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citrinesparkles · 3 years

Text

welcome home.

jason todd x gender neutral reader. 2,086 words. notes: requested by an incredibly flattering anon as part of my hundred followers celebration! thank you again for the feedback, and for enabling me :) also was subconsciously influenced by this piece. warnings: arguing, discussion of danger, reader gets accidentally threatened, patching up wounds, lots more swearing than my usual (but it's all mild language). angst and comfort, i think. super dialogue heavy. this is so long and a little (lot) messy just. prepare yourself

"man," a robotic voice echoed dangerously through the dark living room, sending chills through you. "did you pick the wrong apartment."

luckily, the voice was familiar. "um, the one i live in?"

he choked out your name, startled, and you flicked on the light switch to find him frozen in place with a gun in his hand.

"right." you said tensely, glancing at it- which made him jerk his hand down, shoving the gun into its holster as though it burned him- and looking back up at the eyes of his helmet. "so, uh, i'll turn a light on next time."

"you shouldn't be home yet," he said stiffly.

"i texted you like, three hours ago to let you know i'd be home a day early."

he swore quietly. "my phone's in the river."

"how did it- you know what, at least that explains the radio silence. you didn't think to have someone else- anyone else- let me know?"

"uh." he paused, tensing almost imperceptibly for a moment. "no. i was, uh, i was busy. i'm sorry."

"busy, huh?" something felt very wrong, and not just the fact that he had nearly shot you. "okay, i'll bite, busy with what?"

"nothing important."

the sinking feeling in your stomach intensified and your eyes narrowed dangerously. "important enough that you forgot to tell me you weren't dead in an alley somewhere, when you knew i'd be texting to check in anyway. leaving me worrying in a hotel room in another city."

"nothing out of the ordinary, nothing to worry about." you were really getting sick of the sound of his modulator, but he continued before you could say anything. "go back to what you were doing, babe."

"yeah... uh, no." you stepped forwards and he flinched back defensively, making you freeze. "seriously, what is up with you tonight?"

"noth-"

"jason, i promise if you say nothing one more time, i'm going to lose my mind."

he shifted his foot back slightly, and you took a deep breath.

"okay," you conceded, raising your hands up in surrender and moving backwards yourself. "respecting your space now. that wasn't my best decis-"

your voice cut out when something under his jacket caught your eye.

something red.

"holy crap, jason, what the hell?"

he winced quietly. "you weren't supposed to be home yet, okay?"

"take that stupid helmet off already, would you?" you snapped, already moving to get the first aid kit.

"i would've gone somewhere else if i'd known, okay?" his voice, now clear and crisp without the filter, followed you down the hall.

"that does not make this better!"

"can you please not yell at me right now?"

you dashed back into the room, shooting a vicious glare at him. "jacket."

he slid it off gingerly, dropping it on the couch next to his helmet.

"can you get the armor, or do i need to help?"

even despite the domino mask he was wearing, you could tell he was rolling his eyes. "if i couldn't do it on my own, why would i have come here if i didn't think you'd be home?"

"hm," you took the piece he handed you and carefully set it on the couch, "maybe because you're a stubborn jackass?"

he grunted, sliding his undershirt off and passing it to you. "i don't wanna stain the couch with that."

"your priorities suck."

"it's the nicest piece of furniture we own!"

"it's still a couch!"

"it was expensive!"

"oh for crying out loud-" you threw your hands up again, this time in frustration. "fine! fine. i'll go put this in the tub and get a soak going. you-" you shoved the kit towards him pointedly- "start washing that off."

"how come you're calling the shots?" he snapped back petulantly.

"because my torso's in one piece."

"i have way more experience with this, i should be making the decisions here."

"oh, of course, my apologies!" your voice was absolutely dripping in sarcasm. "what, pray tell, would you have us do?"

he scowled at you for a moment before reaching for the first aid kit and flicking the lid open. "whatever."

you turned on your heel, stomping into the bathroom.

the shirt got thrown into the tub and the tap got tossed all the way on, and as the water crashed into the gray fabric, you took the opportunity to squeeze your eyes shut and breathe deeply.

you opened your eyes a minute later, finding the water dyed a rusty almost-red from blood.

his blood.

you turned off the tap- gently pushed the handle, this time, the fire in your chest now largely extinguished- and made your way back to the living room to find him running a rag over the space below his ribs.

"may i?" you asked softly, stopping a few feet away and holding a hand out to him.

his jaw clenched and relaxed three times in quick succession, but he finally sighed and dropped his shoulders before holding the rag out. "yeah, c'mere."

you worked in silence, being as gentle as possible. jerking your hand back and mumbling apologies when he hissed.

"s'okay, comes with the territory."

you pressed the alcohol-soaked towel back against him, and he sighed.

"that was stupid, huh."

a small laugh escaped you. "it so was."

"can we..."

"try that again?"

"yeah."

you pulled back, standing up straight to meet his eyes. "only if i can take the dumb mask off of you."

"i thought you liked the mask," he teased, a small smirk tugging at his lips.

"jason."

he chuckled, wincing again when it jostled his wounds. "ouch. uh, yeah, mask. g'head."

you gently pulled it from his face, setting it neatly on his other gear before running your thumbs across the line of adhesive it left on his cheekbones. "hi there."

"hey." he leaned into your touch, vibrant eyes fluttering halfway shut. "so uh, welcome home."

"thanks. could've done without the gun, though."

a choking sound tore from his throat, his eyes flying back open. "holy shit, baby, i almost-" he jerked back from you, no regard for his side. "you almost- shit, shit, are you- i'm so sorry, i didn't-"

"okay, woah, hey-"

"i could have killed you."

it was a whisper, horrified and harsh, and while it was technically true, his tone teetered on the edge of a dark space you had seen before and really didn't want him falling back into.

"yeah."

you desperately searched for the right thing to say, rejecting variations of "but hey, you didn't actually", "maybe you should be more careful about waving a gun at people", and one particularly unhelpful "no shit, sherlock".

finally, you settled on a quiet, calm "but i'm still right here, okay?"

his hand flew up to cover his mouth, doing absolutely nothing to hide the near panic written on his features. "i could have killed you."

"okay, so, in the future, we'll... we'll uh, we'll come up with some kind of system for letting you know when i'm home, or something."

"oh, like a phone?" he asked harshly. "the one i was stupid and sloppy enough to dunk in the harbor?"

"that wasn't- i'm guessing that you had a lot on your plate." you waved the cold, bloody towel in your hand at his wounds. it made him curl in on himself slightly, stepping backwards again until his back hit the arm of the couch.

"no excuses. i could have killed you."

"i-"

"no, i almost shot without saying anything!" he exclaimed, brow furrowed and eyes stormy. "i thought someone had broken in, and i got so- i don't even know, damn territorial or some stupid shit- that i almost put a bullet between your eyes. i could have-"

"jason!"

he screwed his eyes shut and dropped his head, roughly tugging his fingers through his hair. "i almost-"

"but you didn't. okay?" every fiber of your being wanted to hold him, to tug him into you and put his hand against your ribs and show him you were okay and breathing, heart still pumping, but he looked enough like a cornered animal that you half expected him to bite you if you tried. "c'mon, jaybird. a life like yours, can you really afford almosts?"

"life like mine, i can't afford to let anyone close to me. apparently, if the goons and thugs don't kill you, i will."

"that's not-"

"what if i hadn't said something?" he snapped venomously. "what if i'd lost more blood and was loopy from it? what if i'd come home with a concussion- again- and didn't think past 'point and shoot'?"

"jason," you finally interjected. "you think i haven't thought about that?"

his eyes, grim and vicious and so full of emotion that you thought you could drown in them, dropped to the floor.

"because it's not a secret that your life is risky. you're risky. i know that. but you're worth every ounce of danger, okay? i'm choosing this, choosing you, knowing full well what i'm getting into, because you're worth all of it."

"i'm not worth any of it."

"that's not your call to make."

"it-"

"you think i need you to make my choices for me?"

"no, of course not."

"you think im stuck here?"

"do you feel like you are?"

"absolutely not." you inched forward again. "i'm here because i want to be."

"...i just... i don't..."

"don't want me to get hurt?"

he finally looked back up at you, eyes watery and jaw tense. "or worse."

"i know, baby. i know," you sighed. "but that's part of life, right? and if the hurt's inevitable, i want the rest of my time to be as nice as possible, and you make my life better. make me better."

"by putting you in danger?"

"it's gotham, handsome, i'm gonna be in danger either way. at least with you, i know i have someone looking out for me. right?"

"always," he said immediately.

"okay then." you took the last step between the two of you slowly, watching for any resistance. meeting none, you brushed your knuckles against his. "i can't think of anywhere i'd feel safer."

"you know that's crazy, right?"

you hummed quietly. "nah."

"i'm being serious."

"me too."

he studied your face silently. you smiled softly at him.

finally, a sigh escaped him and he scooted his hand forward, wrapping his index finger around your own and squeezing gently. "you're sure you want this? i can set you up with a place downtown for a bit. you'd never have to see me again, never have to worry about... all of this."

"i've never been more sure of anything." you said it firmly, confidently, letting the words hang in the air for a few moments before popping one eyebrow up playfully. "why, need to make room for a side piece?"

a startled choking sound escaped him. "excuse me?"

"i mean, when you were talking about being busy, it felt kinda suspicious."

"what is wrong with you?" he asked, exasperation and laughter coating his voice.

"listen, you were being evasive!" his head fell forwards, resting on your shoulder as he laughed.

"i didn't want you to know i was bleeding all over the place!"

"why, didn't want me to worry?"

"exactly!"

you reached your free hand up, gently resting it on the back of his head and playing with his hair. "then maybe, just maybe, you should have gotten someone to tell me your phone went for a swim."

"fair enough."

you stood quietly for a long time, running your fingers through his hair and enjoying the feeling of his breath against your collar.

"i..." he muttered, pulling back to look in your eyes. "i don't think- um. i don't think i'm..." he groaned, gaze darting to the ceiling. "i love you. but the minute you have enough of- of all of this-"

"i won't."

"but if you do, i'll... i'll understand, okay?"

you squeezed his finger gently. "okay." you inhaled deeply, dropping the bloody towel you were still clutching and slid your hand forward to hold his completely. "can we get a bandage on that and go to bed, now?"

"....yes please."

---

"wait!" you yelled, throwing the first aid kit haphazardly onto the bathroom counter and racing after him into the bedroom, where he whirled around with wide eyes. "i love you too! i never said it back- i love you too."

"don't yell like that- i thought something was wrong!"

"me not saying it back is urgently wrong, jason!"

#citrine writes #this was. this was a monster #i sure hope you enjoy because i'm unsure how quality it is #jason todd #jason todd x y/n #jason todd x you #jason todd imagine #jason todd x reader #imagines #dc #dc imagines #dc imagine #blood cw #medical cw

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p-artsypants · 3 years

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A Gift from Mr. Blanc

Marinette's worst nightmares were of Chat Blanc. But that's all they were: nightmares. Until one day where in the stone cold light of day, Chat Blanc walked into the classroom, with a gift in hand. "This will make you love me again, My Lady."

Ao3 | FF.net

Everyone is on this Chat Blanc train, so I bought a ticket and got a window seat.

“Yes, Timestreamer, find me the best Akuma ever created!” Shadowmoth raised a manic fist as the images appeared before him.

The woman who was once Nathalie Sancoeur stood next to him, now transformed into an Akuma with thick glasses, which almost looked like VR goggles.

In a fit of artist’s block, Gabriel Agreste had vented that he had run out of ideas for Akuma. He had to keep going, and the villains couldn’t slack less Ladybug and Chat Noir get the upper hand.

To which Nathalie had said, “well, you don’t need to reinvent the wheel.”

She had meant it to be cheeky, but he took inspiration from it in a whole new way. Why invent a new villain when one from a different time is sure to work? Timetagger, an Akuma from the future, had seemed to almost win. Perhaps there were more like him out there.

He only needed someone to see the timelines so he could pick his champion.

So here they were, scanning through endless time streams, looking at massive successes, and massive failures. There really was no telling which one would do the job, but unless Timestreamer’s Akuma was taken or, heaven forbid, the Butterfly was taken, they could send villain after villain after villain.

Yes, this was a good plan!

“That one!” Shadowmoth pointed, the stark white catching his gaze.

“That one?” Timestreamer asked, feeling unease looking into his soulless blue eyes.

“That has to be Chat Noir’s akumatized form. He’s perfect.”

Following orders, Timestreamer summoned the Akuma forward.

From the static images appeared a grainy figure, slowly solidifying into a solid white boy. His expression was one of confusion and disorientation.

“Chat Blanc, I am Shadowmoth,” he began.

Immediately, Chat Blanc snarled. “You! You monster!” And he leapt.

Suffice to say, neither Timestreamer or Shadowmoth were prepared for a full on fight this early in the conversation.

Shadowmoth did have training in fighting, and successfully blocked the incoming swipe at his throat with his arm. However, the claws cut right through his suit and into his flesh, making him cry out in pain.

The next swipe hit true, and knocked the butterfly Miraculous from its place on his collar.

Chat Blanc then plucked the Peacock from his lapel while Gabriel Agreste tried to put pressure on his grievous wounds.

“Why?” Asked Gabriel, “don’t you know I made you? Don’t you know I can give you everything you want?”

Chat Blanc didn’t respond, only snapped the goggles off of a shell shocked Timestreamer. He then touched the black butterfly with his claw, and it crumbled into dust.

Nathalie ran to Gabriel and looked at his wounds. “You need to go to a hospital.”

“No!” He protested, pushing her away. “Answer me, boy! You’re easily the most powerful Akuma ever made. Once you get the Miraculous of Ladybug and this timeline’s Chat Noir, we can make the ultimate wish! Whatever your heart’s desire, it’s yours!” He reached a hand out to the boy.

Chat Blanc, who Gabriel knew as the exuberant and emotional Chat Noir, just looked at him with a sharp, emotionless stare.

“You already took everything from me, Father. This is my one chance to get things back to where they are supposed to be.”

“Adrien?”

The gaze didn’t change, but he did raise an eyebrow. “In my timeline you knew. You knew, and you still hurt me. You hurt her. You turned me, and you forced me to kill. You left me alone in that world for months. Left me to mourn. Cursed me to this form—“ he snarled. “That can’t starve, that can’t sleep, that can’t thirst or drown—“ a tear fell down his cheek. “You left me in a prison where I couldn’t die, and would continue to suffer because of your mistakes.” He gave a hint of a bitter smile. “Does that answer your question, old man?”

Maybe it was just the blood loss, but Gabriel felt some remorse. “I’m sorry, son. Give me back the Butterfly, and I’ll set you free.”

“Not a chance. Ladybug will fix me. And when I give her these, she’ll love me again. And I’ll have all the family I ever need.” With that, he summoned his baton to break through the window, and launched out into Paris.

Gabriel laid still on the ground, holding his chest with one hand while Nathalie gripped his wrist with the other.

“I…what am I going to do?”

“Well, you know Adrien has the ring—“

“No doubt Chat Blanc will tell him everything before we can get to him. I don’t think that’s an option anymore.”

“Then…what would you like to do?”

He spent a long time just breathing and thinking.

Choosing.

“I guess, apologize. And then hope that I haven’t done enough damage to lose the only family I have left.”

“Maybe, if he is Chat Noir, and you explain the truth to him…he’ll tell Ladybug. Maybe she’d help.”

“I doubt she’d do anything to help me, after all I’ve done.” He leaned back and stared at the ceiling. “I could just bleed out here. Save him the pain.”

“I won’t let you do that, Sir. As upset Adrien will be, he still loves you.”

“But for how long?”

“I think you should live and find out.”

—

Chat Blanc had never been so happy. He should be upset, angry, sobbing even, but he wasn’t.

He was getting his second chance. Paris was full, alive, teeming with traffic and swearing and smoking and everything foul that wasn’t there in his wastelands.

Hawkmoth was gone, and he was on his way to Marinette. With these, she had to love him, she just had to.

Francois DuPont never looked so pretty. The windows showed bored expressions of dozens of students.

Students that were alive and not submerged under water.

He dropped down in the courtyard, letting muscle memory take him up the stairs to his old classroom. The door was closed, but not locked.

Did he knock? Or did he just walk in? It had been so long…did he introduce himself? Did he apologize for interrupting?

He decided to forgo knocking, and pushed the door open on his own.

All eyes turned to look at him, but his attention was only on her.

Though he did get a glimpse of his own horrified face.

“Chat Noir?” The teacher asked.

“No.” He shook his head. “Not anymore.” He never stopped looking right at Marinette.

“I must be dreaming,” the girl in question said aloud. “I must have fallen asleep, and now I’m having a nightmare.” Tears were filling her eyes as her voice crumbled. “Please tell me you’re a nightmare, Chat.”

“No, My Lady. I’m real.” Did she know him from somewhere? Or was she just assuming he was an akumatized Chat Noir? “But this shouldn’t be a nightmare, Marinette.” His steps were slow and soft, trying not to spook her. “I’m your dream come true. Because it’s over now, and we can be together.”

She stood abruptly, smacking her knees on the desk and almost tumbling. “What are you talking about?”

He placed the Miraculous on the desk. “It’s over now. I won. Hawkmoth is no more, and there’s nothing that can hurt us. This will make you love me again!”

“Holy shit…” Said Alya.

Marinette just stared at them, and then at Chat. “How—?”

“He brought me here. Somehow, an Akuma I guess. He plucked me out of my time, and brought me here. This is my chance to start again, you know.” He grabbed her wrist. “Now our love won’t ruin the world! We can be happy again, My Lady! We can be happy and nothing will tear us apart!”

Adrien, who had up until very recently, by reveal of a certain nickname, thought that Marinette was only just Marinette, grabbed Chat Blanc and yanked him back, forcing him to let go of Marinette.

“Don’t touch her!” He snapped.

“And you—“ Chat Blanc grabbed him by the throat and lifted him into the air. “A little liar with too much self preservation! Why didn’t you act sooner?! Why couldn’t you save her?!”

Adrien clawed at the hand on his throat. “I don’t—know what the hell—you’re talking about!”

“Don’t play stupid, Adrien! It’s not going to work on me, and you know that!”

His voice was just a whisper now, as he attempted to meet Chat Blanc’s gaze. “Whatever, man. But you think outing her is smart? You think that’ll make her like you?”

Chat Blanc crushed harder, suffocating him. “It doesn’t matter with Hawkmoth out of the way! And once I kill you, there will be no competition! She’ll love me for sure!”

Marinette had stashed the Miraculous in her purse once Chat Blanc had turned his back. She was going to attempt to talk him down, but at his threat on Adrien’s life, she realized he was beyond talking.

“Tikki, Spots on!”

Chat Blanc whirled back around, only to get a fist to the face.

Adrien fell on the floor, gasping.

“Are you alright?” She asked, helping him up.

He rubbed his neck sheepishly as he nodded. He knew she was Marinette, but the mask still turned his legs to jelly.

“Why do you protect him, Ladybug? Don’t you know you can just be happy with me?”

Marinette pushed Adrien behind her. “I might be able to be happy with my Chat Noir, but never with you. I love Adrien, and I’ll fight to protect him, even if he doesn’t love me back.” Though it was a brave declaration, she still blushed.

“Ugh, don’t you get it? I am him!”

“What?”

“I’m Adrien! Adrien is Chat Noir! We’re supposed to be together! And we were! We were happy, Marinette! And then—and then you told me you didn’t love me anymore. You almost got akumatized over that…but I saved you.” He snarled. “But he kept us apart. My father knew who I was, and he turned me into this…”

“Wait,” Adrien rasped. “Father turned you into…an akuma?”

“Because he’s Hawkmoth, Adrien. He always has been. Mother is alive, in a coma, in the basement. And he never let you see her, because he doesn’t trust you.”

“Shut up!” Ladybug shouted.

“Even after he knew who I was, he still hit me. He beat me, Adrien, because he doesn’t love us!”

Adrien held a hand over his face, willing his sobs to stay silent.

“We’re just a pawn for him. But…I can make it better. Let me destroy you, and everything will stop hurting. I’ll take care of Marinette, I promise!”

“That’s enough!” Ladybug lashed out and snagged his bell, ripped it from his throat, and smashed it on the floor.

Then she caught the butterfly as it emerged, purified it, and let it go. But she didn’t call for a cure, not yet.

Chat Noir, sans bell, glanced around the room in confusion. “Ladybug? What’s going on? Why are we here? Where’s Hawkmoth?”

She met him with tear streaked cheeks. “You’re in the wrong timeline, Chat Noir.”

His eyes flicked to Adrien, who was clearly shell shocked. “That would make…some sense.”

“You were akumatized, and our Hawkmoth brought you here…probably to recruit you.”

“Did I hurt anyone?”

“You beat him. You beat Hawkmoth.”

“And you tried to take my place,” Adrien hissed, showing his bruised throat.

Chat Noir gripped his hair fiercely. “Oh crap! Oh crap crap crap! I’m so sorry! He’ll be all better once you do the cure, right Bug?”

“Yeah. Physically, at least…but you did say some things that will hurt for a long time.”

“I didn’t mean any of it! I was an Akuma, they lie and say all sorts of things—“

“You told me about Father. And mother.”

“Oh…” he sighed. “Unfortunately, that’s too fresh in my mind to be a lie. I saw mom. He wanted to use the Miraculous to bring her back, but he was so unwilling to listen to me, to even think about working with us—that’s how it happened. He got me.”

“I’m so sorry, Kitty.” Ladybug lamented. “I’m sorry you had to go through that.”

He shook his head. “It’s over now. If I defeated him, then you don’t have to be subjected to it,” he told Adrien. “I don’t mind taking one for the team.”

“Did you kill him?” Adrien asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Even if he did, casting cure would fix it.” Said Ladybug. “There might be hope for a happy ending.”

Chat Noir took her hand and kissed her knuckles. “My Lady, will you send me back? I have to see her again. My Marinette. I have to see her and make up with her.”

Ladybug patted his cheek fondly. “Knowing me, she probably still loves you. But something happened to make her put distance between you.”

“You’ll be happy together, right?” He asked, pouting.

Adrien slipped an arm around her waist and held her. “I think we’ll manage.”

Ladybug hugged Chat briefly. “Thank you. For all your trauma and suffering, you helped us.”

“You also revealed both of our identities to the class, but that’s the kind of mistake I would make as an Akuma…” Adrien winced.

Chat Noir looked at all the shocked and concerned faces around him. “Wow, look at all these comforting, understanding, and loyal friends you have. Where’s Lila?”

“Out sick today,” provided Sabrina.

“Perfect! Don’t ever ever tell her what happened here. She’s a liar and would tell our identities in a heartbeat for a chance for fame.”

“Not a problem, Kitty Cat,” said Alya, with a wink. “Some of us are pretty good secret keepers.”

“You knew!?” Adrien cried, with betrayal in his voice.

Alya winced. “Ah, yeah…”

“Adrien.” Ladybug took his face and held it with trembling hands. “My kitty, my partner, my best friend, what I’m about to tell you is going to suck and you’re going to hate it, and that’s why I haven’t told you.”

“I’ve already had a lot of bad news dropped on me today, lay it on me.”

She glanced at the rest of the class and then Chat Noir. “Let me send him home, and then we’ll talk in privacy.”

He nodded, not really fond of how much the class had already learned about him today.

Ladybug threw her yo-yo up in the air. “Miraculous Ladybug!”

In a wave of fluttering red, Chat Noir was gone, and so were the bruises on Adrien’s neck.

“Spots off.”

Now, the class started whispering. Up until that moment, shock held them in silence. After all, it's not everyday you find out your classmates are superheroes.

“Miss Bustier, are you okay if we leave for a while?”

The teacher stammered a second, unfreezing from her complete and total shock. “I think it would be a crime to make you stay here today.”

Marinette smiled gratefully, before taking Adrien’s hand and leading him out into the hall. He was silent, rightfully so, and Marinette could only be happy there was no chance of him getting akumatized.

Finally, they took a seat on a bench, and waited for the other to speak.

“I…didn’t think this was how our identities would be revealed,” he breathed.

“I always wanted to tell you.” Marinette insisted, “even though I said otherwise. Tikki and Master Fu were so adamant that I not tell a soul.”

“So why does Alya know?”

She rested a hand on his. “I’ll get to that. But first…Chat Blanc.”

Adrien sat attentive and quiet, holding his accusations for later.

“It started about three months ago, when I gave you that Beret.”

“Beret? The one from the Brazilian fan club?”

“Yeah…except it wasn’t. It was from me. Originally, I left it in your room, with my name on it. My real name. A little while after I left, Bunnix came to me, and explained that she needed my help. She took me into her burrow, and led me to the future…the future where you were akumatized.”

“As Chat Blanc.”

“Yes.”

“That same akuma, that same Chat Noir?”

“I assume so. The moon was destroyed, the city flooded. You were all alone, everyone was gone.”

“Where…where was that Ladybug?”

She hesitated to say it, but admitted, “I found her underwater…cataclysmed.”

“No…I wouldn’t have—“

“I know, Adrien. Chat Blanc was upset about it too. He cried. He wanted my Miraculous to make the wish and fix it.”

“Sounds like an Akuma alright,” he said bitterly.

“At the time, all I knew was that you knew my identity, and you said that our love destroyed the world. So…I assumed that you became akumatized by finding out who I was…and that the beret had something to do with it. So I erased my name.”

“Oh…but Chat Blanc said he was akumatized because of my parents.”

“I didn’t know that back then. I wish I had. As it stood, I was certain an identity reveal would end up with an Akuma.”

“I understand your reasoning…but what about Alya?”

She sighed, the guilt toiling around inside her. “That wasn’t…it was a spur of the moment thing. I was back into a corner and people were getting really worried about me. Worried and nosey…and so I told Alya. Rena Rouge.”

“Ah. I see.”

“I should have told you. I should have told you so you could have told someone. It’s not fair to think I was the only one that needed a confident.”

“If I had to pick someone that wasn’t you, it would have been Nino. So I get it. Really, I do.”

Tears welled up in her eyes regardless. He was hurting so badly, but what could she even do to help?

“I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize.”

“Yes! Yes I do! Adrien, you’re my partner. Yes, keeping secrets can keep us safe for a while, but eventually we’ll run out of trust and then we’ll be in danger again. I don’t want to lose you!”

He gave her a little smile. “I might be upset, but you aren’t going to lose me. I promise.”

She squeezed his hand. “No more secrets. We train as guardians together. I’ll tell you all the auxiliary heroes, and all the formulas and—“ she stopped, blushing.

“What?”

“Ugh…I have to tell you something, since I said no more secrets.”

“Is it bad?”

“…no?”

He turned his hand to squeeze her back. “Okay. Well then, let’s hear it.”

She looked away, too nervous to look at his face. “Gah! This is just as hard as it’s always been!”

“I’m not going to judge you.”

“I know! I know!”

Pretend this is just Chat. She goaded herself.

“I…I’m in…love with you?” She squeaked out. There. The deed was done. She shyly turned to look at him.

Wide, sparkling eyes full of tears, but a big smile on his face. “You mean it? You said as much to Chat Blanc, but I didn’t know for sure…”

“Ugh, right. That.” She nodded. “You were the boy I kept turning…well, you down for. I’m sorry…”

“I’m not!” He chirped. “Marinette, if anyone was going to have a crush on me as Adrien, I’m so glad it’s you. You really know me! You’re special to me, and I always considered you as a friend.”

She sighed, hearing the magic words. “As I’ve heard.”

He frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She blushed again. “It’s just…whenever we had a moment, or I tried to do something special for you, you always remind me that you feel…nothing for me.”

“Wait, what? That’s what you got out of that?”

“That you want me as a friend and just a friend?”

He actually laughed at her and pulled her into a hug. “Marinette, I thought you were nervous around me because you were uncomfortable. I said that stuff to let you know I treasured our friendship. I love you so so much, My Lady. I was deeply in love with Ladybug, and completely in denial with Marinette.”

“Can confirm!” Shouted Plagg from inside his jacket.

“So having you be the same? I’m…I’m so happy!” He hugged her tightly. “Today has thrown a lot of bad things at me, and I’m so worried about what comes next. But with you, I’m sure I’ll be okay.” He pulled away slightly. “You…will stay with me for whatever happens, right? I know Hawkmoth being my dad is kind of a deal breaker…”

Marinette wrapped her arms around his neck and leaned up into him, kissing him right on the mouth.

He stiffened briefly, before melting against her and pulling her tighter into the hug.

The kiss was perfect, not in execution or performance, but because of the love they felt. Adrien nipped at her lip, and Marinette hummed as she twined her fingers into his hair.

They pulled away begrudgingly.

“You and me against the world, right Kitty?”

“You know exactly what to say to make my heart swoon, my lady love.”

“I’m sorry I hurt you.”

“Kiss me and I’ll get over it.”

“I’m serious, Kitty.” She touched his cheek. “I knew it was going to hurt, and I foolishly and cowardly put it off, hoping it would go away.”

“Marinette, from what you said…it wasn’t just painful for me. It scared you, didn’t it? You said…when Chat Blanc appeared, that you thought you were having a nightmare. Do you dream of him?”

“Sometimes.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“It’s not your fault, Adrien.”

He considered his next move, and decided to scoop her up into his lap. “So, here’s my idea. If you have another nightmare about him, you call me, and I’ll be there in a jiffy.”

“And do what?”

“Hold you. Kiss you. Reassure you. Cuddle with you until you fall asleep. Whatever you need.”

She snuggled closer to him, resting her head on his shoulder. “I love you.”

“I love you too, bugaboo.”

Silence lapsed between for a while, as they just sat together, enjoying the warmth of their bodies, and the open air between them.

Marinette sighed. “We should probably go confront your father.”

“Yeah. We should…”

“Could…I offer you a reward if we go through with it?”

“What could possibly motivate me?”

“Once we’re done, and everything is put away…we can find a random, secluded rooftop and…make out for a while.”

Adrien stood, with Marinette still in his arms. “You know how to motivate a man.”

“I’ll be with you every step of the way. Just think about later.”

“One peck for the road?”

“One.”

Adrien held her tightly before dipping her and pressing a sinful, toe-curling kiss to her lips. When he finished a few minutes later, she breathlessly huffed, “that was not a peck.”

