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baldval · 1 month

Note

Hiii! How are ya? can I request Valentino x reader who works for vox? But not only do they work for him they have created a anime and game for it under him? So like they’re a well known manga artist type ting? So yeah they’re not a nobody basically

if not that’s fine! Have a good day/night dear :)

ART DECO PART 1!₊˚⊹♡

characters: valentino x gn!reader

wc: 1.6k

warnings: curse words, mentions of sex, making out, suggestive content.

a/n: i might do a part 2 if you guys like this!!

series masterlist!

You're bored.

To the exterior eye, working for THE Vox may be a dream. Cash, cars, designer clothes, big fancy functions filled with important hell-people and overlords. It sounds perfect.

It isn't. Between stupid rivalries, betrayals, and VERY dramatic bosses, being one of the top content producers for Vox is smothering work. But you'd rather have that than being nothing. At the very least, being so close to the Vees grants you protection.

This evening, you discover yourself at yet another 'emergency' call from Vox. Something something about losing views and how this most be the radio demon's fault. It's the 4th time this week.

You arrived at Vox's place, yet you can't really see him anywhere.

"Umm... Velvette" the girl looks up at you from the couch, unbothered.

"Watcha need sweetheart?" she moves her eyes back to her phone.

"Do you know where Vox is? He kinda called me on emergency basis? I'm not really sure what he need though."

"I have no idea where that shithead's been. He didn't even go to the last meeting with the overlords." She rolls her eyes. "He had to send me."

"Oh alright so no idea." You feel frustrated.

"You could of course ask Val"

"Did anyone say my name?" You smell him before he enters your eyeline. He smells like vanilla and sandalwood. He smells like vanilla and sandalwood. He smells expensive. Not the faux, gawdy expensive like most men within Vox's circle, but truly extravagant.

"So dramatic." Velvette mumbles, eyes still on the screen.

You feel him before you turn around. He’s warm, and broad, and the crisp white material of his dress shirt is pressing into you. You gasp quietly at his boldness, praying that Velvette doesn't notice how close you are to him.

Valentino.

Vox's second in charge. Both an overlord and the owner of the largest movie studio. One of the greatest assholes in Hell.

The man you’re hopelessly in love with.

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

You truly hadn't meant for this to get this far.

Initially, it was sex. Brilliant, mid blowing, earth shattering sex.

Until it wasn't.

Now, it's late night phone calls and clandestine meetings and holding hands and apartment hunting and kisses on the forehead.

Now, it's genuine.

Vox would murder you if he found out.

You'd be shunned. Everything you'd worked for. Everything you'd created. Suddenly you don't exist. It's all Vox's.

If there was one thing you liked about your deal with Vox was the fact that he allowed your things to be yours.

People knew what you had created and they knew it was created by you.

You didn't want to lose that.

Essentially, it'd be worse than hell, which you're already in. So why do you keep finding yourself considering it?

You’ve never been loved like this. So total, so complete, so all consuming. So unconditional.

And it's true that Valentino has nothing to lose. If Vox finds out, he won't be affected at all.

But he keeps it a secret.

And you're pretty sure you know why.

You wake up to kiss him all over his face. You dance within the kitchen, as he spins you around in your socks. You see how he stares at you when in a meeting, analysing your face.

You ran into love headfirst, impulsively. Would you have slept with Valentino that night, well over a year ago, if you'd have known this is how it'd turn out? You're not sure. But all you know is that, right now, the risk is more than worth it.

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

"You with me, sweetheart?" he mumbles into your ear, warm breath raising the hairs on your neck.

"Yeah, Val," you murmur back, trying to keep a neutral expression on your face. "I'm here."

"Where did you go, huh?"

His fingers travel down your neck, drawing little figures on your back.

"Just daydreaming," you answer.

"About what?" he asks teasingly, caressing your skin in delicate movements. Back, forth. Back, forth. He's making it difficult to concentrate.

“You,” you whisper discreetly. He you loud and clear. “Always you.”

He needs to kiss you. God, he needs to kiss you. He needs to grab your face and smash his lips to yours, consequences be damned. He wants to pick you up and twirl you around and scream "look at the woman I love!"

Instead, his fingers tighten around your waist. He looks around carefully before leaning in and pressing a gentle kiss to the spot just below your ear. Then, he moves to stand in front of you. To anyone else, it looks like two colleagues having a conversation.

"You look so fuckin' wonderful in that dress," he tells you, his voice bound with sincerity and admiration. His eyes are raking up and down your frame. The heat of his gaze making you warm.

"You don’t look so bad yourself," you tease. That’s an understatement. His suit fits him like a glove, perfectly tailored to all of his curves. It’s all crisp edges and careful lines. He’s wearing the cufflinks you got him for his birthday, the ones engraved with the both of your initials. The letters are small, tucked away on the underside. No one knows they’re there – your little secret.

Valentino winks at you as you stand up, going to take a step forward, but a hand on your arm stops you.

"Vox was aking where you were. The meeting already started, come on." Vox's assistant acompanies you towards Vox's office.

As you walk through the lobby you whisper to Velvette.

"No idea he was in his office, huh?" perhaps you were trying your luck, but in all honesty, Vox had pretty much as much respect for Velvette as he had for you.

"Do you think I care where that asshole is? I'm not his nanny." She talks back, louder, so that you can hear her as you enter the door.

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

There's a pull between you and Val. It's like a magnetic force, dragging you together no matter where you are , or what you're doing. You're feeling it within the dull board gatherings. You feel it in the dull 'Vees Team' gatherings. You feel it at the functions he’s reluctantly invited to by Vox. You feel it now, as you try not fall asleep at Vox's words of how you all should double the work and double the content. He says that as if animating was that easy.

You allow your mind to drift away, dreaming of what awaits you later tonight. You can picture it perfectly. You and Val, curled up in bed, his penthouse bedroom illuminated by candlelight. Glasses of wine discarded on the night stand, sheets thrown across the mattress, legs tangled together. Skin pressed to skin, warmth seeping into your bones. Gentle melodies filling the room, the man underneath you humming softly into your ear. If this is hell, you’ll think. then it might just be better than heaven.

The second you get out of the meeting, you feel his eyes on you. Heat prickles over your skin, goosebumps rising. It's kinda like a 6th sense, this quiet communication between you. You capture his gaze and wink, and you swear you see him blush slightly. He runs his tongue over his bottom lip, and gestures in the direction of the door. You get the hint, and follow him, trailingly behind subtly.

You reach the corridor and look around, but Valentino is nowhere to be seen. Suddenly, you feel a warm grip grab your hips, pressing you into the wall.

"Been holding up to urge my hands on you all night," he mumbles into your ear.

He's trailing his fingers up and down your sides. You can feel him, hot and difficult behind you, groaning as he bites at your throat. He kisses the hinge of your jaw, and after that your cheek. It's forbidden and it's provocative and it's so tender it makes your knees wobble.

"Come to my room," he begs. "Vox is so distracted with that Radio Demon that he won't realise."

The offer is tempting. So, so tempting. But there's currently so many people in the Vees' house. Any of them could see you enter the same room… suspicions arise. As easy as it would be to just say fuck it and tell everyone, your survival instinct tells you it wouldn't be the best idea. You want to stay in this little bubble of warmth and love and trust a little longer.

You want to stay happy a little longer.

“We can’t,” you whine. “Someone might notice.”

"I don’t give a fuck," he replies.

"Of course you don't."

"You shouldn’t either."

You want to disagree, but the way he’s moved his hand to sit at your throat while pressing himself into you is making it hard to think.

"Live a little, baby," he teases, nipping at your ear.

"Fine! Fuck, fine. Let’s go before I change my mind."

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Your eyes blink open, sunlight streaming through the sheer window ornaments. You're resting comfortably on Val's chest, both of his solid arms wrapped around you. You yawn languidly.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Oh. That. You check the clock on the nightstand, realising that it’s only 7am. On a Saturday. Who’s knocking on the door at 7am on a Saturday morning?

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Fuck, is the noise getting louder? You push Valentino carefully, waking him up.

"There's someone banging at your door," you whisper.

He groans and untangles his legs from yours. He puts on a pair of boxers, and moves towards the door.

You listen intently, curious to know who’s trying to gain Valentino’s attention so determinedly.

The door swings open.

"Vox?" he questions, and you can almost hear the fear in his voice.

“Hey Val. Did you see where the fuck y/n went to?”

#hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin hotel imagine #hazbin hotel headcanon #hazbin hotel #valentino hazbin hotel #valentino x reader #valentino hazbin hotel headcanon #cursed cat alastor #hazbin hotel valentino #valentino #the vees #valentino x you #valentino headcanons

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justalarryblog · 3 years

Text

🎆Thank You, Daddy by @recklessandbrave (10k) | Explicit

Harry’s hot, wet mouth is around him before Louis even has the chance to blink, and it feels so good, the icy sting of the frozen dessert disappearing as Harry’s soft tongue laps it up. After Harry swallows, he pulls off the head of Louis’ cock and then dips down to trail his tongue up the shaft, collecting the bits that dribbled down. “Yummy. Thank you, daddy.” He hums pleasantly.

Or the one where Louis gets an idea, and Harry wears panties

Part 2 of Pastel

🎆Stillness Is The Move by @turnyourankle (2k) | Explicit

Harry fails to follow instructions and requires punishment.

🎆And I know he’ll be the death of me, at least we’ll both be numb by @capturethesunset (3k) | Not Rated

Louis getting wrecked by jealous Harry.

🎆give and take by @sky_reid (1k) | Explicit

sometimes louis just needs.

🎆we’re still going, eight in the morning by @nooelgallagher, @yoursongonmyheart (31k) | Explicit

Harry washes his hands quickly before grabbing his phone. His screen lights up to 3 notifications.

DJTommo is now following you!

@DJTommo mentioned you in a tweet!

Direct Message from @DJTommo!

Harry yelps, throwing his phone to Niall who just barely catches it.

Niall looks down at the phone, seeing first the tweet, then the DM. He tosses the phone back to Harry, who nearly drops it. “What are ya doing, mate! Answer him!”

Harry thinks for a moment about what he wants to say. This is his chance to actually talk to Louis Tomlinson. Louis Tomlinson messaged him directly. He can say anything he wants. He begins typing, his fingers shaky.

Niall comes over to stand next to Harry and peers down, looking to see what he wrote. When he does, he lets out a groan.

…Or, the one where Harry owns a bakery, Louis is a radio DJ, and Niall and Liam roll their eyes at their incessant flirting.

🎆When I hear your cries, praying for life. (I will be there) by @brokenbeauty (5k) | Explicit

Well, I figured we needed Larry birthday sex, soooo….. ;))))

🎆St. Austin’s School for Boys by @domtommo, @winsomefreak (100k) | Explicit

St. Austin’s School for Boys is a correction school for young men that uses corporal punishment as their means of discipline. After one too many infractions, Harry Styles is sent there till graduation. Upon arriving Harry meets his dorm advisor who also happens to be the first year sex-education teacher and footie coach, Louis Tomlinson. Harry falls in absolute adoration for the teacher and is all too ready to drop down onto his knees for him. During his stay he learns some very interesting things about himself… Welcome to St. Austin’s School for Boys, where the hallways are filled with love, drama, and sex.

Part 1 of St. Austin’s School for Boys

🎆I’m Gonna Love You (Until You Hate me) by @sweaterpawstyles (8k) | Explicit

As if reading his mind, Louis glanced over his glasses at Harry, presumably because Harry didn’t reply to his statement earlier.

“I decided to get my glasses out again,” he chuckled, winking at Harry. “Do you like them?“

Harry felt his face heat up. No, he didn’t just like them. He fucking loved them and wanted to ride Louis and call him daddy while he wore them. But he didn’t want to just tell Louis this.

Louis wears glasses and Harry doesn’t like to be teased

🎆jump in the deep end by @istajmaal (4k) | Explicit

Louis’s stomach lurches as he closes the last bit of distance, Harry’s nose settling between his arse cheeks and pushing them apart. Harry’s lips brush against the puckered skin around Louis’s hole in a kiss and Louis lets out a whine so high-pitched he barely recognizes it as coming from himself—what if I’m not clean enough, what if Harry hates it, what if Harry pushes me away—but then Harry’s long, wet tongue swoops in a circle around Louis’s rim and Louis feels like all the breath is knocked out of him. He grabs for Harry’s hand, still digging into his thigh, and squeezes over it, until Harry releases his vice grip on Louis’s thigh and laces his fingers through Louis’s.

or, Louis’s arse is a sensitive subject, so Harry approaches it gently. With his tongue.

🎆daddy daddy cool by @sky_reid (6k) | Explicit

harry wakes up hard.

🎆Truth Be Told (I Never Was Yours) by @JustForTommo (76k) | Explicit

Harry watches Louis as he scrunches up his nose and bites the end of a pen in concentration. He’s been working on seating arrangements for the past hour and getting more frustrated by the minute. Louis huffs out a breath and glances down at Harry with a soft smile on his lips before he returns to the task at hand. It’s easy, right then, for Harry to let himself believe that they’re planning a seating chart for their own wedding and bickering over who is going to sit where from a list of their own family members. He can let himself daydream about a white picket fence and a dog that they could have within the next year.

It’s like a cold slap in the face when Harry looks to the top of the page to see “Aiden and Louis Grimshaw” at the head table, and Harry has to mentally remind himself for the thousandth time that Louis is not his. Never was, really. He’s just the wedding planner that’s been in love with Louis since he was sixteen.

(or the one where Louis and Harry have a complicated past, Louis is getting married to someone that’s not Harry, and the universe has decided to have a laugh and make Harry the wedding planner.)

🎆This Feeling orphan_account (58k) | Explicit

“Gonna play it back for you now.” Louis clicked play and the song flooded through Harry’s headphones.

The sound of each others voices united into one, and the rhythm of the music carried their voices effortlessly. Harry’s insides tingled and a wave of shivers rolled down his spine.

Before the clip cut off, Harry turned to raise an eyebrow at Louis, and failed miserably at disguising his smile. Louis stared back at him in shock.

Or A Larry Duet AU

🎆The Night Sky is Changing Overhead orphan_account (124k) | Explicit

“Um, sorry, but I believe that’s actually mine,” Harry said a bit awkwardly, pointing at the cup.

The man huffed, slightly narrowing his blue eyes, “Nope, large Americano, dash of cream.” He held the coffee up closer to Harry and honestly, Harry knew exactly what was in the cup because it was his coffee.

“Right,” Harry slowly drawled out as if he was talking to a toddler, “Which would make that mine.”

“Look, I really don’t have time for this, I’m running late. And this,” he said before he took a sip from the cup, “Is mine.”

Harry’s jaw dropped and he held his hands out, failing them slightly, “Wha-you can’t just drink it!”

“Well I did, so, do you still want it or can I be on my way?” The man challenged.

Harry shook his head disbelievingly, “Take it, but for the record, it says Harry on it.”

The man turned the cup around and a sharp laugh came out of his mouth, “Well, shit.” He looked at Harry, a smile stretched across his face as crinkles formed next to his eyes. “Thanks, Harry.”

🎆The Arrangement by @daddyy_harryy, @HyFrLarry1224 (218k) | Mature

Louis knew it was his time. Once anyone turned 13, they were watched. And when they were 16 it could be any time. Anytime they could be taken. It was just weeks after his 16th birthday and there he was, sitting in the back of the van.

Louis is forced to marry Harry and bear his children. He is to listen to Harry and do as he says, no matter what. Speaking is a given, and freedom doesn’t exist. Will the sixteen year old boy find himself falling in love with the Leader of the British Mafia? Or will he find himself stuck in a place he doesn’t want to be, with an abusive asshole for a husband?

🎆Something in the World Today by @whoknows(48k) | Explicit

It shouldn’t be a surprise, the first time that Louis drops to his knees in front of Harry. It shouldn’t be, because it’s been something that Louis has needed for a long time. It shouldn’t be, because he’s been crawling out of his skin for weeks on end. It shouldn’t be, because Harry always makes him feel better. It shouldn’t be, because he’s needed this even when he didn’t know that he needed it.

Somehow, it still is.

🎆I Cannot Dream Tonight Series by @afangirlfantasy (50k) | Not Rated

At 16 years old, everyone takes a compatibility test on their birthday. At some point after taking the test, and along with other data collected, everyone finds out if they are a Dom or Sub.

At 17 years old, everyone receives a bracelet that notifies them when they have been matched. Every Dom needs a Sub. Every Sub needs a Dom.

When Louis’ bracelet lights up weeks after getting it, let’s just say that who he is matched with, is not quite what he had been expecting.

🎆Don’t Waste Your Time On Me, You’re Already The Voice Inside My Head by @afangirlfantasy (28k) | Not Rated

At 16 years old, everyone takes a compatibility test on their birthday. At some point after taking the test, and along with other data collected, everyone finds out if they are a Dom or Sub.

🎆His Submission Series by tonystankyall (orphan_account) (152k) | Mature

Louis Tomlinson lives in a world where Domination and Submission is a norm. When you are born you are either branded Sub or Dom. Subs get a little pink or blue, depeneding on gender, series of swirls on the back of their neck. Doms get Red or Black, depending on gender, series of swirls on the back of their neck.

Louis Tomlinson was branded with a Blue tattoo and his day has finally come. The day of his 18th birthday where he will be randomly assigned a Dom. This dom could range from younger to older, poorer to richer, and male to female. You never knew what you were going to get. Some Doms were more harsher and stricter than others. Louis didn’t want a harsh Dom to submit to.

Harry Styles was branded with a Black tattoo and he just recieved in the mail that he was finally getting a submissive. Harry was a 32 year old man, settled in, and very very rich. He’s been waiting for an assigned submissive to be chosen for him for a very long time. His Dom friend, Zayn, has gotten his submissive two years prior, a little spit fire irish boy, Niall.

*The rest is in the note*

At 17 years old, everyone receives a bracelet that notifies them when they have been matched. Every Dom needs a Sub. Every Sub needs a Dom.

When Louis’ bracelet lights up weeks after getting it, let’s just say that who he is matched with, is not quite what he had been expecting.

🎆driving instructor fic by @LoadedGunn (104k) | Explicit

AU where Louis is a 25-year-old driving instructor and Harry is a 17-year-old virgin who’s really awful at seduction, except for the time he gets Louis to fall for him and fuck him senseless and take him on kinky adventures.

🎆Loving You Is Free by @littlelouishiccups (91k) | Explicit

Louis is a workaholic record label CEO who hasn’t been on a date in nearly a year. Niall and Liam make an account for him on a sugar dating website as a joke. And then Louis meets Harry.

🎆sex shop fic (dildornado ‘verse) by @istajmaal, @LoadedGunn (96k) | Explicit

AU where Louis is the most helpful sex shop salesperson in the history of sex shops, and Harry really was just looking for a vibrator with simple instructions (yet ended up getting a hands-on demonstration).

🎆welcome to the mansion by @blankiehxrry (7k) | Explicit

Harry is a Playboy bunny.

🎆Wild and Rain by @softandslow (45k) | Explicit

Louis has been looking after Tessa since he was sixteen. Harry’s a man in a business suit who has loved his daughter’s babysitter for three whole years.

🎆A Million Years by @sunflowerstyles (3k) | Explicit

Louis always ends up feeling guilty that he’s not ready to give Harry what he wants. Harry shows him how much fun they can have while they wait together.

🎆Can’t help but touch myself by @Tita (7k) | Explicit

“I asked what these were, love.” Harry gulps. “Panties,” he explains with heated cheeks, needing more than the light touches from Louis and getting nothing. “What did you get them for? Were they to impress someone else?” He asks, and Harry shakes his head fervently, stumbling over his words as he tries to get his tongue to cooperate. “No, no,” he emphasizes, arching his back to plaster himself to Louis. “For you, always for you, Daddy.”

🎆Champagne by @fanshae (2k) | Explicit

“Look at how pretty you are,” Louis murmurs, Harry’s stockinged toes curling against the floor at the praise, “Give Daddy a twirl, baby.”

🎆connoisseurs of comfort by @sky_reid (45k) | Explicit

louis has only really had his flat to himself for a few weeks when liam knocks on the door and brings him a new flatmate. this one turns out to be a bit different though.

🎆Dance Floor Whore by @ropewithnoanchor (7k) | Explicit

Louis and Harry go to a club while on tour to blow off some steam, but Harry gets too drunk and lets another man dance up on him in front of everyone. Louis takes him back to their hotel and spends the next morning punishing Harry, making Harry work to make it up to him.

🎆Give It Up To Me by @krisstylinson (8k) | Explicit

“You’re going to end up making me come with all the boys in our lounge,” he finished, his tone softening the longer he spoke.

“And?” Harry murmured, placing his palm over the crevice of Louis’ arse, keeping the plug nice and tight inside of him. “What if I wanted you to?”

Or the cliché where Louis isn’t supposed to come but he does, and that can’t go unpunished in Harry’s eyes.

🎆just want to make love to you by @beautlouis (3k) | Explicit

Louis has a lapful of Harry before the car has even closed and maybe he should be a bit concerned about that, judging from the look in Liam’s eye, but it’s hard to worry about anything when Harry’s wriggling against him, warm and insistent.

“’m so hard,” Harry pants against his ear, “Been this way since we got off the stage, want–want you to fuck me, yeah, I want–”

*the aftermath of the xfactor performance where harry went wild

🎆my one and own (i wanna get you alone) by @beautlouis (6k) | Explicit

Louis’ favorite thing to do is make Harry come. It’s the best feeling in the world, watching the boy he loves fall apart underneath him; to see how good it feels for Harry, in every line and movement of his body.

Louis pushes a thigh between Harry’s and grinds just enough that Harry sighs gently and ruts his hips back into Louis. Holding Harry’s waist firmly, Louis presses his lips into Harry’s ear and says, “I think I’d like to make you come.”

It isn’t as if they don’t both know that’s what tonight is—Louis making Harry come—but the verbal acknowledgment of it makes Harry moan sharply and turn his head to try to pull Louis into a kiss.

🎆Push You Over The Edge (So I Can Pull You Back) by orphan_account (16k) | Explicit

It’s after a long two weeks of interviews and non-stop appearances that have got Harry stressed to the limit of yanking his hair out and throwing a fit and crying that Louis shows it to him, walks in the door with a sleek black bag in his left hand and inconspicuous brown one in his right.

🎆To Be Loved To Be In Love by @Angel_Dust (129k) | Mature

At 18, every Sub must take a Match Test to find their Dom.

Poor, Farm kid Louis Tomlinson is matched with Rich, Businessman Harry Styles.

Or, where Harry thinks giving Money, expensive presents and luxuries proves how much you love someone, but Louis is about to turn his world upside down.

🎆Wake Me Up by @larrystylins (2k) | Explicit

Harry stretches and accidentally pushes his bare bum into Louis’ crotch. Oh. That’s definitely Louis’ cock. Okay that’s definitely the outline of Louis’ hard cock pressing against him. “Lou?” he whispers. Of course Louis is fast asleep..

or Harry wakes up to Louis’ morning wood pressed against his bum. Harry gets needy. Louis wakes up and punishes him.

🎆You Don’t Need Me To Show The Way by @LoadedGunn (6k) | Explicit

But right there, on Harry’s iPod, is a folder entitled Lou Sappy Sappy Long Indie Hipster 80’s Love Songs Mixtape.

Louis expects a sappy mix tape. He might even expect his own shitty versions of Foo Fighter songs. What he doesn’t expect is clicking on “AUD-20101223” and suddenly hearing loud moaning. He gasps and scrambles to pause it, so shocked the iPod drops right to Harry’s stomach. Harry looks absolutely mortified, even more than he did when Louis played High School Musical. He’s blushing so furiously his face bypassed rosy straight to flaming red, and his mouth is closing and opening like he can’t think of a single thing to say.

Then Louis starts laughing uproariously. “Hiiii, I’m Harry from Cheshire, when I’m on the road I like listening to indie music and gay porn.”

Or, 2011 fic where Harry rides dick for the first time and Louis appreciates technology.

