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phantomenby · 2 years

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Stalkers

Poly!tlb x reader x star x michael

TW// stalker themes, yandere, idk general creepy vamp shit

It started a month after you moved to Santa Carla.

The notes that is. And the gifts, the sounds of footsteps on your roof top, flashes of faces in the corners of your vision, the feeling of being watched at every moment.

You dreaded the night. The sun was your only solace.

You hadn't wanted to move here, having grown up in Alaska where it was significantly colder and known more for its amazing forest views than anything. But work had dragged you out here, and so you traded your snow for coarse, dry sand.

At least food was cheaper.

The house you had been given was quaint, you couldn't think of a better way to describe it. Set just half a mile from any other civilisation, the garden lush with grass and vegetatio despite how dry the land was else where. Your favourite was the large trees which built a wall around most of the property, giving you some shade from the sun when you were still getting used to the head.

It was a bungalow, of sorts. The attic had been converted by the old couple who used to live there, and naturally the upstairs was all your own private space, a bedroom-office combo with a beautiful round window that let the light shine in.

After a week you were settled, and you could see it becoming your very own paradise. You were young after all and there was no point in fretting over a home that you might be dragged out of in a few months.

Then, one Sunday, May twenty-second, the first of them arrived.

You never wanted to leave your bed. I mean, it was a cheap mattress you had bought on sale at some shoddy store, but it was just so so soft.

That was down to the bedding you had - sweet cream coloured brushed cotton, even your teal toned quilt and pillow covers were made of it. If a sheep was kept clean all its life you were sure it would feel like this.

But alas, your dumb human brain wouldn't let you mooch for too long without guilt.

The house was still and you could hear birds chirping in the morning hours as you climbed down the narrow, steep steps from your upper floor abode.

It was still a little messy since you had been on a little shopping trip the day before. But you needed new clothes since you had few things for this kind of heat, nor anything of real fashion.

You didn't really care for fashion, if you liked how it looked and the feel of it didn't make your skin crawl you were happy. But your new and only friend, Gina, had insisted on taking you to some of the cheaper shops she knew you would be able to find a few nice pieces in.

Now your bank account crying at you.

Instinctually you went to the coffee pot in the kitchen, prepping enough for the day and turning it on, enjoying the scratchy broken sound the ancient machine made as you went to open the backdoor and let air through.

"What to do, what to do..." putting away shopping was the furthest thing from your mind, it was the last day of the weekend before you had to go meet clients all week. You wanted to do something fun.

The machine stopped and you went to the freezer, pulling out an ice tray from the top shelf and bringing it to the counter. You grabbed a glass and began prepping your chosen beverage, sweet iced coffee with condensed milk and cream. You were bound to die before you reached thirty but by god, your taste buds would be satisfied.

As you worked you glanced out the window towards the driveway, your boxy yellow beetle still safe and sound, albeit covered in dust and sand but still cute.

You grabbed a spoon and muddled the ingredients together, heading to the front, it wasn't mail day but you also hadn't checked since Wednesday. Maybe you'd recieved something fun from your boss, she was known to send you silly magazine clips that she thought looked cool, it was a good thing she was an office gal and not someone in control of the arts department.

It was already hot outside, the summer months would be worse. At least you'd never worry about rickets. A small win in the murder capital of the world.

Taking a sip you nearly moaned. Recently you had been visiting a little market stall that came round the other side of town every Tuesday, some sweet old man called Tom bought beans of every variety with him, but this was a special brew and tasted like heaven in your morning cup. And your midday cup, and your dinner cup, thinking on it you might have a problem.

Oh well.

You could make sight of it now, your little blue mailbox, still standing proud now that a metal beam connected it to the ground. It was the only way to get those dreadful skaters to stop knocking into it with their cars as they headed down the backstreets.

And it was most definetly there before you moved in, yes thats right officer its not funny that their car wrapped around it.

It was very funny, you would happily do it again.

"Oh hell yes," there was something there, a small bundle and a few tiny envelopes, they were new. Maybe Marie was trying a new thing, maybe she was becoming human at last and learning to communicate like one too. Wouldn't that be a sight.

You didn't spare another glance at them as you strolled back home, regretting the decision not to wear a hat as the sun blinded your poor corneas.

Pushing the door open you gave yourself a moment to enjoy the heat leaving you, fortunately, the house had good airflow, could have done with curtains too but oh well.

When you placed down the letters you immediately went for the thick stack you recognised, inside was enough clippings to make a whole new magazine, and you were particularly enjoying some of the more colourful clothing hidden within. One thing about this part of the US was how eccentric things could be in terms of style.

It didn't take long to sort through them, and by the time you were done your coffee was almost void of ice so you added some of it black to help with the wateryness, the dark liquid now alot cooler than before.

What next caught your eye was the small number of light, dainty letters. They were pretty, the paper thin and almost seethrough to the point you doubted you needed to do more than hold them up to the light to know what was written on them.

Though, there where were stickers holding them closed. Flowers, kiddie shaped ones, even one made to look like melted wax.

This was...most unlike Marie.

You opened one with a daffodil sticker on it, feeling the smooth edge as you lifted the cover and pulled the letter out.

It was one sided, glancing at the envelope you saw the words 'our love' written, scrawled in beautiful calligraphy.

"What the hell..."

Maybe this wasn't for you, maybe the old owner. No. You shook your head. They were dead, passed almost a year ago and having lived in the house for half a century.

You unfolded it, eyes raking over the words a thousand times.

It was, poetry? It was beautiful, but you hated poetry, your grandmother made you recite it to her every Sunday after church and you despised how obsessive people became over words which could hold nothing, or everything. It was always too hard to decipher, to analyse. Never something you saw as affectionate.

My carnation,

the air in my lungs,

I wish to breathe.

Wont you come home to me?

What the fuck.

You reached for another, one with a pink heart sticker. Christ.

There was a lipstick print, still rosy and smelling faintly of chocolate, thick and plump.

I will be your starlight,

your moonlight,

your sunlight,

your lifeline.

Nope. Nope, nope, nope. No thank you.

You didn't touch the other two, leaving them on the counter and stepping back.

It took an hour of pacing and another cup of coffee before you opened the final ones.

One held some dried pressed flowers, and the other with the words 'we'll be waiting for you, our little love'.

Your little paradise was now a prison, more letters came and things unexplainable kept happening.

Thing got better after some time, after you went to the police. They were basically useless though, telling you they couldn't do anything unless your stalker(s?) threatened to harm you.

Which the letters never did.

At one point they stopped. And you thought you might finally be left alone to recoup your mental state. But no, instead, when they started again they were werse.

Obsessive. Deranged.

They talked about personal things, what you had been up to, the changes you made in your home, everything you wore, when you cut your hair, when you changed roles at work.

One time there was money in one of the envelopes, a thick stack of twenties with a note saying it was for your car, which had been hit by someone why you were down at the boardwalk with it. The damage wasn't bad but you had been pretty bummed by the large scratch and dent marring the pretty pale yellow paint.

You supposed that was the only positive thing to come out of it.

But in the end you couldn't do it. You couldn't take the money and fix your sweet little bug, choosing to look at the dent sadly each day as you continued to work.

Soon enough you would get paid anyway.

Then you would fix it.

Today you had headed out into town, wanting to pick up some groceries since your fridge and cupboards were pretty bare and the last thing you needed was to be a grumpy rat while taking calls for the rest of the week.

The sky was already growing dark and you decided to be as quick as you could, hating the idea of driving down the pitch black roads late at night.

When you arrived at the 24-hour-has-everything-you-could-ever-need store it was almost desolate, just a truck driver and some bikes parked out front.

Walking in soothed you, but the AC kept making an awful rattling sound that made your spine tingle.

The trucker was talking to the attendant, clearly happy to have someone to mellow out with for a small while before he had to get back on the road.

In the back by some drinks fridges was who you assumed to be the bikers, a tall blonde with wild hair and a long dirtied coat, his smaller counter-part adorning much more colourful attire.

As you walked around with your cart they kept glancing at you, their wide, bright eyes burning into your back.

Your cart was already pretty full by the time you had made it halfway through the store. Stacked high with snacks and cupboard food that would last you a long while.

Honestly, you probably should buy some plants, you were going to be here a while and it wouldn't hurt you to grow some of your own food, maybe even start a little garden.

"Something catch your eye sugar?"

You jumped with a squeak, dropping the can of coffee in your hand, watching as it was caught by a pale hand just before it hit the ground.

"Gotta be careful hun, gonna make a mess."

Looking up you were met with pale blue eyes, wide and bright like a puppy's with something darker shining within.

His brow was arched as you continued analysing him, leaning down closer to you til his lips met your ear, "I think you dropped this."

Before you could respond the cold can was pushed to your chest, your hands instinctively coming up to hold it.

He left you with a smile, yanking on his friend's jacket as he brushed past you.

What the hell

A week later, there was $56.23 in your mailbox.

The exact amount you spent at the grocery store.

#tlb x reader #the lost boys x reader #tlb #the lost boys #marko the lost boys #the lost boys fic #dwayne tlb #marko tlb #the lost boys imagines #poly lost boys x reader #david tlb #the lost boys 1987 #michael emerson #star x reader

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ravenyenn19 · 10 months

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OKAY HERE IT IS:

So!!! Results from my poll indicated that some of you don’t want to see “face inspo/casts” for my OG “Dealing With Our Demons” characters (totally respect that!! I sometimes prefer my image not tainted while reading, too!🖤)

SOoo… here’s what we’re going to do. I will be posting the images BELOW the cut, so that way if you would rather not see, you don’t have to!🖤 no offense whatsoever taken.

Before you continue, a note: NONE of these pictures are exactly how I picture my characters. These are simply the closest I could get/who I took inspo from when describing them. 🖤 Please do not feel like you need to agree w me. That is the beauty of reading, is it not? Love you. ALSo. This is long, but I wanted to include my notes for clarification if you wanted them. This was fun, getting to have a lil in depth convo w you guys.🥹

PS- IF YOU HAVE NOT READ MY FANFIC “Dealing With Our Demons” on ao3 (by ravenyenn19) & are planning to do so (thx in advance ily) THIS POST WILL HAVE SPOILERSISH. I say this bc while no plot will be ruined, you will see faces you are not meant to yet. 🖤

First up we have: Khalid Runa (Inej’s childhood best friend) & Rahul Runa (Inej’s older cousin) *these two are married, hence the shared surname*

Notes: Khalid is pretty close, actually. In DWOD, he has aquamarine/green eyes due to his partially Kaelish heritage & I do picture his skin tone to be a tad lighter due to this. ALSO: Khalid does have burn scars across most of his hands, though I was unable to find such an image to include that piece of “DWOD lore”. (The burns are from his years mastering ‘flame eating/fire dancing’ in the caravans.

Rahul: This image is mostly chosen for his facial structure, however I do picture Rahul to have close cropped hair (a sort of subversion upon the suli culture that makes his training as a medic easier. I do picture him also remaining clean-shaven with a skin tone that is very similar to his cousin, Inej Ghafa.)

Next: Nani (Mitra) Ghafa (Inej’s maternal grandmother)

Notes: This actress is actually Iranian, for note. SO: I do want to make it very clear that I picture Nani’s skin tone to be darker like Inej (though also I do think this photo was filtered bc the actress does seem to have slightly darker skin in other pics, I chose this one bc of her face & HOW SHE HOLDS HERSELF SO MUCH LIKE NANI.) All this being said, this one is pretttttty dang similar to how I pictured Nani while writing her. Facial features specifically. What a queen. What more is there to say? She could divine my tea leaves any time.

Sharya & Kahir Ghafa, Inej’s parents (technically not OG characters, but never named in canon)

Notes: Sharya is pretty dang close to how I imagined her, which is super cool considering I never used an inspo pic for either of the Ghafas when writing them (I found them for this purpose!). It probably sounds a bit weird, but like… I just knew how Sharya & Kahir looked. They were just…BAM. Full formed people in my head. This is ultimately SUCH A FLEX ON LEIGH BARDUGO’s PART. Like, we only really experienced glimpses of Inej’s parents through the few memories in her POVs but they absolutely stuck with me & formed wonderful characters as my fic progressed. (Of course this is my opinion, but I do hope ya’ll agree.🥹)

Kahir: So…. This pic is the closest I could get, & similar to Nani, I chose it based more on facial structure/in this case facial hair. HOWEVER, Kahir is very special to me. I wrote some of his scenes in moments after I had lost my godfather, (whom was the truest father I had. He meant everything to me, being my actual dad’s best friend, he helped raise me after my dad passed when I was 4.), hence, I feel the need to clarify- as I feel a bit of my own dad is in Kahir, if only in the love.)This pic is missing a smile that I imagine near permanent on Kahir Ghafa’s face, and eyes that I cannot explain in any other word but kind. Similar to Inej’s. Sparkly. Idk. ALSO: I do picture true black hair & less gray. Maybe a sprinkle of pepper in his beard, but not much. I just imagine Inej’s parents aging like fine wine. Idk.

Next….*drum roll*…. Dr. Lily Arbor (I waited so long to bring this girl to life.)

NOTES: Ok. So. Two pics here for our Darling Death Defier Mortician. 🫶🏻 So, the one on the left is more youthful to me, a bit closer (although not the right age) to how I imagine the Lily of Kaz’s childhood. The right being far closer to how I imagine 24 year old Lily. Yet, neither of these are exactly right. But they are close. The changes that are distinct within my mind are as follows: the eyes. I distinctly see them like 2 shades darker. Navy. It’s a rare eye color, but not that different. Next, the hair. In the left image, the curls are just right, but I imagine she keeps her hair slightly longer than that- both in girlhood & adulthood. Not nearly the length of Inej’s, but you feel me. Also I do imagine her hair a bit darker, like that sort of red with hints of almost brown in it? Maroon? Gosh I can’t explain but I am certain you guys probably get it. Less like Wylan’s orangish red. Lastly: this girl has more freckles. I don’t make the rules. (Actually I do since she’s a daughter of my mind, but no I don’t.)

Bonus heartbreak:

Jordie.🥹💔 (obviously aged up to if he were alive.) notes: NO ONE. I REPEAT. NO ONE looks exactly how I imagine the elder Rietveld son. The actor here is in fact Jess from Gilmore Girls. Milo is the closest I’ve come to finding an older Jordie face cast, based more on book Kaz in relation. His hair would obviously not be styled like the early 00’s. Obviously dark eyes like his brother. In a way, like Kahir, I imagine Jordie’s eyes would have a permanent sparkle of amusement that one would sometimes see mirrored in Kaz. I can’t explain it. I love Jordie & I’m about to have a fit all over again. 🫡

Next…. Bram Rietveld (technically not OG character, but he is not named nor described whatsoever in the canon material. Kaz only says that he and his brother missed their Da.🥹)

Notes: DO NOT COME FOR ME. I AM DEFENDING MYSELF. Not to sound cringe, but from the moment I put Kaz’s Da into DWOD, back in memories at the very very early stages of the story, I pictured Pedro. This was before the internet craze (I mean obvs he was famous but iykyk), & I know that sounds cringe but it’s true. Pedro Pascal IS Bram Rietveld. Like, I would change next to nothing. Obviously his voice would have a “southern” ring. Maybe he’d have slightly lighter skin naturally being of Kerch descent, but actually I imagine him quite tan at most points of the year from running the Rietveld farm & harvesting the wheat fields. Obviously, you can picture him differently, but this is damn near exact for me. Also, Last of Us only solidified that belief for me. Gosh dangit, look at this treasure! Bram loved his kids so much.

Are you ready? (I’d say I saved the best for last, but… Actually, no. I certainly did.) I present…

Emilia Winstrad, The Butcher of Belendt🪡

Notes: I love her. I love Emilia as much as I love the protagonists from my actual novel. She means so much to me. 🥹 I don’t think I can quite explain how excited I was (& how long I waited) to introduce you guys to Emilia. I hope you love her as much as I do in DWOD. As far as technical notes: Rachel McAdams (this actress) has quite honestly the exact facial features I pictured on Emilia. Like Bram, I feel like this is Em. However, there are a few minor changes: dark eyes like Kaz rather than hazel (it’s hard to tell here), & also the same dark hair as Kaz. True black. Tbh, I was shocked when I stumbled upon images of McAdams randomly (after already describing Emilia in the story)- it felt like seeing a picture of an online friend you’ve never actually met but they somehow appear exactly as you thought they would? Make sense?

Bonus pics that show the darker hair I imagine on another actress. Also the pipe picture just for funsies (iykyk)🫶🏻🪓

She is my pride & joy. Not only that, but I think she and Kaz were meant to be family. I am not Leigh & have no canon voice, but I swear somewhere in the multiverse she is canon & I say that with fear because it’s not meant to sound precocious. She just feels so real to me, but I’m sure that’s silly bc I wrote her. Idk. Take my ramblings 🖤

Oops my hand slipped, have more pain: Elena Rietveld (I consider Elena an OG character of mine as Kaz’s mother is never mentioned in canon despite that he obviously had one. Technically, it is never said whether she lived or died.)

Sorry I killed her.

Notes: OBVIOUSLY these are pics of the same actress because Em & Elle are identical twins. However, I did choose an image of McAdams from earlier in her acting career as she did pass away younger than when Emilia appears in the story. The same notes apply here as to Em, dark hair & dark eyes would be the changes. Though, I do love this pic representing Elena as there is something a bit softer about her over her sister. Where Emilia applies blood red lipstick, Elle is a petal pink. I think that metaphor fits best, but undoubtedly I wanted Elena to have her own strength in the memories where we get to glimpse her. A woman who chose her baby son, Kaz’s life over her own. The type of mother who would have run into a burning building for her kids. A fierce little sun ray who deserved a yellow kitchen. 🥹

I actually have images & notes completed for Pim & Anika as well, plus a bonus lil one that I doubt ya’ll were expecting, but alas, there is a limit of 10 images on a post 🫠 So… let me know if you want them.

This was so long. I’m long winded, but ya’ll knew that. I love you all so much. Thank you for being here. 🖤🐦‍⬛

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meeks-just-wants-to-scroll · 2 years

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No, I haven’t actually! I don’t have the book with me right now so I couldn’t check how the book described it. I asked my brother who also read the book what it looked like and he said it was drab in color and had funky shapes. I decided to just make up my own interpretation. I made the raw crystals be orange because it contrasted well with Ryland’s jumpsuit. They’re supposed to be uncut orange crystals which are able to shimmer a bit, but aren’t valuable for their looks. They have a sort of geode shape to them, hence why they look cool when ecolocated. Idk what the metal chains would be, probably zenonite. Rocky *is* wearing a thin shirt thing with sleeves btw, It just doesn’t show up well because I accidentally made the fabric too similar to the skin tone.

Also, Ryland finally gets an actual human face! No more chibi of Ryland for no reason. :) I tried to use Ryan Gosling as a reference, but the similarity is likely unrecognizable.

#Ryland grace #meek’s art #project hail mary #project hail mary ryland grace #project hail mary fan art #project hail mary rocky #project hail mary spoilers #Spoilers #YAAAY!! WRINKLES! WE LOVE WRINKLES ON CHARACTERS!

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katnissmellarkkk · 2 years

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how of you imagine katniss in your head? like could you describe it for me in specific details? or with images? i know you already have some on your blog but I’m still curious. sorry if this ask is annoying

It’s not annoying! Okay so specifically, how do I imagine Katniss when I’m reading the books? I apologize in advance, I can get very descriptive.

Petite in size and stature. Like the lack of stable food during her formative years made her skinny and short and maybe underdeveloped physically (re : boobs). Dark, cool toned skin. Idk why I hear olive and think a cooler tone rather than a warmer one. Long, straight, full ebony hair. Really thick eyebrows and sort of bigger lips. Round-ish face. Big gray colored eyes that contrast with her skin tone.

The part that could be perceived as non-canon is I imagine she would actually be naturally really pretty? Or at least, naturally have something very cute about her? I know there’s a certain consensus that she’s plain looking because she describes herself as plain but it would be OOC first of all if she were to toot her own horn and be like, “I’m actually really pretty, y’all”, and secondly, if I’m just gonna be honest, the idea that two boys had really huge crushes on her, without her lifting a finger to make it happen (and that’s not taking into account that maybe Darius liked her too) then I feel like she would have to be one of those people who are naturally quite pretty.

