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wavyhairedbabyy · 3 years

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Idiots - Part 2

Karl Jacobs x gn!reader

tldr: They’ve both got a crush. Sucks, since they’re the only ones oblivious to it. (Slow Burn!)

CW: none, fluffy :))

a/n: Picnic portion was inspired by Sunflower by Rex Orange County :) Sorry it took so long! Major writers block on this but now I’m back :)))

edited yet?: yes - let me know if I missed anything!

Part 1 - Part 2

“So we agree, I’m Eve and you’re Wall-E?” y/n asked as the credits began to roll.

“I want to sit here and disagree with you just to spite you, but I can’t,” Karl responded, “I could 100% see you blasting someone for just walking funny on a bad day.”

“I’d blast you just for the hell of it,” Y/n jumped onto their feet raising their arms up in a big stretch after sitting for the movie.

“Bad choice,” Karl reached his arms to the side of their body, immediately tickling them. Y/n immediately screamed out his name, trying to move themselves out of his grasp. As soon as Karl noticed this, he grabbed their arm to pull them back on to the sofa.

“You’re... going... to... regret... this!” Y/n huffed out, thrashing against him. Karl’s giggles and their screams echoed around the house. It wasn’t until y/n mustered up all of their strength to push him of the couch for them to escape his clutches.

Y/n ran to the bathroom, quickly locking the door behind them. Karl quickly ran behind them only to have the door slammed in his face, “Aw, c’mon y/n, let me in.”

“After that stunt you pulled? In your dreams, Jacobs,” Y/n turned toward the sink, ignoring Karl’s attempts to unlock the door. The only thing on their mind was their night routine and then hitting the hay.

As y/n started the warm water, the door swung opened making them jump. At the door frame stood Karl with a quarter in his hand, “Next time you should check to see what kind of lock I have.”

“Whatever, smart ass,” y/n rolled their eyes playfully, reaching for their tooth brush. They brushed their teeth as Karl scrolled through his phone. After the flight, unpacking, and a night with Karl, y/n just wanted to head to bed. They couldn’t even imagine how Karl felt with all the Mr. Beast stuff. After rinsing their mouth they asked, “You goin’ to bed too?”

Karl shook his head, “Nah, I’m going to stream for an hour or two. Nick and Alex want to practice for this Minecraft Championship thing so I’m gonna root them all while also roasting the crap out of them.”

Y/n should’ve known, especially with the mountains of energy drinks in his fridge. The man probably never sleeps, “Well you enjoy that. I’m knocking out for the night.”

Karl nodded. “I figured. You and you grandma schedule,” he giggled, resulting in a pout from them.

“You say that as if dealing with sleep deprived me isn’t one of the worst things in the world.”

“I mean, you got me there,” he shrugged. He walked over to them, wrapping his arms around them tightly, “Goodnight. Knock on my door if you need anything at anytime, okay?”

Y/n nodded, hugging back just as tightly. They wished this could last together. His smell was comforting, reminding her of happiness and serenity. His hold made them feel safe, like nothing could hurt them as long as he was there. The feeling ended too quickly as he pulled away, giving them one last smile before heading off to his stream room.

Y/n looked at themselves in the mirror, huffing to themselves. Going from not seeing Karl for over a year to all Karl all the time felt like sensory overload. The butterflies, the emotions, their head racing with thoughts that they shouldn’t have for someone who is just their best friend - it was a lot.

This was going to be a long week.

***

Y/n woke up to the sun’s rays gleaming through the blinds. Looking at their phone, they saw that it was 9AM. Juggling between the staying in bed and getting up, y/n decided that getting up was the better option. The last thing they wanted to do was go back to bed and mess up their “grandma schedule,” as Karl would call it.

Moving out of the bed, they reached their limbs as far as they could stretch them. After picking their outfit, they journeyed to the bathroom to get their morning started. On the way over, they peeked into Karl’s room and saw him still asleep. They had no idea when he had gone to bed so they shut the door quietly, making their way to the bathroom once again.

As they were brushing their teeth, y/n realized it was the day they were going to the warehouse for a Mr. Beast video. They knew they weren’t going to be filmed, but the nerves were still there. They had met Chris, which was helpful, but not Jimmy yet. What if they messed up a shot? Or messed up any equipment? Not touching anything while they were there seemed like a fool proof idea.

Y/n finished up their morning routine as they kept thinking of ways to not fuck anything up. Making their way to the kitchen, they knew the one thing that could - somewhat - calm their nerves: coffee.

Y/n happily found a jar of instant coffee. Not the best, but it’ll do. Upon unscrewing the jar, they noticed it a plastic film seal up which confirmed that it was brand new. Did Karl get this just because he knew they were coming? They couldn’t recall him ever drinking caffeine that wasn’t from an energy drink. Y/n didn’t know, but the idea of it made their heart melt.

***

Once Karl woke up, he and y/n made a quick breakfast together made their way over to the warehouse.

“I don’t know why, but I’m really nervous. I don’t even know what I’m nervous about. I know it’s going to be fine, but.... I don’t know,” y/n expressed on the drive there. It was a brand new experience and they didn’t know what to expect. They’ve never been on a set of any kind let alone one for someone as well known as Mr. Beast.

“Hey, you’ll be okay. I know it can feel overwhelming, especially for your first time. I’ll be there if you need anything,” Karl comforted them through their nerves. He held their hand and gave it a gentle squeeze, “If you ever need a minute, don’t wait to ask. Just take it.”

Y/n smiled at him. He was always great at making sure they were comfortable wherever they went. While the nerves were still there, they felt a lot better knowing Karl was available, even among the chaos that may ensue.

***

The day at the warehouse went really well. Y/n’s nerves went away about an hour in, but that didn’t stop Karl from checking every now and then. Y/n was grateful that they respected them not wanting to be filmed, especially when they started filming a Fear Factor like video with snakes, cockroaches, and tarantulas. With all the creatures around, it didn’t take long for them to grab one of the smaller boa constrictors and start chasing Karl around with it.

“Y/N! STOP! WHAT DID I EVER DO TO YOU?” Karl screeched, running away from them.

“REMEMBER THAT TICKLE ATTACK FROM LAST NIGHT? TOLD YOU YOU WOULD REGRET IT!” Y/n yelled back. They were laughing the entire time while Karl continued his screaming. Their fun chasing Karl was cut short when snake man had to start packing away his animals.

At some point during the day, y/n had taken a step outside for a social break. Chris took this time to continue the conversation he and Karl had in the car. Walking over to his friend, he asked, “So have you told them yet?”

Karl looked around to ensure you hadn’t come back or were around before responding, “No, I’m going to wait until right before they leave. I’m scared that I’ll tell them and it’ll ruin the week.”

Chris looked at Karl, absolutely dumbfounded, “Dude, I can’t believe the two of you. And you two acted the way you did today in college too?”

“I mean, yeah. We’re best friends. What’s wrong with how we’re acting?” Karl gave him a confused look.

“Nothing but it’s so painfully obvious y’all are into each other. I didn’t pick it up yesterday, but y/n is totally into you too, man,” Chris explained, “Even Chandler was able to pick it up. He thought I was kidding when I said you two weren’t a low-key thing. Please do both of yourselves a favor and just tell them.”

This conversation ran through Karl’s head the rest of the day. Did y/n really like him back? The thought of that made his stomach do flips. He became hyper aware of all y/n’s actions and they suddenly meant more to him. When they high-fived, he felt his hand on fire when they weaved their fingers with his. He was more aware of their body on his when they hugged, butterflies flying through his stomach when they gave him a squeeze.

The drive home was spent by y/n non-stop talking about how much of a great day they had right after a heated debate on where they would be picking up dinner. They were too tired to even thinking about cheffing up a meal. What y/n didn’t know was the nerves hidden underneath Karl’s semi-cool exterior on how he planned on confessing his feelings. Luckily, “semi-cool” was his middle name.

The two had stopped at the Asian fusion place they decided to pick up food from. As they got into the car, Karl’s eyes lit up as he came up with an idea for dinner and turned to y/n.

Y/n, noticing this, furrowed their brows and said, “You either have a really good idea or a really dumb idea, and I think you’re going to tell me whether I want to hear it or not.”

“You are absolutely right!” Karl giggled, “Anyways, to keep it short and simple, picnic in the park? I have a blanket and we can pick up some ice cream or something.”

“That... actually is a great idea! I’m starting a playlist now and I’ll share it with you. How does ‘stupidly great vibes’ sound?”

“Sounds perfect.”

***

The two sat on a hill in a nearby park, digging into their dinner with the last minute playlist y/n had come up with playing in the background. The bottom of the sun was barely touching the horizon, getting ready to set and give the sky to the moon for the night.

The comfortable silence they had was one of their favorite things about their relationship. Neither of them ever felt pressure to fill the emptiness. Just being in each other’s company was entertaining and pleasing for both of them. They just watched their surroundings, while enjoying their food and each other’s presence.

After they clean up, the silence continued. They sat shoulder to shoulder, enjoying the moment they were in. They both would steal side glances at each other without the other noticing. Moving to lean their head on Karl’s shoulder, Y/n was looking at the sunset but their thoughts were swarmed with him and the last day and a half. They loved how he always made sure they were comfortable and welcomed in any setting. They loved they way his voices would crack during a fit of giggles. Just one day with him had their mind swirling in a pool of just him. His touch, his smell, his voice. They felt like they were in a trance with him.

Being with them, Karl realized how much happier he was with them there. He realized how much giddier he was waking up, how his mood had been uplifted with just their presence. He loved how headstrong they were, but never so much to the point that it hurt other people. He loved the way they could up his self esteem in the matter of a few minutes. The more and more he thought about it, the more he realized he loved them. He loved them more than just a best friend. He’s had for a handful of years. He wanted more than just the title “best friend.”

The two sat there, both individually coming to the realization that they have been falling in love with the other over the last few years. Neither caught onto each other’s hints while every outsider saw the love for one another other bloom.

Karl turned his head, spotting a small white daisy in the grass next to their blanket. He leaned over to grab it which forced y/n to lift their head from where it was, their eyes watching for what he was reach for. Plucking it from the grass, he leaned back and gave it to y/n.

“For you,” he practically whispered with the goofiest grin on his face. Y/n took the flower from his hand, returning his smile.

“Aw, thanks Karl.”

They locked eyes immediately after. Any plans Karl had in his mind on confessing to y/n immediately got thrown out the window, the hours of thinking gone to waste. In that moment, he blurted out the only words he could make sense of in that instant, “y/n... I think I’m in love with you.”

Y/n froze, trying to wrap the words he said around their head. They for sure thought they were awake but after his confession, they couldn’t be sure if they were in a dream or not. Their mind was reeling, making the task of forming a sentence that made sense a difficult one.

At the same time, Karl was giving himself a mental face palm. He wanted to confess his feelings, but not to that level. His nerves were on high alert, already assuming the worst was yet to come. He had to save the friendship at the very least.

“I-I’m sorry. It wasn’t supposed to come out like that,” he rambled, “But - uh- I’ve had a crush on you for a while now and I never wanted to ruin the friendship but if you’re uncomfortable with that, that totally makes sense-”

As he kept talking, y/n began to collect their thoughts. They thought he looked so cute when he nervously rambled but they had to cut him off eventually, knowing his anxiety levels were through the roof.

“Karl,” As soon as he heard their voice, his rambling stopped and kept all eyes on them. He looked at them waiting for a response but receiving none. Instead y/n wrapped their arms around him, enveloping him in a warm hug, “I think I’m in love with you too.”

Karl felt his heart explode. Chris was right. He hugged them back just as, if not more, tight. Any nerves he had running threw his body were replaced with pure happiness. He didn’t need to hold anything back from them anymore.

Y/n pulled away from the hug, leaning their foreheads together, “Can I kiss you?”

Karl smiled, “Honestly, it’s all I’ve want since I made that shot into your coffee.”

Y/n gave Karl a bewildered look, “What? That long?” They exclaimed

“Yeah, but we have the rest of the week to talk about it.” Karl leaned in, pressing his lips gently against theirs, wrapping his hands around them to bring them closer. The kiss was gentle and sweet, as if they would be woken up from a dream if they were anything but that.

They pulled away from kiss, but remained in each other’s arms. They stayed silent and enjoyed each other’s presence and touch, each meaning much more than they had just a few moments earlier. All that was left in the park was the semicircle of the sun on the horizon, a bag of food scraps, and two idiots, dumbfounded at the love they had for each other.

***

If you liked this fic, check out my others:

Masterlist

#karl jacobs x reader #karl jacobs x reader fluff #karl jacobs fluff #karl jacobs fanfic #karl jacobs #mcyt x reader #mcyt fanfiction

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goodgirlsfanficawards · 3 years

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Why limit yourself to canon when there’s a whole universe of possibilities out here? This week, for WIP Wednesday, check out some of these out of this world AU WIPs.

Under the Bright Lights by Strawmari / tumblr: @xstrawmari, twitter: @rriiiiissa

05 Dec 2020, M, 2.9K, 1/18, AU: Circus

Annie spread several cards across the table top and waited for Beth to pick one. Her finger hovered over one in the middle before tapping on the final card twice.

When it was flipped over to reveal the sun in an upright position, Annie's mouth opened slightly in awe before she proceeded to explain the card for her sister.

"Not only will a clear romantic path reveal itself today, but you'll be presented with a new job opportunity, seize it, it'll only bring you great success".

"Cool".

Annie rolled her eyes, "it's way fucking cool. You hit the jackpot, baby girl".

The Boyfriend by coolestcateva

26 Apr 2020, M, 10K, 2/3, AU: High School

Elizabeth sighs happily, melting in his arms for a moment and leaning into him. Hearing that sigh, he thinks he might never let her go. She turns her head and presses her lips to his. He smiles as they kiss. God, it feels so good to touch her.

It doesn’t last nearly long enough. She pulls away and pushes herself up from the bed, causing Christopher’s empty arms to fall to his sides. He pouts at her.

“I have a thing,” she says vaguely as she bends down to grab her pants off the floor. Her back is to him, likely so she doesn’t have to witness his pout, and he licks his bottom lip as he watches her shimmy into her jeans.

Sweet by DropKickDisco / @dropkickdisco

10 May 2020, M, 19K, 11/?, AU: Coffee Shop

“He'll see you if you go that way.” drawled a raspy voice from behind her.

She turned and saw a tall, slender man wearing all black and an apron in profile.

“What?” she asked confused.

He turned to look at her fully, and he was beautiful, dark eyes, full lips and a throat tattoo.

"I said, he'll see you if you go that way, your best bet is through the back." He reiterated.

"Oh, thank you." Beth said gratefully.

He just smiled at her, as she passed him, quick as anything, he pushed her up against the wall.

"What are you doing?" Beth gasped, palms up against his chest.

At that very moment, Harold passed right by the spot she had been standing and plotting her escape. The stranger was a lot more muscular than his frame let on.

I'm gonna lure you into the dark by Milaistryingtowrite

30 Nov 2020, E, 29K, 6/20, AU: Blacklist/Soulmate

So much blood. Oh my God.

It was everywhere. On the walls, floors, small splatters of it on the ceiling even. It was like she stepped right into one of those 80’s horror B movies she usually watches with her sister Annie every Halloween night. The bodies of eight unrecognizable men laid dismembered on the floor, arms, legs, feet. She only could say there were eight dead men on the floor because of the heads, thrown away carelessly in different places across the dirty red floor.

The wet red floor.

In the past eleven years working as an FBI agent, she’d seen some pretty fucked up things but the scene right before her now took the cake. In the middle of all that horrible mess, writing something down on his phone, was her partner, James “Jim” Turner.

Crime and Punishment: Results may vary by Sdktrs12 / @sdktrs12

12 Jan 2021, E, 58K, 9/26, AU: College/University

Beth drops her hand from her mouth, wincing slightly at the ache there from how tightly she’d been pressing in. She swipes furiously at her face and eyes, drying her tears.

She inhales deeply, body trembling slightly as she does, and then lets it out slowly and quietly, prepping herself.

She has to move. Now.

Beth takes a quick look around, squinting slightly in the darkness. She’d only turned the lights on in the front and in the office when she’d first come in, before this fucked up meeting had started, leaving the rest of the warehouse dimly lit and cast in shadows.

This could work to her advantage.

She knows this warehouse. Knows it better than him.

“We playin’ a little game of hide and seek or somethin’? Marco Polo? Cat and Mouse?” He laughs at his own stupid little joke and Beth feels the anger in her chest morph into rage. She hates him.

If you know of anyone’s tumblr/twitter and we haven’t found it or tagged incorrectly, please send us an ask to let us know.

#good girls nbc #nbc good girls #good girls fanfiction #brio fanfiction #beth x rio #good girls fanfic #wip wednesday

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inkribbon796 · 3 years

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Dr. Strangelove and Ticking Timebombs Ch. 1: Suspicious Contraband

Summary: Tommy goes on his first real hero patrol as a mysterious shipment comes into the Brighton.

Chapters: 1, 2, 3

At 23:15 hours the officers arrived on the scene. It was one of the many warehouses along Brighton’s industrial ports. Ships came in and out bringing all kinds of goods.

Somewhere, someone with a conscious raised the alarm. Or at the very least someone who didn’t know how much money was trading hands to keep a particular shipment under wraps.

The instant the ship docked at port the flagged cargo was isolated as soon as it could and pulled to the side for police to investigate it.

Because of the way the contents of the shipments had been written it had led people to assume the type of illicit cargo that the shipment contained was living people.

But when they popped the cargo container it was mostly empty except for a five-foot airtight sealed lead box, and three other crates each about twenty feet in length. In one was a bulk order of smoke detectors, and in another a bulk order of Coleman gas lanterns. The third was full of different magical supples, all categorized and put into smaller boxes.

With no people, apart from the investigation team, the contents of the container were seized while unseen, a young man stood and watched the police proceedings from a distance. He silently followed the group to the lockup site they were taking the heavy, lead box to.

The next morning the heroes went on a patrol with no knowledge of what the police had found.

Ethan had finally started to feel like he was shaking his “junior member” shtick. Which was a relief because he’d been trying to get rid of that for years. But that came with a price because the rest of the heroes through the perfect person to mentor Tommy — who was a loose cannon who ran off at the first sign of adventure — was someone who had been the exact same thing.

When Tommy first entered the base he woke at least five people up from a dead sleep. He had two volumes: loud and deafening. He never accepted the answers “no” or “wait a second”.

So the Septics loved him, in fact he fit right in with them. Jackie called him their “vulgar firecracker”. But after Robbie’s death and revival, they were extremely hesitant to take on another apprentice, even one they really liked like Tommy. That’s why Tommy’s mentorship was given to Ethan.

Ghostbur was a different matter. Marvin was the definition of a helicopter parent around him. He might have never apologized for reviving Robbie, but he certainly learned his lesson. He didn’t want Ghostbur anywhere near any of the big villains. Which Ghostbur was alright with. The young man could go through walls and was more than capable of getting himself out of a dangerous situation.

The only problem was that Tommy was still a minor and they had yet to contact his father. Tommy refused to help them on that front and Ghostbur couldn’t remember a number. But said his name was “Phil” and that he was apparently very nice.

But Ethan decided that since Tommy was already running up the walls he could stand to be out on a patrol or two, to learn the city as Tommy was mostly unfamiliar with most of it. So because they were dealing with an apprentice who also happened to also be a minor, there was more than a bit of a cautious group around Tommy. Silver, Logan, and Marvin had accompanied Ethan and Tommy. With Ghostbut just accompanying them because Tommy and Marvin were in the group.

“Come on,” Ethan called out to Tommy, who had firmly decided that his superhero name would be “Big Man” and he would accept no other comments or suggestions on it. “Gotta[1] head back to Brighton.”

“But we went there first,” Tommy was already halfway down the street and looked like he was about to size up busy Egoton traffic like he could take the cars in a fist fight.

“Yeah normally we wrap around to check the first area of the patrol. Unless something else is going on or we get called somewhere else,” Ethan had a little spring in his steps as he walked down the street. Thankfully, Tommy rejoined the group and rushed toward the head of the group before shooting ahead.

Ethan sighed and Mark chuckled behind him, “Having fun, Crank?”

“Shut up, man,” Ethan rolled his eyes and shoved Silver away, which only resulted in Mark floating harmlessly. Ghostbur quickly trying to catch up with his brother.

“Tell me if you’re in over your head and he’s acting like a maniac,” Silver even had a smug way he was flying. “I’ll just show you a mirror and tell you all about the times I had to deal with your bullshit.”

“Hold!” Logan called out, he was still in his old outfit as he was extremely hesitant to put on a nanite suit again. “Would someone go and get Big Man and Ghostbur, they’re probably two blocks down by this point.”

Silver was the one to fly out and corral Tommy back and at the possibility of getting off of patrol duty, Tommy came racing back.

“Did something happen?” Tommy almost knocked Ethan over. “Is it a bank robbery, or a murder?”

“Due to speed and efficiency, usually Jackie and the other Septics handle those sorts of engagements. All homicide cases are conducted by the proper police authority.” Logan was on some type of PAD, receiving and answering information without even looking at Tommy. Ghostbur came to float over Logan’s shoulder. “As for homicide cases, unless magic is somehow involved, we don’t usually handle any part of those cases.”

“You know, yer[2] a real downer,” Tommy told Logan. “Don’t break that stick that you’ve shoved up your arse[3].”

With all the information he could collect, Logan closed down his PAD and finally looked over at the young apprentice. “If you’re intending to entice me to anger, you’ll have to do a lot better than schoolyard taunts and minor vulgarity.”

“Oh, you fucking asshat, I can do way fuckin’[4] better than that,” Tommy promised with a huge smile.

Logan rolled his eyes and before Tommy could start his torrent of screaming random curse words at Logan, the logical Side began talking. “It’s fortunate that we’re already heading towards Brighton. There is a situation over by the docks where Abe and his investigation team found something last night and need my assistance. The rest of you should form a perimeter around the area, Abe made it sound important.”

“Why can’t we go in with you?” Tommy demanded.

“I said nothing about entering the scene itself,” Logan countered. “I will be there to consult, then we will leave. There will be little excitement on the matter.”

Tommy kept step with Logan and began poking his arm.

Logan stopped, “What are you doing?”

“Tryin’[5] ta[6] figure out where you keep the lazers,” Tommy paused for a second. “Are you a robot?”

The logical Side yanked his arm away from Tommy. “I’m wearing a different suit. This is a nanoweave micro lycra that’s been fortified with Kevlar. The suit you happen to be talking about is my nanite-infused version of this suit.”

“The hell’s a microwaved lycan?” Tommy asked. “Is that like some type ‘a[7] mutant hot dog?”

“No, it’s a type of spandex that can stretch and flex in four directions instead of two,” Logan explained, his stride quickening. “In any event, I only have access to my TASER, EMP bursts, and my other nanite-free weapons.”

“What happened ta[6] yer[8] other suit?” Tommy asked.

After a bit of a silence, Logan answered, “The nanites and I were too compatible and they were causing problems for others and myself. So I can no longer wear it or come into physical contact with nanites.”