✨You can also check My Fic Tags for more fics! ✨

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modern-inheritance · 3 years

Text

Modern Inheritance: Two for Flinching

(A/N: Some wound description and technically self harm? {wound burning for infection control}, so warnings for that. Just some Eragon and co. during the run to the Varden. This one actually has a bit more setup for Eragon’s book 1/early book 2 characterization, but I’m not sure how I did. He’s hard for me to write. There’s also quite a few mentions of tech and magic mechanics that I’ve worked into MIC, but those will be mentioned more in the tags.)

~~~

Eragon winced as Saphira landed. Per their usual travel plans since Gil'ead and Arya’s awakening he had spent the night flying with Saphira while the others traveled at a continued breakneck pace on the ground with the horses. It was wearing them all down, even Saphira, and the few hours of sleep they managed to get during the daylight hours did little to alleviate the stress travel was putting on their bodies.

Camp was already in the midst of being set as Eragon untied his legs from the saddle and slid down Saphira’s side. He landed then grimaced as he fell to his knees, muscles feeling like jelly.

“Did you see anything worth mentioning?” Brom asked as the young Rider pushed himself up. When he shook his head, not trusting himself to speak aloud, the older man grunted and turned back to unsaddling Snowfire. “There’s supposed to be some old, ruined staging points of the Varden’s around here. Must be further up ahead. We’re going slower than I thought.”

“We’re going as fast as we can.” Murtagh snapped. His eyes were bloodshot and red-rimmed. Lately Eragon had noticed that the other youth was becoming increasingly agitated, quick to anger, and it wasn’t just the lack of sleep and lingering sunburn getting to him.“If you want to warn the Varden so bad, do some of your little magic tricks and tell them about the Urgals.”

Arya spoke quickly from where she crouched coaxing the fire to life, cutting off Brom’s scathing retort and ending the argument before it began. “It doesn’t exactly work like that. Besides, the Varden has specific wards around their strongholds, preventing scrying and other magical forms of communication.”

Eragon eased himself down next to the elf, trying to warm fingers stiff from flying so high in the chill clouds. “Then how do they stay in contact with you and anyone else outside their hiding spots? It seems dangerous to be so isolated.”

The woman gently rearranged a few sticks to give the young flames more air and slipped a dark object under the growing pile of embers. “Special radios were developed, using the fingerprint technology similar to lock on my backpack. Mine was destroyed when Durza tried to operate it himself.” She cracked a slight grin, still focused on her task. “Well, actually, it blew up in his face. Brain matter, just everywhere. Huh-hoo, he was pissed when he got back.”

“The Varden rigs them to explode if the person’s fingerprint doesn’t match?!” Eragon recoiled slightly, agast. “What if someone’s kid found it and thought it was a toy?”

Off to the side, Brom snorted, muttering, “I bet it wasn’t the Varden who–”

“No, I rigged it up myself, and only for those who bore ill-will to the Varden and free races in case it fell into the wrong hands.”

“Knew it.” Brom scoffed. Arya looked over her shoulder to the old Rider and rolled her eyes. “You just like seeing things explode.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t think I’ve laughed so hard in years than when that thing went off. I think I even cracked a rib.”

Brom shook his head, but let the matter go.

It wasn’t long before the fire was high and the day’s meal heated. They sat around the burning logs, Saphira even laying her head down to occupy a third of the circle, and planned the next few legs of travel. When the food was eaten, the talk dwindled away as they all sat staring into the flames, tired but not willing to sleep just yet.

Then Saphira flicked out her tongue, as if tasting the air, and projected her thoughts to the group.

‘Whoever has the infected wound should care for it soon.’ Everyone looked up, mildly startled out of their inner musings. 'It will turn into a deep-rot in another day or so. Just thought they should know.’

“You can smell things like that?” Eragon asked, surprised. “Are you like one of those dogs that can smell cancer?”

The dragon cut her eyes at him and her lip lifted slightly. 'I am nothing like a dog.’

The boy smiled apologetically, realizing his mistake. “I know. Sorry. But it’s pretty cool being able to smell things like that.”

Murtagh raised an eyebrow. “Aye, it’s cool. But shouldn’t we be more focused on who the hell was hiding a possibly necrotic wound? Things like that need to be addressed. It would only slow us down more.”

Then a ringing SMACK! broke through the air as Brom suddenly slapped Arya upside the head. Hard.

“What the hell were you thinking, girl?” He growled, expression dark.

“Ow! Hey, why the fuck do you think it’s me?!” The elf retorted sharply, rubbing the back of her head and glaring back at him.

Everyone, even Saphira, gave the woman a deadpan look that clearly asked 'really?’

She put her hands up. “Alright, alright, so yeah, maybe a cut or two got infected, but I’m already fixing them, okay?” Arya snarled, pointing at the handle of a knife sticking out of the dying fire’s thick pile of coals.

Silence fell.

“Are you sure that is the best idea?” Brom asked slowly. He seemed to have calmed down a bit now that Arya had revealed having an actual plan and wasn’t just ignoring her injuries. His change in tone made Eragon wonder if the latter was a common occurrence. “There’s always magic. You don’t have to–”

“And who, exactly, would cast it, hm? Eragon? Can you instruct him in the intricacies of infection cleansing within the next few minutes? I’ve still got enough drug in me to complicate healing spells, so that’s out of the question. And I’ll not have you working spells on me, not when the Varden will need you at your best.” Arya shook her head. “No, it will have to be burned.”

Murtagh stood at the mention of burning. “Oh, bloody hell. Not right after we ate!” He retreated to where he had tossed his saddlebags and began unrolling his sleeping bag. “I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again– you’re bloody insane, Arya. I don’t want to see this. I’m going to sleep.”

“Sweet dreams, Murtagh.” The elf called after him in a singsong voice. “Don’t let the sizzling wake you up!” The young man let out a noise of disgust and threw himself on the blankets. “Wuss.”

'She can’t be serious about this!’ Eragon exclaimed to Saphira, worried about the elf who was unlacing her boots as calmly as a praying monk. 'She’s already hurt enough! We should offer to heal it. I know she shot Brom down, but–’

Saphira cut him off. 'Little one, do you honestly think that we know enough about healing to cleanse even a scratch of infection without making it worse? Brom has explained before that waíse heill has its limitations, one of the most dangerous being that if it closes an infected injury the infection will survive beneath the skin.’ Eragon grimaced, cursing himself for nearly forgetting one of the nuances of the spell. 'Once the infected flesh is burned away, thenwe can attempt to heal it for Arya.’

Her logic was sound. 'I still don’t like it. But you’re right.’

The dragon sniffed, a short puff of smoke dissipating into the air above her nostrils. 'Of course I am.’

Eragon grinned, then turned his attention back to where Brom and Arya still sat by the fire as the older Rider grunted, “That looks like it hurt. You’re lucky it didn’t break.” The boy approached them as Arya finished rolling her pant leg up to her knee.

“Perks of elvish bones, I guess.” Arya muttered, gently testing the skin around the injury. On the outside of her left calf was a nasty, scraping gash, most likely left by the sharp edge of a hobnailed boot if the bruising pattern was anything to go by. The skin around the ragged edges was pink and red, and cracks ran through the roughly palm sized scab covering the cut and revealing damp, yellowish flesh beneath. Pinkish, yellow tinged fluid leaked from the cracks. “Damn. At least it isn’t necrotic. You were right, Saphira. This one is about to turn.” The elf flashed a thankful smile to the dragon. “Hell, you might have just saved my leg.”

'You’re quite welcome.’

Eragon winced when he saw the wound. “After you, uh…burn it, I can close it for you. A burn isn’t too hard to heal, and it would keep it from getting infected again and slowing you down.”

For a for a split second the memory of healing the elf’s back jumped to the forefront of his mind. Not images of the horrifying wounds, but of warm skin, lean muscle and an unmistakably feminine body. Eragon felt the tips of his tapering ears turn bright red, and he quickly stuck his hands in his pockets, pinching himself hard through the fabric. It was definitely not the time for those kinds of thoughts.

He was thankful, then, that Arya looked over to Brom after giving him only a quick glance. “What do you think, old man? I can keep up well enough. Wouldn’t mind a little less risk of that changing though.”

Brom crossed his arms. “It’s up to the boy and Saphira. Do you two think you can handle it?”

Eragon nodded firmly. “I’m sure I can. Definitely if Saphira helps. I really don’t mind it, and it’s the least I can do after being unable to heal the rest of your wounds properly.”

“Hey, you and Saphira don’t owe me anything. You saved my life in probably three different ways so far, so I’m the one that owes you all.” Arya pulled a field medkit from her bag and tore off two short wads of gauze from a roll. “If you both want to heal it and it won’t put either of you in danger, I won’t complain. It won’t be the last time I say it, but thank you. Really.”

Eragon smiled, a strange warmth bubbling in his heart at the elf’s expression of gratitude. In the back of his mind he sensed Saphira examining his emotions, and was a little confused when the dragon mentally chuckled at them. “You’re welcome. I like to help where I can.”

“Mm. Let’s get this over with then.” Without further ado Arya pulled the knife from the coals.

It was an old blade of human make, and by the seal stamped on the handle Eragon recognized it as one of the combat knives he had grabbed from a soldier during their mad escape from Gil'ead. In the light of the midmorning sun it was difficult to judge if the metal was glowing fiercely, but the blade had acquired a unmistakeable, faint orange color at the sides and an inch down the tip. At the thicker sections it seemed to be lit on the inside by a deep, dark cherry red glow.

Arya took a deep breath, letting it out slowly, and went to stick the wad of gauze in her mouth as she lowered the hot blade towards her leg. Brom’s hand suddenly settled on her shoulder, and she looked up at him, startled out of her grim task.

“Do you want me to do it?” The old Rider’s voice was surprisingly gentle, soft even. In the months he had traveled with him, Eragon had heard him speak in such a tone only a handful of times, mostly murmured under his breath to himself or to Jeod when talking about the Varden and times past. Despite their rough banter, Eragon realized the Brom and Arya were undoubtedly good friends, to the point that he wondered if the two had fought together on the battlefield.

Arya looked between Brom and the knife for a moment, then sighed, “You might have to if I flinch and can’t keep up the pressure. I want to try it myself first, but thanks for having my back.” Brom nodded and pulled his hand back as the elf bit down on the gauze.

Then, without any other warning, she tore her nails across the gash in her leg, ripping away the disintegrating scab, and shoved the flat of the glowing knife into the now open wound.

Eragon jerked back, flinching as his self preservation instinct screamed at the indecency of blatant self-destruction. It wasn’t the visual that disturbed him, but the sound of the metal burning away first the blood and fluids, and then the infected flesh beneath. It hissed and sizzled, and occasionally sounded like the powerful magnet toys he used to buy at the fair and toss in the air hear their buzzing song.

For a moment Arya’s muscles snapped rigid, then she seemed to recover and her face fell into a blank, emotionless mask. After letting the blade rest in its original spot for several long seconds she lifted it and exposed the two remaining sections of the gash to the heat, quickly wiping the knife on the other piece of gauze between each burning. Eragon’s stomach did a sickening maneuver similar to a double full flip he had witnessed Katrina do at one of her gymnastics presentations with Roran when he realized that she was wiping seared flesh off the blade.

Then it was over. The entire procedure couldn’t have taken more than a minute, but the scent of burned meat hung in the air. Where infection had once turned tissue yellow and white, there was now only bright red muscle shot through with soot and darkened epidermis.

“That…wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be.” Arya hissed and spat the gauze out. Her teeth were clenched and voice tight, but her movements were controlled, smooth, and betrayed no other indications that she was in pain. “I’m not looking forward to it if I need to do it again, though.”

Brom rubbed his face, a little paler than usual. “There’s something just…so much more disturbing about seeing you do it to yourself.”

“Dear Gods above, I HEARD IT ALL THE WAY OVER HERE!” Came a distraught groan from Murtagh’s sleeping bag. Arya snatched a stick from the pile next to the fire, abandoning the still-hot knife, and whipped it at the tucked form huddled in the bag. It pegged the young man exactly where his head should have been, and muffled swearing drifted through the camp before it dwindled off as he rolled over and tried his best to sleep.

Eragon scooted closer, forcing himself to swallow back his queasiness. “Here, can we….” Arya leaned her head back and nodded, eyes shut tight as heat lingered in the wound.

Reaching out a thicker tendril of his consciousness to Saphira, the young Rider met the mind of his dragon halfway. Their thoughts, consciousnesses, and minds twisted around each other, binding together more strongly than they usually did. Saphira’s energy flowed into Eragon, and he in turn shared some of his until the stream equaled out and they were one.

Together they moved Eragon’s hand out, the Gedwëy Ignasia shining bright, and uttered the words needed to heal the now cleansed burn. The icy magic rushed through their joined minds, knitting the skin back together with the ease of water flowing from one side of a creak to the next.

As they completed their task, Saphira pulled back from the increased contact, again leaving their minds connected by the usual tendrils of thought. Once separated, Saphira mentioned to Eragon, 'Your magic tickles.’ and rubbed her snout on the side of her foreleg.

'Does it? It always feels cold to me.’ Eragon sat back on his heels, checking the wound to make sure he had not left any scarring this time. Like the other times he and Saphira had worked magic while bound together, he only felt a slight drain on their combined strength. 'I know when something is healed on me it itches like crazy though. Is that what you’re feeling?’

'Being a conduit is different from both casting and being casted on. Acting as the in-between must be giving me the sensation of both the cold and the itching. It makes my scales tickle.’ As if to demonstrate her point, the scales at Saphira’s neck lifted slightly with a sound similar to dry leaves being whisked away by a strong wind. The scales rose and lowered in a ripple along her entire body, giving the distinct impression that she had shivered. 'So, how did we do?’

“Very well for such a simply worded spell.” Eragon realized that Saphira had projected her last thought to Arya and Brom as well when the elf answered. She tested the new skin, not at all bothered that they had not healed the bruising, and seemed happy with the results of their casting. “You’re quite adept at magic for knowing so few words in the Ancient Language, Eragon. From what I’ve seen, you have an uncanny ability to influence your spells more with your intentions than the words you use.”

Brom grunted, nodding in Eragon’s direction. The older man’s chest seemed to swell with pride at the praise directed at his pupil. “Aye, he’s got a gift. And Saphira carries it as well. I’ve never heard of a dragon acting as such a strong conduit before. You both are learning well.”

Touched, Eragon dipped his head as both he and Saphira answered the compliments. Any praise coming from Brom was few and far between, and now he was practically bragging to Arya about their progress.

A comfortable silence fell once again. Brom laid out his sleeping bag, surrendering his usual first watch to Arya at her insistence that 'old men need their rest,’ and Saphira lifted her head from where it rested to tuck it under the tip of her tail, settling in to sleep. Arya tugged her boots back on and reloaded her pistol. Eragon stayed by the fire with her for a few more minutes, content to be close to the elf for a little longer before he too retired for sleep.

“Oh! Right.” Arya suddenly looked over at him, a gleam in her dark eyes. He met her gaze, puzzled, then let out a yelp as her fist shot out and punched him in the arm twice. He knew it was probably a love tap for someone of elvish strength, but it still stung.

“Hey!” Eragon leaned away from her, rubbing his sore arm. It would definitely be bruised by the time he woke that night. “What was that for?”

The elf grinned, rising to her feet to stretch and take her place for the first watch. She slung her sword and its harness over one shoulder, and Eragon felt a hot blush blossom on his cheeks when she casually roughed up his hair as she stepped by him. “Two for flinching.”

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weirdponytail · 3 years

Text

Modern Inheritance: Two for Flinching

~~~

Eragon winced as Saphira landed. Per their usual travel plans since Gil'ead and Arya's awakening he had spent the night flying with Saphira while the others traveled at a continued breakneck pace on the ground with the horses. It was wearing them all down, even Saphira, and the few hours of sleep they managed to get during the daylight hours did little to alleviate the stress travel was putting on their bodies.

Camp was already in the midst of being set as Eragon untied his legs from the saddle and slid down Saphira's side. He landed then grimaced as he fell to his knees, muscles feeling like jelly.

"Did you see anything worth mentioning?" Brom asked as the young Rider pushed himself up. When he shook his head, not trusting himself to speak aloud, the older man grunted and turned back to unsaddling Snowfire. "There's supposed to be some old, ruined staging points of the Varden's around here. Must be further up ahead. We're going slower than I thought."

"We're going as fast as we can." Murtagh snapped. His eyes were bloodshot and red-rimmed. Lately Eragon had noticed that the other youth was becoming increasingly agitated, quick to anger, and it wasn't just the lack of sleep and lingering sunburn getting to him."If you want to warn the Varden so bad, do some of your little magic tricks and tell them about the Urgals."

Arya spoke quickly from where she crouched coaxing the fire to life, cutting off Brom's scathing retort and ending the argument before it began. "It doesn't exactly work like that. Besides, the Varden has specific wards around their strongholds, preventing scrying and other magical forms of communication."

Eragon eased himself down next to the elf, trying to warm fingers stiff from flying so high in the chill clouds. "Then how do they stay in contact with you and anyone else outside their hiding spots? It seems dangerous to be so isolated."

The woman gently rearranged a few sticks to give the young flames more air and slipped a dark object under the growing pile of embers. "Special radios were developed, using the fingerprint technology similar to lock on my backpack. Mine was destroyed when Durza tried to operate it himself." She cracked a slight grin, still focused on her task. "Well, actually, it blew up in his face. Brain matter, just everywhere. Huh-hoo, he was pissed when he got back."

"The Varden rigs them to explode if the person's fingerprint doesn't match?!" Eragon recoiled slightly, agast. "What if someone's kid found it and thought it was a toy?"

Off to the side, Brom snorted, muttering, "I bet it wasn't the Varden who–"

"No, I rigged it up myself, and only for those who bore ill-will to the Varden and free races in case it fell into the wrong hands."

"Knew it." Brom scoffed. Arya looked over her shoulder to the old Rider and rolled her eyes. "You just like seeing things explode."

"Yeah, well, I don't think I've laughed so hard in years than when that thing went off. I think I even cracked a rib."

Brom shook his head, but let the matter go.

It wasn't long before the fire was high and the day's meal heated. They sat around the burning logs, Saphira even laying her head down to occupy a third of the circle, and planned the next few legs of travel. When the food was eaten, the talk dwindled away as they all sat staring into the flames, tired but not willing to sleep just yet.

Then Saphira flicked out her tongue, as if tasting the air, and projected her thoughts to the group.

'Whoever has the infected wound should care for it soon.' Everyone looked up, mildly startled out of their inner musings. 'It will turn into a deep-rot in another day or so. Just thought they should know.'

"You can smell things like that?" Eragon asked, surprised. "Are you like one of those dogs that can smell cancer?"

The dragon cut her eyes at him and her lip lifted slightly. 'I am nothing like a dog.'

The boy smiled apologetically, realizing his mistake. "I know. Sorry. But it's pretty cool being able to smell things like that."

Murtagh raised an eyebrow. "Aye, it's cool. But shouldn't we be more focused on who the hell was hiding a possibly necrotic wound? Things like that need to be addressed. It would only slow us down more."

Then a ringing SMACK! broke through the air as Brom suddenly slapped Arya upside the head. Hard.

"What the hell were you thinking, girl?" He growled, expression dark.

"Ow! Hey, why the fuck do you think it's me?!" The elf retorted sharply, rubbing the back of her head and glaring back at him.

Everyone, even Saphira, gave the woman a deadpan look that clearly asked 'really?'

She put her hands up. "Alright, alright, so yeah, maybe a cut or two got infected, but I'm already fixing them, okay?" Arya snarled, pointing at the handle of a knife sticking out of the dying fire's thick pile of coals.

Silence fell.

"Are you sure that is the best idea?" Brom asked slowly. He seemed to have calmed down a bit now that Arya had revealed having an actual plan and wasn't just ignoring her injuries. His change in tone made Eragon wonder if the latter was a common occurrence. "There's always magic. You don't have to–"

"And who, exactly, would cast it, hm? Eragon? Can you instruct him in the intricacies of infection cleansing within the next few minutes? I've still got enough drug in me to complicate healing spells, so that's out of the question. And I'll not have you working spells on me, not when the Varden will need you at your best." Arya shook her head. "No, it will have to be burned."

Murtagh stood at the mention of burning. "Oh, bloody hell. Not right after we ate!" He retreated to where he had tossed his saddlebags and began unrolling his sleeping bag. "I've said it before, and I'll say it again– you're bloody insane, Arya. I don't want to see this. I'm going to sleep."

"Sweet dreams, Murtagh." The elf called after him in a singsong voice. "Don't let the sizzling wake you up!" The young man let out a noise of disgust and threw himself on the blankets. "Wuss."

'She can't be serious about this!' Eragon exclaimed to Saphira, worried about the elf who was unlacing her boots as calmly as a praying monk. 'She's already hurt enough! We should offer to heal it. I know she shot Brom down, but–'

Saphira cut him off. 'Little one, do you honestly think that we know enough about healing to cleanse even a scratch of infection without making it worse? Brom has explained before that waíse heill has its limitations, one of the most dangerous being that if it closes an infected injury the infection will survive beneath the skin.' Eragon grimaced, cursing himself for nearly forgetting one of the nuances of the spell. 'Once the infected flesh is burned away, thenwe can attempt to heal it for Arya.'

Her logic was sound. 'I still don't like it. But you're right.'

The dragon sniffed, a short puff of smoke dissipating into the air above her nostrils. 'Of course I am.'

Eragon grinned, then turned his attention back to where Brom and Arya still sat by the fire as the older Rider grunted, "That looks like it hurt. You're lucky it didn't break." The boy approached them as Arya finished rolling her pant leg up to her knee.

"Perks of elvish bones, I guess." Arya muttered, gently testing the skin around the injury. On the outside of her left calf was a nasty, scraping gash, most likely left by the sharp edge of a hobnailed boot if the bruising pattern was anything to go by. The skin around the ragged edges was pink and red, and cracks ran through the roughly palm sized scab covering the cut and revealing damp, yellowish flesh beneath. Pinkish, yellow tinged fluid leaked from the cracks. "Damn. At least it isn't necrotic. You were right, Saphira. This one is about to turn." The elf flashed a thankful smile to the dragon. "Hell, you might have just saved my leg."

'You're quite welcome.'

Eragon winced when he saw the wound. "After you, uh…burn it, I can close it for you. A burn isn't too hard to heal, and it would keep it from getting infected again and slowing you down."

For a for a split second the memory of healing the elf's back jumped to the forefront of his mind. Not images of the horrifying wounds, but of warm skin, lean muscle and an unmistakably feminine body. Eragon felt the tips of his tapering ears turn bright red, and he quickly stuck his hands in his pockets, pinching himself hard through the fabric. It was definitely not the time for those kinds of thoughts.

He was thankful, then, that Arya looked over to Brom after giving him only a quick glance. "What do you think, old man? I can keep up well enough. Wouldn't mind a little less risk of that changing though."

Brom crossed his arms. "It's up to the boy and Saphira. Do you two think you can handle it?"

Eragon nodded firmly. "I'm sure I can. Definitely if Saphira helps. I really don't mind it, and it's the least I can do after being unable to heal the rest of your wounds properly."

"Hey, you and Saphira don't owe me anything. You saved my life in probably three different ways so far, so I'm the one that owes you all." Arya pulled a field medkit from her bag and tore off two short wads of gauze from a roll. "If you both want to heal it and it won't put either of you in danger, I won't complain. It won't be the last time I say it, but thank you. Really."

Eragon smiled, a strange warmth bubbling in his heart at the elf's expression of gratitude. In the back of his mind he sensed Saphira examining his emotions, and was a little confused when the dragon mentally chuckled at them. "You're welcome. I like to help where I can."

"Mm. Let's get this over with then." Without further ado Arya pulled the knife from the coals.

Arya took a deep breath, letting it out slowly, and went to stick the wad of gauze in her mouth as she lowered the hot blade towards her leg. Brom's hand suddenly settled on her shoulder, and she looked up at him, startled out of her grim task.

"Do you want me to do it?" The old Rider's voice was surprisingly gentle, soft even. In the months he had traveled with him, Eragon had heard him speak in such a tone only a handful of times, mostly murmured under his breath to himself or to Jeod when talking about the Varden and times past. Despite their rough banter, Eragon realized the Brom and Arya were undoubtedly good friends, to the point that he wondered if the two had fought together on the battlefield.

Arya looked between Brom and the knife for a moment, then sighed, "You might have to if I flinch and can't keep up the pressure. I want to try it myself first, but thanks for having my back." Brom nodded and pulled his hand back as the elf bit down on the gauze.

Then, without any other warning, she tore her nails across the gash in her leg, ripping away the disintegrating scab, and shoved the flat of the glowing knife into the now open wound.

Eragon jerked back, flinching as his self preservation instinct screamed at the indecency of blatant self-destruction. It wasn't the visual that disturbed him, but the sound of the metal burning away first the blood and fluids, and then the infected flesh beneath. It hissed and sizzled, and occasionally sounded like the powerful magnet toys he used to buy at the fair and toss in the air hear their buzzing song.

For a moment Arya's muscles snapped rigid, then she seemed to recover and her face fell into a blank, emotionless mask. After letting the blade rest in its original spot for several long seconds she lifted it and exposed the two remaining sections of the gash to the heat, quickly wiping the knife on the other piece of gauze between each burning. Eragon's stomach did a sickening maneuver similar to a double full flip he had witnessed Katrina do at one of her gymnastics presentations with Roran when he realized that she was wiping seared flesh off the blade.

Then it was over. The entire procedure couldn't have taken more than a minute, but the scent of burned meat hung in the air. Where infection had once turned tissue yellow and white, there was now only bright red muscle shot through with soot and darkened epidermis.

"That...wasn't as bad as I thought it would be." Arya hissed and spat the gauze out. Her teeth were clenched and voice tight, but her movements were controlled, smooth, and betrayed no other indications that she was in pain. "I'm not looking forward to it if I need to do it again, though."

Brom rubbed his face, a little paler than usual. "There's something just…so much more disturbing about seeing you do it to yourself."

"Dear Gods above, I HEARD IT ALL THE WAY OVER HERE!" Came a distraught groan from Murtagh's sleeping bag. Arya snatched a stick from the pile next to the fire, abandoning the still-hot knife, and whipped it at the tucked form huddled in the bag. It pegged the young man exactly where his head should have been, and muffled swearing drifted through the camp before it dwindled off as he rolled over and tried his best to sleep.

Eragon scooted closer, forcing himself to swallow back his queasiness. "Here, can we…." Arya leaned her head back and nodded, eyes shut tight as heat lingered in the wound.

Reaching out a thicker tendril of his consciousness to Saphira, the young Rider met the mind of his dragon halfway. Their thoughts, consciousnesses, and minds twisted around each other, binding together more strongly than they usually did. Saphira's energy flowed into Eragon, and he in turn shared some of his until the stream equaled out and they were one.

Together they moved Eragon's hand out, the Gedwëy Ignasia shining bright, and uttered the words needed to heal the now cleansed burn. The icy magic rushed through their joined minds, knitting the skin back together with the ease of water flowing from one side of a creak to the next.

'Does it? It always feels cold to me.' Eragon sat back on his heels, checking the wound to make sure he had not left any scarring this time. Like the other times he and Saphira had worked magic while bound together, he only felt a slight drain on their combined strength. 'I know when something is healed on me it itches like crazy though. Is that what you're feeling?'

'Being a conduit is different from both casting and being casted on. Acting as the in-between must be giving me the sensation of both the cold and the itching. It makes my scales tickle.' As if to demonstrate her point, the scales at Saphira's neck lifted slightly with a sound similar to dry leaves being whisked away by a strong wind. The scales rose and lowered in a ripple along her entire body, giving the distinct impression that she had shivered. 'So, how did we do?'

"Very well for such a simply worded spell." Eragon realized that Saphira had projected her last thought to Arya and Brom as well when the elf answered. She tested the new skin, not at all bothered that they had not healed the bruising, and seemed happy with the results of their casting. "You're quite adept at magic for knowing so few words in the Ancient Language, Eragon. From what I've seen, you have an uncanny ability to influence your spells more with your intentions than the words you use."

