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flowerandblood · 2 months

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The Fall from the Heavens (13)

[ dark • Aemond x Strong • niece female ]

[ warnings: angst, arranged engagement, violence, swearing, trauma, regret, depression, mention of a suicide attempt ]

[ description: A cool distance turns into friendship and more when two children see that they can find refuge and understanding in each other. However, naïve dreams collide with the reality in which every event has consequences and what once could have been love becomes a dark, newly painful obsession. Angst, sexual tension, obsession, violence, madness, very dark Aemond. ]

The story in this series is an alternate reality from the oneshot Stay and love, leave and die, in which Aemond reads the letters his niece has sent to him over the years. They are the same characters and it shows what would have happened between them − I have changed the background story from their childhood slightly for the sake of the plot.

Characters & Series Moodboard

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

Next chapters: Masterlist

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Daemon understood better than anyone what it meant to be the second son, the one who would inherit nothing. It seemed to him that, in contrast to Viserys, he was a blazing fire like a true dragon, giving warmth, light and shelter to those close to his heart, burning those whom he saw as his enemies.

Viserys was always blind, soft-spoken, lacking strong character and clear opposition when things got too far out of hand.

This trait of his had been carefully exploited by Otto Hightower over the years, putting himself in the role of his friend and adviser, playing his part with an extraordinary devotion from which he felt like throwing up.

He knew it was pure courtesy, perfectly calculated, taking advantage of the mourning of the entire Red Keep and his inattention after Aemma's tragic death he slipped his brother his daughter under his nose.

Looking at her on their wedding day, standing in a long, ornate gown he thought she looked like a child on whom someone had put layers of cloth and precious stones; overwhelmed by it all she looked down at her feet, around her nails the red wounds he had seen on her hands ever since.

On that one day, knowing what was awaiting her, he truly felt compassion for her.

After that, however, he stopped.

She could have built her independence, committed herself to the needs of the kingdom, she, however, in the company of that cunt, Criston Cole, gave herself over to prayer and mortification, obediently following her father's orders.

As a woman, she was in his eyes pitiful, weepy, whiny, merely pretending to be saintly and virtuous, having in fact nothing to do with these qualities.

His feelings about her and her father moved involuntarily to her children.

He recognised the dragon's blood in them and treated them differently from the Hightowers, yet he was unable or unwilling to bond with them, seeing how they were suckled to their mother's breasts, which did not allow them to think or breathe on their own.

He watched from the sidelines, observing from afar as Rhaenyra and Alicent's children trained together, how a divide formed between them. He knew that once they grew up and understood what was really at stake, they would throw themselves at each other's throats.

He knew perfectly well whose right to the throne he would support.

Aegon was a drunkard and a cunt, Helaena was quiet and withdrawn, Aemond was sullen and vindictive − he thought with amusement that each of them had inherited the worst from his brother and their mother.

However, he couldn't help but show at least a little compassion and understanding for his brother's second son, who had been punished by the gods, left without a dragon of his own.

Some part of him wanted to speak to him, to get to know him, to see through him as a kind of reflection of himself, but on those rare occasions when he was with Leana and his daughters in the Red Keep he never made such a gesture, which he later, though he did not want to admit it to himself, regretted.

Perhaps things would have turned out differently then.

He could see with what admiration he looked at him, how much he longed to hear at least one word of appreciation from him, any gesture of interest.

He knew that if he could decide who his father-figure would be he would choose not Viserys or Cole but him, and he pretended not to notice that.

Once though, he noticed something that surprised him; strolling through the cloisters of the Red Keep he spotted his nephew and Rhaenyra's only daughter standing side by side in the square, leaning over the table filled with the various weapons. He smirked under his breath as he walked closer, wanting to listen to their conversation.

They were betrothed.

A clumsy attempt by his brother to avoid what he felt in his bones had to happen.

He saw his niece point her finger at one of the weapons lying on the wooden tabletop, a steel black spiked ball hooked on a chain to a special handle.

"What is it? It looks scary." She said with amusement, her voice light and pleasant; he thought with surprise that his nephew's grim and stormy nature did not deter her.

Alicent's son grunted loudly, lifting his chin slightly in a gesture of superiority and intelligence that he hated so much about the Hightowers, clearly proud to be able to speak on a subject in which his knowledge was extensive.

"It's a flail. A very heavy weapon requiring great strength and agility in its use. It literally crushes the opponent." He said, forcing himself into a low, mature, masculine voice, standing with his hands clasped behind his back, his hair in a slight disarray from the few duels he had already had.

"That weapon looks like the kind you die from in agony." Mumbled his niece, tentatively touching her fingertip to one of the spikes – her uncle pushed her away immediately, surprised by her gesture, grabbing her hand by the wrist.

"Are you insane? What are you doing? It's sharp after all, you could have hurt yourself." He said angrily, but she only blinked, surprised by his outburst, and smiled indulgently, showing him her finger.

"I know, silly. I wouldn't want something like that to hit me in the face." She sneered, raising her eyebrows in amusement, joy in her gaze and embarrassment at the fact that he still hadn't let her go.

She took a step closer to him, but he stepped back quickly and lowered his gaze, he noticed in disbelief that his pale cheeks had turned scarlet.

"Not here. Later." He muttered letting go of her wrist immediately. He heard her quiet sigh of disappointment as she nodded and walked away without another word.

He watched as, a moment later, his nephew cursed under his breath, pulling off his leather gloves and moved after her, grabbing her at one of the side entrances by her arm. She turned to him with a smile as if she was sure he would follow her, her lips placing a quick, brief kiss on his cheek.

He let her go, embarrassed and blushing, looking sideways, muttered something, and she nodded and disappeared behind the walls. His nephew returned to the square as if nothing had happened, a lazy, barely visible smile on his face; Aegon looked at him from afar with a look full of pity, as soon as his younger brother came closer he said loud and clear:

"What a twat you are."

He snarled under his breath as he heard Criston Cole immediately respond to his remark by saying that it was inappropriate for a prince to use such vocabulary, his younger brother only gave him a grim look indicating that he himself was torn internally, ashamed of his weakness.

He thought then, moving ahead, amused, that his brother had inadvertently contributed to something that was certainly not his original plan.

These kids really wanted it.

He felt shame because, looking at them, he wondered how he really felt about his wife. He recognised that she was his companion and lover, whom he respected and cherished, but she was not his friend, he could not allow her into the depths of his heart.

Only when he saw Rheanyra did he feel something more; he had the feeling that the air around them quivered when they spoke, he sensed that she understood perfectly the source and reason of his impulsive nature.

Despite this, he found his life peaceful and prosperous, and the death of his wife in childbirth was something shocking and painful to him. He covered his grief with laughter, the thought that he had wasted years of her life, a wonderful, beautiful woman who deserved someone to love her with all her being, giving her something more than a substitute of affection.

Then, however, his nephew lost an eye and everything fell apart like a house of cards, showing how weak their family actually was.

The events that followed wove together in his mind, the closeness of Rhaenyra and their later nuptials brought him a sense of relief, as if two parts that belonged together had been joined.

He watched her daughter from afar, the sadness and grief painted on her after all still so young and innocent face made her seem to him pale and lifeless, at once beautiful, cool and inaccessible, walking around Dragonstone like a ghost, not speaking to anyone despite how much his daughters tried to get close to her.

She was warm, helpful and welcoming when anyone approached her, but did not raise any discussions herself, eating and drinking little at suppers, immersed in her thoughts.

He knew that she was with them only in body.

He decided not to make the same mistake as with his nephew and offer her his interest, his support in the ironic and mischievous form peculiar to him, the only way in which he could show his affection to anyone.

What surprised him was how much she clung to him, how often she cried during their walks together; despite her innate vulnerability she had a strength of character that he appreciated – she was inclined to rash actions or anger, but she was also not docile or naive, she tried to find order in the chaos that surrounded her.

Only he and his niece had been invited to Aegon's nuptials to Helaena; Alicent had expressed in her letter her concern that the meeting of their children might affect them badly and reawaken old wounds, which his wife took as a reasonable argument, and indeed, albeit reluctantly, it was only the two of them who travelled to the Red Keep.

The whole ceremony in the Great Sept dragged on endlessly for him; he looked around, bored, unwilling to stare at the horrified, sad faces of his nephew and niece, testament to the fact that neither of them wanted this marriage.

The wedding supper held in the fortress was lavish with dancing and music, lords from all over the kingdom descended and gathered in the throne room at large, long oak tables filled to the brim with food. Sitting down in his seat next to his wife, he glanced sideways and noticed a figure looking at him intensely, the One-Eyed Prince staring at him coolly, his lips pressed into a thin line.

He raised his eyebrows in disbelief and admiration, finding that he looked like a man, well-built and muscular, tall, his hair much longer, a black eye patch covering the left side of his face.

He grinned with amusement and mockery, wondering to what he owed his attention, and his nephew only hummed under his breath, looking away, apparently discouraged by his reaction.

He wondered, looking at him, taking a sip of wine from his goblet, if he had shown him fatherly concern then, taken him under his wing, separated him from Alicent and Otto, he would be a different man now.

Several toasts were made to the bride and groom, during each of which Aegon drank his cup to the bottom, clearly intent on fulfilling his marital duty completely drunk.

"Stop it. You've had enough." Growled his younger brother, taking his goblet from him with an aggressive flick of his hand, setting it impatiently far from his older brother's reach.

Aegon slapped him angrily on the shoulder, mumbling something under his breath; his younger brother stood up, towering over him, showing him wordlessly that if he touched him again he would regret it.

"Aemond." Said their mother, this green whore, who was looking at them in pain, her hands folded in front of her as if to pray.

His nephew rolled his eyes and left the hall by a side entrance, furious, unwilling and unable to look at it apparently; Aegon with a wide grin reached for his cup again and to his despair took the empty seat next to him that had been occupied earlier by his wife, now conversing with the King.

"Uncle! So many years." He mumbled, tapping him on the back in a friendly, masculine greeting. He rolled his eyes, amused, smelling the stench of alcohol and sweat from him.

"As you can see, everything stays in the family. I don't know how I'm going to survive this. After all, she'll surely cry. Fuck." He muttered, taking a deep, catchy sip from his cup, tilting it so that he drank it all at once.

He ran his tongue over his lower lip, feeling discomfort at the thought that he felt compassion for Helaena for what was about to happen to her.

"She doesn't seem to fully understand what I will have to do to her. After all, she's my sister. I don't want to hurt her. She's odd and I don't understand her, but I don't want her to fucking cry." He mumbled out covering his face with his hand, his voice breaking with his every word – he drew in air loudly as if he was out of breath, and he looked at him not knowing what to do.

He glanced at her sad, petite figure; she sat gazing off into the distance somewhere, dreamy.

He wondered as he watched her if she realised what awaited her.

What was he supposed to answer him?

"Be gentle and kind. Make her feel as little pain as possible. You know very well that how it will look lies in your hands. If you want her to suffer as little as possible, stop drinking because it will take you a fucking hour." He growled, taking the cup from his hand just as his younger brother had earlier, and wondered if that was what he meant then, if he knew his condition would only worsen whatever was to await them next.

"You pity yourself and you smell of alcohol and sweat. Go take a bath or do you want to lay on her like that? Give her some dignity for goodness sake." He said coolly, looking ahead indifferently; his nephew swallowed loudly, sitting beside him like a little rebuked child, playing with his fingers.

He wondered, looking at him out of the corner of his eye if his brother had ever spoken to him about it, if he had prepared him and explained to him how he should behave.

"All my life I've envied him. My brother. He had someone of his own who cared about him. I think he really loved her, uncle. Now I barely recognise anyone myself. I'm not sure any of us are the same person anymore. Only Helaena has remained the same − innocent and ignorant. That's because she doesn't step outside her mind. If she did, she would have gone mad like we did."

It turned out that he was partly right.

What he didn't expect was that when they arrived all together as a family after several years in King's Landing to defend Luke's rights to inherit the Driftmark these two would be lying in bed with each other on their very first night.

"If you tell me you still want to marry him, I will help you. I'd rather you be his wife than lead you and him into a scandal that could destroy your mother. Your betrothal has never been called off, the king will easily prove that no other plans for you can be in force against his decision. But if you decide not to, I will personally see to it that you never see him again and that no letter of yours leaves Dragonstone. Make a manly, mature decision with all its consequences, and stop wallowing over yourself."

He told her then, wanting her to understand that they could not stand in the middle, that they had to choose, or their decisions would drag them all down.

Watching them in the throne room audience, however, the greedy, desperate gaze of his nephew fixed on her as if he wanted to devour her gave him no illusions.

What this boy was telling himself was one thing, but what he was feeling was another.

It was this thought that made him decide to question Alicent's decision in front of everyone, wanting to hear his brother's opinion on the matter, the only one that really counted. He had expected nothing but objections from both sides, however, against the desperate attempts of their mothers, his nephew and his niece's daughter made a decision that did not surprise him at all.

It was enough for her to get up from her seat and walk out to make him press his lips together in rage and follow her out, exactly as he had done then, in the courtyard, when he had thrown himself after her, and she knew perfectly well that he would do so, knowing his nature.

He wondered if she had kissed him this time too, if the tension between them had eased.

He thought that this marriage might actually calm the emotions a little, especially as his brother was over his deathbed.

This union was forcing both parties to be cautious, which could be mutually beneficial.

"She has decided that she wants to stay in the Red Keep until I return." His wife said to him, putting her black leather gloves on her hands, walking beside him towards the dragon's lair. He stopped, looking at her in disbelief, furious.

This was not the plan.

"What?" He growled, looking at her as if she had completely lost her mind. "You're leaving my daughter in the care of that whore and her father-traitor?"

He saw that she smiled at his words emphasising that in his eyes she was his child, that he had taken responsibility for her and protected her as any true father should.

"She asked me to do this. I imagine they both want to clarify a lot of things with each other. Since the nuptials are to take place as soon as possible there is no need to fret, I will personally take her back in a few days." She replied calmly, and he let out a loud breath, impatiently licking his lips.

It was a bad idea, he could feel it in his bones, but he didn't protest and that was his mistake.

The next day he lost two of his daughters.

Rhaenyra, his brother's heir to the throne fell with a groan when envoys reported to her that her father was dead, that her brother had been crowned king, that they had imprisoned their daughter.

She cried out loudly in pain, clutching at her womb; at first he thought it was despair, but then he saw the pool of blood beneath her feet, her terrified gaze, her lips parted in agony.

They both knew it was too soon.

Their daughter already looked like a tiny infant, but sadly her fate was sealed; she wasn't moving or breathing, she was cold, looking more like a doll than a human being.

He felt that he had to leave the fortress; he followed exactly where he always went out with her, with one of his daughters, to the sea itself, and he fell to his knees, breathing heavily, not knowing what he was supposed to do with the rage and chaos that overtook his mind.

He wanted to mount Caraxes and burn them all.

However, his cousin and daughters had cooled his ardour, recognising that they needed to prepare, gather an army, make a plan of action.

He recognised that it was only female sentiment, a weakness that kept them from making the risky decision that his whole life consisted of.

When his wife finally recovered from her brief mourning, despite his entreaties, she did not listen to him and decided to send her sons as her representatives, wanting to extract the pledge of allegiance from those who had paid her tribute many years ago.

He had thought it nonsensical, however, when Luke returned from Storm's End it turned out that his step son had been a naive idiot.

"You flew after him? You flew after him knowing he could imprison you, use you as your mother's weakness? Fucking fool." He growled, turning away from the table with fury, massaging his face with his palm, not believing he could have done such a thing.

"Daemon." Said Rhaenyra in a voice trembling with despair; she looked at her son, trying to calm herself. "What happened next?"

"He brought her. Someone hit her, mother, and I think she tried to take her own life. There were cut marks on her wrists." He muttered, forcing himself into a calm tone of voice.

He turned towards him, looking at him with his heart beating fast.

She had done this for them, so they could attack the Red Keep without fear.

She wanted to make a manly decision, to sacrifice herself, his brave daughter, his little dragon.

"Gods." Said his wife, clutching at her womb, apparently involuntarily recalling the moments when she had carried her under her heart, the maternal tears of pain in her eyes.

"And then?" He finished for her, seeing that she didn't have the strength to get anything else out, Luke swallowed hard, afraid to look at him.

"I told her to run away with me, but she didn't agree. She told me to tell you that she loves you and that she remains faithful to you, mother." Said with difficulty, Jace slammed his fist on the table, furious.

"That fucking bastard purposely made her stay. He planned this, he never had any intention of marrying her!" He said red with anger and he glanced at him indifferently, sighing heavily.

"And then what? He let you just walk away? No one else saw you?" He asked further, pretending not to have heard his outburst; Jace pressed his lips together, furious. Luke shook his head quickly.

