#and she’s this tiny furious ball of blue hair that has finally HAD IT with pretending to be passive since she was 6 | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

peaches-writes · 3 years

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penalty kick

description: maybe you got off on the wrong foot...actually, jisung did actually pushed you off the wrong foot. member: jisung / han genre: fluff, slice of life, coming of age, childhood frenemies / rivals to lovers au, idiots to lovers au, neighbor au, high school au, college au, lil dashes of soccer baseball musician & campus dj au bc jisung ace, female reader, off-season universe (mc from naturally is jeoyeon, mc from tumbles & turns is bora, and mc from off-season is kira hek) word count: 12k warnings: explicit language, alcohol (a tiny mention of underage drinking pls drink responsibly!), mentions of injuries, jisung issa lil dumb & a lil shit but issokay hes an adorable lil shit note: @crscendoforsung so i scraped the witch jisung au (but i’ll come back to it in the future maybe it’s still in my drafts lol) so here is dumbass jisung for now + im away on christmas day so here’s my gift a day in advanced lmao

Age four. Your neighbor and favorite playmate, Han Jisung, pushed you so hard on the swings at your neighbourhood playground that you literally flew out of your plastic curved seat and bruised your knees, elbows, and chin.

Maybe you did had it coming from continuously complaining that he ‘pushed like a sissy’ and even standing up on the swing set just to brag that you can balance all of your body weight on such flimsy material. Maybe your neighbor has always had a secret grudge on you finally enacted through this incident. Either way, the next thing you knew, a wide-eyed Jisung was on your side alternating between calling for adult help, crying over your bruises, and muttering curses he probably heard from his older brother under his breath.

“Shit, shit shit...” He squeaked out frantically in his tiny voice, gently moving you to a sitting position on the stone pavement and dusting the dirt off of your bleeding injuries despite your loud complaints that your entire body was hurting. Looking around your surroundings, his breath then got caught up in his throat at seeing your mother fast-approaching with a mix of furious and worried in her expression. “Auntie! Help!”

Your mother was hovering over you in an instant, examining your bruises with furrowed brows and clenched teeth. “Ah, dear God, what happened here?!” She exclaimed in a scolding tone, piercing gaze darting between your tearful eyes and Jisung’s panicked ones. “Jisung, did you do this?”

“It was an accident auntie!” The boy in question answered immediately as he shook his head nervously and scooted away with his hands up in defense. “It was an accident, I promise!”

However, with your back turned to him then, you naturally had a different impression of the incident as you quickly retorted, “He pushed me, mommy! He pushed me off of the swing!”

Your mother never made any clear indication that she believed you as she simply shook your head and lifted you by your shoulders and knees, carrying you to a nearby bench to treat your wounds.

Angered by your outburst, Jisung reluctantly followed you and your mother to the bench then glared at you until your injuries were cleaned and bandaged. With his arms crossed and a permanent frown bordering a pout on his lips, he stood next to you in his attempt at looking visibly angry for a puny five-year-old while you hissed and whined in pain the entire time.

What’s worse is that his own mother made him apologize by sending him off to the nearest convenience store to buy you apple juice and steamed buns. Because of this, you’ve been mortal enemies, rivals, each other’s designated future potential killer, whatever you want to call it ever since.

Age seven. Han Jisung helped perpetuate a wild rumour that you and the rest of the class’ female population had ‘cooties.’

It’s only natural for boys at this age to gravitate to similar actions, of course. After all, you’ve heard worse from boys in the other classes (read: Hwang Hyunjin crying and demanding to get sent home because a girl kissed him on the cheek on the first day of classes). It’s the fact that Jisung actually seemed to have to believed it for a brief period of time in your first grade, however, that completely threw you off.

He pulled on your braids during the time he sat behind you and kicked your shins while in line for P.E. class to ‘test your anger patience’ that was apparently fueled by cooties and occasionally stole your snacks for actual ‘DNA evidence’ of said cooties among other petty little things. It was nothing short of annoying and the very bane of your existence then.

“Han Jisung cut it out!” You yelled at him one day, hitting him on the shoulder with the curved end of your wooden broom during after-class cleaning time. In this particular incident, the boy managed to swiftly take one of your pigtails out while wiping the windows in an attempt to ‘examine’ the DNA in your hair.

“What?!” He snickered, taking a big step away from you and lifting up the blue scrunchie to examine it for miniscule strands of loose hair. “It’s for research!”

You groaned in annoyance, reaching forward to retrieve the scrunchie with one hand while the other instinctively ran through the messed up half of your hair. “Jisung, give it back, you weirdo!” You scolded through gritted teeth, rolling your eyes when he shakes his head stubbornly and takes another step back from your reach.

“Tell me the secret first!”

“Secret of what?!”

“Do you girls actually have cooties?” He quirked a genuinely suspicious eyebrow at you, raising the scrunchie above your heads after when you proceed lunge forward at him. “Does it actually make you guys this irritable all the time?”

Somehow, the questions struck some kind of nerve in you. You were tired from classes, cleaning, and having to put up with Jisung’s childish antics. Maybe 1st grade girls did have cooties but for tapping into unbridled anger. “I’m going to kill you!” With the broom in your hands and the dust pan you snatched from his in retaliation, you then proceeded on repeatedly hitting Jisung in the forearms and shoulders until he surrendered with his arms protectively over his head and your scrunchie finally within reach.

He also offered to fix your pigtail back for you but given the amount of distrust you already had for him, you simply smacked him one last time and went to the other end of the room to fix your hair.

Age nine. Maturing a little bit through summer camps and classes, you and Jisung redirected all of your energy from physical violence to outsmarting each other in class.

It started in English class when Mrs. Lee introduced the idea of recitations garnering students points and a fancy award at the end of the school year. Coming from the same piano class in the summer prior wherein you and Jisung also competed for your instructor’s attention, the two of you were quick to consider this as another one of your competitions.

You devoted most of your time to studying the lesson from the what’s, who’s, when’s, and where’s while Jisung thought that focusing more on the deeper why’s and how’s would somehow garner him better points no matter how many times Mrs. Lee reiterated that all recitation points are given in 1 point’s.

As the school year progressed, especially after the first semester report cards came out and the two of you were tied to first place in English to the very third decimal, the academic rivalry immediately extended to competing for the most amount of extra-curricular activities. You were more favored with the way you handled baby animals at the local shelter and competed in debates and quiz bees while Jisung was mainly noticed by the soccer and baseball coaches and the school choir’s moderator for his skills in sports and music.

Jisung’s mom, who always picked the two of you up from school in her minivan, obliviously thought it was cute.

“You know, instead of competing over everything all the time, you guys can take some notes from each other.” She pointed out one time after hearing your comment on Jisung ‘smelling like a polluted Pacific Ocean’ as he climbed in the backseat of the car. The sentiment almost went in one ear and came out of the other with the two of you, however, as Jisung proceeded on complaining that you smelled like ‘Cruella de Vil’s fake fur coat’ then hitting you on the head with his soccer ball. “Especially you, Sungie. You can learn a thing or two of keeping a goldfish alive for more than a week from Y/N.”

You laughed at Jisung’s immediate shocked reaction of wide eyes and gaping mouth at this, slapping his arm in amusement and toppling over the backseat in laughter. “Yeah, Sungie, you really need help from that department.” You stuck your tongue out at him teasingly, laughing even more when he groans and hits you back with a light punch to your own arm.

“Stop it.” He hissed at you before turning to his mother again, meeting her gaze through the rear view mirror. “Mom! You’re supposed to be on my side!”

Mrs. Han was also stifling her own laughs then, forcing herself to focus on the road ahead instead of checking for her son’s pouting expression and crossed arms through the mirror. “Okay, okay.” She chuckled playfully with a dismissive hand, catching your eye after with a giggle. “Y/N, you should learn how to commit to exercise more with Jisung, then. There? Happy?”

Satisfied, Jisung stuck his tongue out childishly at you as if completely forgetting the fact that he was attacked by his own mother first. “Bleh!”

You rolled your eyes at him with a light-hearted scoff of your own, laughing away the way he proceeded to exaggeratedly tease you. “You’re so childish, Sung.”

When your moms did seriously consider this idea later on, you were then forced to dedicated one weekend to taking each other to your respective extra-curricular activities. It was right before your final examinations and Jisung ended up getting scared over a golden retriever giving birth while you received severe cramps from the elementary soccer team’s rigorous conditioning training.

It was a recipe of disaster, basically, and it ultimately led you and Jisung to cram knowledge for your exams on Sunday night in his bedroom. When you stubbornly didn’t learn anything from going to each other’s favorite extra-curriculars, you unconsciously ended up learning from each other in the six hours you both stayed up trying to review your notes. Miraculously (as in the miracle of hot brewed Milo-induced sugar rushes), it went well and the two of you tied or were close in grades at the second release of report cards.

The only downside of it all was just the fact that the fancy recitation award in your English class that started it all somehow went to Hyunjin.

“Ah, this is so frustrating!” You exclaimed on the ride home from school. You had your report card in your hands like Jisung, looking back on it all the while stressing out about Hyunjin winning the award the two of you spent a whole school year competing for.

On the other side of his mom’s backseats, Jisung then turned to you and suggested, “Want to prank him? We’re playing soccer next week, you can swap his Cola for soy sauce.”

You glanced over at Jisung, your pout slowly turning into a mischievous grin at his raised brows. “You’re onto something...”

Age ten. You went on your first class field trip with a stuffed purple lunch bag of snacks.

Your mother specifically suggested that you share it with Jisung, thinking that the two of you would sit next to each other on the bus since he’s your only classmate she’s actually familiar with. But of course, when Jisung didn’t bring up any hints that he knew of this while waiting for the school bus to arrive, you immediately thought against it and planned out how you were going to hide your seemingly endless supply of snacks from him on the back-and-forth rides to Namsan Tower.

It was a well thought-out plan involving sitting near to the front and as far away from him as possible with your own group of friends then hiding the lunch bag under your seat until you caught Hyunjin not-so-discreetly trying to steal from you while he re-checked attendance after a stop-over.

“Jisung put you up to this, didn’t he?” You frowned, candy successfully retrieved from Hyunjin’s prying hands and popped into your mouth as the lanky boy scratched the back of his head in shame. “It’s okay, Hyunjin, I won’t kill you. It’s Jisung’s corpse I’m planning to roll down Namsan if he’s actually behind this.”

After a few more coaxing, Hyunjin eventually nodded sheepishly and admitted to Jisung convincing him to take a candy bar from you.

“Ya! Hyunjin!” Jisung whined from across the bus, peeking his head up from the identical red seats with balled up fists. “I told you not to rat me out!”

“Y/N was being scary!” Hyunjin argues back, sprinting back to his seat as soon as the the bus stopped at a streetlight. Hiding under the sea of seats, he then exclaimed, “You two take me out of your fights! Geez!”

Jisung pouted at you as soon as you lifted your own head up from your seat and turned around to face him, holding his hands out in front of him and then asking, “Can’t I really have candy?”

You shook your head stubbornly. “If I give you one, everyone’s going to ask me for it too.”

“But everyone’s basically asleep!”

“They could be fake-sleeping for all I know!” You hissed, popping another ball of candy in your mouth. “I don’t trust anyone in this class with food but myself.”

“Y/N!” He whined, only to get pulled down by force when the bus abruptly begins moving again. Scrambling up right after, he then continued pleading, “Please?”

“No.” You firmly concluded, sitting back down on your seat.

Jisung even tried staying behind to try and steal candy off of you while the entire class was piling outside to enter Namsan Tower, only to trip in surprise when you jumped on him from crouching under the seats. Poor boy almost hit his head on the seats in shock.

“I knew you’d pull this kind of shit.” You tsked in disapproval with a slight stutter towards cursing at such an age, smacking him over the head anyway before throwing the smallest piece of chocolate candy you had from your bag. Moving past him to the bus exit, you then added, “You don’t even do nice things for me.”

You only meant it half-heartedly, though. Whether Jisung actually wanted more candy or he did sincerely felt bad over what you said, either way, he paid for the expensive pink lock you and your friend wanted to hang at the very top of the tower later on but only if you promised to share your snacks.

Jisung received three packets of gummy bears and a bottle of banana milk from you in the end on the ride home.

Age twelve. The Hans temporarily moved to Malaysia in the summer before the seventh grade because of an assignment for Jisung’s father at work.

On the day before their flight, Mr. and Mrs. Han organized a farewell party in their house at the other end of the block and invited your entire class. Jisung tricked you into getting him a farewell present by telling you that everyone was planning to do the same thing as a surprise but he secretly found out thing.

He didn’t actually expect you to get him something, not with the way the two of you have always been at each other’s necks since you were kids, but you ended up surprising him in the middle of the lunch party by giving him a small notebook of useful Malaysian phrases you wrote down yourself. You don’t always agree with Jisung but you think of yourself as thoughtful and civil enough to buy something practical. Also, your parents insisted.

“O-Oh, you actually got me something?” He fumbled through an intense blush that matched the redness of his Supreme cap, almost tripping over nothing as you both stood on the steps leading down to the back of his house. It didn’t help that a few classmate passersby were glancing your way as well, either cooing or snickering at the awkward sight in the corner of all the socialization. “L-Like—like, this is actually for me?”

You raised a brow in confusion and reluctantly shrugged, releasing the red phrasebook from your grip as he held onto it by the other end. “Yeah, you said you’re getting presents so I...got you one.”

“I actually lied—“

“What?!” You exclaimed a little too loudly for your taste, earning you a sharp glare from your mother all the way across the backyard. Mouthing a quick apology to your her, you then quickly averted your glare back to Jisung who instinctively resorted to looking at anywhere but you. “But you said—“

“I thought for sure that no one would give me any farewell presents since it’s not a birthday or anything but I know you would if you’re like forced to or something so I thought...hehe...” He mustered up a sheepish grin, pressing his index fingers together in a comical shy gesture. When your glare intensifies, he then immediately held his hands up in defense and visibly winced, “Ya, don’t hit me!”

Every fiber in your being really wanted to hit him with the notebook then, maybe even push him down the stairs while no one was looking, but after a moment of thinking your way out of such violent thoughts, you resorted to exhaling a sigh and saying, “Whatever, just keep the notebook or something. I don’t care. It’s not expensive, anyway.”

You chanted to yourself that you’re mature, especially as Jisung’s eyes lit up and he immediately thanked you for both the gift and sparing his life that day.

Though he didn’t hear the end of the other teasing from Hyunjin after that, Jisung kept the notebook around anyway throughout his entire two-year stay in Malaysia. It was helpful but he’ll never admit that to your face.

“You kept it.” You pointed out one day, more as a statement than a question as you realized that the notebook he was using for exam reviewer notes was in the same color as the phrasebook you gave him. When Jisung came back in the summer before the ninth grade, the two of you met again in the same cram school wherein mostly everyone but you and the transfer student, Kim Seungmin, refused to help him keep up with the heavier than usual workload. “The phrasebook...”

“Yeah—well, I didn’t want to waste any of the pages you didn’t write on.” He pouted stubbornly as he flipped through the older pages to compare the amount of pages you used to the empty sheets. His tone actually sounded like he was convincing himself much more than he was trying with you but you missed it complete in the moment. “Be more eco-friendly, Y/N.”

You simply rolled your eyes at him. “Glad to know I kept you alive in another country somehow, then.”

Age fourteen. You went to a soccer game to see Jisung but only because one of your friends, Eunha, developed a crush on the striker and eventually hatched a plan to confess on the game before Valentine’s Day. Fortunately, Jisung barely noticed and didn’t tease you for it since it’s already an established fact that you’re always at his games with either Yang Jeongin or Seungmin to cheer on Hyunjin instead.

You really didn’t get it. Of course, fifteen was the time when some, if not all, parts of your day were starting to become dedicated to vanity and all the artificial things in life to attract kind of puppy love in school but at this point Jisung always wore the same green hoodie, red Supreme cap, and white ‘Eyez on You’ shirt to every school function that didn’t require wearing a uniform.

You understood how your classmates suddenly began fawning over Hyunjin right after the summer when he got his braces removed and then Seungmin for bringing a suit and tie one time for an inter-school debate but the hype over Jisung suddenly bringing in his guitar to class breaks everyday and re-emerging as a star soccer and baseball player throughout the school year is an absolute mystery to you. That or, maybe compared to your junior high peers, you’re just as used to him at this point than they all are. In your perspective, the only legitimate thing he has going on is how he always seems to beat you in most Arts subjects and how annoying it is that he always makes sure to rub that in your face.

“I’m pretty sure he still doesn’t shower properly right after training.” You shook your head disapprovingly at Eunha during the game. Soccer is an interesting sport for surprisingly bringing you up to stand and cheer at some moments, you’ll give it that, but watching Jisung get cocky and interact to the crowd whenever his team scored a point was somehow cringe-worthy to watch. “And I’m so sure he still doesn’t clean that soccer ball of his right after practice. You deserve better, sis.”

But no matter how much you talked shit about him throughout the entire game, Eunha still held onto the box of handmade candies she coerced you into picking up from Jisung’s favorite candy shop on the weekend prior and cheering him on with the slogan she made herself. It would’ve looked cute and sweet to you if it was some other guy but it’s Jisung—the guy who pushed you off a swing, pulled your hair, stole candy from you, and made all of your elementary after-school rides home an actual rollercoaster—and you would never wish his treatment of you to any other person ever.

“You said that was in elementary, Y/N.” Eunha chuckled softly, nudging your elbow before a sour expression could completely overtake your face. “Surely he’s outgrown that girls have cooties phase every boy had then.”

“No, it’s Jisung and I refuse to believe it.”

You really didn’t want to believe it with your natural instinct to see Jisung as the bane of your existence. What’s worse is that Eunha was right and Jisung shyly accepted the Saturday movie date at the mall that she came up with on the spot when he surprisingly received the candies well, a complete stretch from the Jisung who would’ve lied about being busy or tricked your friend into doing something else altogether. Suddenly, it was selfishly annoying that you’re the only one he actually tortures the life out of.

“Told you.” Eunha giggled throughout the drive back to your house. Your mother picked you up from school right after the soccer game for a sleepover you insisted was a must whether or not your friend scored her Valentine’s Day date. “Ah, I’m glad he accepted. I was a nervous wreck there! You don’t happen to know what kind of movie he likes, do you?”

You never heard the end of it from her for the remainder of the semester. The two were never official—middle school just didn’t have that solid idea of significant others, then—but they did went on numerous ‘dates’ almost every weekend that followed Valentine’s Day. Naturally, Eunha would tell you all about it.

“He’s so sweet and caring and thoughtful!” The girl endlessly gushed out to you so genuinely you would’ve been happy had you not been sincerely expecting a major fuck-up from Jisung. Nothing romantic really did come out of these dates, even Jisung surprisingly swears by it, but they did become really close friends after and as Jisung’s only other female friend at the time, you can clearly see a point of comparison between his different treatment of you. “Though, I’m gonna give it to you that he is annoying sometimes but he does know a lot of good places to hang out around town for someone who’s been away for two years!”

“He does the bare minimum for everything, Eunha. I could barely call it sweet.” You scoffed unamused.

Age sixteen. In the summer after the tenth grade, an upperclassman from school by the name of Lee Minho started volunteering at the same local shelter you’ve been under since elementary after surrendering a lost cat to you while he and Jisung were playing baseball at the nearby park.

He adopted Dori in the end but prior to finalizing the adoption papers, he actually made the effort to come in at your MWF schedule to help around and see the dark grey kitten. To you, it was endearing and thoughtful since you didn’t have much active co-workers at the shelter your age but to Jisung, it was slightly inconveniencing how Minho would cut off their play-time to see the cat. He even thought Minho had a crush on you and vice versa but you knew that Minho liked one of his own closer friends.

“Jeoyeon?” Minho scoffed, crouching down next to you one time as you watched over the new litterbox of kittens eating with Dori on your feet. Crossing his arms over his knees, he shook his head and chuckled, “They’re cool and we’ve been friends for a long time but I’m sure they have a big fat crush on Bang Chan. Something happened after their McDonald’s date after our prom, I’m telling you!”

“No, not Jeoyeon! I meant Bora!” You argued back with a laugh, picking up a white kitten that wanders off to your feet and lifts its body up cutely for a lift. Gingerly pressing the kitten to your shoulder, you then turned to Minho and continued, “The one who came by the other day to see Dori with you. Aren’t you guys rooming together in college?”

Minho clutched his chest dramatically at this, shaking his head with a comical conviction. “What?! How could you accuse me of that, Y/N? Bora’s from a different cheerdance team! That would be like sleeping with the enemy!”

You rolled your eyes, knocking him off of his balance by elbowing his sides. “Ya, I didn’t say that, you did!” You scoffed at him, sighing when he laughs off landing on his butt before sitting up in a crisscross position. “Anyway, don’t you like her?”

“If I don’t like her, we wouldn’t be making all these plans to move in together for college, stupid.” Minho snickered, earning him another elbow jab from you. “Well, what do you want me to say? You asked me if I like her, you didn’t ask me how exactly I like her.”

"Okay then, you wise wise person: how do you like Bora?” You sighed dryly, plopping down on the ground at feeling your ankles starting to ache from crouching. The kitten on your arm then jumped down to your lap, circling your legs a few times before finding a comfortable position to sleep in. “You know, the more you visit here with this kind of sarcasm, the more I’m starting to understand where Seungmin and Jisung are suddenly getting all of their newfound sassiness from.”

Minho chuckled next to you, picking up Dori for himself once he saw him finish eating before hugging the kitten gently to his cheek. “Bora’s...someone I’d probably punch a guy in the team for if they ever disrespect her. I mean, I’d punch a guy for Dahyun, Jeoyeon, and Jihyo, too, of course, but Bora’s in the same sport where she’s always getting lifted in the air and touched by who knows who and now that we won’t be in the same team, I feel even more responsible for keeping an eye out for her.” He shrugged casually, ignoring the way your jaw just dropped at how naturally he explained himself. “Plus, it took a lot of convincing to get her to be my roommate so I can’t really have her dying under my care in the next four years.”

“I—” You furrowed your brows in thought, pursing your lips in a pout. “Wow, I’m jealous.”

“Then get on my good side, Y/N.” Minho winked with a laugh, holding Dori in front of you. “Let me take this baby home at the end of the summer.”

You rolled your eyes again at this, shaking your head. “No, I mean...I hang out with Jeongin, Hyunjin, Seungmin, and Jisung and they aren’t really the most well-versed boys on treating girls properly.”

“That’s why you hang out with me. We all know that Hyunjin just can’t say no to anyone who offers him a slightly more expensive bouquet of flowers, Seungmin’s in a relationship with baseball and academics, and Jisung...Jisung’s just dumb in general.” Minho then pointed out with a somehow knowing tone, smirking when a familiar figure passes by the hallways right behind you. “Speaking of...”

Jisung joined you and Minho after, making sure to sit in between the two of you and drowning himself in as many kittens who wanted to sit on his lap as much as he can. “Dude, you shouldn’t have left early!” He scolded Minho with a pout and a slightly breathless tone from running all the way from the park. “Seungmin joined us today and he completely wiped out Sunwoo’s team!”

“Then even more reasons to come here early so you guys could play with Seungmin on your team.” Minho laughed, gently handing Dori over to you from across Jisung before standing up and dusting the lint off of his jeans. “Y/N needed help with feeding the cats and puppies today, anyway.”

Jisung frowned, turning to you after and asking, “Don’t you have any other co-workers around here?”

“Jeno has allergies so I don’t let him in here on most days.” You shrugged, handing Minho the empty pet bowls nearest to you as he proceeded to clean and collect them. “I can do it myself, you know. It’s just that Minho comes over and insists.”

“Then you should’ve just told him that so we can play longer.”

“Why is it a big deal? Do you like Minho?”

“Do you?” Jisung’s eyes widened, almost getting scratched by a random cat in the process. “Because...because that’d be gross, to be honest...”

At this moment, your eyes accidentally met Minho’s right behind Jisung and the older boy had the audacity to wink at you before sprinting out of the room with a thumbs up above his head.

In the end, you shrugged and answered, “I like him.”

“What?!” Jisung sat up so quickly he almost scared a bunch of kittens walking all over his chest into jumping away.

“I’d be a psychopath if I don’t like him but let him volunteer around here, dumbass.” You deadpanned, moving the kittens around him to a safer space on the floor. “Besides, you asked me if I like him, not how I like him.”

“What the fuck does that even mean?”

Minho had a whole laugh out of eavesdropping from this conversation that he felt bad and actually adjusted his schedule for volunteering and playing soccer better so ‘Jisung would have one less thing to whine about all the time.’

Age seventeen. You and Jisung tried convincing your respective parents that going to prom as a group is the more practical and actually trendy thing to do but your mothers wouldn’t have it. Ultimately, the two of you ended up lying that you’re going as each other’s dates.

You initially planned on begging to Seungmin until he pulled up balloons, roses, and a song number to his lab partner right on the lunch break that you planned on doing it and, of course, you had enough dignity to not fall in line with the countless of students that basically worshipped Hyunjin’s locker as if it were a shrine.

Jisung, with Eunha already set on going with someone else she started dating at the beginning of the 11th grade school year, was the convenient choice. Your parents knew each other, he knows someone (his older brother) who can drive, and he’s recently gotten over his Emo-Hypebeast wardrobe phase after joining the school’s radio club with Chan and Changbin. With some convincing (read: an elaborate PowerPoint Presentation he made you do on the spot during one of your lunch breaks), the two of you decided that you would take all the photos your respective mothers wanted, carpool to the hotel, then go on your separate ways until his brother picks the two of you up at the end of the night.

It was a simple and fool-proof plan, one that you almost forgot when you rented an emerald green and gold prom attire then Jisung’s mother told you right after about hearing her son trying to order a purple callalily boutonniere that clearly did not match your taste nor your colors (you sorted this out by cancelling the order and taking matters into your own hands). Then, the most awkward photo op at your house happened.

“Sungie, put your arm around Y/N!”

“Y/N, stop slouching, you’re going to wrinkle your outfit!”

You were never serious-looking in any photos that had Jisung in it as well, preferring to pose like the two of you planned on murdering each other right after the photos instead, but your respective moms were holding your Instax camera and the family film cameras across the living room in this particular situation and so you reluctantly kept it inside. Straightening up your shoulders and elbowing Jisung to at least wrap an arm over your shoulder, you held up smiles right next to your red rose corsage and boutonniere set until the two women were eventually satisfied with their photos.

“Aah, you two really make a cute couple!”

“Mom, we’re not a couple!” Jisung whined, glaring at you after which you immediately returned with the same expression.

“God, I’d sell all my limbs first before we actually become a couple.” You deadpanned back at him.

Fortunately, Jisung’s older brother allowed the two of you to basically try and throw each other out of the car windows on the thirty-minute ride to the hotel venue in compensation. You almost had him by the neck and he almost ruined your hair that you spent hours curling until Hyunjin pulled you back with a smack to your head and dragged the two of you away to help in the Prom Committee’s final preparations since Jisung was going to perform with Changbin and you were a part of the Prom’s Logistics team.

You mostly stayed out of each other’s hairs for most of the first part of the program as you were busy pulling everything together while Jisung was having the time of his life with the soccer and basebal teams. The next time you bumped into each other, you scolded him for running late to his and Changbin’s set after dinner.

“Where were you?!” You mostly hit him in the back with your clipboard, frantically passing him his already set up electric guitar and a microphone. First, one of your peers got drunk too early in the dinner to help out in the program, then one of the event’s award sashes briefly went missing and, not to mention, a lot of the people from the other committees somehow forgot about their event tasks when you asked in the main groupchat. You really weren’t having anyone’s antics at this point. “Geez, we already practiced this!”

“Ow, ow, ow! Stop hitting me! Why are you so on edge?” Appropriately, he whined in complaint and took a step back after receiving his equipment, holding his hands up in defense as he always does. “Cut me some slack, Y/N! It’s prom!”

“You’re so late when your table is literally right next to the side of the stage!”

“I was dancing with everyone else! You wouldn’t know since you wouldn’t even take a break!”

“Because I’m busy!”

“No, you’re just being more irritable than usual!”

“Fuck you, Han Jisung.” You rolled your eyes with an exasperated sigh, coldly directing him to the stage. “You’re on, get on the stage.”

You knew he didn’t mean it cruelly, especially when his pupils started to shake and his shoulders instinctively slumped as he glanced back at you right before reluctantly stepping up the star-filled stage, but you were too tired of having to run around and making the event perfect for most of the night to process anything, much less his usual jabs at you. Being in such a tired headspace, you couldn’t enjoy his songs no matter how undeniably great they were, much less meet his eyes when you knew how he kept glancing at you throughout the entire set.

He even covered your favorite song on the spot (which surprised Changbin and had Hyunjin running around backstage to inform everyone of the sudden extension) but you already sat down on your shared table with Hyunjin, Seungmin, Eunha, and their dates before he could even begin singing the chorus.

“Hey, you good?” Minjung, Eunha’s date, asked you with an offering of an extra shawl to cover your exposed shoulders from the nearby air-conditioning unit. Eunha had previously left to go to the bathroom after stopping by your shared table. “Y/N, I told you if you needed extra help with the program, you could’ve just told us. We just planned on dancing tonight, anyway.”

“I’m good.” You grumbled in a half-lie, resting your chin on your propped up hand tiredly, mumbling a small ‘thank you’ for the shawl as you fought away your tiredness. “I think I’ll just sit the rest of Prom out. Hyunjin can run the program on his own.”

Minjung frowned, sitting down next to you and fixing the loose strands on the haphazard ponytail you managed to pull up in the middle of the program. “Are you sure? Eunha and I can stay with you until you’re feeling better. Besides, the program’s still long, you deserve to enjoy your hard work later at least.”

Stubbornly, you simply scrunched up your nose and shook your head. “I think I’ve had enough of prom for one night. You should go and dance more, though. I’m okay as long as you guys are having fun.”

But equally as headstrong as you are, Minjung got Eunha in on convincing you to agreeing to one dance with them as soon as she came back from the bathroom, reasoning out that, “We can stay in the back and just dance silly! It’s prom!”

The pair proved themselves to be unstoppable in their joint persuasiveness when they got you to stand up and actually join them at the next set, right as Jisung was about to approach you to apologize. The poor boy ended up waiting the entire night until the two of you were alone instead, shivering right next to each other at the lobby while waiting for his brother to pick you two up.

“Why did you even pick out something off-shoulder? I get that it’s trendy these days but you picked the venue knowing it’s cold and didn’t even connect a few dots there.” He hissed lowly, contemplating on teasing you further or keeping it quiet until he can muster up a ‘sorry’ to you. Shrugging off his jacket, he then gently draped it over your shoulder and added, “Don’t catch a cold or something...your mom’s going to kill me.”

“Shut up.” You hissed back, crossing your arms further in over your chest as you spotted his brother’s car approaching the lobby’s driveway. You didn’t remove his coat from your back, though, clutching it tightly instead while convincing yourself that he willingly gave it to you so there’s no reason for you to throw it back at him when you really needed it. “ You don’t even do nice things for me.”

The familiar words visibly caught him off-guard, almost foiling his plan of opening the door for you as he freezes in his steps but he regains composure in time and almost trips ahead to swat your hand away from the car’s door handle. “I’m sorry.” He mumbled in the awkward silence, gulping down his fears of your death glare as he briefly averted his gaze away from you. With this, he missed the way your gaze softened. “There’s candies in the pockets.”

And there was, coincidentally enough the same brand he tried stealing from you on your school field trip.

“These aren’t expired, right?” You chuckled, popping a chocolate in your mouth anyway.

That was enough for Jisung to relax his shoulders and laugh along. “No, promise.” He held a hand up as if he was swearing by his words, easing you into another fit of laughs. “I ran all the way to the convenience store down the block to get you those tonight! I felt really bad...I didn’t mean it.”

He could be sweet if he wanted, you’d give him that.

“I’m sorry too.” You whispered to him at the end of the night, right after scoffing at him for insisting to walk you all the way to your doorstep of course. “I was so stressed with managing everything that I took it out on you.”

Standing awkwardly with you right in front of your house’s front door, the sheepish boy rubbed the nape of his neck and shrugged. “Nah, I think I deserve it. I do annoy you a lot, don’t I?” He chuckled, eyes trained to the ground. “I didn’t even ask you to one dance.”

“Not like you actually had to, we’re no—”

“But you were still technically my date and I don’t want to be a bad prom date, even to you!” He insisted anyway, only then looking up at you. “I’ll make it up to you in the distant future, okay? Reserve me your next dance in the distant future, no matter where it is!”

Before you could even retort, he was already running back to his brother’s car.

Age eighteen and a half. Jisung began dating a girl named Haneul whom he met in one of his general classes and didn’t have one single clue about baseball or soccer. Naturally, his entire friend group was concerned.

Though you’re much civil friends now, you still didn’t really care. Or maybe you didn’t want to out of spite (or a really really weird and displaced feeling of jealousy?), you weren’t sure. You just thought that Jisung can do whatever he wants even when it’s something that’s generally not advisable when you’re a freshman in college, but it seemed as if it was all Jeongin talked to you about whenever the two of you met up to study for one of your shared classes so naturally you forced yourself to take in all of the gossip. What’s worse is that Hyunjin would come over often to loiter around the library and gawk at the cute student librarian, ultimately encouraging the younger boy to talk about it more.

“You’re being unfair to her.” You always reminded the two, sometimes Seungmin when he would sit quietly in the middle of the topic and say nothing to defend Haneul. In this particular time, Jeongin took you to watch the baseball team’s Wednesday scrimmage after hours of studying your nursing notes together at the nearby library. “Like, look, I don’t even do any sports myself but you guys hang out with me.”

“But you’re different, you’re not dating any one of us.” Hyunjin snickered, hugging his helmet to his chest as he sat a step below you on the bleaches. When a thought then crossed his mind, he dramatically gasped over his gloves and added, “Wait, does that mean you have a crush on someone? Is it me?”

You smacked him in the head with your hand, rolling your eyes after. “You know what I mean.”

Next to you, Jeongin mustered up a shrug as he tried getting an injured Kira to sit back down on her seat. Your stubborn best friend, after playing at an underground derby game on the weekend prior, kept on moving around because sitting down with her injuries made her uncomfortable. “But at least you make an effort for us even if it’s just small.” He reasoned out, huffing tiredly when Kira finally sits down and promises not to move for the next five minutes. You would’ve helped him but personally you thought he deserved to suffer alone after letting her go out despite her injuries today. “Haneul got dragged by Jisung to watch last week’s scrimmage and didn’t even last a set. She just left in the middle of the game—literally!”

“He made Jisung skip on my derby game to too!” Kira pouted, waving her bandaged hands frantically in the air. “I’m personally offended, Y/N!”

“And she doesn’t seem to like talking to us in general.” Hyunjin shrugged in conclusion. “Like, sports aside, she’s a bit rude and nonchalant when she talks to us in general especially when Sung isn’t around. It’s a bit sus to me.”

“To be fair, Kira, I wouldn’t be going too if you and Yeji aren’t so insistent on it. It’s so worrying seeing the two of you get hurt.” You pointed out before averting your attention to Jeongin once more. “And Jeongin, you know the only reason I can’t leave baseball and soccer games these days is because you and Seungmin are usually my ride home.” You scoffed. “If I could, I’d be hanging out with Felix more and only going to Kira’s games. Ya, why is he even allowed to skip games and I’m not, anyway?”

“Because he’s taking classes and training with the cheerdance squad until 8 PM and as far as I’m concerned, you’re free after 12 noon like me!” Jeongin simply grinned at you, earning himself a glare. “Also, I need you here with me as the medic team. You know I’ll panic alone!”

Fortunately, no one ever actually gets injured at any of the games regardless if they were formal or not. By the time the game has finished, you were reminding Kira to rest more at her dorms and sprinting out of the baseball field to the samgyeopsal place the team promised to treating dinner at. You completely missed the boys’ conversation on Haneul in the process but you did get free food.

You really didn’t get it. The one time you met Haneul by chance, when you and Felix bumped into the two at the mall near the supermarket, she seemed a bit distant but she could be polite when she wanted to. Of course, it rubbed you the wrong way but you and Felix thought that it was none of your business anyway, given that neither of you are dating her.

“When the guys walked me out of the baseball field last Wednesday, they did mention something about Jisung aiming for the soccer national team but who knows if they’re exaggerating again or something.” Kira confided in you later that week when the two of you met up over lunch. “Either way, I’d understand. If I were in Jisung’s shoes, I’d feel a little disheartened if someone I really like doesn’t appreciate the things I’m passionate about!”

Still, you simply let your friends sort it out for themselves. “Jisung’s a grown-up, he can figure things out on his own at the end of the day.” You reasoned out.

Age eighteen and three-fourths. Jisung asked—practically begged—you to go to the movies with him because he and Haneul broke up the week before his birthday after opening up his worries to her. The other ticket was meant to be a surprise for his ex-girlfriend.

From what Jeongin and Felix have gossiped to you on two separate occasions, Haneul apparently didn’t like you and the rest of Jisung’s immediate friend group no matter how many times the boys tried warming up to her and getting to know her over the summer. She didn’t really support Jisung’s passion for sports, too, and mostly just stuck around for the ‘clout of it all’ or however Felix worded it to you.

“I’d ask Hyunjin but he has a date with that librarian!” Jisung frowned over the phone on the night before the scheduled screening of Weathering with You. Reminiscent of a similar time long ago, he sounded more like he was convincing himself than you. “And Seungmin’s taking care of Kira, Minho and Felix are training, Changbin’s doing God knows what with his finals, Chan has swim training and—and yeah, you know where I’m going with this!”

You sighed, rolling over on your back in your bed after submitting your online work. “You can ask the baseball team, the soccer team, your Introduction to Musical Theory class, the campus radio club, and—and yeah, you also know where I’m going with this.”

“Yeah but—but it’d be weird if I just went with anyone or something!” He mumbled under his breath, pausing on the other line to scratch his head in thought. “Come on, it’s not your midterms week yet, right? Can’t you come over and go to the movies with me?”

“You’ll probably strangle me in the dark or something.” You argued next.

“But it’s free tickets! At least you’re going to die with free tickets!”

“So you are planning to kill me! I knew it!” You snorted dryly, rolling your eyes. “Seriously, don’t you have anyone else to go with? Why me?”

Jisung took in a sharp breath in the longest pause you’ve ever heard from the usually rowdy boy. At that moment, only then did you notice the faint sounds of pre-recorded dialogues for soccer arcade games. He must’ve been at the one near his dorm then as he usually was when he was contemplating on something. “I just—honestly, I’m still processing all of this and I don’t want to open up to the guys...and Eunha’s abroad and I’m not that close to Kira or Bora so I thought of you.”

Now, it was your turn to be speechless.

“It’s silly, I know.” Jisung continued with an awkward laugh when he didn’t hear anything on your end. “But even when you’re annoying sometimes and you always get angry at me because you always misunderstand, you’ve known me the longest and I know you listen well and you’re always open-minded about things so I thought I’d vent to you, if it’s okay...”

You finally released a defeated sigh, sitting up properly on your bed as if he was actually in the same room as you. “God, you’re too good at making me feel guilty.” You mused out loud. “Fine, just text me the place and time and no funny business!”

You met up with Jisung at the nearest shopping center the following night, surprise paper bags of take-out and a mini cake for two to eat at the cinema.

“I’m only going to be nice to you this time because you just got dumped and it’s your birthday later.” You explained as serious as you can to a giggling and blushing Jisung, handing him the take-out paper bags. Once the dinner meals are in his hands, you then take out the blueberry mini cheesecake from its separate paper bag and set up the candle you brought along with it. “Now, make a wish and get it over with.”

Jisung’s eyes widened at the pink candle suddenly being pushed up to his face, distracting him from the passersby cooing and making comments at the two of you. “Really?”

You nodded impatiently, thrusting the cake further up his face. “Yes! Now, blow on your candles or I’ll do it myself and eat the whole thing!”

Jisung wasted no time blowing the single candle and taking the cake from you as well, jumping up and down in place as he closed the lid carefully and returned it to its paper bag. “Thank you!” He exclaimed gleefully, pulling you to a side hug. “Now, I feel a bit better.”

“You better.” You frowned back at him, biting down a small smile when his hug lingered on a second longer. “Now, let’s go or we’ll be late to the screening.”

Fortunately, Jisung didn’t actually tried strangling you in the dark while the movie played since he became busy with eating his dinner and cake as well as crying over the plot.