Brom grunted, nodding in Eragon's direction. The older man's chest seemed to swell with pride at the praise directed at his pupil. "Aye, he's got a gift. And Saphira carries it as well. I've never heard of a dragon acting as such a strong conduit before. You both are learning well."

Touched, Eragon dipped his head as both he and Saphira answered the compliments. Any praise coming from Brom was few and far between, and now he was practically bragging to Arya about their progress.

A comfortable silence fell once again. Brom laid out his sleeping bag, surrendering his usual first watch to Arya at her insistence that 'old men need their rest,' and Saphira lifted her head from where it rested to tuck it under the tip of her tail, settling in to sleep. Arya tugged her boots back on and reloaded her pistol. Eragon stayed by the fire with her for a few more minutes, content to be close to the elf for a little longer before he too retired for sleep.

"Oh! Right." Arya suddenly looked over at him, a gleam in her dark eyes. He met her gaze, puzzled, then let out a yelp as her fist shot out and punched him in the arm twice. He knew it was probably a love tap for someone of elvish strength, but it still stung.

"Hey!" Eragon leaned away from her, rubbing his sore arm. It would definitely be bruised by the time he woke that night. "What was that for?"

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no-te-lo-voy-a-dar · 5 years

Text

Sibling Jealousy - Chapter 2

Fic’s Summary: Reader has known the Winchesters for a long time, almost two years before Cas entered their lives. After that, since Reader was the only one actually teaching the angel about humanity customs and stuff like that, properly, they developed a closer relationship, on the parent-kid way. But it was never verbally acknowledged. Now, with Lucifer’s child on the way, life stabs some sense and realizations onto Reader, but there’s no time for feelings in this house.

Author’s Note: This is mainly a fic with the purpose of developing a family relationship with the characters, of mutual support, and I don’t plan on adding romance for Reader, because that’s not my final goal.

Pairings(?): Castiel/Reader (Parental like), Jack Kline/Reader (Platonic/Sibling like), Dean and Sam Winchester/Reader (Platonic/Friends)

Warnings: Usual canon violence and conflicts, as well as injuries and blood mentions, emotional struggles such as feeling unloved, like an outcast, low self-esteem issues and if you think something else should be mentioned let me know.

<<Last Chapter — Next Chapter>>

Chapter’s Author’s Note: The first chapter (or prologue?) already has more than 20 notes and that’s more than I expected tbh. Within less than a day, @thewnchstrs added my fic to their September Fics Recommendation List, and I can’t be more flattered that even with just one part out, they decided to add me. Thank you so much.

Chapter Two: Such a Rush

Word Count: 1,327

For the next few months, you were sent the address where Cas was staying with Kelly, and you would send him some pictures and stuff “a normal kid” might use or want. You also got on the phone with both Kelly and Cas when the brothers left to do the FBI work and you stayed in the motel to do research or went for food.

Not a lot of words were exchanged, in your opinion, but hearing Castiel’s voice and encouraging words about The Men of Letters issue did relaxed you, and Kelly said it was a good thing for the baby to hear to his family’s voices.

Not sure how you felt about that yet.

Time passed, you found the microphone hidden in The Bunker, you were almost buried alive, then you and Sam went to raid the British Men of Letters base, using how stealthy and small you were as your bargain excuse as to why you should go (which did come in handy, thank you very much), went back to The Bunker to find Mary was on her right mind again and Ketch dead on the floor and then head all the way up north because the brothers had finally found where Cas and Kelly were AND you all learned Lucifer was out there walking on his old vessel.

You didn’t know if warn Cas or not, but with the Impala filled with the Winchester’s family you couldn’t, and praying to Cas might not be wise since angel radio could get hire wired. That’s not how it works, but yes, essentially. You could hear him tell you.

After hours on the road and Sam convincing Dean onto letting him drive for some of those because of his leg, you arrived at the small house you knew those two, three?, were staying in.

You hesitated into entering the house, looking up to see the windows’ lights on. Something didn’t feel right about this.

When you got in, Castiel seemed to already have talked to the Winchesters and Mary was making her way up the stairs to check on Kelly.

You went straight to him and hugged him, hoping he was getting the message on how much you missed him just from the strength of your hug. Apparently he did, because he was quick onto caressing your head and rubbing small circles on your back, all while you felt his grace heal the injuries you had earned on the raid against the British.

You stepped yourself away from him, and noticed Dean was no longer limping, meaning Castiel had already healed him.

“There’s something you need to see.”

—

After the tear on the time and space that led you to an alternative universe issue and Crowley joining you, a plan was made to trap Lucifer, and not much to your surprise, you were told to wait inside the house with both Kelly and Mary.

“So just you veterans can risk yourselves and have fun?” you really wanted to help, something about the whole situation made you uneasy.

“(Y/N) you know is not like that, but we can’t keep risking people into this, keep putting you on the fire line.” Sam tried to reason with you, his voice soft but nervous about whatever was about to happen, and you had to repress a snarky remark about how just living with them put you in said line by itself.

You sent Cas a look, but his eyes were sad and…a silent request was there, but you weren’t sure what was it. You didn’t like it.

Before they went outside and you upstairs, Castiel handed you an angel blade.

“Cas, you need this, as little protection against an archangel as it can give, you need it.” You tried pushing it back to him. “Besides, I already have my own from Ishim. The most recent one at least I mean.” talking about whom you had gotten an angel blade always seemed to be a sensitive topic.

“This one is not mine. I mean it is, but is a different one. I engraved some stuff in it, for extra protection. No demon can grab it and if any other angel besides the ones I allowed to touch it does, they are going to be slightly burned by it.” Now that you were looking at the blade, you could see enochian symbols written in the blade and handle. At the bottom of it, was an enochian symbol you became familiar with while doing research: Castiel’s angel symbol.

You looked at him and wanted to say something, but Dean was already calling for him.

He patted your head and signaled you to go upstairs. And so you did.

Births were always one of the things that made you more nervous about medical stuff, so much stuff could go wrong.

Kelly smiled at you when you got to the bedroom, and started rubbing at her belly while talking to it, to him.

“Look Jack, your sibling is here already. You are gonna be just fine.” The whole idea of Mrs. Kline wanting you to be some kind of guardian yet not exactly to Jack was kind of surreal.

You weren’t as young as Claire, yet you weren’t near your 40’s as Dean was, so they treating you like a kid always weirded you out, yet it made sense. You were closer to Claire’s age though.

You were bringing water to her lips as she kept having contractions and pushing, and suddenly, during one of her pushes, she whispered an ‘I love you’ before a bright light engulfed the room and you just felt energy soaring the entire house.

While you tried to rub the blindness from your eyes, you heard Mary leaving the room and going down the stairs.

When you opened your eyes, you saw Kelly wasn’t moving yet she was…clean. All the sweat and fluids that were covering her mere seconds ago were gone, and she looked peaceful. You arranged her laying form and covered her with the blankets, before starting to follow the shining foot marks on the floor.

They were directed towards what was supposed to be his room, if you took the giant paint on the wall with his name on it as a clue.

Everything was pitch black and when you looked at the floor and followed with your sight the path upwards, you saw golden shiny eyes looking at you.

Part of you was scared, well, more like on edge, and the other was confused, because you weren’t looking at a baby, nor a little kid.

“Hey Jack. That’s your name, you know?” you said as you reached half of the bedroom, as close as your instincts allowed you to go.

“…Father?” Now with your eyes a little more adjusted to the shadows, you were able of seeing how he hugged himself and titled his head a little. Heh, must be an angel thing.

“Uh, no, I’m not your father. My name’s (Y/N) (Y/L/N).” Without noticing, you were sitting on the floor.

“(Y/N)? Mom said (Y/N) would be my big sibling. Are you my big sibling?” oh boy…

You looked at him, and saw…not a trace of a threat, just pure curiosity and he seemed a little afraid.

“Yes Jack, I’m your big sibling. I’m, going to take care of you, as best as I can.” You saw him smile a little, but when you both heard foots inside the house, Jack went serious again, and you pulled your new gifted angel blade out and got on your feet.

It was Sam.

You wanted to relax a little, but you weren’t sure what he was about to do. He noticed, putting his gun away and his hands in the air, which led you to sheath your blade again.

“Father?” there was Jack again, asking the same thing he asked to you some minutes ago but this time addressed to Sam.

When was Castiel gonna show up?

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wemultitudinous · 4 years

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@kingofdirtandnothing halloween drabble!! cut for length

John wakes.

There’s a cold space against his side where Alex should be, a rapidly cooling stretch of sleeping bag that leaves enough room for a shiver to rattle its way down his spine. Sleepy and confused, he digs the heel of his palm in against one eye and sits up. Blinking against the darkness, he just about makes out the vague shape of Alex halfway out of the tent flap, silhouetted against what grainy, silvered illumination the moon provides.

The couple of times they’ve been camping before, Alex has expressed a firm preference for not mixing nature and night, staying tucked up with John inside the tent until at least daylight, whether or not he’s actually sleeping.

“You okay?” John asks. His voice is low and rough, made coarse by the cool night air. Alex startles, the black shape of him flinching visibly. As John’s eyes adjust to the darkness, he thinks he sees a hand pressed against Alex’s heart, like he’s trying to still its beating.

“Jesus, Laurens. You scared the crap out of me. I’m fine. Call of nature.” There’s a noise from somewhere faraway, echoing across the empty swathes of forest. Alex wrinkles his nose. “Not that horrifying-sounding call, I hasten to add. I could have gone my whole life without knowing just how horny coyotes get, you know.”

John laughs, and flops back down. The noise comes again, carried on the faint and stirring breath of the wind. He pushes himself back up onto his elbows, frowning over at where Alex is still standing, though Alex probably can’t make out the expression.

“That’s not a coyote,” John says, with confidence.

“Awesome,” Alex says, unenthusiastically. “What now? Horny bears?”

John untangles himself from the sleeping bag and ducks over to where Alex stands, sliding up close behind him and hooking a thoughtless hand at his hip as he tips his head to listen intently. Alex leans back into his warmth, and John can’t help the sharp intake of breath at the press of cold fingers against his bare skin. He hushes Alex’s snicker and folds his own warm hands around Alex’s cold ones in an attempt to keep him quiet long enough to catch the noise that he can’t quite place.

There. A shrieking sort of noise, too far away to distinguish from its own echoes. It’s not a coyote, or a fox, or a bear, horny or otherwise.

“I don’t think it’s an animal,” John says, slowly. Alex freezes against him, suddenly tense.

“What?” he asks, dumbly. John is already ducking away, flicking on his bright flashlight so he can see what the hell he’s doing, wrestling a hoodie over his head and stuffing his feet into his boots without stopping to put any socks on first. He grabs his pack—checks that it’s got his emergency supplies and a radio in it—and shoulders it.

“Hold the fuck up,” Alex says, almost tripping over himself in his hurry to follow suit and get his shoes onto his feet.

“Stay here,” John says firmly. Exactly one of them is trained to handle this kind of emergency, and it’s not Alex, who is very good at flipping bottles around and mixing drinks, but whose first aid training is probably limited to minor bar injuries, not to mention his complete lack of survival training.

“Yeah, right,” Alex says, fingers still unpicking the laces of the hiking boots John had bought him for trips just like this. “You’re telling me the murder-sounds of nature are in fact, real murder-sounds and you want me to stay alone in this tent? I don’t think so. I’ve seen horror movies.”

��They’re not murder-sounds,” John says. “But someone might need help.”

Alex, the angles of his face jarringly harsh in the bright white light spilling from the flashlight, shoots him a flat look, and John gives in. He drops into a crouch and unpicks the knots in Alex’s letters with quick fingers, not bothering to point out that if he’d taken the time to undo the laces properly in the first place, he wouldn’t be having this problem. Time and a place.

Before too long, they’re out in the cool night, John closing the tent up behind them.

“Stay close,” he says. “Don’t wander off. Do exactly what I tell you.”

Ordinarily, that might earn him a smart reply, but his voice must be serious enough to bypass Alex’s constant need for innuendo. Alex just nods, solemn, and falls into step just behind John, fingers brushing against his back to make sure he’s keeping him in reach.

It’s hard to tell where the noise is coming from. The trees littering the basin distort sounds, rattling it around like a pinball. Things that sound close can be miles away. It’s not uncommon for a stranded hiker to follow the sound of running water in search of a river, only to find later that they’d been walking directly away from it.

Every few hundred yards John stops, flashlight stabbing the darkness as he tips his head and strains desperate ears to catch hold of that echoing cry. Under the oppressive weight of the darkness, draped across them like too much velvet, the trees rise like grasping fingers from the stopped earth, canopies closing like a wild cathedral above their head. He checks the compass attached to his flashlight often, making sure that they won’t lose themselves, too.

The longer they walk, the closer Alex drifts to him, until he’s squeezing John’s hand almost too-tight. John doesn’t say shit, just clutches it as comfortingly as he can and tries to keep himself focused.

He’d have missed the phone if he hadn’t been sweeping the flashlight across their path at just the right moment. It’s face down, half-buried in a drift of early fall leaves, their bright colours dulled by the darkness. John crouches, and pulls it up. It’s a cheap thing, dirt-encrusted and with a joyous spider-web pattern of cracks dancing across the screen. But when John hits a button it lights up. It’s only dead pixels and noise, nothing clear enough to make out—but if it’s still holding a charge, then it hasn’t been out here all that long.

“Shouldn’t we wait until it’s light?” Alex asks, and it’s all-too easy to hear the anxiety grating at his words. “I mean, we can’t help anyone if we both fall and break our necks because it was too dark to see where we were putting our feet, right?”

“Nobody is gonna break their neck,” says John firmly, even though it’s a real fear he’s doing his best not to think too hard about. This is a job for search and rescue, not an off-duty park ranger. But cell service is spotty as hell out here, and even if it wasn’t, it’d take hours to get someone out here, and longer still to pinpoint exactly where they’re at. If they can just reach whoever it is, then they can apply whatever first aid is needed and dig in until help arrives. “It’s gonna be fine. Come on.”

He slides his hand to Alex’s back to press him forward and keep him moving, making sure to illuminate the ground as best he can with the flashlight for both of them. There’s a little gap between Alex’s pants and his sweater, bare skin that feels freezing to John’s touch. He makes an unhappy little noise, wishing he’d put his foot down and made Alex stay behind. A tent on your own in the dark might be sorta unsettling, but Alex isn’t built for this, let alone trained.

“You’re freezing,” he murmurs.

Alex glances up at him, blankly, and it’s a long moment before he wraps his arms around his torso like he’s only just realised it, hugging himself for warmth.

“I’m always freezing,” he says, flippantly, and really doesn’t land it. “But I’m serious, John. If we don’t find someone soon, we should rethink. I feel like we’re walking in fucking circles.”

They’re not, because John’s making sure they’re not, but he can feel a touch of the same hopelessness riding on his own shoulders. Difference being, he’s not going to give into it, because there’s someone out there who needs their help. Someone who doesn’t even have a phone anymore, and whose only hope is screaming out into the unpeopled darkness and praying.

“We’ll find them,” he says, with more confidence than he feels.

The forest is quiet around them, except for that intermittent and irregular piercing cry. The coyotes must be elsewhere tonight and it’s a good thing, too; if there’s someone lying on the ground and bleeding then they’d make an easy enough meal. Every time he hears it, something in John ratchets a little bit tighter; the harmonics of fear in the wailing, carried notes settling themselves into his bones and infecting him, little by little.

If he stops moving, he thinks, that fear will root him to the ground.

But they’re getting close now, he’s sure of it. The voice—and he’s sure it’s a voice, though it’s incoherent and afraid—is getting louder, the sounds clearer. Maybe it’s just a trick of the mind, but he’s sure that every so often he can make out a word, or two, just on the edge of understanding. Like when you listen to a song played backwards and your brain picks out false sense from the chaos.

The flashlight beam catches something that winks brightly for a moment, a brief reflection at waist height. With dread creeping up on him like a predator, he swings the light back to find it again.

It’s hard to tell in the harsh, clinical light juxtaposed with the silken blackness around it, but the dark wetness sprayed across the tree looks like blood.

“What the fuck,” John says, breath punched from him. The flashlight wanders from tree to tree, picking out the violent sprays of it, dripping with grotesque patience towards the leaf-littered ground. He’s never seen anything like this, like something was torn apart here, thrown around like a bleeding ragdoll.

“John,” Alex says, tightly. For a moment John barely hears him among the ringing in his ears, the rush of his own blood as if calling out to its spilled cousin, there on the bark. It’s only when Alex grabs his arm that John shakes himself out of it. The flashlight swings around to illuminate Alex’s face. He raises a hand against its brightness, eyes squinting, and John remembers to drop it a little so as not to blind him. Alex blinks rapidly, peering up at John with his lips pressed tight and bloodless together.

Afraid, John thinks. So am I.

Some part of him frames some melodramatic thoughts, and then wonders if they’re not so melodramatic after all. Whoever’s in danger, they haven’t just slipped and fallen, wandered too far from a trail and lost track of daylight. And did an animal really do this? Drive someone deep into the forest, in too much of a hurry to keep a hold of their phone, and then litter the trees with their blood?

He’s heard horror stories of park rangers stumbling on the burial sites of serial killers, nothing much more than urban legends strung together out of morbid details and scary movies. But right now, they seem so much more than just stories.

Something moves in the darkness, just in the corner of John’s vision, and close to the ground. Instinctively, he puts himself between Alex and whatever—whoever—it is, only to hear that haunting, groaning cry. Weaker now, desperate and interlaced with what must be sobs.

Alex grabs John’s face before he can turn to search the darkness with the flashlight.

“Don’t look,” Alex says, and it sounds like he’s pleading. “Jesus, John, just… just keep looking at me. Don’t turn around.”

“What,” John manages, not even a question. Just a syllable falling already dead from his tongue. “He needs help.”

“It’s too late for help,” Alex says, and wrenches John back closer when he tries to turn away, to fumble out of Alex’s grip. John’s hand rises to press against Alex’s chest, not quite sure whether it’s trying to pull him close or push him away. “We should have turned back when I told you.”

“What the fuck, Alex,” John says. He’s all off-balance and breathing fast, and he doesn’t understand what’s happening, and there’s someone out there who’s hurt, maybe even dying, and Alex is looking directly into his eyes and begging him not go. In the harsh shadows thrown up by the flashlight, Alex’s face is nothing much more than a few darker shadows pooling in on themselves. John can’t see his eyes, not really, just the black spots where they ought to be.

“Don’t turn around, John.” This time, it sounds more like an order.

John feels something high and hard in his chest that tastes like panic. The chaos of his fear sharpens everything, like the world is suddenly high definition. Like he can hear in perfect pitch. The choking, screaming sound behind him is constant now, and his imagination is painting vicious, ugly pictures of somebody retching on their own blood, tongue nothing but a bloody stump, desperate to be saved. The faint, dragging rustle is somebody pulling themselves along the ground, he’s sure. So close to salvation.

The sudden noise scares John shitless.

The tinny music takes a long moment to register, heart thundering into overdrive at the suddenness of its blaring, jarring against the backdrop of panicked breathing and the terrified cries and the savage silence of the wood.

The Blues Brothers. Hey Bartender. It’s Alex’s ringtone for Herc.

“Jesus,” he says. His mouth tastes like copper and something acidic. “Fuck, mierda. I need to help him, Alex. Answer it, ask him to call search and rescue. Tell ‘em my name, they should be able to pin down our general location from my cell.”

Alex doesn’t move. His fingers tighten against John’s face, hard enough to hurt, and John gasps in a breath as he lifts the hand not still clutching the flashlight to try and pry them away.

“Alex,” he says. “What the fuck are you doing?”

Like a puzzle finally falling into place, several things register in John’s brain all at once, a neat little picture resolving itself with perfect, terrible clarity. The realisation is staggering enough to feel like a physical blow, numbing his fingers and sending the flashlight tumbling to the ground. For a brief moment during its spinning fall, the light cuts a phosphorous-white slash across Alex’s face.

One; though the sobbing, choking noises from behind him are mangled and strange and awful, they’re familiar, somehow. Made with a voice he’s sure he’d recognise anywhere.

Two; the jazzy strains of the Blues Brothers aren’t coming from Alex’s pocket but his own, where he’d shoved a cracked cell phone shattered and dirtied beyond recognition.

And three; in the middle of the night and pulled abruptly from dreaming, it’s probably hard to tell the difference between somebody halfway out of a tent, and somebody halfway in.

John feels how cold the fingers on his face are even as the too-sharp nails sink into cheeks hard enough to draw blood. And that’s not right because Alex bites his nails and they’re always chewed to the quick, short and blunt. He feels something hot well up, roll down towards his jaw.

“Oh, John,” says the person standing in front of him wearing his boyfriend’s face. “Whatever will we do with you and that little heart of gold? If only you’d been just a little more selfish.”

John claws at the hands on face, scrabbles at the wrists and finds that he can’t shift them, can’t prise the fingers from his face even as they move in towards his mouth, his nose. And out there, in the forest-dark, the only witness is the trees, and the wordless, sobbing screams of the man digging bloodied, battered fingers into the soft wet soil of the forest floor, too far and too weak to do anything but watch.

#kingofdirtandnothing #it's a becs special #long and vague with no particular plot #you're so welcome #feelin spooky (tm)#and ur the lucky recipient #&. hamilton #&. hamilton//drabbles #&. hamilton//v: forestry

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earth-ambassador-jim · 4 years

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Lost Souls: Story 3

The Tower (part 2)

Summary: Merlin awakens early from his sleep. He decides that he doesn’t want to leaving anything to chance and kidnaps the young James Lake Jr. to began training his Trollhunter as early as possible.

Barbara is determined to hunt down the man who kidnapped her son. In her efforts to get her son back she finds a strange old radio that speaks to her in a woman’s voice. The radio leads her to an underground society of shapeshifters.

Mother and son meet again years later as strangers on opposing sides.

AO3 - Fanfiction

~~~~

The candles flickered, casting eerie shadows on the walls of the basement as Barbara opened the envelope containing Jim’s baby hair. She carefully removed a single strand and wound it around the dowsing crystal. She released it to hang freely and it bobbed aimlessly casting little motes of light on the map beneath it.

“ivevzo gsv ldmvi.” Barbara murmured. The words came out in a plume of white breath and settled on the crystal.

She watched, every fiber of her being was tense, as it started to swing back and forth. She prayed to anyone that was listening that it would work this time. The crystal spun faster and faster, then…

It gradually slowed until it went limp.

She stared at it blankly for a moment before bringing her fist down on the table with a sharp frustrated growl. The crystal clinked pitifully against one of the candleholders.

Why couldn’t she find him? What was she doing wrong?

Barbara rested her head in her hands and her shoulders shook but no tears came. It had been eleven months now since Jim had been kidnapped, seven since she had remembered what had actually happened. She needed to figure out something soon. The more time passed, the less likely she was to get him back.

She was beginning to wonder if there was a Jim to get back. She heard stories of what sometimes happened to children who were taken: decades passing before their bones were found in some rarely visited park. Not to mention some of the magic books had warned of the more dangerous… cruel things people did with magic.

Barbara quickly squashed that thought down. She refused to give up on her son.

She got up from her chair and paced around in the basement. The flames of the candles ducked and bobbed with every stirring of air created by her movements.

Maybe she was going about this the wrong way. She’d been trying to locate Jim after all, but what if she tried to find his kidnapper instead…

The problem with that was she knew next to nothing about the man aside from his appearance. All the spells and charms for finding people, or at least the ones she’d acquired, generally required something like hair or a personal belonging or a name. She had none of those.

She completed another circuit of the floor. One of the candles wavered and died. Shadows crawled into the emptiness the light left.

Barbara paused, an idea forming.

She shifted through the stacks of magic books until she found the old leather bound one at the bottom. She had been hesitant to use it because a lot of the spells in it were exactly what the other books had warned against but… well… the other books had gotten her no closer to finding Jim.

She sat back down and relit the candle that had gone out. Jim’s hair tickled her fingers as she wrapped her hands the dowsing crystal and concentrated. At first she focused on Jim and on her desperation to get him back, but then she thought of the man that had taken him. She tried to imagine him clearly in her mind. The curl of righteous anger that had been burning in her sparked viciously. This time she didn’t fight it. There was power in strong emotions.

She waited until her whole being was tingling with rage and magic and then she pricked her finger on the crystal.

“Tfrwv nv, Evmtvzmxv!” She snarled.

She released the crystal. It swung out from her hand, a drop of red glimmering on the tip of it, and instead of circling as it had before it came to an immediate stop.

Barbara stared, open-mouthed, as the dowsing crystal hung there an angle, a soft yellow light glowing from inside it. The drop of blood slipped off its tip and fell, marking the map.

~~~~

The bell jingled as Barbara slipped into the antique shop. It was an unusual store created in an ancient barn. She wouldn’t have been surprised if the rickety structure had been built by the first settlers in this area. It was the sort of place that old things gathered.

Once inside the crystal, still glowing a faint yellow, lead her to the far back of the upstairs. The dusty rafters that soared above her head held chandeliers and model planes and paper kites. In this corner, a shaft of light from the window lit a small section of items that appeared to be from either the first or second world war. An air of melancholy hung over them.

She took another step; she could almost feel the magic in the crystal pulling her forward. It pulsed once, twice, and then there was a blinding yellow flash and the crystal hung dull and lifeless again.

Absently Barbara tucked it in her pocket as she looked at the collection of stuff before her. This was certainly better than searching the whole building but…

The small radio at the front of the display started crackling. Barbara jerked, caught off guard by the sound. The display on the front of it flickered as it turned on.

“Hello,” A woman’s voice whispered through the static.

Barbara eyed it warily. If it wasn’t for the tingle of magic in the air she might have thought this was a prank.

“It’s rude not to answer,” The voice said in a chiding tone.

“Who are you?” Barbara asked.

She wasn’t sure what she had been expecting. Certainly not a strange woman speaking to her through a radio. Despite the poor quality of the speaker and the persistent static the voice was… beautiful. Enchanting even. It seeped through Barbara like a cold fog.

“I have many names but you may call me Morgana.”

“Morgana,” Barbara repeated. Where had she heard that name? “What are you? Are you an oracle or a spirit?”

Morgana laughed.