I’ll edit if I find photos I feel like fit my image of her well 🥰😘. Thanks for the ask! ❤️

#asks 🦋

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nxmuzluv · 8 months

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“birthday girl” | a.p x b.t

characters: ariana park, byakuya togami (oc x canon)

game: danganronpa 1 (non-despair au)

genre: fluff thru and thru,, it’s literally so disgusting /j like they seriously act like they’ve been married for 20 years it’s that sickeningly sweet SMDWKNDS

warnings: none ! (although byakuya may or may not be ooc ?? girl honestly idk atp)

summary: september 1st. another year, another birthday. as byakuya and ariana take an out of the blue trip halfway across the world, the former has something special to give to the birthday girl

a/n: happy birthday to my pookie, ariana park ! everything i’ve tried to write for her birthday in the last 2 years has been ass, so hopefully this one turns out okay WISJJSNS (also writing byakuya is so hard like it’s been 3 years it shouldn’t be this damn difficult ????)

ariana stared out onto the crystal blue ocean, feeling so tranquil that she wondered if she ever felt so good. a breeze blew through, pushing her dyed blonde hair back. it was cool against her warm-to-the-touch skin, making her sigh with content.

september 1st. her birthday. her 28th birthday. and a lot has happened since her 27th. she had two children, for one, two children who were a month away from turning one. a myriad of thoughts ran rampant throughout her mind (one being that she was two years away from being thirty years old), and the sound of the waves practically carried her away. ariana was so content, however, that she didn’t even realize that her husband was right behind her.

byakuya took his wife by her hand, spun her around, and held her close. ariana playfully rolled her eyes in response.

“hi, sweetie.” she said, her voice flat but clipped with the loving tone she always used. byakuya responded in kind, and ariana let out another breath, wrapping her arms around byakuya’s frame and leaning her head against his shoulder.

“you almost made me trip, you know.” ariana continued, her voice muffled by byakuya’s shoulder. byakuya couldn’t help but chuckle.

“sorry, love.” he responded, running a hand up and down the small of ariana’s back.

ariana reached down to grab her husband’s hand, taking his fingers in between her own before intertwining them like she always did. “you better be.” she said.

byakuya smiled at her words, something he rarely did while out in public. “i said this already, but happy birthday, love.”

“thank you, baby.” ariana responded, pulling away shortly after. the sun was beginning to get a little too overbearing for such a long hug. “i can’t even begin to describe how good this feels. when was the last time we even did something like this, darling?”

ariana tried to wrack her own brain, but came up with nothing. hopefully it wasn’t early onset dementia or something of the sort.

“it was right before we got married, ariana.” byakuya said, giving his wife the answer she was looking for. the woman in question let out a huff, rolling her brown eyes at her forgetfulness.

“duh.” she said, and it was like she sounded eighteen all over again.

even though ariana had pulled away from byakuya just moments ago, she couldn’t help but force him to close the distance between them yet again, softly grabbing him by the wrists and making him wrap his arms around her torso.

“it’s incredibly hot out here, love.” byakuya said. even with his words, however, he couldn’t bring himself to pull away. ariana was his wife, after all, and it was also her birthday.

“i don’t care.” ariana innocently responded, and you could hear the laugh in her voice. byakuya playfully rolled his blue eyes, their color matching that of the water that the boat was currently slicing through.

“anyways,” he said, quickly moving on. “aside from this, what would you like to do, dear?”

ariana let out another breath. “honestly, this spontaneous trip to mexico that i happened to mention to you once two weeks ago is more than enough.” the actress tilted her head back, leaning the back of her head on byakuya’s shoulder so she could get a good look at his face. “seriously. i don’t know how you managed to put this together when we were both knee deep in work, but you’re you, so what was i expecting.”

“and we have two children.” byakuya added. ariana nodded her head, repeating what he said verbatim.

“you thought i wouldn’t go through with it, though?” the blond asked. “ariana, if my wife tells me that she wants to go to mexico, i’m going to take her to mexico.”

ariana smiled. “how sweet.” byakuya coyly grinned, a signature look of his that hasn’t seemed to leave his face for the last twelve years. ariana laughed yet again, knowing that he was either going to say something incredibly endearing, or something hilariously stupid.

“naturally.” he responded. ariana couldn’t stop laughing. she should’ve seen that coming.

a comfortable silence fell over the two. they stood there for a while, ariana’s head on her husband’s shoulder, and byakuya’s arms around his wife’s torso. as the sun continued to dip closer to the horizon, and as the air slowly dropped in temperature, they wanted to stay there forever—ariana especially. and she was already on cloud nine, but she felt her heart skip a beat when byakuya suddenly dipped down to place a chaste kiss on her cheek.

byakuya was the one to let go this time. “love, come here.” he suddenly said, and ariana turned her head in his direction, watching with mild confusion written across her face as her husband disappeared inside the boat.

ariana followed, and reached downstairs right as byakuya was sitting down. it was a quaint little table that he was seated at, situated right next to the large windows of the yacht. the mahogany was draped in white silk, and topped with delicate white orchids. the actress took a seat across from her husband, waiting to see just what he had in store.

“now what did you call me down here for, sweetheart?” ariana asked, placing a manicured hand on her cheek. she watched as byakuya bent down to pick something up, and her light brown eyes widened ever so slightly once he placed it on the counter.

“this.” he simply said. “happy birthday, dear. again.”

it was a cartier bag. it was quite small in size, but its red color was bold, standing out against the browns and golds of the room the two were in. ariana pulled the bag towards her, her curiosity in dire need of satiation. just what had byakuya bought her that he hadn’t bought already?

byakuya watched as ariana inspected the bag, his arms crossed like always. he bit back a smile. that slight furrow of her eyebrows was always so endearing.

the actress pulled out a box. it was rather thin, and ariana knew enough about jewelry to know that there was a necklace in there. she pulled off the box’s cover, flipped open the case, and her plush lips fell open.

it was the caresse d’orchidées necklace, its rose gold surface casting small pinkish lights on the table as it was caught in the setting sun. ariana held it in her palm, her touch just a tad more delicate than it was supposed to be, as if she thought it could snap with the slightest movement. the actress had heard about it, and she thought it would be nice to have it, but not once did she mention it to her husband.

“baby,” she finally said, surprise lacing her words. “how did you know i wanted this?”

byakuya let that smug grin wean its way onto his face. “i’m your husband. why wouldn’t i know?” he responded, and ariana wanted to roll her eyes at his words in faux annoyance. “and, of course, i was thinking of you when i bought it.”

ariana melted as soon as she heard that, placing a hand on her chest and on the tweed material of her jacket. “god, i love you.” she said, and seemingly out of nowhere. byakuya’s smug smirk was replaced with a more genuine smile, and he couldn’t stop the blush that rose to dust his cheeks, tearing his cerulean gaze away from the woman across from him for the first time since they got down there.

byakuya got up, swiftly circling the table and swiftly taking the necklace into his hand. he undid its clasp and softly pushed ariana’s hair out of the way, and she wasted no time reaching back to hold up her raven locks.

before she knew it, the necklace was hanging from her neck and falling over her collarbones, its rose gold orchid—similar to the ones sitting pretty on the table—resting on the surface of her jacket. the necklace was sparkling, mimicking the luster of the ocean just outside the window. and its tiny, almost unnoticeable diamond acted like a subtle star in the middle of a rose gold ocean, making the necklace shine all the more.

ariana held the flower between her fingers, and she turned around to look her husband in the eyes. “come here.” she said, the giddiness of a teenage girl clipping her words.

before byakuya knew it, ariana rose from her seat to place a soft peck onto his lips, her hand softly resting on his cheek. he was used to it by now, of course, but even after twelve years, he couldn’t shake the subtle heat that made its way onto his face every time.

the blond cleared his throat. “go on, love,” he said. “there’s another.”

ariana furrowed her eyebrows like she always did. wordlessly reaching into the bag, she pulled out a second, smaller box. now this was definitely a ring.

repeating the same procedure, ariana popped open the box and a squeal immediately left her lips. sitting inside was a trinity ring, sparkling under the now orange hued sunlight. two of its delicate bands were the same rose gold shade as her necklace, and the last was wrapped in diamonds, matching the trinity bracelets byakuya bought eleven years earlier. ariana rushed to slide the ring onto her finger, holding her arm out in front of her to admire it in all its shimmering glory.

“sweetheart, i’ve been telling you about these rings for a year! why’d you have me wait this long?!” she exclaimed. byakuya couldn’t help but laugh, endeared at his wife’s sheer excitement.

“i was saving them, of course.” he responded, and the actress playfully groaned at his words, letting out a playful “i hate you!”

the commotion died down quickly, but it was sure to return just moments later. quietly, byakuya slid something out of his pocket and onto his finger. and as nonchalantly as ever, he placed his hand on the table, right where his wife could see it.

and she immediately began squealing. again.

ariana quickly rose from her seat, whipping around to crush her husband in a hug and place a kiss to his cheek. byakuya stumbled back ever so slightly, but quickly placed his hands on ariana’s waist as if it was instinct.

on byakuya’s finger was a ring just like ariana’s; two bands of rose gold and one coated in diamonds. ariana had gone on about matching trinity rings for the past three hundred and sixty-five days, so much so that they were the first thing byakuya thought of when considering a birthday gift for her. with how many times she’d mentioned them, what kind of husband would he be if he didn’t get them?

ariana eventually pulled away, taking a satisfied breath and leaning on the table behind her. looking her husband in the eyes, a smile automatically lit up her face.

“do you like it?” byakuya asked, although he knew the question was pointless. being ariana’s husband, and being well, him, he already knew the answer. the grin on his face—a combination of his classic smugness and genuine happiness—was a clear indication.

“i love it.” ariana replied. she pulled byakuya into another hug, resting her head on his shoulder like she had done just moments before. “i wouldn’t have it any other way.”

and although he didn’t say it outright, byakuya was thinking similar thoughts. this might not have been the most special birthday; ariana was saving that for her 30th. in fact, it was a rather impromptu one. the beachy atmosphere and time away from the urban sprawl they were used to added to it, but they could’ve been at home in tokyo and it wouldn’t have made a difference. it’s just like it’s been for the last twelve years. as long as ariana was with the man she loved the most, any birthday—no matter what year—was just as special as the last.

#danganronpa x oc #danganronpa thh #danganronpa 1 #oc x canon #danganronpa fanfiction #oc x canon fanfiction #byakuya x oc #byakuya togami x oc #byakuya togami #oc fanfiction #cece writes :)#HELLO WDYM IM ACTUALLY PROUD OF THIS #after 2 years of hot shit y’all im FREE !#and i posted before my deadline too ?? calling me william afton bc im killing it !

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bangtanger · 3 years

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I WAS TAGGED BY @hobeah TO DO MY FAV THING AKA STUFF RELATED TO GIF MAKING AKA STUFF RELATED TO COLOURING SO !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! before/after colouring ✌️

i decided to show my prev ones (1st and 2nd gifs) too bc i still have psds ALSO I APOLOGIZE FOR THE UGLI LAYOUT AND HOW EVERY GIF HAS DIFFERENT DIMENSIONs AND IT JUST DOESNT LOOK RIGHT BUT I CANT just redo im too excited to do this and its middle of the night so plz dont throw hands ok :( this is not sth huge i could do a lot better but im too hyped rn i cant wait for tomorrow

looking at my older colouring im like 😃 wtf this is kinda extreme and yeah cuz i used to use gradient with one transparent side lmao T_T djksfksdf and that one weird solid colour layed that made everything purple-ish and yellow-ish more saturated somehow in a certain blending mode idk why dont ask i thought it was pretty

3rd and 4th ones r same psd that i use nowadays i use it pretty much almost everywhere around 85% of my content is with it but ofc i adjust some layers if there is a need

i do it from scratch if there arent too many colours/colours r too simple/lighting is too dark/performances/psd doesnt help (for example last gif with taehyung from concert)

how do i describe my current style hm skin tones less green not tooo yellow but more red/magenta + solid blacks + fade + cyans if there r blues + less greens + highlights arent white too + whatever my mood is im tagging in whatever order @jung-koook @taeyungie @jjoon @lifegoesmon @flipthatjacketjiminie @everythingoes @kkulmoon @joenns @syubb @jjeongukie @jiminslight @vjimin @tearuntold @namgination @hopekidoki @minhope @jiminswn @hobibestboy @yoongi-bts @oncupid @jinvant @yoonqiful there should also be @/jinv :/ i just know that i forgot 85964605 ppl but my mind is out rn T_T also tagging myself as always just in case to check the notifications @eternal-bangtan also wanted to say that there r so many ppl on this site that feel colours in a such an incredible beautiful way whenever i see those pretty things it makes me scream ofc and it inspires me to go and try to experiment to do sth with colours T_T im very grateful for all the talented ppl those who i tagged or not yall r very cool thank u for being a creator <3 not ONLY THOSE WHO MAKE GIFS TOO THIS IS ABOUT EVERYTHIGN ACTUALLY also thanks those who spread creations and write nice tags and appreciates <3

#b/a #tg #m:text #m:gifs

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kikis-writing-world · 3 years

Text

Love is Blind

Pairing: Agent Whiskey x F!Reader (her hair is described in that it is long enough to braid, and it is brushed by another character. Sorry if that alienates anyone)

Word Count: 8.4k

Rating/Warnings: Mentions of dead bodies and glossing over of canon-typical violence, injury leading to temporary blindness, talks of medical procedures (vague descriptions cause idk what I’m doing,) mentions of pregnancy (Whiskey talks about his dead wife) If I missed anything please let me know. It’s a long one and I tried to mark down anything that might need warning.

Summary: The mission was going perfectly until you were caught by a stupid trap, spraying some kind of toxin in your face. Now you’re (temporarily?) blinded and have to find out what that means for your future with Statesman.

The dust settled over the room as the chaos gave way to silence. You waited a beat, taking a deep breath before speaking out.

“Clear.” You spoke softly, knowing the message would be transmitted to your partner. Despite your confidence that you’d taken out the men on your side of the room, you kept your pistol firmly in your grasp.

“Clear.” The response came through your ear piece, the voice tinny in your ear. The bass tones were missing, but it was unmistakably Agent Whiskey’s southern drawl. You stood from your cover behind a large, leather sofa and surveyed the mess. Whiskey was standing behind the bar in the corner of the room doing the same.

“Nice work.” You nodded at him, noticing several bodies elegantly cleaved in half from his lasso.

“Same to you, ‘Rhett.” Whiskey returned the compliment, stepping around the bar. You glared at him for shortening your name - he knew you hated that - but you were stopped from responding as a third voice joined the conversation through your earpieces. “Intel puts the plates in a safe behind the painting. The landscape behind the desk” Ginger’s voice instructed from HQ, watching the scene through the micro-cameras you were both wearing: Whiskey’s in his bolo tie and yours on a broach on your vest.

You and Whiskey both turned to look at the large painting on the far side of the room. It, and the desk it sat behind, were riddled with bullet holes and other damage from the fray. It was still hanging askew on the wall. You crossed the room easily, stepping over the various bodies on the way. Whiskey let you take the lead, keeping a watch while you turned your back to the room.

The painting fell with a nudge from the barrel of your gun, revealing the safe tucked into the wall. A 10 digit keypad with a small screen kept it locked. You leaned in, making sure your broach was pointed at it. “Ginger?”

“Got it Amaretto. Analyzing.” You could picture the woman typing away, executing different commands as she analyzed the image you broadcast back to her computer. You knew she was using possible heat signatures, wear on the numbers, oil deposits, not to mention the tech you didn’t understand to crack the code. You could hear Whiskey shifting around the room behind you as you waited.

“7298,” Ginger instructed. You entered the code and the lock clicked, the door swinging ajar.

“Thanks, Ging.” You acknowledged before addressing Whiskey. “We’re in.”

“And?” He asked, looking over his shoulder at you, but keeping himself angled out into the room in case of trouble.

You pushed the safe’s door the rest of the way open seeing a large, black briefcase inside. If the intel was right, inside it would be counterfeiting plates. A small time counterfeiting ring had somehow paired up with a large terrorist ring, laundering the fake money into real profit to fund their plans. Taking down this ring would be a big, although likely temporary, hit to the terrorists.

You pulled the briefcase out of the safe, setting it onto the desk. There were no locks on the briefcase, just the latches keeping it closed. While that should have been suspicious, your excitement of completing the mission had you pushing forward. You unlatched and opened the lid.

Before you could see what was inside, something shot out of the case. You were sprayed in the face and neck with a cool, goopy liquid. You yelped in surprise, wiping frantically at your face to get it off. You stumbled backwards into the wall, falling onto your ass.

You heard Whiskey call for you the same time Ginger did through the earpiece. Whiskey was beside you quickly, pulling your hands away from your face by the wrists. “What happened?”

“I-I don’t know.” You stuttered, feeling him wiping at your face and hands with some fabric. “I opened the case and it shot out at me.”

“Ginger?” Whiskey called out.

“I’m checking the footage now, running it through our databases.” The tech responded, voice level as always. “Keep a sample, but find some water to get it off her. I’m sure it’s some kind of safety measure.”

“Stay here.” Whiskey ordered before he left your side.

You nodded, trying to remain calm as the substance started to sting your eyes. You relayed that information back to Ginger.

“What else can you tell me about it, Amaretto?” She asked.

“It’s viscous. Like syrup.” You told her, feeling the slimy coating it still left on your skin after Whiskey had tried to wipe it away. “Cool to the touch. Smells like… flowers? Definitely floral.”

“Okay. That’s good. That’s helpful. Anything else, let me know. It will help us identify it quicker.”

Whiskey returned as Ginger spoke. You jumped at his sudden presence beside you.

“Sorry.” He mumbled. “Got the water and a cloth.” He narrated as to not spook you when the wet rag touched your skin.

“Flush out her eyes and get out of there.” Ginger instructed as your partner wiped your face clean. The cloth disappeared and Whiskey’s large hand was on the back of your head, leading you to lean over.

“I’ve got you. We just gotta wash out your eyes.” He kept talking, although you couldn’t quite tell if it was to keep you or himself calm. “Open.” He instructed.

You listened, opening your eyes and whimpering at how much it hurt to do so. The room seemed so much brighter than it had been before. You only had a moment to think on this before Whiskey was pouring the water into your eyes. You reached out for him, steadying yourself with your hands against his chest.

When the flow of water stopped, you told Ginger. “Light sensitivity. Add that to the list of symptoms.”

“Got it.” She responded. “Whiskey, grab that case and get to the jet.”

Your partner’s hands were on your arms, helping you to stand. He left you momentarily and you heard the briefcase snap closed. His arm wrapped around your waist as he led you away from the wall. You stumbled a few times over the bodies on the floor, but Whiskey did a good job of leading you. Any misstep you took or slight fumble, he never let you fall. You were lucky the two of you had dispatched everyone in the house before making it to the office. There was no one left alive to stop you as you left.

“It’s really starting to burn.” You told them, feeling tears falling from your eyes. The burning was also translating into a headache as the pain spread. It was getting harder to focus on Whiskey as he navigated the two of you out of the house.

“Stick with me, pick up your feet. I got ya.” Whiskey continued to instruct as you moved.

You knew you’d made it outside the second the sunlight hit your face. Even through closed eyelids, the light was too much to bear. You cried out in pain, shielding your eyes with your hands. You would have fallen to your knees if not for Whiskey’s firm grip on you.

“I can’t.” You cried, holding your head in your hands. “It’s too much.”

Whiskey cursed under his breath before you felt something slip atop your head and you were lifted off the ground. “Keep your head down,” Whiskey ordered, the vibrations of his voice moving through his chest against you. You could feel the bouncing of his footsteps as he ran. You removed your hands from your eyes to hold onto him, and you assumed you were wearing his hat by the way it kept the sun off your face. You buried your head into his neck to shield your eyes even more from the light.

“We’re almost there.” He promised as you trembled in his arms.

When Whiskey had landed the jet earlier, it hadn’t seemed too far from the cabin - far enough to not alert them to your presence of course, but the trek there hadn’t seemed far. Now, it felt like he might as well be carrying you to Canada as the pain grew worse. You could hear Whiskey and Ginger talk, but it grew harder to hear them over your own groans of pain and the blood rushing through your ears. You were crying in earnest into Whiskey’s shoulder, fighting the urge to claw at your eyes.

You felt his gait change as he ascended the stairs into the jet. You could hear his voice but the words were lost on you as he set you down into a sitting position. Without him to grip onto, your hands flew to your eyes. Your arms were quickly restrained, making you yell and thrash. It was too bright. It hurt too much. The stinging was unbearable now.

You felt a single hand wrap around both wrists as you pleaded for him to let you go. You needed to do something to stop the pain.

You barely felt the pinprick to your neck. As it got harder to fight him, you realized he must have given you a sedative. He dropped your arms as your muscles grew sluggish and you felt him buckling you safely into the seat. You tried to mumble a thank you to him, but you couldn’t be sure if the words made it out of your brain as you lost consciousness.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

Your surroundings came to you slowly. The feel of the stiff cot under you, covered with scratchy linens. A few quiet beeps from different machines. The sensors attached to your chest and your arms - you must be in the medical wing back at Statesman HQ. It took you a moment to remember what had landed you in medical but once you did you were pleasantly surprised to not feel any pain.

You couldn’t remember anything after stepping outside the cabin. The last vivid memory you had was the sun hitting your face and excruciating pain shooting through your head. Whiskey must have gotten the two of you back safely.

Your eyes fluttered open meeting a dark room. You were thankful for that, remembering how severe the light sensitivity had gotten. Introducing you to light slowly was a good idea.

