#maybe I’m just focusing on the small insignificant details | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

rainbowbutterfrosting · 3 years

Text

If My Kingdom Falls, I’ll Lose it All

A birthday gift to the lovely @aidensm8. Ty so much @dramaticsnakes for beta-reading <33333

Cws: minor angst, feeling of not being good enough, implied overworking, neglecting self-care

Summary: "A good king takes care of himself."

"I'm not a king yet."

---

Roman was a prince. A prince who would soon become a king. There were too many things to do and the golden-eyed guard kept on getting in his way.

AO3

The Sanders Kingdom received the provocative letter that detailed the new laws set for their neighboring kingdoms that would soon fit their own as well. The King had discussed the arrangement, focusing on the inflation or artisan goods and rations provided to the people. The meetings took place over several months with no changes made in favor of the Sanders Kingdom. The nation soon declared war, providing that regulations were detrimental to-

“-no no, you should have seen him last night. He was a complete mess.”

Roman let out an exhale. The guards were socializing by his door again. When would they learn that they were getting paid to stand there and not go around pretending the castle was the local pub? He harshly stood up from his chair, not minding how it made a semi-loud sound as it moved across the floor. He made a few quick steps to open the door, glaring with the first guard he saw.

A walking stereotype. Muscles, dark hair, and a straightened-up posture once he saw Roman’s presence. Roman took in a small breath. Kings were polite with their people. He had to be kind and civil. He slipped a small smile on his face, making the edges of his eyes crinkle slightly, “Gentlemen.”

The guard looked at Roman’s eyes for a moment, but the eye contact seemed uncomfortable for the man. The guard slipped on a smile but it was filled with apprehension and hesitation. “Prince- Prince Roman. I hope we didn’t disturb you.”

Well, you did, he bitterly thought. He let a small chuckle escape him, one that wasn’t out of personal enjoyment but to rather relieve the tension. “You didn’t, but could you two tell the guards by hallway C to rotate their positions with you?” He didn’t know which guards he was swapping out, but they must have been better than these two.

He looked over at the other guard, almost forgetting he existed. His eyes were slightly narrowed as a tight smile rested on his face. His eyes were peculiar. Roman barely had time to dissect the distaste painted over the man’s face as he noticed a golden eye staring back at him. It seemed to stare through his soul and assert that he was the royal one there.

Roman swallowed the feeling down his throat as the original guard spoke, “As you wish, Prince Roman.” The guard made a few steps away from the door, the armor clinking quietly around him. He took a look back, noticing that the guard positioned next to him hadn’t moved.

“Sir Deceit?” The guard with the golden eye- who was apparently Sir Deceit- looked away from Roman and to the other guard.

He took a quiet exhale as he nodded at Roman. “As you wish, Prince Roman.” There might have been another moment where Sir Deceit lingered there for a second longer than he should have, but the time flew by Roman as the guard soon walked away.

Deceit. It was an odd name for a guard. A guard that’s supposed to be honest and truthful to his kingdom was going by Deceit. Roman momentarily wondered what Sir Deceit’s real name was before he shook his head to himself and retreated back into his room. Names were kept secret out of safety. Something about how it lowered assassination attempts or perhaps just general threats.

A part of his mind kept returning back to the guard as he sat down and tried to continue reading about their foreign affairs. He shouldn’t care about the guard, he just had a weird eye and name and that was the end of it. He had a kingdom that would fall into his hands within a matter of months. He didn’t have time to focus on the insignificant details of his workers.

---

Roman moved his hands around as the book suggested. One around an imaginary waist and the other holding an invisible hand. He slowly stepped forward while holding the pose, then moving to the right as he turned around to end up in the starting position. He took a small breath as he proceeded to widen his stance. The book reminded him how important it was, but he kept on forgetting.

A warm voice called out from behind him. “Prince Roman, permission to speak freely?”

Roman turned around. He was about to decline the permission to the guard when he noticed his eyes. Golden-eyed boy was guarding him again. He wished the guard’s name didn’t feel familiar on his mind. “Permission granted.”

“You’re doing horribly.”

Roman felt his body become tense as he forced his posture to vaguely loosen up, but the confusion on his face was evidence of his initial reaction. Rule one- a guard should never insult royalty. Roman felt any confidence he could’ve had leave him as he turned away from him. “I’m still learning, Sir Deceit.”

Footsteps made their way behind him as warm hands gently fell onto his body. Sir Deceit’s chest was pressed against his back as he slowly pushed Roman’s arms to be more curved and open. He whispered into his ear, “You can’t learn such a fluid dance from a book. The pages are so rigid, it’s practically incorrect to learn that way.”

Before Roman could’ve made any comment, Sir Deceit walked around him, interlocking their fingers in his left hand and placing Roman’s other hand onto his waist. Roman looked Sir Deceit up and down. The guard seemed to know what he was doing with how calmly he looked up at Roman. Warmness was present on him, gently reminding him that he needed to do something. “S- Sir Deceit, this is quite unprofessional of you. I’ll have to ask you to remove your hands from me.”

Roman almost wished that they stayed together a bit longer, but they were separated as soon as they were joined. “As you wish, my prince.”

He could feel the phantom warmth on his skin. He looked away from Sir Deceit and to the book. “You’re dismissed, Sir Deceit.”

Sir Deceit let out a small hum. It was one of approval, but it was so… wrong. There wasn’t a witty remark that Roman knew was in the back of his mind or a protest to stay. There wasn’t even a statement of agreement. Just a small noise.

But what was Roman doing? His coronation was coming close and he had to know the kingdom’s traditional dances by heart to not look a fool. Yet, he somehow felt like one already. With warmness tingling on his waist and hand, he repositioned his body into the starting position.

---

Roman faced the mirror, critically eyeing the man he saw in it. While it was him in the mirror, it wasn’t him. He wore a newer outfit, but it was still in the same style as his wardrobe. He carefully moved a few hairs to lay slightly on his face. Enough to look casual, but not enough to look messy.

He tensed at the muffled snicker behind him. He turned around, almost expecting his brother there but he only saw a gua- Sir Deceit. The man held a hand to his mouth, but Roman could still see how his eyes crinkled. Roman raised an eyebrow, “Is something funny?”

Sir Deceit shook his head before he dropped his hand to reveal the smile on his face, “Prince Roman, permission to speak freely?”

Roman let out a short breath as he held a tensed smile. The words were too light-hearted. As if he wasn’t a guard who worked for him and instead as if they were friends for many years. “Permission granted.”

Sir Deceit took a few small steps towards him. Roman found himself looking away and towards the mirror, but even that still held his the guard’s reflection. He could luckily see that the man’s eyes lingered on his outfit instead of him. “It’s ridiculous,” Sir Deceit quietly said, almost as if it was to himself. “You spend so much time on everything that’s already perfect that you fail to acknowledge what actually needs to be fixed.”

Roman scoffed, “If you’re so fashionably gifted then please let me know what needs to be ‘fixed.’” The last word was sarcastic as Roman resisted rolling his eyes.

“Your collar,” Sir Deceit responded without hesitation. “It’s a bit crooked.”

Roman looked into the mirror. His collar seemed normal to him- perfect even. Perhaps Sir Deceit was just a liar trying to get a rise out of Roman to finally prove that he shouldn’t be king. Maybe even point out that learning what kings should know shouldn’t be so difficult for him. “My collar is fine.”

“No, it isn’t.”

Roman took his gaze away from his collar and towards Sir Deceit. “You’re dismissed, Sir Deceit.”

Sir Deceit stood there for a moment before he took the smallest step towards Roman. He gently grabbed Roman’s collar, making a few tugs that Roman caught in the mirror before the guard pulled away. “I didn’t hear you, what did you say?” There was a hidden smugness behind the words that made Roman smile.

“My collar was fine, but-” thank you. He shouldn’t thank a guard, he was simply doing his job. Guards didn't get thanked for the bare minimum, only if they saved a life or did something else heroic. “You’re dismissed, Sir Deceit.”

Janus nodded once, apparently pleased with Roman’s response. “As you wish, my prince.”

---

Roman let out a long breath as he tried to read over the words again. They only seemed blurrier as more tears filled his vision. It was simple, he shouldn’t be acting so stupid about it. Although the laws contradicted each other, he was sure they made sense. He just wasn’t trying hard enough.

He let out a slow, shaky breath, as he leaned back in his chair. He gently blinked the tears out, willing himself not to sob in the library. He carefully wiped the shed tears away, making sure not to rub them so his face wouldn’t be splotchy. A good king didn't cry over something so easy.

A moment too long passed with only more emotion brewing inside him. He looked down at his book again, his gaze momentarily catching a guard’s, but he quickly focused his mind on the book.

The words were still blurry, but he tried to make himself focus on the content. Perhaps he wasn’t even reading the words anymore, only scanning the page in case it would randomly start to make sense. Somewhere between seconds and minutes, he felt a warm presence on his shoulder that made him want to curl up in hopes that it surrounded him. Through a quick glance, he spotted a gloved hand resting there. “Prince Roman, permission to speak freely?”

It was Sir Deceit. He didn’t remember that the man wore gloves. Roman nodded to the guard’s question, not trusting his voice with a confident answer.

“You should rest, my prince.” The sympathetic voice dripped into Roman’s ears, filling them with pity and kind-hearted melancholy.

Roman weakly shook his head. He didn’t need a break. He needed to understand. He blinked as a tear slid down his face and silently fell onto the page. He shouldn’t be this pathetic, it was simple. All the other kings understood it with ease- perhaps he didn’t deserve the role so graciously given to him.

Sir Deceit gave a gentle squeeze to Roman’s shoulder. The direct action made him wilt, any confidence he held fading away. When the book was removed from him, he followed it with his vision. He saw gloves holding it, dabbing the part of the page wetted by Roman’s tear.

Roman let out a quiet sigh as Sir Deceit closed the book. “You won’t get anywhere tonight and it’ll be here tomorrow.” The words were too gentle to reject, turning painfully in Roman’s chest. He stood up, but the feeling still lingered when he turned away. He took a step away from Sir Deceit, feeling the hand slowly slip off him.

“You’re dismissed, Sir Deceit.” He couldn’t find himself to care that his voice broke or how he felt a sob breaking through him that he managed to quiet at the last moment. There was something hesitant said to him. Perhaps a farewell, goodbye, or another phrase for departure.

Or perhaps it was confirmation that he shouldn’t be king.

---

Roman stood in the mirror as he adjusted his collar. He cringed at the sight of himself as he tried to focus on anything else, but it all seemed so wrong. Flat hair accompanied with too-pale skin didn’t compliment the slight frown on his face. He tried to flash himself a smile, but it seemed far too flimsy. A small breath left him. He didn’t have anything to do, so he might just keep himself in the library.

Not for long of course. Only an hour or two to refresh his mind. The steps there were easy after all. Sir Deceit trailed close behind. Roman would’ve complained about his constant presence, but a small part of him liked the familiarity of the golden eye accompanied by a warm voice. There was nothing personal about the attachment. The traits would have been nice on anyone.

The library brought a vague feeling of dread that he pushed down as he inhaled the calm scent of books. He walked to a table and sat down. A pile of books rested next to the chair. He quietly picked one up as he opened it to where he last was.

The pages seemed kinder to him today. There was still minor frustration embedded into the words, but he still turned the page after a minute or two of processing what he read. He sat straight up, leaning to the side as he heard a few cracks from his back as he stretched. After a moment of letting his body move, he refocused his eyes onto the book.

A warm voice welcomed him away from the text, “Prince Roman, permission to speak freely?”

Roman looked up from the book and to Sir Deceit. “Of course.” A soft smile found a way onto his face, but it felt the slightest bit strained.

“Have you eaten breakfast yet?”

Roman frowned as he noticed an appetite that had appeared at random. He shook his head.

Sir Deceit continued where he didn’t, “Do you plan to eat soon?”

Roman shrugged. “I’m not sure how you view ‘soon,’ but I’ll eat eventually.”

The conversation quieted in a way Roman found himself comfortable with. He settled back into his book, only making it a few pages before Sir Deceit spoke again, “I can bring you something from the kitchen.” The words dipped into a concern that made Roman shift slightly in his chair.

“Food isn’t allowed into the library.” It was odd that Sir Deceit apparently seemed to not know the rules of the castle, speaking so casually and making improper requests.

“There’s more than rules in life, my prince.”

Roman tensed as he looked away from his book and up at Sir Deceit. He didn’t spend months if not years learning what the rules were for himself and the kingdom just for a guard to say that they weren’t important. “Rules define who a person is, Sir Deceit.” His voice was laced with bitterness he didn’t have the patience to apologize for.

Yet, Sir Deceit seemed oblivious to it as he shook his head. “They might define social norms and common courtesy, but they don’t do much more than that.”

Roman looked down at his book. He didn’t have time for this. Janus quietly sighed. “Would you like me to bring you something from the kitchen, Prince Roman?”

Roman didn’t bother to look up at the guard. “You’re dismissed, Sir Deceit.”

---

The uprising was ineluctable yet unscrupulous. Their power contended the sovereignty of their time with the insistence of their previous-

The sound of the plate in front of him brought him out of the pages and into the library. He blinked up at the food as his stomach let out a quiet growl. “I’m-” fine. His sentence was cut off by the sight of a yellow glove gently hanging at the side of the plate. He looked up, spotting Sir Deceit himself standing there. “I didn’t request this.”

Sir Deceit nodded once, the action too quick and smug for any possible hesitance to slip through. “I’m aware of that, Prince Roman.”

Roman let his shoulders drop slightly as he fiddled with one of the pages. “You can take that back to the kitchen,” he said through an exhale.

“A good king takes care of himself.”

Then I won’t be a good king. “I’m not king yet.”

“You’re practicing to become one, no?” Roman rolled his eyes. Even through his practices, most of the time he failed at the simplest traditions and memorization. “Roman, you have to take care of yourself. Even if you’re excited about your new position, you’re still… human.”

“I’m not excited about any of this,” the words were his own, but they left him without permission, only weighing heavily as he continued to talk, “I never asked to be a prince. I- I know I should be grateful, but…” He let his voice drift off with a long exhale picking up its place. His eyes drifted back to the book.

“Stand up.”

Roman chuckled as he looked up at Sir Deceit. “You’re a guard, you’re in no position to command a prince.”

Sir Deceit rolled his eyes with a faux smile on his face. “I would like to request you to stand up, my prince.” He held out a gloved hand out to Roman. Hesitation shined from the interaction, but Roman gently held Sir Deceit’s hand as he stood up.

Sir Deceit began walking as Roman followed along. They wandered through the old library, the silence stretching between them finding a comfortable place through their echoing footsteps. The guard turned around corners and hallways Roman had never seen, leading him to a wooden door that Sir Deceit opened with ease.

Roman quietly gasped at the cold air that hit him. It was a door that led outside. Sir Deceit gently tugged for him to go further, but Roman stood where he was. “I’m not allowed to go outside after dark.” He looked through the door with admiration. The sky was dark as he saw glimpses of tall spruce trees and small specks of stars.

Sir Deceit turned to him, a gentle smile on his face. Not one tinted with compassion, but one of adventure. “There’s more to life than social boundaries.”

And with a tug of his hand, Roman started slowly walking outside with his guard. The grass moved underneath his shoes. It would have done that in the day too, but it seemed so different with the quiet secretiveness.

It only took a few steps for Roman to stare at the stars. He saw them in old books and paintings hung across the walls, but he never saw them before. “What would have happened if I never brought you out here?” The question was quiet in a way that seemed rhetorical but it didn’t stop Roman from wondering.

He looked down from the stars and into Sir Deceit’s eyes. The golden one seemed to oddly glow. “I would’ve stayed in the library.”

“No, I mean long-term.” Roman found himself taking glances away from Sir Deceit’s eyes and towards the stars behind him. “You would’ve missed this.”

Roman shook his head. “I would’ve eventually seen them.”

Sir Deceit shrugged. “I’ve looked through the rules. You’re only allowed out this late a few times a year.”

“So you do know what the rules are.”

Sir Deceit shook his head slightly, a silent laugh of sorts. “I’m well aware of what they are. I just know they aren’t worth paying attention to. Especially compared to moments like this.”

Roman found himself nodding to the words as he looked at his fingers interlocked with Sir Deceit’s. He tested the waters, giving the hand a small squeeze. He received one in return without a response.

He barely thought before he pressed his lips onto Sir Deceit’s. His eyes closed, but he could still feel the stars. He took his free hand to cup Sir Deceit’s cheek, keeping him close into the kiss. A slow moment passed before he pulled away with a smile. “You’re something different, Sir Deceit.”

“It’s Janus.”

Roman’s smile faltered for a brief moment. “You aren’t supposed to say your real name. You could be permanently dismissed- if not exiled for such a thing.” Something set uncomfortably in his chest at the idea of not seeing Sir Dec- Janus’ golden eye again. Or to hear how a question dripped in sarcasm and politeness at the same time.

Janus pressed a quick kiss onto Roman’s lips. “Maybe I don’t care anymore, prince Roman.”

“Just Roman.”

A small smile fell onto Janus. “Your name reveal was a little less dramatic.”

Roman let a chuckle escape him. “It’s not my fault I wasn’t given a secret name.”

Janus gave Roman’s hand a light squeeze. “You don’t need one, I’ll just call you mine.”

#sanders sides #roceit #roman sanders #janus sanders #ts roman #ts janus #ts roceit #roman angst #ts roman angst #prince roman #royal roman #idk if those are tags but oh well

139 notes · View notes

holdinbacksecrets · 3 years

Text

A Piece Of Your Sun

“You don’t have to ignore your doubts, love. It’s ok to say it hurts.”

OR: i wrote this to handle my feelings about my mom’s possible cancer relapse.

talks of illness and hospital visits 1.3k

*gif is not mine. all credits to OP*

You stood in the kitchen. Your eyes drawn down, focused on the swirling milk and coffee contained in a ceramic mug. A mug still too hot to the touch as the spoon clinked against the sides of the pottery.

Hoseok moves around you, pressing his lips against your cheek. His touch is gentle, caressing your bare arm.

“It’s raining back home.” You place the silver spoon into the sink, cupping the mug with sweater paws. Your gaze lingering on the windows overlooking the city.

“Really?”

You nod, sipping the hot beverage, hoping it won’t sear your tongue. “My mom told me it’s been raining a lot. She’s worried the basement will flood because she needs one more thing to expel her energy on.”

Your heavy gaze is interrupted by Hoseok’s coaxing. Your eyes meet his own, and you wonder why you looked out the window when greater comfort would’ve bloomed admiring him.

Your fingertips brush his cheek. His lips falling to meet your forehead.

“How is she doing? I heard you on the phone pretty early.”

You swallow another mouthful of coffee, indulging in the energy of its caffeine. “She keeps her trials quiet, but I’ve never felt more weightless. Distance is a hell of an enemy.”

Your boyfriend is quiet for a moment, keeping his eyes on yours before your shoulders lift to only fall with greater heaviness, completely spent. You weren’t doing anything physically taxing, but the exhaustion radiates through you.

“Do you want to see her? I’ll book you a flight right now if that’s what you need.”

Tears storm your eyes in the speed of a rushed inhale. The breakdown has been building for days at this point. The heaviness crossed oceans and miles. The pain could be ignored by some, but it left you feeling worse, feeling helpless.

“Oh sweetheart, just tell me what you need.” The lighthearted tone in Hoseok’s voice is absent this morning, solidifying the situation you hoped to never endure again.

You would need him with you, and that was an impossible request to make. His schedule would make anyone dizzy, but you were used to the writing that filled your planner. Purple ink displaying your boyfriend’s life in great detail. Your own life, written in blue, appeared small in comparison.

No matter how hard you squinted, there wasn’t room for the silent desire to have him with you. But, you knew it wasn’t completely silent.

Hoseok could see it. He felt it in the heaviness you carried around your shared home. It was hidden between the words you would speak instead.

“If I say what I need, I’ll have to stop pretending my desired outcome is possible.”

Your voice breaks, and the mug would’ve crashed to the floor if Hoseok hadn’t taken it from your grasp. The swift motion leaves coffee spilling over the rim, creating a ring around its base on the granite.

“I need my mom to be ok again. I want nights of uninterrupted sleep. I need my phone to ring without my heart skipping a beat. And I want..”

You close your eyes, brushing away the falling tears. Droplets collect on your thumb before the wetness seeps into the knit of your sweater.

“It’s ok. You can say it.” Hoseok’s eyes hold a softness: a love for you so honest.

A smile flashes despite the sadness. Maybe if you smile hard enough the sun will shine again, and the basement won’t flood. A foundation won’t go vulnerable.

“If I go— when I go, I’ll be on my own.” Hoseok nods, tracing circles into the skin around your hip. His touch warm, always so warm.

“Can I handle it on my own?”

When Hoseok is close by, you know he has you. There’s no questioning the man you love will be there. His love is tangible, and Hoseok’s embrace heals wounds before they scar.

Years ago, all you had was the comfort you could give yourself when hospital visits engulfed your own routine. Visits written into your schedule with bright colors, but the pen’s impact fell short every time.

It was more than Hoseok not being there. That didn’t hurt as badly as facing the feeling of déjà vu without an embrace to fall into.

That question. The question that flies around the room with your doubts and fears: will i be ok? is never contemplated on an off day with Hoseok near. On nights that end with gentle steps, carrying an exhausted you to your bedroom, there’s a knowing. A knowing with a name, and a presence unlike any other.

Hoseok’s presence won’t be in the sterile rooms, and that’s simply a reality you cannot outrun.

“No, I’ll be ok. It’s not a question. It simply cannot be a question.”

Hoseok takes your hand, leading you out of the kitchen and into the living room. He takes a seat, and brings you to settle into the space that’s only ever made for you.

Your head rests against his chest, just below his clavicle. His touch is felt caressing your shoulder. Your own fingers trace the logo on his sweatshirt. Your breathing reaches an evenness as you focus on his heart beating.

“You don’t have to ignore your doubts, love. It’s ok to say it hurts.”

“It hurts.”

“And it’s ok to say you’re scared.”

“I’m terrified.”

“You can say it again if it makes you feel better.” He kisses your forehead, lingering for you, and him.

“Once is enough.”

Once makes it real to you and to Hoseok. You’re scared out loud, without hiding behind light banter or distracting conversations.

Once lets him know you need him, and he’s more than ok with that.

“I bought you this. I’ve had it for a few days, but I wanted to share it with you in the right moment.”

Hoseok lifts his hips, digging into his pocket. He pulls out a small, gift box, handing it to you.

Inside is a silver locket, connected to a delicate chain.

It’s beautiful, holding an opal stone in its center. Inside, is an engraving: breathe for the sunrise.

They’re the words your mother always shares with you when the world feels small. When your place feels insignificant, serving as a reminder to hold on and have faith in what is to come. Life doesn’t have to be a real world fantasy to witness a stunning sunrise.

“Are you this sunrise?”

You smile, looking up at your boyfriend. His expression bashful, taking the necklace from your hands to clasp the jewelry around your neck.

He hums, “distance doesn’t keep the sun from following you. I don’t know what will happen, love, but I want you to breathe through it anyway. Even if they’re shallow inhales that take every ounce of strength you have.”

“Breathe for the sunrise.” Your eyes close, swimming in the words, recalling the comfort they always enkindled from your mother’s voice.

Breathe for what you have right beside you. Breathe for the woman who raised you with love she built and supplied all on her own. Breathe for the sacrifices made when rain poured and flooded your foundation. Breathe for the sunrise of tomorrow and the sunrise a year from now, after a week of gloom. You can do that. You know you want to do that. You know, that no matter what happens, your mother won’t accept anything less.

“Thank you, I love you.” Five words that hold all your gratitude for the man that brings you peace.

The necklace falls to rest against your sternum. You lift the jewelry between your fingers, before clutching the pendant against your palm.

“I love you, too.”

You do not need his embrace to feel his presence after all, and now, it will always be close to your heart. Sometimes a beat of life, but always as a necklace, holding a piece of your sun.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

If you made it this far, thank you so much for reading!

157 notes · View notes

atmostories · 4 years

Note

Your Yandere!Terry Silver ficlet was positively amazing and just so very detailed, nuanced and in-character that I absolutely must request more if you're willing to write more. Really, whatever comes to your mind, doesn't even matter, so long as you grace us with more material (greedy grubby hands) - Reading about this dark, evil man just being so sweet for someone melts my heart. 🖤

A gift to my dearest anon, @kingkarate and @villains-are-sexy ♡ ♡ ♡ The first time he noticed you was after Margaret had laid out your employee file in front of him. You'd been working in the logistics department for two years, your record was clean, all of your performance evaluations were very good, if not exemplary. Margaret had personally recommended you so really that was all the evidence he needed that you had at least some value. Her team needed an extra member due to an increased workload and a reorganisation of staff. Margaret was going to retire in a few years and needed to find a replacement before she left.

