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1dfangirls35 · 3 years

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The Language of Your Soul

An enemies to lovers Ballet AU in 5 Acts

Masterlist

Act I

A/N:

First of all, thank you so much to @booksncoffee for the absolutely gorgeous banner!

I am so excited to share this story with you all! Inspired in part by a night rewatching Center Stage on Netflix and from years of ballet classes, I hope this AU brings a new twist on Harry fics (and maybe even helps you gain a new appreciation for the world of ballet). Please note, while I have used my own 10+ years of classical ballet training in addition to research on this topic to hopefully make this as realistic as possible, this is still a work of fiction- and some details may have been changed to better fit the constraints of the story. The companies mentioned in this fic are real, however this story and its characters are entirely works of fiction. On a more personal note, while I have chosen to publish this story now and believe I will be able to maintain weekly updates to its entirety, I am preparing to take my boards in less than four weeks. Should I not update as scheduled- please be patient and know that an update is only a few weeks away! :) Thank you so much for reading!

Warnings: This story will contain language, mentions of emotional abuse from a parent and eating disorders. Please read at your own discretion.

Ten Weeks to Opening Night

Albert Einstein once said, "dancers are the athletes of God." Giselle Mason certainly doesn't feel like pne of God's athletes at the moment. Not with the way her muscles are screaming with every movement that she makes as she stretches before class, not with the way her right hip cracks as she lifts her leg onto the bar, and certainly not with the way her feet sting as she tapes up yet another blister on her toe before shoving her foot into her pointe shoes for another day full of torture.

Giselle stands, sticking one last bobby pin into the bun of her nearly ebony hair and finding her spot at the front of the barre in the center of the studio. She grasps the wooden cylinder with her left hand before releasing her body in a forward bend, taking a deep breath in and then a deep breath out. There is a familiar ache in her hamstrings as she begins to stretch, which loosens ever so slightly with every breath.

And so begins her daily morning routine in the studio. Fifteen minutes of stretching before company class begins. Relaxing each hamstring, hip flexor and spinal muscle until a sense of calm washes over her body. Letting her mind drift into a thoughtless focus, preparing itself for the waves of choreography that would be coming in minutes. Typically, this time is quiet; the only melody present the rhythmic breathing of company members preparing for class. But today, the studio seems to be filled with an underlying buzz. And Giselle doesn't have the slightest idea why.

"I heard he slept with the artistic director's wife, so they kicked him out of the Royal," she hears one of the new corps de ballet members murmur.

"I mean have you seen him, I don't blame her for getting her hands on a piece of him," another girl giggles.

"Did you hear, G?" Caleb, Giselle's friend, whispers as he slides into a spot on the barre behind her, adjusting the black bandana keeping his signature black curls in place across his forehead.

"Hear what?" Giselle asks, removing her leg from the bar before reaching down to adjust the black leg warmer that had fallen down her calf.

"They've hired Harry Styles- you know from the Royal," Caleb adds as if Giselle hasn't heard of Harry Styles. Everyone who was anyone in the ballet world had heard of Harry Styles. A good chunk of the non-ballet world might even be able to point him out as that 'sexy male ballet dancer' from the Sports Illustrated nude edition.

Harry Styles was a rare kind of natural talent. The type of person that was put on this earth to dance ballet. His talent had landed him the honor of being the youngest person to be named a principal in the history of the Royal Ballet. And if the rumors were true, that talent had also landed him the reputation of one of the ballet world's most arrogant. Giselle had heard several stories about how the male dancer had been a terror to work with- demanding, rude, uncooperative. Giselle didn't doubt it- people of that skill and fame rarely developed without some sense of entitlement.

"Why would we hire Harry Styles, we've already got Viktor?" Giselle questions. This isn't the first time a rumor has circulated through the American Ballet Theatre company, and it certainly won't be the last time.

"Rumor is they want Viktor to retire," Caleb shrugged before stepping back to his place behind Giselle as Mistress Ivanova claps to gain the class's attention.

Giselle couldn't believe the rumors. Viktor Dmitri retiring from ABT? He was practically the face of the company. The man had been dancing for the American Ballet Theatre for over a decade. He'd been the principal ever since Giselle had joined the company as a corps de ballet member five years ago.

Giselle knew that retirement came early for a ballet dancer. Her own mother, the famous Natalia Korsakova, had retired at the age of 33 after a knee injury. Viktor had just turned 35, but he'd shown no signs of slowing down. She refused to believe that he was calling it quits. Or to believe that the board would be stupid enough to bring in someone with Harry Styles's toxic reputation into the company.

She shoves the thought aside. Viktor is in his usual place at the back of the studio and Harry Styles is nowhere to be seen. This was simply another piece of gossip threatening to distract everyone from the Swan Lake auditions tomorrow afternoon, and Giselle won't lose her focus. The auditions are too important.