“You’re awake.” The voice made you jump, even though you quickly recognized it to be Ginger. You didn’t expect her to be waiting in the dark for you. “How do you feel?”

You heard the heart rate sensor beep a little quicker as you clutched your chest from the scare, laughing softly. “You scared me. I feel okay, actually. No pain.”

“That’s great.” You could hear the relief in her voice. “And your vision?”

The question gave you pause, wondering how you were supposed to test your vision in the dark. “Turn the light on and I’ll tell you.”

“What?” Ginger’s voice was clipped, fallen from the relief it held moments ago. You weren’t sure exactly what the tone was but you knew you didn’t like it.

“Turn the lights on, Ging.”

“The lights are on.” She explained. You could hear the clicking of her footsteps and the rustling of her clothes as she moved closer. A hand on your right arm made you flinch.

“That’s not funny.” You scoffed.

“I’m not joking.” She replied seriously. She was silent for a moment, the faint rustling of fabric moving again before she asked “you don’t see that at all?”

“See what?”

“I’m shining a flashlight into your eyes.”

“No you’re not.”

“Ginger!” You heard Whiskey’s drawl, echoing like it was in a different room. Footsteps, heavier than the ones you had just heard, accompanied his voice as you figured he must be entering approaching your room. “She awake yet?”

“Whiskey, tell Ginger to stop joking around.” You begged, starting to freak out. The increased beeping beside you accompanied the anxiety you were feeling spread through your body.

“What’s going on?” The cowboy asked, worry coating his voice as it moved closer.

“She can’t see anything.” Ginger admitted, her hand leaving your arm. You heard Whiskey exhale to your left, a loud breath that sounded like he’d been punched in the solar plexus.

“Why not?” He demanded.

“I don’t know.” Ginger admitted. “We’re still analyzing the substance. So far all we know is it seems to be made from orange blossoms and some kind of berry-”

“It won’t be permanent, right?” You asked, cutting Ginger off. Your voice sounded so small compared to the other two in the room. There wasn’t an answer right away, footsteps approaching from the left before a large, warm hand covered yours.

“We’ll figure this out, sugar.” Whiskey told you as he laced his fingers with yours.

“We will.” Ginger confirmed. She sounded confident, and you knew she was nothing if not capable, but you still felt tears roll down your cheeks as the fear crashed over you.

You heard Whiskey tut beside you before he was brushing your tears away, his large palms cupping your cheeks as his thumbs brushed your skin.

“I’ll get to the lab. See if we’ve got anything new.” Ginger excused herself and you could hear her footsteps fade as she left the room.

As the two of you were left alone, you felt the cot shift underneath you as Whiskey sat down. He pulled you into a hug, letting you cry into his shoulder. She rocked you gently back and forth, telling you it was going to be okay. He let you cry until you felt numb, like there were no tears left. He didn’t move away until you lifted your head.

“I’d offer you my handkerchief, but it’s in the lab too.” Whiskey told you, voice light like he was trying to make you smile. He shifted away for a brief second, leaning back as you felt him press a scratchy fabric into your hand, which you quickly identified as a tissue. You used it to blot at your cheeks and nose.

You thanked him, your voice hoarse from crying. “Not just for this,” you waved the tissue in the air. “For getting us out of there.”

“It’s part of the gig, sugar.” It sounded like he was grinning when he spoke. You hoped he was. Even more, you hoped you’d see the grin for yourself again soon.

The next several days revolved around tests. Scans of your head and eyes, tests being done on the limited amount of the substance the lab had collected from Whiskey’s handkerchief and the briefcase. You didn’t even realize there were that many different tests they could perform, but everyday they brought you new results. Unfortunately, none of the results so far had led to any answers about why you’d lost your sight. As the lab identified more ingredients of the goo that had sprayed you, they tried different medicines and remedies but nothing had changed. They also told you how the substance had left you with a light rash on the skin of your face and hands where you’d been exposed. You were hardly worried about the rash. They said it was fading naturally. You wished your sight would return naturally too.

Between tests, you were hardly ever along. Whiskey visited you more often than not. Ginger spent a lot of time with you during tests as well as socially for meals. The team of doctors and junior agents working with her to help heal you all came and went. Tequila, Champ and other Statesman agents came by to check in on you when they could.

It was getting easier to identify who was coming as you started to hear differences in their footsteps. Whiskey had a long, slow gait, his boots slapping the floor with a dull thud. Tequila’s steps were quicker, and his boots snapped a little lighter against the floor. Champ’s steps were slower, like Whiskey’s, but there was an irregularity to the pattern. His left hip making him have the slightest limp that you had never noticed by sight alone. Ginger was easiest, being one of the few women who came to see you. Her steps clacked as her heels hit the floor.

You were also surprised to start noticing the different scents everyone held. Tequila, bless that boy, smelt obnoxiously like axe spray deodorant, reminding you of a high school boy’s gym class. Champ smelt of vanilla, cloves and the cigar smoke that clung to his clothes. Ginger smelt like clean linens, a hint of tropics in her detergent but seemed to be content staying largely scent-free, no perfumes that you could pick up on.

Whiskey’s smell was more complex, but maybe that was because he was the one who would sit next to you on the bed, giving you a chance to really breathe it in. Hints of spiced citrus hung to his clothes, along with the smell of leather and smoke - not smoke like Champ, but the kind from a freshly fired gun. When he got close enough, his musk had you remembering being cradled in his arms as he carried you away from the cabin, his hat atop your head.

You were thankful for the ways you were picking up to identify people. Your years as an agent had you trained to survey your surroundings, to avoid being caught off guard. It was unsettling to have your primary sense for that taken away from you. Most people were learning to announce themselves as they approached your room, giving you a heads up someone was nearing. Not everyone did. Tequila was particularly bad at it, and you suspected he enjoyed watching you jump.

You expressed your worries to Champ when he came to visit, on the fourth day of no progress. He chuckled and patted your back in a fatherly way.

“Let’s give them some time to figure this out, Amaretto. We don’t need to start plannin’ a retirement party just yet.”

You supposed he was trying to help you worry less, but it didn’t help. Would you have to retire if your vision wasn’t restored? You could hardly imagine a position at Statesman that you could easily navigate without sight. If you ever learned braille, and how to type, maybe some kind of administration or archival job, but who knew how long it would take you to master those skills. It was hard enough to accept what this meant for your career, let alone the rest of your life.

The agents that came to visit tried to help take your mind off of it, but it was hard when there was no true reprieve.

“Tom appeared on the sidewalk with a bucket of whitewash and a long-handled brush. He surveyed the fence, and all gladness left him and a deep melancholy settled down upon his spirit. Thirty yards of board fence nine feet high. Life to him seemed hollow, and existence but a burden. Sighing, he dipped his brush and passed it along the topmost plank; repeated the operation; did it again; compared the insignificant whitewashed streak with the far-reaching continent of unwhitewashed fence, and sat down on a tree-box discouraged.

“You know, I’m startin’ to remember why I wasn’t so fond of this book in school.” Whiskey interrupted his recitation. “How Mr. Twain managed to turn the absolute boredom of paintin’ a fence into the written word with such lucidity is an artform in itself.”

“Oh stop,” you laughed, reaching beside you to swat at him. It was an easy thing to aim for, feeling the warmth of him on the bed next to you, his arm pressed to yours.

“I’m just sayin’ that I’ve had better adventures before breakfast than these so called adventures of Tom Sawyer.” He complained.

“Tom Sawyer wasn’t a senior agent of a secret spy organization.”

“And good thing too. He’d have burnt this place to the ground by now with his behaviour.” He harrumphed, making you laugh.

“Just keep reading.”

He sighed, a long, annoyed sigh.

“Please.” You sang, smiling up at him as you leaned into his arm. These were the moments you could really smell the spice and leather on him.

He was silent for a beat. Although the two of you were joking, you almost worried he wouldn’t keep reading. It was much harder to read people’s moods without seeing their facial expressions. No smile or eye roll to go by had you guessing by voice tone alone. Silences had you absolutely puzzled.

“Can’t, Mars Tom. Ole missis, she tole me I got to go an’ git dis water an’ not stop foolin’ roun’ wid anybody. She say she spec’ Mars Tom gwine to ax me to whitewash, an’ so she tole me go ’long an’ ’tend to my own business—she ’lowed she’d ’tend to de whitewashin’.”

“Oh, never you mind what she said, Jim. That’s the way she always talks. Gimme the bucket—I won’t be gone only a a minute. She won’t ever know.”

“Oh, I dasn’t, Mars Tom. Ole missis she’d take an’ tar de head-

“I’d be able to follow a lot easier if you did different voices for the different characters.” You interrupted.

“Don’t push your luck.” He grumbled, but you were pretty sure you could hear that grin in his voice again as he kept reading.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

“Keep your eyes closed.” You were instructed by Tonic, a junior agent who worked under Ginger. You felt the dampened towel being lifted from your eyes. You’d just spent 40 minutes laying back, letting the medicinal solution on the towel soak in. You had done the same thing the day before, and would likely be doing it again tomorrow.

“Just dimming the lights. Hold on.” Tonic explained as you heard his shuffling footsteps through the room. It was a good thing he had a knack for medicine because he’d be an awful field agent with the way he never picked up his feet.

“Okay, open.”

You did as instructed, blinking as your eyes adjusted to being open again. Just like the day before, you only saw the familiar inky blackness.

“Nothing.” You shook your head.

“That’s okay.” You could hear the forced optimism in his voice. “Ginger said it could take up to five treatments for this to work. We’ll do it again tomorrow.”

“Sounds good.” You gave the poor kid the best smile you could muster, but you were definitely losing hope. It had been nearly a week now with no progress. It was getting time to face facts.

“Don’t worry, Agent Amaretto. We’ll figure it out.” The boy told you, a soft pat on your shoulder accompanying his attempt at comfort.

You weren’t sure if you’d ever seen Tonic around Statesman. You might have walked by in passing, but you were never introduced. It was weird to be spending this much time with someone and having no idea what they looked like. You were almost tempted to ask, but kept it to yourself. You'd have to get used to not knowing what new people looked like.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

You shuffled out of the bathroom with your hand on the doorframe to help guide you. You had showered - your first true shower on your own, not just a quick wash-up in the sink or a sponge bath - and it made you feel slightly more human again. The robe was soft and plush against your skin, wearing only a tank top and underwear under it. The towel you had half-heartedly wrapped your hair in was falling out of the twist - you hadn’t quite mastered that skill without seeing yet.

You opened your mouth to dismiss the junior agent who had been tasked with waiting for you - sitting outside the washroom in case you needed to call for help - but you were interrupted.

“I sent her on her way, sugar.” You immediately recognized Whiskey’s twang. He was the best so far at announcing his presence, and you truly appreciated it. You still jumped slightly, not expecting him to be here. “Sorry.” He chuckled.

“I’ll get used to it eventually.” You waved off his apology, not actually knowing if you would ever get used to it.

“C’mon, none of that.” Whiskey tutted. Your uncertainty must have shown on your face. “Want a hand?”

“Yes, please.’ You confirmed, holding your arm out towards his voice. You heard him approach, footsteps and fabric, before he looped his arm around yours.

“Where to?” They had set up a table and chairs for you in the room, trying to make you feel more at home than in a hospital room. All it did was reaffirm that you weren’t any closer to finding a solution and that your stay was going to last even longer.

“The bed, please.”

He led you to the bed easily, not taking his arm away until you were sitting comfortably. You felt the towel fall even further off your head as you sat.

“Can you pass me the brush?” You asked him, holding your hand out.

You waited, hearing Whiskey move around, but instead you felt him pull your hair free from the towel. With your wet hair falling down your back, you felt him run the brush through it.

“What are you doing?” You chuckled.

“You just relax, sugar.” He ordered. He started at the ends of your hair, brushing the tangles out before moving closer to your scalp.

“I can brush my own hair.” You argued even though you were grinning.

“Just let me take care of you, Rhett.” He huffed, smacking you on the shoulder with the flat side of the brush.

“Fine, Whisk.” You huffed playfully in response, leaving him to brush your hair.

He was surprisingly gentle, only once did your hair pull painfully at your scalp to which he mumbled a quick apology. You hadn’t had someone brush your hair for you in a long time. Outside of a hairdresser, it probably hadn’t happened since you were a child. As much as you were trying to maintain your independence with your new loss of sight, it was very relaxing.

You hadn’t expected it when you felt him part your hair into sections and start weaving them together.

“Are you… braiding my hair?” You asked curiously.

“Yes, ma’am.” He hummed, clearly concentrated on his task.

“Okay, the brushing I could let go, but are you going to tell me how you know how to braid?” You laughed.

“I’ve made my own whips before, sugar.” He explained, his drawl even more pronounced as he spoke slowly, keeping his focus on the hair. “Part of that is just fancy bradin’.”

“You make your own whips?” That surprised you.

Whiskey chuckled, his fingers brushing lower and lower on your back as the braid progressed. “Not the ones I use on missions, but I have some at home I made. I’m not too up on the electricity part, but a good ol’ fashioned bullwhip? I can throw one of those together in a few days if I have the time.”

“So which came first? Using the whip or making them?”

“Been usin’ them since I was a boy, on the family farm. Started makin’ em ‘round the same time, maybe a few years between. Although those first ones were nothin’ to celebrate. I got better at it. Decent hobby to have, if you’ve got scraps of leather hanging around.”

You felt him end the braid as he spoke, tying an elastic around the end. You lifted your hand to your hair so you could feel the braid. It was surprisingly sturdy and didn’t feel like there were any messes of bumps.

“Thank you.” You turned, smiling in his direction.

He was silent as he pushed the braid over one shoulder, his fingertips grazing your neck as he did. The sensation left goosebumps on your still-damp skin.

“I also used to braid my wife’s hair.” He admitted quietly. “Especially when she wasn’t feelin’ well. Braided it up to keep it out of her face.”

You weren’t sure how to respond to that. You knew a bit about Whiskey’s past, about his high school sweetheart and that she’d died, but it was hardly ever discussed between the two of you. Before you came up with something to say, he continued.

“When we found out she was expectin’,” he grunted as you felt the mattress dip. You scooted over to make room for him to sit. “I was braidin’ her hair all the time. For one, the mornin’ sickness that first trimester, hoo-” he chuckled softly, lost in the memory. “It really kicked her ass. Spent most her time huggin’ a bucket or praying to the porcelain gods. But before we found out she was carryin’ a boy, she wanted me to practice. ‘Case we had a little girl.”

You bit your lip, reaching in Whiskey’s direction. You wanted nothing more than to take his hand in yours, but you fumbled in the air clumsily. He brought his hand up to yours, letting you grip it tightly.

“I’m sorry.” You whispered.

“Thank you, sugar.” He answered back. “Was another life. Wasn’t meant for me, I guess.”

You gave his hand another squeeze, really wishing you knew what to say. Something to make the pains of his past a little… less. His hand stayed in yours, but you heard something rustling off to the side.

“What are we readin’ tonight? We’ve still got some of Tom Sawyer’s adventures to go through, or we can start Pride and Prejudice.”

You leaned back, getting comfortable in the bed. “Tom Sawyer. Besides, you can’t tell me you actually want to read Pride and Prejudice.” You grinned, letting him change the subject.

“I could be persuaded, but if the lady requests Tom Sawyer…” He trailed off, likely picking up the book based on what you heard. He got settled in beside you and you heard the pages turning as he found where the two of you had left off. As he read, his hand stayed firmly in yours.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

“Lean back.” Ginger instructed. You did so, keeping a firm grip on the arms of the chair to keep your equilibrium. They had uncovered a new piece of whatever had attacked you, leading them to coming up with another possible cure. Ginger had explained this to you as she prepared you for the eyedrops. You were glad they were eyedrops this time because last time it had been a gel. Even without your sight, the feeling of gel in your eyes was incredibly unpleasant. That being said, you’d do it everyday for the rest of your life if it meant you could see again.

“Ready?” She asked, placing her hand on your shoulder.

“Mhmm.” You held your eyes open as much as you could, waiting for the liquid to hit them. If you thought eyedrops were bad before, they were worse now that you couldn’t see them coming.

The first drop hit your eye, making you jump despite being ready for it. You felt one more drop in the left eye before she moved to your right.

The cooling effect was almost immediate, the strange tingling making your eyes water. You fought against blinking until Ginger gave you the go ahead. You kept your head tilted until a tissue was pressed into your hand.

You leaned back upwards, wiping the residual drops from your cheeks. There were tears too, your eyes watering from the sensation.

“How does it feel?” Ginger asked as you heard her click a pen.

“Tingly.” You told her. “It feels like minty, maybe? Like chewing mint gum with my eyes. Or menthol.” You tried to explain. You heard her scribble something down as she hummed in response.

“Let me know if anything changes. It could take up to an hour to work.” She explained.

You blinked continuously, having no choice as the reflex tried to deal with the feeling in your eyes. It wasn’t unpleasant or painful, just very foreign.

Ginger ate lunch with you while you waited for something to happen, but nothing did. You swallowed down your thoughts of ‘I told you so,’ instead agreeing with her that maybe the next thing would work.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

“We gotta start making plans, Champ.” You told him plainly, hands clasped in your lap. “I can’t stay here forever.”

“‘Course not!” The man agreed with gusto. “Forever is out of the question.”

You sighed, knowing he was deflecting. “Nothing is working yet.”

“Somethin’ will.”

“What if it doesn’t?”

“What if it does?”

“Agent Champagne-”

“You sound like my wife.” He snarked.

“Your wife calls you Agent Champagne?” You asked with a smirk. You couldn’t resist taking that bait.

“A gentleman wouldn’t kiss and tell.” He joked, but it did little to lighten your mood. “But what I mean is the tone of voice. That’s the voice she uses when she thinks I’m being as dumb as a bag o’ hammers.”

You wouldn’t have quite put it that way, but you did think Champ was avoiding dealing with the situation at hand.

“So I’m gonna tell you what I tell her when she starts usin’ that particular tone of voice.” He took a pause and you waited for him to continue. “Trust me.”

You sighed, dropping your head. “I trust you, Champ.”

“Then why are we havin’ this conversation? Is it Ginger and her team? Do you not trust Ginger?”

“Of course I do-”

“You don’t trust Statesman or Statesman technology or medicine?”

“That’s not what I’m saying-”

“Then you stop worrying ‘bout what we’re gonna do with you, and focus on gettin’ better.” He instructed, his tone firm. His accent grew thicker as he went on. “I won’t hear anymore about plannin’ nothin’ ‘cause you’re going to get back out there, Agent Amaretto. This piss poor attitude ain’t helpin’ nothin’! If we thought this was a lost cause, we’d tell you. You’d get a gold watch and we’d set you up with a good pension and probably a little desk job at some library somewhere to keep you busy, but that’s not in the cards for you.”

You couldn’t help but tear up as Champ went on. You weren’t even totally sure why. You felt so alone, like no one was hearing your concerns - but at the same time, it sounded like Champ had been thinking about possibilities. A librarian? You didn’t want to end up a librarian. You almost wanted to go back to not talking about the future.

“You, missy, are a Statesman Senior Agent. Now, I’ve already got Tequila climbing up the walls and causin’ trouble, I can’t be worryin’ about herding two cats. Suck up that booboo lip and act like the Agent you are. Understood?”

“Yessir.” You mumbled.

“I didn’t hear you, Agent Amaretto.”

“Yessir.” You repeated, louder this time.

“Good.” You could hear the finality in his voice before the ice in his drink clinked together as he took a sip. “‘Cause if that didn’t work… well, the next tactic I use on the Missus is a little inappropriate to try with you, Agent. No offense.”

Now that did get a laugh out of you.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

The podcast played from the speaker beside you, but you were only half listening to it. You were thinking of taking a nap, more out of boredom and lack of anything better to do than tiredness, when you heard familiar heavy footsteps approaching your room. You couldn’t help that it lifted your spirits to know Whiskey was on his way.

“‘Rhett.” He greeted, that signature tone in his voice letting you know he was grinning.

“Whisk.” You responded with a sigh. “You know, if anyone else called me that, I might have to kill them.”

“Not interrupting, am I?” He ignored your warning, stepping into your room.

“No. Wasn’t really listening to this anyway.” You told him. You turned your head in the direction of the speaker and asked it to stop. The room fell into silence as you sat up on the cot.

“That better not have been a book on tape.” He warned.

“Now why would I listen to one of those when I have a real life book on tape at my beck and call.” You smirked.

“Walkin’ talkin’ book on tape, huh? If that’s all I am to you, I think I might just take this present back home with me then.”

“Wait!” You stopped him, hearing his feet retreating back towards the door. “You didn’t say you had a present.”

“Thought that might change your tune.” He chuckled.

You scooted to the side of the cot, patting the mattress beside you. It only took him a second to sit next to you, that familiar spiced citrus and leather scent taking over your senses.

“Hands out.” He instructed. You held your hands in front of you, waiting impatiently for them to be filled. He placed the gift in your hands, but you had no idea what it was yet.

