#how could the keep a straight face with a talking Knuckles puppet in front of them??

[the-brucest-fan]

I NEED THIS KNUCKLES PUPPET 😍😍😍

[waltwhitmansbeard]

my fair lady: drabble #1

i was antagonized into writing this by an anon so here you go. takes place in the middle of chapter four.

Vex is exhausted. News of the impending peace celebration rippled through the castle like morning birdsong, and Vex's day was spent working with Lady Kima to ready for the princess's absence from the castle. It is rare for Zephrah to be without the royal family, and Vex wants to be prepared in case Draconia takes the opportunity to strike. She got back to the small cottage she shares with her brother well after dark, and she was not at all surprised to find the cottage empty, her brother nowhere to be found.

With a sigh, she settles in front of the fireplace, which she lights to give herself enough illumination to work by. She yanks off her boots and pulls out her polish kit, going through the motions of shining the leather for the next day.

After some time, the wooden door to the cottage creaks open, startling her. Her hand flies to her bow, which she always keeps within arm's reach, but when she sees the familiar shape of her brother, tall and silent, in the doorway, she relaxes. "Vax," she says, "you're...home." This is a most unusual turn of events, given her brother's proclivity for spending the night in the bed of the princess.

He stands there, unmoving and unspeaking, for a minute. His eyes don't find hers, instead staring straight ahead, as if seeing through the far wall of the cottage. "Vax?" She abandons her boots and stands, confused and a bit worried. "Vax, are you alright?"

Then, as if animated by an outside force, Vax moves in, leaving the door wide open behind him. He walks forward toward his bedroom, never acknowledging Vex's presence. Vex hurries to the door to close it, then follows her brother toward his bedroom. "Vax!" She's shouting now, thinking that perhaps he can't hear her. "Vax, talk to me!"

But he doesn't. He opens the door to his bedroom, walks inside, and closes it behind him. Vex stares at the wood, dismayed. She has never seen her brother so despondent, moving as though his body were puppeted by another. She hesitates, then pushes into her brother's room, closed door be damned, and finds him lying face-up on his bed, his clothes and armor and boots still on. He stares unblinking at the ceiling, doesn't react to her sudden appearance in his room.

"Vax," she tries again, this time keeping her voice soft and gentle. "Please, you're scaring me." She walks in and perches on the edge of his bed. Still, he does not move. "Did something happen? Is the princess alright?"

That, finally, earns her a reaction. His eyes slide closed, and Vex can see how bone-deep exhausted he is. She picks up his hand, pulling it up to her lips to kiss his knuckles. "Brother, did..." How does she phrase this, how does she describe this thing that should never have happened but meant the world to her brother all the same? "Did things...end? Between you and the princess?"

This time, his stillness speaks volumes. Even though she is relieved, grateful even that this precarious chapter of their story is over, her heart still aches for her brother. No one could ever accuse him of loving with any less than all of himself, and she knows the softness that lies hidden beneath his armor and daggers. Of course she wishes for a world in which Vax could have the love he wants, the love he deserves, but if she had to watch him die for the crime loving a princess, it would have killed her too. At least now, once the agony has subsided, he will live, and how could a man so gallant and true as he not find love again someday?

She laces her fingers with his and squeezes his hand tightly. "I'm very sorry," she whispers, and she is. A single tear escapes from beneath Vax's lid, and she gently brushes it away. "You will heal from this, and I will be by your side as you do." There isn't room for it, but she curls up beside him on the bed, tucking her head just atop his shoulder.

She lies there, his hand in hers, until she starts to drift off to sleep. Just before she goes under, she hears him speak, the smallest sound in the quiet of night. "I love her, Vex'ahlia."

"I know," she breathes back, curling in tighter. "I know you do."

[laequiem]

kiss you off my lips - folktober day 5

Jurdannet Folktober 2021- Day 05. She who pulls the strings @jurdannet @jurdannetrevels

Fandom: The Folk of the Air

Pairing: Jude Duarte/Cardan Greenbriar but seen through Nicasia/Cardan Greenbriar? lol

Rating: mature

Word count: 2,532

The Puppet King, my subjects call me. Allegedly, the Living Council pulls the strings, controlling me from behind the scenes. They think themselves subtle, but I hear their whispers. Their words, however, slide off my armor like rain. After all, I have heard them countless times, from other’s lips or from my own mind. I was my mother’s puppet, then Balekin, and now I am Jude’s.

read on ao3

Masterlist • She kills my self-control masterpost

The Puppet King, my subjects call me. Allegedly, the Living Council pulls the strings, controlling me from behind the scenes. They think themselves subtle, but I hear their whispers. Their words, however, slide off my armor like rain. After all, I have heard them countless times, from other’s lips or from my own mind. I was my mother’s puppet, then Balekin, and now I am Jude’s.

Most days—more than a King, more than a marionette—I feel like a courtesan. Dabbling in steamy displays with courtiers I am barely interested in, all to keep the façade of the immoral king. I pretend at power, desperate for a nod of approval from my seneschal, while she does all the work. Of course, she had never asked me to whore myself out.

Until today.

I do not know who started our tumbling. Maybe I did, my anger blinding me to the foolishness of what we were about to do, in that small room behind the dais. Forgetting that touching Jude again would remind me of everything I have tried to forget since that day she rode me in her rooms. When I kissed her, that anger melted away, replaced immediately with the desire I have been helplessly fighting against for years.

Or maybe this was Jude’s plan all along. She is more faerie than she seems, at least in the way she schemes and bargains. I will charm Nicasia and get her the info she wants. In exchange, she gave me what I want: her.

Her tart taste lingers in my mouth. I did not kneel for her this time, but licking her taste off my fingers made me regret not indulging that particular thirst.

I find Nicasia easily, splendid in a pearl white gown, talking to Randalin. The small sprite does not stand a chance against her. His goat eyes shift towards me, then he bows deeply. Nicasia turns to me, unable to hide her surprise and delight that I have come to her.

“Cardan,” she croons.

Randalin chokes on nothing, animal eyes going wide. I raise a brow at Nicasia and cross my arms.

“Your Majesty,” she corrects herself, a purplish tint blossoming on her cheeks. I will never tire of this.

“Princess Nicasia.” I take her hand and kiss her knuckles. “Would you accompany me on a walk? For old time’s sake.”

“It would be my pleasure,” she beams up at me.

We make boring small talk as we walk, her arm looped around my elbow. The path leads us away from the Palace, towards the beach separating the Shifting Isles. Jude seemed to think Nicasia still liked me, and I suppose I can see it. She looks up at me with clear interest, though the conversation is as weary as can be. I work my charm up even more. A small hibiscus shrub blossoms as we walk past and I pluck a flower, tucking it in her hair with a calculated graze of my knuckles against her cheek.

The sea does not rise to greet us as we set foot on the sand.

“The sea is unnaturally calm,” I say.

I chuck off my shoes and Nicasia’s eyes dart straight to my bare feet. I hope Jude does not ask me if she was right that Nicasia still holds feelings for me, I fear I would not be able to lie.

“It is,” she says, turning back towards the sea.

I slowly uncuff my shirt for the second time today. I chase away the memories of Jude’s curious fingers on me. The way she explored and grabbed at me like she needed to figure me out, to plan out how to efficiently unravel me next time.

Next time.

I hope there is a next time.

“I must admit I am surprised,” I tell her nonchalantly, "I thought the Undersea always made true on their threats.”

I will the nearest tree to stretch out a branch towards me. I unbutton my shirt and remove it, then hang it on the branch.

“What do you mean?” Nicasia asks.

She turns to me. The way she devours me with her eyes takes me back to a time of shared wickedness and complicity. A time when it was us against the world, a time when she chose me over my siblings.

Until she chose Locke over me.

Now do you believe me that she wants you? Jude had asked. I suppose I do.

At one point, this look on Nicasia’s face would have set all my nerves on fire. Now, I feel the same as when strangers ogle me.

“Cleave together lest you face the rising tide,” I singsong, reciting the words from Queen Orlagh’s minion at the Hunter’s Moon revel in the same melody they used. “Yet the sea stays quiet. I take it your kind has another plan.”

I reach for the lace holding together my breeches and pull at the knot. Nicasia looks down at her hands, suddenly captivated by her nails.

“Perhaps,” she says too quickly. “Or perhaps we hope you will come to your senses.”

“We all hope so.”

Including me. Just not about this particular issue. My issue is of the mortal kind, the kind who deals in secrets and knives.

I hang my pants next to my shirt. Nicasia is still fully dressed, standing with her back straight and her lips tightly shut. I stop in front of her and trail a finger up her arm before slipping it under one of the straps of her dress.

“Will you not join me, Princess?”

My tail brushes up her spine and she arches towards me. I don’t wait for her to answer, though. I run into the sea.

The water is cold, unwelcoming. Before becoming High King, the salt water would not have bothered me as much. With only minor magic, only ingesting salt would have hurt me. Now, it grates at my skin like sandpaper, as if eating away my skin to get to the magic within. My magic recoils from any part of me in contact with the water. It’s heinous. I would rather take a dip in the Lake of Masks.

On the shore, Nicasia strips off her dress, hose, heels, tiara, everything. Then, she runs towards the water in a wave of blue-tinged skin and blue hair. She dives under, agile and more in her element than I could ever be.

She resurfaces next to me, a smile on her painted lips.

“Like old times,” she says.

“Like old times, but so much more complicated.” I sigh, then cast my line. “It used to be so easy.”

She takes a step towards me, biting the bait. “What was?”

And I reel it in.

“Everything,” I say with a frown. I take a step towards her, and put my hand on her cheek. “Us.”

“It doesn’t have to be,” she says softly.

“It does.” I sigh again. “Do you realize how hard it is to please everyone? The Living Council is always on my case. And my seneschal—”

She groans. “Why do you even keep her around?”

Because she commands me. Because she is the true ruler of Elfhame. Because I love her.

“I have to.”

Nicasia puts her hand over mine. Her fingers are webbed now, I notice. No gills, however. I suppose she knows I have no desire to ever follow her under again. Now that I am High King, I don’t have to—unlike when I was no more than the lover of the Future Queen of the Undersea.

I wonder if Nicasia notices the way I look at Jude. I wonder if I used to look at her like that, or if it was something else. I did love Nicasia, once, but it was never as labyrinthine.

I try to emulate that look just now, I try to look at her like I used to. Nicasia is still the same beautiful creature she always was: a perfectly symmetrical face composed of sharp angles and large, deep eyes. She is beautiful in the way a painting is, a piece of art to be admired. Just like art, she can make you feel things—but it’s nothing as primordial as what I feel for Jude. Like she is the beating heart I am tethered to.

“There are things I can choose for myself.”

I stroke her cheek with my thumb. She leans into my touch, angling her head towards my hand.

“… things?” Nicasia asks.

“Lovers. Consorts.” I lean in towards her ear and whisper, “A Queen.”

The words sound so wrong, they claw at my throat as they come out. I am surprised I can even say them, but they are not lies. I simply have no desire to make Nicasia any of these things.

“Ca—Your Majesty,” she gasps.

“We’re in private. Cardan is fine.”

I kiss the soft spot under her ear, then pull at the lobe with my teeth. Her skin tastes salty. Like seawater, of course, not the salty tang of sweat drying on skin after an exhausting training session. The point of her ear is unsettling, sharp like a blade.

“Cardan.” She slides a hand behind my neck, toying with my hair the way she knows I like. “Why refuse me so often then?”

I pull back to look at her, my hands roaming down to settle on her small waist.

“My subjects think me… young. Foolish.” I look towards the Palace, the grassy hill looming over the trees. “They already say I am a puppet.”

“They are the fools,” she spits.

I shake my head. “I am a fool. Regardless, if I were to marry so early after being crowned, they would think you the mother of puppets. The one who pulls my strings.”

“Especially given my mother’s insistence,” she says and I nod.

I pull her to me, her hips pressing against mine. Bone against bone. Wildly different from the soft but strong body I was exploring hours earlier.

“Politics, you know.” I sigh. “Tedious.”

I think I am overdoing it on the sighs, but what can I say? I am quite dramatic, even when I am not acting.

“Still,” I lean in, barely a hair’s breadth away from her face, “I have a say in whom I woo.”

Our lips crash together like waves on rocks. Hers are cold, which is fitting seeing how unaffected I am by this. It’s the kind of lustful kiss I give my partners, no feelings other than desire. My body is not fooled, however—kissing Nicasia has about the same effect on me as listening to Fala’s ramblings. I tip her head backward and she complies, malleable and utterly bewitched. My other hand slides from her hip to her buttox. I squeeze a barely-there cheek and she giggles against my mouth.

One of her hands is tangled in my hair while the other one slips from my shoulder down my back. As she has always done, she avoids my scars like they are made of iron. When we were together, I thought it was for my own sake that she never acknowledged them. That she was being kind, in her own way. When I had fresh wounds and I refused to take off my clothes, she understood. But when I ended it and my mind stormed to figure out what went wrong and led her astray, it started to feel more intentional. Like she sees my scars as weakness and she fears that touching them would contaminate her.

“I miss us,” she whispers against my lips.

I only hum an agreement, pulling away to kiss at her throat. Her hand continues its careful trek down my back, until she gets at the base on my spine. A dreadful shiver goes up my spine as I anticipate what she is about to do. Sure enough, her fingers circle the base of my tail. She strokes it, letting it slip between her fingers for the whole length of it. I jerk away, take a step back. As if to spite me, the sea places a slimy rock right under my foot and I slip, falling backwards into the water with the grace of a drunken redcap.

I spit out no less than a gallon of water as I resurface, choking on the salt that is sure to take days to leave my system. Nicasia’s mouth is twisted up in remnants of a smile, her eyes glinting with amusement.

“What happened?” she asks as I stand.

“Something… touched me,” I grumble, a faerie truth if nothing else.

She reaches out, moving a wet strand of hair away from my face. “The High King is afraid of a little fishie?”

I scowl, then splash her with water. “I am not afraid.”

Nicasia chuckles. I shrug her off, starting towards the beach.

“Leaving already?” she teases.

“My guards will start looking for me soon enough, if my seneschal isn’t already on her way.”

Nicasia grunts, probably rolling her eyes dramatically as she follows behind me. “That mortal has too much power.”

I stop in front of the branch I left my clothes on. I still feel the salt on my skin, drying there as the water drips away. I grab my tail and wring water from the tuft at the end of it.

“Does she?” I ask, bored.

“Yes!” Nicasia steps around and puts herself between me and the branch. “What will our world become if mortals do not learn their place? As their power grows, we ought to unite. The Land. The Sea.”

“Nicasia—” I start, but she interrupts me.

“The sea is growing impatient, Cardan,” Nicasia continues, a hint of irritation hidden under the usually pleasant lilt of her voice. “My mother thinks the Land is weak, she might act any moment.”

I inspect my nails, picking a grain of salt from under one of them. “If the Crown is so weak, why try to unite with us at all?”

“I want us to be united,” she spreads her hands, palm up.

“And I want to bathe. Your regnal birthright is quite cold.”

I step around her and start dressing up. Behind me, I hear her stop, then the rustling of fabric.

“Do not jest,” she scolds. “What she’s planning—you should take it seriously.”

“I do. And I will think it over, once I am warmed up.” I finish cuffing my shirt, then hold my arm out for her. “Will you accompany me?”

Arm in arm, we return to the Palace. Even without their High King, the Folk still partake in their traditional merriment. Unheeding of my vague promises and empty words, Nicasia spends the rest of the night at my side. We trade kisses and caresses for everyone to see. Later, we move to the rooms assigned to her to do more of the same, to bathe and exchange soft whispers. When I leave Nicasia’s chambers, she hands me notes regarding her mother’s plans to attack during Taryn Duarte’s wedding.

As I collapse on my bed, finally alone, I curse Jude’s name for being right. Still, her name is the last thing on my mind as I drift asleep.

-

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[insufferablelust]

Pretty little thing, (II)

Warnings : this series will be filled with Adult content, upcoming smut, murder, psychotic behaviors, dark kinks, traumatic events, manipulation, gaslighting, and isolation, interrogations, Daddy issues, abusive parents, blood, Spencer Reid x Unsub!Reader.

This is a dark fic, there might be stuff that could trigger you so please read with caution and/or don’t read it if you are sensitive to the stuff in the warnings.

MASTERLIST.

——————

like i’m a flower,

that’ll rot at a speed of light,

like i’m a ripe peach,

that’ll bruise in the daylight.

——————

“Y/N Y/l/N put your hands on the air and hand us your weapon!”

Y/N’s brain thrummed against her skull, her lips quivered as she laughed loudly at the situation she was under, her hands up after she has tossed her gun and knife, turning around with knuckles all bloodied and face tear stained with angry red splotches— the sight truly psychotic.

“You’re making the biggest fucking mistake, Professor.” She chuckled, head tilting to the side at the gun cocking beside her head. Her eyes never leaving Spencer’s as Luke cuffed her scarred wrists behind her break and guided her outside of the house to the police car.

Spencer watched as she continued laughing from inside the car, her eyes never leaving his as his eyes stayed with hers. “She’s truly a narcissist huh?” He was blurred out of his thoughts by JJ’s voice beside him, His brain can’t seemed to let go of her voice chanting ‘mistake’ over and over inside his head.

“Spence?” JJ tapped his shoulder, jolting him from his mindless thoughts of a girl, the girl he arrested, the girl in the car, the girl who killed so many others, the girl who worked with cat, the girl— that looked innocent.

————

He stared at her through the window pane, he saw her bandaged knuckles, her head hung low and the wrist twisting around the cuffs. The more Spencer looked at her, the more he connected the dots, the more her remembered every foggy memories that surrounded her, every time cat mentioned her name before.

“Y/l/N isn’t dumb Spencie—“ Cat rolled her eyes, “She’s quite smart actually, when i’m dead she wouldn’t dare to betray me. do you know why?” She challenged, licking her lips in a cocky manner,

“Tell me.”

“Because i live inside her, every time she breathes it’s because i allow it— even after i’m dead, she’ll keep doing what she does best, killing our fathers.”

Our fathers,

Our fathers,

“Our fathers.” Spencer blurted out suddenly, alerting Emily who was about to stepped into the interrogation room. “What?”

“Our fathers, that’s what cat said when i visited her last to talk about Y/N.” He whispered the last part, still unable to connect all the dots. It’s like when it comes to Y/N, he freezes, he stopped breathing, his mind stopped thinking. Its like he had known her for so long— that she was someone special to him.

“Let me talk to her..” He pleaded, fingers gripping the door tightly— eyes begging Prentiss to just let him talk to her. “Spencer you’re—“

“Conflict of interest, yes but i— i know her better than anyone here okay, give me a chance. She trusted me more because she knows me.” Emily’s eyes switched between Spencer’s and Rossi’s, looking for the best decision. “You know the protocols, just get her to talk, if things get difficult in there i won’t hesitate to pull you out of this case.” She stated firmly giving the files over to Reid, which he thanked her for, before stepping into the room.

———

Y/N felt him before even seeing him, she felt the warmth of his presence before she even had the knowledge of touching him— his body heat. Yet, Y/N knew it was him, he’s here with her. She kept her head low, closing her eyes tightly as she felt the low rumble of his voice as he sat down on the opposite chair.

“Hello, Y/N.”

She smiled, the sound of her name— her real name rolling from his tongue brought her some peace and quiet. Stopping her raging mind from all the torture she endured. It was 5 seconds of heaven, she concluded.

“Y/N, I’m—“

She giggled before he even muttered a third word, she giggled loudly but her head kept hanging down, she could already paint his expression inside her mind— she had studied him in great details for years, she knew every twitch of his face without even looking at him, like it was imprinted deep in the core of her memory.

“Is there something funny?”

He used that tone, the tone that made her shivered whenever he uses them on class, when he had scolded her because she was late, when he corrected her because she ‘accidentally’ did all her homework wrong. The very same tone she adored, that made her nerves twitched and seared her core. So she shrugged, licking her lips as if he could see her.

“Y/N Y/l/N, born November 17th 1985, only daughter of Amethyst Ren who died giving birth to her, and William—“

“Don’t you fucking dare.” Her head snapped, looking at him with a sharp glare— a glare so sharp that it could cut through the glass. Spencer remained calm as he sees the way her fingers twitching together, and her skin on her wrist digging painfully against the cuffs.

“Be careful not to hurt yourself, as i was saying.. William Y/l/N who was a—“

“Fucking stop.” Her skin digs through the cuffs painfully as tears spilled out of her eyes— her tone was raging with anger.

Reid looked at her briefly before continuing with a straight face, trying so hard not to show any emotions, “A local businessman, apparently he raised Y/N—“

“You have a fucking death wish, Professor.” The blood dripped onto the interrogation table as the sharp cuffs nicked the skin, her legs bounced hard against the desk, a sign of agitation and pent up frustration.

“He raised Y/N dutifully and he—“

“He was an abusive fucking prick, who destroyed my life.” Y/N screamed loudly, her hand banging the table as Emily marched in to the room, trying to pull Spencer out, “Reid, out.” She said sternly but Spencer refused.

“He was a fucking coward, do you know what he did, professor? he broke me— damaged me into this this fucking monster” Y/N let out a sinister smile as she fought through the sobs, “My mother— my mother, he killed my mother. He killed her because do you know what men like him wants? what gets him off, professor? some young girl to torture,” She’s full on laughing now as she stopped the bounce on her knees and stilled completely,

“My mother was his precious girl, yet she’d grown too old so- so then he had me— and it was time for her to go.” She tilted her head to the side, “I was perfect for him, his personal punching bag..” Y/N closed her eyes briefly before opening them again and smiled sweetly at Spencer and Emily, “I never killed anyone, not once, i might be insane— might thought about killing, but there’s only one person i want to kill, and i haven’t gotten the chance yet.” She leaned in closer to Spencer as her waist bent over the table,

“I’m not Cat, Professor. I’m smarter than her, you know that. She thought she manipulated me, made me her personal clean up puppet. But, look at us now— she’s underground and i’m up here with her favorite man.” Y/N bit her lips, eyes pierced at Spencer’s “If you want to Arrest me, arrest me. But you know damn well, i’m just an innocent and beaten up daddy’s girl. My hands are clean.” She sat back down as her eyes flicked to Emily and smiles sweetly,

“I want a lawyer, please and thank you.”

————

“We’ve got enough evidence to arrest her, her fingerprints was all over Cat’s victims.” JJ voice rang through the room as the others kept on discussing about Y/N lawyering up,

“Yeah, but why is she lawyering up now? she knew about the evidence, she left them on purpose at the latest crime scene 2 years ago.” Rossi said, his eyes trailed over to Spencer who hasn’t said much after the interrogation room, eyes glued to her file and seemingly deep in thought.

“Right, it doesn’t make sense. She could’ve stayed hidden if she wanted to— she managed to do that all this time. Why expose herself to Spencer now?” Tara chimed in, head shaking at the puzzle thats in front of them, confusing each and every one of them. Whilst Spencer’s eyes blinked repeatedly as he remembered, the words that left Y/N’s lips,

“My hands are clean.”

“You know that, Professor.”

“Beaten up Daddy’s girl,”

“Daddy’s girl.”

“She never killed anyone.” The table went silent as he spoke up, his eyes darted to the picture of William on the board then back to his team,

“Spencer—“ JJ was about to cut him off before he murmured,

“The reason why she exposed herself now is because she found her ultimate target, the one she has been after all these years, she was right— she’s way too smart to fall into anyone’s game even Cat’s. I’ve seen her ability enough times to know how observant and smart she is combined with the fact that She has managed to stay hidden all these years when Cat was too unstable to see through my lies when i arrested her,

That’s why we never found any evidence except the fingerprints— we profiled that this splatter of blood..” He pointed to the picture on the board and took a deep sigh “was an act of someone cleaning up, all of the murder site said the same things about her fingerprints— clean up.” He finishes, whispering the last word.