Age nineteen. Jisung took you to the arcade inside the shopping center after to vent while scoring kicks at the mini soccer game.

“Basically, she said—” Score. “—that she felt annoyed that Hyunjin, Minho, Jeongin, and Seungmin were mostly onto her for ‘seeming off’ whenever they met or interacted.” Another score. Standing outside the protective fence, your gaze darted quickly between Jisung and the small net across the long room. “So I said that’s just how those guys are: they’re very curious of new people and make a lot of effort over it so when they feel that the other person’s energy seems off or doesn’t match theirs in any way, they’d worry.”

You nodded along whenever he glanced over to you, agreeing halfheartedly. “Hm, those guys don’t take bullshit, of course...”

“Yeah, right...” Jisung kicked another ball, barely missing the goal as he thinks of what to say next. “Then she started accusing the guys that they don’t like her because she doesn’t do sports which doesn’t even make sense because I know it’s not superficial like that.” He sighed, scoring again. After this particular kick, he then stopped altogether and turned to you. “The guys just feel off that, as someone I’m dating, she doesn’t make enough effort to watch my games or be familiar with the sports I love. It’s not the same thing.”

“But does she make an effort to listen to your music?” You blurted out of nowhere, surprising not only Jisung but also yourself.

It just occurred you to on the spot. All this talk about Jisung’s passion for sports had you thinking if Haneul also disliked the one other thing that Jisung was absolutely passionate about: his music.

And it seemed to have caught him off-guard as it took the boy longer to contemplate on the question. “I—n-no? No...” He furrowed his brows in thought, walking over to you on his side of the chain link fence. “Come to think of it, she never told me what she thought of the songs I used to send her for feedback...”

You nodded, mumbling under your breath, “So much for defending her from everyone last summer...”

“Hm?”

“Like, I’d get it if your friends don’t immediately warm up to her because that really does happen in some relationships and it can be remedied over time but not appreciating the things you, the person she’s dating, are passionate about is another thing. If she doesn’t like the things you’re passionate about, then maybe she really isn’t the one you should be with.” You shrugged nonchalantly. “She could be all things nice but if she doesn’t support your own ambitions, other things that make you really happy, then everything else doesn’t mean anything.”

When he doesn’t speak, you allow yourself to continue. “Kira told me that you’re aiming for the national team in either baseball or soccer which is a bit surprising since I know you’re already being sought after for your music even at university so clearly those things are very important to you. Having someone around that doesn’t see that importance enough to make efforts is a bit meaningless in the long run, if you think about it. You...you deserve better, it’s what I’m trying to get at.”

Still, he wouldn’t speak after everything you said. Instead, the boy just gaped at you from the fence. It definitely unnerved you as time dragged on longer.

“I let you vent and made my own input on it like you wanted me here to and you just gape?” You tsked through your nervousness, crossing your arms teasingly and leaning over the fence on your side. “Ji, say something.”

“...thank you.” He finally breathed out before you could complain further, catching you off-guard this time. “I needed that.”

“What?”

“This whole thing just made me feel really conflicting feelings.” He confessed, voice lower than usual now as he mirrored your position. “Thank you for listening and telling me what you thought. They definitely made a lot of things clearer.”

You smiled, shoving him slightly through the fence separating the two of you. “See? That wasn’t so hard, was it birthday boy?” You teased, laughing even more when he pouted at your teasing tone. “So? Feel better, then?”

“A bit, yeah.” He nodded, grinning widely now. “Thanks for tonight, Y/N.”

“You won’t admit it to my face but I know you’d do the same for me if I annoyed you into it enough.” You shrugged, standing up properly now and walking over to the entrance. “Now, would you let me play? You’ve been at it for twenty minutes, it’s getting tiring watching you.”

He laughed at this as you joined him in the arcade space, kicking a soccer ball towards you as soon as you came in through the chain entrance. “What? You think you can do better?”

“I had to watch you all the time after school back then because you were my ride home and Mrs. Han always picked us up late. I’m sure that could amount to something.”

Age nineteen and a half. For a mandatory community service class, all of your friends signed up to volunteer at an orphanage.

The majority vote was actually at the shelter you used to volunteer at but your old neighbourhood was too far from the university you were attending and so the most practical option, the orphanage just two blocks away, was the natural next best thing. And from this one semester’s worth of experience, you definitely learned a lot about your friends.

For one, Hyunjin, Felix, and Jeongin were only popular with kids but only for their looks (additionally, his baking skills for Felix). Whenever you passed by them during volunteer hours, you would often find the three buried underneath a pile of toddlers hitting them with all kinds of toys. Feeling bad, you actually got the orphanage’s matron to assign them to the older kids after a while.

Seungmin and Kira, on the other hand, were so awkward at first but naturally got into the groove of it. Maybe it’s because they only started dating then and everything was flustering but they surprised you the most with how much they got along with almost all of the kids regardless of age.

Then, there was Jisung whom almost all of the younger kids practically fought over to play with at the playground. As if it was an inside joke of some sort, it made you laugh the most how the kids would often ask him to push them at the swings.

“Careful now,” You reminded him once jokingly, elbowing his side as the two of you approached the swing set where the kids were already waiting to get pushed on their respective seats. “don’t want their knees to get scraped or something.”

He simply scoffed at you, shaking his head in disbelief. “I won’t let that happen, not at this age.”

“So if I asked you to push me on the swings later, you won’t try and kill me this time?” You asked next, waving hello to the children before going around the swing set to gently push them to momentum. Jisung followed suit, making a beeline to his favorite, a toddler named Ara who always asked to be pushed higher on the swings.

“That’s a trick question because we’re not actually allowed to play here.” He answered matter-of-factly, turning to Ara right after. “Isn’t that right, Ara? Y/N isn’t allowed to play here because she’s an adult, right?”

The two of you would sit on the swing set and take turns pushing each other when the orphanage staff weren’t looking anyway, giggling amongst yourselves while watching the kids migrate to the jungle gym.

“You were so annoying when we were kids!” You mostly complained, letting yourself laugh about it now as it was all in the distant past. “You had the ‘girls had cooties’ phase and everything.”

“Because the boys all said it was true!” Jisung was quick to say in his defense, twisting the chains on his swing around to make himself spin. “And I was seven so of course I’d believe them that easily!”

“What about when you pushed me from the swings?”

“We both know that was an accident.”

“You could’ve secretly held a grudge against me as early as that time! You were so mad when your mom made you buy me snacks!”

“Because you told your mom that I did it on purpose! I thought you hated me even before that too.”

“Well, I never hated you before that, just to set the record straight.” You shook your head immediately, turning your swings to the side to face him briefly. “You? Did you ever hate me?”

“Never.” He shook his head back at you in response, equally serious now. “You were annoying at times but that was because I was kinda annoying to you too.”

“What about now?” You asked next, voice unexpectedly wavering at asking such a question and even more when he chuckled at this.

“You were with me on my what was almost my worst birthday ever just three months ago. What do you think?” He scoffed playfully, returning to his spinning to ease his flustered face. “Besides, we’re like better less-trying to kill each other all the time friends now! We’re even studying together again these days.”

“We both know you’re only at the library since you’ve been trying to wingman Hyunjin with the librarian and dote on Jeongin like he’s your baby.”

“What? No, I’m there for you too! Moral support!”

Age nineteen and three-fourths. Jisung’s older brother invited you along with your parents to his wedding during the Spring break and Jisung immediately jumped on the chance to redeem himself as ‘the best dance partner you ever had.’

You didn’t even think he’d remember something he said himself back then. Personally, you thought it was just his guilt from pissing you off or sleepiness from dancing too much at prom that was talking then. But the moment the dance floor was opened at the rather extravagant cherry blossoms-themed wedding, the best man was by your side within seconds after sprinting from his table across the wedding hall.

“Y/N!” He called to you as he ran to your table shared with all of your friends, your parents, and a few people from your childhood neighbourhood; his obnoxiously loud voice against the jazz music and his hand raised up above his head to wave at you catching a few guests’ attention. “Y/N!”

Felix was about to ask you to dance after Seungmin and Kira as well as Hyunjin and Jeongin paired up, your hand already up in the air to accept his, but Jisung was quick to swat your hand away from the other boy as soon as he arrived. “Sorry, Lix, I’m afraid I’ll have to steal Y/N away!” He dramatically interrupted in between tired pants, flashing the confused Felix with a sheepish grin. “I owe Y/N a very important dance!”

“What dance?” You raised a brow, bringing your hand away from his and back to your lap.

“The one—t-the one I promised you that night a-at prom.” He sighed, finally catching his breath after. “I promised you then, remember?”

From the corner of your eye, Felix’s eyes lightened up in excitement as he clasped his hands together and cooed. “Aww!” He giggled, making you and Jisung turn to him after. “If that’s the case, then why should I stop you two? I’ll just see if Chan or Changbin aren’t dancing yet!”

“But Lix!”

The other boy’s quick to wave his hands to you snappily, shaking his head. “No buts, Y/N! You two go and do that cute promised dance thing you have going on! I’ll be fine!” He assured, much to your protests. “I knew something was going on!”

“Nothing’s going o—“

“Thanks, Lix! I owe you, dude.” Jisung pats Felix’s shoulder appreciatively, turning to you after and taking your hand once more to pull you up into a stand. “Now, come on! My brother said he has my songs on queue!”

He whisked you away before you could protest further, taking you to the dance floor just as the music slows down to his own song. “Right on time!” He even exclaimed happily before placing his other hand on your waist. You’ve heard this one before as the one he would always sing at the Open Mic Nights at university. “Now, to make it up to you...”

Jisung didn’t dance so bad. He was still playful, making it a game between the two of you on who can step on the other’s feet the most when the next songs became more upbeat, but he was serious when he wanted to, sheepishly apologizing that it took him long to make it up to you.

“I didn’t even remember it until you brought it up tonight.” You assured with a laugh as the song slowed down once more. Without even realizing it, you’ve danced all of the songs in the two-hour setlist with him. “I didn’t think it was important.”

“Well, it is to me.” He shrugged as nonchalantly as he can, visibly looking nervous towards the end. When you quietly asked him why, his only response was, “Because that night I really realized that even when I liked annoying you, I don’t like pissing you off so much to the point that you hate me.”

And at that moment you realized that Jisung has some way of catching you off-guard so randomly. “W-What? I mean—” You wanted to joke something along the lines of ‘wow, took you long enough,’ but the words ultimately never came out as Jisung chuckled at your baffled expression.

“I mean, trying to piss each other off, joking around, competing over studies—those are our things.” He confessed sincerely, unconsciously tightening his grip on your hand as the song progressed. “But I said something that night thinking of it as a joke and not really considering the thought that it would piss you off so much because you were so stressed already. I didn’t like pushing you on edge like that—”

“You already apologized and everything, it’s all g—”

“—But most importantly, I really wanted to dance with you then, regardless of the incident.” He breathed out before you could even finish your thought, rendering you speechless for the second time. “Maybe I’ve always liked you then, maybe even before that; either way, I really wanted to have one moment where we weren’t fighting or anything—and, surprisingly, even when we’ve started hanging out better, I still want one. I still like you.”

You immediately stopped dancing, bumping shoulders with a stranger behind you which Jisung instinctively responded to by pulling your frozen form to the side of the dance floor. You pursed your lips once to speak, only managing to fumble out, “Y-You...you liked me?”

“I said I like you. Present tense.” He cleared his throat awkwardly, hands dropping to his sides immediately at sensing how tense and awkward the atmosphere suddenly became. “And I like you the way Seungmin dotes on Kira and Minho’s always protective of Bora and Jeoyeon’s been helplessly pining over Chan, those kinds in case you’re going to pull that how exactly do I like you bullshit you learned from Minho before again.”

“I—r-really?” Was your only response as you tried your best to process this revelation. “You like me? W-Why—why me?”

He chuckled awkwardly, rubbing the nape of his neck. “Yes, Y/N, how many times do I have to repeat myself?” He teased as casually as he could muster with his growing nervousness. “And why you? I don’t know, either, but I think I can start remembering as far back as the time you teased me at the playground that I push like a sissy but didn’t look for another playmate anyway. I’ve always liked you...just a little bit more now that I’m much more sure of a lot of things.”

It was all so overwhelming, honestly, but you belatedly muster up a laugh as he recalled such a distant memory from you. “Y-You...God, Han Jisung, you’re insufferable!” You mumbled under your breath, hitting him by his arm with one hand while the other covered your mouth. “Why didn’t you say so?”

“So, does that mean you like me too?”

“I let you dance with me the entire night. What do you think?” You scoffed playfully, gaze softening as you looked up at his relieved smile and bright eyes. “You did push like a sissy at the playground when we were kids, though.”

Age twenty. When Minho bought his roommate flowers to their last cheerdance competition and asked her to be his girlfriend, Hyunjin dared you to one-up the upperclassman and wear Jisung’s jersey to his own final game of the year.

“Well, you did give him that talk over dating someone who appreciates the things he loves.” Eunha told you over video call with the rest of your friend group on the day Hyunjin brought up the idea. Before you could even protest and repeatedly assure that you do support everything Jisung does, she was quick to add, “Yeah, I know you do appreciate them but I just think it’s fitting now! He’s been making a lot of effort for you lately and didn’t you say you wanted to do something in return? Maybe you can finally ask him what you’ve been wanting to ask for a while now too...”

You hated how she was right and very convincing about it. Since the wedding earlier in the year, Jisung has been nothing short of nicer to you. From actually hanging out with you at the library now (and not just to wingman Hyunjin or dote on Jeongin), buying you food randomly, to letting you vent your own worries and unwind from school by playing soccer with you or playing you music with his guitar, he’s been ‘making it up to you’ with quality time and sweet gestures; the only catch is that he hasn’t officially asked you out like he would.

The two of you aren’t exactly the direct words type of people but it’s still nice to have some sort of affirmation.

With a few more coaxing on her part combined with Seungmin’s own persuasiveness nagging at you in real time, your friends eventually got Jeongin to steal one of Jisung’s spare soccer jerseys later that day to give to you for his game on the following Saturday.

To say that Jisung was flustered is an understatement to say the least. Quickly catching you at the very front of the bleachers before the game started, he waved at you and the rest of your cheering friend group shyly, approaching only when the coach gave him permission to.

“Hey, that’s mine.” He snickered with even more sheepishness at seeing you up close, holding the jersey he wears by its shoulders before gesturing to the identical one you wear. The two of you stand by the stairs leading down to the field, on the side where you aren’t in the way of passing players and staff. “The jersey—maybe the one wearing it too.”

You held up the bouquet of daisies in your hands close to your face, effectively hiding the heat rising up to your neck. “I bought your favorite flowers too.” You pointed out next before gesturing to your friends sitting around you. “Those smartasses dared me to outdo Minho’s stunt at the cheerdance competition which I still think is dumb since you were in on that one but, hey, it’s the thought that counts, isn’t it?”

“Just seeing you is already enough.” He added with a flirty wink, making you cringe teasingly. “The jersey’s a really big bonus, though. I think I can score everything on this one because of you.”

“You better or else this jerseys’ going to be mine now.”

“I don’t mind.” He shook his head immediately, pulling you closer by the waist in his now ritual good luck hug from you and placing the flowers back on your sides. “I don’t mind calling you mine too.”

The cheesy pick-up line makes the two of you laugh. Either way, you push yourself to not let go of him too soon. “...ew, Jisung!” You hit his back instead, heaving a sigh of relief anyway before finally pulling away from his hug to send him off. That’s enough confirmation now. “Now, go win this game and get it over with. We’re still on for movies later, right?”

“Yep.” He assured, patting your head affectionately before boldly leaning closer again for a kiss. “I’m looking forward to it!”

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problematicfavesareproblematic · 3 years

Text

I See You, I Know You- and I’m Not Going Anywhere

You're All I've Ever Wanted, All I Want to Know, part 2

Warnings: SMUT! THERE IS LOTS OF SMUT AHEAD!, oral (fem receiving), p in v sexy sex, shitty fiance of reader being shitty, slurs against the french (frog/froggy), angst, LOADS of feels, infidelity, gene mooning over reader to potentially OOC levels, tiny bit of innocence kink referenced, reader gets chatty when horny, untranslated french (bc it’s Gene’s POV so he wouldn’t think process and translate french in his head (let me know if you want me to add them)), unprotected sex (let’s just pretend there’s no risk, yes?), guilt, lots of potty words.

(My fancast for Peter Kelly is Pablo Schreiber but feel free to ignore it.)

Title(s) come from Duet by Penny and Sparrow and Only You by Matthew Perryman Jones

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

It had been a relatively calm day in Schoonderlogt. The day was sunny- cold, but sunny- and everyone was taking advantage of the well-deserved break from the frontlines.

Gene was drinking some of the best coffee he’d had in months while watching a handful of Airborne and Army soldiers play some vaguely ruled interpretation of basketball, his eyes darting every so often towards the table a few yards away where you and the other nurses were casually sterilizing the linens and strips of fabric.

You looked beautiful- your hair loose and your smile radiant as you laughed and joked with your friends. It wasn’t often that all of the company’s nurses were at the same place at the same time, so when the stars aligned and you got to see each other it never failed to bring you joy that would last for days afterward.

Your eyes caught his, and Gene couldn’t help but smile when you shot him a wink.

The merriment didn’t last much longer for you.

While Gene had been lighting a cigarette, he was dimly aware of another Jeep-load of Army men arriving at the mouth of the courtyard, not really concerned with the new arrivals.

Until you screamed.

When Gene and the other Easy men whipped their heads over towards the sound, he saw that someone- some man- had wrapped their arms around you from behind and lifted you off of your feet, a broad smile on the man’s face as he spun you around bodily.

“Froggy!”

Gene hadn’t realized he’d already gotten up and begun rushing for you until he saw Liebgott sprinting past him with balled fists and a fixed jaw. His blood was cold in his veins, heart thrumming anxiously as he catches sight of your pale face when the man sets you down, quickly turning in the man’s embrace and staring up at the grinning intruder.

Everyone comes to a halt when the man grips your bottom and pulls you into him for a deep kiss.

“Hey, Y/N!” Liebgott shouts, Gene watching with angry confusion as you quickly pull out of the kiss but don’t continue to shove the man away. “This guy bothering you?”

With your cheeks blazing, you offer a smile that doesn't reach your eyes, eyes still wide and flickering between Easy and this stranger.

“No,” you manage to say before the man wraps an arm around your shoulder and pulls you back into him.

“You gonna introduce me, Froggy-girl?”

Gene doesn’t like the way this man is bodily handling you, but what he really doesn’t like is how you seem to be letting him.

You clear your throat before shyly meeting Gene’s eyes.

“Guys, this is Peter Kelly,” you quickly look away from Gene and look to Joe Liebgott. “My fiance.”

You might as well have yanked Gene’s feet from under him.

Peter was everything Gene wasn’t: loud and boisterous and gregarious and extroverted, his jovial attitude initially winning over most of the guys.

That approval dissipates the more Peter drinks that night.

For Gene, he’d hated the man instantly. Not only because he was already half in love with you- although that was certainly a contributing factor.

No, Pete lost any respect from Gene the moment he saw the clear hickies hiding just beneath the collar of the man’s shirt.

One time, when the two of you had been rolling bandages for restocking the soldier’s med-kits, you’d insinuated that Peter had a wandering eye. You hadn’t elaborated, but there had certainly been a tone of sad acceptance in your voice as you’d said it.

Judging by the way your eyes kept lingering on Peter’s throat, Gene knew that you knew exactly what had caused those marks.

It made Gene furious, but for your sake, he kept his seething to a minimum.

You seemed to shrink in on yourself, as if Peter’s presence made you wither from the inside. The more he spoke about you, it was clear to anyone listening that he didn’t respect you. Several times, Peter had referred to your nursing as ‘endearing’, ignoring your reminder that you weren’t doing this as a hobby with a look of faux apology and an admonishment for ‘upsetting your delicate frog-feelings’.

When Guarno had finally taken the bait and asked what all the frog references were about, you’d frowned and excused yourself with a grimace- a glower staining your face when Peter’s arm shoots out to pull you into his lap.

“Well, just look at her face- Doesn’t she look like the poutiest widdle frog?”

He said this like a praise, Gene’s blood boiling as he watches you glare at a spot on the ground. With a bit of the fire you normally showed, you detangle yourself from his hold and announce that you’re going to refill your canteen- ignoring his childish whine and yelping when he smacks your ass as you leave.

“Also,” Peter says like a secret while hungrily watching you walk away. “Her mama’s second husband was one of those Frenchie types- so sometimes she acts a little spoiled- and all of us used to tell her to stop bein’ so froggy.”

When Peter shoots a wink Gene’s way, Gene gives him a glare before getting up and going the opposite direction you- not wanting to make your life any more difficult than Peter was clearly making it right now.

A little bit later, after Peter and some of the other Army guys invite Easy to join them at their basecamp, Gene overhears you and Peter arguing behind one of the stone buildings.

“I’m basically your husband, how am I supposed to explain to the guys that my girl doesn’t even want me to spend the night with her?”

“Because I know what ‘spending the night’ entails, and that is certainly not happening—”

Gene hears Peter groan, the beer he’d had earlier making him act more immature than before.

“I’m not getting tested. Why can’t you just trust me—?”

“Because you’re not trustworthy!” your voice is shrill, disgust lurking below the surface. “You clearly have been with someone recently, and I refuse to risk my job- my life- because you want to get off.”

Peter scoffs at that, and Gene creeps closer to hear better.

“You’re a nurse, Y/N. it’s not like you’re a medic—”

“Fuck you.”

Gene retreats quickly upon hearing your footsteps, only stopping when he hears a smacking sound. Before he can rush back, he hears you snarl.

“Don’t think you can ever put your hands on me like that ever again- on anyone. Next time, I won’t go easy on you with a slap. Now go away.”

With everyone else gone to the Army’s basecamp, Gene joins you in your temporary quarters, where you’re scribbling inventory reports with an angry grip on your pen.

It’s tense- and Gene wonders if you’d somehow known that he’d overheard your spat with Peter earlier. Your shoulders are up by your shoulders, leg bouncing beneath the table as you sit on the seat’s edge.

Gene knows you’re upset, but selfishly he’s upset too and knows he won’t be able to leave you to fester without at least trying to talk to you.

With obvious frustration, you all but throw your finished report towards the pile of completed paperwork by your feet, clearing your throat a few times as you stare at the wall in front of you.

Suddenly you sigh, your head tilting upward as your shoulders slump in defeat.

“Just go ahead and say it, Eugene.”

Gene frowns, staring at the back of your head. “Say what, Y/N—?”

“Whatever you’re trying so hard not to say, I can feel you ruminating all the way from over here.”

He pauses, feeling as if he may be walking into a trap that could make things infinitely worse.

Screw it.

“You deserve better.”

You scoff sadly, a bitter sound that makes his chest ache in empathy.

“You sure about that?”

“‘Course I am. You deserve someone who doesn’t talk to you like you’re nuthin’. Someone who is kind and good and wants to make you happy—”

“What makes you think that he isn’t all of those things?”

“He’s a pig, Y/N….he is nuthin’ but mean and cruel and you’ve gotta see that—”

“How do you know that I didn’t used to be like him- just like him?”

Now he’s getting angry too, all of his rage from earlier coming back in full force without his permission.

“Stop bein’ contrary jus’ for the sake of it! Jesus, Y/N, you clearly don’t love him, why’re you still married if—?”

You slam down the pen you’ve been tapping aggressively, whirling around to turn the full force of your scowl upon him.

“What makes you think I haven’t tried to end it?!”

Carelessly nudging the chair out of your path, you storm across the room to stand before him and jab your index finger into the center of his chest.

“I hate to break it to you, Eugene, but some women don’t get to change their minds! Some of us could beg until we’re blue in the face and we’ll still be forced to tie ourselves to men who we hate, just because our parents want to reap the benefits of such arrangements!”

Your lip has begun to quiver, eyes shining with unshed tears as you look up at him.

“Some of us don’t get to be happy, don’t get to marry the people we love!”

Guilt makes his stomach feel sour, especially when you bury your face in his shirtfront and bite back a whimper of heartbreak- your breath hot through the layers of clothing as you choke back more cries.

“Hey,” Gene whispers, the anger he’d been feeling sizzling out like a drenched flame. “‘M sorry, Y/N- please don’t cry….”

You allow him to encourage your face away from his chest, taking your face in his hands and brushing the hair out of your face.

You look so defeated, so goddamn hopeless that it almost makes him want to cry, too.

Unable to bear the sight of you upset for one more moment, Gene interrupts you mid-sob to catch your lips in a reassuring kiss.

It’s rougher than he intended, his desperation to quell your sorrow causing him to pull you into him a bit too quickly and causing your noses to press together uncomfortably for a moment. To his surprise, you don’t make any move to pull away- your hands coming up to grip at the front of his shirt with an anxiousness he hadn’t seen from you in years.

It reminds him of the first time he touched you.

Your lips are slightly trembling as you lean into him to deepen the kiss, and when Gene’s other hand comes up to cup your face he can feel the stick of drying tears on his palm. Seeing how your fiance had possessively gripped your face in his hand earlier had Gene’s blood boiling earlier- the lack of reverence the man had for you painfully clear in the way he spoke to you, the way he seemed to grope at you as if your flesh solely existed for his pleasure.

As if Gene didn't have enough reasons to hate Peter Kelly, the son of a bitch didn’t even appreciate the gift Gene knew you to be.

You were better than any of them, and he was sure that if he were to ask anyone else in Easy they would say the same. And, if the tension between Peter and the rest of the men were anything to go by, the general consensus was that the man didn’t deserve you. How he’d gotten you in the first place was a marvel that Gene couldn’t even begin to fathom.

Right now, all he knew was you, you, you.

Your hands fisted in his hair offered the most comforting sting of passion, and Gene would be lying if he said that having you so fervent for him didn’t drive him to the brink of insanity. Heightened emotion was something the both of you seemed to have lost throughout this god-awful war, something you’d both had to relinquish in order to survive.

Any time you showed these sparks of life, Gene felt a warmth in his chest that envied the most golden sunshine.

It reminded him that you were alive and he was alive and there was still a chance for something good to happen after all of this.

All of his thoughts return to you, feeling guilty for reflecting in a moment that demanded- no, deserved all of his attention and gratitude. He could admire you privately after you fell asleep, in his arms.

Right now, he needed to remind you that you were something worthy of worship.

You whimper against his mouth when he slides his hands up the planes of your back beneath your sweater, breaking away from your lips momentarily to pull the sweater over your head and toss it to the floor.

“I need you,” you’re whispering, your hands coming to tear at the buttons of his jacket as if it is personally offending you. “I’m so sorry, but I do….Please, Gene! I fucking need you—!”

Gene is quick to shush you, quickly helping you finish divesting him of his jacket so he can swallow your apologies in another toe-curling kiss. Growing up, he’d been taught that marriage was a life-long commitment, that anyone who broke that promise was ungodly or impure.

Of course, he’d also naively believed that people only got married because they were deeply and wholly in love with one another. It wasn’t until he had met you in Toccoa that he’d realized that love sometimes had nothing to do with it, that those sort of things weren't necessarily as clean-cut as he’d been led to believe.

Taking your face in his hands again, he tilts your face up so he can kiss at the warm skin beneath your jaw, liking the way your moan vibrates in your throat as he walks you back to the table you’d been working at and presses your backside against it. The sound of your open-mouthed panting had him painfully hard already- it’s almost embarrassing how little you have to do to get him like this.

He hadn’t even realized one of your hands had been working at the fastening of his pants until you’ve begun to scratch your nails softly down the skin of his lower stomach, and when his hips jump in surprise he can feel your breath hitch in your throat with heady amusement. When you do it again, he can hear the smile in your exhale.

“Such a perfect cock,” you nearly coo, your touch light as your fingertips brush over the head of him. “Can’t believe how perfect you are….”

You get like this sometimes when you get turned on, Gene has come to learn.- all lust-drunk and babbly as your words switch from thoughtful to stream of consciousness. It’s endearing, so wildly endearing that Gene would go as far as to call this habit cute.

Cute was the only term you ever showed resistance to, even in jest. Your reaction to the word was so viscerally negative that it had even surprised him- the person who you had frequently insisted knew you the best.

After meeting your fiance and his degrading attempts at ‘praise’, Gene was now able to understand why.

Your hand was stroking him in earnest now, having used his precum to coat your hand so your movements were smooth and confident. Despite the fact that he’d managed to get your trousers undone and loose around your thighs, Gene hadn’t been able to actually do anything else other than clutch at your hips and gasp into your neck as you rhythmically ruined him.

Normally, this is as far as you two would get- one of you getting the other off with your hands (and sometimes mouths) before someone or something would interrupt the other’s attempt at reciprocation and you’d both have to dive back into your duties to the Company. It was deeply unsatisfying- particularly for Gene because he wasn’t afraid to admit that making you cum wasn’t one of his favorite things to do. Each and every time he didn’t get to return the favor made him feel terribly guilty- like he had somehow exploited your feelings for him.

It made him feel sick. It didn’t matter how many times you insisted that you didn't see it that way, he always was left feeling as if he’d been inexcusably selfish.

He hated it.

But tonight was different. For once, the two of you weren’t the only medics available for the dozens of men who seemed to have a near-constant stream of injuries and festering wounds. The Army was there with their fourteen medics and nurses and the majority of Easy company had gone to visit their camp in order to mooch some of their beer and US-funded entertainment.

No one would be interrupting his time with you tonight.

Not even your fiance, who was no doubt dishonoring his vows of fidelity right now.

It didn’t have to stop. He didn’t want it to stop.

“Wait, Minette,” Gene chokes out, reaching down to stop your sinfully-sweet touch before he lost himself in it. “Jus’ wait a second…..”

You make a sound of disappointment in your throat, and when he pulls back enough to look at you he can see a small pout on your lips- as if he’s deprived you of something. The sight makes him feel lightheaded, the implications almost enough to….

Focus, focus.

“You were so close,” your voice holds an undertone of frustration, your other hand attempting to sneak down and finish what the other had started. When he takes that wrist as well, your eyebrows furrow almost comically. “What are you doing, Eugene—?”

You cut yourself off when he suddenly drops to his knees, hands hooking in the waist of your pants and underwear as he does so and shucking them down to your ankles. Your eyes are wide now, cheeks flushed and eyebrows high in surprise.

Keeping his gaze on you, he leans forward enough to press a kiss to your freshly bared thigh. By the time he moves to give the other the same treatment, he can see that your eyes are becoming soft once more.

“I wanna take your boots off,” Gene says as evenly as he can, electricity crackling in his veins at the smell of you. “Can I do that, Y/N?”

At your hurried nod, Gene kisses a ‘good girl’ to your skin quickly before bowing his head to unlace your boots with shaking fingers. He’s thankful for the time it takes him to do so- it gives him the opportunity to get his thoughts together and regain some semblance of control over himself.

Maybe one day he could be impulsive when it came to you, when neither of you had the threat of death hanging over your heads like a heavy cloud.

But now, with each moment commonly understood as having the potential to be your last, Gene couldn’t afford to leave you as anything other than satisfied…..worshipped.

By the time he has your boots removed and one of your legs freed from your trousers, he wants nothing more than to make you come apart beneath him. Because of him.

Looking back up at you, he can see that you’ve unbuttoned your shirt and thrown it open so he can see your nipples harden beneath your once white t-shirt- the weather was far too cold to consider undressing to complete nudity. Your mouth is pink and swollen, shiny from your tongue having recently darted out to wet them.

For a moment, Gene is stuck- too awed by your beauty to risk moving and missing a moment of it. Your heated whisper of his name is the only thing that shakes him free, and he can’t help but lean into your touch when you card a hand through his hair again.

Bringing his rifle-roughened hands to your knees, he purposefully slides them up your thighs until he can rub his thumbs over your hip bones. When he presses on them lightly, you follow his touch and perch yourself on the edge of the table with a quiet curse. The action parts your lower lips slightly, a movement he is quick to chase with his mouth.

He wastes no time shouldering his way between your thighs, using his hands to guide them over his shoulders as he starts to lick gently at the seam of your sex.

“Fuck,” you whimper, your other hand coming down to scratch lightly at his scalp. “Fuck, Eugene….you don’t have to—ohh!”

Your unnecessary reassurance is lost in a sigh of arousal the moment his thumbs open you up more for him so he can circle the tip of his tongue around your clit before laving it more purposefully. You always tried to reassure him that using his mouth on you wasn’t necessary, clearly not accustomed to having a partner who enjoyed doing so.

Not that Gene was an expert, not by any means.

But, between having mapped out your sex with his fingers and the limited experience he’d had before the war paired with his- er, considerable knowledge of the human anatomy- he knew enough to take out most of the guesswork.

He hasn’t had many opportunities to go down on you- three on the boat ride to England, five times during your time in Alderbourne, twice since dropping into Normandy. You’d dropped to your knees for him far more than that, and now that he had more perspective on what your relationship with Peter had probably entailed Gene was determined to make up for each and every indulgence you’d offered him.

The tremor of your thighs tells him that you’re getting close, and he can tell by the way the muscles of your stomach clench beneath his greedy palm that you’re starting to have a hard time keeping yourself up as you watched him devour you. He hadn’t realized how vigorously he’d been attending to you, too lost in your taste and smell to hear the interspersing chant of his name being showered upon him as praise spilled from your lips once more.

With a groan, brings you to orgasm, refusing to cease his suckling despite the blooming ache in his jaw. It isn’t until your foot raises to press at his shoulder that he allows you to push him away, and he can tell that he’s exhausted you by the way you fall back and writhe while your release works itself through your bloodstream.

“Oh my God, Gene,” you keep repeating, chest jumping with adrenaline. “Why are you….how are you so good?”

He chuckles at that, his cheeks darkening at the praise. Gene watches as your eyes skate down his body to look at his cock, swallowing audibly before looking into his eyes once more. Before he can assure you that he understands if you don’t want to keep going, you carefully sit up and look up at him bashfully, biting the inside of your lower lip and bringing your hand to his cheek.

The look you’re giving him starts to make him nervous. He’s about to ask you what’s wrong when you clear your throat and tell him.

“I...I don’t know if I’m good at it.”

Gene frowns, searching your face for clarification as to what you’re trying to say.

“What’re you mean, ma cherie? What’s got you so worried?”

Your shoulders nearly slump as you sigh, giving him a weak smile as you clear your throat once more.

“At sex, Gene. I’m worried—I don’t know how to make it good for you...”

With a shake of his head, he brings his crooked index finger under your chin to stop you from hanging your head in embarrassment. You look so lost right now it breaks his heart.

“Minette, you are the best thing to ever happen to me.”

When you open your mouth to rebuke his statement he’s quick to kiss you, using his free hand to bring yours from his cheek to press against the middle of his chest. It takes you a moment, but you do kiss him back, inhaling sharply as he nips carefully at your bottom lip.

Pulling back, Gene traces his thumb over your lips and gives you a soft smile.

“Never worry about me, ‘cause there isn’t a damn thing you could do that wouldn’t make it ‘good for me’.”

You narrow your eyes at that. “I doubt that’s true—”

Gene snorts and shakes his head admonishingly. “Doubt all you want, darlin’. Don’t make any of what I said change one bit.”

You look at him for a bit, eyes softening again and your hand smoothing down his chest with a hum. He thinks you’re going to require further reassurance until he watches as you purposefully part your mouth enough for his thumb to slip between your lips. The sight of you watching him paired with the drag of your tongue along the pad of his finger goes straight to his cock, reminding him of just how hard he’s become.

When you release him with a gentle nip to his fingertip, Gene stares at you in disbelief.

“Jésus Christ, cherie,” he can’t help but murmur. “Vous ne jouez pas juste…”

You tilt your head slightly, clearly aware of what he’s said but seeming to understand the gist of it.

“Show me what you like,” you whisper, scooting your hips to the very edge of the table and brushing your lips against his. “I’ve wanted you for so long….”

Gene kisses you as he slips inside of you, your gasp of pleasure sweet on his tongue. Unprompted, you bring your legs up to find some purchase around his hips and squeak as you take all of him in at once.

Bon Dieu, tu te sens comme le paradis….

You are clutching at him, your hands dancing for the best place to grip him before settling on one arm hooking around his neck and your other hand bracing at his left bicep. It’s an awkward position- probably because neither of you had ever tried to fuck on a table before- so Gene tries to get past the near blinding pressure building in his loins and wraps one of his arms around your hips to slightly adjust the bend in your spine.

“Shit, I’m sorry—!” you being to apologize before he cuts you off.

“Non, non, non, non Minette….just let me try and—”

You both cry out as he suddenly ruts deep, your nails digging into his flesh through his shirts you gape up at him in surprise.

“Oh, oh!”

“‘S that okay?” he grits out, resisting every fiber in his body that is begging for him to piston his hips and just fuck you already. You nod quickly, rolling your hips experimentally and kissing him quickly when he keens before he can stop himself. Gene grits his teeth at the sweetness you’re showing him. You’re just so good. “I’ll stop if it’s—”

“More than okay….do that again- please don’t stop!”

There’s something so…. overwhelming about the way you’re looking at him, with your eyes wide and lips parted. The whimper that comes from the back of your throat at his next thrust combined with your bewildered expression makes you appear so beautifully innocent that Gene momentarily forgets how to breathe. Maybe innocent is the wrong word.

Honest. Yes, that was it.

It was your honesty that was overwhelming him, the lack of theater in your reactions to him and his touch so genuine and open that he almost didn’t know what to do with himself. Having you- the most glorious creature he’d ever met, would ever meet- gaze at him as if he’s hung the stars in the sky was just so bewitching and unexpected, particularly because of how highly he regarded you.

Your eyes have a glossy look to them, almost as if you were drunk. Rather than the babble he’d anticipated hearing from you, you’ve gone almost silent aside from the sighs and gasps of pleasure that accompany each piston of his hips into your tight velvet heat. Head lolled back, you watch him from under heavy lids while meeting his thrusts with careful pitches of your own, your eyelashes fluttering in response to his punched-out breath washing over your face.

If he didn’t know any better, Gene would say that you had undersold your experience on purpose. You had to know what you were doing to him.

How devastatingly close you were to unmanning him.

“Is it good, Ma Chatounette?” he can hear himself ask, his head already swimming with the initial signs of orgasm. “Am I making you feel good?”

You nod shallowly, mouth opening to reply but no sound coming out. The hand you’ve braced on his arm now has started to claw, and he can feel you tighten around him.

You’re close, too.

“Please,” you nearly weep, your hips starting to rut against him. “Please please please please—!”

“D'accord,”’ he nods, taking your words as permission to allow his body to chase that fire that’s been burning him alive for quite some time now. “Je te donnerai ce dont tu as besoin, chérie. Je vais le rendre meilleur….”

Gene moans as you allow him to put a hand on your shoulder and press you back so you’re laying back on the table, your back arching sinfully as you mewl for him. Your legs tighten around his waist, and he feels his jaw go slack at the sight of your rolling hips coming to meet him thrust for thrust. You’ve begun to chant his name again, the sheen of sweat on your skin making you look like some carnal divinity sent to him for the sole purpose of ruining him.

And who was he to deny an angel?

Your arms wrap around him as he hunches over to brace his elbows by your shoulders, pressing your hot cheek against his - nibbling at his earlobe as his rhythm becomes punishing.

“Ma ruine, mon ange, je ne veux jamais être sans toi—”

“Come for me- please, please, I’ve never felt so good—”

It’s the catch of his pelvis against your clit that snaps both of you into oblivion, Gene’s vision going white as he clutches at whatever parts of you he can get his hands on, choking on his own breath as the bite of your fingernails adds the perfect amount of pain to his release. He’s aware of you crying out in release, but it’s swirled into the sound of blood racing in his ears as your tightening walls milk him for all he’s worth.

As his vision returns to him, he laboriously removes his head from the curve of your shoulder to look at you, his heart freezing midbeat when he sees tears streaming down your cheeks.

“Y/N?”

You’re shaking your head, hands finding his cheeks to bring his mouth to yours so you can kiss him syrupy-slow, the action throwing him for a loop.

“I’m happy,” you insist between kisses. “It was so good…. I-I don’t know why I’m crying, I’m sorry—”

Gene calms instantly, kissing you back and sighing into your mouth.

He understood what you were trying to say, knew exactly what you were experiencing. It made him stupidly happy that he wasn’t the only one overwhelmed by this….connection you two had.

He’d never had a lover who had reciprocated his feelings so fully. Then again, he’d never felt this with anyone else before, either.

“Don’t be sorry, Minette….I feel it, too.”

