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keilemlucent · 4 years

Text

take care of me

(r18+)

hawks | takami keigo x reader

ao3

word count: ~4.4k

beta’ed: @hawnks

keigo is perfectly happy to help you forget a stressful day

warnings: daddy kink (no age play), spanking, aftercare, praise kink, self indulgent smut, spit kink <333333, bdsm, masochist reader

...

self indulgent..... caregiver dom keigo? we knew it was coming. enjoy loves <333

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You ached all over.

The mental exhaustion of the day was far more grating than the physical, but the dull throb of your tired muscles was impossible to ignore, even when you were only half-conscious on the couch.

You were put out.

You’d been burrowed under a pile of blankets since you’d stumbled into the penthouse after work, curling up without even bothering to take off your shoes.

Night had fallen, the apartment cold, silent and still. Normally, you might’ve whipped up some dinner or showered, maybe done something productive.

But not that night.

You’d held yourself together through the day. Each angry word and sneer you faced was handled with a smile, despite how you were cracking inside. You even managed to keep an even expression when your scalding morning coffee was splattered over your shirt, almost burning you.

Well, you weren’t sure if it hadn’t. You hadn’t checked, considering you were still wearing the stained garment. Maybe, the skin of your stomach was as inflamed and puckered as it felt.

Maybe that was just your mood.

...

You hardly stirred when the balcony door of the apartment slid open and then shut, Keigo’s ruffling and booted footsteps echoing across over the apartment.

Your eyes stay half-lidded and hazy when Keigo rounds the couch, eyes softening as he notices your cocoon of blankets.

“Hey, dove,” Dropping to his knees neck to the couch, he cups the side of your cheek in a gloved hand, “Feeling a bit tired?”

You nodded, lips still sealed.

There was nothing in you to give, just the slow simmering of exhaustion and sadness that you couldn’t escape.

Keigo’s gaze softened, gold and far-too pretty in the dim light of the living room, “Bad day?”

“Y-yeah.”

Your voice cracked when you spoke, the words going grainy as your chest tightened.

As you sniffled, burying your face into the blankets as unwelcome tears stung at the corners of your eyes.

Very bad day.

He shed his jacket and gloves, tossing them to the side without a care. Keigo coaxed you to rise, only enough for him to slip into the blankets, laying underneath you to pull your head to his chest.

“I’ve gotcha’, dove,” He hummed, pressing kiss after kiss into your hair. “Do you wanna talk about it?”

You didn’t respond, only bit your lip and buried your face into his chest.

Keigo had just arrived home after a long day, and the last thing you wanted was to be a chore to deal with consider how fucking trashed you felt. The idea of being a burden—

His voice shocked you from your thoughts.

“Do you want daddy to take care of it?”

His words and all of their insinuations washed over you.

You knew Keigo had no issues taking that role— fuck, he confided in you many, many times that he loved being able to take care of you in any and all ways.

Giving it a name, an identity, made him purr with pride.

You swallowed, the idea curling your head. Catharsis by Keigo’s hand sounded fucking fantastic in the most gut-rotting way.

You nodded.

Keigo smiled against your hair, his own insides twisting. He’d had his own day of annoyance and had been more than ready and willing to come home to you and blow off some steam, but if this was what you needed, he was more than willing to provide and have a fantastic time doing it.

Keigo hummed, smoothing his hands up your sides. “So what are you feeling?” He knew you wouldn’t be great at giving anything other than ‘yes’ or ‘no’ answers, but he could try and coax a bit more out of you.

Options.

“I could start off slow, just how you like,” His voice curled over your ear with a nip as he slid his thumbs beneath your waistband. “Let you rut on my thigh like the cute little dove you are. If you’re good, maybe you could suck daddy’s cock while I lick your pussy clean.”

You buried your face in his neck, a high whine echoing from the back of your throat.

Keigo felt his cock twitch, wings stirring from their crunched position.

“Or, I could knot your wrist tight, give them those nice, pretty burns, tie you to the bottom of the couch and fuck you into the floor.”

You buried yourself deeper, all of the ideas in your head were alluring, but not quite right.

A kinder option was also a good idea.

“Or, I could hold you nice and tight like this for a while. Maybe take a bath, use that new massage oil we ordered, rub you down until all of that tension is pulled out by my hands.”

The pads of Keigo’s fingers rolled into the knots in your shoulders, some of the stress dripping away with the preview of his words.

It took the softness to realize what you really needed:

“I want it to hurt.”

Oh, and fuck, you wanted it to so bad.

You wanted to be fucked up and used so bad you could barely move. Fucked stupid, so all of the nasty thoughts of the day would melt away.

Keigo practically rumbled beneath you, his wings flexing and puffing up against your back, just inches from your face.

He wanted it— no, needed it, just as bad as you.

He took a few deep breaths beneath you, his hand wandering to settle with a bruising grip at the fat above your waist.

“Gimme your taps,” Keigo nuzzled against your cheek.

“One tap is that I’m good, two taps is slow down, three taps is stop, four taps is that I’m having trouble talking.”

It was an easy system, one you and Keigo had adapted to suit your needs and the often merciless ways he’d lay you to ruin.

“Perfect, dove, god,” Keigo sang his words like sweet prayers. Slowly, he sat up, still holding you tight to his chest. “You go wash up quick in the bedroom, I’ll get myself all settled and ready. Wear whatever you’d like and shout if you need me, okay?”

You swallowed, gut turning.

“O-Okay, I love you.

“I love you too, so fucking much.”

...

You took a few minutes in the bathroom to ground yourself. You still felt like shit, but in the way that now craved something different and more carnal to get it to fall away and release.

You trusted Keigo with everything in you. He knew how to pick you apart just the way you needed.

You wandered back into the living room, padding in quietly in a pair of fluffy socks, an oversized tee that hung just below your ass, and a pair of shorts that showed the barest bits of your cheeks.

Keigo was in the kitchen, the hilt of the knife clicking against the metal of the rings he wore as he chopped up a few of your favorite fruits and placed them into a wooden bowl.

He’d changed as well, looking sharper and much more like the ‘daddy Keigo’ that you knew. His black pants were sharp and perfectly fitted, along with the black mock neck he wore. He accessorized with a few rings on each hand and a chain necklace laying over his collarbones.

Keigo’s eyes flickered up to you as you regarded him, a little grin beginning to grow.

“Seems I overdressed.” His wings flared behind him, unable to hide his excitement the same way his face was.

“I-I can change—”

“Absolutely not,” Keigo slid around the kitchen island, tsking quietly. “You’re perfect, just like this.”

You didn’t reply, not until Keigo stopped in front of your and grabbed your jaw, pulling your gaze to him.

“Sweetness,” His affections rolled over your skull in the exact way you needed. “Do you want me to take care of you?”

“P-Please.”

The word was desperate, shaking and shuddering as it slipped from lips.

Keigo’s smile grows wider, his plumage ruffling.

“Sweet girl, try again.”

Your lip wobbled as he stroked down at your pulse point.

“Please, d-daddy.”

What a role to have.

Keigo loved it, notably.

It had started early, that incessant itch to care for you in any way that he could was semi-insatiable until he started to indulge it to his heart's content. You thrived off it too, needing that personal attention that he was so willing to give. And hell, it wasn’t like you didn’t return it constantly with endless love and sweetness.

He just took care of you.

The details, all the small things he’d gathered about since you’d gotten together (and before then too) were things he cherished. Little things about you he wasn’t even sure you noticed, he collected them and accommodated them in any way he could.

There was the more mundane, like your favorite smells and tastes and touches. The knowledge of the best textures of clothes and blankets that he loved to gift you and your favorite spices and sweets were coveted.

There was the more intimate, too.

He had taken breaking you apart with pleasure as a divine rite, that first time he got you on the silken sheets of his bed. Learning every twitch and shudder and what it meant felt like his life’s goal as he buried his face in your cunt.

You liked it all, notably.

You thrived off the attention, though it took a while for you to accept that ‘yes, you do indeed deserve this, very much so.’

Once more, you returned it. Perhaps you weren’t quite as perceptive as Keigo was, you didn’t have the training (thank god), but you did constantly return love to him. Your own touch and kind words more comforting than anything he’d ever received in his fucking life.

He could only return the favor by taking care of you in any way that you needed.

And that night?

You needed to hurt.

And Keigo, truthfully, was in the mood to get a bit of tied up anger out in the sweetest way possible.

...

Keigo drifted to the couch, your hand in his with you in tow. You were so meek that day, eyes downcast.

He’d have to be careful, watch your body and expressions and not push you too far. He trusted you to call things off, but he still never hurt you beyond what you could handle.

Besides, Keigo had crafted a wonderful plan that he was fairly (very) certain you would enjoy.

Keigo sat down on the couch, thighs parted the slightest bit, a half-chub already pressing against his trouser.

“Lie down, dove,” He kept his voice so sweet as he tapped his thigh. “Let me help you.”

You scrunched your shirt in your hands, mind beginning to get pleasantly hazy with his words and you laid yourself over his lap. You adjusted with your arms cushioning your head, knees pressed against the cushion.

“Talk to me, sweetness— What’s going on?” Keigo spoke as he nudged your hips upwards, your back bowing and arching under his touch.

“Just a bad day,” You swallowed, burying your face into the cushions. “I don’t want to think about it.”

Your head was already swimming, you didn’t want to mentally relive how awful the day had been—

“Then let’s make it good, hm?” Keigo mused, cupping your ass through your shorts and squeezing. “Make you forget in your favorite way. I know how much you like this.”

You tried to speak, but your jaw snapped shut with a click and a cry as Keigo’s palm smacked over the fat of your ass.

“You just need a little bit of extra help today, hm?” Keigo smoothed his hand over where he had struck. The motion was tender in the same way his words were, washing over you enough to almost distract from the pain that was just beginning.

“Uh-huh,” You replied, weak and muffled into the fabric beneath you.

Another strike sent you pressing into the cushions, whining against upholstery as Keigo rubbed over your skin was against, his other hand going to stabilize your back, tracing his name and little hearts over your spine.

“‘Uh-huh’, who?”

“Daddy!” You screamed with the next strike. Your words melded with the echo of the sounds of your flesh.

Keigo was beaming at you, you could feel it. His wings were puffed up, rippling in time with heavy breathing.

“Good girl, god, dove, perfect,” He leaned down to press a kiss to the back of your head while smoothing a hand beneath your shorts. “You’re just so good. You deserve so much good, you know that?”

You nodded as Keigo shucked your shorts to the ground, pushing up your shirt to leave most of you bare to him.

It felt vulnerable, despite having been in this position before.

“I d-do,” You stuttered, words sticky. “I am good.”

It felt real, for a moment, brightened by the sharp pain that was growing constant from your cheeks.

“God, perfect,” Keigo waxed, grabbing a handful of your ass and squeezing. “Here’s what you’re gonna do sweetness— here’s how I’m gonna take care of you today.”

His hand slid between your clenched thighs, pushing them apart and barely teasing your slit, “You’re gonna hurt for me, so fucking good. I’m gonna give you... twenty-five, how does that sound?”

You nodded, an answer Keigo accepted.

“Good,” You could hear his grin. “You’re gonna take each one so well, I know you will, dove.”

The expectation hurt so bad you winced.

Keigo hushed you with a hand to the back of your neck, “It’s alright, I’ll be right here. Just want to break you a little bit, hm?”

You whined this time, shifting your thighs together as Keigo chuckled.

“Maybe a lot, but we’ll see. I don’t want you thinking after this.”

Holy fuck, neither did you. You’d be content to be close to braindead when Keigo was through with you.

Any reply you had was just a warbled moan into the cushion below as Keigo slapped his hand down once more.

“Count, sweetness.”

“O-one.”

Another smack, to the other cheek, flesh growing hot.

“T-two— “

And Keigo didn’t fucking relent.

Each smack was hard, the fat of your ass jiggling and burning against the flat of his palm. The knick of his rings against the soft flesh only added to burn and sting.

Perhaps, in other conditions, Keigo would have built up to the level of pain he was providing. Preamble a bit with some softer touches and sweet words as opposed to relentlessly spanking your ass so hard you swore you could already feel welts forming from the rings he wore.

“T-t— Ten!”

Your voice cracked in your throat, each impact bringing up sprinklings of tears that were rubbed into the couch.

All the harshness of his strikes was in harmony with the sinfully soft way he was touching you otherwise.

A gentle hand running through your hair, mindful of any knots or tangles. His fingertips stroked up and down your neck, nails teasing the thin skin just below your ear. Even the way he rubbed at your flesh between strikes was so fucking tender, despite how his touch made the hot skin boil even more.

Your first muffled sob was what got him going verbally.

“Oh, wow,” Keigo whistled to himself, a sharp-nailed finger running up your spine. “Are you crying already, sweetness? Does this hurt too bad?”

“N-no,” You forced the words out, even as they clung to the back of your tongue.

The confusing feelings and emotions thrumming through you made you want to just let go. The tears mixed with the loving fullness in your chest, all counterpointed by hot pain that was ripping through your nerves from the bruises and singed skin from your ongoing spanking.

Not to mention the slick coating your thighs—

“Seems not,” Keigo clicked his tongue, pausing to run a finger over your slit. “Still dripping for me, even when I’m touching you like this?”

He spanked you again, right over a pre-existing welt.

You sputtered in the cushions, almost sobbing but still trying to hold onto a semblance of your composure.

Keigo could see it in the rigidity of your shoulders. No matter how he pressed into the muscles in time with the strikes he dealt, you just wouldn’t loosen up.

You shook against the cushions below, exertion from holding your arched back clear.

Keigo hummed to himself.

You said you wanted it to hurt, right?

And God, if he wasn’t going to deliver.

In a flurry of motion, Keigo shifted, bringing you with him.

Your cheek remained against the leather of the couch, blood rushing to your head as your ass was thrown up and over the armrest.

Keigo stood up, wings unrestrained and extended. You couldn’t see the angry, red plumage, only the shadow it threw over you.

“Oh, dove,” Keigo waxed. “You just need a bit more, right?”

Another strike.

“F-f— Fifteen— “

“You’ve had such a rough day, haven’t you?”

His words stir something vile in your soupy brain, a whimper leaking through your parted lips.

(Maybe, you were more fucked out than you thought.)

He hushed you with a yank on your hair, forcing your back and neck to bow.

“My dove just needs to know how loved they are, hm?”

You nodded, his grip tightening but you could hardly care. Each spark of pain felt so fucking good, your lingering barriers broke down more and more with each one of Keigo’s touches.

Whether they were that syrupy comforting kind or burning, bruising kind, you couldn’t care or tell. The blend of it all was flooding through you so well, all you could do was blubber out numbers between bursts of tears and ‘more’s and ‘please’es.

“T-we— n— ty!” The syllables felt choppy, maybe, but you hardly cared.

“Good girl, fuck,” Keigo gritted out, palming the front of his trouser. He’d been graciously (read: cruelly) ignoring your dripping cunt as well as his own ache throughout your spanking session.

He’d make sure the two of you were satisfied by the time it was all over.

You did have five strikes left.

“Taps for me, love,” Keigo’s rubbed at your back, hips bumping into your broiled ass.

You gave the leather below a single hard tap.

All good.

“Perfect.”

And with very little reverie, a few of Keigo’s feathers shot from his wings, wrapping around your wrists and ankles, pinning you to the leather.

And with even less reverie, Keigo’s spread your asscheeks wide and spat onto your cunt.

“K-Keigo!”

His name ripped from your throat, mixing with a shriek as the cold spit went clammy against your burning flesh.

“Try again, sweetness.”

The next strike was hard, and Keigo’s hold didn’t shift from your cheeks.

He’d hardened two fucking feathers.

Larger ones, broader enough to strike down at the top of the curve of your ass with a swift flick.

They were so much harder than his hands.

So.

Much.

Harder.

Harsher.

Crueler.

“D-daddy!”

You corrected yourself instantly, clawing into the cushions. Your chest burned as your sobs turned to weepings, your cheeks singeing with each harsh breath.

“Tw— e— nty one!

You barely managed to get the words out before Keigo buried his face in your cunt.

And fuck, did he eat you like the prized meal you were. His words be damned, he had plenty of ways to break you down beyond his verbal praise.

He lapped at the tacky slick on your thighs, licking up to tease at your pussy with the tip of his tongue. The stubble along his chin roughed up your most precious bits, but you didn’t mind.

If anything, you wanted it to hurt more.

For that reason, his feathers could finish the job. They surely had a harder hit than his hands had.

Based on the way you were quaking against him, stammering and blabbering little pleads and adorations, they were doing their job.

Broken little thing, weren’t you?

But that was the point, of course.

“Four more, dove,” Keigo murmured against your folds. “Say thank you with each one, dove. Keep being good for me.”

The command was all you needed, hurriedly nodding into the tear-soaked fabric below.

The feathers struck down again, skin breaking.

“T— wen-ty two!”

Keigo chuckled against your cunt, pulling away only to tease slide his fingers over your clit, “Feeling good?”

“T-Thank you!”

Oh, you were fucking braindead.

Keigo was all too pleased, a few smaller feathers going to prop up your hips as they trembled.

“Good,” His words were muffled by your sex, but neither of you had the mind to care about words. It was all in the soup of sounds that kept you rutting back into his tongue. “Keep going.”

The next strike was so loud, it eclipsed the sound of your own shriek.

“TW— wenty three! Thank you!”

Keigo could feel you wheeze, but no taps came.

No reason not to continue.

His own pants felt tight as he rolled his hips into the side of the couch, eyes rolling back into his head as your cunt gushed around him.

Your entire body was thrumming, pulsing from the inside out with what had to be pain, but you could hardly tell. You were spinning somewhere harsh and fast and you didn’t dare try to rationalize it.

All you could ground yourself on was the slap of Keigo’s feathers and the feel of him eating you in earnest.

It was enough, barely.

The next slap just added to your feelings.

“TWE— EN— ty f-four! T-thank you!”

Keigo pulled away, wiping your arousal from around his lips and scooting around the couch to get a better look at your face.

As absolutely hot as he was, and how desperately he wanted to eat you up until he burst, he also knew he was pushing you fairly hard.

“Sweetness, ready to take your last one?”

Keigo ran his fingers through your hair as your eyes focused on him in their half-lidded position.

“I-I can’t do it, daddy.”

He paused.

You’d have given taps if you wanted to stop, truly. He trusted you on that.

“Yes, you can,” Keigo cooed, thumbing a bit of drool over your cheek. “I know you can.”

“I-I can’t,” You sobbed out, burying your face into the couch. Despite your words, you stayed tense and rigid.

All you needed was a little push.

Keigo took to leaving gentle touches across your back, rubbing out your tension wherever he found it knotted. Your weeping didn’t fully subside, but it certainly quieted as you took gulps of breath was some gentle coaching.

“Can you take one more for me? For your daddy?” Keigo glowed with pride as he spoke, seeing the way your eyes lit up and your head bobbed against the cushions.

“Uh-huh,” You leaned into his touch where you could. “One m-more, f-for you.”

You gave a single tap into the cushions.

Keigo couldn’t help but be proud of you as you readjusted, arch going harsher and deeper.

He’d finished your spanking off with his hand, you earned it after taking so much so well.

The large feathers returned to him, while a single small one drifted between your sticky thighs to part your folds.

Slowly, the plume circled around your clit, lapping at the nub as his tongue would, your juices soaking it all the same.

Even as Keigo laid the most gentle touch on your ass, the throb and burn of it made your whimper and whine.

One more.

Just one more strike and all of that mundane stress and anger would be broken off from you and dissolved in a puddle of your own tears.

“When I give you your last one, you’re going to cum all over that feather for me, dove, understand?”

You nodded, hurriedly, barely grinding against the stimulation.

Keigo wound up, wings extended and full, before putting all of his weight into his swing.

His palm hit your rear with such a crack that it broke both of you.

You screamed, shrieked, as your thighs clenched and gave out beneath you. Any cries you’d be managing to hold back ripped from your throat with the last smack as your cunt clenched and pleasure exploded in your gut.

Barely, you managed to speak through your tears.

“Twenty-f-five.. .. thank you....”

Keigo had to take a moment himself, breathing hard and particularly weak-kneed.

The sweet cry that had torn from your mouth was all he needed to be pushed over the edge, his cock twitching and spurting while hardly even being touched.

He was impressed, with both himself and you.

“God, dove, you did so well for me,” Keigo wiped the salt from his brow, ignoring his creamed pants to slip onto the couch and pull you into his arms.

You were half-lucid, sticky with sweat and arousal but you couldn’t find yourself to care. All you could fixate on was the feel of Keigo’s heat and the ruffle of his feathers as you settled into his lap.

Keigo pressed kisses against your temples and cheeks, positioning your thighs around his own and allowing you to sag into his chest.

You clung to him with everything you had as you spun down from your high.

He whispered little affections to you, small praises and love for doing so ‘well for him’ and ‘how good you took it, took it all’.

A few of his feathers came and went carrying a bowl of fruit, chilled and cut up into bite-sized pieces.

From your haze, Keigo pressed a piece of sweetness to your lips.

“Eat, love, take it,” He purred as you opened your mouth just enough for the fruit to slip in. You chewed slowly, focusing on the flavor and texture before swallowing.

The spare drool that slipped from the corner of your mouth was quickly scooped up by Keigo’s thumb, gathered and popped into his own mouth.

His feathers rippled.

“I feel a lot better,” You slurred into the crook of his neck. “Thank you.”

Keigo chuckled, something high and light that made your guts turn anew. His hand brushed over the meat of your ass, bruised and covered in welts, “You’re welcome, but...”

His touch hurt, but in the best way.

A pleasant reminder.

“How does this feel?”

“Painful, but good,” You hummed, opening your mouth for another piece of fruit. The tartness of the bite brought you closer to lucidity. “You’re too good to me, you know.”

“Flattery, when you’re this fucked out? I’m impressed,” Keigo pulled you closer by the small of your back. “Rest for a little bit, then I’ll clean us up, sound good?”

“Very,” You circled your arms around him, locking your hands just below his wings. “But... ‘us’?”

“I might’ve nutted. Maybe.”

You snorted, but you were quickly quieted by another piece of sweetness and plenty of distracting affection.

Desperately needed, by both you.

....

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a-small-batch-of-dragons · 3 years

Text

Turns of Phrase

Prompt: I'd like you to consider: all the sides in the mindscape have the "way too literal" problem, like for example, Virgil actually grows taller when his anxiety is heightened, Patton actually grows wings when Thomas has a 'heart aflutter', e.c.t. But Roman just has a huge stack of negative ones. Creative block, bruised ego, shackled creativity, e.c.t. And then there's h/c when somebody (Logan) sees 👀👀

Thanks for the prompt babe!

Read on Ao3

Warnings: self-doubt, self-esteem issues, Roman whump

Pairings: LAMP, DLAMP, DLAMPR, can be platonic or romantic you decide

Word Count: 5722

This is Roman’s fault. Really. It is. He’s the one who works the closest with the Imagination, which means he’s got control over how Thomas interacts with his own imagination, which means that he’s got control over how Thomas sees the Sides.

So yeah. This is his fault.

‘Heart all aflutter.’ ‘Heightened anxiety.’ ‘Liar, liar, pants on fire.’ All the little innocuous phrases that are just turns of phrase, not supposed to be literal, well…they got into Thomas’s head when he was younger, and since, the Imagination has never quite gotten rid of them. Shouldn’t be too bad, right, this should be something they can deal with.

And for the most part, they do.

Patton wears the hoodie tied around his shoulders to block the chill from the slits sewn in the back of all of his shirts in case the wings decide to pop out again. When they do, everyone crowds around to make sure he doesn’t fly off into the sky or accidentally twist one. The feathers are the softest things you can imagine and work great for stuffing pillows or plushies.

Virgil’s clothes are made of stretchy, baggy material and the doorways are much, much higher than they need to be. There’s a special cupboard tucked high up in the pantry that just has Virgil’s comfort foods in them so he can reach comfortably when he’s tall.

And, well…there’s a reason Janus wears such a long cloak.

For the most part, these are just minor inconveniences. Listen, when you live in a completely imaginary world where you can summon anything you need and change anything you don’t like with a snap of your fingers, things like new clothes or snacks are easy.

Then there’s Roman.

Roman, who is tied most closely to the Imagination.

Roman, who represents not just Creativity, but romance, motivation, desire.

Roman. The Ego.

The problem with throwing around these types of phrases is how easy it becomes to dismiss them. And for Thomas, who has a creative profession, that’s good. For Thomas.

Not so good for Roman.

“Hey, you’ve been having some trouble getting ideas out lately, you doing okay?”

“Yeah, I’m just going through a bit of a creative block at the moment.”

Roman’s fists ache as he pounds on the door, heaving sobs trailing off into hitched gasps as he slumps against the unyielding wood. As a desperate last resort, he throws himself at the door, barely making it shudder in its frame. It’s as if he weighs nothing, not an ounce, unable to make so much as a goddamn dent in the world around him.

“Let me—let me out, please, let me out, I gotta—I want out,” he sobs, over and over, as his room grows smaller and smaller, the walls pressing in around him, blank, sterile, cold, “I wanna—out, let me out, let me out, let me out please—“

He’s not even in his room anymore. He’s in a pure white cage, on the wrong side of a door that will not open.

“Dude, like…reign it in a little bit.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. That’s…like, way too much.”

“I dunno, I think it feels weird if we weren’t doing this.”

“C’mon, it won’t kill you to shackle your creativity a little.”