Giselle Mason has dreamed of playing the role of Odette/Odile ever since she first watched her mother on stage at the age of four. It was one of her earliest memories of the theater- her mother twirling about in a bright white tutu that at that time Giselle could only dream of wearing. In fact, Giselle wasn't sure there had ever been a moment where her dream hadn't been to be a principal dancer at ABT, like her mother. She'd been in ballet shoes from the second she could walk, wore a leotard and tights more often than she'd worn pajamas, and didn't recognize herself in the mirror if her hair wasn't pulled back into a bun. She'd ate, slept and breathed the art form. But she supposed that all came with having a prima ballerina as a mother.

Natalia Korsakova was a ballet sensation. "One of the greatest to have ever danced," according to the New York Times at the time of her retirement. The world had come to watch her dance and she'd traveled it performing: Russia, Australia, London, Paris. You name the location and Natalia Korsakova had danced there.

When Giselle was growing up, she was constantly told how lucky she was to have Natalia as a mother. To have seen the shows she's seen, to have met ballet royalty, to have traveled the world. But Giselle never felt lucky. Not when she was the accident that put her mother's career on hold for almost a year. Not when her mother was gone for months at a time performing, missing recitals, parent days and school concerts. And certainly not when an injury forced her mother into retirement, shifting her focus from her own artistic talents to turning her daughter into her next protegee.

Much to her mother's dismay, Giselle was not the younger version of her mother. She was good, great even, but she was no sensation. Giselle made soloist in her fourth year at ABT, which was a feat all on its own, unless you compared it to her mother's two. Giselle lacked the raw, natural talent that her mother possessed. Instead of her mother's high arches, she had her father's averagely flat feet. Instead of her mother's uncanny ability to match the music, Giselle had spent hours counting eights in her head to get down a rhythm. Instead of looking effortless the first time she ran through a routine, Giselle spent hours in the studio after rehearsal, running through the choreography until it wasn't possible for her to get it wrong. Giselle had gotten to where she was because of her hard work, not her natural talent- something her mother would never let her forget. To Natalia Korsakova, Giselle would never measure up.

The Swan Lake auditions are Giselle's first real shot at landing a lead, especially with principal dancer Anna Elliot out with a back injury for the foreseeable future. Giselle wants this role more than anything. To prove to herself that she is capable of following in her mother's footsteps. And to prove to her mother that she is just as capable a dancer as she. For once in her life, she wants to hear her mother say not that she'd lost her spot or forgot to point her toes, but that she was proud of Giselle. Four words- that's all Giselle really wants.

"And will start first position, demi, demi, grand, demi and port de bra. Repeat in 2nd, 4th and 5th and then balance in fifth position arms in fifth," Mistress Ivanova barks, before gesturing to the pianist to begin.

Giselle focuses on her movements as the music begins. She tightens her core, elongates her neck and reaches her fingertips to the edges of her silhouette. Her legs quiver slightly as she bends her knees into the first grand plié, her mind focusing on maintaining her turnout.

"Relax that face Giselle," Mistress Ivanova corrects, as she makes her way around the room. "I don't want to see that this is work."

Giselle takes another deep breath, this time releasing her lips from their concentrated place and focusing on her breath. She lets the downtown Manhattan studio disappear from the background. Gone is the distant honking of impatient taxi drivers maneuvering their way through the New York City traffic. Gone is the light shining in from the full-length windows looking out at the city skyline- well what you could see of the skyline behind the crumbly brick building neighboring the school. There was nothing but the dancer, the barre and the music flowing gently through her veins.

"Beautiful lines Teagan, thank you," Giselle hears Mistress Ivanova say from across the room and she fights the urge to roll her eyes. Giselle has known Teagan Davidson since she was fourteen years old, when Teagan had moved from California to New York to join the ABT school. Over the course of a decade of competing for roles, partners and teacher's praises, the two had developed quite a rivalry. To Giselle, there was almost no better feeling than snagging a role that she knew Teagan also had her eyes on.

Giselle uses Teagan's praise as motivation to work harder, feeling the burn in her inner thighs as she pushes further into her grand plié in second. The role of Odette/Odile was hers, Teagan would have to settle for understudy.

The class is in the middle of their balance, Giselle's focus locked in on a spot just at the edge of the window at the rear of the studio when a loud bang reverberates through the room. Dancers drop their balance and turn their heads, looking to see who has caused such a commotion with their entrance.

"Mr. Styles, you're late," Mistress Ivanova snaps.

He is taller than Giselle imagined, and even from this distance she can see the definition in his arms through the black tank top that clings to his body. His hair is slightly disheveled, curling at the top. His face plastered into some cheeky grin, dimples present on both cheeks, like he knows exactly what he's doing, interrupting class like this. Almost like he's enjoying the attention. He throws his black messenger bag to the side before grabbing his ballet shoes and scurrying over to an open spot at the barre near the front of the studio.

"My apologies," he replies in a thick British accent. His tone sounds anything but apologetic.