“That fuckin’[4] sucks, wasn’t that yer[8] whole thin’[9]?” Tommy asked.

“My “thing” for lack of a better term, is the pursuit and acquisition of knowledge,” Logan corrected. “It is my purpose, my reason for existence. However if that pursuit puts myself or others in danger, it is an unacceptable dereliction of duty on my part.”

“Heh, dooty,” Tommy snickered, getting a long-suffering grumble out of Logan. “Do you e’en know what half ‘a the words yer usin’ e’en mean?”[10]

“Of course I do,” Logan scoffed. “Why on Earth would I use a word if I didn’t know what it meant?”

“I mean, lots ‘a[7] people do that,” Tommy explained as the group kept heading back towards Brighton.

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

Accessibility Translations:

1. Got to

2. you’re

3. ass

4. fucking

5. Trying

6. to

7. of

8. your

9. thing

10. Do you even know what half of the words you’re using even mean?

#superhero au #masks and maladies #dream smp #footnotes #logan sanders #tommyinit mcyt #Ghostbur #crankgameplays #silver shepherd #marvin the magnificent #fluff before the storm #suspicious cargo boxes #mad science approaches #magic

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aventurasdeunatortuga · 3 years

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Laredo Part 2 Week 2

First photo is yesterday’s grocery haul. Second and third photos show our stock of underwear and boys’ clothes. Fourth photo shows our COVID isolation building, the last photo is the church hall that has been converted into an emergency shelter to accommodate the 200-300 people staying each night at La Frontera. The main shelter building can only accommodate about 150.

I’ve been back in Laredo for about 2 weeks now, which is how long I stayed the last time I was here. I still have about 2 weeks left. Last time I was here I remember being completely and utterly burnt out by the end of 2 weeks and I can feel myself burning out again now.

I’ve been splitting my days between the two shelters, La Frontera and Holding, and they are so different. At La Frontera I feel very welcomed and involved and useful and the people seem a bit friendlier, but the flip side of that is that there is so much chaos and lack of organization it honestly stresses me out so much. There are just so many people in such desperate need all the time and there are maybe 3-4 volunteers each day trying to prioritize which crisis needs to be dealt with first. Usually that ends up being transportation and food. Things like clothing and cleaning and toiletries and organization have fallen by the wayside. We’ve been getting hundreds and hundreds of people in really terrible conditions clear until 2:30 in the morning every single day and we just simply do not have the people needed to make it run smoothly, so volunteers in the evening have just been opening the closet and letting folks grab what they need at random, which results in even more chaos and disorganization. The last few days when I’ve come in there have just been enormous piles of stuff all over the floor and garbage everywhere. It is really stressful.

Yesterday we realized that no one had gone grocery shopping, and there wasn’t much food left in the pantry. I don’t know how that system normally works, if there even is one, from what I can tell it is random volunteers buying food and occasionally community members donating food. We cooked all the food there was and served as many people as we could but here were about 250 people at breakfast who hadn’t eaten in several days.

Most of the groups that come in haven’t eaten in several days, but this group looked truly, truly desperate for food. The children were all screaming and the adults were trying to hold themselves back so as to not push or shove but I could tell it was hard. The heartbreaking part was that we didn’t have enough food for all of them, and about 50 folks went without food. We didn’t even have anything like granola bars or bread slices or cereal or anything to offer them.

Me and one of the nuns went to the grocery store and bought two fulls carts worth of food, we bought this yesterday morning and already today it is almost all gone. I feel frustrated with the leadership at this shelter, it feels like there is none. One of the directors is constantly out of the building driving people places and doesn’t answer her phone and the other is constantly putting out fires with border patrol and the police and the hospital and the city government, etc so she is never there either. The entire shelter depends on the 3-4 community members and out of town volunteers that show up at irregular hours and most of whom only stay for a few days.

The worst part is seeing how this lack of organization impacts the people coming through, who are already dealing with a lot of trauma and I know the chaos here isn’t helping.

But there’s only so much we can do. I started falling apart this morning after wading through so much garbage to try to get through the kitchen. I got very overwhelmed and started getting snappy at people, which doesn’t help anyone. One of the newer volunteers stepped up to help while I took a break. When I came back the both of us were able to get a number of the folks staying at the shelter to help us. We got folks to clean up all the garbage and clean the tables and sweep the floors and help us with the food. They were happy to help and were appreciative of what we were doing.

I’ve been at La Frontera shelter from 9-2 most days, which is usually when we finish serving lunch. Then I head over to Holding Community Center until about 7pm. The difference between the two shelters is night and day. While La Frontera has only 2 paid employees, Holding has 18 employees, most of whom are on site for the entire day 7 days a week. It makes an enormous difference. The flip side of that though is that I don’t feel super helpful there and the people have kind of set systems in place and a few staff members don’t seem very open to volunteers coming in to help as they are overwhelmed and don’t want anyone upsetting their system. It’s also different in that all of the folks staying here stay outside or in the vacant classrooms at the community center, the volunteers all work in a separate building and very rarely directly interact with the folks staying there. So while I’m there I essentially sit at a table and organize baby wipes and baby food for 3.5 hours straight. Then I help serve dinner and then I’m done for the day. We aren’t allowed to directly interact with the folks staying here because there are a lot of cases of COVID on the buses, the folks staying here tested negative but were still exposed so we’re trying to be very careful, but still it is kind of frustrating when folks knock on the door and ask for things like a bottle of water and to hear that I’m not allowed to give them water until a specific time or else everyone is going to be trying to get one. It’s definitely two ends of a spectrum.

I’ve been trying to interact with folks by doing a ‘diaper cart’ every afternoon. I load up a cart with diapers and formula and wipes and just walk around outside offering things to people.

Today I helped serve dinner to the main group of COVID negative people, but then I was also asked to bring dinner over to the group of people who tested positive for COVID. They are being quarantined in an empty warehouse across the street. They have nurses there and everyone wears masks. They have to quarantine for at least 10 days, and receive one change of clothes and a hygiene kit when they first arrive. They get a blanket and a cot and stay there until they recover. I hadn’t been over there before and was a bit nervous about it.

It was truly terrible to see. I don’t think I’ve ever been in a more miserable place. We stood in the doorway while folks lined up by the door. We handed food off to the nurses and they then handed the food to the people waiting in line. There were at least 100 people in there, packed wall to wall on cots and all of them coughing and looking so sick.

The medical team was treating them well and they had the basics that they needed, but it just broke my heart seeing so many sick people in one place. The hospitals will not accept them because they don’t have health insurance. Most were exposed to COVID in ICE detention, because ICE does not test the people they detain and keep people confined in close quarters for extended periods of time. If folks get extremely ill the hospital will accept them for 48 hours. The shelter is the only place in town that will accept them, if the shelter was not there ICE would have just left them on the street.

It’s been a really long week. I’m trying to not let all of this get to me. The most difficult part I think is seeing all of these problems and feeling so powerless to help. At La Frontera shelter it seems like a neverending crisis and lack of resources and organization that me as a part time volunteer cannot realistically fix, which is really hard to accept. There were some rooms I came across today that were in such a state of disarray I just had to close the door and walk away, because there was no way I could take that on. At Holding, there are enough resources and organization, but seeing the people quarantined and seeing the busloads that come in each day of more and more sick people breaks my heart. Right when I was walking out the door at 6:45pm today a busload of 130 more people arrived, and staff was trying to decide if they should feed them or test them for COVID first, because the medical staff and the food team were leaving for the night and they didn’t know what to do. It was hard to accept that there wasn’t really anything I could do in that situation.

I’m trying to do what I can. I’ve been fundraising and have raised around $750 so far. I’m planning on using most of it for underwear and food for La Frontera shelter. Both shelters depend entirely upon donations though and I know that even if I spend all of that money today that all of the donations bought from it would likely be gone by the end of the week.

What really needs to happen here is systemic change. There needs to be drastic changes to our immigration policies, ICE as an institution needs to be shut down or at the bare minimum be investigated for their treatment of folks being detained by them. The fact that people come out of there exposed to COVID and without having eaten for several days is unconscionable. There needs to be government funding and disaster relief teams for folks seeking asylum, it is absurd that a bunch of random volunteers and community organizations are having to take on a humanitarian crisis of this scale.

I’ll go into this in a later post, but the United States is almost entirely responsible for creating the conditions that have caused so many folks to flee their home countries. It is the absolute bare minimum that the US can do to accept folks that are fleeing the situations that we created. They do not want to leave their homes, they are being forced to.

Rant over.

Until next time,

#laredo #texas #borderlands #immigration #asylum seekers

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littlewickedwiccan · 4 years

Text

For The Workers

Chapter 3

Alfie x Reader

Warning: Swearing, obvs

Authors note: We finally get some one on one time with Alfie. Enjoy! x

Chapter 1 || Chapter 2

Tags: @itsjusttaralove @advictedtohim

Today is the first day you are stepping foot into the Camden warehouse as a worker rather than as an uninvited visitor. You’d not slept much the night before, you have a current of electricity running through your body and a knot forming in your stomach. You feel oddly giddy about spending the whole day in the warehouse and you just can’t shake yourself out of it.

You’d been assured by Tommy before you left Birmingham, that there would always be a Peaky keeping an eye on you. Although it was meant to make you feel safer, it just made you very aware of all the eyes that were already being redirected in your direction.

As you made your way through the large oak door frame, Ollie’s youthful face greeted you at the door. Out of all the men you’d come across in this place, he seemed the least threatening.

“Welcome back. Alfie sent me to come show you to your office. It’s only small, but for the work you’ll be doing, it should be alright.”

Ollie gets straight to the point and starts leading you down the red brick corridors, past the workers that have already started on the day's tasks. You have to squeeze through men lugging heavy barrels on their sweat soaked backs, their caps pulled down over their tired eyes. You can feel the men stealing glances at you as you pass and you instinctively pull your ankle length coat closer around you.

“This here’s Alfie’s office” Ollie pointed to the room you’d sat outside of that first time you’d visited with Tommy. The door was wide open and you could now see Alfie’s big brown desk and cluttered shelves looming in the shadowy space.

“When the door’s open, feel free to pop your head in. If it’s closed, it’s best to steer clear.” Before you have time to get a better view inside, he carries on walking, making his way just a little further down the corridor and stopping at a room that only just manages to fit a small desk, a filing cabinet and a battered looking floor lamp.

“Cosy” you say as you glance inside at the sorry looking ‘office’, worrying about the lack of natural light and how humid the air feels in your lungs.

“Well, feel free to make yourself at home. There’s a pile of invoices that need checking there on the desk to get you started. If you need anything, just give me a shout, I’m always around somewhere.” With that, Ollie flashes you a sheepish smile before he turns on his heel and strides back the way you came.

Slowly, you step into your new office, placing your bag on the desk next to the papers and looking around at the flaking paint on the walls. There’s dust covering every surface and the light in the corner seems to dim in brightness every now and again, as if it doesn’t have the strength to carry on lighting the endlessly dull room.

There wasn’t a huge pile of work to look at, so you decide you have a bit of time to take a walk around the warehouse, to get the lay of the land.

You start to make your way deeper into the belly of the building. There’s not much to look at, mostly barrels stacked on more barrels. Every now and again you come across a worker hidden in the dark, sweeping, lifting or moving trolleys back and forth.

Before long, you reach some large double doors. They’re open just a crack and you can faintly make out a shadowy figure sitting in the almost empty room. You move in closer to get a better look and reach out a delicate hand, placing it on the heavy wooden door and push it open with a soft creak.

Finally, the hunched figure in the middle of the room comes into view, it’s Alfie, sat contemplatively in a rickety wooden chair, his large hands in his lap and his eyes closed. You falter for a second, wondering if you should just leave him to it, but just as you are about to turn and head back, he acknowledges your presence.

“My little cousin was born blind...”

The sound of his deep voice cutting through the silence makes you jump.

“As a result, I now donate a considerable sum of money to a charity, which gives dogs with eyes to blind Jews.” He shifts slightly in his chair making it squeak in protest under his hulking figure.

“The chairman of the board recommends that those of us who were blessed with the gift of sight, spend at least half an hour a day with our eyes closed so that we may better understand the darkness, and also, to increase our donations and that.”

You inch closer, moving to stand directly in front of him. You can see his face clearly now, he’s actually quite handsome considering he first appears a bit rough around the edges. His beard is golden and neatly trimmed, with a thin white scar cutting through the right hand side of his face and his hair is uncombed and slicked down with sweat.

There’s a faint smell of rum, fire and freshly baked bread coming off him in waves. It makes you feel unnervingly calm and starts to tease away the knots that had previously sat uncomfortably in the pit of your stomach. You couldn’t help but think about those exotic plants you’d read about, that draw their prey in with delicious smells, only to clamp down around them when they were close enough and swallow them whole.

“What time is it?”

You snap out of your thoughts and glance around the room looking for a clock, but there was nothing but bricks and barrels.

“I’ve no idea, I think it’s...”

As you reply, you watch as his hand lightly pulls on a thin silver chain and a pocket watch pops out of the front flap of his waistcoat. He brushes his coarse fingertips lightly over the smooth steel of the antique trinket, before turning it to face the direction of your voice.

“Ere you go, what time is it?”

You step a little closer and bend your head low to read the hands.

“Twenty-five past nine”

“Right, five minutes left. What can I help you with love? Are you lost? Did Ollie show you your little office?”

You roll your eyes at Alfie’s description of your work space. The use of the word ‘little’ makes it sound like you are a child playing worker while the grown ups do the real work in the ‘big boy’ offices.

“Actually I was just having a look around when I stumbled on your little meditation session” You make sure to stress the word ‘little’, passive aggression is your strong suit. He seems to ignore it and continue as though you’d said nothing at all and this just irks you even further.

“I think there’s another chair over there. Go have a look and take a seat.”

You follow the direction of his flippant hand gesture and see the chair in question, propped up against the wall. Dragging it over screeching the legs on the concrete floor, you set it down a small distance in front of Alfie and take your place.

“I like to make sure to spend these moments thinking about the bigger things… it also means I get a bit of peace and quiet from people asking me stupid fucking questions. Do you believe in god?”

The question seemed to come out of the blue and it takes you a second to process what he just said.

“...No Mr Solomons, I don’t. It’s a hard concept to grasp when you’re involved in this kind of life, surrounded by these kinds of people.”

“Call me Alfie. Well I don’t blame you, but I’m telling you Y/N, believing in something bigger than yourself can be a saviour in the darkest of times. How long have I got left?”

You notice he doesn’t lift the watch up for you like the last time, the silver timepiece just sits loosely in his open palm lying on his lap. Hesitantly you reach forward and carefully lift the watch up to face you. He doesn’t flinch at your presence or the weight of the watch being lifted from his hand, as if he had hoped you would close the distance on your own terms.

“Twenty-eight past nine, two minutes left.” You lean forward again placing the watch back where you found it, again he doesn’t move.

“I never said I didn’t believe in something bigger than myself Mr Solom… Alfie, I just don’t like the idea that there is a man up in the clouds watching my every move. I like to be in control of my own decisions, of my own life and the direction I take it.”

“Hmmm. How’d you end up ‘ere then? Did you make your own decisions this time around? How’s that workin out for you?”

He had you there, you in fact did not make the final decision to come here, it had been made for you… by a man who apparently had more control over your life than you had originally thought. Of course you couldn’t admit this to Alfie.

“Actually I did make the decision to come here. I needed a change of scenery, so here I am. Is that a problem for you Mr Solomons?”

“Not at all love. But forgive me if I’m not entirely convinced of your exhilaration at being ‘ere with us. Look let’s stop fuckin about and address the elephant in the room, I don’t want to have to keep an eye on you every second you're here...”

Alfie leans forward in his chair, his eyes still tightly shut, elbows resting on the dirty linen of his knees and clasping his hands in front of him, his many bracelets jangling together as he did. You didn’t feel yourself do it, but you realise you’ve started to lean back in your chair.

“As a businessman, I get Tommy Shelby’s reasoning behind your presence here I really do, but as someone that is not an absolute fucking idiot, I am fully aware that this is not a place for a woman of your… standing.”

It was like he’d said a code word that set your blood boiling. You hated people telling you where you were and weren’t meant to be. It was like you were naive and had no idea the dangers that lay around every corner for someone like you. You were a woman that had been through a lot, been a part of many different societies and social classes. You were more than aware of what could happen if you took a wrong turn or said the wrong thing in front of these types of men.

“Forgive me Alfie...” you stressed his name between gritted teeth.

“But I’m perfectly aware of the environment I find myself in. Thank you for your concern, but I don’t need you to watch me like a child.”

You try to stay conscious of the tone and volume of your voice. It wouldn’t be a good idea to start cussing out your gangster boss on your first day.

“Hmmm. What time is it?” This time he showed you the watch again as he leaned back in his chair, creating more distance between you and causing you to have to scootch forward on your seat to be able to see the time clearly. To your surprise, Alfie hands you the watch to hold.

“You’ve got 10, 9, 8...”

As you count down, you notice the watch chain start to release tension. Alfie had started to move gradually towards you once again. You try to ignore the warmth of his body getting closer and closer.

“7, 6, 5, 4...”

He was so close now you can feel the light caress of his breath on your face. Your brain is telling you to move back a bit, but your body refuses to budge.

“3,2,1”

Right on cue Alfie opens his dark blue eyes and you feel like your body has turned to stone right there in that chipped wooden chair.

“Right then… hello”

#alfie imagine #alfie #peaky blinders alfie #alfie solomons #peaky fucking blinders #peaky blinder fanfic #peaky blinders imagine #alfie x reader #alfie x ofc #alfie solomons fanfic

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leilabeaux · 4 years

Text

In My Sights

Masterlist

Pairing: Assassin Ivar/Reader

Word Count: 2026

Summary: When Ivar’s contracted kill is taken out right in front of his eyes, he didn’t expect it to be at the hands of an old friend.

Warnings: Schmut, Oral (Male receiving)

Author’s Note: This is a oneshot assassin AU. I say oneshot loosely because I have a tendency to just build a whole universe in my head and then boom, I get my hopes set on writing a whole series! So for now I will say no guarantees on a second part.

----

Drops of water had been tapping Ivar’s shoulder for the last hour but all he could do was breathe through his annoyance as he kept his scope sighted on the interior of the penthouse suite. He should have accounted for any potential inconveniences when he decided that the under construction high rise had the best vantage point with its lack of walls. Not much he could do now, even the slightest movement could result in him losing the Mark. He was at least grateful that the water was nowhere near his rifle.

He usually preferred a more hands-on approach when it came to eliminating a target. There was just something he loved about watching the life go out of someone’s eyes up close and personal but, unfortunately, this one was hard to get alone. Believe him, Ivar had spent a good month trying to find the best place to eliminate him without raising any questions. The only option was to sit patiently in the empty building until it was clear to make his move.

Although he was perfectly centered in Ivar’s crosshairs, it would be too risky to take the shot now as he was in the middle of his third lapdance, surrounded by his fellow associates and friends who were also in attendance of the bachelor party.

“Thank the gods,” he whispered to himself when the Mark sat up, took the scantily clad dancer’s hand, and led her to the privacy of the master bedroom. The woman’s back was facing Ivar as she climbed onto the man’s lap and leaned down to give him a kiss, her long red hair swaying back and forth when she began to grind herself against him.

He was fully prepared to pull the trigger as soon as her head was out of the way when the man started convulsing. The dancer carefully came to her feet and slowly combed her fingers through her hair, watching him grab at his throat as if he was struggling to breathe. Her calm stance turned into something more panicked when she opened the door and ran out of the room. Cursing at himself, Ivar wished he took the time to install some bugs in the suite so he could hear what the hell was going on.

Out of curiosity, he kept his scope centered on the dancer as all the party attendees rushed into the bedroom. Watching as she struggled to pull her coat on, he could tell from the shaking of her shoulders that she had to be crying. The redhead turned around to face the window and suddenly Ivar was looking at your face.

He could only clench his jaw as he watched you wipe the fake tears from your now smiling face and blew a kiss in his direction, giving him a mischievous wave before heading toward the exit. “Fuck!”

----

Ivar had waited around at the warehouse and watched as the Mark was zipped up into a body bag. Missing out on a nearly half million payday from what should have been an easy hit had really soured his mood and had him ready to get back home.

It was a few hours later when Ivar finally made it back to his motel room. Though in his personal life he preferred more luxurious accommodations because a son of Ragnar Lothbrok deserved only the best but when it came to his work, the more rundown the motel was the better. He found that people occupying such establishments kept to themselves and asked no questions.

As he unlocked the door and stepped into the dark room, he had an eerie feeling that he wasn’t alone. A creaking sound had him throwing his dagger into the corner before he quickly turned on the lights. You sat with your legs crossed in the weathered armchair looking completely unbothered by the fact that his weapon had landed only one inch away from your jeweled ear.

Although you had ditched the red wig and your hair was now back to its natural state, you still stuck out like a sore thumb in the outdated room. You were dressed in a white tailored pantsuit with a hint of a red laced bra showing, the same red that colored the soles of your stilettos. Ivar didn’t know a lot about fashion but he was sure your whole outfit cost more than it would to rent the room out for the next year.

You grinned as you looked him up and down, “Long time no see, handsome.”

Setting his crutch next to the dresser, he went to work unpacking all his weapons from his backpack, ignoring you in the process. He was trying his hardest to seem like he wasn’t shocked over your sudden appearance after not seeing or hearing from you the past seven months. He looked up at the mirror to see you pout before you stood up to walk over to him.

“I’ve missed you. Did you miss me?,” you softly asked. Pressing your cheek against his back as you hugged him from behind, you trailed your hand from his chest down to his waistband, “Oh, Mister Lothbrok, is that a gun in your pants or are you just happy to see me?” you asked before pulling out the beretta from its holster and feigning disappointment, “Darn, it’s a gun again!”

With such quickness, Ivar ripped the gun from your hand and had you backed up against the wall. He glared down on you as he placed it on the dresser.

“Uh-oh, I must be in trouble. That one was always sure to get a laugh,” You smirked.

His face loomed over yours while his hands wrapped around your neck, slowly tightening his hold, “There’s nothing fucking funny. If you missed me so much, you could have called. You wasted a whole month of recon I did on that hit!”

“Baby, please don’t be mad at me.” Fear in your eyes as you struggled to get the words out. At first he thought you were crying until a smile broke out across your face. You weren’t crying, you were laughing, “I can’t help that I’m better than you.”

He pushed you hard against the wall after letting you go. He should have known better. You were trained well enough to get out of the most complicated of holds. You’d probably have him down on the floor if you thought you were in any true danger. Just as he was about to step away, you grabbed his shirt to keep him close.

“I know it doesn’t seem like it but I really am sorry for taking away your kill,” You began to leave kisses up his neck and to his jaw, enjoying the advantage of the extra inches your heels gave you. “Let me make it up to you.”

“You’re going to give me half of the money?”, he asked as he unbuttoned your blazer and slid it off your shoulders.

You snorted, “Hell no, I earned it fair and square. It’s not like you need it anyway.” Switching places with him, you pushed him back against the wall and stroked his semi-hard dick through his pants, “I had something else in mind.”