"N-no, I was surprised, but no. Forgive me, I had to see her, make sure that she is still alive." He muttered, and he sighed heavily, placing both of his hands on the table, leaning over it, and closed his eyes, trying to focus.

He let her see him without any other witnesses and then let him go even though he hated him, even though he could have trapped and humiliated him.

Why?

A memory flashed through his mind, the way his nephew cursed as he fought with himself to finally run after her, her smile full of reassurance as she turned to him knowing he would follow her, his blush of embarrassment and lazy smile as her lips placed a soft, warm kiss on his cheek, her proof of her devotion and affection that he craved so much.

He had never stopped loving her.

This stone-cold, dangerous man had done something for her, surely after she had tried to take her own life.

"Bring me a parchment and a quill. I need to speak with my nephew."

_____

Aemond Taglist:

(bold means I couldn't tag you)

@notnormalthings-blog @nikstrange @zenka69 @bellaisasleep @k-y-r-a-1 @g-cf2020 @melsunshine @opheliaas-stuff @chainsawsangel @iiamthehybrid @tinykryptonitewerewolf @namoreno @malfoytargaryen @qyburnsghost @aemondsdelight @persephonerinyes @fan-goddess @sweethoneyblossom1 @watercolorskyy @apollonshootafar @padfooteyes

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biconickyoshi · 4 months

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Zuko and Aang as they appear in Book 2: Water of my slowburn Zukaang AU, The Avatar and the Fire Prince!

Overall Synopsis (for new readers):

In the year 96 AG, a freshly burned and banished 13-year-old Prince Zuko discovers a strange boy frozen in an iceberg. When Zhao interferes with Zuko's plans to deliver the Avatar to his father, Aang helps Zuko and Iroh escape. They take refuge in the abandoned Air Temples, Aang searching for any remnants of his people that he can find. Along the way, he teaches an indoctrinated Zuko about the true nature of the Air Nomads. Zuko must come to terms with the fact that everything he has been taught was a lie, while Iroh must acknowledge and face the sins of his past. Eventually, Aang and Zuko become close friends, and Zuko begins to feel things he has never felt for anyone before. However, Zhao will not give up easily, and will do whatever it takes to capture the Avatar and his traitor accomplices.

Book 2 Synopsis:

Zuko and Iroh have now officially denounced the Fire Nation and the Royal Family and are dedicating themselves to helping Aang fight against the forces of their homeland. After narrowly escaping Admiral Zhao at Crescent Island during the winter solstice of 96 AG, Aang, Zuko, and Iroh travel south in search of the Southern Water Tribe village Aang has been dreaming about. The village is in danger: the Southern Raiders are coming, and it will be up to our trio - with the help of a couple of Water Tribe siblings - to unite the remaining villages of the Southern Water Tribe so that they will stand a fighting chance.

I got an iPad for Xmas and I’ve spent the past couple days working on this! :) I’m super happy with how it turned out!

Zuko’s about 14 here - his hair length is how it looks about halfway through this Book. I’ll probably do another piece to show what he looks like at the end of the Book since his hair is a lot longer now with it being almost a year since he cut it in the AU’s timeline (we’re now approaching the Northern Water Tribe storyline). I’ve also never drawn weapons before… so I hope his broadswords don’t look too wonky 😅

Aang is about 13 here. He’s wearing a new outfit as well, which I thought made sense since this AU takes place over 3-4 years instead of less than one year like in the OG series. Aang’s gonna grow a lot over the course of this AU, so he can’t just keep wearing his Air Nomad trainee clothes indefinitely lol.

I plan to do a lot more pieces in the future as I get the hang of digital art, so I would like to draw more characters (like Iroh, Sokka, and Katara) and more looks for Aang and Zuko. I’m also really excited for Book 3, which will be Earth in my fic (Earth is my absolute favorite season of the OG show). Zuko’s hair will probably be long enough to pull back into a ponytail again at some point during that book… Though this time it will be a different style :) gotta do some brainstorming for that one!

I’m close to wrapping up the next chapter, in which our characters make a return to the Northern Air Temple! I haven’t had as much time to work on it recently just due to all the holiday stuff that’s been going on. It’s probably gonna be a shorter chapter as well (which I don’t mind, I hope y’all don’t either). But after that, we’ll finally be in the Northern Water Tribe! :)

#the avatar and the fire prince #taatfp #my art #atla #atla au #zuko #aang #atla fan art #avatar the last airbender au #zukaang #zukaang au #zukaang fanfic #atla fanfic #zuko x aang #aang x zuko #ao3

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hawkeyeslaughter · 4 months

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Do you have any (minor) headcanons that you have little to no evidence for but you just believe them as if they were the truth?

oh god of course i do

— the nurses taught klinger how to hem , alter , even make some of his own clothes ; he gets so good at it that sometimes they just come to him with their needs

— the uke ( ? ) that hawkeye has hanging in the swamp ? he knows how to play it surprisingly well , he just never does unless drunker than usual

— radar put soles in his boots one time that made him taller and it took even hawkeye like a solid week to figure out what was different about him ( once he did , though , radar had no refuge from the teasing )

— the nurses hold regular gossip sessions and sometimes compare notes on the guys of the 4077th

— margaret knows how to cut hair , taught herself how to cut her own ( because she got sick of barbers not cutting it the way she wanted ) . has more than once had to come to the rescue of nurses who have marred their hair by taking the scissors to it

— in college bj was a relentless and revered hazer ( which is funny considering he barely got through his own hazing )

— hawkeye’s use of petnames ( “ darling “ , “ sweetheart “ , “ baby “ , etc etc ) are all picked up from trapper . prior to meeting him he hardly ever used them

— when oliver got his orders home , trapper and hawkeye threw him a rager in the swamp and were very badly hungover for their actual goodbye the next day

— father mulcahy has that thing where he hears a tune and can instantly play it on the piano

— charles falls asleep regularly during movie nights hawkeye and beej drag him to , usually on hawkeye’s shoulder

— trapper is colorblind . not like , drastically colorblind , but hawkeye finds out one day and teases him absolutely relentlessly for it

— trapper and oliver always did this bit where they pretended they were whispering things and wouldn’t tell hawkeye what they were saying because it was funny to watch hawkeye get all huffy and annoyed with them

— henry has to do the right / left things with his hands all the time ( PLSASE ITS SO STUPID )

— margaret has a crazy sweet tooth + sometimes bj asks peg to send sweets back specifically for margaret

— potter’s horse or pet names in general very rarely alter because he just can’t be bothered to come up with new creative ones . besides , tried and true always works

— klinger is a pool shark . idk why he is he just is . he has pool shark vibes

— trapper briefly considered going into pediatrics

— charles sometimes has very serious conversations with the camp strays ( mainly just voicing whatever he may be thinking of at the particular moment )

— radar sometimes likes to imagine he’s the protagonist in a superhero world and i mean why not . little dude is literally psychic

— hawkeye has a habit of ripping at his nails , klinger regularly checks them and manicures them for him

— the nurses and swamp rats regularly get involved in prank wars . the nurses are far more clever than some people realize

— hawkeye and trapper stood back to back once to see who was taller and had radar judge ( hawkeye tried to bribe radar to say it was him )

— one time margaret made frank cry so hard he threw up . good for her

— bj has weirdly good reflexes and can catch things while barely looking up , he has a habit of saying “ i knew i should’ve gotten into baseball “

— charles does that thing where someone asks him to do something and he says “ no “ while actively doing it

— the swamp rats are all actively ready to swing on anyone who upsets one of the nurses and that goes double for margaret . sometimes they actually do

— hawkeye has a pair of roller skates . do with this information what you will .

— father mulcahy is a self - taught painter

— henry tells the same stories more than once and hawkeye , trapper , and radar have a mutual agreement to pretend they’ve never heard them whenever this happens

— hawkeye and radar have made many a pinky promise , and never once did one get broken

— charles is surprisingly a god awful secret keeper , he tells most secrets to margaret

— henry is scared shitless of cats

#sorry i had so many i got started and i genuinely could not stop #i hope you guys like my silly silly headcanons #holds hawkeye and charles and trapper and margaret and henry gently : they do this because i say it #my friends my closest friends #townes answers asks !#m*a*s*h #mash #mashposting #mashblr #mash 4077 #lgbt #lgbtq

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gaysindistress · 5 months

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Связи (n.) connections - one

disclaimer: credits to original creator/poster of image/gif. found on google/Pinterest

pairings: mob!bucky x reader

Summary: “Did you think you could hide from us? That’s adorable, little one. There’s no where on this planet where you could hide from the Shostakov Bratva and even if you did manage to evade us, the Barnes Bratva would find you. Your связи, your connections, will always come back to haunt you, Y/N.”

Warnings: cursing

Word count: 2.5k

series masterlist | gaysindistress masterlist

Taglist: @unaxv @identity2212

Dreykov.

The only man who has ever gotten close to destroying my family.

Ironic considering that he was the Sovietnik to my father but that was before he took it upon himself to ensure that my sisters and I wouldn’t be able to secure a familial line for the Shostakov Bratva.

He believed that only blood could produce blood. In other words, since we were all adopted, we did not have true Shostakov blood and could not carry on the Shostakov bloodline. My father did away with that outdated rule the moment Natasha came into his life but Dreykov refused to let it go.

Frankly I don’t remember anything from that night aside from a needle stabbing me in the neck and waking up in a hospital room. My father held my mother as she sobbed over the three of us all laying perfectly still in our beds. From what Alexei told me, I’m grateful I don’t remember being given an involuntary hysterectomy. If he hadn't already, I would’ve hunted Dreykov down myself and killed him for what he did to us.

Shortly after the three of us were discharged, Alexei sent us along with our mother, Melina, to live in Russia. He claimed it was safer that way but I could see the doubt in his eyes as he lied through his teeth. I think we made it two months before there was an attack. A trio of masked men broke in at night and had grabbed Yelena and I before my father’s men got there. The one that grabbed me was shot as he carried me through the foyer but another quickly grabbed me and yet again I was drugged. I remember the muffled screams of Yelena as the third dragged her away from the banister but then nothing.

I woke up in a small cabin filled to the brim with jars and bottles of various things. Some looked like herbs while others looked like body parts. The woman who was puttering around in the kitchen turned at the sound of me moving and I swore under my breath. Before me was the woman who ran the orphanage I’d lived in for 7 years before my parents adopted me.

She explained that Natasha had arranged for me to live with her until I was of age. “For your own sake,” she’d said and I knew once again I was being lied to by the people I’d trusted the most.

After I turned 17, I found the first US embassy I could and demanded they give me refuge. I made up some story but they all knew I was lying. Even though Alexei may not have been my birth father, I was always told I was a spitting image of him. Whether or not it was the looks or the personality, I’ll never know but the embassy staff immediately jumped on the chance to bring back Oksana Alexeyevna Shostakova-Vostokova.

As I was loaded onto the plane, I asked that they call me Y/N instead. Oksana felt too close to home and I wanted…no needed a fresh start. Y/N had been a nickname Melina gave me and even though I might never see her again, I would always have her near with y/n.

I was all but dropped in NYC with some falsified documents and $5,000 in cash as well as a promise to assist the government in any way I could. The military reached out to me while the FBI pounded on my door. NYPD cops tailed me everywhere and after 3 months of a shit waitressing job, I took up their offer. Within a matter of a few months, I was working as a personal assistant to the police captain of the 99th precinct.

When I turned 21, I was sent to the academy and came back as a fully fledged police officer. Thanks to the falsified documents, everyone knows me as Y/N Polastri and I’ve been able to forget about my life as Oksana Shostakova-Vostokova. My captain, Tony Stark, is aware of my past but only because I had called him one night when I first started, scared shitless because I thought I was being followed. I ended up spilling everything to him and begged him to keep it a secret. He, of course, honored that and from there, we grew closer. His husband, Steve, jokes that I’m the daughter they couldn’t have and even had us take family pictures together. At first Tony said it was ridiculous but he can’t say no to his husband and now his office is covered in various family portraits of us.

Not a day goes by where I don’t think of my sisters or even my parents but I’ve tried looking for them. The only thing I’ve been able to find is an old Russian news article that claims several unnamed Shostakov Bratva members died in a house fire the night I was kidnapped. Aside from that, nothing.

My father, however, hasn’t shied from the limelight. His name is plastered on every police board imaginable as one of the most wanted men in America. Tony does what he can to limit it at our precinct but it would draw attention if he completely got rid of any trace of Alexei. It wasn’t until two FBI agents, SSA Wanda Maximoff and SA Carol Danvers requested our help that I realized how much trouble he’s gotten into.

SSA maximoff laid out her impressive file on him, spreading the papers across the entire conference table as she explained how he’s the largest arms dealer on the East Coast.

“We’ve been able to connect him to not only the Barnes Bratva but also to the Widows,” she’d said while still admiring her work.

I decided then to keep myself busy and do what I could to stay clear of the feds.

I’d failed my own mission miserably but how is a person expected to avoid two people that have made it their mission to find me? A part of me wondered if they knew who I was but it became clear that they didn’t when SA Danvers began flirting with me. It was subtle at first, small smiles and touches which led to brief conversations and daily compliments. She reminded me of Morgan from Criminals Minds with special attention she paid me. It took maybe three months for her to wear me down enough that I finally said yes when she asked me out.

Tony only ever asked once if I planned on telling Carol about my family and the answer was a resounding “no. They’re dead to me.”

My plan to move on and forget worked well for years. I was able to live the way I only thought possible in dreams.

That is until I see a red envelope sitting on my desk. Everything around me starts to move in slow motion as I stare at the offending object so casually sitting among my things. The usually loud precinct drowns out to nothingness and the officers mill around become blurred streaks of blue.

I approach my desk with caution and inspect the letter as much as I can without touching it. I already know who it’s from, I don’t need to look at the black wax seal or the symbol stamped into it. Taking a seat, I pick up the letter and hold it in my lap. The implications of it are swirling around my head.

He knows.

He knows who I’ve become, where I am, and I have no idea for how long.

The letter feels disgusting and heavy in my hands. I have no idea what the contents are and I’m half tempted to throw it away without a second thought but I can’t. Not when he knows my cover and I need to know why.

I peel it open and pull out the black invitation neatly tucked inside. It’s entirely in Russian and I struggle at first after choosing to never use my native tongue but one sentence is clear.

“The Shostakov family regretfully announces the death of their daughter, Natasha Shostakova-Vostokova.”

The death of their daughter, Natasha Shostakova-Vostokova.

Death.

Natasha.

Natasha is dead.

My sister is dead.

And this is how my piece of shit father decides to tell me?

A fucking letter on my work desk in the middle of a busy precinct after years of no contact?

I keep reading.

The next line is a date, time, and address. Her funeral is going to be held at the family’s estate three days from now on Friday.

I wrinkle my nose, hoping to push away the tears that burn my eyes.

She’s gone.

Nat is gone and the last thing I ever said to her was “fuck off”. Well it was the last thing I screamed at her the night Yelena and I were kidnapped. We’d gotten into a fight about stealing socks and being the rage filled kid I was, I screamed at her to leave me alone. When she didn’t, I screamed at her to “fuck off” and she did. I never raised my voice or cursed at her so I knew it would get her attention and it worked. I half expected her to knock on my door later to make up but there was only the sound of raining gunfire and Yelena’s screams.

A light knock on my desk jolts me back to reality and I frantically look around before seeing Tony peering down at me.

“You okay?” He murmurs, throwing a glance to the letter in my lap. I look between it and him before offering it up.

He makes quick work of reading it and sharply inhales as he hands it back.

“Go home,” he tells me, “pack a bag and go home to the cabin. I’ll have Steve meet you there, okay?”

I stare up at the man I’ve come to love as a father and consider his offer of safety.

“No.”

He furrows his brows at me, “no?”

“No,” I say again, “I can’t leave. If he was able to send this to me, he’ll know about the cabin and have men waiting there. Besides, it'll look suspicious.”

Tony crosses his arms, “to who?”

I throw a loom to the redhead fed who’s walking in, “use your brain, captain.”

“She doesn’t know.”

“Doesn’t mean she’s not smart enough to figure it out. News will spread fast and I don’t want to connect the dots for her.”

He rolls his eyes and lets out a loud sigh, “Jesus Christ, Y/N. You need to stop being so paranoid.”

Carol drops herself onto my desk and saves me from having to listen to any more of his lectures about my paranoia.

“Everything okay over here?” She asks as she takes a sip of her coffee and hands me one too.

“Just peachy,” Tony snarks and sends me a pointed look before walking away. He’s never really liked her but it’s gotten worse since we started dating. He claimed it was because he didn’t approve of office romances even though his own marriage had been the result of one.

“What’s his problem?”