“No, but I need the strength.”

“Somehow, it’s a lot harder to stay mad at you. You can put me down now.”

“Nah. Plagg, Claws out!”

“Tikki, Spots on!”

The closer they got to the mansion, the faster Chat’s mood tanked. All the surface level happy feelings had bubbled away, and now he was filled with dread and apprehension.

“I…I don’t want to send my dad to jail,” he said, as they landed inside the walls.

“I know Kitty. I can do the talking.”

“You’re so good at it, Princess.”

She knocked twice, but didn’t wait for an answer before entering.

It didn’t matter. Gabriel and Nathalie were sitting in the lobby, waiting, as it appeared.

“Hello son,” said Gabriel, with not a trace of malice in his voice.

Chat halted, paling considerably. “You know?”

“Chat Blanc revealed as much. What did he tell you?”

“He said that…mom was still alive. You wanted the Miraculous to wake her up.”

“That’s right. But…” he sighed. “Can I humble myself and ask for your help, Ladybug? Can you look at her? Can you see if there’s any hope?”

“I would love to.”

#miraculous #ml #miraculous ladybug #fanfiction #marinette dupain cheng #adrienette #adrien agreste #chat blanc #ladynoir #identity reveal

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dizzydancingdreamer · 3 years

Text

Ignorant | Steve Rogers

Wow I was really going through it with this one, huh? I think I listened to Bring Me To Life by Evanescence for the entire two hours it took to write this. I never write this fast-- I'm really going through it LOL! I hope you enjoy lovelies! It's the first Steve fic for Dinner at DIzzy's!

Appetizers (Tags): Angst

Entres (Pairing): Nomad!Steve Rogers x F!Reader (Third Person)

Sides (Prompts): 3: “Apparently I’m volatile, self-obsessed, and don’t play well with others.”

Notes: This has a ton of swearing, Requested by Anon

Word Count: 1.8k

Dinner at Dizzy’s Master List

“Just because you’re the leader here doesn’t mean you have the right to be an asshole, Steve!” Y/n hisses at the man, fists balled at her side.

She’s not going to swing. She would never swing on him— at least she doesn’t think she would— but right now she’s so damn close. All day he’s been pushing her around, yelling at her for the slightest trip ups. Yelling at all of them. She understands that being fugitives isn’t easy but holy shit can the man chill out for five minutes? She fell asleep in the backseat of the car for five fucking minutes! Certainly that doesn’t warrant the hour tongue lashing she just got. It does, however, warrant her retaliation.

He takes a step towards her, face twisted in a snarl unlike anything she’s ever seen before. “Watch your language!”

She doesn’t back down— she’s not scared of him. “Don’t fucking yell at me then! Stop being a dick!”

She doesn’t feel bad for the insult or the way he flinches, his eyes darkening immensely. She had tried to politely ask him for space thirty minutes ago and he didn’t give her any. If he gets to blow off steam or whatever the fuck he’s doing than so will she.

“I’ll stop being a dick when you get some common sense!”

Steve’s raising his own voice now, getting right in her face, and she only pushes forward, her cheeks filling with heat and her stomach clenching painfully. The audacity of this man is incredible. His usual light eyes are a deep navy color now, almost black from his blown pupils. He looks crazy— she doesn’t doubt that she does as well. She would bet money that she looks insane.

“I fell asleep for five fucking minutes and Sam was right fucking next to me! What the fuck is your problem?” She’s doing it on purpose now— if he doesn’t want her to swear then that’s all she’s going to do.

Maybe it’s the triple F-bomb that has the sound of feet pounding against concrete echoing through their shoddy apartment. Maybe it’s just the yelling in general. Either way it’s a good thing that Natsaha and Sam come sprinting in from the other room of the two room complex because if they hadn’t then she’s sure her fist would be cracking against the jaw of Captain Douchebag right now.

“Woah, woah, woah— what the hell’s going on in here?” Sam is quick to get in the middle of them, pushing the super soldier to one end of the room while Nat yanks on y/n’s hoodie. “We could hear you idiots from the stairwell.”

Y/n struggles against Nat for a moment, vision tinted red at the edges. From across the room Steve glares at her, seething. She can practically feel the hatred pouring off of him. It stings at her chest, biting into her veins. He would have kept yelling at her if they hadn’t stopped him, she just knows it. She wishes he would so she could scream back— her stomach and muscles are still tight and she’s aching to lay into him some more. She barely even started and now she feels like she’s about to bubble over.

“Seriously—” Nat tugs again and y/n stops fighting, opting instead to glower at the blonde from across the room— “What’s gotten into you two? You’re supposed to be the responsible ones!”

Steve tears his arm from Sam’s hold but doesn’t clear the space between them. “Why don’t you ask y/n—” he tilts his head, sneering again— “What was it you said ten minutes ago? Oh yeah— apparently I’m volatile, self-obsessed, and don’t play well with others.”

Why that little fucking— “Don’t put fucking words in my mouth!”

She storms past Natasha, dodging her arm as it flies out— you’re not the only trained markswoman here Nat. Steve does the same, bowling past Sam easily to meet her in the middle of the room.

“Why not? It’s what you meant right?” He’s in her face again, breath hot on her face, and she only retaliates by fuming right back.

She feels like a dragon facing down her enemy— she’s ready to burn the entire building down if it means lowering him a peg or five.

“Actually it wasn’t but now it is you narcissistic dick.”

She can feel Natasha start to pull on her hoodie again but she’s not done— not now. Not when she’s just gotten started.

“You just can’t handle hearing the truth y/n— you can’t handle it when I tell you what you did was wrong. That you could have gotten us fucking killed with your ignorance—”

Her veins flood with fire, her lips curling into a painful scowl. In that moment everything turns slow, her heartbeat a dull thump, thump, thump in her ears, drowning out the rest of his sentence. The only thing that gives away that he’s still speaking is his mouth moving, his teeth bared and ready to be knocked out.

Oh so she’s ignorant now is she? Yeah well fuck you Rogers!

This time the only thing that stops her fist from slamming into Steve’s jaw is Sam catching it mid air, her knuckles slapping off his palm and bringing the sounds in the room rushing back to her at full force. She stumbles back with the impact but the soldier catches her, steadying her on her feet with a worried look in his soft brown eyes. It feels like she’s been underwater for days, her ears popping painfully as she gasps for breath.

“—s enough Steve!” When y/n blinks Nat is shoving her palm against the super soldier’s chest. “You need to back the hell off!”

She doesn’t realize until her eyelashes stick to her cheeks that they’re wet. That she’s crying. The sobs catch up to her when it registers, wracking through her with a force strong enough to have her whole body shaking. Sam is the first to notice, reaching out for her but she backs away, shaking her head. The room falls silent, three pairs of eyes now trained on her but she’s only looking at one pair of wide blue ones. Steve’s chest is heaving up and down, a cross between a feral and a confused look slathered across his features.

The look ignites the last of the dying spark inside her, her hand landing against her chest, wrapping around the dog tags hanging off her neck and yanking until she hears a snap. She waits for the chain to pool in her hands before she whips the metal across the room, hitting him square in the chest with a roar that’s more animal than human tearing from her throat— you wanted flames and now you’re going to get them.

“I’m ignorant? Me? Did you ever stop to ask yourself why the fuck I fell asleep today?” She slips her hands into her hair, tugging so hard on the roots that her scalp feels like it’s burning. “How about because last night you came back from scouting three hours late and looking like you got mauled by a fucking bear? And I asked you what happened and you wouldn't tell me a goddamn thing! You— Mister fucking super serum whatever the fuck! You just went to bed and I spent the rest of the night listening to you gasp for air! Not knowing if the shit was even working or if I was going to wake up to you gone! I—”

Her voice cracks and she curses, scraping her wrist across her face to wipe away some of the hot tears pooling down her cheeks. They feel like trails of lava melting her skin as they rush over her jaw and drip onto the floor. Steve’s face has morphed completely during the span of her rant, his mouth falling open, lips no longer busted open like they had been last night but still horrifying to look at right now. She knows he wants to say something— maybe he even wants to apologize— but there’s no fucking way she’s letting him. She’s not finished yet.

“I spent all night wondering if I was going to lose you! That I would wake up and have nothing! You’re my everything and I thought you were going to die and you wouldn’t tell me anything. So yeah, I guess I’m ignorant! Fuck you too.”

Her throat is raw by the time she’s done spitting the words at him, her head fuzzy from a lack of oxygen and her waning rage. It’s giving way too quickly to sadness— to the agonizing kind of heartbreak that has all her organs seemingly shutting down. Her face is sticky and itchy and she needs to get away from him right now.

She turns to meet the stunned faces of Sam and Nat, swallowing hard and wincing at the way her esophagus stings. She’s not going to have a voice at all tomorrow— or for the next week at this rate. Sam’s eyes look like they’re going to pop out of his head from how wide they are, his mouth open but— like Steve— no words are coming out. She flicks her eyes to Nat who, thankfully, springs into action, nodding her head to the door, the question clear in her eyes— want to get the fuck out of here? Y/n doesn’t answer, she just starts walking.

It’s in that moment that Steve snaps out of his stupor, racing to catch her at the door, warm hand curling gently around her wrist. She doesn’t even give herself a second to enjoy it— to fall into his touch and forget the agony in her chest— before she’s ripping her arm away from him, cradling it against her chest and backing away from him.

“Baby I—” His face is tight, his light brows creasing the middle of his forehead.

She can see it— the regret. It carves across his face, tugging his lips into a frown and making his eyes glass over. Her chest squeezes at the sight, her own eyes coating with a fresh sheen of tears. She wants to wrap her arms around him— to tell him that she forgives him and that she loves him and that she’s scared— but he did this not her and before she knows it she’s taking another step back, shoulder bumping into Nat’s as she shakes her head.

“I’m sleeping with Nat tonight. I’ll talk to you in the morning. Night, Steve.”

Steve’s face falls, the first of his tears pooling down his now angelic face, and as she hesitates. Maybe she should— she feels a tug on her hand, glancing down to where Natasha’s slender fingers wrap around her forearm. She doesn’t have the strength to fight her comrade as she pulls her past the door frame.

As the super soldier falls from her line of sight all she can hear is Sam’s exhausted voice—

“Let her go, man.”

—and she breaks.

#Steve Rogers #Captain America #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x y/n #captain america x reader #captain america x y/n #nomad!steve #nomad!steve angst #steve rogers angst #captain america angst #nomad!steve x reader #nomad!steve x y/n #steve rogers fic #steve rogers imagine #captain america fic #captain america imagine #mcu fic #mcu #marvel cinematic universe

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theroundbartable · 3 years

Text

Dragon Island

“Absolutely not.” Sometimes, Arthur Pendragon was not only a prat, he was a downright Clotpole. Not that Merlin ever failed to mention it.

“Arthur, I am going with you!”

“And what exactly can YOU do against dragons, Merlin? This is THE dragon Island! My father has been searching for this place for over a decade! There are rumors that there will be dragon lord's there as well! Do you even know how many knights have died since the purge started? Since my father fought these monsters and erased them from this part of the world? If we find this Island, we can end this war! But this is too dangerous for a servant. I can not waste my time consoling you, when the sea is making you sick, Merlin. I have battle strategies to discuss.”

Merlin huffed and crossed his arms. They were standing at the shore, far far away from Camelot. Uther Pendragon had a ship army remaining here in position. He regularly send out spies to find the home island of the dragon lords. Not that there were any actual dragon lords with dragon lord powers left. They were wiped out in the war. But their families remained. Those who valued their traditions and taught each other magic. But weren't the first son's and therefore had none of the abilities their kind was so proud of. But magic was another reason to have them wiped out.

About a week ago, one of Uther's spies had found a trace that lead them to an underwater cave. Barely shallow enough to have a narrow boat sail through. They had found runes engraved in the walls. And the spy was pretty ecstatic that this MUST be the entrance to the secret island.

Well... Since Arthur was the only knight known to have actually killed a dragon (which he didn't), his father found it absolutely logical to send his only son and heir on another suicide mission. Into unknown terrain, with unknown enemies and not one dragon, but a whole army of those impossible-to-kill-except-you're-a-dragon-lord creatures.

It was truly perfect. Arthur could finally proof his worth as crown prince.... again. And almost die.... again. Heroically of course. Uther was a genius.

And apparently Arthur was just as smart, because the idiot prince had decided to go on that mission WITHOUT Merlin. The only ACTUAL dragon lord left in the entire known universe. Not that they knew about that.

“Just so you know – I do NOT get sea sick. And I already know how to use the sails and stuff. Will and I often went out with the fisher of our town. Other than you who grew up in a fancy Castle with perfect temperature in every single room and hundreds of servants working for you. You may train, but you have NO idea how to deal with the weather, with the tides. You barely know how to dress yourself!”, as Merlin exclaimed the last part, he could basically feel the steam of anger from Arthur's nostrils flaring at him, while a few knights were snickering behind them.

The knights were, by the way, currently occupied readying the boat.

“Fishing on a boat and Sailing on the open sea is totally different.”, Arthur argued, causing Merlin to roll his eyes and facepalm himself. “Fisher's... sail, Sire.”, he muttered, causing Arthur to frown as if that confused him for some reason.

“I don't care. You cannot stop me. I'll come with you.”, Merlin's expression was final.

“I'm the crown prince of Camelot, Merlin. You have to do what I say.”

“I never listen to what you say. Why would I start now?”

In the end, Gwaine and Leon were ordered to drag Merlin away from the boat. All while Arthur ignored the very obvious argument (provided by Merlin and confirmed by at least two other knights), that he NEEDED Merlin. If as a servant or a navigator or maybe a warning radar for obvious danger that Arthur was certain to ignore. He NEEDED him. So, Merlin would definitely find a way.

“Hey, buddy. I gottcha.”, Gwaine winked at him, while Merlin was still trying to make up a perfect strategy, how he could sneak on the ship. Merlin blinked up at him, while Leon just rolled his eyes and pretended not to listen. “What?”, Merlin asked, confused.

“I got a few barrels of water and wine and stuff for the ride. Leon and I have already prepared an empty one for you. You get in and we'll sneak you on.” Merlin had never wanted to hug Gwaine more. “Thank you!!!!”, he beamed at them. “Wait, Leon? You're IN on the plan? You're not going to rat me out to Arthur, are you?”

Gwaine cackled. “It was HIS idea.”

“Huh?”, Merlin looked at the blond knight in confusion.

Leon was still looking away, as if embarrassed by his treason. “If you're not there, Arthur will focus all his attention on US. And I did not sign up for this.”, he was frowning. As if he was already dreading the following days.

“But... how long have I to stay in the barrel? I mean... If I step out too soon, Arthur will insist to turn around.”

“I can survive five days of Arthur being a whirlwind of emotions. You have FIVE days. Gwaine will sneak you out at night. Lancelot has agreed to help. I can distract Arthur, until you're in. Other than that, I was never involved.”, Leon was grimacing the entire time. He seemed exhausted, as if he had already had five different yet similar arguments today and wanted to throttle someone.

“Wow, thank you Leon.”, Merlin looked at him amazed. But Leon's frown only darkened. “Don't thank him.”, Gwaine whispered. “He originally asked, if we could dress you up like him, so he can stay in Camelot and have a vacation until we're back. You may not get sea sick. But HE does.”

“Why.... And he's still allowed on the ship? Wait, why don't we try that? Doesn't sound like a too bad plan. If Leon's sea sick anyway, people would leave him alone to suffer in silence, right?”

Leon sighed with exasperation. “As if that ever stopped Arthur from discussing battle strategies.”, he made a dramatic pause. “If I don't make it -”, Leon made a sound that reminded Merlin of a creaking door. “It was nice knowing you.”

“Don't be so dramatic, Leon.”, Gwaine rolled his eyes. “Honestly, what's with you? Since Uther announced this mission, you've been nothing but a drama queen.”, he scolded. Leon pouted a little. “I'm being realistic if anythikng. If the sea doesn't drown us, we don't freeze to death or a sudden storm destroys our boat, and we don't get horribly lost in that strange cave and starve to death, then we arrive on an island full of dragons who probably hate Arthur for killing the great Dragon. And being the son of a man who ordered the murder of all dragon kind. Not to mention him indirectly causing the death of the last dragon Lord as well. So we either die, or we die. I'm just planning ahead.”

“So dramatic.”, Gwaine mumbled. But Merlin frowned. Leon got a valid point.

“Be positive. What if we meet a bunch of mermaids?”, Gwaine winked at Leon. Leon frowned even further. “Which kind?” “The hot kind, duh.” “Which is?” Gwaine blinked. “Not this again. You're no fun.”

“No, no, Gwaine. Go ahead. Tell me. Which is the hot kind of mermaid? The Siren one's that lure you in with magic voices and then drown you, so they can rape your dead bodies and make more Sirenbaby's; The manatee's that only start to look appealing when you're so starved and Vitamin C deprived that you start hallucinating right before you pass out and die or the classic one's with boobs and a fish tails that make NO SENSE in their anatomy. Which I will be hearing you complain about for days. When all I want is peace and quiet.”, Leon closed his eyes – yet again- dramatically.

Gwaine was about to open his mouth to counter, when Leon added: “Also, we're knights of Camelot and mermaids are magical creatures. It's your job to kill them, regardless of how hot they seem to you.”

With that, Leon had set Gwaine's brain check mate and left him and Merlin standing there with their mouths comically wide open. Half in shock, half with laughter and amazement. “Holy shit, I think he's finally lost it.”, Gwaine laughed as he watched Leon slump down at the next tree and saying goodbye to the dry unshakable ground.

“Maybe we should ask George to come as well. Or convince Arthur to get him off the ship.”, Merlin muttered. After all, Leon was always a lot calmer when George was around. Maybe because George didn't bully him, did what he was told and was also a good person to be quiet with. George also seemed to prefer Leon as the one ordering him around, because Leon wasn't chatting endlessly. He was precise in his orders and didn't talk around the bush. They got along well. Because they didn't have to get along at all. They had the ultimate work-efficient dynamic. It was horrifying.

“Are you kidding? This will be hilarious.”, Gwaine grinned.

“Don't you think Leon deserves a break?”, Merlin asked, still startled by Leon's obvious irritation. “From work? Yes. From me? NEVER!”, Gwaine winked again. And Merlin already pitied the poor knight.

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

Leon was indeed... sick. The moment the ships left the haven, Leon was slumped over the reeling and holding on for his life. He was suspiciously green in the face and tried to avoid Arthur. Who was continuously ignoring Leon's condition and decided to ask him for how many days they had planned to be on sea. How many weapons they had and discussed whether or not they were actually suitable to kill dragons. And if there was enough food and water and so on and so forth.

He did not realize that the barrel Gwaine had decided to sit on had a few holes in it, that should not be there, were wine in it. Gwaine was chatting with Lancelot and occasionally Merlin, albeit in third person like... “I wonder what Merlin would think of this.”, and then get a hushed answer from underneath him.

The sea was relatively calm for the first three days. And Elyan, who was assigned to steer the ship, had no trouble finding the right path. Arthur seemed content too and left Leon alone on day two.

Leon was hardly eating. And if he ever did, he puked it out ten minutes later. By the third day, he was leaning against the reeling once again. Eyes closed with an obvious headache and ready to drink poison to free him from his misery.

Merlin was still sitting inside the barrel. Except for at night, when Lancelot would let him out, while Gwaine annoyed the prince. It worked surprisingly well. Yet, Merlin was a bit worried. Not necessarily to be found out. That was kind of part of the plan. No... By the way Arthur behaved.

The first two days, it was hardly noticeable. Arthur had focused on talking to Leon. Or Elyan or Gwaine and Lancelot. But after they had run out of conversational topic, Arthur had started to isolate himself. Merlin could see him through the holes of his hiding place. He was often standing at the reeling and staring out towards the horizon. He was eerily quiet. And appeared to be melancholic. If not slightly sad.

“Hey, Merlin.”, Lancelot whispered at an afternoon on day four. Merlin was still shocked that his disguise had apparently worked well so far. Then again, Arthur was terrifyingly oblivious to most of his secrets. “Can't you like... use magic to heal Leon's sickness?”

Of course. If anyone had it bad these days it was Sir Leon. Gwaine was currently occupied with drinking. Otherwise Lancelot would not have dared mention Merlin's illegal existence to him. “Do you think that's wise? What if they all notice? After all, Leon has been sick for three days now. If he was suddenly fine, wouldn't they ask?”

“And you think they'd explain it with magic? Merlin. Leon could have just gotten used to the sea. I'm sure no one will notice.”

“Are you sure?”, Merlin asked back and tried to focus on Leon's pitiful form. “I'm positive. Even if they think it's magic, they don't even know you're here. And what sorcerer would just appear on this ship, just to heal Leon?” “Good point.”

Merlin took a shuddering breath, as he strained himself to look through the barrel once again. Leon had his eyes closed and he was breathing harshly. Arthur was standing right next to him. Deep in thought. As if on cue, he suddenly straightened up, pushed himself from the reeling and went under deck.

Merlin nodded to himself. And then whispered a silent spell in Leon's reaction. There was a flash of gold for barely a second. But in that moment, Leon opened his eyes and looked at Merlin. Merlin froze. They locked eyes. Merlin caught his breath. “Lancelot. I think he saw.”, Merlin muttered, panic was slowly sinking in, along with the realization of the situation. Lancelot frowned. “What?”, he asked. “Lance, I think he knows.” “Merlin, stop mumbling. I'm certain you're imagining things.”

Leon's eyes flickered shut for a second and he took a deep breath. Then he held his head in slight irritation, before looking in Merlin's direction again. He ….. sighed in relieve. Slowly, he pushed himself up. Still holding his head, as he took a deep breath. He nodded at Merlin. Like he was... thanking him? Was Merlin really imagining this? But Leon smiled, stretched himself and rubbed at the dark circles under his sleepless eyes. As if to say: “finally.”

Soon enough, he was gone as well. Merlin opened his mouth to say something, but shook his head to himself, while Lancelot had a firm hand on his barrel.

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

It was night, when Merlin was finally let out of his barrel. The knights were asleep. All but the one on watch. Which was Gwaine, fortunately. Meaning, Merlin could safely leave the barrel, chat with him and eat in peace. He had slept through the day mostly. He trusted that Lancelot and Gwaine would stop anyone from opening this particular barrel during the day.

And if anyone got to close, he could always hear one of them say, this was the “victory wine.” Like this was the finest wine of them all and reserved for the day they managed to defeat the dragon lords. It was a good excuse. Albeit difficult to maintain, because nobody believed Gwaine could hold himself back from wine for that long.

Either way, for now it was fine. Merlin's legs were dangling off the watch tower, while Gwaine leaned against the rod behind him. The sails were up, because the wind was in their favor.

It was then, that suddenly, someone crawled up from under deck.

Even in the dim moonlight, Merlin could make out the shine of Arthur's armor. Everyone had already told him, wearing armor on a boat was absolutely insane. If he ever fell off the boat, he'd drown immediately. Because the weight would just drag him down. But the clotpole was too stubborn to listen. And right now it was as useful as a warning signal to them. 'Why is he up?', was all Merlin could think, as he nearly shrieked through Gwaine's mindless chatter and hid underneath a blanket that lay around behind them. Gwaine, surprised at his reaction, finally noticed the prince as well and waved at him, while Arthur gave him a startled expression. Merlin could have kicked Gwaine for drawing Arthur's attention to them.

“Gwaine? What are you doing?”

Gwaine rose both his eyebrows in amusement. “Oh, I'm on watch. You know. Talking to myself. Looking at the stars. Nice weather out, don't you think?”, he laughed suspiciously.

Arthur frowned and sighed, before climbing up the ladder with a sigh. He shook his head, as if used to these antics and hardly caring for them at all. Merlin hurried to shuffle behind Gwaine, so that Arthur wouldn't notice him. And Gwaine did his best to position himself in a way that Merlin was mostly covered by his frame. In a practiced manner, Merlin steeled his heart and his breathing and went completely still. A method he had accustomed to during his time out in the barrel.

By the time Arthur got up to them, Merlin might as well have vanished. That's how invisible he was. Though, to himself, he felt extremely obvious.

“So, er... Sire. Can't sleep?”, Gwaine asked. It was pretty late. Too late to still be up. Too early to have woken up again. Gwaine pat the ground beside him, so Arthur could sit down. It would be suspicious if he send him away. But Merlin was certain Gwaine did it to taunt him. “Not really.”, Arthur said and yawned. If Merlin could see through the blanket, he would see that the circles under Arthur's eyes were nearly as dark as Leon's had been.

His voice didn't really leave room for conversation. He sounded tired, as if he really didn't want to talk. And despite Gwaine's usual annoyance, he didn't press the matter. He hummed instead. For one, because it was Gwaine. Who would he be, if he wasn't drinking ale and doing noisy things all the time? However, this also served the purpose of covering up all unintentional noises Merlin could have made in the dead silence of the still night. It was too still. But they weren't used to the ever changing weather of the sea. Else, they would have been alarmed.

“It's funny.”, Arthur said after a moment of hummed silence. “What is, Sire?” “I would have thought Merlin would have sneaked on to the ship and come out by now.”

Gwaine laughed comically. Startled by the sudden comment. Arthur ignored him, but Merlin nearly smacked Gwaine for that obvious reaction.

“Well. That surely sounds like Merlin. But we would have found him in no time.”, Gwaine assured him.

“Yeah I know. Still.”, Arthur sighed and shook his head, before running a hand through his face. “I mean... Now that he's not here, I can't stop thinking that I basically left him alone with my father. You know my father. If Merlin doesn't behave, the king will certainly have him flogged. Or worse. I mean... he has these moments when he accuses random people to be sorcerers. What if I left him to one of those antics? Did I make a mistake leaving him home?”

Arthur sounded worried and he was suddenly found playing with his own hands.

Gwaine opened his mouth in surprise. “Huh?”, he asked. “I thought you didn't want him to come? ”

Arthur rolled his eyes. “He's still saver with my father than he is raiding a dragon infested island with us, isn't he?” That was.... an actual question. Not a rhetoric one, like one would expect. No. Arthur was seriously asking. His tone was probably supposed to be rhetoric, but he sounded too emotional. Too concerned. Too guilty.

Gwaine's mouth dropped open. Merlin's heart stilled. “Since when are you so worried about Merlin?”, Gwaine asked and sat up straight. After all... Arthur had never really shown his emotional side to Gwaine. Not like this. Not verbally. There would be lots of teasing, surely. Later on, of course. And Arthur should know that. But Arthur was sleep deprived and concerned and he needed to vent. That may not be wise. But since when do people do reasonable things?

“I'm not worried.”, Arthur denied immediately. Gwaine raised an eyebrow. Which Arthur noticed. “Look -”, Arthur started. “I couldn't take Merlin with us on this trip. Merlin is a servant and he's always unarmed-”

“That never stopped you from taking him on hunts.”, Gwaine raised both eyebrows now.

Arthur groaned. “That's different. We're knights. We can protect him from bandits. Dragon's are.... a whole different story. I faced one and I passed out and I still don't know HOW we survived. I know I killed it, but it was incredibly close. And this mission... I'm not sure we'll make it.”, Arthur let his head sink.

Gwaine paused for a moment. “Wait... you think we'll all die?”, he asked, eyes wide and suddenly terrified. “Of course not.”, Arthur said absently. But it was clearly a lie. “Jesus. You're in a good mood.”, Gwaine mumbled to himself. For the first time, he sounded worried too.

“So... you left Merlin in Camelot because -”

“I don't want him to die.”, Arthur confessed. Albeit reluctantly. “But … you said you thought he'd be here?”, Gwaine pointed out. Arthur breathed. Then he turned to look at Gwaine. “Is it selfish to wish he had ignored my orders?”

Gwaine blinked. “Huh?” To be fair, he had wanted to tease Arthur about the fact that nothing Arthur just said opposed the idea that he was – indeed – worried about Merlin in any way. But that last comment confused him and changed the focus of this conversation.

“I don't want him to die with us. But -”, Arthur bit his lip. “If I die, I'd rather die at his side. Is that weird?”

Gwaine glanced at the blanket, where Merlin strained his ears to hear every word Arthur was saying. Merlin's breathing was getting rigid. This conversation.... was unusual. Very... unusual for Arthur.

Gwaine blinked, then he forced himself to grin and make a more joyous expression. As he always did. Because positive energy was his thing. “Now now, princess.”, he put an arm around Arthur shoulder, which Arthur let him do with a disapproving frown. “Sounds like someone here got a small crush on our dear Merlin.”

Merlin fought the urge to kick him yet again, worried that this would reveal him from underneath the blanket. Gwaine was clearly overdoing it. He was clearly out to annoy Arthur. Merlin knew that. And he really wanted Gwaine to stop. This was humiliating and mean.

Arthur stared at Gwaine. At the laughing face. The poking and joking and attempt at humiliating him expression. But Arthur's stare didn't waver. And Gwaine's expression lost itself on the realization that he actually hit a mark.

“Wait – seriously?”, he asked and pulled his arm back. Merlin behind him froze. Merlin's inner turmoil was at Gwaine's antics. He had been so focused on cursing Gwaine, that he was completely startled by that sentence. He had not expected for Arthur to just.... not deny it. Which was basically a confession. Merlin's eyes widened. And he stared at the blindness in front of him. Once again, he was completely still. 'Huh?', he thought.

“You think it's weird.”, Arthur turned away, still fumbling with his hands. And had the little snide remark from Gwaine not been, maybe they could have pretended this sentence didn't mean so much. That this was simply about hoping his friend was here. That they just continued their conversation from before, without the additional information that Arthur – indeed – liked Merlin more than he ought to.

“I- what? No!”, Gwaine was quick to retaliate. “Of course not. I'm just surprised, is all. I mean... it's Merlin.”

“And?”, Arthur was frowning. As if ready to defend his friend. Which in itself was news to Merlin. Since when did Arthur defend him behind his back? Either way, this was Merlin they were talking about. And it was Gwaine he was talking about him with. There was no need to get defensive. “I didn't think you'd admit it! Especially to me.” The 'everyone loves Merlin, so of course I'm not surprised' was left unsaid. Needless to say. It was only Merlin who didn't recognize that implication.