It takes the two of you a while, but you do eventually manage to move to the small mattress in the corner of the room, tangling yourselves together beneath the moderate warmth of the blankets and coats you’d scavenged earlier while avoiding Peter.

You must’ve thought he was asleep, because he has a feeling you wouldn’t have dared to say the words aloud.

“I love you,” you whispered against his shoulder in the darkness. “However terrible that makes me, I’m in love with you Eugene Roe.”

Gene is thankful for the pitch-black surrounding you. That way, he can allow himself to smile without fear of you seeing it.

Je suis amoureux de toi depuis des années, (Y/N). J'ai hâte de te le dire un jour.

But for now, this was enough.

~ ~ ~

(*hides under covers for the rest of the day* OK THANK YOU FOR YOUR TIME THIS HAS BEEN MY FIC DO WITH IT WHAT YOU WILL)

Taglist: @mrseasycompany @itswormtrain @mrsalwayswrite @happyveday @sunsetmando @ricksmorty @liebgotttme

#band of brothers imagines #band of brothers x reader #eugene roe x reader #eugene roe imagines #problematicfavesareproblematic

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babygirlkiki1016 · 3 years

Text

Masterlist

Chapter 1: The company

Chapter 2: The Journey Begins

I pulled the rope, fastening my bag to one of the ponies. I didn't speak to anyone the next morning, besides no one was going to try to talk to me anyway. The company would only speak to their kin, and as I passed by heading to the front of the line I was given dirty looks. Except for Kili, he smiled and waved but his brother shoved his arm down, scolding him for even looking my way. I sighed and walked past some more dwarves, and each scowl gave me a funny feeling in my heart. I couldn't understand what it was, but it hurt deeply, like knives to my soul.

"Y/n." Gandalf greeted me with a smile, letting me pass by. "Once we're out of the shire, you will scout ahead and report anything back to us." He leaned down slightly, so I could only hear. "We're also making a bet on if Bilbo is coming, wish to participate?" I looked towards the rest, they all seemed to be having fun. The talk of the Hobbit showing up again brought them entertainment.

"No, we're heading into a dark path Gandalf. If I were to partake in their silly affairs I'd only ruin the fun." He groaned, standing up straight to get on his horse.

"You know, it won't hurt to have a little bit of fun. You'll be riding with Thorin, for now, being in the front will give you the advantage to take in your surroundings." He was right, in the front of the line I would be able to listen to the woods, there was something dark out there. Something will be following us, I don't know what, but whatever it is it's not good.

"Are you sure he's alright with the idea of me riding with him?" He grimaced at the question, I should have figured Thorin wasn't going to accept it.

"He's not happy, just don't antagonize him and you'll be alright." My very presence puts him on edge, speaking of the devil he came up behind me with those blue orbs piercing into mine. He didn't say a word to me, he just climbed onto his pony looking ahead. Hesitantly I go to climb on but his hand stretched out, he was waiting for me to take it.

"Hurry up we don't have all day." He growled, quickly I pulled myself on and sat in front of him. I gasped at his warmth, it felt nice with his chest against my back. "Lead." His gruff voice made me shiver, I kicked the pony lightly and she went off. We made our way down the path, passing multiple Hobbits that were nearby. One was a child, a small girl about half the size of me. She waved with a wide grin, I couldn't help but wave back eagerly. It's been a while since I've seen children, my kind barely has any men around. The cold blast killed most of our soldiers who were men, so not a lot of children are born these days. Let's just hope those reports will save my people, and we can have a fresh start with alliances. "So, does all of your kind have wings like yours?" His question surprised me, he wanted to know more about my kin? Why? Was he planning for war?

"Why do you want to know? Are you planning to kill us all already?"

"I am just curious about your race, I haven't heard much about it. From the tales my grandfather and father told me, most don't have wings unless they're born with it."

"Hm." I knew all about their race, and the fact that he wanted to know more about mine intrigued me. "Some have wings, it depends on if you have a certain gene in your blood."

"How big is your homeland?"

"It was huge, bigger than the city of Erebor. Yet where we live now, is small considering your kind took our home." I snarled, he took a deep breath, probably to calm himself. His hands then gripped my cloak, and he pulled me against his chest roughly.

"I suggest you don't annoy me, for I won't be responsible for what happens to you on this trip." He was threatening me, I bet if we were attacked he'd leave me for dead.

"And I suggest you let go of me, I won't kill you but I think you'll be fine with a few fingers missing." I turned my head to face him, he was extremely close, our noses almost touching. Reluctantly he leaned back slightly, releasing me from his hold.

"I can't wait to reclaim my homeland, then I'll have you out of my sight. I won't have to deal with your kind anymore, your murderers. I don't know what Gandalf was thinking."

"He was thinking, that your weak, too weak to take down a dragon. If you want me to help you, I recommend you be friendly for I can easily leave you behind. I'll find a way into that mountain myself, so watch your words Thorin Oakenshield." He went to protest but was interrupted by shouting, it was Bilbo running from the entrance of the shire. We were in the middle of the woods now, I pull on the reigns to stop from going any further. Bilbo ran towards us, waving the contract in his hand, panting heavily.

"I signed it." He exclaims, panting heavily as he handed the contract to Balin. Balin pulls out a monocle to check the paper. It looked like Bilbo had brought everything from home with him.

"Everything appears to be in order. Welcome, Master Baggins, to the company of Thorin Oakenshield." Balin smiles, and surprisingly it didn't disappear when his eyes met mine. The warm smile made me happy, didn't he hear the rumors people had spread about my kind? Why was he so nice to me?

"Give him a pony," Thorin ordered, nudging me to keep going which I obey.

"No, no, no, no. That-That won’t be necessary. Thank you. I’m sure I can keep up on foot. Yeah, I’ve done my fair share of walking holidays, you know? Even got as far as Frog Morton once." Bilbo refuses, but they didn't listen to his cries. Suddenly two of the dwarves grab hold of his arms, pick him up, and placed him directly on Minty. As we all rode along in the woods, I could hear the dwarves talking to each other.

"Come on, Nori! Pay up!" Oin demanded, the sound of coins clinking together reached my ears.

"The rest of the dwarves took gambles on if Mr. Baggins would show," Thorin explained, however, I already knew this due to Gandalf.

"What about you Thorin? Did you participate?" I said looking at him, he shook his head laughing slightly.

"I don't participate in silly affairs, though if I did I would've guessed he wouldn't have come." I can see how that's true, sometimes people just don't want to leave home. They'd rather stay in their safe comfy beds, and I was one of them. "You seem deep in thought." My cheeks turned red as I realized I had been staring at him the entire time.

"I'm alright." Clearing my throat awkwardly only to hear Bilbo shouting about something else.

"Uh-wait, wait. Stop! Stop! We have to turn around." Thorin groaned and I slowed the pony down, waiting to hear Bilbo's excuse.

"What on earth is the matter?" Gandalf wondered, he was riding a larger horse than the rest of us.

"I forgot my handkerchief." We can't just stop and go back because of some handkerchief, it would only be a waste of time.

"Here! Use this." Bofur rips off a bit of cloth from his robe and throws it to Bilbo, who looks at it with disgust.

"Move on!" Thorin announces, and I continue down the path of our journey. Later that night, we stopped by the entrance of a small cave. I slept close to the edge of the entrance, my wings keeping me warm and hidden from the others. That's when I heard shuffling behind me, it was Thorin setting down his sleeping bag.

"Did you miss me already?" I joked, making him roll his eyes annoyed.

"One of us has to watch you, you might try and kill us in our sleep." I just turned back around, curling back up into a small ball. It was colder outside than I expected, I should've brought warmer clothes. I shivered as a gust of wind blew our way, it took a while for me to fall asleep. The cold wasn't helping me at all, but I finally managed to sleep into unconsciousness. That is until I woke up to howls, not just any normal howls, wargs. I sat up, searching the area, getting ready to strike if I had to. The orcs were far off into the distance but I saw them, I could feel the evilness radiating off of them.

"You think that’s funny? You think a night raid by orcs is a joke?" Thorin yelled making me turn to him, he stood up abruptly, his fur coat missing. That's when I realized it was on me, he had laid his coat on me to keep me warm but why? What was his reason for being kind to me?

"We didn’t mean anything by it," Kili stated, looking down at the ground in shame.

"No, you didn’t. You know nothing of the world." Thorin angrily walks off, I had an urge to go try and cheer him up. He did give me his coat, after all, I could at least do something nice. Slowly I made my way over to him, he hadn't sensed my presence yet.

"Thorin?" I called letting out a small yawn. He didn't face me, instead, he kept his gaze pit on the horizon.

"Go away." He ordered but I refused to listen, my feet made their way next to him. He scowled at me, but said nothing else, he only just crossed his arms. His hand caught my attention, it was bigger than most, his fingers were twice the size of mine. Without thinking I tugged on it, making his eyes avert to me. I placed my hand against him, comparing the sizes. "Y/n?" He mutters, wondering what I was up to.

"Your hands, they're so much bigger than mine. For such tiny men, you certainly have large fingers, it's fascinating." I looked up at him, his eyes widened at my comment. "You know as a child I used to wonder what the tiny men of our world looked like, I tried to learn everything about dwarves that I could. My kingdom's library had multiple books about your culture, I have to admit it was interesting to learn about your courting styles."

"You know of our courting ritual?"

"Of course, I know everything about each race. I was a very strange child at that age, yet one question remained unanswered. Why do dwarves keep their hair long?" He smiled at my curiosity, those deep blue ocean eyes stared at me in adoration. Though those furious eyes returned, and he angrily pulled his hand away.

"You shouldn't be asking questions about courting, it's not as if anyone would marry your kind anyway." He lifted his hand, glaring at it in disgust. "Now I have to wash away the filth you have spread upon me." My heart broke a little as if a piece had shred from the flesh. As he stormed off I wondered what ran through his mind, he was the sweet innocent man a few seconds ago. What made him irritated with me? Thorin went back to the place we had been sleeping, and he grabbed his cloak moving to the other side of the camp. Each dwarf turned their head my way, and only three of them grinned at me.

"I'll keep watch," I spoke as I returned to my make-shift bed. It would be better if I stayed away from the others, at least that's not what Kili thought. Cause a few seconds later he plopped down right next to me. "What are you doing? Won't the others scold you for sitting next to me?"

"Who cares, they can argue all they want. No one should be alone, I'll keep watch with you." My heart swelled at his kindness, why was he being so nice to me? Did he believe me than those foolish rumors the others had heard? He frowned slightly, he was serious now. "Are you ok Y/n?"

"Of course, why wouldn't I be? I've dealt with stubborn dwarves before believe me. Their rudeness hardly bothers me anymore." I lied, staring down at my hands. How could this world think such cruel thoughts about my kind, why did Thror have to lie about us? Kili placed his hand on mine to try and calm me, and lightly he caressed it with his thumb.

"You know not all of us hate you, me, Balin, and my brother Fili we know the truth. I told my brother what you told me, and he sort of believes it. You don't seem like the angry ravaging digonisks we've heard about, and besides the reports in those mountains is evidence that your kin is innocent. Speaking of Balin however, he wanted me to tell you that when you get a chance he wishes to speak with you." I glanced over the white-haired dwarf who gave me a small smile. I wonder what he wants to talk to me about? Maybe his politeness was just a ruse to kill me in secret, what if Kili is doing the same? Ever since I've joined the company I haven't thought of the consequences, I treat them as if they're normal men. I have to be more careful if I am to get to the mountain. "You know you should probably get some sleep, we'll need those wings again."

"No, they're orcs not far, they're watching us. I need to be awake just in case they decide to come our way. I appreciate the gesture, sleep Kili, you and your kin are the most important people here after all." He opened his mouth to protest, but kept quiet and snuggled up in his bed. I kept my eyes on the frontier, watching as the orcs scattered away but I knew they would be back, they always come back.

~♪♠♪~

The harsh wind blasted against me, the building fell apart from the ice that covered the bricks. Shouts were heard from all over, but the only I could focus on was my mother's. My legs hurt bad, but her condition was worse, there was an ice shard in her side. It no longer looked like liquid water, instead, it was nothing but a melting ice block of blood.

"Mommy!" I reached out for her, my hand reaching out to try and save her from the man that stood close. His sword was raised ready to strike, and that's when I saw his face. Thorin Oakenshield, the leader of our company.

"Die filth!" His sword came crashing down hard, and as it decapitated her head I shot up. My chest beating fast, it was just a dream, just a dream. Most dwarves were asleep, the only one awake was Kili who was taking over my shift. I had fallen asleep, how could have been so stupid? He could've hurt me, or worse slaughtered me like the rest of my family. My body trembled as he came close to me, worry showing in his brown eyes.

"Kili stay back!" I warned, he raised his hands as a symbol of peace.

"I won't hurt you, I promise...are you alright?" I was shaking violently, and it wasn't because of the wind that blew our way. "Are you cold? Here." He sheds his cloak going to hand it to me but I shake my head.

"N-Nightmare." That was all I managed to get out, he dropped the piece of clothing on the floor and slowly made his way over showing that he had no weapons. When he was close enough he wrapped his arms around me, making me gasp. I didn't hug back, for I was waiting for any sign that this wasn't a nice gesture. It didn't come, he just pulled me closer, and I have to admit the hug was very helpful. I listened to his breathing, and eventually, it helped my heart stop beating at a rapid speed. He smelled of sweat and pine wood, surprisingly it was a soothing smell.

"Want to talk about it?" He whispered, pulling back to look at me as his thumb rubbed softly against my skin as a way to calm me down.

"No, it was just a silly dream. It's not as if you would care anyhow."

"I do care, and just in case another agonizing fantasy comes across your mind I'll sit right here. So if you do have another nightmare I'll be here to help." He gently pulled me into his side, which I hesitantly accepted, and soon I went senseless, succumbing to the darkness.

For the next few days when I wasn't flying above them to keep watch, I rode with Thorin. The more we rode together, the more he didn't mind it. Soon it was like second nature to him, and every morning when it was time to leave he would hold out his hand to help me on the pony. Although he was extra grumpy today as we continued our journey in the woods while riding in the torrential rain.

"Here, Mr. Gandalf? Can’t you do something about this deluge?" Dori begged, but to no avail, nothing could be done. Well at least for them, considering I was a dragon slayer and immune to fire. One of my abilities was magic, and that magic included creating ablaze. I felt Thorin shiver from behind me, and I felt bad. I never did thank him for letting me use his cloak the other night.

"Thorin take the reigns," I ordered, turning around on the horse, immediately he grabbed the reigns as I let go.

"What on earth do you think your doing woman?" He growled, his eyes piercing into my own. Resting a hand upon his chest, he blushed slightly at the contact I used just a little bit of my charms to summon some heat. "What curse are you putting on me? Get your filthy hands off of me!"

"It's not a curse, it's a spell to keep you warm you ass. Now hold still or I just might burn you." He growled and lifted his head to try and see in front of him, I wasn't that tall. After a few seconds of straining his neck to see, he eventually rested his chin on the top of my head lightly. "I'm not your headrest you know."

"Well, I can't see around your thick skull."

"It's not that big! I'm shorter than you!"

"Shorter, but your head is certainly wider. Are you sure you have a brain in there?" I burned him slightly, making him wince.

"Keep talking 'Oh great one' and see where it gets you. Your lucky I'm even giving you warmth, I could just keep it all to myself." I returned the heat to normal and leaned my head on his chest. His breathing went rigid for a second, then slowed down but his heartbeat sped up.

"...What other powers do you have?" He asked, moving closer to my hand to get warmer. I slipped it down to his side, making him jump. "Watch it."

"Other than fire, I have a vast amount of strength. I could rip a tree out of the ground, second I can fly at fast speeds while spreading my wings. Soldiers with wings are called our airborne army, they attack from above and can kill dragons a lot easier. Last but not least, only the royal line can take on the form of a dragon. At least we used to, The Power of The Black Dragon was lost long ago. It is passed down from generation to generation, but the Queen with the ability died along with it." My mother, just a year before my coronation to take on my birthright was gravely injured from the frozen blast caused by men. She passed away, I never got to tell her that I loved her. The last thing I ever said to her was 'I'm scared'. Though I will never forget her last words, 'don't take revenge.'

"How many more are there?"

"Once there were millions of us, and now because of people like you, there is only 1,000. I hope your happy, cause soon we'll be extinct."

"No, cause soon you'll get those reports. And you'll show the world the mistake we caused." He whispered, his comment made my heart swoon. Had he said what I thought he had confessed?

"Thank you." It was all I could say, I felt him smile as he wrapped his arms tightly around me. He was trying to keep me warm like I was doing to him, perhaps he's not like the monster from my dreams.

@fili-is-my-lover @kirenia15 @lunariasilver @depressedchilipepper

#bilbo x reader #fili and kili #fili x oc #gandalf #kili imagine #the company #the hobbit kili #the hobbit x reader #thorin x reader #bofur the dwarf #the hobbit x y/n

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lepus-arcticus · 4 years

Text

43.

He studies the artefact of her voice on his machine, cataloguing each inflection, mentally charting each subtle flux of her pitch. He replays her empty missive over and over, hunting for distress signals, visualizing the choreography of her lips and teeth and tongue as they conspire to lie to him. Her apartment is empty, her cell phone turned off.

He can’t help but conjure impressions of her in distress; the barrel of a gun shoved into her warm, yielding temple, her slim, vein-mapped wrists rubbed raw, bleeding into knotted jute. He pores over emails signed with her name, finding no trace of her mellow cadence.

He sweats and he paces, his skin feels too tight. It’s happening all over again. It’s Duane Barry howling at the peak of Skyland Mountain, the lung-scraping cold of Antarctica ice.

The Scully he knows is not prone to fantasy. She is not easily manipulated. She does not play games, even when fate seems bent on maneuvering her like a queen on a chessboard. The Scully he knows is scrappy and canny and proud, and that’s what makes it all the worse.

All she has to show for her foolishness is a clutch of vacant wood-paneled offices and a blank CD. Disgust and devastation and relief gnash fiercely at each other within his chest. He can barely stand to look at her.

“I took an oath,” she pleads, pacing the shadowy perimeter of his apartment, the fray of her opium-poppy hair tangling with lamplight. Her mouth is set in a femme fatale snarl, her voice is low and thick. Mulder leans against the door frame, avoiding her eyes, knowing that the righteous blaze he’ll encounter there will burn him all the way down.

“It was my responsibility as a physician,” she continues. “If there was even the slightest possibility—”

Her hand comes to her forehead, like she’s had a revelation. “You know what? Fuck you, Mulder. I don’t need to explain myself.”

She turns on her heel and stalks to the door, yanking it open, sloshing light into the room.

A full-body swell of possessive wrath propels Mulder forward, and he lunges for her, clamps a hand around her wrist. He wrenches her back to him and slams the door closed, backing her up against it, pinning her captured hand to the wood beside her head. His pulse drones in his ears. He still can’t meet her eyes, but the defiant set of her jaw makes him ache to claim her, makes him so angry that for a moment, he thinks he might break down and cry, the way little boys rage in the face of playground injustice.

He crowds himself into her space, determined to bully her into submission, ducking his head to feel her quickening breath mingle with his. The tendons of her wrist flex under his palm. Her small, impertinent breasts rise and fall against his chest. “Mul—”

“Shut up.”

Kissing her isn’t fair, he knows, so he does it harder and better than ever before, gripping her jaw with his free hand, invading her mouth with arrogant, calculating lust.

See why you need me, Scully? He transmits the thought to her, rutting his growing erection against her belly while he kisses her senseless, secure in the knowledge that she likes him like this, that it gets her hot when he’s cruel and hard and selfish.

At least he has this. At least he knows that even at their worst, their most discordant, her body will listen to his, absorbing everything he hurls at it.

Scully knows it too, and she rips herself out of his grip with a frustrated gasp. She manages two frantic paces before he catches her from behind, an arm locked across her ribs, the other hand fumbling with the button at her fly.

“You gonna do to me what you did after Ed?” She pants, clawing at his forearm.

He nips her ear in retaliation. “Depends. You gonna ask me to stop this time?”

She struggles against him, but he can tell it’s not her best effort. He manages the button, gets her zipper down—

“He drugged me,” she says.

The oxygen leaves the room.

“The smoking man. He drugged me, undressed me while I was unconscious. Took my bra off. My panties. Probably did it nice and slow.”

Mulder loosens his hold, releasing her slowly, choking on a flood of horror and bile.

Scully turns to face him, and he finally musters the courage to meet her eyes, finding something like victory in their dark, acidic blue. “He made me wear this… this tight, tiny black dress. He stared at my tits with his mouth watering. He stank, Mulder. I had to breathe through my mouth.”

“Scully. Scully, what are you telling me?”

She stares him down, a hook at the corner of her mouth. “I would have done anything, you know. If he’d asked it of me.” “But... he didn’t,” Mulder says carefully, searching her face for confirmation. “And you… you wouldn’t have.”

“I would have,” she hisses back at him. “One night for the cure to all human disease? One night? How would it be any worse, any different, than what he’s done to my body already? He gave me cancer! Or did you forget? He controls this goddamned chip in my neck! He--he made children from me, Mulder, he stole my ova and used them to breed sick, doomed babies, my babies, babies I’ll never hold, never know, never get to say goodbye to. Seriously, what do you think the chances are that Emily was the only one? How many more do you think are out there?”

“Scully, stop it.”

“Might as well make the most of it, right? I would have let him use me in any way he wanted if it meant that I could save just one person—”

“—But it was a lie, Scully, a lie like all of his other lies! You would have thrown away your—”

“—It’s just a body, for Christ’s sake,” she snarls, and as if to demonstrate, she starts to strip, tearing impatiently at herself. “It’s meat and bone and—and, and tendon, and nerve. That’s it. That’s all it is. Look at it,” she says, throwing her shirt to the floor, tossing her arms up. “It’s nothing!” Her belly is muscular, pale, bullet-scarred. Her hip bones rise from her waistband like a challenge.

It’s not nothing. It’s his altar. It’s his mania, his confessional, his asylum.

His.

“He did this to get to me.” He knows it’s the wrong thing to say before it leaves his mouth, knows it sounds pathetic, knows he’s really pissed her off, even before the colour rises in her cheeks and her lips spring open to reveal her sharp little teeth.

“I’m not an extension of you, Mulder. You don’t own me.”

All the worst parts of him conspire to decide that it’s a challenge.

He crosses the fissure of energy and space that separates them, once again laying claim to her furious lips, swallowing her cry of objection. The neglected dining room table is only a few feet behind her, and he backs her up until there’s a clatter of resistance. He reaches blindly, shoving mail, newspapers, a stack of files to the floor, where they scatter like dead leaves in an autumn storm.

He knows she can’t hold out forever, and he’s right—and when he feels her soften and submit, when she goes slack and puts her arms around him and moans into his mouth, a dark whim like a restless spirit possesses him, body and soul.

He breaks his kiss and jerks her around, halving her over the table. Unclips her bra, pulls it from beneath her to fling across the room, scrapes his nails down her back. If the splintery, weathered thrift store wood is chafing her cheek, abrading her sensitive nipples, all the better.

One hand between her shoulder blades keeps her pinned, and he uses the other to rip her trousers and panties over her firm, sweet ass. He’s so hard now that he can feel every ridge and vein of his cock straining against his jeans, pulsing angrily, demanding attention. He wants to punish her, wants to make her beg. He wants to make her come so hard that she’ll never think of leaving him again.

His hand flies through the air. The resounding crack as it meets her ass is so, so good, just as good as her anguished yelp, her following whimper. The victimized patch of her skin pinks up, and he strokes it tenderly, making soothing sounds in the back of his throat.

Scully stretches her arms forward to grip the edge of the table. He wishes he was wearing a tie, so that he could rip it off and bind her wrists with it, spread her out and tie her to the table leg and leave her trembling and begging and cursing him out while he puts his feet up beside her face and finishes off a beer. He could do it with his belt, he supposes, but he’s a selfish, selfish man, and more than anything, he wants to fuck her.

He smacks her harder.

While she’s vocalizing her approval, he dips his fingers lower to slick through her hot, slippery pussy. He groans, then brings his hand up and wipes his fingers on her cheek, catching the corner of her mouth. “Wet,” he accuses her hoarsely.

Her eyelashes flicker, and she nods her confession.

She stays still while he frees himself from his jeans, his socks, his shirt. His cock bobs against her ass and his balls flex tight up to his shaft, but he wants to see her face, wants to make her look at him while he fucks himself back into her.

He hauls her off the table by her hips and turns her around. She’s ragdoll compliant, letting him strip her pants all the way off and lift her back up so that she’s sitting on the edge, facing him, her thighs spread wide and her plump, pretty, glistening cunt on display.

Simmering with greed, he sidles up close, his cock brushing the seam of her labia. She wraps her legs around him and crosses her ankles at his back, trying to pull him closer, but he doesn’t move an inch, his swollen, pulsing head just barely touching her, just barely grazing the peak of her clitoris. She’s wet and she’s hot and every nerve in his body is screaming at him to fuck, fuck, fuck, but he’s got a point to make, and goddamnit, he’s going to get it through to her.

He gathers a fistful of her hair and forces her head back, leaning over her, planting his other hand on the table behind her for balance. He locks her into his eyes.

“You’ll never go with him again,” he commands. “Never.” He pushes forward and slides the underside of his dick through her folds, grinding hard against her clit, because if he can just make her need him enough, surely he’ll never have to feel the soul-sickening panic of her absence again.

“I’ll do whatever I want,” she retorts, articulating every word, her chin jutting proudly, her pupils a black and dangerous chasm.

He tightens his fist in her hair and stabs himself into her.

The sound that rips up from her chest is short and shrill, and god, even her pussy feels defiant, strong and grippy and tight as hell. He fucks her in brutal, relentless strokes, punishing her, pleading with her. His eyes burn with unshed tears of humiliating rage as he reclaims her body, this perfect and inviolable body that she chooses again and again to share with him.

It’s not long before he forces an orgasm from her, steals it from her, biting her neck while she writhes and cries out for her god, to witness it, maybe, or to save her sinner’s soul. And while she’s calling on heaven, he falls harder than Lucifer, jerking and spilling inside of her, pumping her so full that at least for a short while, she can’t possibly claim to be only herself.

And then it’s done.

The world rights itself. The hush of traffic returns, the tick of his antique mantle clock.

She wraps her arms around him in silent forgiveness, and then he really does start to cry, hard and hopelessly, because how could he ever truly hope to keep her safe?

Incrementum

#incrementum #txf fic #txf fanfiction

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gunshou · 3 years

Text

paralysed force

prompt: talking is overrated | taunting

fandom: MCU, Captain America (movies)

warnings: blood, amputation, htp adjacent

How one Hydra technician learns to keep his hands to himself.

. . . . .

read it on AO3

The screams echoed from the experimentation room, bouncing off concrete and amplifying until Drayton wanted to join in from sheer frustration. She hurried down the hallway, white coat flapping behind her, and slapped her palm against the door lock. Its beep of confirmation was lost in the howling that ridiculously increased in volume as the door slid open.

“What the actual fuck—?” she bellowed and stopped at the scene before her.

Her assessing gaze went first to the asset, crouched beside the examination chair with its matted hair stuck in sweaty clumps to its neck. The bottom half of its face was thoroughly, shockingly red. Blood dripped from between its bared teeth onto its heaving chest, but it seemed to be respiring adequately and held itself coiled but still, so she turned her attention to the source of the screaming.

Davidson’s white coat was also spattered red, and he clutched one hand to his chest while continuing to scream in high, attenuated pulses with each exhale. Lask had himself backed into a corner, his own hands clapped over his mouth and a puddle of vomit between his feet. Drayton took in the ripped straps of the reclining exam chair and reached behind her to press the door panel intercom.

“Security to Room SB7, code Ice.” That done, she remembered her training — which these idiots clearly had not — and stayed by the door, ready to leap back through it if the asset so much as twitched. Which it didn’t. It remained perfectly still, glaring through hanks of dark brown hair with those astonishingly blue eyes. Davidson had no idea why the Soviets would have built their weapon to be so stupidly good looking, even with its skin painted in blood and its lips pulled back into a feral snarl.

“What happened?” she asked Lask. Davidson had slid to his knees and was making high-pitched whimpering sounds that drove a spike right through Drayton’s temple, but they were at least quieter than the screaming.

Before Lask could answer her, the asset opened its mouth and spat something onto the floor along with a mouthful of blood. She jerked, ready to bolt, but it did nothing else, just settled back into its wary crouch, glaring at her with long red strings of bloody spit hanging to its collarbones. Drayton peered at the mess and finally identified the objects as three fingers, bitten off at the second knuckle.

Furious, she whirled on Davidson. “What did you do?” she demanded. His answered with a whine of pain and held out his mutilated hand towards her. She recoiled and snapped at Lask, “Take care of that injury and give him something to shut him up!”

Lask gestured helplessly at the medical supplies laid out on the stainless steel tray table that stood within a few steps of the asset. “I can’t,” he babbled, “I can’t, it’s right there, it’ll, oh my God, it just bit his fingers off —”

Drayton heard the clatter of booted feet in the hallway and stepped aside as a team of black-clothed armed guards poured in, guns raised and trained on the asset, who immediately widened those bright blue eyes and tipped its chin down, allowing its hair to shield its face. Slowly and smoothly it raised both hands and interlaced metal and flesh fingers behind its neck while it evened out its breathing and relaxed its posture into submission, both knees down on the ground.

“There,” Drayton said, a part of her pleased at the asset’s well-conditioned response even while in a state of aggression. “Bandage him up. What caused this clusterfuck?”

Lask finally unstuck his feet from the floor and tiptoed across the room. Keeping his body as far away from the asset as possible, he stretched his arm until his grasping fingertips caught the lip of the instrument table and rolled it towards him with a little gasp of effort. The asset stayed immobile, eyes trained on the mutilated flesh between its knees. The whole dance would have been comical if not for Davidson’s continued crying and the gun barrels that never wavered targeting the asset’s torso. Grabbing a roll of bandages in shaking hands, Lask tugged at Davidson’s messy hand and began haphazardly winding the cloth around the still oozing wounds.

“He was…he was adjusting the cyanide tooth,” Lask said. “It was loose, and, and he was fixing it back in, and…”

“And what?” she prompted, crossing her arms over her chest. She already knew, Davidson was prohibited from being alone with the asset for a reason.

“He, he…uh. He started, um.”

“Talking to it?”

“Uh, yeah. Um.”

“That filthy shit he brags about?” Drayton pinched the bridge of her nose. Davidson had this asinine need to tell everyone in earshot about the obscene shit he got away with during experimentation and regular maintenance of the asset, as if any of the rest of them cared where he stuck his dick. Davidson thought it made him look tough, like STRIKE would somehow welcome him on one of their bar crawls if he fucked the asset senseless like they did. Forgetting, as usual, that STRIKE had the advantage of numbers, weapons, trigger words, and training, and still displayed a healthy fear of the asset’s capabilities. Even when they were buried balls deep in it, they never took it for granted.

Davidson, obviously, forgot the number one rule: the Fist of Hydra was a fucking dangerous weapon.

Lask finished with the bandage and stepped back while Davidson cradled his hand to his chest again. One of the guards was murmuring a report into his radio. Lask wiped his arm over his sweaty forehead and continued, “He, uh, he was talking about how he should just take all its teeth out, so, uh, so it could suck cock better, be a better slut for everyone, and um, he pulled the tooth down so he could get a better look at it, and I guess the asset, uh, the asset must have thought —”

“It doesn’t think,” Drayton replied firmly. “Neither, apparently, does Davidson.” She massaged her temples. This was all STRIKE’s fault, honestly. If they hadn’t set a precedent for fucking around off the clock with the asset, small-dicked fuckwads on the tech team like Davidson wouldn’t feel a need to throw their weight around. God, she really hated Hydra men and their fucking egos. “Ok, go get his fingers so we can maybe reattach them.”

Lask backed up. “What? No! I’m not— Fuck no!”

Drayton sighed. Assholes, all of them. “Asset,” she snapped, and it raised its head slightly. Not enough to look at her, just enough to convey it was listening. “Pick up those fingers and bring them to me. Slowly.”

The guards fanned out and kept their rifles aimed at the asset as it unlaced its hands and reached down to scoop up the severed fingers. It rose gracefully to its bare feet and padded across the concrete floor, the big muscles in its thighs flexing smoothly. The thing never walked like a human being, it slinked or prowled, even now while it kept its bulky shoulders down and tried to make itself appear smaller and less threatening. Drayton held out her hand impatiently and the asset stopped an arm’s length away, extended its weak arm, and opened its fist to drop three bloody bits of flesh and bone into her hand. Then it dropped its arm to its side and stood there at parade rest, gaze still on the ground like a puppy that knew it soiled the rug.

Drayton held out the fingers for Lask; he hauled Davidson to his feet and propelled him towards the door. When they reached her he looked helplessly down and she sighed and dropped the bits into the pocket of his lab coat. “Take him to get fixed up and then write up a report, I want to see it before you file it,” she ordered.

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied and pulled Davidson, still weeping miserably, away.

She looked at the asset, meekly standing still, and wiped her hand on her own coat. “Now what do I do with you?” she asked herself. “Asset, get back in the exam chair,” she ordered. It complied in silence and she glanced at the guards. “I think we’re all set here, thank you.”

“If you’re sure, Doctor,” the commanding guard said, “we’ll go make our report to STRIKE that the situation has been contained.”

“Yes, do that,” she agreed. “I’ll take things from here.” She waited until they filed out before approaching the asset, who reclined in the examination chair with his hands curled into loose fists at his sides. She picked up one of the broken straps that dangled from the side of the chair and examined its ragged edge; clearly they were going to have to install electromagnetic clamps, which would likely fuck up their data readings and require a retuning of some of their equipment. Drayton glared down at the asset.

The blood on its face and chest had dried down to a tacky dark mess, which had the effect of making its eyes look bluer. She reached carefully down and plucked loose some of the hair stuck to its face, smoothing it back and running her hand over the curve of its skull. The asset made a tiny noise and actually lifted its chin as if to encourage her to pet it again, its expressive eyes wide and soft. The crease between its brows pinched at it lifted its gaze to somewhere above her left shoulder, a plaintive but resigned look on its face. It knew it had transgressed and feared punishment. Drayton traced the sharp curve of one high cheekbone and the asset’s mouth opened slightly around a quiet exhale.

“It’s not really your fault,” she mused, picking more damp strands of hair off its sticky face and smoothing them back. “Davidson’s an idiot. You were just responding to a threat, weren’t you? That’s what you’re trained to do. Still, biting off his fingers? Perhaps a bit too impulsive a reaction. Not that I blame you, honestly.” She smiled, and since the asset wouldn’t meet her gaze, it missed the coldness in her eyes. She picked up a bottle of isopropyl alcohol and a cotton pad and said, “Let’s get your face cleaned up so we can get you back to your cell, hmm?” . . . . . Brock Rumlow had just finished reading the report filed about yesterday’s incident and shook his head. He couldn’t even take a fucking day off without some asshole fucking up around the asset. At this rate, Rumlow was going to have to resign himself to working around the fucking clock until the Winter Soldier was back in cryo. He glanced at the notation at the bottom of the report: they’d managed to reattach two of the technician’s fingers. Rumlow made a note for HR that disability should be denied on the grounds that the stupid fucker violated the rules for managing the asset. What was Davidson going to do, file an OSHA claim? Shit.

He submitted the report and headed to the asset’s holding cell to check in on it. Asinine techs kept thinking the thing was some kind of pet just because STRIKE had it well-managed. In a way, Rumlow was glad there had been another incident, even though it meant more paperwork and another round of hiring. Everyone who didn’t accompany the asset in the field needed reminding what the Winter Soldier was capable of, and if they continued to stick their hands in the tiger’s jaws — literally, in this case — without proper precautions, well, fuck ‘em.

The Winter Soldier lay on its cot, its back to Rumlow as he approached the reinforced plexiglass wall of its cell. It wore black sweatpants and a gray t-shirt that stretched over the broad muscles of its shoulders and biceps. Its metal hand lay outstretched along its thigh, its body balancing the weight of the prosthetic limb. It didn’t move as he thumbed the control panel and the intercom gave a little hiss of static.

“Hey, kid, heard you had a hell of a day yesterday,” Rumlow said. “If you wanted a snack you should’ve said something.” His dark eyes narrowed, watching carefully for any response. Sometimes the Soldier perked up at his voice, like a dog lifting its ears to listen to its master’s tone. Sometimes the Soldier was far too befuddled or sunk into its own empty head to do more than stare at Rumlow uncomprehendingly — it all depended on what experiments or procedures had been recently completed. Today he got nothing at all. Rumlow frowned. Something wasn’t right, and he peered at the line of the asset’s body to figure out what felt off.

There, on the metal fingers. Spots of discoloration. Rust? Impossible. Blood? Fuck.

“Kid, turn over for me,” he commanded, and watched as the Soldier slowly rolled back to look at him with red-rimmed wet eyes. “The fuck?” Rumlow muttered and keyed in the code to open the cell, locking it carefully behind him and sliding his gun out of its holster. He held it ready beside his leg as he crept forward slowly so as not to startle the asset, who sat up and turned fully to face Rumlow. It was wearing its black tactical mask for some inane reason, and blood-streaked abrasions showed all around the edges of it, scratches in short parallel lines of four.

“Why were you clawing at your face, Soldier?” Rumlow asked, concern at the irregularity making his heart beat faster. If yesterday’s shitshow made the fucking murderbot unstable again, he was going to shoot every technician in the building. “Why are you wearing the mask off mission?” The Soldier just stared mutely at him, an imploring look in those soft puppy’s eyes. “I’m gonna take a look at your face,” Rumlow said calmly even as he thumbed the safety off his pistol. “Just relax and be still for me, ok?”

The asset tipped its head back so its hair slid out of the way, allowing Rumlow to see something shiny around the edges of the mask. He reached out with his free hand and tilted the Soldier’s masked chin to one side and then the other, trying to make out what was wrong. “Let’s get this thing off so I can see,” he said and the asset’s eyes widened frantically. Its metal hand lifted off its lap and Rumlow jammed the barrel of his pistol against its left collarbone, angled so that the bullet would travel into the prosthetic and sever some of the connections that rendered it responsive to the Soldier’s brain. The asset immediately let its hand fall back into its lap and shut its eyes, long lashes brushing its reddened cheeks. Docile, it waited patiently while Rumlow undid the strap at the back of its head and pulled at the mask.

The mask didn’t move.

The mask was fucking glued to the Soldier’s face with some sort of industrial adhesive.

Rumlow closed his eyes briefly and imagined murdering every fucking technician in the building, slowly and with extreme prejudice. Then he straightened up, patted the asset on its flesh shoulder, and exited the cell to go find a scalpel and peel the fucking mask off the Winter Soldier’s fucking mouth.

#whumptober2021 #no.2 #no.3 #talking is overrated #taunting #james buchanan barnes #brock rumlow #captain america (MCU)#fic #amputation tw #htp adjacent #implied/referenced rape and abuse tw #gunshou fic

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mystic-kitten-writer · 3 years

Note

I lovveeeee Zuko & Yue. BUT! I’m a sucker for breakup angst, can you plz write one where they breakup but they’re all sad with out eachother but they don’t wanna admit it 🥺🥺

But like- why do you have to break my heart like this 🥺

Here is me, finishing my finals, and my first drabble is angst LOOL

LET’S DO THIS~

AU: Limerence

Pairing: Zuko x Fem. OC (Ying Yue Jiang)

Masterlist

Salt on a wound.

Their eyes locked, gasping as they spotted each other from across the vast room.

There could be thousands upon thousands of people, but you could bet your own life that these two would still be able to spot each other in seconds. It was the magical connection, everything about them a reflection of each other, down to their racing pulses.

That was the power they held.

Making time stand still as their energy mixed, like tender caresses and gentle hums, something straight out of a romance novel.

So, imagine the looks on all the guests' faces, their chatter immediately dying as they spotted the two ex-love birds silently gawking at one another. Everyone's expressions flattered, Aang shutting his eyes at the apparent twist of pain. The rose-coloured tone of the room quickly changing to a blue.

It was like observing the aftermath of a storm, Zuko and Yue nothing more but broken pieces of their once fabulous selves.

Neither one of them wholly healed, neither one of them genuinely ready to move on, let go.

And ironically, while the pain and utter loneliness were so clearly etched on their faces, Yue and Zuko were oblivious to each other's pain.

