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thetriggeredhappy · 3 years

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last tf2 commission, piping hot out of the oven, gotta use mitts for this one fellas. request was for a fic discussing scout’s trauma regarding the multitude of times he’s nearly been strangled to death. scout & team coming right up!

(warnings for brief depiction of a panic attack and discussion of trauma to the neck, mildly graphic)

There, in the steadily-warming morning sun, the birds having well been awoken but most of the mercenaries having not done the same, Heavy found himself present with something he so often lacked—some peace and quiet. For once.

Before seven in the morning, Heavy could reliably take some time for himself to get a bit of peace. He was rarely needed for things, let alone so early in the morning, and going out for a breath of fresh air was one of his favorite parts of his morning routine.

Which meant the ever-so-slight hint of cigarette smoke on each wind from the east was completely unwelcome just then.

“Spy, if there is problem, do not waste time,” Heavy finally grumbled, impatient, morning routine already well and ruined.

“Hmm,” Spy hummed, also sounding somewhat irritated, materializing a good few feet away. “A problem indeed. Although I’m not, admittedly, looking for solutions, I’m merely looking for an outside opinion.”

Heavy didn’t dignify him with a response, waiting silently for Spy to get the nerve to ask whatever was this important. After an extended pause, Spy huffed out a sigh.

“Alright, well…” Spy trailed, and adjusted his cufflinks. “I was simply wondering whether you’ve noticed Scout acting strange.”

“Little man always acting strange,” Heavy grumbled.

Spy snorted. “That is true. However, that is not what I meant, mon ami. By strange, I meant… out-of-character. Different than he would usually behave. Whether any of his recent behavior is concerning.”

“Little man’s behavior is always concerning,” Heavy grumbled.

“I sense that you are being deliberately obtuse,” Spy deadpanned.

Heavy was silent for a few moments, ignoring the sound of Spy beginning to tap his foot impatiently as it drew out. “Everyone is different now, a little bit,” he finally said, carefully. “Doktor now is very protective of birds. More than usual. And coughs sometimes. Spy still limps with leg that was shot.”

“Most people wouldn’t notice,” Spy hummed, adjusting the leg in question slightly. “But you’re very observant. I suppose that’s why I’m asking you.”

“Spy does not need to do the buttering up,” Heavy scoffed, shooting him a brief look. Spy shrugged, nonplussed. Heavy looked away again. “Little Scout gets here, he is pretending to be confident. Eventually, he is jumping, easy to scare, but also more easygoing. Then team is together again, and he is pretending to be confident and also jumping.”

“Stressed,” Spy summarized.

“Yes, but no,” Heavy said, frowning now.

“Personally,” Spy said, hand to his chest, “I have noticed that Scout has a new type of fidgeting that he does. Pulling at the collar of his shirt. And at his dog tags.”

“Heavy noticed this also,” he rumbled, looking off towards the horizon as some birds took flight. “And new nervous tic. He rubs his neck now, like this,” Heavy said, mimicking the motion, palm over the front of his neck, fingertips and thumb at the muscle on either side, tipping his head back and forth. “In poker games and when very confused he does this.”

“We’re in agreement,” Spy said, nodding. He clicked his lighter a few times idly, following Heavy’s gaze out into the distance. “The only question becomes, do we have anything we would like to do about it?”

Heavy looked over at Spy, eyes narrowed. “Is not first thing Heavy would address,” he said. “Other things are maybe more important for Spy to be talking about to Little Scout.”

“Well, if you’re going to be stubborn,” Spy scoffed, turning and taking his leave, as if Heavy was somehow being the unreasonable one between them.

“Do not pester him!” Heavy called. “Scout is prideful, he will hate it!”

“Do not tell me what to do,” Spy called back in reply just before letting the door fall closed behind him, and Heavy sighed through his nose, trying to quell the twitch of his eyebrow.

Spy really had only gotten more irritating after spending a few months in prison and an afternoon limping around a warzone with little to contribute. In his opinion, at least.

Although perhaps someone really should talk to Scout.

Sometimes the jokes of the team got a little out of hand. Sometimes a lighthearted chasing-after-whoever-just-knocked-over-your-bowl-of-cereal escalated into an actual chase, complete with getting full-body tackled to the ground and embarrassed in front of the team, or alternatively the person doing the chasing looking silly.

So Scout practically bowling his entire door down and pressing his whole back against it, chest heaving for breath, wasn’t actually all that strange. Demo’s workshop was one of the few rooms with no windows or secondary door and a massive deadbolt that didn’t so much suggest privacy as enforce it.

Demo managed to quell his grin at seeing how disheveled Scout was, instead levelling a more neutral expression at him. “Who’s gotten knocked over, then?” he asked, attempting a deadpan.

“Solly,” Scout replied, clipped by how out of breath he was.

“Ach,” Demo lamented, raising a hand in a mock salute. “Been an honor, lad.”

Scout raised his hand in a similar mock salute, not quite able to muster the same amount of smarminess in it, expression only loosening a few degrees before his hands fell to his knees, head tipping forward towards the floor as he continued to heave for breath.

Demo didn’t comment on it at first, just giving him some space, something itching at the back of his mind and telling him that something seemed to be wrong. But a full minute later, Scout was still heaving for breath, having taken a seat, still with his back to the door, tugging fretfully at the collar of his shirt.

“Out of shape, lad?” he asked, tone joking.

“Maybe,” Scout replied, and when Demo looked over, he had a somewhat familiar faraway look to him, eyes focused on nothing in particular, darting back and forth between two invisible points, almost rhythmically, far too fast. He recognized it.

“Seems you’re more rattled than usual over it, lad,” he observed, tone still calm, albeit sympathetic.

“Kinda,” Scout shrugged, closed his eyes tight, yanked hard on his collar before a hand came up to press over his eyes, and he sighed hard, breath still uneven. “This is, kind of a new one, though. Usually, I’m, uh, shaky. Not… breathin’ weird. I guess. Sorry.”

“You’re frazzled, lad, worry not,” Demo assured, turning a little more fully towards him, folding his hands. “Any way I can help, then?”

“Still, uh,” Scout said, fidgeted with his dog tags, cleared his throat, starting to at least breathe in rhythm. “Still, kinda new. I don’t really, know, what the deal is?”

“No worries.” Demo paused. “Missed you lot, y’ken.”

Scout huffed in a way that was more like a laugh than hyperventilating.

“It’s true! Mum doesn’t seem to think our type of humor is nearly as good, and television shows aren’t near as entertaining without the lads all picking them apart the whole time,” Demo continued. “Glad we’re at least all in the same place, aye?”

“Damn right,” Scout said, glanced off to one side, face a little red. “You guys all, fuckin’ rule.”

“Watched some good shows, though. How d’you feel about that one, Ghost D.A., daytime type television?”

“Skimmed it,” Scout shrugged.

“Well, right, it’s properly loony, lad, hear this–” Demo started, and about a quarter of his way through explaining the paranormal juror system Scout was at least smiling more regularly, and his breath had evened out by the time he got to explaining Ouijudge, enough for him to laugh along.

He’d ask Scout about it later. For now, he hadn’t even gotten to explaining anything about the spirit medium bailiff.

Sniper startled at the sound of Scout suddenly gasping, coughing profusely, gone from presumably asleep to bent double in an instant.

Alright. Step one, put down the whittling knife and block of wood he’d been working on, those weren’t about to be any help. Step two, figure out what the hell just happened to startle Scout awake that badly.

They were sat on the shaded side of the campervan, but he could still see easily enough, could still make out the way Scout hunched so far forward. Sounded like he inhaled wrong, saliva down the wrong pipe, maybe, but his coughing and gasping was much more frantic than that, much more alarmed.

“Scout?” he asked, starting to feel a bit panicked himself as the coughing continued. “Mate, take ‘er easy, there.”

A hand on his shoulder seemed to make Scout jump a little again, but then relax, at least minutely, still shaking with each borderline-retch. Sniper glanced around them half-frantically, found an unopened can of Scout’s and tried to pass it over, but it was then that Sniper noticed both of Scout’s hands clamped around his own throat, and not over his mouth like he’d been expecting. Digging in quite hard, it seemed like.

“Scout, mate, ease up,” Sniper tried, tugging lightly on Scout’s arm, then harder when that did nothing. “Scout. Oi, Scout. Scout.”

Finally he managed to yank a hand away, and the other came with it, Scout now instead clutching at the front of his shirt, his coughing and retching getting lighter immediately.

“Drink this,” he suggested, more gently now, opening the can and pressing it into Scout’s hand. He did, and when his head tipped back, Sniper was able to see how horribly his eyes were watering from the episode. He continued to cough and clear his throat more lightly, not quite recovered, but he seemed more aware now, more present.

It took a long few minutes before he was recovered enough to speak. “Thanks, pal,” he managed, voice weak, rough from exertion.

“What was that?” Sniper asked, not sure how to phrase it any more gently.

Scout shook his head, cleared his throat again, took a long swig. Blinked a few times out at nothing. “Don’t worry about it, seriously,” Scout finally said. “Just, uh. Breathed wrong, is all.”

“Seemed a lot worse than breathing wrong,” Sniper said flatly, glanced him over, eyebrows rising over his glasses. “Christ, mate, you’ve left a mark,” he admonished, reaching a hand out tentatively towards where indeed, Scout had dug his nails in too hard and left little red crescent-shapes in the skin of his own neck.

Scout tilted away from him at the outstretched hand, and Sniper retracted it, feeling a bit of offense seeping into him.

Silence for a few beats. “Scout. You’re not going to convince me there’s nothing wrong,” he finally said, tone firm. “I already know there’s something wrong. Either you tell me outright or you don’t, but either way, I’m already worried about you.”

“I dunno what you’re talking about,” Scout mumbled.

“You’re out of breath after running all the time, startling awake and coughing so hard you nearly upchuck, mate, I’m starting to think there’s something seriously wrong,” Sniper insisted. “You’ll tell me, or I’ll have to make a decision myself, awright?”

“Whatever,” Scout said, and Sniper scoffed, standing up.

“Awright. You’ve asked for it,” Sniper murmured, and headed into the base, leaving Scout well and confused about what exactly just happened.

A good two hours later, Scout startled at a knock on his door. On the other side, Medic. Behind Medic, an assortment of his teammates–Sniper, Demo, and for some reason, Heavy and Spy.

“Herr Scout, what is wrong with your throat?” Medic asked outright.

Scout went to shut the door. Heavy caught it.

“Lad, we’re all starting to get worried,” Demo said apologetically. “We don’t want a repeat of the time you fractured your wrist and went days without saying anything on it.”

“Or the weekend you spent with a small amount of fragmentation stuck within the skin of your leg, healed over, assuming it would sort itself out,” Spy drawled.

“Or the two months you spent taking that medication to help you sleep even though you’d throw up twice daily from it instead of taking a different one,” Sniper admonished.

“Out with it, Herr Scout. I do not have all day. I have a baby baboon to take care of,” Medic said, entirely impatient.

“Oh, c’mon, Jesus Crist, guys, it’s seriously not a big deal,” Scout stressed. “So I’m outta breath sometimes. Maybe I’m just not caught up on my usual cardio, huh?”

The glance exchanged between the rest of them made it clear that he wasn’t about to get away with this one any time soon. He sighed heavily, stepped out of his room fully, closed the door.

“It’s not anything weird. I’m serious. My neck’s just been giving me trouble since that time we almost got hanged.”

“If I remember things correctly, Scout, you did get hanged,” Spy pointed out. “There was a considerable period of time where you were suspended from the neck.”

“Well, yeah, that’s basically it. Uh, also that time Saxton Hale’s huge girlfriend yanked me off a ledge by the neck. It, one of those two. Both of ‘em. Whatever.” Scout sighed, tugged at his collar. “Whatever it was, whichever one, I just, I feel like I can’t breathe sometimes. Whenever my blood starts pumpin’ too hard, I dunno.”

Medic hummed, flicked forth a notepad and started writing some things down in rapid movements. “Well, I already conducted your physical,” he murmured. “The wound to your abdomen posed a much larger concern at the time, and I noticed some bruising, but besides that, I saw no significant sign of injury to the neck. And it appeared that none of the wounds to your abdomen would be affecting your lungs–or your breathing, now that the muscles have all finished regeneration.”

“Think it’s anything like the way my chest still hurts, Doc?” Sniper cut in, frowning. Medic glanced over. “Even though your miracle medicine already went through and healed all but the scars on the skin, I still get phantom pains.”

“Spy also has weakness in leg sometimes,” Heavy added, and Spy shot him a glare.

“Eye went out years ago, but I still wake up with stabbing pains on occasion–worse in winter or the rain,” Demo chimed in.

“Hm. Entirely likely,” Medic decided, clicking his pen and stowing it away. “Scout, my recommendation then is to continue discussing these pains and afflictions with other members of the team, unless you would prefer me examine you more closely.”

“It’s not that big a deal,” Scout insisted.

“Unfortunately, Scout, it is not a request from your teammate, it is an order from your physician,” Medic tsk’d, tucking his pad of paper away. “Regardless, if any of you need me, I need to continue training a simian.”

Medic was gone with a flurry of his coat. Eyes glanced around briefly between the other four.

“Well, lad?” Demo finally said, looking at Scout, the start of a smile on his face. “Believe a good start would be for you to fill the rest of us in on when you got attacked by a properly massive Australian woman and how you escaped alive.”

“Also, when were you strung up? Why haven’t I been told about this?” Sniper asked, more than a little confused.

“Perhaps if you’d been present, you would’ve heard about it,” Spy scoffed.

“Spy does not get to be making snide words about being present for things of Scout,” Heavy pointed out, and the reactions around the room varied from confusion to offense to Sniper nearly bending double with laughter.

By the end of the night, Scout had recounted all he cared to, about how foggy his vision had been, about how he kept waking up feeling like he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t speak. About how he’d felt his jaw just… shift. It was so uncomfortable, so foreign, such a deeply-rooted, primal fear that the feeling had awakened in him. Strangulation was a new one, was something they didn’t often encounter before then in their mercenary careers, and wow, he was finding out he really didn’t enjoy it. At least having a gash in his side was something he’d already felt before. The hanging was new. Brand new.