Arthur let his shoulders slump. “Yeah well. If we're dying anyway, even you teasing me and telling everyone can't make it worse.”

“First of all. Rude. You underestimate me, Sire. You have no idea what I'm capable of. Second of all. Why are you all so dramatic these days? First Leon, now you? We haven't even arrived at the island yet and you're all planning our funerals! Who is to say we even find the island? Or the dragons?”, Gwaine flailed his arms, before putting a soft hand on Arthur's tense shoulders. His tone turned soft. Very unlike Gwaine. But it was not the first time he had worn that expression. He'd acted like this before. Tender and soft and fond. Mostly for Merlin, because Merlin was his first and therefore best friend. And he worried about him too. “And last, but not least. You'll see Merlin again, Sire. And even if he found out, he wouldn't tease you for this. Merlin has a good heart.”

Arthur looked up. Surprised by the comforting tone of Gwaine's voice. After all, Gwaine was not exactly the go to type, when it came down to emotions.

People often underestimate the clown friend. Radiating joy and fun doesn't always come from ignorance and obliviousness. It doesn't always mean they are secretly depressed either. Often, these kind of people have gone through much more than they let on. Often, they have learned to deal with their own emotions and come to the conclusion that having fun, being truly blissful brightens not only the world of others. It brightens their own as well. That doesn't make them less empathetic. It doesn't make them less understanding. Quite the contrary. They have a deep understanding of such situations and decided not to take it seriously. Because not everything has to be. And sometimes it's smarter not to think about stuff too deeply.

“You think?” Arthur's own voice was strangely hopeful. Like knowing he'd see Merlin again was all that mattered. Like the other comfort about surviving wasn't nearly as helpful. Or dare say, important.

“I'm certain.”, Gwaine grinned knowingly. Arthur smiled in relief at that. There was a pause between them, before Arthur added. “If you ever tell him about this conversation, I'll drown you in the ocean.”

Gwaine laughed at that. “No promises, princess.” Truth is, he could. He could easily promise it. But he wouldn't be Gwaine if he said that. It would be too obvious that he was hiding something as well. Arthur laughed.

“Nuts?”, Gwaine asked, suddenly and held out a can full of salted nuts. Startled by the question, Arthur almost bend over from laughing. “You're unbelievable.”, Arthur shook his head. Suddenly embarrassed that he confessed all this to Gwaine. But he accepted the nuts anyway.

The rest of the night was spend almost quietly. Which wasn't for long and Gwaine did his best to just distract Arthur. Which meant, it was just Gwaine and Arthur chatting about Merlin. It was mostly Gwaine. Because Gwaine's mindless babbling often meant talking positively about Arthur's servant. Arthur was already used to this.

For once though, Arthur was just as deeply into the conversation. “I think, if Merlin was here, he'd feel guilty.”

“Why is that?”, Gwaine asked, encouraging Arthur to continue. He barely concealed his grin, because Merlin was witness to all of this. Unable to move which would lead to exposure.

“Well... the last dragon lord died for him. And now we're visiting the last remains of his culture. Even if they have magic. I can't imagine Merlin be anything but devastated, when he meets them. I suppose the idiot would apologize to them. Like it was in any way his fault! Merlin can be such an idiot sometimes. One would think he wants to die, so often as he drinks poison for others or jumps into mid battle, unarmed. I'm honestly glad he has the decency to hide most of the time, while we handle things. I don't think I'd be able to concentrate on fighting, if he just -”, Arthur exhaled a deep breath and flailed his arms to imply Merlin running into knifes. “He's too brave for his own good.”

“Merlin is the bravest.”

“The bravest man I ever met.”, Arthur agreed and got a chuckled clap on his shoulder for that. “Look at you, Sire. Saying all these nice things about Merlin. Wait till I tell him about it.”

Arthur immediately recoiled. “Seriously, don't.”

“Why? What's so bad about him knowing that you care?”, Gwaine frowned in amusement. Thinking, that Arthur was just shy.

“He knows that I care. I'm pretty damn obvious about it. No need to put any more attention to it.”

Gwaine scoffed in disbelieve. “YOU? Obvious that you CARE? Really? This is what you call obvious?”

“What do you mean?”, Arthur frowned, honestly confused, while Merlin was trying to breathe even slower. Because somehow Arthur had shifted closer to the blanket. A hand was put on it. If Arthur himself made the wrong move, he'd accidentally pull the blanket off of him.

“Arthur. I don't think Merlin even knows you appreciate him at all.”

Arthur was stunned with silence. “You're joking.” Merlin blinked underneath the blanket. Just what on earth was Arthur talking about?

Gwaine stared at him. “Sire... what exactly do you understand about being obvious about this?”

Arthur frowned. “Well... Erm. I'm the prince of Camelot. My father has never allowed me to have friends that are not royal enough to be of knightly status. Merlin is a servant. Yet, he's my best friend.”

Gwaine stared back at him. “Have you told him that?”

Arthur blinked. “No... because my father would ground me, if I ever did. But I have...”, he slowly swayed to the side, searching for the right words. “I treat him like a knight. I take him on hunts where servants are not allowed. I used to punch him, too, like I would a knight, to cheer him up. Though I stopped that, because he said he doesn't like it. And I mean... I stopped. I wouldn't do that for just anyone!

My guards have been ordered to let him into my room, even if I ordered them to let no one in. If I don't want him around, I have to tell them that specially. I er... let him steal my food. He loves blackberries. So do I, but he doesn't need to know that.

He's always insulting me or my father behind his back, but I don't really throw him in the stocks for that. Which I should. That kind of talk is treason. He could be hanged for that, you know?

I give him unnecessary chores, just so he has a reason to hang out with me. And he doesn't get punished, though what he does is a really shabby job. Now that I think about it, I think I mostly pay him for insulting me.

I've defended him in front of my father. I have used my word as knight for him more than once. I have trusted him with my life and drank poison because he told me it was a good idea. Or because the choice was either him or myself. And I trusted him with the antidote or with taking my royal seal back to Camelot to whoever I want to precede me. I have saved his life and protected him in battle...”, at this point, Arthur was counting on his fingers and it looked like he was about to go on for hours.

However, Gwaine looked at him oddly, which made Arthur pause as soon as he noticed. “What?”, he asked, clearly confused with Gwaine's reaction.

“Well... just. I see what you mean.”, Gwaine was talking slowly. Realizing that yes... from Arthur's point of view, all of that was actually extraordinary behavior. But for anyone else... “But you do realize that most of that is just... Look. The things you describe...

Half of the stuff happens behind his back, which you don't tell him. So how would he know? Other stuff is like.... Merlin probably thinks he's just stealing your stuff. Defending someone innocent is not something you do for someone you like. It's something you do for strangers, if their life depends on it. It's something Merlin himself would do for anyone.

And... treating him like a person when he argues with you and taking him seriously is hardly an expression of love, Arthur. I know in your position that's different. But to anyone else. Jesus christ, how do I put this?

The only extraordinary thing about all this, is you risking your life for him. Which he would do for you – for anyone really – without even thinking. And YOU would die for your own people too. I hardly think he sees a difference in your behavior towards him and your general behavior to your people.

Merlin would risk his life for anyone. He doesn't even demand thanks for it.

What you do, is... for a prince.... extremely … er... let's say affectionate. But for Merlin, it's... how do I put it … less than the minimum.”

Arthur blinked. Finally Merlin shifted underneath the blanket. His eyes blinking rapidly now. Gwaine was right. This WAS how he saw things. But the way Arthur described the way he acted.... that wasn't just Arthur trying his best to be a good prince or person. This was Arthur trying his hardest to show he cared! Cared for Merlin! Merlin felt... touched? Kind of. The crush thing aside. That was a whole different level of work in process. (1) He felt his own face heat up with the knowledge that these things... These things that Merlin had guessed were normal for Arthur... that Arthur had done them on purpose. That he had actually thought about Merlin to make sure he was cared for. That this was a far as he could push himself and did it despite the risk of being scolded by his father.

Arthur's mouth was open now. Unable to retort or add on to his previous examples. “But -”

“You do know, Merlin still doesn't believe us, when we tell him that you risked your life getting him a flower, because he thinks we're messing with him, right?”

“That's ridiculous. That flower was needed for an antidote! What is there to doubt about it?”, Arthur exclaimed, almost furious. Merlin shuddered in surprise. 'Huh?', he thought to himself, his face flushing hard.

“Yeah. I know. He does not.”, Gwaine nodded eagerly.

“But... I thought I was so obvious? I mean... Even my father noticed! He's told me I was getting too close to Merlin. So I tried to hold back, but... I thought Merlin knew.”, Arthur appeared shocked. Like someone had just turned his entire world upside down.

“The king noticed?”, Gwaine raised both eyebrows in shock.

“Yes, I mean. When I came back with that flower, he threw me in the dungeons for it. He keeps reminding me that I'm not supposed to be friends with Merlin. He keeps offering me new servants! I've turned down five offers last week!”

Gwaine's mouth dropped open. “Woow.”, he made impressed. “If Uther thinks THAT's a lot. What kind of childhood did you have?”

Arthur looked up, surprised. “I dunno? A normal one I guess? I mean. I didn't have a mom and my father was always busy and Morgana and I were fighting all the time, so....”

Gwaine's eyes squished a little. “Have you ever even been hugged?”, he asked with suspicion.

Arthur straightened his back. “I'm.... not supposed to get close to people until I get married.”, he muttered. Gwaine stared and his mouth dropped open again. “I meant Uther. Did you father never hug you?”

“Was he supposed to do that?”

Gwaine's jaw dropped. “And here I always thought you just were a stuck up royal like anyone else. But your father abandoned you. No wonder you have no idea how to deal with emotions.” Arthur flushed and tried to retort, but then he closed his mouth. Embarrassed.

Gwaine hurried to correct himself. “I mean... considering all this, you're doing a lot, actually. You're a good man, Arthur. I wouldn't be your knight, if I didn't think you were worth dying for. Just. God damn it, I'm getting so mad right now. Your father is an asshole. I mean, I already knew that. But holy shit.”

Arthur frowned. “Don't talk about my father like this!”, he growled, but Gwaine stopped him again. “Nope. You don't get to decide that. You're in denial. He abandoned you. He keeps sending you on quests that could get you killed. He didn't even show you that he cares if you come back!”

“He cried when he thought I was dead though!”, Arthur commented, remembering the troll Catrina accident.

Gwaine blinked. “Good to know where he draws the line. What the fuck, Arthur.”

Arthur bit his lips. He felt defensive for his father. But... wasn't it bad... that he couldn't see a single flaw in Gwaine's accusation?

“Merlin is your exact opposite, you know.”, Gwaine suddenly said and slowly patted Arthur's shoulder. This time highly aware of the fact that this was probably the closest contact Arthur allowed for anyone. Apart from the fact that Arthur had a crush on Merlin and Merlin was the guy who dressed him.... Let's not get into that.

“I know.”

“He grew up with a mom who hugged him every day. Arthur, Merlin is the most affectionate person I know. He's extremely emotional and he's not afraid to show it.”

“I know.”, Arthur said again, but this time softer.

“Compared to that your way of dealing with things probably looks more like you're pushing him away.”

Arthur's head sank and his shoulders dropped. He grabbed the blanket tighter. “I know.”, he said yet again. Frustrated this time. 'I'm trying.', he didn't say, but they all knew it.

“You should talk to him.”

“I know.”, Arthur was defeated.

It was quiet between them once again and Arthur stared out on the sea. And from the distance, you could see the first sun rays of the day illuminate the wooden deck of the ship. Arthur stared at it, as long as it was possible to look into the direction. While Gwaine watched him with worry. Gwaine had almost forgotten Merlin was still there. Merlin, who was trying his hardest to appear invisible. And quiet. And still. Nobody could hear his loud heart beat, but Merlin himself. Though he could swear someone had to notice at some point.

“Rise and shine.”, Arthur suddenly said and smiled to himself. For the first time, the conversation went beyond Gwaine's understanding and he could just stare at him in confusion.

But Merlin could hear what Arthur was actually saying. It was the sentence Merlin always woke Arthur up with. In this context, it meant, Arthur was thinking of that. Of early mornings and Merlin in it. The way his smile slowly fell, Merlin could feel that Arthur was actually missing him. And hoping he was here. Unaware that his wish had already come true.

It took Merlin everything he had in himself, to not jump up from underneath the blanket and just hug him to death. Which he now knew would equal a marriage proposal to Arthur. Oh god, all those love potion incidents …. where Arthur hugged and kissed random women. The boy must have had a mental breakdown afterwards. Now that Merlin thought of it, Arthur used to behave really strange after those incidents.

Meaning, he wouldn't talk to anyone. He would excuse himself a lot. Would be anxious around everyone he was forced to talk to. And he'd be especially awkward around Merlin. Merlin's eyes widened once again with a start and it paralyzed him as he realized precisely WHY that had been. He flushed. And he was glad Arthur couldn't see him like this.

“Sire?”, Gwaine finally asked, still uncharacteristically gentle. Arthur shook his head. “Nothing. I'll go back to sleep. Leon should be up soon. I think he's already feeling much better.” Arthur sighed and pushed himself up. He let go of the blanket, making Merlin exhale a deep breath. Then he took the ladder down again.

One last time, he was stopped by Gwaine. “Wait, Arthur.”

Arthur stopped for a moment. “What is it?”, he asked.

“You like Merlin right? As in, you're in love with him.”

Arthur flushed, but he answered with a hesitant “yes.”. Which was like a major blow in Merlin's guts. Because being in love was an entirely different thing than having a crush. And yet, to have this confirmed... Merlin struggled to breathe.

“What will you do, if he doesn't like you back?”

There was a pause. A heavy one. Then Arthur sighed. “Gwaine... It's not like anything can happen between us anyway. Even if Merlin did like me back. I can't tell him. Merlin is the best friend I have. I couldn't bear to loose him. I won't let anything or anyone, not my father, not a potential wife, not even my own feelings get in the way of that. I won't ruin what we have. I couldn't live with myself.” And with that, he disappeared under deck. Leaving Gwaine behind, completely stunned.

Finally, Merlin pulled the blanket off of himself and dramatically breathed the fresh air around him. It had started to get really stuffy under that.

Gwaine turned around, almost startled. As if he had truly forgotten that Merlin had been there. They looked at each other for a moment. Unsure what to say.

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

The storm hit the boat without any warning. Maybe, if they had known about the “calm before the storm”, they would have noticed that there was – indeed – a warning. But they didn't. Because Uther didn't care that these knights had no idea about sailing. Or rather, most of them. The one's who did know about it, had been asleep, as Arthur had assigned none of them to keep watch.

They were lucky they made it in time to get the sails in. But as soon as the storm was raging, they had to hold on to everything for dear life. They had no time to fixate any of their belongings to the ship. Which meant that now, barrels and bottles and cups and knifes and anything they had lying about, was now thrown around their ears.

Those who had the great misfortune to get knocked out by a barrel, got thrown of the ship. But through all that, you couldn't hear the screams and the shouts. The storm was so loud, it deafened everything that was further than two steps away.

In a strange way, the storm came over them silently. Merlin had never managed to get back into his barrel. But he had shushed Gwaine to bind himself to the watchtower. The entire thing was about to be blown off, was it not for Merlin's magic.

In fact, while Gwaine closed his eyes, praying the storm to be over, Merlin used his magic to keep his friends safe. Albeit, there were too many of them. He couldn't safe everyone. But he DID manage to keep Arthur safe. Who was running around in that blasted armor and shouting orders to his subordinates. He was not lucky to be okay. He was lucky to have Merlin to keep him that way.

That was, until Merlin saw his own barrel being thrown off the ship. And Lancelot saw it. But Lancelot didn't know Merlin wasn't in there. Oh fucking hell no.

Lancelot screamed his name. And he managed to shout so loud, that Arthur turned around, totally confused why one of his knights would shout out the name of his servant in the middle of a storm. But Arthur, foolish, kind, love deprived Arthur, made the connection. And when Lancelot shouted at him to explain that Merlin was supposed to be IN that barrel that was now about to drown on the ocean. Arthur did the most foolish thing a prince could do.

He gave Leon the authority.... and – in a panic- jumped after Merlin.

Who was not in that barrel, but on the watch tower. Who watched and stared and couldn't believe what he saw. Because Arthur had just JUMPED of the ship for him. Fully armed with his sword and knife and wearing armor.

'That fucking idiot.”, Merlin mouthed and now panic washed over him as well. In a moment decision, Merlin yelled at Gwaine to stay where he was. And then he slid down the ladder. Not even bothering to use the steps. His hands already burned from the heat of the fraction. And splinters of the cold wood edged into his skin. But he didn't give a damn.

He ran over the deck, seeing panicked and confused faces everywhere and then he directly jumped after Arthur.

The storm wouldn't stop for another five hours. Thanks to Merlin, the casualties were little to none. But even after the storm had calmed and the sea lay still around them, while the knights tried to catch their breath.... Merlin and Arthur could not be found among the wrecks. And Leon's headache was returning. (1) The sentence: work in process is a mix of work in progress and processing something. I found that creative. It’s intentional :)

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#merlin tv #merlin bbc #bbc merlin #fanfiction #my writing #I'll try to post here too now #dragon island #chapter 1 #The calm before the storm #merthur #merlin #arthur #freya #edit later

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fantasticstoryteller · 3 years

Text

Adopt Me

“Because you’re pathetic!” roared the man.

Wade blinked rapidly at his (former) boyfriend.

{I told you we should have killed him.}

[We still can.]

No. Wade had fought the voices for a long time. There were only a few people he refused, no matter what, to kill. The voices didn’t like that; they didn’t like restrictions.

But he had to draw the line somewhere. It was his body, and they were just sharing it with him. He had the final say—even if he did, sometimes, wonder if they were right.

{Ha!}

Wade had apparently been silent for too long. He looked up into the rage filled face of the man in front of him before he was grabbed, towed to the door, and flung outside. “You useless piece of shit,” snarled the man. “Get out! See if you can find someone else to take care of you.” He slammed the door.

{Now can we kill him?}

[Forget that. We need a place to stay. A base. Those pretty little weapons of yours that are still in the bottom of that bastard’s closet.]

White had a point. Whatever happened in the future, Wade was going to need those babies—they were how he earned a living, after all. So Wade, ignoring the boxes, waited for his (former) boyfriend to leave the house before slipping in, grabbing his gear and some clothes (not a lot of clothes; he had a lot of gear), and slipping out again.

{So…where are we going to go? Weasel’s?}

[The fucker does still owe us.]

He did—but he wouldn't be happy to see Wade. He always knew that Wade coming around was a bother. In fact—in fact Wade couldn't think of a single person who would actually be happy to see him.

[Why would anyone be happy to see you? Everyone knows what you do for a living.]

{And you’re hideous. Seriously—think about all those poor people who recoil at the sight of you. It’s sad.}

Wade sniffed. It was sad. It wasn’t like he’d asked for this (well, certainly not the fucked up appearance part). Was it wrong to want someone to just—want him around? An image flashed briefly in his mind.

[I didn’t quite catch that.]

Wade ignored White as he scrambled to find some cardboard. And a marker. Definitely a marker.

[This is a bad idea…]

***

Peter fought to keep a blandly amiable expression on his face as the host of the show apologized—to the other guest. Not a word of apology to him, and he was the one who’d been insulted. Of course, he was merely an author on this week’s top-selling list. (Actually, every top-selling list for the last two years, but that would require admitting to his other pen names.) The other guest was the lead of whatever the parent-group-of-the-week was called now, and had gotten four shows canceled in the last month. Of course she was fawned over.

And Peter was very, very careful not to take his temper out on the poor people who were responsible for actually getting the talk show to run. None of this was their fault, and he cordially said his goodbyes (to them, and not the host) before he left. Without the “security” that the studio thought he needed (honestly, did they think he was five?).

Peter was smart enough to realize that most of his irritation came from his loneliness. Sure, moving had seemed a good idea at the time—he was closer to the publishing agency, had a more central base for these stupid publicity rounds his agency forced him to do to “brand” his image. (Seriously, most of his books didn’t even have his name on them, and they were selling perfectly well. Why was the “brand” so important?) So, in the interest of having a much shorter commute, he’d moved to a condo (soundproofed which—actually hadn’t been needed, but he was forever hopeful), and left his home behind him. Not entirely behind him; he still had video chats with Aunt May every weekend, and got phone calls—occasionally—from his old friend MJ (who was now in Paris managing her own brand)—but he had no one here. He couldn't even have a pet; the condo didn’t allow it.

He passed the usual bunch of people on the street with cardboard signs—begging, playing music, the usual—when a new one made him stop. He backtracked and read the sign again. In bright, shiny letters (not sure what it was written with), were the words, “Adopt me.” His eyes tracked from the sign to the large, scarred man behind it.

“All right,” said Peter looking at the sign as wheels turned in his head. “What does it mean to adopt you?”

“Well, you take me to your home, and we spend time together, and you’re happy to see me,” the scarred man said. A pause. “Well,” he growled, “it’s not like you had a better plan!”

Someone else might have cut and run—but no one had ever accused Peter of making smart life decisions. Not twice anyway. “Are you talking to yourself?” he asked curiously.

“Just the boxes,” the scarred man said cheerfully. “I have two,” he admitted. “One’s white and one’s yellow, so I call them White and Yellow.”

Not the strangest thing he’d ever heard. Back in high school MJ had sworn that Peter had a soft, silky voice, so he figured that assigning a color to a voice wasn’t that strange. And the guy was entertaining. “My name’s Peter,” he said. “Peter Parker,” he added as he picked up the cardboard sign.

“Wade Wilson,” introduced the strange, intriguing man. “Eee! We’re alliteration buddies!”

Peter gave the happy man a lopsided grin. “Is that a good thing?” he asked.

“It’s a great thing!” enthused the man—Wade.

“Great! Grab your bag,” Peter said as he noticed the duffel bag behind the man, “and let’s go.”

“Go?”

“I’m adopting you,” said Peter with a smile. He couldn't have a pet—but there was nothing that said he couldn't have a human.

The large man scrambled to his feet with surprising agility as he slung his duffel over his shoulder. “You’re taking me home?” he asked with an odd, pained hopefulness in his voice.

“First I was going to take you for something to eat,” Peter admitted as the large man (almost twice his size) fell into step beside him. “I don’t have a lot of food at home,” he admitted.

“I can make pancakes,” Wade offered.

Peter felt a grin stretch his face. He was not going to be lonely, and his new roommate (adoptee?) was offering to make pancakes. Life was good.

***

[I still think this is a mistake.]

{Yeah, why’d he choose you? You’re not exactly cuddly.}

Wade tried his best to drown out the voices by talking. True to his word, the guy (Peter) had taken him to a diner. It was a strange, hole-in-the-wall place, but Wade was not complaining. The food was good. “And you would not believe how many people just glare, or kick at, or pretend they don’t see someone on the street—holy cow! These are great! What nut got the bright idea of putting eggs on nachos? They don’t even sound like they should go together, but holy fuck these are good!”

Instead of being grossed out, or complaining about his terrible table manners, Peter just smiles. “I know,” he said. “I asked Mary Anne, the woman who owns this restaurant about it the first time I had them and she told me she first had them Down South.”

The waitress, a blond young woman about the same age, came over and refilled both their drinks. “Yes,” she said. She turned to Wade who froze mid-bite, wondering if he was going to be thrown out of the restaurant. It had happened before. A lot. Instead the woman simply jerked a thumb towards Peter. “First two weeks we were open he was here every breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Worked his way right through the whole menu.” She snorted. “Had questions about every dish. ‘What made you decide to make this?’ ‘What was your inspiration for that?’ ‘Can I please have some tea that doesn’t taste like someone dropped half a gallon of sugar into it?’ Drove us all crazy.”

Peter simply smiled. “What can I say? I used to work for Foodies Unite.”

Wade gave a low, appreciative whistle. “That magazine that tracks the best food across the city?” he asked impressed.

Peter flashed a grin. “I put the really good ones,” he said in a loud, conspiratorial whisper, “on my blog.”

Wade burst out laughing as the waitress gave him a friendly swat. “You,” he said waving an egg-crusted fork at his dining buddy, “are an absolute trip.” Peter simply grinned and sipped his coffee.

[Careful Wade. You’re going to make him run.]

{We could kill him first. Then we won’t have to see the disgust later.}

No, thought Wade firmly, desperately. No killing.

{Not yet…}

Wade shoved the voices back as he realized that Peter was speaking. “… so there should be plenty of room in the closet for your clothes,” Peter said.

“I—uh, don’t really have clothes,” admitted Wade sheepishly. He had what he was wearing and his work suit—but nothing else. Peter’s gaze drifted to the huge duffel on the seat beside Wade.

[Still can’t do anything right. He’s going to ask, be horrified, and then what?]

{Out on the streets again!}

Yellow sounds obnoxiously cheerful about that. To his surprise Peter—doesn’t ask. Instead he simply nods. “Then,” he said with a sly smile, “it’s my job to get you clothes.” He paid for the food and the next thing Wade knew he was in a store with lots of mirrors, a plush couch that Peter was reclining on (with the duffel bag to his left) wearing a small smile as Wade was swarmed by what he swore were midgets.

[I don’t think that term’s politically correct.]

{Can we call them Munchkins? I mean, they’re about the same size.}

“I think the deep azure,” one Munchkin said to another.

“Violet,” argued the other.

“Azure will bring out the eyes.”

“Hmm.” Both little people turned to stare at him with a clinical expression Wade was more used to seeing on the other end of a scalpel as more of the little people swarmed around him getting measurements.

“Peter,” said Wade anxiously.

“Don’t worry,” reassured the other man. “You’re doing great.”

The first little person smacked Wade on the arm. “Come,” he ordered. “Time to try on clothes.” The tiny humans lead him off to a room, shove clothes at him, and leave him to change. He does, shakily, and then looks at his reflection in the mirror.

The deep blue shirt does bring out his eyes—and stands as a stark contrast to his mottled skin.

{Ask for a mask. A mask might help.}

[Oh, he’s beyond help.]

Shaking slightly he walks out to see Peter standing, pacing, and talking on the phone. “I just told the truth.” A pause and Peter sighed as he pinched the bridge of his nose. “Tony Stark,” he said viciously, “is an alcoholic womanizing vampire having issues with his sexual identity. There is no part of that description that says, ‘Hey, I’m safe for kids, bring the whole family!’” Another pause. “Well, maybe it’s high time someone did.” He hung up, turned, saw Wade and—unbelievably—smiled. “You look good,” he said approvingly.

[He’s lying!]

{Aw! He cares enough to lie!]

Peter turned to the dwarf in charge. “I want four of those, another two in short sleeves, and—”

“And the dress suit will be ready in three weeks,” finished the dwarf, “all billed to your account.”

Peter grinned. “You know me well,” he said. The dwarf snorted as another one of its kind handed Peter a series of bags. Peter took the bags, slung them over his shoulder, and then hoisted the duffel in the air and towards Wade.

[Holy—twig-boy here is stronger than he looks!]

Peter smiled at Wade. “Ready to go home?” he asked.

***

Peter couldn't help but grin at how enthusiastically Wade ran around the condo, poking his head into almost every nook and cranny as he almost knocked the flat screen off the wall. “Baby Boy, you’ve got everything here!” the large man rambled as he wandered. “TV, state-of-the-art kitchen, bookcases and The Spider!” he exclaimed suddenly as he grabbed a book off the shelf. “You’ve got The Spider series!”

Peter chuckled as he pulled up and booted his laptop. It was an older model without internet capabilities, but it worked and he didn’t have to worry too much about hackers. “I have the whole series,” he said to Wade’s obvious delight as he settled down to work.

Wade gasped as he pressed the book to his chest. “Even the first three? No one has the first three!”

That was because no one had believed The Spider would be popular. Peter chuckled at the irony. “The early issues on the shelf to your left,” Peter said as he brought up the relevant file. Nothing soothed Ned like a new chapter.

Wade slammed himself down on the couch, hooking his legs over Peter’s lap. He managed to get his laptop out of the way just in time. “Oh, man, I’ve loved these since they came out,” Wade babbled. “There’s just something so wholesome about a guy working among killers and not killing anyone, you know?”

Peter smiled as he got to typing, words coming faster now that they weren’t stifled by loneliness. “Glad to hear it,” he said absently working on the newest chapter of his Stark novels. Wade’s constant commentary was soothing to hear in the formerly empty apartment.

The knocking came a shock. Even more shocking, was the way Wade was suddenly tense, in front of Peter, and pointing a gun at the door. Peter saved his work, printed the latest chapter (he was well into the next one), and gently pat Wade’s shoulder. “It’s okay,” he said. “It’s probably just my agent.”

“Okay,” said Wade, gun not wavering in the slightest.

“That I should probably let in now,” hinted Peter.

“Sure.”

“Wade? Put the gun away.” The man blinked and obeyed and only then did Peter get up to let Ned in.

“You’ve really done it now,” Ned said as he came into the apartment. He fiddled with the edges of his scarf in agitation. “You’ve gone and upset the entire group! They’re calling for your head Peter!”

“And in doing so bring my books to the attention of whomever hasn’t heard of them yet,” Peter said as he walked over to the printer. He picked up the chapter and then walked back.

Ned came to a stop as he saw Wade, leaning against the couch with a book in his lap and the gun to his right. “Who are you?” he asked with a little trepidation.

“Ned, this is Wade, my new roommate. Wade this is Ned, my agent.”

Wade waved a single finger. “Hiyas,” he said cheerfully.

“Um. Hi.” Ned turned to Peter. “Where’d he come from?” he demanded.

Peter sighed. “I adopted him.”

“What?”

“Well, he was on the side of the road with a sign that said, ‘Adopt Me,’ so I did,” Peter explained.

“Peter,” sighed Ned as he rubbed his eyes under his glasses, “you can’t just take random people home. It’s irresponsible. It’s—what’s this?”

Peter grinned as Ned finally took notice of the typing paper. “My latest chapter,” he said smugly. “Unless, you don’t want it?”

Ned glared at him before snatching the paper and beginning to read. His expression quickly changed as he flipped through the pages. “Ugh! What? Oh…” The muttering sounded almost similar to Wade’s muttering as he flipped through The Spider books. “Holy shit!” Ned whirled to look at Peter. “For real?”