“Of course not. I am a sorceress: a user of ancient magic and spells. It is by those powers I can channel my voice to you… But enough about me. Tell me, child, what do you seek? I can feel your rage and despair. They are what drew my attention to you.”

There was an intense interest in her voice. The fine hair on the back of Barbara’s neck prickled. Something deep and primal in the back of her mind whispered “run”. She ignored it. Her magic had led her here. This was the first lead she had found and she would be damned if she threw it away that easily.

She drew in a breath and began talking before she could second guess herself.

“I… eleven months ago my son was taken from me,” She started carefully, uncomfortable sharing this with a stranger. “It was the night of his birthday… I came upstairs to check on him while he was sleeping and there was this old man getting ready to carry him away through a glowing green circle of light. I tried to stop him…” She paused and swallowed. “But he did something. When I woke up I couldn’t remember what had happened. I only knew that Jim was gone.”

She drew in a shaky breath.

“I kept getting flashes of memory until seven months ago when it all came back. I’ve been trying to find him since.”

“I see,” Morgana said with a thoughtful hum. “The fact you were able to push through the memory charm testifies to the strength of your magic.”

There was a pause, broken only by the flickering static of the radio. Barbara vaguely registered that the light from the window had dimmed slightly. It was getting late.

“Green magic you said… Can you describe what the man looked like?”

“He was old,” Barbara started. “He had grey hair and a beard… and a rather beaky nose. He was wearing black armor with a strange little piece of metal up on top of his head… oh and he had a staff with a glowing green crystal… An emerald maybe?”

“Merlin,” Morgana hissed.

A glass on a nearby shelf rattled.

“You recognize him?” Barbara asked, before registering the name. “Wait… Merlin? Like from the old stories about King Arthur?”

Morgana scoffed.

“Of course he would be the one everyone thinks of… but, yes... He and Arthur were very real. Keep in mind that the stories have been changed quite a bit over time.”

There was a pause.

“Perhaps we can help each other.”

“With what?” Barbara had been half expecting this, it would be odd if this strange, seemingly powerful, woman was willing to help her for nothing.

“We share a common enemy,” Morgana said in a slow thoughtful tone. “The man who stole your son is the same one who trapped me in this prison…”

“Trapped you?”

“Yes. We were once something like friends, but then he cut off my hand to make a magic amulet. I attacked him seeking to avenge myself and to reclaim my flesh. He tried to kill me but could not, so he froze me in crystal.”

“He cut off your hand?!”

Barbara felt sick to her stomach. If he had done that to someone who thought of him as a friend what would he do to Jim? She felt her heartrate pick up, blood thumping in her ears. She wouldn’t let that happen. This whole thing was fishy, and Barbara didn’t doubt Morgana was hiding things, but this was her best chance. She squared her shoulders and took a deep breath.

“What do I do?”

“So you will help me?” Morgana purred.

“Yes. I will do whatever it takes to get Jim back and stop Merlin.”

“Splendid! Then I shall be your guide so long as our goals aline.”

She paused and in that moment of quiet Barbara heard the shopkeeper call that it was closing time. The sun had vanished from the window.

“Oh!”

Barbara shifted her gaze back to the radio.

“I don’t believe I’ve gotten your name yet.”

The shopkeeper called out again and Barbara ignored him, she would head downstairs in a moment.

“It’s Barbara… Barbara Lake.”

“Barbara… Lake…” Morgana drew the name out slowly, seeming to taste it. “I look forward to getting to know you.”

