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t0wnspersonb · 4 years

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Kiss it Better (Tsukishima Kei x Reader)

Anonymous said:

Hello I just read your fics about Kuroo, Akaashi and Bokuto and I really liked them 💞 So I was wondering if you could write a fluff fic where tsukki gets embarassed trying to make the first move you can also just add things to your liking If you don‘t want to that‘s totally okay I‘ll be waiting for your upcoming fics thank youuuu 🧡

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Omg that’s so funny because my next story was literally going to be just that! I had a lot of fun writing this one and might do a part two with some *cough* smut *cough* just like Kuroo, everyone is lowkey a Tsukishima girl. I hope you like this anon!

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Word Count: 2,293

Summary: Tsukishima has always liked you, but you’ve never noticed his advances. A trip to the nurses office might change your mind.

~~~~~~~~

You liked to think that you were friends with the tall blonde sitting behind you in class.

But sometimes…

Thunk.

Sometimes…

Thunk.

Sometimes you really wanted to fucking strangle him.

Thunk.

“Can you stop kicking my chair!?” you hissed, staring at the smirking middle blocker.

“My foot slipped.” he replied coyly, causing your scowl to deepen.

Before you could retort back to him the bell rang, signaling the end of class. You started packing up your stuff, grumbling to yourself about how rude Tsukishima was.

“Don’t you want to walk to the clubs together?” He called out to your leaving form.

You huffed turning around to see him and Yamaguchi looking at you.

There were times when Tsukishima didn’t annoy you, and those were the times you would walk with them to your after school club activities.

You were part of the photography club, which was on the way to the gymnasium that held their volleyball practice.

But again, you only walked with them when Tsukishima wasn’t being an annoying little prick.

Today definitely wasn’t one of those days. He had been bugging you all day. It went from his annoying comments to him poking at you harshly, and then to kicking your chair.

You weren’t sure if it was because he was bored and had nothing better to do, or if it was because he actually didn’t think of you as a friend. Or because he was just simply an asshole.

Maybe it was a combination of all three, you didn’t know.

“No way.” you sniffed, sticking out your tongue to him. “I don’t want to walk with you anywhere today. If it was just Yama-kun then I would. But not if you’re there. Stupid.”

Tsukishima visibly looked annoyed at your statement.

“Y/n-chan.” Yamaguchi called out, raising his hands up as he looked at both annoyed expressions. “You guys should try and get along yeah?”

“Be quiet Yamaguchi.” Tsukishima sighed, moving to walk past you. “If she wants to be childish then just let her. I’m surprised she even got into this class.”

“I’m surprised Yama-kun is even your friend.” you fired back, crossing your arms over your chest. “I bet you aren’t even good at volleyball.”

Tsukishima paused, and then before you could even register what had happened, he was leaning down, incredibly close to your face and to your body. You could physically feel his body heat radiating into your own. His hand resting on the doorframe, preventing you from leaving the room.

“Why don’t you come by and find out?” he said slowly, ignoring the panicked squeak that escaped Yamaguchi’s lips. His gold eyes were piercing into your own, but you couldn’t see any anger in them at what you had said, you couldn’t see an ounce of annoyance either. But there was something else there, something you couldn’t place.

Ignoring your hammering heart and the heat creeping up into your face, you shoved his arm away scowling. “Maybe I will. Maybe I’ll take pictures of you sucking and have an article published in the school newspaper about you being a terrible person and sucking at volleyball!” you huffed stalking away from the tall first year angrily.

You ignored the calls of Yamaguchi and just focused on heading towards your club.

Today was definitely one of those days where you wanted nothing to do with Tsukishima.

The relationship you had with the middle blocker was incredibly strange. One minute you guys were perfectly fine with each other, and next - well it was exactly what had just happened.

Tsukishima scoffed as he watched your retreating figure. But he couldn’t deny the fact that your reactions were incredibly lame, but incredibly cute.

“You shouldn’t tease her like that Tsukki.” Yamaguchi sighed. “She’s never going to like you back if you keep making her mad like that.”

Tsukishima didn’t say anything as they continued their way to the gym.

Everyone knew that he liked you. It was incredibly obvious, and Tsukishima always made sure to make it incredibly obvious.

But it wasn't obvious to you.

The one person that it mattered to the most.

You were frustrating and amusing, stubborn and incredibly smart, quick-witted and incredibly beautiful.

The entire package.

And Tsukishima wanted you to be his.

But you were too fucking dense to realize that.

And quite frankly, he was getting sick of it. For as smart as you were, you were incredibly thick when it came to stuff like that it appeared.

It frustrated him to no end.

Usually what he depicted as playful flirting you thought as him just being downright mean.

It was a constant cycle, neverending.

It was ridiculous.

Actually scratch that.

This was ridiculous.

It had been a couple of days since that last encounter, Tsukishima deciding his chances at winning you over would probably be better if he stopped his teasing for a little bit.

But right now you were nodding your head rapidly in understanding as Hinata talked to you. You were there during one of their practices, to take photos of them. A project that you had to do for your photography club. Takeda-sensei had given you permission to be there to snap pictures of the team.

“- And then I go boom!” Hinata exclaimed bouncing around.

You smiled at his antics. “That sounds incredible Hinata! Do you think I can take a picture of you doing your crazy jump?” you asked, holding up the camera for emphasis.

But before he could utter an answer, Tsukishima interrupted. “We have to start practice, you can just take pictures then.” he said to you, glancing at you briefly.

You rolled your eyes at his aloofness and apologized to Hinata who was protesting loudly at what Tsukishima had said. “He’s right Hinata, I don’t want to impede on your guys’ practice so just pretend like I’m not here and I’ll take as many pictures as possible.”

Reluctantly he agreed and everyone continued the practices Ukai had asked them to do before splitting up into different teams. They were doing a match.

You were honestly in awe as you watched them play. You didn’t think that volleyball could be so… amazing. You had teased both Yamaguchi and Tsukishima about how boring the sport was.

You were so wrong.

You had almost forgotten to take pictures, you were so captivated.

But what had surprised you the most, was Tsukishima. You had never seen him so… concentrated? So serious? So… so attractive?

You felt your face flush, shaking your head to rid yourself of the thought. That was ridiculous. You had never been attracted to the middle blocker, you found him annoying, a completely arrogant, unnecessarily tall asshole, and… and he was incredibly good looking.

What was wrong with you? How could you even think of something like that? How could you - “Watch out!” your eyes went wide as a volleyball came hurtling at you with rapid speed.

Your eyes squeezed shut, readying yourself for the impact.

Only it never came. You heard a loud grunt and opened your eyes to see Tsukishima clenching at his fingers, the ball rolling away from his feet.

He… he protected you from the ball.

Tsukishima’s pointer finger throbbed in pain, he knew it wasn’t broken, but the nail had torn just a bit, blood seeping out of his wound.

He wasn’t sure what possessed him to move, he knew that Nishinoya was closer to you, he knew that he was heading towards the ball to stop it from hitting you. But his body just moved after he called out his warning.

“Oi Tsukishima are you okay?” Tanaka asked running up to him, several of his teammates surrounding him.

He removed his hand to reveal his bloody nail, causing you to gasp lightly.

“I need to stop the bleeding. I’ll go to the nurse.” Tsukishima said quietly.

“Let me help you.” You blurted out immediately, causing all eyes to be on you now. “It’s my fault you got injured.”

The tall blonde nodded, and both of you left the gym quietly.

“He’s got it bad huh?” Tanaka smirked, staring after you guys.

“I hope he can confess properly.” Yamaguchi sighed.

***

The walk to the infirmary was incredibly quiet, awkward almost. But it was just your luck that the nurse was nowhere to be found.

“You can go. I can take care of it from here.” Tsukishima said quietly.

You shook your head. “No. You got hurt because of me. At least let me help.” You started to take out the necessary equipment to help disinfect and wrap his finger. “Go ahead and sit down.” you said gesturing to the bed.

Tsukishima didn’t bother arguing, silently sitting at the edge of the bed and watching you closely.

Even sitting down, he was still incredibly tall. The top of his head just below your chin. You held your hand out his expectantly, he sighed quietly before placing his much larger hand in yours.

Carefully you cleaned up the blood and began wiping down the wound with a cotton ball soaked in alcohol. The smell stingy your nose, but the atmosphere around the both of you was quiet, calm almost.

His hand dwarfed your own, his fingers long and elegant, and surprisingly soft against your own touch.

Tsukishima couldn’t deny the fact that he was enjoying this immensely. You stood incredibly close to him, slightly between his parted legs as you worked. He could smell the soft perfume on your skin and the laundry detergent you used on your clothes.

It was a wonderful smell.

Maybe… maybe now would be a good time to tell you… right?

“I’m sorry Tsukishima.” you said quietly, wrapping his finger. “If I wasn’t there you wouldn’t be in this position.”

“It’s fine. It’s nothing serious.” he said, equally quiet.

“Does it hurt?” you asked, tilting your head to the side slightly as you stared into his gold eyes.

Tsukishima could feel the blush rising in his face, you were just too cute. The way you looked concerned about him. He liked that. He liked that a lot.

“It might hurt less if you kiss it better.” he said. He couldn’t resist, this situation was incredibly ideal to him.

You looked incredibly confused for a moment before taking his hand and gently pressing your lips against the tip of his injured finger.

Tsukishima felt like his heart was about to leap out of his chest, his face burning at the sweet gesture. And even though his finger was wrapped up, he just knew that your lips were incredibly soft. His other hand came up to press against his face, the backside of his hand covering the lower part of his face in embarrassment.

“What’s wrong?” you asked frowning, you had just done what he had said. Your heart was racing for some reason though, you weren’t sure why.

Tsukishima couldn’t take this anymore. He grabbed your wrist and tugged, pulling you into his chest, and then flipping you over onto the bed, his upper body hovering over yours.

Your face was completely red, you thought your heart was about to pop, he was way too close and his face held nothing but seriousness.

What did you do?

“Tsukishima-” “Quiet.” he demanded.

You snapped your jaw shut.

You watched him take a deep breath in before speaking. “You are the most infuriating person I know. You’re stupid and you don’t pay attention to what’s going on right in front of your face.”

Your nostrils flared slightly in anger. “Well right back at you asshole!” you grumbled back.

He rolled his eyes and moved his face closer to your own, causing you to quiet down once more.

“But despite how incredibly dense you are, you’re smart, you’re witty, you’re stubborn, you’re hardworking, you’re pretty -”

You have never been more confused in your entire life. Did he just insult you and then compliment you? Did he just call you pretty?

“ - and I literally can’t take this anymore.” he pushed up his glasses just a bit. “I’ve given you so many hints, made it so ridiculously obvious, and you still don’t understand you dimwit.”

You frowned further at his insults.

“I like you.” He said, “I’ve liked you for a while now. You just have never noticed. I want you to go out with me.”

He couldn’t handle the shy expression on your face after his confession. The soft look on your face, and the dark red blush coating your cheeks. His eyes flickered towards your lips, and he started to lean closer. Your soft hands came up and gently rested against his chest, but you never pushed him away. Your eyes fluttered shut as you prepared yourself for what was about to come next.

You could feel his breath hitting your face gently, causing your lips to part as you readied yourself -

“Tsukishima! Everyone wanted me to go check on you and -” the door opened suddenly, and Hinata stood staring at the scene before him.

Tsukishima whipped his head around with a hard glare at the orange haired male who had gone pale, and then had turned dramatically red at the sight before him.

You couldn’t help but cover your face in embarrassment at the position you and Tsukishima were in.

“I-I’m so sorry for interrupting!” Hinata screamed and slammed the door.

Tsukishima sighed, deflating slightly before removing himself from on top of you. He ignored the blush in his face as he stood up, looking back at you still laying on the bed.

So incredibly tempting.

“Wait for me after practice. We can walk home together.” He said simply before leaving the infirmary.

Did you… did you just get yourself a boyfriend?

You hoped so.

#tsukishima kei #tsukishima x reader #tsukishima x you #tsukishima imagine #tsukishima fluff #haikyuu!!#haikyuu x reader #haikyuu x you #haikyuu fluff #tsukki #one shot #tsukishima oneshot #tsukishima kei x reader #reader insert #request #requests are welcome #haikyuu tsukishima

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mandoalorian · 4 years

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Sugar and Spice [Maxwell Lord x Reader] - Chapter 2

Summary: When you are evicted from your apartment by your toxic ex boyfriend and have no place to go, who do you turn to? Alone in the city as the countdown to Christmas begins, you find yourself applying for a job as the assistant of the world’s biggest entrepreneur; Maxwell Lord. Little do you know, he has other intentions for you. No doubt about it, this Christmas will truly be like no other.

Word count: 3.2k

Warnings: Eventual smut, mentions of a previous verbally abusive relationship, typical 80s misogyny (but very little of it), mentions of food and drink, alcohol consumption. This is a sugardaddy x sugarbaby fic soooo… a daddy k!nk too oops.

But in this chapter - allusions to sex and MAJOR sexual tension hehe :)

Author’s note: Chapter 2 let’s go!! I hope everyone is enjoying so far! Remember if you wanted to be added to my taglist feel free to let me know!

MASTERLIST | SUBMIT REQUESTS

PREVIOUS - CHAPTER TWO - NEXT

You had been mesmerised just from entering Black Gold Cooperative— but actually stepping foot in Maxwell Lord's office was a whole different story. The entire building was decked out in Christmas decorations, pine trees and tinsel on every corner, but as you stepped foot in his larger-than-life office, there was not a single thing that highlighted festive spirit in sight. Nevertheless, you were in awe, immediately taking in the paintings, the pottery, the statues… it was like every little thing was embellished in gold. You hadn't even laid your eyes on Maxwell yet, but he was certainly looking at you.

You weren't exactly sure what you took a man like Maxwell Lord for. You considered him to be the tacky kind— but every piece of furniture in his office looked antique— like it came straight out of a museum. You admired the paintings on the walls. One thing's for sure, you didn't expect him to be a man who appreciated art culture. They were magnificent, and of all different shapes and sizes.

Maxwell Lord slouched back into his chair and watched you intently, his dark eyes following your every move. You were like no other girl who had come in for an interview, that's for sure. You were dressed in a thick, cream coloured winter coat and he noted the hat and gloves that were stuffed messily into your pocket. Your wet boots left a puddle of water where you had entered his office and he noted the little snowflakes balancing in your windswept, knotted hair.

He was surprised, to say the least. The past week he had been conducting interviews in-attempt to find someone suitable for the job role at hand. Dozens of young girls would confidently strut into his office— their high heels clicking against the expensive marble floor. They would try wooing him with a bat of eyelashes, which of course, Maxwell did not shame their attempts. Despite their unsuccess at acquiring the job, Maxwell did make sure they got a little something from him in return.

The businessman's eyes darted to the trash can under his desk as he looked at the discarded silk handkerchiefs he had just used to clean himself up after his last interview. Then, he re-acquainted his gaze to you, and picked up on the fact that you had yet to acknowledge his presence. You were too caught up in the furnishings of his office. You really were different.

"Ms Minerva?" Maxwell called you eventually, clearing his throat. Not recognising your newly claimed fake name, you didn't budge, but instead let your fingers trace the countries of a world map that hung on the wall. Pins had been stabbed into the capitals of most countries and you wondered what it meant. Perhaps it was all the countries he had visited— or more likely, all the companies that had shares in his black gold business. "Ms Minerva." Maxwell repeated, his voice more solid this time.

You felt your body freeze up, wondering how long he had been calling you for. Shit, you thought. You really believe you had messed up— just stumbling into his office and paying no attention to him whatsoever.

"Oh!" you gasped, spinning around on the heel of your foot, almost slipping on the water you had trailed in with you. Maxwell couldn't help but let the small smirk creep upon his lips at your clumsy but innocent nature. "Your office is… it's so…"

"What you expected?" Maxwell prompted, leaning over the desk slightly trying to get a closer look at you.

Something about your demeanor drew him to you and he couldn't place his finger on what exactly it was. He wondered what your deal was. He wondered why you had decided to attend possibly the most prestigious interview of your life dressed the way you had. You hoped he didn't think you were deliberately ignoring him.

"No- I mean. I'm not sure what I expected, really," You admitted with a small shrug before approaching an oil painting. "This is magnificent," you said. "I've never seen such intricate work before."

The painting was huge— quite possibly the biggest one in the room. It was posed, of course, and you wondered how long the poor models had to stand there to be painted. They were positioned on a grand staircase with a purple carpet rolling up it. They looked stern- mean- not an emotion in sight.

"That's a family portrait," Maxwell informed you from his chair. "My family."

Oh.

You digested the image of the couple with their young son. The child was no older than ten, you guessed, with dark blonde-browning hair and he was dressed in a shirt, shorts and bow tie. The couple stood behind him, and the pair consisted of a beautiful woman with red hair and pearl earrings wearing a fur coat and sleek silk dress. "Your wife is gorgeous." You said, quietly, entranced by the family portrait.

Maxwell paused, his eyes not moving from you for a second. "That's my mother." he deadpanned.

You curled your fingers into a fist at your own shameless and idiotic comment. You could not forget how much you needed this job— you had to do better.

"Oh," you replied, feeling a flush of embarrassment wash over you. "So that little boy is you, hm? Your hair is lighter nowadays," you smiled light-heartedly but Maxwell didn't share the warm sentiment. "You look just like your father." You admitted, eyes flicking between the suited man in the painting, and the suited man who was sitting at his desk behind you.

Both men were of an average height, with broad shoulders and the same, identical cunning smirk. Big brown eyes and swept but styled hair. You very little about the Lord family — to the general public, they were always an enigma. Tabloids would spread rumours and no one ever really knew the truth. You hoped you hadn't hit a nerve with the comparison, but as seconds went on, you cursed yourself for your inability to just keep your mouth shut.

Maxwell didn't reply to your comment, and the silence was deafening. For the first time, he looked away from you and into the light oak wood of his desk which he had inherited from his late father. He let a few sad thoughts ponder his mind as you continued to scower his office looking at all the high end decor, before taking a big huff of breath. It wasn't her fault, she couldn't know any better. Maxwell told himself, but it didn't hurt any less.

Her words stung but he pushed them back as far as he could. Blocking out his emotions was something Maxwell had done his whole life and had become quite accustomed to. This was ridiculous. Maxwell wouldn't let himself get worked up over a brief comment about his father, by a girl wearing a last season winter coat who he had never met before. He stiffened up and cleared his throat.

"Ms Minerva, if you are going to just scope my office I'd be in my right mind to call security and have you thrown out." Maxwell sighed, tapping his fingers impatiently against the desk. Your head bolted towards him.

"Oh! I'm so so sorry." you pressed your hands in a pleading manner.

As Maxwell took in your form, his mind began to race. He could get used to looking at you like that. Pleading for him— on your knees— begging for just a taste of what he had to offer. The dirty thoughts consumed his mind and he shifted in his chair feeling a familiar fire in his lower stomach. Brushing past your pretty, doe-like eyes, he reached for a gold fountain pen and an expensive looking journal, opening it up.

"Why are you here?" Maxwell asked, dropping the pen, slouching back into his leather chair and kicking his feet up on his desk. You swallowed the hard lump that had appeared in your throat as you took in his posture.

"Uhm, well I- uh-" you struggled to find words. My god he was attractive. You hadn't paid much attention before, but now that he was sitting there right before your eyes, you felt a small warmth creep up between your legs.

He was just lounging right before you— his body spread out. He wasn't wearing the smart suit jacket as you had pictured, but instead, a crisp white button down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. You could see the light hair on his arms glisten under the setting sun, and the yellow gold of his Rolex wristwatch sparkle as he played with the rings on his fingers.

Maxwell caught you staring at his hands. How could you not? Teasingly, he began rolling his jewelled rings up and down his long thick fingers. You found yourself biting your lower lip, pulling all your energy into suppressing a moan as you watched the way his fingers moved. You took in every detail, wanting to remember it forever— the light bronzed shade of his skin and the wrinkles over his knuckles. His nails were short but definitely well manicured. You let out the smallest gasp as you imagined how they would feel inside of you. You wondered how many of his fingers you could take and how they would stretch you open. You imagined his thumb rubbing circles into your clit as he finger fucked you and suddenly you felt your panties dampen. Your knees went weak.

He moved his large ring clad hands and folded them against his broad chest, a devilish smirk playing on his lips. You always wondered to what extent his magazine covers had been edited but he was just as handsome as he was on television, in real life. One thing you noticed was that his usual styled dark blonde hair was only slightly out of place, and the top two buttons of his shirt were undone. It was a change from his ordinary pristine appearance. Seeing that you were struggling to answer his question, Maxwell pointed his finger and gestured you closer to him. You walked towards him and stood still in front of him, only his desk between you both.

"Take it off." he mumbled, his gaze strong and steady on your body. You swore your mind was playing games on you as you engulfed his dark choice for words. You were absolutely ready to submit to him but deep down you knew that you were over-thinking.

"I- I'm sorry?" You croaked out.

His smirk grew and a small dimple appeared in his left cheek. "Your coat. Take it off." He commanded and you mouthed a small 'oh' before following his instructions and dropping your wet winter coat to the floor. You cursed yourself. You were ready to completely undress yourself for this man you had never met before. Did he have this effect on everyone? "Turn around." he prompted you, twirling his finger in gesture. You slowly spun around a few times and Maxwell was struggling to contain himself.

You were delightful— wearing just a pair of washed out flared jeans and a geometric print t shirt. The jeans were very 70s, flaring out at the bottom, and Maxwell wondered how out of date your wardrobe was. He wondered if you'd let him take you out clothes shopping. Maxwell felt flushed as he took in how perfectly the denim sculpted your thighs and the round of your ass. He found your body exquisite. The t-shirt was thin, and he was surprised you had opted for such a fashion choice in the depth of winter. Despite the central heating being turned on, he couldn't help but notice the way your nipples poked through your shirt, hardened from the cold weather— or so he assumed they were hard from the cold weather. You felt his eyes bore into your chest and you crossed your arms over yourself, hoping he hadn't spotted your arousal. Maxwell felt his cock twitch at the sight of you and he fought the urge to bend you over and fuck you right then and there on his desk. You had an air of innocence to you, and he didn't want to ruin that. At least, not yet.

"Is everything okay sir?" Your voice was soft like honey and a small grunt escaped Maxwell's throat. He had just gotten off with his previous interviewee but you were simply something else.

"Perfect," he hummed wistfully. "Please, take a seat." You obeyed his order and slid down into the chair opposite to him. "Tell me, Ms Minerva. What urged you to lie about your identity?"

You felt your heart stop and your fingers gripped the arms of your chair. Shit, you thought to yourself. He had caught on. You gulped and tried to find a quick witted yet believable response to him but it you couldn't. Normally you were great at answering back but sitting before Maxwell Lord had you feeling some kind of way and you couldn't shake it.

"Tell me, who are you really?" He urged. You contemplated his words and decided there was no pointing in continuing your long winded lie. You were surprised you had made it this far without getting caught in the first place. He was still smirking, however, and it seemed like he didn't really care at all. Giving in, you told him your real name.

"Mr Lord, if I may ask, how did you know I wasn't Barbara Minerva?" you asked Maxwell.

"I can read minds." Maxwell said darkly, staring deep into your eyes.

Oh, his eyes. They had darkened significantly— once a chocolate brown but now they could easily be confused for black. Suddenly the extravagant decor around his office had become a mere back thought and you had been absolutely captured by his handsome looks. His skin was golden under the setting sun behind him and it accentuated the blonde highlights in his hair. His eyelashes were long and dark and his lips were the perfect shape. His nose was rather prominent and curved slightly and you imagined what it would be like pressed against your face as he kissed you.

You wanted him to take you in his arms and glide his large hands all over your body, caressing you and touching you everywhere he could. Sliding his hand up your shirt and cupping your breast as he settled lazy sloppy kisses into your neck and collarbones. Realising you had been silent for perhaps a moment too long, you let out a loud laugh.

"Right," you chortled in disbelief. "Read minds. Very funny." you grinned and you even caught him stifle down a dry chuckle.

"I like you," Maxwell admitted and you felt your heart stop. "I think you'd be well suited working for me. Of course… we might have to sort out your wardrobe. I'd like to offer you a job."

He had barely asked you any questions and he already made his mind up. You couldn't believe your luck.

"Wait, really?" you asked, your eyes widening with delight.

Maxwell nodded slowly. "Did one of my secretaries have you sign an NDA on your way in here?"

"Yes sir," you bit your lip anxiously. You had wondered what the non-disclosure agreement was for.

"So you know that if you repeat any of this to anyone else after our interview is over, I can and will sue you."

Not that you had any money anyway, his cold words still made you nervous. He was one of the most powerful men in the world. Friends with the president of the USA, he had relations with practically every country who bought his oil, and now, he was offering you a job.

"Yes sir." you repeated obediently, fluttering your eyelashes at him. The way that word rolled off your tongue— He felt his cock harden in his pants. You were just so damn pretty.

"I have to tell you then," Maxwell leaned forward on his desk, interlocking his fingers together. He was inches away from you, gazing into your eyes. "I'm not looking for an assistant." His voice was dark and menacing and a lustful glint appeared in his eyes.

"You- you're not?" You stammered, feeling your cheeks flush with heat. You wondered what job you had actually gone for.

"How familiar are you with sugar dating?" Maxwell raised an eyebrow, his eyes now glaring dark and sinister.

"Su-sugar dating?"

You weren't overly familiar, but sure, you had read your fair share of erotic novels that illustrated such prospect.

Maxwell stood up from his chair and walked around his desk before perching on top of it and looking down at you. "I'm looking for a certain kind of arrangement, per-se," Maxwell explained. "You give me what I want, and I give you what you want. Money, clothes, diamonds, jewellery, cars… whatever your heart desires. It's yours. Think about finally having everything you always wanted."

Your gaze met the floor as you contemplated his words. No, he couldn't be serious. He had the wrong girl. "Sir," your voice was a timid whisper. "I don't think I possess anything you could want." you told him sadly, insecurity bubbling inside you. He was the Maxwell Lord. Esteemed, knowledgeable, reputable, and he worked amongst the most beautiful and well dressed women you had ever seen. Yet, here you were, sitting before him, and he had chosen you.

Maxwell shook his head. "No." he said simply, extending his arm and curling his fingers around your chin, pointing it upwards so you were looking up at him. He wanted to trace your pretty lips with his fingers— spread them apart and feel the warmth as he let you taste him.

"No?" You beckoned, your heart trashing against your chest. His hands were so soft but his touch was rough and he steadied the hard grip around your face. If it were any other man, you would've pushed him off you, cursing him. But this wasn't just any man.

"You have everything I want."

December Magic: @kiwi-the-first @100layersofdaddyissues @mrschiltoncat @honeymandos @thisisthe-way @this-cat-is-dea

Permanent: @goth-topic @supernaturalgirl @phoenixhalliwell @ah-callie @luvzoria

#maxwell lord #maxwell lord x reader #maxwell lord smut #pedro pascal #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal smut #max lord #max lord x reader #max lord smut #december magic #pedro pascal christmas

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iliveiloveiwrite · 4 years

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Flame of a Candle

A/N: The wonderful @lupins-sweater requested a Remus fic where the reader has a candle addiction and let me tell you, I fell in love. Also, two fics in one night! Apologies to my taglist, but I couldn't stop writing and I had to post it. I will be getting to my other requests this week as well as finishing my Draco Malfoy series. As always, I hope you enjoy, it’s pure fluff! Also, the candle scents I mention are real candle scents from the ones I have in my room (they’re all inspired by books!).

Pairing: Remus Lupin x Fem!Reader

Warnings: fluff, mentions of food.

Word count: 1.8k

It was not your fault.

It absolutely was not your fault that the newest shop on the high street was an independent candle store.

And it wasn’t your fault that instead of entering the bakery like you had planned, you walked into the candle shop.

It also wasn’t your fault that you left the shop with a bag full of candles.

You made it to the bakery though, grabbing everything on your list. Bread, teacakes, vanilla slices for Remus. The visit to the new candle shop, simply a small stop on the way.

You would usually make this trip with Remus; his hand gripping yours tightly as you peeked in the windows of all the shops. But you left him bed in this time, snoring away, completely oblivious to the world. This past full moon had been exceptionally rough; he came back with larger cuts and bruises that had you silently crying as you patched him up. It never did get any easier to see the added injuries after a full moon.

The day is beginning to brighten as you return to the home you shared with Remus. The garden path lined with pansies and marigolds, adding a cheery disposition to the ivy-covered cottage you called home.

Remus would be soon awake, so you head to the kitchen to put his vanilla slices in the fridge before adding your new candles to the ever-growing collection that had slowly filled three cupboards with differing size jars and tins.

Your placing the final glass jar candle in the cupboard when you hear his footsteps creaking on the stairs and his raspy voice calling out.

“Darling, what are you doing?” Remus questions; his voice still gravelly with sleep.

It had been a week since the last full moon, and he was still catching up with missed hours. He was awoke once as he reached out for you in his sleep and found your side of the bed empty; it worried him for a minute but then he realised that you would be in town so sleep quickly overtook him again. He stirred back awake to the sound of the closing cupboard door; his senses still sensitive after the change, hearing and smelling everything within a small distance.

The hesitation before your answer has his curiosity piqued as he steps into the kitchen to see you closing a cupboard door.

“Nothing, dear!” Your voice chimes.

He chuckles, “You really are the worst liar.”

“Excuse me? I’ll have you know that I am an excellent liar – so good in fact that MI6 are thinking of hiring me.”

“(Y/N), I love you, but yes, you’re the worst liar.”

“I’m hurt, Remus. Truly, deeply hurt.” You gasp, holding a hand to your heart.