Terry tried not to think about her being replaced, it irked him greatly to be losing such an asset, and a good friend. There was still plenty of time, for now. You were moved into Margaret's team on a trial basis in order to assess your suitability. Whenever Terry would look across the office, you were always working. You seemed to speak to other coworkers only when necessary. At first he assumed you were being studious and trying to make a good impression for Margaret, but he soon realised that that was simply how you were, quiet, withdrawn. You also treated people the same, no matter who they were or what sort of social rank they held, you would give the same polite smile to him as you would to one of the office cleaners. It was odd. He expected you, like most other rational people, to show him greater respect, he did own the entire company after all. A few words from him and he could render you jobless and homeless, begging for scraps out on the streets. And yet you seemed so unphased by the power he yielded. He got into the habit of calling you into his office for updates on the various projects you were working on. Margaret would always keep him informed of the latest developments, but he liked to hear how you would describe them. He also liked hearing you call him Sir. He'd corrected you when he first met you in person. "Thank you, Mr. Silver," you had said. "No. . .thank you, Sir," he murmured softly, hoping to provoke some reaction. "Of course. Thank you, Sir" you replied plainly. No one else called him Sir. He wondered how long it would take for you to notice that. During your lunch breaks, rather than head off with other coworkers or go to the staff room, you would leave by yourself to take a walk when the weather was decent or you'd eat at your desk. Before you were offered a position at DynaTox Industries, a background check had been carried on you to ensure that you would be. . .malleable if certain circumstances arose. If you found out something you shouldn't, you would be in a weak position, easily blackmailed. Terry requested a more in depth background check and was rather pleased when one of his private investigators handed him a sizeable file containing all of the facets of your life, along with a fortnight's worth of photos while you were under surveillance. It outlined where you went aside from work and as anticipated, it was all very dull. Your financial situation was practically destitution in Terry's eyes. What was most intriguing about your file was your ex who was currently in prison for assault and battery. You were the unlucky victim. As he read the police report and saw the pictures of your injuries, he ignored the swell of anger in his gut. The transcripts of your interviews detailed the abuse you had endured. Was this why you were so withdrawn? So focused on your work rather the people around you? While you were at the office, he broke into your apartment for further investigation. It was comically small. Your possessions were, he supposed, modest for someone so economically challenged as you. Your taste in music was not as sophisticated as his own, hardly surprising. There wasn't much food in the refrigerator or in the kitchen cupboards. He pulled out his wallet and grabbed a hundred dollar bill. Perhaps you didn't see these very often. After scrunching up the bill, he threw it haphazardly onto the floor, wondering whether there would be a smile on your face when you found it. What was he thinking, of course you'd be happy. He made a note to bump your salary enough so that you could move somewhere else, somewhere safer, somewhere which didn't automatically make him want to shower and scrub himself clean. Rather than have Margaret give you the good news, you were called into his office. Terry explained that you'd be permanently assigned to Margaret's team due to your performance. He mentioned a report you did the week prior, highlighting that it was good work. Rather than thank him, you responded by saying that the conclusion needed to be improved and you weren't sure about certain aspects of the analysis. “I said it was good work,” he told you with blunt finality, giving you a harsh stare. Your lips parted open slowly, your eyes were wide, your expression almost one of disbelief. Was it so difficult for you to accept a compliment? To accept praise when it was given to you? “Did I not?” He asked, prompting you to speak. “Uhh, yes. I'm sorry, Sir,” you mumbled back, shoulders hunching even further. Something seemed to twinge in his chest and he wasn't exactly sure what it was. Was it pity? No, it wasn't that, it was almost disappointment, like seeing wasted potential. He invited you along to an executive meeting, his excuse to include you was to take minutes, but really he wanted your opinion on the people who were present, their behaviour, their opinions. Terry wanted to assess how observant you were of other people, and he also wanted to test how candid you would be with him. The meeting went on as usual, dull, insipid. At least your presence offered a little distraction. After it was finally over, he invited you to join him for lunch at one of his favourite restaurants. He could see you eyeing the place curiously, taking in its lush décor and finely dressed staff. The purpose was to put you on edge, to make you feel abysmally underdressed and out of sorts. He had the whole corner of the restaurant cleared for just the two of you, he wanted to examine your every reaction without any disturbance. With drinks and appetisers ordered, he began his questioning. “Do you think Mr. Elroth would be suitable for the New York merger?” He asked, sipping some champagne. “I don't think he likes you,” you responded without hesitation. He pulled the glass away from his mouth, rather taken back by your honesty. “Why do you say that?” “He didn't like listening to you. He kept looking away, he even rolled his eyes a few times.” “And why do you think that is?” “Well. . .maybe it's because you're too young and you're too willing to take risks. He seems very traditional and set in his ways.” “Hmm.” Terry drank the rest of the glass, motioning to a waiter for a refill. He continued to ask questions throughout the main course and dessert. Your answers were always honest, you didn't try to soften any of your responses for him. He liked that. You reminded him of Margaret. Unblemished opinions were hard to come by for someone like Terry. They were always marred by people wanting to impress him, people trying to make the best impression possible, people looking for favours. He was beyond the grasp of normal society and yet you sat in front him, eating several courses which cost most, if not all, of your monthly salary, totally unphased and giving your opinions freely. He'd never once thought it possible for Margaret to be replaced by someone of her calibre, but perhaps he'd been too quick to make that assumption. When you moved into a new apartment, he had a forged deposit and contents insurance rebate drawn up and sent to you. The next day you had actually gone out and bought lunch rather than bring your own. He'd followed you to the little cafe and he noticed a small, satisfied smile on your face as you tucked into the food. How curious that something so insignificant would give you such joy? Was it really so difficult for you to get by? He bumped your salary again, you were supposed to be happy, but instead Margaret had told him that you went straight to the finance team to query it as a mistake. He scoffed out a laugh, incredulous at your behaviour. Was it so hard to accept when something good happened to you? He had you brought into his office, explaining to you clearly that any future queries regarding your salary would be directed to him personally. “But it's almost triple my original salary, I'm not sure that. . .” you trailed off when he stared down at you. He watched your throat as you swallowed nervously at his proximity. Raising an eyebrow at you, he waited for the proper response. “Thank you, Sir.” He didn't bother to stop himself from smiling. A few seconds later, a shy smile pulled up your lips. Financial security might have offered you some peace of mind, but Terry knew there was more work to be done. He looked over the police reports again, thinking about disposing that piece of trash who had hurt you. Surely that would make you happy? No longer living in the same world with the person who had almost beaten you to death? He had Dennis make some enquiries, found a trustworthy guy who was in the same prison as your ex. After that it was simply a matter of payment for services rendered. He had requested a slow, painful death and the photos from the autopsy showed just that. The unfortunate incident happened over the weekend, ensuring that you would have found out by Monday morning. Instead of happiness on your face, you seemed sad, lost even. He called you into his office, trying to hold back the rage growing in his gut. He had gotten rid of someone who had inflicted so much suffering on you, why weren't you happy? Why weren't you pleased? Surely you couldn't still care for that bastard? Did you really love so carelessly, so irrevocably? “You're distracted,” he stated. Your eyes were focused on the floor, you were making an effort to stop your leg from shaking. “I'm sorry, Sir. I received some. . .news yesterday.” “Bad news?” “I'm not really sure.” “Tell me what happened.” You looked up at him, your eyes were filled with hurt. This wasn't meant to happen, why the fuck were you upset? “Someone I knew. . . passed away. But he wasn't. . .he wasn't a good person.” “And you're grieving him?” “No,” you replied softly. “I should but. . .is it wrong to feel glad when someone's died?” “Not when they're bad.” You nodded a few moments later, a small grin finally lightening your expression. Terry had to repress a laugh. The only thing you were upset about was that you didn't feel upset, you didn't feel bad at all. The thought made him preen in delight, he'd done right by you after all. It took a while, but you were finally starting to lose that heavy burden you'd been carrying all this time. The change in you was not particularly obvious, you didn't start to suddenly make friends with everyone in the office. Your smile was a little wider, you walked with more confidence. In one of his meetings, as you sat right next to him, he whispered an amusing observation about one of the investors into your ear, and you snorted out a laugh, barely able to contain yourself. A week after that, something unexpected happened, something he still didn't quite know how to feel about. Mr. Elroth stood in front of Terry, blabbering on about nothing of interest. He'd gestured for you to come over to give him a point of interest. You stood dutifully by his side, but when Mr. Elroth reached out his grubby hand, about to touch Terry's forearm, you quickly stepped in front of him, blocking Mr. Elroth from touching him. You interjected yourself into the conversation, successfully distracting Mr. Elroth and causing him to lower his arm. Terry dismissed him a couple minutes later and pulled you to one side. “What was that?” “I thought you might have wanted a distraction, I didn't mean to be rude, Sir.” “Why did you move in front of me?” “Mr. Elroth was going to touch your arm,” you explained like it was obvious. “And?” “You. . .you don't like to be touched.” “Excuse me?” “You always initiate, you don't like it when other people touch you. I'm sorry if I've made the wrong assumption. It wasn't my intention to cause any offence, Sir.” He continued to stare at you, letting the words sink in. Margaret most conveniently called you away like she could read his mind and Terry nodded at her in thanks, thinking that he'd have to review her retirement plan, add in a couple more vacation options, maybe an extra masseuse for the weekends. He didn't know how he felt. He was agitated by what you had said, almost uncomfortable. That wasn't something you were meant to notice. Terry took great lengths to not show any kind of weakness, and shying from physical contact was certainly one. For you to not only see it, but then to try and protect him? Even though you’d been abused in the past? Even though you shied away from physical contact yourself? He clenched his fists, his heart aching in a way it never had before. That night, he broke into your apartment. It was thankfully a significant improvement to the last one. After looking over the kitchen and the living room, he went to your bedroom, watching you sleep soundly and peacefully. Part of him wanted to sink his hands around your neck, make you experience every bit of discomfort that you had made him feel. He slowly sat down on the mattress, his gloved hand gently caressing your cheek. You cared about him, but how much of that was the same sort of empathy and respect you'd show to everyone else? How much of it was just for him? He needed all of it, your heart, your mind, your soul. He'd been so used to taking everything he ever wanted, there'd never been anything worth his patience. . .but you? Watching you emerge from the shadow you used to be gave him a deep satisfaction that nothing else came close to. Destroying you would be too easy, you were already so broken, even now. Making you whole again? Now that was a challenge he'd accept, a challenge that he was going to excel at. No one else was going to hurt you again. He recognised the value of your devotion, craved it like nothing else. His fingers traced over your lips as he imagined the moment you were going to kiss him of your own accord. What a sweet, precious moment that was going to be, he would wait for it. He was going to wait for you. And when you were his, he was never going to let you go.

#terry silver #terry silver x reader #cobra kai #karate kid III #thomas ian griffith #atmo

179 notes · View notes

lightsupinthenorth · 3 years

Text

Damn it, I’m calling you mine

Read on AO3

When Alternate-Mobius (as Loki has taken to calling the Mobius from this timeline in his head) comes to get him out of his cell and lead him to one of the interrogation rooms for the umpteenth time in however long it is he has been stuck in this cursed timeline, Loki lets himself be dragged there without protesting.

Protesting got old fairly quickly, considering it accomplished nothing at all. It doesn’t even get on the nerves of the TVA agents and hunters as it did in the timeline Loki left against his will.

Alternate-Mobius’ grip on his forearm is firm, firmer than it usually is. As if he were afraid Loki was going to make a run for it. As if Loki were stupid enough to think it would be of any use, after all this time. Loki would be insulted if he could muster enough energy for such an emotion.

As soon as they’re inside the interrogation room, Alternate-Mobius locks the door behind them. That’s new, too. Loki’s eyebrows raise slightly, but Loki doesn’t question Alternate-Mobius. What is even the point? He’ll know soon enough what the man is trying to do. Probably.

Alternate-Mobius fiddles with his TemPad for a few seconds and a familiar orange portal opens in front of them.

“Follow me.”

Loki nods, ready to obey, but Alternate-Mobius doesn’t move. Instead, he opts to stare at Loki with a frown on his face.

“Really? You’d follow me just like that? You’re not even going to question it?”

It’s Loki’s turn to frown. Why would Alternate-Mobius ask such a useless question? Has he yet to register how Loki’s fire has died out ages ago?

He shrugs.

“Okay then, let’s go…”

Loki swears he hears Alternate-Mobius mumble “what the fuck have they done to him?”, but he doesn’t have time to think about it any further before he’s pulled by Alternate-Mobius through the time-portal.

Before Loki can blink, he’s in a living-room with Alternate-Mobius by his side. All he can focus on apart from that is his own confusion.

He hadn’t known what to expect, but he hadn’t been expecting something this benign.

“Where are we?”

“Oh, so you still have some questions then. Thank God, you had me worried for a second over there.”

Loki, instead of unpacking what Alternate(?)-Mobius just said, glares at him until he relents.

“We’re at my flat, it’s a long story, I’ll explain everything later. First, tell me if you’re okay.”

His gaze travels the length of Loki’s body, as if he’s assessing damage, and then he’s staring right into his eyes. Maybe he’s searching for the damage in his soul, then. There’s a lot to find, without a doubt.

The concern that radiates off of the man brings a realisation to life in Loki.

“Mobius?”

Of course, it’s Mobius. Alternate-Mobius is also Mobius. But what Loki is really asking is “are you my Mobius?” Because that’s how he thinks of the first version of Mobius he got to meet. He can’t ask that, though. Mobius couldn’t possibly react to such blatant (and misplaced) possessiveness in a positive manner.

“Yes.”

Loki wants to take the simple answer at face value, but he has to be sure. He has to be sure he’s got this right. He couldn’t cope if he accepted this as true only to have his fragile hope ripped away from him later.

Sylvie betrayed him, sending him to an alternate timeline where everything that had become familiar to him at the TVA was here and not here at the same time. It had been torture. Especially seeing Alternate-Mobius constantly. The other version of Mobius only served to remind Loki of what – of whom – he had lost.

“How do I know you’re telling the truth?”

It’s not comfortable, being on this side of lies. Loki has a lot of experience as a liar and as the one being lied to. He far prefers the first configuration, it has to be said.

“What would I gain by taking you here and lying about which version of me I am?”

“Seriously Mobius, now is not the time to answer a question with another question.”

Loki is dead on his feet. He cannot fathom how he manages to stay standing. He fears it will not last much longer.

“I… I don’t know. Ask me something only your Mobius would know.”

Loki blinks a few times, trying to come to terms with this Mobius (whichever he is) saying “your Mobius” like this. Like it’s easy. Like it’s an evidence.

It turns out that Loki worried for nothing, earlier, when he kept himself from asking if this Mobius was his.

After a small eternity, Loki focuses on Mobius’ request instead of on this insignificant (but not for him) detail.

“How did we find out Sylvie was hiding in Haven Hills, Alabama?”

Loki could have asked Mobius a lot of things, but this question seems like a good option. No one knows about this but them. Loki doubts Mobius put it in the reports or mentioned it to anyone, because it’s just a detail, a clue that led them to Sylvie. It doesn’t matter in the grand scheme of things. But Loki remembers it, and he’d bet his Mobius would too. The elation they felt when they reached their goal is not something that can be forgotten easily, after all. At least, Loki hopes not.

“We found out because you’re clever and we make a great team, but I don’t see how that’s gonna convince you I’m your Mobius.”

Loki feels winded by Mobius’ words. The praise, the acknowledgment of their partnership, and the “your Mobius” (for the second time in a matter of minutes). However, he can’t let himself lose his focus.

“That’s very nice of you to compliment me, and we do make a rather spectacular team. But I’m asking you about the clue which led us to the right location.”

“Oh, you mean Kablooie?”

As soon as Loki registers the words, his knees buckle and he might have fallen down if Mobius weren’t there to steady him. He extends his arms and Loki instantly grabs them. His heart is beating so fast he’d fear a heart attack if he were human.

“It’s really you.”

Loki hears his own voice crack with relief, and his eyes fill with tears.

“It’s really me.”

Loki didn’t need the confirmation, but it is so on brand for Mobius to give it to him anyway that Loki gets the impulse to throw his arms around him and bury his face in his neck. He tries to resist the impulse for a mere second before giving up entirely and engulfing his Mobius in a (perhaps overly) tight hug.

Mobius wraps his arms around Loki in return, hugging him back. That’s when the tears begin to fall in earnest. Before he knows it, Loki is sobbing uncontrollably in Mobius’ embrace. It’s most undignified and he’s probably ruining Mobius’ shirt, but Loki’s too far gone to care. Anyway, Mobius has seen most of his life when he was working for the TVA, and Loki’s done his fair share of embarrassing things. This is not the worst one, by far.

Being vulnerable is still difficult for him, but he has no control over himself right now, so vulnerability is the only way to go.

Mobius has an armful of crying god, and he’s taking it in stride if he does say so himself. He’s been looking for Loki for so long, he’s been through so much to find him that he’s prepared to accept anything Loki throws at him now that they’re finally reunited.

“There, there. It’s going to be okay now.”

Mobius continues to whisper reassurances in Loki’s ear until Loki’s sobs subside. Mobius is loath to break their embrace, but they can’t possibly stay like this much longer considering Loki has looked on the verge of keeling over ever since he got up from the floor of his cell. When he saw him, Mobius had to make a conscious effort to reign in a gasp (the hunters guarding Loki’s cell would have found that mightily suspicious coming from the Mobius he was then pretending to be). Loki is thinner, there are bags under his eyes, and his skin has taken a blueish tint which, rather than being reminiscent of his origins, looks sickly. Now that Loki’s finally safe, Mobius wants nothing more than to take care of him and nurse him back to health.

“We should probably sit down. Would that be alright?”

Mobius can feel Loki nod, but Loki makes no move to separate himself from him.

Okay. Mobius can work around that.

He slowly walks them to the couch without letting go of Loki. They fall on it rather gracelessly, and Loki immediately rearranges himself so he’s lying down with his head face down on Mobius’ lap and one of his hand gripping his knee. He wishes Loki would let him see his face, but it certainly isn’t the time for requests.

Mobius passes the fingers of his left hand through Loki’s messy hair and Loki shivers against him.

“Is this okay?”

Loki’s only reply is a hum. Mobius interprets it as acquiescence, so he repeats the motion again, and again, and again. To comfort himself as much as Loki.

“Do you want something to drink? Or eat?”

Loki’s grip on Mobius’ knee tightens and he whimpers. Mobius’ stomach drops.

“Hey, hey, what’s wrong?”

“I… I’m fine. Just… can we stay here for a while?” Loki’s voice is hoarse and tentative, as if he were expecting Mobius to turn him down. As if it were a credible outcome. Preposterous.

“Of course, anything you want. But, please let me know if you need anything else, alright?”

Loki hums again, and Mobius goes back to playing with his hair.

It must be hours before either of them speaks again. Loki’s turned around by now, so he’s facing Mobius while still resting his head on his lap.

“Do you have a bathtub?”

“I do.”

“I could go for a bath… But…”

He’s reluctant to voice his desires. He’s been attached to Mobius as a barnacle to a rock for longer than he can tell, and Mobius must be tired of him by now. Maybe he’s been tired during this entire display of neediness and has only tolerated it for Loki’s sake. Mobius is decent enough that it doesn’t sound particularly far-fetched.

“But what? Go on.”

“Would you… would you mind staying with me while I’m in the bath?”

“Sure.”

Mobius looks unphased, but Loki still needs to ask:

“Are you sure it’s no bother? I know I’m being clingy and…”

Mobius interrupts him:

“Rest assured, you’re only the one clinging to me because you beat me to it. I don’t want to be apart from you anymore than you want to be apart from me.”

Loki frowns, as if facing a puzzle he can’t quite solve.

“Really?”

“Of course. Why do you think I looked for you for months?”

And it makes sense, from an objective point of view. It’s a wonder Loki can’t wrap his head around it.

“Oh” is all he has to say.

“Yeah, oh.”

Loki will wonder later how exactly Mobius managed to rescue him. He’s not strong enough to deal with that conversation at the moment.

“Come on, let’s get that bath running.” Mobius says, sitting up straighter.

Loki gets the message and pulls himself up. He only loses physical contact with Mobius for a handful of seconds before he reaches for his hand and slide his fingers between Mobius’.

They walk to the bathroom hand in hand and Mobius only lets go when Loki has to undress. Mobius looks away until he’s in the bath, hidden by the bubbles. It’s a sweet, if useless (Mobius probably saw Loki naked in countless occurrences on the TVA tapes), gesture.

Loki would ask Mobius to join him if he had the courage. He can’t find it in himself. He’s been bold enough as it is. Besides, it would definitely cross the line. To be honest with himself, he’s not sure this line exists anymore, but he ought to pretend it still does. For Mobius’ sake, if not for his own.

“Can I wash your hair?”

The prospect of Mobius’ gentle hands back in his hair is a pleasant one, to say the least. So, Loki immerses himself in the bath to wet his hair and comes back up, before replying:

“Please, be my guest”, trying for a teasing smile that probably comes out looking wrong.

Mobius returns Loki’s fond smile, relieved to finally see a positive emotion displayed on this beautiful face.

He grabs his bottle of shampoo from the edge of the bathtub and squeezes some of it into his palm. It’s cheap stuff, with a cheap artificial apple scent. Surely not up to Loki’s standards. However, Mobius doesn’t reckon he’ll care after his forced stay in the Alternate-TVA.

When he starts rubbing the shampoo into Loki’s hair, Loki shivers again, and then moans. Mobius puts the reaction in a corner of his brain so he can examine it later. It might be a thing.

Mobius takes his time (which is to say, he takes far more time than is necessary), before he finally requests:

“Bend forward and close your eyes for me, please.”

Loki complies without a second thought, and warmth spread inside Mobius at the display of trust.

“Good boy.” Mobius says it without thinking, as he’s reaching for the hand shower.

Loki tenses up, and Mobius instantly regrets the words. They’re out, though, there’s no calling them back.

Thankfully, before Mobius can go into a full-blown panic caused by his own stupidity, Loki relaxes again, even though his breathing is now laboured.

That’s quite a lot to unpack there. Mobius will make sure to come back to it in the future. Until then, he focuses on rinsing Loki’s hair without making a mess. He then wrings the excess water out of it as gently as he can and grabs a towel from the rack attached to the wall.

He hands it to Loki and looks away again to give him some semblance of privacy. He hears Loki get up and say:

“It’s okay, you can look. I don’t mind.”

Mobius should decline, but he’s too weak. It’s so hard to not keep his eyes on Loki constantly when he has just got him back.

So, Mobius looks at him, and instantly notices Loki’s lower torso is covered in bruises. They’re stark against Loki’s skin, which is now back to its usual paleness, sans blueish tint.

Mobius must have visibly reacted, though he’s not aware of it, because Loki takes a glance down his own body and flinches.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t think…”

“Don’t apologize. Not for that.”

Loki’s mouth clicks shut.

Once Loki’s dressed in a T-shirt and sweatpants (both black, thankfully) that he borrowed from Mobius, he brushes his teeth with a spare toothbrush.

Then, Mobius manages to talk him into eating something and having a cup of herbal tea (camomile), even though it ruins the point of the aforementioned toothbrushing.

What would he not do to appease Mobius and keep him from worrying? Loki prefers not to know.

They retire to bed soon after that, tangling together under Mobius’ fluffy comforter. Loki’s about to fall asleep, lulled by the repetitive motion of Mobius’ fingers running lines on his back, when Mobius speaks:

“I… I know I should let you rest before broaching this topic but… I won’t be able to think about anything else all night if I don’t ask…”

Loki’s tempted to tell him to spit it out, but he refrains, letting Mobius continue at his own rhythm.

“The other me… is he the one who, you know… the bruises?”

“No. He wasn’t particularly nice, but he was never outright cruel to me.” That much could not be said about many other agents of the Alternate-TVA, but Loki refuses to get into that. “Nevertheless, he was… wrong in so many ways.”

Mobius’ hand stops moving up and down his back.

“How so?”

“He was... different. He hated Josta, he didn’t care about jet skis, he was right-handed… He was cold, warier of me than you were, and a bigger stickler for the rules. He… he just wasn’t you.”

His Mobius was everything this other Mobius wasn’t to Loki. He was trustworthy. He brought him hope. Because he had seen Loki, he knew almost everything that could be known about him, and still he believed he could be someone good. The other Mobius had not witnessed any of Loki’s numerous lies and betrayals, and still he trusted him far less than his Mobius did despite every piece of evidence proving he should not.

Loki can’t comprehend the undeserved trust Mobius has for him, but he is grateful it exists.

“He sounds like a jackass.”

Loki lets out a teary laugh.

“He was. Thank you for rescuing me from him.”

“You’re very welcome. I needed it as much as you did, anyway.”

“You’ll tell me how you did it, right? Tomorrow?”

“Anything you want”, Mobius says for the second time that day.

And, by the Norns, does Loki want. He wants so much.

He raises his head from Mobius chest and places his lips on his. He keeps it brief, pulling back before Mobius has time to react. The line is crossed, annihilated. What can Loki say? He’s never been good at denying himself what he wants.

“Was that okay?”

Mobius exhales slowly, his body going lax after tensing up from the surprise.

“More than.”

“Good.”

They stop talking, then. Loki falls asleep in a matter of minutes, hopeful for the first time since Sylvie pushed him through a time-portal to get rid of him. Things are still a mess, but there’s a slight chance they’re going to be fine and, for now, that’s enough.

Thanks for reading ;

#Loki #Mobius #Lokius #fanfiction #hurt and comfort #Loki spoilers

44 notes · View notes

tigerseye46 · 3 years

Text

A Hero Is Born (Red Shark/Sand Au)

Summary: After being dismissed by Guanyin after centuries under their teaching, Red arrived at the city to live a normal life, hiding his identity and powers. He has spent four years in the city and works at Culinary Cicada, content with how he is now. He didn’t expect his life to change one day.

A/N: Finally got this done. There are going to be rarepairs but aren’t the main focus for this chapter so I didn’t tag it. Sun Wukong’s alias is Sun Hàoyú 昊瑜 meaning “vast and limitless excellence.” Zhu Bajie’s alias is Zhu Xiùliàng 秀亮 meaning “refined light.” Sorry if these aren’t good aliases. I know Sha Wujing’s staff can’t control water, but in this au, it can. He learned how to do that after the journey. Also I want to say thank you all my anons and others who put in ideas for this au! It made it really fun! Anyway enjoy!