Barbara shivered. In the many long years that followed she would desperately wish she had left that radio and ran.

~~~~

Author Note:

The chapter title "The Tower" references a tarot card.

This chapter took forever to write, but I'm glad I took the time.

As always be sure to let me know what you think!

(Also: @twistedmashup I tag you!)

#Tales of Arcadia #Trollhunters #trollhunters fanfiction #Barbara Lake #Morgana #TOA morgana #Magic #blood #dark magic #dowsing #Lost Souls #Child Champion AU #Trollhunters AUs #my aus #My writing #my posts

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fancyharry · 5 years

Text

third time’s a charm

hello! this is a little prequel to my niall series “Mother’s Day”, which you can read here!

I am planning to write some more about this little universe, and would love to hear feedback and some more concepts that you come up with! i’m so glad I felt mentally better to finish a piece of work and I'm so excited to share this little world with you all :) Enjoy!!

word count: 3k

trigger warning: miscarriage, grief, loss.

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The warmth of the mild June morning seeps through your skin as you stretch out in bed. You have plenty of room, given that it’s gone eleven o’clock and so your husband will already be halfway around the local golf course with his mates from the pub. He has pulled back the curtains already, knowing how fond you are of waking up in a warm glow with the sun beaming down on you. Sitting up, you smile, gazing out of the nearby window to the somewhat never-ending countryside, seeing grassy hills, lochs, and farms in the not-so-distant landscape.

The peace of the surrounding nature was just one of the reasons you love living here - another being the freedom to do as you liked, as you and Niall are simply locals and nothing more to the people in this little village you now call home. You purchased the house 3 years ago and now, fully decorated, there’s no place you’d rather live with Niall in the whole world.

Usually, you’d be able to relax, or tidy the kitchen from the night before, perhaps even sit outside to soak up some of the glorious sun. But no. Today, circled on the calendar in a bright red ink it is noted that you have a doctors appointment. Meaning that you have to leave your cosy little haven and discuss your health. Something, as of late, you’ve been keeping an eye on.

While this was just a regular three month check up, you know that the words which still weigh you down so heavily, are bound to be mentioned - loss, grief, miscarriage. Even the soft and caring “so how are you doing?” was going to be tough to get through. Despite your recent troubles, your doctor has remained good natured and kind during your appointments. She respects you and your situation, and has been of great assistance medically and emotionally in the past year or so. You don’t mind the company, but rather dread the conversation awaiting you.

oOo

You head out the door after making minimal effort to look better than you did earlier. What need was there to get dressed up when were just going to go to the doctors, come home, and cry? As per usual. You would laugh at the routine you’d accidentally twisted yourself into, but it’s hardly a laughing matter when your husband has to console you for the rest of the week.

Your appointment is 12.30 sharp, and you’re ten minutes early, focusing on the list you’d written in haste a few days prior which had been stuffed into your jacket pocket. It was easier to bring up your list of concerns to the doctor, if it meant you didn’t have to talk about them. This month? Feeling faint, headaches, little energy, irregular periods. All part of the grieving process, maybe.

Maybe not.

“Y/N Horan?” you hear your name called, and tuck the list away back into your pocket before standing, smiling briefly as you follow the doctor through to her office.

“Hi there Y/N...no Niall today?”

“No he...he’s out this morning. He doesn’t know, doesn’t like to check the calendar any more than once or twice a month so...it’s just me” you admit. You didn’t need Niall cancelling his plans and getting uptight and worried about you. It’s better this way, you reckon.

“Well then, it’s your appointment and this of course is all confidential. I hope he is still being supportive?” She speaks calmly, but with a hint of speculation in her tone.

“Yes! Absolutely. He’s great. Just wanted to do this myself. He had plans this morning and I’ve been doing better so...” you tail off, wondering how on earth you will handle this when you return home. You halt that thought with a quick smile directed at the woman sitting opposite you at her desk. “Yeah. He’s the best.”

And he is. Through the last year he’s been nothing but heaven-sent. Holding you close, making sure you rest, eat, and get out of bed on those days that just seemed too hard. You know how much he has suffered too and yet he’d been your rock.

You know that he’s cried at night while he thinks you’re asleep.

Losing one child in the early stages of pregnancy had been bad enough. You’d taken so many tests which had turned out negative, until one finally stated “positive” and “3 weeks”. You only carried that baby for two more weeks before you lost them. You’d cried, he had cried, you took a break from trying, praying that you would heal together and that next time you’d be luckier.

And barely 5 months later you fell pregnant again. You’d thought you were out in the clear at 7 weeks, getting ready to start telling your closest family and friends.

However, instead of calling people to tell them the good news, an ambulance was called, and your bloodied bedsheets were thrown out. In the space of 6 months you’d lost two babies. Two tiny baby Horan’s, who you had promised to give the world to. Both ripped from you in some sick twist of fate.

It wasn’t fair.

“Well good!” Your doctor chirps, dragging your from your thoughts. “I’m glad. It seems you have a great support system at home. Now, are there any queries you-”

“Yes!” you blurt out, before cringing at your own eagerness. You fumble with your list before handing it over. She reads it, taking her time to smooth out the crinkled paper and thinking over every possible symptom and diagnosis she can make from what you’ve written. For you, the silence in the room is deafening.

“Okay...so from this, there’s a couple of tests i’d like to run...would that be alright? I could always schedule you in for another t-”

You stop her again in her tracks. “Now is good. Whatever needs done, I can do it now.”

oOo

You take 3 different types of tests, each taking only a few minutes to register results. The thought that whatever is wrong with you is so tangible and potentially serious that your doctor asks for you to take three tests right then and there, is doing nothing for your nerves. You’re sitting alone in the office as the doctor prints through the results, and you wish - for the first time since you first sat in the waiting room - that you’d at least told Niall. And just maybe, that you’d brought him here, too. He always knew how to make you feel better, safe, and calm, even if he was facing the same outcome.

Your thoughts are interrupted as your doctor walks into the room - luckily with a smile.

“Well, one positive result came up for you”

Your heart just about stops with her news. Positive? A diagnosis about something today? Right now?

Without Niall?

“Oh”, is all you can muster up the courage to say “oh, right”.

“Well I know we spoke earlier and you gave me that list to look through...I thought one of the samples you gave could be used for a pregnancy test.”

Okay, now you really needed Niall here.

The doctor evaluates your reaction and pauses. She shuffles her chair closer and smiles, a true genuine smile. It almost makes you feel better.

“Y/N, you said something about having irregular periods, a couple of near-fainting spells...I wanted to double check just to rule it out but the pregnancy test...it came back positive. I believe that you've just been spotting a little, and you’re not getting the right vitamins you need.”

After hearing the word “positive” you’ve gone blank. You don’t hear much else. It’s the third time you’ve heard this news, yet you’re childless. You swallow back a mix of saliva and bile as it rises in your throat.

“it says you’re between 7 and 8 weeks. I think it’s important we discuss this.”

oOo

Heading home, you clutch the steering wheel, trying to ignore the small pile of paper on the passenger seat in your peripheral vision. Pregnant. Well, you hadn't seen that coming. And your husband definitely won’t either. Your mind is between driving, and wondering how on earth you’ll do this, how you’ll prepare, how you’ll even go about telling Niall because you know the moment you see his face, you’ll break.

It’s a long 15 minutes home. The radio is muted, while the country landscape provides some form of comfort blanket as you worry through each scenario racing through your mind. It’s only 2pm, but you just want to go to bed and sleep away the fogginess of whatever hallucination you're living in. Dream it away and wake up to clearer skies and a sense of understanding.

You roll up the driveway, right next to Niall’s land-rover. You remember when he bought it, not even needing much of the car salesman’s persuasion; “it’s perfect for rural areas, plus big enough to take up to 7 people. Can also fit in any size of child carrier, which we also stock.”

Niall was sold, and at the time, so were you. Now you just see the car and its emptiness. Even if you filled the back seats with shopping or luggage, there was only just the two of you travelling. Well, maybe three now.

oOo

Stepping into the house, you can’t help but already feel your eyes start to brim with tears. Your favourite candle is burning, and you can faintly hear music from down the hallway, coming from Niall’s home studio. You didn’t even mind that it was only 70% soundproof - his talent was unfathomable and you enjoyed listening to him create music as if he was pulling the melodies and chords straight from the sun and stars above.

You shuffle your shoes off, heading over to the studio just to be near him for a moment - just before you fully break. You want to remember him like this; not knowing. Not worrying.

He has headphones on and is scribbling words and chord progressions down. Whether it comes to fruition or not, he thrives on the process. He bashes out a few more chords while you go to take off your coat and move away from the door, when he looks up through a sliver of the window in the door.

He’s surprised, to say the least. Of course, given that he hadn't seen you all day, he’s delighted that he’s finally able to embrace you and spend the rest of his day with his favourite person.

Niall had in fact, been a bit worried when he arrived home to see that you had left in the car. Nevertheless, he decided that spending time in the studio would ease his mind. He’d also been entertaining the possibility of having a pet, a new life inhabiting the beautiful 4 bedroom home you lived in. A puppy, he was thinking - or a kitten if it’s what you’d want instead. He just wants you to be happy, knowing that your true purpose in life is to care for others. It hurts him that you’re barely managing to care for yourself, and that he hasn't been able to give you a child, a little love created by the two of you.

“There’s m’lover, where ya been?” he opens the door and steps out just in joggers and a casual t-shirt. His eyes are pure sunshine, his embrace warm, open, and loving, until he sees you’re trying to hold back tears. In an instant, his eyebrows furrow as his face deepens with worry. His embrace is softer, kinder, now afraid that one wrong word and he’ll have lost you for the rest of the day.

Tentatively, he whispers, stepping much closer to you.

“...What’s happened? hey c'mere”

You can only shake your head silently as the overwhelming mixed emotions build up, and so he pulls you in even closer, hoping that it will make things even a little bit better. You can’t be in his arms for long though, and he realises as you weaken against him. The sofa in the studio is already pulled out and he makes sure you're stable enough to sit you there, before kneeling before you.

“you need to sit, Ni. Please, for me.” And this time it’s not just for the sake of his bad knee.

So he sits, taking your hand to hold, rubbing your thumb with his as he faces you waiting for you to stop nervously biting your lip.

“Baby c’mon, you’re scarin’ me...” Niall prompts you, his own voice shaking now as you both wait for you to get your words out properly.

“I was at the doctors Ni...I, somehow I, I know we weren’t trying but....I’m pregnant”

Your breath is now held, time ticking by so slowly it feels, as you sit there waiting for his reaction. The wind had most certainly been knocked out of you when you were told. The terrifying prospect of having another chance after the trauma of losing two in just a few months prior, is extremely daunting, and causes for a true silence to be better able to come to terms with the news.

“And i’m scared, we stopped trying because we can’t lose another one...not again.” Your voice breaks as you finally let the tears fall.

The whole time, he’s been frozen still, his mouth parted slightly and blinking every few moments when another stream of information floods his brain with possibilities - both positive and negative. He can’t quite believe it, all this news coming to him at once leaves him utterly speechless. He’s surprised, not only that you went to the doctors office alone, but that you’re expecting his baby, too.

He finally breaks the dam of deafening silence as he sees you cry. Your words had previously been muffled in his head ever since you had said “pregnant” when his mind began racing a mile a minute. But now you’re in front of him, crying, and scared of losing yet another baby, something that has broken you twice before, back when he world felt against the two of you and when soft touches and intimacy were coated with what-ifs, and an unmistakeable tension between the two of you.

You weren't sure you could face that for a third time.

“Darlin’, oh darlin’ it’ll be okay...” he comforts you, immediately by your side and holding you close “Did the doctor say the baby was healthy?”

Seeing you nod through your tears was enough for him, his face lighting up as you confirm that you’re growing a healthy baby.

“Yeah?” he smiles softly “Please don’t cry. I can’t see ya like this. Can’t see the mother of m’child like this...we’re gonna be parents” and in his wonderful charming way, he’s finally able to get a small smile from you. He squeezes you and kisses your temple as he sees this. “This is gonna be it, I can feel it. We deserve this. S’gonna be alright this time. M’gonna look after ya.”

“But what if it’s not alright again Ni..I can’t lose a third...I can’t put us through that again...what if I can’t carry a baby full term and I only ever get to be 8 weeks along! I-” You burst out, confirming Niall’s thoughts that the pressure of a healthy pregnancy was weighing you down already, your past already threatening you with the worst before you even get to envision the best. He’s about to console you further, explaining that you’re just early, you can take it slow, and he’ll be there for you regardless, as he promised when he married you all those years ago.

It’s not until you say 8 weeks, that he halts his words before he’s even begun, and his mouth falls open in surprise.

“8 weeks...8?! Already?! You’ve definitely had a drink or two love, and we’re not exactly tame in the bedroom...’v’never made it this far before...does it not make ya think....that this one is already so strong?” Niall reasons with you, tenderly. Your tears have run down your cheeks and your face remains red and slightly puffy but for now, you’ve stopped crying, considering his words carefully.

“Yeah i guess..it’s just terrifying Ni, I can’t-” you start off strong, but continue your thoughts with your head bowed in shame, whispering “it’s like I’m scared to love them...’

He shushes you, heartbroken that you feel even the tiniest bit of doubt that this time, it won’t happen. That this is just another set up for a certain loss. He kisses your temple, his arm wrapped around your waist protectively.

“Whatever happens, we have each other. we’ll do what we have to do. But ya gotta know that i’m gonna start loving on this baby from this very moment, ‘cause i know we’ve got a little fighter in there.”

And he means it. He intends to keep that spark of hope alive for the both of you until you feel like perhaps there is a happy ending, and that the third time is the charm after all. He takes you upstairs after he’s able to lift your spirits, the studio soon filled with soft laughter and so much love. When you go to order some dinner, he absolutely insists on you making an appointment to see the baby.

He’s with you through all of your fears as you candidly discuss them together that evening. It’s something that your doctor had recommended, and it means that you’re both on the same page. He can soothe your worries, and you get to tell him everything you know about the baby. It makes it much more real and far less scary when you look at things together.

oOo

You head to bed together that night. He’s soothed almost every little worry you have for hours and in turn, he’s now an expert on the tiny little love inside you.

“Gonna get ya some vitamins tomorrow. Gotta keep ya strength up for this little lover” Niall whispers in the darkness of the bedroom.

“Little lover is a cute nickname,” you muster up the courage to hope and dream, “we can write that on their crib, too.’

Niall grins.

The curtains are shut as you both lay there, talking about all the possibilities you have now as three. He’s pressed against you in the middle of the bed, his hand with his wedding ring on your barely-there belly. You feel safe, comfortable, and most surprisingly of all, excited. The love between you and Niall in this very moment is tangible and deeper than you could’ve ever imagined.

You may be in the same room as you woke up anxious and alone in that morning, but here, now, in that very place, you realise that home is a person, not a place.

#niall writing #niall horan #husband!niall #dad!niall #slow-handed #stylishmuser #irish-nlessing #harrywavycurly #latelatenarry #niallandharrymakemestrong #wdmsusie #niall horan fic #niall #narry2k19 #500daysofniall

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keeroo92 · 5 years

Text

True North Part 3

This practically write itself. Thanks again @clevermentalitybeliever for your support! I kinda have to apologize for the giant pile of angst I’m leaving you, but the payout’s gonna be so good...This has turned into quite a project and I’m loving every minute!

Link to Part 1

Link to Part 2

Trigger/content warning - mentions of physical abuse.

____________________

V rubbed his eyes and stifled a yawn, putting the car in park. He was half an hour early for work, but this was when you normally arrived. Your car wasn’t there yet, not a good sign. He took a gulp of his coffee, the strongest the barista could manage. So far, it hadn’t helped much. Six shots only to not lose consciousness.

He occupied his mind by thinking of new jokes, new ways to make you smile. Did you like pranks? Dante played enough on him as a child, he had plenty of ideas. Some would need to be toned down, Dante wasn’t exactly gentle.

He checked his phone. Ten minutes since he arrived.

How long should he wait before texting you? There hadn’t been any more messages since last night, but even in his current state he knew he was being paranoid. He couldn’t stop worrying, it was eating him alive and he didn’t understand why. You were his boss and his friend, yes, but so was Nero and he didn’t have this reaction to him being in danger.

Well, Nero is a fighter. He can take care of himself. She can’t.

That I know of.

He took another sip of coffee. The trouble was how much he simply didn’t know. His mind filled in the blanks with the worst case scenarios on repeat, merciless in its torment. It made him want to scream.

Another sip.

Was that an engine? He scanned the portion of road he could see in the rearview mirror, spotting a sedan on approach. It was the wrong color and he sat back with a huff. How long now? He checked his phone.

It’s only been fifteen minutes.

He sighed. Truly, this was driving him mad. All he wanted was to see you safe, make sure he hadn’t fucked up again. Why was that so exhausting, just to want one person to be safe?

Another sip.

His phone dinged.

Srry for late request, can U pick me up? Caleb not home.

V frowned. Was something wrong with your car? Did Caleb damage it somehow? It didn’t matter – he’d find out soon enough. He tapped out a quick response that he was on the way and started the car.

---Reader---

You smiled at his response. It was a relief to know that despite the disaster last night, V would still be there for you. He was a good man, a good friend. Honorable. Funny. Attractive.

And there I go again, thinking about how wonderful my employee is…

You distracted yourself by checking your email, catching up on your inbox as you waited by the window. There he was, pulling in right out front. You tapped the screen and hit send, telling him you were headed out to meet him.

You checked your reflection one more time, lifting the hem of your shirt to eye the angry bruise covering the lowest rib on the left side. It hurt like a bitch, but you didn’t think anything was broken. Cracked, at worst. You could get it looked at after work. All you had to do was not breathe deeply or twist and it should be fine.

Goddamnit, Caleb…

He was so kind growing up. Only over the last few years had he turned sour and angry. Sometimes he showed glimpses of who he used to be, and you weren’t quite ready to give up on him yet. Besides, he’d only hurt you a few times. Things would get better. He would get better. You just had to have faith.

He’s my brother and he loves me. He’s just going through a tough time.

You sighed and grabbed your purse. A twinge of pain in your side reminded you not to do that and you grimaced. It was going to be a long day.

Outside, V already had the door open for you. He looked exhausted, dark circles under his eyes and a dull sheen replacing the usual glint of energy within them. It was obvious he’d barely slept. You tried to move the same way you always did, hiding the pain under a mask of normalcy. Pain was temporary, family was forever.

“Thanks for coming,” you said. V smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Anytime.”

As if I didn’t feel bad enough already…

You buckled your seatbelt and realized this was the first time you’d ridden with him. He didn’t seem like he’d be a reckless driver, but you crossed your fingers anyway.

“So, where’s your car?” he asked.

“Caleb borrowed it.”

He frowned and pulled onto the main road. So far, so good. He was silent for a long time, eyes focused on the road. The silence was deafening, and you were tempted to try the radio when his lips parted.

“What happened after I left?”

There it was. The question you had no idea how to answer. You hated lying, and V deserved better. The truth was on the tip of your tongue, begging to be spoken. You swallowed and looked at your lap, watching your fingers fidget.

“He calmed down and went to bed. No big deal.”

His eyes stole a glance at your face as he stopped for a red light. He didn’t look away until the car in front of him moved, not even blinking as he watched you. It was unnerving and you hoped he’d go back to his normal self by the time you got to work.

Maybe a little less funny for a few days, just till I’m better…

He sighed. “You know, I don’t just think of you as my boss. You’re my friend. If Caleb ever crosses the line, I hope you trust me enough to tell me.”

Fuck, how do I respond to that?

The truth welled up in your throat again, threatening to force its way into the open. You closed your eyes and clenched your jaw until it subsided. The desire to tell V everything was strong, but you were stronger. You had to be.

“I do trust you. There’s nothing to worry about. He’s all bark, no bite.”

Your voice sounded tremulous to your ears, but V nodded. His easy acceptance of your lie left you feeling sick as he pulled into the parking lot. Bile rose in your throat and you shoved it back as you got out of the car, moving slowly to favor your rib.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” V asked.

Damnit.

“Just a stomachache, I’ll be fine once I get some pepto.”

Once inside, you took stock. It wasn’t usually a problem if you left the shop in Peter’s hands, it rarely got busy enough to warrant more than two people working at a time. Nothing looked too far behind, so yesterday was more of the same.

“Can you start the sorting? I’ll do some appraisals until we open,” you said. Though he didn’t look happy to be assigned work on the other side of the building, V did as you asked. You breathed a careful sigh of relief and got to work, praying you’d make it through the day.

---V---

It was over a week before you seemed normal again, moving with ease and confidence throughout the shop. He hated keeping his mouth shut, hated that he was at least eighty percent certain of why you favored your left side. It stung that you didn’t trust him enough to tell him the truth, but he understood and did his best to respect the boundary.

He swore if it ever happened again, he would unleash all his fury on Caleb.

The time he shared with you was precious and rare as the holidays approached, one of the two busy seasons. You hired a few seasonal employees and sent V to handle their training. It was either a compliment to his growing skill or an attempt to maintain some distance, and his mixed feelings left him confused and annoyed.

He wished every day that the easy, joking nature of your friendship would return, and every day he was disappointed. It hurt, far more than he would’ve guessed. You were the first friend he’d made in his new life after the Qlipoth. He was friendly with all his coworkers, but none of them made him smile the way you did.

He missed his familiars, too. Their companionship was worth more than he knew, and every time he felt the threads of connection that once flowed to them it broke his heart a little bit more.

By the week of Thanksgiving, he was the opposite of thankful.

He didn’t have any plans for the evening itself, and found himself going to work just to keep his mind occupied. He had a key now. You trusted him more with your business than your friendship.

Stop thinking about it. It never helps. Focus on the task in front of you.

A massive pile of new arrivals arrived just yesterday. It needed to be sorted and appraised, then he’d see how much he could fit on the sales floor before Black Friday. A daunting task, perfect to use as a distraction. He lost himself in it easily.

Hours passed. He didn’t notice how late it was until his phone buzzed angrily on the counter by his elbow. Nero was calling.

We’ve barely spoken in months, why is he calling me now?

He tapped the green button, then put it on speaker. “Hello.”

“V! Where the fuck are you? Turkey’s almost ready!”

His brows furrowed. Not once had Nero mentioned he was welcome for the feast, and Fortuna was a seven hour drive away. He picked up the phone and switched off speaker, already pacing. He could barely hear the young man with the cacophony in the background. Quite a party he was missing.

“What are you talking about? I wasn’t told I was welcome.”

“Dude. We didn’t think you were so dense you needed to hear it out loud. You’re always welcome.”

His lips twitched. A simple miscommunication, then. How absurd, to have wasted so much energy and time feeling lonely. Relationships were far too complicated; he wasn’t a mind reader, how was he supposed to know?

“Next time, I’d appreciate more direct communication.”

“Yeah, no problem. Guessing you can’t make it, then? Still in Red Grave?”

“Yes, I have to work tomorrow.”

“All right, well I’m putting you on speaker. Everybody say hi to Uncle V!”

What sounded like at least fifty people shouted out various iterations of the greeting and V’s heart warmed at the sheer number of voices on the other end. Only one was missing.

Yours.

He sighed. “Thank you, everyone. I’ll visit soon, I promise.”

“You better!”

The line cut out for a moment as Nero took him off speaker. The background noise faded and V could almost hear Nero’s heavy footsteps as he left behind the bulk of the group.

“What’s up, brother? You seem weird. Well, weirder than usual.”

What should he say? Was any of it even worth mentioning? Nero was at a party, he had better things to do than listen to his complaints.

“I don’t want to trouble you.”

“Tell me or I start driving.”

And suddenly he couldn’t hold it in anymore. The stress, the guilt, the loneliness. His joy at finding a friend and his sorrow at the chasm that now separated you. How much it hurt to be held at arms distance. The pain that despite the victory over Urizen, he felt like he’d lost. By the time he fell silent, he was utterly drained.

“Jeez, dude… That’s a lot. I’m sorry you’re dealing with so much shit. I mean, the way you talk about Y/N sounds like how I talk about Kyrie.”

“What? What do you mean?”

“Damn, you really are dense sometimes. I mean you want more than friendship from her. That’s why it hurts so much. You got feelings.”

V sighed. He could hardly believe he was actually listening to Nero. But he was the only person he knew in a successful relationship, so maybe he had a point.

“I can’t deny I’ve entertained the thought. More than once. I’ve almost paid her back, but she’s still my boss.”

“Then quit. Find a new job.”

He shook his head. “I like working here, though. Working with her.”

“You need to figure out what’s more important, then. The job, or the lady. Ah, shit, someone started a food fight. I gotta go, but call me soon. Or I’ll call you, whatever.”

“Thanks, Nero. Talk to you soon.”

He lowered the phone and pinched the bridge of his nose. He had a lot of thinking to do, but there was one thing he had to do first. With a few taps of the touch screen, he hit send before he could think too much. Three words.

I miss you.

Part 4

#commisions #fanfic #v x reader #dmc5 v #dmcv #devil may cry #reader insert

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themurphyzone · 5 years

Text

Rosieverse Oneshot: Guardian

Summary: Tino is just a simple guy who happens to play a villain in a TV show. Recently, the entire studio has become enamored by a little orphan named Rosie with a talent in voice-acting. Well, everyone except lead actor Jim Starling.

But everyone has their beef with Starling, so it’s really no big deal.

Or is it?

Jim Starling wasn’t happy. And when wasn’t Jim Starling happy, he was determined to make everyone else’s lives as miserable as possible. He stood on the long conference table, shouting a plan about a meet-and-greet that would surely boost his fading popularity.

“Just picture it!” Starling exclaimed. “Look, the Fearsome Four can open the event. Five minutes signing autographs for them and no more! And then I make a fashionably late entrance dressed as Darkwing Duck! Maybe about...fifteen minutes or so after the meet-and-greet starts, we can work out the details later. But the point is, I’m there, the fans will adore yours truly, and Darkwing Duck’s ratings go through the roof! What do you think?”

Someone coughed, but the room was otherwise full of crickets.

Tino glanced at the lovely bonsai tree on the windowsill, half-expecting an actual cricket to jump in and chirp merrily while ruining the tiny pink leaves. Next to him, Dan sketched a rough schematic of a toaster, humming to himself and not paying attention to the meeting. Jack flipped through a report on Darkwing Duck ratings and merchandise sales, scanning through the business jargon and statistics with practiced ease.

In Tino’s opinion, Michael was lucky he got the babysitting job. Rosie was a sweet kid and a delight to be around. Much better than listening to an egotistical celebrity prattle on about boosting his public image.

Speaking of which...

Tino glanced at the clock.

Almost 4:00 pm, he realized. And it was his day to drive Rosie back to the orphanage too. They needed to get going before the Audubon Bay Bridge got clogged with rush hour traffic.

Silently, Tino put his hand up, unwilling to interrupt the argument between Starling and the director.

“Our budget’s already been slashed, and now you want us to spend more money to fuel your ego?”

“Just pay for the venue! The special events center maybe. I hear the Duckburg Stadium is nice this time of year too,” Starling continued to suggest expensive locations that no sane person at the studio would ever consider. “Tell ‘em to bring their own snacks though. And you could always charge some good money for an autograph, maybe a little more for a photoshoot. That oughta make up your price.”

“This town ain’t cheap, Starling!” the director snarled. “Do you realize how much McDuck charges for the use of his locations? In case you haven’t noticed, money doesn’t grow on trees!”

“You’re as cheap as the network!” Starling scoffed. “Sabotaging a fine art for the sake of money!”

“I’m. Being. Realistic,” the director gritted his teeth.

Starling stomped over to the director’s chair. Their beaks were inches away as they stared each other down, willing their opponent to cave in.

Before it could devolve into an insult-fest, Jack cleared his throat. Immediately, everyone turned their attention to him. Even Starling recognized that it was better to listen when Jack had something to say.

“It’s Tino’s day to drive Rosie back to the orphanage,” Jack said. “He needs to leave now.”

Tino shot Jack a grateful look, and the corners of the dog’s mouth twitched upwards in response.

“Wait, that brat lives in an orphanage?” Starling blinked, his beak dropping open in surprise.

Clearly, Starling had been living under a rock. Rosie’s orphan status was common knowledge with everyone in the studio.

At least, Tino assumed it was.

“Not everything revolves around your universe-sized ego, dim bulb,” one of the editors muttered.

��Don’t insult actual dim bulbs,” Dan scolded. Then his expression softened as he turned to Tino. “And say hi to Rosie for me, okay?”

“Same here,” Jack agreed. “You should get going. I’ll fill you in later, but somehow I doubt there’ll be anything worth mentioning.”

Since nobody accomplished anything in meetings when Starling was involved, Tino knew he wouldn’t be missing anything.

Tino hurried out of the conference room. He felt Starling’s eyes bore into his back, but he brushed it off.

He was the only person leaving early. It was perfectly natural that everyone’s attention would be drawn to him.

It made his skin crawl. He just wasn’t one for the spotlight.

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

“You’ll get there! Five bounces is pretty good for a beginner!” Michael exclaimed as he showed off a rather complicated yo-yo trick that involved a lot of twirling and loops.

Rosie smiled, a pink yo-yo dangling from a string on her finger. “Thank you, Mr. Michael,” she said formally. “Would you mind teaching me your walk the dog trick in the future?”

Michael grinned. “No problemo! Just keep practicing with that yo-yo. I’ve got plenty more.”

“Oh no, I couldn’t!” Rosie’s eyes widened as she tried to give the yo-yo back. “It’s your toy, sir.”

Michael shook his head, flipping into a handstand before cartwheeling away from Rosie. “Nope! No takebacks! It’s the highest law in the land!” he giggled. He caught sight of Tino and slumped to the ground, reminding Tino of a child who begged their parents for ten more minutes on the playground. “Looks like playtime’s over, kiddo.”

“Hello, Mr. Tino!” Rosie exclaimed. “How was your meeting?”

She hugged him enthusiastically, tiny hands squeezing his waistline and nearly knocking him off-balance.

“Frankly, a bit boring,” Tino admitted once he adjusted his footing. “At least you and Michael are having fun.”

Michael rolled his eyes. “What demands did the great and almighty Dumbwing make this time?”

“Please don’t call name-call in front of Rosie,” Tino said as he ruffled Rosie’s flaming red curls. “She’s an impressionable child.”

“Fine, I’ll ask Jack later,” Michael said with a huff. His eyes flicked to Rosie, and his entire expression softened. “I get a goodbye hug too, right?”

Rosie immediately latched onto Michael. “Don’t worry!” she chirped. “You get a goodbye hug too!”

Michael laughed and patted her back. “I’ll be sure to pass your goodbye hugs onto Dan and Jack, okay?”

“And Mr. Starling too!” Rosie added.

Michael stiffened, though Rosie didn’t seem to notice. “Uh, sure. Him too.”

Absolutely not, Michael mouthed at Tino.

Starling loathed any form of prolonged physical contact. But Tino held his tongue, knowing he would confuse himself if he tried explaining that to a six-year-old.

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

Much to Tino’s chagrin, they didn’t beat the rush hour traffic on the bridge. He turned the radio to a kid-friendly station and hoped the orphanage director would forgive him for being late.

Caution was highly advised when dealing with St. Canard drivers. Really, Duckburg’s sister city was anything but saintly.

Rosie didn’t mind though. She folded her hands in her lap, sitting like a dainty little princess upon a flower-patterned booster seat.

“The view is pretty, Mr. Tino,” Rosie said.

“It is,” Tino said, though he believed Audubon Bay was more dangerous than beautiful. There was a reason why crime shows loved using this body of water as a background.

“It looks like the set of Darkwing Duck,” Rosie remarked.

“The main set was modeled off this area,” Tino said, pointing to a tower just above the toll gate. “That’s Darkwing’s lair over there.”

Rosie craned her neck as she took in the sheer size of the tower. “Is he always up there if he’s not fighting bad guys?” she asked. “That’s awfully lonely.”

“Darkwing Duck is the loner type,” Tino admitted. “I don’t think he minds.”

Starling preferred doing everything himself, whether it involved thwarting crimes on a TV show or making himself the center of attention. In the best case scenario, people tolerated him.

Still, it seemed like a lonely way to live.

Of course, Michael and Dan would insist that Starling brought it on himself. Tino wasn’t a match for either of them when they were riled up, so he kept his beak shut on the matter.

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

It was another hour before Tino got home from driving Rosie to the orphanage. The sunset lit up the sky in brilliant warm hues, and Tino was glad he made it home before nighttime. He didn’t like driving in the dark.

He parked the car next to its usual spot near the mailbox, figuring that he had some time to check on his flowers before dinner. He circled the front lawn of the house, humming a bouncy tune as he checked the leaves of a violet.

So far, everything seemed fine. The bushes wouldn’t need trimming for a while, no aphids were destroying his flowers, and the pansies were thriving.

Before Tino could walk up to the front porch, the front door was suddenly wrenched open, bouncing off the wall with a harsh bang.

“-AND GROW A DAMN SPINE!” Michael screeched, storming out of the house. He brushed past Tino, cursing Starling under his breath.

Tino let him go. Michael’s temper cooled much faster when he had a few minutes to collect himself.

Dan and Jack watched Michael stomp down the sidewalk from their safe position in the hallway.

“I’m guessing something important happened after all?” Tino asked, already dreading the answer.

Jack nodded. “Dabble decided to use Starling’s idea for a meet-and-greet.”

Marino Dabble had the most volatile relationship with Starling out of all the directors in Darkwing Duck. He always seemed to provoke Starling during filming, disregarding any of Starling’s demands and cutting scenes whenever Starling shouted a contradicting order to keep the cameras rolling.

“Except he wanted Rosie to be center stage,” Dan added.

“Starling didn’t take it well,” Jack said.

Tino wasn’t surprised, but he prayed Starling wouldn’t take his anger out on Rosie for taking his limelight. She was an innocent kid, and Dabble was putting her in the line of fire. Starling became irrational and even more temperamental when he believed someone was cutting into his screentime.

Not for the first time, Tino wished he could be as outspoken as Michael or as respected as Jack.

“Is that why Michael’s mad?” Tino asked.

“I’ll go after him. He’s probably had enough time by now,” Dan said, gently pushing past Tino and hurrying out the door.

“The meet and greet is two weeks away,” Jack said as Tino sat down at the dinner table. There was already a hot cup of tea and a strawberry salad in front of him. “We should prepare Rosie so she won’t be overwhelmed.”

The deaths of Rosie’s parents had been widely publicized by both the Duckburg and St. Canard media. While details varied between newspapers and tabloids, the one thing that held true was that little rich girl Rosie had been left under the care of several maids while her parents had a date night. On the way back to the car, they were mugged and murdered for their money and valuables. Rosie found out the next morning, and she was shipped off to a St. Canard orphanage within a week.

The killer was never caught.

Several months later, a talent scout discovered Rosie’s acting abilities while searching for a suitable child to provide a voice in an animated film and introduced her to the studio.

When Rosie wasn’t in lessons or voice-acting, she wandered over to the Darkwing Duck set, making polite small-talk with everyone she came across. Starling was the only one who ignored her presence.

He was always too caught up with himself to notice anything an inch away from his beak.

Though Rosie only voiced a side character in the animated film, the life she breathed into the drawings captured the audience’s hearts. Tino had cried for twenty minutes straight when Rosie’s character sang a lullaby to herself after getting separated from her parents.

Now that he gave it some thought, that part wasn’t an emotional act for Rosie. She knew those feelings all too well.

Tino took a small bite of his strawberry, suddenly aware of Jack scrutinizing him like an interesting statistic.

“Jack, can you please stop? It’s awkward when you do that,” Tino mumbled.

Jack shrugged, gaze snapping to the table. “Sorry. You’re thinking about Rosie again, aren’t you?”

“She’s...she’s a good kid,” Tino admitted. “Kinda deserves a permanent home, you know?”

“I know,” Jack agreed, his mouth twitching. “She loves science.”

“Just smile,” Tino suggested. “It looks good on camera.”

“I don’t see any cameras at the moment,” Jack said as he squeezed a lemon into his water. “And besides, someone has to be the aloof, responsible one in this house.”

Aloof. Sure, Tino snorted.

Because aloof people totally shouted at the game show channel on TV.

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

Tino tore the purple wig off his head and dropped onto the green room’s couch in exhaustion, shoulder still aching from Starling’s punch during filming. Dan tossed him an ice pack from the small freezer. Jack made sure they never ran out of ice packs. It was a necessity when one worked with Starling.

Tino gratefully placed it on his shoulder.

Michael immediately launched into a tirade on where Starling could stick his overly large fedora, but Tino was only half-listening. They’d been through this song and dance before.

There was a safe way for actors to punch and kick in fight scenes, but Starling never held back, which led to the Fearsome Four not holding back out of self-defense, and everything just snowballed from there.

Starling had been more irritable during filming than usual, but Tino chalked it up to a hissy fit caused by Dabble’s decision to include Rosie in the meet and greet even though she wasn’t part of the Darkwing Duck cast.

“-AND GET ALL THE WRINKLES OUT THIS TIME!” a voice shouted from outside the green room.

Speak of the devil.

“Stupid incompetent wardrobe team,” Starling muttered as he swept into the room. He’d discarded the cape, but wore the rest of his Darkwing Duck costume with overblown pride.

Starling ignored everyone as he headed straight for the fridge and pulled out a brown paper bag that contained his lunch. Tino tried not to gag at the canned tuna and sauerkraut smell.

Dan and Michael shifted over to Tino’s side of the room, occasionally shooting livid glares at Starling. Michael’s face turned the same shade of red as his Quackerjack outfit. He was only holding back for Tino’s sake.