Roman wakes up to the quiet clinking of metal against metal. He goes to wipe his face and a bolt of pain shoots through his arm. The shackles spread him so far his chest aches, wincing as he tries to turn just a little to avoid the rush of agony that would come from having his arm trapped in the wrong position. At least he was lying down this time, and he’s on his bed. He isn’t being forced to stand the whole time, strung up on the ceiling.

They’re so cold.

The shackles sap the warmth from his body bit by bit, draining it until the weight of the cold pressing down onto his chest is enough to make him gasp. On instinct, he pulls, trying to get a little more of himself wrapped up, warm, safe, but the chains barely make a groan as they wrench him back apart. He grits his teeth and holds still.

He learned not to try and break these. He used to rage and slam against them like a brute, trying to pull their fastenings out of some mystical holder, embodied in his wall, only to come away with bleeding and scraped wrists from his pains, rubbed raw and chafed horribly by the cruel shackles.

For the most part, he’s able to keep the others from noticing. They can’t hear a thing when he’s trapped in the creative block. He’s careful to always wear long sleeves to hide the scrapes and burns from the shackles. They don’t know the true extent of what happens to him when Thomas decides he doesn’t want his creativity.

But he can’t hide all of them.

‘Bruised ego.’

Patton knows. Patton somehow always figures things out and doesn’t tell anyone, least of all Roman. But sure enough, after the audition, Patton showed up outside of Roman’s door and knocked, quietly asking to be let in.

Roman had let him, splattered as he was with blues and purples and greens and yellows, all the colors that didn’t belong to him, and yet here they were, painted on him. He’d kept his undershirt on, letting Patton feed him the soup that was sure to end with Roman lying on his back in the bathroom, panting, until the bowl had run dry and Roman’s smile had come back.

After Patton had gone, the smile had slid off, the paint cracked and chipped. Roman had stood, leaning against the bed for stability, and made his way slowly, oh, so, slowly, to the bathroom.

Getting his shirt off had been agony. Every time he moved skin had stretched, bruises had protested, even his muscles cried out. The undershirt was soaked in sweat and a light sheen had clung to Roman’s body as he stood there, panting, wincing in the mirror. He couldn’t look.

That had been the last time it had gotten very bad. Very bad.

They only ever seemed to notice when it was very bad.

His prince costume hides the shackle marks. His undershirt hid the bruises. No one cared to look for him when he was trapped in the creative block. No one could see. No one wanted to see.

No one knew.

Roman’s been lucky lately.

They’ve all been happening one at a time. The block never has shackles strapped to the wall. The shackles are never clasped around bruises spilling beneath his skin. The bruises are never from both beating on a door and from the outside world. He can deal with them if they’re like this. One at a time.

He’s had a few close calls, though. He almost missed a meeting with Logan because the block had him trapped. It squeezed him so tight it felt as if he hadn’t any room to breathe, not until the door and opened a crack and he’d hurled himself out, panting harshly, rushing to Logan’s. He was caught at his desk recently too. The shackles had formed and dragged him over to the corner where he’d bitten his lip to try and stay quiet as he desperately tried to draw himself away. He’d accidentally made too grand a gesture and his sleeve had ridden up, exposing the edge of a mark or bruise and he’d have to pull it back down quick enough so that no one would notice. And so far, it’s worked.

No one has noticed.

And what would he say? That this is just some dumb stupid thing he has to deal with? The others know about this whole ‘taking things too literally problem,’ look at Patton, look at Virgil, look at Janus. They all understand and they receive the same amount of attention Roman does. Honestly, they’ve been receiving what they’re entitled to. Their stuff actually runs the risk of harming Thomas. Fire, wings, banging your head, sure, that’s fine, but they—look.

Having your heart flutter signifies great emotions, the potential for love, you should pay attention to your emotions!

Heightened anxiety? It’s not great! It means we should be listening to Virgil and what’s going on, what’s upsetting Thomas, how to help.

And everyone should always be worried about spontaneously combusting pants.

And even if they did find out, what is Roman supposed to say? That it’s his fault they all have these issues? That Thomas’s psyche takes certain liberties with the hard-and-fast rules of what happens to metaphysical people? It’s his fault, after all, he’s the conduit. It’s fine. He can handle this stuff. It’s all fine.

He should’ve known his luck would run out.

Roman blinks awake to feel the walls pressing in on him, tighter, tighter, tighter. His breath catches in his throat.

No.

No, no, no, he’d been doing so well, so well, they’d just had a conversation about how he’d been so good, the ideas had been good, he’d had—he’d had so many he was ready to work on, he just needed to—

Roman squeezes his eyes shut, racking his brain. He knows he has ideas. He had them a little while ago. It wasn’t that long. They can’t have vanished so quickly. Wait, what time is it? How did they—how long has he been here? What is—how long has it been? Have the others realized he’s here yet?

What if they look for him and they think he won’t come out? What if they start to hate him because they can’t find him? What if he can never get out again? What if they realized they never needed him in the first place?

He—he’s not wrong, he can’t be wrong, he has to be right, he has to—he has to find a way out of here.

Quickly, Roman squeezes his eyes even tighter, mouth making random shapes as he tries to think. If he can just think of a really good idea, he’ll get out. If he just thinks, if he just does his job, if he’s really good he’ll get out. He can do this, he can do this, he can do this. He can—

Clink, clink, clink.

No.

No!

Roman snarls as the shackles encase his wrists, forcing to his knees, still crouched in this room that is too small, too pale, too awful. He lunges for the door as he hears the chains slowly start to tighten, their long lengths slipping over and over each other in coils.

The chains pull taut and he’s suspended there, in the dank air, snarling like a mad dog at a door that is just out of his reach.

For the first time in a long time, he slams against the chains, raging and bloody as he thrashes back and forth trying to just get to the door—

Roman, you’re on thin fucking ice.

Look I don’t wanna just hate a side but roman you royally fucked up bud

Yeah I’m definitely mad at Roman

Roman barely suppresses a whine when he realizes where the comments are coming from.

His nose breaks open and blood pours down his face. His eyes swell and darken until he can only squint through it. One of his fingers breaks and the shackle pinches.

Roman I have revoked your rights.

Roman shut the FUCK UP challenge please

After one line making fun of janus is enough to be cancelled, Roman

Even without looking down, he knows red and purple are blooming across his ribs. Roman winces pain as he howls again, trying frantically to get to the door, he’ll wrench his arms out of their sockets if he needs to—

I just hate roman!!! i don’t need a deep reason to hate roman, or anyone else

oh boi did Princey drop to least favorite side REAL FUCKING QUICK

It’s not that I don’t despise Roman he’s just never been my favourite. He’s too prideful, rude and while he does have his insecurities the way he hides them makes me uncomfortable since it’s at the expense of other characters. His treatment of the other sides is so awful.

…is he really that awful? Is…does he…is this…

Is this how it’s supposed to be?

I'm gonna spread my anti-roman doctrine. Fuck Roman. Hate that man

I genuinely hate Roman so. Fucking. Much. Like, can't stand him. Fuck him, I hate him

It’s always roman-hating hours.

A dry sob chokes its way out of Roman’s throat as he curls in on himself, another bruise leaving him gasping on the floor like a gutted fish. The chains let him fall to his knees, chest bared to the merciless door. He coughs. Blood flies out of his mouth and spittle drips down his chin. He coughs again. And again. And again. It hurts. Everything hurts.

He coughs.

The room presses in on him.

The shackles trap him.

Bruises bloom over his body.

He coughs.

This is all his fault, isn’t it? He’s the one in charge of the Imagination. He’s the one who makes sure the sides exist and can interact with Thomas. He’s the one who controls how they respond to turns of phrase.

He’s the one who’s awful to the others. He’s the one who didn’t tell them the truth. He’s the one stuck in this room, in these chains, taking a beating from words and thoughts that he can’t see.

This is his fault.

And he doesn’t know if he can fix it.

Roman gives up.

———————————————————

“Has anyone seen Roman?”

Patton looks up from the floor as Virgil rolls over. “No, I haven’t. Virgil?”

Virgil sniffs and shakes his head. “You asked Remus?”

Logan frowns. “I can’t find them anywhere. Do you know if—“

“Where the fuck is my brother?”

“Nevermind, I found him,” Logan mumbles as he turns just fast enough to avoid Remus barreling into him. “I was just coming to ask you.”

“He was supposed to meet me by the Imagination,” Remus says, bouncing up and down, “we were gonna go exploring. He hasn’t been by all day. Where are you hiding him?”

“I’m not hiding him,” Virgil yawns, “and neither’s Pat.”

“Nope! No princes here!”

“Pocket Protector?”

“No, I need to ask him about tomorrow.”

“Ugh.” Remus throws himself down on the couch. “Where’s Snakey? Maybe he knows.”

“What do I know?”

“Ah.” Logan turns to see Janus striding out from the shadows near the staircase. “We seem to be unable to locate Roman.”

Janus raises an eyebrow and flicks a speck of dust from his gloves. “What an unfortunate situation. My deepest apologies.”

“So you don’t know where he is.”

“Of course I don’t, why would I?” Janus rolls his eyes. “It’s not like you’ve checked everywhere for him.”

Logan pinches the bridge of his nose. “Janus…please.”

“Have any of you even tried his room?”

“Of course we have, that’s where I looked first.”

Janus shrugs. “Then I guess our little prince has wandered away. What a shame.”

Virgil rolls his eyes. “Maybe he just stepped out for a minute. Why don’t you go look again, L, we’ll check down here.”

“Oh, will we?”

“J, I swear—“

Logan quickly heads back up the stairs as Virgil and Janus start bickering. He turns the corner and is soon faced with Roman’s big red door. He reaches out to knock.

“Roman? Are you in here?”

Silence. Logan sighs and goes to turn away when he hears it.

He stops.

Goes back.

“Roman?”

He puts his ear to the door.

A soft gasp.

“Roman, can you open the door please?”

“L-L—Lo—“

Logan swallows heavily. “Roman, I’m coming inside.”

“L-Logan…”

Logan pushes open the door.

He can feel his face go sickly pale.

Roman is lying on the ground, collapsed in a pool of what looks like blood. His face is swollen, his nose broken, his mouth barely forming the shapes to say Logan’s name. His prince costume is mangled. His wrists are rubbed raw. Even from this far away Logan can see the bruises forming all over his body.

“Roman!”

There are shouts from downstairs. The others are worried. Good. Logan’s going to need all the help he can get. He just has to move first.

Oh, Roman…

“L? L, what’s going on up there?”

“First aid,” Logan gasps, then clears his throat, “we need the first aid kit! Roman’s hurt!”

“What? How’d he—he hasn’t even been in the Imagination yet today!”

“We can figure that out when we’re up there, Remus, go go go!”

By the time the others are already rushing up the stairs, Logan has already crouched down next to Roman’s head, trying to figure out the best way to get him up, off the floor, or at the very least figure out what happened.

“Stay with me, Roman,” he murmurs, petting Roman’s head as his other hand starts to carefully test where it might be hurting, “stay with me, come on…”

“Lo? Lo, are you in here?”

“No, wait, don’t—“

Patton’s cry of dismay quickly followed by Virgil’s curse means he’s too late to warn them. Logan looks up to see their faces drop in absolute shock.

“Where are the others?”

“Uh…” Virgil tears his gaze away from Roman’s crumpled figure. “Remus said he…he has some stuff that would help.”

“And I am of course more than eager to see what our favorite little prince has gotten himself into this time,” Janus drawls, still out of sight, “I’m positively brimming with anticipation.”

Patton still hasn’t recovered. Virgil carefully takes the first aid kit from his hands and rushes it to Logan. An instant later, Janus appears in the doorway.

“My, my, Patton, you look so startled, what could possibly…”

Janus trails off as he finally spots Roman. His eyes widen as he takes in the bruises, the blood, the marks of what look like prison cuffs?

“Oh, god…” Logan blinks and Janus is crouched beside them, his hands hovering over Roman’s broken form as he starts crooning to the prince.

“Oh, honey, what happened to you,” he murmurs, his hands starting to pull away the fabric cutting into Roman’s throat, “you poor, poor thing…”

“Got it.”

Remus appears in a flash, crouching down as well as Janus and Logan start to help Roman unwind from the bloody mess he’s in. Logan glances over; it’s a kit that has more medical supplies than the first aid kit. Bandages, he can see antiseptic, surgical towels…

He catches Remus’s eye and they exchange a nod.

“Where does he need to go,” Janus asks as they start to get Roman upright, “you want him downstairs?”

“Let’s get him to our bathroom, J,” Virgil suggests, carefully getting his arms around the prince’s shoulders.

“Do you think it’s safe to sink with him?”

“Presumably he had to sink out to get back to his room, but I’m not sure it would be wise.”

“So we’ll carry him,” Virgil says firmly, “all of us.”

As it turns out, Remus and Janus can help Virgil just fine. Logan snatches up Remus’s kit as Patton grabs the first aid kit, hustling down the corridor to keep up with the others.

“Lo, what happened?”

“I don’t know,” Logan mutters back, “but I…I don’t think it was…the Imagination’s been closed all day, hasn’t it?”

“That’s what I thought too. You don’t think—“

“I don’t know, Patton, I…”

Patton’s firm grip on his arm speaks volumes as they finally get to the bathroom.

The tile is already warm as the others carefully lay Roman down in the big place near the edge of the shower. Logan takes a moment to check what they might need.

The bathroom is one big open space with a tub in one corner, a large walk-in shower area at the other, and two sinks with a wide counter. Patton and Remus have already started setting up the first aid kit as Janus pulls on a different pair of gloves. Virgil still has Roman’s head in his hands, murmuring softly to him.

“Is he awake?”

Virgil shakes his head as Logan sits down. “I can’t tell. He’s looking around but I—he’s not saying anything.”

“That is not completely unexpected,” Logan murmurs, “we have to get him out of his clothes. They’re making it harder for him to breathe.”

“Someone needs to stay by his head,” Remus calls, “in case he wakes up and starts freaking out.”

“I’ve got him.” Sure enough, Janus slips two of his hands gently under Roman’s head as he unclips the back of his collar. “Shh, shh, easy, sweetie, you’re safe now.”

Virgil scoots back and starts tugging on his hoodie strings. Patton, still hovering by the medical supplies, catches it.

“Hey, Virge,” he says, shooting a quick nod at Logan, “why don’t we go make something to eat? Something small, and something to drink.”

“Yeah…yeah that’s a good idea.”

As the two of them leave, Remus kneels by Roman’s feet and curses. “We’re gonna have to cut them off.”

“You mean cut the rest of them off,” Janus mutters, “what happened?”

“You think I’m not beating myself up asking that same thing?”

“We have to get Roman stable,” Logan says quickly, “and that means we have to see what—“

“The damage is,” Remus growls.

“Quite.”

“Alright. Be careful by his wrists.”

“We will.”

“Jan if you drop his head I swear to—“

“I won’t, I promise.”

“…I know.”

“You’re worried about your brother,” Logan whispers as they start peeling the clothes away, “we understand.”

Janus keeps his promise, cradling Roman’s head as the work to get the rest of his prince costume off. Under any other circumstance, Logan admits this might actually be read as amusing. Peeling Roman out of his clothes, however, has never been less devastating.

Every inch they pull back reveals more bruises. Roman’s torso is warm, throbbing, carpeted with horrible wounds. Every so often a piece will stick and Roman winces, prompting Janus to stroke his face carefully, murmuring reassurances that they’re here, everything’s okay, Roman’s safe now.

Remus chucks bruise cream at Logan and they start, methodically applying the cream and bandages. Janus gives them an extra hand where they need it, while keeping up the constant litany of reassurances. Logan comes away confident that nothing is broken, just very badly bruised.

“So what now?”

“He has to rest.” Logan pulls off the gloves, running his hand over the ground to make sure they haven’t spilled anything. “I…I don’t know how long that will be.”

“I don’t want to leave him.”

They look around, eyes wide at the strangled whisper coming out of Remus. Remus stares down at Roman’s bruised form, thankfully clear of blood now, his hands trembling as they rest on his knees. Remus looks up at them, his eyes glistening.

“The last time I left him like this it was bad.” He swallows and looks back down. “I’m not leaving my brother.”

Logan looks at Roman. Brave, strong, sweet, kind Roman. Bruised, scared, exhausted, broken Roman. His hand tightens and without thinking he tucks a stray hair behind Roman’s ear.

“He hates it when his hair is out of place,” he murmurs as Janus raises an eyebrow at him.

“We’re not leaving our prince,” Janus says firmly, glancing back at Remus. “Would you like to come sit up here with us?”

Remus shakes his head. “If something comes through that door trying to get him,” he says in a low voice that Logan has never heard before, “it’s going to have to get through me first.”

Logan nods. They take up their watch. Remus’s hands twitch every so often, and Logan sees him lay his hand on an unbruised part of Roman’s ankle when they do with a tenderness that takes him a little aback. Janus can’t seem to stop running his hands through Roman’s hair, making comforting noises every time Roman winces as he breathes.

Logan, well…Logan is trying desperately to figure out what happened.

Roman hasn’t been in the Imagination today. Remus was waiting and he hadn’t seen him.

Roman hasn’t been seen by anyone else all day.

The last place Roman was seen was in his room.

No one else has been in Roman’s room today.

“Logan,” Janus calls softly, “Logan, you’re shaking.”

Logan looks down. Oh. So he is. He takes a deep breath and takes Janus’s offered hand. “I’m…thinking.”

“About…?” Janus indicates Roman.

He nods sharply. “I’m having trouble coming to anything but a most troubling conclusion.”

“What?”

Logan explains. Janus goes pale.

“You don’t think…”

“I don’t want to think that, no.”

“R-ro-Bro,” Remus whispers, “oh, Ro-Bro, you gotta tell us something when you wake up.”

He sniffles.

“Please wake up, Ro-Bro. I gotta…I gotta kick your ass for blowing me off and getting into a fight without me, I gotta—you gotta tell me what kicked your ass so I can go put it in the fucking ground…” He sniffs again, his whole body tense, even as his hand remains gently on Roman. “You just gotta wake up, Ro.”

After a little while longer, Virgil and Patton return carrying snacks and drinks. Remus doesn’t even look as Virgil sets his octopus water bottle at his elbow. Janus murmurs a thanks and eats a little. Logan eats and drains about half of his bottle. Virgil sits at Remus’s side, Patton at his other.

“Has he woken up yet?”

Remus shakes his head.

“He’s probably just sleeping, Remus, he needs to rest.”

“I know.”

“Do we know what happened,” Virgil asks quietly, “at all?”

Logan winces. “Well…”

“…don’t like the way you said that.” Judging by Virgil’s expression, he likes it even less after Logan’s finished explaining.

“Oh, shit.”

Everyone’s gaze instantly snaps to Patton. Listen. Patton doesn’t curse. It’s a thing. When Patton curses it’s bad.

“Patton?”

“Roman…Roman has a thing,” Patton explains, “you know like…like my wings? Or how Virgil gets taller?”

Virgil nods. “Yeah, okay, but those don’t…hurt us, why would Roman’s…”

Janus is the next one to curse. “Of course…the bruised ego.”

Patton nods sadly. “Roman takes, well, it’s not really his choice, Roman is forced to take the brunt of the negative reactions Thomas has. That’s part of his thing.”

Logan’s eyes widen. “Wait, but if this has been happening since…well, since Thomas has had an ego, and we didn’t know about this, then…”

How many times has this happened?

Remus growls. “New rule: no one is allowed to fuck with Roman.”

No one dares disagree. Logan scans over the injuries again. He frowns.

“Hold on…some of these seem…consistent with that judgment, but then why…”

A faint groaning sound snaps him out of his musings. A tense silence falls in the bathroom as Roman starts to stir in Janus’s hands.

“Roman,” Logan calls softly, “Roman, can you hear me?”

“L’gan?”

“Yes, Roman, I’m right here. Don’t try and move too much right now, you’re very hurt.”

Roman blinks up at them, his eyes focusing glassily on Janus, who smiles. He tucks another piece of hair away from Roman’s face.

“Shh, shh, my prince, hold still,” he coos, “you’re awfully banged up, sweetie, just hold still…shh…”

“J’nus? What’s…where is…” Roman’s face swivels back to Logan. “Where am I?”

“You’re on the bathroom floor, Roman, we had to see to your injuries.”

Roman’s eyes go wide and immediately all of them reach out to hold him still as he tries to move.

“Shh, shh,” Janus shushes, “none of that now, sweetie, you’re hurt, calm down…”

“I’m—I have to—“

“You’re not going anywhere,” comes Remus’s voice from behind them.

“Remus!”

“What? He’s not!”

“Yeah, but there’s no reason to scare the shit out of him.”

“I can’t see,” Logan hears Roman’s frantic whisper as he turns to glance at the others, “I can’t—let me—“

“Logan, is it safe for him to sit up?”

Logan nods. “Just take it slow, nothing too fast. It will probably be the best if he can lean against someone.”

“Jan—“

“I’ve got you, sweetie, I’m not going anywhere.”

When Roman is upright, his back against Janus’s chest, only then do Virgil and Patton relax the slightest bit. Remus doesn’t. Logan’s gaze switches anxiously between the two.

“Remus—“ Roman swallows— “Re, are you—are you mad at me?”

“A little.”

Roman shrinks under Remus’s glare. “I’m sorry.”

“Jeez, Ro, it’s not—I’m not mad at you like that,” Remus mumbles, “it’s mainly just—well, our thing is…you know, cat pile.”

“You’re—you’re mad because you can’t lie on top of me right now?”

“Yeah! It always makes you feel better! And now I can’t help you feel better!”

“R-Re—“

Remus lets out a wounded noise and surges forward, careful to avoid barreling into any of the others as he wraps his brother in a protective hug. Janus huffs lightly but stays upright. Roman’s eyes close and his head drops to rest against Remus’s.

“I’m the only one allowed to fuck with you,” comes Remus’s muffled voice, “no one else.”

“I know,” Roman whispers, “I know.”

Logan swallows heavily. “Roman,” he prompts softly, “we aren’t mad at you. We won’t get angry with you.”

“...promise?”

“I promise.”

“Promise.

Janus just squeezes Roman’s shoulder gently. “I promise too, sweetie. Now, will you tell us what happened?”

“I, um…” Roman’s gaze flickers over to Patton. “Have you—um…”

“I’ve told them a little, sweetheart,” Patton says when Roman can’t finish his sentence, “we’ve figured out the ‘bruised ego,’ is there anything else you’d like to tell us?”

Roman nods. He turns his head back towards Remus, his face contorted. Logan carefully reaches out to ruffle his hair.

“Take your time,” he whispers, “we’re not going anywhere.”

“I have three,” Roman blurts out after a moment.

“…three, honey?”

“Patton has…the wings, Virgil has the height, Janus…Janus…”

“Has the pants.”

Janus lightly flicks Remus’s head, shaking his head fondly.

“Are you saying you’ve got three turns of phrase, Princey?” Roman nods. “Okay. Is one of them ‘bruised ego?’”

“Mhmm.”

“Okay. Are you comfortable telling us the other two?”

Goosebumps rise on Roman’s arms and Janus carefully positions them so Logan can help rub them away. Remus growls protectively and huddles closer.

“…creative block,” Roman murmurs, only for Remus to tense. Remus raises his head slowly.

“Ro-Bro?”

“I, um, my room—my room shrinks and I—I can’t get out the door, I can’t move anything, I can’t breathe, I—“

“Shh-shh-shh,” Janus soothes instantly, “you’re safe, my prince, you’re in the bathroom with us, you’re not there, you’re not there.”

There are a few tense seconds of deep breaths.

“…what’s the third one, Roman?”

Roman looks at his wrists, turning them over as if he doesn’t recognize them. “…shackled creativity.”

Patton clenches his fists as Virgil muffles another curse. Remus follows Roman’s gaze, the line of his shoulders growing tenser by the second. Janus carefully laces his fingers through one of Roman’s hands, Logan lacing his through the other.

“Thank you for telling us, Roman,” he murmurs, “and…I do not know how much this is worth to you, but…we are so sorry this happens and that we could not do anything about it.”

“It’s okay,” Roman murmurs, “it’s my own fault.”

The bathroom falls silent.

“…Roman, it’s not your fault.” Virgil scoots closer. “How—this isn’t your fault.”

“Isn’t it? I’m the one that’s the closest to the Imagination,” Roman says softly, completely convinced of what he’s saying, “I’m the one that makes it possible for Thomas to see us…the Sides, the Imagination…isn’t that my job?”

“Not like that,” Logan says firmly, “never like this.”

“Logan’s right,” Virgil says when it looks like Roman’s about to argue, “you’re the conduit for the Imagination, but you’re not responsible for everything that this place does, let alone how Thomas interprets and internalizes stuff.”

“None of this is you, Roman.” Janus rests his cheek against the top of Roman’s head. “None of it. It’s not Patton’s fault he grows wings, it’s not Virgil’s fault he grows taller, and it’s not your fault that this happens to you.”

“You’re missing someone off the list there, Jan-Jan.”

“Remus, I swear to god—“

Remus cackles, throwing his head back as Janus swats at him. Of course, the problem is that they all try and look mildly annoyed at Remus, and yet the instant it makes Roman giggle, even a little, they all have to break character because Roman’s smiling again.

“Seriously, Ro-Bro,” Remus says after a moment, “this isn’t on you. You don’t deserve this or some other fucked-up shit. This is fucked up all on its own. You’re not responsible for this.”

“We’ll talk to Thomas,” Logan says, “about…negative feedback and internalizing things, alright? This isn’t healthy, Roman, it’s not—it’s not supposed to be like this, and it’s definitely not your fault.”