Spencer looked up to see his teammates all shocked, especially JJ who has her palm on top of his shoulder trying to say something but clearly couldn’t, then his eyes flicked to Emily as she stood and walked over to him,

“It’s not impossible.” She stated, leaning into the table as she used her palm to support her body, “Emily—“ It was Alvez this time whom raised the doubt,

“No i mean think about it, The blood, the way she stayed hidden and her sudden appearance, her behaviors— we profiled her as the exact epitome of Cat Adams but what if that was only her cover up. If she was truly a narcissistic psychopath she wouldn’t have the ego to deny any of the murders— she would be proud of it. What if, all these time we weren’t looking for a killer, but the misunderstood puppeteer?” Emily grabbed a photo of her and placed it on the table,

“Well then who’s her actual target?” Penelope bit her lip nervously as Spencer placed a photo of,

“William Y/L/N, her father.” Next to her’s.

“Garcia—“

“On it!”

————

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[depressedhatakekakashi]

Hello, Sensei

Word Count: 2532

Pairing: Hatake Kakashi/Umino Iruka

Warnings: Poor Flirting

Summary: Kakashi's in Konoha to have a chat with the Acadamy Sensei about a student exchange that he and the Hokage have disguised, but he's not expecting the man he's there to meet to be so... Handsome.

Konoha had never been a village Kakashi spent much time in. Even when he had visited to watch Gaara, Temari, and Kankuro in their chunin exam fight he hadn’t taken much time to appreciate the view. With too many things on his mind at the time, it was hard for him to look around at all of the things the village had to offer.

Now, as he made his way down the busy streets with the three of him by his side, he couldn’t help but look around and notice all of the ways in which Konoha was so different from Suna. Not just in terms of weather, which was a lot kinder on Kakashi’s skin than the harsh Suna sun, but the culture. How the shops were built, some of the things that were being sold, the variety of different foods that he had never tried before.

“You know,” Temari spoke up, smiling when he turned to look at her. “Maybe after this meeting, we can look around. Try some new foods or look at some of the shops.”

“I would like to see what kind of things they have to offer,” Kankuro agreed, a bright playful smile on his face when Kakashi glanced his way. “Maybe I can find something new to add to my puppets.”

“Or just something to decorate that dungeon you call a room,” Temari poked at him. “Maybe even something to wear yourself that’s a little less…”

“That’s enough,” stopping in his tracks, Kakashi watched as the three of them turned to look at him. “You two can explore if you want. You don’t need to sit in on this meeting.”

“You may be Kazekage, Nii-san, but you still need guards,” Temari huffed. “If we leave, someone might try to take off your hat and get a peek at what’s underneath, and we all know how you feel about that.”

Reaching up to touch the brim of the Kazekage’s hat, Kakashi smiled to himself. He wasn’t used to having his face out in the open. Growing up, he had always worn a mask or kept a hood over his head. It was a necessity according to the elders. One he hadn’t understood until the first time he saw Konoha’s Hokage, Hatake Sakumo.

“I’m sure Gaara can keep me safe on his own,” He looked at the shinobi in question, laughing when his eyes widened. “Isn’t that right?”

“I-of course,” Glancing towards his siblings, Gaara nodded. “I’ll keep him safe, don’t worry.”

“Good. Now, get out of here you two,” nodding towards the shops, he smiled when Temari and Kankuro gave each other a concerned look. “We’ll be fine, I promise.”

“Well, if you say so,” Waving a hand goodbye, Temari ran off with Kankuro hot on her heel. “Try not to get into too much trouble without us, Nii-san!”

Watching them go, Kakashi couldn’t help but smile to himself. It had been years since he had seen either of them with such a carefree attitude. Actually able to enjoy themselves, without feeling the weight of the world on their shoulders every second of the day. It was hard for him to admit, but there was no doubt about it.

They really were better off without Rasa-Sensei.

“Come on,” He turned back to Gaara. “I’m sure that this won’t take long.”

“Right,” falling into place by Kakashi’s side once more, Gaara continued to walk with him. For a second Kakashi was sure that they were going to fall back into a comfortable silence. Neither of them being much for talking, but as Konoha’s academy came into view down the street Gaara was apparently overcome with curiosity. “Why did you agree to this?” He asked, looking at Kakashi with big bright eyes. “Wouldn’t it have worked if you sent Temari or even Baki in your place?”

“It might have,” he agreed, and it had definitely been a thought that crossed his mind when he was talking to Sakumo about their little plan. “But I was told it would be best if the Kazekage made the appearance himself, and I happen to agree.”

Perhaps because the man he was agreeing with was so kind and understanding. Kakashi found it hard to say no to him when he showed so much trust in him. More than he deserved.

“You seem to trust him,’ Gaara continued. “The Hokage I mean.”

“I guess that would be surprising,” He hadn’t exactly been a fan of Sakumo’s growing up. After all, it hadn’t taken long for him to figure out why the elders hated looking at him. Why he was always made to wear a mask and told never to go near Konoha unless absolutely necessary, and even then he had to ensure his mask was in place and his hair was covered. One look at Sakumo told him more about his life than anyone in Suna ever dared to, including his own mother. “I have my reasons though, I can promise you that.”

“I see. I guess not everyone has a terrible relationship with their father,” Stopping in his tracks, Kakashi closed his eyes and prayed that there was no one around from Konoha that had overheard what Gaara just said. It wasn’t something he wanted to have to explain to strangers, and there was no doubt that Sakumo would have trouble dealing with the backlash if it was found out his child was a Suna shinobi. “Did I say something wrong?”

“Maybe just...don’t say that out loud?” he suggested. “It’s not common knowledge, and I’d rather not have it spread as gossip before we can figure out how to approach the issue.”

He’d already taken a huge step showing Sakumo his face. Exposing himself to the one person he had always thought he’d have to keep himself hidden from. Telling the rest of the world…

It just wasn’t something he was ready to do yet.

“We should get moving,” Gaara reminded him. “You’re meeting is in five minutes. You don’t want to make a bad first impression by being late.”

That was true enough.

Pushing his concerns back for the moment, Kakashi continued to walk. Headed straight for Konoha’s Acadamy, where he’d meet with the Hokage and the Acadamy Sensei he had chosen to take part in this little ‘student exchange’ that they had planned.

---------------------------------------------------------

What was Lord Fifth thinking?

Of all the people in Konoha to schedule a meeting with the Kazekage for, he had gone with Iruka. An Acadamy Sensei. The most he had to do with ‘diplomatic relations’ was when he worked at the mission desk and took reports from returning shinobi.

Scrubbing away today’s lesson from the blackboard, Iruka tried desperately to calm his nerves.

He dealt with Jonin level shinobi every day, yelling at them for handing in messy reports or scolding them for coming to him just to hand in their report when they were bloody and in need of a hospital visit above anything else. Surely it couldn’t be any harder to deal with the Kazekage.

At least, he hoped it was just as easy.

The soft tap of knuckles against his classroom door pulled him out of his thoughts. Placing the eraser down on the blackboard ledge, he turned towards the door and took a deep breath.

“Come in!”

This was it. Standing there watching as the door to his classroom slid open he knew that there was no escape. He was meeting the Kazekage. It was his job to explain the curriculum for Konoha’s Shinobi Acadamy and convince the Kazekage that it was worth allowing his future shinobi to experience for a week. He was not ready.

“Sorry I’m late,” The voice he’s greeted with is not at all what he’s expecting. It’s soft and cheerful, the complete opposite of how Naruto had described the Sand Shinobi he knew. “Had a little detour on the way.”

Pursing his lips, Iruka examined the person in front of him. Though, there wasn’t much to see. His face was covered by the large Kazekage hat sitting atop his head, and his body was nowhere to be seen under what could only be described as a blanket.

How did the Kage’s wear such garments? Didn’t it get hot? Especially in a desert.

“Uhh, Sensei?” Giving his head a shake, Iruka buried his hand in his hair and chuckled. This was not the time for him to be getting lost in such silly thoughts.

“It’s no problem,” he assured the Kazekage. “I was just cleaning up after a long day. Though I am glad you finally appeared. Lord Fifth asked me to make a detailed explanation of our curriculum to go through with you, and I’m afraid it may take some time. He explained that the two of you were thinking of doing an exchange program with the academy students. A week in the other village to see what their new allies learn in school and get a feel for their culture and ideas. Is that right?”

“It...yes,” there’s a hint of confusion in the Kazekage’s voice. “Uh, is it alright if we sit down?”

Looking around the room, Iruka cringed. He had forgotten to grab another chair for the Kazekage to sit in.

“Uh, ya. Just one sec,” bolting out of the room, he ran around the corner and into the next classroom, desperately ignoring the judgemental look he got from the kid standing just outside the classroom. The Kazekage’s guard, no doubt.

As soon as he was there, he pinpointed the teacher’s chair and headed straight for it.

Now that he had a seat for the Kazekage, he rushed back into his own classroom, stopping at the door when he saw the man already sitting on the edge of the front row bench where his students viewed his class from.

“S-sorry. I brought a comfier seat if you want,” Setting the chair down, he laughed awkwardly when the kazekage turned to look at it.

“I’m fine here,” Kicking himself for his mistake, Iruka made his way towards the seats. If the Kazekage was going to sit there, so could he. At least then he wouldn’t feel like he was talking to one of his students. Though, the man’s guard was no older than Naruto so it wouldn’t be that awkward. He could just pretend it was a parent-teacher conference.

“You said you had a curriculum written out to show me?”

Right. Heading back to his desk he snatched up the paper he had written down everything on and turned to face the Kazekage once more.

“I’ve got all of our lessons organized, along with a detailed explanation of what exactly I teach my students,” He began to explain. “There’s also time’s so that you know exactly what the kids will be learning at each part of the day, and how long we’ll be focusing o-”

His brain screeched to a halt when he finally looked up from the paper and back at the Kazekage just in time to see him starting to take his hat off. The kazekage, a man who no one in all of Konoha could describe because there was nothing to know.

His face was always covered, and his personality was just as guarded by simple sentences and short meetings, and here he was just taking off his hat in front of a complete stranger.

And if that wasn’t enough to make Iruka speechless, the Kazekage was handsome too.

With bright silver hair and sunken eyes, Iruka finds it impossible to tear his gaze away from the man. What’s worse is that he can’t even see the man’s full face, with his mouth and nose covered by a mask that left more questions than answers.

Why Lord Fifth had chosen him out of everyone for this task, Iruka still wasn’t quite sure, but it found it difficult to complain now that he knew that the Kazekage was one of the most handsome humans he had ever met.

Though, there’s something in the back of his mind that tells him the man looks familiar. Like he has looked into eyes just like that before or seen that exact type of spiky silver hair somewhere else, even though his mind refuses to pinpoint just where he recognizes them at the moment.

“Is everything alright?” His face feels like it’s on fire when he notices the Kazekage staring back at him, the smallest hint of a smile lighting up those gorgeous eyes.

“I-Yes,” desperate to get his mind off of the Kazekage’s handsome face, Iruka shut his eyes and held the paper with his curriculum out towards the man. “Everything’s on here. You can read through it and ask me any questions that may pop up or ask for more detail. It’s really just an outline at best and-”

The Kazekage held up a hand to silence him.

“I think I’ve got it,” his eyes closed. A familiar sign of a smile, even if Iruka still couldn’t quite place where he knew it from. “Though I would like to hear it from you. Otherwise, this meeting would be a waste of time.”

Right.

This was supposed to be his chance to prove that the Kazekage’s academy students would gain something from taking part in his classes. That’s why Lord fifth had scheduled this me-

“Lord Fifth!” Smacking his hands together, Iruka cringed when the Kazekage tilted his head. “I just...I mean…”

“You just realized that I look like Lord Fifth?” nodding his head, Iruka chuckled awkwardly. It was embarrassing to admit it had taken him this long to realize. After all, only Lord Fifth had such spiky silver hair and that closed-eye smile that put everyone at ease in an instant.

Though, that did bring up a whole lot of new questions.

“How about I explain it after you tell me about your curriculum,” the Kazekage offered, chuckling when Iruka stared at him with wide, hopeful eyes. “Perhaps over lunch?”

Lunch?

Was the Kazekage-

No, it couldn’t be. He was an Acadamy sensei. Surely the Kazekage of Suna didn’t want a date with him. He was just being nice. Trying to make friends.

“Is that an offer for a date, Lord Kazekage?” Closing his eyes, he kicked himself mentally. Of all the things he could have said, e had chosen that one. If the Kazekage had been asking him out on a date, he was certainly rethinking his proposition now that he knew just what a hopeless dork Iruka really was.

“Sensei,” being greeted with such a beautiful smile, Iruka can’t help but melt. Even if he can’t see the man’s mouth, he’s certain there’s no smile in the world that’s better than his. It’s impossible. “I’ve never had a chance to learn how to flirt, so perhaps I’m not getting it through correctly. I was asking you out on a date.”

Oh.

“Oh! I-Yes,” Never in his life had he had so much difficulty speaking, and he had just met the man. There was no way that this could get worse. He really hoped this didn’t get any worse. “I’d love that. If you’d like, I know a great place for Ramen.”

[romiithebirdie]

From the Furthest Tether: Part Five

Everything was dark, the only light coming from a few dull-looking lights that continued to flicker constantly like a dying flame of an old candle.

Water droplets fell from the rotting ceiling of a rundown warehouse where the villain group known as the Paranormal Liberation Front had chosen to lay low while they recovered from their earlier injuries.

Izuku felt like he was floating, watching the villains converse with each other while Tomura Shigaraki heaved over his elite Nomu creations whom were currently being used as nothing more than a makeshift throne for the leader.

One of the Hero Killer's main followers had stood up, attempting to call out Shigaraki's odd behaviour while Izuku's insides twisted with discomfort and fright, while the other villains didn't seem to sense the scent of death in the air, the teen could.

Shigaraki's entire aura was completely different; calmer than usual, yet had a dangerous edge that the teen could feel, even in his current phantom form.

Speaking of which, was this the doing of One for All? Or some kind of link that Izuku had with Shigaraki due to them meeting back in the subconscious of both Quirks?

Thinking about it made his head hurt…

"Now that your concerns have been duly noted there is a more pressing matter that needs to be addressed."

"Which is?" The blunt voice belonging to Dabi piped up from the background. The eldest Todoroki child looking completely unbothered by the many pairs of eyes staring widely at him, the other members of the group fearful of Shigaraki's response to his tone.

Thankfully, All for One who was currently using Shigaraki like a puppet, chose to wave off Dabi's remark as if he were nothing. "Just the little spy in our midst," Shigaraki's crimson orbs suddenly honed in and immediately connected with Izuku's own fearful emeralds.

He can see me?

Was that even possible? Izuku fought back a heavy gulp.

That being said, the teen wouldn't have put it past All for One to have some kind power that allowed him to sense the strange link between the two successors…

Either way, this was bad. Really bad.

"No need to worry, though," he looked in the direction of the teen, his rough voice sounding as if he'd swallowed sandpaper. Pointing a finger from the mangled hand, old burned scar tissue littered across his remaining fingers as they twitched erratically; "Soon everything we've strived for will be in our grasp."

Snap out of it, Ninth!

Izuku gasped loudly, clutching his head and cursing darkly as he gripped the bedsheets of his hospital bed tightly.

Why was this happening to him?

Everything was moving so fast, his brain was completely overwhelmed.

Tears of frustration stung his eyes and he blinked hard, fighting them back with all the energy he could muster as he breathed out sharply. Every time something was going right for him and his friends, there was always something that completely tore that newfound hope to shreds.

It wasn't fair.

Especially when the talk with All Might, once he'd arrived at the hospital, had gone down so well. Aside from Izuku's own worries, he had been quickly pacified by his mentor's comforting and reassuring words.

To Izuku's relief, they had discussed the Eri concern and addressed it straight away, with All Might immediately getting into contact with U.A and his acquaintances from the Police Force. His mentor had also informed the boy that Aizawa had been discharged a day prior and was currently recovering back at U.A, albeit with the Pro undergoing physiotherapy to help get him used to his temporary leg prosthetic.

"There are measures being taken to protect Young Eri so try not to worry yourself," his mentor had explained, offering the boy a faint smile tugged across his thin face. All Might had left after Izuku had gotten a visit from his doctor who'd then informed the pair that the teen would more-than-likely be discharged from the facility a lot sooner than they had thought.

About an hour or so later, his mother had arrived and Izuku finally allowed himself to lean back against the plush pillows to finally relax. However, this was quickly short-lived when his mother announced something that nearly made Izuku choke on his own air;

"Your father called me last night," Inko's voice was soft as she folded Izuku's old nightshirt into a neat little square before placing it in the bag that she had brought with her. "We talked for quite a while."

"With Dad, uh...You did?" Izuku's mouth and brain suddenly felt as if it had been set on autopilot. Was it weird that he felt oddly...numb to that revelation? He hadn't heard from his father in years, surely he should have been happier about hearing this?

Inko nodded, humming delicately, sliding another one of Izuku's shirts into the open bag, "He was concerned, of course. I caught him up with what's been happening, he's…" she paused. "He proposed something that I've been thinking about since last night."

Izuku's heart thudded under his freshly laundered nightclothes. He dreaded what he was about to hear but had to ask nonetheless: "What was it?"

His mother inhaled sharply, nibbling on her bottom lip, "He wants us to come overseas so we can be together as a family. Like before," her hands began to tremble. "There's so much that Hisashi and I need to discuss but right now, Izuku, I feel it would be for the best."

"W-What are you saying?" Izuku felt queasy, was his mother seriously suggesting that he pack up all his things and move abroad? To live with a man that he barely knew?

"Izuku-"

"I can't just leave!" Izuku's voice grew louder. "What about U.A? My friends?" All Might.

Inko's own temper flared and she glowered at her son, gesturing to his bandaged limbs, "Look at yourself, Izuku!"

The younger Midoriya visibly flinched, swallowing the retort back down his throat and averting his guilty gaze away from his mother. His eyes wandered along the lines of thick gauze around his knuckles and he shakily exhaled; unsure what to say next.

Was there anything he could say? He was completely tongue tied.

Thankfully, Inko was the one who broke the awkward silence by running a hand gently through his curls, "I'm sorry, Izuku."

He tried not to wince at those words. It honestly felt like he'd been punched in the gut.

"But I don't know what to do at the moment."

"Mum-"

"Stop," her voice was quiet but firm. Izuku's eyes moved along each part of Inko's face, noticing the blotchy skin from crying, the heavy bags under his mother's eyes and the way her hair just hung limply over her face like a set of old curtains, dreary and aged.

Was there anything he could say to her right now?

Aside from…

I'm sorry.

                                            .-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

"Here are your discharge papers, Midoriya-san."

It was as simple as that.

Before he knew it, Inko had been given Izuku's hospital paperwork and had then quickly ushered her son into a cab alongside All Might. After a short and frankly slightly awkward car journey, they had eventually arrived back at U.A High School where they had then escorted Izuku to the dormitory facilities.

To Izuku's relief, his classmates had respected his space and quietly offered greetings to him as he limped towards his dorm room, his adult supervision carrying his luggage for him due to his arms still being heavily bandaged.

His mother hadn't mentioned their earlier talk and Izuku wanted to keep it that way for the time being. She had left after barely speaking and All Might had offered to walk her to the gates, which she begrudgingly accepted. Izuku noted the hardness in her voice when she spoke to the retired hero, a tone that Izuku had rarely heard Inko use in all the years of his life.

He prayed that she didn't give All Might a hard time once they were out of earshot. They had left quite a while ago…

From the other side of his locked door, he heard the distant sound of his classmates calling out loudly to each other, Izuku recognised Kirishima's cheery voice and he felt his lips tug into a small grin.

Maybe he should have gone downstairs and taken part with the others…

Izuku glanced at the red and blue striped clock on his wall and sighed, his chest tight as he shuffled over to his drawers to begin loading his clean clothes back into storage. Although it wasn't the same as his bedroom at his mother's apartment, he was glad to be back in a familiar place…

For how long? Came the unwelcome and unwanted nag in the back of his already-racing mind as he clenched his teeth together. He had no time to worry about the what-ifs right now, what mattered was getting back on his feet and concentrating on his Quirk control.

DANGER!

Izuku blinked, ears buzzing. He could hear laughter in the distance, was One for All reacting to something else? Maybe it had something to do with the connection he was sharing with Shigaraki-

A loud slam against his window completely destroyed his own concentration, his heart jumping in time with his body.

The walls violently quaked and Izuku soon stumbled. He had barely enough time to react as a massive hole seemed to be forcibly ripped through the wall to the outside.

The impact shook off the teen's balance as he fell to the floor, kicking back against the carpet as he shuffled up against the door. A large, scaly hand clamped around the broken pieces of plaster and a familiar face peered in that sent waves of absolute terror up Izuku's spine.

It was another Nomu. Did that mean the League were here? Speaking of that, how could they know that he'd returned or where his dorm room was?!

Izuku moved his hand towards the doorknob of his dormitory door and the creature screamed loudly squeezing itself through the small hole with little resistance. Izuku pressed himself up against the door frame, bandaged arms and legs screeching at him as the Nomu loomed over him. Sharp pieces of broken brick dug into it's thick hide, small trickles of blood forming around it's body as it slammed a heavy palm straight against Izuku's jaw, the movement cutting off any attempt that Izuku had at crying for help.

A crackle filled the air and Izuku's attention was drawn away from the fact that the Nomu currently had him pinned to the door by his head. With a narrowed gaze, the teen's eyes fell upon a tight-fitted collar around the creature's massive neck. Due to the odd crackling noise, Izuku soon noticed the device attached to the thick leather, which looked to be some kind of radio device.

"Excellent work, No. 1977. Remember this one needs to be alive. For now, at least."

Izuku paled, recognising the person talking immediately.

That blend of eerie voices, like an unhinged duet completely out of sync with each other.

He attempted to speak, a choked gasp cut off as the creature tightened it's grip. He knew that voice all too well; the man who planned out multiple attacks on his friends, the one who was involved in the incident in Kamino and most recently, the Jaku attack...

Tomura Shigaraki.

[outroshooky]

whatever in heaven | knj

⇢ genre: series; part three (mafia!au) (angst, fluff, smut)

⇢ pairing: kim namjoon x reader

⇢ word count: 5.8k

⇢ warnings: smut (soft d/s dynamics. grinding, oral [m receiving], brief use of the word daddy, marking, gentler dirty talk [praise]) angst (implied usage and mention of knives, nightmare), some fluff. this fic is a bit of a mind-fuck; there are darker themes here, so please read with caution.

⇢ a/n: i’m so excited for you guys to read the next installment of verses & vibes! a huge, huge thank you to my beta readers @sunkoos​ (go check out nas’s work!) and @hobiswitch​; an even bigger thank you to @guksheart​ for not only beta reading this fic but posting this for me because of laptop difficulties!

...which leads me into, unfortunately, some bad news. my laptop crashed permanently over the weekend and i may have lost all of my files. i’m working to get them back, but this also means i have to buy a new laptop. thus, verses and vibes (and my writing in general) may go on hiatus until i can figure out a way to keep writing and posting new content. more updates forthcoming— for now, enjoy whatever in heaven!