Ivar leaned down to kiss you deeply, swallowing your moans as he massaged your breast, his fingers brushing against your nipple. His tongue danced against yours while you unbuttoned and unzipped his pants, taking care to remove the empty holster and place it next to the gun on the dresser. You pushed down his pants as much as his braces would allow so you could wrap your hand around him and give him a long, hard stroke. Leaning his head back against the wall, he couldn’t stop himself from thrusting into your grip.

You giggled against him, your warm breath tickling his neck, “I guess you really did miss me.” You pressed one small kiss under his chin before you lowered yourself down onto your knees.

You continued to slowly stroke his shaft up and down as you took his head into your mouth, circling your tongue around it. He cursed out loud and thrusted his hips, impatient and desperate to have you take him in fully. Your long nails clawed around his hips when he did this. Just as in your professional life, you hated being rushed through a job.

Ivar felt like melting into the wall as you slowly twisted your hand down his dick while taking more of him into your wet mouth. He tangled his hand into your hair, trying to restrain himself from pushing in deeper again after feeling your moans vibrate around him. Though his eyes were shut closed, he knew that you already had your other hand in your panties, busy circling your finger around your clit.

You popped him out of your mouth but continued stroking, “Still mad at me, baby?” You looked up at him through your lashes while you pressed soft open mouth kisses over the crescent indentions you left on his hips.

“Are you going to tell me how you killed this one?,” he managed to get out before letting out a string of curses when you took him by surprise and quickly took him deep into your mouth, your tongue flicking against his balls. If you were ever going to give him an actual answer about your methods, this would be the best time. He probably couldn’t even remember his name right now.

You took a quick gasp of air as you pulled away from him again. “I’m sorry, my mother told me that it’s rude to talk with your mouth full.” That got a laugh out of him. “Now let your girl work.”

—-

It was a small ray of light shining into his eyes that woke Ivar from his deep slumber. Rolling over to escape the brightness, he hissed when his back met the mattress. He was still tender from where you dug your nails in, holding onto him tight, pleading for him not to stop as he fucked you into the mattress. He grinned to himself while blindly reaching out to you, hoping to get you under him one last time before check out time but all he got was the cool side of the bed.

Sitting up, he looked around and saw your clothes that he remembered throwing across the room was now gone. Just like with all your kills, there was no sign of you left anywhere if he didn’t count the taste of you still lingering in his mouth.

He didn’t know why he thought it would be different this time. Maybe he hoped you’d want to make up for the lost time and actually be there when he woke for once.

Just as he was about to lie back down, he noticed the brown case near the foot of the bed. He reached over to bring it closer to him, smoothing his hand over the top. It looked like it was an antique and made with Italian leather, he was sure it wasn’t cheap and that whatever was inside of it wasn’t going to be any less expensive. He sighed, thinking that you were due for another lecture about your spending.

He undid the leather straps holding it closed, curious what was inside. It was too small to house a rifle or a shotgun and too big for a knife. He opened the case to find a throwing axe surrounded by the plush red velvet lining. Running his hand over the axe head and then down the rosewood handle, it appeared to be forged with great care. He didn’t want to think about how much you spent on this gift but he couldn’t deny that you had a good eye for exceptionally crafted weapons.

Noticing a piece of paper tucked underneath the blade, he unfolded it and smiled at the familiar scrawl.

“A proper Viking axe for the only man who can fuck me like a heathen. Maybe you’ll have better luck hitting me next time.”

Next time. There was hope for him. As long as she kept her damned hands off his next target.

----

Endnotes: I think the agent assigned to monitor my activity was probably on high alert for a second there as I was searching about sniper rifles, where to keep daggers for easy access, and who picks up dead bodies. I figured searching for how much an assassin makes for each kill would be a step to far though...

----

Tags: @youbloodymadgenius

#viking fanfic #ivar the boneless #ivar the boneless x reader #ivar x reader #alex høgh andersen #alex høgh andersen imagine #ivar the boneless au #viking fanfic au

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yikeswtfmate · 4 years

Text

Strange Times || Ch. 4

previous part // Strange Times - Series Masterlist // next part

Summary: Y/N’s found a buyer, but Raymond is less than happy about it. He just hopes his worries won’t become reality.

Pairing: Raymond (Charlie Hunnam - The Gentlemen, 2020) x Reader

Warnings: swearing; mentions of violence

A/N: SURPRISE! i know i promised a drabble, but i’m guessing you won’t mind this instead 😇 now i can take a break from it again until you start getting restless again 😂 joking!....unless...

A/N 2: ok, i know! and you’ll know why i’m sorry after you’ll have read this BUT in my defence, this is already 2,600 words long and i had to stop somewhere, or it would’ve gotten to at least 5,000 if not more

Mickey is starting to lose his patience with Y/N. Watching her over the rim of his glass, he notices there’s something off about her, but he can’t quite put his finger on it. Rosalind’s not home yet, having had to finish some other business or another at the garage, which is a shame because sometimes he needs her to understand his own sister.

He’s annoyed with how secretive Y/N’s been, and although he’s trying to give her space, as his wife warned he should, he’s dissatisfied with the morsels of information she’s been feeding him. This is not right, and he knows all too well how stubborn she could be, so even if she’d be in deep shit, the little asshole would still not tell him.

He grinds his teeth, intent on having a chat with Ray, because that fucker’s been like a fucking vault as well. Are they hiding something from him? He wonders, his gaze shifting to the man who’s yet again seated next to Y/N on the sofa. Mickey’s eyebrow twitches involuntarily when he catches the look that passes between those two, and what the fuck is going on.

“Right, so pleasantries aside, I have good news.” Y/N speaks up, tearing her eyes away from Ray. “I have a buyer.”

Ray takes a sharp intake of breath, and leans towards the bottle of whiskey that’s been sitting before them. Mickey closes his eyes for a brief second, hoping and praying to all that’s fucking mighty his sister did not stir shit up again. He knew he shouldn’t have trusted her when she’d only tell him it’s about the business. He knew there was something fishy when she’d just disappear for hours and days on end and reappear with a bright smile and a dismissive wave of her hand.

“Y/N, what the fuck did you do?” Mickey demands, and his jaw is clenched, eyes shut as he tries to gain some semblance of composure.

“Solved your shit, that’s what I did.” She shrugs, grabbing the whiskey for herself and pouring some more in her own glass. “Look, I really don’t want to listen to your whole spiel about how I’m not supposed to interfere, and how this is your shit that you have to deal with. We’ve already established you fucked it up royally last time. All of us here know that I don’t really have anything to gain from you selling, except to not have to listen to you bitch and moan all the time about how tired and stressed you are.”

There’s a moment of reluctant acknowledgement from him so she continues. “I have my connections here, and believe it or not, a pair of tits and some brains actually got me further than your little game with Berger did. Now.” Y/N places the glass on the table and interlaces her fingers on her knees, waiting for their full attention. “Are you interested in what I have for you or not?”

Raymond sighs beside her. He doesn’t like this more than he likes the drunkards that shout as they pass his house at 2 in the morning, but the truth of the matter is that Mickey does want to sell, for all the bravado he’s been putting up for the past year. Plus, even though he’s known Y/N for close to two months now, she’s had plenty of opportunities to show him just how clever she is. He supposes there’s no point in dismissing what she has to say, for all the wariness he’s holding in his heart, and not just because she’d be up to bash Mickey’s face in.

Ray can see the same thoughts going through his boss’ head. He can read them right in the small crease on his forehead and the tick of his jaw. He doesn’t like it more than he does, but he’ll have to at least hear what she has to say.

Mickey stands up, hands in his pockets, and Ray already knows he’ll start pacing around the room until he’s completely satisfied. They will be in here for a long time, and having Y/N involved, it can only mean that this plan will have to be not only airtight, but bulletproof and secured in bubble wrap, just to be sure.

This plan is not airtight, and Ray definitely doesn’t like it. He has a feeling in his bones that this will go sideways, but he keeps his mouth shut. He’s already expressed his thoughts to Mickey, who didn’t want to hear it. For all the holes Ray’s tried poking through Y/N’s plan, she seems awfully confident this Oscar Christie would come through. He can’t understand exactly why Mickey agreed to everything in the end, but Ray can just fucking hope it’s not because he’s getting desperate to sell. It could only mean it could get sloppy. Again. And he sure as fuck does not want this to get sloppy when Y/N is right in the middle of it.

He is still wary, and after the fifth time he’s got Y/N’s voicemail, he’s starting to feel more jittery than he should in normal circumstances.

“I think we should go in.” Ray mutters, with a shake of his head, not tearing his eyes away from the warehouse.

It’s dark, and there’s only one functioning lamp in the whole lot and if that doesn’t seem foreboding he’d eat his own fucking hand. He doesn’t like that Y/N is in there alone, a request Christie made clear that if broken, the whole deal’s off. He doesn’t like that this does not take place like a normal conversation in a bar or Mickey’s office or anywhere else more civilised for that matter, because what the fuck are they? They are just selling weed, for fuck’s sake, why the fuck is Y/N in a fucking dark warehouse like an animal being prepared for slaughter? Sure, they’ve done a lot of shit in warehouses themselves, but that’s just it. A lot of unspoken of shit.

“Would you stop shaking your fucking leg?” Mickey snaps. “We agreed on giving her half an hour. I don’t like this either, but she still has 5 more minutes.”

Ray is ready to bound out the door when the time’s up and Y/N is still nowhere to be seen. The sound of a phone cuts through the tension and silence that’s been stretching between the four men in the car. He turns to Mickey, who takes out his phone and reads the message, and Ray feels like the wind is knocked out of his lungs when he sees his boss throw the door open and bolting towards the warehouse without an explanation.

Bunny and Big Dave quickly follow after him, guns at the ready, but it takes Ray one more second to react before running blindly after them. They find Mickey frantically searching what Ray realises with a sinking dread to be an empty building. Christie is not here, his men are not here, but most importantly, Y/N is not here.

“Boss, what is going on?” Bunny asks quietly.

Mickey mumbles something unintelligible, forcing Big Dave to fearfully prod further, awaiting an explanation.

“THEY TOOK MY FUCKING SISTER!”

The words bounce off the empty walls, and Raymond feels like he’s spiralling down into insanity.

Two hours later, they have a request for ransom. Mickey is to give up the business in exchange for nothing, and Christie will gracefully allow him, his wife and his sister to leave the country without having all of them hounded down and killed. He would accept any man who’d like to stay on for him, but he supposes – correctly – that they’re all too loyal to Pearson to even offer. He’ll even let Mickey keep the money he already has, just out of the goodness of his heart. Cunt.

Mickey is pacing again, after having finished nearly an entire full glass of whiskey, thrown over the desk in the middle of the office, kicked a lamp and ripped off the curtains. Ray wishes he could let out his frustration and fucking dread out as well, but he’s forcing his brain to work in overdrive, coming up with a solution whose top priority (and only result he actually cares about) is to get Y/N out of this. His gaze shifts towards Rosalind, who’s sat on the ledge of the window, seemingly ignoring them both, having kept quiet ever since she arrived at the apartment. Ray supposes if there’s anyone in this entire world who understands Y/N completely, it’s her. But before he can place his laptop down in order to go over to her and discuss the idea that’s starting to swirl in his mind, Mickey slams down a hand on the wall.

“Right. Ray, I need you to find out where the fuck this little cunt operates and get me Guy on the phone. We’re smoking this little shit out.”

“You can’t bomb him.” Ray says, an impatient sigh escaping his lips. “If you do that, the next thing you’ll see is Y/N’s body on your doorstep. It will literally mean war.”

“It already means war!” He roars. “I will rip this fucker limb for limb if he thinks he can lay a hand on my sister and get away with it and my business.”

“We’re not bombing him.” Ray says finally.

Mickey turns to his underling, his left eyebrow twitching, jaw clenched so tight he might actually bite through his teeth. His nose is red, but he’s not so drunk that his face would become purple with madness anytime soon. Rosalind is still quiet and to be completely fair, it’s starting to tick Ray off. Why the fuck isn’t she helping? At least to get her rabid husband to calm down enough to start thinking rationally.

“I don’t remember anyone putting you in charge.” Mickey’s voice strangely resembles that of a snake, but Ray’s heard it enough times to not be bothered. At this point in time, Mickey is the last person he gives a fig about. “I am the boss and if I say we’ll smoke them out, that’s exactly what you’re going to arrange.”

“I couldn’t give a dog’s arse what you say, Mickey. This is a stupid plan and it’s bound to get her killed so you can either sit down and shut up until I come up with a plan or sober up enough to help me.”

There’s a beat of silence in the room, enough to hear Rosalind shift in her seat towards them. She looks at her husband, who’s staring incredulously at Raymond, but he’s shocked into silence at the blatant disobedience. For all of Ray’s cold blood, Y/N found his every weakness and became the heart of them.

“I don’t know what little game you’ve been playing with my baby sister, you fucking dickhead, but that does not mean that I will accept you disrespecting me like this.” Mickey sneers.

Raymond stands up, an inch between their faces now. Rosalind watches them warily, sure that if there will be any sudden movements around them, they’d just throw themselves at each other’s throats like rabid dogs.

“I’m not playing any game with your sister.” Ray seethes, a finger pointing to Mickey’s face. “I care about her and I’m trying to get her home safe, without starting a turf war, something that your fucking ego could never understand. Now. Will you fucking sober up so we can sort this shit out or are you going to keep on acting like a little cunt?”

Rosalind jumps up then, pushing them apart right when Mickey gets a hold of Ray’s jacket. She feels the rumbling of their growls in their chests, right under her hands. She hates these stupid displays of masculinity, especially when now is not the fucking time.

“Calm down.” She says.

“Don’t tell me to calm down!” Ray shouts, anger stretching his patience thin. “This is your fucking fault.” He goes on, finger still pointing at Mickey. “You went on with this motherfucking stupid plan, thinking that just because she’s a bird, she’ll get a better deal out of it than you ever would. Instead of dealing with it yourself or let me fucking do it, you agreed to let her go, when you know you could’ve easily found a way around it, you sick fuck! Or how about this, huh? How about not going forward with it at all for fuck’s sake because it’s not like YOU COULDN’T FIND ANYONE ELSE TO BUY YOUR FUCKING BUSINESS WITHOUT INVOLVING Y/N.”

Raymond ignores the little step forward Mickey takes, and Rosalind’s hand on his chest would do nothing to stop him if they’d actually get around to throwing punches. Ray doesn’t want that though. It would mean more wasted time, and he’s already wasted enough, so he grabs his laptop, set on going down to Coach’s gym. He needs help, and apparently he won’t get any from Mickey anytime soon.

Ray stops in the doorway, and turns to where the two are still standing, watching him. “Listen to me, Mickey, and listen well. She might be smarter than all of us, but you better pray to all that’s fucking mighty that no one even touched her before I get to her or I will fucking rip your eyes out and I don’t give a bloody shit you’re my fucking boss.”

One hour later, Raymond is punching a gym bag, his knuckles are bleeding and sweat is dripping on the mat. The AC does little to relieve the tension in his muscles, and even after chucking his shirt off, he feels too hot, too restless, too panicked to sit still. Coach does everything he can to have a proper conversation with him, although he has to push his glasses up on his nose with every rattle of the bag.

His boys are scattered around the gym, now sitting all quietly, after they’d first gone berserk at the news. Raymond supposes he shouldn’t have been surprised that Y/N’s both met all of them, as well as gotten them all completely smitten.

“You know you gotta talk this out with Mickey, right?” Coach says. “I get that you got at it badly, mate, but he’s her brother. You both want to get her out of this.” A slight rumble from the room makes him roll his eyes. “We all want to get her out of this, but we can’t if we won’t work together.”

Raymond stops with his fist in the air. He looks at Coach briefly, and although he fucking hates to admit it, of course he’s right. Clenching his teeth, he turns around to grab a towel, only to be faced with an obviously just as irked Mickey.

“Rosalind might have a plan.” He says with a nod, enough to show he’s willing to get over their row without hard feelings. “She has some messages from Y/N that she’s sent a few weeks back. Ros thinks Y/N sent them as a precaution in case some shit like this would happen.”

Raymond fixes his glasses and nods, a faint smile on his lips. “Smart girl.”

“I need you and your guys as well, Coach.” Mickey says.

“Whatever you need, Mr Pearson sir.” Primetime offers.

Mickey turns to Coach’s protégés, who are now starting to huddle together, ready to follow orders. A look in Coach’s direction would be enough to know that the man would’ve preferred not to get them involved in this, but he knows damn well this would be an interdiction they would never comply with. So, with a sigh, he nods his assent.

“Let’s get going then.” Mickey says. “I need to have some words with this motherfucker who thinks he can mess with my family.”

***

Taglist:

@myfriendmademedothisxd @alainabooks143 @rvmanova @aisling1985

#raymond x reader #ray x reader #charlie hunnam x reader #the gentlemen #raymond the gentlemen #the gentlemen 2020 #ray the gentlemen #the gentlemen fanfiction #raymond fanfiction #charlie hunnam fanfiction #charlie hunnam fanfic #charlie hunnam fic #charlie hunnam

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summer-jay · 4 years

Text

Forfeit (Tommy/Alfie fic)

Ao3 Link

Summary: “What do you want, Alfie?”

The only reason Alfie glances at Tommy’s mouth that moment is because he brings the cigarette up again and wraps his lips around it, hollowing his cheeks as he takes the final deep drag. He probably lingers a second too long, because Tommy’s eyes snap down momentarily, and when they land on Alfie again, it’s a completely different expression Tommy’s wearing.

In which Tommy has to deal with his men's fuck-up and discovers many things about himself in the process. At some point, Alfie thinks it's about bloody time.

Rating: Explicit

A/N: For some reason, I’m really struggling with this one, but all the rewriting seems to be paying off. First chapter’s finally up!

Chapter 1: Speak (3028 words)

The warehouse is in fucking shambles.

It’s charred from ground to ceiling—what’s left of it, at least—oozing the sickly concoction of foam, water and ash from every crack. Nasty fucking view to have, this early in the morning. On the far side, the roof was blown to shreds, and the newly formed gaping hole lets the bleak London sun illuminate the space with sinister greyness and spiky shadows of the jagged remnants of the carcass. It could be almost nice, this exterior. Spiritual and apocalyptic in a way. But now the damp blackened wood sucks any redeeming qualities right out of the building and leaves it cold, dead and hopeless.

Alfie takes one last look at it and grimaces, getting in the car.

“Back to the office, boss?” Ishmael asks, to which Alfie responds with a little more repetition and emphasis than strictly necessary.

He actually preferred the sight when it was all jolly and alight mere hours ago. There was a serene pocket of time then, while the firemen worked to preserve the area around more than the warehouse itself, since Alfie could do nothing but observe the chaotic nature of the world make yet another demonstration. He didn’t know a thing back then. But he does now. And it leaves the same taste in his mouth as the stale scent of rotting wood and smoke.

It’s barely past seven when he instructs Ollie to make the call. Tommy must’ve been up and about for some time now, because he picks up immediately, and Alfie tries his hardest not to get any more pissed off at the whole situation than he already is. He’ll have to fucking deal with it now then. Fucking brilliant.

“He said he’s on his way,” Ollie appears in the door, and Alfie tears his eyes away from the record book that he isn’t reading.

“Hm. Alright then. Go kick those brainless fuckers back into our world in an hour. Ollie-” he calls when Ollie starts to turn “-leave ‘em intact for now, yeah? And tell David whatever I see on them, before Tommy Shelby arrives, yeah, I paint right back on his fucking face. With my own hands.”

Ollie furrows his brow but nods. Smart lad when he wants to be.

The door closes, and Alfie throws the record book on the table and falls back on the chair, stroking his beard absently and watching the sun rise higher and higher in the small window. Wrong day in every fucking regard, except, it shouldn’t be. Some months ago, he would’ve sunk his teeth into such a glaring opportunity to squeeze something more out of Tommy, just to see how far he could bend him without breaking. It’s a goddamn mystery why things have changed, although Alfie’s not quite delusional enough to claim he doesn’t know what exactly has changed.

He decides to wait and see. There have not been many fuck-ups on Tommy’s part in the past—none, in fact—and it makes him curious, despite the simmering irritation, to see what Tommy will offer.

. . .

For all Alfie’s tendencies to run his mouth like hell, he’s quite good at giving instructions, and, even more importantly, he’s competent enough to get them obeyed. He reaps the fruits of this ability now, when Tommy strolls into his office, fuming with irritation and knowing absolutely bloody nothing.

“So. Where’s the fucking fire?” Tommy asks as a way of greeting, letting the frustration into his voice, and it’s not that he can’t keep it locked away—he chooses to let Alfie see exactly where the fault with such scandalous disruptions of his morning routine lies.

Yes, that was definitely the right call to forbid Ollie to tell him anything over the phone.

Alfie looks up from the document he’s been staring at, taking in the sight.

Despite the pointed lack of urgency in his movements and the spilling annoyance, Tommy came. He’s sitting in Alfie’s chair now, guarded and so utterly stripped of control it sends a rush down Alfie’s spine. It suits him, this vulnerability. Makes him all sharp and volatile, and Alfie couldn’t deny himself this even if he tried—he wants just another moment of it to roll in.

He holds up a finger, taking his sweet time marking completely random figures on the paper with the air of undivided concentration, and Tommy predictably huffs, taking out his cigarette pack.

It takes a few minutes of silence before Tommy’s irritation starts threatening to break out, another minute he takes to wrench it under control. Alfie feels an infuriating urge to grin. Yeah, that’s Tommy Shelby alright, from head to toe, and it was a rather long time going about without him; so long, in fact, that something angry and hot curls in Alfie’s stomach at the necessity to deal with this ridiculous fucking situation right now instead of talking with Tommy like civilized people over a nice set of tea. Not that they’ve ever done that. Not that they will.

Right. Time for fucking business.

Alfie gives the paper one last dramatic swipe of the pen and looks up, propping his elbows on the tabletop and lacing his fingers under his chin.

“Chalton Street, actually,” he says easily, and Tommy’s hand pauses briefly halfway between the armrest and his lips. Alfie nods. “Yeah yeah, ‘s funny you should ask, mate, right, all that unsettling gypo foresight. You should’ve been a bookmaker or something.”

“I prefer not to tempt fate,” Tommy deadpans.

Alfie realizes a tad too late his gaze still lingers on Tommy’s mouth and jerks it up. “Mm, gentlemanly of you. Well, it seems to me, right, that she’d been tempted long before your intervention, mate. Cause she’s supposed to watch over fools, don't she.”

Tommy exhales the smoke slowly. “That’d be God.”

There’s the thing about Tommy—he bounces Alfie’s bullshit right back at him. Alfie feels dangerously close to getting lost in the banter. Which, as an absolute and extremely vital rule, never happens to him. It doesn’t help that Tommy’s bristling demeanour is now gone and forgotten, switching the gears in his mind to prying, negotiating and doing all other kinds of wonderful things that Tommy manages all at once when he smells fire.