“…okay.”

“Can you say that for me, sweetie,” Janus coaxes, reaching around to cup Roman’s face, “that it’s not your fault?”

“I-it’s not—“

Roman stops. Swallows heavily.

“Go on, my prince, you can do it.”

“…I-it’s not my fault.”

“Good.”

“It isn’t my fault.” Roman’s eyes go wide and something hitches in his throat. “It is—isn’t—I—oh, god—“

They catch Roman as he starts to cry.

“You did so well, sweetheart, so well, I’m so proud of you.”

“It’s okay, Princey, it’s gonna be okay.”

“I’ve got you, my prince, I have you.”

“You’re gonna be fine, Ro-Bro, I’ll keep you safe, I promise.”

“You don’t have to do this alone, Roman.”

Roman rests there, in the arms of his family, bruised and exhausted, but not broken.

Not anymore.

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brandyllyn · 3 years

Text

Flexibility (noun)

Poe Dameron / f!reader [no use of y/n]

Summary: Making Poe’s dreams of sex in an X-Wing come true. Alternatively: The things we do for those we love. Even if it means pulling a muscle.

Part of the "Goofballs in Love" Series of One-Shots: The Scoundrel’s Reward, Ghosts of Girlfriends Past, Flexibility (noun), Give me my sin again, Writing on the Wall

My Masterlist

Words: 3k (Read it on AO3.) [complete] Rated: Explicit Warnings: language. PiV sex. fingering. bruises.

"This is the worst idea you have ever had."

The metal of the X-Wing was cold against your back, Poe’s body in front of you warm against the cool night air. He had one hand on your hip, the other playing with the edge of the skirt you had put on for the occasion. His face nuzzled into your neck and you felt more than heard him laugh.

"Well that’s not even close to true."

You snorted, wrapping your fingers in his curls and pulling his mouth back to yours. "Ok then Flyboy, let’s get this going before I change my mind."

The grin he gave you was boyish and wide, grabbing your hand and pulling you over to the ladder. He took the steps quickly, glancing back at you a couple of times before he lifted the edge of the transparisteel and slid into the cockpit in one smooth movement. You paused, staring at him and then at the cockpit controls.

"Are you sure that it won’t…?"

Poe nodded, holding his hand out. "Half the engine is scattered across the hangar. Even if it was powered up it’s not going anywhere."

You took his hand and let him draw you towards him, saw him press his lips to your knuckles. You eyeballed the cockpit dubiously. "Poe, there is no way-"

"Yes there is," he cut you off, flattening himself against the nearly vertical seat. He gestured between his thighs, "Right here."

It was maybe eighteen inches of space between his chest and the flight controls. Maybe. But that wasn’t even the first problem. You leaned in, searching the cockpit for somewhere to put your feet. His hands were instantly around you, pulling you down before you had a chance to get any leverage and you tumbled face first into him, one of your knees landing on his thigh, the other leg still hanging out the side of the X-Wing.

"Oof, Poe!"

He groaned, trying to shift your weight and you felt a muscle in your leg pull in a way that muscle was never intended to.

"Poe stop, Maker I-"

"If you don’t move we won’t be having any fun for at least a week," he grunted and you suddenly realized that maybe your knee had landed higher than you thought. You braced your arms on the side panels, lifting and twisting your body until you were sitting in his lap rather than kneeling in it. It wasn’t comfortable. At all. One of your legs was bent between the two of you, sideways against his chest with your knee under his chin. The other leg stretched over his shoulder, ankle high in the air behind his headrest. The flight controls were digging into your back and you clutched at his shirt to relieve some of the pressure.

"This is-" you started but he cut you off.

"Sexy as hell."

Your eyes flew to his but he wasn’t looking at your face. He was looking at where your skirt had fallen back and he could see that you’d taken his advice and gone without underwear. You squirmed, trying to get comfortable and Poe helped. Well, "helped." He pulled at the leg pressed to his chest and maneuvered you until both your legs were over his shoulders.

"Oh yeah," he moaned, still looking down at you and you arched your back away from the control stick digging into your spine. He made a soft mmph noise, one of his hands sliding around to tuck between you and the offending object.

You huffed, letting your head and body fall back, forcing him to catch your weight with both arms. You could hear him laugh but you were staring up at the hangar ceiling. "Well? What now Flyboy?"

He pressed a kiss to the inside of your knee, his breath warm and tickling. "This is not exactly how I imagined it."

You either. Bent into a 'v'-shape in the cockpit of the X-Wing, your feet poking up into the air behind his head. "Really?" you asked, still limp across his arms, staring upwards. "This isn’t the sexy good time you were dreaming of?"

"Come on," he patted your ass, "let’s get your legs under you."

You grimaced, lifting your head finally to glare at him. "Close your eyes."

His brows drew together, "Why?"

"Because this is not going to be attractive and I don’t want you watching me while I do it."

"Honey I-"

"Close. Your. Eyes," you said it more forcefully this time, biting off every word and glaring at him. He dutifully closed them, the corners of his lips tilting upwards and if you could reach his face you’d kiss it off of him.

Groaning you gripped the edge of the cockpit, pulling yourself forward. You didn’t quite have the strength to lift yourself but Poe was there, hands cupping under you and pushing you upwards until you could get the leverage you needed to hold yourself up by your arms. One of your feet pressed to his shoulder and you heard him grunt but ignored it. This was his fantasy, he could deal with the mechanics of making it happen.

Glancing around, you propped your foot on what you hoped wasn’t an important control panel by his left elbow. Finally having some stability, you pulled your other leg towards you, but there was no comparable panel on his right, just smooth steel.

"Dammit," you mumbled, crouched and barely holding yourself up on your hands.

"Just put your knees by my hips," he offered and you glared at him. He couldn’t see it of course, he was being good and had his eyes closed.

"There’s nowhere to put my knees, your hips take up all the space."

He frowned, "Don’t make fun of my hips, you know I’m sensitive about that."

Rolling your eyes you managed to wedge one knee between him and the side of the X-Wing, hearing him grunt at the sharp pressure. "I’m not making fun of them. I’m stating a fact."

You took a deep breath and sent a prayer up before you made your next move. Lunging forward you managed to wrap your hands around the headrest, pulling your chest close to his. You still had one knee up by your ear, your foot propped on the panel. His eyes opened when he felt the seat jerk, his arms wrapping tight behind your back.

"Better?" You asked, one eyebrow raised.

He looked down at the awkward crouch of your body and you saw his lips twist into a smile. Then his face scrunched up and he started laughing even as he drew you close for a kiss. He tasted like joy and Poe and you loved it.

"Okay," he finally said after a minute, leaning his forehead against yours. "Maybe I didn’t think this through."

"No no," you corrected, shifting your weight slightly, "this definitely works, I think I just need to…" you lifted your right foot off the panel and quickly shoved your right arm under it and grabbed his bicep. It was even more uncomfortable but the bark of laughter the new position brought from Poe was worth it. "See?"

"Stop," he nuzzled his nose against yours, "you’re going to hurt yourself."

"Oh that ship has long since sailed," you muttered, wrenching your arm back out and trying to find a contortion that wouldn’t send you to the MedBay.

"Maybe if you face the other way?" He asked hopefully and you gave him an incredulous look. "What? I’m just saying that it might work better."

"You are lucky I love you," you grumble. "Okay, hold me up while I let go of the headrest. Otherwise I’m going to impale myself on the flight controls and good luck explaining that."

He laughed, arms tightening around you and you let go of your death grip on the seat and placed your hands on the sides of the cockpit again. Using your grip and his steadying hold you managed to lift yourself and lean forward.

"Oh this is nice," his muffled voice came from between your breasts.

"For you," you mumbled under your breath, pushing off with your foot and twisting so you were sitting on the edge of the cockpit, feet propped up across from you. Your knee caught the side of his head as you settled and he made a harrumph noise.

"Remind me to wear my helmet next time," he griped.

"Do not even start with me Poe Dameron," you cautioned, stopping for a minute to catch your breath, fingers rubbing at the bruise you knew you were going to have on your thigh.

His hand came up immediately to the same spot, soothing his fingers over it. "Honey, we don’t have to-"

"No," you cut him off. "I said I’d try and by the Maker I will. We will try every way your little heart can think of and when none of them work you never ask me again."

You could tell he was trying to hide his smile this time and you took a steadying breath before you twisted again, sliding down his chest and settling into his lap, your back to him and your feet propped up on the control panels. Your knees were bent awkwardly in the air but at least it was a normal amount of awkward.

"See?" he murmured into your hair. "This isn’t so bad."

It wasn’t actually, not that you were going to admit it. But you could already see the logistical problems in your future. "Yeah, this isn’t going to work either."

You could feel him pout, his hands cupping your breasts under your shirt. "Why not?"

"Because nothing is lined up."

"Just put your-"

"Poe I swear if you use the word 'just' with me one more time…"

He was quiet for a moment. Then he coughed, "I was going to say if you leaned forward a little?"

I love him, I love him, I love him. You repeated the mantra over and over as you searched for a way to wedge your feet around his legs, finally managing to gain some purchase. The flight controls dug into your stomach when you leaned forward and rested your forearms against the control panel. It wasn’t comfortable, not even a little - but you tilted your hips, arching your lower back, and suddenly everything did line up. You could feel it.

His hands tugged at your skirt and you felt the cloth sliding across your skin before it came loose and you were bare against him.

"Oh yeah," you heard him groan. His fingers wedged between you, trying to unfasten his pants. "Can you move forward-"

"No," came your short reply. "There is literally nowhere for me to go. I mean that."

"Not even-?"

"If I move any further forward I’m going to be riding the flight controls not you."

A beat of silence.

"That would-"

"No," you cut him off, glancing over your shoulder with a glare.

He looked utterly unrepentant. "It was just a thought."

"What did I say about that word?"

He was thankfully silent, his hands on your hips. You tried to ignore the sharp jutting presence of the flight controls in your stomach, the toggles and switches that were going to leave marks on your forearms from having your weight rest on them. You heard him heave a sad sigh.

"Should have taken my pants off before you sat down."

"Oh now you’re thinking about the mechanics of this."

He pinched your hip and you squirmed. Then, in the saddest voice you’d ever heard from him, "I guess this isn’t going to work."

You hung your head for a moment, the controls shifting slightly to jab into your abdomen. Then you huffed a breath of air.

"You’re going to have about six seconds to get your pants open. Can you do that?" You barely waited for his reply before you lunged forward, fingers scrambling across the control panel for purchase, lifting yourself just a few inches off of him. The flight controls were hard against your pubic bone, and it probably wasn’t even six seconds before your fingertips gave out and you fell back into his lap with an oof.

One of his hands was still there but he managed to wriggle it around a bit. You could feel his nose nuzzle your spine through your shirt. "One more time for me?"

"I hate you," you mumbled, trying something different this time. Finding something you could press down on and lift yourself up rather than forward.

"You love me," he corrected, hand stroking along your backside and helping you lower yourself more slowly, taking his cock one inch at a time. "You fucking love me and I am eternally grateful for it."

It still wasn’t comfortable. But you were used to discomfort. That was part of being at war. Hells you’d even been shot. You could take some annoyances and discomfort for the man who was making the most amazing little noises behind you. Grinding his hips up into yours. One of his hands groped your breast under your shirt, the other trying to guide you against him. But all he succeeded in doing was rubbing the edge of the flight controls into you.

"Poe, this isn’t-" you started and he froze, his cock twitching inside you.

"What is it?"

You pulled his hand forward, turning it so he was covering the edges of the controls with his palm. That was better. Still like being slowly punched in the gut when you rocked back on him a little but at least it didn’t hurt. And you could tell he appreciated it too, his fingers pinching your nipple and his forehead falling to your back.

"Are you going to be able to-?"

"Not on your life." A huff of laughter and then a groan when you tightened your muscles around him. "But that’s fine by me. This is all for you."

"You’re so mmph good to me."

"Just remember this the next time I want you to wear something special for me."

"I’ll, fuck, I’ll wear anything you want," he promised. His breaths were coming faster, small grunts escaping him while he made what little movements he could in the cramped space. A sudden thought occurred to you and you arched your back a little more, letting him sink deeper.

"Black Leader…" you drew the words out on a breathy sigh.

He froze, his hand on your breast gripping almost painfully. Then his hips rocked up hard and you felt the breath get knocked out of you. "Fuck say that again."

"Fuck me Black Leader." You moaned it this time. Every part of your body might be aching and sore, but between your legs his cock was magic.

"Never gonna be able to fly again," he mumbled into your shirt. "Crash every time I think about this." You bit your lip and squeezed down, flexing every muscle you had on him. His answering groan filled the cockpit. His body was hunched over yours, "This is amazing. Fuck, you’re amazing."

"Black Leader you feel so good inside me." You cooed the words at him, purposefully making your voice low, breathless.

"Fuck I’m going to come." His breath fanned across your spine, hot and harsh even through the material of your shirt.

"Come for me Black Leader," you groaned and he did, hips pushing into yours, forcing you into the cockpit controls. You were going to have bruises for days and every one was worth it for the way this man held you and came inside you. Shuddering his pleasure into your body.

You both felt and heard his body fall back into the seat, leaving your back cold. Carefully, you shifted your position, pushing off the control panel and moving back. You felt him slip out of you then slide wetly along your ass when you leaned back and settled your head on his shoulder.

"If only this seat reclined," you sighed and felt him laugh when he wrapped his arms around you.

"If we’re going to make wishes, I wish this damn flight control was removable."

You glared down at the offending object, sticking up obscenely from between your spread thighs. A bubble of laughter spilled from your lips and you felt him doing the same, reaching up and turning your head to kiss you. You darted your tongue out to his lick his lip and then jerked in his arms when his hand lifted your skirt again.

"Poe…"

"What?" he asked, all innocence, his fingers unerringly finding your most sensitive places.

"Nothing," you sighed. "Don’t stop."

"I wouldn’t dream of it," he whispered into your ear. "You’re so good to me, you know that?"

You smile, raising your arms and settling them on the headrest behind him. "I think I might have heard something like that before."

He chuckled as he lifted your shirt, cupping your breast even as his fingers continued to tease between your legs. "Hmm? And have I told you today that I love you?"

"You know," you shifted slightly and gasped, "I don’t think you have."

He kissed your neck, fingers stroking with sure rhythm between your thighs. "I love you."

"I love you t-" your voice broke when you came. You heard his satisfied groan behind you, felt him press his face into your neck while you rode his hand through your pleasure.

You didn’t move when you came down, just lay against him and enjoyed the soft brush of his fingers on your breast, your stomach, your thighs. He stroked you lightly, occasionally stopping to run his fingers over the marks and developing bruises from where you had been pressed to the controls. He murmured apologies into your ear, so low the words rumbled through you and you sank back into his embrace further - convinced you could fall asleep like this.

His voice broke into your gentle reverie. "Now how do we get out of here?"

Giggling, you didn’t bother to move. You figured out how to get in. He could figure out how to get out.

#Poe Dameron / You #poe dameron / reader #poe dameron x you #Poe Dameron x Reader #poe dameron imagine #star wars sequels #star wars fanfiction #goofballs in love series #fic #writing

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blossom-hwa · 3 years

Note

Well in that case: Wooyoung + Yellow

wooyoung yellow supremacy LET'S GO the man is LITERAL SUNSHINE !!!!!!!!!!!! thank you so much for this request!!!!!!

4 year anniversary drabble game: send me a Stray Kids/The Boyz/Golden Child/Ateez member + a prompt (check out the post for ideas) and I’ll write a drabble for you!

This is set in the same universe as the model!Wooyoung I wrote after his studio choom aotm was released, You're the Only One Who Matters - you can read it here!

Title: Golden Hour

Pairing: Wooyoung x gender neutral!reader

Word count: 1.1k

Triggers: suggestive towards the end (NOTHING GRAPHIC)

The photoshoot finishes in the late afternoon, golden sunshine streaming down Wooyoung's slim figure and bathing him in warm light. With the ocean in the background shimmering in alternating shades of blue green and pinkish orange, he looks like a heaven-sent angel, touched down on earth to grace humanity with a piece of unearthly beauty.

It's perfect, you think as Mingi flips through the pictures on his camera, showing you each outfit, each pose Wooyoung held that day. The fitted suit, the coiffed hair, the light but prominent golden jewelry slung around his neck and arms... You allow yourself a moment of pride as you smile at Mingi. "These are great," you say, patting his shoulder. "Run them over by Hongjoong for a second opinion, but if he likes them, I think we're good to submit."

Mingi beams, flashing you a quick farewell before going off to find Hongjoong. You turn your attention to Wooyoung, who's thanking a group of staff on their way off the beach. "Wooyoung!" you call, stepping carefully over the sand.

At the sound of his name, a wide smile splashes across Wooyoung's face like the small waves breaking on the ocean, throwing bits of golden light into the air. "Y/N!" He bounds over, that smile radiating even more light than the sun. "How did I look?"

You smile at that, a variant of the question he's asked every shoot since that night so many months ago when he leaned in close, all silver jewelry and silk clothes and that alluring face, and asked you, "How do I look?" Unlike that time, though, you no longer have any issue answering the question Wooyoung so loves to ask.

"Gorgeous," you answer honestly. "If the magazine tells us to re-shoot these, I'm going to have to sue them or something. I think the photos we got this time are some of the best you've ever modeled." Reaching up, you rearrange the thin golden necklace around his throat. The metal is warm from the heat of his skin, and it sparkles in the sun. "So tell me, Woo, what's it like being the god of the sun at golden hour?"

He laughs at that, loud and cackling and with such genuine cheer that even though everyone here is used to his antics and giggles, they turn around anyway to watch him laugh with a smile. "It feels amazing," he replies, opening his arms with a dramatic flair. The thin material of his flowing sleeves ripples in the ocean breeze, making him look almost like a butterfly spreading its wings. "All these mortals gazing upon me, staring at me, taking pictures of me..."

"Alright alright, that's enough," you laugh, pushing him lightly. "We get it, you're beautiful."

"You didn't let me finish." Wooyoung pouts, his hands dropping back to his side. "I was about to say there was only one mortal who mattered."

You raise an eyebrow, even as your heart thuds a little faster. "And who might that be?"

"You." Wooyoung leans in and kisses you playfully. "Who else?"

"You sap." You shake your head, not even bothering to hide your smile anymore. "Let's get back to the hotel room. I think everyone's pretty much done here, and you need to get changed. I don't want these clothes ruined."

. . .

Face washed bare of makeup and hair still damp from the shower, Wooyoung walks out of the bathroom as you finish putting the clothes back where they belong. His footsteps pad softly on the floor and before you know it, he's hugging you from behind, chin hooked over your shoulder. "Hi."

"Hi, yourself." You turn your head back as much as you can to catch a glimpse of his face, eyes closed and lips smiling in seeming peace. "Tired?"

"No more than usual." He yawns, slightly, pulling away from your back to sit on the bed. "Are we still going to dinner?"

"As long as you're up for it." You take in his outfit - silk shirt with gold accents done by your hand, black pants, a thin golden pendant hung around his neck. "Judging by what you're wearing, I'm assuming that's a yes?"

"Yeah!" Wooyoung grins, bouncing slightly on the mattress. You break into a smile - looking at him like this, it's so hard to believe he was the same shining Adonis from several hours ago on the beach, basking in the golden sun like a god from the heavens. Wooyoung is no less beautiful in any situation, but as he beams up at you, you can't help but admire the duality he possess on a daily basis. It's fascinating. "You like the outfit? You made it."

You laugh. "I made the shirt," you correct, sitting next to him on the bed to adjust the collar. "Still playing up the sun god angle, aren't you?"

His grin turns slightly devilish. "Do you like it?"

This time you purposely withhold an answer, even though the smile on your face growing wider by the second spells everything out as clear as day. "What do you think?" you ask.

Wooyoung's eyes narrow. He tilts his head to one side, letting the collar you just adjusted slip down again to reveal a smooth expanse of skin. Internally, one part of you snorts at the obvious accidentally-on-purpose display, but the other part of you keeps feeling warmer by the second. He was giggling just minutes ago - how does he change so fast?

"I think..." He pauses, and instinctively you know that the tables have turned. Whatever hold you once had over him disappears as Wooyoung leans in, placing a warm hand on your thigh. "I think you like it very much," he says, breath ghosting over your skin.

Involuntarily, you shiver slightly. The sun outside the window streams over Wooyoung's body, shimmering on the silk with its gold accents, bathing him in the warmth of a god sending a blessing on their chosen ones. "You're right," you whisper, almost afraid that if you speak too loudly, you'll break this blissful golden spell Wooyoung has cast on you, bathing you in his warm light. "I do."

The hand on your thigh presses a little more. "Want to show me how much?"

You raise an eyebrow. "Didn't you say you wanted dinner?"

"Dinner can wait." Wooyoung gently pushes you into the mattress with a grin somewhere between a laugh and a smirk. You really want to kiss it. "We still have a bit of golden hour left, don't we?"

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luminois · 3 years

Text

— 𝐡𝐲𝐮𝐧𝐣𝐢𝐧;

𝐝𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐡, 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐨𝐧𝐞

𝐰: 𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐢𝐦𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐲, 𝐧𝐨𝐧-𝐬𝐞𝐱𝐮𝐚𝐥 𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠.

𝟏𝟕𝟖𝟓 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬, 𝐟𝐞𝐦!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫.

𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭.

looking down through the hole in the clouds, your wings fluttered in excitement and trepidation. the white feathers caressed your arms as they closed in on themselves, hugging your figure reassuringly.

you could see the whole world from above, magnificent and so far away. you hadn’t been an angel for long, and the memories of your past life were still present in your mind. they were nothing more than specks of light, little presents from the past that made you smile. someone laughing, a farm, the taste of freshly picked grapes, naked feet running on the grass. you had lived surrounded by animals and wheat fields, simple tasks filling up sunny days. you’d been happy, that’s what the memories suggested, and you were happy now. you didn’t know what you’d done to earn eternity, but you knew you wanted to help others reach it too.

an archangel, in his luminescent beauty, was calling the names of the angels huddled around the cavity. every time one of them got closer to the archangel, the world became bigger and bigger until only one, specific place on earth was visible. that was where the angel was being sent to, where a great amount of humans had lost themselves to sin and were in need of an angel to bring them back to the right path. you had waited for decades to be sent on earth, and now the moment had finally arrived.

the archangel called your name and you went, light on your feet, the golden path cold under them. everything in paradise was chilly, made of glass and crystal and precious metals, breathtakingly perfect. you’d always found it somewhat unsettling, how everything seemed so easy to break and nobody ever tried to. would a swift move of your hand or just a little more pressure shatter what had been there forever? you were convinced the answer was yes, and the idea of being the first was fascinating, even if you’d never act upon it. you wondered.

the place you were going to was nothing more than a town. it had been the perfect place to live until the residents had started to be uncaring of the things around them, and now it had become dirty and unpleasant. litter filled the streets, graffiti ruined every wall and many shops had closed down, now only displaying shattered windows.

“the devil has found his way to these poor souls’ hearts,” the archangel said. his voice sounded like it didn’t come from him, like it was resonating in your own head. “they’ve lost their path. the greatest of gifts is a lighthouse in the dark, tumultuous sea. go and be their light, and they will be grateful for eternity.”

the archangel leaned down to kiss your hair, and when you opened your eyes again your wings were gone, and you weren’t cold anymore.

“i can’t thank you enough, sweetie. you’re an angel.”

you smiled as you handed the paper bag filled with freshly made bread over the bakery’s counter. the elderly man with teary eyes was a regular, and one of your favorite people in town. the darkness hadn’t reached his soul directly, he was too good hearted, but he’d been greatly affected by everyone’s wrongdoings. his share of bread was always on the house.

“i’m really not, sir,” you said, “knowing i’m being of help is a pleasure.”

the man showed his almost toothless smile and left, leaving you alone to rest against the counter, taking a breath before going to check the pastries cooking in the oven. being a human was exhausting, even if it was just play-pretend. you now had to sleep and eat and you were often tired, concepts unknown to otherworldly creatures.

it had been a little over the human equivalent of a month since you’d reached earth. you didn’t know how much had passed in paradise, years maybe, the working of time wasn’t a topic you were interested in. your time was infinite, the one thing you didn’t have to worry about.

you’d had to make up a story, explaining who you were and why you’d suddenly appeared out of thin air. like almost every other shop in town, the bakery had been abandoned when you first arrived, so you fixed it up and became a young girl starting a small business in a lovely town. or the remnants of it, that is.

behind the facade of the bakery, your true job was to make things better, and you could confidently say it was going well. the mayor was a corrupt, money-hungry woman who had left her town to care for itself. but since she didn’t care about what her citizens did, you hadn’t found any resistance upon asking permission to start your own public initiatives. it had been hard to convince people to work for anything other than personal gain, but you’d discovered that kindness was the best remedy.

yours was the only bakery in town, and everyone had visited it sooner or later. watching people go from being nothing but rude to reserving their best smile for every time they opened your door was priceless. now the streets weren’t as dirty thanks to the people who had volunteered to help you clean them, and you were planning on removing the graffiti next. you didn’t have much power over unemployment and poverty, but you were sure everything would fix itself once everyone would have found the right path again.

you took out the pastries from the oven before sighing in satisfaction and walking to the door, turning the open sign. you murmured to yourself the list of things you had to do now that the bakery was closed as you walked to the back, entering the room you called home. you’d promised to help the woman who lived down the street bake a cake for her son’s birthday and plant some daisies in her garden. only days prior you’d helped her paint over the worn-out outside of her house, and it was really starting to look like a lovely place.

you took off your apron before facing the mirror next to the door. you knew your wings weren’t there, but seeing yourself without them was a surprise every time. you turned as much as you could to look at your back, moving your hair to the side as they covered the space between your shoulder blades. how could something that was a part of yourself just disappear like that? what was even more surreal was that you didn’t particularly miss the expanse of white feathers. you were just unused to their absence, but you were capable of doing everything without them just fine. the only thing left to show your angelic nature were your brightly golden eyes, staring back at you before you looked away.

you should’ve been afraid of walking by yourself in the seemingly deserted street, but you knew you weren’t alone. you could feel eyes boring into your skin as you walked, following you like a predator and its prey. that’s why you didn’t scream when someone grabbed your arm and your back hit the brick wall of a narrow alley, but a hand was still pressed over your mouth.

you always felt warm on earth, not missing the freezing air of paradise at all. right now, through, you felt more than warm. your skin was burning, like the fire in the stranger’s red irises.

he was beautiful, more than any of the angels you’d met, more than the archangels and more than what you’d imagined the highest would look like. strands of long hair touched his cheeks and the corners of his smirking lips, pitch black like the tattoos on his arms and the sleeveless shirt he was wearing. his eyes were filled with amusement and something dark that came from within. a demon. you gulped, and he noticed.