Since when did Starling take his lunch in the green room anyway? He hated eating around people he believed were beneath his association.

“I’ve never been to a beach, Mr. Jack. Is it nice?”

“Sure is. Natural saltwater is the best. Just don’t get it in your mouth though. It doesn’t taste good.”

Jack neatly hung his coat on a row of hooks next to the door. Rosie tried to follow his lead, though she was too short to hang it herself.

“May I take your jacket, young lady?” Jack asked with an elegant bow.

Tino grabbed a pillow to muffle a sudden case of the giggles. So much for being the aloof one.

Rosie smiled and folded her puffy pink jacket over his outstretched arm. Like a true gentleman, Jack placed it on the hook and patted out the creases.

Starling rolled his eyes at the display and turned his back on them. But Tino knew he was watching Rosie bounce on her tip-toes as she explained everything she learned in her singing lessons.

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

“I am the terror who flaps in the night! I am the faulty cord in the outlet of evil! I am Darkwing Duck!” Starling dramatically held his cape out behind him as he appeared in a puff of blue smoke. He shifted not-so-subtly to the left in an attempt to show off his best side.

Since only Dan and Jack were needed for this episode, Tino and Michael watched the filming from the sidelines. It was for the best. Rosie’s reading tutor had unexpectedly called in sick, so she was able to spend the afternoon with them.

Tino didn’t want Rosie exposed to a Michael and Starling showdown just yet. Things tended to get ugly.

“Give up! St. Canard’s hydroelectric dam belongs to us!” Dan shouted, a sinister cackle escaping from his throat.

“You’ll pay for stealing electricity and throwing St. Canard into the Dark Ages!” Starling retorted. “Let’s get dangerous!”

The prop team immediately dumped a bucket of water on Starling from the catwalk above the set, throwing the bucket at him for good measure. They didn’t bother disguising their gleeful smiles.

Starling spat out several plastic goldfish, coughing as he declared how pathetic the attack was. Then Jack crept up behind Starling and threw a quick punch to the back of his head. Starling crumpled dramatically.

Rosie frowned as Jack tied Starling to a pole with a water hose. “I hope he isn’t hurt,” she said. Her fingers nervously drummed against her pink dress.

“Unfortunately,” Michael muttered.

Tino elbowed him lightly. “Starling’s a resilient guy. He’ll be alright. Besides, Darkwing Duck always wins.”

Starling slipped out of his restraints, which were already loose to begin with, and shot a column of smoke from his gas gun at Dan and Jack. Their surprise only lasted for a minute, but it was enough for Starling to subdue them.

“And the vigilante is once again victorious against the vile villainous scum!” Starling crowed as he tossed Dan and Jack into the set’s jail cell. He struck a final heroic pose to wrap up the episode.

While the film crew reviewed the footage they captured so far, Starling strutted off the main set and grabbed a soda from a nearby drink cooler. He didn’t free Dan and Jack from the cell even though the key hung on a peg several feet away.

Pushing down a burst of anger at Starling’s carelessness, Tino left Rosie with Michael and freed his friends himself.

“I need an aspirin,” Dan groaned, nursing a bruise on his cheek.

Jack folded his arms across his chest, not looking too worse for wear, but Tino could tell he favored his right leg.

“I should invent an instant healing ray gun,” Dan sighed. “No more bruises, cuts, or pimples and it won’t leave a scar either.”

“A huge hit on the market,” Tino said.

“Supply and demand,” Jack added.

Dan rolled his eyes. “Not all of us majored in economics.”

As they rejoined Rosie and Michael, Starling sauntered over. His fedora was pulled low and tilted sideways in his usual careless, jerkwad fashion. The edges of his beak curled into a sneer.

“It’s awfully nice to have coworkers who allow a little brat to steal my thunder,” Starling growled.

“Don’t call Rosie a brat!” Michael shouted, clenching his fists. Dan stepped in front of him, whispering soothing words to prevent him from punching Starling in the face. “You don’t know her. You don’t know her at all!”

Tino shielded Rosie behind his back. She clung to his waist, innocent green eyes flickering between each adult. He couldn’t meet Starling with equal aggression, remain calm and cordial, or invoke a balance between the two extremes.

This would have to do for now.

“None of us played a role in Dabble’s decision,” Jack said. His tone was even and controlled, but Tino heard the slightest edge of steel creeping in. “I suggest releasing your frustration towards him in the studio’s gym instead.”

Starling’s cape flared out as he stomped up to Jack. His beak was several inches away from Jack’s nose. “And where exactly were your so-called diplomatic skills when I needed them? Either the fans come and see me because I’m there, or they don’t show up cause I’m not. Who’s the main character of this series? Who’s the person everyone watches the show for? Who’s the inspiration, the fighter, the creme de la creme of all superheroes? Cause last I checked, it sure as hell isn’t Liquidator!”

Starling always referred to them by their character names. He couldn’t be bothered to remember their actual names, or more importantly, that they weren’t megalomaniacal villains.

“Go away,” Dan said as held onto a seething Michael. “Some of us have lives outside a fictional world.”

“Darkwing isn’t fictional, you half-wit!” Starling snarled. “He’s—I’m right in front of you!”

Starling pointed an accusing finger at Dan, but a grimace flickered across his face and his arm fell to his side.

“You’re hurt!” a little girl’s voice cried.

The tiny pressure around Tino’s waist vanished.

Before anyone could say anything, Rosie latched onto Starling’s fingers, holding his palm with one hand while the other carefully pushed his sleeves away from his wrist.

Michael’s eyes widened, Dan gasped, and Jack’s brow furrowed in worry.

Tino bit the inside of his beak.

Rosie had broken Starling’s no-touching-me-offset rule. Everyone agreed with this rule, no matter how much they disliked Starling.

No hugs, no pats on the back, no friendly jostling, no handshakes.

Starling hated physical contact unless it involved beating someone up during filming. Nobody asked why, and Starling never offered an explanation.

A red mark circled Starling’s wrist. Starling’s breath hitched, looking as though he desperately wanted to pull away but couldn’t make his body move.

“You should put some aloe on it,” Rosie suggested. “It’ll sting, but it takes the pain away.”

Starling didn’t seem to hear her.

“Rosie, let him go,” Jack ordered.

Rosie cast an unsure glance at Starling’s wrist.

“Now.”

Startled by Jack’s no-nonsense tone, Rosie let go of Starling’s hand.

Recovering from his frozen state, Starling scoffed and rubbed his wrist against his blazer to shake off any lingering traces of her touch. “Whatever,” he muttered as he stalked off.

“Mr. Starling?” Rosie called.

Starling paused in the doorway, inclining his head towards Rosie. His eyes were covered by the brim of his fedora.

“I’m sorry,” Rosie whispered.

“Don’t do it again, kid.”

Though his tone was blunt, it wasn’t haughty or condescending.

Maybe there was some cordiality in that universe-sized ego after all.

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

Starling was talking to Rosie.

Okay, so most of the conversation was about himself and how badass he looked on camera, but he wasn’t entirely ignoring her.

Rosie clasped her hands together and maintained a respectful distance. She learned from the first incident, taking Jack’s lecture to heart on how some people disliked touch and a few tips on what she could do to respect their boundaries.

If Starling noticed, he didn’t give anything away.

Tino found his aloe bottle in the wrong cabinet with traces of green ointment on its side. Wordlessly, he wiped away the extra moisture and returned the bottle to its proper place.

He had a hunch on who misplaced his aloe, but he didn’t think it was worth mentioning.

Over the next few days, Rosie settled into a routine. She learned, she played, she voice-acted, and she ate lunch with Starling.

Michael balked at the last development. “Girl’s gonna ruin her nose,” he muttered, shaking his head incredulously when Rosie barely reacted to the smell of Starling’s canned tuna and sauerkraut sandwich.

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

Tino’s day to drive Rosie back to the orphanage rolled around again. It was the day before the meet-and-greet, and they’d spent the entire week preparing Rosie for her first public appearance.

Rosie could answer questions and smile like a champ now. She’d do well tomorrow. Tino didn’t mind fading into the background and talking to the occasional fan who wandered his way.

That’s how the Darkwing Duck cast did things.

Starling soaked up everyone’s attention and signed autographs while everyone else formed a nice backdrop.

Starling’s animosity to Rosie had lessened over the past few days. While he still wasn’t pleased by Dabble’s decision, he managed to grasp that it wasn’t Rosie’s fault.

“Got everything?” Tino asked as Rosie slid a math workbook into her princess-themed backpack.

“Ready, Mr. Tino!” Rosie exclaimed, slipping her backpack over her shoulders. “I don’t think I’d be able to sleep tonight. I’m just happy I can see all of you tomorrow!”

Tino couldn’t help but grin at her unbridled honesty.

“Bushroot! Just the guy I wanted to see!”

Tino suppressed a sigh. Only one person called him Bushroot outside of filming, and it wasn’t a person he tried to interact with on a casual basis.

“Yes?” Tino asked politely, channeling what he believed Jack would say in this type of situation. “I need to drive Rosie to St. Canald...I mean, St. Canard. Sorry that we’re in a hurry here. You know how bad the Audubon Bay Bridge is during rush hour.”

The corners of Starling’s beak turned up. One could call it a smile, but only with a very loose definition of the word.

“Is your face alright, Mr. Starling?” Rosie asked.

“What’s wrong with my-” Starling’s snappy mood returned for a brief moment, but he coughed and busied himself with smoothing down his clothes.

Which consisted of Darkwing’s turtleneck and unbuttoned purple blazer.

Tino was starting to believe that Starling had no life outside of Darkwing Duck.

“Don’t worry, I’m fine,” Starling said. At least he dropped the not-smile. “I wanted to see you off. We talk at lunch, but that’s only an hour. Not even an hour if Dabble decides to rush us.”

Rosie bounced on her heels, eyes glazed over in thought. She had a tendency to bounce while thinking.

“Can Mr. Starling come along too?” Rosie asked, tugging on Tino’s sleeve. “He never finished his story about the malfunctioning jack-in-the-box in the ‘Knick-knack Paddywhack’ episode!”

“I’m not sure if that’s a good idea...” Tino trailed off. Rosie’s curls had gone limp. Tino wondered if she had secret hair powers.

Starling looked a bit crestfallen too.

If Jack, Dan, or Michael had been in his place, they would’ve ignored Starling and left already. But Starling was actually interacting with Rosie.

Interaction that didn’t involve punching someone or bossing them around.

Tino lost the battle. That’s what he got from looking at Rosie when she was nearing disappointment.

“Alright, he can come if he wants,” Tino sighed.

Rosie cheered and Starling puffed out his chest as if he never doubted that Tino would refuse.

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

“-Darkwing Duck on the brink of defeat, nothing but open air behind him and a monochromatic malefactor cackling madly in front of him! Then he remembers how much the citizens of St. Canard depend on him to keep the criminals at bay, and in a sudden burst of strength, he clubs Paddywhack with his trusty gas gun and seals him in the cursed jack-in-the-box!”

Tino concentrated on switching to the middle lane, choosing not to comment on Starling’s deliberate omission of how he got stuck in the springs of the jack-in-the-box during the Paddywhack fight scene.

Rosie listened attentively, eyes sparkling as she envisioned the scene before her.

They hit the usual traffic on the Audubon Bay Bridge just as Starling’s tale ended. Rosie didn’t bat an eye. She loved seeing the cargo ships sail through the bay.

But Starling groaned and tilted his seat back at a thirty-degree angle.

“Hey bush-for-brains, can’t this seat go back more?” Starling growled, yanking at the lever in a futile effort to make the seat tilt further.

“It’s an old car,” Tino admitted. “You’ve already got it at the max.”

Starling rolled his eyes, but at least he stopped trying to mutilate the lever.

Rosie swung her legs, looking towards the horizon, oblivious to Starling’s numerous complaints with Tino’s car.

“Rosie, I was thinking of becoming your legal guardian,” Starling said as he slipped a pair of sunglasses over his eyes.

Tino caught his eye in the mirror, but Starling either didn’t notice or care. Tino returned his attention to the road, trying not to complain out loud when another driver cut him off.

Rosie’s head whipped around so quickly that Tino was sure she’d have whiplash in the morning.

“You don’t wanna live at the orphanage forever, right? Living with THE Darkwing Duck is better than those guys,” Starling declared.

After a brief moment of silence, Rosie smiled at him. “Thank you, Mr. Starling, sir! I’d love for you to be my legal guardian!”

She reached out for a hug, but Starling just raised an eyebrow at her. “First rule, kid. Don’t touch me,” he reminded her.

Rosie teared up, but she seemed more happy and relieved. “Mr. Tino, I have a legal guardian now!” she exclaimed.

Tino knew she was equating ‘legal guardian’ with ‘parent’, but Rosie didn’t realize she’d just accepted a self-centered, vain, gloryhounding jerk who didn’t deserve either title.

Tino wasn’t looking forward to breaking the news to Michael. He’d dropped hints recently about taking Rosie in.

“I’m glad,” Tino said.

He was the worst liar in the world, but Rosie beamed at him anyway.

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

When they got to the orphanage, Rosie immediately broke away from Tino and Starling so she could gather her belongings and say goodbye to her friends.

“Jim Starling, the one and only Darkwing Duck. There supposed to be a few papers I can sign so I can take legal guardianship of little Ruby here?” Starling asked the orphanage director.

“Actually, it’s Rosie,” Tino corrected, shuffling his feet when Starling glared at him.

Seriously, who took in a kid without bothering to learn their name first?

But the orphanage director simply dropped a huge packet of stapled papers into Starling’s arms. “Just sign in the highlighted areas,” she said, returning to listlessly stirring her coffee.

St. Canard orphanages must’ve been in worse shape than Tino realized if they were willing to hand a kid over to Starling without asking any questions.

Starling took out a pen topped with a Darkwing Duck figurine and scribbled an enormous loopy signature in the highlighted portions. He flipped through the papers so quickly that Tino only had time to read the bold print on top of the page.

“Wouldn’t it be better to read the page before you signed it?” Tino asked. The look on Jack’s face would’ve been priceless if he’d been here.

Jack’s biggest pet peeve was how people never read the fine print before they signed a document.

Starling huffed. “You wanna be here all night?”

“Well, no-”

“Then shut up and let me sign this in peace.”

Thankfully, the next page asked for name, date of birth, address, and the usual things that were asked on important forms, forcing Starling to slow down.

Tino’s leg bounced as watched the clock. The hands crept towards five-thirty. Rosie would need to eat soon.

And Starling’s usual dietary habits shouldn’t be passed onto any six-year-old.

“Do you even know how to take care of a kid?” Tino asked.

Starling’s hand clenched around the pen. A glob of blue ink stained the paper. Starling tried to rub it away, but only succeeded in smearing it across his hand.

“Can’t be that hard,” Starling shrugged. “She gets food, a place to sleep, a stuffed animal or two, and a famous actor for her legal guardian. She could use someone to help her navigate the adoring public anyway.”

“And caring about her?” Tino asked. “Love, attention, guidance, school?”

Starling rolled his eyes. “Look, I give her a roof over her head and she doesn’t need to share her stuff with a bunch of other snot-nosed brats. She can run and play and hang with you and everyone else. She can go wherever she wants or do whatever she wants.”

Starling signed the last document with a flourish and set the clipboard aside.

Tino gritted his teeth, but there was nothing he could do to counteract Starling.

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

Starling’s apartment was several blocks away from the studio, and judging by the amount of dust that had accumulated over the furniture, it hadn’t been lived in for a while.

Tino delayed going home in favor of helping Rosie unpack and settle in, cleaning the lonely, secluded guest room until it was suitable to sleep in. Tino dressed a spare mattress in a Darkwing Duck bedspread, pushing down a pang of anger at Starling for his lack of preparation when it came to bringing a kid home.

Speaking of which, wasn’t it the guardian’s job to make a kid feel at home?

Rosie hadn’t complained once, but that didn’t make it right.

Tino probably would’ve stayed all night, but he was booted out after he disagreed with Starling’s decision to feed Rosie an unhealthy Hamburger Hippo kids’ meal.

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

Tino didn’t get home until eight in the evening, and the rice and bean plate Jack had left for him in the fridge tasted like cardboard.

“You missed Pelican Island,” Dan said as he fiddled with a blender-like invention. “They almost got off the island, but then Dahlia found out that Georgio kissed Valerie and they broke the sail in their fight and all of Mason’s progress got set back by three weeks. Then they look in the almanac and find there’s a monsoon heading their way so now they have to delay leaving the island and find shelter as soon as possible cause the rains are gonna hit in less than a week-”

Tino listened to Dan ramble about the show, focusing on his commentary and allowing Starling’s legal guardian status to slip his mind for the time being. Tino wanted to break the news gently and hopefully minimize any casualties that might ensue, but he’d need time to work on framing his words so that nobody thought it was the end of the world.

Jack leaned against the doorframe, coolly staring at Tino. Finishing his dinner quickly, Tino scraped the remaining crumbs into the trash and took much longer than necessary to wash the dishes, feeling Jack’s eyes bore into his back the entire time.

Jack never pushed the issue, but he always had the uncanny ability to sniff out a lie.

Dan and Michael were locked in a heated debate over who Georgio was better off with, suspecting nothing out of the ordinary.

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

The meet and greet started at noon, but they arrived at the venue an hour early to help the film crew set everything up.

Dabble had reserved a section of Barks Park for their public appearance. It was a good park with plenty of grassy hills, a playground, and a bike trail.

It was popular for family outings, Tino recalled, hoping to spot Rosie’s red curls among a group of children who were playing soccer nearby.

But there was no sign of Starling or Rosie.

Starling always arrived later than everyone else so all the attention would be drawn to him. Tino just hoped that Rosie didn’t adopt Starling’s compulsive need to be fashionably late.

“Places, everybody!” Dabble barked. “That means you, Michael!”

“I’m in the middle of something!” Michael called as he twisted a green balloon into a sword for an excited boy.

“Put that helium pump away and get your jester butt over here!”

Michael rolled his eyes, but he did a handspring-cartwheel combination that propelled him to his seat and wowed his young audience.

The Fearsome Four’s table was on the right end of the gazebo, while the writers and artists’ table was to the left. The table in the middle had two empty chairs.

“Wait, we can’t start yet! Where’s Rosie?” Dabble shouted once noon hit. He tapped his watch in frustration.

“It was my day to pick her up,” another director admitted. “But I called the orphanage and they said Rosie doesn’t live there anymore.”

“What?” Dabble cried, tearing several white feathers from his head. “Then where does she live now?”

The director shrugged. “I asked, but some kid knocked over her coffee cup and she hung up to deal with them.”

Tino’s hands clenched in his lap. Sooner or later, someone would remember that he dropped Rosie off last night and put two and two together-

Jack’s hand came to rest on Tino’s shoulder.

And Tino knew he couldn’t keep quiet any longer.

“Rosie’s new legal guardian is-”

“I AM THE TERROR WHO FLAPS IN THE NIGHT!”

A column of blue smoke flared out. Several children tried to touch it, but their parents pulled them back.

“I AM THE CAUSE OF GRAY HAIR ON CRIMINALS’ SCALPS! I AM DARKWING-”

“Rosie, get up here! You were supposed to open the meet and greet ten minutes ago!” Dabble called.

Rosie nudged her way through the crowd, politely excusing herself as she made her way to the front of the gazebo. Michael waved, and Rosie returned the gesture, much to Starling’s disapproval.

Starling crossed his arms as Dabble hurriedly gave a microphone to Rosie and whispered a few instructions to her.

“Are you kidding me?” Starling scoffed. “She’s not even part of the show! And you interrupted my introduction! I spend two hours ironing my cape and this is the sort of reception I get?”

“You shouldn’t be wearing that outside of the studio!” Dabble hissed, gesturing to the Darkwing outfit.

“There’s plenty to go around,” Starling scowled.

“It costs money to make those-”

“Shouldn’t we let Rosie speak now?” Dan mumbled.

Rosie held the microphone loosely in one hand, the other nervously fiddling with a ribbon on her dress. For all the preparation they did, Rosie wasn’t experienced enough to handle an argument between Starling and Dabble.

Starling snatched a spare microphone from the writers’ table. “Well, as much as I love verbally sparring with Babble here, I just want to take a few minutes to address something of the utmost importance.”

“They’re kids,” Michael hissed. “They’re not interested in whatever you have to say.”

True to Michael’s prediction, several kids left the audience to pursue more fun activities.

“As a man of action, Darkwing Duck always seeks opportunities to eliminate criminal scum and rescue innocents,” Starling declared. Tino could just imagine his pompous beak growing Pinocchio-style. “And of course, I’m Darkwing Duck, so I believe it’s time for me to put my lessons into practice. And what better way to do that, I wonder, then to become a legal guardian to a talented St. Canard orphan?”

Michael gripped the tablecloth, his eyes narrowing dangerously. “He didn’t...”

“I’m Rosie King-Fisher’s legal guardian,” Starling grinned. He bowed, expecting applause and praise.

But Starling’s words seemed to go over the children’s heads. But the parents understood, shooting venomous glares at Starling as they steered their children elsewhere.

“Hey! Where’s everyone going?” Starling called. He looked genuinely baffled that nobody was interested in the meet and greet anymore. “Seriously, isn’t this usually considered a good deed or something?”

An empty water bottle smacked Starling in the face, and Tino silently thanked whoever threw it at him.

Michael’s face turned a brilliant shade of red, and Dan was forced to hold him back as he screeched profanities to Starling’s face. Starling yelled back, and most of the backstage crew was too dumbfounded to interfere.

Between calming Michael down, berating Starling for his impulsive decision, and Dabble trying to do damage control, Rosie’s presence was quickly forgotten. Jack gently pried the microphone out of Rosie’s hand. He took her by the hand, made eye contact with Tino, and inclined his head towards the gazebo’s other opening.

The chaos allowed all three of them to slip away unnoticed.

“Will Mr. Starling be okay?” Rosie asked as they reached a picnic area that contained several other families eating lunch and enjoying themselves. “And Mr. Michael?”

She worried about Starling.

Tino had never seen anyone worry about Starling before.

“They’ll argue, but they’ll be fine,” Jack assured her. He knelt down to Rosie’s level, but he was still much taller than her, and she had to lean back slightly to make eye contact. “Is Mr. Starling treating you alright?”

Tino made a small noise in the back of his throat. Starling never treated anyone alright.

“He took me in,” Rosie said. “He’s kind of grumpy, but he did microwave me frozen waffles. We never got waffles at the orphanage. It was just oatmeal.”

She spoke as if everything were really that simple. And to her, maybe it was.

“Are you happy?” Jack inquired.

Rosie smiled. “Yes, sir. I’m happy to have all of you care for me.”

There was a tiny twitch in Jack’s shoulders.

Jack probably debated taking Rosie in too, but his logical mind drove him to question the expenses and sacrifices it would take. It wasn’t just Michael and Dan who toyed with the idea.

And Tino had entertained it too, Multiple times.

“Rosie, why don’t you go play?” Tino suggested. “It’s a nice park. Run around and have fun.”

“Are you sure?” Rosie asked.

“Jack and I have to talk,” Tino said gently. “We’ll stay here if you need us though.”

At Jack’s encouraging nod, Rosie hugged them both and ran off to play.

----------------------------------- Moments later, Rosie joined a game of tag and was having the time of her life. Confident that she’d be fine, Tino and Jack settled at a picnic table under the shade of a sturdy oak.

“You knew the entire time,” Jack said. It was a statement, not a question. “Starling became Rosie’s legal guardian yesterday.”

“Yes. Starling mentioned it in the car and Rosie agreed immediately,” Tino admitted.

Jack didn’t reply.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t stop him,” Tino whispered. “Rosie seemed so happy though. I think she just wanted someone to get her out of the orphanage. It didn’t matter who.”

“You work with Starling. You know how he disrespects everyone,” Jack snapped. “Waffles and giving someone a place to stay doesn’t make him a good guardian overnight. And you just...didn’t say anything?”

“Please, every time Michael brought up adopting Rosie, you said something about not having an adequate guest room for her,” Tino shot back.

“Starling knew you wouldn’t say anything because you’re such a pushover! He deliberately targeted you!” Jack shouted, drawing everyone’s attention to them.

Tino ducked his head, waiting until everyone lost interest and returned to their lunch. While he was more embarrassed from the sudden scrutiny, Jack seemed to interpret the motion as more of a guilty expression.

Jack moved to Tino’s side of the table, wrapping his arms around Tino’s shoulders in a sideways hug. “Sorry, Tino. I didn’t mean that. I swear I didn’t,” he said frantically.

Jack rarely stumbled over his words, so Tino knew that the entire situation had gotten to Jack’s head.

“I’m alright,” Tino said quietly. “Guess we’ve gotta stop beating around the Bushroot now, huh?”

“You’re never gonna let me live that pun down, are you?” Jack sighed, but his lips were twitching upward.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

They watched Rosie for a while. Her pink dress was caked in grass stains and there was a leaf in her hair, but she was radiating happiness with every spring in her step.

“Rosie deserves to be happy,” Jack said. “I wish we could’ve said something sooner.”

“She is happy,” Tino assured him. “Didn’t you hear her? She’s happy we care about her.”

“But does Starling care about her? As more than a publicity stunt?” Jack asked.

“I don’t know,” Tino shrugged. “Starling’s a hard guy to figure out. If he does care about her, maybe he could be a better person. If he doesn’t, then we’ll keep our home open to her so she won’t be alone.”

“We’ll have to figure out that guest room.”

“You’re planning to drag us all to the store to look at paint swatches for an entire afternoon, aren’t you?”

“Guilty as charged.”

Rosie shouted in joy as she tagged another girl and darted away before she could be caught again. She looked just like any other six-year-old instead of the little orphan girl.

Though she could probably do with clothes meant for playing in, Tino noted.

A rustle of the leaves from the leaves above him caught his eye. Curious, Tino peered up into the branches of the oak. There was a dark shape leaning against the crook of a thick branch and trunk. It was hidden from everyone else’s view, concealed by the verdant leaves.

Though his eyes were concealed by the brim of his hat, Tino could see a ghost of a smile forming on his beak.

Maybe there was hope for Starling after all.

#rosieverse #jim starling #nega-gosalyn/rosie king-fisher #friendly four #fanfiction

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seokoloqy · 6 years

Text

anything but ghost hunting // myg (m)

pairing: yoongi x y/n

genre: ghost hunter!au but not ghost hunter!au, crack fic

word count: 2.9k

warnings: smut

↳summary: you’ve been teasing him all night and he’ll be damned if he’s gonna have to spend another second sleeping on the floor in some shitty house with the boys.

a/n: I wanted to do something like buzzfeed unsolved (I’m so excited for this new season) but it just became a mess enjoy I guess ~

—

“Why exactly did we agree to do this?” You hook your arm around Yoongi’s, trying to hold the bulky camcorder steady as you walk up the rough terrain to the infamous house. The rest of the boys—except Hoseok, who’s dragging his feet—are ahead of you, bounding up the hill eagerly with the rest of their equipment.

“I said we should stay home and eat the Halloween candy, but no,” he drawls, tilting his head back to look at the crescent moon hanging at its peak. “You wanted to come with them.”

He casts you a vengeful look for dragging him along on this goose chase—or should you say—ghost chase. He doesn’t want to spend his Saturday night exploring and sleeping in some decrepit house with a few creaky floorboards and trees that look like bony fingers, but your easily swayed heart was weakened at the sight of a pouting strawberry-haired Jungkook with his camera strap around his wrist and precious video camera in hand.

You convinced Yoongi to go with you because you could see the dark circles under Jungkook’s eyes, the late nights he spends editing and perfecting his Youtube videos have started affecting him. He worked so hard to keep his viewers happy and maintain a constant uploading schedule for them, always aiming to please and never giving himself a second to breathe. But, also, Yoongi was easily swayed by your pouting face as well.

Now seeing the large dilapidated manor in person rising over the hill, you’re beginning to regret your decision to join the adventure as you curl your self closer to Yoongi for protection against the harsh winds. Scarfing down a whole bag of Halloween candy until your sick doesn’t sound too bad right now, better than stepping foot into that nightmare of a building.

Your footsteps gradually slow down into a stop in front of the steps where the rest of the boys are standing on the worn out porch, inspecting the door and how to get in.

“Don’t tell me you’re scared all of a sudden,” Yoongi teases, nudging you closer to the house.

“Never,” your voice wavers, instinctively reaching for Yoongi’s arm again for comfort. “Let’s just get this over with.”

As long as you have Yoongi by your side as a sacrifice to any demon that sneaks up on you, you feel a bit safer in his arms.

It’s Yoongi who drags you up the steps of the house, each step creaks under both your weight. Jungkook has his camera pointed at the door as he explains to his viewers exactly what the plan is for tonight and the rest of the boys standby figuring out how to use the equipment they brought along. Namjoon is holding the spirit box, a device which Jungkook claims to be a way for ghosts to communicate through radio frequencies. When they tested it at the apartment and Hoseok thought he heard a ghost say ‘hello’ through the box, he swore their home was haunted. Yoongi argued there was no real definitive evidence that what Hoseok heard was actually a ghost saying hello and the spirit box was just a waste of money, but you couldn’t deny you thought it said hello too.

You peer through the window, holding up your flashlight at the house which looks as desolate and destroyed as the outside. A few prints of graffiti are painted across the grey walls, mostly nonsensical words, and vulgar drawings. There’s no furniture besides a lone couch in the middle of the living room surrounded by debris.

“It looks like a crack house,” Taehyung blurts, causing Jimin and Hoseok to burst into fits of giggles. Their laughter replaces the chirping crickets and ominous rustling leaves, causing the atmosphere to become lighter than before.

Seokjin wacks the three boys doubled over in laughter, scolding them for disrespecting the ghosts.

“Come on, guys let’s go already,” an impatient Jungkook tugged on the sleeve of Jimin’s jacket and drags him into the house. The rest of you follow behind closely, trying not to get separated so soon in the house.

The place smells just like it looks, old and shitty. You immediately grimace, gagging into your hand and pinching your nose to get rid of that god-awful stench.

“What the fuck is that smell?” you cough, burying your face into the hood of Yoongi’s sweater. The rest of the boys have a string of profanities to call out when the smell hits them.

“Why couldn’t we have gone to one of those five-star haunted hotels or something? At least they have beds.” Namjoon grumbles, rolling out his sleeping bag onto the floorboards. A flurry of dust and dead leaves kick up as it unravels.

“No,” Jungkook hisses, tired of all the complaining. “Let’s just split up so we get more footage.”

“Split up?” Hoseok gawks in the middle of laying down his sleeping bag, clearly unhappy with the idea of going off alone. “That’s how you get murdered in every movie.”

After debating back and forth, Jungkook convinces everyone that it will be easier to split up and look through the house in smaller groups. Jungkook, Hoseok, and Taehyung go off to explore the lowest level, while Namjoon, Seokjin, and Jimin are in charge of the second floor. You and Yoongi are assigned to explore the attic, arguably the worst place to have to investigate. You can imagine the number of cobwebs and dust that’s probably been sitting there for decades.

“I can’t believe you lost,” you grumble, following closely behind Yoongi as you ascend the staircase. The game of rock, paper, scissors to decide who got what level of the house was played between him, Seokjin and Taehyung. When Taehyung won the first round and claimed the first floor, you prayed Yoongi would win the second round, but when he lost he seemed indifferent to the outcome. Simply turning to you and shrugging as Jimin cheered for his teammate's victory behind him.

“Don’t be so upset, there’s probably nothing in there anyway,” he dismisses, looking for the door that leads to the attic.

“Probably. There could be demons in the attic.”

He gives you a look, rolling his eyes and continues through the empty hall. He opens every door in the hall, finding a bathroom, two empty bedrooms and when you come to the last door at the end there’s a stairway that leads to darkness. You peer over his shoulder with your flashlight in hand, trying to see for yourself what is lying in wait at the top. It isn’t much you can see besides the ceiling, at least there are no bats. The camera clicks on in Yoongi’s hand as he aims it to the stairs, red light blinking in the darkness.

“Let’s go.” He sticks his hand out behind him, letting you grab onto it before going up the rickety stairs. With your hands intertwined together, you feel less worried about the prospects of being surprised by a ghost. Each step you take causes the stair to bend slightly under your weight.

At the top, you shine a light, sweeping across the room. It’s practically empty, except for the bundles of blankets piled in the corner of the room and trash carelessly tossed everywhere. You were right about the cobwebs and dust, it piled in every corner.

“See, nothing here,” Yoongi says, turning the camera on you.

“Yeah, nothing you can see,” you huff, pushing the camera in your face aside. You’re slightly glad there is nothing in the attic to jump out at you but mildly disappointed there isn’t anything remotely exciting either.

There isn’t much to do in the beside stand around and make jokes together. You can hear the other boys stomping around downstairs and occasionally yelping from something unexpected happening. After a few minutes of sitting around with nothing else to explore, you sit on the floor and pull your knees up to your chest, sighing, “I’m bored.”

“Let’s go home then,” he says, pulling the hood of his sweater over his head to protect himself from the cold nipping at his ears.

“No, we promised.”

As much as you’d prefer to go home than stay here in this disease ridden trap house, you don’t want to go back on your word and disappoint Jungkook.

“Can we at least sneak out and sleep in the car? It’s warmer in there.” He tugs the strings of his hoodie to cover his ears.

It’s true the car is warmer and a lot cozier than the house. There is no glass in here to protect the wind from blowing through the windows and not to mention the number of holes in the walls that add to the problem. The floors are cold as well, and hard will no doubt be on your back, it’d be impossible to get a good night sleep.

It’s Yoongi’s turn to pout, hoping you’d fall for it just like you did for Jungkook. That sly bastard has a way of getting anyone to fall for his innocent doe eyes, but Yoongi doesn’t have the same effect on you. You’re used to that look already, having seen it every time he asked for sex and you refused, but the look on his face gives you an idea.

“But I can keep you warm too,” you whisper, as you push yourself up off the floor and press yourself against Yoongi. You teasingly brush your hand against his crotch and he groans, giving you a glare mixed with want and irritation. You grab him through his jeans, feeling him instantly harden under your firm grasp. “Don’t you want that?”

Once his jaw slackens and you know he’s about to let out a breathy moan, you let go and toss your hair back like a teasing school girl and skip out of the attic, leaving him in the dirty attic with his dirty thoughts as you rejoin the group downstairs.

Jungkook has his video camera out and is recording the Ouija board set up on the floor with the rest sitting around it. They make room for you to join in the circle and Yoongi enters a few minutes afterward, hand hovering over his dick while he glares at you and joins as well. He has a pillow over his lap the rest of the night, refusing to get up and participate in the rest of the activities.

By 1 AM everyone tucks themselves into their respective sleeping bags, trying to fall asleep despite the cold and fear of a ghost sneaking up on them. You stuff yourself into sharing one with Yoongi who is still not happy with your earlier antics. He is turned towards you with a pout, and you ignore it, closing your eyes and trying to sleep.

“I’ve had a fucking boner for the past hour, Y/N,” he hisses in your ear and you dismiss him with a soft ‘mhm’.

You’re more focused on sleeping, despite the irritation growing in Yoongi’s voice. He can deal with it himself, you think, interested to see if he’d actually do it.

Jimin, whose bag is closest to yours, shifts to the other side to block out your conversation the best he can while holding in his giggles. He can hardly contain them, hiding it unsuccessfully behind his hands.

“What are you laughing about?” Seokjin lifts his head up, pushing up his sleeping mask to peer at the boy next to him.

“Nothing,” he coughs, choking back his laughter. He doesn’t want to expose Yoongi and his problem to everyone else. It seems like a personal matter.

“No way, you can’t not tell us!” This time it’s Taehyung sitting up in his sleeping bag, demanding answers.

For another 30 minutes, half of them begin bickering about Jimin’s dirty little secret and the other half beg them to shut up while you and Yoongi keep to yourselves. When they finally settle down and go back to bed, you try and fall asleep as well, shifting uncomfortably on the wooden floor.

The cozy sleeping bag doesn’t give you much room either. Every time you attempt to move, you’re brushing against Yoongi again and reminded of the problem you created earlier. Brushing up against him doesn’t help solve the problem either, only making it worse—prolonging his silent torture.

“Stop moving,” he grunts, trying his best to scoot himself away only to be trapped by the nylon prison.

“But I’m uncomfortable,” You whine, shuffling closer to him for body heat and purposefully pushing your ass against his cock.

“Then let’s go sleep in the car.” He says through gritted teeth.

It doesn’t take much convincing for you to agree. The padded seats sound much more inviting when you’re laying on hardwood floors and nearly hypothermic, but that’s only part of the reason you want to leave. You’ve been teasing him all night, and once you get to the car who knows what kind of exciting things Yoongi has been planning.

Yoongi unzips the bag and tosses the covers aside, eager to get you back to the car. None of the boys stir in their sleep as you both sneak out through the back.

“This is so much better,” you sigh, sinking into the back seat. Before you’re allowed to shut your eyes for some much-needed rest, Yoongi has your hair in his hands as he pulls you back up for a quick chat.

“You fucking tease,” he snarls in your ear, hastily unzipping his pants with one hand. “Do you see what you’ve done to me?”

You manage to nod despite the tight grip he has on your hair, mouth watering at the sight of his leaking cock sticking out of the waistband of his boxers. This is not how you pictured the night going. You expected stupid ghost stories and being scared by sudden loud noises, instead, you’re sitting in the car at 2 AM about to suck Yoongi off after being a tease the whole night. You can’t say you don’t like the way the night is turning out though.

“So,” he releases your hair, pulling himself out all the way and giving it a few light strokes. He looks at you through hooded eyes, lazily lolling his head to the side. “You gonna put that pretty mouth to work or what?”

The raspiness in his voice sends shutters through you and straight to your core, finally putting your hand on his length, gliding your thumb over the tip.

He releases your neck instantly and you bend over, lips lightly brushing over the head of his cock. And when he lets out a groan, you slowly take him into your mouth, letting your saliva coat his shaft as you go down on him. When you feel him hit the back of your throat, you take the rest of him in your hand, jerking the hand over him.

Hollowing your cheeks, you start off fast and Yoongi threads his fingers through your hair again to guide you up and down his length. He knows how much of him you can take and just how much is enough to have you choking around him. He pushes your head down until he’s hitting the back of your throat over and over.

You gag around him, choking as he goes in too deep.

“You’re so good,” he releases a guttural moan, throwing his head back against the headrest.

The sloppy sounds of your saliva and lips moving around him is so arousing to you, you moan around him as your panties begin to dampen.

The feeling of your moan wrapped around him, has Yoongi shuddering, nearing his climax faster than he anticipated and he bucks his hips into your mouth as you continue. When he finally comes, you swallow every drop of his release, savoring the taste of him. He pulls you off and takes your swollen lips into a heated kiss, tasting himself as your tongue sweeps along his bottom lip.

“Good job,” he praises, pulling away to look into your tired eyes.

