of the time. If you didn’t know any better, you would confront him the first chance you got; but your situation is precarious, delicate. You have no business drawing attention to yourself, a former member of the Port Mafia. Sure, the President is already aware of your circumstances, but the Mafia has engrained the virtues of secrecy into you. You hope to keep your past on the down low.

Besides, there’s something off about this brown-haired detective. Something you realized at the beginning of your employment, way before he started staring into your soul. Something you hope you’re wrong about.

So you wait it out, anxiously. Drained by the presence of your colleagues, you find yourself in Café Uzumaki alone one slow-moving afternoon. The paperwork was piling up, the tension in the air almost tangible as Dazai declined yet another offer to do actual field-work with the others in favor of keeping tabs on you (unbeknownst to anyone else). You’d left the office at your earliest convenience, hoping to relax in the corner with your favorite beverage.

It is all you can do to keep from spewing the profane as he invites himself to your table, waltzing in without a care in the world.

You’re trapped.

Ordering himself a double shot espresso, your coworker ignores your apparent apprehension as he gets comfy in his booth seat. Downing his drink while you’ve barely touched yours, he glances behind him to check out the waitstaff. No words are exchanged until the baristas are out of earshot.

“Well, you certainly seem to have a vested interest in me,” you say in the most nonchalant manner manageable––nervous because of his constant surveillance, but also because he’s quite handsome for a borderline stalker.

“You can drop the tight-lipped smile,” Dazai replies, eyes darkened.

You lower your voice, hackles raised. “How much do you know?”

“I suppose it’s all speculation, but my hunches are rarely wrong. You chose to work at a detective agency after all.” Though he’s avoided your question, the look on his face tells you everything you need to know. Eyes narrowed, the corners of his mouth upturned, he most definitely has your former occupation pegged.

“What gave it away?” is the only thing you can think to say.

“Are you sure you want to know?”

“Perhaps it will aid me in playing detective,” you quip. He chuckles dryly.

“Oh, where to start. That concealed weapon you carry––it’s not issued by the Agency. Though its outline is comparable to our standard Beretta 92FS Inox sidearm, there are some subtle differences, even when it’s tucked away and wrapped in cloth.” You raise your eyebrows, surprised that anyone would notice.

“The way you move soundlessly and seamlessly,” he continues, not bothering to pause. “It’s obviously second nature. You hardly make a sound if you can help it. And then there’s your understanding of the underworld, even though you try to hide it. You obviously know much more than you let on; your knowledge is too convenient. You claim to know just the perfect tidbit or two for a case, having overheard a street vendor or a barkeep, but the expression on your face is all too telling of a certain sense of pride. Such a seemingly mild-mannered sweetheart as yourself. Did you know that when you flinch at violence, you always react a hair slower than everyone else, as if you’re simply following suit? Also––”

“Okay, OK, I get it,” you say, defeated. “So that’s the reason why you’re leering at me every day? To add to this never-ending list of yours?”

“Well...” Dazai’s voice trails off. His features relax for the briefest moment, more alarming than reassuring to you. And then that nagging thought resurfaces. That is, the very first thing that came to mind when you were first introduced to him. Again: something you hope you’re wrong about.

“You’re quite suspicious yourself,” you interject. “Let alone your little stalker habit... you have the same name as him.” The corners of his eyes crease.

“That’s an odd way of putting it,” he says with a hint of mirth in his voice, and not a smidgen of denial. Fuck.

Logic dictates that you should be scared shitless right now, sitting across from one of the most dangerous men in Mafia history. Logic dictates that you should’ve used more covert methods of uncovering his past. Straightening up, you tell yourself not to think about it.

“Well, I was under the impression that Dazai Osamu was only a legend and nothing more. I mean, a teenage orphan prodigy who threw their life as a Mafia exec away, only to disappear forever? Sounds like bullshit,” you state with as much cool-headedness as you can muster.

“I take that personally!” he gasps, twisting his arms every which way in mock offense, as if to shield himself from your harsh commentary.

“You didn’t consider changing your name?”

“Not even once.” He winks, to which your heart may or may not skip a beat. Are you scared, or oddly enamored?

You push your cup along your side of the table. “How come you turned tail too? You had the status to do literally anything you wanted.” He brushes it off.

“What is this, my interview? The last time I checked, you were the one on trial,” he says, waving his hand like he’s batting your assertion out of the air.

“I’m on trial?” you ask, the cup coming to a stop. “Do the others have suspicions as well?”

“Oh no, nothing in particular to go on. Though Ranpo most definitely has you figured out,” he says, to which you startle. “...but he couldn’t care less, so don’t worry.” You unintentionally sigh relief as he continues: “My colleagues have this peculiar way of testing their new recruits. We call it an ‘entrance exam.’ And before you ask, I’m not responsible for administering yours, but I might be able to push you in the right direction.”

“Any hints?”

He shakes his head, “Not really. No general tips or tricks. I need some more information,” he says, leaning in a bit. “So tell me about yourself. Why leave the Mafia for the ADA?”

You press your lips together, realizing he’s asking you the very same question he himself dodged moments ago. “I needed a change of atmosphere. And scenery. I wasn’t quite taken up with the constant death threats and daily bloodshed.”

“Oh, death threats? And bloodshed? I don’t suppose you were on the receiving end?” Dazai asks, one eyebrow cocked.

You laugh a restrained laugh, nodding. “I wasn’t. But those kinds of tactics... they aren’t in my nature. Everything about that job was suffocating, and I just couldn’t do it anymore.” Dazai looks at you thoughtfully.

“It’s interesting, though. You carry your past line of work in all of your mannerisms. Any chance you were born into it?”

You nod again, “Not my choice.”

“What a coincidence.” He flashes a toothy smile, silence thickening the air. You scramble to break it, eager to talk about something else.

“...So? Any advice for my test?”

“I’d be a little more forthcoming if only you’d tell me the full truth,” Dazai responds, and your face falls.

“What do you mean?” Your strained voice comes out meeker than you’d like, and it’s Dazai’s turn to sigh. He leans back into his booth seat, as if a little distance might solve your unease.

“I lost someone. The best friend I’ve ever had. He told me I wouldn’t find what I was looking for in the Mafia, so here I am. And I’m pretty sure you have someone like that too.” How does he know? Why is he telling you this? Your hands––they’re clammy. You turn your gaze to your lap, realizing that he’d dismantle anything but the truth. There are no options but one.

“It was... a family member.” More silence. Is your nose getting red? You hope your nose isn’t getting red.

“The Mafia threatened them?” he prods.

“They were collateral,” you say slowly. You hadn’t expected to talk about them today. You hadn’t expected any of this from a coworker who kept you at several arms’ lengths for days. Another coworker might respond “that’s horrible,” or “I’m sorry for your loss,” but not Dazai.

“Dazai, do you ever wonder if it’s our fault they got hurt?”

“No,” he replies immediately. Then he hesitates. “I mean, yes, and for a very long time, but not anymore. Evil will do evil; if not to our loved ones, then to someone else.”

He’s right. Of course he’s right.

“But does it make it any easier?” You peer at him, hopeful, and he dismisses your expectations with a quick shake of the head. “Right.” Pause.

“But you’ve come to the right place. Unlike the Mafia, this is an environment where you can heal. Sometimes the wounds reopen,” he says, “but I promise you that your feelings will go towards something productive.” You swallow, blinking back would-be teardrops. The salty marinade seeps back into you.

Then, under your breath: “Okay.” “Thank you.”

“Of course. I could talk about this all day.” The tightness in your throat dissipates, the water in your eyes no longer threatening to spill.

“So, the entrance exam? I’ve told you everything now,” you pry. He thrums his fingers, amused.

“Oh, that won’t be necessary. I figured pretty early on that you would be okay. You’re gonna pass just fine without my help––I only wanted to get to know my new coworker better.” His fingers stop as he gauges your response.

“Wha–?” This guy! He played you, straight to the verge of tears..! Shoulder tense, you jump to your feet.

“Sorry to deceive you. I’ll see you upstairs, then.” Jeez, the bandaged bastard’s already heading out!

“Wait!” Cheeks flushed, you’re unsure why you’re calling out to him, but it makes him stops in his tracks.

“...Yes?”

“...You’re not gonna tell anyone, right?”

“I’ll think about it.” Dazai’s coy voice is all but reassuring.

“No, seriously,” you plead, eyes wide. “I really need this. God forbid someone else prompts a retelling of my life story.” He turns to face you.

“Then let’s make a deal.”

“What kind of deal?”

He steps towards you, leaning in to whisper in your ear: “Meet me in front of this building tomorrow at 10 PM. There’s a restaurant I want to take you.” You feel your mouth open, then close by itself.

This is it. This is why he can’t look away from you. If he was only observing you, he could, would do it without being so obvious. You’re sure of it now. You replay each once-menacing occurrence of eye contact from the past few days in your head, and you notice something new. Hunger? Want? Even greed? You can see it in his eyes right now. Those eyes, they threaten to dance around, maybe even travel a bit... lower.

(You jest yourself. ‘Once-menacing?’ He’s still menace, still a danger.) He turns away, heading for the door again, not waiting for a response:

“Don’t be late.”

A chill runs up your spine. It’s a mix of fear, and bitterness, and panic, but most of all...

A growing anticipation.

#Dazai Osamu #bsd fanfic #bsd fic #dazai fic #dazai imagine #bsd x reader #bsd oneshot #dazai oneshot #armed detective agency #dazai fanfiction

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fizzingwizard · 4 years

Text

Frantically playing catch up because I’m gone the rest of the weekend so here’s day 6 after all! Blatantly Takari. This one surprised me by how easy it was to write so it got a bit longer than the others. I’m sure there are many typos, please overlook. Also has two quotes, one in the text and one at the end, from my long-time favorite poet, Walt Whitman. BTW, I don’t really get everything that went down with Ordinemon, but I did my best to fit canon.

One month post-Bokura no Mirai, Takeru and Hikari go on a date and Hikari encounters something unexpected, which leads to a very overdue conversation with her brother.

Warning - there’s mention of the death of sick baby. It’s not huge but it matters to the story. I don’t want to shock anyone.

---

Tri week day 6 - Journeys - Death of a Comet

"How are you?" Takeru asked, watching her carefully.

Hikari only smiled and pretended not to notice. "I thought we'd known each other long enough to skip the niceties, Takeru-kun," she quipped. It was a far cry from her old playfulness, she knew, but she also knew he wasn't going to call her out for it it just yet.

"Oh, I'm sorry." Takeru rolled his eyes with an exaggerated, put-upon sigh. "I didn't realize relationship length was proportionate to amount of shits given."

"It is, at least when the last time we talked was an hour ago over text."

"Duly noted."

"Let's go?"

He nodded. He was wearing another hat she'd never seen before, a dark blue beret that looked about to tip off the side of his head with a light breeze. She wondered if he went out and bought a new hat each time before they went out together. Like how a girl shouldn't be caught in the same outfit twice. He probably did. That was Takashi Takeru, vain as fuck. But there was also something kind of adorable about it.

They'd "officially" been dating for a couple weeks, and Hikari wasn't sure yet how she felt about it. Of course, she'd agreed to it when he asked her. What else could she do? They'd been flirting and toying with each other off and on for years, in a childish way, but she couldn't pretend she didn't know full well what she was doing. She'd even sometimes daydreamed about what dating him would be like. Mostly she imagined it would be a lot of sitting in the bleachers at his basketball games.

She didn't consider Takeru the most mature of the boys in their year, but he wasn't as bad as some. Plus, they'd been through a lot together, so she knew what he was made of. And he really liked her. And she liked him. It seemed unavoidable. She'd said yes because she had no good reason for saying no.

It still felt a bit weird when he reached to hold her hand. Two weeks in, and they had yet to kiss. For the most part, it felt like nothing much had changed between them, except that Takeru no longer tried to hide his excitement when she was near. That was... flattering. And she had no qualms with taking it slow either.

