#the 8% of course starting at the 'goddamned table' dream

[forcebookish]

This is Sydney about Adrian through 92% of The Indigo Spell:

[cdroloisms]

idk why but i imagined vegas 2.0 as two soccer moms (the politics bois) trying to outdo each other while their sons are dragged into it (green bois) in a rlly fvcked way. e.g.

maybe big q reconsidering dream's usefulness by saying sam's enough as protection and has other things to offer to the team as well. wilbur steps in by suggesting a duel between sam and dream then, to prove it then. maybe while it happens, wilbur whispers to quackity a list of what is still physically broken abt dream post prison (so many unhealed bones, barely healed muscle, he can barely stomach food so he had like 1 steak in the past few days, etc.) and of course, he mentions dream's most powerful asset, the revive book :)

-🐇

LMAOO

this is hilarious and also accurate as hell ,, thank you anon because the image of c!wilbur and c!quackity as PTA moms is completely sending me. this prompt (as most vt2 related things are) was really fun !! it also kinda ran away from me, which is why this ended up being almost 6k words instead of my usual 1-2k for asks, but i hope you enjoy it regardless :]

tws: implied torture/abuse, death, violence, blood, injuries, conditioning, dehumanization, panic attacks, emotional distress, trauma, unhealthy relationships (so many unhealthy relationships), smoking, dark contents, dark themes, vt2 au is always really dark so definitely proceed with caution !! dark portrayals of c!quackity, c!sam, c!wilbur, and c!dream

It starts, as many things do nowadays, with a board meeting - which seems to be as much of a sign as any that everything is going to go to shit. Board meetings for Quackity, much like Wilbur’s stupid group therapy sessions, are just a thinly veiled attempt for the two to fight for control of pretty much everything - ranging from the casino schedules to the laws still being written for Las Nevadas to what food to stock in the vending machines. As Sam is still sitting on his false throne of moral superiority and therefore less inclined to indulge himself in the same blatant corruption that characterizes their discussions, and Dream - more than anything - knows his place (which hardly gives him any position to wrangle for power among the likes of Wilbur and Quackity), the fights for control more or less remain restricted between the two. More often than not, they devolve into proving their superiority over the other by using their control of Dream (which naturally never means anything remotely good for him as a consequence) so when Quackity strolls over, all tight-lipped smiles and a cigarette held between clenched fingers, Dream really doesn’t feel anything other than dread.

Still, orders by Quackity are still orders - Dream knows this fact better than he knows that he’s alive and breathing, better than the fact that he’s out of the prison, better than he knows his own goddamn name - and Dream is far too well-trained to ever consider trying to rebel. So when the time comes - 7:30 pm, sharp - Dream is in his chair, spine straight and head alert like a goddamn dog, and he waits.

It doesn’t take long for the others to arrive. Sam comes over first, leveling him with a heavy, distrustful stare as he sits down in the chair across from Dream, the expression nearly enough for Dream to roll his eyes if it weren’t for the fear that rockets through him, still, at the sight of the Warden so close to him. Sam has made it more than clear from the very beginning that he has no trust at all for Dream, that if he had his way then Dream would be locked up for the rest of eternity in a labyrinth of blackstone and obsidian, forever guarded by his ever-present supervision. Dream feels his ears burning with heat as he dips his eyes low to the surface of the table, wanting no more than to curl up and hide under the scrutiny of the Warden’s glare.

Quackity enters next, throwing open the door of the conference room loud enough to make Dream jump out of his seat, looking at him with an upturned corner of his lip when he comes back to himself enough to notice. Dream stifles a shudder at his visible good mood, all-too-aware of what that usually meant for him in the cell, stiffening further with a growing ringing to his ears as Sam and Quackity talk and Quackity sweeps past his side to get to his seat at the head of the table, carelessly brushing his fingers along the back of Dream’s neck in a way that makes him freeze, stock-still, in his chair - feeling his fingertips ease themselves over the ridge present there from a thick band of scar tissue, a deep, jagged thing that had been carved from the blunter back edge of Quackity’s axe when he had lost his temper and let the thing slam against the back of his neck, hard enough that it probably would’ve paralyzed him completely if it weren’t for Sam’s use of almost a full chest of regens. Quackity remains over him for a few more seconds, leaning over his chair to talk to Sam as he runs a light, possessive hand over the topmost bumps of Dream’s spine, before settling over into his chair, watching him with a small smirk as he keeps a white-knuckled grip on the edge of the table.

Dream hates the prickling shame and terror that keeps his muscles tense as he stares at the table’s surface, still feeling the ghost of fingers tracing over skin and bone along the back of his neck, keeps his burning eyes trained on the surface of solid wood as he tries to steady his breaths. It’s all he can do to press down his flinch when Quackity, with a frustrated yell, slams his fist against the table a few minutes later, rage simmering underneath his words as he speaks.

“Where the hell is Wilbur?” His glare slides across the room, landing on Dream, making him shrink back in his seat, heart thudding in his ears. Quackity doesn’t stop staring at him even as he pulls a cigarette and lighter from his pants pocket, lighting it and bringing it to his lips and letting the silver-grey threads of smoke fill the room and press against the inside of Dream’s lungs. “It’s ten minutes til 8 - I don’t have time for this bullshit.”

Sam digs his fingers into his temples, already looking exhausted. “If you want, Q, we can always start without him and catch him up later. Depends on you.”

“No, then I’ll have to repeat myself and it’ll be pointless and ugh,” Quackity makes a vaguely frustrated noise as he finally turns his eyes over to Sam, making Dream’s shoulders shudder as he finally finds the air to take a breath, “We’ll just have to wait. Fucking idiot. I knew I shouldn’t have worked with any of these fuckers.”

In true Wilbur fashion, it isn’t until fifteen minutes later when the taller man finally makes an appearance, the entire time tense as hell as Quackity takes slow, steady drags of his cigarette and taps his fingers impatiently against the table’s surface. He offers one to Sam, who goes on to decline, making a short quip telling Quackity to watch his health for the future that promptly falls flat. Dream thinks he’s a fucking hypocrite, considering his whole deal with weednip or whatever Ant has on him, but doesn’t voice the thoughts as he sinks down in his chair, wishing more than anything to disappear. Against the fabric of his shirt, the right side of his chest itches, and he presses his palm against the place where he knows there is a small, irregular grid of pockmarked scars from when Quackity had taken smoke breaks in the middle of sessions.

“There you all are,” Wilbur smiles as he slides into the room, a covered metal tray held in his hands as he kicks the door closed and slides the tray onto the table with an awful screech. “I’m sorry for being late,” he continues, sounding not very sorry at all, “but I made some food to make up for it!”

He takes off the cover with a flourish; underneath, sunny yellow squares, nearly blindly bright, look up blankly under the conference room’s overly harsh lighting. They smell sugary and vaguely sour, stinging his nose slightly, and seem to be coated with a fine dusting of powdered sugar.

“Lemon bars!” Wilbur grins, just left of sincere, “they’re gluten-free!”

“God,” Quackity laughs, sounding slightly incredulous, shaking his head. Dream’s gut rolls at the sound, Wilbur’s smile growing wider, even more dangerous, at the tone. It’s familiar, the way the two of them challenge each other, and in a rare moment of solidarity Dream watches from the corner of his eyes as Sam’s shoulders hunch as well. The two of them always bring trouble, even normally, but when they’re in this mood? Actively challenging each other, toeing the line, trying to find the limits and push them just because they can? Dream shivers in his seat, grip tightening on his own arms; this, he knows, is when they are at their most dangerous - and he has the scars to prove it.

“Gluten-free, huh? Really leaning into the whole ‘PTA mom’ schtick today, aren’t you?” Quackity smirks. “Should I call you Linda from now on?”

“I don’t know, Quackity, I was just thinking that I would make a little healthier treat for all of us, you know?” Wilbur brushes off the remark easily, taking a seat and immediately kicking his feet up onto the table. “If you want it, of course. I would hardly want to get in the way of your professionalism, Mr. President- do you have one of those? Or are you going for a more authoritarian approach”

“Fighting words from someone who rigged an election as President,” Quackity drawls, “and couldn’t even win it, might I add. “

“Oh, Big Q! You fail to understand, I wasn’t criticizing you at all,” Wilbur smiles, jagged, “we agree, I believe, on the failures of democracy. Unless you’ve forgotten our conversation, already?”

“Of course not,” Quackity snorts, and Dream doesn’t miss how his gaze shifts towards the side of the room, landing on Dream and making him curl further in his seat. “I’ll save you from me trying to pick your brain, this time, but don’t worry. You make yourself…rather hard to forget.”

Wilbur claps, seeming satisfied with this round of verbal sparring, and the sharp sound of his hands meeting together nearly has Dream jumping in his seat. “So! Lemon bars- does anyone want any?”

Dream is keenly aware of two pairs of eyes landing on him, Wilbur and Quackity watching for his reaction with bated breath and narrowed eyes. Panic crawls up his throat; he knows the purpose behind their stares, knows that he’s once again become the object of one of their power struggles. Quackity’s orders rattle in his brain, his thoughts a messy jumble of pins all knocked loose from his time in the prison, hopelessly unorganized and running on little more than instinct. Wilbur is expecting him to eat, to give into his sweet pastries and sweeter words; the lesson not to eat, move, think without permission, hammered into him between chunks of potato and battered ribs and blood gathered in the crevices of his skin, keeps his hands at his sides instead of reaching towards the pastries still set in the middle of the table. Even with Quackity at the opposite side of the room, Dream swears that he can still feel the pressure of a hand against the back of his neck, pressing just hard enough to make itself known from the feeling of fingers pressing into either side of his spine - he doesn’t even quite feel himself shaking his head, only really realizes what he’s done when he hears Wilbur sigh in frustration and meets Quackity’s satisfied gaze.

“I’ll take one,” Sam says, sounding exhausted, eyes flitting from Wilbur to Quackity to Dream with an increasingly long-suffering expression. His face twists around the first bite of the bright yellow pastry, nose scrunching as he puts it down, missing a half-moon bite along one corner, and drags his fingers over the table to ease off the remnants of powdered sugar. Wilbur watches him, seeming amused, and Quackity rolls his eyes as he pulls a binder out of his inventory.

“Now that everyone is finally here,” he starts, directing a particularly dead-eyed stare at Wilbur, “we can finally get on with the meeting. I was thinking we could go over the budget, today, if that’s alright with the rest of you.”

It sounds innocent enough - which is the first sign of many that this meeting, whatever it is, is going to be anything but pleasant. The grin that steadily grows on Quackity’s face does nothing to assuage Dream’s anxieties, only pushing them higher as the man flips open the binder and messes with it for a few seconds longer before seemingly finding what he’s looking for.

“I think we all know that until Sam finishes with the bank, funds around here are going to be a little bit tight,” Quackity begins, waiting for all of them to nod before continuing, “And we really need to save wherever we can. I recounted the budget yesterday, just to make sure that we’re all on track, and- well,”

Quackity points to a circled series of red numbers that Dream doesn’t understand but can assume mean little good for them. Sam makes a low, considering noise, sounding strangely concerned, and Wilbur actually seems to close his mouth and lean forward in curiosity.

“We have a deficit,” Quackity continues when they’ve all settled back into their seats, “and we’ll get it all back once Sam gets the bank up and running, but for now our funds are...limited. I don’t want to stop progress on Las Nevadas, of course, we really don’t have time to waste. So I thought we’d have a meeting today to discuss the budget and eliminate any expenses that we might find-” Quackity gestures with a smooth twirl of his wrist, “expendable.”

Sam hums. “Do you have anything in mind, Quackity?”

“A few,” Quackity flips to the next page, where he’s seemingly jotted a few notes - different things that they can put off for the moment, it seems, and the money that would be saved for forgoing them temporarily. Dream reads down the list quickly, stilling at the last item.

“Quackity,” Sam sounds twenty times more tired already when he speaks, tone flat and a little irritated. “Why is Dream on the list?”

Quackity shrugs. “Hear me out, now- most of our money right now is going into living expenses for the four of us. Having more people here, until everything becomes more sustainable, is a huge drain on our resources. I’m just listing all our options.”

“So what do you want to do?” Sam huffs. “Throw him back in Pandora?”

Quackity shakes his head.

“Wilbur does have the revive book knowledge, you know,” he says, and Dream’s blood runs cold. He can’t run, can’t move; he’s stuck in his seat, heart hammering faster in his chest as the other three hardly spare him a second glance. Sam purses his lips, a considering expression flashing over his face, as Quackity presses on. “Seriously- listen, Sam. There’s nothing that Dream is really offering, at the moment, that the rest of us can’t handle. Wilbur has the revive book, you can act as security to take out any threats - really, we shouldn’t be pissing anyone off until everything officially opens, and we can always retrieve him then when we need him. He’ll be out of the way, which means he won’t be able to start any fucking trouble,” Quackity laughs, short. “It’s a win-win.”

“I don’t know, Quackity,” Sam says, the words slow, but the tone is familiar enough for Dream to know that he’s already mostly given in. “It’s a risk, isn’t it? None of us but Dream have really used the revive book, before.”

Wilbur doesn’t even look at him when he chirps a reply. “That won’t be a problem, Sam. I’d be very happy to test it out, if you want.”

Quackity leans forward, and Dream nearly gags; he’s preening in his spot, eyes dancing as he smiles up at Sam. “Anything else you can think of?”

“I don’t know,” Sam trails off, and Dream looks down, only barely staving off the panic squeezing around his lungs and tears burning in his eyes. It’s nothing he hasn’t envisioned before, nothing he hasn’t expected, but this- he feels like such a fool, for hoping- “If we get ambushed, Q, I really don’t know if gear is going to be enough. You remember what Technoblade did last time.”

Quackity huffs, sounding annoyed, but nods to concede the point. “That is...fair. But then again, we don’t exactly know how good Dream is either, do we?” Quackity finally leans over to look at him, and Dream feels himself choke on his own breath at the dangerous gleam in Quackity’s eyes, all-too-familiar in their scrutiny, looking at him the same way they had pinned him to the floor of his obsidian-walled hell. “Anything to say, Dream?”

“I-” The words shake on Dream’s tongue, and he only barely manages a dry swallow as he struggles through the rest of his sentence, shrinking back from the heavy weight of three pairs of eyes fixed on his own, “I can be useful, s-” he only barely manages to bite down the word, a new wave of shame making him shrink back further past the fear. Quackity’s lip twitches upward.

Wilbur twirls a pencil in one hand, looking spectacularly bored; Dream’s chest shrieks with a harsh spike of envy at his composure. “How about you prove it?” His eyes are laughing when Dream gets a good look at them, amusement clear at the idea. “Put on a show?”

Quackity rolls his eyes. “What do you have in mind?”

“You want to know if Sam can serve as an adequate replacement for Dream’s combat prowess, no?” Wilbur leans back in his chair as he talks, still focused on spinning his pencil over and between his fingers, “Why doesn’t he prove it? Let them duel, one on one. If Sam kills Dream, then you’re right, we’re done, and we can all move on with our days. If Dream wins, then he’s proved his worth, and we can figure out the rest of the budget after. What do you think?”

Quackity’s lips press together, seeming displeased, but he doesn’t say anything in return. Sam, ever practical, drums his fingers against the table.

“That sounds...fair,” Sam purses his lips. “How would we judge this? Equal gear?”

Wilbur only smiles wider as he shakes his head. “I was thinking we would make it a little more accurate to reality, if Dream’s services were truly to be needed. Sam, you can keep your own gear, and Dream should use his own. I guess on your end we can fight until you yield, but for him…”

The words are left unsaid, but Dream flexes his hands underneath the table as he catches onto the implications. For him, it’s a fight to the death.

Sam shrugs. “That works for me. Dream?”

He doesn’t really have a choice, does he? “Okay.”

“Wonderful!” Wilbur claps, bringing his hands to his chest and looking thoroughly thrilled at the prospects of the potential duel. Quackity glares at Dream but doesn’t say a word, and Dream hunches into himself, nearly folding himself in half as he ducks as far as he can down his seat. Sam pulls out his sword, flipping it around and testing its weight, and Dream doesn’t quite manage to suppress his full-body shudder at the sight. “Let’s get started, then.”

They move out in a roughly single-file line out of the conference room, Wilbur making idle chatter as Sam continues to examine his armor and weapons as they walk. They settle into an open space in the still-unfinished casino that Wilbur looks around for a second and then deems appropriate for the duel. Sam sets down an enderchest to gather his necessary materials, and Dream settles in front of it himself afterwards, shifting the lid open with shaking hands as he tries to work through his inventory.

He’s started the process of building up his gear again in his spare time, but he’s not had the time to finish gathering netherite for both himself and Wilbur - Wilbur meets his eyes with a sly wink before equipping the set of netherite armor that Dream had crafted for him, and Dream stifles a desperate snarl. He doesn’t even have the other set (still a gleaming blue from unplated diamond) enchanted, outside of a Sharpness book that he had slapped onto a diamond axe. He gathers the rest of his supplies with careful hands, trying to press down the increasing trembling of his limbs from his growing panic, flexing his arm around the weight of a shield once again and pocketing steaks and golden apples from his hoard.

He has no potions, no good weapons, not even a properly enchanted crossbow to offer the slightest bit of an advantage. Dream lets his eyes flick up to where Sam is waiting at the opposite side of the room, standing up straight with enchanted netherite covering him head to toe and a familiar axe slung over his shoulder, and tries not to break down right then and there. It’s too familiar, too reminiscent of obsidian walls and netherite pressed against his ribs and demands that he behave, and despite the glittering white walls and high ceiling and cold night air he swears he could fall just from the memories alone. Drowning within them, he distantly remembers a duel long-past under a bright blue sky, Sam laughing under a swirl of potion particles on the grass surrounding the Community House lake, and wonders which of the memories hurt more.

“Dream,” Quackity snaps, and Dream stills in his place, slamming the lid of the enderchest shut as his heart hammers in his ears. Quackity watches him intently, expression twisted in disappointment, and some beaten, instinctual part of him whines uncomfortably at the sight. “Hurry up.”

Dream nods, because of course he does, and stands with the results of his mad scramble to gather anything that could be useful in the duel to come - a few gapples, steaks, a sword, a bow lacking any enchantments at all, and an axe and shield. It’s a rather pathetic ensemble, but it’ll be enough. It’ll have to be enough.

“Ready?” Wilbur takes place as referee, standing off to the side with a smile on his face as Dream stands across from Sam, holding his axe with a white-knuckled grip as the Warden - expression unreadable through the shadow of his helmet and the mask fixed over his face - squares his own stance in preparation for the fight. “Good luck.”

Wilbur’s arm cuts a line in the air as it drops, and the Warden explodes into action, lumbering forward as he raises his axe over his head to bring it down. Dream tumbles in the opposite direction, letting a long held back, battle-trained part of himself take over as he rights himself back on his feet, swinging up his shield to catch on the downward arc of Warden’s Hammer, frantically pressing back the dregs of fear and panic staining the corners of his vision black as he moves.

The Warden hits slow but hits hard, too big and bulky to really avoid any quick attacks but too well-armored to be easily defeated despite that. He’s a classic tank - Dream skitters out of the way of another hit as he reaches for memories of him that won’t leave him gasping, information on his opponent that didn’t come from within the prison and all its horrors.

He’d dueled Sam before, he knows; it wasn’t the same, as Sam was trying out a Turtle Master potion and intent on proving the superiority of Resistance IV against Dream’s own combat prowess. He’d failed, then; Dream forcefully steadies another breath as the sound of the Warden’s armor clanking against the ground almost sends him into another panic. He’ll have to fail now, too.

Fortunately, he’s been allowed food to heal - without it, this fight would probably be near impossible. As it is, even without the potion, the principles of this duel are the same. Dream swings up his axe, catching the blade hurling towards him in the crook where the head meets the handle just long enough to pull himself out of the way and let the Warden’s weapon fall uselessly to the ground. Dream raises his head in the second he has, tracing his gaze over the Warden’s armor in search for places to exploit. Even the best defenses aren’t perfect. All he needs to do is survive for long enough to chip through it.

A fumbled dodge leads to the Warden’s blade skimming past his skin, carving a thin red line in the skin of his upper arm. He hisses as he dives out of the way of the next blow, the twinges of pain from the area almost enough to make his vision unfocused, almost enough to send him tumbling head-first into the part of him screaming submit submit submit if you don’t fight back they won’t hurt you more. He grits his teeth as he swings forward, knocking away the axe coming towards him with his axe long enough to push forward with his shield and knock the Warden further away from him. He can’t afford to flinch, can’t afford to let fear take control of his movements as it has so many times before. The keening desperation running through his veins is familiar, but desperation can fall both ways, can make him fight or flee - and there’s only one real option that will end with him getting out of this alive.

Dream stands and forces himself to meet the next swing hurling towards him dead on, raising his shield to catch the blade and pushing forward past the shuddering shock in his left arm from the force of the blow. His own blade arcs downward in the next second, scraping against the Warden’s netherite armor with a metallic screech. He manages to get in two more blows before the Warden’s next attack has him backing away to dodge, shaking off his arm to get his shield ready for the next attack.

He has to stay on the offensive, keep pressing the Warden back and forcing the other to play defense. He’s still weak from the prison; in terms of brute strength, he’s no match from the Warden, not after months of starvation and torture stuck in a box with hardly enough room to stretch his legs. All he really has going for him is his speed and his experience, neither of which will do him any good if he teeters over the edge into the panic attack he’s been trying to hold off the entire time. Dream runs forward, not giving himself more than a second to breathe as he rushes the Warden once again, switching weapons mid-leap to a sword that will allow for quicker blows in the time that he has the Warden off-balance enough to attack freely. He scores a series of glancing hits on the Warden, none doing any major damage but altogether enough to make the Warden back off, wary, with a gasping note of pain, and Dream shakes his head to force himself to focus before running forward once more.

The Warden pulls out a shield of his own, and Dream switches back to the axe and swings it squarely into the shield, then twists himself around to the Warden’s unprotected back to catch him with another heavy blow that leaves him reeling in the second he takes to recover. He’s clearly untrained with a shield, his left arm clumsy as he tries to block Dream’s blows, and Dream uses the opportunity to score another few solid hits to the Warden’s sides and legs, getting a good blow with the blunt side of his axe into the back of one of his knees, leaving the warden limping when he pulls away.