Fucking bloody hopeless, Alfie thinks with marginal disappointment directed at his very self and cuts to the chase.

“Right, those new arrivals you sent, yeah, two of ‘em, they blew up my fucking warehouse tonight, mate.” It sits in the air between them for a second, Tommy still and blank as a sheet. Technically, no explosion took place, but it’s the result that matters in these things, innit.

“They got drunk,” Alfie continues, punctuating every word, probably more to himself than to Tommy, and fixes Tommy with a gaze he calmly returns. “On duty. On their shift. And decided to ease the inexpressible burden of sitting on your arse doing nothing, right, by playing with matches like little boys.”

“Was there anyone else with them?” Tommy asks without missing a beat.

“No,” Alfie lies. “Who knew they needed fucking grownups for supervision, fuckin’ hell, Tommy.”

It’s almost cruel, this satisfaction, when Tommy’s face hardens momentarily. He isn’t buying a word of it, and frankly, Alfie’d be fucking insulted if he did, but there is suddenly an infuriating void of retorts at his disposal, that is if he doesn’t want to dig this hole deeper. Tommy knows this. And he looks at Alfie in a way that very clearly conveys that he knows.

Alfie watches him flick his thumb across the edge of the cigarette for a while. Probably contemplating if he should push, if he has any leverage and, if he does, what it would cost him to use it.

“The insurance-” he starts saying after a moment, and that won’t do at all, that is not where Alfie wants the balance to reside for now.

“Fuck the insurance,” he scoffs. “It’s just un-fucking-acceptable. You send me men, right, Tom, and I put them to work, right,” he gestures helpfully, “and now I’ll need to attach my man to each your man like some fucking queer Russian doll, is that it?”

Tommy quirks an eyebrow. “Your men are not without vices.”

“My men, mate, those I find logistically more difficult to lay off.”

It’s an empty threat that Alfie half-heartedly expects to elicit a response. It doesn’t. Tommy blinks at the wall, unaffected and unimpressed to the whole world, except for how he clenches his teeth. It makes his jawline even more acute, and that, well, that might set Alfie on edge a little. How others fall for Tommy’s submissive charade is a goddamn mystery, because he seems utterly incapable of doing a thing with that cold piercing gaze that now ventures back to Alfie, not exactly shooting daggers but cutting alright. Alfie’s tempted to scold him a little more, figures that’s what drives him up the wall the most, just to draw a reaction. To see that fire spill over. He’s tempted to do many fucking things.

“Well, mate, what I tell you? No man is without vices, yeah.” He brings his hands back on the table, watching Tommy’s eyes track the motion automatically. It’s somehow getting the wrong sort of heated, this little domestic drama. Alfie resolves to ignore it for now. Needs to get to the fucking point. “Now, mate, can’t say I understand a thing about your lot in that town, batshit crazy stuff you do, yeah. But for the sake of our shared human nature, right, flawed and all, I might be inclined to let it rest, so to speak, in the ashes.”

“How fucking kind of you,” Tommy says evenly. He resolutely maintains eye contact, and fucking hell, if that’s his negotiations look, Alfie will blow his own bakery and find early retirement somewhere on the seaside.

That’s a kiss-with-a-blade-under-your-chin kind of look. It’s as if Tommy knows Alfie’s provoking him and absolutely can’t help it anyway.

Alfie realizes he got a little sidetracked and stopped talking altogether only when Tommy speaks up, on the exhale, a couple of long seconds later.

“What do you want, Alfie?”

The only reason Alfie glances at Tommy’s mouth that moment is because he brings the cigarette up again and wraps his lips around it, hollowing his cheeks as he takes the final deep drag.

It’d be a fleeting look, if it were any other fucking day under the sun. But now Alfie finds himself strangely fixated on the picture. He probably lingers a second too long, because Tommy’s eyes snap down momentarily, and when they land on Alfie again, it’s a completely different expression Tommy’s wearing.

Confusion. Inhale. Decision.

Then Tommy leans back on the chair and tips his head back slightly, suddenly almost bored.

Alfie normally prides himself on being a professional reader of men’s minds—never women’s but who the fuck is—and it still takes his powers a second to comprehend the sudden shift in the air.

“Well?” Tommy says, voice going lower than the intonation dictates, and deposits the cigarette stub on the edge of Alfie’s desk. “Let’s get it done.”

Let’s get what done, Alfie wonders, what the hell has Tommy got into his head this time, until, in a blazing, surreal moment, it hits him.

He realizes two things, to be precise, which would be three things if he chose to lie to himself about being oblivious to the very first one all this time.

He wants Tommy Shelby. He’s wanted Tommy fucking Shelby for a rather inconveniently long time, rather desperately at that, and he’s getting hard just sitting across the table from the arrogant fucker, because Tommy’s irritated, Alfie’s no better, and this whole thing suddenly looks much more appealing when he imagines it culminating in fucking rather than shooting. It’s not a problem worth freaking out over, in Alfie’s mind.

But the fucking, though, Tommy here thinks it to be the payment. That is the second thing.

What do you want, Alfie?

Alfie starts moving before reasoning manages to stop him—and not like it’s a rare occurrence. He circles the table, led by a sudden angry impulse to push, see if Tommy would actually go through with it, cause that, right, that wasn’t what Alfie meant by that fucking stray gaze at all. But it’s burning right through him, now that it’s on the table.

Tommy looks up at him through his long dark lashes and stays just like he is, open and tense. Tenser still as Alfie shuffles into his space, squeezes between him and the table, legs touching. For a second, he’s so stiff it feels like he’ll shatter, like a fucking ice statue, from the mere touch.

But Tommy doesn’t move. He blinks slowly and breathes heavily in the sudden silence, solidifying Alfie’s third insight.

Tommy Shelby would let him.

Alfie’s heart is pumping molten lead through his veins, and it’s simultaneously heavy and unconscious when he brings his hand down and strokes Tommy’s cheek, taking a hold of his jaw to tip his head even further back.

To shock him out of this glazed state he seems to be sinking into. To touch him. To push him until he does break, because this is just a stupid fucking assumption to make that Tommy would whore himself out for business, not to another man.

But Tommy doesn’t move at all. He seems to be falling in the precise opposite direction of Alfie’s whirling thoughts, going more wide eyed and responsive, and, by the looks of it, almost fucking surprised. At what exactly, Alfie can’t begin to contemplate.

Tommy lets him maneuver his head up and stares back, unblinking, pupils blown like spilled gunpowder against the bright blue. Alfie swipes a finger along his cheekbone. Tommy doesn’t bolt. Alfie steps closer, kicking Tommy’s knees apart, watching every muscle twitch on his face, waiting, nearly fucking snapping-

But Tommy doesn’t bolt.

He draws a shaky breath instead and says, with what sounds miles away from cold indifference, “I don’t have all day. Get a fucking move on.”

Alfie barely holds himself back from slapping him, because what in all circles of hell does that boy think of him. Tommy’s not a complete fucking idiot, after all. He must understand Alfie, among all the things that he is, is not that kind of a man. But here they are.

Alfie suddenly becomes acutely aware of his fingers on Tommy’s skin. Funny how this particular setting—Tommy under his hands, under him, with eyes burning and lips parted so prettily—would put him in a much less conflicted and a much more aroused state just a day ago. Just a fucking hour ago.

Which is not to say he’s not aroused. He’s fucking aching. But Tommy doesn’t want it now, except as a retribution for the cock-up Alfie can’t even clearly recall at the moment.

Alfie drops his hand so quickly, Tommy’s head bounces slightly before he catches himself. More confusion. Darting eyes, calculating what he’s done wrong. It’s not particularly difficult to return behind the desk, although Alfie’s body is screaming at him to come back, pull Tommy to his feet, tear that coat off and make Tommy come so hard he’ll be only able to see complete fucking darkness for minutes.

But as Alfie sinks into the chair, the picture of the guarded, enduring void in Tommy’s eyes makes him shudder with disgust.

Jesus Christ.

“What-” Tommy begins and stops when his voice fails him. He clears his throat, miles and miles away, composed and distant once again, and Alfie doesn’t even want to look at him now, isn’t sure it won’t shower from his eyes or something.

“Reckon a bakery in Birmingham would be fine,” he blurts out, inevitably turning to watch Tommy as he draws his eyebrows together. “Fine location, innit, secluded, far from any semblance of law or morality, yeah?”

“A bakery.” Tommy swallows, clearly trying to be inconspicuous about it and failing.

“Right, a small one, from your pocket and all. Would serve your men well, to learn some bloody discipline. Could relocate those two excuses for workforce of yours there, spare us all the necessity to behold their fucking faces.”

Alfie doesn’t need a bakery in Birmingham. Hell, of all the things he hoped to get out of this whole ordeal, this wasn’t even remotely close to the list.

He fumbles with his rings absently while Tommy gets busy picking himself up and straightening his coat.

He considers saying something. Easy and dismissive, something along the lines of ‘nah, you misread it, mate,’ which would be simple enough and also absolutely fucking ballistic, because admitting anything out loud at this point feels like a death sentence in neat handwriting—very tiny and very lethal.

By the mortified look gliding across Tommy’s face for a second as he swipes a hand over his face, he knows damn well he misread it.

“Right,” Alfie mutters to himself and then repeats, loudly enough to shake the whole damn building, “Right. So it’s settled then, yeah, no hard feelings. With the bakery, that is.”

“Right,” Tommy echoes. He sounds strange, almost lost, although it would’ve been impossible to notice if Alfie’d known him any less.

When Tommy goes to leave, Alfie doesn’t stop him, although the impulse, for some fucking reason, is there.

He slumps down in the chair, draws a long, deep breath and tries to process what has just transpired. In particular, what that look on Tommy was, right before he gracefully stormed out of his own fucking shipwreck.

Alfie can’t seem to find a place for his hands; he keeps shifting around, the persistent sensation of rough stubbled skin under his fingertips unchanging despite the position, until he jolts upright and grabs the cigarette that witnessed all this chaos with dead silence.

Alfie’s powers are suddenly kicking back in to tell him the fucking look was one of disappointment. Which is complete and impossible bloody horseshit. Unless, of course, it isn’t. And in that case, opening a bakery in Birmingham is a bad, bad idea.

#peaky blinders fanfiction #tommy x alfie #tofie #sholomons #tommy shelby #alfie solomons #peaky blinders #it's something rather new to me so we'll see how it goes

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miracle-sham · 4 years

Text

When Sitting on the Roof, We are but Coffee Sleuths.

| {Sequel to Death is the Stage, My Art is Your Grave.} |

| {Repost due to original post disappearing from tags.} |

| Triggers/Warnings: Mentions of drugs/drug ring (in regards to a case), Mild language. |

| After a long day of boring casework, there's nothing better than getting a new commission, and then drinking coffee and having a chat on top of a roof with a certain bat. |

| Word Count: 3051 |

==–==

| A/N: First of all, I'd like to quickly thank everyone for all the positive response and support the original oneshot got on both Tumblr and Ao3! It really motivated and inspired me to continue with this Au (expect at least another sequel, maybe more if I get more inspo but even if I don't there's definitely gonna be one sequel minimum to this). I'd also like to mention, that this took a lot longer to write as I got a cold halfway through writing it and also it's romance based fluff (which is not my forté), but thanks to those who've waited for this! And finally, for reasons that I'll explain in a separate post later, it might be a "little" while before I can start work on the sequel to this one but it will get written at some point. |

| If you want to be tagged in future oneshots/fics, or a specific Au, then send me a DM or an ask! |

| Also side note, Don't Like? Don't Read. Also also, please do not criticise any of my writing. This was written for fun and receiving criticism, even in a compliment/criticism sandwich, is the exact opposite of fun. |

==–==

It's been a month since Marinette got kidnapped, kissed Red Robin, and solved the Elemental Park Serial Killer case. For three weeks she's been held off active duty to make sure her bruised ribs heal but now that she's able to be on active duty again, all the available cases are those that are paperwork heavy. A small part of her misses the immediate healing of the Miraculous Cure but she's not Ladybug anymore and even if she was, it would raise too many flags for her to even use it anyway. But logic doesn't stop her from missing the days when she could literally and metaphorically magic away her aches and pains.

Marinette groans and slumps into her chair, it's been a surprisingly slow day at the GCPD, so when her phone beeps rapidly for a few seconds, she thinks, please be something interesting, and can't help but take a quick glance to see what new notifications she has. The screen reads: '3 new messages from Red'. So she taps the notification and reads through each message.

>RedRob: Hey, found some new evidence on our case, want to meet up for coffee to discuss it?

>RedRob: Rooftop coffee after dark, of course.

>RedRob: I mean I could waltz into a coffee shop during the day in my suit but that might get too much attention for case talk.

Marinette snickers to herself as she reads the messages over a second time. She quickly taps out her response.

>MariBlue: Will we need to worry about one of the other Gotham vigilantes crashing our coffee not-date?

Almost instantly she receives a response.

>RedRob: I'll bribe Oracle or Batgirl, maybe even Black Bat, into keeping the others away.

She sends a heart emoji back, then returns to sorting out her boring paperwork.

Detective Grayson raises an eyebrow at her from over the desk, clearly having caught her looking at her phone. “Red Robin again?”

She flashes him a sheepish grin. “How'd you guess.”

He gives her a deadpan stare. “He's the only person you respond to when working.”

Marinette bites her lip. “Whoops, that obvious?”

“Yes.” Detective Grayson hesitates for a second, he leans in closer—and like a teenage girl at a sleepover in a cheesy teen drama, asks, “So are you dating yet?”

She shrugs. “Well neither of us have asked the other so not really.”

“But you guys are perfect for each other!” He exclaims, gesturing towards her with an outstretched arm—very narrowly avoiding knocking anything off the desk.

It's Marinette's turn to raise an eyebrow. “We literally have only seen or talked to each other when working…”

“So? What do you call you quote unquote "not-dates"” He huffs, making air quotes as he speaks.

She huffs and shakes her head. “There's a reason they're called "not-dates" and that's because we discuss work at them. And anyway it's too early to rush our relationship.”

“Fair.” Detective Grayson stills, frowns and then almost hesitantly, he asks, “Is it because if the mask? The whole not knowing his real identity?”

Marinette rolls her eyes and shakes her head again. “Nope, I couldn't care less about finding out his real identity—at least not without his consent that is.”

He hums, a pensive look on his face. “So you're not curious?”

She shrugs. “Not particularly, why?”

Detective Grayson shrugs back. “Just wondering,” he leans back on his chair and for a split second, Marinette fears he might topple over but somehow he seems unaffected by gravity, “I think you're the first person I've met, who doesn't want to know who's behind a vigilante's mask.”

A smile tugs at Marinette's lips. “I think it's kinda dumb that so many people are obsessed with the people behind the masks because if they're doing good, unmasking them will only deter them from continuing fighting the good fight and all that, y'know.”

He nods slowly, “huh, that's one way of putting it I guess but I agree, the vigilantes do more for this city than people think they do.” Detective Grayson then tilts his head towards the Commissioner's office. “Anyway back to work, don't want to get in more trouble with the Commish than we are already!”

Marinette huffs in amusement and rolls her eyes but complies nonetheless. Wouldn't do to get in trouble so soon after getting back onto active duty!

==–==

It isn't until gone seven pm, that Marinette finally gets home. She slips through the door, locking it behind her. Now that she's in, the first thing she does, as she does every day, is check her online portfolio and commission site.

Marinette plops herself down in her wheely chair and logs onto to her computer, going through all the verification and security Max had kindly added. A new commission notification grabs her attention. With three clicks, she brings up the new commission's details. She scrolls down to the name of the commissioner: one Mr 'T. Drake-Wayne'.

Curious as to why the name sounds vaguely familiar, Marinette opens up a tab on Google with a hum and types in the name. Upon reading the top results, she half chokes in shock and thinks to herself, Are you kidding me? She blinks and breathes in, a small part of her very glad she wasn't drinking anything otherwise she definitely would've fully choked on that or spat it all up from the shock. I know a bunch of well-known celebrities have all commissioned me many times before, but still why the heck is a fortune 500 CEO commissioning me? I'm not Audrey Bourgeois, Gabriel Agreste, or even Valen-hecking-tino. I do celebrities, not fortune 500. The heck. What. The. Actual. Heck.

Eyes wide and gobsmacked, Marinette shakes her head and clicks back to her latest commission's details page to read through the actual commission. After reading the first line, she scrambles for her sketchbook and begins jotting down notes and scribbling down ideas.

Half an hour in, Marinette takes a break to sort out and eat dinner, no point designing on an empty stomach but once she's done eating and washed up, she goes straight back to designing.

Even at a quarter past midnight, she's still at it—surprisingly only three drafts in and so thoroughly lost in her own head in designing, Marinette nearly misses the knocking against her window facing the fire escape.

The rapid rap-tap-tap spooks her so much that she falls out of her chair with an “Eep!”

Marinette, face flushing bright red, scrambles up and scurries over to the window in question. Shoving her blinds out the way, she stares through the window and is greeted with the absolutely glorious sight of a beaming and uninjured Red Robin holding two takeaway coffee cups on the fire escape. He waves at her with one hand and gestures for her to join him on the fire escape.

She can't help but grin back at him and deftly opens the window and slinks out onto the fire escape. He hands a coffee cup towards her and instead of taking it, Marinette gives him a good ol' bearhug—smooshing pressing her face into his Kevlar armoured chest. Which is unsurprisingly, very uncomfortable. She shifts her head to stare up at him (as he's at least whole head taller than her) “Hey,” she greets.

Awkwardly hugging her back, as to not spill either of the coffees in the process, “hey yourself,” Red Robin responds, pressing a tender kiss to her forehead.

Marinette pulls back from the hug and nabs the coffee cup that had been offered to her before their hug. “Thank you~!”

“No problem.” He then gestures towards the fire escape stairs leading to the roof, “after you.”

“So which of our cases did you manage to get a lead for?” She asks, making her way up to the roof.

“The one pertaining to the new drug ring in the fashion district. I've narrowed down where they're storing the drugs to potentially three warehouses near Miller Harbour.” Red Robin answers, following after her.

Reaching the roof, Marinette sits down on the half wall around the roof edge. She glances over at Red Robin as he joins her on the improvised seat. “That's the drug ring dealing Miraclo right?”

“Yeah, that's the one.” He pauses to take a sip of his coffee, “I got the intel from an old friend of Catwoman's called Mackey lives in an apartment that overlooks the Harbour and saw a shipment of the drug arrive at the warehouses.”

Taking a sip of her own coffee, Marinette raises an eyebrow. “And will Detective Grayson and I will be able to get that intel as witness statement?”

Red Robin nods. “Yep, Catwoman's vouching for you both.”

She jerks back in surprise, nearly toppling off the half wall but managing to cling to the edge in time to keep her from falling. Miraculously somehow managing to avoid dropping or spilling her coffee. Oof, if it wasn't for my stint in Spandex I definitely would've made a fool of myself in front of Red Robin. And here I thought that part of my life had since passed. Marinette thinks to herself, wincing at the newly gained superficial graze across her palms. She clears her throat and attempts to look like she didn't just nearly fall off a half wall. “Catwoman's vouching for us? Since when? I've literally never encountered her before.”

Red Robin, the traitor, snorts at her predicament. “You are the epitome of elegance. And Detective Grayson's bumped into her a few times on the job.”

“Thanks.” She responds drily, layering on the sarcasm thickly. She shakes her head and sighs. “So do you know what the addresses are for the warehouses and this Mackey's apartment?”

He takes an excruciatingly slow sip of his coffee before speaking. “Of course I can, what kind of vigilante do you take me for?” He then proceeds to rattle off the addresses.

Which Marinette jots down on the napkin that came with her coffee, and puts it into a pocket for safekeeping. “Thank you.” With it written down, she pauses then starts kicking her legs in the air. She sniffs. “And I take you for the kind that flirts with innocent police officers.”

Red Robin grins at her as he gently elbows her in the ribs. “I don't hear you complaining.”

Marinette scoffs and slaps her hand to her chest in an overly dramatic mock of shock. “Unfair! If I complained I wouldn't get any hugs or kisses from you!”

Humming he wraps an arm around her shoulders and presses a kiss to her temple. “That's true, what a shame it would be for you to miss out on all those hugs.”

She hums back and the two ease into a comfortable silence; leaning against each other and sipping their coffees whilst staring at the night sky.

Once Marinette gets halfway through her coffee, she glances at Red Robin and hesitates, her earlier conversation with Detective Grayson springing to mind. “Communication is key in healthy relationships,” she prefaces, “so are you okay with our current relationship? Y'know the flirting, the not-dates, the whole me not knowing your identity?”

Red Robin laughs, sounding slightly bitter. “Of course I'm fine with the flirting and not-dates but I'm not going to lie and say I don't have any worries over you not knowing my identity. It's one of the reasons a relationship I had with a fellow mask didn't work out.” Rubbing at his jaw, he tilts his face away from her slightly, as though reminiscing about something. He then shakes his head and turns back to her. “Really, I ought to be asking you that. So what about you, are you okay with how our relationship is?”

Marinette hums. “This isn't the first time relationship I've had with a masked hero.” Then takes a calm sip of her coffee.

“So you've got a thing for masks then huh? Lucky me I guess.” He responds, smirking mischievously, and whilst she can't see the rest of his face thanks to the cowl, Marinette just knows that he's wiggling his eyebrows at her from underneath that cowl.

His comment nearly sends her tumbling off the half wall—again. She coughs and splutters in laughter as she nearly spits up her sip of coffee. It takes her a full thirty seconds to recover and mock gripes, “remind me why I love you again.”

Red Robin cocks his head to the side and grins. “Because I bring you coffee?”

She huffs, “good point.”

“So back to the mask thing, can I ask what happened with your masked hero relationship?” He asks, tone hesitant. He stares at her, ready to back off the topic at the slightest sign of discomfort from her.

Marinette hisses through her teeth and states, “I can trust you.”

His stare conveys an 'I would hope so' whilst he bobs his head a little in a 'yes you can' and a 'please continue' gesture.

She takes a deep breath before speaking, “I used to be a hero, back when I lived in Paris.”

“Oh?” Red Robin freezes, thrown off guard by her admission.

Nodding, Marinette continues. “It was difficult. We started when we were barely teens and had no training and no support except for temporary heroes we could bring in when the battles got too hard for just me and my partner to handle. When we started, we were repeatedly told to never, under any circumstances, let anyone find out our identities. My partner and I, neither of us knew who the other was beneath the mask. And we only knew the identities of the temporary heroes because we gave them the ability to become superheroes. But even then we didn't always know their real identities and they certainly never knew ours.”

“Yikes.” Is all he can respond with, mind racing with questions. “That can't have been good, at least I had Batman and Nightwing when I was starting out, but you had no one to talk to about being a mask, outside the mask.”

She flashes him a watery smile and sighs. “No, I did have someone. Tikki. But we're uh, not in contact any more. Since I retired.”

Still, Red Robin makes a noise of concern at that.

