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hey-hamlet · 5 years

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BNHA AU Ideas: Puppydog Tails

Also on AO3!

TL;DR:

Izuku manifests his quirk, and watches his old life burn in front of him in a matter of months. Scared the villains that killed his mother will come after him, he uses his shape-shifting quirk to hide in plain sight as Katsuki's dog. They keep each other safe and sane throughout the years, a duo people become uses to seeing as they jog down the sidewalk each morning.

Izuku doesn't just use his quirk to help Katuski. His heroic spirit can't be crushed so easily. In his wanderings, he meets and helps countless people, from heroes to Katsuki's future classmates.

Let's just say Katsuki's first day of school is a wild one.

basically, izuku is a shapeshifter, but can only change into different mammals. he needs to know their internal organ structure perfectly or he's in trouble too.

he manifests his quirk and quickly goes about learning some common but practical animals like a small cat, greyhound, mouse, bat and rabbit

he and bakugo are friends

his good times dont last long though, his mother is killed for a connection to a villain she didnt know she had (probably dad for one) and the villain group is after izuku as well

they don't know his quirk, he honestly hadn't gotten it registered yet

inko tells izuku to run, hide and be safe, right before shes practically cremated where she stands by a powerful fire quirk. izuku runs, shifts into a small dog and goes the only place he can think: the park he and bakugo play in

now, mitsuki is frantic bc inko's house is on fire and they can't find inko or izuku

katsuki doesn't know whats happening though, and she sends him off to the park in case they start pulling bodies out of the building. katsuki is happy to go, asks if he can bring izuku. mitsuki says izukuis busy

katsuki goes to the park and hears a soft whining sound, he finds izuku, hidden behind a tree, smelling like ash

izuku shifts back to a human and explains that villains hurt his mama and they want to hurt him too

katsuki, crying, tells him to change back into a dog. he'll keep him safe from the villains. izuku agrees, only if he can look after katsuki in turn.

they don't tell mitsuki. izuku is worried she'll get hurt, and part of his is also worried she knew about the villains and said nothing.

Katsuki and dog!izuku run back to the house, only finding charred bones where his mother had been

they both sob

mitsuki finds her son, sobbing as he clutches a tiny dog to his chest, seeing a sight so horrific she herself wants to throw up. when he asks if they can keep the puppy later that night, it's not even a question in her mind. of course they can. Anything to keep that broken expression off her son’s face.

katsuki changes after that. his best friend and friends mother apparently dead, he gets angry, but he's scared to go out where there are lots of people. he's scared of the villains that killed izuku's mum, scared they'll hurt them like they hurt inko

he goes to therapy. they quickly work out the dog is helping him cope, so izuku is trained as a therapy dog. he does astoundingly well, unsurprisingly.

katsuki ends up bullied for his service dog, but the amount they help each other is enough for him to be willing to put up and shut up

the only time he ever explodes is when someone hurts his dog, 'deku' and it's not like izuku sits idly by while katsuki gets hurt either

anyway, izuku likes to wander, whenever katsuki doesn't have school or is feeling particularly good, he'll go on an adventure, normally as a different animal

every animal he shifts into is green, so katsuki sometimes sees him when he's out and smiles

izuku's heroic spirit is undying, even as an animal, which kinda leads to him sticking his nose where it doesn't belong and helping out kids he thinks need the help.

he hears shouting and crying from the foster home down the road, sees a child muzzled

he goes hero watching as a kitten, sees the small child standing too stoic on the front lines as endeavour fights. he follows him home, whistling songs to the kid when he cries, perching on his shoulder when he sees him

ochako remembers the fluffy puppy with its massive paws showing up at her door when the power went out during winter, keeping her warm with its curly green-black fur

aizawa knows of the kitten that ages too slowly and keeps bringing troubled children to him

iida remembers the rabbit that used to race him on the tracks. without his quirk its was honestly a challenge

kirishima knows about a dark colour fawn that would always come over to him when he was upset and let him bury his face in its fur and cry

mina remembers the little green bat that nested in her hair and clumsily copied her as she danced, its colour making her feel better about her own

Tsuyu would often see a little green and black tanuki when she’d take her siblings out. It always kept them safe and out of danger and never failed to make her smile on a bad day.

he earns shinsou's trust as a too-small kitten, along with aizawa's (just out of school, learning to be an underground hero) , until he can drag aizawa to the house during the shouting. shinsou gets out, aizawa gains a son

shouto's best memories from his childhood are of the little cat that always showed up when he felt his worst, who purred like an engine in his arms and was never afraid of him

he also remembers seeing it the day he dyes his hair. its licks his nose

Even heroes know about the little green dog that watches from the sidelines. They’ve seen it drag civilians from danger, look for people in buried rubble and comfort crying children. It doesn’t often approach them, but it tends to do a little happy dance if they pet it, wagging its tail 1000 miles an hour if a hero so much as looks at it.

They call it little green, seeing him basically becomes a good luck charm. Even All Might feels a little better when he sees the little dog catching from the crowd, knowing it’ll keep some too-brave civilians safe from attacks and falling rubble.

When Katsuki applies for UA, his class doesn’t cheer him on. They whisper about the kid so angry, unstable and scared he brings a puppy to class. Izuku leans against Katsuki’s leg in support, unable to do anything for his friend. The teacher pays it no mind.

He’s told not to apply. He’s not normal or sane enough to be any help to anyone, they say. Katsuki flips them off and puts UA in all three slots on his form.

He takes Izuku with him on the day of the entrance exam. He tells himself it’s so Izuku can see the school at least once, if he doesn’t get in. Deep down he knows it’s because he’s scared and doesn’t want to be alone. Izuku doesn’t mind either way, he’s just excited to cheer on his best friend and get to look at some heroes.

He does leave Izuku with the teachers. He can take care of himself, but the idea of dragging him into a situation where he might accidentally burn his only friend? It makes him feel sick. Izuku understands. He’d do anything for Katsuki, but he was still scared to enter the exam location. He never did get over his fear of fire.

Izuku ends up in the monitor room. The teachers are trying not to coo over the too smart, too nice puppy. It’s All Might that recognises him.

“Is that, is that little green? The dog who always shows up at hero fights?”

Nemuri is ecstatic

“It totally is! I love that little guy! Hey little cutie, did you know you were famous? All the heroes around here love you!”

Aizawa, Nezu and Present Mic all separately notice that the dog honestly… he honestly looks flustered. Excited, yes, but almost sheepish. Aizawa draws some internal connections to the green and overly brave ‘stray’ kitten he’s seen his whole career. Nezu looks at the fur colour and thinks “quirked, like me. But was he always an animal?”. Present Mic sees the humanity in those eyes.

All three of them say nothing, filling the information away for later.

Katsuki ends up in the arena with Iida and Uraraka. He recognises both of them from Izuku’s whisper descriptions in the rare moments he let himself slip into human form.

Tall, broad, clearly the younger brother of Ingenium; that’s the stiff boy Izuku raced as a rabbit, trying to get him to loosen up and connect with those around him.

Round-faced, bright cheeks, fierce eyes and a body a little too thin from too many hungry nights? That’s the girl Izuku looked for when it got too cold, just to make sure he heating was working. She’d moved away from home, apparently. Izuku had found her new house and gave it a once over – if he figured it was safe, Katsuki would believe him. Izuku was the most paranoid person he’d ever met.

He almost went to say something. But Iida’s stern glare curdled his nerves. He shot back a snarl and focused on getting ready.

Back in the viewing room, Nemuri and Yagi are not so subtly fighting over Izuku. They are both trying to call him over, offer little bits of food, give him a good pat. It’s a little funny for Aizawa to watch as the poor pup ties himself in knots trying to please the both of them. He notes vaguely that he doesn’t take the food bribes from either of them.