“Stop deflecting,” He laughs, “What were you doing that’s so secretive?”

You fiddle with your fingers, “So I went into town to go the bakery,”

“Is that it?”

You shake your head, “Well I got somewhat waylaid on the way to the bakery.”

Remus raises an eyebrow, leaning against the kitchen counter and crossing his arms, “Now you’ve got my attention.”

“There’s a new shop that’s opened on the high street; what used to be the bridal shop.”

“Put me out of my misery – what type of shop is it?”

“A candle shop.”

A slow smile breaks over his face, “How many did you buy?”

“Around ten or so.”

“Ten? (Y/N), sweetheart, we have cupboards full of candles.”

“I know but let me show you them! They smell so good!”

“Of course, but I need to know – did you go to the bakery?”

“What do you take me for? I could never deprive you of your vanilla slices. They’re in the fridge.” You peck his lips quickly before turning to grab your latest purchases from the cupboard.

Remus heads to the fridge; his stomach growls at the sight of the vanilla slice waiting for him. Healthy breakfast be damned, he turned into a werewolf once a month, if he wanted dessert for breakfast, he was going to have it.

He puts it on a plate before settling down at the dining table.

He isn’t angry – why on earth would he be? Candles bring you joy. He’s a minute away from suggesting you start making them yourself but when you set the candles down the table with such care and look at Remus with such excitement at showing him your haul; all sentient thoughts leave his head and he’s left with the love he feels for you.

Remus takes a bite of his sweet, “Tell me about them, love. What did you buy?”

You grin; the smile crinkling the corners of your eyes. And yeah, Remus’ heart just skipped a beat.

“Oh, Remus! It’s such a cute shop – entirely independent and it has the most positive energy. I could spend all day in there! And the owner is so lovely! So helpful. He looked shocked at the pile of candles I put by the till, but I simply couldn’t not buy anything. You know how I am with candles.”

He chuckles, “Like a moth to a flame. So what new scents do we have?”

You hold up one of the glass jar candles, “Okay… So we have: forget me nots and mountain air; Damascus rose and sweet orange; night jasmine and citrus; coffee and chocolate; lavender and patchouli; burnt sugar and rain; lily of the valley and white musk; sweet peaches and ripe cranberries; crisp apples and rose petals…”

You trail off, putting the lids back on them once Remus had smelt them and had handed them back to you.

Remus points at the final jar, still unopened, “What does that one smell like?”

You avoid his eyes as you murmur, “I had to buy it when the shop owner explained its properties.”

“Oh?”

You nod, unscrewing the lid to the candle, taking a sniff before handing it to Remus. “It holds healing properties.”

“How so?”

“It’s got peppermint oil to ease headaches. As well as lemongrass and vanilla to help relieve stress and tension and promote relaxation. I thought we could give it a try for a couple of nights before you leave for the moon.”

He looks up from his study of the candle, “You bought this for me?”

You nod, shrugging, “It’s something to try. You always try to downplay the headaches you get but I know how much pain you are in and that healing potions do little to help other than make you drowsy. So I thought we could try this; we could light it when we start getting ready for bed. You don’t have to though, Remus. It’s entirely your choice.”

“You did this for me?” He asks, voice shaky.

You frown, “I did. Is something wrong? Did I do something wrong?”

He shakes his head, trying to find the right words, “You did absolutely nothing wrong. I just didn’t expect to feel this touched by your candle addiction.”

“You haven’t noticed have you?”

“What?”

“Remus, the majority of my candles all have some healing properties in them. I’ll do anything I can to make the transition that little bit easier whenever we don’t have access to the wolfsbane potion. This is the first time you’ve actively noticed it though.”

He opens his mouth, then quickly closes it. He never realised the meaning of the differing scents – and he should have. He got top grades in Herbology and Potions, but it never clicked with him. He would always comment on the scents; whether they were pleasant or not, but he simply put it down to your love of them.

Remus finally realises what it feels like to love and be loved with just as much passion in return.

“So you don’t have a candle addiction?” He finally says, his voice hoarse with emotion.

You chuckle, “Oh no, I do. I definitely have a candle addiction; it’s been there before I was with you, but you kind of give me a purpose to buy them.”

He passes the jarred candle between his hands, “So you do all of this to try and ease the days before the transition?”

You nod, “I can’t do a lot in those few days, Remus. I’m only useful when you come back and I can help patch you up, but before then, there isn’t very much I can do to help, and it hurts me. I had the idea when I was clearing out my candle cupboards; getting ready for my Christmas collection. I was reading the labels and it suddenly hit me and I don’t know how I didn’t think of it before. But it’s been a while since we were at Hogwarts. Anyway, as I was reading the labels, I realised the healing properties of the oils in the candles. So I bought a Herbology textbook and started brushing up on my knowledge of plants that could help.

“The opening of the new candle shop was pure coincidence, but I had to buy the candle once the owner explained it to me. Your headaches are so bad, and I can never do a lot other than place a cold flannel on your head to lessen the pain but even that doesn’t work a whole lot. So I light the candles, making sure not to overwhelm you with the smell, and they seem to help a little.”

Remus is sure his face is a picture. You were right; in the days before he leaves for the transformation, he suffers with tension headaches from the pain of the moons path and his resistance of the monster within. You could never do a lot; it’s a pain that not even the strongest pain potions could touch. Yet, you tried to find a way to help him. You came up with your own solution.

“I love you.” He states; the only words he’s capable of saying right now.

You smile, it lighting up your face, “I love you too. You’re not mad?”

“How could I be mad? You buy candles with the sole purpose of trying to ease my pain. I’m the furthest thing from mad; I adore you.”

You blink away the tears, “Remus…”

“You’re incredible. First, you love me despite my being a werewolf and having to leave you every month. And then, you try to ease my pain by finding candle combinations that help with headaches and anxiety. What did I do to deserve you?”

“You were you, Remus. I fell in love with you in Fifth Year when you spent the entirety of our free period asking me about my favourite books. We were supposed to be revising for our OWLs, but you wanted my attention completely. And you got it.”

He takes a smell of the candle, committing the scent to memory, “I’ve loved you just as long. I saw your battered copy of Wuthering Heights peeking out of your bag and I just knew.”

You point at the candle, “What do you think then?”

He grins, “I think we’re going to have a lot more candles lit around the house.”

*********

General (HP) taglist: @the-hufflefluffwriter @obsessedwithrandomthings @kalimagik @summer-writes @lupins-sweater @slytherinprincess03 @mischiefsemimanaged @soleil-amaryllis @masterofthedarkness @bforbroadway @chaotic-fae-queen @peachesandpinks @nebulablakemurphy @haphazardhufflepuff @siriusly-addicted-to-writing @firewhisky-kisses @deafgirltingz

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tsarisfanfiction · 4 years

Text

Long Way From Home: Chapter 8

Fandom: Thunderbirds Rating: Teen Genre: Family/Friendship Characters: Scott, Tracy Family

I’m back! Including this one, I’ve now got another five chapters written so we’ll be doing weekly updates again at least for the month of February. For those that haven’t been subjected to my chatting about it in discord or DMs, I write this particular fic in chunks that could almost be called arcs, before chopping it up into chapters, hence the sudden backlog. This section was only supposed to fill a small moment, not be an entire arc, but the boys disagreed with me on that so here we are.

Therefore, we have more playing around with the differences between the universes - particularly fashion, the TOS ideas of which are loosely based on the 1960s - a couple of familiar namedrops, and there’s a warning for a panic attack in this chapter, so watch out for that if it might give you trouble! I also know basically zero about Auckland, New Zealand, or correct communications between planes and airports, so sorry if there’s any inconsistencies here. Let’s just call it future advancements and an alternative universe!

<<<Chapter 7

The coastline of New Zealand looked more or less the same as Scott was used to when they finally arrived. The analogue dial of Other-Scott’s watch continued to taunt him, but if he had to guess, the journey had taken somewhere between one and two hours, and had largely passed in silence. Whether that was because Other-Gordon needed to concentrate on piloting, or simply because he was still holding up his promise of no more questions, Scott wasn’t sure, but he appreciated it regardless.

Being a passenger instead of the pilot was always an odd situation, and more than once he’d caught himself trying to shift imaginary controls in response to the clouds and air streams they passed through. If Other-Gordon had noticed, he hadn’t commented.

“Tango Alpha Ladybird to Auckland Air Traffic Control, requesting permission to land, over.” Beneath them, the city sprawled almost coast to coast, and Scott peered down, looking for familiar landmarks. Some of them were there, some of them were not. As low as they were flying – heading for the airport, no doubt – the Sky Tower should have been easily visible, but its distinctive shape was absent.

It shouldn’t have surprised him. Sky Tower was a telecommunications tower, and he’d already discovered that this universe didn’t use the same type of technology that he was used to, so its lack of presence made sense. But it had always been there, built sometime before the millennium and a major aspect of Auckland’s skyline. He’d flown past it many times, and even used it as an unofficial navigation point.

For it to be not there, either destroyed or never existed in the first place, reminded him that no matter how familiar some things might be, he really wasn’t home.

I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore, was a line famously quoted from an old movie. Scott had a bit of a soft spot for the Wizard of Oz – old fantasy films in general – but he’d never imagined he’d ever be playing the part of Dorothy.

At least Dorothy still had Toto, he mused sadly. If only he’d taken Mini-MAX with him on that mission, then maybe he wouldn’t be entirely alone… if Mini-MAX would even have been able to operate without a network to link into. Most likely, he’d have had nothing but the inactive husk of the small bot. Scott wasn’t sure if that would have been better or worse.

“Auckland Air Traffic Control to Tango Alpha Ladybird, clearance granted for runway four-bravo, over,” the radio crackled, yanking him back to the present.

“Tango Alpha Ladybird to Auckland Air Traffic Control, copy that, over,” Other-Gordon acknowledged. Scott watched him adjust their angle of approach accordingly and kept his mouth shut as the landing gear engaged and they gently touched down onto the tarmac scant minutes later. Other-Gordon visibly relaxed as soon as they were safely down, taxiing his way carefully over to a hangar emblazoned with a large T.A. As they entered, Scott could see several planes inside of various sizes and designs.

The one thing they had in common was the T.A. on their tails, identical to the letters on the hangar, and Scott found himself wondering what it stood for. Other-Gordon had used the same two letters as a callsign, and he eyed the nearest plane – a much larger one than the Ladybird – as Gordon rolled them to a gentle stop.

“What does T.A. stand for?” he asked, suspecting that Other-Scott would know that and having no wish to get caught out and face awkward conversations. This was the sort of information he’d tried to get out of his doppelgänger, but either he’d thought he would already know, or it was so basic he forgot about it.

The incredulous look he got from Other-Gordon as the man paused his post-flight checks suggested it was the former.

“Tracy Aerospace,” he said. “Dad’s company. Doesn’t it exist in your universe? I thought you said you were a billionaire!”

“I am,” Scott grumbled, “and it does, but it’s Tracy Industries.”

“Right,” Other-Gordon said, going back to the post-flight checks. “Rule number one: no talking.”

“Wha-”

“You look like Scott but you don’t sound like my brother and that’s something folks’ll notice, especially around here. The fellas on the ground know Scott well, so you’ve lost your voice. That’s the story.”

That made sense, but how was Scott supposed to tell Other-Gordon what he was looking for if he wasn’t allowed to talk? He asked as such as the younger man finished up the last of the checks and undid his harness.

The aquanaut just shrugged. “What are you after? Underpants… what else?”

Scott chose to ignore the not so subtle dig; it was getting old, but no doubt Other-Gordon wouldn’t let it go until he’d got changed, and likely not even then.

“Casual shirts, jeans and sneakers.” He repeated the list he’d given Other-Scott earlier and watched Other-Gordon’s face at the word ‘jeans’. He didn’t look particularly pleased, but Scott wasn’t going to back down on those. “Should probably pick up a hoodie or two as well. Pyjamas and shoes, too.”

“There is no way Scott said yes to a hoodie,” Other-Gordon frowned. “Hoodie and jeans? Those are workshop clothes; do you fellas really wear those?” Scott bristled, and he raised his hands. “Look, I am all for getting items that’ll make Scott go crazy, but I don’t want to be murdered in my sleep because the media thinks he’s gone cuckoo, so give me a minute to come up with a reason that won’t wreck his public image for the next decade.”

Scott frowned, but before he could say anything else, Other-Gordon grinned and pushed at his wrist watch. There was a dial tone for several moments before the string of numbers was replaced by Other-Scott’s face. The other man looked concerned and a little suspicious. Scott supposed he hadn’t been expecting the call, and an unexpected call from a younger brother was definitely cause for concern – especially when it was a Gordon.

“Hey there, Scott!” Other-Gordon chirped in a tone that immediately had Scott on edge, even though it wasn’t aimed at him. The faux-innocent, sing-song voice meant trouble, and he felt slightly guilty for whatever chaos was about to fall Other-Scott’s way.

Other-Scott dropped all pretence of concern and frowned at him in full-blown suspicion.

“You’ve only just arrived,” he said slowly. “You can’t have got in trouble already.”

“You underestimate me, brother dear,” Other-Gordon scoffed, before pulling a sickly-sweet grin onto his face. Other-Scott’s expression went from suspicious to mildly horrified, and Scott couldn’t stand it anymore.

“Gordon,” he warned, loud enough for the watch to pick him up. While he was all up for pranks, he couldn’t quite bring himself to let his counterpart be on the receiving end of one he was involved in. It felt uncomfortably like pranking himself.

Other-Gordon huffed. “You’re no fun,” he sulked, before turning back to the watch. Other-Scott, Scott was pleased to see, had lost the look of horror and was back in the realms of confusion. “Say, Scott, how do you feel about being a trend-setter?”

And the look of horror was straight back.

“What?” Other-Scott demanded. “Setting what trend? I’m not a fashion icon, Gordon! Set your own trends.”

Other-Gordon hummed thoughtfully. “That’s a fine plan, Scott, except anything I buy will be too small for him to wear, which somewhat defeats the objective.”

Other-Scott made a noise of frustration. “I told you, Gordon. Anything that ends up in the media is your fault.”

“Did you say that knowing your clone here wants hoodies?” Other-Gordon asked, eyebrow raised. Other-Scott choked. “Because he does and I know better than to try and talk him out of it.”

“Hoodies?” Other-Scott looked bordering on mortified. “Dad would kill me.” Something that could be guilt coiled in Scott’s gut; no matter what his feelings were about Not-Dad’s existence, the idea of Other-Scott getting in trouble with him on his behalf didn’t settle well. Other-Scott shook his head. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, Gordon, but what’s your plan?”

“I figured we could pass it off as experimentation,” Other-Gordon shrugged. “But you’re not well known for that so it would cause a stir.”

“You’re right about that,” Other-Scott mused, and Scott shook his head.

“I guess I don’t need one,” he offered reluctantly – he wanted one, but there was mildly inconveniencing someone and there was ruining someone’s reputation.

“No.” Other-Scott shook his head firmly. “We’ll make this work.”

“Well, it’s your funeral,” Other-Gordon muttered, before a grin slowly spread across his face. “You know, fellas, I think I’ve got it!”

“Do I want to know?” Other-Scott asked dubiously.

“It’s simple,” Other-Gordon continued as though his older brother hadn’t spoken. “We all know you wouldn’t willingly wear one, so we make it unwilling. Scott, you lost a bet.”

Other-Scott ran a hand through his hair. “I suppose that would work,” he conceded reluctantly. Scott could see the logic – short term embarrassment at the hands of a younger sibling would barely interest the media, but still explained why he was still in possession of a so-called workman’s outfit. “But I’m insisting on custom made. You are not coming back with some cheap off the shelf monstrosity.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it!” Other-Gordon chirped in a tone that said he had been considering doing exactly that. “We should start moving now, though. Jones is coming over and I think he wants to know why we haven’t left the cockpit yet.”

“I can’t say I’m in a hurry to have you wrecking my reputation but you probably shouldn’t make Jones suspicious,” Other-Scott sighed. “Hey, wait – what is this bet I’ve supposedly lost, Gordon?”

“If you don’t know, Dad can’t yell at you for it later,” Other-Gordon grinned back at him.

“Gordon.”

“What, don’t you trust me?” the ginger asked, pulling a face of fake hurt. Other-Scott scowled at him.

“With my life, yes. Not with my dignity.” Scott could relate to that.

“We’ll see you later, Scott.” Other-Gordon didn’t bother responding to the veiled accusation before signing off, returning the watch to actually looking like a watch just as a young man crossed the distance between the neighbouring plane and the Ladybird. “Here we go, remember you’ve lost your voice and let me do all the talking.”

Scott had a sinking feeling that was going to be easier said than done, but obediently followed the other man out of the cockpit just in time for the man on the ground to stride over to them.

“Gordon Tracy, is that you piloting a plane?” said man called, shaking his head in amazement. “Why, I couldn’t believe my ears when they told me it was you of all people coming in to land that red beauty of yours!”

“Gee, laugh it up why don’t you, Jones,” Other-Gordon commented dryly. “I didn’t fly all the way here with the worst backseat pilot in the world to get flack from you, too, fella.”

The man – Jones – squinted at Scott and for a heart-stopping moment he thought the man had realised he wasn’t this universe’s Scott, before he burst out laughing. “Scott Tracy letting someone else pilot? Now I’ve really seen it all. Say, how you been, old chap?” He stuck out his hand and feeling rather like a deer in headlights, Scott took it for a firm shake.

“Ah, Scott’s not so good,” Other-Gordon intervened before the silence stretched long enough to be awkward. “He’s only gone and lost his voice, but there’s shopping to be done so yours truly got the short straw.” The ginger gave a theatrical wince. “Turns out not having a voice doesn’t stop a fella from backseat piloting like crazy. He insisted on checking over all my post-flight checks! I ask you; you’d think he didn’t trust me with a plane.”

Scott shot him a look. While no doubt if Other-Scott had really lost his voice that all sounded perfectly feasible, he thought the ginger was laying it on a little thick. Other-Gordon caught the look and rolled his eyes.

“Well Mr Just Because I Can’t Talk Doesn’t Mean I Won’t Be A Pain here seems like he wants to get this over and done with,” he told Jones. Not strictly inaccurate, Scott supposed, although that hadn’t been what he’d meant. Other-Gordon lowered his voice. “Truth be told, he doesn’t want to be here; lost a bet and doesn’t like the forfeit.”

Scott put a warning hand on his shoulder and Other-Gordon laughed. Jones joined in politely, almost as though he wasn’t certain what the joke was, or if he should be responding to it.

“I’d say that means ‘hurry it up, oh favourite brother of mine’,” Other-Gordon translated. “Lock her down for me, would you? There’s a good man.”

“Yessir,” Jones agreed. “Your usual car’s been prepared for you. Mr Tracy said you didn’t want a chauffeur today?” A chauffeur? No, Scott absolutely didn’t want one of those – it was bad enough being piloted by a brother, or brother from another universe, as it happened.

“Not today, Jones,” Other-Gordon confirmed. “I wouldn’t inflict Scott in this mood on anyone,” he winked, and the man gave another awkward chuckle. “I’ll handle it all today.” Scott jammed his hands in his pockets impatiently. “See you around, Jones.”

“Likewise, Gordon, Scott.” The man nodded at both of them and Other-Gordon led the way through the hangar unerringly to where a classic vintage-looking convertible was waiting for them. With the roof down, he could see it was a right-hand drive – of course, New Zealand drove on the left; at least that was the same – so without prompting he let himself in to the front left seat and tried not to be too obvious about staring.

Plane controls might have been the same, but cars apparently weren’t. If push came to shove, he could probably figure it out – the car was at least an automatic, not stick-shift – but he was quite content to let Other-Gordon take the wheel. Hopefully he wasn’t quite as chaotic as his Gordon behind the wheel.

He wasn’t. At least, not by Scott’s standards. He was, however, still the fastest car on the road, overtaking other cars with manoeuvres just shy of being classified as swerves, with a delighted grin on his face. That, at least, was typically Gordon, and the ache that blossomed in his chest whenever any of the Other-Tracy family did something that reminded him of their counterparts – his Tracy family – made itself known again. Scott fought the instinct to clutch at his chest, instead clinging to the door with a grip far too tight for the situation.

Behind amber-tinted shades, equally amber eyes glanced over at his death grip, but Other-Gordon said nothing. Scott wasn’t sure if that was a relief or not – the younger man knew enough to know that these speeds wouldn’t phase him in the slightest, which meant he was drawing his own conclusions. Scott had no idea what those conclusions might be, and any desire to ask was quashed by the knowledge that that would open the topic up for conversation.

He’d chosen Other-Gordon to avoid more of that sort of conversation.

“What are we getting first?” he asked, turning his head away from the streets to look at Other-Gordon. With the wind whistling past their ears, the natural inclination was to raise his voice but he consciously kept his voice at normal levels. Other-Gordon should still be able to hear him, if with a bit of difficulty.

The ginger sent him an assessing look before the grin was back, and that look was too much like Gordon’s devilish grin for Scott to not know what he was going to say, despite the man not being his Gordon.

“You can’t stay in the same underpants forever!”

Scott groaned, the hand not gripping the door catching his face – ow, he forgot about the shades. He left it there, acutely aware that with any Gordon around in a non-professional setting, the facepalm was never far away.

“Okay, new underpants. Then what?”

Other-Gordon laughed, looping them around another car as the bulk of the city approached, before settling into something that seemed like he might, vaguely, be taking the excursion seriously. Whether that was due to Other-Scott’s threats – which he did seem to be wary of – or because he was actually mindful of Scott’s own wishes, he had no idea. If he had to guess, probably the former. Scott wished his Gordon respected his threats against causing chaos.

Then again, he’d never had a doppelgänger, let alone one subsequently left in the hands of his prank-loving brother.

“Francois Lemaire has a new men’s range out,” he shrugged. “Might as well start there.”

“Lemaire?” Scott asked, his voice strangled. Other-Gordon gave him a sharp look.

“He’s Tin-Tin’s favourite designer,” the younger man said. “She suggested him.”

Lemaire? Designer? Admittedly, Scott didn’t know what the rich airhead did when he wasn’t throwing himself in mortal danger and complaining loudly when they had to rescue him from his own stupidity, but he found it hard to believe that between birthday parties in the Mariana Trench and throwing himself into the coma of a comet he was designing clothes.

“Problem?” Other-Gordon asked, and Scott realised he was scowling. Taking a deep breath, he forced his expression to smooth out again.

“He won’t be there, will he?” he asked. “If he’s anything like the Lemaire I know, there is a high chance I’ll be losing my temper.”

“What’s wrong with Lemaire?” Other-Gordon actually sounded confused, which was enough for Scott to cling to the hope that maybe, maybe, the man wasn’t such an idiot here.

“Birthday party in the Mariana Trench,” he groaned. “Flying into a comet. Hunting mermaids.” And that was just the tip of the iceberg. “He calls us International Babysitting Service now.”

The hiss Other-Gordon let out implied the other man found that all as ridiculous – and insulting – as Scott did. “I guess that fella’s not your favourite human,” he observed. “We’ve not had those sorts of problems with him.” That was a relief. “I doubt he’ll be here, though. Fella lives in France.”

That was another relief, although Scott wasn’t going to relax entirely until they were done with the man’s shop. It would be just his luck that this universe’s Lemaire would be dropping by for a visit when he was there, and that was not a meeting he wanted.

“Then we might as well see if his range contains anything I want to wear,” he shrugged, realising that he hadn’t actually agreed or disagreed with Other-Gordon’s suggestion. The younger man groaned as he pulled into a parking lot tucked behind a large building emblazoned with Lemaire.

“You’re not going to be too fussy, are you?” he asked. Scott detected a tone of dread behind what was clearly supposed to be a rhetorical question.

“Not if they have decent clothes,” he answered, and Other-Gordon made another disgruntled noise as he killed the ignition.

“Sure. Now, remember: you’re my brother, you’ve lost your voice, I’m doing all the talking.” Scott rolled his eyes but nodded in agreement. “Underpants, shirts, jeans, pyjamas, shoes and a custom hoodie.” Other-Gordon still didn’t seem too happy about some of those things, even with Other-Scott’s blessing, reluctant though it had been. “Am I forgetting anything?”

Scott shook his head and Other-Gordon jumped out of the car, casually circling around to open Scott’s door before he realised the lever needed to be pulled, not pushed. What happened to doors opening at the touch of a button? He was really starting to miss familiar technology.

Maybe he could persuade Other-Gordon to let him pilot back to the island.

First, though, he had to get through this shopping trip so he could stop having to borrow Other-Scott’s clothes. Stepping out of the car, he followed Other-Gordon into the shop.

It was exactly the sort of ordered chaos Scott expected from clothes shopping. Mannequins flanked the entrance, decked out in what was presumably the latest fashions but looked totally bizarre to Scott, while a woman decked out in equally outrageous clothes – not Gordon-outrageous, but so much fabric outrageous – bustled forwards to greet them. Behind her, equally awfully dressed men and women were guiding around customers who just screamed ‘I’m rich’.

Scott was immediately reminded exactly why he did as much clothes shopping as he could get away with online.

“Monsieur Tracy, Monsieur Tracy,” the woman greeted them. “My name is Madeleine; how may I be of assistance today?”

Automatically, Scott opened his mouth to answer, but Other-Gordon jumped in before he managed to make a sound. “Scott’s looking for a new wardrobe,” he said smoothly, drawing the woman’s attention to him and away from Scott, who inwardly scolded himself for forgetting that he wasn’t supposed to talk. “Could we see your shirt selection?”

“Of course, Monsieur,” Madeleine replied. “If you would follow me?” She posed it as a question but began to walk further into the shop without waiting for a reply. Scott and Other-Gordon stepped forwards at the same time, following the woman through a maze of clothes and other customers before arriving in a booth lined with lavish couches. “Please, take a seat.” Madeleine gestured to one of the couches and Scott took the invitation. Other-Gordon settled down beside him and immediately reached out for what appeared to be a physical, gloss-paper, brochure on the table. He flipped through it for a moment before passing it over.

Scott accepted it and saw that Other-Gordon had already opened it to the shirts for him.

“Did Monsieur have a particular style in mind?” Madeleine asked after a moment. Not knowing the jargon as well as perhaps Grandma would have liked, and unable to speak without inviting awkward questions anyway, Scott shrugged.

“You’ll have to forgive my brother,” Other-Gordon jumped in before she could take offence. “The fella’s lost his voice.”

“Oh,” she gasped softly. “My apologies, Monsieur Tracy.”

Scott shot her a reassuring smile even as Other-Gordon waved off her apology. “Don’t worry about it. I’m here to work as a translator.”

Leaving Other-Gordon to keep the woman occupied in conversation, Scott leant back and flicked through the brochure, eyeing the various outrageous shirts – apparently this universe’s Lemaire liked to design clothes with far too much excess fabric – before finally locating something that looked simple enough. He’d still have to roll the sleeves up and worry at the collar until it sat comfortably, but it definitely looked like something he could wear comfortably enough.

He prodded Other-Gordon in the ribs; sharp amber eyes snapped over to him, wide in surprise for a split second before narrowing.

“You found something?” the younger man asked, after a pause that felt just a little too long. Scott nodded, belatedly realising he had no idea if that sort of thing was acceptable sibling behaviour in this universe. Realising he couldn’t clarify anything while he was pretending to have lost his voice, he pushed the thought aside to deal with later, and prodded at the picture on the page.

Madeleine made a motion to look over, and Scott swivelled the brochure so that she could see the one he’d chosen.

“A wonderful choice, Monsieur Tracy,” she beamed, while Other-Gordon made a sound that could be amused. He didn’t say whatever it was he was thinking, though, instead joining in the conversation when the woman asked how many and pulled out another brochure of fabrics and patterns.

“I dare say a few wouldn’t go amiss,” Other-Gordon told her – although Scott suspected it was a prod at him as well. He zoned out the rest of the conversation as he stared at the ridiculous variety of colours and tried to find the sensible blues. He had no desire to adopt Gordon’s sense of fashion, or John’s for that matter.

He suspected John might quite like some of the horrors he was hurriedly passing by. He’d never understood his immediate brother’s taste in clothes.

Finally, a nice plain blue, not too far off his favourite shirt at home, caught his eye, and after inspecting it to make sure there weren’t any hidden patterns he tapped at the glossy paper to draw their attention.

“The fella likes blue,” Other-Gordon shrugged at Madeleine as she pulled out a notepad and pen from somewhere and started scribbling down. “But Scott, are you really only going to get the one design? That’s a lot of identical shirts.”

Regretting zoning out the conversation about exactly how many Other-Gordon had decided he would be getting, Scott instead raised an eyebrow at him, a look his younger brothers all knew meant don’t try me. From the grin Other-Gordon gave him, he understood exactly what it meant, but was also as unimpressed by the warning as Gordon ever was. With some reluctance, because yes, variety was nice and he suspected Other-Gordon was actually telling him that buying many identical shirts was not an Other-Scott-like thing to do, he returned to the sample images and tried to find some others that didn’t look like something John would wear – or worse, something not even Gordon or John would be caught dead in.

Fashion was ridiculous here.

He was certain his choices were being memorised by the too-sharp ginger next to him as he dug out the designs he was willing to wear and had them scribbled down by an eager to please Madeleine, no doubt being added to whatever mental databank Other-Gordon was compiling about him. Maybe it would be worth dragging the differences between him and Other-Scott out of the aquanaut at some point on the flight back, if only to try and get a better understanding of what he was – temporarily, he hoped – going to be dealing with.

None of his training – Air Force, International Rescue or business – had ever covered what to do when faced with a doppelgänger of himself that wasn’t the Hood in disguise, and while Not-Dad was proving to be a problem, he didn’t have any plans to alienate the family. They were his only way home; that, he knew for certain.

“Will that be all, Monsieur Tracy?” Madeleine asked when he finally decided there was nothing else he could even consider wearing and shut the samples brochure. He wasn’t sure how many he’d selected in the end, but there was a satisfied look on Other-Gordon’s face, so he decided to call that torment to a close and nodded. Beaming what had to be a fake customer pleasing smile, she elegantly made her way to her feet, apparently not impeded by the ridiculousness of her dress. “Then if you’d like to follow me to the fitting rooms?”

What.

Fitting rooms?

Had some formal clothes snuck into his selection or something?

Other-Gordon nudged him seemingly accidentally as he stood up. Scott assumed that was another signal to just go along with it. Reluctantly, he found his way to his feet and followed Madeleine’s swirl of fabric, raising an eyebrow at Other-Gordon when the other man followed. He got a grin in return.

At least someone was having fun. Scott missed online shopping. He really hoped he wasn’t going to have to go through this rigmarole for every item they were buying.