Peter smiled. “See what happens when I’m not lonely?” he asked mildly.

Ned turned to Wade. “I’m sorry for every bad thing I thought about you,” he said earnestly.

“Uh—”

“I see you have a gun, do you know how to use it?”

Wade was clearly on firmer ground. “Guns, knives, swords—if it can kill people I can use it.”

“Excellent,” said Ned with satisfaction before jerking a thumb towards Peter. “That idiot pissed off the head of Parents First this morning.”

Wade, to Peter’s surprise, winced. “That bitch?” he asked.

Ned reached over and pat Wade’s shoulder. “I’m counting on you to keep him alive. The new book must be published.”

“Hey!” protested Peter.

“I will do my best,” said Wade. “What? No, I wouldn't do that!”

Ned sighed. “Only you, Pete. Only you.”

***

After Peter left to go do Author things (it’s just an interview—they’re not going to tie me to a stake and watch me burn on live television unless the stake and flames are metaphorical Wade, and I can handle that) Wade decided to take it upon himself to make sure that his new bestie didn’t get killed.

[I’m not sure you can call the two of you “besties.”]

{He certainly doesn’t seem to have a lot of self-preservation. In one day he pissed off one of the most dangerous fanatical non-religious groups in the world and took us home with him. It’s almost like he wants to die.}

Wade frowned as he paused outside his old haunt, back in gear. Did Peter have a death wish? No, the guy was too happy for that—but he did seem rather lonely. Wade shrugged. He was just going to have to make sure that Peter wasn’t lonely, that was all. He waltzed into the bar and ducked as several knives were thrown at him. “Oh! Mean!” he complained as he made his way to the bar. “Gosh,” he said as he levered himself into a stool, “you’d think that people wanted to kill me!”

Weasel, the bartender, snorted. “Everyone wants to kill you Wade,” he said calmly as he filled someone’s liquor order before putting the glass on a tray for the waiter to take to a table. “It’s just that no one can.”

Wade nodded. “True that,” he agreed as Weasel slapped a beer in front of him.

“New micro-brewer,” he said. “I’m thinking of signing a contract with ‘em.” Wade made a show of tasting the beer by taking a sip and swishing it from cheek to cheek, even going so far as to gargle with it. “And?” asked Weasel.

Wade burped. “Tastes like beer.”

“Fuck you Wade.” Weasel calmly continued to make drinks. “Heard Nate threw you out. Surprised you didn’t come crash on my couch like usual.”

[I know I keep saying the whole thing with Peter is a bad idea, but not crashing with Weasel was a good one.]

{Why didn’t we kill the ex again?}

[Because Wade has limits, and he’s one of them.]

Wade ignored the voices as he glanced up at the bounty board. Most places had a digital website. Weasel insisted that was too easy to hack, hence the blackboard. (Everyone else called him cheap.) There, at the top of the list, was the name Peter Parker. The bounty was, of course, insanely huge.

Wade hummed before he grinned at Weasel. “Well,” he said brightly, “I got tired of people not wanting to see me, so I got a cardboard box and wrote ‘adopt me’ on it!”

“Sounds like the crazy kind of shit you’d do,” admitted Weasel calmly. “Then what?”

“Then someone did!” said Wade cheerfully. “A sweet, innocent little guy named Peter.”

Weasel paused in what he was doing. “Wade—” he said half in warning, half in fear.

“Peter Parker,” continued Wade. The bar was suddenly silent as he kept talking. “And if anyone,” he sang, “tries to lay a hand on that sweet, naive piece of ass, I will destroy theirs with a cheese grater.” A soft snort got his attention and he turned to look at the young woman at the bar next to him.

[Oh. My. God. Is that who I think it is?]

{Kill her! She’s after Peter!}

Karen Wishstone. The weirdest, strangest person he’d ever met. She was almost invisible—until she wasn’t. Her skill set would have made her a good assassin if she hadn’t made it a point not to kill.

{Oh! You think The Spider was based on her?}

Weasel sighed. “What are you doing here, Karen?” he asked warily.

Karen rolled her eyes as she swished the liquid in her bottle around lazily. “Relax Weasel,” she ordered. “I’m just in town to visit friends, and I thought I’d take a look at the bounty board while I’m here. See if there’s anything small to Stalk while I’m in town.”

“And?” demanded Weasel warily.

She held out placating hands. “It’s all too grand for me. This isn’t my town.”

[She could be lying. You know what they say about her. The first you know she’s there is when you wake up in Retrieval.]

{Kill her!}

Wade paused. Everyone knew that Karen was so good at what she did because no one saw her coming. If someone knew she was in town, that person was safe. “How do you feel about meeting my roomie?” he asked.

“Peter Parker?” she asked. He nodded. “The writer?” He nodded again. She sighed. “I’m not sure he’d want to see me,” she told him. “Last time I was in town we didn’t—exactly part on the best of terms.”

[Wait. She knows Peter?]

{I don’t like that she doesn’t want to see him. Can we kill her now? Please?}

“Why don’t I ask?” Wade thought the request was reasonable, but was checking to see how she took it.

To his surprise she seemed to mull it over. Then she smiled. “Okay,” she said. “Let me know what he says. I’m sure Weasel here’s already found out what hotel I’m at, how long I’m booked to stay, and where my dog is.”

Weasel doesn’t deny it. “I still haven’t forgotten what happened the last time you were in town,” he growled.

“And if you had proof that was my fault; I would be banned,” said Karen with a grin and a salute of her bottle.

***

Peter tried not wince as Wade mentioned Karen. He remembered the last time the two of them met. It certainly could have gone worse—but not by much. He looked over where Wade was shredding lettuce for their tacos. “I remember Karen,” he said evenly.

Wade chuckled. “Yeah,” he said, “that’s how she said you’d react, but I thought you’d want to see the person who inspired you to write The Spider.”

Peter paused. “You know I wrote that?” he asked looking at Wade in surprise. His name wasn’t the one on the spine of the books.

Wade instantly looked bashful. “Well—it fits,” he said nervously.

Peter grinned. “I’m shocked,” he said. He gave a low, happy hum as he sliced the olives. “You’re the first one to figure I wrote them,” he said. “I don’t think Ned even knows.”

“Who publishes them?” asked Wade as he grabbed a block of cheese and began to scrape it against the grater.

“Same people,” admitted Peter. “They’ve just never met me, as the author of The Spider. As far as they know the author of those books is a weirdo freak that always mails in his manuscripts.” He paused. “Actually, from listening to the gossip opinions seem pretty split on whether the author is male or female.” He reached over for some of the cheese and his hand brushed Wade’s.

Peter wasn’t sure what he was expecting—but it wasn’t Wade’s reaction. The man paled between his scars and then flung himself in a corner as he tried to use his shirt to cover all his exposed bits of skin. “Wade?” he asked as he looked at the shivering figure in confusion.

“—rry. Sorry,” whimpered Wade.

“What?” asked Peter. He gentled his voice as he turned off the stove burner before going over to Wade and crouching by him. “For what?” he asked softly, gently.

“Know it’s bad,” Wade whispered.

“Wade?” Peter reached out and the other man flinched. He paused, not certain of what the best thing to do was. His instincts told him to comfort the man—but how? He reached out a little further and rested his palm—gently—on Wade’s scarred cheek. “Wade? Are you okay?” Wide, frightened eyes looked up at him. “Did I hurt you? I’m sorry, Wade.”

Wade blinked as tears began to roll down his cheeks. Suddenly he threw himself into Peter’s lap, gripping the smaller man as though he was about to disappear. Peter, hoping he was doing the right thing, gently rubbed Wade’s back. “It’s all right,” he soothed. “See? Everything is all right.”

“…not,” Wade’s voice was soft, fragile—hurting.

The change in attitude bothered Peter more than he let on. He kept rubbing Wade’s back as Wade pressed his face into Peter’s stomach. “Everything is all right.”

“Sorry, I’m sorry,” said Wade a little more clearly. He held Peter just a little tighter.

“For what?” asked Peter. Wade mumbled something. Peter could only make out a single word. “Wade? What’s disgusting?”

“Me,” whined the man.

If Peter hadn’t been on the floor already, if he hadn’t been holding Wade, he would have stumbled in shock. What had happened to make this cheerful, happy man think so little of himself? Peter’s mind flashed back to finding Wade on the street with the cardboard sign. He should have asked more.

“Wade,” said Peter gently, “you’re not disgusting.”

“I am,” cried Wade. Peter was startled to see that the larger man was actually crying. “Disgusting, revolting, horrifying.”

“No,” protested Peter. He stroked the back of Wade’s head, fingers running along the scarred tissue. Wade didn’t even look up. “You’re not,” Peter said again.

Wade gave a dry, broken laugh. “I know what I look like,” he said bitterly.

Peter’s heart broke for the man. “Hey, Wade. Look at me. Hey,” he said as he pushed Wade’s head up to force the man to look at him. “Look at me. I don’t think you’re disgusting. I don’t think you’re revolting.” He snagged one of Wade’s hands and interlaced their fingers together. “You’re wonderful just the way you are,” he said firmly.

Wade looked into Peter’s eyes and the smaller man would swear he was trying to find the lie in the words. Suddenly he chuckled—but it sounded at lot less broken. “You must be blind,” he said wearily.

“No,” argued Peter firmly. He pressed a gentle kiss to the top of Wade’s head. “I just see better than other people,” he said. As Wade slowly calmed down Peter wondered: just who had taught the man to hate himself so badly?

He also wondered if he had enough to put a hit out on the person responsible.

***

“So this is where you get off to.” Peter turned, not particularly surprised to see Karen behind him. She shrugged. “Between books.”

“Karen,” he said warily as he faced one of two people who knew all his secrets. He wasn’t worried about it; Karen probably knew everyone’s secrets. She didn’t talk much.

Karen pat the seat of the bench next to her. “Have a seat. Jogging isn’t going to help,” she added knowingly.

About to ask how she knew he was trying to jog some sense into what happened with Wade, Peter sighed. She’d never tell. And she might not even be talking about Wade. “What brings you to New York?” he asked as he took a seat.

“Seeing old friends. Meeting new ones. Watching a familiar idiot get a bounty of almost four million put on his head.”

Peter didn’t assume the sentences were unconnected. “No one’s going to Stalk me, Karen,” he said wearily.

She watched him from the corner of her eye. “No, they’re not. Wade got in front of the whole bar and told them all they’d have to go through him to get you.” She chuckled. “No one can get past Wade, so it doesn’t matter how big the bounty gets; no one will be willing to try.”

“Wade did?” asked Peter. He felt a confusing combination of flattered and worried.

“Wade has his own secrets,” Karen said simply. She looked at him. “You might consider sharing some of yours. He’s one of three people who won’t judge you about what happened, Peter.”

Peter snorted. “You don’t judge me.”

“I don’t count.” When Peter opened his mouth to protest she added, “I don’t count, because you don’t care what I think.” She smiled—small, knowing. “You care what he does.” She stood up. “Keep it in mind,” she advised before walking off.

Peter sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose to stave off a headache. There was really no point in asking more questions of Karen. Not only was she gone, but she wouldn't answer. He’d have to figure out what she meant on his own.

***

Wade was worried. It was one thing for Peter to be okay with seeing his skin on a daily basis—

[The horror show that it is.]

—but it was another for the guy to actually have to touch it.

{Why do you think he was apologizing? It wasn’t his fault our hands touched.}

[Because Peter’s a nice guy and we were upset. That’s the only reason he said we weren’t disgusting to touch.]

{How far do you think that niceness goes? I mean, he did kiss us.}

[On the FOREHEAD Yellow. The same place parents use to check if their kids are running a fever.]

“Yo, Wade!” impact to the back of the head made it impossible to ignore. He turned to see—Karen?

“What’s up duck?” asked Wade curiously.

She rolled her eyes. “You wanted to introduce me to your author friend,” she reminded him.

[Didn’t she say that wouldn't go well?]

“I thought you said he wouldn't want to see you,” said Wade.

“One way to find out,” said Karen as she poked him again. “So? Where do the two of you lovebirds live?” she asked.

Wade and the boxes sputtered. “They’re—we’re not lovers!” he protested.

“And I’m not a spine,” said Karen agreeably.

{… Was that supposed to make sense?}

“I don’t understand,” complained Wade as he walked towards the condo building.

“Clearly. Have you told Author Boy what you do for a living yet?”

{Tell the writer of those sweet little books that we kill people for a living? I don’t think that would go over well.}

[I hate to agree with Yellow, but why don’t we kill this bitch?]

“Because I’d kill you and then disappear while you were fixing yourself,” she said calmly.

Wade paused. That was new. “You didn’t use to be able to hear the boxes,” he said slowly.

She shrugged. “I didn’t used to be able to do a lot of things. Now hurry up; my time in New York is coming to an end and I want to get this done.”

“You’re not Stalking Peter, are you?” asked Wade nervously as they entered the building.

“No, I’m applying the Hammer.”

“What?” They reached the condo and went inside.

Karen ignored him. “Hi, Peter,” she said calmly. She shut the door behind them, pulled a gun and blew Wade’s brains out.

***

Peter stared in shock before staring at her. “You don’t kill people!” he hissed shrilly.

She shrugged as she pocketed the gun again. “And I didn’t,” she replied calmly. “But this was taking too long.” She met his eyes as wet noises began to emanate from Wade’s prone body. “Both of you have secrets, Peter. It’s time to tell them.”

“Holy fucking shit-turds!” snarled Wade as his head visibly knit back together. “That hurt.”

Karen gave him a nudge with her foot. “Stop whining,” she advised him. “We both know you’ll be fine.”

“That hurt!”

“And you were dithering. I don’t have much time left in New York. And now,” she added firmly, “that the Hammer has been properly applied, I have a woman to see about a dog. Oh,” she said pausing before she opened the door, “there’s a chance the woman responsible for the bounty on your head might be dead tomorrow. Do with that what you will.” She turned and left.

Peter, watching the man he had just watched die get up from the floor and start muttering about bloodstains, collapsed to the couch. “What?” he asked, confused.

Wade began pacing. When Peter could see his back he could see that the back of the other man’s head was literally knitting itself together before his eyes. “No, that’s a terrible idea!” Wade complained as he rubbed hands over his head in agitation. “He’ll hate us!”

And again, Peter’s heart broke for the man. He got up, got into Wade’s way, and hugged the larger man. “I won’t hate you,” he promised.

“Peter, you can’t say that,” Wade protested. Despite his words his arms went around the smaller man and Peter quickly hugged him back. “You don’t know.”

“Then tell me,” Peter challenged. “Tell me everything.”

Wade took a deep breath. “After the Dark War,” he began, “my unit was called for some—some experiments.”

Peter could feel how Wade was shaking. “What kind of experiments?” he asked.

“They said they could make me unkillable. Impossible to defeat. Immortal.” He clutched Peter tighter. “I was young and stupid and didn’t ask—” He took several deep breaths as Peter began rubbing the man’s back, trying to soothe him. “It was—I’ll just say it was Hell. Every step of the way and when it ended—when it ended I looked like this.” Suddenly Wade gave a dry, broken laugh, eerily similar to the one he’d voiced before. “I killed them all,” he admitted flatly, no emotion coloring his voice. “But—I was trapped like this. Forever.”

“Oh, Wade.” Peter pressed his face into the man’s chest, feeling the rough scars beneath the thin fabric of the shirt. “I’m sorry you feel trapped,” he said softly. “I’m glad you’re here,” he added.

Wade hugged him tighter and pressed his face into the crook of Peter’s neck. “You’re the only one who’s ever said that,” he admitted.

***

[I can’t believe he’s still here.]

{I can’t believe we’re still here. The stick boy didn’t kick us out! We don’t have to crash with Weasel and hope the bastard forgives us!}

[We should kill him.]

{That’s what I’ve been saying!}

No, Wade thought firmly, careful not to speak. Peter had (miraculously) fallen asleep in Wade’s arms. He couldn't remember the last time anyone had. Peter was a lot of firsts for Wade. The first to purely enjoy his company, without any monetary incentives. (Even the ex had demanded partial payment of Wade’s bounties—but Peter didn’t care.) The first to make someone else happy to see him. (He still remembered the happy, accepting look on the agent’s face after thinking that Wade was a danger to Peter to realizing he would protect Peter.

{The first not to think we’re disgusting.}

Yellow seemed to be coming to like Peter just as much as Wade was. As much as Wade did.

[There is something seriously wrong with this man. We should never leave.]

Wade blinked. Those two statements didn’t seem to mesh. Before he could try to interrogate White, Peter stirred gently. “I’ve got an idea,” the smaller man said.

“What is it?” asked Wade curiously.

“Wade, exactly what happens when a bounty is brought in to Retrieval?”

[I take it back. Ditch him. Ditch him now. This is a bad idea!]

“Why?” asked Wade curiously.

Peter shifted his head so that he could grin up at Wade. “Because I’ve got an idea,” he said smugly.

***

Peter grinned as he looked around the noisy, messy room. There was a high number of corpses, but that was to be expected. People were watching the two of them warily, but that was also to be expected. After all, it wasn’t every day that the most famous (notorious) Stalker in New York brought a living bounty into Retrieval. Even rarer that the bounty and the Stalker were flirting.

The woman working the desk sighed. “Deadpool,” she said wearily, “what are you doing?”

Peter looked at the costumed man next to him with curiosity, which was fairly normal, and no fear—which, given people’s reactions, was not normal. “Deadpool?” he asked his red leather-clad friend.

“Aw it’s—it’s just a nickname,” Wade said bashfully.

The woman at the desk snorted. “He,” she said pointing at the Stalker, “once filled a pool with dead bodies. Claimed he wanted to see if it really was possible to fill a pool with blood.”

“They deserved it!” protested Wade as he remembered the incident.

“What happened?” asked Peter curiously.

Wade stilled completely for a moment. “Something bad,” he said grimly. “Trust me—death was the least they deserved.”

“They were traffickers,” the woman at the desk explained. “I don’t know the full details, but Deadpool here killed them all, piled them into the dry pool at one of their homes, and got his moniker.”

Peter nudged Wade with his shoulder. “So you were protecting people,” he said.

“Kind of. Maybe. Almost?” said Wade. “They just—all three of us were really pissed off.”

All three of them. Wade and the two voices in his head, White and Yellow. Peter leaned against his friend again. He couldn't see through the mask that the other man was wearing, but he was willing to bet that he was nervous. He wanted Wade to know that it was okay, that Peter wasn’t going to abandon him.

And, once again, Peter felt a surge of rage at whomever had.

His musings were interrupted as a woman, the woman, sauntered over to where they were. He could tell, from the smug look on her face, that she was expecting to be identifying his corpse. She was about to be in for a big shock; it was high time she learned that the world wasn’t hers to run. Peter was more than happy to be instrument teaching that particular lesson.

The woman came to a shocked stop as she looked at Peter, still breathing, sitting on the bench next to one of the most infamous Stalkers in the city—maybe, if what the woman at the desk had been hinting at all afternoon was correct, the world. Her eyes began to narrow and she opened her mouth to speak.

Peter spoke first. “Hi,” he said brightly, in the over-the-top tone that most people (stupid people) used on small children and animals. “I’m Peter. This is my boyfriend, Wade,” he said gesturing to the costumed man to his right. Wade froze again. Calling him a boyfriend hadn’t been part of the plan, and Peter would figure out if he’d offended the man later. Right now the problem was that he had to do something about this woman. Peter stood up and put his hands in his pockets as he rocked from the balls to the heels of his feet. “You know, he told me that someone had put my name on the Bounty Board and you know what I said? I said, ‘Why don’t you collect it, Wade?’ And here we are.” Peter gestured to the Retrieval warehouse that they were in. “And you know what? Each and every single time that someone puts my name on that board, we’ll be here. So he can collect his payment.”

He knew; of course he knew, that it was impossible to insist that the person on the board being brought in be dead when they arrived. She knew, and he knew that she knew, that he now had a plan in place for when that happened to him. She couldn't use the Bounty Board to kill him.

She paled, paid, and left.

Wade and Peter left shortly after, giving her a little bit of a head start on them (they didn’t want to risk running into her). Wade walked in uncharacteristic silence for a moment. “You called me your boyfriend,” he said softly.

Peter peered up at him. He wished that Wade wasn’t wearing his mask; he would like to see the expression on his face. “Do you mind?” he asked anxiously. “If you do, we don’t have to—”

“Mind?” asked Wade. He hugged Peter close. “Of course I don’t mind! I’d love to be your boyfriend!”

Peter grinned and hugged back. A slight tingle of his spine had him throwing the two of them to the side as a large fist slammed into the ground where they’d been. Wade leaped away and pulled one of his swords (was that one of the things that had been in the duffel bag?) as Peter ducked another punch and landed on a tree.

The man glared at Wade. “I see you’re keeping busy,” he snarled.

“Had to leave,” said Wade.

Peter frowned. Wade didn’t sound happy, or quippy, or sarcastic—but defeated. He glared at the large man. Was this the reason why Wade had been on the street in the first place? Why he’d been so terrified of being touched?

The man opened his mouth to growl something—and his face went slack as he suddenly toppled over. Karen popped out of the bushes behind him and pulled a dart out of the man’s butt. “You still don’t have any survival sense,” she said calmly as she tied the large man up. A puppy, it looked young but came up to her knees, danced out of the bushes and towards them, yapping. “He’s been following the two of you since you left the condo this morning. Probably thought now would be a good time to make a move.” She tightened the leather restraints.

Peter looked at her. “Being a hammer again, Karen?” he asked. He still wasn’t entirely certain what she’d meant by that.

“No,” she said absently as the puppy danced around the man as if it was showing off a kill. “If I was, I’d point out to your shiny new boyfriend there how you’re sticking to the side of an oak tree by your hands and feet.”

A chill rushed through Peter’s veins as he realized that she was right. The danger had been familiar and the move so natural that he hadn’t even thought twice about it. Of course not. Why would he? He hadn’t been in that position for a long time now. He turned wide eyes to Wade to see the whites of the mask staring at him. He assumed Wade was looking at him behind the mask, but he wasn’t sure.

Especially since Wade addressed Karen. “So—are you taking him to Retrieval? What do you get out of it?”

Karen turned to grin at the two of them as the dog lifted a leg and peed on the unconscious man’s face. “Bragging rights,” she said smugly. “I was in the bar last night, trading verbal spars with Weasel, when this idiot came in bragging about how no quote, ‘prissy little bitch who can’t even properly kill’ could get him.” She wrapped the man’s legs with another leather strip. “Best part is, I won’t even have to stay in town. No one in that bar will let him forget it—he might even end up infamous on the ‘net if he’s not lucky.”

“And you hope he’s not lucky,” said Wade with insight.

Karen looked up at them again and Peter could see the amusement glinting in her eyes. “He’s an ass,” she said bluntly before pulling something from her pocket. It unrolled into a contraption with wheels and she maneuvered the large man (almost twice her size) onto it. The puppy jumped onto the body and sat, wagging its tail.

“Who’s the dog?” asked Peter as he climbed down from the side of the tree.

“Brucie. I’m training him to replace Brutus.”

“Ah—”

“He retired.” She grabbed a handle of the folding wagon and then waved at the two of them. “Nice to see you got your relationship stuff sorted out. Have fun you crazy kids.” She pulled the wagon and left.

Wade waved back and, without turning to look at Peter again, asked, “You—do you want to talk about it?” The words were tentative.

Peter sighed. It looked like it was his turn to talk about his past. “Wade I—you know The Spider?”

“Yeah?”

“Well, he wasn’t based on Karen.” There was a moment of silence and Peter sighed again. He wondered if Wade would decide to leave after this revelation. Not that Peter could blame him. “Everything in the books are true.”

“So, there really was an evil scientist trying to recreate the Dark War?”

Peter winced. He’d looked up to Norman as a father for years and it still hurt to hear the man called that. Norman hadn’t been evil—but he had been insane. “Yeah,” he said wearily. “When—when it all happened I had to write it down. I changed the names,” he added. He hadn’t thought changing the names would be enough to fool people—but he’d been wrong. “And I wanted everyone to know what had happened so I pulled three jobs and paid to get the first three volumes published. Everything after that was older stuff, remembered stuff.”

“Oh.” Wade sidled a little closer to Peter. “Are we—are we still boyfriends?” he asked.

Peter looked at the larger man and then smiled. “Only if you want to be,” he said with a smile.

***

No one knew why Deadpool suddenly joined The Spider on his adventures in the world of fiction. And, unlike his Stark novels and despite Deadpool’s attitude, they were still made for children. They were also, to no one’s surprise, popular.

#Spider-Man #Deadpool #Spideypool #Stalkers

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transvavsquad · 4 years

Text

he doesn’t do it that night.

there’s no reason for him not to, of course. the darkness urges him gently that it should be fine, but when he uncorks the bottle, the smell washes over him and crashes down like a tidal wave and makes him sick to his stomach. it’s not bad. it’s just- strong. a lot of magic. a lot, and he’s not used to that.

so he puts it off. the darkness concedes, almost... ashamed. the cat on his shoulders chirps, and presses it’s cold nose against his temple before nuzzling downwards and purring.

that night, the darkness explains it will be back again soon enough, but without a true champion, it can’t stay. it will wait for him in the mirror realm. it knows his words, his choice. he doesn’t have to tear himself away from her. it’ll just be the potion. just the potion, and then it’s an instant switch, and the pain all blends together.

but when he wakes up that morning he finds his beacon flickering like his grief. the sadness is gone replaced by a burning anger, sharp and piercing and twisting whatever upset he still held in his heart. in a week, the gods will be coming to meet them again.

so jordan takes a deep breath, and steels himself, and becomes apathetic to what’s happening. lets tom make the jokes, throw it in his face- two ianitees, now, jor-dahn. they all laugh along but jordan just feels hollow. dec watches him carefully, as the week passes, but he never asks.

direct lies are hard, but he never needs to do it.

at the end of the week, the gods are in the trial house. dec stands in the front, but to the side, and the three of them come in, tom and karl in front of him, the cat around his neck, and something sitting neatly in his pocket, his hand curled around it.

whatever they’re talking about escapes him. he thinks it has to do with the sudden disappearance of the darkness, but he spaces out the whole time, figuring out the wording, keeping himself calm. biting his lip and the inside of his cheek. the cat purrs low beneath the din of noise. every time she speaks, his hands clench at his sides, and he swallows thickly.

“captain,” ianite asks, eventually. “your thoughts?”

“my thoughts,” he says after a long pause, and he’s glad to know his voice doesn’t shake. “you’ve spent how long ignoring me, and now you want to know. my thoughts.”

“jordan-” dec warns, but he cuts him off with a bitter laugh.

“no! no. no, if you want my thoughts, i’ll give them to you- i think this is bullshit. i think it’s utter fucking bullshit that after all of this, i’m nothing to you. i don’t care if you don’t know who i am, you know what i’ve done, for your other selves, for every one of you that i’ve met. i know you do, because one of them showed you every single bit. and i knew then i was nothing to her as well.”

“jordan, mate,” karl says with a hesitant chuckle. “i don’t know if-”

“no, karl,” jordan cuts him off, “you don’t know. you have not been a part of this long enough to know. tom has! and tom doesn’t give a fucking shit about it either!”

tom looks distraught, horrified. “i didn’t realize-”

“bullshit.” jordan says in a voice that doesn’t quite feel like his own. the cat on his shoulder flicks it’s tail, but is smug, sharp eyed with slit pupils.

“captain,” dianite says, eyes wide and sharp. “what are you doing?”

he grimaces in the mock shape of a grin, broken and angry and vengeful, his heart racing. “can’t you guess,” he says, and now his voice is shaking, nervous and prepared for what’s coming. “it’s not so hard. it’s been a long time coming. hell, you’ve been advocating for it for years.”

“jordan, wait-” declan gasps, already stepping forwards- because he knows, doesn’t he, what’s coming?

“i renounce my bond to ianite, and swear by every living and dying being in all worlds, i mean it to be true.”

the pain comes instantly.

of course he expected it, of course he knew it would hurt, but gods, he’s been hurting for so long, so why should he care? he does of course he does holy shit holy shit holy shit

every fiber of his being is ripped apart, split in two, frayed at the edges like lightning strikes across the skin. he wouldn’t be surprised if he had the scars from a smiting spreading over his arms and back, pale and bright against him, a reminder of what he’d done. and this is why he knows tom’s confession had been a lie, because you do not split from your god so easily, you do not simply give them up. a champion pays a price both ways, gives and receives, and the ties that bind are meant to be eternal. it takes a lot to become a champion. it takes a lot to prove yourself to a god, so why would you ever want to leave them?

the world is in shattered glass, stained and shining and brightbrightbright. and still he stands, rooted, unflinching- years of service and connections snapping like bowstrings pulled too taught, like arrows splitting arrows on perfect bullseyes. he knows she feels it too- not as strongly, never as strongly, but she will feel it, and knowing her, she won’t let it show. a stumble, perhaps, but nothing beyond that, he’s sure.

when his vision clears again, every person in the building is staring, wide-eyed and scared, worry and concern and terror etched into their expression. dec steps forward first, hands up and placating, careful, careful, like jordan’s some broken, lost pet.

“easy, jordan,” dec says, careful and quiet. “you just did something... incredibly serious, mate. you may want to sit down.”

jordan reaches up and wipes the blood from his nose and eyes, flicking it off to the side, smearing it down his once white shirt, because now he realizes there’s a purple stain dripping where his heart is, vibrant and dark, and it reminds him of the taint, almost.

“oh, don’t worry,” jordan says, and has to spit the blood from his mouth, too. he can only imagine how horrific he must look, on death’s door, but he sure as fuck isn’t knocking yet, and he pulls out the little glass bottle, and uncorks it. “i’m not done yet.”

everyone shouts and roars in shock, but it’s too late. down the fucking hatch.

this hurts, too, but nowhere near as bad, because while this feels like drowning, he’s done that before, and this is, in essentially, a healing potion too. he never willingly made that first connection with his lady, and assumed he had been born for it, and maybe, he thinks, maybe that’s why it hurt so much.

this is a sharp, chilling cold against the warmth of his own tingling skin, the fire of frayed nerves soothed by iced magic, and it’s followed by something thick in his blood that hums with an energy he’s felt before, making his heart beat heavy and his ears ring. when he blinks, he sees the void, and again, the mirror realm, and again, the taint in ruxomar, and again, ianite’s dissolve, and again, tucker being controlled, and again, crashing into the ocean off the edge of the an empty island.

once more.

his friends, home. safe. just before their final fight. at ease. at peace. together.

once more.

his lady. his. lady. not spark’s. not this- child.