“Your guess is as good as mine,” I lie and shove the letter into my bag. She makes a move to grab the envelope but I’m faster.

She goes to ask another question, presumably about my jumpy attitude but I cut her off with a quick peck and tell her that I have a lot of work to do. She looks upset with me telling her to get lost although in a nicer way but leaves nonetheless. I want to feel bad, I do, I really do but I don’t. Nat is weighing too heavily on my mind to care if I’ve upset anyone, let alone Carol.

Nat consumes my every thought. She becomes all that I can think about as I mindlessly finish paperwork and reports.

All that occupies my mind is nat.

Nat.

I should’ve known better than to show up to a Shostakov event in black. My father’s signature color is red and my eyes are burning from the way the color drips from every inch of his house. The flowers, the banners, the signs, even the gravel are all the same shade of vibrant red. It reminds me of a crayon with how bright and primary it is.

The guests are all dressed in various styles of the same primary red but I’m the only one dressed in only black. I know I stick out for the moment but as soon as I step inside, I’ll blend into the surroundings. Even out of practice, I still remember how to merge into a crowd with ease.

As I walk up the polished steps of my father’s home, I search for any familiar faces amongst the crowd but I see no one. For a brief second, I think I spot Yelena’s blonde hair but it’s gone when I look again. A man dressed in a simple black suit with a rose pinned to his lapel appears at my side, asking to take my coat. I nearly jump from his unexpected closeness but smile and hand it to him. He’s wearing an uncanny smile and it sends a shiver down my spine as he clutches my coat to his chest. I make a mental note to “forget” it when I leave out of concern he might do something to it.

A loud call sounds before me and my eyes dart to the origins. The person who made the noise can’t be seen but I know who it is thanks to his booming voice.

“Welcome,” my father’s voice ricochets off the barren walls, “my wife and I want to thank all of you for coming to celebrate the life of our daughter Natasha. Her death is a great tragedy for our family but we are Shostakovs! We are strong and resilient! We will avenge her and make her proud as she watches over us!”

Men cheer while women wipe their eyes and nod in agreement around me. My eyes threaten to roll right out of their sockets at their performative sadness. Russians aren’t known for their sensitivity and Bratvas are even worse. When Dreykov was murdered, albeit by my father’s hand, no one mourned. His daughter was whisked away to live with her mother in England but other than that, the world continued as it had before.

My father has one thick arm wrapped around a dark haired woman and the other around a younger blonde. I squint to make out their families and I gasp when I recognize them as my mother and sister. Melina looks almost exactly as she had all those years ago and Yelena…. She looks like a completely different person. Granted it’s been almost a decade since I last saw her but there’s a fundamental change in her that I can’t describe.

Her sharp eyes seem to find mine and they narrow before moving to survey the rest of the crowd. A hand brushes against my back and I snap my head to the side, getting ready to curse at whoever touched me.

The hand shifts to my hip and pulls me subtly into their side but they don’t bother to look at me. Instead they lean down and a chilling air caresses me as I recognize their baritone voice.

“Welcome home, Oksana.”

So much for going unnoticed.

#Связи (n.) connections #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes fic #marvel imagine #bucky barnes fanfic #mob au #mob!bucky barnes imagine #Связи (n.) connections Bucky x reader #bucky barnes reader insert #mob!bucky #mob!bucky barnes x reader #mob!bucky barnes and reader #marvel #mob bucky barnes #mob bucky x reader

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empressgeekt · 7 months

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batfam meets the justice league fic idea, where Nightwing convinces the JL that the batfam is the last of the race Gotham bat demons...

made on moble so sorry in advance.

Okay so it starts with Batwoman and Nightwing hanging around the watchtower. Eventually someone (most likely either hal or barry) asks how they are related to batman. Batwoman claims to be his sister, and Nightwing obviously says he's his son. When the question of who Nightwing's mom comes up (along with some of the league thinking that Nightwing was an accident, cause they can't see bats settling down), Batwoman simply says, "he doesn't have one."

The convo sudden shifts to the topic of the 'history' and 'biology' of the bat demon race. How they were nearly eradicated by a war with the Amazon's, and Atlantis, only a few really surviving and finding refuge in the caves below Gotham. Hwo they used ancient forgotten magic to remove all memories of this 'war' to keep themselves save. And finally how they reproduce asexually, by reviving the souls of children who were wrongfully killed. Taking the weak dead spirit and carrying them in their own soul until it could put itself back together.

When asked if this was how Nightwing was born, they confirm it.

BW: oh yeah. Actually 'wing was kind of a surprise you could say.

Hal: surprise?

N: YEP! You see I was kinda of dad's first so he really didn't know what he was doing...

BW: and it ended with bossy big brother screaming his head off in an emergence of a batling that he didn't know he was carrying.

Barry: screaming his head off?

N: oh...well the process of soul splitting, emergence, rebirth, whatever you want to call it, includes the host's soul breaking down enough to allow the younger newly revived soul to detach. It's very painful, So I've heard.

BW; so you've heard? Kid please I know you've heard your father when it came to your siblings rebirth.

Needless to say everyone (especially hal and barry), look at Batman the same way for the next few days.

when Bruce confronts his son and cousin, he honestly can't say he hates the idea. UT would throw off any suspicions sound hus true identity. Not mention give him a new way to mess with hal.

The rest of the batfam (let's say standard webcomic cast, with Terry and Matty McGinnis [time traveled/dimensionhopped], along with flashpoint!batman, because they deserve to be in the safe place rhay is the batfam too, for funies), also find this cover story hilarious, and spend all of dinner adding to the bat-demon mythos.

Thomas would've been the last surviving member of the demon army, who retreated and sought refuge in Gotham, along with his human turned immortal companion of Alfred. Bruce, Kate, and Luke (batwing) would his 'children'.

The normal children would all still be Bruce's. Inculding spoiler, as why she claims she isn't Bruce's daughter, she isn't passing up the chance to mess with the JL.

Eventually the idea gets suggested that they should trick the JL into believing that Batman is pregnant with a new batling. The prank idea slowly snowballs from there and Bruce is unable to stop it. So he agrees to join in, ans rhe prank planninf begins. Matty immediately volunteers to be the new batling, because he technically the youngest and doesn't have a vigilante alter ego yet.

The prank starts out slow. Batwoman and Nightwing increase their visits to the watchtower? Specially when batman is there and they are usually in the same room as him.

Bruce pretends to be more tired often, even pretending to take a nap, where the JL can find him. He also fakes head aches.

Eventually Clark asks him if he's alright. And Nightwing responds with

N: of course he's not. He's working too hard.

B: Nightwing...

N: there's a reason me and aunt BW following you, and it's so you don't over do it!

B: nightwing...

N: even grandfather is worried.

B: Nightwing. I have been through this 8 times already. I think I know my limits. Besides your grandfather has always been worried over the thought of a new spawn in the house.

Clark: !!!!

Once more things around batman grow awkward for the next few weeks.

The end of the fic would be the JL visiting the "bat domain" to meet Matty dressed up in a mask and brightly colored suit. And finding out about the literal small army that batman's been building. Not to mention cameo of Thomas in his bat suit scaring the living crap out if the justice league, and having the time of his life.

Edit: Alright its official, this is going to be my holiday special for this year. So, around Christmas time I'll post a link so yall can read this.

Edit 2: https://archiveofourown.org/works/51963331/chapters/131402920

Happy holidays! hears and early present!

#justice league #batfamily #humor #crack fic #Justice league meets batfamily #batfam #batdad #batkids #I don't know why my brain came up with this #thomas wayne #terry mcginnis #matt mcginnis #flashpoint batman #Let these guys be a happy family that enjoys screwing with their dads coworkers

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imagines--galore · 3 months

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||The Thread of Fate|| Part Nine

Summary: Soulmate AU. They say the Thread of Fate connects you to your one true love. It may tangle. It may stretch. But it will never break. Wrapped around your little finger it tightens when it feels your soulmate is close and loosens when they are far. And becomes visible with the colors of your soulmate’s Nation when you finally fall in love with them.

Pairing: Zuko x OroraOC (ATLA)

Rating || Genres || Warnings: T+ Romance. Adventure.

Previous Chapters - Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five, Part Six, Part Seven, Part Eight,

A/N: So I didn't mean to stay away for so long but then life happened :/ Anyway! Hope you guys enjoy this REALLY long chapter!

To say it had been a close call would be an understatement. Not only had they escaped the Fire Nation Princess as well as the Fire Nation in the past few weeks, but somehow had managed to evade capture once more by two unknown assailants from the Earth Kingdom.

Hiding away in flower pots had certainly not been a comfortable idea, but it proved effective.

While the shopkeeper's son wheeled them away from the small village that had offered them refuge, Orora's mind caught up with all that had happened since yesterday.

Finding someone to help them.

The strange Pai Sho game.

The White Lotus Tile.

Escaping the Oasis.

Iroh's strange meeting.

Falling asleep on Zuko's shoulder.

The last one had a blush stealing across her cheeks, and the memory of it had her stomach flipping in on itself.

It was ridiculous just how strangely her body was reacting to what had happened. Especially when the waking up part had involved Zuko suddenly jumping to his feet and her body flopping to the side on the dirt floor.

He didn't even apologize for it, which only added to her annoyance of having been so rudely awakened.

As her annoyance faded to mild irritation, her mind began to wander had just how much her life had changed within the past few months.

Not only had she left home and her family, but she had also found herself a Master who could teach her. Her healing abilities had increased exponentially given the severity of the patients she had taken care of, not to mention how many she had treated. She had learned how to fight, a feat she was most proud of considering she barely had any training. The Moon Spirit herself had visited her and offered her advice. Her fingers unconsciously brushed against the white patch in her hair.

And then there was the fact that she had also found her soulmate.

Albeit one she could never accept but still. Not a lot of girls from the Northern Water Tribe claimed to have found their soulmates. Most of them had their marriages arranged to someone of their father's choosing before they could do so.

So perhaps she was fortunate enough to know who he was.

Just too bad he was the Fire Nation Prince.

Running a hand down her face the water bender sighed. "I need to stop fixating on him so much." She muttered to herself.

————————–

Boarding the boat that would carry them closer to their destination went about with no obstacles. Which was strange considering up till now whatever plan that was made hit a snag or two along the way. Still, she wasn't about to question fate and did remain on guard should anything go awry.

Her blue eyes were focused on the dock as it slowly grew smaller as the boat sailed away. Her Master had expressed his excitement by proclaiming himself a tourist, while Zuko remained as he preferred.

Pouting and brooding in a corner.

She barely overheard what they were speaking of, content on simply gazing at the clear water. She could see her reflection in it, could see the white patch of hair she had been blessed with.

Was that what it was then? A blessing by the Moon Spirit. Lifting her hand she brushed the tips of her fingers against the strands, tilting her head as she continued to observe her reflection. She wasn't someone who cared too much about her looks, but she didn't think she was unpleasant to look at. Cutting off her hair had been humbling in her opinion, and necessary. And the short hair did suit her, the strands now coming to just curl under her chin, the tips barely touching her collarbone. Still was she someone who could be described as being pretty? She pursed her lips, dropping her hand and shaking her head. Honestly, what was wrong with her? There were other more pressing things to worry about then her appearance.

"Orora, my dear." Iroh's voice barely registered in her mind, so lost she was as she gazed at the water, though she did make a small humming sound, to show she had heard him.

"It would seem there are a few passengers in need of your abilities."

That got her attention. Standing straight, the young girl followed his line of sight to see a young mother trying to console her small child. The little boy's arm was in makeshift sling, and even from here Orora could see how awkwardly the boy was holding his arm.

With an encouraging nod from her Master, the young waterbender slowly approached the duo. The mother looked up as she came closer.

"I'm sorry if his crying is disturbing you. It's just he's hurt an-" Orora shook her head, letting her lips curve into what she hoped was a friendly smile. "That is not the reason why I came. I'm a Healer, and I wanted to see if I could do something to help him."

So saying she bent down on her knees and reached out a hand towards the boy. "May I?" The mother looked a little unsure, but the child let out a loud whimper and she relented. Removing the sling, Orora uncorked her water pouch and coated her hands with the liquid. It glowed under her touch, mesmerizing the boy and distracting him from the pain as well as the fever that raged through his tiny body.

"It is a small break, but one I will be able to fix." Orora observed. She pressed her hands atop the boy's arm and took a deep breath. The blue glow around her hands intensified briefly before dying down. "Now try to move your arm." She encouraged with a smile, once she had removed her hands.

The boy was hesitant at first, but when no pain radiated from his injury, he let out a bright, happy laugh before swinging his arm around. Orora couldn't help but laugh lightly at his enthusiasm. "Well, it looks like you're all better now." She turned her attention to the mother who was looking at her in utter disbelief.

"He'll need something to make sure his fever goes away." Reaching into her bag she pulled out a small pack of leaves. "So just add this in his water and he should b-" The next moment all the breath was knocked right out of her as the mother all but threw herself forward and wrapped her arms around Orora in a tight embrace. "Thank you. Thank you so much." She all but sobbed. For her part, Orora patted the woman awkwardly on the back a few times.

When it came to physical displays of affection, her life had been quite lacking. Her father had never hugged her, her mother would only brush her hair in affection. The only embrace Orora could recall was one she had received from her grandmother. And that was so long ago.

She barely remembered it.

Once she was free of the embrace, the young girl quickly stood up and nodded at the small family before quickly retreating to where her two travel companions were. She moved to resume her previous stance when a voice stopped her.

"Why did you help them?"

Her head turned sharply in Zuko's direction. He was standing up against the support beam she had just passed, arms folded and a rather irritated look on his face. Which was the norm really.

"We're supposed to be keeping a low profile. You can't just go around and heal people." His words had her sighing in an almost exasperated manner. "Tell me Lee." The use of his other name sounded strange upon her tongue, and if Zuko were honest a tiny part of him didn't like hearing that name coming from her lips.

He much preferred Zuko.

Without so much as a hint of emotion in her features she continued. "If you came across a person, begging for water, and what you had was the last of your reserve would you give it to them?"

————————–

The silence that followed her words stretched on. Both teenagers refused to look away from the other, having started some sort of staring contest where neither wished to admit defeat. However there were subtle differences between their expressions.

Orora's face was tilted upwards slightly, silently challenging Zuko to answer and nearly taunting him with her eyes as she did. Zuko, on his part, had his lips pursed, and while Orora's stance was more relaxed and at ease, it was clear there was an inner battle that raged within the banished prince.

Then again, there was always a battle raging within him every waking hour.

Unable to bear the intensity of Orora's gaze, he was the first one to look away. The girl let out a small sound that was a mix between disappointment and annoyance. "When you're ready to give an answer to my question, I'll answer yours." She said referring to what he had asked earlier. With that she walked past him towards Iroh who stood nearby trying to act as if he wasn't paying attention to them. And failing at it.

"I'm going to take a walk around the deck. See if anyone else needs my help." With a nod of confirmation from her teacher, Orora gripped the shoulder of her water satchel and with one backward glace in Zuko's direction, walked off.

The young prince watched her as she left. He couldn't understand why she went about helping people like she did. Sure she had done it in the past, but that was mostly to get some money for provisions. These people couldn't give her any money.

Was she simply doing it out of kindness?! Was that even possible for a person to do given how dangerous things could get for her. She was a girl after all. Not defenseless, but still an easy target.

The thought of Orora being an easy target for anyone looking to take advantage of her had a sickening feeling settle in the pit of his stomach.

And it had nothing to do with the smell of the food he had received while he had been lost in contemplation. Pushing away the unpleasant thought, he turned his attention to the broth in his bowl and made a face. It looked like dirt, and he was sure it tasted like that too. He raised the bowl to his lips and no sooner had the broth touched his lips when he spat it right out.

"Ugh! I'm sick of eating rotten food." He growled, looking like he wanted to throw the bowl into the water. "Sleeping in the dirt. I'm tired of living like this!" Maybe it was the hunger gnawing at his stomach that had his previous emotions rising to the surface. Or maybe it was the thought of a certain waterbender getting hurt somehow.

"Aren't we all?" The voice came as a sudden distraction, prompting Zuko and his Uncle to look in the direction of the speaker. A teenage boy with a stalk of wheat in his mouth stepped into their line of sight. He was flanked by two younger teenagers. "My name's Jet and these are my Freedom Fighters, Smellerbee and Longshot." He introduced himself and his companions. The girl, Smellerbee, greeted back, Longshot simply gave a small nod of acknowledgment.

"Hello." Zuko spoke in a slightly dismissive tone, hoping they would go away. However, what Jet said next caught his undivided attention.

"Here's the deal. I hear the captain's eating like a king while the refugees have to feed off his scraps. Doesn't seem fair, does it?" Iroh, who was normally against stealing but couldn't deny his hunger spoke up. "What sort of king is he eating like?"