It was circular, but it seemed to vary in width - no, it wasn’t circular, it was just looped. You ran your hand over it, feeling the smooth pattern adorning it.

“What is it?” You asked, finding the end of it - a strong, heavy piece, the texture similar to the rest of it, although the pattern was different. The very end came to a bulbous tip.

“That’s a bonafide, one of a kind, handmade by yours truly, bullwhip.” He explained, taking your hand in his and wrapping it around the handle to hold it properly.

“For real?” You smiled, feeling what you now knew to be leather under your fingers.

“For real.” He chuckled.

You tested the weight of the handle, feeling the drag as the rest of the whip pulled against the sheets. Your fingers ran over the design, following the lines of the handle carefully woven and etched throughout. You regripped the handle and ran your other hand over the tail of the whip, pulling your hands apart to get a feel for how long it was.

“What does it look like?” You asked, leaning into him.

“It’s brown. Medium brown, the colour of gingerbread, maybe. Right along here,” he took your hand holding the handle and guided you in tracing the designs. “It’s stained red, just to make it pop. Not blood red, just tinged red with the stain. Gives it some detail, you know?”

“What else?” You asked, feeling breathless as he helped you to see the details with your hands.

“Well you can probably guess it’s made of leather.” You nodded. “But it’s actually made of kangaroo leather.

“Kangaroo?” You asked in shock. “Where’d a farm boy get kangaroo leather?”

You felt Whiskey’s laugh against your side. “I made this one a year or so ago. Just so turns out that kangaroo hide is one of the strongest in the world and well, when you have a hobby that requires leather, you start gettin’ creative with what kind of leather you’re usin’. Gotta keep it excitin’.”

“You don’t get enough excitement at your day job?” You teased.

“Nah, I’ve got this great partner who always has my back.” His voice made you shiver, despite the fact that his comment had your face heating up. He was leaning heavily against you now, his breath fanning over your cheek.

You swallowed the lump that had appeared in your throat, finding your voice to ask him to tell you more.

“About my partner? She’s a great gal. I’m sure I’d be dead twice over if she wasn’t there to pull my ass outta trouble. She’s a great shot, and there ain’t nothin’ sexier than a woman who can handle a pistol.”

His hand was on your opposite cheek, turning you to face him. The gentle touch made your breath stutter in your throat.

“She’s got this amazing smile that can make a mark fall in love from 40 paces, and it can light up a room from even farther.” He continued, the breath from his voice dancing across your face. His breath smelt like the spiced Whiskey he was named for, and a slight hint of cherries.

“She deserves better than me for her partner, that’s for damn sure. A broken man with a messy past who’s been too scared to tell her how special she is. I thought it was best to keep it professional, but I don’t know if I can anymore.” His nose brushed against yours. You gasped softly at how close he was.

“She’s always in danger, we both are, but once she was in danger I couldn’t help her out of… that made me realize how important she is. If she’ll let me though,” he whispered. You could feel his lips brush against yours as he spoke, his mustache tickling your upper lip.. “I’d like to spend all my time makin’ that up to her.”

“Jack-” Your whisper was cut off as he pressed his lips to yours gently. It was so gentle, almost hesitant. The man was such a loud, boisterous personality and this kiss was so contrary to that.

You dropped the whip, bringing your hand up to rest on his hand on your cheek. You followed his arm past his shoulder and up his neck to tangle in his hair. You felt his breath hitch from the light tug on the strands.

“I’m gonna stick by her side,” he muttered, his lips brushing against yours as he spoke. “No matter what happens. I’m gonna do everything I can to help you.”

You pulled him into another kiss, tilting your head to slot your lips together. He hummed softly into the kiss, brushing your cheek lightly with his thumb. His other arm wrapped tightly around your waist, like he was scared you would disappear. You nipped his bottom lip, trying to reassure him you weren’t going anywhere.

He hissed softly at the sensation and your tongue darted out to soothe the skin. His own tongue met yours, his moan at the contact matching your sigh.

He pulled back and you chased his lips. You were stopped as his nose brushed against yours, his shaky breath flitting across your face.

“Say it again.” He requested, so quietly you almost didn’t even hear.

“Say what?” You hummed, distracted by his nuzzling and the strong urge to have his lips against yours again.

“My name, sugar.” He was close enough that you could feel his cheek flex with a lopsided grin. “I ain’t ever heard you call me by name before now.”

You smiled in return, biting your lip. It was true. You’d called him Whiskey most of the time. Agent Whiksey when you were being formal. Whisk when he annoyed you. Numerous different names while undercover…

“Kiss me, Jack.”

He growled, low and deep in his chest, before he obliged. Now this was the kiss you expected from Whi- from Jack Daniels. His tongue, pressing past the seam of your lips. It felt like he was marking his territory, all you could do was let him. He swallowed your moans as you matched his hunger. He kissed you with passion, both experienced and unrefined. Unbridled. He kissed you breathless, until you had no choice but to part.

You pulled back, panting softly as you leaned your forehead against his. You wished you could see him. See if he was just as affected by the kiss as you were.

You slid your hand from his hair to his cheek. His skin was warm, you could almost imagine it tinged pink, flushed from being so breathless. You continued exploring, finding his mustache next. The coarse hair felt askew, likely mussed from kissing and not the neat, groomed thing you were used to. You felt the uptick of his lips in that signature grin, and you couldn’t help but feel those too. They were warm and moist. You wondered if they were swollen, like yours felt.

Jack held your hand still, kissing each finger tip one at a time. The tickle of his mustache made you giggle.

“I mean it, sugar.” You could feel his lips move against your fingertips, his voice vibrating through your hand. “I’m here with you. Whether they figure this out or not. We’ll get through it.”

It was the first time someone other than yourself acknowledged that your sight may never return. It didn’t bring about the hollow defeat you’d been feeling anytime you thought of being blind the rest of your life. It finally felt like you had someone in your corner. Of course it would be Jack. He’d had your back for years, working together in the field. You should have known it would be him, in the end.

“Thank you.” You dropped your hand from his face to wrap both arms around him, hugging him as you rested your head against his chest.

You felt him press a kiss against your forehead before he pulled you to lay down. He held you, cradled into his side as you burrowed your face into his neck. You heard something fall, probably the whip that had been forgotten on the sheets.

“Oops.” You winced, not having meant to be so careless with his gift. You moved to sit up, wanting to pick it up, but he held you firm.

“Leave it there,” he instructed. You relished the way his deep voice vibrated against you. “It ain’t gonna fall any further.”

“I don’t want something to happen to it.”

“If it does, I'll make you a hundred more.” He promised.

“Fine.” You ceded, snuggling back into him with a deep inhale. Leather and spice.

The arm that was draped over your waist left your side. You felt his muscles move under his shirt as he stretched out. It only took a minute before the released, relaxing again. You heard the fluttering of paper before he started to read.

“It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.

However little known the feelings or views of such a man may be on his first entering a neighbourhood, this truth is so well fixed in the minds of the surrounding families, that he is considered the rightful property of some one or other of their daughters.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

The pressure from the device around your head was unpleasant, but not unbearable. The way it pressed down on your eyes made you want to squirm. Instead, you squeezed frantically at the stress ball Ginger had offered you before you’d been strapped in. You knew Whiskey was standing with her as she ran the test, but you wished he could be here. You’d take his hand in yours over the foam smiley face any day.

“Almost done, Amaretto.” Ginger’s voice echoed through the speaker, barely audible over the hum of the awful machine.

“You’ve got this, sugar.”

“Whiskey, don’t tou-”

“-tell me not to-”

“-my lab, my buttons-”

“-OW!”

The bickering coming through the speakers was almost enough to make you laugh. The clicking of the microphone engaging and disengaging had you picturing the two fighting over whatever button turned the feed on. The two had spent hours bickering the past two weeks, Jack becoming increasingly more involved in your treatment as the two of you shifted from partners to... well, there was no set term put on it yet, but you were very fond of kissing him. You couldn’t quite imagine the cowboy in the other room being called a boyfriend. It felt very middle school.

It was another few minutes of the machine humming, pressing awkwardly against you, until Ginger finally announced you were done. You heard the door between you and them open, two sets of footsteps approaching. One set of hands started to release the device from your head, while the other took the stress ball away. It was replaced with a large, warm hand that lifted yours until a kiss was pressed to your knuckles. The mustache prickled against your skin.

“Okay, you can sit up. Go slow, though.” Ginger instructed once you were free. You did, feeling your head swim.

“How’re you feeling?” Jack asked.

“Light headed.” You answered honestly, waiting for the feeling to pass. You leaned into Jack, letting him support you through the dizziness.

“Almost done.” He cooed, petting your braided hair. “We’ll get you back to your room soon.”

You heard Ginger moving around the room before she came to a stop in front of you. There was silence for a beat.

“Any change?” She asked.

You blinked a few times, but there was nothing. “No.”

You sighed, letting your shoulders slump with defeat, but Jack stayed strong next to you.

“That’s okay.” He hummed, not letting on any disappointment he might be feeling. He never tried to dictate how you should feel about your condition, but he stayed strong for you throughout. It was still so hard to deal with that you may never see again, but he made it a little easier. “Let’s get you back to your room. I for one am dyin’ to know what happens to Elizabeth next.”

You scoffed as he helped you to stand. “Sure you are.” His hands held you steady until you found your footing, his arm wrapping around you to guide you out of the lab.

“I am.” He argued. “I’m invested in it now.”

“Oh, well I guess I didn’t need to ask Champ to track down some Louis L’Amour books.”

“To hell with Elizabeth.” Jack declared, making you laugh.

You roused slowly. It took you a moment to realize you had fallen asleep while Jack read. The last thing you remember in the story was the caravan was going to be attacked. You wondered how long Jack had read for before realizing you’d fallen asleep. You were pressed tightly to his side, you could feel his warm body next to you. His head was leaning against yours, his deep breaths tickling your ear. He let out the tiniest snores anytime he exhaled. It made you smile.

“Jack, wake up.” You hummed, pressing a kiss to his neck. He hummed in response but didn’t fully wake. You called his name again, nuzzling into him.

Your name left his lips in a soft moan as he told you to go back to sleep.

“You’re going to have an awful kink in your neck if you keep sleeping like that. Come on.” You argued quietly, poking him lightly in his side as you sat up.

“Alright,” he groaned. You felt his body stretch out beside yours before he too sat up. You felt something hit your leg and you instinctively opened your eyes to see what it was.

You saw the book had fallen off Jack’s lap-

You saw.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

tagging: @wickedfrsgrl @driedgreentomatoes

A/N: The books that are mentioned being read by Whiksey are The Adventures of Tom Sawyer by Mark Twain, Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen, and The Walking Drum by Louis L’Amour

#Agent Whiskey #Agent Whiskey x Reader #Agent Whiskey x f!Reader #Agent Whiskey fanfic #Agent Whiskey imagine #Kingsman The Golden Circle fic #Agent Whiskey fic #agent whiskey reader insert #Pedro Pascal Character fanfiction #WookieTales

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castieltrash1 · 4 years

Text

dangerous territory → clint b.

gif credit (x)

summary → clint stays behind during a mission, leaving you alone with him in the avengers building. seeing him sprawled out on the comfy lounge room couch gives you some naughty ideas -- only adding to the tension your relationship already has.

word count → 6.7k (literally wtf)

warnings → i ignore the entirety of iw/endgame except for clint’s makeover, extreme sexual tension, smut; switch!fem!reader, switch!clint, couch sex, oral (both recieving), fingering, slight overstimulation, dirty talk, praise

a/n → literally idk if i should be ashamed or not but im Horny 4 Hawkeye!!! oopsie !! also there are like .3 smut fics for him on here and im determined to fix that

---

Quiet was not a word you’d use to describe the Avengers Facility.

In fact, with Steve’s loud orders, Bruce’s lab explosions, and Sam’s boisterous laughter -- not to mention the never-ending petty arguments that managed to revert the Avengers to 11th graders in their first debate club -- it was the farthest thing from quiet.

But, now, with zero disagreements and zero distractions, you’d been able to enjoy the building all to yourself. Almost. Of course, the one time you got to avoid a mission, you ended up falling into an even worse situation.

You’d covered for Wanda last mission, and she’d insisted on paying you back for the newest one. It wasn’t high stakes by any means, but the work itself had countless components and everyone who was nearby -- or at least on the planet -- had been called in to fill some role.

Everyone, of course, except you. And Clint.

Suddenly the idea of being stuck in the Quinjet with everyone’s post-mission moodiness sounded very appealing. You could feel a headache growing as you wandered around the kitchen, doing anything and everything in your power to avoid him. He was not supposed to be here. Hell, he didn’t even like stepping foot in the place unless the world was in immediate danger.

Of course, you weren’t the only one to notice his odd attitude. Natasha gave him a confused look when he mentioned staying behind, but decidedly hadn’t commented, almost like she’d already pieced together the reason for Clint’s actions. Knowing her, she probably had. But, even Wanda shot a glance that worried you -- though you seemed to be the only one to catch her squinted green gaze before it disappeared. You weren’t sure you wanted to know what she saw in his mind.

Sure, you had a couple of ideas as to why he would choose to isolate himself with you, but you tried to not let those thoughts consume you. The others wouldn’t be back till midday tomorrow -- if all went well -- and you were not about to spend the next 36 hours soaking your panties with stupid fantasies.

Unfortunately, even when ignoring Clint, your mind was still focused on him. When you passed by the gym or shooting range, antsy to get your daily work in, one quick thought of seeing Clint’s arms -- tensed as he loaded his bow, muscles straining and eyes focused on his target -- was enough to have you quickly walking in the opposite direction.

But, now, as you make your way into the lounge to relax, you can’t find it in yourself to care. You have just as much of a right as Clint does to walk around whenever and wherever you please. In all honesty, you feel even more entitled considering you’re the one actually living in the tower (at least most of the time.)

He’s exactly where you expect him to be -- he may be fast and quiet on his feet, but you’ve been keeping tabs on him, for your own sake.

It’s a bit odd seeing a book instead of a bow in his hands, but you’re not entirely sure you should be focused on how his fingers wrap around the thin pages, thumbing the corners so gently--

“Done avoiding me, are you?”

Well, shit.

His gaze remains on his book -- though the very few pages he’s turned assures you he’s not paying attention to whatever riveting story Tony has stocked his shelves with.

“What are you talking about?” you ask. There’s a moment of temptation to take a seat next to him on the couch, as close as possible. To feel his strong arms around you, smell the raw masculine cologne he always wears a bit too much of -- heavy on his neck and sharp jaw that you know your lips could curl around so perfectly if given the chance.

You swallow heavily and take a seat in the chair across from him, sinking into the expensive fabric.

“Tony picks good furniture, right?” Clint sighs, book closing without so much as a dog-ear mark as he leans back.

It’s silent for a second, and you’re entirely sure you’ve missed a part of the conversation during your mini black-out, but Clint doesn’t seem bothered in the slightest, waiting patiently for your answer. You consider it a small win and accept the change in topic with an awkward laugh.

“Yeah. Didn’t think price made such a big difference.” There’s a firmness to the chair that keeps you from sinking, and mentally, you consider if it’d be strong enough for other activities. “How much you wanna bet he spent on each of these chairs?” you question, genuinely curious. “I gotta guess at least two grand.”

Clint’s cool eyes glint playfully. “Three,” he challenges with a smirk that sends a shiver down your spine. “Though, you should really try this couch. Definitely my favorite thing here.”

There’s just a hint of suggestion in his tone -- the kind that you’d miss if you weren’t trained in reading people. It’s not unexpected, though. You’d have to be a fool to not recognize the exact same longing stares, the same lingering touches that Clint offers you. But, that’s what makes it all more intimidating. It’s an unspoken thing, and at this point, that’s what feels most convenient -- even if your lonely nights spent moaning his name are growing far too common for comfort.

Still, you can’t exactly ignore him, and his eyes follow you closely as you make your way to the couch, falling into the comfy cushions with a huff.

“Wow.” You laugh. “No wonder you’ve been spending so much time down here.”

Clint raises an eyebrow. “So you have been paying me some attention. Interesting.”

If he notices you shift as far to the other end of the couch as possible, he doesn’t mention it.

“Don’t take it personally, Barton,” you huff. “I’m used to keeping an eye on everyone around here.” It’s not entirely a lie, but he manages to see right through the half-truth regardless.

“So you avoid everyone, then?” There’s no hurt or misunderstanding in his voice, not even confusion. He knows what you’re doing, knows why you can’t bear to look him in the eyes for more than a few seconds.

“Still don’t know what you’re talking about,” you deflect, closing your eyes and letting your head fall back onto the couch.

He just chuckles, a low sound that makes your stomach clench unconsciously. You expect him to keep pressing you, work you up until you spill your guts, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t even say a word as you hear the rustling of paper and feel the couch move slightly as he shifts.

You turn your head towards him and open one eye, then both as they go wide. Clint has taken on a whole new level of comfortable, feet perched on the coffee table and one arm resting on the back of the couch while his free hand flips through the same first few pages as before.

In all honesty, you suddenly find yourself happy that Steve and Tony are gone -- otherwise they’d be scolding Clint for his manners, and most definitely not ogling his firm legs in those tight, black jeans.

You drag your gaze back up his body, stopping near the hem of his shirt, where his new position has allowed for the fabric to ride up his stomach. It’s just a sliver of skin but the image is enough to make your heart race. There’s a faint dip in the muscled hip line leading to his jeans, and if you stare extra hard, you can see the light trail of thin hairs disappearing under the fabric.

Swallowing heavily, you quickly look back at Clint’s face, holding back a gasp as he stares back at you.

“So,” you fill the silence before he can, mentally thanking Natasha for her training on keeping your composure. “How’s that book of yours?”

Clint just grins for a second -- you both know he’s caught you. “It’s alright. Not the most interesting thing in the building right now, though.”

You gulp. “Yeah… The place is big. Lots to explore. I don’t think I’ve even seen every room--”

“I have a feeling you know that’s not what I mean,” Clint cuts you off with a chuckle, and you send him a challenging glare.

“I don’t know what you mean,” you scoff.

He hums, before his tongue peeks out to swipe across his bottom lip. “You’re sounding awfully like a broken record today.” His icy, pale eyes return to his book, and you watch as he lifts his thumb to his wet lips, tongue darting out the lick the tip. You can practically feel the action, and almost whine in disappointment when his hand returns to flip the page.

Clint is downright grinning at this point, and you know he’s taking in every breath, shift, and blink of yours. “But, I know you’re not actually confused,” he continues. “In fact, I’d argue you like this game of ours a bit more than you should.”

You know if you brush it off again, he’ll drop it. He’s too nice to make you uncomfortable, and his statement hangs in the air with a heavy weight.

“You know, Barton?” you shift from your spot on the couch, eliminating a good chunk of the space between you and him. “I think you’re smarter than most people give you credit for.” He raises a brow, and you would believe his undisturbed look if you didn’t see his fingers twitch against the spine of the forgotten book.

“Tell Nat that,” he jokes, and you grin. Seeing that little crack in his facade, the way he fills the conversation with a joke, the discreet but heavy swallow he tries to hide -- it’s all enough to power you to move closer, until there are mere centimeters between you two.

“Hmmm, I don’t think I’ll be telling Natasha anything from this conversation of ours.” Keeping your attention on the slight tense of his jaw, you push the book from his hands, and he immediately drops his feet from the table to discard it in their place.

You pause for a second, glancing at Clint’s lap then back at him, and he doesn’t hesitate to reach out and grab your hip.

“Get over here already,” he groans, both arms wrapping around your waist to situate you in his lap. His hands are warm and firm and everything you could have ever imagined, and you automatically roll your hips down onto him. There’s a pleased moan from you both, and his own hips jolt in a way that sends you even closer to him, until your chests are touching.

He immediately dives for your neck, scruff tickling the sensitive skin as he breathes you in deeply. “I gotta admit,” he murmurs, letting his lips graze the bottom of your jaw in the most sinful way, “you look so much better sitting here than standing around in the kitchen.”

You drag your fingers through the long hair on the back of his head, tugging it playfully. “You’ve been watching me, Barton?”

He hums, squeezing you just as teasingly. “I do a lot of staring when it comes to you, babe.”

You pull him from your neck by his hair, and he looks up at you with the most mischievous glint in his eyes. The nickname makes you undeniably flustered, but you force the embarrassment away.

“I don’t know about you, but I think that’s what you call creepy,” you mumble, leaning down so Clint can feel your words against his own lips. He immediately darts forward, but you pull back with a sly grin, watching his eyes darken at the action.

“I think,” he growls, catching you off guard as he pushes you back onto the couch, making you jostle as you try not to fall off the edge. He steadies you with a large hand, and you only jolt again when he uses his free hand to spread your legs, caging you in as his hips drop between your parted thighs. “You’d be a hypocrite for saying that.” He drops back to your neck, and you can feel his smile before his teeth sink into your skin lightly -- just enough to make you gasp.

He continues to litter your neck with kisses, and you watch in awe as his toned arm tenses by the side of your head -- the thick black lines of ink rolling as his muscles flex.

