#i even told them about the soup on the stove and they literally just rolled their eyes | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

vanillann · 3 years

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double sided recipe card (pietro maximoff x reader)

a/n: hi, pietro is literally the love of my life so OF COURSE i’d do this!! also request are always open so don’t be scared to send an ask whenever!!

word count: 2.3k

“Has anyone seen Pietro?”

I swung around the kitchen of the compound, walking in to find Clint and Nat in a conversation about who knew what. They both smiled when they saw me but Clint's face dropped slightly when he realized my words.

“Why do you need Roadrunner?” Clint crossed his arm, leaning back on the kitchen island slightly.

“I have his physical and if he wants to go to the mission tomorrow,” I tried off, smiling at Clint when he rolled his eyes.

“I think he’s in Wanda’s room,” Nat pointed over her shoulder, patting my shoulder when I passed her.

I did the lightest jog to the evaluator, finding Wanda’s floor number and smashing the button. The folder played between my fingers, my eyes begging to look but I knew I’d get in trouble if I was caught on camera.

The smallest ding drew me from my stares, informing me I had made it to the correct floor. I skipped out lightly, smiling when I noticed Wanda's door slightly ajar, the slightest bit of laughter spilling out into the hallway. I didn’t think much of him in Wanda’s room, he tended to sit around everyones room beside his own.

I stepped closer to the door, my knuckles ready to knock but I stopped when I noticed a female voice laugh. I looked closer, noticing Pietro sat in front of the T.V. his back turned to me but his knees were pressed to his chest as he stared at the T.V.

“Pietro,” a little bit of a younger Wanda's face smiled from the screen, her giggles sounded the same as they do now as she looked up.

“I’m shocked you didn’t see it coming,” Pietro's voice sounded around the room, the entire video was starting to catch up. Wanda mentioned she had a few older home videos in her room, she didn’t watch them but she never had to heart to watch them.

“I’ll kill you.”

Pietro suddenly slammed his hand on the remote, doing his best to make the video stop but the laughter never stopped. He held in the air, ready to throw it at the T.V. before my feet took off. I don’t know how I made it to his side so fast, my hand wrapping around the remote as I placed my other hand on his back.

“Hey,” my voice was soft as I got his hand to fall, he looked shocked for a second and I realized he probably was upset. I was watching but that didn’t matter as he curled closer to me. His hands pulled at the overshirt hoodie that clung to my frame, his face pulling closer.

He didn’t cry, just took angry breaths and held himself closer to me. By the time dinner rolled around he had drifted off, his hands lose on my shirt as I played with the edge of the folder.

“Piet-” Wanda knocked lightly on the door, a little smile on her face before she spotted us on the floor.

“Hey Wanda,” I spoke softly, trying to get his hand off so I could speak away from my ear, making sure I didn’t wake him. Wanda waited a second, most likely reading my mind for a second before she gave a sad smile.

“The home video?”

I just nodded, following her from her own room to the kitchen, where I could smell the food flooding the building.

“He does alot of bottling up, with the anniversary of mother birth-” Wanda trailed off, upset as she spoke about her poor mother.

“When’s her birthday?”

“Tomorrow,” Wanda shrugged, both of us stepping foot in the elevator.

“During the mission? I’m so sorry, I can lie to Tony and tell him you aren’t clear-”

“Don’t worry about it (Y/N), it’ll be good not to think about it.” Wanda smiled lightly, looping her arm in mine as she leaned on me slightly.

“Thank you, for being there for him.

“Of course, you know I care about you both.” The door slid open, the smell even stronger as we heard Steve’s laugh fill the compound.

“Care isn’t the word I’d use,” her accent was thicker as she rolled her eyes at me, the hint of a smirk on her lips as we walked closer to the kitchen. I pinched her side, laughing when she jumped slightly.

Once we made it to the kitchen the smell well smashed into my system, walking over to look down at the soup that was lightly boiling.

“It’s a Saliva meal,” Wanda handed me a bowl, holding one in her own hand while she waited for me to hurry up.

“Should I wake Pietro? He wouldn’t want to miss this-“

“I’ll make it again, for now he should rest.” Wanda held my arm, smiling at my concern for her brother as I gently picked up the ladle and became pouring my own soup in the bowl. I watched the light brown broth pour into the bowl and suddenly I knew exactly what I had to do.

“Wanda, would you leave the recipe card out for this?”

I stumbled into the kitchen, the reusable bag full of different ingredients practically falling from the bag.

“Aren’t you glad you aren’t an Avenger,” I heard Pepper’s soft voice from behind me, her giggles coming from the doorway. I only shrugged, looking down gloomy as the ingredients that sat over the island.

“What are you making?” I felt her presence beside me now, looking over the food beside me. I didn’t say a word, holding up the recipe card Wanda had thankfully left out.

“This is what we had last night,” Pepper noticed, looking at the side of my face with the smallest smirk ever across it.

“I’m making it for Pietro for when they get back, he didn’t get any last night.”

Pepper bumped my shoulder, my eyes rolling in the back of my head before I reached for a tomato. I let it roll around in my hand a few times, looking down at the card Pepper had placed back down.

“You don’t know what you're doing?”

“Nope,” I popped the “p”, walking around the island to grab one of the pots and filling it up with water. I placed it on the stove, staring at it for a little bit as if waiting for something to happen.

“Would you like help?”

I probably should say yes, I was trying to make this soup when I should barely make a bowl of cereal. Maybe soup was one of the easier foods to make but I would spend half the time as a few words still in Russian on the card.

“I’ve got it don’t worry,” I brushed her off, simply because I was hoping if I could pull this off alone he would be proud of me. I was hoping he’d make a smartass comment with that little smirk and mention that I did a great job.

“Okay, let me know if you need help. I’m always happy to do so for you and Wanda, just not Tony.” I laughed slightly at her sarcasm, waving over my shoulder as I heard her light footsteps leave the kitchen.

I finally reached out and turned the burner on, smiling when I heard the small click signaling it was in fact on and ready to begin boiling the water. I turned back to the island, picking at the index card. I assumed it was a family recipe but the handwriting and the older terms were used within the recipe.

As I finally placed the tomato on the cutting board, a large knife in hand I thought things were falling into place.

I was in fact, wrong.

I panicked when I heard the elevator open, hearing a light noise of voices enter the floor. I couldn’t be everyone as they weren't as loud and also with how late it was. Clint wasn’t going to hang around with everyone at 2:12 in the morning.

“Just go in the kitchen,” I heard a light female voice speak, my panic rising as I realized Pietro was in fact home and probably seconds away from walking in the kitchen.

I hid my bandage hand behind my back, trying to block the few things I managed to chop before I attacked my own hand with it by accident.

“Why?” His accent was thick with sleep, which made a little smile dance across my lips. I understood why Nat was teaching them to lose the accent for safety reasons but I loved the way they spoke with it.

“Just do,” I saw the door slightly move, knowing someone was going to walk in soon and part of me panicked. I was more worried about Pepper finding me like this, she would have my head if she saw this and I didn’t let her help.

“Fine fine,” I watched him finally walk into the kitchen, lucky alone, as he looked around it for a second. When his eyes spotted me against the counter he smiled but it quickly fell when he spotted the mess behind me.

“(Y/N)?”

“Pietro?” I spoke with nerves. my body on high alert.

“What’s this?” He looked down at the island, his eyes spotting the recipe card I had forgotten to put away. His finger picked it up, a sad smile on his lips before he even read the words on the card.

“My mothers,” his voice sounded far away, as if for a second he was back home before the bomb, before they lost everything but each other.

“Wanda let me use it,” I pointed with my unharmed hand, trying my best to make him comfortable with the conversation.

“She told you?”

“Just a few details,’ I brushed off, my eyes suddenly looking everywhere but him as I wanted to leave the kitchen and run into my own room. I had already ruined the meal, let's not ruin a whole friendship.

“You told me you couldn’t cook?”

I laughed at the memory, I completely forgot about the time I told him about Bruce’s birthday. Thor and I thought making a cake was a great idea but it ended up with a weird green blob. I was much younger then sure, but it definitely showed my abilities with making any sort of food.

“You remember that story?”

“I remember all your stories, as you do mine.” I finally stopped looking at the floor, looking up at him as he titled his head at me. His arms were crossed on the island but his under eye bags stood out against the harsh light of the kitchen. The natural light was long gone and it was only the moon that bought light from the outside.

“You should probably get to bed,” I wasn’t thinking straight as I walked forward and lightly pushed open the door for him. I high when my fresh cut hand hit the wooden door slightly too hard.

Even as tired as he was, Pietro was at my side in milliseconds, looking over my hand with the awkward bandage across it.

“What did you do?” I ignored the little pet name, trying to pull my hand from his grip.

“I’m really bad at cutting potatoes,” I shrugged, the awkward smile making its way across my lips. He said nothing, looking up at me with a disapproving look.

“You must be more careful,” he looked at it a little longer but eventually let my hand fall to my side as he smiled slightly at me.

The silence felt like it lasted forever, like it would never end, but it eventually did when he spoke.

“Thank you.”

“I didn’t exactly make it,” I pointed to the brown sad water with nothing else in it. I didn’t make it far before things started going bad. Pietro frowned at me, speeding around the kitchen quickly before he stood in front of me.

A bowl was held in his hand, the brown water now had a few of the vegetables floating around in it, it looked much better but still not what Wanda made last night.

“I don’t know what you mean, I have it right here.” He held a spoonful up, taking a wide bite. I could tell it wasn’t what he thought but he didn’t look like he was going to be sick.

“It’s not your mothers recipe,” I looked up at him, trying my best not a smile at his little pout every time I said something.

“No, it’s your own.” He placed the bowl down, flipping the index card around and grabbing a pen that stayed in the kitchen for any reason. I panicked when I saw him start writing on it, my hand shooting out to stop him but he just quickly moved to the otherside of the island.

“That was your mother Pietro!”

“Now it’s your and my mothers! Two of my favorites on one card, don’t tell Wanda that,” he pointed at me with the last part, his smirk painted across his face making me feel little butterflies in my stomach.

I watched him write my name across the top with the ingredients he saw I had used. Once he was down he slid it across the table, smiling when I laughed at the title.

“(Y/N)’s Happy Mistake.”

“Yes, it’s my personal favorite,” he smiled, my own growing wider as the seconds went on with his looking at me like that.

“Thank you.”

“I should be thanking you, for everything,” he walked slowly, for the first time, around the island. He leaned beside me, his arm touching my own. I let my head rest there, smiling when I felt him leave a gentle kiss on my crown.

“Can I tell you something?”

“Anything Pietro,” I felt myself lean closer to him. I knew we would have to talk about this feeling in the morning, but we were both too tired to care for now.

“There aren’t any potatoes in my mothers’ soup.”

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dinosaurtsukki · 3 years

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[ flu season in E minor ]

pairing: fyodor dostoevsky x gn!reader

word count: 2.2k words

contains: uni!au, sigma and nikolai as your bff’s, gn!reader, music student!fyodor, fyodor being a bit of a brat while he’s sick, slight pining/crushing, idk just fluffy shit

summary: you and fyodor are both in the university theater club but you rarely ever see him except for when you’re picking up the musical compositions he makes for the play. this time, however, you come over to his apartment to find him sick with the flu

a/n: uhhh this is kind of a trainwreck cause i was literally just ‘omg uni!au fyodor sickfic’ and then went with it :P

“don’t forget to drink your vitamin c guys! flu season is already here and if you’re down with the flu please don’t come in and spread your germs everywhere,” sigma instructed at the ending of the cast meeting. even though he sounded snappy while saying it, you could tell he meant well. two of your actors in the theatre club had already come down with the flu and with showtime coming up soon, everyone was understandably extra careful.

“y/n, one last thing,” sigma called you over as everyone prepared to leave.

“in case you were going to ask, yes, i took my vitamins already,” you teased skipping over to where he was.

“not funny,” sigma rolled his eyes. “i was wondering if you could follow up with fyodor on the music for the next scene? he doesn’t respond at all to any non-physical communication, i already left him ten messages.”

“ooh, another visit to the phantom of the opera’s apartment,” nikolai popped up right at your shoulder.

“seriously? you guys call him that?” sigma raised a disappointed eyebrow at you two.

“well he’s mysterious and makes music in a theatre.”

“i feel like you should actually watch phantom of the opera before making that claim,” you told him. “also sure,” you shrugged nonchalantly to hide your obvious excitement. “i have time to drop by.”

even though he’s a part of the theatre club, fyodor dostoevsky was pretty much an enigma to the rest of the members. his contributions to the club activities were mainly in the form of the musical compositions he created for the plays. however, because he was always busy practicing for upcoming recitals apart from his music classes, fyodor rarely ever attended rehearsals.

but on the off-chance that he did drop by in a rehearsal to discuss with sigma or attend a cast meeting, you’d spend the entire time just... admiring him. everything from the calm and articulate way he spoke to messy way his hair framed his face. and on that day when fyodor decided to demonstrate the music by playing it himself on his cello, you realized you were head over heels for this man.

and so you, practically jumped at every chance you got to pick up sheet music or recordings from fyodor’s apartment. you already set the expectation that you wouldn’t be around for long. and you were right about that... usually.

...

“fyodor? hello?” you knocked on the door for what was probably the fifth time already. it was freezing cold outside and you were desperate to get in. pressing your ear against the door, you heard a weak voice say ‘come in. door’s open’ and then tentatively, you unlocked the door.

whenever you saw fyodor, he was always wearing a clean, button-up shirt and slacks since he was also at orchestra practice. so of course, it was a complete shock to you to come into his apartment to find fyodor dressed in bright red pajamas with a mickey mouse logo on the center of his shirt with a colorful patchwork quilt thrown across his shoulders. not to mention, he was seated in his couch with sheet music and tissues strewn around him.

upon closer look, you could tell from his sunken eyes and slightly red nose that flu season had struck fyodor.

“oh, y/n, it’s you,” he sniffled as you hesitated near the door. “come in. it’s cold out.”

“are you alright?” you asked, approaching fyodor. because you had gotten the flu a bit earlier that month, you weren’t too concerned about catching it again. “you look, well, sick.”

“just a cold,” fyodor waved his hand. “anyway, did sigma send you for something?”

“he’s asking for a follow-up with the music for the new scene,” you remembered.

“oh, that...” fyodor nodded, frowning as he searched the sheet music scattered around him. “i’m sure it’s around here somewhere and... i forgot to do it.” fyodor sighed at the realization. “don’t worry. i’ll just whip something up real quick,” he sniffed before picking up a blank piece of sheet music.

“well you don’t have to right now. fyodor, you’re sick. you should get some rest before working,” you sat down on the couch as fyodor bent over the coffee table with a pencil ready. “i mean, no offense but i doubt you can come up with anything in your current state.”

“nonsense, y/n,” fyodor scoffed and began to scribble something on the page. “i am a trained classical musician. composing is merely second-nature to someone like myself. why, i’m sure i have a melody coming along right--”

“fyodor.”

“yes?”

“you just wrote the letter g on the corner of the page and then started drawing random squiggles.”

fyodor looked down at his squiggled-over sheet music with a completely deadpan expression and stared at it for a good ten seconds. “i thought it was a g-clef,” he whispered to himself.

“do you... want me to help you to your room?” you asked softly. fyodor sniffed.

“yes please.”

...

when you headed out to his apartment earlier that morning, you didn’t expect to be taking care of a sick fyodor for the rest of the afternoon. for someone who always looked put-together and composed, fyodor was terrible at taking care of himself. even after coming down with the flu a few days ago, he still insisted on practicing the cello in his apartment. and, judging by the empty cans in the sink, you could tell that all he was eating was instant soup.

and, sick fyodor was kind of... whiny. it took a lot of convincing on your part for him to agree not to work on the compositions in bed, or practice his bowing. he complained about his pillows ‘not being plump enough’ and that his socks didn’t match (because he didn’t do the laundry).

“i don’t think i’ll even be able to sleep at this rate, y/n. my head is spinning but i’m not nearly tired enough to sleep. maybe i’ll drift off for just a bit but it won’t be that restful,” fyodor said, laying down on his not-plump pillows before he was out like a light five minutes after.

“drift off for just a bit, huh?” you chuckle slightly to yourself as you watch him. fyodor was curled up on his side, hugging one of the pillows with his blanket wrapped tightly around him.

you were definitely in a strange situation being in your crush’s house while he was sick in bed. there wasn’t really a need for you to stay; you could just leave some medicine on the nightstand and a note with instructions.

“mmm... key needs to be in e minor,” fyodor mumbled in his sleep before turning over on his side. you bit back a laugh for fear of waking him up.

‘what the heck? i’ll stay and make him some actual soup,’ you ultimately decided.

...

fyodor woke up to the smell of something delicious cooking, and that was something he rarely woke up to. aside from the fact that he could actually smell out of his currently unclogged nose, fyodor felt much better than he had been in a while.

‘y/n must still be here,’ was his next thought after waking up. and he must admit, that was very reassuring to know. fyodor didn’t have the best constitution and whenever flu season rolled around, he expected being sick for a length of time.

after wrapping the blanket around himself, fyodor curiously crept into the kitchen to find you standing over at the stove, stirring something in a pot while humming to yourself. there was a bag of groceries on the counter too. ‘did they... buy me food?’

he coughed slightly to get your attention.

“oh, fyodor. you’re up,” you turned around, smiling at him. “how are you feeling?”

“a bit... better,” he confessed, fully aware that he said all those things about not being asleep before embarrassingly falling asleep for two hours.

“great! soup’s going to be ready in a few minutes. if you freeze it you’ll have enough for a few days,” you added. “also bought some oranges. they should be good for you.”

“you... don’t really have to do this you know?” fyodor ended up blurting out, except it sounded a bit harsh. “i mean, i’m sure you went through all the trouble.”

“don’t worry about it,” you waved him off. “you’ve been working really hard so i get that you don’t think of yourself much. let me do this one thing for you as a friend,” you smiled.

“also, i’m genuinely concerned at the amount of canned soup you’ve been consuming.”

“canned soup isn’t that bad for you,” fyodor insisted.

“yeah, and i’m sure you enjoy that metallic aftertaste quite a lot,” you quipped. fyodor opened his mouth to retort something before closing it abruptly. the knowing smirk on your face only made him glance away. instead, he busied himself with retrieving the clean bowls, luckily there were two left, from the dishrack and setting them on the table. you were humming again while you turned off the stove before serving the soup.

“chicken noodle soup, huh?” fyodor couldn’t help but chuckle.

“a classic,” you shrugged with a smile. “it’s a secret family recipe too so it’s bound to get you to feel better.”

“you’re making it up, aren’t you?”

“yeah, i got it off the internet,” you giggled. fyodor chuckled and took a sip of the soup. it was deliciously hot and flavorful and best of all, the soup didn’t have a metallic aftertaste.

“after eating, you can take some of medicine that i bought in case you have a headache or body pain, as long as you didn’t take any four hours before.”

“what?” fyodor blinked at you.

“you know, don’t take the medicine within four hours of each other,” you explained slowly. “also it’s better that you drink some now that you’ve eaten.”

fyodor not-so vaguely recalled all those times he drank medicine on an empty stomach and feeling even more sick after. “i... was not aware of that,” he admitted. you sighed with your eyes closed.

“i’m amazed you’re still alive.”

...

“so, flu season struck the phantom of the opera, huh?” nikolai sighed after you told him about your weekend.

“yeah,” you nodded, remembering the sight of fyodor on the couch dressed in his pajamas with a blanket wrapped around him. that was going to be burned in your mind for a long time. “he’s... kind of terrible at taking care of himself.”

“that’s fyodor for you,” sigma added. the three of you had arrived at the backstage area of the theatre early and were busying yourselves with sorting through the various props that you had. “you know, one time he even went to a recital with a 39-degree fever. practically collapsed when he was off-stage.”

“i’ll one-up that story,” nikolai practically sprang off the box he was sitting on. “okay, so there was this one time i came over to fyodor’s’apartment while he was sick and he was so delirious he--”

“you guys do know that it’s rude to talk about people when they’re not there.”

the three of you practically spun around at the same time to find fyodor leaning against the doorframe of the backstage entrance with his arms crossed. he was looking way better than last time you saw him.

“fyodor,” sigma blinked, clearly stunned. “you’re... you’re here.”

“you’re alive!” nikolai cried dramatically, skipping over to fyodor and flinging his arms around fyodor who showed obvious discomfort.

“of course i am,” he scoffed. “thanks in part to y/n.”

hearing that made your face flush a bit. “i-it was nothing,” you stammered, dodging nikolai’s curious stare.

“anyway, i finished the compositions for the next scene,” fyodor strode forward, handing sigma a folder of sheet music and a flash drive. “let me know if it’s to your liking.”

“thank you. i’ve been having director’s block with that one. this should help,” sigma sighed gratefully. “i’ll give it a listen if you don’t mind.” and before you could say anything else, he scurried out to the stage area.

“and i’m going to leave for some arbitrary reason just so you two would have some alone time,” nikolai snickered at the indignant expression on your face before leaving you and fyodor alone backstage.

“oh, nikolai. always... funny,” you laughed nervously.

“indeed,” fyodor nodded. “i only have the vaguest idea of what’s been going on during rehearsals. i should probably come around more often.”

“oh, we understand that you’re busy and all. but you’ve already been helping a lot with composing the music so don’t sweat it if you feel like you haven’t been active,” you said.

“well, that’s not the only reason i want to come around more often,” fyodor’s eyes flickered up to meet yours and you felt your face heat up again. god, it was so much easier to talk to to him and joke around when he was sick with the flu.

“in any case, i’m glad you feel better now,” you cleared your throat. “i hope the soup helped.”

“it did. i was sad to see it run out,” fyodor chuckled. and before you could even consider what it was you were going to say, you went and blurted out:

“i could make it for you again.”

“oh?” fyodor’s eyebrows flew up and a smirk played on his lips.

“i-if you want to of course,” you stammered.

“i’d like that,” fyodor smiled, much to your surprise. “if you could update me on rehearsals and the play we’re doing, that would be great. how does friday sound?”

“friday sounds great.”

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#bungou stray dogs #bsd #bsd x reader #fyodor dostoevsky #fyodor dostoevsky x reader #fyodor x reader #fyodor #bungou stray dogs fanfic #bsd fanfic #bungou stray dogs fluff #bsd fluff #bungou stray dogs uni au #bsd uni au #bungou stray dogs one-shot #bsd one-shot #bungou stray dogs writing #bsd writing

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hello-im-not-a-possum · 3 years

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18. Skeleton

Buddy and Sammy find the “goldfish room” as the latter calls it, AKA the closet where Joey keeps his skeletons, literally. And in the process, Buddy learns about a few of the skeletons in Sammy’s metaphorical closet. (Set during ink hell, pre loop, post Buddy befriending the lost ones/searchers.)

The Prophet was a strange ally.

It was weird to work alongside someone who worships the guy who tore you in half and is the biggest reason why you’re stuck in a nightmarish, inescapable studio, especially when it wasn’t the nicest or friendliest person before getting claimed by the ink. (Although, as he thought back on it, had he ever met Sammy before it was claimed by the Ink?)

But ANY ally was better than an enemy, especially when that ally knows the studio better than anyone else down here. Besides, it seemed like the Ink man was either unaware of their past or didn’t even know who they used to be, and even if it did, it wasn’t angry about their past issues.

At the same time, working on scavenging trips with the former musician was a nightmare; it was way too tranquil about the situation, and there were too many weird murderous monsters that the wolf and gofer were aware of.

“I do not need to run, little wolf. I can evade these creatures without issue through my Lord’s gift.” The Prophet calmly stated as Buddy gestured confusion about why it didn’t run when the pair heard something that sounded suspiciously like the projectionist’s screams. “Besides, running through these halls is risky, I would be heard by those… more unsavory denizens of this studio and get ambushed by them.”

He wished his typewriter was quieter in instances like this, being able to type out ‘But what if you get caught by your lord?’ and other messages to hand to him without risking alerting the Ink Demon would be great. Or just having his voice back in general.

“If my Lord decides to send me back to the puddles, then it is his right to do so to prove I have changed.” He answered the unspoken question. “But it does mean that I have to work harder to get him to notice how much I have improved, get him to notice me…”

‘Please don’t read my mind unless I give you the “go for it” gesture. It’s creepy otherwise.’

“My apologies, little wolf, while your thoughts come in quieter than everybody else’s… they’re still noticeable, especially when it’s just the two of us.”

Buddy hesitantly nodded and just tried to lead the Prophet out of the ransacked room to look for more stray supplies.

A few more hours of searching lead the pair to a locked room, something that experience told him meant that either it was another dead end or a hidden treasure trove of supplies, and not wanting to go back to the safe house empty handed, he was ready to roll those dice.

Buddy gestured for the Prophet to stand guard as he picked the door’s lock, and as the door slowly creaked open, he was thankful that he couldn’t speak because the scream that came out from his mouth would’ve been loud enough to alert every monster in the studio.

The former gofer felt sick to his stomach when he saw them. Piles upon piles of rotting, mangled, corpses. Human Corpses, not toony corpses like the other Borises or the butchered up members of the Butcher gang. Most of them were unrecognizable, partly because he had never seen most of these people in his life, and partly because they had decayed so much that what remained was hard to figure out who was who and what. The oldest corpses were nothing but skeletons and clothes, and the freshest one looked like…

...Like his own body.