"Damn, he's even better-looking in person than he is in magazines," Caleb mutters under his breath, eliciting an eye roll from Giselle.

"Well, I suppose after that entrance," Mistress Ivanova sighs, stepping to the front of the class. "Now is as good of time as any to announce that Mr. Styles will be joining our company as a principal dancer."

Gasps fill the room, and Giselle turns her head to look at Viktor, whose face is stoic after Harry's entrance. A low chatter fills the studio, everyone trying to figure out exactly what is going on. Would he get the lead in Swan Lake? Would he be understudying Viktor?

"Silence!" Mistress Ivanova shouts. "This chatter can wait until after class is over!" She turns to face Harry, her lips turned into a stern frown. "If you'll find a place at the barre Mr. Styles, we will continue our class."

Giselle watches as he slides into a spot at the front of the room, shooting a grin at the young company member behind him. Giselle rolls her eyes, returning her focus to the mirror in front of her. Two minutes with the company and she was sure Harry Styles was exactly who she thought he would be.

Giselle tries to forget Harry Styles is in class with them. Instead she focuses on her breathing, her turnout, the rhythm that comes from the pianist in the corner of the room. She watches the early morning New York City sunrise reflect off of the mirrors, leaving little spots of sunlight over the gray Marley floor. Everyone else in the company could focus on Harry Styles all they want, but she is only focusing on one thing- and that is landing the role of her dreams tomorrow.

But Harry Styles wasn't the type of person whose presence could be forgotten so easily.

********

Harry Styles isn't scared of a little attention. In fact, he typically thrives on it. That's why he is a performer after all. To Harry, there is no better feeling than knowing all eyes are upon you, that you are the center of attention, the focus of the room. Maybe that is a prideful and egotistical thing to say, but it is true. Everyone wants to feel important, valued, admired- and anyone who says otherwise is a liar.

But the attention Harry has been getting since he walked into the American Ballet Theatre studio a little over twelve hours ago has not been the type of attention he necessarily sought out. He knew there would be rumors, leaving the only company he had ever been a part of during his dance career was sure to draw up the best of them, but something about this felt different. It was the whispers. The stares. The way some members of the room were staring at Harry as if he was a god and a few wouldn't dare look in his direction.

Harry doesn't know what's come over him- this wavering self-confidence. Maybe it's this new place. This new country. Or maybe it's the fact that in the words of his agent, if he "doesn't get his act together" he will never dance at this level again. And if he's not dancing on the world's biggest stages, well, Harry might as well not be dancing at all.

Harry grabs his phone from the side pocket of his black messenger bag, connecting it to the Bluetooth speaker he found in the corner of the studio and presses play on his hip hop playlist. He needs something to drown out his thoughts, and classical music just doesn't cut it. As the beat begins to fill the studio, Harry lets the music take over his body and begins to dance.

Giselle tries to focus on her music, but there's the noise of a pounding bass in the background interfering with concentration. She's always the only one at the studio this late at night- that's why she comes- to be alone and without distractions.

She tries to ignore it, focusing on the one and two of the music as she fouettés. One and two, three and four, five and... a boom from somewhere in the building breaks her concentration and she falls out of her turn, letting out a groan. This could not be happening to her the night before auditions, and if she found out that Teagan was here trying to interfere with her practice...

Giselle makes her way down the hall, guided by the incessant bass that sounds like it belongs in the backseat of a teenager's car and not one of the most prestigious ballet studios in the world. When she turns the corner to enter the studio, it's not Teagan she sees but Harry Styles.

But he's not dancing. He's laying on the floor, wearing nothing but a pair of black athletic shorts that show off the god-like definition of his thighs. His signature butterfly tattoo stands out on the middle of his chest, beads of sweat dripping towards the center of his stomach, the bass vibrating the mirrors around him. He doesn't notice her at first. How could he with the music so loud?

"Excuse me," Giselle says loudly in an effort to get his attention. His body doesn't even flinch.

"Excuse me!" she yells this time.

Harry looks up. In the corner of the studio, towards the door stands a girl. Her almost black hair is pulled tightly back into a bun. Her thin arms are crossed like she's about to lecture him, and her lips are held in a tight line that looks anything but happy. The corners of Harry's mouth curve upwards in a grin, entertained by the fury that was seeming to come from her tiny body.

She taps her foot impatiently, like she's waiting for something. Harry realizes that she is- she's waiting for him to turn off his music.

He sighs, reaching over to his phone beside him and sliding one sweaty finger across the screen to bring the rhythm to a halt.

"Yes?" he asks expectantly, not bothering to move his body from his reclining position.

"Other people in this studio are trying to practice, you know. It's kinda hard to do that with this," she gestures into the air, as if trying to find an appropriate adjective to describe the torture that had been gracing her ears over the past half hour.

"Not a fan of my music?" Harry smirked.

"I'm not a fan of someone disrupting my rehearsal." Giselle spit back.