His Lady.

he screws his eyes shut, and lets them dissipate, and opens his eyes to the room. everyone looks horrified, and he can’t help but smile- smile at their shock, their anger. at the way the aura around him is still purple, but glaring against the pitch of the energy that now surrounds every inch of his being, a thick smoke rising from the floor, swirling around him like snakes, twisting through his legs like cats, and he laughs, incredulous and delighted.

and someone echoes back.

everyone’s gaze flickers to the figure climbing in the smoke behind jordan as they curl their claws over his shoulder, the cat now sitting proudly on the other, and they chuckle in response to the horror they all show.

jordan can only keep his eyes on her.

“now,” the darkness says, and jordan feels a tug in his gut like the ones he feels with chorus fruit and ender pearls, and steels himself for a landing.

“now we truly begin.”

and then, in an instant-

they are gone.

#writing #for nerf house! we about to have a GOOOOD TIME

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tbhwhocaresanymore · 4 years

Text

Nancy Drew 1x18, Season Finale

One. These writers really are trying their damnedest to make me like Owen Marvin even after death and I’m sorry but it’s just not going to happen.

Two. Carson and Kate kept Nancy’s parentage a secret for 19 years, my girl can’t even keep it a secret for 24 hours. Just saying.

Three. I’m about to fangirl so hard over Hannah Gruen if you don’t understand why pick up literally any one of the Nancy Drew books and you’ll get there pretty quickly.

HANNAH GRUEN. Okay I am obsessed with this keeper storyline. What are they, what is she, how are they chosen, what happened to her hands? The previous keeper apparently had records of some kind so now I’m picturing either a massive wall of filing cabinets or something a la the Book of Shadows from Charmed. Whatever comes of it I need to see more of this character. Hopefully Carson decides to start volunteering at the historical society and she starts popping up more often. First Victoria and now Hannah, these writers really did bring back two out of my three favorite females right in time for this season to end didn’t they.

This show really does have a condensed storyline though like when Lisbeth said think back over the past few days like each episode really does take place over the course of like 24 hours don’t they. At least with this episode we once again got all of the main five working in unison. That seance at the beginning, holy fuck. First the writers continue to surprise me by taking seemingly meaningless things and making them important. Owen knocking over that ghost trap becoming the thing they used to try to contact him? MY GOD. And I would like to see those things actually work one of these days.

Ryan Hudson. Him showing up at the beginning, hesitant and calling Nancy his daughter, saying he was just trying to do right by her. Nancy saying all the women in his lief end up messed up or dead and shutting the door on him. God it gave me so many feelings. And then later George yelling at him about how he made her okay with being a dirty little secret was so cathartic and props to Leah Lewis because she delivered. I only wish it had maybe come earlier in the season before I was so attached to his character and before he became so tragic. Like at this point being awful to Ryan feels kind of like kicking a puppy. BUT before anyone comes for me, I do agree with every single thing George said and have wished for her to say it multiple times. I just wish she’d said it earlier. And speaking of George her storyline with Nick was just so sweet this episode. Her callback to being the girl you keep a secret, not the girl you take to dinner, and him saying he’ll make some reservations. Cavity levels of sweetness. Regardless of how sweet they are I continue to root for Nancy and Nick. Him telling Ace to keep an eye on her? AAAAAAAAAAAAAH.

BUT THEY KEEP BRINGING UP THAT BUCKET CURSE LATELY. I’m happy they’re not just dropping it but also it is giving me so much anxiety. Like I'm worried now the original season finale would have involved George dying/almost dying or something like that. Believe you me we have not seen the last of the bucket curse.

Moving on, you know what I’m doing right now? Kicking myself. I am kicking myself so hard because in my 1x17 review I wanted to say that maybe Joshua put the nails in Carson’s tires to try and trap him and kill him. Granted that probably didn’t happen but I would’ve called Joshua being back so I would’ve been partly right. And somehow I keep forgetting that Nancy is related to all of these people not just Lucy. Like when she was talking to Patrice it wasn’t until Nancy said she was Lucy’s daughter that I realized “oh shit this is her grandma.” I’d like to see them get a chance to bond a little, but of course as soon as it happens is when Patrice will die because all the writers do is torture their characters. (And it’s awesome.)

We’re going to skip back to the seance because I write these things in a very stream of consciousness fashion. Ugh, these writers have such a gift for making everything so beautifully creepy. I had to go back and pause like five different times to get a good look at the Aglaeca. She looks like a scabbed over mummified mermaid guys. It was horrifying. The whole house jolting. The gang holding onto each other’s hands even as they’re terrified. Ace announcing "Somebody’s here. Somebody big.” The slow rattling of the cups. I got chills. Although I am curious, since the Aglaeca had nothing to do with Owen’s death, why didn’t she want them talking to him? And I want to see a Dead Lucy vs Aglaeca showdown. Maybe the Aglaeca comes for Nancy and Lucy goes all Molly Weasley on her ass, “Not my daughter you bitch,” and ghostly tackles her. It won’t happen but a girl can dream.

Seeing the tension in Lisbeth and Bess’s relationship this episode, I think Bess is going to get caught between the two. I don’t think she’ll spy on Lisbeth though, I think they’ll switch it up on us and Bess will be a mole in the Marvin family. Maybe finding out what happened to the Aglaeca (since clearly the Marvins did something to her) will be what triggers it. (But they’ll make us think Bess is spying on Lisbeth until they pull the rug out and reveal it was the other way around all along and Bess will text Lisbeth all happy like ‘be right over to celebrate’ or something only when she gets there Lisbeth will be DEAD. Ahem. Sorry, went down the rabbit hole for a second there. Moving on.) Get rid of the corrupt and take the rest of the family in a new direction. That being said the cousins Ivan and Cassidy cracked me up. Great comic relief. Though I don’t think we’ve seen the last of that Hall of Tragedies.

Last but not least, those portents at the end. Jesus Christ. If there’s something more ominous than watching doppelgängers of yourselves die in various awful fashions I don’t know what it is. Nick and George drowning, Bess burning alive, Ace hung by a meat hook, Nancy falling to her death on the bluffs like Lucy before her. Yow.

Real fast, I didn’t mention this either in my last review but since Bess got set on fire. Can we take a moment to appreciate the symbolism of Lucy dying in the water and Nancy and Ryan having their parent/child relationship being born in flames as they held hands over the fire? SYMBOLISM. My sophomore English teacher would’ve imploded.

God if this was planned to be episode 18 I can’t even imaging what they had in mind for the finale. I also can’t believe I have to wait until like at least September probably to see what happens next. Y'all had better stay in your fucking houses because I need this virus wrapped up ASAP.

#Nancy Drew #Nancy Drew cw #Bess Marvin #George Fan #Ned Nickerson #Ace #god he needs a last name #Lucy Sable #Dead Lucy #Aglaeca #clue in the captain's painting #Nancy Drew season finale

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marsupials-of-mars · 4 years

Text

Hounds

A gift for @cyanacity and her hounds AU!

Warning: gore

Chase grabbed the corner of the wall and swung into the hallway. His surroundings pulsed red and static hissed, drowning out his tinnitus. Between pulses of light it was dark, and every time he could see he did a head count. Shneep, JJ, Jackie. Shneep, JJ... where's Jackie? THERE. JJ, Shneep, Jackie.

His heart raced as he ran. They were lost, the halls twisted and warped and every turn sent them further into a labyrinth of red as the static grew, and the barking got louder. Chase could hardly think, as if the glitching was reaching into his brain and robbing him of his thoughts.

He looked around again. Shneep, Jackie... JJ?

Chase whipped his head around, but found not even the faintest sillohuete of...

"JAMESON?!" His voice was hoarse from panting and he gasped for breath after expelling so much. "JJ!?"

He didn't know what he was yelling for. JJ couldn't respond. Easy prey. A quick first course to pick off. They were being toyed with. Just like last time. When he was on his own. When he lost his...

His steps slowed. There was no use running. He couldn't go forever, and suddenly he knew, more strongly than he had ever known anything, that running was and never had been a viable option. The glitch just liked to watch them think that it was. He stopped.

"CHASE?!" Jackie grabbed Henrik's shoulder and whipped around to look at Chase, stood in the middle of the hall, turned to look the oncoming barking dead on. It grew louder. Deafening. Barks, whines, howls, noises bubbling up through the foam of frothing maws.

And they arrived. Chase watched as the tidal wave of hounds burst around the corner, crashing against the wall, sending some up the side with the momentum, clawing plaster before they tumbled back into the swell and rounded the corner.

Right before they reached him, he heard a whistle.

An eerie, static whistle which seemed to shift tones rapidly with each glitch, though prolonged. The dogs immediately stopped, as if there were an invisible wall five feet from Chase. Henrik and Jackie looked on with bated breath, fifteen feet ahead. The lights ceased to pulse and instead maintained the hall's ominous mood lighting.

"Aw, boo. My puppies prefer chasing their prey." The voice echoed through the hall. Another whistle, quicker, and the dogs parted down the middle like the Red See.

There he was, taking his sweet time, letting his hands trail over the nearby dogs' heads as he walked. At his touch, the dogs' pushed into his hand, whimpering when he passed them without a second glance.

"We're not going to run anymore." Chase crossed his arms, plastering a determined scowl across his face, trying to hide his terror and persistent tremors.

"Smart. When did you get so smart? Marv, can you believe this?" A small white cat stepped out from the sea of dogs, ruffled and covered in drool. It leapt onto the tallest dog's back and onto Anti's shoulder. Chase tried to catch his former friend's eye but he turned away, masking his shame by beginning to lick his paw. He wouldn't take his real form. That would require face to face confrontation of his wrongdoings. And he was far too much of a coward for that. Anti chuckled and ruffled his pet's fur, not ready to allow him any dignity. "So cute."

Chase ignored the traitor. "Where's Jameson?"

Anti looked around with mock bewilderment. He clicked his tongue. "JJ? Jameson? Where are you buddy? Oh, I know!" He beckoned a dog from the crowd. "This fella's a bloodhound, he'll find him." He smirked and his nose crinkled in hardly hidden malice. "Go on boy, find Jameson."

At his word, the dog launched off and bounded off into the sea of hounds, long, frantic nails scrabbling across the floor.

Excited barks rang out among the crowd and the bloodhound reemerged into the aisle, gripping an ankle in its jaws. It dragged Jameson up to Anti and dropped his leg at its master's feet.

"Good boy!" He grabbed JJ's vest and yanked him upright. As soon as Chase could see his face he could tell that it was tearstained and bloody. "Use your legs, puppet."

Jameson tried to stand, pushing himself up with one leg. He grasped his other thigh tightly; it was clear he couldn't stand. Anti rolled his eyes and flicked his fingers, catching JJ with materialized strings. He contorted his fingers expertly as if puppeteering a marionette, and JJ jerky followed his motions, one leg up, than the bad one. He winced at the pain, baring his teeth and clenching his eyes shut, but stood straight and attentive. As his hands left his leg, blood coursed down and coiled into his inner thigh. It originated from what Chase could only assume was a vicious bite from the rottweiler that stood nearby, on which Chase could now make out bloodied jowls.

"How did you already do all that?!" Jackie yelped from a few feet behind Chase. Chase hadn't noticed that they had made their way forward, still focused on the wound. He processed Jackie's words, "all that", which confused him until he noticed the glisten of blood, which shone from not only his friend's leg, but also his arm, his forehead, his ankle... bite marks of all shapes and sizes, and they were deep. The red lights made the darker red of the blood look almost black, like oil pooling on the ground.

"Oh, I didn't lay a finger on him. My dogs just get a little restless from time to time. Especially her. Don't you Stacy? Yes you do!" Anti praised the bloody rottweiler as if he were talking to a baby.

Chase, too astonished to process the familiar name, looked back up to Jamie's eyes. They were terrified and dull with pain, but he caught Chase looking at him. He darted his eyes quickly to Anti, still distracted, before quickly pounding a fist into an open palm, thumb extended, pleading.

"Ah! Jamie, Jamie, Jamie, what did we talk about? Quiet hands."

Jamie stiffened and crossed his hands against his chest, shaking his head frantically. Anti jerked his fingers and one hand was pulled away from JJ's body, fingers splayed.

"See lads, Jamie here agreed with me that puppets don't talk. And he knows how much it annoys me when he breaks his promise." As he spoke, he wound his wrist as if pulling in slack. JJ struggled to pull away but however effortless Anti made it seem, his will was unbeatable. In a moment, Jamie's trembling hand was positioned in plain view for everyone to see. Anti raised it up as if preparing for a magic trick. Instead, he let out a breif whistle.

In a fraction of a second, a sturdy German shepherd lunged forward and locked its jaws around Jamie's hand. He screamed silently, face contorted in agony. There was a chorus of cracks and pops as bones snapped, ligaments tore, and flesh was mangled. The Shepard shook its head, teeth piercing further until they met in the middle.

"JAMESON!" Chase choked the name out between horrified ramblings of "holy shit" and "fucking Christ". Jackie accompanied him but, rather than words, he let loose a chorus of visceral, gut-wrenching noises.

Henrik pushed past Jackie and ran forward. He had had enough. He reached out for Jamie but, before he could make contact, another dog tackled him to the ground. Strings of foam splattered across his face and across his bared teeth. It lunged for his throat but he rolled just in time, taking a pair of pearly husky jaws to the shoulder, where they dug in and stayed. He screamed through his teeth and kicked at the dog, the heel of his shoe knocking the wind from its ribs, but it still held strong.

Jackie's hero instincts finally kicked in and he ran to Henrik's aid, wrapping his arms around the husky's torso and yanking it off. It flailed its paws and whipped its head back and forth, jaws snapping in search of anything made of flesh. Jackie let out a war cry and threw it aside. It tumbled across the hardwood but quickly regained its footing with a panicked scrabble of claws. It growled and leapt, catching Jackie on the side of the neck as he reached down to assist Henrik.

Chase, now panicking and unsure what to do, stumbled forward toward the Shepard on Jamie's hand and took each side of it's jaw in his fists. He pulled, his biceps strained, but he managed to loosen its grip enough for Jamie to pull his hand out. The dog ran back into the crowd proudly gnawing on something, and it didn't take more than a glance back toward Jamie to realize that it had taken his index finger as a trophy.

Chase wasted no time wrapping his arms around Jamie and pulling him a few strides down the hall, away from Anti. He fell to the floor and wrapped around Jamie protectively, not daring to try anything else. He felt JJ trembling in his arms and could feel a mixture wet tears and blood soaking his shirt. He blocked out the barking and screaming. All he needed was to protect somebody, anybody, like he hadn't been able to the last time.

And as quickly as it began, it was over. Anti shouted something and everything fell still.

"Drop it!" Chase lifted his head to see Anti scolding the husky with Jackie's throat in its teeth. It released him and licked its teeth before hanging its head submissively. "It's no fun if you kill one of them. Shoo." The dog ran back into the pack with its tail tucked, the two others that had joined the brawl following after it.

Jackie held his neck and Henrik cradled his shoulder and kept one eye closed. They each had several bites and claw marks down their faces and arms, just beginning to fade from white to dark pink.

"How well did that go for everyone? Good job rescuing my puppet's hand, hope it was worth it."

Chase looked down at Jamie's hand, mangled, crushed, and missing a finger, then to the rest of the group, not much better off.

"Three for the price of one. Thanks for the impromptu show." Anti giggled, its tone shifting and warping into something indescribably inhuman. "Now for the main act."

He reached to his shoulder and grabbed Marvin (who had buried his face into the back of Anti's hair for the duration of the battle) by the scruff. He yowled and hissed sat the sudden manhandling, but quickly quelled the impulse when his eyes met Anti's. The demon grinned, fangs glinting in the red glow. He turned the cat to face the carnage and held him out at arms length.

Marvin's pupils dilated and his spine arched inward, legs pulling to his stomach and tail tucking between his legs. Chase could read feline body language. The traitor was terrified, horrified, and... guilty. Chase began to rethink what he'd assumed of his former friend.

"Okay kitty kitty, Since you've been so patient... how about you pick our new pet? I've been thinking we're due for a new one. Thought we could swing by and pick one up."

Chase blinked. What was he talking about? He scanned Marvin's face to glean any context. His ears fell back flat and his pupils shrank to slivers. His tail bushed. Bad signs.

"Come on Marv, you wouldn't waste my time, would you? This visit has already taken far longer than I hoped, what with all the running and the teaching of lessons. But I guess if you don't feel like picking, it could always just be you..."

Marvin flailed his paws and his tail waved wildly ass he craned his neck back to look at Anti's sly grin. He meowed as if trying to negotiate, but Anti just shook his head calmly and began to swing him back and forth by the scruff.

"Tick tock, tick tock, what'll it be?" Anti began to mumble as if thinking aloud as Marvin panicked. "I wonder what breed would fit you. Chihuahua? Fox terrier? Poodle? You are the flashy type aren't you..."

Marvin scanned the wounded group desperately, as if weighing options, pros and cons.

"Ten seconds. Ten. Nine."

Marvin yowled, overwhelmed by frustration and panic.

"Eight. Seven. Six."

Marvin was trembling, eyes flicking between the four, trying to spend a lifetime with each of them within a hundredth of a second at a time.

"Five. Four. Three. Two-"

"JACKIE!" The cat had spoken. He fell limp and his tail curled between his pathetic, limp kitten legs. Anti grinned and dropped him.

"Good choice."

A flash of light from the ground, and a caped man sat on his knees where the cat had fallen. He lifted his head, useless tears rolling down his face.

"I'm sorry Jackie. Everybody." It was barely audible, but Chase could hear it.

With a flick of Anti's wrist, two Bulldogs came bounding up to Jackie, each taking a shoulder. Weak from blood loss, he could hardly retaliate as he was dragged, limp and bloody, into the sea of slobbering canines.

"We'll be seeing you. Next time, don't try to run." The demon flashed a final toothy smile before turning and vanishing into the hounds as they all stood and began to run back to wherever they had come from, barking, howling.

The sounds grew fainter and fainter, until they were gone.

One less head to count.

#jacksepticeye #it's been so long since I've written anything ego related most of my stuff lately has been sanders sides so nice change of pace

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justheretobreakthings · 4 years

Text

Kings Over Aces - Chapter 5

(Previous Chapter) (Next Chapter)

Word Count: 4,442 (Total Word Count: 19,551) Read on AO3

Story Summary:

The Voltron Coalition has an alliance in the works with the resource-rich planet of Yuipra, and it’s the paladins’ job to keep on the king’s good side while the deal is made. That shouldn’t shouldn’t be too great a challenge; after all, they’ve courted plenty of planets before for the sake of alliances.

Unfortunately, things are made much more complicated when the king takes a special interest in Keith.

Chapter content warning for non-consensual touching and attempted rape.

For the first few moments after Olren straightened up from the ground, told the guards holding Keith to “prepare” him, and turned to sweep out of the garden, the guards hauling Keith to his feet to follow, he was numb. His head was spinning with too many thoughts, too much terror, to properly grasp onto any single thread, and the world around him seemed distant, unreal. The only thing coming more into focus was the sounds in his earpiece, the voices of his teammates that sounded almost as horrified as he felt. They all ran together in his ear, and he couldn’t distinguish one speaker from the other.

“Keith, Keith it’s okay, it’s going to be okay - ”

“Shiro, get in Red with me, it’s faster!”

“Holy shit, holy shit, holy - ”

“We’re on our way, just hold on!”

As he was led out of the garden and into the courtyard, Keith stumbled over his feet, nearly falling to the ground in his daze if weren’t for the guards on either side of him yanking him back upright and the one behind him giving him a rough shove and grunting, “Move.”

Somehow, that seemed to bring him back into focus, into full awareness of what was happening, what was about to happen. And he couldn’t let it. He just couldn’t. His team had been giving him reassurances, it seemed like they were on their way, but they’d have to make the trip down here and get into the palace and through the guards… by the time they reached him, he might be - Olren might already have -

He couldn’t wait for them. He had to get out of there now.

He let out a sudden yell, swinging his legs forward and bringing the heels back with all the strength he had in him. And either the blow was strong enough or he had sufficiently managed to take the guards by surprise, because their holds loosened. Not enough to drop him yet, but enough for him to yank his arms out of their grasp as he propelled himself off the guard behind him and leaped forward, sprawling across the stonework of the courtyard.

Panting, he scrambled to his feet, diving out of the way just in time before one of the guards snatched his ankle and running toward the opposite entryway. Olren had already gone in ahead of them, so it was a risk going back into the palace, but it was certainly better than going back into the guards’ hands, and he knew the way back to the main entry. If he was just fast enough, if he could just dodge anyone who tried to make a grab for him, he could make it.

On leaden legs he flew into the oncoming corridor, the clanking of the guards’ armor close behind him, shouting something, probably ordering him to stop, but it was drowned out both by the pounding of adrenaline, and Coran and Allura in his ear frantically assuring him that the others were on their way.

Keith kept his pace up until the next corner, where he was brought to a sudden and unceremonious halt when a quarterstaff came swinging into his gut. With a choked grunt, he doubled over, eyes watering at the form of yet another guard standing before him. This one must have been patrolling the halls, must have heard the commotion. Keith tried to lurch around him, but the guard was fast, already delivering another blow, this time into his chest, sending Keith stumbling backward and right into the metal armor of the guards who’d been pursuing him.

“Keith, are you all right?!” Allura cried.

He tried to think of a way to reassure her that he was - sure, he could feel some fantastic bruises blossoming across his throbbing torso, but that was nowhere near as bad as what the king had in store - but he didn’t have time to, what with the guards lifting him off his feet from under his arms, roughly turning him back around. He struggled in their hold, legs flailing, but the guards were better at bracing themselves for it this time after his last near escape.

“Let go of me!” Keith shouted, fruitlessly trying to pull away. “Let me go!”

“You’re only making things difficult for yourself, paladin,” one of the guards said. “First disrespecting our king, now insisting on fighting us…”

Coran let out a sound of indignation. “He deserves to be disrespected, you quiznakking son of a - ”

Keith jerked in the guards’ hold again, and one of them responded by shoving Keith against the nearest wall with a grunt. Keith growled, trying and failing to pull himself away from the wall, and aimed to bite at the gloved hand holding his shoulder in place.

A guard took a fistful of his hair and slammed his head sideways into the wall, and Keith let out a cry as his ear hit brick and his earpiece suddenly blared a high-pitched whine, like microphone feedback right up against his eardrum. Another slam, and with a pop, the earpiece went dead, the panic-stricken voices of the Alteans suddenly replaced with a terrifying silence.

His vision swam as he was pulled away from the wall, and he could feel the warm sensation of blood starting to trickle down from where his head had been hit. The guards tightened their grip as they started moving him down the hall again, lifting him between two of them so that his toes barely grazed the floor. Keith continued to struggle, but now more as a show than an actual effort to break free; it didn’t look as though it would do him any good to keep trying, but he had to keep up the pretense, had to still seem like he was fighting back.

Even if that fire was burnt out, smothered by the silence in his head where the voices of his teammates were supposed to be and by the indignity of everything he’d been through that evening and that still was yet to come.

The throbbing from his head injury made it difficult to concentrate on the world around him as he was dragged through corridors and stairwells, and the end came abruptly when they reached the polished door of the king’s bedchamber. Yet another guard stood at attention outside it, and the guard behind Keith muttered something to him as they entered. The former nodded and started down the hall and out of Keith’s view as he was carted toward the bed.

The bed itself was fairly large, the equivalent of a king-sized mattress back on Earth - fittingly, considering its occupant here - with a high canopy and wrought metal frame that spiraled into intricate patterns where the headboard would typically be. The duvet on top was textured like silk, Keith discovered as two of the guards slammed him onto the bed on his back, holding his arms in place even as he kicked out and arched his back. His head, after one of the guards slammed it back into the metal frame with a grunted order to stop kicking, sank easily into the plump, soft pillow.

Under any other circumstances, this bed would have been the coziest thing Keith had ever slept on. Now, the idea of feeling even the slightest hint of comfort in this plushiness was a sickening thought.

Only moments after he’d been pressed onto the bed, the guard who’d been outside the door returned, something dangling between his hands. He passed the object to one of the other guards, and Keith got a glimpse of it - a set of manacles, gold like so much else in this godforsaken palace, with thick cuffs and a short but sturdy length of chain between them - before it was being snapped onto his wrist. The guard threaded the chain through one of the iron spirals on the headboard, grabbed Keith’s free arm in a bone-crushing grasp when the latter attempted to throw a punch, and locked the other cuff into place.

Keith pulled away, tried to tug at the chain, but there was no give in it at all. “You needn’t bother,” one of the guards said. “Those things never break.”

Never…

A sinking feeling flooded the pit of his stomach. The guards had used these manacles before. They needed no further instruction when Olren told them to prepare him. The king had spoken of how this was necessary for a “true” alliance, had taken for granted that it was coming.

He had done this before. He had been prepared, tonight, for the possibility of doing it again. For all Keith knew, he was the latest in a line of victims that could have started back when Olren first took the throne.

Could they have known this, going in? Could they have found out what Olren was truly like, talked with other planets and organizations that Yuipra was allied with and realized how “alliances” were made here? If they had done that, if they hadn’t just gone on the blind faith that Yuipra was still the same upstanding planet that it was thousands of years ago, they could have done something. They could have stopped this.

Now, it was too late.

Despite the obvious inefficacy of the action, Keith kept yanking at the cuffs, pulling himself as far forward as he could go, no doubt leaving a mess of bruises on his wrists as he did. Maybe, he reasoned, if he just dislocated the thumb, tore some of the skin, he’d be able to get one of them off. After that, he could perhaps use the chain as a weapon, fight the guards off before making a break for it.

He had made no progress, though, by the time the guards held down his ankles and pulled his shoes from his feet. They were the flimsy dress shoes Coran had given him to go with his outfit rather than his trusty boots, so they slipped off with ease. He didn’t think too much of it, until the cold hands of one of the guards moved higher, trailing along his legs and under the hem of the tunic, grabbing his waistband.

Immediately he let out a cry, flailing in the guards’ grasps as hard as he could. He managed to free one leg, and with his heel caught one of them in the chin. It was a victory, if a small one, but it didn’t last long, as two of the guards grabbed the offending leg with both hands. “We told you,” one growled. “To stop kicking.”

There was a snap, and Keith had to bite his lip to keep them from getting the satisfaction of hearing him keen in pain as they dropped his now-broken ankle back onto the bed. Their hands moved back up once more, but were interrupted again, this time by the opening of a door off to the side.

“You are dismissed,” Olren’s voice said. “I can take it from here.”

As one the guards released their hold on him and moved away, beating a retreat out the way they came, and Keith turned to see the king approaching. Apparently the reason he’d gone ahead was to give himself time to remove his many gaudy accessories. This was Keith’s first time seeing him without his crown, or the jewels he wore around his neck and wrists. The layers of robes and capes were gone too, replaced by a simple dressing gown. In contrast to his usual appearance, he seemed positively gaunt now, the eerie elongation of his limbs more starkly pronounced.

His sinister smile, though, was just the same as ever as he swept toward the bed and grinned down at Keith. “Hello, paladin Keith,” he said. “I trust you’ve made yourself comfortable?”

“You’re a fucking monster,” Keith snarled in reply.

Olren just scoffed as he sat down on the bed. “I’d have to disagree with you there. All this evening, I have been nothing but good to you. I’ve been honest and open, I’ve lavished you in affection and offered you the wealth of my kingdom. You, on the other hand, have been duplicitous, manipulative, and above all, cowardly. Which one of us is the monster, Keith?”

With an exasperated-sounding sigh, he rolled further onto the bed, and pressed his hands onto Keith chest as he straddled him, one knee outside either hip, and leaned in toward his face. “You’re lucky, you know, that I’m so good at taming monsters.”

Keith growled wordlessly and lurched again, trying to arch himself up and kick out with his good leg, but Olren simply laughed. “Now, now, don’t get ahead of me, Keith. Though your enthusiasm is admirable, I prefer to work up to the action. Admire the toy before I play with it.” His hands trailed up, fingers coming to rest at Keith’s collar. Keith froze, and for a moment, he was certain that Olren had spotted the tiny microphone mounted against the stitched pattern. But instead, Olren reached for the button at the side, over the shoulder, and began unzipping the garment. Keith wasn’t sure which was worse.

Once the top was fully unzipped, Olren yanked at the material, tearing the sleek fabric along the seams of the sleeves and tossing it aside, leaving Keith’s chest bare. It rose and fell along with Keith’s trembling breaths, and he shuddered as a cold finger trailed up the breastbone. “Beautiful,” Olren said. “Strapping. All that hard work as a paladin, it keeps you fit, doesn’t it.”

“Fuck you,” Keith snapped.

“You can,” Olren said. “Soon. First, if you don’t mind…” His fingers brushed across Keith’s chest. “It’s like untrodden snow, isn’t it? So tempting, to leave a mark.”

Keith closed his eyes and held back a whimper as Olren leaned down, pressing his lips to his sternum. The king trailed slimy kisses up his torso, each one feeling like acid on his skin, until he reached the collarbone. At the sharp sting there, Keith gasped and opened his eyes, moving his gaze down in horror. “Did you - did you just bite me?!” he cried.

Olren smiled up at him, and Keith could see red dotted on the tips of a few of his pointed teeth. “I did say earlier that you were delectable. And now I know for certain. Just couldn’t resist.”

He trailed further upward, leaving the spoor of his lips in a path climbing up Keith’s neck a toward his jaw, before digging his hands into the latter’s hair and lifting his head toward him so their eyes were barely an inch apart. “You are irresistible, Keith,” he whispered. “But ever the tease. It’s almost tragic, the way you try to refuse me.” He brushed a finger over Keith’s lips. “In the end, though, I must admit, it only makes you that much more alluring.”