Yue could hear the blood rush to her head, the room spinning, as her hands began to shake. The wine in her glass swishing as she bites her lip to stop the tears that lined her eyes. Her heart was beating; her mind utterly fixated on Zuko. She knew she wasn't completely healed from the break-up, but my gosh, now she really knew.

To love someone who already moved on, unbothered. That blank expression Yue saw on Zuko's handsome features, her fingers itching to brush his nose and adorable lips. To surround herself in his steady warmth, to hear the deep rumbles from his chest as he cuddled her close to his chest. She felt so safe, so loved- and Yue choked down a sob.

To think she believed she deserved to be happy.

To think she believed those sweet words from those sinful lips, desperate for those sweet lies.

He said he loved her, that he could never imagine a life without her by his side-

"Yue-" Katara whispered harshly into her ear, holding the hand that cupped her wine to stop it from tipping over.

Yue jumped, letting out a tiny gasp. Katara saw the confusion in her gold eyes. Yue's mind was so disoriented and dark, half-heartedly thanking Katara with a meek tone. It was like her mind was empty, that tiny bit of soul that Zuko didn't manage to destroy finally dissipating.

"Let's go, sweetheart-" Katara urged, her brows pinching together as her voice wavered.

Yue was as pale as a spirit, her bottom lip trembling. And with a dead shake of her head, Yue forced a broken smile.

"I-I'm okay. Don't worry about me."

Katara felt sick to her stomach.

Yue wasn't okay.

She was so far from okay; Katara could feel her blood boil because she could still hear Yue's soft cries. How Yue would lock herself in her room, blaming herself, demonizing herself. And despite knocking, trying to comfort, reassure, Yue would force a smile.

'I'm okay. Please, don't worry about me.'

Katara squeezed Yue's hand, wanting nothing more than to whisk Yue away. To see her happy.

To have her sister back-

Katara shifted her gaze momentarily as she grabbed Yue, a scowl on her expression as she watched Sokka walk to Zuko.

Not once in his lifetime has Sokka seen Zuko as shitty looking as he did now.

The most luxurious of robes, hair tied, handsomely groomed. Certain individuals not hiding their perverse joy in watching Yue break because that meant Zuko was available. And as Sokka stepped closer, taking note of how hollow his cheeks seem, the dark circles under his eyes, did he understand what Yue meant all those years when she said she fell in love with that spark.

Zuko seemed like an empty shell.

A boring nod for a greet, ripping his gaze abruptly from Yue with a thick swallow as they patted each other on the back.

"How are you, bud?" Sokka asked, trying to avoid the obvious, but he felt a shiver run up his spine.

"Fucking fantastic." Zuko sarcastically muttered under his breath with a hiss.

The venom in Zuko's words, a wave of anger.

So much anger, because unlike Yue, who let herself embrace the sadness, the loneliness- Zuko couldn't.

He much rather bask in his self-pity, drowning himself in work to keep his mind off Yue. Because no matter where Zuko was in the kingdom, he would be reminded of Yue.

Baked sweets, flowers, anything pleasant in life reminded Zuko of her. The dark taste of alcohol on his lips - the only means to push her away from his thoughts. A reminder of how disgusting of a human he was to break such a spirit like her. And it didn't help that the people were furious at the news that the pair had broken up. Out-right riots, people carrying signs that said 'Zuko doesn't deserve such a treasure' or 'Like father-like-son.'

Not like they were wrong.

Beauty and the Beast, and even then, Zuko snorted. Calling himself a beast would be an insult amongst creatures; not even the term monster seemed to encapsulate the self-hatred and loneliness Zuko felt.

Not like the royals cared.

Oh, no. There were ecstatic to get rid of Yue from the kingdom.

The next day shoving marriage proposals from 'real' suitors. 'They will treat you like how you should be treated, Fire Lord Zuko,' they happily noted. So why does Zuko feel more empty, dead, than ever before? How a single peck from Yue's pouty lips had his heart racing, blood rushing to his cheeks as he felt speechless.

Zuko's hands balled into fists, eyes scanning over the Northern Water Tribe and Earth Nation's royals. Zuko could tell from their looks alone what they were thinking. A heartbroken woman, easy prey-

They didn't deserve to see Yue's gorgeous eye smile.

Her happy giggles as she snuggled her head deep into his chest before they went to bed. Zuko's eyes would roll to the back of his head, just thinking of her addictive scent. How soft her skin felt under his. Her innocent and genuine heartfelt affections-

"Zuko," Sokka spoke, placing a hand over his shoulder, and Zuko snapped out of his dark thoughts.

Sokka couldn't bear it anymore, no longer beating around the bush, his hand digging into Zuko's robes and wrinkling the material.

"Talk to her, Zuko."

"No."

"And why not?" Sokka provoked, his nostrils flaring in annoyance. The frustration running through Sokka's veins, watching his best friend and sister dance in circles because everyone knew the truth.

A simple conversation, a discussion and this could all be over-

"I am a King; she's a commoner." Zuko disapproved through clenched teeth, spewing utter bullshit that Sokka let out a bewildered laugh.

"That didn't stop you before."

"I've moved on."

"For sure, Zuko. That's why you reek of alcohol and tobacco; Iroh sending letters of concern. That's why Kiyi begged Suki to bring Yue back to the kingdom." Sokka whispered harshly, and Zuko could feel something trickle down his palm.

His nails digging into his skin, beads of ruby falling as Zuko gave Sokka a warning look.

A plead.

Sokka's eyes softened, seeing the vulnerability in Zuko's eyes for that short moment. The look Yue gave to everyone before she burst into tears, her heart shattering as everyone struggled to pick up the pieces.

He was hurting. No matter how much Zuko tried to play it off, Sokka knew better. Everyone in this room knew better. With a tired sigh, Sokka hoped.

"Please, Zuko," Sokka spoke with a weak plead, and Zuko's temper flared.

"Leave me the fuck alone-" Zuko seethed, shoving his friend's hand off his shoulder.

The hushed mutters amongst the crowds, curious eyes watching Sokka fumble back at the explosion. The tension was thick; Zuko's chest puffed as heated flickers of fire left his dry lips.

Anger.

The need and want to scream, to shout. Zuko’s narrowed eyes hastily shifted around the room, searching for Yue- what the actual fuck was he doing?

"I need air-" Zuko growled, twisting on his heels as he wandered towards the large doors that he just entered minutes ago.

"Fire Lord Zuko-" The guards awkwardly fumbled, and with a sharp glare, they got the point. Standing in their spot as the grand doors swung open, only for Zuko to pass.

Everyone watched Zuko's fleeting figure. Walking down the empty hallway with his head hung low before the doors came to closed.

And Zuko let out a bitter laugh.

Alone.

He was alone...again.

Disclaimer: I do not own any Avatar characters besides any original characters I have created.

Cross-posted on Ao3/Tumblr/Quotev/Wattpad to discourage plagiarism.

❤ Buy me a coffee? ❤

#atla #zuko #zuko avatar #avatar the last airbender #zuko x reader #zuko x oc #prince zuko #fire lord zuko #avatar #limerence #masterlist #request #ask me anything #anon answered #like and/or reblog!

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enby-hawke · 3 years

Photo

Chapter 6 Summary: Malcolm and Leandra finally have the night to themselves or do they.

Warnings: Racism, Mageism, Gamlen’s an asshole, and songs

Word Count:10,037

A03:

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Malcolm was nervous, gut-nervous, like he’d just come from a Fade jump and his stomach was still doing all the roller coaster flips, threatening to empty out his hard-earned dinner. It didn’t help that the mountains of half-eaten food piled in the dumpsters were starting to turn along with the pungent aroma of the fish stew that gave the alley a rather wet smell. He couldn’t help but feel that this was a terrible place to meet Leandra. This held none of the grandeur of the Palace, the walls defaced with graffiti that had yet to be painted over. And since no one important usually came back here, they wouldn’t bother to for a while. The dumpsters were leaking what Malcolm hoped was just leftover soup, still dripping and draining down the gutter into the sewers below. Hardly romantic.

As the minutes dragged on he made wet tracks into haphazard circles as he found new anxieties that weren’t there before, seeds of doubt cracking into his confidence. What if he was not worthy of her? It wasn’t that he was an elf, though that difference did come to the forefront of his mind often, but what could he possibly offer her to sway her from the lover that already claimed her. He was a mage in the Circle, which meant he had no means to provide for her. He couldn’t compete with the wealth of a billionaire, couldn’t take her to the finest restaurants in Kirkwall to sample cuisines from far lands, couldn’t woo her with expensive gifts like bouquets or beautiful jewelry. He couldn’t even afford the suit the Circle loaned him. Would this night be all he had? Would she have her fun with him and go back to her wealthy fiance, and live her charmed life, and leave him with a broken heart?

And she would break him. He could feel it. He would spend the rest of his days aching for a taste of her lips. His hand clenched and unclenched, feeling so empty without her hand. He clenched it once more and punched the wall, the pain of the brick against his knuckles enough to shock him back to his senses. “You are not a coward!” he growled at himself.

But the seed of doubt rooted deeper. What if this is all she wants from him? A good time. A new experience. What if she didn’t see him as a man willing to love her but some plaything?

The door opened behind him and Malcolm wouldn’t say he jumped, but his feet definitely left the pavement. He straightened himself out to hear the alley suddenly echoing with a bounding argument broiling between Leandra and another man who looked similar to her in the way their scowls matched, but his eyes were not starry black but a shocking blue against his tawny beige skin.

“I’m telling you this is a bad idea. Now let’s go home before we’re caught.”

Leandra snarled, her face more akin to a warrior than a prim noblewoman. “Oh, please, you’re lecturing me?” she snapped her hand back from his muscled grip. “I thought you’d be more supportive considering all the times I’ve covered for you and Mara.”

Another woman in a red dress the same color as the man’s suit followed close behind, trying to keep the two of them apart, but it wasn’t working. Her cat eyes were pulled in a glare as she stayed close to Leandra’s heel. “Gamlen, for Maker’s sake give it a rest.”

Malcolm didn’t know who this man was to Leandra, but he didn’t like how handsy he was being, jerking her arm this way and that in forceful attempts to get her to follow, and Malcolm’s temper quickly snapped as he raced forward to defend Leandra.

“Hey, what’s your problem, asshole?” He balled his fists, rolling up his sleeves as he glowered up to the taller man, knowing he couldn’t use magic but he reckoned he could bet his Ferelden pride he could throw a better punch than a prissy Kirkwall nobleman.

The man looked down at the shorter elf’s stature and snorted, utterly unimpressed as if a kid had challenged him. “Run off, rabbit, this doesn’t concern you.”

Malcolm snarled ready to swing but Leandra instinctively put herself as a shield between the two men, “Malcolm, wait!”

Malcolm pulled himself back from the momentum, almost tripping over himself as he tried to veer direction. He was dazed in that moment, off-balance first by the sudden realization that this was the very first time she had ever said his name. He was so puzzled about how she even managed to remember it with dream fog he almost didn’t realize Carver had just walked through the door and had witnessed most of the exchange.

Carver walked up to Malcolm and pulled him back with force so Leandra, the man and he were now a good distance apart. “What are you doing starting fights?”

“Did I start a fight?” Malcolm shook himself back to reality, a new glare settling at the man who was holding Leandra’s wrist hostage. “Or did he?”

“Yeah, Gamlen, what’s your fucking problem?” the woman marched up beside Leandra as if to protect her.

Malcolm was about to say something else when Carver slapped the back of Malcolm’s head, not hard enough to hurt but the metal of his gauntlet still made a satisfying thwack. “Use your head. This is not some Circle brawl where you’ll get detention. Assaulting a nobleman has real consequences, Malcolm.”

The pushy man made a satisfied smirk at being defended, before it quickly dropped. “Wait, this is Malcolm?”

Malcolm’s ears twitched, not liking the accusatory way he used his name.

Leandra looked at the man as if she was pleading him not to say whatever was about to come out but still he just gawked at Leandra as he pointed at Malcolm with the force of a smack. “Are you kidding me? He’s an elf!? Are you trying to kill Mom and Dad?”

And there it was, the metaphorical elephant in the room that had plagued Malcolm’s thoughts had been spoken aloud and was staring him in the face. So this man was her brother. How unfortunate. He could see the resemblance now in the shape of their eyes and flat of their noses, and Malcolm suddenly felt self-conscious. Already her family disapproved of him, and he didn’t realize how badly he wanted their approval until now, but he knew how ridiculous it was to even have the expectation. He knew the raw ugly truth about how people would look at their relationship, but he wasn’t looking at her brother’s grimace, but at Leandra.

Her shoulders snapped back as her fury exploded like cannon. “When did you ever care what Mom and Dad think!?”

The other woman also didn’t look pleased with Gamlen’s confession. “Did you forget my grandfather is an elf?”

“Mara…” Gamlen sputtered. “It’s not the same. That’s your grandfather. You’re practically human.”

Mara’s smile turned chilly as she cocked her head at the statement, squinting her eyes. “Am I?”

The man sputtered again as Malcolm crossed his arms and rocked back on his heels thoroughly enjoying himself now. The man seemed to understand that this was the wrong answer but from the look of his face everyone could tell he was confused about why. “I mean…it’s not only that. He’s a mage, too.”

“And we have family that are mages,” Leandra countered.

His head was turtling into his shoulders as the two women stared him down with equally withering glares, but still Gamlen pleaded at them to listen. “Think this through, Leandra. You’re practically married. Do I have to remind you tonight was literally your Betrothal Ball. Think of how selfish you’re being.”

Leandra was tiny for a human woman but she had the ferocity of a warrior when she was angry, and it spilled out in a gushing tsunami at the accusation of being selfish. She shoved the other man off of her. “I supported you!” she cried and then shoved again, “had your back against mom and dad at every turn, and now I’m supposed to self-sacrifice and play good child so you can do whatever you want?” Gamlen balked at every shove, not expecting Leandra to fight back so fiercely, and he held her wrists as she attempted to hit him in the face but she was much too short to get a good swing so she started jabbing her heels into his legs. “When is it my turn? When do I get to be happy?”

Malcolm covered his mouth in amusement as the tiny woman beat back her brother with shorthanded swipes looking oddly like a housecat trying to beat back a confused crocodile. Her temper was beautiful, like the oncoming rage of a storm, leaving him in awe of her.

At the sound of Malcolm’s laughter she dropped her shoulders suddenly looking sheepish.

“Oh don’t stop on my account,” Malcolm grinned at her. “I’m enjoying the show.”

She looked at Malcolm with wide eyes suddenly uncertain and shy and she tucked a loose strand of hair that had come undone behind her ear, trying to look prim again.

Malcolm was disappointed. He would have liked to see at least one more kick.

“I like Malcolm,” she announced, not quite able to meet Malcolm’s gaze though her voice remained steady.

Malcolm blinked a couple of times unsure he had heard right, but then she marched up to Malcolm and picked up his freckled hand like it was the most precious thing in the world. “I want to explore what that this means,” then she glared back at her brother over her shoulder. “So can you kindly butt out?”

Malcolm didn’t mean for a laugh to escape. Maybe he was relieved to hear her say that. Maybe it was because that furious expression didn’t quite match her soft personality. And then her anger softened into a shy smile when he squeezed her hand in silent thanks, her whole demeanor suddenly demure again.

Malcolm could see the man confused, as if he didn’t expect her to take such a strong stand.

Leandra ignored her brother, her attention only on Malcolm. “I’m so sorry. I hope my idiot brother didn’t spoil our night.”

The smile that was already on his lips pulled wider. Our night.

She then glared at her brother. “He won’t join us.”

“Fine!” Gamlen barked. He snapped his fingers. “Mara, we’re leaving.”

Mara snorted. “You sure? Cause I think I’m going with Leandra, tonight.”

Gamlen narrowed his eyes, his voice taking on an edge of possessiveness. “Mara, we’re publicly together now. I know we don’t always agree but you’re supposed to be on my side, not Leandra’s.”

Mara laughed which seemed to confuse Gamlen and she took Leandra’s other arm and wrapped herself around her. “You’re just my boyfriend. Leandra’s my best friend. Get the hierarchy?”

Leandra looked utterly disappointed in Gamlen. “Need a shovel for the hole you’re digging?”

This time Carver joined Malcolm’s laughter. He had been standing silent the whole time, making sure Malcolm’s temper didn’t get away with him again, and he didn’t bother to hide his amusement as he met Malcolm’s gaze. “She’s a keeper,” Carver nodded approvingly, earning a pleased but flustered blush from Leandra.

Gamlen turned his scrutiny on Carver. “Aren’t you a templar? What are you doing letting this mage off his leash?”

Malcolm bristled at that, but Carver just placed a hand on Malcolm’s shoulder, a squeeze reminding him to behave. Still, it was a friendly enough gesture that Gamlen seemed uneasy by it, as if he wasn’t sure what to make of this dynamic. “It may be a long leash, but believe me, there’s still a leash.”

Malcolm grunted at that, hating how true his words were, but Carver continued, “I know you have your doubts about mages, and I know fully the dangers that magic can bring, but Malcolm has opened my eyes many times to the wonders magic can bring.” He let his hand drop from Malcolm’s shoulder but didn’t lower his proud gaze. “He is a good man, a better man than many who serve under me and I’m proud to call him a friend.”

He had never heard Carver talk about him in such a way so to hear him come to his defense made him swallow a lump that suddenly crept up his throat like a frog, but it was apparent that Carver’s pretty words were not swaying Gamlen, though he looked like he was losing some of the fight out of him once he realized that he had no ally to turn to. So he resulted in sulking, hunching his shoulders and jutting out his lip which made him look like a mannish baby. “This is still a bad idea.”

Leandra nodded. “Noted. And ignored.”

“Then I’m coming with you,” Gamlen argued. “If only because someone needs to watch out for you tonight. He’s clearly got you under some sort of spell.”

Malcolm’s shoulders raised at the accusation. Gamlen was glaring at their intertwined hands with a sneer he couldn’t contain like she was touching a dirty animal. He was suddenly overcome with the overwhelming feeling like he would taint Leandra. Stories about how mages seduced their lovers by altering their minds with blood magic or how elven men tricked and stole the innocence of naive human women recounted in his head and though he thought he would have some sort of reply to that he found the words caught in his throat. Instead he held back a tremble as he struggled not to act on his temper and punch the man senseless, only to prove that he didn’t need a spell to rub that sneer off his face. But then even that was a trap, for it would only prove that he was uncivilized as the humans claimed elves to be even if humans never seemed to show much civilization.

There was no way he’d last the night.

Leandra glared. “As if! You’re being a real ass.”

“Well, how are you going to stop me?” the man’s voice took on a childish challenging tone as he dug in his heels.

Leandra groaned, knowing her stubborn brother wouldn’t take no for an answer. What brought on this bought of overbearing protectiveness she didn’t know, but she wanted to spend the night getting to know Malcolm, not bickering with her little brother.

“Fine, but if you say anymore idiotic things to Malcolm I won’t hesitate to knee you in the balls,” she huffed as she started dragging Malcolm and Mara around her annoying brother. “And you're taking your own cab!” she added with a snap.

They started marching out of the alleyway and out into the street where they found that the place was swarming with Guard and Templar cars in flashing red white and blue lights bathing the streets in headlights so that they all seemed exposed and Leandra froze at the thought of suddenly being caught and marched back to her parents.

“Follow me,” Carver spoke from behind them, and then marched past them as if there was nothing amiss about what they were doing.

Leandra dropped Malcolm’s hand and put some distance between them at the sight of the crowd that clearly saw them. Malcolm’s stomach dropped in disappointment. Though he knew an elf and a human holding hands would only invite more stares it didn’t keep his heart from aching, wishing just for a moment that he was human so that she wouldn’t let go.

The templars and guards glided around them without notice all seeming to have their own agendas and orders to carry out. There were news vans swarming the front of the Palace trying to make sense of what was happening and they took great care not to get in their line of sight.

Malcolm had a sinking feeling as he followed Carver, thinking that he’d return to his duties and let him have some peace with Leandra. Well, he and Leandra’s friend, who invited herself, but he knew the hierarchy. As they approached an armored vehicle with reinforced wheels and a red Chantry sun impaled a sword, the symbol of the templars, Malcolm realized another was joining the night. It seemed his leash was shorter than he thought, tonight.

Carver opened the door gesturing for the ladies to go in with a respectful bow.

Mara’s eyes gleamed in mischief as she inspected the back of the templar’s car, the armored barriers seeming more fit to housing dangerous apostates than escorting Kirkwall nobility. “Are we in trouble, Officer?”

Carver’s eyes crinkled in a smile but his face remained neutral. “Simply making sure you all get home safely.”

Mara bounced into the backseat. “This standard?”

“Perfectly,” Carver allowed a small smile.

Leandra, too jittery with all the people about quickly ducked behind Mara without a word, grateful to be out of sight.

Carver blocked Gamlen’s push forward so Malcolm could snag the seat next to Leandra and shut the door behind him.

Gamlen scowled, trying to look intimidating but Carver had a few inches in him and was in full armor and gear and didn’t bother to even look in Gamlen’s direction as he got into the driver’s seat and slammed the door.

Gamlen tried to get into the passenger’s seat but he found that it had been locked. Gamlen pounded on the tinted window demanding to be let in.

Carver rolled down the window only enough so Gamlen could hear him say, “I thought the lady told you to get your own cab.”

Gamlen’s face went slack with shock, his blue eyes glassy as he was not able to process what was happening. He could hear Mara and Gamlen’s laughter peeling out from the window, mocking him.

Even Leandra barked out a short laugh before she clapped a hand over her mouth, burning in shame. “That is not necessary, Lord Carver.”

But Carver was already pulling off from the sidewalk, a shellshocked Gamlen watching as they left him at the curb.

There was a satisfied smirk on his lips that no one else could see. “The silence might give him some time to reflect on what he said.”

But it seemed like silence wasn’t what Gamlen wanted. Mara’s phone started to ring, Gamlen’s ringtone, which was a high stringed addictive pop song that filled the cabin.

“With a taste of your lips I’m on a ride.”

Mara sighed raggedly knowing the tantrum that was sure to come. She clicked the button to answer, cutting the music and with a curt voice she said, “I’m not interested in anything but an apology.”

“Apology!?” his voice boomed loud enough from the speaker. “You should apologize. You ditched me and laughed!”

“That’s right,” Mara confirmed in a sing-song voice. “You’re being a hypocrite.”

“Mara-”

But she quickly cut him off with a snarl that was unlike her, “I’m turning off my phone. Maybe if I’m in a good mood I’ll text you where we’re at.”

Then she cut off the rest of his tirade by ending the call and did just that.

She then threw her head back in her seat, her face reddening as she muttered a string of curses under her breath.

Leandra looked at her friend feeling torn. On one hand she couldn’t excuse her brother but she felt her heart ache at what she thought might be the end of their relationship. She knew her brother was better than this and she hoped that somehow he’d find a way to fix this. Still she felt shame like somehow it was her fault the whole wonderful night had been left uncomfortable. “I’m sorry,” she said guiltily.

She found Malcolm touching her hand, unsure if the gesture was welcome, but just his hand being close made her fingers wrap around them to keep him there, hoping Malcolm didn’t think less of her.

“It’s not the worst thing I’ve heard. They get more creative in the Circle,” he said it like a joke, but there was tenseness in the admission.

Leandra didn’t like the thought of that. She knew what her brother said was ugly, and yet to know it was not the worst experience he’d had made her squeeze his hand, the words to comfort him failing her.

“So I’m curious,” Mara’s voice cut between them. She leaned forward so Carver could hear her better through the bars that separated them. “How does a templar and a mage get so chummy?” There was mischief in her curiosity and Malcolm couldn’t help but feel like Mara was scrutinizing him, judging his every move, but unlike Gamlen, she seemed to have not come to a conclusion yet.

“Carver’s not a prick,” Malcolm explained which brought delighted laughter from Carver, a soothing sound like water bubbling over a brook.

“It’s easy to be friends with Malcolm, as long as you can handle some honesty,” Carver echoed back.

“Have you been friends for a long time?” Leandra asked.

“I watched him grow up,” Carver answered as he wove through the streets of Hightown. “He’s always been a bit of a scamp.”

Mara’s eyes lit up. “Ooooh then you’re the one to ask for all the juicy details.”

Malcolm suddenly felt uneasy, not sure exactly what Carver would share.

“That’s true,” Carver admitted freely. “I do have a few stories, but I’ll let you get to know him yourself. I plan to mostly stay out of the way tonight and let you all enjoy yourselves.”

Malcolm found himself sighing in relief. Carver was a true friend.

Mara started leaning on Leandra as she gazed at Malcolm, and he felt strangely like she was a cat and he was her new toy. “So who are you Dream Guy?”

Malcolm found the nickname brought a smile to his lips, especially with the way Leandra was reddening.

“Just an elf from Ferelden,” Malcolm summarized. “Not anyone special.”

“Ferelden?” Leandra asked. “You’re far from home.”

Malcolm nodded grimly. The homesickness burrowed in his gut. The food at the ball was delicious, but he found he missed his mother’s cooking, lechon at Satinalia, pancet at celebrations, adobo, dinuguan, even lumpia. Being a lone elven Ferelden in a Marcher state that kissed Orlais ass with the rest of the world was terribly isolating. It almost seemed fitting that it was an Orlesian that claimed Leandra. They claimed everything Malcolm knew.

Leandra seemed keen to know more. “What about your mom and dad?”

“My mom’s might be somewhere in Ferelden. I haven’t seen her since I was taken by the templars when I was 8.” Admitting this so freely felt odd to Malcolm. They weren’t exactly secrets but he kept his memories close to his heart, but Leandra wanted to know. “I don’t even know if she’s alive.”

Leandra could sense there was more to the story. Malcolm’s eyes were far away, watching the lights of Hightown’s neon bathing his dark skin in a heavenly glow.

“You don’t know what happened to her?”

“I mean when I was in Ferelden’s Circle I got a letter or two, but…” Malcolm sucked in a breath not admitting how the templars took those, too. “Nothing since Kirkwall.”

Leandra stroked his thumb with hers. “What about your father?”

At the mention of his father Malcolm’s whole body went rigid and his breathing got shallow. “Better off forgotten,” he muttered as he stared dully at the window.

The high cityscapes of Hightown receded into the bridge that was thankfully not filled with the usual traffic at midnight. Malcolm’s eyes were far away as his eyes passed over the neon marketing sign and art and competing billboards that seemed to permeate every corner. Kirkwall was a loud city, even at night, but the city seemed to be holding its breath. The high-tech architecture that was just on the other side of the bridge seemed to just die off into the archaic city of Lowtown. There were still ads and graffiti and neon signs on every street, but Kirkwall elite had not seen a purpose of modernizing most of Lowtown, except for the subway system that most of the inhabitants used for travel, so that the sounds of trains running through tracks was a constant echo across the stone. The snaking networks wound through the city but stopped at the bridge that connected Hightown. Lowtown only had so many major streets, the main one connecting to the Lowtown market where shops were piled on top of each other like shoeboxes, mimicking the cityscapes of Hightown but with the grace of a graffiti-filled dumpster. The city cleaners didn’t extend to Lowtown so debris covered the street, the car dipping into the cracks of the concrete and swerving to avoid potholes.

Leandra wanted to know him, but it seemed that poking at him only brought up painful memories, and it was already a painful night. She had no idea how she could even fathom what he went through. He was always carefree and smiling, but now he looked brittle, like he would break if she pressed him too far.

So she tried to change gears. “I have family in the Circle.”

“Oh?” That made Malcolm perk up, curiosity in his golden eyes, and his shoulders relaxed as he realized the interrogation was over.

“A niece in Ostwick, a nephew in Markham, and another nephew in Kirkwall.”

Malcolm seemed much happier to continue this conversation. “What a small world,” he hummed in amusement. “Well tell me about the one in Kirkwall. I might have met him already.”

Leandra was pleased that he wanted to know her family. “His name’s Isaac. He only came to the Circle last year around spring.”

Malcolm placed his free hand on his chin as his eyes reached up into his skull as he tried to summon a face. “Isaac…Isaac…” The name sounded familiar. “Wait does he like to make a lot of truck noises?”

“Yes!” Leandra jumped in her seat in excitement and then blushed when Mara snickered.

Malcolm smiled as he recalled the little guy, suddenly seeing the family resemblance in their eyes. He had life just like Leandra did. “We call him Lil’ Garbage Man. He’s the funniest dude.”

Leandra shook her head though a smile was on her face thinking of how horrified her Mother would be at the nickname.

“You call my nephew Lil’ Garbage Man? Why?”

“Cause he makes garbage truck noises when he busses people’s trays. Dude seems to have a blast doing it.”

Leandra laughed imagining the look on her parent’s face if they had heard that. “My nephew is bussing people’s trays?”

“Isaac is helpful and compassionate. He might be a little odd to people but he has a very good heart,” Carver’s voice came from the bars. “In fact, if you would like to see him, I think I may be able to arrange that.”

Leandra’s eyes widened pouncing on the chance. “Can you? I haven’t seen him since he was taken.”

“I’ll add you to the allowed visitors list in Isaac’s file. It shouldn’t be a problem,” Carver’s voice was steady and comforting, like a sturdy oak giving shade. “You’ll still need to come after Mass. There’s no way around that.”

Leandra felt positively giddy. She had tried to get on the visitor’s list before but Chantry policy only allowed immediate family members. The bastard father who abandoned him had more rights to see Isaac than she did, and she had given up on that cause for the moment but to just be offered as a gift was more than she had words for. She found grateful tears prick her eyes. “Bless you, Lord Carver.”

Carver chuckled. “I think at this point you may just call me Carver. At least in private.”

Leandra wiped her eyes before the tears could fall. “Do you think I can smuggle in a gift?”

Carver hummed on his answer noncommittally. “Toys will be taken if he’s not careful to hide them.” But he didn’t say no.

Leandra considered this as she brainstormed what she could bring. Nothing too big. It had to fit in her purse.

Before they knew it Carver pulled up to what looked like a ratty old bar. It was originally called The Caged Canary, but half the light bulbs were burnt out so it spelled Cage Cry with the ‘The’ blinking in and out.

Malcolm chuckled. “Here?” he asked Carver.

“It’s private and she liked your singing,” Carver replied. Malcolm could hear the smirk in his voice.

Leandra looked at the bar that had so many flyers plastered on the wall it looked like a Chantry board. There was graffiti layered upon layer, sometimes over the flyers, some beautiful mosaics and art pieces of colors. Birds behind bars seemed to be a theme throughout the patterns. It was a chaotic sort of art, the kind that would make her parents sneer, but Leandra found it beautiful, the many hands working together to make something so utterly unique, like a thousand memories cased in time speaking at once. “What is this place?” she found herself asking Malcolm as Mara started shuffling out of the car.

“A karaoke bar,” Malcolm said nonchalantly as he watched Leandra’s face which quickly drained of color.

She froze in the car as if she wasn’t sure she wanted to leave. “Oh, no, I’m better at playing the lute than singing,” Leandra blubbered, suddenly mortified at the thought of making a fool of herself in public.

Malcolm grinned. “Karaoke is not about sounding good, it’s about having fun.”

“Well, no one’s going to have fun once they hear me sing,” Leandra protested.

Mara peeked in the car from the other side, ganging up on her with Malcolm with a conspiratorial grin. “You should do more things you’re not good at, my lady. It will be good for you.”

Leandra pouted as Malcolm offered his hand to help her out of the car. She reluctantly took it, knowing once she did there was no going back.

Carver started pulling out his phone as he approached the group. “The address is 369 Copper Avenue if you would like to invite your brother,” he looked at Leandra as he said this and she was already pulling out her phone to text the details.

Then Carver’s eyes slid to Malcolm as he fished out his wallet and pulled out a sovereign bill and handed it to him.

Malcolm resented being handed money like a kid but it wasn’t like he was allowed to have money like a normal person. That didn’t stop him from finding his ways, but he hadn’t expected to go on a date tonight and didn’t bring anything with him. So he took the bill feeling like a teenager being chaperoned on his first date.

“I need to make a phone call. You can go ahead and order a round of drinks with the booth.”

Maker, at least he could drink. “You going to join us?” He wasn’t sure what he was hoping for.

But Carver said, “I have some reports to catch up on but you have fun.” Then Carver walked off into a corner to take his call in private.

Malcolm led Mara and Leandra into the bar which was smaller than anticipated. There was a TV with the news reporting on the incident on the Viscount’s Palace, speculating attacks and calling it the worst haunting of the new century. The bartender who was a pallid man with graying hair raised an eyebrow at Malcolm’s fine suit and the ladies’ gowns which were much richer than the sticky floors and peeling dull brown faded wallpaper that decorated the environment.

Malcolm marched up to the bartender with confidence as the ladies inspected the furniture that had looked like it hadn’t been changed out since the place was built. The grout of the floor was uneven and chalky.

Malcolm placed the bill on the cracking counter and said, “A room and all the drinks this can afford.”

Would this afford much? He didn’t exactly know the prices on things.

The bartender looked at the bill and took it without question, though he was curious about the party’s outfits he seemed more interested in their money. “Room 3,” He leaned his head to point to a dark cove where a line of rooms were waiting. “And for the drinks?”

He looked to Leandra, who looked to Mara who said, “Shots. Tequila. Vodka. I don’t care.”

“You got it,” the bartender chirped.

Malcolm led them down the corridor, jealous of the way Mara openly leaned on Leandra’s arm. He could tell the two women must be close and he felt in some ways there was a bubble between him and them.

“Charming place,” Mara cooed as she looked at the posters of different singers lining the walls, flowing locks and colorful makeup and costumes crooning into microphones. “You bring all your dates here?”

Malcolm chuckled. “The only time I’ve ever gone here is with Carver or Charlie,” he said.

He opened the door to the room for them which was a cozy little setup with a boxy couch that wrapped around the room, a table in the middle with a thick booklet, and a screen with a few microphones.

“Boyfriend?” Mara prodded as she passed Malcolm, cat eyes gleaming.

“Brother,” Malcolm countered.

Leandra perked up, trying to corral some of Mara’s teasing with a question of her own. “You have a brother in the Circle?” Her voice was hopeful and she gathered her skirts and took a seat on the square couch fully listening.

Mara plopping beside her to take a look through the booklet, the laminated pages cracking and yellowing.

“Not a blood brother,” Malcolm explained. “We just grew up together.”

Leandra tried to mask the disappointment in her eyes.

He took a seat, close but not too close. He glanced at her hand which was relaxed at her side, tempted to reach out and grab it, but with Gamlen in his head he just clenched his fist.

“So what would you sing?” Leandra leaned over as Mara flipped through the selection as she tried to find something that she recognized.

The bartender came in holding a large tray of liquid amber and set it on the table without a word.

“Well first we’d get drunk,” Malcolm said, suddenly needing the liquid courage and he grabbed one of the glasses and knocked it back, the burn welcome and warming him, soothing his frazzled nerves.

“Smart man,” Mara grinned as she grabbed two glasses and handed one to Leandra without thinking. “But you’re breaking the party rules. We’re supposed to cheer before we drink.”

Malcolm reached for another glass with a chuckle. “I can just grab another drink.”

Mara gleamed at Leandra holding up her glass as she said. “To Leandra. She’s the most badass woman I know.”

Malcolm grinned at Leandra’s fluster as he held up her glass to match Mara’s praise. “She definitely is.”

Leandra clinked glasses with them and knocked back the liquid before coughing which brought chuckles out of Mara and Malcolm. “That’s much stronger than wine.”

Suddenly Leandra’s phone rang and she looked at the cell phone to see that Senhel was calling. In confusion she answered it thinking it was an emergency.

“Leandra Gloriana Amell,” the voice of her mother shrieked on her phone. “Do you have your Father and me on ignore!?”

Leandra grumbled, she was just starting to have fun. “Mother,” she hicced. “I thought I told you I’m resting.”

“You are certainly not in your room!”

“I’m at Mara’s.”

“Don’t lie to me. I sent Sylvain to fetch you and you’re not there.”

Mara and Malcolm looked at each other as Leandra slunk into the couch, looking ragged and tired. “Fine,” she snapped, her voice sounding like a tight thread. “I’m out having a drink with Mara. Because it’s been a night. And I deserve it.”

“Leandra Amell-”

“Goodnight, Mother. I’m turning off my phone,” then she powered down her cell and threw it back in her purse with a huff.

“Another drink?” Malcolm offered.

Mara was beaming at Leandra. “After standing up to the wicked witch of Kirkwall let’s have three.”

So they did, clinking their glasses each time as they knocked it back in unison, the alcohol starting to make them feel giddy and loose.

Finally Mara picked up the microphone and waggled her eyebrows. “Alright we’re supposed to be singing, right?”

Leandra and Malcolm cheered, raising more glasses sharing a grin.

Mara plugged in the song and with an upbeat piano that was as spunky as she was. She wiggled her hips as she grooved with her microphone, getting into it, her face goofy and carefree for the first time that night.

“Why men great til’ they gotta be great,” she sang loudly and proudly off-key.

“I just took a DNA test

Turns out

I’m a hundred percent

That bitch

Even when I’m crying crazy

Yeah I got boy problems

That’s the human in me

Bling! Bling! Then I solve ‘em

That’s the Goddess in me

Malcolm and Leandra danced in their seats and Mara gave them a show, belting her frustrations into the mic and only slightly tripping over the words with her drunken tongue. The mistakes only made her laugh which made everyone laugh. Then she grabbed the mic with both hands, her face twisting in anger as she kicked off her red strappy heels so they bounced against the couch and wall, belting out with flourish,

“You could have had a bad bitch

Non committal

Help you with your career

Just a little

You’re supposed to hold me dooown

But you’re holding me back

And that’s the soooound

Of me not calling you back.”

Soon Malcolm and Leandra were trying to sing along to the chorus, though Malcolm didn’t know the words to this one. Still, Mara was fun and it was nice to see Leandra with that beautiful smile. He thought her laugh was the most gorgeous sound in the world and he’d never tire of it.

They were all thoroughly enjoying themselves so much that they didn’t notice that Gamlen had now perched himself at the door and listened to the man-hating song, a bouquet of what looked like store bought roses in one arm and a box of expensive fine truffles in the other, but Mara at one point noticed him, the song fading from her lips as the music continued and quickly wrapped up.

The silence was awkward and no one knew what to make of it. Everyone was staring at Gamlen but Gamlen was only staring at Mara.

“I’m sorry,” he said finally. “I was an idiot.”

Mara huffed putting down the microphone with a thud, feedback shrieking through the speakers.

“No denying that but do you even know what you’re sorry for?”

Gamlen rushed forward and placed the gifts in Mara’s arms which she reluctantly accepted. “I was an ass. You told me that enough.”

Mara blew out air, ruffling her bangs. “But the comments you said about Malcolm said a lot about what you think about me.”

“I don’t-I would never,” he sputtered. “I just…Being an elf never seemed to matter to you before.”

Mara glared. “Of course it matters to me. I might not have the pointed ears, but Lolo is all I have left after the car accident. You know that.”

“Of course,” Gamlen said. “Of course it’s important. I just…” he blew out a ragged breath, his eyes flicking to Malcolm. “This is all so fast. Leandra just met him tonight.”

“But you heard Leandra, she likes him. This is not your decision to make.”

Gamlen looked like all the air had been taken out of him as he struggled to find an argument but failed.

Mara looked at Malcolm who seemed to have gone quiet at Gamlen’s presence. “I’m not the only one who deserves your apology.”

Gamlen looked conflicted as his eyes snapped to Malcolm who was knocking back another drink. Gamlen clenched his fists, as he looked over Malcolm, the disgust still clear in his eyes but from the look on Mara’s face she wouldn’t let this go.

Through clenched teeth he said. “Sorry,” but he spat the word out like a curse.

Malcolm discarded his glass and picked up another, feeling slightly drunk and still very very pissed off. “I don’t know, did I hear an apology?”

Leandra crossed her arms, matching Malcolm’s glare. “No, I don’t know that I did.”

Mara dropped Gamlen’s gifts on the table like she was dropping trash in a bin. “Care to try again?”

Gamlen’s eyes widened in fear and he swallowed his anger as he tried to suppress his glare at Malcolm. “Fine, fine. I’m really really sorry.”

“For…” Malcolm drawled looking into his glass of amber liquid.

“For being an ass,” Gamlen chewed out.

“And…”

Gamlen narrowed his eyes, flicking to the other women for help but they simply waited expectantly for his answer. He wasn’t sure what else he was supposed to add. Apologizing wasn’t exactly something he did voluntarily.

He looked for Leandra to help but found her usual warm expression cold, but still she added, “And he won’t do it again.”