The fitting room really should be called a fitting chamber. It was at least as big as his bedroom at home, if not bigger, with plush seats and an area designed to be screened off, presumably for changing. Hopefully, it wouldn’t be unusual for Other-Scott to use the curtains, because Scott was well aware how many scars he had from rescues, and while Other-Gordon had already briefly seen him shirtless he wasn’t sure Madeleine would be expecting that many scars on a lazy billionaire’s son.

“Please, make yourself comfortable while I collect the shirts,” the woman said, gesturing to the chairs. “I will only be a few moments.”

Then she was gone, and it was just the two of them in the room.

“You don’t get your clothes fitted?” Other-Gordon asked, quietly, a beat after the door slid shut. Scott took that as an indication that no-one would hear him if he spoke, and leaned forwards with a sigh.

“I normally shop online,” he grumbled. “Much less hassle.”

“On… Line?” Other-Gordon parroted the word with clear confusion in his voice, and Scott rolled his eyes, half at the other man, half at the world in general. He should have known that would be another difference.

“Different technology,” he dismissed. “You’re not telling me I have to go through this for everything, are you?”

“You’re getting a custom hoodie,” Other-Gordon reminded him. “And designer jeans.” Scott groaned. “But they won’t measure you for underwear.”

“You’re never going to drop that, are you?” It was so old it was ancient at this point, but from the grin on Other-Gordon’s face, that clearly didn’t matter to him. Amber eyes flashed with amusement before turning serious.

“Don’t forget the curtain,” he warned. “Scott’s scars aren’t the same as yours.”

“I wasn’t planning to,” Scott assured him. He probably shouldn’t be surprised that Other-Gordon had gleaned that from when he’d borrowed Other-Scott’s clothes, but hearing a comparison still startled him. “I-”

The door slid open and he cut himself off.

“Sorry for the wait, Monsieur Tracy,” Madeleine greeted, an entire hangar of shirts trailing behind her on wheels. “According to your previous custom, these should be of an approximate fit.”

Previous-? Other-Scott also shopped there? He supposed that made sense, even if he suddenly felt the pressure to absolutely not slip up, because Madeleine probably knew Other-Scott. That might have been useful to know earlier.

There was a lot he hadn’t been told before this trip, and he was starting to wish they’d spent a little more time talking before leaving the island. The sensation of being out of his depth was starting to make itself known again from where it had settled in the relative familiarity of the flight over.

“All looks that way,” Other-Gordon said suddenly, and Scott realised he hadn’t given any sort of response. He really had to get his head in the game. “So, which one first, Scott?”

Resisting the instinct to take a deep breath in front of Madeleine, he stood and gestured at the blue one he’d picked out first from the catalogue. She took it off the hangar for him with a large smile.

“Take your time, Monsieur Tracy,” she told him. “Come out when you’re ready.”

Scott barely made it to the curtained off area, drawing the thick material across and shutting himself away from the other two, before slumping against the wall and taking a deep breath. Now was not a good time to get overwhelmed. If it was just Other-Gordon-

No, he’d done more than enough breaking down in front of other people already. He took another deep breath, looking down at the shirt gripped in his hands. His hands were trembling, the bandages over his knuckles suddenly stark against his skin. Visible. How was he supposed to explain away bandaged knuckles when he was pretending to be a lazy billionaire’s son? Madeleine must have spotted it.

He tore his gaze away from the fabric and instead looked up at the ceiling, feeling the hat on his head dig in awkwardly as his head leant against the wall. More deep breaths, each shakier than the last, and somewhere in the back of his mind he realised he was headed for a full panic attack.

No. He couldn’t do that. Not with Madeleine a single curtain away. Other-Scott had an image to maintain and he couldn’t ruin it. He had to-

“Is everything alright, Monsieur Tracy?” Madeleine’s voice was close, too close. She could probably hear his messed up breathing, knew something was wrong, knew he was falling apart the other side of the suddenly too-thin curtain, and-

“I’ll check on him,” Other-Gordon said. “Scott? I’m coming in.”

He’d slipped around the curtain before Scott registered his words, amber eyes falling on him and widening for a split second. Then, like a switch had been flicked, his whole demeanour changed. It wasn’t the jovial man that had been teasing for most of their time away from the island, but nor was it the sharp, military-like edge he’d held when he was being serious.

Instead it was calm, reassuring, and with slow, obvious movements the shorter man was taking the shirt from his hands, folding the fabric over one arm. “Sit,” he instructed, quietly.

This was his International Rescue façade, Scott realised dimly as he sank down onto a stool he hadn’t even registered was there. Other-Gordon crouched down in front of him, gently removing the shades he’d forgotten he was wearing and making firm eye contact.

“Breathe in,” he said, voice still low. “Do you want me to count you?”

Scott took in another breath, inwardly wincing at how shaky it was, before exhaling again. Slowly, deliberately choreographing his movements, Other-Gordon rested a single hand on his knee. The touch was light, but grounding, and Scott’s next attempt at a deep breath was markedly less shaky. Another, and then another, with Other-Gordon almost silently guiding him with words too quiet to be heard the other side of the curtain.

Once he had enough of a grip of himself that panic felt no longer imminent, he leant back, tension bleeding from his shoulders.

“Better?” Other-Gordon asked, and he nodded, opening his mouth to speak before a raised eyebrow reminded him otherwise. “Should we call it? You can come back-”

“No,” Scott cut him off, clamping his mouth shut when he realised his mistake. He shook his head. If they left now, he’d have to come back later, and he wasn’t sure he could do that. He certainly didn’t want to have to face Not-Dad and tell him they didn’t finish because he panicked. Better to get it over and done with now.

Other-Gordon eyed him dubiously for a moment before sighing and pulling himself to his feet. “If you say so,” he said. “Let me give you a hand.”

Give-? The blue fabric still draped over the aquanaut’s arm caught his eye. Oh yes, he was supposed to have been putting it on. He didn’t want help getting changed, and certainly didn’t need it, but there was a look in amber eyes that said quite plainly that Other-Gordon wasn’t going anywhere.

Then again, if their roles were reversed, Scott wouldn’t be going anywhere either.

Deciding the best route was to ignore him as best he could, Scott shrugged the waistcoat off, before plucking at the buttons on the shirt he was wearing. To his credit, Other-Gordon didn’t try to actively help, only taking the clothes once he’d removed them and holding out the blue shirt for him to take.

“Monsieurs?” Madeleine called just as he was fastening the last button. “Is there a problem?”

Other-Gordon pressed the sunglasses into his hands and readjusted the hat on his head before slipping back outside.

“Nothing to be worried about,” he assured her. “Whatever he’s caught that’s gone and taken his voice gives him dizzy moments, too. Fella just had a spell, but it’s passed now.”

So now he was ill instead of just having lost his voice? Scott wanted to be amused, but in reality he just felt thankful that Other-Gordon was quick at thinking on his feet.

“Oh, I understand,” she said. Scott hurried to put the sunglasses back on and took one last deep breath before pushing the curtain back. “Monsieur Tracy, we can hold the items for you if you’d rather come back at a later date?”

Remembering in time not to talk, Scott waved her off with a small grin. It was forced; smiling wasn’t something he felt like doing but the last thing he wanted was to have to come back.

“He’ll be fine,” Other-Gordon assured her. “This won’t take long, will it?”

“Oh, not at all,” Madeleine hurried to promise, and Scott’s grin felt just a little less forced at that. “If you would stand here…” She gestured to a small step and Scott obeyed, watching as she bustled around him with pins, tugging at the fabric until it lay flat across his shoulders and hung just right. Compared to some fittings he’d had, it certainly didn’t feel like it took too long; after what had to have been only a few minutes, she was nodding her approval and handing him the next shirt to put on.

Other-Gordon followed him behind the curtain this time, not giving him the opportunity to refuse the company. Scott got the feeling he wouldn’t be letting him out of his sight again until they were back on the island, but where before he might have bristled at the lack of privacy, now he found himself reassured by the other man’s presence. If nothing else, it helped keep his mind on the task at hand as he peeled the pin-infested shirt away from his body gingerly and accepted the new one while Other-Gordon hung the first on a hangar.

The rest of the fitting went in much the same fashion, Madeleine working quickly but efficiently and Other-Gordon shadowing him in a way that should have been bothersome but was somehow comforting, and before long all of the shirts – eleven, apparently – were stuck through with pins and back on the rail.

“Is there anything else you would like to order, Monsieur Tracy?” the woman asked once Scott was once again dressed in Other-Scott’s borrowed clothes. She was clearly addressing him, but her eyes were on Other-Gordon, much to Scott’s relief. While he knew what he wanted, he didn’t know where he could get them. For that, he was reliant on the other man.

“Not today,” Other-Gordon answered. “When will they be ready to collect?”

“For you, we will have them done by Tuesday,” she replied. Scott realised he had no idea what the day was.

“Perfect,” Other-Gordon grinned, before fishing out a card from his pocket and handing it to her. She beamed and scurried off, presumably to take the payment.

Scott had absolutely no idea how much that had just come to.

Whatever the damage was, Other-Gordon seemed entirely fine with it, keeping his grin on his face as she returned with the card and a paper receipt, so Scott assumed it was within expectations.

Other-Gordon and Madeleine finalised arrangements for the shirts to be collected on Tuesday, leaving Scott with the sinking feeling he’d likely be stuck borrowing Other-Scott’s clothes for however many days away that was, before bidding farewell. Following suit, Scott offered his own nod of thanks and farewell before finding himself being subtly guided back out of the shop and towards the car by the ginger.

Chapter 9>>>

#thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds are go fanfiction #thunderbirds #thunderbirds fanfiction #tsari writes fanfiction #scott tracy #long way from home #gordon tracy

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lotusthekat · 4 years

Text

Help is just around the corner (for us)

Fandom: Steven Universe

Rating: G

Relationships: Platonic Lars & Steven

Characters: Steven Quartz Universe, Lars Barriga, Lion; other characters are only mentioned

Summary: “Hey, it’s not a big deal. I’ve been through worse,” Steven insists.

“Dude, you’ve been wincing the entire time, don’t tell me it’s not a big deal,” Lars mocks, annoyed.

Steven can’t help shivering inside - both at Lars’ observation and his tone. He’s seen Lars angry, of course… but never because of this.

Sometimes, Steven's healing powers don't quite work, but it's nothing he hasn't dealt with before. Yet Lars is... surprisingly upset about it.

Word count: 2.226

AO3 / Fanfiction

A/N: Don’t mind me writing self-indulgent stuff for my boys in the very year of 2021 *peace sign*

Half inspired by loubuttons’ “Rare and Sweet As Cherry Wine” and a comment on another Lars & Steven fic, Novantinuum’s “The Brother on the Other Side”. Both are great fics and they’re on AO3 :)

Title is from Help Is Round the Corner by Coldplay.

TRIGGER WARNINGS - past bullying/abuse, major character injury, flashback and trauma

“Hold on – what the heck is that?”

The outraged question was so far from expected, that Steven almost drops the bowl he was supposed to grab. The boy wonders if there’s something wrong with the bowl, until he realizes that Lars’ eyes are glued to his arm. His pink sleeve has fallen off, revealing the wound from earlier.

“Oh, I- I got in a gem fight earlier, but it’s nothing really!” Steven reassures him, “My healing powers will take care of it… eventually,” he then doesn’t sound as confident, admittedly.

Immediately after, Lars grabs him to the nearest chair and rushes to find a first-aid kit somewhere in his house. When he returns, Lars is inspecting his arm with desperate focus.

“Hey, it’s not a big deal. I’ve been through worse,” Steven insists.

“Dude, you’ve been wincing the entire time, don’t tell me it’s not a big deal ,” Lars mocks, annoyed.

Steven can’t help shivering inside - both at Lars’ observation and his tone. He’s seen Lars angry, of course… but never because of this.

Basically, Steven got into a fight with a group of gems in outer space. He’s received plenty of reports of gems that turned against Homeworld’s new system – and Steven’s decisions specifically – yet he found out too late that a specific group was larger than he anticipated. There was no time to call for help when he was attacked mercilessly, but he called the Diamonds after it was over, at least.

His healing powers usually do most of the job for him after battles, but lately they haven’t been working as well as they should - even though Steven consistently watches over his hydration and health. He’s not sure what’s happening, but he believed he could figure it out for himself, so he hasn’t told the gems… yet.

Regardless, Lars works on soothing the wound as gently as possible, despite his serious frown. Steven struggles to swallow through the pain, though it eventually gets better once Lars is almost finished.

“Are there any other injuries you’re hiding?” The pink boy demands.

Steven shakes his head. Lars then begins bandaging the former’s arm, and it’s definitely better now that it’s not burning… yet Steven can’t help raising an eyebrow at his friend’s behavior.

“Hey, don’t be mad,” Steven tries to tell him.

It’s no use in saying that, because Lars promptly and angrily ignores Steven as he insists on bandaging his arm.

“Lars,” the younger boy tries again, “I’m okay, you don’t need to–”

“Except I do, because you’re a knucklehead .”

Steven blinks and frowns, affirming, “I can take care of myself.”

Lars simply stares at him with an unamused look.

“What? It’s true!” Steven exclaims in defense. “You don’t believe me?”

As a response, Lars shakes his head in disapproval and looks away. Before the other thinks through it, Steven’s voice raises, “Fine, it’s not like everyone else takes me seriously!”

The older boy’s eyes widen. “Wait, Steven, that’s not what I meant–”

“Oh, really? Because I’m tired of everyone treating me like a baby!” Steven steams. “I’m sixteen now! I saved the entire galaxy! What else do I have to do for you to realize I grew up?!”

“That’s exactly the problem, Steven!” Lars argues. “You can’t keep doing everything alone because you think you have to!”

“What do you know? You’re not a Diamond!”

“But I know you’re still a kid and you deserve help!”

“I’m not a kid, and I didn’t ask for your help!” Steven pushes his hand away, harshly.

Instead of yelling more, however, the look on Lars’ face disperses Steven’s anger. He looks… hurt. Really hurt, like those particular words left a wound on him. Steven’s heart drops in regret.

“Lars… I…”

The other boy looks away and mentions nothing for dragging minutes. Steven doesn’t know what to say, because what he feels is true, but he didn’t mean to sound so ungrateful, either. This is why he’s never confronted anyone.

When Steven senses a hand hesitantly reaching his, he almost flinches.

“I think you should go rest, at least,” Lars suggests, not demanding like before; yet his voice is awfully quiet. “We don’t want you getting worse, right?”

Steven would have protested but he genuinely doesn’t know what to say to make up for it.

“... Right.”

Lars nods in silence. “Do you want to go home?”

Maybe he shouldn’t, Steven considers. He should really apologize to Lars; he’s not one to run away from his mistakes.

“Yeah… okay,” The sixteen-year-old replies.

There’s no other argument. Steven gazes at his bright, messy pink hair that covers his friend’s eyes. Sighing, Steven enters the pink, hairy dimension and arrives home in no time. When there, he greets Lion taking over his bed. This time, the half-gem doesn’t tell him to get off.

Lion’s gaze already tells him the big cat is looking through him as usual. Steven knows Lion can’t talk, but it’s not like there’s anyone else.

“I shouldn’t have been so hard on Lars,” Steven admits. “I know he cares, it’s just…” he pauses once remembering Lars’ look from earlier.

It hurt, but not only because Steven was rude. There was something else about it, too. It was a different kind of hurt. A pain so ingrained, so deep that words might not be able to describe it. And to think Steven brought this hurt to Lars…

“I don’t want to hurt anyone,” Steven whispers wetly. Right now, he doesn’t sound like he’s sixteen.

Lion snuggles against Steven to comfort him. The boy leans back on him, tears filling his eyes.

You’re still a kid and you deserve help!

(Does he?)

Honestly, it doesn’t look that bad.

He manages to sneak to the bathroom, after quickly replying to the usual “how was school today?”. His parents don’t really check in on him – though he doesn’t know if he’d want them to.

Because Lars knows he’s just a stupid, whiny kid. He cries too easily, he yells a lot and gets pathetically hurt too often. Who would want to help him? His teachers certainly don’t. If he went to the nursery again, they would call his parents and he’d be exposed and punished. He’d be even more humiliated for having both of them baby him in front of everyone.

Lars locks himself in the bathroom, contemplating his dirty t-shirt, his scratched arms and the ugly purple smudging his face. Well, it’s nothing he hasn’t dealt with. He’s hidden some of his mom’s make-up to cover the worst of it, and the first-aid kit can be easily found. It’s far from perfect but it’s enough not to raise too many questions. As for the t-shirt, he could lie he was playing in the dirt and tripped. He’s said this for so long, they believe everything he says.

Problem is, he won’t stop crying.

He knows it’s his fault. Everyone tells him that. Lars has to deal with this alone. So what? This shouldn’t make him so emotional.

Yet his head hurts from crying too much, even more so than the purple in his cheek. The tears are burning hot, and all Lars wants is to hit something, yell, do anything because he wants so badly to give up .

… but he can’t. He shouldn’t.

Lars is twelve , for crying out loud. A teenager. School has never been easy. He should’ve learned at this point.

He can’t keep being lame.

He’s…

He’s a big boy now. It’s what his dad tells him.

Lars dries his tears with his arm, and glares determinedly at the mirror.

Yeah, he’s a big boy now. He doesn’t need coddling.

Lars will prove to everyone he can be cool and he will finally be accepted. Yeah, that’s right. He’ll get over it and be great.

(Lars tells no one, however, that he might still cry himself to sleep some nights.)

This time, Steven takes the longer path to Lars’ house – because he can think of something to tell him on the way. Today is cloudy, with high chances of raining. If anything, it makes him a little more uneasy.

Steven shouldn’t have left Lars alone yesterday, but at the same time he knew he couldn’t do much. He still hasn’t quite processed what Lars meant – that Steven deserved help, and the way Lars reacted to Steven’s outburst… he didn’t want to assume anything, so the half-gem figures it wasn’t the right time to ask. Well, that’s what he’s telling himself. He can only hope Lars is okay.

When he gets to Lars’ home, Steven swallows the hardest lump he’s… ever swallowed. He has to do this, though. It’s the right thing to do, and he cares about Lars. He’s not going to run away.

… but then he notices Lars isn’t inside. No, he’s actually standing on the porch, gazing at seemingly nowhere in midst of the many other houses. He holds the same distant and pained gaze from yesterday. Steven takes a deep breath and heads on awkwardly. Lars doesn’t seem to notice him until Steven has already climbed the few stairs.

“Steven?” Lars greets him with relative shock.

The younger boy clears his throat. “Hey… are you, um, doing okay?”

Lars exhales, in what sounds to be exhaustion and… fondness. “Yeah. Yeah…” As soon as Steven rubs his arms, though, his reaction is quite another. “Does it still hurt?” he asks, eyes wide and worried.

“No, no! It’s fine now, I swear,” Steven tells the truth. Lars believes him and sighs.

“Right. Okay.”

They both look away.

“D… Do you mind if I…” Steven nervously gestures at the space beside him. Lars thankfully gets it as he nods.

Steven settles in close, almost enough for their arms to brush. He plays with his hands for quite a while, unsure how to begin. Lars lets out no words, either. He’s as quiet as the town today.

“Lars,” Steven tries, “I’m…” His eyes begin to twitch. He swallows again, “I’m really sorry, I shouldn’t have…”

“Don’t worry about it,” Lars speaks up, tone low. He pauses for a moment before saying, “I shouldn’t have called you a knucklehead.”

“No, you’re right! I am a knucklehead. I always take up a lot more than I can. It’s…” He sighs as he rubs the back of his neck, unsure if he should go on. “Everyone always expects me to do all these- these things, because if I don’t…” Steven swallows, “I feel like I won’t be worth it. I fear everyone’s going to pay for what I do wrong.”

He senses Lars staring back at him, maybe in shock over how strong these words are. Steven has never quite admitted it to anyone else, and never so clearly to himself.

“And I didn’t expect you to be upset, either,” the half-gem continues. “Like, it’s become so normal to me that I feel like I’ve convinced everyone not to worry about me. So, they don’t. I don’t get many questions and then I’m…”– he clenches his fist –“I’m alone.”

Steven leans on the porch, isolated raindrops hitting the wooden house. He smells the rain, the wet plants and flowers from afar. Some of the rain hits his face softly. The ambient noises are the only ones to speak at the moment. Despite the rain, everything seems so… clear.

Eventually, though, Lars is the one that approaches him, wrapping an arm around his shoulders.

“Listen, I… I get it,” Lars tells him. “Maybe not the ‘being a Diamond’ part, or the ‘savior of the galaxy’ part, but I get you have wounds you can’t show others. Even if you want to, even if you’re hurting badly”– his eyes fall upon Steven’s arm sadly –“you’re not ready to show them. You might not be ready to show in a long time, you don’t know.”

At this, he turns Steven around slightly to face him.

“I just want you to know, you can trust me with that stuff. You don’t need to hide your wounds from me,” Lars reassures him. “I might get upset, yeah… but I’d rather know than have no idea what’s going on with you. Because I care about you, Steven, and I can’t stand the thought of you hurt and me not being able to help.”

Steven won’t lie, he might cry right now. He hasn’t realized how badly he needed to hear this. That it’s okay to hurt. Because, being honest, he’s so tired. Nothing ever ends, and his happily ever after might never come.

“But, uh, you don’t have to come to me, if you don’t want to. I won’t judge. Just… know that I’m here for you, okay?” Lars adds. Right after, Steven replies with a jump hug, because he wants this. He does.

They hold one another while the rain goes on outside. Once it’s gotten worse, they go inside, and soon after Steven is wrapped up in a blanket and he’s glued to Lars on the couch.

It’s nice.

#steven universe #steven universe future #steven quartz universe #lars barriga #su lion #fanfiction #bullying tw #abuse tw #flashback tw #brotp

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gingyboo · 3 years

Text

Mirror Mirror

A/N: Again many thanks to @booglebug

Description- Soulmates existed. People knew that much. Soulmates were rare, a handful in each generation, an unexplainable phenomenon that formed a bond closer than blood and more sacred than marriage.

Bucky finds his soulmate when he needs her most. Little does he know how much she needs him too.

(Soulmate au that slots pretty much in to the MCU but with soulmates. Set after TFATWS.)

Pairing- Bucky Barnes x OFC

Warnings- Mentions of violence and guns, but its mostly fluff, drama and angst. Blood and serious injury.

This is a multi chaptered fic.

Please like, comment, reblog!

prologue Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter4 Chapter 5Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8

Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 chapter 15 Chapter 16

------------------------------------------------ Chapter 17

Kit watched the ramp rising, shutting out the sunlight. His breath was heavy as he maintained the pressure on Nancy’s wound. Just before the ramp closed Kit was jolted by the distinctive clang of metal on metal. The ramp was forced open enough for Bucky to squeeze through, he seemed dishevelled but unhurt as he stood up, his head brushing the roof of the jet. All colour left his face as his eyes landed on Nancy. Words lost him entirely as he fell to his knees by her side. Kit looked at him helplessly.

“The Wakandan outreach centre, London, they’ll be able to help her.” Bucky stuttered towards the pilot. He took Nancy’s hand that was limp by her side. and enveloped it in his flesh hand squeezing it firmly. leaning over her, he swept a flyaway strand of hair off her forehead. Tears pricked in his eyes.

“Nancy…” he whispered.

Sam dropped through a hatch above them, landing lightly on the floor behind Bucky. They shared a look and Sam dropped the shield, squeezing Bucky’s shoulder.

“Nancy, please, stay with me.” Bucky pleaded, holding up her head, two fingers finding the weak pulse in her neck. A shiver ran through him, and Nancy’s eyes fluttered slightly. Bucky squeezed her hand tighter.

“Nance…”

“Bucky, you’re okay… Buck…what happened?” Green eyes peaked out between her lashes.

“Oh, thank goodness, you’re going to be ok, the Wakandans will help you, I’m so sorry, I’m sorry...” he pressed his lips to her forehead. Kit shifted his hands as Sam passed him fresh wad of bandages to stem the bleeding. Sam was talking frantically on the phone. Nancy’s eyes darted round the plane frantically taking everything in. Her eyes landed on Kit, all his focus was on the wound in her chest, he was shaking, his breath catching in his throat. Nancy tried to reach for him, with the hand not locked in Bucky’s, but her arm felt heavy and detached from her.

“Kit,” she choked out, “Kit, look at me.” Kit shook his head, her eyes snapped to Bucky’s, a wordless exchange took place as he removed her hand from his grip and slipped his crumpled jacket under her to support her head. His hands covered Kit’s releasing him from his trace. Kit slid back, finally meeting his sister’s gaze.

“I’m sorry, it should have been me.” He stuttered “it’s all my fault.”

“No. Don’t you say that.”

“Shuri’s let the London team know, they’re preparing a medical team, she says Bucky should stay close, she thinks their bond could help her.” Sam said, hanging up the phone. Looking at the scene by his feet. Kit looked like a small child whilst Bucky seemed older than ever. All extended youth seemed to have evaporated from his form as he watched life spilling from his soulmate. The sight seemed too personal, too private, even Kit had looked away, curled up against the wall. Sam marched into the cock pit, he could be more helpful there.

The journey could have been years for all Bucky knew, Nancy drifted in and out of consciousness speaking fractured sentences, he shushed them away, telling her to save her strength. She was quite for what seemed like an age before her voice returned, stronger and clearer than before.

“I need you to promise me something.” She said to Bucky.

“Don’t talk like that.”

“You have to promise me you won’t fall apart, promise me, you won’t go looking for vengeance, you or him, I know he’s still in there, but you can’t let him out.”

“Nancy stop.”

“it’s okay, you can let me go. I think it’s time.” She winced pain filling her feature.

“You’re not going anywhere, you’re not leaving me.” Bucky turned to the cockpit, “How far are we?” He shouted.

“We’re close, little further.” Rayden responded, his voice laced with guilt though he pushed the engines to their limit.

“Bucky I’m sorry,” tears swam down her cheeks, “Kit.” She called, unable to turn her head, paralysed in pain. Her brother slid over to her, taking her hand in his.

“I’m here, I’m right here, I’m not going anywhere.”

“Kit, I missed you so much.”

“I missed you too CeCe.” He cited his childhood nickname for her. A simpler time when his baby sister came home from the hospital and two separate syllables was too much for him.

“I need you to know, I forgive you, for leaving, for hiding, it’s okay.”

“No, it’s not, you not forgiving me, you’re not going to die, you’re going to be angry at me for long time, I’ll have grovel and plead, I have regain your trust and even then you’ll still bring it up every time we disagree on something, you’re my baby sister and you’re not going anywhere.” He said firmly, Nancy smiled softly, a chuckle escaping her lips. Her breathing escalated, she choked and coughed, blood seeping out of her mouth. Sam appeared beside them once more, reaching down he swept Nancy up in his arms, cradled to his chest like a baby. Her head lulled to one side. Kit stood to protest, but Bucky held up a hand.

“He’ll get her there faster.” the ramp started to lower, as Bucky leaned over, kissing her cheek softly.

“Don’t go where I can’t follow.” He whispered in her ear, if Sam heard he was pretending not to. Kit squeezed her hand before Sam dove out into London’s sky.

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Bucky felt her fingers twitch first. His gaze shifted up instantly until it rested on her eyes. They shifted beneath her lids, responding at last to the bright lights above her sick bed. The outreach centre had taken her in fixed her up, she had stabilised by the time Kit and Bucky had made it to her. It had been two days now, her wound was healed but her body was still recovering. Wakandan medicine was an amazing thing, Bucky was fascinated, remembering his days on the battlefield in the war, how many would have lived had their facilities been available then. She was squeezing his hand now, and he smiled squeezing back.

“Nancy?” He spoke softly his free hand sweeping across her cheekbone. Her eyes fluttered open, green peeking through her thick lashes.

“Buck… Bucky.” she croaked out.

“Oh, doll you had me scared back there.” he exhaled heavily, drawing his chair closer to her bed.

“The witches?” she asked frantically trying to sit up. bucky held her back down with soft shushing noises.

“We left them there, not the last we’ll see of them no doubt, but for now you’re safe, that’s all that matters.

“Where do we go from here? Back to Wakanda?”

“We can’t.” his face fell into a solum line.

“What’s happened?”

“Duncan Everitt is dead.” he said simply, watching a crease form between her brows.

“How?”

“We don’t know, but if someone can get to him there then its not safe enough for you.” he insisted. Nancy’s brow furrowed but any protest was cut off by Kit rushing into the room. He was by her side in an instant.

“Don’t ever put me through that again.” he smiled down at her.

“Where will we go?” she asked looking between the two men.

“I will go to Wakanda, Duncan may have hunted me, but he was one of my men once, he deserved better than what he got, I will find out what happened to him.” he said defiantly. Nancy nodded, Bucky help her to sit upright in the bed. “I’ll get to see dad, apologies, start to make amends.”

“He’ll be over the moon, to see you again, when I told him I think he didn’t dare to dream, he won’t believe until he sees you. I know I didn’t.” she looked up at her brother, he was now freshly shaved, and his hair trimmed, he wore a loose-fitting white t-shirt and some black silk trousers, he’d made him self at home here. Nancy was pleased, he looked more like his old self, younger, softer in the face without the wiry beard.

“I was thinking, we could go to America, Louisiana probably, I got a place there, it’s not much, but…”

“I’d like that.” she said quickly smiling, she caught Kit’s eye who smiled in agreement. Whatever had happened, Kit trusted Bucky now.

“Sam would be close by too, if trouble were to find us.” he smiled taking her hand again.

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

It took a few days to prepare, finding flights, sorting out her visa, getting Samara to deliver her passport to Sam on the other side of London to avoid anyone following them to get to Nancy. Kit left with Rayden for his journey to Wakanda, it was a tearful farewell on Nancy’s part as Bucky finally left her side to give the siblings a moment of privacy. Nancy felt stronger every day, moving out of her sick bed and into a shared room with Bucky. Not wanted to risk going outside she walked up and down the stairs in outreach centre, outwards appearance resembled a tower block, one of the larger centres held, it had a lot of stairs. Shuri contacted her, sending over a replacement top with bullet proof properties, the other torn to shreds by the bullet and the doctors. Her father fretted down the phone to her, even her mother called, though it was cool and brief her mother did at least sound half relieved to hear her awake, Kit had insisted she’d fretted constantly before Nancy had woken up, this she found hard to believe. Eventually it was time to leave, set off for a fresh start. As Nancy curled up in the wide 1st class seat with Bucky beside her she felt herself poised at a precipice, a brand new chapter of her life.

#bucky barnes #the winter solider #sam wilson #captain america #soulmate #mcu #mcu fic

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sumisuchan · 4 years

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Those Who Know

Hey guys, here’s a piece I’m posting for the Bellow Diamond Summer Sugar Bomb Liberate the People 2020 *or whatever it was called. This is also probably going to be my last Bellow Diamond fic, because I’m not quite sure what more I can say about this pairing, but I wrote this because I was a little sad the show didn’t tackle a fusion between them. I hope you enjoy, and here’s the Ao3 link for those who prefer reading there: (Also I love comments!) https://archiveofourown.org/works/24757537

----

On that day something had changed.

In hindsight, it seemed perfectly normal. Yellow and Blue were sitting in the garden amongst all of the new plants, mostly flowers, which had been collected from other worlds. It was a community effort. Gems who still traveled to the far corners of the universe were encouraged to bring back anything beautiful with them, which resulted in a garden overflowing with sundry plants and no semblance of unity between them. Most exploded with petals in shades of red, orange, yellow, green, blue, violet—a competition for the frilliest gown with the most shapely seams. The chaos was encouraged. The garden could be anything. The gems could be anything, and Yellow and Blue sat amongst every color and cut of them, even some fusions.