After one more of his sickening smiles, he pulled Keith in, inhaling him into another of those abhorrent kisses. Keith’s face and throat burned as that dreaded tongue snaked its way in again, and when trying to pull back proved useless, he decided if Olren could bite, so could he. He snapped his teeth down onto the tongue as hard as he could.

Olren reeled back with a satisfying yelp, dropping Keith back onto the pillow to bring his hands to his mouth, and when he lowered them, blank-faced, Keith was rewarded by a glimpse of dark green blood smeared across his top finger. He only had a tick to enjoy that moment of triumph, though, as before he even had time to see it coming, Olren delivered a sharp backhand slap to his face, snapping his head to the side and leaving his jaw throbbing.

“Even now,” Olren said, his voice low and cold. “You still insist on putting up a fight.” Slowly, he lifted his hand to wrap the icy fingers around Keith’s throat, and as he brought his face forward, he squeezed, not enough to cut off Keith’s airflow entirely, but enough to prove that he could. “Why do you do this to me, Keith?” he asked as he moved his knee so that it was digging into Keith’s gut. “Why are you so determined to treat me with such contempt? I am taking only what I deserve.” The hand that wasn’t gripping Keith by the neck took his shoulder, and the nails dug into his skin before Olren slowly moved the hand downward, tearing a trail of claw marks in its wake. “To so many, this time with me is an honor, a gift. But you see it as a punishment. Well, it cannot be said of me that I am an unreasonable man. So for your sake - ” He dropped Keith’s neck and moved both hands to the latter’s hips. “ - I’ll get this over with.”

In a single swift motion he flipped Keith over onto his stomach, and his wrists strained against their cuffs as the chain links twisted as far as they could, his arms taut and contorted above his head. Keith couldn’t hold back a yelp in response to the jostling of his injured torso, which, to his fury, elicited another light laugh from Olren. He squirmed as he felt hot breath against the back of his neck, the king’s fingers moving his hair out of the way with delicate motions.

“I know this is your first time,” Olren whispered. “So I’ll be careful about breaking you in. Make it gradual.” He nibbled at Keith’s earlobe, not hard enough to draw blood, but enough to still make Keith retch as the king moved down to kiss his neck.

“Please,” Keith said, and he hated that he was begging, hated that Olren got the pleasure of hearing him break, but nothing else had been working, not the insults or the struggling, and this was the only option that remained, the only chance he had left of getting out of this, however slim that chance may be. “Please, don’t do this…”

“Paladin Keith, you’re crying,” Olren said softly, and he was right. Keith hadn’t even noticed that it had started, but as he blinked against the sting in his eyes, he felt the sticky trails of tear tracks down his cheeks. Olren reached a finger around to Keith’s face and wiped a tear away, then licked the fingertip. “You know - ” He tugged Keith’s head back by the hair, wrenching it around so it was partially facing him. “Your eyes are even prettier this way. It’s remarkable.”

“Please,” Keith repeated, his voice cracking on the word. “You can’t - you know this is wrong. You can’t do - ”

Olren tutted. “Don’t aim to tell me what I cannot do, Keith. Many have tried. They’ve all been wrong.” His hand slithered down Keith’s back, stopping to grasp his waistband, and Keith choked out a sob as he started pulling his pants downward. “Come now, no need to fret. It’s always better when we’re both enjoying ourselves.”

Keith’s only response was another hitched cry, and Olren sighed as he finished removing the pants and tossed them to the floor. “Very well,” he said. “In that case, I do better without the interruption.” He shoved Keith’s head forward, muffling his cries into the pillow even as his whole body shook with distress. Keith could hardly breathe, positioned as he was, and he had to fight hard for air as he heard Olren start removing his own dressing gown and his sobs only sped up.

“Now,” Olren said into his ear, voice low and dark and dangerous. “Time to get star- ”

A abrupt slam cut him off, followed by a bizarrely familiar blast, and suddenly Olren’s chilling grip on him went slack as the king collapsed, his half-naked body draped over Keith’s. Keith froze, at first unwilling to believe it, and Olren didn’t move. Keith managed to twist his head just enough to get a glimpse at the figure on top of him, and saw that the king’s eyes were closed, his body limp, deadweight.

Keith lay flat a moment longer, breath coming in raspy, hiccoughing gasps, before the weight on him was lifted and he was able to turn himself around fully and see what had managed to stop his nightmare in its tracks.

The door to the room had been thrown wide open, and Lance stood in the entryway, his blaster in his hands. Even from this distance Keith could see the way the bayard was trembling in his grip, and the unusual pallor in his face. Beside the bed, Shiro had Olren in his arms, none-too-gently moving him to deposit onto the floor.

Keith’s eyes locked onto Olren’s half-dressed form, and he felt his heartbeat in his throat as he asked, “Is - is he - ?”

“He’s not dead,” Lance said. “I’ve got it set to stun. Regicide probably isn’t a good look for Voltron. But believe me, it was a tough call…” He gulped, his eyes flicking to Keith before pointedly returning to Olren, and Keith suddenly felt all too aware of the position he was currently in, his nakedness, which both Lance and Shiro were carefully avoiding looking at. The humiliation of it all made him want to shrivel up into nothingness.

“There’s still time to change our minds on that one,” Shiro grunted. He moved toward the head of the bed, taking care to keep his eyes off of Keith and instead focused on the manacles as he pulled out a lockpick and got to work.

Keith swallowed, breathing through his nose as he tried to get his heart rate back down to normal, but that didn’t seem to be happening anytime soon, so he put his focus into keeping still long enough for Shiro to unlock the cuffs. Lance approached slowly, and he delicately moved the duvet from where it was tucked into the foot of the bed and draped it over Keith as far as it could go. With Keith still stretched out on the bed, the blanket only reached his navel, but that was still enough to hide the most sensitive areas, so it was a marked improvement. “Thanks,” Keith rasped.

“Shit, Mullet, don’t thank us,” said Lance. “You wouldn’t be in this mess in the first place if we hadn’t - if we - ” He gulped. “Are you, um - did he - did he…?”

The tears started flowing again, unbidden, and Keith sniffed before answering in a choked voice, “No. Almost, but - but no.”

“Okay,” said Lance. “That’s - that’s good. I mean, it’s not - it isn’t good, it’s - it’s better than - than if it - I mean the whole thing is - Christ.” He wiped a hand over his face with a sigh. “God, Keith, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, I - ”

“Don’t,” Keith said softly. “Not now.”

Lance turned away, and above Keith’s head he heard a click before Shiro muttered, “Got it,” and tossed the handcuffs away. Gratefully Keith brought his arms down, wincing at the stiffness left from the strain. Shiro moved around into Keith’s line of sight, his jaw stiff and eyes looking as tired as Keith had ever seen them. “Keith?” he said. “It’s - it’s good to see you. I, uh - ” He took a deep breath. “Let’s, um, just focus on getting you back to the Castle. Everything else - you’ve had enough for one day.”

“Yeah,” Keith said.

“Shiro,” Lance said, turning back to them. “Coran wants to know if there’s any big injuries besides the ones they saw already.” He tapped at his helmet. “Hang on, Coran, I’m asking.”

“Keith?” Shiro said. “Coran and Allura - they were keeping an eye out, to make sure we knew where to go and what to expect.” Keith nodded silently. “They, uh, they said you had a broken ankle, a head injury, possibly broken ribs…”

“I don’t think they’re broken,” Keith said. “And, um, the head injury - it hurts, but it’s not too bad.”

“Was there anything else?”

“No. No, those were the main ones.”

Shiro nodded. “Coran, there are some cuts and bruises to be accounted for, but no other major injuries.” He took a deep breath and scanned his eyes over Keith’s form. “If it’s just the one leg injured, hopefully we can walk you back if you use me as a bit of a crutch.”

“The guards - ” Keith choked out. “They’ll be - they’re gonna be mad…”

“Hunk and Pidge are taking care of them,” Shiro said.

“Would hate to be one of those guards right about now,” Lance muttered. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen Pidge that angry. It was kinda terrifying. I mean, not as terrifying as, uh - ” He gestured vaguely around the room with a wave of his hand. “But still.”

“Know what you mean,” Shiro said. “Keith? Can I go ahead and help you up?”

“Um,” Keith said, glancing uncertainly down at his body, still naked aside from the duvet.

“Here,” Lance grunted, and he tossed Olren’s dressing gown up for Shiro to catch. “Keith’s is all ripped.”

Keith gulped at the prospect of having Olren’s clothes on him, and Shiro’s brows furrowed apologetically. “We can just wrap you up in the duvet,” Shiro said. “If that would be better.”

“No,” Keith said. “No, that would - it’s more likely to slip. This is fine.”

“Okay,” Shiro said, “If you’re sure.” He reached out to help Keith into a sitting position, and assisted as Keith maneuvered his stiff limbs through the sleeves. They fell far past his fingertips once they were fully on, but Keith didn’t mind it. If anything, it just made it easier to shrink into the fabric, to hide away.

Carefully Shiro hoisted Keith off of the bed, setting him onto the floor on his good leg and wrapping Keith’s opposite arm across his shoulder so he could lean against Shiro as he half-carried him toward the door. “Lance, come on,” Shiro said. “Stay out ahead of us, Keith’s in no condition to fight.”

“Yeah, I��m coming,” Lance said. He hurried toward the door, but when he was steps away, he stopped and turned around. “Actually, one more thing.”

“Lance?” said Shiro.

“I’ll be quick.” Lance jogged back over toward Olren’s unconscious body, jaw set in determination. Once he was standing over him, he lifted his leg, then slammed his foot down as hard as he could on the king’s groin, grinding his heel down for good measure. He gave a second kick as a courtesy before rejoining the others, leading the way out the door, nodding toward Keith as he went. “Doesn’t make things right,” Lance called over his shoulder. “But it’s a start.”

“Yeah,” Keith said quietly as he and Shiro followed behind him. “Yeah, it’s a start.”

#aroace keith #keith #vld keith #keith kogane #vld fic #my writing #fic: kings over aces

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halorocks1214 · 4 years

Text

the law of attraction

AO3 Link

Word Count: 5464

Summary: The Law of Attraction demonstrates how we create the things, events, and people that come into our lives. Our thoughts, feelings, words, and actions produce energies which, in turn, attract like energies. Negative energies attract negative energies and positive energies attract positive energies

Previous Parts (in order): Alan | You are here!

holy shit i need to stop telling myself to keep my fics short cuz thats what always makes them three times longer than i originally planned. anYWAYS, i know the point of fabfivefeb is kinda to focus on one bro a week specifically, buuuut my brain grabbed my face, yelled an idea into it and now this is going to be a full series i guess. i hope this still counts! also, just as a warning, the first few fics are going to be chronologically out of order-- gordons pov fic, aka this one, comes like, almost last in the line of fics i have planned-- but im hoping that just adds to the aesthetic im giving this series

thanks again to @gumnut-logic for the wonderful prompt ideas. i used “How did you do that?” and iridescent

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If you asked just-turned-10-years-old Gordon what he thought of his kid brother, you would probably be horrified at the things he could and did say.

Nowadays the 22-year-old felt bad about it-- like, exponentially so-- but back then he couldn’t help it. It was a Tracy rite-of-passage to not want a younger sibling when they came-- yes, even Scott, who Gordon secretly believed it was his fault for John being so nerdy. You should have wanted a nice pair of tennis shoes in his place, Scotty, not a chemistry kit.

Gordon, for all intents purposes, managed to be the worst-case out of four. Virgil wondered if his fiery temper rubbed off on Alan growing up, and the more Gordon caught wind of how Alan could be when angry, the more Gordon thought his immediate older brother was right.

Regardless, everyone in the family managed to at least get the OG Tracy baby to play nice when Alan was born. Gordon’s involvement could be described as nothing: he never did anything to actively harm Alan (he was raised better than that, c’mon), but whenever Gordon could get away from the tiny tot, he did. A couple of years went by, the world adjusted to five Tracy sons, and so did the Tracy family. Even Gordon was starting to see the merit in being an older brother.

Then, tragedy struck.

The avalanche that ripped apart their entire world came crashing down in more ways than one. Hoo boy, the tabloids had a field day with it. They always wanted to know every little detail, and when the family refused to give them anything, they came up with their own stories. The only details they got were from cheating, as a nosy reporter managed to grab a picture of 3-year-old Alan fighting for his life in the hospital, and the internet ran with it.

It was very quickly found out that their mother had died in the disaster as well, and along with the little snake’s photo of Alan, accusations were thrown around as if they were nothing more than plush baseballs, not full-blown knives digging into the Tracy men’s skin. Where was Jeff Tracy? Did he leave his wife and youngest to perish without a thought? The man did have four older sons, maybe he considered them to be more valuable? The last child wasn’t a planned addition in the first place, so it wouldn’t be too far of a stretch to assume so!

What they would never know, Gordon thought bitterly and spitefully, was how Alan wasn’t the only Tracy kid that played in the snow that day. Alan easily got sick as a child for undetermined reasons, and lo and behold, the tiny blonde started running a low-grade fever during their vacation. Lucy offered to stay with Alan at the cabin while Jeff went to find an on-sight doctor. Virgil, who was starting to get into that kind of stuff, went with him.

John saw… something in the gift shop he wanted to grab (none of the brothers could really tell you that much about that day anymore), and since it was relatively close to where Jeff needed to ask for a doctor, the parents felt it would be okay for the red-head to explore the shop by himself, especially since John was easily the most well-behaved out of the children. Gordon was going to go with them to-- what did you expect-- get away from Alan. That’s when smother-hen-in-the-making Scott suggested Gordon stay back with Alan so he could get to know the baby of the family more.

The only reason Gordon agreed to stay was that Scott was staying as well. Gordon hadn’t had that much time recently to hang out with his oldest bro, so he thought it was worth dealing with the little tyke in the room as well. Besides, mom was there too. She could watch him.

Gordon couldn’t for the life of him remember who was where when the literal tons of snow came to say hi. They all got knocked out relatively quick, but from Dad’s recollection of Scott’s eye-witness account, Scott and mom woke up at some point. Scott then went on to carry his youngest siblings out and away from the danger zone, only to re-pass out a good distance away from the buried cabin.

There were many details left out by Scott, and even more were left out by their father, who wanted to give his eldest some sense of security despite all the chaos. Gordon would only learn a little bit more (and by golly was it enough) when he was 16 and grounded by Scott himself. We know Dad is gone! Stop trying to replace him! Gordon shamefully admits that he was purposefully trying back then to be as difficult as possible. Sure, it was due to grief over losing their last living parent, but that didn’t mean he had to take out his rage like he was less than half his age.

People always credited Alan as being the angry baby, but Gordon could be a right bastard when he wanted.

Virgil shut up him right up with a tiny admission that Gordon would never let Scott know he knew. It was the least the swimmer could do after everything their oldest brother gave up.

“You know he promised her, right?”

Teenaged Gordon hissed as Virgil readjusted his piggyback, jostling Gordon’s broken leg in the process. Sneaking out didn’t really seem all that thrilling anymore. He still managed to squeak out through gritted teeth, “W-What?”

Virgil kept his face straight, a weird kind of stoic covering all of his emotions burning within, “Scott promised mom he would keep you two safe. It was the only thing he could do for her.”

That gut-punch didn’t help Gordon’s bruised ribs, and Virgil should have just broken his leg more next. Would have been a nicer follow up than the metaphorical groin kick Gordon received.

“Dad wondered if she was even aware-- or maybe even alive-- enough to hear him.”

Gordon had a lot of time in the hospital to think about those words, even more so when he watched his brunette brother sleep by his bedside. 22-year-old Scott should have been furious, should have ripped him a new one for being such a prick, but the only thing Gordon witnessed him do that night was run into the room as soon as he got the news that Gordon was okay and gently collapse onto his younger brother to collect the blonde into his arms while he tried desperately not to break down-- tried to be strong. Gordon was so caught off guard that he could only wrap his arms back around Scott in a weak attempt to reassure the new head of the Tracy Clan.

Later in the week when Gordon wasn’t so dead on his feet, Scott finally found the reprimand he wanted to give and tore into Gordon. Of course, Gordon snapped back too. They had the typical ‘What were you thinking?!’ ‘I wanted to have fun!’ kind of argument, but it was… softer, in a way, especially on Gordon’s part.

During that same night, after the argument, Gordon would hear 10-year-old Alan sneak into his room with a box full of familiar lights, abruptly reminding Gordon of a feeling he felt a long time ago, back during the ‘recovery’ part of the aftermath of the avalanche. One he couldn’t entirely explain until right then, thanks to Scott’s reactions throughout that entire week.

See, Scott’s plan of Gordon getting along with Alan backfired pretty horribly as Gordon, in all of his trauma and denial, managed to loop his tiny mind around into thinking Alan was at least partially responsible. If he wasn’t sick… if he wasn’t there… if he hadn’t been born--

Yeah, he was 8 at the time, but Gordon still feels sick for even coming up with that thought way back when.

Well, what’s done is done, and for the majority of the first two years, after their wonderful mom left the Earth, Gordon could only describe it like a daze of sorts. Dad was drowning himself in his work, Scott had seen horrors not even adults should’ve had to have seen, Gordon was stuck in the nice world of childhood depression, Virgil and John were caught in the middle like they always were and sometimes still are, and Alan? They really weren’t sure what he was going through due to one simple problem.

Because that was the joke of the day, the ironic twist so to speak. Believe it or not, Alan tended to be a quiet kid.

Many who knew their family would retort with yeah, anyone is quiet standing next to you, Gordon! or they would at least point out the constant babbling that tended to come from the youngest Tracy in the first place. First, Gordon would snort and admit, okay, that’s fair, and then explain how Alan was quiet when it really mattered.

And how it sucked.

The kid could go on and on about what video game he played recently or how stupid his homework was, but when you got down to it you couldn’t get Alan to talk enough.

Back when Alan still did school on the mainland, his older brothers didn’t even know he was being bullied until the bruises started showing up on parts that weren’t covered by clothes (the ones that were, though, damn). It didn’t even occur to the older brothers that Alan was getting more and more quiet each day. After getting the perpetrators expelled and rightfully ripped a new one, Scott and John asked Alan why on earth he didn’t tell them. He just shrugged his tiny kid shoulders and said, “It didn’t seem like that big of a deal.”

Virgil’s 18th birthday was a night to remember, not just because it was a blast, but because they spent half the night in the waiting room at the hospital. They were hanging out in the cities, which was probably already a bad idea. In the first half of the day, the five of them had to cross a crosswalk. Simple enough, right? However, with the torrent of adults much larger than him, 12-year-old Alan lost his grip on John’s hand and toppled over with his arm out in front of him, leaving the limb out on a silver platter to be squashed by a rather large boot.

The man that did it felt really bad, actually, which was a breath of fresh air. He insisted that he would pay for any medical bills that came from the accident. The only reason they never went to any medical facility (immediately, at least) was that, after calming down, Alan insisted his arm felt fine. His reaction time in his fingers was still okay as well, so they left it alone. The four of them probably should have questioned why Alan was so quiet for the rest of the party, but they were too into the euphoria of Virgil’s big day to realize so. A little bit more into the celebration and Alan went missing. It was a miracle that they got Scott to not run off to the nearest police officer immediately. In hindsight, they probably should have, but panic makes the mind go woo woo.

After an hour of searching, they found Alan silently crying his eyes out in a corner. Gordon suspected Virgil never really got over the guilt. None of them have, probably. They really should have insisted they got it checked out right away. Sure, the reason they mainly assumed it was okay was that they’ve been hit with worse and only walked away with bruises-- John walked home from school one day with dirt and mud in his hair, scrapes littering his arms, and when asked what happened the ginger silently commented, “I got hit by a car,” as if it wasn’t that big of a deal.

Not only did Jeff feel the number of years dwindle until his inevitable heart attack, but he also got to watch his eldest gain his first grey hairs with many more to come.

While getting a piggyback from yours truly, John calmly asked Alan why he didn’t say anything (again). The youngest just shrugged and buried his face into Gordon’s neck, “I didn’t want to be a problem. It’s Virge’s day…”

It would be a reoccurring problem for Alan to be hush-hush about physical and emotional strains put on him for years to come. It wasn’t a big problem out on the field (yet), but they were always extra sure to drill into the freckled boy if it seemed like he wasn’t talking as much as he usually did. They were pretty sure it came from the fact that Alan was originally, well, not planned, as all those wonderful journalists pointed out.

They never actively kept it a secret. The age gaps, as well as the press, made it real hard to do so in the first place. Plus, keeping things like that a secret did more damage than not. But the idea was there, and the idea of being a ‘burden’ on anyone was a damaging thought that always seemed to ring in the back of Alan’s subconscious, so he made sure to only speak when he felt he absolutely could or if it wasn’t too much of a task he was asking of them (which they all hated, Scott especially).

The rest of them hoped to pick up what Lucy left behind, which was her efforts to make her newest son feel wanted and loved despite not being apart of the original quota. Gordon worried his older brothers felt a little too guilty about not being able to fully wash it away. It was part of the reason they let him act a little bit childishly on missions: if he feels comfortable enough to do so, then they can’t take it away from him out of fear that they’ll never get it back. It was also why he was just so excited to go on a mission: he could prove himself to be just as good as his older brothers.

Speaking of their mother (man, Gordon loved to ramble tonight, didn’t he), the whole reason any of this was a thing in the first place was Alan’s reaction to the avalanche. That’s when his whole ‘silent act’ issue became apparent. Because the kid became quiet. Period. He stopped talking for two years. Young Gordon wouldn’t even realize this until Virgil started to teach him ASL in their free time. Alan was still an energetic kid, he just… could not get his voice box to work.

The doctors insisted there was no physical damage, either, so they just had to wait and learn ways around it.

Gordon just could not wrap his young, tiny mind around why his loud and obnoxious and annoying younger bro just shut up. Intrigued at the idea of Alan actually being quiet, Gordon started to hang out with him more, especially since Gordon craved the general sense of peace during that time in his life. Yep, crazy, energy-lover Gordon needed the space to just sit and think, and where better than to rant about how crappy life was then at your great-listener-because-he-didn’t-want-to-talk brother.

As time went on in the second half of those two years, the youngest two grew close. Closer than any of the older brothers thought possible. Scott thinks they created their own hand language just for themselves during that time. Gordon was slowly becoming more and more himself, and Alan, well, still didn’t talk, but his energetic-ness was getting bigger and bigger each passing day. Unfortunately, so did their eagerness to be the biggest piece of shits in the world.

Baby Alan stumbled across a can of whip cream that the family forgot to put away. Toddling over to Gordon, the little one shook the can around as a way to say, ‘What could we do with this?’

Gordon’s first idea was to put a huge, glopping pile right on Scott’s pillow where his head directly laid. The sputtering and anger Scott responded with, as well as Virgil’s and John’s snickers at the whole thing, filled Gordon’s head with a million ways to continue his meticulous schemes. Alan got roped in the second the general idea of being able to make his family happy came to fruition.

April 16th was the day The Terrible Two officially started. Virgil was pretty sure he saw John’s calendar with this day marked specifically as a way to remind him not to come down. Virgil just wished he could ask his immediate older brother to let him up on ‘Five that day too.

Their pranks became more and more intense as they came up with each new one, and on the anniversary of their mother’s passing, they disappeared the entire morning. Due to grief, and the fact none of the remaining three sons wanted to deal with tar and feathers or their coffee mug shocking them again, they didn’t think too much of it. Honestly, after the last prank of filling their pillows with jello, they found the quietness to be a blessing. Then the sun started to set without the two of them home yet and they saw it as less of a blessing and more of a curse.

They couldn’t lose them, not on that day.

The house security cams showed the two of them heading into the woods behind their house with some kind of box, and that was all Scott, John, and Virgil needed to go sprinting out of the house. At this point, Dad was getting better about not drowning in work, but he still needed a little more counseling before he would be fully back. That left the three eldest brothers to go on a wild goose chase.

After searching for what Scott remembered feeling like a thousand years, they stumbled upon the two blondes giggling in an opening in the trees. Bursting through the bushes without a second thought, Scott and Virgil (with John behind them) not only saw their brothers unharmed and having a blast in the middle of the opening, all around them in the trees hung big and bright lights. It was as if they were standing in a pocket of stars. Stars they made from their own will and determination.

It was iridescent enough to make the three older brothers gasp just once before remembering why they were out in the dark and cold woods in the first place. Scott trudged over a little more forcefully than he probably realized. Right as he stood over his two youngest brothers, Alan’s tiny, freckled face looked up into his eyes obliviously and pointed at the set of lights.

“Look! Gordz made it pretty!”

Scott and Virgil wrapped their younger brother in the biggest bear hug ever, anger and fear forgotten. It was quiet, whispered and somewhat broken from two years of non-use, but damn, it was Alan. The light at the end of the tunnel seemed even closer. The two of them might have stained the back of Alan’s shirt with tears. Alan didn’t need to know.

Meanwhile, John, flabbergasted and slowly entering a state of shock due to his adrenaline drop followed by even more adrenaline after hearing Alan again, walked over to where Gordon was and simply asked, “How did you do… that?”

It was a question for more than one thing: how did you get Alan to start talking? How did you hang up the lights with no serious injury? How did the two of you grow up so quickly and closely without us even realizing?

All Gordon did was shrug, bring his hands behind his head with his elbows above it, and cheekily grinned, “There are just some secrets two brothers need to keep!”

When the two blondes shared a room that night, tangled with one another like the cords in the lights, Gordon felt something in his chest. It was something warm and fuzzy, and he would only feel it again for years to come when it was towards his only younger brother.

The 10-year-old didn’t know what it was, but he knew that when he figured it out, he would try to be better at it than Scott ever was. Heh, nowadays, he realized that probably wasn’t possible, but that was also okay.

Alan only needed one Scooter.

Right now, however, he needed his one and only Gordz.

---

Brains and other therapists suggested the reason Alan got quiet after going through a traumatic event was simply that it was easier to block things out if you were quiet.

All the brain energy that went to his mouth could be used to not think about the awful things he heard or witnessed. It was perfect. It left the rest of his brain to still be used for all of the other things he liked to do: he could hang out with his brothers and sister, play video games, and (unfortunately) work on homework without cause of concern.

Alan thought it was simple. His family thought it was torture. After all, he wouldn’t tell them what was wrong, and if he didn’t tell them they couldn’t fix it. It was everything their ‘am big person, protect the small’ inner programming hated and they felt like screaming. It was the avalanche again. It was Alan’s bullies again. It was the broken arm again. It was Dad’s disappearance again. Man, they never thought Alan would come back after that one.

But dammit, Gordon thought, their dad isn’t gone anymore, and it was because their stupid, selfless little brother was willing to go through hell and back to get him for them. The least Gordon could do was show Alan how much it was appreciated. How much he was appreciated.

But at this point, Gordon was on the verge of calling it a night.

It was a simple fucking question: do you remember where those stringed lights were?

Sure, it’s been God knows how many years since anyone has pulled them out, and Grandma did pack away a lot of stuff in rather secluded places that she deemed unimportant or, well, too traumatizing. But they could at least give him a general direction on where to go! Everyone knew the basic details of the layout of their storage compartments, come on!

Gordon was sitting in the kitchen, groaning into his hands when he heard someone clearing their throat from the doorway. Snapping his face away from his palms, he looked up into the eyes of none other than his father. The older man had eye bags for days, and his eyes were a little wearier than Gordon liked, but the small grin made Gordon feel like everything was alright.

Or maybe it was the box with the familiar lights in his arms. Mostly that.

Gordon stood up and blinked, “D-Dad--”

Jeff walked into the kitchen in a way that spoke, ‘let me say this first,’ “Scott mentioned you were driving your family crazy searching for this. I may not know how you boys set up the island after I left, but I do know your grandmother is stubborn as a bull. The only place she would have put this was in the decorations closet, where it wasn’t, which I’m sure you figured out, hence the constant nagging, so that means some kind of outside force moved it to a place least expected.”

Gordon was lost, “Where was it?”

Jeff let out a slight huff of air, “The back of Alan’s closet.”

Damn. Dammit dammit damn. Why wasn’t that obvious?

With a grip gentler than Gordon remembered he had, he took the box from Jeff. As he was examining the contents, he was able to smile at his father, “Thanks, Dad, this is exactly what I wanted.”

Jeff laid a hand on his son’s shoulder, squeezing softly, “I’ve left this family to take care of itself twice in my lifetime, it was the least I could do. May I ask why you need them?”

The least I could do: goddamn was this family a hive mind sometimes. That didn’t stop Gordon from asking his burning question, “How quickly can we make these waterproof?”

It took all of half a second for Jeff to raise his eyebrows in confusion, followed by one of his trademark grins.

Oh yeah, the Tracy family was coming back

---

“Shhh Allie, keep it on.”

Alan rolled his eyes. Whenever Gordon blindfolded him it always ended poorly. Whether the ultimate bad ending would come to Alan or Gordon completely depended on how previously well-thought-out Gordon planned this to be. Regardless, Alan needed to do something other than chores and college applications since there was none of it left for today. He was getting so good it was kind of bad. In fact, one of the first things he did was drown himself in his work to the point that everything he missed in his captivity was done within the first three days of being back.

And here the public thought Alan and his father had nothing in common.

Alan felt Gordon’s hands on his shoulders the entire time they walked together. Eventually, they paused as Gordon needed to open the door to the outside, which was a great sign, by the way. Alan’s ears were picking up every little noise, including each of the thunks their feet made down the stairs, as well as the whistling of the wind blowing through their hair. Alan didn’t need to take off the blindfold to know it was night. The last thing Alan was looking at before Gordon scared the shit out of him with the blindfold from nowhere was the clock, 10:04 PM.

The thunks suddenly became less hollow, signaling they were on solid ground. It took Alan a couple of seconds longer than he would’ve liked to realize that Gordo was walking them straight towards the pool. Alan, remembering all the times he’d been shoved in it, started to fight back. Only minorly, though, like a baby wolf trying to overtake the Alpha of the pack. In the end, it didn’t matter, as Gordon stopped both of them with a slight push downward on Alan’s shoulders, signaling he didn’t need to walk anymore.