“i know not if i could have borne

 to see thy beauties fade;

 the night that follow’d such a morn

 had worn a deeper shade:

 thy day without a cloud hath pass’d,

 and thou wert lovely to the last,

 extinguish’d, not decay’d;

 as stars that shoot along the sky

 shine brightest as they fall from high.”

⤷ and thou art dead, as young and fair; lord byron (george gordon)

It is always the same in the beginning.

He is kneeling on a concrete floor that goes on as far as he can see, cold and callous against the skin that peeks from the stringy rips in his pajama pants. A single light flickers above his head, murky cream, faded with age. His arms are bound behind his back with braided rope, biting vengeance into his tender wrists. His exhalations wisp pale smoke, rushing from his lips to touch the folded legs of a woman sitting just out of the ring of wired lamplight.

The supports of the chair are metal; he momentarily ponders how her skin isn’t dotted with gooseflesh through the thin fabric of her dress, but her cherry-red heels catch the light in a way that has his breath hitching. Something in him presses to reach out to her but he can’t, straining against his bonds like a feral cat caged. He snarls, a gritting sound in the silence of the warehouse, and she hums something seductive in return.

It is a dark heat that kindles in the pit of Namjoon’s stomach when he realizes he is staring at temptation herself, clothed in cherry pumps and scarlet lipstick. She is the antithesis of everything he should have and yet, yet—

He craves her more and more with every second that goes past. He doesn’t need to see her face to know that she is hauntingly beautiful, a devil crafted from memory, sent from hell to tempt him in all the ways she knew how. The blooming lust in his veins climbs with viney fingers straight to his brain, his head spinning, flying high; he barely knows what to believe. Somehow, she’s pulling on the strings of his thoughts, a marionette and his master dancing on the brink. One wrong string and the puppet collapses in a heap of cloth and kindling.

He groans, the sound of frustration and need echoing on and on in the dim room. She laughs velvet rich, sickeningly sweet. He wishes he could rend the binds from his arms, crawl to her, worship her the way she deserves; he shuffles forward an inch, two—

A plain black combat knife skitters to a stop in front of him, twirling once before coming to rest, just grazing his left kneecap. Resting potential against the crook of his leg, and he sucks in a breath when he feels the chilled edge level against the puckered scar on his knee.

She doesn’t speak, but Namjoon knows exactly what she means to say.

Thoughts clamor at the base of his skull, hissing seduction like a writhing mass of coiled snakes snapping for attention. They strike at one another, seeking dominion, and he’s nearly consumed by the din. A choice, cut out for him by the hands of fate, burned in the ashes of every decision he’s ever made. It boils down to this, to him and her and everything in between.

At one pellucid flicker of insanity, his hands are freed.

The ropes fall frayed to the floor and he straightens, rubbing at the burn in his forearms, rolling his neck to loosen the strain. His eyes flicker to her mass in the darkness, the shape of her just touched by the faintest tendrils of light. She is just out of reach, but so close, so far when her head tilts, a hint of fascination. He is mortal, she is eternal— a man reduced at the end of the day, stripped of money and power and the demons that lick at his heels. Greed is his master, but she is his, coveted in the secrecy of this cushioned nightmare.

He knows though, in the deepest reaches of his twisted soul, that only one of them will leave the warehouse alive.

In this horrible, shattered husk of reality, only one of them is destined to live.

And somehow, the choice has fallen to him.

Pick up the knife. Pick it up, feel it in your hands, smooth and weighted, perfectly balanced. Everything you’ve ever wanted is in the palm of your hands. Make the right choice. Do it for me, baby. For me.

Namjoon is pitted against his own self-preservation, warped desires clamoring for attention, needy yet sick. Needy, he is so fucking needy, but for what? Anticipation itches the back of his neck; he can barely think when the handle melds into the curve of his palm with such a sinful fit. The metal glints promise of things yet to come, but when he tilts the blade towards himself, he sees only the industrial struts that crosshatch the ceiling, the dust that hovers thick in the clogged, choking air. Emptiness and fulfillment, hand in hand, only a breath away.

You know what the answer is, Kim Namjoon. Do it. Do it for me.

Does he know? He must know, deep in the recesses of his bones. Deep inside the fucked-up mind of his, playing tricks on him; a trickster, what trickster? The last of his sanity is threatening to drip, melting like liquid wax onto the cool, callous cement. It’s bubbling in his hands, pouring through the gaps between his fingers, but when he shakes his head, a mad dog, it solidifies molten silver, black titanium.

Do it for me.

Do it for her.

He must.

Namjoon’s eyes flicker to her calf, following the silk of her skin to the hem of her saccharine dress; it flutters scarlet just out of reach. He’s on his knees now; there’s something pulling at him, some indeterminable force dragging him through the floor. The blade slips; the knife twists in his hands as he falls forward, and—

The air rushes out of Namjoon’s lungs as he writhes himself awake, mouth agape in an silent scream. He’s wheezing with the first rush of oxygen into his lungs, his lips swollen with gnashing of teeth as he twists away from the warmth settled next to him in the sea of rippling sheets, curling in on himself.

“Namjoon, are you alright?”

The broken man lifts his head, taking in the naked form upright in bed beside him, hair awry, concern bleeding every word.

It’s you.

He’s safe.

Indeed, Namjoon has had many dreams, but none quite like this one.

It is as if the very breath was sucked from Namjoon’s lungs when he first wrested himself awake in a cold sweat. Control is something he craves, something he owns save the late night hours when it is ripped from his hands by the sick desires of his own brain, playing tricks on him. He exercises his grip on every minutiae of his life, but when his eyes flutter shut and his conscience takes hold, it wraps a silken tie around his thoughts and begs him to pay attention.

You’re calling his name in a voice burdened by drowsiness. He knows you were awoken because of him but he can’t seem to think, to do anything else but sit here in this bed, in these rippling creamy sheets, and feel his lungs fill, empty. Fill, empty.

“Namjoon, love, breathe with me, okay?”

Breathing. Breathing is all he has been reduced to, a creature of the night with oxygen in his lungs and demons in his head.

You take his hand in your own, feels the slim digits trembling against your skin. You rub gentle circles into his knuckles and it somehow grounds him in the midst of the chaos, the overwhelming flood conjured from his worst nightmares. He watches as you carefully trace every crooked angle of his fingers with your own.

It is this simple motion that produces new thoughts, a mental clamor not of his own demise but for his own safety, the protection that he seeks. You are so much more than the sum of your parts: you are safety in the midst of a den of ruby-eyed cobras simply begging for a chance to strike. He’s never thought of anybody the way he thinks of you; there is no one else who comes close to you, and that’s saying a lot when it comes to his line of work.

“Namjoon, you’re safe, okay? You’re safe with me. We’re in our bedroom. You’re still the head of the most feared crime ring in the country. Nothing has changed. Yoongi is just outside the door; I’m right here. Nothing has changed, baby. You’re safe.”

Your words are warm against his skin, dotted with the press of lips to his temple, his cheek. You’re burning up against him, sweat beading at the roots of his hair, the silver strands falling low into his eyes. Somehow, the heat only serves to make him cooler, and he’s nestling into your arms before his mind catches up to his body. He’s safe. Somehow, in the roaring din of his mind, he is safe. His demons won’t follow him here, locked outside the door, palms scrabbling at the windows. The windows. Namjoon’s eyes flick to the glass and find the shades drawn, blocking out the ambient light that hovers thick on the other side. Bulletproof, he insisted, and for good reason. But Yoongi would have called if there was a problem, and he’s got Seokjin at the front gate, and it begins to seep in, sweet relief, that he truly is safe.

He is cradled to you like a child, a position compromising for a man of his stature, but he knows you won’t judge. Your hand trails from his thigh to his hip, his ribs to his shoulders, and your fingers nest in his hair, gently scratching his scalp. Lord knows he won’t be able to close his eyes until daylight breaks over the dark oak floor of your shared bedroom, but he hums and noses at your neck. You smell like sage and lavender with a touch of his own cologne, a memory of last night, and he inhales deeply, tries to savor the muskiness.

“You’re okay baby, I promise.” A kiss to his temple, another grounding touch. “I’m not going anywhere. I love you; you’re safe right here with me. Just let me love you, okay baby?”

Love. Love, a concept Namjoon knew better by verbal parry than by any real, tangible memory. It was wielded by a father he barely knew, an absent mother who preferred the company of socialites to the company of her own son. It was really a wonder he found it in him to love at all, really; he’d assumed he’d leave such an emotion to those who built a life out of a 9-5 day and mediocre sex. He’d been proven wrong, however, when you came along— you, once a high-profile escort in the dirty underworld he’d built for himself, proved yourself a worthy companion when you stayed beyond his guttural moans and dirty secrets. It was in fact, a moment like this when he realized he quite enjoyed your company, and there was something more to it than just a good fuck, an easy pussy.

You were the closest thing to real love he’d ever experienced, a home to come back to that wasn’t a prowling security team and a clean gun barrel. He’d exposed the grittiest parts of himself to you, the most private secrets and still you came back for more. You were just as fucked up as he was, really, and that was his favorite thing about you. You’d killed for him and he knew you’d kill again, and that was, very plainly, the matter of things.

Plus, that mouth made him see the stars more times than he’d willingly brag about at the poker table.

He presses a kiss to your shoulder, exposed through the lip of your shirt (his shirt, actually). It’s a careful kiss, chaste for him. Your fingers rub comfort into the base of his skull and he swears he could purr, an alley cat sleek and pleasured.

“You doing okay, Joonie?” Your eyes tell him everything he needs to know and he nods, unsure if he trusts himself to speak. Fear still gnaws at his bones, muted terror of a red-heeled succubus and a silver blade that gleams in the lamplight. Somehow though, you know, scraping the blunt of your fingernails against his roots. “You don’t have to talk to me about it if you don’t want to. I’m here regardless of that, you know me.”

Namjoon noses the column of your neck in reply, folding his sizeable frame until it molds against yours. Some things he’d never let the boys know about, but some things, he thinks, they knew about already. He is hard and cold and calculated yet soft and warm and comforting, a living contradiction unto himself; you’d never believe it if you hadn’t seen it yourself. A complexity of men who prefers to live by the simplest of rules, but you’d learned long ago not to try to understand something that was fucked-up from the start. Some things in this world were just fucked up, and that was the way they were meant to be.

Neither of you know how long you sit there, adrift in messy sheets, dry eyes gritty with the lateness of the hour. Your hand weaves through Namjoon’s hair as the vines around his heart flex, their thorny stems unraveling. He stopped shaking minutes before, but if you know anything about him, the internal tremors never cease, not outside of the safety of this bedroom, impossible with the life he lives.

He stirs a little, murmurs your name against your neck, his lips brushing bare skin and the small freckle that dots just above your collarbone. There’s something so intimate, so human about it, screaming vulnerability that hangs open and aching in the silence. His hands slide smooth across the breadth of your back, your waist, palms settling atop your thighs as he draws back slowly, slowly.

There’s a question in his eyes, one you meet with your own.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

He hesitates.

“Namjoon…”

He swallows, tilts his head, steals a kiss. “I’m sorry.” Then another.

With the third you’re pulling away, chest steady, finger to his lips. “Namjoon, you’re not thinking clearly. We can’t do this right now—”

“Says who?” He is breathless with the thought. “I wanna make you feel good, baby. You deserve that.”

The sweetest words wrap themselves around the breadth of your bones, melting between the gaps. He’s always been so good with his tongue.

“Namjoon, I wanna make you feel good too, but not when you’re like this.” You shake your head. “Not when you’re waking up screaming about death and knives and all sorts of horrible things.”

His hands brush your curves. “If this bed is an ocean, I wanna drown in you.”

“Joonie…”

It’s so easy to work at you, the sharper edges that he can dissect piece by piece. He knows exactly how far to push, what little to say to reel you in hook, line, and sinker. “Just go with it baby, alright? Just trust me.”

It’s easy to fall into Namjoon, collapsing every time as he folds around you. His head tilts to the side as he leans in, his nose brushing your own. He tastes like mint toothpaste and something uniquely him, an element you can never place but when he’s exposing the most vulnerable parts of himself to you like this. His mouth moves easy against yours, just tender lips, warm kisses. His hand smoothes up your spine to cradle your neck, thumb brushing at the nape, the soft hairs that tickle the back of his hand. “Just relax baby, relax.”

Once more. “Joonie, are you sure you’re okay with this?”

He nods. “I want this.”

He’s never been one for kissing but tonight he craves it, the simplicity of two mouths and hands that fit themselves perfectly against the curves and the edges. Musk curls under your nose as your eyelids flutter shut, dusting the apples of your cheeks a pinkish hue. Your hands meet his chest, burning with heat through the oversized Grateful Dead shirt he wears to bed with you, and they slide to his shoulders when he slips an arm underneath you to tug you closer.

You settle atop the apexes of his thighs, legs folding around him as he gazes up at you. The utmost adoration he has for you, written in the stars and in two hearts that beat as one, rattling against their cages with a need for closer, closer, closer. Fear melts underneath practiced fingertips and patience; he’ll be damned if he doesn’t return the favor. His eyes, usually tawny and mellow, burn blacker than charcoal but sweeter than syrup, running with emotion. It’s evident in every brush of his hands against your bare skin when his fingertips edge under the hem of your shorts, the gleam in his eye that warns of everything that is about to come. One hand supports your back as the other squeezes your thigh, and you can’t help but smirk down at him with the easy smile that tugs at his own kiss-bitten lips.

You aren’t smirking, however, when he leans in and nips a bite at your neck, teasing with his teeth, making you whimper and whine atop him. His tongue pokes between his lips, assuaging the pain, and your own mouth falls open as your fingers clench at his shoulders, nails sliding a lazy path along his spine. He licks once at the bite, then once more until he’s satisfied with the petaled violet that blossoms across the breadth of your throat. He nibbles a matching purple rose on the other side; you can feel the smile on his lips when your mouth shamelessly tips open and you stutter out his name.

“Hm, what is it?” When he draws back, you moan a singular complaint. “What do you want, love? I’ll give you anything you want.”

“W-Wanna make you feel good,” you pant, eyes fluttering. “Wanna make you feel so good.”

“I wanna make you feel good too, baby. Let’s just focus on the now, yeah?” Namjoon’s hand squeezes your thigh but you’re already pressing your body flush to his, kneeling over him. You cup his face and he strokes your wrist lightly, the most tentative of touches, thanking god that somehow, in the midst of the lion’s den, you’d found him. He had you and he knew he could trust you, trust the smell of your shampoo and the heat of your skin. “Focus on me.”

You lean down to kiss him, brushing his cheekbones, tangling your hands in his hair, but apparently, Namjoon had other plans. His lips graze your own, trailing the edge of your jaw to pepper the lightest kisses at your ear and move lower, lower. When his mouth lavishes the column of your neck with the utmost pleasure, you can’t help but feel your core ache, the purest whines permeating the thick air as you beg. He’s definitely hard now, weight against the inside of your thigh, and the temptation— no, the need to grind down on him sparked the fuzziest pleasures in your mind, the most sinful ideas.

“Please Joonie, please feels so good, please, w-wanna—”

When Namjoon mouths wet at the shell of your ear you writhe, losing control with each second that slips between your fingers like sand. His lips burn fire against your already heated skin, sizzling and crackling like a live wire under his touch. You hiss and he growls deep in the back of his throat, continues his ministrations.

“I forgot how much you liked that,” he breathes shakily.

“You’re so fucking hot,” you gasp, releasing your iron grasp on his roots. Luckily he’s unfazed; damn lucky you to be with someone who actually enjoyed their fair share of kinkiness. “So fucking hot and you’re so thick, I can feel it—”

When you grind down on him, pressing yourself onto the growing bulge in his slacks and swiveling your hips with practiced ease, he groans feverishly. With every brush of the head of his cock, he’s harder than before, memory weighty in the palm of his hand. He chokes on the breath in his lungs, his nails blunt on your back, and he moans once in content. Feels so fucking good.

“God, baby, you’re gonna ruin me like this,” Namjoon chuckles.

“Maybe that’s the intention,” you trill.

“Fuck.” The word lies heavy in the air, heavy on his bated breath.

You smirk, sinful seduction in his ear. “And what if I did this?”

As his eyebrows furrow, you ease yourself onto his thighs, so strong and sinewy. Your fingertips slip down his shoulders, trace every muscle that strains under his loose sleep shirt. Beneath the fabric is the coiled power of a lethal creature, a tiger poised to devour his prey. And he is utterly wrapped around your finger, letting his head tip back against the headboard with a  sigh. He’s lost in your touches, an angel fallen from heaven, no idea which way is up or down.

You rub circles into his hip bones; he twists under you. Practically begging with his gasps, knowing what awaits him. Your fingers toy with the hem of his boxers and he’s hissing between his teeth. “Baby…”

You hum a response, press a kiss to the shell of his ear.

“Please…”

“Oh Namjoon,” you coo. “You’re a mess, baby.”

He is. Hair sticking to his forehead, sweat gleaming at his temple; he’s a model for destruction, the dirtiest of kinds. Hips arching underneath you, and there’s a wet spot that stains the fabric. He smiles somehow, teeth flashing in the low light. “All for you.”

You withdraw, spit into your palm. “Then you get all of me.”

Your hand slips beneath the waistband of his boxers, finds his cock, thick and hard. At the first stroke, lazy and full, he can’t stop the raspy grunt that leaves his throat. “Shit, baby. Feels so good.” When you lower your head to mouth at him over his sweats he practically writhes, begging, needy. So unlike him, but a welcome change to see him falling apart, falling apart over you. The fabric is soaked with saliva and dotted with a pearl of cum, a carnal work of art.

You rub slowly down his length, thumbing the swollen head leaking his seed. It’s messy and wet and he’s moaning and it’s all worth it, worth it to see him wrecked like this. His balls are heavy in your palm; when your eyes flutter up to meet his, wide and expectant, Namjoon hisses. That sound enough jolts burning heat between your thighs, twisting devilishly in your stomach. “B-Babygirl?”

There’s question in the word, question that makes you pause. You moan against his clothed cock; he chokes on his words.

“Can I make you feel good too?”

A sloppy kiss pressed to his member. “Later, okay? I wanna focus on you right now, Joonie.”

His hand strokes through your hair, flyaway, disheveled. “You’re so good to me. So fucking good—” He chokes on the downstroke, fingers tightening out of reflex. “Want you so bad.”

You press. “How bad? Bad enough to want my mouth?”

“Shit, your mouth,” he whines. “Want your mouth, want you—”

“Joonie,” you murmur.

His heartbeat resounds like gunfire in the ringing silence.

“Lift.”

He lifts his hips as you tug, pulling his sweats down to his thighs, the fabric ridged underneath your perch. His cock falls free, standing slightly crooked against his still-clothed abdomen, rippling with tension. It twitches under the heat of your gaze, steadily seeping liquid bliss, and your mouth waters at the thought. It’s been so long since you took him like this; when it’ll happen again, who’s to say.

You pepper kisses along his thighs just to hear him whimper, feel the predator writhe in his own constraints. His hands burn their own trails along the curves of your body, spreading heat in their wake as you cave to your own desire, slipping a hand between your thighs when you take him in your mouth with practiced ease. He’s firm under your fingertips, lithe and sleek and powerful in all the right ways, but he falls apart when it comes to you, crumbles like rock under the breath of the tidal wave. He grunts sin from between gritted teeth but whines complaint when you pull back to tease, to draw things out. He’s gentle in his touches but firm in his demands, even through the cottony billows of his neediness.

“I-I’m close,” Namjoon stutters, skin crimson from lavished attention. There’s saliva smeared down your chin and tears twinkle liquid starlight on your lashes, but you’ve never felt more electrified, burning up at the seams for him. From the heated confines of your throat you withdraw his cock with a firm touch at the base, his fingers running through your mussed locks.

“Where do you want to cum, baby?”

He squirms. “Fuck. Wherever you’ll take m-me—” He shudders, ribs heaving. Your fallen angel, shattering under your touch. “Oh shit, I’m gonna cum for you, babygirl.”

“Cum for me, angel. Cum for me...” you murmur, gaze level with his own as you wrap your lips around his member.

“Gonna cum for you, fuck—”

“Daddy.”

The cavernous heat of your mouth is a slick warmth, so wet and warm and utterly divine. He loses himself in it, lets himself go, pushing towards that edge of no return, riding the crest of the wave as it rolls faster, harder, heavier. “‘M gonna fucking cum. Oh god, fuck, shit, babygirl, I’m cumming, I’m—”

A drawn out groan fills the air, raspy and thick and throaty as he thrusts into your mouth once, twice, spills over. He’s bitter on your tongue, acrid but you take it, swallow it all. It’s worth it to see the pleasure overtake him, to see him let go of every capacity and capability to fall drowning, dizzy. Whatever in heaven, above or below, he’s tumbling headlong into it, collapsing into himself like a burning star falling from the cosmos.

He’s the first to break the silence that falls, withdrawing himself and tucking his softening cock back in his sweats with a remarkable amount of composition for a man who’d just seen the very sparks of the universe behind closed eyelids. He chuckles breathless, bated. “Fucking hell, angel.”

You try to speak but merely croak at first, throat grating dry. He hushes you soothingly, easing you back on the pillows now soaked with sweat. “Let me get you some water, yeah? Just stay here for now.”

You whine a complaint— shouldn’t you be taking care of him?— but he’s insistent and already on his feet, legs shaky as he heads towards the bathroom. There’s a pang in your chest watching him go, the reality of the situation settling in, and vulnerability flowers in your heart.

The tap squeaks; the faucet runs. Room temperature water, not too hot but not too cold to soothe the burn in your esophagus. He knows you better than anyone, knows how to take care of you when you fail to take care of yourself, life spent always on the run. You’re the one holding him when his nightmares consume him, the steel that he draws from his belt to wield before him, the ultimate weapon. Yin and yang, black and white, blooming nebula and neutron star. The water turns off, a grating complaint.

It’s been too long; you’ve delayed too much. Play to his fantasy; he has no idea what’s coming.

“If the water’s not enough, I can send Yoongi for some tea— oh.”

Oh.

You are no longer prostrate, the limp rag doll exhausted from her play. No, you are stretched out on the bed, ass up on your hands and knees, silver glinting between your teeth as a pair of handcuffs dangles in the air. You are looking at him with fire smouldering deep in your eyes, blazing a burning glare straight through him.

The predator has become the prey.

“Daddy,” you purr, right on cue. “Come here.”

It’s automatic, the way Namjoon moves towards you, glass forgotten on the nearby dresser. He’s completely transfixed, fascinated by the possibilities, and when he reaches the end of the bed, you stop him with one outstretched foot, bare with the lateness of the hour. “Turn around.”

He’s so submissive, so compliant simply by the force of his own surprise. It’s hard to keep going, hard to push through the adrenaline thrumming through your blood, the underlying current that threatens to sweep you away, too. But you mustn’t listen, mustn’t feel.

“Hands behind your back, Joonie, baby.”

He’s perfect, perfectly whole in the way he follows each command that falls from your lips like silk spun thread. He surrenders himself so willingly to you, it stings raw.

You rise to your feet, level with the back of him. Your fingers make quick work of the cuffs and with a firm click, the deed is done.

With a tender motion that surprises even you considering the brevity of the situation, you wrap your arms around your torso, bury your face in his skin, inhale his scent. Amber and citrus. Musk and spice. Whole contradictions that somehow manage to summarize him perfectly. You whisper against his spine like it’s a secret. “I’m so sorry.”

“What, baby?”

You can feel his heartbeat against your cheek, thudding rapid with excitement, wonder at what lies ahead of him. Guilt roars its ugly head and you beat it back with double the force.