“oh little angel, am i scaring you?”

your wide eyes looked up at him, and he cooed. he was tall, hovering over you with his wide shoulders, the heat radiating from him making your cheeks bloom with crimson. his tone had been sweet, but there was sarcasm and bite behind his words.

“what have you been doing, uh? going around and ruining all the work i’ve done before you came. that’s a mean thing to do, angel. why are you being so mean to me?”

the big hand covering your mouth moved to loosely wrap around your neck. you gulped again, unable to look away from him or say a word, and his eyes flickered down as your neck moved. the demon could feel your heartbeat under his hand, rushed as your heart tripped over itself, and he bit down his lips as his smirk got bigger.

“i asked you a question, angel. it’s rude to ignore people like that,” he said, raising his eyebrows at you, waiting for your answer.

you opened your mouth a couple times before any sound got past your lips, the demon’s fingers holding your neck a little tighter. “i’m making things better because you ruined them.”

he gasped, but so exaggeratedly it sounded fake. you knew it was, and it made you blush more.

“you’re such a good girl, aren’t you?” he said, his sugary tone mocking you. “you say you’re making things better, but i think you’re ruining them, we’re not going to get along like this. what should we do?”

“you should stop,” you said, your voice a little more sure as the fear started to wear out.

he was bigger and stronger, but you were both humans right now. he had no more power than the sheer strength in his hands, and even if that was enough to kill you it wouldn’t have. the highest wouldn’t have let one of his angels die on earth like that. or that’s what you hoped.

“you know i can’t, this is what i do,” the demon said. the hold on your neck disappeared, but he got closer, his lips grazing the shell of your ear. “hyunjin. learn my name, angel, we’re going to be spending a lot of time together. whenever you ruin something i’ll fix it, mmh? would you like that?”

both of hyunjin’s inked arms were resting on the side of your head now, his bicep right in front of your eyes. he wouldn’t have had problems with shattering the entirety of paradise with his fists, and he wouldn’t have hesitated either. your words were caught up in the knot stuck in your throat, keeping you from answering. but if you hadn’t been petrified by his presence and the boiling blood running through your veins, what would you have said?

you wondered.

do you want to read more?

banner by @blueprint-han

taglist: @sleepylixie @bobateastay @meiiyue @aliceu @softieyn @riel-precious @witchylixie @tulipsandfire @sparklemin @anskiie @tpwkjerii @blackkacchan @fournia @parachuuuus @inlovewithasa @skzshortcake

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chickwiththepurpleguitar · 3 years

Text

build a new silhouette in the skylines up ahead

@weneedglitter Parenting!

ok so i wasn’t gonna write a new thing and then @sunsetcurvecuddles and @oldsmobile-hotdogs convinced me to write a new thing, sooooo. Read on ao3 here!

Post-Orpheum. Ray/Rose plus Bobby, can be read as romantic or platonic, whatever you want (though my wip document for this was called Parenting so do with that what you will). Featuring a lot of Puerto Rican terms of endearment cause I could.

Rose isn’t quite sure what wakes her. The alarm clock on the bedside table reads just after 2am. The night is dark and quiet outside her bedroom window. Next to her, Ray sleeps soundly on his stomach, snoring with his face buried in his pillow. But Rose is used to that, reaches over almost without thinking to bury a hand in his hair and gently tug his head sideways so he can breathe. It could be any night, calm and familiar, since they moved in together. It still doesn’t explain what dragged her from her dreamless sleep six hours before her alarm, or why she’s got this odd tingling feeling in the back of her mind—the kind of feeling her abuela would call her “maternal instincts” and set Rose off on a feminist rant about the oppressive expectations of motherhood on women under the age of 30–telling her that something’s wrong.

It takes her another few minutes of breathing into the silence, glancing around her room like she’s waiting for some monster to pop out of the shadows, and then something catches her ear from outside: a distant clanging sound, like metal against metal.

Her eyes widen, and Rose scrambles out of bed with a muttered curse, hurrying to the window to make sure she’s come to the right conclusion. Luckily, her bedroom overlooks the driveway connected to their little townhouse, so she barely has to flick the curtains aside to glimpse Ray’s junk-bucket van and, just visible from this distance two floors up, the legs sticking out from underneath it.

Rose sighs, one hand on the windowsill, and considers just throwing it open and shouting down for her insomniatic roommate to go the fuck to sleep. But she knows he won’t listen, and that it’ll only make him feel more guilty for inconveniencing her than he already does, so instead she turns back to the bed and crouches down to place a gentle hand on her boyfriend’s shoulder, leaning in close to murmur in his ear. “Ray? Can you wake up for me?” He groans, and a smile plays at Rose’s lips. “I know, papi chulo, but I need you to wake up, just for a minute.”

Ray grunts, but obediently rubs at his face and pushes himself up. “What’s wrong, is everything okay?” he murmurs, his voice a groggy rasp, still clearly half-asleep and yet alert with concern.

Rose’s heart tugs with so much gratitude for him. “He’s tinkering again,” is all she says.

Ray nods, rubs his hands down his face one more time, and then blinks owlishly, his gaze settling on Rose. “I’ll get the coffee, meet you out there?”

“You’re the best.”

She darts forward to kiss him and then they both reluctantly get to their feet, moving in sync, Ray tousling his already-mussed-up hair as he heads straight for the kitchen while Rose throws on a bathrobe over her pajamas and slides her feet into slippers. She pauses only to grab her keys, a bottle of water, and the bottle of Imitrex from the kitchen cabinet, kisses Ray once more on the cheek where he stands scooping Café Bustelo into the cafetiera, and hurries out the door and down the stairs into the night.

Ray’s bright orange 70s van sits up on blocks in the driveway. It broke down yesterday for about the sixth time this month when Ray was coming home from work; he had to push it the last two and a half blocks. Really, they should’ve seen this coming.

As Rose gets closer, she gets a better glimpse of the legs sticking out from under the van, loose black sweatpants and grubby sneakers, feet tapping the concrete to the beat of music Rose can just barely hear, muffled but pounding like it’s blasting through headphones. She sits on the curb and gently nudges the tapping foot with one of her own. It freezes, the music abruptly stops, there’s the unmistakable clanging of tools being tossed back into their toolbox, and then Bobby rolls out from under the car on his makeshift dolly, tugging off the headphones connected to the Walkman hooked to his waistband. He’s shirtless and almost ghostly pale in the dim streetlights, the dark circles under his eyes standing out in stark contrast as he sits up and braces his hands on the ground behind him, blinking widely up at her.

“I woke you up,” he says, voice hoarse and crackly like he’s been sick. Or crying. “I was trying to be quiet.”

This is something Rose has learned about Bobby in the last few weeks. He gives reasons, never excuses. And he never apologizes, not directly, not with words. She can’t help but wonder if this has always been true of him, or if it’s a tendency he’s only developed since that terrible night at the Orpheum.

She shakes her head, forgiving him, and holds out the water and pills she brought. He makes a face but takes them and comes over to sit next to her. “I’m fine,” he says unconvincingly, even as he cracks the water bottle open and takes a sip with a pained wince.

Rose waits until he’s popped two of the pills and drunk half the water before she lets herself relax, scooting closer with a feigned shiver (even though it’s a warm August night and she’s wearing more clothes than he is) so that she can get away with pressing into his side, offering comfort he didn’t ask for under the guise of seeking some extra warmth. “Ray’s making coffee.”

“Shit,” Bobby whispers, rubbing at his forehead. “I woke him up, too.” He doesn’t apologize, but she can tell he means to in the tightness of his jaw, the shadows on his face.

“Actually, I did.” Rose bumps her shoulder against his, making him blush and duck his head away from her gaze. “I thought you could use some company.”

Bobby shakes his head, drinks some more water, winces with every swallow. For a long time, he says nothing, and Rose doesn’t push him, just sits there next to him, ready and waiting to listen when he can find the right words to say. He frowns into the middle distance for another minute or so, then shakes his head again like he’s refusing some unwelcome thought and says, “I just couldn’t sleep. My head hurt.”

She slowly reaches a hand up, telegraphing every inch of movement, ready to stop if Bobby so much as flinches, and strokes his hair back out of his face. He tenses up at the touch and then sinks into it, a shudder running through him. He drops his head onto Rose’s shoulder and she abandons all pretense, carding her fingers through the silky strands of his hair, gently rubbing some of the tension lines out of his forehead. “Your head hurts because you don’t sleep, muñeco,” she murmurs.

Bobby raises his head just enough to shoot her an annoyed glare—he claims not to like the Spanish terms of endearment she and Ray throw around, claims he doesn’t know what they mean and therefore thinks they’re making fun of him—but there’s no real heat to it, and he returns his head to her shoulder a moment later, nuzzling in closer as she strokes his hair. “I can’t,” he says after another long silence, so quietly Rose almost doesn’t hear him. “Every time I close my eyes, I see them. I just can’t stop seeing them.”

Rose tugs him closer into her side, presses a kiss to the top of his head, smiles into his hair when he makes a disgruntled noise but doesn’t actively protest.

This is something else she’s learned about him. Bobby wants so badly to be touched, so badly to be cared for, so badly to be loved. But it must be given freely to him. Because he’ll never ask.

Behind them, the front door creaks open, and Rose turns her head to give Ray a tired but grateful smile as he joins them in his ratty pajamas and socked feet, carrying two steaming mugs of coffee. He hands one to Rose and keeps the other for himself, then settles down on the curb on Bobby’s other side, pressing in close as he sips his coffee. Bobby sits up and frowns at him, mock-offended. “Hey, where’s mine?”

Ray shakes his head, doesn’t even look at him. “Mm-mm. You don’t get coffee until you sleep through the night. House rules, cariño.”

Bobby makes a face and turns to Rose for help. She just laughs into her own mug, shrugging unapologetically, and Bobby pouts.

“How can there be house rules when you don’t even own a house?” he grumbles, but shuffles closer, leaving Rose’s gentle hold to press his face into Ray’s shoulder. “God, I’m exhausted.”

Rose drinks her coffee and rubs soothing circles into Bobby’s back, feeling the too-thin, too-cold planes of his shoulder blades. A shudder runs through him that might be from the cold, the touch, or something else entirely. Rose meets Ray’s gaze over the boy’s head, sad and sympathetic and more worried than either of them has any right to be at 21 and 23. They may be older than Bobby, but they’re practically still kids themselves, and yet somehow in the last month they’ve taken this frail, broken boy under their wing, and sometimes they don’t know how to help him, don’t know if they can, but other times, like this, just being there for him is enough.

“They would’ve liked you,” Bobby says into Ray’s shirt sleeve, tensing under Rose’s hand. He doesn’t specify whom he means, and he doesn’t have to. Rose will never forget their names, even if she only heard them once, couldn’t even bear to read the article about them after that damn reporter tried to track Bobby down for a comment. Luke. Reggie. Alex. Bobby’s band. Bobby’s boys.

“If they loved you, nene, then I’m sure we would’ve liked them, too,” Ray says softly. This is what Rose loves most about him, these moments when she doesn’t know what to say, how to soothe, but he does, always. She’s so grateful for him, her sweet Ray who never met Sunset Curve, never knew Bobby before he was broken, not even for the hour that Rose did, and welcomed him into their lives anyway, didn’t question or complain for a second when Rose said, Meet me at the hospital. He can’t go back there. Please, mi corazón, can’t we help him?

Bobby shudders again, and Rose thinks he might be crying, but he makes no sound as he slumps forward, arms around Ray’s waist, face buried in Ray’s chest. Ray startles just the slightest amount, lifting his coffee cup out of the way so that it won’t spill, and then slowly lowers his arms to cautiously wrap around the boy. Rose reaches over and takes his mug for him, places them both on the curb next to her, and leans in to join the hug, pressing her lips to Bobby’s bare shoulder and whispering senseless reassurances into his skin.

Later, Ray carries a sleeping Bobby back into the house and lays him down in Ray and Rose’s bed, and they climb in on either side of him and hold him close as he gets his first full night’s sleep since the 22nd of July.

In the morning, Bobby shuffles into the kitchen bleary-eyed and squinty, moving slowly like he always does when he’s coming down from a migraine and doesn’t want to risk making it flare up again. Rose nudges him until he agrees to eat some breakfast, and Ray places a mug of fresh Cuban coffee in front of him with a kiss to his forehead and a whispered, “You earned it, bonbón.” Bobby doesn’t thank them, but he doesn’t need to.

“I’ll finish fixing the van today, Ray,” he promises once he’s finished eating. “And Rose, I noticed some of your guitars need re-stringing, if you want me to take a look.”

Rose exchanges a sort of fondly exasperated look with Ray across the table and strokes Bobby’s hair out of his face. “We already told you, Bobby. You don’t need to earn your keep. You just focus on getting better, and let us take care of you, okay?”

He blushes, ducks his head, but nods and mutters, “Yeah, sure, okay.”

Ray reaches a hand out across the table, palm up, pointer finger extended. Rose grins and links her finger with his, then nudges Bobby’s shoulder. He looks up, confused, and then his face relaxes in understanding and he manages something almost approaching a smile as he reaches out and taps his index finger against theirs, not quite joining Ray’s little handshake but not refusing it either. It’s good enough.

As they sit there, the three of them, Ray and Rose forcing water and painkillers on Bobby and giving him judgmental looks when he pours a second cup of coffee, Rose wonders if this is what parenting will feel like, when someday (in the very distant future, Abuela) she and Ray are ready to have kids (because there is no doubt in her mind that she will marry this man). They’re not Bobby’s parents—not even close—but she thinks he might be good practice for them anyway. In late nights and little sleep. In how to work their lives around someone else’s wants and needs. In caring for someone with so much of your heart you hurt when they do.

She thinks they’re doing a pretty damn good job at it, too.

Taglist: @whenweremarried @sunsethimb0s @pink-flame @penguin0613 @fighttoshine @sunsetcurvecuddles @nickalicious @reggiescrookedteeth @brightattheorpheum @queenmolina @spidergirl0325 @jandthephantoms @lexilucacia @sapphossidechick @acnhaddict @cest-la-vie-de-la-lee @sunset-bobby @lenacarstairspotterstewart @moreflowersthanweeds @conversationaltreestump @burntchromas @shellydominique

#jatp #julie and the phantoms #fanfiction #jatp fanfiction #my fics #rose molina #ray molina #bobby wilson #raybse #ray/rose/bobby #ray/rose

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imhereformr · 3 years

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Hi! :) Could you please do prompt 11 for Rivusa? 💜💜 I wish you a wonderful day!

11: Secret Relationship

Rival gang AU /// Content warning: mildly smutty

The abandoned car factory wasn’t the most romantic place. It was certainly not where Musa had ever expected to be having rendez-vous’ with her lover. The place, even though it’d been deserted for close to twenty years now, smelled like a strange mixture of leather, chemicals and dust. Occasionally, the ghost smell of burning metal would tickle her nose, but those were rare. Besides, she spent most of her time coiled into Riven’s side, enveloped by the fresh, woodsy scent of his aftershave or the sweetness of his sweat.

She walked through the building to the backroom where they spent most of what little, precious time they had together. Always Monday nights, sometimes Wednesdays if they were lucky. She hated sneaking around, but it was necessary. If her father, the president of Magix’s Fallen Angels, found out his daughter was fucking – and in love with – the VP of their rival gang, The Dragon Riders, a war would break out between the two that would likely leave more dead bodies than she wanted to be responsible for.

No matter how hard she tried to keep quiet, her footsteps seemed to echo through the building. Every time they met up, she became paranoid. Musa was careful – more careful than she’d ever been about anything. She made sure to leave in the middle of the night once her father was asleep; made sure to always park her car a block away instead of in front of their house so that if he woke up he wouldn’t see her leave; made sure that no one was watching her as she got in her car; made sure that no cars followed her when she got off the ramp that led to the near-deserted stretch of road where the factory was; and made sure to park her car inside the old employee indoor garage who’s door that Riven had managed to fix so they could open and close it. All that effort – so much more effort than she ever thought she’d put into seeing a guy – just for a few hours by his side. And it was, in her opinion, more than worth it.

The door to the office where they spent their time was already open when she got there. Unlike the rest of the factory that was littered with trash, dirt and discarded production equipment, this office was in decent shape. It helped that Riven had taken the time to clean it when he had come across the area. There was a desk that faced towards the right wall, a torn black leather office chair, shelving and filing cabinets; all from the factory days, and all in surprisingly good condition. Riven had bought a loveseat for the corner of the office for them to cuddle up on a while back – that was the sole addition to the room. She would have preferred a bed so they could lie down, but there just wasn’t enough space.

Musa paused by the office door. Riven, leaning against the front of the desk with his phone in hand, still hadn’t noticed her arrival – she must not have been as loud as she thought – so she took a moment to drink him in. He was tall – significantly taller than her – with broad shoulders and a tapered waist. He always looked the same: dark wash jeans, a plain t-shirt and his leather jacket, the very one that told her she shouldn’t be near him. His maroon hair was slicked back – partially by stylistic choice, but also because he had a habit of running his hand through his hair whenever he was thinking about something or uncomfortable – and he still had a scar along his cheekbone from a fight he’d been in two weeks earlier. She knew that under his clothes, adorning a body worthy of a god, were more scars and bruises from that fight and others past, and two gunshot wounds: one in his right shoulder and one just above his left hip bone.

“Waiting for someone?” she asked when she realised she’d been staring at him far longer than was normal. Riven’s hand instinctively reached for the gun he kept tucked into the back of his jeans but stopped when he registered her voice. He looked at her over his shoulder and smiled brightly. His smile sent a bolt of lightning through Musa, awakening something deep in her. She returned his smile as she approached him, pulling off her own leather jacket. He mirrored her movements, tossing his jacket onto the desk where it landed on top of hers.

His lips were on hers within seconds, hungry and desperate. His hands wasted no time in making their way to her hips and pulling her as close to him as physically possible. Her own hands tangled in his hair, tugging lightly with every moan that escaped her lips. Riven backed her up against the wall, pressing himself into her. “You’re late” he whispered, removing his lips from hers to trail kisses down her neck.

“Sorry” she managed between gentle moans and pleased sighs. “Dad went to bed a bit later than usual.”

“Doesn’t matter. You're here.” His lips returned to hers, drowning her in desire. One of his hands wandered down from her shoulders to her chest, where his thumb brushed over her nipple lightly, sending a shiver through her, and down to the hem of her shirt. There was no pretense of modesty, no playfulness in the way Riven pulled the shirt off her. He knew what he wanted, and she was more than happy to give it to him. She hadn’t bothered to put a bra on in her rush to get out of the house, and Riven smirked when he noticed. He ducked down to suck at her nipple, and Musa arched her back to make it easier for him.

Her hands ran along his back, digging into him with her nails, until they found the edge of his shirt and yanked it over his head in one swift movement. Her eyes drifted down to his perfectly sculpted abs as she ran her hand across them, feeling every groove and bump. She let her hands slide lower, giddiness and anticipation building with every second, until one was cupping and teasing his bulge and the other was fiddling with his pant button.

Musa could feel his eyes on her, and when she lifted her own to meet them, she found him watching her with a softness that made her feel like goo. “What?” she laughed, her voice coming out much breathier than she’d expected. Riven shook his head, pulling his eyes away from hers and whispering an almost inaudible nothing. When they’d first started doing this – whatever this was – Musa would get upset when he would do that. She thought he was hiding something from her. It had been two years since then, and she knew better now. Nothing didn’t mean nothing; it meant I’m happy or you’re perfect or, her favourite, I love you.

***

Riven pulled her onto the loveseat beside him and draped his arm around her shoulders. She leaned her head onto his shoulder, feeling it rise and fall in time with his chest and heavy breaths. Her finger trailed along his sweat-slicked chest, drawing figure eights. A smile was plastered on his face and his eyes were still glazed over from his orgasm. He was beautiful.

“I’ve been looking at Melody” he told her after a few minutes. She could feel his fingers ghosting over the angel wings tattooed on her back. He traced the wings every time they were together, and every time she wished they weren’t there. Those wings represented a stupid, made up barrier keeping her from him, and she’d grown to despise them.

“Oh?” Musa raised her eyebrow as she tilted her head to look up at him. His eyes were focused on the dark office, but looked faraway from where they were. She loved his eyes. They were a deep shade of violet that swirled and danced every emotion he felt. He was her ticket into his soul and, now that she could figure them out, she never had to wonder if he truly loved her again. Until the day when those eyes wouldn’t look at her like she was the sun, she knew he was hers just as much, if not more, than she was his.

“You told me you’ve always wanted to see the realm your mom was from. And I looked into it, there is no Dragon charter out there. You’ll have to confirm about the Angels, but I couldn’t find anything.”

Musa sat upright, resting her palm flat against his chest. She searched his eyes for any hint of dishonesty or humour, but found none. “Really?” They’d talked about leaving Magix – getting away from the gang life and starting over somewhere – more times than she could count. Everywhere had been an idea: Solaria, Eraklyon, Andros, Melody, Zenith, Dalona, Oppositus. That’s all they’d ever been, though, ideas.

“Yeah. I don’t know what my future holds, but if it doesn’t include you – all of you, not just secret meetings in the middle of the night in some shitty abandoned factory – I don’t want it.” Riven dropped his head onto the back of the couch and let it flop sideways to look at her. His hand caressed her cheek with a tenderness that she knew he reserved for her. Her hand lowered from his chest to trace the dragon’s tail that coiled up his right leg, ending in a majestic magenta, blue and black dragon on his back. “I like Melody.”

“Good” he smiled. “I’ve looked at real estate and I have enough money saved up that we can get a nice place of our own. We couldn’t get anything big enough for a family in the city, but the suburbs are still really affordable.”

“The suburbs? Are we the suburban type?” she laughed. “I mean, I’ll have to learn to bake pies. And what the fuck does a PTA do?”

“Do you think we’ll have to get a minivan?” he added, laughing at the snort that escaped her lips.

“Of course. How else are we gonna get the kids to soccer practice?”

“Fine, but I refuse to wear beige or polos. And I still want at least one bike.”

“And I won’t wear dresses or curl my hair. Plus I demand that you keep at least one jacket. You look too hot in leather to give it up entirely.” Musa eyed the leather jackets crumpled on top of the desk. “Preferably one without a dragon on it.”

“We’re gonna scandalise the neighbours with our tattoos, leather jackets and motorcycles.”

“That’s fine. We’ll probably be the coolest parents in the neighbourhood.”

They fantasized about their life after escaping until Musa’s alarm went off at 4:15, breaking them out of the dream bubble they created and forcing them to return to their real lives. They got dressed as slowly as possible, dragging out the time until they’d have to be apart again. Then, the lovers walked hand in hand through the factory to the garage.

When they reached their vehicles, Riven pulled her into a passionate kiss. She wrapped her arms around his neck, reciprocating the tightness of his around her waist. After pulling away before the kiss became too heavy, Riven laid his forehead against hers. “One month” he whispered. She looked up at him through the messy fringe on her forehead. His eyes were closed, and his mouth was drawn tight. “That’s the goal. We leave in one month.”

“Wait, really?” Musa pulled her head away from his as she batted her eyelashes in confusion. She never thought he’d actually want to leave Magix. “You’re serious?”

“Yeah, are you not?” Riven furrowed his eyebrows and clenched his jaw. She could feel his fists clenching on her back, and the doubt and hurt that sparked in his breathtaking eyes tore Musa to shreds, made her feel like she’d just stabbed the man she loved. “I’m in. I just never thought you would actually want to. I mean, the Dragons are your family.”

“And the Angels are yours, but we can make our own family. One free of drugs and turf wars.”

“Just pies, minivans and nosy, scandalised neighbours. Sounds perfect.”

“Anywhere that you are is perfect” he whispered, pulling her back in and placing a gentle kiss on the crown of her head. They stayed like that for a few minutes, breathing in each other's scent and memorising every feature so they wouldn’t forget them in the week until they could see each other again. Riven’s alarm went off, alerting them that it was 4:45 and they had to leave now. He pulled her into one last kissed, far sweeter than any they’d shared in their two years together. It was full of promise and hope, something they’d never had before.

“I love you Musa.” It was so rare to hear him say the words I love you that Musa cherished every single one. In their two years, he’d said it exactly twelve times. The first was a year ago when it had slipped out after they’d had sex. Not exactly romantic, but still very cute. “I love you too Riven.”