A comforting breeze picked up. Blue sighed and leaned back.

“It’s such a lovely day today.”

Amongst all the flowers swaying gently, the gems were sighing, letting go.

“I should probably get back soon,” Yellow said. “I left off when I was just about to put together a whole gem. I was just missing one piece...”

“No,” Blue touched her hand. “Stay a little longer.”

It wasn't the first time Blue had touched Yellow’s hand, made her skin bumpy, but now she wove their fingers together. She had captured Yellow’s entire hand and left her no choice.

Yellow sighed too. She forgot her responsibilities. “All right,” she said, “I'll stay.”

Blue continued holding her hand until the sun lazily changed positions.

* * *

As soon as the next day, Yellow caught herself reaching for Blue’s hand during inappropriate times. They were at a meeting sitting next to each other, suggesting ways to better Homeworld.

“I think if we make a separate larger building I could go to, I could make even more clouds than what my room can hold, and I know that there are so many gems that could use my help…”

Yellow almost went as far as touching Blue’s pinky. Her fingers had made contact, but as if receiving a shock, Yellow remembered it was a meeting and pulled them away.

White spoke. “Oh, that's a lovely idea, Blue. I know many gems still feel as though they are unwelcome into our rooms, so perhaps they might be more comfortable in a separate building.”

“I can send out a poll about it,” Yellow added.

“Would you please? Now on to the next order of business…” White continued but Blue had reasserted herself over Yellow’s pinky, touching it with the tips of her careful fingers. Yellow’s face felt as though it had caught fire. She couldn't focus.

Whenever they were apart too long, Blue would come drifting back. Sometimes Yellow would hear her singing from the next room, making her hand unsteady as she worked with the tweezers. Blue blurred the hard edges of her room’s clean lines and made the air feel warm, though any newly resurrected gems didn't comment.

Alone, Yellow would still play music. Gems would create and upload songs she could access from her communication device—formerly forbidden dance beats about going out, finding someone, spending an evening together. Yellow patiently sorted the shattered gems’ pieces on beat.

Most of them were vague enough to be about anything or anyone, so when they sang about dancing and dreams, it was easy to imagine taking Blue by the hand and leading her back to the garden. The electronic beats suggested neon colored plants against the black night sky. Maybe they would dance there too, or just sit, or lock their hands together and—

Yellow would stop there. She used to stop before even letting it go that far. Sometimes she might stop before even reaching the garden, before taking Blue by the arm. Yellow would remove herself from the music to stare from the window. The gems would come back apologizing, believing that they had upset her.

***

It kept getting worse. During walks, Blue would link their arms together and Yellow's head would swim. Her legs would threaten to collapse. Blue would laugh at her musically, then hold her tight to keep her from falling.

“I don't know what's gotten into me. I feel so overwhelmed.”

Blue patted her shoulder. “Maybe it's the first time you're allowed to feel this way.”

“Feel what way?” They stopped walking. “Don't tell me White's rules were the only thing keeping me together. You don't think I'm—gems don't fall ill, do they?”

“Hmmm…” Blue leaned in, trying not to smile. She pressed her hand to Yellow’s forehead. “You do feel awfully warm, but it could just be your lightning. I've also noticed that sometimes you have trouble paying attention. White has to repeat herself because it seems you’re somewhere else.” Blue took her hand away. "Where could that somewhere be ? Is it always the same?”

Yellow grew hot. Her feet had trouble staying connected to the ground. “Stars—it's happening again. This terrible feeling—what's going on with me?”

“I don't know, but it seems very serious.” Blue was beginning to laugh.

“Don't giggle at me. You don't have any idea how unbearable this is.”

“I'm sorry, Yellow. You're right. There's no possible way I could know what you're feeling. I promise I'll try to be more sensitive next time.” Blue kissed her on the cheek and led her along by her wobbly legs.

***

Yellow didn’t leave her room for an entire day, the longest amount of time yet. As the time passed, she slumped over at her desk, listening to music released the day before. These were fast-paced, mostly about fusion. She had to remind herself that it was okay that they mention it.

Only some of the songs were truly good but Yellow listened to all of them, staring out the window. When someone knocked on her door, she only turned around when it opened. It was White.

“Yellow—” The sun had begun to set, but White lit up the purple room with her glow, a perfect night light.

Even with a visitor, Yellow didn’t intend on moving.

“What's wrong?” White said, taking a few steps into the room. “Blue and I haven't seen you all day.”

Yellow turned back to the window. Stories below, gems were out for evening walks, linked at the elbows. She felt warm again. “I don't know,'' she said. “I don't know what's wrong with me. I'm so warm and dizzy all the time, and sometimes my chest tightens. I wonder if I'm corrupting...”

“Corrupting ?” White came and, like Blue, pressed her hand against Yellow’s forehead.

Where Yellow expected to swoon, she didn't. If anything, having White’s hand upon her head sobered her.

“You are a little warmer than usual. I suppose it could be your lightning.” White sat at the edge of Yellow’s bench, balancing somehow on her long legs. “But your physical form seems fine. Could it be emotional?”

Yellow burned into herself.

“If it is, maybe you should talk to Blue.”

“No. I can't talk to her.”

“You can’t? But I thought you two talk all the time. Oh—” White’s face turned pink around the nose. “Oh, Yellow,” White touched her shoulder. “This is my fault, isn't it? Now that you two are finally free, I'm sure the emotions are overwhelming. I'm so sorry. Have you told her?”

“Told her what?”

“Come now. I won't be upset. You're more than welcome to talk about it.”

“Talk about what? ”

“Yellow! You really don't need to upset me this way. I feel terribly enough for everything I put you both through!” White stood, wrapping her cape around herself dramatically. “Well, you have my blessing. Tell her, please. For my sake.”

White fled, leaving Yellow to holler after her. “Wait! Tell her what?! White! ”

But she had already escaped, leaving a trail of sparkles behind her.

Still, Yellow yelled. “Tell me what I should say to her, please!”

White, however, did not return.

***

It was only a while later that Yellow found herself next to Blue at the site of the new Happiness Center, where a team of Bismuths had begun to build. They asked her to hold large objects in place, such as a pillar, around which they cemented. Yellow held a pillar too, watching as Blue lifted the Bismuths and set them down.

She placed one upon the uppermost floor, at her waist. “I never knew how much fun it is to be an elevator. Yellow, why don't you try it? It looks like someone is waiting for you.”

Yellow found another Bismuth at her feet, who gave a shy smile, setting her hand upon the back of her head. “If I could, My Diamond.”

“You don't have to call me that anymore,” Yellow said, lifting her.

Blue was giggling again. “What a good elevator you make, Yellow. How efficient.”

“You're acting like it's difficult.” But there was that feeling again. Blue’s gem magnified angles of sunlight overhead, glowing, making Yellow dizzier.

“Well, I suppose it really isn't,” Blue said, “I just wanted to compliment you.”

Yellow held the pillar a little tighter; she had to. She also looked away, toward the capital, whose new buildings were drenched in colors. They used to be organized in sections, strictly divided along arbitrary lines. Without the full consent of her brain, Yellow said, “You're so beautiful.” Then as soon as it came out, quiet as it was, she covered her mouth, turning to Blue, who was yet again trying not to laugh at her.

“Thank you, Yellow. You are too.”

Yellow returned that evening a mess. Any composition unraveled, she sat at her desk, stared even harder out the window, head full of sappy electronic music as the night flowers opened. She caught them in the corners of her eyes—neon-fleshed and thirsty, because she couldn't observe anything else. There was just her breathing, which she never paid attention to before—painfully alive and full of sweet, floral air. She wanted to keep it, forever. She felt like crying.

The door opened on beat, but even if it hadn’t, Yellow wouldn't have seen the light.

“I'm sorry to interrupt, but I wanted to check on you.”

Blue entered. The door locked out the hallway light as it closed, leaving only the deep purple and glow-in-the-dark flowers. Yellow hurried to turn off the music.

“You don't have to,” Blue said. “I like that song.”

Yellow only turned it down, enough to hear Blue’s skirts rustle to the bench. She hesitated before sitting, but did, her legs pointed away from the desk so they could face each other.

The music thumped gently. “I wanted to tell you that I’m not upset about what you said today. You looked so nervous, but I like it when you share your thoughts.”

“I didn’t want to insult you by saying something inappropriate.” Yellow couldn’t bear to look her in the eye. “Especially something so out of nowhere.”

“Didn’t you hear me? I like your inappropriate, out-of-nowhere thoughts. We don’t have to keep such things to ourselves anymore.” Blue leaned in closer until closing the gap by embracing Yellow. “Aren’t you glad?” Her voice was low in her throat, her fingers trailing up the nape of Yellow’s neck. They could taste each other's shared breathing, Blue in, Yellow out. Out, in, scented of flowers.

“Blue—”

There was something between them they both reached for. Just for a moment, their bodies turned to light, grasping, casting a glow against the neon plants and the star-filled window. Just for a moment, they were huge. Just for a moment, they were green.

Then they popped apart on the floor, Yellow and Blue again.

The force of separating left Yellow lopsided on her bench, tilted with one side touching the floor, and Blue a short ways across the room.

“I'm sorry—I didn't mean—” but she was already heading for the door.

“Wait—!”

“I'm so sorry,” Blue said finally, and left Yellow with her photons buzzing back into place, and a snapshot of herself where Blue had stood.

***

The next day, Yellow went to Earth. She didn't tell anyone she was going, nor Steven that she was coming. She simply arrived that evening, apologetically, in front of the beach house.

As Yellow stood there, waiting for someone to acknowledge her, her gem shined over the entire house, bright enough to signal a plane. Meanwhile, gems who used to be hers passed below, pausing as if to bow, but not many committed.

Finally, the door opened. Amethyst came out.

“Uh… Hey, Yellow Diamond.”

Neither spoke.

“Do you need something or... You're just... Standing around?”

Both fought the urge to cringe, sweating profusely.

“No. I'd like to talk to Steven.”

“Umm. Sure. Hold on a second.” Inside the house, her voice could be heard calling, “Steven! Yellow Diamond is here to see you!”

“What?" There were footsteps, nearing the door. "Did she say why?”

“I don't know, dude. But I bet you're in trouble —”

The door opened again, and Steven shielded his face from Yellow’s rays. It occurred to her to cover her gem.

“Hey, what's going on?”

Yellow explained as he walked her to the beach. She told him about her shortness of breath, her episodes of sighing at the windows while listening to dumb techno songs. She told him about her dizzy spells and how her mind always returned to—

“Blue?” Steven asked. He had taken his flip-flops off and dug his feet into the sand. “I don't know. It sounds like you're experiencing some emotions. Have you talked to her about them, or...?”

“It seems that she wanted to talk last night. She came to my room and well... We almost fused. In fact, I think we did.”

“Hmm.” Steven lifted his feet from the sand, upsetting a crab from its burrow. “So you said you feel woozy around her, and you get tongue-tied, and you can't stop thinking about her. And you feel like you can't tell her any of these things?”

“That’s right.”

“And no one else makes you feel this way?”

Yellow glimpsed out to the ocean and the sky turning peach, orange, and purple. “Not even close.”

“Sounds like you might be in love.”

“ What? ” Yellow practically snapped her neck. “I can't be in love! That's ridiculous . I've known Blue forever and—” Her eyes widened. “ Oh, stars .”

Steven unstuck his feet and slipped them back into his shoes. “You came just around dinner time, so I'm going to go back in. I'd offer you a place, but…” Steven took a couple of steps, hands in his pockets, but turned back. Yellow was still having an existential crisis.

“The same advice doesn't work for everyone, but... You should tell her. No matter what happens, it will probably make you feel better, getting it off your chest.”

Yellow’s palpable dread seemed to dissipate. “Thank you, Steven.”

“You're welcome. Good luck.”

The waves crashed as Steven left footprints back to the house. Yellow stayed put, boots in the sand as the tide rolled in. She focused on the color-gradient horizon, forgetting to blink.

***

Yellow stayed by the ocean, the waves crashing in and out punctuating the time. The moon rose high over the water, casting a silver shadow upon its surface. Along the beach, a few humans had set a bonfire, and just as it extinguished, Yellow’s communicator rang.

It was Blue.

“Hello?”

“Yellow, where have you been? I checked in your room and you weren't there. And why do you have the video function turned off? Are you all right?”

“I'm fine.” The ocean crashed again. “I went to Earth, to clear my mind.”

“To Earth? Did you talk to Steven?”

“Yes...how did you know?”

“I had a feeling.” There was a short silence. “Do you mind if I join you?”

Yellow froze for only a moment. “No, I don't mind.”

“All right.” Blue set something down. “I'll be there soon.”

It took a few minutes. Even though their ships were impossibly fast, it still wasn't instantaneous. Yellow, without realizing it, held her breath while searching the stars, waiting for Blue.

The ocean even seemed to slow, meeting the shore a little more gently, and in an eternity stretched over no time at all, Blue arrived. She parked her ship next to Yellow’s and joined her on the sand.

“It's good to see you again,” she said, sitting down. “Thank you for letting me join you.”

Yellow, finally, took a breath. “Blue—”

Blue held her hand.

“I love you.”

There it was. Yellow had finally said those words. Her body caught fire internally, and Blue smiled. She squeezed Yellow’s fingers atop the sand.

“I know,” she said. “I was waiting so long for you to finally realize it. Stars , I've never seen you swoon like that. You looked so cute.” Blue kissed her cheek, painfully close to her lips, and used their proximity to embrace her. “Do I have to tell you that I love you too? Or have you known?”

“I was hoping—”

Blue kissed her, fully on the mouth. She held her a long time before letting her go.

“I'm sorry I fused with you. I mean—I'm not sorry that it happened, but the rules have been laid out for so long for what we weren’t supposed to do that now I'm not sure what you're comfortable with.” Blue kept her from falling. “You felt so overwhelmed. Even this seems like it might be too much.”

“No—” Yellow said. “I'm euphoric.”

“Euphoric? And I didn't even need to use my clouds.”

“Let me kiss you again.”

Blue smiled. “No. Come with me.”

Yellow was a little slow to stand, legs stiff from staying in place for so long, but she followed as Blue pulled her into the ocean. The water was cool as it lapped against her kneecaps, more and more softly the further they went. They stopped about waist-deep, when Beach City appeared as a series of dim lights. The moon was bright overhead, and Blue took both of Yellow’s hands.

“Do you want to try fusing again?”

Yellow held hers firmly back. “I can try.”

“If this is ever too much–” Blue kissed both sets of her knuckles, “I want you to tell me. I want you to tell me everything. Promise you will.”

“I promise,” Yellow said, and kissed her on the cheek. “I love you, Blue.”

“I love you too, Yellow.”

They embraced as the moon moved straight overhead, illuminating the greenish ocean water beneath them.

#Bellow Diamond #Bellow Diamond Bomb #Yellow Diamond #Blue Diamond #White Diamond #Steven Universe #Wholesome and GayTM #fusion #Green Diamond

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notalittlebutalottie · 4 years

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Writing Reflection: Against the Cards {Klaroline}

Thinking about Against the Cards + Against the World and I can’t believe I even finished it... I know some people really like it, but I have so many negative associations with that story and I thought since it’s been two years since I finished the original AtC and a few months since AtW was wrapped up, I would discuss it.

How did I come to write it?

The first time I wrote it, I was in my first semester of university, lying in bed. I’m not sure how I came up with it, but I remember writing that first line ‘She could not help it. She just could not fucking help it. That bitch’ and going from there. I just wanted to write a story where Caroline had had enough of people telling her how she should feel and dealt with her resentment towards Elena. It was originally intended as a one-shot, but it spiralled and ended up a full story. I think my biggest goal with it was to just actually finish a WIP for once!

Which do I prefer? Against the Cards or Against the World?

Against the World will always win for me. Though I’m happy with certain aspects of Against the Cards, the sequel is something I can view more positively. Here’s why: the quality of writing is better in both narration and dialogue; the tone of the story is a lot more mature; it addresses Klaus’ faults as well as Caroline’s; and I think the ‘smut’ scene is both better quality-wise and in terms of its attributions to the story as a whole.

Why do I have negative associations with the story?

Back when I first published it, I liked it! However, as time has passed, I’ve felt a lot of negative emotions towards it. I don’t think the writing was as polished in AtC regarding grammar, dialogue, and certain areas of narration. AtC is the first story I completed for this fandom, so I felt a lot of pressure from the reviews that expected things to happen in the way that they wanted. AtC is home to my first ever smut scene but it is my least favourite piece of writing I have done thus far. After I finished it, I received a very mean review that called the fic ‘fucking stupid’ and likened Caroline to a doormat. I can joke about it now and I literally memed it last month(?) but it was so shit at the time. Personally, I think they were pissed because they got to the end of AtC and KC didn’t end up together, but the fic wasn’t about their romance, it was about Caroline’s personal growth. Yes, Caroline was insecure and bent to the will’s of others but...welcome to the conflict of the ENTIRE freaking story.

The largest negative association with AtW that I have is that I began it following a terribly long hiatus, I was on the brink of deleting all of my work and my tumblr, and I was getting a couple reviews at most. Some of the reviews left me feeling shit because on one hand, people were telling me ‘Caroline should get over it! They weren’t together because of her therefore she has no right to be angry that he slept with Hayley’ but then other reviews were saying ‘Klaus sucks. I don’t want them to be together’. And none of these reviews acknowledged my writing and the work I had done. Looking back, I’m glad I didn’t try to change things for those reviews because it was an adult conflict; no single party was right or wrong and that’s how it works in real life. I was at an impasse with this story and finishing it was such a difficult mountain to climb. I’m proud of myself for finishing it, but it wasn’t an easy task.

The issue of smut

I thought this deserved it’s own little section because there are two smut scenes in the whole of this story and they are my least favourite and most interesting respectively. When I began AtC, KC’s first sexual encounter is not fully described, it’s just alluded to so it’s not really ‘smut’. And not to fault said reviewer (as this was a minor part of their larger comment), but someone commented their disappointment in not getting smut. This left me feeling a little pressured, that for people to really love the story, I had to write smut, which I had never done before, and so the smut scene I wrote for chapter 7 was incredibly forced and is uncomfortable for me to look back on. Objectively, it’s not terrible, but I was 20 years old and I didn’t really know myself sexually so how was I supposed to write something like that?

In contrast, AtW has a rather short smut scene in chapter 2 (chapter 16 on AO3) and I find it MUCH better. It was my third time writing smut, second being taken by Sing Me Sweet Nothings, but I just felt like it was much more realistic and just mature. The context of the scene is that KC are arguing over Klaus sleeping with Hayley until they reach this very high point of tension and they have sex. The reason why I like it so much is that it’s raw, emotional, and honest. It’s not meant to be arousing and overtly sexual, it’s meant to represent their conflicted feelings. They’ve been through so much and it feels like there’s always an obstacle, and they’re angry with each other and themselves so they know this isn’t the best circumstance to have sex under, but they want each other so badly.

What do I like about the story?

I love the ending of AtC! It was exactly what needed to happen and no one can convince me otherwise. I love Caroline’s personal growth from the beginning to the end! I like Elena’s characterisation for the most part and how she is referenced in AtW (because at the end of the day, it was never really about her). I like Hayley’s characterisation because she’s not just some mega-bitch out to cause havoc in KC land, she’s just living her life and she’s not suddenly being like “heeeeey bestie” to Caroline after the conflict ends. I adore the kitchen scene in chapter 1 of AtC; I think the tension is wonderful! There’s a substantial amount of dialogue I do love in AtC! And lastly, I love that I finished it! 😂 I see it as a personal triumph.

So there you have it! I hope you enjoyed this rambling of mine. I know I might come off as harsh, but I wanted to be honest in my reflection. I thank you for reading this if you have made it to the bottom and I thank you for reading the story. - Lottie

Never read Against the Cards + Against the World? Read it [here]!

#klaroline #klaus and caroline #the originals #the vampire diaries #klaus mikaelson #caroline forbes #writing reflection #against the cards #against the world #fanfiction

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ddaenghoney · 5 years

Text

chapter sixteen

masterlist link in blog description.

As a successful songwriter, you want nothing more than the acknowledgment that the chart-topping musical pieces are your own creations. But contracts, relationships, and the difficulty of facing the stakes involved head on, keep your mouth shut until pressure builds too much.

Pairing(s): Park Jimin x Y/N, Min Yoongi x Y/N

disclaimer: any characters depicted do not represent the actual personality of the respected idol in real life.

Series warning(s)/genre(s): Chapter-based written fic, Slow-burn relationship(s), Fake-dating, Unrequited love, Songwriter/producer!oc, idol!Jimin, idol/songwriter/producer!Yoongi, friends with benefits, drama, romance, smut, angst, fluff (updated as needed)

Chapter warning(s): mentions of anxiety/nervousness. Yoongi going through quite a bit ) :

Word count: 5826

if you enjoy please, please let me know!

“Wow, it didn’t take you long to get here.” Yoongi says as he steps back to open the door wider. You nod your head, entering inside,

“I was already in the car with Jin, and there’s not really much traffic right now.” You rub your hands together, paying particular attention to let your thumbs meddle with the individual fingers. The front door shuts with a click and an electronic beep to indicate it’s properly secure. Your eyes remain fixed towards the floor, mulling over the different things he could want to tell you.

“Were you going somewhere with him after seeing him and Namjoon at the cafe?” Yoongi’s voice is normal, a casual inquisitiveness like he hadn’t mentioned a conversation that needs to happen not even half an hour earlier. His hand finds your back with a tiny nudge to lead you towards the couch just like the day before and any other time you’ve ended up at his place for one reason or another. Despite the multitude of armchairs framing the living space, it’s been natural to sit beside one another as you do now.

“Yeah,” You say then recall that uncomfortable situation to cause you and Seokjin to leave Namjoon’s cafe. Part of you still wants to settle in the idea that the three of you were making incorrect assumptions. The first group, and then the second set of patrons were simply going in to drink coffee or have pastries. Ultimately it’s speculation, and you could just be overthinking the popularity of your name after a night of music exposure. “He was just giving me a ride.”

Yoongi watches the words appear to flutter uncertainly from your lips, like they attempt to cover a larger picture. He frowns slightly, then catches sight of balling hands on your lap. Without consideration for anything besides a clearer understanding of whatever is troubling you, Yoongi moves a few inches closer so that he can reach an intersect your focused sightline. He doesn’t surprise from your shoulders shrugging in surprise, instead smiling gently as your restless grip changes to take a delicate hold on his hand.

Your stare finally finds his own, and Yoongi thinks about the comments from the internet. You told him you wanted to wait until the evening to check any yourself, but maybe you had like he had. “What’s wrong?”

Your brows furrow, lips pouting in disbelief of his question, “You said you needed to talk to me so I’m nervous about it.” Without hesitation or tact you speak up, then clamp your lips shut. Squeezing his hand within the confines of your own, you sigh in embarrassment, unaware of Yoongi’s eyes widening in realization. “That sounded kind of harsh how I said it. But I just,” You shrug and pull your legs up onto the couch to better face him, “It’s not even three in the afternoon and you’re back home, Yoon.”

“Oh, yeah,” He blurts out, then nods slowly. You nearly snort in amusement with how he seems to have forgotten the tone of his voice in the phone call, but smother it as he uses his free hand to rub the arch of his shoulder and neck. “Yeah, I know it’s weird.” He narrows his eyes towards the sight of your connecting hands, though entirely unfocused on it. “I do have something to say, I just didn’t figure out how to say it before you got here.”

“Did Yerin end up getting really upset with you?” Yoongi bites his lip at the question, causing you to worry about the severity of the decision to release. If he is going to have a difficult time at SoundWave now, you would like to take back clicking the button, even if he said he was aware of the risks. Yoongi shouldn’t be the person facing the brunt of whatever repercussions there are.

“SoundWave is dropping me from the company.”

Your lips part, taking the sentence into your head. Yoongi doesn’t speak further, eyes simply staring towards your hands holding his, where he grips onto you the reason for this is all.

Language escapes your mind, unable to think of a response to his words. If you were called straight away for the company to tell you they’re cutting the contract short and firing you, if you were called in so they can slam paperwork for some sort of contrived lawsuit, if they took action against you for what happened, you can understand that. You expected the force of Yerin’s voice nailing your nerves while she tells you every reason why you made the wrong choice.

But Yerin firing Yoongi wasn’t a consideration.

She could’ve got rid of you months ago when the initial photographs of you and Yoongi leaked and she acknowledged the hidden affair between you and Jimin, but all along she never did. Despite the constant prodding into the company like you meant to make it burst, you were reprimanded through words wherever you expected a tearing of your contract in half.

“Why,” Yoongi looks up at your cracking mumble, finding your eyes contorted in confusion and complete regret. He goes to speak, feeling your hands tremble around his as you shake your head, “She can’t do that-” You cut your own voice off as you consider the fact that she has every right to, and you watch Yoongi bite his lip frowning. “I’m sorry.” His eyes narrow, following your figure as you stand from the couch, “This is my fault- I’ll go talk to her, I’m sorry-”

“It’s not your fault.” Yoongi reaches for your wrist while he pursues your distraught path, “Y/N, I told you that I thought about it before-”

“Did you think she’d fire you!” You turn as you ask, frowning. Yoongi’s lips shut, tightening, and you believe the tremble in his soft grip on your wrist exists, but it’s largely masked by your own surging emotions rumbling in your veins. “Yoongi, you can’t lose your job, you don’t deserve that. You’ve worked for everything.”

“You have too.” Yoongi’s voice rings with conviction, willing you to stay silent as he fumbles through other sentences swarming in his thoughts. Shaking his head, Yoongi sighs, taking a moment to admit, “I didn’t think she’d do that.”

With how much his title contributes to the company, why would either of you ever thought they would fire him for this. Even in your head, the punishment for helping you release music was comparably minor to this reality. You anticipated articles ripping you to shreds for him letting you feature in his works by only being his girlfriend. You thought Yerin would force him to remove the tracks and take away his allowance of independently posting music.

“I’ll go talk to her.”

“She’s not going to change her mind, angel.” Yoongi watches your hands clench, knowing you feel entirely helpless and unsure of how to go about assisting him. He doesn’t think it’s worth it for you to be so upset-- that this is simply a plausible repercussion, and one that isn’t your fault. Involving yourself between him and Yerin wouldn’t do anything, perhaps even serving to cause public scrutiny for you if SoundWave takes louder measures.

A year earlier, Yoongi wondered what stopped him from helping Hoseok during the scandal. His own fear felt like tape over his mouth, discouraging any means to speak favorably to the press about Hoseok whose reputation was crushed in a matter of weeks from lies and misconceptions fed into the public. All the while Yoongi let it go on, offering only an ear to spill worries and stresses, but no voice to give aid.

“Yoon, I’m so sorry.” Hearing your frail voice, Yoongi remembers offering help. In a small voice, maybe one he hoped Hoseok wouldn’t hear, but did. Only to be met with him telling Yoongi not to. “I shouldn’t have let this happen.”

“They shouldn’t have done any of this to us.” Yoongi says immediately, recalling Yerin’s short speech earlier to him that day. He knew that it wouldn’t be good news, he already prepared for that from the moment the secretary called him on his commute to say that Yerin needed to speak to him immediately.

“You made the choice for this.” She said after Yoongi questioned why. In his stupor, he thought he heard her wrong, never thinking that she would fire him from the first sentence. “I don’t need the liability of you acting on your own like this. Your platform is too big for you to make ridiculous, impulsive decisions. And considering the online reception of those songs, it’s only natural that something had to be done. None of them went over well where fans are concerned. The amount of backlash you’re going to receive is reason enough, but I know that you won’t stop here. I can’t have someone like you in this company.”

“I never wanted any of this, Y/N.”

Ice infects his words, though spoken quietly. Weakly does his hand remain on your wrist, resembling something closer to resigning conviction, and it brings your heart to an even pace. Despite your previous racing thoughts screaming at you to go to SoundWave and fight for him to get his job back, in the sentence Yoongi brings everything to a painful lull.

Little time is needed to understand that his words aren’t directed at an anger towards being fired, but something deeper that you know is familiar. From small glances before. You can recall the tour Yerin gave him around the company building so many months ago and the stoic expression that seemed to be following motions, the time you asked him if he enjoys SoundWave just to be met with mostly silence until he could verbalize a doubtful yes. In front of cameras Yoongi’s eyes were always avoiding looking directly, dodging away like what he couldn’t show himself properly.

You shrug his hand off of you as you take a step towards him, adjusting your arm so that your palm cups his cheek. Angling his face towards your gently, Yoongi’s eyes look collected with moisture, but absent of release. Jaw tightened, then more so as he frowns down at your concern twinkling irises. “Yoon.”

The softness of your voice sends his ribcage into a shudder, unable to allow himself words for risk they’ll end up exhaling words he’s never felt like he should say. Your thumb strokes gently, so soothingly warm against his stinging skin. He lets his hands find purchase on your waist as you perk onto your toes to leave a tiny kiss on beside his lips, like a feathering promise. Silently waiting however long you’ll need to.

“I’ve never been me in front of everyone, angel,” His voice takes time on his words, like his subconscious grips onto them tightly until they’re ripped away by the invitation of your comfort. “My other company and SoundWave,” He sighs, squeezing your waist as he finds himself weakening. Yoongi has so much, he shouldn’t be upset about such a simple thing like reputation.

“Yoongi,” His eyes flicker back towards yours, seeing them present, focused. “You can tell me.”

Compared to you whose every means to be acknowledged has been constantly subdued since your entry into the music industry, Yoongi thinks it’s almost ridiculous for him to complain to you. Despite his own allowance of you telling him your troubles, he doesn’t feel like he should be allowed to talk to you about things that would’ve been changeable if he simply acted on his own accord like what people expect of him. But it’s fabrication to be unsociable and distant for the persona that grew from the debut album into an unleavable image.

Hoseok did what he wanted for himself, always maintaining his truly positive attitude and letting every fan see him as he is. Even in the midst of handling the scandal of his relationship with Seulgi, and allowing her to fabricate a clean escape that left Hoseok dealing with the brunt of misconceptions, he still did it all freely. Perhaps now he would’ve reacted differently, but Hoseok’s actions have always been his own despite what people could think, and that’s simply why he’s able to start again.