“And what are you gonna do about it?” you taunt, back arching as his tongue darts out to lick a stripe up to right below your chin. “You gonna fuck me?”

Clint bites the edge of your jaw in retaliation to your words, before he pulls back just enough to stare at you with a lustful gaze.

“Not yet, baby. Not that easily.” One of his hands trails up the front of your thigh, before it busies itself with the hem of your shirt. You try to hide your disappointment, but Clint notices it, of course, and just shakes his head. “Don’t worry, I don’t plan on letting you leave this couch anytime soon. You’ve made me wait long enough for this… I’m gonna take my time with you.”

He finally presses his lips to yours, and you hungrily reach and tug until he’s as close as possible -- until you can feel the denim of his jeans scraping deliciously against your thighs as you tug his bottom lip between your teeth. It’s messy and entirely uncalculated, and your nails catch in the wrinkles of the back of his shirt while his own fingers tug impatiently at the bottom of yours.

You part from him for a second, and his own greedy mouth follows yours, only managing to press against the side of your lips. “You act like you’ve made this easy for me,” you retort, and his chest rumbles against yours as he chuckles.

“Oh honey, I think I’ve made it quite obvious I’ve wanted to fuck you since the day you walked in here.”

“Clearly, not obvious enough.”

Clint huffs, warm breath hitting your cheek. “What’d you want me to do? Huh?” He shifts so his words make their way directly to your ear, each syllable accentuated with a puff of hot air. With him this close, neck just below your nose, you can take in the heavy smell of that sharp cologne you love so much.

His calloused fingers dip beneath your shirt, but instead of the obvious trail up, his hand trails down to play with the hem of your shorts. “Tug these little things off in front of everyone? Show them all how worked up you get me wearing these? Is that what you want?”

Your hips lift in a silent plea, and you groan. “They’re comfortable.”

“Maybe for you, but I find myself very uncomfortable when you wear them.” He snickers, and if you weren’t so turned on, you’re sure you’d roll your eyes. Only Clint Barton could make a joke about untimely hard-ons during a time like this.

“Then why don’t you take them off?” you groan, and he shakes his head while muttering something about you being bossy.

Still, his words betray him as he tugs the fabric down your legs, as slowly as possible while his eyes drink in the new area of exposed skin. “What part about taking my time with you did you not understand?” The corner of his lips tug in that mischievous way of his, and you have a sneaking feeling his patience is as fleeting as your own.

Proving your point, Clint tosses your shorts over the back of the couch with a grin, then pushes you further up the cushions. You’re almost sitting, shoulder blades knocking the arm of the sofa while your legs bend at the knee to accompany Clint, who scoots back. It’s the perfect and most disastrous angle to be at as you have to both feel and watch his deft fingers trail up from your knee.

You’re a hundred percent sure the effects of your arousal are extremely obvious, but he doesn’t comment on the wet patch of your panties -- though you see his eyes focus on the area between your legs for a second too long before his gaze flickers back to your thighs.

His calloused fingers trail the edge of fabric around your legs, rough skin providing a type of friction you can’t begin to explain. His touch is fleeting and he changes the amount of pressure with every swipe of his thumb, always pushing just enough to let you know he’s holding you down. That you can’t escape him -- as if you’d even think of trying to do so.

“Your legs are so sexy, you know that?”

You let out some type of pleased whine, a sound that Clint relishes as he tightens his grip on your thighs. “Make the prettiest sounds, too,” he continues, and then his fingers are right there. One hand holds your left leg down, while the other covers your panty-covered core. His thumb rubs into your desperate, throbbing clit, and you use your little amount of freedom to push your hips up, wanting, needing more.

Clint immediately presses you back down, and you watch his tattoos shift just slightly as he adds more weight to his hand on your thigh.

“Please, please.” You revert to begging at your lack of movement, losing all shame in regard to your desire. It’s obvious you need Clint -- any excuses or lies from before long forgotten. You need his movements to speed up, the slow circles of his thumb providing barely enough friction.

He just chuckles, but relents a little and you downright purr as the thin fabric of your underwear drags against your tingling nerve endings. It’s impossible to move under Clint’s weight, but all the muscles in your lower half flex and twitch as they desperately search for release and relief.

“How about…” Clint trails off, fingers moving upward to grab the waistline of your panties, “we get these off?”

You’re sure if you nod any faster you might make yourself dizzy, and Clint just smirks in that knowing way. That way that lets you know he has you right where he wants you. Right where he’s been waiting to have you.

The article of clothing is soon flung behind his shoulder just like your forgotten shorts -- and you can only faintly remind yourself to make sure you grab everything before the others return. Though, at this point, you think anyone could walk in on Clint between your legs and you’d still be begging him to make you cum -- audience or not.

“Fucking Christ,” Clint groans, palms sliding between your thighs to spread them, giving him a full view of your glistening core. “I swear, you’re gonna kill me.” Seeing his flushed cheeks, mussed hair, and greedy fingers, you’re not sure you can reject that statement.

He removes his hands for just a second, but you don’t dare close your legs, and he has the audacity to wink. Before your mind can even process the action, though, he’s pulling his shirt off, arms crossing over his chest as they show off in their full glory. Hips, stomach, chest, arms -- they’re all exposed so quickly and your eyes drink in the features as fast as they can. Clint throws the shirt to the side -- you have a feeling he’s utilizing his perfect aim to create a clothing pile -- but you just stare at his shoulder, where the ink spreads to areas you’ve never had the chance to see before. The olive green accents contrast against his tanned skin, which has gained a light sheen from the sweat of his arousal.

As he leans back down, Ronin’s portrait stares you dead in the eyes -- quite literally. If you didn’t know the deeper meaning, you’re sure you could mistake the skull as a danger warning to the man pressing a kiss against the inside of your knee.

Short hairs chafe your legs as Clint makes himself comfortable, pressing his jaw against you. When his hot breath dances over your center you almost squeeze your thighs together, but he’s there to push them apart with a chuckle.

“No, no…” He pulls away barely, and you take in a deep breath to calm yourself. “You’re gonna give me what I want, ok?” His fingers are gentle, and so are his eyes when he glances up to you. He’s hopeful, pleading almost, but stays respectful. “If that’s ok, of course.”

You almost want to cry, because how could he think any differently, but you just nod. “Please Clint, touch me.”

He sends you a lopsided grin, and then he’s right there, pressing a kiss against your clit. The feeling is completely different from before, lips slick and soft unlike his rough thumb. All the air in your lungs leaves your body as you let out a sigh of relief, body finally relaxing as it gets the touch it needs.

You reach down and your nails scratch his scalp lightly before you grip his hair in a tight hold. He nuzzles against your hand and groans against you, and the feeling of control makes your blood run hot through your veins. One of the most powerful men on Earth is between your legs, sucking softly on your clit like it's the only thing he could ever want.

He traces circles on your thighs with his coarse fingers as he warms you up with gentle licks and the occasional curl of his lips around your most sensitive area. You let him have the satisfaction of your spread thighs, but you periodically tug on his tousled locks to remind him that he’s the one between your legs. It’s the perfect balance of dominance -- the type that makes your head spin and your eyes roll back into your head.

Clint presses another kiss to your clit before traveling lower and the intimacy of the action makes your skin flush. You can tell he’s not going to be holding back for much longer though, if the desperation of his descent is any indication. His fingers join his attack as he spreads your folds, tongue dragging the entirety of your core.

“So good, baby. So fucking good,” he mutters, mouth impatient as he covers as much skin as he can at once. It’s fast and downright dirty as he presses his tongue into you, eliciting a groan from your parted, panting lips. You’re dripping at this point, and he laps up the mix of saliva and arousal with a yearning thirst.

It’s all so overwhelming. His fingers are digging into your skin -- likely to leave faint marks -- and the scruff framing his jaw scrapes and leaves your skin burning, while the softer locks between your fingers are a comfort to steady you.

The heat building in your body is entirely unbelievable, and your back digs into the couch as you arch into Clint, desperate for all he’ll be willing to give you. You press him closer, and he moans at the power in your hands -- the control you have despite him hovering over you. It’s a mental trip for you both, your stomach and pelvic muscles clenching as they react to his generous, eager giving.

“God, Clint, gonna cum.” The words barely feel like they’re coming from your own body, jaw slack as you tremble in his hold. His index finger presses into you slowly, while his thumb replaces his tongue on your clit. The change of stimulation has you reeling, your grip on Clint loosening as you feel his warm words against you.

“Kinda the point, sweetheart.” Your eyes are squeezed shut, but you know Clint is smirking -- you can practically hear it in his voice.

His finger curls to press against your front wall, and he rubs it gently once, twice, before he lets the digit drag out, sinking in again even slower. The leisurely thrusts continue as his tongue returns to circle your clit, his cocky words from before silenced as he puts his mouth to work. Your breath grows heavier, heart rate increasing with every second. His middle finger joins the first with a steady push, and you clench desperately as they curl and press and rub and reduce you to nothing but putty.

You’re right there and Clint knows it -- somehow he knows it. His fingers move faster, harder, and his lips wrap around your clit with even greater determination. There’s a shift, fingertips grazing the perfect spot as he sucks desperately and it’s over. You’re crying out his name, thighs shaking and you clench and flutter around his never-ceasing fingers. There’s a moment where all senses leave you and all you can feel is Clint, and the spread of warmth between your legs. Your ears ring and your own moans become faint background sounds.

And then, you’re pulling his head back, his tongue still trying to work your sensitive clit. He fights your tug on his hair but you must be begging because he finally relents with a huff. You can hear his breathing, and you feel his shift as he leans back over you, fingers still working you through your high.

“Look at me,” he demands, and his free hand drags down your cheek. “C’mon, open your eyes.” He forcefully grabs your chin, and your eyes open too quickly for your mind to process. It’s all so bright and you have to blink away the splotches of color coating your vision. Clint takes up the entirety of your view, lips wet and eyes dark. “There you go, baby.” He’s grinning and panting and his fingers are still fucking moving.

You whimper and glance down -- as much as his grip on your jaw will allow -- and the view of his tattooed arm between your thighs, veins pulsing as he fingers you is imprinted in your mind permanently. It’s a never-ending high that goes on for a second too long before Clint finally, finally eases his fingers from you. They’re practically dripping with your release, and he wastes no time bringing them to his glossy mouth.

It’s hypnotic to watch as his lips close around his fingers, nostrils flaring as he sucks them eagerly. They come out clean, and his chest rumbles with a groan. “Can’t get enough of your taste. Fuck.”

It takes a second for you to catch your breath, chest heaving and shirt clinging to sweaty skin. But, there’s finally a moment where your legs feel somewhat solid, and you take advantage of the opportunity, bending your leg to put the bottom of your foot on Clint’s bare chest.

He shoots you a confused but intrigued look, and you respond with a lopsided grin as you push him backward, until he’s the one stumbling to find a spot against the arm of the couch. Faintly, you consider the move would be much sexier with a pair of heels digging into his skin, but this will have to suffice for now. Maybe next time -- if there is a next time, of course.

“Now, what are you up to, baby girl?” Clint is practically vibrating with excitement as you gather the strength to push yourself off the couch, ignoring the slight twitch of your exerted thighs.

“Take your pants off,” you say, with little shame. “Now.”

You’re not sure you’ve ever seen someone get undressed so quickly and the hastiness of Clint’s actions leave him with very little coordination. It takes him three tries to get his belt undone, and he pokes himself with the metal prong when his eyes return to glance at you.

Raising a brow, you put your hands on your hips, and he speeds up. The button and zipper take him twice as long, but the sound when he finally tosses his belt and jeans off to the side is well worth the wait.

He licks his lips, looking up at you -- waiting, watching. Your earlier thoughts regarding his legs are heightened tenfold as you take in his toned thighs and hard cock in-between. He’s thick, the bulge pressing against his boxer-briefs making your heart skip a beat. The mere idea of him stretching you open has you growing too impatient for what you have planned.

“Keep going.” You swallow and hope your voice doesn’t sound too shaky.

Clint’s quick fingers make work of the fabric, and you focus on finishing yourself off. You pull your shirt off and let it drop to your feet before your hands move to unhook your bra. You’re barely sliding the straps down your arms when you hear Clint huff, and you look back to him.

“I wanted to do that,” he almost whines, chest puffing.

You roll your eyes but laugh, and toss your bra to him. He catches it with a wink, before throwing it behind him. Immediately, his gaze drags over your chest, excruciatingly slow. You know he’s taking in every inch, every natural mark that decorates your torso. Normally, you’d feel odd being examined so closely while still being at a decent distance -- but Clint is observant and his eyes are hungry.

Finally, his dark eyes reconnect with yours. “You gonna come sit or should I just grab you?” His tone is playful and daring, but you hear the hint of arousal that suggests he wouldn’t be opposed to tugging you into his arms. You don’t have time for games anymore, though, so you stand between Clint’s legs, and he pats his thigh playfully.

“Hmm…” You bite your lip and shake your head, eyes glistening with mischief. “Not yet…”

You make your descent to your knees perfectly paced, fluttering your lashes as you look up to Clint from between his thighs. He cusses and his arms fall limply to his side as he resigns himself to the torture he knows you’ll be sure to deliver.

“I thought you wanted to take your time,” you tease, fingers sliding up his thigh. Your nails against his skin have him tensing, muscles quivering.

He groans, and tosses his head back. “That was before I made you cum. Just wanna fuck you now -- make you shake again.”

You pinch him. “Sweet-talking will get you nowhere, Barton. You should know that.” But, you still let your palm graze over his hard cock, twitching at your touch. He’s firm and warm, and when your fingers wrap around his length, you realize how deliciously thick he is, filling your grasp fully. The length is there too, just enough to not be intimidating, but the girth has your core throbbing.

“Fuck, Clint,” you groan, giving a slow jerk of your wrist. “You’ve been holding out on me.”

He’s pulsing in your hand, skin flushed and precum beginning to drip from the head of his cock. It coats your hand on the second stroke, easing the drag. Soon enough, he’s practically glistening, and your mouth waters. You have to taste him.

He calls your name, voice trembling, as your tongue darts out to flatten against his tip. “Oh God, please.” He’s flushed, from his cheeks to his tensing thighs, and you’d grin if you weren’t taking him deeper into your mouth. Another part of the burning, fervid desire deep in your veins lights up as your lips wrap around him -- tongue greedy for more as it laps everything it can reach. A growl reverberates through his entire body, and the sound makes your thighs clench.

You spare him a glance, and he looks destroyed. Sweat gathers on his forehead and the veins in his arm pulse as he grips the cushions to stay steady. Sane. Calm.

His knuckles are white and you relieve them by grabbing his left hand in your own, thumb rubbing over the back of his palm. He’s squeezing you like you’re his lifeline, and you reward him with your free hand around his base.

“Fuck fuck, I’ll cum too fast with you doing that,” Clint grunts, and you watch his chest heave as he tries to steady his breathing.

You pull off him with a line of spit, breaking it with your hand as you use the saliva to glide your fingers. He’s still throbbing, and you trace his underside vein with your wet thumb. “I thought that was the point, right?” You repeat his words from earlier with a grin, pressing a kiss against his thigh as your hand speeds up. He’s so close and he needs it so badly, but he finally pulls his hand from yours to grab your moving wrist.

“Not until I fuck you.” He pants, and begrudgingly removes your hold from his cock. “And a couple times, at the very least.”

Your heart races at the mere thought of as many rounds as you can handle, with Clint making you cum again and again. Still, you stand slowly, silently hoping he’ll push you back to your knees and cum down your throat.

But he doesn’t. He watches closely as you straighten out, and you quickly move to straddle him. “Fine, but you’ll let me ride you, understood?” Your thighs brush over him with the lightest touch, and with just one solid movement, you could have him sinking into you. But, you wait. You watch as he swallows heavily, eyes hooded.

Clint gives you a lopsided smile. “No complaints here, babe.” And with that, you reach down to hold his length, pressing the tip against your clenching, wet, core. He gasps, but you shift just slightly, until he bumps your clit. It’s too much and too little all at once, and you let out a soft cry as he jerks upward, precum coating the swollen nub. You reward yourself with one more drag down from your clit before letting the head of his cock push into you.

You’re immediately clenching around his length, and Clint’s calloused fingertips dig into your hips as he helps steady you. It only takes a couple breaths and a slow spread of your thighs to take him fully, arousal coating his cock quickly. He barely holds himself back from rutting into you right away, but you rock your hips and grip his shoulders regardless.

“Fuck,” he half-groans, half-whimpers. “You’re so fucking wet.”

Your nails dig into his skin as you roll again, letting out an incoherent babble of his name as your clit gains friction from his own warm body. You can feel your own wetness dripping down your thigh onto his, and it has you shuddering. It’s so dirty and your fingers move to Clint’s hair, desperately clinging at the long strands. His forehead presses to yours, and he smells like the most dangerous concoction of sweat, cologne, and mint toothpaste you’ve ever had the honor of inhaling.

You join in an almost-kiss that’s all teeth, but he brushes his tongue against your cupid’s bow in a much gentler way, and you know he can feel the shiver that runs down your spine in reaction. He squeezes your hip gently in reassurance, and then his grip on you tightens. It doesn’t hurt, but you can feel the years of arm workouts, and you know there’s no way to escape -- as if you’d ever want to.

Clint’s knee jerks and then he’s thrusting up into you with such force it leaves you breathless. He holds you down and all you can do is gasp and hold him tighter as he pushes into you harder and faster. Every shift provides a new angle and friction as his tip stimulates your sensitive walls.

Your thighs shake desperately and you can hear the wet slap each of his movements provide as you coat his cock in warm slick. He grins at the sight, one hand drifting from your hip until it reaches your throbbing clit.

“Look at you,” he coos and punctuates the words with a rough circle of his thumb.

Your chest heaves as you gasp, but the lack of Clint’s hold gives you a second to grind against him. He grunts as you do, and you chuckle breathlessly against his parted lips.

“And look at you.”

He retorts by way of another rub against your clit, and your laughter quickly turns to a drawn-out moan.

“You look so pretty when you’re about to cum.” He pants between every word, but he’s determined to deliver the compliment that makes your face too warm. You’re not sure how he knows you’re so close -- it must be way more embarrassingly obvious than you thought -- but you can’t find it in yourself to care. Not when he’s letting his cock drag inside you slowly, with a hard thrust every few seconds. Not when the pressure on your clit is changing so rapidly you can’t breathe.

When you do cum, with a broken cry and shaking torso, Clint doesn’t let up. He goes faster, harder. It’s a never-ending high that turns your brain to mush, and your body into even less. Your thighs burn and your toes curl but all you can feel is the delicious length buried deep inside you.

It’s only during the beginning of the cool down that you tug a little harder on Clint’s hair, and roll your hips a little more. “C’mon, Clint, please. Please fill me up.” His chest rumbles against yours with a throaty growl, and you continue to ride out your orgasm as he fucks into you with a few more desperate, shaky thrusts.

He cums in you thick and warm, with a groan of your name. It tumbles from his lips sinfully, and you commit the sound to memory. The rasp of his tone and the sight of his wet, swollen lips.

It’s not until he eases out of you slowly, and you feel the drip down your thigh that you’re grounded and reminded of exactly where you are. On a multi-thousand dollar couch. Owned by Tony Stark.

“Oh my god, Clint.”

His eyes are closed and you’re sure he’s about three seconds from sleeping for eighteen hours, but he manages a tired smirk. “I know. That was good.”

“No! I mean yes. But that’s not what I’m talking about.”

He half-opens one eye. “What?”

“I think we stained the couch.” A quick glance between Clint’s thighs all but confirms it, and you’re not sure whether to be proud or embarrassed by the very large wet spot staining the blended fabric.

“I can’t believe that’s what you’re thinking about right now. After everything that just happened.”

You playfully slap his shoulder as you roll onto the cushion next to him with a huff. He nudges you back with his arm before clearing his throat, and letting out a butchered impression of your voice. “Oh Clint! Your dick was just so amazing!-”

“Oh my god!” You cover your face but nothing stops the laughter that rumbles through your chest -- even if he’s got your tone completely wrong. He just chuckles and wraps his arm around you, pulling you into his side with a sigh.

“How much do you think we’ll owe Tony by the end of the day?” He looks down at you with a playful glint in his eyes.

“What do you mean?”

He rolls his eyes, but presses a chaste kiss to your hair. “C’mon, you don’t think I haven’t planned out every surface we still need to fuck on before they get back?”

“Clint!”

“See, you keep screaming my name but for all the wrong reasons.” Now you can feel his grin against the top of your head, and it comes into view as he stands with you still in his grasp. You’re not sure how he maneuvers it, but he’s got you in his arms before you can even blink, and the look he sends you tells you not to complain or even question it. He’s not even out of breath -- all things considered -- and when you glance in the direction he’s heading, your eyes widen.

“You have got to be joking…” You squirm in his arms as he sets you down on the table used for almost every meeting, and the mere thought of defiling it forever makes you squeeze your legs together shyly.