You stiffen, step away from him. Four years you’d waited to formulate these words, to hear them drop from your lips, plummeting on high. Four years and now the moment is here, and you swallow past the lump in your sore throat.

“Kim Namjoon, you are under arrest for charges of extortion, murder, murder-for-hire, drug possession, and arms trafficking. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you…”

“...Do you understand the rights I have just read to you? With these rights in mind, do you wish to speak to me?”

You’re sitting in the open door of a police cruiser, more specifically a SWAT cruiser, an aluminum blanket wrapped around your bare shoulders. The air is warm, but you can’t stop shivering.

Seokjin paces fifteen feet away from you, ever more handsome in his suit and tie. Hoseok is finishing his interview of the conclusion, anticlimactic for the better. Yoongi’s legs dangle from the open doors of one of the ambulances called when your colleagues expected the worst. Thankfully, no casualties had occurred but a sprained ankle, a fight between one of your fellow law enforcement officers and that guy that manned the back gate. Everyone can go home, rest easy.

After Seokjin’s interview is yours, and you realize by the time Hoseok is asking the last question that you don’t remember a single word of what you’ve said. Elite agents taking down the biggest crime boss in the country are not supposed to feel so empathetic, so broken. Guilty. Regretful.

Four years, the longest and most dramatic chase of your career. Justice fell, a swift hammer; you’d saved the day once again, added another face to the chalkboard in your sterile office a thousand miles away. You’d won. Hadn’t you?

There’s a faraway look in your eyes that Hoseok somehow understands, a glimmer of something more than success. He straddles the age gap between the members of the team, incorporating Jeongguk’s youthfulness with his elders’ experience, the glue of it all handed the most important task. He calls your name. “You’ve been out of it the entire time I’ve been interviewing you. What’s going on?”

“It’s nothing.”

But there’s no bite to the words, no whet of passion. They fall flat below the crackle of radios, the mist that reflects red and blue through the evergreen trees scraping the stars winking high above.

Hoseok puts his pen and clipboard aside. “Hey,” he says. The kindness in his tone pierces daggers through your heart. You somehow would’ve been more comfortable if he had yelled at you. “You did the right thing. He hurt a lot of people. Killed many more, and did so without remorse.”

That’s what you think, you want to scream. Because to you, he is some foreign criminal, far removed from any last dregs of humanity. He is a monster and a crook and a fiend, twisted into something unrecognizable, but you didn’t see what I saw. Did you see the warmth in his eyes when he rolled over and buried himself in my arms all those mornings in bed? Did you see the way he saved those dogs about to be euthanized in a shelter, because those pups reminded him of how he used to feel, staring death in the eyes every day? Did you see the way he loved me?

Hoseok pats your shoulder. “I’ll put in a month and a half of vacation time for you when we get home. Lord knows you’ve earned it. And we can rest tonight, rest for the first time in a while. We’ve got a nice hotel an hour away from here, top floor. We’re not done flushing out the rest of his boys, but that can wait for now. We can handle that on our own; they’re scattered all over the continent anyways. It’ll take time.” He picks up his supplies, turns to move on to Yoongi. The look in the elder man’s eyes, the special ops agent thinks, is exactly the same as your own. What had you two seen in that hellhole?

You tuck the blanket tighter around yourself and nod once. It’s the most you can do.

Hoseok smiles, but it’s not quite the beaming, sunshine-filled glow he usually carries about himself. “You did good work and I’m proud of you. Get some sleep, agent.”

Sleep does not come for a long, long time.

When it does, it eats away behind your eyelids, filling your mind with visions of a man adrift in an ocean of bedsheets, rocking on the waves of an endless concrete floor that goes for miles and miles, whispering promises of things to come that never would be.

Kim Namjoon is sentenced to life in prison for six counts of murder, fifteen counts of extortion, three counts of murder-for-hire, six counts of drug trafficking, three counts of arms trafficking, and two counts of drug possession.

He never makes it to see his twenty-sixth birthday.

[deliriumsdelight7]

Breaking Cycles Chapter 8

Lachlan was drifting somewhere on the fuzzy edge between asleep and awake when he felt a pair of pillowy soft lips drag across his chest.  For a brief second he couldn’t remember where he was.  The room was pitch dark, which told him nothing.  The bed was more comfortable than his own lumpy mattress, and his arms were full of a woman with the softest skin he’d ever felt.  The tips of her silky curls tickled his chest, teased his nose with the scent of flowers.  Belle.

A slow, lazy smile curled his lips as he felt her tongue dart out to taste him.  After their first bout of mindblowing sex, they’d cuddled together on the bed - him on his back, with her curled into his side, head on his shoulder and legs tangled with his - until they fell asleep.  This was a new experience for Lachlan.  Apart from his ex-wife, all of his previous partners had been either one night stands, or friends with benefits.  Cuddling had never been on the menu, and it had never occurred to him to want it.  As for Catherine, she was a hot sleeper - couldn’t stand physical contact when she drifted off.

With Belle in his arms, he felt submerged in safety, covered in comfort.  Clearly he’d been missing out all these years.  And if he had her roving hands and hot mouth coaxing him awake to look forward to, then he could definitely get used to this.

He held his breath as Belle’s mouth found his nipple, circling it with her tongue before drawing it into her warm mouth with a suction that sent a bolt of pleasure straight to his cock.  Stifling a moan, he fought to keep his hips still as her fingers quested down his stomach, toward his groin.  Light, tickling touches teased his lower belly and hips, cruelly steering clear of the place he needed her touch the most.

The wet heat of her mouth abandoned his chest, the sudden rush of cool air making him shiver.  The mattress shifted beside him, and a warm puff of air hit his ear.

“I know you’re awake,” Belle whispered huskily.

Groping blindly, his fingers found and threaded through her hair.  He tugged her closer to align his lips with hers, but didn’t cross the final distance between them.  Her breath huffed impatiently against his lips.  A smug grin spread slowly across his lips.

“I can hear you smiling,” she grumbled.  “Kiss me already.”  Still, he held back.

The first few times they kissed, Lachlan had let Belle initiate.  Part of him hadn’t trusted his judgment to read Belle’s signals, and he was determined not to fuck this up by pushing for too much, too fast.  

Tonight had thoroughly laid those fears to rest.  Now he had a different reason for holding back.  Belle was not a patient woman when it came to sex, and teasing brought out a sensual avarice in her that transformed her soft, gentle caresses to groping clutches that greedily tugged him closer.  That uncharacteristic aggression warmed him inside and out, made him feel wanted, and he loved every second of it.  He’d happily let her drag him wherever she wanted, a willing puppet on her strings.

Her reaction now didn’t disappoint.  Instead of tugging him closer by the hair of his nape, she pushed at his shoulders with a growl, pressing him firmly into the mattress while she threw a leg over him to straddle his hips.  His blood boiled at the feel of her dripping folds rubbing over his aching cock.  His breath hissed between his lips as he gripped her hips, stilling her before he utterly disgraced himself.  He felt Belle lean over him, her perfect breasts pressing against his chest as she prepared to kiss him, when a phone vibrated.

Belle froze.  Every muscle in her body tensed.  The light from her phone on her nightstand illuminated her face just enough that he could see the anguished frustration in her eyes.

“Just ignore it,” he whispered.

Her glance darted back and forth between him and the phone, torn by indecision.  “I… I can’t ,” she moaned, climbing off him and snatching up her phone.  She hurried out of the room without another word and closed the door behind her.  He could hear her muffled voice through the wall as she answered the phone.

Lachlan sat up, fumbling blindly for the switch on the bedside lamp and turning it on with a click.  The light blinded him temporarily, and he blinked against its glare.  His arousal had completely subsided in the face of Belle’s upset.  He didn’t know what was going on, but it couldn’t be good.

“No.  You promised me.  You promised one night…” her voice trailed into unintelligibility as she paced away from the door.

He raked his fingers through his hair with a ragged sigh.  A brief search of the room revealed his boxers crumpled at the foot of the bed.  He slipped them on and perched on the edge of the bed, waiting for Belle to finish her call.

“Please.  After everything I do, I at least deserve…”  More muffled words, and a resigned sigh.  Then, “Fine.  I’ll see you soon.”

Lachlan waited a few more moments, but Belle didn’t come back to the bedroom.  Casting his eyes about the room, he spotted a fluffy, powder blue robe hanging from the closet door.  He snatched it up.  Leaving the room, he found her slumped over the kitchen table, her face buried in her hands.  Her back was turned to him, her nude form cast half in shadow in the light from the stovetop.

In all the times he’d seen Belle, she’d seemed tirelessly optimistic - like fate could throw a tsunami of shit at her, and she’d come out the other side shaking a few drops of water off her umbrella and galoshes with a smile, untouched by the worst the world had to offer.  Even when he’d unwittingly upset her last weekend, she’d shrugged off any hurt feelings in moments.  Seeing her deflated like this didn’t sit right with him.  Whoever was on the other end of that phone call had the power to leave her looking utterly defeated.

Coming up silently behind her, he draped the robe over her shoulders.  She hastily wiped at her face before wrapping the robe around herself without bothering to slip her arms into the sleeves.  Lachlan rested a hand on her shoulder with a reassuring squeeze.

“Everything alright?” he asked, slipping into the kitchen chair opposite hers.

She nodded tiredly.  Her eyes stayed glued on her hands, which were currently clasped in her lap.  “I need to pick my roommate up from the bar,” she said.

Lachlan blinked.  That was it?  From her manner, he was sure that something terrible had happened.  So they probably wouldn’t be having sex again tonight.  He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t a little disappointed, but there would be other opportunities.  As long as he could sleep with her tucked sweetly into his side, he’d be satisfied.

“Do you want me to come with you, or would you rather I wait here?” he asked.

Belle’s hands fisted the fabric of her robe, and her face went curiously blank.  “I need to go alone,” she said quietly.  “And you can’t be here when I get back.”

Shock rendered Lachlan mute, his mouth flapping wordlessly.  After a solid thirty seconds, he managed to get one word out: “ Why ?”

She shook her head.  “Please don’t make me answer that.”

When she refused to elaborate further, his surprise very quickly turned to anger.  “Fine.  I’ll get out of your hair,” he snapped, shoving himself out of his chair.

“Lachlan…”

He ignored her, circling around her so he could get to his clothes in the bedroom.  Shoving his legs into his jeans, he cursed as his foot got stuck, making him lose his balance and pitch to the side.  One hand shot out and caught the wall, allowing him to regain his footing long enough to yank his jeans back up and shrug his shirt back on.  He fastened the buttons with fumbling fingers, and he was pretty sure he’d managed to mismatch the buttons to their holes.  Fuck it - he couldn’t be arsed to fix them.  Pausing only to grab his overnight bag, he turned to the door to see Belle standing at the threshold.  Her hands still clutched the lapels of her robe closed over her front, and she was gnawing at her lower lip hard enough to hurt.

“Lachlan.”  Her shoulders were still hunched, her head lowered like a kicked dog, and that nervous, insecure look was back in her eyes.  Anger burned in his belly like tar - hot, black and roiling - at the sight.  It pissed him off that she was unceremoniously kicking him out of her flat.  He hated that she refused to give him any sort of explanation.  But more than anything, he fucking loathed whatever made her shrink in on herself like that.  Maybe it was this “roommate” of hers.  Maybe it was him.  If she wouldn’t talk to him, he’d never know.  “Lachlan, don’t be like this.”

He strode to the door, relieved when she stepped aside to let him pass.  He might be seething, but he wasn’t such an arsehole that he’d shove her out of his way.  He packed up his CDs without a word, dumping them carelessly into his bag.  Slinging the bag over one shoulder, he prepared to leave.

“Would you please just talk to me?” Belle cried.

He stopped, hand resting on the doorknob.  “Will you tell me why you’re sending me packing?” he asked without turning.

She said nothing.

“Then there’s nothing to talk about.”  He opened the door and stepped through, careful not to slam the door behind him - no matter how much he wanted to.  

As he stalked down the hallway toward the stairwell, he heard one word clearly even through the walls.

“ FUCK! ”

******

Sucking on her front teeth, Belle stared straight ahead at nothing as Lacey opened the passenger door.  Her fingers maintained a white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel to hide their infuriated trembling.  Instead of sitting in the front, her sister tilted the seat forward so she could settle in the back.  Typical.

“Seat belt,” she reminded.

“Yeah, yeah, mum , I know t’  put on my seat belt,” Lacey snarked back.

Belle steadied herself with deep breaths.  Now was not the time to stoop to Lacey’s level and get into an argument.  No matter how much she wanted to.  She pulled out of the pub’s parking lot and drove in silence.  After a minute, Lacey spoke up.

“Turn th’ radio on.”

“No.  We’ll be home soon.”

A huff, and another minute of silence.  Then, “So howwuz yer date?”

The urge to pull the car over, turn around, and slap her sister in the face was overwhelming.  “Ruined.  Thanks for asking.”

“Oh, c’mon!” Lacey scoffed.  “It’s two in th’ bloody morning.  Doubt I was interruptin’ anything more excitin’ than yer snorin’.”  She made a show of stretching and yawning with a loud groan.  “You gonna see ‘im again?”

“Maybe.”  She still wanted to.  Oh, how she wanted to.  Tonight had been possibly the best night of her life before it had been ruined.  There had to be some way to fix what had gone wrong between her and Lachlan.

“Tha’s a yes.  So when do I get t’ meet ‘im?”

“Never.”  

A glance into the rearview mirror showed Lacey’s scowl.  “Oh god, ‘re you still on that?  It was eight years ago, and I ap… apolllll… I said I was sorry!”

“You apologized the previous three times, too.  Doesn’t mean much when you keep doing it.”

“Whatever,” Lacey huffed.  “Not like th’ last few guys you dated were winners.”

“Fuck you.”

Lacey gasped in mock affront.  “Why, Princess Belle, watch yer fuckin’ mouth!”

Belle cursed herself internally as she pulled into the parking lot.  Don’t let her get to you.  You know better than to give her any ammo.   “For the millionth time, stop calling me that.”

“Maybe you should stop actin’ like that.”

Belle pulled into her parking spot, hitting the brakes with a bit more force than necessary and taking savage pleasure in her twin’s surprised yelp.  She unbuckled her seat belt and climbed out of the car.  “I’m going to bed.  I’m sure you can make it back up to the flat without help.”  Slamming the door behind her wasn’t productive, but it made her feel better.  So did stomping in the building, up the stairs, and into her flat.

When she got to her bedroom, she stopped short.  The sheets were still rumpled from taking Lachlan to her bed just a few hours ago.  God, they probably still smelled like him, too.  She couldn’t face that just now.  She’d wait out in the living room to make sure Lacey got in alright.  Then maybe she’d be ready.

When Lacey didn’t open the door after ten minutes, Belle started to worry.  She really shouldn’t have left Lacey alone like that.  No matter how horrible she could be, she didn’t deserve to get hurt.  Guiltily, she opened the door to go check on her, and heaved a sigh of relief.  Lacey was sitting in the hallway, back propped up against the wall, legs sprawled out in front of her.  

Donning her figurative Nurse Belle hat - not for the first time this week - Belle helped her sister to her feet.  It seemed that the last few drinks were still hitting her, because Belle didn’t so much help Lacey walk as drag her to the couch.  Taking one look at her sister’s dazed expression, Belle fetched the bucket.

While she was gone, Lacey had tried to take her shoes off, but her clumsy fingers couldn’t navigate the clasps.  Belle knelt at her feet and took the shoes off, eyeing a new scuff on the toe of the left one ruefully.  Maybe it could be buffed out.  Later.  

“Sweetie?  How are you feeling?” she asked.  Lacey moaned and shook her head.  “Think you can drink some water for me?”  When Lacey’s shoulder jerked in what might have been a shrug, Belle went to the kitchen to fetch a glass.  The sound of retching brought her running back.  “No, no, no, Lacey, use the—”  Too late.  Belle shoved Lacey’s head into the bucket, using her free hand to hold her hair back out of the mess.

At least she’d had the presence of mind to lean over the side of the couch.  Cleaning up the hardwood would be much quicker than scrubbing the carpet.

Once the worst of the illness passed, Belle laid her sister down on her side.  Coaxing her to nibble and sip at crackers and water with gentle praise, Belle left Lacey just long enough to rinse out the bucket and bring it back.  She quickly placed it back near Lacey’s head in case it was needed again, then mopped up the puddle of sick from the floor.  Perching on the couch, she gently stroked the hair out of her sister’s face in the way Mum had always done when they were young.

“Sissy?” Lacey whimpered.

Belle swallowed against the ache in her throat that threatened to choke her.  Apart from bad nights like this, Lacey hadn’t called her that since they were twelve.  “Yeah, Lacey?”

“I miss Mum.”

A single sob escaped Belle’s lips, and she shoved the rest down ruthlessly. Now was not the time to cry.  Lacey needed her to be strong.  She was the big sister; it was her job to be the rock of the family.  She could cry later.  

A small part of her wondered if later would ever come.

“I do too, sweetie,” she murmured.

“Yer not her,” her twin mumbled.

Oh, that hurt.  After close to two decades of being at odds, Belle had thought that nothing Lacey could say had the power to get under her skin.  How wrong she’d been.  

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.  “I’m doing the best I can.”

“Well don’t bother,” Lacey grumped.  “Can’t replace her.  Can’t…”  She trailed off, and soon her breathing evened out into sleep.

Belle’s breath came in shuddering gasps as she struggled desperately against the tears that wanted to fall.  This entire night had been so emotionally overwhelming: kissing Lachlan, making love with him, sending him away and facing his justifiable anger, bickering and taking care of her sister…. She felt raw, exposed, and so vulnerable.  If she started crying about tonight, it would be so easy to cry about the last eighteen years.  She was afraid that once the tears started falling, they might never stop.

Hurrying to the bathroom, she flipped on the light and stared into her reflection in the mirror.  The sight that greeted her was hardly encouraging.  Downturned lips trembling and red, eyebrows drawn down, fat teardrops poised to overflow from her eyelids and splash onto her cheeks.  Time to push it all away. School her face to blankness.  If she couldn’t see her sadness, maybe she’d stop feeling it.

She focused on one thing at a time.  Slow the breathing.  Relax her mouth.  Massage the tenseness from her cheeks.  Draw her brows back to a neutral position.  By the time her eyes adopted a dull, lifeless expression, she felt more in control of herself.  Still not ready to face what was next, but what choice did she have?

Her reluctant steps took her back to the bedroom.  Stripping out of her now wrinkled dress, she changed into a cozy set of pajamas and climbed into her lonely bed.  Sure enough, the scent of Lachlan’s sweat and aftershave surrounded her.  What should have been a comforting smell instead sent a pang of despondency through her.  A quick check of her phone showed no new calls or messages.  She hadn’t really expected him to reach out - not at four in the morning, and not when he was angry with her - but she’d hoped.

Squeezing her eyes shut against the tears that stung them, she curled up around the pillow that still held the fragrance of his shampoo, holding it close to her chest.

Maybe things would be better tomorrow.

******

It had been a long two and a half days.

Lachlan collapsed into his computer chair with a gusty sigh, a drink in one hand, his face in the other.  He had to pace himself.  He had half a bottle to get him through to Friday, and no money to buy another.  The handful of bills left in his wallet would be just enough to keep him fed until payday.  

Every time Belle’s face appeared in his mind, he had the simultaneous urges to take a drink, and dump his bottle down the drain and just deal with the eventual shaking and nausea.  So far, the former kept winning out; there was a simmering fire of anger and hurt in his belly that demanded to be quenched.  Alcohol probably wasn’t the key to putting out that fire, but he wasn’t exactly brimming with ideas.

Yesterday was the first time he’d ever skipped visiting her at the library, and the knowledge still stung.  He’d almost left the sickening, stifling walls of his apartment multiple times to go see her, stopping himself every time.  At this point, he wasn’t sure whether he wanted to see her.  He wasn’t sure she’d want to see him, either.

He’d acted like a right prat Saturday night (or early Sunday morning - whatever).  He knew that.  He had a temper that tended to run away from him when he felt slighted.  Maybe if he’d been more understanding, things would have gone differently, somehow.

But Belle wasn’t blameless, either.  What was she hiding from him?  He tried to look at things as objectively as he could, and it didn’t look good.  He knew that she lived with someone.  He was pretty sure she’d said her roommate was a woman, but he’d been drunk at the time.  Maybe his brain filled in the blanks with what he wanted to hear.

The fact was, he didn’t know anything about the roommate apart from their taste in music, and that Belle picked them up from the bar often.  He didn’t know their name, or what they looked like, or what their relation was to Belle.  She always called them her roommate, but judging by her reaction to Saturday night’s phone call, there was more there than she was letting on.  You didn’t just drop everything to pick someone up at a bar after begging for a reprieve unless there was some sort of relationship there.

With what little information he had, he could only come to one conclusion: Belle was living with a boyfriend (or girlfriend), and was cheating with Lachlan.  The idea was enough to make him sick to his stomach.

He couldn’t believe it.  It just didn’t add up.  Sweet Belle French, the librarian with the kind smiles and romantic heart?  The compassionate woman who opened her arms and her home to a drunk, washed-up pop rocker with nothing to offer?  He simply couldn’t reconcile that with a woman who would use him to cheat, and then throw him out of her apartment.  But what else was he supposed to think when she wouldn’t talk to him?

His computer blooped, warning him that Arianwen was logging in for their weekly chat.  He quickly drained his glass and hid it from the camera’s view just before his daughter’s face popped up on his screen.  

“Hey there, sweetheart.  How are you?”

She beamed back at him.  “Doing great!  I’m really starting to get the hang of my job.  My coworkers are really nice, and most of the regulars are patient while I learn their orders.”

“Only most, eh?”

“Well… a few of the older regulars asked me for impossible orders, and then yelled at me when I couldn’t do it.”  She hunched her shoulders with a wince - a gesture that reminded Lachlan too much of Belle’s posture after her roommate’s call.  He pushed the thought from his mind as she continued.  “My boss said that they do that to all new hires, though, so I didn’t get in trouble.  But never mind that - how are things with you?  Have you started studying for your high school equivalency yet?”

Fuck.  He’d completely forgotten mentioning that last time.  Right now studying was the absolute last thing on his to-do list.  But after how excited she’d been for him last week, he couldn’t bring himself to say so.  “I haven’t started just yet.  I’m still adjusting to my new job.  Maybe next week.”  It wasn’t technically a lie.  Maybe he really would start next week.  He probably wouldn’t, but that was beside the point.

“Oh.  That’s okay.”  She frowned at the camera, leaning a little bit closer.  “Are you okay?” she asked suddenly.

Shit.  Could she tell he’d been drinking?  Was he that obvious?  He forced his face into a smile that probably looked about as convincing as it felt.  “Of course, sweetheart, why?”

She shrugged, fiddling with the frayed edge of her oversized pajama shirt.  “You just seem, I dunno.  Sad.”

He chuckled with a rueful quirk of his lips.  Trust his daughter to pick up on his moods so easily.  She was really something else.  “Just had a… misunderstanding with someone this weekend,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand.  “Nothing to worry about.”

"Oh.”  She hesitated, opened her mouth as if to say something, and closed it again.

“What is it?”

“Um… was it a girl?” she asked.

A warm glow of pride suffused his chest, overshadowing the pang at the reminder of Belle.  She was so damn perceptive.  She must have gotten that from Catherine.  She’d always been able to read his moods, and root out the cause in moments.  Used to drive him stark raving.  “Aye, a girl.  Or, woman, I guess.  Remember the librarian I mentioned last week?  The one who talked to me about going for my diploma?”