That led to Demo talking about being drained of blood. Sniper talking about the stitches all up and down his entire front, the ones that popped during the battle. Heavy talking about fighting an entire grizzly bear. His involved less personal injury, but was also a pretty great story.

“I think in the future,” Spy drawled at one point, and Scout followed his eyes to where he was staring at Scout’s collar, where–oh, he was fidgeting again, “we should consider getting shirts with looser necklines for you. Perhaps a longer chain on the dog tags, if they bother you so much.”

Scout said that it wasn’t necessary. Two days later, he found a parcel at his door, containing all his shirts in a variety of looser necklines, some v-necks and otherwise, and a much longer chain for his tags.

And maybe it helped, maybe it didn’t. If it helped, Spy would be the last to know, as far as Scout was concerned.

Heavy, Sniper, and Demo, though, would probably be pretty high on the list.

#tf2 #team fortress 2 #my fanfiction #shut up me #everybody talks

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artsyhobi · 3 years

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Cursed

Divine Gods!BTS x reader

series masterlist

Chapter one, Calico Cat.

characters: mortal!fem!reader, god of the moon!park jimin, god of the sun!jung hoseok, god of death and darkness!min yoongi, god of the four elements!kim namjoon, god of time!kim seokjin, god of nature and life!jeon jungkook, god of mischief!kim taehyung.

a/n: hello ! i hope you enjoy this first chapter, i actually took inspo from Goblin (which is a kdrama i absolutely loved ;;) and i'm sorry in advance for my poor writing, but english is not my first language ...

trigger warning: mentions of blood, violence and death, curse words.

tag-list: @greezenini, @fangirl125reader, @motherofbludgers

Min Yoongi sat on the throne, his legs elegantly crossed as he rested his forearms on the armrest. He slightly raised his left arm so that the tip of his index finger could lightly brush against his lower lip, his eyebrows mildly furrowed in a focused expression.

The black-haired man continued playing with his lip, then reached for something in the pocket of his silk pants and held the object in the palm of his hand: it was a vintage pocket watch entirely made out of gold, with a ruby located right at its center. The hands of the watch moved mechanically, producing a “tic” sound that resonated in his mind like an irritating echo.

Yoongi hated time. What was ironic, though, is that he had too much of it: he had an Eternity.

Yoongi glared at the antique object once more. A satisfied smirk appeared on the corner of his lips, depicting anything but an innocent smile. He stood up, adjusting his coat and grabbing his black bowler hat in a swift movement before taking some steps forward: as he walked, the dark throne room surrounding him became gradually more distant and, in a matter of seconds, the man was walking in the busy and snowy streets of Seoul. The snow crunched under the soles of his shoes, the snowflakes that landed on his coat immediately melted, and as he passed by, nobody seemed to notice his presence.

The street was crowded with people rushing to purchase the last Christmas presents, couples holding hands, and kids eating strawberry cotton candy. Disgusting, thought Yoongi as he curled his nose.

“One minute and thirty-three seconds.” He murmured to himself, turning into a deserted alley after checking the correct street name on a brick wall nearby. As he walked, the bright white snow became dirtier until there were just a few clusters of it on the side of the path. It started snowing heavier.

“Fifty-eight seconds.”

“I told you there were consequences!” A hoarse male voice shouted in the distance. Yoongi stopped hands into the pockets of his coat. “You’re a worthless bitch!”

There was a loud bang, followed by two others, and a feeble female voice asking for help. No one could hear her, and even if her cries reached someone’s ears, no one would help her since - according to Min Yoongi - humans were nothing but greedy mortal souls that enjoyed the sufferings of others. They were too occupied with spending their money on materialistic goods and developing toxic, violent, and possessive relationships. They were human beings but had no humanity left in their hearts.

He approached the poor woman laying on the ground, her hand resting on her stomach: blood was gushing out of her bullet wounds, dripping down in a pool of crimson absorbed by the snow. Tears streamed down her face as she whispered the same words over and over again, “Help me”.

He crouched down beside her and tilted his head, observing her like a detective inspected a victim. He knew that her time was up and that she was destined to die there, alone, desperately waiting for someone to find her.

“S-Sir…” She mumbled, some blood running down from the corner of her mouth. “P-please help me…” Her hand desperately clutched the hem of his coat, smearing it with her blood.

Yoongi sharply exhaled and rolled his eyes, turning his head to the side.

“Fancy seeing you follow me everywhere I go, Jungkook.” He stated, reluctantly standing up to face a man leaning against the brick wall, his arms crossed.

“Did you miss me?” Jungkook grinned.

He seemed almost like an angel since the clothes he wore were entirely white. His blond hair brushed against his shoulders, and a pair of long crystal earrings hung from his ears, sparkling as soon as they moved. Yoongi, on the contrary, was his polar opposite: his short wavy locks were as black as pitch, and although his eyes were a dull brown, they almost felt like looking into two holes, black as a night without stars.

“Seokjin sent me here to stop you from reaping her soul,” he affirmed, playing with the many rings he wore on his fingers, “It’s not her time yet.”

Yoongi scoffed, slightly amused at his statement. “Don’t you see the three holes on her stomach… Or do you need a magnifying glass? I am the one who decides if she dies today, not that Doctor Strange wannabe.” He took some steps toward him until his face was a few inches away from his, “I don’t take orders from a teenager.”

Jungkook furrowed his eyebrows, the slight grin disappeared. “These are not my orders but his, and you know you must obey him.” He lightly shoved Yoongi’s shoulder without interrupting eye contact with him, trying to remain calm. He kneeled beside the woman and caressed her hair, a sad smile depicted on his pink lips, while Yoongi stared angrily at the two.

“Don’t even think about it, Jungkook, her soul is already mine.” He said through gritted teeth.

“It is, you’re right.” The blond whispered and delicately put his hand on the woman’s chest. “But not now, Yoongi, you will have to wait.”

“Wait!?” Yoongi exclaimed in disbelief, and then frantically ran a hand through his black locks, “This has to be a joke, is Taehyung with you?”

“He is not,” He responded as a gleam of light formed under the palm of his hand, turning brighter by the second, “I haven’t seen him in ages.” This time his tone was lower, and his expression had darkened. Yoongi nodded, having no interest in knowing what had happened between the two friends.

“I suppose you won’t tell me why Seokjin wants to spare her life.”

“He just told me to stop you, nothing more.”

Yoongi pinched the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut. “Lies,” he snarled, “you are his little obedient puppy, Jungkook, we all know it.”

Jungkook inhaled the sharp, cold air and smiled as the woman opened her dark eyes. “I’m not here to fight, Yoongi, so you can insult me how much you want.” The blond took the now conscious woman into his arms and glared directly at his former friend. “But nothing will change the fact that you’re on your own now.”

Yoongi turned around, ready to argue back, but there was no trace of Jungkook.

The black-haired man remained still as he watched the empty spot, sighing, a strange feeling at the pit of his stomach.

20 years later

“Chung-Ae, we’ve already talked about this!” You groaned in annoyance, sinking your face into your Pikachu plushie. “I’m happy here!”

Chung-Ae sat on the counter, her arms supporting her as she gave you a stern look. You peeked, escaping the protection of your plushie, noticing that she wore purple lenses - although her stare was as scary as it had always been -.

“You’re a twenty-two-year-old living in an old house, with your three cats, and working in a cat-café.” She emphasized the “and” as if working in such a wonderful place was something to be ashamed of.

“That’s the best life!” You exclaimed as you sat comfortably on your sofa. “I mean, why would I need to move to Seul with a bunch of horny people when I could just spend the rest of my life in peace?”

Chung-Ae sighed loudly.

“They’re not just a bunch of horny people. They are my friends.”

You parted your lips to respond, wanting to remind her about the last party you both had attended, but she cut you off.

“Y/N, you live alone in such an abandoned area, it’s dangerous; it even takes you more than an hour to reach the café.” She slid down from the counter and sat next to you, putting her hand on your shoulder. “Trust me, I know that you’re attached to this place, but it doesn’t work for you anymore.”

She was right, you loved that place. Your grandparent’s house was located in the countryside, in a small rural village that was scarcely populated. The few young people remaining had started moving to bigger cities such as Seul or Busan, but not you. You adored waking up to the sound of birds chirping in the morning and the gurgling of the river. You got used to being alone, and you didn’t mind it. You couldn’t understand why Chung-Ae tried to force you to move with her, but she was rather determined, and you knew she was going to insist.

“Chung-Ae,” you reached for her hand and squeezed it delicately, a small smile forming on your lips. “You know I can’t leave, I promised my mother I would take care of this house.”

“You have to stop living in the past, Y/N.” She firmly stated. “This house is falling apart, and so is your life. Moving to Seul with me is your best option.”

Her eyes stared into yours for a few seconds, and you felt unreasonably guilty. You knew how much she cared about you, and you were constantly giving her “no” as answers. She retracted her hand, reaching for her purse right beside her, before standing up. “You still have time to think about it. You know that, right?” Her hand was on the doorknob.

Your mind wanted to decline her offer, but your heart told you otherwise, so you just nodded.

“Take care, Y/N.” And with that, she closed the door behind her, leaving you alone once again.

You finally took a deep breath running your palms down your face in an exasperated manner. Chung-Ae was your childhood friend, and she had always been by your side. You had met her in elementary school: she was popular amongst your class since her father was a renowned lawyer who worked for big celebrities, but you - on the other hand - weren’t as popular. You weren’t a social butterfly and preferred spending your time playing with the stray cats in your neighborhood.

You stood up and walked toward the kitchen, deciding to make yourself a homemade chicken noodle soup. You put the ingredients on the counter and started to chop the carrots into strings. As you were about to grab something, you heard a strange noise coming from outside: you reminisced Chung-Ae’s words and felt a shiver run through your spine, but you shook your head, mentally reassuring yourself that it must have been a wild animal.

You grabbed the celery from the fridge, deciding that you would drink some strawberry milk while waiting for the soup to cook. However, when you closed it, you were taken aback by a calico cat sitting on the floor, right in front of you. Your eyes were wide open in surprise since your three cats were all black, and you crouched down. “Hello, little one,” you gently smiled as you observed the little creature staring at you with a pair of light blue eyes, “I wonder how you got in…”

You inspected the room looking for any open windows but soon discovered you had closed everything. When you turned your gaze back to the cat, it was gone. Puzzled, you stood back up, massaging your temples. Am I hallucinating? You asked yourself before resuming your dish.

After literally devouring your delicious meal and doing the dishes, you headed to your room, where you found the windows wide open. You didn’t remember leaving them like that, but you also didn’t mind the fresh breeze coming from outside. It was a quiet night of July, and the moon was shining vividly in the sky, its brightness being the only source of light in the room. As you approached your bed, you couldn’t help but notice the shape of a cat on the window ledge, but when you came near, it had mysteriously vanished.

"Okay, Y/N, you're probably tired." You told yourself while sitting on the bed. As you laid down, feeling the freshness of your newly washed sheets, you heard another sound and then a chorus of meows coming from the living room. You sighed, reluctantly standing up, wearing a hoodie before walking down the stairs.

"What is it, guys, did you hurt yourselves?" You asked as your three black cats, Luna, Mars, and Pluto, continued meowing toward the front door. You groaned, "Alright, I will check."

You weren't ready for what you were about to see: you expected nothing but pitch darkness or that calico cat that was apparently haunting you now. But as you opened the wooden door, you froze on the spot at the sight of a man leaning his arm on the doorframe.

Because of the darkness, you could only see his silver hair reflecting the moonlight and a pair of light blue eyes staring at you in curiosity.

"Hello, little one."

#bts ot7 x reader #bts series #kim taehyung x reader #bts imagine #bts x reader #bts fanfic #park jimin x reader #kim seokjin x reader #kim namjoon x reader #jeon jungkook x reader #jung hoseok x reader #min yoongi x reader

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wolfish-trickster · 3 years

Text

Old oak tree

Loki x female!reader

Word count: 2,3K+

Warning: typos, angst, itsi bitsi fluff at the end

Tag list: @gaitwae @lucywrites02 @hard-to-be-the-bard @birdgirl90 @laramoonworld @forevernthensome @kozkaboi

"So, what do you think?" Loki asked spreading his arms and showing you his new outfit.

You shrugged. "Looks good to me."

"Don't you think it's too much?" he checked himself in your mirror.

"Is anything EVER too much for you?" you asked with a smirk.

"I just...I really like her and I don't want to mess up."

"You won't, trust me," you reassured him.

He hugged you tightly, to your surprise. "What would I do without such a friend like you?"

The younger prince bolted from your room faster than you could answer. You sighed and closed the doors after him so no one could hear your heart breaking, again.

You and Loki were friends. Best friends actually. But you started to to see him more than that years ago. And you hated it.

You already accepted the fact he'll see you as only his supportive friend. If only he could stop asking you to help him woo his love interests. He always asked your opinion on everything. Flowers, his outfits, gifts he wanted to give them.

Once he even asked to kiss you so he could practice. It was in general your and his first kiss ever. Your head spinned when your life long best friend and crush in one person gently placed his lips on yours, his tongue sliding to your mouth. When he pulled away he just mumbled simple 'thanks' and ran away, leaving you flustered and with a face on fire under your favourite tree. At first you often sat under that old oak, remembering the feeling and smiling to yourself. However with every new interest of Loki you started to avoid the poor tree. Hate it even. You hated how it represented how you foolishly threw away your first kiss.

You still stood by Loki. What else could you do? Confess your feelings? As if that'll help.

You started to see pattern in his interests and you never managed to tic the boxes. You were only average among everything; intelligence, looks, skills. There were hundred and one people who were exactly like you. Loki would never choose you over a noble woman or man he was used to courting.