Yagi is winning slightly, on virtue of being All Might, but Nemuri is not above begging a dog. It works shockingly well, with Izuku not wanting to upset a hero. She sends smug look’s All Might’s way as she triumphantly pats Izuku.

Mic yells start, the student's flood into the arena. Katsuki makes short work of the robots, racking up a score of 50 in almost record time. The teachers watch as ‘Deku’ clearly tracks his charge across the screen, whining softly when he pushes himself a little too far or gets a little too close to the robots.

Then the zero pointer is released and all hell breaks loose.

Katsuki sees Uraraka, trapped. He can’t leave her; not one of Izuku’s people. He’d never forgive himself for letting someone important to Izuku get hurt ever again.

He doesn’t realise Izuku couldn’t stand seeing him hurt, either.

He blasts the rubble apart, shielding Uraraka with his body, preventing her from being hailed with slivers of rubble. Uraraka sees not another student, but a hero, saving her when she thought she might die, selflessly giving up time to save someone he didn’t know. She vows to make it up to him, somehow.

It’s not enough, the robot looms too close. Bracing himself as best he can, Katsuki lets out the largest explosion he can muster, uncaring of the damage it may do to his wrists. If he gets crushed, his wrists hardly matter, do they?

The robot shakes, then topples backwards, overbalanced by the blast. Katsuki drops to his knees, both wrists dislocated. He’s hissing swears under his breath.

Uraraka sees a lump of rock flying to him as he sits there, prone from the attack that saved her life. She leaps towards it, leaving it weightless before it can hit him. The action leaves her hand red raw from the force of the rock.

Time is called. They both collapse.

Izuku is off of the door the second the explosion sounds. It’s so big it rattles the monitors in their room. Nemuri tries to stop him, reaching for his collar, but his collar doesn’t fit a mouse. He shifts into the smaller form, scampering out the door upon where he shifts into a greyhound.

He takes off full tilt towards his friend's exam arena. He's panicked and scared – the flash of fire and the pained look in Katsuki’s eyes have totally fried his nerves.

The doors aren’t open yet. He doesn’t care, shifting into a bat until he can clear them, diving down as fast as he can. He shifts again into a greyhound, racing though the robots – broken and sparking.

He sees Katsuki, jaw grit tightly as he fights back tears of pain, and Izuku lets out a pathetic whine, running full tilt towards his best friend, before lingering nervously in front of him, unwilling to touch him lest he hurt him.

“Oh get over here, Deku.” There are tears in Katsuki’s eyes still, but he’s smiling softly. Izuku shifts once more, into the softest dog he can, pressing against his friend as his tail wags like mad.

Present Mic calls time. If he was a solid 30 seconds late as he tried to process the whirlwind of chaos that little,,, dog? Left, well no one was going to notice. Other than Nezu, obviously, but the maybe-rat seemed just a confused as him.

Uraraka turns to her hero, only to see the little dog that would warm her on cold nights. She turns to him, wide-eyed. Izuku sticks his head over Katsuki’s shoulder, making happy yips at her.

Iida stumbles over, confused as to how a dog got in, confuses as to how he clearly saw it change between two distinct dog breeds in its quest to reach the prickly boy he’d seen at the entrance, who had just seriously injured himself to save a stranger.

The dog looks at him, then perks up. It gives a quick snuggle into its owner's hair before trotting over to him. It wags its tail. Iida looks on, confused.

Before his eyes, he watches the dog shift into what is unmistakably the rabbit he remembers from his earlier childhood, the one that would race him around tracks until it’s little legs couldn’t race anymore and would bound over to him as happily was a rabbit could.

He stares.

Katsuki watches this and laughs.

“I see you’ve both met Deku.”

#puppydog tails au #bnha au #bnha #bakugou katsuki #midoriya izuku #uraraka ochako #iida tenya #midoriya inko #bakugo mitsuki #mina ashido #aizawa shouta #yamada hizashi #principal nezu #All Might #midoriya #bakugo #izuku #katsuki

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kashimos-hajime · 5 years

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home | l.l.

Summary: “Come home to me, my love. Please, bring him home.” You’re a youthful little creature, but anyone who knows that life’s most vibrant gifts are the ones most dangerous, knows to stay away.

WARNINGS: ANGST, but happy ending, blood, death, sacrificial rituals, mentions of suicide bc loki :( Pairing: pre-Thor to postTDW!Loki x sorceress!Reader Word Count: 6.5k

A/N: Okay, so months ago, I entered a certain writing challenge, and forgot about it. Layla was kind enough to tell me to take my time, and now I have it completed! My prompt was: “Excuse my tantrum, can’t you see I’ve got my hands full.”

@wxntersoldiers, enjoy bb!! You deserve it :)

They've hidden you away on this war-hungry realm, where the blades are sharp and the shields are sharper. Shoved books and herbs and tutors every which way they think you will intercept them, so that they can mold you into a lady worthy of Asgard’s standards. Placed your blades out of reach, because Vanaheim is the peace to Asgard’s war. The country to Asgard’s city. Farmers to their rich.

They call you simple. You are your father’s daughter, after all, and he was merely a farmer before he was a king.

So, yes, you are the farmer’s daughter, who just happened to be lucky to marry the Prince of Asgard. The simple girl who is well-spoken, and polite, and trusting without a fault. The pretty, simple girl from a peaceful realm who doesn’t understand that their Prince will never love an idiot like you.

What you know as the truth is all that matters.

Your father is Freyr of Two Kingdoms. Of Vanaheim and Alfheim and you are to lead both. Your father reads aloud strategy instead of bedtime stories, and you paint with a sword instead of a brush. You grow up a battle-hardened warrior who has not yet lost a battle, and your father’s father sends his blessings to you. He tells you the ocean sings in your veins and the winds rest in your heart. He tells you that you are the tsunami’s rage and the torrential rains of fall.

But all the courtiers call you is farmer’s girl. Little peach.

A farmer’s girl who wields a scythe like a second arm, who’ll cut someone in two if it means it’ll make your father proud. A sweet little thing who has knives hidden in a smile. A fountain of limitless potential without a leash, a witch, if anyone’s ever seen one, without a master.

Your father’s sister amends that immediately.

She bleeds you over the fire, and teaches you things your father does not dare to speak of. Sorcery, and spells, and little tiny tricks that’ll tip the balance to your side. Black magic, they call it. You say it’s making use of what you are born with.

Little peach. Dark princess.

A little peach who is her mother’s daughter, shimmering and beautiful.

You’re a youthful little creature, but anyone who knows that life’s most vibrant gifts are the ones most dangerous, knows to stay away.

It’s a shame, you realize, that an arranged marriage was made.

You’re quite sure that if you’d met Loki in any other circumstance, you’d love him and he’d love you. He’s quiet and polite, and not hard on the eyes at all. In fact, you’re quite sure he’s attracted to you, too. After all, there are worse brides in the nine realms.

But, then he listens to what the court says, and you keep up the pretense that you’re nothing but the clouds in your head. Not that it’s hard. You simply don’t fight it, and let the people do the rest. You have no interest in defending yourself against opinions that don’t matter. You only care about one.

Your mother’s whispers tell you to paste that smile on your face. It’s not worth the trouble to fight what they think of you.

Your father’s glare demands you to show them who you are. You are my heir, and you will earn their respect.

Your lady aunt Freyja takes no side, but you can imagine her voice perfectly. My autumn child, you know what men do for a woman’s love.

You smile and open up a book as your betrothed enters the library. His eyes rake over you for a moment as you let out a soft hum, face turned away. The sun shines through the window, illuminating the dust that flickers through the air and you flip a page deliberately to catch his attention again.

“What are you reading?” he asks two shelves over.

“Some odd book about seiðr,” you respond and your gaze rises to see him pausing. He grabs the book he has floating somewhere between him and the shelf, and turns around, meeting your eyes. He searches for something deeper. You drop your eyes back to the book you’ve read countless times before.