Gamlen bristled at that, seeming reluctant to actually say those words, but with Mara glaring at him, too, he repeated, “I won’t do it again.”

Malcolm grinned at that, all teeth. “Now that’s an apology.” Then he made a cheering motion at Gamlen and knocked back his drink.

Mara sniffed and sat down beside Leandra, satisfied but still seething. Gamlen followed her like a sad puppy and when he sat down next to her he tried to hold her hand but she snapped it back, still angry.

Malcolm sighed, feeling sloshed by now, but with Gamlen being so close he felt himself tensing like a stretched rubber band ready to snap. Still, getting the asshole to apologize was at least slightly satisfying even if Malcolm didn’t believe a word of it.

Leandra brushed his hand, bringing him out of his churning thoughts. Her eyes looked worried as she bit her lip, seeming unsure. “I’d love to hear you sing next.”

Malcolm did have a song in mind already, one that he heard long ago but didn’t have any meaning to him until meeting Leandra, but his eyes flickered to Gamlen who was sulking in the corner, unsure if singing it would bring more ire.

Leandra seemed to sense his hesitation and she was suddenly rambling as if she was nervous. “You don’t have to. I mean I can definitely try singing a song with Mara if you’re not feeling up to it.”

Mara leaned over to Leandra with a grin on her face. “What are we singing?”

Gamlen snorted. “You’re singing?”

Leandra glared. “Shut up! As if your voice is any better.”

“At least I know when to keep my mouth shut.”

“Not when it counts,” Malcolm’s unfiltered drunken thoughts blurted out which brought another laugh from Leandra and Mara and a scowl from Gamlen.

Malcolm smirk softened at Leandra’s laughter and he watched her with soft eyes.

She stopped when she noticed he was staring, his honey eyes drawing her in.

“I’d love to hear you sing.” Malcolm said in a voice so genuine she could only swallow.

Leandra dropped her eyes, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “I mean you’re going to have nightmares.”

“I don’t know,” Malcolm grinned. “Since meeting you it feels like I’ve been living a dream.”

She blushed deeply, her breath stuttering, a pleased smile forming on her lips as she choked on what she said. “I guess I’m drunk enough to sing.”

Mara cheered and Malcolm and her clinked glasses in a celebratory drink.

Leandra and Mara took the stage, their eyes on the screen as they huddled together.

A slow ballad filled the speakers, soft and sweet, just like Leandra was. Mara opened her mouth widely inhaling but as soon as the countdown signaled for them to start only Leandra’s voice sang out,

“Wise men say

Only fools rush in

But I can’t help

Falling in love with you”

Leandra’s eyes flew in panic as she realized that Mara was not singing along but looking at her with a smirk as she was forced to either stop or continue. Her eyes flew to Malcolm’s like a moth to a flame, her voice trembling in uncertainty.

She was not as terrible as she claimed, not a singer’s voice sure, but Malcolm found he could listen to her all night. He watched the rosy glow of her cheeks as her eyelashes fluttered, looking so uncertain and vulnerable.

“Like a river flows

Gently to the sea

Surely how it goes

Some things were meant to be.”

Malcolm hoped that was what she was telling him, and his gaze turned so intense she could not bear the scrutiny, her voice shaky and faltering but she finished the song to the end. Malcolm and Mara then burst into applause as Leandra shyly tucked hair behind her ear.

She glared at Mara but there was no anger in her voice. “Traitor.”

Mara shook her head in laughter as she took her seat beside Gamlen.

Leandra sauntered up to Malcolm, closer than ever. He could feel the warmth of her body and smell the alcohol on her breath. She playfully grabbed his arm and brought him to the stage and pushed a microphone in his hand. “Ok, now it’s your turn. Better make it good.”

Malcolm was nervous, but the way she was smiling at him he couldn’t help but smile back. “I aim to please, my lady.”

“Well, then do it,” she commanded cheekily. “Please me.”

Malcolm’s eyes darkened at this challenge. Her cheeks were so rosy he had to resist cupping them, her smile brilliant as she sat captively in attention. He felt shaky with nerves, his stomach doing that warm flutter. He plugged in the song, a soft drumbeat pulsed through the speakers as he gazed in her eyes, feeling like there was no one else in the room. His heart sped up, aching to have her. His honeyed voice crooned through the speakers, begging her to accept him.

“I wish we were both someone else

So you wouldn’t be somebody else’s

I don’t want to lie here by myself

Ain’t afraid to say I’m selfish.”

“Don’t wanna lie to you, Don’t wanna promise something

Knowin’ I can’t come through, toast over this discussion

More of ignoring the rules, too close and then we’re touching

Now we’re both confused.”

Leandra found herself rising to her feet, her heart feeling the same ache in the lyrics. His hand seemed to beckon her to him as he looked at her with a yearning that made her feel alive.

“Something in the way you smell

Something in the way touch me

Maybe it’s the way you wrap your arms around me

Makes me wanna lay you down, Tell you all the things we could be

Tell me that you need me now, even though it’s not allowed.”

Leandra couldn’t help herself if she wanted to. Malcolm’s honest words crooning at her had her grabbing his tie before he could reach the chorus again and she answered him with a hungry kiss. He tasted strawberries and alcohol and her taste coated his tongue until he was lapping it up greedy for every drop of her. Hungry. That was the only way that could be described when their lips met. His hands snaked up her back untangling her braid loose as she held him captive by his tie, pulling him closer by his curls as they devoured each other, the beat still pulsing in the background. They stumbled, trying to find steadiness as their mouths refused to part, tripping into the table and almost knocking each other over.

Mara hooted encouragingly at the kiss and she tried to get Gamlen to join her in a cheer but he looked like he was trying to look anywhere but at his sister. When Malcolm had backed her into a wall and it was clear that they wouldn’t stop, Gamlen finally snapped and said, “Leandra!”

Malcolm pulled away, surprised by Gamlen’s shout but she held onto his tie and stuck out her tongue like she was five. “Grow up, Gamlen. I’ve watched you and Mara dry hump since tenth grade.”

Malcolm barked out a laugh, lipstick smeared across his lips. Then Leandra pulled him in for another sweet kiss. “Sing me another,” she asked against his lips.

The night seemed to go much better, the laughs easier, and after Malcolm sang a few more songs they went back to rotating. Gamlen mostly sulked throughout the night, giving a tight-lipped glare as Malcolm and Leandra shared kiss after kiss, feeling bolder and handsier, but other than some huffs he didn’t do much more to ruin the night.

Before they knew it Carver crept through the door, his face amused at the state of Malcolm’s lipstick smeared face as he and Leandra were cuddling in the corner sharing a drunken snooze, Leandra cradled on Malcolm’s chest.

Gamlen sat in the corner, tight-lipped, the same scowl he carried all night plastered on his face.

“So you all had a good time,”

Leandra and Malcolm stirred, both yawning and blinking.

Mara saluted drunkenly from the couch, in a fit of giggles. “Yes, Officer. Mission succeeded.” He had interrupted her from eating Gamlen’s apology chocolates, a pile of used wrappers piled on the table among the many, many drained glasses.

“Very good,” Carver had a satisfied smile on his face. “I’ll need to take you back to Hightown now if Malcolm’s going to make it back by First Bell.”

“Nope,” Leandra shook her head with a yawn, her words a little slurred. “Nope. No, my parents will kill me if they see me like this. Take me to Mara’s.”

Mara yawned and covered her mouth. “Good idea. You have the day off so we can just sleep.”

Leandra jerked, suddenly realizing, “Oh, no! I have a Cleansing today!”

Mara cocked her head. “What time? Maybe we can grab a nap?”

Leandra chewed her lip picking herself up from Malcolm’s hold so she could look through her bag for her phone.

It was full of texts from her Mother and Father. She scrolled through the lectures and threats to find that her Cleansing was early and not only that but the Du Lancets would be participating and the Guillaume would be at her side tomorrow. And then the bubble popped.

“Oh, how am I going to presentable by 10 am?” Leandra’s voice was filled with panic.

“Don’t worry, I’m on the case,” Mara patted her chest confidently. “As long as I can pass out as soon as I’m done.”

“You’d have earned it and your raise,” Leandra pulled herself upright and wobbled in her heels.

“Easy there,” Malcolm automatically moved to steady her and she placed her hand on his chest as she willed the room to stop spinning. He sat her back down allowing her to lean on him.

“Something greasy will work wonders,” Carver said helpfully.

“I’ll whip up a bacon breakfast when we get home,” Mara yawned. “And lots of coffee.”

As Mara stretched she looked at the templar with renewed interest, the man seeming more like a statue to her than a person and she eyed him from head to toe. “Not going to sing at least one?” she said in a sing-song voice, her cat eyes gleaming with mischief. “Malcolm tells us you have quite the voice.”

Carver smiled, chuckling. “We don’t really have time.”

Malcolm was looking for any reason to make the night last just a little longer. “Oh, c’mon just one. For old time’s sake?”

Leandra blinked her doe eyes, batting them like a weapon. “Oh, please,” her words crashed together clumsily. “You’ve been alone all night, Ser Carver. I’d love to hear you sing.”

“I’m tired,” Gamlen snapped. “Let’s go.”

Maybe it was the fact that the other three were pleading, their drunken stupor making the consequences of the night still seem far away. Or maybe Carver wanted to have one more opportunity to get under Gamlen’s skin, but he smiled wider than he did all night, fully coming into the room and headed for the stage, crooking a motion to Malcolm to follow him. “I’m only singing if you join me, Hawke.”

Malcolm pushed himself off the couch eagerly. “Deal,” he said grabbing one of the extra mics from the stand as Mara and Leandra cheered, no more alcohol to toast with but they still raised their hands up in the motion.

Carver plugged in the song and a high energy guitar riff started streaming. Malcolm grinned as he recognized it. Carver’s energy seemed to change, his stiff shoulders relaxing as his warm coffee eyes gleamed at Malcolm, still remembering how Charlie was there the last time they sang this. He raised the mic, a raspy baritone ringing clear and beautiful like a deep bell, belting the lyrics with confidence.

“She’s got a smile that seems to me

Reminds me of childhood memories

Where everything was as fresh

As the clear blue sky.”

His eyes flicked to Mara, his hands cradling the mic as the beat rocked. Their eyes met in a strange crackling energy that Gamlen didn’t seem to notice cause he was too busy sulking. Carver watched as her slow gaze inspected him in curiosity, following the lines of his armor.

“Now and then when I see her face

It takes me to that special place

And if I stared too long,

I’d probably break down and cry.”

Malcolm joined him for the chorus, harmonizing with him so beautifully that it brought goosebumps to the ladies skin.

“Whooooa, Sweet child of mine,

Whooooa, Sweet love of mine.”

Then Malcolm’s honeyed voice took over, his eyes meeting Leandra as he sang with a smile, his face smeared with Leandra’s kisses, light and life in every bounce of his step.

“She’s got eyes like the starriest skies

As if they thought of rain

I’d hate to look into those eyes

And see an ounce of pain.”

Her hair reminds me of a warm safe place

Where as a child I’d hide

And pray for the thunder and rain

To quietly pass me by.”

Carver joined him again for the chorus, his soothing deep voice weaving around his melody as they repeated, their gazes meeting in boyish mischief.

Then soon the guitar break came and both Carver and Malcolm went into ridiculous scatting, mimicking the riffs as they pretended to play invisible guitars. When the lyrics came back they echoed against each other, the melody getting more complicated as they each broke into their own renditions, bouncing and dancing on the stage as they pushed each other, a couple of boys roughhousing. Leandra and Mara couldn’t stop laughing at their silliness, the song stretching on and on never seemed to end until Carver and Malcolm kept singing back to the other.

“Where do we go?

Where do we go now?”

It was the question in Malcolm’s mind. His eyes stayed drawn to Leandra, asking her.

Then the song wrapped up with the same high energy and Leandra and Mara rose to their feet cheering drunkenly.

“Bravo!”

“Bellissimo!”

“Encore!”

Gamlen’s scowl looked like it had been carved into his face and would stay there forever. He glared at the two men as they made exaggerated bows at the ladies’ applause.

“Now can we go?” Gamlen snarled.

Carver’s proper demeanor was back in place as he put away the microphone with care. “Yes, I believe that is best.”

"Wait, wait, wait," Leandra reached through her bag for her phone and turned it back on. Ignoring the new messages, she then went to her camera. "We need to commemorate the night."

Malcolm and Carver looked at each other.

"I'm not sure we should be leaving more evidence," Carver's voice said nervously.

Leandra blinked her eyes pleading. "Please, it won't leave my phone. I just need something to remember the night was real."

That was all the convincing Malcolm needed. He grabbed Leandra's waist pulling her in for a pose. She blushed and snuggled in closer, holding out the phone, their faces framing the screen.

Carver looked like he wanted to protest more but Mara grabbed his arm. "C'mon Officer, loosen up." He seemed flustered as the small woman led him. "It's just a selfie." She then motioned Gamlen to join her. "You too, Grumpmeister."

Gamlen looked irritated to see Mara casually touching Carver's arm and so stormed up and claimed her with a possessive grab on her hip and yanked her to him.

Mara seemed annoyed, but said nothing as they all huddled in close for the camera so their faces could fit.

It flashed, and they all blinked, temporarily blind.

"Sorry," Leandra said as they all peered at the picture.

Carver was caught in the middle between Mara and Leandra looking out of place in his armor, his face grim like a statue. Mara leaned on Gamlen but her face was closer to Carver, smiling a model's smile as she posed expertly. Gamlen's face was cut off slightly, his ugly glare caught as he stared at Malcolm and Leandra pressing cheeks, her lipstick had left a clear trail of where she claimed him and they shared the same ecstatic smile.

Malcolm wanted something to remember the night, too. He grabbed Leandra's phone and texted himself the picture. He handed the phone back. "Now you have my number."

She gazed at her phone blushing as she realized he inserted himself as "Dream Guy."

They left the club, the sky still dark among the high buildings, but there were still signs of the bus moving for the early commute. Carver drove them to Mara’s place in Midtown which bordered the edge of Lowtown and Hightown, a cut of suburbs that were newer and had a cookie cutter like appearance. There was already a car in the driveway, a nice but older SUV that had been handled with care. The streets were dark except for the street lights that marked the houses in neat little rows, flowering shrubs and gardens filled with knick knacks differentiating them.

Malcolm got out of the car and helped Leandra out, their hands not unlinking as she stepped out.

Mara pushed out of the templar car still yawning, Gamlen following quickly behind. “You can go to my room, but don’t be loud and wake Lolo.”

Gamlen nodded, keeping close to Mara as she dug through her purse for her keys. He cast a glare in Malcolm’s direction when he noticed he was holding his sister’s hand but he kept to his apology and said nothing, following Mara into her house.

Leandra and Malcolm’s stroll was a languid shuffle as if they slowed down the moment it wouldn’t end. Still Mara’s porch approached and it did.

“When can I see you again?” she asked shyly as she squeezed his hand harder instead of letting go.

Malcolm’s heart fluttered, his voice eager. “I’ll break out as soon as I’m able.”

Leandra seemed conflicted about that. She placed her hand over his heart, lines of worry streaking her face. “Don’t get in trouble on my account.”

Malcolm grinned cheekily as he leaned into her face. “I am trouble.”

He captured her lips in a hungry kiss, not knowing when he’d be able to taste her next. Their lips moved unhurried and slow, their fingers exploring over their clothing under the arch of the porch. One minute passed, then two. It seemed there was not enough time in the world to memorize each other, and they were soon interrupted by Carver’s loud but abrupt honk.

Malcolm grinned against her mouth. “See you soon,” he promised and he dashed off and hopped into the front seat of Carver’s car.

Leandra didn’t go inside until the vehicle pulled away from the driveway and disappeared down the street.

#my writing #leandra x malcolm #hawke #da fanfic #da2 #wrote this instead of sleeping #did I post the reworked chapter 5?#idk

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ikesenhell · 4 years

Text

Heatwave

You can find all other IkeSen works of mine on my page under the Masterlist. NOTES: Thank you so much to the wonderful folks who came out and hung out with me as I wrote my first Ikesen piece since ‘American Dream’ in ages. I’d been batting around this idea at the lovely @a-shout-to-the-void and finally buckled down and did it. TW: torture, abuse mentions and descriptions, blood, painful injuries. A lot of descriptions and references to Ieyasu’s childhood with the Imagawa Don’t worry, no one dies. It also somehow has a good ending? Idk man. Also, hello to my first piece with Yoshimoto in it whatupppppp

----

It was three months after the second disappearance of the Takeda, and the main hall was deathly quiet. All were assembled--Nobunaga lording on his dias, his allies gathered close--and no one spoke.

Ieyasu wished someone would.

“He wasn’t difficult to bring in at all,” Mitsuhide commented, as if it were the weather. Clouds from the shoreline--perhaps it will rain.

(Funny, they could use some of that. The summer was stifling and showed no signs of abating, even as the seasons turned. The crops weren’t going as well as expected, and Azuchi was a cooker. They’d slitted the screens open, but even then, Ieyasu could see sweat beading on Hideyoshi’s forehead. Even Mitsuhide, usually pristine and inhuman, sported small pools of darkened silk in the underlayers that peeked through.)

Masamune almost smiled. “Do you really think he was stupid enough to come here on purpose? He’s got guts.”

Nobunaga’s perceptive red eyes flickered in Ieyasu’s direction.

“Perhaps.” Mitsuhide allowed a smile.

“Probably to try his hand at Nobunaga.” But even Hideyoshi seemed unconvinced. “Maybe the last ditch effort of the Takeda before we destroy them.”

Ieyasu hated that he glanced at Mitsunari, looking for something in the way of understanding, anything he hadn’t guessed at already. Even if that stupid puzzled expression was there, it was something. No luck. Mitsunari had the hard, calculating stare of a man who already knew the score.

Damn it all to hell.

“He no doubt knows where Shingen and his ilk have scattered to. Until we have found them, they remain a threat.” With a subtle nod of an imperious head (the fine sheen of sweat glittered on his neck), he motioned to Mitsuhide. “Do what you must.”

“With all due respect, my lord,” the other man noted, “I believe there is someone else here who might be better suited to… gathering the information you require from our latest guest.”

His hands were cold. His hands were cold and they were all looking at him. Ieyasu balled his fingers into fists and willed them to stop trembling.

(Was he angry? Furious. Incensed. They needed rain in Mikawa and the crops were a concern and in the vacuum that the Takeda left there were a thousand bureaucratic things to consider and he was never not angry, only three steps away from it where he could look at it from what he liked to think was a cool remove when it was really like a fiery tornado. They’d taken so much from him and here he was again, to take more with a smile, and he couldn’t do a damn thing without destroying it anyway.)

Nobunaga just stared at him. “Well?”

And he was the best man for the job.

Ieyasu nodded, his face as porcelain-still as he could force. “Of course.”

---

The first time he met Imagawa Yoshimoto, he only said one word.

Ieyasu was only a child, still in the hands of his enemies. He had bruised banding around his legs from switches and cut knees, hair that went every which way and eyes that still welled traitorously with tears when struck. Illusions of fair treatment were gone. All he had was will and a directive: this is what you can do for Mikawa. If being beaten saved Mikawa, that was his responsibility.

Wasn’t it?

There was a banquet and the Imagawa wanted to show him off like a prize pet. Ieyasu was quiet, not stupid.He smiled politely and remembered all of the tiny details of court manners, the little things that would help him (Mikawa) survive. They’d put him into a finer haori than the one they usually allowed and seated him where all the other nobles could spy on the little waif from a nothing place.

Yoshimoto, he later learned, was the beanpole teen sitting perfectly only a few spaces away from him. Dark hair, a charming smile, pretty eyes. Ieyasu hated them all on reflex. Whoever he was--that didn't matter. Ieyasu smiled with thanks to one of his benefactors and imagined stabbing him between the eyes.

How would he do it first? Who would go? It made sense to start with the Imagawa head--of course, that was only the correct order of things--but he could also trap them all in the hall and set it ablaze, let them scrabble over each other like rats. He could pick off their families one by one. He could--

Someone set a sake cup heavily in front of him, only half-poured. Ieyasu blinked rapid-fire up at the teen smiling down at him.

“Smile,” he instructed, fluttering a fan entirely-too-close to both of them. And then he rushed away.

Ieyasu glanced down at the cup on his table and realized two things: one, he’d allowed his polite facade to slip. He could feel the stormcloud in the grit of his teeth. Two, the Imagawa teenager had blocked him from view with the fan--and probably spared him a beating.

Only later did he learn his name.

---

The dungeon stairs were slick. Every once in a while, someone came and cleaned the mold and mildew from the flagstones, but that was a lost cause. It seemed like the only moisture in Azuchi had escaped to its basements. Wet-blanket heat settled foul in the belly of Mitsuhide’s workspace, the little light lancing from narrow windows illuminating hazy curls of breath-sucking humidity. Ieyasu disguised his disgust at the foul smells the way he knew best--frowning.

Their prisoner was moved to the very last cell, the ‘interrogation room’. Mitsuhide’s gentle words didn't disguise its purpose. It was an execution chamber and torture cell. Ieyasu never went in to discover its secrets. What he did was in the open, precisely where everyone could see it.

(Because if you were going to hurt someone, you did it openly, he’d decided. Cowards hid abuse. If you raised the sword, you showed the sunlight its deadly glint and let heaven know your intent. Violence couldn’t be wrapped in a silken kimono and paraded before leering eyes--)

The door was shut. Ieyasu didn't waste the time to reflect on it. No interior monologue did him good here. Shunting thoughts and the heavy latch to the side, he stepped in.

Their prisoner was kneeling. Mitsuhide prepped well. His knees were tied to those uneven slats the other man so preferred, jagged, uneven boards guaranteed to end with shattered shin bones if left long enough. He’d been stripped of his fine armor and things, reduced to a (still beautiful, dark grey and blue silk) final layer of kimono. Unkempt, shiny dark hair spilled loose on his shoulders. As Ieyasu stepped inside, those gold eyes met his.

Yoshimoto had the audacity to smile.

“Tokugawa Ieyasu,” he said, light as a feather, his voice already hoarse. Like commenting on the weather. Awfully hot, isn’t it? It should have rained by now. “I didn't expect to see you here.”

All the anger he kept so tightly coiled unfurled, the head of it raring like a threatened snake, and Ieyasu bared his fangs, too. “You should have. Why did you come?”

It was a stupid question. They both knew that. Yoshimoto just smiled that serene, sad, painter’s smile. Maybe, Ieyasu thought, if he had half of Yoshimoto’s artistic eye (the way he’d never had Mitsunari’s reflex genius or Masamune’s slick tongue or Nobunaga’s command or--), he could take the scene before him and transform it into a painting. The light cast over his prisoner’s back in sharp relief, all of the folds of silk and linen and hair akin to one of those Portuguese paintings they tried so hard to pawn off on them.

“Are you going to answer?” Ieyasu demanded. Cold, cold, cold. His hands were cold.

Yoshimoto dipped his head silently. “You know why I came, and you know why I won’t leave.”

Ieyasu sucked in his breath--like that would crush the flames of anger twisting, tornadoing in him. It burned in his throat. First, he’d get Yoshimoto off those planks. Those would come later.

---

When he emerged several hours later--without anything to show for his efforts, just blazing fury and frustration renewed and a respect that clawed at his spine--Ieyasu blinked in surprise at the Chatelaine standing just outside the stairwell. He almost missed her. The sun was gone by now, the moon rising in its inconstant arc over Azuchi’s peaks, long lines of moonlight as gentle as the flickering torch light below was ominous.

Of course she was there. Of course.

“How is he?” She asked, and Ieyasu wanted to scream.

“How do you think?” He snapped. “Go inside.”

She didn't move. Instead, she produced a cold cup for him, shoving it into his hands.

“What’s this for?”

“It was hot today. You must be thirsty.”

He stared at the cup in his hands, the silvery liquid inside glowing like moonbeams. “How long have you been here?”

“A while.”

What did that mean? How long had she waited here in the fading dusk, listening to the muffled sounds below, with a cup for him? Was it even for him? How could she give him this when only moments before, he’d washed away the blood of her--her--

Gods, he still couldn’t say it to himself.

“Who told you?” He finally asked, his voice sharp.

She folded her hands over her skirts instead of answering. “Is he alive?”

Of course this was about Yoshimoto. Of course this was. Even the cup was in the interest of getting information. Icy, crawling hatred slithered down the small of his back like sweat. Unceremoniously, Ieyasu dumped the contents of the cup on the ground.

“Ieyasu--!”

He contemplated breaking it. But that wasn’t fair to her. None of this was. None of this was fair to her, just like none of it was fair to him. So instead he shoved the little mug back into her hands and stalked inside, as if moving fast enough would leave all of that behind.

---

For the rest of his captivity, Yoshimoto was less a person and more a concept. Ieyasu saw him sometimes, fleeting glimpses of a young man blooming handsome. What kind of a life did he lead, Ieyasu wondered? It must be the opposite of his plight. No doubt he had enough to eat. No doubt he had clothes that fit, people that cared whether he lived or died, someone to spare a smile at him. No doubt he could sleep at night without a burning hate clawing up his throat and threatening to choke him.

It was hot that summer--sweltering, relentless. Ieyasu’s room had no screens to the courtyard and so he tossed and turned fitfully at night, too uncomfortable to sleep. Sometimes he dreamed of Mikawa and home, home with the people who relied on him to be strong, people who allowed him to step down from his endless responsibility of strength for a day and be a young man again.

They exchanged words only briefly once more, before Ieyasu went home and returned again and razed them, burned their houses the way he’d always dreamed, released all the untamed hatred raring in his heart and finally did for Mikawa what his endless abuse at the Imagawa had never done. They passed in the hallways and Yoshimoto stopped him, a small retinue at his side.

“Tokugawa Ieyasu,” he said lightly. Yoshimoto said his name like a name, not a curse, not a burden on a household already determined to hate him. “How are you today?”

What could he say? A thousand callous things spiraled through his mind, each one more vile than the other, until he couldn’t think of a single nice word. He simply shut his mouth and nodded slowly, safely, feeling thick and stupid. “It has been quite hot lately.”

Those gold eyes stared right through him. And at long last, Yoshimoto nodded. “It certainly has. I hope it rains soon. May you have an excellent day.”

When he returned to his room that night, there was a small, beautiful fan sitting in a neat package before his door. Ieyasu let the slow, languid sound of its fluttering lull him to sleep, its cool breeze the first reprieve in months.

---

He didn't think about Imagawa Yoshimoto for a long while after, not even when he served as Imagawa's puppet ruler. That chapter of his life was behind him. Ieyasu had exacted his revenge on Imagawa. That was over.

It was, at least, until the Chatelaine.

---

“Why are you here?” He demanded.

She was waiting for him again in front of the dungeon steps, a small package wrapped in her hands. Her kimono was a soft blue with little white details, modest and cute and practical and perfect. She worked so hard. Everyone knew that. He knew that.

“You didn't have anything to eat this morning,” she answered. The sun wasn’t yet at its peak, but already he could see the waves of heat rolling across the fields behind her, the bronzed backs of villagers in its orange glow. “You almost never miss breakfast.”

“Almost,” he pushed, as if that word made all the difference. Damnit. Damn it all to hell. This was why he had to hate people like her and Mitsunari (and Yoshimoto). The second you saw anything different in them, they pried you open like oystermen searching for pearls and only recoiled in disappointment when they discovered nothing but sand and salt. “You know that this won’t bribe me, right?”

Her cheeks flared white-hot. Good. Hate me. Hate me like I have to hate everyone else who wronged me.

“You do know I like you, right?” She snapped. “I’m your friend. I’m not doing anything to bribe you.”

“Yeah?” Ieyasu sneered, too angry and confused and bitter to stop himself, “Just like you like Imagawa Yoshimoto? Should I expect a love letter--”

She flung the package into his hands (he caught it, barely) and marched away, her shoulders knit tight together.

It still smelled of bean paste when he arrived in the last room of the dungeon, Yoshimoto already prepared and silent for the day. He looked well, for a man who now sported a bruised eye, crusted lip, and a slightly jagged shoulder.

“Good morning, Tokugawa Ieyasu,” he announced, hoarse but polite.

Ieyasu unwrapped the breakfast and examined its contents. There was a little more than usual.

“Your woman,” he announced, (and why was it so hard to sound angry and impassive, why did he want to sound sad?) “Apparently gave me extra food under the impression I might give you some.”

No doubt the prisoner was starving. He’d barely had enough to eat to sustain himself, let alone under the pressure of the torture. But Yoshimoto straightened.

“Is she well?”

No mention of the food. No weakness. Just that endless reservoir of hope that Ieyasu resented, resented because he couldn’t find it anywhere inside himself. Didn't he deserve that kind of serenity?

Silence. Ieyasu considered his words. Yoshimoto, no doubt, was wondering what had become of her, if Nobunaga had exacted on her the same fate that awaited him. The uncertainty was doubtless crushing. A thousand lies presented themselves.

“Yes,” he finally allowed. “She’s fine.”

Yoshimoto smiled. Even through the bloodstained teeth and greasy hair and bruising and marks running roughshod over his arms where everyone could see, he still glowed. “Good.”

---

Ieyasu still dreamed about being with the Imagawa.

Usually it was just the shape of things. The oppressive hot of his bedroom, the rolling waves of contracting pain in his muscles, the crushing emptiness of a room with no sunlight.

Sometimes Ieyasu considered them a mercy. It wasn’t the same as the real thing. He didn't have dreams about how the men decided to test how far his stone expression went, applying hotter and hotter blades to his skin to see if he’d cry. They finally applied a white-hot wakizashi to the tender flesh of his thigh and he screamed so loud he couldn’t talk clearly for a week.

Where was Yoshimoto during all this, he wondered now? There was no way he couldn’t have known. He had a reputation as a lush, but Ieyasu also knew from first-hand battle experience that more lay beneath that pretty exterior. He was like his Takeda cousin: he knew how to play a good game. Had he known just the hint of Ieyasu’s abuse, or had he understood the full spectrum of it? Surely the men of court talked. No doubt they made it a game.

Yoshimoto had to know.

She was surprised when he confronted her in the courtyard. She was hanging up some silks she’d washed, their bright colors like cavalry banners. Her stone-face was good, too, but not as good as his. He could see the thin lines of worry and sleepless nights stretched in the fine skin under her eyes.

“Why him?” Ieyasu demanded.

The chatelaine blinked at him, registering his question. No immediate answer. That was wise. ��Why do you want to know?”

“Do you know what the Imagawa are like?” He hissed. “Do you know what they did? Do you have any idea?”

(It was hot out, so hot that he could see the wet silks drying already. No breeze lifted them. They hung like corpses strung out as an example. The remains of the burns on his thighs and arms, even now, stung superheated. The prickle of sweat against them was agonizing and he’d learned to live with it.)

Slowly, she dipped a hand into the cold water of her wash bucket and took his fingers in hers. Sweet relief! Ieyasu tried not to unbend under her gentle touch, the kindness, tried to convince himself that this was for someone else’s benefit and not his. History said otherwise. Long before she’d met Yoshimoto, she’d been like this.

“No,” she said at last. “I don’t know much about who they were to you, just the vague details you’ve shared.”

“Then why him?” Ieyasu groped for his real question. It was that simple, wasn’t it? Yoshimoto wasn’t just on the wrong side. He was on the worst side. Even Uesugi Kenshin was better than an Imagawa.

“Well…” She dipped her hand back in the bucket, splashed more water on his arms. It clung to the silk of his sleeves and cooled the worst of his burns. “There’s a lot to like about him.”

Of course there was. Yoshimoto was intelligent and clever. He had excellent taste and was handsome and diplomatic, even if he had a reputation as a useless leader and a lush. He’d never been anything but kind, and Ieyasu hated that.

---

Yoshimoto hit the floor with a thud and a yelp, but an unsatisfying one. Ieyasu prowled around him.

“You know what Nobunaga wants.” The sun shot unrelenting into their chamber, superheating everything. Ieyasu was sweating like a madman and refused to cede even a single article of clothing. He would not reveal the testament of his failures hidden underneath. “Just give me where Shingen went.”

The other man laughed miserably and rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling. Ieyasu kicked him back over.

“He would have told you,” Ieyasu snarled. “That was your plan. Your plan was to come here, get her, go back into hiding with her and the rest of the Takeda. Wasn’t it?”

For once, Yoshimoto sighed and shut his eyes. “Why would I do that?”

“Giving us his whereabouts--”

“Ieyasu,” Yoshimoto interrupted wearily (and he still said his name like a name, goddamnit, not a curse or a burden or an evil thing, even after all of this), “She hates war. Why would I bring her straight into one?”

Outside, heat thunder rolled. No break in the heat yet. Its siren song drove the farmers and townspeople mad with hope. Hideyoshi had looked out sagely that morning and declared that it wouldn’t rain--not today--but it might later that week. They usually trusted him with that kind of thing. Right now, Ieyasu wished that it would come pouring down and drown them both.

“That has no relevance to where Takeda Shingen is,” Ieyasu finally responded.

“I don’t know where Shingen is.” Yoshimoto laid his head on the cool flagstones, eyes still shut, blood flecked over his hair and the filthy silk of the kimono he’d worn the first day. “He wouldn’t have told me.”

Cold, cold, cold hands. “So you’ve said. You’ve said that at least a dozen times.”

A pause. Yoshimoto’s chest heaved a slow, jagged tempo. “He wouldn’t tell me because of her. Because of us.”

Ieyasu wanted to scream again. He could feel it bubbling in his throat, like the ghost of that white-hot blade pressed to his skin.

They were too nice too nice too nice, they both knew what he was doing to him and still she washed his hand and still he said his name like a friend and still there was no damn rain and still she didn't hate him he didn't hate him why couldn’t they just hate him

“Why?” He finally managed, his voice a twisted blade that tore at him the whole way out. “Don’t you hate me?”

Yoshimoto opened his eyes, still gold and pale against the gray walls, still handsome and bright and sharp.

“You’re doing what you have to do,” he managed at last. “And I’m certain you hate me. I probably deserve it.”

Burning burning burning cold hands. The sweat seared him. “Did you know? Did you know the whole time I was there, and did you ignore it?”

At last, they were down to the crux of the whole thing. Yoshimoto wriggled like he meant to sit up (as if they were peers in this moment, just sitting and listening to a friend share their worries) and when his body failed him, he slumped over as best he could, eyes locked and gaze unwavering.

“Tokugawa Ieyasu,” he said, “You do know I was thirteen?”

That wasn’t an answer.

“I knew there was something wrong,” he answered at last. All the words sounded labored. “The details, I never knew. Just the hot room and that you looked ready to kill half of us if given the chance from time to time. I never would’ve known anything specific unless it came from you.”

(He was angry. So, so, so angry. A free-wheeling, blistering summer, crop-killing, volcanic kind of anger that threatened to overflow and kill everything in its wake.)

Ieyasu curled his fingers so tight that his knuckles creaked. Yoshimoto slumped his head back to the floor, shut his eyes and took another labored breath. All of his bruises were out in the open, where everyone could see them. There were no hidden marks, nothing easily covered in the painted facade of a silk--like desecrating a pretty vase, Ieyasu thought.

“Did you know that your uncle--I think it was your uncle--burned me?” He announced. “My arms, my legs. He held a knife over a fire and waited until it glowed, then tried to see if I would scream. He only stopped when I finally did. I’ve still got the scars.”

Yoshimoto’s eyes were open again. There was no stone face--just a well of confusion and relentless sorrow.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and Ieyasu instantly wanted him to take it back. “That should never have happened.”

Outside, the thunder rumbled again. They’d both been kids, once. Kids who barely knew each other, who lived in the same place and entirely different worlds and never once knew what lay beyond their circle. There was a faint scar just above Yoshimoto’s collarbone. Ieyasu wondered what it was from.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Ieyasu said. “You couldn’t have stopped it anyway.”

---

No one was completely sure when she and Yoshimoto met, though Ieyasu suspected that the Takeda had spies in Azuchi for a long time before the battle. It was likely in their own marketplace. They had fine fabrics and he knew that Yoshimoto, otherwise an unremarkable daimyo, wouldn’t have stood out. He’d noticed her disappearing off to the stalls for supplies more frequently, but her business was also thriving. Everyone wanted her wares.

Mitsuhide found the letters first.

The only thing that saved her from Nobunaga was that she’d revealed nothing treasonous. It was love, plain and simple. His fine calligraphy lay neatly on thin mulberry paper (an artistic touch and beautiful in its own right), every character reserved entirely to her wellbeing and their budding affections. No mention of armies or war. No hatred, no grandstanding. Just love--love, plain and simple and innocent and complicated and all-encompassing and blinding.

But all that meant was she was safe.

And the match made sense, as much as Ieyasu couldn’t stand to admit it. They were both art lovers, convinced of its importance as much as warfare, certain that without it, what kind of a world existed to fight for at all? They used entire leaves of paper discussing dyeing techniques and exchanging book recommendations and talking about their homelands.

(And honestly, Ieyasu hadn’t needed the letters to cement what he already knew. She’d spied Yoshimoto on the battlefield and he saw her whole body light up, eyes blazing with the kind of need he’d never seen in her before. He already knew then. He’d just hoped he was wrong.)

Nobunaga wouldn’t let some traitor daimyo run off with his lucky charm. Not in a thousand years.

Ieyasu rapped on her door late that night, and she opened the screen, bleary eyed from fatigue. She’d barely slept in a week. The red rim of her eyes betrayed every tear she couldn’t shed in front of them.

“Come on.” He took her hand and pulled.

“Where are we going?”

“Shut up.”

The silly woman somehow still trusted him. Ieyasu dragged her quietly down the stairs, past the main hall, through the courtyard and out the front door. She wasn’t dressed to be in public and still didn't question him. Without ceremony, he reached the dungeon door and yanked it open, its hinges silvery in the moonlight and depths impenetrable.

She stared at him. “What are we--”

“I said shut up.”

One step at a time, he lead her into the darkness. The stairs were almost dry, the unnatural heatwave baking it clean. Still he was cautious. They reached the bottom and he fetched a lit torch, motioning at the guard on duty to leave without a word, and fetched the key ring. “Lift your skirts and follow me.”

Yoshimoto was back in his holding cell. He was still holding his left shoulder slightly jagged, his breathing shallow but even, his split lip now clear and the grime of his face washed clean. Apparently he’d used his drinking water to do that. He peered intently around the corner at Ieyasu. “Tokugawa--”

Then he saw her, and he fell completely silent.

“Here.” Ieyasu fumbled with the keys (he’d never had to unlock the cell doors) and finally found the right one. “You don’t have long.”

Yoshimoto struggled to rise and failed to get up. He didn't need to. The second Ieyasu cracked the door, she flung herself inside and her arms around him, their bodies bound so tight together that he wondered if they’d ever been separate at all. Her voice cracked, slurred something in her native tongue, the beginnings of a sob rolling through her back.

“Shh.” He lifted his arms with effort, wound his fingers in her hair, kissed her forehead, her head, her eyes, clutched her to him. “Hush, darling. Hush. It’s okay.”

It isn’t, Ieyasu thought. It really isn’t. But they just sat there in silence together, her tears muffled into his chest and his body emanating love like sunlight. And he wondered (as he’d wondered a million things about Imagawa Yoshimoto lately) how a man who’d barely been able to get up this afternoon could summon the strength to smile and hold her so tight.

---

“He doesn’t know anything.”

Nobunaga and Hideyoshi cocked the opposite brow at the same time, which might’ve been comical were it not so deadly serious.

“Is that so?” Nobunaga remarked. It was the tone of voice that let him know this was not a question.

“Shingen didn't divulge where he was going to Imagawa expressly because he knew about the attachment to the chatelaine.” Ieyasu inhaled. “So when he left, he was effectively spurring Imagawa to leave the fight too.”

Mitsunari frowned. “That is a valuable ally to excise for sentimental reasons.”

Mitsuhide smiled. “Practically cutthroat of you, Mitsunari. Color me surprised. As it so happens, I’ve obtained similar intelligence.”

Hideyoshi’s surprise translated loud and clear. “Really?”

“So it would seem. The thorn in our side still has a few petals remaining.”

Nobunaga’s gaze fell back down on Ieyasu, searching him. He’d grown used to most of those inscrutable expressions: contemplative, frustrated, puzzled. Now it was just the brotherly stare he got after some of his worst days on the battlefield.

“How is our prisoner?” He asked.

“Yes indeed,” Mitsuhide purred. “Is he still alive?”

