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ashintheairlikesnow · 3 years

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Time Apart

CW: Trauma survivor, referenced noncon and assault, heavy internalized victim-blaming and self-loathing/anti-asexuality (Chris has serious issues from his conditioning around this)

(references events from this small series)

I think you should spend time apart, not with me.

When Chris picks up his phone, it's not at all the message from Laken he expected to see. Not the kind of thing they've ever sent before.

He has to read it two times, then three. The letters swim and shake along with a dull pounding inside his head, but no matter how he tries to make them into other words - tell himself he must have misunderstood, must be missing something - they come back together the same in the end.

I think you should spend time apart, not with me.

Each letter is as crisp and clean as a sterilized blade between each rib, one by one by one by one.

The words are a body blow. They're a hundred blows, beating him into a barely recognizable shattered shell of himself. It wasn't supposed to happen this way - it's been a bad few days, yeah, a bad week really, but until yesterday's fight it had never occurred to him that Laken might give up on him.

The fight was his fault, anyway.

He meant to apologize last night, but then Nova had come into his room, and he'd lost the rest of the night to lying next to Jake, trying to remember how to stop living inside his head again, how to stop being still.

He'd woke up this morning with his stomach doing butterfly flips inside him, nervous, but he'd really wanted to say he was sorry, for the fight, for all the weirdness lately. He'd wanted to apologize for being difficult.

Instead... he'd woken up to find a missed text from the night before, sent after he'd shoved Nova away but before he could stand to look at anything again.

I think you should spend time apart, not with me.

There it sits.

He hasn't unlocked his phone yet. Instead, he keeps tapping the button to light up the screen, looking at the message preview that has all he needs to see. Lets it go dark again. As if one of these times he'll click and it'll say something else.

But it doesn't,

It just says the same damn thing.

I think you should spend time apart.

Not with me.

He's still staring at it when another one comes in. He feels the soft pulse of his phone in his hand, and the screen lights on its own.

LAKEN - NOW Did you see my message?

He thinks maybe Kauri had it easier when he was the age Chris is now. Back when Kauri carried on entire conversations in emoji form, letting the nuance and ambiguity take over, the recipient working through the meaning on their own. With this, each letter is merciless, each word is unmistakable. He can’t misunderstand it.

Can he?

He opens the phone with shaking fingers, types back yes, presses send, and turns his phone off.

Then he throws it at the wall.

He’s grateful for the heavy plastic case that makes it bounce off and drop to the floor without breaking. There's a strip on the back, textured and a soft purple, gray, white, and black. He rubs his fingers over it sometimes in class to keep himself from rocking and being distracting.

Now he just... stares at it.

Laken bought that for him. They bought the shirt he's wearing right now-

He yanks it off his head before he can think, balls up the soft fabric and throws it as well. It just sort of drifts pointlessly to the floor, a single eyeball from the print of a band he likes staring back at him.

Laken has ranted before about people who break up by text message, and Chris has to breathe through a physical ache in his chest that tightens every muscle at how awful he must be that they're not doing this face to face. How awful, how used-up, how shredded apart, how fucking pretty he is.

After all, he and Laken have been together for more than a year, and he still held perfectly still for Nova to touch him before he remembered how to move. After all, he’s a grown man who still cried and fell apart when Jake was hurt. After all, after all, after all...

He scrambles across the floor for his phone again, turns it back on. Part of him hopes he’ll see a new text saying they take it back, they didn’t mean it. Or just asking him to apologize for what he’d said that night before, for how he’d thrown their confusion over his reaction to something back at them, echoing out the way Kauri fights sometimes, talking about himself the way he thinks everyone else might be thinking about him, so he says the insult first and no one else gets to surprise him with it.

But there’s nothing new.

He manages to open the texts again, barely, and breathes in gasps, nearly pants, as he types out, you don’t want me at your place?

Not right now.

Is it because of what I can’t do?

It takes them a minute to answer. Every single second ticks by with a slowness Chris hasn’t felt since his days in the cold white room, tied down to stillness, forced to endure every minute that passed in perfect silence or to the soundtrack of his own tears and pleading for it to stop.

When they do respond, it’s just, it’s because of what you won’t do.

His breath catches in his throat. The ache in his head starts to pound harder, and he has to close his eyes against a sharp stab behind them.

What he won’t do.

They’ve never cared before. How-... how could they suddenly care now? The fight had only a little bit been about that, it’d really been about something else. About his nightmares, how he’s not sleeping, not seeing his friends, skipping therapy. It hadn’t even been about... that. About what Chris can do and what he can’t, in bed.

But that was the thing - the fight had started when Chris had flinched back from Laken’s touch to his back, and snapped at them, and accused them of wanting too much, and...

And now this.

It’s like they knew about Nova. Knew that he could be good just fine - better than fine, Handler Petrus said he was one of the best he’d ever worked with once - he just... wouldn’t. Won’t. Doesn’t want to. Never wanted to.

Can’t do it without tearing himself to pieces all over again.

It was always a scream inside his mind, but should he have pushed it down and tried harder to be more like everyone else? Is he losing Laken because of it? Did Nova pick up on something Chris himself doesn’t know?

Should he have... tried?

Even if it hurt?

He drops the phone again, then kicks it viciously under his bed, listening to the scrape of it sliding across the floor, the thump as it hits the wall. He hears it vibrate again, but this time he doesn’t care what Laken has to say.

They’ve said enough.

He understands.

Part of him expected this eventually.

He leaves the room, doesn’t bother to pull on his compression shirt, even. He lets his skin prickle bare and exposed to the air. He accepts the discomfort, the uneasy feeling of being too seen, too felt.

The house is quiet, this early.

He makes himself toast with butter, wincing at the scrape of the knife against the crisp bread, the sound boring into his ears. But eventually it’s done, and he slumps into a chair at the kitchen table, willing himself to cry. Somehow, the tears just... don’t happen.

He can hear Jake snoring softly from the living room. He’d been up with Chris until nearly 4 am, then Chris was awake again at 6:30, looking at that text, looking over and over and over again. Two hours of sleep leave him weirdly euphoric alongside his despair. Like he’s floating in some nightmare place that isn’t awake and isn’t sleeping, either.

He’s probably slept nine hours in three days at this point. He keeps seeing Jake with a knife sticking out of him every time he closes his eyes. Jake, screaming as Antoni pushed cloth into his wound to stop up the bleeding. Jake with a bullet wound, sitting up against the wall, staring at him with wide eyes whispering, It’s okay, Tristan, I love you, it’s okay as he dies.

He can’t sleep. He can’t leave for long. He can’t breathe. He can’t think.

Him being what he is, it’s the reason Jake is hurt. If he hadn’t been his brother, he wouldn’t have decided to run a house for Romantics, and he wouldn’t have ended up dealing with all the dangerous bits about them.

Jake said it himself, didn’t he? It’s a mistake, running a house for Romantics. Not his best idea. A mistake.

Chris is a mistake.

Him being weak, and cowardly... it’s hurting Jake, making his life harder.

He makes everyone’s life harder.

There’s a soft sound of footsteps behind him, and he turns to find Nova in the doorway, staring back. She’s in a sleeveless gray dress and has her long dark hair pulled back from her temples, spilling in a waterfall down her back. Her eyes are dark and fathomless, and she gives him a faint, slight smile.

She had smiled like that with one hand down his pants.

Chris turns around, too fast, his head spinning a little, and hunches over his toast. “Good... good, um, good morning,” He mumbles.

She clears her throat. “Morning. Chris, about-... about last night...”

“Don’t, um, don’t-... don’t don’t don’t worry about it.” He takes a breath. He doesn’t want his toast any longer.

“I’m sorry,” She says, simply. “I spoke to Sarita about it, and... and she said this happens with us, and I should apologize, but, um. So I am. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have-... I thought I was helping.”

“I... know you did.” His words are slowing down. Chris can’t hold on to his thoughts, they want to drift away somewhere else, somewhere safer. Somewhere darker.

“When I was with-... with my Miss, she would always say, if you are sad the best way to fix it is to make your body forget that feeling, replace it with something else. And that was what we replaced my sadness with. So, you were sad and upset, and I thought I could fix it that way.” She pauses, flushing a little, looking down and to the side as she moves with effortless grace to get a glass and fill it with water, take a small sip.

“Kauri used to... to do that,” Chris says after a pause, thinking about it. Kauri, who would show up in the small hours of the morning reeking of liquor and someone else’s cologne, or just didn’t show up at all. Kauri, who would laugh instead of crying, and laugh with someone’s arms around him, a guy whose name he didn’t know.

Kauri, who ran and ran and ran and can do things and be things that Chris can’t.

Or... won’t.

What if he’s been hurting Laken this whole time and didn’t know it, because he was already hurt himself?

His foot starts to tap tap tap on the floor until he stops it.

“Did he? Did it-... work for him?” Nova asks it with genuine curiosity, and her eyes are so pretty. He looks up at her, and then down again, pushing the plate of toast away from himself.

“I don’t know,” Chris whispers. “I, I don’t know. He’s happy now, but...”

“Was he happy then?”

“No. But, but, but... maybe we aren’t supposed to be. At least... not with, with anyone... who isn’t like us.”

“Jake isn’t like us,” Nova points out. Her presence in the room feels heavy, like a weight pushing down on him. But what does it matter? He’s not with Laken anymore, anyway. If he wanted to, he could stand right up and kiss Nova right now, press her back into the counter, and learn what it’s like to be the one doing things and not just having them done to him.

But his body doesn’t stir at the thought. It never has.

“He is,” Chris answers. “A, a little bit. I’m, I’m, I’m sorry, too, Nova. Sorry that I-I can’t.”

“No, I know. You have a partner, and I shouldn’t have-”

“I don’t have... I, I, I I don’t have a partner anymore.” Chris stands up, leaving her there with his plate of untouched toast. The sky outside is bright as the sun rises, as if mocking the way he feels like a stormcloud inside.

Nova watches him leave, and whispers to herself, “No partner?”

Chris goes outside, pulling a sweatshirt that hangs on the coatrack on over his head to protect his skin, curling up on the porch swing and watching cars pulling out of driveways as the neighborhood starts to head to work in ones and twos.

He doesn’t cry.

He sits very, very still, and he is silent.

Upstairs, under the bed, his phone vibrates, again and again, unnoticed.

Just go talk to Nat, Chris. That’s all I said. Just go see Nat and get a night or three away from the house. Being there all the time is overwhelming you. Are you even looking at these? Chris you can’t just ignore me every time I say something you don’t like Chris answer me ... ... Oh shit, Chris, my phone autocorrected earlier and I didn’t notice I meant “some time at Nat’s”, not apart Chris? Are you seeing my messages? Baby? Chris, please check your phone and answer me. Please.

@burtlederp @finder-of-rings @endless-whump @whumpfigure @astrobly @newandfiguringitout @doveotions @pretty-face-breaker @gonna-feel-that-tomorrow @boxboysandotherwhump @oops-its-whump @cubeswhump @whump-tr0pes @downriver914 @whumptywhumpdump @whumpiary @orchidscript @nonsensical-whump @outofangband @eatyourdamnpears

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uweresaying · 3 years

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final goodbye - Shouto Todoroki x reader

In the dorms of UA high school, class 1-A had settled into their rooms for the night. Deku was probably up practicing his quirk, while Katsuki and Iida were probably fast asleep, like most of the class. It had been a long day of vigorous quirk training, pushing the limits of how far they could go. But here you were, wide awake, sitting out on the balcony of your dorm. You had a cig in one hand, and in the other, you held your worn copy of Fahrenheit 451. You had problems with falling asleep, especially since the LOV attack at summer camp, so most nights you would just end up in this exact position. As you read, you caught a glimpse of your door opening, and the air was knocked out of you when you saw the heterochronic eyes of one of your classmates looking back at you. You raised an eyebrow as you took another drag, watching him close the door behind him, and shuffle over to the glass door in front of you, taking his time to take in the scenery of your room. There he stood, the same plaid sweatpants he'd worn the first night in the dorms when Mina insisted you guys all hang out in the common room to celebrate "moving in with one another". That had been 2 years ago, so you had wondered whether or not they were the same pants, but let that thought exhale from your mind along with the cig smoke. "I thought you quit that shit." the boy said, inviting himself to lay down on the mini couch across from where you were sitting. You couldn't help but let out a small laugh, rolling your eyes at him. "I did. for about a year and 5 months." you said, taking another drag and turning your attention back to your book. Shouto let out a heavy sigh, turning away from the sky to look at you. "You know, I didn't give that key to you. It's pretty rude for you to use it." you said, not looking up from your book. "What are you talking about y/n, you did give it to me. plus, you never asked for it back. It was a gift." You let another half-assed laugh escape your lips, looking over to him with a look of surprise. "No, I didn't give it to you. I gave it to the person that you used to be. You're a stranger to me." As you met his eyes, you could see the hurt your words had caused. if you weren't about to take another drag of your cig, you would have probably smiled, but your drag was cut short when a firm hand grabbed the smoking stick from your mouth and put it out with his right hand. "Hey! What the fuck, do you know how hard it is to find a pack of-" "menthols around here?" he cut you off to finish. You felt your cheeks warming up as he sat down on the floor against the railing, looking up at you. Words were swimming in your head. You were angry. You wanted to slap him. But you also wanted to jump into his arms. Hold him close and let his strong form wrap around you and indulge in the safety only he could provide you. But instead, your muscles were stiff, water forming in your eyes, your face betraying you by letting him see a hurt expression start to cross it. "I don't know what you want from me." you finally uttered out, looking down at your chipped toenails that were crossed in your chair. "I want you to lie to me and tell me that the person looking back at me wasn't created because of the hurt I caused." he said, drawing your eyes back to him. You laughed a little, rolling your eyes before licking your lips and looking up at him again. "Well, I'm not a good liar, so I think you're shit out of luck." you said, making him smile a little. "Yeah, a good liar has never been high on your resume. I remember when you came to my dorm reeking of whiskey, thinking you had convinced me you hadn't been drinking with Mina and Ochako." he said, letting a small smile cross his lips. You smiled too, leaning back and looking up at the sky. "Yeah, and you bitched them out for encouraging me to drink on a school night while all three of us were hungover." you said, watching a plane fly by in the distance. You both sat in silence for a bit, in fact, you had let your eyes fall shut, just enjoying the sounds of nighttime. "I never meant to act the way I did." he

said, causing you to look at him, a lazy look over your face, before rolling your eyes and looking back up at the sky. "It's all water under the bridge at this point. It happened. I let it, and you go." you lied. "It honestly surprises me you feel anything about me, let alone remorse for how you treated me." you said, beginning to feel fed up with this surprise visit you knew shouldn't have been allowed in the first place. "Y/n, I felt a lot of things, I just didn't know how to express them, I didn't know-" "How to communicate your feelings. Look, I know okay. I preached that shit to everyone who tried to talk shit about you when I was sobbing my eyes out to them, trying to figure out what the fuck I had done wrong." you said, your mind not able to stop your mouth before it was too late. Shouto looked at you, and he looked hurt, but he also looked, to you, pathetic. "And you know what, I treated you fucking amazing. I got clean for you. I stopped smoking weed and cigs and stopped drinking, I worked on my quirk that you insisted I was 'throwing away', and worked my ass off to get good grades that I didn't give a shit about until you. I had gotten better. I was doing amazing. and then out of nowhere, you break up with me." you said, letting your words sink in before continuing, "And you know, at first, I was sad, but figured we could have somewhat of a good friendship. I fully intended to continue to get good grades and be the little perfect angel that I expected myself to be to feel like i was enough for you, but then you pretended I didnt exist. You acted like even looking in my direction would kill you. And don't even get me started with you saying you had been thinking about leaving me for two weeks before you actually did it." you said, tears spilling from your eyes, but you kept your voice and face stern. "So don't. just please don't. Just let me live, Shouto. You had no right to come here tonight. You should have thrown that damn key in the trash just like you did with me." you spat, not even bothering to look at him. You knew you'd regret everything you said if you saw him hurt by it, and you didn't want to apologize. All you had wanted since he broke up with you was for him to feel even a fraction of the pain you had felt. But your eyes wandered to him anyway. He was looking at you, dumbstruck. "What?" you spat, more hot tears streaming down your face. He said nothing as he stood, and pulled the key from his pocket, a chain attached to it, with a familiar locket clanking against the key as he held it out to you. Your eyes were blurry from the tears, and you were frozen as he set the chain in your hand. Before he left, he choked, saying, "You're right. You deserve to be allowed to move on. I'm sorry I came." He then kissed the top of your head, before walking back in, leaving you alone once more. You pulled the necklace out from under your shirt, the same locket from his key necklace around your neck. You poped the two of them open and out them side by side. Inside were pictures, in his, was your smiling face with his arms around you, and in yours, the same picture, only the other half, with him smiling with your arms around him. on the opposite side, carved into the gold medal in small letters, the words "私の愛" stared back at you.

*bonus*

only 10 minutes after Sho had left, you found yourself curled up in your bed, sobbing into your pillow, tugging the sleeves of the old sweatshirt he had given you months prior, closer, before eventually drifting off.

#angst imagine #shoto todoroki x reader #todoroki shouto #shouto x y/n #mha x y/n #mha x you #boku no hero academia #todoroki shoto #todoroki shoto x reader #todoroki angst #shouto angst #mha angst

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honklore · 3 years

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is nothing sacred? | quackity

(4.6k+ word count, prince!alex, augur/seer!reader, gn!reader, angst, alex has a sucky dad, reader has a sucky family, karl appears as a time traveler ofc, neg and pos religious themes, deification is the belief that when a monarch dies they will become a god, the rapids is a kingdom in this but it isn’t an smp au)

listen to: evermore by taylor swift, foreigner’s god by hozier, (the end) by levi weaver, exile by taylor swift

There’s a warm spring just outside the monastery. It’s hidden in the mountain, a few miles away from the castle walls and yet you find that it’s too close for comfort.

Every bright and loud fanfare that announces the prince’s coming and leaving echoes off of the hills and pours through your peaceful respite. It’s just enough to make you grumpy.

It’s one of those mornings again, and you find yourself floating in the hot spring, eyes open towards the sun, wishing you had more patience with the dear prince you call your best friend.

Your robe is heavy across your torso, floating around your bare legs as you ponder your plans for today. That is, if the prince doesn’t come visit you.

That would be wishful thinking, though. You don’t have to close your eyes to know that someone has blocked the sun. With a sigh, you sink your body beneath the warm water and submerge, blinking the water off of your lashes. “Alex, this is sacred ground.”

“I know,” the prince replies, squatting down to see you. “I tied my boots around my neck, see?”

You stare at the boot he’s proudly holding up, then shift your eyes to his bare feet. “Why are you here? This is my day off.”

“Excuse me for wanting to see my best friend,” Alex sneers mockingly, rolling his eyes. “Listen, are you coming back to the castle tomorrow?”

“We literally have an augury lesson at one in the morning,” you say. “So, yes.”

“Good, I’m going to disprove all of your theories.”

“They aren’t theories, Alex. I read patterns for a living, alright? I know what I’m talking about.”

“It’s not science.”

“Neither is your father deifying your grandfather,” this time you mock him.

He holds a steady gaze, lips quirked into a cheeky smile. “You’ll tell me about the night of my coronation again, right?”

“Because it warned of extreme change,” you say, voice level. “Yet I can’t figure out what’s going to happen. There’s something the stars aren’t telling me, and I have to figure it out to protect you and the kingdom.”

Alex’s eyes are a deep brown that you could probably get lost in, if he wasn’t such a little shit. “Protect me, you say?” He’s flirting now, eyes alight with the thought of annoying you, and if this spring wasn’t so important to you, you would’ve yanked him in already. “Didn’t know you cared that much about me, Y/n.”

Your robes are clinging uncomfortably to your body, accentuating the lines and curves — or lack thereof. “Hand me my towel and look away please.”

Alex closes his eyes and turns his face away, holding out the towel. “Learn anything divine from your swimming trip?”

Alex holds the towel out like a makeshift screen, and averts his eyes while you dry off and change into the clean robe he brought you. As annoying as he is, the prince is thoughtful, and he fills in the places where you lack.

“I was reflecting,” you say, buttoning the front of the robe. “It’s good for you; clears out your soul.”

Alex tosses the towel over your head and ruffles your hair. He chuckles at your protests; taunts you with warmth in his eyes. “You’re so spiritual.”

You glare at him. “I’m an augur.”

“Right,” Alex says, holding the now-wet towel close to his chest. “But you take it so seriously, sometimes.”

“I hate you,” you say, no venom in your words.

“I love you, too,” Alex says. He leans forward, almost as if to kiss your forehead, and then remembers that you’re on sacred ground, and kissing is forbidden.

Still, the very thought of what he might’ve done sends an unwanted flutter throughout your chest.

Wax drips onto the closed letter. You dip the silver stamp into the dark purple puddle, leaving the royal seal behind.

Inside is a letter to your family. It’s a prophecy you’ve received just for them. Despite them disowning you for your gift, you still find it important to warn them of upcoming woe. Like now, for instance, when you wish to warn them about the upcoming rainstorm that could ruin their crops if they don’t take precautions.

You rub your temples and blow out the candle, leaving you in silent darkness.

Your room is on the highest tower of the castle. The turret is small; a circular room with a circular bed and a circular desk and a glass, circular ceiling that showcases the stars to you each night. There’s a telescope standing against the window, a chest for your clothes, and the writing desk you’re seated upon. However, your bathroom is a few stories down, near the bottom of the tower and closer to accessible plumbing.

The door behind you bursts open, and you know it’s the young prince and his lack of basic manners when it comes to privacy. Your privacy, anyway. “What is it, Alex?”

“I’ve been waiting for you in the tower for an hour now, silly,” Alex’s words get softer as the light from the corridor pours in, and he can see what you’ve been up to. He stills, smile faltering. “You had another vision of them.”

“I wish they would stop,” you mutter. If you clench your eyes tightly enough, you can will any tears to suck back into your head. Then you can suffer through a headache, like you always do. You’ve had this “gift” since you were a little kid; you know the ups and downs of using it.

Not that it gives you much choice sometimes.

“Are you drinking the–“

“No,” you snap at Alex. “Look, suppressing them only makes it worse. Prophecies become... darker. I see things I can’t unsee. I have to allow them through.”

Alex has a hurt look on his face, but you can’t tell if it’s because you snapped at him or because he doesn’t want to see you in pain. You selfishly hope it’s the latter.

“We can talk about something less harsh on the mind.” Alex sits on your chest, avoiding your bed. It’s another sacred place for you, same as the monastery grounds. Alex knows the rules of being a seer; the ancient laws you practice. He’s read the same books as you — if just to understand you better. He’s the most loyal friend you can think of: the only person in the entire kingdom who has never questioned your beliefs.

“I can’t stand the thought of them getting hurt,” you admit. “And with the vision about your coronation... I’m so scared this kingdom is going to crumble and it’s going to be because I couldn’t prevent it.”

Alex fiddles with his necklace. It’s a rune, one for protection. You used to wear a similar one beneath your robes, but with your fear of something happening, you’ve made Alex promise to wear it.

“It’s not your job to keep the kingdom from crumbling,” Alex relays. “All you need to do is tell me what you see. Then I hint to my father ways to change the kingdom. After that, it’s up to fate.”

You bite your lip. “Fate has a tricky way of playing its own hand.”

“Then it was never in your hands in the first place, yes?” Alex speaks honestly, but there’s a bit of cheek to his voice that eases your nerves.

You smile sadly. “Your father is too prideful, Alex. I can see it; the ravens, they flock the castle whenever he makes a speech. He wants to become a god. He wants something that’s impossible.”

“He deified Grandfather,” Alex quips, no emotion backing his voice. “Like you said earlier. It’s just to start the tradition, so that when he dies he’ll become holy, too.”

“I told him it was wrong. I told him that the stars foresee ruin if he stays on this trail of pride.” You cast your eyes down to your family’s letter. “No one believes me.”

“I believe you,” Alex’s soft voice urges you to look at him.

He’s quiet. The rune is resting on his outstretched palm and he’s looking at you. “Do you think I’d take these lessons and wear these trinkets if I thought you were wrong?”

“Maybe you do it because we’re friends,” you say. You're well aware of the fact that the prince is the only person in the entire kingdom who advocates for your beliefs. But with the rest of the realm against you, you can't help but think that deep down, he's making fun of you, too.

"You sure do worry a lot for someone who can foresee the future."

You choke out a laugh and run your hands down your face. "I'm sorry, Alex. I'm so sorry. I just– I feel like if I can't prevent every bad thing I predict, then it's my fault when they happen. I wish I was ignorant to omens."

Alex tuts. He pouts at you, dragging his lower lip between his teeth and holding it there for just a beat too long. “Let’s skip lessons today. You should rest.”

“Alex—“

“Ah!” Alex stands up. He begins to unclip his cufflinks from the hem of his sleeve before he passes you a coy glance. “That’s Prince Alexis to you, and if I say you should rest, then you should rest.”

You grumble, but inwardly you’re thankful.

There’s an altar, rectified in the middle of the castle courtyard. Though it was once a place of healing — a place seers would go to cleanse their minds — it is now standing in ruins.

You lay down your offerings anyway. Dried rose petals, and a few copper coins saved up. You wait with the objects until a few crows come to diligently take them away. To where? You don’t know. You’ve never asked.

Alex’s father plans to take down the altar and replace it with a shrine of himself. The knowledge of change reeks the air with a foul scent only you can smell.

It’s as if the entire kingdom is rotting and you’re the only one who knows.

You lift your hood off of your face and continue your walk throughout the court. Those you pass politely ignore you, though some choose to sneer at your mannerisms. The king has them wrapped in his prideful rule, and your heart aches for them.

There is no freedom in serving man. This much, you know.

You find yourself in the tower, waiting for the prince to come in time for his lessons.

“Father says he wants me to study more practical subjects,” Alex relates to you.

He’s lying across the balcony floor, and you are perpendicular, with your head on his stomach. You feel every breath he takes, and something about the closeness comforts you in a way you refuse to analyze.

“I’m not sure what else you could learn,” you say. Your eyes are stuck on a chip in the balcony railing. Stone that hardly cracks, and of course your foundation is crumbling quicker than your resolve. “You have lessons from dawn till dusk.”

“And you’re the only tutor I care for,” he says with a flippant sort of tone. “I don’t know what I’d do if I saw you less. I already wish I had more time with you.”

You’ve spoken to nuns and monks and those who swear off love in servitude to the one they worship. Most admit that it’s a lonely existence, and a torture to make up for their sins. You understand that true love must be as sacred as an old god, and to worship another person would be the greatest act of devotion. For how else do you serve a creator than by worshiping the created?

You don’t think kings are meant to be worshipped. No one with that much power should be revered with such ignorance.

But a prince is different. To worship a prince alone, in secret, for just yourself... perhaps that is the most spiritual devotion of all. Perhaps it is the most torturous.