He sits down on the opposite end of the window sill bench and you tuck your knees to your chest. You hold the book open, and his eyes flicker across your face, drinking you in.

“Interesting?” he inquires. You send him a smile.

“Enough.”

No more words are said. He simply cracks open his book and you return to yours. You cannot help the smile that spreads across your face.

Many things, Aunt Freyja. People do many, many things for love.

That is your little hideaway, the library. Only Loki knows when to find you and where — that spot on the window sill bench, after dinner and before breakfast — and he comes to join you often.

Mostly, he asks questions. You smile and answer all of them willingly. You’ve let him come to you, and now you have him in your grasp, and you in his. The moment he finds out you also know how to use magic, know how to do things that not many on this war-hungry realm can, you feel something in your chest lurch at the very sight of him. Perhaps it’s the way his eyes spark when he reads something new, or the gentle way in which he smiles at you.

No matter. You enjoy the games you play together.

You watch the way the sunlight hits the smooth apples of his cheeks and brow bones as you play with the magic at your fingertips. The two of you play a game where you must get pieces through hoops the other positions. It can be as outrageous as one’d like, but in the lazy setting sun and the fullness of supper, neither of you go farther than the distance between the two.

He holds a hoop between the two of you and your lips twist as you telekinetically toss a piece through it. It lands in his lap and you smirk victoriously.

“Now, I get a question,” you announce. Loki leans back against the wall, a satisfied smile upon his face. “Lemon tarts or berry tarts?”

“You know I don’t like sweet things,” Loki deadpans and you smile, tucking your knees to your chest. You flick your fingers and retrieve the piece still in his lap as his own wooden blocks float around his fingers. “Lemon tarts.”

Taking your own hoop and holding it up above your head with a wave of your fingers, you feel the warm gush of power flow down your fingers. The wooden hoop shimmers with blue magic as you look up, making the final adjustments to its position.

“I’m ready,” you announce and Loki picks up a piece with his fingers. It soars through the air with a flick of his fingers and through the hoop, and he catches it before it can drop on your head. He smiles with a little ‘ahah’ and holds the little wooden piece in his fist as you lower the hoop onto your finger with an amused smile.

It seems only in the sanctuary that is the library does Loki smile like he does. You’ve been here quite a while to know that he’s not the favourite son. The Allfather tries his best not to make it so painstakingly obvious, but you can see it plain as day.

He wears his smile in the court like a courtesy. Whilst you float around, a butterfly searching for nectar, he is the crow perched on leaves, wondering when he can return home to his murder — his flock. You’ve tried to draw that smile you know lurks within him out, but fail every time.

Here though, he blooms like the sweetest flower and you reach over to skim your fingertips over his knuckles. His eyes flicker down before meeting yours.

“Why do you act like that in court?” he asks softly, and you tilt your head.

“Like what?”

“You know what I mean, my lady.”

“I know what they think of me,” you say with a cunning smile. “You can’t make people change their minds, and an advantage can only be used once. But why should I care about silly little opinions when only one truly matters?” Your magic dances across your fingertips and over Loki’s hand as he slowly turns it over to grasp your palm. His fingers slide over your wrist, feeling your pulse that beats in your ears.

“And whose opinion is that?” he asks, tone bemused. You roll your eyes, draw back, and gesture to one of the hoops he has floating around his head.

“One question per point,” you remind him, drawing your hand away. Pink stains his cheeks and you send him another sly smile. “Come on. A few more rounds before bed.”

“Bed?” he repeats with a glint of mischief. You fling a block at his nose which he deflects easily, and his smirk causes your lips to press into a flustered smile. “Too early for bed, isn’t it, my lady?”

“The night is still young.”

“Ah, you know that wasn’t what I meant.”

“If you’re so eager, a request could be made to my father to move the wedding up a fortnight,” you chuckle. With the wedding only a month away, everything is falling into place. The few things you have left to deal with is the final fittings for the dress, and the final draft of the menu.

“I’ll resist the temptation, little witch. The wait will make it sweeter.”

Your heart beats a little faster. By his little self-satisfied smirk, you know he knows, and you curse Loki for being able to turn the tides of your little battle against you.

The day of the wedding is scheduled for the first day of autumn, and gentle wind kisses your cheeks as you walk through the gardens. A spiral of orange and yellow, red and brown, follow your steps as your father walks you through one last time.

“You’ll return home, then? Once the wedding is over?” you ask softly. The sparrows chirp overhead, flitting from one branch to another. You smile at the sweet songs, leaning against your battle-worn father. He wears a handsome grey pelt around his shoulders, his cape dragging behind on the cobblestone road as you tilt your head to the grey-blue sky.

“Yes. Once I’m sure you’ve settled in, and you’re comfortable here.” Autumn blossoms sprinkle the pathway as you ascend the steps to the Great Hall and you turn to your father with a smile reserved only for him.

“I am happy here. If they’d let me bring out my sword once in a while, then it’ll be perfect.”

He nods, cupping your face and tilting your chin up towards him. His dark eyes flicker over your face, thumb stroking your jaw and you smile bittersweetly. You know what he sees — his little girl.

“Thank you, Father.”

And at last, he smiles. It vanishes a second later, but the love that swells in your chest does not as he sends the guards a nod.

The doors open, and you are presented to the people who are to be yours.

Loki wears his ceremonial armor, golden horns glinting in the morning sunlight that streams through the open ceiling. Rich green spills from his shoulders, his cape pooling around his leather boots as he turns to look at you. A reverent silence hangs in the air, filled by the soft lull of harps and choir voices, and you lower your eyes to avoid the evident smile that’ll occupy your face as soon as you see him.

When you reach the altar, you turn to gather up your dress that tumbles on for miles to see attendants already holding onto it, adjusting it so it flows prettily down the golden stairs. Your father watches with a hard stare, making sure you look as beautiful as you can be and you place your hands on your father’s shoulders.

“Thank you, Papa. For everything.”

He nods once, and then takes hold of your hands with his rough ones. His thumbs brush over your knuckles as he turns to Loki, who holds out his own hands.

You look at the man who is to be your husband in mere moments, and he hides a smile beneath that helmet of his. Your father places your hands in Loki’s, giving you away, before descending down the steps and standing next to your Aunt Freyja who hides a clever smile behind her hands.

Marital bliss lasts for centuries. The both of you are in no rush for children, still young and eager to learn about the world and each other.

“If it comes, then we let it come,” Loki whispers into your neck one night before bed. You press your whole body against his, wrapping him in a tight hug as his arm drapes over your waist. He kisses your jaw and brushes hair away from your face, eyes dark in the shadows of your shared rooms. “But in the meantime, I’d like to get in a lot of practice.”

“Practice, hm?” Your face is flush against his chest, and you press soft, tiny kisses against the bare skin you find there, fingers tracing shapes along his back. He sighs, his hand trailing up and down your side as he takes you in. Your eyes peer up at him modestly, and you reach up to touch his face. You feel his smile warm against your palm, and you wonder how it is that you’ve fallen in love with the man when he’s the one who is supposed under your spell.

You suppose it isn’t hard to wonder why.

“Oh, yes. Lots and lots of practice.” His nose wrinkles against your cheek and your laughter is silenced by his kisses as you wrap your arms around his neck. The sheets twist around your body as you slide a leg between his. The burn of his skin spreads delightfully into your bones as you sigh, brushing fingers over his cheeks.

“I adore you, you know that?”

“Of course I do,” he whispers, and he seals that promise with a kiss.

Your first is a daughter, and the birth is difficult. You think it’s the stress — the whole ordeal has been a hellish year, and the fact that Thor has been banished such a short time ago.