They shared one more quick peck before Musa watched him take a seat on his bike and ride away. She got in her car and let out an elated sigh and took off, already counting down the days. All she had to do now was sit tight and not let anything slip. It couldn’t be that hard; she’d already kept this secret for twenty-seven months. What was one more? She just had to make it through this one month without her excitement bubbling over and he would be all hers.

#winx club #winx #winx musa #winx riven #musa x riven #riven x musa #rivusa #prompt #AU #alternate universe #oneshot #lowkey want to make this not a oneshot though #rival gang musa x riven is something i didnt know i wanted this badly until now #winx fanfic #fanfiction

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ashintheairlikesnow · 3 years

Text

Enough, Always: Izzy

CW: Newly adult child of whumper and whumpee, whumper in prison, references to romantic/intimate whump, referenced child emotional abuse, verbal abuse, brief gendered appearance insults with single line of brief homophobia at end, plus final crowning moment of badass for Izzy.

Izzy’s mother Savannah Marcoset has been locked in prison on a life sentence without parole for eleven years for abducting Izzy’s father Jax, keeping him captive, and forcing him into a horrifying facsimile of domestic bliss - and Izzy last saw her in person fourteen years ago, when her father escaped with her and her infant brother in one desperate final bid for freedom.

Newly eighteen and feeling the need for some kind of closure in one of the foundational aspects of her identity, Izzy decides to visit America - and pay a visit to her incarcerated mother.

During the visit, she learns that Savvie Marcoset, in the end, couldn’t change - but Izzy fucking Gallagher did.

For the first time with her mother, Izzy finds her voice.

Jax Gallagher (referenced) belongs to @comfy-whumpee and is used with permission.

---

“Is this how you dress now?” Her mother’s voice is sharp-edged and still familiar, even fourteen years since Izzy last spoke to her face to face. It’s funny, how she barely remembered it, but as soon as she hears it, her heart starts to race, and it’s the feeling of her heart beating wings inside her chest. It’s the way other people might remember the sense of a warm hand to forehead, checking for illness, or laughter, or praise.

It’s a voice like a fever, a rush of chill down her spine and through her arms and thighs. Is it familiar from real memories, or because Izzy has heard it in interviews and documentaries and recordings, during her nights spent researching the woman who makes up half her genetics and absolutely none of her life?

She almost gets up and leaves right then.

Almost.

But Izzy Gallagher fought for this trip, had declared herself able and willing to do this, had more importantly convinced her father she needed to do this. She can’t just give up because it didn’t start well.

Even if he wouldn’t judge her, or at least he wouldn’t show it, Izzy Gallagher sets her shoulders and declares herself her father’s stubborn strong daughter, and not her mother’s weak and frightened one.

She steels herself against the instinctive uncertainty, the rush of anxious shouldn’t have done this, shouldn’t have tried. Instead, she gives her mother a faint smile as a plastic-and-metal chair is pulled out and she sits down across the small round table, just enough space there isn’t any danger of accidental - or, hopefully, purposeful - touch.

The walls are beige, the top of the table is a wood so pale it might as well be. There are bars on the window that lets in a pale and faded winter sun. There are some others, nearby, people younger or older than she sitting at other round tables, seeing mothers, wives, aunts, sisters. Izzy wonders if all of them are scared, or if none of them are. If it’s only her who has to remember how to breathe, in her mother’s presence.

She can do this. She told him she could do this.

“Um.” Izzy looks down at herself - just a band shirt and faded jeans worn with holes, her still-knobby knees showing through, the boots a birthday gift from Nana she’d thought would help her crunch through the grayish snow in the parking lot, a light hooded sweater over it all - and then up again. Her mother’s eyes are still wide-set in her face, which is less rounded as time has passed.

Those eyes are still overbright, and very blue.

It’s been so long since Savannah Marcoset saw her eldest child, and Izzy can’t ever remember having been the focus of her mother’s all-consuming interest before. It feels like standing in the eye of a storm, where everything is still but the air carries weight, electricity, and threat.

“Mostly,” Izzy says, finally. “Mostly this is how I dress. I mean, I couldn’t wear gray, could I? They wouldn’t let me leave.” She tries to sound lighthearted, then winces. Bad joke.

Her mother, in what looks almost like flat gray scrubs, with a high-cut V-neck and a waist without a drawstring, smiles back, apparently unoffended. There’s a shift - subtle as a cat moving onto its back paws in grass, eyes focused on a nearby bird. Izzy has always been sensitive to changes in the tension of a room, and her own eyes - hazel leaning towards brown, her father’s eyes through and through - move to a nearby guard, reassuring herself with his presence.

Savannah Marcoset is firmly locked in prison for life, with handcuffs and ankle-cuffs that ensure she can’t make herself a threat here, and still the soft nearly-buzzed hair at the back of Izzy’s neck stands up, and she feels like she is being inspected, a bit of bacteria in some scientist’s microscope.

“I had hoped for a little more color, is all,” Her mother says, tilting her head to the side, giving an impish little smile. “As you can imagine, there isn’t exactly a surplus of art here. You look lovely, Isabella.”

Izzy swallows against a lump in her throat. Absurdly, she feels outnumbered, one-to-one. “I, yeah. Thanks.” She tries for a responding smile, maybe half-successful at it. “You have-... you have art classes here, I read.”

“You read up on me.” Her mother’s expression changes a little, opens up. She sits up a little straighter, then, and there’s a flash of still-white teeth in her smile, now. “You know about me. I would have thought you wouldn’t be allowed to know a thing.”

“I’m, um.” Izzy’s hands fold in her lap, and she rubs over the shredded white threads along a hole that’s worn over one thigh, the softness of a patch of fabric she’d sewn herself beneath. “I’m eighteen now, so. I get to pick what I know, more or less.”

“You’re eighteen?” Her mother’s surprise is genuine, and she glances sideways at the clock as though it will become a calendar, back to Izzy. “When did that happen?”

Why that question hurts, she doesn’t know - but it does. It’s not like Savannah Marcoset has anything to do here but remember, and yet-... she didn’t.

“About three weeks ago, actually,” Izzy says, and hears herself sounding embarrassed, like she should have not grown up at all, if that wasn’t what Savvie wanted, or expected. Like the turn of the Earth is her fault, something she did on purpose just to spite Savvie by stealing time.

“Oh. Well.” Savvie folds her hands with a soft rattle as the cuffs knock into the shiny, sealed tabletop. She leans over, and Izzy can see the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes, now, the hint of them around her lips. Her jawline seems stronger, more carved, she is a statue version of a parent that Izzy remembers as a kind of terrifying whirlwind. Her hair is less overwhelming, the deep brown graying at the temples, pulled back simply against the nape of her neck. It isn’t so long, as it once was. Savvie pauses, waits for Izzy to look her in the eyes. “Happy birthday, Isabella.”

The name is wrong - it’s always been wrong - but Izzy smiles, anyway. “Thanks. Eighteen is a bit weird, it doesn’t feel any different than seventeen did, but-”

“My no-contact orders were signed here, in the US,” Savvie says, interrupting her, thinking this through. “So you, what, had to be eighteen to come see me? Have you wanted to before?” She leans forward, and Izzy leans back, feeling her back press into the chair behind her, letting her right hand drop to rub at the seam of her jeans on the outside of one thigh. Her heart beats harder. “Did he keep you from seeing me?”

He.

“No,” Izzy says, and her voice is thin at first, but she clears her throat and the second try is stronger. “No, he didn’t. He would have, if I’d have wanted to, before. I just didn’t ‘til now. We’re, um-... we’re doing an American holiday, more or less.”

Shit. She shouldn’t have said-

“‘We’?” Savvie’s expression brightens, with real interest now. Her eyes pin Izzy like a butterfly to a display case, jam tiny needles through her wings, hold her fast. “He’s here? Jax is here?”

“He’s not,” Izzy lies, smooth as silk, without hesitating. She’d planned for this question, prepared for this. She’d sat up til two in the morning prepping for the ways her mother might try to talk about her father, and more importantly, the ways that Izzy wouldn’t give her what she wanted. She’d just been hoping to hide it better for longer. “He didn’t come with m-me here. It’s just me, Mom, and some friends.”

Savvie clicks her tongue against her teeth. “He didn’t think I was too dangerous, for you to speak to?”

She can’t help her slight, sardonic laugh at that. “You’re in prison, Mom.” It feels weird, to hear herself say Mom out loud, as though that was ever what Savvie had been. She was four the last time she said Mommy to Savvie’s face, and even then it had been an apology Izzy can barely remember now, her own sense of a small voice saying, I’m sorry, Mommy, I won’t do it anymore, but she can’t remember what she’d done to get in trouble.

Breathe, probably.

“You’re in prison,” She repeats, and her heartbeat settles a little, reassuring herself with the words spoken out loud, made real. “You’re the least dangerous you’ve ever been, to us.”

Savvie sits back, less pleased now. “I was never dangerous. Did he tell you I was dangerous to you? I never was. That was a lie he made up, so they would help take you and your brother away from me. I only ever wanted us to be a family, Isabella.”

“Mom.” Izzy’s voice wavers, and Savvie might smile a little at the sound, but if she does, it’s because she sees the wrong reason for the waver, or… maybe she enjoys the annoyance, the anger, as much as she would fear. “We both know that’s not true, none of that is true.”

“I wanted a family,” Savvie says, in a low voice, not quite a whisper. Regretful, mournful. She trails a fingernail along the top of the table, and Izzy tenses at the scrape of it. Barely audible but it grates on her nerves nonetheless. She swallows, presses her lips together, tries not to watch it move.

Fails.

Savvie’s nails aren’t painted - in Izzy’s blurry remaining memories of her, Savvie’s nails are always painted colors - but they shine, perfectly filed edges moving, catching a hint of light.

“Your dad,” Savvie says, in that same mournful, grieving tone, “didn’t want you at all. Did you know that? He never did. He hated the very idea of you, and your brother. He thinks I don't know that he cried over the concept of you. No… you were never wanted by anyone but me, until he realized he could steal you to hurt me. He could always be cold that way. He took you and hoped I would-”

“Stop.” Izzy struggles to say it. Even now, with therapy a constant foundation of her life and a stronger one than her mother’s terrifying rage, it’s hard to make herself say the word. She has to fight to make it audible, but it’s still clearly surprising - Savvie goes silent, watching her with those unnerving wide blue eyes. “Please-... stop. I, I know how he felt. You can’t-... you can’t rewrite history, Mom. I know… I know how it was, or I know enough.”

“It’s the truth, Isabella.” Her mother’s expression is so earnestly sincere. Izzy licks at her lips, suddenly dry and chapped, and thinks that if there were a lie-detector test, her mother would pass it, stone-cold. No way to tell she didn’t believe her own words. She might, actually, believe the story as it leaves her mouth, believe it so utterly she can lie without even knowing she’s doing it. “That’s all I ever wanted to do, is have the chance to tell you the truth. But he got that no-contact order and made sure you would only ever know how he saw it.” Savvie smiles with wistful regret, every inch the mother mourning her lost children.

Izzy knows better.

Jamie, her little brother, fifteen and with no memory of his mother at all, might fall for this. She's a stranger to him. But Izzy remembers the hours locked alone in the dark, and the sound of her father screaming in pain.

She swallows trying not to think too much about that memory. “It’s not about-... there aren’t two sides, Mom. This isn't like any other divorce. You held him prisoner.” She’s falling into a trap, and she can feel it but she can’t stop herself. Her mother hasn’t tried to so much as reach for her - it wouldn’t be allowed, the guard would step forward if she did - but Izzy still feels like she has been pinned, claws sliding into her shoulders and a heavy weight holding her to her seat. A bird that didn’t see the threat in time to take flight. "You-... held us all-"

“Well, now he’s made sure I’m a prisoner, hasn’t he? Must be nice, to pin all your problems on the Big Bad Witch in prison who can no longer defend herself. But, of course, everything is always my fault.” Savvie shrugs as she cuts Izzy off, almost idly.

"Mom, he has-..." Izzy feels unmoored. Drifting, like this can't be real, this conversation. This can't be real. "You abducted him, you-"

"Everyone has problems, sweetie." Savvie's head tilts a little more, eyes moving over Izzy’s face with an awful, palpable weight. “Don't try to make it a competition." Something gentles, then. The hard planes of her mother's face soften. "You know, you look like him.”

Izzy warms, a little, at that. She shouldn't and she knows it, but still, she does. She smiles, slightly lopsided, and raises one hand to touch the silver rings in the shell of her left ear, two of them right next to each other, one for Jax and one for her brother Jamie. “I hope so,” she admits. “I’ve always wanted to.”

The moment of gentleness in her mother’s expression slips away, replaced by a brittle frigid chill that washes over Izzy, a wave that breaks against her.

Oh, no. I cared more about him than her. Even now, fourteen years on, she still shivers in an old fear.

“He is handsome,” Savvie says, tapping her fingernails again, scraping them along the table. The sound is starting to grate on Izzy’s nerves. “He always was, even in the earliest days. He never knew it, I don’t think. I tried to tell him.”

He didn’t want to hear it from you.

“He hears it enough now,” Izzy says, and her heart goes cold with dread as she realizes she’s nearly given away something much, much worse to say than accidentally admitting her dad came on the trip with her.

Damn it, Izzy, don't let her know about Kieran.

Savvie doesn’t seem to notice the clue. She just keeps tapping. “Do you play music, Isabella? I wondered if either of you would have talent, in the end.”

It’s an abrupt change of subject, and Izzy doesn’t see it for the trap it is.

“I play-... um. I can play some things,” Izzy hedges, shifting uncomfortably from the simple truth that she can play almost anything, if she hears it a couple of times, remembers note-for-note the songs on the radio or the forbidden ones she still hides in playlists buried in playlists, the soft strains of violin that draw her but she would never admit to. “I’m-... in a band, actually.”

Savvie’s eyes are back on hers, then, that unnerving total focus. “What do you play in that band? Is it a real band, or just noise?”

Izzy rubs at the back of her neck, flushing in embarrassment. “Um. I guess it’s about fifty-fifty noise and real. I play bass guitar, actually.”

She’d read somewhere that bass guitar was easy, and figured if she played that, no one would realize the music was inherent in her, demanding expression. She could say she wanted to be in the band because of her father, who had been in one once upon a time, too. She wouldn’t have to admit that the music didn’t come from Jax, but from Savvie’s blood in her veins. She could pretend, with the bass guitar, to be worse at it than she really was without ruining the songs.

Her mother snorts, derisive. “Anyone can play that,” She says, waving one hand in dismissal - but the other has to come with it, and it’s a reminder that, no matter how Izzy feels in the moment, there is no real danger here. “That hardly counts. Can you play a real instrument?”

“It is a real instrument.”

“Hardly.” Savvie looks disappointed, and it’s weird - she hasn’t seen her face-to-face since she was four, and she hasn’t said a word to her in that time, and still… the disappointment hurts, a little. “You weren’t allowed to do music, were you? He forbade you, because of me.”

“No, he absolutely didn’t.” It’s Izzy’s turn to lean forward, her hands closing into fists in her lap now, an old habit from childhood she’s mostly broken but it comes back, now, as her irritation rises in eternal defense of Jax. “He’s always supported whatever I wanted to do-”

“Because he doesn’t care enough to make sure you’re doing something worthwhile.” Her mother’s sigh cracks open a dark door inside her, it’s familiar even to her fading memories. It’s a sigh she knows from birth. Before Izzy can respond again, she changes the subject, deft as a dancer. “What are you doing for school, then? Are you going to go to college?”

Izzy blinks, thrown off track. “Um. Yes, I do plan on it, I’ll be going to university next autumn-”

“You’ve got the accent, too. Guess they’ve painted over everything they didn’t like, didn’t they?”

“Wh-what?” Her heart stops as her mother’s voice is sharp again. Her fists tighten, pressing down into her thighs until they nearly ache. “What’d you-”

“You look like him, dress like the dime-store version of him - honestly, Isabella, look at you, you look… grimy. You even talk like him. What is this, trying to look like the daughter he might have actually wanted? Is that it?”

Izzy swallows, sitting back again, thumping into the back of the chair. Someone nearby is crying, soft, muffled sobs. Someone else is whispering, in vicious intensity, in fury. The guards are impassive. There’s no sign they even hear Savvie speaking at all. “It’s just who I am-”

“No, it isn’t. I saw your name, Isabella Gallagher. You were born a Marcoset, but he was happy when he changed it, wasn’t he?” Savvie’s eyes won’t let her look away. She feels completely captured, the center of Savannah Marcoset’s world, the most terrifying place on Earth, somewhere Izzy has never once been. “I asked you a question, Isabella. He was happy to have you change your name, wasn’t he?”

“Yes.” She’s not sure why she answers. The anxious shivering inside of her is stronger than it should be. Her voice is a whisper, a rush of air with only a hint of sound. “But it was-... my idea-”

“I’m sure he let you think that. I feel sorry for you, you know. I really do. He must care for James so much more than he does you, don’t you think? My beautiful son wasn’t old enough to even speak to me, but you… you’re a reminder, aren’t you? Oh…" Savvie's lips purse, in a sort of smug smile. "Oh, you are. God, what torture it must be for him to be around you."

She’s supposed to be stupid. Izzy has watched all the documentaries that mention the case, she read an awful unauthorized true crime book she found in a thrift shop once that just had a little teensy chapter on Savvie buried between other femme fatales. She’s done her research, to understand the woman she was going to meet as best she could.

Savannah Marcoset is supposed to be… well, stupid.

Izzy wasn’t prepared for cunning not being the same thing as smart. And she didn’t think through what eleven years in prison, with almost nothing to do but think, and no chance of leaving ever for the rest of her life, might do to hone her mother’s ability to wound. That Savvie might have taken a blunt instrument and whittled it into a blade.

“I-I’m not-”

“You are.” Savvie hums, and the tapping of her nails is going to drive Izzy up the fucking wall. “Even just being alive, you are. And your hair, well…” Savvie’s eyes go up to Izzy’s hair, the same deep chocolate brown as Savannah’s own, a shock of curly brown that falls over her forehead and against one side, nearly shaved on the other side and along the back. “You can cut it, but it’s still my hair. You walk around a living reminder of what he stole from me, just to hurt me, what he didn’t even want. You were never wanted, Isabella. That’s why your birth is part of my crimes, don’t you think? You and James both. You’re a crime I committed against him, right?”

“A crime-” Her voice cracks, but if she sounds uncertain, it’s only her nerves, her inability to stand up for herself sometimes. It’s not fear. She is not afraid of this woman, and she doesn’t believe her.

Okay, a little afraid.

But she doesn’t believe her, she doesn’t. She knows better, because she knows how hard her father has worked to build the life around her, the one she’s living now. She knows how many times he has held her after nightmares - hers and his both. She knows he could have left her and James behind, but he didn’t.

Every chance he had to set them down, he chose to hold them instead.

Most of all, she knows the way her father has carefully, day by day and year by year, taught her that love is not the same thing as danger.

Her shoulders square, and her back straightens. “You keep saying that, b-but… there’s a difference between not wanting someone who will be hurt to, to be there to be hurt, and caring about someone. There’s-... you can’t see the difference, is all, but I can. I know-” She swallows. “I know how it looks like when he loves someone, and you don’t.”

“Hm.” Savvie’s fascination flags, a little, at that. Her stare is unnerving, unblinking, but Izzy feels the anger coming off of her, hidden and still plain as day. “Changing the subject, I see. So much of you is just a walking reminder. You’re just a tragedy on two legs, aren’t you, Isabella?”

Part of Izzy thinks wryly, how long ago did you think of that and how long have you been waiting for someone to say it to? but the rest of her can’t find the breath to say it out loud. “You can’t make my life worse than it is, Mom. Not anymore. I didn’t come h-here for this, I came here for-”

I came here to see if you could see me, even now, or only a reflection of what you can’t have. I guess I have my answer.

Savvie hasn’t stopped talking. “What of you is even yourself, Isabella? Are you just… trying not to be me? Do you not want him to think of me?” Her smile widens. Flash of teeth. For a second, just one brief second, Izzy sees fangs. “Oh, sweetie. You can’t ever change that, no matter what you do. I was important. I ruined his life, remember? There was a whole court case about it. Two, really. It’s why I’m here. Because I’m the Big Bad Wolf, or so I’m told.” She snorts. “You should have worn red, Isabella. Or something.”

“Or something,” Izzy whispers, looking down at her hands, at her knuckles gone white, her fists. The round clock is ticking on the wall, and it’s only an hour. She told herself she could last for an hour, when she walked in here. She told herself she could make it, and she would.

“Isabella-”

“You didn’t, by the way.” Where the words come from, she’s not sure. But they come out sure, and strong. "You didn't ruin his life. It’s better, it’s good.”

“Oh? Is it?” Savvie feigns disinterest, but she’s so bright and sparkling, pulling Izzy in. “What about it is so good, Isabella? What does my husband do, in his whole new life without me? What can he do? Show me how I’m wrong.” Savvie’s presence is heavy, it takes up too much space, feels like Izzy is pressed against the wall, suffocating. How did they live like this, surrounded by her on all sides, all the time? How had Jax ever survived so long alone with her?

Her voice trembles more than she wants it to when she speaks. “What?”

“You say I’m wrong - about him, about you.” Savvie is a shark, and Izzy is blood in the water. She seems bigger, suddenly, or maybe Izzy is smaller. Younger. Has too much hair for her age and a frilly dress she hates and she has to be good, and so quiet, and do exactly what she is told or her father will be hurt, and it will be her fault, because it’s always, always her fault-

Savvie’s voice is not quite a whisper. “Tell me, Isabella, all these things I am so wrong about. Even if you believe his side of the story, he’s all I thought about, the only thing that mattered, right? So I know him better than anyone else, don’t I? And you’re mine. I know everything about you, without even trying."

“You don’t-... know anything about me.” Izzy knows she’s getting quieter, and knows as she retreats, her mother presses forward, thrilled to play a game she hasn’t played in… in eleven years, more or less. “And you don’t know a single thing about him.”

“I know every fucking scar on his body.” Izzy’s stomach flips, but Savvie is leaning forward again, and the blue of her eyes is overtaking everything else around them. Plain beige walls and plain table and plain bars over plain windows can’t compete. The gray of everyone’s prison outfits, her own black-and-slightly-less-black, none of it is a good enough distraction, enough to tear her away. “That’s what I know. You’re sweet, Isabella, and it’s lovely of you to try and be the dutiful little daughter all over again. But I know things you don’t, I always have. I know I still do. He hasn’t told you half of it, and he won’t.”

It’s a strike, a feint and then a jab, and if this were a real fight Izzy would be ready for it, but words are so much harder to defend against. “I was a little kid, I didn’t need to know it, I didn’t want to. I don’t need to know-”

“You had colic, for a month or so.” Savvie cuts her off, raising her voice a little. One of the guards behind her shifts, might look at them from behind the dark of his glasses at the volume. “When you were little. Cried like a banshee, day and night, no reason. I could hear you in my practice room. Still think you know everything?”

“This isn’t-... I don’t know why you’re telling me this."

“I had my responsibilities, sweetie. I mean, I was a new mother, but I was still a person. I didn’t need to change all that much, really. Jax spent half his time trying to keep me away from you, your own mother, and the other half trying to shut you up.”

“You could be-... he said you were up-upset, sometimes, um, you c-could be-”

“Violent? Never. I was tired, maybe - we both were. Jax has never slept well."

Because of you.

"Oh, here we go. One of my favorites of his little insults… does he say I was unstable? I’m sure I’ve heard it all. Probably in court, no less, he very much enjoyed getting on stage to put on his little show. Taking the jury around and around in circles acting like I never did anything kind for you.” Her eyes move back to Izzy’s hair, shaking her head slightly, one lip curling upward in a sneer. “I certainly would have been kind enough not to let you make yourself look like that.”

“Mom-”

“Shut up, Isabella. I am talking to you, and I am not done yet.”

Izzy’s mouth snaps shut, teeth clicking together, her nails digging into her palms. Her eyes flicker to the guard, trying to catch him, but no, she’s going to last the whole hour, she promised herself she could do it, she promised.

Besides, it's… sort of harder than she thought, to look away when Savvie is talking.

“We ended up getting my, well, Isaac’s servant Hannah to help with you. Because of the colic. He asked for her, really. I was prepared to bring in someone else, but Jax had his demands, and when he really wanted something, well.” She shrugs, calmly, casually. She is talking about a reality that never existed, moving all the pieces around until the past suits her and not the court documents. Until her story is the one circling Izzy’s head, and not the story she knows has to actually be true. “How could I refuse?”

“He asked-... but when he wanted-”

“What did I just say?”

“Mom, I need to-”

“Let. Me. Finish.”

“N-No, I don’t want to hear this-”

“You know what he started to do? Once we had Hannah around, a few days a week? When the steward began to come as well? Do you know what the number one change your father made to his life was, once that happened?”

“Mom, please. Please don’t do this.” Her voice is nearly gone, and Savvie leaps.

“He started getting the hell away from you.” Savvie throws her head back and laughs, loud enough to make people look over at them. Izzy wonders, face burning in embarrassment, what they see. Do they know who Savvie is? Is she really famous, here, like Izzy thinks she is? Does everyone know they’re watching Savannah Marcoset push her daughter under the water and watch her struggle to breathe?

But… the words hurt. He got the hell away from you. “He did-... he did what?”