"The fat, happy kind." Jet stated in a slightly sarcastic tone. Hearing this Iroh's mouth hung open, as his mind began to concoct all sorts of delicious meals the captain might be eating at that moment. Jet turned his attention back to Zuko. "You want to help us "liberate" some food?" He asked with a smirk. Glancing down at the disgusting slop Zuko gripped it tighter in his hand before tossing it into the water. "I'm in."

————————–

With one final deep breath, Orora lifted her hands from the leg she had finished healing. "There. That should heal it." She informed the previously ailing old man who gave her a smile of disbelief and gratitude. His old wife reached out to clasp her hand in a motherly way. "Thank you so much my dear. We were afraid he wouldn't be able to find work with his injured foot when we got into Ba Sing Se." Orora smiled. "Well no need to worry about that now."

As she watched the old couple walk away, the man with an obvious spring in his step, her smile disappeared and she fell to the side, catching herself on the wooden railing. Raising a hand to her head, the young girl pressed her fingers against her temple to try and alleviate the pain that radiated from there. She had been healing for a good few hours now. And though she had had breaks inbetween where she would give out medicinal herbs to those who were sick, she had barely found time to stop and just rest. Let alone eat.

The sun had set a good hour or so ago. Maybe that was enough healing for the day. Her arms were aching from the multiple healing sessions, and her body felt heavy with tiredness. Was this what it felt like to heal people for such a long time? Your entire body felt like it was half-dead? Maybe she had overdone it.

But those people had needed her help, she told herself as she walked back to her travel companions, bending fresh water from the lake and into her water satchel. "Good evening, Orora." Iroh greeted as she sat down next to him. Giving a small nod, the girl stifled a yawn. "And to you Master." She glanced around, frowning slightly when she didn't see any sign of Zuko. "He has made some new friends." Iroh answered her unspoken question, prompting her to look at him in surprise. He simply smiled at her. She blushed at having been caught, but her embarrassment was forgotten when Zuko appeared with three other teenagers, bags over their shoulders.

Bags that was filled with food.

While Jet, as Iroh quickly informed her, distributed the food to the rest of the refugees, Zuko brought over several bowls of what looked like fresh food towards them. Iroh quickly accepted a bowl of noodles and began to slurp them down happily. Orora stared at the bowl Zuko held out towards her.

Their eyes locked, gold on blue, their string shorter when they were close. Slowly she reached out to take the bowl, their fingers brushing as she did. "Thank you."

It wasn't long before she had eaten her fill and was beginning to feel even more sleepier then before. Zuko had settled down beside her eating his own food.

Having distributed all the food, Jet came to sit down with them. She was only able to give him a nod of acknowledgement before resuming her semi-dozing state, trying hard not to fall asleep completely.

"From what I heard, people eat like this every night in Ba Sing Se." Said Jet. "I can't wait to set my eyes on that giant wall." He continued sounding almost wistful as he did. Iroh nodded. "It is a magnificent sight." Jet leaned forward, eager to hear more. "So you've been there before?"

The shift in conversation had Orora momentarily forgetting about her lack of sleep as both she and Zuko turned their attention towards Iroh. "Once. When I was a different man." The sadness and despair in his usually twinkling eyes made Orora's heart ache and she reached out to rest a hand on top of his in comfort. Her Master patted her head, silently showing he appreciated her concern for him.

Jet pursed his lips before speaking. "I've done some things in my past that I'm not proud of, but that's why I'm going to Ba Sing Se: for a new beginning. A second chance." For someone talking about the future he didn't sound so hopeful about it, Orora mused to herself.

"That's very noble of you." Iroh spoke, nodding at the teenager. "I believe people can change their lives if they want to." He glanced at his nephew. "I believe in second chances." Zuko too glanced at his Uncle, though his amber eyes shifted to Orora who rubbed the heel of her palm against her eye, yawning as she did. Iroh noticed too, prompting him to reach out and pat her on the shoulder.

"Perhaps you should turn in, my dear. You've had a tiring day." Wordlessly the girl nodded, barely able to keep her eyes open. Slowly she rose to her feet, and had barely taken a step forward when a wave of dizziness overcame her, tilting her to the side and straight into Zuko. Luckily he was quick enough to catch her, though he almost fell back himself. "Orora?" The urgency in his voice was evident as he shook her shoulder. The girl mumbled something under her breath. His Uncle quickly looked the girl over and smiled in exasperation. "She has worked hard today and has passed out from being tired." He finally stated. Zuko scowled. "Well couldn't she have passed out on her bedroll?" Even with the words coming out of his mouth, his grip around her shoulder and waist did not let up.

If anything he seemed to hold her closer. Especially with Jet looking at her like he was. Zuko did not like it one bit.

"I will lay it out for her." Iroh quickly stood and went off to get a pillow and blanket from where they were stored on the ship for their use. Zuko gave a small nod of confirmation, stiffening when he felt Orora shifting a little in his arms before settling once more. Her head rested against his shoulder, and her lips were parted slightly as she breathed deeply. His features shifted to a look of concern as he quickly tried to figure out just how long she had been healing and helping people. And that too on an empty stomach. Of course, not that he could've done anything about it. She was much too stubborn to actually listen to him, but at least he would've had the chance to tell her off when she returned.

But then why should he care? A voice whispered in his head. A voice that sounded suspiciously like his sister's. Why should he care about a lowly waterbender? What was she to him?

"She your girlfriend?" Jet's question cut through his dangerous musings. Zuko leveled a particularly irritated glare in his direction. "No." He snapped, the very word laced with poison.

Just your soulmate, his brain supplied, as Jet raised his hands in a gesture that showed he meant no harm before getting up and going to look for his companions. Zuko stayed where he was, and this time he purposefully avoided looking at the girl passed out in his arms. As soon as his Uncle returned with the pillow and blanket, he laid her down on the hard floor and left her to sleep.

And if he was extra gentle with his movements as he laid her down, he did not think too much of it.

And if he lingered over her, watching her as she settled to make sure she was as comfortable as he could get, his Uncle did not mention it.

And if he leaned back down to pull the blanket over her shoulder properly so she would not be cold, Zuko pretended that he didn't, consciously, allow his fingers to brush against the soft skin of her cheek as he pulled back.

And if he happened to glance at the string around their fingers glimmer with color, he ignored it completely.

————————–

Being on your own isn't always the best path.

His own words resonated in his ears and his mind from his recent conversation with Jet. As he watched the docks grow in size as they neared their destination, Zuko couldn't help but think over what he had said. He had tried that. He had spent nearly a month on his own and it had gotten him nowhere.

If anything, things had gotten only worse for him. Maybe he had gotten used to having someone around him.

His Uncle had been by his side since his banishment. He had been the unbreakable support Zuko had needed in his times of despair. And truthfully, he was the reason he had made it this far alive. How many times had his Uncle helped him out of difficult situations? Though he would never tell him, Zuko's affections and gratitude for his Uncle ran deep. And sometimes, even though he knew it was wrong, he wished that Iroh was his real father and not Ozai.

And then there was Orora. Someone who had come into his life and made it all the more complicated. He lifted the hand where the string was tied to his finger, and followed it's path to the other end. His soulmate stood next to Iroh. Her back was towards him, allowing him to observe her without it becoming awkward for either of them. Despite the fact that nothing would come out of them being each other's soulmates, he couldn't help but wander if mayb-

The sound of the whistle blowing cut through his thoughts as their boat finally docked. The crowd began to chatter excitedly as they made their way towards the gangplanks. Sighing to himself, he walked towards Uncle and Orora.

"Well now, just one more stop and we shall begin a new life together." His Uncle stated jovially as he led the way towards the gathering crowd.

Together.

Such an insignificant word that carried so much weight.

Orora glanced in his direction as she fell into step beside him. He allowed his gaze to meet her own for a brief moment before they both looked away.

————————–

Orora was sure that the ticket woman who stood behind the booth had to be a distant relation to her old tutor, Ms. Chiyo. She had a certain look in her eye, one that Orora had dreaded as a child since those beady eyes would assess her every move looking for a slip up on her part.

The woman had been her manners and etiquette tutor for a good few years, and Orora had despised her. She had always been so harsh and could be downright cruel at times.

"So," The woman spoke, looking over their tickets and passports as the three of them stood in front of her. Mr. Lee, Ms. Orora and Mr. ummm ... Mushy, is it?

Iroh, ever the polite old man, corrected her. "It's pronounced Mushi." The already irritated woman's expression shifted to pure annoyance as she glared at Iroh. "You telling me how to do my job?" She demanded, her voice rising in pitch.

Sensing that perhaps he had done wrong, Iroh was quick to shake his head as he approached the ticket booth. "Uh, no, no." There was a brief pause on his part before he continued with a smile on his face that was, for lack of a better word, sickeningly sweet.

"But may I just say you're like a flower in bloom. Your beauty is intoxicating." Orora could feel her face morph in one of disbelief and slight disgust at the words coming out of her teacher's mouth. Beside her Zuko was no better, looking just as disgusted.

For a moment Orora was almost afraid the ticket woman would call the guards, but instead she smiled in what the young girl could only say was a flirtatious manner and return Iroh's smile.

"You're pretty easy on the eyes yourself, handsome. Roar!"

Oh that part nearly had her bursting out into laughter. She clapped a hand to her mouth, while Zuko did the same but to his eyes, as if he had no desire to even witness what was going on in front of him.

"Welcome to Ba Sing Se." Their tickets were stamped, and they were officially citizens of Ba Sing Se. Iroh grinned happily as he collected the tickets and held them out for the two teenagers to take.

"I'm going to forget I saw that." Zuko grumbled before snatching his ticket and walking away. Orora accepted her ticket as well and followed after the prince, though she allowed herself to be amused by what had happened and let out a few giggles as she did.

Iroh brought up the rear, looking rather pleased with himself.

————————–

As they waited for their train to be called, Orora leaned back where she stood, watching as the refugees boarded the trains that would take them to their destination. It seemed strange to know that she would entering a city. She had only seen small towns and villages so far. But a city as big and grand as Ba Sing Se would surely be unmatched to what she had experienced so far. And that included the Northern Water Tribe.

A familiar voice broke her out of her thoughts. "So, you guys got plans once you're inside the city?"Jet asked as he sat down next to Zuko. Orora couldn't help but frown at the teenager's insistence to be around Zuko every chance he got. What was his problem anyway? She mused to herself, not even bothering to hide her scowl as she glared at the boy. Just then a Tea-seller walked by prompting Iroh to quickly get up and buy himself a cup of Jasmine. Though no sooner had he tasted the liquid when he began to lament his mistake. "Blaugh! Ugh, coldest tea in Ba Sing Se is more like it! What a disgrace!" Orora couldn't help but giggle, reaching out to pat her Master gently on the shoulder as consolation. "I'm sure we'll get you some nice warm tea when we get to the city, Master." He nodded in affirmation. "Hey, can I talk to you for a second?" Jet said motioning for Zuko to follow him. Zuko sighed and reluctantly rose, following after him.

Once more Orora found her eyes trained in the direction of the prince as he walked off. They stood a little ways away talking. But whatever the conversation was, it was over just as quickly as it began. She quickly looked away, not wanting to get caught and turned her attention to where Iroh was drinking his hot steaming tea happily.

Wait!

Hot?!

Steaming?!

A startled gasp fell from her lips, prompting Zuko to falter in his steps and follow her line of sight. His hand darted out to knock the cup of tea out of Iroh's hand. "Hey!" The old man protested even as his nephew leaned down to hiss at him through gritted teeth. "What're you doing firebending your tea?! For a wise old man, that was a pretty stupid move!"

"Honestly Master, that was reckless." Even Orora couldn't help but chime in. But Iroh wasn't listening to any of them, lamenting over his spilled tea. Orora glanced up toe Jet's retreating back. "He didn't see anything did he?" She spoke softly, dread filling her as she thought of what the boy might do should he discover that Zuko and Iroh were firebenders. "I don't think so. Besides, even if he did, he has no proof." Zuko stated firmly as a way of reassuring her as well as himself. The waterbender nodded, though there was a nervousness in her eyes that remained even as they boarded their train a few minutes later.

But then that all shifted to the very back of her mind as they exited the station and were greeted with their every first sight of Ba Sing Se. Eagerly looking out of the window, Orora couldn't help but stick her head out of the window and let out a little laugh of joy as the cool air brushed through her hair.

"I hope Ba Sing Se brings something new for us." She whispered to herself as she watched the scenic view pass by.

Beside her Zuko couldn't help but hope for the same.

————————–

Tag List - @wavesofchaos @violet-potter @rennysketch @emma-andrea1 @fuzzyfestcat

@msrawog

#zuko x y/n #zuko imagine #zuko x reader #zuko x oc #avatar the last airbender imagine #avatar the last airbender fanfiction #avatar #the thread of fate #avatar: the last airbender #avatar the last Airbender

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parad-ice-lostandfound · 8 months

Text

Prompt: The story about a prince and a traveller <3

Pairing: Malleus x Gn!Reader (Yuu)

Genre: Slight angst (?), Fluff I dunno

TW: Uh, although this is GN! Reader, the reader or Prefect or Yuu is referred to as "Mama" at one point in this. It is meant to be a gender neutral form of address (but if there is another form of address that is more fitting in the scenario please let me know), minor character death, heavily based on Orpheus and Eurydice's story.

AN: Not really happy with the ending of this, but its been in my drafts for far too long. It would have been more angsty, but my sister (who I usually make read my fics to check if it sounds coherent and/or is good) as well as my friends who I showed the initial draft to said that it would be too cruel and that I should make it a happy ending so here we are! Hope you enjoy!

One upon a time, there used to live a prince.

The prince was the heir of a prosperous kingdom. His wise eyes looked over his subjects with the love of a friend and the vigilance of a father. All he ever wanted was for his kingdom to flourish and grow, for his people to live happy lives. And he worked hard to ensure their protection, so that they may spread their wings under his watchful gaze and soar to new heights, bringing honor and prestige to their kingdom. In turn, the people of the kingdom loved and respected him, singing his praises to the birds in the sky and the flowers blooming in the soil. There was no one in the kingdom who would speak ill of their prince, for he was beloved by all.

But, the prince was lonely. He had loving friends to lean on, and trusted elders to learn from, but his heart yearned for that one person who would transform his happy yet monotonous days into pure bliss. His one true love.

And how fortunate was he to find it, in the most unexpected of places, at the most unassuming of times.

He found his solace, his refuge in a traveler from far, far away. It was love at first sight, though the prince would come to realize it much, much later.

The traveler was an intriguing, mysterious figure; quickly endearing themself to each person they came to know. Many vied for their hand, for their affections, yet their eyes seemed to sparkle for only one; the prince.

After many trials and tribulations the two were finally able to be at each other's side. The prince took the mysterious traveler as his spouse, his to love and nurture and adore forevermore. Yet such bliss, was fated to be short-lived.

Death came calling soon, far too soon for the traveler. No matter how much effort the prince expended to save his beloved, their life slipped through his fingers like grains of sand.

The prince was stricken with grief. He mourned for the untimely loss of his pride and joy, and his people mourned alongside him. His heartfelt cries and pleas reached the heavens, moving the hearts of the Great Seven themselves.

One day, the prince was visited by the Thorn Fairy in his dreams. "Child, I have heard your prayers. Your devotion to your beloved is commendable, but the other side can often be cruel. It is best if you let those who have left rest where they rightfully belong, for the price to bring them back is often steep. Are you willing to do anything to have your beloved by your side once again?"

"Anything," the prince replied, with a conviction that moved the fae's heart. The fae sighed, and said, "Very well. If your love is true, and your decision final, then I shall not stand in your way. But be warned; one misstep, and your love will be lost forever. Do not look behind, for nothing exists there except regret."

The prince woke up in a dark cave, the Thorn Fairy's last words ringing in his ears. A warning, and a hint.

The prince followed his instincts; standing up and walking towards the small pinprick of light he could see in the distance. The floor of the cave was damp and cold. It seemed as if the shadows were clinging on to his legs, beckoning him to stay, to rest a while, but the prince continued moving ahead.

After what seemed like hours, (for the prince could not say if time was passing or if it was frozen. All he could do was walk and walk and walk-) the prince heard footfalls of another person, walking behind him. A voice called out to him, the tone so timid and fearful than he had ever heard it be, yet unmistakable. It was the voice of his beloved traveler, his most adored spouse.

The prince nearly turned to look at them, wishing to see what state they were in. He barely caught himself from doing it at the very last minute, remembering the fae's warnings.

Do not look behind, for nothing exists there except regret.