They got on the Yurikamome train and stood together by a window, watching the Odaiba waterfront speed by as they traveled over the Rainbow Bridge. The sky was blue and cloudless. It was the kind of weather Tailmon loved, but Hikari had already talked to her about why she sometimes couldn't come along when she and Takeru went on an "outing." Tailmon had blinked lazily and said that was alright, and given her claws a long, purposeful lick. ”But if he ever hurts you, don't you dare hide it from me.”

Hikari promised, but thought the reverse scenario was far more likely.

Takeru had a more difficult time explaining it to Patamon, she'd heard. Supposedly, after Takeru had given his spiel about how growing up meant needing more time to oneself, Patamon had blurted out, "Are you going to kiss Hikari!? You've got to kiss her, Takeru!" loudly enough that some boys at school had overheard, and as a result everyone knew that they were an item before they'd even been out on a single date.

Such was life with Digimon.

"You know where it is, right?" Hikari asked as they got off the train.

"Yeah, I've come here with my mom for other exhibits," Takeru said, leading her out the exit and onto a busy street. "Mom's really into modern art. We've gone to see Kusama Yayoi's sculptures on Naoshima like four times. I'm pretty sure she goes whenever she breaks up with a boyfriend."

Hikari laughed. "Wait, really?"

"Well, she never introduces them to me, but I can tell when she's seeing someone. She touches up her roots more often."

The art exhibit they were going to see was some sort of interactive light show. Hikari had seen pictures online and thought it looked beautiful. Her father was of the opinion that they only ever put the best pictures on the website, and the rest of the exhibit was probably in some big, white-walled room that smelled like someone had microwaved fish for lunch. Her mom had been more enthusiastic, and added that, if the art did turn out to be a dud, it was as good an excuse as any to sneak off somewhere quiet with her Romeo and, you know, romance him.

Hikari was definitely not going to do that.

She'd timed things with care. Taichi had morning soccer practice until ten. After that he'd come home for lunch. The exhibit opened at eleven, but her concerns about there being a line fell on deaf ears, since Takeru claimed he knew this museum and it was never crowded. (Which didn't do much to mitigate her concerns about the exhibit being any good.) So the earliest she could convince him to catch the train was ten fifteen. So if she left right at ten and headed directly to the station, she ought to be able to miss her brother coming home completely.

It felt like fate was laughing in her face when she ran into him on her way out.

Her shock was mirrored on his face as they both stood in the doorway, staring at each other as if unable to understand why their biological sibling would be there, in their childhood home.

Taichi spoke first, if speech it could be called. "Uh," he said.

"Oniichan," she stammered back, "why - how - you got home fast."

"Yeah... Yamato was having band practice and he gave me a ride on the scooter," Taichi replied.

Hikari kept her mouth shut. Had Yamato orchestrated this? Was Takeru in on it? She knew it wasn't likely in either case, but her hackles were raised. "Oh," she said.

They continued to stand in the doorway. This was, Hikari reflected, the longest conversation they'd managed to keep going in almost a month.

"You... going somewhere?" Taichi asked after a while, tilting his head and looking up and down.

"Museum. With Takeru-kun."

"Oh. Well, have fun."

"Thanks."

As if suddenly realizing he was blocking the exit, Taichi stepped to the side, and Hikari barely restrained herself from running down the hall. The damage was done, though. The minute the elevator door closed, the tears started leaking down her face. Dammit. She'd been so careful.

She'd had to stop off at a nearby convenience store to hide in the restroom. She splashed her face and dabbed her eyes with her hand towel until they were less red, until the evidence of the havoc wreaked just by seeing her brother was hidden under a fresh layer of make-up. She never even wore make-up much before - after all, she was fourteen and blessed with good skin. Dating Takeru had been a convenient excuse to explain to her mom why she suddenly needed extra allowance for concealer, despite having no acne.

She wound up ten minutes late meeting Takeru and still, he could tell right away that something was wrong. She'd managed to deflect, but...

Hikari had never been any good at lying, even to herself. But she was surprised by her own cruelty, dating Takeru because she needed the distraction, an excuse to be anywhere but home. His feelings for her were genuine. She was a monster.

"Hikari-chan?" Takeru gave her a nudge that jolted her into the present. There was, indeed, no line to get in at the art show, and Takeru was trying to hand her a ticket. "Are you sure you're feeling okay?"

She nodded resolutely. "Yeah, of course."

"It's just, you're being kind of quiet."

"Well, sorry but I'm not a professional entertainer."

He didn't reply to that barb. Hikari felt even more miserable. If only Yamato's stupid motor scooter had broken down on the road...

They handed in their tickets and went through a pair of double doors, into a wide room lit by myriad streamers of blue and purple lights wafting on the air like strange, hypnotic jellyfish. No pictures were allowed, so Hikari kept her camera stowed, but she couldn't bring herself to regret it. Any pictures she tried to take while in such a stormy mood were bound to end up in the trash bin anyway.

They followed the path laid out through fiber-optic tallgrass in silence. Takeru was still gripping her hand, even though her own hung like a dead fish. The next section was a blacklight room with an even more obvious sci-fi vibe, bright cables painted brilliant colors in the impression of sea snakes creating circuitous archs on the walls and ceiling. The heat-sensor flooring lit under their feet as they walked.

Takeru leaned towards her, the blacklight setting his white T-shirt aglow. "This is like some disco-era alien planet," he joked, offering her the olive branch.

Well, she owed it to him not to let this date be a total disaster. "The room before reminded me of the tree in Avatar," she said.

"I bet the next one's gonna be something from Fifth Element."

"No way."

"Could be."

"Completely different aesthetic."

"It's gonna be that giant McDonald's sign made of stained glass. Wait and see."

It wasn't, of course. Takeru continued to insist they'd see the sign in the next room, and the next, until they reached the end of the exhibit, where he finally admitted defeat. At least room four had clearly been lifted from Finding Nemo, he said.

The final room was, in fact, an open space with white walls, but Hikari didn't notice any stomach-turning smells. A combination of 2- and 3D works of art were mounted around the room, and they took their time browsing, continuing to try to outwit each other with their increasingly outlandish, and even somewhat insulting, art critiques. It was a lovely show, Hikari thought. If she'd come to see it in a better frame of mind, she would be raving just now. But though she'd recovered her ability to match Takeru quip for quip, she still felt heavy with gloom. Geez, why did he want to date a rain cloud like her?

"Want to go for lunch?" Takeru asked as they took in the last piece of art, an abstract mosaic made of vibrant, blinking lights laid into a glass frame on a large tabletop. Hikari circled it slowly, watching lights ripple across the frame, stitching the full picture together bit by bit.

"Sure."

"There's a cafe my mom and I go to nearby. It does amazing pancakes."

"Sounds good," she said vaguely, her brow creasing in thought. She took a step back, gazing at the table from what she'd discovered was meant to be the foot, where you could see the picture in full if you craned your neck just so.

It wasn't abstract art. It was Ordinemon.

Her whole body stiffened.

"The orange marmalade pancakes are my favorite - you listening?" With a confused look, Takeru glanced from her unchanging expression to the table. His eyes went wide. "... Let's leave, Hikari-chan."

He gave her arm a tug. She didn't budge.

"Hikari-chan, there's no need to stay here. Come on."

"Why," she said. It came out in a harsh whisper, like a frozen wind. "Why would someone make art of... that."

Takeru didn't answer for a minute. "Because... they saw it," he said after a while. His grip on her arm tightened, as if expecting her to try to break away. "So they want to express what they saw."

"It's an abomination," she choked out. Humiliating tears welled up in her eyes.

Takeru seemed to hesitate. Then he stepped back, and his arms circled round her shoulders, locking her in a tight hug from behind. The warmth of his body flowed into her ice cold one, solid, real. Her mind flashed to another day, with a roiling sky black as night, when she'd come to in an unfamiliar bed with Takeru at her side and known, with a rush of deadly certainty, that she'd destroyed everything she ever cared about.

Her brother. Her beloved partner. Her friends.

By her own will.

She didn't know what she'd done. Or how. That almost made it worse, the not knowing. Her heart broke, watching her brother disappear in the earthquake. That was all. Her heart broke and she... stopped. And when she started again -

It was too late.

Tailmon had told her she didn't regret the fusion with Meicrackmon, that she'd been able to hold poor Meicoomon together, just a little longer. There was nothing for Hikari to regret, she said. Powers beyond her control. Yggrasil and Homeostasis felt they could wage their little war and pick their champions, and dispose of them when they felt like it. No sooner had she shaken off Homeostasis's hold over her that Ordinemon happened.

Hikari hated that once upon a time, she'd believed Homeostasis was a benevolent presence. That she'd willingly let her into her mind.

Now she didn't know what to believe.

Rage flared, hot as ice. Her whole world, none of it made sense anymore. She was adrift, she was unmoored, there was no safe harbor, not even in the brother who she loved like no one else. He could make a choice like that, to kill Meicoomon, to kill their friend's irreplaceable partner. The one person who deserved the most to be saved. And she'd helped, because that was what you did, on a team, at least, if you couldn't come up with a better plan yourself.

She realized she was shaking. Takeru only held her tighter, his nose buried in the crook of her neck.

"Hikari-chan," he said, and he sounded - terrified. "What if - what if it's not, though. What if it's not an abomination. What if..."

"How can you say that," she hissed frostily.

"I mean - I'm not saying it was good. I'm not saying I don't wish none of this had happened. But - I think - Ordinemon, she was created from despair, yours and Meicoomon's. She was used, and it tortured her. We freed her from that. She would have destroyed everything, even though it's not what she wanted, and she was in so much pain -"

"Stop!" Hikari yelled, pushing away from him. There was enough strength behind her need to get away and he was not expecting it, so he toppled to the floor while she raced out the exit. She kept running, hardly aware of dodging people on the sidewalk, and ran until she found herself in a small park with nothing but a two-seater swing set and metal slide. She sank into one of the swings and dropped her head in her arms. And cried.

Cried for Meiko, for Meicoomon. Cried for the future they would never have.

Cried for her brother, who had changed, and she understood why, but she still missed the way he used to be. Her guiding star.

Cried for herself, a lost comet streaking through an unfamiliar galaxy, wondering if she would vaporize shooting too close to an alien sun, or if she'd putter out slowly until she was nothing but lifeless, crumbling stone.

Her phone buzzed in her purse - Takeru, surely, trying to find her. On top of everything else, she'd ditched the boy she was stringing along, who cared about her, and who had tried so hard to let her know she wasn't alone. She didn't deserve Takeru. She would break up with him - she had to. He should be with someone stronger than her, who wasn't going to fall apart at the seams just from a silly piece of art at a museum gallery.

After a while the sobs let up enough that she could see without tears clouding her vision, and she figured she should at least let him know she was okay. She pulled out her phone and scrolled through her messages.

12:35: Takaishi Takeru: i'm so sorry. i didn't mean to upset you.

12:35: Takaishi Takeru: where did you go? someone said you ran past the 7-11 but I have no idea where you went from there

12:37: Takaishi Takeru: please tell me where you are. If you don't want me to come, I won't. I can call someone if you want.

12:38: Takaishi Takeru: I just want to know you're okay

12:40: Takaishi Takeru: hikari-chan PLEASE respond

12:45: Takaishi Takeru: I asked at the 7-11 but they said they didn't see you. am walking around aimlessly now. no idea where to look.

12:48: Takaishi Takeru: hikari-chan if you don't reply soon I'm gonna have to call Taichi-san

12:52: Takaishi Takeru: wound up back at the train station, if you want to meet me here.

12:55: Takaishi Takeru: if you don't respond in five minutes I'm calling Taichi-san, I mean it.

12:58: Takaishi Takeru: I love you, by the way. think I always have. thought you might want to know

Fresh tears pricked her eyes. Leave it to Takeru. How could he pick now to spring that on her?

She should be happy. She wanted to be happy.