"Rehearsal? It's bloody 11pm."

"I know what time it is, and like I said, your music is interfering with my ability to practice." Giselle stares Harry right in the eyes. He doesn't intimidate her, and she's not going to back down until he agrees to turn down his music.

"Wasn't aware you were the owner of this studio," Harry taunts.

"I could say the same about you." Giselle moves her hands to her hips. Just agree to turn off the damn music, she thinks to herself, even though she knows at this point, it's not worth the time it will take to warm back up to continue practicing.

Harry sits up, grabbing a blue towel from inside his bag and wiping the sweat that remains off his forehead. "Fine, music's off. Continue your rehearsal. I'm too jet lagged for this shit," he stands, wrapping the towel around his neck.

"Thanks," Giselle says under her breath, before making her way back to her studio, where she knew she would be gathering her own belongings.

Harry groans, grabbing his bag from the floor and sliding it over his shoulder. You could travel halfway across the world and still run into the same entitled ballet brats who thought they ran the place. It's those type of people, company members and otherwise, that were precisely the reason he had left the Royal. Well, not that he had necessarily had a say in that scenario, but they had been the cause of all of his problems.

You just have to dance, Harry, he tries to tell himself. But Harry knows that as much as he tries, there's a lot more too it than that.

**********

“Gi!" Caleb exclaims, bounding down the hallway towards her without concern for anyone in his way. "Cast list is up."

Giselle gulps. She isn't sure that she is ready for this. The look of disappointment on her mother's face if she doesn't land the part. The list of corrections that her mother has come up with from watching Giselle's audition. "Now you see there, you've lost your center. You're never going to make that triple if you don't hold your center Giselle." The reminder that "you only have so many opportunities to prove your worth, before they move onto the younger, better version of you." It didn't matter to her mother if Giselle was the youngest soloist at ABT by five years. It didn't matter if nearly every other soloist had previously understudied for the role. Everything but a lead was a disappointment to Natalia Korsakova.

"C'mon," Caleb exclaims, and before Giselle has a moment to collect herself she's being pulled down the hallway by her arm.

And there it is. The thin, white piece of paper that holds the fate of her next ten weeks in its hands. When she looks at it at first, she thinks she must be dreaming. Because her name has never been on that spot on the list before. Not since she officially joined the company five years ago.

Odette/Odile- Giselle Mason

Sigfried - Harry Styles

She feels frozen. Like she's in a dream and she's paralyzed. It's what she's always wanted-this role and yet, suddenly it feels like a whole lot of pressure.

"You did it Gi," Caleb exclaims, lifting her up and spinning her around before Giselle even has a moment to look any further down the list. Giselle laughs, giddy with excitement. "New York will have never seen a more beautiful Odette."

Giselle rolls her eyes at his comment. Caleb, her friend since joining the American Ballet School at the age of six and partner for many years had always been her biggest cheerleader. In a way, he made up for what she didn't have in her mother.

"And you Caleb?" Giselle asks, realizing in her excitement that she had forgotten that her best friend also had a role in the this ballet.

"You're looking at the newest Benno," Caleb says with a grin. Giselle often wondered what it would be like to be like Caleb. To be happy with any role. To not care about his place in the company. To simply want to dance. Caleb had always been like that- relaxed, calm- the antithesis to Giselle who was always high strung and anxious. Perhaps that's why they'd always been such good friends, because they balanced each other perfectly. Giselle pushed Caleb when he needed some extra motivation and Caleb- albeit not always successful- tried his best to keep Giselle out of her own head.

Giselle watches as Teagan makes her way over to the board, her long black hair swinging from the ponytail at the crown of her head. She grins in slight satisfaction as she sees Teagan's face turn into a frown. Giselle turns and gives Caleb her best, "what did she get?" eyes. He exaggeratedly mouths, "UNDERSTUDY".

As if sensing that she is the topic of conversation, Teagan looks over at the two. "Congrats Giselle," she says, her face moving in a way that makes it seem like the words taste disgusting leaving her mouth.

"You as well," Giselle responds, to which Teagan only scoffs and storms off.

"You know she's going to make your life living hell as your understudy don't you?" Caleb said with a laugh.

"Ugh, I know," Giselle groaned.

"It will be worth it though. You are going to be dancing the role you've always dreamed of." Giselle smiled. "Plus," Caleb begins, leaning down so his mouth is next to Giselle's ear. "You get to dance with the greatest male dancer of our generation. Think of all the hours you're gonna get to spend looking at that GORGEOUS body."

Giselle groans. Her perfect moment temporarily ruined by the realization that she would have to dance with Harry Styles. Sure, he may be talented, a great dancer, and likely a great partner. But his entrance yesterday and their encounter last night told her everything she needed to know about Harry Styles. And she was sure that working with him would be anything but easy.

"That GORGEOUS body," Giselle imitates Caleb with an exaggeration of the word, "Doesn't make up for the fact that the guy's an asshole."