Loki has been exiled to pace outside your room to let the midwives work as you let out a torrential scream. Outside, Asgard faces a storm, bullet rain that dents metal with every one of your pained shouts as wet wind carries the fate of your child to all corners of the realm. There is blood, so much blood that they have to change the towels beneath your waist twice.

And even then, it’s a struggle.

Frigga brings you sustenance — filling soup and water — as well as updates on your husband.

“He’s going positively mad,” your mother-by-law whispers and you let out a breathless laugh as another contraction rips through you. Something tears and you grip onto whatever is closest, clamping down with all your might. The midwives murmur amongst themselves but you cannot see through your tears to bother asking what’s wrong.

The labour continues on for another day and a half before you can rest. Frigga departs your bedside to go look and you raise your head blearily. You’re quite light-headed, and you wonder why there is such a silence. You can hear the gurgles of a child, the tiny little wails but otherwise, nothing.

“What’s wrong?” you croak, blinking. You need to see your baby. You gave your life and soul to this child and now they won’t even tell you what’s wrong. “Is it a boy, or a girl?” Nothing. “Answer me!”

“We… we don’t know, Princess.”

Your whole world shatters. You try to sit up but Frigga stops you as agony rips between your legs mercilessly. Groaning, you slide back down as she cups your face. Your blown eyes search hers, and you feel the tears coming before you can stop them. Hair sticks to the sweat on your skin as you let out a quivering breath, trying to stop yourself from sobbing.

“What’s wrong with my child?” you ask weakly, closing your eyes as tears burn hotter than the flames surrounding you. Frigga shushes you and you feel the shift of the bed as she turns to the midwives.

“You do not speak of this moment. You do so, and you will not wake up from your sleep. Leave.”

The door opens and closes. A soft bundle is pressed into your arms. Frigga stuffs pillows beneath your head and urges you to open your eyes.

“There’s a secret we’ve been hiding from Loki his whole life,” the Queen whispers as your eyes peel open. Tears blur your vision instantly but you blink them away. With a weak finger, you pull the towel away from your child’s face. “Something we should’ve told him long before he met you.”

“Boy or girl?” you ask quietly. The child turns in your arms, eyes squeezed shut and a closed fist hitting your finger softly.

“You have a sweet little daughter.”

Nodding to yourself, you feel your fingers go numb as you stare at your tiny little daughter. She’s so small, so gentle, and yet she already has such a climb in front of her. Your heart swells for your firstborn child, and you hold her to your forehead, breathing in her scent as you stroke her tiny chest.

You kiss her blue, marked cheek, and her tiny blue knuckles, play with her creamy little fingers and brush a knuckle down the unmarked side of her face. You watch as your half-blue daughter searches for food, and you swallow a hard knot. Bearing your breast, you let her feed and try not to cry once again.

“When will you tell him?” you ask. Frigga looks on with guilt, with shame. Your eyes stare frostily at her, and you wonder if this is why the Allfather favours Thor over him. “I won’t hide this from him.” The Queen has no answer, and a wave of nausea crashes over your head as you turn to look at your daughter. The birthing pains have faded, replaced by new, deeper cuts on your heart. “Please bring him in.”

When Loki meets his tiny little daughter, blue and cream, frost giant markings along her face and body, he confesses that he knows. Knows he’s a monster.

You tell him with every ounce of yourself that he is not even though you know he won’t believe you. So you tell him you love him instead, because he knows that that will never change.

“Thor! You’re back!” You rush to him, pulling him into your rooms as you admire your brother. His golden hair shines in the candlelight and he wears a fatigued smile as you go to pour him some tea.

“There’s no need for that,” he says with a wave and you send him a strange look. Something about him seems off. He’s no longer the jovial man you know, or perhaps, something has happened. Before you can entertain that thought, though, a shrill cry pierces the air and you go to the cradle beside your bed.

Your daughter squirms and wiggles, and you pick her up, shushing her quietly as you turn to look at Thor. He stares at your daughter for half a moment, and you smile sadly.

“They hid the secret from you, too,” you begin and he rips his gaze to you. “Sweet brother, Loki has been raised in a lie.”

And that is what makes the next bit of news so utterly horrible.

“Where is he, anyhow?” you ask. You gently rock your daughter in your arms, hoping that’ll soothe her to sleep but with a newborn, you’re only learning more and more everyday. Thor grimaces, fingers slotting together as if he’s trying to figure out the right words to say. You go to your balcony, looking at where the bridge has shattered. You arch an eyebrow, tilting your head and absently stroking your daughter’s cheek. “The Bifrost was glowing awfully bright before you returned.”

“Autumn sister,” he whispers, and his voice has grown thick. You turn to him, the wind tugging at the skirts around your ankles as he steps onto the balcony with you. The moon casts you both in silver, and you swallow.

“Bad news?” Your voice shakes and you try to pretend it’s from the cold that does not bother you, not the fear that seizes your heart and threatens to crush it into tiny pieces of dust. When Thor does not answer, you shake your head and whip around, holding your child to your face. Yours and Loki’s. Our daughter.

“I’m sorry—”

“No. No, please don’t tell me,” you whisper. Kissing her cheek, you hold the child close to you in hopes that it’ll fend off whatever words Thor will say. “Don’t tell me, please.”

“He let go of my hand,” Thor whispers and you close your eyes, breath rattling in your throat. “He let go, and he fell.”

“No. He wouldn’t.”

“He did.”

A myriad of emotions digs into your heart, splitting it with a chisel and hammer, carving it into something that resembles a broken heart. You wilt, sinking to your knees and holding your daughter close. The last pieces of Loki you have left.

“Was I not enough?” you ask to the winds. Thor drapes his cloak around your shoulders, gently touches your daughter’s cheek who meets her uncle for the first time, and shakes his head. “Was our daughter not enough?”

“It was never anything you did,” he whispers, hugging you tight. You close your eyes, and tears trace over onyx armor as he presses a tight kiss to your temple. “Some secrets never should have been secrets.”

“You’re sending Thor to Midgard, but not me?” You throw open the doors with a slam, storming into the throne room. Odin Allfather sits up in his chair, his conversation with his wife all but broken as you stop. Blue autumn winds follow after you, brushing against your skirts, your hands, curling around your fingers. “I’m his wife, if you don’t remember.”

“You have a daughter. I don’t want young Hela to lose two parents,” he replies, an easy response, a trained one. You sneer, hands curling into knuckle-white fists. Magic rushes to your fingertips, but before you can protest, he slams Gungnir into the floor. “My decision is final.”

Frigga’s, however, is not. With a promise to take care of your daughter, she sneaks you into the Observatory. Thor flies you in, and the two of you hold on tight to each other as Frigga waves farewell.

“I need to return before he thinks anything’s amiss,” the Queen Mother explains with a slight smile. “Bring him home.”

“We will,” the two of you promise.

When Odin’s dark magic powers the Observatory for the first time in centuries, he sends not one but two warriors down to Midgard.

“Loki?” you whisper, and he wilts under your stare. Something flickers in your eyes as you press your hands against the glass. He’s trapped in some sort of cage, and you paste on that smile of yours as he walks towards the thick walls.

He places his hands deliberately to cover yours, and you lean forward, your forehead touching his. The soft thunk tells you he does the same and you close your eyes. You can nearly feel the heat of him. Almost, not quite, maybe.

“What have they done to you?” you ask as your heart tries to touch his. It wrenches out of your chest, and you open your eyes to meet his, smokey blue, a gaze you don’t know. “Who did this to you?”

There is no answer. He merely backs away into the end of the glass container like you’d shocked him.

“I’ll kill them. I’ll kill whoever did this to you,” you promise. The glass begins to bend under your burning hands and the blue magic under your fingertips phases through the glass. The rest of you follows, and you are in the cell with him. He watches you like an injured dog, and your heart cracks as you open your arms.

“Stay back, wife,” he spits, but you don’t care. His poison has never touched you. You continue towards him.