Now, when you were finally alone, you could think about what are you going to do about your never ending crush. You layed down on your bed and stared at your white ceiling. You already tried to avoid him in hopes you will loose your feelings for him, that didn't work. You wrote down every negative thing about him, trick your mind he isn't a good boyfriend material. Didn't work either since he is the kindest person you've ever met. And the gentlest. And nicest. With the most beautiful smile and eyes. And arms that give the coziest hugs.

"Fuck," you whispered and closed your eyes. It always ended like this. No matter how much you tried, you could never see him as something less than a great person he was.

Suddenly you heard his melodic laughter under your windows. As well as some girl's. You couldn't take it anymore.

"You know what? If he can date around, so can I!" you told yourself in pure desperation to get rid of the jealousy and pain from knowing he will never love you.

First thing you did was hiding everything he gave you as a child, every little trinket you cherished in false thought he's starting to catch feelings for you. You removed all of it from your shelves and put in a big box sliding it under your bed.

There, now onto the more complicated part: the oak of your very first kiss. Your heart ached with every step you took towards it. It was already old and not so full of life like it used to be. Its bark was dry and overgrown with moss. The poor thing didn't have enough energy to grow its leaves as viscoulsy like few years ago. No one visited it anymore. It was lonely just like you.

"Looks like you're few years from death, old buddy," you patted its trunk. "Let's end your missery now."

You were on your way back to your room holding a little pot filled with soil. Nothing was growing out yet, but in few months you were expecting a small oak sappling to grow. You couldn’t say goodbye to your old wooden friend just yet.

There, deep in halls, sounds are resonating. Sounds you soon came to hate. Kissing, Loki chuckling, some woman moaning, door closing.

You sadly looked down at the pot and took the biggest diversion to your room, avoiding coming any near Loki's bedroom.

Few days later you still avoided Loki. That time was the first time he had brought anyone to his bedroom to do....that. It was good he didn't ask you to practice on you. If he did, you would've.... you don't know what would you do. Probably panic first and get angry next.

While Loki was, let's say, occupied you got closer to one soldier, Arne. He was kind, tall, ginger with freckles and very skilled fighter. He wasn't the smartest but he had a sense of humor and always tried to make you laugh. He wasn't Loki though, but it didn't matter. At least you kept yourself busy, so your heart could heal.

Right now you were in stables with Arne. He was telling you how he got his first horse when he finished his soldier training few decades back. You were braiding his mare's mane as he stood right beside you, his shoulder lightly touching yours. Everything was at peace.

"Y/N! Y/N, WHERE ARE YOU?" came Loki's voice.

Almost everything.

You turned your head towards his voice. He was rushing towards you until he stopped when he noticed Arne standing so close to you.

"Am I interrupting something?" he asked a little irritated.

"Well-"

"It doesn't matter, I have to show you something," he took you by the hand and started dragging you out of the stables only for you to slip your hand from his and hugging Arne. "See you tomorrow," you waved him goodbye and walked out, Loki trailing after you.

"So, what is it you wanted to show me?"

"What the Hel was that?" he pointed at you and behind him at the stables, completely ignoring your question.

"A hug. Why?"

"Since when are you hugging random soldiers? And since when are you even hanging out with low ranking soldiers like Hofferson?"

"His first name is Arne, and I'm allowed to hug whoever I want. Same goes for hanging out. Now are you going to show me the thing or can I return to him?"

"Right," he remember, took your hand again and ran to gardens. To the familiar now empty corner. "Look what some bastard did," he pointed at the wide oak stump.

"Yeah, I know."

"You do? Oh, darling," he threw his arms around you. You fought with yourself internally to not hug him back, but being close to him after a very long time felt just too good not to give in.

"I'm so sorry. I know it was your favourite tree. I will find the culprit and-"

"You don't have to," you interrupted and pulled yourself away from him.

"I do! That tree meant a lot to me too. I was actually working on a spell to bring life into it again."

"And how exactly did it mean a lot to you? I never saw you even near that tree."

Loki stuttered. "E-ehm, we had our first kiss underneath it."

"As if that meant anything to you," you muttered.

"What?"

"I said it was old and it had to be cut down."

"Well you could've asked me before you killed it," he spat rather angrily.

"My family planted it, I get to do whatever I want with it!"

"Did it mean so little to you?"

"No. On the contrary, it meant the world to me! That's why I had to cut it down!"

"What? Why? I don't understand you," he shook his head.

"Well excuse me for wanting to destroy the biggest thing that reminded me how my best friend stole my first kiss!"

"Stole? I asked and you complied!" Loki defended himself.

You groaned. "Okay fine, you didn't steal it, I lost it. Now can I go back to Arne?"

"Lost it?! Have you got any idea how many people would murder for a kiss from a prince? And why do you want to go to Arne so desperatelly? You never talked to soldiers before, so why the change of heart?"

"I like him, he's nice and courageous and-"

"I forbid it."

"What?!" you couldn't believe your ears.

"I forbid it. You can't whore around with soldiers like him, think about your reputation!" he crossed his arms infront of him.

"Whore around? Look who's talking! You've had at least 5 lovers in the past month!"

"T-that's different."

"And how exactly is it different, Loki?"

"I-"

You waited. Nothing came out of him.

"That's what I thought."

Few days passed, you continued avoiding Loki and he started to close off from everyone. Occasionally you saw some green sparkles in a shape of a person sitting on the oak stump. You figured that must be Loki under cloaking spell. All you wanted to do was run to him and hug him, he looked so depressed and lonely. Just like you were when you saw him with all those lovers in the past.

You felt bad for him. But you doubted he felt bad for you back then. Or now. So you always walked pass him, pretending you didn't notice him.

*knock knock*

You looked up from watering your growing oak sapling. Who could it be? You weren't expecting anyone. "Who's there?"

"Guess," came a dull voice.

You put away your watering kettle and hid the pot behind courtains. "Come in, Loki."

He stepped inside wearing one of his ordinary clothes, his hair wasn't slicked back like he used to style it and he had apologetic expression on his face.

"Y/N, I came to apologize."

Loki is apologizing. Now that's new. "What for?" you asked teasingly.

He sighed. "For saying you were whoring around. It wasn't right from me," he pulled out your favourite flower from behind his back, "friends?"

You took the flower. "Okay, friends."

Loki clapped his hands excitedly. "Great, now that we're at good terms with eachother I-"

"No!" you silenced him. You knew there had to be a catch. He made up with you just so he could ask you for help. Just like always.

"You don't even know what I was about to say."

"Oh, I think I do. You want me to give you advices again. Well, guess what? That's not happening. So you can, as mortals say, do 180 and walk out that door," you pointed behind him to your bedroom door.

Loki held out his hands in surrender. "I wasn't going to ask you that! I just want to talk."

"Oh," now you felt stupid. "Okay, a little talk never killed anyone I guess."

"Thank you," he let his hands fall down and took a walk around your room. "I see you were redecorating," he noticed all of his trinkets he gave you were gone. He assumed you most likely threw them out or burned them. Just the thought of it hurt him.

"Yeah," you hugged your arms to comfort yourself. "I still have them, I just didn't want to look at them anymore."

He turned towards you. "Why? First the tree, then my little gifts. What's next, me?" he joked to ease both your and his growing anxiety.

You chuckled lightly and shook your head. "No, don't worry."

He walked to you and put his hand on your shoulders. "Then why? We're best friends, right? We can tell eachother everything."

"That's exactly what I can't do," you grabbed his hand on your shoulder and slowly removed them.

"Why? Do you... do you hate me?"

"What? Heavens no! I could never hate you!"

He sighed from relief. "Good. But then why? I can't think of a single reason you would do those things. Wait. On a second thought," he held his chin between his thumb and index finger and looked down like he always does when he was thinking. He shook his head then and chuckled to himself. "No, that's absurd. You could never be in love with me."

You involuntarily tensed up. He noticed.

"Or could you?"

Tears started burning in your eyes as you nodded. "Sorry."

"For how long?"

After few minutes of thinking you shook your head. "I don't remember when it happened. It just happened."

"Well, when did you realise then? That you...you know? Are in love with me?"

"Few days before the oak kiss, I guess."

"But that was decades ago! This long time and I never saw," he facepalmed.

"And you...?" you asked hopefully. Maybe he will tell you he loves you too, right?

He sighed. "I'm sorry Y/N. I love you, but not like that. You have always been like a little sister I always wanted."

You nodded. Of course he doesn't love you like that. How even could he? You turned away from him and let some tears escape.

"Y/N, I'm so sorry," he rubbed your back. "We can still be friends. Nothing will change between us. I promise."

But it already did. Everything changed for you. How could you even look him in the eye?

You wiped away your tears and put on a perfectly rehearsed fake smile. "Okay, I can work with that," you offered him your hand, "friends?"

Instead of shaking it he hugged you. "Friends."

You hugged him back and let your fake smile fall. Your naive little self told you he will change his mind in the future. You are already so close with eachother. Closer than anyone you know. It's just a matter of time. For now, you can only dream.

#loki x reader #loki laufeyson #loki fluff #loki angst #loki x female reader #loki x reader angst #my writer's block is finally gone and I can write again!#wohooo!#loki oninson #loki laufejarson #loki

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plush-rabbit · 3 years

Text

I Want To Hear You Say It

Chapter 6: Pitiful Reflections In The Mirror

Word Count: 3.2K

A/N: If you’re still reading this, I’m so sorry for the long wait

Prev.

You can feel eyes on you. Never blinking, always watching, you feel something- or more accurately- someone watching you. It could be all in your head. Of course it would be all in your head- he doesn't have the time to watch you. And, from what he told you, his friends, or rather teammates, don’t know about you either. You’re still not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. But, it doesn’t matter. You realize that. No matter what happens now, all of it is out of your control. Freedom will always be a mockery to you, you can go and hang out with friends, work, lay around in your home, but it won’t ever be your home, you can’t ever go and hang out with your friends with the certainty that he isn’t watching, that he isn’t lurking in your home and peeking through your thing, you can’t promise to yourself that he doesn’t have connections to the real world, to the civilian world or hero society. You’ll always be watched, never a moment of peace, always fearful that he could be watching you. You can’t ever be yourself alone, you can’t lie in bed and waste the day away. It makes you sick. You want to vomit, you can feel your stomach churn but you are unable to do anything about it.

The only silver-lining to this is that he cares for you- in his own way and not the way that you dreamt of when you would consume media. He promised he wouldn’t hurt you. Right? You frown. You can’t remember if he did that or not. You can only remember his eyes. Those red colored eyes, unforgiving, murderous eyes that are stained with blood, eyes that hold false innocence when he looks at you. A part of you wonders if you would have actually liked him if he weren’t himself but you quickly scowl at the thought. You don’t want to romanticize him. You don’t want this situation to be painted with pink.

It’s all too much too soon. It’ll always be like this. You want to ask him more. You want to know why. You want to pass him off to someone else and make it their own problem.

Thunder booms outside, a deep rumbling that always comforts you and it still does. You stare at the sliding door that leads to the small balcony. Water drips against it, soothing and constant, a steady pace that does not falter and does not pick up speed. The movie you were watching on your laptop has been paused long ago, the killer’s face frozen on a screen that slowly dims and goes black, your reflection against it. If you try hard enough, you can hear the drips against the formed puddles. There is only silence, the clock in the room tics and tocs, the time moving forward, staring at you, the eyes of the cat-shaped clock moving back and forth. You rise from your seat on the couch and walk towards the sliding door, the blanket wrapped around your body and you think for a moment that things are okay, that what is going to happen, is something for you to worry about in the future. Water races down to the base of the door and you cheer internally for one droplet, smiling when it merges with another and gains speed.

For just a moment you are alone. You think that whatever he has or has not implanted in your home- small cameras, listening devices, anything of that sort- does not exist. Your lips are dry and acid pools in your mouth and burns your throat. The rain is soft, beating against the earth as people scurry home. You see children clad in raincoats and rainboots, splashing against the puddle and enjoying their youth, you see lovers walk hand in hand, you see the lone person with an umbrella held tight in their hand. In the reflection, you see yourself- heavy eyes fresh with unshed tears, worry-bitten lips and a sickly glow around you.

“I,” you start off slow and break the tranquility in your home, “I need to write down a list of questions.” You lose your breath quickly, huffing and puffing by the end of your sentence. “It’s-” you want to find out more about him but you can’t even say the words out loud- “I’m insane.” You stare at your reflection, and it’s becoming harder to breathe. “I can- I can go away. I can reject and scream and cry. I can pound on the walls and call for a hero.” Your voice cracks and tears pool in your eyes. “So why don’t I?” Why don’t you? What’s stopping you? “He isn’t here right now. I can-” your voice falls into a low whisper- “I can do something.” You cry and it feels like a waste. You are unable to find a reason to push away from him even though the reasons are clear. You feel sorry for the man that you saved from the streets, bleeding and unable to fight back. You thought that he was cute and thought about him, you let him stay in your home and you reason to yourself that it’s valid to want to find out more about him, but all the same, he is a villain, he has eyes red like blood and pale skin adorned with scars, he has rough hands that grip you with an unwavering hold and lips that are cracked. He is someone full of pain and cruelty, and yet, he promises nothing but love towards you.

You stagger back to the couch and you have to close your eyes. You can’t stare at your reflection- you can’t bear to see yourself deteriorating away. You can’t look at how utterly alone you are. You curl in on yourself and let tears fall and this is all your fault. You don’t know what’s stopping you from seeking out help. You don’t know why you convinced yourself to not tell a soul. You don’t know why you have to be so alone right now. You have no one to talk about this with. You sob and turn your head so your tears catch on the cushion of the couch, the blanket pulled tighter around your body and you are alone in this. You are alone for the cold and rainy night.

Your door creaks open and you don’t know whether to sit in your pitiful state, to hope that the intruder feels uncomfortable enough at the site of your brokenness to leave or if they would put you out of your misery. The door shuts and you close your eyes and bite the insides of your cheeks until it’s painful, the soft flesh tearing when you tighten your jaw. You whimper and hug yourself closer and you can hardly breathe and you don’t know what you hope for, what is a better option- for him to show up and try to comfort you or an intruder to commit a heinous crime. You’ve cried about being alone and now that someone has stepped into your home, you fear the attention and comfort of another.