"Okay, okay, point taken. Now can we go get some lunch?"

Giselle nods, but she already knows she's not hungry. Instead, all she can think about is how she's going to get through the next ten weeks of rehearsals with a man she already loathes.

**********

Giselle slides into the rehearsal studio with extra joy in her step later that afternoon. She's so on Cloud 9 that she doesn't even realize Harry standing at the barre doing pliés as she hums the opening notes of Swan Lake aloud.

"Sorry didn't know anyone else was in here already," she apologizes quickly, standing and stretching out her feet.

Harry looks at her, his face hard and eyes sharp. If he recognized her as the girl who interrupted his jam session last night his face didn't show it. "And who are you?" Harry asks, his voice laced with condescendence.

"Odette," Giselle smiles, the words feeling foreign leaving her mouth.

"Obviously," Harry scoffs, and Giselle feels her confidence waver. "Who are you?"

"Giselle Mason, soloist."

"Doesn't ring a bell," the corners of Harry's mouth turn up at his comment, like he gets satisfaction out of reminding others that they aren't the household name that he is.

Giselle wants to say something back. Something sharp and witty to show him that just because he was one of the greatest dancers in the world and she was still trying to make her way into the spotlight didn't mean that he could treat her like a nobody. She was going to be his partner after all- whether he liked it or not. But then Gregory Alexander, ABT's Artistic Director, enters the room, clapping his hands and tells them they are about to begin on the Act II Pas de Deux and Giselle doesn't have a chance to say otherwise.

"As new partners you will need to put in the time to understand each other. Build trust. Anticipate the other's movement. Portray to the audience that you are a swan and a prince in love." Gregory moves his arms in the air theatrically, as if he isn't wearing a designer suit.

"Now I understand that the ten weeks we have to prepare before our season debut isn't an ideal amount of time to form a relationship with a new partner. But in this case, it simply must do." Gregory's face turned serious, the wrinkles on his forehead more defined as he furrows his eyebrows. "I expect that the two of you will put in the time outside of your scheduled rehearsals to work on this chemistry. Anna and Viktor will also be assisting with rehearsals and my hope is that they will also be able to assist the two of you with this transition."

"Gregory," Harry interrupts, then as if realizing he'd made a mistake, he corrects himself. "Sir."

Gregory nods.

"I'm not sure what the concern is. I've danced with hundreds of partners in my career, I'm not sure how the other principal's would have much more experience than me?" Giselle thinks Harry is meaning this as a question but it comes out more like a statement.

Giselle watches as Gregory's eyes narrow again. He looked irritated, and why wouldn't he be? Harry had been here all but forty-eight hours and was already questioning the artistic director's decisions.

"That may be the case, Mr. Styles," Gregory paused. "But when the two of you step onto Metropolitan Opera House stage in ten weeks, I expect the audience to believe that you two have been dancing together for years. Have I made myself clear?"

Harry nods, this time remaining quiet.

"Now then, I'd like us to start with the Act II Pas de Deux. The very beginning- with your entrance Harry."

It's an hour into rehearsals when Giselle hears the echo of heels clicking down the wooden hallways. She doesn't even have to look up when the steps stop as they reach the studio floor. She could recognize that walk anywhere.

"Aahh, Natalia!" Gregory exclaims. "So glad you could stop by," Gregory reaches over to embrace Giselle's mother, his grey hair brushing the sides of her face as he kisses each cheek.

"Mr. Styles, I'd like to introduce you to Natalia Korsakova, former ABT principal and member of our board."

Natalia Korsakova looks as put together as always. Her dark brown hair pulled tightly into a neat French twist. Her tight black dress and coordinating pumps show off every bit of the dancer's body that she still maintained. Giselle watches as her mother's mouth curves to form a polite smile.

"A ballet legend. It's an honor to meet you Madame," Harry says offering his hand.

"The pleasure is all mine. I'm so glad you are joining us here at ABT. And what a joy it will be to watch you next to my daughter," Natalia gestures towards Giselle, with a polite smile plastered on her face that was generally reserved for generous donors and patrons of the ballet. It is all a show. That's all Giselle's mother ever did was put on a production. She was a performer after all, how could anyone expect her life to be anything but a crowd-pleasing performance?

"Your daughter?" Harry turns to look at Giselle, raising an eyebrow. His eyes narrow, as if he's caught Giselle in a lie. As if she'd snuck her way into this position and was just hoping that someone wouldn't notice she wasn't the real deal. "Why that makes this even more special."

Giselle fights every urge to roll her eyes from across the room. It is clear that Harry Styles is every bit as much of a performer as her mother. Just minutes before he was looking at her as if he had been paired with an amateur and suddenly working with her is 'something special'?

"I'm going to watch rehearsal for a bit," Natalia announces, making her way over to a stool next to the pianist. "Carry on." The pit in the bottom of Giselle's stomach grows as her mother takes a seat next to Gregory in front of the mirror.