But, Clint is quick to spread them, all with a cocky grin and a far too confident tone.

“I don’t know about you…” He begins, as his fingers trail up your thigh. “But I think we could reach ten thousand by midnight.”

If you distantly hear FRIDAY warn adamantly against it -- neither of you mention it.

“Better get started then, Barton.”

---

1K notes · View notes

potatotrash0 · 3 years

Note

Hey idk if youve done this alreadh but im curious about your body headcanons for the sdr2 cast!! An anon sent some in for characters previously (the one where they said things like angie has vitiligo and stuff-i love them and they really stuck with me haha) and i wanna know your headcanons!! :D

Hmhmm this one I might be listing off the spot lmao. I feel like my hcs are mostly just. Common hcs but hey I never said I wasn’t basic skdjksjdks

cw for. Everyone. Yeah kdjfksjdks

Hajime…..I like to think he’s slightly buff? Maybe that’s not the right word. Toned? Idk, I hc that he jumps around hobbies a lot because he wants to find something he’s good at, so that includes sports. I like the idea that a few stick with him, like swimming and basketball. I imagine he also has light scrapes and scars on his legs from falling, both with skateboarding and general Clumsy Shit.

Also this one switches a lot but with Trans Hajime, I can see him with top surgery scars.

Oh ah, I like freckled Hajime!! It’s cute. This one goes with the sports hc, but I like the idea that he’s kinda tanned. Entirely unrelated but I also like the idea that he has calluses from playing guitar.

Chiakiii!! She’s soft bc I said so. Specifically her thighs, arms and stomach + some stretch marks. And moles all over. Projecting big time onto a cute fictional girl, call that self care <333 /j

uhh other than that, I imagine she has bags under her eyes from staying up late gaming. Also tan Chiaki my love. Shh I know she probably doesn’t go outside for days on end. In my defense I tan easily and I imagine she does too. Again with the projection. Shhhh

Oh oh!!!! I forgot to mention but!!!! Chiaki gets a ton of moles. I saw the boob mole and went !!!!!! fellow mole haver!!!!!! and went nuts. This is the one weird niche entirely irrelevant thing that can get me to like a character, just. Being able to point at them and jump up and down with joy over them also having moles. Idk why it’s just therapeutic <33

Nagito’s bony. Skinny mf. Could probably cut cheese with his elbows. Maybe grate it on his collarbones. Cuddling with him would be a fight to see if you can find a position that doesn’t end with something poking you in the gut. I mean this affectionately, he’s bony as shit but he’s my bony fucker <3

Pale asf, sunburns if he’s in the sun for more than two minutes. His eye bags could hold the entirety of his life’s trauma. Sharpest features ever. Sometimes I hc that he looks greasy, and other times I hc that he looks ethereally pretty in a ghostly way. Either way he always looks like he’s had the soul sucked out of him by a Dementor.

You can probably definitely see the veins in his hands. They’re. Very There. Also I’ve brought this up before but he definitely has big ass hands. L a r g e hands, all the better to head pat you with. This was originally so much more pining but I decided no I’ve exposed myself enough on this blog skfjksjdkd

Oh last minute thing, I think he’d be tall as fuck. Specifically 6’0 or taller. Also he probably (definitely) has at least a few scars from his childhood, particularly that plane crash. And I like to think he has glasses when he’s older. I’m so sorry that his section is so long I have so many thoughts about him ;;;;;

Okay uhh Imposter? Mmm. Idk actually. I do think they’d have callused fingers but soft hands. Probably from having to adapt to using a ton of different talents for their Imposter Agenda. Also stretch marks probably, all over their body.

Teruteru uhhhhh. God. Can you tell I don’t think about some characters ;;;;; Idk I don’t have much that differs from canon. I like him. Oh but he probably has cook hands? Chef hands, whatever you wanna call them. Probably faint scars from cuts and burns from when he was still learning how to cook from his mama.

Mahiru……hmm well freckles obviously dkjfksjd. I think she’s tanned as well since I feel like she likes sunlit shots. Idk I don’t have much. I like to think she’s got a stockier body type though.

Also not necessarily her body but I like her with an undercut!

Peko’s buff <3 it’s canon <333 /j

N ee way yeah. Buff Peko my love. Also she probably has a few scars from handling her sword when she was younger and less experienced. I also feel like she would have contacts she wears when she trains bc fuck exercising with glasses

I don’t really have anything for Hiyoko until she gets her growth spurt. Afterwards, I imagine she’s tall and kinda thin? Mainly bc of fast metabolism probably, though when she’s older maybe she’d be a little less spindly.

I don’t know if her hair would be bleached or not, but if it were, I like the idea of her letting her actual hair color grow in. If not, I think Ibuki might help her try a few sections of dyed hair? Idk I just like the thought

Ibuki is a fellow bony bitch. I mean this lovingly. She’s skin and bone. Skeleton rocker lady

Probably tan, I imagine she spends a lot of time in the sun. She strikes me as a summer person. Oh, I also saw some art of Black Ibuki with vitiligo and loved that!! Also calluses from shredding guitar, obviously

Hmmm I like the idea that she rollerskates? So possibly some bruises or scars on her arms or legs from falling on concrete when she was still learning. Oh oh I imagine she has a ton of piercings!!! On her ears, nose, lips, brows, tongue, belly button…….maybe she has a split tongue too idk. Also she totally gets a ton of tattoos when she’s outta Hope’s Peak, prove me wrong.

Mikan uhhh. I like tall Mikan. She deserves the height. 5’8 to 6’0 Mikan good 👍

Hmm she probably has scars all over, particularly on her arms and legs. Uh. Idk I imagine she’s curvy probably. What do I say for her I don’t have anything skjdksjdks

I’m not even gonna lie I don’t have a damn thing for Nekomaru. Or. Wait nevermind here’s a concept: buff Nekomaru but like. If you’ve seen those wrestlers who have fat on them that hides some fucking crazy strength? Yeah that’s him. Also hairy asf.

Gundham……tall vampire vibes. I’d say he’s a stick but also I feel like he’s the slim type of muscular. Idk how to describe it. Shigaraki type muscle? Male gymnast. No nevermind those guys have visible muscle. Shigaraki type it is

Hmmm I think this is canon but probably a few scratches from his pets. His arms and legs mainly but I’m sure the Devas have scratched up his neck at some point or another. Just a little though. Also piercing fiend Gundham my beloved. I also like him having a couple tattoos when he’s older. Ibuki probably helped him heheh

I’m torn between Fuyuhiko being skinny as shit and Fuyuhiko being tiny and buff. I like both………hhh

His hair is probably bleached. Peko probably helps him re-dye it when his roots start growing in. I also like him having glasses

Uhhh tooth gap Fuyu’s cute. I used to have a super small one before I got my braces, I imagine it’s the same for him. Him, Ibuki, and Gundham are probably Tattoo Buds.

Kazuichi…..I want so bad to say he’s a weakling just to make fun of him but he’s a mechanic that probably works with heavy machine parts a lot and he probably has some sick biceps. But he probably also smells like hair dye, oil, metal, and Monster Energy. Win lose situation I guess.

I like to think he has a couple piercings? Not as many as Ibuki, but maybe he’s got like. Second or third place in the class. Also he totally filed his teeth to be sharp like that

Akane!! Buff lady, could probably deadlift me or something. She’s definitely got some scars from running around, especially when she was first learning parkour. Ummm oh, I like to think she has a chipped tooth or smth like that from falling roughly as a kid.

Soniaa <33 in my heart she will always be tall and have at least some muscle. Novoselic is a war country if I remember correctly, she’s definitely got some military training in her.

Idk why but her with heterochromia just popped into my head. That pretty greenish blue gray that she has + maybe brown or hazel? I think that’d be cool. And hip dips.

21 notes · View notes

asphora · 4 years

Text

Marigolds | csc

wc: 5,569 | angst, hanahaki disease, seungcheol x reader, f!reader, non-idol!verse, cursing, character death, tw:sickness, tw:death

a/n: I’ve been in a slump and in a really bad place recently, but out of nowhere this came to me and somehow writing it made me feel better? idk. Also, I recommend listening to Yiruma’s Prelude in Gm. It’s such a beautiful piece. Anyway, thank you.

Love can often look like so many things that don’t seem like love.

The night the world stops spinning is the night you see her for the first time. You’d known of her existence long before you’d even had the misfortune of laying your eyes on her, from stories and various retellings enthusiastically recounted to you by your group of 13 male friends. Their words had made her something of a phantasmagoric collection of enchanting and enigmatic quirks and traits, something otherworldly; brave and spontaneous, fun but equally intelligent. But for all their praise, you figured their words were just that.

Nodding along as Seungcheol prattled on about her ardently, you silently listened, finding some semblance of solace knowing that there was no person without flaws. To you, she seemed more like a Monet than anything; something beautiful to behold, but only from a distance. The closer anyone got, surely the more the cracks would start to show and for all her magic and mystery, you figured soon enough the boys, particularly Seungcheol, would soon realize the truth: that there was no such thing as magic. Only real people, with their flaws and undone seams, haphazardly strewn together.

That night the music blared in your ears, despite coming from the next room where Soonyoung was drunkenly DJing. Around you were throngs of people, a mix of strangers and friends alike, bodies danced intoxicatedly moving to the beat reverberating through the walls of the frat-house.

When you see him, you can’t fight the smile that spreads on your lips. Your hand is already raised, ready to wave him down and wrap him in the embrace you two always shared. You don’t know it yet, but that night is different from all the others; the beginning of the end.

It only takes him few steps more for you to see that his hand, which is usually stuffed into his pockets, is prettily decorated by her dainty one; milky skin seemingly unmarred by the harsh yellow lighting in the crowded living room and her ring finger ornamented by a big bright rock you recalled seeing at Seungcheol’s apartment a week prior.

Immediately your hand falls to your side and you take a step back, disappearing effortlessly into the crowd as your watchful eyes are trained on the couple. She with her red silk dress that seemed to accentuate and hug her body in the most complimentary way, and him in his usual all black ensemble that definitely did not betray the senses, showcasing his toned body through the fabric. They looked more like they belonged on the front of some expensive travel or style catalogue.

You would have described the pair as one that stuck out like a sore thumb, but that wasn’t the case. As they waded through the waves of people—his arms wrapped gently around her, never faltering in their protective hold on her—they seemed to put everyone else to shame. It wasn’t that they didn’t belong at this party, it was that they made everyone else look like they shouldn't have been there.

As you watch them laughing and dancing, whispering, faces always close to each other’s, you realize that she is not the mirage you had made her out to be in your head. She’s everything they said she was, and even more, she bore his heart.

“Seungcheol!” the bellowing voices of 13 other boys pull you from your thoughts and suddenly, you go from a passive by-stander simply basking in the glow of the couple, to the forefront of all the excitement as Mingyu finds you in the crowd and pulls you by the arm to where Seungcheol and the others are standing.

Dark chocolate irises that you’ve known all your life and have practically memorized at this point meet your own and that’s the last color you register along with the sounds of cheering and shouting of joyous congratulations, before everything becomes a blur of motion as your legs will you through the halls of the frat house you practically lived at. After that all you see is orange—bright, fiery, blazing orange.

As you sink onto the floor of Jihoon’s bathroom, vision bleary from the pain, you press your cheek onto the tile taking whatever comfort you can from their soothing coolness.

‘Marigolds,’ you chuckle at the irony of just how fitting it is, the sound coming out more of a garbled cough than a laugh due to the burning in your throat, 'in the language of flowers, it meant despair, grief and jealousy.'

As you shift in and out of consciousness, the alcohol in your system working too well with the pain in your chest and throat, forcing you under, you reach your hand out, fingers trying to grasp at the orange blossoms. You hadn’t even made it to the toilet.

‘Sorry Woozi,’ you think in your last moments of consciousness, ‘promise I’ll clean it later. It just hurts too much right now.’

And that’s how the said male finds you.

Once the party is done, Jihoon retreats to his quarters only slightly tipsy since he wasn’t much of a drinker anyway like the rest of the guys. There you are, passed out in the middle of his bathroom floor, lying in what at first glance seemed to be clouds of fire.

If he hadn’t know exactly what he was looking at, he would’ve thought the sight to be beautiful, immaculate even; your limp form swimming in a sea of marigolds, hands outstretched and gripping some of the fresh blooms in your hands, dark hair splayed out across the flowers in stark contrast to the vibrant orange beneath, and your face though tearstained was adorned with loose petals sticking to your skin.

His bathroom had never smelled so nice, he thought despite knowing you’d vomited these flowers. Never in his life had he seen Marigolds as vibrant as these, so alive and in full bloom, as though spring had come in the middle of winter to take up residence in his bathroom; the sight would put Demeter to shame. But he knew the truth of it; this sight was anything but that of life. You were dying.

***

“You have to get the surgery, y/n.” Jihoon sighs the words onto the skin of your forearm where there are various tubes sticking out of you, seemingly the only things keeping you somewhat alive.

You can tell by the way he says it that he’s beyond exhausted, that these are words that he’s tired of saying, that this is a plea he and all the other 11 boys from your friend group are tired of begging you for. You don’t say anything, and your silence only makes him more irked.

“If you aren’t going to get the surgery, at least tell him the truth,” Jihoon attempts to reason with you, “he deserves to know the truth, or even just the chance to save his best friend. You can’t avoid him forever, and you sure as hell can’t just suddenly die and leave him wondering how the fuck that happened.”

Jihoon’s crass words make you laugh, a breathy quiet chagrin that slips from your lips sounding more like a cough than mirth. He’s so fed up with you that he doesn’t even bother to choose his words wisely, not like how he was when this all started a month ago.

“He hasn’t even tried to visit me.” At that he rolls his eyes.

“Because you won’t let him. You won’t even let us tell him that you’re in the hospital. As far as he knows your back home with your parents getting better, not here in Seoul, in a hospital, fucking dying.”

This time, it’s your turn to roll your eyes and admonish him, albeit weaker compared to his display. “I get it Woozi, I’m dying, I don’t have much longer to live. Tell me something the doctors haven’t, I get it—”

“No, you don’t!” His booming voice suddenly cuts you off. For the first time in your long friendship with him, he raises his voice at you.

“You don’t get it,” you watch him as he shakes his head, “you say you get it, that you know you’re dying, but you don’t. You’re acting like this is a small thing, that it’ll go away sooner or later, but it isn’t. It’s either you get the surgery or you’re dead, done, gone forever. There won’t even be anything left of you to love that oblivious, unworthy asshole you call your best friend.

“A real best friend would be more worried about you, would be here, breaking down doors and begging me and the rest of the guys to let him see you, he’d at the very least, demand to be able to visit you and not be running around having fun with his whatever-she-is while you’re dying.”

Tears fill Jihoon’s eyes as he paces, arms angrily flailing as he rants to and at you. That’s when Wonwoo, seemingly forgotten in the corner, ever the quiet spectator and your next closest friend after Jihoon and Seungcheol, steps in to place a calming hand on Jihoon’s heaving chest.

“Jihoon,” Wonwoo’s thick baritone pierces through the sound of Jihoon’s angry breaths, “that’s enough. Look at her, she’s crying.”

You hadn’t realized it until Wonwoo had pointed out, but your face was hot with moisture, and your patient’s gown was soaked down the front with the tears that had run off your face. Jihoon seeing this seems to snap out of his trance, his stance relaxing and his eyes growing soft.

“Sorry, y/n, I-I didn’t mean, I—”

“It’s okay Jihoonie,” you hadn’t used that nickname in a long time, not since Seungcheol had practically thrown a fit, banning you from calling any of the others by cute nicknames, “it’s okay, don’t be sorry, I get it.”

Giving him and Wonwoo the warmest smile you can muster in your weakened state, you open your arms out for them, their strong sturdy forms quick to bend to fill the tiny space of your arms, wrapping your frail form in their own warmth.

“Don’t worry,” you whisper the words onto the tops of their heads, petting the hair there, “I get it, I do. You don’t have to be sorry. I’m scared too.”

The admission of your own fear wracks a brand-new sob through your chest that you hadn’t known you were holding back, and immediately you’re crying a fresh batch of tears onto the fabric of their shirts.

“I don’t want to die,” you wail despite the scratching of your throat as you clutch the fabric of their shirts into clenched fists, “but I can’t, I don’t want to—I can’t do it. If I get the surgery, I’ll forget, and I can’t—

“I can’t live in a world where I don’t know Seungcheol, where I don’t know his smile or the sound of his voice and his laughter, where I don’t know that he’s a cry baby and that his favorite kind of movies are romcoms, even though he’ll never admit it to anyone but me.

“I’m scared too, but it’s not just dying,” you sob, “what kind of life would it be if I stopped knowing him? If I couldn't even remember the only love I’ve ever known?”

***

Weeks pass in a blur of burning orange speckled with blotches of vibrant red; hospital bins filled to the brim with orange marigolds drenched in bile and blood; nurses carrying and disposing more and more beautiful bright bouquets of marigolds each passing day.

“The marigolds are really pretty, at least.” Soonyoung absentmindedly remarks as he watches a nurse file out of the room, two trash bins in hand, brimming with freshly puked flowers.

Seungkwan who stands beside him gives the hin a look of complete outrage, nudging Soonyoung’s side a little too harshly with his elbow, making the blonde yelp in pain. Jihoon who’s sitting at your bedside only rolls his eyes at the insensitivity, while the rest of the boys stand around awkwardly and apologetically.

The tense sight of almost all your closest friends standing around as if they were at your funeral rather than just your hospital room only makes you laugh into the receptacle on your mouth, cursing the restraining contraption despite it being the only thing that’s managed to help you breathe throughout this whole ordeal.

Shifting up weakly, you move to sit up in your hospital bed to get a better look at the boys. Jihoon’s hands are quicker than your frail body though, as he tries to keep you lying down.

“C’mon, Hoonie, I’m dying, not losing my sense of humor,” you shrug his hands away and Mingyu’s takes their place to sit you up, “what Soonyoung said was funny.”

“I’m not offended, it’s funny. I mean, they are pretty, right? It would suck if I was dying and the flowers exploding out my gut were fucking ugly as shit. Could you imagine puking roses? Ugh, how generic,” you chuckle, upping the dramatics and giving Soonyoung a wink along with a mirthful grin which he sheepishly returns.

You glance at Seungkwan who’s trying to bite down his smile and you offer him your own wide one, “bet you never had a flower shop for a friend, huh?” And at that, the others who’d spent most of this time awkwardly standing around, the same way they did every week when they came to visit, finally let out their laughter.

You laugh along with them as much as your lungs will allow and you shake Jihoon’s shoulder, as if the gesture will shake the frown off of his face as you whine, “C’mon, please don’t be mad, Jihoon. I’m dying, you’re not allowed to be mad at me.”

“She kinda has a point, Hyung.” Vernon, feeling more relaxed after your joke, takes a seat at the foot of your bed and shrugs at the older male.

“Dying friend trumps angry friend,” you shrug, smiling brightly at Vernon who just pets your leg affectionately. Despite his irritation, Jihoon watches the exchange and visibly softens, patting your head just as sweetly and giving you half a smile. “Whatever, you’re stupid.”

“By the way, where’s Wonwoo?” Mingyu asks, changing the topic effectively, “isn’t he supposed to be here, too?”

“He said he’s running late,” Jihoon checks the clock, noting that the male is never usually this late, “he said he had to pick up something before—” as if on cue, the male in question rushes through the doors of your hospital room, panting and sweaty.

“What the heck, Woo? Did you run all the way here?” you laugh at his disheveled state, “don’t you have a car—” just as quickly as he makes it through the door, your words die on your tongue, finally seeing just what it was he had to pick up, rather who.

“Seungcheol.” The world seems to stop for a moment when your eyes meet his, and everyone in the room becomes as still as statues, the playful mood from earlier quickly dissolving into wordless tension.

It feels like eons before someone breaks the palpable stiffness in the room, but it’s Wonwoo’s voice that slices through it and breaks the trance you and Seungcheol are locked in, “I’m sorry, y/n.”

“What the actual fuck, Wonwoo!” This is the loudest your voice has ever managed to be since you arrived at the hospital and the strain burns your throat so much that you start coughing violently, gasping desperately for air as a fresh wave of nausea hits you and the rest of the boys can tell right away by the panicked look in your eyes.

Vernon, who’s closest to the new trash bin is quick to grab it, placing it in front of you on your lap, while Mingyu’s hands efficiently remove the breathing receptacle from your face. Jihoon reacts like it’s his second nature to pull your hair out of your face and hold it behind you, while Wonwoo moves to your side to gently stroke your back, cooing soft encouraging whispers into your ear as bright orange starts to assault your senses, blurring your vision and filling the room with sickly sweet scent of marigolds along with the sounds of your violent retching. Soonyoung and Seokmin are quick to leave the room, saying they’ll call a nurse for an extra bin while the rest sit to the side, not even an inkling of panic on their faces.