“I’ll kill them all,” you repeat as the uncertainty in Loki’s eyes grows. “I promise you. I promise I will do whatever they’ve done to you to them tenfold. I will bring you home to our daughter.” You think of little Hela back home, and you smile. “She’s missed you. She’s your little girl.”

“She’s a monster,” he whispers harshly. You falter and your arms drop to your sides. “Don’t you see?”

“I’ve never cared much for monsters.” Blue mist spills into the air, tasting like cold starlight and warm spices as you reach out one hand to him. “And I know how to love one with everything I have.”

Tendrils of magic weave from your fingers out to Loki, who has half-turned away from you. It caresses his face and whispers over his jaws, taking hold and turning his cheek towards you. His eyes meet yours and you smile.

“Come home to me, Loki.”

He takes a step towards you and your heart swells in your chest. Your fingers strain for his cheek and your smile grows as he walks into your reach. Your hand cups his face, and you let out a relieved laugh. You absorb every inch of him, the sunken quality of his eyes, the hollowness in his cheeks. My husband.

Your arms wrap around his neck and suddenly, he’s embracing you back desperately. His arms clutch at the leather that binds your armor together and you kiss his neck softly.

“She looks so much like you,” you whisper, tracing shapes on the plane of his shoulder. “Come home to me.”

“I will. When the work is done, I will.”

“What?” Your head raises off the crook of his neck and shoulder, and you stare into his eyes. Swallowing, you open your mouth to speak but then he pushes you hard, blasting you through the glass and onto the metal floor. “Loki—”

“Trust me, wife,” he says with a sly smirk. In between the lines of his face, you can read him like any book in the library. “It won't take long.” Dusting yourself off, you nod and swallow the hard knot of fear in your throat.

Safe in his chains and muzzle, he presses his forehead against your cheek and in your mind you can hear one name.

Thanos.

The frost that crawls down your spine is not from the cold. You hold your husband tight against you as Thor twists the glass cylinder containing the Tesseract. Blue cosmic energy washes over you and you return home to your daughter, who cries when she sees her father.

You bring your daughter to his cell, sit on the lip of the stone and hold her up in your lap as he sits on the other side of the golden barrier. A tiny grin encompasses his face and makes him glow as Hela reaches forward.

“Hello, darling,” he whispers as you pull her back from the barrier. “How are you?”

“I’m fine, Loki.” You sigh, fingers scratching the stone you sit upon as you wrap an arm around your daughter. “She took her first steps today.”

“Really? She’s a quick learner, then,” Loki praises and you smile sadly. You press your hand against the barrier despite the tingling electricity burning beneath your palm as a blue shockwave ripples over the gold.

“You should have been there to see it,” you whisper over your blistering skin and Loki’s eyes widen. Tears burn into your eyes as your burning hand curls into a fist. “Loki, I can’t do this. You should be here—”

“Hold fast, my love.”

“This is no way for us to live.”

He places a hand against the burning barrier, and you close your eyes the tears race down your face. Hela’s soft hand wipes them away unknowingly and you open your eyes to gaze at your daughter. You see so much of your husband in her that it makes everything ache.

“No one ever said this was fair.” You look up again to see his palm, black and white instead of cream. There is no wince or flinch at the blood that pours down his wrist and you glance down at your own hand. The burns have already begun to fade, but the ones on your heart will forever remain raw.

“I need your help,” Thor whispers, tugging you away from the harbour. You’re torn away from Frigga’s funeral jarringly, blinking as you collide with people although Thor makes a clear enough path as you reach a small archway in an alley of some street. You thrash your arm out of his grip, backing to the opposite end of the archway. He stands there, stung, but all you can muster is a glare. The candlelight illuminates half of his face, the other cast in shadow, and your fist clenches.

The fires heighten, burn blue.

“What do you want from me?”

“We need to end this threat. We need to find Malekith and destroy him before he comes for the Aether.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.” You cross your arms, jaw stiff as you take another step back to his step forward.

“Promise me you’ll help me. I need you.”

“Why should I?” you snarl, poison biting at your words. “Have you ever gone to see your brother? He rots in a cell whilst you come bringing you little lady love to Asgard.” Thor’s mouth opens and you raise a hand to silence him. “Save it. I want to hear nothing from you.”

“I told you I wouldn’t help you.”

“You’re being childish.” Thor enters your rooms. You spin around from where you’re holding your daughter, mouth open in protest. “You act like some simple girl who doesn’t understand the consequences. If Malekith gets his hands on the Aether—”

“Excuse me if I’m having a bit of a tantrum. Can’t you see I’ve got my hands full?” you snap. You send a wicked glare at your brother-by-law who seems to wilt underneath your stare and you inhale sharply. “What do you want, Thor?”

“Convince him to help me.”

Your eyebrows furrow together, and you frown deeply. “Why should either of us help you?” you ask breathlessly and Thor looks away. “You imprison your brother who was tortured, manipulated—”

“You want revenge for Frigga?”

Your heart breaks into shatters at the mention of her, and your breath catches in your throat. “You know I do.”

“Then, what other reason do you have to help me?” Thor’s eyebrows raise in sympathy and he extends a hand to you. “Your daughter will be cared for, I promise you.” You kiss your daughter’s cheek, gaze into her red and blue eyes, before nodding.

“Fine.”

“Move!” You run away from Jane whom you’d been protecting and scream, blue magic flaring around your fingertips as you push Thor away. No, no, no. “Let me see him.”

“I’m sorry,” he whispers painfully and you let out a horrified breath as he clutches as your sleeves. Blood spills over the soil as you bow your head, pressing your face against Loki’s. “I’m sorry, wife.”

“Loki, no. Hold on, sweetheart,” you tell him, placing a hand over the wound, fingers bending as you search for the source of blood. A poisoned blade, cursed with something dark. You can fix this — you can fix this if you have time—

Loki’s fingers let go of your sleeve, slip off your hands as the pale blue of his heritage overtakes every part of him.

“No. Loki, no!” You cup his face, but his head rolls away at the force and you let out an outraged scream. “No, no, no!” Slamming a fist against the dirt, pure cosmic energy flares between the cracks of the dirt as a pair of hands reach for your shoulders. With one hand holding Loki’s body towards you, you twist to slap Thor away. “Stay away from me!”

“We need to find him,” Thor whispers through a thick, tear-ridden voice. “Malekith is still out there.”

“You killed him! Why should I help you?” you scream, skirting towards your husband’s body, holding his head in your lap. You brush the hair away from his face and sniff through your blurring vision. Hot tears drop to the soil and onto Loki’s pale face as you bow your head. Agony rips your heart to shreds as it collapses in your chest, and you struggle to breathe through your clogged throat. You tear your gaze wretchedly to him.

“Y/N—”

“Go! Leave!” What little air you can breathe rattles between your teeth as you squeeze your eyes shut, trying to cleanse the image of your husband from your mind as you run stiff fingers through his hair. “Leave me!”

“I’m sorry.” The words whisper at your ears, but you shake your head. Forcing your eyes open, you reach a hand to the wound. And here you thought you’d never need what you’ve been taught ever again.

Dragonsroot, heartsbane. You’ll need a warm fire, fresh, young blood.

For the first time in so long, Freyja’s voice sings in your mind and you press your lips together. The magic tendrils stitch Loki back together from within and you use your other hand to pull the poison from his blood as you pray to your father. You haven’t in so long, that you wonder if he’ll still hear you. Vile, black magic stains your blue and you toss it aside, letting it curl and sink into the dirt.

Take me home, Father. Grant me safe winds, Grandfather, and blessed waves. Bring me home.

There is movement under Loki’s eyes, so quick that you think you must have hallucinated it and you blink the tears from your eyes. “Loki?” you whisper, brushing your hands over his tear-stained cheeks.

“Is that any way to greet your father?”