“He’s alive.” Ieyasu paused. “He’s… relatively okay.”

The Devil King’s eyes never wavered. “And what would you recommend we do with him?”

---

Yoshimoto was allowed medical attention and to rest for one week, the meagre possessions he came with restored to him. Even with the fresh scar on his lip and a slight catch in his shoulder (Ieyasu was relatively certain it would smooth out over time), he was still regal and handsome. The cold grey of dawn greeted them with a blinding lightning bolt and a torrential downpour. It soaked through the cracked earth and ran muddy and wild over the fields.

Ieyasu affixed the last of Yoshimoto’s things to the saddlebag himself. “That’s everything.”

Imagawa Yoshimoto smiled at him, despite everything. “I appreciate that.”

The chatelaine lingered in the stable. She’d snuck out to see him off, despite all of Nobunaga and Hideyoshi’s disapproval. Her eyes were puffy with new, unshed tears. “You’re just going to put him out in the rainstorm?”

He glanced out the stable door. It came down in thick, obscuring sheets. “Yep.”

“Come now.” Yoshimoto gathered her into his arms, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “I’ll be just fine, love--”

Ieyasu snorted. “Of course you two will.”

The lovebirds started. He relished the look of surprise.

“What does that mean?” She said.

“You idiot, the rain will keep anyone from seeing that you’re gone for at least twenty minutes.” Ieyasu checked it again. “No one on lookout will be able to tell the difference between one rider and two. If you time it right, you can clear the Azuchi fields by the time it lifts. Yes, you’ll get soaked--”

“--It’s perfect cover.” Yoshimoto finished, breathless.

“Ieyasu.” She dashed to his side, catching his hands in hers. They were so warm that it melted through her fingertips and into his--a comfortable, gentle heat. “Ieyasu.”

“Go.” He pointed at the saddlebags. “I smuggled in some of your things. Your weird bag, sewing stuff, some goods. Mitsunari helped me grab extras. No one questions if he takes things. Now get out of here before anyone realizes you’re gone.”

The chatelaine smiled at him--a blazing, beautiful smile--and leaned in and kissed his cheek hard. “Thank you.”

He was going to miss her.

“Go,” he repeated instead. “Go now.”

Yoshimoto and him helped her into the saddle first. Afterwards, Yoshimoto mounted up behind her, wrapping his cloak and body around her as best he could. “Thank you, Tokugawa.”

“If you don’t do right by her,” Ieyasu warned, “I’ll definitely kill you next time.”

“I take that under advisement. Thank you.”

A jerk of the reins and a kick, and they bolted out of the stables and into the pouring rain. Within seconds their figures swam into a vague blur, melding together in the shifting faraway. Only moments later--gone.

Ieyasu stood there alone in the silence, his hands warm, his thoughts swirling like lazy koi in a fishbowl, aimless and unbothered. Without thinking, he stepped outside and stretched out his arms, letting the cold droplets run down his sleeves and cling to his skin.

#ikemen sengoku #ikesen yoshimoto #ikesen ieyasu #ikesen fanfic #heatwave #my writing #angst tw #torture tw #tw: torture #tw: violence #tw: blood

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witchfall · 4 years

Text

old souls

summary: When the act of want feels like a risk, what happens when you get everything you asked for?

A Crystal Exarch x Warrior of Light fic Word count: 6431 Rating: M (implied sexual content)

Also on AO3. Technically a sequel to ‘hard is the heart that feels no fear’, though it can be enjoyed standalone.

Thank you to @vaniccio for betaing!!!

Copious Shadowbringers: 5.3 Reflections in Crystal spoilers within. You have been warned!

—

–

For a blistering moment, Izzie sees meteors flicker in his crystal body.

He’s not there anymore. She knows that. She grips the crystalline vial of blood memories so hard she fears it will crack. The sadness Alisaie spoke of when she saw the star showers -- loss that leaves yawning gaps, writhing and vile -- creeps up her throat. She remembers when she had her first vision from Hydaelyn on that trip to Ul'dah long ago; she feels more grounded in it, now. The pain is lived in. Understood.

The rains have ceased, but you are not here to see it.

The Scions join her at the seat of sacrifice. They stare at her, alarmed, as she strides past and says nothing. She will risk nothing sullying her hope; she will hold it like candle flame, close to her chest, until she is certain it will not go out.

---

Y’shtola lifts a single, elegant brow. “You still have to take the Exarch to Nabaath Arang?”

“Yes.” Izzie tries not to snap. Y’shtola, of all of them, is most likely to examine Izzie down to the quick and question what she finds there.

“Showing him the realm, are you?”

Izzie crosses her arms. Rain in the Greatwood has unsettled the ancient greenery. Her nose twitches at the heavy scent of damp moss. “What of it?”

Something changes in the air, then. Y’shtola pauses, recalculating, and Izzie’s tail stands on end from the tension. “It simply has...been awhile, since you have taken a flight of fancy like this.”

Izzie digs her toe into the mud. She huffs. For a bard, she’s extraordinarily bad when it comes to talking about herself. “It’s nice. To pretend.”

You are death.

“Pretend?”

“That I’m just a traveler, anymore.”

Y’shtola gives her a small smile, but there’s something deeper there that spooks Izzie, like she’s looking at something private. “Is that not among your brightest qualities? Your penchant for adventure, vast and mundane?” She places a gentle hand on Izzie’s shoulder. “You are not so unknown.”

Izzie says nothing, even as Y’shtola shakes her lightly.

“I am not one to make prognostications I don’t fully believe in. You know this. I do, in fact, think this has more than a passing chance of working.”

Izzie nods. She refuses to cry.

“You could do worse." Y'shtola brushes an invisible piece of dirt off Izzie’s tunic, as if oblivious to the effect she had on her younger counterpart. "Though...were the two of you anyone else, I would call you both unspeakably obsessed..."

Izzie's breath stutters as Y’shtola’s cloudy eyes sharpen upon her. She lets up for nothing. But before Izzie can struggle to defend herself, the woman gives a dazzling smile.

“Do keep heart. My life and happiness depends on this working, too, you know."

Izzie glances pointedly to Runar, who is speaking with a woman by one of the Slitherbough gardens, and Y’shtola, perhaps sensing her intent through the aether, finally graces Izzie with silence.

---

The Scions’ crystals shimmer and everything clicks into its right place; Izzie feels settled for a bare moment, as if she had stepped onto a ferry in just the nick of time. Her beloved family rises one by one, greeting the new day, groaning as they stretch out waxy muscles. But as they each turn to appraise her, Izzie fidgets and fidgets.

They each gaze upon her expectantly. We will leave the rest to you, Y’shtola says, smiling with rare maternal kindness. It sends cold water down Izzie’s back. Urianger’s softness has never been a mystery to her, even in his most shadowed; his words are complex but their meaning is simple. It will work, he reminds her. The doors will unseal because G’raha’s blood is in her satchel.

(How many years has she dreamed of saving his blood under her fingernails, of forcing those golden doors open with a furious pouring of her own essence?)

The realization scares her: they all know what she wants. And not a single person in the room dissuades her.

Her stomach roils. Her blood feels electric. The hope of fulfillment alone may devour her. She runs and does not look back, not even when Tataru shouts. Not even when she feels Alisaie look after her strangely, like a confirmation that something is changed forever.

---

The ground shakes as those massive doors, the Dossal Gates, open. The stale air tastes split by lightning. She had just been standing before these same gates a few moments ago, but the difference between the worlds hollows her out. Unlike in the First, where the doors herald the hope of a city, these doors are dusty and hidden. Sealed purposefully against the various evils of mankind.

She grips the crystal tighter; perhaps it is his present soul that makes her own memories feel suddenly, painfully vibrant. His broad shoulders square as he seeks to leave her behind forever -- but then he turns just slightly, as if considering looking back, and his mouth moves as the doors close, the words lost forever to the sound of doors roaring shut.

I love you. That’s what he said. She knows that now. The crystal is warm under her fingers, confirming it. It gives her the will to keep walking, up vaunted staircases that once stunned her with their beauty. Now they are just another obstacle. She barely registers the imperial stature of the architecture or the distant, yawning sounds of monsters that could still be lurking in its eternal spire. She follows a well-tread path to the Umbilicus and she knows it is right; the crystal near thrums with an affectionate, overbearing knowing.

So like him.

And then, after she throws one last door open with a breathless, heavy creak, her journey ends. She takes in a sharp breath. Dust stings her nose.

There he is.

He sleeps upon little more than a tiny dais with some red blankets thrown over it for bare comfort. His head lays upon what must be an old shirt of his balled up to serve as a pillow; his hands rest, open palmed, upon his chest. This cannot be what he thought an Allagan princeling would look like. She nearly laughs, lightheaded.

Still...

Despite everything, his face is the picture of a lazy Mor Dhona afternoon. Even under the cold blue-gold light, his handsomeness is gutting.

He is exactly as preserved in her memory, save his hair spreading loose like red vines across his makeshift bed. His youth, unburdened by a century of waiting, springs tears into her eyes. How many years does she bear on her back, despite the star merely going round twice? Will she look too different in his younger eyes? (This body is still older than her, she notes. But barely anymore. What a strange pair they make.)

She feels stupid, standing there staring with the crystal in her hands. She wonders if perhaps she should have brought Krile along. But, in theory, this should work the same as with the Scions, so before she can overthink it she places the crystal carefully, lovingly, beneath his palms. She jolts when she touches his skin— cold as the air in the tower — and for a moment she actually fears waking him, like she doesn’t want to upset his sleep. Even though that is exactly what she is doing.

What the fuck even is her life, a tiny part of her whispers.

The seconds drag on. Her tail twitches behind her in restless energy. Should she practice a speech or something? Should she talk to him to encourage his soul to accept itself? What words would even suffice? She spent two years wondering after him, yet it all feels short compared to this moment.

“I’m here,” she announces quietly and her hand lingers on his for just a moment. When he doesn’t respond, she sinks to the floor beside him, her back against his strangely warm dais-bed, her head between her knees. Words are no good. Whatever she says could easily be for naught.

She sings instead.

It’s a silly song the dragons taught her that does not translate well, but she liked the challenge of it in her mouth. It was once a courtship song, she was told. The meaning behind the deeply intricate symbols had been lost to time and the traversal of new stars. Now they just liked the ditty.

Care to forget the deep warm wells of another life?

The slow love of water beneath the sand?

Stupid questions I can't answer.

She hears the crackling sparkle of aether and pointedly does not look. She digs her eyes into her knees, seized with fear, and keeps singing, even though it’s muffled by her legs. Her torso is bent just enough that her voice feels weak, but she doesn’t adjust.

She will need to give him space. He will need time to come to terms with this world. She will not press him. She will not.

you're bold and bright, the sun star's last breath.

me?

at least the dark magic is mine

and I will keep it to myself this time.

Her song smothers the groaning sounds of his waking. She doesn’t notice him take a few silent moments to watch her, all curled up and heartbreakingly girlish again in her waiting. Her feet tap the floor. Her hands grip her ankles. Her ears twitch, and then…

She sees feet hit the floor in the corner of her eye and…

She shoots up to standing so fast that her vision tunnels for a moment. She doesn’t breathe. She could pass out standing there. She might well have, watching him as he watches her, his mouth popped slightly open…those red eyes...

She stumbles back a tiny step at the weight of seeing him. His breath catches.

“I remember,” he says. His throat works to swallow. Her eyes hone in on it. “I remember everything.”

"Oh.” Breathe. Her heart is in her mouth. “That’s…”

Well, not entirely good, is it? Don’t think about it.

She scans him as clinically as she can manage. The Allagan technology did well by him, at least. His skin is clear and pale. His tattoos stand out like void bites. His lithe frame had retained its old musculature, though she imagines it must be disorienting regardless. His aether situation -- she would leave the specifics to Krile -- must be very confusing.

But then his eyes fill with tears.

She panics, and against her earlier desire for restraint, she closes the distance between them in a step. Her hands fly to his face (no crystal coming to claim him, simply the edge of an archon's tattoo...). She cups his jaw, resting her thumbs on his cheeks. The tears she can't catch fall into the webbing of her fingers.

"It's okay," she says softly. She squashes her own tears down, down, down. His face still feels too cool beneath her hands and she thinks for a moment about what it would be like to wrap him up in a scarf and keep him like a trophy. "The worst is over now."

He leans his mouth into her palm. When he speaks, his lips brush her heart lines and she fears she may combust. "You're real, aren't you?" he croaks out. Voice unused for years. "You aren't some strange ghost created out of the hope of two souls?"

Her throat tightens. She forgets how to speak like someone kind. “Of course I’m real, you idiot. Of course I'm--”

He seizes her, then, in a crushing embrace, his arms as strong as the day they said goodbye. They snake around her waist. She is crushed between her leather armor and his stupid ugly tunic and the haleness of his body, and all she wants is to wink out of time and live in this moment. Still, a part of her resists. He has much to remember. Hundreds of years to consider.

He whispers into her ear. “My star. Izzie. My love.” Naming her, as if to anchor her to him. He pulls back only so their foreheads meet. She struggles to focus on the radiance of his gaze. “Are you alright?”

“Am I--” She nearly growls at him in her flummoxed state. Tears slip down her cheeks, too, and it makes her angry and proud and happy and destroyed. “I should be asking you that!”

Perhaps he didn’t hear her; but then, it is more likely he did and saw through her. He tucks her head under his chin and rocks her back and forth. He holds her tightly until her shoulders finally lose their tension and she gives a keening sob against his chest. His breath catches again. And then they collapse to the gold filigree floor, grappling with the sudden collision -- and end -- of too many painful years apart.

---

She feels a bit like a child bringing home a stray, even though that doesn’t make sense. Her Scions know him and he’d lived in Mor Dhona for a not insignificant amount of time. But nothing explains the bizarre embarrassment and desolation she feels when they arrive at the Rising Stones and everyone stares for a second. Don’t look, she wants to scream. Everything is fine and normal and not at all a miracle that shouldn’t have happened.

But then Krile marches forward and points a terrifying finger at G’raha. “Raha. Just because this all worked out well does not mean you are forgiven for being an idealistic fool. To bed. Now.”

Izzie grins so brightly her eyes water as G’raha’s ears flatten against his head. Her mother would like Krile very much; the resemblance strikes her fiercely in that moment.

“Don’t let him leave your sight, Izzie,” she grumbles as they enter Dawn’s Respite. G’raha leans into Izzie as she half carries him, and she wonders if he’s dramatizing a little to stay close to her and hide from Krile. “I can’t believe how angry I still am with you after all these years. You ridiculous fool. You’re lucky your decision quite literally prevented a calamity…”

G’raha, to his credit, bows to her scolding. “You’re right, of course.”

Krile harrumphs. But Izzie doesn’t miss the soft, sidelong glance she gives the younger scholar before she near pushes him to bed.

---

Izzie brings G’raha everything Krile says he needs and more. She fetches food and blankets and washcloths. She holds weird aether scanning tools at just right angles. She cleans medical tools and sweeps floors and folds sheets when Krile runs out of things for her to do. At one point, she notices G’raha keeps brushing his bangs out of his eyes. She silently marches up to his bedside, fishes out a few pins from her pocket, and waves them in front of his face.

He reaches forward to take them. "Thank you--"

"Let me do it," she whispers, and before he can protest, her fingers brush against his crown, pinning his soft hair out of his beautiful eyes. He takes the faintest breath before he wraps a hand around her wrist, gentle and pleading.

"You haven't sat down."

She feels like she has hornets under her skin. "Lots to do."

He quirks a smile. “No there isn’t.”

She glances to where his fingers grip her. She glances around the spotless Respite. Her ears flatten. “...well. There was.”

So she sits in the chair Krile pointedly left beside him and collapses her body forward until her forehead lays on the mattress. She is tired. Not for the first time, she wishes she wasn’t like this. Wishes she didn’t feel driven to do until she can’t think anymore.

But then G’raha gently rubs her head between her ears and she decides she can just opt out of thinking, if she wants. She allows herself the affection; from the way his hands don’t leave her, he seems desperate to give it. She snaps out her own hand, letting it wander the mattress and muss away the sheets until she finds his thigh and she feels better, touching him back. He softly hums some old tune and she relaxes there in relative quiet for who knows how long.

In her warm drifting, she eventually realizes she dreads nightfall. She should let him sleep the recuperative sleep of a mortal man. She should not hover or oppress him into what she wants. But just as before, as in the old days and the new, he speaks as if he can read her like a book.

"If it isn't any trouble, my dear one," he starts, "would you be willing to stay with me tonight?"

She nods at once, relieved, and settles harder into her chair. He smiles, lopsided.

"You can have a bed, if you'd like."

"I want to be closer," she admits, and already her face burns, even though she has not lifted her hand from his thigh for hours, maybe. "So here is fine, I've slept in a chair before, a lot actually--"

He reaches up and tugs on one of the frazzled locks of hair framing her face, just like Before. Her lip quivers. "You can have a bed," he says, cutely commandeering in a way he never let himself be as Exarch, and he pats his mattress.

She blinks at him. In the next moment, she is peeling off her boots, avoiding his resplendent gaze as she does so. She pulls back his covers and slips in beside him, her legs sliding against his warm, bare skin as he tucks her in against his chest. She entwines their limbs and throws an arm over his waist. She digs her nose into his chest, smelling his clean skin; even now his scent reminds her of their old campfires. He rubs small circles into the back of her neck with his thumb.

Why had she been so afraid to ask for this?

"Finally," he sighs into her hair. "My dark and dastardly plans may commence."

He brushes his fingers on her exposed waist. She squeaks at his touch -- he was tickling her, the fiend -- and whaps him with her palm. He laughs. She feels at home.

---

G'raha awakens first. He blinks heavily at the weight lying against him and looks down, and only then does he accept he is not dreaming.

Izzie snores against him, her mouth open. Her chin shines with drool. Her hair is a tangle of red knots under her sweaty neck, but her face is so relaxed that he thinks to keep her there, forever. His reverie only ends because Krile enters -- and she stops suddenly, seeing the pair.

He can only describe her expression as wistful. But she schools her face into more familiar, sly watchfulness when she notices his gaze upon her.

"You would ensnare the Warrior of Light," Krile says, as if exhausted of him already.

"I assure you," he says, quiet as a whisper, "that it was entirely the other way around."

Krile smirks. She oozes sarcasm as she sweeps over to them, but when her gaze shifts to Izzie’s still miraculously sleeping form, he remembers how badly he missed Krile’s softness, too.

“Oh, Raha.” She lays the back of her hand on Izzie’s forehead, testing for fever (it was apparently that unusual for her to sleep like this), but her twinkling eyes land on him. “You haven’t changed at all.”

---

And then the strangest thing of all happens: The Scions of the Seventh Dawn have nothing to do. Nothing so pressing the world won’t wait a few days for them to catch up to it.

G’raha learns the limits of his new old body. He falls asleep on their picnic blanket and during a card game and even, to Izzie's sickening panic, once on the edge of a balcony wall where he had perched with a book. He devours whole meals so quickly she watches him in careful awe. He weaves spells and gets tired enough to faint; she has so far been able to catch him before he hits the ground, but she ponders letting him do so, once, if it teaches him a lesson.

Izzie enjoys playing witness. It’s like watching her favorite dreams depicted on stage for her amusement.

"I like your hair like that," she says in passing one day. His hand flutters up to the pins he had kept and his ears flick -- more expressive than she had ever seen, even in the old days. He smiles brightly.

"I'm glad," he says. "I like it too."

Tataru gifts him new clothes, and that is when it truly feels like the beginning of an era. He steps out of a side room to model them for the Scion family, smiling sheepishly, and Izzie stares for a moment too long. She feels Feo Ul's hand in this. The Fae King reached through time and space to design this outfit specifically to slap her in the face. My dear sapling will have to thank me in person later! She can nearly hear the words -- and indeed, Izzie would.

The design is a perfect blend of old and new. His sharp red half-robe is ridiculously him, honoring the Exarch and young scholar both. The gold accents shimmer under the light. He is adorned with so many necklaces she is struck with the desire to bring him another, as if in tribute.

She steps close and adjusts his black scarf, letting her fingers drift down to the tassles and linger on the sumptuous fabric just over his collarbones, before she realizes what she is doing.

G'raha's grin is blinding in the corner of her eye.

"It wasn't even," she grumbles at him.

"And the rest of it?"

"It's a good look," Thancred says. His tone indicates more than just the clothes. Alphinaud poorly stifles a giggle.

Izzie turns back to glare at them, but they are all looking at her, like she is the twist in the tale they've been waiting for. Urianger smiles gently. Y'shtola raises a brow. I knew it to be so. Even Alisaie looks strangely triumphant, like she'd won a bet.

She blushes furiously and lets it slide.

Despite this -- despite the offer for him to join the Scions and the work he does to re-seal the tower and the fact he is never far from arm's reach, much less out of sight -- she still feels out of sorts. And then one day, as they sit together in the Rising Stones cafe picking over finger sandwiches, her mouth does the thing where it asks a stupid question before she realizes it's happening.

She stares at him as he places a fifth sandwich in his mouth and she asks: "Are we together?"

He glances to her, alarmed, but his tone remains steady and teasing. "Did you teleport somewhere on accident? You look corporeal enough."

"No. I mean. Are we...are…" Well, no, now it feels really stupid. She turns away. She stuffs a whole sandwich in her mouth in one go, and he waits patiently the whole time. She says, once she swallows the food down: "Is this happening? For real this time?"

She isn't sure what she means. Physically? A proposal of marriage? All of it makes her feel like she just stuck her head in an oven.

His brows turn downward. "Why wouldn't it be, my love?"

Yes, this is very stupid indeed. His love is near impossible to avoid. But since he received his own room at the Stones, they function otherwise like they intend to live completely separate lives. Like colleagues.

Which they are. Which is fine.

It’s not.

"Can we...go on a trip? An adventure maybe? Or something? Alone. Just us two. Without...any of the other Scions…?”

She bites her lip and lays her head on the table and covers her scalp with her hands. She wants to die for some reason.

He laughs, warm and true, and he leans in until his forehead rests on her temple. She still hides in shame, even as he whispers just for her to hear. "How many times do I have to tell you you're my guiding star? Before you believe me?"

Her face is so flushed she feels sweat break on her brow. "Maybe another time would help," she mutters into the table.

He laughs again and gently kisses her on the corner of her mouth. "I will wait for you to come to me, alright?" When she looks at him with wide eyes, stricken by a terror she struggles to name, he smiles at her. Love freely given. "You could never disappoint me. As ever, I follow in your light."

---

She takes him up on it that night.

She was never confident in these affairs. Their first time in the tower on the First she was seized by reckless abandon. He was already seeing everything. Why hide? Their time, she sensed, had been limited once again. The tower loomed over everything. A judge in cold absentia.

Now, if she knocks on this door in the Rising Stones, she will be stepping into forever. Her body shakes. She feels 19 again, afraid of how powerfully certain she is -- afraid of the pain she may invite into her life, if she loses him. But this time, she has already lost him twice. No god, if they exist, would be cruel or stupid enough to make an enemy of her this time.

She knocks. He opens the door. He stares, bewildered.

"Hi," she says flatly.

A blinding smile lights his face. She has to look away a moment. Her heart thuds so strongly she is certain he can hear it. He stands there, staring.

"Move, would you?" Her voice feels harsh and unsteady. "Before the gossipmongers see."

He steps back. She steps in. And then, in one fluid movement, he pulls her against him and pushes the door closed behind her. Suddenly her back is pressed against the harsh wood and she is kissing him, melting into his muscled chest and his moan of satisfaction as her tongue darts into his mouth. She isn't sure who moved first. It doesn't matter now. They're together, against the literal forces of time and space.

She pulls back just enough that their lips are only a hair apart. Heat thrums between them.

"I hope you know," she breathes, "that this time I mean to keep you."

He grins. The boy she had dreamed of. "This time I intend to be kept."

She laughs before he quiets her with his mouth against hers.

For all its drama, the reconnection is quiet. He carries her to the bed. They undress each other slowly, limbs entangled, smiling into each other's skin, until they lay together naked beneath the blankets. He won't stop kissing her, pressing his lips against old injuries, her ears, her collarbones, her stomach.

“So much to catch up on,” he says. “And I will know all of it, again.”

She takes a deep breath and shreds her last bit of armor. Do what you like with me. Mark me. Make it real.

He holds her fast when she says this. He trembles, looming over her, within her. She wants to be disappeared by his shadow. She wants to be consumed.

His mouth and tongue slide down her neck. "You are everything.” His teeth graze the top of her shoulder. “I will answer your every prayer.” His hand slides over the bony curve of her hip. “For what I want...is to see you beloved.”

---

And yet.

She wakes curled into his side, his arm circled around her shoulders. She moves until she can hear his heart, beating and alive.

The shadow of night sparks cruel questions: Will he be kept? Will he be fighting fate's designs upon his life? Can she survive another loss? Can she afford to try? They circle in her head until she takes a sharp breath. She utters his true name. "Raha…"

Perhaps he had already been awake. Immediately, he circles his arms around her in a protective vice. “What’s wrong?”

Her voice catches in her throat and G’raha pulls her up. He sits against the headboard and cradles her against him, bringing the blankets up to keep her warm. “I don’t know,” she says. She smothers her ear against his chest. Lets the sound of his lifeblood calm her. “I don’t know what happens next.”

He strokes her back. Her fingertips slip against his chest as she balls her hands into fists. And then he sucks in a breath. She tilts her head up at him.

"...I just want you to know where I stand," he says, and she gets the feeling he has practiced this speech. "I...I had seen the reports of your death in the future that now will never be. I saw...memorials to you in every camp. Every small group carried something of you. A picture. A carving. A song they thought you wrote…"

He sighs. She hears a century of pain in it.

"Your death in the abstract was untenable. You were everywhere. And...I knew, I knew when I woke that I would be confronted with your death, even in an ideal world. But it was...I felt so immeasurably stupid. To think that I would be able to survive it. I could barely tolerate giving up adventuring with you, much less..."

She stops him with a finger to his lips. No need to relive these hurts for her sake. "What's the short version, Raha?"

The use of his true name sends another contented shudder through his lungs. He takes her raised hand and pulls until he can press his lips against the inside of her wrist.

"I had a century to come to terms with what I want. And now I have her, despite my every expectation.” His tail curls around her hip. "You haven't had that time. I didn't want to press it. But I also know...sometimes you experience more pain doing nothing out of fear of what the something will bring."

She hears the silent mercy he is granting her. It’s okay to want. It’s okay to struggle with it.

“And,” he adds, “you lose a shocking amount of time, thinking not of the present.”

He presses a kiss to the pulsing vein in her wrist. She taps his chest with her thumb.

"What did the pictures even look like?"

His other hand slides lazily down her back. "Not even the slightest bit like you."

"Not even a little?"

"It was you if you were at least a fulm taller and had much meaner brows. Maybe."

"Hmm…"

He squeezes the base of her tail and she jumps. His chuckling breath tickles her ear. "I much prefer this version."

---

G’raha taps the charcoal against the blank drawing parchment as he watches Izzie experience the consequences of her actions.

On the path into Rowena’s Splendors below, the Warrior of Light and Darkness hummed, fully distracted by the contents of her bag while she walked -- leaving her utterly unprepared for Thancred to hold out his arm and nearly clothesline her. She stumbles with incredible drama. Her arms flap. Her feet dance to keep her aloft, and just barely do they succeed.

“Hey!” she shouts.

“Your bag,” Thancred insists.

“You-”

“Your bag.”

Izzie growls in frustration before shoving it at him with a leathery thunk.

Thancred makes a show of rifling through it. Some knives wrapped in burlap. The remnants of a cheesecloth. A few glamour prisms. G’raha knows Thancred wouldn’t find anything in there. He knows, also, that Thancred wouldn’t even be down there if it wasn’t for him. He tipped the man off because he knew Izzie would find it funny.

He rather enjoys Izzie’s little cons -- when they aren’t directed at him.

Thancred hands back the satchel. “If I find any more of that Mord grub in our coldbox, I will confine you to quarters, warrior of two worlds or no.” Despite his words, his tone is largely...endeared. Relieved, and not just because her bag was empty.

Izzie grins at him. “Gaia didn’t send any with me this time.”

Thancred ignores her. “And you!” he shouts up at G’raha. “Stop enabling her!”

G’raha raises his hands to proclaim innocence, laughing, and he wipes off the charcoal lingering on his fingers. He turns his eyes toward the door to the balcony upon which he sits. His heart floats, knowing it’ll be mere moments before Izzie will be ambushing him.

The scions -- his fellow scions -- hadn’t missed the changes within her. She smiles more. She even plays music in the tavern sometimes, which always brings a full house. I’ll deal with the frustrating practical jokes if it means she’s doing alright, Thancred admitted to him over beer not so long ago.

He hears her before he sees her, but only because he seeks out her quiet footfalls. She jumps from the threshold of the door and makes it half-way; she twirl-steps the last half to dramatically throw her arm over his shoulders. She lands hard enough to thump the air out of him. The whole of her leans playfully into his side, her chest nearly against his own. “Ready to see Ma?”

He grins before her happy radiance, never one to resist her call to adventure -- not even when he fears what it will bring. Meeting her adoptive mother, for instance. He settles his arm around her lower back. “As ready as one can be.”

---

The Thanalan heat stifles him. Dust seeps into his clothes and sand flies into his eyes no matter which way he turns when the winds blow across the desert. Izzie's ma, Sheshena Shena, takes one look at G’raha’s pale, wind-chapped skin and insists he take tea with her on the covered porch.

"Izzie can set up the carriage herself," she declares. Izzie glances to him and nods encouragement, but she acquiesces at once to her Ma's will. Lady Shena, G'raha thinks, has a power all of Garlemald wishes it could wield.

But he knows that this gesture is not solely for his benefit. She allows him a few moments of polite, worthless conversation over an aromatic chai before her glassy eyes pin him in place.

"Not too many moons ago," Sheshena says, "I was going to ask her to quit."

G'raha lets that register for a moment. "Her work with the Scions?"

Sheshena inclines her head. "She wouldn't have. She can no less quit being the warrior of light than I can quit being her mother. But I thought...perhaps it would help her notice just how bad the misery weighed on her shoulders."

She purses her lips and turns away, toward Izzie. She lingers there a moment.

"She would have just been angry with me." Her gaze slides back to him. "But I have watched my daughter carefully, G'raha Tia. And much of this started not long after you disappeared from her life."

He understands now. She is warning him. She is telling him the stories that wouldn't be in any tomes.

"...it wasn't all your fault," she allows. "Her time in Ishgard would have crushed her were it not for dear Edmont." He forgets she is on first name terms with Izzie's Ishgardian family -- that she is part of it, too. "And then her father died."

G'raha closes his eyes, punched in the gut.

Her voice hollows. "It never quite stopped after that."

He realizes this is not just a tribunal for his crimes against her daughter, but a confessional. An unmooring of pain, old and new.

"She stopped allowing herself things. Her silly songs ended. Her visits slowed. I knew she needed the space. But she was drifting into the middle of a lake with no paddle. She was letting it happen." Her silver eyes sharpen into knives. "And I sought to blame someone. And I decided it was you. You, who had broken her heart first. You, who had left her behind. You were...it was easier."

She sets down her tea cup with a shaky clink and turns away from him.

"She told me what happened on this...other world. How she found you again."

He stares down into his half-sipped tea. His fingers slip upon the stone table. He would take this punishment. It was small, in the scheme of things, and necessary.

"She told me, had it not happened...had you made a different choice, that she would be dead."

So would the whole world, he thinks to say, but on this he and Sheshena agreed: without her, none of it matters, anyway.

"That you survived years and years to set things right and make sure she didn't die."

He nods, though his neck feels stiff.

"So I wanted to apologize. And thank you."

His heart stutters. He looks up at her in shock.

"Come off it," she says, sly and perhaps embarrassed. "Look at her. Look at her." Her lip trembles. "She's humming again."

They both look out to her, softly brushing her chocobo. The 'bo chirps conversationally at her. She laughs and coos at her stalwart friend. And there, in her laughter…

Where the desert sun left him weak and wan, she is painted in one thousand colors of light. Her sea green eyes shine. Her skin reddens like a canyon at noon. The sun adores her as its own, and perhaps she is.

This is the crystal of Azem. I think that it was meant for me. Can you believe it? Emet-selch, making this for me, once upon a time...

The Sun. The Shepherd of the Stars. When he touched the crystal, he felt a strange sort of awe.

He tastes cloves and the fruit of oasis when he thinks about her aether whipping around him. He thinks of life where there should be misery -- of how desire can twist but also carefully caress.

"Ma! Where'd you put Bonbon's sun hat?"

Sheshena answers, her voice no longer weighed down, and he realizes again why Izzie was so afraid at first. He would learn the realness of her again. He would see her pain and be there at her Da’s grave with her. He would make it impossible for her to forget that she is loved.

Sheshena turns back to him and the light in her eyes shifts.

"So." Sheshena regards him regally. "You're Allagan royalty, are you?" She raises a single brow to his flummoxed expression and sighs as she lifts her tea cup to her lips. "I suppose she could do worse."

The sun scalds bright pictures behind his eyelids as he laughs.

#g'raha tia #g'raha tia x wol #5.3 spoilers #crystal exarch x wol #crystal exarch #ffxiv #ffxiv fic #otp: upon an eternal wind #kathryn writes

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youstydiaa · 4 years

Text

The Great Queen //

Oikawa Tooru x Reader

part 1

summary: you were always a quiet one, keeping your interactions to your group of friends. another thing about you, you did whatever made you comfortable. including wearing the schools bou's pants instead of the skirt, and wearing incredibly baggy and oversized clothes. that didn't mean that you can't rock skirts, dresses, and volleyball shorts. which oikawa tooru would soon find out after a quarrel. with you.

dancer/ volleyball player! reader :)

You were always fascinated by dancing, always moving and trying out new moves -even if you had no idea what the fuck you were doing- since you were a kid. Fortunately, your parents noticed your undying interest in dancing and got you a private professional dance teacher. Unfortunately, as you entered middle school, you realized there was no dance club. Feeling bummed, you never thought about joining another 'lame' club. Until one of your senpai's (a second year) approached you, with the proposition of joining that one club.

Exactly, you guessed it. Kitagawa Daiichi's own Girl's Volleyball Club.

You were never a fan of sports yourself, you just didn't bother with knowing anything about them except their name. What you didn't know was, that you had the perfect build and physique for a middle blocker. Even if you never played volleyball, that position would fit you as it didn't require that much skill. And because of all that, you refused.

She made you a deal. She asked you to watch one of the practice games at school. If you liked it, then you would join and she would teach you. If you didn't, well you wouldn't lose anything. Turns out, you did like it. It was actually and exhilarating experience, you wanted to feel the ball slam into the other side of the court, feel the after burn of spiking it. Scoring a point, felt like the feeling of perfecting a new dance move. Exciting.

As you entered Aoba Johsai, as expected of a regular wing spiker on the girl's volleyball and a Kitagawa Daiichi graduate, you were put in a slightly difficult situation. Joining the dance club, or joining the volleyball club?

Volleyball to you was just to pass time in middle school since there was no dance club, but dancing was your passion. The obvious answer was the dance club. Which lead to you scoring multiple leads in multiple competitions and performances, and three years later being the president of the dance club. Captain of the girl's dance team which consisted of 10 girl members, 3 of which including you were your group of friends.

You being a quiet girl, tomboy and a volleyball enthusiast in your second year in middle school, you were quite familiar with the adorable black-haired blue-eyed first year boy who admired your volleyball skills and wanted you to teach him how to spike as strong as you even though he wanted to be a setter (you suspected he had a tiny crush on you and wanted to spend time with you but we won't get into that). Kageyama Tobio was obsessed with volleyball, you recognized his obsession because you were kinda familiar with it, and you considered him as a little brother. So of fucking course, you knew about the rude third year volleyball 'star setter', who almost hit him with a ball in the face for asking him a simple question. Fun fact, you were on your way to teach him a lesson if it was not for the fact that Iwaizumi-senpai reassured you himself that Oikawa Tooru has learned his lesson. You were quite familiar with you senpai's temper so, you were convinced.

Fast forward to you walking in the cafeteria on the first day of your second year, ignoring the weird looks the first years were giving you for wearing the boy's uniform pants, bummed about knowing that Kageyama wasn't attending here and furious about the fact that the gym in which you practice in was closed because of some renovations.

"I heard that all the other gyms were renovated and finished by mid summer, ESPECIALLY the volleyball gym which was finished first." Aiko, your best friend, and the vice president of the dance club complained loudly while moving her hands. "Ugh! Sometimes I wish I could choke each boy on the volleyball team to death."

You smiled dreamily. "Well, one time i dreamt that I was shoving a volleyball in each of their-"

"(Y/N)." Your other friend, Yui, warned.

"All of them except Iwaizumi-senpai. He's a good guy, and above that he's hot." You continued.

"Have you even seen any of them or even talked to them?" Yui sighed. "Both of you."

"We don't need to talk to them to that they're assholes and arrogant." Aiko replied. "Except Iwaizumi-san."

"And teacher's pets, sucking up to the principle with all that bullshit of being a 'powerhouse school' and 'qualifying to nationls' each year." You air quoted with your fingers. "Aaaand they lose to Shiratorizawa at the end. Every fucking year. Losers."

"Yeah, Assholes." Aiko snickered.

"First of all, what is up with you and assholes today?" Yui pointed at Aiko as you all sat at a table. "And you, didn't you go to school with these guys?"

"Yeah, weren't you on the girl's team?" Aiko rested her hand under her chin, sticking her tongue out to Yui after.asking you.

"We were never really friends you know? I only know Iwaizumi, and a bunch of other first years I am so completely sure I'll find on the team after a week or two." You took a sip from your soda can and continued. "And, yeah I was but I wans't that much of a talker and I despised their captain. That Oikawa guy? A total douche."

"Again with the insults, you've never even met them! Honestly, I think it was the school's fault for favouring them over us and other clubs." Yui pointed out. "And, you should probably change your view on them, because as our beloved dance team captain, you are going to go plan out a schedule with the boy's volleyball team captain. Because, we're going to train at their gym till our gym opens again."

"Whoever he is, I'm sure I can handle him." You put a hand in your pants pocket, slouching in your chair and taking a sip of your soda

"Buuuut, since the universe hates you.." Aiko dragged out nervously. "The Captain is Oikawa Tooru."

Yui ducked as fast as possible, as you spit your soda in the place where her face would've been. "He's WHAT?!"

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

Two Weeks after,

You dragged your feet across the corridor dreading what was waiting for you behind the gym doors.

"Do I have to? Can't one of you do it?" You groaned, trying to dig your feet into the pavement, so when Aiko tries to push you, which she will. You would be stable.

"You are the Captain (Y/N), remember? Besides, I'm pretty sure even if they're assholes they're hot and I wouldn't miss a chance to see that." She smirks sneakily looking at Yui. "And I'm sure Yui wouldn't mind seeing Matsukawa sweating in another place besides her dreams."

"Whatever Aiko, I'm not going to deny it. Matsukawa is hot and you know it."

"Well, that's true I'm afraid."

"Let's just get this over with." You grabbed both of their hands. "The faster we finish the faster I can go home and relax from this stupid day."

As you entered, you spotted Iwaizumi sitting with his other teammates, drinking water all of them sweaty. They probably have been playing before you got there. "Iwaizumi-senpaiiii." You dragged out teasingly, knowing how he hated to be called senpai.

All heads turned to the three girls enter the gym, one of which was wearing pants and opening her arms wide open after, smiling cheekily after, they assumed, she called to their vice captain. They immediately knew who she was, after all she was the only girl who dressed like a boy coming to school but looked like the sexiest and most confident girl in the world while dancing.

"Oi idiot." He stood up and walked to her and her friends. "Oh you're still friends with her? Is she paying you or something?"

"Iwazumi-senpai so mean!" You pouted while your friends laughed. "and you two, you're my friends don't encourage him!" You turned to your friends.

"He does have a point (Y/N), we have been getting paid by your parents these past years to be your friends. Sorry to disappoint you." Yui said with the straightest face she and Aiko could muster before bursting out laughing.

"I hate it here.." You crossed your arms turning to Iwaizumi. "Anyways, where's your douche captain? I need to speak to him."

"Shittykawa? I thought you hated him, are you turning to one of his fangirls now or something?"

"First of all, ew I'm gonna barf. Second of all, since our gym is closed for now, I need to set up some things with him since we're going to train here for the time being." You huffed.

"And as you can see, she's not that happy about it either." Aiko butted it.