Dream has hardly come off unscathed in the fight - he wheezes out a heavy breath through his teeth, chest aching from a hit that had broken one of his ribs. The exertion and anxiety still pressing at the back of his throat has left him light-headed, and he bites through a crisp, almost sickeningly-sweet bite of golden apple to close a wound bleeding sluggishly on his side. Neither of them can go on for much longer; the Warden’s grip tightens on his axe, and Dream swallows past the shudder that arises from the sight.

Once again, he raises his axe and runs into the fight, parrying the coming strike and twisting out of the way to strike at a joint of the Warden’s armor with the flat of his blade. The Warden’s arm raises, and Dream bites off a yelp of alarm as the handle of his axe is levied against his unarmored side, knocking him off-balance and falling back onto the ground, too disoriented to catch himself. He lands on his left arm, and his vision goes white as it gives out with a sharp crack.

Through half-lidded eyes, he can make out the Warden stalking closer, axe raised and ready to end the fight - end him. His chest shakes in a pathetic wheeze for breath, arm completely useless from where it’s screaming in pain underneath him. He needs to move, now, if he wants to survive this - fear swells forward, unhindered as his focus is broken by the vice grip the pain has on his skull - he’s shaking, now, the terror so familiar he can taste it - salt and iron and sticky-sweet health potions against the backs of his teeth-

The Warden raises his axe.

No.

Dream raises his sword just in time to catch the blade hurtling towards his neck, uses his foot to kick against the Warden’s grip on the handle. The axe clatters out of his grip, falls forward - Dream rolls away, breathing harshly around the pain threatening to make him black out. Unarmed, the Warden takes a second to grab a sword from his inventory while Dream forces himself back to his feet and kicks the axe as far away as he can.

He’s so flooded with panic he’s choking on it, broken arm hanging limply by his side as he charges forward, sword in hand. He won’t die, not after all this time, not after all this effort - he throws himself at the Warden, batters him with jabs and thrusts that force the other man to back away and parry, snarling wordlessly as he brings his sword to slash forward again and again.

His attacks are messy, uncoordinated, but the Warden is tired and disoriented from the loss of his weapon - he flinches back as Dream hits him in the jaw with the hilt of his sword, only barely matching his blows as he continues to push forward. Any hits that he scores on Dream are brushed off with a growl of pain and his sword moving even faster in his fury, and it’s not very long at all before he’s knocked flat on his back with a sweep of Dream’s legs, gasping for air as Dream pins him to the ground with a blade pressed against his neck.

Dream meets his wide eyes with his own, lips curled back in the same desperate rage that had moved him forwards despite the black creeping into the corners of his eyes and the lancing pain tying its strings around his neck and leaving him gasping for air. The sword in his hand bears threads of blood along its edge, pressing deeper into the Warden’s neck and drawing crimson up to the surface - a thousand fearful, angry thoughts swell up to the front of his skull in a singular, white-hot point. It is the Warden underneath his feet, at the end of his blade, cowering beneath him as he had cowered before - the Warden, the cause of his pain, the reason behind the ache in his gut and the stinging pains in his limbs and the piercing agony from his arm and chest. It would be so easy to push just a little harder, to press the sweet blue blade down and down and down until the Warden is gone and the Warden is dead and the Warden can’t hurt him anymore-

“Down, Dream,” Quackity snaps, and Dream backs off immediately, losing his grip on his sword as the command has him dragged back by the neck like an invisible leash and collar pulling him away. Sam settles back in a sitting position, still wide-eyed, wincing as he moves and bringing a golden apple from his inventory to heal the worst of his injuries.

“Eat,” Quackity commands again, and Dream only barely manages a stiff nod through the nausea and dread curling around his chest as the adrenaline begins to fade away, fumbling with the golden apple he finds in his inventory and nibbling at it to tide off the worst of the pain.

“Bravo, bravo,” Wilbur grins from the side, clapping slowly as he walks back into the middle of their makeshift arena - he’s taken his armor off again, but it doesn’t make the sight of him any less intimidating. “What a show! We should do that more often, what do you think?”

No, Dream almost screams, I can’t- but Quackity beats him to it, glaring at Wilbur with an incredulous expression.

“We don’t have the time to waste on your fucking ‘shows,’” he snaps, crossing his arms as he swings his gaze over to Dream. “Fine. You’ve proved yourself. Now hurry up - we have to clean up all of this shit and then figure out the rest of this fucking budget.”

Dream pulls himself to his feet, watching from the side as the Warden does the same.

“Make yourself useful and clean off all your fucking blood from the floor,” Quackity meets his eyes with a vicious glare, waiting until he stammers his way through an agreement before turning to the other two in the room. “Sam, Wilbur - with me. I want to get this money issue figured out tonight.”

Dream watches them go as he shuffles to the cleaning closet, feeling a shudder crawl up his spine once they’re out of sight. Make yourself useful, Quackity’s voice rings in his head, and Dream bites his lip, only stopping when he accidentally breaks through skin and the taste of blood floods his tongue.

He has a feeling that those words are going to haunt him for a long, long time.

[coldshrugs]

alma.mp4

pairing: alma greene/mason word count: 980 rating: E. this is sexually explicit content with lots of cursing too. minors do not interact. note: a prompt for 8/18 of @hotwayhavensummer: masturbation. for when sending a nude just won't cut it.

💋---💋---💋---💋---💋

"These Agency phones can record videos, right?"

Alma lifts the sleek black smartphone off her side table, inspecting the back for a camera. Yep, it's there.

"Of course they can." Mason snaps the phone away and starts the camera, holding up the screen to show her the function does indeed work. "Why?"

Well... here she fucking goes.

This is a first. She thinks back to the last time they were apart for a few days and his one unprompted “you okay?” text (adorable). When she got back, he'd fucked her like his life depended on it (also cute, considering). Mason's not one for wordy declarations. He can't tell Alma he cares, so he leaves it on her skin.

Maybe this will make the next time a little easier to endure.

"Wanna make something to watch later?"

Her soft cotton flannel is already partially unbuttoned (it's just them after all, lounging in her apartment). She shifts her weight on the sofa, one leg draped over the edge, and frees a button from her shirt.

He glances from the phone to her panties, a brow cocked like she might be fucking with him.

"You got something to show me?"

In an instant, the camera is on her. Coupled with the storm of his gaze, it feels too vulnerable. Almost invasive.

What does she look like, spread open and undressing herself? Too stiff? Too silly? Usually, thoughts like this don't plague her, but right now they prickle under her skin, tiny fires threatening her paper-fragile edges.

But he's watching—fucking christ, he looks hungry—and the pinprick heat transforms into something all-consuming. Mason's eyes dart between the image on the screen and the view in front of him, trying to drink in both at once, and that’s enough. Alma knows this blaze.

"Fuck yeah, I do, sunshine."

Another button goes and Alma's hands roam exposed skin. All the places he likes to touch: the pulse point on her neck he dreams of opening, the space between her tits, a little squeeze of both until her nipples are hard, and then she continues down the soft skin of her stomach. His eyes follow her hands.

She lifts the hem of her shirt. It bunches above her hips, and her fingertips skate over the thin fabric of her underwear. She smiles at him, finally feeling it. He's squirming a little, chewing his lip, and she must look damn good if he's this bothered already. He lifts the phone to catch it, her smile, and it's a shame his hands aren't on her instead.

Not yet, though.

A firm touch now, palm against already-wet cotton, against the heat beneath, and Alma's whimper is almost embarrassing. It would be if Mason's cock wasn't straining against his jeans.

He leans closer, hand outstretched—

"No touching."

—and finishes with the buttons on her shirt.

His laugh comes out as a hum, low and satisfied with the tease.

"Talk to me." She's working in circles now, using the friction of her underwear to her advantage. "Tell me how you feel when you fuck me."

He takes his time replying. The phone moves closer, shifts from her hand to her face, and finally, easy smirk on his perfect lips, he stands. "Take those off—" he nods to her soaked panties— "and I will."

Wait, is she not calling the shots?

But it's a request granted easily enough. She drops them to the floor, and before she can touch herself, he's kneeling. Readjusting his angle for a closeup.

"Overwhelmed," he answers, finally. The single word should be disappointing, but Mason is a master arsonist. He starts fires to watch them burn out of control, and if he burns too? Well...

"Doesn't matter what part of you is wrapped around my dick, Alma."

He licks his lips—lips that should be on her, anywhere on her (soon). But it's only her hands, his eyes, and the camera she no longer fears.

"Every noise out of that pretty fucking mouth—"

Her fingers squeeze inside, and she knows this landscape well, soft and hot, and goddamn, she's going to ruin the sofa. She rolls her hips, meeting her own touch to the time of each raspy exhale.

"Every touch—"

Mason's eyes drag over her. He sees it all, captures it through the lens on his phone. Her lip caught between her teeth, her heaving chest, her fingers twisting in and out as her legs start to shake.

"Shit, Alma, the way you taste—"

Oh?

"How do I taste, Mason?"

She lifts her fingers, dripping and slick, to his mouth. The smirk parts and he takes them in with no hesitation. His tongue slides over them, between them, and Mason's never been good at savoring.

He devours.

Eyes half-lidded like he might be a little drunk on her taste, he presses a wet kiss to her palm. His lips come away shining. "Better than blood, sweetheart."

The weight of her touch is nothing compared to what he does with a few words. If she'd still been fucking herself, that combination would've shoved her right over the edge.

He snaps off the camera and throws the phone somewhere across her living room. Something shatters, because of course it does.

Alma blinks. "I wasn't finished."

“That’s right, you weren’t.”

Her hips are jerked to the edge of the couch, legs pressed deep into the cushions. There's no build up. He's over the tease.

His tongue slips inside her, swirling, lapping, drawing out a moan that is actually embarrassing. Mason has the nerve to laugh and the vibration is doing no favors for Alma's dignity.

He moves, tongue flat and steady, to her clit. A gentle suck, a harder one (her hands are in his hair, she's lucky she can string together his goddamn name), and doesn't lift his mouth off her when he makes the promise.

"You'll be finished soon."

[loversandantiheroes]

Hotel Hobbies - Interlude

Jack “Whiskey” Daniels x f!Reader Author’s Note: Sorry for the delay, fic brain shorted out a little bit and I started thinking about this story a little too hard to let it go where it wanted to.  But we’re back now, hey ho, with a little interlude before chapter 2 kicks in. Summary:   Wake up calls and morning-after ruminations. Warnings: Nudity, grumpy!Reader, Whiskey is a menace even from a distance, more swearing. Rating: Mature  Word Count: 1801 Previous: Prelude / Part 1 Taglist: @ithinkhesgaybutwesavedmufasa @oloreaa @the-feckless-wonder

It's still dark when a faint buzzing wakes you, followed almost immediately by a muffled curse against your back.  

"What the hell-?"

Whiskey gives an irritated grunt.  "My phone.  Shit."

He gets up, still stark naked, and stumbles across to where his jacket had been discarded, digging through the inside pockets.  He punches through whatever message he just received and gives an annoyed little huff.  By the blue light of the screen you can see his eyes are far clearer than they should be for a man who just rolled out of bed before the sunrise.

"Time is it?" you groan.

"Quarter-to-five," Whiskey answers.

"Jesus." You bury your face back in your pillow, muffling your next words. "Can't the spy shit wait for daylight?"

He chuckles.  "Not according to Ginger, it can't."

"Whoozat?"

"Colleague," he says simply.  He bends down over you, nuzzling your ear.  "Duty calls, honeybee.  I gotta go."

He presses himself down against you, his morning wood warming your hip.  It's an invitation, maybe even a challenge.  Make me late. If it weren't so fucking early and you weren't so goddamn tired, you might actually take him up on it.

You fumble your hand down, find his hip, and smack a little halfheartedly at his ass.  "Lock the door on your way out."

A chuckle in your ear.  "Yes ma'am.  If you've got the inclination, I'll catch you at the bar tonight."

He kisses the smooth patch of skin behind your ear, raising goosebumps. The impulse hits to swat at him.  It's too early for phone calls and conversations, and it's certainly too early for this man you barely know to give you any desire to drag him back into bed.  

Instead you reach back, ruffling your hand through his hair.  "Hmph. See you, cowboy."

The hairs of his mustache tickle your ear as he smiles, humming.  "I hope so."

There's a rustling as he pulls his clothes on.  You will yourself to close your eyes and drift back off before he gets to the door.  It doesn't work.  He's in your line of sight and you can't quite help but watch him dress, even if it is so dark that it doesn't make for as nice of a show as it would be otherwise.  There's a light jingling as he hitches his jeans up and does up his belt.  He stops for a moment before dropping down to the floor, rummaging around as though he's lost something.  You could help, but early wake up calls have never done much for your disposition, and you bury yourself a little further into your pillow instead.  Sounds filter through as you doze. The rustling of cloth, the whisper of soft rope being pulled free and coiled up.  

The door opens and Whiskey stands there for a moment, an outline in black against the lit hallway.  A disheveled version of those black painted plywood silhouettes that always seem to lean up against flea markets and roadside stands in the middle of nowhere.  His face is shadowed, but you can feel his eyes on you.

Squinting against the light, you prop yourself up on your elbow. "What is it?"

Whiskey shakes his head.  "Nothin' at all.  Just admiring the view before I go."

The words don't have the teasing edge you expect.  You tell yourself that's just a byproduct of being woken up so goddamned early, but somehow you're still glad you can't quite see his face.

"You're blinding me, cowboy," you tell him, unable to put as much annoyance behind the words as you'd like.  "And you're not the only one who's got to work today."

Whiskey half-turns, light spilling down the front of him. His shirt, divested of more than a few buttons, hangs open and rumpled under his jacket, the white of it a stark contrast against the tan of his skin. His head dips. You can almost see the corner of his mouth quirked up in a smile. "'Course.  Sweet dreams, honeybee."

You slump back down into your pillow.  "Don't die out there."

"I will do my level best."

The door clicks shut, leaving you in darkness with the outline of his frame against the doorway stamped in fading colors on your vision.

                                                           ⁂

The next time you open your eyes it's considerably lighter, sunlight peeking through the edges of the curtains, and someone is knocking at your door.

Groaning, you roll yourself off the bed, snatching the covers and wrapping them around you.  "Who is it?" you call out with the irritation only the suddenly and involuntarily conscious can muster.

The answer comes muffled through the door: "Room service."

The wall clock gives the time as 8:15.  A marked improvement from the last time, at least.  But, Jesus, couldn't anybody let you sleep?

Scowling rather spectacularly you unlock the door and throw it open.  Standing in the hall is a young man barely out of his teens in a hotel uniform with a white-covered cart.  When he gets a look at you he blanches, though only a little. It wouldn't surprise you if this poor kid had seen people answer their doors wearing far less.  

"R-room service," he says again, trying not to look anywhere that might be considered uncouth.

It's an effort, but you try to soften the thunderous expression you know is on your face.  You cross your arms over your chest, pinning the covers in place. When you shake your head you can feel the rough tangle of your hair bob and weave.  God, you must look a wreck.

"Wrong room, hon, I didn't order anything."

Nor could you afford it anyway, though you don't bother to add that thought.  And what a pity, too.  The plates on the cart are covered, but the unmistakable smell of bacon comes wafting up and your stomach growls to life immediately. The conference's usual spread of danishes and coffee aren't going to be nearly enough to keep you going this morning.

"Oh, uh..." the young man pulls an envelope from the cart and thrusts it towards you.  "It was ordered for you, ma'am. Already paid for."

Frowning, you take the envelope.  It's hotel stationary, heavy and cream colored.  The card inside marked with a heavy, looping scrawl.

Breakfast is on me, honeybee.  You earned it.

"Oh you asshole," you mutter through a begrudging smile.

The kid blanches, and you flap the card at him.  "No, not you, not you, you're fine.  Jesus, come on in."  You shuffle to the side, tossing the edge of the blanket behind you to keep from tripping as you make your way over to your purse to fish out a tip. The spread is generous but not obscene, laid out on the little table near the window.  Bacon and eggs, toast, a bowl of fresh fruit, and a decanter of coffee.  Your stomach gives another even more insistent growl, and you push a ten dollar bill into the kid's hand.  Job done, he hurries out, pushing the cart into the hall with a speed that rather exceeds what you'd call professional.  

Closing the door behind him, you comb a hand through the disaster of your hair and head directly toward the overwhelmingly appealing smell of bacon and coffee.  Something digs into your heel and you wince, fighting with the coverlet to find what on earth you've stepped on. Dropping down to the floor, you find it – a small, pearl-white button.  A little smile curls the corner of your mouth as you remember the immensely satisfying sound of buttons popping from the night before.  There's another one nearby, glinting in the light. Two more at the edge of the bed.  You gather them up, justifying it as a service to housekeeping.  Small objects could damage vacuum cleaners, couldn't they?  

As your fingers close on the last button, you catch sight of another glint under the bed.  This one much too large to be a button. You might've missed it if you hadn't taken the bedding for a cover-up.  You stretch your arm underneath the bed, reaching so far your shoulder begins to twinge in protest before your fingers close around the object. You know what you've found even before you pull the thing up, recognizing the feel of cold stainless steel.  Whiskey's utterly ridiculous belt buckle flask.   The front is engraved, something you hadn't noted last nigh. Statesman – Kentucky – Straight Bourbon Whiskey.

You briefly consider dropping the thing off at the front desk.  It'd be an easy enough way to close the door on this brief little affair.  But even though you never actually accepted Whiskey's invitation for tonight, you already know you're going to turn up.  You'd hoped last night's encounter would've broken whatever spell of intrigue he possessed. That once the mystery had been dispelled and he'd proved himself to be every bit the boring shit-kicker you'd expected him to be, you could let housekeeping wash him out of your sheets and be done with it.

But then he'd turned out to be a decent lay. And then he had the audacity to buy you breakfast. The less repugnant he turned out to be, the more it irritated you. Sure, he was still sticking to that ridiculous Redneck James Bond story to cover up whatever he actually did, but it's not as if you'd bought that anyway.

"Asshole," you mutter again, knowing full-well how fucking ridiculous it is to be mad at the man for not being a complete piece of shit. And, even more damning, for leaving you actually wanting to see him again.

You stack the flask and the handful of loose buttons on the nightstand. "Only going to return this," you mutter.  "Not to see him.  Not to fuck him. Just to return this."  

The lie doesn't sound any more convincing out loud than it did in your head.  Especially when you can still feel that pleasant, well-used ache that makes your legs tingle when you walk. Even acknowledging its presence is enough to make that lingering heat kindle up into something much more pressing, and part of you wants nothing more than to throw yourself on the bed and sink your fingers into your cunt until it eases again.  

In protest of this, your stomach gives another growl, loud enough to make you jump. Like it or not, you do have to work today – libido be damned – and like hell you're going to do it on an empty stomach.  

It's only as you're slathering butter onto your toast that you pick up on the one thing you haven't noticed this morning, and a little grin quirks the corner of your mouth. Your dress, shoes, and bra are all still lying on the floor where you left them.  Your panties on the other hand, are nowhere to be seen.

[unbridgeabledistances]

here is a part 2 of my valentine’s day one-shot from the other day!! part 3 of them actually celebrating is coming fri, but wanted to make it a lil countdown:) also big creds to @udontfuckangie for their post about ian getting mickey stargazer lilies for valentines bc it… truly made me feel so many things and i had to write this

--

Ian didn’t really remember ever celebrating Valentine’s Day for real— not like everyone else in middle school or high school, like when Lip was off buying flowers for girls or Mandy was trying to get the guy she liked to ask her out— but he definitely remembered celebrating it as a kid, when he’d have to scrounge up some shoebox from under his bed and bring it to his overcrowded classroom to cover with colorful construction paper and make shitty valentines to swap with his friends. Those were the days when Frank was around some, and so was Monica— he remembered one year, when he was maybe 5 or 6, when Monica was there and he had come home with a thin pink slip of paper from his teacher saying that he needed to bring in valentines for his class. Monica had whisked him down the street to the dollar store where they’d ransacked the rickety shelves of all the art supplies they could carry, and then they sat at the kitchen table for hours gluing glitter to cut-out hearts.

So maybe that’s why Ian’s heart had melted last Sunday, when Franny had mentioned that she needed to buy valentines for her class at school— Ian knew it was stupid, or whatever, but he knew how far a few solid childhood memories could go in this neighborhood, how those types of moments were the stuff you lived on for years afterwards when things got harder and darker. So while he’d been caught up in so much shit lately, for a couple of hours on that Sunday afternoon all Ian wanted was for Franny to soak up that feeling like a sponge—to make memories with her like the good ones that he’d had with Monica, the ones that stood out and burned in his chest like a hot branding iron when he remembered them.

And then a yawning, sleep-soft Mickey had stumbled into the kitchen, and the three of them were nestled beside each other at the table doing fucking arts and crafts; and for some reason it made Ian’s blood run hotter than usual, and got him thinking about how fuck it, he wanted to give Mickey a Valentine’s Day this year— not in the weird, heteronormative bullshit way, but in the way that he could just kind of… show Mickey how much he meant to him, how Mickey still made his heart feel like it was going to explode out of his ribcage even after the years they’d been together. This was the longest time that he and Mickey had ever been together consecutively, the longest time they’d slept side by side before something dark curled its fingers around them and pulled them apart, and he wanted to do something to acknowledge that— something to start their forever, as fucking cheesy as that sounded.

Of course, Mickey had no concept of Valentine’s Day or any of that shit, which made the whole thing all the more perfect— Ian wanted to catch him off guard, wanted to pull them both out of the funk that had been hovering over them for the months after the wedding, when everything turned brittle and stale once the bills started to pile up. They were better now—or at least they were trying to be— but it still meant something that half of their time being married had been spent navigating a fucking global pandemic and squabbling with each other and barely making ends meet.