The prince kept walking ahead resolutely, one foot placed in front of the other with a haste. His heart beat wildly inside his chest, as if it was trying to escape its bony prison. The footsteps of his beloved echoed louder as they followed him.They called out to him again, hoping, perhaps, to get a reply; to get a confirmation that their love had truly come for them. But the prince did not answer, in fear of being tempted to look behind. Silently, he walked on ahead, his gaze trained on the light that seemed to get bigger and brighter as he walked towards it. Only a little more, and then...!

His beloved's voice grew frantic the longer he did not reply to their calls. The prince, in his hurry to reach the light and reclaim his beloved, had started walking faster, much faster than they could keep up. So they ran behind him, calling out to him. And fell, just as the prince took one step out of the cave.

The pained hiss that left his beloved's lips was the last straw for the prince. He turned, his eyes widening as the figure of his beloved knelt inside the cave, so close yet so far away from the sunlight, from him.

"No, no, no, no!" The prince exclaimed, falling to his knees and letting out an anguished wail as he wrapped his arms around his beloved. His beloved, who was gradually crumbling away into dust. Even so, they had a calm smile on their face, their hands coming up to cup his cheeks.

"I love you," was all they said, before they returned back to eternal rest.

...

Malina pouted, her hands resting on her father's shoulders as she looked up at him with wide teary eyes. Maleah, her twin, sat beside her on their father's lap, frowning as she asked, "Why did the traveler not return to the prince? He was out of the cave, was he not?"

Malleus gave his two children a gentle smile. "He may have been out of the cave, but the traveler was not. He turned back before they could take a step into the sunlight," he explained to her patiently, eyes shining with amusement as he watched her frown get deeper.

Malina sniffled, her big teary eyes sending a stab of concern through him, and Malleus held her closer. "But that's not fair..." she whined, hiding her face in the crook of his neck.

"What's going on?"

"Mama!"

The two little girls scampered off his lap, making their way to their other parent who picked them up with a confused yet fond smile on their face. "Father was telling us the story of the prince and the traveler," Malina said as she wrapped her short arms around their neck.

They narrowed their eyes at Malleus as they held the little princesses in their arms.

"Malleus."

Malleus chuckled, the sound soft and slightly hesitant as he made his way to where the three of them were standing. "Apologies, my beloved," he said in a soothing tone, his hand rising to tuck a wayward strand of hair back in its place, hoping that the loving gesture would take away some of their anger.

"We will be having a talk about this later," they huffed, and Malleus nodded, placing a gentle kiss on their forehead.

He watched as they brought the young girls back to their bed, settling the little ones and promising to tell them a better bedtime story than the one their father had told. Malleus smiled as he sat behind them, his arms wrapping around their waist loosely while he placed his chin on their shoulder. A soft rumble left his chest when they raised their hand to run their fingers through his hair as they regaled the two sleepy girls with tales of knights and princesses.

Soon Malina and Maleah drifted off into sleep, holding each other close. Yuu sighed, a fond smile playing on their lips as they looked at their children.

"Hornton."

Malleus pressed his lips against the nape of their neck and smiled. "Yes, my dear child of man?"

"You are a menace," they chuckled, and Malleus smiled.

"Perhaps."

They hummed, the sound light and sweet as it carried into the otherwise silent room.

"One day, they will learn that it was all a true story," they said.

"I believe they would like our version much better, when the time comes," he mumbled against their shoulder, the great dragon fae being lulled to sleep by his beloved's soft voice.

"Definitely, Hornton. Definitely."

#twst #twisted wonderland x reader #twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x yuu #disney #disney twst #disney twisted wonderland #twst malleus draconia #malleus draconia x reader #twst malleus x reader #twst malleus #malleus x reader #malleus x yuu #ice writes #twst writing

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softlyspector · 1 year

Text

Mothers

Summary: A year after his mother’s death, Marc travels back to Chicago to face his father. He doesn’t expect it to be easy but he also doesn’t expect it to be so hard. He especially doesn’t expect to find refuge from the hard moments in a little known witch’s shop a few blocks over. And definitely not in one keeping watch over the family’s piano.

This chapter: Marc is trying. Really, he is. But mothers are never an easy topic. Or, Marc attempts several difficult conversations.

Tales Untold; Part V - Series Masterlist

Pairing: eventual Marc Spector x Reader (eventual minor Steven Grant x Reader and Jake Lockley x Reader)

Word Count: 8.9k

Warnings (this chapter): angst, fluff, Marc Spector's terrible, oblivious flirting, lots of ✨touching✨, known menace Jake Lockley, mental health issues, feelings of guilt, tense relationship with a parent, mentions of past death, mentions of past child abuse

A/N: Hello! Here is the chapter a day early as promised! This part was originally 3k, oops.

I'm still unsure if anyone actually reads the author's notes, but I want to say thank you again. This chapter contains the scene that inspired the series! Memories and relationships are so complicated, especially when your perspective has to shift and you have competing views, and when other things like grief come into play it only makes things more complicated. This chapter tries to tackle that. I'm sure many of you can probably tell, I have issues with my own mother (mine is not like the reader's, or Marc's), and I just want to say thank you for letting me write something so cathartic. Moon Knight in general is really special to me but that facet in particular really hit home and made me question things about myself and my own childhood. I hope it resonates with you all as well and that I've done the topic justice.

Again, I want to give a big thank you to all of you who have been keeping up with this series. I love you so much, and thank you for all the continued love and support. It means everything to me. Comments and feedback are so appreciated! Please let me know if any additional warnings need to be added. For full series warnings, please check the series masterlist, which will be updated as parts are posted!

Tales Untold, Chicago 7:48 PM

Marc sighs loudly through his nose.

“Stop being a pussy about it.”

“Shut the fuck up, Jake.”

Jake promptly flips him off where he’s reflected in the shop’s front windows. Marc just huffs out another breath, irritated, and tunes out his muttering alter. He grips the cold steel rung of the ladder he’s standing on, both for support and to ground himself.

He misses Steven at that moment, because Steven would leave him alone about the date.

Probably.

“...said date -,” Jake continues. “Steven would agree with me. We definitely heard date.”

Or, maybe not.

Steven would probably harass him about it just as much.

“I also heard date, mate,” Steven chimes in agreement suddenly. “Definitely said date.”

Marc rolls his eyes.

So, he wouldn’t then. He would not leave Marc alone about it.

Marc grits his teeth and ignores both of them, reaching a hand out to finger one edge of the curling burnt orange wallpaper.

It’s true. You had said the word date to be sure.

It’s a date, is precisely what you’d said.

But people said that shit all the time. It was just an expression.

You hadn’t meant anything by it.

You couldn’t have.

It was just an expression.

It’s just something people say.

“Fuck off,” he snaps at both of them, when they continue muttering, trying and failing to refocus on the peeling wallpaper in front of him. “You’re distracting me.”

Jake snorts and Steven shushes him.

That little outpouring of emotion had been nearly a week ago, and Marc tries not to regret it. He tries not to let the shame that curls around his shoulders, that grows like a slow moving vine around his lungs and heart, strangle him.

But his heart beats like a caged bird whenever he thinks about it, like it would snap his ribs just to be free from his body. The nervous flutter of his pulse serves to remind him that he’s said too much to you.

That you did not deserve that kind of weight on your shoulders.

“I’ll just go on the fuckin’ date then.”

“You -,” he snarls, rounding on the glass, the ladder wobbling precariously, “- will not.”

Jake just smirks and crosses his arms, like he’s proud of himself for being able to get a reaction out of Marc.

Marc rolls his eyes again, so hard this time it hurts a little.

He’s still getting used to Jake, still trying to come to terms with having him around, especially when Jake seemed content to antagonize him most of the time.

It’s playful, really. Like the annoyance of a sibling that was intent on getting a rise out of him.

Even with Jake’s teasing, he’d much rather be here on the ladder staring at your wallpaper than upstairs.

He feels guilty, for leaving you alone with his father. But agreeing to have him over at your place for dinner at all had been more than enough of a challenge on its own.

It had been hard. To walk his father over to Tales Untold, his safe place, and meet you at the door. It had been hard to watch you smile and tilt your head, and lead them up the stairs. It had been hard to watch you turn your attention onto someone else.

They’d sat around your kitchen island, and you and Elias had done most of the talking while Marc sat silent and tense, not sure how to join a familial, familiar conversation.

You had set a beautiful spread, with candles and your good silverware and crystal, and a tablecloth laid haphazardly across the counter because it wasn’t the right size.

Although Marc hadn’t spoken for most of the meal, he had watched you, and followed the careful way you made your way through the conversation, the way your hands moved when you got excited about something.

He’d even learned things about you - like that you hadn’t finished college and were a server before you moved back to Chicago.

It hadn’t been as awkward or painful as he’d expected it to be. But he feels a large part of that is due to the fact that you were there. He was in your space, your domain, and by extension maybe his own. You’re safe there, and so is he.

He doesn’t like to think about what that means, that he’s become attached not only to you, but to your place. That he’s starting to feel at home there.

Home.

He’s starting to feel at home with you.

His father hadn’t commented on the piano, and Marc still isn’t sure how to feel about it. But when the plates were cleared away and you offered dessert, Marc hadn’t been able to sit still any longer. A strangely nervous energy had sizzled in his veins, washing away any sense of security he usually felt around you.

Family dinners weren’t exactly pleasant experiences for him, and it had been a long time since he was forced into that kind of box, especially with his father.

He shouldn’t have left you alone, but he thinks you probably understand. He’d helped you clear the dishes, before he leaned in next to you at the sink and said, “I’ll wash ‘em later for you. No, listen, please leave ‘em there. I need to go work on the wallpaper downstairs.”

He hadn’t needed to do anything. The wallpaper is your project and certainly not a pressing one.

Your mouth had still been parted, where you’d started to protest his insistence with the dishes, and it had been a struggle to maintain eye contact when all he wanted to do was stare at your mouth. “Okay,” you’d pressed your hand against his forearm, warmth jolting up his arm. You’d slid your thumb along his skin and nodded, “Okay. Go ahead.”

And, despite everything, you and his dad seem to get along fine. You found easy conversation with most people and his dad was no different.

The day before the dinner had been more stressful to you than anything else. You’d fretted over what to make for dinner, and Marc had helped you grocery shop and cook. “My dad keeps kosher,” he’d said while you pushed a shopping cart down an aisle, nervously chattering about what you could make.

You had paused, head tilting to the side. “He does?”

“He’s a rabbi.”

“Oh,” you’d continued pushing the cart before you turned to him with wide eyes. “Oh, my god. Marc, you’ve eaten at my place so many times…It wasn’t - I mean I don’t know if it was kosher -,”

He’d pressed a hand to the small of your back, urging you along, trying and failing to hide a smile. “I don’t keep kosher. My dad does. It’s okay, it would have been on me to tell you if I did.”

You still looked nervous despite his reassurance, anxiously consulting the list of ingredients on your phone as you chewed on your lower lip. “Look, a kinda shortcut is to make something vegetarian. It’s usually kosher that way. And I’ll make sure everything in your kitchen is kosher.”

“Oh! I’m vegetarian.”

Oh, Steven would love that.

“Great,” he had reassured you. “Then we don’t have anything to worry about. I’ll help you. I’ll make sure it’s all fine.”

And he had. And it was. And he’d liked cooking with you, even though it didn’t seem to be something you did all that often.

Marc likes all the little mundane things you do together. Home improvement and grocery shopping and going to the hardware store and cooking.

He shakes the memory away and looks at the wallpaper again, orange and patterned with gold leaf. It’s curling off the walls, peeling down in strips in other places where you’d torn at it with your hands.

You’ve yet to paint your flower boxes, and Marc still hasn’t built you a new sign or finished repointing the brickwork. The fucking bell is still rusted where it hangs above your door.

Only one of the warped glass panels in the wooden front door has been replaced so far. A single pane of colorless glass replaced by a red and yellow image of a bird that you and Steven had made together one evening.

Despite all of those uncompleted projects, he’d caught you on a ladder earlier in the day ripping down strips of wallpaper when there had been a lull in customers. You’d had an odd expression on your face as you did so, one Marc couldn’t read.

Marc stares at the peeling paper, and what lay beneath. He wishes you would have said something before ripping it down. He probably could have salvaged it. The design is pretty.

“Marc!” You call. “C’mere, honey.”

He gut lurches with that pleasant little nickname you’ve gifted him. It feels unfair, like something he should get to call you, not the other way around. You’d first called him that in the hardware store, your hand curled around his bicep when you saved him from the sales person.

“Honey,” Jake coos at him. “Aw.”

“Shut up,” he grumbles before calling out to you, “Comin’!”

Jake cackles, and Marc knows he thinks he’s slick, but it's hard not to notice how much Jake has been showing up lately compared to before.

Jake likes you too, and he’s really only half joking about being the one to take you on a date.

He steps down the ladder to weave through the shelves to the back of the shop.

You’re just stepping down the last few steps of the back staircase, his father in tow behind you.

Before he can reach you, you’ve turned to his father and taken his hands in yours. “Thank you for coming over, Elias. I hope my cooking wasn’t too bad.”

“It was delicious. Thank you…for everything.” Elias’s eyes cut to where Marc stands before flicking back to you, an unreadable look passes between the two of you and he’s left to wonder what Elias means by that, what the two of you talked about.

Marc’s hands curl into uncomfortable fists at his sides, but he makes an effort to smile.

By the snort you try to choke back he doesn’t do a very good job. “You’re very welcome,” you say to his father. “Marc will walk you home.”

Elias blinks over at him again. “You won’t be coming with us?”

“I’m afraid not,” you say apologetically. “I have a lot to do around here. You see how Marc has been terrorizing my wallpaper.”

Marc shifts his gaze to you, glaring. “Right, it’s me terrorizing the wallpaper.”

To Marc’s surprise, his father laughs. “Okay, maybe another time then. For tea or coffee, whatever you prefer.”

You nod, though Marc knows you have no intention of ever accepting an invitation. Not without him, at least.

The thought warms him, just a little, that you wouldn’t even walk over to the house with them, not if Marc didn’t want you to.

He ushers his father ahead of him through the crowded aisles.

But before he can follow, you reach out and cup one hand under his arm, your fingers hooking in the crease of his elbow. “Are you coming back?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay,” you smile, rub your thumb against the delicate ridge of bone in his arm. “Tonight went well.”

“Yeah,” he agrees.

It did.

Even if he’d had to escape a little early.

You laugh again, though he can’t fathom why. “Okay. I’ll be waiting for you.” Your thumb traces over his skin again, before you release him and turn away.

Milwaukee Avenue, Chicago 8:15 PM

His father is talking about you, moving around the living room slowly, gathering up a book and his reading glasses.

Elias likes you a lot.

Since Marc’s breakdown, since he finally explained to his father how hard it is to be at home, things have been less strained between them. A certain tension still lingers in the air, but not as thick as it had. It’s possible to breathe now, possible to stand still.

His father seems to understand why it's hard for Marc to be in the house, why it's hard for him to be around Elias himself. And Marc supposes it's a good enough start.

Nothing between them is fixed and Marc isn’t sure it ever can be. He doesn’t know if he wants to try, if he wants to reconcile.

Is there anything to reconcile?

It’s the one question he consistently comes back to. He doesn’t know if what had been fractured between them can ever be fixed again, or overlooked.

“Are you heading back over to Tales Untold?” Elias asks as he settles in an armchair, his book on his knees.

“Yeah.”

Marc considers leaving then, just turning around and walking out the door without another word. But speaking with his father has become easier in the last week, like Marc broke the protective seal of cordiality that made both of them quiet.

He can do this. He can ask.

Elias looks surprised when Marc sits down in the opposite armchair and adjusts himself uncomfortably. “We gotta talk about the piano.”

His father slips his glasses on and then peers at Marc over the rim. “Okay, Marc.”

“We gotta talk about everything.” He swallows, remembering the way he’d broken the week before, dashed his heart on the rocks of the house.

For you. Because he was protective and worried about you.

But he doesn’t know if he can do all of that in one day. To ask about the alcoholism and the abuse and why his mother had hated him so much and why his father let her hate him.

“Not right now, though.” You’re waiting for him to come back, and he says as much.

His dad smiles at that, the twist of his mouth soft, and Marc can’t understand why it would garner that reaction. Marc doesn’t comment on it, decides he doesn’t want to know. “Why,” he starts, mouth dry suddenly, his tongue like sandpaper. “Why did you donate the piano?”

Elias’s shoulders relax, the tension bleeding out of them. “I know you think the worst of me, Marc. And I can’t really blame you. The two of us…we’re not good at talking. We never have been.”

Marc nods and waits, because it’s not an answer to his question.

The muscle along Marc’s spine pulls tight while he waits for an answer, like he’s on marionette strings about to be cut.