AO3 Link

Red would admit he didn’t care much for the legends as other people did. He had been a small part of those legends so they weren’t extraordinary to him (not that he had revealed that information to anyone).

But Mr. Sun and Tang always loved to talk about them, especially the latter, so he listened to the elders. Today was one of those days. A special day that would change his life forever.

“The thing you need to understand, bud, is that the old legends are never finished. While there may be no pages left to turn, there is always more. Years ago, the Spider Queen and her army attacked. No one could stop them, no one except… Sha Wujing. Using his crescent moon spade, he trapped the Spider Queen under a mountain. He made it so no one else could wield it and he trapped her forever.”

“With the battle won, Sha Wujing… disappeared and was never seen again. It is said that the spade remains there, preventing our world from being destroyed. Because of him, civilization was able to prosper into the awesome world we see today. All thanks to Sha Wujing!”

Red hummed as he leaned against the counter. “That’s cool I guess.”

Mr. Sun scoffed. “Just cool? You know how many people would love that story?”

“I’m just not that impressed by it.”

“How dare you. You always react to the stories that way. Thought that one would bring more excitement.”

“Well, I’m not your audience. You’re not putting on a play for me.”

“At least you listen anyway.”

“That I do. I do think Sha Wujing is more impressive than say the Sun Wukong or Zhu Bajie.” At least he didn’t attack him as much as the others.

Sun appeared as if he was offended by the statement. “He is impressive… I like the Monkey King better,” he muttered. “Anyway, you know the deal. One peach soup.”

“Yea, yea. You got it.” He attempted to pass the bowl but it was quickly taken away by Tang.

“Not so fast. You left out so many details, Hàoyú. No extensive details of how he defeated the Spider Queen? He’s a hero! He deserves a better explanation than that.”

With an eye roll, Hàoyú responded, “Whatever.” He made grabby hands at the bowl. “Can I have my soup now?”

“No. You’re a scholar, tell the story accurately or I might go to your rival.” Sun huffed at the mention. “I could do better, better than those stupid depictions of Sha Wujing, no one can really capture his handsomeness, huh?” He cleared his throat, the small blush on his cheeks fading away. “Anyway, Red, you have orders to take out. Get to it!”

“I was about to take my break.”

“Break? You've been taking a break all morning. How is Culinary Cicada supposed to flourish if you’re slacking off?”

He began pushing Red, rumpling the other’s lotus print shirt. He shoved takeout bags in his hands then sent him out. The human heard a slurp behind him. He spun around to see Sun had stolen the soup back. Furrowing his brows, he suggested, “How about you tell an actually good and detailed story about Sha Wujing and you keep the bowl?”

“You just love hearing about your crush. Alright, it’s a deal.”

————

Red entered an abandoned construction site, whistling a tune under their breath and focusing on their phone. He paused when he heard a voice. “It’s amazing that you’ve finally done it! Are you ready, you two?”

A nasally voice replied, “For the last time, Goliath, we’re almost done.”

“Sorry, Syntax! I’m just so excited!”

“You can’t blame uncle Goliath’s excitement, dad.”

“Hmph. Well, try to hold it in for a bit longer.”

The demon hid behind some rocks. He spotted three spiders and a human surrounding a mountain.

One spider towered over the group, he fiddled with his fingers nervously, indicating that despite being the giant, he was probably the most gentle one out there.

Another had his hands behind his back, tapping his feet impatiently.

The third was tinkering with an invention, a device strapped to his back. The human was beside the third, he had a purple bandanna with two green marks, almost like eyes, wrapped around his forehead and a black coat with white fur.

“Because of you two, we can lift Sha Wujing’s spade!”

Red moved higher up and looked at the glowing object. The duck beside him quacked out of surprise. What was a duck doing here? Whatever. It wasn’t important.

“Sha Wujing’s spade,” he whispered.

“The spider clan will be restored!” Goliath’s shoulders briefly bounced up in surprise. “Huh?”

Huntsman was on top of the mountain and started reaching for the weapon. “Huntsman,” Syntax yelled. “Don’t do that!”

“Whatever, nerd.” He gripped it and instantly got zapped by it which sent him crashing into a wall.

Syntax stood over him. “Idiot. This is the hundredth time you’ve tried this. You think you would have learned your lesson by now. We’ve clarified that he made it so only someone worthy would wield it.”

“Which is why we have this.” The human gestured to the power glove. “Don’t worry. I’ve got this.”

“Hmph, brat.”

“Go ahead, Xiaotian.” Syntax pulled Huntsman up, their cheeks becoming green for the slightest second before they focused on the kid.

Xiaotian strolled up to the weapon and pulled on it with the glove. Sparks danced until he was able to rip it off. He held it high in the air and shouted in triumph, “Look at what I did!” Goliath and Syntax applauded him while Huntsman huffed.

“I could have done it,” he mumbled.

Xiaotian went back up to his family with a smile and waited a second before asking, “Wait, why isn’t anything happening? Are you three sure this is the right mountain?”

Syntax scoffed. “No, Xiaotian, I think it’s the other one.”

The mountain rumbled and cracked in the center. The Spider Queen destroyed it and crawled out with a cackle. “I’ve returned! The queen is back!”

Red’s eyes widened. Oh no. The queen was free. What should he do?

The duck pecked his hands as he was pondering. “Hey!” He attempted to shoo the duck away. “Shoo! It’s rude to peck at people’s hands!”

The four bowed to her with heads hung low, the human placed the crescent moon spade aside. “My queen,” Huntsman started. “We’re glad to have you free.”

“My clan,” she cried. “Wait, where are the rest of you?”

“I’m sorry. We’re some of the few spiders left.”

The Queen’s fist clenched, her happy tone at being freed slipped away. “I see. It’s all Sha Wujing’s fault. Now introductions are in order for the new members.”

“Well, there’s me, Huntsman. Then there’s Goliath and…”

“I can introduce myself, brute. I’m Syntax, my lady, and this is my son, Qi Xiaotian.”

If Red wasn’t so focused on the situation, he would have thought, Son? Those two look nothing alike.

“Son?” Her majesty questioned.

“Yes, he is my biological son. I wasn’t born a spider but I would say those details are for another time.”

“Alright. How did you all manage to free me?”

The human stepped forward with a spring in his step. “I did it, my queen! I managed to harness its power to make it our-” Her majesty loomed with a glare. Xiaotian nervously chuckled. “Our power,” he finished.

With a scoff, the queen congratulated him reluctantly, “Good job… for a human.”

Ignoring the human comment, he beamed. “Thank you! Now, we, the Spider clan, can rule the world!”

The duck continued to peck at the demon. The demon flapped a hand to get rid of the sting while the bird focused on the other one and made him fall right onto Qi Xiaotian.

Red held up the bag of food. “Hey… did someone order food?”

Huntsman and Syntax stared at Goliath. “What? I didn’t order anything.”

Xiaotian shoved him. “Get off me, dumbass! You ruined my moment!”

Spider Queen focused on the intruder. “Well, well, we’ll, an eavesdropper has fallen into our midst. It’s a shame to crush such a tiny, insignificant thing like you as my first act but, oh, what can you do?” She was about to crush them when she was interrupted.

“Wait, my queen.”

Ugh, the human. She rubbed her face. “Yes?”

“You don’t have to waste your energy. I’ll handle it! Allow me to prove myself!”

“Fine. Go ahead.”

Red muttered, “Maybe I can go now.”

“You’re fortunate, grocery boy. It’s not every day someone is crushed by the Spider Clan! You should consider yourself-”

The demon’s ears picked up a sound, his gaze drifted to the staff. “Sha Wujing’s staff,” a voice whispered.

Xiaotian growled, “You’re not listening! I, Qi Xiaotian, will not be disrespected! You’re toast!”

The human attempted to punch him with the glove but he blocked it… blocked it with the crescent moon staff. Fuck. “How did you?”

How did he? He could have used his fire to block it. Why didn’t he? Well, his identity was a secret and he barely used his fire since he became Guanyin’s disciple so that was understandable. But to grab the staff, what was he thinking?

“That’s scientifically impossible,” Syntax said.

“I don’t understand what’s happening but I don’t care. That’s ours!”

“I was supposed to be on my break! Dang it, Mr. Tang!” The weapon activated and whacked the human and the spiders (save the queen) away.

“This can’t be,” her majesty muttered in disbelief.

“That was not what I expected.”

Huntsman hissed, “That doesn’t belong to you. Give it to us!”

“Ummmm… no?” Then suddenly he was launched into the air by the weapon. “AHHHHHH!”

“He can’t leave with the damn thing!”

“I was trapped under a mountain and suddenly, a thief takes it!”

Xiaotian bowed. “Allow me, your majesty. I won’t fail again.”

“Fine! Go!”

The human grabbed his technological staff and made off in his motorcycle to give chase.

-------

Red took in deep breaths to calm himself down as he landed on the ground. Xiaojiao snapped a picture of herself with her sword and motorcycle outfit. During the picture, she used her magic to create sparkles. “Nailed it!” She pocketed her phone and put the sword away.

“Xiaojiao!”

“That was a cool game of tag! You looked like you were having fun! I wanted to join in too!”

“I almost died.”

“But you didn’t! We should go to the arcade! Invite your new friend!”

“He was trying to kill me.”

Her face turned dark. “Where does he live? I’ll handle him.”

“Red Son! Where are you?” Tang stormed up to them. He showed his phone to reveal a zero-star rating. “I got a zero-star rating because of you. Would you like to explain yourself?”

“I think what happened is-”

Xiaojiao giggled. “Congrats, Tang! It’s better than nothing!”

“No, it isn’t! You know you would be in trouble if this happened to my magic shop, missy. Now, Red, you’re-” Tang searched around. “Where did he go?”

Red slipped past him. “Mr. Sun!”

“Hey! Come back here!”

Ignoring him, the demon ran into the shop. “Mr. Sun!”

Hàoyú was in the middle of his bowl. “Yea?”

“So, remember the story you told me this morning? About the Spider Queen?”

Tang and Mei followed him. “Red, we weren’t done talking.”

“Yea, that’s great, Mr. Tang.”

Sun sipped his soup, completely disinterested. “Yea? What about her?”

Red got close to his face. “She’s back! Sha Wujing’s staff was removed! We have to find him! He has to save-”

Sun pushed him back and held his bowl protectively. “You’re getting spit in my soup. Calm down. Who knew that would be the story you get wrapped up in? Relax, it’s just a story.”

“It’s not just a story.” He showed the spade. Hàoyú pursed his lips, contemplating the possibility or holding back from saying something snarky, Red wasn’t sure.

“Wow, Red, you found a stick!”

“No! It belongs to Sha Wujing!” The three burst into laughter. Red growled, his fists briefly flamed but no one noticed except him. “Listen to me! The Spider Queen is out there. I’ll prove this belongs to Sha Wujing.”

Sun raised a brow. “Okay. How?”

“Ummm…” The spade wobbled, it grew then stabbed part of the wall, causing a crack before shortening.

Sun gasped and he was about to get a closer look when Tang pushed him away. Tang grabbed the arm holding the spade and hoisted it up towards the sky. His eyes twinkled. “Sha Wujing’s spade! I knew it! His awesome weapon that he used to seal evil! Wait… why do you have it? And where is the queen now?”

“She’s at a fashion store,” Mei responded.

“What?!”

“I hope this isn’t one of your puppy videos, young lady.”

“There’s always time for a puppy video, Tangy, but no. Look at what’s trending. Hashtag Spider Queen!” She showed a video of the Spider Queen robbing a fashion store with Qi Xiaotian. The queen used some device to absorb a one-of-a-kind item.

Tang panicked when the video ended. “Okay! We have to do something! Get in the truck!” He shoved them in the truck while they shouted out of surprise.

The group yelped as Tang drove like a madman through the streets. They were squished in the car, Red rasped out, “This is a little uncomfortable.”

“Tang! Can you slow down? You’re going to kill us,” Mr. Sun told him. He couldn’t die but he knew it would be unfortunate if the group got into a crash.

“Yea. We need to get to Sha Wujing without getting injured in a crash.”

“Guys! The Spider Queen moved downtown! She’s destroying the mall!”

“We need to get to Sha Wujing fast. The only problem is we have no idea how to get there.”

“Ugh, you’re right. How do we get there? Do we just keep driving?” Tang asked in a frantic tone.

Mr. Sun replied, “Well, if you would have let me talk before you pushed us in here. I know someone who could get us there!”

“Really?”

“Yep! An old friend of mine. The greatest, excellent, glorious Zhu Xiùliàng. Now drive there, Tang!”

“Drive where?”

“Uhhhh… oh, yea, you need directions.”

-------

The group watched kids climb on the tall pig like a jungle gym while others were in the corner conversing or doing other activities. Wukong had a big grin on his face at the scene.

Xiùliàng chuckled and cautioned, “Careful, little ones.” He gently put them down, they frowned and he reassured them, “You can play later. Grandpa has to talk to these people first.” They reluctantly agreed and began breaking away to do their own things.

Sun blushed as the light hit Xiùliàng in a way that illuminated his beauty. Tang whispered to him with a smirk, “Oh, now I know why you brought us here.”

Xiaojiao teased, “Wow, Mr. Sun. We have to save the world and here you are trying to pick up a guy. I see you.” Sun shot them both a glare.

The pig didn’t hear them, he instead focused on beaming at the kids as they walked away. A hand was placed on his hips and he turned to the group with a “Sorry about that. That’s a lot to take in.”

“It most certainly is, old friend. I was hoping something like this wouldn’t happen,” he muttered.

“I was hopin’ that too,” Xiùliàng muttered back. A child with black hair tied up in braids and a blue headband with a flower ran up to the pig with a drawing in hand. “What is it, Yǎshuǐ?” He picked her up so she rested on her arm.

“I made you a drawing, grandpa!” She waved it in front of the pig’s face then looked towards the group. Her eyes briefly widened in surprise before she gave a wave. “Hi, yéyé!”

“Hi, hon,” he greeted.

“Oooo, yéyé. Didn’t know you had grandkids with him,” he teased. “Why didn’t you invite me to your wedding and why didn’t the paparazzi cover it?”

“Shut up, Tang. It’s for respect, you know that.”

“Mhmm…”

Red shook his head. “Disregarding Mr. Sun’s love life,” he murmured. “Mr. Zhu, we need your help to find Sha Wujing.”

Xiaojiao got on her knees, bringing her friend down with her and pleaded, “Yea, we could really use your help.”

Red sighed. “Please help us. The fate of the world is at stake.”

“Alright,” he answered. “Really?”

“Of course. Anything for Sun.” The two cheered. “I’ll just drop these kids off then we’ll go.”

“WOOOOO!”

------

Tang hummed as he walked along the path, trying to contain his excitement. “See, this isn’t that bad,” he said then a trap sprung out of nowhere. “Eep! Never mind! Stupid Sun, stupid Zhu, why did we let them stay behind?”

“Because you said they could.”

“Careful, Tangy. I wonder why Sha Wujing chose to live here.”

“I don’t know. Good thing it isn’t Sun Wukong’s home or we would have to go pass the Flaming Mountains. They actually had to borrow my m- Princess Iron Fan’s fan to-”

A cackle came out of nowhere. Syntax appeared. “If it isn’t you three.” Syntax used the glove to pound at the ground, sending it up.

“Hey! Be careful, kids!”

“I’ll be taking that spade.”

Red held the weapon up. “This is Sha Wujing’s. You are not taking it.”

“You’re just a bunch of broken metal, can’t even make anything useful.” “What? Oh, whatever.” He charged at the spider who caught the spade with glove.

He was launched and heard the distant cry of “RED” as he blacked out.

------

The demon woke up on Sha Wujing’s mountain. “I’m… I’m here?” He stood up and started walking. He spotted a house and peeked inside but found no one so he continued onwards. There was a handmade statue of Tripitaka and Sha Wujing. “Wow.”

The sound of a twig snapping caught his attention. He saw the very person he was looking for glancing at him with a frown. “Huh?” Then the figure ran off.

He followed quickly and reached a river, a single fish. “A fish?” The fish jumped out of the water, a blue light surrounded it. “Ack!” The older demon appeared. “Sha Wujing?”

“It’s been a long time, Red Son or should I say, Red Boy?”

“You know it’s me?”

“You literally just switched the Boy to Son. No shit. Surprise your little friends haven’t figured it out yet.”

“Yea, I haven’t told them yet.”

“I know. Anyway, where’s my spade?”

“Oh… ummm… I’m sorry! I lost it. I was trying to bring it to you and-”

Wujing laughed. “I know. I’ve been watching you.”

“What?” He flashed back to some of the animals he saw. “That was you?”

“Yep. I need something of you, kid. I need you to be my successor.”

“What? Are you sure? Has your brain short circuited?”

“No,” he replied annoyed. “My brain is fine. You’re going to be my successor. Look you came all this way and were fine.”

“Because I’m a demon!”

“Regardless of that, you still made your way here and you’re experienced in fighting. Be a hero.”

“What about the Spider Queen?”

“What about the Spider Queen? Take it as a trial or a warmup.”

“But I-” He sighed, he was hoping he could lead a normal life but he supposed he had no other choice especially since the elder had no intent on helping. The elder was changed, certainly different from the demon who was considered more calm and rational.

Sha Wujing grunted. “What are one of those bullshit quotes I can give you? Oh, right. Believe in yourself and you’ll be fine. The spade was taken from you! Get it back!”

“Alright!” He zoomed off.

Wujing whispered, “Hope this makes you happy, master.”

-------

Xiaojiao was about to use her powers when Red Son crash landed. Red dusted himself off.

“Kid,” Tang yelled.

“Red,” Xiaojiao shouted. “You’re alive! We saw you blast off! We thought something happened to you! Where did you get the jet? You crashed it already! Did you find Sha Wujing?”

“Yep!”

Tang questioned as he looked around frantically, “Where is he?”

“He said it’s up to me, to all of us.” Sun and Zhu exchanged glances.

“What?”

“That’s anticlimactic.”

“How are we meant to fight that?” Sun motioned to the Spider Queen’s humongous form.

“We believe in ourselves. You clean the streets while I stop her… somehow.”

“The jet would have been useful.” She kicked the broken pieces and a speed bike was revealed.

“That works.”

“You can do it, pal!”

Red drove off and approached the queen. “If isn’t the thief trying to ruin my big moment.” She attempted to squish him when he dodged with the bike.

“Where is it? Where is it?” He squinted at the device the queen had been using to absorb objects, the spade rested in the middle. “Here goes nothing.” He ran into it.

Xiùliàng covered the group. “I’ve won! The clan has been restored!” She stumbled. “Huh?” Red emerged with the weapon. “Sha Wujing?”

“Nope. Just Red.” Red punched her. Spider Queen tried to blast them, they dodged with taunts, “Nice try! You missed! Almost!” They pushed her down with the spade then used it to cut half of a building. “Here we go!”

As he was about to trap her, the Queen roared, “I won’t let this happen again!” She destroyed it, the younger demon was sent backwards. “Sorry, doll. Good luck trying to trap me again. I AM THE QUEEN!” Red’s gaze shot towards a body of water. “You might have that idiot’s staff but you are not Sha Wujing!”

“No, I’m not. I’m Red, his successor!” He lifted the spade up, water swirled around it and he sent it to attack the queen. “It’s time for your reign of terror to end!”

The queen gasped and her powers waned, she turned back to her normal form. “That’s impossible!”

“Nothing is impossible if you believe.” Xiaotian raged, “This isn’t over! You wouldn’t be so mighty with your precious powers, sand boy! Come fight me!”

Red was about to do when a web entangled him. The three spiders showed themselves. “Nice try. We know when to leave the party. We’ll see you,” Huntsman said. Syntax threw a smoke bomb and they disappeared.

The group cut Red free. “You can’t run when I’m about to win! Hmph.”

His friend hugged him. “You kicked SQ’s butt! Without us the city would be toast.”

“I couldn’t have done it on my own.”

Xiùliàng hugged them. “You did.”

“You’re the new Sha Wujing now I guess.”

“I’m proud of you, Red,” Tang said. He was proud of his kid but he couldn’t understand why Sha Wujing had chosen to hand his weapon to a random kid. He’ll think about it later. “I’m really proud.”

“What do we do now?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Red perked up. “Yea! We could bring justice to the world! Go after bad guys!”

Sun suggested, “Or we could eat.”

“Let’s go with that.”

The group discussed their recent adventure while Sha Wujing watched from a building. He frowned, shifted to a duck and flew off.

22 notes · View notes

rwby-necro-au-archive · 3 years

Text

Ozpin Week

Day Six: Day Off/In Battle

@ozpinweek

Description: It’s no surprise that running a Necromancer academy can come with issues. Necromancy is outlawed in many parts of the world after all.

One such issue is the equally unsurprising amount of Pursuers that try to sneak into beacon. Good thing that beacon is made for this, by having what is essentially a maze surrounding it’s buildings. The pursuers most times end up getting lost due to this.

Perhaps it’s also good that a certain headmaster watches his academy and students like a hawk in case of such incidents.

“How upsetting, and on such a lovely day like today.” Ozpin sighed. It would seem that he had been swamped with sorrowful reports and countless uninteresting meetings all day. What he had truly wanted was to be outside or at least to be interacting with his students. But it would all have to wait until these reports and paperwork were finished.

Even though today had started off as it normally would, Him getting up, getting ready for the day, and then heading off to the academy, it still felt like it was particularly monotonous and dull. Nothing interesting had happened, hell even the students hadn’t done any of their usual antics today.

He shook his head, it’s not like any of them could anyways, they had term ending exams to study for. Although he couldn’t help but wish someone would’ve done something.

Knock Knock Knock

A gentle but firm knock was heard at the door. He could tell it was Glynda, it was the small, seemingly insignificant details that he focused on when it came to people. Even the way someone knocked on a door could tell you who they were.

“Come in, Glynda.” Ozpin called out cheerily.

The door opened, “I will never understand how it is that you know whose outside your door even before they walk in.” She quipped.

“I always did pay attention to detail did I not?”

“That is true. Anyways, you look like you’ve had the life sucked out of you. How much paperwork?”

Ozpin leaned back in his office chair “What on remnant makes you think that I know? Absolutely nothing interesting has happened today. Such a shame, it’s such a lovely day too, and here I am stuck doing paperwork.”

Glynda gave a sympathetic sigh, “You aren’t the only one. Despite that, that’s not what I’m here for.”

“Right, To the point. Is it something I should be concerned about?”

“Yes actually.”

His face became stern in response, “What is it?”

“A pursuer has decided to go looking for students to harass on premises.” She explained

“Why haven’t you or the other staff gone to handle the situation.”

She gave an eyebrow raise “Why?”

“My apologies but if they haven’t done anything yet then what would be the point in coming to me?”

“Fair. This one has been…..persistent. He refuses to “take the hint” and stay away from the school. He essentially mocks any staff that tries to get rid of him. Figured you’d be in more luck getting him to leave the students alone.”

Ozpin pinched the bridge of his nose. How annoying. Not just a pursuer but a pursuer with the gall to mock his staff and harass innocent students, his students. It’s no wonder she came to him with the issue, she’s most likely more frustrated than he is.

“Also, I figured since you’ve been stuck in here all day that it would be good to give you something interesting to do. Not to mention get some fresh air” Glynda smiled

He smiled back “I appreciate it. Now then, where is he right now?”

“Seemingly lost in the northern wing’s maze.” She said, she handed him a photo taken from security footage.

He thanked her before leaving his office. Sure, pursuers weren’t an uncommon problem at Beacon but that didn’t make their presence any less annoying.

What was more surprising was that none of them whom he himself had dealt with, have had the audacity to actually go to their boss to tell him about his so called “friend” being a necromancer. Although, what pursuer would ever want to admit to their boss that they ran away from a necromancer?

In fact they, to Ozpin’s amusement, started heavily embellishing their stories to the other pursuers about what he was like. Some tales painted him as a terrifying monster, some painted him as a roughed up intimidating man with unspeakable power, and some painted him as a different being entirely.

It had turned into a game for the headmaster, to see what stories the pursuer he was dealing with had heard. At least it made the job of getting rid of those pests more enjoyable.

Without fail though, every pursuer who had heard about him was surprised to see him in person. The man they had heard was a terrifying monster, a roughed up untouchable man, or a different being entirely, was in reality a dapper, polite, and well kept 6’8 man with a northern Atlesian accent and a love and protectiveness for children.

He quickly walked out the main buildings doors and searched around for the northern entrance into the maze. Once found, he set off towards it. As he walked through the crowd he was greeted by students, all of whom were most likely on their way out of the school, he gave a quick hello and wished them well on their way home.

“Of course a pursuer would choose a time like this. Easy targets.” He mentally noted.

Once he entered the maze, the rest was muscle memory. He knew every corner, every corridor, every alley, every brick, stone, and piece of concrete of beacon like the back of his hand. Knowing where everything was at Beacon was as easy as walking itself for the headmaster.

As he walked he also listened. Listening was important in a situation such as this one. Eventually, what he had been listening for was heard. A yell. He picked up his pace and followed what he presumed was a female students yell.

As he listened further, it wasn’t just the one student, it was a group of them, most likely friends, who this pursuer had decided to go after.

This pursuer seemed to be a real colorful one too, throwing slurs and disgusting innuendos at the girls. There were 3 things Ozpin specifically hated, Pursuers, Those who aim to hurt children, and Creeps. Unfortunately for this pursuer, he was checking all the boxes.