13:02: Me: I'm okay. I'm sorry. Go home. I'll talk to you soon.

Her finger hovered uncertainly over the keypad. She typed:

The real abomination is me.

Then she deleted it, and pressed Send.

---

Little though she wanted to go home, Hikari didn't have an excuse for staying out past dinner. She stayed in the little park until it started to get chilly. A couple times, the occasional grandma stopped to ask if she was alright, but she smiled and waved away their concerns. Finally, when twilight fell over the park in a gossamer curtain, she stood and stretched out the kinks in her back before heading back to the station. It felt like she'd been out much longer than a few hours. She thought briefly of asking a friend if she could spend the night, but didn't like the idea of needing to pretend to be peppy and cheerful.

On the ride back, she did a search on the artist who'd made the Ordinemon mosaic. Why, she had no idea. Some self-hating side that wanted her to hurt, she guessed.

The artist's name was Matsuyama Risa, a Tokyo-based sculptor, whose partnership with Fujii Fiber-optics had given birth to the displays they'd seen today. Hikari let her eyes skim the article, categorically uninterested in the number of lights used or how they were installed. What she wanted to know appeared like magic, tacked on at the very end of the article.

Art of Nippon Now: The last room in the showcase features a magical light-up mosaic of a subject that could be disconcerting for some viewers. What led you to recreate the monster that much of Tokyo watched terrorize the sky last month?

Matsuyama: I put that piece together in a feverish rush. Most of these installations took weeks to install, but I insisted on this one, even though it was such short notice. I had to have it. I heard that many people never saw more of her than her massive wings, but I happened to have a very clear view at the time. It made a huge impression on me.

ANN: You said her?

Matsuyama: It was a she. Or, perhaps it's better to say she might not have a gender, but she deserves better than the pronouns we use for inanimate objects, things without personality.

ANN: Are you saying this monster was a person?

Matsuyama: I don't know if you heard her cries, but they were deafening. They reminded me of how my son wailed in the night when he was first born. We didn't know why he was so colicky. Nothing we did calmed him. I was so afraid that he wasn't getting enough sleep. It turned out he was very sick and we just didn't know. The illness was hidden. We spent many nights in the ICU, holding out hope that he would be alright. I remember thinking, if he wasn't, it would destroy our marriage.

ANN: That sounds like a terrible experience.

Matsuyama: When our son died, it was terrible, but it also came as a relief. At least we knew he was no longer suffering. I was depressed for months. I couldn't make any art. Every day I expected my husband to leave me. The first day I pulled myself together enough to sketch something, he said I should sketch our son sometime.

ANN: So your husband didn't leave?

Matsuyama: No. He stayed by my side. When I cried that he deserved a woman who could make him happy, who would give him healthy babies, he told me I was the strongest woman he knew, and that I'd given him the best son in the world.

ANN: Wow - would that we all meet men like that.

Matsuyama: And women. That's why, although the creature that appeared over Tokyo was very frightening to look at, when I heard her cries all I heard was suffering. I thought, that is a real creature, who wants her pain to be understood. She represents something. Perhaps she was sent to show us the harm we do when we choose not to act to help others. She shouldn't be forgotten.

ANN: So you memorialized her in this mosaic?

Matsuyama: Yes. It was the right moment, even though I had no time. I wanted to recreate her likeness using lights. I set her into a table, because I felt that putting her on a wall would be too imposing, and viewers would only remember the fear she engendered. Lying down, it would seem as if she were in a coffin, finally laid to rest. But she's lit from within, and it's the light of life, desperately clinging on till the final moment, the same as any being with a soul.

ANN: Did you ever complete the sketch of your late son?

Matsuyama: No. I never did. But I think I will soon. I want to lay him to rest in my heart.

ANN: It's interesting that when you say 'lay to rest,' you seem to mean we should remember them.

Matsuyama: Our memories make us who we are. The past is always with us. My son, that creature, they are both part of my journey, as an artist of course, but also as a person in the world. You could say my son is the light of the world and that creature is the darkness, but I hold both light and dark in me, just by existing and being human.

ANN: You added a quote to the piece that said something of that nature.

Matsuyama: Yes, from a Walt Whitman poem, 'Song of Myself.' The quote reads: "I am not the poet of goodness only, I do not decline to be the poet of wickedness also."

ANN: Maybe Whitman never expected his poem to be used in this way.

Matsuyama: That's the nature of art. It is a journey in and of itself. It fluctuates and changes to nourish the times. I hope everyone who sees my art understands that they are on a journey as well, and everything they do creates the work of art called "the future."

ANN: Thank you for your time, Matsuyama-sensei.

---

Her brother was home, but her parents were not. The arrangement of shoes in the entryway said as much. Taichi was seated at the kitchen counter, eating a bowl of noodles and reading something. He looked up when the door opened and pushed his seat back.

"Hikari - you okay?" He peered at her, concerned. "Takeru didn't do something stupid, did he?"

So Takeru hadn't told her brother that she'd run off. Gratitude flooded through her. "No, of course not."

"Good." Taichi's hand rifled through his hair, the other planted on his hip, and he looked perplexed. "Then why do you look like you've been crying all day?"

Hikari walked inside and sank down on the couch. "Because I have been crying all day."

She could feel his hesitance as he wavered in the hall, trying to decide if he should press her for more. If that was still something he was allowed to do. She knew he would try. He wouldn't be Taichi if he didn't.

"You want to talk about it?" he asked, moving to sit on the arm of the couch, but he didn't relax, as if expecting her to tell him to leave her alone.

"No," she replied.

He nodded. "Okay." There was a pause. "You're sure Takeru didn't -"

"No, Oniichan."

"Okay, okay."

She sat there for a few minutes, staring blankly at the black TV screen. Soon Taichi slid off the arm into the seat beside her, allowing several inches of space between them. He didn't try to talk anymore. Didn't even get up to bring his bowl of noodles over, even though it was going to get cold.

Hikari tilted her head ever so slightly to peer at him. Dark circles ringed his eyes. She knew he hadn't been sleeping well. Something about his face looked more defined, less roundness to his jaw, starker cheekbones. Hadn't been eating much either, she guessed. It gave him an oddly grown up look. She would have to call him on losing weight from not taking care of himself, but that could wait for later. She was struck by how little he looked like their father. Everyone always said Hikari was the spitting image of her mom, so it seemed natural that Taichi should take after their dad, but though she searched she couldn't find many similarities. Taichi was just Taichi.

He gave a start when she leaned toward him and settled her head on his shoulder, but didn't say anything.

Hikari thought about many things.

How unbearable it was to feel helpless. How much she wanted everyone who cared about each other to be together, and for no one to suffer who didn't deserve it. How deeply she loved her friends. How easy it was fall apart.

Maybe all that meant was her worldview had been too delicate to begin with. A painting on a porcelain vase wouldn't stand the test of time unless handled with the best of care. The real world was too chaotic, too disordered. She could wrap her dream in newspaper, cover it in packing peanuts, tape it into a box marked "Fragile," and it would still end up in shards. She would try to put it together again, but the pieces were sharp, and she kept cutting herself on them.

She still wanted it. So, so much.

"You stay that way. You can hate me if you want," her brother had told her. Trying to put everything on his own shoulders, as usual.

"I will probably never forgive you," she'd said, and wouldn't let him. "But that's why I'll fight with you."

"Oniichan," She slipped off his shoulder, buried her face in his chest. She didn't know how she could still have more tears, but they darkened her brother's shirt as her hands hugged him tight. "I'll always fight with you."

Surprised, he didn't move for a moment, but then his arms wrapped around her the same way they always had, ever since she was small. His grip was sure, but not out of naivety. Yes, he'd lost his innocence. It wasn't coming back. But what grew in his place, she realized, was his choice. And she got the feeling he'd already decided.

"That's good to know," he murmured softly, lashes brushing her cheek, and she thought they might be wet as well. "Because I'm never going to stop fighting for you."

They held each other for a long time.

---

The next day, Hikari showed up at Takeru's door with flowers and a box of chocolates. He made a funny face, looking her over.

"Flowers and chocolates? Shouldn't this be reversed?"

"Didn't know you were such a traditionalist," she joked. "But I'll eat these myself if they hurt your manly pride."

A hesitant grin spread over his face. "To hell with convention. Those are my chocolates, keep your paws off them."

It was silly, and cliche, but this was her life. She could be as silly and cliche as she wanted. She pulled his shoulders down and kissed him. It was light and quick, but he still looked flustered when they parted.

"My mom's home," he said with an unmistakable note of regret.

Hikari only nodded. "Figured. Video games and chocolates?"

The grin unfurled for real. "Yeah, that would be great."

Nothing had ended. She hadn't gotten over anything. But she felt, for the first time, that now she could accept it. It was a piece of who she was, and it would be a piece of who she became. But just who that person would be, she intended to decide for herself. Even if her path got buried under mountains of broken shards of glass, that was just a part of being Yagami Hikari.

"Do I contradict myself? Very well, then I contradict myself, (I am large, I contain multitudes)."

#triweek2020 #takeru takaishi #hikari yagami #taichi yagami #takari #digimon adventure tri #fizz writes #digimon

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waterbearwaltz · 4 years

Text

Assassins AU wip

So I've been thinking a lot about Southern Raiders Katara, and what her character would be like if she'd been raised to indulge that darkness. And then the thought "Kataang AU but they're assassins" made me laugh out loud in a meeting, and now here we are. But I've written like 10k words and am somehow still at the beginning? How do people write long things? What and how is plot? Ugh. Whatever. Have a chapter.

Aang’s eyes skimmed the crowd of Fire Nation nobles moving like a single organism under the ostentatious chandelier. Ozai’s parties were always tense affairs, an enjoyable night as likely as a gruesome public execution, but this one was especially anxious. The guard was double what Aang had seen on previous evenings. They weren’t just stationed at the doors but milling about the crowd, weapons on their hips, daring anyone to step out of line. Another bomb had gone off near parliament that week, and according to Aang’s sources Ozai’s paranoia was calling the shots even more than usual. This function was an expression of that more than anything else, a flimsy excuse to gather the most wealthy and powerful of his citizens and flex his muscles. Remind them of the closeness of his watch, the price of treason.

Aang’s eyes skated over the dance floor and paused. The dancing at these was without fail the most stilted he’d ever seen. He understood that in the Fire Nation, dancing was mostly ceremonial, a way to show respect for their host, an expression of patriotism made at gunpoint. It was the most stiff and joyless part of these stiff and joyless evenings. But this time Aang’s eyes caught on something new.

She was swaying in a sheer, dark red dress that he could just see the outlines of her body through. Thick dark hair swept up into a fashionable loose pile on her head, a few tendrils brushing her dark shoulders. No one thing about her was particularly out of place, other than being of obvious water tribe descent, a relative rarity in the capitol. But everything together caught him. It was the sway of her hips, he decided. The way she moved as if a part of the music, rather than shifting awkwardly alongside it like the other dancers. A fighter, certainly, from the lean definition of her bare back and shoulders. Aang wondered if she was one of the guards Ozai had hidden amongst the crowd. That would be odd, he thought he had files on all of them. And a woman from such far flung colonies would be a highly unusual choice for a palace assassin.

Tsungi horns blared, announcing the entrance of the ruling family, and Aang snapped his attention to the door, frowning at the unusual lapse in focus. The musicians fell silent and an abrupt stillness settled over the crowd. Attendants entered first, followed by yet another unit of guards. Aang wondered dryly if Ozai had ever considered the difference between displaying strength and paranoid weakness. A little shiver went through him as Ozai’s children entered. In studying this family he’d encountered all manner of atrocities, but something about the princess in particular unsettled him. He’d had the chance to observe her in person a handful of times now. Ozai’s heir was haughty and beautiful as always, but as her eyes swept too near to him and he had to concentrate on not tensing visibly. The monks had taught him that every life contains the same precious spark of humanity, and he’d never had cause to doubt this before seeing Azula up close for the first time, looking into her eyes, and seeing absolutely nothing staring back at him.