“Your mother never played the piano after Randall died, and neither did you. When you left, I still had hope that you’d come home. But when she died, that left me. Neither of you were ever going to play it again.” He glances away, “It reminded me too much of you. It was painful to look at.”

Marc goes still, trying to piece together what his father had just said.

Reminded him of Marc. Given away because it hurt, not because he was being erased, not because it reminded him of Wendy. It reminded him of Marc.

“I have to get back to Tales Untold,” Marc says abruptly, standing up sharply.

Elias nods, “You should just stay there. You’d probably sleep better.”

The suggestion catches Marc off guard. “I can’t just -,”

His father shrugs. “You could ask.” Before he cracks open the novel, he says, “We talked about Shabbat. You should both come to a service one Saturday. Together.”

“I…you did?”

“Yes,” he shrugs. “Seemed interested.”

He’s not sure why he says it, he should just turn and leave. “We had to go shopping for ingredients,” Marc says.

And then, before he can convince himself not to say anything more, tells his father about how you’d been nervous about cooking for him, and about the kosher incident at the grocery store.

Elias smiles and then laughs. “I think you’ve found a really good person.”

The words well up inside him, the urge to tell his father he doesn’t know what a good person is, not really. But the words die in his mouth, because it feels like an insult to you.

Because his father is right about that, at least.

You’re an inordinately good person.

“Goodnight, dad.”

His father doesn’t look up from his book, “Goodnight, son.”

Tales Untold, Chicago 8:58 PM

By the time he makes it back to Tales Untold, you’ve managed to rip down the wallpaper on an entire exposed wall.

“Well,” you plant your fist on your hip and examine the yellowed wall beneath, your other hand still tailing a strip of paper. “I suppose I’ll have to clean the wall.”

“Then what?” He leans back against one of the shelves, crossing his arms over his chest.

You purse your lips, humming under your breath. “Maybe I’ll paint a mural.”

“Oh yeah?” He watches your mouth twist, the flick of your eyes over the blank wall, like you’re seeing more than the empty space. “Why’d you want the wallpaper down anyways? We coulda fixed it back up.”

“Reminds me of my mom,” you say, suddenly bending down to gather up the paper left on the floor, bunching it up between your palms. “I mean,” your mouth twists to the side a little as you consider the wall. “This is all her. Not me.”

A sense of vertigo sweeps through Marc, because he associates everything here with you. “It is?”

You hum in confirmation but don’t look at him, your eyes firmly glued to the paper in your hands. “Upstairs. That’s my stuff. But everything else. The shop and everything out front was hers.”

And Marc becomes very suddenly aware of the fact that he’s never asked you. He knows nothing about your past, not really. In his mind, you’ve just always been there, standing in the sunlight at the back of the shop.

He almost bites down the question. But he’s already tried his hand at one hard conversation, maybe he could do it again.

“What…uh, what happened?”

You turn and smile at him. “You don’t have to ask,” you say before walking away.

Marc frowns after you before following. “Yeah well, I wanted to.”

You stuff the long ribbons of ruined wallpaper into the bin behind the counter, leaning into the wood with your head propped on your fist. “I lived with my dad out of state. Chicago isn’t really my home, but I spent every summer here with my mom. I think she - I think she was like me. I think she felt things from the stuff people donated.”

Marc leans opposite you, leaving one hand open and extended toward you. He hopes it's not too obvious, that he’s hoping you’ll reach out and fold your fingers between his.

He feels a spike of jealousy sometimes, for how easily Steven touched you and how easily you accepted his touch. He doesn’t know for sure if it’ll be the same with him as it is with Steven.

You don’t immediately take his hand, but that’s okay.

Jake is reflected in a nearby case, gesturing at you. “Just do it.”

He ignores him, giving the tiniest shake of his head.

“Maybe that’s why you thought you knew me,” you say, mouth quirking in a smile. “Maybe we saw each other in the summer around the neighborhood.”

He nods, “Yeah, maybe. You think this thing is hereditary?”

“Maybe. We never talked about it so maybe she was just intuitive.” You shrug and then reach to take his hand as Jake calls him a coward for waiting. “Anyways, she passed away last year.” You squeeze his hand, “It was right around the time your dad donated the piano.”

You slide your fingers over his wrist, and Jake has gone quiet in the reflection of the case, carefully watching you. “I was meant to clean this place out. Sell it. I’d already gone through most of her things in the apartment and I was just starting on the shop when your dad came by. Something about it…I dunno, I felt like I should stay. Not like I had a career anyways. I never finished college and this place was paid off a long time ago so,” you shrug. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed the rest of the street got gentrified. I wouldn’t be able to afford it otherwise.”

You’re rambling a little, your words nervous in a way they’re usually not.

You look up and meet his eyes. “It gave me peace. I kept it for you as much as I kept it for me. I should have told you that before.”

He remembers the way you’d went still when you realized what piano he’d been looking for the first day he stumbled into the shop, the guarded, watchful cut of your gaze before he explained who he was.

Marc watches you for a long time, trying and failing to grip at the emotions twisting and roiling inside him. He’s not sure what exactly he’s feeling.

Both your mothers’ deaths had brought you together. His father had. The piano had.

Without any of that, he would have never had cause to come over to Tales Untold. He would have never had cause to meet you at all.

“I just left everything alone after that. Well, I moved my things in and repainted upstairs. But now, thanks to you and your criticisms of my storefront,” you smile and roll your eyes, “I decided I should make it more me. Y’know? Like upstairs.” You fidget again, glancing away from him, your grin fading.

Marc nods, still not sure what to say, the weight of something unknowable setting on his lungs. He never really considered that he might be impacting your life in any way. This weight isn’t uncomfortable, not like it usually is.

Your hands are still stroking over his, the pressure of your fingers pleasant and warm, soothing, and he doesn’t know what to say.

“I liked the orange.”

You grin, the sudden beam of your smile blinding him. “I did too. It just needs an update. I don’t want to erase the character of the shop. And I don’t want to erase her.”

Marc doesn’t know how to respond to that, since he’s had days he wished he could erase his mother. “I’m sorry,” he says, even though you’ll have no idea what he’s apologizing for.

“Hey,” you press your fingertips to the pulse point in his wrist. “It doesn’t erase your feelings, honey. It doesn’t make -,” you stop and take a breath. “She wasn’t perfect either, y’know. She was only a good mom when it suited her, and only when I got older. It’s why I lived with my dad. Even though it was complicated, I still loved her.” Your voice is quiet, “I think you struggle with that too.”

He doesn’t want to admit that. It makes thinking about Wendy all the harder, thinking about his past all the harder. “I don’t -,” he stops, meeting your gaze.

The shop is usually flooded with natural light. Now, you stand cocooned together in the low overhead lights. It casts odd shadows across your face, and a sudden exhaustion hits him all at once.

You don’t pull away, waiting. “It’s okay,” you soothe, still working the tension out of his hands.

“I don’t want to miss her,” he shifts, cradling your hands between his, slowly sliding his touch along your palms and the falls and valleys of your fingers. “That’s…it’s fucked up. I shouldn’t fucking miss her. I shouldn’t remember anything good and the piano -,”

He stops again, not able to continue. “I understand,” you muse. “It’s obviously not the same. But sometimes, I’m mad at her. She didn’t want to change who she was to be my mom. At the same time, I had a lot of good times with her.”

Marc looks up from your twinned hands at the same time that you do.

You disentangle one hand to shift an errant curl back from his face. “It’s okay to miss her. It’s okay to mourn who she was before. It’s okay to miss and mourn the mother she should have been to you. It doesn’t make what she did to you any less terrible than it was. It just means things are complicated. It just means you’re human.”

Marc doesn’t look away from you, chasing the cut of your gaze. Your lashes lie thick against your cheek when you look down, like you’re embarrassed about all you’ve shared. He doesn’t want you to stop talking. He’d listen to you forever. He doesn’t want you to be embarrassed about sharing things with him.

Instead of saying any of that to you, he nods slowly and says, “How’d you figure all that out?”

“It’s all I’ve thought about for the last year,” you shrug. “I’ve spent a lot of time with myself. I mean, you’ve probably noticed that you’re kinda my only friend,” you joke lightly.

“That’s not true.”

“Name one other person.”

“That girl at Flour Up. The hardware guy.”

You smile. “Okay, Marc Spector, the hardware guy is definitely a better friend to me than you are.”

“He’d like to be though, wouldn’t he?” Marc mutters, thinking of the other times you’ve had to go to the hardware store with him. Your laugh breaks the tension, the edges of your eyes crinkling up before he adds, “Steven, too.”

You before he can stop you, you’re tugging your hand out of his grip.

His grief only lasts a second though, because a moment later you’ve rounded the counter and yourself fitted into his arms, hugging him tightly. “You’re safe here,” your mouth is by his ear, your voice soft, and he can feel the movement of your jaw where it’s tucked against his shoulder. “You can talk to me.”

“I know.” And he does. “My dad said to ask if I could stay here.”

“You can stay here,” you say, even though it wasn’t a question. “Always.”

Marc turns you gently in his arms, presses you back into the counter. Your hands fly up to press against his biceps, your hands warm through the fabric of his t-shirt. “What?” You smile at him when he doesn’t say anything.

“My dad told me that he got rid of the piano because it gave him hope I’d come home. When my mom died, that hope died. He was alone. The piano was hope for him. It reminded him too much of me. And before.”

You blink, “What’s the piano for you?”

Home. It’s home.

It reminds him of his mother and what should have been.

He doesn’t answer you.

But you nod anyway and stroke a careful hand across his shoulders, drawing him in closer. You’re warm against him, pliant and relaxed against his chest.

You smell like peace, like warmth and that signature lavender.

Marc decides to accept the moment for what it is, whether he should or not, gripping you back tight. He slides one hand up your spine until he can cup his palm against the back of your neck, the other winds around your waist.

For a moment, he thinks your breath stutters, before it rushes out of you in a sigh and you soften against him.

It’s a show of trust he didn’t know he needed.

You hold him just as tightly, adjusting your grip around his ribs.

“Ask.” It’s Steven this time. “You’re clearly flirting with each other. Go on, Marc, ask about the date.”

He closes his eyes to Steven’s reflection and shakes his head as subtly as he can.

Marc doesn’t let go of you.

He doesn’t ask you either.

Tales Untold, Chicago 11:24 PM

Marc does the dishes, just like he’d promised to.

Like always, he refuses your help but lets you watch.

You stand close to him, just so you can feel the heat rolling off his skin. And although you want to touch him again, you don’t.

He’s much quieter than usual, and for someone like Marc that means he’s practically nonverbal.

He doesn’t seem upset, merely introspective.

But it doesn’t stop anxiety from swimming in your belly, worried you’d overstepped yourself downstairs.

Your situation with your mother was very different to his, that much you know even if you don’t know the details.

When he’s done with the dishes and the water is draining away you decide to give him a bit of space. “I’m going to take a quick shower.” A knot of unease rests uncomfortably in your throat that you aren’t sure how to swallow down. You aren’t quite sure what it means.

Despite the worry rooting down in your veins, you manage to smile at him, showing him where the remote to your TV is. “If you’re still hungry, the leftovers are in the fridge and there are snacks pretty much in any cabinet you open. Okay?”

“Okay.” He only answers you when the door to the bathroom is nearly closed behind you.

You suck in a breath and try to put Marc out of your mind and how much you’d said.

Too much probably, considering what you had been talking about. Marc is already so closed up, you should have just left it. He didn’t need your shit weighing on him too.

A laugh escapes you and you press a hand over your mouth, stifling the laughter when you remember accusing Marc of being closed off.

Maybe you were the same, and overthinking it too.

You can’t find it in yourself to regret touching him though. The memory of the warmth of him against you fills you both with an odd peace and a giddy nervousness. You’d never wanted to move.

You stare at the crescents in the tile under your feet, remembering the heat of his shoulder beneath your cheek, the scent of him something heady and uniquely Marc, the way his palm felt both possessive and protective on the back of your neck.

You shake your head as you step in the shower, trying to clear away the wings of thought that closeness carried.

Marc trusts you with the pieces of himself as he works through something you only half understand. You can’t break that, you won’t.

The warmth of the water serves to wash away some of the tension lining your spine, ease the anxiety still bubbling inside you.

You don’t want to admit it, but you’re eager to be back with Marc.

You roll your eyes at yourself and flip off the water, annoyed.

It feels like a crush. It makes you feel stupid, like you’re a kid again, how much you like him.

It takes you a moment to hear it, over the sound of the bathroom fan and the still dripping water from the showerhead while you towel off.

Piano notes.

A song is being played slowly and deliberately, a little clumsily as though the person hasn’t played in a very long time.

You find yourself smiling as you listen. Still dripping water onto the floor, you wrap the towel around your body and step out of the shower to push your ear against the door.

Marc seems to pick up confidence the longer he plays, the notes faster and more sure, though he does make quite a few mistakes.

He plays beautifully, if a little inelegantly, the same song you usually play for him. You close your eyes and listen, not sure what it means that Marc is finally playing the piano. You pull away from the door and go through your after shower routine as quickly as you can before dressing, not able to wipe the smile off your face, worries forgotten.

You half expect the music to stop as soon as you have the door open, but it doesn’t.

Marc doesn’t even glance up as you creep closer and perch on the edge of the bench, like he isn’t entirely aware that you’re there.

You don’t touch him, just listen quietly for as long as he plays, itching to play alongside him but not daring to interrupt.

When the song eventually tapers off, Marc doesn’t turn to you, like he’s afraid to look at you.

You scoot closer to him on the bench then, until your shoulder bumps his.

His breath hitches when you pillow your head against his shoulder. “Beautiful,” you murmur. “Really.”

Marc carefully lies his cheek against the crown of your head. “Thanks. Little rusty.”

“Not too bad,” you hum. “I’m definitely the better player though.”

You think you feel his lips ghost against your temple, but you can’t be sure.

The feeling is so brief, you’re sure you imagined it. But you definitely feel the little huff of a laugh against your forehead. “Yeah, you are.”

He lifts his head away from yours, but his hand finds yours, the warmth of his palm enveloping yours.

You don’t try to hide your smile when you stand and attempt to tug him up from the bench. “C’mon. That’s enough emotional turmoil for one day.”

Marc manages a laugh but doesn’t follow the pull of your touch. “What?” you ask when he just looks at you.

For a moment, you think maybe you’re looking at Steven and you just hadn’t noticed the switch, before you realize Marc just has his guard down. His gaze is wide and gentle. The ease of trust makes him look younger, looser.

“What?” you repeat. “What’s wrong, honey?”

That word on your tongue seems to pull him out of his thoughts, whatever doubt was making him hesitate.

“C’mere,” he says, his eyes going soft and shaded. “There’s somethin’ I wanna show you.”

You tilt your head and watch curiously as Marc releases your hand and stands. He pushes the piano bench out of the way, and then folds himself to lie beneath the piano.

Intrigued, you bend at the waist and meet his eyes. “Is this your way of telling me you wanna sleep there?”

He rolls his eyes. “Just c’mere. I’m trying to show you something,” he grumbles.

You straighten and pluck a pillow off the sofa before returning to him.

It’s shadowed beneath the piano, the air cooler than the rest of the apartment. You tap Marc’s forehead so he lifts his head and you can fit the pillow beneath his head before you settle next to him.

He’s warm, his skin molten where it presses against yours, and that odd little flutter returns to your chest.

You don’t even consider looking up, tilting your chin in his direction instead. His lashes look impossibly long against the arch of his cheekbone, his skin golden brown in the soft lighting. The dusk of the little cocoon you’ve created in the shade of the piano feels strangely safe and peaceful.

You wonder how much of that is Marc’s presence, and how much is the piano’s energy.

Marc’s normally stormy expression breaks and he smiles at you suddenly, letting you watch him before he reaches out and taps two fingers under your chin. “I know I’m pretty, but you can stare at me some other time.”

You scoff, despite the prickle of embarrassment that itches under your skin. “Sure, flatter yourself, Marc.”

Marc just guides your head up, until you’re staring at the underside of the piano.

Etched into the wood are two sets of initials.

M.S. R.S.

“Oh,” you say, reaching up to trace the outline of letters clearly made by a child’s clumsy fingers. “M S, Marc Spector,” you whisper and trace the letters slowly. “Who’s R?”

Marc doesn’t immediately answer. When you hear him swallow loudly, you turn your head to look at him, hand settling atop your stomach when you lower it. “Marc?”

“My brother. Randall.”

“Randall,” you repeat. “Right. Your dad mentioned that when he dropped it off. Said you and your brother played it together.”

Marc nods, just the slightest dip of his chin. “Yep. We did.” He reaches up and traces the letters now, and you watch his face carefully. He’s nervous, but otherwise fine. “That was before he died.”