Hearing Alex’s words makes your heart yearn for a future that can never be. You don’t need a vision to tell you that his father will soon grow tired of you. Of course you will soon be sent out of the kingdom, and Alex will forget about you in time.

You know this without a doubt in your heart, and yet Alex still clings to these moments with you.

You’d do anything to keep him safe.

“Where will I go?” You ask. “Where will I be accepted?”

Alex’s breath hitches; you feel it. And you know what he wants to say — you know what lingers at the tip of his tongue.

With me.

Your family sends back the letter, unopened. You try not to cry about it, but the truth is that you feel more alone than ever. Surely you are the last of your kind, and no one cares in the least about what you have to say.

Except maybe Alex. Lovely, beautiful Alexis. He could no sooner harm a butterfly’s wing than deny you your beliefs.

But Alex is not king. He is merely a prince, and the king does not like you. It’s a miracle you’ve lasted this long.

“You fill my son’s head with nonsense,” the king paces back and forth in front of his empty thrown.

You hide your hands in the sleeves of your robe. “Your Majesty, I only relay what I see. I fear your kingdom is in danger.”

“And you think it my fault? Tell me, what if the stars told me to deify my father? What if I am following my own visions?” The royal cackles. “You have no sensible argument. All you have are silly dreams and lies to propel your own agenda. I will not have you spoiling my son’s brain.”

“Your Majesty—“

“I forbid you to speak on anything of the sort from hence forth. The altar will be torn down, and any peep from you regarding these readings will result in instant banishment.”

The sentence hurts more than it should, considering you aren’t being willed to die. You’re quite lucky in this sentence, considering you can still see Alex. Though, a part of you cracks and splinters to think of suppressing your visions.

The vision of Alex’s coronation still remains. You fear for the prince’s life. You fear the king will have something to do with it.

How do you tell the boy you adore that his father may be his downfall?

How do you get him to believe you?

The warm spring only gets hotter as the seasons change. You sink your head under, and the heat of the water burns your closed eyelids. Your head is killing you; pounding from holding back your emotions: your tears.

The monks don’t even worship the same as you. They lend you their springs and advice, but they aren’t the same. There are no other augurs in The Rapids, so no one else really knows how taxing the job is.

More visions come to you when you’re stressed, so you try your hardest to calm yourself. The water scalds your skin, but it distracts your mind enough to keep the visions away.

It’s all the same. All the visions are the same — Alex gets crowned king and overturns the deifying decree. And only days later, he’s assassinated, and the regent — his father — takes back the throne.

As the old proverb goes: pride cometh before a fall, and the king certainly has enough pride. You just don’t want Alex to get caught in the fall.

“You’re so predictable.” Alex’s voice is warbled.

It takes a minute for the water to release from your ears.

Surfaced, you can see Alex crouched by the bank, careful not to fall in. He’s got that same gentle smile — thin, rouge lips and eyes that seem to shine when they look at you. Alex never judges. He never makes fun of your methods. He’s simply there for you, and your heart longs to be there for him as well.

“This place is sacred,” you blurt. Seeing Alex’s face in the light of the sunset just makes you think of your visions. What would a world without Alex even look like? You aren’t sure you want to find out.

You start to cry, and Alex holds a hand out silently.

He helps you out — holds out the robe for you. His boots are around his neck, and you focus on the thinness of his ankles while you clothe yourself.

“You can’t hold me.” You say plainly.

“I know,” Alex’s voice is watery. “Let’s get you back to the palace, yeah?”

“Yeah,” you sniff. “Okay.”

“I’m not dead.” Alex lightly scratches your arm. Up and down. Up and down. “I’m not going to die.”

Your shoulders are braced against his side. You keep your gaze on the white smoke rising off of his incense cone.

This is his room, and his bed, because those aren’t sacred. His bed can be slept in and snuggled in and kissed in and loved in. He has scratchy cotton sheets and incense that is too old to really smell like anything.

He’s a prince with messy documents surrounding his desk and curtains that haven’t been dusted in days. Some days you wonder if the entire castle has forgotten about him. You don’t want to bring it up — don’t want to ask — but it flummoxes you.

You reach for his hand and stop its motions. “I’m sorry I bring you into all of this.”

“I want you to bring me into everything,” Alex slurs. He’s staying awake for you, and you know it. He rests his temple against your head. “I don’t want you to keep anything from me.”

You hum. His body is warm against yours. Too warm, to the extent where you know you’ll wake up in the uncomfortable sort of sweat that comes when a child falls asleep on you, or when you fall asleep without the window open.

Something heavy squeezes your chest. It feels like your ribcage is sentient — hugging and pressing into your lungs until it’s nearly impossible to breathe without an uncomfortable stutter.

Alex falls asleep quick, so you don’t worry about him noticing.

You settle against him and breathe through your nose. The feeling will pass — it always does. You feel this way whenever Alex reveals something so vulnerable to you. You reckon it’s something to do with the tenderness of his voice, or the earnest squeeze of his hand.

There’s a need to protect him. You want to be there for him, more than anything else in the world.

Stripped of your job — the altar torn down — you resort back to your first and foremost activity: Alex’s best friend and (unofficial) advisor.

In this position, you’re confident in your abilities. You know just as well as anyone that you’d rather die than see the prince harmed in any way.

You’re kicked out of the tower, and your telescopes are left to dust. The king locks the door personally, ardent in his attempt to keep you away from any visions that might harm his reign.

You stay in Alex’s room, on a spare bed mat near the fireplace.

Of course, Alex has offered his bed, but you refuse to bother him any more than you have to. And now, with your rituals forbidden, you need a place to privately gather your thoughts.

The flames lick the stone furnace and you lie still. You watch them dance and close your eyes, hoping to rest without any visions or nightmares.

But the nightmares come, and they’re always the same.

When you wake in a fervent sweat, you know that only one thing will keep you from fearing Alex’s death. So, you crawl beneath his scratchy sheets.

You don’t snuggle into him or bother his slumber. All you need to do is know that he’s here. You rest your smallest finger against his bare arm and fall asleep to the sound of an owl hooting outside the window.

On the morning of Alex’s coronation, fog rises from the earth. You see it as a sign: this day will be confusing and blurred.

Alex is just excited to have cooler weather. The blistering heat has been plaguing the kingdom for days, so to have a day of fog and hollow wind sounds like heaven to the prince.

You wear your runes beneath your robe, and the weight of them is less than the weight of knowing you’re dead if you’re caught. But you need them; need this day to come and go without blood and tears.

Alex cannot see you. He’s far too busy with final rehearsals and receiving guests from far and wide.

You stray beyond the castle, into the square, where traders and travelers have set up shop in the hopes of making a profit.

There’s a sign. Fortunes Read Here. It’s tacked over a purple curtain, and you can see amber light shining through a thin slit. Like maybe someone is in there. Like maybe you aren’t alone.

You walk in.

Disappointment smacks against your ribs like a heavy wave against jagged rocks. It’s a scam. A boy no younger than yourself is sitting behind a table, with a green sash tied over his forehead. There’s a mystical rune of some kind that looks like a portal, and it’s tacked to nearly every surface you can see with dripping green paint. The place looks like that of a madman, and you fear you’re about to be mocked.

“Hello,” he says. He doesn’t offer a name. The blues of his eyes flicker from time to time with a shimmery purple, and you think it’s a trick of the light.

“Are you going to laugh at me?” You sit across from him. “Once I leave, are you going to think of me as just another gullible customer?”

“Can you not tell the future?” He says, and he grabs the crystal ball and tucks it under the table. “I can sense it. You want answers, genuine answers, not some promise of success.”

“Who are you?”

“Karl,” he says. “I’m from the village of The Rapids, but you know, magic is looked down upon. I doubt anyone would believe me if I told them what I know.”

You trace the lines of the rune. Your brain fogs, but as you repeat the motion, it clears up, and you suddenly see Karl, clear as day, standing in a crowd and watching Alex make a speech. “You’ve been there? You’ve been to the future?”

“Look closer,” Karl mumbles.

So you focus on the details, and you can see the black banners of mourning, and the redness of Alex’s eyes. “Oh. This is his grandfather’s funeral. This is the year before I became Alex’s tutor.”

“Walk closer.”

Unsure what he means, you continue to trace the rune, and imagine yourself walking through the crowd. Only Karl moves instead, so you pause your tracing and look at Karl.

He’s got his eyes closed, and his eyebrows furrowed. “Why did you come here? What did you want to see?”

You brought me here, you think of saying, but you wonder if this is what Karl can do. If he can travel to the past and show people what he sees. “I- I suppose I want to know why he was deified. Was it a plot?”

You trace the rune again, and Karl walks over to the king, where he stands apart from the podium. Even though his son is giving a heartfelt speech, he’s not listening at all. Instead, he’s talking to one of his trusted advisors.

“I will make a wonderful god.”

“Prince Alexis hates the new creed,” the advisor observes. “Surely he’ll overrule it once he is king.”

“Yes,” the king says. “Well, I suppose we’ll just have to make sure that doesn’t happen.”

You gasp, and even Karl seems winded as you stop tracing the rune.

He places his palms on the table. “So that’s what you wanted to find out. A regicide plot.”

“I have to find Alex,” you mutter. You stand and rip one of your runes off of your neck. Intuition. “Here, take it. You should go.”

“I can’t go into the future,” Karl warns. “I don’t know what’s going to happen.”

“No,” you think of Alex’s words. “None of us can predict fate. I have to go.”

You run out of the tent, and when you look back, it’s gone, left with nothing but a dirty sign labeled Fortunes Read Here.

Perhaps it’s past tense now.

Your purple robe billows behind you as you rush into the castle in search of the prince.

The staff says they haven’t seen him, the lords are already drunk off of mulled wine. His own tailors are running around, fearing they won’t be able to dress him in time.

So he’s gone, and that means you’re too late.

Or rather, maybe Alex is smarter than you give him credit for, and he’s gone to the one place his father won’t go.

You head up to the tower.

He’s there. Of course he’s there. And he’s in only part of his ceremonial clothes, leather pants and a cream-white collared shirt. He’s leaning his palms against the stone railing and staring out against the wind, like he’s waiting for it to speak to him. Tears slip down his cheeks and drop into the air.

“Alex…” You wrap your arms around his soft waist, squeezing tight to try and convey how thankful you are that he knew to get away. “Your father… He’s—”

“He poisoned my breakfast,” Alex whimpers. He grabs blindly for your arms, and at the touch of your skin, he folds in on himself; shifts around to face you, and buries his face into your neck. “My taster… He thought my taster was out. But he wasn’t. Now he’s dead, and the counsel are trying to figure out what to do with my father.”

“Alex, I’m so sorry.”

He cries harder, and you think your hug must feel weak compared to the comfort he so clearly needs right now. “I have to go tell the lords and the staff. We have to postpone the coronation until everyone involved is apprehended.”

You think of what he does when you feel alone. He visits your spring, and he takes off his shoes. He takes you to his bed and scratches your arm. He kisses your head and hums old lullabies from his childhood until you fall asleep.

So you grab his hand, and you pull him down the few stairs where your old bedroom lies. And you bring him toward your bed, but he stops you.

“It’s sacred to you,” he hiccups.

“You’re sacred to me,” you finally decide, and you let him crawl under your sheets.

You untie his boots and pull them off of his feet, along with his socks. Then you take the blanket and pull it up to his chin. You kiss his forehead and crawl in next to him. And you scratch his arm, up and down, and you hum old lullabies from your own childhood until he falls asleep.

While he’s asleep, you trace the moles across his cheeks and close your eyes. Suddenly, it’s like Karl’s tent, only you can see into the future, not the past. And you aren’t Karl, you’re Y/n.

The sun is bright on Alex’s back, skin tanned and warm. You’re swimming with him in the spring, and all that is sacred to you is him. All that matters is him, so he can float in the spring, and he can kiss you on holy ground, and if he can’t be deified in the kingdom, he can be deified in your soul.

And when you stop your motions, you’re back in your bed. Alex is there, sweet Alex, snoring softly and snuggling into your warmth, like you keep him safe. Like your visions aren’t the ones he believed in at all.

He has always believed solely in you.

#quackity fluff #quackity fanfic #quackity scenarios #quackity angst #mcyt fanfiction #quackity x reader #quackity x you #mcyt x reader #pixiecap//

213 notes · View notes

sanktnikolais · 4 years

Text

We Got Married

For @grishaversebigbang mini bang! <3

Check out the amazing fanarts of @notbynary (x) and @ninaaswaffles (x)!

Summary: Waking up with a hangover in the morning without any recollection of the night before, Zoya and Nikolai are up for another headache because of their new status.

Word count: 1821

AO3

Nikolai woke up to a throbbing pain in his head. Even opening his eyes was a challenge, everything was trying to knock him out to oblivion and slowly becoming successful, but he stood his ground.

“Fuck,” Nikolai muttered as he brought a hand up to his temple to massage it. When he finally had the strength to open his eyes, the world was still spinning and threatening to black out, but he fought to stay awake and turned to the side.

It was then he felt a breath on his neck from did he stop his movements, and the sudden weight of someone pressed tightly against his side snapped him awake fully. He turned his head slightly to the side and was greeted with a mess of ebony hair of a certain someone that he was sure he knew who it was.

Almost half of Zoya’s body was perched on top of him and her arm was sprawled over his chest, pinning him down tightly on the couch. Nikolai winced through another wave of headache that hit. How had they gotten into this position, anyway? His memories were a blur of loud laughter and endless shots of alcohol of Zoya’s birthday blast. Aside from that, there was a huge blank space in between that needed to be filled.

Nikolai carefully untangled the arm on his chest without risking to wake the raven-haired woman up because he was very much aware of her wrath when disturbed during her sleep even at the slightest state. And he was definitely going to get axed when she woke up and realize that they had been this close. He still loved his life to be cut short. Though as much as he wanted to stay in this position for much longer—probably even forever—his head needed to be soothed with painkillers.

A few gentle tugs later, Zoya involuntarily moved away from him and turned to her side, finally putting off her weight from him all the while mumbling to herself. Nikolai gave a sigh of relief and rolled to his side, only to be met with the edge of the couch and he fell right off with a string of curses.

It was a good thing that the floor was carpeted and it somehow cushioned his fall a bit. The abruptness of the act sent another wave of dizziness to him, making Nikolai struggle to sit up and using the glass table as his support. It had been a while since he got wasted like this. The last time he had, he woke up by the stairs of his unit, legs spread on the steps, and he spent most of the day in bed because of a terrible headache.

Nikolai had vowed not to do that again, but the circumstances seemed to not be on his side.

A small patch of paper on the glass surface caught his eye and he squinted to see something scribbled on it. He didn’t know if it was the font that was shitty or just his vision swimming, but he did recognize it as David’s handwriting—the messy strokes of lines adding to the swirling of his vision.

Sorry to leave the mess for a while. We’ll be back in an hour, just went out to get breakfast. If you wake up before we come back, painkillers are in the cupboard by the kitchen. – D & G

P.S.

Enjoy your new status!

New what? Nikolai frowned at the note. It didn’t make any sense at all. Or had he missed something?

As if on cue, a memory flashed in his mind of him taking off the chain around his neck that held his father’s ring, and the rest was blank. He whipped a hand up to his throat, feeling the absence of the necklace and sending his mind to a panic. What if he had been dared to do something crazy to it? Though he wasn’t that close with his family, the ring was still an heirloom, and Nikolai would never forgive himself if he lost it due to his own recklessness.

He started to pat down on the carpet just in case it fell right over when he removed it from his neck. As he was doing so, he was berating himself in his mind for being so drunk to not be able to remember anything from the previous night.

A gleam at the corner of his eye caught his attention and Nikolai turned to the direction he had seen it from, surprising him when he finally saw where it was.

It was on the ring finger of his left hand.

Nikolai narrowed his eyes on the band. It was just a simple gold one with a black cursive L engraved on it, the dark font of the letter contrasting with its light background and making it stand out. The blond breathed out another sigh of relief, even if he was confused on why he had it worn around his finger.

At least the ring was still intact.

He carefully stood up from the floor and walked towards the kitchen to try and find some painkillers, all the while Zoya was still snoring in the living room. Several minutes of rummaging through the cupboards, Nikolai was startled to a stop by a loud voice from somewhere behind him.

“Lantsov, would you keep it down? It’s like you’re trying to go to war with—what in the fuck’s name is this?”

Nikolai raised a brow at the sudden change of Zoya’s vocabulary and started to walk back to the living room. He spotted the woman at the side of the room, looking at the expanse of the wall that was covered with a carelessly hanged tarp.

Zoya turned to him, eyes focused on the papers she was holding, her brows narrowed tightly.

He tried to ignore the beautiful mess of her bed hair or the way one of her shirtsleeves almost fell off her shoulder and revealed the skin around her collarbone, but failed of course, and Nikolai was all too aware of himself gawking at the woman in front of him.

Zoya tore her gaze away from the paper and looked at him, causing Nikolai to snap out of his daze and focus on the tarp behind her. From where he was standing, he could make out huge letters written (in spray-paint?) on its surface.

Nikolai squinted and read the writings.

He was mortified with what he read.

“Married?” Zoya exclaimed, her voice still hoarse from all the drinking last night, and she hitched a thumb over her shoulder. An expression that was in between confusion and anger was evident on her face. “What the fuck?”

The writings glared back at Nikolai, and he winced at the sight of it.

Congratulations, newlyweds! it said in a sloppy handwriting, and Nikolai had to blink repeatedly to make sure his eyes weren’t playing games on him.

Another memory flashed in his mind, and he turned to Zoya with a mortified look. They were absolutely screwed. “You dared David to wed us.”

Zoya looked back at him with wide eyes. Perhaps he should savor the moment of catching her off guard, but their current situation deemed it void. “What?”

Some of the events from the previous night came to Nikolai with a wave of headache. He brought a hand up to his head. “You still wouldn’t believe that he finished his judge training this year and you—” he gestured vaguely in the air with his other hand— “made him do it.”

There was a complete silence in the room, with Zoya narrowing her eyes at him as if she were trying to remember if she really had done the said deed. Nikolai took the moment to glance at her hand and was able to catch a glimpse of the gold band around her ring finger.

She held up the papers she had been holding. “Is this even legal?”

Nikolai squinted as he made his way closer to the raven-haired woman, trying to make sense of the wordings on the paper. He gave a wince. Marriage certificate. “Maybe we should ask our friendly neighbor judge?” he offered. “As far as I remember my college days, engineering did not cover anything related to this.”

There was another silence, and Zoya’s deadpanned expression only made his wince turn into a nervous smile. “This is madness,” she said later, breathing out an annoyed huff.

Nikolai nodded in agreement. “Completely.” He sighed. This meant another complication, and he knew this could take a while for it to be fixed, so he decided to make the most out of it instead. “Though I wouldn’t mind calling you Mrs. Lantsov.”

He then felt the papers get shoved on his face and he stumbled back a few steps with a light chuckle. It started to fall from him and Nikolai barely caught the material with his hand. Zoya was already by the wall, trying to tear the tarp off from the expanse in a rush. The blond couldn’t blame her—the writings were really a sight for sore eyes.

“I wouldn’t change my last name for you in any way.”

“Ah, that’s fine. So, you don’t mind being married to me?” He was rewarded with a glare, but Nikolai had already been used to it for years. By now, it was actually safe to say that he was fond of it. “Well, you were the one who dared David to wed us, which brings me to the idea that you’ve thought of being married to me. Did you?”

Zoya quickly tore her eyes away from him and turned back to her work on the wall. “Whatever,” she muttered.

A thought came to Nikolai as he stared at the certificate in his hands. “Wait, if we got married last night, did that mean you actually kissed me?”

He saw Zoya’s fingers falter from removing the last corner of the tarp, and Nikolai almost let out a loud laugh. Maybe she remembered something about last night. “Shut your mouth, Lantsov, or I will smother you with this,” she said, voice laced with threat.

Nikolai put a hand up to his chest and feigned a hurtful expression. “You’d hurt your husband?”

“If he’s that annoying, I probably would.”

“Harsh.”

“Honest.”

Zoya finally finished removing the tarp from the wall and began to fold it in brash movements, to which Nikolai watched fondly, a small smile gracing his lips. He’d never say it aloud, but Nikolai knew to himself he didn’t mind the thought of being married to her.

Now he was left wondering if she felt the same.

The blond snapped out of his thoughts and clasped his hands together a little too enthusiastically. “So, who kissed who first?” he asked with a grin.

This time, Nikolai wasn’t able to stay upright when Zoya threw the entire tarp over to his face.

#zoyalai #nikolai lantsov #zoya nazyalensky #king of scars #grishaverse mini bang #my writing #check out those fanarts!!! uwu #grishaminibang20

102 notes · View notes

pikapeppa · 4 years

Text

Professor Solas AU: Wrong

Chapter 7 of Inadvisable (Solas +Abelas + Felassan modern university AU) is posted!

In which Tamaris decides whether to bother replying to Felassan’s message, and Solas talks shop with Abelas... then fantasizes thinks about Nare.

~4500 words; read on AO3 instead.

*********************

- TAMARIS -

Tamaris opened the apartment door for Feynriel and gave him a stern look. “All right, follow those aftercare instructions properly. No swimming, no scented moisturizer shit.”

Feynriel nodded and smiled, then winced. “Ow. Smiling hurts my face.”

Tamaris smirked. “Yeah, that’s what happens when you get tattoos on your cheeks. It’ll stop hurting in a couple of days.” She tapped the aftercare instruction pamphlet in his hand. “If you have questions, problems, you call me, okay?”

He nodded and stepped out of the apartment. “Okay. Thanks again, Tamaris. For the history lesson and everything as well as the vallaslin.”

“Anytime,” she said. She waited for him to make his way down the stairs, then closed the door behind him and went to clean up the detritus of their tattoo session.

She padded down the hallway that led toward Athera’s bedroom and turned into the fourth bedroom, which did double-duty as her tattoo studio and Nare’s art studio. She threw away the crumpled witch hazel and alcohol wipes and the unused tattoo ink, and as she placed the used needle into the sharps container, she made a mental note to change the nearly-full container to a new one.

She sighed wearily as she wiped the counter down with bleach; she already had another full sharps container in the corner, so it was probably time to take them all to the pharmacy down the street to dispose of them properly.

When the space was clean once more, Tamaris plopped down onto her padded stool with a sigh, then reached for her phone. Just as she was about to pick it up, she remembered the message she’d received that morning.

Her belly jolted. She hesitated for a second, then picked up her phone and swiped through to her PMs on Instagram.

felassan 08:13AM Deep mushroom sometime?

She huffed to herself. She could practically see his shit-eating grin in the letters on her screen.

She pursed her lips as she studied the short message. In all honesty, she was surprised to hear from him. After coming home from the mixer last night with Athera and Nare, Tamaris had spent some time wondering why the fuck Felassan had left her in the alley instead of coming home with her, and she could only conclude that she must have offended him somehow. She had a tendency to do that, after all; when you were as short-tempered and indelicate as Tamaris could be, pissing people off kind of came with the territory.

It must have been when she called him a playboy. Everything seemed like it was going fine until that point. But that’s hardly an insult if it’s true, she thought in disgruntlement. Despite Felassan’s protests that he wasn’t a smooth operator, she didn’t believe him. She had no reason to believe him, after all. He was a handsome and charming man who seemed to know all the right things to say to soften her up, and the way he kissed her was nothing short of perfectly seductive, so of course she didn’t believe him.

Tamaris ultimately went to bed last night concluding that even if she had offended Felassan, it was for the best. Someone that handsome and smooth-talking could only be full of shit, so she was better off without him.

But then she’d woken up around ten to find that he had messaged her early this morning. The fact that he’d contacted her had thrown her off so much that she’d closed the app and not replied.

Now, almost five hours after he’d sent that message, Tamaris still hadn’t replied. And she wasn’t sure she even should. What was the point, after all? She didn’t want anything other than simple and uncomplicated sex. This contact with Felassan was already more complicated than it needed to be, with his whole disappearing act last night followed by this coy message on Instagram this morning.

Too much trouble, she thought, and she closed the app once more. But as she sat there on her stool with her phone dangling from her hand, she couldn’t help but think about some of the things he’d said last night.

He’d said she was looking for a reason to smile. It sounded like a smooth line, but there was something about the way he said it that made her think he actually meant it. Something about the look on his face, like he somehow knew what it was like to be looking for a reason to be optimistic and hopeful and all that shit.

And if he really did mean it, if he really did think she’d been searching the for a reason to smile…

All the more reason to avoid him, she thought grumpily. The last thing she needed was someone who was going to act like he knew her based solely on the look on her face.

She sat idly on her stool for a few minutes. Then she opened Instagram and swiped through to Felassan’s profile.

It was devoid of any helpful insights, unfortunately. His profile was empty with no photos at all, not even a profile photo.

Fucking weird, she thought. She stared at her screen for a moment longer, then swiped back to her PMs.

felassan 8:13AM Deep mushroom sometime?

She stared at the message for a moment. Then, before she could change her mind, she replied.

tamaris_tattoos 12:43PM your empty insta makes you look like a predator. or a grandma

She minimized the app without waiting for a response and checked her emails instead. She read through her emails for a minute, then returned to Instagram.

felassan 12:43PM Is that how you speak to all of your potential clients?

She scoffed before replying.

tamaris_tattoos 12:45PM shut the fuck up. you’re not a potential client

felassan 12:45PM Not with that charmingly rude attitude, I’m not.

tamaris_tattoos 12:45PM what do you want then

felassan 12:45PM A repeat of last night wouldn’t go amiss.

Her heart skipped a beat, but he was typing another message.

felassan 12:45PM The deep mushroom, I mean. Whoever your source is, the quality of their product is excellent.}

Tamaris smirked despite herself. He was such a cheeky shithead.

tamaris_tattoos 12:45PM no source. i grow my own and no, i won’t sell you any, so don’t bother to ask

felassan 12:45PM I wouldn’t dare ask. It wouldn’t be the same if I couldn’t enjoy the taste of your lips on the joint.

She barked out a laugh before replying.

tamaris_tattoos 12:46PM you’re so full of shit lol you say you’re not a playboy and then you throw down a line like that

felassan 12:46PM And yet you replied. With a ‘lol’ to boot. I must be doing something right.

tamaris_tattoos 12:46PM you’re fucking bold you know that

felassan 12:46PM Only when I’m deeply inspired. But I will back off if that’s what you want.

Tamaris hesitated for a long moment. She hated to admit it, but his cleverness was extremely attractive. And the way he kissed her last night…

She nibbled the inside of her cheek for a second. Then, slowly, she tapped out another message.

tamaris_tattoos 12:47PM fine. drinks later. what’s your number

felassan 12:47PM Now who’s bold?

tamaris_tattoos 12:47PM for fuck’s sake do you want to meet up or not

felassan 12:47PM I would be honoured. Let me know the time and place. 519-555-3352

tamaris_tattoos 12:48PM ok i’m not bringing any deep mushroom though so you’re shit out of luck if that’s what you wanted

felassan 12:48PM I assure you that deep mushroom is the last thing on my mind.