He reached a corner and peered behind it. There stood 5 female students, backed into a wall by this disgusting excuse for a man.

“I bet the guards will have some real fun with you bunch once you get to atlas.” The pursuer sneered.

Ozpin appeared out from behind the corner, standing behind and over the pursuer, “Well that’s not very nice, now is it?” He spoke cooly.

The pursuer jumped and turned around. Eyes widening in realization as he looked up at who was standing in front of him.

“Y-you’re the monster all of the pursuers were talkin’ about.”

“Why yes! That is me!” He said cheerily

“I-I ain’t scared of you! You aren’t anything like they make you out to be. You’re just some guy, I can take you!” The man yelled.

“Tch tch tch, none of you ever learn from one another, do you?”

“The fuck you talkin’ about?!”

Ozpin smiled and looked towards the students, “Now students, here are 2 lessons for you all. Looks can be quite deceiving, take this man here for example. He may look threatening, but in reality, he is weak. He is weak because he is letting his anger get the best of him, which is not a wise decision if you are going to engage in combat.

When you are angry during combat, you stop thinking about how to hit your enemy, and instead just think about hitting your enemy anywhere in general. This leaves you vulnerable.”

“Fuck you!”

“Oh dear, and it seems we have quite a vulgar man as well.”

“Why are you bein’ so polite? I thought you were supposed to scary.” The pursuer snickered

Ozpin laughed, a cold, merciless, and wheezy sound, no doubt from his smoking habit. “Well, my friend, What kind of an example would I be setting if I wasn’t polite? I’m the head councilman of a country, a headmaster, and a professor! It’s my job to make sure I’m setting a good example on how to deal with pests such as yourself.”

He looked over at the pursuer, “show time.” He thought. In a simple blink his eye colored changed from a warm, caring hazelnut brown to a cold and soul destroying green.

“Besides, I am a merciful man. I wouldn’t want to make more of a fool of you when you’ve already done most of the work yourself.”

The pursuer visibly froze, he mentally laughed “Everytime, without fail. I don’t think I’ll ever get sick of it.”

Ozpin turned back to the students and told them to go home. He had business with this pursuer that he needed to attend to. Who was backed against the wall and helpless now?

The pursuer continued to yell slurs and insults at the headmaster. Eventually, he took out a blade an managed to slice Ozpin across the cheek, causing the headmaster to stumbled back some.

Okay, maybe not helpless. But he surely was backed against a wall in a maze with him.

Once he regained his footing, Ozpin ungloved one of his hands as he gently touched two fingers to the wound, “Well, I’m impressed, consider yourself lucky. You’re the first pursuer to ever actually land a hit on me. Even if it was a cheap shot.”

The pursuer laughed victoriously, while distracted by his small victory, Ozpin grabbed long memory. Quickly shifting it into its shotgun form.

“Although,” He spoke.

He harshly shoved the pursuer against the brick wall, leaving the man slightly dazed and confused. Ozpin aimed long memory at the wall besides the pursuers head and stared down at the man.

“Hasn’t anyone ever told you not to bring a knife to a gun fight?”

#no Ozpin doesn’t kill him. he essentially just scares the fuck out of him and tells him to run along afterwards #necromancer ozpin #headmaster ozpin #ozpin #professor ozpin #injury mention tw #blood mention tw #gun mention tw #violence mention tw

20 notes · View notes

whats-rambled-rambled · 3 years

Text

Long Nights - part 4

Neil x Reader

Chapter 4: World gone mad

(see chapter 3, 2, 1)

summary: inverted heist calls for inverted training

warnings: 18+, explicit language, gun mention, crackheadery, and possible whiplash

author’s note: Hi, yes, I know, took me ages, but hey, I hope it's worth the wait! 5.2k words, how even--

Anyway.

The song for this part is Bastille - World Gone Mad

Enjoy! All feedback is greatly appreciated, let me know what you think?

——————

Tag list: @cxnnienikas @neutron-stars-collision @ergunbilge @invertedneil @wanderedaway @mellifluous-cosmos @wonderwoman292 @buckysgoldenheart @townmoondaltwistle @theriverbeneaththeriver (please let me know if you want to be added/removed from the list)

-----

The fact that you knew how to handle guns wasn’t equal to you being very good at it. Or enjoying it, for that matter. Sure, you could more or less hit the target, especially with some useful tips you got from Neil regarding a trigger finger discipline, but still - you’d rather avoid reaching for a pistol altogether.

You put back the weapon you’d been training with and Neil handed you another one. You couldn’t really tell the difference, at least until you checked the magazine. The lack of ammo meant you finally got to the fun bit that Neil teased in The Protagonist’s office and you smiled, looking back at your companion. He grinned at you, the gaze sparkling behind yellow-tinted safety glasses as he pointed at the wall next to the targets you used for practice.

“Just aim and pull the trigger. ” Seeing your nod, he added, “Okay now, be careful, it might feel--”

The bullet whizzed back into the chamber of your pistol and your eyes widened.

“Oh fuck me sideways,” you hissed under your breath.

“-- a bit weird, yeah.” Neil chuckled at the shock painted on your face. “All right?”

“Yeah, just processing.” Trying to blink the consternation away, you asked, “How do you make these? You put it into that...turnstile and voilà?”

Neil shook his head. “No, it’s not that simple. We receive a stash every now and then, we don’t know how to manufacture those,” - he smirked - “at least not yet. I do have a few theories I’m working on in my spare time, but...” hesitating for a moment, he raked a hand through his hair and sent you a nervous smile. “Wouldn’t want to bore you to death, though.”

“Dude, come on, with that smooth and soothing voice of yours? You could read the yellow pages to me and I’d still listen like that--” you mocked a dreamy heart-eyes expression, watching with satisfaction as that remark pushed Neil further into a flustered state.

Apparently, when explicit teasing got a little-to-no reaction now, you could still make him blush with a more wholesome compliment. As you started laughing, he rolled his eyes and scrunched the nose slightly, joining you with a stifled giggle. Grinning, you continued a little softer, “I’m not gonna lie - I probably wouldn’t understand a majority of the physics jargon, but I’d still want to hear all about that.”

A thankful look you got in return made your chest clench painfully, and your mind wandered off to those breaks near the river, and Neil’s animated rants. You knew one thing. Anyone who had ever ridiculed him for his passion for even the nerdiest things could rot in hell, and you’d gladly see to it personally.

A disgruntled huff coming from behind made you both snap out of the moment.

“Oi, lovebirds, I’d appreciate it if you could leave all that to after I prep you for the mission.”

Bottling down your annoyance, you batted your lashes at the commander, who’d just come back with keys to one of the conference rooms near the range.

“Oh, I’m terribly sorry, you have my full attention now.”

Ives nodded, waving at you to follow him. Meanwhile, Neil’s small smirk let you know that he noticed that faint undertone in your voice, but he said nothing, patiently waiting for the events to unfold.

Another person was waiting for you at the door. You recognized the woman who’d driven you to that abandoned factory on your very first day - you’d never gotten properly introduced, but you remember asking Neil about her once and he called her Wheeler. To be honest, with these guys you never knew if they used their real names, nicknames, codenames, or whatever. Not that you cared, quite used to it in your own line of business. You exchanged a court nod with her and went into the room.

As you sat down at the big table and Ives booted a projector, your eyes bore into the man. Definitely one of those types who enjoyed his beret and the paramilitary structure of the field branch of the organization. Probably a bit too much. You bit back a smug grin.

Those were particularly fun to mess with.

Ives caught your piercing stare and stopped the brief of the location.

“What?”

“Nothing,” you said, propping the chin on your palm, a polite smile on your lips. “It’s fascinating.”

He furrowed his brows, perplexed.

“What is?”

“How your commanding presence literally adds you inches,” you said, using all your willpower to keep a serious face. “I wonder if it works only for your height or--”

Neil’d futile attempts at masking an amused snort with a cough didn’t go unnoticed. Ives shot him daggers and then glared at you. “For fuck’s sake, would you focus?”

Your eyes flared up at the threat in his voice and you pouted, taunting him further.

“Or what, you’re gonna spank me?”

“No, I’m gonna shoot you,” he deadpanned.

You raised a brow.

“Kinky.”

Ives groaned, turning to Neil.

“How you survived this long without choking her is beyond me.”

Neil puffed his cheeks and gestured vaguely, but as he opened the mouth to answer, you chimed in, with a shit-eating grin plastered on your face.

“Oh, he very much did so, all right.”

The awkward silence that followed was pretty satisfying.

“Can we keep her?” asked Wheeler casually, leaned back in her chair, fiddling with a bullpen.

Ives gaped at you all, then slumped his shoulders in defeat, sliding a hand through his features. He was so done you could almost hear The Sound of Silence playing in the distance, but apparently, his sense of duty was stronger than the urge to leave you without finishing the briefing, so he just drew a deep breath and continued.

“...anyway…”

You caught Neil’s glance and you couldn’t help but poke the tip of your tongue out at him. The mischievous sparks in his eyes reflected your own as he shook his head, tugging the bottom lip between the teeth. Wheeler’s curious gaze flitted between you two, and as you didn’t feel like drawing too much unnecessary attention to yourself anymore, you focused on the plan that Ives was persistently going through.

Time frames. Blueprints. Entry points. Exit routes (you spotted at least one additional way he left out, but you weren’t sure if you could drag Neil through there, judging by that alley performance, so you didn’t bother to mention it out loud). Everything seemed clear enough. You still had no idea how being inverted would affect the lockpicking, but when you voiced that, Ives promised you some time to figure it out before the mission.

The mission. Huh. It wasn’t that much different from your usual assignments - at least if you forgot about that tiny insignificant detail like moving backwards in time - but something in this paramilitary and/or espionage vibe made your heart beat faster with excitement.

It had been quite a long time since you had company at the job. Working alone had its perks, but you wouldn’t mind a trusted partner in crime having your six for a change.

Another thing that you certainly wouldn’t mind - seeing Neil in tactical gear. Not that either of you would need one, but the image got planted in your head and suddenly you wished you’d had a bottle of water.

You realized that everyone was looking at you expectantly. Shit, was there a question or…?

“I’m good,” you said, shooting in the dark, hoping that would be enough to cover your distracted ass.

Ives squinted, but fortunately, that was an acceptable answer.

“Well, as you two can proceed straight from here - Wheeler, they’re all yours.’

“Okay,” - she smiled and stood up - “we don’t have any turnstiles on-site, but there’s one in the base outside the city, I’ll talk you through the basics on the way.”

So that little daydream cost you a chance to come back home to prepare? Grand. The problem was - you needed your heavy-duty tools, but you’d rather eat rocks than back away in front of Ives. Luckily, he called on Neil to wait for a moment, so that was your chance.

“Umm, Wheeler?” you asked quietly, following her outside.

She glanced at you curiously.

“What’s up?”

“I know I said I’m good, but could we stop by my apartment for a second, please?” An awkward grimace ran through your face. “I gotta pick up my tools. You know, just in case.”

She wasn’t surprised by your request. Moreover, she sent you a knowing smile.

“Sure thing,” she said and winked, and then it was your turn to present a slightly flushed face. “I’ve got you.”

----

You didn’t know what to expect from the whole inversion process.

The first time your brain stuttered was when Wheeler pointed at something she called the proving window, just in time for you to see the three of you coming out on the other side. You caught inverted-you glancing back at your present self; the schooled expression, but with the gaze shining with anticipation.

The second time was when it was you on the other side, looking at your wide-eyed past self. Feeling the incoming headache, you took a deep breath and followed Wheeler and Neil to the stand with oxygen masks.

“How are you feeling?” asked Neil, handing you the equipment.

“Weirdly normal.” You shrugged. “Or maybe not more backwards than usual, if that makes any sense.”

He smiled lightly.

“It’s the airlock. When you see the outside, you’ll get a whole new perspective.”

Wheeler nodded. “What he said. And to recap: you’re inverted, the world is not - all forces will be pushing back on you. Besides gravity.” She double-checked the oxygen bottle secured to your belt. “Just mind things that might be rising instead of falling.”

You furrowed the brows.

“Wait, didn’t Ives mention the rain?”

Neil smirked from behind the mask.

“Afraid of getting wet?”

“Never.” You grinned, meeting the sparkling blue eyes. “Should know that by now.”

Wheeler snorted and shook her head, walking to the panel near the exit.

“You’ll have plenty of time to finish the job before you move far enough to catch up on that. Although, if you ever find yourself in the inverted rain, here’s a tip: pop your collar.”

“Why would you--” Oh. The sole thought of the water going up from the ground to the sky made you nauseous. You swallowed with effort, leveling your breath in the mask. “...right.”

Wheeler opened the door and you almost gasped at the view. The golden rays of sunset (...or was it technically a sunrise now?) flickered on the training grounds’ equipment as the sky painted the scarce pools of muddy water with greyish violets and reddening oranges. Leaves shuffled in the wind, their dance almost satirical with that inverted spin.

Wheeler’s voice stopped your mind from wandering further into the landscape.

“Okay, ready? Ives asked me to remind you not to try any cowboy shit, you need to be in one piece at the end of the training.”

“Yes ma’am,” you mocked a salute and stepped outside, stretching your limbs, readjusting to the reality being slightly off. Neil stood right beside you watching you warming up, ready to take you to the obstacles section.

But as soon as the airlock’s doors closed behind you, you spun around, tapping his shoulder - “Tag, you’re it!” - and without waiting for his reaction, you leaped towards the assault course.

Surely that turned out overly optimistic. You counted on the element of surprise and a head start, but Neil had an experience with running while being inverted, while you… well. You tried.

“B+ for effort,” laughed Neil, catching up on you even before you reached the first obstacle and tapping you back. “But you can do better than that.”

“Just you wait!” you retorted and vaulted over a low hurdle, the mild confusion caused by the dumbfounded senses slowly eased up as you tuned out the brain and let the muscle memory guide your movements. Because hey, in the end? Yes, the natural forces were acting up against you. Yes, Neil had years of inverted training behind him. But you’d been challenging different obstacles your whole life, and courses like this one were your favourite playgrounds.

You caught on him by the next wall, playing dirty and tugging at his leg, pulling him down before he could jump to the other side. The exasperated huff he gave you in protest got lost in the squelch of mud under your feet, the sound more like a suction instead of the much-expected splash. Shuddering with disgust at such abomination, you rushed to the set of monkey bars, hearing Neil following up closely. You gritted your teeth, swinging your body to help yourself get through the part, and that’s when you felt a light tap on your foot.

You glared to your left, where Neil was gaining an advantage over you.

“Damn you and your infinite legs, man! It doesn’t count!”

“Losing looks good on you,” he said, landing and then instantly ducking under your reached out hand.

“Too bad it’s not gonna stick,” you scoffed as you ran after him to jump on one of the parallel logs. Balancing was easy enough, even with inversion; it gave you the perfect opportunity to plan ahead, while Neil had to maintain full focus. “Must say - all that sass definitely makes you like... ten percent hotter.”

But you’d taught him well, apparently, and instead of losing his pace, he only shot you a quick glance accompanied by an arched brow.

“Only ten?”

“Dunno, come over here and let me take a closer look,” you teased, getting a short chuckle in response. “No?” - you sighed - “Alrighty then.” And you leaped to the side straight into Neil, pushing him off the log. He yelped and grabbed you by the shirt, the momentum sending you both straight into the mud. You landed on top of Neil, collapsing into his arms for a moment to catch a breath and to stop laughing.

You leaned back to look him in the eyes.

“Okay, maaaybe fifteen,” you panted, booping his mask as you would do to his nose.

Neil snickered and nodded.

“I’ll take it.”

When your gazes met, his features softened, and he tucked a strand of hair behind your ear gently. You smiled behind the mask and sat up, straddling his waist. Neil was studying you closely, his hands grazed your sides and rested on your hips. Nibbling at your bottom lip, you leaned over him again and slowly reached out, and--

“Simba…” you choked out with reverence, brushing a muddy thumb across his forehead.

Tears from the held-back laughter threatened to spill any second as you observed Neil blanking out in utter confusion. The five stages of grief ran through his expression and then he closed his eyes and sighed theatrically.

“The fate of the world is in the hands of a complete madwoman.”

...the what now?

You tilted your head, grinning.

“Aren’t you a little dramatic?”

Then, without a warning, Neil shifted under you, rolling you off him and pinning you down.

“Birds of a feather and all that,” he said, clearly enjoying the way you squealed and squirmed as the mud got under your shirt. “You think you got a hang of the inverted movement already?”

“I don’t know,” you shrugged. Neil realized your intentions a second too late. A handful of mud splashed on his face and you chuckled with satisfaction. “Yeah, now I think I’m ready to go.”

You turned up at the airlock soon after, looking like something that cat dragged in, but beaming widely. Dreaming of a hot shower and a clean set of clothes, you put down the mask and the oxygen container and headed to the turnstile.

Wheeler was waiting for you near the machine, and seeing the state you were in, she just gaped at you both, trying to come up with an adequate question.

As you noticed her quizzical look, you gave her a thumbs up and smiled.

“If you ain't dirty, you ain't here to party! Wooo!” you whooped, throwing your hands up and trotting past her straight into the turnstile.

Right before reverting yourself back to your original state, you heard Wheeler’s hushed question.

“You two all right?”

And then Neil’s answer.

“Don’t worry, we’re good.”

--------

The truck’s engine hummed steadily, which could only mean you were on some sort of highway. At least the container stopped wobbling, so you could practice in peace.

No wobbles meant no excuses, though. You sighed, readjusting your grip on the tools.

Neil had fallen asleep some time ago, after making sure you figured out the locks and hearing your solemn promise that you would follow him soon.

One day after that eventful night, then inverting and going straight back without proper sleep. You knew he was right and you needed at least a nap. But you couldn’t. Not before you were absolutely sure you got it. The usual locks weren’t that bad. The inverted ones were a whole other story.

It’d taken you long enough to crack them in the safety of your own apartment, without the weird physics, ever-present even within the air-locked container. Without the pressure.

The fate of the world.

What the fuck was that supposed to mean?

You didn’t even know what was that thing you were supposed to retrieve soon. It was okay, you didn’t need to. It was a quite common situation in your work history. That kind of knowledge could be dangerous, after all.

The pin clicked and you sighed again, squeezing your eyes shut to stop the burning sensation even for a moment.

Besides, you were doing it for Neil. The memory of that panicked look on his face when he’d seen the documents was enough to keep you going.

But did he have to say that?

You had to do it. Not only because you felt responsible for him, in a way. What you’d told the boss was true and you weren’t the only one at fault for Neil not being fully ready for that assignment. He was your friend, wasn’t he? And there was no way you’d leave a friend in need.

You pressed your lips together, forcing yourself to breathe.

Probably a stupid joke, nothing more.

But what if he was being serious? What if that thing out there was really that important? And you were about to fuck everything up because you couldn’t get your shit together fast enough to figure out the bloody inverted mechanism again. And with every minute wasted and not spent on resting there was a higher chance of messing up at the actual location.

Hell of a locksmith you were, huh?

The feedback from the tools came with a final warning like a sobering slap. If you were to continue, they would snap any second now.

You let out a shaky breath and retraced from the lock, hiding your face in the palms.

A gentle touch on your shoulder almost made you flinch. Of course, he had to wake up in the middle of your breakdown.

“Go back to sleep, we still have a few hours left,” you muttered into your hands, trying to collect yourself.

“Not before you talk to me,” said Neil as his fingers slid down your arm. He was crouching right beside you, the blue eyes boring into you with concern. “What is it?”

You sighed and shifted in your seat to face him.

“Wanna make sure I got it, that’s all.”

Neil’s brows knitted together.

“But I saw you open that lock once, why--”

“Once! And that’s exactly the problem!” you fumed and glared at the table. “I can’t crack it again, I--” your voice wavered and you gritted the teeth in frustration. “What if it was a stroke of dumb luck? Should I start praying for another one to happen there?”

Another delicate touch, this time on your knees, was enough to make you look back at Neil. A shade of smile tainted his lips as he searched your gaze.

“Someone used to tell me all the time that if you did it once, you can do it again.”

You hung your head and huffed, “Maybe that someone was full of shit.’

“I know for a fact that she wasn’t,” he chuckled, taking the tools out of your clenched fists and putting them back at the table. “She was utterly brilliant,” he continued, reaching for your cramping, trembling hands and taking them in his, ”and always reminded me to take a break instead of agonizing over a stubborn lock.”

That you did, all right. Your laugh sounded awfully close to a sob. God, if you weren’t exhausted.

Mustering enough strength to look him in the eyes, you squeezed his hands, trying to convey all the gratitude in the gesture. And hide that bit of embarrassment, too.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” he said and his thumbs brushed over your knuckles. “Scoot over.”

You moved back on the provisional bench, making enough space for him to sit next to you. And so he did, not letting go of your hands even for a second. He started rubbing small circles into them and you grunted softly. Neil gave you a knowing smile and soon enough, his fingers glided between your forearms and fingertips, applying pressure to the tensest places, careful strokes and precise moves bringing a much-needed release. You couldn’t help small groans escaping your mouth, every one of them adding to the self-satisfied grin hiding in the corner of Neil’s mouth. But then, instead of teasing you, his features softened and you caught his glance, warm and sheepish.

“I don’t think I properly thanked you for offering to help me with this mission.”

“I couldn’t let you have all the fun,” you laughed and winced as Neil’s thumbs worked on your wrists. “Don’t thank me yet, we still need to pull it off first.”

“Well, maybe we already have, from the typical point of view,” - he pondered, lighting up - “seeing that we are moving back--”

“Neil, please, I’m all for discussing it later, but right now it’s about to give me a pounding headache.”

When you met his eyes, you noted with relief that he didn’t mind you cutting him off like that. He knew that you were tired, nothing more.

“Right, sorry.” Then he looked at you with determination, suddenly serious. “Whatever happens… thank you. It means a lot.”

“Of course,” you said quietly as your heart ached with unexpected fondness.

Neil smiled, shaking off the sentimental moment. His hands cupped yours and gave them a light squeeze.

“Now would you please get some rest?”

“Will you tuck me in?” you grinned and batted your lashes at him, earning an amused snort in return.

“I can even sing you a lullaby if that means you’ll fall asleep faster,” he said, standing up and tugging at your hand.

“Ah, I’m afraid I’m gonna crash too fast to properly appreciate it,” you giggled as he kited you all the way to the resting area at the front of the container. “But I’m definitely taking a rain check on that.”

“Sure.” One final brush of his thumb over your fingers and he let go of your hand, smirking. “Now sleep, I’ll wake you up when we get there.”

-------

Neil proved to be an excellent companion.

You disabled the alarms simultaneously, paying attention to all the possible silent traps. Forcing the main locks went smoothly, almost surprisingly so. For having something of such importance hidden there, the owners of the place seemed strangely old-fashioned; it shone through the antique decor of the lofty apartment as well as the security choices. Too easy. Tuning out an intrusive thought rattling in the back of your head, you scouted the dark rooms, careful not to leave any traces of your presence.

There.

The office you saw in the photos.

...but they’d redecorated.

“That’s one fancy safe they got there,” you said nonchalantly, eyeing the ornament piece of metal lit by your flashlight, “Too bad it somehow got left out at the briefing.”

Neil’s face dropped when he followed you inside the room.

“Christ, and what now?”

Good question. You’d worked with safes before, hell, you’d cracked a fair share of them using simply manipulation. But never going bloody backwards in time. How would that even work? Was it normal or inverted?

Well, there was only one way to find out.

“I’ve got this.” And that’s how you felt, despite the initial panic. There was a method to it, and you had most of the things you needed with you. Perks of overpreparing. The only issue was-- ... “It might take a while, though.”

Neil nodded.

“Let me know if you need anything.”

“Keep an eye on the time for me, I gotta focus,” you said, reaching into your backpack and accidentally pulling on the thin tube. Right. “...and maybe on the oxygen levels as well?”

“Will do.”

Your brain switched into the challenge mode, and your fingers tingled to give it a try. Armed with a sound amplifier and a little notepad, you sat down next to the safe and got to work.

Figuring out your way in was meant to be a hit and miss, doubly so with the goddamn inversion. But minute after minute, click by click, you determined the first contact points, and the years of experience took you from there. You scribbled numbers and variations in the notepad, fully focused on the task. Almost there.

Another combination. Inhale. Exhale. Pull.

Gotcha.

“Neil?” you called out in the hushed voice as the beam from the flashlight landed on a small metal box of a peculiar shape.

He was next to you in no time.

“That’s it,” he said, kneeling down. He reached inside and took out the box, then carefully placed it inside his backpack. The blue eyes glimmered in the dim light. “Good job!”

“Thanks,” you smiled and closed the safe. “Now let’s get out of here.”

You gathered and packed all your stuff, double-checking for any leftover signs of your entry.

Then you heard it. A faint, slightly off patter against the huge windows. You froze in place as your mind tried to grasp the view of trickles of rain coming up the glass.

Neil glanced outside, not mindful of the absolutely bonkers scene that wiped any coherent thought from your head. Although judging from how quickly his face lost all the colours, the view he got was even more disturbing.

“Christ…” he uttered, shooting you a panicked look. “We’ve got company.”

You dashed to the window to see for yourself. A group of people was crossing the empty street, moving pretty much normally, and that only meant...

Fuck.

“The owners?”

Neil shook his head. “Impossible. The third party, probably.” With his hand already on the holster, he hesitated, considering the options.