“Oh,” you murmur. “I didn’t know. I’m so sorry, Marc.”

He turns to you, eyes flicking over your face. “Look, I don’t wanna - we don’t gotta talk about it.”

“Do you wanna talk about it?” When he just stares at you, you tilt your face toward his. You turn on your side and tuck your knees up against the side of his. Something warm roots down in you when he presses his hand over your waist and helps you wriggle closer to him. “It’s not about me, honey.”

His brows furrow. “Why do you call me that?”

“‘Cause you’re sweet,” you tease and smirk when he rolls his eyes. He leaves his hand where it rests against your waist, his wrist draped casually on your hip. His fingers flex on the edge of your t-shirt, fiddling with the edge of it, when he turns fully toward you on his side.

“I don’t know how,” he admits, fingers tightening on you, like he’s afraid you might slip away.

You tilt forward carefully, until your forehead rests against his. Marc keeps his eyes open and on yours. His eyes are like amber, threads of coffee and umber darkening his irises. Pretty, expressive eyes dig into yours, rounded with something you can’t identify. “No one really does. It’s not easy.”

“Was it easy for you? Talking about your mom?” His nose touches yours, his breath warm where it fans over your lips and chin.

It’s a little hard to breathe, even harder to focus.

Really, you think, no person should be allowed to be so beautiful.

“No,” you manage to laugh. You hadn’t talked about your mother since she died, since her funeral. “I went in the bathroom and panicked about how much I said,” you admit, and Marc frowns at you, starts to open his mouth when you continue. “It took a lot of…of y’know, internal work, to make peace with it. Only really started to get past the grief and confusion when you showed up.”

You fold one of your hands into his chest, trying not to feel nervous about the closeness, the vulnerability. It would be so easy to roll into him, to press yourself into his chest and absorb the heat of him. “Really?”

“Mmhm,” you hum. “Reminded me that this place can still change, and so can I. I’ve been like a bug trapped in honey. Everyday was the same. Long shifts and terrible dates. And then you showed up.”

Marc blinks, like he’s confused, like he never considered that he might be impacting your life. At least not in a positive way.

It’s quiet for a long time, and you shift to tuck your head under his chin, so you were both more comfortable and the position was slightly less awkward.

Marc does tuck his arm fully around you then, dragging you closer.

You can feel his eyes on the underside of the piano, on his brother’s initials.

“He died when we were kids,” Marc swallows and the sound of it is like grief and mourning. “That’s when she changed. He wasn’t there and she was different. My dad didn’t know what to do. And I was…alone.”

You try to piece together what exactly Marc is trying to say. He has a way of speaking cryptically, saying one thing that was coded for something else. He always treads lightly, like he’s trying to lighten the load of whatever he’s passing on, making the smallest mark possible.

You think of the way he’d told you about what happened the night you met Steven. How he’d said he was stretched thin, a mild turn of phrase for what had clearly been mind numbing fear. The strength of his grief had been enough evidence, the tears and stress and those tiny broken blood vessels beneath his eyes.

“So,” you hazard a guess, “you only have nice memories of both of them with the piano?”

He relaxes against your hand when you press it up the length of his spine. “Yeah.”

“That’s why it’s so important.”

“Yes. And I don’t think -,” he struggles with the words for a long moment, clutching you tighter. “I don’t think I got to mourn. Either of them. I wasn’t allowed.”

You rub his back quietly and wait to see if he’ll say more.

You already knew, you could tell, that Marc just sits with pain, buries it, ignores it. But to hear him admit it shocks you a little.

When he stays quiet, hands drifting over your back and along your sides as though grounding himself in you and the fabric of your shirt, you say, “You have time now. I’m glad you came to get it. It’s okay. To have good memories, of both of them. It’s okay to want the chance to mourn.”

Marc’s arms tighten around you, and you burrow down into him, resting your face against his chest.

You consider asking him if he’d like to move somewhere more comfortable, but you’re already comfortable with him and sleep pulls you under too quickly.

When you wake, Marc’s arms are tight around you, your head pillowed on his chest where he’d turned onto his back.

The sun has long ago risen, and Marc is still asleep.

Halsted Street, Chicago 4:56 PM

Marc watches the hardware guy flirt with you again from the rearview mirror. This is your fifth trip to the store since the first one.

You had decided to layer neon lettering over the new sign Marc was making for you, smiling at him apologetically when he’d groaned. “Now we gotta go back to the hardware store.”

“Sorry,” you’d said. “I know you hate having to go out with me.”

His stomach had done a weird little somersault at your words. “That’s not - that isn’t why -,”

“Marc?”

“What?”

“I’m joking,” you’d winked at him. “I know you hate my hardware store friend.”

He’d just grumbled, “We should go to another fucking hardware store.”

But you are attached to this one now, the one Marc had dragged you to in the first place. It’s something he’s slowly come to realize about you, that you easily get attached to things and routines and people.

He hopes you’re a little more attached to him than that fucking sales associate with a crush.

At the end of the day, though, he’s just some guy with a crush too.

“Crush, eh?” Steven is watching you from the side mirror of the truck. “Me too, I think.”

Marc watches Steven for a moment, his eyes flicking back to where you laugh with the sales guy, still chatting about something in the afternoon sun. It’s hot, summer falling on the city with a vengeance. Your shoulders are partially bare to the sun, and you have one hand lifted to shield your eyes despite having sunglasses clutched in your other hand.

Steven is watching you too, his eyes round and big, like cartoon hearts are about to start floating around his head at any moment.

He’s put off telling Steven about the piano, and he’s been more than patient, even if he’s begun harassing Marc daily about the Cubs game that may or may not be an actual date.

It had only gotten worse since he slept with you in his arms, under the piano no less. He’d tried to stay awake that night, so he could have the memory of holding you that way, apparently completely at ease, relaxed enough with him to fall asleep.

The teasing from Jake had been brutal, while Steven had been delighted. “Nice innit?” he’d asked none too casually.

He told you about Randall and his mom. He asked his dad about the fucking piano.

Steven deserves to know, too.

He can do one more hard conversation, he’s done it twice already.

Besides, Steven always knew better than him anyways, was better at seeing up from down.

“Steven,” he says, catching his alter’s attention from where he’s staring at you with lovestruck eyes. “I wanna tell ya about the piano.”

“Bloody hell, Marc, right now?” He blinks away from you to Marc.

When Marc just stares, he nods. “Alright then. Go on,” he encourages quietly. “I’m all ears.”

Marc swallows, leans his head against the frame of the door. “Mom and me used to play the piano all the time.” He swallows, “All my - everything I remember is good.”

The image of the living room bathed in gold swirls back to the front of his memory. The dust motes, the laughter, the quiet of a Saturday morning.

For a moment, he can’t continue, his throat swelling closed with unshed tears. “That’s - that’s a good thing, innit?” Steven asks gently.

Marc swipes at his face even though no tears have escaped. “Yeah. I guess so. But it feels fucked up to - to miss her.” Steven sucks in a breath but Marc barrels on. “I can’t be angry at something that was good. When Randall - when he died, we stopped playing it. We never touched it again.” He presses his head back into the headrest and closes his eyes to Steven. “How am I supposed to hate her when I remember loving her so much?”

“Oh,” Steven whispers, his breath a rush, like he finally understands. “You can do both, I think. I do.”

“You do?”

Steven sounds meek when he answers, “Well, yes. It was hard. Knowing all the love I remembered, well, that it came from you. And knowing-knowing what she did to us. It was hard. It is hard.” Marc opens his eyes to meet Steven’s gaze. “She loved us. We’re allowed to love that part of her. No matter what came later.”

A tear does track down his cheek then, and Marc hastily swipes it away. “Yeah,” he croaks. “Well, that’s why the piano is so hard.” Steven nods, encouraging. “It’s not just about mom though, it's about Roro too.”

“Randall played the piano too?”

“I was just - I had just started teaching him. He wasn't good at it. It came naturally to me. One morning, we - instead of practicing, we scratched our initials into the bottom of it.” Marc stops and checks the rearview mirror, to make sure you’re okay, to make sure you’re still there but not approaching the truck yet.

You’re smiling, one hand still lifted to shade your eyes.

“Anyways,” Marc says, glancing back at Steven. “I don’t like having good feelings about any of it. It feels wrong. Like I’m forgiving her.”

The image comes unbidden again. The warmth of the living room, Wendy’s hands over his, the sound of prayer and breakfast being cooked, the dust motes hanging suspended in the air; Randall begging Marc to show him how to play, even though his hands were much too small.

He hates that he remembers laughter and love when his mom bent down to ask them what they were doing under the piano. She hadn’t even gotten mad when she discovered what they’d done, just smiled and held out a hand, beckoning them out.

“You can have both,” Steven says. “It’s alright, Marc. It doesn’t have to be all bad.”

It’s the same thing you’d said to him.

But it had been easier when it was all bad, simpler.

“I know,” he says. “I think I do.”

Steven starts to respond when the passenger side door opens suddenly and you climb into the cab. “Marc,” you say his name, huffing out a wild breath as you adjust yourself in the seat and yank your seatbelt into place. “We gotta go get some ice cream. It’s so fucking hot,” you swipe a hand over your sweaty brow. “It’s full of tourists, but do you wanna try Navy Pier?”

If it were all bad, he thinks suddenly, maybe he wouldn’t have met you. If it were all bad, he wouldn’t have found out that his father missed him, he wouldn’t have had a reason to hunt for the piano and visit Tales Untold.

Marc reaches over and takes your hand, folds your fingers between his. He says your name and when you meet his eyes, your smile disappears, replaced with a fretful expression. “What?”

“Nothin’,” he shakes his head.

You reach up with your other hand and touch his cheek, the corner of your mouth twitching upwards again. “Alright, go ahead and be cryptic and weird.”

“Hey,” he catches at your hand when you start to pull away. You look beautiful, your skin is glowing. Marc tries not to stare and fails. “We gotta get tickets. If you still wanna go to a Cubs game.”

You blink at him; long, slow blinks where your lashes kiss the space beneath your eyes. “Yeah? I thought you were getting them.” You tilt your head, “And then - pizza after? Isn’t that what we said?”

You’re close to him, your eyes wide as you lean closer to him over the center console. You smell like sunshine, like sun on skin, and beneath that like your usual lavender.

Marc presses your hand harder against his cheek, tipping his head towards yours. Your breath shakes when you inhale and your mouth parts gently when you glance down at his lips.

He wants to kiss you so bad there’s an ache in his chest. But he keeps his eyes on yours, your breath fanning across his lips, the scent of you like sweet mint.

When you meet his eyes, you look mildly confused, and Marc wonders for just a split second if you’re as unsure as he is.

Your eyes flick down again, and Marc watches your face curiously. There are no walls between you. He doesn’t feel like he has to hide anything from you. You’d already caught him at his very worst.

So, he should do this right - shouldn’t he?

He should wait. Do it properly. He’s never gotten the chance before, not really.

He clears his throat and inches back from you, pulling your hand away from his cheek as he goes, patting your fingers gently. The last thing he wants to do is let go of you, and so he doesn’t, folding your fingers between his instead. “Yeah, I can get us tickets. Just wanted to make sure you still wanted to go.”

You smile and then narrow your eyes. “Did you forget about it or something?”

Marc scoffs, feels the beat of the pulse in your wrist against his. Like he could fucking forget about it. “Of course not.”

“Not,” you repeat with the same inflection, a tease in your voice. “Listen to that accent.”

You glance over him, a strange fondness lodging in your eyes. “You alright? Looked like you were thinking pretty hard about something.” You reach up when he doesn’t answer to push a lock of hair behind his ear, like you’ve done a million times before.

But this time you say, “You should let your curls out more.”

Your fingers brush along his temple, the pads of your fingers soft. Marc basks in the warmth of your attention, the feeling of your hand against his skin.

“You like the curls, huh?”

You huff out a laugh and ruffle his hair until it falls in loose rings around his forehead.

He glares at you, and you throw your head back and laugh. The sound is unbelievable in its joy and he’s surprised he managed to draw it out of you.

Marc’s breath catches somewhere in his lungs, and he finds it hard to swallow down the feelings welling up.

Should he wait? Should he do anything at all?

This can’t last, this happiness in you. It never does, not when he’s around.

He hates the uncertainty that snaps a steel trap around his heart. But it's true, it’s always been true that people are better off without him.

You smile and twist a curl around your finger. “Look how pretty,” you coo at him.

Marc finds himself leaning into your hand when you cup his jaw. He wants to close his eyes and melt into it because he can’t be sure how long it will last. Your fingertips are just brushing his cheek when -

“Stop it. We are not doing this again, Marc. Stop thinking like that, asshole,” Jake says from the rearview mirror so suddenly that Marc flinches away from your touch.

You suck in a hard breath, and unlike the other times, it’s not a pleasant sound. “Sorry,” you pull back from him, looking horrified as you drop your hand.

“No,” he reaches for you again. “No, it’s -,”

You lift a brow, move your hand out of his reach, “It’s what?”

“Not you,” he shakes his head. “It’s not you.” He glances at Jake, who has the gall to lift a brow at him though he does look guilty for startling him, and then back at you.

“Oh,” you murmur.

Your face is closed off now, your smile a little strained, and he can’t tell what you’re thinking. “Okay.” You swallow, “I wanna go. With you. Just to be clear.”

Marc isn’t really sure what to say as you tuck yourself back into the seat, practically against the door, readjusting the seat belt before you fiddle with the radio, not looking at him, like you’re trying to give him space he doesn’t want.

He sighs, glares at the rearview where only his own face stares back at him now. He should know by now to take the chances offered to him, because nothing ever goes right otherwise.

He wonders again, why he even tries.

And this time, Jake isn’t there to interrupt him.

Thank you for reading! A special thank you to those keeping up with the series, and for all the continued love and support.

Comments and feedback are so appreciated. New parts will be posted Saturdays at 3PM EST! You can add yourself to the tag list on the series masterlist.

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#marc spector x reader #marc spector x you #steven grant x reader #steven grant x you #jake lockley x reader #jake lockley x you #moon knight fanfic #moon knight fanfiction

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togetherhearted · 7 months

Note

Dating headcannons for the characters from lies of p?

How they met,how they got together, etc.

Sure sure!

As always characters are chosen by my good friend randomizer. I never know who to choose so I let destiny do it for me 😅

PINO,RED FOX AND VENIGNI DATING HEADCANONS

-You met Pino in a very old-fashioned way. Him saving you from peril.

He would take you to the hotel just to be sure. Krat's streets are not safe.

-Pino starts to feel weird around you and wants you to know about it. He asks his father, then Sophia. Everyone gives him the same answers.

He might be in love, a human emotion. He decides to go for it. Hence, he tries to confess with a heart shaped paper.

-A relationship with Pino is possible but not an easy one. The poor puppet is still adjusting to his cogs moving in a weird way around you, but he finds the sensation pleasant.

-You met the Fox while running with something you stole from the Black Rabbits. She watched you try to find a place to hide in the streets of Malum District. Before it could be too late she got you out of trouble.

-You often bumped into her, and she seemed to flirt a little with you. It became more obvious with time, and it flustered you a bit.

Eventually, she got to your heart.

-Being with the Fox is fun. She's got a playful personality and you can both provide and indulge in a little bit of vanity with your ability to steal and bribe.

Of course, Cat is always by your side as well, making sure you are ok.

-The two of you met at the Hotel. You found refuge there thanks to Antonia. Lorenzini joined a bit later. You immediately recognized him as that famous Venigni:The owner of the factory and he seemed pleased you knew about him.

-The man courted you in the old-fashioned way. He was a pleasant figure to have around, and he made your heart throb easily. If he could, he would spoil you but right now lavish gifs were out the picture. You were ok with it. The heart was more important.

-You found a true Gentleman in Venigni;one who took the act of service to heart. He was a very affectionate lover;he probably talks to much but you could stop him with a kiss, leaving him a bit flustered.

#x reader #lies of p #lies of p x reader #liesofp #liesofp x reader #lop #pinocchio #pinocchio x reader #red fox #red fox lies of p #Venigni #venigni lies of p #venigni x reader

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thebiscuiteternal · 2 months

Note

I love your larger age gap Nie Bros au! I want to float the idea of a role reversal larger age gap au where Nie Huaisang is the much older sibling of the pair, and Nie Mingjue is the baby brother.

Whew.

Honestly, it would lean more towards the "bitter" side of bittersweet, because Nie Huaisang has spent his entire fourteen/fifteen years of life knowing that even if his father has tried to love him, even though he has tried to be a good son, he's not the kind of heir his father or the sect wants and never will be. He's sharp and clever, but also small and sickly and exhausted easily and will never be a good night hunter or battle leader. He's so very un-Nie-like that only the fact that he shares his father's eye color and a few of his facial features keeps people from making accusations about his parentage (and even that doesn't stop them sometimes).