So now it was the day before Valentine’s Day, and Ian was standing on a busy Chicago street corner in the bitter cold, watching the bundled passersby briskly walk by to scramble inside and stave off the chill. Ian hadn’t been to this neighborhood since his days working at the club, or maybe once or twice when he was hanging out with people from the youth center; the pristine glass storefronts with minimalist displays nearly blinded Ian’s eyes after the past ten months of being accustomed to the crumbling paint-chipped architecture of the South Side. But he was here on a mission; in front of him stood the high-end, boujee as fuck florist’s shop, one of the top-rated ones in the city according to the quick search he’d plugged into his phone.

Ian normally didn’t give a shit about stuff like this— to him, a flower was a flower, and a chair for a wedding was just a goddamn chair— but he knew Mickey, for some reason this sappy shit was a whole lot more important to him, no matter how hard Mickey tried to hide it. All the symbols and the fanfare meant something to Mickey—it meant that they’d made it, that they got to have a normal fucking life together, beyond both of their wildest dreams. So if Ian had to brave a stupid, gentrifying flower shop on a chilly Friday afternoon to make Mickey happy, then that was what he was going to do.

A soft bell tinkled as Ian entered the shop, immediately surrounded by the nearly-bare shelves of minimalist bouquets. The store was incredibly cramped and narrow, with overly-peppy music playing low, and was packed tight with wire-rimmed glasses wearing, re-usable bag toting hipsters standing in a line all the way to the counter. Shit. This line was going to take all day—and who the fuck knew if they even had what Ian was looking for? A looming pang of desperation started to churn in the pit of his stomach as he lurked by the doorway. Fuck it, he had to do this.

Before Ian really processed what he was doing he was quickly darting past the line, getting a series of dirty looks from everyone he shuffled by.

“S’cuse me, coming through, floral emergency.”

Finally, he reached the counter, sliding in beside some girl in her mid-twenties with a punk haircut. “Uh, sorry, can I just ask if they have what I’m looking for real quick?”

The girl rolled her eyes. “If you’re desperate enough to cut the fucking line, I’d say you’re worse off than I am. Men are fucking clueless.”

Ian nearly grimaced, but tried to twist his face into a soft, grateful smile. “Thank you.” He turned to the cashier at the counter, a dude with a man bun and a floral button-up shirt who looked pretty amused by this whole situation.

“It’s the day before Valentine’s Day, honey. Everyone here is in a floral emergency.” The cashier sighed, looking Ian up and down appraisingly. “What’re you looking for?”

“Uh. I think they’re called… stargazer lilies? The ones that bloom at a specific time, or something? We were supposed to have them at my wedding, but then the venue got burnt down by my husband’s homophobic father, so we kind of had to pull the whole wedding thing together on short notice— it’s kind of a long story, but I really, really need to get these flowers for Valentine’s Day.” Ian leaned in close over the counter, hoping he didn’t look too desperate. “It’s our first one together and it’s been a fucking shitty year and it would just— it would mean a lot.”

Ian finally exhaled, and hoped by some miracle that this cashier, or someone in the fucking universe, would take pity on him.

The cashier pulled his glasses down to the bridge of his nose, tapping away at the iPad on the counter before glancing up. “Hmm. I’m sorry honey, you’re fresh out of luck. Those lilies bloom in the summer mostly, and no one around here really has them. You could maybe check one of the little flower shops down the street, they do special orders and stuff this time of year—but I’ll be honest, I don’t know if you’re gonna get these flowers by tomorrow.”

Ian felt disappointment bubble up inside him. Of fucking course there were none of these obscure flowers in Chicago the day before Valentine’s Day— he’d had this grand idea of giving Mickey a perfect Valentine’s Day, of starting off on the right foot, and he still put this shit off until the last minute and couldn’t give Mickey what he deserved. Mickey would’ve never made this mistake.

Ian cleared his throat. “Shit. Well, uh, thanks anyways.”

He turned, heading for the door and getting ready to be assaulted by the bitter cold again. Okay, there were a couple flower marts down the street, he could try that— but he had a sinking feeling that the results would be the same, that he’d be left empty-handed tomorrow with nothing to give.

Okay. Focus. I’ve gotta plan a bunch of shit for Valentine’s Day by tomorrow.

What would Mickey do?

**

The flat drone of the dial tone made Mickey’s head buzz, the same dull vibration he’d heard dozens of times that week. Finally, he heard the click of someone answering.

“Hello, this is Sizzlers, how may I help you?”

“Hi, it’s, uh, it’s Mickey Milkovich. Again. I’m just checking in one more time to make sure we’re all good for tomorrow?”

There was a silence on the other end of the line, like the hostess was taking a moment to compose herself. “Yes, Mr. Milkovich. Since this is the… seventh time you’ve checked in in the past week, I believe, everything has definitely been arranged as you requested.”

Mickey cleared his throat. “Uh, good. Thanks. We’ll be there for our reservation at 8.”

He clicked his phone off and flung it down onto the bed. It had been nearly a week since he’d decided he was going to try to give Ian some kind of Valentine’s Day like the normal fucking couple Ian wanted to be, but he had to admit, this shit was hard work; he had to think of the perfect place he wanted them to go, had to call and make a reservation and arrange everything perfectly— and then there was the matter of deciding what to get Ian, because apparently married people also got each other fucking gifts on Valentine’s Day, which sounded like overkill to him. He’d been scrolling through Buzzfeed “Valentine’s Day Gift” lists for the better part of the afternoon, and even snuck some of Debbie’s chick magazines into the bathroom to sift through articles like “Ten Things to Get Your Man for Valentine’s Day” or “Best V-Day Gifts for Newlyweds.” Finally, after fucking days of plans stirring in the back of his mind, Mickey finally thought he had all of the pieces together; the reservation was made, the timing was set, and he’d even stopped by some fancy fucking chocolate shop on the other side of town on the way home from the Alibi earlier that afternoon.

Everything was planned—now there was just one thing left to do.

Mickey grabbed the crumpled piece of paper he’d set on the bedside table, the one he’d been staring at all week. Fuck it. He grabbed a discarded pen from the windowsill, from the collection of pencils that Ian kept next to his notebooks.

Mickey sighed as he put the pen to the paper. Now comes the hard part.

part 1 is here! and part 3 is here!

[lesdemonium]

8 from angst or 10 from fluff depending on your mood? ☀️

this idea made me cackle and ran with me so HERE WE GO. thank you so much for the prompt!!

Fluff 10. “Are we on a date right now?”

The bar was perfect. So perfect, Jaskier was almost annoyed that Geralt had discovered it rather than himself. It was fun and full of people, but the music was actually background noise, so he and Geralt could talk without screaming at each other. Every time they ordered a drink, Jaskier tried a new house specialty, and each one was better than the last, and the waitress they had was charming and amusing. It was perfect, really. He was having a great time.

But Jaskier was confused. So confused that his face was almost starting to hurt from how often he had been furrowing his eyebrows. Geralt looked good tonight, with a pair of dark wash jeans and a dark button up shirt that Jaskier was sure he had never seen his friend wear before. The sleeves were rolled up to his elbows and Jaskier was having a goddamn conniption over how sinful it made Geralt look.

“Is Yennefer coming by later?” Jaskier finally asked. 

He had been wanting to ask as soon as Geralt met him outside the bar; he’d been so floored by how good Geralt looked with his hair pulled up into a knot, had wanted to twirl his fingers around the tendrils of hair that had escaped from the bun, but he knew he wasn’t allowed. Geralt’s look screamed Straight out of Jaskier’s dreams rather than Drinks with a friend and it was unfair, really. It was unfair how Jaskier knew it had to be for Yen.

Geralt, however, just looked confused at Jaskier’s question. “No?” he said--or asked, rather--as he pulled Jaskier’s empty drink from Jaskier’s hands. It had been empty for a while, and yet Jaskier kept sipping noisily at it. “Why would she?”

Jaskier let out a nervous laugh. “I don’t know. You just. You look really good.”

Jaskier delighted in the way Geralt ducked his head a little, to hide the small blush on his cheeks that, if Jaskier called attention to it, Geralt would insist didn’t exist. Jaskier knew better. He got this way whenever Jaskier complimented him. The more sincere the compliment sounded, the more bashful Geralt became. Anything crude didn't have nearly the same effect, but did make Geralt roll his eyes and, often, shove playfully at Jaskier’s shoulder.

“Thanks,” Geralt said, waving their server over. “You look good, too.”

Jaskier rolled his eyes. He looked no better or worse than he usually did, and they both knew it. Had he known that Geralt was going to take the opportunity to dress up, though, Jaskier would have stepped it up a bit as well. Maybe he would have worn that shirt that he’d caught Geralt sneaking glances at before, the one with the deep-v and the sheer back. If Geralt was going to confuse the hell out of Jaskier, Jaskier could have at least had the opportunity to fight fire with fire.

Instead of asking their server for the bills, Geralt handed over his card, motioning at the entire table. Jaskier tried to step in, to argue, but she was off before he could even open his mouth, and Geralt was now ducking his head again to hide a smirk.

“Geralt, honestly, you do that at the most unexpected of times! You could have warned me you were going to pay before I drank like a fucking fish,” Jaskier complained, crossing his arms.

“It’s fine, Jask. I’m the one that asked you to come, of course I’m going to pay.” 

Geralt shrugged his shoulders, and Jaskier’s mouth closed. That was another thing. Normally, Geralt would have come up with some teasing claim about Jaskier being quicker, or spending all his money on some frivolous thing like the embroidered boots Jaskier dragged Geralt all over to find. Tonight, though, Geralt had been off the entire time. When they had first arrived, it had taken a good ten minutes for Jaskier to get him to relax enough to have a simple conversion with a few quips here and there. Hardly any teasing had happened, and whenever Geralt attempted it, it was like he had forgotten how. Almost as if he didn’t know how to act around Jaskier. As the night wore on, he loosened up more and more, but there was still a nervous energy to him. Jaskier had no idea what was going on, but it was stressing him out.

The tab settled, Jaskier gathered his belongings slowly, expecting their evening to be over and goodbyes made once they made it outside. Geralt surprised him again, though, by shuffling his feet, then gesturing with his head down the street.

“Do you want to walk for a bit?” he asked, looking somehow small as he shrugged his shoulders, his hands still in his pockets. Jaskier was charmed, and accepted immediately.

They walked close together, Geralt bumping into his shoulder every so often, as if he wanted to get Jaskier’s attention. Jaskier looked, every time, and they shared a small smile, before Geralt looked away again, suddenly bashful. They maintained a conversation--Jaskier teasing the everloving shit out of Geralt for admitting that he thought Ciri was having a bad influence on their cat, Roach--but Jaskier felt like his thoughts were swimming. What in the world had come over Geralt to make him so nervous around Jaskier? Why did he keep bumping into Jaskier like that, like there was a magnetic pull between them?

The question was finally answered, in a way, when Geralt’s hand reached out and took Jaskier’s in his own. Jaskier faltered in the story he was telling as their fingers intertwined and he could barely hear his own voice as he tried to continue over the pounding of his heart. He looked down at their hands, then back up at Geralt, his eyes wide.

“Geralt?” he asked.

Geralt resolutely did not look at him, though even in the darkness Jaskier could see his flush. “Jaskier?” he replied.

“What are we doing?”

“Walking? There’s this pier just a little further. With. Lights. And stuff.” His voice faltered a little, and Geralt shrugged his shoulders helplessly. Still he didn’t look at Jaskier.

“Geralt,” Jaskier started, pulling them to a stop. He didn’t let go of Geralt’s hand, but he did tug on it to turn him until they were finally facing each other. “Are we on a date right now?”

Geralt’s eyes went wide and he sputtered for a moment before he said, “You didn’t know?”

“How would I know? You didn’t ask me.”

“Of course I asked you! I asked you yesterday, when I gave you a ride home from work!” Geralt tugged his hand away, and Jaskier immediately mourned the loss. His arms crossed in front of his chest, like they were a shield, and now his eyebrows furrowed.

“You asked if I wanted to get drinks! You’ve asked me if I wanted to get drinks about a hundred times in the past; how was I to know this time was different?” Jaskier demanded. He felt a little wild, and a lot incredulous. 

“Fuck,” Geralt said, with a great deal of feeling. He scrubbed a hand over his face and looked up at the sky, much like he was wishing for something to come and swallow him whole. “Just. Fuck. Forget it. Let’s forget this ever happened.”

“Oh, no, no, no,” Jaskier answered, shaking his head. He reached out and took Geralt’s hand again--somewhat forcefully, as he had to pull it out of where Geralt had locked his arms against his chest--and started walking again. That, however, didn’t work. Geralt would not budge. “I just realized I’m on my dream date, Geralt. Don’t you dare take that away from me.”

Geralt watched him helplessly for a moment, but Jaskier just lifted his chin, looking determined, and tightened his hand around Geralt’s like it was a challenge. Once the moment had passed, Geralt sighed, then followed after Jaskier. 

They didn’t speak again until they reached the pier. Jaskier had to admit, Geralt had outdone himself. The pier was beautiful, with “Lights. And stuff,” everywhere, dotting along the railing, along with a beautiful floral garland connecting the bulbs. There were a few other couples, but it was long and wide enough that Jaskier easily found an empty bench close to the water, which he dragged Geralt to and they sat beside each other.

“You really didn’t know it was a date?” Geralt asked, sounding miserable.

“Hush,” Jaskier insisted, scooting close to Geralt. “It is a date, and it has been marvelous. And I’m very sorry for the misunderstanding. Now, though, we’re on the same page. And I would very much like to kiss you, if I could?”

Geralt bit his lip, then nodded. Jaskier grinned as he leaned in, cupping Geralt’s jaw and pressing a soft, slow kiss to his lips. He drew it out as long as he could, trying to give Geralt the time he needed to settle from his embarrassment, and assure him that Jaskier was completely onboard with this new information. When they finally pulled away, Jaskier did not let him go far, and instead pressed their foreheads together.

“What are my odds of being able to take you on a second date?” Jaskier asked. He felt more than heard the amused puff of air Geralt blew out.

“As a do-over?” Geralt asked.

“Darling, why would I ever want to do-over the best first date of my life?”

[apenapaperandadoofus]

Hey how about some hcs with MC as the RFA+minor trios teenage sister and how the other RFA members would react! Love your HCs btw UwU

Thank you! And sure, that’s adorable!

RFA+minor trio with MC as their teenage sister:

(Part one, part two here)

Zen:

HA

Oh lord almighty

Um, brother? Who’s that, he’s your mom now

I like to think that MC was just a baby when Zen left his home

And they meet again after MC comes into the RFA

Zen is THRILLED he’s the best brother ever

He immediately gets attached to you, and he makes you feel at home

When he finds out about the bomb he goes crazy, he will take his bike and immediately take you to his apartment, he will also totally shit on Seven and V for letting his little sister be in a place with a bomb

Zen will also take you to all the places he shoots!

Since he is pretty famous now, he will make sure to hide your face and to make sure no one really knows your personal information, since he doesn’t want anything to happen to you.

I would give Zen as a brother a 100/10, I would honesty like him more as a brother than as a partner (just my opinion tho) but IMAGINE HOW ADORABLE

Yoosung:

I think he has an older sister, so that would make him the middle child pft

He’s a really nice older brother, he’s the type that will always try to appear all ‘manly’ and brave in front of his little sister

He will totally get you into LOLOL too, you’re both like the dream team.

He’s probably the one who introduces you to the RFA, or maybe it’s Rika, because you probably met her before she ‘died’

Unlike Yoosung though, you don’t really hold a grudge with V. Even though you’re sad about what happened to you cousins you understand it wasn’t truly V’s fault.

That’s something that Yoosung and you will get into some arguments about, and it’s honestly the only reason the two of you will fight.

Of course, later you will either sneak into his apartment and cook him some food to apologize, or maybe he will come over and give you some sweets.

Also Seven absolutely loves the two of you because you’re so adorable he’s all like WHO GAVE YOU THE RIGHT!

Sometimes you will spend most of your days at Yoosung’s house, if he’s in clases you’ll probably play with his computer until he comes home.

The two of you will spend time both playing LOLOL and cooking, you’re the one that’s good at it tho pft, and you’re the one teaching Yoosung how to cook

Also sometimes YOU have to be the older sibling because this man doesn’t do his goddamn school work and you will not stand for it lmao

Jaehee:

For Jaehee you’re the most important thing in the world.

Since your parents died now she doesn’t have to take care only of herself, but of you too

She wants to work hard to get a very good job, and that way the two of you can move out of your relatives house as soon as possible

She wants you to enjoy life to the fullest, and she wants to make sure that when you study or get a job, that it’s something that you like

Jaehee would be a perfect older sister too!

She would have so much patience, and she would help you with whatever you want!

The only difference between the two of you is that you actually like Elizabeth the third, so Jumin will drop off his cat there more often

Zen also acts like an older brother and/or parental figure, since he actually cares about Jaehee a lot, he’s going to care about you too!

Sometimes though, you’re the one taking care of Jaehee, along with Zen!

Sometimes at night, you will wake up to go to the bathroom or get a glass or water, and you will see Jaehee asleep on the table, her work spread out all over it.

That’s when you will take a blanket and cover her with it.

Since you’re a pretty smart kid too, thanks to Jaehee just helping you with everything and everything, you know how to do her work, so sometimes you will help her with it

Obviously you’ll never tell tho ;)

When she gets the coffee shop the two of you run it!

You are her little assistant and you help her with everything and anything! And she absolutely enjoys spending time with you!

Jumin:

Yes I love this

So you met one time when you came over loking for Chairman Han.

Your mother had been one of the unlucky few who got with him, and of course, Chairman Han got her pregnant.

You had never really met your father, you only knew what he did, his name and that he would send you money for Christmas or your birthday

But you wanted to meet him!!

So one day you went over to look for himwhen C&R didn’t work though, you decided to look for his home address

What you didn’t know though was that you went to Jumin’s home instead of his father’s.

Soon enough Jumin got the alert that there was someone looking for him, a kid, he was confused but he decided to come down, and when he saw you he immediately knew what was going on

You both had the same hair, and face shape. The only difference was probably your eye color.

Jumin was really awkard at first.

He invited you over, and it was really weird, I mean this man doesn’t know what to do

You asked him about his father, and he told you that he was away on business, and then, he asked about your intentions.

He was acting cold due to the fact that he didn’t know what your motives were.

He thought you just wanted to get some money off his father, or that your mom was planning some weird scheme to get back together with him or something

But then he became surprised when you told him that you had never met your dad, and that it was the only thing you wanted. Jumin didn’t know what to say.

You stood in silence until Elizabeth the third came and you squealed. You loved cats.

Elizabeth immediately took a liking to yoh, and you begged Jumin to let you come over some other time to play with her.

He agreed.

Over time, the two of you became closer and closer. Sometimes Jumin would help you with your homework, which he found he enjoyed doing a lot, and other times he would play video games with you, since you were the only one that used the consoles.

Everyone in the building absolutely loves you, the maids will always talk to you and driver Kim will bring you some chocolates whenever you come over.

Also Jumin will spoil the shit out of you, he’s never had a little sister before and he LOVES IT, he will never admit it through

Also the two of you absolutely enjoy teasing Zen, it’s just, it’s sibling bonding time you know? Pft

And V becomes your sort of uncle friend, he really holds you close to his heart and he, like EVERYONE in the RFA will absolutely adore you.

Saeyoung:

Some time when Saeyoung was about 8, his mother got pregnant again.

You weren’t treated in an absolutely awful way, you were just neglected since your father was an average guy who didn’t have enough money.

Saeyoung had to take care of you, since you were the one that was ignored the most.

As time passed, Saeyoung left, but V and Rika took care of you and Saeran.

Like his twin, you started learning how to code, in order to se your dear brother again

Saeran was taken away by Rika. But luckily V got to you before anything happened.

He made you stay with Jumin most of the time, and soon enough Jumin took you in as one of his own.

Eventually, the years passed, and you convinced Jumin to let you in the RFA.

That’s when you found him.

Your brother.

He went by a different name now, but you were sure it was him.

He acted like he didn’t recognize you though

The two of you would have absolutely amazing chemistry, much to the other members dismay, and he actually acted like an older brother to you.

When you’re able to finally meet up, you know it’s him.

You hug him tight, and you sob, as Saeyoung stands tense.

He will try to get distant from you, but you will not allow it. Not at all.

When you finally manage to get Saeran too, it’s the happiest any of you have ever been.

Saeran only speaks to you, and you become close to him pretty quickly, due to the fact that you were something he always did want to protect.

When Saeran gets better, the three of you live in the bunker, and honestly poor Vanderwood because just like Saeyoung, you will pull pranks on everyone and just be a little brat lmao but Vanderwood likes you.

Saeyoung and Saeran become super protective of you too, and they will do anything for you.

They also teach you how to code!

Honestly, you’re the one that Saeran is the softest to, and like that, the three of you spend your time together, since you’re the string that pulls the twins together.

V:

I believe our boy has a step sister, so we’ll go with that

I don’t remember how old she is, but we can say that V was a teen when you were born

First he’s not really gonna like you at all. It’s not personal, it’s just he doesn’t get along with his father’s wife, and he doesn’t like how you sometimes will just do...everything he’s afraid to do

Eventually tho, after his mother passed away, V becomes closer to you.

You were there for him, like Jumin, in his darkest times, and V becomes attached to you

Like that, you spend time with the two boys, Jumin also gets attached to you, and he really likes spending time with you.

V will teach you how to draw and take pictures, and he encourages you to follow your dreams like his mother did when he was younger

The only time the two of you ever fought was about Rika, since you just didn’t get a good vibe from her

When she passed away, you were also there for V

Then he got distant. And it broke your heart.

Jumin and you would spend time together, since you were friends, and Jumin was a sort of brotherly figure to you too

When the whole ME ordeal is over, V spends a few years away from you, trying to find out who he is.

When you become of age he will take you with him, to explore whatever places you want!