But there were only two: fight or flight. The problem was - the numbers didn’t look good for you to try pushing through the crew downstairs. And as for the second one, your initial exit routes seemed to be cut off already.

Although, there was still one path left. You almost smiled to yourself. He was not going to like it.

“Let’s go through the roofs.”

Neil’s eyes widened. “Are you sure?” he asked, scanning your face for any sign of doubt.

There was none.

“Yes, but we have to leave right now.”

He swallowed with effort and nodded.

As soon as you bolted out of the apartment and rushed up the stairs, the footsteps coming from the lower levels quickened. Time was running out.

You were about to barge outside when Neil grabbed your hand as if he sensed what was going to happen next. The doors opened and you lost the momentum, startled by the view. Heavy showers replaced the drizzle you saw through the window, intensifying the nauseating effect.

The last strands of sanity threatened to leave you, but Neil’s touch was like an anchor, grounding you and keeping you from spiraling further.

“Which way?” he shouted through the hammering, almost deafening rain.

You blinked rapidly and looked around to match the data from the brief to the actual location.

“Over there!”

Wishing you’d had a goddamn collar to pop, you leaped to the side, guiding Neil through your only escape route. You let go of his hand to vault over the vents, and just as your feet touched the surface again, you heard distant yells behind you. Shit.

The high density of the area was working in your favor, but only for so long. There was meant to be a gap between the buildings sooner or later, and one of them was coming right up. The jump was doable, even for Neil - all you needed was speed and a decent launch.

But when your companion noticed the edge of the roof, he slowed down and stopped by a low parapet wall, cursing.

“No fucking way!”

“Yes fucking way, Neil, come on! We don’t have time!” you urged him as the voices behind you grew louder.

He swallowed with effort, too transfixed on the gap. You bit back an impatient groan and grabbed him by the shoulders, forcing him to look at you.

“Neil, listen to me. You can do this. All you need is a run-up.”

He didn’t seem convinced. You gritted your teeth, trying to keep your own rising panic in check.

“Do you trust me? Yes or no?”

He met your eyes and his features hardened. There.

“I do.”

And when you opened the mouth again, the first bullet whizzed past you. You flinched, but maintained the eye contact, afraid to lose Neil’s newfound confidence. “Then go first, I’m right behind you.”

Neil nodded and backed away quickly. Watching him jump, your heart skipped a beat, but he landed on the other side without too much trouble. Good. Your turn.

You dashed towards the rim and another bullet missed your legs by a hair’s breadth, hitting the parapet wall right ahead of you. A little close to the top, as you noted, jumping on it to leap across the gap.

But the realization came a moment too late. The wall crumbled under your feet.

Enough for you to not make it to the other side.

Someone screamed.

Was it you?

It didn’t matter.

The world dissolved in a flash of agonizing pain.

And darkness.

----

Static beeping. The smell of disinfectants. And your every particle throbbing in dull pain.

Somebody was having a quiet conversation nearby. The Protagonist… and Neil?

A wave of relief flooded over you. He’d made it.

Grunting, you opened your eyes and squinted, waiting for your sight to readjust to the poor light. Weird. Why would they keep you in such a pitch-black room?

“Gents?” you called out, carefully shifting upwards, wincing. “Would you mind getting the lights?”

The conversation stopped and you heard a gasp.

“Lights? But it’s the middle of the day?” said The Protagonist, but Neil cut him off.

“You’re awake!” Footsteps and a sudden touch on your hand. Neil’s voice trembled slightly, as well as his fingers. “Are you okay?”

You bored into darkness, hoping to see the familiar face.

To see anything.

To see.

(next chapter ->)

#neil tenet #neil tenet x reader #neil x reader #tenet #robert pattinson #neil tenet fanfiction #tenet fanfiction #neil tenet imagine #the protagonist tenet #ives tenet #wheeler tenet #long nights

84 notes · View notes

ivy-loves-chocolate · 4 years

Note

If it's not too much trouble, could I have a smutty Wesker x F!Reader fic where they're talking about their past relationships and the reader had left their abusive ex before meeting and joining Albert but they've pretty much avoided the subject until that point and after that he pretty much worships her along with telling her that she's his queen? Pardon for this being a bit long!

This is so good, and don’t apologize for being too long, it’s perfect.

Im so sorry for making you wait this long, but the subject is very sensitive and i wanted to approach it the right way.

My ko-fi link if you’re interested in supporting my works: https://ko-fi.com/ivyscommissions. Check the pinned post for details.

Link to Part 2

You are not alone (Wesker x F!Reader)

Warning: smut, abusive relationship.

His black trench coat was tossed somewhere in the room, alongside with his boots. Her lab coat followed the same routine and the heels too. After a long hard working day, the couple needed a break. Even if they didn’t meet long ago, they felt they know each other for years, and she was on Wesker liking: strong, determined and a (y/b) type which he absolutely adored. She wasn’t like the rest, she didn’t desired him for money or looks, she just wanted him for the way he is and for the way he treated her. It almost made her forget.

Wesker hold her hands in his as he watched her talking about her day. He gently caressed her smooth skin while his intense and loving gaze focused on her. This feeling he only experience when he’s around Y/N, with everyone else being the monster they so complain about. He can’t remember how long it’s been since he felt this fulfilled around someone. Maybe when he was a teen, when he wasn’t working for Umbrella. In his life there wasn’t space for any type of relationship. His job wouldn’t allow such delights. Spencer took good care of that.

“Are you still listening?” Y/N asked him thinking he bored him. It was hard to guess his feelings based on his expressions, he didn’t show any.

“Yes, sorry love, my mind was somewhere else.” He raised her hands to his lips and kissed the smooth skin. “I was just thinking of how happy I am to have you in my life. I can’t remember the last time I felt that.”

“I’m glad I can make you happy. I never though we would end up here when I first saw you. You seemed unapproachable.”

“I get that a lot.” He let out a soft chuckle.

“So im the only woman that made you feel that way?” “I think so. I have no recollection of feeling the same with other women. Tell me, are you happy with me?”

“Yes Albert, I think I never experienced such relief I feel with you with anyone else.”

Wesker leaned forward and pressed his lips on her forehead, inhaling her flower perfume mixed with a faint smell of meds. How he loved that smell of medicine on a woman.

“What about your past? Were others before me capable to make you feel like i do?”

He was smart, strong and commending and these traits gave him a powerful aura. The room he was in was quickly filled with power and authority making everyone else fading in comparison to him. She didn’t expect to find such a man, especially at such a low stage she was when they met. This topic he was just opened brought her back to that very low stage of her life. All that was deep buried and thought to be forgotten fast made its way to the surface, filling her mind with memories she would not rather remember.

——————————————————————————

She remembered the begging and what a fools he was. It started off great, just like with others. He was sweet, gentle and romantic. But overtime small and apparently insignificant remarks began to show.

“Why do you have to talk so much. I hate people who talk that much.” He told her while watching a movie. She thought it was her fault and apologised. Many people had their own habits and he didn’t like to be disturbed while watching tv. She was quick to take the blame.

Then, she wanted a change in her career and she relied on her then partner for support.

“Tricell sounds like a fancy company. They’re pretty big and known in the field.” She pointed with the cursor on the job application.

“From all of the people in this world do you think they’d pick you? Honey, be realistic, you don’t stand a chance, trust me.”

“Why do you have to be so mean?”

“Someone needs to give you a reality check.”

Then, it was that time when she wanted to go out. She gave a final glance at her outfit, changing a few times because he told her (y/c) doesn’t suit her at all and made her look weird.

“Where are you going?”

“Outside.”

“When? Now?”

“Thats what I intend.”

“You have work tomorrow, where do you want to go out? And you want to be a researcher at Tricell. You should start to take your job more seriously or else you’ll lose your current job too, and I don’t plan to financially support both of us.”

She called sick that night.

She was afraid to be alone with him. Eventually the inevitable came, when she told him to stop the abuse and change.

“You think im the abuser? You never met a real one, you’re so disconnected with the reality. If it wasn’t for me you would be found dead on the street right now.”

“Shut up! You either learn to respect me or-“

She was cut off by his hand. She slapped her so hard she lost her balance for a second.

“Im sorry, it seems you can’t understand other way.”

Despite his protests and apologies from that night, she packed all her stuffs and moved out at a friend.

Her friends didn’t support her, because he was too good at hiding his true face. They always blamed her.

“You did something and made him act like that.”

She rented a studio and began her new life. The first thing she did was to complete the Tricell job application.

——————————————————————————

Wesker saw Y/N was dazed for a second so he put his hand on her shoulder shaking her gently, loving yet worried eyes watching carefully for a reaction.

“Hey, are you still with me?”

Tears began to flow quickly down her cheeks as the memories filled her mind. All those words felt like they were just said and stained again her body again. They burned every inch of her body.

“I’m sorry, I thought i moved on.”

Wesker used his thumbs to wipe her tears. “You can’t move on overnight over abuse. It took me 30 years to move on, and im still not over it completely.”

“You went through that too?” It was hard to believe that a man like him could go through something like that. She imagined that he had a childhood full of love and support, but she couldn’t be more wrong.

“I did, Spencer kidnapped me and used me in some program for genetic superior humans. I went through many “psychological controls”, at least this is what they called but i think they just brainwashed me, and they gave me meds that made my body feel weird. I was a lab rat my whole life until a finally escaped.”

She could see his eyes starting to get red.

“It wasn’t until a few years ago until i killed him and I regained my freedom. However, it still haunts me.” He raised his eyes to look at her. It devastated him to see the only person he cared about, if not even loved, like this. He placed his hands on her neck and pulled her slowly into a kiss, feeling the salty taste of tears on her lips. The kiss became more and more heated and soon hands began to travel each other’s bodies in a desperate attempt to release the other one from their clothing. He found her breast and began to massage them, rolling her nipples between his fingers. She managed to remove his black shirt and ran her fingers over his sculpted chest.

He pushed her on her back and removed the final layer of clothes, then he kneeled between her legs. Skilful tongue made its way down from her thigh to the core, then giving a lick to the swollen folds. He moved to her bud and circled it a few times until he felt her wetness reaching out on his tongue. He didn’t extend the foreplay longer and pulled out his erect shaft, making his way slowly in her. Then he lowered himself on top of her so he could be close to her ear and he began to thrust. There wasn’t a single time during the act that he didn’t make her beautiful, amazing, his dearest. She was already in the clouds because of how good Albert fit and moved in her, but those words only made it better. She wrapped her legs around his waist and pulled him closer so he could reach deeper.

Both of them were soaked in each other’s fluids, but the fun was approaching and end.

“Albert I’m-“

“Come for me.”

She orgasm hard, her legs couldn’t be able to stand by themselves. Albert wasn’t finished yet so he held her hip up a little until he approached his climax too.

As she was laying on his chest she found her strength to tell him everything that she’s been through. Tears felt on Albert’s chest as she began to detail the events, and occasionally a thumb would run over her cheek to erase some of them. He listened carefully and he memorised most details about her ex, so he can personally pay him a visit.

They were both victims of abuse, and Wesker knows the best the feeling of captivity and the anxiety that you feel afterwards you finally escape. He would pay more attention to her even at work. He would pay her surprise visits and would spend time together, talking and trying to make her cope with the past. He knows she can forget after night but he constantly assures her she is not alone. There wasn’t a day in which he wouldn’t call her his queen, his dearest, his love because he deserved all that praise. He was more carrying than before up to the point where he became suffocating but she didn’t mind. For the first time after the break up she stopped feeling alone.

#resident evil #albert wesker #albert wesker x reader #fic #smut

135 notes · View notes

digressions21 · 3 years

Text

The Adam Driver Complex

I’d like to preface this by saying that this isn’t really about Adam Driver, but more of an outpouring of thoughts and feelings towards fame and why so many people want it. I recently graduated university and will soon be starting my first job in the ‘real world’. My job is nothing to do with acting, nor does it have any way of making me rich and famous. This fact has caused me to deep dive into despair over the fact that I am not famous, and probably never will be.

The Adam Driver part of this comes from a Fan Fiction story I read a month ago, after I discovered how amazingly written a selection of stories based around the Star Wars characters ‘Rey’ and ‘Kylo Ren/Ben’ are, of which Driver plays the latter. Fan Fiction can be a bit of a cesspool at times; however, it is a guilty pleasure. Anyway, I read a story where Rey was a clothes designer to the stars, and Kylo Ren/Ben was a famous actor who she designed. I won’t go into detail about the story, but they of course ended up together engaged and happy, after some initial drama. It is not a new formula, and I have read similar stories hundreds of times. However, this story stuck with me. This version of Rey was a relatively normal girl just doing a job she loved – she was not initially rich or famous, just a ‘normal’ person. Upon entering her relationship with the famous actor she became known, and discussed things such as the Oscars with her famous now-fiancé. When I finished the story I felt surprisingly melancholic, so I went on a drive to a park and thought about why I was upset but this story which was good, but perhaps shouldn’t have caused such a reaction in me. I realised that it bummed me out because I would never be that Rey character, I would never meet and fall in love with this character based around Adam Driver, and I would probably never marry him. But why would I? I don’t know Adam Driver, and though I am sure he is lovely, I am confident that he is very happy with his wife and family. So, why am I still bothered?

I realised that it wasn’t some infatuation with Adam Driver that was getting me down – it was the fact that I am not famous enough to have the opportunity to meet a person like him. Of course, one doesn’t need to be famous to meet a famous person, but it definitely makes it easier. Now, I have developed a complex with the actor Adam Driver, through no fault of his own. Whenever I see him online or in a film I am reminded of my inability to have the same opportunities as him or be as famous as him. More annoyingly, whenever I see an actor in a film that he is in, I relate this complex to them and am reminded once more! (For example, Lady Gaga is in the new House of Gucci film – which looks fantastic – however, she stars opposite Driver, and now when I see her it all comes back to me). It is starting to become a little dramatic.

This led me to another question – why would I want to be famous? I have a lovely life surrounded by great friends and family, opportunities related to my passions, and a positive-looking future. Additionally, I value my privacy, something which celebrities often seem bereft of due to the demanding and insidious nature of social media and paparazzi (this word reminded me of Lady Gaga, which reminded me of Driver – it’s hard to escape this cycle). Sure, being rich must be nice, and it must be great to provide for your family easily, but it takes hard work to get there, I’m sure. I’m not a particularly gifted actor, and I don’t really want to make the sacrifices needed to become an Oscar-winning actor either. My career in amateur acting came to a slow end after an unsuccessful audition at a drama school in London. So, if I can make these conclusions, surely this should quell my sudden desire to become famous enough to meet Adam Driver, right?

Wrong. I cannot seem to escape this complex. I find myself trying to think of ways I can become famous on the sly, whilst progressing through my everyday job. Dreams of a famous agent seeing me on the street and stopping me, because I look like the perfect person to cast in some blockbuster movie, and of course they don’t need to audition me – they can already tell I’ll be perfect! However, this sounds like the plot for another Fan Fiction story, which is what got me into this trouble in the first place.

I know that I am not the only person in the world who feels this compulsion to be famous and walk the red carpets but feels like I lack the opportunities (and if I’m being honest, talent) to get there. This reminder does make me feel better, along with the fact that the majority of people in the world are not famous and are very happy. I am reminded of a quote from Rainer Maria Rilke, from the book of hours, which states “Let everything happen to you: beauty and terror. Just keep going. No feeling is final”. I hope that one day this feeling will slowly fizzle away, so I can appreciate the accomplishments that I do make in life, even if they probably won’t involve being famous and meeting Adam Driver on the red carpet.

I often remind myself that there are many people who were considered the crème de la crème in terms of fame and reputation one hundred years ago that are probably forgotten now. It is this idea of not being remembered that underlies this entire issue, as of course none of us wants to be forgotten. However, you can be the most famous person on the planet, but that doesn’t mean that you’ll be remembered in three-thousand years’ time (unless you’re somebody like the Greek figure Achilles, who is still discussed in 2021). Homer’s epic the Iliad focuses heavily on this concept, that the names of men “fall likes leaves”, and the downfall of many heroes within the story is that they care too much about their kleos – their glory and reputation. The fact that this poem discusses a topic which bothers people thousands of years later makes me feel good – our feelings of insignificance are not original, and they don’t need to be our downfall. That is why I wrote this piece, in case there are other people out there who have complexes of their own – perhaps yours is based on another famous individual, such as Brad Pitt or Kermit the Frog. Whatever the case, I have made peace with the fact that from time to time this feeling of insignificance may plague me, even when I am doing well in my life. I mean really, we are all insignificant in the grand scheme of things – will Adam Driver be remembered in three-thousand years’ time? Maybe! He is a pretty great actor – but who is to tell. It is unlikely any of us will be remembered that far into the future, and that’s ok. As long as we are having a good time in the here and now and making a positive impact on the planet I think we are going to be ok. Even if that positive impact is something as small as writing a blog post on why the idea of Adam Driver is causing a bit of drama in your life right now.

#digressions #adam driver #fame #thoughts #feelings #philosophy

30 notes · View notes

kireiwoo · 4 years

Text

red, blue, my yellow. [jwy!]

˚➶. EXPO ↓

#𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 bestfriend!woo x fem!reader.

#𝐚𝐛𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭 in which woo is your teasing florist of a friend who can’t seem to pick between red and blue; so you add a third option for him, yellow!

#𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 bf2l, fluff, crack, blasphemy(?), animal death, cursing, 6th grader jokes, two dorks being oblivious, kissing <3

#𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬 2.0k+

“Okay, so Sky Blue or Cherry Red?”

“What the fuck? Those are so contrasting.”

Wooyoung whined at your indecisive and absentminded response, leaning his head against your turquoise, sweater-clad shoulder while watching reruns of Scooby-Doo on your old TV. You sipped on the sugarless vanilla latte he purchased for you, relishing in the brief but welcomed warmth the drink radiated in waves. Wooyoung obsessively shoved two paint-cards into your face, gaggling over how bright and saturated they were.

He visited earlier with the guise of simply hanging out with you, claiming that while occupied with his 9-5 job downtown as an optimistic florist, he missed your company. Initially he picked the job because it sounded delicate and comprehensively easy. Objectively, the work was relatively standard; water the daffodils and make sure his small, secret rose garden he called ‘wonderland’ was receiving enough sunlight; but his back ached with hauling boxes filled with seeds and bags packed of faux soil.

“Why are you seriously no help?” He chirped. You grumbled in response, focusing on the graphics of the late television show rather than Wooyoung’s juvenile complaints. Your hair was an unkempt rat’s nest and your spongebob pyjama pants were ruffled considerably, but you allowed Wooyoung into your house regardless of your external appearance. You knew he wouldn’t judge you anyways, too occupied with picking a paint colour for his new apartment.

“How about Sunflower Yellow?” You calmly, dismissively suggested, taking another long swig from the now-empty pale brown paper cup before tossing it behind your couch. You’d clean it up later anyways, but for now you had a whiny best friend to deal with. “Dunno if you’re hard of hearing or colourblind but yellow wasn’t an option.” Wooyoung quipped, his eyes flashing with a teasingly stumped mirth.

“You and I both damn-well know who has the better hearing, and she’s lookin’ right at ya.” Wooyoung giggled at your pouty disposition, finding your blushed cheeks and deep eye-bags adorable. He sat casually against your couch, dressed in his own quirkily mismatched ensemble. A pair of khaki shorts accompanied by a dark green sweatshirt and multicoloured socks, his scuffed three-year-old tennis shoes laying by your door. You found it endearing how Wooyoung still tried to come up with his own fashion trends, ending up looking like a stitched together version of brand-name and value-village. But he was being expressive in the form of seasonal apparel, and you were proud of him.

“Byeol?” He teased, gesturing to your mangy, blue-eyed siamese feline as she sat back and observed your get-together, scattering away once the attention was on her. Wooyoung sighed.

“Look, you chubby-cheeked wench, just answer and I’ll leave you to sleep in your little cocoon of grandma blankets.” You huffed at his insinuation, plonking your deft fingers against his cheek softly and gently.

You met Wooyoung in third grade, when sex didn’t determine friendship and the bounds of society were turned away by your blind infant eyes.

You’d been retrieving wild bluebells and dandelions, bunching them in your sweaty grasp as a sort of dedicated bouquet, explaining to the boisterous boy that you needed to leave it as a parting gift to a squirrel you saw that got run over (you called him Tootles). Looking back, it was innately bizarre how indifferent you were to the concept of death, but Wooyoung supposes that it was a sweet thought anyways. From then on, the two of you blundered together—but part of the reason Wooyoung stayed was also because of his obvious attraction to your lopsided pigtails and thrifted summer dresses. He remembers that you always had a food stain somewhere on your clothing.

Now looking at you, still messy and even more vulgar, he can’t help but think that he doesn’t regret any moments. You’ve gone through everything together; Wooyoung was present for your first period when the stomach pain and hunger cramps were immense, and you were there when his family suffered through a rough patch, assuring him that everything would be okay when in reality, the decision of divorce between his parents was settled a week later. Those were some of his most difficult moments, but he can look back at them fondly only because it brought him closer to you.

“Wench? What are you saying? I’m a god.” You offered in the most dramatized tone you could.

“Might wanna get your facts checked,”

“Might wanna get your mom checked,” You snorted, biting your lip while procuring finger guns just for the hell of it. Wooyoung sighed in mock disappointment, his frizzy purple-tinted fringe falling onto his forehead. You grinned and giggled, catching his attention cutely.

Your whiny puppy rolled his eyes before wailing a cacophony of displeased sounds, loudly filtering his discontentment with having a plain apartment. “(Y/N) you don’t understand the seriousness of my situation! Who wants to tell their grandchildren that their first—that’s right, first!—apartment was a boring cream colour?!” Fed up with his childish bumbling, you quickly smacked his forehead, chuckling quietly as he squeaked and softened his stiff posture. It was honestly so lovable how he got so passionate about the smallest, almost insignificant things.

“Listen, we’ll figure something out. I still think Sunflower Yellow should be an option though.” Wooyoung swatted at your covered tummy with an overzealous and enthusiastic expression, clearly excited with the concept of letting you help him. The soft scent of peppermint-chamomile flooded into your nostrils from his clothing, making you mentally note to ask him what detergent he decided to try. “You think wrong, settler! Now choose between these two colours or I’ll be obligated to steal half of your lifespan.” You laughed loudly at the unprecedented silliness of your best friend, shaking your head while sending a fleeting but absolutely enamoured stare in his direction.

“Honestly, at this point why am I letting you help me?” He hummed. You gurgled at his feigned distress, gasping and tackling him against the couch. You straddled his waist, pointing a manicured figure at his face while you fondly cursed at him. “As I recall, Mr. Jung; you arrived to my residence at exactly 12:01 PM with the excuse to hang out, only to badger me with your issues about... paint colours. You came to me.” Wooyoung sat enthralled by your change in attitude, bathing in the flawlessness of your execution regarding exposing him for his wrongdoings.

“Just boom, bam, pow: There’s that dude I’m in love with.” Wooyoung’s eyes widened considerably, a snarky smirk falling across his countenance as his cheeks devilishly flushed, looking similar to that of a ripened strawberry. Immediately you backtracked, wondering what you said that provoked this reaction, and realization struck across your face like a sharp slap.

Oh shit. Shit.

“I-Uh—you didn’t hear that.” You waved shy but frantic hands into his face, as if hypnotizing him into forgetting about your embarrassingly personal confession. But all he did was giggle and take ahold of your wrists, pulling your body forward so you were chest to chest with him.

A soft, addictingly brief kiss was placed against your creased forehead, the perfect lips of your best friend brushing against your heated skin. You swallowed thickly, placing your hands over his sweater-clad chest with confusion written all over your face. What in the hell kind of reaction was this—? Whatever it was, it was warm and delicate and felt right.

Then again, there’s nothing that ever feels wrong when it comes to Jung Wooyoung. Or maybe that’s just you.

“Y’know, you’re not very... secretive.” He settled, making perplexities skip through your mind like stones on water. Had he known? Was this the end of your life-long friendship? Questions ran through your mind endlessly, your heart rapidly beating and mind berating you for admitting your tini-tiny, small-as-a-planet crush. “I had my suspicions but you actually saying it was my sweet confirmation.”

“The fuck? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I-I—Hey! Don’t be angry at me!” He pouted, melting your heart into a pile of mushy and fragmented puddles. “What I was trying to say is, I love you too.” Immediately your face blanched and you dropped your head into the crook of Wooyoung’s neck, appreciating the small dust of red that decorated his ears. You simply couldn’t face him in fear that this was all a simulation; a seemingly harmless gaffe constructed firstly to tease you, and knowing Wooyoung with his wildly oblivious tendencies and boyish lack of empathy, you had no doubt that it was something he would try.

And yet, you couldn’t even force yourself to be angry at him. Because while you speculated that he was joking, somewhere in your heart you knew that he was being honest—simply in denial with the prospect of your long-lasting crush actually returning your feelings. “Hello? Earth to (Y/N)? Airhead? Loafer?” You snapped out of your reverie, staring at Wooyoung’s pinked face as his prying eyes drifted around your facial features, slowly tracing each detail.

“You love me too?” Shock ever-present, you searched in Wooyoung’s loving gaze for some kind of testimony, a confirmation, for some truth to be shed. And when all you could see were the glimmering, almost glowing sparkles in his large pupils, you felt the slightest bit reassured.

“Of course I do, bean!”

“As a friend though, right?” Wooyoung’s face screwed into an intense concentration, expression looking fragile and breakable. But in his wandering mind, he questioned how you could even consider that. He loved you as something more—with your tangled tresses and wrinkled clothes, even down to the fact that you couldn’t handle sugar but grimaced every time you drank your vanilla lattes, simply because they weren’t sweet enough.