Whipping around, you let out a breathless laugh upon seeing your father. How long has it been? Decades? Centuries? He looks older now than he did before, but no less strong. The mere image of him grants you strength and your heart mends momentarily with sticky sap and pure spite.

His flintstone eyes widen upon seeing his child on this foreign realm, holding onto the dead prince of Asgard and he walks to you, falling to his knees. Trying to hold back your tears, your throat blooms in pain as you throw your arms around him.

“Please, help me,” you sob, your forehead pressing against your father’s broad shoulder. “I don’t know what to do.”

“Little one,” he whispers, holding you tight, “we know someone who does.”

In a pyre built by you and you alone, Loki burns.

The smell of burnt leather and hair fills the air, no matter how many flowers and sweet fruits loiter in the clearing you do this in.

Your aunt’s instructions echo in your ears and you turn back to look at the castle over your shoulder where your daughter awaits. She’d been rescued by your father earlier that day whilst your aunt aided you in gathering what you need.

She stands on the edge of the clearing now, waiting, watching.

“This is your last chance,” Freyja calls softly and you shake your head. You need to do this, even if you aren’t sure it’ll work, even if it might kill you. Holding out a hand, you close your eyes and blow out a breath between your lips. The wooden handle of your knife is pressed firmly into your palm and you drag the silver tip over your fingers, not cutting the skin.

You toss a glance to your lady aunt, who nods and gathers the two bowls. In them, grinded heartsbane and chopped dragonsroot you’d prepared yourself. She walks to the back of the pyre, throwing them into the flames.

Immediately, it bursts white, flickers of other colours you’d never seen before burning into your eyes as you walk up the pyre. The wood trembles beneath your bare feet and the fire licks at your skin greedily as you close your eyes. As your skin begins to blister, you stuff down the mortal throes that make you want to scream until you bleed and walk deeper into the fire.

You can barely see through the white flames and you fall to your knees, blood clotting in your throat as you reach blindly for his body. He is yet untouched, covered in oils and blessings, and his skin is smooth and cold to your touch as you reaffirm your grip on the knife.

Say his name, then your wish. Give your blood, your sweat, your tears. Show them you are worthy. Spirits more powerful than us will decide.

“Loki,” you whisper and the flames twist and flicker. You trail your hand down his shoulder to his chest to the scar on his abdomen you’d tried your hardest to heal. “Come back to me, my love.” A rush of magic, threads of sorcery, run down your arms and flows down the knife, burning orange in the fire. “Come home.” Your teeth clench together and you peel open your eyes.

You are all ash and bones, black peeling skin, blood and tears, and what is left of your strength is visible in the magic that whispers over your skin. Bringing the knife to your stomach, you inhale flames and ash.

Please, bring him home.

And you sheathe the knife in your stomach, in the exact placement as the scar on Loki’s body. Blood rushes forward as you yank the knife out breathlessly. You drop the knife, and it slips between the wood of the pyre.

“It’s not his time,” you whisper through the blood rising in your throat. It bubbles between your lips, burning blue under your skin and you bow your head. Closing your eyes, you let the fire wash over your blackened body and lay down next to your husband. Your hands touch his cool skin, and you sigh blissfully. The air is thick, humid, and a wave of exhaustion hits you.

The simple princess, you think as you fall asleep. There is movement beside you, but you hold Loki closer, eyes shut against the bright white flames that purr against your skin. You think you can feel cold hands touch your waist where silk has burned away, and the fire begin to die. The only one that burns now is the one inside your heart.

Little peach.

Farmer’s girl.

Yes, that is all I am.

#fic: home #loki #loki laufeyson #loki laufeyson x reader #loki laufeyson x you #loki laufeyson x yn #loki laufeyson x y/n #loki x reader #loki x you #loki x yn #loki x y/n #loki laufeyson fanfic #loki laufeyson fanfiction #loki fanfic #loki fanfiction #laylas4kriot #my writing

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lxveille · 6 years

Text

posture

mingyu x reader

word count: ~ 1950 warnings: alcohol, profanity, mild jealousy a/n: tall!reader, bc one can only read about members towering over mcs so many times. and also vee encouraged me. blame her.

You lean into the bar to order another drink. For a moment, you consider adding a shot on top of it. It only takes another glance out to the dance floor for you to think fuck it, and tack a tequila to end of your order before telling him the name of your open tab.

With a nod from the bartender, you stand back up straight and tap your nails against the bartop. The mood you’re in is hardly the one you’d intended to have when you were getting ready to go out tonight. Only half an hour ago, even, things had still felt as good when you’d first headed out.

The tequila shows up in front of your first, and you take it with a half-hearted cheers directed towards one of the strangers on bar stools you’d squeezed yourself in between. With the empty glass back the glossy wood of the bartop, you turn to look back out at the crowd. Looking out over the heads in the crowd, it’s easy enough for you to spot where the friends you came with are. Most of them are still gathered around the floor-side table the lot of you had claimed upon coming in. Except, of course, for Mingyu, who is still tucked into the middle of the dance floor with one hand on the hip of the girl he’s flirting with. He’s practically doubled over in order to talk into her ear over the loud music. You can’t help but roll your eyes and wish you’d doubled down on tequila.

There’s no reason for you to be jealous. Mingyu is your friend. Your funny, kind, handsome friend you have a huge, blistering crush on. And one of the rare guys in your social circle you consider to be in your dateable height range. But just your friend, all the same. So what if you were hoping the right song would come on tonight for you to make a move on him tonight? So what if you’d had intentionally chosen a dress he’d complimented once before?

“--- for those?”

“Huh?” You manage to make it sound like a curse word as you turn your head towards the voice. It’s the guy you’d vaguely directed your tequila at before downing it. He points towards the empty shot glass and the fresh cocktail in front of you and leans in towards you to repeat himself.

“Did you already pay for those?”

You look him over before rolling your eyes. “Yeah, they’re on my tab.”

“Maybe I can buy the next round?” he suggests. Some part of you says you could give this guy a chance; either to get your mind off how Mingyu’s probably only a line away from making out with that girl or to hope he’ll look over and see. But from the way you already stand more than a head over the stranger and how comfortably his legs dangle over the floor from his perch on the stool, you suspect he’d take back the offer as soon as he stood up.

“I’m good,” you shout over the music, and grab your glass to head back over to your friends. Making your way through the crowd, you hold your drink up over the swaying shoulders and heads of those already dancing and remind yourself not to look the direction you last saw Mingyu in.

It comes as a surprise, then, when you get back to the table and find Mingyu back with his own beer and seemingly deep in conversation with Soonyoung again. As if he hadn’t been out on the dance floor at all. You take a hefty sip out of your glass.

“I thought you were going to the bathroom?” Minkyung asks once she spots that you’ve returned. She’s halfway through her own drink, plastic straw stained by her lipstick and a few guys at the table over from you gawking obviously at her.

“I did,” you answer, “And then I got more to drink.” She sends a knowing glance towards Mingyu and then looks back at you with a sympathetic smile.

“Clearly, it didn’t work out for him,” she says, leaning into your shoulder, “You could still shoot your shot.”

You sigh and tilt your head to rest on top of hers. “What’s the point? He’s clearly into tiny girls.”

“Do you think his back ever hurts from bending down to their level?” Minkyung asks with feigned sincerity. It succeeds in drawing a laugh out of you, nearly risking spilling part of your drink when you sway away from her. She gives you a grin, though there’s a tinge of embarrassment on her face at her own words. Soonyoung turns around at the sound of your laughter cutting over the booming bass.

“What’s funny?” he asks, with the kind of eager curiosity for everything that comes entirely too quickly to him after only one drink.

It must be the tequila that motivates you to answer, “We’re just pondering whether or not Mingyu’s gonna give himself a permanent backache with the girls he hits on.” Soonyoung blinks, lips parting around a question he can’t quite seem to form. Behind him, Mingyu’s attention seems to have perked up -- though with enough confusion on his face for you to suspect he’d only just made out his name.