“I knew it!” Arianwen cried with a gleeful clap of her hands.  “So what happened?”

“Ah…” he hedged.  His love life wasn’t so desperate that he needed to vent to a teenager.  But his relationship with his daughter was in dire enough straits that he couldn’t begrudge her this.  Still, he’d keep it vague.  “Let’s just say that there was something she felt she had to do, and I didn’t like it.  I got angry and left, and we haven’t spoken since.”

“Why not?”

“Because--”  He paused.  Why weren’t they speaking?  Why had he avoided her yesterday?  Because he was angry with her, or she was angry with him?  That was bollocks.  Staying away wasn’t solving anything.  If he talked to her, they could straighten out this whole mess.  He’d give her a chance to explain.  Surely she’d have a good explanation for what had happened on Saturday.

And if it turned out that his fears were right… well, knowing that would still be better than the agony of this limbo he found himself in.

“Because I’ve got my head too far up my arse to see the obvious solution,” he admitted.  “I’ll talk to her tomorrow.”  He shook his head at her in wonder.  “How did you do that?  Get me to figure out what to do so quickly?  Probably would’ve taken me days to get there by myself.”

“It’s something my therapist does sometimes,” she admitted with an embarrassed shrug.  “When I’m upset and the thoughts get sort of tangled in my head, she just asks questions until I realize what the problem is.  Once I know that, it’s easier to figure out what to do.”

Huh.  He’d always thought that shrinks were overpaid quacks who invented problems in their client’s heads to keep the steady paychecks coming.  Seemed like Arianwen’s therapist, at least, might be good for her.  Maybe her mother’s involvement of a therapist in her life wasn’t such a hare-brained idea, after all.

******

It was twenty minutes to closing on Wednesday, and the library was silent as a grave.  Nobody had passed through the doors in the past hour, and Belle had long since finished up her closing duties.  All that was left was to wait out the clock until she could lock up.  She currently had her nose buried in a book to pass the time.

To her surprise, the door swung open and someone came in.  She looked up from her book with a greeting ready for whomever needed a book at this late hour.  The words stuttered to a halt on her tongue.  “Lachlan,” she said, heart in her throat.

He looked about as good as she’d felt these past three days.  Pallor washed out his normally tan skin, and the dark circles under his eyes were more pronounced than she’d ever seen them.  His features were drawn and careworn beneath a few days of accumulated scruff.  

Dread and elation warred within her, neither willing to give ground to the other.  She’d missed him dreadfully since he’d stormed out of her apartment.  When he’d failed to come see her on Monday, it had taken all of her fortitude to keep her worry and heartache from bleeding into her work.  Even Mrs. Campbell had noticed, silently offering her a comforting cup of tea when nobody was looking.  

But he was here now.  Did this mean he wasn’t angry with her anymore?  Or had he decided to come here to end things?

“Belle.”  He swallowed, his fingers toying with the links of his silver bracelet.  “We need to talk.  About - about Saturday.”

She eyed him warily.  He was probably right, of course. Things had gotten twisted and knotted between them, things that needed to be brought out into the open.  But there were things she couldn’t tell him just now.  She couldn’t open herself to that kind of hurt.  Not again.  “Okay,” she said.  

He scrubbed at his face tiredly with one hand and sighed.  His breath carried the faint astringent scent of whisky. “Why don’t you want me to meet your roommate?” he asked without preamble.

Of course he’d hit the issue right on the head.  “That’s not it,” she said weakly, her heart pounding.

“Don’t lie to me,” he snarled, his accent thickening slightly in his anger.  He bristled with jittery energy - lips pulled back in a grimace, hands gesticulating agitatedly.  “You donnae jump a man’s bones an’ then kick him out of your flat like that unless ye need to get rid of ‘im quick.”  He paused, looking to Belle for an answer.  She didn’t have one to offer.  He nodded as though her silence confirmed something.  “So I've been thinkin’ since Sunday, an’ I came up with two reasons ye might not want me around yer roommate.  So first things first: are ye ashamed of me?”

Belle gaped at him, stunned.  How could he possibly think that of her?  Hadn’t she made her feelings for him clear?  They’d nearly kissed over the very desk that now stood like a vast gulf between them.  “ What ?  Why would you say that?”

“Oh, come on, then,” he spat, cheeks reddening.  “A middle-aged cock-up like me?  A drunk, high school dropout, no friends or family, cannae even afford to take a girl on a date?  I’m sure you’re just dyin’ to introduce me to your mates.”

“I never saw you that way,” she insisted.  

He scoffed.  “Pull the other one.”

“I mean it.”  He hesitated, then, his eyes softening uncertainly, and Belle pressed her advantage.  “I see a man who’s made... unconventional decisions in life.  Someone who sacrificed security for art and adventure, and got to have experiences most people only dream of.”  She laid her hand, palm up, on the desk in a clear invitation.  He stared at it, the firm line of his mouth slackening, but didn’t take it.  “I see a man who’s been hurt, somehow, but still tries to do better.  He just… needs a hand to help him back to his feet.”

Whatever she’d said, it was apparently exactly the wrong thing.  “Is that what this was all about?” he demanded.  “Pity?”

He should have just slapped her in the face; that probably would have hurt less.  “Is that really what you think of me?” she asked quietly, not bothering to mask the pain in her voice.  “That I take a man to my bed like I’m some sort of charity?”

The anger seemed to drain out of him, then, but left frenetic desperation in its wake.  “Well, what the hell else am I supposed to think?”  He shoved his fingers through his hair, yanking it back from his face.  “I’m trying to understand, Belle.  Fuck me, but I’m trying. But you won’t talk to me!”

“I’m talking to you now!”

“But not giving me any answers,” he insisted.  “All I know for sure is that you live with someone, and you’re going out of your way to keep us apart.  So either you’re ashamed to be seen with me, or you’re a hell of a lot more involved with your ‘roommate’ than you let on.”

Rocking on her heels, Belle braced her hands on the desk to steady herself.  She felt like she’d just been punched in the gut.  “What, exactly, are you implying?” she ground out.

“I think you know exactly what I’m implying.  So prove me wrong.”  He stared into her eyes challengingly.  “Let me meet them.  Or hell, show me a picture.  Tell me their name.  Just give me something.”

The urge to slap him in the face was absolutely overwhelming.  She dug her nails into the meat of her thumb as deeply as they’d go to resist the urge.  “You don’t get to accuse me of sleeping around - twice! - and then make demands,” she bit out.  

“But—“

“Get.  Out.”

He stared at her for a long moment, nostrils flaring, lips compressed in a thin line.  “Fine.  I don’t fucking need this anyway.”

Belle watched Lachlan storm out of the library, the second time in a row she’d thrown him out and saw the back of him set in a hard, unyielding line.  How dare he?  How dare he cheapen what had been growing between them into something shameful?  She had shown him nothing but patience and kindness.  Why couldn’t he allow her this one thing?

Perversely, a not-so-small part of her wanted to run after him.  Apologize, and tell him everything.  Wrap herself in his arms and kiss him until all thoughts fled and there was nothing but the two of them.  

With a snort of disgust, she closed up the library - switching the lights off, shutting down the computers, and closing the doors behind her.  She needn’t have bothered hiding him from Lacey, she reflected as her key turned the lock.  This time, they’d managed to ruin things all on their own.

[kadavernagh]

Ties That Bind || Solo

The 70 mason jars in the trunk clattered and clanged against each other the whole ride up to Millinocket. Every time Regan pulled to a stop and heard a couple of them roll or fall over, the ridiculousness of what she was doing sank in all over again.

Still, facing the bottles and her inevitable training failures was almost easier than facing the the familiar lakehouse in front of her. Even parking the car stirred up memories of the family minivan in that exact spot, Kavanagh siblings spilling out of the car, antsy to dive straight into the lake after a long drive. It had been a couple of years since she’d been here, but new chasms had formed between her and her brothers in that time, and childhood memories never felt so heavy. 

By the side of the door sat a few bones. A mix of turtle and chipmunk, by the look of them. The flat turtle skull seemed to peer up at her, and she knew what it meant. Reilly had been here recently. They always left things for each other. Had he left them before or after they’d last talked? She went to pick up the bones, but hesitated. They made her skin pulse, and she wanted to run them through her fingers, but she didn’t feel deserving of them. She gave them wide berth instead as she headed for the door. 

Regan slipped the key into the door’s lock. For a moment, she convinced herself that Reilly or Al changed the lock after she’d failed to attend dad’s funeral. It would send a message: she was no longer part of the family. Her mom no doubt felt that way -- even after her parents had separated, they continued to care for each other in a sense. Reilly and Al had always been closer to dad than she had been. Regan was sure her actions -- or lack of presence -- was unforgivable in their eyes. Really, how could she even set foot here, expecting that the key would still function? But the lock clicked, and the door cried open on old hinges. She swallowed back what was either a sob or a scream, it was hard to be sure, and stepped cautiously inside.

Someone had been here recently. Had it been Reilly, when he’d left those bones? Minimal dust coated the floor, and a quick scan of the front hall only turned up a couple of spiderwebs -- unavoidable out in the woods. 

There, on the middle of the kitchen table, was an envelope. She picked it up. Her name was scrawled across the back in Reilly’s handwriting. Seeing that, Regan quickly dropped it back on the table like it had burned her. She wasn’t sure she wanted to read its contents. 

Regan took quick inventory of the kitchen -- plenty of canned food with distant expiration dates -- and the bedrooms, confirming that they were reasonably neat with clean sheets. She’d always liked coming here, but as she went from room to room, loneliness seeped in. She liked coming here because it was with Al or Reilly or sometimes both of them. Because her fondest and most vivid memories of Liam were tied to this place. Because her family had spent summers here together, all six of them, before death started trailing her. Regan paused outside of the bedroom her parents occupied here, and turned away with a shiver. She’d keep that door closed. She had to wonder if it had been a mistake to drive up here a couple of days before Kaden and Nadia.

But then, she’d come here to do more than just tidy up. With a thick swallow, Regan turned her attention back to the bottles and jars filling the trunk of her car. She left the lakehouse, trying to brush those ghosts away, and unloaded everything.

---

Step 1: Set up nine mason jars in three rows. Space them roughly ten feet apart on all sides.

The expansive clearing by the lake looked almost the same as it had 15 years ago. She scarcely visited here even during her sojourns to the lakehouse, and it showed. Poison ivy and weeds blanketed the ground in certain places, and the apple tree Reilly had planted grew taller and thicker, but it was striking how little things had changed. Regan nearly stepped on soccer ball that Al or Reilly, or, hell, even Liam abandoned. It was covered in dirt, its white patches now a murky brown, but it was still roughly ball-shaped and inflated. She wanted to pick it up and move it into the house, but who knew how many years it’d been sitting out here, accumulating all sorts of nasty things on it? No thank you. She nudged it out of the way with her shoe and set one of the mason jars down where it had been. Then she paced away from it and started counting out intervals of about ten feet.

Step 2: Stand approximately twenty feet away from the jar in the front center.

When all of the jars were spaced perfectly apart, Regan stood back and admired her work. She almost didn’t want to break them. Although, if everything went according to plan, not all of the jars would be casualties.

Nothing ever went according to plan. This had never worked in front of Deirdre, and Regan doubted it was just nerves.

Step 3: Attempt to direct the scream at a single jar.

Regan was in position. She dug the heels of her feet into the ground, cleared her throat. Cracked her knuckles. Cleared her throat again. Stretched. Did she really have to do this? How bad was it, really, to belt out the occasional mirror-shattering, ceramic-tile-cracking scream that was completely beyond her control?

But her thoughts soured as she thought of the squirrel -- and of her brothers. Kaden. Nadia. That same, vivid image she’d had while training with Deirdre burned in her mind. The blood and the viscera of loved ones exploding over everything. There was something else, too -- something that seemed to curl around her limbs and chest like ivy, something almost pressing her into action. The puppet strings of a promise made, like Lydia had described.

She stared down at the mason jar. It was one of the ones that Nessa had given her– she could tell by the beveling on it. What would Kaden say, if he were here? And he would be here, if she’d allowed it. He offered, but the further away he stayed while she did this, the better.

She couldn’t face her brothers or the stained thoughts of her father, she feared she might kill Kaden or another loved one by mistake, she didn’t understand her saprophytic tendencies, and every time she hallucinated at work, her worries about losing her job become all-consuming. That was not being well-adjusted. That was not having control of her life. 

Even her body was urging her to just go ahead and scream. She could feel it building in the back of her throat like a hot ball of bile. It was locked behind her teeth, but just barely, with her willpower to contain it shrinking rapidly. Every cell inside of her wanted that release– and that almost orgasmic stillness that came afterwards.

It’s not too late to swallow it back.

Yes, it is, the ivy replied, constricting around her lungs, snaking its way through her capillaries.

Regan let it escape. The teeth-jarring, bone-piercing screech sent birds shooting into the sky and deer running in the opposite direction. She tried to focus on that one jar and limit the destruction, but to no avail– she could hear the chorus of exploding glass underneath the scream. It took on a life of its own, only stopping when it burned itself out like a fire without oxygen. It was as if some part of her had been excised. Released. Set free and exposed.

Step 4: If only the target jar broke, move the jars closer together and repeat steps 1-3. If multiple jars broke, repeat steps 1-3.

She caught her breath, hands and jaw trembling, as she surveyed the damage. Her heart pounded slowly with foolish hope.

Every jar. Shattered. How could she think otherwise?

Regan began the trek back to her car. There were 61 more mason jars waiting for her.

[barnesaintdead]

Pandora's Box Chapter One

Summary: Times have changed, great heroes were gone and all that remained was wreckage and lives to start over. After an alleged attack, Bucky is taken back to the past. With nightmares still vivid in his mind, he must choose between succumbing to fear or standing before it.

Warnings: smut, angst, mentions!abuse/rape/torture, +18

Word count: +1,200

Pairing: Bucky Barnes/Mutant!OC

A/N: after Endgame, another Stark Tower was built in honor of Tony and everything he has done for the world. There are lots of details about him all the way in the new Tower. Also, I'm hearing Griss's soundtrack while writing this.

The first thing she noticed when her brain woke up was how cold her body was. The warm sunlight kissed her cheeks gently, seeping under her lashes and making her eyelids flutter open to a blinding white room. Observing her surroundings, she noticed she wasn't alone. A men was sitting next to her bed, a long forgotten book in his hands and low snores coming out of his parted lips. Her entire upper body ache when she tried to sit against the headboard silently. She stayed quiet, watching dust motes travel across the room in the early morning haze. It was a chilly one, for sure. Her last memories started to appear in quick flashes trough her head. She was sleeping peacefully when the first explosion startled everyone in the building, flames already taking over almost everything in the first round. And then a second and a third, and everything was chaos and smoke and her only wish was to crumble down with the building because, fuck, it was happening all over again. The the fourth explosion came, those strong arms that were holding her tight vanished in a split second and everything she knew was the hard ground and the iron taste on her tongue.

"Good morning, sunshine", the man greets, throwing her off of her reveries. He stretched his arms up in the air, joints cracking all the way.

"Why am I here?" She asked under a troubled look. Her eyes darted to the window. From that level, all she could bring up was the Statue of Tony Stark resting above the fountain, his hand aiming at something beyond the horizon. She was in the Stark Tower.

"You know why", Sam answered. "Pandora, am I right? Like in the files?"

The girl nodded once, her slender fingers tugging to the thin fabrid that covered her legs. The moment he called her by her codename, she knew she was doomed and he was already aware of everything she was and everything that was done to her. She wondered he knew a lot more than necessary when he swinged her personal diary in his hand before throwing at her side on the bed.

"I want you to see someone... Do you think you can walk?"

Pandora nods once more and start dragging her feet off the bed's edge, startling herself by the purple marks all along her skin. It wasn't a pretty view. The first steps were difficult, like the ones of a newborn doe, she would have fallen instantly without  Sam's support on her waist. Side by side, they moved slowly towards the room next door.

Once Sam pushed the door open, her entire body tensed as if the blood in her veins had turned into ice. With her knees shaking, she stammered unconsciously:

"Zim... Zimniy s-soldat..." [Winter Soldier].

In his bed, Bucky's head moved to the side and his eyelids fluttered seconds before open slowly. His movements were lethargic by the sedatives.

"Gotov soblyudat..." [Ready to comply]. He flashes a weak smile, his voice nothing more but a growl and he focuse his blue irises on the terrified girl. "Nobody have called me that in a long time".

"Yeah. I call him asshole", Sam scoffed.

Pandora, still petrified, let a diminish laugh scape before forgetting the excruciating pain that was rushing furiously trough her body and let herself collapse against the cold floor. Images of a long lost life before her freedom takes place, filling her mind and projecting painful memories that went straight trough her heart like daggers.‎ Fear hit her hard and suddenly she is out of breath and the floor underneath her seems to disappear. Choking and trying to collect herself hysterically from the ground, she end up falling back onto Sam's grip. He hugged her tight and hid her face against his chest without hesitation, hiding her. Pandora's entire body trembled to the point of chattering teeth, her knuckles already white from tugging his shirt between her fingers.

"It's okay, darling. Nobody's gonna hurt you", Sam assured, whispering with lips touching her hair. "I promise. You can trust me, can't you? I'm here with you, nothing's gonna hurt you".

Sam had seen many post-traumatic stress atacks, more so panic ones. He knew how to deal with it. With her. She was scared and feeling unsafe and probably triggered by whatever Bucky said to her in russian, kidding or not. The first thing he did was lift them both from the ground and place her small crooked figure onto the spare bad next to the wall and covered her with the biggest blanket he could find at the moment. He watched as she started to roll herself up in a messy coccon mode.

"Don't worry, Panda. I'm gonna be here with you. Just breath, darling", Sam is now stroking long caresses across the girl's back. Bucky who had been silent trough the whole situation looked at her fondly, but there was still a hint of pain or guilt in his baby blue eyes. He knew he caused her that crisis. It was his fault. He desired to erase himself from her mind for a moment.

Almost an hour passed until Pandora was stable again. Her muscles were slowly untwining and letting her breathe properly, full deep inhales and long exhales to soothe her aching throat. Sam smiled when she looked at him with teary, but thankful eyes, but he kept his hand in motion caressing her for a while, observing how relaxed she was once she saw that were no danger. Not in him nor in the room or in Bucky's presence. She was now laying with face half buried in the sheets. looking dead into Bucky's figure like she was studying him.

"Feeling better?" Sam finally asks, taking a step back from the bed. Pandora nods and looks at him. "I need to report to Fury and get you both some food. Think you can manage to be alone here with him for a moment?"

"I guess... Yeah."

"I'll be back in a second then. Distract her, Barnes, will ya'?"

Bucky waved at him and whitin a second Sam was out of their sight. The air tensed a bit with the sudden silence, she wasn't much of a talker, neither was him, but they kept the eye contact before Bucky broke the connection to take a look outside the window.

"What happened to you?" Pandora's voice startles him, making him let out a chuckle begore putting his attention back on her. She was more mature, it was visible, there were some new scars, but still the same soft, childish features. Her question was short but complicated. He sighed.

"A lot, after Hydra. They wanted me to murder Steve, but I just couldn't finish. He broke the brainwash and after that I started to remember. When everything crumbled down, I found a place to stay in Bucharest", He lost himself in his thoughts for a moment, looking at his metal fingers. "I started a routine, everything was about remember who I was and be invisible. Then, the enemies came... Zemo, he caused a lot of problems... Thanos and the war. I turned to dust when he snapped his fingers, but Steve and the others brought us back. We fought, we won. I'm very thankful for their help. Shuri, who erased Hydra's poison from my head. I wouldn't be nothing without them, probably dead by now".

"So did you nightmares stopped?"

Bucky remembered his times under Hydra control once again, a specific moment, when he was in a cage. The girl next to him helped him sleep trough his nightmares that day. Pandora helped him even tho she was just as scared.

"Those never go away. They're always there, lurking inside my head", He laughed. "The nightmares never were about the brainwash, but about what I did when I was their puppet".

Pandora's eyes went to the ground. She understood him, her own nightmares almost drove her crazy most nights. She abused sleep pills and alcohol, but not even that made them go away. They would be always there. Her heart sinked into her chest for a second and then she heart his voice calling again.

"What about you?" He now had turned his body a bit to the side, for her to look at his front. The sheet went down a bit, showing his marked skin, so many scars in a tiny piece of him. A cold chill went down her spine.

"I was always running. Everytime something would get out of control, I just ran away to another city, then another state, and another country until I end up in that apartament".

"Get out of control...?" He lifted his eyebrow and she licked her lips.

"The things like those explosions and the fire?" She let out a faint laugh. "I'm used to that happening all time. I bring disgrace to everyone around me and that's why you should let me get out of here as soon as possible. I wouldn't want to ruin your lives."

"You mean you started the fire? You caused the explosions?" He asked.

"No. God, no. I... I didn't do anything is just... It happens around me, like I'm cursed or have this terribly bad luck", she shook her head. "I would never hurt anyone".

Outside the room, Sam and Fury listened carefully to their conversation. They new eachother from another times and leaving them alone was the best idea Sam had to show his boss that the girls wasn't a threat. Fury continued to listen while reading the girl's diary carefully while Sam got out to get the food he promised. When he got back, his boss was watching both of Hydra's best agents talking about their periods of peace and chaos with his hands befind his back.

"You hungry?" Sam asked munching on a big piece of his own cheeseburguer before handing one in the other man's direction.

Fury refused with a hand gesture and handed over her diary. He need to know nothing more, that was more than necessary.

"We're keeping her".

"Excuse me?"

"Project 001: Pandora", Fury repeated slowly, with a mischievous smirk in his face. "We're keeping her."

[smile4imagines]

A Visit to the Office

summary: after recently adopting you, your dads Kamal and Boris Habit take you up to the office, but when you get there your fear of dentists makes it hard to keep a straight face.

a note from mod B: AHHH THIS WAS SO GOOD!! thank u so much for writing it, i’m really glad u got inspiration from one of my posts!! <3 <3 <3

 ( @catgirlwarrior )

You paced nervously back and forth in the garden, running your hands over the wooden bench in the center and trying to work up the courage to look in the direction of Boris’ office. You’d been avoiding going anywhere near it since you met him, acutely aware of just what your new guardians did for a living. You were absolutely terrified of dentists, and even though you knew Kamal and Boris were both loving dads, you dreaded having to go in for an appointment.

You knew you would have to soon, as Boris was talking more and more about work lately, and how it was a shame that your records had been “lost” (because you totally definitely had those in the first place) so they didn’t know how long it’d been since your last appointment. Just thinking about either of your dads finding out that you were afraid of the dentist made you break out in a cold sweat.

Would they be mad at you? Would they not love you anymore? Would they try to “cure” your fear with more exposure??

Your stomach turned and you paced faster, twisting the hem of your shirt nervously in your hands. You noticed someone in the window of the office tower walk toward the elevator, and you forced yourself to stop.

Act casual. Just stop and take a breath and act casual. Did they see me? No. That was probably just a patient leaving the office. There’s no way that Boris or Kamal would’ve seen me from all the way up there.

You bent down to smell one of the flowers, using it as an excuse to take a couple of deep breaths to calm your nerves. When you looked up, you saw (to your dismay) that Kamal was walking towards you.

  “Hey, y/n? Boris saw you pacing from his office window, and we weren’t going to say anything but you seemed really upset. Is everything okay?”

You nodded quickly, trying to seem nonchalant. 