“I just feel like I’m some sort of puppet.” Yoongi believes his voice to sound hollow, more so than he intended. With it spoken, he already feels like it should be pulled back and hidden away. With how much freedom he was given to produce his music that suited the brand, and release a few independently conceptualized songs now and again without permission, Yoongi realizes that he was given the most to work with.

For you, Hoseok, and even Jimin your creative inputs were disregarded entirely. For Yoongi it was always just a distance between himself and the public; something meant to appear unattainable. He speaks quieter, without realizing the words escape, “I’m not ever supposed to be me.”

Your chest stings as his drifting focus leads away from you. Something so consuming about his words go so far as to even mesh into Yoongi’s voice, and he’s in your touch but you feel like you’re not a presence for whatever problems are further within his somber admissions. From his cheek, your hand falls away to settle on his shoulder, squeezing bits of warmth that snap his stare back to you.

“You’ve always been you to me.” The sentiment outwardly appears small, but the conviction amidst your gentle voice resonates deeply in Yoongi’s chest. With his eyes widening so slightly he finds himself in silence, for some reason baffled by your statement, because certainly how the two of you interacted very initially could have led incorrect assumptions of who he is.

“Yeah, but I don’t have to be SUGA around you.” Yoongi says, recalling the simplistic intention of releasing music as an idol years ago. “Ever since debut everyone always picked how I’m supposed to act and look on their own,” He sighs, reaching to rub his head and then tugging some of the locks, “Even my hair,” There’s a passing scoff as his voice grows spiteful, “It’s been blonde since my debut-- more than five years, and I’ve never been able to get anyone to let me change it.”

His rambling falters as he realizes the ridiculousness of it all. Yoongi’s arm drops back to his side, and he sighs softly, head shaking, “I shouldn’t be saying this, angel, I’m sorry. You probably think it’s whiny,” He mumbles with a remorseful twinge, and you shake your head immediately, trying to speak in opposition to the idea but Yoongi goes on to finish, “I never thought about how much I hate pretending to be something until right now.”

“Yoongi,” Your grip on his shoulder shakes him slightly as your voice trickles out fervently for his ears to tune into. “It’s not wrong for you to feel bad about this-- if I never met you I would’ve been played by your management team too, but what people see of you in media isn’t you,” You frown, wondering if any of this makes any sense. “And you can be mad about that, Yoon, really. You didn’t want to be any of that-- I know you. I know it hurts having to follow along with everything without say, you can be mad about it. It’s okay to be.”

“I have everything else though-- they let me make my own music and everything, how am I supposed to be ungrateful about that one thing--” Yoongi grits his teeth as the retort sounded closer to an exclamation, but it’s infuriating in his mind. Escaping as frustration in blurring irises. “Why should I be complaining when you have it worse?”

Your thumbs acknowledge the tears before Yoongi’s senses do. In a startle his shoulders tense at the tiny brush to relieve his cheeks of trickling he desperately wishes would cease now that he realizes it escapes his eyes. Blinking tightly does nothing but expel more, and his jaw feels so pressured from clamming shut. “Yoon, if something hurts it hurts. Your problems aren’t less than mine.”

Yoongi wants to combat the claim, but your slight smile stops him. Empathetically bright like a small flame. He remains silent, as tension abandons his shoulders and similar words he’s said to you play through his mind. Tightening his lips together cause a new glistening trail from his eyes as remnants of the emotional flood drain away. Yoongi tugs you closer to him, arms encircle your waist to hug you as you settle your hands to rub soothingly through his hair.

“I know it’s just me saying this, but I think it’d be really hard to never be yourself in front of the world, Yoon.” You tell him while Yoongi’s face buries against your shoulder, hidden away but kept protectively close within your embrace. “You don’t have to keep it all in.”

Carefully, Yoongi’s arms tighten, clinging in a way to your person and all the safety it feels to dispel into him. He remains static as the tears in his eyes evaporate from the calmness of silence and a chance to recollect himself, yet feel much more relieving. Your fingertips seemingly perpetual massage against his scalp, and the stable feeling of you within his arms act as a constant, bringing back the equilibrium so everything feels manageable.

“I really don’t want you to go and talk to Yerin about my job, angel.” Yoongi murmurs after a small eternity of comforting quiet. As he pulls away only enough to look at you, he sees your expression changed into the slightest of dissatisfaction with his words. Realizing you clearly planned to say whatever you could, Yoongi smiles gently, face a little puffy from the tears. “I’m certain she won’t change her mind anyways.”

“But-” You start and immediately grow silent. Despite what he’s said, you can’t stop feeling responsible, and like you should be trying to help fix what Yoongi lost. However, the delay in the conversation let logic enter your head again and you know he’s right. Trying to get back in would be practically useless.

In the midst of your contemplation, Yoongi’s lips find yours in a short kiss, surprising your focus back to him. Leaving only a few centimeters of space, he speaks, “I’ll figure something out. Maybe this’ll be for the best.” Your immediate squeeze on his shoulder makes him momentarily puzzled, wondering if the last sentence sparked worry, but Yoongi doesn’t worry long as you very assertively reply,

“We’ll figure something out.” Subdued determined sparkles in your eyes, causing Yoongi’s head to imperceptibly nod as he registers the intention of paraphrasing his sentence with a different pronoun. Involving yourself into this matter. Yoongi’s lips curl upwards. “Whatever happens, at least you’ll be able to do it however you want, babe.”

“Babe?” He repeats, smile growing wider while your mouth shuts and your eyes avert. Finding an inkling of embarrassment in your pout as he points out the term of endearment you make a grumbling whine that Yoongi chuckles at. “Sorry, it was just cute.” He explains only serving to earn a glare from your growing flustered expression, “You’re right, angel. I don’t know what’ll happen, but we get to pick it all now.”

With the severity of the situation drifting in the ambiance, you both find further conversation puzzling. In favor of allowing your mind to wander, your rosy pigments simply fade as the question of what to do now perpetuates itself in the forefront of attention. By the way Yoongi rests is forehead back on your shoulder, and his fingers lock with each other as he holds you, you’re sure that despite both of your best intentions to remain positive, it’s difficult to do so.

The two of you have been cast aside from the backing of a company, and with the songs released only a day earlier, surely the loss of good reputation in the public hasn’t peaked yet. You haven’t even found the will to look through comments on the released tracks, and with everything going how it is, you’re not sure how you’ll be able to convince yourself to.

“Were you and Jin going to do something together earlier?”

“What?” You blink, then shove the thoughts in your head aside to recall the rest of the events that day. “Oh,” You shake your head as Yongi stands upright once more, letting his hands fall away from you. “No, we were just driving from Namjoon’s place.”

Yoongi’s eyebrows furrow in pure confusion, “Just to drive around?”

At the memory of the situation in the cafe your voice falters in your throat. Not that you were unwilling to speak to Yoongi about the issue, but to begin with you weren’t certain if the three of you had overreacted, and with the added news from SoundWave you wanted to ignore that topic altogether. The last thing you wanted to give Yoongi was another thing to worry about, but when you recall the camera flash and the undeniable act of following you from the subway station, your hands curl from the thought.

“Well, not exactly,” Trusting the instinct in your heartbeat, you finally sigh, rubbing your hands together as you decide to tell him. You imagine despite the worry, Yoongi would want to know. “When the three of us were talking in the cafe like usual there was a group of a few kids-- I guess teenagers, that took a picture with the flash on and Seokjin called them out about it because he thought they were taking a picture of me.” Unable to look up at him as you recount the moment, you simply go on so as not to allow the residual discomfort of it all to make you go quiet. “And there was another table of people about the same age that had come in while we were all talking, and Joon was worried that they were all there to follow me, and,” You shrug. A strong waver that you’re acting overly sensitive brushes through your spine. “Jin and I left because of it… In case other people showed up. I don’t know if they were all really there for me though.”

“Angel,” You glance timidly up to Yoongi as he continues speaking softly, “You’re okay?”

“Yeah,” You say perhaps too quickly. Definitely too fast. Yoongi’s eyebrows crease, clearly bothered by what you just described. “I really don’t know if it was anything bad.” You eventually mumble.

“If you’re nervous like this, I think it gave you a bad feeling too, sweetie.” Yoongi cups your jaw, gently bringing your eyes back to his. “It does sound like they were there for you like Jin and Namjoon thought, to be honest with you.”

You sigh, squeezing your hands together.

“Hey,” He frowns, noticing the contorting signs of anxiousness invading your face. “Sweetie, it’s okay-”

“You think it’s going to get worse than today?” You ask in a small voice. Yoongi’s mouth closes, and the silent answer is enough for you to nod, “Okay,” A longer inhale feeds into your lungs and you let it settle there for passing seconds then release in a slow exhale. “Okay. I’ll have to get used to it then.” A false positivity tries to make itself real in your words.

“I’ll be with you too.” Yoongi says as his hands strays to brush hair from your face. “Not that it’s the biggest comfort,” He chuckles softly before you interrupt his doubting laughter by pressing your lips against his. Your hands tug his shoulders closer, deepening the kiss into lasting moments as Yoongi’s fingertips find your hips to grip onto.

“It’s actually the best comfort.” You murmur between breaths, letting the words collide against his rosy lips. “Thank you.”

Yoongi hums a reciprocation as you smile, then simply leans his head back to kiss you again. His hands travel up along your sides and down in smooth rubbing motions, while you allow your arms to cascade loosely around his neck. When there’s a need for oxygen do your lips part, to take in small breaths and Yoongi abandons your lips in favor of fluttering, sweet kisses along your cheek, erupting enamored giggles from you peacefully.

“I’m glad we were forced to date each other.”

“Shut up,” You laugh at the way light-hearted voice he speaks with. “You hated me.”

“Didn’t.” Yoongi shakes his head though he’s chuckling while randomly arranging more dotting ministrations all over your face in a languid manner that you feel no need to hinder. “I hated Yerin treating us however, but we don’t have to think about her anymore.”

“That actually sounds wonderful.” You admit with a growing grin. Yoongi smiles as he pulls his head away to look at you properly. “That’s the best thing that could’ve been said today.”

“Yeah?” He chuckles, then squeezes your waist with a growing, endeared flurry filling his chest as you kiss his lips softly, in a simple manner. You nod smiling sincerely up at him, looking so much brighter than minutes earlier. More settled, Yoongi thinks, though he knows this isn’t the end of worries concerning everything going on. But it feels a little easier to face now. “Are you free the rest of the day?”

“Yeah. Should we go search for part-time jobs?” You tilt your head with the joke, and Yoongi rolls his eyes. “I’m free though. I’d actually really like to just be with you, if you are too.”

Yoongi smiles, biting his lip as he’s sure he’ll become visibly enamored by your sweet tone. He kisses you before you’re able to tease him about the flustering expression. “Maybe you won’t want to after hearing where I’m going to ask you to join me at.”

---

“Are you regretting it now?” Yoongi smiles as he turns the chair to look at you as you sit on a bench beside the hair styling station. With one of his caps propped atop your head, and another cap and his cardigan in a bundle on your lap, you shake your head, smiling at the appearance of his hair completely sectioned off in bunches. Having been wrapped neatly in tin foil, you know this is entering into the latter portion of the impromptu hair appointment having already spent close to two hours in the conditioning treatment phase.

“No, because we’re going to eat after this so I have the love of my life to look forward to.” You search your pocket for your phone to memorialize the appearance as Yoongi whines knowingly,

“Don’t take pictures; I look like an android.”

“More like an alien, babe.” You grin as you snap a series of pictures, while Yoongi starts the shoot with a scowl that turns into a wide unamused smile when you pout at him for cooperation. “Aw, you’re adorable.”

“I’m going to take pictures of you scarfing down food.” He mutters to himself, as he turns the chair back towards the mirror. Yoongi examines the situation atop his head as the dye works to make itself permanent over the locks of blonde hair he’s had for the majority of his adult life. Sitting there he feels a build up of anticipation for the end result, an excitement mixed with a doubtful wonder about if he would look familiar after returning his hair to its natural color.

Glancing back towards you, he finds your cheeks puffed in concentration as you click around rampantly on your phone. Probably adding ridiculous filters or stickers to the pictures of him you just took. Yoongi smiles, finding it both amazing and strange that he’s grown so close to you throughout the passing year. Warmed at the prospect of the change he’s gone through so far, despite the uncertainty of what’s to come.

Where the year prior he felt incapable of acting completely as he wants, now Yoongi feels encouraged by you to do what he wants in the way that you’re also trying your best to change your life back into your own control.

“Oh, Joon’s calling me,” You say out of surprise by the screen changing suddenly on your phone.

“It’s sort of loud in here, why don’t you talk to him in the lobby?” Yoongi offers while the barrage of hair dryers and chatter in the evening portion of the business day reigns on. You nod, standing up and clutching his items against your chest as you begin to walk off, “Sweetie, you can just leave my stuff there,” Yoongi chuckles as you only become aware of his clothing as he’s brought it to your attention. Laughing bashfully you neatly plop the items,

“Right, I wasn’t thinking.” You admit sheepishly before gently prodding your fingertip into his cheek when he begins to grin. “Be right back.”

After your leave, Yoongi reaches to the messy countertop below the mirror for his own phone. Knowing he’s left it on silent all day along with not checking up on any notifications, he isn’t surprised to find a multitude of alerts in a line on the lock screen. Dismissing the majority of social media ones, he instead opens the text thread that he left alone earlier after saying he’ll text back later in the evening.

Hoseok, 2:24pm: Get back to me whenever you feel able. I know it’s hard to deal with, but I’m always here, bro.

Yoongi, 6:35pm: I’m doing the impulsive haircut route.

Hoseok, 6:37pm: Please tell me you’re doing a glamorous pink color?

Yoongi laughs, looking up as his stylist walks over from down the aisle. Peeking carefully beneath the tin foil to check the coloring, he works silently while Yoongi responds.

Yoongi, 6:40pm: Not this time, sorry. Also, I’m sure you’re worried and I really have no clue what I’m going to do yet, but I’m okay.

“It looks ready to go,” The stylist nods to himself, and begins to remove a bunch of tin foil one by one. “I’m usually touching up your roots, so I was pretty surprised when you wanted the exact opposite this time.”

“Yeah,” Yoongi says as he hears the crinkling of the shiny metallic papers that propel his heart into an excited beat. “I like it this way a lot more than the blonde.”

“Sure it’s not your girlfriend isn’t the one who does?” He asks with no ill-will, just a smile at the joking banter while he looks at the dark locks heavy with the dye. Yoongi take a moment to respond as he also catches the stark difference of color being revealed atop his head.

“No, I don’t think she’s ever seen me with black hair.” Yoongi says without focus, while thinking more about the ease of maintaining his hair now that he won’t have to come in every other week to bleach his roots. Without any of the tinfoil obscuring his view, he finds himself biting his lip as his cold locks of hair weigh down on his scalp, only now needing a rinse and dry to fully reveal what the new style of his natural hair will look like.

“Well, let’s give her a nice surprise then. Follow me back to get it shampooed and conditioned.”

“Namjoon,” You roll your eyes at your friend whining through the receiver about a customer that just walked out leaving their drink mostly untouched. “I’m sure the drink tastes fine, dude.”

“They just left it though,” He gripes on, muttering incomprehensibly as you assume he cleans up the remnants. “This is the best-selling drink right now-”

“Joon, you said you wanted to tell me something,” You laugh as you rub your face, back leaning against a wall beside the check-in counter for the salon.

“Oh, right.” You shake your head at the fact his voice sounds entirely surprised that he forgot the entire reason for calling you while he spent the last twenty minutes complaining about customers throughout the day. “Some other kids came in awhile after you and Jin left-- well maybe they were more like teenagers.” You bite your lip so as not to laugh at the similar rambling he does like you had. “But anyways, they definitely came in hoping to spot you. They were asking me if I was friends with you.”

“Oh, yeah?” Your grip on the phone tightens as you think about the other groups following you for pictures and now even this one came in to directly search for you.

“Yeah, they wanted to know because they wanted me to tell you that they really liked the music you and Yoongi made together.” Your grip lessens as his words enter your ear. With a surprised stupor you let him continue right along. “They’re big fans of Yoongi, but they think you did a really good job on the music. They were saying it’s probably hard considering all the other stuff being said on the internet.”

“Really?”

Namjoon remains quiet, smiling gently at the utterly shocked tone of your voice. Knowing the day you’ve had has likely been full of stressful news, he also feels better about things as he recounts the information to you. “Yeah, they were really sincere about it.”

Even after ending the phone call you find yourself stunned silent from the opposite news that you anticipated from Namjoon as he first started to tell you about the fans. With a smile growing at the potential for others to have similar perspectives, you feel lighter. This isn’t the ideal scenario to play out for releasing music, but you’ll take the good out of it in stride. It’s the best thing to do after all.

“Angel,” Your shoulders startle from your thoughts as Yoongi’s voice calls out to you from the side. You turn your head as he walks over. “Your phonecall took forever-”

“Whoa,” Your mouth stays open wide as your eyes go straight to the dark hair atop his head. Turning on your heel in surprise as you continue to take in the new style, you find it to be so different. Obviously it would be, but the fact that you couldn’t properly imagine his hair like this until seeing it as you stand there leaves you in awe. “Yoon, it looks so nice.”

“You think so?” You become aware of his voice’s timidness, clearly still in suspense on what your verdict would be on the style. Yoongi’s eyes meet yours when you finally look towards them from his black hair. He feels his chest tighten as you smile up at him and nod your head.

“I like it a lot.”

Yoongi’s lips curl in satisfaction, his heart swelling even more so as you take the step closer so you can reach up to immerse your fingers in the fluffy, night-like hair. Unable to contain the swift kiss on your lips that lasts only a moment because of location, Yoongi’s mouth grows into a grin as he states peacefully, “Me too.”

if you enjoy please, please let me know via ask, comment, rb with tags– however ! i’d just really appreciate feedback 🥺 i hope you enjoy the series, i’m working really hard on it! : )

tag list (send an ask to be added): @jaiuneamesolitaiire @tsvkino-usagi@xionysus @baebyjoonie @honeyoongles @betysotelo18

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itsafanficthing · 5 years

Text

Healing

Another One Quote One Shot. This is a stand alone to a larger fic that I'll never write. The Quote is in Bold and Italic.

Thank you as always to @notevenjokingfic and @balfeheughlywed for putting this together again, finding the quotes, coordinating, beta-ing and being generally brilliant.

If A03 is more your jam: Here

“You broke my heart, Jamie.” She was breathing heavily. Trying to stop the water from falling from her eyes. How many more tears would she cry for this man?

“Ye think that it wasn’t hard for me? That it did’na hurt me?” His voice was rough. His accent always got thicker when he was upset.

“Hurt… hurt you?” She repeated the word. Hurt. “It may have hurt you. But you broke me. You may have been hurt. But you weren’t broken.” She shook her head. Damn her eyes. She could feel the salty water making tracks down her cheeks. She looked down, too afraid to meet his eyes. How much more could one person break?

“Sass-”

She hissed at the pet name about to fall from his lips and he stopped abruptly.

“Ye dinna understand what it was like for me.”

“What it was like for you?” She repeated incredulously. “No I bloody well don’t know what it was like for you because you didn’t talk to me. You just left.” She paused as she felt the knife in her heart twist again at the truth in her words. “You left. No reason. One night, bags packed and you were gone.” She laughed humorlessly, “Sure. Be hurt. Feel that I have wronged you in someway. Because you’re right. I don’t understand. I didn’t then. And I sure as hell don’t understand why you’ve come back now.”

He had the good sense to at least look abashed at that, though she didn’t see it. She couldn’t look at him.

Broken. He had broken her heart when he left. Picked up his things and left- like he’d never been there.

She’d switched laundry detergents, washed her sheets, removed the smell of him from the house, from her memory.

She’d taken down the pictures of them together and locked them away. The weeks after he left were a haze to her. She went to work, she came home, she ate because she knew she had to, she slept because her brain shut down. She wasn’t really living. Claire was robotic. Going through the motions, waiting for each day to get better.

It did. Slowly. It became more than routine to get up, shower and go to work. She found some happiness in her work once more and her coworkers commented that she looked happier.

Happy. She was never truly happy now. He’d taken that from her. Which was ridiculous of course. He didn’t hold her happiness and she shouldn’t have put so much of her faith in a man that was flawed. But she’d loved him. Deeply. From her soul.

When he left, her heart had broken; her soul had fractured and she didn’t know how to put any of it back together again. People said that a broken heart was like a clean snap of a twig. One minute whole: the next in two.

But it wasn’t like that for Claire. Her broken heart was suffocating. It was a slow and deliberate crush under the weight of loneliness and depression. Her heart didn’t snap like a twig. It was slowly squeezed of its life. The love that she’d held for anything oozed out of her, leaving behind a despairing loneliness and isolation that faced her every morning.

She wanted her heart to break quickly. Crack or snap once and then she could begin the work of healing. But the agonisingly gradual process of compressing her soul under the gravity of her dysphoria meant that she couldn’t even think about healing. There was no chance to heal when a wound was still open and bleeding.

He said that it hurt him as well. She knew pain. She knew hurt.

Did he know broken? Did he know what it felt like to break? To look in the mirror and have no idea who the person was that was looking back at you? To look at yourself, recognise your features but somehow, you were lost?

Disassociation, the doctors called it. She’d written a paper on it when she was at university. She’d known what it meant theoretically then, but she was completely unprepared to experience it herself.

She’d put too much faith in him. Invested too much of herself in him and when he was no more, what was left of her? An empty shell of a woman, whose heart would not- could not stop bleeding.

He was flawed, so was she. They never pretended to be perfect. They fought, they disagreed but to have him leave so unexpectedly, so quickly, shifted her. The world came off its axis for a moment and she struggled to right herself in this new world. A world without Jamie.

She’d thought that they would grow old together. That they would lose each other to life eventually. She had never thought that she would lose him through choice.

Faith and trust in a flawed human. It was her own fault, but she couldn’t bring herself to regret it. Even as she was trying to suture her still weeping heart, she couldn’t bring herself to regret falling in love with him.

And now, here he was, six months later, standing in front of her, like nothing had changed.

She was not the same person and she was sure that he wasn’t either. How could he be? How could she?

“Will ye let me explain?” He asked cautiously. She still hadn’t looked at him again. She couldn’t. She wouldn’t.

Why should she let him explain anything? What would an explanation do to a damaged heart? Would there be any comfort in knowing the reasons he had left her? Would it just bring more pain? Could she handle any more pain?

Claire sniffed loudly. The tears falling from her eyes causing her nose to go as well. She hated crying. She hated crying in front of him. More than anything, she hated crying because of him.

“Please. I ken ye dinna understand. But I would…I think when I tell ye why, ye will.”

Claire finally looked up at him, wiping the tears from her eyes as she did so. She couldn’t actually meet his eyes, her gaze focused somewhere on his cheekbones, the two small scars that she’d loved tracing with her fingertips late at night. The mole on his left cheek, slightly raised from the skin. Not an imperfection by any stretch of the imagination. It suited him.

The ridge on his nose- broken at the age of twelve in a fight with his brother, neither of whom came out of it without scars. The almost blonde stubble that was scattered along a square jaw that Claire had once joked, “could cut a man”. Eyes- she couldn’t meet his eyes. She knew the depth of the blue, sparkling when he laughed, storming when he was angry.

The memories of her fingers tracing the familiar path along his jaw, the mole, the scars and the way he would close his eyes as she tried to memorize his feature by touch alone. Her memory didn’t do him justice. He was beautifully made- made for her, she had thought. But she should have known that it would come to an end. Good things were never made to last.

“I can’t forget what happened. Explanation or not. And I don’t know… I don’t want to forgive you. Hating you is so much easier and I think I deserve easier for a moment.”

“Claire, I -”

She held up her hand to stop him.

“I can’t, Jamie. I want to. But I can’t. Now now -”

“Then when?” Jamie interrupted, taking a step toward her.

Claire took an involuntary step backward away from him and flinched as though he had raised his hand to her. Jamie was dumbstruck at her reaction and froze in place, not daring to move.

“I don’t know if there will ever be a time that I will be ready to hear why you broke my heart.”

“Please Claire. It’s important that you know.”

“Important for who? For you? To relieve the guilt? So that you can feel some sort of justification for leaving me? Don’t worry about it. You can leave here in the knowledge that I’m fine. I’m still alive. I’ve moved on.”

“Have ye? Moved on?” Jamie asked taking a tentative step toward her. Claire stood her ground this time, arms crossed protectively against her chest.

“I’m trying,” she answered honestly. Though why she owed him any kind of truth about her life, she didn’t know.

“Because I haven’t. I haven’t thought about anythin’ else for six months.”

Six months ago Claire craved to know why he left, why he’d given up on them. But now?

It didn’t make sense for him to miss her. It didn’t make sense for him to care.

He’d made the choice to leave. He’d made the choice to pack his bags and go. So why should he think of nothing else for the entire time that they were apart?

Did she need his reasoning? Did she even want it? Claire had spent so long working on herself, to open herself up again, to even consider the possibility of falling in love again. But she knew, deep and buried in her soul, she would never love someone like she’d loved Jamie. And maybe that also included Jamie again. Could she ever love him like she had before?

“Would ye believe that I left… because it was what was best for you?” Jamie asked tentatively.

Claire couldn’t help the scoff that came from her mouth. It was an involuntary sound but the idea that he would leave and it would be anything but soul crushing for Claire was laughable.

Claire glanced up at Jamie briefly and was surprised to see that he was completely serious and was totally confident in what he’d said to her.

“No. I wouldn’t believe that.” Claire shook her head and felt a grin come to her face. Ridiculous. It was a ridiculous thought and she was having a ridiculous reaction to it. She should be screaming, crying, throwing punches and instead all she could do was laugh. She felt a chuckle burst through her lips at Jamie. She sounded hysterical.

“That’s… that’s laughable, Jamie. Of all the things you’ve ever said to me… that’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”

“It’s the truth, Sassenach.”

Claire felt her heart clench at the nickname that only sounded right coming from Jamie’s mouth. One minute she was laughing at the ridiculousness of what he was saying, the next her heart was compressed again hearing a familiar, at one time, loving nickname. Her stomach flipped as if she was on a roller coaster.

“I just… you might think that… but there’s nothing… there’s no way that I,” Claire paused trying to think through what she was trying to say. “You might think you were doing what was best for me… best for us, but there will never be any part of me that agrees with that.”

She watched as Jamie swallowed heavily and nodded slightly. For the first time she looked properly in his eyes and was genuinely surprised to see tears brimming on the blond eyelashes surrounding the blue of his eyes. She shouldn’t have looked in his eyes. For all that Jamie was talented at hiding his emotions, or what he was thinking, looking into his eyes not she could see the pain and regret in them now. Red rimmed- almost hungover in nature, they were not nthe eyes of Jamie as she knew him.

“If ye’d let me explain to ye-” Jamie began before Claire cut him off.

“When did you fall out of love with me?” She asked abruptly.

“I did’na.”

“When did you fall out of love with me?” Claire asked again, slower, unsatisfied with his response. “Because that’s the only reason I can think of that would cause you to pack up your bags and vanish. It’s the only thing that I could think of. You gave me no explanation of why you were leaving. I spent,” Claire took a deep breath as the tears in her throat made her voice wobble, threatening to choke her, “I spent six months, evaluating and assessing our relationship wondering when you fell out of love with me, when you began to hate me so much that you would leave me with nothing. Did I work too much? Did you meet someone else? Was it all my fault? Was I ignoring the signs? All these questions, daily, running and running and running through my head. Never giving me a break. Making me question everything about myself. So, I need to know. When did you fall out of love with me?”

“I did’na, Claire. Never.”

“I can’t-” Claire gasped as the lump in her throat threatened to choke her. Jamie reached out to her and she turned away from him. She didn’t think that she could bear to be touched by him.

“No explanation.” The words burst from her before she could stop them. “Nothing. Like you’d never existed. Just gone. And you come back now thinking, what? That I’d just be sitting here waiting for you?” Claire could see his somewhat blurred reflection in the window in front of her. Jamie was still reaching out to her, his hand hovering in the air. She was breathing heavily. She was snapping.

Maybe this was what people meant when they said that the heart broke like a twig snapping. Was this how she finally broke? She’d been crushed for months, suffocated and desolate. Was this the moment that she finally broke? A clean snap in two? The final tethers holding her to Jamie. The reason she couldn’t move on from him.

The anger. Was it that anger that fractured the last little piece of her?

“You left me with nothing after I’d given you everything. Every part of me. You had it. I gave it to you gladly. And you took it. You took it all Jamie. Until you decided it wasn’t enough, until I wasn’t enough. And you left.” Claire could feel her pulse beating heavily in her temples. “I don’t want your explanations. I don’t want your reasons. I don’t want…” Claire paused before the lie passed her lips. “I don’t want you.”

“Claire…” Jamie pleaded taking a step towards her. He was going to touch her arm and she braced herself for the contact.

Snap.

There it was; the final breaking point. As soon as Jamie’s large, warm hand came in contact with her shoulder, so gentle, so familiar- Claire felt it. She was completely broken.

She craved his touch. She craved him: and now she was completely broken.

Claire buckled under the weight of her heartbreak and her knees collapsed. She heard Jamie yelp in shock as he moved to catch her before she hit the stiff wooden floors.

No. He was too close. She could smell him. The familar smell of his laundry detergent. The smell of his aftershave. The smell of Jamie. It washed over her and she felt light headed.

His arms were wrapped around her as they crashed onto the floor together. Jamie took the weight of the fall and an “ooff” of a breath was pushed out of his lungs as Claire came into contact with him.

It was too much. The smell of him. Being cradled in his arms again. The sigh of contentment that he made as his nose nuzzled into her wild curls. It was familiar. It was... pain.