But at least his father never tried to replace him or his deceased mother, right?

And then, right after his father has just died, a midwife shows up with a strong healthy baby and a bundle of paperwork declaring the child fully legitimate, and Huaisang has to grapple with the realization that his father did very much try to get a replacement, and since the paperwork is all nice and legal, the elders and senior disciples likely knew about it and said nothing.

He wants to scream or vomit or break things or hit someone, but he does none of the above and just sits beside the crib and stares at nothing while the elders debate his future like he's not even present.

Then there is a little tug on his hair, and when he looks down, little Mingjue has a fistful of it stuffed in his mouth and is staring up at him with big green eyes and... dammit, he can't hate this kid. Mingjue doesn't know what's going on, has no idea how he's destroyed what little of a life his older brother had just by existing. It's not his fault.

Huaisang sighs and gently tugs his hair free, then reaches in to let Mingjue clutch his hand and giggle and gnaw on his fingers.

It's eventually decided that Huaisang will be (a puppet) sect leader, with provisions that as soon as the sect has decided Mingjue is old enough, he will abdicate and leave, so as not to complicate his brother's position by hanging around.

Needless to say, this does not make Huaisang feel the slightest bit better, but he has no choice other than to at least try to do well by his new title, which proves to be more difficult than it has to be because literally every single one of his decisions gets argued and debated and he's constantly being patronized even though it's apparent he's not as stupid as people expect him to be.

Ironically, the son who will replace him winds up becoming his only refuge. Since they didn't have the years of being brothers from the Reverse Nie "canon" timeline, Mingjue never grows up absorbing the disdain everyone else has for Huaisang. Rather, Mingjue has already imprinted on him and throws unholy fits when people try to keep them apart.

It's more common than not that Mingjue sleeps cuddled against his brother's chest in Huaisang's bed instead of his own crib. He starts developing a fierce protective streak before he even knows how to walk or talk, scowling at anyone whose tone he doesn't like when they talk to his brother and trying to grab for hair or throw things at them when he gets really upset about it. People learn quick that if they want to badmouth Huaisang, they have to do it out of earshot of Mingjue, and that only holds more true as he grows up and begins grasping language and starts becoming aware of the disparity between how hard his brother is trying versus the things people say about him.

Everyone else better start watching their insults before they find that Mingjue has grown to have more loyalty to the brother who loves him and does his damnedest to care for him despite all his other duties versus the sect who wants to split them up.

And that's as far as I've currently gotten with this idea.

#mdzs #nie huaisang #nie mingjue #nie sect #reverse nies #larger age gap nies #ideas #worldbuilding

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serenescribe · 6 months

Note

Hello hello~ I was wondering if you like zombie apocalypse AU’s? If so, Because my request for you is a non Twst zombie apocalypse!

Lilia and Silver become separated and try to find each other with the odds stacked against them- with their respective parties trying to instill the realistic idea that their father/son is likely dead, but when they find a sign of the other, they have hope.

[✐] ficlet frenzy

Four years ago, a mysterious outbreak swept the world by storm. Countless people had, seemingly out of nowhere, become stricken by a strange disease, one that clogged their minds with a vile, ink-like substance that had come to be known as “blot.” A zombie apocalypse, the news reporters called it, the infection rendering people mindless, shambling monsters. It was a topic that was once restricted to the realm of fiction, except now, it was their reality.

Over the course of mere months, the world collapsed in on itself. Countless people died, succumbing to the illness — those who merely passed away were considered lucky, for a sizable number of them wound up reanimated by the blot, groaning as they shambled around with the purposes of finding others to attack.

Silver had been lucky that his father was such a capable man. For the first several months, the two of them had taken refuge in a bunker Silver hadn’t even known they’d had, keeping each other company, their only source of news coming from a crackly radio. It wasn’t until they’d begun running out of food rations that they were forced to leave the safety of their shelter, venturing out into the wild as well-equipped as possible, searching for any supplies and signs of civilization.

They’d stuck together for a year. One year of surviving together, working in tandem, until a horrific ambush at a seemingly abandoned building, zombies suddenly storming the lobby, split them apart.

“My father isn’t dead.”

That is the truth that Silver stubbornly lives by, refusing to relent on this vicious belief no matter how hard any of his fellow survivors try to tell him otherwise. The only person who remotely believes him is Kalim; everyone else looks at him with scepticism when they hear his insistent words. Riddle simply frowns, while Jamil heaves a sigh, and the twins look at him with a mocking pity in their eyes. Even Idia, when he bothers to tear himself away from tending to his younger brother’s haphazard prosthetics, mutters something about hopeless optimism.

But it’s true: Silver’s father cannot be dead. Silver knows this in his heart and soul; his father is too strong, too prepared, too important to die. Even though the last Silver saw of him was him firing off at a swarm of zombies as he yelled at Silver to run, faced down with a seemingly hopeless fate, he knows that his father has to be alive somewhere.

He’s kept his eyes and ears out for any hint of his father’s existence since then, but to no avail. Silver can only sigh as he helps to pack up their supplies as they head off for a location Idia received from his mysterious partner — a man he communicates remotely with through morse code signals, technology utterly jammed in this wretched apocalypse.

Silver hopes that he’ll find something today, any trace at all that his father is alive.

“My son is not dead!”

Lilia snarls those words whenever someone tries to warn him against clinging to hope. The practice of optimism is a dangerous affair during the volatility of a zombie apocalypse, but though Lilia exercises a cautious pessimism with everything else, this is the only thing he refuses to back down on.

He knows Silver is alive. He has to be. Lilia had told him to run when the zombies broke in and began to swarm the two of them — Better him alive than me, he’d thought back then as he turned back to the screeching mob and began to gun them down. The swarm had been burnt to a crisp before he’d finished, courtesy of those who found him, a group that had saved his life in exchange for his services and supplies.

Lilia knows nobody believes him. Fools, the lot of them! Still, none of them can complain considering how versatile of a survivor Lilia is; he knows that those in his group value his skills, especially given his ability to trade morse code messages with another distant group of survivors, trading little bits of information about safe spots and supplies. Azul is hard pressed to give up such precious details, but Lilia can’t give a single shit about profit when the world’s ended and everyone’s dead or worse.

He finishes off the last bits of a message before he joins the others — Azul grumbling about all they have to leave behind, while the youngsters, a group of five, give the money-minded man the stink eye. Vil chats with Rook about where they shall head next, and Malleus dips his head at Lilia as he joins them.

Lilia hopes that he’ll find something today, any trace at all that his son is alive.

Silver sees it when they arrive at the safehouse. He finds it when he’s cleaning up, searching around for any supplies they can store: a tiny little container that makes his heart leap from the familiarity of it, the colours and gilded edges catching his eyes in the dust-covered haze of the apocalypse.

And within it—

(His breathing stutters to a stop, heart catching in his throat as a well of hope springs up within his chest, bursting anew.)

A rotting acorn bracelet is nestled inside.

#my writing tag #tumblr drabbles tag #ficlet frenzy #twst #twisted wonderland #twst fanfiction #twst writing #going to tag spoilers as a precaution for the significance of the bracelet #twst spoilers #twisted wonderland spoilers #twst ch7 #twst silver #lilia vanrouge #this is all over the place but i feel like this is better suited for smt >1k words TT #uhh god i hope this is still coherent though. ive def written better ficlets but also aaaaaaaaaa #do not separate them

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sarahs-secrets2 · 1 year

Text

In Your Wildest Dreams ˋ♡ˊ

regency era/bridgerton inspired au!

duke!leon x fem!reader (no use of Y/N)

Word Count: 2k

Warnings: not period accurate, tad ooc bc its an au, other than that none!!

₊°✧︡ ˗ ˏ ˋ ♡ ˎˊ ˗

The start of a new season and you were officially making your debut, with your first outing being the highly anticipated Queen’s ball to welcome the ton to the start of a fresh season. The ballroom was filled with potential suitors, fresh debutantes, and mamas scurrying about hoping to secure a match for their daughters. As expected it was quite stuffy, being new in town brought a bundle of attraction as all sorts of suitors tried to win your hand. The voice of the man next to you droned on as you tried to remain pleasant, a small smile glued to your face.

“Would you excuse me, my lord,” the suitor looked taken aback at the interruption, was it ladylike? Probably not, but right now the suffocating nature of the ballroom had overwhelmed you and you were in dire need of a breath of fresh air. You bowed your head quickly before disappearing into the gardens behind the Queen’s luxurious estate where the night's ball was taking place.

The brisk air chilled your skin, the satin gloves and thin shawl did little to warm you as you wrapped your arms around yourself making an effort to heat up. The murmur from the ballroom could still be heard from your spot on the balcony overlooking the gardens. Taking a few steps forward your hands rested on the ledge, grounding yourself with the brick under your satin-covered grasp.

“Surely, it is not fitting for a lady of such elegance to remain unpartnered and unattended on the terrace,” the sudden voice caused you to jump clinging onto the ledge a bit more than before. You turned around to see the man in front of you. His ashy blonde hair swept across his face as he straightened his dark maroon suit jacket.

“I was merely seeking a breath of fresh air before I return to the party, sir. I couldn't help but notice, that you have followed me out here, leaving us unchaperoned,” you leaned against the ledge behind you as you spoke to the unknown man.

“It seems you have a point miss. My apologies,” he smirked before stepping closer and joining you on the ledge. “As it happens, I too was seeking some refuge from the crowded ballroom and swarming mamas, mind if I join you?”

“Please,” nodding as you spoke, “Pardon me if this is too forward but you do not look familiar and I am here for my first season, are you also a new arrival for the season?”

“Ah, no miss,” he glanced down, his hair covering his face to hide his emotions. He settled next to you, his hand accidentally grazing yours. He quickly withdrew his hand and readjusted his position, as you stood frozen at the touch. It was something you had never felt before, saying it was a spark would be dramatic but something inside you craved more. He cleared his throat trying to gain his composure before starting again, “Business, unfinished affairs on my father's account I must settle before returning home,”

“I see, well I hope you are able to find some peace here in London for the time being,”

He smiled and nodded, looking off into the gardens. You studied him as he seemed to withdraw from the conversation. There was more to him than he was willing to give up, the way he carried himself to the way he spoke was guarded. As if one small misstep would expose his true self.

“Well you must forgive me, but I think I see my aunt looking for me,” his attention turned back to you as you slowly made your way back to the wide glass doors that led back to the ballroom. “It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” you paused, waiting for his name.

“You as well miss,” he swiftly answered dodging the attempt to get his name and offered a small smile before redirecting his attention back to the nightsky overhanging the gardens.

You huffed hoping to get something more out of the mystery man who now occupied your mind. Although you didn't know his name he had an allure that you hadn't felt before. A guard opened the door back inside for you as the immediate wave of music and chatter flowed back over you as you stepped into the warmly lit ballroom.

“Oh dearest where have you been,”

“Aunt Agatha,” although she seemed pleased to see you, you knew she was unhappy with your disappearance. She was kind enough to sponsor you this season, it was only fitting for you to put your best foot forward and try your hardest to secure a match. “I was merely taking in some fresh air, do not worry.”

She chuckled, taking your arm in hers as she led the pair of you through the crowd towards the front of the ballroom. “While you were out doing god knows what,” you patted her arm playfully as she teased you, “I had the pleasure of conversing with Her Majesty, and she expressed a desire to introduce you to one of her guests who shall be residing with her for some time this season.”

“I do not know whether to be honored or insulted at the introduction, does Her Majesty not think me capable of finding a match?”

“Now,” your Aunt shot you a look of disapproval, “You are well aware of the past history between Her Majesty and I, she is simply doing me a favor,”

“Oh Aunt Agatha, you have little faith in me,”

“I have plenty, now be on your best behavior,” she squeezed your hand lightly as you both approached the Queen, “Ah, your Majesty,” the pair of you bowed down to greet her. “May I introduce you to my niece who I am hosting this season,”

“Your Majesty it is an honor to make your acquaintance,”

“I have someone I would like you to meet dear, I like to think of myself as quite the matchmaker you see.” The Queen was known for her matches; all of the pairs she introduced ended up married within the following months. A question often asked though was: were they married because of love or fear of disappointing their Queen? “Ah come here,” she motioned to a man a bit further from her as he moved to join the group. “This is the Duke of Clyvedon, Leon S. Kennedy.”

And there he was, the mystery man from the balcony standing right in front of you. He was already handsome, but somehow seeing him in better lighting, he had become even more handsome. Looking at him took your breath away as you let out a small gasp.

“Is everything alright dear?” your Aunt whispered into your ear quietly. Unable to form words you just nodded, your mind too clouded with the man standing in front of you.

“It is a pleasure to formally meet you,” he bent down, placing a small kiss on the back of your extended hand. His piercing blue eyes catch yours as he stands up slowly, both of you holding the secret of your first informal meeting on the terrace earlier.

“Your grace, the pleasure is all mine,”

“Look at you two, quite the match I have made already,” the Queen exclaimed, applauding her own work.

“Oh they truly do look wonderful together I agree,” your Aunt chimed in agreeing with Her Majesty, “Let us leave these two, hmm?” Agatha motioned for the Queen to join her as the two walked away already heavy in conversation, probably planning the wedding already.

“Nice to see you again,” he eyed you up and down, taking in you fully now.

“You as well, your grace,”

“Please, just call me Leon,” he extended his arm for you. Hesitantly you entwined your arm with his and the two of you maneuvered your way through the ballroom floor.

“Leon, I understood you were just here on business. Does the Queen know that?”

“No, she does not. She is determined to find me a match this season,”

“Oh, I see,”

The two of you arrived at the refreshments table, he grabbed two glasses and swiftly handed you one as he began to sip on his. “I feel compelled to make this known before this goes any further, I have no intention of marrying this season.”

A part of you wished it to not be true as you didn't see anything wrong with marrying Leon even from the short interaction he seemed like he would make a fine husband. “That is quite alright, and I don't think it is me you have to worry about,” you smiled saving face as you gestured towards the Queen.

“Ah, I am well aware,” he raised his eyebrows. His forwardness was not something you were used to, and you weren't sure if this remark of not wanting to marry was because of you or some other outside force. The Duke’s confession drew a silence between the two of you as both of you were unsure how to navigate it further.

“I-,”

“Well,”

Both of you spoke at the same time, causing you to get quickly flustered at the entire interaction.

“You go first your grace- Leon, my apologies,”

“Well, just because I have no intention of marrying I assume that does not hold the same for you I suppose?”

“You would be correct,”

“Let me help you then miss,” he seemed quite cheery at his suggestion.

“I am not sure I understand,”

“When the other suitors see such a lady as yourself with a Duke, they will surely rush to catch your attention,” he studied your face as he went on trying to gauge how you felt about it.

“And what do you receive from this?”

“I can conduct my business in peace without having to worry about mamas pushing their daughters at me,”

“Your performance must be convincing enough to deceive even the most discerning eye,” you were skeptical at the idea but what could you lose? It seemed he genuinely wanted to help you find a good match this season.

“Trust me, I am quite capable of being convincing, the ton will have not a clue” he bent down and whispered in your ear, sending a chill down your spine as he spoke. He grabbed your drink and placed it back down on the table along with his before he slipped his hand around your waist and tugged you toward the dance floor.

The two of you danced for the entirety of the song, with each step you melted more into his touch still unable to identify the feeling that bubbled in your stomach as he gently held you. The dance ended and your bodies were pressed together, your back firmly against his chest. He bent down slightly again and whispered, “What say you?”

You tilted your head back, catching his eyes, “I accept the proposition, your grace.” Leon gave you a small look, “My apologies, Leon, I accept,”

“Now that is precisely what I was hoping for,” he grinned before turning you back to face him properly. “I fear I must be leaving now, I shall hope to see you shortly,” he winked before kissing your hand goodbye and disappearing into the crowd.

You clutched your hand as he left trying to lock the feeling of his lips on your glove into your memory forever. Before you had a chance to fully process what you had agreed to, your Aunt Agatha was quick to reappear at your side.

“I assume it went well dear?”

“One could make that assertion,” you said, trying to conceal the smile on your face.

“I think it is time for us to take our leave darling, I have a feeling tomorrow we will be quite busy.” And with that, you and your Aunt departed your first ball of the season where you harbored a secret of your future courtship. The night's excitement had dwindled as you stared out the carriage window, feeling nervous about how this arrangement with the Duke would work, or if it could even work.

₊°✧︡ ˗ ˏ ˋ ♡ ˎˊ ˗

i have part 2 mapped out already, this is very much a slow burn but i have a lot planned:)

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