“Fucking escaped you. He thinks I didn’t notice. Everyone always thinks I don’t notice, didn’t know things. Your father - my Jax - thinks I’m a fucking idiot, I get that now. But I saw that, him handing you off to Hannah or the steward and get as far away from you as he could without-” Savvie lifts her hands to tap at the side of her neck with a slight, almost dreamy smile. “Everyone says I’m the bad mom, the bad parent, but I’m not the only one who shoved you aside every chance I got.” Savvie hums, almost idly. She’s playing, Izzy thinks dimly. Cat with a ball of yarn. Somehow the words hurt a little less when the realization comes. “That’s the thing, though, isn’t it, Bella-”

“Izzy,” She whispers, but her mother doesn’t hear her, or doesn’t care.

“You know you are, fundamentally, his fucking nightmare. Your father sat up there before judge and jury and told everyone that I only had you so I could control him just a little bit more. Did you see that, in the documentaries you watched? Did you hear about it? Did he tell you that you only existed to be a weapon, that you're just a pretty little tool in my toolbox?"

She doesn’t want to answer any of those questions, and keeps her eyes down, focuses on the knuckles of her hands. How they sit over her lap so nicely, if you ignore that they are fists. Her face still burns bright red, and her eyes are hot with tears she blinks rapidly away before her mother can see them fall.

“He’ll say I didn’t love you.” Savvie’s expression is chilled, disdainful. “But your father had whole days he could barely stand to touch you. He had days he couldn’t even look at you. You ran around after him begging for, what, for someone to pat you on the head and say you were good just as you are? No wonder he couldn’t give you that.”

“He did give me that, over and over-... how you’re saying it isn’t how it happened, you’re not remembering what actually happened, Mom-”

“I think, deep down, you know it’s because no matter what you do with your hair, or your clothes, he is always going to look at you and see me. That’s the fear, isn’t it? That you're me, or you will be. That’s why you’re here, why you flew all the way across the fucking Atlantic to pay Mommy a visit. You wanted to see how much of you is me. How much of me is in you. How much of a fuck he can even give, in the end, for my daughter." She laughs again, and Izzy flinches. "He must hate you, deep down, and part of you knows it. Am I right?”

Izzy can’t answer at first, and her mother clicks her tongue, falsely sympathetic.

“Oh, sweetie. It’s okay. I can’t do a fucking thing to you, or him, or anyone now. But I’m glad you came to see me. I'm glad to see that you're just the same, easy to break as ever. You'll end up with exactly the love you deserve, Bella. Won't you?"

Izzy's eyes are blurred, struggling to focus. What rises in her isn’t fear, or doubt, or even sadness. It’s anger, the same simmering slow burn that that comes whenever someone tries to push her and her father down, when they have to force their way back up. "N-no-"

"Yes. You'll get what you were born for, one way or another. Don't worry, sweetie. You're not like me at all. You're just… a mirror, and the reflection isn't even a good one." Savvie laughs, cold and cruel, delighting in the pain on her daughter's face. "Here I was worried you’d be angry, but I don’t think you can be. Is that too much like me, too?”

“No, I’m… I get a-angry sometimes, I can… it’s not like that-”

“Not like what? Speak up, Bella. Stop mumbling, you were always a mumbler. Most children shout, you know.”

“Most children don’t get locked in closets if they do.” Izzy is still whispering at the start, but the words come more strongly as she works her way through them, eyelashes heavy with tears she tries to pretend don’t exist. “Most-... most kids can throw a fit without their dad getting hurt, and most kids get to leave the h-house sometimes, and if I-... if he couldn’t-... it was because of you, not because of m-me.”

“Tell yourself that.”

“I do. I do tell myself that. I only have to tell myself that because of you, and you-... you just wanted to be his whole life and the only thing in it and you’re n-not, and this isn’t even about hurting me, is it? All of this-... telling me about, about him-...”

She can remember it, can’t she? Faint traces remain, of asking for Jax and being told by her Aunt Hannah that he needed some time, of asking and having her Papa Stewart give her a hug instead, of asking and asking and then learning not to ask…

“You aren’t telling me this to hurt me. You’re telling me this to hurt him.” Izzy raises her eyes, aware of the bright red blotches on her cheeks, aware of the tear tracks, aware of her hands in fists and the zinging anger in her that simmers underneath her fear. “You want me to take this out into the-... into the world, back to Dad, and tell him what you said because it’ll hurt him to hear that you said it, and you’ve been in prison for eleven years and missed most of my life and nearly all of my little brother’s - who you haven’t asked me a single fucking question about, by the w-way - and all you can think about, even now, is the… the one who got away from you.”

The balance shifts, some of the glittering brightness fades from Savvie’s eyes, the fascinated sadism seeps out of her expression. “Isabella-”

“Izzy. I’m called Izzy. And you know that, because you’ve known it ever since the trial. And maybe I was-... was hard, for him, when I was a baby and I can’t fix that or make it any better, it’s all already happened and I’ve had to learn not to feel guilty about it since I was four years old, but of the two of you, only one has ever bothered to give any solitary fucks about who I am! I came here to see if you could-... if you could change, or rethink, or even just, just feel something about me, and all you can feel is the parts of me that are him!”

“Isabella-”

“You shut up! You do it, now, and you listen to what I have to say! I was sc-scared, all the time, because of you, not him. He was the one who came to let me out, and he was the one who held me when I was scared, and even if he didn’t want to be near me, he still tried! You don’t-... you don’t get to change the story and make it not what it was, Mom, I know what it was.”

“You know what he told you it was.”

“No. I know what it actually really was. There is no other alternative world where you’re the good guy, or better than he was! Maybe I was a hard baby to l-love, because of whose baby I am, and I-I carry that forever… that I'm not the kid he would've wanted to have... but he tried, and if he didn’t love me at first, at least he tried until he learned how! But… but I know he did. I know he loved me, and Jamie, so much that he did the scariest thing he could imagine by running with us and having to hope we could make it to Grandpa before you could catch us again. I think you don’t know him at all, and you’re going to die in prison still not knowing, and that’s why you’re doing this now. It is killing you that you could lock us up and put that thing on his neck and keep us trapped and you still don’t know any of us at all.”

“I made every single scar-”

“Scars aren’t who someone is! They’re just marks of you being shitty to him! They don’t say who he is now, or how his mind works, or how fucking brilliant he is at being a dad! You know some marks on his skin, but I know who he is when he’s safe, and strong, and happy, and you will never know that man. You won’t ever know what he looks like really in love, and I do, and it is absolutely nothing like he looked around you!"

Her eyes flare. “Bella, what are you talking about, in love? With who? Who would-”

“I came here to see if-... if any part of me really is you, and it’s not, because all the parts of me that matter are from him and Grandpa and Papa Stewart and Nana and my aunties and none of the important bits are yours at all! No one loves you, because you can’t love anyone, but I can, and he can, and Jamie can. You are never ever going to see him again… and I’m going to walk out that door and give him a fucking hug."

She shoves her chair back, making a metallic screech along the floor that makes her mother wince, adrenaline pumping through her veins. It’s a kind of fight, this, she’d been pinned to the mat and fought her way back to standing in the end.

“I am proud of him, for all he’s done to make an even better life for Jamie and me, and I am proud of him for finding Kieran, after you - and Kie’s a better bonus dad by a million years than you ever were a mom - and… and he’s proud of me. He’s proud of the person I am and not just the person he thought I was supposed to be. That’s more important than, than anything, is that he and I-... we can be proud of each other, and you can’t be proud of anything but yourself.”

Savvie looks startled, now, struggling to regain the surety she’d felt before. She can’t stand or the guard will come, and so she stays seated, and looks up at Izzy, no taller than her father but wiry still. “I think we’re done here,” Savvie says coldly. “You’re clearly too swept up in your father to be worth talking to.”

“Maybe,” Izzy shrugs, shoves her hands in her hoodie pockets, finds the comfortable weight of her phone, switched off for during the visit like the guards had asked. Wonders if her dad, sitting in the rental in the parking lot, has started pacing yet. If he’s watching the clock, waiting for her text to come through, bouncing his foot like he does sometimes. If he’s pretending to read or texting Kieran or if he’s just staring at the squat building that stretches wide on either side, waiting for her to come out. “Did I disappoint you, then? How I am, just me?”

“Oh, sweetie.” Savvie shakes her head, ruefully. Her expression shifts into mournfulness, just a few seconds too late for it to be convincing. “I had high hopes for you. But he ruined you, in the end. Absolutely ruined you.”

“That’s… that’s probably good. I don’t think I’ll come back, Mom. But I might-... I might write a letter.” Why she throws the offer out, she doesn’t know, only… only some part of her will always, always want to keep hoping that this will change.

Savvie’s eyebrows raise. “I might answer it. Can you fix your hair, if you ever come again? And wear something… nicer than this?”

Izzy blinks, rolling her eyes back to look up at her hairline, down to look at her shirt and jeans, and then back to her mother. “Why? Because it’s shorter than you want it to be? Because you don’t like my clothes?”

“Because you look like a lesbian, Isabella.”

Izzy blinks, too thrown to find the words at first, and then she shrugs, rubbing her thumb along the side of her phone in her pocket, her palms aching where her nails had dug in so deeply, over very old scars. She can’t quite help her smile. “Oh. Well, fuck, Mom, my girlfriend will be shocked when she hears you feel that way.”

“Your what?”

Izzy turns and walks away, past the other tables with crying or hurting people, or people who look like they want very badly to hug and can’t, and she doesn’t look back.

The door clangs open and slams shut behind her, the hallway stretching out ahead, and she walks down two sets of stairs and around a corner before she sees the big heavy doors that lead out into the world, the huge parking lot warmed by sunlight with no trees to break the glare of it. She gives the guards manning the checkpoint a little wave of one hand, pushing the door open, and moves into the glaring, brilliant light, turning to face the corner where her father has been waiting by the rental.

He’s definitely been pacing.

She smiles and heads towards him, giving him a big wave. He’s moving towards her before her hand is even fully in the air.

If her mother’s words are designed to shatter, her father’s love - starting with his desperate attempts to protect her, his whispered be brave for me, Izzy as they boarded a train, written across every single day of her life - is a foundation too strong to be broken.

Her mother, Izzy thinks, can’t understand love like that.

But Izzy does.

And it's more than enough.

Always.

---

@astrobly @finder-of-rings @burtlederp @wildfaewhump @whump-tr0pes @moose-teeth @orchidscript @sableflynn @pretty-face-breaker @raigash @vickytokio @eatyourdamnpears

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thewhumperinwhite · 3 years

Text

And Then You Kill Me, Part 1

hey, it’s been a hot minute, huh?

been sorta Going Through It, so uh... Vampire Time, featuring Art and Karim from FBI AU. (Though, for the record: this is their original incarnation, hence why fbi au is Called That.)

I’m gonna tag @whumpitywhumpwhump and also @sweetheartblue bc Karim is... her oc once removed, basically, so if you like this, Thank Sweetheart

Blanket Warning For This Story: this story heavily features suicide, including multiple suicide attempts.

TW for: attempted suicide; mentioned/”threatened” murder; slight foot whump; implied vampirism; referenced parental abuse; referenced captivity; prescription drug abuse; drowning mention.

----

Art doesn’t know how far he runs, or for how long, but by the time he stops the air smells like salt water, and also his feet feel like they’re filled with glass.

He hasn’t been out of his room for a full month. Or his father’s house for longer than that. There’s a sharp ache in the center of each of his calves, and muscles jumping in his thighs; he hasn’t used his legs for much of anything in weeks. He hasn’t even paced back and forth within the confines of his room like he did at first. Didn’t even stay on his feet for the entirety of his last few too-long showers.

The maid who let him out is new, at least to his wing of the house. She’s been bringing his meals for three weeks at the most, and collecting the trays after he refuses to eat it with increasingly visible discomfort.

She’s the only member of staff who broke his father’s injunction that no one should speak to him; said “You must eat something” in a soft, accented voice, looking around furtively.

He wasn’t been sure his father had actually given specific orders—thought maybe they all just hated him, or had decided among themselves that he was too much trouble to bother with—but this new girl was so clearly afraid of being caught, just speaking one sentence to him, that he knew his father must have said their jobs were on the line. For a little while he wondered why his father would bother. And then he felt stupid, for still wanting the old man to need a reason for things.

The new maid’s name is Noa. It took her a week to talk to him, and two more after before she felt brave or sympathetic enough to sneak him out.

Which means she probably didn’t know that this was always what he was going to do, the second he was out. Last time he didn’t do it fast enough, and the cops found him before he had the chance; this time he isn’t taking any chances.

Noa might feel guilty when they find his body. He thought about leaving a note—to tell her thanks, and that it wasn’t her fault—but he didn’t want to risk getting her in trouble, if she somehow managed to help him without getting caught.

Anyway, she hasn’t known him very long at all. She’ll get over it before too long.

He hasn’t been to this part of the city before. In fact he’s not sure what part of the city this is; he’s been running through a thick mental fog since he first left his father’s manicured lawn. He makes himself really look, now, blinking in the dim yellow light of the streetlamps.

He’s made it to the edge of the city, near where the river that runs through the center meets the ocean. It’s hard to believe this is the same river where his mother sips martinis and watches races between indistinguishable blinding-white boats (largely captained by indistinguishable blinding-white men, though Art doesn’t have much room to talk on that score, obviously).

Art steps out onto the dock. The wood is damp and rough, ice-cold on his bare feet, but it’s solid, and not very slippery. There’s an old railing along the edge, and he leans against it, wrapping already-numb fingers around the rough metal. The river’s wider here, the city lights on the other side further away than he’s used to. This must be where it starts to open out, stops being the river and starts being the bay.

The railing’s sturdy, but only as high as his waist. It’d be easy to climb over. The water must be freezing, maybe even cold enough to kill him on its own, before he has time to drown.

But he doesn’t know what the tides are like, here. His corpse might wash right out to sea, and then what will have been the point of any of this?

Art pries one hand off the railing—it’s already stiff with cold, and it takes more effort than it should—and puts it in his pocket, wraps his stinging pins-and-needles fingers around the reassuring shape of the pill bottle.

Art closes his eyes, and breathes in. The water smells worse, here—like industrial waste, mainly, with a hint of rotting seaweed. But it doesn’t smell like too-fancy cologne, or any of his mother’s preferred cocktails.

Art figures there are worse places to die.

He’s turning his head, looking around to see if there’s any place to sit or if he should just sit on the ground and lean against the railing—and then he spins wildly on his heel, stumbling back against the railing, his heart stuttering in his chest.

There’s a man standing at the edge of the dock, under the nearest streetlight, watching him.

The man is wearing a full suit, and Art can tell immediately that it’s been professionally tailored and that it’s at least partly silk and for a moment that’s all he can see—neatly pressed trousers and shiny black shoes, with patterns on the soles that leave bruises anyone could recognize if they wanted to, if they looked at Art’s face and throat and hands for even a second—

“—to startle you,” the man is saying, in a blessedly unfamiliar voice, and Art shakes his head, hard, to force his eyes back into focus.

The man is holding his hands up in surrender and looking slightly alarmed, presumably worried that Art is about to swoon at his feet. There’s a red silk ribbon hanging untied around the collar of the man’s shirt, and Art’s father only wears plain black ties.

The adrenaline runs out of Art’s veins in a rush, and this time his knees actually do give out on him, and he slithers down against the railing until he’s sitting on the damp wood, which is very cold through the thin fabric of his jeans.

The man blinks at him. He has big, long-lashed eyes, over-bright against his light-brown skin. His hair is bleach-blonde, glowing white-gold under the streetlamp; it’s mostly slicked back, with a few curls flopping loose over sculpted black eyebrows.

He isn’t standing on the docks themselves, but his suit—now that Art can really see, it’s pretty ostentatious, satin-shiny in the yellow glow, not something his father would wear at all—looks very out of place above the dirty concrete sidewalk, between two dingy, abandoned-looking buildings.

“You’re wearing a suit,” Art says, before he knows he’s going to say anything.

The man blinks his glow-in-the-dark eyes at him. His lashes are so long they cast visible shadows on his cheeks. He looks at Art, and then down at the suit; touches his own lapel gently with black-gloved fingers, like he’s just remembering that it’s there.

Then the man looks back up at Art, and says, “It’s Boglioli,” in a surprised sort of voice, like it’s a conditioned response.

“Ugh,” Art says, with perfect sincerity.

The man laughs, his full lips parting in a startled grin, and—

There’s something wrong with his teeth.

Art is still on the ground. There’s no sound except the river, behind him, water lapping quietly against wood. Art hasn’t slept properly in days. He’s prepared to believe he imagined it, except.

Except that the smile immediately drops off the man’s face, and his gloved hand twitches up as though in an aborted attempt to reach up and cover his mouth.

Art stares.

It was only for a second. But the man’s eyeteeth were too long, surely, poked down over his bottom lip, like they barely fit in his pretty red mouth.

Art’s ears are ringing. He feels cold, and then too warm.

The man takes a half-step back, his eyes not leaving Art’s face.

Art doesn’t move. He’s been out here in the cold for—an hour. Most of him is freezing, is almost painfully cold, but suddenly there’s heat in his cheeks and his ribcage and the palm of his hands.

He’s feeling something too big to identify. It doesn’t feel like fear.

The man is watching his face very closely.

“What’s your name?” he asks, finally. His voice is low and velvet-soft.

That does sent fear up into Art’s stomach like a knife. He shakes his head once, sharply, reaching up for the railing, ready to haul himself to his feet.

The man holds his gloved hands up again, in surrender. This time when he smiles he keeps his lips firmly together.

“No, alright, my mistake,” he says, smirking. It’s much worse than the grin; more controlled, less real. Art liked the grin better.

He liked the man’s smile better with teeth.

“I just, uh,” the man says, and he gestures toward Art’s feet, folded awkwardly underneath him. “That wood’s so dirty. Your cuts’ll get infected.”

Art’s feet do hurt. He’s run half the city with no shoes, they must be cut to shit. But he hasn’t left a trail of bloody footprints, or anything. Maybe the man can see that his feet are bare, but surely not more than that, not from where he’s standing.

When he leans over, a little, to see if his foot is a horrible bloody mess and he’s just missed it somehow, Art wobbles, and takes his hand out of his pocket to steady himself.

The bottle of pills clatters out of his pocket.

Art’s heart clenches painfully in his chest, and his head swims, and the bottle rolls easily across the wooden planks in front of him. The man takes one step forward, and it taps casually into the toe of his shiny black shoe.

The man picks the bottle up, frowning down at the label.

Art stumbles forward, onto his knees. “Give that back.”

“What is it?” the man says, voice nothing but curious. He’s reading the label. Art wants to tackle him and rip it out of his hands.

“It’s mine,” he says, and now he’s almost yelling. “Give it back!”

The man takes a step back, startled. “Huh,” he says, blinking down at Art, who is now kneeling practically at his feet. Art has no idea what kind of face he’s making.

“Really,” the man says slowly, and makes a show of squinting back down at the label. “This says… Honoria Lange, is what it says.” He raises a perfectly-sculpted brow at Art. “That’s you, is it?”

Art wants to rip this guy’s head off. “Maybe it is,” he says savagely, and reaches for the man’s hand; the man laughs and dances easily out of the way. “Give me my fucking pills back—"

“Oh, relax,” the man says, smirking again. “Seriously, what are you so desperate to—” He trails off, frowning down at the bottle. “…Huh.”

The man looks down at Art, thoughtfully.

“These are—what, sleeping pills,” he says slowly, and tips his head, like a curious dog.

Art’s stomach clenches painfully.

“Hey,” the man says. “Are you—”

Art throws himself to his feet.

This isn’t as good, Art thinks, while he swings his foot onto the lowest bar of the metal railing; they might not find his body for weeks, might not find it at all, he might die for nothing, but he won’t go back, he won’t go back to his father’s—

“Hey—Don’t!” the man yells, and he grabs Art by the hood of his sweatshirt, and yanks him backwards, off the railing.

Art gasps in a painful panicked breath and kicks out at the man with his bare, bleeding feet, aiming straight for the testicles; the man moves easily out of the way, not letting go of Art’s hoodie; Art overbalances and falls backward, just catching himself my scraping his hand bloody on the concrete at the bottom of the railing.

“Shit,” the man says, reaching for Art, and Art flails at him, wants to push him away, or to scratch out his shiny glass-marble eyes, or—

The man catches Art’s wrist easily. He’s leaning over Art, now, with one arm braced beside him, and holding Art’s arm; Art’s hand, his wrist in the man’s glove fist, is very close to the man’s face.

The heel of Art’s hand is cut open; a drop of blood trails down over his pulse point, and disappears into the fabric of the man’s glove.

The man’s pupils visibly dilate. When his lips part, his fangs are even more visible than before, like they barely fit inside his mouth.

Art feels his own lips part in response. Feels his fear—he’ll stop me he’ll call the police he’ll drag me back please no please please I’ll do anything—shift, pool lower in his belly.

The man is watching Art’s face—their faces are very close together now. He looks Art in the eye and—parts his lips slightly, so there can be no mistaking what they both know Art sees. Then he wets his lips, delicately, with an almost obscenely red tongue.

“Hey,” the man says, and his voice has gone slightly hoarse.

“No,” Art says—and his voice is hoarse, too, an embarrassing croak. His face is hot; he knows it must be red, now. “I don’t want it. Whatever you’re offering, I don’t—uh—”

Art tries to pull his arm back, as hard as he can. The man’s grip doesn’t budge a single inch. Like he could—like he could snap Art’s wrist, just by tightening his fist. Art swallows, his heart fluttering in his chest. His ribcage feels too tight. And now his pants are starting to feel that way, too.

The man studies Art’s face, very seriously. “I think,” he says, and his voice is softer, almost hesitant.

“I think,” the man says, watching closely for Art’s reaction, “that I am offering to kill you.”

#suicide tw #whump #original whump #attempted suicide #suicidal whumpee #vampire caretaker #drug abuse tw #parental abuse mention #vampires #and then you kill me

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not-all-dead · 3 years

Text

angstpril day eleven: “This isn’t you.”

CW: fighting, murder ;)

fic under the cut

“What are you two doing?!” Opal shouted, blowing the huge hunks of earth they held above their heads in either direction.

“You’re sisters, why would you want to hurt each other??” She looked between them as Lin hunched over, both she and Su breathing heavily.

Lin panted and put her hands on her knees, trying to keep herself upright. Her vision blurred and before she knew it she lost consciousness, falling quickly to the ground.

When she finally opened her eyes again, it was dark outside. She’d been brought back to her room and put in bed, though she couldn’t remember any of it. She pushed herself from under the blankets, away from the hard mattress, and dragged herself to the window. She suddenly remembered everything that had happened before she’d fainted, her anger renewing itself instantly.

She growled and she gripped the windowsill, scowling out at the dimly lit garden below. She thought of Su sleeping in her room, peaceful and unsuspecting and decided there was only one thing to do. She had to finish what Su had started all those years ago.

She changed back into her tank top and cargo pants before leaving her room. The distance to Su’s house was not a long one, and she got there quickly. She’d noticed that everyone seemed to leave their doors and windows unlocked, Su included, because of the so-called “safety” of the metal domes over the city. She scoffed at the naïveté of it all but was glad that at least she didn’t have to break in.

She opened and closed the door as quietly as she could, walking down the long main hall purposefully. The air around her was still, and it seemed that not a single other person was awake. She continued walking through the dark halls until she saw a light coming from the cracks of a large door. She walked towards it, pulling part of the metal on the wall away to use for defense if somebody noticed her. As she neared the door, she could hear quiet humming from within.

She recognized it as Su right away and prayed there was no one else with her. She opened the door quickly, stepping into the room and shutting it behind her. Su’s head snapped up at the interruption, her focus tearing away from the designs she’d been working on.

“Lin?” She asked, eyebrows arching in surprise.

“You should really lock your doors at night,” Lin spat, walking towards Su’s desk.

“What are you doing here? It’s the middle of the night, you should be resting,” Su’s eyes narrowed as Lin’s hands rested heavily on the table.

Lin scowled right back at her, leaning in closer before answering.

“I came to finish what you started,” She hissed.

“Lin, what-,” Su started, pushing her chair back with the intent of standing.

Before she got the chance, Lin whipped the metal from the wall at her. She managed to dodge it, hurrying out of her seat and to the other end of the room. She took hold of the metal from her outfit and from her surroundings, bending it to fend off Lin’s attacks.

“Lin, stop!” She shouted as Lin got closer to her, stealing the metal from her and forcing her back the wall.

Lin stalked forward and grabbed Su by the collar, all but throwing her away from the wall. Su stumbled and tried to take some of the metal from Lin to defend herself, but Lin was already at her back. She felt the cold, sharp metal against her throat and panicked.

“This isn’t you,” She rasped, trying to keep her voice even.

“You don’t know me,” Lin responded coldly, pressing the blade harder against Su’s throat.

“Please,” Su breathed.

“Lin, please. This isn’t- I do know you, Lin, at least well enough to know you’d never do something like this, and-,” She let out an odd gurgling noise when Lin dragged the blade across her throat, cutting her off mid-sentence.

“That’s where you’re mistaken,” Lin growled into her ear, her arms the only thing keeping Su on her feet.

Su clutched a hand to her throat, desperately trying to contain the blood. She was terribly light headed, and it was only seconds before her vision turned black and she fell unconscious. She slumped in Lin’s arms, her full weight pulling down on her sister. Lin barely hesitated before letting go of her, letting her fall to the floor. She stood above her barely living sister, watching the pool of blood below her grow for a long moment before turning to leave. She bent the metal back onto the wall as she left, walking back the way she came. The halls remained silent and dark the entire way, and she made it out the front door unnoticed.