I will do part 2 tomorrow because it’s really late and I have to wake up early to do some homework 😖

[divinewhimsy]

Ichor Pt 7 (DabixReader)

A/N: SO I KNOW IT SOUNDS LIKE IT but I PROMISE this isn’t the last one for this. I just wasn’t sure if I wanted to go much farther in this exact moment. I have a couple other ideas for this series but I’m not 100% on most of them so we’ll see. I was thinking of starting some others as well, different one shots or whatever. Would you all be interested in a NSFW addition in the next one? Or is that too far/too much? ImeanIlovesmutasmuchasthenextpersonbuuuuuuuut I don’t wanna force it on people, I guess. Eh, who knows. Enjoy! Thank you for reading!!

Part 6: X

Part 8: X

Tag List: @velvet-kissesss​ @marydragneell​ @littleblackpheonix​ @holytacocactuscollector @ghostingtime​ @the-cosmic-dreamer​

Calloused fingers trace down your sides and you shiver at the touch as they grasp your thighs. Palms both smooth and rough with the slight feel of metal slide against your shorts, fingers tracing shapes into your flesh slowly. Waiting. Savoring. It’s the heat of him that overcomes your senses, leaving your mind in a trap. His scent fills you.

Leather and whisky. Smoke and sandalwood. A hint of mint and what seems to be the natural musk of his skin as he feels your body in his hands. Caressing every curve and dip of your flesh. 

As he finds your hips and pulls you roughly closer to him you yelp at the sudden movement. Dinner long forgotten on the cold stove, you grasp at the leather jacket and his shoulders. Sliding your hands up from his neck to his face, holding him gently as you breathe in his scent. It’s hypnotic. Intoxicating. 

Lips tease at your ear with a husky laugh, his next few words softer than you’ve ever heard him speak before. 

“I could eat you out right here.” he growls playfully and he presses himself between your legs. 

“Not on the counter.” you giggle and he nods, pressing sensual kiss after sensual kiss down from your ear to your collarbone. 

“Shit, you’re right.” he breathes and hoists you up in his arms as he carries you to the kitchen table. “Meals are meant to be eaten at the dinner table.” 

You’re on your back on the table in seconds, his head trailing down your body so slow it's almost painful. Inching closer to the waistband of your shorts until he grabs the drawstring with his teeth and pulls the knot until it’s undone. His tongue tastes your skin beneath your belly button and you shiver under his touch. 

“And I’ll be honest baby girl,” he breathes, his breath tickling your skin. Goosebumps pop up along your stomach and legs. “I. Am. Starving.”

You bolt up in your bed, your heart hammering in your chest at the memory of the dream. Eyes wide to the dark room you search fitfully for something that’ll remind you it was only just a dream. Nothing more. Nothing less. 

Who are you kidding? You’re disappointed it was only a dream. You groan and flop back down to your pillows, staring up at the ceiling as you wipe the sweat from your brow. So worked up over nothing but a dream. How depressing. 

It’s been a week and a half since you’ve last seen Dabi. Since he disappeared in the middle of the night. 

You still haven’t pulled yourself together. As much as you wish you could it seems damn near impossible to forget him as he appears night after night in your dreams. They’re not all the same but they all feel inexplicably and frustratingly real. 

His hands, his voice and his goddamn heat. They plague your slumber like a beautiful nightmare refusing to leave you. Haunting you. What would it take to get this man out of your head?

You’re not sure but the thump from your living room seems like a good enough distraction right now. Freezing, you stare at your door in panic.

Someone is inside your apartment. 

Fear, cold and unyielding, grips at every inch of your skin and you shrink back into your bed. Who the hell would have broken into your home?! Could it be a member of the League, scouting you out? Could it be that strange man who won’t leave you alone after that one night at the bar? You hadn’t brought him home or told him anything beyond your name but the world is full of creeps who will do anything to get what they want. 

You listen in silence as your heart starts to race faster and faster. With every breath it shoots the ice cold paranoia through your veins. You should have listened and moved. As soon as Dabi told you to. Just abandoned everything here and just ran. Bolted. Shit, you’d figure out how to fly if it got you out of this situation.

There’s a tap at your window and a shuffle as you crawl away from it. A shadow peers in from outside and starts to pop the screen out.

Oh no. You never locked your window?! Jesus, how stupid could you be?! What kind of idiot doesn’t quadruple check their windows and doors?!

Well… You, apparently. 

The struggle with the window is only momentary as they press their hands to the glass. When it starts to give way to their movements and slides open, you feel your stomach drop into each of your toes. Not one but two people are invading your home and you’re frozen in terror. 

How many minutes would it take to get away from both of them? How fast would you have to be? Could you get them to I just some of your blood and then drain them? It would have to be quick to get them to buy into it. If you can even pull it off, that is. It’s not easy to get someone to willingly drink your blood- unless you revealed it boosted their quirk. If you could trick them into thinking you’ll comply you’ll have a better shot. 

The figure at the window hops up with a soft jingle. They shift slightly and all the trembling your body has started stops. You recognize that silhouette. You know without a doubt that you’ve seen a fair amount of his flesh without it being covered. Memorized the crazy tufts of hair that go in every direction both wet and dry- and you can never, ever forget those blazing blue eyes. They’re sewn into your mind's eye. A beacon that will always call you toward him from whatever end of the earth you are. Miles or inches away, you can feel them searching for you. Watching.

“D-” you start to say his name in disbelief but his hand clamps down over your mouth and he brings a finger to his lips. 

He motions towards the hallway where the other noises are coming from and you give a small nod. You don’t need his words to understand. 

Somehow, against the odds, Dabi is here. That’s all you can care about although you know you should care there is a literal intruder in your home. Not that it would be important at all or anything. 

Dabi leaps from your windowsill and down to your bed, keeping in to a low crouch as he slides off. Silent as sin, he tip toes to your door and disappears behind it. You listen intently as the shuffling from the living room continues- completely unaware of the man heading their way. 

Had he known you were in trouble? How?

Why show up now, of all the times to show? Not that you aren’t thankful, of course. It can’t be coincidence he’s here when someone else has literally broken into your home. 

The sound of fighting and a yelp from the living room pulls you from your thoughts and you scramble to shut the window. Who did Dabi find? Is he the one who yelped or is it the other person? The sound of scuffing and grunting sounds grow ever closer to your room. You hold your breath and clutch your blanket closer to you, fear flooding into your body as a loud thump slams into your door. 

It bursts open and the man with the green skin from the bar tumbles in, Dabi looming above him. The man twists to face him, his skin changing into different colors. He must have some kind of chameleon quirk. It tries to blend him in but it’s going too quickly, too sporadically to hold on to one shade as he scrambles away from Dabi. 

“Look what the cat dragged in, darlin’.” Dabi drawls and steps closer to the man menacingly, blue fire hovering from his hands. “More trash.” 

“Please, I-I-I didn’t know she was with you!” the man- ‘Charlie’ you remember he had told you to call him. “I just thought she was some single broad!” 

“What difference does that make?” Dabi grins and you watch as he glares down at the man. 

This. This is the villain you’ve been told about. It should scare you. Shit, you should be terrified of him. But somehow, someway, you aren’t. All you can see is that it’s Dabi. The feel of his energy returning to your empty halls. The sound of his voice against the walls and floors. Enveloping your ears in a soft caress as he drawls. Having him near is comforting.

You can feel the bond between you two hum to life, a surge of power and heat bolting through. You know it’s not just from Dabi- you can feel it as the warmth spreads from within your body to the outer layers of your skin. Every calm breath he takes, every step he advances- you can feel the proximity ignite so much more than this mixture of sensations. Your body is locked on to his location like it’s your own. Like it’s a piece you never knew you were missing until you met him. 

“I-I- Nothing! Nothing!” Charlie stutters and turns his eyes to you. “I’m just a friend, right? Go on, tell him!!” 

You shake your head. 

“Pathetic.” Dabi clicks his tongue, “You really can’t think of anything else to save your sorry ass?” 

Charlie lets out a sob and glances back at you. His eyes are begging for your help but you can only flinch as he grabs at the leg of the bed closest to him. He holds onto it firmly with both hands and turns on his stomach as Dabi grabs him by the back of his shirt. 

“Please! I haven’t done anything wrong!” he growls. 

“Yeah, what’s a little breaking and entering into a place that isn’t yours? That’s not wrong in the slightest.” Dabi mocks. 

“Coming from you that’s laughable!” Charlie snaps. “At least I haven’t killed anyone!” 

“That’s just because you’re a coward.” Dabi snarls and yanks Charlie up from the floor. 

“Do you really want to kill me in front of her?!” Charlie motions toward you and Dabi follows his gaze. “Sh-She’s still innocent, isn’t she? You wouldn’t want to ruin her for yourself.”

Woah, woah, woah. Back it up. Ruin you? 

You blink at Charlie as your brows furrow. Confusion turns into anger as you realize just how defenseless he thinks you are. 

“That’s a fucking joke.” you sneer and glare at him. “Why are you even breaking into my apartment in the first place? Couldn’t take no for an answer?”

“Oh shut it.” he snarls. “You brought your pathetic, desperate ass to that bar hoping to be fucked-”

Dabi drops him on the floor face first and presses a boot to his spine. He digs his heel in between his shoulder blades and a sickening crack echoes in Charlie’s body. He gives a pitiful whimper in response and turns his head to the side, un-smashing his face from the floorboards. 

“Did you really think,” Dabi seethes with a wicked grin.  “I would let you go? That I wouldn’t notice you creeping towards her?” 

“I told you!” Charlie whimpers. “I didn’t know she was with you- ack!!” he chokes as Dabi slaps a hand around his throat. 

The smell of burning flesh spits into the room with the smoke curling from underneath Dabi’s hand. You flinch at the sound of the impact and turn your gaze to Dabi. Is he really going to kill this man? In your home?

You know he’s a villain. You know this. But seeing something like this first hand is uncomfortable. It unsettles your nerves and you find yourself reaching to stop Dabi as you scramble out of bed. 

“He’s learned his lesson.” you say quietly and Dabi flicks his eyes to you dangerously. The anger stirs beneath his face, the churning fire of his soul erupting from deep within. 

You grasp his forearm lightly, the heat of his skin seeping into your hand as you hold your breath. He has to listen to you. He has to. Even though this man- Charlie or whatever- is a creep who broke into your apartment, you can’t just stand here and watch him die. It goes against what you stand for. What you try to do with your quirk.

The quirk you’ve used twice now to save him. To scoop him from death's door and back into the land of the living. 

“Let him go.” you say softly and slide your other hand to lay over the outside of his around Charlie’s neck. “Please.” 

Dabi drops Charlie roughly, letting the man slam back into the floor. He fixes him with a nasty scowl before he turns his gaze back to you. 

“You don’t know what’s even going on.” he seethes. “Stay out of this.” 

“I know you’re about to kill him in my own goddamn apartment. I don’t want that blood on my floor.”

Snapping back at him isn’t what you intended. Honestly. 

“I’ll make sure to be careful.”

“Dabi, no-“ 

“Fine.” he says curtly and picks Charlie up, stalking over to your window and throwing the man through it harshly. You catch the grunt and yelp outside as he lands before Dabi’s hoisting himself through it. 

“Lock your fucking door.” he hisses before he slams the glass shut behind him. 

Had he just been here for Charlie, then? You’re left, dumbfounded and confused in the middle of your bedroom. Staring at the closed window, blinking slowly as you try to process what just happened. 

When you can find no explanation, you instead take his hasty, last minute aggravated advice and lock your door. You’re not sure how it got unlocked in the first place or why he just didn’t exit through it if it wasn’t locked.

Locking your window for that added passive aggressive push, you curse Dabi in your mind. 

A week and a half of absolutely fucking nothing and then that? Some half assed attempt? Why was he even here in the first place? What did Charlie have to do with anything? Not that you had any kind of affection for the strange, creepy green man but it had seemed...Strange for him to appear right after Dabi had left. 

Was he using you as bait, then? A trap for someone stalking him? He had said you had no idea what was even going on, after all. But you would know if he’d just told you. 

Then again, he also told you to move. And you haven’t listened. You’ve stayed, unable to even summon the energy to try and uproot yourself. The thought alone is a knife to your stomach. Empty, shallow pains that claw at your throat, threatening to crawl out of your mouth and onto the floor. 

Some of the things Charlie said still feel strange. Your ears refuse to understand the words as you mull over them. Why should it matter to you anyways? Dabi chose to leave. He owes you nothing. Your deal with him is done. It’s over. 

Then why do you feel so cut off when he’s gone? 

Sleep is a blessing not bestowed upon you for the rest of the night. You give up after an hour or so and decide to get dressed instead. It’s only three in the morning, perfect for a short stroll. Totally not to try and find the patchwork man who’s consuming your every waking thought. That’s just ridiculous. 

Your steps on the damp pavement are the only sound as you walk. There’s an occasional car or two but beyond that the night is silent. It observed you walking down the street aimlessly, purposeless save for the burning knot of emotion settling into your heart. Why does it bother you so much? Why does his absence mark your senses with a streak of edge? Sharpening every facet with the temperament of steel. You’re hyper vigilant to the world around you- every space you see, every breath you take, every sound you hear- it’s all categorized in your mind, shuffled away until you have a perfect map in your mind. 

You have no idea where you’re going. You don’t even know this part of town that well. It’s a stranger to your company and you’ve preferred it to be that way before now. 

Now you can’t stand not being here. Not being out and experiencing the night fading into day break. The hours may tick by but your body takes it all in stride, your limbs moving to a song you can’t hear but you can feel. It’s a beating of a drum, growing louder and louder as you feel every breath you take pulled from its notes. Forcing your lungs to inflate and hold before deflating. It picks up rapidly until you’re finally running through the streets, your blood singing with energy as you catch a familiar feeling. The thread between you and Dabi reappears and you can feel the song swell with the dwindling space. 

Magnetic. That’s what this is. You can’t help but feel drawn to every step he takes further away from you. When the blue flames ignite from his body and into the night sky, you see the way they jump higher the closer you get. His power grows as you near him. 

It’s undeniable. He doesn’t seem to acknowledge it as he focuses on the burning body in front of him. Burnt to a crisp. Charred remains start to flake away as they burn into the night. You don’t have to guess to know it’s Charlie. 

You can’t find a single bone in your body that cares. Not a drop of blood that screams that this is wrong. The only focus you have is the burning body that’s in front of you. The man that's still standing as his flames engulf him. As they rise and dance into the night sky, a star given human form has dropped out of the sky and onto the earth. He is destined for so much more than he’ll ever know. 

You can’t find the words as his flames shoot out around you. Walls of blue surround your body but don’t dare encroach on your form as you step closer to him. They part to let you closer to him and the steam and smoke from their absence curls off of him in tendrils. Memories written into the air before they wash away with the wind. 

You’ve come all this way for him. Without words to even say why. Explanations are beyond your mind as the feel of his drumming heart erupts into your skin. His heat enveloping you in a sweet summer's embrace. The kiss of the sun without it’s normal light. But it doesn’t hurt. It doesn’t even burn- your body is cold against his heat and you can’t help but reach out to him. Arms winding around his waist as you hold your breath. 

You are not afraid. You’ve never been afraid. 

Having him so close feels right. It feels like the universe has corrected some cosmic wrong as he breathes at your touch. A silent sigh exhaling from his lips. Tension rolling off his shoulders as the fetal rage winds back inside his heart. Retreating at your touch, slowly receding into the shadows in his eyes. The dark skin held to his face. Hidden beneath the burn scars and trauma you don’t dare ask about. 

“What are you doing here?” he asks quietly, his voice a bored drawl but you catch the note of agitation he’s lacing it with. He’s still upset. In the throes of his dwindling rage he’s still softening to your voice, bending to your embrace. 

He doesn’t even know. Doesn’t realize the curling hand he places atop your own is gentle and warm. That it solidifies your thoughts into a clear stream instead of the jumbled mess they’ve been in his absence. The thoughts of him leaving showing you the awful future he’s barreling towards without the connection between the two of you. 

His future will only change if you force yourself into his life. Letting him go now will end in nothing but pain. Love or not- even if this is the beginning of something you’ve never experienced- you’re not willing to let him die. 

“I don’t know.” you murmur back. “I couldn’t not be here.” 

“He’s dead.” 

“I know.” 

“I killed him.” 

“I know.” 

Silence. 

“I don’t care.” you whisper as assurance. “He’s not the reason I’m here.” 

“And what is?” his words are sharp and quick. Quipped. Tight lipped. Clenched teeth spitting into the world around him like venom. 

Defensive.

“You.” you admit and press yourself closer to him, tightening your grip as he tenses.

Rejection isn’t an option. Not when you know the pull towards him was more than just you. Not when you feel the beat of his heart in your bones. Summoning you, pleading for you. Begging for your presence as vehemently as he’s trying to fight it off. 

“That’s a pretty shitty reason.” he growls and you shrug. 

“I don’t think so.” 

His hands trail to your wrists and loop his fingers over them. Holding them, he pulls your arms off of him and lets go as he turns to face you. Looking at him face to face, you hesitate to touch him again. The agitation in his eyes warns against it but the way he had almost melted when you did says otherwise. 

He must not have been hugged often. Or touched in any loving way. Not that you were sure you loved him- that’s far too bold to assume so early- but the gentle caress of someone you enjoy being with is always a welcome gesture. And you enjoy Dabi. Even if he can be a huge ass sometimes. 

“What do you want, princess?” he whispers and you can see the way his eyes lock onto your face that he’s angry at himself. 

The frustration is not meant for you. He’s biting back the urge to snap, curbing his anger to remain inward. 

“You. To come back.” 

His hand rises to cup your cheek hesitantly and you lean into his touch. Showing you’re not afraid. You’re here for him. 

“I can’t do that.” he frowns and his hand drops from your face. “You wanted me gone, remember?”

“I changed my mind.” 

“That’s not how this works.” 

“It is now.” you can’t help the smile on your face. 

He fights off returning it before he gives in with a cocky grin. 

“Nice try.” he sighs, “but that’s not going to work for this.” 

“Why did you leave without saying goodbye?” 

He glances away and sighs heavily. You can feel him trying to pull away but for every tug away he tries to take you follow. It’s a dance of wills you’re not willing to lose. 

“Stop.” he says and you catch his hand in yours, refusing to let him go. 

“Dabi, please.” you breathe. “Just listen for a moment.”

“Not here. Not out in the open.” he glances around. “If you’re hell bent on this then we need to go somewhere else, darlin’.” 

You can read the frigid shut down he’s forcing himself through. It locks through his muscles and he returns to the bored, uninterested mask he always does. He won’t be himself outside. Where others can see. 

You don’t blame him. 

You lace your fingers through his and tug his arm back toward where you came from. He lets you lead him and although he gives your enclasped hands a wry look he doesn’t pull away. It sends a thrill through your stomach, knowing he’s at least willing to indulge your fantasies. 

The memory of your dreams surfaces as the warmth from his hand spreads into yours. In your dream he’d caressed your body, sensually tracing his fingertips against your skin. The hungry growl and groans he’d let out turn your face red and you hope he doesn’t see. Just in case he thinks this might be for other reasons. 

Dealing with these wayward thoughts might be harder than you thought. The attraction you feel for Dabi only grows the closer he is to you. The more skin that touches yours ignites your desire for him. It’s hard to breathe by the time you make it to your home and tug him inside. 

He doesn’t say anything as he kicks off his boots and strolls to the couch. Watching you carefully, he stands with his hands in his pockets. Silent. Stoic. That same bored facade sewn onto his face. But you can feel his heart through the bond between you two and it’s beating as fast as your own. 

“Well, Princess,” he drawls, “now what?” 

There’s a flicker of lust in his eyes as you meet his gaze. A goading that taunts your own senses. Daring you to recognize it. Displaying it all just for you to see.

It has to be your imagination. 

“Things have changed.” you say plainly, hating the awkward way the words spill from your lips. 

You don’t feel like his attention should be so intently on you. You aren’t a seductress. You’re not well versed in the tantalizing banter and dirty talk like you know he is. It’s the confidence he exudes when he hides that tricks you into thinking you’re out of place. The control his eyes command with just looking at you causes your heart to race. 

He quirks a brow and steps closer to you. You copy the movement, hypnotized by his energy. Losing control over your grip on your own emotions you can feel the flood of the bond between you two. You’re drunk on the feel of being near him, the buzzing life that shimmers between the two of you. You want to touch him- want to hear his words whispered against your skin. 

“I don’t want you gone.” you whisper, reaching for him. 

He steps into your grasp and tugs you closer to him. As if he’s controlled by the same haze you are. Locked into the feeling of the murky and misty emotion buzzing out of control. The desire to be closer has never been this strong. 

What’s different?

You try to think about it but it’s hard to think of anything else but him. Hard to tear your eyes from his. You’re lucky you can even remember how to breathe although you’re sure it’s only because you’re mimicking his actions. Like a puppet pulled into this dance as you two twirl in motions that aren’t your own.

“What made you change your mind?” he whispers huskily and you can hear his control dripping away with every word. 

“I don’t know.” you admit, unable to say anything else. 

Your dreams, maybe? The connection between you two? It could be any number of things, honestly. 

“I just know the farther away you are,” you breathe, “the worse I feel.” 

“Hm.” he hums and dips his head to yours. “When did you figure this out?”

You breathe in his scent, eyelids drooping hazily as his lips near yours. 

“An hour ago.” 

Then, his lips are on yours. It’s a slow, powerful motion at first that turns into a hungry devouring quickly. It’s like he can’t get enough as quickly as he would like. His hands cup your face gently as his fingertips tease into your hairline, pressing into your skin with fervor. It isn’t long before you’re lost in the feel of his lips and hands, loving the warmth spreading from him into you. Your heart is pounding in your chest, speaking his name with every beat. Dabi, Dabi, Dabi. He’s all you need, all you want, all you could ever imagine yourself having. You’re lost in the feel of him. Putty in his hands as he molds you into a shape that fits against him perfectly. 

The rush of your quirk activating without your control makes you both shiver and Dabi gives a deep growl. 

“I don’t want your damn quirk.” he pulls away, breathing heavily. You see the surge of power grow in his eyes and feel the pang of hurt start to spread. Hadn’t your quirk gotten you into enough trouble with him? Wasn’t that enough? 

Your thoughts melt away from your control, still drunk on the idea and the irreplaceable taste of Dabi. You can’t focus on anything else when he’s this close to you. After you just kissed him for the second time in your living room, funnily enough.