The couch creaks and hands touch your face, cloth and skin that mix and catch your tears and you’re staring at him, red eyes that stare at you and his mouth moves but you are unable to hear. Confusion must linger on your face and he’s rubbing his thumb over your cheeks, catching tears. His ring and pinky fingers are clad in black, his nails painted black as they drag against your cheekbone. The fabric is soft, tracing against your jawline as it catches fallen tears.

“Did someone hurt you?” You shake your head “no”. “Was work difficult?” Another negative answer. He sighs and his head dips down. Your crying has gone from sobbing to snivelling. “Are you overwhelmed? With this-” he clears his throat- “our relationship.” He’s so careful with his words and you can only nod your head. He’s silent and you’re terrified. You don’t know who he is. You rescued an injured man, thinking you were doing a good thing, that you were putting something good out in the world but you couldn’t have thought that this would happen. That he would be a villain.

He’s quick to wrap his arms around you and you’re stiff for just a moment with wide, fearful eyes as you squeal in shock. He’s warm and smells like rain, droplets of rain lingering against him and your need for comfort takes over as you immediately fist your hands into his hoodie, pushing yourself closer to him. You lay your head on his shoulder, facing his neck that is lined with faint scars and red lines. You breathe in heavily, the scent of rain and musk filling your lungs. His hold on you is tight as you lay against him gasping and whining when he shuffles under you, pulling you closer to him, legs bumping into each other, and he’s nothing short of polite, hands still as they rest on your back, never sliding below your shoulder blades.

Maybe there’s something wrong with you. There has to be. Because just as he finally settles, you lean towards him. You tell yourself that it’s only because you’re human and you’re in a vulnerable state and you crave the contact that he gives you, you crave the only comfort you’ve received in a long time and you cry softly tears burning as they trace down the curve of your face.

You open your mouth to speak, but he’s quicker than you are. “You always cry because of me.” You can’t deny that. “Have you ever cried like this before?” His words are tight, holding back anything spiteful that he can say and you can feel the press of his hands push deeper into you. You’re unsure if he’s trying to steady himself or try to warn you of your next answer.

Your eyes open, only meeting black and the soft, pale blue of his hair and you nod your head. “Yeah, probably.” The blanket is heavy above you. “Maybe not for the same reason but I have.” Maybe if he weren’t a villain you could have liked him as well. You may not be a romantic, but you can appreciate the tropes when you’re faced with them. “Tomura?” You still call him by his name. His name is nice, you find it to be pretty, and you want to believe that he wouldn’t hurt you, that he would keep his promise.

“Yes?” His arms are tight around you, outside of the blanket and you worry that he is cold.

“Why did you visit?” He walks in, comes into your home acting as if he is welcomed, and you lay above him. A part of you wants to continue crying, to reach a part of his humanity and have him leave you. Another part that you don’t want to recognize, believes that liking him will be much easier. That it will be easier than having this continous stream on mental torture. “This- I could have put a trap or something. Let you be caught by the authorities so I wouldn’t have to deal with you.” You roll your lips, wetting them with your tongue and you hold onto him as if he is your lifeline.

“I missed you.” You hate how your body heats at the words. You were sure that if it were anyone else, you would have flushed and hugged the person back, but instead you lay there with furrowed brows. His chest rises with an inhale and dips with an exhale. “I don’t think I’ve ever loved anybody or felt the way that I feel for you for anyone else.” His heartbeat quickens and you wonder if he’s aware that you can feel it, that you can hear the pulsing, the thump in his chest as it echoes in your ears. “It’s an odd feeling. I mean it when I say that you showing me kindness made me fall for you. It’s a sickness that I don’t understand. I don’t want to kill you, I don’t want to let you go. You’re so pretty and I just want you to stay with me. Do you remember when you brushed my hair?” You nod and he continues. “Do you remember what you said about being a good person?” You whisper a soft “yes”. “That’s why I keep coming by. I know you wouldn't have contacted them. I’ve put so much trust in you that I’m sure you would never break it. I’ll keep watch over you just to make sure you’re safe because I trust you.” Your heart beats against your chest, and heat flames against your body. “I want to tear this hero society down, to have it burn and crumble under me and the ones who follow me. I want nothing more than to rid the world of heroes.” For some odd reason, you don’t find his words chilling. You blame it on the exhaustion. “But I want to protect you. To keep you safe, perched on my lap, protected and pure.”

You stay silent and so does he. He offers no more words, no more words of persuasion, or declaration of love. You think that this would be a nice parting, to have him tell you some spiel about he has to leave you to keep you safe, but, for the first time in a long time, you’ve been offered comfort, you’ve been offered love and it’s warm and addicting and when you think of him leaving, it hurts. It actually hurts. And so, you pull yourself closer against him, fixing the blanket and he stays quiet, his eyes watching you until you fix the blanket and drape it over your body, and over his arms. He’s silent, and when you fix yourself above him, lowering your body until it’s flushed against his, he turns to his side and you go on yours, and you hold onto the faded black sweatshirt that smells like cheap alcohol and cigarettes.

The rain fills the room and you can hear your phone vibrate, it's muffled and low, and while you have curiosity, wondering who it could be so late into the night, you also don’t want to move. He wants to keep you safe. He’s intimidating, stalking towards you, watching and you know that he has killed, you know that his hands reek of death, that the ash of the world is embedded in him, staining his soul and being with everything bad, but he promises to keep that away from you. He holds you and instead of fear, it’s an odd relief that makes you feel weightless, stomach light and shoulders loose, tears finally dried in a room that flashes bright, white light. To anyone who were to peep into this moment, they would see two lovers embracing, chest-to-chest, arms around each other, blanket covering both, and you’re against the cushion while he teeters on the edge, he keeps you safe from the cruel fall to the floor. You can feel his lips tentatively press against the top of your head, and you don’t fight the smile that rises. You don’t try to bite it down, you accept that it’s easier to love him, to befriend that lonely individual who offered you a shoulder, someone who would understand you, someone who has shown to have no grievances as you talk about him.

“I… I think it's easier to hate you than it is to love you,” you whisper, a tightening in your throat as you let the words out. “There are so many reasons to dislike you, you know? You’re cruel, you’re mean, you’re a villain, you’ve killed people.” You lick your lips and you’re unable to find more reasons. You don’t know him, and you fear that when you do, you’ll start to fall for him.

“Anything else you want to add?” He questions, his voice matching yours. You can feel his eyes on you. “I won’t get mad at you. I know you would have been less than willing for this relationship so the least I could do is answer any of your questions or hear you out.”

Tomura Shigaraki holds you, and it’s comforting. He’s tall and lanky, thin arms that are covered with faded black, hold you, and you are kept safe, long after you’ve fallen asleep. He forces himself to stay awake, wanting to relish in the moment for seconds longer. He wants to hear the soft breaths, wants nothing more than to hold you, to let the memory cement in his head that you chose to fall asleep beside him, that you kept him under the same blanket as you sleep in.

All the questions in your mind suddenly blip out of existence and you lie there with closed eyes, sleep clinging onto you in it’s thick grasp. You can only think of one question, one thing to satisfy you for the night where you’ve accepted Tomura’s presence. “What’s going to happen? I mean- what happens to-” you pause, trying to find the correct word, “us” feeling too strange and “relationship” not yet something that you are ready for- “whatever we have if you get caught?” Your heart slows and your stomach drops. “Or what happens if I get caught? I don’t think I could survive prison,” you mutter, “I like bubble tea a bit too much.”

His hold on you tightens by a smidge. “I won’t get caught. I’d rather than have that happen.” A chill runs down our spine at his words. “And if you get caught, you lie between your teeth. You tell them I blackmailed you and if that doesn’t work, I’ll get you out of prison.” His hand finds yours, cloth and calloused fingers against yours as he holds it tight. “I’m not going to let you rot in there. I’ll find a way to break you out of anything. I promise.” His thumb runs over yours as if to solidify the promise. You nod your head, a yawn tearing through your body, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. “Are you tired?” You nod, shifting yourself against him, your leg sliding in between his. “Get some rest. I’ll protect you.” His lips are against the crown of your head. “It’s been a long night for you, I’ll stay here and keep you warm.”

You awake without Tomura, blanket pulled up to your shoulders. You awake alone. Your phone buzzes, muffled and heavy sounding, with a heavy body, your arms and legs kick from underneath the blanket, and by the time you’ve made your way out, the buzzing stops.

Surprisingly, you are fine. You are groggy, but you are fine. You are warm, body still heavy with sleep, mind finally starting to awaken and you are okay. That’s the thing that surprises you the most. You understand that he wouldn’t hurt you, that has finally gotten cemented into your head and it fills you with a different kind of relief. You’re glad to know that you are under his protection, you’re glad that for whatever will happen in the future, you’ll be protected in a way that matters to him. You rise slowly and stretch your arms over your head, the sun shining through the blinds and the birds singing a sweet song as you rub the sleep from your eyes.

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pandoraborn · 4 years

Text

It had been far too easy to lure Tommy into a trap. Bad had used the excuse of ‘Sam Nook’ hiring him to help with the building of the hotel, but Bad had been one step ahead, managing to grab Tommy and lift him over his shoulder with a grip that Tommy can’t wriggle out of.

Carrying him down to the egg hadn’t been too much trouble either. Tommy had dropped all his items upon being grabbed, at which Antfront had swooped in to store them for safekeeping. Bad’s only focus was getting Tommy back down into the main room, where he purposely knocked Tommy’s head against a wall to daze him. Tommy’s no longer punching at him or screaming. He’s still glaring, but he’s easier to carry now.

With Tommy out of it, Bad dumps him to the ground before moving to encase him in obsidian. With only a couple blocks to spare, Tommy finally springs to action, grabbing at the blocks with his bare hands.

“Bad wait! Stop it! Please!” Tommy’s screaming at the top of his lungs, pulling and tugging frantically. “Bad please don’t do this! I just wanted to live in peace!”

Bad puts the last block in place. “Don’t worry Tommy, you’ll have complete peace soon. Just spend the next couple of days listening, okay?” Tommy is sure to be in complete darkness now, save for the sliver of red that is the egg. Tommy can stare at that for a day or two. Even better, is no one will know he’s down here.

“Bad please! Please let me go! Please Bad, please! I just wanted to build a hotel! I just wanted to be a kid!” Tommy’s banging on the obsidian now; Bad can hear the dull thuds. “Let me go! Someone help!”

“Tommy, it’s okay. Shhh.” Bad puts his hand against the obsidian. “It’s going to be okay, you’re going to be okay. You can trust me, and you can trust it. I promise I’ll take care of you.”

He turns to leave, trying to tune out Tommy’s panicked sobs. Tommy’s screaming for help, screaming for someone to rescue him. He’s screaming for Bad to save him, saying he’ll be good. Something, something about closed spaces and being scared. He ignores the pang of guilt building up. Tommy’s not just a teenager, he’s a liability and is now out of the way. Tommy isn’t a problem anymore, Bad knows.

He won’t be a problem.

Bad closes the exit with obsidian. Hopefully with the room itself blocked off, no one will think of going to look for Tommy. After all, no one wants to go down in the room anyway, so what’s the harm in blocking off all sound?

He hums to himself as he heads back home. He goes to sleep, staying home all night.

Come morning, he rises and readies himself for the day. He resists the urge to go down to the room, trusting that Tommy is probably still screaming himself horse. Tommy’s always been a stubborn fighter. If there’s one thing that Bad can trust, is that Tommy never gives up. No, he’s better off leaving Tommy alone for just a little longer yet.

He spends the day convincing Puffy and Sam that Tommy is fine, probably just sleeping. “He had almost died to Dream,” Bad uses as an excuse. Sam and Puffy both seem to buy it, though with mild suspicion. Bad manages to convince them by leading them to Tommy’s house, at which point they both seem to completely buy it as truth, leaving him alone.

Late that night after everyone is finally gone to bed, Bad heads back down to the room. He mines away the obsidian that blocks off the entrance to the room. Stepping in, he’s glad to hear the sound of silence. Perhaps Tommy had finally worn himself out. He’s not screaming, he’s not pounding on the obsidian, it’s just silence.

For a second, Bad feels a tinge of fear, wondering if someone had realized Tommy was down here and helped him escape, but he pushes that thought aside when the egg speaks to him. Tommy’s still down here. Tommy’s still with it.

With a sigh of relief, Bad mines away the obsidian that holds Tommy in place. Tommy’s sitting cross-legged, leaning against his little prison. His head is bowed, breathing ragged. Tommy’s still shaking, rubbing his fingers against his knees, almost like a nervous tic. He almost doesn’t seem to notice Bad standing there.

“Tommy? Can you hear me?” Bad crouches down, resting both hands against the wall, before carefully reaching a hand out to offer Tommy a hand.

Tommy twitches, turning his head from side to side. “I hear you.”

“How are you feeling?” Bad asks, He tilts his head to the side, tapping his fingers against Tommy’s arm to check for any tension. Had Tommy spent hours hurting himself? He’s a little concerned for the frail frame.

Tommy finally looks up to stare at Bad. Bad grins widely at what he’s looking at. Instead of a bright, vivid blue staring at him, he’s staring at a vivid, blood red.

Perfect.

Bad offers Tommy a hand, pulling him back to his feet. He helps Tommy out of the box, wrapping an arm around him to hold him steady. “You didn’t answer me Tommy. Are you feeling alright?”

“I heard the egg,” Tommy mutters. “It says we have a lot of work to do.”

“You’re right,” Bad says with a nod. “Where does it want you to start?”

Tommy grins just as widely as he pushes himself away from Bad. Tommy dusts himself off, cracking his knuckles. His blood red eyes fill with a sort of mischief mingled with promise of madness. “Tubbo,” Tommy says. “Bad, did you know I have a keycard for his nukes?”

Bad laughs.

“Welcome to the Eggpire, Tommy. We’re glad to finally have you on board.”