“The goldfish room...” The prophet muttered loud enough for Buddy to hear, startling the poor pup out of his skin as he didn’t hear him enter behind him.

The wolf shuddered and continued to scour the room for anything worth the hassle of all of this. Boris wanted to take a few of the bones, which Buddy unenthusiastically obliged.

“Don’t eat those!” The Prophet interjected so loudly and harshly that it startled both the former gofer and the wolf toon. The ink creature’s anger was so much scarier with how rare it was to see now. “Especially not him! He’s my-” The Prophet stopped itself by covering its ‘mouth’ with its hands as if it was about to reveal a big secret and just took the skeletal arm out of Buddy’s hands and put it back where he found it. Its voice went back to it’s normal calm tone that reminded him of someone who was on the verge of falling asleep, but Buddy heard somberness in the musician’s pitch. “...they’re unclean...”

‘Prophet?’ Buddy gave him the “go ahead, read my mind” gesture. ‘Prophet, what is this place? Who are these people?’

“...You’ve seen your own corpse among them, correct?”

Buddy nodded.

“I know you’ve met Joey, but tell me; ...Has he ever called you ‘Henry’ before?”

‘Yes he has, but what does that have to do with…’ he gestured at the bodies on the floor ‘this?!’

“Henry’s been gone for a long time now.” The prophet stated, but there was a hint of recollection in his tone that weakened the calmness, and the more he talked, the more broken (for lack of a better term) his voice became. “Do you think that you were Joey’s first replacement goldfish? That after Henry left the studio, you were Joey’s only other other Henry?”

Buddy’s ears began ringing and he heard music; it was loud, distorted, fast-paced, and all over the place, the type of music that makes your heart pound out of your chest and makes your hackles stand up, the type of music that tells you to run, but doesn’t clue you in to where or why. The prophet’s body started to shake and tremble.

“The first Other-Henry was actually named Henry as well. And like his predecessor, was an excellent artist who really connected with the characters...”

‘Sammy? What’s going on? do you hear this too?!’

“But unlike Stein, Ross was a very stubborn person who refused to let anyone push him around, especially by either Joey or myself. Surprisingly, I liked that man, but he didn’t last long...”

Fear kept Buddy’s legs frozen to the ground as he covered his ears in a fruitless attempt to muffle the music, it felt like it was being played directly in his head, and then it clicked when the whispers started up, whispers in their tone, but not in volume, they were loud enough to drown out parts of what the Prophet was saying;

‘Sammy help us!’

“The next one was more like you, a younger, less experienced and more skittish person, his first name was ‘Lawrence’ so everyone called him ‘Larry’ to avoid confusion...”

‘Sammy, where are you?’

“...But he was also too nosy for that poor boy’s own good.”

‘you’re too weak!’

“The one after that was a scatterbrained fellow, very passionate about his work but didn’t focus very much on one topic or another...”

The Prophet’s monologue was completely drowned out by the music and chorus of desperate and angry “Other Henries” at this point. Buddy knew he was still talking because of the musician’s gestures, but didn’t hear a single word out of him.

‘Saaaaaammyyyyyyy....’ ‘You’re such a spineless coward...’ ‘Sammy please save us..!’ ‘Why did you let Joey kill us?’ ‘The ink... it’s so cold...’ ‘No wonder Susie hates you so much...’ ‘Sammy, please! It hurts!’ ‘Why did you let us die?’ ‘Why won’t you help us?’ ‘You’re no better than Joey.’ ‘Sammy, help us!’ ‘I thought you loved me...’ ‘Sammy, help us!’ ‘You promised me that you’d always be there!’ ‘Sammy, help us!’ ‘They were right about you...’ ‘Sammy, help us!’ ‘Saaaaaammyyyyyyy....’

He knew that the lost ones, searchers and Prophet could hear each others’ thoughts, but didn’t understand what that was like until now that he was hearing Sammy’s thoughts. No wonder most of them were always so depressed and on edge...

‘Sammy?’ the gofer shook Sammy gently, only to hear his own voice join the chorus of other Henries as one of the ones who sounded like he was mad at him. ‘Sammy, snap out of it!’ he shook the Prophet harder, still not waking the Ink creature out of its trance. ‘SAMMY!’ Doing the first thing that came to mind out of desperation, Buddy slapped the mask clean off of it.

The music and voices died as if they were a candle light snuffed out by the wind.

For a few seconds that felt more like hours, Buddy and Sammy stared at each other in silence before Sammy put its mask back on as if nothing happened and led the toon wolf out of the goldfish room, took a key out of its pocket and locked it behind them.

-----

Back in the safe house, Buddy started up a pot of bacon soup, the stuff tasted a little bit better when it was hot while Sammy tuned the banjo in the dining area and Dot tried to stir up conversation.

“So... how did the supply run go?”

“Fine.”

Buddy involuntarily let out a snort as he took the soup off the stove and took out his typewriter.

[It was the scariest one we’ve ever done so far.

While looking around for stuff, we ended up in this place S The Prophet called ‘the Goldfish room’ and it was filled with dead bodies. HUMAN dead bodies. And mine was in the pile! I couldn’t tell if it was haunted or if it was just the prophet’s thoughts going]

“Little wolf, I do not wish to think about that room again...”

[Sorry.]

The wolf sheepishly put the typewriter to the side and poured the soup into bowls. As the toon and lost one ate, the prophet mostly just stared into his bowl as if he was watching something in it.

“...Before my enlightenment, I was not a good person.” The masked musician stated unprompted.

“Huh?”

“I wasn’t an evil person per say, and I wouldn’t go as far as to call the man I used to be a monster.” He sighed and adjusted his mask. “But I was certainly a bad person, an asshole, a coward who hid behind physical strength, and I had more vices than virtues.”

[Prophet, what are you talking about?]

“I’m trying to answer the questions I know you have before either of you two pester them out of me. Maybe when you’re sated my Lord will allow me to forget again.”

[Are you sure? you seemed really upset back ...there.]

“Well look at it this way, maybe getting it off your chest will help you feel better about it?”

“I suppose...” The prophet sighed again.

“So what does you being a crackhead before finding the Ink Demon Religion have to do with a room full of dead bodies?”

“Dorthy!”

“...I’ll just listen before asking anything else.”

“Thank you.” It readjusted its mask. “Now where was I...” it hummed to itself for a bit before speaking again, with venom slowly but surly pooling into its words. “I had more vices than virtues, and Joey could see all of both, using my virtues to his advantage, and using my vices against myself, he did everything he could to keep me from leaving him too, and it worked.”

The prophet took in a deep breath to stabilize itself.

“Every time I tried to leave, he did something else to make me stay; ‘I love you’s turned to gifts, gifts to false promises, false promises to threats, threats to blackmail, blackmail to going through with it, and when he felt me slipping through his fingers he turned to taking advantage of my addictions... That... monster was a parasite in all aspects except physically... And I didn’t even notice until I might as well have been a walking corpse as I was seeing others march to my fate, but I couldn’t even so much as squeak out a warning without Joey swooping in on his behalf. Some Henries, heads of the art department, didn’t need to be warned by me as they found out what would await them and fled. But Joey didn’t like that... When I tried to warn the ones who needed to be warned, it was easy for him to dismiss me as a loon, a drunk, and an addict, until eventually I just gave up. I couldn’t even save myself, let alone anyone else... let alone the other art departments...”

“...I just stopped trying to keep Joey from leading the sheep to the slaughter, maybe they’re right to be angry at me for being such a coward...”

It then turned to face the wolf and put its hand on his shoulder.

“You’ve asked yourself if you’ve ever met me before the Ink had claimed me, as for that, I don’t know, nor do I think it matters, Buddy. I was nothing but a shallow and beaten husk of myself long before I even had tasted the ink. Even if you met me before then, you only met a ghost, not a person.”

The three then stayed in silence for a while before the clicks of Buddy’s typewriter caught the other two’s attention.

[Well, if it helps you any I think you’re not as bad of a person as you tell yourself you used to be.]

“And I don’t need to hear everyone’s thoughts to know that you’ve really stepped up to the plate when it counted. I don’t think a coward would try to do have the stuff you’re doing now.”

“Thanks you two” The Prophet’s voice cracked with emotion. “That... that really means a lot to me.”

#Bendy and the Ink Machine #buddy boris #buddy lewek #sammy lawrence #dot batim #fanfic #drug abuse tw #abuse tw #dead bodies #psychological trauma #ink demonth

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pengychan · 3 years

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[Coco] Nuestra Iglesia, Pt 26

Title: Nuestra Iglesia Summary: Fake Priest AU. In the midst of the Mexican Revolution, Santa Cecilia is still a relatively safe place; all a young orphan named Miguel has to worry about is how to get novices Héctor and Imelda to switch their religious vows for wedding vows before it’s too late. He’s not having much success until he finds an unlikely ally in their new parish priest, who just arrived from out of town. Fine, so Padre Ernesto is a really odd priest. He’s probably not even a real priest, and the army-issued pistol he carries is more than slightly worrying. But he agrees that Héctor and Imelda would be wasted on religious life, and Miguel will take all the help he can get. It’s either the best idea he’s ever had, or the worst. Characters: Miguel Rivera, Ernesto de la Cruz, Héctor Rivera, Imelda Rivera, Chicharrón, Óscar and Felipe Rivera, OCs. Imector. Rating: T

[All chapters up are tagged as ‘fake priest au’ on my blog.]

A/N: Slower chapter so everyone can catch their breath. Literally, in some cases. The song that features in this chapter was written by @eldathe! Art is by @swanpit

***

“... Is he asleep?”

“I think so.”

Héctor gently leaned Miguel down on Chicharrón’s cot, and he barely stirred. Within moments Dante was on the cot as well, resting his head on the boy’s chest, while Juanita decided to sit by his head to keep a watchful eye on them both. Héctor smiled faintly - God, the sun had set hours ago and the events of the day were catching up with him - and turned to Chicharrón.

“Thanks for letting us stay here. Miguel needed some time.”

“Hmph.” Cheech scoffed, stirring some kind of soup with unknown ingredients on the stove. “I should hit you over the head with a shovel for having them take you. Count yourself lucky I won’t.”

“It was to save Miguel.”

“Why the hell else do you think I said I won’t?”

Héctor managed another smile, and took the bowl of soup the old gravedigger handed to him the next moment. He looked over at Imelda.

“... Would you like to stay to eat? I doubt Madre Gregoria will mind, considering the circumstances.”

Imelda wrinkled her nose. “Not that I’d care if she did, given my little announcement before I headed off, but I’ll pass. I suppose I’ll spend the night with my parents and brothers, and in the morning--”

“Ah, by the way,” Cheech cut her off, scratching the stubble on his cheek. “Congrats on the engagement.”

Imelda blinked down at him. “Who told you…?”

A roll of his eyes. “Do you have any idea how long just about everyone in the village has been waiting for you two to get out of the church and tie the knot? I know I was looking forward to it, so that Héctor could finally shut up about you for more than ten minutes.”

“... Ah.”

Héctor cleared his throat, face warming up a little. “That is not-- exactly--” he cleared his throat again. “I mean-- see you tomorrow, Imelda.”

Her cheeks just slightly reddened, Imelda nodded quickly. “Right. I’ll stop by at doctor Sanchéz’s home on my way back. To check on both Ernesto and the gringo.” She didn’t meet his eyes as she spoke of Ernesto, and brushed back Miguel’s hair instead. The boy kept sleeping, hugged close to Dante, and she smiled.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said, her voice so soft, and left the shack without another word. Héctor’s gaze followed her until she was out of sight, and he finally sighed.

“Isn’t she amazing?”

“Mph. You know what’s amazing? The soup you’re letting go cold in your bowl.”

“Wha-- oh!” Héctor hadn’t realized how hungry he was until now, as the smell of it truly hit his nostrils; all of a sudden, his stomach ached for food. “Right. Gracias,” he said, and proceeded to guzzle down the soup like it was water. Cheech grunted and sat on an old chair before kicking off his peg leg with his real foot and rubbing the stump with a grimace.

“So. The priest was a Federale all along.”

“No. He was a deserter.”

“Well, he was one before he deserted.”

“He didn’t get a choice when it came to joining them. A lot of people didn’t.”

“Mmh.” Cheech made a face, but didn’t argue on that point. “He had balls to pull what he did, I’ll give him that. Awful lot of wine wasted, if you ask me, but at least we did get rid of the rat infestation, no?”

For a moment Héctor thought back of the young man who’d been so concerned about their wounded priest, about the other soldiers who had so clearly not really chosen to be there either, but he felt too weak to argue. In the end he just sighed, and held out his bowl to let Cheech drop another ladle of soup in it.

“... I guess we did,” he murmured. In the back of his mind, the image of Ernesto’s bloodied chest and bruised neck lingered; Héctor suspected he would see it often in his nightmares, for a long time to come, along with Gustavo’s dead weight as he took his body back out of the grove. “I just hope doctor Sanchéz will be able to give us good news,” he murmured. He’d tried to visit, but he’d been pretty much kicked out right past the door’s threshold with a yell to let him work.

“On the gringo, or the deserter?”

“Both.”

“Mph. Don’t think Padre Culo Blanco would be much missed.”

“He tried to step in to save Miguel, too.o

“That only pisses me off more. I’d rather he let me keep hating his guts in peace, but oh no, he had to do something noble.” Cheech grunted, and Héctor couldn’t hold back a chuckle before finishing the rest of his soup. When he looked up again, Chicharrón was picking up a bottle of some unknown liquor, and pouring it in two glasses.

“Speaking of cabróns who had to go and be all noble,” he muttered, thrusting one glass in Héctor’s hand. “Guess we have to toast to Gustavo of all people now, huh?”

Ah. Héctor swallowed, and let out a long sigh. “I had no idea it was him. All along, with the messages and the supplies…”

“Yes, I guess he did a good job there. Never suspected.” A scoff. “Who could imagine he actually knew how to keep his mouth shut if need be.”

“Heh. I guess he did. Another talent he hid well.”

“Mph.” Cheech lifted his glass. “To Gustavo, then. Probably pissing off more people somewhere else.”

Héctor smiled weakly and raised his own glass in a silent toast before gulping down the alcohol, which was strong enough to make his eyes water. He thought of a boy from so long ago, refusing to accept his mother had left him behind for good and lashing out at everyone else in the orphanage who tried to befriend him.

“Stay away! I have a mamá and she'll be back, just you wait, she was not a puta like yours and she’s not dead and she'll come back before you know it!”

But she had never come back, none of them had ever known why, and attempts at comforting him had been met with even more hostility. Nursing a black eye, Héctor remembered thinking he was the most infuriating cabrón ever and that opinion had never changed. Sure, that was partly because Gustavo never gave him reason to change it… but looking back, it was only sad. They had both been younger than Miguel was now, after all.

And now he was dead.

Maybe he’ll find his mother again. He’ll know why she left him here.

He wasn’t sure whether having an answer to that question would be for the best or the worst. Héctor sighed and held out the glass for some more liquor, throat still stinging from the previous mouthful, and Cheech refilled both of their glasses without a word.

“... He saved my life.”

“See, this is why it’s pissing me off. How can I keep saying he was a cabrón in peace?”

“Looks like you shouldn’t.”

“Hmph. I’ll try,” Cheech grumbled, and downed his second glass. On the cot, Miguel kept sleeping through their conversation and, rather more impressive, though Dante’s snoring.

***

“Nnnhh…”

“What the-- oye! Easy, Padre. Lay back down, you’re in no shape to sit up--”

“Miguel.” A wheeze, another feeble attempt at getting up, easily foiled by the weight of a hand on his shoulder, the one that was not a mass of pain. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he still heard a bell ringing in a death knell; it had echoed in the dark for what felt like years. “Is he-- where is Miguel-- is he all right?”

“He’s alive and well, Padre,” doctor Sanchéz was saying above him. “They didn’t take him."

Oh.

With a long breath, John Johnson leaned his head back on the pillow, relief flooding him - sweet relief, making him forget even the throbbing pain where… ah. Ah, yes. He had been shot, he remembered that; his left arm was in a sling and unmovable, the shoulder tightly bandaged. But it didn’t matter. The child was safe.

“Thank God,” he rasped, and the doctor nodded, clearly misunderstanding what his relief was for.

“You got lucky, but stay down. It was a close call, I’ll tell you that - ah, if you awoke just half a hour ago, I may have given Imelda some news when she stopped by. Really didn’t think you were going to wake up at all. Lost more blood than someone this pale has any right to have in his veins.”

John exhaled slowly, beyond caring for the jab. He was dizzy, but tried to think with as much clarity as he could muster. “And what of… what of the others? How many did they take?”

“... Thirty. Twenty-nine came back.”

“Came… back?”

“Let’s just say, some revolutionaries passing by gave us a hand. Gustavo didn’t make it, but the others did. And I guess-- Padre Ernesto helped.”

Ah. The mention of the name, the hesitation as it was uttered, caused John’s eyes to snap open, a sudden sense of foreboding seizing him. What did he mean, he helped-- what did he do-- he was meant to be away, stay out of it all, he…!

With the mind’s eye, he could see the scene playing out: Ernesto returning, clueless, from the farm, only to be met by hostile men and a crazed soldier hellbent on finding him. His blood ran cold. He could hear that death knell again, and Ernesto’s own words the day the truth had come out.

If the Federal army finds me, I’ll hang. And they won’t give me the kindness of making it a clean fall with a broken neck.

“Ernesto,” he managed, meeting doctor Sanchéz’s gaze. His expression was grave, too grave for a man who has just seen his patient wake up from an unconscious state. “Where is he?”

“You ought to rest.”

The reply only fueled the terror in John’s addled mind. He gripped Sanchéz’s arm with his good hand, his grasp pathetically weak. “Is he-- is he all right?”

“He…” a pause, as though debating to himself, then he gave a long sigh. “... You need rest, Padre.”

“Answer me!” John’s voice shook. He was beyond caring what a pathetic display he was offering; something ached in his chest, in his throat. “In the name of God, where is he!”

This time he managed to sit up, and Sanchéz caught him instead of keeping him pinned down, a steadying hand on his back. John turned, dizzy, and there he was. On a cot right by, torso bandaged and horrible bruises across his pale face and over his throat, lay Ernesto.

Words faded in John’s throat, what little strength he had left faltering; had it not been for the hand on his back, he may have collapsed back on the thin mattress of his cot. “He-- is he-- what happened…?”

A sigh. “He went after the Federales, to retrieve our men. Their commander seemed to… confuse him for someone else.”

No. He knew exactly who he was looking at.

“Foolish man,” John choked out. Why, why had he done something so reckless? After hiding for so long - going to such lengths to keep his real identity a secret, so many lies to deceive an entire village and him, too - he had given himself away like that. They had passed through, they would be gone, he’d be safe.

“You do need rest. But if you have enough strength, last rites may be needed. Just in case.”

No. Oh God, please, no.

Yet he moved, out of duty, knowing that if he couldn’t save his life he had to at least do what he could for his soul. Sanchéz supported him, uncharacteristically devoid of biting remarks, and helped him sit on a chair next to Ernesto’s cot. Without thinking, John placed a hand on his forehead. It was cold and clammy; the man did not stir.

“What have they done to him?” he dared ask. His mouth was dry, his throat like sandpaper. “Is there any hope?”

“They… cut him, roughed him up some, but what concerns me is how long he was left hanging by the neck.” He vaguely gestured at the horrible rope burns and bruises around Ernesto’s neck. “When one can’t breathe for too long… you never know. He wakes up, or he never does.”

There was some hope, then. John swallowed and closed his eyes for a moment, his head swimming. “... I do need the anointing oil, if you’d be so kind as to retrieve it for me at the church.”

“I can’t just leave my patients--”

“Would your presence change anything one way or the other?”

A few moments of silence, and a heavy sigh. “I will be back soon. Do not attempt to get up on your own.”

“I won’t,” John murmured. There were steps, a door closing, but he was beyond hearing it. He swallowed, and brushed back Ernesto’s hair before he bowed his head and began praying. It was far from the first time he’d had to give the final rites to someone who was no longer conscious to give confession; but never before he’d done it with such a heavy heart, struggling to force out words that would normally come as naturally as breathing.

“Confiteor Deo omnipotenti... et vobis, fratres, quia peccavi... nimis cogitatione, verbo, opere, et omissione…” His hand shook, slipping off Ernesto’s forehead to cup a cold cheek. The pain in John’s shoulder was distant; all he could feel was the slight stubble against his palm, all he could focus on was the slow rise and fall of his bandaged chest, trying to will it to continue. “Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa…”

That was as far as John could go. The next moment his vision was blurred, his voice broke, and his frame shuddered with a sob he could not stifle. “Don’t take him,” he choked out. He barely recognized his own voice; somewhere in the back of his mind he was once again a lost boy with a wounded arm, pleading with his father and his mother for mercy that would not come.

Mama, please… father, don’t--

“Don’t take him,” John choked again, bowing his head. Tears fell from his face, onto bandages stained with blood. “It should have been me. You fool, what have you done-- why-- God, please. Take me, just please-- don’t take him. Please.”

He’d be able to pull himself together, once Sanchéz came with the anointing oil; long enough to do his duty and give Ernesto his final rites. But for those few minutes, they were alone. He could be weak and he could be selfish, begging God for one thing and one thing only.

Don’t take him away.

***

“So, he was never a real priest.”

“Apparently not.”

“Hmm. I should have known. No man who looks like that would become a priest.”

“... What?”

“God has gifted me eyes as good as anyone else’s, Sister Sofía.”

“You do wear glasses.”

Madre Gregoria, probably old enough to recall a time before Conquistadores, leaned back on her seat with a sigh. She folded her hands together. “Well. This leaves us in an extremely uncomfortable position, to say the least.”

“He saved the lives of thirty--” Sofía paused, and lowered her gaze a moment. “... Twenty-nine of our parishioners.”

When she looked up, she saw Madre Gregoria’s features twisting for a moment in a pained expression. It occurred to her suddenly that she’d watched Gustavo grow up, along with Héctor and countless other children through the years. Not a particularly affectionate mother figure, but an attentive one nonetheless.

Sofía watched, not quite knowing whether she should give her condolences, as the elderly nun opened a drawer and pulled out a bottle. Ah, so she also had a fondness for mass win-- no, wait. “Tequila?”

“Or someting very much like it. From Chicharrón’s secret stash.”

“I thought no one ever found his secret stash.”

“So does he. Let’s keep it that way,” Madre Gregoria added, and poured a generous dose of liquor in two glasses. “... Now. Santa Cecilia has a death to mourn as is. I see no reason to add more, or bring further ire down on this parish. Clearly, provided that he survives, his ruse cannot continue.”

“As long as Huerta is in power, unmasking him in a death sentence.” Sofía took a swig from her glass, and stilled when Madre Gregoria threw back her head and gulped down the entire contents of her own.

Well. Color me surprised.

“Well then. Until Hell takes Huerta, we are compelled by Christian mercy to ensure Pad-- this man’s safety. God will judge him when the time comes, I suppose.”

“... Of course.”

“If Padre Jua-- Johnson lives, it may be difficult to convince him--”

“He’s known for a while.” To Sofía’s amusement, it was Madre Gregoria’s turn to look at her with wide eyes, hand stilling halfway to the bottle.

“And he hasn’t--?”

“Christian piety. If he didn't tell before, he won’t tell now.”

“Ah. I see.” A pause, and finally she poured herself another glass. She downed it even more quickly than the first. “Well. This makes things significantly easier, I suppose. We’ll have a village meeting to discuss the matter. Word has spread, after all; we cannot hope to keep it within the confines of these rooms, but within the village - that we may do. After Gustavo’s funeral, perhaps. I do expect the church to be quite full.”

Sofía nodded, expression somber. Gustavo had never been especially popular for good reason - he was, after all, kind of a cabrón - but now that they knew what he’d been doing, and how he’d died, there was hardly a soul in Santa Cecilia who did not wish to pay their respects. Still…

“Provided that he pulls through,” she murmured before finishing her tequila. Madre Gregoria sighed, and filled it again before she could ask.

“Yes,” she agreed. “Provided that he pulls through.”

***

“... And the idiota kept trying to stay awake on the chair through the night, even after I told him he either wakes up or doesn’t and it’s out of our hands. I had to sedate him to get him to rest a few hours, and now he’s awake again and praying. Been at it for hours.”

“Well, that’s… good?”

“Mph. A classic. If he lives everyone thanks God but if they die you know who gets the blame, huh? Doctor Sanchéz does.”

“You did go to the church to get the anointing oil for the final rites, I was told…”

“Well--!”

“Doctor, can we please see them?”

Miguel’s voice somehow managed to come across as both a plea and an impatient huff, and Sanchéz trailed off. He looked down at the boy, back up at Héctor, and sighed. “The dog stays out,” he muttered. Dante whined but stayed put as Miguel patted him once on the head and walked in, as quickly as he could without full-on running. Héctor followed, hoping the sight of Ernesto would be… easier to bear, after having his wounds treated and bandaged. Miguel had already seen enough blood to last him a lifetime or two.

As he'd hoped, there was no blood in sight. Ernesto lay on a cot, still ashen pale but with sheets pulled up to his neck, and Father John Johnson sat on a chair by his side, a blanket over his shoulders. His left arm was in a sling, his shoulder and torso probably bandaged beneath the blanket, but his free hand was hovering just above Ernesto’s forehead in a gesture of blessing. Father John’s head was bowed, eyes shut, as he murmured a prayer; he didn’t seem to have even heard them coming in.

“Ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc, et in hora mortis nostrae--”

“Father John,” Miguel choked out, and he trailed off, startled, before turning back to see them. He looked pale, deep shadows under his eyes, and for a moment he stared at Miguel as though he didn’t even recognize him. Then, weakly, he smiled.

“My dear child,” he murmured. “Thank God you’re safe.”

Miguel sniffled, tried to say something, but couldn’t. In the end he just rushed forward to hug John’s good arm, his small frame shaking as he cried.

“I thought he’d shot you dead,” he choked out. The gringo’s expression turned sorrowful.

“I am sorry I couldn’t protect you, Miguel. I tried.”

“Stupid-- both of you-- all of you-- what if you died? What if you all died?”

Ah. Héctor swallowed and stepped forward to put a hand on Miguel’s shaking shoulder. “We did not. We’re here, Miguel.”

“But what about Ernesto-- is he going to… will be…”

A sharp intake of breath, and John spoke quietly. “... He is in the Lord’s mercy now,” he said, his voice strained, and gently pulled away. Miguel rubbed his eyes and looked at Ernesto’s still form. He stepped closer, slipped a small hand under the sheets to grasp his own, and his shaky voice rose up again - but not to cry, and definitely not to pray.

He was singing, or trying to since through tears.

“As I walk through the plaza, A señora comes my way From her lips falls a question Cómo está tu Padre? Ay, now what-- what do I say...?”

Miguel’s voice shook, and Héctor stepped forward again, a hand on the boy’s back, singing softly. On his chair, the gringo did not protest or say they ought to pray rather than sing: he just listened, quietly wiping his eyes without even trying to hide his distress.

“Since he rode in with swagger And a crass sort of charm, His unconventional ideas Keep our town safe from harm He draws in crowds To the church, old and young Quick to bestow, He'll make his blessings come We were fatherless, and Hey, presto! We were gifted with Padre-”

“Nnnh…”

The groan was so weak Héctor barely heard it over his own voice, but Father John’s gasp was loud and clear, and he fell silent, looking down again. Under his gaze, Ernesto’s features twisted, brow furrowing… and then, at long last, as they all held their breath, he opened his eyes.

“Ernesto!” Miguel’s voice came out a shrill, and got another groan out of the man. He blinked blearily and turned his gaze on them; he seemed not to realize who he was looking at at first, but after a few moments his lips curled in a faint smile.

“They got you too, huh?” he managed. After being hanged by the neck, his voice sounded as though he’d been gargling glass. “Bastards. Doesn’t look like… I’m in Hell, though.”

The words seemed to startle Father John out of his wide-eyed silence, and he gasped again, leaning forward. His good hand shaking, he cupped Ernesto’s cheek.

“Ernesto-- you’re awake-- my dear man…!” he choked out, and Ernesto’s gaze fell on him. After a moment of silence, the faint smile returned.

“Ah,” he rasped. “That’s more… like it.”

“I have prayed to God you’d-- what?” the gringo blinked, startled, while Héctor let out a laugh that was more than slightly hysterical and Ernesto’s head dropped back on the pillow, eyes slipping shut. Out like a candle left in the wind, in need of a lot more rest, but alive.

Miguel stepped back, startled, but the surprise quickly turned into concern. “Hey, no-- Ernesto, wake up--!”

“Enough, boy.” Doctor Sanchéz spoke up, his voice uncharacteristically gentle. He laid a hand on top of Miguel’s head. “He needs time to recover.”

Miguel’s head tilted upwards so quickly, Héctor almost worried it may break his neck. He was biting his lower lip, eyes wide. “But he will recover, right?”

“... He regained consciousness and spoke. Both are very good signs.” A pat on his head, a small smile in response to Miguel’s wide, relieved one. “Just let him rest.”

“He woke up with music. Can I come back with my guitar? There is a song he likes…”

“Maybe once he’s regained some strength,” was the reply, which was… a lot more than the ‘absolutely not’ Héctor had been expecting. Of course, the attempt at a benign smile was gone when he met Héctor’s gaze. “Meanwhile, you may want to think of a good story to tell and fast, if you get what I mean. Before word gets out.”

Héctor nodded. “The sisters are... working on it,” he said, and looked over at Father John. He was looking back at them, but his free hand once again rested on Ernesto’s forehead. He did not seem inclined to leave his side anytime soon. “... We could use your help, Father.”

“Anything to keep him safe,” he replied, all walls down. Doctor Sanchéz’s eyebrows raised slightly, but he made no comments. Neither did Héctor, of course.

Sometimes, to keep men from harm, it is best to know how to keep a secret.

***

“Not to stick my nose into your business, muchacho, but what exactly are you doing with my horse?”

“Gah!” Miguel yelped and turned, the reins of the horse in question still tight in his hand. He’d slipped out of the cemetery earlier than everyone else to quietly get the horse away from the spot where it had been tied, but it seemed the leader of the small pack of revolutionaries - whose name was probably not really José - had returned early, too.

He didn’t seem mad, if anything, just rather curious as he tilted his head on one side. “Waiting for an answer here.”

Miguel frowned, and held tightly onto the reins. “This is not your horse,” he declared, causing the man’s eyebrows to shoot up almost to his hairline.

“Oh? I am rather certain this is the same horse I rode in with this morning.”

“But it’s not your horse! This is Dante!”

“... Isn’t that your dog?”

“No! I mean-- yes-- I named him after--” he stammered, then cleared his throat. “This is Ernesto’s horse!”

The man blinked. “You mean the madman who went and tried to poison the Federales?”

“Yes! He’s… wait, he’s not mad! It worked!”

“Well, yes and no. If making them very sick was the goal, it worked. If he had mass murder in mind, not really - not nearly enough poison to kill that many men. If he lives, remind me to tell him to never try poisoning anyone ever again.”

“Well-- he did make them sick and… and… this is his horse, I recognized him! He went missing months ago from the stables, how did you get him?”

“I didn’t steal him, for your information,” the man replied, crossing his arms. “Gustavo took him to us one day, since he’s a good horse we could be put to better use than a priest--” he trailed off, and paused. “... Ah. I think I see what happened there.”

“You have to give him back. He was really sad when Dante went missing,” Miguel said, hand clenching on the reins while the horse snuffled at the ground and then snorted out the dust, markedly uninterested in the exchange.

José sighed. “I suspect he has more pressing things to worry about,” he said, glancing over towards the church. After attending the ceremony and burial of Gustavo Torres, it seemed nearly all of Santa Cecilia was heading back in the chapel to discuss what to do with regards to the priest who was not a priest at all.

“No he doesn’t.” Miguel crossed his arms. Héctor had told him not to worry, that all would be well, and he trusted him. All right, so maybe he sometimes lied a little bit to make him feel better, but Imelda and Sofía were a lot more straightforward and they were sure all would be well, too. Madre Gregoria was on their side, according to Sofía, and that just about sealed the matter. No one on that side of Oaxaca argued with Madre Gregoria. “He protected us and we’ll protect him.”

José let out a hum. “I see. Well, we have no shortage of horses now, with all those we, ah… borrowed recently. And I suppose he did do us all a favor - can’t really picture anyone here wanting to hand him over to Huerta.”

Oh. Miguel breathed a little more easily. “So you’re giving Dante back?”

“I’m giving him to you. I trust you’ll treat him right before your friend can take him back.” He stepped over, and stroked Dante’s muzzle. “Heh. Would like to meet him when he’s conscious, as long as he doesn’t offer me a drink. Tricking a whole town into thinking he’s a priest - how did he even think of that?”

“... I don’t believe he thinks a lot,” Miguel admitted, and José laughed.

“Ah,” he said. “That does explain a lot.”

***

“... I guess we’ll have to put his photo up on our ofrenda.”

“I’m sure he would appreciate it.”

“No, he wouldn’t.”

“Heh. True. But I still owe him.”

“We both do. At least he’d appreciate the annoyance that is causing us.”

A brief pause as they both stood over Gustavo’s grave, the dirt still soft. Cheech had roped Héctor in to dig it first, and then to fill it after the funeral was over. For once, he hadn’t complained. Imelda lingering there as he worked to fill the grave - both of them in civilian clothing, for the first time in so long - made him even less inclined to complain.

“... Our ofrenda.” Héctor let the words roll off his tongue as they walked away from the grave, and smiled, still quite unable to comprehend the fact they were there, alive, and engaged. “You really want us to be married by November?”

“I can’t see why not. We’re both just novices, no perpetual vows - shouldn’t take too long for the Church to formally release us.”

“Madre Gregoria must be sorry to see you go.”

“No, she actually said Sofía is enough of a headache on her own.”

“Ah.” A pause, and he dared reach to take her hand. She held it back, squeezing gently, and Héctor’s heart fluttered. “Guess it would be good form for me to talk to your parents…”

“I already told them we’re getting married.”

He blinked. “What-- you did? Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

“No asking your father for your hand?”

Imelda shrugged. “They can give or withhold permission as they wish. It won’t make a difference.” She paused, and finally looked back at him. Her expression was grave. “I thought I lost you for a moment. When they took you. I...” a sigh. “I was ready to speak out and let them have Ernesto, to save you and Óscar and the other people they were taking. Even if I’d promised him I would keep him safe.”

Ah. It was not something Héctor had expected to hear, and for a moment he didn’t know what to say. He just stared back at her, speechless, and she spoke again. She looked haunted at the idea she had almost signed Ernesto’s death sentence.

“Ernesto was right. I didn’t know being at war means, until I saw them taking you away.”

“You didn’t give him away.”

“Only because Miguel asked me not to. I-- you’d do anything to protect those you love and I almost told that madman we had Ernesto, even if you’d hate me for it. I would have learned to accept it. As long as you lived.”

Héctor was silent a few more moments, and slowly nodded. The choice to offer himself up in Miguel’s place had been so easy, it had felt like he had no choice at all. The one Imelda had found herself facing, on the other hand… it must have been agonizing, so few options and none of them good. Héctor found he didn’t know what he may have done in her shoes.

“... I understand.”

“It’s kind of you to say, but if it makes you rethink the engagement--”

“Never.” He turned to grasp both of her hands, holding tight. “Nothing can make me rethink that. I will build us a home, big enough for us and Miguel and all the other children--” Héctor trailed off, realizing belatedly that he and Imelda never had a chance to even discuss adopting Miguel. He’d simply assumed they would, but-- “I mean… if you agree--”

Imelda’s grave expression broke into laughter, and she leaned on her toes to kiss him suddenly. “When are we breaking the news to him?” she asked, and Héctor could only smile before kissing her again.

***

“Uugh…”

“No, no, stay down. Don’t try to sit up, you may pull your stitches…”

“Nnh… Juan?”

Above him, Juan’s anxious features-- was he even paler than before? Was it possible? -- softened in a smile. His hand - so stupidly soft, no callouses to speak of, a man who never laboured a day in his life - cupped Ernesto’s cheek. “It’s me. And, I am relieved to report, neither of us is in Hell just yet.”

Ah. Slowly, Ernesto’s addled mind managed to process what he just heard. Everything felt like a dream; the only real thing was the pain in his throat, and even that was dulled. “... We’re alive?”

“We are. You’re back in Santa Cecilia.”

“They shot you.”

“God was watching over me.”

Oh, of course he’d credit God. “Heh. It was luck.”

“... Perhaps the commander’s aim was not quite as true as it may have been. I may not recover the full use of my left arm, but it’s a small price to pay. Héctor and Miguel are safe, too. They came to visit, remember? You woke up briefly, and they were so relieved - do you recall?”

He did, very vaguely, more a sensation than a coherent memory - the vague echo of a song. His vision swam a moment, and Ernesto closed his eyes. “I thought you were dead. The bells… the death knell...”

“No. No, my dear man. I am here.”

“I was… he… Santiago...”

Is he still out there? Where is he?

A wave of panic swelled in Ernesto’s mind, and he tried again to sit up. A gentle hand on his shoulder kept him easily in place.

“Ernesto, no. Listen to me-- you’re safe here. We’re safe. That madman is gone.”

Oh. Ernesto swallowed, drawing in a shaky breath, and found Juan’s blue gaze again. It was the only thing he could focus on, filling his sight as the sky would. What an odd eye color, he thought, so curiously soothing. “Gone,” he repeated, and the gringo nodded.

“Yes. He cannot hurt you anymore.”

He didn’t know how he was still alive, or how that man had been taken out, but he found he didn’t care. “They know,” he rasped in the end. “The people here.”

“It will be sorted out, Ernesto. You’re safe here, I promise.”

It was enough for now, all the reassurance he needed, and the panic faded into the pleasant mist in the back of his mind. Painkillers, no doubt; he normally may have worried about the extent of his injuries-- there was a knife I remember he had a knife -- but not now. He was mostly free of pain, and he was safe. Juan had told him as much. They were safe.

Slowly, Ernesto smiled. “Learned my name at last,” he muttered, gaining himself a confused look that quickly gave way to comprehension, and some measure of amusement. Dimly, he felt a hand grasping his own.

“Heh. I suppose I have.”

“Guess I’ll have to call you John from now on, huh?” he murmured.

A gentle squeeze around his hand, which Ernesto returned without thinking. “If you wish,” the gringo said. “But truth be told, I believe Juan has grown on me quite a bit.”

***

“So he was never a priest?”

“He was a soldier?”

“He left the Federal army, he wasn’t one anymore--”

“He fooled us!”

“He went after the Federales and brought back my son!”

“And my husband!”

“And my brother!”

“And me!”

“If I may--”

“You may not.”

“I’m the mayor, you can’t silence me--”

“And where were you when the Federales took our men and destroyed our market?”

“Hiding, no doubt!”

“I did not hide! I… I simply had pressing matters to attend to, over at the… uh…”

“Shut up.”

“But I--”

“Everyone, please calm down and sit. You’re in the house of the Lord.”

Madre Gregoria’s voice was enough to make everyone present - a good chunk of Santa Cecilia, most of whom had been smacked in the back of the neck by old Gregoria herself as children at least a few times - fell quiet, as politely requested. She cleared her throat before speaking again. “It seems clear to me that we have some decisions to make, so let us not squabble like children. What sins Padr-- this man has committed, it seems plain to me they are between him and God, first and foremost.”

“But if the gringo finds out--”

“He already knows,” Sofía spoke, and all eyes turned on her. Their expressions were nothing short of bewildered. “It’s the reason why Padre Juan officiated all weddings and funerals, and gave everyone their final rites. So that no one’s soul would be in jeopardy, while still saving a man’s life.”

There were some glances, and a few sighs of relief. “So my… my marriage is true in the eyes of the Lord?”

“It is, Gisela.”

“Unfortunately,” a man muttered, elbowing her husband and getting a shove in return.

“Cállate,” the man grumbled to some laughter. It took a disapproving clearing of Madre Gregoria’s throat to get everyone quiet again, just as a man stood.

“We must protect him,” he declared. “He risked his life for the people of this village!”

“I agree,” a woman, whose marriage bed Sofía was fairly sure Ernesto had blessed, called out. “He could have stayed hidden, and risked nothing. We’d be none the wiser.”

“La señora Reyes is right. And God is on his side, why else would He have struck down the Federales?”

“God? Rat poison, more like.”

“Still! We owe him!”

“He is a miracle worker, ordained priest or not! His blessing allowed my wife to conceive after years being barren!”

Luis Marqués’ words were met with a sudden silence, and all eyes slowly shifted towards him while his expecting wife seemed very interested in the floor all of a sudden. Madre Gregoria looked like she might choke on her dentures for a moment, and it just may be best to bring the conversation back on the topic at hand before dwelling a little too much into Ximena Marqués miracle child.

“Well!” Sofía exclaimed, clapping her hands loudly and causing everyone to recoil, turning to her. “I am glad we all agree that Santa Cecilia does owe Ernesto de la Cruz a debt of gratitude, and that any punishment for his deceit should be left in the hands of God. Because we do agree, don’t we?” She smiled widely, and purposely sought the eyes of several men, among the present, whom she’d known over the years in the biblical sense. “That sins are between ourselves and God, and there is no point whatsoever in divulging what can be dealt with in the secret of the confessional?”

“Uh… well…”

“I suppose…”

“If the gringo-- I mean, Padre Ju-- Juan can deal with that--”

“Wouldn’t hand anyone over to Huerta…”

“And he brought our boys back…”

Sofía’s smile widened to the point her cheeks hurt. “This is very good to hear. And after all, we only have one Federale’s word that he is not a priest, don’t we?’

Several men stared back, somewhat confused, but women were quicker to catch on.

“Oh, yes. That’s true, it was only the commander.”

“And he was loco.”

“Oh yes, he was unwell, clearly.”

“And he’s dead now, isn’t he? Put down like a rabid dog.”

“Can’t trust the words of one like him. He may have been lying - or mistaken.”

“He was absolutely mistaken.”

“Not a believable tale, is it? A deserter pretending to be a priest! Surely he’d have been caught on so much earlier. We’re not that gullible after all, are we…?”

Sofía sat back, giving Madre Gregoria a smile that was only a little smug, and let her take the reins from there. After all, the way forward was clear: in the end it was all a matter of points of view.

As far as the people of Santa Cecilia were concerned, Padre Ernesto was certainly a priest; they had no proof of the contrary, after all, aside from the ravings of a Federale who’d proven himself nothing short of a madman; no reason to give his words any credit, they all agreed.

They could ask Padre Ernesto directly, of course, but why would they? He was recovering, and the fact God himself had struck the Federales as soon as they harmed him certainly was proof enough; there was no need to question further. They could all agree on that, too.

Of course, it was a bit of a shame that the poor man had been so shaken by the events to decide he should abandon his priestly robes. But well, the gringo could step in to take on those duties, and with Gustavo’s death they were in need of a sexton; Ernesto, formerly Padre Ernesto, would still serve their parish in a different capacity.

An ideal outcome, that, voted on by an overwhelming majority.

As far as the Archdiocese in Oaxaca was concerned, on the other hand, one Padre Joaquín had tragically been killed in a skirmish during his short tenure as Santa Cecilia’s parish priest. Visiting missionary John Johnson gave them the sad news via letter, expressing his admiration for the man, telling them he had been striving to do God’s work to the end, and offered to remain to tend to the parish for however long it may be needed.

There was no lie in his words; only a slight omission over when and where, precisely, the good parish priest had been killed. With a lot more on their hands than a vacant seat in a small village slightly to the left of nowhere, the Archdiocese had also found it to be an ideal outcome. No questions were asked.

As the Bible said, whenever doing a merciful deed, it was best not to let your left hand know what the other is doing.

***

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#pixar coco #coco #ernesto de la cruz #hector rivera #imelda rivera #miguel rivera #fake priest au

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mostly-marvel-musings · 4 years

Text

Trust

Square Filled: Riding

A/N: See now, I have zero experience writing about ‘horse riding’ if that was expected here, but the other riding however…I know a thing or two ;))

Thor Bingo Masterlist

Pairing: Thor Odinson x Reader

Tags: @swaggysposts @bitchycherryblossomlove @another-stark-sub

Warnings: NSFW, 18+ only, SMUT, teasing, little angst but a happy ending.

Word count: 2100ish

Written for @thorbingo

…

“Well maybe if you weren’t so damn controlling I wouldn’t have to lie about going out Thor!” you fumed, marching towards your shared bedroom.

“I don’t like it when you hang out with Barnes. He flirts with you all the time.” Thor bellowed from behind, following you.

“You know he’s like that with every girl. How many times do I have to repeat myself? And don’t you trust me?”

You turned to face him, tired of having to explain yourself yet again.

“Of course I trust you love, it is not about that.” Thor’s voice softened as he cautiously approached you, extending his arms to perhaps pull you closer but you pushed them away.

“We wouldn’t be having this argument for the tenth time if you did Thor.” You shook your head and turned, closing the bathroom door behind you.

The whole thing had started when Sam, Bucky, Wanda and you had found yourselves hanging out with each other more and more. The four of you just clicked, it was instant.

Tonight was no different, it was one of those parties Stark wanted to have just because, and your gang had drifted away from the crowd to have a good time, drink and laugh over the stupidest things.

Your boyfriend however, thought there was something cooking with you and Bucky. According to him, Bucky was always ‘around’ and made flirty comments whenever the team hung out. You tried your best to pacify his worries, even tried telling him that no person in this universe would think about laying eyes on the girlfriend of a literal God. But you would always end up fighting, followed by make-up sex after reconciliation.

You had plans to make this man let go of his ego…

You took your time showering and getting into your sleepwear, when you finally walked out Thor was leaning against the wall next to the bathroom, head hung and by the looks of it ready to make an apology.

Take no notice of him, you wandered out into the kitchen to grab some water before turning in for the night. Thor followed you out and back in wordlessly, trying to gauge your mood, unsure of what to say.

Pulling the sheets back, you got in sighing dramatically as your head touched the pillow.

“I trust you (Y/N) without a shadow of doubt, but I—I just don’t—” his voice had gotten significantly quieter, eyes searching yours as he walked closer to the bed still in his formal clothes.

“Just don’t want me having fun with my friends? Good night Thor.” Emphasizing the word friends, you gave him one final glance before turning off the bedside lamp.

Replying to Wanda’s concerned text, you placed your phone on the side table, facing the bedroom wall as you shut your eyes. You sensed the bed dip beside you, however you remained still.

“Good night love.” Thor whispered and placed a soft kiss to your shoulder, which almost made you feel bad for not kissing him before you slept, but you resisted the urge to turn around, pretended to be asleep.

After all a lesson was to be taught.

…

Next morning, waking up earlier than usual, you put on one of Thor’s large white T-shirts purposely removing all other pieces of clothing including your panties, and headed in the kitchen to make breakfast.

“What are you doing?”

Thor’s sleep-ridden voice reached your ears. You were standing on your toes to reach for the box of pancake premix, his shirt had effectively ridden up, revealing your bare ass for him to see. Smiling to yourself, you turned and blinked at him innocuously.

“Oh I need that box up there, could you help me please?”

He walked closer gradually, still studying you as you did him, shirtless, sweats hung low over his hips, morning tent clearly visible through them. Coming up next to you, he could see your pebbled nipples through his shirt, which he found himself staring at before you cleared your throat to get his attention.

Placing the box on the counter, Thor walked over to the breakfast stool and took a seat, watching you like a hawk. Every move you made, the deliberate twirls, dramatic stretching, and the way your hips swayed while you mixed the batter made his cock twitch. You weren’t one to tease, he knew that.

What game were you playing?

Perhaps you were still mad about last night. He wasn’t exactly forgiven. He wanted to confront you, but he was intrigued by this on-going show immensely.

“Thank you love.” He murmured, as you placed a plate loaded with pancakes, syrup and fruit in front of him. Thor went to grab your hand but you swiftly pulled away, placing pancakes and whipped cream on your own plate.

You ate in silence as you sat opposite him. When Thor pointed out you had cream on the corner of your mouth, you deliberately took your time, wiping it off with your tongue, making him squirm in his seat.

“I will take care of the dishes.” He insisted standing up with you, as you cleared the plates. Thor grabbed you by your waist, this time you couldn’t escape, and made you face him.

“Why are you teasing me, my love?” whispering, he pulled you closer to press his hard-on against your core, a gasp left your mouth without your permission. You still avoided his scrutiny, keeping your eyes on the firm plains of his broad chest instead.

Will power wavering, you pushed him away with all you had and turned to stroll towards the bedroom once more.

You could feel his burning gaze on your back as you pulled the tee over your head and threw it on the floor, heading to take a shower mumbling,

“I would never tease.”

…

As evening rolled by, Thor was miserable. All day, your torment made him more and more frustrated and turned on as the day progressed, and the fact that you refused to speak to him made him contemplate of things he could do to get you to talk.

He saw you stirring a pot of soup for dinner and all Thor could think about was the lacy lingerie you wore underneath your robe. He walked up behind you, waited silently till you turned the stove off and turned to find him staring at you, dejected.

Thor took hold of your hand and wordlessly walked you into the bedroom. He kneeled on the bed, facing you and dropped his head to his chest in a submissive stance.

You were stunned. The goal had been aimed towards a confrontation but this took you by surprise.

“What’re you doing Thor?” unlike your strong, unyielding façade all day, your voice came out quiet and reserved.

“Whatever you want me to do.”

His eyes never lifted their gaze from the mattress below him as he said those words. They sounded like something you’d never have imagined coming from a literal God, who at this moment was completely at your mercy.

This was dangerously powerful and all arousing at the same time. You had to take charge.

“Look at me.”

When he did, you saw silent pleads and desire in those forlorn beautiful blue eyes that you loved so much.

“Do you trust me?” you tested.

“Yes.”

Thor’s voice barely over a whisper. That was another first.

“Lie back.”

He did as he was told, like an obedient puppy eager to please. You undid the belts of your robe and let it fall over your shoulders, revealing your black lace bra that left little to the imagination and matching panties.

Strolling over to Thor’s side of the bed as if you had all the time in the world, you watched him. Chest rising and falling in anticipation, cock tenting against the restrictive sweats, eyes trained towards the ceiling.

“Look at me. Pull that shirt over your head, keep your arms up and hold onto it, you understand?”

He gulped, nodding his head as he did as told yet again. You didn’t think compliant, submissive Thor would be so exciting, you could already feel the wetness dampening your panties.

Thor felt the bed dip on his left, his body eager to be touched. You took your time grazing your fingers lightly over his happy trail, cock twitching in attention.

Hooking your fingers over the sweats and boxers, you gently peeled them down freeing his erection, chuckling when he readily lifted his hips to aid your actions.