White-hot, searing pain lancing through Claire’s stomach, her temples, her finger tips. She made a sound of distress and Jamie’s arms loosened on her slightly and she found herself gripping his upper arms, too afraid to let him go, too afraid to touch him; stuck somewhere in the middle.

She whimpered but the all encompassing pain that had engulfed her body at first was subsiding and all that was left behind was a dull ache.

“Claire?” Jamie’s voice was soft and careful as he brushed some of her curls away from her eyes. He was so tender with her. Didn’t he know that every touch caused her physical pain? The sound of his voice, saying her name, like it was made for his lips- it hurt.

“You have to go,” she whispered. Her throat was hoarse, as if she had been yelling for hours. Her body was limp, pushed to the point of exhaustion. She’d given up and she’d given up in Jamie’s arms. The searing pain was the pain of a heart finally broken. A heart that had been beaten and trampled, that was weak and fighting for life. A weak pulse, threatening to give up.

And then with a touch from Jamie, an electric jolt to the system, her heart was restarted. And it hurt. Nobody ever said that healing was painful. The break was supposed to be the painful part. The healing was supposed to be… healing. It was supposed to give her life again. She didn’t think that healing was supposed to tear her apart again.

But she was whole when she was with Jamie. And she hated him for it. That after all this time, after all the pain and the heartache; when she was with him, she could breathe.

“I’m so sorry, Claire. I dinna think I’ve said it yet. I… Christ, to hold ye again, it’s like my heart will beat outta my chest, but to hold ye when I’m the one that hurt ye… feels like my heart is bein’ ripped out of me again.”

“Again?” Claire asked weakly. She was leaning into him. She couldn’t help it. He was solid and it had been far too long since she’d been held by someone. By anyone. By him.

“When I left, I left my heart with ye. It’s sounds so stupid. I canna sleep. I canna eat. Simple things, I canna enjoy them any more. Everything reminds me of ye. It was stupid to leave. It was… I was trying to help ye, I swear it, I thought it would be best. I thought I was holdin’ ye back. Ye deserve to be so much more, ye deserve to have so much more, an’ I could’na give it to ye. I still can’t. But I’m too selfish. I need ye. I’ve always needed ye.”

The words were pouring out of Jamie and Claire stiffened in his arms.

“I’ve wanted ye since the first time I’d seen ye. But I’ve loved ye… well I think I’ve loved ye just as long. I dinna have a life without ye.”

Claire shook her head. It’s wasn’t right for her to love someone this much, while at the same time hating them with everything she had.

“Ye make me want to be better. Ye make me better. And without ye… I can survive, as I’m sure ye can, but it’s no’ living. It’s existing. I dinna want to just exist, Claire. I want to live. I’m so sorry. I’ve pushed ye away… I’ve pushed ye beyond… beyond what anyone should bear, I canna tell ye how sorry I am. I ken ye hate me, I hate me, but I need ye. I need ye to forgive me.”

“How,” Claire’s voice cracked and she cleared her throat before starting again, “how could we ever… we’ll never be what we were.”

“I ken that.”

Claire felt Jamie nod as his nose brushed against her scalp.

“Do you? Because you’re coming back like… like I’ve just been waiting for you to come back. I’m a different person now.”

“Aye, I ken, nor am I. I suppose I’m askin’... will ye forgive me?”

“How can you ask me that?” Claire’s voice broke again and a fresh wave of tears started from her eyes and she shuddered in his arms.

Jamie spluttered a nonsensical response, words mumbled (I love you, I need you, I’m sorry, I can’t live without you), words running together as she felt tears in her hair. He was crying. Claire had only ever seen Jamie cry twice in his life. Once, two weeks after his father had passed away, and again, when his niece Maggie was in hospital. Not once had Jamie every cried over Claire, never had he cried in front of her if he could help it. Both times he’d turned and shrugged away from her touch. He hadn’t let her comfort him, no matter how much she had wanted to.

Now she could feel the dampness in her hair as he continued to repeat what seemed to be becoming a sort of mantra (please, forgive me, I love you, I’m sorry). He was gripping her tightly against his chest, as if when he let go she would simply disappear. He spoke in Gaelic, and so low that she could not have told what he said, even had she known the words. But the whispering voice was thick, and the moonlight from the casement behind him showed the tracks of the tears that slid unrehearsed down his own cheeks.

She hated him- hated him for what he did to her, for how he left her. She hated him for his apologies, she hated that today was the first time he was truly showing her how much he loved her. She hated that it felt right in his arms, like the piece of her that had disappeared with Jamie when he left was finding its way back home.

Claire hated that she loved him. She hated that she knew she would take him back, because he was right. She could survive without him, but it wasn’t living. She hated that she was only existing without him. She hated that her heart had skipped a beat at the sight of him standing in front of her, palms up in surrender, in apology.

She hated who she was without him and she hated that she was better when she was with him. She hated depending on him, she hated that she still trusted him. She hated that logically she knew it was wrong, that she shouldn’t want him anymore, that her heart was cracked and breaking, it was suffocated, crushed what she thought was beyond repair, but at the sight of Jamie she felt like she was taking a breath for the first time in weeks and her heart started to beat again.

“I hate you so much, Jamie.” The words were a whisper from her dry and cracked lips. Jamie’s mantra stopped abruptly and a shudder went through this body and echoed through Claire’s.

“I hate what you did to me. I hate the way that you left. I hate… I hate you so much.”

“Ye… ye canna forgive me?” He sounded so desperate, so lost. She had never heard him sound so broken before and she felt her broken heart beat irregularly in her chest.

“I hate that you broke me, you broke my heart and I hate, more than anything, I hate,” Claire throat closed up and she had to clear it a few times before she could speak again. “I hate that after everything, after hating you so much, I can’t stop loving you.”

Jamie’s breath left him in a whoosh and he pulled her roughly against his chest.

“I love ye, I’ve never stopped. I never will.” Jamie spoke quickly as if he was afraid that she would take the words back.

“I don’t know how you can ask me if I’ll take you as you are, no matter how much we’ve both changed, because no matter how much I might hate you right now, I’ll have you, whoever you are, no matter how much we’ve both changed, I want you anyway I can.”

Jamie twisted, moving Claire so that rather than cradling her from behind she could see his face. Although she had felt the dampness in her hair, and knew that Jamie had been crying, she was still surprised to see his red rimmed, still leaking eyes.

“I love ye, Claire. I promise that ye will not doubt it for another day as long as we both live.”

Claire swallowed heavily at the sincerity in his voice.

“I… may I… kiss ye?” Jamie’s asked shyly, waiting for her permission before moving.

Claire found that she had lost her voice somewhere along the line and simply nodded in reply.

He was hesitant at first. A soft peck against her lips. Almost not a kiss at all. Just holding Claire tightly for a moment, as if he was assuring himself that this was what she wanted.

He pulled back to look at her, to make sure that this was ok. In truth she had thought of this moment deeply, obsessed over it as it clouded every other rational thought of how much she should hate him. The moment that she would see him again, the moment that she would give him a piece of her mind; the moment that she would have a chance to turn him away. But this moment wasn’t anything like she thought that it would be. It was soft and tender and she was pulling him closer, she wasn’t turning him away because what was life without him but an empty black void of despair and loneliness.

As his watery eyes ran over her face, seeking permission, asking for forgiveness she leaned forward and connected their lips again. His hands moved to her face, cupping her jaw as he kissed her, thumbs wiping away tears that she didn’t even know were falling. Her hands were steady on his arms, feeling the solid realness of him, confirming that yes he was here, she hadn’t just imagined this, from her love starved brain.

Jamie broke from the kiss first and buried his head in Claire’s neck and she could feel his lips moving over her skin. He did always like her neck. He was mumbling something in between each press of his lips to her skin but so muffled by his proximity to her that she couldn’t make out a single word.

“I don’t know what you’re saying,” Claire said, her heart beating steadily in her chest for the first time since she had seen his packed bags by the front door.

“It does’na matter. Stuff and nonsense really,” Jamie answered pulling back from her skin to look at her before he leant forward and tenderly kissed her again.

Breaking, healing; suffocating, breathing. Arcs on an emotional pendulum that felt like it had nearly killed Claire. But it hadn’t. She still lived.

They still lived.

#One Quote One Shot Book 2 #Outlander Fanfic #Outlander Fanfiction #Jamie x Claire #Fanfiction #Healing #Breakup #Happy Ending #Quote #AU Fanfic #Modern Au

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bigskydreaming · 4 years

Note

I have a question. In one of your recent posts, you said that trigger warnings come from a place of obligation and not true caring. I agree with you that a lot of the time, that’s true. Which can be concerning. But my question is that at the end of the day, does the person’s reasoning matter? Maybe they’re an awful rude person but if they’ve tagged their stuff, made it easy to see what’s gonna be in the fic, doesn’t that still help? Even if coming from a rude place. The end result is good

Well sure, any time a trigger warning is a benefit to someone, it doesn’t really matter what the reasoning for making it was. Absolutely.

My point there was the problem is one of priorities, and approach. And bottom line, a person who is only tacking on expected trigger warnings out of a sense of covering their own ass, like......they’re not ever likely to be examining their own work with an eye towards the kinds of negative effects it could potentially have on people, because they’re too busy denying that there’s any possible negative impact it could have at all. Despite the fact that this is just willful obliviousness - if fic can have a positive effect on people and inspire or reinforce positive ideas, it has just as much power and likelihood to have a negative effect on people and inspire or reinforce negative ideas. Its not about a one to one correlation, like, its not like anything someone reads in fic they’re going to do, but as pieces of a larger fandom culture? That absolutely adds up and contributes to the normalization and perpetuation and spread of negative ideas and ideologies.

And this is the kind of self-scrutiny an over-reliance on trigger warnings gets in the way of....because its just accepted or taken as fact that trigger warnings ARE the solution....despite all the times and ways people speak up to say well there’s a problem here because this alleged solution is not working here and here and here and over here too.

But someone who’s convinced they ALREADY did their due diligence by tacking on a couple trigger warnings is never going to be as receptive to being told they missed some, as someone who approaches things from a perspective of understanding that trigger warnings are not infallible, they’re only effective when an author has an HONEST view of their own work.

(And if fandom was truly engaging in a lot of this content honestly, as I’ve said, tags like dub-con and pseudo-incest and consensual underaged sex would not be as widely used as they are in the ways that they’re most often used.....ways that are categorically NOT what those things mean and advertise).

And most importantly, trigger warnings as they’re used by fandom now, like....have kinda become an excuse for authors to try and abdicate any responsibility for what they write. “Oh, I used trigger warnings, so any impact my fic has on someone has nothing to do with me past that point.....unless of course its a positive impact, in which case I’m still more than happy to soak up the praise.”

And that’s just not how it works. You know that thing I said in an earlier post about how all writing is just another form of communicating things - to ourselves in journals, to others in stories or emails or messages.....bottom line, writing has one purpose: to convey ideas, meanings, etc between the person writing and the person or people they’re writing TO or sharing that writing WITH.

In essence, a fic that you’ve written and then decided to POST, to publish, to put out in the world in some form and share with others.....at that point, it stops being a conversation with just yourself and becomes a conversation that’s being had with anyone and everyone who then reads that fic....even if it is a one-sided conversation for the most part, with others just listening to what ideas and thoughts and images and impressions you’re conveying via your writing.

And think of it in terms of like, literally ANY conversation you might have out loud.

If you say something offensive, is it anyone’s fault or responsibility other than yours, that you said something that was offensive?

If you say something you don’t actually believe, but don’t follow it up with anything that actually indicates out loud that this isn’t something you genuinely believe, is it realistic to pretend that people have no basis for listening to what you actually SAID and from that drawing conclusions about what you believe or support?

If you say something that’s in direct opposition to something you said earlier, is it any wonder if people question which you ACTUALLY meant or believe MORE, or just flat out don’t believe what you said earlier now?

If you say something insensitive or even cruel, do you have any right or reasonable expectation why anybody who hears you shouldn’t be within their rights to call you out for what you said and why it was fucked up?

If you choose NOT to say something, out of respect for someone you’re around, or because you know its insensitive or offensive or anything of the sort....are you being censored, or are you just choosing not to be a douchebag?

And so on and so on.

Writers have a tendency to kinda hide behind the logic “not everything we write has to be something we personally believe, we can write characters who have very different values than us” - and that’s absolutely true....but only up to a certain point.

Because you can absolutely write a CHARACTER who believes the opposite of stuff you actually believe or value.....but your NARRATIVE still has to refute that somewhere at some point in some way.....otherwise.....there is literally no reason why anyone reading that, ‘hearing’ what you spoke into the world, would think you DON’T actually believe that. You’ve communicated something toxic or ugly or even harmful or predatory....without accompanying it with ANY communicated idea as to why a reader SHOULDN’T just absorb those ideas as is.

Like.....if you write a rape fic that’s INTENDED to be received as sexy or hot, even if you’re not actually condoning rape within the fic, and even if you would never condone it in real life.....

If your fic still garners comments like “that’s so hot” or something like that, and this isn’t a problem for you because this is a reaction you expected or even a response you intended or were seeking?

You didn’t say or express that you would ever rape someone or say it was okay to rape someone.

But you still communicated, without any kind of self-contradiction:

“Hey, here is a scenario in which rape is hot.”

And whether you’re talking about fiction or reality, why WOULDN’T that communicated idea be anything other than wildly insensitive and yes, even offensive and yes even DAMAGING to many rape survivors....even if you’re one yourself?

Like.....another example, okay so I’ve literally been gaybashed, nobody’s likely to ever accuse me of being homophobic, its a pretty safe bet, right? But if I write a fic FOR WHATEVER REASON, in which a character is homophobic even though I’m not myself, but where a character expresses toxic, prejudicial, HARMFUL ideas about being gay....and then my fic nowhere at any point says or does anything to REFUTE or contest those harmful ideas......why would the fact that I don’t actually believe those things make ANY difference whatsoever in terms of whether those things were absorbed by readers in the exact way I communicated them....but without the benefit of any of the reasons I KNOW - but did not communicate in the fic - that they’re harmful and shouldn’t be paid attention to?

So yes, fiction absolutely can do harm, if its not treated with the appropriate responsibility. It can make people who’ve never met someone who’s Muslim decide all Muslim people are terrorists. It can convince people that destructive, harmful instances of incest are actually the outliers and most incest is harmless and between equals. It can normalize the idea that all bisexual people are slutty and promiscuous. It can do tons more beside all that.

And yes, fic absolutely can and often DOES, in fandom, communicate the idea that many of the exact same people who swear they support survivors and have nothing but sympathy for what they went through and all that....can in the right scenarios and circumstances still find the very IDEA of rape hot and exciting, can find the IMAGERY of a hot or sexy character being raped to be sexually stimulating and gratifying and DESIRED, and so on and so forth.

And why wouldn’t that communicated idea make someone question if you’re someone they can ever be comfortable being around, because one way or another, you still found and advertised, broadcast, invited others to join in enjoying.....a scenario in which something an awful lot like that someone’s trauma was hot or sexy to you just as long as it was projected on someone else - a distance which may not matter to them or make them feel any better about the fact that you’re still talking about one of the worst things to ever happen to them, but skewing it in a way where every thing actually being said isn’t about how its bad or wrong or nothing you’d ever condone....but hot and titillating and sexy?

Why wouldn’t it bother someone or weird them out that you see no conflict of interest between having sympathy for them but then flipping a switch and happily consuming content that’s entirely and unilaterally just about characters going through the exact same kind of thing.....and the viewpoint you’re siding with in this particular instance is that of like....the actual attacker, the one going yes, this is good?

ALL OF THESE are the kinds of questions - and the kind of impact - that not only do trigger warnings just flat out not cover....but that the over-reliance on trigger warnings makes less and less likely to even pop up in a writer’s brain as something worth considering or weighing at all.

So again, like I said at the top - I mean yeah, if a trigger warning is actually helpful to someone, it doesn’t matter WHY it was added or put in place.

But if it wasn’t put in place out of a genuine self-examination of your work and a genuine desire to look out for readers’ comfort and take responsibility for the kind of heavy content you’re choosing to write and share.....

Chances are, the fact that one trigger warning did work for one person or however many, was just a stroke of luck and there’s likely to be a dozen other ways in which that writer failed to consider or even ask themselves....is there anything else I should recognize and acknowledge as potentially having a negative impact on people?

And please, if you read or write dark fic for any reason, you don’t owe me an explanation but you owe it to yourself to at least take a second and honestly ask yourself if you’ve EVER stopped to ask or examine any of the above questions or angles. And if not, why? Ask yourself if you’ve ever been encouraged or had it suggested by others in fandom to even just ask or wonder about these things. And if not, why?

Please examine - who benefits MOST in all of this, from encouraging more and more readers and writers to just NOT think about ANY of this stuff at all, and to instead just shut down any and all conversation about it or attempts to START conversations like this......

Other than people who like and enjoy this type of content and genuinely just do not care about the impact it might have on others....and so similarly, want as few other people as possible to care or even THINK about the impact it might have on others....and thus, maximize the number of people who absent those considerations, have no problem contributing to or enjoying that type of content?

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the-storyteller-and-her-soldiers · 4 years

Text

More Than You Know

Title: More Than You Know

Word Count: 822

Warnings: Just some cursing, other than that it’s just a comfort fic! Maybe some OOCness since I haven’t written Gladio in a while.

Ship: The Storyteller and her Shield (Gladio x myself)

Summary: During a group dinner hosted by my aunt and uncle, which was rather enjoyable if not for the tension between my parents, my mom starts laying into me. It got so bad she screamed at my aunt who tried to stick up for me, so I simply walked off, crying... My dad came to comfort me but I ended up being his sounding board. So my aunt ended up stopping by after the two went to bed and I apologized for my behavior but she told me that it really wasn’t my fault. So I wrote this for some extra comfort.

"I have the right to feel bad about it if I want to. You didn't deserve that shit, it was uncalled for if not downright abusive!" The larger man growled into Rebecca's ear, his deep voice slightly muffled by the tinny speakers off Rebecca's earbuds.

A small yet grateful smile curled up on the young blonde's chapped lips while she shook her head. It was mostly unseen since only her laptop screen shed the darkness which had engulfed her small form. Yet the sweetness behind that smile could clearly be heard as she told him, "You don't have to waste those feelings on me though. It's my headache to deal with, not yours. I'm just sorry you had to see that."

Despite the tension built up in his inked shoulders, they slumped slightly as Gladio cast her a sympathetic gaze through his own camera. "Don't apologize, princess. You know I'd tell you if you were in the wrong, but I can't say you were for simply trying to defend yourself from your mom's onslaught of low-blows. It's like no matter what you do, it's not enough for the damn woman."

"Yeah, you're telling me," Rebecca agreed with a bitter laugh. It wasn't directed at her partner, but at the unwinnable situation which she faced. "Which is why I'm staying up to do all these assignments tonight, just because I'm a spiteful little shit. They're not too bad, just tedious. I mean I'm already done with half the assignments due unless the teacher, for some reason, wants me to redo them..."

Once again a shimmer of mischief appeared in her eye as she commented on her spitefulness. Normally being spiteful was a trait that Rebecca, like most anyone, didn't view as all that appealing. But in this case, her spitefulness was merely to cover up the want to still please the woman who had humiliated her in front of not only her partner, but her aunt and uncle as well. She knew that it was something she shouldn't care for, especially after the stunt the woman had pulled earlier in the evening, although Rebecca couldn't help her want. It was both that want and the mixture of simply wanting to be done that led Rebecca's conversation to trail off to that of her mumbling nonsensical multiplications to herself while Gladio stared on in silence.

His darkened amber gaze seemed to lighten up as if the sun had struck them. In some ways, one could say that they had been struck by the sunlight, his personal sunshine, as Rebecca fell back into the pile of pillows behind her while joyfully announcing another completed task. She then let out a high pitched yawn as her body stretched out like that of a cat who was soon to drift off. Gladio couldn't stop himself from teasing her about the adorableness of the situation she had landed herself in. She then sprung back into her upright position with a scarlet flame spreading against her face as she tried to deny it and turn the compliment towards his charming self. Gladio simply chuckled before rolling his eyes and catching her off-guard with even sweeter words.

"In all seriousness though, you sure you don't wanna call it quits for the night. Pretty sure I can see your eyes glazing over from here. You need to rest at some point, Babe."

"I-it's just the reflection of my screen--" Rebecca could hardly finish her statement before another yawn had mushed her words into incomprehensible gibberish. "Y'know for the sake of not screwing up entire calculations and messing up the other assignments, I guess I'll stop working at least. But thanks for checking in on me, even after what happened."

"Don't sweat it, like I said before you really didn't deserve that shit," Gladio paused, sending chocolate tangles swaying with a shake of his head. "And to go through it all on you're own... I knew it was shit from what you told me but to see it firsthand, just... hell. You're stronger than you know. Always knew you were, but to keep going like that truly is something."

"Well, I've got people such as yourself who motivate me and deserve that kindness so I can't let her harden that and me just because I don't fit her image! If anything she's a good role model on what not to be like. But once again thank you for making me feel better."

Gladio's smile shifted to that of a slightly smug smirk as he shrugged his shoulders, "What can I say? Picked up on a few things from someone pretty great, figured I put it to use."

Rebecca could feel her blush deepen to where she could even see it in the grainy image that her camera reflected to them both. "Always with the smooth-talking, aren't you? Well, I love you, a lot."

"Love you too, princess, more than you know..."

#self shipping community #self insert community #selfship community #self ship community #selfinsert community #Selfship #selfshipdom #ship: the storyteller and her shield #self shipping #Selfshipping #selfinserts #f/o writing #f/o community #fo community #comfort

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ao3feed-izuku-midoriya · 4 years

Text

Trapped in the Ice

Trapped in the Ice by lostintheclouds321

"It's fascinating how just one boy's dedication can have such a large effect that it ripples out through time, only to grow larger and larger."

Ashido and Kirishima really weren't supposed to be down below the ruin, but when they find the first ever hero trapped in ice, who can really fault them? When the war hero, Mido, returns, he finds himself in a future he never could have imagined. He has to decide if he still wants to be a hero, despite losing everyone he ever knew.

Words: 3156, Chapters: 1/?, Language: English

Fandoms: 僕のヒーローアカデミア | Boku no Hero Academia | My Hero Academia

Rating: General Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: Gen

Characters: Midoriya Izuku, Ashido Mina, Kirishima Eijirou, Tsukauchi Naomasa, Bakugou Katsuki, Shinsou Hitoshi

Relationships: Midoriya Izuku & Tsukauchi Naomasa, Kirishima Eijirou & Midoriya Izuku, Ashido Mina & Midoriya Izuku, Bakugou Katsuki & Midoriya Izuku, Midoriya Izuku & Shinsou Hitoshi

Additional Tags: Captain America AU, Izuku is the Captain America of Japan, Historical Inaccuracy, World War II, Child Soldiers, Parental Tsukauchi Naomasa, Before Yuuei, Midoriya Izuku Does Not Have One for All Quirk, BAMF Midoriya Izuku, Alternate Universe, Pro Hero Midoriya Izuku, kind of, My entire soul is in this fic, Not a Crossover, If you leave a comment I'll love you forever, War, Flashbacks, Wordcount: Over 30.000, eventually

Read Here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24567646

#AO3 Feed #FanFiction #AO3 Izuku #♠#Izuku Midoriya #Mina Ashido #Naomasa Tsukauchi #Eijirou Kirishima #R:G #A:Lostin

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frizz22 · 5 years

Note

prompt: a progression of hilda and zeldas relationship over the break btwn part 1 & 2 (extra points for actual conversations and the sisters helping each other through things)

Trigger warning: discussions of self-harm, attempted rape, and rape

Notes: Okay, this one was a bit hard since I cover this pretty thoroughly across multiple chapters in my You Always Say No fic. But I know 30+ chapter fics aren’t for everyone so I did what I could to change up the content and chop it down enough to be a one-shot. Read on ao3

After the storm:

Zelda had just put Leticia down for her nap, a smile coming unbidden to her lips at how the babe’s mouth opened in a small yawn as she drifted off.

She stood there for several minutes, just watching Letty sleep when there was a soft knock on the door. Turning, Zelda round Hilda peeking her head into the room.

“She down?” When Zelda nodded, her sister gestured for Zelda to follow her. Frowning, Zelda cast a monitoring charm over Leticia so she’d be alerted if the girl woke, and followed Hilda down the hall to her new room.

Once inside, Hilda shut the door and started to worry at the cuffs of her cardigan. Not missing her sister’s nervous tic, Zelda sighed and sat down on the edge of the bed. “Spit it out, Hilda. You wouldn’t have brought me in here without the intention of some kind of lecture.”

Though Hilda’s lips twisted in displeasure, she didn’t deny the fact that she planned to lecture. There’d been enough of those to go around of late and it was no surprise to Zelda that it was finally her turn to be on the receiving end; likely it was about her impulsiveness in taking Letty.

“How long have you been hurting yourself?”

The quiet question stunned Zelda, she’d been expecting any manner of topic, Leticia, her fight with Sabrina, the Greendale thirteen… but this? She’d thought she’d gotten away with it; especially since it’d been over a week since Hilda caught Zelda in the act of self-flagellation.

Dropping her eyes to her lap, Zelda spun her rings and gave a jerky shrug. “Does it really matter or make a difference?” She tried to sound bored, as though they were discussing nothing more important than the grocery list.

Hilda wouldn’t have it, though. “Of course it matters!” She stated emphatically, crossing the room to sit next to Zelda. “You saw fit to flog yourself, Zelds, I can’t let that go. You’re my sister. It’s my job to take care of you.”

A sniff undermined Zelda’s irritated huff; while she’d have preferred Hilda mind her own business, it was touching she’d reached out. Touching that despite everything going on—Sabrina’s antics, the Greendale Thirteen, the Red Angel, Leticia—Hilda found the time and emotional capacity to check on her.

Still, she was the head of the Spellman house, she was the one to take care of and protect everyone.

So, she snipped at her sister. “Please Hilda, I’m not one of the children. I can take care of myself.” She arched a brow and stood to leave, ready to brush this entire encounter under the rug and leave it there where it belonged.

A hand on her arm stopped her. “Zelda.” Hilda exclaimed in a slightly exasperated, but mostly concerned, tone. “How long? How often? Answer me.”

And there was a firmness in Hilda’s voice she usually reserved for Sabrina. Taken aback, Zelda sat back down. “Only the past year or so, and not often.

“What brought this on?” Before Zelda could reply, Hilda’s face suddenly contorted and she gripped the blanket underneath them. “Did Father Blackwood put you up to this? Lashes for punishment?”

A bark of laughter escaped Zelda at the suggestion. “Hardly. Faustus sees the act as something far different than punishment. It was actually quite nice the way he did it, not pain but certainly pleasure. When I normally use it my goal is to break skin. Our session barely left me with welts and they certainly weren’t where I normally aimed.”

Hilda’s nose scrunched in distaste, but she didn’t comment on Zelda’s sexual activities further. “Well,” she cleared her throat, “that’s doesn’t make what you’ve been doing okay. It’s harmful and I won’t let you—"

“Won’t let me?! You won’t let me do something?” Zelda cut in, incredulous. Though why she was fighting she didn’t know. She’d been aware for some time she’d been taking flagellation to the extreme, even in the eyes of the church. It wasn’t healthy, but it was the only coping method Zelda had…. she wasn’t sure what to do now when life all became too much, when she failed her family.

Standing, Hilda straightened her shoulders and tipped her chin up in defiance. “That’s right. From now on, if you ever feel the need to self-harm, you come to me.”

“Oh? So, I’m supposed to just bare it all to you, am I?” Zelda snipped, angry tears were forming in her eyes at Hilda’s persistence and care.

Lips trembling slightly, Hilda shrugged. “Would that really be so bad?” She asked softly, closing the distance between them. “To talk, to share, to let me shoulder some of the burden?” Apparently, she still appeared reluctant, because Hilda pressed on. “I can open up too.” Her sister tugged at the hem of her cardigan anxiously. “I, I kissed someone the other week.”

Nonplussed, Zelda blinked at Hilda, while others may not think the two confessions, her self-punishments and Hilda’s love life were equivocal, she knew how much it took for her sister to admit such a thing to her; especially when there’d been no one of interest for over a decade. “Did you? And who might that be?”

Still fidgeting, Hilda licked her lips. “Cerberus.” She mumbled, not quite meeting Zelda’s eyes.

And the weight of the admission increased. Schooling her face with some difficulty, Zelda inclined her head. “The, the mortal you work with.” She was proud she managed a fairly calm tone even if internally Zelda was panicking.

She’d already lost Edward because of a mortal… his insistence on marrying a mortal and the idea that mortals be equal to witching kind were what led him to being on that plane in the first place.

Zelda couldn’t lose her sister to a mortal as well.

“Yes. That Cerberus.” Hilda bit her lip but didn’t elaborate further.

Arching a brow, Zelda tossed a hand in the air. “And?”

The dam broke, Hilda smiled widely. “And I really like him, Zelda. And I think he really likes me. Cerberus is so kind, thoughtful—" as Hilda continued to enthuse about her budding romance, Zelda smiled softly.

She’d distracted her sister. This was meant to be a lecture, one delving into her reasonings for whipping, Hilda forcing her to stop. But this, this was much better.

And, if Zelda were honest, it was nice to discuss something lighthearted and good for once. Though the man was a mortal, he clearly made her sister happy and they needed to snatch what pieces of happiness they could these days.

So, Zelda settled more comfortably onto the bed and encouraged Hilda to share more about the first person to capture her interest in years.