“Anyway, one thing led to another led to another, and my partner found out my identity.” Marinette puts her coffee down then tips her head back and closes her eyes. “We started dating not long after that. But once we defeated the BBEG terrorising Paris and some… concerning things came to light, our—we,” She shakes her head, “we realised that because of that, neither of us were emotionally able to continue our relationship in a romantic way. So we decided to stay friends and I—uh, I retired and moved to Gotham.”

He puts his coffee down as well, and pulls her into a tight hug, although making sure it wasn't too constricting as to not make her uncomfortable. “I'm sorry.”

She leans into the hug, rests her head on his shoulder, and delicately wraps her arms around him in return. “What? Why? It's not your fault.”

Red Robin frowns, not that she can see in their current position, “I know but no one should be forced into becoming a hero at such a young age with no support network.”

Huffing, Marinette buries her face in his shoulder, somewhat muffling her voice but not enough to make her unintelligible, “what about Spoiler? She became a hero around that age and had no support network.”

He sighs. “Spoiler chose to become a vigilante, she wasn't forced. And anyway, she had Robin and the rest of the bats to support her once they realised what she was doing.”

“Hmm… fair.” Marinette pulls back from the hug and pauses. “On a lighter note, I got a commission on my fashion site from Tim Drake-Wayne!”

Red Robin raises an eyebrow and with poorly concealed amusement, responds, “Oh? And what's so special about him”

She rolls her eyes at him. “He's the youngest fortune five hundred CEO, founded the Neon Knights among other charities, and often donates to various charities around Gotham! Plus Wayne Enterprises is one of, if not the most ethical company in the fortune five hundred bracket. Employees get living stipends, and training and higher education paid by the company. They get healthcare and dental insurance. They get flexible work hours, paid breaks, and receive above minimum wage pay!”

He laughs. “I guess he is a pretty decent sounding guy then.”

“Mhmm.”

“So what's the commission then? Or is it a secret?” He teases, leaning towards her.

Marinette dramatically places her hand over her heart. “I guess I can spare you the details this one time.”

“Wooh!”

She bites her lip before launching into a long ramble about the commission, gushing over what design and colour palette she's thinking of going with, what bots and bobs and patterns to add, what stitch to use and how to make sure it fits his style, etc.

Red Robin spends the entire time listening attentively, despite not really understanding half the fashion terms, and staring at her like a love-struck puppy.

“Damn, I love you!” He exclaims once she finishes speaking, then leans in to kiss her on the lips.

Marinette bursts into giggles and kisses him back. Her giggles are seemingly infectious, as once they part from the kiss, both are giggling and flushed red.

A bright flash of white followed by a camera shutter sound immediately distracts them both. They just manage to catch sight of Nightwing swinging away.

She gives him a look, which is somewhat less effective as she's still smiling from the kiss. “What happened to bribing Oracle, Black Bat, or Batgirl?”

Red Robin groans and drops his face into his hands. “Clearly Nightwing was able to one-up my bribe. Probably in the form of giving them copies of the photos both he and Detective Grayson have taken.”

“You mean to tell me those two are working together? No wonder Detective Grayson was asking about our relationship earlier today at work!” Marinette gasps, sounding mildly horrified and betrayed.

“Are you thinking what I'm thinking?” Red Robin asks, lifting his head up and grinning deviously at her.

She smirks back, “Revenge?”

He nods—the sagely kind of nod. “Revenge.”

==–==

| Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed this little oneshot! Comments, likes, and reblogs are much appreciated! |

@casual-darkness

#Miraculous Ladybug #ML x DC #DC x MLB #Maribat #Timinette #MariTim #Timari #Marinette x Tim #Tim x Marinette #Death is the Stage My Art is Your Grave #DitSMAiYG #DitSMAiYG Sequel #When Sitting on the Roof We are but Coffee Sleuths #WSotRWabCS #Sham's Posts #Sham's Writing #Sham's Fics

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ciestessde · 4 years

Text

NOT My Hero Academia: Part 1 -- Ch.3

The door to the warehouse slammed shut behind Izuku. At first glance, it looked empty. But he knew better than to judge that by appearance. Master wouldn’t have called him to an empty building. Izuku walked to the center of the large room without hesitation or fear. In the center was a couple of chairs and a desk -- with a copy of his exam results on it. ‘But… how did Master get those…?’

“You placed in the top ten. Well done.”

Izuku startled, but recovered quickly. Master seemed to love appearing from nowhere almost as much as taking up the entire room with his presence. “Thank you, sir!” “Have a seat.”

They sat down, facing each other, and Master grabbed the papers, seeming to inspect them. His lack of eyes never seemed to influence his vision. Once again, Izuku wondered what the man’s quirk was. “Ninth place, 23 villain points and 30 rescue points… Could’ve been better, but still an impressive feat with only the staff,” he set the papers back down, “I am pleased.”

Izuku was practically glowing with pride.

“But that’s not all I brought you here to discuss.” Master picked up a different paper -- an acceptance letter. Izuku couldn’t see who’s it was. “It seems All Might will be teaching at U.A.” Izuku’s expression flattened. “... Shouldn’t you feel excited? The Number One Hero will be teaching you, after all.”

“I…” Izuku looked down and fiddled with the edge of his shirt. “I’m not sure how to feel.” He looked back up at Master, “I know he saved me and all. He’s saved so many people! All Might… he’s amazing! It’s just…” His gaze dropped to the floor again. “After what he said, I… I just don’t know…” his hands clenched around the fabric, “-how to feel about him anymore.”

“Hm. It’s understandable. He did try to crush your dream, after all. Saying you couldn’t be a hero without a quirk; as though it’s their quirks that make them special, even though only four out of five people have one.” “He meant well, though. He just wanted to keep me safe!” “And you wanted to help keep others safe.” “...”

“... Well, I’m sure you’ll learn a lot from him.” “Yeah…” “Speaking of which, you have almost an entire month before the start of term, and you can’t afford to stop improving. Your training regimen will continue as before.” “Yes, Master!”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

SPRING

“Izuku! Have you got your pocket tissues?!” “Yeah.” “And your handkerchief?! Have you got that?!” “Yes!! I’ve got it! No time. Gotta hurry…” Izuku shoved the last of his supplies into his bag.

He was nervous. ‘I wish Master would let me sleep with that plant in my room every night…’ He threw his bag over his shoulder, paused to give his mom a kiss on the cheek, then moved toward the door. ‘But I guess there must be a good reason for it-’

“Izuku!” “-Huh?” Izuku paused, his hand on the doorknob. His mom looked at him, teary eyed. “… You look great.”

“...!” He straightened, slightly more confident. And grinned. “Thanks… See you later! Love you!”

‘I still can barely believe I made it into U.A.… I wonder who my classmates will be… ‘… I hope Kacchan and I are in the same class.’

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Kacchan had cornered him after class when he’d found out they’d both made it in. Yelled at him about how he’d “torn his grand plans to shreds” of being the “first and only” of their school’s students to make it into U.A.. “Thought I told you to go somewhere else!” He’d said, pinning Izuku to a wall.

Even Izuku couldn’t believe what he did next. … No. What he couldn’t believe… was that he’d put up with Kacchan’s behavior this long.

Izuku twisted out of Kacchan’s grip and pinned him to the wall. Kacchan stayed frozen in shock for a couple seconds, and Izuku let go before he regained his senses. Standing tall, fists clenched, Izuku said, “I earned my place just like you did!” Kacchan spun around with a growl, his palms smoking. But Izuku had refused to flinch. “Mas-Someone told me… That I could become a hero…! Th-that’s why… I’m… I’M GONNA BE HERE NO MATTER WHAT!”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

He’d gotten his wish; when he arrived in the classroom he saw Kacchan being confronted by a serious-looking student. He decided to ignore them, but before turning to his desk, he heard a voice call from behind him. “Ah! That curly hair! The plain-looking boy!!” It was the cute girl!

And without the plants calming effect to help him… ‘She’s too cute in that uniform!!’

Izuku was sweating, trying very hard not to look at the cute girl who was way too close -- and talking to him, what was she saying-?! -And why did he have to be sweating so much!!

Thankfully he was saved by an unusual arrival. “If you’re here to socialize, then get out.” They were all caught off-guard by the… sleeping bag the man was wearing.

But they didn’t have long to dwell over it. This man, it turned out, was their homeroom teacher, Mr. Shota Aizawa. And the first thing he did (aside from chide them for taking so long to quiet down) was order them to change into their gym uniforms and head out to the grounds.

So he could test their quirks.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

‘I hope this batch is better than last year’s…’ I thought as I watched the students line up.

I started my explanation of the day’s activities by listing off the “standard no-quirks-allowed” gym tests. No need to go into detail -- the students already knew them. “This country still insists on prohibiting quirks when calculating the averages of those records,” I explained, “It’s not rational. The department of education is just procrastinating.”

I picked a student suited to the task -- “Bakugo” -- and ordered him to throw a softball, using his quirk however he liked, as long as he didn’t leave the circle I’d placed him in. And, of course, he was able to throw it MUCH farther using his quirk than when not using it. “It’s important for us to know our limits. That’s the first rational step to figuring out what kind of heroes you’ll be.”

The other students got excited at the idea of freely using their quirks. ‘Typical. Just like last year.’ Annoyed by their exclamations and carefree attitudes, I dropped the bomb: “Right. “The one with the lowest score across all eight events will be judged hopeless…

“… and will be expelled.” Uraraka, who was standing right next to that quirkless kid, exclaimed, “The lowest scorer will be expelled…? It’s only the first day! I mean, even if it weren’t… That’s totally unfair!” The faces of the students behind her mirrored that sentiment.

‘Jeez… “Unfair,” huh? Time to burst their bubbles.’ “Natural disasters… highway pileups… rampaging villains… Calamity is always right around the corner. I’d say Japan is full of unfair things. Heroes are the ones who correct all that unfairness.”

I brushed the hair out of my eyes, sighing. ‘I can’t believe I have to explain this every year.’ “If you were hoping to spend your evenings hanging out at McDonald’s… I’m sorry to tell you that for the next three years -- U.A. will run you through the wringer.“

‘Still… Seeing them overcome these obstacles… ‘That feeling of pride is why I’m still a teacher.’

I curled my finger in a “come here” gesture. “That’s Plus Ultra. Use your strength to overcome it all. Bring it.”

The rest of the students weren’t discouraged by my harsh words. Rather, I could feel them growing even more restless and determined. Even the most nervous of the bunch were starting to get fired up…! ‘There’s hope for these kids yet. Now…’ “The demonstration is over. But before we begin… Izuku Midoriya.”

The boy jumped at the realization that I was staring right at him. “That ridiculous entrance exam… Completely irrational when you consider someone like you got in.” ‘Still… It’s impressive that the kid DID manage to get in without a quirk. But, regardless of how hard he tries, I know what experience has taught me…’ “… With no quirk, you’ll only end up inconveniencing those around you when they inevitably have to step in to help. And this is a school, not a playground for you to pretend to be All Might.”

Narrowing my eyes, I exclaimed, harsh though it was, "Izuku Midoriya. You cannot become a hero without a quirk.”

There was a tense silence. Then I sighed, ”But what the hell. Give it a shot. I’m just telling you now, no one’s going to change the rules for you.

“Now, let’s get this over with.”

Inside, I wondered, ‘Will he give it his all and go down swinging…? Or shrink away from the challenge and end up with the lowest score…?’

If he fought for it, maybe…? ‘... No. Either way, I doubt he stands a chance. Still, it’s impressive he even made it in.’

But… As I watched the students -- waited to see how creatively (or not) they decided to use their abilities…

‘Huh… ‘Midoriya is actually…?’

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Izuku was in the warehouse, jumping through portal-after-portal. Or rather…

“When you panic, you lose. When you get lost in thought, you lose,” Kurogiri-sensei said. Izuku lunged again, but in vain -- he went barreling through yet another portal. Instead of the book in Kurogiri-sensei’s hand, he was met with the hard, cement floor.

Izuku got up to try again, but Kurogiri-sensei held up his hand. Izuku stopped in his tracks, panting, his hands on his knees. “The key is finding that balance between driving emotion and cool-headed logic. Use the fear and turn it into energy. Then find the paths to victory that are available to you, and focus on one of them. If that path gets cut off, simply turn to the next.

“But most of all…” Kurogiri-sensei put a hand on Izuku’s shoulder, lifting him from his crouch and meeting his eyes. “… Just breath.”

After a few moments, Izuku’s breathing evened out and the boy stood up straight.

“Good. Now…” Kurogiri held the book out once more -- and opened a myriad of portals around the warehouse, “Take the book. I won’t move.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

At first, Izuku had panicked. He had no quirk, so how was he supposed to-?! -But Kurogiri-sensei’s lessons came back to him.

And Izuku took a deep breath. ‘Mr. Aizawa said he wouldn’t change the rules for me, after all.’ He let the breath out slowly.

He didn’t need to win. He just- ‘-I just need… to not have the lowest score…!’

…

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

… “Moving along. Time for the results. Your total scores simply reflect your performance in each of the events. Explaining the process would be a waste of time, so all you get are the final rankings.

“And I wasn’t lying about expelling someone.” Many of the students looked tense, uncertain about their results.

I clicked a button on the remote in my hand, and a hologram appeared displaying the students’ scores. Instant relief. Midoriya, I noticed, looked ready to collapse at the sight of the number “16” next to his name.

Relief… for all but one. “Minoru Mineta.” There was a shuffling of students, and a short purple boy came to the front. He was crying, but I ignored it. “Go to the Principals office. They’ll know why you’re there. The rest of you, we’re done here. Your documents about the curriculum and such are back in the classroom. Give them a look.”

And without another word, I walked away.

After seeing Midoriya’s performance, I was conflicted. Had I made the right decision? ‘That kid… He doesn’t… have no chance, I suppose. He did perform better than some of the others, and they showed promise. I can’t ignore that.

‘Still… Should I have just cut him loose anyway?

‘After all… ‘There’s nothing crueler than letting someone chase their half-baked dreams.’

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

[Beginning]

[Previous Chapter] - [Next Chapter]

The person who’s doing the podfic for “Phantasma Magica” has agreed to make an audiobook for my original book “Crossroad of Infinity”!!! (They’ve also given me permission to share their name, now. She’s “Em” from ShadowQuillsInk – one of the editors of CofI.) Look forward to that, and THANK YOU EM!!! T^T

Also, if you’re a writer or other indie creator, go give my editors a look. They’re making this community of indie creators to help each other grow and stuff. Here's their website. They’re calling themselves “ShadowQuillsInk”

#villain!deku #villain deku #my hero academia #izuku midoriya #fanfiction

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astxlphe · 4 years

Text

Day 4 / Desperate // Akuhigu

@bsd-rarepair-valentines-week

Higuchi falls in enemy hands and Akutagawa will do anything to bring her home.

(Oof sorry in advance this is mostly unedited)

CW: Violence / threat of torture / blood

"What do you mean, she is gone?”

Mori sighed. “While yesterday’s mission was successful – we could put a stop to their stealing of our supplies and found out the traitor’s identity – their organization was not destroyed.”

He raised a knowing eyebrow at Akutagawa, who stood, frozen, brain reeling with the new information.

“So, it’s revenge?”

“Or they want to know where are supplies they stole from us.” Mori crossed his fingers in front of him. “Either way, they will probably kill her — if it’s not already done.”

“They won’t.” In his pocket, Akutagawa’s fingers clenched into fists. “If it’s information they want, they won’t kill her yet.”

“You are not usually this optimistic.”

Higuchi was capable. She couldn’t just die. She was his subordinate because she wasn’t as likely to get herself killed stupidly as any other.

Mori talked more — something about what a shame it was — but Akutagawa didn’t exactly care. When he was dismissed, he bent down in a sharp bow, and left.

He walked back to the Black Lizards office fast, and pulled out the reports and plans they had made in prevision for their mission. He remembered the location — the warehouse they had raided last night, the abandoned building near the construction area which served as their headquarters.

He hesitated. He should do nothing. Higuchi’s own carelessness had gotten her captured and there was no reason to dispatch anyone to bring her back. If there was a need, the boss would order it, and he hadn’t.

Well, Akutagawa wasn’t known for following orders to the letter anyway.

The boss would consider her replaceable, and would not risk sending a team to bring her back, not when she was probably already dead and their mission successful.

Except that Higuchi couldn’t die. Her place was by his side.

“Are you going to go?”

He put down the papers and turned back toward Gin. “I—” He paused, thinking of the time Higuchi pulled him out of enemy hands, defying the boss’ orders. No matter how much trouble he brought her, she always seemed to follow him right through it. “I owe her a debt,” he justified. “The boss won’t mind.”

He was not blind to Mori’s leniency when it came to him — he had rarely been punished even for his most reckless endeavors; even when by all logic he should have been.

But that was mostly because his disregards of orders came with results. Today he wasn’t sure the boss would, even if he was successful, consider the result worth the trouble.

“Wait here,” she told him. “I’ll go get Hirotsu and Tachihara, we will go together.”

Higuchi’s head throbbed, and she breathed through her teeth, through the pain in her ribs.

She tried to slip her wrists out of the ropes binding her to the chair. She tasted blood on her tongue where she had accidentally bit herself when her captor had hit her face.

Wrinkling her nose, she cursed herself for not seeing that coming.

Akutagawa would be pretty disappointed in her, letting herself be captured like this.

Her captor sat lazily on the table, playing with her weapon. She had been eyeing it since she had woken up, trying to think of a way she could take it away from him and escape. So far, her train of thoughts had been broken too many times by the man trying to get information out of her for her to have an actual plan.

But she was a Port Mafia operative, and a leader of the Black Lizards. She could escape and go back to headquarters herself, whether they came for her or not.

“Where did you hide our supplies?”

“Yours?” She scoffed. “They belong to the Port Mafia. You stole them.”

”You stole them, we stole them in turn, it’s ours now.” He stood, moving towards her. “We have ways to make you talk. This time I won’t be as nice.”

“You think I don’t know that?” She gulped, hard, trying to keep her composure. “I can deal with it.”

She almost winced when he brought out the large, extremely sharp looking knife. “All right then. Is there a finger you like less than the others?”

Before he could make use of his blade, the door flew open. “Sir! We have a problem.” The newcomer wrung his hands together. “The Mafia is back.”

“What?” He glared down at her as if it was her fault. "How many?”

“That’s the thing, sir.” He grimaced. “Just one.”

There was a crash from further away, and someone screamed.

Akutagawa walked towards the building and the armed guards at the door immediately readied theirs weapons.

Rashomon reared its head, red eyes glowing,

Don’t kill, a little voice murmured at the back of his head, sounding way too much like the weretiger for his taste.

The guards screamed as Rashomon ripped through their arms, their guns fell and Akutagawa walked past them without sparing them a glance.

This was what this ridiculous, annoying promise led too, and only two months into it. He should have wiped that little gang as soon as he got the chance. But no, he hadn’t killed the lot of them and now they had taken Higuchi.

The glass door closed behind him, and he found himself alone in the half-constructed lobby. The building was, for a long time, supposed to be an office block, but it had never been finished, and everything had been left half done.

Higuchi had to be somewhere here. That idiot. Always needing him to get out of trouble.

Too busy watching his back she didn’t pay enough attention to hers.

He took the stairs, heading for the first floor. On the corner of his eye, he could see the camera follow him.

Soon after, he heard footsteps coming from each side of him, and more armed men came at him.

He didn’t have the time for this, and Rashomon extended, cutting through hands to disarm them.

Bullets flying around him, his ability eating them when they came too close.

He turned at a corner. Rashomon wrapped itself around one of his enemies, dragging them after him, and he ran into an empty room, closing the door behind them

“Where is she?” He bared his teeth. “Speak before I rip your throat out.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He drove Rashomon through his shoulder, and pulled back. Blood sprayed and he fell. Akutagawa left him groaning in pain on the ground.

Wiping the blood off his face, he went on.

All things considered, going alone may not have been his brightest idea.

He ducked in a corner, narrowly avoiding another wave of bullets, and a bright, burning pain spread from his side. He let himself fall to the ground, clutching at the wound, gasping for breath.

Blood seeped out of a large cut. The bullet hadn’t pierced through. It had somehow slipped through his defense. It was enough to hurt, but not enough to be lethal.

He was still good to go.

Pushing himself back on his feet, he ignored the pain. The enemy was getting more and more desperate. He had to be close.

He took the stairs again, this time to the second floor. Quickly, he moved out of the camera’s way, trying to be more discreet. He would usually not be this prudent, but he didn’t want to rush in and risk Higuchi’s life.

Hearing more footsteps, he flattened himself against the wall, hoping to be quiet enough not to attract more attention. With the ruckus he’d made, they would be looking for him all over the below floors.

“You said there was only one?”

“Yes.” That voice — the traitor, the one who had sold Port Mafia supplies to a rival organization. “Only one that our men could see — it’s probably Akutagawa, he’s the most likely be sent alone.” He scoffed. “Still, I can’t believe the Mafia would send him, or anyone, to rescue Akutagawa’s useless subordinate.”

He twitched. Don’t kill, the voice chanted in his head. No matter how much he deserves it. You promised.

“It doesn’t matter. If he tries to get to her, we will be here to stop him.”

Their voice grew quieter as they walk down the stairs, obviously intending to meet him before he could reach the right floor.

Akutagawa peaked out of his hiding place. There was no one left, so he opened the first door he found, leading to an empty office. He kept going, stumbling into more and more empty rooms, frustration growing which each step..

Higuchi had managed to free her right hand and was in the process of untying her left one when someone brutally kicked the door open.

She froze in her movement, starring, wide eyed, as who she believed to be her captor came back. It took her a few seconds to realize who the man standing in front of her was.

“Akutagawa?” She tried to say something more, but she couldn’t do anything but stammer out questions. “What— how—why—I’m—”

“I—” He found himself unable to align three coherent words.

Drying blood stained the corner of her mouth and the side of her head, sticking to her hair. The hand she was using to free her still bound wrist was red, rubbed raw by the rope.

“You came to get me,” she ended up saying.

“It’s my job,” he told her, and she snorted.

"No, it’s not. You’re not supposed to be the one protecting me.”

“You are my surbordinate,” he insisted as Rashomon made a quick work of the remaining rope, “and my responsibility. It’s my job.”

Higuchi was fast on her feet. She winced, pressing a hand on her ribs.

“Thank you,” she started. “I’m sorry about—", but Akutagawa shook his head.

“Later. We need to go.”

They heard yelling — several people, footsteps, unclear orders being shouted — from below them.

“They have reinforcements.” She took back her gun, making sure it was still loaded. Then, ignoring her aching body, she followed him out of the door.

The corridor was still empty, but they didn’t linger.

Good thing, too, because it didn’t take long for them to run straight into the enemy.

Akutagawa grabbed her wrist, pulling her closer to him. She fired three times, hitting her mark every time, and Rashomon opened a path for them.

They ran down the stairs, her head swimming, until a sudden pain flared in her leg and she stumbled.

Barely slowing down, one of Rashomon’s tendrils wrapped around her, keeping her on her feet. “Stay up,” Akutagawa ordered, and his ability curled tightly around her waist, almost pulling her against him.