He takes the few steps needed to put himself in talking range with you and asks, “What?”

As if it took him saying that one word for you to even realize what you’ve said, you look over to Minkyung with mild panic. She shrugs and waves her free hand towards the two guys in a way that seems to say this is on you. Sure enough, Soonyoung is already repeating back your statement to Mingyu.

His brows crinkle and he looks quickly between you and Minkyung before apparently deciding to settle upon you as the main culprit.

“What’s that supposed to even mean?” Mingyu questions.

You bring your glass up to your lips, like the right answer could be found in liquor. Or least as a stall tactic.

“Did Soonyoung hear you right?” he asks instead of repeating himself, centering himself in front of you as Minkyung tries to make grabbing Soonyoung’s wrist and dragging him away from the two of you something subtle.

“Depends. What’d Soonyoung say?” You tap your nails against the side of your cup, keeping your drink only a few inches away from your mouth as if it were shield.

Mingyu hesitates, unsure if you’re playing oblivious or genuinely unsure. “Something about me fucking up my back…?” he decides to give into it either way.

Something in hearing him say it makes you smile, nearly giggling, in spite of what might be left of your better judgement. “Well, I mean, it’s not wrong with the way you have to slouch over for some girls.”

“Since when do you care about my spine’s health?”

There’s something purely strange with the universe that Kim Mingyu is asking you that at half past midnight in the middle of a bar blasting dance songs. And if the look on his face is any sign, he’s just as aware of that fact as you. Your mind traces back your earlier thoughts of just how little this night was playing out as you’d hoped.

“I’m just saying, like… It’d be better for your posture to pick on somebody your own size,” you find yourself saying.

Mingyu smiles -- possibly even chuckles, but it’s difficult to tell over the music. “People say that about fighting people, you know.” It’s a fair point, you know. It’s also, you decide, entirely the alcohol’s fault that you’d used that expression to begin with. Or least the alcohol’s fault that you’re saying any of this to him at all. Though if his tone is anything to go off of, at least Mingyu isn’t as annoyed by your commentary as you’d first feared he’d be.

You shrug one shoulder and take another drink from your glass before setting it down on the table behind you. “Whatever. You get the point.” With any luck, it sounds disinterested rather than bitter.

He looks skeptical. And then, he turns to look over his shoulder at the crowd on the dance floor. His eyes come back to yours, and he gives a slight shrug that feels like reflection of your own facade of indifference. “It’s not like there’s always a whole lot of options for girls I’m not a giant to, you know.”

Frustration threatens to bubble over inside you and have you saying something entirely too obvious. (Something perhaps along the lines of ‘I, you absolute fool, am right fucking here’). The booze has you settling for doing something dumb and even more obvious.

You take a single step up to him and curl your fingers into the front of his shirt and tug him close enough to kiss. There’s a small sound of surprise from him in that split second between your hand on him and your lips meeting his. Or perhaps it was the start of a word that you’d cut off in your sheer determination to get him to recognize you as a goddamn option.

Before anxiety or regret can creep up on you, Mingyu’s hand finds its way to your waist. You lean into him a little more, your grip loosening on him in favor of gliding up to the back of his neck. He’s warm, with the taste of his beer filtering into the kiss as he pushes back closer to you. There’s a sweetness to it all the same -- though perhaps it was only lingering sugar from the rim on your drink.

You don’t fully register your moving feet until your back hits the edge of the table. For a moment, nothing could make you break away from him. But then there’s the unmistakable feeling of something wet seeping through the fabric of your dress. You one hand on Mingyu’s shoulder as you pull away from him and look back at the table. Sure enough, your drink has been knocked over along with someone else’s.

“Shit,” you blurt out, and turn to set the glasses upright and scan the table for napkins. Mingyu’s fingers squeeze at your hip as he peeks over your shoulder to see just what had interrupted the two of you.

“That’s your fault,” he declares suddenly. You turn your head sharply to give him a look of disbelief. He’s smiling. A self-satisfied, delighted smile that has you wanting to forget what he’d said and kiss him all over again. He moves closer to your ear and adds a little lower, “I’ll take care of it if you go close out your tab.”

It only gives you all the more reason to give him an incredulous look. He raises a brow at you, and his expression shifts to something better called a smirk. You give him one good look over before letting yourself smile and nod once. “We’ll get back to the whole fault thing, though,” you claim, pointing an accusatory finger his way.

Mingyu moves the hand on your waist up to catch your lifted hand, and uses it to pull you in for a second, briefer kiss. “Hurry up,” he murmurs to you as he breaks it off. It’s tempting to fire some stubborn remark back at him, but the look in his eyes makes you more inclined to go ahead with his plan of getting out her sooner rather than later.

This isn’t exactly how you planned this night on going. But at this point, you’re not about to wish it went any differently. Except, perhaps, for wishing you’d worked up the nerve to go ahead and grab him by the collar a little earlier.

#seventeen scenarios #seventeen imagines #kim mingyu scenarios #seventeen fanfic #mingyu x reader #ive been posting things on here for a little over a year and i still never know how/what to tag lmao

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corcordium1983 · 6 years

Text

I Couldn’t Be More In Love

this started out as a blurb. it is no longer a blurb, I don’t think, considering it’s over 2000 words long. it just took on a life of its own, ok? anyway, it was inspired by the picture above, because it makes me sTRESSED. (this is unedited fyi bc I rly need sleep but also wanted to get it up tonight)

The first time you realised he was a clumsy idiot was when he spilled his drink on you at an after party. He’d been trying to manoeuvre you into his lap with one hand while simultaneously wielding a drink in the other. Thankfully it was a clear spirit, and nothing that would stain, but you were still less than thrilled about reeking of alcohol. He’d apologised profusely throughout the rest of the night, and in his drunken state had offered you his shirt to wear instead. You’d laughed it off and peppered him with kisses, assuring him it was all right. And it was, because he was there, and that was enough to make just about any situation better.

You should’ve expected it, should have seen it coming, based on the countless interviews and gifs that had been sent your way after the news of your involvement broke. Your favourite by far was the one of him tipping backwards on his chair at a panel – you still shoot him a warning smirk whenever you find him leaning too far back on a chair, and it never fails to make him blush.

To be honest, he’s not too clumsy normally. It’s only when he’s exhausted, overworked, or – as in the most prominent cases – drunk that he turns into a bumbling, uncoordinated fool. So you’ve learned his tells, and you’ve taken it upon yourself to keep a watchful eye on him when you feel like he (and his clothes, and other people’s clothes) are at risk. It would be such a shame to ruin a decadent Ackermann suit, after all.

The first time you pluck a champagne flute out of his hand as he leans in to hug some big-shot producer, he gives you a puzzled stare over the man’s shoulder. You offer him a shrug in return and take a sip of the champagne, before handing the flute back once he’s at a safe distance from the producer. He doesn’t question you about your move as you thought he would, but instead seems to let it slip from his mind as others come up to him to mingle. You can’t say you blame him – being Timothée Chalamet seems like a busy life to lead.

The second time it happens, your reflexes are only barely quick enough to avert the disaster. You’re at yet another party, a house party of sorts. You’re not quite sure who owns the place, but whoever it is, they must be loaded. Timmy had disappeared earlier in the night, slipping outside with an acquaintance of his, and returning approximately half an hour later with eyes that were suspiciously red-rimmed and the sharp scent of smoke clinging to his sweater. You’d rolled your eyes, but really, who were you to judge.