“I-I didn’t mean to...I.. can’t control it.” you whisper back and lean in for more.

He doesn’t push you away. 

“Are you saying you can’t control yourself around me?” he laughs and holds your face inches from his own. 

His thumbs brush beneath your eyes and you melt in his touch. The soft and rough feel of him. The cool and warm brush of his body, of his skin. It’s all intoxicating. It’s overloading your senses, your body bending to his every whim and touch. 

“Yes.” you breathe and he chuckles. 

He snakes one arm around your waist and holds you to him. Pressed flush against him you can’t help the sharp intake of air at the sensation of every curve and indent of his body. It’s a hungry rush that bolts through you and he watches you with his half lidded eyes, drinking in every noise and face you make. 

Nothing has felt as right as it feels when you’re kissing him. You’re sure of this. Not having helped the countless people you did before. Not thinking of helping people after him. Nothing compares to the complete sense of rightness that floods through your system as his lips meet yours. 

‘Yesyesyes’ your body craves his touch, every place his hands roam burning for more. Your quirk is already overflowing through your system and the power that runs through him is apparent as he struggles to keep his breathing even. 

    “Sorry,” you breathe as you catch him grit his teeth. “I can try and get it under control-”

“That’s not it.” he interjects as he backs you into the wall. “That’s not it at all.” 

His breath is hot on your neck and you bite back a mewl as his lips press dangerously close kisses to your ear. His hand moves from your face to the wall, pressing a firm fist into it as he heaves breath in and out. He’s balling up the fabric of your shirt in his fist at your waist, a deep, quiet grumble of a groan releasing from his lips. 

“Then what is-” you can’t get the words out as his mouth devours the rest, his tongue slipping into your mouth without a warning. 

This is different. His posture, his words- Dabi can barely control himself as you’re at his mercy. He’s drinking in every gasp and mewl he can pull from you with his lips. His body is pressing against yours, his knee sliding between your legs and pressing against you. You can barely breathe between his lips and his body, your mind spinning with the essence of him. 

“Wha?” you whisper as you pull yourself away from him for air. You need to know what's changed. What's happening? Why is he holding you so tightly- pressing into you with so much fervor? 

“Shh.” he whispers and nips at your ear. The moment his lips touch the skin beneath it you come undone in his hands. Any further protests or questions scatter from your brain before you can even remember what you were trying to say. You wrap your legs around his waist and Dabi gives a happy hum at the motion before his lips are on yours again. 

You’re lost to the desire to be rid of everything but him. Melting and reforming with him beyond your own comprehension, your energy soaring to an all new high as you drift along with Dabi. His body feels like an anchor to your restless soul. A shore you finally come across after years and years of swimming endlessly. 

He’s the answer to the question you never knew you were asking. A divine gift into your dark, secluded and lonely life. A present wrapped in mystery and flames, burning brighter and brighter just for you. A beacon for your lost, wary soul. He is rest when you need it, sustenance when you’re empty. Filling when you’re starving. Everything right in the world aligned just for his presence to be in your life. You can feel his heartbeat alongside your own, feel his body pressing against your own, his soul tying into yours around the bond between you two. Winding around it in knots that seal the two of you together. 

Have you ever felt this complete? How could anything before this even compare after you’ve tasted the wine of his being? Life is changing rapidly and permanently as you wind around him.

And you never, ever want it to go back to the way it was before.

[lunetheaveragefan]

‘one day...’

Hey y’all! This chapter was supposed to be posted last Monday but last week was so busy for me and I forgot. So finally, here is chapter 7! Chapter 8 was supposed to be posted next week, but I’m going to continue with my typical two week schedule so I don’t forget again! Hope you enjoy!

A Sander Sides high school AU

Pairing: Prinxiety and some background Logicality

Summary: Virgil is used to being alone. He only has one friend, Logan. But when Logan makes a new friend, things begin to change as two more join their group. Roman, a boisterous theater kid, seems determined to destroy Virgil’s lonely, average life. How much will Virgil’s life change?

Warnings: swearing; brief mention of a panic attack; eating; if you notice anything else, let me know!

Word Count: 2557 words

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CHAPTER SEVEN

Virgil exits the auditorium with Patton and Logan, grinning.

“He did so good!” Patton exclaims. Before either of the others have a chance to respond, Patton continues, “It was like he was a completely different person! Here, let’s go congratulate him!” Virgil and Logan follow Patton down a few crowded hallways, weaving in and out of people talking to other members of the cast. 

“Roman!” Patton yells, waving his arms. Virgil catches sight of Roman, stepping out of a set of heavy doors. Behind him, it’s dark, but Virgil can make out a folding table and the edges of black curtains. Backstage. Then, a group of people walk in front of them, and Virgil loses sight of Roman.

Without hesitation, Patton grabs Logan’s hand and begins to shove people aside, muttering a few cheerful ‘Excuse me’s and ‘Sorry’s. Before Virgil has a chance to get a hold of Logan, they’re lost in the crowd. 

Well, what the heck do I do now? Virgil wonders, chuckling softly. A hand brushes his arm at the same time a voice says, “Hey. Where are the others?”

After seeing who it is, Virgil laughs and answers, “They went to look for you.” Roman slaps his forehead with his palm, uttering a sound that’s half-sigh, half-laugh. He rises up to his toes, straining to look over people’s heads.

“This same goddamn thing happens every year. You would think we’d learn by now.” Roman looks back down at Virgil, and at the very second he does, Virgil sees Patton pop up above the rest of the crowd. Pointing so Roman will see, Virgil waves his other hand to catch Patton’s attention. It works, and Roman grabs Virgil’s hand, causing his heart to skip a beat. 

After a lot of pushing and shoving, the two of them reach Patton and Logan, standing pressed up against the wall next to a chair. So that’s how Patton got so tall all of a sudden. The second Patton sees them, he starts to gush about the performance.

“That was so good, Roman!” Patton exclaims clapping his hands in glee. He bounces on the balls of his feet, a wide smile spread across his face. “We all loved it and we’re so proud of you and it sounded so good and I think Virgil might’ve even been crying—” Virgil blushes when Roman looks at him with a shocked expression—“I’m not sure I couldn’t see through my own tears. But for real it was so good, like, I can’t even believe it was put on by high schoolers—” Logan places a hand on Patton’s shoulder. The action confirms to Virgil that Logan definitely has some sort of crush on Patton; Logan never really touches anyone in any way, with the occasional exception of Virgil. 

“Sorry,” Patton says, grinning sheepishly. Roman chuckles and looks at Patton, appreciation covering his face.

“It’s okay. I’m glad you came. All of you.” Roman’s smile at him, although no more than a few seconds, makes butterflies erupt in Virgil’s stomach. He smiles back hesitantly, an intense debate going on in his head.

C’mon, tell him how much you liked it! one side says. 

No! He won’t think it’s sincere. He’ll just figure you’re copying Patton, the other says back. 

Maybe he will take it seriously! Maybe then you’ll have a better chance with him!

Better chance? You don’t actually like him, do you?

Of course he does! The butterflies, dreams, that’s the only logical conclusion!

Shut up, Virgil interrupts. I’ll tell him good job, but as a friend. Because I don’t like him. He’s still Roman Princeford. Have you all forgotten what happened freshman year? That ends the argument in its tracks. He gathers his courage, a rolling knot of apprehension twisting in his stomach.

“Yeah, it was really good, Roman,” Virgil compliments. “Although, Patton, you didn’t need to freaking snitch on me and how I was crying.” Patton shrugs, like ‘What can you do?’ Virgil chuckles, shaking his head. 

“Wait, you were actually crying?” Roman asks. When Virgil turns back to look at Roman, he bursts out laughing at his face. It’s filled with complete and utter shock, eyes wide, mouth in a small, disbelieving ‘o’ shape. It seems so much like a face a cartoon character would make that Virgil can’t control his laughter. “What?”

“Your—Your face—” Virgil manages between wheezes. Roman punches Virgil in the arm.

“Stop. That’s not nice.” His words sound angry, but he’s smiling and his tone — and punch — are light. 

“Sorry, sorry,” Virgil says, taking deep breaths to hold the laughter in. “It was just so comically shocked. But yes. I did actually cry. And don’t seem so surprised this time.” 

“Honestly, your laugh was more surprising. I don’t think I’ve ever heard you laugh like that. It’s a nice sound,” Roman admits, his face filled with something that seems awfully close to adoration. But then he blinks, and his smile is just an ordinary, million-dollar, Roman Princeford smile. It wouldn’t matter if he said it with contempt, because the compliment would’ve still sent a flood of warmth through Virgil. His heart is racing, but this time, not out of panic. 

Tearing his eyes away from Roman and trying to inconspicuously grit his teeth, which is no easy feat, Virgil thinks, What is going on? It’s just a compliment. It’s not like you have a crush on him or anything. 

“Anyway,” Roman starts, addressing the whole group, “I better go find my parents so they can fawn over me like I’m next Lin-Manuel Miranda or Leslie Odom Jr.” Upon seeing everyone’s blank looks, his eyes widen and he says, “Hamilton stars? Only some of the best singers to ever step foot on Broadway? Voices like goddamn angels who can, for some reason, also rap?” When everyone shakes their head, he sighs. “I swear, you guys must be living under a rock. But anyway, Imma head out. We’ll meet by door 10 at, say, 9:00, for the sleepover?” 

Patton and Logan nod their heads and immediately start talking to each other, Patton’s hands moving animatedly.

“Sleepover?” Virgil asks. 

“Yeah, Patton and I have a tradition where after every show or any big event with one of our activities, we have a sleepover. Even if it went terribly. He didn’t tell you?” Virgil shakes his head. Roman smiles and continues, “Well, you won’t want to miss it. Door 10 at 9, got it?” Once Virgil gives him confirmation, Roman turns and disappears into the crowd.

Virgil stares after him, a strange feeling welling up inside him. And this time, when the possibility of a crush comes up in his thoughts, he doesn’t dismiss it immediately. 

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

Virgil sits against Roman’s wall, an excessive amount of pillows behind his back, wrapped in a blanket like a burrito, a comparison that Patton has already, unfortunately, made.

“I still cannot comprehend how you possibly require this immense amount of pillows,” Logan persists. He can’t stop marveling over how many pillows Roman has on his bed. It’s about the 4th time he’s mentioned it.

“Logan, dude, just let it go,” Virgil chuckles, throwing the stuffed bear next to him. It hits Logan, who’s sitting on the floor, square in the side of his head. He opens his mouth to protest, but Roman interrupts him.

“Hey, don’t throw King Snuffles. He doesn’t deserve this abuse.” Roman leans over to pick the bear off the floor. Cradling it in his arms, he glares at Virgil. 

“You named your bear King Snuffles?” Virgil questions, not all that surprised. Roman gasps and fakes being offended.

“Yes,” he replies, his voice scandalized. “And what the hell of it?” Virgil puts his hands up in surrender.

“Woah. Nothing, I guess, if you’re going to get so defensive about it.” He pulls the blanket, which fell down when he put up his hands, back around him. There’s too much on his head, so it falls in front of his face. Before he can reach up to push it up, a hand does it for him. Roman smiles at him, patting his head after setting the blanket there. Virgil rolls his eyes.

He hopes the yellow-orange LED lights and the shadows from the blanket hide the blush creeping across his cheeks. 

“I’m hungry so I’m gonna head and get snacks,” Roman announces, turning and sling his legs over the edge of the bed to stand. Patton bolts to his feet. 

“No, no, I’ll do it,” he says, clearly up to something. “And Logan will come with me.” 

“Well, actually—” Logan begins. Patton elbows him, and he changes course. “I guess I’m going with.” On their way out, Patton gives Roman an exaggerated wink. Roman, in lieu of a response, gives him an exasperated, I’m-so-done kind of look. Virgil can’t say for sure, but when Roman looks back at him, he thinks Roman’s blushing.

“So…” Roman starts, biting his lip and fidgeting with his fingers. Virgil’s never seen him look this unsure. He’s used to a confident, brash, slightly egotistical Roman. To his surprise, he almost prefers this side of Roman. 

Virgil must lose his mind for a little, because he’s definitely not acting like himself when he suggests, “Pillow fight?” and right after, grabs a pillow and flings it at Roman, whacking him in the face. 

A borderline-evil smile appears on Romans face as he says, “Oh, you’re on.” Virgil’s senses pick that exact moment to come back, but he can’t take it back now. So he does the only thing he can do: slings the pillow again. Chaos erupts, and a Virgil verse Roman pillow fight begins. 

As he throws and gets hit by pillows, Virgil laughs and yells, heart pounding, breathing in quick bursts, but this feels better than panic attacks. Happiness. It’s something Virgil doesn’t feel a whole lot since he spends most of his life stuck in a state of anxiety. It’s nice to be happy again.

He’s so lost in his thoughts, he doesn’t notice the pillow coming towards him until it slaps him in the face. Virgil falls backwards, head landing, conveniently, on a pillow. He sits up and hits Roman with it, and they’re at it again. 

When Roman starts to fall off the bed, Virgil starts to laugh. But then he realizes that somehow, they’d gotten tangled in a blanket, and if Roman is going down, Virgil will too. Shrieking in surprise, Virgil instinctively closes his eyes as he’s yanked off the bed. A pillow hits the back of his head once he’s landed. He laughs and opens his eyes to see Roman directly under him. There’s no doubt about it now; Roman is definitely blushing. For that matter, so is Virgil. 

There’s also no way Virgil can deny his crush anymore. But that doesn’t mean he has to deal with it, right? ...Right...

Desperate to put an end to the awkwardness, Virgil stands and offers his hand to Roman. He takes it and pulls himself to his feet. They make eye contact for a second before Virgil looks down at his hands. I wonder what would’ve happened if I’d kissed him. 

Nope, nope, nope. Not gonna think about that. Don’t have to deal with that, remember?

“I, uh, wonder what’s taking Patton and Logan so long with the snacks,” Roman finally says, breaking the tense silence. Virgil wants to sigh in relief. 

Instead, he simply responds, “I’m not sure. Let’s go see.” They walk to the landing of the stairs. Strangely, there isn’t any sound coming from the kitchen. After walking down the first few steps, Virgil can see into the room. What he sees should come as a surprise, but it really doesn’t.

Apparently, trying to set up Roman and Virgil wasn’t the only reason why Patton wanted Logan to come with. Logan is pressed up against the counter, hand wrapped around Patton’s waist as they kiss. Patton’s palms hold Logan’s face, tilting it down to account for the inches Logan has on him. 

Roman, standing right behind Virgil, mutters, “Okay. Okay then.” Virgil starts to laugh but forces himself to stop so Logan or Patton don’t hear. Carefully, they creep back to the bedroom, letting them have their moment.

“So how long do you think that’s been going on for?” Roman asks once they’re back sitting on his bed, Virgil back to being wrapped up in his blanket cocoon again.

“Honestly, I have no idea,” Virgil admits. “I kinda figured Logan had a crush on Patton, but I didn’t think they would actually get together, at least not this soon.”

“Yeah ever since their chemistry project, Patton's been crushing on Logan hard. He doesn’t shut up about it. Apparently,” Roman says, leaning in conspiratorially, “they’ve been talking a lot. Patton’s been so tired lately cuz they’re up til, like, 1 AM, video chatting.”  

“That is news to me.” Virgil pauses, staring at the door. The two of them sit in silence for a while — comfortable silence — just waiting for Patton and Logan to reappear with the snacks they were supposed to be bringing. After about 10 more minutes, Virgil turns to Roman and asks, “Do you think I should call them up? They’ve been down there for an awful long time.”

“Yeah. The last thing I want is for them to have sex on my kitchen counter.” Virgil winces at the image that appears in his head at the words.

After Roman yells down to Logan and Patton, Virgil says, “Oh, god. Please never say anything like that again. I do not need that image in my head.” Roman laughs. 

“An image of what?” Patton asks, walking in the room with Logan not far behind. Thankfully, they had the decency to pretend like they weren’t just making out. But Patton didn’t have so much decency to pretend like he hadn’t been eavesdropping on their conversation. They drop a few Halloween-size, assorted candy bulk bags and two big bowls of popcorn on the bed. 

“Nothing,” Virgil answers, grabbing a handful of popcorn and shoving it in his mouth. “Ooh, Sour Patch Kids.��� He grabs four individual bags of them and drops them in his lap. 

“Jeez, hungry much?” Roman teases. Virgil flips him off and takes another handful of popcorn. Roman tries to sneakily grab a handful of mini bars from the bag of chocolate-based candy, but Virgil notices.

“Jeez, hypocritical much?” he quips, smirking. 

“Oh, fuck off,” Roman responds, sticking his tongue out like a little kid. Virgil sticks his out right back. Patton, who, unsurprisingly, hates swearing, quickly attempts to change the subject.

“Hey, I have an idea! Let’s play Two Truths, One Lie! Then we can get to know each other better!” he suggests. The rest of them agree, and Patton goes first. They take turns, occasionally sharing stories and facts about themselves. And when they get bored of Two Truths, One Lie, they switch to Truth or Dare, and Virgil has to eat a spoonful of mayo.

Patton’s the first to fall asleep. Not long after, around 2 AM, Roman and Logan follow. Virgil sits wrapped in his blanket cocoon in the darkened bedroom. He stares out the window at the dim stars, thinking about how lucky he is. He has three great friends who he can make memories and laugh with.

He turns to look at Roman, asleep on the bed beside him. 

“Thank you,” he whispers, “for surprising me.”

[dickspeightjrs]

Fourth of July  - (canon / 1.3k words)

Dean woke up sweaty and alone. His shirt was sticking to his skin and it wasn’t because of the scorching heat of Kansas in early July.

No, he’d had yet another nightmare. They seemed to be becoming more frequent and a hell of a lot more intense recently.

Dean couldn’t say what started them up again. He never got the doctor-recommended 8 hours of sleep but recently he couldn’t sleep more than a couple hours without waking up soaked to the skin, heart pounding like it just might jump right out of his chest. He thought he was getting better.

Obviously not.

He shuffled into the kitchen to put on the coffee machine, setting it to warm up while he took a much-needed shower. It was 3am but he knew he wouldn’t get back to sleep now.

When he returned from his shower twenty minutes later, feeling fresher but no less anxious, he noticed Castiel sitting at the table with two steaming mugs of coffee in front of him. He must have heard Dean moving from his room to the kitchen and left his own room to investigate. He turned to look at Dean with a frown torn between sympathy and worry.

Dean hated it.

He hated feeling weak. He hated making Cas’ face look like that. He hated that Cas knew him so well that all he had to do was look at Dean to know something was wrong.

In classic Dean fashion, he worked to deflect the attention away from himself.

“Dude, the wind changes and your face’ll stay like that.”

And in classic Castiel fashion, he knew Dean well enough to know when he was trying to avoid a situation.

Castiel gave Dean an unimpressed bitch face. (He’d clearly been spending too much time with Sammy.)

“Did you have another nightmare, Dean?”

Dean sat down at the table opposite Cas but regretted it when he couldn’t even meet the angel’s eyes.

“Yeah, but it doesn’t matter. I dealt with them before and I’ll deal with them again.” Dean shrugged and reached for the warmth of the coffee cup in front of him – looking away from Cas’ knowing gaze.

“Perhaps it would help if you talked to someone about it?” Castiel suggested, never taking his eyes away from Dean.

“I can’t see a shrink, Cas, not with the life we have. They’d take one look at me and throw me in the loony bin – I’d know, me and Sam had to do it once for hunt.”

“That’s not what I meant. Maybe you could just talk to me or Sam.”

Dean made an unimpressed snort.

“You don’t want me unloading my crap onto you, Cas.”

“Maybe I do.” Castiel held Dean’s gaze, daring the hunter to challenge him.

After a beat, Dean lifted his hands up in surrender. “Your funeral, I guess.”

“We can start small if you’d like? What did you dream about tonight?”

Dean sighed. He’d rather not revisit it. It felt like the pounding of his heart had only just subsided. But seeing Castiel’s open, hopeful look made Dean want to be brave.

“I was dreaming of that Fourth of July in 1995 – the one I saw in my heaven that time, d’ya remember?” Castiel nodded in acknowledgement but otherwise made no comment.

“Well it started off with that. Man, that was a good night. We haven’t celebrated Fourth of July since, always too busy saving the world I guess.”

Castiel silently stood up to refill Dean’s coffee mug while he spoke.

“It was going just as I remember it, me and Sammy together in that field watching the fireworks light up the sky. Laughing like we didn’t have a care in the goddamn world.” Dean chuckled darkly. “But then, I turn back to look at Sam and fuckin’ Yellow Eyes is there, holding a knife against his throat. And Yellow Eyes just starts fuckin’ cutting into him. I’m screaming and screaming for him to stop but I’m paralysed and my voice comes out silent. And then Sammy’s just… gone.”

Dean could feel tears forming in his eyes. He looked up and blinked, trying to get rid of them and not let them spill over.

“Yellow Eyes has been dead for years, man. I don’t know why he’s haunting me again.”

Dean felt Castiel’s hand come down on his and squeeze softly. Normally, he’d pull away and make a joke to lighten the mood – definitely not letting his brain go there. But he was too tired, too exhausted and Castiel’s hand was keeping him tethered to reality.

It seemed Castiel could sense that Dean was done talking. He let the room be enveloped in silence for a few minutes.

Until –

“We should celebrate Fourth of July.”

Dean almost choked on the last sip of coffee.

“What?”

“You say you and Sam haven’t celebrated it since you were children and it could be helpful to make new memories to replace the ones tarnished by your nightmares.” Dean noticed a light blush appear on Castiel’s cheeks. “Plus, in all my years of existence, and my many years on this planet, I’ve never marked the occasion.”

“You know what Cas?” Dean smiled, hand moving to hold Cas’ where they both still lay on the table. “I think that’s an awesome idea.”

The blinding smile Castiel returned was bright enough to light the twilight corridors of the bunker.

*   *   *

A couple of days later saw Sam, Dean and Cas gathered on the abandoned field a couple blocks from the bunker.