A needy groan escaped his lips when you wrapped your hand over his throbbing cock, you could tell he was struggling to keep his hands above his head.

“You want me to take care of you baby?” you couldn’t recognize your own voice at this point. Thor nodded willingly.

“I need to hear you.”

“Yes please.” His deep voice thick with want and desperation spurred you on as your thumb swiped over the tip, collecting precum.

Licking agonizingly slowly along the length of his shaft, you felt him move his hips involuntarily. Taking him in your mouth, your tongue swirled around the tip, relishing the explicit noises coming from him.

You released him with a pop, his neck craning to see why you halted your actions, shirt visibly crumpled in his hands. Thor practically sighed in relief when you straddled his hips, your clothed core hanging just inches above his ready, aching cock.

“Do you trust me?” you whispered yet again.

“Yes.” Came a prompt reply as Thor watched your every move with lust-blown eyes.

“Do you really?” tilting your head to one side, you let your hands caress your breasts over the soft fabric of the bra, hips still hovering over his, not touching yet close enough.

“Yes I do, my love. I’m sorry for the way I behaved, I trust you. I trust you completely.”

Rough but truthful, his words tugged at your heartstrings making you lean forward to kiss him for the first time that day.

Tentative at first, Thor sighed into the kiss, tense shoulders relaxing under your touch as your fingers slid up to grab his face. Your tongue danced with his in a push and pull of ‘I’m sorry’ and ‘I forgive you’. Somewhere around it, you unclasped your bra and threw it behind without bothering.

You parted from his lips long enough to murmur, “Touch me Thor.” When he seemed unsure of moving his arms from their place. Needy for his hands on your body, you gripped his wrists and placed them on your back.

He touched you everywhere leaving your skin burning for more, it was as if he were touching you for the very first time. When he reached the waistband of your panties, he ripped them in two, the sound of a fabric tearing had never sounded sexier.

Jerking his hips upwards, you moaned when his cock made contact with your dripping core. Sitting back, you wrapped a hand around him once again, this time positioning it over yourself and sinking down on it, toes curling as you did.

Breathing hitched, mind concentrating on nothing but the fullness you felt as your walls clenched around him possessively. After what seemed like an eternity staying still, you rolled your hips, eyes closed in pleasure as rode him, and his hands went to knead your breasts, pinching your nipples drawing series of profanities from your mouth.

You knew you wouldn’t last long as rolling turned to bouncing on his cock, chasing your release. Thor’s large hands gripped your back securely, as he sat up and replaced his hands with his mouth over your nipple. He thrust into you hard and fast, sending you closer and closer to the edge, as the room filled with grunts and moans.

Pulling the ends of his hair, you shuddered as your orgasm crashed over you with one final scream. Your climax pushed Thor towards his, as he came emptying himself into you, holding you as your bodies quivered and trembled. You felt him soften inside you, but you had no intentions of being away neither did he.

When the dizziness disappeared, you wrapped your arms around his neck, hiding your flushed face in it. Gently rocking on the bed, you sat there embracing one another close, not uttering a word for what felt like hours.

“I love you.”

Thor’s deep voice resonated from his chest, making warmth bloom in your belly, as he traced random patterns on your naked back.

“I love you too Thor.” You whispered, connected your lips yet again.

…

#thor odinson x reader #thor bingo #thor odinson smut #thor odinson imagine #thor odinson fluff #thor angst #thor feels #mcu thor #thor odinson fanfiction #marvel fanfiction #mostly marvel musings

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masterweaverx · 3 years

Text

Pit Stop

"So you hear about that Ruby transmission?"

Cinnamon chuckled. "It's all anybody's talking about," she said as she handed a plate to him. "We only get spotty transmission out here, you know."

"Yeah, I know, but... still." The customer laughed a little awkwardly. "Atlas being under attack, magic being real, this... Salem person... It's a lot."

Cinnamon nodded, looking around the pub. It wasn't anything too fancy, they were just a village after all, but it was an informal gathering spot for both the villagers themselves and travelers just passing through. Some tables had people clustered around them, while others had but a single customer apiece; it wouldn't have been anything unusual if it weren't for the hushed murmurings and occasional glances northward.

"Well, it's only been about a day, right?" Cinnamon reassured the man. "They're probably still holding out up there."

"...right." The man took his fork and began poking at the food in front of him.

Cinnamon sighed, heading back behind the counter. It was a slow day... which, given what that Ruby girl had said, was only to be expected. The casual vibe of the pub didn't really gel with the tension in the air; even the stress drinkers had just dropped by, bought a bottle or two, and walked out. She could see some of her customers eyeing the kegs.

Just scrub the glasses, she told herself. Scrub the glasses and look calm and relaxed. She wasn't a huntress, but damned if she didn't know the importance of image in keeping negativity down...

They'd get updates, eventually. Probably from some force heading up from Vale. Or... maybe, if things were really horrible, from some Atlesian refugees. No matter what, it would take a few days.

She couldn't help worrying, of course, who wouldn't be worried, but it wasn't like she could make time move faster. It had only been a day, after all.

There was a strange sound from outside, an oddly growling hiss. For a moment Cinnamon gripped her cleaning rag tighter. There would have been shouts from the lookouts if Grimm were approaching, right? Unless they'd been so rattled by the transmission that they forgot to--

--no. Even with that message, they wouldn't have abandoned their posts. They didn't during the fall of Beacon, after all.

"Somebody's just messing with burn Dust," she suggested casually, to nobody in particular. "Probably just a few teens... hopped up on bravery and wanting to go fight monsters in Atlas, you know?"

There were a few chuckles, but they were strained. The sort that were made by obligation--

One of the customers, leaning to peer out a window, jumped back with a yelp. "It's--! There's a Grimm woman!" he gasped. "It's gotta be Salem!"

Another customer rolled her eyes with a nervous chuckle. "Okay, you've probably had a bit too much to drink--"

Twinkli-linki-link...

Cinnamon looked at the door as it swung open, and her breath caught in her throat. The figure that practically glided in was breathtaking, in the same way a Sea Feilong was; tall, elegant, pristine, and as clearly capable of slaughter as any Grimm she could name. Her black dress, lined with red, certainly made her look like one; it was a resemblance only furthered by her bone-white hair and skin. Purplish veins crawled up her arms and under her sleeves, reemerging round her neck to frame a pair of dark eyes--utterly black, save for the rings of red that ross from their shadowy depths.

One hand was wrapped around an ornate golden staff, which was capped with a blue gem. The other, bearing a ring that resembled nothing so much as a beetle, gestured around the room surprisingly gently.

"I see you have a table available."

It took Cinnamon a couple of seconds to process that. She looked to see that, yes, there was an empty table--there were quite a few, in fact. "Ah... so I do," she replied, voice quavering.

"I believe we will take it. If you would be so kind...?"

Cinnamon put down her glass, quickly reemerging from the bar. "Right this way, ma'am," she said automatically.

The tall woman walked past her, and only then did Cinnamon register the second woman following behind her. The gold-embroidered black garb she wore was short but elegant, much like the hair covering her eyepatch. In fact, she almost looked like a freshly graduated huntress; if it weren't for the fact her left arm consisted of Grimm flesh and the way her amber eye produced literal fire, Cinnamon wouldn't have any idea why she'd be smugly trailing after the bone-white woman.

She shared a nervous look with one of the customers, flicking her eyes toward the door. The man's eyes widened, and he nodded subtly, casually walking out as the new pair seated themselves.

"...So." Cinnamon said, forcing her fear out of her voice. "What will it be?"

"Oh, nothing too much," the pale woman assured her. "A small meal will suffice."

The younger woman frowned for a moment, but nodded. "Perhaps... do you have fish and chips?" she asked.

Cinnamon almost said no, out of habit, but cut herself off. "We... have a salmon soup," she offered hesitantly. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the other customers quietly filing out.

"Hmm." The younger woman shakes her head. "I'd prefer something more... solid."

"Would a chicken sandwich do the trick?" Cinnamon offered.

The younger woman nodded. "I think it would, actually."

"And..." Cinnamon turned to the beautiful violation of all she had ever thought she'd known. "What will it be for you, ma'am?"

The Grimm woman smiled wryly. "I don't suppose you serve the souls of the innocent here."

"No ma'am. Innocence is a rare commodity these days."

The younger woman actually smirked at that. "Isn't it though."

"Well... perhaps I shall have the salmon soup," the woman offered.

"Of course." Cinnamon took a quick look around the pub; it was almost empty now, save for one horrified customer staring at the scene. She turned back to the pair. "It might be a minute."

"We have all the time in the world."

Cinnamon nodded, heading around the bar. "Get out of here," she hissed to the last customer as she passed.

"You're just serving them--?"

"The longer they're here the longer you have to get to Vale, now move!"

The customer blinked twice, before her eyes widened. She vacated her table with haste, rushing out the door.

"I'm beginning to think the locals don't like us," the younger woman noted calmly.

Shit.

"Ah, it's nothing too much," Cinnamon assured her as she went behind the counter. "Just a bit nervous about celebrities visiting our little village."

"Celebrities?"

Cinnamon very carefully put the pot of soup on the stove, stirring it slowly. "You didn't catch the transmission?"

"Ah," said the bone-white woman. "So, Ruby Rose's message did reach the outside world."

"Whole world, if I heard right." Cinnamon set aside a plate, carefully putting together a sandwich.

"Wait, what transmission?" The young woman looked from Cinnamon to the other. "Was that what Penny was doing with Amity?"

"It was," the bone-white woman replied. "If I recall, you were unconscious at the time."

The younger woman stiffened... and then bowed her head. "I... yes, master. I made an error in judgment."

"Mmm..." The bone-white woman put a hand on her shoulder. "Not all lessons can be taught gently, Cinder."

Cinnamon checked the soup, subtly activating the recording function on her scroll. "So, yeah. What happened after that anyway?"

The bone-white woman gave her a coy smile. "Now, why do you ask that?"

"I'm just a small village chef," Cinnamon replied, pouring the soup into a bowl. "Can't help but be curious about the outside world."

The younger woman--Cinder--examined her Grimm nails. "It was a very busy day in Atlas, honestly."

Cinnamon assembled the sandwich, taking the bowl and plate out to her customers. "I guess it'd have to be. Can I get you anything to drink?"

"I suppose I wouldn't mind a glass of wine," the bone-white woman allowed.

"Just water for me," Cinder added.

"Of course." Cinnamon prepared the drinks, surreptitiously looking out the window. Entire families were loading up tightly in the delivery trucks, rolling out through the gates--

"Is something going on out there?"

"Farmers headed out to bale hay," Cinnamon lied smoothly. "Big deal for us small-town folk."

Cinder gave her a look as she put the glasses down. Cinnamon shrugged, retreating behind the counter.

For a minute or two, the only sounds came from Cinder and the other woman quietly eating. She could see how much Cinder savored every bite. And... the other one, she did seem to enjoy the wine, if the way her eyebrow quirked was anything to go by.

"...Three questions."

Cinnamon looked up, keeping a mask of calm even as her heart pounded.

"You have been an excellent host," the bone-white woman continued, "and you reek of fear. So. Three questions."

"Ah." Cinnamon glanced at her hidden scroll, still recording the entire conversation. "How's Atlas doing, you reckon?"

"Oh, it's flooded," Cinder replied casually. "Entire city."

Cinnamon blinked at her, almost opening her mouth--but, no, three questions. Atlas, flooded... well, it was a floating rock, for one. How could they get water up there? Even with a magic rainstorm... no, it didn't make sense. A city in the sky couldn't...

...unless...

Cinnamon swallowed carefully. "I see... what happened to the survivors?"

Cinder frowned, biting into her sandwich aggressively.

"Apparently miss Rose came up with a scheme to get them all to Vacuo," the bone-white woman replied, sipping at her soup. "Which, of course, means I'll be meeting them again fairly soon."

Her smile was far too soft for such a threat. It almost looked motherly, in a way.

Cinnamon felt her heart beating. She glanced out the window again. She couldn't see anybody.

"...How am I going to die?"

The bone-white woman turned to her, then. "Now that is certainly an interesting question. Especially as I don't have an answer. What do you think, Cinder?"

Cinder finished her sandwich, taking a long draft from her glass.

"I think she has options," she said eventually. "We could lock her in this building, weld the doors shut so she can't escape with the rest of her village. I could burn her to death, or freeze her. You could summon any number of Grimm, or even use magic."

"We might do nothing at all," the other woman mused. "Let nature take its course."

"...we could take her with us," Cinder offered. "Hazel was our primary chef, before... well, before."

The bone-white woman quirked a brow. "And how would we carry her?"

Cinder glanced at the staff. "We're not using that for anything right now. An airship would be easy."

The bone-white woman considered this. Cinnamon felt her hands trembling.

"...I will prepare the airship," the woman finally said, standing up. "You will help our new... associate gather what she needs."

Cinnamon flinched as Cinder stood up, quickly ending the recording and sending it out on broadcast. "I, uh, I'm... it might take me a few tries to get your food like you like it--"

The bone-white woman smiled at her. "Oh, don't worry. I have all the time in the world."

#RWBY #Fanfiction #One Shot #Pit Stop #Salem #Cinder Fall

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trillian-anders · 4 years

Text

chicken noodle soup

pairing: chef!bucky x plus!reader

warnings: fluff, fluff, fluff, a little angst. just a dash.

word count: 1779

description: chef!au; bucky makes you chicken noodle soup when you’re sick, and you guys have a talk.

note: i’m extremely sick and this is what i wrote, i needed a little comfort. if you have a request for the next dish, let me know loves.

just a taste masterlist

You watched the corded muscles of his back from your spot on the sofa. His right arm moving up and down, steadily chopping carrots as the garlic and onions sweat in a large pot on the stove. His left arm, something you still didn’t ask him about, mottled skin covered with blooming flowers, a rosary, whisping into a vintage pinup girl that posed on his forearm, hands tangled in her hair as she arched her back against the flowers behind her as if laying in a field of flowers.

His left arm held down the vegetable, knuckles facing the knife as he cut the carrots into thick pieces, practiced fingers running against the blade before he switched hands, left moving not quite as steadily, but still practiced.

You were sure your apartment smelled delicious, if only you could smell it.

He came over even though you’d told him not to. Last night when you’d stumbled in your front door after a very draining workweek. The winter deadline met, first quarter final report submitted and a head pounding and nose clogged you’d collapsed onto your couch with a bottle of NyQuil. Dead to the world.

He’d called worried, you’d been telling him you hadn’t felt well all week. “You need to rest babydoll,” He scolded, you’d rolled your eyes on the phone with him, your heart warming with the concern laced in his voice, toeing your socks off before slipping under the covers. “Stark can go a day or two without you.”

“After this week ends,” You said, “I just have to meet Friday’s deadline and then I’ll rest.” Friday had happened, and everything was done. And you collapsed on your sofa. Resting.

His call came in two hours after you’d fallen asleep, a groggy, “Hi baby.” And he sighed,

“I’m coming over.” You snuggled deeper into the cushions of the sofa you’d spent way too much money on, suddenly appreciating how large and soft it was.

“I’ll be fine,” You croaked, “Really.” But you could already hear his keys in his hand.

The food truck had been doing really well, well enough that Bucky and Sam hired some extra help. A kid named Peter who needed an after school job that would just handle plating and taking money while Sam or Bucky cooked, finally giving them enough time off between them to start seriously looking for commercial space for their restaurant. Something Bucky had been giddy about for weeks.

“I told Sam I needed tomorrow off,” He said, toeing off his boots by the front door. Your sleepy face peering at him from behind the blankets pulled up to your nose. “But I’ll have to work Sunday.” He had a large paper bag he’d set on the counter before padding over to you and pressing a kiss to your forehead.

“You really didn’t have to come,” Your nose stuffed and red, a pile of discarded tissues next to you on the coffee table and reruns of Survivor playing on TV. He rolled his eyes, picking the snotty mess of tissues up and saying,

“When’s the last time you ate?” You didn’t know. “Here.” A glass of orange juice and a glass of water, “You need liquids.” You sniffled and he ran his fingers best he could through your tangled hair. “Wouldn’t you rather be in bed?”

“I’m comfy here.” You mumbled, eyes half lidded. He nods, brushing his thumb across your cheek,

“Sleep babydoll, I’ll wake you up to eat.”

He’d refilled your water, the small sips for your scratchy throat was a marvel. He’d placed a pack of honey cough drops and a new bottle of NyQuil on the coffee table. There was a multi-pack of tissues sitting still in the plastic beside them. The tv had been turned down to a quiet amble. He was listening to some kind of podcast in the kitchen.

He poured a box of chicken broth into the large pot. A smaller pot next to it cooking egg noodles. A ginger root sat idly beside the stove.

You knew Bucky loved to cook, he loved making you things you’d never tried before, he’d love to experiment with flavors and you were his own personal guinea pig to try new recipes. They were trying to nail down their menu after all. But he would also make the best comfort food that warmed your very soul.

He knew exactly what you needed and when you needed it. And this soup, as stuffy and clogged, as your head pounded and your body ached, you needed this soup.

He stirred, a strand of hair falling into his eyes. It must be late. He’d changed into pajamas. The loose sweats and t-shirt wasn’t what he was wearing when he first arrived. He must have felt your eyes on him, turning to look at you as you pulled your lips into a chapped smile. He laughed softly,

“You look so pathetic.” He joked, pulling a bowl from the cabinet.

“I am.” You whined, rubbing your head against the pillow, comfortably watching him scoop some noodles into the bowl before ladling the broth on top. Chicken, carrots, celery, mushrooms, a bit of grated ginger, the broth was dark from some soy sauce. Red pepper flakes mixed in and garnished with cilantro. “Spicy Asian chicken noodle soup.” The broth hit your nose and you could almost feel your sinuses clear then. “You’ll be able to breathe again by the end of this.” His socked toes meeting yours as he curled up next to you, sitting you up and handing you the bowl. “I know you like spice.”

It was so fucking good. Runny nose be damned. You hadn’t realized how hungry you actually were. A bowl was finished, and then a second. His fingers tracing up and down your spine while you ate.

“If you’re not feeling better by Sunday, you should call out on Monday.” The soup had been packed and stored in your fridge. The noodles separate from the broth. “Stark can afford to go one day without you. You have those sick days for a reason.” You know. You know.

His arm wrapped around your shoulder, pulling you tight into his chest.

“I’m gonna get you sick.” You mumbled into his soft well worn shirt. His fingers massage your scalp, your eyes drooping.

“I’ll be fine,” He pressed his lips to your head, “Don’t worry about me. Sleep sweetheart.”

And you did.

“So next week Steve is coming up from DC for the weekend.” Bucky called from the kitchen, heating up the leftover soup from last night, “If you’re feeling better by then we were going to go out to dinner, he’s been asking about you and Sam and I think it would be good for you to meet him if you can.” Steve. The other part of the trio.

Bucky had told you they were inseparable once, meeting in basic training the three of them becoming quick friends. Their paths crossed a year after, the three of them chosen to be part of a special ops squad that moved mostly undercover. It didn’t need to be said that the story behind his left arm was buried there somewhere. But he wasn’t ready for that yet. And that’s okay.

“If you’d like me to.” Honestly it gave you anxiety. You and Bucky hadn’t really had the talk yet, the two of you not even breaching the conversation having sex after spending the majority of the last month together. There was making out, kissing, and a lot of it. But if he wanted you to meet

Steve it must mean something right?

But there was still this paranoia, this little niggling in your brain that made you feel like the rug was going to be pulled from beneath you. Just like it had before.

How many times had you been really into a guy and when it came to the point, in what you thought was a relationship, to meet his friends or family he was suddenly really shady about it. A guy had literally told you once, “My friends would make fun of me if I dated a fat girl.” That had been a heavy blow.

And you know you’re beautiful, you know you’re smart, and you know that you can survive on your own. But you didn’t want to anymore. You wanted to start working towards a partner, possibly getting married, maybe having or adopting kids. And Bucky seemed so perfect. A little too perfect.

“Of course I want you to.” Meet Steve. The bowl was carefully handed to you while he settled down next to you with his own bowl. “Why wouldn’t I want you to?” The soup was just as good as you remembered it from last night. It had been late, almost one am when the two of you cuddled up on the couch and cleared your sinuses for the first time in a week.

You shrug, spooning more of the spicy salty broth into your mouth. He gives you a strange look, “You’re my girlfriend,” Brow scrunched, “Girlfriends typically meet their boyfriend’s friends.” Your chapped lips parted and closed, “I mean I know we never like, officially, said anything, but… I thought you knew we were together.” His voice sounded a little sad. His eyes meet yours, placing his bowl on the coffee table.

You shook your head, “I’m sorry, I didn’t know if you wanted to--” You sighed heavily, “I’m sorry. No, we are together.”

“Did you think we weren’t?” The bowl was taken from your hands and gently placed beside his on the coffee table, grasping your cold hands in his.

“I… I didn’t know,” It was hard to look at him, “Sometimes, it’s just…”

“I’m sorry I didn’t make it more clear what my intentions were.” His voice level and reassuring, “I want to be with you, I want to be your boyfriend.” Your eyes glassy. Your period was probably going to start soon, to be fair. You’d cried during Masterchef earlier when the girl had burned her sauce. It had been devastating.

“No, I’m sorry.” You shook your head, “Communication goes both ways and I just didn’t think to ask.” In case you said no. He softly pressed his lips to yours,

“Y/N, will you be my girlfriend?” You sniffle,

“You’re gonna get sick.” Bucky rolls his eyes, smiling,

“Are you gonna answer my question or not?” You bit a little dry skin off your bottom lip before nodding,

“Yes.”

The next weekend had been at his own apartment, his stuffy nose and watery coughs a mimic of yours. The dinner with Steve would have to wait.

taglist // @bookish-shristi @saturnki @jennmurawski13 @geeksareunique @the-soulofdevil @tinmunky @albinotigerpython

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes #tfatws #the falcon and the winter soldier #the winter soldier #sebastian stan

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quicksilversquared · 4 years

Text

The Substitute Ladybug: Chapter 9

After Lila takes things too far and Marinette ends up with a broken leg, Paris is going to have to deal with a different superhero arrangement for a bit. Having to share her superhero identity with her parents before Hawkmoth can be defeated isn’t something that Marinette had planned on doing, but- well, it might end up being a bit of a blessing in disguise.

links in the reblog

The entire school was buzzing with the news: Ladybug had been seen on a rooftop the previous night with Chat Noir, hanging out for several hours.

She was back, and now- well, akuma attacks were going to go back to normal, right? Or would Coccinelle get assigned a different Miraculous and become part of the regular team?

And Marinette was left cringing from her desk, wondering if- despite how much she had enjoyed her rooftop picnic- it hadn't been a very good idea.

Maybe they should have chosen a different rooftop, one that was higher or more secluded or something. Maybe she should have gone out with a different Miraculous, so she couldn't be so easily identified as Ladybug. Maybe they shouldn't have gone out at all.

Except Marinette had enjoyed seeing Chat Noir again and spending more time with him. And if she had gone out with a different Miraculous- well, she would have chosen the Horse or the Snake, probably, since those were the ones she had used most recently, but neither would have been a great choice. The superheroes didn't want to give away that there was an active Snake user, and she would have had to detransform and recharge if she had used the Horse as her main Miraculous during the picnic. And as for the location- well, she wasn't limited by where she could go, but Chat Noir had been. If they had wanted to meet in a significantly less busy part of Paris- even less busy than their rooftop had been- then they would have had to go way out.

If they had been older, she would have just used Kaalki to meet up with Chat Noir on the first rooftop, then Portaled them out to a more remote location so that they wouldn't be seen for sure. But they weren't old enough for repeated power uses yet, so if they had wanted to do that there would have been a lot of re-charging Kaalki required. Which- well, it was fine during battles, but probably not so fine when they were just hanging out for fun.

Maybe she could have asked her mom to use the Horse for the night and be the transportation for her and Chat Noir- except no, that wouldn't have worked, either. Her mom had to go to bed early because of the bakery, and while she and Chat Noir maybe should have finished earlier so that they could go to bed at a better time, her mom's involvement would have required them to finish really, really early.

"I'm glad that she's back!" Rose told everyone as they waited for class to start. "I like Coccinelle, of course, she seems really nice, but I'm just used to Ladybug. We've seen her around more."

There was agreement all around the room. Marinette ignored it, pulling up the Ladyblog on her tablet and going through all of the photos that Alya had been able to find that people had taken of the "Ladynoir rooftop date". It looked like no one had gotten any photos (or seen) her use of the Horse Miraculous, and since they had been sitting the whole time, there wasn't any sign of her crutches or cast.

Or, well, almost no sign. If she looked really closely, Marinette could see the top of the Ladybug-patterned cast on her leg in one of the photos. But not much of the cast was visible, and if she hadn't known to look for it- well, then Marinette probably wouldn't have known it was there at all.

So it wasn't as bad as it could have been. If news got out about Ladybug's injury- well, that would be worse than them just being spotted, right?

"All right, everyone settle down," Ms. Bustier called as she stepped into the classroom. "I know we're all excited that Ladybug is back, but it's time to learn now. Put away your phones, please, you can look at the photos over break."