Ozai finally entered with a few military leaders and Aang’s body ticked into higher alert. He took a deep, stabilizing breath. He was as prepared for this as he’d ever be. Tonight was the result of years of carefully maneuvering himself into the capital’s moneyed elite. Everything was in place, every edge case planned for. If there was ever a chance to remove the dictator for good, it was tonight. He was ready.

Katara’s eyes tracked the commanders up the steps to the dias. She felt the familiar heat under her skin as she finally sized up her target in person, taking advantage of the whole room’s focus on him to take a first and only long look.

Ozai was older than he appeared in the propaganda plastered across every city, every textbook, every yuan. Their Glorious Leader. Her lip curled in disgust but she smoothed it into a tepid smile. He had a spray of gray across his temples, a sharp jaw, and deep set eyes hung with dark circles. His posture was slightly askew, probably a shoulder injury. She thought he favored his left leg, but wasn’t close enough to be sure. His expression was tense and he muttered sporadically to the man on his left. He was wearing a military style jacket in a deep red, plush looking material. She could tell from the way it sat against him that he had body armor underneath.

It was strange to finally see him in person, the man she’d spent her whole life training to kill. The corner of her mouth quirked up. She’d never been so ready for anything in her life.

Her dance partner slipped an arm around her waist as the music started back up. “A drink?” he asked. She smiled up at him and nodded, letting him guide her to the bar. It had been embarrassingly easy to get invited to this. After a ten minute conversation with Kazin at the university library she had her in. She’d had several backup plans of course, every piece of intel said getting here would be the hardest part. She rolled her eyes. White Lotus leadership had always had a penchant for dramatics.

Katara leaned against the bar and smiled at Kazin, half listening to him dribbling on about his father’s mining operation and half scanning the room over his shoulder. If security was this insane in the rest of the palace she’d have to rework some of her plans. Idiot militants. What the hell was blowing up a building half a block from a dummy parliament supposed to accomplish? If she ever saw Jet again she’d wring his stupid neck.

“Kazin, my darling, I didn’t know you were back in the city!” An older woman pressed a kiss to her date’s cheek and shot her a curious look. Katara automatically slid her face into a blank and amiable mask.

“Yes, school started last week. Auntie Azina, this is Zaia, from the northern colonies. She’s studying medicine at the university.”

“The northern colonies, how...exotic” the woman finished, narrowing her eyes slightly. “I didn’t know they were admitting colonials now. How times have changed.” Katara let the blankness seep deeper into her, enveloping herself in it the way Master Iroh had taught her. A lie cannot be detected if you make it your truth. Sweet, simple Zaia smiled wider and grasped the woman’s hand a touch too enthusiastically.

“Oh, it’s a dream come true, getting to study in the capital! I’m just so lucky to have been chosen.”

“Don’t be modest. Zaia was the top student at her university.” Kazin puffed up magnanimously. “Why wouldn’t we want the best minds of the colonies enriching our great civilization?”

“Hmm,” Azina had already lost interest in Katara and was scanning the room. “Ah! Ulan!”

A man in his 50s approached their group, kissing Azina lightly on the cheek. “This is my nephew, Zura’s son. Ulan was a dear friend of your father’s. Runs our shipping in the greater kingdom.” Kazin and Ulan exchanged pleasantries, Katara blissfully forgotten. Her attention caught on the quiet young man beside Ulan. She kept her eyes on the conversation, sizing up the newcomer in her periphery.

He was tall and lean, with dark hair shorn close to his scalp, sharp, elegant bone structure, and overly kind eyes that got her hackles up. She knew how to make her eyes kind too, and what sort of situations she did so in. A little too young and a little too handsome to sit right with her as a foreign shipping mogul. Maybe a rich kid working a cushy job for daddy’s company? There were certainly plenty of those in this city. He kept his eyes on the conversation as well, but something about his stance made her uneasy. The way he held himself felt...practiced. Maybe undercover security detail? No, that wasn’t right either. He wasn’t native Fire Nation, he couldn’t possibly work in the palace.

“Ah, how rude of me! This is my emissary from New Ozai City, Azan” Ulan said, gesturing to the young man. Cushy job with daddy after all. Kazin shook his hand as his Aunt flicked her eyes to the ceiling and pressed her lips into a thin line. Guess she didn’t like former colonials any more than current ones. A guard pressed close as he walked past the bar and Karara took a casual sip from her drink, slipping her arm through Kazin’s and angling her body slightly to keep him in view as he passed.

“And who is this lovely thing you have here.” Ulan drew closer than necessary and grinned down at her. He smelled like stale rice wine and the spicy fermented onions sitting in little bowls along the bar. Katara had a strong stomach, but it got a run for its money when he leaned in to kiss her cheek. When Kazin spoke up to introduce her she smiled and ducked her head as if overwhelmed by the attention rather than the smell.

“Charmed,” came a soft, deep voice on her left. Cushy Job Boy gave her a small bow and met her eyes directly, holding her gaze intently until she looked away. She really didn’t like that. She returned the bow with a warm smile and turned her attention back to her date.

“Another dance, Kazin?”

“If you insist, darling” he answered indulgently, as though speaking to a child. He steered her back to the dance floor, launching into a lecture on different types of mineral extractants as she noted the guards rotating their shifts around her.

When she saw the first stirrings of the next shift change, she excused herself to the restroom. Kazin barely acknowledged her, deep in conversation with an old general about iron ore. She couldn’t have dreamed up a better mark if she tried.

She’d spent weeks memorizing the palace layout and slipped quickly up a flight of stairs, down a hall, down two more flights, and into a servant’s wetroom near the back of the building. She swung herself up to a vent near the corner of the ceiling, bracing a foot against one wall and her shoulder against the other, and got to work on the screws holding the grate in place. Her ears pricked for the sound of footsteps, her hands made quick work of it with a tool from the small leather satchel that had been pressed between her breasts all night. When the last screw was loose, she dropped back to the floor, pulled her dress over her head, bundled it tightly around her waist, and swung herself smoothly into the air duct, pulling it shut behind her.

The vent was slightly smaller than she’d expected, and it was slow work making her way through. That was fine, she’d left herself plenty of time. The party hadn’t even begun to break up yet.

Much of the journey was directly up, and she inched one foot, then the other, then her back up the metal plates of the ventilation system. It wasn’t particularly taxing; she was in excellent shape and had practiced this a thousand times over the last few months. It would have been boring if not for the thrill of being so close to her target. She’d hunted men before, but it had always felt like preparation for this. None of them were half as thrilling, though she’d thought Yon Rha would have been. It should have been sweet to end the life of the man who had, in every way that counted, ended hers. But for some reason it wasn’t. Maybe he ruined it by begging. She’d been hoping for a good fight.

When she reached the top floor, she pulled herself into a smaller, auxiliary vent and made her way to Ozai’s chamber. It was even more important to be utterly silent now, as she could clearly hear the movements and conversations of the servants below her. Perspiration beaded on her skin as she moved, creeping like a crab in her thin pants and cropped undershirt. Finally, she peered through one of the grates and saw the interior of Ozai’s private chambers. She stretched out carefully so that her limbs wouldn’t fall asleep and settled in to wait.

Aang watched Ozai get drunker than usual before retiring from the ballroom. That might make his job easier. When the first waves of people began heading for the exits, he carefully lost Ulan and headed to meet his contact in a half-hidden alcove in the inner hall. Ishran was already there, a slight man with a sheen of sweat on his balding head and a great deal of tension in his shoulders. This was no trained agent. Not for the first time, Aang wondered what had made this man decide to risk so much. It wasn’t the sort of thing one asked.

Ishran gave Aang a curt nod and pressed his fingers into the wall behind him. A servant’s door swung open and they disappeared through it.

“There will be a three minute gap between guard shifts outside his quarters. I hope that is enough, it’s all I could manage.” Despite his shaky appearance, Ishran’s voice was sharp and even as they climbed the windowless staircase. Aang was impressed he’d been able to pull that off. He was assuming he’d have to operate in complete silence.

“That’s more than enough. You’ve outdone yourself.”

A soft hmph was his only response. After several minutes they came to a stop.

“I’ll make sure he’s asleep, then wave you through.” Aang nodded, Ishran was the only one of them who could possibly excuse his appearance if Ozai was awake.

Ishran squinted at Aang for a moment, before turning to the large, stone door.

When Ozai finally shuffled in, sweating and stinking of liquor. Katara wrinkled her nose. A drunk target was usually too easy to be fun, but for him she’d make an exception. She spent the first half hour Ozai was asleep going over the layout. A large, canopied bed dominated the majority of the chamber. Gold and red tapestries adorned the walls, embroidered with dragon-dense battle scenes, and an ornate desk sat between the bed and the balcony.

When Ozai had been still for half an hour or so, Katara lowered herself out feet first, dangling for a moment before dropping to the floor without so much as a whisper of fabric to give her away. She felt the adrenaline rise in her. She let it make her stronger, clearer.

Katara crept to the bed. Ozai was already on his stomach. How helpful. She slipped the garrote from her shirt and in a swift, clean motion, had him pinned. Her hands tightened the cord around his throat at the same moment her legs clamped his arms to his body and her ankles locked around his chest. He jerked in her grasp and opened his mouth, but nothing came out. She’d placed the thin, woven wire with surgical precision, blocking not just air and blood, but preventing his throat from sliding into a position that could produce sound. He reared back against her and her back slammed into the wall with more force than she expected, his strength apparently untempered by age or alcohol. The wind was knocked from her, but her hold on him stayed true. He stumbled forward and slammed back again, this time catching her against the edge of the desk. A sharp snap like a whip being cracked split through the silent chamber. She gritted her teeth, pouring all her focus into her hold on him. The second time she hit the desk the snap was more of a wet crunch, and even through the haze of adrenaline she felt pain shattering down her side. He reared forward and thrashed again, but the movements were disorganized now, and she could tell he was losing consciousness. He fell to his knees and was just tipping forward as a soft creak snapped her head to a tapestry hanging on the far wall.

She was on him as soon as his hand slipped out to draw the fabric back from the hidden door. She took hold of the wrist and with a smooth pivot, pulled the intruder forward and swung around to slam her elbow into his windpipe. The last thing she needed was him calling for help. Still holding the wrist, she gave it a sharp twist, snapping it and getting a sharp rasp out of the man’s crushed throat as he doubled over in pain. A knee to the face and he was down. She was just turning back to Ozai’s prone form when a voice hissed from the darkness behind the tapestry..

Aang’s eyes darted from Ishran crumpled on the floor to the water tribe girl above him to Ozai’s empty bed. He was moving before he’d finished taking in the scene, not wanting to get pinned down in the narrow staircase.

“You,” she snarled as he lunged forward, putting his body between her and the servant on the floor. She dropped into a low stance and he swung down, hoping to sweep her legs out from under her. She was much smaller than him, he might be able to end this quickly. The chamber’s doors were shut, but she must have a way to signal the other guards.

She leapt easily over his attack and struck out with her heel as she fell. He caught it-- barely-- and shoved her hard. She flew back a few feet and hit the wall behind her, but was on him again by the time he regained his footing. Some remote part of him was impressed with her speed, but the majority of his mind was occupied dodging a flurry of strikes aimed at his head, neck, and chest. He jumped, twisted and lunged, always missing her hands and feet by millimeters. A sense of deja vu came over him and his mind flicked to the hours he’d spent in the training gates at the temple. The lesson was to be as a leaf, pivoting at every resistance, to pass through the storm. And she was very like a storm. When the flurry of blows began he hoped to tire her out before striking, but she wasn’t getting slower, wasn’t getting sloppy.