She took down another enemy coming from behind them and hissed in pain when Akutagawa suddenly skidded to a stop, forcing her behind him.

“Get out of my way,” he snarled, “I don’t have time for you.”

Higuchi looked over his shoulder and scowled, recognizing the man who was now trying to prevent them from going forward.

She remembered talking to him just the day before, she remembered him suddenly hitting her over the head and slamming.

“You don’t? What, are you scared of losing? Or are you going soft?”

Anger flared, and she clenched her hand on her gun. Akutagawa did not have time for him, but she sure as hell did.

She shot him.

He staggered, looking down at the blood pooling from under his shirts.

Nobody moved for a second, then Akutagawa walked up to him. “Tell me again,” he demanded, “how useless my subordinate supposedly is?” When he didn’t answer, struggling to breathe through the blood, Akutagawa smiled wryly. “Thought so.”

He turned back to her. “Let’s go,” he said. “We have to go back to headquarters.”

From then, they found the lobby again quickly and walked out. The cold air of the night hit Akutagawa’s face, prickling at his skin, and he allowed himself to breath.

Higuchi was okay.

“Senpai?” Higuchi’s voice caught his attention. “Why did you—” She looked away. “Why did you come or me? I didn’t think the boss would order—”

“He didn’t” He took in her bloodied face and her limp. What else could I have done? I—” I can’t handle the thought of you dying, or of having any one else by my side. “I need you,” he managed to say.

Close enough.

Her face turned a strange, pinkish color, and she looked down, stammering thanks. Then, she stilled. “You’re hurt!” She wrung her hands together. “You’re bleeding, I’m so sorry!”

Adrenaline had dulled in his side, but now that he was calmer, he was starting to feel it — his clothes sticking to the wound, soaked with blood. Each step made it spike.

“I’ll be fine. I can still drive.”

He pulled her closer, his arm around her waist to help her walk in spite of the wound in her leg.

They were almost at the car when they heard quiet footsteps, followed by the snap of a gun being charged. They froze, Higuchi reached for her weapon, and Rashomon came to life.

“I believe I told you to wait for us.”

Gin leaned against the car, her arms crossed, looking at Akutagawa sternly.

On the hood of the car, Tachihara groaned. “They didn’t even need us, what are we here for again?”

“Getaway car.”

Akutagawa’s relief was noticeable. “Gin,” he mumbled.

“So I count for nothing uh?” Tachihara jumped off the car and opened the back door. “All right, get in there, chiefs. We’re driving you back.”

They both collapsed on the back seats. Only then did Akutagawa’s fingers slid off her wrist. Silently, Rashomon extended around Higuchi, covering her protectively.

“Hirotsu is still at headquarters,” Tachihara went on as Gin took place behind the wheel. “Keeping the boss busy.”

“Aren’t you going to get into trouble for —” She gestured vaguely around herself with her free hand. “—this?”

“It didn’t worry you so much, last time.”

“But—” It had been different. It had been for Akutagawa.

“Higuchi.” Akutagawa stared at her in mild annoyance. “Stop worrying over nothing.”

She nodded, even if it made her feel like her head was filled with cotton. Rashomon felt warm around her, and she slumped on her seat, leaning against Akutagawa without thinking about it.

His hand came to rest on hers and she relaxed.

“Don’t fall asleep.”

“But I’m exhausted.” Her eyes slid shut, until something stung her on the arm. She yelped “Hey! What —”

“I said, don’t fall asleep,” Akutagawa repeated. The red spark of Rashomon faded. “You have a head injury.”

“Are you going to do this every time?”

“If I have to.”

“Then I’m safe, right?” She smiled. “With you.”

“I—” He stuttered and looked way. Higuchi was sure he was blushing, but she was probably too out of it to really tell. “Yes,” he admitted, “you are.”

#bsd #bsdrarepairvday #akuhigu #akutagawa ryuunosuke #higuchi ichiyo #look i NEED aku rushing to save higuchi like she did for him okay

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ivyveil · 5 years

Text

Truth or Drink

the one where it's worth a shot, but is it worth the truth?

A/N: Hi! This fic is based off of this video series by Cut (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=auBSJIJ_C_8) . I fell in love with the idea and I thought I would do a piece on it. I hope you enjoy! 11.4k

It hadn’t seemed real until you were there.

The set was more professional than you had expected. Considering how much time you had spent with Harry’s old circle of friends, you had anticipated a low budget, maybe with the setting being a friend’s house. But it was genuinely in a production studio warehouse, with props and expensive equipment. You kept forgetting that Harry was doing much better for himself now.

They even had a snack tray, for Christ’s sake.

A sizable crew of people milled around the outskirts of the set, their shoes crinkling up the paper that cascaded down two poles, creating a white wall and floor in front of the camera. The director’s seat was empty and the camera was given a wide berth.

A wooden table had been set up in the middle of the paper floor, with three bottles of alcohol, two glasses of orange juice, and two shot glasses on top. The set-up was cute, probably ‘aesthetic’, but regardless, it sent shivers down your spine. Two chairs sat beside the table, angled out towards the expectant camera and muttering crew. Waiting for you, waiting for him.

It hadn’t seemed real until he showed up.

In a sweater colored with muted hues of greens and tans, and sunglasses pulling back his hair, Harry looked unbearably familiar. In an unsettling way, like you had watched a movie starring him at 3 am and woke up the next morning, dusty and vague memories of him coating your tongue and settling against your pillows.

It even fell down to the way he was walking, how his stance lingered more on the left than the right, and how his eyes swept the room. And how he could make you feel like the only one in the world, when his eyes landed on you and he smiled. He smiled as if you both had a secret no one else could understand, because that was partially the truth.

His boots sounded crisp on the paper. He was clipping his microphone against the collar of his shirt, ducking his head down momentarily to eyeball whether it was right. Which was a reminder of how this was all to be made public, how you two were to broadcast your conversation to countless of strangers who never asked for it, but would readily comment.

And that hadn’t seemed like something Harry would normally be willing to do, but to be fair, you hadn’t spoken to the man for almost a year.

It hadn’t seemed real until it was.

The two of you didn’t properly acknowledge each other, not in the way you would’ve if the meeting had been a casual one. Not riddled with anticipation and nerves.

Instead, you two chose to settle in the chairs and keep your attention on the objects around you. There had been smiles exchanged but the air was still thick, feeling like starch against the back of your throat. You both invented itches on your arms, a sudden interest in how your sleeves were rolled, etc, and ignored that the other was doing the same.

Harry shifted the shot glass so it was closer to him, as if anticipating the inevitable slosh of drunken choices he’d make soon. It was more likely than not, that you two – usually fairly private – would rather drink than confess anything.

“Looks like whiskey, vodka, and-” Harry opened up the third bottle, grasping onto the lid as he held up the bottle to his nose. “-maybe tequila?”

He glanced over, eyebrows raised as he tilted the bottle, presumably for you to smell as well. Perhaps there was hope in his eyes that you two could proceed with grace and without properly acknowledging the iceberg of problems between you.

The fact he could sit there and treat the situation so casually, was so frustratingly Harry that you weren’t sure how you had expected anything different. It had been a long while since you had been near him, but he still knew how to try and make you feel at ease. Like he could still read your mind as well as he had a year ago, that he could feel your discomfort and wanted to make amends.

The problem had been, and still was, that he tried to make up for whatever had gone wrong, without fully acknowledging what had actually gone wrong to begin with. His words never laid out flat what the issue was, and so you had often been left dissatisfied, searching for a resolution that he wasn’t offering.

You sniffed the bottle, because of course you did, wrinkling up your nose as you nodded. Tequila. Some strangled noise came from your throat, and Harry was clearly expecting it, for he giggled and plugged up the bottle again.

You hated tequila.

“Thanks fo’ coming, by the way. Didn’t think you’d agree to it,” he confessed, his fingers lingering on the sides of the bottle as he feigned interest in organizing them. As if a straighter line of liquor would wash away the tension, how quiet you had been, and how strangely surreal the next half hour would be.

Shifting in the seat, you crossed your legs and flexed out your foot. Getting comfortable in a situation that was anything but was not your forte by any means. It was your job as an interior designer, for Christ’s sake, to make every environment graceful and cozy.

But the tension between you two had another layer on top, which was your inherent nature of despising the something not being positioned correctly.

In this case, it was the fact you were even in the room.

“No problem. Sounded interesting. Thanks for-” you paused, unsure of what to say but feeling as though you ought to thank him back, “-thinking of me?”

Harry let out a laugh, unexpected by you, and apparently from him as well. Not that you had anticipated a change, or were even trying to notice, but his nose still wiggled when he smiled.

For the first moment since your friend had dropped you off in the parking lot ten minutes prior, you felt settled. Perhaps not confident enough to last through the list of questions without a single tear, but confident enough that you were both in the same situation. You and Harry could make it work and be alright.

It was a situation set up with the consent of each of you, after all, although that didn’t take away the nervous butterflies and worms writhing around in your chest.

Harry poured each of you a shot of whiskey, holding out the glass like a sense of a peace offering. Alcohol had never been your safe havens, but you figured it was alright to pitch a tent for a day.

You accepted it gratefully, making sure your fingers wouldn’t graze against his as you took the drink. Knocking it back felt like a rude awakening, but a necessary one, to approach what was coming.

The wall of paper rustled behind you, and the director popped his head around the corner. His name-tag read Chris, and you recognized the name as one of Harry’s newer friends, not one of the friends who would recognize you, which was a relief.

Chris was the reason Harry was doing the show, it seemed, as voluntarily airing past relationships was slightly out of character for Harry. His sense of duty towards his friends seemed to outweigh his typical cloak of privacy, and you couldn’t say you were altogether surprised. It didn’t clarify why he had asked you to be the ex on the show, though. He had a handful of others who were more likely to generate “viral content” with their outlandish drama, you knew, yet he had asked you.

“Thank you both for getting here on time. We can go ahead and get started if that’s okay,” Chris clasped his hands together, strutting past the table and towards his director’s chair. He was wearing plaid pants that swished against his legs as they moved, and that was the only noise in the room for a few seconds. Harry and you looked at each other, a bit uneasy that the moment had come upon you both so quickly. He quirked an eyebrow, as if to say there was no reason to delay it any longer. You took a deep breath and nodded.

“Okay, here’s how it’ll work. Martha will put these cards on the table. One of you will read out the question and the other will answer. If the person answering chooses not to, that person will have to take a shot. Easy enough. If you wanted to elaborate with your answers, we encourage that as well. And if you need to take a moment, let us know, but the camera stays rolling.”

It was a lot of information at once, and you found yourself nodding without comprehending as Chris rambled on. Your mind, ever the traitor, was stuck on how a week ago Harry had texted you. It was truly out of the blue, since your break up hadn’t resulted in a good, or even shaky, friendship, and you had felt certain he had deleted your number.

Hey, it’s Harry Styles. Know you probably don’t want to hear from me, but I have a favor to ask. My friend is doing a new Internet series where exes get together and talk about their relationship, and he wanted to know if I would be willing. Thought of you. Interested? Xxx.

At first, you weren’t sure. The situation seemed like a disaster waiting to happen, if you were being honest. Darkened skies and trees blowing enough to the point their trunks swayed in the wind - that sort of disaster.

There was something about seeing his face that would send you spiraling off, bubbling anger and frustration swelling up your chest when you stumbled on his Instagram those few times. And then those times when you looked him up. And then those times when you took a screenshot the particularly good photos and went back to them when you were in a pit of self-despair. But only those many few times.

“Sounds good,” Harry was saying, and you chimed in with similar agreement. Martha, presumably, moved forward and put the cards on the table. There were a sizable number of questions, enough to keep you two interested in the game and not to be tempted to drink on every one.

Which had been your plan.

“Alright, just introduce yourselves to the camera and then go ahead,” Chris gestured outwards, smiling, before settling back in his seat.

Chris’ facial expression shifted into something more serious, the friendly facade morphing into a professional stare, which made you feel incredibly aware of how awfully slouched you were. You felt like you were in front of your parents, or a teacher, like you were a kid again and had to present yourself well.

Sitting up, you turned towards the camera. It was a large, black pit of emotionless indifference. It was going to record everything and wouldn’t have the decency to look away, if tears were to fall or if blood were to be shed.

Which didn’t feel too melodramatic, if you were being honest.

Harry introduced himself as Harry, an art teacher, and gave a gentle wave paired with one of his charming smiles. You followed suit, opting to just fold your arms against the table, as you introduced yourself as an interior designer.

The truth extended a bit beyond that for the both of you, with Harry also owning a popular photography Instagram working to introduce inner-city kids to film tech. And you were working with the local homeless shelters in the area to improve structural efficiency, as well as beginning your line of eco-friendly furniture.

But the two of you had become wrapped in the other’s threads of intimacy when you were merely an art teacher and an interior designer, and it would be easier to hark back a year ago if you were no longer attached to today’s version of yourselves.

Perhaps it was a hope for the past to emerge once more.

“How long did you two date?” Chris prompted.

“Two and a half years,” Harry answered.

“And how long ago was that?”

Harry looked over at you, raising his eyebrows silently asking you to be the one to answer. You knew he knew, that the wounds were still fresh and it wasn’t some ex-relationship lost in the foggy realm of his mind. So, you obliged, replying steadily and only taking your eyes away from Harry’s for a brief moment.

“About a year ago.”

And then, abruptly, it was simply you and Harry.

The crew faded away, when you two settled in against the backs of the seats and looked at each other. Harry seemed to be toying with some type of smile, probably more out of discomfort than genuinely finding humor in the situation.

“Should I go first?” Harry offered, reaching over towards the pile.

“Yeah, go for it.”

You shifted your legs once more, crossing them so the other was on top. Your fingers rested on the edge of the table, curling against the wood and waiting for Harry to speak.

“Describe how you feel about me right now.”

Harry began chewing on his lip, not harshly, but enough for you to pick up on his nerves. His eyes shot over to the bottles, thinking you’d immediately cop out, but you began to respond.

“I feel like...” you sighed, dropping your gaze from his inquisitive eyes as you collected your thoughts, “I feel like you’re an ex. And that’s not saying a lot but that’s the best way to describe it.”

You nodded, satisfied with your answer.

“Is that a bad thing?” Harry asked.

You shrugged.

“It just is. Feels like an ending brought back up.”

And it did. You had grown a lot since you two had left the other as a broken shell, and meeting up again felt like a continuation that wasn’t supposed to be. Unnatural was a word to describe how your eyes settled on the small parts of him, deciphering what was different now, yet there was a thread of normalcy in how you two could understand the other like an instinct buried deep away.

“Ah, it’s the bad sequel,” he mused, with a grin that deepened against his cheeks when you laughed. With a smirk to himself, he put down the card in the discard pile.

It felt a bit easier than you had expected, to sit across from him. The bitter words you two had left stewing in the other’s mind had apparently evaporated for the time being. Texting Harry back your confirmation while drunk and alone on a Friday night could maybe be chalked down as a good life decision, if the goodwill carried on throughout the video.

“What about you?” you prompted. You weren’t sure if that was allowed, if the game permitted for you to turn the question onto him. But you were intrigued by the ability to ask him whatever, to find out the depths of Harry you never thought you’d be privy to again, under the guise of something that could be easily excused.

“Me?” he asked, needlessly, for there was no one else you could be asking.

“I feel kinda the same,” he spoke as if it were a question, but continued on with building confidence, “I dunno much about yeh life anymore. Remember how we’d go out on the fire escape ‘n just talked-” you smiled at that, because it was one of those things that couldn’t be remembered without being cherished “-but I also remember how we fought. Especially on tha’ last night. But it doesn’t feel bad to be here. Not wha’ I expected.”

You nodded as he spoke, already feeling the analysis of his word choice kick into gear in the depths of your brain. Nothing he said rose red flags, though, and to a sad extent, you understood him. It hadn’t been as painful as your friends had tried to convince you it would be when you were leaving the apartment that morning.

“Alright, my turn?” you looked over to Chris, who nodded towards the pile. It seemed a bit ominous, with Harry being the one to potentially answer now. Because you had control over what was said a moment ago but now it was truly up to him. It made you nervous

“Did you ever have the chance to cheat on me, and did you?”

Time almost seemed to stop, an unbearable delicacy in the way your eyes held contact with his own. An impressive acknowledgment that whatever he said, and especially the moves his body would make, held the potential of ripping a shred into the both of you.

“I had a chance.” Harry nodded slowly, and his fingers began to twist around themselves on the table. “With...with a mutual friend.”

You nodded, not even needing him to go on further. You knew who it was.

Melanie.

You valued female support and girl love for one another, but Melanie was just a straight up bitch. In the ways that men never could see, because the complexities of female language would twist around the way she eyed women up, the way her lips would curl around each false compliment, as if snapping its neck. Her words had a double meaning that only girls could decode, a simple system that carved knives down their back as she manipulated situations to her fancy.

She was in a ‘game’ no one else was playing, but she was in it for blood.

Perhaps insecurities could be an excuse, maybe there were lingering traumas in her childhood that had morphed her into the beast she was today. But it was easier for you to shut down those ideas and accept her in the monstrosity she had become, one way or another, and keep your hand firmly in Harry’s whenever you all were out together.

She had a thing for Harry.

She would sidle up next to him in the booth, when the lights were low enough to mask her demon-slit eyes and let him be blind to the venom-soaked tongue that flicked out of her mouth with two prongs.

(You were being dramatic, but that’s neither here nor there).

She would be cuddly with him, and Harry would insist to you that they were just friends. When his phone went off with her name splashed on it for the fifth time in ten minutes, he’d make up excuses. Say she was interested in his record collection, that she had sent him a link to some obscure new photography magazine that Celtic porn stars had created downtown. It was nothing incriminating but Melanie had her code, and it seemed only you knew how to read it. He was protective over her, almost, and it had bugged you to no end.

You never called him out with direct accusations, though, because you had never thought of him as the cheating type.

You’d always assumed Melanie was in it for the attention and would stop before any buttons could slip out of their hold.

It seemed you had assumed wrong.

“When was it?” you found yourself asking, the question bursting through before you could have enough time to address whether you wanted to know.

“A week before we broke up.” Harry had the decency to look unsettled, clearing his throat and glancing around the room. “I was taking her home after that night out, the one when we went to tha’ bar and we fought so yeh left early-” you nodded, so he cut to the chase, almost gratefully “-and she wanted me to kiss her when we reached the door.”

“Did you?”

Harry shook his head, his lips pursing together as he swallowed.

“No, didn’t.”

You nodded, feeling a swoosh of satisfaction dipping into your lungs. Even though you couldn’t call him yours anymore, the fact that you both had stayed honest made you feel better.

Made you realize that even though your break up felt like exposed film, negatives that could never be altered into something bursting of color, you two still had the foundation of respect. The pictures were still beautiful, even if you couldn’t see what they were.

“You?”

Glancing up from the card to Harry, you noticed his head was tilted down, his eyes up. He was the one who was unsure, now. The delicacy remained and your head tilted to the side as you replied evenly.

“No, never.”

“Ever had the chance?”

You paused, letting the question sink in.

“I guess from random guys at bars ‘n stuff, but I always said I was with you.”

Harry nodded, leaning back somewhat, as if the answer had lightened some burden.

“Was never sure about Shawn, to be honest. Thought he had a thing for you,” Harry confessed with a shrug, a light smile on his lips. His eyes were still honest, still serious, still had the heaviness that you felt in your soul.

You weren’t sure what to say, with the bright lights and the rolling camera, so you just put the card down and nodded up at him.

It was his turn now.

Another card drawn.

“What do you miss the most about us?”

“Our friendship.” Your answer was immediate, no thinking required. “We had so much respect for each other. I remember feeling so in awe about how persistent you were - like the time you crashed the governor’s party to debate school board funding?”

Harry grinned at that, his eyes crinkling more than usual at the memory, as you continued.

“We knew everything about each other, always had the other’s back, and now we just...”

Your hand waved off towards the crew, although it was meant more as a general ‘nothingness’ gesture, but Harry nodded. He almost looked relieved. A more permanent smile was on his lips, and you knew there was one on yours. It was impossible not to look back on that aspect without a consuming sense of fondness, an adoration for what had been.

“Feels weird tha’ I see still yeh face everywhere now, but like...I don’t even know how your family is doing,” Harry said and he glanced up at you, a slant to his eyebrows that spoke more than he could on camera.

“He’s fine,” you murmured, and Harry’s eyes glimmered somewhat. You could tell he was happy for you and you wondered if it were your imagination misleading you when he readjusted on the seat, and his hand went out on the table. Not close enough to be against yours, but it was possible he was trying.

“Did tha’ fucker kick you out?” Greg yelled towards the street, as if Harry were lurking behind a streetlamp watching you shuffle on the doorstep. The street echoed quietly back Greg’s words, without a reply, not even an indignant shout from the neighbors.

“No,” you sniffled, and Greg’s attention was brought back to you. He opened his door wider so you could step out of the rain, looking once more up and down the street, as if still unsure of Harry’s location. Then, he stepped inside as well.

“I just needed someplace to go. C-can’t stay at the apartment. Everything’s j-just a mess right now, y’know?”

Your eyes had kept on the floor, but Greg lifted up your chin with his fingers. He was staring at you in some odd type of way.

Somehow comforting, you supposed, but not having spoken to Greg in forever, you weren’t particularly sure if it was judgment or sympathy he was feeling towards the situation. He hadn’t seemed to approve of Harry the one time they met, but the entire evening hadn’t gone well for your family, so it was impossible to tell.

“I understand. Stay as long as you need, ‘kay?” His answer surprised you and also didn’t. You knew he wouldn’t have let you past his doorstep if he was still angry.

It seemed the pain left by Harry was enough to forgive the harsh dispute that had cracked open your ribcage first, the fighting that had stirred up your temper to high enough levels to really go at it with your boyfriend. Or ex, now, it seemed.

“I’m sor-”

“Don’t.” Greg’s voice cracked at the end, and you blinked in surprise. “We’re family. Beyond the blood or marriages or what-fuckin’-ever, that’s what we are. I love you, and that’s not going to change. All that shit doesn’t matter right now, ‘kay?” You nodded.

And that was the first conversation you had with Greg in all twenty-five years of your life, that didn’t end with screaming. It was the first time since you could remember that your half-brother hugged you and told you he loved you.

It was the first step the both of you took towards healing.

“And I have no clue how your pet fish is getting on,” you replied, as if your drama with your half-sibling would appropriately compare to Harry’s fish episodes.

You two had bought a pet fish, about a year and a half ago, for one of Harry’s projects – back when he was paying for all of the supplies but was still determined to get the kids what they needed – but Goldie kept dying, and every one of Goldie’s descendants died, as well, none lasting a month and most not seeing it through a week.

Harry laughed.

“No more fish, actually. Decided to stop trying,” he explained, and your lips formed some sort of tight smile. At least, you hoped they had succeeded in doing that, and there wasn’t some sort of disfigured grimace that would be captured on camera.

A feeling of something close to comfort draped over your shoulders as you moved to pick up the next card. The questions had been easy, almost too easy, and you were falling into a lull of belief that you could take on all the twists and turns of the segment. Being honest wasn’t feeling hard.