"Clearly." Iwaizumi chuckled. "Well, Shittykawa was in the bathroom and should be returning-"

"Iwaaaa-chaaannnn."

"Now." Iwaizumi scowled.

Oikawa Tooru, was headed towards you. And honestly, now you get why all these fangirls liked him. He had a nice face and body but, god could you feel his obnoxious aura from a mile away.

"Iwa-chan who have we got here? Are you flirting with one of my fangirls? I go to the bathroom 5 minutes and you're already destroying my fan club." Oikawa pouted like a baby.

"The best 5 minutes of my life are over." Iwaizumi face palmed. "Anyways, this is (Y/N) and her friends Aiko and Yui." Iwaizumi pointed to each one of you respectively while your friends waved slighlty.

"We're here from the dance team, about the gym schedule." Yui said, knowing you weren't going to speak until you stopped staring intimidatingly at Oikawa.

"Ahhhh Right, I heard about that. Are you the captain or should I safely say that the one who's staring at me like I've murdered her whole family is?"

"That's me." You replied dryly. "Not nice to finally meet you." You smiled sweetly in mocking.

"Why do I feel like I've met you before?" He tilted his head slightly.

"(Y/N) (Y/L/N)." You crossed your arms looking to the side like you're disinterested, which you were. "I heard that you played almost as good as me in middle school."

"You!" Oikawa narrowed his eyes at you. "I know you, Tobio-chan's bodygaurd in middle school."

"Yes, the same Tobio who you almost broke his nose. you're lucky Iwaizumi got to you first before me." You smirked.

"What do you want?" He huffed at you.

"I want this gym after school every day, except on the weekends." You stated. "I know you have plenty of time to train after us, we only practice for 2 hours on weekdays and on weekends we rent our own studio, so you can have the gym to yoursel-"

"No can do, sweetheart."

"What..did you call me?"

By now, some of the volleyball team had formed a circle around you two wondering why their captain took so long, your friends knew better than to get between the two of you unless things got rough. Your hatred to Oikawa wasn't unfamiliar to some of the other members, like Kunimi and Kindaichi. And the others, well they were enjoying the show.

"We need extra time to practice soo you'll have to practice after us." He crossed his arms.

"Let me get this straight. You want us, a group of ten girls, to train after you finish, in a sweaty dirty gym, and walk home at 10pm?" You clenched your fists. "Yeah, no, not happening."

"Well, it's our gym honey, take it or leave it. Although.." He held his chin as if he was in deep thought. "There is one thing you could do for me.."

"Ew, Perv."

"Not like that! I meant a bet." He scoffed.

"A..bet?" You and your friends raised your eyebrows.

"I'm saying that I.." He trailed off. "Challenge you, (Y/N) (Y/L/N), to a volleyball game. And the winner, gets to use the gym whatever time they like."

"Shittykawa, what are you saying?"

"I'm saying that she said that she was better than me and still is. I bet she wouldn't be scared about losing to me would she?" He raised his hand waiting for you to shake it.

Everyone looked at you expectedly, and your friends could tell exactly by the look on yoir face what your answer would be. "(Y/N) no." They spoke in unision.

(Y/N) yes.

"Deal." You took his hand without hesitation. "But I choose my players first."

"Fine." You walked away to the locker room to change your clothes.

This is gonna be fun.

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

As you walked again in the gym, everyone's eyes was on your exposed legs in your short shorts, and tight shirt that were clearly not your size.

"(Y/N) you can't be seriously thinking about doing this! He has the advantage!" Yui tried to reason with you, Aiko nodding in agreement.

"Relax, guys. Kageyama's friend didn't call me a queen for nothing." You laughed slightly.

"Are you ready, body gaurd-chan?"

"I swaer if he calls me that one more time.." You whispered to yourself.

A three on three, his team contained Iwaizumi-chan, obviously and their libero, Watari.

While you chose his other friends out of spite (and their talents), Matsukawa Issei and Hanamaki Takahiro. As you stood on the court, you decided to warm up with each other first. You gave up the ball to Oikawa's team so they could set first, unsurprisingly, they chose Oikawa.

"Ready, (Y/N)-chan?"

"As I'll ever be.." You smirked.

Everyone knew about Oikawa's killer serve. When Oikawa served, out of instinct Matsukawa and Hanamaki stepped out of the way. They knew this was warming up, they also knew how petty Oikawa was and how he may serve like that now but he won't serve in the actual game. What they didn't expect was you, recieving the ball in perfect formation, sending it upwards without falling to the ground or sending it outside the court.

"Oh Oikawa Tooru, You don't know how long I've been waiting for this moment."

You straightened up, catching the ball and leaning with one hand on your hip. Everyone's breaths hitched as they could almost see a bright crown on your head, with royal robes covering your body.

The Great Queen.

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

this is my first time writing on tumblr and my first time writing for haikyuu i hope you like it i can make part 2 if someone actually read it

#haikyuu imagine #oikawa tooru imagine #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu smut #oikawa tooru x reader #tooru oikawa x reader #tooru oikawa imagine #haikyuu #aoba johsai #karasuno #kageyama tobio #imagine haikyuu #hq #the great queen

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pattie-remembers · 4 years

Note

Was George a jealous guy?

I had always flirted quite a bit. It got me in over my head at times, and it could make George furious beyond reason. As we drifted apart, his flirting with other women would infuriate me. It was years later that I realized how much I had hurt him with the mindless amorous attention I would give other men. With George there was a rule that I never quire got. It was alright to flirt with some of his friends and totally forbidden with others. I never figured it out. Long after George and I were divorced and Eric and I had split up I was at a party in London flirting outrageously with Jimmy Page. We were laughing and talking about old times when I felt that old vibe of jealousy directed at me. The back of my head started tingling and I turned around and there was George shooting daggers at me with his thunderous brown eyes.

“Darling, I didn’t know you’d be here,” I kissed him on the cheek, his stubble scratching my lips. “Where’s Livy?”

He ignored my question and firmly took me by the arm and pulled me into the hallway. “I suppose you’d like to fuck him, “ he accused me.

“Good God! You have no right to be jealous!” I jerked my arm out of his grasp. “Anyway I would never fuck Jimmy. He was with Charlotte.....” I didn’t get to finish my sentence. George turned on his heel and abruptly left in a fit of rage. It had always upset him when I mentioned Charlotte in the past, and apparently it still did. I chalked it up to the fact he’d been drinking, and I didn’t really think much of it. I enjoyed the rest of the party never suspecting I wouldn’t see George again for six months.

That December I went to a Christmas party at Ronnie Wood’s. Everyone was there. Mick and Pete Townsend and of course Jimmy Page. Jimmy was with a really young woman and didn’t give me a glance. Ronnie handed me a glass of wine. “George is upstairs,” he told me. “Alone.” Ronnie gave me a smirk. I knew he loved to stir the pot. I fell for the bait and made my through the crowd to the staircase and went up to look for George.

I found him in Ronnie’s library sitting on the sofa fooling around with a guitar. He had on a lovely gray suit. He still sported that scruff on his face, which I found extremely sexy. “Darling,” I sang out full of Christmas cheer and happy to see him after so long. “How are you?” I plopped down next to him and leaned in for a kiss but he moved his head away from me. “George! What is the matter?”

“Your boyfriend, Jimmy’s here. Didn’t you see him down there?” He snapped at me. Then he frowned.

“Yes, I see he has a new girlfriend. She looks very young.” I replied. I took a gulp of wine.

“Jealous are you?” George sneered.

“No, darling, I’m not jealous. But you seem to be. Why are you acting like this? I’ve never liked Jimmy. And by the way, where is your wife?” I finished my wine. It made me nervous when anyone was angry with me. Especially George. Old feelings of insecurity welled up.

“The wife is not too happy with me, and so she stayed home.”

I didn’t want to ask. I didn’t want to know. So I changed the subject. “Are you going to be angry with me for the holidays?”

“Maybe.” He put the guitar down and spread this arms across the back of the couch.

A bell went off in my head. I knew what would cheer him up. I picked up George’s beer and chugged the rest of it for courage. “Do you want your Christmas present now,?“ I asked him. I sat the beer bottle down and walked across the room to lock the door. He didn’t look at me or answer so I knelt on the floor in front of him.

I ran my hands up his thighs and looked at his face. He was still pouting, but he wasn’t resisting. I unbuckled his belt. He didn’t move so I felt bold enough to unbutton his trousers and then I unbuttoned his his pale blue dress shirt and pulled his tee shirt up . He was still slim and not an inch of fat on him. I kissed his stomach and ran my hands up over his chest. George’s head was back and his eyes were closed.

“You are being very naughty, Pattie,” he murmured.

“I know, darling. but I can’t stand it when you’re upset. Even now.” I lowered his zipper, his arousal evident. That’s my George, I thought. He couldn’t be that upset. I tugged on the waistband of his trousers and he hitched his ass up so I could pull them down. It thrilled me to bits that he wasn’t wearing underpants. At a Christmas party! To add to George’s pleasure, I took off my blouse and my bra, glad I hadn’t decided to wear a dress.

My hair fell forward and I used one hand to hold it back. “Let it down, Pattie,” said George.

“Yes, George.” I let my hair fall forward and I stroked him with my hand as I circled the tip with my tongue. George groaned most satisfactorily. All the love and desire I had ever felt for him came flooding through me. He smelled good, he tasted even better. If he hadn’t looked oh so sexy sitting there with that guitar, I would not be on my knees hoping to give him the best blow job ever.

As I sucked him, my tongue was busy flicking and I held his balls and very gently tightened my hold.

“God, Pattie,” he rasped. I felt his hands in my hair guiding my head just a tiny bit, so I knew he was liking this very much.

“Mmmmmm,” I hummed adding to the sensation. I happily attended to him. I had never stopped loving him or being very attracted to him. He was the love of my life and I hope for just this moment I was once more his.

George was breathing really hard and kind of pulling my hair. Finally he held it back and I knew he was staring intently so I took him as far down my throat as I could, bouncing on my knees to get a good rhythm going. George was rocking his hips and by the groans and moans I knew he was about to let go. His hands had moved to my shoulders and he gripped them tightly as he got off. I could feel that warm heat hit the back of my throat and I thought of something chocolate so I wouldn’t gag.

I swallowed and gave a little lick to get every drop. Then I looked up at George and grinned before wiping the back of my hand across my mouth. “Feel better?” I queried.

“Jesus Christ, Pattie. Where did you learn to do that?” The very same questioned he had always asked me after sex. The thought flashed across my mind wondering if he asked Olivia the same thing, but I quickly chased it away.

I laughed. “I had a good teacher,” I teased.

I put my blouse back on. “I’m going to go get us some drinks.” I left him in the library and luckily found a server with a full drinks tray at the bottom of the stairs. I took three glasses of champagne and hurried back to George.

“Cheers!” I said as I handed him a glass and we clinked before taking a sip.

“Sit next to me,” he said. I curled up next to him and he put his arm around me.

“I’m sorry I’ve been such a bastard, but I could never stand it when you would bat those big blue eyes at Jimmy.” He gave me a squeeze. “When I saw you in June laughing with him, I just lost it. Really, I have no right. I was just upset about something else and I took it out on you.”

“I forgive you,” I told him. I patted his knee. “I hope you’ve worked out your problems.”

“Well, I’ve tried to be a very good boy to make Liv happy, but you know I’m never a good boy for long.” He drank his champagne and I refilled his glass with with half of the extra drink I’d brought up.

“I feel badly I’ve tempted you,” I lied.

He smiled that crooked smile that always made my heart lurch. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”

“Of course, your secret is safe with me. But I never feel guilty when I’m with you. It just seems natural somehow.” I polished off my champagne and picked up the other glass and sat there next to George happy to be with him. Glad he wasn’t acting like a child anymore.

He picked up the guitar and I leaned against the arm rest. He played a bit of For You Blue. Then he winked at me. He played a little medley of what we used to call Pattie songs. I sighed feeling happy and content. It never failed. When I found myself with George, it seemed like we’d never been apart.

Then he started playing Let’s Spend the Night Together. Not singing, but I got the message.

“George go home to Liv. Don’t ruin Christmas. Make up with her. “ I said the words we both needed to hear.

“Will you come for New Years Eve?” he asked.

“Of course, darling. Have I ever missed a party?” I put my feet in his lap and listened as he played his favorite Dylan tunes. Things were right between us. It would never be as it was, but in some ways it would be better.

#pattie remembers #pattie boyd #george harrison

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bruadarxch · 4 years

Text

Wonderstruck (1/4)

Delphine Lacroix raves about Miss Shirley and her crazy lessons. Her uncle Gilbert thinks his niece surely has an overactive imagination, but one day he has to pick her up from school and a certain redhead covered in paint from head to toe crashes into him.

OR: Gilbert Blythe puts his foot in it when he meets Anne in every universe. Luckily for him, she didn't have any heavy objects around in this one. (AO3 link)

***

“Blythe.”

A voice makes Gilbert stir in his sleep. He lets out a whimper and rolls over, refusing to wake up.

“Blythe. Gilbert,” the voice insists, and he feels a hand shaking his arm.

Bash?

“Wake up you moke!”

Yup. Definitely Bash.

Gilbert finally manages to slightly open his eyes and the afternoon light blinds him. Bash is standing over him, looking slightly exasperated.

“What?” Gilbert asks, voice muffled with sleep. “What time is it?”

“It’s almost one in the afternoon,” Bash replies. “I know you had a long shift at the hospital last night but this is an emergency.”

At this Gilbert bolts up in his bed, his doctor brain taking over any trace of sleepiness. “What happened? Are you okay? Is Delly okay?”

“Everyone’s fine!” Bash quickly says, wincing. “Sorry, not that kind of emergency.”

“Bash!”

“I’m sorry! But it is an emergency,” Bash insists. “I wouldn’t wake you up if it wasn’t.”

“Okay, okay,” Gilbert says, rubbing his eyes. “What is it?”

“You need to pick up Delphine from school.”

“That’s it? Don’t you usually call a babysitter for that?” he asks, slightly confused.

“Yes, Blythe, but Mr Barry just called about a last minute situation with the exports team and Mrs Lynde couldn’t come on such short notice,” Bash explains, visibly frustrated with his adoptive brother’s refusal to just get up already. “So can you please do your uncle duty and go pick Delly up?”

“When does she get out?”

“In half an hour, ” Bash says pointedly.

“Oh shit!” Gilbert finally gets out of bed and hastily starts getting dressed. “Okay, I’m coming.”

“Thank you!” Bash calls out, already rushing out the front door. “I’ll text you the address. Don’t be late!”

Gilbert is late.

It’s not completely his fault, traffic in the afternoon is always a nightmare even in their relatively small city. That, and he had never been to little Delphine’s school so he accidentally gets lost. He’s not extremely late though, so he’s sure he’ll be able to persuade his 7-year-old niece into forgiving him with a quick trip to her favorite ice cream shop. He just hopes Bash thought ahead and called the school so her teacher doesn’t think he’s trying to kidnap Delly or something.

He vaguely recalls Delly talking about her teacher during dinner. Gilbert never took his niece’s stories about Miss Shirley too seriously, knowing how wild Delly’s imagination is. It’s just impossible that a teacher would do things like take her students on a field trip to the middle of the forest so they could “whisper secrets to the trees, the best listeners nature had to offer”. It simply sounded ridiculous, but Delly did complete a very nice project on the different varieties of trees in Prince Edward Island.

When Gilbert finally arrives to the school building—and only about ten minutes late, to his infinite relief—he feels uneasy. Like there’s something momentous about to happen to him but he doesn’t know exactly what. Weird. He’s walking up the steps to the front door when someone pulls it open from the inside and a red-headed figure barrels into him.

“Whoa!” he exclaims taking the young woman by the arms before they both fall down the stairs. “Are you okay?”

Then she looks at him with big blue eyes and his heart picks up speed. His mind goes blank as they both take each other in. She’s short, barely coming up to his shoulders. Her long red hair is cascading down her back and she’s looking at him with parted lips and a faint blush on her freckle-covered cheeks. Cute, his unhelpful mind supplies. He swears the world slows down around them, and he almost forgets where he is. Then it’s like the woman in front of him suddenly shakes herself off the weird spell between them.

“Sorry,” she sputters. “Oh god! I’m so sorry!”

“It’s okay, no worries,” he smiles at her.

“This is mortifying,” she continues, avoiding his gaze. “Utterly mortifying! I wish this was the first time my overactive brain makes me lose sight of my surroundings but I can promise it’s not, probably not the last either...”

“It’s fine, really!”

“...which is why the principal will have a field day with this,” the redhead rattles on, “she was just reminding me about the perils of being distracted in the school environment and not even an hour later here I am. Harming people!”

“You just bumped into me,” Gilbert quips, amused.

“Oh but only because you’re an adult, and my tiny constitution couldn’t possibly make a big impact, but imagine the catastrophic consequences of such an accident if I were to crash into one of our tiny students!”

“Well, I won’t tell if you don’t,” he gives her a teasing grin. “This... accident can stay between us.”

The woman rolls her eyes but seems grateful. He takes a proper look at her this time and that’s when he notices that she’s covered in paint of different colors from head to toe. There’s a big splotch of green on her right cheek and multicolored droplets all over the tips of her red hair. She’s wearing an apron that maybe someday was white, but now is anything but. She looks like she’s just come back from a paintball battle instead of a classroom. She notices him staring and crosses her arms in front of her, self consciously.

“Can I help you with anything?”

“Uh...” Shit. Gilbert had almost forgotten why he was in the school in the first place. Luckily for him, this is the moment his niece finds him.

“Uncle Gilby!” Delphine squeals, throwing herself at his legs. He smiles and picks her up, almost forgetting the weird encounter with the woman still in front of him.

“Hello Princess Delphine,” he says warmly. “Daddy couldn’t come pick you up, wanna have a date with your favorite uncle?”

“You’re late!” she chastises him, crossing her little arms.

“I know,” he says, apologetically. “Will you forgive me if I buy you ice cream?”

“Three whole balls?” she asks excitedly. Gilbert laughs.

“Okay, but don’t tell your dad,” he whispers conspiratorially. Delly giggles and he puts her down, taking her little hand in his. Then he turns to the woman still standing in front of them. “Sorry, I forgot to introduce myself. I’m Gilbert Blythe, Delphine’s uncle. Her father couldn’t pick her up today, he had a last minute situation at work.”

The redhead begins to introduce herself but the little girl in Gilbert’s arms interrupts her.

“Uncle Gil this is Miss Shirley! She’s super smart like you,” Delly says excitedly. “Isn’t she the prettiest girl in the whole world?”

At this both adults blush a deep red. They both avoid the other’s eyes and Gilbert clears his throat wishing his niece hadn’t inherited Bash’s gift for embarrassing him in public.

“That’s impossible, Princess Delphine,” he answers, very pointedly not looking at the indeed very pretty woman in front of him. “You are the prettiest girl in the world. Now go pick up your stuff, we should get going.”

Delly giggles in delight and runs back into the school building, leaving the two adults alone in an awkward silence. Gilbert looks back at the teacher and tries to clear the tension.

“So you’re the famous Miss Shirley?” he asks, flashing her a smile.

“I guess I am. Most adults just call me Anne, though,” she replies, offering her hand. He shakes it and he does an okay job of ignoring the strange tingling sensation the handshake gives him. Anne clears her throat this time—looking similarly affected, might he add—and tries to stir the conversation into a safe topic. “Delphine is a very bright girl, you must be proud.”

“Oh yeah, I am,” he smiles warmly. He never thought he’d be the type of person to get sappy about kids, but watching Delly grow up has been one of the greatest joys of his life. She’s brought so much joy to their home, and she continues to amaze him every day with the things she learns and the adventures she get herself into at just seven years old. He can’t quite contain the expression of pure love that takes over his face, and Anne must pick up on it because she smiles back at him. He looks back at her... colorful current state of being and chuckles. “I’ve heard a lot about you, actually. I thought Delly was making your crazy lessons up, but I guess I was wrong.”

He didn’t mean it as a bad thing, but the icy glare she gives him tells him his choice of words was definitely a mistake.

“Excuse me?!” she whispers, anger clear in her voice. Gilbert gulps.

“Oh I didn’t mean...!”

“I’ll have you know that my methods are calculated and highly efficient,” she hisses. “It’s enough that the old fashioned people at this school question me even though I’ve proven myself time and time again. I won’t tolerate it from someone who’s only known me for fifteen minutes and hasn’t even set foot in this school once!”

Gilbert is at a loss of words. He obviously didn’t mean to offend Anne, but the fire in her eyes suggests she is very much offended—even tempted to hit him with something given the opportunity. He hates himself for it, but underneath all the embarrassment he thinks Anne Shirley is a passionate individual alright. He can’t lie to himself and say she doesn’t look beautiful all riled up, because she does—hands resting on her hips, eyes bright, flushed cheeks, looking ready to take on the world.

Before he can say something even more idiotic and give her an opportunity to actually slap him, his very opportune niece bursts through the door again demanding the ice cream he promised.

He lets sweet, unaware Delly drag him away as he casts an apologetic look at the still furious teacher. She merely crosses her arms in front of her.

“Good afternoon, Mr Blythe,” Anne says coldly. With that she turns and disappears inside the building.

Gilbert is left with the strongest shame clouding his thoughts and a heart doing somersaults inside his chest. Fuck.

#awae #anne with an e #awae fanfic #shirbert #shirbert fanfiction #shirbert fanfic #modern au #anne shirley #gilbert blythe #i'm so excited about this story!!#i needed something sweet to survive this season #i hope you like it!!

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sirsharp-a · 4 years

Text

My Conscience is Clean. ❜

Summary: Edgar can be an idiot but God was a bigger one this time around. Warnings: Brief mentions of abuse/sexual assault, though nothing in detail Parts: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 ( here! ) |

His grief was insurmountable.

“I trust you have made your peace with the end,” Raku said as tentatively as he could, small form gradually sinking until he could sit next to Edgar at the edge of No Man’s Bluff. The ground was cold. The moon, round and full, gave off a ghostly glow. Their silhouettes looked borderline comedic beside one another, one tall and distinctive while the other was a short stubby mass.

The lye was silent for a while, black eyes affixed on the abyss in front of him. To him, it was like staring into a mirror. In a voice filled with vitriol: “... rest assured, there will be no peace.”

I will linger in the void as a ghost. My spite will blacken your name, enter your blood as venom.

“Edgar…” The deity sighed, eyes closing tiredly. “This is the best way forward. You know that I do not want to do this.”

“I don’t want to hear it,” he spat. In the moment, his words were more poisonous than he was. “Just get this over with. There is nothing I can do. Screaming and crying about it will only make me look weaker. I am not weak.”

The last thing he wanted to do was sit there and accept it, but he knew deep down that there was truly no way to avoid this outcome. The God had already made up his mind, and he was powerless to stop the chain of events that would ultimately result in his demise. He had spent millennia outfoxing the smartest of people: white collar criminals who had the money to buy their freedom whenever they screwed up; threatening organised gang units who didn’t fear the law; other lyes that were, at least on surface level, ‘more’ than he was. This, though… this was a fight that he could not win. There was no element of chess, no wit to be challenged - there was fate, and there was a cold chasm, and that was that.

Grace…

Every time her name resurfaced in his brain, his heart began to ache all over again. It hadn’t stopped since their last night together, her touch both soothing and scalding as he revelled in its undeniable purity, but thinking of her made it hurt more. Though he tried ever so hard not to, he couldn’t help but yearn for her.

How could I let myself fall in love again? How could I let my feelings be returned? How could I even think about leaving her behind?

There has to be SOMETHING I can do-- -- there’s nothing I can do.

An ear twitched as his maker’s voice drew him back to the present. He found Raku floating in front of him, held aloft by unbridled power, short black legs slightly bent as he relaxed above the open pit as if suspended by string cast down from the Heavens. “... pardon?”

“Kneel,” he repeated, gesturing to the ground with his head.

After a moment of hesitation, Edgar realised that he was on his feet. He didn’t remember getting up, nor did he recall having the strength to do so. This entire thing has taken a toll on me. I’m not weak but I feel it. I feel so wrought with depression and anguish that I don’t want to move. Every time I need to get up, there’s a great ache in my bones that won’t dissipate.

Edgar shook his head. “No.”

He felt it then: a steady pressure making a home on his shoulders. It was light at first, though the longer he remained standing, the more harsh it became. Eventually, he was trembling with the effort it took to remain upright, legs wobbling like jelly before a final barrage of metaphysical energy saw them giving out beneath him, knees hitting the cold rock formation beneath him with a dull thud. A flush of shame coated the back of his neck, teeth bared in a furious snarl as he glared up at the deity.

“I said kneel.”

“Fuck what you said,” Edgar growled, bile transforming into a tiny ball of molten venom. Without thinking, the lye spat it at the saviour, eyes flashing a menacing white as he did. It shot a clean hole through the deity’s robe, material fizzling with raw energy, and the shocked sound that he made sent a bolt of pleasure through Edgar’s core. “I won’t ask for forgiveness, even though my end is nigh. I don’t require it. My conscience is clean.”

I’m not your bitch. I’ll never be your bitch. You may take my life but you will never take my rage.

He zoned out again. Even when the God glowed a bright white light that hurt his eyes, he remained unresponsive, refusing to give him even an ounce more of his acknowledgement. How dare you try to take what you didn’t help me to get? You don’t deserve my tears, or my pleas, or my apologies. I’ll never--

“Stop!”

-- stop, I’ll never stop, I’ll--

… stop?

As Edgar’s head slowly inclined, he realised that Raku was no longer looking at him but off to the side, large blade seemingly crafted out of pure light held stationary above his head. Gradually, Edgar’s line of sight followed suit, landing on none other than Grace. Could you feel my longing? Is that what led you to me?

Simultaneously:

“Who are you?” “Grace…”

When she was close enough to the scene, her form shifted, golden hair and striking blue eyes replacing her animalistic visage as she skidded to a stop beside her lover. Even on his knees, he was more than half of her height.

“What’re you doing?” the Alpha asked through clenched teeth, feeling a searing pain blooming in his chest. Not only was it shameful to be seen in such a defeated position, he couldn’t bear to make her watch him die. You seeing me take my final breath… it will change you.

“I read your stupid letter--” she seethed, looking at him with such scorn that it burned. Though he opened his mouth to speak, she cut him off: “How could you address that to me?! You idiot--”

“Grace--”

“YOU IDIOT--” She had a funny way of making him feel grateful for having his intelligence demeaned, but in this case it only wounded him. It wasn’t even the insult to his pride that stung-- it was the tears welling up in her eyes, the strong woman that he knew crumbling at the seams. He couldn’t enjoy her misery in the same way that he could other peoples’. Grace Adler in tears was a heart-breaking sight to behold, one that chewed at what little was left of his heart. Please stop. Please, please don’t cry.

Grace sank to her knees in front of him, ignoring Raku completely, trembling hands reaching up to cup the sides of Edgar’s face. “You can’t go. You can’t.” She fought against the gentle coil of his fingers around her wrists, refusing to allow him to guide her away from him. “Y-You can’t confess your feelings to me and then just vanish… y-you can’t do that, Eddie… please don’t do that to me…”

“I don’t have a choice--”

“You have a choice!” Beneath it all, she knew that what he was saying was true. She just didn’t want to accept it. He’s wonderful, powerful, smart as can be… but that’s nothing to a God. Bitterly, fingers lightly digging into his skin: “I won’t forgive you if you do this to me. I won’t.”

The change in his face shattered her in two. She witnessed the last little spark of hope in his eyes die, brows arching as he stared at her wordlessly, helplessly. His dim gaze averted sullenly from hers, focused on the dead rock beneath him. In a tight voice: “... I suppose that is what I deserve.”

“Edgar…”

Her ears swivelled the opposite way when she heard shifting behind her.

“Grace…” Despite his self-righteousness, Raku’s voice was soft. “Please step aside. Don’t make this any more difficult than it needs to be.”

“I refuse to leave him alone,” she hissed, glaring daggers at him as soon as she’d turned her head. Though she could feel Edgar’s hand pressing gently against her side, as if urging her away from him, she remained adamantly in place. Teeth were bared in a defensive snarl, venom pooling at the corners of her mouth. “I WON’T let you take him from me!”

That seemed to startle the deity somewhat. Slowly, his weapon was lowered to his side, glowing blade matching the pallid white of his robe. The hole that Edgar had made was now gone, no evidence of his defiance left behind.

“I understand that you’re angry... but you don’t see the big picture, Grace,” Raku began solemnly, stance now more open and patient. “His continued existence is dangerous. He is living on borrowed time. He--”

“I DON’T CARE.” The woman stood up with a stomp of her feet, fiery indignation threatening to burn her alive. Even in her fury, she knew that she was behaving rashly. This was her creator… her maker; the one she would answer to when all was said and done. Nevertheless, her life was as good as over if she lost Edgar now. It had been so long since she had been granted happiness; whether his behaviour was birthed out of lust and a desire to meddle with her feelings or not, it didn’t matter. The end result was something real; something that, now that she’d felt it, she couldn’t live without. “A-All of your excuses… every single one of them, they’re not good enough for me. CHOKE ON THEM!”

As much as she resented it, she could feel herself getting emotional. Her eyes burned; her throat felt tight; her heart ached so fiercely that she felt it would burst. Arms wrapped around herself, squeezing her frame tight as she tried to resist the urge to scream-- to jump off of the edge of the bluff-- to hurl herself at her lord and saviour and send them both spiralling into the dark below.

“It feels like you don’t see the big picture,” she uttered ruefully, voice wobbling, nails digging into her arms as she shook. Though Raku was barely over a foot tall, his effortless hover made her feel small in his wake, like an ant staring up at an incoming boot. “If you did, you’d know that killing Edgar is just as dangerous. It tells me that you don’t UNDERSTAND all that he’s done for so many people! It shows me that you just want somebody to be the villain, and of course it would be a lye.” She wasn’t stupid; she knew that Edgar wasn’t perfect. On the contrary, she knew all too well that he was a sadistic creature that longed only for his own entertainment… but he had always been good to her. To his creed. To his friends. And, as far as she was concerned, they were the ones who mattered. “Business… all the people that needed help and he was there to offer them it--”

“Through abusing his abilities--”

“It doesn’t matter!” Grace exclaimed fiercely, teeth grit tight. “He was there, and he was honest. Those people needed help and he gave them it. He didn’t need to use his powers for that but he did. He helped the weak. The defenceless. Those that were trapped in horrible situations and couldn’t do anything about it themselves. Abuse victims. Homeless people. Young children. Poor people. All people who were suffering the weight of this place. The place that you made.” She didn’t wait to see if Raku had opened his mouth to rebuke her, nor did she look behind her to discern whether Edgar approved of her running her mouth or not. “They’ll all be out a hero. And his creed… they’ll be out a leader. You made lyes, right? You know what happens when they’re gone.”

“...”

“Aléjandro Murphy. He told me all about the time that you revealed yourself to him and a handful of others. He’s a huro you look up to very much because of the family that he belongs to; he’ll be out a dear friend. Deeana Braav, a woman who treated you with extreme kindness while you were busy hiding from war; she will lose the man who killed her abusive ex, the man who freed her. Ivan Mox, the one I call my brother, will lose a steady beacon of support. Huron will be out one of the first inter-species establishments that has existed. And I…” She felt a sob slip past her lips, even in spite of how vehemently she was trying to hold it back. “I’ll lose all that makes me happy. Y-You’re God… you know the life I’ve lived--”

“I don’t know,” Raku interjected.

“Then let me educate you.” I refuse to let you take control of this conversation. When all is said and done, you have the last call anyway. This is the last and only chance, and I intend to take it. “I was taken advantage of. I was beaten and battered by my first Alpha; raped and bred by my second. It’s funny to me that the Alpha you want to kill off is the one that gave me everything. Even when I was rude to him. Even when I bared my teeth and insulted him. Even after I acted like a little brat, because I didn’t know h-how to-- h-how--” She paused to sniffle, furiously wiping at her eyes. Don’t start crying now. Don’t you dare lose it now. “... h-how to deal with my-- deal with all that I’d been forced to live through… a-and endure… and he was STILL THERE.” She’d long since learned that tears burned much like shame did. As they trailed down her cheeks, she found that she could do nothing to stop them. How is this justice? How does killing him resolve anything? It’s your fault he’s even here again in the first place. You unleashed this ‘evil’ yourself. The weight of the situation was steadily crushing her, an uprising surge of panic and grief threatening to submerge her. After snivelling meekly, she doubled down, feet planted firmly on the ground, hands curled into defiant little balls. “I won’t leave him behind. If you want to get to him, you’ll have to go through me. ”

Could you do that, Lord? Could you damn an innocent soul just for acting earnestly?

“Grace…” The God’s blade vanished, the small creature floating closer to her. “You have to understand, this is for the best.”

“For WHO?!” she shrieked. “For YOU, that’s who. Not for me. Not for him. Not for the hundreds of people he’s helped.” Everything hurt. Her chest ached every time she took a breath. Her vision blurred a little more every time she blinked. The tremors wracking her body left her feeling frazzled and exhausted. In a more resigned tone: “If he goes, so do I.”

“Grace…!” She turned back to see Edgar staring at her, wide-eyed and urgent. “Please step back. Don’t say th--”

“I’m tired, Eddie,” the scout interrupted, voice worn and weary as she looked down at him. Her hands reached out, gently touching the sides of his face again. “... I’m so tired of living so precariously. I want to be happy. I want to feel stable. I get those things when I’m with you.” She smiled a weak smile, sinking to her knees before him once more. Though she couldn’t stop crying, she nestled her face into his chest, relishing in the warmth, in the familiar scent. “I always respected you for giving me choices. I’d like to be allowed to make this final one. If Raku takes you away, I’ll be close behind.”

“... how…?”

“We’re on the edge of a cliff, Edgar.”

His arms wound tightly around her then, like an anaconda threatening to squeeze the life out of its prey. She didn’t resist; only nuzzled closer, his warmth soothing the terror inside. You can’t fix me. You never could. But you can make things better.

The God stared wordlessly at the couple, their wholesome embrace sending a chill down the length of his spine. The whole time he’d thought to pursue this line of action, he hadn’t considered the possibility that Edgar was in a genuine, loving relationship. The deity knew very well of Edgar’s sweet nothings; of his momentary fascinations with ‘perfect’ women, only for it to sour when they displeased him in some way. A hopeless romantic-- but a twisted one, too. One obsessed with fairytale-esque connections - and one who grew angry when the picture-perfect moment was soiled. One argument was all it took. One little blunder that most didn’t even consider a mistake… but there was no faking the hurt on his face. The way he clung to her was nothing short of desperate-- as if she was all he had. Perhaps that was true.

Was I… wrong? Did this little crusade of mine go too far? Was there some element of truth to this murderer’s outrage? Was the idea to raise damned souls from the dirt a twisted one after all? Why do I feel like I’m the bad guy...?

It had never failed him before. Edgar was the first and only example of a hybrid lye far out-lasting its given time. But just because his methods had succeeded in the past, itdidn’t mean that they were necessarily ethical. A bad man Edgar Romero had been… but a tortured one too.

Would you have travelled that same path had you not lost everything? Could I have done something?

Briefly, he thought about all the positive things that he had accomplished during his first life. He’d done all he could for his family, bent over backwards to work and provide for them; he’d been a fair, honest businessman who hadn’t resorted to trickery or fraud; he’d incited positive political change, both as a protestor and as a public figure. Saying ‘no’ to those above him when he felt that they were wrong… he’d always done that - even before he’d lost his family.

Are you saying ‘no’ to me in that same fashion too?

“Perhaps…” The God hesitated, before sinking to the ground. Small black feet were soundless as they touched the rock below. I honestly don’t know if I have the bottle for this regardless. Killing somebody willingly... it’s a horrifying concept, even if it’s for the greater good. I was never too good at the ‘punishment’ part, was I, Al? Though neither of the lyes turned or looked up to regard him, both sets of ears had swivelled in his direction. They were listening, even if they were doing so begrudgingly. “... perhaps there is another way.”

#🞮 — i am the lie that you adore. ❜ ( edgar. )#🞮 — you're nothing if you're just another. ❜ ( grace. )#🞮 — i sent you omens and all kinds of signs. ❜ ( raku. )#🞮 — welcome to my world﹐take a look around. ❜ ( main. )#🞮 — ask me to stay﹐i would be charmed to. ❜ ( ic. )#drabble *#/ HOOOOOOOOOOOH MY FUUUUUCK #grace defies god???? that's pretty much the series ;v;

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faejilly · 4 years

Text

ashes of angels 2/6

Jace Herondale is not pleased to learn that someone tried to hurt his parabatai.

For my @shadowhunterbingo square: Kidnapping [AO3]

Jace has to take a few minutes, after Magnus has given them the rundown and before they leave, to stand in the doorway of Alec's bedroom. He has to see it for himself, has to look at him, sleeping quietly, while Cat and Madzie play some incomprehensible kid's card-game at a small table they'd pulled into the room.

Alec will be fine.

Alec was almost really really not fine, and he'd barely noticed the odd flush of heat through the parabatai bond before Magnus had taken care of it.

Or more, he'd noticed, but he hadn't known what to do about it, and honestly if he'd called Magnus he just would have gotten in the way while he was making the antidote, so he's not sure what he's feeling guilty about, what he could have done, but still. It won't go away.

Izzy props her head on his shoulder to look into the room with him, tension clear in the way she stretches to fit rather than just looking around him like she normally would.

She probably feels guilty too, for even less reason.

He supposes it's one of the few things they share with Alec: guilt is a family sport, at this point.

He snorts.

Izzy pulls back and looks at him, eyebrows raised, but he just shakes his head.

"Let's go see if Magnus is ready."

Izzy nods, and they turn back to the apothecary.

He's never seen Magnus so furious. He's hiding it well; Jace doubts most people would be able to tell. He's too stiff, too controlled, and while his magic isn't visible, not really, Jace can feel it, pressure and heat in the air around him, like the waves of a mirage on an empty highway in the summer, swirling around Magnus until he looks like he might be a bit more than just half-demon.

Alec would probably say he looks half-angel, righteous and avenging.

Jace lets himself linger in that thought until he agrees with it. It doesn't take long. Anyone angry on Alec's behalf is clearly on the right side of history in Jace's opinion.

Magnus grins at them, baring his teeth. "Ready?"

"Ready," Izzy echoes, while Jace nods.

They stalk through Magnus' portal, right back into the middle of Alicante.

Not in the middle of the Hall, though, but in an empty and slightly dusty stairwell. Izzy raises her eyebrows, and Magnus shrugs. "No reason to make it obvious to anyone who doesn't know that I can get in and out of Idris so easily, is there?"

"Are we going to let them think they pulled it off, then?" Jace asks. If Magnus couldn't have gotten Alec back to New York they might have. It's probably what they were counting on, risking a drug like that. Dead or humiliated, and they'd possibly have preferred the second one, considering.

Jace hates the Circle, and he hates that there are remnants of it still, even without Valentine, trying to undermine all the good Alec's doing. Trying to undermine Alec, just because they think they can.

Izzy wrinkles her nose at him, but he can tell she can see the appeal of running a con on the people they're hunting because she doesn't actually argue. They'd probably get to hit more people, selling it as grief at their loss; he has to admit a preference to any plan that gives him an excuse to let his own rage at someone threatening his parabatai go free.

Magnus tilts his head, considering. "I'm not sure I could keep my temper if I let that idea out, even in the hypothetical."

Fair enough. Jace nods.

Not that he's against turning half of Alicante into a crater at this point, but it would make Alec's job harder, once he's better.

"Avoiding the direct approach," Jace says, only half a question. Alec can pull off the direct approach when dealing with the Clave; Jace has never seen anyone else manage it.

"You have a rune for tracking magic, yes?" Magnus asks, and they activate their spiritum runes. Jace blinks. Magnus looks even more other-worldly with hints of red and blue and black sparking in the aura around him.

Magnus holds out a hand, and a ball of sickly yellow-green magic forms in his palm. "Here's the signature for the pixie dust. Whoever handled it will have traces around their hands, and probably whatever pocket or bag it was in."

"They won't let their guard down around us." Izzy flicks her fingers towards Jace. "Even if we are dressed for the occasion." They're in formal clothes, weapons hidden as well as glamoured so no one will see them. Jace is 99% sure the fancy stick in her hair is sharpened to work as well as a dagger, and he knows she's more than capable of stabbing people with the heels on her shoes, too. He's a little jealous; he'll have to pick her brain after this, to figure out what else he could hide in his formal gear next time he has to dress up.