The accident, or what would have been an accident, takes place later that evening when he’s more than pleasantly buzzed on both alcohol and other substances. You’re hanging out in what looks to be a living room, and Timmy spots someone he recognises sat on one of the sofas. He bends down to hug the girl, not remembering the drink in his hand, and as if in slow-motion you see the glass tilting towards the expensive-looking dress the girl is wearing. You might have let out a small squeak of horror as you just about managed to snatch the glass out of your blustering boyfriend’s grip in time. He doesn’t even seem to realise that the glass is missing at first, too engrossed in the conversation. After a while, however, he looks down at his hand, then over to the nearby coffee table, and then he glances around with the most adorably confused expression you’ve ever seen. The confusion turns to a sense of realisation when his gaze lands on the drink in your hand, and when he makes grabby hands in your direction you’re not sure whether he means you or the drink, so you give him both.

The third time it happens he’s surprisingly not drunk, just very, very tired. He’s been caught in a carousel of press events across the globe for a month and a half, and now that he’s back in New York the jet lag seems to have finally hit him, badly. You suspect he’s been jet lagged the entire time, but that it’s only really caught up with him now that he has a few days off. It makes your heart ache, to see him so run down. You know he loves his job, and that he’s grateful of all the opportunities that have come his way these past few years, but you gently try to remind him every now and then that you don’t have to love every part of your job, and that no job is worth running yourself into the ground for. Still, the bags under his eyes appear to be here to stay, at least for a little while, and when you bring them up he just laughs and tells you they’re Gucci.

When you find him fumbling with his shoelaces just mere hours after arriving back home (honestly, judging by the state he’s in you’re surprised he even managed to get the correct shoe onto the correct foot), you try to tell him that dinner with his parents can wait. He’s got a few days before he has to leave again, and his parent’s aren’t going anywhere. You’ve got time. He however, in typical Timmy fashion, is stubborn as a goat.

“We’ve had this scheduled for ages, mom’s probably started cooking already,” he argues, and that’s the end of that. You purse your lips as he leans into you for support after getting out of the car at his parents’ place, but you don’t say anything. You trust him to know his own limits, and to act accordingly when he feels he’s met them.

Nicole and Marc are as warm and inviting as ever. The second you step through the doorway Nicole envelops Timmy in a hug. Marc pulls you in for a hug as well, telling you it’s nice to see you again (even though you’ve been over for dinner once every few weeks while Timmy’s been gone). Out of the corner of your eye you see Nicole running her hands over Timmy’s shoulders to smooth out the wrinkles, before her hands come to rest by his neck while she inspects him more closely. You make casual conversation with Marc while Nicole frets over the state Timmy’s in, worrying about the bags and dark circles underneath his eyes.

Timmy shoots you an impish smile before retorting with “They’re Gucci”. Nicole sighs and deems him a lost cause, and moves on to you instead, drawing you in into the same motherly hug you’ve come to expect from her every time you meet now. When you lean into her embrace, you take the opportunity the shield of her body offers to conspiratorially whisper “he nearly fell asleep on the way over here”. She leans back a little, keeps you at half an arm’s length and nods in understanding, before giving you a brief kiss on the cheek. The smile she offers you is one of sincere gratitude, although you’re not sure what you’ve done to deserve it. Behind you you can hear Timmy and his father quipping back and forth in rapid-fire French, and although your French is nowhere near as good as you’d like it to be you still manage to get the gist of the situation. His parents are worried about him. He works too much. He’s kept this insane schedule up for years now, and he needs a break. You can’t help but silently agree as you work your way towards the kitchen in search of a drink.

Disaster doesn’t strike until after dinner, when you’re all seated in the living room. Timmy had been lightly dozing off every few minutes throughout the meal, so once you’d settled onto your loveseat Marc had brought Timmy an espresso in the hopes that it would keep him awake for a few more hours. You warily eye the tiny cup that Timmy’s been sipping from where it’s perched on his leg, not trusting his grip on the cup in the slightest. And sure enough, mere moments later, before you have time to react, there is black coffee seeping into the denim of his trousers, which are thankfully black already.

Nicole and Marc share a look that appears to communicate a million different things all at once, and then there’s a flurry of activity as Marc springs up out of his armchair in the search of paper towels to clean up the mess. Nicole leans in and plants a kiss on Timmy’s forehead, asking us if we shouldn’t maybe stay the night so that he won’t have to sit through the cab ride home.

“There’s spare toothbrushes upstairs, and you should still have some clothes here that fit you.”

This time Timmy appears too exhausted to put up much of a fight, and that’s how you find yourselves crammed into the tiny single bed in his childhood bedroom. Not that you’re complaining, though, because he was out as soon as his head hit the pillow and you’re just thankful that he’s finally getting some sleep. You’re also very thankful for the big breakfast that awaits you the following morning.

After that failed attempt at evading disaster you have a few successful ones, and it seems like Timmy’s finally clocked on to what you’ve been doing all this time. He doesn’t get angry like you feared he might; instead, he gets teary-eyed. You attribute it to the lack of sleep due to awards season, as well as the drink that’s currently in your hand, but that was previously in his. He can’t stop touching you the rest of the night, which isn’t completely unheard of behaviour for him, but this time it seems like he needs constant reassurance that you’re real. In the cab on the way home he leans his head on your shoulder and laughs when you tousle his hair.

“I couldn’t be more in love right now,” he says. The scary part is, you think he really means it.

It’s two months later, and you’re on your third cup of coffee of the morning. You had a deadline an hour ago, and didn’t manage to get more than two hours of sleep last night. Since the deadline has now passed, and you managed to get your script sent off in time, that means that you could technically be sleeping right now. The only thing stopping you is that you’re conscious of your sleeping pattern, and don’t want to risk messing it up now that you’ve finally gotten it sorted to conform with normal people hours. You’ve therefore resigned yourself to a day of chugging coffee in an effort to stay awake until the evening.

Timmy’s got a rare two weeks off, something you both seem equally grateful for, so it’s not long until he pads softly into the kitchen on bare feet. You’ve still got all of your work spread out over the kitchen table, as you’d resigned yourself to working there so as not to keep him awake all night, and you’re now struggling with closing all the open tabs in your browser and moving all of the books and notepads. You spent so long working on the project that it’s difficult to accept that it’s done.

Timmy’s arms around your waist and his cold nose buried in the crook of your neck, as well as the scratchy stubble of his chin dragging against your sensitive skin, appears to bring you out of this work-induced fugue state. He mumbles a quiet “good morning”, his voice still low and raspy from sleep, as he peers into your almost empty coffee cup and silently crosses over to the coffee pot to refill your cup, and to make a cup for himself. You hum gratefully as he sets your steaming cup in front of you, and pulls out a frying pan and half the contents of the fridge in order to make you breakfast. You’ve missed this, quiet mornings (literally quiet, neither of you are very good on the talking-front until you’ve had your morning coffee and at least an hour to wake up properly) of domesticity, of just having him around.

You talk about your work over breakfast – scrambled eggs on toast along with a fruit platter. He’s read the earlier drafts of the project, but seems eager to read the finished product as well. You’re not meant to show it to anyone, but you already know you’ll cave, so you set about drawing it up on your laptop. You don’t even see it happening, but before your brain even registers what’s going on, there’s a lithe hand grabbing your coffee cup and moving it far out of the way. With a slight twinge of panic, you realise that it had been about to topple onto your laptop, and would surely have ruined your precious device. You expect to be met with a grave look when you peer over at Timmy, but the look on his face is a pleased one. Maybe even bordering on smug.

“Finally I got my turn to save your ass,” and now you really want to wipe that smug grin off his face. Instead you just groan, too tired to think, and let your head rest on your folded arms on top of the table.

“C’mon, let’s just go back to bed. If you don’t want to ruin your sleep schedule, I promise I’ll wake you up in two or three hours.

You think it over for a second.

“Fine, but only if you promise to bring me a second breakfast in bed later.”

#timothée chalamet #my writing #writing #blurb #my blurb #CMBYN posts #timothée chamalet #the 1975

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