Once she was back in her room, she shanked out of her blood-spattered shirt and pants and into a set of metal clan pyjamas that had been set in there for her. She climbed into her bed, settling in and adjusting to make herself comfortable. She felt a great sense of relief, accompanied by an odd sort of peace, and fell asleep within minutes.

She woke up to the sun shining brightly through her window. She’d not felt this well rested since she was a child, and happily sprung out of bed to get dressed. Instead of her usual uniform, though, she put on one of the outfits Su had insisted she wear while in the city. Shortly after she was dressed and had put her hair up in its usual bun, she heard a knock on the door.

“Uh, Chief? You’ve been sleeping for sixteen hours, we just wanted to make sure you’re okay,” Mako said from the other side.

She opened the door, accidentally causing him to fall to the ground in front of her. She yawned loudly and stretched her arms out, a smile forming on her face.

“Good morning,” She said cheerily as she walked around Mako and past Korra and Bolin.

She could feel them all staring at her as she continued walking, making her way towards Su’s house. She stopped and turned back to them, giving them a questioning look.

“Are you coming?” She asked with a light laugh.

“Uh- uh, yeah,” Mako stuttered, widening his eyes at Korra and Bolin before all three of them followed her to the house.

When they got there, the place was in chaos.

“What’s going on?” Lin demanded of a panicked looking guard, feigning obliviousness.

“Someone- they- Suyin is dead,” They stuttered before running off down one of the many long hallways.

Lin stood completely still, a look of shock stuck to her face. Mako was the first one to say anything, all of them desperately confused and astonished by the news.

“We- we should find your family,” He said, taking a step forward and hesitantly resting his hand on Lin’s shoulder.

Lin nodded slowly, her eyes wide and trained at the ground. The group began to walk in silence towards the dining room, Lin not looking up from the floor until they got there.

Baatar Sr. sat in a chair with his knees pulled up to his chest, sobs shaking his shoulders. Opal and Wing were on either side of him, with Wei standing slightly back. There was not a dry eye between them. Baatar Jr. was seated slightly farther away, staring at the table in bewilderment with his head resting on his palm. Huan was on the floor in the corner looking angrily at a small piece of metal in his hand that he kept bending into new shapes, never seeming satisfied.

Opal looked up when they walked in, unintentionally meeting Lin’s eye. Lin left where she stood by Korra and her friends, making her way over to Opal. She pulled out the seat next to her and sat, reaching out to take her niece's hand.

“I’m so sorry about how I acted the other day,” She husked.

Opal looked at her with puffy red eyes and nodded slightly before getting up from her chair and crushing Lin in a hug. Lin pulled the girl into her lap, hugging her back as she sobbed into her shoulder.

It was a few days later that they held the funeral. The weather was fittingly grim, a drizzly present throughout the day. There was a ceremonial walking of Su’s coffin down a long street crowded with mourning residents of Zaofu before a more private affair was held for family and close friends alone. They brought Su’s coffin down to a field just outside the city, a few people speaking before the actual burial.

“Lin, would you…” Baatar Jr. motioned towards the coffin, one of the only others there not weeping.

His father leaned heavily on him as Lin made her way to the front of the group, not daring to watch what Lin was about to do. Once she was standing beside the coffin, she took a long look at everyone there. Her face was stoic, her hardened mask of indifference returning with extra strength. She turned so she faced the coffin, planting her feet firmly on the ground and bending a deep hole beside them. She then bent the stone-based coffin down, taking care not to rattle it around too much. She was about to bend the dirt back over it when Opal stopped her.

“We should all put some back over her,” She said quietly, hand resting lightly on Lin’s forearm.

Lin looked at the girl for a moment before nodding, splitting the hunk of earth into enough pieces for everyone. They came up one at a time, Baatar Sr. and the kids going first, and broke the soil into the hole. Lin waited until the end to drop hers, thoroughly crumbling the dirt over the top.

“Goodbye, Su,” She whispered, sliding her foot almost imperceptibly to condense the layer of dirt just above the coffin.

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heyyyharry · 3 years

Text

Chapter 14: Masquerade

(from ‘The Winter and The Crown’)

…in which there are intruders in the castle.

Word count: 3.1k

AU: queen!y/n, commander!harry

Description: Y/N and Harry set off on a new adventure to find ‘the cure’ for an ancient curse, meanwhile, the enemies are plotting to take her kingdom.

Wattpad link (Reyna as Y/N aka “Peach”)

Y/N had danced her third dance of the night with her third partner. The entire time, she'd kept searching the room for Harry. Where was he? It wasn't like him to promise that he'd be here and not show up. She blamed all the trauma she'd gone through for her being too guarded and anxious, yet she trusted her gut instinct, and tonight, it was telling her to be careful.

The crowd broke into applause at the end of another dance, and Y/N felt a tap on her shoulder.

"May I have a word with you in private?" Lance asked, eyeing Y/N's dance partner. The man took the hint and bowed goodbye to Lance and Y/N. Lance gave Y/N a mysterious grin as he gestured with his hand toward the door, letting her walk first.

"You seem anxious," he pointed out once they were alone in the corridor and the orchestra music became muffled.

"How anxious?" she asked, pulling off her mask.

He kept his mask on, holding his hands together behind his back. "Right now? Not as much as before." He offered a calming smile. "I'm sorry. Is this a bad time to talk about politics?"

"It's never a good time, but go ahead."

Lance hummed his agreement. "I didn't see Mary tonight. I thought Jo was supposed to keep an eye on her."

"She's being kept an eye on. Don't worry. Her room is being guarded," Y/N said, arms crossed. "What's wrong?"

Lance inhaled deeply, catching his breath. "She was to betray us. She was a spy for Calanthe. She told you to go to the North mountain because Calanthe wanted you to lead her there. She also wanted to find the lake. But her plan failed because the forest protected its secrets from outsiders like her."

Y/N's stomach dipped. "How long have you known this?"

"Weeks."

"And you decided to wait until now to tell me?"

"Look," Lance breathed, raking his fingers through his dark locks. "I was going to wait until after tonight because you'd gone through so much–"

"So what made you decide to tell me in the middle of my dance?"

Lance worked his jaw. For once, he was inarticulate. "This might sound stupid, but...it was my gut feeling telling me to tell you right away."

Y/N bit her lip. "So...why are you keeping this a secret? Why are you protecting the witch?"

Lance hesitated. "I don't want to hurt Jo..."

"Jo?" It took Y/N a moment to realize what he meant. Her heart dropped. "Oh, no, Jo...She was looking for someone tonight. I thought it was you."

"No," Lance chuckled, shaking his head. "Jo doesn't like me like that. Or at all."

"Everyone likes you."

"Is that so?" His eyebrow lifted in amusement. "Well, I'm very flattered, Your Majesty, but I don't think me being likeable could do much good for us. Calanthe has a plan."

"What plan?" Y/N scoffed. "Is there something else you're not telling me?"

"It's not a fact, just my speculation."

"Go ahead."

Lance rubbed his chin. "Well, I think George Wallace was murdered, but not by one of our people."

Y/N took a moment to let that sink in. "What are you implying? That it was a setup?"

Lance nodded, his eyebrows knitted. Y/N watched his grey eyes dance behind the mask as he observed his surroundings before lowering his voice. "They sent him here to kill him. He was the bait. No one would suspect Calanthe to sacrifice her most trusted advisor."

"Harry said the same thing," Y/N said and chewed on the inside of her cheek.

"What?"

Her head shot up. She blinked at Lance. "What?"

Lance cocked his head to the side. "Is everything all right between you two?"

The question wasn't sarcasm with the intention of taunting her. Lance genuinely cared about her feelings despite his own. Knowing so, she could not help but think about what he'd said the other night and earlier on the dance floor. First and last dance...

No. She was overthinking again. She wasn't allowed to have these thoughts. This political chaos was already too much to handle. There was no time for personal business.

"Nothing is all right, Lance. You know that," Y/N answered with a soft sigh.

Lance nodded, his lips pressed tightly together.

Just as the uncomfortable silence threatened to creep back in, a guard showed up, gasping for air as he bowed to Y/N and Lance. Y/N thought to herself, 'Not another dead body,' and her limbs went numb as she remembered that Harry was nowhere to be found tonight. He could be anywhere in the castle. Who knew what could have happened to him?

"Your Majesty," the guard said between laboured breaths. "There are intruders in the castle."

"Where?" asked Lance, his fingers secured around his sword-hilt.

"The west wing," the guard said. "Commander Harry saw someone."

"Where's Harry?" Y/N asked, her stomach knotted. She unconsciously reached for the sword at her side, only to be reminded that she was wearing a ball gown, and there was still a dance going on behind those doors. She was stupid and careless enough to have gathered all the important people here tonight.

"The Commander went after the intruder, Your Majesty. We suspect there are more than one."

"Fucking idiot!" cried Y/N as she picked up her skirt and ran. She heard Lance telling the guard to keep the ballroom secured and make sure no one came and left. Then he chased after her.

If that idiot Harry didn't die tonight, she would kill him with her bare hands.

Harry wanted to skip the dance. People had been whispering about him since he'd returned, so he didn't want to draw more attention to himself by dancing with the Queen herself. However, he'd promised Y/N he'd be there for her, and he never wanted to let her down. And so he deliberately took a bit longer to get ready just to show up late and blend right into the crowd.

The castle was so quiet tonight with almost everyone being in the ballroom. Harry could hear the music all the way from his chamber. He took one last look at himself in the mirror before adjusting his mask and leaving for the dance. He was accompanied by a guard, which made him quite uncomfortable. Still, he knew it was all for his safety. Everyone must be careful after the murder of George Wallace.

"Help!" a scream tore through the night, causing both Harry and the guard to whirl around. A shadow dashed out of the darkness and crashed right into him. He caught the person with both arms and was terrified to find that it was a woman covered in blood.

Mary.

"Help!" she choked, tears streaming down her scarred face. Her hands were shaking as she smeared blood all over his shirt. "They're...they're dead! They wanted to kill me!"

"Who?"

"The guards," Mary sobbed, her face as white as the moon-washed floor. "They're dead! A man killed them and...was chasing after me! He had a weapon!"

"Take her somewhere safe," Harry told the guard, pulling Mary up to her feet.

"You're not coming, Commander?" the guard asked Harry.

Harry opened his mouth to answer when all of a sudden, he spotted a tall and slim figure lurking in the shadows of the corridor. It vanished in a blink of an eye. Harry knew it headed to the courtyard for there was nowhere else to go.

"There are intruders in the castle," Harry told the guard, his heart pounding. "Send backups. Alarm the King and Queen!" And without waiting for the guard or Mary to stop him, Harry ran after whom he assumed was the murderer.

He didn't stop until he was deep in the garden. The snow was falling peacefully all around while the beating of his heart accelerated. Thousands of tiny candles dotted ledges hidden throughout the topiaries. It would have seemed magical had the fog ever lifted. Now the little lights played strangely with the mist, creating shadowy phantoms, there one moment and gone the next. Harry gripped his sword with cold and numb fingers, overwhelmed with anxiety as he scanned his eyes around.

Suddenly, he became aware of another's presence behind him and swung his sword just in time to deflect the blow. The person stumbled back. A clang of metal on metal. A whoosh. Harry let out a gasp as he felt the cold tip of the blade at his throat. Meanwhile, he was holding his sword with an outstretched hand, pointing straight at Lance's heart.

"You," Lance said, catching his breath. He seemed relieved, which confused Harry.

"You!"

"Peach!" Harry and Lance bounced away from each other as Y/N rushed up to them. She looked beautiful in her golden dress, yet she also looked angry...

"Mind explaining what happened?" she asked before Harry could open his mouth. Lance put his sword away, assessing Harry with a raised eyebrow.

"Someone killed the guards outside Mary's room," Harry said, hating the way Y/N's face grew grim. "They tried to kill her but she escaped."

Y/N groaned as she hugged her arms around her chest, gooseflesh rippling over all that bare skin. It was far too cold to be out.

"You shouldn't be here," Harry said. Y/N's eyes sharpened furiously at him. He was expecting her to snap when a broken branch alerted the three of them.

"Y/N!" cried Lance, but he didn't react fast enough. Y/N had yanked the sword out of his hand and chased after the figure. Harry could see it a bit clearer now. It looked like a man wearing a dark cloak. He exchanged horrified looks with Lance and both sprinted after Y/N and the intruder.

"Show your face!" Y/N shouted as she studied the garden in silence. From where they stood, the ballroom, shining so brightly inside, could barely be seen. The orchestra's music echoed eerily in the fog. Y/N looked half-crazed. Her words came out in smoke. "Surrender and maybe I'll spare your life."

There were footsteps padding towards them, gaining speed, closing the distance. There was more than one person.

As they closed in, Harry spun around. He drew his sword and struck at eye level. A cry of pain answered him. Y/N deflected the blow and lunged with her sword, which met with the figure's blade which gleamed in the moonlight. Beside Harry, Lance was dodging every strike. He was quick, yet unable to fight back without a weapon.

Harry heard Y/N mutter something under her breath, her eyes met his for a second, and he could see the helplessness in them. She wanted to protect Lance.

Harry took down the man charging at him with a swing of his sword before thrusting it right through the one cornering Lance. Lance looked up at him, wide-eyed, breathing out smoke. He hadn't expected Harry to help him.

Y/N's sudden cry startled both men. They turned. Like a silver snake, the last intruder's sword shot out and caught Y/N in the shoulder. She fell with a hard thud to the ground.

"Peach!"

"Y/N!"

Lance and Harry bolted towards her. The murderer took that chance to flee, disappearing into the fence maze when Harry looked up. The heavily falling snow had covered all the footsteps like a perfect accomplice. The garden returned to its peacefulness as if there hadn't been a crime committed against the Queen.

"I'm fine," Y/N said, wincing as she held her shoulder. Red blood was trickling down her skin, staining the snow, bringing back to Harry the unpleasant memories of those nights in the woods. He was reminded once again that he could lose her any moment if they weren't careful.

Lance put an arm around her as he helped her stand up. Harry tore his sleeve and wrapped the piece of fabric around her wound to temporarily stop the blood. His heart ached as he watched her bite back the pain. Blood had stained her beautiful dress. Then, Harry noticed that Lance was looking at her with the same agony in his eyes. It was like looking into a mirror. Harry and Lance both hurt the same.

"Y/N!"

"Your Majesty!"

Jo and five guards finally showed up. Jo gasped into her palms when she saw that Y/N was bleeding. "Oh, Y/N, you're hurt!"

"Took you long enough!" Lance snapped at the guards. "I would have had all of you beheaded had something bad happened to the Queen!"

The guards muttered their apologies which were silenced by Lance's raised hand.

"I don't think they wanted me dead," Y/N spoke. She sounded strangely calm for someone who'd just been stabbed. "If they did, they would've killed me already."

"They're here for the witch. They knew she betrayed them," Lance said.

"Betray?" Jo muttered.

Lance's expression shifted. Harry reckoned that Lance hadn't meant to let Jo find out this way. Harry wasn't sure he was more shocked by the news or Jo's reaction to it. He had never seen her so genuinely hurt by anyone that wasn't Y/N.

"She was a spy for Calanthe," said Y/N, seemingly too in pain to acknowledge her friend's pained expression. "Don't worry. We'll take care of that."

"You're not going to...hurt her, are you?" Jo said, her voice wavering.

Lance placed a hand on Jo's shoulder. For the first time, he was showing sympathy with a servant. "We're not. Don't worry."

Jo nodded, yet the uncertainty was etched on her face as she wrapped an arm around Y/N's waist, escorting her back inside.

Harry lit a candle beside Y/N's bed. She was lying on her back, watching him. Her shoulder had been bandaged. It didn't hurt as much as before yet she could not shake off the fear she'd felt earlier in the garden. She wished she'd seen those men's faces. She believed they were the Monks. Calanthe had either sent them here to kill the witch or to light a match that would start a war.

"I'm sorry," Harry said, sitting down on the edge of the bed, his hand placed over of hers.

"About what?" she chuckled. "Tonight wasn't your fault."

"You came to the garden to find me."

"Yes, I did it by choice." She squeezed his fingers and cracked a reassuring smile. "I can take care of myself. Don't you worry. I'm brave."

"I know," Harry sighed. "Brave people tend to get themselves in trouble."

Y/N snorted as she rolled her eyes. "Trouble follows me everywhere I go. So many people have wanted me dead. But look at me now. I'm the Queen, and I'm not losing my crown to anyone. I'm not letting them take my father's kingdom."

Harry exhaled, a smile playing on his lips. He reached out and brushed a strand of hair out of her face. "I love you."

"I love you, too," she said.

There was a knock on the door. "Y/N?"

"It's–"

"Lance," Harry said, his expression unreadable.

The door creaked open and Lance poked his head into the room, looking surprised to see Harry there. "I'll leave," Lance said.

"No, I'll leave," Harry said, smiling at Y/N. "Goodnight, my queen." Then, he kissed her hand and got up to go.

"Hey," Lance stopped him halfway through the door. "Thank you for earlier."

"No problem," Harry replied. With just that, he was gone, shutting the door on his way out.

"Glad to see my fake future wife still alive," Lance said as he made his way to the bed to sit down at Harry's previous spot.

Y/N let out a light laugh. "I'm sorry I took your sword."

Lance squinted his eyes in amusement. "Yeah, and still, you managed to get yourself hurt."

She scowled at him and punched his shoulder as a joke. He pretended to wince in pain before busting out laughing. "Sorry." Lance cleared his throat, suppressing a grin. "How's your shoulder?"

"It hurts less. Thanks for asking."

"It wasn't like you to be so careless," he said.

Y/N pursed her lips. "I was distracted."

"By?"

"I was...worried you'd get hurt," she mumbled. Even without looking at him, she could still feel his notorious smirk growing wider.

"Don't let that happen on the battlefield," he said. "I can take care of myself, with a sword, of course. But you should always remember that the enemy wants your head more than mine."

Y/N swallowed hard as Lance reached out his hand. She watched him ponder for a second before gathering enough courage to place his hand on top of hers. Just like Harry had before. Harry's touch had been natural and comfortable. As for Lance, she felt him turning into a bundle of nerves.

"You're too good for me," she said.

His eyes danced as he chuckled. "No one is too good for anyone." Then he sucked in a breath. "I hope we'll both be alive after this."

"We will," she said even though she was unsure.

"What will happen then?"

"We get married. For our kingdoms."

Lance's smile faltered. He clenched his jaw and looked away, his fingers sliding off hers. "We don't have to if Calanthe's dead," he whispered.

"Our people expect a wedding."

Lance shook his head and switched his gaze back to her. "Forget what the people want. What do you want, Y/N?"

"I can't just forget what the people want. I'm their queen."

Lance's lips slightly parted yet he said nothing more. It was hard to tell if he'd run out of arguments or simply didn't want to start.

"Let's try to stay alive and find out," he said with a thin smile. "Goodnight."

She watched him get up, looking rather weary. The complete opposite of the charming king he'd been at the dance.

"Why did you say it was our last dance?" she asked before he reached the door.

He looked over his shoulder, lips curled to the side. "It was a joke. Because you said you didn't want to dance with me, which I hope was also a joke."

"It was." She gave a small smile. "I loved dancing with you."

"Good," he said, weakly. "Rest well, Y/N."

"So do you," Y/N said.

As quietly as a shadow, Lance slipped out of the room.

#tctm series #harry styles fanfic #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles x reader #harry styles x you #harry styles x y/n #harry styles imagine #harry styles

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goldafterglow · 4 years

Text

embellished lungs

Summary: Ezra buys a pretty thing for a pretty thing.

Request: hc about what renders Ezra speechless 😶 - @lose-eels (this is not even what you asked for but fuckin here ig im sorry sgkfjdshg)

Pairing: Ezra x reader

Word Count: 2.6k+

Warnings: a big fat drabble?, very really soft, not beta read and tbh barely even normal read i read this maybe twice oops

Author’s Note: i almost put this just like under the ask but I’m not gonna sit here and act like this is a drabble bc i’m a clown. i don’t want to talk about it. and spitting this out bc I was soft for Ezra and @mrpascals made me

Gif Cred: my wife and my baby @pascalplease

masterlist | taglist modifications

He spies it in the open market while he’s stocking up on supplies.

The day is hot, the Sun bearing down on its disciples with a violent red fury, but it’s light is strong, bright. Everything is reflective, hot to the touch from boiling in the heat, and all of the creatures begin to melt together like dyed wax to form one big discernable blob, if you really squint. Ezra’s sweat escapes the barrier of his brows and leaks past his lashes, dragging across his eyes and stinging a little, blurring his vision and dripping onto his arms, but he doesn’t care. He’s far too exhilarated.

The market in itself is absolutely brilliant to him; he’s always been enthralled by this, by people and pretty things, and to be completely surrounded by both felt like something akin to sensory overload. His heart is racing at the sight of people traversing the dirt road, loitering and browsing through produce colored so vibrantly he wonders if the bright red apples and deep indigo berries have been dipped in the tinted glow of fairies that dance in the forest. And he’s utterly taken by the art and trinkets. He’s always had a little soft spot for art - a tender, exposed section of his beating flesh that is so sensitive, so delicate and so easy to provoke. And right now, he seems like he’s subject to a battering ram, pounding against his chest in the best way possible.

His eyes dart around quickly as he tries his best to take everything in. He finds himself cherishing every little interaction, every stranger whose shoulder he is forced to brush in an attempt to make his way through the market, every vendor that begs to him, calls to him to try “just one last berry sir. I’m sure your lover will be delighted by the raspberries from yesterday’s harvest.” He ended up buying a quaint six ounces just so that he could feed them to you. But that would be a treat for later.

And just like that, he is thinking of you. The prettiest, most beautiful thing. A sculpture with imperfections so perfect that he knows it must have taken eons to craft you out of gold and diamonds and the soft fluff of hummingbird feathers and butterfly wings. You are art, a walking, breathing, touchable piece that he gets to admire up close. It’s a privilege, really, to have been gifted with Kevva’s finest handiwork.

As his pupils peruse the stands, admiring his surroundings, they suddenly become frozen in place, permanently stuck on a little trinket that’s caught his attention: a necklace. The gem sitting in the center isn’t aurelac; it’s much more vibrant, much more dramatic and almost rainbow when he looks at it from different angles. The chain isn’t long, and knowing you the gem would fall right between your collarbones. He can already envision you wearing it, like a child flicking watercolors onto the Venus de Milo, but he wants to see his deep green paint draped around your shoulders. The way he sees it when you wear his clothing, when you’re adorned with bruises of his passion like stars adorn the sky, when you wear him. It’s intoxicating, seeing that he’s had any impact on your life and that you parade it around like a trophy. That you think about him without him prompting you to do so - not that he isn’t constantly in your presence. But he wants to buy it just so that he can see you wear it. Perhaps even only wear it.

He’s already thinking about how fucking gorgeous you would look in it. He is thinking about putting it on you, tugging on it ever so lightly in a way that signals to you - that is, rather than exerting any true force on you - that he wants a kiss. Perhaps pulling on it a little harder so that metal bites your skin and you can feel it, feel him digging into the soft flesh of your neck. Now he’s imagined a thousand scenarios in which he can have his way with you just by getting you to wear this piece, and he has to purchase it.

When the vendor finally hands it to him, packaged with care and placed deep into the hollow of a black velvet box, he finds that it barely fits in his pocket. He doesn’t care, though, because it’s too exquisite an accessory to be thrown in with the other supplies and it’s too precious for him to take it out of the box. He’s excited when he comes back to the pod, back home where you are.

Home is you.

He assumes you must’ve heard him come in, the pod door loud and rambunctious as he dumps the bags into the center of the pod space and then crawls in himself - it was hard enough with two arms, nonetheless one. He lets out a sight as if to let the excitement drain out his vessels and into the atmosphere of the cockpit, mingling with the peace and solitude to create a soft buzz that zings through his ears and vibrates his eyes. The exhilaration from being the market was utterly electric, but he is home now. He can crawl into you, let you absorb into him, and he likes how you can make his heart race a million miles and yet also pacify him, a cold compress to his aching soul to help reduce inflammation. He wants to maintain that semblance of the intricate pastel harmony, adorned in lilac and peach hues. So he stands in the middle of the cockpit and closes his eyes, lets himself sway to the rhythm of his lungs for a moment. Just a fraction of solitude, and he doesn’t mind because ever since he met you he has never felt lonely, not even when he’s alone. He always feels you with him.

Once his head has cleared, he palms at his pocket where the little black box still resides, as if to check that he hadn’t dreamt up some fantasy ornament that would look so perfect on you. It’s still there; of course it is, and he feels foolish for thinking that the pretty butterflies would have fluttered it out and flown it away, but sometimes he wonders if the same thing will ever happen to you. If one morning he will wake up and you will have migrated with the birdies, off to seek true warmth because you’re not real, because nothing so good as you could ever be caged by him.

He steps into your shared bedroom and spies you with your back to the entrance. The room is cool, but you’ve elected to wear his shirt, even foregoing pants. His favorite outfit of yours, and he knows you know it. You’re wearing headphones, something he’d picked up for you on your last supply run, and he can tell you’re playing one of those instrumental stations you so adore listening to when you were working. A mutely-colored map is stretched out onto the desk, and he’s not even sure you can focus the music because your mind is moving faster than your poor hand can keep up as you mark up a new dig site. He almost feels bad for interrupting you while you’re in such deep concentration, your forehead smashed into wrinkles without even noticing, but Ezra cannot resist his greed for your attention. Ever so gently, he places his hand on your shoulder from behind so as not to startle you.