It all happens so fast, with such lighting precision and rehearsed accuracy that Seungcheol is sure that this isn’t the first time his closest friends have been through this. He realizes quickly that he’s the only one who hadn't known.

Once you're done unloading your flowery guts into the bin, Minghao is already ready with a moist towelette to wipe away any dribble along your lips. Your weak gaze manages to meet Seungcheol’s confused but visibly enraged ones, but you don’t speak. Not for lack of ability to, but because there was nothing left to say. The jig was up, he knew.

“What the fuck, y/n?” Seungcheol’s voice is booming and you almost laugh at how often you’d heard those words in the span of time you’d been in the hospital, but his next words cease any coherent thought you might have, “who is he? Tell me, y/n, who the fuck is he, I’ll kill him.”

Confused, your eyes dart from the angry eyes of the subject of your affections, to the bespectacled ones of your other best friend who was still standing beside you, hands unwaveringly rubbing gentle, soothing circles onto your back.

“Woo?”

“I thought you should be the one to tell him.” He explains, eyes apologetic.

“I swear to god, y/n! Is this where you’ve been the past two months?” Seungcheol, ever the impulsive and quick to anger person he is, doesn’t even register the moment that passes between you and Wonwoo, “Why didn’t you tell me? I can’t believe you wouldn’t tell your best friend! We’ve been through everything together, and I would do anything for you but you were just going to go through all of this, all alone, without me?”

You only laugh at how he was exactly the same Seungcheol you’d always remembered. Two torturous months had passed and while the time had seemed to trudge on slowly for you, the time feeling like eternities without him, it had flown by for him and he had emerged from the other end practically unscathed; you were dying, and in a way, he was literally killing you with heartbreak but all he could think about was how you could have the audacity to leave him out of your own illness and death.

Classic Seungcheol. It might have seemed unbearably selfish of him, but this was also part of why you loved him so dearly. He was so innocent, so caught up in his own heart that he barely registered anyone else’s, but it also meant that once he treasured someone, he would do anything, sacrifice anything for them. His one-track mind and heart would never let him be or do anything less; if Seungcheol had to give you the world just so that you might live, he would die trying to get it.

It was exactly why you had wanted to leave him out of it. You knew that he was too kind, too self-sacrificing to the point of selfishness, too caught up in his own emotions that he would never understand your choice to not have the surgery—to die.

“Sorry, Cheolie,” you try to smile despite the sob that gets caught in your throat, “I just thought it would be better this way.”

At your words, he immediately unclenches and finally all the anger that wracks his body seems to dissipate from him until all that’s left in his irises is confusion and hurt. "You don’t have to do this. You can just have the surgery,” he coaxes, walking over to your bedside where he takes your hand in his, gently rubbing the skin there with his thumb before gently pressing it to his lips, closing his eyes as he does so.

“But I can’t, Cheolie, I can’t forget—” you almost slip up and say ‘you’, but you swallow it down and Seungcheol is quick to take the reigns of the conversation again.

“You can! You can forget that bastard! Whoever he is, he doesn’t deserve you, your love, or your death.” He pleads, tears pricking the edges of his eyes.

“You don’t know that Seungcheol,” the first time in a long time you’d used his first name, “he doesn’t deserve me, he deserves better, you just don’t know—”

“I don’t want to know! If he really loved you, he wouldn’t be letting you die here all alone—”

“But I’m not alone!” you try to argue, but Seungcheol isn’t having any of it, he’s too riled up again, too in his pain to let you explain anything to him.

“No, y/n! For fuck’s sake, listen to me! If he can’t love you when you’re fucking willing to die for him, then he’s not gonna love you even after you’re dead! And there’s no use dying just to remember someone who doesn’t love you!” he heaves, “isn’t it better to just be alive not remembering someone who could never love you?”

Everyone stood around you, eyes wide and tensely watching, awaiting your response with bated breath. His words hurt. More than anything, they felt like a death sentence, an indirect confirmation that Seungcheol could never and would never return your feelings. Fighting the marigolds bubbling in your chest threatening to spill out, you can only shake your head, smiling at him as tears finally spill from your eyes.

It takes everything in Jihoon not to punch the lights out of Seungcheol as everyone watches you cry, but Wonwoo’s firm grip on Jihoon’s arm is warning enough that you wouldn’t want them fighting with each other.

“It’s okay,” you finally manage the words, and everyone but Seungcheol knows that the words are more for everyone else in the room, “I know you don’t understand, and I don’t expect you to.

“You’re not meant to; it’s not for you to understand. This is mine.” Seungcheol meets your eyes and in them he sees a finality that he has never seen before, a certainty unmarred by fear or sadness. “So, I don’t care if you’re mad at me, or if you don’t agree. You don’t have to, you just have to be my friend and sit this one out, okay?”

Your eyes scan through the room, meeting the eyes of all your closest friends, asking for their silent agreement to both keep your secret but also to no longer question your decision. “Just be my friend and sit with me till—”

“Till the end.” Wonwoo finishes when you’re unable to, voice shaky from overuse and the emotions.

The night the world ends is the day your heart finally stops. For three days prior you’d been in a medically induced coma, the doctors explaining to Jihoon and all your friends that it would be too much, too painful to keep you awake while your body slowly failed; your lungs slowly filling with blood, fluid and marigolds, its roots constricting the far too weakened organ tighter and tighter until your system would eventually crash from the lack of oxygen. Ultimately suffering from a long and arduous suffocation.

When you go, it isn’t peaceful or serene like the books or the movies often say it is. Your body is a mess of convulsions and painful retching fits. Despite being sedated, you're gasping for air; your body seemingly clawing onto life and fighting to preserve itself despite your heart telling it to let go. As the last of your struggle and life dissipates from your body, you’re surrounded by the same friends who’d kept you company throughout this whole ordeal.

Till the end, even on the days you could no longer talk, or wake up to even see them, they had stayed. Some talked to you, sometimes telling you stories, reading you your favorite books, and even saying their goodbyes one by one. Even Seungcheol, who despite his bursts of anger and frequent tantrums that had him walking out, always returned to keep his promise and just sit with you.

That night, there were no marigolds like when Jihoon had first found you, it was not beautiful or immaculate. There was no portrait of you sprawled in a field of bright golden flowers. Instead, there were only bloodied, wilting petals scattered at your bedside and sticking to your skin and robes, the orange barely visible through the blood that stained them. Your frame was the smallest they’d ever seen it and you were completely pale, the only color on you was the blood that had caked and dried at your lips and wherever else it had splattered, along with the mess of withering petals.

When the flatline finally echoes through your tiny ICU room, with 13 cramped bodies, not including the doctors and nurses, no one says anything. Wonwoo is the first to crack, taking your limp hand in his, pressing the lifeless limb to his lips then falling to his knees and finally breaking down completely for the first time. Everyone else follows suit.

Your distant relatives had settled the arrangements for the funeral, deciding to have it in Seoul where you would be surrounded by all your friends and most beloved ones. They are kind and understanding, despite not having been close with you and they thank everyone who attends graciously. All your friends attend, Seungcheol even brings his girlfriend for moral support and she does just that. You would’ve been happy that he had her shoulder to cry on, Jihoon thinks as he watches them.

The night Seungcheol’s world stops is a week after your passing. Jihoon invites Seungcheol to go out with him and Wonwoo. When he meets the pair at the park, sitting on a bench, all three of them almost laugh at how much of a similar state they’re all in; eyes puffy with dark circles underneath to match, and faces swollen from sleepless nights spent crying.

“If y/n were here, she’d laugh at how bad we look,” Wonwoo laughs, the first to break the silence, “she’d never let us live it down.”

“I miss her.” Seungchol breathes out the words into a puff of cold exhalation. At the words, Jihoon feels his fists clench, a sudden rage washing over him, but Wonwoo is quick and takes it upon himself to perform the difficult task at hand instead of Jihoon.

“You should know, Seungcheol,” Wonwoo sadly meets the gaze of his friend, forcing the words and choking down the tears in his throat, “it was you.”

“Y/n didn’t want us to tell you, she was kind that way,” Jihoon runs a hand through his locks, fighting the tears, “but we’re not as kind.”

“We thought you deserved to know.” Wonwoo clarifies, not letting Jihoon’s anger cloud their actual purpose.

“She was in love with you, she always has been,” Jihoon sighs, recounting the conversation he had with you a few weeks prior to you being comatose.

“There’s still time, y/n. I know I said I would drop it, I’m sorry, but you can’t blame a guy for trying to save his best friend, right?” He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“It’s okay, Hoonie, I understand.” Till the very end, you were kind despite your pain.

“You know why marigolds?” your eyes look to Wonwoo sitting by Jihoon then trail off to the view outside your window. “When I first arrived in Seoul, he was my first friend. I met him in a field of marigolds. I’d fallen and scraped my knee. It was really bad actually, I had to get stitches after. I remember trying so hard not to cry, because I was a big girl and this was the big city and I just felt like there were no room for tears here, y’know?”

You laugh at the memory, “out of nowhere this big kid comes running at me asking if I’m okay. While I tried not to cry, telling him I was okay, he took one look at the gaping wound and all the blood on my skirt and he started crying so loudly.

He was so dramatic that it almost made me forget how much it hurt, and I could laugh even just a little at him. So overly emotional, that boy.” You shake your head. “Anyway, I ask him why he’s crying, and this obviously much older and taller boy bawls at me saying ‘it looks like it hurts, doesn’t it hurt? And you’re not crying so I’ll just cry for you’.”

“He cried so much that his parents eventually found him and me, and brought me to the hospital to get stitches. I’ve been with him ever since. We were so young back then. I’m sure he doesn’t even remember…”

Finally looking back at Jihoon who now sees the fresh tears in your eyes, “but I-I don’t want to forget, Jihoon. I don’t want to forget him or who he helped me become.”

“And I knew, you know?” chuckling mirthlessly, your eyes shift to Wonwoo’s sad eyes as they watch your sadder ones, “I knew he couldn’t feel that way about me, I knew he didn’t love me, but I adored him anyway. There were times I thought, maybe, maybe he’d finally see me...”

Turning back to Jihoon, you could only shrug, “but we all know how that turned out.”

“She always loved you, Seungcheol,” Wonwoo interjects, ending Jihoon’s retelling and watching as the older male’s eyes fill with tears.

“But why didn’t she—why couldn’t she just have told me? She could’ve just been honest.”

“We all know that wasn’t an option,” it’s Jihoon’s turn to interrupt this time, “you were engaged, and she wasn’t going to ever let herself get in the way of that.”

A silence passes between them at his words. It was true. No matter how Seungcheol looked at it and flipped it around in his head, you were far too selfless to do anything so cruel, and knowing you, the last thing you’d want was to make it any harder on him. You were no angel, but you were a good person, the best he knew, but he also knew you could be selfish to a certain extent. Instead of just going through with the surgery, you suffered painfully till the very end, and all to preserve memories of someone who he now knew didn’t even deserve to be remembered, all because he was too blind and too wrapped up in his own heart to see it, to see you.

“I love you; I’m waiting for you unbearably.” Wonwoo’s eyes are closed as he whispers the words into the emptiness of the starless night sky. The two males stare at him wordlessly as if waiting for an explanation and after taking his time, letting the moment pass, he does.

“It was a quote y/n really loved, from a book she recommended to me a while back.” He smiles fondly at the memory, “during her last days, sometimes she’d whisper it in her sleep.”

They sat there in silence for what seemed like hours, wordlessly comforting each other by just being there. As they stayed there, basking in the stillness and calm that seemed to envelope the rest of the universe; your death felt like the world had ended, but here it was, continuing to spin through the vastness of the cold October night sky; blissfully ignorant of your passing. Even in that emptiness, there was comfort and somehow, they could almost feel you; just there, sitting with them till the end.

Seungcheol is the first to stand to leave, whispering a hoarse thank you to the two before turning to head to his car and driving off, home to his fiancé. Wonwoo and Jihoon don’t say anything more. It’s Jihoon who decides when it’s finally time to leave. He turns to Wonwoo, beckoning to the male with a nod.

“Let’s go, Woo.”

“Do you think it will hurt?” Jihoon doesn’t look at him as he drives, but quirks his brow, confused by his question.

“What, the surgery?”

It takes a moment before Wonwoo can respond. He’s perfectly calm, looking out the window at the streaks of passing light as he shakes his head, “no. Forgetting.”

The words take Jihoon by surprise, but he doesn’t show it, not wanting to worry him any further. Instead, he gives him a comforting smile, the first hint of sincere softness on his face since you had been admitted to the hospital, and shakes his head.

“No, I don’t think so. I think it only hurts when you know you’re forgetting. But once you’ve forgotten, then there has to be some relief in that, right? To be able to be a blank slate. A new start, she would have wanted that for you.”

Wonwoo only nods, closing his eyes as he takes in the younger’s words.

“Don’t worry, Wonwoo,” Jihoon’s hand is a comforting warmth on his shoulder, “even when you can’t remember her anymore, I’ll remember her for the both of us.”

Fin.

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dirtycccat · 3 years

Text

things that remind you of them w the demon bros+ (un)dateables

highkey tw for some unhealthy behaviors and uhhhhh maybe sensitive stuff idk just keep that in mind

lucifer

an impromptu orchestra concert in an abandoned church. a forgotten off key piano found at the back of an antique shop. tradition worth more than luxury.

the crackling of fire. glittering glasses of wine. changing a vinyl with naked hands, brushing the dust off its hard body. a cold hand touching the back of your neck in passing. whispered words of affection in the ear of your sleeping beloved.

running on air. falling with your lungs full of fire. trying to rebel against fate, against the inevitable moment the ground will break your bones for trying to cheat the laws of nature and its gods.

the heavy weight of perfection bending you backwards. counting down the moments until it will finally break you. measuring your worth in work, in being good at, in being useful, in being needed.

sticking up with family, with rules, with loyalty despite your own desires. acting like you’re the first but always putting yourself second.

being afraid to dare to be selfish and to love. being scared of your own devouring passions. waiting for your beloved to take the first step and running the whole way to finally meet them.

mammon

the fluttering of wings in the silence of a white september afternoon. a sea of crows watching your every move from atop a nearby building. finding a black feather on the ground and keeping it in your pocket for good luck.

the friction between leather seats and leather jackets. heavy cologne mixed with the scent of sweat and leather. the purr of a motor. finding a half empty pack of cigarettes in the pocket of your old jacket.

winning second place so many times you’ve given up on first. still dreaming of clawing your way onto the top of the podium sometimes.

the heavy burden of capitalism of having your worth monetized. having to constantly show the word you’re worth something. selling your soul for value.

wanting everything you could never have before. overspending, oversharing, overwhelming. being too much but also never enough.

finally being someone’s number one. strong arms holding you while you cry. a reassuring presence, a constant in your life

leviathan

imposter syndrome. feeling like you’ll never fit in, like you’ll never be good enough.

replacing real life with dreams. looking at life from the outside. living inside your head.

playing games until 3 am on a school/work night. letting your passions consume you. still feeling guilty of not doing anything measured in money or public approval. calling all your hobbies guilty pleasures because you still care about what others think despite appearances.

finding comfort in the solace of the ocean. sitting at the bottom of the pool holding in your breath and your tears. crying in the shower. letting the water wash you clean and reborn.

letting someone in. being accepted for what you are and the little you can offer. vast depths hidden by shallow waters.

satan

rage. pure unfiltered rage. the desire to stand up to authority figures. clenched fists, heavy calming breaths, tightly closed eyes. tears of anger, of not being right, of never being good enough or smart enough.

subtle jabs. heavy sarcasm. veiled ironies. cruel eyes and bloody smiles.

putting your nose in a cat’s fur and smelling home. holding a small being full of love and feeling fulfilled. finally feeling like you want to protect and not just destroy.

having to put a book down after reading a certain line that perfectly described that unknown feeling you’ve had all your life. rereading the same line again and again and feeling the knot in your heart and stomach loosening. knowledge as power turned into knowledge as a way of truly becoming yourself turned into a shelter of understanding guarding you from the anger.

swearing in other languages under your breath. reciting poetry aloud by candlelight while drunk on wine and desire. heavy whispers full of hot meanings in the ear of your lover during dinner in languages spoken only by you two.

finally getting the happy ending you’ve always read about. finding your anchor. being a better you for your beloved. improving and helping each other with their shortcomings. balancing each other.

asmodeus

perfectly done make up that had you wake up 2 hours earlier than the others. using concealer to hide a pimple or any imperfection. pants too tight to walk in. the sound of heels in an empty hallway.

caressing your desire while taking a hot bath. focusing on carnal needs, on your senses, on what you feel, on the present. drunk kisses. flirting with strangers at moonlit bars. red lipstick stains on blushing necks.

drinking a glass too many despite the warning in your head. drinking to forget yourself. drinking to escape your fears, your inhibitions, your shortcomings. drinking to become the perfect you the others always expect to see you as. but also drinking to be selfish and feel good for yourself and yourself only.

the sad knowledge you’ll never be the best ever again. being compared to others and ending up comparing yourself to them. knowing your worst enemy is yourself, but trying to hide that fact with mean jokes and confident airs. feeling afraid of being known, but even more afraid of having no one knowing the real you.

beauty at a price. happiness sold for beauty. cruel beauty that devours its worshippers.

the reassuring hands of a stranger holding your hair as you let it all out, the alcohol and the guilt. crying with your head on the cool toilet porcelain after you came home from a party that you thought would help you escape.

help and love coming from where you least expect it. noticing the little things. noticing the person behind the character.

beelzebub

an unknown hunger gnawing at your insides. trying to fill the empty inside but always choosing the wrong meal.

feeling satisfied after a good meal on a good day, feeling bursting on a bad one. devouring until you can’t. still feeling empty, still needing to fill yourself up but knowing it is useless.

feeling breathless and weightless after a run. being high on adrenaline and feeling like you can do anything. the smell of a sweaty used gym and leather boxing gloves.

falling in love so slow and easy it feels like a meeting in the middle of an already drawn path.

belphegor

living just to pass the time. living for others. living but forgetting how to live. being told to do better, to be better, to just get up and do something.

sleeping in. falling asleep at 6 am after a night of insomnia. hearing the world wake outside when inside you’re just going to bed.

strong emotions with no release. feeling full without escape. dark humor. saying too much, revealing too much, being to much so you hide.

getting away with shit because you’re the smallest and feeling no guilt.

the feel of fresh bedsheets. being covered in a blanket just right. feeling warm and protected in the comfort of your room.

love that comes like a question and an answer. love that feels heavy despite it’s light.

diavolo

a commanding tone bringing silence to a room. respect earned justifying the respect you were born with.

luck of birth. being born with a silver spoon. being sheltered, being always different, being untouched by the world outside and its people.

being born with a burden. accepting your prescribed fate. believing in legends and asking yourself if you’re the hero or the villain of your own story. realizing that life is more complicated than fairytales.

abandoned castles. ivy walls and moss floor. a lit figure at the window of an empty mansion. the creaking of old staircases at night when you’re home alone. feeling like you’re from another time.

a strong hand squeezing your thigh under the table. the reassuring warmth of your lover’s presence in a time of need. being loved and not just desired. finally being touched where it matters.

barbatos

unwavering loyalty. living to serve. giving up on your individuality.

a shadow following you at night while you walk back home. sharp eyes locked onto yours from across the room.

passive aggressiveness. hiding behind a smile. an impenetrable facade of public politeness.

the ennui of knowing too much, of living the same day, of being hungry for a breakthrough. knowledge as a burden but also as a gift.

knowing everything about others but no one knowing anything about you. making small thoughtful gestures that remind others of your deep knowledge of their habits and wants.

finally being noticed and seen for yourself alone. getting the surprise you were craving. being taken care of.

simeon

living different lifetimes through your writing and through books.

the smile of a pretty stranger in the train that will forever visit your dreams.

a handwritten message in cursive on the fridge. a hastily written poem on the back of a receipt.

being the outsider. the watcher. being the director of the play of your life and not the actor.

tea that s just hot enough to warm your insides. falling asleep on an armchair with a book in your hand. sunkissed skin. the softness of summer. the fluttering of invisible wings.

ageless wisdom.

rewriting a cursed tale of history. going against tradition. trying to carve your happy ending. succeeding.

solomon

knowledge coming at the price of youth and life.

a thirst to know. devouring books. staying up until 5 am reading. eyes burning dry. feeling like you’re still not doing enough. head full of little nothings. feeling like you will never know anything however much you try read or learn.

notes in the margins of a book you took from the public library. wondering who is the person behind the words. fleeting attachments to the wrong people for the wrong reasons.

being the outcast. the kid at the back of your class reading a russian novel in the original language underneath the table during math class.

a house in the middle of the woods with smoke coming from its chimney. rituals in the dark. wet moss on your soles, the moon lighting up your eyes. the silence of night on a full moon.

whispering prayers and praises to the earth under your breath as you go. feeling drunk on fire. noticing the magic around you. kissing the earth. finally grasping the knowledge you sold your soul for. asking yourself if it was really worth it and having no answer.

love as an adventure. finally feeling and not thinking. giving up on reason and embracing your heart’s guidance.