She huffed and closed the app. He was way too smooth. There was no way he wasn’t a playboy.

It was fine, though. She’d just meet up with him, have a drink, fuck him, and then she’d never have to see him again.

Good plan, she told herself. She went back to her bedroom and grabbed her laptop, then sat down in the living room to read her emails and messages from possible clients until her two o’clock client arrived. But as she looked through the reference pics that one possible client had sent her, she found herself thinking about Felassan and his surprising lack of tattoos – specifically of vallaslin.

She supposed she shouldn’t be that surprised that Arlathani elves didn’t share the same traditions as Dalish elves. The elves that had eventually split off into the Dalish clans had left Arlathan hundreds of years ago, after all. Maybe even a thousand years ago? Athera would know the exact dates if she was here. Regardless, it was long enough for traditions to change. But still, the way Felassan described the difference between the Dalish and the Arlathani elves was interesting: so far removed as to be incomparable. That was a pretty intriguing statement, if Tamaris was honest. Not to mention that thing he’d said about there being a reason he had decided to stay in Orlais instead of going back to Arlathan…

She mulled this over for a moment, then shrugged it off. It’s probably just a ploy, she thought. All part of his charm to try and get her interested enough to see him again. And here she was, falling into his charming trap.

She tsked at herself and got up to make a cup of coffee. It’s not falling into his trap if this is the last time I see him, she thought. And really, that’s all there was to it: she’d see him this one time, have sex with him, and that would be the end of it. It’s not like she was emotionally equipped to actually fall for anyone, anyway.

And certainly not for a smooth-as-fuck player like Felassan.

- SOLAS -

Late that afternoon, after all the students and research assistants had gone home, Solas sat at the desk in his office staring absently at his computer screen.

He really should be working. He had meant to finish editing the response piece he was submitting to the Journal of Orlesian History by tomorrow afternoon, and he had an early meeting with Merrill in the morning, so tonight was really the only time he had to finish the edits.

He put on his reading glasses and signed into his computer, then opened the response piece and stared at it without taking in a single word. He really needed to focus, but his thoughts were spinning fruitlessly through his head like leaves in a windstorm, and they kept coming back to Nare.

Nare, the irresistible woman from the bar last night — the student from the bar last night.

Nare, his Master’s student.

He rubbed his forehead. It still felt surreal that the beautiful and tempting woman who had approached him so boldly at the bar last night was his new Master’s student.

And to his shame, the fact that she was his student hadn’t diminished his interest in her at all.

Quite the opposite, in fact. In his art theory and critique seminar today, she had asked so many incisive questions about the ancient Elvhen principles of art criticism that he’d had a hard time keeping a straight face while answering her. And then she’d actually engaged him in a rousing debate about whether those principles were still relevant today when there was so much interaction between different forms and traditions of art. Solas was as impressed by the quality of Nare’s logic as he was by the fact that she dared to debate with him — something that few students did.

All in all, she was proving to be just as keen and inquisitive as she was beautiful. And for Solas, this was a terrible problem.

He blew out a bracing breath. It is not a problem, he assured himself; after all, he and Nare both wanted the same thing: a good mentor-student relationship. And her behaviour during the seminar had been very professional.

If he didn’t count the intense way she watched him during the lecture portion of his seminar, or those mischievous little smiles she gave him when no one else was looking.

He frowned at himself and ran a hand over his scalp as though to brush the thoughts away. There was no reason for him to think that she was trying to flirt with him during the seminar with her oceanic eyes or her little smiles. He was probably just imagining her to be a vixen because of the way she’d approached him last night.

That was over now, though. He ought to forget entirely about the Nare he had met last night at the campus bar, and focus solely on the Nare who was his clever and sharp-minded Master’s student.

He sighed. If only he wasn’t finding her intelligence as alluring as her smile or the enticing curve of her spine.

Then someone knocked on the door.

Solas’s heart leapt into his throat. Was it possible that it was Nare?

He cleared his throat subtly. “Yes?” he called.

When Abelas opened the door, Solas couldn’t decide whether to be relieved or disappointed. “Abelas,” he greeted. “Are you heading home shortly?”

“Not yet,” Abelas said. He entered the office and closed the door behind him. “I wanted to discuss a few things with you before we part ways for the night.”

“Certainly,” Solas said. “What’s on your mind?”

Abelas handed him a report. “The waitlists for our program’s classes are growing longer still. We should consider speaking to the head of the history department about an increase in class sizes.”

Solas scanned the first page of the report, then looked up at Abelas in surprise. “The waitlist for your fourth-year literature class has more students than the class itself.”

“You see the problem, then,” he said.

“This is not a problem,” Solas said. “This is excellent.” He smiled at Abelas. “You should be pleased that your class is so popular.”

“Hm,” Abelas grunted. “Your first- and second-year classes are also particularly in demand.”

“Not the upper year ones, however,” Solas said drolly.

Abelas raised one eyebrow. “It seems that your reputation precedes you, Fen’Harel.”

Solas laughed. “Hearing that nickname from Felassan is bad enough. Am I to suffer it from you as well, then?”

Abelas grunted again, and Solas fondly noted the twitch of a near-smile at the corner of Abelas’s mouth. Then Abelas pointed to the report. “Speaking of Felassan: his courses are overly popular as well.” He folded his arms. “I believe it’s because he is being too lenient with grading.”

“What makes you think that?” Solas asked.

“He said as much today,” Abelas said.

Solas frowned. “He did?”

“Yes, when he was speaking to Athera.”

Solas relaxed. “Ah. It was more than likely a joke.”

Abelas pursed his lips. “I have my doubts. I will find some time to audit his classes in the next two weeks.”

“Why?” Solas said in surprise.

“To ensure that he is fulfilling his duties properly.”

Solas eyed him with growing exasperation. Abelas has always had an admirable devotion to his work, but ever since they had come to Orlais, his devotion had almost become an obsession.

“I don’t believe that such extreme measures are necessary,” Solas said.

Abelas frowned. “It doesn’t bother you to imagine him making a mockery of our work here? You would rather let him have free reign than allow me to audit his classes?”

Solas raised his eyebrows at Abelas’s waspish tone, then slowly sat back in his chair. “It is not my place to allow you to do anything,” he said evenly. “You are the program director, after all.”

Abelas clenched his jaw, and Solas sympathetically regarded his longtime friend. “You are doing it again, you know,” he said gently. “Taking on more than is necessary to keep things running smoothly.”

“I am not taking on too much,” Abelas snapped. “I am doing what my duty requires of me.”

Solas steadily met his eyes, then switched to Elvhen. “This is not the military, Abelas.”

“I am aware of that,” Abelas retorted.

“Are you?”

Abelas clenched his jaw and looked away before speaking in the common tongue once more. “I will have a word with Felassan. In private.”

“That sounds like a much better plan,” Solas said. He put his reading glasses back on and turned to his computer. “Is there anything else? I have some editing to do that requires my undivided attention.”

Abelas frowned. “For the response piece? I thought you had intended to finish that before your seminar.”

“I had, yes,” Solas said wryly. “But I have been unusually distracted.” He forced his expression to remain pleasantly neutral as he spoke. He was telling the truth, after all; he had been regrettably distracted all afternoon. There was absolutely no need to tell Abelas that the distraction was in the form of his alluring new Master’s student.

Abelas raised his eyebrows. “Distracted? That is unlike you.”

Solas gave him a small smile. “There is no need to rub it in.”

“That was not my intention,” Abelas said. He clasped his hands behind his back. “Are you in need of assistance?”

Solas shot him a wry look. “And add another task to your overfilled plate? I wouldn’t dare, for fear that you would actually agree to take it on.”

Abelas harrumphed, but before he could reply, there was another knock on Solas’s door.

Solas raised his eyebrows at Abelas — who else was still here at this hour? — then called out to the person at the door. “Come in.”

The door opened, and Athera poked her head in with a smile. “Hi Solas, I — oh, Abelas! I mean, Professor Abelas. I didn’t… um.” She broke off and shot them both a sheepish smile. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. I was just going to let you know I finished digitizing the contents of one shelf in the archive room. I’ll—”

Abelas cut in. “You finished the first shelf?”

“Not the whole bookshelf,” Athera said quickly. “Just the top shelf of the first bookshelf.”

Abelas blinked. “You — the entire top shelf?”

Athera’s smile was fading into a cautious look. “Yes. Is that okay?”

“It’s excellent, Athera,” Solas said firmly. “Thank you.”

“No problem,” she said. “I’ll keep going tomorrow when I have time.”

Solas nodded and smiled, and Athera smiled back at him before shifting her gaze to Abelas. “Let me know if you want me to start that proposal for the NAS system,” she said.

“Not yet,” Abelas said brusquely. “I must review the program budget first.”

To Solas’s mild surprise, Athera wasn’t cowed by Abelas’s unfriendly tone; instead, she widened her grey eyes. “I know. I’m just saying to let me know when and I’ll get started.”

Abelas folded his arms and nodded. Then Athera tugged her ear and gave them both an awkward little smile. “Okay, uh, goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” Solas said politely.

She shot Abelas one last glance before leaving the office. Once she was gone, Abelas sighed and ran a hand over his braid.

Solas raised his eyebrows. “You were nearly polite. I’m impressed.”

Abelas shot him a resentful look, then rubbed his chin. “I… snapped at her earlier today,” he admitted.

Solas sighed. “Abelas…”

“Do not act as though you are surprised,” he complained. “You knew I didn’t want her here. I didn’t want a lab coordinator.”

“You said you understood the necessity of the position,” Solas said.

“I know what I said,” Abelas said in a hard voice. “I am allowed to understand the need but still be resentful.”

“As long as you don’t remain resentful for too long,” Solas said. He clicked his mouse to wake up the screen, then looked at his colleague over the top of his glasses. “You know I insisted on this position out of concern for you.”

“I am aware,” he muttered. “You remind me incessantly.”

Solas lifted his chin slightly, and Abelas sighed. “I understand the necessity, Solas.”

“All right.” Solas quickly corrected a typo, then shot him a sideways glance. “You don’t have genuine concerns about her competence, do you?”

Abelas hesitated for long enough that Solas actually paused his activities to look at him fully. “Do you truly have concerns?”

“No,” Abelas said. “She appears to be…” He sighed and ran his hand over his hair once more. “She is more organized and efficient than she appears to be.”

Solas raised his eyebrows. “That sounds like praise. I don’t know if I should believe my ears.”

Abelas shot him an annoyed look. “She is trying to change things after a single day here.”

Solas smiled faintly. “Some change was inevitable when bringing in a new member of the lab. And I know you have no great love for change–”

“Don’t make me sound so inflexible,” Abelas snapped. “I left Arlathan to come to this place, did I not?”

“Reluctantly, yes,” Solas said.

Abelas folded his arms, and Solas leaned his elbows on the desk. “It is temporary, Abelas,” he said soothingly. “Just remember that. Our contract lasts for three more years, and then we can return home. But we must—”

Abelas interrupted him. “We need to obtain exclusive rights to the Elvhen ruins in the Arbour Wilds first,” he said testily. “I haven’t forgotten.”

“I know you haven’t,” Solas said. “Just remember this when you are feeling irritated. The situation is temporary.”

Abelas nodded, then took a step back from his desk. “I will leave you to your work.”

Solas shot him a knowing look over the top of his glasses. “You should leave for the night.”

Abelas replied in Elvhen. “The rose should not disdain the holly leaf for its thorns.”

Solas laughed. “Don’t quote classic Arlathani poetry at me. My current circumstances are exceptional. You are a workaholic.”

Abelas harrumphed and left without a reply, closing the office door behind him. Solas chuckled as he settled back into his work, and for a time, he was actually able to concentrate on his edits.

When his phone chimed with a text, however, his mind instantly went to Nare.

He glanced eagerly at his phone, but a little thud of disappointment jolted his belly; it was just a text from Dorian inviting him for lunch next week.

He sighed and turned back to his computer, but his focus was once again spoiled by thoughts of Nare — guilty thoughts about the fact that he was hoping she would text him. She had no reason to text him, after all; they wouldn’t need to meet one-on-one for another week. In fact, she would likely not need to return to the lab until their next meeting, so it was possible that he might not have any contact with her at all for an entire week.

That thought shouldn’t disappoint him so much, especially since they had only just met. There was absolutely no reason that Solas should be this preoccupied by thoughts of Nare’s keen mind and her scintillating laugh. There was no good reason that he should be thinking this much about the way her smile shifted from shy to coquettish to heatedly brazen and bold.

There was no reason why three encounters with this one woman should be enough to bring him to his knees.

Or better yet, to imagine her on her knees in front of him.

A sudden flash of a fantasy invaded his mind: Nare on her knees before him wearing that lovely red dress from last night, her palms resting demurely on her knees while Solas tilted her chin up with one hand. Nare lifting her chin eagerly, bringing her smiling lips closer to the rising hardness of his shaft. Nare panting and struggling to remain upright while Solas knelt in front of her in a similarly compromising position…

His trousers felt tight around his groin. He scowled at his lap and shifted in his chair to try and relieve the pressure. Stop this, he scolded himself. It was wrong to feel this way. It was wrong to feel so drawn to Nare – to feel as though the connection they had made last night was something rare and precious, and to want to foster that connection.

Just like it had been wrong of him to confess to her during their meeting today that she was so thoroughly distracting. And it was certainly wrong for him to feel a distinct unfurling of satisfaction in his gut at the hopeful widening of her eyes when he’d made that forbidden confession.

He sighed and leaned back in his chair, momentarily defeated by his own traitorous libido. He closed his eyes and briefly ran his palm over his own hardness through his trousers. Not enough to bring himself any kind of release, of course, but enough to soothe himself… and unfortunately, to worsen the fantasies that were running unchecked through his mind.

Solas sat idly in his office chair for a time, thinking terrible tempting thoughts and cursing himself silently for his lack of discipline while his work sat untouched on the screen before him. If wanting Nare was so completely wrong, why did the wanting have to feel so torturously good?

#solas #solavellan #felassan #felassan/lavellan #felassan x lavellan #professor solas #professor solas au #abelas #inadvisable #pikapeppa writes

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journal-of-an-outlaw · 3 years

Text

Price to be Paid - Chapter 33

Read on AO3 here

Dear Journal,

I always hate starting these things. Never know what to do to signify another passage starting when the ending of the other was just on the other side of the page. Be it days or months, the one thing that never changes is how close my last entry was. I guess this is to document my thoughts so that when I’m an old man I can look back and reflect on how life used to be. Most of the time I just draw something awful and leave a caption so when my eyes can’t see right anymore I’ll know what I was attempting to preserve. If I make it that far I’ll have plenty of stories to tell.

Anyways.

I know the last time things seemed to be doing well. I got married to a woman who changed me. Dutch had a plan to get us out. John and Abigail were getting along just fine, even little Jack was learning to hunt rabbits and small critters. But it all changed so quickly, where do I even begin…

The bank. I know that damned job was where everything went wrong. Micah and Dutch never stopped talking about it the whole time we were in Guarma so I couldn’t forget any detail even if I tried. And I did try. The first week stuck in that humid hell I was too angry to speak and drank myself into a stupor that would rival Reverend Swanson; alcohol helped me ignore the pain in my chest where my heart used to be. Maybe that’s why he drank. To forget. Everyone tried to talk to me but I wasn’t in a place to listen. They tried to tell me everything would work out, that she was alright and we just had to focus on one thing at a time. But that was bullshit. I just kept seeing Hosea get shot and my wife being carted away, and I was stuck helpless to do anything against it. I’ve never before realized that was my worst fear; watching from the outside as people I love get hurt.

The Pinkertons showed up too fast to not have known about it before but there was no way any of us would have ratted out the gang when we were so close to our goal, so close to leaving and putting behind us any thought of betrayal or being on the run any longer. I spent more than one night stuck on that island replaying it over and over but I couldn't make sense of it.

I should have been faster. I shouldn't have let Dutch separate us. As soon as that snake Milton yelled I knew we were done for.

I shouldn't call him that. I know I can come up with something worse. Technically he is my father in law, but he is the reason Hosea is dead and the woman I love is...gone. Who knows where he’s hidden her away. No wonder she never told me about that mess, I would have never believed someone so good and true was family with that vile man.

She probably thought I’d hate her for keeping the secret, but the truth is I couldn’t care any less. Sometimes you don’t get lucky enough to pick your family. I know that better than anyone.

Micah claims they planned it together, for her to distract her father long enough for us to escape, but I’m not too sure yet if I believe that. I saw the look in her eyes. Panic. Fear. Then that stubborn heroism that should have told me to drag her out with me no matter the cost. It was in the set of her mouth, and how her eyes narrowed enough to give away her thoughts. Just a few of the things I love so much about her. But in an instant she was gone. Locked eyes in the middle of the chaos was the only goodbye I got.

Losing Hosea was hard, to say the least. He was more of a father to me than Dutch was in all the ways that mattered. He taught me to swim and fish and how to read the leaves and stars at night. He taught me that waiting is sometimes the best strategy, and to never go anywhere without a good strong lie as to why you’re there. He was kindness and compassion, but also cleverness and hard edges when he needed to be. I looked up to him more than I knew and his absence will leave a painful hole that cannot be filled.

But my grief is nothing in comparison to Dutch’s. His...it’s like a pain he’s unwilling to admit is there. Like he’s afraid that acknowledging it will break the damn he’s built and everything will come crashing down. I worry what it means for him, for me, for all of us. Hosea was truly the angel sitting on Dutch’s shoulder.

I somehow made it out of Guarma and that whole mess alive. A boat took me back and I had the unfortunate luck to land in Van Horn. I must be getting old, my bones seem to have absorbed some of the exhaustion I’ve been feeling for nearly a month now. But I got myself a horse and should be back at Shady Belle tomorrow afternoon to whatever wreckage is left from my former life.

The thought of seeing my wife seemed to be the only thing getting me through the days since that cursed robbery. Her smile, the sound of her laugh, her soft hand in mine. I miss it, sometimes so much I am nearly brought to tears and in those moments I understand why Dutch doesn’t talk much about Hosea. Like watching the sunrise with burning eyes, sometimes the pain that comes with it makes you aware that it happened at all.

Part of me knows that what’s waiting for me at Shady Belle isn’t good news, but I can’t think about that just yet. Hope is the comforting shadow beside me.

I should have known better than to expect a good night’s sleep. My eyes were so blurry I mistook a tree for a man on the side of the road. Even my body knew that nothing is how it should have been.

Shady Belle was empty. Well, worse than that. It had echoes of the gang being there, our last hurrah as we rode out to the gates of victory so blind to what was about to happen. Cans littered around where we ate together, scuff marks all across the dirt from our boots, even a small pair that must have been Jack’s. The worst though was a carving I found on one of the poles of the front porch of my initials in a heart that she must have drawn without me knowing. I tried to etch it into my notebook but found I couldn't stand there for more than a few moments without the familiar pain of missing her taking over my senses. Maybe one day I won’t feel like I’m being ripped apart by all of these emotions.

Inside was empty. Nothing remained of the time we spent in those walls. I couldn't bring myself to check the room I had shared with YN for the fear of being entirely overwhelmed again. Instead I found a letter from Sadie Adler, a woman of many surprises, waiting for me in the living room. She must have known I would come back.

The quiet didn’t last too long before a couple of Pinkerton fools in the employment of Mr. Milton came around. From what I overheard they returned to Shady Belle every single day to see if we had returned but had no such luck. That meant two things; that the gang got away safely and the other’s from Guarma hadn’t come to the house. For a few moments at least my heart settled but that didn’t last long. These days it never did.

I rode straight to Lakay even though I despise the damp, disgusting heat of the swamps. My eagerness to see people I knew won over my hatred for the area. Eventually I found my way to a small village, if you’d even call it that, of buildings set up along the river bank. Time and humidity had worn away at any pride these homes must have held, the moss clinging to anything that needed to be filled back in. It was silent save for one man in the farthest hut chopping away at some type of meat.

Pearson for the first time in my life was a sight for sore eyes. Luckily Abigail was behind him and Sadie behind her so I was quickly welcomed with warm arms and a bowl of stew that was the finest I had ever tasted. There were questions, so many questions, but they held their tongues for the time being and let me settle into a bed for a few hours of sleep. Finally the exhaustion caught up with my body and I was overcome with aches and a cough, but that I ignored too.

Tilly, Uncle, Lenny, Karen, Sean, Mary Beth, Strauss, Molly, Charles, and everyone else was safe and hidden away. We were safe for the time being.

Micah and Javier arrived the next day with the same story. We all needed rest, but there were things to do. John had been captured and taken to Sisika. Abigail pulled me aside and asked about YN and I did my best to hide my pain, but she told me what happened after we got caught in the gunfire. She was taken somewhere north, or at least that’s where the wagon headed, and some man named Staten was her watcher. My blood nearly boiled, but Abigail calmed me down until the agony of losing her ripped me apart and I had to go sit on the dock before anyone else saw me. How am I to deal with this alone? I would give anything to have her back by my side again, father be hanged.

Not two days later a rain storm kept us inside, and set up the dramatic entrance for Dutch’s grand return. Things all broke loose. Abigail was yelling about John again, Micah on about something else. The man didn’t even have a chance to sit down before he was bombarded again. We raised a glass to Mrs. Adler for saving the gang in Dutch’s absence, her and Charles were the only reasons things continued on.

She found me staring at the water the next morning. I was sitting there, thinking of my wife, and Sadie must have known. She tried to talk about knowing loss and feeling my pain, but there’s no one in the world who knows what I’m going through. What we’re going through. My wife is somewhere I don’t know and I can do nothing about it. Every second of every day I feel like a failure for letting her down. I want to be there for Dutch as he needs the support, but I can’t help think that as time ticks on she’ll forget me and move on. Not sure what I’ll do if that happens.

Bill Williamson is a right fool. That night he came busting into the sleep house going on about how hard we were to find, saying he asked everyone he could find, and I knew trouble couldn't be too far behind. Only someone truly hoping to meet death walks into a nest of vipers. I had just finished my glass of whiskey when I heard her voice.

At first I thought I imagined it. There were plenty of times that the desperation in my mind had boiled long enough that her sweet tones called to me from somewhere just beyond my reach. At first I longed for them, for any gentle reminder that she was as real to me once as the glass currently in my hand. Then after a while they hurt to hear and the words got all jumbled together. Like she was farther away than ever. Like I needed reminding.

But sitting inside that house I heard her clear as a bell. Not the words she spoke, it was far too loud inside for that, but I could tell it was her. My heart knew too and started pounding in time with the rain hitting the roof. Dutch saw me and asked why I had frozen in place but Abigail had heard it too. She stood and stared at me, wondering what was taking me so damn long to move but it was like my legs had grown twice their weight. I finally got myself up and pushed through the sudden silence around me to stand at the door.

There she was again. She had to be real. But she sounded...off. Like something was wrong.

Calling for me, for us, or anyone. I was so full of terror I couldn’t breathe. But someone touched my shoulder and I came back to life, opening the door and finding my dream standing before me. Wide eyed and desperate, much like myself, but there was a warning in her eyes I couldn’t decipher from so far away. Her hands were up in the air shaking like a leaf. Her head shook slightly. I was overcome by a need to preserve this moment of reunion and committed her to memory for once she was back in my arms and I could draw her in this here journal. Honestly I can’t describe how I felt knowing she was at least alive. My heart wanted me to run to her and throw caution to the wind, but my gut told me something worse was lingering in the shadows with an alligator grin.

Just from looking at her I could tell Milton had damn near starved her for the dress she wore was much too large, hanging off her arms and shoulders. The blood was what cued me in. Rust red stains splattered the front and ice filled my veins at the realization of who’s ghosts she wore wrapped around her. That bastard Milton paraded her around in a costume like he was putting on a show, but I was done being a puppet.

Arthur Morgan was nobody’s fool.

Arthur.

His eyes were murderous but whether that was aimed at you or not remained unknown. The rapid thumping in your chest flooded into your ears as well but the words passing between you didn’t need to be spoken. You didn’t need to hear them to know what he would say.

Seeing Arthur after all that time was a breath of fresh air in a world that had been a dusty haze for the past month. It was awful and wonderful at the same time to be standing so close yet unable to move any closer. Your soul ached to return to its rightful place. The stress of standing there with the weight of all that had happened could be seen as your hands shook and your shoulders tensed and your heart broke all over again.

More light passed onto the muddy ground as the door behind Arthur opened and a few cautious faces moved out. Dutch. Abigail. Bill. Lenny. Charles. Sadie. Anger and confusion colored their expressions. You hoped they all could understand.

A strange feeling passed through you as you noticed Micah was nowhere to be found.

Arthur took in deep, heavy breaths as you held eye contact. Under any other circumstance standing beneath the stars in the dark of night would be almost romantic, especially with the twinkling fireflies blinking their messages all around you. But the rain and the tension crackling across the night like lightning changed that. In fact it changed everything.

The rain covered the sound of wagons rolling in and the footsteps of Pinkerton agents as they crept around the perimeter to trap the Van der Linde gang from escaping. The lightning bugs hid the glints of metal from the guns being raised and taking aim. And you, the queen of the chessboard, were meant to hold the outlaw’s attention as the plan slid into place around you. Your father had been almost gleeful explaining it to you and it made you sick.

“YN...what’s going on?”

Dutch held his hand out in front of his adopted brother but kept his eyes trained on you.

“Don’t say anything, Arthur. We don’t know what this is.”

A voice hissed behind you. The horrible reminder that you were not there of your own accord. You were not there to be rushed to safety, to explain and convince those you loved that you have never walked out those bank doors if you thought any harm would have befallen them.

“I…” The words faltered as they mingled with the falling rain. “I am here to...offer a deal on behalf of Cornwall Kerosene and Tar, the United States Government, and the Commonwealth of West Elizabeth.”

“A deal!” Dutch snorted. “And what would that be?”

Tears rolled down your cheeks at the thought of what had to come next. Only when your shoulders shook from the tension of holding them back did you look away from Arthur, praying to anyone who would listen for a way out of this.

“You have nowhere left to run.” The words were plain but landed like a slap in the face. Milton had prepared a lengthy monologue and you fought to remember all of it. “My father has chased you relentlessly and ultimately you will submit. There is a price big enough on your heads that bringing you in dead would still earn him a fortune. But there is dignity and pride in turning yourself over alive instead of ending up d-dead like that...fool Hosea Matthews.”

The hiss behind you continued as the people in front of you balked at your words. It hurt to know Milton was twisting the knife in but you held the weapon.

“If you come without a fight, you will all be allowed to live. If not, I can’t -”

“Allowed!” Dutch responded. “What is this, there’s no honor in this choice. I will not be commanded like some dog after what your father did to Hosea!”

This time the words hurt you and you answered with a flinch.