You yawn, “Can I go to sleep now?”

He stares at you incredulously, “What? You’re still tired after that?”

You settle your head on his shoulder and cuddle into his side, beat from all your hard work. It’s 2 in the morning and all you really want now is sleep, not dick.

“Yes, now shut up please.”

As you settle comfortably in the steam covered car, sleep takes both of you easily and when the sun rises the next morning in early dawn there’s a tap on the window.

It’s the boys, sleep deprived and disheveled, with their things clutched in their arms. Yoongi doesn’t stir from his rest so you open the door for them, welcoming them back from the house of horrors.

“You guys snuck off in the middle of the night to sleep in the car while we had to sleep on the floor?” Seokjin grumbles, tossing his bag in the back before wrinkling his nose. “What’s that smell?”

“Oh, don��t tell me-” Namjoon starts, rubbing his temples. This is his car, and he really doesn’t want the thought of you and Yoongi stuck in his head every time he drives.

“You guys…” Hoseok gapes, taking a few steps backward to avoid the smell.

“So you guys snuck out in the middle of the night to fuck in the car?” Jungkook exclaims.

The boys all start making jokes about you both being horny teenagers and claiming how unfair it was that you didn’t sleep in the house with them as they pack their things up. Yoongi finally wakes up to argue back that they’re just upset because their backs hurt and they didn’t have any proof of ghosts existing. Jimin, however, says nothing and quietly smirks to himself. Yoongi clearly got exactly what he wanted last night.

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septipliermyheart · 5 years

Text

The last thing Mark had been aware of was his turbulent descent towards a beautiful ocean planet, his life-pod smoking and shaking the whole way. He finally came to, probably not long after the crash landing, quickly extinguishing the fire and taking stock of his supplies, which was next to nothing... order, he needed order. Radio, he needed that. He didn't know if any of the other lifepods remained intact, there could be crewmates needing his immediate assistance.. familiar faces flew by in his mind's eye, lingering on the one person who had been on board the Aurora who he truly thought of as a friend, Seán.. god he hoped that spunky little foreigner was alive. The last he had seen of Seán was him boarding his own life-pod. He needed to get out there.

Stepping out of the hatch on the top of his lifepod, he could truly take in the devastation. The entire ship in the distance was on fire , no land in sight. Looking more closely around him he could see pieces of wreckage laying on the ocean floor, the water crystal clear and the flora nothing he had ever seen before. Not to mention the fauna, strange fish darted to and fro all around his lifepod, and he didn't know which were edible and which were poisonous. It was now or never, he dove in, looking through the wreckage and raw materials that were in abundance on the ocean floor, taking care to not stray too far or too deep. Soon he had enough materials for his fabricator to use. Immediately, his repaired radio started picking up transmissions and recorded messages. Some of them too garbled to understand and some complete static. A distress call suddenly came in, the signal clear but the recording garbled shouts staticy, whoever it was needed help /now/, the lifepod's coordinates were transmitted. Please, whoever you are, hang on, Mark thought. Dumping all the materials left into his fabricator.. yes! He now had a survival knife and a sea-glide.

Mark quickly made his way to the coordinates displayed, the lifepod had sunk to the ocean floor, but mercifully it wasn't too deep for Mark to swim to with the help of the sea-glide. He cautiously swum deeper, the light on his sea-glide finding the lifepod, and the source of the problem. Or should he say sources, there were several large armored shark creatures ramming into the already battered pod. The emergency beacon flashing a bright red. The creatures were knocking the vessel to and fro, their sturdy skulls denting the metal. God, what should he do, what should he do, he hoped whoever was inside was still okay. Their oxygen might be getting low if emergency backup power was already on.

Screw it, he had to distract the creatures and at least try and save them. He came up close and started flashing the light on his sea-glide until all four creatures were focused on him, then he took off. They were fast but with the sea-glide, Mark was faster. He made a big loop and lost them in a giant kelp forest, other sleek toothy creatures chasing after the sharks. He slowed and turned off his light, silently making his way back to the lifepod. Toggling the light back on as he neared the pod which now lay on its side, he glanced over the hatch on the top of the lifepod and that was out, the sharks had battered that into uselessness. Thankfully the hatch at the bottom seemed undamaged, Mark started to crank it open, water rushing into the lifepod, the red interior lights allowing him to see the survivor. He could immediately recognize the bright eyes staring back at him as Seán's, he couldn't quite see the blue, the red lights sucking all the color out. Emotion bubbling up in Mark's chest, he wanted to cry, Seán was alive! Dazed, probably dehydrated and starving, and possibly hurt, but he was alive! He pulled Seán out of his pod, his eyes focusing and unfocusing on Mark.

"Seán!! Can you hold on to me?! I'm gonna get you somewhere safe!"

"Mark...? Is that..? Yeah.. hold on.. to you.."

He guided Seán between him and the sea-glide, prompting Seán to wrap his arms around Mark's neck. His grip tightened as they moved faster through the water, Sean's legs coming up to wrap around Mark's waist. For as dazed as Seán had seemed, he had an absolute death grip on Mark as they sped back towards Mark's lifepod. Good, Mark thought, he wasn't about to let anything happen to Seán now. He still couldn't believe how lucky they had both just been. Seán, his only true friend, the one he had also happened to be harboring a long-term crush on, was alive.. and safe. Possibly the only other survivor of the crash.

Seán's mask clinked against his as they finally came to a stop. Opening the bottom hatch of his own pod, Mark climbed in to warmth and safety, Seán still clinging to his body like an octopus. He unwrapped Seán from himself and laid him on the floor, removing his air tank and mask and then his own. Pulling out a medkit, he gave Seán two pre-measured syringes full of medicines. He pulled Seán's upper body into his lap, gently giving him a few sips of the one water bottle Mark had remaining, also coaxing to eat a couple bites of a nutrient bar. Mark downed the rest of it when Seán wouldn't take another bite.

He was curled over Seán, watching his face for any signs of pain or discomfort, thankfully he had seemed to slip into a light sleep. Mark smiled softly, pushing aside the hair that had fallen in Seán's eyes. Exhaustion caught up with Mark all at once and he leaned back against the wall, closing his eyes, both arms still supporting Seán.

Some time later, Mark woke up to hair in his face and arms wrapped tightly around him once more. Seán was pressed tightly against him, his face against Mark's neck. Mark's own arm was resting atop Seán's slim waist. Too afraid to move and ruin the moment, Mark laid there and thought simple thoughts about just how nice it felt to have Seán curled against him like this. Too soon though, Mark felt long eyelashes flutter against his skin; Seán was awake.. he didn't pull away.. he just laid there too.. maybe even snuggling in even tighter. Mark didn't dare move now, almost afraid to even breathe, he could feel Seán's chest rising and falling against his own, could he not feel how wildly his heart was beating in his chest?

Mark's breath caught in his throat and Seán tilted his head up, their eyes meeting.

"Seán.." Mark started to sit up.

"Mark.. no, wait, please, don't get up, stay here with me. Mark.. you saved me" Seán's arms tightened around Mark once more. "I thought I was a goner, I didn't think I'd survive the landing, let alone sinking into the damn ocean and being attacked by whatever was outside my pod. I thought I'd lost the chance to tell you. Mark, I know how you feel, I've known for a long time. I was too scared to admit that I felt the same way, I was too scared it would ruin things, you're my best friend and I didn't want my feelings to change that. But.. what just happened.. I thought I lost the chance completely, I had no way of knowing if you or anyone else even survived.."

It was all Mark could do to gaze into Seán's eyes, heart thrumming in his chest, trying to organize the thoughts running wildly through his mind.

"Seán.. I was so scared you were gone, everything was broken, I had to fix the radio and even then, nothing came through clearly. I got a distress call but it was mostly static. I prayed it was you. I'm sorry I didn't come sooner." A tear rolled down Mark's face and Seán reached wiped it away with his thumb. And leaning in closer, Seán pressed his lips gently against Mark's. His heart soaring in his chest, Mark's eyes widened and then slowly fell shut as he felt Seán's breath wash over his face. His mind was going in circles, not believing this was actually happening. Mark's hand crept up to Seán's neck, resting in the short hairs at the nape, as he finally pressed back against Seán's kiss.

"Seán.." Mark murmured against Seán's mouth, their foreheads touching, "I've loved you for a long time, I'm sorry I never had the guts to tell you before all this shit happened.

They stayed like that, pressing slow kisses against each other, tracing gentle patterns on the others' skin, just relishing in each other's comfort. They could begin to tackle the challenges of surviving and trying to get off this planet in the morning. Tonight was for them.

#septipliertag2 #long post #septiplyer #hey it's that game au i mentioned a while back that i wanted to write out more//#i did it!#i needed the feels in my life//#*sobs*#myfics

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vmheadquarters · 6 years

Text

Happy Birthday @anilcadz91!

You wanted a happier ending (and a happy ending ;) to the scene above and, since the librarians think you should get what you want on your special day, our very own @cheshirecatstrut has made your wish come true. We hope you have a very happy birthday!

When Logan emerges from the Anthropology building holding Dick in a laughing headlock, only to lose his smile upon spotting Veronica? She knows right away something’s wrong. Even at his most sophomore-year-hateful he flirted and posed, mirth, lust and anger twining in his dark, compelling eyes.

She plays the odd moment off with panache, if she does say so herself, joining forces with him to mock Dick; but his disinterest in banter makes her stomach squirm. Logan’s fascination with V has always been so consuming, she’s never once considered it might wane.

But she’s Veronica Mars and she doesn’t back down—so after Dick gets a clue and wanders off to harass Lilith House, she takes the bull by the horns. “You weren’t outside my criminology class,” she accuses, going for playful. Tugs him closer by his overlarge button-down. “I waited.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, lackluster, and turns his face away.

The sick feeling in her stomach becomes an uncomfortable knot…he’s not playing along with her attempt to charm. “Is something wrong?” she asks, because how can she not?

He transfers his focus to his shoe. Studies it intently for a moment before glancing up from under his brow to meet her eye. “I can’t…” he begins, hesitant, in a defeated tone; then stops, exasperated, when her phone rings.

Holding up a ‘wait one second’ finger, V frowns at the display, thankful for a reprieve. “It’s my dad,” she says, trying to make ‘relieved’ sound ‘apologetic’. “Hang on to that thought for just one sec.”

Logan spins in an exasperated circle but nods, and she turns her back, moves a few steps away. “What’s up?” she chirps into the receiver, sounding way more chipper than she feels.

“Veronica, are you anywhere near Dean O’Dell’s office?” Dad’s clearly harassed, and also hard to hear over the traffic noise in the background.

“I could be,” she says. “Are you standing on the side of the highway?”

Dad sighs. “More or less. Look, he’s not answering my calls. Can you swing by and ask if he’ll meet at two instead of noon? Some fan of our work slashed my tires while I was running down a clue, and I need to get a tow and have them replaced.”

“Nobody appreciates genius anymore.” She checks her watch. “I’ll do it now, and then send you this mysterious type of confirmation message called a “text’.”

Dad fake-laughs and hangs up, and Veronica spins to find Logan watching impatiently, hands on hips. “Sorry, can’t talk after all, emergency,” she says, running the words together and holding up the phone in explanation. Walks quickly backwards, because she does NOT want to hear whatever he plans to say. “Dinner later? Student union, burgers, you, me, seven PM?”

“Veronica…” he begins, running agitated hands through his hair, but she just cuts him off with an, “Excellent! I’ll pencil you in!” and scurries away, heart pounding.

At least he doesn’t try to stop her, which is great, she decides. Because whatever was about to happen seemed big, yet she’s got no idea what his DEAL is. The last time they had anything like a fight, she told him she loved him and promised they were OK. What more does he WANT? Does he think those kind of words come easy to her? Surely he gets her instinctive need to flee any interaction that resembles ‘fraught’?

Logan should be cosseting her fears, after last week’s massive display of vulnerability. Not sulking like she stuffed his childhood teddy bear in the blender and hit ‘puree’.

Normally, Veronica can admit, she takes Logan’s loyalty for granted, no matter how insecure about her sex appeal she sometimes feels. She’s always assumed as long as her fidelity matches his, she’s the one who’d have to walk away. The idea that there IS a line, and she’s got no idea how she crossed it…well, she’s supposed to meet Wallace and Mac for lunch. And she’s clueless at the moment as to how she’ll choke down food.

She hikes across campus and finds the Dean at his desk, fiddling with a lukewarm pizza like he has no appetite either. Maybe dissatisfaction’s in the air today, like a virus. She passes Dad’s message, and he just says, “Sure, why not? It’s not like I have any social life or plans.”

This is clearly an invitation to probe further, but Veronica’s got her own problems. So she just says, “Thanks, I’ll let him know!” and heads over to the food court, where she greets her friends with decently-faked good cheer. But she’s so fidgety and indecisive in line, even Mac notices. “Veronica,” she says, after womaning up and ordering the fettucine. ‘Either you’ve got a bee in your shoe, or you’re upset and trying to hide it. What’s wrong?”

“Ugh, curse you and your new intimidating social skills.” Veronica tries a playful foot stomp, then abandons pretense with a sigh. “I’m fine, really. It’s just that Logan’s brooding is off the charts today, and I have no idea why.”

Mac looks at Wallace, brows raised. “But…isn’t Logan always brooding? I thought that was his trademark.”

“Nah, this is different.” Wallace, accepts a double helping of pudding and licks a spill off his thumb. “He was doing the thing in sociology yesterday where he hides his hands in his sleeves, and twirls a pencil instead of listening. He only acted like that in high school when he was planning to ditch for a month or get arrested.”

Veronica and Mac both stare, because how perceptive, and Wallace rolls his eyes. “What? I notice things. I’m told that’s a GOOD quality in a guy whose best friends are girls.”

Veronica opens her mouth to probe further, but at this inopportune moment Piz appears, bubbling over with oblivious excitement. “Hey gang, what’s the word? Is it avuncular?”

“No?” he continues, cutting across Mac’s attempt to reply with a chortle at his own joke. “Just a shot in the dark. Hey, set your dials to KRUFF tonight. I mean, we’re already moving on as to what to do with the whole Greek Row ghost town next summer. I’ve got this one guy coming on the show—wants to turn it into an ROTC training—“

“Jesus Piz, do you EVER stop talking?” Veronica snaps, temper combusting. “Seriously, how do you manage to interview people when you can’t shut up long enough to listen to answers?”

Tossing her tray down she storms away, ignoring the concerned stares that follow her. And okay, maybe she overreacted a tad—Piz is harmless, just super-nerdily enthusiastic about radio and his own opinions. But she’s been unenthused for a while, frankly, about having to share Wallace with Chatty Cathy. Especially at moments like this, when Wallace has data about CRITICAL ISSUES, but she can’t get a word in edgewise.

She’s almost out of the food court when she passes Dick, engrossed in ominously-excited conversation with Charleston Chu; the phrases ‘big-ass tires’, ‘drive right onto the quad’ and ‘group moon’ are mentioned, all of which inspire terror. So she has no qualms about interrupting with, “Dick, I’ll give you a cookie if you quit plotting to get expelled for five minutes, and answer some questions. And by cookie, I mean I won’t turn you in to the Dean.”

Dick heaves an over-exaggerated sigh but gestures to a table, shooing Charleston away. “This isn’t you hitting on me, right? Because Logan may have finally located his balls and taken away your whip, but that doesn’t mean I’ll be the next gimp in line.”

“Dick,” she says, sitting, and watches him follow suit, “and I mean this sincerely. The idea of smacking you down deeply appeals, but NEVER in that context.”

“So what do you want, then?” He takes a long swallow from the tall-boy he’s holding, in defiance of the Union’s no-booze rule. “Connor Larkin’s phone number?”

I already HAVE a boyfriend, Veronica would like to say, and I’ve got no interest in another. But clearly Dick thinks she DOESN’T have Logan, which means he believes a dumping was planned. Ergo, the squirmy feeling in her gut’s on point, as usual, and now she needs to turn Dick upside down and shake him for DETAILS. “I just need to know why Logan’s mad,” she says. “That’s all. Just what exactly, WAS the final straw? Because we’ve been getting along fine, as far as I know, and I don’t understand his issue.”

“Here’s a hint: you’re psycho.” Dick shrugs. “It’s not like we paint each others’ nails and gossip in our free time, Ron-Rons. All I remember is, he rushed home from dinner a week ago and sat staring at his phone for half an hour. And ever since, when your name comes up he changes the subject. Which, no offense, but I’ve been praying for this day since you two started dating. So excuse me while I celebrate with a twelve-pack, then show those angry feminists how the Pi Sigs get things DONE.”

Veronica scowls as he leaves and pulls out her cell, a suspicion beginning to coalesce. Pages through her call list and determines that yes, the last time Logan reached out was six days ago, at dinner time. Which is about five-and-a-half days longer than he usually goes without calling. But she failed to notice, what with the rape case, and three tests this week, and the coffee-stained stacks of unfiled cases that spilled all over Dad’s office…

Casting her mind back, she counts. Six days ago, she went to the Lilith House and confronted Nish, then learned about Patrice Pitrelli. She remembers being upset for hours, after, because those women cast HER as the villain, when THEY were faking rapes to sabotage a frat (not to mention assaulting frat members). She remembers buying comfort food, because nothing helps a girl shake off gender-traitor accusations better than pasta. And she remembers eating at a table by herself, because she just didn’t have it in her to deal with humanity. She got several calls that night, while wolfing down spaghetti and…

Sent them straight to voice mail.

Her jaw clenches then, because she knows what happened, and it’s just so LOGAN. Of course he’d call her from the food court while he was also in the food court, and say, “Want to see a magic trick? Bet I can guess where you are.” And of COURSE if he watched her hit ignore, his pride would be hurt. He might even assume she didn’t love him, because Logan Echolls, under all the snark and smarm, is a surprisingly delicate flower.

Jesus, he needs to get a grip. But as she pages through the list of ‘recents’ she has to admit…she’s been ignoring his calls a LOT.

Shit. Veronica lets her head fall back, stares at the sandwich somehow glued with old mayonnaise to the industrial-tile ceiling. The only thing she hates more than admitting she’s wrong is apologizing. But if she wants to keep her boyfriend, which she has to confess she does, even if said boyfriend is a DUMBASS…is there a way she could convince him, maybe, without having to do both?

XXXXX

When Veronica makes it back to the food court that night, Logan’s waiting at their ‘special’ table (which she knows, even though he’s never said so, is his do-over for banning her from his high school lunch group). He’s already purchased burgers and bottled sodas, plus the extra serving of fries she likes, and even managed to locate a bottle of ketchup. But instead of eating, he’s twiddling his straw with barely-contained angst, and Full Emo staring at the wall. She’s come up with a plan in the nick of time.

Plunking her bag down by a chair, she says cheerily, “Wow, if THIS doesn’t hit the spot after a hard day at the office!” and sits.

He half-smiles, trying not to succumb to her charm. “I figured you’d be hungry.” Looks sideways, takes a deep breath, then leans earnestly towards her. “But listen, before we eat. Veronica…”

She holds up a hand. “Logan, I know there’s something you want to tell me. And you can, I promise. But first, I have something I need to tell you.”

He nods, slumping back, and she says, “I recognize things have been difficult between us lately—for me, because this rape case is stressful, and…not bringing back the best memories. I’m guessing you feel the same. And even though we talked about you reforming and me acting unnaturally, which I swear, I’m trying to do? Angst makes my patience with people…more limited. I’m pretty sure, in light of the fight we had last week, I’m not holding up my end of the bargain. So I’ve decided to take steps.”

Folding his arms across his chest, he lifts his brows, uncharacteristically non-verbal. She forges ahead, though, because this feels like her last, best chance. “One of the ways you’ve been more open this semester is by giving me your room key. And I loved that gesture, but I can’t reciprocate, because you know my dad would blow a gasket if I gave you a key to our apartment. So I thought about what I might do instead that would be in the same spirit and…I need you to call me.”

“Call you?” His brows inch higher. “From across the table?”

“Yes,” she says. “Pull out your phone and call me right now. It’ll make sense in a minute, I promise.”

He sighs elaborately but does as she asks, thumbing open his phone and reluctantly pressing what she knows for a fact is speed dial number one. Removing her own cell from her pocket, she displays it with a Vanna White wave. Sets it on the table as the introductory trumpets of ‘Ain’t No Other Man’ by Xtina begin to play. Logan barks out a laugh, like he can’t help himself, and she makes a production of pretend shock before picking it up. Adopting a sultry expression, she coos, “Hello?”

Fighting a slow-growing smile, he says, “Who is this? Because I thought I was calling Veronica ‘all work, no play and DEFINITELY no cramping my style’ Mars.”

“She’s not here right now.” Veronica crosses her legs, doing her best hardboiled sexpot. “The only Veronica at THIS number is the one who gave her boyfriend a special ringtone. So even when she’s had it up to HERE with humanity, and would rather cut off her ears than make conversation, she’ll know it’s too important a call to miss.”

His gaze softens as understanding dawns. He unfolds one arm from his self-protective stance to pick up the straw, and taps it, musing, on the tabletop. “You mean there are two of you at large on the Hearst campus? Jesus, Dick will never sleep again.”

She snorts her contempt and indifference, breaking character, and his smile fractionally widens. So she forges determinedly ahead. “Since it’s you, I have a few minutes to talk, before I bolt my dinner and pull an all-nighter for a midterm. So why don’t you tell me what’s on your mind? Let me relieve you of all your troubles and cares. I promise not to lecture or judge, much.”

“Well that’s new. Hmmm…I guess I just want to say…” he pauses, the asshole, to consider—not even potentially-relationship-ending-conflict can dent Logan Echolls’ instinct towards drama. V clenches her jaw so hard it hurts, but manages to hold the smiling pose. “That this fake voice is doing it for me in ways I’ve never previously considered possible. And my ringtone’s pretty bangin’…although those trumpets will startle the shit out of anyone within a ten-foot radius.”

“Maybe I should have chosen ‘Hips Don’t Lie’?” she murmurs, as relief floods through her. His smile breaks through finally, FINALLY, like the sun emerging from a cloud.

“For us, that seems appropriate,” he says, and hangs up his phone. She slides hers shut too, and they stare at each other across the table.

She thinks he’ll want to discuss this almost-miss they just had, because Logan never shirks the tough subjects. But, “So where are you planning to study?” is all he asks, picking up his burger and sinking in teeth. Like he suddenly has his appetite back. Like all the tension and distance she’s fretted about today just vanished into the mist. “Because Dick’s been up to no good, planning something doubtless-embarrassing with the Pi Sigs, so my place is quiet. And, you know, you have a key.”

“As a matter of fact, I DO.” She unwraps her own burger, the knot in her stomach finally unraveling. “But I have to warn you—cramming for tests kicks my stress level up to eleven. Any idea how I might relax, once I’m done, so I can walk into that exam room tomorrow with a clear head?”

“I’ll give it some thought.” He pauses to sip his Coke. “Considering how stressed you GET, though, my plan will need to be exhaustive. So we should start as soon as you have time.”

She grins, chewing, as his feet surround hers under the table. Reflects that Dick will have to wait in vain for his months-long wish to come true. And Piz can find another sucker to listen to his ninety-percent-Piz radio show. Because she’ll be…otherwise occupied.

As for Wallace, he deserves a batch of snickerdoodles, soon-ish; his gossipy ways just saved her ass, and should be encouraged with sugar. But right now, Veronica decides, she needs to concentrate on the care and maintenance of what’s hers. So she twines her fingers through Logan’s while he talks, and debates which stress-relieving techniques to employ.

#veronica mars #anilcadz91 #vmhq birthday club #vm fanfic #veronica mars fanfic

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the-names-hell666 · 6 years

Text

Car Crash AU

Summary: It was a perfect night. Roman and Virgil were going on a date, and Roman had something special planned. All of it is ruined as time seemed to slow. (I suck at summaries, sorry)

Word Count: 3,149

Pairing: (main) Prinxiety, (background) Logicality

Warnings: Major Character Death(s), abuse, panic attacks, hospitals, car crashes, drunk driving, shooting, heartbreak. (If I missed any, let me know!)

It gets really dark, so read at your own risk.

(If you want to be added to the taglist, just ask!)

Roman, a Senior at the University of Florida, was tapping away on the steering wheel of his brand new red sports car. His boyfriend, and hopefully, soon to be fiancée, Virgil, was sitting in the passenger seat, changing the station of the radio. The song ‘High Hopes’ from Panic! At the Disco came on and he turned up the volume. P!ATD was one of his favorite bands. Roman knew this and smiled when Virgil started to sing lightly with the lyrics. In Roman’s opinion, Virgil had the most beautiful voice when it came to something he was passionate about.

It was night out and the perfect mood for what Roman had planned.

They came to a stoplight and their light had just turned green. Roman kept going but didn’t see the car that was going 70 mph (50+ over the speed limit) about to ram into the right side of the car. He couldn’t react in time when Virgil unclipped Roman’s seatbelt and reached over to unlock the door. He did it just in time to push Roman out of the car, but before he did, he gave him a kiss. A final kiss. Roman rolled out of the car while the car still went.

Inside the car, Virgil was trying to unclip his own seatbelt, but it was locked. He looked to his right at the approaching car and froze.

Time seemed to slow for the two boys.

Virgil watched as the headlights of the other car got closer until they were hitting the side of the car.

Roman couldn’t hear anything and his vision went blurry as he watched the car his boyfriend was in get pulverized and roll over.

The crash echoed throughout the whole town.

Some people that were nearby went to help Roman stand up, but he was about ready to pass out from the surprise and sadness welling up inside him.

The world went black as he fainted.

There were some people on the sidewalks that had seen the car crash and the man that was shoved out of the driver seat. Some went to the side of the man, at least three called the police and an ambulance, and some brave souls went into the wreckage of red scraps and a black hood-smashed vehicle to try and help any survivors.

Women were hurrying their children inside houses or gas stations to avert their gazes.

Two men went towards the black vehicle that had flipped over once and dragged out the unconscious driver, an ugly man with a small stream of blood running down his face and possibly a dislocated shoulder.

Three other men went towards the, now flaming, red scrapped car to try to retrieve the passenger. The managed to cut his seatbelt off and carefully drag him out. The boy was a bloodied mess. His scalp was cut open, his skull cracked. His entire right side was most likely broken and maybe some of his left. He was losing a lot of blood. There were probably way more injuries, but they would leave that to the doctors once he was in a hospital.

Sirens were heard in the distance and they were approaching fast.

Five police cars and two ambulances arrived at the wreckage. Two tow trucks were right behind them.

The nurses from the ambulance put Virgil on a stretcher and loaded him into the ambulance. The other nurses went to the other man and patched him up rather quick. They set his shoulder while he was still unconscious and bandaged his head. They would have to check for a concussion and internal bleeding later. They loaded him into the other ambulance and drove him to the hospital.

Police officers talked to eye witnesses that were in the area and thanked the five men that got the two men out of the wreckage. Some police officers checked over Roman for any injuries but found that he only had some minor scratches. Roman was still unconscious, so they took him to the police station where he would explain what happened.

From what the police gathered, the red sports car was driving along at the normal speed limit and its light was green. Then, out of nowhere, a black Lincoln had come out of nowhere, way above the speed limit, ran a red light, and crashed into the red car, resulting in the wreckage.

Many people had gathered to see what was going on and silently prayed that the boy from the red car would be alright.

Roman awoke to a blinding light in his eyes. He squinted to see through it and blinked a couple of times. He felt like he had been pushed out of a car.

Oh, wait…

He had.

Virgil! Was his first thought.

His eyes shot open and he looked around in a panicked state.

He was in a room with a mirror on one of the white walls and a door next to the mirror. He was sitting in a steel chair in front of a steel table, but he was not handcuffed.

The door opened to reveal a lady with light blonde hair pinned back in a bun. She was in a grey business suit and black heels. She held some papers and walked forward, sitting across from Roman.

“Roman Prince?” She asked. Her voice was smooth and calming, but it did nothing to calm Roman down. Where was his boyfriend?

“Y-Yes that’s me. Where’s Virgil?” He asked. Virgil was his main focus right now.

They lady’s eyes softened, and she reached forward to put a hand on Roman’s shaking one.

“I’m sorry to be the one to tell you, but,”

Please don’t say he’s dead…

Please… Roman thought.

“Virgil Knight is in the hospital.”

Roman felt a smidge relieved that his boyfriend wasn’t dead, but panic shot through him when he heard the word ‘hospital’.

“Hospital? Is he- Is he alright?” Roman’s voice was shaking now, and so was his body. He felt tears prick at the corners of his eyes.

“I can’t say. The doctors took him into the ER but apart from that, we haven’t heard anything.”

Roman’s heart sank. The ER?

“May I ask you a few questions? About the crash?” The lady asked.

Roman numbly nodded. He was supposed to propose tonight…

“What is your relationship with Virgil Knight?”

“He was my boyfriend, soon to be fiancée…” He trailed off.

The woman had even more pity in her eyes now. Roman didn’t want pity, he wanted to see his boyfriend.

“I’m so sorry…” The woman straightened back up. “Is that where you were going tonight? To propose?”

Roman nodded. He hung his head low and let the tears fall.

He may never get the chance to propose to his love.

The lady had asked more questions and Roman had cried some. She finally let him leave and had a police officer drive him to the hospital. Roman was grateful for that.

He rushed through the front doors of the hospital, startling the receptionist.

“Where is Virgil Knight?” He asked her.

The woman stuttered but regained her posture and replied.

“He is in the Emergency Room right now. If you are here to see him, I am afraid that you must wait.” The woman, whose nametag red Janet, looked up to see a tear stained face. “I’m sorry, sweetie. Would you like to call anyone?” She offered.

Roman nodded and was handed a phone. He dialed Logan’s number, knowing that if he called one, he would get two.

After two rings, Logan picked up.

Hello?

Roman just cried. His voice was racked with sobs as he tried to form words.

“L-Logan- Vir-gil- h-he- ER-“ He tried.

Logan seemed to get the message and asked for which hospital he was at.

“St. Joseph Hospital.” Roman said after trying to cease his sobs.

We’re on our way.

Roman hung up the phone and sat down on a padded chair. He cried to himself for half an hour until Patton and Logan showed up.

Patton was bawling his eyes out while Logan looked around the Waiting Room, looking for Roman.

Roman was hunched over in a chair, hot, fat tears rolling down his face. Logan went over to him, with Patton in tow, and placed a hand on Roman’s shoulder. Roman looked up, hoping to see the one person he wished to be okay, but instead faced Logan.

New tears started falling out his eyes and his face contorted into one of hurt.

Logan knew how to comfort, from the many articles he read, and started to rub circles on the crying male’s back while Patton enveloped him in a hug. Roman held on to Patton to help ground him to reality. His head was coming up with so many outcomes, good or bad, and he couldn’t stop them.

The three sat there for almost three hours, making it around 1 in the morning. Their eyes were getting droopy, but they wanted to stay awake in case there was any news on Virgil.

After another hour or so, a door near the receptionist area opened. A nurse in clean, baby blue scrubs stepped out. He looked down at the clipboard in his hands and called out, “Anyone here for Virgil Knight?”

Roman immediately stood up at the mention of Virgil. He sped walked towards the nurse.

“I am.” He said.

Logan and Patton were right behind him. “So are we.” Logan added.

The nurse looked confused for a second.

“Any family members?” He asked.

Roman looked at his shoes.

“We’re the closest thing to a family he has.”

The nurse’s eyes saddened and started leading through the doorway and down the hall. They walked for a few minutes until they ended up at a light-brown door. On the door was a nameplate. It read ‘Virgil Knight’.

Roman wanted to barge into the room but was held back by Logan and the nurse. Logan placed Roman’s hand on his chest and took a deep breath, indicating for Roman to do the same.

Roman took a deep breath and turned the doorknob.

His breath hitched at the sight of his boyfriend.

Virgil was on a white (slightly red) hospital bed. His head was bandaged and propped up with pillows. He was in a hospital gown, but his right side was completely bandaged with gauze and casts. Virgil was hooked up to many machines such as heart monitor, breathing machine, IV tube, etc.

Roman fell to his knees and sobbed some more. His tears seemed never ending.

Patton and Logan helped him up and moved him to a chair near the bed.

“He’s semi-stable, but he’ll need to be here for a while.” The nurse said.

The nurse exited the room and closed the door, leaving the four men alone.

Roman gently and shakily took Virgil’s left hand in his.

He started to sing in a broken voice. It was their song.

“You know I want you It's not a secret I try to hide I know you want me So don't keep saying our hands are tied You claim it's not in the cards Fate is pulling you miles away And out of reach from me But you're here in my heart So who can stop me if I decide That you're my destiny?

What if we rewrite the stars? Say you were made to be mine Nothing could keep us apart You'd be the one I was meant to find It's up to you, and it's up to me No one can say what we get to be So why don't we rewrite the stars? Maybe the world could be ours Tonight…”

Now, it was Virgil’s turn to sing. Roman knew it was a long shot and he didn’t expect Virgil to answer.

Virgil stayed unconscious.

The three stayed the night at the hospital after calling the University and telling all their teachers that them and Virgil wouldn’t be there for a while. The teachers understood but expected the three back in two weeks. Virgil would come back once he was better.

Logan went to their apartment to grab some changes of clothes and some breakfast. He went because Roman didn’t want to leave Virgil’s side and Patton was too emotional to drive.

Roman had started petting Virgil’s hand while softly singing different songs. He asked Logan to bring his guitar, so he did.

Roman played the soundtrack from ‘The Black Cauldron’, Virgil’s favorite Disney movie. Roman looked up from time to time and saw that Virgil’s hand twitched.

Roman froze.

Virgil’s eyes fluttered open a bit, but then closed again. He tried to move his right arm, but gasped in pain, and moved his left. He moved his hand, so he was shielding his eyes from the intense lighting.

Roman moved closer to the bed while Patton went to dim the lights. Logan rushed out of the room to get a doctor or nurse.

Virgil opened his eyes a bit more and looked around.

Wait…

This wasn’t his room…

Where was he?

Oh, no…

Virgil’s heartrate accelerated, and his breathing was uneven. He was on the verge of a panic attack.

Roman grabbed his left hand, gently but firm, and made symbols on Virgil’s palm. Virgil recognized the symbols as 4-7-8, his breathing technique.

Virgil tried to follow the pattern, even though one small breath hurt. His lungs hurt from the hyperventilating from earlier.

Three people burst into the room, which made Virgil go into panic mode again.

Roman moved to stand in front of Virgil and their eyes met. Roman reassured him softly that ‘It will be okay’ and ‘They won’t hurt you’, to which Virgil calmed down a bit. He was still wary of the unfamiliar people as they moved around him.

Virgil nearly lost it when they pushed Roman out of the room. He couldn’t speak so he made grabbing motions towards his boyfriend. The people, which he concluded to be doctors, still pushed him out. Two of them gently pushed Virgil to lay on the bed again. They flashed lights in his eyes, to which he squinted. They checked his pulse, blood pressure, and other things Virgil lost track of.

Virgil was zoning in and out of reality but then noticed that one of them was looking at him and moving their lips. They were trying to speak to him, but he couldn’t speak.

Did it just get darker in the room?

Why are their faces blurry?

Where’s Roman?

Roman tried to fight against the doctor pushing him out and Logan pulling, but it worked to no avail. He was back in the Waiting Room.

Virgil woke up.

A spark of hope lit inside Roman until it was a small flame. Roman slightly smiled.

Virgil would be okay.

He looked at Patton and Logan, then noticed another figure was in the room.

It was a man. His head was bandaged, and his arm was in a sling. He looked familia- oh! It’s him!

Roman stomped towards the man.

The man looked up surprised to see a fuming male storming towards him. He stood up to face the angry college student with a fake pity face.

Roman had tears in his eyes again, but his face showed rage.

“How-How could you?! Your light was red!” He shouted.

Logan grabbed his arm before he could maul the man.

“Our light was green! You had to stop! How-“ Roman got quieter. “Why?”

The man rubbed the back of his neck. “Sorry, kid. I was drunk.”

Roman got angry again. This man wasn’t remotely sorry for what he had done. Logan was trying his hardest to hold Roman back, and Patton had joined.

The man was in a relaxed stance with a slight tension.

Logan spoke up. “If you are here to see if Virgil will press charges he won’t. He couldn’t do that to anyone.”

It was true. Virgil was a nice kid once known. He would never intentionally do something to hurt anyone, mentally, emotionally, or physically.

The tension in the man’s stance relaxed. “Nice knowin’ ya, then!” The man practically skipped out of the waiting room.

Logan and Patton were about ready to let Roman go against their better judgement. This man was an asshole.

Roman, Logan, and Patton had gotten word of Virgil’s condition. Apparently, he had some major internal bleeding, a major concussion, some shattered bones, and more. It was a miracle that he even woke up.

Then, the doctor said something that Roman couldn’t believe.

Virgil was in a coma.

Roman’s world fell apart.

His sweet, loving, boyfriend was in a coma.

Roman couldn’t feel anything. He was numb from the emotional pain he was in.

The man had walked out to his car. He had to be sure that the ‘Princey kid’ wouldn’t press charges. He was sure that the kid in the hospital bed wouldn’t make it, but he had to be sure that both people were out of the equation.

He set up a plan to kill them both.

Virgil saw a light. He saw old memories on the left and right of him and a light straight forward. He couldn’t go backwards, so he opted to go into the light while watching his memories.

The first time he met Roman.

Their first date.

Patton and Logan finding out about their relationship.

And all the bad memories too…

His mother and father abusing him.

His older sister abandoning him at a young age.

His mother hanging by a rope.

And more…

Virgil didn’t want to look at the memories anymore.

He started to run. He ran as fast as he could to reach that light. The light would help him, right? It would save him?

He ran into the wall of light and was met with pearl-white gates that opened for him.

He walked forward.

On the outside, Virgil was flatlining. The doctors tried to restart his heart. They started with CPR, but once that didn’t work, went to the defibrillators. They tried for about thirty minutes before they proclaimed him dead.

The doctors had told Logan first, he was the least likely to break down. Logan told Patton, then Roman.

Roman couldn’t take it, he ran. He ran until he was met with a bridge over a flowing river. The water was murky.

Roman cried. He broke down and sobbed.

No…

NO!

WHY? WHY VIRGIL? WHY NOT ME?

Roman screamed his throat sore. He didn’t notice the car approaching.

He didn’t notice the group of me exiting the car with one holding a revolver.

He didn’t care when two of the men grabbed him by the arms and pin him to the ground.

He was overjoyed when the third holding the revolver shot him straight through the head.

I’ll see you soon, mi amor.