"Odette makes sense to me now," Harry whispers into Giselle's ear, as he slides behind her to resume practice. It takes everything in her to keep her face stoic as Harry's hands settle once again on her waist.

Rehearsal goes badly. Giselle can't seem to get her leg into the attitude position that Gregory wants, she losing her balance on her penchés, and Harry almost drops her on several promenades. Giselle says almost, because someone as experienced as Harry Styles would never let his partner hit the ground, but she should have, because she surely wasn't holding her weight quite right. And then there's the fact that Gregory pronounced that Giselle "looks at Harry as if he is the villain of the story instead of the prince she's fallen in love with".

Giselle wants to say that's because he is the villain. The villain of her story anyways, the person that is somehow going to turn her dream role into somewhat of a nightmare. Why couldn't she be dancing with Viktor? He was so patient and kind and he would never look at his partner as if she deserved to be in the audience instead of on stage with him.

After yet another failed run through of the first half of the pas de deux, Gregory announces that they are done for the day, but that he expects to see them in the studio bright and early tomorrow morning to work on their timing. Giselle's never been so thankful for a rehearsal to be over, and as she sits down to remove her pointe shoes, running her hands over her swollen feet, she watches Harry leave the studio without saying a word.

"I hope you realize how big of an opportunity this is Giselle. It's not one you should take lightly," her mother's voice startles her, as Giselle had almost forgotten she was there. Almost.

Natalia stands above Giselle, one hand on her hips and the other on her forehead, as if watching today's rehearsal had been exhausting for her. It probably was exhausting for her, keeping tally of all the things that Giselle had done wrong for the past two hours. Natalia's voice is shrill as she speaks again. "There are thousands of ballerinas around the world that could only dream of getting to dance with Harry Styles. And here you are dancing with him in his first show with ABT. That's an enormous responsibility, darling. This performance with him will set the stage for his entire career with our company. One that the board is hoping will last until his retirement."

Giselle nods. That's all she can do when her mother begins one of her lectures- nod. She thought maybe this would be the time that her mother told her congratulations. The time that her mother did what she'd watched countless other mother's do during her time as a dancer, wrap their arms around their daughter and express their pride to them. But instead, today is like any other day, and even with a lead role in an ABT production, Giselle still hasn't done enough to make her mother proud.

Giselle shoves her shoes into her bag, slinging it over her shoulder as she stands.

"And Giselle?" her mother adds, as she makes her way towards the door.

"Yes mom?"

"Might want to hit a few more cardio classes this week too, my dear. Got to make sure you are going to be an easy dancer to partner with."

And with that comment Natalia Korsakova clicks away, leaving Giselle standing in the middle of studio wondering if her biggest dream has suddenly become her biggest nightmare.

#it's here!#let me know your thoughts #writingby1dfangirls35 #harry styles #hs #harry au #ballet harry #harry styles fanfic #harry styles au #1dff #one direction fanfiction #harry fanfiction #enemies to lovers

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ikenbar · 3 years

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Ikamara One Shot: Soccer Practice

Hey there! To the new folks here, I have a fanfiction called Mr. love: Ike’s Choice featuring my OC as the main character instead of Youran! I write these one shots in between chapters to give a background to Ike and create a sense of tension as you wait of the next chapter!! If you are interested, you can find the link to my masterlist of the fanfiction here! Thank you for those who have read this far in Ikamara’s story. I hope you enjoy and clear up any questions you guys have for my OC! Thanks again!!

~ Ike ‘n Bar Productions Productions

Setting: Starts in the past when Ike had just begun talking to her family after her two years of being mute. After that, it begins before the epilogue of Chapter Three.

You don’t need to know Ike’s story to understand what is happening but it would make more sense if you did read it!!

Warnings: Stories of abuse, murder, and domestic violence. It doesn’t go too far into detail but if you are sensitive to those tones, I’d suggest not reading.

But! We also have foster family bonding!, Adri being a sassy freak!, dares that involve second hand embarrassment!, Ashton character development!, Sam being the best younger brother ever!!, and cute lil Lola! Not to mention a flirty surprise guest at the end ,’:)

One Shot: Soccer Practice

“Hey! How was practice?”

Ike could sense something was off with Sam the moment he got to the car. He didn’t jump into it with his usual enthusiasm and his smile seemed to be sapped of energy. Still, he smiled and answered Maria’s question as best he could. “Fine. We just practiced strategies for tomorrow’s game.” Ike kept her eyes on Sam, waiting for him to keep talking.

But he didn’t.

Maria, seemingly unaware of Sam’s bad mood, said, “That’s nice, sweetie!” and pulled the car out of park. Sam rested his head on the soccer ball that he had brought with him and stared adamantly out of the window. Ike sat impatiently next to the sorrowful kid, asty to ask what was wrong. She had just barely begun talking to people again. She didn’t want to cross any boundaries. She would have asked Ashton, her second foster brother, for advice, but his eyes were trained on his new phone and he had no intention on looking away.