There were a few noises of complaint, but everyone listened. Marinette put her tablet to the side and looked up, doing a quick glance around the room to see how people were reacting. There was excitement on most everyone's faces, happiness that the city's second superhero was apparently back. Chloe didn't look thrilled, but that was to be expected. And Adrien-

Adrien didn't look thrilled by the news, despite the fact that he was definitely a Ladybug fanboy. Marinette hid her own frown as she watched him, trying to puzzle out what he might be thinking. He looked more worried than excited, which made Marinette wonder why.

Surely he would want to see Ladybug back in action, right? The news that she had been spotted out and about should have been an exciting thing for him. But it wasn't, apparently.

Odd.

Marinette kept wondering over it during morning classes, but it was just a mystery she couldn't solve. She almost wanted to ask Adrien about it- after all, they were friends, she should be able to ask him a simple question without fretting over it too much- but if he had seen the cast, or had seen other photos that gave away more of her injury, then she didn't exactly want him mentioning that near Alya. Not when she still hadn't figured out how she wanted to address the whole thing yet.

After all, Ladybug wouldn't be able to come back for another week and a half at least. The chances that Hawkmoth wouldn't attack before then was... pretty much nil. The public would be wondering what was going on and why Ladybug still wasn't coming out, unless the superheroes made some sort of announcement.

Ugh. Dealing with announcements and press releases and whatnot was definitely not her favorite part of being a superhero.

By the time lunch rolled around, Marinette was all too eager to get home and brainstorm with her parents and Tikki about what she and Chat Noir could say about Ladybug's presence back in Paris. With a few quick excuses to Alya, Marinette step-hopped home and headed up to the kitchen. There, her mom was standing in front of the stove, frowning at her phone.

"We have a problem," Marinette announced, dropping her backpack at the table and hopping her way forward to the kitchen counter. "People spotted Ladybug with Chat Noir last night, and now everyone thinks that I'm going to be back."

"That's not the only news," Mrs. Cheng told her, turning away from the stove and passing her phone over to Marinette. "Someone spotted you out with the Horse during the akuma attack. They hadn't posted the pictures right away, but now they have and there's been a lot of speculation about the 'new' Miraculous holder."

Marinette groaned. She had been hoping that she wouldn't be spotted like that. It wasn't a huge problem, necessarily, but it was just one more thing that they would have to explain. "Did people see the crutches with the Horse? And the cast?"

"Crutches, yes. Cast, no. The angle was wrong for that." Mrs. Cheng gave the soup on the stove a stir, then turned her attention fully to Marinette. "So I suppose we'll have to make some sort of announcement, right? I mean, we could always not, just in the interest of not giving Hawkmoth any more clues about your identity, but I doubt the public would let any of this go that easily."

"Right. It would honestly be less hassle if we can think of something to say right away. The longer we go, well..." Marinette thought back to all of the run-ins that she had had with the press before, the way that they responded to what the superheroes had to say. "The more they'll question whatever they'll say eventually."

"So Chat Noir and I should address it by the end of the day, probably," Mrs. Cheng finished. "And- Tikki, what is it?"

Tikki had been vibrating mid-air, clearly dying to say something. "Chat Noir is trying to call. Can- can we go somewhere he won't recognize and transform? He probably wants to check in on what we want to do."

"We can use your dad and I's bedroom," Mrs. Cheng decided after a moment's thought. "Chat Noir hasn't ever seen it, so it should be plenty safe as long as we don't stand near any family photos."

Marinette nodded, leading the way towards the door while her mom turned off the stove. A couple minutes later, they were transformed and in front of a carefully blank baby-blue wall. Coccinelle called Chat Noir back, and he picked up right away.

"I'm assuming that you've heard the news about Ladybug and a Horse user being spotted, right?" Chat Noir asked right away. "Everyone's wondering about it now."

"Yes, and Ladybug said that it would be a good idea to make some sort of press statement today, so that people would actually believe what we tell them," Coccinelle told him. "Or they'll be more likely to believe us, at any rate."

"There'll be conspiracy theorists no matter what we say, honestly." Chat Noir glanced to the side, then back at them. "I looked up what we said when you first took over for Ladybug, just to make sure we wouldn't end up with contradicting stories, and we said that Ladybug was getting 'some much-needed-rest'. And there's been some wondering about how much rest a superhero really needs- as if literally anyone else in Paris could actually decide that- and a lot of speculation that Ladybug was going out of the city on vacation, so I was wondering if maybe we could say that Ladybug got injured on her trip? That way, the dates really won't line up with your injury, Vipera. If anyone uses that information to try to figure out who Ladybug might be, it should lead them in the opposite direction."

Vipera grimaced briefly, unable to help herself. Anything about made-up trips reminded her of Lila, honestly, and that wasn't exactly a comparison that she wanted to be making. But Chat Noir was right- it would throw off the timing between her injury and Ladybug's, and since the crutches had been seen but the cast hadn't, they didn't have to say that she had broken her leg.

Maybe she didn't like the comparison, but keeping her identity secret was far more important.

"We could say that she had a bad sprain," Coccinelle suggested, almost as though she was reading Vipera's mind. "After all, it's- what? A little over a week until the cast comes off? So if she just sprained her ankle and then is trying to be careful and make sure that it's at 100% before coming back out, that timing is pretty good."

"We'd probably just want to 'accidentally' imply a sprain, rather than outright saying it," Vipera told her. "Because we've never confirmed anything about our personal lives to the press before for identity reasons, so if we say 'Ladybug sprained her ankle', then people will question that. But if we just mention a minor injury and say that she- er, I- asked Coccinelle to extend her time as a superhero a little bit more to make sure that I'd be coming back at 100%, people can draw their own conclusions from that. Minor doesn't suggest a broken leg, and there's only so many things that crutches can mean."

Chat Noir nodded approvingly. "I like that! A sneaky little bit of manipulation. I think it's a believable amount of information. Like, normally we wouldn't say even that much, but we kind of have to in this situation and everyone know that- or, well, they expect it, at any rate."

"Yeah, what people expect and what people need to know are sometimes two completely different things," Vipera sighed. "From some of the stuff I've seen, people seem to think that I should have handed out a day-by-day itinerary to everyone in Paris so they wouldn't be 'left in the dark'. Which is just- do people even think about what they're saying before they say it? Did no one consider the whole secret identity thing?"

Chat Noir laughed. "I know, right? I've seen those posts, too. Thankfully there aren't many of them, and some are clearly kids who don't know to take Hawkmoth seriously, but the others? The grown-up adults who think that we should hand them an exhaustive list of information about our lives? What are they thinking?"

"They're not, and that's why they wouldn't make very good superheroes," Coccinelle responded tartly. "I would love to meet one, actually, and read them the riot act. They need to actually use their brains every once in a while. They're not just for decoration, after all."

Vipera muffled a giggle. She'd like to see that too, honestly. Those poor souls wouldn't know what hit them.

"Okay, I think I wrote all that down," Chat Noir said after a pause. "About what we want to say, that is. I can do a press release later today, after school. I'll let the Mayor know. I can probably manage it on my own-"

"I will not leave you to the press vultures on your own," Coccinelle informed him tartly. "I'll be able to pop out. Just call when you're heading out for the conference and Tikki will let me know. And you will be in trouble if you try to do it yourself, young man."

Chat Noir laughed. "Okay, okay. I just didn't know if you would need to stay at work or not and I wanted to give you that option. But I'll call you for sure."

"Good boy." Coccinelle glanced at Vipera, then back at her yo-yo's screen. "I think that's all we have to discuss ahead of time, unless either of you have any concerns to bring up?"

"Maybe we could mention that Ladybug has been helping the fights go smoother, too," Chat Noir suggested. "I know we were talking about letting on that she's been assisting near the end of her time off, but not exactly how. Would now be a good time to bring it up?"

"It wouldn't be a bad idea," Coccinelle decided. "It will probably provide a fairly natural opportunity to mention it, which is exactly what we'd like."

"Calling another press conference to bring it up would just be strange," Vipera agreed. "And it's only a little more than a week left, so it shouldn't be overly early. Not that Hawkmoth can actually really counter Second Chance- or, well, I don't think he can, especially when I'm not even out on the battlefield. But then it can just be a passing comment, instead of having a ton of focus on it."

"That's a good point," Coccinelle agreed. "So yes, we'll look for a place to work it into our comments! Anything else?"

There was nothing else, and then they ended the call. Coccinelle detransformed, heading back upstairs to finish up lunch prep, and Vipera followed her, still transformed and hopping along on her crutches. Right before she reached the door, her lyre let out a quiet chime. Vipera paused, puzzled, and then pulled her lyre out to check it. A message from Chat Noir had popped up, a small notification in the corner of her screen. Frowning- they had just talked, why on earth would he have to send a message so quickly?- she opened it.

Chat Noir: I'm sorry about this whole mess! I know you hate telling more lies than we need to and we would have gotten away with the resting thing if we hadn't done the picnic. That was a bad idea on my part, I definitely didn't think it through.

Vipera sighed. It wasn't his fault at all, really. She had agreed to the picnic, after all, and they had both enjoyed themselves. It was just unlucky that someone had spotted them and that it had blown up as much as it had. Propping herself up against the wall, she messaged him back saying as much. He was not allowed to blame himself, and that was that.

If he kept blaming himself... well, her mom knew where to find him. If she couldn't knock some sense into Chat Noir and get him to stop taking on the blame for things that weren't his fault, then no one could.

Marinette followed the press conference from the comfort of the bakery's front counter, her attention divided between the video feed on her phone and the customers coming up to the counter. Chat Noir had taken the lead, since he was the permanent superhero and the one that people would be most likely to trust, and he was doing really well.

Neither of them particularly liked public speaking, especially considering that there were always going to be people who would pick apart what they said to try to twist their words into something else, but Chat Noir tended to avoid it more often than Ladybug. While he was fine with the attention, the speaking part, well...

It was clearly not his favorite part of being a superhero. But he had stepped up to the plate this time, only being a little obvious about glancing above the crowd instead of actually at it. And he wasn't hesitating over his words at all, delivering what was presumably a practiced spiel rather smoothly.

Or at least it was smoothly from what Marinette could tell. Considering that she had been a bit distracted by customers needing her attention, he could have stuttered or stumbled over his words at some point and she wouldn't have noticed.

Once the conference was over and Mrs. Cheng had returned to the bakery, Marinette made her way upstairs to watch the footage properly on her computer. The Ladyblog had coverage of the impromptu press conference from several TV channels linked in one post, and Marinette clicked on the first one. It took a minute to load, and then she pressed play. On-screen, there were a few seconds that simply showed an empty platform, and then Coccinelle and Chat Noir landed in the middle of the stage.

Just like she had thought, Chat Noir's delivery was near-flawless, and Coccinelle only stepped in to help him along in a couple places. And when questions opened, he didn't flinch away at all.

Even though the questions were- well, for lack of a better word, they were aggressive.

People wanted more details, of course. They wanted an exact date when Ladybug would be healed and back. They wanted to know how she got injured, and when. Some were questioning why Ladybug had gone on a trip and left Paris in the first place, and if that was really a responsible thing for a superhero to do and if Ladybug was taking the superhero thing as seriously as she should be.

Marinette just kept herself from snapping at the screen at that. Not taking the superhero thing seriously? The 'superhero thing' dictated her entire life! She couldn't even go on a field trip without considering her superhero duties, having to think about how she would get the alerts and how she would get back to where she needed to be (particularly if their trip took them out of Paris). The first thing she had thought about after her leg broke was how it would affect her superhero life. When she had use of both legs and a bit of free time, she would go out searching through shops in Paris to make sure that she had a good supply of potion ingredients on hand, just in case. She had to think about where she could store the Miracle Box long-term so that it would be secure and safe, and that was on her mind almost all of the time now. Sketches of hidden compartments and complicated locks were tucked alongside her fashion designs, along with scribbled thoughts on logistics. And whenever she could, Marinette would pull out other kwami from the box and talk to them about their powers and how they had been used in the past, just to get a better idea of what tools she had on hand.

Not taking it seriously. There was no way that she could possibly take it more seriously. But the vacation lie was a necessary one, and besides- well, Chat Noir had well and truly called those particular reporters out on their absolutely ridiculous claims.

Really, it was ridiculous for people to expect Paris' defenders to never take a break, he had told the crowd of reporters and cameras. Why should he and Ladybug be required to shoulder all of the stress of protecting Paris from supervillains and never get a vacation, or even an extended break? Overworking and stress could wear down on them, but a vacation- well, it was a good way for Ladybug to get refreshed, right?

Besides, Chat Noir had added before anyone could voice their objections, hadn't Ladybug done a good job of setting things up to keep going in her absence? She had picked out Coccinelle, and decided who got what extra Miraculous and got those Miraculous to the fights before the battle even started- and kept an eagle eye on the fights in live time to help them out, noticing things before Coccinelle and Chat Noir did and warning them. Which, if anyone had noticed, resulted in the fights being a whole lot shorter.

And that particular revelation had made the crowd stop their grumbling and sit up straight. There was another flurry of questions- if she could get the Miraculous there and spare the time to watch and monitor the fight, why not just come back herself, at least before she got injured? Was the mysterious Miraculous user in brown Ladybug? How was Ladybug so much more effective when she wasn't there in person?

Coccinelle sent an icy glare at the asker of that last question and they promptly shut up, no other answer needed.

"Yes, Ladybug used the Horse to deliver Miraculous," Chat Noir confirmed, clearly none too thrilled at some of the questions being asked if the lashing of his tail was any indication. "And she could spare the time to watch and provide vital information to us during the fights because doing that shortened them. If she hadn't been doing that- if she had been, y'know, taking a complete vacation like she deserves after protecting the city nonstop for over a year- then Coccinelle and I would have been having a much harder time. It wouldn't have been smooth sailing like it has been, so I thank Ladybug very much for taking time out of her break to make sure that Paris would stay safe in her absence."

With that, Chat Noir gestured for an end to the press conference and he and Coccinelle waved before taking off, not giving anyone any time to fling more questions at them. It was a tactic that they used rather often, actually, since often the press wanted to ask more probing questions than they wanted to answer.

More personal questions, really. Questions about things that might give too many clues about their identities, because that was what the public was most curious about. And trying to evade those questions time after time- well, it wasn't fun. It was exasperating that the reporters insisted on trying to pry, and neither of the superheroes wanted to come off as impatient and snappy. And if they slipped up and gave away any information...

Well, one slip once might not be so bad. But those small slips could add up fast, and so it was better to just finish saying what they needed to say, thank the reporters for coming, and then promptly take off.

"Your mom said to just let her borrow the Miraculous if any of those reporters start stirring up problems for you once you come back," Tikki told Marinette, suddenly appearing next to her shoulder and making her yelp. Tikki ignored that. "She's sure that you can handle yourself, but she's perfected her Parental Icy Glare and if people think that they can bug teenagers into giving them an answer, then they'll have to deal with Mama Bear."

Marinette giggled. "Unfortunately for her, there's not a Bear Miraculous. Not in the box I have, at least."

"Oh, you- you know what I mean!" Tikki complained. "She'll make sure that no one bugs you. And then if they get upset or she has to be really snappy, it won't be you that people will get upset at."

"I don't exactly want the city upset at my mom, either, but I get what you mean," Marinette sighed. She glanced back up at the screen. "Well, that's done. Now, all we have to do is wait and hope that people don't question our story too much."

If the mood at school was any indication, Paris had bought the superheroes' story hook, line, and sinker. And for the most part...

Well, most people weren't too worried. Coccinelle and Chat Noir- with Ladybug's help- had been doing a fantastic job during the akuma battles, enough that Hawkmoth had noticeably cut back on the number of akuma attacks. Marinette's theory was that Hawkmoth didn't want to give Coccinelle and Chat Noir practice with the weak akumas and thought that it might be to his advantage to only akumatize people if they promised to be a strong akuma. That way, Coccinelle's lack of experience might work against her. It wasn't working that way, of course, but Hawkmoth never let failure put him off from trying the same thing over and over and over again.

Others, though, were concerned. Not about the safety of Paris, really- clearly the setup that the superheroes had now was working- but about Ladybug's safety.

"It's bad enough that she got hurt on her first vacation after over a year of constant akuma attacks, but now that she got spotted out and Coccinelle and Chat Noir had to clear up what was going on and now- well, now all of Paris knows that she was traveling out of the city and when, and when she got injured- and that it was a leg injury!" Alya was telling her audience at school. "That's a lot of information. A lot of potentially identifying information. Hawkmoth might be able to figure out who she is from that!"

"Okay, I don't think there's nearly as much info out there as you think," Alix told her. "Yeah, so Ladybug got seen recently, sure, but who says that that was when she got back to the city? I'd say it's more likely that Ladybug went on a short trip- because really, who goes on a trip longer than, like, a week in the middle of the school year, when there's no holidays? Maybe two weeks, if it was a really big trip- and got injured then. A broken leg, probably, or- well, or a broken foot or ankle, that could happen too- and she's just been staying in the shadows since then. Or she did take a longer vacation and did have the injury more recently and will be out a while longer." She shrugged. "She might decide to stay out longer than she needs to just to throw off the timeline, too. There's a lot of stuff that Ladybug could do to make sure that her identity isn't quite as compromised."

Marinette blinked. Alix had been putting a lot of thought into this, she could tell. Maybe that wasn't a huge surprise, though, considering that she knew that she was going to be getting the Rabbit Miraculous and had probably spent a bit of time contemplating how she would both keep herself from spilling that information and how she would keep her secret identity secret once she actually got the Miraculous and had to vanish to help with- well, akuma battles if they were still going on, and whatever other superhero duties called. She had probably been keeping a close eye on the situation as soon as Coccinelle showed up, maybe even studying the contents of each interview as much as Alya to try to pick up on what was being said- and what deliberately wasn't being said.

Maybe Alya was the self-appointed Ladybug expert in the class, but Marinette would put money on Alix being the one who got more out of the superhero interviews. She had always been pretty good at reading between the lines.

"I hope you're right," Alya sighed. "I just worry, you know? If Hawkmoth finds out who she is- well, Chat Noir made it pretty clear that the reason why they've been doing so well is because of Ladybug's help, and if Hawkmoth attacks her and they don't have her help anymore..."

She trailed off, and several of their classmates exchanged worried looks.

"Ladybug is smarter than that, though," Nino chimed in, "She knows the risks more than anyone in Paris. They would have thought to talk ahead of time to make sure that they wouldn't give away too much. And honestly?" He shrugged, glancing around the room. "She's clever. Everyone is assuming that her injury was to her leg or ankle because of the crutches when she used the Horse, but who's to say that the crutches weren't just a prop? Maybe she actually broke an arm or a rib and she's trying to throw people off the scent. No one actually got pictures of her actually moving around on the crutches, after all, just her standing there with them."

There were murmurs of agreement around the classroom at that, and Marinette hid her smile. That was a very clever thought, and honestly, it was one that she maybe should have thought of herself before venturing out into public view at all. There was no real way to encourage that line of thinking without it being obvious, though, which was a little unfortunate.

Nino's comment wouldn't be forgotten, though. She would keep it as a thought in the back of her mind, an idea as to how they could throw people off of their scent in case Chat Noir was ever injured and they had to come up with a cover story for him, too. Hopefully they would never need to use it, but, well. they were superheroes. It never hurt to be prepared.

#Miraculous Ladybug #my writing #marinette dupain cheng #adrien agreste

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raleighcarrera · 4 years

Text

birthday

platinum | raleigh carrera x mc (cadence dorian)

raleigh can’t let cadence spend her birthday taking care of him.

~2.5k words, PG-13ish (fluff)

raleigh woke up on the morning of june 30 feeling like his head was going to split open. he was very, very familiar with the dull ache of a hangover, and that wasn’t what he had -- this was something else entirely.

groaning with miserable displeasure, he rolled over to cadence’s side of the bed and huffed when he felt only the bare sheets and not the soft shape of her, stretched out beside him. he hated when she got up before him.

he forced his eyes open, wincing when the light of the sun, filtering through the blinds in his bedroom, made his head throb harder. “fuck.” his voice was thick and raspy; his throat felt sore.

before he could call out for his girlfriend, the door to his bedroom opened slowly, careful enough not to make a sound. cadence poked her sleep-tousled head in and smiled when she saw him. “oh, you’re awake. you were burning up, i had to get out of here. the bed was starting to feel like an oven.”

the sound of her voice, which was usually his favorite thing in the world, only worsened his headache. he flopped onto his back and shut his eyes wordlessly. he didn’t move even when cadence leaned over him on the bed and pressed the back of her hand against his forehead. “baby, i think you’re sick.”

raleigh groaned again. of course he was -- wait, no. he couldn’t be. today was june 30. “i can’t be sick on your birthday,” he croaked, turning his face greedily towards her, desperately seeking the touch of her cool palm against his flushed skin. “i’m fine.”

he forced his eyes open, even though it made the stabbing feeling in his brain worsen. cadence was standing above him, staring down at raleigh in that sexy, pissed-off but still concerned way she always was whenever she thought he was doing something stupid. as she pulled her hand away, he reached out and grabbed her wrist to stop her from moving. she sighed and reached up, smoothing his hair off his face. her fingers stroked his cheek. god, that felt amazing.

“you’re obviously not fine. you at least have a fever. and a cough -- i can’t believe you didn’t wake yourself up. it was really loud.”

ugh. this wasn’t happening. today was supposed to be special. it was the first birthday he was going to be spending with cadence as her official boyfriend, and he’d made plans. raleigh had every intention of giving her a day she’d never forget -- a day that was just as wonderful as she was -- and getting sick was not part of it. he needed to be well enough to take her to brunch, to see her face after she left the boutique he’d bought out, to watch her open her presents and bring her to the carefully planned surprise party that all of her friends were going to meet them at.

he’d gone all out in preparing for today, and it had to be perfect. “this can’t be happening,” he groaned, his voice breaking with a cough. when he recovered, he asked, “what time is it?”

cadence made a soft, sympathetic noise as she brushed her fingers through his hair again. “nine-thirty.”

“okay.” he paused to cough again. “that’s fine -- we don’t need to start having fun until eleven, so -- i just need to get better in an hour and a half.”

she huffed out a little laugh under her breath. she appeared to be fighting a smile. “raleigh, i don’t think you’re going to be well enough to go out in only --”

“cadence,” he protested, his voice an obvious whine. “i have to be.” they had a reservation. he’d even left time for wake-up sex. “we’re supposed to go to brunch.”

“well, we can go to brunch another day. you shouldn’t be going anywhere, raleigh -- you’re really sick. i’m sorry, i know you had plans --”

“god, don’t apologize to me on your birthday.” cadence arched her eyebrows at him. okay, so she thought he was being dramatic. and maybe he was, though he felt perfectly justified in his reaction. he hardly thought she would feel great if she were the one ruining his birthday.

“you’re not ruining anything,” she promised, her voice gentle and reassuring. he blinked. had he said that out loud? his head was still pounding. “we can celebrate my birthday another day. it’s fine, it doesn’t matter.”

“yes it does,” he insisted stubbornly, struggling to sit up in bed so she could see how serious he was. the moment he moved, he regretted his decision; his whole body felt achy and uncomfortable -- he didn’t need to make his point that badly, right? cadence pressed lightly on his shoulder and he laid back down, trying to act as though she were forcing him to. “it’s your birthday today. you should still do the fun stuff. avery has the itinerary, he can send it to you.”

“raleigh.” she was very obviously holding back a laugh, amusement clear in her voice. “don’t be ridiculous. i’m not going anywhere until you’re better again.”

“cadence, no.” this was all wrong. he couldn’t let her spend her birthday taking care of him. “you need to go --” a coughing fit shook his shoulders. “-- do birthday stuff. you’re not staying here.”

she rolled her eyes at him. “okay, raleigh.” he fought off a whine as she stepped away from the bed. it was really going to suck, being stuck here without her hands on him.

cadence slipped out of his bedroom and he sighed, tugging the blankets up around his chin. suddenly, he was freezing. okay -- this was obviously going to be terrible, but at least cadence was going to have her birthday fun. that would make everything worth it.

a moment later, she came back in, typing away on her phone. raleigh heard the swoop of an outgoing text message before the click of her putting the device to sleep, and watched as she set it into her pocket. “i just texted avery and told him to move everything, so -- looks like you’re stuck with me.”

“cadence. that’s literally the exact opposite of what i said to do.”

she held up her hands. “it’s too late. looks like we’re doing this.”

despite his insistence, he was grateful to have her close as she stopped near the bed again. “why don’t you take a hot shower? i’ll change the sheets and call in your symptoms and we’ll take it from there.” she leaned down and brushed her lips against his forehead; he could have sobbed with relief. just having her close, with her familiar weight and shape and smell was more comforting than anything he could have asked for.

with herculean effort, he dragged himself out of bed. before he shut the door to the bathroom, he heard cadence humming to herself as she stripped the sheets off and smiled, the sound of the melody already lifting his spirits.

he hated when she was right, but that didn’t mean that she wasn’t -- and often. cadence knew what she was talking about; after a few long minutes under the hot water he was already starting to feel remarkably less disgusting. dropping down into a set of clean sheets only made things better.

cadence felt his forehead again when he laid down. “good news and bad news. the good news is that the tel-a-doc thinks you just have a 24-hour bug. the bad news is you’re all out of what we need to treat it, so -- i have to run to the store. are you gonna be alright for a few minutes here by yourself?”

the question was almost laughable. if cadence only knew the disasters he’d caused in this very apartment, by himself, before she came along. raleigh was sure she’d be completely horrified to know all he’d gotten up to, and on any other day he absolutely would have made a joke about it, just in the hopes of making her laugh. today -- he really didn’t want her to go.