There was a subtle shift in her weight and saw her next strike coming. He sent a kick out to the side that would be left open by her attack. But she turned on a dime, ducking under his leg and catching his knee, sending him careening face-first towards the floor. He turned it into a roll and sprung up, but before his feet touched the floor he felt a bright shock of pain as she brought her elbow down on his solar plexus. He hit the ground hard, trying not to fight the muscle spasm, which would only prolong the seizing. She slipped a garrotte out of her shirt.

This guy was infuriating. She flew at him with everything she had and met only air. She didn’t recognize his form at all, but it certainly wasn’t Fire Nation. Their style was centered around brute force and bold, decisive strikes. It was a style she preferred in her opponents, especially larger ones. She could hurt them more by redirecting their strength than she could with her own. But this guy...this guy fought like it was a goddamn game of keep away. And she was running out of time.

Finally he struck out with his foot, and she used the energy of it to fling him down. While he recovered she managed to land a clean blow to his chest and he grunted and crumpled. She slid the garrote out, wishing for a quicker weapon, but the security at the palace was so tight this was all she’d been sure she could sneak in.

But he somehow recovered instantaneously. He flipped to his feet and circled away, putting himself between her and the door. They were on the far side of the bed now and his eyes fell on Ozai’s prone body. He froze and his eyes grew wide. Ever so slightly, his stance slipped.

“Is he dead?”

“He’s next in line after you,” she spat as she launched herself at him. He was distracted, unable to right his form in time. She feigned a direct hit then twisted in the air, vaulting off the wall and landing on his back.

“Wait” he rasped out, and she realized he’d managed to get a finger between her wire and his neck. Oh for fuck’s sake, would this guy just die already? She was debating just going with the slower, louder process of killing him like this when several things happened at once.

Ozai began to stir on the floor, coughing weakly and pushing himself up on his forearms. The main door to the chamber opened and a hesitant voice called out “Sir?” As she was taking all this in, the fake earth kingdom emissary grabbed her forearm and twisted roughly, ripping her off his back and over his head. The wall rushed up to meet her, enveloping her in a blinding flash of white.

The woman’s body slumped against the door she’d collided with. He hadn’t meant to throw her so hard, just needed time to reason with her, to explain. But now the guard was pushing the door back open and Ozai was stirring and before Aang knew what he was doing he’d scooped her unconscious body over his shoulder and slipped through the open window.

#kataang #kataang au #work in progress #avatar #avatar aang #katara #i dont want to post to ao3 till there's an end in sight #fanfic #atla fanfic

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co-habit-ation · 3 years

Text

Briar followed the rest of the complex's Horrors outside. She couldn't help but feel a burst of joy.

Even though the cold morning air brought shivers through her skin. Both the sunlight and the wind on her face brought joy to her.

She smiled gently, for a brief moment lost in the joy of being outside. Though again it was only a brief moment.

Painter grabbed onto her arm and motioned her forward. When she hesitated, he explained, "We have training grounds where you both will be tested."

So when she nodded and began to follow, he lead the two on. Though he still kept his grip on Briar's arm.

Third Base followed up the sort of back. He seemed a little less apprehensive than her. Though he could just have a good poker face. Either way it lowered her hackles only slightly.

The two were brought to a dip in the landscape covered by gravel and small rocks. The walls were moderately about neck high, and a little steep. Though if need be they shouldn't be hard to scale.

Painter, instead of just jumping in as Briar had expected, followed tree roots along the edge.

He led them down a small slope into a spot full of rather large stones burrowed into the ground. "You both will be fighting me." Without a break in stride he released Briar and moved towards the middle of the makeshift arena.

"Whose first?" He asked coldly, already detached and glaring.

Briar hated to throw him under the bus, she really did. But she had to see how the Painter fought first… and Third Base had presumably been around them during combat.

She swallowed her half formed justifications like bitter medicine, a disgusting necessity, then set to do it. She used her foot to nudge him forward. Though she wasn't harsh, or really noticeable it was enough. Enough to get him to stumble forward.

Third Base looked back at her with a mix of confusion and anger. But instead of engaging in childish activities himself he stepped forward.

He lowered his own goggles and gripped his bat.

It wouldn't be a close battle, she could already see that.

The younger's stance was sloppy for an attack. Something Jeff had corrected her before on. While Painter was more prepared for defense.

A familiar look shone in his eyes as he sized the fawn like boy up. She knew all too well you had to strike while they were thinking.

And at least Third Base knew that. He maneuvered around the older Horror. Both hands kept on the bat as he struck low.

Painter dodged the hit and made a move at the boy. Only to come up with a fist full of air. The teen was already behind him.

Third Base used the wall as push off and ran again for the Painter. This time bat raised for his head.

Painter easily managed to whip around to block him.

Briar couldn't help but sigh a little. Though she was still working on beating Jeff, she knew enough to recognize someone who moved like him.

So she could handle the battle, at least a little.

But that clicked something into place in her mind. When using the knife he moved like Jeff and he had also clearly been a Horror for longer.

If ever… whenever she escaped she could Ask Jeff about it then.

But even as she tried to direct her thoughts back to the fight she couldn't help but linger on home. Which drew her back to her small escape plan. Which is where her mind stayed until the sound of a body being slammed down jolted her.

The battle had come to a sudden end.

Painter's had his body weight, specifically his knee pushing the younger into the ground. His knife jammed through Third Base's seemingly dominant hand and the gravel. With Painter's other hand wrapped around the younger's neck, ready to snap it if he moved even a hair.

"You're done." He simply withdrew his knife and stepped off of the teen. "Briar you're up."

Third Base let out a cough and moved aside to grab his bat. 'Good luck,' he mouthed to her as he pressed himself toward the slope.

Briar took a second before she moved. But instead she stepped toward the lanky boy. "Can I borrow your bat for this?"

He seemed in shock for a moment. Though it didn't last long, as they both caught Painter giving them a nod. He reluctantly handed her the bat.

As he handed over the bat, he firmly advised her, "Be careful."

Briar nodded a little. She moved back towards her opponent. She raised the bat. Just pretend it's Jeff, she advised herself in an attempt to calm. Though she couldn't shake the unease.

The two locked eyes for a moment. Then he moved towards her. She internally grimaced. It seemed instead of staying defensive as he had before, he had moved onto offensive.

But she couldn't waste time on thought. She could think and plan once he was down.

The two met in the middle, blade on barrel as they struggled. If it continued this way she'd be on the losing end. He had the experience and strength on his side.

But she had balance on hers. So she struck out at where his hip met his leg. He stumbled only a bit.

Though that was enough for her. She took her opportunity to move back.

He picked up on her plan. At least he seemed to. An idea brewed in his mind as he stepped.

But she knew better than to let him finish a plan. As soon as he drew close she struck his knife hand. Down and angled just to make him drop the blade. A modified disarming tactic Jeff had taught her.

Painter stood in shock for a moment. He had dropped the knife but his mind seemed on something else. She recognized the look, a clouded recognition.

He didn't let the look linger long. For he had a second blade tucked within his clothes. It glinted at Briar to alert her of its presence.

She took the hint and aimed to strike where it was. But he made the quicker move.

He grabbed her bat with both of his hands.

Despite the blade in his belt he seemed dead set on having the battle turned to hand on hand.

Briar grit her teeth. She couldn't let that happen. She still didn't have the raw strength that older Horrors like him possessed.

She pushed against his grip and struck at his groin. Luck wasn't on her side… he was wearing some sort of protection.

The packed material caused temporary pain through her foot. But that compared nothing to the pain she then felt when Painter grabbed said leg and twisted it.

While she was struggling in pain he kept hold of the leg just to throw himself over her. He pressed the twisted leg into her back. His other elbow pressed against her spine.

"Its done." He panted gently.

She just nodded, the pain and adrenaline pulsing throughout her body drawing all her energy.

He got off of her. "Can you walk?"

While she could move her other leg enough to walk the already strained break wasn't something she wanted to walk on. She quickly shook her head.

He hardly looked at her as he left the arena. "Clean up the weapons." He barked at Third Base. "I'll be back."

The brunette quickly complied. When he was done he sat down by Briar. He seemed just as tired as her, so instead of conversation they filled the silence when tired pants.

Painter returned with Clockwork, HABIT, and a kit.

Clockwork was the first over to her. "Alright let's see how bad a break he caused." She pressed against the break and around. "If we want her limp free we should probably cut into her."

Briar bit her tongue and only hoped they gave her pain medicine.

When the three had finished setting her to heal she was definitely thankful for the medication. Though it was fast fading it elevated the pain from both being cut open and having her bone set.

Once they deemed her faux cast good enough Painter lifted her onto his back. "Let's get you back to the Warren."

She nodded against his neck. Despite them being her captors she felt a true kindness from the other Horrors.

So she felt almost relaxed enough to pass out against the large man.

That was until he presented a question which must have been lingering on his mind. "Who taught you to fight?"

"My mentor…" She quickly answered. "The training camps." She added on. The two were unrelated but if he believed they were related it would be much easier.

He seemed to take her words as intended. Though she could still feel a lingering suspicion. But that was something to deal with later. Right now she had to focus on staying awake.

Especially now that HABIT had taken to petting her. She sighed a little. At least she'd escape. Sooner rather than later.

#briar the batter #habit emh #creepypasta clockwork #creepypasta bloody painter #creepypasta third base #tw bone breaking #tw violence #tw fighting #tw mentioned surgery

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bellakitse · 4 years

Note

“I’m not jealous, I’m just practicing my pout.” Tarlos please? Ps. I love your writing style! Never stop please 😊

That Green Colored Thing

TK Strand is not jealous.

Just because Carlos has been across the bar for the last fifteen minutes, talking to some handsome idiot who doesn’t seem to understand the concept of personal space and is so close to Carlos, they might as well be glued together doesn’t mean he’s jealous.

30 days of Tarlos - Day 21

this request was actually sent to me 3 times from the soft sentence list, including @sciscoekid, so i hope all of you that wanted it, enjoy it. 💜

TK Strand is not jealous.

He’s concerned, not jealous.

He watches as Carlos says something that makes the tall, dark, and annoying guy throw his head back laughing while not subtly shifting his body so his side brushes against Carlos’ hip, and scowls.

“If you keep making that face, it’s going to stick like that.”

TK turns his head at the comment to find that his dad and Michelle have finished dancing, and are back at the table the crew took hold of when they first arrived at the bar an hour ago. Looking over their heads, he sees that the rest of his friends thankfully are still dancing.

“What face?” he grumbles, and even he can hear the petulant tone in his voice, it makes him wince as his dad and Michelle share a knowing look between them.

He looks away from them for a moment, turning his head just in time to see the guy Carlos is still talking to, place a hand on his forearm. He frowns as Carlos doesn’t do anything about it, letting it rest there.

“That face,” his father speaks up. “You look like you’re ready to knife the guy talking to Carlos.”

“I’m not jealous,” he snaps off quickly, cringing again when his dad and Michelle raise both eyebrows at him in unison, and he distantly misses the days they annoyed each other instead of being so in sync like they are now.

“Okay,” Owen answers, and TK can’t help but roll his eyes at the pacifying tone in his father’s voice.

“I’m not jealous, I’m just – ” he starts strongly only to lose steam midway. “I’m just practicing my pout,” he finally finishes, blushing at how ridiculous he sounds to his own ears.

“TK,” Michelle says gently, and he can see that she’s struggling not to laugh at him; there is a soft, amused smile on her face, while his father is downright grinning at him.

“Shut up,” he mutters, his blush deepening as his tone finally makes them both chuckle.

“I’m going to the restroom,” Owen tells them as he shakes his head. “I hope by the time I come back out, you will have realized that that’s nothing, and you have nothing to worry about so you can stop pouting.”

TK lets out a long, loud huff, but nods at him anyway. Looking over at Carlos again, he lets out a breath of relief that the fool he’s still talking too isn’t touching him anymore, and at least now there is a foot of space between them. Progress.

“Your dad’s right, you know,” Michelle speaks in that soft raspy voice of her’s, she tilts her head towards the bar. “That’s nothing.”