Ike folded her arms impulsively. Noticing this, Sam finally looked over to her, catching her eyes before she could look away. “What’s wrong?” He asked, tilting his head slightly. Ike’s hands tightened on her sleeves.

“I... was hoping you would answer that.” She muttered, looking meaningfully at Sam.

Sam shook his hands in front of him, smiling emptily. “Nothing!” He said all too loudly, “I had a good day! I’m-” He paused, looking between Ike’s eyes. Finally, Sam sighed, dropping his smile into something that seemed more comfortable for him to wear. “...How did you know?” Sam whispered, diverting his eyes from Ike’s.

“We are... connected. R-right?” Ike asked meekly.

Sam smiled softly. “Right.” He nodded. Ike nodded as well , relaxing her grip on her shoulders slightly.

“So… What happened?”

Sam remained silent for a moment. Then he sighed and slouched in his seat. “I’m holding the team back.” He said, leaning his head on the palm of his hand as he looked back out the window, “Everyone is so fast and they have all the strategies down. Then there’s me. The guy who can’t even kick a goal without tripping up.” Sam’s voice trailed off slightly, making him harder and harder to hear, “It’s because everyone has someone they can practice with at home. But, I don’t! I have a twin brother who hates sports, an older brother who is always out with friends, and a dad who is always working late as a janitor of some big company. I’m never gonna be as good as my team.” Sam pouted as tears came to his eyes, “I’ll only drag them down.”

Ike shifted slightly in her seat. She didn’t know what to do. Her question she asked made her brother cry. She didn’t want him to cry. She wanted him to smile. What was she supposed to do?! Ike took a deep breath and put a hand on Sam’s shoulder. Sam looked up at her.

“I’m sorry you suck.” Ike’s voice cracked slightly as she spoke to him. Sam’s eyes went wide. He blinked at her for a moment, then he burst out laughing. Ike’s face flushed. That wasn’t the reaction she was going for but… she could work with it...

“Man, you’re bad at this.” Sam giggled, wiping away the tears that had fallen down his cheeks. Ike’s face fell slightly. “B-but!” Sam quickly said, waving his hands and bringing Ike’s attention back to him, “But I know you meant well!! So thank you!” Ike hesitated, then nodded. She took her hand off of Sam’s shoulder, folding them once more across her chest. Sam leaned his head onto her shoulder tenderly.

“If only you could help me with soccer.” he sighed, “Then I could be better and we could spend more time together.” Ike watched the boy at her side. She couldn’t do that. She promised herself she never would again. Not since… but Ike wanted nothing more than to see his normal smile again. And to do so would mean… it was time to swallow her pride and do the right thing.

Ike leaned forward and tapped Maria on the shoulder. “C-can me and Sam go to the... park?” Ike asked timidly. Maria’s eyes flashed with surprise as she looked at Ike through the rearview mirror.

“Right now?” Maria asked, tilting the mirror to see her clearer.

“You can drop Sam and me off and take Ashton to his club,” Ike’s voice tightened as she quickly made her case, “and you can come back to pick us up after it’s done. I just… want to help Sam... with his soccer… is that’s ok?.” Ike’s voice trailed off as she watched Maria in the mirror. Maria’s face turned from a face of curiosity to one of warmth and love as her foster daughter spoke.

“That’s very sweet of you, Evie.” She cooed, “I’m ok with it as long as you two stick together.” Ike sighed with relief and nodded. “We will. Thank you.” She leaned back in her seat, taking slow breaths to ease her panic ridden heart. Sam wrapped his arms around Ike’s arm, squeezing it tightly. Ike looked down at her brother. His eyes were stars as he looked back at her. His normal bright, missing toothed smile had returned. “Thank you, Ike.” He whispered sincerely. Ease settled into Ike’s shoulders.

Maria drove away after dropping Ike and Sam off. They walked together through the park until they came to a small soccer field. Sam ran up one of the benches, threw his back pack onto it, and kicked his soccer ball out to the field and started playing with it. Ike placed her school bag next to Sam’s and, after a moment of consideration, took off her jacket and placed it with the bags. Pulling her sleeves down and over the palms of her hand, she joined Sam on the field.

Sam stopped playing and watched Ike. She always seemed so closed off and she always hid her arms. He always wondered the answer but was too afraid to ask. Maria always told him that he was to be careful talking with her but… she was still a kid. Just like him. She just needed someone to love her like she was normal. Even if she wasn’t.

“Are you… ok?”

Sam blinked and focused his eyes on Ike. She leaned forward, trying to meet his eyes. Sam quickly smiled and nodded quickly. Before Ike could ask him anything more he kicked the ball to Ike, holding back slightly and letting it fall slightly short of her feet. She watched it for a moment. Then she tucked the ball over her foot and kicked the ball straight up in the air. She skillfully caught it on the side of her foot as it came back down and started toying with the ball, tossing it back and forth, getting used to the all too familiar weight. Sam watched her, mouth slacked and eyes bulging. Never had she ever looked so cool to him.