“yeah,” he mumbled, sighing heavily through his congestion as he made himself comfortable in the newly made bed. his eyes felt heavy. “s’cool.”

raleigh was asleep in moments. when he woke up, the clock on his nightstand let him know that it’d been a few hours. his stomach rumbled; he was hungry -- that was a start.

he dragged himself out of bed and made his way to the kitchen. cadence was dancing at the stove, shimmying her hips to the song playing quietly off her phone. he leaned against the refrigerator and stared at her, his lips pulling up into a smile.

she spun around and saw him, flushing bright red. “raleigh.”

“cadence.” he mimicked her voice with -- what he thought was -- a perfect imitation.

��okay, so i guess you’re feeling better.” she nodded her head at the breakfast bar. “sit.”

he did, folding his arms on the counter and dropping his chin onto them, watching her from the middle of the kitchen. she turned the music on her phone off and then turned back to the stove; raleigh watched as she ladled soup into a bowl and brought it over to him. she set a blue gatorade and two pills down beside it.

raleigh arched an eyebrow at her. “you made soup?”

it looked pretty good. actually, it looked... almost too good. cadence shook her head. “i just heated it up. you’ll feel better, though, once you take the medicine -- which you should do now so you can have it again with dinner. are you actually feeling better?”

he paused to think about it for a moment, shoveling a spoonful of soup in his mouth. it was hot. cadence stared at him, unimpressed, as he spit it back into the bowl. “yeah, i guess. a little. thanks for doing all of this. i’m sorry i took your birthday away.”

her gaze softened. “raleigh, it’s not a big deal. you didn’t take my birthday away, you’re my boyfriend -- i want to take care of you. we’ll celebrate another day. we can just reschedule everything.” she bit down on her bottom lip, stifling a smile. “although it did sound pretty incredible.”

he groaned. “avery told you? i’m gonna kill him.”

“well -- i asked! i wanted to make sure everything could be moved. and it could, so it’s not a big deal. but... i can’t believe you planned all of that for me.” her gaze was serious where it was fixed on his. “no one’s ever gone through so much trouble for me like that before.”

he averted his eyes to his soup, stirring it around slowly. he felt flushed again. “it wasn’t that involved.”

“yes it was, raleigh. you put all this time and effort into planning the perfect day, and i... i just feel really lucky. to be dating someone like you, who cares so much. so shut up, and let me thank you, and eat your soup.”

she was smiling at him. his chest felt uncomfortably tight. she had definitely done... something to him, that was for damn sure. before her, he’d never been the type of guy interested in earning boyfriend-points. traditionally, raleigh ran at the first sight of anything that could be construed as commitment; he didn’t want to be stuck planning anyone’s anything. celebrating a birthday with a girl was usually a sign that it was time for him to get lost.

but ever since cadence saw something in him that she thought was worth sticking around for, he constantly found himself working towards a new bar that had been set. every day he was trying to outdo himself, all in the hopes of making her smile.

her birthday was his chance to pay back all the amazing things she did for him every other day of the year. he was supposed to be using this day to show her how much she meant to him.

“i’d do it every day, you know,” raleigh said finally, between bites. “you don’t have to wait until your birthday. you deserve something that special every day.”

the face she made at him made his stomach twist. she looked so happy. “thank you,” she murmured again, squeezing his hand. “come on. let’s get you back into bed.”

once he’d crawled back between the sheets, she set up camp for them in the bedroom -- bringing raleigh his phone, getting a water bottle for his nightstand, bringing the tissues in close. “now all i need is you,” he instructed, looking meaningfully at her side of the bed.

cadence really needed to move in here -- to make it official. it felt incredibly off-putting when the right side of the bed was empty.

“one last thing.” she smiled, and then presented him with a cherry popsicle, holding the stick towards him so he could take it.

his eyes lit up. a thousand memories of being home sick from school flooded his senses as he pulled it towards his mouth, nostalgia filling him abruptly. if he closed his eyes he could almost hear his mom whispering terms of endearment in spanish as he laid with his head in her lap. “okay, how’d you know?”

“i called your mom,” she admitted sheepishly, “while i was at the store. she said you always used to have them when you were sick. i thought it might help you feel better, but -- they only had the variety pack, so i bought, like, three boxes to make sure we’d have enough cherry.”

“jeez. you’d think it was my birthday.” the thought of cadence on the phone with his mom, swapping stories about him was... enough to make him nervous in a way he didn’t understand. his stomach was squirming, but it also felt... good, like pre-performance jitters or takeoff in a private plane. it felt like... he was getting something for christmas that he’d wanted all year.

cadence laughed as she pulled back the covers and slipped into bed beside him. she leaned over to shut off the bedside light, and then made herself comfortable under his arm. “you shouldn’t get so close,” he murmured, even as he pulled her in flush, “you’ll get sick.”

she leaned her head on his chest. “it’s my birthday,” she reminded him, “i can do whatever i want.”

there were a thousand things he wanted to tell her. he needed her to know that he felt lucky, too, to be dating someone like her, and that sometimes it seemed insane that she could feel the same way about him. he wanted her to understand that she deserved to be with someone who would make every birthday of hers the greatest day of the year, who’d kill to see her smile or laugh or turn that wide-eyed look of delight on them.

but sleep was starting to overtake him again. he squeezed his arm around her, pressing his lips to the top of her head. “you’re right,” he murmured, “it’s your day. happy birthday.”

#raleigh carrera #cadence dorian #platinum #choices platinum #raleigh carrera x mc #raleigh x mc #raleigh x cadence #myfic #umm i wrote this in like an hour is it good i can't tell #deep missing raleigh carrera hours #long post

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eleven-times-lively · 4 years

Text

The Fight

In which reader and Fred question their compatibility. 💕 masterpost

Summary: You and Fred haven’t been the same since the girls left for Hogwarts. Can you handle the new dynamic after eleven years? Word Count: 3654 Note: I am such a whore for angst so this is one of my favorite chapters so far lol. Thanks to Liv with help with some ideas! Sorry in advance for the cliffhanger, as this is the end of part 2!!! Enjoy!

Two weeks had passed since Cassie and Callie boarded the Hogwarts Express and left for school. Two weeks since you’d seen your little girls. Two weeks since you were surrounded by constant laughter and joy. Two weeks since things had felt normal.

You and Fred had gotten off to a fine start… that is if fine consists of uncomfortable silence and forced conversation. It was as if you’d forgotten how to be alone with each other. Eleven years of constant company can make a couple forget how to be, well, a couple. With each passing day you could feel a divide. Rather than a lovely time of peace, a rift between you and Fred was growing strong, vast, and cold.

The first major fight happened just a day after the girls had left. One day and you were at each other’s throats. It would have been the twins’ second day of school, and house announcements had finally come around to family members.

“Freddie!” you shouted from the front door, “The girls’ house announcements are here!”

“‘Bout bloody time!” he shouted as he ran down the stairs. He scooped you up in his arms and carried you to the couch. You gave him a quick kiss before settling opposite him and tearing open the letter.

Your excited expression quickly fell as you read. Fred looked at you expectantly. “Calliope Molly Weasley,” you began, ��has been placed in Ravenclaw.” You looked up at Fred with a halfhearted smile.

“Can’t say I didn’t see that coming,” Fred chuckled, “why are you upset, love?”

“Not upset, just… puzzled.” You paused a moment before continuing. “Cassiopeia Ginevra Weasley has been placed in Gryffindor.” You looked up at Fred, this time with a genuine smile on your face. However, there were cracks in your visage, waiting to split upon his reaction.

“Yes!” he shouted, earning a puzzled glance from you. “Gryffindor! That’s my girl!” He was up from the couch, and quite literally, jumping with glee. However he faltered and paused for a moment. “Wait…” his words drew out from his mouth, as if the very sound disgusted him, “two separate houses?”

You looked up at him, unsure of how to precede. “Yeah,” you said just about a whisper. “I know it’ll be a tough adjustment, but if anyone can do it it’s our girls. I’m happy for them!” You were truly excited and extremely proud of your daughters, however you looked up and Fred didn’t seem to be sharing your feelings.

His face was flushed, save for a cherry red at the edges of his ears. He was breathing heavy, and honestly looked as if he was about to pass out. “Two… two,” he was stuttering in utter disbelief. “Two different houses,” he muttered as he brought himself to sit down on the chair next to the couch. His eyes were blank as he just stared straight ahead, incoherently muttering while he ran his hands through his hair. You only caught a few words in broken bits, which happened to be ‘twins’ ‘Gryffindor’ and ‘George’.

You stood up from your seat and crouched down next to him, gently rubbing his arm as you cocked an eyebrow up at him. He looked down at you, a shocked expression playing at his features. His face was contorted in such a way as if to perfectly convey his saying ‘why aren’t you shocked as well?’.

“Two different houses,” he repeated, this time clearly, “They’re in two different houses, y/n.”

“Okay,” you began, this time your turn to flash a look of confusion, “and? Fred, they’ll be fine. If anything, this will be good for them.” You stood up and looked down at him.

“Good?!” he gasped as if you’d just told him the Hollyhead Harpies lost the cup. “How in the world could this be good, y/n?” He rose to his feet and took your hands in his, searching your face for even an ounce of a shared feeling.

Because, Fred…” you began, fighting the urge to roll your eyes and scoff at him, “they’ve been attached at the hip for eleven years, some separation will do them well.”

“But they need each other, y/n!” He looked at you as if you had ten heads. “Twins need one and other!” He was shouting, whether he realised it or not you weren’t sure.

“No Fred,” you continued, now annoyed, “they don’t. It will be good for them. They’ll have different classes, different friends, different experiences. They’ll get to make a life for themselves that isn’t dependent on each other! How in the world could you say this is bad!?” By the end, you were yelling… intentionally.

“But they need each other!” He repeated the same sentiment once again, still flashing the wide-eyed, open-mouthed expression of shock.

“I’m not having this argument if that’s all you can say, Weasley,” you did scoff this time and started to walk away when he finally spoke a different word.

“Y/n, wait.” He was rubbing his face with his hands. You walked back over to him and gave him a look that quite clearly showed how perturbed you were. He was shaking his head, almost holding back a laugh. “I know you don’t understand, love,” he began, noticing the expression of amused anger that played at your features, “but twins have a special… connection.” It was taking everything in you to not bust out laughing. “Especially at that young, I don’t know if they can handle this much separation being thrown at them all at once. I mean Georgie and I probably only survived Hogwarts because we had each other.”

Poor choice of words, Weasley. “Only because you had each other?” you spat.

Fred nodded his head innocently, not yet realising his mistake.

“Just the two of you? Not me? Not your girlfriend that you had for the majority of school?” You were yelling, genuinely hurt by his words.

“Merlin, y/n, you know that not what I meant!” he shouted back, a culmination of the misunderstanding and his confusion of the whole situation.

“No, Fred, I didn’t! I mean, when you’re sitting here rambling about twins and nonsense, how am I meant to think I was included in your distorted memory of Hogwarts?!”

“Y/n,” he began, cautiously even if he was still shouting, “I was just trying to tell you how important a sibling bond is! Especially that of twins! I mean, what’s wrong with you!”

You looked up at him, shocked and even more hurt, yet the daft idiot kept going.

“I know you don’t understand because your one brother is dead and the other you don’t even speak to!” He continued yelling, but stopped abruptly as his words, and immediately softened, “Y/n, I-”

Tears streamed down your face in a disparaging mix of emotions. “Save it, Fred. At least our girls won’t be living the fucked up utopia that you and George did! Constantly attached and only living for each other! At least they’ll have a sense of independence and can learn to grow apart from each other! Which… if you haven’t noticed… if something you and George never did!” You didn’t even give him a chance to speak, you just ran upstairs and slammed the bedroom door behind you.

***

Never, ever go to bed angry. That fight was two weeks ago, and you still hadn’t fully recovered. Everytime you tried to bring it up to Fred, you were met with dodgy glances and fleeting responses. However, the two of you tried to carry on as normal with kisses, cuddles, and date nights. So now, two weeks without the girls, and you were dreading what was still to come. You sat up from the couch, slowly waking up from your nap, interest piqued by the lovely smells coming from the kitchen. You made your way to the kitchen where you found Fred cooking dinner. “Hi, love,” you muttered, still groggy.

“Hi, darling,” he responded, kissing your head as you walked past. “Date night,” he chirped, sounding only slightly interested. You just hummed in response. He nodded his head and went back to the pot before him as you took a seat on one of the stools at the kitchen island.

“What’s for dinner, love?” you asked Fred.

“Oh, your favorite,” he said, turning and smiling at you. You only cocked an eyebrow in response. “Look, y/n, I feel bad. I messed up and then wouldn’t bother talking about it cause it was easier to ignore it than confront the issue. I’m sorry.” A blush crept on his face as he looked down at you, clearly slightly on edge.

“Thank you, Freddie. Means a lot.” You returned the smile up at him. “So,” you began, standing up and heading over to his place at the stove, wrapping an arm around his waist, “Lancashire stew, is it?” You smiled at him and looked down, peering into the pot. Your expression quickly fell to confusion as your gaze was met by a thick, orange substance.

“Um, no…” he drew out slowly, “pumpkin soup?” His words were more of a question than anything. “Your favorite dinner. Pumpkin soup.”

You removed your arm and turned to look up at him. Your mouth opened slightly as you flashed an incredulous look at him. “Fred I bloody hate pumpkin soup.”

“What?” He turned to you, utterly baffled.

“It has to be my least favorite thing in all of Wizardom. In fact, I hate anything pumpkin. Taste changed when I was pregnant, hated it ever since,” you expression quickly turned sullen and defeated. “Fred, you knew this.”

He looked down at you, mouth agape, unable to speak.

“Whatever,” you muttered, walking away. “Wouldn’t have expected you to remember anyway.”

“Y/n, wait,” he said, voice tense and clearly agitated. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Well it seems that you’re at the store more and more, Fred,” you sighed. “I mean, how many times have I come home for the day, and you stay at the store for hours more?” You weren’t angry, just… tired. “You know what?” you began, “It’s okay, Freddie. I love you”

“No, y/n. I should have known that.” He was staring down at you, tears threatening to fall from his eyes. “I have to be at the store to provide for us, love.”

“That’s a lie and you know it,” you stated, “Sometimes you’re home long after the store would’ve closed. Besides, Fred, we make plenty of money and you know that. You’d rather be with your toys than me.”

His heart broke. Seeing you so sad and defeated. Yet he couldn’t help the wave of hurt that came over him. “Toys?”, he asked.

“I mean that’s what everything in there is, isn’t it?” You crossed your arms, staring him up and down.

“Y/n, you helped create half those products.” He cocked an eyebrow down at you, genuinely not sure if you meant what you had said.

“Sure, Fred, because it’s a business. I don’t spend hours obsessing over it. I don’t spend hours testing and trying everything every day. I don’t spend hours thinking up products that probably won’t even make it to the shelf! I,” you paused, voice breaking, “I don’t spend more time in my store than I do with my husband.” Tears streamed down your face freely now, and you collapsed into Fred’s arms.

“Is that how you really feel?” Fred murmured, guiding you over to the couch. You just nodded your head in response, trying to choke back a sob. “Love, I-... I’m sorry.” There was a long moment of silence. Him holding you in his arms, shaking and sobbing as his own tears flowed as well. “I was never trying to be neglectful, y/n. Please, please know that. I… I just needed to get away I suppose. I mean not from you of course. Just… my mind. Being there with George, and sometimes alone, actually. I’d be distracted, focused on the store or a product, and not thinking,” he sighed, and the weight that came off his shoulders was almost tangible.

“But why was I not enough,” you whispered. “Why couldn’t I distract you? Be there for you?”

He took a deep breath in before continuing. “Cause you’re a reminder, y/n.”

“Fred, what?”

“They look just like you, act like you, sound like you. Everytime I look like you, I see our girls. And, and it’s not just that y/n. I haven’t felt happy lately.” You looked up at him, a mixture of confusion and dread spreading across your face. “Not… not with our marriage. That’s… fine. I just… I don’t know,” his voice grew quiet and slow. He took a deep breath in, shaking as he went. “I just feel different, and I don’t know why. It’s not the same and I’m not… handling it, y/n.” He squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head. He pulled you into him closely, not letting go for anything.

“Well let’s change that, Freddie,” you turned and looked up at him. You were met with his puffy, tear stained face adorned with a cocked eyebrow and upturned nose. “We’ll do something we can have fun and enjoy doing. Some of these rooms could use a new coat of paint.”

He gave you a soft smile, appreciative of your efforts. “Painting it is, then.” He stretched out to lay down on the couch, pulling you with him. The two of you drifted off into a relaxed sleep after a while, forgetting any responsibilities and settling in the feeling of normalcy… a connection that had been missing for weeks.

***

Fred groaned as he rolled over, waking up to the early morning sunshine flooding in through the window. He was met with cold sheets and an empty bed. He stood up, rubbing his eyes and stumbling into his slippers. He had a good morning stretch and wandered downstairs. He was met with you, standing at the bottom of the steps, staring up at him with bright eyes and a big smile.

“Morning, love,” you said bounding over to him and jumping into his arms.

“Hey, y/n,” he said, chuckling lightly. He hugged you and wandered into the kitchen, where you already had his tea ready for him. “What’s this about, love?”

“Well,” you began, taking a seat across from him, “I figured we could paint today.”

He gave you a warm smile as he sipped his tea, fully waking up. After a while he stood, placing his hands on your hips. He looked down at you, smiling before placing a warm, sweet kiss on your lips. You reciprocated, humming into his touch. You separated and took a step back, staring up at your husband. Everything felt right, whole, complete for the first time in weeks.

You guided him into the living room where you had the paints and supplies set up. “Well, here it is!” you chirped excitedly.

He chuckled, crouching down to examine the paints. “Which rooms are we doing, love?”

“I was thinking the kitchen, living room, and the front hallway.”

He nodded in approval, turning one of the jars over in his hands. His face contorted, features pinched tightly together. “Grey?” he asked, sounding perturbed and confused at the same time.

“Yeah…” you responded, turning an eyebrow at him.

“Beige?” he asked, lip upturned in disgust.

“Yes, Fred, what’s the issue?”

“So… boring,” he finally looked up at you, face shifted as if he smelled a horrible scent. “These aren’t real colors, y/n.”

“Real colors?” you chuckled, “pretty sure they are, Freddie.” You grabbed the grey and got to work on the living room wall.

“Wait,” he said, standing to meet you, “I mean no green, no red, not even a blue?”

“These are mature and modern, Fred. There’s nothing sophisticated about a primary color.

He scoffed at you, “Y/n we could have done an emerald green, and muted bluish grey, even a deep maroon. I’m not asking for Gryffindor red, here. But I’d rather not be suffocated by despair in my own home if that’s alright.”

“Bit over dramatic if you ask me, Fred,” you murmured, continuing your painting.

He rolled his eyes and got to work with the beige in the kitchen. After a while of heavy silence, his pettiness took over. “Hey, y/n,” he called out, walking over to you.

“Hmm?” You responded, now focused on the front hallway. He crossed over to the finished living room wall, holding up in paintbrush. “I think this grey is a bit too flashy, don’t you think, love?” You turned and looked at him just as he spread a stripe of beige onto the fresh, grey wall. “This dull enough for you?” He flashed an indignant look before smirking and returning to his work.

You stood there, mouth agape, not sure how to react. So, doing what any reasonable adult would do, you walked over to him and painted a grey stripe on his beige wall. He just rolled his eyes and kept going, unfazed. You huffed and walked away, leaving him smirking.

***

Over the next weeks the tension between you and Fred continued to grow. Every day there was either a petty spat, or an exchanged that would leave one of you defeated and disappointed.

One day you were in Wizarding Paris gathering some supplies and Fred decided to plan a surprise for your return. You came home to a trail of red rose petals from the doorway into the center of the house, where whole roses were tossed about and Fred was standing in a suit with soft music in the background. You were absolutely enamored, until he made the comment, “I know red roses are your favorite, so I had mother help me gather as many as we could find.”

You stood hesitating for a moment, “Fred my favorite is a peach rose, not red.” You stared up at him, tears from a mix of joy and sadness pricking at your eyes, “Fred they were our wedding flowers.” You tried to brush it off and enjoy the night, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that you and Fred were starting to lose touch. The night ended with him getting upset over you not enjoying the surprise and not being appreciative of his efforts, even when he tried.

Another time you and Fred were in the store, planning for the release of a collaborative collection with Madam Malkins. You had rescheduled a development meeting without telling him, hoping to get some of your designs past Fred. This led to months of sly, petty plays between the two of you. Whether it be one of you not showing up to work, or not restocking a product, or not counting the days galleons, you and Fred were finding new ways to mess with each other.

The new, dangerous dynamic finally came to a head just before the girls would be returning for Christmas break. You were in the backyard gardens, tending to the various year-round plants and dusting snow off of the decor. Unbeknownst to you, Fred was creeping up behind you, a snowball in hand. He tried to hold in a laugh as he hurled the snowball, hitting you square in the back.

“Fred!”, you shrieked, turning to face him. Your face was beat red as your nostrils flared.

He was laughing until he saw your face. “Merlin, love, did I hurt you?”

“What? No. But what the bloody hell was that for?”, you helped, throwing your arms up in question at him.

“I-... it’s… snowball fight?” He rubbed his hands together, both out of nerves and a defense against the cold.

You rolled your eyes, muttering under your breath as you turned back to your work.

“You know what?”, he began in a terse tone that compelled you to face him once again. “Enough, y/n. I’ve had enough.”

“Pardon?”

“I miss having fun, y/n! We used to be a happy and fun couple! We went out with friends, we got into trouble! We. Had. Fun! And now we live in this… this fucking charade! Are we even happy with each other?!” He yelled, face growing increasingly red as he turned and went inside.

You followed him in, slamming the door behind you. “Having fun!?”, you retorted, screaming as well, “Fred, you git, we’re thirty five years old with two kids!! There is no fun anymore, just parenting and real life shit!”

“And that’s exactly what’s wrong, y/n!” he yelled back, “This horrible attitude! Ever since you had those kids you’ve… changed! Changed into someone I don’t even recognize anymore!” Tears began to stream down his face at the utterance of his final sentence.

His words made you cry as well. “Those kids?! Fred Weasley they are your daughters, too! And think about how I feel! The fact that you haven’t changed! You’re still witty and crafty and energetic, and Fred I just can’t keep up with you anymore!! We aren’t in Hogwarts anymore, our children are, so you need to drop this childish attitude and fast!”

“What about our entire relationship that was built on wit and energy and childish fun?!”, he shot back, voice breaking, “All of the jokes and laughter, doesn’t that mean anything to you anymore!?? It’s what bonds us together, and now you just want to leave it behind like it isn’t what made us fall in love!”

“Are we even in love anymore?! I loved you for your wit and intelligence and creativity, yes, but those can be applied elsewhere! Stop acting like a child and act like the adult you’re supposed to be!” “You aren’t my partner in crime anymore. You aren’t the same woman I fell in love with. I want a divorce.” And with that he apparated away into the succumbing abandon of the wizarding world.

@it-was-three-am @hess016

(If you’re name isn’t linked, it means I couldn’t tag you! Message me to find out why!)

#HP #fred weasley #fred weasley x reader #fred weasley imagine #fred weasley fluff #fred weasley one shot #fred weasley x y/n #fred weasley x you #fred weasley series #fred weasley angst #marriage story

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xmagicxshopx · 4 years

Text

Spring Cleaning - Chapter 4

Genre: Fluff, Romance, Comedy Rating: PG - M ( future smut ) Warnings: None in this chapter Pairing: personal assistant!jungkook x ceo!reader Notes: AU fic. Not idol!jungkook. Single quote marks ‘ ‘ are for thoughts and double “ “ are for talking. Additional Notes: This chapter may seem like a filler but I think it’s important for character development since Kook and reader are spending time together and getting to know each other~

Tagging: @deolly @katebacks

Summary: Your mother built you to be a thriving business machine. However, in her old age, she’s growing soft and wants grand kids to spoil. Your home and yard are a mess due to your busy schedule. So your mother attempts to kill two birds with one stone.

MASTERLIST || CH 1 || CH 2 || CH 3

“Good night, Mr. Jeon.”

“Good night, Miss. Kwon.”

Last night had ended just as the night before. Only......it hadn’t? As he laid there in bed staring at the ceiling but not really seeing it, he let the events of last night play back in his mind’s eyes. You had told him that you were going to call off work tomorrow.....which would mean today. You----The workaholic who literally worked till she dropped, was going to take a day off??? It almost seemed too good to be true. Yet here he was, another morning rolling around and this time.....he wouldn’t have to watch you leave for work at the ass crack of dawn. It was Monday so normally you’d be getting up and getting ready for work.

“She seemed to really like breakfast yesterday. Perhaps I’ll see if she’s up and I can make more for her.”

Changing into a simple over sized t-shirt and some sweats, he made his way out of his room and instantly noticed the smell of coffee filling the house. Hmm......Well he knew that could have only came from one person. You. So it would seem you were already up. Not surprising but hopefully you’d still be somewhere around here and not having lied to him. Now that he had time to process everything, he was genuinely looking forward to you staying home today.

Taking the stairs two at a time, he reached the bottom in nothing flat. Subconsciously ruffling and fluffing his shaggy long locks, he stopped dead in his tracks when he saw not only you sitting at the dining table sipping on coffee, but your mother too. Well dang.