“Dutch, please,” you licked your lips, your eyes darting to Arthur. “You don’t have to fight! Everything will be alright, just listen to me -”

“Everything will be alright?” The leader repeated back. “I believe nothing of the sort. Mrs. Morgan, do you know what happens to folks like us who the law doesn’t see favorably? Who aren’t the shiny, golden children of society? They are hung like common street criminals and forgotten in the ashes of our history books. I refuse to fade away as an ink spot upon a page, I refuse to let others make my choices for me, and I refuse to listen to a bully who hides like a coward behind others! We demand to be more than that legacy fated for us by others. We demand our god given right that others only dream of, freedom!”

His speech was beautiful but it didn’t change the fact that mere feet behind you sat a Maxim gun, manned and ready to fire, if they didn’t listen to your pleas. Dutch’s pretty words did nothing to stir the rebellious spirit in your chest and instead caused more tears to run down your cheeks. The flare of his independence was bright, but that meant it couldn’t burn for much longer.

You weren’t the only one affected by Dutch. Behind you the men lying in wait rustled out of the bushes and crept up with their guns drawn, each footstep stringing tension across your shoulders.

“I was wrong about your father, YN.” Dutch drew in quick breaths at the sight of the ambush. “He’s not only a coward, but a fool too. You see, he’s underestimated us once again and that will lead to his demise. Now, boys! For Hosea!”

The world erupted in gunfire and smoke around you. At Dutch’s signal everyone hiding inside fired away at the agents planted around the swamp, yelling and filled with rage at the thought of revenging their beloved Hosea. Loss was a strong motivator, and as you clamped your hands over your ears you wondered how long the haze of distraction would last. The maxim gun fired continuous deafening rounds and all you could hear above the ringing in your ears were the screams of people you loved. Your knees sank into the mud as panic rippled across your skin.

Milton shouted behind you, commanding his men like he was trying to storm the gates of hell.

Dutch retreated into the cabin leading his rebel crew in a secret assault against the forces of perceived evil who had come to change his ways.

Where did you fit into all of this? What was your place and how did you go about getting there? Was your only hope to run and hope it would find you? It only took a moment to come to you. There was only one anchor in this hurricane and it was the same one you returned to time and time again.

Arthur Morgan.

As Dutch retreated Arthur hesitated to leave you behind. His eyes darted through the dark to try and find you while he ducked for safety. Terror clenched your heart and you screamed for him to get out of the line of fire, you would find him.

Forcing tension into your shaky limbs you knew you would regret it if you never even tried to get to him. The air above you was filled with shouts and raindrops and gunshots but nothing could distract you; this was your only shot and you would not throw it away. A door to your right swung open and light flooded the ground and you took off pumping your legs as hard as you could to cross the muddy ground getting closer and closer to your goal.

Breathe. You had to get to him, you were so close.

Behind you bodies hit the ground and you had no doubt that Arthur had taken most of them out. He had incredible aim in the worst of times, and this was definitely one of those. Even Dutch couldn’t rival him and after a few competitions no one else had bothered.

“YN! Over here!”

“Javier!”

You had never been so happy to see the dark haired man in your life. He grabbed your arm and pulled you inside, yanking you down to the floor immediately to avoid another spray of bullets from the gatling gun.

“What are you doing?”

“Trying to help!” You pleaded with him. “Someone needs to take out that gun, what can I do?”

“Stay down, Dutch has a plan!”

You both ducked to the floor as a window shattered above you.

“It better be quick, we can’t hold out for long!”

From outside one of the agents yelled above the chaos. “There’s too many of them, we have to retreat!”

“No!” Your father bellowed back. His voice was too close for comfort. “We do not back down, we have the power of the law on our side.”

“The power of the law ain’t fighting two of the best shots this side of the Mississippi, boss! We are!”

Javier let out a breath that sounded like a laugh and shook his head. “Mrs. Adler’s out there too now, won’t be long. Between her and Arthur I don’t think the Pinkerton’s stand a chance.” There was a pause as Javier eyed you warily. “Your father, that is.”

“Javier -”

But you couldn't finish your sentence as the back door flew open and someone called out to him. He nodded at you and crawled his way to the door to see why he was needed, leaving you alone to hide from the debris falling all around. As the door shut behind him, you caught a glimpse of red coat tails that looked awfully similar to what Micah usually wore.

More men were dying outside, you could hear the yells of defeat as the maxim gun came to a stop but you were running out of time. Something inside of you said the clock was ticking and you needed to move.

Breathe. In, out. Breathe.

“Where did she go?” Milton bellowed from outside. The bullets had stopped and the air felt deathly still. “Where did that bitch go?”

“Don’t you talk about my wife like that!” Your heart swelled at Arthur’s words.

It sounded like he was in the barn next door. If you could sneak without being caught this was your chance for a getaway. Perhaps the only one.

“Get out here now before I blow this whole place to hell! Turn yourselves in and die with nobility.”

Your eyes squeezed shut. Block him out, he’s bluffing. A ball of nerves formed in your stomach like a hard thing weighing you down and you fell to the wall for support as you gathered the courage to move again.

“Agent Milton, I believe this is where we part ways. You are alone and outnumbered, give it up.” Dutch answered.

“Never, Van der Linde. I am tasked with bringing you and the others in…” his voice tapered off as soft clicks rang out and you imagined from your hiding spot behind the wall everyone aiming in his direction,

“How about this,” the dark haired man suggested. “You and I can make a little trade. Me and my friends here will walk out of here safely and you will not pursue us if we give you something you want.”

A bark of laughter responded. Milton was not pleased with the child's play that interrupted his duty. “And what would I get out of this deal?”

“Your life?” Dutch shot back. “A chance to live another day? No?” There was a pause as Dutch walked forwards and you dared a peek out of a nearby bullet hole to observe the scene. “Maybe something a little more valuable. Your daughter for instance?”

Two rough hands suddenly grabbed your shoulders and yanked you upwards and you let out a cry of disbelief. They hadn’t made any noise walking up, or perhaps you were too trained on listening to the conversation outside to notice.

“Get your hands off of me!” You cried out at the same time Arthur yelled something from outside.

“Shut up, Princess Pinkerton. And walk.”

You should have known. Did the man who walked you down the aisle really have no regard for your life? Micah gave you a shove to move forward and you hesitated for only a moment. All you wanted was to help your family escape safely and to keep your father from enacting his twisted sense of justice. You wanted to feel safe and free, but there were too many obstacles holding you back. Was this really all your life would be?

With dirty hands you wiped your cheeks, squaring your shoulders and preparing to face him again. It wasn’t going to be easy. But there didn’t seem to be another choice.

“Dutch what in the hell are you playing at?”

Falling rain once again met your face as you walked out and took in the tense scene before you. Dutch, Arthur, Bill, and Charles all had their pistols focused on your father who in turn stared down his barrel at Dutch. The two men were everything the other despised, and you were caught in the middle.

“My daughter?” Milton still seemed shocked to see you. As if he hadn’t been the one to bring his own child to a gunfight and had simply found you there.

Arthur was held back by the iron grip of Charles as he habitually tried to come to you. The look of pure sorrow on his face broke your heart but there wasn’t enough time to think about yourself and how you felt. Soon he would be out of sight.

“That’s right. Take her, and the two of you leave and never come back to chase us around the country. Me and my friends will never cause another day of trouble for you and we all leave with our lives. Isn’t that what we want, after all? To live and go our own ways?”

It felt like he had slapped you across the face with his words. The fact that you were the bargaining chip was not lost as you stared down the man with newfound hatred.

“Don’t I get a say in any of this?” You snapped back. “Or am I unimportant enough to both of you that my value lies only in my silence?”

“Oh Mrs. Morgan,” Dutch chuckled darkly. “I have missed your temper. But today, my dear, is not the day to fight like it's your last. Be a good girl and run along with your father.”

Something in his tone made you hesitate, the hatred pausing for just a moment. Was there something else going on? Had he not abandoned you just quite yet? It was a glimmer of hope but that was all you could find so you held it close. He gave a slight nod in return.

“Fine. But I won’t forget this.”

Dutch’s gun slowly moved to take aim at your head and you caught your breath at the sight. He was filled to the brim with frustration and rage. But somewhere in his eye was a calm collection as he formed a plan.

“Now get out of here. Both of you. And don’t come back.”

Milton’s free arm shot out and gripped yours too tightly, his eyes still focused on the outlaws escaping of their own design before him. His men were all dead. There were two horses left to ride out and no wagon. He had truly and utterly lost but he refused to admit it.

Arthur’s eyes were dark as you tried to meet his but he wouldn't look at you. The flush in his cheeks gave away how worked up he was and you wondered if it was all too much and he had found his breaking point. You wouldn't blame him if he didn’t want you anymore, things were just so damn complicated. It hurt but his happiness came first.

Your father took a step backwards and dragged you with him and panic hit your stomach.

“Dutch…Dutch! Don’t let him do this,” the tears started no matter how much you tried to keep them in. “You don’t know what it’s like, please.”

The small group watched you with hard eyes of confusion and hesitation and you didn’t blame them. Sadie had a mean look to her, but that was probably from the heat of battle. Charles looked sad and your heart ached for your friend. Even Bill looked hesitant to send you off with Milton, but no one moved against Dutch. Something whispered to you this might be the last time you saw them.

You fought every step of the way but eventually Milton got you on a horse and tied the reins to his with a length of rope. Any last drops of hope were drained out of you at the sight of the others breaking away hurriedly. It was just Dutch, Arthur, Sadie, and Micah left that you could make out through your tears as your world fell apart.

“Stop crying, I can’t think,” Milton muttered harshly.

“Everything I love has been taken away from me, by you! And now I’m stuck with you again I think I have the right to be upset.”

“You have no right to anything,” he replied. “You are nothing in the eyes of anyone and that’s all you will be.”

The horses started moving and you looked behind you one last time. Without the rain the evening appeared softer; the firebugs had come out to blink to one another and the moss swung lazily around the canopy. Dutch had finally lowered his weapon but you noticed Arthur was gone from the group, no doubt off to chuck your wedding ring into the bayou and let the memory of you fade with the small metal object as it sank into the murky riverbed.

If only you could touch him, feel him, let him know that nothing was his fault and every mistake had been tallied in your name. Arthur had scrubbed his slate clean in your eyes, it was time he saw that too. You missed him more with each step your horse took away.

It was torture to to ride on with your father as emotions swirled all around you. He pushed the horses at a fast trot to leave the swamps as quickly as possible, paranoia creeping up on him like the sounds of crickets at his back. You could no longer hold back the sobs that shook your body. Sorrow at losing everyone again. Nerves about going back to being a prisoner. Utter and complete heartbreak at the thought of Arthur hating your every fiber. It was all too much. How could one person cope with this much feeling?

“I ever tell you why I joined the Pinkertons in the first place?”

Milton’s voice caught you off guard and interrupted your sorrow.

“N-no, and I don’t care -”

“I joined,” he continued on. “Because I wanted to put order where there was only chaos. The Pinkertons were a respectable organization I could put myself behind, gain respect myself and do something worthwhile for society. We left Boston after your brother...died and I couldn’t stand the pain. My work eventually came second to drinking and I knew then that was my lowest point.”

“But you kept drinking, you still do,” the thought of stale whiskey making you shiver.

“Since you ran off I haven't touched a drop. You see, in the past I myself was the chaos and I needed order to save me. Our family was broken but I couldn't look past my own pain to see that you both needed me instead of the shell of a man I was parading around as. Your mother is a good woman and pulled me up when I needed it. She packed us up and moved us out all on her own. I was simply a shell.” You had never heard your father talk like this and wondered what brought about the nostalgia. It was strange to hear about a time you dreamed so often of but in reality knew nothing about. He looked softer as he spoke. “I never wanted to be like that again. Yes, I still drank to forget but I was finally in control where I belonged. We had a good house, in a good town. I had a good wife and a good daughter. Only when that bastard Van der Linde moved in did you start to get reckless, going to town with that dark haired woman and forgetting where you came from. It didn’t take me long to realize you were the only thing left I had to steer away from chaos. My little girl.”

His honey-covered words were hiding something but you couldn’t figure out what it was. The way he spoke of chaos and control sounded religious; he truly meant to save others the same way he found for himself. You sat in silence for a moment before thinking of something to say.

“I’m not your little girl anymore,” your voice remained steady. “To be honest I’m not sure I ever was. Growing up with a daddy who drinks and hits you takes away any kindness he offers and twists it into something evil.”

“You see what I mean?” Milton’s temper flared for a moment and he carefully brought it back in. “All of them, they turned you away from what’s right. They worship savagery.”

“These aren’t things that changed because I met them, they were always wrong! Do you really not see that?”

Milton hesitated before answering. “The life you lived there wasn’t...These people are just playing pretend. They have no sense of contributing to something larger than themselves and it’s so small minded, you were raised to know better than that.”

“Maybe I don’t want to contribute to something,” you muttered. “Maybe I just want to know what it is to not live bound to any rules other than what I need. I’ve seen your justice, father, and I don’t want any part of it.”

Weariness slipped into your bones at the conversation. It was the longest you two had spoken in months, almost a year, and his blind passion did nothing to sway your feelings towards the Pinkertons.

“I’m sure you’ll change your tune. Your mother is too.”

Your head shot up at that. “Mother knows what you’ve done? And she agrees?”

Before he had a chance to answer, a horse came thundering up the road behind you. Squinting through the evening fog you couldn’t make out the rider but had a feeling in your heart that it was someone you knew. They drew closer and with each passing second you grew more anxious. Your father pulled out his pistol and kicked the horses faster.

“Milton!” A feeling of relief washed over you at the sound of the voice. “You ain’t going anywhere with her. Give it up!”

“Arthur!”

The hose below you let out a nervous whinny. It struggled against you pusining to turn with your legs and the yanking from the rope as your father pressed it to go faster than before. You were desperate to get to your husband but it was nearly impossible with no control and you wanted to cry out in frustration.

“Get back, Mr. Morgan. We had a deal but I’m not surprised you snakes went back on it,” your father spit, looking back. “You’ll get nowhere with this stunt.”

“Stop, please stop!” You begged. Arthur was gaining closer with every second.

Milton spun around to check on the pursuer’s progress and the look on his face was murderous. Rage flushed his face and the pressure to flee made the veins in his forehead stand out at a horrifying attention. He paid you no attention as he kicked his horse again.

With less than ten feet between you Arthur kept one hand tightly on the reins and held the other out to you, reaching as far as he could to try and bring you to him. As if on its own, your arm stretched to try and meet his fingertips. You held on to the saddle horn and tried to ignore the sounds of protest coming from your father that drove the horses on somehow.

“Just a bit more, darlin’. I got you. Don’t be afraid!”

“I’m not, I’m not!”

The sound was bordering hysterical. The distance between you was all you had to overcome and then you would be safe and home in Arthur’s arms again. Your heartbeat matched the echoing of hooves around you at the thought of making it to Arthur and simultaneously what would happen if you didn’t.

His blue eyes held yours with no malice and your own fears melted away momentarily. For a month you had been kept apart, by Dutch, by your father. It was time to end all of that.

Just as your hands brushed one another in their first reunion Milton screamed and whipped around to face the two of you.

“Enough! I’ve had enough of this!” The pistol in his free hand raised to take aim at the moving target. “Leave us now or die!”

“No!” You screamed, moving in front of Arthur as best you could to shield him. “Father stop!”

“Milton put the gun down!” Arthur’s voice was low and hard, anxiety weaving its way through at the thought of either of you getting hurt. By now he had a firm grasp on your wrist and the pressure of his hand on you gave you strength. Your mind ran wild trying to think of a way to get out of this alive.

But there simply wasn’t enough time.

The missing heat from Arthur’s fingers registered at the same time as your scream ripped through the muggy air. You clawed at the empty space next to you and watched in horror as a red stain blossomed across Arthur’s shoulder beneath his hand. He looked up almost bewildered.

“Arthur! Arthur no!”

You twisted out of the saddle and fell to the ground with a hard thump. The impact hurt but you pushed it aside. You had to get to Arthur.

Milton stayed silent but circled back around. You ignored him and ran, if you could get far enough you could both still get away. But hope slipped out of your grasp as he came closer.

The shot hit him right in the shoulder and he was bleeding. A lot. Harsh, ragged breaths pulled in and out of Arthur’s chest as he applied shaky pressure to the wound and cursed in agony. You knew there was no way he could ride both of you in that state.

“How could you!” You screamed at your approaching father. “That is my husband you just tried to kill!”

“Milton -”

“Enough of this foolishness!” Milton shouted, spit flying in his desperation and rage. “I will not have you acting like a child any longer. This ain’t over Morgan. You tell Van der Linde -”

“YN -”

“We’re not leaving him! He could die!” Milton gave you a pointed look. Anger bubbled up inside of you. “No, I refuse to go with you.”

“You don’t have a choice. If he dies no one will come after us and you will stay with me. If not,” your father shrugged. “I’ll kill him later.”

Just as you went to join Arthur, Milton grabbed your arm. You struggled and pulled to no avail. He was stronger and dragged you further and further from your husband who held himself up precociously, blood covering his chest.

“I said enough!” Your father yanked you one last time and looked down at you with rage and a hint of pity in his eyes. “You clearly need to be reigned in more than I thought.”

A blinding pain exploded on your right temple and radiated down your neck. Arthur cried out but the sound was lost as your father brought the flat end of his pistol down, hammering it into your temple to knock you out. Unfortunately it worked; you couldn't fight him anymore and Arthur was all but dead if no one knew where he was to help him.

Your last fleeting thought before losing consciousness was that this had to end. The chasing, the fighting, the pain of losing good people who didn’t deserve their fate. It was time to take back the control others had over you and set everything right that had toppled into chaos around you. In a twisted sense your father’s words about disorder and structure were true. Just not in the way he wanted.

You were no one’s pawn and never would be again.

#rdr2 #Red Dead Redemption #fanfic #price to be paid #chapter 33 #I don't think I posted 32?#oh well

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sugacouture · 4 years

Text

Pixie Dust

summary: You’re persuaded by your friends to go to a club after you get rejected from the best residency program in the nation. However, after a few drinks, the cute bartender notices your gloomy mood and decides to bring you a little bit of happiness by sprinkling a bit of golden dust...

{magic!au (?)}

pairing: kim taehyung x female reader

genres: fluff, slight angst

word count: 4.4k

rating: pg

a/n: this fic was inspired by disney’s Peter Pan! i’m planning on making a series of one shots inspired by disney movies or fairytales but idk, we’ll see how it goes :)) once again, thank you @1yanan for proofreading this! tbh idk what i would do without u and ur amazing editing :’)

“What the hell.”

You blink at your computer screen that’s showing your rejection letter to the top medical residency program in the country. It was supposed to be the next step in your journey to become a doctor. You planned on getting accepted, finishing your few years of residency, learning a shit ton of medicine, and becoming the badass medical professional you had always wanted to be.

Obviously, this presents itself as a large bump in the road.

Groaning, you bury your face in your hands. After your brain has comprehended the sting of rejection, you call Jennie, who applied to the same program as you. Unsurprisingly, your best friend had gotten turned away too, which probably had something to do with her submitting her application a few days late.

“Whatever,” Jennie scoffs. “That program is probably full of egotistical assholes anyways. They can eat shit.”

“Yeah,” you echo softly, staring at your ceiling. “Eat shit…”

You hear her sigh from the other end of the line. “Honey, I know you wanted to get into that program, but there are plenty of other ones that I’m sure you got into. Maybe they aren’t ranked number one in the country, but I’m confident that your parents would have been just as proud of you for even making it this far.”

The mention of your parents makes you freeze up, and you think – maybe Jennie’s right. Maybe you got rejected not because you didn’t work hard enough, but because you wouldn’t survive in the environment that the program would have provided.

However, that thought isn’t enough to convince yourself that you aren’t an utter failure.

“I know you’re probably trying to come up with a way to cope with this,” Jennie continues, “but I think we should just drink it off tonight, you know? Get buzzed and forget about this whole mess. What do you say?”

––––––

After slipping into a satin midi dress, you hop into the cab with your girlfriends and tell the driver to drop all of you off at The Castle: a prestigious club full of high-end drinks and high-end people. The atmosphere was much more mellow than the raging bars downtown and attracted crowds who were more well off. Much cleaner and safer than any sleazy bar in college town, it was the type of environment that your group of friends preferred over a frat party at any day, any night.

Although the entrance fee was somewhat expensive for a party of med students who were knee-deep in student loans, your best friend had unknowingly slept with one of the owners of the business during one wild night, gaining special privileges in the process. One of those benefits was getting into the club for free, and, quote, “if you bring your friends along, I guess they’re free too.”

Upon arriving, you pay the cab driver and head towards the entrance of The Castle. Its neon sign casts a purple hue against your skin as you approach the front door. The intimidating security guards up front meet your friends with emotionless expressions, even though they’ve seen you before. Nevertheless, they ask for your IDs and the entrance fee, to which Jennie rolls her eyes and ignores them.

If it was anyone else, the guards would have stopped the trespasser immediately. However, Jennie has made it very obvious that she’s screwing their boss, so all of you slide into the party and beeline towards the bar.

You drop down on a stool and ask for a strawberry margarita with double shots of tequila. While waiting for your drink, you tap your nails on the bar, the letter of rejection still swimming in your head.

As if she knew what you were thinking, Jennie nudges you on the shoulder.

“Hey, don’t look so depressed, ____,” she murmurs. “We’re here to dance the night away, not to encourage chemical imbalances in our brain.”

“I know, but I can’t help but be disappointed.” You shoot her a wry smile, taking your drink from the bartender. “I mean, I thought I had this all planned out, you know? My school, my career, my life–” you sigh, swirling the pink concoction of alcohol. “But now I kinda just want to sit on my couch and eat a tub of ice cream while Up is playing.”

“Things change all the time. Don’t let this get to your head.” Jennie pats your back and you lean your head on her shoulder.

“Forget about medicine for a few hours, yeah?” she continues, slapping a few bills on the counter. “Drink all you want. It’s on me.”

Before you can protest, she scurries off to the dance floor, winking as she retreats into the dark lights. You return the meanest face you can muster, but really, you’re truly grateful to have a friend like her. Not because she paid for the drinks–though you certainly don’t mind it–but because she knows that you need to get your mind off of the residency before you turn paranoid.

The bartender chuckles and you turn back to him. “You can buy around thirty strawberry margaritas with that money,” he says, wiping a cup. His brown hair falls over his eyes while he carefully runs the cloth over the glass. He looks up to catch you staring, and he flashes a wary smile. “Don’t tell me you’re actually considering it.”

Squinting, you try to read the faint letters of his nametag, making out the name Kim Taehyung.

You shrug, sipping your margarita. “I mean, didn’t you hear what she said? ‘Forget about medicine for a night, ____.’ I don’t know what it sounds like to you, Taehyung, but it seems like a good offer to me. ”

Sighing, you send the cute bartender a weary smile. “To be honest, I think I’ll just leave. This isn’t my crowd, anyway.” You motion towards the extravagant dance floor full of women dripping in diamonds and men in Armani suits.

After pocketing Jennie’s money so you can return it to her tomorrow, you finish your drink in one fell swoop and push the empty glass back to the bartender. “Thanks for the drink.”

He takes the cup, nodding slowly and watching your face while he does. You must’ve looked so dejected that it makes him say: “Wait, I have something for you.”

“Huh?” you answer, surprised. “Did I forget to pay or something? ‘Cuz I’m pretty sure Jennie–”

“No,” he blurts, eyes darting around the room. “It’s just—do you want to come to the back with me for a second?”

You nod, but he searches your face for any signs of alarm or suspicion. After only finding curiosity in your warm eyes, he walks over to the side of the bar to open a small swinging door for you, and he escorts you to the other side of the bar.

You’re met with shelves of supplies and a few unopened boxes in the corner. Other than that, you don’t understand why the bartender brought you here. He’s fumbling with one of the boxes, squatting down as he tries to open it.

“So, what’s the purpose of bringing me here? Are you gonna kidnap me?” you joke. “That’ll be an interesting bullet to put on my resume. It’s not every day that someone gets captured by a stranger in the back of a bar.”

Taehyung finally pries the box open with an “Ah-hah!” and motions you over. “Come here, I want to show you something.”

Curious, you walk over to him and the box. It looks like a normal cardboard box until you see its contents. There’s a few bottles of vodka and whiskey, which seems normal. When you look closer, though, two small purple pouches stand out among the drinks.

“What’s that?” you murmur, pointing to a pouch. The velvet brushes against his palms as he dips his hand in the box and pulls one out. It sits on his hand, soft and shining, as he presents it to you.

Suddenly, you’re looking into his sparkling brown eyes and he’s giving you the brightest grin you’ve ever seen. It stuns you, blowing away the fog that’s gathered in your brain from your previous drink.

“___,” he whispers, excited. “Do you believe in magic?”

Unable to breathe, you can only nod in shock as he grabs your hand and yanks you out of the back room. You’re pulled up the stairs and onto the rooftop of the building where you can see the city lights for miles. They swim across your vision as you watch the cute bartender open the mysterious velvet pouch.

Peeking to see the contents of the bag, you almost trip when you see what’s inside.

Glittering gold dust shines in the man’s palms, so fine that the breeze could carry it away. In awe, you meet his eyes.

“W-what is–?”

“Pixie dust,” he whispers, eyes glimmering. “It’s pixie dust.”

What.

You’re absolutely dumbfounded. Shaking your head, you start laughing. “What the hell did you put in my drink, Taehyung? I’m definitely hallucinating.”

His grin morphs into a puzzled frown. “I didn’t put anything in your drink, ___. What you’re looking at is pixie dust. Real, genuine pixie dust.”

“Prove it,” you challenge, crossing your hands across your chest. “It could be bird shit, for all I know. Glittery, golden bird shit.”

The bartender’s eyes harden in frustration and he suddenly flicks a pinch of the dust onto you, making you splutter indignantly.

“Hey! What the hell was that for–” you shriek, cutting yourself off with a gasp.

Your feet aren’t touching the ground anymore.

Eyes widening, you realize that you’re slowly levitating off the rooftop, the dust that Taehyung threw at you glimmering on your body in the moonlight.

“Tae!” you panic, flailing your limbs around. “Help! I’m like, flying and I’m probably going to fall and die in a few seconds oh my god tell Jennie I love her–”

“Shh,” he says, sprinkling some of the gold on himself too. As soon as the dust settles onto him, he joins you in the air. He moves elegantly and fluidly, as if he’s done this before, while you’re scrambling in the air. You’re like a falling leaf, at the mercy of both the wind and Kim Taehyung.

And not in a good way.

You scowl at him when you see his amount of control, watching him push himself off the roof and into the sky. His hair, lightly scattered with pixie dust, stirs as he swims through the air, graceful as a swan. He moves towards you and holds out a hand.