#mcyt #dream smp #dream smp spoilers #dream smp fanfic #dream smp fanfiction #angst #whump #kidnap mention #brainwashing #mind control #tommyinnit #badboyhalo #one shot #might continue later #but this is a bad ending #i had to #just this once #miishae writes

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a-simple-lee · 3 years

Text

Just like old times (TMA)

Tim Stoker, Sasha James, Martin Blackwood, Jonathan Sims

Synopsis: Tim can be a bully. Sasha’s prepared to take him down a notch as part of an old tradition of theirs.

“Tim, please-”

“I’m just saying, you could’ve gotten his number-”

“His number-? wh-I-”

“If not for you, then for me, I mean-”

“Tim!”

“What? He sounds cute.”

“Oh my God.”

Sasha tries to stifle a laugh at her colleagues’ banter. Martin has his face buried in his hands, sunkissed curls peeking out over the tops of his fingers as he ducks to run them through his hair. His freckles have disappeared behind a positively glowing blush.

“Tim, stop bullying him,”

“But it’s so easy-”

“Hey!” Martin raises his head at that, eyebrows furrowed in a way Sasha has to stop herself from calling adorable.

“Haven’t you done enough damage?” She smiles, nodding in his direction. He lets out a sigh of relief, as if Sasha is the only one in the office talking sense (she often is).

“Thank you, Sasha.”

“...Hold on. You’re still not over your crush, are you Martin?” Tim practically lights up with the realisation. “That’s why you didn’t make a move, huh?”

Martin lets out a squeak of indignation, dropping the pen Sasha had been watching him tap against his wrist for the past 20 minutes in what she guesses is a nervous tic.

“Oh, Marto,” Tim rubs his hands together, and Sasha refrains from telling him he looks like a fly cleaning its antennae.

“Tim,” She starts, stepping over to him. “Leave the poor boy alone,”

“Yes, listen to Sasha-” Martin nods frantically.

“He’s perfectly capable of embarrassing himself.” She takes a sip of her tea and listens to Martin spluttering for a second.

“Uh-well, that’s- I- How very dare you.”

Tim grins. “If you just tell us who it is, it’d make things a lot easier-”

“Tim,” Sasha elbows him in the side. “He’ll tell us when he’s ready.”

Tim elbows her back. “Sasha,” he gestures to Martin. “He can speak for himself.”

“I-it’s fine, Sasha, you’re right-”

Sasha reaches over to pat Martin’s shoulder, and the nervous rambling halts.

“Right, are you going to leave him alone then?” Sasha gently pushes Tim.

“But who am I going to pester?” He frowns.

“We both know you only pester us when you want attention,” Sasha tosses a pen at him. He catches it.

“It’s working so far,”

Something clicks into place in Sasha’s head.

“Alright, fine. Let’s say you’ve got my attention. Now what?”

Tim glances to the ceiling, a tell Sasha’s learned to pick up on. She knows he’s trying to think of an answer. His eyes light up, and he points to his cheek with the pen. “You could give me a kiss?”

She giggles, deciding not to point out that he’s just smudged ink on his face. “Pretty sure Martin doesn’t want to be subject to our workplace fraternisation.”

“But Sasha-” Tim wiggles his eyebrows and lowers his voice. “It’s not fraternisation if we don’t get caught.”

There’s her cue. She reaches over and squeezes his side.

“Tim, you’re despicable.”

He shifts away, suppressing a laugh. “Hey, now-”

“What?” She grins, stepping closer to poke at his ribs. It’s no secret that Tim isn’t one to shy away from physical affection, though perhaps less known that he’s not averse to being tickled. Every now and then, Tim will try to initiate a tickle fight through playful roughhousing or banter, and Sasha will eventually get the message.

She certainly doesn’t mind humoring Tim’s attempts at provocation if it means getting to watch her best friend giggle uncontrollably. Her hands poke up and down Tim’s ribs, following when he leans away - he’s perfectly capable of stepping out of range, but he doesn’t. He just stands there, batting weakly at her hands and backing himself into a corner.

“Sash!” He squeaks, signature Stoker grin morphed into a beaming smile, letting out a high-pitched giggle when Sasha lightly squeezes his sides.

“Yes?”

“You’re-ha-killing me! She’s killing me, Martin!”

Martin puts down his mug and resumes typing, not even looking their way. “What a pity.”

“Please, you’ve gotta save me, Martin!”

“Leave him out of this,” Sasha tuts. “He knows not to intervene.”

Martin snorts. “Just common sense, really.”

“Fine, fine! I- SASHA!” Tim all but screeches when she moves to target his stomach, sinking down slightly and stumbling backwards into his chair. Sasha can’t help but start laughing, and Tim’s trying to glare daggers at her, only he’s blushing way too hard and smiling much too widely for Sasha to take him seriously. It’s silly, and childish, but this dance of jovial affection is theirs, and she wouldn’t change it for the world.

And then Jon clears his throat from his place in the doorway.

Tim sits up straight in his chair, hair still askew, residual giggles still lacing his voice. “Hey, boss!”

Jon nods stiffly. “Hello.” The both of them take a second exchanging a look Sasha can’t quite decipher. She thinks of the time in Research, when she’d entered the room on lunch break to see Jon and Tim swatting at one another like siblings having a disagreement. Of the way Jon knew to prod at Tim’s torso to get him to back off, or the way Tim knew to tweak one of Jon’s ribs in retaliation.

It feels like years ago, but she knows - she can tell - none of them have forgotten.

“You have ink on your face.” Jon observes. Tim sends a pointed glance in Sasha’s direction. She shrugs at him.

“Right, thanks. I’ll get that sorted.”

There’s a pause.

“Did you, uh-” Tim gestures to the pile of files Jon’s cradling. “Did you need something?”

Jonathan blinks. “Yes, actually, uh. Sorry to interrupt your lunch break. I amended the errors you pointed out in those recordings last week, Tim. I’d appreciate it if you could swap out the tapes on the shelves.” Jon starts, briskly striding to his desk and sliding two cassettes onto the free space by the keyboard.

“Right, cheers.” Tim looks dazed. They both do.

Jon gives another nod, heading back towards his office. Sasha watches him go.

He pauses at the doorway.

“Oh, and Sasha?”

“Yes?”

“You should know by now to go for his neck.”

The door swings shut. Sasha grins as Tim starts trying to improvise a peace treaty on the spot.

Some things never change.

#tickle fic #the magnus archives #tma #ticklish!Tim #timsasha #timothy stoker #sasha james #martin blackwood #jonathan sims #fluff #season 1 #s1 fluff #OG archives crew #found family #all comfort no hurt

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be-ready-when-i-say-go · 3 years

Text

Blighted

For my precious Sunshine, @5-secondsofcolor's birthday!! Which is technically now, because it is 1 AM on the 20th of May and I am a mad woman. Love you and I hope you have an amazing day, when you see this of course.

Here is your fic, FBI/Behavior Analyst!Calum. Female OC.

Ivy says she's cursed after taking the same career path that took her father's life. Calum's new on the team, a liaison and media specialist, but he's looking to get his toes wet.

AKA your regular old jaded pessimist veteran and bright eyed rookie buddy cop story. Please enjoy!

CW: In depth descriptions of death/crime scenes. Depictions of violence, gore, and blood.

Enjoy my masterlist (on a haitus)

Search for more writing in the h writes tag

________________________

The whiteboard never leaves. It glows behind her closed eyelids. When staring down at the neck of a bottle, she sees it floating just as the bottom of her drink. She’s cursed. But she knew that the moment she tried out for the academy. The second the thought floated across her mind, she would be doomed just like her father. Ivy tried her best to reroute herself--she got into the arts, was first chair flute in her highschool’s orchestra. She was president of the Homecoming committees her junior and senior year, and worked during the summers at her church's camp.

And yet when she went into school for her degree, she gravitated towards psychology and criminal justice. She saw her mother’s fear. The closer it came to graduation and the more the two of them talked about what she would do after graduating, the more the thought lingered, I want to get into the Bureau like Dad. But she couldn’t utter that. She couldn’t say those words without tears welling up in her mother’s eyes.

Ivy suspected her mother always knew about the desires. Ivy didn’t remember all the nights clearly, but sometimes she’d peek out her bedroom door and see the glow of the light downstairs. Ivy followed it, side stepping the creaky fourth step from the top and from between the banister’s she’d find her dad sitting at the dining room table. The kitchen light glowed from behind him and his tie would barely hang on around his neck.

“Boo,” he’d say quietly, knowing the slight shuffle of Ivy’s feet.

“How’d you know I was there, Daddy?” she’d ask, carrying herself the rest of the way down the stairs and make her way through the living room to climb into his lap.

“I can hear your feet above me,” he’d respond, pointing above them.

And they’d spend an hour, sitting at the dining room table. Ivy asked about her dad’s latest trip. He only ever told her when she was young that they were helping save people, putting bad people away. Ivy wonders if this is where it started. If this was where her father casted the spell, leaving Ivy somehow starry eyed about what it really was he did. Ivy would always look at this job with a little bit of that hope that her younger self had, and she’d always be fucked to never be able to walk away from this line of work.

It would kill her--much like it had killed her dad. But unlike him, she’d see the bullet spiral out of the barrel. Her dad had her and her mother to get back too. It wasn’t a weakness. Ivy admired her father for sticking with his dreams and also making the hard calls to make sure his family knew he cared too. But the need to decide would always be a slight hindrance, would always be the key to living or dying in this line of work.

All that’s left of her father, besides the memories and a few of his old t-shirts that got remade into pillows, is the whiteboard she keeps at her desk. There’s a whiteboard for the entire team to use of course. But this whiteboard is the one that her father used in his office. The one where he made his notes, scribbles. The one she’d write notes to him in the bottom left corner that never disappeared until she wanted to replace the note with something new.

“Thomas, look alive, and enjoy.” The manilla folder hits her desk with a quiet thwack. Ivy blinks from the whiteboard up to her senior officer. Kennedy carries on, dropping folders on every desk and each one of them stands without needing any further prompting.

Kennedy’s been in the field for years. It was all over his face with the deep frown lines. His brow seemed permanently furrowed, as if he questioned every waking second. Ivy liked to tease he worried even about sleep. But no one could sink a decade and a half into this line of work and not come out on the other side with a healthy amount of suspicion.

“And where’s this new guy?” Kennedy asks, glancing over the office.

Ivy looks up from her copy of the file. She heard rumors of someone else coming by the office, assisting them occasionally on cases. But those rumors floated around weeks ago, long enough that she chalked it up to just that--rumors. It doesn’t shock her though. Things start at rumors often, and sometimes they come to fruition and sometimes they don’t. Ivy follows Kennedy’s eyeline and doesn’t spy any new faces.

“Want me to keep an eye out for any lost souls?” Ivy offers, glancing back up to Kennedy.

“Nah, I need your eyes on this one. Head up to the conference room and I’ll be there once he shows up.”

With a nod, Ivy closes the file. She swipes the whiteboard from her desk with a couple markers and heads up to the conference room. The rest of the team sat flipping through their files too, Jenkins sitting right near the front but moved down one seat. They’re not new, having been around for a couple years. But Ivy can tell their type--getting in chummy with the boss, trying too hard. They’re a good addition, but Ivy’s waiting for the day they take a hunch and it doesn’t lead to the results they want. A loss will show their true colors, how well they can handle being wrong sometimes. No one on the team is perfect, they’re all hedging bets. Ivy’s taken her lumps of hunches being made too late, or the wrong bets placed. They’re not often. No one likes them. But they happen.

Diaz, Russell, and Burke and scattered throughout the rest of the table. The three of them have been there longer than Ivy. But they all accepted her with open arms. Diaz and Burke were more muscular. They had the brains to match, but they came up the pipeline from their local PD departments and aren’t afraid to get into a tussle. More often than not, Ivy winds up pulling Burke from fights than she’d care to admit. Diaz’s much too big for Ivy to attempt physically restraining, so she referee’s those fights that he gets into.

Russell’s their man behind the screen. He was good at getting through the internet loops, figuring out how to sort databases for the information they need without so much red tape and delay. He preferred to stay behind the lines, but could handle a tussle. Ivy doesn’t count herself as the brains. But her gut had some sort of true north needle that, more often than not, was right. She could see patterns faster than most, could sniff the air after someone and assess how much she could and wanted to trust. Kennedy consulted her often. Whenever she felt like she had something, he’d hush the crowd for her to formulate the full thought. Kennedy didn’t always agree with her assessment, but had to listen to it. He needed to listen to it.

“Nope,” Russell huffs, shutting the folder. “Fucking hell. Kennedy told me it was rough, but I didn’t--I didn’t think it was this rough.”

Ivy settles in next to him sliding him a marker. She draws roughly a tic-tac-toe board. “It not getting easier for you is a good sign.”

Russell makes his first move, the marker squeaking just a little. Ivy follows up with hers. She knows if she makes it too obvious, too easy, Russell will forfeit the game. So she tries to play along, like she’s vying to win.

Russell places his second X though his hands shake just a hair. “Yeah, but compared to you guys, I feel like if someone took a gnarly enough shit it would make me queasy.”

“A bad enough shit could do that to anyone,” Diaz pipes in, his own folder still open but his forearms pressed down over the photographs. Russell’s been around the block, definitely seem some rough things, but has always had a softer view of the world. Still wants it to be good despite all the bad he’s seen.

Ivy places down her second O, noticing the pretty obvious wide open spot she left Russell but looks up to Diaz. “I think I heard through the grapevine you were on the losing end of one of those shits yesterday,” she teases.

Diaz reclines into his seat, his chest bouncing with his laughter. “All because of your cooking Thomas.”

“My cooking is not that bad,” she defends, the cap of her black marker pointing him out.

Burke snickers too with a shake of her head and opens her mouth to speak but the room fills with the voice of Kennedy. “Aren’t y’all old enough to be left alone not to talk about shit for five minutes?”

“Never too old to talk shit, sir,” Diaz returns, his smile lifting only half his face up. He’s a charmer, whenever they go out to bars out manage to get a moment’s peace not hounded by work, he never seems to be at a lack of folks coming up to him. He’s already got a girl, but with the hair that cascades always neatly placed and the dazzling bright grin, anyone could fall for it.