“Jungkookieeee! Darling! It’s so good to see you! Come! Have some coffee with us!”

While he had managed to keep professional eye contact with your mother, he was pretty sure he could see you visibly cringe out of the corner of his eye and he couldn’t help but internally snicker. Your mother was quite......obvious with her intentions still despite everything. However, he offered a warm and friendly smile before saying casually in a light and happy tone,

“I’d love to, Mrs. Kwon. Thank you.”

Of course she motioned for him to sit next to you and who was he to defy your mother??? Trying to keep a straight face and not grin like a moron, he took the seat next to you and decided to sneak a glance your way. You seemed to be texting someone at a rate that not even he could keep up with. If the look of deep concentration was anything to go by, he decided it was best not to say anything to you till you were done.

“How do you like your coffee, my dear?”

“Oh just black is fine, Mrs. Kwon.”

“Ugh. Gross. You’re just like my daughter. You two need more sweetness in your lives. Some sugar and cream. Lots of cream.”

Thank god he hadn’t actually took a drink from his mug yet or else he would have choked just as he nearly had on the noodle from his soup last night. What was it with these Kwon women??? Always full of surprises it would seem. After cautiously taking a sip of his coffee, he glanced over to see what your reaction had been but you simply kept typing furiously away on your phone.

“So what brings you over so early in the morning, Mrs. Kwon? Is everything alright?”

“Oh I just happened to get a frantic text from my poor Jiminnie this morning. Something about how my daughter might be in trouble because she was calling off work today. So I rushed right over.”

However, the tone that your mother spoke in was anything but worried. In fact, her voice just happened to be dripping in amusement. Something that the male instantly caught on to. Taking another sip of his coffee, he noticed you grumbling as you finally put your phone down. Goodness. Weren’t your thumbs about to fall off?

“I still don’t think it’s that big of a shock. I’m taking a day away from the office. So what???”

The table grew silent while you huffed and took a sip of your now stone cold coffee. Oh well. That was okay. It would be cold like your soul as you thought to yourself. Even though your mother liked to pick on you, even she knew now wasn’t a good moment to poke fun at your statement. While Jungkook hadn’t known you for very long, less than a week in fact, he knew enough not to comment either. It was then that your mother decided to break the tense silence as she cleared her throat and asked casually,

“So what are the plans for today, my darlings?”

That was a good question. What were your plans??? Now that you weren’t sitting there texting Jimin an entire playbook on how to run a company for just. one. day., you finally had some time to think about what you wanted to do with this time away from the office. The growling of your stomach gave you the first idea.

Grocery shopping. Ah yes. You were supposed to do that with Jungkook sometime soon. So that way he could fix food he knew you would actually like instead of just guessing. Hearing a soft chuckle over next to you, you glanced over to see Jungkook smiling to himself in amusement and delight as he silently got up from his chair before padding over to the kitchen and announcing happily,

“Mrs. Kwon, you should stay for breakfast. My treat.”

“Why thank you, dear! Mr. Jeon has quite the manners. Doesn’t he, sweetheart?”

“Absolutely selfless, he is.”

Your tone was one of a deadpanned as you silently grumbled while sipping on your ice cold coffee. You could practically feel the male snickering behind you while he shared a look of amusement with your mother. Two against one. How unfair. While Jungkook went about fixing breakfast for the three of you, your mother pipped up about how it would be a good idea to start making a list of all the groceries you’d need.

It kind of reminded you of the days where she was training you to be her successor. The one to take her place in the company that she had held so dearly once upon a time. But now it was almost like your mother was teaching you how to be a normal human being again. Honestly, it wasn’t far from the truth. You didn’t know it, but your mother felt incredibly guilty for having turned you into such a workaholic. A soul who was alive but not actually living.

As he stood there in the adjoining kitchen cutting up peppers to put in the fried potatoes, he couldn’t help but watch you and your mother at the dining table. It all felt so.......domestic? The real question was.....how did that make him feel? The initial feeling was that he liked it. But should he? This was supposed to be a job and a job only for him. Cooking, cleaning, being your personal assistant so that you could focus on your company and not have to worry about life at home so much.

So then why did it feel like he was fixing breakfast for his girlfriend and his potential mother-in-law???

Shaking his head a bit to clear it, he continued working on breakfast and decided to listen in on your conversation. Perhaps focusing on tasks such as grocery shopping would help distract him from these odd thoughts and feelings that were bubbling inside his chest and confusing his brain.

It seemed like in no time at all, a western omelet fit for royalty had been placed on three plates as well as Jungkook coming up with his own little healthy touch of fruit salad as a small side dish for each of them as they all three sat at the dining table. But not before the male had kindly offered to refill their coffee mugs. Needless to say, your mother was glowing while you were brooding.

“My my my. I’m going to have to come over for breakfast more often! I could get used to this!”

“You want him? You can have him.”

Having quickly become used to your sour humor, your words didn’t phase Jungkook a bit. As for your mother, however, she still lightly scolded you for being so rude to someone who had just slaved over a hot stove to make you breakfast. If your mother only knew. Jungkook thrived in the kitchen and being a slave was the last thing he felt like right now.

“It’s quite alright, Mrs. Kwon. I take no offense to it. Please do enjoy your breakfast before it gets cold.”

Wow. When your mother was all feather ruffled and huffy and puffy......it made the two of you look so much alike. There was no denying that you two were blood related. In that moment, Jungkook learned that the apple didn’t fall far from the tree. It was actually kind of cute, really. Thankfully, your mother took his encouraging words and ran with it as she finally took the first bite of the best omelet she had ever had.

Aside from the occasional bickering between you and your mother, breakfast was actually quite lovely. If it hadn’t been for looking over the grocery list the two of you had made up, Jungkook would have started feeling all domestic again and that wasn’t what he needed right now. He needed to stay focused on his job and be just your personal assistant. Nothing more and nothing less.

‘Stay focused, Jeon.’

Once breakfast was over and Mrs. Kwon insisted on helping load the dishwasher, you had made the announcement that you’d be heading upstairs to shower before accompanying your assistant to the grocery store. Both your mother and said assistant simply nodded with smiles that were nearly identical in mischief. This only caused you to narrow your eyes suspiciously at them before huffing and heading upstairs. Still not fair.

“You know, Jungkookie, there’s a carnival in town this week. Perhaps you and my daughter might wish to go?”

Dang. Your mother wasn’t going to make his latest internal struggle any easier, was she? At first, he really hadn’t minded her obvious attempts at match making. However, now that he was starting to feel these odd domestic type feelings, it was becoming much more difficult to shrug them off as just all-in-good-fun teasing.

“A carnival sounds like a lot of fun, Mrs. Kwon. Would you like to join in if we go?”

There. Maybe if he could try to turn the tables a bit, it might make him feel a little less self-conscious. While he appreciated your mother’s enthusiasm and confidence in his ability to please you, Jungkook was in no shape to be someone’s love interest. For several reasons. Reasons that he really didn’t care to think about right now.

“Oh my no. I wouldn’t want to intrude. But I think my daughter needs to get out more and she seems to listen to you better than she does me. So perhaps you could convince her to go, hmm?”

Well that didn’t work. At all. He should have known better, honestly, but it had been worth a shot. After assuring the woman that he would at least try to run the idea by you, that seemed to be enough to satisfy her and she proceeded to insist that she could handle the dishes if he too wanted to wash up before heading to the grocery store.

With that, he nodded and headed up the stairs to take a quick shower and make himself decent for the task at hand. While in the shower, it felt anything but quick as he got lost in thoughts. Thoughts of you and your mother and how he felt about having breakfast with the two of you. It was nice. Really nice. But he was probably just overthinking it. He had a tendency to do that with things that confused him.

After getting all washed up and towel drying his shaggy mop of hair, he then proceeded to comb and dry said mop. Honestly, he felt he looked more mature with long hair but dang was it a hassle to take care of. Once his dark locks were perfectly quaffed, he dressed in a light yellow button up shirt tucked into a pair of ripped skinny jeans.

There we go. Not too dressy but not too casual. Spritzing on some cologne his father got him for his birthday last year, he checked himself in the mirror one more time before determining he looked good and professional. He could only imagine how his best friend from Busan Jimin felt. Having to wear a monkey suit day in and day out being your real assistant.

If only you knew that him and Jimin knew each other. That your personal assistant and company assistant were childhood best friends from Busan. For some reason, he just didn’t have the desire to tell you yet. That was something else he couldn’t quite explain. Why exactly did he want to keep it a secret? What did he have to gain by keeping the information from you? There he goes again, thinking way too much.

‘Get your butt out there, Jeon. They’re probably waiting on you.’

After giving himself a small pep talk in the bathroom mirror to just act natural and that he’s on business as your personal assistant, he took one last deep breath and exhaled slowly before bracing himself and heading out of his room to truck downstairs. He could do this. He could do this. This is a business trip to stock your home with food that he will eventually cook for you. Just business. Just busin----

Wow.

He was beginning to think he was going to be the next poor sap stuck in a monkey suit if this was how you always dressed to go grocery shopping.

Pointed toed heels that looked more like weapons rather than footwear. And dang did you look dangerous in that pantsuit. Keeping it classic. Black. Pitch black. Not to mention how it hugged your body in all the right ways. For a woman who either didn’t eat at all or ate nothing but take-out, you still had a gorgeous figure. Or maybe he was just biased???

Your hair was pulled back in what appeared to be the most tight knit bun he had ever seen. In fact, just looking at it was giving him a headache. Maybe if you didn’t have your hair up so tightly all the time, you wouldn’t be so grumpy. But he wasn’t about to tell you that. He’d like to keep all his body parts attached, thanks. Seriously......those heels could poke someone’s eye out.

“You ready to head out, Mr. Jeon? Mother has offered to watch the place while we’re out.”

“Absolutely, Miss. Kwon.”

“You two enjoy the shopping trip and I’ll just be here monitoring the dishwasher and maybe dust here and there a bit. I’ll make sure Jimin holds down the fort at the company as well. Just go and enjoy yourselves!”

Well.....as enjoyable as grocery shopping could be, anyhow. With an obvious eye roll, you simply snapped your fingers and started moving to the door, heels making clacking sounds loud enough to wake the dead. Given the fact that your floors switched back and forth between hardwood and marble. God didn’t your feet hurt in those things??? Weren’t your toes squished???

It was when the two of you finally got outside and was swinging by the garage that he realized it had never been discussed who’s vehicle they’d be taking. But judging from your confident steps towards your sleek black Hyundai Palisade, it would appear that you were driving. He shouldn’t have been surprised, honestly. It made perfect sense. With his truck, he didn’t have much space in the backseats and he highly doubted the bed of a truck was sanitary for food to be packed into.

You had already climbed into the driver’s seat by the time he got to the passenger side. He was no psychologist, but from the short amount of time he had spent with you thus far, he could tell one thing.......You liked being in control. Of everything. Wordlessly climbing into the passenger seat, he got himself buckled in and watched you start the vehicle before the two of you were finally out of the garage and on your way to the grocery store.

“Okay. The job is simple. We get the list out, buy everything on the list, pay for it, and get out of here.”

Jungkook expected nothing less from you so he simply smiled and gave you a thumbs up before climbing out of the car. The ride to the store had been silent as the grave and he wasn’t about to ruin that. It was an odd peaceful kind of silence even if he could feel your mild agitation radiating from you in the driver’s seat. If this had truly been your first day off from the company in---like---ever, then he could understand how tense you might be feeling. You probably felt like a new mother letting go of her new born baby for the first time since giving birth.

Walking into the store, you immediately pulled your phone out to bring up your electronic list. While you did that, Jungkook took it upon himself to be your assistant and took a disinfectant wipe from the public dispenser and cleaned down the bar handle of one of the carts from the docking area. With list ready and a cart set to go, the two of you made your way to the first section of the store. The fruits and vegetables.

So far so good. You were being very cooperative and well-behaved during the whole trip. A nice change from the first time the two of you went to the store together. Perhaps because you were working. You actually had a task that you needed to complete. Again, Jungkook was no psychologist, but he was pretty sure if you weren’t working, you just simply didn’t know how to act. Which was kind of, sort of, really sad.

“Okay so we’ve taken care of the fruits, vegetables, meats. Now what?”

“Well if we’re going to have stir fry one night this week, we’re going to need some rice. Let’s head there next.”

There he goes again. That feeling bubbling up in his chest again and filling his stomach with butterflies. Dang it. He had been doing so good too. But watching you retrieve items here and there, sometimes needing his help because the items were too high up, it all felt so.......domestic. That word just kept floating around in his head. It felt like the two of you had decided to go to the grocery store after work. Discussing dinners ahead of time and all that. Gah he was going to go insane!

You, on the other hand, were having a hard time focusing but for other reasons. Your assistant was dressed quite nicely today despite the lack of professionalism. While you approved of the yellow button up, the skinny jeans were a bit too casual for your liking. Or maybe you just didn’t like how well they hugged his thighs? Nah. It was just too casual for you. Yeah. That was it. That had to be the reason. Maybe next time you’d make a comment about dressing more appropriately for the job. But today you’d let it slide.

He smelled really nice too. You briefly wondered what cologne he uses when you realized that you couldn’t reach a box of pasta for Italian Nights. Without even having to ask, you could feel a huge warm body coming up behind you that smelled just like your assistant. Sure enough, Jungkook extended his long arm and easily plucked the box of pasta from the shelf before flashing you a bright bunny-like smile and handing it over to you.

“Here you are, Miss. Kwon.”

“Thank you, Mr. Jeon. I appreciate it. Now you know one of the reasons why I don’t go grocery shopping in the first place.”

Wow. Did you just crack a joke??? He was pretty sure you did. Or at least tried to. Smiling and feeling more at ease knowing that you were starting to ease up a bit, he continued to push the cart that only kept getting heavier and heavier as the two of you walked down the aisles. The rest of the trip went mostly in silence aside from the small discussion of price comparing here and the task of picking out the least beaten up box there.

It seemed like in no time at all, the two of you were heading up to the register and placing the items down for scanning and payment. This process too went mostly in silence but, again, it was peaceful. An unspoken agreement that there didn’t need to be words exchanged in order to check out their groceries. This was a job, after all. He needed to stay professional.

Thank goodness you had brought your vehicle instead of his because he wasn’t sure if even the bed of his truck would have held all these groceries. After Jungkook insisting that he do all the packing and storing into the vehicle, being that he was your assistant and all, you took this opportunity to send a quick text to Jimin asking him how things were going before shooting your mother a text informing her that the two of you were on your way home now.

“I think that was a very successful trip, don’t you think, Miss. Kwon?”

“It wasn’t as bad as I had initially thought it would be. Although I don’t remember groceries being so pricey. Then again.....it has been awhile.”

While you spoke in your professional tone, it still made him smile to hear you yet again trying to poke fun at your own self. You were lightening up. Even if only just a little. Progress was progress no matter how small. That’s how he looked at it. With the both of you in the vehicle once more with the back plum full of food, you put it in gear and started the trip back home.

“Thank you for helping me with the groceries, Mr. Jeon. I feel our next task should be shopping for items such as cleaning supplies and toiletries. Not just for myself, but for you as well. My home is your home now.”

Dang. Maybe there was something in that chicken soup he made last night that he didn’t know about. Or maybe all you needed was some real sleep and rest in order to feel a little bit better and a little less moody. Not only did you just thank him, but you said your home was his home. You were certainly giving him whiplash with your crazy mood swings.

“And after that, we should focus on the grounds of the estate. Compile that list of tools and equipment you’ll need and we will make another trip out.”

“Will that trip be today, Miss. Kwon? Don’t forget, we need to eat lunch soon.”

“Probably not today. We’ll run out of time. Because this afternoon, after lunch, we’ll make a run to the store for items such as the cleaning supplies and any toiletries I’ve failed to stock up on. But again, we’re shopping for you too. So purchase anything you need while we’re there. It won’t come out of your paycheck so don’t worry about that.”

“Thank you for your kindness and generosity, Miss. Kwon. I greatly appreciate it. I will do my very best to make this arrangement worth your time and money.”

While you knew what the poor man was referring to, it still sent your mind straight to the gutter. Trying not to snicker or, rather, trying not to snicker too noticeably, you found yourself finally pulling into the driveway of your huge estate and pressing the button that would open the garage door. Once the car was parked, you turned it off and sported a smug smile while taking your seat belt off as you said casually yet teasingly,

“Be careful, Mr. Jeon. Anyone who didn’t know any better might think your intentions are anything but pure.”

At first he didn’t get it. Those doe eyes of his blinking at you in confusion as you smirked and got out of the vehicle, but not before popping the trunk and unlocking all the doors and heading inside the house. Anything but pure??? Why would you say that? It almost sounded like you were trying to say he was.......OH!! Instantly, he could feel the heat sprout all over his face and down his neck and even to the tips of his ears. It spread like a wildfire as he quickly climbed out of the passenger seat.

He would never do that to you! Never ever! He was a good man! Suddenly needing to pop the top button of his yellow dress shirt, the poor boy managed to resist as he tried his very best to focus on the task at hand which was to pack the groceries into the house. Oh god! Your mother was in there!

‘Heavenly Father, please give me the strength to deal with these Kwon women!’

After saying the quick prayer and doing his very best to calm himself down, he cleared his throat and began taking bags into both of his arms. Given his muscular physique, it was super easy for him to pack several bags on both arms. Unbeknownst to him, he was getting payback as you came back around the corner of the garage to help him.

Muscles. Lots and lots of muscles. Bulging muscles. You had to stop yourself right on the spot as you had just came from informing your mother that the two of you were back from the shopping trip and would need some help packing the groceries in. First of all, you weren’t quite sure why you felt the need to help since it was Jungkook’s job as your assistant to do this stuff and he would normally be doing all of this by himself anyway while you were at work.

Secondly, why were you still standing there eyeing him up like a piece of meat??? Perhaps it was because of the.......dry spell.....you had found yourself in recently. Yeah. That was probably it. You were just horny. Sexually frustrated. Yeah. That was it. Pulling yourself together just in time for Jungkook to turn around, you managed to plaster that confident smirk from earlier back on your face as you gave him a curt nod only to watch his face flush pink all over again.

“Oh my, Jungkookie! You look flushed! And no wonder from packing all those bags. Here. Let me help you.”

“It’s quite alright, Mrs. Kwon. I got this. But if it wouldn’t be too much to ask, may I have a bottle of water?”

“Absolutely, my dear boy! Anything for you!”

The male was grateful that your mother was so easily distracted. Not to mention he could really use that bottle of water right now. He needed something to cool himself down. That smirk you had worn was just a little too much for him right now. He was still rather flustered over your teasing words from earlier.

It wasn’t that Jungkook was innocent. He wasn’t a virgin, that’s for sure. But......that topic was just......different for him? He was the type of guy who wanted to find his beautiful princess and turn her into a queen. He wanted to love her and cherish her. Settle down and start a family with her. It wasn’t sex to him. It was making love. So perhaps that’s why he was so taken aback by your crude words. Because that’s not who he was. Again----He was a good man.

“Here you go, my dear. Take a moment and just relax. Sip on some water and I’ll take these into the kitchen.”

“No no, Mrs. Kwon. This is my job as your daughter’s assistant. I just needed something to help with the spring heat is all.”

“Nonsense. I may be up there in years but I’m not crippled yet.”

Knowing it was no use to fight with a Kwon woman, he simply uncapped the bottle of water and let the ice cold liquid run down his throat. There. That was better. He just needed to cool off a bit and it would help him focus a bit better. With the cold water running through his heated bloodstream, he set the bottle down on the foyer table and went back out to help pack in more groceries.

With the three of you working together, all the groceries were now packed into the kitchen and all that needed to be done was putting them away in appropriate cabinets and such. Jungkook insisted he be the one to do that while you and your mother decide on what you want for lunch. This way you were stuck with your mother and couldn’t tease him any further. At least for a little bit.

After deciding on barbecued pulled pork and a side salad, Jungkook quickly went to work in his favorite habitat. The kitchen. While he allowed the pork to cook, he had taken time to make a fresh pitcher of lemonade. Fresh as in fresh fresh. No powdery packets or any of that imitation stuff you can buy in the store in the water enhancement aisle. No. He was taking real lemons and squeezing them into a pitcher of heaven.

Filling three cups up full of ice and lemonade, he set two of them for you and your mother on the dining table where you were currently trying to calm down a frantic Jimin as he practically screeched in panic through your cell phone. He might as well have been on speaker, honestly. Sighing heavily, you excused yourself from the dining and connecting kitchen area to go up to your office where you could have a proper conference call with your frazzled assistant. Seriously. It was one day! One day!

“Jungkookie, darling, could you have a seat with me, please?”

Oh boy....

How did this keep happening to him???

“Sure thing, Mrs. Kwon. Let me just check on the pork really quick.”

Trying to buy himself all of an extra few seconds to brace himself, the male actually did check the meat and it was coming along nicely. With nothing else to help him worm his way out of this conversation, he tried to act cool and calm on the outside as he took a seat at the table next to your mother.

“First of all, the lemonade is wonderful.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Kwon. I felt it was appropriate for spring time.”

“Indeed indeed. However, that’s not what I wish to talk to you about.”

He figured as much. And rather than saying it out loud, he remained silent as he waited for the older woman to speak once more. Although Jungkook couldn’t help but notice how her face was suddenly etched with lines of sadness and guilt. She turned in her seat so that she could face him more and he did the same out of respect. Clearly something was bothering your mother.

“I know I don’t make my intentions very secretive. But you have to understand, Kookie. I’ve destroyed my own daughter and I need to put her back together. It’s my fault she’s like this and I need to right this wrong I’ve done.”

“Mrs. Kwon, with all due respect, your daughter is her own person who makes her own decisions. You didn’t do anything to her. She’s chosen to be this way.”

His heart was hammering in his chest as he realized this conversation was taking quite the deep turn. This definitely wasn’t the conversation he was expecting to have given his previous exchanges with your mother. The woman in front of him now was torn with sadness and misery. It broke his heart to see someone as sweet as your mother feeling so sad like this.

“But it is my fault, Kookie. I trained her to be this way because that’s how I was back in the day. But now that I’m getting older and I’ve slowed down.....I realize now how important it is to stop and smell the roses. That life isn’t entirely about work. I did that to her. I treated her like a robot to be programmed a certain way and now my little girl is gone.”

Oh boy. Now your mother was starting to cry. Oh boy. Okay. He could do this. He could handle this. Trying to stay calm for her on the outside, he got up from his seat and briskly went into the living room where he found a box of tissues and came back only to offer one and set the box on the table while he took his seat once more. Gently rubbing the woman’s back, he spoke softly,

“Mrs. Kwon. You were only doing what you thought was best for your company at the time. But things change. People change. Perhaps your daughter enjoys being busy with the company?”

“But she’s not living, Kookie. She’s alive but she’s not living. She just goes through the motions like the robot I turned her into. She doesn’t get out and socialize. She doesn’t treat herself to anything nice. She’s breathing but that’s all she’s doing.”

Suddenly, the woman took both of his hands in hers and she sniffled a little before putting her full attention back on the male. Good lord he hated to see women cry. Especially women as sweet as your mother. He could feel a lump forming in his throat as he gently gripped her hands while he waited for her to say something.

“I need you to help her, Jungkook. I know it’s selfish of me but I need your help. When Jimin reached out to me and told me about you, I knew you were the one who was going to bring my daughter back to me. And maybe......”

He felt his eyebrows knit together in confusion as he listened to this new round of information. Jimin had been behind this??? Wait.......oh.......Okay. Now it made sense. Your mother was looking out for you......while his best friend was looking out for him.

“And just maybe.......you can heal too.”

Meanwhile, you stood there at the bottom of the stairs with your back against the wall listening in. But all you got to hear was that your assistant needed healing. What did that mean? Was he sick? Did he need this job to help pay medical bills?

‘What’s your story, Mr. Jeon Jungkook?’

#bts #bts jungkook #jeon jungkook #jungkook #jungkook smut #jungkook x reader #bts fanfiction #bts scenarios #bts imagines #jungkook scenario #jungkook fanfiction #jungkook imagines #kpop fanfiction #kpop scenarios #kpop imagines

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anemonenemerosa · 4 years

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Hello hello,

here we go. Thank you for staying with me and thank you @lumosinlove for creating this world =)

This is still dark (but we’re getting a bit better) so please stay safe.

Chapter 10

They stopped in front of a big apartment-building, windows mostly dark, it was almost one in the morning. There was no doorman, no entry hall to the building, just a corridor leading to stairs and a concerningly dingy lift. Ouais, enfin… maybe I pay with my kidneys for this, after all.

The door to the flat opened, Regulus was pushed in and all but froze. He had never seen such a place.

There was no entrance hall in here either, the front door directly opened into a small living room with an open kitchen and a dinner table shoved into a corner, half hidden behind an overloaded laundry rack.

The windowsills were crammed with pot-plants in several states of... health? survival? decay? Books and knickknacks were messily shoved into the tall but sloping shelves lining the walls, which were painted in a soft warm yellow, making the room look sunny and warm, even in the middle of the night.

Nothing, not even the chairs or precariously crooked shelves seemed to belong to the same set of furniture. And was one of the table-legs different from the others?

It was... all over the place, really.

The worn maroon rug in the living area clashed horribly with the big, ugly purple corduroy couch and the mismatched and multicoloured throw pillows.

Posters of 80's movies -Regulus recognised Ghost Busters and Back to the Future- and lots of unframed photographs almost covered the wall behind the couch.