Alarmed, you shake your head vigorously. “I–I don’t know what this is or who you are but I’m literally in the goddamn air–”

“___”, he interrupts softly, still floating towards you, reaching for you. “Trust me.”

Letting out a shaky breath, you decide there’s nothing you can do other than take his hand. So you do.

And the first thing this man does is fling you higher into the air.

You squawk in surprise as you’re propelled towards the clouds, away from the earth. If you weren’t scared before, you are sure as hell are now.

“Taehyung!” you scream, your voice echoing across the sky. “Tell me how to frickin’ fly or whatever, goddammit! I swear to god that once I’m on the ground I will chop you into microscopic pieces and feed them to–”

“Okay! Okay,” he laughs, catching up to you. “Sorry. Surprising you like that was too good of an opportunity pass up, especially since you’re new to all this.”

You frown at him. “Whatever. Just, please tell me how to maneuver myself so I don’t accidentally die. I wouldn’t want to leave my student loans to my aunt, thanks.”

A glimmer of amusement shines in his eyes as he takes your hands in his, pulling you to face him. He releases a hand to tilt your chin up so that you’re eye level with him.

“Flying is easy,” he whispers, gazing into your eyes. “It’s kind of like swimming, except with less effort.”

He gently breaks away. “Just watch me.”

He lifts his arms above his head and, after sending you a wink, pushes them back to his sides in one swift movement. You gasp as you watch him soar through the air, leaving behind a light trail of gold dust in his wake. He dives down towards the ground before he cranes back up, smooth as water.

The momentum he gains from the move is incredible; it provides him enough speed so that he’s rippling through the sky. He doesn’t stop until he wills himself to, when he moves from the streamline position to standing up.

“You try,” he encourages softly, now a few meters away.

You want to, but you take notice of how high you are above ground and a flash of fear runs up your spine. The city lights beneath you are suddenly much more glaring and unforgiving than they were before. You feel yourself losing the fearlessness that you had initially faced this absurd situation with.

“___,” Taehyung calls out, bringing you back to reality. “Are you okay? Do you need me to help you?”

“Y-Yeah, please,” you reply, sending him a panicked smile.

Returning your smile, he flies (God, he flies) back to where you’re currently having a mini heart attack.

“Relax,” he murmurs, guiding your arms above your head. “Like I said—it’s like swimming, but easier. Don’t overthink it, just push yourself up.”

He leans back to watch you, clothes fluttering in the wind. “Now, quickly pull your arms back to your sides,” he instructs,” and move your head in the direction you want to go”

You hesitate. However, once you bring your arms back down in one fast motion, you’re speeding through the night sky.

“Holy—” you shriek, still new to the feeling of weightlessness. “This is amazing!”

“Tilt your head to the right a bit,” Taehyung instructs from behind you as he follows your trail of gold, “and turn back towards me.”

Grinning, you propel yourself back towards him, a smile painting your face. It falls, though, once you realize that you’ve forgotten how to stop.

“Taehyung,” you warn, coming at him at full speed. “I can’t remember how to stop—”

You realize that you’d spoken a few seconds too late as you crash into his chest, sending both of you tumbling into the clouds. He wraps his arm around as he and you somersault through the air. Thankfully, the chaos only lasts for a minute and then you’re still again, face buried inTaehyung’s chest.

“Are you alright?” he frets, looking down at your face. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

You open your mouth to answer when you realize the position you’re in is a little too intimate for your liking. A blush burns on your face as you detach yourself from the man, dusting yourself off and composing yourself.

“Y-yeah, I’m fine,” you stutter, internally cursing. “Sorry that I crash-landed on you. I forgot how to stop.”

Taehyung chuckles, his boxy smile sending your heart into a frenzy.

“No worries. I’ve been there, done that,” he shrugs nonchalantly. “Plus, it’s always fun to watch someone humiliate themselves.”

You feel your face burn even more and you stare at your shoes. “Whatever,” you mumble. “I’ll get it next time, I guess.”

“Or you could get it now,” the bartender suggests, drifting towards you. You’re still looking down, refusing to meet his eyes. Your silence worries him—he's afraid that he’s frightening you too much or is pushing you too far. “Unless you want to go home…?”

“No!” you blurt out, your head snapping up to look at him. “I-I don’t want to go home just yet,” you add, embarrassed at your sudden cry. “...I want to keep flying.”

Taehyung’s face lights up with a grin and he holds out his palm. “Well, then. What are you waiting for?”

With wide eyes and a full heart, you take his hand and he whisks you away, towards the clouds.

–––

The buzzing of your phone wakes you up the next morning.

You throw your arm over your eyes in annoyance. Your head pounds, and there’s a dry feeling in your mouth, as if you had spent the whole night flying against the wind.

Flying.

You sit up so quickly that your back cracks in protest. Ignoring the newly-popped joints, you reach over to your phone and answer whoever’s calling you at this ungodly hour. “Hello?”

“Oh my god, I thought you died,” Jennie shrieks, making you wince. “Where did you end up last night, ___? The girls and I couldn’t find you anywhere and we almost went to the police station to file a missing persons report–”

“I’m fine,” you croak out. You sound like a frog that got run over by a bus. “I’m fine.”

You can hear Jennie shuffling around her kitchen and the jangle of keys.

“Judging by your voice, obviously not. I’m coming over,” she announces as you hear her open her front door.

“No, Jennie, it’s fine–”

“I’m coming over,” she says with finality. “There’s nothing you can do to stop me.”

Sighing, you know that it would be a waste of energy to keep trying. “Alright, just shoot me a text when you’re a few minutes away,” you grunt, and then you hang up.

Throwing your phone the other side of your bed, you wallow in your thoughts. Images of gold dust and the night sky flash before your eyes before you close them in—annoyance? Frustration? Honestly, you don’t know what you’re feeling right now, but you know that something very out of the ordinary happened last night.

A few moments later, Jennie texts you that she’s a block away from your house and will be arriving soon. You heave a sigh as you will yourself to stumble out of bed and towards the front door. You fling it open and, lo and behold, there stands your best friend, who’s very obviously both pissed and concerned.

“Hi,” you try before you’re pushed back into your apartment.

Jennie closes the door behind you and drags the both of you into the living room. “Sit,” she demands, pointing at the couch.

You obey.

“Stay,” she continues, and walks to the kitchen.

Ten minutes later, Jennie walks out with a bowl of what you can assume to be hangover soup, something you will be eternally grateful for. After placing a spoon in your hand, she plops down on the cushion next to you and watches you eat. Initially, you’re fine with the staring, but after a few minutes, it starts to get creepy.

“Um, is there something on my face?” you ask, slightly disturbed.

She shakes her head. “No, sorry,” she sighs, turning her attention to the blank television. “Just thinking.”

“About what?” you inquire, curiosity piqued. You sound a lot better now; the soup has soothed your throat and given you a boost of energy.

Jennie shrugs. “About all the places you could’ve disappeared to last night.”

You sigh and place the bowl and spoon down on the coffee table. “Look, Jennie, last night–”

“Was probably completely my fault,” your best friend interrupts.

“What?”

She throws her hands up in exasperation. “___, I was the one dragged you to the club. I was the one who dragged you to the bar. I was the one who tossed you a wad of cash and then abandoned you in a room of filthy rich strangers.” Regret crosses her face. “If anything had happened to you, I would’ve been held responsible. Hell, I would’ve held myself responsible.”

“No,” you object. “It’s not your fault that you ‘lost’ me, Jennie. I decided to leave the club and didn’t call you. If there’s anyone to blame, it’s me. I’m responsible for myself—don’t feel obligated to be my babysitter because I was depressed last night. I can take care of myself.”

She sends you a pained smile. “But—”

“Nope.”

“I mean—”

“Nada.”

“Technically—”

“You’re fighting a battle you can’t win, hon,” you smile. “Come here.”

You open your arms and she crawls into your embrace. The two of you sit like that for a while, enjoying the other’s warmth.

“Fine,” she mutters, “but where did you disappear to last night?”

You pull back from the hug. “Do you remember the cute bartender?” you ask, and Jennie nods. “After you left me with the money—which I plan on returning to you, by the way—he took me to the back and showed me this... this glittery, golden stuff.”

“What?” Jennie shrieks. “Even the bartender is rich? I swear, Jackson better tell me why everyone in that club is filthy rich–”

“It wasn’t gold dust,” you interrupt. You begin fiddling with your fingers. “He told me it was pixie dust and then brought me up to the roof.”

You glance up to look at your friend and she’s bewildered, to say the least. “Excuse me?”

Nodding, you continue. “Yeah, and then he threw some at me and on himself and we started to fly. Or at least, I think we did.”

“What do you mean you think you did? Hell, ___, how many drinks did you have last night?” Her eyes widened. “Oh my god, you didn’t take any drugs, did you? I swear to all things that are holy that if you did, I will rip off your nails and feed them to my aunt’s alligator—”

“I didn’t do any drugs!” you deny. “And I didn’t drink that much either. Just that strawberry margarita you saw me down and that’s it. I was completely sober and 100% lucid.”

“Then why do you think that you flew?”

You press your lips into a tight line. “I don’t remember much after the first few minutes we started flying. I just remember crashing into Taehyung and him offering to let me fly the entire night.”

“Taehyung?”

“He’s the bartender,” you clarify. “And when I woke up, my memory was all blurry.”

Jennie shakes her head and tosses her arm over your shoulders. “Girl, I think you’ve gone insane. I’m not leaving you alone next time we go.”

You smile at her ruefully. “Yeah, I guess that’s for the best.”

–––

Two nights later, you find yourself at The Castle yet once again. This time, though, you’re on a different mission. Instead of getting drunk and trying to forget about what had happened, you’re trying to remember.

Specifically, what happened two nights ago.

After entering, you beeline to the bar where you remember where Taehyung worked. Sitting on a barstool, you wait for the brown-haired man to serve you.

But he’s not the one who greets you.

In his place is a black-haired, baby-faced man. He’s a few inches shorter than Taehyung (from what you can remember) and his fingers are long and slender.

He notices your gaze and drifts over to you. “What can I get you, miss?”

“I’ll get a strawberry margarita…” your eyes dart over to his nametag, “Yoongi.”

Yoongi shoots you a gummy smile. “Coming right up.”

While he shakes up your drink, you try to make some small talk. And get some answers, while you’re at it. “So, do you work here every night?”

The man shakes his head. “Nah, only from Monday to Thursday. My buddy Seokjin handles the rest.”

“Really?” When does Taehyung work, then? “Do you know of a Kim Taehyung that works at the bar, by any chance? I came here Saturday night and he served me.”

Yoongi frowns and slides you the strawberry margarita. “I don’t think so. It’s just me and Seokjin who work here.”

What?

“Oh,” you murmur, taking the drink. “I see.”

After asking around the club for a few hours with no avail, you decide to head home and deal with the mystery in the morning. It’s not like someone could work there for a night and then disappear, right?

You lock your apartment door behind you and kick off your shoes. Sighing, you decide to to call it a night—opening emails about residency can wait for tomorrow.

Just when you’ve finished slipping into a comfortable pair of sleeping shorts and an oversized t-shirt, you hear a peal of laughter coming from your balcony.

Confused, your sock-clad feet pad through your living room and you open the curtains to your balcony, only to see no one there. Unlocking the glass door that protects you from the outside, you step onto the concrete that juts out from the building. You abandon all fear and peer down at the streets under you, bright lights of cars flashing by.

A gentle breeze hits you and you swear that it’s carrying the sounds of Taehyung’s laugh. You whip around in hopes of seeing the man once again, but you’re met only with the cold air of the night.

However, a flash of white catches your eye. On the opposite corner of your balcony lies a white envelope on top of a small green box, its clean ivory paper contrasting with the dark green of the cardboard.

Ripping open the envelope, you read the letter that’s inside:

Dear ___,

I had such a lovely time with you a few nights ago. You were truly born to fly :)

However, it saddens me to say that I don’t think that you’ll be seeing me anymore. For reasons why, I cannot tell. Even so, please continue to live happily and healthily—never let obstacles stop you from reaching your goal.

But when you do inevitably stumble into a dark hole of hopelessness, please use the gift I’ve given to you to your advantage…

Wishing you a safe journey,

Kim Taehyung

Gift?

You immediately set the letter down and start to open the green box instead. Once you’ve undone the ribbons and tape, your eyes widen when you see what’s inside.

Within the cardboard walls sits a small pouch of pixie dust, identical to the ones that were hidden in the room behind the bar.

Why Taehyung would entrust this to you, you don’t know. But what you do know is that two nights ago, you believed in magic and a boy helped you fly. Two nights ago, he helped you look at the world through a different lens.

Your mind was opened, and your thoughts are clear. Looking up at the night sky, you smile.

“Thank you.”

#btswritingcafe #btsgoldnet #bangtanhq #btscreatorscorner #kim taehyung #bts #kim taehyung x reader #taehyung x reader #taehyung fic #bts fic #tokyii #bts fluff #bts angst #fluff #angst #w: pixie dust

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fericita-s · 4 years

Text

Beginning After The End (Part 2)

Part 1

Thank you @the-spaztic-fantastic for being the best encourager on this - from brainstorming to editing to some specific ideas in this chapter that I don’t want to spoil but that include drugs and nightmares and Hubert comforting Thea. Oh no! I’ve said too much!

Sasha chatted on the walk to the stones, telling Hubert about her aspirations of studying music at a conservatory somewhere in Europe and Thea could already feel a headache taking residence at the spot where her backbone met her neck. Sasha was a talented violinist, and she loved that her daughter wanted to study music, but the idea of anyone else sailing away from her was like getting kicked in the stomach.

“My grandparents in Denmark said I’m welcome there anytime and they would arrange for private tutors. And Aunt Linnea in London has said the same. Perhaps mother will let me go this year.”

Hubert looked over Sasha’s head at Thea and raised his eyebrow in question. Thea shook her head and felt the panic rise in her chest at the thought of her daughter leaving on a ship.

“I hope you’ll play for me while I’m here. Letters can’t convey the beauty of music, though your mother and your father both tried when writing of your talent,” Hubert said. Thea was grateful for this change in topic even as the panic continued to vibrate through her.

Is that why Agnarr and Iduna were always so different? Why they closed the gates and kept their daughters hidden? They knew the cost life demanded. The scars it left on the living.

They stopped walking when they reached the stones, dark and bleak against the sky in the bright sun of the morning. Thea saw Maddie and Ingrid holding hands at the stone bearing Iduna’s name and Henrik, Sigrid, Greet, and Oaken standing by Agnarr’s in a tight circle. Everyone with their partner, looking at death and huddling together, warding it away from their own homes. Thea hugged her arms around herself as she neared them, feeling the loss of Elias’s guiding hand on her waist keenly.

The men shook hands and the ladies hugged and then they all stood silently for a while, staring at the stones. No one seemed to know what to do or what to say, and Thea thought Agnarr or Elias would have known how to say the right words, to lead the right ceremony, to soothe and comfort and offer hope.

After a while, Henrik cleared his throat. “Hudson’s? My treat.”

The group walked slowly back down toward the town proper and there was no chatter this time. They made a somber procession. The Market Square was still draped in black banners and the flag of Arendelle lay limply on the pole at half mast. Thea felt a satisfaction in that, the entire kingdom mourning like she had been mourning since the king and queen came to her home in the fall of the previous year. Both had looked so stricken that Thea knew what they would say even before they sat down with her in her own sitting room to tell her about the wreck of a ship that had been found, the pieces splintered and shattered among a skerry far to the north.

Iduna had hugged her and Agnarr had stuttered on words of promise about giving Elias the honor he deserved and setting up their children with a life-long pension. Thea had only said “But he always comes back,” and hadn’t cried until they’d left, her hands on her middle where a new baby was growing.

Halima greeted them and brought drinks around even though it was still mid-morning. She put a hand on Henrik’s shoulder as she set a pitcher in front of him and he put his hand to hers and squeezed.

“Thank you, Halima. Join us?”

Halima shook her head. “No, they’re best remembered by their closest friends. Let me know if you need anything.” She walked to the front door and bolted it from the inside, then excused herself to the back rooms.

Thea watched as she walked away, a sadness to the slump of her shoulders that had been there for many years. Once, Halima had spoken to her of a young man who had been lost in the Northern Expedition, who she hoped had somehow been able to survive within the thick mist that shut out the Northern lands. Looking at her, Thea wondered if that was a worse fate than knowing your loved one was dead - to have a small flame of hope burning up any ability to move on or find new love. She reached for Sasha’s hand and held it tightly.

Henrik sighed. “Agnarr has the place cleared out for us one last time.”

Thea watched as Maddie brushed tears from her eyes and Ingrid put an arm around her.

“To King Agnarr and Queen Iduna,” Henrik said, raising his glass and standing up. The others got to their feet and raised theirs as well.

Their voices joined together in a “Skal” that was probably the least celebratory Thea had ever heard, but it seemed to cheer Henrik a bit.

“Do you remember my last night here before going to Oxford? When we had to rearrange the seating and keep refilling Agnarr’s glass in the hope that he would finally tell Iduna he loved her?” Henrik took a sip of his drink and then wrapped his hands around it, squeezing tightly. Sigrid leaned into him and put her head on his shoulder.

“I was not here for that, but I can see why it would have been necessary,” Hubert said, a fond smile coming to his lips.

“Oh, it was very necessary,” said Greet. “That man loved her so much, but could not figure out how to do anything about it!”

“That’s not entirely fair. All those elaborate gifts? He tried. Iduna didn’t or couldn’t understand,” said Maddie, and then whispered something in Ingrid’s ear that Thea didn’t hear.

“That was the first night I met some of you,” Thea said as she put her glass on the table. “I remember seeing the king run his hand along Iduna’s back and hoping that he wasn’t ruining her reputation forever.”

Greet laughed. “I tried to get her to do far more to him that would ruin her reputation.”

Thea shot a glance at Sasha, who looked slightly embarrassed to be hearing this about the king and queen. She put her hand back in Sasha’s as she spoke. “I didn’t understand Arendelle then. Or how they were together. But later I did. When we’d paint together and talk, or watch Elias and the king together doing their wrestling or swimming.”

Thea had surprised herself by saying Elias’s name out loud and hated that the conversation, which had just been turning to happier memories, was newly awash in grief at the mention of her husband.

“Where are your children, Henrik?” Greet asked, after the silence had stretched out unbearably long.

“Home in London. The boys are nearly old enough to oversee the business now,” he answered. “A little younger than you, Sasha.”

Oaken took an impossibly long drink from his glass and then wiped his hand across his mouth. “The business, it is good, ja?”

Henrik shrugged, but Sigrid nodded and added “Yes, very. Ice exports are very much in demand.”

“Interesting,” said Hubert. “We should discuss it sometime. I’m transitioning away from ambassador duties to the more sedentary life of growing the national rail system. Which includes as a priority ice cars for transporting perishable goods.”

Henrik tipped his glass towards Hubert. “Certainly. Perhaps another weekend in Paris?”

Hubert visibly paled and coughed before reaching for his glass.

“No? Are you settled down then? Abandoning world travel for the delights and comforts of home?” Sigrid elbowed Henrik and Thea thought this was the best tribute to Agnarr and Iduna, for friends to be sharing stories and talking, instead of standing silently, paralyzed with grief.

“No, I’m not so lucky as you. My sister Sara keeps hoping I’ll put an end to my days of being a bachelor. And I should tell you, I had to avoid the attentions of a woman whom I think you are all very familiar with. Unpleasantly so.”

“Who?” Greet asked, leaning forward. “A woman from Arendelle?”

“No, but one who made quite the impression on Arendelle during a certain birthday ball and garden party.”

“Lady Alexsandra?” Greet asked, and it was nearly a shriek.

“Worse,” said Hubert. “She tried to arrange a match between myself and her daughter, newly eighteen.”

Sasha pulled away from Thea at that, straightening up. “Ugh! Eighteen! You’re past forty!”

“That's what I said, though far more diplomatically,” laughed Hubert. “I can assure you neither Alexsandra nor her daughter are any more pleasant about being told ‘no’ than you would expect.”

“Did that work? Being nice?” Henrik asked, laughing.

“No. It was more satisfying to be rude anyway,” Hubert said, laughing along with Henrik.

“And did that work?” Sasha asked, eyes wide in horror at this story of a girl her own age being offered in marriage to a man her father’s age.

‘No,” Hubert said, still laughing. “So I suddenly stopped being able to speak German. Then French. Then English. They only stopped their pursuit when stymied by my Flemish.”

“She was the worst, I can well believe she’d try to arrange a match with little input from the groom,” said Greet. “Thank goodness Iduna was our queen instead of her.”

“Quite the legacy she left, where we all shudder at her name,” said Hubert. “And you have her to thank that no one knows your full name, Sasha.”

Sasha sat up straight in her chair, aghast. “What?”

“We named you Aleksandra for my grandmother, but she was called Sasha. And Elias and I vowed we’d never tell the king and queen your real name.” Thea said, raising her eyebrow at Hubert who shook his head and shrugged.

“But - but they’re my godparents!” Sasha spluttered, unbelieving. “How did they not know my name?”

The rest of the friends laughed and Thea squeezed Sasha’s hand while Hubert looked at them both with an apologetic smile.

***

“Their twins are about Vadik's age. They moved out of the town when they were born and further up in the mountains,” Thea explained later when Hubert asked about Maddie and Ingrid’s family. Maddie had been even more reserved that usual and hardly spoken at all in the time the friends spent together.

“Two at once? What a blessing.”

But Thea cringed, his words calling to her mind the double tragedy they had been observing that day. Two gone at once, beneath the waves, to be splintered and crushed in all the ways she had imagined Elias had spent his last moments. Maybe two at once was a blessing.

But mostly it was nice having Hubert there, and so little had been nice lately. When she hadn’t been tending to her own grief, wild and unruly like the cloudberries on a skerry, she had to tend to her children’s needs and to the elder Mr. and Mrs. Calder’s before their deaths. Two at once. A blessing.

Hubert led her and the children on walks to the waterfall and to the top of the clock tower. He asked to be shown the aquaculture projects he had been instrumental in setting up a decade ago, and then withdrew his request without protest when Thea said “We won’t be sailing.”

And then, a month into his stay with them, when she was starting to wonder if this was a permanent arrangement and realizing she didn’t mind if it was, Hubert proposed.

***

Hubert arranged everything. He suggested they get married in Antwerp so Sara could be present and assured Thea that the ship would deliver them all safely. As Thea packed trunks and asked servants if they preferred to travel with them or stay behind to keep the family home in good order, she tried to avoid thinking of being on a ship. But it came unbidden: the water roiling below and the winds whipping the sails, cracks of wood splitting apart and masts torn in two.

The night before they left, she lay in her bed, sleepless and thinking of the first time Elias had taken her sailing. They were officially courting by then and she no longer tried to disguise her appreciative looks at his form as he manned the sails on their small craft. When the wind blew sprays of water onto them, he had shaken his head and whooped. “Is there any better feeling than this?” He had shouted, and even though he was so close she could reach out and touch him, his voice barely carried over the wind.

When they tied up the boat and walked along a skerry, she ran her hands under his loose shirt and he took it off in a swift motion. “Better for sailing anyway,” he said, and winked at her. He dipped his head low to kiss her and his lips tasted salty with the sea.

Her hands trembled to touch the bare skin of his back and at her light touch, he gasped. “I was wrong, this is the best feeling,” he said and Thea agreed, telling him so with her hands splayed out and pressed more firmly into his back and then daringly dipping further down to feel the curve of him rather than only the hard planes of his back.

***

She woke without realizing she had slept, and already felt sick with nerves at the thought of her whole family on a ship together. Sasha boarded first, running up the gangplank with Vadik close behind. They had missed this, she knew. They loved sailing with their father and had been excited at this change they were making as a family. Thea held little Elias but Hubert took him from her so she could walk unencumbered across the gangplank, and then the nursemaid took the baby from him. Thea gripped the railing and stared at their home on the waterfront until it was a speck in the distance.

What was hard during the day was unbearable at night. Sasha and Vadik loved sleeping in the hammocks on board, and though Hubert had given her the largest quarters, all Thea could do was pace and pace. The baby had never slept so soundly, lulled by the rocking, and she knew she didn’t need to be holding him for his sake. But she clung to him, reminding herself why she couldn’t fly apart into a thousand pieces, like Elias’s ship had, flung across miles of shoreline and skerries.

A light rap on the door drew her out of her macabre thoughts and she crossed the room to open it. Hubert was there, holding some wine.

“I thought you might like a drink?” He drew out another bottle, this one small. It looked medicinal, though Thea couldn’t read the label. “Or perhaps something stronger? This would let you sleep. I can be sure the children are cared for.”

Thea allowed him to take the baby to the nursemaid and by the time he returned she was sitting on the edge of the narrow bed, clutching herself tightly and rocking in motion with the ship. He sat down next to her, leaving space between them.

“I know this is hard. I wish there was another way to get where we’re going.” He placed both bottles on their sides on the bed and she wished he would just make her drink something. Deciding was too much right now.

“I think I might go mad. All I can think about is all of us sinking to the bottom of the ocean.”

“And you don’t want that?”

Thea looked up sharply, surprised. “Of course not.”

Hubert shrugged. “Sometimes people want to die after their loved one does. I know Sara had that despair for some time. She was widowed after only two years of marriage to her love.”

“No,” Thea said. “I want to live,” and she was somewhat surprised to find it true.

The ship pitched forward suddenly and she began to tumble off of the bed, but Hubert’s arms caught her around the waist and then pulled her back onto the bed, against himself.

“Easy, easy,” he muttered, in the same way Thea might have calmed a horse or a colicky baby. He took one hand off of her to reach for the smaller bottle.

“Drink this. I’ll stay with you and make sure all is well. The nursemaid has the children.”

Thea opened her mouth as he poured the contents of the bottle in her mouth and she swallowed, tears coming to her eyes as another swell pitched the ship forward and the sound of creaking boards brought goosebumps to her flesh.

“It’s too hard, it’s too hard,” she muttered and Hubert held her tightly, telling her of his parents and how they had sailed from Prussia to Antwerp following a fast courtship and then lived happily for years in the home they were sailing to now. She fell asleep with his mouth inches from her ear, his arms around her waist.

***

Thea woke and saw Elias sitting across from her, in the chair she knew was left behind in their family home in Arendelle. He was smoking a pipe but the air smelled like saltwater. The smoke from his pipe was turning into crocuses that lost their petals as they slammed to the floor and shattered.

She tried to sit up but her head weighed too much and she could do no more than roll to her side. Elias took the pipe out of his mouth and leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. “I know you miss me, but you can’t come here.”

He stood up and walked towards her, each step sounding like cannon fire. He put his hand on her cheek but she couldn’t feel it and she moaned and closed her eyes.

When she opened them again, Elias was standing in front of her, frantic.

“You shouldn’t be here! It’s too dangerous!” Rain was pelting him and his coat was torn at the shoulder. “The ship is falling apart!”