“Oh, uh, yeah,” you lied, “I’m fine. I was just waiting for my friend to call me back about some plans we had but they didn’t call. I’m fine.”

Kamal seemed unconvinced, but shrugged noncommittally. He turned his attention to the flower you were looking at, a pretty white Erythronium blossom. He quirked his mouth into a small smile upon seeing his partner’s favorite flower.

“Hey, why don’t we bring some of these to Boris? Your friend will still be able to call you while you ride up to visit your dad.”

  You had to force yourself to remain neutral and keep from stiffening, but inside you were screaming in fear. You tried to think of some excuse as to why that wasn’t a good idea, but you couldn’t think of one that wouldn’t sound suspicious so you nodded. You picked a handful of blossoms and followed Kamal back to the office door. You were glad he was walking ahead of you and he didn’t have to stop to hold the automatic door for you, or else he would’ve seen you trembling violently with fear. You managed to get yourself calmed down enough by the time you got into the elevator that you were sure he wouldn’t see you shaking, but as the elevator rose up into the air, you stood in silent panic as Kamal talked about his day.

  Boris was there to meet the two of you at the elevator, and you forced a smile at the sight of your dad in his horrifying white coat.

Oh god is that blood on his scrubs?

Boris noticed you looking at a red stain on the front of his sleeve and sighed.

“Oh, sum tyems patients r a little messy, especially wen they lose a tooth. It’s nothing that the wash-r can’t fix.”

He ruffled your hair, thankfully seeming to think that you were worried about the blood on his shirt because it would stain. You swallowed and held out the bouquet to him and he gasped, delighted. He leaned down to give you a flouride-scented hug and you had to stifle a gag at the wave of smell that hit you.

He looked at you with a question in his eyes and took your hand, leading you back toward the hallway out of his empty office lobby. 

“R you okay, y/n? You seeme veree nervous 2day. Maybe you should come back and sit down?” He started to pull you down the hallway, but you stopped in your tracks and pushed his hand away. He turned around, furrowing his eyes in concern.

“Y/n? What’s wrong?” Kamal asked from behind you, making you jump a little. You opened and closed your mouth for several seconds, trying to form a good excuse for your behavior, and then the phone on the front desk rang. You nearly leapt out of your skin, and as Kamal left to go answer it, you sat down in a nearby chair and hid your head in your hands, trying not to cry.

You felt a big hand on your shoulder, and you sensed Boris kneel down to be at your level. You sniffled, refusing to look at him as you whispered, 

“I’m scared of dentists.”

Boris sat back on his heels, unsure of what to do now. He had noticed you brushing and flossing your teeth more frequently lately, and sometimes if you weren’t careful, he’d find a little bit of blood left behind in the sink after you spat out your toothpaste. He had tried to hint to you that perhaps you should come in for an appointment, but all of his attempts were politely shut down by you changing the subject or finding convenient excuses to leave the room.

He hadn’t really understood what was going on before, but now it all clicked. He felt terrible! You were afraid of him. You were probably afraid of Kamal, too! It must have been terrifying just to ride up here, and then he’d made you think he was going to force you to sit down and open wide….

“Y/n? I’m soree. I shud have real eyesd before that you didn’t like my work.” You peeked out at him from behind one of your hands, and he put out his hand slowly. You took it cautiously, as if worried that he’d make you get up and go into an examination room. He ran his thumb across the backs of your knuckles in soothing little circles, hoping to alleviate some of your worry.

“How long as it been since you last saw a dentist?” Kamal asked, having hung up the phone and come to sit by his partner. You muttered something into your hands, and Boris gently asked you to repeat yourself.

“I’ve only ever been to the d-dentist’s once, when I was seven. They were mean and they pulled out two of my teeth without any painkiller and I was scared a-and-” your voice broke and you shrunk back into yourself, taking your hand away from Boris to cover your mouth. You could tell that Kamal and Boris were disgusted, and though you weren’t paying attention to what they were saying, you knew they were talking to each other.

They probably think I’m a disgusting freak. Kamal’s second husband is his toothbrush, and Habit polishes teeth every day for a living. What must they think of me? The monster who doesn’t get their teeth cleaned at all?

Boris seemed to notice that you were spiraling, because he was saying something to you now and tapping you lightly on the shoulder.

“Y/n? It’s oka-y. I don’t think you’re some kind of “monster”.” You didn’t realize you had been thinking out loud until he spoke.

“What happened when you were a little kid is not okay, y/n. That’s not how going to the dentist is supposed to work. You were taken to a really terrible dentist.” Kamal sounded indignant for you as he ran his fingers gently through your hair. You looked up at them, noticing that Boris had thrown his big blue coat over his lab coat and bloody scrubs, hiding them from your sight. You breathed a little easier, uncurling a little in the uncomfortable pink chair.

“Do you neede a “hug”?” Boris asked tentatively, holding out his arms a little. You nodded and leaned toward him, taking in the scent of bubble gum and copper that you knew to be distinctly his. He rubbed your back and hummed a fragment of a song in russian, the same one he hummed when he noticed Kamal was particularly worried about something.

“I think,” Kamal said, trying to gauge your reaction, “that we should show you what the dentist is supposed to be like. Nothing big! Just a cleaning?”

You stiffened against Boris, suddenly feeling like his hug was an attempt to restrain you. You shook your head and whimpered, trying to escape from the dentist’s grasp. When you found you couldn’t, you began to hyperventilate.

  “Woah, woah. Calm downe, pleez y/n. I’me not gonna “hurt” you. Heer, I’m lettin’g go and taking a “step” back. I just want to make sure you’re oka-y.” He took a step away from you and put his arms up, exposing the sleeves of the bloody shirt he had on under his coat. You continued to shake your head, trying to breathe.

“Shh, it’s okay, it’s okay. You’re safe. Boris won’t take you back into an exam room if you don’t want, it’s fine. It was just meant to be a suggestion. Just meant to help.” 

You sank to your knees on the carpet of the lobby, hugging yourself and crying. You knew they would try this! You should’ve known a family this loving would be too good to be true.

Your guardians left you alone for awhile, walking back to an exam room to talk. They could hear you quietly crying from down the hallway.

“I can’t bee-leeve I didn’t knowtiss before. Y/n always seems so uncomfy when we talk about work, but i never real-eyesd that this was y!! Am I a Terrible Father!?” Boris cried, nervously pulling at his hair. Kamal quickly reassured him that he was not a terrible dad, only a confused one, and then tried to think of something that could help you with your fear.

  “Habit, do you still have that old puppet?” he asked. When his partner nodded, he smiled. “Okay good. This is what we’re going to do…”

  You managed to calm yourself down by counting your breaths and thinking of more pleasant things, and focusing on the smell of the flowers that still lingered on you in spite of the clinical smell of the office. You blushed with embarrassment as you wondered what your guardians must think of you, then held your breath as you heard Boris and Kamal start back down the hallway towards you.

  You didn’t meet their eyes as they came out to sit by you, but when Boris motioned for you to look at him you did, stifling a laugh at the sight of your dad wearing a tiny, puppet version of himself on his hand.

  “Hel-lo Y/N! I’me Dr. Puppet Habit, but you can “call” me Habby! Why are you frownie today?” Boris moved his hand and spoke in a funny little voice, obviously trying to make you laugh. He succeeded, and despite your earlier fear, you let yourself laugh a little at the absurdity of an 8 and a half foot tall dentist pretending to be a puppet of himself to amuse you. You sheepishly answered that you were scared of dentists, and the puppet “gasped”.

  You sat for almost an hour, talking with “Habby” about dentists and letting him explain things you didn’t know and were too afraid to ask, like what all the tools were and why it was important to go to the dentist anyway. You felt a lot more relaxed by the end of the “show”, and when “Habby” waved goodbye and Kamal took the puppet to put it away, you came over and gave Boris a big hug.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before. I was worried you wouldn’t like me anymore or you’d…do what Kamal did…”

Boris just squeezed you back, shaking his head.

“We wamt you 2 b healthy, AND happy, y/n. It’s import-ant to visit the dentist twice a year, so we know that you’re mouth is oka-y, but it’s also import-ant to take care of your self. It’s oka-y 2 b scared, especially when your past wasn’t very smiley. I pinkie-promise i won’t make you come back to my exam room 2day if you tell me the truth. Are any of your teeth frownie? Do they “hurt” or bleede wen u brush and floss them?”

You frowned, looking down at your hands, then nodded. You told the truth- a few of them bled a little when you flossed them, and sometimes one of them felt a little weird when you ate or drank something cold. You were careful to reassure him that it didn’t hurt! Just.. felt weird. He nodded kindly, thanking you for telling him. When Kamal came back to the lobby, he stood and picked you up easily, announcing that he was closing the office for the night. The three of you went home to eat dinner and watch a movie, and Habit made sure to change out of his work clothes as soon as he got in the door. You knew that it might not be easy, but you could survive an appointment with Boris, if you had to have one. When you said that to your guardians, they both beamed at you.

[detectivesplotslies]

An Anthropologist and a Pianist walk into a School

Oumota Week 2019 - Day 2: Talent Swap / Monster AU 

Description: The Ultimate Anthropologist, Kaito Momota, wants to make quick work of getting to know everything about his classmates, but a certain Pianist seems to be making that troublesome.  Word Count: 1719

Read on AO3 here

“So, you’re a pianist? That’s quite a profession to get into, lots of glory and greatness in being a musician! Who would you say inspired you?”

Kaito barely wastes a moment after introducing himself and jumps straight into questions. He’s already had a long discussion with Kaede about her inventions and Rantaro about his organization, and Kokichi happens to be hovering when he finishes.

“You cut right to it, huh. Well of course the greats, Beethoven, Wagner, a bit of Handel gives you a good handle on it.”

“So you’re into classical stylings? Are they hard to learn? What about your teacher?” Kaito talks a mile a minute, quickly committing the names to memory. Sure music isn’t his expertise, but he knows the big names. Symphonies that inspired others, and ones inspired by others.

“Oh my teacher’s a real gem, but he’s so strict, there was one time I got one note wrong in Beethoven’s 10th Symphony, and he made me play the entire thing backwards from that note and THEN start over. My poor fingers!”

“Oh cool, you must be really skilled then! Sure must have been a pain, that’s crazy punishment for a mistake! Did it even sound good?” Kaito looks up, his face genuinely excited.

Kokichi pauses before grinning and continuing.

“...well of COURSE it still sounded good, I am the Ultimate Pianist after all.”

“With training like that, can you compose? Do you improvise? Or after that rigorous training are you forever bound to the classics? Would it feel wrong to play something modern, or do you like the jazz era too?”

“Wow Momota-chan, how dare you speak of jazz in my presence. I do not play that filth, only the best for my hands!”

“Ah… okay, well, then what made you keep at it? You’re inspired by the classics and your teacher was harsh, but there’s not much for those outside of concerts. Are those what you play for?”

“Silly Momota-chan, of course it’s about the audience. The audience is always who matters when you play music, because only they can hear what you really want to say with it! You really ask a lot of questions, ya know? Are you sure you’re an anthropologist and not Ultimate Journalist? Ultimate TV Show Host? Ultimate Cop? Hmmm?”

“Hey I know a thing or two about audiences, but I’m still an anthropologist, don’t you forget it! Been on lecturing tours at universities all over to show what I’ve put together. I bet those aren’t too different from touring concerts.”

Kokichi laughs and continues to poke. The interview devolves into defenses, Kaito’s illustrious experience and credentials taking the spotlight and questions forgotten. Soon enough they part and he’s off to interview another classmate. An anthropologist’s work is never done as long as there are people to learn from!

But that was hardly the end of what he heard from Ouma that day. You’d think a musician would be more considerate about the volume of their voice.

---

During lunch the elegant cosplayer approaches the pianist, poise exquisite. He seems to consider the boy’s clothes before posing a question.

“So, do you wear the classic tails and tie when you perform, Ouma-kun?”

“Oh yes all the classics. The tie, tails, knuckles, sonic-”

“I’m sorry the-”

“Gotta go fast, Shinguji-kun! You know that one right? Ever worn a mascot costume? Huh?”

After a moment of awkward silence to Ouma’s exclamations Korekiyo excused himself. Kaito, also in the dining hall figured that… could be a way he could show interest in the cosplaying talent. Maybe. But from his interview he knew mascots and simple designs were the farthest from what the cosplayer’s actual interest was.

---

During an argument about her tastes, it isn’t long before the artist tries to push back on the other art talent in the room, and prove herself more cultured.

“Well, I bet you don’t have any more recent musical influences hmm? All long dead men, who’s music is gathering dust. A real artist has to live in the now,” Tenko huffs.

“Oh but I love to stay current! Why just last month I attended a very inspiring concert.”

“Oh really? Tenko would like to know who!”

“Have you, my dear, heard the musical stylings of the Wiggles?”

The jazz hands are met with a nose thrust in the air as Tenko turns heel to leave. Kokichi calls something about artist temperaments after her, to which her heels in her exit from the courtyard clack a bit louder and angrier, like little daggers stabbing the pavement.

Possibly artistic differences? Competitive sort of field? Kaito isn’t sure he’s got a good enough grasp of Tenko’s stance on it all yet to judge.

---

This time the sound of a strange song with no tempo played obnoxiously that caught his attention, and the anthropologist stops in the doorway to look into a classroom.

“Why do you keep playing that thing? I thought you were a piano man, or something.”

To the astronaut who was pointing at the kazoo in his mouth, Kokichi holds it out with some flare.

“The kazoo, which we in the music industry like to call the tongue piano, is a very technical instrument to get right, but if you listen closely you can hear the nuances of a master, c’mon lean in.”

A sharp sound, a spray of spit and a string of profanities later, Miu storms out muttering about getting that key wiggling twink back while Kokichi laughs himself breathless. Kaito stumbles out of her way, his face pinched into a frown as he glances back at the classroom.

Perhaps this called for a follow-up interview.

---

Kaito returns from the library, fists clenched, looking around. Eventually he spots Kokichi, snapping his suspenders and chatting away at the magician, Shuichi, backed into the corner with something between fear and confusion on his face. His top hat is precariously close to tipping off his face while he pushes against the wall.

“Hey Ouma, I wanted to ask you some more questions!”

The pianist turns, tilting his head to the side, face blank for a moment before a cheshire grin spreads across it.

“Momota-chan! Of course, of course. Want to hear more from the master, couldn’t resist, I get it. Well I have plenty of time! Saihara-chan here won’t tell me the ritual he cast to get so powerful because I’m not a wizard like him! Maybe your interrogation will work!”

Kaito hesitates a moment. Wizard? Isn’t Shuichi a magician? “Ah, no I just have questions for you, not Saihara.”

That’s all it takes for Shuichi to take his chance to dart behind Kokichi and leave the room in a run. Neither of them have ever seen the kid move that fast. They are left alone.

“Right, so I just wanted to check a few things with you. You said Beethoven, Wagner, and Handel were your inspiration?”

“Why Momota-chan, were your ears taking a vacation? Yep! Those are my favourite piano composers! And I won’t repeat it again, so you better listen!”

“And when you messed up in Beethoven’s 10th Symphony your teacher made you play it backwards?”

Kokchi flutters his fingers in front of him dramatically. “Back and then front again, like a puppet!”

“And you despise jazz?”

Kokichi gags. “Won’t touch the stuff!”

Then without missing a beat, Kaito grins and asks a new question.

“So your entire interview with me was bullshit, huh?”

Kokichi scoffs and crosses his arms in front of his chest. “My, my, Momota-chan, what nerve you have to tell a musician he doesn’t know his own taste! Next I’ll be telling you about anthropology journals or whatever boring things you are inspired by!”

Kaito sighs and pulls a book out of his bag and flips it open, citing pages as he talks. “Wagner was a terrible pianist, and while he did write some pieces for the piano, apparently they pale in comparison to most other composers of his time. Beethoven only wrote 9 symphonies, so whether you can play one backwards or not you should have corrected the number when I repeated 10th back at you. And you say you dislike jazz but that’s the beat and style you’ve been playing on your kazoo all day.” He claps the book shut with a satisfied smirk on his face.

There’s silence between them for an uncomfortable moment, until Kokichi puts his arms back lazily behind his head and smiles.

“Wow, Momota-chan’s such a nerd.”

Kaito’s smirk drops and indignance rushes onto it, red and unready for its turn.

“Wh- No I’m not! How is finding out a liar nerdy? You’ve been messing with people all day I had to fact check, I-”

“Ohhh, not a nerd, my mistake, a stalker! Wow, I haven’t had one of those since that one time at one of my concerts when this guy grabbed me by my tails and-”

“Ouma, I don’t want to hear another story, I want to hear about you!” Kaito may have shouted it a touch louder than planned, as Kokichi’s tale about his tails abruptly cuts off.

“Why?”

“What? What do you mean ‘why’?”

“Momota-chan can ask questions, but he can’t answer them? Why don’t you want to hear a story. Stories are much more fun! Stories about hedgehogs, teachers, fun kid shows, wizards, and strange instruments. Why wouldn’t that be what anyone wants to hear? It only matters if you like what you hear, afterall.”

“I don’t care if it’s what I would like if it’s not about you. What’s the point in getting to know someone that way?”

“I don’t know, maybe you should tell me, you’re the one studying humans, and they tell some pretty stories when there’s nothing very pretty at all.”

Kokichi smirks and starts to walk out of the room. He’s almost out when Kaito says something to himself, quietly, but Kokichi’s trained ears hear it clearly.

“So you weren’t lying about that then.”

Kokichi turns, raising a brow. “What do you think was true, then, oh Ultimate Questioner?”

“That it’s all about the audience. You change your tune based on who’s listening, and if what you want them to hear? Then I wonder what your audience when you actually play is like.”

Kokichi frowns for a moment and continues walking out, no reply ready.

[end note]

Hope you guys enjoyed a taste of the dumb talent swap I’ve been nursing in headcanons for ages hahah <3 As a bonus, about their designs, some fun details. Kokichi tucks his hair behind his ears so he can better catch what people are saying quietly, and Kaito ended up wrecking his eyes and needing glasses from trying to read things in dark places on expeditions after dark or before the crew would set up. For @oumota-events week!

[treatian]

The Chronicles of the Dark One:  The Dark Curse

Chapter 11:  Policies and Contracts

He had once promised that he would do nothing else until he found his son. But the truth was that he'd made that vow years ago, when he was certain that getting back to Baelfire was going to take a couple of days at most. However, days soon morphed into weeks, then weeks into months, months into years, and now here he was, in three years he would be one hundred, and it seemed like it was only tomorrow. He could remember a time when watching Bae grow up felt too fast. Now, feeling himself age, though he never actually changed on the outside, seemed like it was nothing. Time had that effect when sleep was elusive. Years sometimes felt like they passed in days. And so while he had, in fact, promised he'd do nothing else until he found his son, he'd found that deal-making was a fair distraction as he waited to decipher pieces of the puzzle that hadn't yet fallen into place.

Jiminy Stromboli was now Jiminy Cricket. It had taken a while, but he'd finally hunted that boy down, and what he'd found was only that damn cricket! He was looking after a boy named Geppetto, who, he had come to discover, was the child of the two puppets he now possessed. The dark-haired man was still nowhere in sight, though he watched that cricket carefully. Geppetto had dark hair, it was possible that one day he could grow up to be that man. Though a voice whispered in his head that it wasn't that simple, in his time as the Dark One he'd come to find that nearly anything was possible. The honest truth was that after all these years, his power of foresight was only marginally better than it had been when he'd first acquired it. He was better at understanding the feelings and urges he had from it, but the visions he'd seen when it had first become his own, the names, the faces, the hints…he hadn't figured most of them out yet. He'd come to understand that it wasn't him, but rather that those events just hadn't come to pass and it may be many more years until they did, though he couldn't understand how he was supposed to meet his son again if this was how long it was going to take. He had only that one prediction, that one promise, that he would see his son again to keep him going. It was a guarantee there was an end to his work. And in the meantime, the deal-making helped. Besides, he could never tell which deal he might make that may well be beneficial to him somewhere along his hunt.

He'd been called to this village several times over the last few years, always for the same thing. There was a beast running wild in the woods, and they wished protection for their children, their cattle, their homes, anything, and everything they owned. These poor folks were fools. Too scared to stop and look at the evidence right in front of their own faces when it came to helping themselves. Though he supposed he shouldn't be too upset by their ignorance, it was his "bread and butter" after all. And if, by chance, they chose to dust themselves off and observe that the mysterious creature only ever struck during the three nights of the full moon, if they observed that it never hunted during the day only at night, if they only realized that the beast never left any indication of a day time habitat, then they might realize that what they had on their hands was not a beast, but a genuine werewolf. And warding them off was as simple as getting ones hands on a certain potion and sprinkling it where the wolf didn't belong. Then again, even if they did realize it, there was one ingredient within that potion that could be tricky for the average witch or wizard to get his hands on. How lucky for them that he wasn't ordinary, and how lucky for him that they were not intelligent.

He had a bottle of the stuff in his pocket now. It was what nearly everyone in the village wanted to meet with him for, and so it was only natural for him to assume it was going to be the outcome. He thought he'd been planning ahead. He hadn't expected it to turn interesting.

"He's a lying cheating bastard of a man…"

He smirked as he looked over her red-stained face. "I take it we're not talking about the town beast."

"What? No! Of course not! My husband!" she cried before biting her knuckle and taking in a sharp breath. He turned around so she wouldn't see him roll his eyes at her as she began to cry. He had a soft spot in his heart for those who have been burned by unfaithful lovers and spouses, for obvious reasons, but crying was something he simply couldn't tolerate. In his experience, those kinds of people didn't deserve the tears that far too many wasted on them. In his opinion all those people actually deserved was-

His gut rolled.

There, across the room, something that made him feel like there was an invisible string that ran from his body to it. It was the instinct of his foresight that he'd come to realize meant one thing: something was important.

This was why he took these summonses. He never knew which one was going to be important, and it appeared this one was. But why?

"I assume you are looking for revenge of some sort," he stated, looking back at the woman with a smile on his face that suggested he was excited to help. Just as he anticipated, the tears stopped as she looked up at him.

"Revenge…I want him to suffer as he dies. I want him to feel the pain of what I feel. I want…"

On and on she went as he turned his back and inspected the trinkets behind him. He'd heard her story a thousand times. Young man marries young woman, has a few kids, and then old man looks at younger women and turns his affections toward them and away from older woman…tale as old as time. But he let her talk. He let her ramble because there was something here for him, something…something he needed to find, needed to have.

That!

That?

He felt it the moment he put his hands on the teacup. He'd attempted to move it aside to see if there was anything of value below it, but the moment he touched it a feeling of overwhelming completion rocketed through him and ended again after his brief couple seconds of touch ended. Completion...he didn't even know that was an emotion! But...he couldn't understand why this cup would stir a reaction like that within him. A teacup? Curiously he touched another of the cups. Then the teapot. No reaction. It was just this cup. Just this one teacup. Small and delicate. It was clean and white, the only color on it a bit of blue. Around the rim and just on the front. A branch and some leaves. The same pattern on all the teacups and pots. It was no different than the others, but it felt different. He felt…he didn't quite know how to put words to what he felt when he touched it, but it was strong. The closest he could come to recognition was the way he'd felt when Milah first placed Baelfire into his arms, and he had an overwhelming urge to protect and guard. This was like that only softer somehow. And yet…

In the back of his mind, he heard the whisperings of the Seer.

"Not Yet."

"Too whole."

"Missing nothing."

Suddenly the light was brighter, he was standing in the great room of his castle, he held the empty cup in his hands. It was chipped along the rim. He couldn't destroy it.