It was the little things that he found himself so affectionately obsessed with. He remembers your bleached sundresses in elementary and how you couldn’t tie your shoes without help from a teacher. How you loathed wearing glasses because you thought they made you look nerdy, but complained because you just couldn’t see.

“Jesus Christ, Loser. No, I love you like... like a crush! Yeah, like a crush. Romantically.” He gushed, and if this wasn’t one of the most immature confessional moments in history, it sure was a cheesy one.

“Wait, really? You like-like me?” Good god. Your fingers trembled and lips twitched.

“Yes, how many times do I—” Wooyoung breathed out a shaky sigh as you leaned forward and smoothly took his lips with your own. He tasted minty and sweet, like petals and chocolate. His eyes fluttered closed as your lips meshed together, pushing against each other in a romantic twine of burning passion.

Suddenly, your hands were on either side of his head and one of his deft, spidering hands pressed onto the small of your back. The other hand trailed up to the back of your neck, twirling the loose strands of hair at your nape, his tongue breaching the space between your lips invasively—but then he tried to card his fingers through your hair; and you hissed and pulled away like a disenchanted cat, baring your teeth from the unprecedented pain.

“Shit! Sorry, baby.” Whereas your head flooded with spiking pains from small hairs being plucked, your heart was palpitating at the new but definitely embraced pet-name. “I told you that you should’ve washed your hair! But someone doesn’t like listening!” You tutted at the nagging, harrumphing before placing another complacent kiss against his lips.

“Oh shut up, Mr. I can’t choose between red and blue.” You never thought you’d get the chance to tease Wooyoung after directly smooching him; it was a fantasy and a reoccurring fever dream to feel his plush, pillowed lips against your own. Perhaps a perverse imaginative scenario, but it was a reality now. And reality suddenly didn’t seem so harsh; crowded in the warm arms of a starry-eyed shortie with calloused hands and a knack for gardening.

“You’re right, I can’t. But it’s okay, I prefer yellow anyways.”

Who knows what awaits you in life? Maybe the sky will drain of it’s blue and the roses will deplete of their red—but no matter the changes and disparities that occur over the years, there’s always one thing that you’re forever sure of:

“You’re my yellow, Jung Wooyoung.”

#ateez x reader #ateez smut #ateez fluff #ateez angst #ateez scenarios #ateez reaction #ateez wooyoung #jung wooyoung #wooyoung smut #wooyoung fluff #wooyoung angst #wooyoung reactions #wooyoung scenarios #wooyoung x reader #ateez oneshot #wooyoung #jwy : youngie.#80’s!

144 notes · View notes

unfunny-quips · 4 years

Text

Of all the many people in the world who wanted him dead, All For One had to admit that he was rather surprised by the person who actually managed to both track him down and get past his impressive security.

He knew someone was there the moment he opened the door. Could sense the presence of another person in his high rise apartment that shouldn’t have been there. A steady heartbeat, unflinching and unafraid. Brave or stupid, he wasn’t sure, but they’d be dead either way once he wrung out of them how they’d gotten in and which of his security detail he was going to have to kill.

He shrugged off his coat - it was new and fit him well, he’d rather not get blood on it - and hung it up carefully by the front door. Slipped off his shoes and rolled his shoulders with a sigh. Though that particular apartment was not homey per se, there was something oddly comforting about returning to a living space that was entirely his own at the end of a day. Though centuries ago, a childhood fraught with uncertain living situations and inconsistent care had left marks on him that time and power had not fully been able to shake.

All the more reason to make the intruder’s death slow, as insignificant a threat as they were, they’d at least been able to find him. Which meant finding a new luxury apartment, perhaps even in a new city. And he despised moving.

He kept his steps light on the polished wooden floors, stopping by the oversized and little used kitchen for some water before he meandered his way towards the living room where his uninvited guest waited. Perhaps he’d throw them out the window, eighty stories up would make for a rather long time to think about their impending death. Or maybe tear them apart inch by literal inch so they had to languish in their suffering.

Setting his glass down on the kitchen counter he stepped into his spacious living room and paused at what sat waiting for him.

All For One, Emperor of Darkness, King of all Villains, Boogeyman of the Boogeymen found himself...uncertain.

There was a woman seated on his couch. Casually dressed and relaxed looking, knees drawn up and tucked beneath her, an open book bag on the floor beside where she sat and a law textbook in hand. She finished highlighting a section carefully before capping the marker and turning her gaze on to him, letting him see her face properly for the first time.

Green eyes were the first thing that struck him. Clear and bright and intelligent, set in a kind face. Her hair, also green, was swept down a little past her shoulders with half of it pulled up in a fluttering little bun at the back of her head. He was struck by two thoughts as he took her in.

The woman sitting before him was entirely unintimidated by him.

And...

She looked a bit like Nana Shimura.

The woman tilted her head, seeming to take him in while he’d been observing her. She shifted on the couch a little, shutting the book softly and setting it down. Her heartbeat was steady, her gaze unflinching but not combative. Purpose seemed to flow off of her, as resolute as her steady gaze. He understood that she knew exactly who he was and felt no need for fear nor sense of unease in his presence. A strong will, he knew the aura he carried around him well and it was someone interesting indeed who could face the overwhelming killing intent that drifted off him in waves without so much as a flicker of uncertainty.

“Hello.” She said with a soft, clear voice. The kind of ease one has with an acquaintance or a friend not often seen, not a stranger whose house she had invaded. “I’m sorry to have broken in like this.” She started, with the appropriate level of apology one would save for knocking over a stranger’s drink. “But I was hoping you’d be able to help me.”

He should be irritated, he should just kill her and get on with his evening, he should make her an example for anyone else stupid enough to think they could waltz into his home without consquence.

He wasn’t irritated though. And he didn’t kill her. Instead he found himself oddly...charmed by the stranger that sat before him.

“Indeed?” He asked blandly, slipping his hands into his pockets before leaning against the wall casually. “I’m afraid you’re rather lost if you think this is a police station.”

The woman broke into a small smile, a soft huffing chuckle leaving her. Shaking her head she dropped her gaze for a moment and he saw the faint pink of a blush on her cheeks. He was, he realized. He was absolutely charmed by her. And it wasn’t even her Quirk doing it, hers had the feel of a gravitational telekinesis, not a mood altering ability. The woman that sat before him, who had broken into his home and casually asked him for help as if searching for her stray cat, was oddly endearing. And it had been a long time since he had found himself endeared by anything, let alone a person.

“Sorry,” She said, shifting on the couch. “I’ve probably done this all wrong. But I wanted you to know I was serious.” Green eyes met his own and he was struck again by the intelligence he saw in her gaze. “I don’t know why I thought this would be the way to do it but…” She gave a shrug, then slowly got to her feet. Careful not to topple her bag or trip as she untangled from her comfortable position on the couch. “Here, let me try again.”

He watched as she gave a short, polite bow, hands clasped before her. A neat and polite introduction, complete with a soft smile as she rose to meet his gaze again. “My name is Midoriya Inko. I’m a graduate law student at Kyushu University, and I was hoping you could take my Sensei’s Quirk.”

Well.

How on earth was he supposed to kill such a charming, polite young woman when she came to him with such an interesting request such as that?

He couldn’t, of course, was the answer.

---

Inko always had trouble with authority.

Even when she was very young she’d been prone to doing what she was told she shouldn’t just because an adult told her not too. Her father - in what faint and blurring memories she had of him before his death - used to call her his little revolutionary and would laugh over the hijinks her stubborn nature would produce. Then again, her father had his reasons to support the wholesale refusal to bend to the whims of authority.

Trying to take down the corrupt system the government had put in place had been the cause of his death, after all.

Her mother had been far less amused by Inko’s acts of rebellion for rebellion’s sake. Always begging Inko to please just follow the rules just once honey with a perpetually exhausted look on her face. Inko’s only picture of her mother - a snapshot of the entire family at a park, her small frame held in her father’s arms a month before he would be killed - showed Nana Shimura with a wide, infectious smile in place. It felt odd looking at it in years to come, as Inko could only recall her mother looking mournful and sad in those last days.

It had been Kotaro that was the well behaved one of the two of them. Thirteen minutes older than her, he took the responsibilities of the eldest sibling with a seriousness that was almost frightening at times when they’d been children.

He’d been the one to tell her not to get into trouble, the one to reprimand her when she misbehaved. The one to tell her not to sneak out when they were teenagers in one of their many foster homes after their mother had given them up. Rule abiding, strict and, as they’d grown, more and more obsessed with control. Of her, of their situation, of whatever he could. A strangling, grasping bid at a control that had only led their already rocky relationship to splinter even further.

Her last conversation with him before she’d stopped speaking to him completely he’d told her that she should be a quiet housewife. She’d gone and applied to law school the very next day.

She still found herself wondering if that had been Kotaro being clever. Using her own contrary impulses to make her commit to something she’d always wanted to do but been too uncertain about to try and follow. It would have been the kindest he’d been to her in years if it was true, and she’d been too afraid to reach out to him to find out for fear that it wasn’t.

Instead she focused on her studies, focused on being the person she wanted to be instead of the person she’d been forced to become over the years. Not the abandoned daughter of a hero that had to retire too soon, but someone who was able to take the rules she’d been so long rebelling against and reshape them. Twist them under her hands until they settled into something she could believe in. Something she could follow.

At nineteen, after careful consideration and one less-than-helpful conversation with her friend Mitsuki she changed her name to Midoriya. On her twentieth birthday enjoying the fact that she could - legally - drink herself into oblivion, she cut her waist long hair off in a single ugly cut with the kitchen scissors. The next hour was spent in laughter as Mitsuki’s shy fashion student boyfriend Masaru fixed the mess as best he could. At twenty-one she clutched her best friend’s hand and gritted her teeth as a tattoo artist brought to life a stylized kitsune on her shoulder. A mark of the trickster she wished to become. And in between all of that, she proved herself to the academic world at large and earned herself a full ride to Kyushu University’s much lauded law program.

The work was challenging, equal parts exhilarating and mind-numbingly boring. She spent her days working hard to get top marks in every class, to ace every test, and impress every teacher with her sharp wit and unbending will. Her nights were filled with studying and working whatever jobs she could pick up to cover what her scholarships didn’t cover. Mitsuki teased her that she would get wrinkles from squinting at so many books, but her friend was always supportive.

Years passed, semesters flying by in almost a dream at times, whisking her closer and closer to graduation and her dream of reshaping the system into something she could believe in. Despite her exhaustion, she’d found herself happier than she’d ever been in her life.

Which of course was the exact moment that it all started crashing down.

It started with one of the girl’s in the same program as Inko suddenly dropping the ball on her studies, the other woman’s grades began plummeting at an alarming rate. The girl - Shibata Aiko - looked ragged and exhausted, unable to focus and eventually being dropped from the program entirely due to the issues with her academic performance.

A few weeks later it was another female student shutting herself away in her dorm room for an entire week. The girl finally left her dorm looking haggard and sick, refusing to speak to anyone as she walked barefoot out into the wider world and immediately attempted to throw herself in front of a bus.

Then one of Inko’s senpai’s - kind and serious Hanako who had mentored Inko briefly when she’d first joined the school - had what could only be called a breakdown in the school library. Screaming and crying as she began tearing up law books and flinging chairs.

Each incident was quickly handled and waved away as young women not suited for the high expectations and difficulties of such a high ranking university. Most of Inko’s classmates had been, if not content to accept that information, at least too exhausted by their own heavy workloads to question further.

But Inko never was good at accepting the will of authority.

#My writing #Fic snippet #bnha #boku no hero academia #my hero academia #Inko Midoriya #kotaro shimura #all for one #all for one is midoriya hisashi #dad for one #inko x one for all #inko is nana shimura's daughter #rebellious inko midoriya #all for one is completely smitten #bnha au #all for one: this is the story of how I met your mother

117 notes · View notes

whitecrowapothecary · 4 years

Text

Like A Dream

Jaskier has had dreams for as long as he could remember- of monsters and magic and all the things that go bump in the night. He dreams of golden eyes and silver swords and honeyed ballads.

AKA the modern immortal/reincarnation AU no one asked for but I’m writing

Read it on AO3 here!

There’s music around him. Coming from him, his throat warm and honeyed with the lyrics he sings. Not him- the bard, the unknown man who captures his mind at night when he closes his eyes. He- they- are playing for an audience. Jaskier is used to this, the wayward looks, captured attention, but it’s… new. There’s an instrument in his hand he’s never learned to play and lyrics on his lips he’s never written, clothes resplendent of another time, another world, and he drinks it in with abandon. Full, flowing skirts, jackets made of the richest silk brocade in all colors, though all are muted compared to the bright, rich amethyst ensemble he seems to have donned for the performance.

He’s deep into his set, if he should call it that, singing about a fishmongers daughter just to get a laugh out of the crowd when his eyes catch on a small, insignificant detail. Jaskier sings and sways among the royalty around him, but all he can see is gold with flecks of amber, curious cat eyes watching him from the shadows. He takes a step closer, then two, then three until he’s propelling through the crowd, and just as a jaw covered in a neat snow white beard is unearthed from the shadows, a blare sounds, and the image shatters.

He gasps awake, clutching at his chest and trying to quell the shaking of his hands. Sweat sticks his hair to the back of his neck and his forehead in small curls which Jaskier rakes a hand through. On the nightstand, next to the bed, his phone vibrates, clanking softly against the wood until Jaskier scoops it up and hits answer. There are only a handful of people who will actually ring through.

“What, Pris?”

“Ah, woke you up huh? Touchy touchy. You haven’t forgotten about our brunch date, have you?” The voice on the other end is perky, far too awake for Jaskier’s liking right now.

“No, no of course not. You aren’t here yet, are you?” He slips from bed, grimacing and rummaging through his closet for something to wear, phone pinched between his ear and his shoulder.

“Almost, a block away.”

“Shit, okay, let yourself in?” The woman on the other end hums, amused, and Jaskier hangs up. Leave it to him to fail to set an alarm for something like this. He drags his sorry carcass into the bathroom, intent on getting a shower. He feels cold and sticky for all the wrong reasons, and when he looks at himself in the mirror the blue in his eyes is offset by the purple bags underneath. It’s… not an attractive look for himself. The hot water pounds against his back when he hops under the spray and he groans, letting it wash over him. Praying it’ll wash away the dream that seems to cling to him, digging at his bones and refusing to leave.

He’d had the dreams for as long as he could remember- at first they were nothing more than terrors, dreams of hideous, foul smelling creatures with sharp claws. Claws that regularly tore into the soft flesh of his belly, or the tender meat of his thigh, leaving him to wake up screaming and thrashing in bed. His parents, bless them, had tried everything to help, from heavy medication to therapy to a stint in a mental facility, but nothing took the monsters away. Medication only trapped him within his dreams, unable to wake up until he was well and thoroughly taken apart, and therapists only insisted the monsters were representations of some trauma he’d sustained as a child. The stay at the mental facility, well, that was more a break for his parents than thirteen year old Jaskier.

He’d learned to hide them, since then, to hold people at arms length and keep them from seeing what he truly was. The monsters rarely followed him into real life, but on the occasion he saw mention of a kikimore on the news, or a striga cropped up in Germany somewhere, well, it was all too easy to flip the channel and pretend. Now though… it was becoming harder and harder to leave his dreams behind when the sun came up. The dreams had shifted when he was almost eighteen, from monsters hunting and maiming him to something else- instruments and performances and gaudy, awful clothing he had no name for. Days spent walking and walking and walking, sweating under the sun but grinning like it didn’t bother whoever was in his dreams. It was harder still, to pretend that the performer in his dreams didn’t have his hands, his wonderful, skillful fingers, or the voice he’d spent years fine tuning.

He’s knocked from his reverie by the sound of his front door opening and clicking shut and the smell of food drifting in. His stomach growls loudly, protesting it’s current situation, and Jaskier hurries to finish his shower and get dressed. He’s got a towel in hand, scrubbing at his hair when he pads out barefoot and spots the blonde currently tinkering with his tv remote. Her blue eyes are bright, friendly, and she motions to the spread of food currently piled on his coffee table.

“Got you coffee.”

“Thank Melitele.” He makes a beeline for it, not caring the way it burns his tongue as he gulps it down. That draws a laugh from his companion, and he throws himself onto the couch, settling his legs across her lap and tossing his towel onto the chair nearby. He’ll get it later. “You’re a godsend, you know that Priscilla?”

A small smile plays on the woman’s lips, colored by rouge lipstick, and she raises a brow. “I do, but it’s nice to hear. Did you not sleep at all last night, Jaskier?”

“Ah, I’m afraid my muse kept me up, as usual.” He grins at her, reaching out to snag a strawberry from her plate before bending to get at the french toast on the coffee table. It smells absolutely divine, and maybe some food will make him feel more like himself and less like a shell of someone else.

“You really need to learn how to prioritize sleep.” Priscilla says, shaking her head fondly and digging into her eggs. He hums, half paying attention to the news on the screen. It’s nothing new, stocks going up and down, the latest in sports, and something about him, actually. Talking about his newest single that’s put him up in the top ten- Her Sweet Kiss. Jaskier clicks away before they can play the music, drawing a laugh from Priscilla. “You know, you never told me where the song came from.”

“Didn’t I? A whirlwind affair in Europe, during my last tour. She was… incredible, shall I say? Truly someone never forgotten.” He’s bullshitting and Priscilla knows it. The song had come to him, as most do now, in his dreams. Ringing through his ears in a voice so close to his he can feel his throat burning when he wakes up. She doesn’t press though- she knows better than to push Jaskier too far. The glassy, far away look he got when thinking about whatever it was that inspired his songs was sad, old, and lingered on Jaskier’s face the rest of the day. Jaskier focuses on eating now, barely tasting bite after bite and only stopping when his stomach is full. Priscilla does much the same, but she chatters through the melancholy.

Jaskier stops himself on a random show, listening to Priscilla but staring at the screen. It’s something nonsense, talking about old instruments, but his hand stops mid bite, the french toast falling back onto his plate with a wet smack. He stares, wide eyed, at the wide, oval bowl of the instrument and the short, sturdy neck. The strings, there are more than a guitar but not nearly enough- no, his had more. Six pairs, one singular. His?

“-ier? Jaskier, what is it?”

“What is that?” His voice sounds strange, words twisted faintly by an accent he’s never had before, and he sets his plate down as Priscilla looks between him and the tv.

“An instrument? You put on the show.”

“But what kind?” At this Priscilla frowns. She doesn’t seem to know either, and she shrugs reluctantly.

“We could ask Essi, I’m sure she knows more. Why, do you recognize it?”

“No.” He says softly, switching the tv off. He ignores Priscilla’s worried look and goes instead to put on socks and shoes, grabbing his jacket and pulling it on. It’s big, engulfs his frame, but there’s something about it he couldn’t get out of his head when he’d seen it in a thrift shop off of 28th. It’s also entirely too hot outside to need it, but he feels naked without it, and the hood will give him a better chance at remaining hidden. Not that that happens much anymore. Priscilla has the food cleaned up when he steps out of his room, and she swings her keys around her finger, lingering near the door.

“Where are we going today, my famous friend?” Jaskier rolls his eyes, shoving his hands into his pockets.

“Anywhere but here. I think I’ll go mad if I hide in bed anymore.”

“That’s the spirit! There’s this new music store on Madison we could check out, and then that little bistro for a late lunch-” Her words fade from his ears as they merge into the crowd outside of his apartment building. He slips on sunglasses, nondescript ones he’d gotten from a random gas station, and prays that today he looks like anyone else. With Priscilla at his side, arm looped through his, no one pays much attention to the couple wandering down the street, chattering away. Jaskier feels a rush of gratitude for his friend, for the unwavering presence she is in his life. He’s not sure how he would have managed his budding fame without her, or handled being recognized everywhere once his face and name and music became more common knowledge.

“You’re the one who wrote the songs.” A rough voice reminds him, teasing.

“Yes, well, I didn’t expect them to break into my HOUSE for an autograph!”

“Get better doors. And a guard.” He drowns in those eyes, an endless pool of gold, and he reaches up to brush a stray lock of hair away, a smile stretching his lips wide.

“Why would I need anyone other than you?”

Jaskier stumbles over a crack in the sidewalk, pitching forward, and it’s only Priscilla next to him that keeps him standing. He rights himself, cheeks pink, and laughs despite his heart pounding in his chest.

“Ah, rather clumsy today. I probably should have had more coffee.”

“Or more sleep.” She counters, Jaskier laughing again and nodding in agreement. More sleep is definitely what he needs. A nice, dreamless sleep. Maybe if he gets that, he’ll be able to function like a human being again, instead of walking through the world with half a mind stuck firmly in fiction. The music shop is a quaint, cute little building tucked in a strip of other quaint buildings, and Jaskier ducks into the dim light of the shop. There are rows and rows of cds, vinyls, movies and more, and his eyes track along them all, taking in the sights and colors. There are plenty of instruments on the wall, guitars, basses, a couple of keyboards and a few sets of bongos even. There seems to be little rhyme or reason besides the alphabetical arrangement of the displays, and Jaskier spends his time wandering while Priscilla goes straight for the vinyls.

He’s near the back of the shop, by the counter when he spots an instrument on display behind the glass display. The sight is enough to make him freeze, and he stares at the smooth wood, the graceful curve of the instrument, finding that his fingers have begun to twitch. This can’t be a coincidence.

“Do you play?” A voice breaks through to him, and he has to blink a few times before he can focus on the man standing before him. His dark hair curls rather attractively, falling around his face and framing rather striking hazel eyes. Jaskier’s countenance sours immediately, and he squints suspiciously. It takes the man a moment, but he grins wide when he recognizes Jaskier. “Dandelion! A pleasure to have you here.”

“Valdo. This is your shop?”

“It is indeed, opened it up after my last album.” He’s proud, almost annoyingly so, but Jaskier begrudgingly has to admit the shop is rather nice. His eyes wander back to the instrument behind Valdo, and Valdo raises his brows. “You never said if you played. Would you like to hold it?”

“You’d let me?”

“I’ve seen how you care for your guitar. I’d warn you it’s expensive, but I know you’re good for any damages.” Jaskier snorts as the other man goes to grab the instrument, and his fingers drum against his thighs. “Do you even know what this is?”

“Not a clue.” Jaskier’s hands are reaching for it as soon as Valdo holds it out, and he tucks the strap around his body. The neck settles into his hands, fingers resting on the strings, and a line of tension holding his body razor tight snaps.

“It’s a-” The soft sound of Jaskier plucking out a melody stops Valdo short, and Jaskier closes his eyes to ward off the dizziness.

A fire crackles merrily in front of him as he plays, tinkering away at a tune with his notebook close by. He isn’t sure about the harmony of the piece, the way the notes blend together. There’s something missing, and he can’t figure out what it is. He stops with a heavy sigh, scrubbing at his face and wracking his brain.

“You’re missing the lowest note in the harmony.”

“Pardon?” He looks up, sees the sensual curve of a small smirk on a very ruggedly handsome face, and those eyes, always those eyes staring back. The man comes over, reeking of pine and metal and home, and reaches to softly pluck at one of the strings. The note rings out and Jaskier latches on.

“Try.” The man whispers, and Jaskier does, drawing the note into his harmony and grinning at the fully bodied life it brings.

Jaskier’s head is spinning when he finally opens his eyes again, Valdo staring at him with unabashed surprise. Priscilla is at his side, hand on his elbow to hold him steady, and he glances down at the familiar way in which his hands hold the lute. Because that’s what it is- his favorite instrument, the thing that made him coin and granted him fame and found him a-

Jaskier’s heart cracks in his chest, and his breath punches out of him in one big whoosh. He lifts the lute over his head, pressing it back into Valdo’s hands before turning to bolt out the front door of the shop. He doesn’t know where he’s going, merely that he has to get away, to find somewhere safe. He feels a thousand eyes on him, whispers following his frantic fleeing, and he ducks into an alleyway, hiding behind a trash can and pressing his back to the brick wall. There’s a stitch in his side from his frantic running and his hands won’t stop shaking as he rakes his fingers through his hair. The song rings through him, as fresh as the day it was written, and the lyrics come to him unbidden.

He’s crazy. He’s well and truly crazy, because there’s no way what he’s seeing can be real, but it’s so vividly him, buried so deep in his heart that there’s no way it could be fake either. His breath comes from him faster and faster, and tears blur his vision as he folds his knees up to his chest and rocks. Priscilla finds him that way, huddled in a ball amongst the trash, sobbing and muttering to himself, and she uses the large hood of his jacket to hide his face as she gets him home. Jaskier has calmed enough to get himself up the stairs when they manage to stumble their way back, and his chest aches from the pounding of his heart.

The tremor in his hands hasn’t abated yet, but the mug that’s pressed into his hands doesn’t shake, so he just enjoys the warmth that it brings him. Priscilla seems at a loss for words, but Jaskier knows what she wants to ask. “Just say it, Pris.”

“What happened? You haven’t been yourself all morning- first with the tv, and then the lute in the shop? Jaskier, I’ve never seen you like this.”

“I have dreams.” He says, voice so soft it’s almost lost in the sound of his heartbeat. “And lately, I can’t tell what’s real and what’s not.”

Priscilla reaches out, touching his shoulder lightly, and her face is soft, sad. “They’re just dreams. What you do here, the music you make, that’s what’s real.”