Again, she tried to sit up but this time her legs wouldn’t move and when she looked down at them and then back up, Elias was gone.

“Elias? Where did you go?”

Hubert answered. “He had to go, but I’m here. I’m here.”

Thea closed her eyes again. “Will he come back if I close my eyes?”

She felt Hubert’s hand on her cheek and it made her cry. If Elias had been real, she would have felt him. Wouldn’t she?

“He can’t come back. But he loved you very much, and he loves you still.”

***

A letter wouldn't have arrived faster than their passage, so when the family arrived in Antwerp, Hubert’s sister Sara met them at the pier, surprised and happy.

“Hubert, are those your children?” she asked, incredulous.

“They will be,” he answered, and Thea knew she had done the right thing.

***

She had felt shattered at Elias’s death and, now in a home that didn’t overpower her with memories, she was aligning the fragments of those memories so they didn’t pierce her in a way that cut off her breath. She hoped she would figure out how to fully come back to herself before Hubert tired of this half-life woman he had married, before the children tired of her melancholy and moods. Before she lost herself totally and led a life that was worse than death. But she wanted to live. She just had to figure out how.

#agduna #WAIL #Thea #Elias #Hubert #Frozen #fan fic #Alexsandra #Henrik #Maddie #Greet

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astxlphe · 4 years

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Day 4 / Desperate // Akuhigu

@bsd-rarepair-valentines-week

Higuchi falls in enemy hands and Akutagawa will do anything to bring her home.

(Oof sorry in advance this is mostly unedited)

CW: Violence / threat of torture / blood

"What do you mean, she is gone?”

Mori sighed. “While yesterday’s mission was successful – we could put a stop to their stealing of our supplies and found out the traitor’s identity – their organization was not destroyed.”

He raised a knowing eyebrow at Akutagawa, who stood, frozen, brain reeling with the new information.

“So, it’s revenge?”

“Or they want to know where are supplies they stole from us.” Mori crossed his fingers in front of him. “Either way, they will probably kill her — if it’s not already done.”

“They won’t.” In his pocket, Akutagawa’s fingers clenched into fists. “If it’s information they want, they won’t kill her yet.”

“You are not usually this optimistic.”

Higuchi was capable. She couldn’t just die. She was his subordinate because she wasn’t as likely to get herself killed stupidly as any other.

Mori talked more — something about what a shame it was — but Akutagawa didn’t exactly care. When he was dismissed, he bent down in a sharp bow, and left.

He walked back to the Black Lizards office fast, and pulled out the reports and plans they had made in prevision for their mission. He remembered the location — the warehouse they had raided last night, the abandoned building near the construction area which served as their headquarters.

He hesitated. He should do nothing. Higuchi’s own carelessness had gotten her captured and there was no reason to dispatch anyone to bring her back. If there was a need, the boss would order it, and he hadn’t.

Well, Akutagawa wasn’t known for following orders to the letter anyway.

The boss would consider her replaceable, and would not risk sending a team to bring her back, not when she was probably already dead and their mission successful.

Except that Higuchi couldn’t die. Her place was by his side.

“Are you going to go?”

He put down the papers and turned back toward Gin. “I—” He paused, thinking of the time Higuchi pulled him out of enemy hands, defying the boss’ orders. No matter how much trouble he brought her, she always seemed to follow him right through it. “I owe her a debt,” he justified. “The boss won’t mind.”

He was not blind to Mori’s leniency when it came to him — he had rarely been punished even for his most reckless endeavors; even when by all logic he should have been.

But that was mostly because his disregards of orders came with results. Today he wasn’t sure the boss would, even if he was successful, consider the result worth the trouble.

“Wait here,” she told him. “I’ll go get Hirotsu and Tachihara, we will go together.”

Higuchi’s head throbbed, and she breathed through her teeth, through the pain in her ribs.

She tried to slip her wrists out of the ropes binding her to the chair. She tasted blood on her tongue where she had accidentally bit herself when her captor had hit her face.

Wrinkling her nose, she cursed herself for not seeing that coming.

Akutagawa would be pretty disappointed in her, letting herself be captured like this.

Her captor sat lazily on the table, playing with her weapon. She had been eyeing it since she had woken up, trying to think of a way she could take it away from him and escape. So far, her train of thoughts had been broken too many times by the man trying to get information out of her for her to have an actual plan.

But she was a Port Mafia operative, and a leader of the Black Lizards. She could escape and go back to headquarters herself, whether they came for her or not.

“Where did you hide our supplies?”

“Yours?” She scoffed. “They belong to the Port Mafia. You stole them.”

”You stole them, we stole them in turn, it’s ours now.” He stood, moving towards her. “We have ways to make you talk. This time I won’t be as nice.”

“You think I don’t know that?” She gulped, hard, trying to keep her composure. “I can deal with it.”

She almost winced when he brought out the large, extremely sharp looking knife. “All right then. Is there a finger you like less than the others?”

Before he could make use of his blade, the door flew open. “Sir! We have a problem.” The newcomer wrung his hands together. “The Mafia is back.”

“What?” He glared down at her as if it was her fault. "How many?”

“That’s the thing, sir.” He grimaced. “Just one.”

There was a crash from further away, and someone screamed.

Akutagawa walked towards the building and the armed guards at the door immediately readied theirs weapons.

Rashomon reared its head, red eyes glowing,

Don’t kill, a little voice murmured at the back of his head, sounding way too much like the weretiger for his taste.

The guards screamed as Rashomon ripped through their arms, their guns fell and Akutagawa walked past them without sparing them a glance.

This was what this ridiculous, annoying promise led too, and only two months into it. He should have wiped that little gang as soon as he got the chance. But no, he hadn’t killed the lot of them and now they had taken Higuchi.

The glass door closed behind him, and he found himself alone in the half-constructed lobby. The building was, for a long time, supposed to be an office block, but it had never been finished, and everything had been left half done.

Higuchi had to be somewhere here. That idiot. Always needing him to get out of trouble.

Too busy watching his back she didn’t pay enough attention to hers.

He took the stairs, heading for the first floor. On the corner of his eye, he could see the camera follow him.

Soon after, he heard footsteps coming from each side of him, and more armed men came at him.

He didn’t have the time for this, and Rashomon extended, cutting through hands to disarm them.

Bullets flying around him, his ability eating them when they came too close.

He turned at a corner. Rashomon wrapped itself around one of his enemies, dragging them after him, and he ran into an empty room, closing the door behind them

“Where is she?” He bared his teeth. “Speak before I rip your throat out.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He drove Rashomon through his shoulder, and pulled back. Blood sprayed and he fell. Akutagawa left him groaning in pain on the ground.

Wiping the blood off his face, he went on.

All things considered, going alone may not have been his brightest idea.

He ducked in a corner, narrowly avoiding another wave of bullets, and a bright, burning pain spread from his side. He let himself fall to the ground, clutching at the wound, gasping for breath.

Blood seeped out of a large cut. The bullet hadn’t pierced through. It had somehow slipped through his defense. It was enough to hurt, but not enough to be lethal.

He was still good to go.

Pushing himself back on his feet, he ignored the pain. The enemy was getting more and more desperate. He had to be close.

He took the stairs again, this time to the second floor. Quickly, he moved out of the camera’s way, trying to be more discreet. He would usually not be this prudent, but he didn’t want to rush in and risk Higuchi’s life.

Hearing more footsteps, he flattened himself against the wall, hoping to be quiet enough not to attract more attention. With the ruckus he’d made, they would be looking for him all over the below floors.

“You said there was only one?”

“Yes.” That voice — the traitor, the one who had sold Port Mafia supplies to a rival organization. “Only one that our men could see — it’s probably Akutagawa, he’s the most likely be sent alone.” He scoffed. “Still, I can’t believe the Mafia would send him, or anyone, to rescue Akutagawa’s useless subordinate.”

He twitched. Don’t kill, the voice chanted in his head. No matter how much he deserves it. You promised.

“It doesn’t matter. If he tries to get to her, we will be here to stop him.”

Their voice grew quieter as they walk down the stairs, obviously intending to meet him before he could reach the right floor.

Akutagawa peaked out of his hiding place. There was no one left, so he opened the first door he found, leading to an empty office. He kept going, stumbling into more and more empty rooms, frustration growing which each step..

Higuchi had managed to free her right hand and was in the process of untying her left one when someone brutally kicked the door open.

She froze in her movement, starring, wide eyed, as who she believed to be her captor came back. It took her a few seconds to realize who the man standing in front of her was.

“Akutagawa?” She tried to say something more, but she couldn’t do anything but stammer out questions. “What— how—why—I’m—”

“I—” He found himself unable to align three coherent words.

Drying blood stained the corner of her mouth and the side of her head, sticking to her hair. The hand she was using to free her still bound wrist was red, rubbed raw by the rope.

“You came to get me,” she ended up saying.

“It’s my job,” he told her, and she snorted.

"No, it’s not. You’re not supposed to be the one protecting me.”

“You are my surbordinate,” he insisted as Rashomon made a quick work of the remaining rope, “and my responsibility. It’s my job.”

Higuchi was fast on her feet. She winced, pressing a hand on her ribs.

“Thank you,” she started. “I’m sorry about—", but Akutagawa shook his head.

“Later. We need to go.”

They heard yelling — several people, footsteps, unclear orders being shouted — from below them.

“They have reinforcements.” She took back her gun, making sure it was still loaded. Then, ignoring her aching body, she followed him out of the door.

The corridor was still empty, but they didn’t linger.

Good thing, too, because it didn’t take long for them to run straight into the enemy.

Akutagawa grabbed her wrist, pulling her closer to him. She fired three times, hitting her mark every time, and Rashomon opened a path for them.

They ran down the stairs, her head swimming, until a sudden pain flared in her leg and she stumbled.

Barely slowing down, one of Rashomon’s tendrils wrapped around her, keeping her on her feet. “Stay up,” Akutagawa ordered, and his ability curled tightly around her waist, almost pulling her against him.

She took down another enemy coming from behind them and hissed in pain when Akutagawa suddenly skidded to a stop, forcing her behind him.

“Get out of my way,” he snarled, “I don’t have time for you.”

Higuchi looked over his shoulder and scowled, recognizing the man who was now trying to prevent them from going forward.

She remembered talking to him just the day before, she remembered him suddenly hitting her over the head and slamming.

“You don’t? What, are you scared of losing? Or are you going soft?”

Anger flared, and she clenched her hand on her gun. Akutagawa did not have time for him, but she sure as hell did.

She shot him.

He staggered, looking down at the blood pooling from under his shirts.

Nobody moved for a second, then Akutagawa walked up to him. “Tell me again,” he demanded, “how useless my subordinate supposedly is?” When he didn’t answer, struggling to breathe through the blood, Akutagawa smiled wryly. “Thought so.”

He turned back to her. “Let’s go,” he said. “We have to go back to headquarters.”

From then, they found the lobby again quickly and walked out. The cold air of the night hit Akutagawa’s face, prickling at his skin, and he allowed himself to breath.

Higuchi was okay.

“Senpai?” Higuchi’s voice caught his attention. “Why did you—” She looked away. “Why did you come or me? I didn’t think the boss would order—”

“He didn’t” He took in her bloodied face and her limp. What else could I have done? I—” I can’t handle the thought of you dying, or of having any one else by my side. “I need you,” he managed to say.

Close enough.

Her face turned a strange, pinkish color, and she looked down, stammering thanks. Then, she stilled. “You’re hurt!” She wrung her hands together. “You’re bleeding, I’m so sorry!”

Adrenaline had dulled in his side, but now that he was calmer, he was starting to feel it — his clothes sticking to the wound, soaked with blood. Each step made it spike.

“I’ll be fine. I can still drive.”

He pulled her closer, his arm around her waist to help her walk in spite of the wound in her leg.

They were almost at the car when they heard quiet footsteps, followed by the snap of a gun being charged. They froze, Higuchi reached for her weapon, and Rashomon came to life.

“I believe I told you to wait for us.”

Gin leaned against the car, her arms crossed, looking at Akutagawa sternly.

On the hood of the car, Tachihara groaned. “They didn’t even need us, what are we here for again?”

“Getaway car.”

Akutagawa’s relief was noticeable. “Gin,” he mumbled.

“So I count for nothing uh?” Tachihara jumped off the car and opened the back door. “All right, get in there, chiefs. We’re driving you back.”

They both collapsed on the back seats. Only then did Akutagawa’s fingers slid off her wrist. Silently, Rashomon extended around Higuchi, covering her protectively.

“Hirotsu is still at headquarters,” Tachihara went on as Gin took place behind the wheel. “Keeping the boss busy.”

“Aren’t you going to get into trouble for —” She gestured vaguely around herself with her free hand. “—this?”

“It didn’t worry you so much, last time.”

“But—” It had been different. It had been for Akutagawa.

“Higuchi.” Akutagawa stared at her in mild annoyance. “Stop worrying over nothing.”

She nodded, even if it made her feel like her head was filled with cotton. Rashomon felt warm around her, and she slumped on her seat, leaning against Akutagawa without thinking about it.

His hand came to rest on hers and she relaxed.

“Don’t fall asleep.”

“But I’m exhausted.” Her eyes slid shut, until something stung her on the arm. She yelped “Hey! What —”

“I said, don’t fall asleep,” Akutagawa repeated. The red spark of Rashomon faded. “You have a head injury.”

“Are you going to do this every time?”

“If I have to.”

“Then I’m safe, right?” She smiled. “With you.”

“I—” He stuttered and looked way. Higuchi was sure he was blushing, but she was probably too out of it to really tell. “Yes,” he admitted, “you are.”

#bsd #bsdrarepairvday #akuhigu #akutagawa ryuunosuke #higuchi ichiyo #look i NEED aku rushing to save higuchi like she did for him okay

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cuddlepilefics · 4 years

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Whumptober Day 17 – Dizzy

Fandom: Monsta X

Sickie: Kihyun

Caregiver: Monsta X (mostly Minhyuk, Jooheon and Changkyun)

Kihyun’s POV.:

The first thing I noticed when the alarmclock went off next to me was the massive pounding in my head. Frowning at the loud noise I reached over and shut that damn thing off. I groaned pushing myself up from the bed to wake up the rest of the group. Why they never woke up from their own alarms was a mystery I have yet to solve. As I got up I could feel the blood drop to my feet and quickly sat back down on the edge of my messed-up bed, waiting for the room to stop spinning. The next time I stood up, I did so much slower before making my round through the dorm as Monsta X’ merciless wake up call. After ensuring no one would go back to sleep I grabbed a glass of water and used it to wash down some painkillers. We’d be spending the day at the studio recording our new single and I guess I was lucky that there was no dance practice scheduled but I wasn’t looking forward to having my aching head crushed by headphones all day either. Changkyun was the first of my members to notice something was wrong and approached me after breakfast when everyone was getting changed to head out. “Hyung, are you ok?”, the younger whispered, knowing I would want him to catch the attention of anyone else in case he was right about his suspicions. “Ah, Kyun-ah, I’m alright, just woke up with a bit of a headache but I already took some medicine and it should be gone soon.”, I tried to reassure him with a forced smile before walking to my room to get changed myself. I shivered when I took off my sleep-clothes and decided to wear a warm hoodie along with a comfortable pair of jeans. Pulling the hoodie over my head I started feeling a little lightheaded and held on to my closet till the feeling had passed. I was one of last members to arrive to the van that would take us to the studio. Climbing in I received a few confused glances, whether that was because I took longer than usual or because most of them wore t-shirts, I didn’t know. How could they wear t-shirts anyways, this morning seemed rather chilly to me. Changkyun sat next to me in the back and I rested my still aching head on his shoulder closing my eyes. Remembering our conversation from earlier, he luckily didn’t comment on it and just gave my knee a gentle squeeze.

I must have nodded off again because the next thing I remember is arriving at the starship building with all members piling out of the vehicle. As I got out and was suddenly standing on my own feet again, the ground seemingly started to move and I squeezed my eyes shut leaning back against the van. Regaining my balance and blinking away the last black spots that had clouded my vision, I straightened back up and noticed Minhyuk and Changkyun staring at me. They had stayed behind as I stood there frozen, the rest of the group was waiting by the entrance only now having realized someone was missing. “Are you ok?”, Minhyuk asked with a strange tone to his voice. “Hyung, is your head still hurting”, that was Changkyun. “Yeah, still hurts but I’m ok. Just got dizzy for a second, feel fine now. I don’t know what got into me so suddenly.”, I tried laughing it off but inside I was a little confused. This was not like me, getting dizzy so frequently and why is my head still pounding? The painkillers should be doing their job by now, I don’t have time for this. Minhyuk hooked his arm into mine and we went to catch up with the rest of the group. It was a discrete gesture that probably wouldn’t catch any attention but it was very helpful to me, given I still felt a bit shaky. There were two small sofas and some office chairs around a coffee-table covered in lyric sheets. Once everyone found a spot to sit we revised our lyrics while letting Jooheon who was overly excited for recording go into the recording booth. I was seated on one of the sofas next to Minhyuk who kept glancing at me from time to time. Changkyun handed me a bottle of water before sitting in an office chair next to the sofa and reading over his lyrics again. I gave him a grateful smile and opened the bottle. Maybe I didn’t drink enough after dance practice yesterday and the pain in my head will go away as soon as I get rehydrated. After finishing half of the water, I place the bottle down near my feet and instead pick up a sheet of paper as well. I really tried reading over it but focusing my eyes on the small letters only made my head pound harder. “Guys, is it ok if Kihyun goes next? He’s not feeling his best and could go back home to rest up a bit when he’s done.”, Minhyuk broke the silence. “What’s wrong Kihyun-ah?”, Hyunwoo frowned giving me a quick once-over look. “Ah, nothing, I had a bit of a headache earlier but it better now that the painkillers started working. I’m fine.” Well that was not very honest, the painkillers haven’t started working and I’m losing hope they ever will but I don’t want the others to worry. They don’t have to change up the order in which we are scheduled to record because I’m not fully on top of my game. Everybody has an off-day once in a while. Minhyuk met my eyes and the look he gave me told me he was seeing right through my lie disappointed in me for not being honest. “Your holding your sheet upside-down”, was all he said, having read over my shoulder. I glanced down at my sheet and damn, no wonder it was so hard to read it earlier. Now all eyes were on me as I slowly turned the sheet around. “Are you sure you feel up for recording?”, the concern was now obvious in my leader’s voice. I nodded my head. Bad decision, it immediately made my vision swim. “Allright, I’ll tell the producer you’re next when Jooheon-ah is done”, Hyunwoo said getting up. “Why are you lying?”, Minhyuk whispered quiet enough only for me to hear. “It’s not that big of a deal”, I replied just as quiet, going back to pretending to read over my notes.

Jooheon walked out of the booth smiling as he motioned for me to take my turn. I tried to return his smile though each step I took sent shock waves through my skull. If this is what Hyungwon’s migraines feel like I can’t help but pity him much more now. Walking past Jooheon I make it to the recording booth, shortly steadying myself by gripping the door frame. Where did my balance go over night? I put my headphones on and give the producer a thumbs-up ignoring the pressure the headphones put on my head. Fifteen minutes later I feel like a complete fool. For some reason I just can’t keep my voice steady. It’s not nearly as powerful as usual either and I curse myself inwardly for not doing better. The others even gave me the chance to do this quick and then hide in the comfort of my own room, where it was both dark and quiet. Oh, how much I craved some quiet right now. I sighed and the producer started the track over again. No matter how hard I tried, it just seemed to get worse and I couldn’t take it anymore. It just hurt so much and I keep failing. Minhyuk burst through the door as soon as the first sob ripped through my throat. His arms wrapping around my waist and steadying me as I started to sway a bit. The crying just increased my dizziness and my knees gave out. I could barely see through the black spots and the tears but I felt how my hyung scooped me up and carried me out of the booth, careful not to knock the lyric-stand over. He gently placed me down on one of the sofas, its former occupants having moved out of the way quickly. “Sorry”, I mumbled weakly pressing my hands into my eyes attempting to rid myself of the dark spits that had appeared once again. “Don’t cry hyung, it’s ok. Just stay still and take deep breaths”, Changkyun instructed. “I-It h-hurts so b-bad”, I tried to swallow down the sobs but I’ve reached my breaking point. “The painkillers didn’t work at all, did they?”, Minhyuk frowned stroking my face: “Ya, Kihyun-ah! You’re burning up.” “N-not so l-loud, please.”, I couldn’t suppress a whimper as his loud voice threatened to let my head explode. Suddenly Hyungwon was kneeling next to the sofa pressing a pill into my hand: “Here hyung, that’s my migraine medication, if the painkillers this morning didn’t do anything, this will probably do the trick.”, he whispered with a sympathetic look on his face, able to relate to my situation best. I pushed myself up on my elbow just high enough to take the pill with some of the water he handed me before lying back don’t and covering my eyes with my arm. “Thank you Won-ie”, I replied after taking a few breaths to steady my world again. He smiled at me sadly before getting up to make room for Hyunwoo. “I talked to the manager and the producer. Our recording session will be rescheduled when you’re better. You really didn’t know you were sick?”, He looked at me doubtfully. “No, I thought it was just a headache and that it would go away as soon as I wake up properly”, I groaned. “The only one who’s finished yet is Jooheon. He will take you back home, ok? You get some rest and make sure you get better, yeah?”, he said patting my leg and I could hear some sincere concern behind his light tone.

When Hyunwoo’s phone rang and he informed us that the driver he called for us was waiting I sat up and prepared myself to stand. There was no amount of preparation that could have prevented me from stumbling. I fell into a strong chest and the leader wrapped his arms around my waist to steady me. “Sorry, dizzy”, I stated the obvious, clinging to his shoulders for dear life trying not to fall. He picked me up and carried me downstairs to the waiting car while Jooheon followed with our backpacks. I felt sorry for the younger, he looked nervous and I hated being the reason for that. My leader helped me get settled into the car before leaving for the studio again after a few last well-wishes. Jooheon got in next to me and buckled his seatbelt. “I’m ok Honey, don’t worry so much”, I whispered placing my head on his shoulder. “I’m not worrying”, he denied trailing off. “Your hands are shaking”, I said while taking one and holding it in mine. “I’m sorry, you just look so pale and it’s always you taking care of us and I don’t know how to return that, what if you get worse while the hyungs are gone-“ – “Hey, I won’t. I just need some sleep and everything will get better, ok? Don’t work yourself up too much, yeah?”, I interrupted as I noticed how his voices started to waver a bit. After a few deep breaths he replied with a quiet “yeah” and started running his free hand through my hair. It was relaxing and quickly nodded off on his shoulder.

I woke up in my bed with the blinds drawn blocking out most of the light.. How did I get here? Oh boy, did my dongsaeng carry me all the way from the car up here? It was one thing for Hyunwoo to do that but for one of our maknaes… Moving around slightly I try to get accustomed to my surroundings. There is a cool washcloth on my forehead and the bed is dipping slightly to one side. I turn my head locking eyes with Jooheon. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you. How do you feel?”, he kept his voice low. “Wow, ugh, that stuff Hyungwon gave me really helped. I mean, I still feel completely wiped and yes, I’m probably sick but the pain is a lot better”, I answered full honesty, finally dropping my act knowing my dongsaeng would only worry more if he couldn’t trust me to keep it real. “Good you’re not hurting that much anymore, hyung. You still have a fever though”, he smiled gently showing his dimples as he put the back of fingers against my cheek. I tried to sit up, placing the washcloth on the nightstand, only to be met with another merry-go-round. “Ugh, yeah, and I’m still really dizzy for some reason”, I pouted as he eased me back down. “Just stay down. You’re not dizzy if you stay still like this, right? Rest and if you need something, I’ll get it for you.” I hummed with a smile and reached my hands out. Luckily, he understood what I wanted and after replacing the washcloth for me, he slid under the blanket next to me. Maybe my behavior is a bit childish but I snuggled up to him with a content sigh, being of smaller-built does have his perks sometimes. That felt especially true when Jooheon wrapped one arm around me, holding me close and used the other to pat my hair in a steady pattern. I couldn’t help but let my eyes close again.

When I opened them again, I saw Minhyuk having a hushed conversation with Jooheon. “Oh, Hey you’re awake. Feeling better?”, my hyung smiled when he noticed me staring at him. I nodded before dropping my head back against my dongsaeng’s chest. “We made some soup, you really should eat something. Jooheon-ah told me you slept through lunchtime and it’s late evening already”, he advised while rubbing my arm gently to keep me awake. “Can’t. If I sit up everything spins around me”, Wow, I never wanted to sound this pitiful. I heard Jooheon coo quietly and if I was anywhere near in the right mind, I would have punched him. He untangled himself from my arms and giggled when I whined at the loss of contact. “Hyung, it’s cute when you’re cuddly like that but you need to eat something if you want to get better”, He tried to comfort me while sitting up against the headboard before gently pulling me up too. Soon I was situated between Jooheon’s legs with my back leaning against his broad chest. I rested my spinning head against his collarbone and closed my eyes till Minhyuk shook my arm while placing a tray with soup on my lap. Finishing my dinner was a painstakingly long process since being upright was a bit complicated for me. I was glad that when I was done, Jooheon helped readjust me into a similar position to before and hugged me tight. “You did great hyung. Want to go back to sleep?” – “Will you stay?”, I really wished he would. I was so comfy before and though I can usually handle myself just fine, I really didn’t want to suffer through this alone. “As long as you want me to, hyung”, Jooheon whispered, pulling the covers over both of us. I felt safe and protected as I pressed my forehead into his chest, slowly getting drowsier and falling asleep to the gentle strokes on my arm.

#sick #sickfic #whumptober #whumptober2020 #monsta x #fanfic #kihyun #i.m.#minhyuk #joohoney #fluff

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sparkie96 · 4 years

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💗 danteleon??

It had started off as casual meetings as friends. Leon meeting up with Dante in front of Devil May Cry before going to the local diner for dinner and sundaes or Dante stopping by to take Leon out to lunch during Leon’s breaks. How they met was another story entirely, but the one chance encounter in Spain as well as a promise for dates followed them for months to come.

It was just hang-outs between two friends...but it slowly started becoming something more than that. The hang-outs started becoming a bit more...romantic. Either Leon or Dante would stop after saying something or recalling an event, seemingly staring at the other, admiring them. Or Dante would stray from the conversation and ask about “Ada”. Leon would blush and quickly explain that there wasn’t much between them. The tension was starting to build. There was something more between them.

It got to the point that they dreaded the ends of their dates, but were relieved when the other scheduled more in the future. And boy, did they look forward to each and every one.

The texting and phone calls even got a bit more flirtatious than before, texting one another either late at night or early in the morning and sometime in between. Dante and Leon anticipated, or well, more like hoped for, an “I love you” from the other one of these days.

Like right now, they had done something a bit different for this date. They had gone to an aquarium that was located in the riverside region of “Bumblefuck”, as Dante jokingly put it, but it was somewhere Dante had never been before. So to Leon, that made it all worth it. It was new, and he had a feeling Dante had never been here before.