~~~

After Solstice:

Zelda muttered to herself as she dug through her trunk. “Where the blazes is it?” She spat, throwing another scarf over her shoulder. The bedroom door banging open had Zelda jumping and placing a hand over her heart. “For Satan’s sake, Hilda, what are you doing.” She automatically glanced over to the crib to see if the nose had disturbed Leticia only to be reminded the girl no longer lived with them. Which was why she’d been digging in her trunk in the first place.

Crossing her arms, Hilda pursed her lips. “You won’t find it.”

Brow creasing, Zelda just stared at her sister. “Find what?”

“The whip. I took it.”

Head snapping up from where she’d bent back over to search her trunk, Zelda scowled. “You went through my things. Took my things.”

Some of the hardness melted out of Hilda’s posture. “To keep you from hurting yourself? Absolutely, Zelds.” Hilda approached her, hand out as though to touch her shoulder.

Standing abruptly, Zelda shut her trunk while making deliberate eye contact with Hilda. “What I do in recompense for my failures is no concern of yours. You will return my possessions by morning.” She turned her back to her sister and peered into Leticia’s empty crib.

Undeterred, Hilda sighed and sat on Zelda’s bed. “Failures? Zelda, what could possibly warrant—"

Zelda spun, voice low and terse. “Sabrina killed a witch to resurrect a mortal boy. She conducted a seance on solstice welcoming in malevolent spirits. She dabbles in the darkest of magic as though it were of no consequence. That is my failure. To have not taught her better, guided her better, to not have at least monitored better.” Zelda speared a hand through her hair in frustration. “And now, I—” her eyes flickered to the crib once more, yet another little girl she’d failed.

Not that the babe would be have to worry about Zelda disappointing her, Letty wouldn’t even remember her most likely. “I should have kept an eye on the Yule log all night, I was sloppy. And then with Gryla… I should have prepared better, should have sent Sabrina and Leticia somewhere else while that witch was here. It’s my fault.” Her voice cracked and oh, how Zelda longed to lose herself in the repetition and cleansing pain flogging provided.

Eyes wet, Hilda tugged Zelda to sit down next to her. “So, that’s why you’ve been hurting yourself recently? These, these so-called failures?”

Mouth twisting, Zelda spun her rings. “I think anyone would perceive them as failures, sister. And ones with increasingly larger consequences.”

“But, Zelds, you’re not responsible for all of it. You can’t shoulder the blame for what others do.” Hilda laid a hand on her forearm.

“Can’t I?” She practically whispered, not meeting Hilda’s eyes. “How is Cerberus these days?”

A frown pulled Hilda’s lips and she blinked at the suddenly change in topic. “That won’t work this time. It took me a little bit to realize what you’d done last time I tried to talk to you about this.”

Zelda couldn’t help but glance at Letty’s empty crib again. Though Hilda refused to speak of her lover, she’d unmistakably brightened at the mention of the man. While her sister’s life was coming together, Zelda’s was falling apart.

She’d thought she’d been building a future too, with this little girl; one that would see her as and call her mom. But just as quickly as Leticia had come into her life, the babe was wrenched away. Well, wrenched was perhaps the wrong word, she willingly gave Leticia away for her safety. That didn’t make it hurt any less. In the short time she’d had Leticia, Zelda had come to love the girl dearly and now the thought of not being able to love and protect her as she’d planned was painful. Deeply so.

And here was her sister, clearly in the grasps of new love but pushing it aside for Zelda’s grief.

It wasn’t fair.

But then again, when had life ever been fair to her? Her hand itched for the flog now more than ever.

As if sensing this, Hilda softened, lips pressing together into a concerned line. “I’m sorry, Zelda. Here I am—"

Running a hand through her hair, Zelda exhaled slowly. “No, don’t apologize. My feelings shouldn’t keep you from feeling your own.”

Her sister sighed quietly and took Zelda’s hand between her own. “You’ve done nothing wrong, or deserving of punishment, Zelds. I know,” she sniffed and looked at the ceiling to discourage tears. “I know how easy it can be, to try and take the blame. Because it’s easier than letting the kids take responsibility. Especially,” Hilda shook her head but plowed ahead. “Especially when Sabrina never seems to claim responsibility or experience the consequences of her actions. Because if one of us shoulders it all, then it means only we failed and not us and the kids. Because if they mess up then somehow, we did too. But that is not the case, Zelda. So please, please, don’t hurt yourself anymore. Promise me, you swear to me you won’t hurt yourself in any way again.”

Tears slipping how her cheeks, Zelda leaned into Hilda’s side and rested her head on her shoulder; just as she had after the botched resurrection. “I’ll try my best. I’ll come to you first.”

Relief flooded Hilda and she wrapped Zelda into her arms tightly. “Let it out,” she breathed in sad encouragement. “Don’t bottle up your grief over Leticia.”

And, as if she’d been waiting for permission, sobs wracked Zelda’s body and she curled further into Hilda’s embrace.

~~~

Top Boy

Zelda paced the room anxiously, waiting for Hilda to come home from work.

Demon summoning.

And not any demon, a high demon. And not one, but three. Could their niece get any more reckless?

Sabrina and Nicholas had hastily connected their circles, there easily could have been a weak spot the three plague kings used to break free and attack the coven. Thankfully, Faustus has banished them in quick succession before they could more than lurch menacingly towards the crowd.

But that didn’t erase the danger of it all. Didn’t make Zelda think that she should have done more than give Sabrina blinding powder and an anti-demon whistle.

She should have done more… something. Something to prevent Sabrina putting everyone at risk. What she could have done… Zelda wasn’t sure. But the weight of her failure to do something to at least predict what her niece would do was becoming increasingly heavier as she paced the room. And her desire to scourge that failure from her with a whip growing stronger.

Lighting a cigarette, Zelda continued pace. While she may want to flog herself, she’d made a promise to her sister. And, as much as that rankled her at the moment, she was doing her damnedest to keep it.

Now if only Hilda would hurry up and get home so Zelda’s will power didn’t diminish further.

By the time Hilda walked in, that ridiculous wig tucked under her arm, Zelda had anxiously smoked through three cigarettes.

Waving her hand to magically dispel the smoke, Hilda arched a brow at her. “What’s got you all worked up?” She asked, setting the wig on her vanity and kicking off her shoes.

“Your niece summoned three high demons in the desecrated church today. Putting the entire coven at risk.” Zelda informed her, not stopping as she strode from one end of the room to the other.

Hilda blinked. “She, she what?!”

As Zelda filled her sister in on the last challenge to be Top Boy, she spun her rings. “And,” she swallowed, having finally gotten to the part where she needed to ask for help. “And I want to punish myself for letting this happen. But I’m trying to keep my promise and I’m coming to you first.” She finished in a mumble, averting her eyes and stopping pacing to stare at the floor.

Before she could process it, Hilda was practically tackling her in a hug. Stumbling back, Zelda’s arms came up automatically to embrace her sister. “Oh Zelds,” Hilda breathed, “I’m so proud and happy you came to me. Thank you.” She tightened her hug and then pulled back, wiping the corners of her eyes. “Right then, you’ve come to me, so now,” Hilda pulled at her fingers for one uncertain moment. “Now we’re going to change into our jammies, go down to the parlor, turn on your favorite jazz record, and drink some calming tea. And we’ll talk.”

Skeptical, Zelda furrowed her brow. “Talk. About what?” She really didn’t want to talk about punishing herself, she wasn’t sure if it’d trigger her or make the urge go away.

Already changing, Hilda smiled at her, though her eyes were slightly glazed still. “Well, Sabrina first. Try to come up with a game plan to prevent future summonings like this. And then,” she slipped into her nightgown and grabbed her robe, “anything you want.”

A small smile tugged at Zelda’s lips and she nodded. Turning to change, she couldn’t help but think that perhaps this was better than flagellation. Company, comfort, talking to her sister. It was certainly healthier if nothing else.

And calming tea never hurt anyone in any case.

~~~

Lupercalia

Zelda watched Sabrina’s embarrassed form retreat up the stairs. Honestly, they acted as though sex were something to be ashamed of. It was one thing to not be ready, it was another to look down on the act as though it were somehow dirty.

She just wanted Sabrina to be as informed as possible about the event. Wanted her to know it was wonderful and fun, she hadn’t meant to pressure, though Zelda thought Hilda was overreacting by suggesting she’d been doing just that.

Huffing softly to herself, Zelda turned back to her sister. “I know I’ve plans for Lupercalia,” she smiled wickedly to herself, knowing Faustus would try and test the boundaries she’d established and that she’d let him; happily. “Have you and the vampire any?”

When Hilda shifted in her chair, eyes firmly on her knitting, Zelda arched a brow and cleared her throat; letting her sister know she wouldn’t drop the subject.

Sighing, Hilda scrunched her nose, eyes still on her work in her lap. “I don’t know.”

Sitting up, Zelda leaned forward. “Has something happened between you and the mortal?”

Hilda finally out her knitting down and looked at Zelda in exasperation. “Not that it’s any of your business, but no. We’ve, we’ve not really talked since I kissed him.”

She blinked, surprised. “Really?”

“No need to sound so pleased,” Hilda muttered sourly, taking a large gulp of her drink.

Surprised, Zelda moved back to her previous spot next to Hilda and touched her sister’s arm. “I’m not pleased, Hilda. Just stunned. It seemed so… it had potential.” She settled on the word, unsure how else to describe her sister’s relationship.

Shaking her head, Hilda exhaled loudly. “I don’t know what’s going on with him.” She repeated glumly, then shot Zelda a glare. “And I know at least a small part of you is happy about this.”

Zelda bit her lip and decided honesty was the best policy. “Not for the reason you likely think. I’m not happy you’re not happy, Hildie. Far from it, it’s just… he is a mortal.” When her sister didn’t reply, merely tugged at the ends of her cardigan, Zelda leaned in a little closer. “You know it really couldn’t go anywhere, right?” She remarked softly, touching her sister’s knee this time. Knowing that while witches often had flings with mortals, Hilda’s situation was not that…. Her sister had never been one for flings.

Hilda brought her eyes up to meet Zelda’s. “It could,” she countered, eyes shining.

Zelda chewed the inside of her cheek and spun her rings. “Sister, you’re excommunicated, yes. But that doesn’t mean you’re above our laws. You can date him, there’s nothing expressly against that. You cannot marry him though, should it get that far. There is no long-term scenario where this works out.” Zelda squeezed Hilda’s knee comfortingly. “We don’t age as they do,” she reminded her gently. “And while you are not vain like most witches, Cerberus will age. Will you still want him when he’s old?” When Hilda remained stubbornly silent, Zelda continued. “And we cannot remain in Greendale forever. We’ve been here for almost two decades without an added wrinkle or grey hair between us. The mortals will start questioning why we don’t age. Cerberus likely won’t want to uproot his life only to have you leave him in years to come.”

Tears welled in Hilda’s eyes and she averted her gaze once more, focusing on the fire in the fireplace instead of Zelda.

“I don’t say this to be cruel, Hildie.” Zelda murmured earnestly, heart heavy. “I am glad this man makes you happy, even if you’re unsure where you stand. Just don’t invest too much of yourself in him. I don’t want you getting hurt when it must end.”

Hilda took her hand and gripped it tightly, a lone tear streaking down her cheek. “I know, Zelds. Thank you for looking out for me.” She smiled a little sadly at her. “But for now, I just want to pursue it, enjoy it if I can.”

Nodding, Zelda gripped Hilda’s hand back. “As you should,” she insisted, carefully wiping her sister’s tear away before pulling back completely and standing. “It has been ages since you’ve shown interest in anyone.” Her tone was lighter, trying to relieve the weight she’d unwilling placed on her sister’s budding romance.

Blushing at the observation, Hilda didn’t respond and turned her attention back to her knitting to hide her face.

“Of course, the first man to catch your eye has to be a knockoff vampire who peddles trash.” Zelda sighed dramatically, picking her drink back up and slumping back into her chair. And even with her head ducked, she didn’t miss the smile tugging her sister’s lips.

After a moment Hilda looked up. “See, sharing is a good thing.”

Unable to restrain an eye roll, Zelda lit a cigarette and took a drag before acknowledging her sister who was biting her lower lip and looking at her earnestly. The sight melted her heart a bit and had the caustic comment dying on her tongue. Hilda was trying to help; she didn’t always have to push her sister away.

Softening, Zelda nodded. “It can be.” She acquiesced, giving Hilda a small smile. “I will,” she ground her teeth for a moment, but managed to force out the rest. “I will try and share more often in the future. This has been nice.”

Hilda nodded, “it has,” she murmured, going back to her knitting, knowing when to not push further.

~~~

She’d gotten Hilda to stop sniffling, to get off the bed and act like the huntress she was.

Zelda knew she shouldn’t be encouraging this relationship with a mortal. It had already pushed Hilda to tears, and it would only cause more in the long run; when her sister was forced to end it least, she reveal they were witches, or when the man died.

But Zelda couldn’t stand to see Hilda in such a miserable state, especially when, from all she’d heard, this mortal returned her sister’s affections. No, he was holding back for some Satan forsaken reason, all he needed was a little… push.

Ushering Hilda to the closet, Zelda sat on the bed and waited for her sister to select a dress.

When Hilda emerged from the closet a second time, Zelda having vetoed her first choice because it was one of her everyday dresses, she spread her hands out. “What about this?” Hilda spun slowly, letting Zelda get the full view of the low-cut, form-fitting leopard print dress.

“Stunning. Bold. And very you.” She beamed, standing and smoothing out a few wrinkles and tucking the tag in.

“Very me?” Hilda squeaked in surprise, “oh, I don’t think—”

Catching her sister’s chin in her hand, Zelda lifted it until their eyes met. “Anything you wear is very you, Hildegard. You just have to like it and be comfortable and confident enough in your own skin to own it.” Hilda blushed and smiled shyly at her. Before she could respond with something soft and gooey, Zelda gave the dress another look. “How long have you had this, Hilda? And why hasn’t it made an appearance until now?”

The blush deepened. “It made an appearance.” And when Zelda looked at her skeptically, Hilda brushed past her and sat down at her vanity. “Once.”

“Oh, I will get that story out of you,” Zelda chuckled, coming to stand behind her sister. “But that is for another time. Now,” she leaned over, so her face was right next to Hilda’s as they looked in the mirror, “you have to tell me what you want to do with your hair.”