Dean’s just finished getting the fireworks out of the trunk and setting them up on the dehydrated grass when he turns to see Castiel has made himself comfortable on the Impala’s hood – sprawled out with blankets from the backseat.

“Looking cozy there, Cas.” Dean chuckled. “But, I don’t think there’s gonna be enough room up there for all three of us with all those blankets too.”

“It’s fine, Dean!” Sam’s voice came from the side of the car. “I can use my camping chair.” He held said chair victoriously above his head before folding it out and placing it next to the beer cooler Dean insisted on bringing.

“Where the hell did you get a camping chair?”

Instead of giving Dean an answer, Sam just looked from Dean to Castiel and back to Dean again. His face said it all. The shit-eating grin working its way onto Sam’s face had ‘meddling little brother’ written all over it.

Dean shot his brother a glare, picked up and beer, and clambered up onto the hood of the Impala to join Cas. Cas immediately moved to Dean like a magnet – offering Dean part of the blanket he’d wrapped over his shoulders.

Dean took it, mumbling a quick ‘thanks’ and indicated to Sam to light the fireworks.

As the first few rockets screamed into the sky and exploded into beautiful colours, Dean felt a tickle on the side of his neck. He turned his head to look down at Cas just as his head met Dean’s shoulder.

A small smile drew itself across Dean’s face. He could see Sam’s pointed look out of the corner of his eye but, much like the other night, Dean couldn’t bring himself to deny himself this connection.

Dean felt Castiel’s voice rise through this body before he heard it.

“It’s so beautiful, don’t you think Dean?”

“Yeah.” Dean breathed. He couldn’t trust himself to say much more.

Castiel moved his face further into Dean’s neck, taking his eyes off the smattering of fireworks lighting the dotted sky for the first time since the display began.

“I hope this was everything you wanted it to be, Dean.” Castiel hummed.

Dean pressed a kiss into Cas’ dark hair. “You know what Cas? It was everything and more.” He whispered.

*  *  *

Did Dean’s nightmares miraculously disappear from that night on? No, of course not. Dean was pretty sure as long as he had blood pumping through his veins, that there’d be nightmares ripping through his brain.

But those nightmares are a little more bearable when you’ve got an angel holding you through the night.

Thank you for reading! 

If you’d like to be tagged any of my future stuff just drop me a message and let me know. :) 

[mythrilhusk]

Korosensei Never Dies -Chapter 9

Words: 2,140 Ao3 Version Chapter 8 (Last)

TW: threats of violence, heavy (but short) discussions of death/murder

Quackity scowls blearily at the returning heroes. He and the other Ducklings were up the whole damn night trying to work out infiltration plans after Bad gave them the location of the laboratory and then peaced out with his team of scammers. Bad won't be returning again, but thanks to him, the Ducklings missed the whole rescue mission.

It's summer vacation, so everyone ought to be home anyway, but Philza promised to teach them fighting, and by the goddamned stars, Quackity is determined to make the old man follow through. 

Philza steps tiredly into the classroom. His bloodshot, baggy eyes go wide in surprise as he sees all the students gathered there. Quackity salutes him with a smirk. Ranboo hides in the shadows of the door, watching Phil with worried sulkiness. 

"Kids, I need a favor." Philza collapses into a chair, hiding his face. "I know you want him dead. But- please. Wait a bit." He hesitates and then continues in a ragged voice, "Purpled hit him with a neutralizing agent. He- he can die, again. I'm begging you all, please don't tell anyone or try to kill him until our time is up." 

"Why should we??" Quackity demands, realizing immediately with a confusing mixture of delight and horror that Technoblade has been rendered vulnerable. Does this mean their plan to sneak into the lab is pointless now? "I don't know." Philza hiccups. He's crying. The tears burn a hole through Quackity's delight. "I don't know, dammit. Please, just wait to kill him at the end of the year. No, better, kill both of us then, I've done the same terrible things as he has! I should be punished too, goddammit, why is he the one to suffer for both our crimes??" 

"I'll wait." Quackity leans back. "I'll fucking wait till time's up, but that doesn't mean I'm giving up my revenge." 

"I'll wait too!" Tommy cries. "I'm the fucking king of procrastination!" 

Sapnap and the Ducklings follow Quackity's example. The others follow Tommy's example. Together, the class proclaims their willingness to postpone Techno's death. 

Philza rubs his eyes and takes the handkerchief Tommy stole from Wilbur to offer him. "Thank you, kids." 

"We still get fighting lessons, right?" Quackity asks with a scowl.

"Yes, of course you do. You've all earned them." Philza smiles tremulously. "Ranboo, Techno, you can come out." 

Ranboo steps into the light, blatantly normal-seeming, so unlike the nightmare Tommy and Charlie described. He hovers beside Technoblade as the former terrorist limps through the room to reach his desk. He seems so small and frail without the mutation-induced strength. He looks so weak. Quackity could put a bullet through his head right now and he wouldn't be able to dodge or absorb it. 

But Quackity sees Philza watching Techno with worried, fond eyes. He thinks of Sapnap. Of Techno eating the goddamn grenade to save Sapnap. 

Quackity decides he can wait. If he kills Technoblade right away, after all, Philza won't give anybody fighting lessons. 

And if Philza doesn't give them fighting lessons, then who the fuck is going to wreak vengeance on whatever motherfucking scientists created the mutants?

++++

Niki and Jack watch through binoculars as their enemies spar with each other in the clearing outside the remote school building designated for Class 3-E. "Dang." Jack says. "They're not bad." 

"They can't fight a bomb." Niki grins. 

"Much less ten." Jack matches Niki's toothy smile. 

"Did you get the supplies?" 

"Yes, ma'am." 

"Good work, Jack." Niki drops lightly from the tree. "We can proceed with the operation Smithereens in a week." 

"Awesome." Jack chuckles darkly. "Do we really want to give them that much time, though?" 

"We need to get them acclimated to the bait, first." Niki taps her fingers to her lips. "This will go wonderfully, Jack, don't worry. That loser class won't be a threat much longer." 

++++

"Sir, Purpled is dead." HBomb reports, wincing nervously in apprehension. 

"The fuck he is, I told that bitch to get me Technoblade, and by god, he'd better do it!" Schlatt tips a whiskey bottle into his mouth, gulping the burning liquid down. He lowers it and peers at HBomb. "Unless somebody fucked up again." 

"He must have, sir." HBomb grasps the lifeline eagerly. "The neutralizing agent was nowhere near his body." 

"What?" Schlatt says calmly, his tone barely warning of the torrent of rage he's about to unleash upon the poor unwitting HBomb. "Where the fuck is it, then?" 

"Our clean-up team found the crushed casing nearby!" HBomb continues to dig his grave. "So-" 

"So he found it, and destroyed it." Schlatt snarls. 

HBomb nods quickly. "Y-yes, but-"

"Do you know how long it took to make enough neutralizer for one dart??" 

"Months, sir, but-"

"And you're telling me Purpled fucked up badly enough that somehow that goddamn mutant knew about the dart and destroyed it." 

"Well- see, we have reason to believe Dream is involved!" 

"Damn it!" Schlatt bellows and smashes the whiskey bottle on the table. His hand starts to bleed and sting from the shards. "HBomb." He growls, trying to pretend he's still in control; he needs to still be in control. "Why the fuck is that motherfucking spider involved?? I gave him a mutant already, why the hell does he want to steal mine??" 

"I thought you'd want his help!" HBomb squeals. "So I let him know we're trying to hunt Technoblade down!" 

"Fuck this, fuck you, you motherfucking imbecile, you complete and utter moron, why the fUCK WOULD YOU BETRAY ME LIKE THIS??" Schlatt roars. 

HBomb cowers, hiding ineffectively behind his broom. "I- I'm sorry, sir, but I thought-"

"Well, there's the fucking problem, yeah, bitch?? You thought. I do the thinking here." Schlatt reaches for his gun. "You want to know what I'm thinking, HBomb? Do you want to know what I'm thinking of, right fucking now??" 

"Pl-please-" HBomb whimpers, staring into the barrel as it aims between his eyes. 

"I'm thinking you're fucking useless to me, HBomb. And you know what happens to useless whiny bitches like you, right?" 

"Please don't kill me!" HBomb sobs. 

"Ahh, whatever." Schlatt lowers the gun, too furious to admit he can't bring himself to actually pull the trigger and become a murderer. "Leave my sight and don't fucking show your ugly mug for a week." 

HBomb scurries away, leaving Schlatt to bind his bloody hand, alone in the sterile laboratory. 

++++

Getting beaten up would have been bearable. Being bullied mercilessly would have been completely deserved. But being completely and utterly ignored for days on end breaks Eret like a goddamn crusher.

The more he thinks back on her actions, the guiltier she feels. During the sparring classes, they copy Philza's moves alone, behind everyone else working with partners. When the class decides to camp in the forest for the rest of summer vacation, Eret sets up his tent several meters away from the rest. She stands back and watches their former friends banter and laugh as they raise their own tents. 

"Hey."

Eret almost jumps at the low voice of Ranboo addressing her. Turning, he faces the mutant, clenching her hands to hide the trembling. "Yeah?" 

Ranboo steps up next to them, gazing into the smoking campfire amidst the scattered tents. "Why are you scared of me?" 

"You- you already know why." Eret stares at his hands. Out, out, damned spot.

"Um. I don't really remember, but yeah, okay." Ranboo sighs. "I- I don't think I'm sorry." 

"Neither am I, apparently." Bitterly laughing, Eret grips her chest as the sharp pain of grief blossoms. 

"I think you are." 

"What do you know??" Eret lashes out, shoving Ranboo. "If everything had gone according to plan, it would all be fine!" 

"But you still wouldn't have any friends." Ranboo replies calmly. 

It hurts that he's right. Eret knows he's right. They turn away, hunched and close to tears. "Why am I scared of you?" She mutters in a low, desperate voice. "Because I know. I saw what you are. I know you- you killed Purpled." 

Ranboo frowns. "Techno killed him." He says it so casually. Techno. As though the bastard wasn't a mass-murderer and terrorist, bestowing violence in the name of anarchy and blood. "What do you think I am?" 

"A monster." Eret snaps, rounding on Ranboo, who backpedals with surprised fear in his eyes. "You're a monster. You might not remember. Your friends might pretend to forget. But I know." 

Ranboo gathers his composure and stands his ground, forcing Eret back a step. "If I'm a monster, and I protected my friends... what does that make you?" He turns on his heel and storms away into the trees. 

Shattered and lost, Eret can only watch him disappear. 

++++

Karl slips a briefcase under the table to his contact, who takes it and gives it a little shake. His contact then slides a folder over the table. Karl snatches it and stuffs it in his backpack. The two remain in silence for a moment longer. Karl leaves first. 

Once out of the main school's cafe, he runs all the way through the woods to the Ducklings' treehouse. Echoing footsteps crack twigs behind him as he reaches the gang's base. 

"Hey, what's that?" Fundy doesn't even bother trying to hide anymore as Karl climbs into the treehouse. 

Karl pulls the ladder up. "None of your business." 

"C'mon, we're in the same class!" 

"You're not a Duckling." 

"I can help!! Pleassse?" Fundy begs. 

"Who the fuck is bugging you, Karl??" Quackity sticks his head out the window. "Fundy?? Get the hell outta here." 

"That was HBomb you were talking to!" Fundy cries desperately. Karl groans and hides his face in his hoodie. "I know that guy! I used to work for him!" 

"Where?" Quackity asks. 

"Some laboratory in the capital!" Fundy cries. "I was shadowing him for a potential internship!" 

"Let the ladder down." Quackity orders. Karl sighs as he obeys. 

"Fine, but I don't trust you." 

"You don't have to." Fundy gives a smug smile as he leaps up the ladder. 

Karl enters the treehouse and sets the blueprints down on the table. Sapnap and Foolish stop painting Connor's hair and gather around with Quackity and Fundy. 

The laboratory blueprints spread across the table, promising revenge. Karl looks up and sees the hungry fire in Quackity's eyes. He looks to the side and meets the molten steel in Sapnap's gaze. 

Quackity draws his dagger and sets the point on the blueprints. "Whoever the fuck's been experimenting on people, let's fucking find them and end their pathetic lives." 

++++

Technoblade slashes the saplings with a rapier, taking out his frustrated fury on the innocent young trees, ignoring the twinges of pain. He shouldn't be this weak. 

Even before Schlatt started experimenting on him, he was stronger than this. He was powerful. The best fighter, the best tactician, the best at strategy. Now his body is frail and hurts merely to move. 

He tries to snarl, but his breath catches in his throat, fear slithering roots into his chest. Irrational. He's being irrational. Technoblade isn't afraid of anything. 

Except perhaps the pale blue of scrubs, the glint of scalpels, the searing agony- No! Technoblade scowls and tries to shove the flashes of terror and hunger and bitter, helpless rage away. 

Philza approaches him with a cup of tea. Technoblade flinches away, unable to look at the man he failed, the friend he abandoned. "Techno?" Philza sets the tea down on a fallen tree and presses a hand to Technoblade's shoulder. 

"Who am I, Phil?" Technoblade begs. Weak. The old Technoblade would never beg, would never cry. 

"You're my friend." Philza answers. 

"Why aren't I dead?" 

"The kids agreed to keep it a secret and wait until the year is up." 

"Phil. It's not going to last forever, Phil, you need to kill me soon. I can feel the damn resonancy in my chest. I don't know how long you have, but you need to kill me before I destroy the world." 

"Techno." Philza's voice shakes. "No. Techno, we'll find something."

"Find what?? It hurts, Phil. It hurts to move, it hurts to talk... I've killed so many people, Phil, I deserve this, I deserve to die! Kill me, please. The kids are too innocent. They don't need to be turned into murderers like me." He thinks of Quackity, the blazing fire. He thinks of Ranboo, the gentle nightmare. Of Tommy, the merciless sunshine. Each and every student. They deserve better. 

"Technoblade." Philza grips Techno's chin and brushes back his hair. "I deserve death as much as you. But I'm going to keep living. There's still people we need to kill, Techno, there's still governments to dismantle! We can't end now! We'll find a cure. A real cure. I promise." 

"I don't want you to die." 

"Ditto, mate." Philza embraces Techno gently. Techno wraps his arms around his friend, afraid to let go.

[angelsunflowers-fanfics]

Timothy Lawrence x reader (Roommates)

Request: Hello! I really want to read more Timothy x Reader, please. Need more this sweet boy. Maybe 8 or 40? Fluff and cute- it about him.If you will undertake to do it-Thank you! ( and sorry for my English)

"Why are you so nice to me?" & "Another sleepless night, huh?

Fandom: Borderlands

Warnings: Nightmares

Genre: Fluff, sprinkle of angst

Linktree

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

Timothy shifted in his sleep, another nightmare playing in his head. It was always the same one; Handsome Jack came back and found him. It only took another second until he launched himself out of his sleepy state, panting and gripping his bedsheets with a vice grip. It was over. He was on a different planet with a roommate that he quite liked; romantically.

Timothy threaded his fingers through his hair, even after years he still looked like Handsome Jack, save for his hair turning red and the freckles. He liked his freckles, and he knew that (y/n) liked them.

He missed them. Right now, (y/n) was out on a mission. He wanted to take a long break from the vault hunting business and missions overall, so (y/n) had to pick up the slacking. Timothy felt more than guilty of course, but the trauma of being Jack's doppelganger for so many years had taken its toll on him.

With a few deep breaths, Timothy slowly dragged himself out of the bed and stood up but froze when he heard rustling in the kitchen.

Someone was here.

With no sudden or loud movements, Timothy grabbed the gun he kept on his bedside table and snuck his way out of the room. He kept himself pressed against the wall, the way he was trained when he actually went out on missions.

Another breath, then Timothy snapped into the room, gun pointed at the intruder. All of Timothy's oxygen left his lungs at the sight in front of him; it was just (y/n) making brownies, they had started this routine of coming home and baking. He loved it. Slowly, he put the gun on the counter, alerting them of his presence.

"Timothy, sorry. I didn't mean to wake you," (y/n)’s gentle voice said to him. 

Their back was turned to him, so they couldn’t see the giant bags under his eyes. He hadn’t been able to sleep well since they left for a long mission across the planet.

Too long, but good money.

Slowly, they turned to him, goofy oven mitts placed over both of their scarred hands. A soft expression crossed their face, they hated leaving, but the money would last the two a few months.

"Another sleepless night, huh?" (y/n) asked gently. 

Timothy could only give a pathetic laugh. All he wanted to do was to wrap his arms around (y/n), maybe kiss along-- Timothy jumped out of his daydream as (y/n) grabbed one of his hands, pulling him into the living room. 

"What was the nightmare this time?" They asked.

Timothy furrowed his eyebrows in deep thought. It was usually the same dream, the same sequence of events. But this last time...

Timothy sat on the couch, watching as (y/n) curled up next to him, their hand intertwined tightly with his own.

"Everything was the same... Jack came back to life somehow... he found out that I'm not Hyperion anymore. But this time you were in it," He confessed.

Thinking that they had his nightmare correct, (Y/n) placed a comforting hand on his back, apologies already spilling out of their mouth, "Oh, Timothy. I'm sorry if-" 

He wrung a hand through his hair before quickly interrupting them, "No. You don't get it... He killed you. It was awful and for a minute I forgot that it was just a dream. I thought that you were actually dead." 

(Y/n) felt a chill run down their spine. Timothy shouldn't be having nightmares about Jack, it had been years since his death, but he still dreamed of the CEO as if he was still forced to work under him.

"I'm so sorry you're still having nightmares about him. It's been years since Elpis and the casino... But I'm here, okay?" (y/n) slowly lifted their free hand to cup one side of Timothy's face, he melted in their touch. "You can talk to me about anything. I promise."

Timothy sat in silence for a few moments, pondering over why (Y/n) would go out of their way to do this for him before actually asking them, "Why are you so nice to me?" 

(y/n) was shocked by the question, why would Timothy ask that? Didn’t he already know?

"Because we're roommates and friends, but most importantly because I care about you so goddamn much. I thought you knew that already Timothy." 

At the confession to his question, He bit his bottom lip lightly before his eyes glance down to their lips, then quickly back to their eyes; not knowing if they noticed his blatant staring or not.

Timothy was slow with leaning his face close to (y/n)'s, he didn’t want to force anything that they didn’t feel comfortable with. He only leaned half-way before looking at them with a curious gaze. (y/n), not wanting to scare Timothy off with hesitating, quickly smashed their lips against his; pulling themself closer to him.

His body shook out of pure nervousness and wanting more and more intimate touches and physical contact. With subtle movements of his hands, he urged them into his lap, happy when they finally did so. Timothy slowly broke the kiss. If it weren't for his need, and theirs, to breath, he would've continued for as long as possible.

He brought his lips close to their ear, (y/n) could feel how nervous and anxious he was at this moment. As his breath caused them to shiver, he spoke, "I didn't know that. Thank you for waiting for me." 

[casualmaraudering]

after 2342394 years we have a second chapter

***

The bedroom is pitch black when Sirius wakes up. And right from the moment he opens his eyes, he feels like death.

His throat is dry and sore - as if he’s caught a nasty cold or spent the past two days drinking - and his eyes feel heavy and wet. He’s sweaty, there’s a rather painful squeeze to his stomach, and his head is pounding.

None of it comes as a surprise, really. He always feels like shit whenever his body decides to catch up on sleep - it’s funny, almost. When he doesn’t sleep at all - he feels awful. And then when he sleeps for more than absolutely necessary - he ends up just as bad, if not worse. A lose-lose situation, his sleeping habits.

There’s a moment of hesitation before he reluctantly reaches for his phone.

4.52AM

Undoubtedly, the worst part about his body catching up after bad episodes is how it fucks up his mood. The wrecking guilt for waisting 14 goddamn hours is already set heavy in his stomach. He’s wasted the whole evening - and in his current situation, he can’t fucking afford to do that. He could’ve gone shopping - there’s barely any food in the fridge - or done his schoolwork, or even just spend time with his brother.

And God, thinking about Regulus always manages to make Sirius feels even worse.

Cause he’s supposed to be better than the goddamn fuckup he currently is. He should be able to set a good example. But he can’t. Hell, he feels that Regulus is the one taking care of him more often than the other way around.

Sometimes, Sirius wonders whether he should’ve left Reg at Grimmauld. To live a privileged, rich life they were so used to, with cooks and maids and no worry in the world on his head. They’ve always liked Regulus better anyway - it’s Sirius who’s always been the rebel, the improper one, the hated one. The queer one, though that came a bit later (and it’s not like Sirius ever told anyone. That would’ve gotten him thrown out, and he couldn’t let that happen - he needed to leave on his own terms, with Regulus in tow). Maybe they never would’ve hit Regulus? He knows how to behave, after all.

Yet Sirius couldn’t bring himself to chance it. He can’t stomach the thought of his little brother alone in that godforsaken place. Even if Sirius fucks up at being an adult, at least he can assure Regulus grows up loved and without anyone ever raising their hand on him. It’s all he can do for now.

But, while Sirius would love to stay in bed for the rest of the day - or possibly the rest of time - and sink deeper into the pit of despair he’s fallen into, he can’t. Not when he’s got work at 8 and so many things to do before that. The disgusting mood will stay, just like it always does, but Sirius can just lie his way through the mental disarray he’s got going on. He might be a fuck up, but he’s a fuck up responsible for a human being that needs tending to. If it weren’t for Regulus, well… Sirius probably wouldn’t make it as far as today.

So, with a bit of difficulty, he gets up. Right away he gets overwhelmingly dizzy, and his stomach churns with discomfort. He groans in annoyance and sways towards the bathroom. What a way to start the day indeed.

After throwing up (and dry heaving for a bit, because he hasn’t eaten in a good while, so there’s not really much to vomit with), Sirius follows his usual routine of loo-teeth-shower-hair drying. It makes him feel a bit better, at least. He throws the clothes he fell asleep in into the hamper (he needs to do the laundry sometime today, he notes) and trots to his bedroom to look for something to wear.

He checks his phone while squeezing himself into his jeans (not as tight as he’d usually go for - he wants to be able to move comfortably at work) and finds he has several messages.