“It’s not so bad.” Leon chuckled, “A bit of a drive, but the view is worth it.”

“True, the miles of cities and the view of the rivers does make the long drive a bit better,” Dante mused, turning his nose at the overwhelming scent of tobacco and the hint of alcohol on the other people around them, “Though, I can’t say the same about the crowd. All this plaid is hurting my eyes.”

Leon nodded with an amused smile, “True, but not everyone can pull off leather like we do.” He said in a playful manner, motioning to his black and white leather jacket and then to Dante’s long red-jacket, black and red pants and boots, “That and they’re most likely here for the concert at the stadium nearby. It’s supposedly some sort of “Country Music” thing.”

“Well, I was never one for country music.” Dante admitted, “But I’m hoping we didn’t drive all the way up to New Jersey just so you could torture me with bad music and badly dressed red-necks.”

That made the agent laugh out loud, “Technically, up this way they would be considered “HillBillies”, but they’re most likely not at all red-necks or hillbillies. Most of them are college kids on Spring Break and some older people here for good music. We’re actually going to the aquarium.”

Leon offered a hooked arm to Dante as they got off of the ferry, Dante accepting it as they stepped off onto the dock before walking over to the big white building with the domed roof. The crowd that they had boarded the ferry with went in the opposite direction, confirming Leon’s theory that they were here for the Country Music Concert. He felt the taller man relax slightly, guessing that it wasn’t the plaid that unnerved his companion, but most likely the size of the crowd itself. He would have to get the elder a strawberry sundae as an apology later on.

They got their tickets and went inside, a girl in a bright colored staff t-shirt stopping them and offered to take their picture. Dante and Leon exchanged looks before Dante shrugged and Leon nodded. They stood close to one another and gave small smiles, the girl snapping a photo of them before handing Leon another ticket.

“You can stop by Guest Services on the way out, or any time really, and pick up your photo! Have a nice visit and welcome to Adventure Aquarium!” She beamed before handing them a map and letting them on the escalator.

They stepped on and Dante leaned into Leon’s ear, “So, do they pay them to be that happy and cheery or are they genuinely like that?”

“Maybe a bit of both?” Leon suggested with a chuckle, “Though I would be ecstatic if I was working at an aquarium. Beats working as a government agent.”

“You telling me working for the dude in the White House and kicking ass isn’t the best damn job in the world?” Dante asked as they made their way into the first exhibit.

Leon shook his head, “Not really. Kicking ass isn’t as fun as it used to be...and being the President’s Lapdog isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. ‘Specially since I really didn’t get a choice in the manner.”

Dante gave Leon a concerned looked as they traveled into a wide corridor filled wall to wall with tanks that were huge. Glass ran from floor to ceiling, and even higher and deeper than that. Inside, fish of all shape and variety swam around through the caves and the fake shipwreck. There were even some Nurse Sharks in the bigger section of the exhibit. Dante got in close, looking at the various creatures with what seemed like disinterest...but Leon had known him long enough to know that his eyes were what gave away his true feelings at times.

For example, right now, the half-demon’s eyes were alight with interest and curiosity. Although he tried not to show his excitement, Leon could tell Dante was genuinely interested in what he was seeing. Leon let go of his arm, watching with a smile as Dante pressed his hands on to the glass and looked up, watching as sea turtles and stingrays swam overhead.

Leon moved in closer to his companion, looking up with him, “It’s pretty cool, dontcha think?” He asked, “And this is just one small section of the aquarium.”

Dante turned to look at Leon as he showed him the map, “It is, actually. Never really got to do a lot of this when I was a kid...how big is this place anyway?”

Leon smiled as he gently took Dante by the hand, traversing through the rest of “Shipwreck Cove” before leading him to another area. “Sea Turtle Cove” was printed in big yellow letters above the entrance, Leon leading Dante over to some windows that looked like portholes in a ship or a submarine.

Dante went to lean in and get a better look, placing his hand on what he thought was a flat surface. The devil hunter made a “Whoa!” noise as his hand kept going, the window actually curved outward and for an inside look into the tank.

Leon narrowly caught him around the waist as he sat beside him, giving a small chuckle, “Probably should have warned you that the surfaces weren’t very flat.”

Dante couldn’t help but chuckle as well, fixing himself and sitting upright, “It’s alright. I probably could have been more careful.”

Leon held on to him as they both leaned forward to look up at the various sea creatures. They could hear the tour guide for a bigger group telling everyone facts about the turtles and fish in this section. Leon was only partly listening and watching the fish, his gaze mostly on Dante. Eventually, Dante let his emotions show on the outside, and Leon couldn’t get enough.

It wasn’t long until Dante was the one leading the way, the devil hunter wanting to see more of the wonderous exhibits. Leon chuckled as Dante held his hand and pulled him along, his own heart fluttering as they went to the various exhibits. Watching Dante genuinely enjoy himself made him feel good.

“I just...stick my hand in?” Dante asked, looking up at the guide as they stood by the stingray tank.

“You can pet them with two fingers.” The guide chuckled, the little old man sticking his hand in as a stingray swam by, “See? They like it! It is like petting a cat or a dog.”

“But slimy.” Leon added with a wink, his hand already in the tank as he pet another stingray.

Dante looked between the two of them before doing the same. The little stingray by the guide’s hand swam over to Dante, little beady eyes looking up at him before swimming just out of reach. Dante pouted at the little creature, but stayed nonetheless, watching as the ray swam back around. A startled noise left the white haired man as the stingray rushed at the side, splashing him. Dante jumped back before he could get soaked, Leon and the guide laughing, but not at him.

“That means she likes you!” The guide reassured, the little ray circling where Dante had been, “She is a very playful girl.”

“She’s playing hard to get.” Leon chuckled, looking down at her.

Dante inched back toward the tank, looking down at the little stingray, who pushed herself up against the side of the tank. He tentatively reached down and tried to pet her again. She pulled away and swam around the tank, but when Dante went to pet a different stingray, she would swim up at full speed and splash him again.

“She’s a brat.” Dante replied with a smile, “How do you get them not to swim away?”

The guide laughed, “I sometimes have to bribe them. Other times, they just want to be petted. They are very friendly.”

Leon chuckled as the one he was petting circled around his hand a couple of times before swimming under his fingers again. Dante gave a determined look, reaching in, but not moving or looking directly at her. The stingray swam back and forth before circling his hand once more. At long last, she finally let him pet her.

“There you go!” The guide cheered.

Leon smiled as he watched Dante, the elder looking very proud and excited all at the same time as he pet the sea creature. After they were finished here, they thanked the guide and Dante promised to see the little stingray later before going to the handwashing station.

“Alright, ready to go pet sharks?” Leon asked, now carrying his jacket.

Dante froze, looking at Leon with confused eyes, “...You can pet sharks?”

Leon gave a smile and a nod, “They even have a bridge here where you can walk over a tank full of big ones.”

“...Take me to this magical place.” Dante said, making the brunette laugh, taking Leon’s hand in his as Leon led the way. ___________“Okay, so...this is a lot scarier than I thought it was going to be.” Dante said, looking over the few people in front of them in line at the netted bridge, “And I fight demons.”

Leon squeezed his hand in reassurance, his own heart thudding in excitement as they watched the group in front of them walk across. He wasn’t scared at all, just excited. Dante squeezed his hand back in anticipation as they watched the netting and the bars supporting it move slightly. Leon gave his hand another reassuring squeeze as they inched closer and closer to the bridge before they stopped right in front of it, waiting until the people in front of them were all the way across.

“These sharks were fed already, right?” Dante asked the guide, still holding on to Leon’s hand.

The girl with the black hair exchanged a knowing smile with her coworker, looking back to Dante, “Maybe.” she replied, “At least I think so. They were fed this morning, right?”

Her coworker, a petite red-head tapped her chin, “...I think so...I hope so.” she said with a wink, “Alright! Y’all are next!”

Dante took a deep breath as he and Leon listened to the instructions, following the red-head as she led the way. Dante let Leon walk in front of him, staying close to his back as they walked across. Leon could see out of the corner of his eye that Dante was looking down through the holes of the net, most likely to see where the sharks were.

“We’ll be fine.” Leon said, “They don’t eat much.”

Dante raised a brow, but chuckled, “How do you know?”

Leon glanced back at him, playfully bouncing and making Dante holding on tighter to the netting. The half-demon begged the younger to stop bouncing, saying that they could fall through and into the tank. Leon chuckled, saying that they would be okay and that the bridge wasn’t moving, which meant it was structurally sound. He then asked Dante if he could imagine if they did fall in though.

Dante followed, still holding on, “Forget what I said about the stingray. She is a sweetheart. YOU are the brat.” ________Once they had gone through the whole aquarium before heading to the gift shop. They picked up their photo at the Guest Services, Leon excitedly showing Dante the photo. The white-haired male asked the people behind the counter if they could get another copy of their photo, surprising Leon. Dante said it would liven up Devil May Cry a little bit, though secretly he was going to keep it on his bedside table. Leon had also gotten Dante a t-shirt that said “I Survived the Shark Bridge” while Dante got Leon a stingray plush.

“Because you’re both brats.” Dante said with a smile, playfully bopping Leon on the head with the stuffed animal before handing it to him.

Leon gave a playful pout, “I resent that!” He said, holding Dante’s hand as they waited for the Ferry, both eating Strawberry Ice Cream Cones from the food court.

Dante chuckled, “Well, lucky for you, I like brats.”

“Yeah, but unlike Miss Stingray, I don’t play hard to get.” Leon said, looking up at Dante with loving eyes.

“...really?” Dante asked. Leon nodded, “Not if I really like the person and love spending all of my free time with them.” He admitted.

Dante raised his brow, “Even if they live a million miles away?” He asked.

Once again, Leon nodded, “I would travel a million miles just to be with them because they’re worth it and I hope me being with them makes them very happy.”

“You do.” Dante admitted, looking down at the agent, “Hey, you got something...here, let me get it.”

Leon leaned up while Dante leaned down, both of them meeting halfway for a sweet kiss. Leon felt like there were butterflies in his stomach and Dante felt something electric between them. The odd “firework” feeling Patty had read to him from her fairy tale books finally made sense to Dante. He felt like fireworks were going off while he was kissing Leon. After a few moments, they had pulled away, both blushing and smiling, looking off at the riverfront. The ferry arrived and they got on board, but a tragedy had occurred, Dante getting nudged by an overly eager group of teens who had knocked his ice cream out of his hands and sent it into the river. Dante cursed as his ice cream fell, giving a sigh of defeat as he sat next to Leon on the bench.

Leon leaned into him, offering his ice cream, “I don’t mind sharing.”

Dante gave a small smile, leaning in and licking the ice cream cone while Leon held it for him. The brunette kissed him on the cheek before wiping the corner of the man’s mouth, licking his ice cream while they watched the sun set.

#danteleon #DantexLeon #LeonxDante #Leon S. Kennedy #Dante Sparda #send me asks

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unfolded73 · 5 years

Text

How Do We Get Back (7/16) - schitt’s creek ff

Summary: In a literal alternate universe where the Roses escaped financial ruin, David and Patrick struggle with loneliness and a sense that something isn’t right. A chance meeting in New York and a terrible tragedy drive them to question whether the timeline they are on is the right one.

Rated explicit. This chapter 3.6k words. (ao3)

_____________________________________

Chapter 7

“We’ve reached our cruising altitude and the captain has turned off the fasten seat-belt sign, which means you are free to get up and move about the cabin. However…”

Patrick pressed his forehead against the airplane window, staring down into the darkness. He couldn’t make anything out but he kept looking, almost as if he’d see a sign out there somewhere, something to tell him what to do. He continued to ignore the constant pressure behind his eyes; Patrick feared what his seat mates would think of him if he suddenly started to cry right there in seat 27F. He wasn’t a crier, but he felt very much like crying right now.

He’d been turning his time with David Rose over and over in his mind, looking at it from all angles, trying to figure out what it was about David that has attracted him so intensely. Patrick hadn’t understood his sexual orientation long enough to even begin to think if he had a type, or if David Rose was it. Thinking back over the boys and men in his past, he tried to see them through this new filter. There was Eric, his high school teammate — and yes, Dennis had been right, Patrick had been a little bit in love with him. Eric was tall with dark hair like David, so there was another data point. Going back even farther, there had been a deaf boy at camp when Patrick was fourteen. Patrick had never met anyone who couldn’t hear before, and had been mesmerized, watching the boy’s hands move as he signed. At night Patrick had lain in his bunk, practicing how to sign ‘Hi, I’m Patrick,’ spelling out the letters of his name over and over. Then when he’d finally met the boy, all the signing he’d learned had gone out the window. Instead of signing ‘Hi, I’m Patrick,’ he’d just waved like an idiot and run away. Maybe he’d had a crush then too.

The idea of picking apart every male friendship he’d ever had, every actor he’d ever admired, every Olympic swimmer he’d ever looked at, trying to decode if there had been sexual attraction there — it was exhausting. Okay, maybe the Olympic swimmer thing didn’t take much sleuthing, but the rest of it was exhausting. Besides, this wasn’t about his past. It wasn’t really even about David Rose, even though David was occupying most of his thoughts at the moment. It was about his future. It was about living the rest of his life as who he really was.

And thinking about that made him think about Rachel and how he was going to break her heart, and then he wanted to cry again.

The flight to Toronto from Newark wasn’t long, but the drive to Oak Grove once Patrick had retrieved his car from long-term parking was. It was already late, and Patrick’s head was muddled with emotional and physical exhaustion, so he stopped at the first Tim Horton’s off the highway and bought a large coffee.

An hour outside of his hometown, buzzing from the caffeine, a song he’d been listening to a lot when he’d first moved to Schitt’s Creek came up on shuffle, and Patrick started to cry. He wept for the way he’d felt then, before the bloom was off the rose, when he was so happy to have done something just for himself for once. He wept for all the lost years of his teens and twenties, when he didn’t understand who he was attracted to, didn’t understand why things with Rachel never seemed right. He wept for the marriage he’d stumbled into when a part of him knew it was a mistake.

By the time he pulled into his parking space, it was almost one in the morning and he’d calmed down. He unlocked his apartment door carefully, setting his suitcase down and going to check the bedroom. Rachel lay on her side of the bed, her breathing slow and even. The thought of climbing into bed with her when she was completely unaware of what he’d done, it felt like one more violation of her trust. He couldn’t do it. Patrick closed the door with a soft click and once he was ready for bed, fetched a spare blanket from the hall closet and settled down on the sofa. When he finally managed to soothe himself to sleep, it was by imagining he was in David’s bed in New York with its soft sheets and the smell of expensive aftershave on the pillows.

~*~

Moira Rose swept into the dining room at ten past the hour, one of her full, curly-haired wigs on her head. “David, I’m so glad you could join us for the evening repast!”

David always felt a bit like a teenager when he sat at his parents’ dining room table. “You insisted I come. You said, ‘I won’t accept no for an answer’!” He’d almost said no anyway; the idea of dragging himself out to his parents’ house in the suburbs had sounded like torture when Moira had called. But the guilt trip his mother would have given him had he refused was just a different, more insidious kind of torture.

Seating herself at her accustomed place, Moira gave him a knowing smile, like they were in on some joke together. “Well, I wanted to see everyone before Alexis leaves on her next adventure, and before I leave for Vancouver to shoot that episode of Arrow.”

“It’s one episode, it’s not like you’re going to be gone that long,” David said, spooning ravioli onto his plate.

“What even is Arrow, anyway?” Alexis asked.

“It’s a superhero show,” David said, giving her a surreptitious eye roll. “On the CW.”

“Eww.”

“Now now, kids, don’t knock your mother’s latest job,” their father said. “She’s apparently going to be a very important villain.”

“And there’s a chance the character could recur,” Moira said.

“Oh, goodie,” Alexis replied sarcastically, then pulled her phone out and started looking at it.

Moira swallowed a prodigious sip from her martini glass, and David took a moment to hope that she wasn’t mixing booze with pills. “Besides,” she stage-whispered, looking around as if for eavesdroppers, “apparently we need the money.”

David blinked at her. “What are you talking about? We have plenty of money.”

“Moira, we don’t need to talk about that now, sweetheart,” Johnny said. “Would someone please pass the salad?”

“So, David,” Alexis said, looking up from her phone and seemingly oblivious to the discussion of money problems. “What’s happening with that cute little button-faced guy who was at your place last night?”

He glared at Alexis for bringing his love life up in front of their parents. He’d been trying to think about anything other than Patrick, and Alexis talking about him wasn’t helping. “Nothing.”

“He seemed really nice, David,” she said, continuing her prodding.

“He was nice.” Patrick might have been the nicest person David had ever met, and David cringed when he thought about how they’d parted ways. It had just broken his heart a tiny bit to be unexpectedly confronted with the fact that Patrick was leaving New York. In that moment, he’d been completely unable to deal.

“So what’s going on there?”

“Nothing. He went back to Canada, where he lives.” He took a bite of salad, trying to affect an air of not-caring.

Alexis pouted. “Too bad.”

“Oh, are you having a long-distance love affair, David?” Moira asked. She was over-enunciating more than usual, and David estimated based on her speech pattern that she was on her third martini.

“No,” he said, the phrase ‘love affair’ making him physically recoil. He tried to think of something else to talk about.

“Speaking of our mother country,” Moira said, “did you hear about Gloria Gregson?”

“Who’s Gloria Gregson?” Alexis asked.

Moira scoffed. “Only one of the most decorated soap opera actresses of my generation. Anyway, the word on the street is that she’s given away all of her money and joined a cult.” Moira looked very smug about this fact.

“Is it me, or have I been hearing a lot in the news about cults lately?” David asked. Everyone else at the table shrugged. He tried to remember what he’d seen on the news a few days ago, but came up blank.

“Sold any paintings lately, David?” Johnny asked.

“No,” David said again, focusing on his plate.

“Well, keep reaching, son, I’m sure things will perk up.”

“Hoooow can they, John, when we can’t afford to pay for his patrons anymore?” Moira slurred.

“Moira!” Johnny said, his eyes very wide.

David dropped his fork with a clatter. “What? What is she talking about?”

“No no no, n— nothing,” his father stuttered. “She’s confused.”

David turned to his mother. “Mom?”

She looked contrite. “There might have been, in the past, one or two times that you father and I bankrolled a patron of the art at your gallery. Just two or three times at most.”

Alexis hissed in what she might have imagined was sympathy. “Ouch, David.”

“Dad?” David said, swinging around. “Is this true?”

“Is it true that it was only three times?” He asked, his face still betraying his panic. “Well…”

“Oh my God.” David pushed his chair back from the table. “So how much of the past success of my gallery am I actually responsible for?”

The guilty glance between his parents was all he needed to see. David stormed out of the house and didn’t look back.

~*~

A hand was shaking him. “Why’d you sleep on the sofa?”

Patrick cracked an eye open and saw Rachel’s face swimming in his field of vision. Levering himself up, he put his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands, still exhausted after three nights of too-little sleep. “It was one a.m. when I finally got home; I didn’t want to wake you.”

She smiled. “That’s very sweet but I know this sofa sucks to sleep on. You should have just come to bed.”

Patrick didn’t respond, squinting at the clock on the mantle. “Shit, I’m gonna be late for work.” He’d forgotten to plug in his phone, so it was probably dead in the pocket of his coat, unable to sound his usual alarm.

“Yeah, that was the next thing I was going to tell you,” Rachel called as he dashed off to shower.

The day was a constant flurry of activity: a meeting with his boss to debrief him on the seminar (which Patrick had to mostly fake his way through, as he’d really only managed to pay attention on the first day), a backlog of emails to respond to, an issue with a client who was delinquent on their payments. But Patrick was glad for the distractions, glad to focus on something other than what he was going to say to Rachel.

Despite his best efforts to slow down time, the work day came to a close and as Patrick went out to his car, stomach in knots, he began to desperately entertain the idea of saying nothing. At least not right away. Maybe he needed to sit with this for longer, really figure out if his relationship with Rachel was truly unsalvageable. There was no need to rush into a conversation that once it was out, could never go back in the box. He imagined how that would go. He’d go home and they’d make dinner together. She would ask him about New York and he’d have to make something up, give some excuse for why he hadn’t taken any pictures. They’d watch something on Netflix and then eventually go to bed.

His stomach twisted, thinking of being in bed with Rachel. After him being out of town for four days, she’d have every reason to expect sex. Any normal newly-married couple, he assumed, would have sex under those circumstances. And he didn’t think he could go through with that.

Beyond that, it would be irresponsible to go through with it even if he found himself physically capable. Patrick was embarrassed to admit that it had taken until mid-way through the day for it to occur to him how reckless he’d been with David. No, he hadn’t had penetrative sex, but a few minutes of googling told him that he was at risk for a handful of STDs from what they had done together. He couldn’t go to bed with Rachel given that. He’d have to tell her.

For a few seconds, Patrick thought he might have a full blown panic attack right there in his car in the parking lot of Rollins Electrical Supply. It took several minutes of controlled breathing before he felt steady enough to drive.

“Hey, I thought we might order a pizza,” Rachel said as soon as he walked through the door.

“Yeah, that’s fine.”

She was tapping on her phone. “What toppings do you want?”

“I’m good with whatever,” Patrick said, setting his bag down and going into the kitchen. He opened the small cabinet where they stored a few bottles of rarely-opened liquor, wondering if a shot of whiskey would help. He pulled the bottle down, then put it back. Then pulled it down again, pouring a few ounces into a glass. He gulped it down, wincing at the burn in his esophagus.

“Pizza should be here shortly,” Rachel said when he rejoined her in the living room. She was still scrolling through her phone. “What is going on with these weird demonstrations everywhere?”

“What demonstrations are you talking about?”

Rachel shrugged. “I don’t know, seems like every time I look at the news people are rioting in cities, and police are killing protesters… the whole world feels like it’s falling apart.” She tossed her phone onto the sofa. “Do you want to watch something?”

He should let her eat first, he thought, not do this to her on an empty stomach. So he agreed, and Rachel spent ten minutes scrolling through the Netflix menu before finally picking an old season of Great British Bake Off. Patrick stared at the screen without really seeing it, thinking about David and wondering what he was doing. Had he gone to his gallery today? Was he out on a date with some new person from Tinder? Was he at home, also watching Netflix? Patrick wanted to text him, but he doubted that would be welcome. He pulled out his phone and read the few texts they’d exchanged on Wednesday.

“So, did you see anything good in New York?” Rachel asked when they’d set the veggie pizza up on the coffee table to share. On the TV screen, a baker sat on the floor and stared despondently into his oven.

The first image that popped into Patrick’s mind was of David stretched out naked on his bed, a beautiful and profane work of art. “I saw the Empire State building,” he lied.

“Cool, did you go up in it?”

“No, the line was too long. And I saw Rockefeller Plaza.” Another lie; he’d intended to do that, he just hadn’t quite made it.

“Aww, I’ve always wanted to skate there. Were there a lot of people skating?”

“Yep.”

When they’d both finished eating and before Netflix could auto-launch another episode, Patrick reached for the remote and flipped the TV off. “Rach, I need to talk to you.” He threaded his hands together, squeezing his fingers tight against the tops of his hands.

Rachel raised an eyebrow. “What about?” They’d never spoken about that night in the car a few weeks ago, when she’d all but said their marriage wasn’t working. Everything since that night had been mundane discussions of work and household logistics, the elephant in the room unspoken about day after day.

He opened his mouth and closed it, uncertain where to start. Terrified. “I’m so sorry,” was all he could get out, which just deepened her frown.

“Sorry for what?”

“You said the other night that getting married had made things worse, and—”

“I was just tired that night, Patrick, I didn’t mean—”

“No, you weren’t wrong. At least, you weren’t wrong that something’s never been right, but I never knew what it was. I ran away to try to figure it out, and I don’t know why it took me so long. Why I couldn’t…”

“Patrick, you aren’t making any sense,” Rachel said, bringing her knees up and wrapping her arms around them like she was trying to fold herself into a ball and disappear. “And you’re scaring me.”

“I know. I know, I just… I have to tell you…” He rubbed his hands over his face. “God, this is so hard. When I was in New York, I met someone.”

“What do you mean, you ‘met someone’?”

“I met a… a man. And I… Rachel, I broke my vows.”

The expression on her face remained confused. “Patrick, are you saying to me right now that you had sex with a guy in New York?” She didn’t look angry, but that was probably because she couldn’t wrap her head around what he was telling her.

“I mean, not sex sex, but…” He could imagine David rolling his eyes at that distinction. “But yes. Yes, I did.”

Rachel stood up and paced across the room before turning back to him. “Why?”

“Because for the first time in my life, I wanted someone,” he said without thinking, and then winced as he saw those words punch Rachel in the stomach.

“For the first time in your life,” she repeated, dazed. “So you’ve been lying to me? All these years?”

“Not consciously! Rach, I swear to you, I didn’t know. I didn’t realize that…” He hadn’t said it to anyone yet, hadn’t said the words out loud. It felt important to say them now. “That I’m gay.”

Anger was starting to flicker in her eyes. “How could you not realize? How could anyone not realize that they liked men and not women? Especially when you and I were…”

“I don’t know. Honestly, I don’t know. We got together so young, and I just… maybe I knew on some deep level, but—”

“And now you’ve gone off and fucked a guy and decided that you’re gay. Just like that.” She folded her arms across her chest.

Patrick ran his hands over his face. Her anger was the least of what he deserved, and he resolved to endure whatever she was going to throw at him. “It was different, with him. I’ve never felt…” He stopped. How could he make her understand without being needlessly cruel?

“You’ve never felt that with me, that’s what you’re saying.”

He nodded.

“So some stranger who you picked up in New York can make you feel things that I never have in fifteen years.” Rachel’s voice was like shards of glass scraping across her throat.

“I’m so sorry.”

“What the fuck does ‘sorry’ get me? It doesn’t get me back all those years I’ve wasted. It doesn’t undo this marriage.” Spots of color on her cheeks stood out against her pale skin, clashing with her red hair. “Why couldn’t you just have been honest with me that things didn’t feel right with me?”

“I tried, Rachel. Every time we broke up, I tried to tell you that. I did tell you that! But then you’d pretend to text me by accident and I’d be feeling lonely and you’d manage to glue our relationship back together—”

“Patrick, you’re a grown man; I shouldn’t be able to browbeat you into getting back together. If you weren’t happy, you could’ve just said ‘no’.”

He stood up too, now. “Don’t you get it, Rach? I never said no to anyone about anything, not in my whole life! All I’ve ever done has been to please people. My parents, my teachers, my coaches, you,… I never once did something just for me until a few nights ago. I was selfish, and I know how much this sucks. I will regret hurting you for the rest of my life, but I won’t regret finally taking something that I wanted. I won’t.”

A tear rolled down her cheek. “Must’ve been some guy.”

He smiled in spite of himself. “Yeah.”