~~~

“Did you entrap the shopkeeper?” She asked eagerly, leaning in for details.

Pressing her lips together, Hilda swirled the remaining alcohol in her glass. “Um… not exactly.” Chewing her lip, Hilda blurt it out. “He’s an incubus. A sex demon.” She added in a low voice, though the definition was unnecessary.

A sigh escaped Zelda. “Hildie,” she murmured, unsure where to even begin. Her sister, likely one of the only witches to not lose her virginity on the night of her dark baptism—or any of the nights that followed—was now courting a sex demon.

Put out by her reaction, Hilda plowed forward. “Well, I’m reading up on how to, you know… tame him.”

Well, if nothing else, Zelda could at least help with that. “You’ll need chains forged from Damascus steel, strong enough to contain the most aggressive incubus. And, fair warning, he’ll need to be wearing them whenever you—”

Eyes going wide, Hilda reared back. “Oh! No, no, no, no!”

Honestly, how her sister expected to be in a relationship with a literal sex demon without being able to talk about intercourse, Zelda had no idea. But Hilda supported her in most things, she supposed she could assist her sister in this.

“You’ll be just fine.” Zelda reassured, even as Hilda squeaked when she revealed why she knew so much on the topic. “We both will.” She lifted a brow and allowed herself another smile.

Raising her glass in response, Hilda drank to the toast before starting to pull at one of the loose strings on the pillow next to her on the couch.

Easily recognizing the signs, Zelda leveled her with a look. “What else?” She deadpanned; unsure what Hilda could say that would top dating a sex demon.

“He said he loves me.” Hilda supplied, red spots blooming on her cheeks.

Zelda choked a little on her drink, she certainly hadn’t expected that. “Huntress indeed,” she managed when she regained herself. “You didn’t just go for the fun of the chase, you hunted to kill. Well done.” She smirked and gave her sister an appraising look.

Exhaling shakily, Hilda finished her drink and, to Zelda’s surprise, reached over the back of the couch and refilled her glass. “I love him too and I told him I’m a witch.” She added in a rush, eyes wide with might have been panic.

The confession startled Zelda. Fingers tapping the side of her glass, Zelda inclined her head, surprised to find she wasn’t as scared of this announcement as she might have been even an hour ago.

Cerberus wasn’t exactly mortal… so her previous anxieties about losing her sister to the mortal realm as they had Edward was no longer a concern.

And as for the coven’s opinion, well, dalliances with sex demons were commonplace among witches, so the backlash would be nonexistent; some might even be impressed. For those who disapproved for whatever reason, they’d hold their silence. She was to be the wife of a high priest, after all, no one would speak out against her sister’s choices when Hilda was so close to that kind of power.

As for her final concern about Hilda’s relationship with a mortal, that her sister would have her heart broken when the mortal aged and died, that wasn’t much of a problem anymore either. And she informed her sister of as much.

“I assume this means you’ll be keeping him?” Hilda ducked her head and nodded, making Zelda’s lips tug up into a smile. “Then prepare yourself for a long-term relationship, sister.” She arched a brow and took a drink.

Brow furrowing, Hilda shook her head. “What? What do you… he’s still mortal. Don’t tease me, Zelds. I’ve come to terms that our love will be short lived.” Her chin trembled as she stared into her cup.

Placing a finger under her sister’s chin, Zelda gently tipped it up so Hilda met her eyes. “It would have been. But now we know you have just entered a relationship with an incubus. Which means Cerberus will have a lifespan well into the late 100s, possibly the early 200s.” Hilda’s mouth opened in closed in her confusion, so Zelda elaborated. “Incubi are not like demons such as the devouring worm we encountered in Jesse Putnam. They are generally rather lazy in any aspect not related to sex. Once they’ve claimed a body, settled in, they don’t leave it. To prolong having to find a new body, the incubus extends the life of whatever vessel they inhabit; keeping it healthy. Your fling with a wannabe vampire has just turned into something with a much longer shelf life.”

Hilda’s face lit up. “Truly?”

Unable to prevent herself from smiling widely in return, Zelda nodded. “Truly. Now, I will leave you to your research, so you may tame your incubus and get to do all you please with him.” Hilda blushed, but nodded. Squeezing Hilda’s hand, Zelda stood, collecting the turtle-dove hearts as she did.

“You’re not mad I told Cerb I’m a witch?” The question came suddenly, and Zelda could see the concern written across her sister’s face.

Shrugging, Zelda topped off her own glass. “He’s already possessed by a demon, so witches existing likely wasn’t too big of a shock. I have a feeling he’ll want to be more ensconced in our realm than the mortal realm soon enough. Besides, this means I can threaten him properly with curses and hexes if he ever hurts you.” With a wink, Zelda turned and was heading towards the stairs.

~~~

Wedding Eve

With trembling hands, Zelda managed to change, Hilda sitting anxiously on the bed as she did; Faustus had promised he’d come get them and they’d all teleport over together.

“Ambrose didn’t do this, Zelds. He couldn’t have.” Hilda implored, tugging at the cuffs of her jacket.

Sniffing, Zelda turned to face her sister, doing up the last buttons of her coat as she slipped her shoes on. “An hour ago, I’d have agreed with you, but Hildie, he was standing over the man with a dagger in his hand and covered in blood. I think he did it—” she raised a hand to forestall Hilda’s interruption, “not willingly, of course. But unless we can prove he was under some magical influence, made to be a puppet assassin, we may lose our boy.”

Blanching, a few tears trekked down Hilda’s face. “We can’t let that happen.”

“I know.” Zelda strode forward and took Hilda’s hands in her own, squeezing hard. “We will do everything in our power to prove his innocence. While Ambrose’s body may have committed the deed, he never would have done it if he were in the right state of mind. I need you to start making a list of different potions that could reveal magical interference and I will do the same with spells. Understand?”

Hilda nodded, and she pulled one of her hands free to wipe the tears from her cheeks. “Are you okay?” She asked after a moment of silence passed between them.

Taken aback, Zelda looked at her sister blankly. “What do you mean? Of course I’m not. Neither are you, for that matter. Ambrose is—”

Waving her hand, Hilda pulled Zelda down to sit next to her. “I’m not talking about Ambrose. The, the Dark Lord came to claim…” she swallowed and wouldn’t meet Zelda’s eyes for a moment. “He came to hurt you.” The amendment, though a much more accurate depiction of what would have happened, was also a harder truth to stomach. “And you’d have let Him. You’d have let Him to protect us and I wish I hadn’t left the room. I should have stayed and—”

A bark of laughter escaped Zelda then. It wasn’t that she found the situation funny, far from it, but her nerves needed to release tension somehow and since flogging was off the table, laughter apparently was what her body picked. “Stayed and what, Hildie?” She asked incredulously, then she softened. “You did what you had to, just as I did. There wasn’t a choice, no letting anyone do anything. It was the Dark Lord; you don’t deny Him. Though I was stunned, and touched, when you came barreling in when the screaming started. What would you have done, if those screams had been mine?”

“Killed Him.” Hilda growled, looking Zelda dead in the eye and there wasn’t even a hint that Hilda doubted she’d have accomplished just that if Zelda had been the one in pain, in danger.

Unsure what to say, Zelda pulled her sister into a hug, holding on tightly until there was a knock on the door. Faustus poked his head in. “We’re ready to leave.”

Nodding, Zelda stood, keeping hold of Hilda’s hand as she reached for Faustus’; together they teleported to the house.

~~~

After the Dark Lord’s Defeat:

They straggled back into the house, shoes and masks dangling in their hands. As improbable as it had seemed… they’d defeated the Dark Lord. At the expense of poor Nicholas, and though Zelda would never admit it out loud, it was a trade she’d willingly make again if it kept Sabrina safe; kept her from being Satan’s child bride.

Bidding each the kids goodnight and checking on the students in the parlor once more, Zelda and Hilda trudged up the stairs and dropped the things next to the door once in their room.

Hilda yawned. “I don’t know if I’ve the energy to even change.” She eyed her bed longingly but turned towards her vanity anyway.

Unable to disagree, Zelda flicked her wrist and suddenly both of them were free from the elaborate gowns and hairstyles and in their nightgowns. Sighing in relief, Zelda massaged her scalp and plopped onto the edge of her bed.

Stunned, Hilda spun on her stool. “What’d you do that for? You don’t have the energy—”

“It took less to do that than actually change.” Zelda mumbled, slumping over the rest of the way over and melting partially into the mattress.

Laughing, Hilda climbed tiredly into her own bed. “We did it, we really did it, Zelds.”

Partially lifting her head off the bed, Zelda smiled. “I’m as surprised as you, especially given all the obstacles we’ve faced recently.”

Mirth drained from Hilda’s face and she picked at the blanket underneath her. “Obstacles, obstacles like Blackwood?”

The exhausted, relaxed and relieved sensation tugging Zelda towards sleep disappeared in an instant. Sitting up, Zelda pulled herself up the bed and threw the covers back. “Yes, well, he did us no favors in deciding to poison the coven.”

Still fiddling with her quilt, Hilda chewed on her lip. “Hmm? Well, no, he didn’t. But Zelda, I,” she cleared her throat and shifted on the bed, “I was talking about the Caligari spell.”

Ice flooded Zelda’s veins and she slowly lifted her gaze to meet her sister’s. “And what makes you think that did anything more than slow me down? Did you not notice that the second Faustus realized I was free he imprisoned me and then fled? Seems I was more an obstacle to his plans than he was to mine.” She arched a brow and was proud of how haughty she sounded as she climbed under her covers.

Hilda licked her lips and then suddenly moved to sit on Zelda’s bed. “You know what I mean, Zelds. I, I never should have let you go back after we broke it. You said it was torture. And I let you go back.”

Sniffing, Zelda tried to shoo Hilda off her bed to no avail. “I was bored out of my mind, if that’s what you mean. Having all the mental capacity yet unable to do a thing, it was infuriating.”

Her sister pulled at her fingers anxiously. “It was more than that. I know you, Zelda. Perhaps better than you’d like, but I know you. And I know when you’re upset and trying to hide it. Please, please talk to me.” Hilda reached out and took Zelda’s hands in her own.

She fought the tears pricking her eyes. “Must we discuss this tonight, Hildie? We’re both exhausted and tomorrow—”

“Tomorrow we have an entire house full of half-trained witches to deal with and I know you’ll use them as an excuse to avoid this.” Hilda remarked, and perhaps she did know Zelda too well.

Swallowing and knowing it would be better to talk about it, at least a little, than to hold it in, Zelda dropped her eyes to her lap. “I was so scared. I wasn’t safe, I wasn’t in control. I could have hurt…" A long silence followed, but Hilda patiently waited for her to continue. “I—” Zelda started hoarsely and licked her lips. “I’ve been dreaming about what would have happened had you or Sabrina gotten in my way when I came for Leviathan.” She whispered, picking at her nail polish. “Blackwood, he, uh, he’d instructed me to not let anyone get in my way.” Zelda murmured, tears starting to trek down her cheeks. “I prayed I wouldn’t encounter anyone. I knew I’d hurt Sabrina. Hurt you. And I wouldn’t be able to stop it.” Taking a shaky inhale, she continued. “In my dreams, you both try to stop me. And I kill you both.” Her voice cracked but she kept talking. “Which meant I condemned Ambrose and he lost his head. I kill you all every night and it is all my fault.” Zelda finished, gasping and clenching the comforter in her hands.

Carefully, and very deliberately, Hilda placed a finger under Zelda’s chin and lifted it so she would focus on her. “None of that happened. Our entire family is safe, whole. And none of what that monster made you do was your fault or under your control. None of it. You hear me?”

It was the absolution she shouldn’t need, but desperately wanted and now that she had it, the dam broke. Sobs wracked Zelda’s body and she slumped against her sister, Hilda wrapping her up tightly in a comforting embrace.

“You can put on a brave face for Sabrina and Ambrose, but I know. I never should have let you go back. Never should have made you keep up that disgusting charade.” Hilda muttered, guilt washing over her face at the admission. “I thought nothing of it at the time, you acted so blithely about it, flipping your hair and making snarky comments…” Hilda curled around Zelda protectively, as if she would shield her from all harm. “It must have been so awful to march back into that situation and pretend.”

Shaking her head, Zelda tried to pull back, wipe her tears. “It was the only—”

“No.” Hilda clung to her harder, “I never should have let you go back. I should’ve gone and killed Blackwood right then and there. He’d have been caught completely off guard. And I could—” she faltered, tears slipping down her cheeks. “I could have protected you from some pain.”

More sobs wracked Zelda’s body and Hilda ran a soothing hand up and down her back.

Swallowing her own tears, Hilda rested her cheek on top of Zelda’s head. “Tell me the rest? Better out than in, yes?” She asked softly, as if sensing she might be pushing too far, but also knowing Zelda needed the prodding otherwise she’d internalize it indefinitely.

Zelda shuddered. “I was, was aware the whole time. Trapped. Trapped inside my head, banging against the sides, trying to speak, to control my body… but nothing was under my control. I had a front row seat to my life, to seeing myself used like a puppet. I was sealed inside, with no say in anything and Faustus he still, he—” she gulped, unable to finish and for several minutes they sat in silence. “He took away my choice, Hildie.” She managed, now picking at her cuticles, some of which were beginning to bleed. Hilda gently released Zelda from her hug and took her hands into her own to stop the action. Zelda blinked and looked at her hands, unaware of what she’d been doing, but nodded minutely in thanks before leaning heavily against Hilda once more and resting her head on her sister’s shoulder. “He took and took and took. We’d always, at least in the bedroom, same page. But then he took it all away and took what he wanted still.”

Spine stiffening, Hilda growled in realization. Though Zelda hadn’t formed completely coherent sentences, her sister understood what she was unable to say…. What she’d refused to truthfully label until now.

“Blackwood’s a dead man,” Hilda snarled, eyes sparking dangerously. “When we catch him, I’m going to make sure I get some alone time with my former brother-in-law before we put him to death.”

A small huff escaped Zelda and she nestled against Hilda. “That would make me feel better,” she admitted, and then she sat up as though struck. “You, you almost… but you killed him before…. Oh, Hildie, we never discussed it more, Methuselah, not with the prophecy and the impending apocalypse. Are you alright?”

Tears slipped down Hilda’s face. “He only suggested a, a transaction… for Ambrose’s life. He didn’t actually force himself—”

Vehemently shaking her head, Zelda clasped Hilda’s hands in her own. “Don’t compare. That doesn’t make it any less horrible. Was my almost encounter with the Dark Lord any less terrifying because nothing came from it? No. And your experience is no less meaningful because you think it could have been worse, because others have experienced worse. It’s all bad, it’s all, all,” her lips twisted and then she spat it out, “it’s all traumatizing.” Though Zelda hated that either one of them experienced this, it helped that Hilda understood on some level. And maybe, one day, she would talk about what happened to her in more depth; the pain, the shame, the anger it’d all caused. But, for now, it was enough to have voiced that it happened.

Chin wobbling, Hilda inhaled shakily, recapturing Zelda’s attention. “Oh Zelds, what a pair we make.” She breathed, hugging Zelda and pressing closer when Zelda tightened her own arms around her sister.

“How do we, how do we heal from this? Recover?” Zelda asked, desperate to know if her sister had an answer, because she was at a loss. The desire for vengeance and violence could only get her so far.

Pulling back, Hilda scrubbed at her cheeks and then gently cupped Zelda’s face and wiped her tears away before tucking some hair behind Zelda’s ear. “Well, tonight I’ll make us some tea with a little foxglove in it, we’ll get a good night’s sleep. And when we wake up in the morning, we’ll get to work fixing this coven, we’ll break up stupid teenage witch fights and then we’ll all eat dinner together, maybe read or do puzzles afterwards before going to bed. And we will talk about happy things and memories until we fall asleep. And the next day, we’ll do the same and it will hurt a tiny bit less. And the next day after that will hurt even less.

“Oh, Zelds, I hope that’s true, I do. I pray to Satan or Lilith or whoever we’re supposed to worship now that that’s true. But I don’t know,” Hilda breathed, hating that she couldn’t give her sister the definitive answer she likely craved; that Hilda craved herself.

Zelda gave her sister a tremulous smile, “that’s alright. What matters is that we’re together.” She whispered, lacing her fingers with Hilda’s and exhaling shakily.

A few more tears leaked down Hilda’s face, “and we always will be.” She promised fiercely.

Nodding, Zelda scooted over so Hilda could fully climb onto the bed. “Always.” She repeated as they lay on the bed together, seeking and providing comfort to one another.

#trigger warnings #self harm #rape #caos #Chilling Adventures of Sabrina #Zelda Spellman #hilda spellman #zelda x hilda #mentions of #sabrina spellman #ambrose spellman #faustus blackwood #netflix #writing prompt #fanfiction #fanfic #ao3 #AO3 fanfic #ao3fic

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lilhemmo · 5 years

Note

uh another sweet pea fic please!!! i would like the following tropes - baby!fic (can't wait to see what you do with this one!!) and fake dating or fake married!!

send me two au’s from THIS list + a ship/character

a/n: sweet pea and babies is a weakness of mine, hopefully i make you suffer as much as i did writing this!!

“Sweets, I don’t know what to friggin’ do, she won’t stop crying!”

“Do you need reinforcements?”

“I-uh, well, ugh–yes, please,” you admit through tears.

It takes him an hour to get to your house, and the little baby in your arms still hasn’t ebbed her sobs. It doesn’t matter what you do - rocking, feeding, singing, kissing, whispering, anything. You’re crying as you try to sing to her through your tears, watery words leaving your lips.

“Honey, I’m home!”

At least that gets you to laugh.

You swallow and chuckle wetly, wiping at your face before he can come in the nursery to see you in your blabbering mess.

“Hey,” he’s quiet as he enters the room, reaching out to hug you around the shoulders. He coos down at the tiny human in your arms, “And how are you tonight missus?”

You roll your eyes, “You don’t get to ask her how she’s doing, Sweets. She’s killing me. Would you ask a killer how they’re feeling?”

Sweet Pea smiles wryly down at you and proceeds to take her from your arms and coddle her against his chest. He bounces her up and down, gently caressing her back as he hums in her ear.

It takes another hour, but finally he gets her to fall asleep in his arms at three in the morning. You’re struggling to keep your eyes open on the couch that is placed in the nursery.

“C’mon,” he murmurs in your ear as he reaches down to pluck you from the couch. “Let’s get you to bed.”

You nod numbly, your head lolling against his chest. Sweet Pea manages to get you under your covers before grabbing his keys.

“Stay, Pea,” you murmur, dumbly reaching out for his shadow. You pout just enough to make him feel guilty, “Please?”

His shadow gets larger as he gets closer and you can’t fight the smile on your face. Sweet Pea leans down onto his knees, his fingertips brushing through your hair.

“I’ll be on the couch, then.”

You shake your head and reach up to cup his cheek in your palm, “No, Sweets, just stay in the bed. I’m cold and tired.”

He laughs but it’s different than usual. Sweet Pea peels his jacket off and slips in beside you. Immediately you turn to face him and wind your arms around his waist, “Thank you. You’re warm.”

Sweets kisses your forehead and you see something hovering in his gaze, so you breach the subject and ask, “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” Sweet Pea answers immediately.

You shake your head and run your fingertips over his shoulder blades, “I’m not an idiot. I have been your best friend for almost two decades.”

“Yeah,” he says softly. “I know.”

Your hands maneuver to his cheeks and you can’t stop your thumbs from rubbing over his warm skin. His legs tangle with yours and you feel heat spring from your toes to your chest.

“I-If it’s about Evangeline, I’m sorry,” you push yourself away from him and feel tears soaking up your vision. “I didn’t mean to call you so late, you could’ve said no.”

“No, no, shh,” he brings you back in, tucking you under his chin, “that’s not it, I’m so sorry. Look, I just-” Sweet Pea hides his nose in your hair and takes in a deep breath, “I’m just mad Layton split on you and Eve. And it’s late, so I’m spewing crap. I’m sorry, let’s just go to sleep.”

“Sweets,” you speak desperately. You pull his cheeks so he’s looking at you and your heart is racing, “Please don’t do this, don’t shut me out.”

His lips press against your forehead and you feel your eyes grow heavy from his warmth, “We’ll talk in the morning, okay?”

One of his hands dips under your shirt and his palm is soft and hot against your back. He runs his fingers up and down your spine and it lulls you to sleep.

“I can’t believe you agreed to come to the game with me,” Sweet Pea throws an arm around your shoulders. He pulls you close and presses a quick kiss to your temple before looking down at the bundle in your arms.

“And you too, Miss Evie,” he pulls her beanie from over her eyes and kisses her forehead before settling back into his chair.

A young couple comes up to you and squints down at your baby in your arms and smiles at her chunky cheeks, “She’s so beautiful! Looks just like her daddy, huh?”

You go to correct her, but Sweet Pea sits forward and thanks her, “She’ll be one in a couple of months.”

“She’s adorable,” the woman comments again before she and her partner walk to their seats.

You throw a look at Sweet Pea, wide eyes and raised brows, “What was that?”

He shrugs, “Can’t hurt, can it? We don’t know them.”

His arm is warmer around your shoulders as he tucks you into his side, Evangeline cradled between your bodies.

“Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear Evangeline, happy birthday to you!”

Everyone cheers and you nudge Evangeline towards her cake that’s meant for her grubby little hands only. There are a few other mothers here with their children, but it’s mostly family - and Serpents.

“Happy birthday baby,” Sweet Pea holds one of her hands gently and pushes it into the frosting. She looks at him with wide blue eyes and begins laughing hysterically. Afterward, it’s every person for themselves as cake and frosting begin to fling all over the house. Luckily, you’d thought to protect your walls and floor with plastic tablecloths so the cleaning should be easy.

Sweet Pea grabs you around the shoulders and pulls you into his body, his arms warm and tight around your shoulders. He kisses your forehead and then your hair, a smile evident on his lips.

The party begins to wind down, all of the young children - and the mothers, too - worn out from the sitting outside in the sun and keeping up with their toddling tots.

One of the single mother’s you met in your support group comes to give you a hug, her daughter already in her carrier. She smiles, “I’m so glad you and Sweet Pea could find one another. Evangeline is going to love her parents.”

You open your mouth to tell her that Evangeline’s father is an ungrateful coward, but Sweet Pea sidles up next to you and thanks her before you can get a word in.

You look up at him to question his antics, but his lips are on your cheek before he’s on the move again, helping out the mother’s put their children in car seats and carrying their bags for them.

Your hands are on your hips as you study him, his tall, built frame squatting underneath SUV trunks to load in frilly bags and tiny babies into their car seats. You can’t help the smile on your face, but you try to hold it back with your teeth against your lower lip.

As soon as the word slips from her lips, you feel your whole world drop out from under you.

“Daddy! Can’t catch me!”

You drop the dishes in your hands and Sweet Pea looks up from where he’s chasing Evangeline around in the living room to watch as the color drains from your face.

He catches her by snatching the back of her shirt, her thick legs unable to balance her so she falls on her bottom. Luckily she’s still tiny and so the fall is relatively short. Sweet Pea picks her up and takes her to her play pen, the area roped off from the rest of the house.

“If you stay here and play by yourself for a minute, I promise I’ll play with you until bedtime,” he nods to her as he sets her down on her feet. Evangeline tries to pout, but realizes it won’t work and instead pushes herself up onto her tip-toes to press a sloppy kiss to his lips.

“Okay, daddy,” she hums, “I’ll be waiting.”

You’re not sure how your daughter became so articulate at the young age of two, but currently it’s not helping your situation.

“Sweets, I am so sorry,” you shake your head and start plucking up the large pieces of porcelain as he makes his way into the kitchen. Tears stream down your cheeks but you busy yourself with the clean up. “I-uh, I didn’t-I’m so sorry, she doesn’t know any better.”

“Hey,” he reaches across the space between you to help guide you out of your mess, “it’s okay. Like you said, she doesn’t know any better.”

Sweet Pea props you up on the counter, your knees open so he can fit between them. You shove your hands over your face and shake your head, “I’m so sorry, Pea. Really. I’m so friggin’ embarrassed.”

“Don’t be,” he speaks softly. His large hands encompass yours, guiding them down so he can look in your watery eyes. He chuckles, his gaze softening the longer he has to take you in.

“How could she know any better, hm?” Sweet Pea asks you indignantly. He shrugs his shoulders, wiping your tears away, “Everyone else can’t even tell if we’re together or not. I practically live here, sleep in your bed. How does she know that I’m not her father?”

“That’s my fault,” you whimper, your lip trembling as you realize what he’s saying. He’s trying to get out of your life, and he needs to. He doesn’t deserve this burden that you and Evangeline put on his shoulders. You nibble on your lips to try and create words, “I-I pushed you to do this, I wrangled you in here and I made you some sort of pseudo-father for her. I should have never-”

Your lips can’t form words because Sweet Pea’s mouth is on top of them.

You’re frozen and therefore you cannot react, which gives him the wrong impression entirely. You gulp and he pulls himself away from you, distancing your bodies and your mouths.

Instantly his face turns bright red and he tries to stammer out an apology. Instead of listening to it, you yank him by his leather jacket and seal his lips with your own.

Sweet Pea’s hands are on your hips, digging into your skin as if you were some sort of anchor, and your fingers are in his hair. His throat shakes as a groan escapes his lips, your name tumbling from his teeth.

“Sweets,” you whisper, feeling his mouth track down your cheek to your jaw. You can’t open your eyes as his lips trail over your skin, “Pea, I-”

“You what?” he asks, looking up at you through dark lashes. “Want me to stop? Want me to leave?”

Your fingers secure themselves in his hair, holding him steady so he looks you in the eye, “I want you to stay. Here.”

“I already do that,” he chuckles, his fingertips dipping under your shirt and searing your skin. You swallow thickly, “I-I mean permanently. I want you to live here and not have to go home to get more clothes.”

“Darling,” his voice is soft, softer than you’ve ever heard it before, so soft it almost breaks. You feel a tear drip over your eyelid and he catches it on his thumb.

“I-I love you, Pea,” you push the words past your lips even though they’re not foreign between the two of you. “And I’m so sorry you’ve had to deal with me, with us, in the past. I don’t want to make you do anything you don’t want to - but I want to ask you to stay, to be with me, with us.”

Sweet Pea kisses you again, feverishly, his hands roaming over your back and biting into your skin. You gasp as his lips connect with your neck, your hands roaming over his abdomen to hold him closer.

“Mama! Daddy!”

You hear the slap of feet against the wood flooring, Evangeline’s tiny figure teetering in front of the two of you in the dining room. She giggles as she sees the two of you so close, “Pway now?”

Sweet Pea ducks his head into your neck and you feel his tongue swipe over your collarbone, unbeknownst to your daughter. You grind your teeth together and dig your nails into his sides. He winces, but chuckles against your skin.

“Yes, darling,” you smile as Sweet Pea retreats from his beloved spot on your shoulder. He turns and picks her up, twirling her before planting a comical kiss on her cheek with a loud smack. Evangeline giggles and you can’t help the grin that tugs your lips skyward.

Sweet Pea runs in circles around the living room and into the kitchen, pausing for a moment to look you in the eyes, “Oh, I love you too, by the way. In case you were wondering.”

You bite your lip, wondering how in the world you got so lucky.

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