Kennedy huffs his laughter quickly and then shuffles deeper into the room. “We’ve got a new friend, so let’s play nice.” As Kennedy makes head way, Ivy notices the man behind him. He’s tall. The black dress pants and black dress shirt don’t hide everything beneath them, but Ivy’s not too shocked to see people who work in the field like that with some sort of muscular physique. There’s something about his face though--something about the way his brown eyes dart around the room and his smile never shows any teeth that something familiar tugs at her.

Kennedy goes around the table introducing Ivy first, then going to Russell, coming down to Jenkins, Diaz, and then Burke. Each one of them lifts a hand or nods at their name. “This here is Hood, Calum Hood. Joining us as a new liaison.”

Ivy’s no good with faces sometimes. But names she hardly ever forgets. Hood, she met him once a few years back at a lecture. Not that she did them often, but Kennedy got more face time. But he made sure to spread the love between the team. He asked her to tag along. Calum must’ve been in the crowd, had to be, and had to have asked a question because Kennedy told her to remember that name. And she had.

Kennedy continues on with something. Ivy suspects he’s warning Diaz to keep any hazy tactics to a minimum considering how much of a mess they’re walking into. Ivy nods once more at him, and then faces back to the whiteboard, the tap on her arm prompting her too. I’m a scaredy cat sure, but not dumb, it reads in Russell’s handwriting. She spies his X in the bottom corner, opposite of where he would’ve won.

“Pull up a seat, Hood. We’ll have more time for pleasantries once we’re up in the air. But I want everyone to at least be familiar with this case.”

“Yes, sir.” His voice is smooth, Ivy notes. A soft volume and accented but smoother than she would’ve pegged.

The team breaks down the file, recapping mostly what they’ve already read but Kennedy’s old fashioned this way, needing to make sure people have done their homework. It’s an extra step than completely necessary, but having the quick meetings has always made this team feel more like a second family. There’s always a common goal in mind for them and they’re always reminded of it. No matter what happens out in the field, they all want the same thing.

“We soar in forty-five minutes. So let’s hope wheels can turn in the air. Hood, I need you to keep in mind the local PD’s been taking a lot of heat for the last couple of months. So we don’t want to take too much star power, we’re only here to assist and whatever we can do to put the local’s good grace back onto that PD we need to.”

Not quite what she expected, though with his demeanor and looks, he’s sure to work a crowd or newsroom well. She’s sure he’ll be on the ground with them too.

“Understood,” he replies and with that, all of them push away from the table. “Agent Thomas,” Hood says, reaching out almost as if to touch her elbow but never actually do it. He continues to speak once she looks over to him. “I-I don’t know if you remember. But we met at a lecture a couple years back that you held with Agent Kennedy. And I just wanted to say that I’m excited to be here, working with you all.”

“Thomas, here, does not respond well to flattery. Trust, we’ve all tried,” Diaz laughs, clamping down on Hood’s shoulders.

“I appreciate it,” Ivy responds. “Glad to have a fresh mind on the team.” There’s no smile, at least, not one she’d give Russell, Burke, Diaz, or even Jenkins. But Calum watches her give another curt nod with a quick quirk of her lips, and then leave, stacking her file on top of the whiteboard.

“Don’t sweat it. She’s in work mode,” Diaz assures. “We get off the clock and she’s a hoot. But on the clock, it’s strictly business. I will warn you, Thomas will burn you.”

Calum’s left, watching Diaz, Burke, and Russell leave. Jenkins turned tail the second Kennedy got done. It’s not that he wants to mix business with pleasure. He’s just been studying Thomas, attending as many lectures that she gives as he can. She didn’t always go directly by the book, there was something about her method that used the evidence, used science, but also had some sort of intuition. Thomas just knew things and when attempting to quantify it, she didn’t always have the words for it. Calum just wants to see that in action, understand what it is about knowing that isn’t always present in the facts.

The plane ride is comfortable. Plenty of seats even though they squeak just a little. Calum watches Thomas sit and everyone seems to sit spread out from there, keeping her at some sort of center. “Mobile. They don’t mind the hustle,” Ivy starts.

“Crossing state lines is risky, especially after the escalation,” Burke interjects.

“But wouldn’t that be a reason for it? If all the crimes look different, enough crossing state lines might make the unsub feel confident, like they’re getting away with something.” The entire plane turns to look at him. Calum freezes for a moment. He knows better. He knows so much better than that. Fuck.

“Valid. But we shouldn’t settle. Travel might be part of their job. We’ve got a good cluster to possibly estimate a home base. Get comfortable, perfect the craft here and then spread out. But why come back? Local PD's hadn't quite connected anything, until the return. More families, found exactly the same. Even when they cross state lines, all points wind back to a specific geographical location,” Burke returns.

“Hood, you got the inside of the media. What does it look like?”

Thirty minutes of his forty five was making sure that he could at least nail down this run through. And it’s easy, even with the squeak of Ivy’s dry erase marker, to run down the media reports, what information has been released and what hasn’t been released. He makes note of what the team doesn’t want to get out and what they do want to keep available to the public.

All the while, Calum watches the way Ivy writes over her board, the squeak over and over on specific strokes. He wonders for a moment what she’s writing, what it is that she needs to keep written track of. But he doesn’t get a chance to fully flesh out that thought before he finishes his spill and Diaz cuts in. They’re fast, not quite settling on any one theory. More like compiling the possibilities, not wanting to eliminate things but ranking how plausible they all could be until the pieces click.

The first thing after the flight lands, they head for the precinct. The lead investigator greets them, and there’s no pause. They’re pulled into the frenzy, looking at boards. Calum tries to keep his head in the game, but he is watching Ivy. The way she settles in her chair, her marker always moving. He’s not even sure it’s words anymore, just a constant circular movement. Sure he’s here to help regulate media outlets, and he can do that in his sleep if local PD and media follow his instructions to a T.

But he needs an in, to show he’s more than just the new meat on the chopping block. He’s worth something. “Is the last crime scene still available?” Calum asks.

The room turns to him, well most of the room does. Ivy keeps circling, but she speaks. “The plan’s to go in ten minutes. Whatever’s got you preoccupied, leave it in your go bag.”

Kennedy chuckles, tapping at her foot. “Give the kid a break. He was buried in news coverage the second we got into the door. But Hood, shake the cobwebs. This isn’t your small town’s rodeo anymore. If you need to be caught up, ask. But if you’re going to be in the room, keep those ears open.”

A task easier said than done, but he nods, resting his elbows on his knees. God, they’re going to think I’m an idiot. The room goes back to its normal buzz, but Calum keeps his head buried in his hands.

“Talk to me. What are your theories?”

Calum lifts his head. Ivy’s closer now. He can see the black marks on her hand from where she’s held it up against the swirls and lettering. “Clearly I’m barely treading water here.”

“First day nerves, but you can shake it. You wanted to see the crime scene. Why?”

“Why there? We have indications that the unsub spent a lot of time there, even with the interruptions they've seemed to caused. They're still meticulous. I want to follow their steps. What did they do first? And why? What do they need from a crime scene before it’s done?”

“Good. But what else?”

“What-what do you mean what else?”

She smiles, much different than the first one. It shows her teeth, a bit of a twinkle in her eyes. “What else?”

He goes quiet, reclines back into the seat and closes his eyes for a second. What else? There’s a lot else. “I mean, the next obvious thing is why these victims? But besides that, how comfortable is this person? Do they feel a need to be rushed, fast, get-in-get-out or can they blend in? I have a hunch they can blend in. Maybe people even trust them. They are perfectly ordinary and in essence, they have to be in order for the fantasy to work. Detection means they have to get sloppy. Being sloppy’s not an option, so blending in it is.”

“Bring that to the crime scene.” Something taps his knee and Calum cracks open his eyes to see her, standing. Her whiteboard still gently rests against his knee. She’s not looking at him though. Her gaze is locked onto the board next to him, displaying the crime scene photos.

“What’s your secret?” Calum asks. He’s almost positive she didn’t hear him due to Ivy’s lack of prompt response. But then she turns to him.

“Secret?”

“Thomas, Hood, you comin’ or what?” Kennedy calls. “I can deal without Diaz, but I need you, Thomas.”

“I’ll remember that,” Diaz laughs as they walk through the glass doors of the precinct.

It’s not Calum’s first time at a crime scene. But the second Calum steps through the door a chill runs through him. The carpet and walls are still bloodstained. Everything about it the scene just feels wrong, makes Calum want to immediately step back out of the house.

“You feel that?” Burke asks. She continues on deeper into the house, slipping into her gloves.

“This is when Thomas says she’s too Black for all this and gets the hell out of dodge,” Diaz barks. He squats down to the blood on the carpet. Ivy’s already deep into the house, seemingly guided by a force unwillingly to let her go. She doesn’t respond verbally, just lifts her hand, the middle finger extended out in the general direction of Diaz.

And Calum is standing near the threshold of the door, trying to pinpoint why it feels so cold in a house in Texas in the middle of the summer. His hands feel sticky even inside the latex gloves. His first step is shaky but he stops next to Diaz. “There are drag marks from the blood,” Calum notes. “This isn’t where they were killed, just staged.”

“The unsub staged all the victims here in the living room. We know that. Pictures show the parents at the ends of the sofa, children in the middle, dog on the floor.”

“But there’s blood on the walls. We know the Dad’s 6’1,” Calum returns.

“And we don’t have forced entry. So, whoever is wreaking havoc isn’t threatening enough for someone not to answer the door.”

Calum turns to the sofa where the family was found. “It’s picturesque, poetic even. You’ve got a whole family right here, at your will. They knock on the door. It’s dusk, sun’s just starting to set.”

“They have a ruse that gets them inside. We already know they have to blend in with the community. So what can you use to get into a house? Who gets into a house without a problem?”

Diaz goes into the kitchen where in the case file it mentions when the family was finally discovered food was still out on the table. “The window doesn’t have to last long. But it has to be just right. All three families were either eating dinner, or just done with dinner. So why dinner time?” Diaz turns from the stove to face Calum.

“It’s when everyone is together. They’re not just going after a family, but very specific family dynamics. Which means both parents need to present, two kids seems to be a minimum.”

“What’s the average dinner time you’d say? With this job, I eat whenever I fucking can. But before this, excluding people like us, when is the average person sitting down to eat?”

“6, 6:30 I’d guess. That’s assuming the average person is working a job that calls it at 5PM. A town like this is either on the verge of collapsing or being bought out. So I assume a lot of people are traveling outside to the city for work, so the commute might be even later. But I wouldn’t hazard any guesses that our unsub’s just haphazardly picking houses.”

“No, no, you’re right, Hood,” Diaz states, walking over to the table. “I guess what I’m saying is the timing. No one hears anything. But our unsub’s using a gun. That’s not quiet. And there’s not a lot of city noise this far out. They’re spending hours in the house and somehow getting out undetected. But striking at dinner time, with the setting sun, means this person’s around outside the house. But no one’s noticed anything out of the ordinary.”

“Hunting seasons,” Calum returns. “No one really flinches at the sound of a gun shot because people are hunting year ‘round here.”

“And it seems like humans are on the menu.”

“An appetizing thought.”

******

Ivy’s not sure when the chill finally left over the course of the day but it returns when she walks into the precinct and sees the entire room in a frenzy. Kennedy spies her and it’s just a look. Not much different than his resting face, but somehow she knows with that slight arch in his eyebrow. Another family--while they were proding over photos the killer was already moving on, already in the midst of their attack.

And it shouldn’t shock her. Well, to be more accurate, it doesn’t shock her and maybe that’s the thing that scares her. “I’ve been doing this too damned long,” she mutters to herself. “Hood, you’re with me. Get the address and let’s see what that gut of yours cooks up.”

“How’d--Is Kennedy going to be okay with that? The call just came in a few minutes ago.”

“Get the address and tell me how you like your coffee,” Ivy says. Kennedy’s going to come to the scene anyway, but she doesn’t tell Calum that.

There’s not another word before Calum passes in front of her. “Cream and two sugars,” he answers as he goes.

“So Black, got it.”

Paused at the desk of a detective, he looks over his shoulder. “Cream and two sugars,” he re-emphasizes with a tiny smile and holding up two fingers. Police station coffee’s never the best, but it’s better than nothing. When on a case, time is also imperative and they take what they can. Ivy fixes Calum’s cup first, slipping a lid on and keeping the stirrer through the hole. She pours her cup with no additions.

“Not even creamer? Not one?” Calum questions.

“Takes too much time,” she returns. “Burke, you staying?”

“Yeah, Russell got those files over just before the call came in. Besides that crime scene’s bound to be crowded as all hell and I swear if I walk into another house and catch a chill after seven years of doing this job, I just might quit.”

The two ladies laugh. Ivy recovering first to respond, “I need you to keep me sane even though you’re just as much trouble as Diaz.”

“Which is why I’m going to say here, work with Russell. We’re going to need Hood back before the 5’oclock news. Whatever you find at the scene will help solidify our profile and we need it soon. We need the hands on this clock, because it’s ticking ahead of us.”

Ivy nods. It’s no fun being behind. “Kennedy, we’re moving or we’re dying.”

“I trust you. There’s something off about that last one that I want to walk through again.”

“Let’s rock and roll,” she says to Calum, handing him his cup of coffee. “Mr. Cream-and-Two-Sugars.”

The drive is relatively short, all thanks to Ivy’s lead foot. But they need to get there fast, while things are still fresh.

“Did you always want to do this?” Calum asks in the silence of their drive. The radio doesn’t even play. Ivy knew he had questions. He wore them on his face, brows furrowing anytime he was the slightest bit hesitant about something.

“I don’t think I had a choice.”

“What do you mean you didn’t have a choice? We’ve all got choices.”

“My dad worked with the FBI until it killed him. And I think about how he used to tell me it was his job to help put bad people in jail. And I believed him.”

“The bug bit you before you even had a fighting chance.”