This power was far more frustrating than even he knew sometimes. Just more puzzle pieces, and yet the thought of leaving this space without it was…it was unthinkable. He had to take it with him. How, for once, was easy enough.

"Let me get this straight!" he proclaimed, turning back to the woman, who was somehow still talking, with a smile on his face. "You've summoned me, The Dark One, to do what you cannot…kill your husband."

Alexandra let out a sigh. "Yes. No!" she exclaimed with a sudden shake of the head. "Yes, but no…it's not that simple. You see there are complications…"

"There always are, Dearie. So go on, tell dear old Rumpelstiltskin all about those pesky little details so that we might vanquish the villain together!" He made of a show of his arms before sitting down in one of her chairs by the fire and crossing his legs as he leaned in closer as if interested in the story. She was hesitant of him, understandably. It was nice to be in the presence of one woman who didn't get stars in her eyes but knew the power he had all the same. He wanted to use that to his advantage. After all these years he knew the drill, he knew how to mold himself into what they wanted him to be. The woman needed a helpful fatherly figure to listen to her and understand her. So that was the role he played. And it worked. Eventually, she came forward and sat in the chair opposite him; her heartrate even slowed a bit when she did it.

"A few months ago, before all this began, some people came into town and set up shop. They were selling insurance and-"

"Let me guess…you took out a policy on poor Mr. Edwaurdo, did you not."

She cast her glance to the side, a sign of shame, then drew a great breath as if to offer an explanation, but in the end, she just nodded and choked out, "I did."

Insurance policies. They hadn't existed back when he was a boy or even when Bae was a boy. They'd only recently begun to pop up and a shame too because he suspected that he would have been great at selling them if it was years ago. He'd seen the deals behind them, read the contracts, even made a few deals to help people be free from them. At the heart of it, that was all they were, deals! A deal to pay a certain amount, to gamble the risk of not dying or being injured or falling ill. If all was well, the insurance collector kept the money. If something happened and death, injury, or sickness occurred, then the family in question received a very healthy sum of money. It sounded like a good idea, but it mostly just meant that those who wrote and prepared the individual policies became rich. The policies were expensive. Looking around this house, the notion of how this woman had afforded one escaped him. Why she had done it, when up until a few days ago they'd been a happy couple, was curious, to say the least. Fortunately, Alexandra was a talker and didn't dare keep him in suspense for long.

"It was a few months ago, the attacks on the town were getting worse, and Edwaurdo was going out in the parties after the beast. He's a miner, and I'm a baker, with four children! We don't make much, just enough to survive! If he'd gone out after the monster and didn't return, I wasn't sure how I was going to get by without that money! It's enough that after the deed is done, it will really help us stay on our feet until my oldest can work as well! But, if he dies under suspicious circumstances…that is…if…if it looks like…"

"Oh, now Rumpelstiltskin is beginning to see it all clearly, Dearie!" he scoffed, finally rising from his chair. He'd seen the contracts these companies drew up, and he knew exactly what she was afraid of. "If there is any suspicion that you have killed him, any at all, their contract will become 'null and void'…" he chirped, quoting their term with his fingers.

"Yes, exactly," Alexandra sighed with relief.

"It has to look like an accident so that you and your children can't be suspected and denied your claim. 'Tis a simple matter of 'cause and effect', nothing for the Dark One to worry about, for I shall think of something that will never lead them back to you-"

"Oh!" she breathed. "Thank you! Thank you, thank you, thank-"

"Oh! No need to thank me, Dearie! Just pay me!" he corrected. "I don't do such things out of the kindness of my own heart, after all…" he took a few steps closer and held his hand up as if to whisper in her ear so no one else would hear in their empty room, "they say I have no heart at all!"

He smiled as he stepped away, and she shuddered. "R-r-right. Of course, you're not doing this for free. I…I could pay you…a sum of the insurance policy, perhaps…"

"Oh, no, no, no, no…no, if I've a need for money I simply spin it for myself!"

"But…without money…I don't have anything else for you," she admitted her eyes falling. "There is nothing of value in my life."

"One man's garbage is another's treasure!" he proclaimed, taking a few steps back to the tea set. "Or in this case, woman's garbage! My price is simple enough…this tea set will do just fine."

"Tea set…" her eyes fell on the white porcelain beside him, and her brow knitted together. "B-b-but that…that was my grandmothers! I haven't used it in years! It's of no value unless you value sentimentality."

"Well, luckily for you sentimentality is a tradable commodity to me." He quickly plucked the teacup, the one that made his insides swirl, up off the tray in front of him. "I'll take this as my down payment, and I'll be back for the rest when the deal is done. He summoned his magic to create parchment and ink, a magical and binding contract. Normally he didn't bother with such a thing, but he always wanted to give people what they expected of him. For some simply the question of having a deal was enough, for others, they preferred his word. After dealing with insurance thieves, he felt sure that a contract would seal the deal, and leave her satisfied that all was in order.

He held the cup tight in his hand as she took the paper from him and read over the first few lines, at the most. The contract was nearly as tall as he was, there was no possible way she'd finished it within the few seconds that she looked up at him again.

"And you promise…you'll make him suffer…like I have? It'll hurt?"

He let a sinister smile curl over his lips and held her gaze firmly. In a time when most of his clients wanted death to be quick and painless, he had to admit, he did love stipulations like that…

"Until the end."

At his words, she marched over to a writing desk, took a quill, and signed the contract.

[alternative27angel]

Fox Hunt Ch. 3

This took longer than expected. Fell down the rabbit hole when rebuilding (or plainly just building) the lore.

Chapter Summary: Before Marinette agrees to any kind of magical tasks for secret, possibly cosmic beings, she’s going to need some answers.

Also on AO3

-x-x-x-

It was a mouse?? A fox??? A flying mouse-fox!?

Whatever it was, it had Marinette screaming in terror and flinging everything she could to get it away from her. Not that that seemed to bother it. It just kept staring at her and occasionally swaying side to side to avoid whatever got too close to making contact.

"Marinette," it called out, "take a deep breath. I'm not a mouse or a fox–technically speaking. I'm a kwami, and I can explain everything."

She took a deep breath as it suggested, and then proceeded to babble more.

The kwami-thing quickly flew over and held a paw in front of her face. "But it's kinda hard to talk when you're panicking like that."

Being so close to it startled Marinette into silence. The kwami sighed in relief and flew back a few feet to give her space.

"Now then. My name is Trixx, and as I just said, I'm a kwami. I'm here because you've been chosen to help us save the Miraculous from falling into the hands of evil. Any questions?"

Marinette blinked.

"Uh… yeah. First off, what's a kwami, where'd you come from, what are Miraculous, what do you mean by "hands of evil", who is "us", and-" here she lunged forward and got right into Trixx's face "-WHY ME?"

Trixx, startled despite their self, held up both paws and backed further away. "Excellent questions! Let's work on volume, though. No one can know I exist, and that goes for your parents too. Secrecy is of the utmost importance."

"Uh…"

"Don't worry, I'll explain everything later," the kwami waved away her various questions. "For now, just know that kwami are god-like beings, born at the very beginning of existence, that grant magical powers unto humans–and we can be abused if we fall into the wrong hands."

A solemn pause followed that ominous note. 'As they are now,' went unspoken. Marinette could read between the lines well enough to get that much.

After a breath, Trixx continued, "Now, as I am the kwami of the Fox Miraculous, I grant the power of Knowledge… But more on that later! As for your other questions, the easiest way to answer them is for us to meet with my companions. Come!"

Faster than Marinette could catch, the kwami had zipped past her and phased right through the trapdoor.

"Hey, wait! Hold on a second!"

Sparing a thought to wonder at why she was even going after the weird creature, Marinette stuffed the box into her purse and then ran off in hot pursuit.

-----

She had chased Trixx several blocks now, and it was really starting to wear on her.

Every time she was close to catching up, the two would come across someone and then Trixx would hide away. She couldn't exactly hunt for them with others watching nearby, so she'd have to wait until the person had either left or wasn't paying attention. Then, she'd crouch and climb as inconspicuously as possible around everything until she'd finally find Trixx. And bam, they'd take off again!

Lather, rinse, repeat.

Now it would be sunset soon, Marinette had a growing stitch in her side, and it seemed like Trixx had been leading her in circles. At this rate, she'd just have to qui-

"We're here!" chimed what was now becoming a familiar voice.

Gasping with relief (and a desperate need for air), she gazed up at their destination from her hunched over position. The building didn't seem like the type of place where magical creatures resided in secret…

Following the kwami's instruction, she made her way up to the massage shop and knocked on the door.

"Are you sure this is the right place?" she whispered, peering surreptitiously into her purse, where the kwami was tucked out of sight.

"Of course. Just trust me."

The old man that answered the door had not been what she was expecting. Especially since she recognized him.

"You!"

He nodded. "Me, yes. And I have been waiting for you, young lady." Opening the door wider, he stepped aside and gestured for her to enter.

After making sure she was settled in, the old man procured four cups of tea. Handing one cup to her, setting two down between them, and keeping another for himself, he then sat across from her.

"Um…"

"Much obliged, sir!" With a pleased hum, Trixx zipped out from their hiding place and settled in front of one of the other two cups, exhaling a pleased sigh after taking a surprisingly delicate sip.

Ignoring Marinette's spluttering, the old man called out behind him. "I made some for you as well, Wayzz."

A green creature–about the same size as Trixx–flitted across the room and claimed the last cup of tea for themselves. Closer inspection revealed it was more turtle-like than fox-like, but it was about as close to one as Trixx was to the other.

The old man took the chance to scrutinize her, making her sit ramrod straight and almost spill her drink. However, after a moment, he chuckled and sent her a comforting smile.

"No need to be so tense, Marinette. My name is Wang Fu, and this is my partner, Wayzz. I imagine you have things you want to ask."

Trixx interrupted before she could even attempt to get her thoughts in order. "Ah yes, she wanted to know the usual things. You know, who are we, what are we, who are the bad guys. Standard stuff."

Fu hummed in understanding. "Well, to answer that, in order: I am the Guardian of the Miraculous and the kwami that inhabit them, and I was chosen many years ago to wield the Turtle Miraculous. Just as you have been chosen now to wield the Fox. It is an honor very few are considered worthy of. As for "bad guys" and what we're doing, that is a bit more complicated…"

At that, he trailed off and focused on his tea instead.

The silence stretched on, but the old man didn't seem inclined to continue.

"If… if you're asking me to help you with whatever it is you're doing, I need to know what I'm getting into."

He looked back up, and this time Marinette didn't flinch as they made eye contact. She wanted to shrink as his eyes narrowed and seemed to peer even harder into her. It was as if he was measuring her worth, and she couldn't help but feel he would only find her wanting.

Still, nothing in the world was going to make her sign up for some magical, obviously dangerous task with high stakes before telling her just how dangerous and important it was.

The old man hummed and then nodded in acquiescence. "A fair point. We are asking quite a lot, and it would not do to send you out there unprepared. Very well."

Slowly climbing to his feet, he made his way over to the gramophone and dragged his fingertips along the gold designs. After a moment, seeming to gather himself, he turned back to Marinette.

"For centuries, there has been a temple devoted to safe-guarding the Miraculous, vessels of power that–when inhabited by kwami–imbue their wearers with incredible abilities. However, that ended a hundred years ago when one of the monks foolishly trusted a person with ill-intentions."

Here he paused, and Marinette noted the old man's fists were beginning to clench so tightly that the knuckles had turned white.

"The temple was destroyed and-" his breath hitched "-and most of the monks with it."

The kwamis shared a solemn look before Wayzz flew over to comfort his master. Likewise, Trixx floated down to settle by Marinette's hand, patting it gently whilst keeping their attention on the old man as he gathered himself.

"In a desperate act to save the Miraculous, that foolish monk did the only thing he could think of."

Fu turned back to the gramophone and fiddled with a secret panel to punch in the combination. "In the beginning, there were nineteen Miraculous. Many centuries ago, we lost the Peacock and Butterfly. And 300 years later…"

He stepped back to reveal a large black box with a multitude of compartments. Marinette got up and moved to peer inside.

Every single one was empty.

"I myself lost all the others," he finished, a broken sigh escaping him, before lifting the top lid which hid the largest chamber of all. "All but these. The most powerful of them all: the Black Cat and the Ladybug."

Marinette took a moment to study the innocent-looking ring and pair of earrings before noticing the empty orange cavity. With a gasp of recognition, she hurriedly yanked the small box from her purse and opened it. Sure enough, the pendant inside matched the curled impression perfectly.

"You noticed my spot!" chimed a now familiar voice. Trixx flitted over and spun a few times before alighting on what they'd claimed was their spot, admiring how little it had changed. Wayzz quickly joined them.

Chuckling, the old man drew Marinette's attention back to him.

"Trixx is the first I've found since then. And a lucky thing that is, since they are perfect for this sort of thing."

"But what sort of thing is 'this'?" she asked, somewhat exasperated now.

The good humor left Fu's face. "'This' is a race against time. And against evil." Silence rang as the kwami focused back on the conversation. "The Butterfly has fallen into the hands of a cruel man, going by the name of Hawk Moth. He is after the other Miraculous, in order to have his wish granted. And to achieve that goal, he has taken to infecting people with his akuma, turning them into little more than puppets of his own design."

Marinette gasped. "That's impossible!"

...

The old man shot her a flat look and gestured towards the kwami.

Flushing, she clarified, "I mean it's not possible that's been happening. Not here. I'd have heard about it." She continued, a little desperate, "If a bunch of people were being possessed by some guy looking for magic jewelry, someone would be talking about it. At the very least, there'd be rumors about it at school."

He shrugged. "I know not why or how he has managed to keep his methods so secret, but the kwami cannot be mistaken. They can sense that Nooroo is awake and being misused right at this moment."

At the sad nods Trixx and Wayzz gave her, Marinette swallowed audibly. "Then… how do I fit into this? I can't even carry a box of pastries to school without destroying them, much less fight some super villain in hiding. I don't even know you! Why give Trixx to me?"

Fu smiled gently and led her back to their seats, letting them both get settled before continuing.

"I have been watching you, Marinette Dupain-Cheng," he admitted, cradling his tea. "And I have seen a girl with a wealth of courage, whom decides to help people before even considering what it would cost her."

"And quite a clever one at that!" Trixx chimed in. "Wayzz told us how you managed to cover your tracks earlier today. That was a good plan with the pastry tray and the phone." They zoomed into her face, eyes dancing and tail wagging. "You're exactly what I've been looking for in a wielder!"

Three pairs of eyes bore into her–one set cheerful and two sets cautious, but all were expectant. The room began to feel small and cramped, and Marinette clutched at her chest, trying to suck in air.

"I… I need so-some fresh air!"

She was out the door before anyone could respond.

-------

Marinette took deep, heaving breaths as she hugged her knees, trying to calm down. So long as she didn't think about anything, she'd be fine. Just don't think, just don't think, just. Don't. Think.

"You seem stressed."

"GAH!"

She tried to leap away from the voice, only to land in a heap on the ground. Trixx stared at her from their spot in the nearby shrubbery. Both human and kwami were silent for a moment before Marinette let out a miserable groan and pulled herself up into a sitting position.

Facing the fox's direction but keeping her eyes cast downward, she admitted, "I'm a little overwhelmed."

Trixx hummed. "Understandable. It's a lot to take in when one has been tasked with facing off against the forces of evil."

Marinette shot a look up at their blasé tone, but nothing in the kwami's face implied they were being anything but 100% sincere.

"It's… about more than that. Don't get me wrong! Running into this Hawkmoth guy sounds really REALLY terrifying. But mostly… I think you guys have the wrong girl."

"Oh?" they prompted.

"C'mon," Marinette groaned. "Look at me! I'm having a panic attack just from talking about this, there's no way I could actually be any help for real. That's the way I am with everything. Completely useless. Even when I work harder than anyone else, things just go from bad to worse."

The kwami tilted their head. "Is it that bad?"

"It is. I hate to admit it, but it really is," she laughed sadly. "I don't know how long you guys have been watching, but obviously it wasn't long enough. You haven't even come close to seeing the real me."

"…Perhaps so."

Marinette flinched and peered up with wet eyes.

"I guess that means I'll need to hang around to see this "real you" then!"

She gaped. "Wait, what?"

Trixx giggled and flitted in close, tapping her nose playfully. "You said it yourself: we haven't known each other long enough. So, we must rectify that. But first, let's get you home. It's quite late for young folks to be out alone."

And with that, they flew away down the street.

"Hey… hey wait!" Marinette scrambled to her feet and took off after them. "That's not what I meant!"

----------

Marinette groaned as she trudged after the lazily floating kwami. They had slowed down considerably once she had given up on trying to deny Trixx coming home with her.

"And you're sure that Fu won't mind us just taking off like that?"

"Mm, it'll be fine. Wayzz knows how I am, and he'll make sure Master Fu doesn't worry too much."

She sighed, though whether in relief or resignation, she wasn't sure. After a moment, she broached a topic that had been niggling at the back of her mind.

"Are you two close, then? Or is that just a kwami thing?"

Trixx paused and glanced back at her, a pleased smile inching up their face. "Noticed that, did you?" They turned back to continue forward, raising their voice a bit to carry. "Yes, Wayzz and I became quite close over the centuries. A bit hard not to, considering."

"Considering?"

"Well, after Nooroo and Duusu went missing, the Guardians were always leery of letting too many of us out. I'd go several decades without wielders before, but after that, I was hardly ever let out at all."

They chuckled, nostalgia clear in their voice.

"I remember hounding Wayzz for stories every time he got to rest between Guardians. He'd be exhausted and ready for a nap, but he'd always give in and tell me everything he could about the outside world. It became a good way to pass the time."

Marinette came forward, a tilt to her head. "Why?"

The fox 'hmm'ed at her, confused at the question.

"I mean, why didn't you get out as much? I don't know anything about your powers, but you really seem like you can handle anything that comes your way."

They chuckled, this time more energetically. "Ah. Well, that's as much to do with my wielders as with me. My powers are far less direct, requiring both forethought and adaptability. Naturally, I would want my wielders to slow down and think, and I'm afraid most people just don't have the patience for my methods."

"Oh."

"Now, don't be discouraged! I wouldn't have chosen you if I didn't think you and I would work well together."

"Oh! Oh no, it wasn't anything like that," she assured. "I was just thinking it seems–" Lonely. "–a shame. I think it'd be really nice to stop for a moment and consider your options before leaping headfirst into things. I wish more people would let me do that."

"Hm. Well, thank you. It's always refreshing to hear that sort of thing."

Marinette wanted to say something more, but then she caught sight of her house, with her father standing on the doorstep.

Without prompting, Trixx flew into her purse to hide, and Marinette steeled herself before marching forward to face her no doubt furious parents.

----------

After half an hour of bearing with her parents' lectures (interrupted every five minutes with relieved, bone-crushing hugs), Marinette was finally able to escape to her room.

She took a moment to usher her kwami hitchhiker out of her purse before flinging it and her blazer onto her chaise lounge. She wasted no time afterwards changing into pajamas and climbing up to her bed.

Trixx 'ooh'ed and 'aah'ed as they wandered around her room, finally taking it in now that she wasn't trying to throw things at them.

She wanted so badly to just close her eyes and go straight to sleep, but Fu's voice kept repeating over and over in her head.

"Hey, Trixx?" she called quietly.

The fox flew up to the loft and settled on her bed. "Yes, Marinette?"

"What did he–What did Fu mean by Hawkmoth infecting people?"

"Ah." At the question, Trixx deflated. "Well, when a Butterfly wielder is strong enough, they can imbue people with a strong power befitting their desires. Hawkmoth is obviously strong enough to have done that several times now."

The fox shook their little head in upset. "The problem is that when Hawkmoth is doing so, he makes sure that the person is affected by strong, negative emotions. It corrupts their desires into something malevolent, making them willing to hurt anyone that gets in the way of achieving theirs–and therefore Hawkmoth's–goals."

"That's so messed up!" Marinette cried out. "Are they stuck like that forever?"

"Oh no, Hawkmoth has to release them after a while. Drains his power, otherwise. But the things they did while under his influence remain."

She hugged a pillow tight against her. "So… if they hurt someone…"

"All damage remains," Trixx affirmed. "To things and to people. There's a couple of Miraculous that can fix damage, but they're all missing, so…" they shrugged.

Marinette shot up in bed and scowled at the kwami. "Then what can we do?"

"We can find the others. We can find the other Miraculous, and we can find wielders for them–and then we can find Hawkmoth." A tension began to fill the room as the fox's voice grew stronger. "And when we find him, we can rescue Nooroo too. And stop Hawkmoth for good."

Trixx floated up to hover in front of her, purple eyes staring deep into hers.

"There are a great many things we can do, Marinette. But only you can decide if we will."

Marinette turned to gaze down at her open palms, considering. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of her old class photos. Kim and Juleka, Max and Rose–they'd been in the same class together for years now.

Her eyes moved to her phone and turned it on to look at her new lock screen. She'd just met Alya, but she already felt like she'd known her her whole life.

And then she looked at Trixx. Patient, friendly Trixx, who let her talk and answered all her questions and wasn't put off even when she admitted she would be useless. Who was passed over countless times for centuries but still seemed so sure they would be up to the task.

Her hands curled into fists and her brow furrowed, she nodded to herself before focusing back on Trixx.

"I don't know if I can really be any help," Marinette started, voice steady, "but I will try."

A delighted smile stretched wide across Trixx's face. "I knew you'd be up for it! Oh, don't worry, Marinette, you are going to be an amazing Fox!"

She laughed as the kwami continued to effuse about her future as the Fox hero, excitedly twirling around her room at ridiculous speeds.

Suddenly overtaken by exhaustion, she slumped back onto her pillows and let her eyes drift shut, a small smile on her own face.

Maybe this would turn out okay.

[language-rxgers]

Best Boyfriend You’ve Never Had (Bucky x Reader)- Part 10

Summary: You and Bucky go to the reception. A little light is shed on Bucky’s alleged recovery, Ryan’s a dick, you share a perfect dance with Bucky, and it all crashes down.

Characters: Bucky Barnes, Reader, OFC Trish, OMC Ryan, OFC Catherine

Warnings: nightmares, angst, self-doubt, Ryan’s a little worm

Word Count: 3349

A/N: Probably only one or two chapters left. Once again, so sorry it took so long!

Masterlist

Part 9 (Previous) / Part 11

Lunch was quiet for the most part; you and Bucky just went to the bar and grill around the corner, making small conversation over your burgers and fries. It seemed like Bucky kept wanting to say something to you, but every time he leaned forward and opened his mouth, he seemed to think better of it and dismiss himself. On the car ride to the reception, you reflected on what happened at the church. Maybe you were being too dramatic about all of this. He was just being a good friend- such a good friend, in fact, that he was willing to possibly step out of his comfort zone and kiss you to keep your ex-boyfriend from bothering you. What kind of guy willingly does what he’s done these past two weeks- getting to know your family and making an effort to get along with each of them, offering his help in finishing with the wedding errands, hell, even taking your dog for a walk so the rest of the family could sleep in- without some kind of catch? Who does that? That’s right: Bucky. God, you wished so badly that this was real, because Bucky had been true to his word: he had truly been the best boyfriend you’d never had.