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certifiedskywalker · 4 years

Text

Make Some Time - Diego Hargreeves

dizzy-miss-lizzieeeeee said: Hi! How are you? I was wondering if you could write a One Shot about Diego meeting female reader a week before the events in s1 and his struggle between save the world or save the girl he's falling for??? Idk just took a shower and this came to my mind haha thank you soooo much.

AN: this is such a cute idea! I hope I did it justice!

“Haven’t seen you around the lot recently. What has my favorite janitor been up to?”

“You know that I’m more than just a janitor,” Diego snapped.

His brown eyes were surveying the empty parking lot outside the gym. Under the light of the street lamps, the slightly wet pavement glistened, still and unimpeded by the lack cars driving through. Business had been slow in the strip. The dinky cafe you worked at was not bustling like it once had. Aside from the regulars that worked out at the gym a few storefronts down, few prospective costumers found their way inside. It had been quiet, almost too quiet.

Sighing, you sat down on the curb at Diego’s side. “Ah yes, my janitor-by-day, vigilante-by-night. Sorry, I forget my friend fights crime like some, more edgy version of...”

Diego met your gaze and you lost what you were about to say. The concern in his eyes caught you off guard.

“What? What is it?”

Ever since you had known him, Diego had always been a bit intense. Borderline dramatic, was the way your manager described him. You remember when she originally used the phrase. It was the same day you first met Diego Hargreeves.

He strode in, ordered a black coffee, and, when you made a joke about how his drink matched his dark attire, left empty handed. Your manager told you not to worry about it, that Diego tended to be moody and would be back tomorrow. Despite the cool resolution, you couldn’t get Diego Hargreeves out of your head. He was handsome and those eyes. You wanted to see those eyes again.

Later that day, you found him in the parking lot and told him the next time he stopped by the cafe, his drink was on you. He had looked at you softly then, eyes not as cold as they had been when he first walked into the cafe.

He was looking at you the same way now. Eyes warm, watching, full of some strange hurt and worry that, no matter how hard you tried, Diego never wanted to talk about.

His voice was hoarse as he asked, “that’s what we are?”

“What we are?” You cocked your head to the side, slightly panicked.

“Friends?”

“Aren’t we friends?”

“Yeah, w-we are,” Diego said as he turned his gaze back to the desolate lot. Unsatisfied with his reply, you shifted to lean closer to him. The scent of sweat and ash clung to his clothes despite the rain that had clearly soaked the fabric. While not an uncommon occurrence, Diego’s full lips were turned down in a frown so deep it worried you. What had he been up to?

“Is everything…you know you can tell me if something’s up, right?”

“I know, I just, it’s been a long day.”

“Tell me about it,” you pressed gently, resting a careful hand on his shoulder. Diego’s eyes remained distant as you leaned in. Closer now, you could see the tiredness in his face. An ache reached your heart at the sight. You wanted to ease his mind of whatever he was feeling.

Suddenly, Diego’s head turned and his gaze met yours once more. There was a seriousness in his dark eyes that was unlike the teasing, cocky man you knew.

“If the world was going to end in a few days, what would you do?”

“How many days, exactly?” You asked, unable to keep the small smile from spreading along your lips. What a strange question for him to ask. Though, you were not too surprised that he changed the subject.

“Three,” Diego said in swift reply. His eyes never left your face as you thought of an answer. Even when you looked out to the empty parking lot to think, you could feel his eyes burning into your skin. What would you do?

There was so much you wanted to see and accomplish and feel. You bit your lip and looked back at Diego. His eyes, those eyes you adored, shifted from yours to your mouth and back again. With that look, the tension between you swelled and you felt like you were about to burst. You let out a shaking breath before you spoke up.

“Part of me would want to make the most of it. I would eat what I want, buy what I want, and see, be with, the people I want.” You laugh softly before adding, “but I like to think that I would try to save the world to buy us a bit more time to do everything we want. We deserve to live full lives, to be happy, even if there are times when we feel like we don’t.”

“You would try to save the world?” The tone in which Diego asks the question makes your cheeks burn. It is nearly incredulous, teasing, and there’s the starting of a small smile on his lips. Offended slightly, you pinch his shoulder; he doesn’t flinch.

“I would try but that’s your job, isn’t it? Saving people?” Diego’s tender expression hardened that your question but he nodded.

“You could say that,” he murmured, “you could say that.” His eyes flitted away from yours and his jaw clenched as if he were holding something back, forcing his mouth to stay shut.

“Diego,” you pressed again, “what’s wrong?”

“You know, when I met you, I w-wasn’t really living. I was just...going. Then you and...now, I w-want to live but there isn’t enough time.”

Never before had you seen Diego so vulnerable. In the relatively short time that you had known him, he had been sarcastic, closed-off, yet charming. This sudden fear in his eyes was alarming. Instinct took over and you moved your arm to wrap around his shoulders.

“Hey,” you lean closer to him, “there’s time. Okay? If there isn’t we can make some.”

“What if we can’t?” Diego turned to look at you then. His brown eyes were warm despite the seriousness in his voice. You moved your arm to rest your hand against his upper back. Soothingly, you rubbed his back in small circles.

“If we can’t? Then we better enjoy this now, huh?”

For a long, perfect moment, Diego held your gaze. The tension that had begun to bubble up finally started to fizzle into an ease. Your hand stilled against Diego’s back. Warmth from your palm mingled with the heat from his body. Seconds later, your breathing seemed to fall into the same rhythm as his own. Steadying it was, savoring and slow.

Just as you were finding joy in the fall, Diego’s hand reached up and brushed against your cheek. Excitement, pure and hot, rushed through you as his fingertips found rest against your skin. Carefully, he skirted his thumb along your cheekbone and pulled you closer.

As if testing the water, Diego brushed his lips against yours. After a moment, you realized he was waiting for you to be the final push. Leaning in, you pressed your lips fully to Diego’s and, to your surprise, his hands were pulling at your clothes. He wasn’t holding back anymore; he wanted you as close as possible. Your fingers curled into tight fists, clenching the fabric of his dark shirt as he pulled you to him.

The kiss was desperate but soft, thoughtful yet quick as if Diego truly thought the world was about to end and this was your last first kiss with him. You didn’t care though. You were finally kissing him and, in that moment, Diego was yours. Even if the world was ending, you would always make some time for him. And you felt that he would do the same.

#diego hargreeves #diego hargreeves x reader #diego hargreeves imagine #diego hargreeves fanfic #diego hargreeves fanfiction #diego hargreeves imagines #diego hargreeves season 1 #diego hargreeves s1 #tua #tua imagine #tua imagiens #tua fanfic #tua fanfiction #the umbrella academy #the umbrella academy imagine #the umbrella academy imagines #the umbrella academy fanfiction #umbrella academy fanfiction

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a-detraque-barista · 4 years

Text

Obsessed With You, Bamboo

Yandere Hybrid Jimin x Yandere Reader

Genre: yandere, fluff (idk how or why but there is), a little gore

Word Count: 3.1k

Warnings: Yandere behavior, blood, wholesome yandere??, adorable jimin that will melt your heart

A/N: i- i am so sorry for how inactive i’ve been. but i am here, and we are getting back to it~ enjoy ;)

You bust the doors to the shelter wide open, hair rustled, out of breath, and sweating because you ran here as if your life depended on it. However, it wasn’t your life that was on the line. It was your hybrid’s life. You had adopted him from this very shelter only months ago. And here you were, enraged and afraid. Enraged because of the fact that your friend had called the shelter to bring him back. Afraid of what they were going to do to him. You knew exactly what happens to any hybrid who gets sent back to the shelter, just as any actual pet that gets sent back enough times. It made your stomach churn anytime the topic was brought up. So now, knowing what would happen if you were too late, had your stomach in knots.

“Where is he?!” your hands slam on the secretary’s desk. Your chest was heaving and your eyes deranged as you stared into her eyes. She flinched at your tone and shakily pointed to the doors that lead into the halls of hybrids up for adoption. Knowing your hybrid wouldn’t be in any of these “rooms”, you kept your gaze on the white double doors that lead into the operation part of the building.

Your eyes were slowly welling up with tears. You couldn’t run exactly because of the bite Jimin had left on your ankle. So you were limping while sprinting as fast as you could. Yes, he bit you, but you loved the meaning that was behind it. He bit you after you told him you were going to visit a friend. This bite that made your ankle throb let you know just how much Jimin loved you. He had licked and kissed the wound after he sunk his teeth into your flesh. This leads your friend to walk in on Jimin taking care of your wound. This, of course, caused them to get the wrong idea.

Now here you were, trying to save the only thing that was going good in your life. The only thing that didn’t make you want to quit your job or just sleep all day. But it wasn’t a thing at all. He was the hybrid that you loved dearly. Your beloved panda. You were sure that he loved you just the same. He had to. It would only make sense because of all the nights you’ve spent cuddled up together watching shows and sharing snacks. All those days you’ve spent together couldn’t have all been for anything less than love. Sure, you haven’t had your guys’ first kiss but it was only a matter of time before the two of you would finally make your relationship official.

The two of you have had conversations about wanting to meet that one special person who they’ll settle down with. Jimin had always described someone who cared about him and let him take care of them. You had given a description that was completely based off of Jimin. Everything he was, you wanted in a partner. You just weren’t one hundred percent sure if he felt the same about you. He would hug you and hold you but, was that just because of his cuddly nature?

You shook your head. Now wasn’t the time to worry about something so trivial under these circumstances. Right now, you needed to get your panda back.

Kicking the doors open, you heard Jimin yelling and cursing at whoever is posing a threat to him. You limped down the hall as quickly as you could and burst through the door without thinking. There was no time to think when Jimin was in danger.

Your heart stopped. Your lungs stilled. There he was. He was being held to that cold metal table by metal cuffs, solely used for hybrids who wouldn’t “behave”. Everything stopped moving. The luminescent bar lights lit up the so-called animal doctors, the veterinarians, and...Jimin, who had tears in his eyes. His face showed terror. You’ve never seen the look of helplessness and absolute vulnerability on Jimin before Jimin was confident and proud at all times. Especially when he was in front of people. Your blood was no longer rushing. It was boiling. Your teeth were no longer clenched together, they were grinding. Eyes filled up with tears from both anger and the burning lights.

“Don’t touch him!!” You were now shaking with rage as you kicked the closest cart into the man who had the syringe filled with…that-that liquid they call a cure for beasts.

It caused him to drop the needle onto the floor almost making you smirk. You elbowed the lady that came close to you saying to get out and you weren’t supposed to be in here. After that, no one came close to you as you began to untie Jimin from his tight restraints on his poor wrists. You took one of his hands and lead him out of the front door, past the secretary, past the security guard, and back home.

The walk was full of silence. You were afraid to speak because you didn’t want to push him or shake him even more than he already has been. You couldn’t tell what was going on in Jimin’s head as he kept his eyes on the ground. You knew he wasn’t mad at you because he was still holding your hand in a solid grip. Maybe, you should just wait until he chooses to talk to you.

After unlocking the door to your apartment, Jimin stops you from walking in. You turned around to see his eyes were covered by his black hair and his round ears were flattened. Your expression turned from confused to worried, “Jimin?”

“You weren’t the one who called the shelter, right?” his voice sounded so small and broken. Your heart cracked at his question.

“Of course not! Would I have come for you if I did?” your voice got quiet at the end. Your hand was still in Jimin’s causing you to smile. He was always able to make you feel better no matter what. Still holding his hand, you wrapped your other arm around his waist and brought him in for an embrace that you would hope could show your feelings.

“I’m sorry,” your voice cracked as tears fell down your cheeks and into Jimin’s torn shirt. “I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry-” you kept apologizing over and over again. Even after Jimin said it was okay and asked for you to stop crying. He pulled you into the apartment and into your shared bedroom.

When did you become the one that needed to be consoled? This was supposed to be about Jimin but he won’t let you worry over him like he worries over you. Every single time you tried to put the attention on him, he would bring it right back to you.

“Bamboo, I know you care but I wanna make sure you’re okay,” he softly brushed your back with his fingers as he tried to convince you to stop trying to comfort him. “You being here with me, right now, is more than I could ask for. Please, let me love you.” His eyes bored into yours until you gave in.

With that, you sat back against the headboard and Jimin came up to hold you tightly. Even when you tried to make dinner for the two of you, he wouldn’t let you go. Maybe, that’s how he wanted you to show how much you care, by letting him hold you almost tight enough to cause you to have trouble breathing.

“Bamboo?” Jimin’s low voice sounded in your ear softly as you were dozing off.

“Yes, Cinnamon?” you called him by the uncommon nickname you had come up with for Jimin. No matter how unusual it seemed to other people, the two of you loved it. You had gotten it from Jimin’s love of cinnamon rolls. Before he had moved into your apartment, he had never had before. You made them one morning and Jimin hasn’t crowned another dish as his favorite food ever since.

“Who turned me in?”

Your eyelids lift to look at Jimin who was focused on the strands of hair between his fingers. Does he still think you did it? You didn’t, so why was he asking? Your eyebrows furrowed trying to think of a logical reason as to why Jimin wanted to know. It didn’t occur to you that he wanted to know because he was planning on how to...approach this person.

“It was Yoongi who called the authorities, after he saw you bite me,” you hated to admit that the closest friend you had, tried to get rid of Jimin over a silly thing like a bite. Now that you think about it, “I’m pretty sure Yoongi said that everyone else also wanted me to give you back to the shelter. How insensitive of them, huh?”

“Very.”

…

“Why do you ask?” you were just curious as you asked your panda bear an innocent question.

“Just wondering.”

⇀ ⇀ ⇀ ⇀ ⇁ ⇁ ⇁ ⇁

The next day was like any other. The two of you had woken up around the same time but neither of you wanted to get out of bed. Even though the fan was spinning on the highest setting, you began to sweat because of Jimin’s body heat radiating from him. You lazily pry his arms from you and roll to the other side of the bed with the least amount of gracefulness you could have ever managed. The second you landed on your stomach on the cool side of the bed, Jimin was right on top of you.

“Jimin, you’re too hot. Back up a little bit,” you groaned in your raspy morning voice before trying to push him off.

All you heard, was a growl. Jimin just growled at you before nuzzling his face into the back of your neck. You could hear and feel him sniffing your skin before you felt his full lips press against your jugular. You place your hand on top of Jimin’s head, minding his half-moon ears.

“What are you doing?” your voice is muffled by the fabric of the bedding but Jimin heard you without interference.

“Nothing,” his voice sounded light and innocent even though his voice was rough from sleep. However, you knew the exact opposite by how he placed airy kisses along your neck. Your cheeks began to flush before trying to move.

You felt Jimin’s hand press against your back to keep you from moving anymore, “We have lots to do today, Bamboo.”

“Then why are you still on me?”

“To show people.”

“To show people wha-” you felt his teeth dig into your skin, right below your ear. It wasn’t hard enough to break skin like the bite on your ankle, but it still stung. His canines stayed still until he decided the indentations were deep enough.

In the corner of your eye, you saw Jimin smile down at the mark he had left before he stood up to head out of the room. He left you with red cheeks and a cloudy mind.

You thought Jimin had no idea of the effect he had on you. But in reality, he knew very well, and he was going to use that to keep you by his side.

After a while, you had finally gotten up and entered the bathroom to take your shower for the day. It didn’t take you long because you had just washed your hair the day before. You stepped back into your room in only a towel to find Jimin sitting on the bed next to a pile of a folded outfit. The clothes seemed to be yours but you still asked, “What’s with the fancy clothes?”

“I thought I should pick your outfit for where we’re going,” he stood up to stand in front of you. He was only slightly taller than you, but with the way he was looking down on you with a flare in his eyes, made you feel light.

You began to pout while asking, “Where are we going?”

The panda just smiled and lifted the white dress he had chosen for you. It was beautiful and elegant. And no matter how much you tried, you couldn’t remember when or where you had gotten that dress. Jimin held it by the thin shoulder straps and your eyes trailed down the fabric. The neckline went straight across from strap to strap. It cinched under the breast cups and flowed out freely until it reached the lace hem at the bottom.

Jimin watched you expectantly before subtly moving the dress closer to you. You swallowed thickly before gently taking the straps in between your fingers.

“Will it fit me?” you muttered to yourself.

“Of course it will! What makes you say that?” Jimin’s eyes narrowed as you gave no response. “How about you just try it on and we’ll see, okay?”

You nodded before going back into the bathroom to change. Looking in the mirror and analyzing your outfit, you were absolutely stunned. The cloth was oddly comfortable for how elegant it was but you felt a more internal kind of uncomfortable. This wasn’t you, this wasn’t what you would prefer to wear on any occasion. If you wanted to dress nicely then it was jeans and a decent shirt, nothing this extravagant. All the while, you still had no idea where you were going.

Smoothing out the imaginary wrinkles in the dress, you exit the bathroom to see Jimin buttoning up his white shirt. Sadly and slowly, his tan skin was hidden beneath the ivory fabric. Once all the buttons were done, Jimin looked up to see you dressed. His cheeks instantly gained a red hue. He knew you were going to look amazing but now that he’s seeing you...he thinks you look absolutely heart-stoppingly stunning. He couldn’t help but stare and let his eyes roam. The dress clung perfectly in all the right places and flared to just the right length. He looked back up to your face to see you watching his reaction with an even more red face than him.

Jimin chuckled, “Now that you look more than delectable, it’s time to go.”

Your eyes shot to the floor in embarrassment as Jimin pulled you out of the room and into the hallway leading to the front door. He helped you put on the black wedges that you also don’t remember buying. He grabbed the door handle after putting his own dress shoes on and turned to you, “Ready?”

“Yeah,” you held Jimin’s hand the whole time walking. You weren’t used to wearing heels but you tried your best not to slow Jimin down. Although, you didn’t notice that Jimin was walking slower than usual so you wouldn’t hurt your ankles. Taking a second to look up for the first time since you started walking, you recognized it as Yoongi’s neighborhood. “Where are we going?”

“To visit a friend.”

You were trying to fill your brain with wishful thinking but it quickly failed as you stopped in front of Yoongi’s house. Looking to Jimin for answers, all he did was wink and lead you to the front door. He rapped on the door with his knuckles three times.

A masked man opened the door to see you and Jimin before letting you enter the house. You turned to look at the man but he was already closing the door behind him as he left. The house was disturbingly quiet. No matter what, Yoongi always had music playing. Whether it was loudly or softly, it didn’t matter.

“Yoongi-”

Jimin’s hand clasped over your mouth quickly but gently. The look in his eyes was like nothing he’s ever shown. Pure anger. “Bamboo, my darling, don’t say another man’s name. Okay?”

You nodded with your shocked eyes staring into his, he brought his hand down before taking you into Yoongi’s living room. Your eyes met with a beaten and tied down Yoongi whose head hung low. Thick red liquid dripped from his face and into his lap. Before you could even move to help him, Jimin’s hand lets go of yours and wrapped around your waist instead. He held you closely with his fingertips pressing into your side.

“Jimin what the hell is going on?” you wanted your words to come out strong and demanding but your voice shook and crumbled.

“You think he should live?”

“Of course I do!”

“But I was almost put down because of him. You almost lost me because he doesn’t see that we love each other. You don’t think that he deserves to die?” Jimin stared at you while you pondered.

He made good points and if it wasn’t for Yoongi, that whole...thing wouldn’t have even happened. You just weren’t sure you wanted him to die.

“You were wondering why we were dressed up, no? Well, this is why. Bamboo, this is a ceremony,” Jimin uncurled his arm to walk behind Yoongi in the chair. He used both of his hands on each cheek to bring Yoongi’s head up so you could see it. “What we’re going to do today will create an unbreakable bond between us. And no one will be able to break it.” Jimin let Yoongi’s head drop before holding out his blood-covered hands towards you.

You slowly walked forward, your stomach churning and heart pounding. Shakily, you held your hands near Jimin’s and took them into his own. He guided your hands to Yoongi’s face and held them to his face. Jimin’s hands stayed on yours as he lifted his head up. Yoongi was now looking you dead in the face. His left eye was almost completely swollen shut and his mouth had several splits. Looking back to Jimin, he nodded, and you looked down at Yoongi. Tears began to well in your eyes as Yoongi’s eyes showed nothing but surrender and pain.

You felt Jimin’s hands tighten and the tears started to trail down your cheeks. It was quick, a swift push and pull to the side caused a sickening crack to ring in your ears. You were now balling as you pulled your hands away from Yoongi’s now limp form. Screaming was the only thing you could do at this point. Yelling apologies and asking for forgiveness from someone who could no longer hear you.

Jimin came up to hold you to his chest and you gripped his shirt with your bloody hands. The red substance was staining both of your white clothes as you cried into Jimin’s shoulder. Jimin shushed you and rubbed your back.

“Everything’s going to be okay, I promise.”

Now, both of your outfits from that day are hanging up on the wall with pride.

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