Ivy nods, taking a quick glance to Calum. “But if I had a prettier face, I’d stick with liaison too.”

Calum huffs out his laughter. “I went the journalism route first, sue me. Besides, that’s you admitting you think I have a pretty face.”

“I forget faces—so don’t think too highly of it. And I’m probably old enough to be your mother. You attended some lectures, I remembered your name. How’d you convert?”

It’s silent for a moment and Calum contemplates her statement, old enough to be his mother. “Given that my mother has shared her fountain of youth with my sister and I, you might be shocked to know I’m nearing 30. And I converted because of you and your work under Kennedy and his old superior Rogers.”

“All the greats,” Ivy teases, but she doesn't sound impressed. More like tired, used to it.

“But you’re different.”

“Yeah, because somehow the Bureau hasn’t realized their mistake.”

“Mistake?” Calum asks around his sip of coffee.

“Kennedy’s going to retire soon. He's done 15 with our unit. Another ten prior to that climbing through the ranks. Then they’re going to have to find a replacement.”

“You say that like it won’t be you.”

“Because it won’t.”

“You’ve been with Kennedy for so long. He’s obviously going to recommend you, Ivy.”

“He can recommend but people higher up get the final word.”

The truck stops just in front of the house, and Calum knows the most logical thing to do is just focus on the case, walk the scene. Do his job. But he reaches across the console and wraps his fingers around hers for a second with a squeeze. “You’ll get it. They’d be dumb not to bring you to the head of this team.”

“There’s an altar or a shrine. It’s small.”

Calum pauses with his hand on the door. Ivy continues beside him. “Go to the eldest child’s bedroom. In a corner you’ll see the small shrine. Our unsub left one at the last house. And the house before, I’d bet. And this house too. That’s what Kennedy missed. What other cops missed too. Make sure you get it photographed. Besides, I’ve been doing this job too long and don’t know if I’d even want the added responsibility if they promoted me.”

“How’d we miss that?”

“We didn’t miss shit. We saw it when we needed to see it. We see things when we need them.” It's the way she says it, like she has to believe that makes Calum believe too.

The sight rocks Calum--he knew it wouldn’t be easy. But he didn’t know it’d hit him like this. The room spins, just a little. And his heart racing. Mostly because he can’t stand the thought that this could be someone he knows. These people weren’t anticipating their would be like this. And what does that even mean for him? What does his end look like?

“Hey, whoa. Whoa.” An arm comes around his waist and he follows the lead of whomever’s grabbed him.

“I’m okay,” he breathes out. “I’m okay.”

“Yeah, I’m a fudge brownie. It’s okay to not be alright in there.”

Calum rests against the side of the house and squats down just a little. His elbows hit his knees. His breath is heavy, falls from his open mouth almost like he’s going to vomit. But his stomach’s not churning anymore. Not with the fresh morning air hitting his lungs. “Fuck,” he breathes out again, eyes blurring just a little.

“But you’re okay. Take a breather.” Ivy’s shoes turn up in the dirt. "Get him a water, will ya? Hood, take a minute. It's alright. I'll be inside when you're ready." Calum just watches her go. It takes a moment for him to lift his head. It has to get easier. Or least he hopes it does. It takes him a minute, inhaling deeply before he stands up straight.

The rest of them processing the scene goes by in relative silence. Occasionally, Calum pipes in with an addition to their theory. Ivy hums in agreement. And it’s not until they step out and slip out of their gloves that Ivy says anything. “This is why I drink my coffee black.”

“I’m sorry. I really--I don’t know why this one got me.”

“It’s the kids. Kids are the worst.”

Calum looks up to the sky. There’s a few clouds, but not many. “The photos are bad, but in person is way different.”

Ivy watches Calum, the way it takes him a second to come back to earth it seems. “Don’t ask yourself if it gets easier.” When his gaze lands hers, she can see the furrowed brow again. The question drips off his face. “You’ll only disappoint yourself. And this job’s not for the weak of heart. For the people that can’t take some losses with the wins.”

“You said it yourself. You wanted to put the bad people away.”

“Eight year old me wants to believe it’s as easy as putting the monsters away. Thirty-one year old me knows for a fact what the losses are, who gets caught in the cross-fire. It’s not easy, not in the slightest.”

“Innocent lives do add up.”

“Which is why I try not to do math on the job. They all slip up. They all reach a point where their methods don’t satiate the need. They all make a fatal flaw and counting the unfortunate lives on the way to that will have you walking from the Bureau faster than you can blink.”

“So what makes you stay? If it’s all so fucking bad, what keeps you going?”

Ivy nods to the car, pulling the keys from her pocket. “We need to solidify our profile and you need to run press ASAP. But to answer your question, the thing that keeps me going is that fact that they do get caught eventually.”

******

Eventually seems to come up faster than Calum anticipates. He was sure it would take weeks. After getting back to the precinct more information in Russell’s digging found a connection between all the families, a Venn diagram that overlapped to their X on the map. Another couple of days and it all unravelled. It’s a blur, when he tries to think back to it, on the plane. The only grounding thing is when one of the children, a little girl about 6, pointed out the tattoos on his hands. In all this time, he was sure the tattoos would be a barrier to entry--they’d somehow put him in a place that others would think he was nothing but trouble. But somehow, despite the terror she had done through, that little girl liked his tattoos, found some sort of comfort in them.

When he told her they were for his parents, she smiled at him. She said she wanted one for her parents too and then asked if he had anymore and how old he was when he got them. All of which Calum was more than happy to answer while the medic checked over her. Her older brother came soon after, asking a few questions, but overall he was much quieter than his sister. Understandable for what was endured. In the end, Calum’s just glad he didn’t see them staged on a couch, bleeding out onto the cushions.

There’s a small bit of turbulence and the shakes cause Calum to open his eyes for a moment. Ivy’s seated across from him, whiteboard on her lap, headphones in her ears. A tic-tac-toe grid drawn across it in the middle, but in the corners are some swirls, a crude drawing of the shrine from the case. Calum leans forward and tugs on the board just a little. She lets it go without a fight and hands over the marker.

Calum makes an ‘X’ in the top left. “You said this job doesn’t get easier.” He looks up to see if Ivy can hear him and is relieved when she pops out one her headphones. She raises her brows like she wants him to continue with the thought. And Calum’s not even sure he should. Instead, he hands over the board back to her. If seeing death doesn’t get easier, then maybe it just means he gets better at it. Maybe it means that not being okay with death is a good motivator to keep down this path.

“The job doesn’t get easier. You’re still human. You still want a spouse and a kid. You might want two dogs and a cat. You might want that white picket fence one day. You’ll want to close your eyes and not see death. You’ll want to walk down the street and see humans as humans again. You’ll have nightmares. Don’t hide from it. Nothing’s wrong with you for wanting that. But we’re in a world now where we see the horrors--what’s on the other side of everything you wanted. It’s a liminal space and it’s heavy to wade through.”

“I just want to not freak like I did the other day. It’s not easy. But sometimes I fear that maybe I bit off more than I could chew.”

Their game of tic-tac-toe has been forgotten, placed in the seat next to Ivy as she leans forward in her seat. “You said you were converted because of me. What exactly about me was it?”

“You just know things. When you walk onto a scene, you have an air of knowing. How can you just pick up on it in a snap?”

“Well,” Ivy laughs, “if that’s the only reason you want in, I warn you to get out.”

“I want to help. I want to save people,” Calum adds on. But then it hits him. Maybe this wasn’t the business of saving people as much as it was stopping people. Sure, they prevent future murders, but that didn’t always negate for all the lives lost. But they did save that family today. He saved that little girl that wants tattoos like his. “I want to save people and I want to stop people as well,” he finally adds on.

“There will always be monsters in this world,” Ivy warns.

“And there will always be heroes.”

“Make no mistake, Calum. We don’t have capes. We don’t swoop in all the time at just the right moment. Sometimes we are late. Sometimes we’re reacting more than we are being proactive. Sometimes we fuck up.”

His heart stops for just a moment at the mention of his first name. He’s always Hood, or at least has always been Hood. Just like she’s always Thomas to the team. But she said his first name. Unmistakably so. “Did-did you just use my first name?”

“You used my first name, first.”

When had he done that? He didn’t recall, but he couldn’t combat it either.

“Look,” Ivy continues, “the fact remains. We will fail. We will make the wrong call, or the right call just by the skin of our teeth. We will walk down the wrong direction only to figure out, we know it’s the wrong one. We get it right. A lot more often, we get it right and we minimize the death count. But we’re human--you don’t have to take it on if you don’t want. You don’t have to suffer.”

“If I don’t suffer and win, then that little girl suffers and loses. Then the next person loses. And the next. Their suffering or mine--the choice is clear.”

Ivy studies Calum for a moment. She sees the resolve on his face. Just how much sacrificing himself is a no brainer for him. It was a no brainer for her too. But admittedly, she was cursed. Maybe Calum wasn’t. Maybe she could save him, even if she couldn’t save herself. But she wasn’t in the business of saving people, only stopping them.

“I can’t stop you, can I?” she asks.

“Stop me from what?”

“Stop you from killing yourself with this job.”

“If it’s killing you, then why don’t you leave?” His head cocks to the side, now intrigued by her honesty.

“It’s like you said, I got bit before I could escape. I’m cursed. Are you?”

The little girl flashes through his vision again, and his chest tightens for a second before the relief kicks in. He could chase that feeling, the knowledge that he saved someone, one person. And that he helped put away one more person causing harm. “I am now. Ruined--because even though I can’t save them all. I can save some. I can help keep some people safe. I don’t think there’s a better reward than that.”

With a nod, Ivy looks back to their game on the whiteboard. They would’ve tied, she can see it after where she placed her ‘O’. But she hands it back over to Calum. “Kennedy’s going to shit himself when he realizes he’s got too hard heads on his team.”

“You’ll shit yourself when you realize you’re inheriting the second hard-head on the team after Kennedy leaves.”

Ivy scoffs. Of course, Calum still believes in the shiny idea that hard work yields rewards. “And this is where I can still tell you’re new to this--the dreams are still shiny and ideal.”

“All the work you’ve invested, they’d be--”

Ivy interrupts him. “I know, they’d be dumb not to.”

“Then why do you keep saying it won’t happen?”

“I’d call my pessimism a curse. But at this point, I think it’s a personality trait and the truth.”

“And let me guess, this is why you take your coffee black too.”

Ivy winks at him before her smile takes over her face. “You know it.”

#calum hood #calum hood fanfic #calum hood imagine #calum hood fic #calum hood 5sos #calum 5sos #5sos #5sos fanfic #5sos fic #5sos imaagine #5 seconds of summer #5 seconds of summer fanfic #5 seconds of summer fic #fbi!calum #behavior analyst!calum #h writes #calum hood blurb #calum hood x oc

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redsandroses · 4 years

Text

The new addition

Warnings: smut, fingering(female receiving), choking, cum eating, oral(male receiving), slapping

Pairing: Minho× female reader

word count:1.4k

It was your day off after a long time. You have been working nonstop for the past month so you craved some attention and conversation. Your friends also missed you so they planned a party where you could just chill and not think about anything. Who were you to say no to that.

One of your friends, Lia texted you telling you to wear the sexiest piece you had. “We want you to meet someone” . Lucky for you you had just the right peace. It was a little black dress, just long enough to cover your ass, with some cleavage and lace for the open parts one the sides. You felt like the most dangerous woman on earth when you wore that. You wore only a bra underneath, no underwear cause you didn’t want the strips to be visible. You wore your heals, did some makeup. Not too much just enough to bring out your beauty that you thought you lost at work.

When you entered the party, your friends came to you. They all said they missed you so much and they had a look in their eyes, they were up to something. So this friend group you had was kind of complicated. Whenever you got together and got drunk, a couple of you would make out but went on with your days afterwards. You secretly knew some of them fucked, as you and Chan did a couple of times, but what happens at these parties stayed in these parties. With that being said Lia came to you with big eyes. “Wow you look fan-tas-tic y/n. Minho is one lucky bastard.”

“Minho?” you asked. Wondering who this minho everyone was talking about. Since you got in, people just kept talking about how you two are going to be the best couple and how he would treat you the way you deserved after those fuckers you had as boyfriends and how he would take you to the stars with ,ahem, every thrust. You were blushing, you hated that you were too open with everything at that moment.

“Yes, minho. The new addition to our group. You have to meet him you two are basically made for each other you’ll see." Then she took you to him. While you were approaching, you got really nervous. You saw him, he was the most gorgeous man you ever saw. His face was beautiful, his body had the best proportions, his smile was literally a source of light. God, this was going to be good.

Lia just pushed you to him and left. Oh that bitch, you loved her. "Hi, you must be Minho.” you said with the most seductive voice you could possibly make. “Oh, hi you must beee the y/n everyone was talking about.” How you loved your friends.

“Yeah I guess I am the y/n. It’s a pleasure to meet you." You were trying to act cool but actually you were freaking out. He was like a god or something, you were mesmerized. You guys talked for a while getting to know each other. He was buying you drinks and you decided it was a good idea that you danced. You dragged him to the dance floor. As you guys got to it, the song changed into something really sensual. This was the time you’ve been waiting for. You needed a touch, you needed his touch.

With the help of the drinks, you started getting close to him, grinding down on him making him lose his mind. The last straw for him was when you grabbed his cock and whispered "why don’t you and me went to a room. Alone.” He grabbed you by your waist and took you upstairs. You couldn’t wait to find a room so you started kissing him in the hall. It wasn’t anything soft. You needed him and you needed him now. As things got more heated he started rubbing your thighs squeezing you ass and finally he made his way to your heat. When he realised you had no underwear he smirked “you are a bad girl aren’t you? not wearing anything under this little slut dress of yours. But daddy loves it." When he called himself daddy, you knew you had just the right one. "Babygirl needs daddy’s fingers please give them to me" you whispered.

Without any warning he pushed his two fingers in you. You were so wet that he slipped right in. "Did you get this wet for me?”

“Yes minho only for you.” He slapped you when you said that. “Tonight that’s not my name sweetie."