~~~

Taglist

@grey-blogs

#sanders side fic #car crash au #major character death #read at own risk #virgil sanders #roman sanders #logan sanders #patton sanders

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itispossibleihaveissues · 7 years

Text

Another Perfect Catastrophe -1

AUTHOR: Mikimoo PAIRING: JayDick RATING: Mature

WARNINGS: Non Consensual drug use, Non Consensual touching, Non Consensual kissing, humour, slight mayhem

SUMMARY: Dick goes undercover as himself in order to catch a gang of international thieves. Jason reluctantly tags along as his long suffering bodyguard. During the ensuing mayhem they get to know each other again and build a few bridges.

Thank you to burkesl17 for the beta!

Notes: An embarrassingly long time ago, the amazing and very, very talented Pentapus invited me to do a reverse bang style exchange, and drew me an amazing prompt. I have no idea how this story was the one that emerged from the many options I had, but such is the creative process I guess! Anyhoo, many thanks to Pentapus for both encouragement and patience, and of course the incredible art! (which will be included at the end of the appropriate chapter)

GO HERE FOR THE AMAZING ART BY THE AWESOME PENTAPUS!

This was a cluster-fuck. An epic, tragic, mess of ridiculous proportions. It was the sort of thing that only seemed to happen to Jason.

“Gosh, your eyes are pretty,” Dick said, as Jason dragged him bodily towards where he thought the entrance to the wine cellar was. According to the blueprints and the literature he had read on the house and estate, there was an old smugglers tunnel that led to the coast and freedom. He was just fervently hoping it was still accessible.

“Were they always that color?” Dick slurred, petting the button on Jason's cuff and staring blearily at his ear.

“Come on, you drugged up moron,” Jason growled. He was looking forward to giving Dick a hard time about this later, but right now he was a real pain in the ass. Jason spotted the cellar door, and hauled Dick towards it. They had enough of a lead, they could do this and get away before the hired goons caught up to them. He propped Dick against the wall, ignoring the way the fool slid down to the floor with a whoosh of breath.

The hatch was held shut with a rusty padlock and it clearly hadn't been used in some time. Hopefully his picks would make short work of it. If they could open it, they could leave less of a trail than if he had to break it off. Unfortunately Jason just wasn't that lucky, he never fucking was.

“Come on, come on,” he chanted under his breath, as his picks caught the inner workings of the lock but wouldn't budge. “Come on,” he grunted, and with a particularly hard tug it finally gave and the padlock sprang open.

“Come on, come on, turn your radio on!” Dick sang at the top of his lungs and wildly out of tune.

So much for gaining time by being sneaky. At least the sound had bounced around the wide courtyard. Jason yanked Dick to his feet and bundled him into the open hatch. His feeling of relief was short lived though, when he felt a sudden impact in his neck. He pulled free the small dart and stared at it.

“Fuck.”

This had all been Bruce's fault.

The mission had been a simple one, be bait for a gang of very ambitious thieves praying on the stupidly rich. They operated in Europe as well as the US, and their last sting had hit members of the Gotham elite. Normally Jason wouldn't bother with offering an assist getting justice for a bunch of super rich crooks and morons. But there was a sexual and sadistic element to the hits that put them on Jason's shit list. Their victims were both male and female, and the violence often extended to younger family members. Drugs were the method used to extract bank details and subdue the targets, so the assaults were just for 'fun' rather than a tactic to gain anything.

Jason hadn't been planning to go after them, as he was aware Batman was looking into it. But when Bruce contacted him and demanded he lend his aid in that no-nonsense tone that was his version of asking for a favor, Jason went, despite his knee jerk reaction to tell the Bat to fuck off. He could admit he was curious - why would B be asking for his help?

Turned out it wasn't just him. Jason had been unimpressed to find Dick there already, and Dick had displayed an equal lack of enthusiasm. Apparently Bruce hadn't bothered to share his plan with his Golden Boy either. He had also failed to mention to Jason that he was injured; one leg was immobilized by a hi-tech cast and there were bruises and burns on his face. Some hair on the back of his head was singed off to the scalp.

The sight caused all sorts of bad feelings to swim in Jason's gut – how close had he come this time? Bruce was ridiculously good at what he did, but it only took one lucky shot. What would they do when the day came when he didn't dodge fast enough? Why did Jason even care?

“We've figured out they're going to hit London next,” Bruce said, without preamble. “I was planning on going with Damian, but the events of the last week mean that Dick has to go in my stead.”

“So he and the spawn are off to Europe? Why do you need me?” Jason asked.

Dick scowled at him with real anger behind his expression, “Damian got hurt too, he can't go on a trip when he looks like he spent time in a meat grinder, because he was blown up.” That last was growled at Bruce, and Jason realized Dick wasn't actually mad at him at all, he was upset about whatever had happened with the previous case. Bruce ignored Dick's tone, words and expression with the ease of someone who did it all the time, and went back to bringing up mission info on the computer.

“I ask again, why am I here?” Jason said into the frigid silence.

“Nightwing needs backup, and Richard needs a bodyguard.”

“I don't.”

“Don't be difficult for the sake of it, Dick, we don't have time. Richard Grayson wouldn't be without one, not after all the kidnap attempts.”

It was disconcerting to hear Bruce talk about Dick in three separate parts, perhaps it really was just that easy for Bruce to be different people when the situation called for it. Jason knew it was next to impossible for him to be like that, and he suspected it wasn't easy for Dick either.

Dick stalked a little closer, coiled violence in his movements and tension practically coming off him in waves. “There are lots of options for that role, at the very least you could have let me choose for myself.”

“So, I'm just useful as big, dumb muscle, is that it?” Jason demanded. He hated that this kind of crap was the only thing Bruce ever wanted from him, but in some small part of his heart he still got an annoying but persistent thrill when the old man asked him for help in that angry, blunt and almost stilted way he had. It was the sad and pathetic remnants of his past hero worship. “And I don't even get the courtesy of being asked nicely? Fuck you both.” He hoped that didn't sound as petty or hurt to them as it did to his own ears. But it wasn't like he didn't have his own shit to deal with; this was a waste of his time.

He was surprised when Dick caught up to him as he re-entered the house, he had expected them to be punching each other’s lights out by now.

“Jason, wait.”

“Not interested.”

“Bruce is an ass, I wish he hadn't sprung this on us.” Dick reached out and lay his warm fingers on Jason's wrist, then withdrew his hand when Jason scowled at them. “And him being a control freak was no excuse for me being a shit to you about it.” That statement looked like it had been hard to say, admitting to being a douchebag wasn't easy for anyone it seemed.

“Fine, apology accepted. But I have shit to do, Dick.”

“He's an ass, but, annoyingly, he's also right,” Dick said, with a slightly sour twist to his lips.

“How?”

“I will need back up, and a bodyguard, for show.” He shrugged. “I already have some ideas for the first part of the operation, but I’ll probably need some help planning the rest.”

“You never need help planning,” Jason said, failing to keep the scorn from his voice. “What's your angle?”

“Just a feeling, a hunch maybe? Or perhaps I'm still rattled by last week. We nearly lost Damian and Bruce at once, I don't feel up to taking chances, you know?”

Jason grunted. He was going to regret saying yes, but not as much as if he said no and something happened he could have prevented. And if he was being honest, it was gratifying to hear Dick admit he wanted help, whether he needed it or not. “Fine, when and where?”

“Here, two days. We'll fly to London and try and get this wrapped up. Thanks, Jay.” He grinned a bright smile up at Jason, and Jason felt the first stirring of real trepidation.

“No,” Dick said when Jason arrived at the manor to pick him up and drive him to the airport.

Jason squashed the urge to say 'yes', just to be contrary and instead ground his teeth together and waited for Dick to elaborate. It didn't help that Dick literally looked like a million dollars. Instead of the usual shaggy mess, he was sporting what Jason suspected was a $600 haircut, it changed his appearance slightly, added a touch of arrogance and artifice to his natural good looks. He was also wearing vastly overpriced designer jeans and a tight polo in baby pink. Jason sort of wanted to smack him for the price tag on the pants alone.

Dick gestured at Jason's suit. “This isn't what I want.”

“Oh?” Jason ground out, “You had something else in mind for me? Don't want to be seen with underdressed help?” It was a decent suit, one he had had fitted for those occasions where he had to dress up. It wasn't Bruce level good, but it wasn't from Walmart either.

“Quite the contrary. We have to make a splash, get noticed be scandalous!” He beckoned Jason further inside, and when he dragged his heels slightly, Dick grabbed hold of his sleeve and tugged him into the bowels of the house, dislodging a cufflink in the process.

“Dammit, Dick. Stop manhandling me!”

“Sorry, but we have a flight to catch.”

Jason's eyes rolled before he could stop them. “Like they wouldn't wait for you, rich boy.”

Dick grinned at him, the expression was challenging rather than friendly. “I'm not well known in London. The people there who know Bruce don't visit the right circles, they're more old money, while we need young, stupid and filthy rich.” He paused to usher Jason into the study, the one Bruce had for show, rather than use. “We need to get the right kind of attention, fast. That means we gotta be a little outrageous. That and throw around cash like it’s going out of style.”

He gave Jason another one of those challenging, sharp smiles, and pointed a perfectly manicured finger at a pile of clothes draped haphazardly over the nineteenth century chaise lounge. “Wear that.”

Jason wanted to object on principle, but he supposed he should have a look first; his only concession to avoiding a fist fight before they even got out of the country.

He poked through the clothes curiously. The outfit Dick had picked out for him was like a less beat up, more designer version of his normal wear. The leather jacket was a thing of beauty; it smelled like money and class, but it looked like something he might choose for himself. “Why this?” he asked, not willing to show his complete bemusement.

“Two reasons, both practical,” Dick said, leaning his butt against Bruce's hand carved desk. “Get changed and I'll explain my thinking.”

Jason wasn't necessarily shy about shucking his pants in front of folks, he grew up having to hit the showers with the goddamn Justice League after all. (And let it be said that seeing Superman in the buff was not what a gangly, half grown teenager needed for his wobbly self-esteem.) But there was still something that made him profoundly uncomfortable about stripping down in front of Dick.

He wasn't going to let that show, though, and instead he casually removed his suit jacket and dropped his slacks. Dick didn't seem to be paying any attention, so Jason relaxed slightly as he pulled on the pants Dick had provided. “And?” he prompted starting on his button up.

“Two very practical reasons” Dick repeated. “Number one, while I'm playing nice with the socialites it makes sense for you to do some sneaking, and for that it would be best if you had your gear. If people are used to you kitted out in this get up, it won't look so suspicious if they catch you lurking around wearing leather.”

“Uh huh,” Jason agreed, he was having some significant trouble pulling on the t-shirt Dick had provided. “I think this is the wrong size, Dickhead,” he said, tugging the hem over his abs. He could feel the material pull at the shoulders, but it didn't feel like it would restrict movement too much.

“That brings us to reason number two,” Dick said brightly as a predatory grin grew on his face. “To get the sort of attention we need, we have to stand out. My bodyguard needs to be sexy as well as scary. People should make terrible assumptions.” He stalked towards Jason who had the sudden urge to back up. Dick whipped out a comb from somewhere in his sinfully tight jeans and attacked Jason's hair without further warning.

“Oi!”

“Hold still, Jason!”

“I draw the line at you fucking with my hair, Dick!” Jason batted him away. “You can dress me like a damn doll if it pleases you, but the hair is sacrosanct!”

Dick looked like he was going to lunge at him again, but then he seemed to think better of it. “Fine,” he said, shaking his own hair out of his eyes. “You look the part, that's good enough for me.”

“Oh thanks so much, Dick, I'm so very flattered,” Jason grumbled as they headed for the car. It turned out Dick had also packed a spare suitcase for him, no doubt filled with obscenely tight T-shirts and overpriced pants. But after some internal debate he decided not to argue the point. Dick was clearly in a bossy mood and Jason would save the fighting for when it mattered.

Or when it was most obnoxious, he wasn't above being petty.

#jaydick #Jason Todd #dick grayson #nightwing #redhood #catastrophe #my fic #mik trys to write stuff #My writing

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