When you arrived at the same restaurant as the night before, you straightened out your dress and changed back into your heels before following Bucky into the restaurant. The dark haired man had opted to shed his dress jacket, rolling up his sleeves and loosening his tie slightly, which made your throat go dry. In the entrance of the restaurant, which was already bustling with guests, there was a table with a large slab of wood sitting on top. As you approached it, you noticed it was engraved with Catherine and Thomas’ names and the date of their wedding in curved and looping calligraphy, and it was also riddled with the signatures of the guests. You grabbed a marker from the table top and scrawled your name in the lower corner, adding a smiley face for good measure. You handed the marker to Bucky, who took it hesitantly. “Well, aren’t you gonna sign?” You asked him curiously when he didn’t make any other movement. He raised his eyebrows, as if surprised he was allowed to do so. You smiled gently. “Go ahead, Buck, you’re a guest too,” you chuckled. He looked at you with an unexpected gratitude, before pulling off the cap and scribbling a rushed J.B.B. under your name. After he set down the marker, you noticed a sign beside the wood slab.

Please sign so we can have a lasting reminder of the wonderful people who made this day so special! After, as there is no seating arrangement, please feel free to choose a seat at any of the tables except 1-3, which are reserved for the wedding party and immediate families of the bride and groom. Thank you!

The two of you then ventured out through the crowd until you spotted your mother talking to a waiter, and you headed in her direction. As you approached her, Bucky slipped his fingers through your own, taking your hand as if it was second nature. Your mother sent the waiter on his way and turned to meet the sight of you and Bucky making your way through the tables to her. She smiled giddily.

“Oh, wasn’t that just such a lovely ceremony? I can’t believe your sister- my baby- is married! I just can’t believe it!” She squealed. You smiled.

“It was a beautiful ceremony,” you agreed. Your mother was positively beaming, and she looked you up and down, clasping her hands in front of her.

“Oh, and sweetheart, you just look absolutely beautiful. And you, Bucky, simply dashing. Of course, that’s nothing new, I suppose,” she laughed, sincerity glinting in her kind eyes. Bucky squeezed your hand.

“Thank you, Mrs. (L/N). You’re stunning, as always.” He gave your mother a knockout grin, and she hushed him lightheartedly. “Where’s Mr. (L-“

“Trish, you look gorgeous tonight,” a familiar voice interrupted Bucky’s question, and suddenly a head of light brown hair was swooping in and planting a kiss on your mother’s cheek, a pair of arms engulfing her in a quick hug. “Congratulations on your daughter’s wedding.” Your mother started at the sudden imposition before regaining herself.

“Oh, Ryan, thank you, that’s very kind of you,” she said sweetly. He gave her a crooked smile, hand still resting between her shoulder blades, his broad back effectively cutting you and Bucky out of the interaction. You raised an eyebrow and Bucky rolled his eyes before clearing his throat. Ryan turned back to the two of you.

“Oh, hey you guys, what a great wedding huh? (Y/N), you looked really beautiful up there,” he nodded to you, eyebrows raised in a softened expression. You tried to melt your stoic front into a grateful smile, thanking him. Ryan’s eyes drifted to Bucky, then down to your joined hands. He put his right hand forward, expecting Bucky to break his grip with you to meet it, but the dark haired soldier rather offered his left hand, metal glinting in the twinkling fairy lights strung around the restaurant. Ryan seemed taken aback before shaking it off and switching hands, taking Bucky’s in a firm grip. You could see the plates in Bucky’s arm shifting as he squeezed a little too tight for comfort, but the civil smile painted on his lips gave nothing away.

“Ron,” Bucky nodded, and Ryan let out an agitated breath.

“Ryan,” he corrected, but the born and bred Brooklynite merely gave a half shrug.

“Right,” he replied. Ryan narrowed his eyes, an amused smirk playing at his lips.

“You know, Bucky, at some point tonight when you have the time, I’d really love to get the chance to have a sit down and really get to know you. I think that you get a bad rap in the media’s eye, and I could really give a refreshing eye-opener on my show. Set the record straight. You know, get down to the roots of Bucky Barnes, metal armed hero and HYDRA puppet. Past that tough guy exterior you put up. The people love an underdog, and I think that if they really got to know the real you, not just the Winter Soldier, they’d get just that.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” You blurted out, horrified at Ryan’s audacity. Who the hell just blatantly says that? Bucky remained stoic, but you could see his jaw was practically sewn together. The two men broke their hold on each other, and you noticed Ryan subtly stretching out his crushed fingers at his side. Bucky kept his eyes locked on Ryan’s soon withering gaze, and you had to keep your own temper under control.

“Well, Bucky and I were just going to get a drink. Mom, we’ll see you later? Ryan, rot in hell,” you said pleasantly, giving a charming smile. You grabbed Bucky’s elbow and pulled him away. You were livid, and the sooner you got away from that little rat who called himself a talk show host, the more likely you would avoid having to ice your knuckles by the end of the night. “Oh, God, Bucky, I am so sorry. Just ignore that son of a bitch. I can’t believe I ever dated him, I can’t believe he’s at this wedding, I can’t believe he hasn’t already been thrown out on his ass already, I-“ Bucky spun you around and took your face in his hands. Well, hand. You noticed his kept his left arm anchored by his side, and your throat grew thick with anger.

“Doll, calm down, it’s alright. You can’t let that asshole get to you, because that’s exactly what he wants to happen. He wants me to get angry. He wants you to get angry. I’ve dealt with these kinds of guys before; hell, I spent the first 20 years of my life dragging Steve away from those kinds of guys.”

“But, Bucky, he-“

“It’s not worth it,” he insisted. You frowned.

“He’s not worth it, or you’re not?” Bucky blinked for a moment.

“Are we really gonna do this again?” He gave you a pointed look. A few nights ago, you’d confronted Bucky before bed. You’d noticed that every morning you’d been there, you’d woken up to cold sheets, a big breakfast, and a recently exercised dog, all due to Bucky. Now, Bucky had been an early bird for as long as you’d known him, but you’d never realized just how early he actually woke up. The morning before your confrontation, you’d stayed awake all night to see just when he got up, but you’d discovered not only the time of his rise, but also the reasons for it. At 3:30 in the morning, you’d noticed Bucky’s breathing pick up exponentially, becoming erratic, panicked and harsh. You’d turned around in the bed only to see him flat on his back, forehead and chest slick with sweat and both hands clenched into fists in the sheets. He was stiff as a statue, as if he were trapped in his own frozen body, and then you’d heard the whimpers. The broken, desperate whines were then suddenly cut off with a full body spasm that shook him awake with a gasp. You’d shut your eyes immediately, not knowing what to do, and remained still as he’d sat up in the bed, swung his legs over the side, and rested his head in his hands as his breathing calmed down.

“You’re okay, you’re okay,” he repeated to himself. “One, two, three, four, five,” he counted, taking a deep inhale and exhale with each number. You struggled with whether you should let him know you were awake and see if he was alright, but you had no idea what to say. You were frozen on the spot with shock as you realized how much Bucky still suffered, even when he acted as though he was fine. Bucky then rose from the bed, turned around and fixed your sheets over your shoulders before planting a soft kiss on your forehead and quietly leaving the room. You felt such an intense wave of shame and guilt wash over you, realizing that while you were supposed to be one of Bucky’s best friends, you’d had no idea of the terrors he had to endure every night. Just seeing the petrified expression of desperation etched into his face as he lay frozen, captive within his nightmare, haunted you to your core.

The next night, you’d sat him down and asked why he’d never said anything about still having nightmares.

“What are you talkin’ about?” Bucky frowned, playing confusion nearly too well.

 “Bucky, I know you’ve been having nightmares every night we’ve been here. Hell, you’ve probably been having nightmares every night for months. Did you ever even stop?” You placed your hands on your hips. “Because you said you did, and I believed you, but I know for a fact you had one last night. I know you’ve been waking up in the middle of the night every night and haven’t gone back to bed. Why didn’t you ever say anything? We could have helped you more. I could have helped you more. I feel like I’ve failed you, like you’re still suffering in silence just so we don’t have to worry, but Bucky, that just means that I haven’t done my job. It means that I was supposed to be there for you, to help you through this and show you that you’re not alone, but you haven’t been letting me do that. I care about you, and I want you to get better, I want you to sleep through the night. I want you to be free of this, this pain that HYDRA’s haunted you with! Please let me help,” you pleaded with him.

 The steely-eyed man merely looked up at you from his seat on your bed, a soft smile paradoxically compatible with the defeat in his eyes. “You have. There’s nothing else you can do, sweetheart. This isn’t something you can help with. This is something I have to deal with on my own. While I appreciate you and everything you’ve done for me, I don’t know if I’m worth all of this, (Y/N).”

 Your shoulders slumped, and you let your hands fall to your sides before lifting them and placing them on either side of Bucky’s face. The rough stubble coating his cheeks scratched at your palms while you ran your thumb over his eyebrow, but you didn’t mind one bit. “Don’t ever say that, James Buchanan Barnes. You’re worth everything.” With that, you’d turned on your heel and left the room to get ready for bed before he could get in another word to invalidate your statement.

Bucky sighed. “(Y/N), come on, just let it go.” You shook your head.

“No, I’m not going to let you keep yourself from finally getting better. You’re forcing yourself to suffer, it’s like this self-destruct button you have in your brain that you can’t stop pushing. It’s like you think you deserve to suffer, so you avoid anything that could possibly mean you get a normal, happy life. You aren’t the Winter Soldier. You never were. That was someone else HYDRA crammed into your brain. You shouldn’t make yourself pay the price for the actions of someone else. Now shut up, and enjoy this party with me. Just for one night, please, let yourself be happy.” Bucky chewed the inside of his cheek before nodding briefly. You smiled, grabbing his left hand and pulling him to the drink bar.

For the next few hours, you and Bucky enjoyed the delicious meal your sister had chosen, laughed, talked, and laughed some more. As far as you were concerned, Bucky had left his doubts at the drink bar, but you still kept a close eye on his smile.

As the night was coming to a close, almost too soon, you and Bucky swayed together on the dance floor to Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong’s Dream a Little Dream of Me. Your sister had such an affinity for Ella Fitzgerald, and while you hadn’t listened to much 40’s music growing up, you found that you listened to quite a bit more after having met Steve and Bucky.

It was in this moment, as Bucky held you so close, so tenderly on that dancefloor, that everything else seemed to fade away. No one else existed except for Bucky, and you had never wanted for time to stop as badly as you did then. Your heart hurt with want for this to be real, for this to be a moment authentically shared by two hearts beating as one, instead of two friends pretending to be something more. You knew the song was drawing to an end, but you just wanted five more seconds. Five more seconds before Bucky would pull away from you and break this perfect moment. Five more seconds.

As the last note faded out, you prepared yourself for the shift in Bucky’s movement that would mean the end of the dance. But he didn’t move. You lifted your head from his chest to look up at him, giving him a small, blissful smile. Bucky began to return the smile, but he paused, eyes searching into your own for… something. His face fell, and he slowly removed his arms from where they fit so well around your waist, taking a step back. He looked around, and you were suddenly made very aware of how little people were still present in the restaurant. “We should get goin’,” Bucky muttered, running a hand through his hair. You forced a smile, trying to ignore the disappointment blooming in your chest, and followed him to the door. You waved goodbye to your sister, who was still swaying with her new husband on the dancefloor, a perfectly peaceful expression on her beautiful face. She winked at you, lifting a hand to lazily wave.

On the drive home, you tried to place the look he’d had in his eyes before he’d pulled away from you, trying to find any reason other than the painfully obvious answer staring you right in the face. When you came up short handed, you bit your lip to keep it from trembling. He’d been searching for a reason to keep dancing, to stay in that perfect bubble. He’d been searching for some feeling other than platonic friendship for you that would allow him to finally be happy, but he’d found nothing in you. You hadn’t been enough to keep him there. He didn’t love you. Never would. Not like that. You weren’t enough. It was why he didn’t trust you enough to come to you about his nightmares. It was why it was so easy for him to pretend to be your boyfriend like it was nothing. It was why when you returned to New York, Bucky would fall back into his normal routine like nothing had ever happened, and it would be your turn to act like you were fine when really you would be learning how to breathe all over again without him.

The feeling started in your fingertips, spreading like ink in water throughout the rest of your body, pooling in your chest and the palms of your hands. It was painfully uncomfortable, like all the nerves in your body were being squeezed in a clenched fist. You gritted your teeth together to keep your eyes dry and to find some kind of pain that would override the agony spreading like white hot fire in your veins. You knew you wouldn’t be losing Bucky, because you’d still be friends, and you’d act like everything was back to normal, but you also knew things would never be the same for you. You’d never be able to look at Bucky without seeing that dismissive flicker in his eyes when he’d pulled away, you’d never be able to hear his laugh without remembering all the times that laugh had been reserved only for you these past two weeks, you’d never be able to be around him without physically feeling your own feelings for him being rebounded off the barrier of unrequited love unknowingly put up around his heart.

But he would be okay, and that’s all that mattered. He would be happy. He would be okay. Now that you knew about his nightmares, you could help him get better for real, and he would finally, actually, be okay. That was all that mattered. You could ignore and push away these feelings that had seemingly reared their ugly heads as of late, as long as Bucky was okay. You could be his friend, because having him in any way was better than not having him at all.

That was the thought that kept repeating itself like a mantra in your head all night. Having him in any way was better than not having him at all. That was the reasoning you’d always had for never confessing your feelings for him, and that was the reasoning behind why you weren’t planning on saying anything of the sort now. You wouldn’t say anything about your feelings for him, about how these past two weeks didn’t just mean nothing to you like they did to him. You would keep your mouth shut and act like everything between the two of you was still perfect and platonic. You would suffer for a while as you dealt with your silent heartbreak, but you knew eventually it would get better. The pain would fade away and things would be okay. You’d go through this on your own and pay your dues for having foolishly fallen for him, and you would come out of it okay.

Because having him in any way was better than not having him at all.

Part 9 (Previous) / Part 11

tags:

@chaosinacoffeecup @satans-knitting-club @starkxpotts @bexboo616 @learisa @socialheartbreak @la-meneur-louve @burningbiatch @agentsinstorybrooke @colonel–sarge @farfromjustordinary @yo-yo-bro-bro @friendlyneighborhoodnazgul @loricameback @martabruiz @lilmissperfectlyimperfect @autijahnerd13s-blahg @irepeldirt @mcu-trash @hdthdthdt @superwholockian5ever @libbyjune24 @elliemarchetti @cinema212 @bvckys-doll @kaede2111 @angstyang @pitubea1910 @kapolisradomthoughts @chewymoustachio @mishgrassi @vibraniumass @lilypalmer1987 @the-instrumental-mortal @crazy4thewinbros @palaiasaurus64 @winterboobaer

[cassidydanvers]

Possession is nine tenths of the Law ||Solo

Her record for turning up outside buildings she didn’t know with some disaster or something going horribly awry was so far two for two and as the car idled outside Cassie thought about the coin toss it was that today she just might make that a hat-trick. Wasn’t she supposed to be psyching herself up here? Thinking about it, her record for coming out of the other two scenarios relatively unscathed was at least fifty-fifty. So, she had that going for her. Not a lot, but it was something. Taking the keys out of the ignition the car stilled and all that was left was the quiet chatter of whichever radio personality had time to fill between the ads and tracks. She tuned most of it out and looked across outside the driver’s side window and out at the mini McMansion beyond.

Much like all the other houses on Harris Island the building across from her looked like a more tasteful version of what could only be described as a Barbie dream house. Stone clad turret and bay windows included. As buildings went it didn’t scream murder house. That title was still reserved by the one off dark score lane. With that thought still in the back of her mind she reached behind her to the space at the passenger seat behind her for her bag when a figure crossed her side of the car and she senses someone standing close on the sidewalk and twisted back round to see a woman’s face leaning towards the window and her hand coming up to wave with her fingers. Probably wondering what business she had creeping around outside near the Lexus and Mercedes models and staycation homes. Cassie gingerly reached over to wind the window down and smiled in what she hoped passed for a friendly ‘howdy there neighbor’ greeting.

“Hey,” she rolled the window down fully and looked out towards the other woman.

���I spoke to you online didn’t I?” Okay, not what she was expecting. The woman opposite was straight to the point. It was strange to be able to put a face to the name. She wasn’t exactly who she’d been expecting either. Professionally dressed in a suit that looked like it had been custom made to measure, her dark hair piled up and way from her face in an updo. If she knew it was a formal event she’d have ditched the jeans and blue button up for at least a nice blouse. “Exorcisms, right?”

“…That would be me,” Cassie waved sheepishly, “hi,” at the latter half of that conversation she raised her felt her eyebrow raise and cast a wary look around them in case it had been overheard but found the street mercifully empty.

“Hey, Erin, she greeted with another wave, “sorry I was running late. Thought I might miss you so this is great timing actually. Give me just a second,” Erin held up a finger while she fished her keys out from her purse, “and I’ll open the place out for you. Come on out,” she gestured for Cassie to follow her and turned her back towards the house.

Stepping outside of the car Cassie idled for a second and looked ahead at the house as Erin locked up her car and started up the small incline of her paved driveway and to a large stained glass oak door. Cassie swung the keys back and forth in nervous habit around her finger and watched the dinosaur pass by in a green plastic blur when something heavier and gold swung beside it and knocked into her index finger as she stopped to look at the new addition to her keyring collection. A small radio charm had been added at some point. Examining it with a small smile and a shake of her head she put the keys back into her pocket and moved to catch up with the other woman. As she passed the small well-manicured front yard the sprinklers flared to life beside her and she dodged to avoid her jeans catching any of the spray. With a last look out towards the rest of the empty street she crossed over to the porch.

“My deposition overran,” Erin explained in a harried, almost hassled fashion as Cassie caught up to her and ran the back of her hand across her forehead to push away the stray hairs, she was close to her mom’s age, maybe a few years younger, “but, that’s not what you came here for. So,” she let out an exhale and gestured for Cassie to enter the house first with her arm outstretched in an ‘after you’ gesture, “you want to come through and I can see what exactly we’re dealing with?”

From the outside it might have just looked like any other house on the stretch of road, but the interior was something else entirely. Across the other side of the doorway were several wards and symbols painted or etched into the frame. The room to her left was crammed with bookshelves lining every section of the room and every available space was crammed with varying tomes and volumes. They passed a few other sets of closed doors until Erin turned into what looked like a cross between a living room and a study. Books were stacked in piles on the coffee table in the centre of the room with various papers and opened texts scattered nearby.

“Come on in, please excuse the mess,” Erin took a seat on one of the armchairs, “I was looking some things out last night when we were talking. I thought at first you were talking about something like a possessed object or a Dybbuk Box scenario, but from what you said we’re looking at something else. They can’t bust out of jail like that and you’re not your standard possessed party so, we’ve got to think outside the box with this one.”

“Right. There’s uh, there’s nobody else in here, been trying to keep track but it’s not like I sleep a lot anyway so I’d notice if I had chunks of my life missing. Just me,” and my own stupidity, she mused to herself.

“Oh, sure-sure-sure. I picked up on that from outside. You wouldn’t have got past the door otherwise.” Erin didn’t elaborate and brushed it off to get up and look on the table for some papers. “Ok. Let me just “see what I got here” she trailed off as she sifted through the stacks of paper on the table and flipped over a few books to examine their titles before she sat it looked like she had a second thought and moved out to stand again, “you want coffee, tea, water, anything?”

“I’m good,” Cassie shook her head and took a seat on the couch nearby. “Thanks.”

“Ok,” Erin sat down again properly, adjusting the hem of her skirt as she got comfortable, “then we’ll just get straight to it. You said a mask did this?”

“Yeah, creepy Texas Chainsaw Massacre looking thing. Something that had the other guy like a puppet, ventriloquist dummy maybe. He was behind the wheel, but somebody else was calling the shots.” She went on to explain what had happened, going to the house, the mask the green light that seemed to curl around everything like a vine, minus a few details, but enough for Erin to get an idea. “I saw one other person get hijacked, but this isn’t like that. I’m not getting the eye stuff or--It’s these whispers every now and again, I know how that sounds, but like I said it’s just me in here. I’m not—there’s nobody else trying to duke it out. It’s like,” she started and stopped. She didn’t know how to phrase it, “It feels like somebody tied a thread,” she started over, “like I’m linked up to something. Every now and again somebody decides to start pulling at it, like it’s on fire a little” she mimed pulling a string on her wrist, “but it’s everywhere and it’s like I have to follow. It’s worse when I don’t, been trying to ignore it with  working out but it’s wearing off solution-wise. It’s not all the time otherwise I’d have already gone nuts, but I think it’s getting worse, feels like it’s getting worse,” she clamped a hand over the spot where it had burned that night, “felt lie somebody took a blowtorch to this thing.”

“what happened to the rest of it?” Erin pointed towards her tattoo and Cassie pulled the sleeve of her jacket back down towards her knuckles in reflex.

“I was only half done with it when it happened,” she admitted, “wasn’t on purpose.”

“It’s not your traditional case. I’ll give you that. And there’s no chance of getting the item that caused it?”

“I’ve thought about it,” Cassie admitted. “It’d be hard to get and I’d rather gnaw my own arm off than go back there, I’ve been doing my damnedest to avoid the place since. Can’t keep putting it off, this isn’t going to let me.”

“Ok,” Erin let out a long breath, “we can try some things out first, I’d have a better idea of what I’m dealing with if we had it, but for now I can try a few things first. See if any of them take till we get to that point. Sound good?”

“Okay,” Cassie nodded, “I just want it gone so whatever works you’ve got the greenlight. Go nuts.”

“There’s a risk with this stuff,” she warned. “Most of the time I’ve been able to do it without anybody getting hurt, but this is a new one and-”

“And what?”

“I know what I’m doing, Erin put up a hand in reassurance, “been doing this for decades now, but there’s always a risk. Sometimes there’s resistance and it takes things out on the host. Sometimes it doesn’t let go and it gets-but we’re not at that point yet and I’m fairly optimistic I can do this.”

“So,” on that confidence boosting note Cassie brushed her hands against the front of her jeans and changed the subject slightly, “how long have you been doing this kind of stuff for?” She glanced around them at the shelves upon shelves of tomes like the other room down the hall. She spied a few titles she had herself on one of the bottom shelves. The beginner stuff. She had a lot of catching up to do. A lifetime worth if this room was anything to go by.

“Used to be a family business of sorts,  Erin answered looking at again for a moment. “I grew up with it, used to go out with my parents soon as I turned eighteen, but I didn’t want to make it a full time occupation so I do this between everything else and it’s worked out well so far. Switched to law.”

“Does this kind of thing come in handy with that?” Cassie asked. 

“Not exactly, but it made some use out of all that Latin.”

“You said you picked up that there’s nobody else riding shotgun, can you see them? I know a few of you get this stuff, the seeing ghosts and whatever else is there, to varying degrees.”

“Me? No.” Erin shook her head, “no, I can’t see ghosts. I just get a sense for them. Picked it up along the way. It hasn’t let me down so far. It feels less personal that way. I don’t know if I’d do it otherwise. I’d still see them as people.” The room fell silent after that. After a few minutes Erin was the first to speak again as she overturned a book mid read and scribbled down a few notes. “Ok, I might have some things here, I have a few leads at least. I just need to make a few calls. Give me a few days. I can call you when I get something together,” Erin opened up a pen cap with her teeth and scrawled down her number on a scrap of paper and handed it to her, “and you can either come here or someplace you’d feel safer to do this. I’ll call you soon as I get something concrete.” 

“I forgot to ask how muc-” Erin stopped her.

“If you just want to get the supplies that will cover it.”

 Cassie handed over her number in return. It wasn’t a promise, but it was a start.“Thanks, for doing this.”

“Don’t thank me just yet, but you’re welcome. I’ll send you a list.”