But it seemed like God suddenly had a call to take, or the Goddess of the Moon had her attention elsewhere, for the easy questions came to an end.

“Do I ever pop up in your head when you masturbate?”

Several of the crew laughed at your reaction. Your jaw had dropped slightly, eyebrows furrowed at the card as if the ink could apologize and scramble into a more appropriate question. You hadn’t expected that at all.

Nor did you expect the familiar swooping feeling in your stomach, because you had the all-too-vivid memories of being with Harry. Knowing his moans, the grip he prefers, the words that, when murmured against his throat at the right second, could send him over the edge.

Harry didn’t seem to mind too much, only looking like a deer in headlights for a moment, before he reached out towards the bottle of tequila, an unsure chuckle mixed with a light hysteria coming from his lips.

“Gonna need to take a few shots for that one,” he joked, shaking his head, before drawing his hand back in. Your heart started thumping rapidly.

Inhale. Exhale. You could feel your cheeks burn, even if the red wasn’t noticeable it was still felt, and the light-headed spin within your mind increased.

But it was going to be alright, you weren’t going to die, despite feeling it in your heart that it could possibly happen, once your friends saw the video in a few weeks time. Telling it to yourself over and over, you blinked at Harry and your face squinted together, in a ‘hell, you gotta answer’ type of way.

Harry was looking at you, his eyes a shade more serious than before. A flicker of confusion registered within the green, as if he weren’t accustomed to seeing you calm down so quickly (despite your anxieties not being apparent to the rest of the room, it seemed as though Harry hadn’t lost his knack for picking up on it) but he persisted on.

Fuck. You realized he was actually going to answer.

It wasn’t that you minded. The thought of him using the memories of you two wasn’t a slap in the face by any means. But it was more the confrontation of it that you were struggling to break through, escaping the ocean waves of wanting to know, while definitely not wanting to know. The waves were lapping up against the sides of your neck as you looked around, but no land was in sight.

You two were there, and the threat of drowning was imminent.

“I mean, yeah. Together almost three years, we had some good times.” His voice quietened by a fraction, as if the words would remain private. A cheeky grin still dug into his lips, a flush sort of pink dusting his cheekbones as he shrugged. But you know what he meant, beyond the clothes draped against half-done canvases and wallpaper samples.

You both knew how it felt.

“An apartment...all to ourselves,” Harry whispered, his fingertips stretching up against the bare mattress towards its edge. The sheets lay, arranged as if by a Greek sculpture, around your legs and Harry’s waist. His arm was around you, his palm laying on the small of your back to cuddle you in closer. He felt warm, smelled like coconuts. His chest rose slow, his breath evening out.

The empty space was now, indeed, yours. Your mind had been whirling ever since you first saw the structure with ideas for patio design and kitchen layout, but Harry had managed to distract you for a quick “house-warming party for two, love, gotta do it right” that had lasted all afternoon.

The sun was dipping lazily against the skyline, streaming golden and orange rays down into the home. Because it was a home now, with Harry and you in it.

“You still awake, love?” Harry tapped his fingers against your back, and you lifted your head sleepily. It felt like a thousand pounds, with your eyes fluttering closed while your mind was trying to open them. Harry chuckled.

“Tired yeh out?” he teased, and you managed to peep your eyes open enough to roll them properly, before propping your head up on his chest.

“Just sleepy. Had a long day moving in boxes. And then again tomorrow...but you’ve got work, yeah?”

Harry made an affirmative noise, soft and gentle as he looked down

His hair had just grown long enough for him to be satisfied; curls caressing his collarbones and laying against the mattress like an angel’s halo. You didn’t have to open your eyes to see it, the image was painted across the skies of your eyelids after a year of admiring him.

“Gonna be another long day tomorrow,” you mumbled around the upcoming yawn, and you felt Harry brushing your hair back. His fingers got caught, at times, against the messier curls, and he would untangle them. You’d do the same for him, if the positions were reversed, but your eyes only felt real when they were closed. Like the genuine rest would start when you weren’t looking around the room, wild ideas forming upon the walls.

You and Harry spent the rest of your first night in your first apartment cuddled. He didn’t even bring out his camera when the sun hit your cheeks just right, instead feeling in his heart like the moment was best at the time it was happening. Never to be seen again, never to happen again, it was yours, and you were his.

“Had some good times,” you agreed, gesturing for Harry to pick up the next card. It sent your heart racing once more, the thought of Harry turning the question on you. The words were in his eyes, anyway, and it went beyond crude nights spent alone with lube and memories, and into something deeper. Something about whether you treasured those times still, whether they had been tarnished by an ending.

The truth was, you did. On the romantic nights when your bed felt empty, an ocean of sheets and cold pillowcases, with that itch of needing something to bring you higher, that you recalled the good times. It felt like in public eye, you had to maintain the appearance that you and Harry weren’t compatible, that something tragic had occurred, something was wrong within the relationship, and it was irreparable. And perhaps that was true, but your feelings had a nasty tendency to not align with the truth. Contradictions galore, your mind would go to Harry and feel something deeper than an ending.

Harry gave a short nod, cleared his throat, and picked up the next card. The opportunity of waiting allowed for you to glance around the room, making eye contact with one sounds-person who seemed particularly apologetic in the way they smiled.

“How long did it take for you to get over me?”

Before you could even think, he put the card down and shook his head.

“I know this,” he claimed, and your eyebrows rose in surprise, “You hooked up with Shawn two months after we broke up.”

It was what you had been trying to avoid in the conversation earlier, how the topic of Shawn had elicited jealousy and concern from Harry, and it was not entirely unfounded. You and Shawn had ‘hooked up’, but not to the extent Harry was perhaps expecting. Shawn had kissed you after a particularly rowdy rendition of Love Shack during karaoke night. It had ended there, because the guilt welling up in your throat felt like bile and you needed some air immediately.

It still felt wrong, even when the person you thought was ‘right’ was across the city, wanting nothing to do with you.

Harry finding out about that night wasn’t a surprise, since your friend group was still, a year later, overlapped in a few areas. What was a surprise was how Harry had taken that one kiss as a sign of you officially Moving On, as if a Facebook relationship status change and a quick peck could alter almost 3 years of passion and commitment.

Three months ago.

The night had begun with dark purples and blues around your figure, the way your curtains draped against empty windows and the pillows were untouched on one side of the bed. Your friends were blowing up your phone, rattling against the side table persistently, trying to call you out of the depressing apartment and into the club life they were thriving within.

You had already decided to join them but didn’t have the fancy of responding yet. The outfit needed to be perfect, you wanted to feel like you were alive through someone else’s light for the night, before making it official. It was a process of shedding who you had been the week prior and stepping into the greasy, sweaty club as if it were an ocean of opportunity.

Through this endeavor, you found yourself deeper in your closet than you typically were. And that’s where it was, a small brown case with a white tag in the corner, gold stitching around the edges. The tag read “Harry” and your heart made a distant noise, six stories below, as it crashed through the floor.

The moment quickly altered itself, adapting a more serious tone, and the thoughts to color-coordination drifted off like smoke from your mind as you crouched down. Picked off the lid. Looked inside.

There were Polaroids. Dozens of them, stacked against each other and looped together with multi-colored rubber bands.

Photos of you, photos of him, photos of the two of you together. Some were dirtier than others, some made you blush as you fingered through the stack, but others made you pause. Like the one where you were snuggled against Harry’s neck, with Harry’s smug smile peeking out in the corner. It was taken on your first anniversary with him, when the two of you were so broke you had to spend the celebration cooking each other mac’n’cheese with flowers from the Dollar General out on the table.

Or the one where Harry was laid out on the bed, his hair curling against the pillows, shirtless and sleepily looking into the lens. You remembered taking the photo, standing up with your feet on either side of his hips, his hands wrapped around your ankles to hold you steady. You had taken your time getting the position right, making sure the light fell across Harry’s chest like cage stripes along the butterfly. Harry seemed absolutely smitten that you wanted to take a photo of him, cheekily asking, “Lookin’ good, hm?” in between shots.

You cried that night.

More than you had in months, you cried over what was lost. Even the happy moments made you cry because of their fleeting nature, how quickly they had become distant. You cried because you felt like you were mourning all over again, with the box of photos you had forgotten about in the back of your closet.

Your heels were kicked off, your dress was splotched with mascara from wiping at your eyes, and you sat against the closet wall, your knees brought up to your chest.

Within the tears held the question of what it all meant, why you hadn’t felt cried out over the entire situation. Why there were wracking sobs echoing against the walls, why the apartment suddenly seemed like a graveyard and you were a tombstone.

And within the tears held the question of whether you had let go at all.

“I’ll take the shot,” you gestured towards the vodka bottle, and Harry’s body stilled, somewhat unnaturally, somewhat in shock. He was obviously stunned at whether that was confirmation of you genuinely having gotten over him within two months, which he had said more as an accusation than a sure fact. But you couldn’t find it in you to confirm or deny. It just was, and no matter what the truth had been or was still, you weren’t going to touch on it.

“Alright,” he muttered, and with how his head was turned away as he kindly poured you what would be your second shot, you couldn’t distinguish whether he was still shocked or had made the leap to upset. And you weren’t sure which you wanted him to be.

It was bitter going down, searing your throat a bit, and you shook your head immediately, feeling the racks of shudders going down your spine as you powered on through the shot. Several of the crew members laughed at that, and your head tilted up, leaning back into your neck as you cringed.

“Fuckin’ hate that,” you whispered, eyes squeezed shut, and you heard Harry chuckle quietly.

“Alright, your turn, love,” he gestured towards the stack, and on came the next question.

“Is there anything you want to apologize for?”

The silence extended beyond the two of you, into the scope of the room and surrounding the walls like a thin layer of lace. The itchy kind.

“I didn’t know how to talk to yeh. About what I was feeling, ‘n stuff. Figured we’d be okay, no matter what.” He took a deep breath in and his eyes settled on a particularly dark knot in the wood of the table, eyebrows furrowed as her continued. “I’m sorry for tha’. Shouldn’t have assumed yeh knew.”

“Knew what?”

“How much I loved yeh. How much I wished I could’ve solved things, early on before they got to be too much.” He was choking up at the end, nodding quickly and blinking his eyes. It took a moment before you realized he was close to tears, at the memories and at the loss.

You couldn’t say you felt any different, with your own throat closing up around your words.

“We tried our best,” you said, feeling your lips wobble around the smile as if unsure. Harry shrugged, like he didn’t quite feel the same but wasn’t going to argue. The emotions ebbed upon you both quickly and remained, a wave over your heads that didn’t return back to the ocean like it should’ve.

The final fight between you two could have been avoided. It was the cumulative frustration over months of miscommunication, of Harry always being at work, of him putting his school kids first, of you needing someone there with you, of you never knowing how to speak the words of that question, of both of you deciding to be stubborn instead of empathetic. It was a disaster, a war zone marked by scowls and hot tears and rattling doors.

“You can’t take one day off to fix this?” Your voice was shattered, glass shards etching themselves into the walls. It was quiet, as it always was when Harry had something to say but refused to get the words out. He’d just shut down again, seethe in his frustration, never confess to being pissed off, as if denial in itself could create a false reality where you were Okay.

“I’ve got work,” he said it pained, as if he were powerless.

Perhaps you’d been privy to too much of his loveliness, saw too much of his bright sun, because you no longer believed in that. You knew he could do so much, that perseverance was nothing compared to his willpower, and yet you were never on the receiving end of his dedication and work, just an observer.

It was watching him fight for everything but you that sealed the deal, in the end. You had enough empty spots in your heart from people who had left without a second thought about commitment, who took your love for granted and assumed it would last for miles (and it had, which was the worst bit). You couldn’t allow for Harry to make his mark like that. He didn’t have that power over you like he had for others, you had decided.

Which was why you moved in with your brother the next day. Which was why Harry showed up the next night, still in his work clothes, with his teacher’s briefcase in one hand and your apartment key in the other.

“The fuck is this?” he spat, once you had stepped out onto the porch. The streets were slick with rain, the tree branches were weighed heavily upon one another, and Harry’s eyes were the scorched lightning setting it all ablaze.

“I’m done.”

“What yeh mean, done? Done with wha’? Done with us?”

A stunned silence.

“I said we’d work it out.”

He was trying to speak patiently now, talk down as if you had simply forgotten the way he had made you feel cozy and warm again, with promises and soft smiles, before leaving you once more.

“I asked for you to stay.”

“When have yeh ever needed someone to stay?”

It was blunt, harshly spoken, his eyes unfocusing as he furiously blinked the rainwater from his vision. You didn’t move back, you never invited him beyond the porch gate, somewhat afraid of what you’d do if he came closer.

“In the past two years, not once have yeh ever asked for me. Never asked for my advice, n-never told me yeh needed me. What the fuck ‘m I supp’sed to do with that? Know magically that this one time is when you’re actually gonna open up, genuinely gonna talk things out? Not just take whatever path yeh want, without thinkin’ of me?”

“I asked for you to-”

“Stay. Yeah. You asked for me to stay.” He sighed and whipped his head to the side, attempting to sniffle discreetly. You knew that his hay fever was acting up, and you knew he was trying to pretend it wasn’t. A sub-drama within the original, a dialogue stupidly unspoken.

“And you didn’t.”

“What would I be stayin’ for?” It was a serious question,

“For us? To make it work, to talk about what we haven’t-”

“Okay, fuckin’ fine. Talk. Tell me what yeh want me to know.”

You opened your mouth and closed it several times, unable to know what to say. It was a contradiction of overwhelming emotions and the realization that you had no idea. Everything had piled up on each other and digging through the past had no effect on the future, at that point, and you felt as though you had made your mind up the moment you left your key out on the dining table, a night bag stuffed with your everyday things, and your mind blank, to stop yourself from surrendering to him once more.

You’d never forget how he looked, at that moment. In his loose button-up and jeans, with paint on his knuckles and his hair piled in a bun, he looked helpless.

“I’m waiting.”

After a few more moments, he shook his head.

“I’ll move in with Liam next week.” It was a shuddered statement, as if he had come up with that plan on the way over. And that was the way you two ended, because the cliff had been seen for miles and neither one of you pulled the damn car over.

He paused, his body shifted back towards the gate. His hands were by his side, limp, already having given up far before his mind had, your apartment key loosely between two of his fingers.

A minute later, you were back inside. Sliding down the back of the front door, letting your hands immediately rack through your hair, your vision blurry with the loss and the lack of focus, now that he was gone. Because you were gone, and everything was right, but it felt like devastation.

“Our best,” Harry repeated, but that didn’t even sound like enough.

The studio was silent.

“Kiss on the mouth or take a shot each.”

Approximately thirty seconds later, two shot glasses hit the table. You had downed your third of the day, as Harry scrunched his face as he got down his second. Neither of you had hesitated, both realizing that it would bring the level of discomfort to excessive levels. Perhaps if you two were at a friend’s house, wine bottles being passed around in front of the fire, a brief kiss wouldn’t have been seen as much of anything. But not for a camera. Not for the Internet.

The crew was amused how the two of you were on similar tracks of mind, and if you were sober you wouldn’t have found it as funny. But when Harry had his face all squishy like a boy who just ate a lemon, you couldn’t help the giggles that manifested themselves against your lips.

“Okay,” Chris interjected, and it was the river of smooth liquor that kept you two from jumping at the interruption. You had almost forgotten about where you were.

“Just a quick question,” Chris continued, “One we’re asking all the couples.” He paused for dramatic effect, perhaps waiting for the right camera shot, before asking, “Do you feel you have closure?”

The director was bent forward, as if he were brought to the edge of his seat by something that wasn’t surprising in the slightest. Of course neither of you felt you had closure, and of course neither of you would confess to that. Whether the lack of a proper good-bye still haunted your bedposts was another ordeal, one you didn’t feel particularly keen to jump into.

“Uh,” Harry spoke with the stumbling eloquence you had somewhat missed, “Um-well, I-” his eyes flashed over to yours, and then to the side of the table, “Drink. I’m gonna drink.” You gestured with your hand to the bottles, as if inviting him to it, not quite expecting anything less.

His cheeks were flushed as he poured himself another shot, obviously quite upset that he had to further his count. He was an embarrassing lightweight, which you knew, and Chris most likely knew as well.

But Harry must’ve felt more comfortable with risking himself getting drunk on camera, than answering the question, or else he would’ve just confessed that you never let him have the opportunity for closure. And he had treated you similarly, it was a relationship destroyed like frayed clothing, feathering off near the end and getting caught in every sort of mechanism known to mankind.

You never quite understood metaphors.

Harry took the drink in one swoop, without a second thought, and despite you hoping he’d be the one to pour you a shot again, he was obviously needing a moment or two to adjust. So, you poured your own, saluted Chris with it, and drank.

Another truth avoided, and you were feeling like the haze of life had descended upon you. Warmed up and ready to strike.

It hadn’t occurred to you much, at the time, how drinking could speak volumes louder than an answer, one you could elaborate on. But no man ever said vodka brought him sense, so you continued on with the game, under the assumption that the shot glasses would be there for you if all else failed.

“Your turn,” Harry reminded you gently, nudging the cards closer.

You drew.

“Would you be with me again?”

There were flecks of gold in his irises, which felt cliche and overrated, but you were struggling to find anything else in his eyes. There they were, gold and glistening, and the gold was shifting around as Harry glanced away.

It didn’t quite sink in, the implication of his stance, how heavy the air became to everyone sober in the room. Harry nodded slowly at the question, more in the process of thinking over his answer than the nod genuinely being a response.

He started biting his lip again.

“I’m gonna have t’ drink.”

Particles of the air shifted in that fraction of a second. They turned on their sides and pierced the nothingness surrounding them until there was an invisible knife pricking against your chest. It felt hot and unwelcome, and under the gaze of the entire crew, you were speechless for a few seconds.

“I can get why not,” you mumbled after a while, your fingers fixing your hair, the collar of your shirt, anything but how tightly wound the rope was around your neck. “If it didn’t work once, probably wouldn’t work again.”

“Just don’t know who you are, now.” Harry was nice enough to cover his true intentions as he poured the shot. The glasses clinked as they were rearranged and you noticed they were no longer in a straight line. Perhaps Harry was done with easing your tension, maybe this was it. The real pair, the couple of exes with nothing but honesty, a year too late.

“I’ve changed a lot,” you agreed. “Us ending definitely showed me where I needed to work on myself. Took a while, definitely took a while, but I’m getting better.”

Harry, his lips still pursed and his eyes squeezed shut from the nasty aftershock of the shot, managed to nod. When he was able to focus again, he spoke.

“Exactly. I think what was important for the two ‘f us to learn was tha’ we had areas to work on. And we did do tha’ work, but we can’t relive the past. No take twos.”

His words had become a touch more slurred, his head was nodding more from a gradual lack of balance than a genuine agreement. But Harry’s lips were still poised in a smile, in the dopey way his heart would grow whenever he was pleasantly warm.

You couldn’t say you were feeling that sort of happy high, tipsy warmth and giddy love, but you certainly were trying to keep yourself more put together than he was.

“I’ll go, then.” Harry’s hand reached out for the card, accidentally knocking one out of place. Shuffling them back, he drew up the top one again.

“What should I change about myself for future relationships?”

You were shaking your head before Harry was even finished with the question. Which wasn’t altogether impressively fast, because his speech was slower than normal. And he seemed confused by the words - perhaps more apprehensive - and each vowel was elongated.

There was no way you felt you had a right to answer. It had been too long since the break-up. If it were six months ago, maybe, you would’ve jumped through rings of fire to be able to tell Harry what you thought about him. But the truth was, you felt like you were a million miles away from how you both had coexisted a year ago. It was likely life had done Harry the same justice, and any advice you had that wasn’t founded in bitter resentment would simply be irrelevant.

In addition, if the question had been the other way around, there would’ve been no way Harry would’ve answered. There was a possibility you would’ve just died on the spot if he did - it would’ve been hurtful, to hear what he found was such a fundamental flaw within your character that it simply had to be changed in order to make anything work with another person. Some self-problems were designed to be discovered by the individual, not by their angry exes.

“Why not answer?” Chris spoke up.

“Can’t tell him what to do, he’s perfectly fine. Was both of us that made it not work, y’know?” your words felt like syrup in the way they glided from your tongue.

“Yeh gotta drink,” Harry reminded you, a sloppier grin appearing on his face. He leaned forward, resting an elbow on the table and putting his forefinger and thumb around his lip. Sparks of fire ignited in your chest, from his eyes and how they consumed you. Once more, you were reminded how Harry could make you feel like the only person in the room, and how addictive feeling special could be.

“Know I do, Haz.”

You readied the glass and popped back open the bottle, feeling like that noise would forever be associated with this video, with your heart racing and your fingers moving restlessly.

“Called me Haz, just then.”

You simply nodded at his observation, not bothering to look up at see his reaction. A momentary slip of tongue, but it didn’t mean much. A nickname was all, and you refused to think about it for longer than that.

You drank and then quickly picked up the orange juice. Harry, at the same moment, seemed to realize there was a chaser next to the bottles, and picked up his own glass. There was a momentary break so you both could ease down a little, not feel the punch of alcohol and postpone the gentle sway of future regret and public restroom vomit.

“You ready to continue? Just a few more questions,” Chris gestured towards the last two cards on the table, and you nodded, bleating out a question.

“Who’s turn is it?”

“Yours,” Harry answered, pushing a hand down and moving the cards towards you. You snapped finger guns at him, humming with your lips to indicate that you were impressed by his memory.

It all felt smooth. A gradient of emotions, piled on top of another until the feeling was general existence. And it was nice, sitting across from Harry, seeing him after so long, knowing he was doing okay and he had been trying to improve. The harsh feelings were still there, but they were concealed by the concern of catching up, with the hopes of appearing fine on the camera would translate into actuality.

“Do you think I’d be a good wife?”

Harry’s head dropped down to his hands, his palms supporting his forehead as he moaned something unintelligible. It was a quick change of atmosphere but nothing grossly out of place for two drunk people, as the alcohol had a way of gliding over the rough patches.

You weren’t sure about marriage, in how/if it would come into your life. The topic had come up now and again during your relationship with Harry, especially when he had proposed the idea of moving in together. But the conversation was usually vague on both sides, more in the tone of possibility than probability. It simply wasn’t a major point within the way you two interacted, there was no planning or waiting for a one-knee-kneel and velvet box.

“’F course yeh would,” Harry moaned, and your eyes scanned his face, but the majority of his head was still tucked away.

“Fuck, thought yeh’d be mine, didn’t I?”

Silence.

A blank silence, a blanket of nothing cloaked your mind and your tongue. The thought had never crossed your mind, that he would be planning on proposing. He had never seemed the type to want to settle down quickly. Sure, in the deepest corners of your mind, you had thought what it would be like to take on his last name, or to have him take on yours, and to hold a ceremony to make your love ‘officially’ public, to have the societal relationship cemented by expectation and the ring to physically prove it. But it hadn’t felt realistic.

But there he was, sitting across the table from you, drunkenly confessing he had planned on making you his wife.