Jaskier nods, but his heart is plummeting in his chest and he doesn’t know why. Priscilla’s words should be a comfort, someone rooted in his reality telling him that his dreams are just that- dreams. The result of an overactive imagination. That’s all they are, all they’ve ever been. Jaskier tries not to let the thought suck him down somewhere he doesn’t want to go, but it’s near impossible to fight the tide rising in him. “They’re just dreams.”

He takes a sip of his lukewarm drink to find that it’s tea- the stuff he usually drinks as a last resort before bed time. It’s never worked before, but Jaskier downs the rest of it and hopes that this time, it will. Priscilla waits until he’s finished to take the cup, and when she comes back she’s holding a very large, very lute shaped object in her hands. Jaskier frowns, confused, but takes it from her anyway, tracing fingers over the lacquered wood. It’s smooth and warm under his touch, and he finds himself picking at the strings just to hear the sound. “Valdo said that it was yours.”

“I didn’t pay him.”

“He knew you’d say that. He said, and I quote ‘I’ve only been holding it for him.’ Whatever that might mean.” Jaskier schools his features into careful indifference, trying not to let his discomfort show. What in the hell does he mean by that? He’s going to have to go back to the shop and talk to him to find out, but he’s not inclined to leave his apartment for the foreseeable future. Priscilla, sensing the mood has gone down, ruffles Jaskier’s hair and gives his shoulders a squeeze. “Take some time, Dandy, get some sleep, then come back.”

Jaskier makes a soft noise in his throat at the silly nickname, but it’s sweet and Jaskier has never told her to stop. He watches her duck out of the apartment with one last look his way, and once the door clicks shut, locking behind her, he grips the lute tighter. He hasn’t ever played formally- has never been trained, and while a guitar is similar, there’s more strings than ever and he expects to fumble.

He doesn’t.

His fingers know what to do even without his brain, and he hums along to the melody from before. Here, in the safety of his apartment, he plays and plays until the song is firmly committed to memory and he’s written down the lyrics to go along with it. A song about the monster of the wood, a cruel, hungry creature with the head of a deer, stalking him in the night.

“You need to listen to me-”

“I’m your barker, for better or worse. How can I bark if I never see anything?”

“You stay alive for a day longer.” His hands shake with anger, chest burning with it, and the man in front of him, golden eyes fierce and animal, glares back just as hotly. They’re nose to nose practically, and his head pounds in time with his heartbeat as his hands come up, shoving the man away and watching in shock as he goes.

“Go then. I’ll be here, tending your fire and watching your horse, as that is all I am good for.” He turns then, but a hand grabs at his arm, turning him around on his heel. He pulls against it, fights to be released, but Geralt’s hand bunches in his shirt above his heart and holds him. “Geralt-”

“For better or worse, Jaskier.” His eyes meet gold, molten and scalding, and he’s speechless at the sincere intensity in Geralt’s gaze. “I would rather it be better.”

“You don’t get to decide that-” Geralt cuts him off with a kiss, lips hard against his own. It’s awkward, a bit painful, but Jaskier tilts his head, pulls back a bit and Geralt responds in kind. He kisses, Jaskier decides, like a man who has been kissed not nearly enough, and he commits himself to fixing that immediately. Geralt’s grip loosens in Jaskier’s shirt, but Jaskier’s hand comes up to bury in snow white locks, keeping him close as his heart rockets into his throat.

The strings of the lute dig painfully into his fingers when he comes to, and he shakes himself, releasing his tight hold and groaning when blood rushes back into the pads of his fingers. He tucks the lute back away in its case, not wanting to look at the flowers painted onto the wood along its wide belly. He tells himself not to touch the lute, to leave it alone so that all this will go away, but the longer he sits on his couch, leg bouncing and tv on some awful movie the more his fingers itch to play.

Instead, he forces himself to get up, to pull out his vacuum and mop and cleaning supplies. He spends the afternoon scrubbing down every inch of the apartment, puts away his laundry, and even tidies up his desk, which is a rather artful disarray of papers. Some, like Priscilla, call it a mess, but Jaskier knows where each piece of paper goes, and he prefers it stays that way. Cleaning can only distract him for so long, and once the smell of lemon cleaner becomes too much he caves, grabbing the lute and ducking out onto his balcony.

The sun is beginning to descend on the city, and he allows it to warm his bones and loosen his muscles as he plays. Each song that comes from him is new and old and entirely his, each rich, resounding note a piece of him. The instrument is no more a stranger to him than his guitar, or his flute, or any of the other instruments he’s picked up and enjoyed along the way. Its weight, the feeling of the double strings pressing under his fingers is home to him, and he plays long after the sun is set. There’s a reckoning, a righteousness within this instrument that calls to the deepest parts of Jaskier’s soul, and he finds himself crying with no real reason as to why.

He cries silently, holding the lute close to him and staring out over the city. Cars rush past his building, far below, and somewhere nearby a dog barks. But it’s all background noise- it’s nothing compared to the harsh intake of his breath or the way that it shudders out of him. When he can’t stand it anymore he retreats back inside, leaving his lute on his dresser before stripping down and crawling into bed. There, buried under blankets and utterly, terribly alone, Jaskier closes his eyes and dreams.

“You’re alive.” A low, rough voice breathes behind him. He turns, but he already knows what will be waiting for him, and he can feel his face lighting up in a grin.

“Geralt! Of course I’m alive, how could the world bear to part with me just yet?” His heart jackrabbits in his chest at the sight of the man before him, clad as always, in dark armor and a stormy, conflicted expression. Well, the expression is new. The armor, not so much. He finds himself smiling for no real reason as to why, but Geralt’s face is open and honest and terrified, and he can’t keep from reaching out to gently touch his cheek.

“There were rumors- about a bard, having been murdered by a beast.”

“As if I could be harmed by a beast with you protecting me.”

“But I wasn’t.” Jaskier takes a step forward, cupping his witcher’s cheek and smiling when Geralt leans into the touch.

The dream dissolves as Jaskier shifts, drifting between consciousness and unconsciousness. The latter wins out, and his body drifts away while his mind slips again.

Blue eyes stare at him through the mirror. It isn’t a great mirror, small and cracked and woven with imperfections, but he won’t need it for long. He only needs to make sure his hair is presentable, his golden doublet unmarred by any stains, and that his smile, when shown just so, is as charming and delightful as always.

“You’re fussing.” Geralt says, and Jaskier knows, his heart knows that voice and the hand that slides over his hip better than anything. He finds himself leaning back against a strong chest, laughing and tipping his head back.

“Some of us care for our appearance before a performance.” An amused hum, and then lips on his neck, gentle and sweet, kissing a trail up toward Jaskier’s waiting lips. He sinks into the kiss, turning as Geralt’s arms come up and around him, careful not to crease Jaskier’s clothes.

“How long will you be gone?”

“Most of the night. You’re free to come, love. I’m sure they’d love to pester the White Wolf himself.”

“Mmm, pester is right.” The warmth in his chest is softer now, with no edges of anger, and he knows what this is. It’s love. Pure and unfettered by doubt.

That same warmth burns in his chest when he jerks up in bed, leaping from under the covers to run into his bathroom. The mirror he has now is perfect- gleaming with the fresh cleaning he’d done just today and showing his reflection without any defects. The same blue eyes stare back, sweeping over the same lips, the same cheekbones and nicely shaped jawbone. The same messy, tousled brown hair as the bard in the dream. As him . Whoever he was- is- is long gone- left behind in another life completely. That isn’t him anymore, it can’t be, but when he thinks, and thinks hard, they’re there. All the memories, the times in between his dreams. The first time he’d seen Geralt, sitting in the back of a tavern refusing to meet anyone’s eyes, to draw any unwanted attention to him. The feeling of his hair, so devoid of color, twisting around his fingers as he washed blood and viscera from them. His friends- Priscilla, in her blue and red ensemble with the poofy shorts, Essi, a near twin to Priscilla, only shorter and plumper. Valdo, his rival, the troubadour who writes songs without any meaning but somehow comes out on top.

Valdo.

Jaskier scrambles for his phone, dropping it twice before finally swiping open the screen. He has his number, more to make sure he never answers than anything, but now, now he needs it more than anything else. He hits dial without letting himself think, holding his phone to his ear and shifting nervously from foot to foot. The line rings and rings, and just as he thinks it'll go to voicemail he hears a soft click.

"Dandelion? It's nearly three in the morning, what could you-"

"I'm not crazy."

"Debatable." Valdo's voice is amused, but when Jaskier doesn't respond he quickly grows serious.

"You said you were keeping the lute for me." His words are rolling in his mouth, voice mangled by an accent that he can't seem to keep away or bring back. He hears a sharp intake of breath, and then a long, shuddering sigh.

"I was, Julian. For far, far too long. Meet me at the diner on Broadmoor." The line goes dead and Jaskier is left to get ready, a long, long dead name ringing in his ears.

-*-

There are three diners on Broadmoor. Jaskier curses his luck, but only one seems to have the lights on and so Jaskier heads that way first. He pulls on the door and is hit in the face by the smell of stale coffee and hash browns. He glances around, searching, and spots Valdo in a booth back in the corner. His face is drawn, hair a mess, but he has a cup of coffee waiting For Jaskier when he slides into the cheap plastic booth. Valdo slides the mug toward him and he clasps it in his hands, sniffing lightly. He debates putting sugar or cream in it, but he needs the caffeine too badly right now to care much about the bitter taste. Valdo watches his internal debate with a raised brow, leaning back in the booth and sighing.

“You remember.” Jaskier accuses, wincing at the way his tone sounds. Valdo takes it in stride, tilting his head in a small nod and sipping at his coffee.

“I always have. I didn’t know if you would this time around.”

“This time?” Valdo nods again, and Jaskier is quickly becoming frustrated by the non answers. “Valdo, what the fuck is going on?”

“Reincarnation. You’ve heard of it before, yes?” Jaskier nods, and Valdo continues on. “There are some of us who keep coming back. Not always with memories, not always whole. I seem to have no problem keeping them, but others like Priscilla, or Essi, or-”

“Are they really reincarnations?” Jaskier frowns- how much is it reincarnation if you’re just the same body without knowing if your consciousness is the same?

“I said that, didn’t I?” His glare is enough to set a house on fire, but Valdo doesn’t fold under the pressure, instead waving for menus to be brought over. “For decades I was unsure why. Why us? Nothing seemed to connect us together, just random strangers being brought through life. Until I found out you came along as well.”

“You’re saying that I’m the link?”

“You know us all, have some kind of connection. You are the one constant in each of our lives.”

“But the others, they don’t remember?”

“They never have.” Valdo orders something for the two of them, waving away Jaskier’s protest, and plows forward in his conversation. “You don’t always either. I’ve held that lute for the past two reincarnations, neither of which you retained memories for. But you remember now, or are beginning to.”

“Yes.” Jaskier’s voice is a whisper, and admitting it, saying that it’s real takes a weight off his shoulders he didn’t know he was carrying.

“Tell me how?” It’s phrased as a request, and Jaskier nods, staring at his coffee to try and ward off his tears.

“I was seventeen when my dreams started feeling real- performances or days on the road, nights spent stitching wounds or bandaging cuts. Lately they’ve-”

“Been bleeding into your waking hours. Like when you played in the shop.” Valdo’s interrupting makes irritation flare in the back of his mind, but he tamps it down. He’s only trying to help, and is filling in more details than Jaskier would have gotten on his own. Their food comes then, and Jaskier watches as some kind of breakfast scramble is placed in front of him. It’s heavy with hashbrowns, eggs, bacon and cheese. It looks awful. Jaskier digs in hungrily, groaning at the heavenly taste- shitty overnight diners always have the best food. They eat their food in relative silence, too hungry and tired to care much to continue with something else in front of them.

This all seems fake, too good to be real. Valdo’s instant reassurance of what he’s feeling, what he’s dreaming, it has to be some kind of con, some way to get dirt on him. He expects the other man to laugh any minute, to call him crazy and tell him he needs serious help. He’s waiting for a punchline that isn’t coming, and it makes him anstier and anstier by the second. It explains so much- the old, old memories he has of a time before electricity, or running water, of nobles and peasants and monsters. Of witchers and sorceresses and bards. There are newer memories too- of him in a diner much like this, sitting across from a man with white hair and shining golden eyes. Of dancing in a club to his own music, standing alongside all the others in a rally, holding a sign protesting the inequality that ruins his life while cameras show his face. Through it all, his companion is there- a silent, steady presence.

“There’s- a man. Who I am desperately in love with, no matter who I am.”

“Your witcher. White hair, cat eyes?” He doesn’t need to nod for Valdo to know the answer, and he grins. “His name is Geralt of Rivia, though Rivia is long gone now.”

“Is he…”

“Alive? Of course. They, unlike us, do not die.”

“They?” He doesn’t even get a chance to let Valdo talk, his vision going blurry and ears ringing.

“C’mere asshole!” Jaskier laughs, darting away from the witcher intent on catching him. It isn’t Geralt- his hair is dark and cropped short, voice smoother, less gravelly. He’s also much, much more expressive.

“Catch me if you can!” His lungs hurt from running and laughing so much, and he squeaks as hands grab the back of his doublet and yank him to a stop. Jaskier squirms as arms wrap around him, and he pouts, letting himself go deadweight. “You aren’t supposed to use your witchery powers, you know.”

“Oops.” He’s let go then, and Jaskier shoves the other man lightly, grinning.

“Ass. Maybe I’ll go find Eskel, at least he follows the rules of the game.”

“Rules are for peasants.”

“Then you should fit right in, Lambert.” He dodges a swat to the back of the head, laughing and disappearing further into the keep.

Valdo is staring at him expectantly when he blinks, the stone walls and cold breeze fading away from his mind. His food is lukewarm in front of him, and he takes a big bite just to avoid having to say anything yet. Valdo is too smug for his own good though, and he sits forward, grinning.

“Jogged your memory, eh?”

“Shut up.” His insufferable grin only grows bigger, and Jaskier wants to smack it off his face or strangle him. Either would work, honestly. “Is there some way to contact him, or any of them?”

“Not unless you’re a government official, or happen to know someone who had a pest problem. But, there is something that might work.”

“What?”

“Your songs. I'm sure you've already written new ones with the lute- release them in an album. If they’re listening, which is near impossible not to with your reputation, they’ll find you .”

“What if they don’t?”

“Then I suppose you’ll have to bed a government agent.” Jaskier scoffs, wrinkling his nose, but Valdo wags his eyebrows and he can’t help the laugh that bubbles up from his chest. He falls into silence then, staring down at the rest of his food, and his voice is soft when he finally finds the courage to speak.

“Thank you. For keeping it safe.” When he glances up, Valdo’s eyes are bright, shining with relief.

-*-

Jaskier does what he does best- he writes a few songs, then writes a few more, until he’s bursting with music and lyrics and ideas. He gets himself into his studio and doesn’t leave until he’s recorded an entire album, with his lute being the main focus. It brings with it a new, exciting kind of charm that his producers eat right up, a kind of mystical energy that isn’t present in any of Jaskier’s other songs.

It’s also a release- he lets go of the monsters that haunted him, bringing them roaring into his music instead and letting them run wild. His dreams are still plagued by memories, but the more he plays, the more he tries to remember, the easier it gets. Turns out when you stop fighting against a piece of yourself, letting it in is much, much easier. The music videos are his favorite part of the whole process- he crafts one specific to each song, embedding as much of a message as he can in the hopes that one of the witcher’s will see. Will see him and know him, and extend a hand.

He tries to look up the witchers, to see if there’s any kind of way to find them online, but Lambert is too common a name and he has no clue what last name he would use, if any. Eskel’s name yields less results, but still too many for him to narrow down, and he’s left back at square one for them. Geralt’s name? Now that pulls up results.

‘ The witcher, most formally known as Geralt of Rivia, is one of the world’s only practicing monster slayers, and a bit of a recluse. He was last spotted hunting some kind of sea serpent along the mediterranean, and then boarded a plane bound for America.’

‘Geralt of Rivia, White Wolf, was allegedly seen decapitating a local woman at a train station in France. When questioned by police, they were informed that the woman was a bruxa who had been preying on locals. Mr. Rivia was released without further incident.’

That article makes Jaskier laugh, and he prints it out to tack above his desk on his cork board. Leave it to Geralt to scare everyone around him while doing his job. Any article related to Geralt gets its spot on the board, actually and he’s fairly certain he looks like a stalker, but they’re his only glimpse into what Geralt has been up to. It makes the pain easier to handle, knowing he’s just been too busy to seek Jaskier out, and certainly not ignoring the neon signs that are his music. Half of them are Geralt’s exploits, after all, and if he doesn’t recognize them then Jaskier has failed to faithfully recreate them.

But the songs work- somewhat. In a small town somewhere in the midwest, a witcher hears Jaskier’s music, and begins to hunt for his white haired brother.

Jaskier, in the meantime goes about his life, bouncing from interview to interview, one of which he’s in now. The chair is somewhat uncomfortable and the lights are a little too bright, but the woman interviewing him is new, nervous, and he does his best to put her at ease.

“You’re doing great, love. What were you saying?”

The woman blushes, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear before asking again. “Your newest album, it pulls away from the bouncier, lighter tone of your second album. Why?”

“Good question. Writing fun music is wonderful, lovely, but I, and I’m sure you’ll be surprised, have my own fears. Monsters that haunt my dreams, who begged to be put into song.”

“So the songs are based on dreams?”

“Now you’re catching on.” Jaskier winks, drawing another giggle from her, and he leans back in his chair, tilting his head. “No one can tell me they don’t dream of dark and twisted things sometimes. Of wanting a knight in shining armor to come save them.”

“That’s an incredible way to put it. Are any of the monsters in your songs real?”

“Oh yes. The leshy, or leshen is a forest spirit that is said to roam the deepest parts of a forest. There are also ghouls, terrible hunchback creatures who stalk battlefields, and basilisks, large winged creatures with iridescent scales and scalding breath.”

He sees his interviewer shudder, and his gaze goes soft, a wistful smile tugging at his lips. “Where did you hear about these monsters?”

“From a friend, years ago.”

"Do you still talk to them?"

Jaskier's eyes find the camera, and it's a terrible cliche to spike the lens, but he does it anyway. "We lost contact a while back. I'm hoping that… through my music, I can find him again."

"Well, I'm sure your fanbase can help!"

"That they can." Jaskier grins, glancing back at the interviewer, and he hears someone yell cut behind them. He stands, shaking her hand and giving her a quick hug. He murmurs a few words of encouragement, and when he ducks into the room they've designated for him he tells his producer to send her something. Flowers or a gift or anything. She handled him like a champ. It's thankfully his last interview of the day, and he grabs his lute, which he brought just in case before ducking out the door. He makes his escape from the building out onto the street with relative ease, slinging his lute across his back to navigate the crowds easier. The amount of times he’s had to refuse security before they learned was more than he could count. He's stopped a few times by fans, asking to take pictures, and he glances at them on his phone once his Twitter dings.

@dandelion stopped and took a picture! Best day ever!

The rest of the post is filled with heart eye emojis and hashtags, but Jaskier stares at the photo. The awful stripes and swirls on his button up are reminiscent of a bowling alley floor, but his jeans are cute and his boots top the whole outfit off. He thought it'd looked cute when he put it on, and is pleased to see that others agree. He looks better in general- the bags under his eyes are all but gone and there's a confidence in the set of his shoulders he hadn't noticed before. Like knowing who he is has completed a puzzle he didn't know he'd lost a piece to.

He tucks his phone back into his pocket as he skips down the steps to the subway, whistling merrily the whole time. The public transportation in the city had to be his favorite thing in the world, aside from jelly donuts and Geralt's eyes. It makes going from place to place a snap, and he doesn't have to constantly tell people he can't drive when they ask where his car is. The train is running a minute behind, as usual, but Jaskier books it down the rest of the stairs and through the turnstile, jogging up just as the doors slide open. People file on quickly, taking their seats, and Jaskier moves to step on when he spots snow white hair.

That in itself isn't unusual- plenty of old people ride the subway, but it's a man who looks no older than his mid thirties. He's dressed in all black, jeans and a heavy sweater, and strapped to his back are twin swords, their pommels shining dully in the fluorescent lights of the train. A duffle bag hangs from one shoulder, nondescript, but a pale, scarred hand hovers over it protectively. Jaskier is aware he's staring, holding up the train, but his feet are rooted firmly in place as his head begins to pound. The man- Geralt- irritated by the lack of movement turns to see what's going on, golden cat eyes cold and hard. The sight sends vertigo crashing through Jaskier so wildly that he feels his knees give out, and his vision blurs as he collapses onto the ground.

-*-

"No, no. He's fine. Don't hold the train for us." A voice, rough and low and heavenly drifts through his consciousness and he groans, burying his face in a warm, nicely toned chest. Strong arms wrap around him, holding him, and he sinks into the embrace without really thinking. When he moves the arms tighten around him, holding him closer, and he finally rouses.

He cracks an eye open to see an officer in front of them, debating with Geralt about getting him medical care, and he groans, sitting up and plastering his best smile on his face.

"Sorry love, my sugar dropped again. Was I out long?" The officer stops when he speaks, and Jaskier tilts his head curiously. "Tell me you didn't call them, you know I don't want the attention."

He looks up at Geralt, false frown on his face, and Geralt shakes his head. "Another passenger. I told them you were fine."

"That I am! I'm very sorry for the confusion, I just got off of a rather long interview and was a bit hungrier than I expected." The officer looks between them, brows furrowed, but tucks his notepad away and nods reluctantly.

"If you're sure you'll be alright."

"Feeling loads better already! Sorry again Officer!" Jaskier watches until the officer leaves the platform, and then shoves his way out of Geralt's arms. Geralt lets him go without a fight, sitting on the bench and watching as Jaskier paces the length of the platform, ranting. He's speaking in a language he knows but doesn't know, but it's better than letting everyone else hear him.

" I dreamt about you for years! Years, and the first thing I do is pass out when I see your goddamn face. Son of a bitch." Jaskier glares accusingly at him, but the corners of Geralt's mouth tug up in a smirk and Jaskier can feel his heart going a mile a minute. " I could have broken my lute, or-or been cut in half by the doors all because you were on the subway you big old insufferable-"

" You dreamt about me." Geralt's voice is soft, fond, and Jaskier loves and hates the way his voice curls around elder speech. " Jask, I didn't know you'd come back."

" Didn't- didn't KNOW? I am, and I am going to brag here, insanely famous, Geralt. Like on the news famous. How in the WORLD did you not know?"

" I don't watch the news."

"Of course you don't- of course I would get the one witcher in the whole wide world who doesn't watch the news ." He's cut back into English at some point, and he stops, fists clenched as Geralt stands up with his palms out. It's something he's seen Geralt do with Roach a thousand times when she's being antsy, and it drives him up the wall. "I am not a horse , Geralt, I am your fucking barker."

"You're acting more like my horse right now." Geralt is close enough now Jaskier can smell the soft cologne he's wearing, and his knees go weak again with the fact that he's actually here.

"You jackass -" Jaskier launches forward, throwing his arms around Geralt's neck and pulling him down to kiss him senseless. Geralt takes it in stride, scooping Jaskier off his feet and spinning with the momentum. He's careful of Jaskier's lute, but his hands are strong and firm as Jaskier is thoroughly crushed to his chest, held so tight that neither of them seem to be breathing. Jaskier doesn't care- his feet are off the ground completely, a fistful of white hair in his hands again and Geralt's lips on his. He has a beard, neat and taken care of, and Jaskier's other hand slips down to cup the side of Geralt's neck, thumb brushing through the coarse fibers.

Geralt is the first to pull away, Jaskier tipping forward blindly to kiss him again, huffing when Geralt smiles and bumps their noses together.

"Train is coming. As much as I've missed this, I'd rather not miss the next one."

"Tell me you aren't leaving me." Jaskier presses their foreheads together, eyes closed to keep any potential tears at bay. “Please.”

“I have to check into my hotel.”

“Geralt of Rivia, if you think for one minute you aren’t coming home to sleep in my bed you’re a fool. Fuck your hotel room.”

“It has a jacuzzi.” Geralt laughs when Jaskier pulls back to glare, and Geralt holds onto Jaskier’s hand, guiding them through the throng of people and onto the train. Geralt motions towards a seat, but Jaskier stays plastered resolutely to his side and just rests his head against Geralt's shoulder. He sways with the movement of the train, but Geralt’s arm is around his hip, holding him steady as the train goes around a curve and slows a bit. He feels more at peace with Geralt next to him than he has in years, and he’s drifted off to sleep when Geralt moves just a bit, dipping down to whisper in his ear. Elder speech brushes against him, trailing down his spine, and his eyelids flutter as he leans in to hear him better.

“What stop do we get off at, Jaskier?”

And oh, if hearing his name from Geralt’s lips isn’t sublime. “Two more.”

“ You were asleep.” Jaskier chuckles softly, turning his head and kissing him lightly.

“ I’ve lived here for years. I know how long I have.” His elder isn’t nearly as pretty or fluid as Geralt’s but he seems to enjoy it all the same, pupils widening at the sound, the sight of Jaskier’s lips moving. He feels like prey being hunted and he loves it. True to his words, two stops later Jaskier is the one to lead them off the train and up the many, many stairs to the street above. His hand never leaves Geralt’s, afraid that if he lets go the man will disappear into the crowd and leave him alone again. His apartment building isn’t far from the station, and he has to pass through three different checkpoints before he’s even flagged into the building. All of the security guards eye Geralt with barely hidden suspicion, but Jaskier is either oblivious or doesn’t care. The hot, possessive kiss that Jaskier pulls Geralt into while waiting for the elevator is answer enough.