Magnus winks, and Jace feels the warm wash of magic across his skin. It feels almost like a glamour rune, but... lighter? He looks over at Izzy to see how she's taken it, and his eyes just... skip over her face, somehow filing her away as unimportant.

He blinks, and it happens again.

Izzy whistles softly. "How does that work if we actually talk to them?"

"They'll think you look vaguely familiar, but that's about it," Magnus says. "It's more of a don't look, nothing interesting here misdirect than a full-glamour with a false image, so it's much less likely that it will occur to them to try and look through it."

"But if they do?" Izzy asks.

"Then we do the direct approach," Jace answers.

"Hopefully not? But..." Magnus concedes to that back-up plan with a graceful shrug of shoulders and wide-spread hands. "Good luck."

"We don't need luck, we have you." Izzy drops a quick kiss on Magnus' cheek, and she and Jace step out into the party.

They do a full circuit of the room, nodding politely and pretending to sip at the drinks they snagged off a server. They spot one person with green fingers right away, a man in an almost aggressively nondescript suit, but they make sure there's nothing else before they move; they wouldn't want to miss something by acting too quickly.

Alec would be proud of them.

Jace is rather proud of them, too, especially when they find a trail of magic that leads to the serving station behind the hall, and a tiny cabinet under the staging table that still has stuff in it.

Izzy locks it up under her own rune, so no one besides them can get to it.

They go back to the Hall, and Jace finds a good vantage point, half-way between their prey and the gallery door.

Izzy takes the almost direct approach; she flirts.

After about thirty seconds, Jace wonders if they'd even needed the don't see me Magnus had laid on them, because he's relatively sure the idiot's eyes never move higher than Izzy's breasts. (Which is entirely the point of her outfit, of course, but he's still always kind of horrified by how easily it works.)

She manages to work their target almost to the door all on her own before he apparently remembers that he has a job of some sort that he's still supposed to be doing. By then it's too late, and even as the idiot starts to demur and look around, Jace is already up on his other side, and they frog-march him out of the room before he has a chance to do more than inhale in surprise.

And then he sees Magnus, and he opens his mouth as if to yell, and Magnus does something with a wave of his hand that makes the man sag so suddenly that Jace staggers under the sudden weight pulling at him.

Izzy snorts, and shifts her feet to steady herself. "That's one way to keep him quiet."

Magnus shrugs, and waves his hands again.

The magic slides off Jace's skin, and he watches the weird mirage haze swirl move around the man between them instead.

There are a few blue and red sparks, and a Circle rune appears on his neck.

"There's a tracker spell in his pocket," Magnus points. Jace reaches in to pull out what looks like a bus station key, a blue spark of Magnus' magic spiralling around it.

"I'll put it in the cabinet with the rest of his stuff," Izzy holds out her hand. "That way it'll still be here at the party if anyone checks."

Jace hands it over.

"You stay here and keep an eye on it, will you?" Magnus asks. "Jace and I will get this fellow settled."

Magnus makes yet another portal, Izzy helps them get the man through, and then she slips away.

They're back in the loft again; the guest room, this time. They drop the man on the bed with a soft whump.

Catarina pokes her head around the door, sees the man on the bed, and raises her eyebrows. Jace can't tell what she's thinking, but she seems neither upset nor particularly surprised. She clearly sees the Circle rune. "Let me know if you need any help with him."

"Of course," Magnus agrees, and she closes the door behind her after she leaves.

Magnus looks at Jace.

Jace waits.

"I need a second opinion," Magnus starts.

Jace shakes his head. "If you really wanted a second opinion you would have asked Izzy. You know what you want to do, what you think is necessary, and I'm telling you now that it doesn't matter if Alec would think it's crossing a line, I'll back you."

Magnus stills, and then he smiles, and it's not a nice expression.

Jace grins back.

"I'm going to take his memories, because that Circle rune will stop him from telling us anything, even if we somehow convinced him that he wanted to."

Jace nods.

"The only way to do it without the Circle rune interfering with the spell, is to rip them out so quickly that the rune can't activate."

Jace nods again. That tracks, with the way Hodge had been able to talk about the Circle just a little, while still wearing the slightly modified version of the rune that the Clave had left on him for his punishment.

"He'll be a vegetable."

Jace nods, a third and final time, and Magnus' shoulders ease, as if he'd really thought Jace might have a problem with that. Jace can't have that. "You know, if they'd drugged you instead of him, Alec would have stolen the damn Soul Sword and shredded the man's mind himself, if that was what it took to help you."

Magnus' smile softens, but it's sad instead of relieved. "That doesn't mean he'll accept it when it's done for him."

Jace shrugs. "He will once I yell at him a little."

Magnus snorts.

"Stop stalling," Jace waves at the unconscious man. "We've got a conspiracy to unravel before my parabatai wakes up. Think how pleased he'll be that I helped clean up a mess instead of making one for once."

Magnus snorts again, and turns to start his spell.

#hmdiscord #shadowhunters #jace lightwood #isabelle lightwood #magnus bane #my sh fic #malec #jilly writes #shadowhunter bingo #idek what are tags #ashes of angels

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not-close-to-straight · 5 years

Text

Shadowed Hearts/Winter Souls (Chapter Nineteen)

MASTERLIST

********************

Wanda and Pietro made it back to the hotel room first, and per the instructions put in place before the ball, Natalia and Tony arrived almost half an hour later, sweeping up the stairs to their room with smiles and quiet laughter and looking for all the world as if they’d had the time of their life at the party. Or rather, Tony was smiling and trying to laugh. Natalia was practically shaking with rage, her face pale and eyes brittle and when Tony unlocked the door to their suite, he warned through gritted teeth-- “Wait until we get through the living area and into the far bedroom before you start yelling, please. We’ve made it this far, do not ruin the evening by making a scene in the hallway.” Natalia’s lips thinned to an angry line and Tony set his jaw. “Natalia--” “It irritates me that you feel the need to coach my behavior.” she hissed and Tony retorted, “Then maybe you shouldn’t have spent the carriage ride screaming and cursing in about six different languages over the staggering incompetence of your brother and the men you love!”

“They threw a guard over the balcony and--!” Talia started to shout but Tony shoved open the suite door and gave the furious redhead a sharp swat on the rear to startle her through and into the living room. “Antonio! How dare you!” “I’m well aware that Samuel and Ronin will cut my hand off for touching you, and if they don’t do it, you just might.” Tony shut and locked the door and tossed the key onto the buffet. “But this is as close to out of control I’ve ever seen you, and if you are going to explode, you’re going to do it where it won’t put us in any more danger, do you understand?” Natalia opened her mouth as if to reply, then shut it with a click, closing her eyes and clenching her fists and forcing a slow breath through her nose. Tony waited with narrowed eyes until Natalia finally nodded and said, “How far we’ve come, Antonio, that you are the one taking steps to calm me down instead of my having to bring you around to the moment, hm?” “How far we’ve come.” Tony repeated, still watching Natalia carefully. “Are you alright? I know tonight didn’t go as planned, and the body over the balcony was a surprise to us all, but you’re angry because of something else. What happened? Why are you so upset?” “I--” Natalia took another one of those slow breaths and blinked a few times. “I’d forgotten how difficult it is to pretend so much. To stand in a room full of people I hate and act as if I don’t notice the sneers and the stares.” Natalia wet her lips and sighed. “The Lord Kirillovich is the one who was directly responsible for my Da’s hanging. He pushed the conviction through far faster than the courts would usually allow, and there was no more than ninety days between Da being dragged from the house and him swinging in the palace courtyards.” “I thought you were happy to see your Da out of your life.” “That doesn’t mean I can stomach begging for help from the man who made it happen.” she snapped. “Having to play at needing him when I’d much rather put my knife in his gut? And having to watch all those men gawking at Wanda, bozhe moy she is a child and they are panting after her as if-- as if--” Natalia crossed to the in room bar and poured herself a measure of scotch, stared down at the glass, and took a drink directly from the bottle instead. “And Pietro with a gun in his belt, acting a man when I am still the one to fold his clothing from the wash. They are children, Antonio. And tonight they saw a man be thrown to his death from the third floor of the palace. They saw Ronin almost die in some half-cocked acrobatic stunt and I have no idea where James and Samuel are--” She swayed on her feet and Tony leaped forward to catch her when she stumbled, wrapping an arm around her waist and putting his other hand at her forehead. “Talia, you’re warm. Are you alright?” “I’m fine.” she muttered. “I just need a drink and to get this blasted corset off. I can’t breathe. Haven’t been able to breathe all night. Help me to the couch, Antonio. Please.” “Come on, then.” Tony led Natalia to the couch and took the alcohol from her hands to exchange it for a glass of water. Once she was settled, he sat behind her and began working at the fastens of her dress, undoing the tiny buttons one by one until the crisp fabric fell away from her back. Natalia set her water aside and yanked the feathers from her hair, tossing them away before tugging at the dozen or so pins it had taken to create the ornate styling she’d worn to the ball. Each pin plinked onto the tableside, the only noise in the room beside the rasp of ribbon as it pulled through the notches on her corset. “It’s a shame Wanda didn’t get to dance more in her gown.” Natalia finally said after several minutes. “This might be the only chance she has to attend a real ball, and the evening was cut so short. Pietro, as well. He might not have screamed over his new suit like Wanda did when you bought her that dress, but he was just as excited. They’ve had so little in life, it's too bad that they are afforded even less by being part of our family.” “Afforded even less, is that what you think?” Tony loosened the next loops of ribbon and Talia breathed in a shaky, relieved sigh when the pressure around her rib cage eased. “You think their lives are worse because Ronin brought them to the manor?” “No child should be raised in a family where at any given minute, their entire world can come to an end because of the choices made long before they were around.” Natalia gasped in another breath when Tony got to the bottom of her corset and pushed it open enough that it was no longer binding at her waist. “Oh, I forgot how terrible these are. I haven’t had to wear a corset in years, Ronin and Samuel prefer me to wear nearly nothing beneath my dresses.” “I’m sure they do.” Tony said dryly, and reached for a blanket to put over Talia’s shoulders since her gown was gapping in the front now. “Wanda and Pietro are lucky to be apart of this family, Talia. Why would you think anything different?” “They are children.” Natalia insisted “They deserve a softer life than this.” Tony paused mid step to pour himself a drink. “...What are you trying to say?” “I was thirteen the first time I saw a man die.” Talia leaned back into the couch and rubbed at her arms as if she were cold. “My Da had a friend over for dinner, and when he stood to get more wine, the friend made a comment towards me that justified my Da shooting him through the forehead.” Tony recoiled in shock and Natalia’s lips twisted into a wry smile. “That was the day Da learned I had grown up enough to be used for more than smuggling letters in my purse when we traveled. I got my very first corset the next week, and for my fifteenth birthday, I seduced a man at my party and stole his secrets. Many happy returns.” “Christ.” Tony’s hand shook a little around his drink. “And where was James?” “Off in the states falling in love with some farm raised soldier with pretty blue eyes.” Natalia snorted. “Mama passed when I was nearly twelve, James left shortly after, and Da decided I needed to carry my weight in the family business.” Tony swirled the alcohol in the glass a few times before saying, “Talia. Wanda isn’t fifteen, she’s nearly twenty. And Pietro is not James, running off to do battle because he is trying to hide his broken heart in bloodshed.” “No, Wanda isn’t fifteen.” Natalia agreed. “But those men look at her the way they look at me. And Pietro isn’t James, but he saw his entire village burned down and his friends and family killed. Now he is living with two of the most dangerous men in the Sokovian revolution, both of whom answer to my brother, a man so deadly he is more legendary ghost than flesh and blood man. It’s only a matter of time.” “Natalia, that isn’t true.” “It only takes a second.” she continued in a near whisper, gaze wide and unseeing as she stared out the suite window. “It only takes a second to make a girl a woman, to turn a boy into a killer. And more often than not, it is the exact same moment for both. The day Pietro has to see his sister as a woman will be the first day he thinks he can kill someone.” “Natalia--” “That’s how it was for James.” Natalia’s fingernails left crescent marks in her palms. “When he came home from the States, he came to the manor to find me but Da was having a party and I--” she closed her eyes. “-- he saw me, the way I was with the men. He broke my lover’s arm in three different places. Snapped his neck without looking away from my Da. Then James left, and I didn’t see him for years. Not for years. It was the end of everything. The end of me hoping James would save me, the end of him seeing me as his little sister, the end of everything I’d hoped would come close to resembling a happy ever after. My fairy tale. It was the end.” “Wanda and Pietro are not doomed to the same sort of life that you and James were born in to.” Tony said firmly. “You can’t think--” “I would give anything in the world to save them from it.” Natalia spoke as if she hadn’t heard Tony. “Anything to save us all from it. I hate being this person, do you know that? I hate it, I hate being the Black Widow, in fact I think I hate being Natalia Romanova. Can you imagine? Hating to be yourself?” Tony watched Natalia with something awful twisting in his stomach, unsettled by the blankness of her face, almost frightened by the dead-eyed stare that had taken over her usually expressive eyes. “Natalia, I--” “I’m boring you.” Just that quickly Natalia switched gears, rising smoothly from the couch with her blanket around her shoulders. “I’m going to take a bath and have a glass of wine. Would you please let me know when Ronin and Samuel arrive? Don’t bother warning me about James, I’m half tempted to throw him out another window for ruining my evening like this. Dropping bodies off balconies, putting my loves in danger, ruining Wanda and Pietro’s first Christmas Ball--” Natalia’s voice trailed off into mutterings and what Tony had come to recognize as curses as she went to the bedroom and shut the door, and no sooner had it clicked shut than the door to the other bedroom in the suite opened up and Wanda peeked curious eyes around to peer at Tony. “Antonio?” Wanda opened the door further from the adjoining room and took a cautious step inside. “Is everything alright? What is wrong with Talia?” “Nothing’s wrong with--” Tony started to deflect but Pietro pushed past his sister to interrupt, “Nothing ruins a beautiful evening like bodies falling from above. Have Ronin and Samuel made it back yet?” “No, not yet.” Tony handed Pietro his half measure of scotch and topped it off with a little water. “That’s all you’re drinking for now. Natalia will have my head if I give you any more, she’s having a hard time tonight.” “Pietro wouldn’t help me with my dress.” Wanda held her hair up off her shoulders and motioned for Tony to get to the buttons. “You don’t mind, do you Antonio?” “Of course not, come here.” Tony motioned for Wanda to sit on the couch where Talia had been just a moment before and he perched behind her, working carefully at the laces that held the back of her gown together. “I’ve undone more dresses tonight than I have in my entire life. My father would be so pleased.” Pietro sniffed at the drink before taking a tiny sip. “You mean he’d be happy you are undressing a woman instead of someone like James. You Da doesn’t approve of howyou love? Is that why you left Italy and came with Talia?” “Not--” Tony waved off the question. “--not entirely. And for tonight, we should leave Talia be. She is-- well she’s--” he hesitated. “I don’t really know how she is. But she is very concerned about the two of you.” “Talia is always concerned about us.” Wanda pointed out. “I think sometimes she looks at us and only sees the children we were when Ronin brought us home. And hardly children then, we were thirteen! Half to grown!” “Thirteen is not half to grown.” Tony disagreed, loosening the last of Wanda’s ties and giving her a blanket from the end of the couch. “At thirteen, I was no where near grown. Practically still a bambino.” “In Sokovia, thirteen is old enough for war. Half grown.” Pietro tossed back the drink in one swallow as if to prove his point, and then spluttered, coughing and clapping a hand over his mouth when it burned clear down his throat. “We are not--” a wheeze. “--children. We saw our village burn to the ground, Talia knows we can handle a few difficult truths.” “Pietro.” Wanda chided, snuggling back into the blanket with a grateful smile. “Bozhe moy, how do women wear these dresses every night? I thought I would split a seam if I ate anything!” “You look beautiful.” Pietro admitted begrudgingly. “I’m used to seeing you with grease in your hair and dirt under your fingernails, I don’t like that so many men thought to dance with you tonight.” “I never have grease in my hair!” Wanda fussed and Tony hid a smile at their bickering. “And besides Pietro, Natalia’s choice to not share her thoughts with us is most likely because we have seen such terrible things. Why would she want to worry us even more?” Pietro only snorted and poured himself another drink, before pouring one for Tony as well and passing it over. “All the same. We are not children anymore. She doesn’t need to hide from us.” “Pietro, change out of your suit.” Tony warned. “I won’t have you spilling scotch down the front of it like some spoiled nobleman, so if you’re going to keep drinking, get into your night clothes.” “I’m not spilling--” As if on cue, Pietro choked on a hard swallow of the dark liquid and it nearly came out of his nose. “Ow!” Wanda laughed out loud and reached to take a cautious sip from Tony’s glass. “Oh no no no, why are you drinking this? That is awful, I think I prefer champagne!” “I hope you are always a woman that can relax with something sweet instead of needing something bitter to ease your stress.” Tony drained what was left and set the cup aside. “Now then. I’ve unlaced you enough to step out of your gown at least. Go and set it out over the bed so it doesn’t wrinkle and I’ll go out and find some dinner. Pietro under no circumstances are you to bother either your sister or Natalia.” Neither twin put up an argument, and Tony waited until they’d gone back into the adjoining room before unlocking the door and stepping out into the hallway, re-locking the door as he went. It would take come coin, but he was sure he could bribe the cook into scrounging up a few meals for them, and since the last he’d seen of James and Samuel they were breaking through an ornate window from the second story, Tony set about trying to gather as many medicinal supplies as he could. It took almost half an hour, and the only food available was a reheated pot of soup and a loaf of crusty bread, but Tony balanced the food and a few rolls of gauze and sewing supplies on top of the tray as he climbed the stairs back to their room.

It would be enough for now. He knocked on the suite door and waited for Pietro to look through the peep hole and let him in, but when the door swung open to reveal James-- exhausted, shirtless, bleeding-- Tony only managed a few surprised blinks. “...James.” It had been ages since Tony had seen James and it wasn’t until that very moment that Tony realized just how much he’d missed the soldier. “James.” he said again, sounding a little more helpless this time, the worry about Natalia’s behavior and the outcome of the events at the palace falling away in lieu of simply staring, drinking in the sight of broad shoulders and wide stretches of scarred skin and the curve of James’s mouth as it lifted into a barely there smile. “I’m sorry for missing the garden, kotyonok.” James said hoarsely, his pale gaze flitting over Tony’s face and then down across his frame as if the soldier were starving. “But I am happy to see you all the same. I’ve missed you.” “I’m happy to see you too.” Tony whispered back, no use lying when he knew James could see the truth in his eyes and when he was leaning in towards James even with his hands full of food. “Mi sei mancato, tesoro. I’ve missed you.” The doorway to the hotel suite was not the place to be standing and staring at each other, especially not when James was dripping blood onto the plush carpet, but Tony couldn’t seem to look away, and James didn’t seem to care all that much either, not when they were seeing each other for the first time in months. How could it have been months when it seemed just like yesterday they were haring last minute, desperate kisses in the stables, Tony half way to begging James not to go, James halfway to deciding to stay? How could it have been months, too much time and yet no time at all? Because I love him. Tony realized all in a rush, fully aware that it wasn’t the time nor the place to have such a revelation, and equally aware that it wasn’t so much a revelation as it was an admission of something he’d known for weeks.

For months. Mio dio, lo amo. “Tony.” James saw it all in Tony’s expression and his mouth parted on a relieved sigh. “Sweet thing, c’mere--” “Get inside before the entire world knows we are here!” Natalia shouted from inside the room, sounding sharp, angrier than she’d been before. “Antonio! James! Don’t you think you’ve put us in enough danger tonight?” James grimaced at Talia’s tone and stepped back from the door to make room for Tony, brushing his good hand down Tony’s back in a gentle sweep and lingering at his hip, surprising himself with just how badly he wanted to hold the pretty brunette. Or not really surprising, he supposed. Of course he wanted to hold Tony, of course he wanted to get his hands all over that welcoming body and lose himself in those eyes and Tony’s mouth. James needed to forget what had happened tonight, what had happened the last few months. Needed to remember what it felt like to be human again, and he knew he’d find all that and a whole lot more in Tony’s arms. “You’re hurt?” Tony asked, motioning to the blood at James’s shoulder and James shook his head as if it didn’t matter. He hurt like hell but he had years of practice ignoring pain and he would to ignore it tonight just so Tony would keep looking at him like that. But then even better-- Tony set the tray down and stood on his toes to press a kiss to James’s lips, his fingers feather light against James’s hurt arm, breath catching on the inhale. “I’ve missed you.” “Missed you too.” James bumped their noses together and squeezed at Tony’s waist with his good hand, closing his eyes and wondering how the hell he’d lived the last few months without getting to see Tony every night. He didn’t want to go back to war. Tony finally cleared his throat and stepped away, tinging a little red when he realized the entire room must have seen their display, but he didn’t have to worry, no one was looking at them.

Samuel was sprawled in a chair with a bottle in one hand, his other arm over his eyes as Wanda stitched up a cut on his chest with the needle and thread from her sewing kit and Pietro relocked the windows the men had apparently climbed through.

In the corner of the room, Natalia and Ronin were arguing quietly, more hand motions than actual words. Natalia looked furious, gesturing wildly and nearly spitting her words but Ronin was entirely unapologetic, maintaining a gentle but firm mantra of “It was necessary, Talia.” “Is everyone else alright?” Tony felt guilty for being so distracted by James when there were other injuries. “Samuel? Ronin?” “They’re fine.” James grunted, ladling soup into a bowl and tearing off a thick hunk of bread. “Ronin’s not hurt at all and Samuel’s worse off than me, went head first through the window, cut up his chest real bad.” “He will live.” Wanda said with a terse smile, knotting the stitches and breaking the thread. “No thanks to his foolishness. There are better ways to go through a window than using your forehead, Samuel.” Tony made up a bowl for Pietro and one for Wanda as well and handed it off before turning back to James who was eating standing up, braced against the wall and trying to eat with his bad shoulder, the spoon shaking in his hand. “What--what--” Tony cleared his throat and stepped closer, clenching his hands so he wouldn’t reach out and touch again. “What happened? What happened to your shoulder?” “Just bleeding cos it was first through the window when I jumped.” James swore under his breath when he couldn’t hold onto the spoon anymore, his arm too strained to even clutch the utensil. “Old injury before that, nothing important.” The soldier put the bowl down and ran his fingers through his matted hair, pursing his lips and blowing out a breath that seemed to come from his very soul. “Natalia--” “Do not talk to me.” Natalia turned from her conversation with Ronin and swished past James to check the lock on the door, and then to take the bowl right away from him, eating his soup in big bites just to spite him. “I am furious with you.” “So you’re going to steal my food? We are not children, sister. Calm down--” Natalia whirled on him, seething, “Don’t you dare! Don’t you dare try to calm me down! You threw a man over the balcony, James! Ruined my plans, what if Mikhail had grabbed me and I hadn’t escaped? What if Wanda hadn’t been able to get away, or Pietro?” “Talia, love--” Samuel tried to quiet her and Natalia slashed her hand through the air in a cease motion. “No. First I have to see my fool brother jump through a window, then Samuel, you nearly take your head off doing the same thing? And then Ronin? Flying through the air like that? What if he had died? What if they both had died! You promised me, James! You promised--!” “Enough!” James grabbed at Natalia’s wrist and the tiny redhead swore and cursed and tried in vain to free her hand. “You listen to me, Natalia, and listen well.” “I do not have to listen to anything you--” “My spies spoke nothing of guards on the top floors!” James raised his voice. “Which can only mean they were added after Mikhail saw you!. He saw the Black Widow come out to play and decided you must be there for Rumlow! Do not be so stupid to think I willingly walked into a fight unaware! While you were batting your eyes and baring your skin--” “James.” Samuel said warningly and Ronin took a protective step forward when Natalia’s eyes flashed with hurt. “You do not need to say those things.” “While you were down there drinking champagne.” James amended, his tone apologetic but no less angry. “Samuel and I fell into six guards. Six. Two in the hall and four in the room where Rumlow was held. We had no choice but to fight our way out and escape and since there were more guards on the floors below us, I decided to avoid the fight and go through the window. You should be pleased the body count isn’t higher instead of screeching at me for blood on the dance floor.” “Four guards in Rumlow’s room.” Natalia ignored James’s comment about her screeching and tugged her wrist free. “Why so many? What did Rumlow do when he saw you?” “He shouted for the guards to help him.” Samuel said flatly, and Pietro’s jaw fell open in a silent echo to Wanda’s gasp of surprise. “If we didn’t know for sure he was a traitor, we know now.” “Only a traitor would call for guards when his komandir and oldest friend comes through the door.” James agreed, with a grim sort of smile. “Can’t feel any sort of guilt over wanting to kill the bastard anymore. Friend and ally or not, he has given himself to an enemy of the revolution and he will pay for it with his--” James hissed in pain when he stumbled over a roll in the carpet and tried to brace himself with his hurt arm, all but collapsing into a chair and closing his eyes. “Shit. This’n might be worse than I thought. Might need a couple stitches.” “You need a swift slap to the head.” Natalia informed him, and snapped her fingers for Tony to bring her the first aid supplies, apparently done yelling at her brother. Gathering her robe up around her knees, Natalia knelt by James’s chair an poked and prodded at the hurt shoulder, smacking his hand away when he tried to help. “Stop that, let me see where you are hurt.” She muttered something in Sokovian that was decidedly not complimentary, and James smiled a little bit before turning his ice blue eyes towards Tony and tipping his chin up in an obvious invitation. Tony stayed where he was though, knowing full well if he moved towards James it would be only to throw himself in the soldier’s arms and now was not the time. So Tony reined in his self control and stood with arms folded to his chest as he watched Natalia suture the cut in James’s shoulder with neat stitches and when Ronin came to get some dinner, he clapped Tony on the back with a muttered, “Thank you for taking care of Talia and the children tonight.” Tony nodded, but didn’t look away from James and Natalia, furrowing his brow when Natalia clicked her tongue and tsked, “You never got it properly treated, did you? All this time and it still hurts?” “And when do you suggest I get it properly treated?” James asked dryly, motioning for Samuel to hand him a bottle of whatever was in the cupboard, turning down a glass with a quick shake of his head. “Was it when your Da locked me in my rooms for a week, or when Ma got sick, or when I finally ran away to jump ship to the America’s? When should I have gotten it treated?” “What happened? What did Talia’s Da do?” Never one to let the opportunity to be nosy pass, Pietro flopped onto the couch next to Ronin and dug into his soup. “I didn’t know there was something wrong with James’s shoulder.” “That is because you know next to nothing.” Wanda sniffed, dropping a quick kiss on Samuel’s forehead as she passed to eat her own food. “Of course you don’t know what happened to James.” “It was my Da.” Natalia cleaned another cut and re-threaded her needle. “When our Mama was still alive, he would get drunk and terrible and one day he raised his voice to Mama, raised his hand as well. James jumped in between them and my Da threw him down the stairs, almost tore his shoulder apart.” James scoffed and Natalia slipped a neat stitch into the wound. “James couldn’t use his arm for weeks, but the next time Da thought to mistreat our Mama, James stepped up again and nearly broke Da’s jaw. One punch. Almost killed him.” Pietro’s spoon clinked to the bowl as he stared at James in awe. “One punch?” “Do not look so impressed, darling.” Natalia trimmed another stitch. “It was a terrible day in our home. A respectable man would never put his son in a position to have to defend his Ma, and a respectable man would never punish his son for the same thing. Our Da was a bully and a coward and I’m afraid my brother and I have paid the price many times over.” “He was not my father.” James tensed and took a long drink from the bottle when Natasha wiped the superficial cuts with alcohol. “But I would do it again all the same.” Natalia didn't answer, and Tony’s stomach clenched uncomfortably with the reminder of their earlier conversation, when Natalia had been so angry about Wanda and Pietro growing up in a family like theirs, when she’d talked about her Da and how furious James had been. He didn't look furious right now though, James didn’t look furious at all. Slumped in the chair bare chested and wild haired, gulping at the vodka as if it were water and letting the drops spill from his lips, eyes trained solely on Tony and blood still drying on his skin, James looked tired and he looked hungry and he looked--he looked-- Tony looked away before he blurted out something stupid about James being beautiful. Ronin was sitting silently with his arm round Wanda’s waist, holding the girl protectively as if he could erase the way the men had stared tonight. Pietro was pressed into Samuel even if he didn’t realize it, still young enough to seek comfort from someone he loved like a father. Natalia was washing blood off her hands and James was hurt more than any of them, and all Tony could think about was how disappointed he was to have missed their moment in the garden. Selfish. Stupid. How could he think about James’s hands on his body when James was too hurt to even hold a spoon to eat? “In the morning we will make a plan.” Natalia said then, decisive and in no mood to hear any sort of argument. “Wanda and Pietro, to bed please. Wanda you will sleep in bed with me, Pietro on the floor in our room. My loves--” “We will secure the windows and doors and sleep here in the living room with James.” Samuel was signing quickly to Ronin, who had his good ear turned to the couch cushions. “Tony, take the extra room and be sure to bar the doors. We will be as safe as we can be for the night.” “I love you.” Natalia whispered, bending to kiss first Samuel and then lingering over a slow kiss with Ronin, drawing her fingers through his hair and murmuring something sweet into his ear. “Come along, children.” “Natalia, we are not--” Pietro started to protest but Tony cut in-- “Pietro.” and the boy shut his mouth with an audible click. For tonight, for the sake of keeping the peace and for Natalia’s sanity, he would not argue being called a child. As soon as the door closed behind Natalia and the twins, Tony went to work helping Ronin and Samuel secure the living room and side bedroom, moving the heaviest furniture in front of the doors, shoving the wardrobe in front of the window by the bed so no one-- not even a bullet-- could get through. Natalia’s bedroom window had been boarded shut the moment they arrived in the city, and their door was locked from the inside as well, and after the rest of the soup and bread was gone and James had made it through most of the bottle of vodka, Samuel said, “Tony, get some sleep. James and Ronin and I need to plan for--” “You and Ronin take the other room.” James interrupted, the come down from adrenaline and alcohol in his system making the words slur. “Sleep. The planning can wait for morning.” “James--” “Go on.” James struggled to his feet only to make it the few feet to the couch and collapse into a sprawl. “Now. Leave me and Tony for the night.” Ronin met Tony’s eyes in a silent question, and when Tony nodded, Ronin shrugged and took Samuel’s hand to lead him to the other room. They never wanted to spend a night away from Natalia, but the chance to simply hold each other in the quiet didn’t come along very often either, and neither of the soldiers were going to argue. The door closed, the lock engaging, and Tony’s mouth went dry when James held out a hand and coaxed, “Come here, sweet thing.” “You’re hurt.” Tony undid the knot at his neckerchief and tossed the frilly material away, working at the buttons of his crisp dress shirt. “Exhausted.” he stepped out of his shoes and opened the clasp of his trousers. “You should sleep.” “Come here.” James said again, too tired to try for the pretty words he’d thought to whisper to Tony in the garden, too drunk to tease like they usually did, to twist the moment until Tony’s eyes sparked in challenge. He couldn’t help saying what he was thinking, his body aching with pain and his heart too bruised from the betrayal of his oldest friend to hide how vulnerable he was. So he held out his hand and curled his fingers hopefully and didn’t let himself feel embarrassed for begging. “Please.” Tony lifted his shirt free from his pants and opened the last of the buttons so it was loose around his shoulders, then sat carefully on the edge of the couch and wove their fingers together. “Missed you.” James leveraged himself up on one arm and pressed liquor soft lips to Tony’s,inhaling sharply when Tony kissed him right back, squeezing at his hand and inching closer. “M’sorry we didn’t get to the garden but believe me, it was all I could think about the last few days.” “I know.” Tony flattened his palm over James’s heartbeat and leaned in to chase the kiss, drawing it out until James flinched away from the pressure on his arm. “Oh oh I’m sorry-- I didn’t mean to hurt you--” “Don’t stop.” James fell back into the couch and brought Tony down with him, groaning half in pain, half in relief when Tony rubbed against him. “Tony, dorogoy, come here. Please come here.” “Your arm--” “I don’t care.” James eased onto his side so there was room for Tony as well, hooking his hurt arm around Tony’s waist and bringing their mouths together again and again. He slid his tongue along the seam of Tony’s lips and when Tony opened on a low moan, James pressed tighter to lick through Tony’s warmth, gasping like he was drowning when Tony bit at his lip teasingly, nothing more than a sting of teeth before he soothed the hurt with a sweet kiss. “I missed you.” Tony mumbled through another kiss, clutching at James side and trying in vain to get even closer, gathering his courage and steeling himself to whisper, “James, tesoro. I was lying, do you understand? I was lying and I was going to tell you in the garden but I don’t know when I’ll see you again so I'll tell you right now. I was lying.” James leaned away far enough to see into Tony’s eyes, searching the dark brown for truth, for certainty that Tony was saying what James thought he was saying. “I’m---” Tony took in a deep breath and prayed James hadn’t drank too much to misunderstand him. “I’m lying about my heart not being involved. Are you?” “Yes.” James rolled them from the couch and onto the floor, catching Tony’s weight with his good arm so he didn’t hit his head, bracing himself gingerly on his injured shoulder. “Yes, sweetheart, I am lying. Lying, for ages now.” “Thank god.” Tony laughed breathlessly and this time their kiss was messy, anxious and greedy and packed with longing and all the things they both knew to be true but couldn’t say quite yet. “I thought--” a dirty kiss, full of teeth and tongue and a groan Tony didn’t quite manage to muffle. “--I thought-- three months. It’s so long. I missed you but I thought you regretted writing me--” “You thought I’d bring you to the gardens, to the gazebo only to tell you I’d changed my mind?” James mouthed hungry kisses along Tony’s jaw, back to the sensitive skin at his ear, down his neck. “No no no, darling. No.” Tony arched up beneath him for another kiss, aching to his soul over the tender way James called him darling, desperate for more and more, another and another and another because no one had ever looked at him the way James was looking at him right now.

“Ho un debole per ti.” he whispered. “I am weak for you, James.” “And the blood on my hands?” James asked, flinching away from even the softest of touches along his hurt arm. “What about that?” Tony closed his eyes and pursed his lips for a kiss James was all too happy to give, their bodies moving together in an idle shadow of what they really wanted to be doing, far too many clothes separating skin, and their mouths falling open in desperate pants and quiet moans for a long time before Tony managed to answer, “I don’t see it. I only see you.” “My love.” James breathed into Tony’s ear and Tony melted beneath him, pliant and sweet and beautiful, trusting James even though neither of them had any reason to trust anyone at all. “My love, I am too hurt to show you how I have missed you but stay with me tonight anyway. Right here with me. Stay.” *************** It wasn’t until after Tony was pillowed asleep on James’s chest, welcome and heavy and gorgeous lost in a sleepy dream, that James realized what he’d said. My love. No wonder Tony had gone so quiet for a moment, why he’d looked almost stunned when he’d agreed to stay the night, why he’d quietly asked, “Again?” and James had said it again without even thinking. My love. James was a man afraid of very few things, but loving after losing Stevie hadn’t only felt impossible, it had been outright terrifying. Baring his heart again, his feelings, opening himself to rejection, to hurt, to loss? Terrifying. How comforting to know it wasn’t terrifying at all. How comforting to know falling in love was as easy as seeing Tony’s smile as they kissed good night. ***************** ***************** The next morning Natalia sat between Samuel and Ronin on the couch, sipping her tea and staying almost suspiciously quiet as the men worked through their next several movements, plans drawn up and discussed in relation to Rumlow, to Mikhail, and the rebel soldiers themselves. Brock turning tail and switching sides could spell the end of the revolution, or it could be the motivation they needed to turn the tide of the war in their favor. Every move James and his army made would have to be calculated, secretive and carried out to precision or everything would fall apart and all would be lost. “I need you.” James said bluntly, his good arm hooked around Tony’s waist so Tony wouldn’t leave his lap. “Samuel, Ronin. I need you both at my side. No question.” “No!” Natalia burst out, her first words all morning. “No, James. You cannot have them. You promised--” “I know what I promised, but I need you to not be a woman in love right now.” James lowered his voice, his hand tightening at Tony’s side. “Natalia I need you to be the Black Widow right now, I need you to listen and to see that I cannot do this without my best soldiers.” “No.” “Talia--” Ronin smoothed Natalia’s hair back from her face and kissed her temple. “My love, it’s alright.” “It is not alright.” Natalia insisted, and Wanda looked up from her tea with a worried expression. “James, you promised me.” “I know what I promised.” James repeated. “And I don’t want to leave you alone at the manor house, but Tony will be there and so will the twins.” “We can take care of Natalia.” Pietro said bravely and James gave him a short, approving nod. “The manor will be plenty safe with all of us there.” “I said no!” Natalia jumped to her feet, wrenching out of Samuel’s reach and whirling on James. “You will not take more of my family into this fight! Having you gone all the time is bad enough, but you will not take the men I love as well!” “Natalia!” James shouted and Natalia froze in place. “Your Da was a bastard and a menace but I know he taught you to be smarter than you are being right now. Stop fighting me and just think about it! Think!” Natalia clenched her jaw and folded her arm, shoulders set straight and furious and green eyes snapping-- -- but just as Wanda was ready to run to her and try to calm her down, Natalia relented, pushing her hair back and retightening her robe, returning to the couch. “With Brock hiding away with Mikhail, you only have Garbiel.” she said woodenly. “At the very least you need Ronin and Samuel to deliver messages because they are the only ones you can trust. At most, you need them at your side for battle because the only person you’ve fought next to more is currently selling your secrets to our enemy.” “That’s right.” James relaxed again, his hold on Tony loosening though he didn’t let go. “If I have messages to you I’ll send it Ronin or Samuel so you can see them, if we will be within a days travel, I’ll arrange for them to sneak away to check on you. I know what I promised, Talia. But there are bigger things at stake than what you and I want.” “I know.” Natalia seemed to wilt into the cushions, her anger there and gone so quickly it was nearly unsettling. “There is always something bigger at stake than what we want, hm?” James put his forehead into Tony’s shoulder and whispered a curse under his breath. “Sister, I am sorry. I am.” “I'm sure you are. Come with me and help me pack.” Natalia stood to her feet and pulled Samuel and Ronin up as well. “I missed you last night, and if you have to leave with James, I want time together first. Come on.” Pietro tugged at Wanda and jerked his head towards the other room. “Come on sister, I’ll help you put your dress away.” Eventually it was just James and Tony left sharing the over sized chair and James exhaled noisily before saying, “Sweet thing, you’ve been very quiet this morning.” “If I’m being honest, I was just enjoying being held.” Tony said quietly, and James cupped Tony’s jaw and turned him for a long kiss. “Something is going on with Talia.” “I know.” James kissed him again, leaning back into the chair and pulling Tony closer to his chest. “Usually I’d say she is being dramatic, maybe hysterical, but my sister has never been hysterical a day in her life. I think Natalia has been so long outside of this life she’s forgotten all it can take from us.” “And we’ve been safe at home for a while.” Tony finished, tucking his nose into James’s neck and quietly loving the freedom to do so, loving the way James’s fingers tangled into his hair to keep him close, James’s hurt arm resting lightly but no less possessively at his waist. “It’s easy to forget there is a war happening when all we do every morning is have our coffee and do the chores.” “This is not the life you expected when you came to Sokovia.” James decided and Tony smiled a little. “You are regretting it?” “Not right now.” Tony admitted, closing his eyes when James pressed a kiss to his hair. “Not for months now.” “When this is over.” James hesitated, weighing his words. “When all this is over, we will talk. Really talk.” “It’s not needed. You said enough last night." Tony pressed tighter. "You were lying and I was lying-- that's enough, James. It's enough." “It's not.” James swallowed hard and tugged gently at the dark strands. “Seems to me you’ve never heard the sorta things you want to hear from some one you-- from someone who has your heart. Your man in Italy never said them, and I haven’t said them yet. I mean to fix that.” I love you. Tony thought, but he only leaned in for a long kiss that went on and on and on, neither willing to be the one to break apart first, because who knew when they’d have another chance.

“Tony.” When they pulled away to breathe, James pushed their foreheads together and whispered, “Promise me if things go badly, you will take Natalia and the twins somewhere safe.” “I promise.” Tony whispered back. “I’m sending Ronin and Samuel back to the manor for a week.” James continued. “When I come to fetch them, promise me you’ll be sleeping in my bed.” Tony smiled, hearing the unspoken plea in James’s voice and budging close for another kiss. “... I promise.”

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