“Are you going to see him again?”

“I doubt it,” Patrick said.

“So what do we do now?” Rachel asked.

“The apartment is yours,” he said. “I’ll go stay with my folks, see if I can find another place I can afford—”

The finality of what he was saying seemed to spark her anger again. “Just like that, it’s just over?”

“I should never have married you, and I take responsibility for that. I’ll pay whatever it takes for the… court costs or whatever. It should be easy, we don’t own much—”

“Say the words, Patrick. Say you’re divorcing me.”

“What’s the alternative, Rach? Do you want to stay married to me when we both know I can’t love you the way you deserve?”

“And you never did love me,” she said. It was realization after realization, hitting her painfully each time.

“I do love you, Rachel, but not the way a husband should love a wife. And I would pay any price to have realized that sooner, I swear I would. But all we can do now is… move forward.”

Swiping angrily at her face as more tears flowed, Rachel ran into the kitchen. His shoulders slumping, Patrick picked up his backpack and the suitcase that still stood by the front door, and he left the apartment.

Chapter 8

#schitt's creek #schitts creek #david x patrick #david x patrick ff #david x patrick fic #hdwgb fic #my fic

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luckyspike · 5 years

Text

more GO fanfic because i can’t decide which colors of yarn to use for my next project

Crowley made it a point to visit Adam semi-regularly, about monthly, after the Nah-pocalypse. He justified it to himself by telling himself it was because he was making sure the kid kept his Hellish instincts in check, but that wasn’t really it, not if he really was honest with himself*.

* Which he rarely was.

Deep down, it was mostly because he actually liked the kid. And, well, there was a part of him that felt bad for him. Crowley had sprung into existence right at the Beginning, with a vague idea of identity but no real idea of what the Heaven was going on. But he’d been given orders - they all had - and he followed them for the most part. Until, well, until he hadn’t. Because, he had reflected, he really didn’t know what was going on, what was at stake, until it became abundantly obvious that just because you don’t know what’s going on doesn’t mean you ad-lib your way through until things seem alright**.

He couldn’t imagine being dropped into that suddenly, at the age of 11, so young and new and without any real concrete identity. Poor Adam. The kid had learned his true nature, learned the whole truth about Heaven and Hell and the Universe, about destiny and the Ineffable Plan, all in the space of 1 afternoon, and then rebuked all of it. Cast it aside.

Crowley felt, deep down somewhere, maybe where his soul had been once, that that wasn’t really fair. And that maybe, with enough gentle guidance and someone with ... if not a better idea of what on Earth was going on then at least experience making it up as you go, that he could help Adam avoid some nastier mistakes.

So he kept up with the kid. Once every month, give or take. They met at Anathema’s cottage, because while Adam’s inherent spiritual Teflon was probably enough to keep people from asking questions about the tall man in the sunglasses who visited on occasion, the safe ruse of visiting Newton and Anathema was less fraught with potential disaster. Nobody every really noticed the classic Bentley that was always parked outside.

“How old are you?” Adam asked one time. It was around his birthday, and it was clearly on his mind. “Like, really?”

Crowley hedged. “Uh, well. It’s - well, it’s tricky.” He glanced to Anathema and then back to Adam. Shrugged. “Hard to measure the bit before time got invented.”

“Huh.” Adam considered that. “Like, a long time before?” He nodded when the demon spread his hands, the universal gesture of ‘I don’t know’. “So you’re like the oldest person I know.”

Anathema chimed in. “Unless Aziraphale is -”

“Oh, right, Aziraphale!” Adam put his head to the side while he thought, and then sipped his lemonade. “Who came first, you or him?”

“I honestly don’t know, Adam,” Crowley admitted, staring into his coffee with an expression of consternation. “It was all muddled up in the beginning. Without time everything sort of - there wasn’t a first or a last or, you know, any kind of like, ah, linear measurement of whatever.” He saw Adam’s expression of confusion, and then shrugged. “Listen, the Beginning was really weird, there was a lot going on and then there was a lot of other things going on which were fairly, ah, hectic.” He stopped short of the Fall. Adam hadn’t asked about the Fall, and frankly wanted very little information about Hell. Crowley was more than happy to oblige.

“So how long have you known Aziraphale then?”

“About 6000 years.”

Anathema sat down next to Adam, and slid a half sandwich over to the kid on a plate. “And you really actually met in the Garden of Eden?”

“Well, technically on the wall around it, yeah.”

“Cool.” They had talked about Eden before, fairly early on. Adam had, gradually, been working his way through history by means of the memories of AJ Crowley. Crowley had found through the process that he didn’t really mind, actually, and honestly there was something gratifying about being told by a pre-teen that you’re pretty cool.

“Do you remember the date?” Anathema asked, startling Crowley enough to make him look up from his coffee, now cold. She was sipping her own drink, watching the demon over the rim of the cup.

“I - yeah. It was the seventh day, so on the calendar now it would be October 28.”

“So,” she said innocently, “your anniversary is in October. The 28th.” She pulled out her phone and - Crowley could only assume - put the date on her calendar. “I’ll send a card.” She raised an eyebrow and Adam watched, smirking, around a mouthful of sandwich. It was a game the two of them played, and Crowley had long since stopped groaning when it started. “Any plans?”

“It’s not really our anniversary. We don’t ah - well, there’s not really an anniversary so to speak that we, er.”

“My parents go out for dinner on their anniversary, and then maybe the movies or a play. Last year they rented a hotel room in London and made a whole weekend of it,” Adam contributed, once he’d finished his bite of sandwich. “I stayed with Brian.”

“Right, well -”

“You should go to America!” Adam continued, while Anathema covered her mouth with her hand. “See like, Mount Rushmore or like the Grand Canyon or whatever. People do that on their anniversary.”

“Why would they look at giant carved presidents on an anniversary?” Crowley asked, momentarily distracted.

“Who knows.” Adam shrugged. “Oh, or what about like, China, with the Great Wall, or Australia and the Great Barrier Reef, or what about a safari in Africa?”

“Been there, can’t swim, was around when the animals were Created,” Crowley responded to each in turn.

Anathema opened her mouth to say something - likely ask a question, she was always looking for information on some lost civilization or another, it was an interest of hers - but Adam continued with his suggestions. “Niagra Falls then. Or Everest. Or Japan?”

“Yeah, all very nice, but like I said we don’t really do anniversaries -”

“But you remember the date,” Anathema cut in.

“Well I mean it was fairly significant for other reasons -”

Adam scoffed. “So was my parents anniversary. They got married on the same day as all kinds of weird stuff in America happened, but they still celebrate theirs.”

Crowley tried to think of a way to explain to a soon-to-be-thirteen-year-old that after 6000 years, a single date on a calendar wasn’t necessarily as important. After all, which dates would you mark? The meeting date, the day they agreed on the Arrangement, the day Crowley saved Aziraphale from the French Revolution, the day Crowley saved Aziraphale from Nazis, the day -

He stopped that train of thought so abruptly Anathema and Adam might have heard the brakes. There was a trend there, and Crowley wasn’t sure how he felt about it.

“We just never have,” he said lamely, at length. Adam shrugged, and finished his sandwich, and Crowley breathed a sigh of relief. He knew that shrug. That was the ‘fine, whatever’ shrug. The shrug that meant, thank Whoever, that Adam was bored with that line of questioning, and would shortly begin another which would be, Crowley reasoned, vastly preferable to this one.

“Something to bear in mind,” Anathema said, though, before Adam could muster up another question. “Might be sweet.”

“I’m a demon, I don’t do ‘sweet’,” Crowley pointed out.

Adam took a gulp of his drink, and asked, “So what was King Arthur like?” and Crowley jumped on it like a drowning man on a raft, rambling on about round tables and wizards and prats in armor looking for Black Knights in a stupid bog somewhere in the middle of bloody nowhere, all the while trying very hard to not think any more about October 28.

Which did come.

Eventually.

Time has a way of doing that. Crowley still wasn’t sure how he felt about the invention of it.

He showed up to the bookshop on the 28th, just prior to closing or, more accurately, exactly at closing, since customarily Aziraphale generally decided to close whenever Crowley showed up. He waited for the angel to shoo the last stragglers out of the shop, pull the shades, and lock the doors. He poured himself some wine while he waited, and considered the calendar on the wall by the desk***. He was midway through the first planned glass of wine that evening when Aziraphale finally joined him, flopping into a chair and grabbing the already-poured glass Crowley had set out for him.

“Got a letter from Miss Device, today,” Aziraphale said without preamble. Crowley’s blood ran cold^. He held up an envelope, and paused at Crowley’s expression. “Are you alright?” The demon managed a nod. “Oh, you looked - anyway. Just a note, you know how she writes. So nice of her to keep in touch.”

“Yeah, really nice.”

“Oh! And she enclosed these.” From the envelope, he produced two tickets - tickets, Crowley realized, distantly, while the high-pitched whine of panic rang in his ears. She’d sent a card, she said she would, and he’d done nothing, as usual, and - “She said she bought them for her and Newton to spend a night in London, but he’s having car trouble again. I suppose she thought we might get some use out of them.”

“Oh? Oh. That’s alright then.” Crowley took a draught of wine and sank lower onto the sofa, relief emanating from every atom of his being. “What for?”

“Royal Shakespeare Company - they’re doing ‘As You Like It.’” He smiled, and Crowley raised an eyebrow, the better to keep his own smile at bay. “You always said you liked the funny ones.” He took a sip of his wine. “You don’t have plans tonight, do you?”

“Who me? Nah, never.” Crowley paused, and swirled his wine in his glass. “Tell you what - what do you say about, oh, I dunno, having dinner first, maybe the Ritz? Make a night out of it.” There was a silence, which Crowley generally was not in favor of, but it was comfortable, and filled with the soft warmth of the bookshop’s ambient noise and the bustling street outside. Aziraphale smiled, and took a sip of wine. “Sounds delightful, Crowley. But a bit convenient. There wouldn’t be any reason for this spontaneous evening, would there?”

Crowley did not panic. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t even break a sweat, just took a sip himself and answered, “It wouldn’t be spontaneous by definition then, would it?”

“No, I suppose not,” Aziraphale said, although he was grinning like anything. “Well, it’s a nice night for a little spontaneity. I’ll finish by drink, and then get my coat. Shall we walk?”

“We’ve got time.”

Aziraphale smiled and this time around, Crowley didn’t fight the urge to smile back.

** Although they still had, after a fashion.

*** It was from 1994, not that anybody cared.

^ Colder, anyway.

#good omens #i wish i didn't enjoy fanfiction so much #ineffable husbands #ineffable best buddies forever more like it

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danyka-fendyr · 5 years

Text

As the Raven Flies: Part 9

Honestly, I’m too tired to do a proper intro so...blah blah blah, something self-detrimental, probably a heavy heaping of praise for Dream because I literally never shut up about her, and definitely something about how I’m the worst mixed into an apology for being like this and having the world’s flakiest fic schedule. Awkward closing comment.

Taglist: @dreamwritesimagines @rhabakoli @disengagefrmreality @superwolfchild-fan

Wordcount: 1910

Chapter 9: In which, Vivien does not want to just say goodnight and go.

Vivien tried not to think of the answer to the pressing questions of her guardians as they discussed who might have tried to kill them. She tried to shove the answers down deep inside her, hopefully, to never be found again. Even as she drowned, she tried to swallow the idea coming into her mind. But finally, after eliminating most other possibilities, Karen said the words she had been dreading.

“I don’t think it would have been anyone for Vivien. Nobody knows who she is. As a vigilante, I mean.”

Vivien took a shaky breath. Briefly, she wished that James was here. She pushed that completely useless thought aside, trying to pretend to herself that her hand wasn’t itching to hold someone else’s and that he hadn’t been the first person to come to mind.

“What if it was someone who knew me?” she whispered.

“Knew you as Diviner?” Karen frowned, worry about Vivien’s secret identity flooding her features.

“No.” Silence. “What if...what if it was someone coming for me. Someone who wasn’t very experienced with explosives. Someone who wanted to make me afraid. Someone who didn’t care about Diviner. Just wanted to hurt me.”

Gosh, why did she wish James was here so badly?

“Who would want to hurt you, Vivien?” Frank’s voice was a low rumble, laced with danger and some dark fury she had only seen flickers of so far.

“Karen,” Vivien didn’t look at her. “Did you ever read the newspaper clippings about how my family died.”

Karen was silent for a moment, that clever mind of hers working, putting pieces together faster than anyone else Vivien knew. “I wasn’t going to out of respect for you, but I just thought...”

“It’s alright. It’s public information.”

“They said terrible things about you,” Karen said quietly.

She sounded so sad.

“I know.”

“What does your family have to do with any of this?” Frank asked.

Vivien didn’t answer, and neither did Karen because she was still thinking. Her brain working overtime, practically humming. Then, she gasped, the sound of a mental key unlocking.

“But he’s in jail,” she whispered.

“We should probably double-check that,” Vivien said, trying to pull up whatever was left of the bravado lying in tatters at her feet.

“Who is in jail?” Frank leaned forward on the couch, twisting his body to see both of their faces better.

“My brother,” Vivien said, hating the way the word sounded rolling off her tongue.

“I need to go make a phone call,” Karen said.

She sounded afraid. That was not comforting to Vivien. Not in the slightest bit.

Karen sat up, heading into the kitchen. Vivien could hear her pacing, her voice quiet as she spoke on the phone in panicked whispers and murmured words. She could feel her own panic growing, like a forest fire sparking up in her chest, rising higher and higher up into her throat, choking her, making her wish she could vomit up those flames.

When Karen walked out of the lousy excuse for a kitchen, her face was all the answer Vivien could have ever needed. It was pale, features all gaping wide with shock and fright. Vivien was going to be sick.

“Last night,” Karen whispered.

“Why didn’t we hear about it on the news?” Frank asked.

He sounded like he was underwater.

“They’re trying to keep it quiet. They’re afraid of the panic it could cause if they let people know he’s loose, supposedly. I think they’re more afraid for their worthless reputation.”

Vivien’s vision swam in front of her eyes, and the whole room felt like it was tilting. She was so dizzy, the fear filling her up faster than she knew what to do with it. Pure, undiluted terror stripping her down to only her basest instincts. Self-control out the window, she texted James, even though the letters were swimming in front of her eyes. She needed him here. She could barely piece together why, but she just knew she needed his smiles and his warmth and the way he always got her to smile back and she had to smile, had to feel something other than this terror, because it was making her so cold. Icy little fingers clamping down on every piece of light in her life and dragging her down with the r panicked, malice-filled little whispers of that night.

There had been so much blood. Everywhere she had turned, blood. Someone was screaming. Screaming so loud, so earth-shattering, that even now Vivien couldn’t comprehend the agony behind it. The pain of it was blinding, white-hot, tearing her apart more than any knife could. It was her voice screaming, echoing through her own mind, a high keening sound barreling up from the depths of her memory.

It might have made it out into the room with Karen and Frank if she hadn’t passed out before she got the opportunity to draw enough breath for that kind of scream.

She came to slowly, her breathing easier than it had been before. That was the first thing she had noticed. She had forgotten to breathe after hearing...the news.

The next thing she noticed was her hand. It was warm, and she realized it was warm because someone else was holding it. She looked down to the larger, calloused hand holding her own, then trailed her eyes up the arm to see the boy attached to it.

He looked tired, dark circles under his eyes nearly matching his inky hair. He also looked worried for her, something she had gotten used to from everyone else since the incident, but somehow had yet to get used to from him.

She flinched at the thought of that night, and his eyes cleared as he looked at her.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” he whispered, pushing back pieces of her hair and talking to her so gently she might have thought she was a wounded animal.

She had seen him help an actual wounded animal once. They had been hanging out at a park once since Karen said she needed to do something fun for the sake of doing something fun, and they stumbled across a baby bird that looked like it had fallen out of its nest and gotten lucky with only a hurt fledgling wing. James had treated that bird much the same way he treated her now, with the same gentle touches and quiet voice, except he seemed to care a lot more now.

Her breathing was already picking up again, thinking about what she had learned. She wanted to go back to sleep. To be knocked out for eternity and a day, if it meant she wouldn’t have to deal with her reality right now. She wanted to take James and lock herself away for a million years.

He shifted out of the chair he had dragged into her room so that he could sit by her bed, crawling in next to her and gathering her into his arms. He was warmer than her, and she realized she was shaking like a leaf, though not with the cold. She was just shaking, her hands trembling violently.

“I’ve got you. I’ve got you. You’re okay,” he mumbled, holding her tight to his chest.

“I can’t...I can’t stop,” she said breathlessly, staring at her hands.

“I know. Just breathe, Vivien. Just breathe,” he told her.

He took one of her hands, placing it over his heart, where his own chest fell in a steady rise and fall. She concentrated on that, trying to match it, trying to mimic his pace. Slowly, her shaking stopped, and James pushed the hair out of her face again.

“I’m going to go get you some juice. You’re in shock. You need to drink it to help your body cope. Do you understand?”

Vivien nodded, lacking the energy to snap at him, to tell him that she could understand simple instructions.

He came back with a glass of apple juice, and Vivien drank it all slowly. The house was quiet enough that she got the feeling Karen and Frank were sleeping, but she asked anyway.

James nodded. “They didn’t want to go to sleep. They were trying to insist they watch over you, but I volunteered. Promised them I wouldn’t let anything bad happen to you. Not that I had any other choice what with Frank putting a knife to my throat.”

Normally she would have laughed, been angry. Instead, she just stared at her empty juice cup.

“I’m sorry.” The words were deeply sad.

“It’s okay. He’ll warm up to me eventually.”

“Will he though?” The corners of her mouth started to turn up a little in a smile.

“He will. I’m going to work on him. Everyone succumbs to my charm eventually. Even you and you are a very hard to please woman, Vivien.”

“I think my demands are perfectly reasonable.” This was easy. This banter was nice and familiar.

“Are you going to be okay?” He asked.

“I don’t know. I don’t feel okay.”

“I know.”

She leaned back into him, and he let her, body adjusting to accommodate for hers. She was smaller than him, and so it was easy to fit herself into his side and lean her head against the place where his shoulder met his chest, the muscle holding the two together smooth and perfectly fitted to cradle her head. Even if it hadn’t been, James’ hand still stroking her hair would have supported her head.

“I can’t stop...I can’t stop thinking about it. I can’t stop going back there.”

His breathing hitched like he was in pain. Maybe he was, but she couldn’t see his face to know. A second later, his voice answered the question for her.

“You should try to sleep some more,” he said. It wasn’t the cloistering sweetness of sympathy in his voice, but pain, bright and clear. Pain because he hated that this was happening to her. “It will make you feel better.”

“Okay.” She swallowed. “You should...you should go home and get some rest. I’m sorry I made you come here for no reason.”

He stiffened at that, moving her so that she faced him and could see the seriousness in his bright blue eyes, see how much he meant every word.

“If I had a way to know every time when you were in trouble, when you were hurt, I would come Vivien. Every time. I didn’t come here for no reason. I came here to help you, and I would have come even if you’d told me there was nothing I could to make it better. I would have come just to try. So don’t think that I’m not here of my own free will.”

She nodded slowly, let him know she understood. Then he kissed her forehead softly, and she let her eyes close, let herself feel safe for a heartbeat.

“I should go, though. But I’ll be back early tomorrow. As soon as I can get out of the house. And before school. I’ll drive you in if you want to go, okay?”

She nodded, wishing with everything in her that he could stay as he slipped out of her bed, letting her lay down and curl up on her side.

“Goodnight,” he said.

She mumbled the word back as he walked away, and she could have sworn he seemed reluctant as he flicked the light switch and left.

#as the raven flies #fic #fanfic #punisher #frank castle #karen page #kastle #oc #frank castle fic #punisher fic #marvel #mcu

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citrusdyke · 6 years

Note

EdLing A

Thank you for the prompt :) It took me some time to figure out what I wanted to write, and this is pre-established relationship, so I hope that’s not too disappointing!

Ed visits Xing, promptly gets sick, and is checked on by a royal friend

A: Fire, flames, or excessive heat

A cold flush moved through his body, and Ed shuddered. He was lying on his back in bed—not his own bed, but a bed in one of the doubtless many guest rooms of the Imperial Palace in Xing. The room was nice, Ed had to admit. Since becoming a state alchemist, he hadn’t had any real problems with money, and he’d seen no need to deny Al and himself comfort he could afford when they travelled; he was thus no stranger to nice accommodation. Still, the room was lavish even by Ed’s standards. The design was opulent yet tasteful: rich reds, vibrant golds and pale creams were set against deep browns that in the low, dancing light of the fire in the fireplace seemed almost black. Not even two days into his trip to Xing and he’d already fallen ill; Ed silently cursed the unfamiliar climate, his immune system, and Ling for good measure.

I could have stayed in Rush Valley, or visited any number of other places. I hear Briggs is nice this time of year… But noooo, I just had to cross a desert. Damn you, Ling Yao, with your, ‘It’d be good to see you, Ed’, and your, ‘You’re of course very welcome to stay at the palace while you research whatever you like’. How dare you make such a tempting offer? You and your… your… hospitality!

Ed groaned as he began to feel warm again, more sweat beading on the back of his neck and on his forehead and sticking his hair to his skin. It was uncomfortable, but with what with the way Ed’s body was aching and his head was swimming, it barely registered as annoying.

It took Ed a second to realise that the knocking sound was coming from the door and wasn’t just his head pounding. Maybe it was Al back—after staying by his side all night, his brother had finally retreated to his own room a couple of hours ago once the Xingese doctors had informed them that Ed just needed water and rest, but Al had never been very good at not fretting. Ed hoped it wasn’t Al though; his brother deserved rest too.

“Ed?” a voice called out as the knocking came again. “It’s me. May I come in?”

That… wasn’t Al.

“Yeah,” Ed called back, his voice rough. He coughed twice, which made his throat feel worse, and reached for the glass of water on the small table beside his bed. As he carefully sat up enough to drink, the door on the far side of the room opened, and Ling Yao slipped inside.

“Hey,” Ed croaked. Ling, walking closer, shot him an amused look.

“Drink your water, Ed.”

Ed scowled—he didn’t appreciate being told what to do—but fixed his focus back on the glass in his shaky hands and took a couple of slow sips of water, relishing the soothing feeling on his throat. As Ed shifted to place the glass back on the table, it was plucked from his hands. Ling refilled the glass from the pitcher that had been left there, and replaced both items. He then met Ed’s gaze and smiled.

“Better?”

Ed scowled harder.

“I could’ve done that myself,” he mumbled.

“You could have,” Ling agreed amicably. “How are you feeling?”

Ed gave a small shrug and looked away, suddenly oddly self-conscious. He was starting to feel cold again now that he was propped up rather than burrowed under sheets and blankets, and he suppressed a shiver.

“Sore. Tired,” Ed admitted.

Ed saw Ling frown. “Do you want me to leave so you can sleep? I don’t want to wear you out, I just wanted to see how you were doing.”

Ed shook his head. “No, it’s fine—” Ed was hit by a wave of shivers he wasn’t able to suppress, and he visibly shuddered.

Ling’s face became sharp with concern. “You should lie down.”

Ed set his jaw stubbornly, even as his head throbbed in protest. “No, I don’t want to.”

Ling met Ed’s eyes with a serious expression, and for a few moments said nothing, but he must’ve come to some sort of conclusion because he relaxed and let out a small sigh, appearing to relent.

“Just don’t die in my palace, Edward Elric. I don’t think Mustang would forgive me if his precious ex-subordinate died under my roof. The fate of our diplomatic relationship with Amestris lies in your hands,” he joked.

Ed rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah.”

Ling’s lips twitched.

“That’s the spirit! Anyway, if you refuse to lie down, I’m going to build the fire up so you don’t shake yourself to death. I hope there are no objections,” Ling spoke cheerfully, the unspoken because I’m doing it either way implied in his tone.

“How are you so obnoxious,” Ed grumbled, but didn’t argue, and tugged a blanket up to wrap around his shoulders. The blanket was red and warm and Ed allowed himself to take comfort in the familiar colour as Ling barked a laugh. Ed bristled slightly, and waited for Ling to say something, a retort already on the tip of his tongue, but Ling moved over to the fireplace without another word, simply shaking his head and chuckling to himself.

Temporarily placated, or at least too tired to push the issue, Ed relaxed against the head of the bed as Ling began to stoke the fire. Ling had a nice laugh, Ed noted. Ling’s voice was clear and resonant, and hearing it loosened something in Ed’s chest. Ling was obnoxious—some of the things he said and did made Ed want to shake him, to interrogate him, to look deep into his soul and learn why, why, why—but it was damned good to see him again.

As Ling worked on the fire, humming quietly to himself, Ed let himself look at him properly. He’d seen Ling briefly the previous day, but there had been a lot of other people around, and he’d been too distracted taking in the sights to truly focus on his friend.

It had been nearly five years since Ed had seen Ling on that day, the day that homunculus had dubbed the Promised Day. They had of course kept in touch, but it was one thing to exchange letters and phone calls and quite another to see Ling again in person. Unsurprisingly, he looked older: he was taller, and his shoulders were broader, his face a little less rounded. Less tangibly, there was something in his air that had changed. He held himself with a fraction more poise than Ed remembered, and his movements seemed more considered, more decisive.

He holds himself like a ruler, Ed noted with some surprise. Ed knew of Ling’s position, of course, and even back on that day he had believed that Ling would accomplish what he promised to do, and yet somehow the proof of it still caught him off-guard, made him feel almost flustered.

Ed eyed Ling again, noting his shiny dark hair, his deft hands, the way that the glow of the fireplace played across his striking features. Ling was so interesting. Ed found he would’ve been content to stare longer; he felt a little disappointed when Ling finished with the fire and turned back to him.

Ling met Ed’s stare—and oh, whoops, he’d forgotten to stop before Ling noticed—and gave him a curious look. “Penny for your thoughts?”

The heat in Ed’s cheeks probably couldn’t be attributed to his fever.

“Uh. I wanted to say thanks. For the fire,” Ed rushed. Ling smiled widely, and for a second Ed’s breath caught. An effect of the illness? He hoped not; he felt miserable enough without adding respiratory issues on top.

“It’s no problem,” Ling replied, seemingly oblivious to Ed’s inner turmoil. “You are an important guest, after all!”

“Yeah,” Ed muttered distractedly as Ling moved to sit on the side of the bed. Ling’s hair looked so soft in the flickering golden light; Ed wondered what it would feel like if he were to stroke it.

Ling chuckled softly, and something in Ed’s chest fluttered.

“So, Ed,” Ling began, his voice soft and bright. “Tell me about what you’re planning on studying while you’re here.”

#Blah #Asks #Anon #FMA #EdLing #I had fun writing this! I feel like my writing could still use more in the way of variance and like. Interest. Imagery #Plus I struggled a bit with the dialogue bc I didn't really know where I wanted this to go rip #But it was good to write and I think it was decent practice! So thanks :)

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