Gordon took his hands away and started speaking when he saw Alan wasn’t going anywhere. He walked around to the front of his brother, “So… this might be a long shot, but you remember those ‘starry lights’ we played with all the time?”

Alan blinked a few times behind the blindfold. Yeah, he did remember them. It was a huge staple between them. The days it got hard, or cold, or when it seemed like nothing would get better, they would pull those lights out and forget everything else. It felt like they were surrounded by a blanket of hope.

Gordon first wanted to do it in some random room at their old house two years after their mother passed, but quiet Alan suggested they go out to the woods. He flapped his tiny hands, and to paraphrase what he said, We’ll have more room! Plus, the real stars will make it even cooler!

From then on, it was just another thing between the two of them. They pulled the lights out when one of them was sad and the other wanted to cheer them up. After their mother’s death, after failing a test at school, after Dad’s disappearance, after Gordon’s hydrofoil crash…

Gordon will forever be grateful for Alan’s ability to be a little piece of shit. He’ll never know how the kid snuck the box into the hospital and he hoped he never found out. The hospital staff wasn’t as thrilled by the lights hung up around the room. Gordon was pretty sure he saw the pic up on ‘Five at one point, though, so at least someone appreciated their talents.

Right, the important matter at hand. Gordon needed to work on his rambling-when-stressed problem, “Well, Allie Allie Allie, guess what I found?”

Before Alan could tilt his head, the blindfold was untied from his head by Gordon. It fell off his face to reveal said older brother standing directly in front of him with a grin on his face that said, ‘you’re not going to believe this.’ Once Gordon saw Alan’s attention was completely on him, he stepped out of the way quickly so Alan’s line of focus could stay on what was in front of him and not just on his brother.

Alan’s breath caught in his throat.

Gordon smirked at his brother’s flabbergasted look, “You know how they say how the ocean isn’t that much different than deep space? Well, I think I found a way to make them even closer.”

Alan held his hand out in front of him only slightly. He was worried if he moved anything that the beautiful sight in front of him would go away. Those wonderful, amazing lights were all submerged in the pool in various spots near the bottom, the refractions making it look like there were twice as many. The pool looked like it had a weird, unique case of the chickenpox. It was breathtaking.

Little puffs of Alan’s breath were condensing into the familiar white clouds in front of his face due to the chill, but he didn’t care. The sight in front of him was much more important. Before he could sign a thank you, or maybe even just cry (which he would hate, thank God for interruptions), Gordon slung an arm around Alan’s shoulders, catching the freckled boy’s attention again.

Gordon waited for those wide, blue eyes to look at him directly before beginning, “I can’t even begin to imagine what happened up there. Part of me wants to be selfish and never come up with thoughts even close to that kind of shit, but… it’s not fair to you.”

Alan blinked and was suddenly turned 90 degrees to be standing front-to-front with Gordon. The older brother continued speaking when he put his hands on Alan’s shoulders, stretching his arms out to their full length, “You don’t… you don’t have to talk about everything, I know that first hand, but… don’t shut us out. You’re not a burden, you’re not a problem, I know that’s a thought of yours that’s been made worse by that bastard but the last thing I want is to--”

Gordon choked off his words due to a mixture of rage and pure sadness bubbling within. Suddenly, he couldn’t look Alan in the eyes anymore, “I just don’t want to fail you any more than I already have.”

Gordon looked down at their feet to watch some of his tears fall to the ground and splish-splash on the concrete. Dammit, he promised a lot of things (mainly himself) that he would be strong for this, but he supposes he was never the best at taking things seriously.

Gordon’s breath hitched at the feeling of two small hands on his cheeks. Those same hands brought his face back up to look at Alan sadly grinning, his own tears starting to form in his blue eyes. Before Gordon could curse himself out for failing this plan so spectacularly, his heart stopped in a good way at a tiny admission, a verbal one.

“Please… don’t make… me cry, too…”

Holy shit. Part of Gordon’s brain thought, ‘sweet, it only took a few weeks, a new record!’ but the other part, the big brother one day I’ll be better than Scott! part leaped a hundred feet in the air out of pure joy. With a laugh, Gordon yanked Alan into his arms and squeezed tight. Alan simply returned the gesture, albeit his arms were around Gordon’s waist, nor was his grip as strong. They did both have tear tracks on their cheeks, however.

Alan was still there. He was still their selfless, annoying, little bro, and he might not be fully back, but it was enough to know that not even the fucking Hood could take him away from them.

It would take a while to get back to normal. Scott would still pass out due to exhaustion from time to time until he fully realized it was all over, John, while not physically up on ‘Five, would take a while to fully come back down to Earth, Virgil was going to be found at that damn piano bench more than in his own room, and God only knew how Kayo or even Dad was going to react as the days went forward.

But they would get there. The Terrible Two were going to make sure of it, one prank at a time.

#fabfivefeb #fabfivefeb2020 #gordon tracy #alan tracy #jeff tracy #scott tracy #thunderbirds #thunderbirds are go #fanfiction #fanfic #my post #my fic #series: rules of alchemy

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the-darklings · 5 years

Text

you breath in when i exhale;

pairing: arthur morgan x female!reader

summary: A hushed breath, a rumble of thunder, and suddenly you wanted to give him your whole heart.

word count: 4.1k+ (chill? never heard of her)

warnings: undertones of angst but FLUFF...can you believe?

notes: joke’s on me because clearly more than 5 people cared about my first Arthur fic, and I’m already in too deep so lets indulge folks. also, this man deserves happiness~

tagging: the demons who got me into this mess in the first place: @ilikecheesecakeforbreakfast & @deviantramblings. and the beautiful @sunstrain who has that good taste.

. . .

There was nothing to fear.

Not really.

It was childish and silly to fear something like this, considering the company you kept. The people you surrounded yourself with, shared food and space with, weren’t exactly the nicest around. But perhaps there was something a little rotten in you too if you had managed to fall in with them as smoothly as you did.

It was stupid to fear something as simple as a thunderstorm though.

Especially considering you were in the storm season and rain came often and heavily, accompanied by gusts of strong wind that made your rickety tent appear even more pathetic with every blow. You couldn't help but think your makeshift home was about to be ripped out of the ground and flown off to the next state at any second. Lenny might have helped you to build it and secure it to the ground—and you certainly trusted him enough to know he did a well-done job of it—but the ridiculous fear still remained.

Lightning flashed outside, the boom of thunder crashing through the sky before you managed to get to the count of two.

Your eyes squeezed, your heart hammering loudly in your ears as you pressed your forehead harsher against your knees. The storm was close—too close—and you felt a shiver crawl up your spine as yet another gust of wind slammed against the side of your tent, making the material blow inwards.

You raised your head, your breaths shallow and strained while you looked towards the outside. The flaps of your tent refused to shut properly and you watched dully as rain pelted down, soaking everything in its path. The camp was quiet, everyone huddled in their tents and wagons, seeking shelter from the freezing rain. Only Javier and Arthur were away from the camp as far as you knew, busy running their own errands.

Selfishly, you wished Arthur was here. Something about his presence always made you feel braver, sharper, like you could step outside of yourself and accomplish anything you put your mind to. Even when storms hit, if he was in the camp, you at least managed to last through the worst of it without feeling like your guts were going to crawl up your throat.

But you also refused to rely on him, especially for something as foolish as this. He was a hardened outlaw. You had half a thought that even if you told him he would laugh at you. From all the things to fear in this world, thunder seemed like the last thing one would put on the list.

Another flash lit up the sky and the crack of thunder was so deafening, you had to muffle a strangled whimper in the space between your knees. Your hands trembled when you pressed them over your ears, trying to smother the sound of the raging storm outside. The dull roar of it was still audible, but with your eyes closed, you could almost pretend you were somewhere else. Somewhere safe.

But then—

A blur of sounds that got drowned by the echo of wind and rain. Despite your desire to stay in your makeshift darkness, your hands lowered, allowing the full blast of the storm to flood your ears again.

“—ya in ‘ere?”

“Arthur?” was your faint, confused whisper.

Your misty eyes slowly moved to the entrance of the tent where you could just make out a tall shape standing. The only thing you could recognise was the tip of Arthur’s boots; the same ones he always liked wearing best. You could still recall going with him and Charles when they went shopping and originally bought the pair. There were only a few occasions you could recall laughing as much as you did that afternoon. It held a special place in your heart ever since.

“I’m—I’m in here!” you quickly called when you saw Arthur turn away.

Practically flying out of your cot, you hurriedly wiped at your damp eyes, pulling the tent flap back to reveal a soaking Arthur.

Droplets of water fell from his hat, and even his heavy coat looked in a particularly sorry state. The rain had only intensified since the storm started, now falling so intensely, it was hard to see the rest of the camp.

“Sorry, I ain’t botherin’ ya, right?” Arthur questioned, taking a few steps closer when you stepped back, quickly ushering him inside. “I normally won’t impose on you like ‘his but your tent was the nearest to ‘his side of the camp. I’ll be out of ya way as soon as this damn rain lets up.”

“It alright, Mr Morgan,” you muttered, flinching as another rumble of thunder echoed through the camp and surrounding forest. “You never impose. You’re always welcome. Please, sit.”

With a grateful nod, Arthur sat down on a spare chair you kept in your tent, water trailing after him. You hurried towards your clothing chest, rummaging till you found a dry fabric he could use to dry himself off. He took it with another grateful dip of his chin, pulling off his heavy coat and draping it over your chair. Underneath his coat, he appeared to be mercifully dry at least.

“Well the weather is shit,” Arthur spoke bluntly, rubbing his neck with the cloth. Despite your nerves and the queasy roll of your stomach, you couldn't help the startled laugh that slipped past your lips as you sat down in front of him. You laced your fingers nervously in your lap, your knee jerking up with every louder noise outside. “Can’t do nothin’ when it’s like this.”

“Didn’t finish?” you asked softly, noting his irritated glance outside, “I’m sure it’s fine.”

Arthur nodded absentmindedly, “Yeah, guess Mr Downes will have to wait his turn, won’t he? Poor bastard,” he joked with a slight quirk of his lips that made your breath hitch for a brief second.

Arthur Morgan was easily the most confusing man you had ever met.

And the most wonderful.

And the most dangerous.

He was a collection of contradictions you could not unravel no matter how hard you tried.

There was the merciless—the downright ruthless—side of him. The side that found a home in chaos, and moved through rivers of blood like it was holy ground. That managed to be subtly terrifying, and even more brutally efficient with his fists and revolver. A face you knew people had nightmares over, who had blood on his hands because survival required it.

But there was also a side of him you only ever saw around his friends—family, Dutch would say you were a family—that stole your breath away. The low, patient tone he always used with little Jack. The way he always cared and helped those who asked his help, no matter how much he might grumble about it first. How fiercely loyal he was to Dutch, and how unflinchingly he was always prepared to do whatever it took to protect everyone in the camp.

You saw how much he cared about his horse, how he scribbled away for hours on end in his journal. You had even caught glimpses of his drawings before. Subtle and simple, yet so beautifully elegant in portraying the raw beauty of whatever he was trying to capture.

You couldn't understand him.

And you didn’t realise till too late just how dangerous your fascination with him was.

You didn't, in fact, realise your feelings of respect and friendship had morphed into affection till you heard Mary-Beth talking about him in hushed whispers to Gilly.

Jealousy bloomed in the pit of your stomach then, and you had been horrified to realise that somewhere along the way the enigma that was Arthur Morgan, had become...important.

No matter how hard you tried to hold yourself back, your eyes always sought out his regnant frame and intent blue eyes first. You didn’t want to be Mary-Beth though. Didn’t want to love him because tying your heart to a dream could never end well. Not to mention the fact that no matter how much you had seen others try in the past, Arthur never allowed anyone close.

He had never taken a lover in the time you had known him. Or at least none that he shared with others. Though you had heard on several occasions how much others—namely Micah and Sean—mocked him for it.

Arthur was handsome, incredibly so, so it wasn’t for the lack of willing participants, you knew. He simply didn’t allow anyone near that heart of his. And he did have one—you knew he did.

No one could care so much and be heartless.

Maybe one day someone was going to find a way to see into him, to get past his walls and love him for him; contradictions and all.

But—

A loud boom erupted from outside and you jerked up, your eyes flying towards the entrance of the tent, your heart in your throat as your fingers clenched into tight fists.

“You alright there?” Arthur’s curious question almost made you jump again, and your eyes skipped towards his slouched figure. Confusion and something else—something you couldn't put your finger on—lingered in his expression as he regarded you earnestly. “No offence, but ya look ready to keel over.”

“I’m fine,” you hastily shot back, your words unconvincing and tone weak. “It’s—it’s all fine, Mr Morgan.”

Arthur regarded you critically for a second before he leaned back, still staring at you. For a long, tense moment he was silent before something like understanding flickered over his features and you noticed the slow, tight curling of his fingers before they relaxed.

“Is Micah botherin’ you again?” he asked seriously. His words were soft but there was something chilling about the stilted calmness of his tone. “He do somethin’? Miss (Name), I told ya before, if he ever—”

“He didn’t do nothin’, promise,” you quickly interrupted, breaking his fierce stare. “It’s just...hey, I thought I asked you to call me (Name)?”

Arthur’s jaw clenched briefly before he nodded his head, finally looking away, “Ya sure did. But I also recall askin’ you to call me Arthur, no? Now stop changin’ the subject.”

A part of you urged to tell him while another whispered that it was silly and not worth his time. Sure, you were friends but most days he felt just as unreachable to you as you saw him be to others.

“I didn’t sleep last night, that’s all,” you told him with a strained smile. “So I’m a bit tense today.”

Arthur’s eyes were hard and searching while he regarded you grimly, almost like he was trying to judge the honesty of your words. “That so? Why was you not sleepin’ then?”

Because another storm hit a few hours after midnight and prevented you from sleeping. Instead, you had curled in your quilt and shivered the rest of your night away. You wanted to say it but the moment you tried to voice your feelings, they died on your tongue.

The chair creaked slightly and you lifted your head only to see Arthur standing to his full height. Wind and rain still raged outside, only adding to the already tense atmosphere. You knew your tent was small but Arthur always seemed larger than life, effortlessly filling the empty crevices with his presence.

He took a step towards you, and you didn’t realise the distance between you was so small until he dropped the fabric you gave him on your cot and crouched before you. The previous quiet amusement was gone from his face, leaving something more serious in its place. It was hard to meet his gaze when he was looking at you like this, when he was so close you could almost feel his body heat. His skin was still damp, one side of his face illuminated by the dim lamplight as he stared up at you.

“Whatever it is (Name), ya can—”

Arthur’s next words were interrupted by the most vicious crack of thunder yet, the brief flash of lightning blinding you for a second. A gasp of fear escaped you, your shoulders dipping and heart galloping madly in your chest. It beat so fast you were worried it was going to burst right out of you. But the dryness of your throat made it impossible to do anything other than to let out a weak croak of terror.

“Woah, hey,” Arthur’s deep voice sliced through the sickening fear, and you felt his larger hands settle over yours, stilling your shaking fingers. “You’re fine. It’s just a bit of silly—oh.”

Under different circumstances, you would have laughed over the expression of awkward understanding dawning on his face. Arthur exhaled slowly before glancing away, and you felt mortification fill you. Of course, someone like him would find this sort of thing completely idiotic.

“It’s f-fine,” you forced out with a wobbly grin, “I know it’s stupid. You can laugh it up now.”

Arthur grunted under his breath, the noise soft and contemplative before he looked up at you again, the intensity of those blue eyes making the forced smile on your lips die.

“Fear is fear,” he pointed out simply, voice almost cautious and you wondered where his hesitation was coming from. “It don’t matter what ya fear, it’s still awful. Everyone is afraid of somethin’.”

You couldn't help the disbelieving scoff that escaped you, “You don’t fear anythin’.”

His lips quirked slightly to one side, accenting the smooth curve of his mouth, “Sure I do,” he disagreed easily, his hands on yours tightening briefly when another crash of thunder echoed. “I fear lots of things. Ya just learn how to control that fear, use it as fuel, let it forge somethin’ better.”

“Yeah? What if there’s nothin’ better there?” you whispered, your eyes almost fluttering shut when you felt the warmth of his fingers starting to seep into your own. “I ain’t brave like you.”

He shook his head a little, the slight curve of his lips remaining, “Well that, I oughta disagree with. You’re plenty brave. Hell, I’ve seen it. Bravery ain’t as simple as shootin’ a gun (Name). Ya fear storms...so? Big deal.”

“It’s silly,” you pointed out feebly, cringing at another distant rumble. “I feel like an idiot if I tell anyone.”

“If it matters to ya, it ain’t silly,” he said, this time with a certain firmness in his voice that made you look down towards your lap. You knew he meant what he said but instead of relief, you felt a different kind of longing. Not for bravery but for him instead. “You remember that, hm?”

“Yeah,” you whispered softly and closed your eyes when Arthur removed his hands from yours.

Your digits trembled and you missed his soothing warmth instantly, trying not to look at him while you contemplated the possibility that this might have been a huge mistake. It would have been better to suffer in silence the way you always did, and not create another situation in which Arthur proved that his heart was bigger than he would ever care to admit. It just made it that much harder not to love him.

Arthur himself was quiet for a minute, and you silently wondered why he was still here. Why he hadn’t moved away or left. The rain was coming down deafeningly loud, washing out any other noise except the thud of your heart.

“Tell ya what,” Arthur began, and you glanced up at his voice, “It’s gettin’ pretty late so you get some rest and I’ll watch over ya, make sure nothin’ happens, yeah? Because frankly, ya look terrible.”

Your lips parting in shock, you immediately whacked his arm in outrage, “Arthur! You don’t just say somethin’ like that to someone!”

The man in front of you laughed, the deep rumble of his baritone washing over you and making you grin despite yourself. He had a nice laugh and you wished desperately he had more occasions to smile and laugh over. It suited him, made him look even more handsome than he already was, and it was hard not to wish that crooked grin never left his face.

“Ah, ‘here we go,” he murmured faintly, eyebrows rising while he leaned one arm on his knee, “That’s much better.”

Your smile faltered slightly as you stared at him, but the barely-there curl of your lips remained. Warmth bubbled in your chest, spreading all across your limbs and you wondered, then, if the day would ever come when you didn’t adore him. If maybe one day you'll be able to look at him and not feel like a complete fool.

A hushed breath, a rumble of thunder, and suddenly you wanted to give him your whole heart.

But you didn't want to lose him. Didn’t want to burden him with feelings you knew he was never going to return. And if by some miracle he did return them, you sincerely doubted you were a risk he would be willing to take.

He believed himself to be too far gone, too broken and ruined by life.

He believed himself so ugly that he didn’t see how much beauty remained.

His hands were far from clean, but they were his hands. And perhaps there really was a rotten thing inside you too if you didn’t mind them holding yours.

“C’mon then, ‘et some rest,” he said after a lull of quiet between you as he stood up and motioned towards the cot. “It sounds like the storm is headin’ east. Should pass within an hour at ‘his rate.”

Arthur walked towards the chair and sat down stiffly, grabbing his hat and giving it a stern shake. Droplets of water hit the ground and you continued peering at him dumbly.

“You’re not leavin’?” you asked weakly, a part of you still in disbelief he didn’t throw your childish fear back in your face. “You—you don’t have to stay. I’m sure you ‘ave better things you oughta be doin’.”

Arthur adjusted himself on the chair, plopping the hat back on his head while his hand settled on his belt. He glanced at you from under the brim, lips quirking upwards. “It can wait,” he answered shortly, “Now sleep.”

He stretched his legs out in front of him, dipping his head downwards and you gaped at him mutely. From the relaxed sag of his shoulders, you couldn't help but conclude that he was certainly planning on staying and watching over you till the storm passed.

The thought made something in your heart bleed with happiness and you looked away, biting your lip to control the happy smile that was threatening to split across your face.

Pulling back your scratchy quilt, you laid down—clothes and all because the damp made it too chilly to change into undergarments most nights—and dragged the scratchy material around your shoulders. The storm was still going strong outside, though just like Arthur had said earlier, it appeared to be heading away from the camp now.

Your eyes flickered towards the man himself who looked to be asleep, although you had no real way of knowing without checking. Your chair was small though—small and uncomfortable, and you were surprised he managed to find any comfort on it at all. The powerful set of his shoulders filled the space, making everything else appear even smaller. And while it wasn’t the first time Arthur had been inside your little home, it was certainly the first time he stayed while you rested.

A gust of violent wind battered the side of the tent, making you grit your teeth and shiver under your thin quilt. You curled tighter, burying your nose in the fuzzy material while your eyes remained focused on Arthur’s still figure.

There was something intimate about seeing him in your space like this; unguarded and exposed, yet so perfectly at ease. You knew he was a light sleeper despite what he had others believing. One had to be in a world you lived in.

“I can hear ya shiverin’ from over ‘ere,” Arthur spoke suddenly and you jumped, immediately dropping your eyes to the floor. You felt the weight of his gaze on you but kept your own on the ground. “Why do ya only have one quilt?”

“B-Because...Jack gets real cold durin’ the nights so I gave him my spare one,” you confessed, briefly letting your eyes meet his. Something like disbelief reflected back at you before Arthur cleared his throat, briefly scrubbing at the stubble on his face. “I know it ain’t the wisest thing to do.”

“Yer damn right it ain’t,” Arthur groused, standing up and approaching your cot. His jaw clicked and he sighed again, expression oddly troubled. “You do realise that kid has parents, right? Scoot.”

You stared at him blankly. “What?”

“If ya get sick ‘cause you gave your quilt away, you’re never gonna hear the end of it,” he pointed out, motioning with his hand for you to move. “Now I much rather that don’t happen. Ya have my word I’m not tryin’ to do anythin’—”

“I know,” you interrupted him gently, scooting back as far as you could to make him space. “Your honour is the last thing I would question around ‘ere, trust me.”

Arthur sat down with a grunt, and the cot creaked for a second, both of you holding your breaths to see if you were about to end up on the ground. He shifted carefully around before lying down on his side, facing you.

It was hard to keep your expression neutral when his face was so close to yours. Your cot had always been small but with Arthur’s broad frame occupying the space as well, it was even smaller. Unnervingly so. Small to the point it was hard not to feel your breaths mingling, hard not to stare at his bare collarbone which was visible due to his slightly unbuttoned shirt.

It was even harder to ignore the heat of his body and the earthy, heady scent of him.

“Ya alright? If you’re uncomfortable—”

“I’m fine.”

Arthur stared down at you gravely while you tried to steady your breathing, “I don’t wanna ya to think that I’m using your vulnerability for some ulterior motive.”

“You won’t,” you told him softly, focusing on a button of his shirt even though you could feel his eyes fixed on you. “I know ya think you’re this awful man doomed for damnation but you ain’t. God knows you ain’t innocent but that don’t mean you’re evil either. I’ve met evil men before Arthur Morgan and you ain’t one of ‘em. I see it every day, ya know, the good in you? Hosea always says that actions say more than words anyway,” you finished, taking a tentative peek at his expression.

Arthur’s features hardened, and you could feel the strain in his body, in the way the silence that followed your words felt more potent than your fear.

“(Name)—”

A bright flash, and another clap of thunder hit, causing you to practically jump out of your skin. Your wide eyes flew around the tent, checking if you hadn't been hit no matter how foolish it was. If the lightning had hit, you doubted you would be alive right now.

A warm weight settled on your shoulder firmly, tugging you closer and you willingly sagged against the encompassing warmth.

“Hey, shh. You’re safe.”

He was warm.

You hadn’t realised just how cold you were under the quilt, till the simmering warmth of his body soaked through it, warming you from inside.

“Arthur—”

“Get ‘ome sleep (Name),” his voice was a quiet rumble, and you felt his hot breath brush against the top of your head, causing a tingle to race down your spine. “I’ll—just rest.”

Your mind was too fuzzy from fatigue and you were so warm, soaking in the comfort you hadn’t expected to receive. Arthur’s hand settled between your shoulder blades and you smiled sleepily into his chest. Always the gentleman.

“Arthur?”

He hesitated in answering, and you almost lost yourself to sleep before you heard a faint, “Yeah?”

This was the safest you had ever felt. The most respected and cared for too.

“Thank you.”

He didn’t answer but you didn’t expect him to. Arthur rarely responded to genuine gratitude the way others did. Nevertheless, you still wanted him to know how much his patience and comfort meant to you. You hadn’t expected it—not at all—so you were going to make sure he knew it.

Lost somewhere between awareness and sleep, you could have sworn you heard a soft whisper of his voice one last time.

“You’re a goddamn fool, Arthur Morgan. A goddamn fool.”

. . .

an: so i’m not totally happy with this but I still hope you guys liked it :’))

#arthur morgan x reader #rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #arthur morgan #arthur x reader #red dead redemption x reader #red dead redemption imagine #arthur morgan imagine #rdr #rdr imagine #arthur morgan fic #red dead redemption fic #is this more angst or fluff?? i think fluff...#but i also need to be stopped #he's so interesting tho *aggressive sigh*

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ladyboltontoyou · 5 years

Text

Michael Myers x Reader SMUT

Okay you guys asked for it

Warnings: Smut and probably cursing I don’t remember

Pairing: Michael Myers x Reader

“God yes, don’t stop!” You gasped with closed eyes, mouth open in ecstasy, your legs shaking. You were so close to orgasm you could taste it. Then she stopped. She lifted her head from between her legs and sat up, fumbling around in the dark.

“Fuck.” She whispered as she pulled her phone out of her back pocket, sliding her finger across the buzzing screen. “Hey, mom.”

You sighed, leaning your head back against the bed pillows. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” Your disappointment was immeasurable and your night was ruined.

“I’ve gotta go.” Olivia picked up her hockey mask from the floor, slipping it back over her face. “Mom’s pissed I’m still out this late.”

You nodded and pulled your panties back up over your legs, getting off the bed. The two of you had gone to a Halloween party and gotten carried away in the downstairs bedroom. The alcohol didn’t help. You were going to offer her a ride home but she left the room in such a hurry you didn’t have a chance to. “Alright.” You sighed, still angry, horny, and upset all at once. It sucks being left like that.

The reality that you were in a strangers bedroom suddenly became too real and weird so you picked up your black heels and dress. Your costume was last minute, a short black dress, black heels, and some gothic jewelry, calling yourself a vampire. Two red dots on your neck were the only thing you could really use to justify your outfit.

You hadn’t planned on going out but your friend Olivia said it would be fun. Well, she wasn’t wrong. You had fun up to this point. Sighing, you slipped your other shoe on you picked up your purse. “Who does that?” You muttered and stood back upright, stretching. You were still so wet and aching, it was a frustrating feeling.

“Woah, holy shit!” You cursed when you finally saw the figure that stood in the doorway. It was a person that seemed to be literally seven feet tall wearing a dark blue mechanic suit and one of the most intimidating masks you'd ever seen. He stood there with a knife in his hand, fake blood dripping off of it.

“That’s really good.” After the initial shock wore off you were able to appreciate the time he took into looking so horrifying.

He didn’t say anything. His breathing echoed within his mask, steady deep breaths that were creating an awkward atmosphere. “You’re fucking tall too.” Instant turn on, obviously. You still got no response from him. You couldn’t help but get annoyed, and the ache between your legs was only making it worse.

Screaming was heard from downstairs, which would have been normal for a Halloween party if not for how real they sounded. “The fuck’s going on down there?” You asked while you walked towards him. You were going to try to wiggle around him since it was obvious he didn’t want to move, but as you tried his arm shot out from its place at his side, his massive hand clasping around your throat.

Scared? Turned on? You couldn’t figure out how you were feeling, a normal response would be horrified. But the fact that only five minutes ago you were seconds away from orgasm prevented you from being anything other than drowning in lust. The alcohol in your system supported that as well.

A strangled moan escaped your lips when you felt the blood swell in your head. ‘God yes.’ You thought while your knees threatened to give in under you. Your eyes rolled back into your head and you whimpered, your hands grasping at his.

This all confused him. Michael had no idea why you were getting off on this, but then it clicked. He had been watching the two of you for a while, at first planning to kill everyone in the house he could get his hands on, but two girls twisted up in each other was something completely foreign to him. His curiosity got the best of him and he watched for quite some time before Olivia left. He killed her downstairs and was going to do the same to you but the fact you were eager and hungry for more of what he saw tonight made him think twice.

Maybe this once.

Your vision was starting to fade and it was beginning to be a bit much. Michael knew this was the point when people usually died and he wasn’t ready for that yet, so he loosened his grip. You gasped for air, running a hand through your hair to keep it out of your face. “Fuck.” You groaned through clenched teeth, looking up at him. “You know what you’re doing, huh?”

No, he didn’t. He had no idea what he was doing, but he imagined it was a lot like killing someone but without ending your life. With his hand still around your throat, he slammed the door shut and threw you against it.

Your mind spun with chemicals, you had gotten so wet it was starting to trail down your legs. “Fuck, don’t hold back on me.” You breathed as his free hand roamed across the front of your dress.

Michael obliged, his free hand pulling your dress up. He took his other hand away from your throat to show you that he wanted you to hold the hem of your dress up for him, and once you did he resumed his position of lightly choking you.

Hot, rough fingers slowly slid up your thigh, savoring the feeling of how soft and tight your skin was. He could just feel the blood running through your legs. You moaned when he finally reached your panties. He wasn’t gentle when he ripped them off, almost making you fall from the force of him yanking them clean apart. The torn fabric fell around your ankles almost poetically.

There was no warning, no hesitation before he plunged his fingers inside you. It caught you off guard and you couldn’t help but shout, your hips jerking away from him. He didn’t like that at all. Deciding this position no longer suited him he led you by the neck to the bed, throwing you down on your stomach.

Your heart raced, adrenaline shooting through every single vein in your body. Who even was he? You hoped he didn’t have AIDS or anything.

He gave you no time to change position before he was on you again. Two thick fingers forced their way inside you and he grabbed a fistful of your hair, yanking your head back. ‘AIDS would be worth it.’ You thought as he spared you nothing, no time to adjust, no warnings, no questions. When you realized there was no going back on this, even if you wanted to, you became even wetter. Your potential orgasm from earlier crept up on you as he fucked you silly, his sandpaper knuckles barely grazing your clit.