You almost immediately register the delicate touch, turning the radio off and pulling your headphones off your ears so you can give this kind artist your undivided attention - Kevva herself knows he's earned it. You turn your head to face him, craning your neck back so you can take his softly smiling depiction like pressing a plush blanket into your face.

“Hey, pretty boy,” you coo, letting your pen fall tumultuously from your hand. The sound of it clanging against the table and then rolling around to a stop fills the room, but you can’t hear it; Ezra is talking now.

“Hey, sweet stardust,” he greets back, voice orange and warm like the heat that simmers under the stars during the summer at midnight.

Comfortable.

“Hey” was never his preferred salutation, and he’d tried to omit it from his vocabulary for so long, but he started to notice that he likes it when you say to him. Like a little pearl of your voice, so sweet like honey with the honeycomb still mixed in, a little grainy and so cheeky.

“Did you get everything we need?” you ask, beginning to stand to that you can press a hand to his chest, grounding him to the pod and to your sanctuary soul. Ezra grins wide, unable to hide his excitement at your words.

“I in fact exceeded our needs, sweet rose bud,” he says with a pride that fills up your chest and makes you want to hold him tight because you love when he gets giddy like this, with the childlike enthusiasm of showing your parents the shitty drawing you made or your ugly macaroni art. Ezra is light, his tone airy. “I happened to spot a gem that reminded me of your vision and I couldn’t resist the urge to get it.”

You brow furrows a little, not out of confusion but out of curiosity. Ezra’s taste has always inspired you, and you knew his never ending quest for art is always in an attempt to find beauty in everything. You don’t even have to look at it to know that it will be stunning because his stamp of “pretty” approval is your gold standard.

He pulls the box out and opens it facing you so that you can get a good look, really admire it, and you are already taken by the shimmering pendant.

“Oh Ezra, it's - it’s utterly magnificent,” you gush, and he can spot that little glimmer in your eyes that you get when you’re looking at something that you’re enamored with; they way you look when you’re gazing at him. You raise your chin to look at him, his cheeks rosy with delight and sweet eyes crinkled at the corners. “Put it on me.”

It’s not so much of a demand as it is a gentle instruction; you know he wants to, know he’s been thinking about it since he bought it, and you want to be open to him. You want to invite him into your heart, inside of the flower garden of your chest, with open arms because he deserves to feel wanted.

You help him pull the chain out of the bottom of the box, keeping one end in your right hand and letting him take the clasp in his left. He wills himself to move slowly, to savor every little stimulation you send through his skin as he steps behind you. His fingers press against your clavicle, tracing along the bone before traveling up over the valley of your shoulder, tips of his hands brushing against your throat. He is feeling you, mapping out your body because he’ll never get to see an angel in his life but he’s certain you must be the spitting image.

You can feel his breath against your skin, hot and intoxicating as a small film of dampness coats your exposed back and neck. Your right hand rests at the nape of your neck, waiting expectantly, but you don’t rush him. He takes his sweet, sugary time, because the surface of your skin feels like he’s running his fingers through a field of silicone needles, firm but harmless as they stimulate a sensation he never knew he could feel before he touched you for the first time. You’re addictive, the best high he’s ever gotten, and he almost lets his hand lose all abandon and travel so carefully down the front of your body, palming your breast along the way and pressing right into your diaphragm before he keeps going down, down, down…

Almost.

But he will save it for a later time, especially since he’d been fantasizing about you wearing the necklace like a carefully chiseled bust is adorned with sashes. So finally, after what feels like hours of roaming and teasing, you feel that calloused, worn sensation of your lover’s fingers seeking solace against yours. You pin your breath to your lungs, not daring to let it go as you wait for the heavy release of his hand indicating that the necklace is secure. But even once you feel it, even as you let your right hand fall down at your side, Ezra does not take his hand off of you. You don’t want him to.

Slowly, so that he never has to cease his touch, you turn to face him. You’re still looking down at the pendant, in awe of how the gem rests so perfectly between your collarbones. You can’t see Ezra’s adoring gaze, his completely awestruck fixation on how ethereal you are to him. Like you’re emitting a golden glow, too hot to touch and yet begging, inviting his fingers to feel and press and hold.

Celestial.

He feels his emotions expand in his stomach, diaphragm threatening to spasm. His hand trails up to your chin, palming your jaw as he tenderly lifts your line of sight so that he can see your pretty eyes.

“You’re divine,” he mumbles to you, not wanting to disrupt the tight silence, so tense he’s afraid of speaking too loud lest it break and snap against his cheek leaving an angry raised brand.

Overwhelmed with appreciation, you balance your hands on his shoulders and press a gentle kiss to his cheek, letting it linger so you can savor the honeysuckle dew on his skin. “I love it,” you whisper with a grin.

Ezra giggles.

When you pull back to face him proper, his face is utterly red. His smile reaches the lobes of his ears, bashful and boyish like his belly has just been tickled by the sweetest of baby chicks, and he can barely get a word out. He can’t speak. His mind is in overdrive, completely inundated with a blistering adoration for you and your approval because you said you loved it. His gift is not a splash of children’s watercolors; it is a clean swipe of gold running along your jaw, accenting your beauty and emphasizing just how exquisite you are to him.

“Yeah?” he managed, a soft giggle still passing his lips like the first cries of a baby deer, the first flutters of a newly hatched butterfly.

Adorable.

You can’t resist the urge to giggle back, placing a hand at the nape of his neck and pulling him in for a true kiss on his glittery lips. It only lasts seconds, however, because Ezra can’t stop smiling and you can’t stop giggling, so you both settle for the blissful solitude of pressing your foreheads against one another, breathing in each other's air and taking up the same space.

“It’s gorgeous, Ezra. Thank you,” you whisper lightly so that the wisps of air tickle his upper lip, and suddenly he is so inclined as to press his left arm into the small of your back so that you’re so much closer and kiss you the way you deserve; a dynamic series of long, deep, searing kisses that send you to the clouds and drop you into an endless pit of lavish fluff at the same time. You don’t know how he does this, makes you feel like you don’t exist and that there isn’t anything in the world but you and him, and you often wonder if it’s because Ezra is within you, or that your broken parts and his broken parts make some hauntingly majestic sculpture of its own; something better than the fucking Venus de Milo or Athena or Great Sphinx because it should be something so hideous and yet it feels to utterly priceless to you.

It’s precious.

ppl that asked to be tagged: @gustavos @catfishingmorales @keeper0fthestars @1zashreena1 @blancatobarxoxo @honeyedspace @chaotic-noceur @opheliaelysia @adikaofmandalore @din-damn-djarin @mrsparknuts @girlwithanewplan @mrschiltoncat @cryptkeepersoul @buckstaposition @the-feckless-wonder @cocoatales @agentpike @cryptkeepersoul

ppl that did not ask no ma’am no sir: @ergotautology @dindjarindiaries @pascalplease

again, you can join/leave my taglist here :)

#iris writes #ezra #ezra prospect x reader #ezra (prospect) x reader #pedro pascal #pedro pascal x reader #ezra x you #ezra prospect x you #ezra x reader #pedro pascal x you #shgkdjfhgd #this one was #huh #idk how i feel abt this lol #hope you beautiful bitches like it though :)

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jumbojamba47 · 4 years

Text

Guest Room

A/N: This is my very first fanfic and I really don't know what possessed me to write it. I was listening to this song https://open.spotify.com/track/4RzHA75rhs3mXnoI4aJSMt?si=sSeaV0zAQgGuteRzEOiZJw and the idea just wouldn’t leave me alone and well... desperate times, desperate measures. Taking things into my own hands and all that jazz. I highly recommend giving the song a listen while reading. I hurt my own feelings writing this. I wrote this from a female perspective but it can be read as gender neutral. (image not mine)

Pairings: Natasha Romanoff x Reader, Slight Wanda Maximoff x Reader, Stucky

Warnings:18+, Angst, NSFW-ish, Alcohol Consumption, Swearing, Unedited

Word Count: 3680

A sharp gasp fills the air as heated skin meets cold tile. Slender fingers curl and uncurl; tugging at your scalp from above. Your name reverently whispered through kiss-swollen lips as if in prayer. Muffled grunts and moans escape from clenched teeth as though afraid that any louder sound might halt your ministrations. Rivulets of water, long-since gone cold, rush down your bodies, pooling where you knelt in worship of the red-headed angel in front of you. Despite the ache in your limbs and your own needs screaming for attention, you remained steadfast in your determination to push Natasha over the edge as many times as you were able. You knew, these private moments of intimacy were the closest you could ever get to keeping the elusive beauty in your arms tethered to you.

It all started with a mission in Bogotá. The two of you had completed the objective but had to wait for extraction overnight in a safehouse with one master room and a smaller guestroom.

“You can go ahead and have the bigger room (y/n/n). Odin knows you did most of the heavy lifting this time around,” she said with a chuckle as she stepped into the guest room.

“There’s a big enough bed, you could always join me Romanoff,” you joked with a wink.

Later that night you were unwinding in bed when you heard a knock on your door.

“Coming!” You yelled, pulling the door open.

“Need someth-” your eyes widened as you felt soft lips meld against your own.

She pulled away.

“What are you doing?” You asked, bewildered.

“Taking you up on your offer,” she pushes you towards the bed with a cheeky grin.

That was 6 months ago. Since then, you felt a subtle shift in your relationship with Natasha. Whilst around the others her interactions with you drifted towards a platonic aloofness that, while not cold, alluded to nothing of the times you found yourself unceremoniously shoved into a supply closet or pressed into a locked conference room door; always faced with an eager red-head ready to pick up where you last left off. Each time, your hidden trysts end just as quickly as they begin with Natasha immediately straightening her appearance and slipping out the door as soon as she made sure the coast was clear. Each time, you felt your heart crack a little more as you felt the phantom weight of her lithe body in your arms as you stood alone watching her quick movements.

Now you find yourself kneeling on the floor of the assassin’s shower after she dragged you in following a heavy morning training session. Your hands grip the back of toned thighs as the burning in Natasha’s core reaches its crescendo.

Through the open door leading into her bedroom, you hear F.R.I.D.A.Y.’s voice ring out, “Mr. Stark is requesting your presence to go over tonight’s details in 30 minutes, Ms. Romanoff.”

Breathless, chest heaving, she responds, “I’ll be there.”

Rising from the floor, your arms circle around her to reach for the removable showerhead while steadily supporting the still shuddering woman. You gently maneuver the water to rinse away the last of the soap and lingering fluids from both your bodies. It was only in these quiet moments after a rendezvous in a more private setting that Natasha allowed you to indulge in your more tender proclivities without protest as she settles down from her high. You shut the water off before swiftly stepping out and wrapping a towel around your body. You grab a secondary towel and take more care in drying off Natasha’s body, pressing into her skin ensuring you gently knead her sore muscles with firm hands as you go. Once satisfied, you wrap her body snugly, bring your arms around her back and beneath her legs and carry her into her room, lightly setting her on the edge of her bed before moving to her closet. Turning your head slightly to ask what she’d like to wear, you think you see a flicker of something soft in her eyes, but, just as quickly, it’s gone only to be replaced by a teasing smirk as her eyes trail up and down your towel-clad form.

“Keep treating me like this and I might just have to make you mine,” she husks out.

“I wish you would…,” you mumble under your breath. But the assassin catches it and lets out a sigh. She stands and smoothly pads closer to you laying a hand on your shoulder.

“You know I can’t.”

“I really don’t.”

She steps away from you. Her hand drops to her side as she moves to rummage in her closet. You move to grab your own day clothes from your discarded gym bag. Dropping the towel to pull on a matching set of black lace undergarments, she turns to you. And fuck, it’s not fair of her to stand there underdressed as she is when you want to have a serious conversation with her.

“This?” her finger points between you and her, “is just casual sex. We’re scratching an itch and it can’t be more than that.”

“But why not?” you ask as your pull on your shirt.

“Why are you so afraid to give us a try?”

She slams her drawer shut. “I’m not afraid of anything!” she growls.

“You? Me? We’re nothing. There is nothing to try. You’re a good fuck (y/l/n) but that’s all this can be. If you’re not satisfied with that then tough shit, I’m sorry.”

Jaw clenched; you look her in the eyes.

“Yeah, I’m sorry too,” you grit out.

You grip your bag tightly and exit the room without looking back. Carelessly, you toss your bag into your room down the hall without breaking your stride. Pausing at the end of the hallway, “Shit,” you exhale under your breath, running a hand down your face.

You make your way into the common room only to find Steve and Bucky staring at the large flat screen in confusion, a cartoon depiction of a sea sponge competing with a starfish, seemingly attempting to win the affections of his grandmother? Or was that an anthropomorphic cookie? With a heavy sigh you plop yourself down on the couch between them, kicking your legs up onto Steve’s lap and laying your head in Bucky’s. Cool metal fingertips softly run along your temples in a soothing massage as both men turn to you in mildly concerned curiosity.

Upon release from Shuri’s custody, Bucky found himself immediately accosted by you and your self-appointment as the one in charge of his rehabilitation into polite society. Refusing to leave his side outside of mandatory missions, Steve, by default, wound up lumped into your “educational excursions” and “lessons in everything a modern person of refined taste-no-fuck-you-Tony-your-opinion-doesn’t-count-you-raised-yourself-on-a-steady-diet-of-debauchery-and-sin would enjoy”. The prolonged exposure to your generally sunny disposition led to both men silently agreeing to adopt you under their wing; and so, your Brooklyn Boys became fiercely protective over you, often drawing comparisons of co-parenting mother hens hovering over their tiny chick from your amused teammates.

“Why the sigh, malen’kiy d’yavol?” grunts Bucky.

You stare blankly at the ceiling as Steve gently rubs circles around your ankle with his thumb. Turning your head to bury your face into the ex-soldier’s warm stomach, a muffled “Am I unlovable?” leaves your mouth in a broken whisper.

Your quiet words are picked up by their enhanced hearing and they share quick perturbed glances. Bucky moves his arm under you, pulling you into his lap, drawing you close, ensuring your head is tucked securely into his neck just below his chin. Steve moves with him so he can maintain a comforting hold on your legs over his.

“Anyone would be lucky to have you doll. If anyone is worthy of love it’s you,” Steve tells you with confidence.

“I’m gonna kill Romanoff,” you hear Bucky grumble under his breath to Steve, thinking you couldn’t hear him.

Your fingers clench around the pocket of Bucky’s sweater. Your boys knew. Of course they did. You couldn’t hide your affection for the Black Widow from them if you tried. While the others might be able to write off your attention to the stunning Venus as simple admiration for a fellow teammate, they knew just how deeply your true feelings ran.

“Then why doesn’t she want me?” Tears gather at the corners of your eyes, but you refuse to let them fall.

Steve exhales slowly and looks back to the screen in front of him.

“No one really knows what’s going on in that head of hers, but your happiness is our priority right now. You deserve the world and if she can’t see that then that’s her loss,” he nudges his boyfriend.

Arms tightening around you, Bucky nods his head in agreement.

“The old man is right. How about the three of us go take your mind off things?” Slowly standing, he pulls you up to your feet.

“You can help me find Steve an outfit for tonight. I’m sure with a little convincing, we can get the Star-spangled Man with a Plan to wear a patriotic tie the whole night.” He winks at you as you let out a small snort.

“Go ahead. Laugh it up. One of these days you’re going to need to know something about war bonds and we’ll see who’s laughing then,” he retorts with a roll of his eyes.

xxxx

Glancing at your reflection in the mirror, you adjusted the sleeveless button-up with detached cuffs, leaving enough buttons undone to reveal a plunging neckline, before tucking it into your high-waisted form-fitting black pants. In a bid to pull yourself out of your funk, you decided to go all out for tonight’s festivities. You slip on a pair of black shoes, give your outfit one final check, nodding to yourself, and make your way out the door.

Tonight, Tony saw fit to throw a good luck party for your first long-term recon mission with you leading your own team before you left the next morning. As you made your way to the large gathering you steeled yourself for the impending emotions that would inevitably hit you as soon as you saw the face that had been plaguing your dreams nearly every night since that fateful mission.

“Eyes up, (y/l/n). You’re made of stronger stuff than this. If she doesn’t want you then don’t waste your time. You’re worth more than this,” you say to yourself as you stride towards the double doors.

You straighten your shoulders, draw yourself up to your full height, and confidently step into the gathering.

“There she is! The hero of the hour! Give it up for our very own (y/hero/n).” Tony struts towards you; your favorite drink already outstretched in his hand.

He claps you in the back and slings an arm over your shoulders leading you towards the crowd as you hear cheers from the party goers in attendance.

“Soak it up buttercup. All this is for you. Feels good doesn’t it?”

Your eyes drift to the side where you see Natasha in a black cocktail dress flirting with another attendee, her eyes glance at you before turning her attention back to her companion. You swallow the sharp sting of pain threatening to rise and mentally give yourself a shake.

“You’ve really outdone yourself this time Tony, let’s party!” you exclaim with more enthusiasm than you can bring yourself to feel.

He gives you his biggest grin, “Now that’s what I like to hear!”

He steers you through the crowd, you both pause to greet various members of the party as you recognize your friends and coworkers before leading you to Steve and Bucky who are seated on a pair of loungers across from Wanda and Rhodey.

“Hey Mama Bear, Papa Bear, here’s little Baby Bear. Make sure you keep an eye on them. I saw more than a few vultures in the crowd who looked ready to steal them away at a moment’s notice.” He sauntered away with a wink.

“Looking good dollface,” Steve grins at you.

Bucky and Rhodey are quick to agree. Across the way you see Wanda raking her eyes up and down your body with hooded lids. Making eye contact, you wink, she blushes at being caught before sending you a shy smile.

As the night goes on and drinks are consumed, you continue to laugh with your friends. You’ve moved to the opposite couch next to Wanda as Rhodey takes up the space in the middle of your group to reenact the night Tony, black out drunk, stumbled into the RA’s room instead of their shared dorm back in college.

Unable to hold yourselves up from laughing so hard, you and Wanda lean into each other for support.

Suddenly the main light dim and colorful strobe lights fill the room. You feel a heavy bass begin the thump through your chest and a drunken Wanda yells, “I LOVE THIS SONG!” She leans into your side and whispers “come dance with me,” into your ear.

Grinning widely, you nod your head and let yourself be pulled up and led to the dance floor amid cheers and wolf whistles from your friends. Immediately spinning around, Wanda presses her backside against your front, slowly dragging her hands up and into your hair. You lean forward, your hands finding a comfortable grip on her hips, pulling her closer, guiding her movements.

Across the room, Natasha watches you grind together, her jaw clenches. She throws back another shot. Behind the bar, Clint shifts his eyes from her angry form to you.

“You know, if you really like them that much you might want to head over there and stake your claim.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Tasha. I’d like to think I know you better than most.”

She gives him a quirk of an eyebrow and her best side-eye.

“Okay so I may have been crawling through the vents when I saw you all but crawling up their body like it’s a ladder in Conference Room A,” he huffs out with a roll of his eyes.

She stiffens.

“That doesn’t mean anything.”

“I think it does. Now, I don’t know why you’re trying to pretend like I don’t catch you staring at them whenever you think no one else is looking. But are you going to go over there and get what’s yours or are you just going to sit here and watch them fall into the arms of someone else?”

“They’re not my anything,” she mumbles into her glass, “They’re a big kid. They can decide to screw whoever They want.”

Clint shakes his head but says nothing more. They both watch as Wanda turns in your arms, wrapping her own around your neck, slotting her leg between yours, drawing even closer. Growing bold, she begins to press kisses along your neck leading up to your ear. You tilt your head back giving her further access as you continue to move to the rhythm.

“You know, she’s assigned to go on that mission with (y/n). With an undetermined timeline, who knows how long she’ll have to make (y/n) her-”

With a loud clink, Natasha throws back her last shot and slams it down on the countertop. Without giving Clint a chance to finish his sentence, Natasha finds herself pushing through the crowd towards you and Wanda. She’s a woman on a mission as she wraps her hand around your arm pulling you from Wanda’s grasp and without looking back, she drags you towards her room. She ignores your protests as she kicks her door open before pushing you against the wall and pressing her lips to yours in a heated kiss.

Stunned, your lips move against hers before your alcohol addled brain catches up to what’s happening. Your hands find her shoulders as you gently push her away and make space between the two of you. Confusion clouds your features as she hungrily stares at you while hastily slipping down the straps of her dress.

“Nat? What the fuck?”

“Shut up,” she growls, before attacking your lips again.

“No,” comes out of your mouth in a muffled groan. You push her away harder this time.

“What the hell are you doing?” You stare at her incredulously.

“I’m trying to have a little fun before you take off. What? Are you waiting for a formal invitation?”

You scoff in disbelief. “No. No no no. I’m not doing this with you Natasha.”

“Doing what?” She stares at you with furrowed brows.

“This! This fucked up charade of you claiming you don’t have any feelings for me!”

“I don’t! We’re just friends who like to have a little fun sometimes, (y/n/n).”

“Are you fucking kidding me? Do you think I’m stupid or are you just blind?! Friends don’t look at each other the way I look at you! Friends don’t get jealous when they see their “friend” with someone else then proceed to drag them away to stake their claim!” You’re beyond angry. Sick of feeling like a yoyo constantly tugged up and down and thrown away in boredom.

“Well what do you want me to say?”

“TELL ME I MEAN SOMETHING TO YOU! TELL ME THAT EVERY MINUTE I SPEND PRAYING TO ANYONE WHO’LL HEAR ME FOR EVEN AN IOTA OF YOUR AFFECTION ISN’T A WASTE OF BREATH!” Tears are streaming down your face. You bite back a sob as you draw your arms around yourself in a protective hold.

“Tell me you feel the same way I do,” you whisper as your voice cracks.

Tears in her own eyes, “I can’t,” Natasha exhales without making eye contact.

Slowly, you nod.

“Okay.”

Your eyes trace over her face one last time.

You turn and as she hears your footsteps head towards the door, her head snaps up.

“Where are you going?” She rushes out with hesitation coating her voice.

“I’m leaving.”

She reaches out a hand, but you step away.

Undeterred, “No, stay we can still talk things out as friends.” She implores.

Coldly, you make eye contact.

“You made it perfectly clear this morning, Natasha. We’re nothing.”

She chokes on a whimper.

With a stiff nod you exit her room and with a slam of her door, you’re gone.

Unbeknownst to you, Natasha drops to her knees.

xxxx

You head down the hall angrily wiping the tears away from your eyes. You refuse to spare any more of your heart for someone who clearly couldn’t care less whether or not it breaks.

Trying to hold on to Natasha feels like attempting to cup smoke in your bare hands. A fruitless endeavor. You were never one to bet on a losing game.

You swing your door open only to be met with Steve and Bucky grinning and ready to help you pack for your mission and rib on you about your impending time with Wanda.

Their smiles immediately drop when they take in your tear-stained face. Both men rush to your side and draw you into their arms, holding you between them. Your boys could feel their hearts shatter as they listened to your broken stops. If the sound of your cries could hurt them this much, they couldn’t fathom how you yourself were feeling.

“We’re here, Kroshka, what do you need?”

You whimpered and buried yourself further into their hold.

“That’s enough,” you sniffled.

After a moment, you pulled away drawing yourself together.

“I’m done with her,” you state.

They both nod.

“When you’re back, we’ll make sure you never have to be alone with her again,” Steve asserts with a nod of finality.

You send them both a grateful look as they begin to help you gather everything you’ll need to last at least 2 months.

xxxx

It’s early morning when Clint finds Natasha in the gym Sweat drips down from her hairline as she takes out every emotion she refuses to acknowledge on the innocent training dummy.

“What are you doing here? I thought you’d be in the hangar sending off your new boo with a kiss?”

“Not my anything,” she grunts, punctuated with a roundhouse kick to the dummy’s jugular.

“You literally pulled a scene from a rom-com out of your ass, dragging (y/l/n) away from their own party AND your rival in love, and they’re STILL not yours?” He levels her with his most disapproving, disappointed dad stare.

“Fuck off Clint, I’m not in the mood.”

“Well a little birdy told me that Wanda is extra excited for this chance to ask (y/n) on a proper date after they’re back”

“Not my problem. If they want to open their legs to the first person that offers, let them.”

“Wow. Harsh. What happened?”

She delivered a sharp jab to the dummy’s solar plexus.

“They said we’re nothing.”

“That couldn’t have come from nowhere.”

She pauses her movements and looks away.

“I told them we’re nothing.”

“Nat…”

“They deserve better, Clint,” her voice wobbles.

“You deserve happiness too Tasha. You deserve them.” He pulls her into a tight hug.

Her eyes clench shut attempting to keep her tears at bay.

“I fucked up… didn’t I?”

“Yeah… you really did,” he looks up at the ceiling and sighs.

“Quinjet leaves in 5. If you hurry you should still be able to catch them.

She immediately takes off and he watches the door swing shut behind her.

“Go get ‘em, kid. We’re rooting for ya.”

xxxx

Almost running past the hangar doors, Natasha skids to a stop and pushes her way into the room.

She ignores the technicians yelling for her to clear the runway as she breaks into a sprint towards where she hears the sound of supplies being loaded onto a quinjet.

With an energy boost fueled by a fear she never knew she could feel, she speeds around the corner, drawing in a breath ready to scream your name.

Only to come to a stop.

She’s too late.

The jet pushes off the ground for takeoff.

She falls to her knees.

A broken whimper escapes her lips.

#natasha romanoff x reader #natasha x reader #natasha romanoff imagine #black widow x reader #black widow imagine #nr angst

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