“You don’t know that,” TK argues, he knows flirting when he sees it, and the guy is definitely flirting with Carlos. “He’s hitting on him.”

Michelle turns to face the bar; he watches her study the scene with a sharp eye. “You might be right,” she says, with a considering face. It’s a sick sense of satisfaction he feels; he doesn’t want to be right. “But Carlos isn’t flirting back,” she says firmly.

“How can you be so sure?” he asks, hopeful.

“Body language for one,” she answers, pointing with her chin back at Carlos.

TK looks over at the pair; his hackles rising as the guy takes a step towards Carlos only for his boyfriend to shift away subtly.

“There’s also the fact that I have known Carlos since he was 19, and know there isn’t a player bone in his body,” she continues, turning to look at him, her blue eyes serious and protective of her friend. “He’s not that kind of guy; he would never hurt you like that.”

TK swallows around the remorseful lump forming in his throat. He knows she’s speaking the truth. Carlos is one of the sweetest, most honest men he’s ever known; he doesn’t have a deceptive bone in his body.

“I know that,” he says quietly. “Deep down, of course I know that.”

“I just – “ he exhales, his shoulders dropping with sudden exhaustion. “I dragged my feet with him when we first met, and even though we’re together now and happy – God, we’re so happy,” he smiles, and it makes Michelle smile too. “I keep waiting for the day he wakes up and realizes I’m not worth all the effort he puts in.”

Michelle makes a soft sound in the back of her throat before reaching out to take his hand in hers.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she shakes her head, there is a softness to her gaze that makes him grateful she cares about him. “That’s not going to happen.”

TK nods in agreement even though he doesn’t believe it himself. Sooner or later, Carlos is going to realize he can do better, and he will be left heartbroken from losing him when he already loves him so much.

Michelle narrows her eyes at him, and before he can blink, she reaches out and flicks his ear hard.

“Ow, Michelle!” he complains as he rubs at the sting. “What the fuck?”

“You’re thinking stupid,” she says, casual as can be. “Had to snap you out of it.”

He scowls at her, still rubbing his ear. “That hurt.”

“It was supposed to,” she says unapologetically. “Now, do you know what Carlos said to me the first time he mentioned you?”

TK shakes his head; he feels his face go red at the smirk she gives him.

“He said you were a ten,” she tells him, amused as he goes even redder. “And that he couldn’t get you out of his head. It has gotten sappier with every conversation. He rambles about your eyes. He can talk for hours about your face, your good heart, and he sighs like a schoolboy with a crush when he says your name, TK.”

TK licks his lips, his heart racing at Michelle’s words. “Really?”

“Really,” she answers, with a kind smile. “He’s crazy over you, darling. So why don’t you go over there and save him from that guy who can’t take a hint.”

He takes a breath and looks once more over at Carlos.

“Go, TK.”

He nods, getting off the stool and takes another breath as he starts to make his way across the bar.

“Hey,” he calls out when he gets close enough to the pair for them to hear him.

He watches as Carlos turns to face him, his eyes relieved as they land on him. “Hey, baby,” he says happily, pulling him to his side when he’s close enough, his arm around his shoulder, as his arm goes to Carlos’ waist. “Derek, this is my boyfriend TK, who I was telling you about,” he addresses the man across from them before looking once more at him.

“TK, this is Derek,” he nods towards him. “We used to work at the same precinct before he transferred to East Austin.”

TK says hello to the man in question as politely as he can.

“Nice to meet you, TK,” he says, giving him a half-smile. “Carlos just talked my ear off about you.”

TK startles at the comment. Turning his head to look at Carlos, he smiles when he spots his blush. “All good things, I hope.”

Carlos smiles at him softly, his brown eyes shining with love. “The best things, baby, the best.”

Derek laughs, amused. “Yeah, man, the best, he might have done three minutes on your eyes alone,” he teases.

“Not three minutes!” Carlos protests jokingly as he kisses the side of his face. “Five at least, babe,” he promises, and TK can’t help but laugh.

Derek laughs with him. “Who knew Carlos Reyes in love was this hilarious,” he smirks, shaking his head. “Anyway, I’ve taken enough of your man’s time. I should get out of here, but it was nice meeting you, TK.”

TK nods again, taking Derek’s hand when he offers it. Derek shakes Carlos’ hand too and wishes them a good night before he heads for the door.

“Thank god you came when you did,” Carlos says once they’re alone. “I didn’t know how to end the conversation politely,” he turns to rest his back to the bar, pulling him against him. “Derek is nice, but he’s kind of thick, he didn’t get that I just wanted to get back to you.”

TK feels his heart flutter at Carlos’ words.

“And that’s why you kept telling him about me?” he teases, his breath catching when Carlos’ raises a hand to cup his face, his thumb running gently over his cheekbone.

“No,” he shakes his head. “That’s just because I love talking about you. My amazing, wonderful boyfriend, who I can’t believe is actually mine.”

TK swallows around the lump forming in his throat, in awe of the way Carlos tells him how he feels about him so freely.

“I was watching him with you,” he starts slowly, grimacing from his previous thoughts. “He was so close, and I got jealous.”

Carlos frowns, his hands cupping now both sides of his face. “Baby, you have nothing to be jealous of, ever.”

“I know,” he answers, feeling a sting behind his eyes. “I know that you would never give me a reason to be jealous in the first place, but I get scared that one day you’ll realize you can do better than me,” he whispers, looking away.

“Look at me, Ty,” Carlos says softly but firmly, and TK can’t do anything but do as he asks, what he finds in Carlos’ expression leaves him breathless. There is so much love and fierce protectiveness in his gaze.

“There is no one better than you,” Carlos starts. “You aren’t perfect, but you’re perfect for me. I love you, TK. I’m so in love with you. I can barely see straight most of the time from all the love I feel for you. So no one is better for me than you. You’re it for me, got it?”

“Got it,” he says thickly, earning a smile from Carlos in response.

“Good,” he says, still smiling. “Now, how about a dance? I haven’t held you in my arms all night, and that’s a crime.”

TK laughs, it comes out a little wet but happy as he nods in agreement. Carlos beams at him, taking his hand, as they start to head to the dance floor he catches Michelle's eyes, rolling his when she looks at him amused and knowing.

Okay, so she was right, but she doesn’t have to be so smug about it.

#911 lone star #tarlos #tarlos fic #30 days of tarlos #my writing #tk x carlos #anon #ask #Anonymous

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imnotwolverine · 4 years

Text

The Monster’s Lair - Thorns and Thistles

Vampire!Henry x Belle - multi-chapter

< Chap 2 | Chapter 3 - Thorns and Thistles | Chap 4 >

Disclaimer: Dark adult fairytale - injury, references of stalking, possessiveness, kidnapping

Author’s note: I just want to let you know that I won’t be posting next week since I’ll be out on a (much deserved and long overdue) holiday. It’s going to be one week of good food, sleeping in and long, long walks. UGH..I just can’t wait! In the meantime, one more chapter to keep you entertained. Take care dear readers!

Word count: 2.923

Reading music: Le Quintet à Claques - Le diable aux fesses rouges (“the devil with the red buttocks”)

(Link to my Masterlist)

Violins, hurdy gurdy’s and drums strung another delightful tune through the dancing hall, new dance partners quickly rushing to the centre to join in.

‘Sweet Belle, would you care for a dance?’ Tomlin, the baker’s boy stepped in, making Belle nervously look around herself in hope she’d find a good excuse.

‘Oh ..eh..’ Her eye fell on her father who stood but a few feet away, his head bandaged but his spirits high as he discussed some horse-related stuff with his stable boy.

‘..I am afraid not. You see, my father..’ She bit her lip as Tomlin nodded in understanding, hurrying to find himself a new dance partner.

The little interaction didn’t go unnoticed, Arthur pausing mid-story to give Belle a warning look. She quickly looked away, knowing full well what he was thinking; “Go have fun silly girl!”

But it just didn't sit right with Belle. All this. This dance. The party. The happy people. It had been just two weeks since half the town’s centre had burned down, leaving naught but ash where families used to keep their shops, lived their lives.

The mere fact that the beast had been chased off, had been deemed enough of a reason to celebrate. People had pulled out their Sunday best, their joy not lessened by the sight of those who had been harmed that night. The butcher’s wife and their children - minor burns. The clergyman - serious burns, though mostly because he had climbed back in the fire to save his fineries. And papa.

With a somber eye Belle watched her father, his face looking even older now as half of it was bandaged up. He had brushed it off as just a silly incident, but Belle couldn’t help but feel bitter. Bitter about the foolishness that blinded the people here. The beast had become another tool that the Le Comtes used to manipulate the people into dancing to their strings - literally.

The many buildings that had burned down were partially or entirely owned by them, and they would surely raise the taxes to pay for it all, even if the country-wide tax payments already swallowed most of the people their incomes. The Les Comtes held such power over the towns folk that if they said left, all would go..

‘Your dancing partner left?’ A familiar voice awoke Belle from her pensive stare, her eyes meeting those of a smirking Ismael le Comte.

‘Sir.’ Belle curtsied, then looked back at the dancing crowd, not feeling like conversing with the handsome but obnoxious man. Ismael followed her gaze and shrugged. ‘I do understand. The boy’s barely a capable dancing partner, dare I say.’

‘Oh no. No no. Tomlin’s a fine dancing partner, Sir le Comte.’ Belle corrected before quickly lowering her lashes. ‘It’s just that I wish to not leave my fa..’ She looked to her side and noted that her father and the stable boy had disappeared into the crowd, leaving her alone with Ismael.

Oh darn..

She bit her lip and looked back at an amused Ismael.

‘Now Belle.’ He stepped closer, making her step back, closer to the wall where heavy curtains hung before high windows, the fabric gathered and tied to a hook with rope and a thorny wild flower bouquet. Ismael grinned, squaring his shoulders to make himself look even more imposing and broad.

‘I dare say I could make a fine match..’

The dance in the hall ended and with an exaggerated bow he offered his hand, making sure that all were there to see.

‘..for a dance.’ He smiled near devilishly, the spark in his eyes falling in distaste with Belle.

Swallowing harshly she stumbled even further back, her hands catching herself before she bumped into a bench she had not seen, her fall broken on the snarling edges of that same thorny bouquet.

Whimpering in shock and pain, Belle flopped down to the bench, her eyes blinking away tears as she looked at her palms, red and scratched with pillowing drops of blood.

In that foolish tumble into the flower bouquet she had not noticed how Ismael had made no effort to “save her”, as he had so often promised, his head only twitching slightly, as if bewitched, before blinkingly returning to the land of the living, his mouth turning out in a dramatic little gasp.

‘Oh dear! Sweet Belle. Your hands!’ He wrapped his large hands around her shaking wrists and pulled her up without so much as a question. ‘You are bleeding!’ He exclaimed, watching with fascination as the blood started to drip down from her palms. Looking up into her eyes, his next words were resolute; ‘Come now. We must see to that at once!’

And before Belle could stammer a protest she was all but dragged out of the hall, Ismael’s hand pushing at the back of her corset, her feet hastily following his large strides.

‘Wait..where..SIR..where are you taking me?’ She whispered nervously, watching people step aside, their heads dutifully bowing at the sight of the dark haired, handsome Le Comte.

‘Don’t fret.’ He chuckled darkly, his deep brown eyes looking like pools of evil lust.

There was something about Ismael Le Comte that made Belle’s neck hair rise. No matter how kind and handsome and wonderful everyone thought him to be..there was just something..off about him. Belle couldn’t quite place her finger on it, but she wasn’t often wrong about people.

Besides. It was a bit weird that a man of his position was so committed to her well-being, right? Didn’t he have more important matters to attend to? Ladies to woo? Dances to dance? Belle looked over her shoulder, seeing some people follow her and Ismael with their gossip-glistening lips. Oh, stories were abound to be told, she knew that much.