On the far wall were three doors, one closed, one revealing bits of a very messy bedroom, the other ajar, sporting a poster of a rather ancient wooden privy... What. The. Hell.

Regulus did not know what to make of this. He somehow loved it instantly while simultaneously cringing over all the chaos and all the stuff crammed in here. His, stylistically uninspired, mother would probably die of shock at the view and somehow that made the place a little more endearing to him.

However, he always thought of himself as tidy and some part of him died just a bit at the sight of the mismatched socks and shirts littering the part of the bedroom-floor he could see. This place, starkly contrasting the house he grew up in was bursting with life, messy and welcoming instead of an assembly of model rooms resembling what was shown in some posh interior-design magazine. This is what a home looks like, Regulus decided.

He allowed himself to be ushered further inside.

"Leave you shoes here please and put your coat..." Regulus turned around as the sentence did not continue and saw Ben looking at the overflowing coatrack behind the door.

"...Put your coat somewhere you will find it again" he concluded, nodding to himself.

Mateo already went past them into the kitchen and dived headfirst into the fridge. "We have some left-over Minestrone from yesterday, if you want, Reg."

Regulus turned, having disposed of his coat on one of the chairs. As he didn't answer for long enough to be considered impolite, Mateo lifted his head from the fridge, noticing Regulus blank stare

"Is it OK, if we call you Reg? Regulus sounds so stiff..." This warm, infuriatingly disarming, smile. Regulus could only nod.

These people rendered him speechless at a disturbing rate. Usually, he chose not to speak but with them, he often couldn't.

The only one who had ever called him Reg was Sirius and even he stopped that years ago. Could he really be Reg again? Was he allowed to? No, a malicious voice echoed through his head. You do not deserve that comfort. Remember what you did. Regulus felt sick.

"Soooo... Minestrone?" – "I am not hungry, but thank you" Regulus looked at Mateo, hoping he would not call him Reg, regretting his thoughtless agreement.

"When’s the last time you eaten?" Ben asked as he came from the Bedroom in striped Pyjama-bottoms and an old shirt. Regulus tried to remember if he had had lunch today. Not good.

"If you need to think about it, it is too long ago. You eat." The man stated as Mateo chuckled and put a pot on the stove.

"Do never deny again that you are a freaking mother hen", he joked while walking into the bedroom, probably to change, too.

Regulus hovered in the room, wary and utterly confused. He struggled to maintain a safe distance, still trying to fathom what's going on and why these strangers were more welcoming and affectionate than his family ever been.

A quiet but reckless voice in his mind - very different from the sneer that chimed up just a minute ago and sounding suspiciously similar to a younger Sirius- reminded him that he fucked up already and that he might as well go and enjoy his time while the universe and/or his mother were probably already in preparation to take him down.

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

A while later he was seated on the ugly, lumpy couch, nursing a bowl of minestrone. He was clad in a much too small shirt ("this is the biggest shirt we have, you are just a giant") and borrowed underwear (his blood-stained sweatpants were soaking in the sink along with his, also bloody, shirt) and wrapped in a baby blue blanket with pink chickens on it. Why does such an item even exist?

The TV provided mindless background-noise while Ben and Mateo chattered along about anything and everything. Regulus just sat there in silence and listened intently. He never met people who would just go on and lay out their life in front of a person they just met. Let alone a person they found bleeding in the shower, mid-meltdown... Maybe their life history hinted on why they were so careless with private information.

And they really were. They told him everything and Regulus was confident he could write their memoirs by now.

Apparently, Mateo grew up in Manaus, Brazil So, it was Portuguese, not Spanish. ("That's where Rio Negro and Rio Solimões meet to form the Amazonas" The more you know...) He came to the US to study medicine on a scholarship, is in the last weeks of his training and only stays in Slytherin because-

"One cannot choose their training hospitals on that scholarship. No offense, mate." None taken.

They recounted how they met almost five years ago at an airport. That, after spending eight hours waiting for their delayed flight, they were joined at the hip. "Metaphorically and literally." Regulus went bright red at the innuendo while Ben patted his back sympathetically, shaking with suppressed laughter. He and Mateo were huddled up together in a yellow blanket with... Flamingos? Where did they even get these bird-themed things?

Ben had a sister, Josephine, who stayed here during semester breaks ("But do call her Jo or she will end you.") After Regulus gave a pointed look to the closed door, he was informed that he did not need to worry about their noise as she slept like the dead and even overslept a fire alarm in the building last summer.

Jo was 18, like Regulus but already in her Sophomore at Boston University as she skipped a year in middle school. "Got herself a scholarship and does computer-sciences, the insufferable nerd and know-it-all."

"She's really great, Reg. Ben is just her brother and thus, bound to think she’s annoying." Mateo interrupted Bens speech about his sister.

Regulus allowed himself a minute of going over the relationship with his own brother. Sirius was annoying. Very annoying, to be exact. But if anyone except him had called him out in the past, Regulus remembered feeling a little surge of protection against the git he was related to... maybe this was a siblings-thing.

He focused back on the conversation in front of him, fascinated by the insight of other people’s relations and upbringing.

The siblings grew up in Bristol, Great Britain, and moved to New York when Ben was seventeen and Jo ten but he did not elaborate on why they came here. That’s why I couldn’t place the accent.

Ben had studied Art History at NYU and actually worked at the Art Gallery in the city-centre. Cleaning the rink in the evenings was his means to save money for a tattoo shop he wanted to open in Boston, where they would move, come February, for Mateo’s new job.

He got informed that a note has been shoved under Jos door, announcing his presence, a spare toothbrush was presented and then, at nearly half past two in the morning, he is left for the night with a hug (!) from both of them. How touchy they are.

Regulus was not cuddly, never had been.

Really? You loved to snuggle up with Sirius in bed. The voice of reckless young Sirius supplied unhelpfully. This whole situation was completely surreal but also comfortingly normal.

This is a dream or, more likely, a godamn fever-trip. C’est pourri! This is shit! Regulus sighed.

These people were mad... hell, they didn't even know him. Yet, they took him in, fed him (very good) soup and freaking hugged him good night. They probably even stayed awake that long, filling the air with their complete life-story to keep him from feeling lonely... Allez savoir pourquoi! God knows why!

Reckless young Sirius suggested again to just roll with it and Regulus began to wonder whether he, instead of them, had gone mad.

This life he had a short glimpse into, this night was not real for him. He couldn't have that, considering the family he was born into and his obligation to live up to their expectations. Not to mention that he absolutely did not deserve being cared for after he de facto kicked his brother in the face ruined and his career.

The tiny voice piped up again, but Regulus silenced it with an exasperated groan. Yep, mad.

He surely would not sleep here on this odd couch. He would sit here, mull over all the shit that happened in just this one day, wait for them to wake up to thank them appropriately, return to the Malfoys and sleep there for a week to recompose himself.

#the spare #regulus black #oc's #Sweater Weather #lumosinlove

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joonsdragoneyes · 4 years

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Russian Roulette [M][1]

{Warning: This fic and the corresponding chapters contain mentions and descriptions of eating disorders, mental health, violence, vomiting, death, profanity, and angst. Please proceed with caution if any of this may potentially be triggering.}

7 people trapped in a bunker during the end of the world should’ve been the much brighter side to this situation. Being around people whom you love and with years of supplies should’ve been guaranteed survival. Some handle it well, and others manage to pretend. However, when supplies run low, tensions rise as everyone raises a question they wonder if they even truly want the answer to.

The small bed creaked softly as Yoongi wiggled himself free of the man holding him close, doing his best to see in the heavy, inky darkness. The much larger form caging him there was noticeably warmer than the bunker's cold air, especially since the blanket was gone, having been given to the younger ones a while back. He yawned, deciding to give up in his effort to free himself as he let gravity knock him against the hard surface of what he was told was a mattress.

His eyes by then had adjusted, dropping onto the small trio huddled together in the corner. The three were wrapped neatly under the gifted blanket; their bodies practically piled on top of each other in an attempt to hold onto any extra warmth they could get. Jungkook could still be seen shivering slightly under the blanket, Taehyung and Jimin both scooting closer, their arms wrapping tightly around him, and each other, in the process.

A soft scrape echoed from the other side of the small room, his eyes falling once again into two more figures asleep on the ground, their shivering bodies also huddled together. Upon closer inspection, he realized that one of the men was awake, causing him to watch as Hoseok slowly shuffled, rolling on top of the older man next to him in a desperate attempt to keep warm. Jin, in his sleepy state, didn't seem to mind.

Deciding it was better to attempt to sleep again, Yoongi rolled over, facing the man he was resting in the arms of. His chest could be felt rising against his own, the mans' breath hot against his cold face. He, himself, was shivering inside of his hot cage, his smaller frame cuddling yet closer to the still sleeping Namjoon holding onto him.

He found himself hesitating before wrapping his arms around the much larger man as well, pressing his face against his muscular chest as he moved yet closer. He wasn't tired at all at this point; in fact, he felt somewhat jealous of the others being able to sleep during a moment like this. He found his mind trailing to Jungkook, remembering how the younger man had been asleep since they had come down here.

The poor man was only awake for a few hours at a time, seemingly during the moments where his body merely couldn't sleep any longer. He still joked around, and laughed, and was just as energetic with the other younger ones of the group as usual- he was just sleepy, so he said, anyway. Something about it was too familiar to Yoongi. It worried him.

"Are you awake?" Yoongi whispered, feeling the sudden change in the larger mans' breathing. Namjoon shuffled, nodding before lowering his head a bit to face the smaller man. "Yeah, I'm awake."

"What time is it?"

"I don't know, Yoongi. Possibly 2 am? It's hard to tell for sure."

Yoongi paused, rolling onto his back as he turned to look at the large metal container on the other side of the room. He huffed, still shivering as he finally pulled himself free, the concrete floor cold through his thick socks, stretching as he stood up. He grumbled, feeling disgusting. He hadn't showered in a month, and it was an awful feeling besides his currently painful hunger.

"I'm hungry. Do you want something?"

Namjoon sat up, a soft scraping noise echoing from under him as he slid off the small bed, shivering as he stood up. His muscles moved under his loose clothes as he also stretched, nodding as he let out a yawn. "Yeah." He spoke softly. "I'll wake up, everyone."

Yoongi nodded in response, his hands shaking as he felt along the wall, feeling for anything resembling a light switch. A soft click sounded from under his slender hands, a loud buzzing ringing through the room as it flooded with light. He blinked, trying his best to ignore the pain that filled his eyes.

"Good morning!" Jimin chirped, crawling tiredly from under the blanket. "Or night, I'm not sure. Either way, hello, everyone." He spoke, plopping softly onto the concrete floor. His hair was standing up in almost every direction, the sight enough to bring Yoongi just a bit of joy.

"Good morning." Jin yawned in response, pulling himself gently from under the still sleeping Hoseok.

A loud clanging sounded as Yoongi pulled out a small pot and little stove. Thankfully, it was battery-powered, and they definitely had enough of those- the only question would be whether they had enough food.

"Ah, we're eating?" Taehyung piped up, sliding from under the blanket, his eyes heavy as he slowly turned to face the sound. "Not yet, you can keep laying down," Namjoon replied softly as he made his way over to Yoongi, a few cans resting comfortably in his arms. "We've got enough, don't worry," Namjoon whispered to the smaller man hunched over the little stove, making sure it was just loud enough for him to hear.

"I'm not worried." Yoongi lied in response, his voice even lower.

"We're eating?" Jungkook questioned, exhaustion filling his voice as he also slid from under the blanket at the commotion, a pout forming on his face as he received the same response Taehyung had.

"You all can rest; I just woke you up so you'd be ready when it was done. Save your energy." Namjoon explained, ignoring the fact that he, himself, had none to use. The act of waking everyone up had, in itself, taken most of his energy. He was tired, but the act of waking them up 'just in case' was more than enough to drain him. The thought of having to check to see if they even would wake up was an exhausting thought in itself, and it was one thought he couldn't shake from his mind.

Trying to hide his fears from not only himself but the others was what took everything he had. The sound of everyone discussing how energetic and calm he was during the times they thought he was asleep kept him running. It made him feel like they'd get back to the surface once again, and that feeling was the one thing keeping him from succumbing to the exhaustion.

"Almost done." Yoongi piped up, his eyes dark and heavy from his many weeks of attempting and failing to sleep. He had stopped shivering, whatever heat coming from the stove seemingly enough to keep him warm. It was almost odd how eager to finish the meal he was- after all, he wouldn't even touch it.

Whoever was younger ate first. It was easier that way. Yet, he still found himself eating less in his effort to feed everyone else. Maybe this was one he would finally finish. He highly doubted it, but it was a thought he'd hold onto.

Jimin scooted closer, watching closely at the mixture of soup and some vegetables and the last bit of meat. He bounced a bit on his knees, excited as he watched the older man calmly stir the little pot. Namjoon could be heard walking by him, grabbing little cups in order to serve it out. Seconds would usually be available, but everyone was still eager to come in to get their serving.

"Tae, Koo, wake up, it's time to eat." Namjoon cooed a bit softly, shaking the two younger men to wake them up from where they had fallen asleep again. The two yawned, crawling out from under the thick blanket and over the still steaming pot. Yoongi gently filled the cups as full as he could, watching as Namjoon handed them out. The three younger men instantly took a long sip from the cup, not even waiting for the silverware.

Yoongi watched as Namjoon plopped next to him, a faint smile on his face. He seemed happy just watching the three young men eat their fill, not minding that he needed to wait for his. Of course, he'd be next, but he already was beginning to feel full just watching the others eat.

Hoseok by then had woken up, remaining in his spot to conserve his energy, knowing he would have to wait for a bit. Jin had scooted close, sitting close to Yoongi and Namjoon tiredly, his breathing slow. He was also exhausted, remembering his long conversation with Jungkook the night before.

The three turned their heads at the sound of Jungkook laughing, his arm swinging playfully at the small fight- if it could be considered that had broken out among the three youngest. Over what was anyone's guess, though, it'd be quite literally anything because knowing them.

Given their laughs, it wasn't anything serious, not even close. But it was still enough for Jin to calmly tell them to quiet down, watching as the three continued to eat, laughing amongst themselves about something- likely an inside joke of sorts.

Yoongi let out a small cough in the dusty air, pausing before finally handing Namjoon his cup as well, watching as the man next to him graciously began to eat. The color seemed to instantly return to his face, the sight surprising given that Yoongi couldn't even tell that any had left.

Namjoon hummed a bit in delight, sliding a bit away as he began to slow down, attempting to enjoy every bit. He could always get more, but he didn't want to rush. Jungkook, by then, had come back to get more, a large grin spreading across his face as he received his second meal. Jimin and Taehyung followed close behind, the three scattering off in order to eat together somewhere else.

Hoseok finally scooted over, his face bright and joyfully as he graciously accepted his own serving, scooting into the spot Namjoon once occupied to eat. Namjoon made his way back over, Yoongi merely handing him the spoon so he could get his own. He was getting tired and wanted to sleep. He knew he wouldn't be able to, but it was a nice thought.

The younger trio's soft laughs on the other side of the room caught Hoseok's attention, Yoongi and Jin both watching as he stood up and made his way over, plopping down amongst the three. Yoongi yawned, handing Jin his own cup, trying his best to ignore the frown on the older man's face.

"It's your turn," Jin said, pushing it back. He wasn't hungry either; he hadn't been for quite some time. He wanted to lay down or spend time with the others, but he wasn't sure how to avoid the concern that would arise from him not having an appetite. Besides, he knew Yoongi hadn't eaten much either; he was so obviously exhausted there was no way he thought he was fooling anyone.

"Just take it; I'll eat whatever is left. It would be about the same anyway. I"ll just go last." Yoongi explained, pushing it back to the older man, who finally took it. The pain he felt could be ignored for a while; he had managed to do so for this long. Plus, he knew Jin was stressed and wouldn't be hungry, but he'd be damned if he didn't make him eat something.

He grinned as he watched Jin finally eat, watching as Hoseok also came back for more before running back over to the younger trio. Everyone seemed content, and it made him feel warm inside. Jin grabbed his own second serving, Yoongi, left to watch the remaining bit in the pot. Jin had scooted away, a conversation starting with Namjoon as soon as he arrived over there.

Yoongi huffed, taking a few long sips of the remaining mixture, hands shaking as he set the pot back down. For some reason, he was struggling to finish it. His breathing was heavy and pained, hands sweaty as he struggled to lift the pot again, taking another long sip.

He groaned, scooting away from the pot as it clanged against the small stove. It was over, at least for today. It was the least of his worries now, and all he wanted to do was try to make the best of his waking moments. Tiredly, he scooted close to where Jin and Namjoon sat, instantly joining in the conversation, a big smile on his face.

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mehenxe · 4 years

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“ i want to be in love. ” / “ can i be a little nasty?” / “ it wasn’t anyone’s fault. not really. ” / “ i’m losing my mind, losing control. ” / “ terrified of my love for you?” / “ your words felt like sharp knives. ” / “ how did you become like this?” / “ say something nice or don’t speak. ” / “ really? what did you dream about?” / “ we were both afraid, shut up. ” — dealer's choice, have fun.

“ i want to be in love. ” // the grey seer ◌ her best friend.

and the depiction of love upon the laptop screen in front of them, high-definition, remastered in soundtrack, unfolds. black-and-white creases and tears, static in the picture, what could i do if i didn’t have you? where will i go? and the embrace, the hands around the shoulders, the subtle squeezing of the appendages. she watches the scene, & then watches him, enraptured, wanting it. does he even realise he has remarked this aloud to her? spoken it into existence, wished so desperately for its occurrence? “i know,” she whispers. just in case he hadn’t. just in case this is a secret he wished for the walls to swallow. “i know you do. and maybe you already are. and it just hasn’t seen you yet.” perhaps she is thinking of herself. perhaps she is thinking of a woman with dark, short hair and gloss on her lips. perhaps she is thinking about all the things she said. or hadn’t. “it’ll happen. i promise. just be patient.”

“ can i be a little nasty? ” // the french serpent ◌ his beaded shark.

the inquiry interrupts the little song and dance he has happening in front of the stove. two pans on the burners, one sizzling, one being brought up to sizzling after being coated in olive oil. it is a surprise supper, which he framed as cooking for others but, in truth, he planned to cook for the two of them. he glances over his shoulder, arching his brow. breakfast for supper: the staple of french toast, of course, and then some spins on grilled cheese, quick little soup. something sweet bakes in the oven. he meets that little smirk, and realises he must be in a good mood. ( it pleases him greatly to see him smile. ) “a — little nast-ee?” he is dressed in a matching set of black silk pyjamas and bright blue shark slippers. his apron is blush-pink, with the princess is in the castle embroidered in the corner. he shakes his hips as if dancing. “now, i am intrigued? tell me at once what is on your mind, eh? nice kisses in, ah, naughty places?”

“ it wasn’t anyone’s fault. not really. ” // the god of death ◌ his god of life.

the city stretches out behind them, fog-riddled, dense, encrypted. a myriad of secrets he must discover within its recesses, all of them putrid, stinking of bile. he sits at the desk, crossed one ankle over one knee, elbow propping up his upper body and his neck, erect. his glasses do not disguise the repulsion in his gaze, and he does not bother to save face about it. a sneer, then; a bitter draught to drink from. it wasn’t anyone’s fault. then there is that pause, that label slapped on their foreheads: not really. judgement passed, recite the sign of the cross, depart the pews. the service is ending. the funeral is over. “not really, hm. is that your defence now?” he rises. he is rolling in his own steam, the own wrath of it. but he cannot bring himself to raise his voice. it is as though there are too many parties listening. “not really. that means it was someone’s fault. and we know exactly who’s fault it was, don’t we?”

“ i’m losing my mind, losing control. ” // the bejewelled dragon ◌ his skeleton beast.

“no, you’re not. you’re right here with me.” blood, dripping from the edge of the soul’s sword, and he stows it in his scabbard, the echoing veins of the throbbing hollow, deadening around them. the whole of the battle, muted. soot against their cheeks, and he swipes it off of his thin cheek and it drags, it stains further. “you’re not losing anything. okay? it’s different now.” and it remains to be seen, how much he would do, how much he could do, in order to make sure this pierced his hide and penned itself as the ultimate truth. the bones of their dragon-corpses, how they rise from the stream, water pouring from their nostrils. the errant roar of another from not too far away, the slipping and diving of their siblings. the star-magic pealing through the sky. his heart throbs as he stares at him, watches those eyes, staring, daring them almost to become as soulless as they both feel. “we’re almost done here. it’ll be over soon.”

“ terrified of my love for you? ” // the undying warlord ◌ his ridden battle.

it had been the one confession they both had silently agreed to avoid. what good would it do, for creatures of their respective natures to love? to be such beasts of the literal underworld, for love to be a price that neither of them can afford. what good would it do? and now, the bones revealing themselves, the flesh peeled away. they do not stand far from each other. there are no clothes to separate them. he feels so young, his breath stopping entirely, and how fortunate it is that he does not need it any longer to be alive. ( he is, after all, nothing worse off than dead. ) how can he hope to — what will he — “terrified? perhaps. terrified of what it means. terrified of you. what you mean. how we’re going to — how we’re going to carry on with this. because of what is happening out there, and waking up, discovering you feral in the forest —” he shakes his head. “you love me? even through this, you love me, and how?”

“ your words felt like sharp knives. ” // the god of chaos ◌ his oceanic song.

he keeps his back to him. the carton of cigarettes, a staple on the counter, perhaps even more so than home-cooked food, and this, this was the person that he had surrendered the remnants of his piss-poor life for. this was the glitter-bomb, the madness unravelling, the toxic and terrible idea that so readily laid itself bare across his lap. getting high together, and regaining feeling in their senses through slotting their hips and moaning into each other’s mouths, this had become his life. he is a sharp knife. left out where he can be touched, he slices, that is the end of it. this is what his lover knew, when he signed up to continue to be with him. when he ignored all of the warning signs, the red flags, the advice from others. the better choices. “the hell you want me to say? i already said sorry. i even meant it.” everything he says, awful, crooked, it has no general direction. as chaotic as he is. “you want me on my knees, princess?”

“ how did you become like this? ” // the final heir ◌ his grey seer.

frothing, flames licking at his arms, he embodied the arson, the tragedy. he could not escape it. he wept tears and all of them tasted like the grief he refused to acknowledge. himself, thorough in how embittered he had become against those he once called friends. and how difficult it made things, in attempting to connect with people of a different time. now, their conversation, hushed and secretive. all could see him, and yet it is as though he cannot exist freely. “i already told y’all the story of what went on. we’re tryna find out the truth of it, yeah? but — i guess that ain’t what you mean.” and he isn’t sure what else there is. what else he has been created from except for his wounds. how the witch managed to sew him together will remain a mystery for as long as he remains a tethered soul. “i became like this ‘cause — i dunno. nobody was around to make me become somethin’ different. that’s all i got, really.”

“ say something nice or don’t speak. ” // the fallen jedi ◌ his lilac princess.

“don’t speak? perish the thought.” he is cross again. look at him, with that pucker across his forehead and the crease in his brow. he’s become offended by something that was said, and to think, he hadn’t the slightest idea what had done it. leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, and he pushes away from that surface to approach him. his boots softening each of his steps, and those, slower and deliberate. approaching, stalking perhaps. because he finds him to be stupidly interesting, and he himself is the worst idea, the worst decision that could be made for a princess of this calibre. still, the two of them, refraining from ever touching, and yet, continuing their orbit, their delicious desires licking at their insides. he would like to lick him. down that slim column of a throat. perhaps he should say that. perhaps that would be nice. “we can’t have it both ways. either you want me to speak my mind, or not.”

“ really? what did you dream about? ” // the ripest peach ◌ her stable mountain.

she had not dreamt in quite some time, and therefore, it frightened her. what does it mean, these successions of images, these pictures in frames? of children that she had known, and ones she did not remember, what significance could this have? she presses her back into his chest, his shoulders broad, his arms large; all of him, larger than life, than the world, strong and impermeable as rock, and she melts against it. her nakedness safe with him, her medical scars, her lack of fertility. her darkest secrets, which she has so long tucked beneath her tongue. and he brushes back her hair from her ears, as if coaxing the churning words from her mind. “i had a dream that — that we were all in paradise together. that the creatures had gone. that our family hadn’t separated. i had a dream that none of us had to die in order to find it. there were so many children there. running in the fields amok. all of them — ours.”

“ we were both afraid, shut up. ” // the underground racer ◌ his forsaken son.

“... y-yeah! we were both afraid, sure! or maybe we weren’t!” his lover, climbing over the middle console, grinding his hips down upon his own hips, and he bites back a moan. they’re going to forget about the fear; it doesn’t matter if it’s confessed to the walls of this car. the engine, how it purrs as it stalls, until he turns it off, and then, only their mingling breaths. the sound of a zipper, that hand, it finds him — “oh.” a gasp. “yeah — oh, jesus —” their clothes, sliding down enough to reach each other, to be bare where it matters, where they’re most needed. he clings to those hips, slides that tunic up his lover’s chest, bites down on the skin there. “you shut up.” halfway to teasing. he feels every part of him now, his irises so brown, mundane, attentive. “make me shut up.” he does. hips in tight circles, reducing him to whimpers, his own rocking, frantic, and passioned. “y-you shut up, i — oh, god, i love you — you’re so good, baby —”

#mr: mine #moonbeam tag #v: we are engraved in our hearts

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