There’s a few from James - nothing important, either random things he did throughout the day or memes. One from Lily, telling him there’s Chinese in the fridge for when he wakes up and that if he tries to slip her the money for it, she’ll slit his throat (typical, but Sirius will find a way to pay her back anyway).

And then, there’s one that actually makes Sirius smile.

From: Remus

6.21PM

Hope you dream about something nice tonight.

Sirius wished he didn’t remember all the extremely embarrassing things he had said to Remus yesterday - declaring love after knowing the man for five minutes being icing on the cake - but they’re stuck in his memory, ready to taunt him tonight when he inevitably won’t be able to sleep. Though, seeing as Remus did send him a text, maybe not all is lost?

To: Remus

5.20AM

I had the nicest dream. Guess who was in it ;)

There’s no harm in hoping, at least.

****

After getting breakfast (and praising Lily for thoughtfulness, because of course, the fridge is empty), Sirius goes through as many chores as he can before he has to hurry off to work. He puts the laundry on, gets groceries - cringes at the bill extremely, but he can’t just feed his brother instant ramen - and even cleans the kitchen a bit. He puts some toast into the toaster (without the crusts, and leaves a kettle full of freshly boiled water next to a box of green tea) and goes to wake Regulus. It’s not that Sirius necessarily needs to - the kid has a phone with an alarm, after all - but he likes it. It makes him feel more involved; more like an actual responsible brother.

Upon knocking on his door, before even Sirius has a chance to enter, he hears a loud groan; Sirius chuckles at that as he steps inside. While he himself had always been an early riser, Regulus loathes mornings more than anything in the world.

“Rise and shine, Your Majesty,” Sirius says brightly, leaning against the doorway. He smiles as he watches Regulus pull the covers over his head.

“‘eout-”

“No can do, you have a maths test today. Out of bed, sir.”

“Mhmm.”

“If I don’t see you at breakfast in ten minutes, I’m dumping a bucket of cold water right on your head.”

“‘u w’ldn’t. You’d h’ve to clean.”

Sirius laughs, shaking his head slightly. “Ten minutes,” he only says, stepping back and closing the door again.

It’s fifteen minutes until Regulus, sleepy and visibly very grumpy, stomps into the kitchen and sits himself next to Sirius at the kitchen table (Sirius lets him have 20 minutes - if it’s more than that, he always finds he had fallen back asleep).

“I’ll be back from work at 6,” he says, passing a cup of tea to his brother, who takes it without even slight hesitation. “D’you wanna wait for me and have dinner then, or do you want to order in?”

“I’ll be back later too,” Regulus informs him, taking small sips of his tea (he takes his tea ridiculously hot, Sirius had learned, which he simply stopped questioning it after a while). “I have a project to do with a friend. I’ll be at her house.”

“A friend, huh?” Sirius’s mouth raises in a smirk. “And what’s that friend’s name?”

Regulus rolls his eyes and huffs. “Amelia.”

Sirius smiles harder. “And are you and Amelia good friends?”

“Oh stop that.”

“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about. ‘m not doing anything.”

“Yes you are!” Regulus says in frustration. “You’re doing the girls thing. She’s not my girlfriend or anything, I don’t like her like that. She’s just a friend.”

Sirius’s gaze softens, and he ends up ruffling Reg’s hair - something he knows Regulus extremely hates.

“I know, I’m just joking around.”

He trusts - and hopes - Regulus would tell him if he started being interested in someone. Both of them aren’t really the type to talk about things like that anyway. Regulus, of course, knows Sirius is gay, but Sirius rarely talks about any boyfriends. Though, that might be cause he doesn’t really do that. Not since they left their parents, anyway.

And it’s not he doesn’t want to; it just never seems like the right time. He’s far too busy with school and then work and then caring for his brother - there’s nowhere to squeeze in dates. And sure, every now and again James and Lily drag him out of the house for the evening, but he never ends up coming home with anybody either; the anxiety about leaving his brother alone for the night is too much. Regulus isn’t a little kid anymore, but Sirius feels he shouldn’t leave him alone for a whole night. Not just yet, at least.

“So when will you be home?” Sirius asks, leaving the table to get his gear on and look for his bike keys (he always manages to loose them, somehow). Thank God for his bike - if it weren't for her, Sirius would be late for work pretty much every day, with how late he leaves the house.

“At 8, maybe?”

“No later than 9, okay? And give me a call if you need me to pick you up.”

“Mhm.”

“You’re grounded if you’re here a second after nine.”

He hears Regulus snort in reply. He walks to the kitchen, ruffles his brother’s hair once again (and earns a very displeased noise in response) and makes his way out the door.

By that time, Sirius’s stomach has settled, and although his head is still throbbing, and he still feels like shit, he’s confident the day at work should pass swiftly. Or so he hopes, at least.

And an hour into the workday, he’s proven wrong.

Working as a mechanic is, obviously, incredibly messy and even more tiring, but today everything seems to go slightly wrong; fussy customers, parts falling onto his feet or hands, accidental burns, and an oil spill all over his trousers. And that’s just little over an hour since he clocked in.

If only he could quit, he would.

Except he has barely any cash in his bank account right now, and it’s not like he has Mummy and Daddy’s fortune to rely on anymore. There’s some savings in his account, but that’s only for emergencies, and it’s not like it’s much. Not enough for rent and utilities, anyway.

Thinking about that always makes Sirius’s stomach clench uncomfortably. He’s so damn tired all the time from constant work, and all his muscles ache at the end of the day, and then there’s always something left to do at home. There’s not really much he can do about that other than to suck it up. It always comes down to Regulus anyway. Sirius isn’t doing it for himself - he wants Reg to have a good life, a happy life, not to be miserable like Sirius had been back in their family home.

He just wants his brother to be happy and healthy, and if that means having to work a few too many hours, then be it.

Sirius’s day passes in a blur of oil spills, clunking of metal, and about four cups of coffee, before he can finally make his way back home and drop onto the couch in exhaustion. The tension in his shoulders aches deeply whenever he moves; the skin on his hands is irritated and red (he really should invest in some moisturizer), and his hair feels uncomfortably dirty even if he's washed it today morning. He could stay on the couch forever.

But of course, life calls. Or more like texts.

And by life, he means James.

From: Prongs 🥰

6.15PM

pub??? now???? come pls?? i miss you :(

Sirius sighs deeply (and probably far too dramatically). He’s exhausted, and sore, and he wouldn’t even be able to drink because Reggie might call him for a ride later. All he wants is to crawl into bed right now, and hope he can sleep for even just a little bit tonight.

But then, he hasn’t seen his friends in what feels like ages and he genuinely misses them. It might be a bad choice, but well... if there’s one thing Sirius is known for, it’s making bad choices. So he agrees.

He quickly cooks dinner, just so there’s something to heat up when Regulus is back, and leaves a post-it note on the counter in case Regulus is home before him. Then, just as he’s about to throw on his jacket again and rush out the door, a thought pops into his mind. 

He pulls out his phone, sends a quick texts, and leaves his flat.

To: Remus

6.21PM

any chance you wanna come down to Three Broomsticks for a pint? my treat

[charming-oddities]

My Dream Tried To Warn Me, And I Could Have Saved Him

Dad laughed at me last night when I told him that I just wanted to spend my first day off in two weeks sleeping, at least until noon. Between our loudmouth neighbors and the arrogant sunlight intruding through my bedroom window that I couldn’t afford curtains for, I guess sleeping in really was a ridiculous expectation. The strange dream I just had probably didn’t help matters either, judging by my tank top that is now soaked in sweat. I wish I could remember what the dream had been about. I glance at the clock on my bedside table, and it’s only 7:30. Dad was right.

I really believed that if I picked up extra hours at the shop, I’d be able to save up enough money to get us out of this dump by summer. Again, Dad knew better. Of course, if he would put down the bottle and pick up a pen and start filling out that job application I picked up for him a few months ago, things might be different right now. Maybe we would actually be able to afford a two-bedroom apartment so he wouldn’t have to sleep in the living room anymore. Maybe we could afford a place with actual air conditioning and walls thick enough to filter out our obnoxious neighbors. We might even be able to afford a place where the neighbors actually have some kind of consideration for each other. To be honest, if we were ever fortunate enough to end up in a place as decent as any of that, Dad and I would most likely end up being the obnoxious neighbors.

With the way we’ve been fighting lately, we probably already are. At least Dad and I just yell at each other on occasion. We’ve never gotten into anything physical, unlike the people in the apartment next to us. Seems like by now they would have run out of dishes to break and furniture to throw at each other. Dad says that God always seems to give the loudest voices to the dumbest people because he knows that nobody would listen to them otherwise. This Sunday morning is no exception.

The neighbor’s bedroom is on the other side of the wall, right next to mine. Already, I can hear him screaming at her.

“Get up and make me some goddamn breakfast, you useless whore!”

I would never talk to my girlfriend that way.

Surprised by the silence that follows his disrespectful demand, I roll over and face the wall, listening intently. Sure enough, the moment of silence is followed by her screaming,

“You want breakfast in bed? Here’s your breakfast!”

There’s a loud crash and the shattering of what I assume to be a glass plate smashing against the other side of the wall next to me.

Time to get up.

I roll out of bed and make my way into the living room. For a moment, I am surprised to find Dad’s couch empty. He’s never up this early. It isn’t until I walk to the kitchen, check the calendar and realize that it is the first Sunday of the month that I remember he’s at the church. More hungry than religious, Dad attends one service a month in exchange for a couple bags of free food offered by the church. I used to feel guilty taking the food when we don’t attend church as regularly as we probably should, but Dad said that it’s okay because God knows we need it.

I open the fridge and grab the last bottle of water, the only thing left in there besides a six pack of dad’s beer. When I walk back into the living room, a wave of sadness washes over me at the sight of the empty beer bottles that clutter the table in the corner, and the floor in front of the couch. Dad wasn’t always like this. About a year ago, right after Mom walked out, he just lost it. He just stopped caring about everything, stopped going to work, stopped leaving the house unless absolutely necessary. Wasn’t long before we lost the house and I dropped out of high school to get a job and moved us into this dump. As much as I hate to admit it, if it were just me on my own I know, I would be able to afford nicer things. Having to support him holds me back. I guess that’s just the way it has to be right now though, right?

The clock on the wall above the TV says it’s now a few minutes after 8. Dad will probably be back around 11, which gives me enough time to give in to my sudden, overwhelming urge to straighten this place up. Now that I think about it, I don’t really think this living room has been clean since the week we moved in, about 6 months ago. The furniture hasn’t been rearranged since then, either. Maybe if I clean it up, move things around, take down these damn blankets that dad nailed over the windows and let the sun in, Dad will feel a little better. I know I will. I grab a trash bag out of the kitchen and start collecting the beer bottles.

A few hours later, collapsing on to the newly-positioned couch, I admire my work. The room looks a lot bigger without all of the bottles, and with the couch over here under the window. The light coming in through the open window gives the place a happier atmosphere. Maybe the brightness of the sun’s arrogance wasn’t such a bad thing after all. Dad’s gonna love it. He should be back any time now.

I grab the remote and turn the TV up to block out the sound of the couple next door fighting again. I wish they would lose their voices, even just for a day. Today, her voice is even more annoying than he is.

Mid-way through an old rerun of The Walking Dead, dad walks in. I pause the TV and turn to face him so I can absorb his reaction as he enters the room.

To my dismay, his face immediately drops.

“What the hell is this?” He yells, his tone of voice more of anger than excitement.

“I thought I’d do a little spring cleaning-”

“I liked it how it was! That sun is too damn bright through that window!” He throws the two bags of food on the floor behind the front door, causing a carton of eggs to splatter and start to leak out of the bag. He grabs the arm of the couch. “Move!”

I get up and run to the kitchen doorway, to watch as he angrily shoves the couch back against the wall it was originally next to, the one that separates our apartment from the loudmouths next door. I just stand there, speechless as I hear the woman next door scream “I HATE YOU!” to her boyfriend. At that moment, I know exactly how she feels. Dad plops down on the couch and reaches for the remote.

I need to get out of here, I can’t even stand looking at him right now.

I run to my room and slam the door. I grab my old high school backpack out of the closet and start stuffing clothes inside. As I head to the bathroom for my toothbrush and deodorant, I am stopped by two extremely loud bangs, followed by Dad’s screams.

Running into the living room, I see dad sitting at an awkward angle, halfway hanging off the couch. His hands, grasping his chest, are covered in dark red. “C-call an am-ambulance,” he chokes.

Completely numb, I stand outside of the hospital room. The flat line on the electrocardiogram monitor next to Dad’s bed forever etched into my brain; An infinite linear reminder that I won’t be giving that Father’s Day card that I had tucked safely away under my mattress to anyone next month, after all. I don’t even notice the Officer standing next to me until he speaks.

“I am so sorry for your loss, son,“ he says, placing a hand on my shoulder. “I can’t imagine what you must be going through. I am so sorry to ask this, but we need you to come with us to the station for some statements.”

“Wh-why did this happen?” My question is aimed at God, but the officer answers instead.

“I am so sorry,” he repeats, “It appears that the people in the apartment next to you got into some kind of alteration, and he shot her. One of the bullets must have missed her and gone through the wall and…”

Suddenly, I remember my dream from the previous night, and it all makes sense why I woke up in a cold sweat and had the overwhelming urge to rearrange the living room this morning.

“Why couldn’t Dad just leave the couch by the window?” I ask.

God doesn’t answer, and this time neither does the Officer. ________________________________________________________ (C) GIna Clingan 2018 Originally published on Thought Catalog

[shutupandshipit]

Little Life - Ch.10

Summary:  A baby could ruin his career before it had even started. If anyone found out, he would be kicked out of the Hero Course at the very least and UA at the very worst. Even then, how was he supposed to care for a baby once it arrived? He was a fucking seventeen-year-old boy, not a twenty-nine-year-old omega with their shit at least somewhat together.

…..

Or where Katsuki get pregnant, but is determined to make it to graduation. No matter what it takes.

Pairing: Bakudeku

Rating: T (just for language mostly)

Chapter: 10/16

Previous <- Chapter 9

Chapter 11 -> Next

Master Post

NOTE (MUST READ BEFORE PROCEEDING!): Just a heads up! TW: Blood, miscarriage scare, nightmares. If you're sensitive to any of those, you should skip the italicized portion at the beginning! Possibly the whole chapter actually, but the italicized portion is the worst of it. Next chapter we hit 9 months!

Chapter 10: 8 Months

Pain ripped through Katsuki's abdomen, exploding out through his entire body. With trembling hands, he gripped his stomach and gasped out, "I-Izuku- Alpha- Help!"

He was so hot, hotter than any heat had ever made him before, and he was terrified. He could feel his baby, distressed and flaying in his body. Their tiny little feet pressed out desperately against his skin. They were too big. Why was his baby so big? What was going on? He needed help. He needed to help his baby. Alpha! Alpha!

"Izuku!"

But he was alone in some side alley, his hero uniform ripped to shred and body trembling. He could hear the battle still raging outside the alley, but he couldn't see anyone. When had he gotten there? How had he gotten there? Where was the blood coming from?

The blood. There was so much blood. On his hands. Coating his legs. Growing in a pool beneath him.

Another wave of pain ripped through him, and a torrent of blood flooded from between his legs, gushing and warm.

"No," he croaked as he felt his baby's movements slow, "No! No! You can't have my baby!"

But whatever god may have heard him wasn't listening.

The blood continued to flow, growing faster while his baby's movements only grew slower.

"Alpha!" he called out desperately, flinging out his scent as far as he could. Still, no one came.

No, that wasn't right.

A shadow filled the opening to the alley, and it shambled forward, hands shoved deep into pockets. "Guess we were wrong to try for you after all." There was a sneer in their voice, harsh and reveling in his pain. "You can't even protect your unborn pup from your own body. What a useless hero."

Fear roared up in Katsuki louder and hotter than before. Desperately, he called out, "IZUKU!"

.....

Katsuki woke with a strangled gasp of Izuku's name on his lips, his scent overpowering in his room. He clutched at his drenched shirt over his abdomen, blinking into the darkness around him. His heart hammered in his chest. Gasping, he slapped around until he found his lamp and switched it on quickly. Soft amber light banished the darkness, but he still wasn't comforted. The now oft repeated nightmare hung over him like a layer of miasma.

A quiet, mewling, "Izuku," slipped out before he could stop himself. There was no one in his room to see him. That was the problem though, and he wrapped his arm around his stomach and curled his knees close to his chest. "I'm not going to let anything happen to you. I'm not. I swear. I'm not."

He jumped when someone knocked tentatively at his door, but he didn't move.

The knock came again. "Kacchan? Is everything alright? Your omega was calling out."

Bolting off the bed, he jerked his door open and pulled Izuku through. He wrapped him up close, pressing his face into his neck.

"Did you have a nightmare again, Kacchan? It was only a dream," Izuku whispered sleepily, voice soft and soothing as he ran a hand down his back, "You're safe. I'm here. Hey, don't cry."

And he was crying. Shoulders shuddering. Tears hot on his face.

"Ssh, ssh. It's over. Was it one of the usual?" Izuku effortlessly lifted Katsuki in his arms and took him to his nest. He settled them their, Katsuki cradled in his lap, arms strong and warm around him.

"No."

"A new one?"

"I- I couldn't- protect someone- who is important to me. I couldn't- stop it from happening," he whispered in spurts and stops, grip tightening in the back of Izuku's shirt, "I was so fucking useless. I couldn't even protect someone who is helpless."

"It was just a dream. Whoever they are, they're still alright. It's fine. Everything is fine."

'Pup. Tell him. Keep pup safe, alpha,' his omega whimpered.

'I'll tell him today,' he promised silently, and let Izuku comfort him.

.....

Katsuki was fucking pissed. Primarily because the sidekick he'd been patrolling with had told him to go home early. He knew he wasn't in top form after the abysmal night's sleep with his nightmare still haunting him, but he'd thought he'd been hiding it well. Secondly he was pissed because he was feverishly hot and now, achingly horny.

Those were the only things his mind could really focus on as he found Izuku alone in the locker room. He was fiddling with a broken clasp on his glove, looking more battered than usual after a patrol with Endeavor. It had been more than half a year since he'd felt the almost primal urge to pin Izuku to the ground and ride him until he was the only thing Izuku knew. Curiously, his omega was wary in his chest, but he ignored that for pushing Izuku against the lockers.

Crowding Izuku's space, he worked his fingers into his belt, jerking at the material to get it to loosen. How the fuck did he get this stupid utility belt off again? He couldn't remember. His mind was a haze of heat and lust, but he wasn't above tearing his uniform to shreds if Izuku didn't start getting undressed. Now.

"Kacchan! Wha-"

"Get naked. I need you in me this time yesterday. Immediately. No arguments. Hurry the fuck up, Deku," he panted, kissing up the side of Izuku's throat to nip at the tender skin beneath his jaw. "Hurry the fuck up before Icy-Hot comes back."

"He already went back to the dorms for today," Izuku stammered, wrapping his fingers around Katsuki's wrists and holding fast. He struggled, but Izuku only tightened his grip. "Kacchan, when did you go into heat? You should have called me so I could take you back to the dorms. That was really dangerous."

A bucket of ice water dumped into Katsuki's system, and he stilled. "What the fuck did you just say?" he asked numbly, the haze of heat fading at his words. Now, he was present enough to think. Present enough to hear the worried whine from his omega vibrating against his breast bone. Present enough to actually feel what was going wrong. How wrong it was.

Izuku's frown deepened. "You're in heat. Didn't you feel it coming on? Doesn't it feel familiar?"

No, in fact, it did not feel familiar. He hadn't gone into heat for eight fucking months! No, it did not feel familiar!

"It's weird though. I don't feel my rut coming. I don't really even smell your heat. We've never been out of sync bef-"

Katsuki's nightmare crashed over him, and his knees went weak with horror. "Take me to a hospital." Fear roared through him, overshadowing everything else in his body. He and his omega simultaneously pumped out their pheromones in cloying waves, filling the room with the noxious scent of their fear and mounting distress.

"What? No, I have to take you-"

"Take me to a goddamn hospital, Izuku!"

Izuku's nose twitched, and understanding, or at least acceptance, dawned on his face. He released Katsuki's wrists but caught him immediately as he collapsed to his knees. "Okay, but we need to change. I need you to tell me why though."

"No! There's no time for that! We have to-" He was hyperventilating, could barely gasp out a single word. There was no strength in his body in the only moment he needed it to be there. This fear was paralyzing, so much worse and different than anything he'd ever felt before. Different from battle, from when he'd feared Izuku, from when he'd been told he was an omega. It was so incredibly different from when only his own life was on the line.

"We can't go to a hospital in our hero uniforms," Izuku said gently, lowering him to the floor and crouching in front of him, "Please, Kacchan, what's going on?" He was trying to blanket Katsuki in his own calming scent, but there was nothing he would be able to do to calm Katsuki right now.

He grabbed for Izuku, fingers trembling, and whispered, "Please, take me to a hospital. There's no time."

.....

Izuku got them changed quickly, and they were lucky no one was in the hospital waiting room. Silently, while they both continued to panic, they were led into an exam room. Izuku was left outside while Katsuki changed, had a vial of his blood taken, his vitals checked, and asked pertinent questions about his condition. When Izuku was finally let back in, he was crying.

"Kacchan, please, what's going on? What's happening?" he whispered, searching for Katsuki's hand on the exam table.

His palms were soaked, but still, he took Izuku's hand and squeezed tightly. "Wait until the doctor comes in."

They stayed like that, the clock ticking away every semblance of calm Katsuki had ever had. The minutes felt like hours, only pushing him closer to joining Izuku's sobbing. Silently, he prayed as hard as he could to whatever god or goddess might be listening to him. 'Let them be okay. Please, anything you want, I'll give you anything you want for them to be okay. Please, please, please, not my baby. Not my baby. Anything but my baby.'

The doctor opened the door with a wide smile, chart open in his hands. Closing the door behind him, he sat down and turned to face them. "You can calm down, Mr. Bakugou, everything is fine. And you too, Mr. Midoriya. I'm guessing your panic came from the sudden onset of your heat?"