His fingers soon were removed from you, leaving you feeling more empty than when Olivia left. “No,” You started, turning over to see what his problem was. Oh. he had unbuttoned the bottom of the mechanic uniform, his dick making itself known as the scene stealer. How was someone that thick? And that fucking long? It was so massive you failed at first to notice all the dried blood and dirt that decorated the skin around him. He didn’t shave, either. But hey, you weren’t one to complain about body hair. Even if you were, you were far too horny to give a fuck about it.

He grabbed your hair and pulled you forward. You almost fell off the bed but you grabbed onto his clothing and braced yourself against his stomach with open palms.

Apparently, you were taking too long so he grabbed your jaw and forced his thumb past your lips. You took the hint and opened your mouth. Not expecting him to shove his entire cock down your throat you choked, struggling to produce saliva. That didn’t stop him, he didn’t care at all. He fucked your throat hard and fast, the tip of his cock ramming against the back of your throat. You knew you’d have a sore throat for a long time after that.

Moaning in protest, you tried to push him away from you but he was as immovable as a concrete statue. This had gone south fast, for you at least. You weren’t the biggest fan of giving oral to anyone who didn’t have a vagina because, to be frank, sperm tastes like bitter shit. It was one of the worst things ever. But it seemed tonight luck was on your side, Michael pulled out.

“You almost killed me there.” You gasped for breath, wiping away the spit on your chin.

He couldn’t care any less. He picked you up from your knees and grabbed you firmly by the back of your neck, unintentionally digging his fingers into a weak spot. You cried out and grabbed his hand, moving it away from the spot while he shoved you back against the door, this time with your front pressed flush against the wood.

Even through his mask, you could feel his hot breath on your neck, every hair on your body standing up. Quicker than you expected the tip of his cock pressed against you, still wet from your mouth. He was so thick that you found yourself almost praying he would go slow at first. You whimpered softly, shaking with anticipation when you felt him push his way inside you.

A shriek that sounded very much like a scream pushed its way out of your throat as he suddenly thrust into you deeply, burying himself fully between your legs. There were no words in any human languages to describe the way you felt. You could sum it up in a few, but they did it shame. You came then and there, your walls squeezing his cock as your orgasm rippled through your entire body like shock waves. You groaned and grabbed his hands to lead them to your throat.

Your orgasm sent Michael into a state of being he had never in his life experienced before. He wrapped both hands around your throat and moved slowly, savoring every single twitch you made around his cock. He couldn’t control himself for long and soon was thrusting into you roughly. Your body was pushed flat against the door from the weight of him coupled with his inhuman strength. It didn’t take long before you were ready again and you arched your back, pushing yourself against him to meet his thrusts.

To your disappointment you could tell he was nearing his orgasm, his thrusts quicker as well as harder. And when men orgasm they rarely even consider satisfying your own needs. You grabbed his hands and squeezed. He took the hint a little too well and his hands tightened, cutting off all circulation. The feeling was all you needed and coupled with the force behind Michael’s hips, you found yourself orgasming again.

Your body twisted against his. The rough feeling of his clothing brushing against your warm skin was almost comforting. You didn’t even notice his hands were getting tighter, your eyes were closed so you had no idea you were close to losing your vision. He pulled you flush against him and came into you, not even realizing how limp you had become. You had blacked out after your orgasm, unable to fight the warm heavy pull of unconsciousness.

He took some time to recover from whatever the fuck just happened. Michael thought a lot, it was one of his only pass times. But he had no idea what to do now, so he let your body slide out of his grasp and onto the floor, pulling himself together as quickly as he could before leaving.

#michael myers #michael myers x reader #michael myers smut #halloween #halloween 2018 #myfanfic #slashers #dead by daylight #serial killers

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edelwoodsouls · 5 years

Text

the light behind your eyes

The Magnus Archives, JonMartin, pre-relationship

You'll never go through with it, he said. Watching the blood drip, maybe he doesn't know Jon as well as he thought.

Word Count: 2464

Ao3

inspiration

(this art and this show apparently single-handedly cured my months-long writers block, i only started the show like a month ago, holy shit im in love)

The Institute's halls are darker than they used to be.

He's not sure when it happened, really. Just a few short years ago, he could have called this basement home. It didn't matter that he was sleeping there, that his real home was writhing with worms - that wasn't what gave it that comfort, that warmth. But the knowledge that someone was always there, the camaredie of close-quarters living and near death experience...

He misses it. He misses Tim, with his awful sense of humour. Sasha's laugh. Even Melanie's angry tirades about whatever was pissing her off that week.

He misses keeping Jon company over slowly cooling cups of tea late into the night - not talking, not acknowledging each other, simply existing quietly in the same space, an assurance that he wasn't alone-

He laughs out loud at the thought, the sound echoing like a gunshot down the hollow corridor, because isn't that the point? He's miserable, he's lonely, so it must be working. It'll all be worth it.

But still. The corridors feel cold and empty. Even though he knows Melanie is around somewhere, probably using the pages of some ancient research tome as cigarette paper, and Daisy has been haunting the spaces between the stacks for the last few weeks. And Jon, of course, most likely recording another statement and pretending it satisfies that primal itch in his soul that screams for fresh trauma.

It feels more like a haunted, ghostly archive than the home of several nearly-human disasters who should really be banding together for emotional support.

In these moments, with the others sequestered away in their own problems, Martin likes to wander the halls himself. It's so hard to leave the office without making human contact usually, but over the last few months he's come to sense the pathways of the others, how best to avoid their company. Almost like a sixth sense, or - ironically- a third eye. He takes the chances when he can, stretching his legs, letting himself get lost in the ghosts of better memories.

He's not sure if it's voluntary, or a method of making himself feel more Lonely.

It's the early hours of the morning now, not that he can tell without windows. He hasn't seen sunlight in so long, he's sure his skin must be paler than the pages of a Leitner - even turning on the overhead lights makes him squint.

His footsteps echo off the brick. It must be raining outside, he thinks, because there's an odd, sharp smell in the air, damp and cloying. He almost wants to run outside, feel it on his skin. Maybe it could wash away his - his Loneliness? His attachments? Which would he prefer to lose more at this point?

He can't deny the power that slipping through the cracks, going unnoticed but noticing everything, makes him feel.

His feet guide him thoughtlessly, in tracks he's paced a hundred thousand times before. Through the stacks of old statements, still barely organised from Gertrude's original mess - fifty years is a hell of a lot of statements to manage, after all, especially when the mess is deliberate. Past Tim's old desk - it's Daisy's now, technically, but Martin's never really been one for change.

Of course, his feet always lead him to Jon's door.

He hates to admit how many times he's sneaked up to the small porthole window in the door, peeking in to check in on the archivist. He's seen Jon recording statement after statement, seen him staring absently into stone-cold coffee for hours, seen the absent-minded scratching of burn scars, the many times he's been straight up passed out on top of a mound of files. Only sheer will-power has kept the door firmly between them.

He'll only sneak a quick look, Martin tells himself now, tugging absently at his shirt sleeve. Just to check that the archivist is still alive and breathing - not that anything else is possible now, he supposes.

His thoughts are interrupted by the unmistakeable sound of Jon groaning, a low, agonised noise that sounds forced out involuntarily, through gritted teeth. Martin's heart stutters. For a moment, his feet still. Then he's speeding the rest of the way down the hall and, before he can think better of it, throwing open the door.

Martin freezes. Hand gripped white-knuckled around the door handle, to keep himself standing upright, to keep himself grounded so he doesn't throw up at the sight before him.

That scent is thicker in the air the moment he opens the door, and he realises with a plunging horror that it isn't raining outside, that the stench now shoving its way down his nostrils is metallic and all-too familiar.

Jon is sat at his desk, as he always is, slumped over it, head held in his hands like he's about to fall asleep on the pile of blood-soaked papers below. But it isn't fatigue dragging at him now. It's the steady stream, the waterfall of crimson forcing its way past his palms, curling past his fingers in almost mesmorising, intricate patterns, dripping audibly onto the statements below.

Spread before him among the papers are an assortment of tools. A kitchen knife, a letter opener, a screwdriver - is that a blowtorch? With a sick sense of humour, Martin notices the corkscrew he had kept so closely for protection during the Filth's first attack, now sticky with blood, clutched limply in between Jon's fingers.

His voice cracks as a strangled noise emerges froom his throat in place of words. He swallows down the bile, resisting the urge to clamp a hand over his nose. "Jon?"

Silence stretches deafeningly across the table. Jon doesn't even react to the sound, though his limbs are shaking with a brittle tension.

The corkscrew slips slickly from between the archivist's fingers, clattering on the table like a gun going off, and yet the silence rings louder still. There's an awful static in the air, like when Jon uses his abilities, except now it doesn't seem to stop, doesn't seem to end, just reverberates in his head to the point of pain. Like the very air is crying out silently in pain.

A small sound emerges from behind Jon's hand. He still hasn't moved, hasn't looked up, but Martin would recognise that dry chuckle, tinged with disbelief, any day. It's a sound that's brought him no small amount of delight to hear over the years, even when that disbelief was more indignant and exasperated at Martin's incompetence, because it meant that he had Jon's attention - had, in some way, broken through that stiff upper lip that Jon had once been adamant on presenting.

Now it sends a horrified shiver down his spine. There's no pain in that laugh, just a resignation.

"Martin." The word is spoken so softly he almost doesn't hear it - a whisper, a prayer; a drowning man accepting his fate.

Panic rears, finally, inside Martin's chest like a suddenly startled animal. "Jon, Jon are you okay-" Stupid, stupid, of course he's not bloody okay, but what else can he say, with Jon sitting so calmly as he bleeds out onto his desk? "I'll- uh- hang on a sec, I don't have my phone with me, I'll call the ambulance, oh god-"

You won't go through with it, Martin had said, in a voice as cold as he could make it, as detached and unwelcoming as he could bear. You're a coward, looking for an excuse.

Hit Jon where it hurts the most, cut off any emotional connection keeping them tethered. It's the only way, he told himself, ignoring the sick satisfaction he got from finally scaring Jon the way Jon had often scared him.

He'd really thought he was right, but apparently he doesn't know Jon as much as he thought he did. Or maybe it's his fault, he drove him to this. Who and what has Jon got left, without Martin? Abandoned by those he loves, treated as expendable by Basira, blamed for things he can hardly control by Melanie and Tim, left alone to face that wide, unrelenting eye that pulled their strings.

Jon is far more Lonely than Martin has ever managed to be, and he isn't even trying.

The words continue to fall from his mouth in a panicked babble. "Do you have your phone with you, Jon? Jon? Or did we reconnect the landline after the last attack? I know the hospital ignores calls from the Magnus Institute when possible, but surely they can do something, it's gonna be okay-"

"Martin." Jon lets one of his hands shift slightly, and a trickle of red bursts forth onto the pages. "I guess-" there's that endearing, terrifying laugh again- "I suppose its for the best, that you didn't agree to come with me."

"What?"

"Would've made this a bit awkward, if you'd said yes."

And finally Jon raises his head, and Martin is horrifyingly unsurprised when deep brown irises meet his own. Blood still drips from the nearly-healed whites of his eyes, spilling over like tears. He can see the tissue knitting back together before his eyes, until the only evidence that anything awful ever happened is the drained pallor of Jon's skin, and the sticky wash of half dried blood spread around him like a pool. He's clearly been at this for a while, judging by the dry patches, and the variety of tools at his disposal.

Martin can't take his eyes off the sight. "I..." The words vanish on his tongue like so much smoke.

It's almost worse, he thinks, that Jon is healing so quickly. That the one avenue of escape offered to the rest of them is closed to him forever by the very thing he's attempting to flee. He hadn't regret saying no to Jon, shutting him down, not with the very existence of the human race hanging in the balance - and he still doesn't. It's the mental image of him hidden away in his office, unnoticed, hacking away at his own face for hours without anyone so much as wondering where he was, noticing his cries of pain, that makes him sick with guilt.

"No need for an ambulance, Martin," Jon's face tugs into an awful almost-smile. "I'll be right as rain any second now. But if you happen to have some painkillers, I wouldn't be opposed. Bit of a headache, you see."

Despite himself, Martin lets out a disbelieving laugh of his own. How the hell did they get here? He even misses the long hours of investigation, the haunting paranoia. Even that was better than this resigned certainty of tragedy. None of them are planning to survive this, and if they do? Where the hell can they even go from here?

His feet carry him over the threshold into the office, and he can almost feel the Lonely loosening its clutches, just a little. He offers a hand out, surprised at how steady it remains in front of him. "Come on, Jon."

Oh, how that soft, shocked expression on Jon's face makes his heart break. The fingers that clasp around his feel like burning, an electricity leaping across his skin. When was the last time he touched another person, skin to skin?

It takes a long time to clean up the blood. Martin wishes it could take just a little longer, every touch rekindling an unnameable something in his heart. Sat in the bathroom, Jon is quiet, retreating into himself. His newly healed eyes are vacant. Martin sponges away the crust from Jon's sickly skin, brushes it from his hair, and Jon simply yields to his touch like a doll.

They find a fresh change of clothes in his locker, but judging by the stale air released from the compartment Martin is pretty sure Jon hasn't changed clothes in a long time. When was the last time he took a shower? Brushed his hair? Hell, Martin can't remember the last time he saw Jon eat. Does he even need to eat anymore?

He throws the bloodstained clothes away, and leads Jon back to his office. The statements on the desk are barely legible beneath the crimson, but as he goes to throw them away, too, Jon's hand catches his wrist, the first voluntary movement in almost an hour.

"Jon?"

"I...need those."

"They're unreadable."

"Not to me."

Worrying his lip, Martin silently hands them back, watching as Jon smooths them out carefully on one of the only clean patches of desk. As if he can feel the gaze on him, Jon looks up, finally meeting his eyes once again. God, that softness in his stare is an arrow in Martin's heart. He's painfully aware that he's viewing Jon without any of his walls up, stripped bare, at his lowest. Once he might've considered it an honour that Jon trusted him this much - wanted nothing more, really - but now he just wishes Jon would get angry at him again. It would make this so much easier.

Martin swallows, throat suddenly a desert. "I have to go."

Jon doesn't look surprised, or even hurt, just nods, gaze never leaving his. It occurs to him that the last time they spoke, Jon probably thought it was the last time he would be able to lay eyes on him.

Silence yawns across the room.

"Talk to someone?" It comes out more of a desperate plea than he would've liked. "Daisy, or Basira, or Melanie-" he knows even as he lists them that only Daisy would be willing to bear Jon's company at this point, and she's hardly in any better a place mentally.

"Okay, well..." Words can hardly be adequate enough in this sort of situation. "Don't, uh, don't get too Lonely, Jon?" The archivist's expression sharpens at that. "Before you can't come back from it."

A second of hesitation. Jon nods slightly, jerkily, as if he hadn't even considered the possibilty. "As long as you remember, I'm always here, Martin. I- I trust you, but if you need an anchor... I can be your rib."

"How romantic," Martin snorts drily, before he can think better of it. A flutter of panic ignites in his chest, but Jon just nods, and the flutter becomes something more like hope.

It's not an assurance that everything will be okay. They both know the impending disaster rushing towards them at full speed as they themselves hurtle towards it.

But it's a promise. A thin, invisible cord, anchoring the two of them together.

Today, whatever fresh hell this is, they can take the punches and commit the sacrifices until they're bled dry.

But tomorrow - what if. If there is a tomorrow, any semblance of future? They can take on the world, together.

He leaves the door ajar when he slips back into the corridor.

#the magnus archives #jonmartin #fanfiction #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #own work

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sweetlangdon · 5 years

Text

Strangeness & Charm (Michael Langdon x Reader)

Notes: Hawthorne!Michael. Halloween fluff. Michael uses his powers for good, and a girl finds herself charmed by this mysterious boy from the Hawthorne School.

Word Count: 2.8k

Warnings: Some blood, swearing, and a group of boys being creeps. Nothing explicit, but there’s some rough handling of the protagonist.

[Repost of a previously published fic from my main blog.]

Coming here had been a mistake.

A thunderous bassline rattled inside her ribcage, the lyrics drowned out by the beat. She lingered by the table of refreshments, dodging stray elbows and keeping a mental tally of how many versions of sexy beloved childhood characters crossed into her path. There wasn’t a single person here that she knew, at least not directly. The house—a sprawling mansion full of white marble and high ceilings and far too many sculptures—belonged to someone in her parents’ social circle, and she was supposed to stop by for some bullshit reason. It hadn’t been her idea of a good time on her favorite night of the year. Far from it, actually. It wasn’t like she had plans, anyway, now that all of her friends were miles and miles across the country. But there was no way in hell she’d be making any new ones here.

She hadn’t been motivated enough to dress up, either, and this California weather was not kind to layers. She’d seriously misjudged the flannel button down now that she was gridlocked in a sea of humanity buzzed on alcoholic punch. There had been more alcohol than punch, she found out early on, once she’d tossed back two of those small glasses. She’d been here just over an hour, but it felt like an eternity. Was it socially acceptable to nope the fuck out of this place yet?

The refreshments spread was impressive—she had to give them that at least. It had been the only reason she’d hung around so long, shoveling Halloween cookies and candied apples into the bag draped over her shoulder in the least discreet manner possible. If she had to endure her own personal slice of hell, then she should’ve gotten something out of it. It was only fair to take advantage of free food.

She dropped a handful of assorted fun sized candy bars into her bag, well aware of the unsolicited leering gazes across the room. A trio of fuckboys had been eyeing her since she walked in. She was someone new, someone unknown, so of course they had to sniff her out like prey. That look was universal no matter what coast you lived on, and she wasn’t here for it.

Elbows and shoulders jostled her as she merged into the traffic of mostly costumed bodies. They followed behind, thinking she didn’t notice.

She did.

She hitched her bag up onto her shoulder and continued toward where she thought the front door had been, though this house was laid out like a maze. She attempted to use the crowd as a buffer, but it thinned out faster than she’d anticipated. The hot, sweaty presence of them hovering behind her was too close, too much. Their expensive cologne choked her senses and mingled with whatever combination of booze had been in the punch. She veered down a hall, intending to take off at a brisk walk when a strong hand latched onto her wrist.

“Where’re you going, sweetheart?”

They stalked her, surrounding her, boxing her into a corner. She struggled against the iron grip around her wrist and tried to kick at their shins. If only she could’ve bashed them across the face with her bag full of candied apples and Halloween chocolate when she had the chance.

“Fuck off.”

“Aww, come on—”

“Let her go.”

The steely command filled up the hall as if a layer of ice had suddenly formed on the lavish end tables and lamps and portrait frames. For a moment, the predatory trio relented, and she turned her head to find who the voice belonged to.

A Hawthorne boy. It had to be.

Tall, yet leaner than the trio of dumbasses holding her hostage, he managed to somehow appear more intimidating than the three of them combined. He wore a tailored black suit paired with a crisp white shirt, a thin, glossy black bow tied around his neck. Definitely a uniform, she mused absently, while she gaped at him in something akin to astonishment. He had the most impressive head of strawberry blond hair she’d ever seen.

Slender fingers clenched into fists at his sides and his jaw tightened. She’d heard stories about the boys who went to Hawthorne from her own classmates; they were often spoken about in conspiratorial whispers like they were eldritch beings, the stuff of myth and legend.

Maybe they were.

“Yeah?” one of the trio taunted. “Why don’t you mind your own business?” His fingers pressed deeper into her skin and she imagined a handprint-shaped bruise around her wrist like some macabre bracelet.

“Get your hands off her,” the Hawthorne boy demanded. His voice was even, but she saw the impatience, the anger building in his tone. “I won’t tell you again.”

They laughed. They kept laughing—his nails digging into her skin until her fingers went numb—and she was the only one who caught the smirk that passed over the boy’s lips before they all heard a sickening crack. He dropped her wrist with a cry of agony, holding up a hand full of twisted, mangled fingers. His blood pattered onto the expensive carpet beneath their feet, the white bones that protruded from his broken skin shining in the glow of the orange Halloween lights.

“Holy shit,” she breathed.

“What the fuck, man?”

The two uninjured assailants rounded on the Hawthorne boy while their friend stood there, sobbing and uselessly clutching his obliterated hand to his chest. She watched the growing stain of red across his shirt and pooling around his shoes with more satisfaction than she was willing to admit.

“The hell did you do to him, freak?”

He’d barely taken two steps toward the Hawthorne boy when he flew up into the air and careened onto the floor on the opposite end of the hallway, attracting a chorus of screams and horrified looks and dropped cups of punch. She saw the boy’s fingers flex, his knuckles white as he confronted the third attacker. The one who’d been bleeding had finally fled the scene, leaving a trail of blood behind.

“Don’t,” her would-be assailant pleaded with wide eyes. “Please, I didn’t—”

Hawthorne boy titled his head. “It’s far too late for that now.”

The third attacker flew into the opposite wall, pressed flat against the mahogany paneling as if someone had their hands around his throat. His hands seemed to be restrained by some unseen force, his feet dangling a few inches from the ground. He sputtered and gurgled trying to take in a breath, all attempts to force out a single, desperate syllable made in vain. She watched the veins pop out of his forehead and neck, his face veering from a gross shade of beet red to a bruised purple.

Hawthorne boy seemed unconcerned—and really, neither was she—but the attention they’d garnered had gotten out of hand, quickly. And then she saw it: she swore Hawthorne boy’s eyes rolled back in his head and he convulsed like he was having some kind of seizure. Blood started to drip from his nostrils.

“Whoa…whoa, easy,” she said, very aware of the shouting and bodies moving around them as she surged forward and grabbed the front of Hawthorne boy’s sweater vest. “Come on, we have to get out of here. Like, now.”

She bulldozed through the crowd to the front door, her fist still curled around his sweater despite the fact that he was a good several inches taller than her. She didn’t even know if he was coherent at this point, she just knew they needed to disappear fast before someone got wise and called the cops on him. She moved like nothing else around them existed, tuning out the whispers and yells until the cool evening air finally hit her in the face.

It was dusk outside. Night encroached on the horizon, orange and purple lights winking to life on the houses they passed. The sidewalks had become flooded with kids in costume. She could breathe when they were at least a block away from the house, and finally let go of Hawthorne boy’s formerly pristine sweater vest after another block. When she turned on her heel, he was blinking slowly, taking shallow breaths while he stared down at the blood on his fingers.

“Are you okay?” she asked, though it sounded pointless after it left her mouth. Of course he wasn’t okay—he was trembling, there was blood all down the front of his starched white shirt, and the terror on his face made something twist uncomfortably in her chest.

“Here, sit down. Careful…deep breaths, that’s it.” He sunk down onto the stone wall of the house they’d stopped in front of. She joined him, cautious of the carved pumpkins that flickered with candlelight to her left.

“There’s too much of it, sometimes,” he said. She could still hear the tremble in his voice, all traces of anger and mischief gone. “I get lost in it. I…don’t even notice until it’s almost too late.”

She didn’t know what he was talking about, but whatever trance he’d been in had looked scary as fuck. She dug around in her bag until she uncovered a few napkins pilfered from the refreshments table. It seemed like the blood flow had stopped, but it’d made a mess of his face and the front of his clothes. There wasn’t much she could do about the uniform. But she pressed the napkin to his nose, gingerly, then wiped up the trails of crimson that had dripped down his lips and chin. He had a jawline for days and crystalline blue eyes that made the breath in her throat catch just a little.

“Thank you,” he murmured, taking the bloodstained napkins and tucking them away into the pocket of his jacket. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“You saved me from those creeps. It was the least I could do,” she answered. “Actually…” She pulled open her bag again, settling it between them. “I dohave a lot of stolen chocolate in here, and there’s no way I’m going to eat it all myself. Do you like candied apples? ‘Cause I took like five of them.”

He laughed, and so did she, because he had the kind of infectious, charming laughter that made her insides turn into complete mush. He unearthed a KitKat bar from the depths of her bag and she tore open a Reese’s peanut butter cup. She couldn’t stop staring at his long, slender fingers and the candlelight that spun his hair into gold.

She was sitting here on Halloween night casually eating stolen chocolate with a Hawthorne boy. What the hell kind of luck had the universe thrown her way?

“I thought all of those stories about you Hawthorne boys were bullshit,” she confessed as the empty wrappers began to pile up between them. “But I’m new here, so what the hell do I know, right?”

He folded one leg underneath him on the stone wall, the other left over the side. She’d settled cross-legged, the wrappers drifting down into her lap.

“Well, I’m Michael,” he said. He flashed a megawatt smile, and it took her a second to register the cheesy albeit adorable joke. “And I don’t know what you’ve heard about Hawthorne but I can guarantee at least half of it is bullshit.”

She laughed. “Yeah, maybe,” she agreed. “But what I saw…what you did…I’m impressed with whatever that was. You’ve made me a believer.”

Michael ripped open another KitKat and shied away from her confession. “Where’d you move from?”

“New York,” she answered. “Y’know, where autumn actually exists and the leaves change color like they’re supposed to.”

“You miss it.”

“You have no idea,” she said.

Michael hopped down from the wall and brushed off his pants. After shoving the discarded chocolate wrappers into his pocket, he held out one of his hands to her. She pushed the wrappers in her lap back into her bag and took Michael’s hand, letting him help her off the wall. His skin was warm and soft when he laced his fingers between hers.

He smirked. “Come with me.”

They walked for several blocks, weaving in between bands of costumed kids and dogs. Houses were strung up with lights and fake cobwebs, lawns inundated with artificial fog and tacky decorations. Her eyes wandered to the Jack O’Lanterns displayed on almost every porch and front yard, from the simple, toothy grins to the intricate, pop culture-inspired works of art. High-pitched shrieks pierced the air from somewhere a couple blocks away; across the street, there was the rush of children’s quick footsteps. For a moment, if she closed her eyes, she could conjure the rich scent of wood smoke and damp leaves.

Michael led her into a small wooded park through an elegant wrought iron entranceway. They passed circles of teenagers and kids gathered on the grass trading their trick-or-treat spoils and looking for mischief.

“What are we doing?” she asked.

“You’ll see.”

The two of them moved away from the crowds to a quiet little corner where Michael relinquished her hand. She watched him, one eyebrow raised, as he circled a massive tree. He considered it like the tree itself was some kind of challenge, until he stopped and took a deep breath. Michael lifted one arm, then the other, his palms splayed upward to face the network of branches, his movements fluid and graceful.

She only took her eyes off him when she realized the leaves were beginning to fade from their bright verdant color to a golden yellow. One of them floated off the branches and curled into her palm. She studied it, her mouth dropping open as it turned again, this time toward a burnt orange hue. The rest of the leaves followed, dissolving and changing before her very eyes, from gold to dark orange and every shade in between until the tree became a brilliant display of scarlet.

She laughed, twirling under the shelter of the branches while they let go of their leaves, a crimson storm swirling around her. She felt them land on her head, and gathered them up into her arms just to toss them into the breeze again. Her boots crunched through the piles when they accumulated around the tree trunk; for just a moment, she was a kid in her backyard in New York.

Once the last one had fallen, she dove face-first into the most gigantic pile of bright red leaves she’d seen in months. Their rich, earthy fragrance filled up her senses, and she flopped onto her back cocooned by them, feeling blissfully content. Michael towered over her, that ever-present smirk lighting up his face.

She tugged on his pant leg. “Come on,” she beckoned. “Join me—it’s fun.”

Michael toppled backward into the leaves and landed next to her, his hair slightly tousled from the fall. He had a few leaves stuck in those golden curls, another one edging toward the collar of his shirt. His arm brushed hers, his fingers instantly seeking hers out until they were laced together again. She moved closer, the leaves crackling and crunching under her, and rested her head on his shoulder.

She breathed in deep. “So this is what they teach at Hawthorne.”

“…Some of it.”

She was comfortable—way too comfortable. If they stayed here like this all night, she wouldn’t argue. Would he?

“I have to say, I’m jealous.” She let her eyes close. “Thank you…that was the sweetest thing anyone’s done for me since I moved here.”

His thumb brushed across the back of her hand. “It was worth it, to see the look on your face.”

“Hey, Langdon,” a new voice hollered from somewhere behind them. “We’ve been looking all over for you.”

Michael sat up and she followed, craning her neck to find a small group of Hawthorne boys in their crisp black and white uniforms. She plucked a couple of leaves out of Michael’s hair, then traced the curve of his cheek with her fingertips.

“I have to go,” he told her. “I’m sorry.”

Fuck it, she thought, before she pressed her lips to his. It was a tentative kiss and far too chaste; she wasn’t sure if she’d miscalculated his feelings. But when she started to pull away, he drew her back to him, his fingers tipping her chin upward. He kissed her deeply, both of them ignoring the howls from his friends until they broke apart, desperate to catch their breath.

Michael left another kiss on her forehead, soft and lingering and delicate.

“See you around, Hawthorne boy.”

He gave her one last grin, and then he was gone, back to his group of mysterious, ethereal friends, back to his strange school of myth and legend, nothing but a silhouette fading into the shadows of this surreal Halloween night.

@lastregasolitaria @mylippo @zeciex @lvngdvns @langdonsdemon @yourkingcodyfern @sojournmichael @gabnelson98 @rainbowrosesjas @antichristlangdxn @keavysmithxoxo @artistlunadrayne @codysfallenangels @batgirlbride @mileeyyowens @dead-witch-boy @boofy1998 @gentianea @cryptid-coalition @langdonsrapture @kinlovecody @yuriohoe04 @electricurie @marvel-rpdr-and-ahs @gallxntdean @langdonscurls @jcshadowkiss-blog @frozenhuntress67 @sebastianshoe @dixmond-taurus @bookobssesed99 @sassylangdon @queenie435 @holylangdon @weareallevilmotherfuckers @langdonfern @angsty-otters-blog @denaexr @sapphronrose @micheallangdons @lostin-fern @crazedcatcuddler @satansapostle @monsucre @softlangdvn @ritualmichael

#michael langdon #michael langdon x reader #michael langdon x fem!reader #michael langdon imagine #michael langdon fanfiction #ahs fic #ahs imagine #ahs fanfiction #ahs apocalypse imagine #ahs apocalypse fanfiction #fic: strangeness and charm #fic: fluff #fic: hawthorne era

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