"I’m sorry daddy it got out of my mouth.”

“We better give that mouth of yours a lesson then" he pushed you into the nearest room and demanded you to take off your dress as he took of his pants and shirt. Now you were left with your bra and he was in his boxers. You got on your knees knowing what’s coming next. "See, this is how you should act around me now, glad you learned it on your own.” He came to you as you put your hair up in a ponytail so it was easier for him to lead your head. His cock was begging to get out and so you took it out. You didn’t even had the time to look at it. Minho pushed himself into your mouth. “Bad girls need to get their lesson and this one is yours.” he was grunting, making sounds that made you want to touch yourself. He saw you reaching to your pussy and he slapped you. " we are in the middle of a lesson here sweetie what do you think you are doing, hm?“ He tied your hands behind your back and fuck, now you couldn’t even touch him, guess you deserved it.

After a while he took you to the bed. "On all fours now." You wanted him to fuck you so bad and this was the time. He pushed himself in you making you stretch like crazy. He waited for a while for you to adjust to his size. "Please move daddy I need you to fuck me as hard as you can.” He started with slow thrusts making you beg for more. But he was needy too so he fastened his pace after a few thrusts. He pulled your hair by your ponytail, closing the gap between your bodies. “I- I want you to- choke me daddy." he gladly did. He knew the right amount of pressure to give you pleasure. Now he was pounding in you with an unbelievable pace. The room was filled with your moans and his grunts. You were chanting his name when he touched the right spots and he knew all of them.

You were close and he reached to your clit, starting to rub it. Drawing eights around it pinching it sometimes which made you scream his name more. You didn’t care if there were people outside or if they could hear you and also the possibility of someone walking in on you. You simply didn’t care.

His thrusts were getting sloppy. You knew he was close. ” babygirl wants to cum for daddy, can she?“

"Yes, yes cum for me. Scream my name while cumming so that everyone can know you are mine now.”

“Ahhh! M-minho yes make me cum p-please”

You came with a deep thrusts. “Can daddy cum in you? Are you on the pill?” “Yes daddy please cum in me draw my walls with your cum and watch me leak." He came as you gave him permission. You stayed in the same position for a while. Then after you both came down your highs, he pulled out. And went straight to between your legs, watching his white sin leaking out of your pretty cunt. It was a scene to watch. Then he took his cum and made you lick his fingers clean. He tasted surprisingly not bad. He must have been drinking the juice Chan was having, you thought.

"I’m glad they made us meet y/n. I thought this was going to be one of the failed attempts as usual but no, you are amazing.” you looked at his eyes, they were literally sparkling, it felt like you’ve fallen into them. "Me too minho-“ you were going to add some compliments as you got interrupted by your friends. When they saw both of you naked on top of each other, they shouted and laughed. Lia was in the front she winked at you "See I knew they would be the perfect match. They couldn’t even keep themselves apart for one night.” You looked at minho and you both laughed. “Guys if you could please leave now we are in the middle of something as you can see.” you flipped at your friends.

“Round two?”

he smirked. “Duh”

#stray kids smut #stray kids imagines #skz smut #skz imagines #minho smut #lee know smut #lee know #minho #minho imagines #lee know imagines

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too-scared-to-do-this · 3 years

Text

Insufferable

Chapter two - A king’s duty is a king’s duty

Sander’s sides fanfiction - ‘Off the Devil’s head’ spin-off (can be read as a stand-alone)

Wordcount: 1928

Ship: intrulogical

TW: cursing - a lot of cursing (still Remus, lovlies, get used to it), confusion, cute bickering (I think...?), forests at night, very obvious autistic tics (based on my own, so I know they are real and how they work, in case you’re not sure ^^ I wouldn’t write something that I haven’t checked at least twice with someone who has, or deals with or is deeply interested in this stuff). And I think that’s all. If anything pops up, do let me know :) <3

Summary of the whole story: This might have not been the brightest idea - steeling from a cart right in the fucking smack-dab-middle of the Square. But Remus never claimed his ideas were bright. Never said his words and actions were appropriate either. So how in all off goddamned hell did he find himself sprawled out on a giant comfortable throne instead of a cold and dark (and very drippy) prison cell - with guards actually guarding his safety instead of assuring his imprisonment - is completely beyond him.

Link to AO3 for those who prefer reading there ^^

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

Chapter two - A king’s duty is a king’s duty

There’s not a lot of things Logan dislikes. There’s a total of fifteen so far. But disruption of order, change and tall grass is definitely in the top ten. And wouldn’t you look at that?

Green-haired hurricanes are tearing threw his peaceful kingdom, disrupting peace - thus creating an unnecessary change. Which caused his sleepless state, which lead him down a path where he has to hop from foot to foot like a dear, to eliminate any unnecessary contact with grass.

And the fact that all these things alone cause unnecessary stress, let alone combined, just makes it all worse. His movements are more jagged then usual, more frantic. Gestures all over the place in unorganized manors. And his eyebrows are stuck in a constant ‘thinking scowl’ as his advisors call it.

To any other person, his behavior would seem truly strange - Logan can’t say he doesn’t feel a little embarrassed by it, even now that he’s alone. But there are some things that just can’t be helped.

Besides, all of his kingdom know that their king is a ‘little weird’.

Since Logan first sat on the throne - at the mere age of thirteen - everybody’s been in love with their ruler. It sounds a little odd, that they let a thirteen-year-old kid on the throne, but Logan’s never really been a kid. Since when he can remember he read books far too difficult for the usual kid his age, listened in on conversations he probably had no business listening to, let alone understanding. Sat by his father’s side, while he made life-concerning decisions. Watched his mother as she took care of every problem with caution and care not everybody could offer. Although Logan never got around to fully understanding that care, he learned to act the same way. Same words, same gestures. Nobody was worried when the crown got passed down to him. All the people in the kingdom knew they were in good hands.

Logan’s very first mission was learning the name of every single person in town. It wasn’t an easy task, but it wasn’t as hard as someone would expect, since a surprisingly big amount of people shared the same name. And Logan had a really good memory when it came to association. A face to a name. A shape to a math formula. The smell, color, density and overall look to a chemical. And of course, the exact numeric measurement of a star’s whereabouts.

But there was no way of ‘associating’ his way out of this. He had no clue of the density, the weight, the pace, the name, nor the whereabouts of this mysterious disrupter of peace. All he knew was, that his hair was unnaturally green and he looked way too skinny for a wealthy towns-man - which just underlined the reason why he was steeling.

Oh, and let’s not forget he wanted to kiss Logan. Right there on the Square, apparently.

The young king scratched his arm, absentmindedly, trying not to think too much about it. Not that that’s helping. Questions keep popping up, tripping up his sane thought process.

It’s not like Logan liked the idea of the stranger kissing him. He didn’t like to be touched, let alone landing his lips to someone else. But the thoughts didn’t leave him alone.

Maybe that’s why he was here, stepping over unnecessarily high strands of grass in the middle of the night. He might not like the greenery touching him, and the jutting out branches and leaves of trees and bushes cause him immense panic (and make him scratch his exposed body parts like crazy), but he actually likes the forest. It is really calming (for the most part, anyways).

He hoped that this almost-calming surrounding would help him clear his head. But it just seemed to stress him out even more.

The thoughts kept on swiveling in his head - swirling and twirling, not letting the unknown thief out of their claw-clad grasp.

Logan needed to find out the thief’s name. He knows everybody’s name. And if this thief stays close to town, he’s considered a citizen. He needs to learn his name.

Not far from the obsessing king, Remus was lounging out in the hammock he hung outside Matilde’s old run-down cottage. One leg swung over the edge, he swayed from side to side, twisting the silver ring on his slender finger.

Bored out of his mind.

There wasn’t many days, when Remus’s screwed-up brain didn’t come up with things to entertain him; but some days even that head needed some rest, it seemed. Apparently today was one of those days.

Not a single fun thought. Even the inner monologue he never seemed to be able to end, somehow bored him to death. The only thing peeking even the slightest of interest in him, was the constant image of those scarily-blue eyes the king-dude possessed.

Seriously. In all his life, he has never once seen such ocean-blue eyes. Dark and deep, holding many a secret. It made Remus desperate to know each and every single one.

But that was not happening. No matter how much the eyes mesmerized him. How much he couldn’t get them out of his head. (Agh, Jesus fucking Christ those eyes…) There was just no way he could go back to that town.

The king has let him go once (he chalked it up to his good looks, charm and smooth words) and the second time is as likely as Matilde coming back from wherever she fled to.

So here he was. Bored as all hell.

He sighed heavily, wondering what kingdom was next on his agenda tomorrow. When suddenly he heard a scrunch. Then another. And another. This was no squirrel. Remus sat up immediately, eyes darting along the dark forest.

It was so late. What the hell would anybody be doing up at this hour of the night?

He darted out of the hammock - almost falling face first when his foot got caught in the fabric - hiding in the near-by bushes. Thank the lords that he didn’t forget to turn the fucking lights off again.

The scrunching got louder by the second, and Remus crouched lower.

Low muttering drafted into his ears. “…nice of you good sir, but I’ll have to decline. I am not sure that would be appropriate considering we just met…” A dark figure, drafted in shadow came into view. “And besides, you haven’t even introduced yourself. I know the name of every citizen in this kingdom. For the sake of consistency, I would also like to find out yours…” Jesus Christ, who were they talking to? And what were they doing?!

One leg up in the air, like soldiers marching, then quickly stamped down, hopping to the other. Weird movements all over the place, not even in a straight line, like a sane person. Was this person drunk? They looked like a fucking goat, jumping from one small jutting out pebble on the mountain-side to the other.

The site alone would make Remus want to piss himself, but together with the inconsistent murmuring? He couldn’t hold back the snort.

The figure immediately froze in place. All movement and words falling into still silence. “Who’s there?” They called out cautiously.

Remus bit his tugging lip hard. Fuck.

Well, there was no backtracking now. Besides, it’s not like he was scared. It was more likely he’d scare the crazy-pants over there. So slowly, he razed from his hiding spot with hands in the air and a huge grin on his face. “What are you doing dude? You look like a fucking crazy person.”

“I’m sorry, who are you?” came the person’s answer. Voice laced with nerves.

“Just a random dude in a forest.” Rem shrugged.

“That’s not a very satisfying answer.”

Roman bit back a laugh. Seriously, what the hell? “Don’t worry I won’t hurt you.” he snickered. Then this thought blinked into his head, and as you know, thought’s bring words. Stupid, embarrassing and unnecessary words. “Unless you want me to.” he winked seductively. Then realized the person probably couldn’t even see his face, let alone the wink he just threw at them. Ah well, at least it saved him some embarrassment, when his tongue betrayed him.

Swear to god, the person ‘Eep’-ed at this. He made this strangled sound that sounded like a nervous whine mixed with surprise cut in half and that just made Remus want to laugh even more. “That’s really unnecessary, thank you.” And they’re still being polite! How even…?

Rem couldn’t help it at this point. It was too much. He burst out cackling like to crazy idiot he is. Probably scaring the poor person to death. (But then again, the ‘poor person’ did come wondering into a forest in the middle of the night, muttering to themselves and jumping around like an idiot.)

“Am… You still haven’t answered my question.”

“Oh that’s right…“ Rem’s forhead creased in thought. “…what was the question again?”

“Who are you.”

“I’m Remus.”

If Logan could allow himself to curse, he would. But he couldn’t so instead he just gave a long exasperate sigh. “And who might that be?”

The stranger stepped closer, allowing the fleeting moon-light to reach his features and gave a big bow. Hand gesture and all. “Me, obviously.” No matter how much he disliked to admit it, Remus was every bit as dramatic as his brother. If not more…

The king’s eyes lit up with recognition (not that Rem could see). Well, guess his duty’s done then - the thief’s name is Remus. Huh…Very interesting.

“Well, now that you know my name, it’d be nice to get yours, pretty.” Rem grinned, daring to get a few more steps in. Bringing him closer to the still standing-frozen person.

From here he could finally see more of them. Well, him. Because apparently the smooth deep voice he was conversing with was the royal-head himself.

And his royal head slanted to the left slightly, eyebrows drawing together. “Why should I give my name to unknown man in the forest?”

“Why should I give my name to some random bloke, then?”

“Because I asked you to?”

Remus wondered what this dude’s problem was. Logan wondered why even wanted to get out of the safety of his chamber in the first place.

“Alright then, weirdo, tell me one good reason why I should answer and you shouldn’t.” Rem crossed his arms over his chest. Yes, he was aware he was talking to the king. But that doesn’t mean he had to play nice.

Rem treats everybody the same way, because that’s how it should be. (Maybe that’s what landed his ass behind bars twice already…)

Logan jutted out his chin. He could use the ‘King-card’ - as his advisor calls it. Could easily force the thief to answer without any objections (that is if he abbeys rules; which he should.) But honestly, Logan felt like doing neither. It was late, and he was supposed to stop obsessing about this whole thing. Which he did. The thief’s name was Remus.

So, as gracefully as a king can, he shrugged. “I don’t have one.”

“Well, shit. Then you ain’t getting my name, darling.”

The royal couldn’t decide whether the thief was that simple-minded or just easily distracted. “You’ve already said your name.”

Our beloved idiot’s expression froze, grin falling. “Ah, fuck.” his shoulders did the same. (In a very overdramatic - and admittedly, impressively flexible - way)

Well, if he wasn’t screwed before, now he certainly was.

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

Jesus Christ, I’ve never cursed more in my life and I hate it so much! I don’t curse in real life, not even while texting with friends (I use shit, hell and damn, but that’s about it) and this is killing me on a whole other level! But this is Remus, and I feel like a good Remus requires a hella lot of curses.

So here we are. Me actually cursing more then my brain can accept it. But at least I get to project on Logan, right? I love autistic Logan, too damn much. He’s too precious. And the greenery thing? Believe me, my mum constantly makes fun of it XD But I don’t mind, I know I look ridiculous.

Anyways! I hope you liked this chap! ^^ I still have no idea where the hell I’m going with this, but I guess we’ll see where we end up.

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