And all you could feel was the wet clothes on your skin again, the heavy rain that drowned away your relationship, the sopping weight of an apartment key left behind, the hollow carcass of an apartment that became too empty too soon, the rough edges of Polaroids with scratched handwriting left behind.

Near the end, you had started to think he wasn’t fully committed to the idea of your relationship. That there was a chance he was still looking - not actively, not by any means - but looking in the sense that if someone were to stumble along, someone who made his heart feel like it were floating a million miles in the sky, he would leave. Like he wasn’t completely tied down to you, because he simply was never there. That sense of loss before it had even manifested had brought you towards the edge of neediness, shoving you into desperation without knowing the language of asking for reassurance.

It felt logical at the time. If he wasn’t going to work at the relationship, if there weren’t signs of him planning in the future to cement your love more firmly, that meant he was losing interest. That he would leave, like so many others had, and you were going to be lost in another forest with dense trees of ‘not enough’. So you had lashed out before he could, you had burned the bridge before he had even set foot on it.

Your fear had brought you further away, until the crumpled bedsheets and pillowtalks had faded into sullen silences and avoidance, all while he had thought everything was going to be okay.

Harry lifted his head and dropped his hands onto the table. He looked at you warily, sensing the silence had extended beyond what could be a good thing. His hair was disheveled. His eyes were wet and the golden flecks were magnified.

“Oh.” It was all you could think to say.

Harry sniffled, his eyes batting away briefly as he raised a hand to wipe under them. A curl of hair shifted around the edge of his sunglasses as he moved, falling against his cheek. He brushed it behind his ear.

You were sitting as more an observer than an active member of the moment. It still felt surreal, amplified by the sensation of being drunk and feeling like nothing had a consequence, yet understanding at the core of yourself that this very much had a consequence.

“I’m gonna pick the next one,” Harry whispered, as if the microphone wouldn’t pick it up. You felt a flash of anger at how this moment would be exploited, because you knew it would, and his tears would become a part of the Internet. Floating between particles would be his confession, his vulnerability you hadn’t seen before.

He picked up the last card. You held your breath.

“Do you still love me?”

Despite the studio not having made any noise, a deadly quiet resettled itself into the air like a thick dust, gripping away the oxygen from your lungs. It seemed to affect Harry too, for when he was reading, his voice broke at the end. As if cut off by something other than his choice. His eyes went up to the ceiling, praying for you to not answer.

Your hands were in your lap, your fingers curling around the other nervously as you continued to sit through the worst drinking game of your life. Nothing could’ve saved that moment and it seemed the crew knew that as well. Many of them looked away, others couldn’t tear their eyes off of your quivering lip and wide eyes.

Any response seemed it had the potential to break him, but you couldn’t have him not know. He must’ve known anyway. People can’t wash away their first love like a stain, those kinds of relationships were never meant to fully end.

“Don’t think I’d ever stop. Just who we are.”

Harry’s eyes moved from the ceiling to meet yours. Underneath his eyes was a fine shade of pink, as he was trying to hold back the onslaught of hot tears, and after a moment you realized your eyes must have been the same.

The edges of your vision were clouded, the bottles on the side of the table had been washed out with a visible slur.

He looked at you silently, his lips moving without making a noise. It was clear he was trying to ask you again for confirmation with his own words and not the ones written on a card.

But he was still Harry and the words didn’t come out.

Do you love me?

“We grew up together, y’know? In all the adult ways,” your voice wobbled and a few tears slipped out, painting a fine line down your cheeks. “Can’t not love that. You’re a part of those moments, cherish them and I’m cherishing you.”

Harry made an odd light noise, somewhere between a whine and a noise of agreement. He was clearly caught between lines of emotion, unable to lift his intoxicated head above the waves. The drowning had begun.

You had accepted your fate a while back in the game, but it seemed it was only now that Harry realized the long-term impacts these questions could have. His hands were still on the table, palms down, the card between his fingers. You gently reached forward and plucked the card, placing it on the stack. As if that would help ease his pain.

And it was painful, there was no way around it. The immense loss you two had suffered, alone and unable to grieve with the other, irreparable slashes down your hearts caused equally by yourselves as by the other. It had just been a fuckery. The endings always were.

“Do you love me still?” you whispered, the whole spectrum of concentration you had left in your veins solely resting on the slope of his brow, how his eyes gazed into yours, and settled somewhat. Like it was comforting for him to see you.

Your head tilted to the side as you waited, and in the fog of your mind, you realized you had started holding his hand at some moment. Your fingers were wrapped around his outer palm, but he slowly turned his hand over. Threaded your fingers together. Moved his thumb against the side of your hand in slow, small movements.

His heartbeat could be felt through his hand, a steady rhythm like a song you used to play on repeat for days. You had forgotten what it felt like to dance to it, but your heart remembered the tempo.

“I thought I didn’t, but now,” he paused, a sudden hilt in his throat stopping him from continuing momentarily, “Now I’m not sure.”

No one spoke.

No one moved.

His eyes scanned your face. His lips were slightly pursed, in thought, and his eyebrows were low. His thumb continued moving against your skin, as if it would be a comfort to you, but you knew it was mostly for him.

Chris cleared his throat softly, and whispered something to one of his assistants.

“Okay, you two,” he spoke louder to the two of you, but you were the only one to look over. Harry’s eyes stayed on your face, before dropping to the table. Harry’s thumb moved against your skin once more, slowly but with enough pressure that it was clear he had done it consciously.

“I think we’re good, that’s a wrap. Gonna run through some clips, check audio and lighting, but then you’re free to go.”

You nodded, swallowing against the sudden lump in your throat, trying to snap back into reality.

His thumb stopped moving.

You looked over at your hands clasped together, wondering what it would feel like to no longer be holding onto Harry, now that the video was over.

The camera turned its ugly head away, the red light on the edge powering off like a suction of tension being lifted from the room. Chris and a few other of the crew started talking at normal volume, perhaps writing over the moment the best they could by avoiding looking at you two.

Harry sat back and cleared his throat, reaching his free hand up to wipe away at the growing collection of tears within his eyes. His hand began to untangle from yours, as you readied yourself to move on, to get over him again, to feel the impending loss with each step towards lot where your friends would pick you up.

It almost hurt more, losing him a second time.

Perhaps that was why you did it. Maybe it was the instinctive reaction to not ache again, to protect yourself by removing the hurt.

His fingers were barely in your palm when you reacted, leaning forward again to lock your fingers around his. Firmly, with your eyes flashing up to him, a question in your eyes but not yet on your tongue. Harry looked at you, confused but more wary than anything else, before his gaze settled back on your joined hands.

“I would like it if we could go somewhere and talk.”

You hadn’t been able to ask him to settle down to have a serious talk for the past three and a half years, but the words slipped out as naturally as if you were asking him for the time of day. Harry’s confusion deepened before he realized that yes, you had spoken and yes, you had asked for him. Asked for him, after being so vulnerable and stripping away your false sense of brutal independence in order to get together with him for a half hour.

His soft smile indicated his answer was yes, but he accompanied it with a verbal confirmation, a nudge that he was headed in the right direction. Harry was hardly ever shy, but the rosy flush on his cheeks was only partially from the drink, and mostly because of your smile back at him.

Maybe you two wouldn’t talk things out and find that elusive ‘resolution’ nestled between the vast gap where closure was supposed to take root. Maybe you two would flare up in old arguments again and end up storming out, thunder and lighting booming again in your hearts and bitter resentment welling up in your throats.

But at that moment, Harry squeezed his hand around yours, and you felt your chest slowly rise up, the butterflies, forgotten but not gone, stretching out their wings.

Maybe you two could not let go, this time.

A/N: I hope you enjoyed! This has definitely been a dear piece to me. Let me know your thoughts here, and check out the rest of my works if you’d like!

#harry styles fanfic #harry styles fanfiction #archive of our own #mine #one direction fanfic #one direction fanfiction #one direction fic #harry styles fluff #harry styles drabble #harry styles blurb #harry styles fic #truth or drink #tod #truth or drink harry #tod harry

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milstrim · 3 years

Text

A Fun Friday

Day 3: Manhandled | Held at Gunpoint

This was embarrassing. Plain and simple.

First of all, it was hot, unbearably hot in the empty warehouse room where he was tied to a chair, and he'd been there for hours. He was sweating a lot as a result, and it especially didn't help that he was still wearing his suit, and he hadn't even been allowed to take off his jacket! He had some pretty rude kidnappers, but they weren't the worst part. No, the worst part was that he hadn't been kidnapped alone, but that he'd been kidnapped with Steve Fucking Rogers.

He hadn't seen the man in more than eight months, their last point of contact being the letter that had come in the mail so long ago, bearing the phone that had been in his pocket, but which had been taken upon being kidnapped. So, he was having a great time sitting in an uncomfortable metal chair, with cheap rope wrapped around his hands and legs, and sweating his mind off in a stuffy warehouse in July.

It was an amazing Friday. He briefly wondered what the kid was doing, since she was supposed to come over to the tower today. Maybe Happy hadn't picked her up, instead telling her to buzz off and hopefully not telling Penny why she couldn't come. Because if that kid knew, he knew that nothing would stop her from trying to find him, and this wasn't exactly the situation he wanted her in.

But luck had never really been on his side, had it?

Tony barely ever spared a glance to the man to his right, chained to the wall instead of tied to chair, though he could tell the Captain was trying very hard to get his attention, probably for some kind of escape plan. But Tony was already working on one, he didn't need Rogers's help, and he certainly didn't want it.

"So, Stark, quite confused to see Rogers here, huh?" one of his kidnappers asked haughtily, jauntering up to the two as the other men set up something in the background. Tony glanced at his old friend, and Rogers stared back for a second, though he ignored the rather sad and closed expression on his face. The man in front of him was clearly young, judging by his stature and lanky skinniness, though the mask on his face covered his features other than his thin lips and green eyes.

"Not really. He always pops up where I don't want him to be. I'm more curious about why we're here," Tony responded effortlessly, much to the chagrin of the young man.

"Duh, money and immunity."

"...That doesn't make much sense. The money, that I get, but immunity?"

"Rogers is a criminal, we turn him in, we get a few favors from the government, we send a video of you to your fiancee, we get some money, easy peasy. Well, a lot of money, I'm sure you have plenty to spare."

"Yeah, on protecting the world, but we generally agree that ransoms aren't more than two mil."

"That's barely a base for us," the man responded, but Tony just shrugged. So, money and favors. Wasn't too bad, they weren't complex or revenge seeking, and chances were nobody was going to die. He'd still like to keep money out of their hands, and Steve out of the government's, but it could be way worse.

"That's it, really?" Steve asked, clearly annoyed. Tony understood the inconvenience, this had been planned to be a fun Friday, but still, he didn't really want to hear his voice at this moment. It felt like cheese graters against his ears, "Just money and a bit of leeway?"

"Nah, Johnny forgot about the last part," a different man said, clearly older and coming up from behind him, placing a hand on the younger man's shoulder, "It's whatever, he's knew."

"Oh, yeah!" Johnny exclaimed, excitement clear on his face, "We need Spider-Woman too!"

Tony's blood ran cold, and for the first time since he'd woken up in this stupid place, he was threatening, and he was mean, "What the hell do you need her for?"

"She's getting in the way of business," the older man responded easily, "But that's all you're getting out of me. You're going back, and we don't need you sniffing around."

"Tough luck, you already told me you're looking for, and you're not getting her."

"Well, we're getting her before we send you back, so I don't know how much say you have in this."

"Yeah, how are you doing that? She's at Avengers Tower right now, you won't be able to get her," he replied, lying through his teeth. Technically Penny was supposed to be at the tower, but it was more likely she was patrolling, even possibly looking for him.

"Oh, we'll call her, then," the older man said, turning back to the other goons, "Has anyone got his watch? Or phone?"

"We dropped the phone," replied one, fishing something out of his pocket as he walked over and then handing it to the head goon, "But here's the watch. Do you reckon' the machine is done?"

The man gave it a once over, "It looks like the diagram said it would be, though he did say it would be easier to put together. Into your positions then."

Tony jerked in his chair as he watched them, a deep cold running through his body. If they called Penny, and told her they had him, she would come and check it out, no questions asked, even without proof just to make sure she was safe. She was stupidly loyal like that, and he came to resent her for it a little more each day.

The men moved to another room to make their call, clearly not wanting any interruptions from him, and he took the time to try and work at his ropes. Steve, it seemed, was more incline to start a heart to heart.

"Tony--"

"Not now, Rogers."

"Look--"

"Not. now. Rogers," he enunciated steelily. Steve didn't look hurt at his harsh words however, just disappointed, which really didn't help anything, "Shut up."

"I didn't say anything."

"You were thinking something stupid, don't deny it," Tony quipped, continuing to try and tear at the rope, trying to get it to snap from friction, but it wouldn't be fast enough. He couldn't even hear what they were saying a room over, but if Penny came, he knew how little she cared for her own health, how willing she would be to save him, "Can you break your cuffs?"

"No, I've been trying, but I need more time than we'll have."

Tony swore, "This is bad. She'll be here soon and--"

"Let her," Steve interrupted, and Tony turned on him, fury in his eyes.

"Excuse me?"

"What? Have you or have you not been mentoring that kid for since Germany? You don't think she can save us from an amateur kidnapping?"

"It's not that," Tony muttered.

"What then?"

"Look, I don't know if you know this, but I am not required to share my personal life with you, especially not anymore. I don't care what you say, that kid is brash and stupid and good, and would give her life for mine in an instant. I don't need her down here getting herself hurt when we could very well get out of this ourselves. So, if you've got a plan that doesn't involve Spidey, I would love to hear it."

Steve was silent for a moment, his eyes glancing between the complicated looking contraption sitting in the middle of the room and the billionaire beside him, "Do you know what that thing is?"

"Sure, it's Matter State Stabilizer, a pretty crude one, but it should hold up to about...three thousand pounds, if my math is right, which it always is," Tony answered, glancing up and down at the machine, unimpressed, before turning back to Steve, "What? You gotta plan?"

"You're not gonna like it."

Tony sighed, "I never did like any of your plans."

----

Penny wasn't exactly sure what was going on. She was supposed to be at the tower right about now, but instead she was patrolling, which wasn't bad, but she didn't understand why Mr. Stark had cancelled. She hadn't even gotten a text from him, just a quick 'You can't come today, Tony will reschedule.' from Happy. She was a bit confused, since Mr. Stark usually had an explanation for her that he gave himself, but she assumed he must have a good reason.

She assumed right.

She'd been patrolling for barely two hours when Karen's screen had lit up with an icon of Mr. Stark, and she'd been so surprised she'd nearly let go of her web an fallen.

"Incoming call from Mr. Stark," Karen said, and she told her AI to answer it.

"Hey, Mr. Stark!" she greeted without missing a beat, "What's up? Happy said that you were--"

"A little preoccupied?" cut across a voice that was definitely not Mr. Stark. Her heart skipped a beat, making her flounder in midair, and she barely managed to cling onto the corner of a nearby building. Only Mr. Stark could call her through the suit, or Ms. Potts or Colonel Rhodes or Happy, not whoever the hell this person was.

"Who the hell are you?" she demanded, "Where's Mr. Stark?"

"Like I said, preoccupied," the man replied coolly, "Now, here's the deal, we have him, do you want him back?"

"What? Yeah. I'd like for my mentor to not be kidnapped. It's a little hard for him to teach me anything like that."

The man laughed dryly, "Well, you want him back you're going to have to work for it?"

"...What do you want?" she asked hesitantly, quietly indicating for Karen to start tracking the call.

"We just want you to stop by, alone of course. You bring any friends and a bullet will go in 'Mr. Stark's' head. Got it?"

"Yep. Bullet in the head. Real original. Where am I stopping by?"

He rattled off in address in...New Jersey. Why? Why so far away. And why New Jersey? Ew. They couldn't just stay in Queens for her? It'd make things so much easier.

The man hung up before she could say anything else quippy, so she was left to make her way all the way over to Ew Jersey, which take much longer than she would've liked. As she swung, eventually managing to get herself onto a ferry that moved much too slowly for her taste, she thought about calling Vision or Colonel Rhodes. Surely they were looking for Mr. Stark too, surely they could handle the situation better than her. But they'd told her to come alone, or else Mr. Stark would die. Though going alone was exactly what Mr. Stark had told her not to do... Whatever, he could yell at her after she'd saved his life. If she was lucky, maybe she'd get shot and Mr. Stark wouldn't say anything.

It took her too long to get to New Jersey, her muscles stiff yet trembling with anticipation and fear, and as soon as she could be, she was moving, leaping off of the ferry and scrambling across building after building, webs shooting from her wrist as she made her way to the warehouse. Because of course it was a warehouse. It was always a fucking warehouse.

Penny landed on the side of it, trying to peer through the mostly boarded up window, the lenses of her mask widening in surprise. Mr. Stark was in there, but not only Mr. Stark. She was like, 80% sure that the super buff guy with a beard next to him was Captain America. How--why did they not mention this to her?? Did they not think it was important? Sure, she didn't really know the guy, but it seemed like important information to her.

The teen debated with herself for a minute if she should sneak in or announce herself, but the guard with a gun standing erect beside Mr. Stark, who was gagged with a string and a gross, old looking sock, reminded her of their threat. She couldn't risk anything happening to him. She couldn't lose him. So, taking a deep breath, she squeezed through the window and then dropped on the floor in the center of the room.

All eyes turned to her, and she dutifully ignored Mr. Stark's glare that was burning a hole right through her, annoyance clear in his gaze, which irked her a little. He would do the same for her, why should she have to leave him hanging?

Focus, Penny. She had to keep this under control. She cleared her throat and gave the men with masks in the room a little wave, "Hey, guys. You called?"

"Hands in the air, you freak," the one by Captain Rogers said, raising his gun and pointing it at her. She lazily complied, her lenses narrowing at the man.

"Nice mask, but I like mine a little better. The black's a little boring," she quipped, and she could practically feel the eyerolls in the room.

"Shut up," ordered a voice, one she recognized. She turned to stare at him, realizing it must be the man she had talked to over the phone, and he, too, was pointing a gun at her, one she recognized and brought back a familiar sick feeling in her stomach, "You've caused enough problems around here. Now, I've heard there's a bounty on your head along with the human embodiment of an eagle over there, so you're going to sit like a good girl and no one gets hurt."

"Um, so if you're just trading us for bounties, what's Mr. Stark for? And how'd you even kidnap him? Or Captain America? Actually--"

"Nope, I don't need a yapper. And the bounties aren't that nice, especially to what a billionaire could offer."

"Fair enough, I guess," she shrugged. She glanced back over at Mr. Stark, not quite sure what to do, especially with the gun that was pressed closer to his head as she looked over. His eyes bored into her, desperate and sad and angry. But then they glanced over to the Captain. She glanced over at him as well, not very surprised to see him watching her closely.

So, they clearly had a plan, so how did she not ruin it? She guessed she'd just have to listen to the men with the guns until they were no longer pointed at her mentor.

"Great," the man said, and then he flicked the switch on his weapon. She flinched at the blue beam that shot out of it, encasing and trapping her. The man laughed ecstatically as he flung her around in the air, clearly trying to make her dizzy, but she honestly just hated the vibrations in the air around her.

"Oh. My. God. Can. You. Fucking. Stop!" she yelled, her voice warped through the stupid gun as the men jeered as she was flung around the warehouse, which was pretty annoying. After a few last laughs, she was dumped from being held in the gun to being held in the machine, though the vibrations and the blue hue didn't change. Huh, it was actually pretty cool. How did these guys even get something this big that could produce this kind of energy it was insane--

"Great, who do we call first?" a man asked as he looked over their haul of three superheroes. Penny flipped over inside her really cool scientific chamber lazily. Now that she was in the bigger thing, it honestly just felt like a massage.

"FBI. The Avengers will haul ass down here the moment we say we have Stark."

"Okay, let me just--"

A tremor ran up Penny's spine, and in a moment that felt like it was forever--a cracking sound from Mr. Rogers's direction, a slight nod from Mr. Stark, and her flipping back over--she flicked out her wrist and clicked.

Immediately a web shot out, grabbing the gun from near Mr. Stark just as Cap broke out of his cuffs, knocking the man next him unconscious. Badass.

There were shouts and cries of confusion at the movement, and she took that as her cue to web the nearest man and launch him towards her, his body hitting the release button, allowing her to fall onto the ground, free of her really nice massage. She wondered if she could convince Mr. Stark to let her keep this thing.

Probably not, but it was worth a shot.

Like a flash, she leaped off of the machine, leaving Captain America to fight while she grabbed Mr. Stark. The bullets raining we enough for her to not bother untying him just yet, instead grabbing him in the whole chair and leaping into the rafter, where they were relatively free of the flying metal pieces of death.

"Hey, Mr. Stark," she greeted, setting him down and quickly snapping the ropes around him, "We're always in the weirdest situations, so I was thinking we get some ice cream later. Less weird, right?"

Mr. Stark tore his gag off, gagging at it before throwing it underneath him in disgust, "Don't think you're not in trouble when we get out of this."

"Am I still in trouble if I get shot?"

"Don't you dare."

"I can leave you up here."

"Put me down and then go help Cap," he ordered, and she rolled her eyes, sighing as she picked him back up and jumped down with him in his arms, which must look pretty funny what with their height difference and all.

The fight honestly didn't last long. It was hilariously short, over in less than five minutes as she dodged and hit and webbed with absolutely no problem. One she'd webbed the last person to the ground, she bounced back over to Mr. Stark, who was looking at her a little disdainfully.

"Oh, pity. I didn't get shot," she greeted, and he just closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"A heart attack. That is what will be the death of me. You giving me a heart attack, I want you to know what when you lay down flowers at my funeral."

"I was thinking about leaving, like, a bagel on your coffin."

"You're the worst, the most awful, snot-nosed kid I have ever met," Mr. Stark accused all while wrapping her in a half hug. Captain Rogers watched them with a politely confused expression, and Mr. Stark tensed.

"Um, nice to see you again, Mr. Rogers. But like, why are you in Jersey? It's gross."

He huffed a laugh, "I didn't really plan to be here. I was actually in Vermont, so."

"Cool, uhhh--"

"You don't have to try and make conversation with the grandpa, kid," Mr. Stark joked, "We'll give his team a call and then I was thinking Thai."

"I think Ms. Potts is going to yell at you tonight, not let you eat takeout with me."

"...We'll eat at your place."

"May will yell at us."

"What's your friend's name? Ted? Ed?"

"Ned," she corrected, smiling so widely her cheeks hurt. She opened her mouth to say something else when suddenly there was a loud crash! and they all turned, standing defensively, to see the Falcon, Black Widow, and Scarlet Witch standing in the doorway, looking over the three of them with confused expressions.

They all stared at each other for a solid twenty seconds before she called, "You're late!"

Honestly, this had been a fun Friday.

#spiderman #iron man #peter parker #tony stark #female peter parker #whumptober #irondad #spiderson #yes i know this was a while ago #leave me alone im uploading all my shit cuz i have some free time

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