Jaskier’s head is spinning again by the time they make it to his door, and he sags against it, panting lightly and trying to get his key in the lock. Geralt’s hand comes up, guiding the key in as he stands just close enough for Jaskier to be intimately aware of every inch of him. Jaskier gasps, shakes against the door and finally manages to shove it open. He hurries into the room, past the kitchen and into the living room. His lute is slung onto the cushions gently just as his knees give out again, and he catches himself on the arm of the couch, Geralt at his side a moment later.

He can’t feel his legs- he really, really can’t feel his legs, and he isn’t sure that it should seem like such a good thing. Geralt is a hard, hot presence between his thighs, and he arches up into Geralt’s touch, whimpering his name. He wants, he wants so desperately and he feels like he could fall apart at any moment, his breaths coming faster and faster as Geralt grins down, at him teeth sharp and glistening and begging to be buried in flesh. He reaches up, brings him down and kisses him, lapping into his mouth just to taste and let a fang scrape against his tongue.

His chest is heaving when he blinks from his memory, and oh, oh he’s embarrassingly, frustratingly hard. How in the hell does he explain something like this? His knees smart from where they’ve hit the floor and he pitches himself forward, out of Geralt’s surprised hands, his palms slapping against the wood of his floor as he pants. It’s better than letting Geralt see him, worked up over nothing. But he doesn’t get the chance to even think of a lie- he hears Geralt’s sharp intake of breath, the soft huff of a stunned laugh. Geralt is on his knees next to him before he can move, lips on his neck and teeth digging just so into the pale, unmarked flesh. Jaskier keens without meaning to, the noise spilling from his lips, and his cheeks flush when Geralt makes a triumphant noise, pulling back and using a hand on the small of Jaskier’s back make him sit back.

“If you say anything smart, Geralt, I will throw you off my balcony.”

“You don’t have to hide from me.” Is all he says instead, and he takes Jaskier’s hands, guiding him to sit on the couch while he takes care of Jaskier’s lute. Jaskier watches, knees pressed to his chest to hide his slowly dwindling erection as Geralt hunts around his apartment, breathing deep and seeming pleased at what he finds. He lingers briefly by the bedroom door, but seems to think better about exploring there just yet. Instead he reaches up, undoing the clasp across his chest and letting his swords slide from his back. He places them on the coffee table and pulls his sweater up and over his head. Jaskier watches it all, eyes wide, and he jumps as the sweater is tossed at him. He catches it with only a minor fumble, pressing it to his face and breathing deep.

He can almost feel the growl that rumbles through Geralt at the sight, and he grins, toothy and bright, sniffing again. It’s easy to lose his train of thought at the sight of Geralt- Modern clothes suit him well, from the cut of his jeans to the way his t-shirt shows off the rather lovely shoulder to hip ratio he has. Practically perfect. What really arouses him, and this shouldn’t ever be admitted out loud, is the amount of weapons Geralt has on him. There are two pistols tucked into sheathes under his arms against his sides, at least two knives tucked into each boot, not to mention the swords he’s already discarded.

“How do you draw the pistols with your sweater on?”

“I don’t.” Geralt’s voice is amused, and he reaches to unbuckle the leather harness, silver rings glittering along his fingers. There are no fingers that are bare of rings, whether they’re smooth, simple bands or ones studded in small spikes. It’s… ridiculously attractive and Jaskier fears for his heart at this rate. The holsters slip off of his shoulders and they too are left on the table with his swords, though he doesn’t go for the daggers in his boots at all. “You’re staring.”

“I’m allowed to.” He breathes out, reaching a hand out as Geralt pads over. His fingers splay against Geralt’s chest as the older man leans down, kissing him slowly, the warm metal of his rings sliding across Jaskier's cheek. Jaskier shivers at the sensation, making a soft noise as he stretches up further to try and get closer. Geralt pulls back too soon, always too soon, and Jaskier groans with disappointment.

“Tell me what happened when we came in.”

“Do we really have to talk about that now?” Geralt leans back, eyes searching his face, and Jaskier sighs dramatically, tugging Geralt to sit next to him on the couch so he can lean against his chest. "I wasn't born with my memories. I had- it feels stupid to repeat this all- I had night terrors as a child."

"Of monsters." Jaskier nods, pressing Geralt's sweater to his face and speaking through the fabric.

"Particularly of me being eaten by them. When I got older, graduated high school, they shifted focus. They showed me, or the bard I thought was haunting my dreams, following you, performing at a banquet, being chased by a farmer's husband. Within the past few months they got worse. They slipped into my daydreams, took them over, until I could hardly go outside without seeing something that would set them off."

"Is that what happened on the platform?" Jaskier shakes his head, sighing.

"I don't know what that was- a reaction to seeing you again, after only seeing you in dreams maybe? All I remember is getting hit by the worst vertigo I've ever felt, and then I was waking up in your arms. This last time- I'm not sure. I really don't want to keep collapsing though, my knees won't be able to take it."

His joke is weak but Geralt chuckles anyway, pressing his nose into Jaskier's hair. "I'll get you kneepads."

"My hero." He feels a rumble go through Geralt's chest and that brings a smile to his face. "What about you?"

"What about me?"

"Tell me about you, what you've been doing. I, for one, have been struggling with my memories and made it as a musician. But you, last of the witchers, are impossible to find info on."

"How do you know I'm the last?"

"Internet speculation. Don't worm your way out of this." Geralt sighs heavily, shaking his head and muttering to himself before Jaskier turns and plops himself into Geralt's lap so Geralt has to look at him.

"Eskel and Lambert retired a few years ago. Contracts are few and far between."

"What do you do then when you aren't fighting monsters?"

"I… Translate." Jaskier doesn't think he's heard right, and he tilts his head.

"Pardon? Was my very sexy boyfriend about to tell me something even sexier?" Geralt raises a brow at the word boyfriend, but Jaskier can see that he's pleased by the automatic assumption that they're together. Like they were never apart at all.

"I interpret. Mostly for doctors offices or business meetings. I'm occasionally called to the field when researchers need help."

"What languages?" Geralt doesn't say anything, cheeks flushing a faint pink instead. Jaskier grins then, pleased as all get out, and he leans forward, bumping their noses together and watching the way Geralt's pupils open wider at the contact. "What languages, Geralt?"

"There- aren't many I don't know."

"Someone's been busy."

"I had time. And language barriers make hunting harder." Jaskier laughs at the defensive tone to Geralt's voice, leaning their foreheads together and laughing until Geralt kisses him to shut him up. And even then he giggles against Geralt's lips, wiggling when Geralt tickles at his ribs.

"No wonder your elder is good." Geralt huffs out a laugh, shaking his head and leaning back so he can look at Jaskier, gaze sweeping over Jaskier's face slowly.

"My brothers and I are the only ones fluent."

"In the world?"

"There are small elven communities hidden around, but other than that, yes."

"Where are your brothers?"

"Somewhere in the midwest." Geralt says it with a shrug, as if it isn't a big deal. "They move frequently."

"Too used to being on the Path." Jaskier muses, though it's truer than he might realize. “What about you, where do you settle?”

“I don’t.” Jaskier tilts his head, thinking about that. He isn’t sure why Geralt would ever settle down, since he’s the last witcher active apparently. It would make sense for him not to have any place to call home, but the thought bothers him. A lot more than it should.

“You have a home here, if you want it.” He whispers, heart in his throat, and Geralt’s whole demeanor softens. His eyes look more amber in the setting sun coming through his balcony, and Jaskier leans forward, lips brushing Geralt’s at the same time his phone rings. He groans, intent to ignore it, but Geralt’s fingers dip into Jaskier’s back pocket to pull it out. He hits answer, holding the phone up to Jaskier’s ear as he glares.

“Jaskier, who the fuck are you kissing?”

“Hello Priscilla, nice to see you again, I’ve been just dandy since we last saw each other.” Jaskier takes the phone from Geralt, pressing it to his ear on his own.

“Jaskier, Twitter is in an uproar, there are pictures everywhere.”

“Naughty pictures?” Jaskier puts the phone on speaker while he moves over to Twitter, scrolling through the thousands of tags he’s gotten in the past two hours alone. They’re all the same picture, which Jaskier saves immediately, some better quality than others. There’s him in his bowling alley button up, held aloft in Geralt’s arms, kissing him senseless. It’s a rather artistic photo, the contrast between his bright colors and lute and Geralt��s stiff black clothing and threatening swords. “Ah.”

“That’s all you have to say? You haven’t seriously dated anyone since high school and that's what you say?” Priscilla is pissed, rightfully so, and Jaskier winces.

“Look it’s not that I didn’t want to tell you, I just-”

“I asked him not to.” Jaskier can hear the sharp intake of breath over the phone from Priscilla when Geralt talks, and she’s much more pleasant this time when she speaks. Traitor.

“Oh. And you are?”

“Geralt.”

“And where are you from, Geralt? How long have you been dating my best friend?” He sees Geralt’s lips quirk in a smile, and he rolls his eyes, letting Geralt do the talking. At least that way he isn’t getting yelled at.

“Rivia. We’ve been seeing each other for a few years now, I would say.” Jaskier snorts at the lie, except well- it isn’t really a lie. They’ve been together for years and years over entire lifetimes.

“Rivia?” A distant quality overtakes her voice, and Jaskier winces, clapping a hand over his ear as Priscilla squeals. “Jaskier, please tell me you aren’t dating Geralt of Rivia.”

“Uh.” Geralt’s lips twitch upward as he raises a brow at Jaskier’s hesitation, but Priscilla is laughing, wheezing out little breaths, and Jaskier waits for her to calm down before he answers. “Is that a bad thing?”

“No, no it’s just unbelievable.”

“Hey!” There’s offense in Jaskier’s tone, and Geralt’s hand rests on his hip, squeezing lightly. Jaskier shudders at the touch, scowling, but his witcher is the picture of innocence. “I guess the cats out of the bag, eh love?”

“Mhm.” Gods Jaskier has missed those little sounds, the answers but not answers.

“You have to say something on Twitter before your fans break the site. And introduce us properly.”

“Right, right. Dinner okay?”

“Only if I get to pick the place.”

“Deal. I’ll call you later, okay?” Priscilla gives an affirmative and hangs up, Jaskier tilting his head at Geralt with his brows raised. “So, Geralt of Rivia, ready to be official with a popstar?”

“Not really. But with you? I’ll manage.” Jaskier rolls his eyes, moving to tuck himself against Geralt’s side. Geralt’s arm snakes around him, hugging him a bit closer as Jaskier raises his phone.

“Say cheese!” He grins wide, waiting until Geralt isn’t glaring to snap the photo. It’s a good one, Geralt’s eyes liquid and warm, the corners of his mouth tilted up in the smallest of smiles. It’s definitely going to be his wallpaper. Jaskier posts it onto Twitter with a simple caption.

My knight in shining armor.

#geraskier #geralt x jaskier #jaskier x geralt #modern au #reincarnation au #immortal geralt of rivia #flaskbacks #popstar Jaskier

37 notes · View notes

just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi · 4 years

Text

Little Seer

[Whumpee is called “boy” but is not underage, simply lacks a name... for now. Maybe if he didn’t choose such a hard to explain name he could get it in his introduction but I have no control over my disaster children.]

CW: Knives, captivity, manhandling, duct tape restraints, multiple whumpers, brief eye whump/drugging (unwanted eye drops), mind invasion, cutting on arms (not self-harm related but I’m tagging it regardless).

Word count: 3,192

[Masterlist] [Next?]

The space was cramped and musty. The boy tried to stretch his legs, to stave off the constant cramps and spasms from staying curled. Hard to do when you wake up in the closet of a second-rate hotel by the highway. The cuff on his ankle rattled against the side of the cheap cabinet. His wrists were taped behind his back, keeping him from taking the tap off his mouth. Not that he would again, not after last time.

He leaned back his head and tried to make himself comfortable. His mouth was dry and ashen, but he would just have to wait until they came back to give him water. He craved the water, but mostly the precious moments that they took the tape off his mouth. Just a few blessed times a day, in the morning to get ready, mealtime, and if they gave him water. Other than that, the duct tape over his lips was part of him.

He drifted, not really sleeping but not fully aware. He used to daydream, creating stories and other lives that he could live, but Victoria had only laughed at him when she found them. After that, they weren’t as comforting anymore, and he didn’t want to share them.

Voices. Voices muffled by the particle board. Talking loudly, but not enough for him to catch the words. Footsteps shake the ground as he wished he could squirm so far into the darkness that no one would ever see him again. No one would ever find him. No one would ever grab him and wrench him back into those rooms. Those chairs.

“Hi little Seer,” she coos as she opens the door and reaches in to grab the front of his shirt. He wishes she wouldn’t call him that. It’s not his name, but his name was stolen from him long ago, so the nickname was the closest thing he had. She uncuffs his ankle and pulls him to his feet. Blood rushes back to his legs, sending stabs of pins and needles through them. He’s unsteady, but she holds his arms and guides him to where she wants him. The room is too bright with the cheap florescent lamps. With a pull then a shove, he thuds into the wooden armchair. Adrenalin starts to rush his head, making his nose flare as he tried to control his breathing. Victoria grins and pinches his nose.

“Good, get all worked up for us. It goes quicker that way.” He twists and struggles uselessly to get away from her grip. His lungs burn and he can feel heat pushing behind the skin of his face. After a brief moment, she lets go and he wishes he could gasp for breath instead of having to scramble to get air through his nose. Tyler comes out of the bathroom and leans against the door frame.

“How many orders today?” he asked absent mindedly as he dries his hands. Victoria cuts the tape around his writs and pulls them down to tape them to the armrests, palms up. He groans internally, more and more layers of tape that will get ripped away later. Heaven forbid they get actual cuffs for his wrists. How many hotel chairs had they left sticky residue on?

“Five,” she responds as she finishes his other hand. A shudder ripples down his spine and digs into his bones. Three was his hard limit for one session, which meant this would happen multiple time today.

“Any specials?” asks Tyler as he pulls his bag from the floor and starts to gather his tools. The boy squeezes his eyes shut and hopes none are a special order. Maybe if he focuses, he can manifest it…

“Two.”

Shit. Uninvited tears well in his eyes and threaten to spill over. A hand strokes through his curly hair as he tries to shake his head. He can’t do five today, he doesn’t have the strength, they never let him truly rest.

“You’re getting popular, honey! Isn’t that great? And you’re getting fans, both our specials are from the Southwest Syndicate.” Victoria plays with his hair, scratching lightly with her acrylic nails. It would feel nice, but she already plays with his head too much; it’s all too much. “Do good with these, and they said they’ll set us up in one of their places. Wouldn’t that be nice? Not moving around from hotel to hotel?” Her voice is sweet and condescending, like she’s comforting a child that dropped their ice cream cone, not a shuddering boy that she tied to a chair.

“Where’s Vince?” Tyler asks as he sets out his tools on the side of the bed. A knife, a taser, a short length of strong rope, an eyedropper bottle, two small canisters. The tears overflow and fall from the boy’s eyes as he desperately wishes they weren’t there.

“Hell if I know. Probably buying lotto tickets somewhere.” Victoria is somewhere behind him, although she’d taken her hand off his head at this point.

“We’ll do two regular ones and the last one a special. We can finish the other ones in a second round later.” Tyler’s voice is as smooth and bored as if he was simply planning the meals for the week, not the torture of the shaking form in front of him. He moves to sit on the bed across from the boy, arranging his tools within reach. Victoria pulls out the headphones and slips them over the boy’s ears. Before they turn on, Tyler snaps his fingers in front of the boy’s face, forcing his attention to the photo he holds.

“Now, little Seer, you’re not going to look away again, are you? Gonna keep those little eyes open?” The boy nods desperately, begging with his eyes. He doesn’t know what he’s begging for, but he begs, nevertheless. The headphones are turned on, startling him. A low, masculine voice starts to speak, so loud in his ears it’s all he can hear. The rumble fills his head and digs into his mind.

It’s the man in the picture that’s only inches from his face. Details for him to focus on, find this man out of all the strangers. Pick this man out of space and time instead of himself, as he accidentally does sometimes. It’s not his fault; they’re twisting his ability to something that it’s not supposed to be. It’s not for other’s gain, but instead to protect himself when he’s in danger. Just a quick vision of his future to show him what to do when he’s threatened. The boy knows this, but it seems like it’s about the only thing that he knows for sure. He knows this is wrong. He also knows it will be so much worse if he doesn’t comply.

He locks his eyes on the picture and tries to focus on the sound of the voice as it rattles useless information. Most of the time they say insignificant things; their name, their address, work title, parent’s names, any identifying information. Sometimes they just list numbers that mean nothing to him. He studies the glossy photo of an older man in a boring black suit. He begs and pleads with his brain, Please, please just do it. Don’t make this hard on me this time. Please.

Movement in his periphery, but he doesn’t dare move his eyes from the photo. He doesn’t look at the knife, but he can feel it when it cuts into the skin of his arm. A whimper fights its way out from behind the tape, but he still doesn’t look away. Panic creeps around his mind as he stares intensely at the thinning hair, the suitcase, anything to trigger the vision. He can feel the blood circling its way around the curve of his arm, bumping along the other scars. Another slice, centimetres away from the first. His heart pounds in his chest, beating as if its going to try and escape through his throat.

Another and another, crossing over each other adding to the latticework etched into both his arms. Each slice gets deeper as Tyler starts to lose his patience. Tears stream down the boy’s face as he can feel sweat build on his forehead and his back. Desperation digs its’ claws deep, and he frantically searches the details. It was getting to be too long; Tyler was getting impatient. Danger! Danger! This is danger, goddamn it. Do it! A bead of sweat drips into the cuts, pushing his over the edge.

Like a hit to the gut, the air gets knocked out of his lungs. The world fizzles out and he’s floating. Listing, tumbling through a void with no sense of up or down. He’s lost, grappling onto something, anything to ground him. Threads slip through his fingers, fleeting and ethereal. He doesn’t have a body. He doesn’t have borders. He can feel his consciousness ooze away and stretch thin.

Sight crashes back into focus jarringly. The man eating at the large table of a fancy estate alone. The man driving a golf cart around, chatting with another man of equal age holding onto the handle attached to the roof. The man in a nursing home alone.

The real-world crashes back into vision just as sharply, as if he was slammed full force back into his body. He slumps against the back of the chair, too disoriented to even sit up straight. The room spins as the vibrant, saturated, inhuman colors shift back into normal hues, swirling and bubbling around in a way only he can see. Uneven breath catching as he tries to breath through his nose.

He can see the room around him, but it doesn’t register. All that registers is the pain in his arm and the hand that slides through his hair. The tears in his eyes feel foreign. Like he shouldn’t have a physical form but was forced into one anyway.

Without giving him time to recover, he can feel Victoria invade his mind. He can’t see her, but he can feel that she’s there. He feels her move through his memories. He can feel the tracks that she leaves like footprints. She isn’t just browsing this time; she’s searching for that vision. He tries to focus on it, to keep it in the forefront of his mind. He learned not to fight her long ago, she’ll leave when she finds what she came for. He latches onto the details, knowing they’ll be upset with him if he forgets them.

A snap like a recoil in his mind and it’s gone. It’s all gone. An empty vacuum is left in place of the memory. His panic riddled brain scrambles to fill it, short circuiting and fumbling at the space that was a memory only mere seconds ago. It needs to restart and re-evaluate, fix the files, it’s too much, too quick. It shuts down and he blacks out.

Seconds later, his nose is assaulted with a painful sensation. A heatless burn that creeps down his throat. He jerks awake again, head and arm throbbing in unison. Tyler takes the smelling salts from underneath his nose and puts them back next to the knife on the bed.

The bed. The hotel room. Tyler. It comes back to him in pieces, where he is and what’s happening.

The boy closes his eyes and focuses on his breathing. He knows that this is his time to try and recover, that they won’t give him much more. He only really has the time it takes Victoria to project the memory on the TV and record it with the cheap camcorder they use. Especially today if they have five orders to fill. God, he wishes it could go back to when it was only a few visions a week, not multiple a day.

“Meh, it’s not much but it doesn’t look like his life has much more in it. Poor dude. Imagine paying all this money just to learn you’ll die a lonely old man?” Victoria laughs. The boy doesn’t even try and put the pieces of the vision back together again. That vision is gone just like the hundreds of others, and trying to get it back will only hurt and confuse him more in the long run. It’s like his brain is screaming at him, I’m not made for this! You keep messing up my files! Just stop before I can’t function anymore!

His breathing evens out and he feels those hands on his shoulders, centering him in the chair.

The second time is worse. Tyler pours salt into the fresh cuts and grinds them into his flesh until it triggers the vision. Flashes of a woman’s life and a car crash that feels like it hits the boy himself. His chest heaves miserably when he comes back to his battered body. Even the hint of Victoria in his mind crashes the delicate web of synapses. Blackness.

Soft hands this time, rubbing circles with thumbs on his temples. He wakes in stages, slowly pulled from the inky darkness. His eyes close and he tries unsuccessfully to retreat into nothingness.

It’s a delicate balance for them. Do they push him every day and grab the most money they can? Or do they take care of their asset and ensure that he can function for another day? It doesn’t help that they never ask for his opinion, or how he’s doing. If they did, maybe they would slow down.

Or they wouldn’t.

He almost wishes his breathing doesn’t return to regular. Regular breathing seems to be their cue that he’s ready for the next round. Hands come from behind him again to set his shoulders back center. He’s not, he wants to scream that he’s not ready. He can’t do it. His eyes flutter open to see Tyler’s attention fully on him, so he meets Tyler’s cold brown eyes and begs. He knows he looks pitiful, sweat dripping from his brows, shaking and crying, dark circles permanently dug into his face. His eyes are all that he has, and he learned to use them years ago. They rarely do any good, but he tries every time.

“Oh, come on. One more then you get a break, m’kay?” Tyler chides as he thumbs some tears away. The boy nods, at least there was some sort of response this time. A loose promise of relief at some later time.

The hand in his hair guides his head back until his looking up at the ceiling. The special requests are the worst, rivaling even when they try to push his limits to fill more orders in one session. Tears run down his temples, and he can start to feel his nose grow stuffy from crying. Victoria hears the sniff and her head bobs into his vision.

“Hey, hey, hey, none of that. You want to breathe, don’t you?” She smiles a sickly white smile to him, her red hair pooling around her face as she looks down on him. The florescent lights highlight her hair and allude to a false halo. He doesn’t respond. “Actually, on second thought, go ahead. It’ll go faster.”

A hand with an eyedropper appears in his vision, and he shut his eyes tight. It stings, it burns, please don’t. Please. Please don’t. A tsk. Fingers dig into the soft skin around his eye and force it open. He whines, but the drops fall anyways. Quickly, the hands shift and put that acid in the other eye. He knows its not actually acid, but it feels like it. They all know it’s not good for his eyes, hence the higher fee for special requests. More money, more danger, but also more detailed information. Whatever the liquid is, it focuses the vision and makes it stronger. Clearer.

He can feel it working as the light in the room starts to hurt his head. He blinks quickly, desperate for some sort of relief, but that only works to spread the burn more evenly around his eye. Headphones slip on again, another photo inches from his face. His vision is blurry, shapes and colors roll with the greasy film on his eyes. Even the tears that slide down his face seem to burn tracks into his skin.

Another male voice, listing locations, times, and names. This photo is not a person, but a place. An empty warehouse. He tries to focus, but his body is begging to cave into exhaustion. The lids of his eyes drift down slowly, so slowly. They close for just a moment, just of moment of reprieve from the overwhelming senses that drill into his mind.

Fingers dig into his brows and pull his eyes open once again. The world is bleary and dizzy, shifting and slanting like a ship rocked by waves. The voice echoes in his head, destroying whatever shred of himself he had left. Any shred of the person that he was before he was their Little Seer.

He can feel the hard plastic and cold metal dig into and almost under his ribs. His mind is too far gone, to panicked and desperate to even respond to the threat. All he can do is shake and accept whatever will come. Whatever will be done to him. Pray that it will be quick.

The taser needs only flick alive for a moment, seizing all control of his lungs and surging pure electricity through his veins. His eyes bulge out before they relax and a haze like silver storms clouds overtake his blown-wide pupils.

Falling, grasping, tumbling, lost.

This time, he might as well be standing in the warehouse with the men. Their stoic expressions, their rumpled and wrinkled suit jackets, their stiff posture. It’s a meeting, an exchange of some sort. The man closest to his perspective, the shortest one with standard black wire glasses has a black brief case by his side.

It’s 3:56 pm, three days in the future, far too warm for the season. The short man shifts, restless and uncomfortable. As he moves, the white button down he’s wearing shifts and a small black wire blinks into view. It’s a sting. It’s a trap.

Black cars, a mat black Jeep Wrangler with custom trim and G-140 rims and two black Lincoln Navigators with tinted window pull into view of the open cargo doors. The farthest Navigator has a dark scratch covering half of the wheel well of the back, left tire. A man in a tailored black suit steps out from the passenger side. He has long blond hair tied up in a low knot at the nape of his neck. The short, wired man’s breathing hitches slightly, only visible when seen from a specter’s perspective.

They meet in neutral ground and exchange words. Too late, the other notices the pucker of his shirt collar and the shadow of a wire. Guns are drawn, shots are fired. Neither man makes it out alive, others are wounded, only the driver of the jeep escapes. Sirens blare in the distance, but the scene is starting to slip away.

When he slams back into his body, his eyes don’t even open before blackness envelops him.

#whump #super power whump #female whumper #mind invasion #seer #multiple whumpers #oc #iwrotethis #hilton #futuresight

114 notes · View notes