Katsuki nodded silently, staring fixedly at the doctor. Urging him to hurry the explanation along. He could still feel his heat bubbling in his veins, but there was only the warmth now. Nothing else. He didn't glance over as he felt Izuku's eyes boring into him.

"Right. That can happen. I assume you did your research?" Katsuki nodded again. "So, I assume you now what Braxton Hicks contraction are or spotting? It's similar to that. Being an omega, things are a little differently oriented down there for you, so you wouldn't exhibit the same things as a beta female. It's true that a sudden heat can be the precursor to a miscarriage, but you're far enough along that that's less likely than you may think."

"Miscarriage?" Izuku whispered almost silently.

Katsuki stiffened beside him.

"Yes. Sometimes early in the stages of pregnancy, a heat can indicate the start of a miscarriage due to the internal omega attempting to become impregnated immediately as they would be the most fertile at this time." The doctor continued, but didn't seem to notice the change in mood as he flipped through Katsuki's chart. "It can be induced by a number of things, but in your case, this is only your body getting ready for labor. Everything is opening up in preparation for the birth. It's perfectly normal, and nothing to be worried about."

"Labor?" Izuku squeaked, voice several octaves higher than normal.

"Yes, you are... 36 weeks along which is a little early, but again, not uncommon especially with how much stress you are not unlikely under. No need to worry though. You are completely healthy, and your pregnancy hormones are nominal." The doctor glanced up with another smile. "We'll run a few more tests for the baby since you're here. I'll be back in just a moment with a nurse." He was gone before Katsuki could wonder if he'd run mediator in the mounting shit storm brewing at his side.

"Baby?" Izuku's voice had nearly crested the frequency out of hearing range. Katsuki could feel rather than see him turn, and he braced himself as Izuku's voice dropped dangerously. "Kacchan, what was he talking about."

"I was going to tell you."

"Oh yeah? When? Next week? Two weeks? When you were going into labor and literally couldn't be there without me?"

"Today," Katsuki grit out. He could feel his temperature rising, the stress pushing out any relief he'd been feeling before. The juxtaposition of Izuku yelling instead of him was not a situation he was particularly a fan of, but he deserved it.

"36 weeks, Kacchan!" Izuku burst out, ripping his hand from Katsuki's and jumping up to stand in front of him. "All this time you were pregnant, and decided not to tell me? All of the weird stuff you've been doing because you were pregnant? How long have you known?"

"Right after that night. I was certain two weeks later."

"This whole time?" Izuku nearly screamed, "What would you have done if you'd miscarried because I wasn't around enough? Would you have even cared?"

Katsuki's heart stuttered at the implication, and he wrapped an arm around his stomach as if trying to protect his baby -their baby- from the onslaught. The tears he'd been holding back finally spilled over. He growled, "Stop yelling at me. How can you ask a question like that?"

"How could I not?" He was still yelling, his face red and tear streaked as green lighting flickered around him. He always did loose control of his quirk when he got emotional, even now.

"Of course I fucking care, Izuku. I've cared this whole time. They're our baby. I've been terrified that might happen," Katsuki whispered because it was the only volume where his voice didn't shake, "I've had nightmares about it. The nightmare last night- They're our baby. How could you think I wouldn't care? I've never cared so much about someone I haven't even met yet in my life."

"Then why?" Slowly, the atmosphere calmed along with his voice.

Katsuki breathed shallowly, and he hiccuped, betraying his tears. "Because I want us to be heroes, but if I was caught, at least you'd still make it. Is that wrong? Why do I have to keep repeating myself?"

Izuku was quiet for a moment, processing that bit of information. "You said you have to keep repeating yourself. Who else knows? Just tell me someone has been helping you, that you haven't been doing this completely alone."

Swallowing again, he said, "Kirishima, Mina, and Ochako. I told Kirishima because he was freaking out. Ochako figured it out on her own. Mina is just nosy."

"Thank god." Izuku's arms wound around him tightly, and Katsuki held onto his shirt with everything he had as his shoulders shook. "I'm so glad you're okay, both of you. God, I'm so glad."

"I'm sorry," Katsuki choked out because there was nothing else he could possibly say in this situation, "I'm fucking sorry."

"I know," Izuku whispered into his hair, "I'm going to be mad at you for a long time, but I know. I love you, you stupid, stubborn asshole."

They stayed there, crying into each other, until the doctor sheepishly came back in.

Together, they listened to their pup's strong heartbeat and watched in unadulterated wonder as they stretched and pressed a foot into the wall of Katsuki's womb. Izuku cried silently the entire time, and when the doctor handed them printouts from the monitor, he huddled over them.

"Do you already know the sex? Do you want to?"

"No," they said in unison.

"Okay. They're small and growing slowly, but healthy. It's typical for male omega babies to be smaller than normal for various reasons. They're probably the healthiest baby I've ever seen," the doctor said as he patted Izuku on the shoulder, "You're both very fortunate. Most male alpha-omega couples aren't. Hang in there you two. They're almost here."

When they made it back to the dorms and were safely cloistered in Katsuki's nest, Izuku whispered, "I'm still pissed."

Katsuki was wrapped around him, stomach pressed flush against his back as their pup moved and stretched and pressed their feet against Izuku's spine. This was the most they'd moved throughout Katsuki's entire pregnancy. He hadn't realized just how much they needed him and Izuku to be in concert together. "Yeah, not surprising. I deserve it."

Trembling hands wrapped around his arm, holding tight. "You can't hide something this important from me again. You're my best friend and mate. We're supposed to be able to tell each other everything. So, please. Don't keep stuff from me anymore even if you think its for my own good."

Katsuki tightened his hold. If there had been any space left between them at all, it was gone. "This is the last time. I promise," he said, and for the first time in a long time, he was being completely honest.

[maladaptive-ninja-returns]

The Siren & The Healer (8)

Natasha Romanoff arc

Chapter 8: The Raven Haired Man

Platonic Natasha x fem!Reader, Loki x fem!Reader (soulmates?)

Theme: With cracks between the most powerful superheroes of the earth, Natasha Romanoff does not find rest when she is assigned on a mission to find the missing pieces of a puzzling power that once nearly got into the hands- rather, tentacles- of Hydra. In order to unearth the pieces, she must dig through her own past and make a decision that might decide the fate of the earth in the coming wars.

Series: Will contain violence, death, destruction, softness, fluff, smut, friendship, and whatnot

Chapter warnings: alcohol, dreams, shock, love, lots of PDA

A/N: This was written a few years ago with an OC in mind so reader has a name but it is a reader insert.

Word Count: Will I ever be able to find love?

MASTERLIST in bio, love

“Identification.”

“Alianovna. I’m here to see your boss.”

The six and a half feet tall muscled giant looked down at the redhead with emotionless eyes, not making an effort to move even his eyelids.

“The boss isn’t in,” he finally huffed out, eyeing you standing behind the assassin.

“Really, Krugo? Do you want to tell your boss you made her wife walk away from right outside her door?”

Natasha could feel your eyes go wide with a muted gasp barely escaping your lungs. “You are-” you tried to hold the excitement within, balancing your voice- “married. Cool! Very cool! Cool cool cool cool cool cool!”

“Boss’ wife had promised me cookies,” Krugo muttered under his breath.

Natasha smirked and you felt the need to come into full view of the bodyguard with a huge box in your hand. “This must be for you then,” you declared, opening the lid to show huge chocolate chip cookies waiting to be devoured.

Krugo watched the bounty intensely before breaking into a smile. “You never forget.”

“Of course not, Krugo,” Natasha acknowledged with a hug for the cute giant, who went ahead and opened the door for her and you to be let in.

“How do you balance your-” you flailed your hands in the air for the shortage of words for what you were experiencing- “work and personal life?”

Natasha kept walking down the dark corridor till she was at the door marked ‘Restricted entrance’, turning the knob to open it for the both of you. “It’s not that hard when you and your partner are in the same line of business,” she put it mildly before directing you to walk inside the room equipped with monitors, recorders, IR boxes and whatnot. And in the midst of it all stood a woman with her arms across the chest and her demeanour that declared she ran the goddamn place without even saying it.

“Rosa,” the assassin greeted her wife with a tone dipped in the morning dew and spread all over the skin with the utmost tenderness by the lover.

Rosa was an entire world in herself from where you stood. Her soft curls ending from the raven hair into golden brown ends framing her face perfectly. Her lips wore a mocha shade- soft and notoriously sexy at the same time- while everything else was bare. She was dressed in a black blouse over blue jeans being complimented by a black leather jacket and for the second time in one day, you were starting to question your orientation.

“Tasha,” Rosa greeted back- her heavy voice a strong declaration in itself- taking a step towards her wife, bringing her hands to settle on her waist before running up her back as she kissed her. You pretended to find a coffee mug on the table interesting to give the wives some privacy till Natasha made introductions.

“Are we adopting her?” Rosa casually spewed while opening beer bottles for the guests. Natasha burst in giggles while you stood there confused.

“I am an adult,” you stressed, “a full-blown adult, in case you didn’t notice.”

“Beer, adult?”

“No,” you shook your head, “I’d prefer something stronger with the kind of day I’ve had.”

Rosa smirked and you could see the same movements that you saw in Natasha when she first had a conversation with you. She was already studying you up and down. “I’m sorry I have to ask because curiosity is killing me. Are you a black widow too?”

Rosa took a sip of her beer while Natasha sat in her wife’s chair and looked at her with her fingers resting on her lips and other hand caressing the beer bottle in her hand- looking like a human struck with love for the very first time.

“I was,” Rosa stated, sitting down on the table, one leg dangling, “but I got out of the system early and made my way through the world till I settled here. For now. Currently, I’m a Detective and a home-made jewellery maker. What about you?”

“I’m supposed to be studying Artificial Intelligence, Data Science and Networks but I’m currently at crossroads with my career decisions and have a couple of nicely suited hitmen chasing me for reason unknown. Your wife says it’s something to do with some ancient weapon that someone might have told me about. But all things ancient- especially the secrets- that I’ve been told about are either violent, racist or incredibly sexist in nature. And none of them mentions any ancient weapons to take out modern Nazis or that creepy guy who keeps calling your wife a...a...what was that word?”

“Rusalka,” Natasha helped, making Rosa’s head whip in her direction with her eyes going wide.

“I thought he was dead!” Natasha shrugged at her wife's reaction.

“Why does he keep calling you a mermaid?” you were genuinely interested in knowing the history there.

“He’s actually calling me a siren when he uses that term,” Natasha mentioned matter-of-factly. Rosa shifted from the table to a chair beside Natasha, taking her arm in her own, letting her fingers entangle slowly to rub away whatever stress she could. “He has always called me that. Ever since we were kids.”

“...because you lured enemies with songs?” You tried to guess.

“Because I was made into a weapon who would lure the enemies with the illusion of becoming what they desired the most. A damsel in distress they could dominate, an invisible records keeper they could blurt out their secrets to, a useless spy they would share their plans with because they had big egos, a lover, a widow, a victim, an object of pleasure, a friend, a keeper. It’s really not that hard to deceive men. I mean, so was every other black widow.”

Your furrowed brows took everything in for those two seconds of silence. “Yeah, the mermaid thing makes sense if every widow was a siren. Mermaids are pretty badass too. On top it a Russian Mermaid? I mean-” you ended the sentence by mimicking an explosion in the head.

Rosa chuckled. “I like her,” she muttered into Natasha’s shoulder before turning to you, “have a drink at the bar. On the house. Tell them my name. And if anyone tries to mess with you tell them they rather mind their business if they don’t want to end up like Damon. They’ll know what it means.”

“Cool!” you exclaimed before going back out into the club, leaving the two lovebirds to finally get some alone time to themselves. Rosa took the opportunity to drag Natasha into the couch with her, wrapping her in her arms and cuddling with her; showering her with kisses till she could feel her wife’s shoulders let go of the stress they had been holding throughout the day.

“Tell me what’s going on, Tasha,” she softly spoke into her ears while Natasha played with Rosa’s hair.

“Whoever Yuri is working with is after Keosha. At first, the theory was that she knows something or has something to do with the weapon Hydra is after. But I’m starting to question that after she saved me from falling debris by just placing her hands under it.”

“What?”

“Yeah! Rosa, she was making chunks of rocks float! When I asked her she said this had happened for the first time. She said she was taught this old Japanese art of healing where the force of the universe is used to heal and protect things. She said when she saw me trapped and about to be hit by the falling ceiling the force worked like an adrenaline rush and she blocked it. Well, the force blocked it. That’s what she kept saying. That she’s just a medium and the force was doing all of it.”

“Weird but okay. Go on.”

“So, Nakia went-oh, she’s-”

“I know who she is. Go on.”

Natasha raised her brows at Rosa, turning her face up a little to be caught off guard by the little peck that came on her forehead. “Nakia talked to her sources and confirmed that there is an existence of monks in Japan who practise this form of healing and are said to take on anyone as a student who is willing to learn. And often in the past, they have experienced a short surge of that...thing to protect people during floods or some catastrophic events. In comparison, what happened today was nothing.”

“Okay. So, if she’s a noob in this healing thing, she won’t be of much use as a weapon to Yuri.”

“Right?”

“Maybe her teacher or someone like that is connected to the weapons?”

“That’s what I’m thinking. The last time the weapon was nearly in Hydra’s hand was in India. Keosha grew up in India till her father moved to Japan with her. Then she was between countries and continents for a while. If they had to come all the way for her, it could mean that the weapon wasn’t that country anymore. Or the person connected to it. And Keosha seems to be the only key.”

Natasha loved the rise of Rosa’s chest when she sighed, the former burying herself in that warmth and closing her eyes. “Looks like you have your work cut out for you, shortcake,” Rosa hummed, stroking those fiery strands to put her love at ease. “Hmm,” Natasha replied, breathing in the familiar scent of cocoa coming from Rosa’s chest, “I do. But for now, I’d rather lay here in your arms.”

.

The club was lit in a golden glow off the walls with a dance floor separated from the bar with a decent sitting arrangement right in the middle that faced the stage for occasional performances. You enjoyed tonight’s performance by someone who went by the name Serena with a Long Island in your hand and another on its way. It was relaxing, the serenade of the sweet voice mixed with whatever incense was burning inside this place to make it smell so good. Wonder what Rosa’s looking for in such a place. 

“Hey, beautiful. Can I buy you a drink?”

You had jumped at the voice being so close to you before turning around to see a man leaning on the bar, next to you, almost at the edge of invading your personal space.

“I have one, thanks,” you politely declined, going back to enjoy the performance.

“Come on, sweet cheeks,” the man continued, stepping closer this time to raise all the alarms in your body, “let’s take a corner and get to know each other a little.”

Your brows crinkled hard and turned to face him. “I’m sorry, are you hard of hearing? Or is something wrong with your sight?” The man did not know what to say so you continued. “Are you sure you can hear clearly? Because I just said no. And if that doesn’t suffice, do I look like someone who would be ready to bang the first person she sees in the club?”

The man made incoherent noises like a lost ostrich, not sure what to say. “She’s wearing a Hello Kitty t shirt with baggy jeans to a club, man. How could she not be more obvious?!”

“Yes! Thank you!” you acknowledged the other voice next to you, turning to see a middle aged man with a french goatee and shaded glasses nursing a glass of whiskey on the rocks that were raised in your direction.

“Aren’t you too young to be drinking?” the man shot his head back a little with a shade of confusion as he looked at you. You could not help but notice the expensive blue suit he wore to tell you he wasn’t some low life, unlike the other guy who made himself scarce as soon as the embarrassment hit him.

“Aren’t you too old to be wearing glasses inside a club?” you hit back, raising your glass to clink his.

“No, but seriously,” he continued after taking a sip of his whiskey, “you look too young. Hey, Marvin, did you check her ID? Did you come here alone?”

“Oh my G-”

“What! This isn’t a place for kids. Wait, are you safe? Are you in some kind of danger? Look at me. Look at me. Blink twice if you’re being used by some shady peeps for some shady businesses.”

An eye contest later- which this man lost- you finally spoke. “I’m fine. I’m here with a friend. And I am an adult. So, do you mind if I have my drink in peace?”

He raised his hands in peace and went back to his own drink.

A long satisfying sip later, something started bugging you. “Have we met before?”

“Me?” The man asked just to be sure. “You? I'm sure I would've remembered Hello Kitty."

You kept staring at him till your brain hurt. "Ugh! I swear I feel like I've seen you somewhere. But for some reason, you seem much...younger?"

The man feels his head jolt and his eyes nearly pop out. "You mean I was younger when we met? Allegedly."

"No. I mean when we met, you seemed old and...and wrinkled and definitely tired. Like dead tired."

Before he could say anything, he got caught in your eyes searching for something on his shoulder. "What."

"Is your arm okay?" You poked him over his blazer, making him smack yours away.

"Hey! My arm's okay. Don't touch me!"

"Huh...maybe it was someone else then?" You stared at his arm for a while before giving up. "You don't seem like the type to suit up in some weird funky suit anyways."

The man's back went straight as an arrow. "Okay, listen, young lady. One, no one wears and pulls off suits like me. Two, there hasn't been any mofo born who can do it like me. And three, why are we still talking?"

"Oh, I'm sitting here because you're giving off such a dad vibe that no douchebag has come over to offer me a drink. And you're sitting here because you are waiting for someone that clearly hasn't shown up yet," you concluded, popping a peanut in your mouth before taking a good sip of your Tea.

"Phone Call for you, Mr Stark." The bartender drove a metaphorical sword through the whole conversation with a wireless phone in his hand.

"Looks like you a busy man, Mr Stark. See ya later."

"Hey," the man addressed as Stark called out for you when you left your seat at the bar, "you better not be running into trouble, kid."

You guffawed, trying to hold your stomach to not barf any of the liquor you just had. "Thanks for the advice, dad, but it looks like trouble is kinda my thing now."

With that last salutation, you tried to make your way back to wherever you came from- your drunken brain trying to make sense of the passageways that appeared in front of you.

In those very passageways you tried to make sense of dreams- the ones that reluctantly came to you- and some unrelated memories that somehow always found its way to mingle with the present, no matter where you were, what you were doing; there always seemed to be ghosts of the past revolving around you, questioning your existence.

“Stark,” Your tongue repeated that name, time and again, like some forgotten flavour wanting to be revisited by your brain forcefully. Oh...only if you knew. Only if you knew.

I have to go to the loo. Where the fuck is the fucking loo?! It was a nightmare for two minutes before you finally found the door with the engravings shouting out “female” before you ran in and shut the door behind you and let the dams break as soon as the mirror showed you your sweet face.

You knew it was just the drinks but the feelings inside you poured themselves out, trying to find an outlet they could before they were shut down.

“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! What the fuck is happening?! I never asked for this?! What the fuck is happening?! Oh God! Oh God! Oh God! Oh Fuck! Why am I crying? Why am I CRYING?!!”

As if to answer your prayers behind those closed eyes, you saw a green pair of eyes looking straight at you with the intensity of a thousand burning suns. “You are stronger than you give yourself credit for,” they announced in your direction, forcing you to get up and find your way. And so you did.

Turning the knob you barged into that one room you knew was safe.

“WE HAVE TO FIND MY MASTER, NAT! SHE’S IN JAPAN!”

It was one of those moments when- even though you were proud of yourself, you did not want to live anymore, thanks to the peak of drunkenness you were currently swimming in. The flush of heat in your cheek was proof enough to drive you out when you saw Natasha and Rosa busy in...having the time of their life.

“Oh my God! I’m so sorry,” you nearly felt yourself cry before bowing to the host and running outside, never remembering Krugo leading you to the VVIP lounge where the Stark guy let you sleep with your head on his lap while he waited for the news on his friend and gently patted you to sleep while constantly cursing himself and calling his girlfriend to ask what to do in case of a drunken kid sleeping in his lap.

.

Loki woke up with a headache- a low compensation for what he had experienced right before he had been tormented into a coma.

“What happened?”

Though the question was a genuine throwback from his end, it irritated the hell out of the sisters who had tried to mend the biggest crises of their lives seconds ago.

“You hit your head and went into a coma” Nebula narrated with ease and patience fit for a storyteller of the ancient times. “Here, drink this,” she offered him some water.

Loki, reluctant to be deceived by any more mind tricks, observed the water in Nebula’s hands before being convinced it was safe to drink.

“Why are we even helping him?” Loki heard Gamora utter those words before being given a judgmental stare by her sister to quiet down and let her take the lead.

“Are you alright?” the younger one asked the God with genuine concern in those beady eyes as she wiped away the blood from the wound slowly healing in Loki’ head.

Loki did not give a convincing answer before drowning- once again- in the maze of the leftover chaotic flashbacks he was witnessing of some life unknown- something different to his own existence before he regained control of his presence; his true present.

“I’m fine,” he finally blurted out, his hands still grasping onto the metal rod in the ship that was helping him maintain his equilibrium. “Where’s the loo?”

Even though it was satisfying for the entire spaceship for the moment, it wasn’t sufficient for him. He walked with a pretentious walk towards the loo before locking the door behind him as he tried to balance his mind. His fingers was digging into his temple while he was trying to get to the root of whatever he had been witnessing- the incoherent cries, tumbling buildings, fast-paced heartbeats, chaos and whatnot till he was focused on those y/e/c eyes reflecting the cheap lights of some shady dancefloor till they were mixed in them, dancing and mingling with them right till the second a heavy voice rang in your ears. “We have to get you to a safe place.” If it weren’t for the emergency, Loki’s subconscious was sure of having already mingled with the sweet poison that was those eyes and be lost in them.

.

You were sure you had cried. Cried while Natasha and Rosa tried to get you out of the club and to the plane waiting for you by the edge of the city, You were pretty sure Aneka wanted to throw you out of the jet if weren’t for Natasha and Nakia holding her back, asking you to drink water after every thirty minutes.

“Where are we going?” Your teary, subconscious state asked Nakia.

“Japan,” she answered before she was content that you had ample amount of water and that Aneka was at a considerable distance from you as possible. For now.

“Who is that guy with that long, black, sexy hair?” you asked a genuinely confused Natasha.

“I don’t know who you’re talking about sweetie” were the last words you heard before slumber took over everything in this dark world.