‘I can..see to this myself. Truly. I thank you for your..OH.’ The hand that rested on her lower back eagerly pulled her closer now they were alone in a long and spacious hallway. On the walls more prickly bouquets adorned deep blue curtains that reached ceiling high, a watery moon light trickling through the clear glass panes behind them.

‘Oh Belle. Do you not see?’ Ismael purred, his mead heavy breath warming the shell of her ear. He chuckled, amused by his own thoughts, Belle swallowing harshly again as she clenched her bleeding hands before her. Oh she was making a mess of the carpet!

Ismael didn’t seem to see her discomfort.

‘In fact. Do you see all this?’ He used his free hand to point at the gardens, the meadows, the village in the far distance, little lanterns flickering behind the windows of the cots and barns, dusk falling. Slowly Belle nodded, looking back at Ismael with a sense of worry.

Why was he so..so close to her. What was it with this..beast..no not beast..he was far too handsome for that..no..a..an evil excuse for a man!

Ismael smirked and returned his attention to Belle, his arm still keeping her close to his chest. ‘You want your father to keep his job, keep the safety we provide? Hmm…?’ He hummed. ‘You are in no position to deny him a nice life, are you now?’ He raised a wicked eyebrow, making worried tingles run up Belle’s spine, his lips now moving so very close to her neck.

And before she knew it herself, realised it herself, she had started to run. Away, away from this spiteful, hideous man.

Had he no decency?!

With great haste in her long skirts Belle ran and ran, further down the long hallway, her ears pricking as she heard Ismael’s amused laugh.

‘I DO LIKE TO HUNT!’ He roared, his hands playfully clawing at her speeding off silhouette. And with that he started the chase, his attire far less restricting and his strides far stronger and longer, making it an uneven match from the get go.

Where to go next? Belle looked around, not knowing the estate quite well enough, whereas her predatorial suitor most definitely knew every nook and corner.

And then she noticed a door, leading out to the terraces.

Without a second thought she ran out, into the light trickle of another rain shower, the blood from her scratched open hands mingling with the clear heaven water as she ran and ran, blue skirts soaking.

The gardens of the Les Comtes were immaculate. Sharp shorn bushes, straight lines, everything neatly trimmed to angular perfection - following courtly fashions to a tee. But the problems with such a garden was that hiding there was just about impossible. And thus Belle continued to run, her heart thundering in her chest and the ache in her hands near forgotten as she made a beeline for the forest.

Ever her safe hide-out when she so needed, she knew the forest paths so well that the low light of the evening fall caused her no trouble.

Unfortunately for her though, the chase didn’t end there, her eye catching the silhouette of Ismael behind her as she had made it to the tree line. And from the looks of it he wasn’t stopping, his gruesome laughter hackling in the rainy wind.

Why was this idiot of a man laughing so?

Belle continued to run. Further, deeper, faster, her breath tight in her corseted chest. Her hands were bleeding so profusely that she sure was leaving a perfect track for any true predator, her blood staining the leaves and branches she swept aside in her flight. But she couldn’t care. She didn’t even dare to think of what the forest had to hide at this late hour of the day, the daylight faded away and her eyes barely managing to see a thing now.

It was then she felt her skirts snag into something, her bleeding hands instinctively pulling at the fabric, making it rip to shreds.

And.. on she ran, the sound of Ismael’s laughter slowly dying away in the ink black darkness, her skirts continuing to brush against invisible bushes and branches.

Was he still there? Oh, how could she always get into such trouble?!

Scolding herself she refused to slow down, her feet stumbling over tree roots, hands skinned open from the rough bark of the trees, her breath panicked and short. She couldn’t see a thing, but she surely must have looked a mess.

And then she got stuck again, this time much worse, her ankle crunching angrily as she sank through a rabbit hole of sorts, falling sideways in another thorny bush. The prickly plant cut like angry knives into her skin, her hands, arms, legs and face fighting in bitter despair to get out. But like a drowning sailor at sea, she simply didn’t know what was up and down anymore, her wild thrashing only making things worse, getting her more stuck.

It was then the tears finally came. Hot and angry in the veil of night.

Belle was a tough cookie, but this? This was just too much.

As she slowly halted her attempts to free herself, she came to the bitter conclusion that this may very well be it. Stuck in a dark forest, bleeding profusely and with a dull pain wrecking her terrified, trembling body.

This may just be it. Her end. Perhaps she would become a snack for that evil monster, or, as she suspected to be far more likely; a pack of wolves or a bear.

Quiet sobs escaped her rosy lips as she tugged a few more times, her body not managing to move, her torn skirts evilly twisted like a cocoon around her limbs and her arms caught in the embrace of the brambles.

Yes. This was it. Run from one problem..and get into an even bigger one. Classic Belle.

‘Forgive me papa.’ She trembled, angry tears billowing down her cheeks. OH she was such a fool! How could she leave him alone like that?! She should have never left his side. She should have never trusted that Ismael. She had known it! ARGHH!

He could have known.

Watching himself in the tall gilded mirror he watched the flurry of scars that marred his porcelain skin. All healed. And within a few months they would be completely gone again. It was always like that. But before then he tended to watch those tiny lines and ripples in his perfect skin, reminding himself of what a fool he had been.

Again.

Could he do any good at all? It was a question that rang in the back of his skull like a tolling bell. Bell. Belle. Hmm. And there was the second thing he couldn’t stop thinking about. That night, seeing Belle so up close, had awoken something in him. And seeing that she saw him - albeit in the lingering dark - made the hungry thoughts in his mind even wilder. His still heart was once again beating with a certain excitement. Life resetting anew in his veins.

In fact. That night the hunt for his hide had been but an afterthought, the burn of his skin but an inconvenience and the sorrow for the villagers’ rejection but another mild disappointment.

She had seen him.

And no, she had not screamed, or chased him off. She had just stood there. As if she knew who he was. As if she had known all along. It was that mere idea that made his empty stomach flutter with a certain giddy excitement.

Argh yes. The empty stomach. It was time to hunt, his beastly belly growling with a need for getting his fill. And as always, blood was on the menu.

Taking his sweet time he dressed himself, hiding every bit of his pale, marred skin. A long sleeved white blouse with high neck, dark high waisted pants and, last but not least, a slightly worn but ever his favourite, burgundy red velvet vest.

Walking down the grand staircase he busied himself with buttoning his cuffs, the small coppery roses pricking awkwardly in his claw-like finger tips. The cuffs had once belonged to his father. Centuries ago, that is. But now they were slowly decaying beneath his fingertips until at some point they would break.

It was like most discomforts in life; they proved terribly hard to die easily. And his rose-shaped cuffs? They were definitely one of them.

Arriving in the main hall he picked a long coat with a hooded mantle on top. A gentleman’s getup for a gentleman that was long past his due date. Centuries past his due date. The monster peered in the mirror next to the heavy doors, his lips curling up to show two pearly white fangs, the clearest reminder of what he was.

No gentleman indeed.

The winds were picking up again, sweltering summer nights but a distant memory now as new rain clouds drifted in on the starless sky.

Walking through the unruly path of the unkempt castle garden he sniffed his nose, pricked his ears, peered into the dark. The first drops were starting to fall into his dark chocolate curls when he felt a tremor not far from the castle gardens. A strange tremor. Not like the mice that were hiding in their hollows. Not like the squirrels that were hamstering their winter’s stashes.

No, this was not an animal. But a man. Or woman in fact. Yes. A woman. Pricking his ears even more, the wind making it slightly difficult to discern what he heard, he listened closely.

Indeed, a woman, agonised whimpers escaping her trembling lips, branches crunching as she despaired.

Should he...go?

Frowning at the very idea that he was contemplating whether or not this woman deserved his attention, made him shiver. He was a monster indeed! How could he even think of leaving the poor woman out here in this stormy weather, left to her own devices and obviously being no match to the many predators that loomed in the thicket of the forest.

With his cape flying out behind him he speeded with great haste to the tiny tremor he picked up, following its echo until he could hear her whimpers more clearly. Blinking in the stark darkness he could define her body as it lay there, entrapped in an evil looking bramble. Wild roses.

Those darn roses again. How could something so beautiful be so painful, too?

Stepping in closer he studied the pale limbs, the...blue..dress. Oh no, oh no. Panicking ever so slightly he started to use his beastly strength to rip away the thorny branches, finding beneath them a bloody body.

Belle.

Her breath was shallow, but finally calm. Most probably she had lost consciousness only moments ago, her fight with the thicket having exhausted her. The monster swallowed at the sight. The pretty woman all scratched and bruised, blood crusting on her pale skin. Her blood. Her sweet, sweet blood.

His nostrils flared at the intoxicating smell, but he quickly pushed the temptation aside, his eyes flitting out to watch the darkness around him, seeing and hearing if anyone was there. If anyone was following her perhaps. But for miles he couldn’t find a single soul, all townsfolk dancing at the Les Comtes, or safe in their beds.

Oh, sweet Belle, why are you here? Alone?

Looking back at the disheveled mess of brown locks, rosy lips and snowwhite skin, he came to the fast, though uneasy conclusion that he couldn’t leave her here. Pulling the rest of the branches aside he got an even better look at the state she was in. No state to just be dropped off at home.

She needed care.

And thus he picked her up, her weight light like a feather in his log-sized arms, his cold blue eyes taking in her face now she was here, so close to him, his legs carrying them back to the castle without a slip of the foot.

For years he had watched Belle from a distance. Growing up from this quiet little girl to a caring, curious young woman, her large brown eyes taking in the world around her with such marvel that he couldn’t help but marvel at it all the same.

Here she was. Belle.

His Belle.

Chap 4 >

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If you want to be added to or removed from my tag lists, shoot me a message!

#henry cavill fanfiction #henry cavill fanfic #beauty and the beast au #vampire!henry #vampires #vampire #belle #stalking #kidnapping #dark fairytale #adult fairytale #long fic

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will-die-without-chai · 4 years

Text

I have great taste!

A/N: This is my entry for Muskan’s 500 followers celebration! Congratulations again on this follower milestone Muski ( @thebookwormslytherin ) and I can’t wait to write for more such follower milestone celebrations. Also, thank you for hosting this!!!!! Love ya!.And forgive me for this less than subpar submission.

Also this is the first time I’ve tried writing for Sam Wilson so all feedbacks and criticism are most welcome! Hope I haven’t done too bad lol.

Pairing: Sam Wilson x desi!reader (she is not as desi as I wanted but whatevs)

Words: 2752

(College au, roomates au)

Warning: A couple of swear words (And this fic isn’t beta-ed...so)

Prompt: “You got a crush on me? Ew”

Summary: Y/N gets cheated on and had to move out of her ex’s boyfriend’s house. Luckily, Sam’s roomate is moving out as well creating a vacancy. Who knows what outcome staying with your friend can bring about?

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“I know I am stupid and I never should’ve moved in with him so soon” Y/N sniffled and rubbed her red puffy and tear filled eyes dry with the sleeve of the shirt she had on as she whispered and hiccupped through berating herself after the revelation she had made that very morning. “But I cannot stay in that house Natasha! Not anymore! What do I do?” Natasha, ever concerned, patted her back, sympathy etched deep into her features whilst Y/N continued to whisper her despair into the table top where her head lay. .

Y/N had just that very morning discovered her boyfriend, or rather ex-boyfriend with his tongue deep in some other person’s mouth, while naked, on the bed they shared. Y/N had been out for the night, studying with Natasha for the upcoming exams and had unexpectedly gone home early in the morning to grab some notes only to be met with the devastating sight.

Needless to say, Y/N bolted out of the very apartment she called home for the past few months, holding back the bile and the tears rising to surface rapidly and rushed back to Natasha’s place which was only a couple of blocks away to unleash the slew of tears and heartbreak.

The sound of the jingling of the lock and the shuffling of shoes against the hardwood announced the return of the boys who had left the girls the night before to their own devices and had shifted themselves to do whatever it is that college boys do. Steve, Sam and Bucky certainly hadn’t anticipated the sight before them and already had their hackles raised, ready to have a faceoff with whatever had caused unease to their friends, but instantly settled down when Natasha motioned them to. Y/N also had significantly been drawn out of her crying stupor at their entrance.

The boys had the decency to not pry into the matters and let things be told to them, they had learned from previous experiences after all. Nat looked at Y/N and she nodded.

“Y/N went to her apartment this morning and saw Rumlow sticking his tongue deep into someone’s throat. So…” The room went into an uproar and chaos ensured as if all hell had broken loose. A chorus of “Damn it” and “I’ll fuck him up” and certain more colorful words were heard, which were then stopped and the rage was coaxed down by one menacing gaze from Natasha and a tearful sob from Y/N.

Steve immediately found his place beside Y/N and held her under the crook of his arms, hugging her tightly and Bucky and Sam settled for sitting across from them, sympathy and rage and sorrow in equal measures creeping into their features as she once again resumed crying into Steve’s shirt.

After loads of incomprehensive mumbling and sobbing till her throat felt like sandpaper and she could go no further due to exhaustion, Y/N raised her head to face the rest of the group around her. “Now that I have sufficiently rubbed tears and snot all over Steve’s clothes” She snorted causing chuckles to emanate from other’s mouths, “I have to figure out where I am going to stay, given my imminent homelessness.”

“Stay here! I can crash on the sofa, you can take the room. Nat and Buck already sleep in their room.” Steve piped in from beside her. Bucky nodded in agreement as did Nat.

A small frown took over her face. “No, no” She shook her head. “I can’t. You three are already… I can’t make you sleep on a couch in your own house, Stevie. And I cannot couch crash with the amount of stuff I have. I am definitely not going to let that asshole keep my furniture. They’re too cute and costed a fortune” This was enough to cause smiles to spread on their faces.

“That’s my girl!” Bucky cheered on.

“Yeah so I need more permanent options.”

“What about Tony? We can talk to him—“

“Not Tony!” Y/N cut Bucky off mid sentence. “I am not going to stay with Tony for the same reason Steve won’t. He wouldn’t accept rent and I’ll feel guilty and highly uncomfortable living in that state of art house. How the fuck do you have sex there Steve? Aren’t you afraid you’ll break something?” Steve turned red at the mention of his sex life and Bucky and Sam snickered like a schoolgirl. Natasha, noticing the very apparent discomfort cleared her throat pointedly.

“What about your old apartment?”

“I think the landlord already rented it to someone else.”

Sam, who had been silent thus far finally decided to speak up, “Riley is moving out in a couple of days. I haven’t looked for anyone yet and I am sure I can’t afford the rent by myself.” He looked at her meaningfully.

Y/N’s eyes brightened. “Of course! Oh you’re a savior Sammy!” She jumped up to hug him and sagged in relief when he wrapped his hands around her.

“Yeah, yeah.” He tried to say nonchalantly but the tender kiss he placed on the top of her head that was buried into his side and the tense look he shot at Natasha who had been wiggling her eyebrows at him betrayed his emotions to the rest of the occupants of the room if not to the object of the emotions.

All of Y/N’s stuff had been picked up and packed into the second-hand pickup truck Bucky owned. ‘It has a certain amount of personality’ he had said when buying it against the wishes of everyone around him. Certain choice words had been spat at Rumlow and papers had been thrown at his face dramatically and tears had been held back satisfactorily. Sam had to be contained to avoid him throwing punches and the party had been successful at extracting all important things from the apartment, furniture included.

It didn’t take much time for Y/N to settle into her new living space. She was fairly familiar with the apartment given all the time she previously spent there trying to make sense of her chemistry notes with Sam. And even though it was a house previously lived in by a couple of boys, it was surprisingly very clean. Her furniture, after a lot of moving it around was satisfactorily placed and dare she say complemented the preexisting stuff in the house very well. (The blue of the couch matched the gray of the curtains Sam had picked very well. He did have a good taste after all!)

It took merely 2 months for them to settle into a nice routine. Sam, the early riser, was responsible for breakfast. Pancakes or waffles or eggs and bacon. He was a masterful breakfast cook and Y/N was forced to adopt healthy eating habits after not much persuasion. Sam had replaced his caffeine fix with Chai*. Although chai was left to be Y/N’s department of expertise. He had tried making it once and it ended with what looked like a grimace and a forced smile on Y/N’s face. Tea making was a talent he didn’t possess.

After her classes finished for the evening, Y/N would go and hang out in the café Sam part-time worked at so they could head back home together. Dinner was on Y/N and her grandma who guided her through video calls had apparently taken a liking for Sam. He had definitely heard whispered conversations in a language he didn’t understand much of and his name being mentioned often. Anyhow, study nights were all the more easier when both the members of the group occupied the same house and there was no fear of notes getting mixed up and rushing over to each other in between lectures to exchange them back. . Life was a well oiled machine when lived with appropriate people, after all.

They had also adapted the system of movie nights. Both had found each other lacking in their own definition of pop culture and had decided to teach the other and make them a respectable member of society, wise enough to get popular references. Saturday nights were mostly unoccupied and hence were conveniently movie nights. Each picked one movie, unseen by the other on alternate weeks. And oh boy, it was an event.

The couch was loaded with throw pillows and blankets, temperature was brought down and hoodies were worn for utmost comfort. Popcorn was popped, candies were bought a plenty and if the occasion called for it, or the ambience of the movie, beer was welcomed. And on occasion, they even fell asleep on the couch (If their backs were witches, they would’ve been cursed by now).

One such night, after loud exclamations of ‘How could you not have watched it!’ and ‘She was my bi awakening!’ and ‘This would not be borne’, Pride and Prejudice was the movie they settled upon. By the end of the movie a half asleep Y/N had ended up draped halfway over Sam with her head comfortably nestled into the crook of his shoulders and neck, her every breath peacefully lulling Sam into the state of drowsiness. Sam knew from previous experiences aplenty that he would regret sleeping like this in the morning but he couldn’t be bothered right now. Future Sam could deal with a bit of back pain.

“It would be nice to have someone to tell you that they love you most ardently. I wish I could have someone tell me that they love me most ardently and mean it.” Y/N mumbled with her eyes closed.

“I will if you let me.” Sam subconsciously let it slip and then tensed up immediately when he realized what he had said. When he did not feel any reaction, he relaxed back again but not without a frown. He half wished she were awake and could listen to what he had said. At least that way it would have been out and on the table. It would also be terribly painful if she didn’t feel the same and ended up feeling uncomfortable around him.

It had taken a very long time for Y/N to again be comfortable and confident after her breakup. She was apparently very serious about the asshole and he had broken her heart. Good thing Sam reciprocated by breaking his nose! (Don’t tell Y/N though. She thinks Brock broke his nose when he fell down the stairs. This was not completely a lie… Sam did push him down the stairs as well. Don’t worry. There were just 5 steps)

Anyhow, it was getting tough for him to control his emotions around her. He couldn’t help but stare at her when she laughed so openly at his lame jokes. He couldn’t help but stare at her lips when she tasted his newest experimentation on pancake batter. He couldn’t help his eyes when they inadvertently went towards her table, when he was supposed to pay attention to the order in front of him at the café. He couldn’t help but deviate towards her at any given chance. He couldn’t help but savor all her little touches. And he was afraid that he was painfully obvious. If not to her then to everyone else around him.

All these thoughts kept encircling his brain and he fell asleep, clutching Y/N a little bit closer than before, burying his nose further into her hair. Morning came and Sam surprisingly woke up alone with a blanket draped over him. Generally he was the first to wake up. He got up and followed the noises coming from the kitchen to see Y/N making breakfast. And of course, chai. Some old Hindi song played on the radio softly and he could see the hello kitty apron he had bought for her as a joke hastily thrown on, its back untied.

It was a picture of serenity, to an outsider maybe. But Sam knew there was something off. Y/N getting up this early, cooking and old hindi songs playing was a deceptive picture that screamed something was bothering her.

“You cooking something, hon?” He said out loud as he made his way to the dining table. Y/N jumped slightly at being startled and then nodded enthusiastically. Almost too enthusiastically. Sam narrowed his eyes. Without turning to face him Y/N explained further. “You were asleep. I woke up early and thought I could make something. It’s been days since we’ve had poha*, no?”

Sam kept quiet and decided to take out plates and set the table instead. They kept working silently but the silence was too heavy. It settled over his skin thickly and Sam didn’t like the feeling. Once they were sat on the table Sam decided to bring up the subject again, the silence and awkwardness becoming a little troubling.

“What’s wrong Y/N? You know you can share it with me. I am here.” He said, placing a comforting hand on hers. Her eyes that were focused on her plate shot unto his face.

“I heard what you said last night.” She blurted out, eyes still trained at him. Sam was stunned into silence and his heartbeat rose rapidly. It was incredibly unexpected and sudden and Sam was caught off guard. Incredibly so.

“You- you did.” He stammered stupidly. Y/N nodded. “I was on the verge of drifting off and I heard it and I-“ She fell silent, her eyes slipped to where his hand rested on hers, her teeth automatically trapping her bottom lip between them.

“I like you. Like like you. I have, since the day we met at Steve’s party and you went on and on about tea and how to make it and how coffee could never compare and you weren’t even drunk!” Y/N let out a chuckle at that and Sam continued. “I couldn’t help but fall for you and I looked for reasons to spend time with you, snatching every opportunity to have you around me. I know I am sounding like the cheesiest cheesy person, like a kraft’s dinner but add cheddar to it level of cheesy, but you being happy makes me so fucking happy! And that’s the point. I can bear to see you be sad and if this makes you uncomfortable, tell me to stop. I will. I won’t mention this ever again and we could go back to being us and you aren’t obligated to reciprocate my feelings or anything. But I think I don’t have it in me to keep it in anymore.”

He finally looked up to look at her and maybe take a breath after the rant he just had in one go and found her still staring at their hands. Assuming that it made her uneasy, he proceeded to take it away, his heart sinking. But he was stopped by her fingers grasping at his sleeves.

She peered from under her tear laced lashes to look at him. “You have a crush on me? Ew” she let out a sound that sounded like something between a sob and a snort and a smile spread across her lips. “I thought you had better taste.” She joked albeit a bit bashfully.

Sam felt a weight lift off his chest and the urge to bang his head against an iron pole reduced significantly. “Hey, I have great taste! I picked up those gray curtains that go so well with your blue couch and that you love very much. Also I introduced you to real maple syrup and took you away from that ‘aunt jemima’ bullshit you were poisoning yourself with.”

“Hey I am a college student who earns just enough to fulfill my bare necessities so give me a break! That shit is costly. And I was the one who introduced you to Mukesh*, okay?” She held his hand now and intertwined her fingers with his.

“Goes to say how good my taste is.”

“I like you too.”

Silence fell over them once again as they giddily looked at each other and held hands, the chai long gone cold and the poha turned a little stiff. But the silence now was palatable, pleasant even.

A couple days later, chaos ensued again in their little group when Y/N planted a sound kiss on Sam’s lips before separating from the group with a quick cheeky ‘goodbye’ to go to her class. The chorus of ‘How?’ and ‘When?’ and ‘I want details’ and a quiet call of ‘who won the bet then’ left hanging in the air for Sam to answer.

*Translations:

Chai: Chai is tea ofcourse. But its also more than tea. Its an concoction made of tea, water, milk, sugar and spices all meticulously brought to a boil and then heated some more. It is a thing that requires practice, but also some magic.

Poha: Poha is a breakfast food made of flattened rice flakes sauted with onions and other vegetables and spices, according to one’s preferences hich is served warm with a dash of lemon and a sprinkling of coriander (Varun Thakur’s stand up, anyone?)

Mukesh: A very illustrious, very very famous indian musician from the 60′s and 70′s. He had the voice of an angel.

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Hope this was a bearable read! As said earlier, feedback and criticism is always welcome!

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