Ike looked up at Sam. A warmth rolled onto her cheeks as his sparkling eyes met hers. She cleared her throat and kicked the ball to him. “That was so cool!!” Sam jumped up and down and ran to Ike, ignoring the ball. “Where did you learn to do that?” Ike paused and looked down.

“That’s... not what we are here to learn.” Ike moved back to the ball as she timidly spoke, “Right now, I need you to show me what you need to work on," Ike gestured to the goal behind her, “And kick the ball into the goal.”

Sam nodded, “Alright but afterwards, no need to teach me how to do that!” Ike pursed her lips to prevent a rising smile as she braced herself at the goal. Sam assumed his position behind the ball and eyed Ike. He stayed there a moment, toying with her, hoping to psych her out. But Ike remained perfectly poised over the goal. In a flash, Sam kicked the ball. It sailed up and right for the goal. But before it could go in, Ike stopped it. She casually reached out and plucked it out of the air like it was nothing. "See?” Sam growled, kicking at the ground, “I told you I'm not fast enough."

"How hard you kick the ball isn’t what’s important here." Ike said seriously as she approached Sam, "You.. you are paying too much attention to what the goalie is doing instead of where you are kicking... Here.” Ike passed the ball to Sam, "Don't look at the goalie. Just look at where you want to kick the ball."

"But Couch says I need to watch them for where they are moving!" Sam said quickly. Ike shook her head.

"The goalie has their job and you have yours." Ike spoke plainly, pulling Sam's undecided attention closer to her, "You should keep their movements in mind, but your main focus should be where you're kicking. If you think about the goalie too much, you'll subconsciously kick to them, making it easier for them to stop you.” Ike paused a moment. For some reason she was out of breath. It really had been a while since she had spoken this much. “… does that… make sense?" Ike added, hoping her speed was only taxing her instead of Sam.

Sam slowly nodded, “Yeah. It does! You know, you explain it much better then couch does.” He placed the ball in front of his feet, “He just yells at me and tells me I’m a good for nothing kid.” Ike’s hands clenched into fists. “Ok!” Sam said, not noticing Ike’s change in attitude, ”Are you-”

“You’re not good for nothing!”

Ike’s yelling caused Sam to stubble slightly. Ike puffed her cheeks and stood up straight as she pointed a finger at him. “You are needed, and important, and bring more happiness then you know, okay?! Don’t let that couch, or anyone else for that matter, tell you otherwise! Got it?!” Sam blinked at Ike.

“Ye-yeah. I know.” He stammered, “I’m sure he just says that to get me to work harder. I don’t think he means it or anything.”

“Yeah… w-well.” Ike’s face quickly grew red as she looked at the ground, “Those words should never be used lightly…” The two of them sat in heavy silence for a moment. Sam had questions he wanted to ask but swallowed them. If she wanted him to know, she’d tell him.

“H-hey.” Sam called, getting Ike to look up at him, “Thank you. It means a lot.” He smiled brightly, the brightest Ike had ever seen since she had moved into their foster home. It was almost contagious.

Ike’s blush brightened as she nodded. She covered her mouth with her hand but Sam could still she her squinting her eyes, showing the emotion she tried so hard to hide. It filled him with determination.

“Ok!” Sam said, bracing himself at the ball, “Ready?!” Ike looked at him then cleared her throat and braced herself as well.

“Yeah.” She said, glaring at the ball, “Let’s do this.”

>>>

“In other news, the anniversary of one Tyler Young-Diaz’s death is coming up. The once renowned soccer player who led Loveland City’s soccer team to victory plenty of times before his demise. He died from-”

The television went black.

“Hey!” Sam whipped his head around, “I was watching that!”

“You can watch it when we get back.” I said, tossing the remote on my foster parent’s couch, “You ready for practice, kiddo?” Sam’s once agitated face lit up.

“Yeah!” Sam jumped up from the ground, where he was absentmindedly playing with his baby sister, and ran to my side, “Are you finally going to show me how to do some cool tricks?! Like, when you look like you’re gonna kick the ball one way but you actually kick it another?!”

“Settle down, kid.” I rubbed Sam’s head, “Once you’re able to get a goal on me, I’ll think about it.”

“Are you guys leaving?” Maria called from the kitchen.

“Yeah!” Sam and I called at the same time.

“Could you take the other kids with you? They’ve been on their phone since they woke up.”

“Sure.” I said, despite Sam’s growls of annoyance, “Do you want me to take Lola too?”

“That would be great!” Maria poked her head out of the kitchen and smiled at me gratefully, “Thank you, Evie!”

“Of course.” I continued into the room and gave Sam’s head another rub, “Go get Ashton and Adri for me, Sam.”

“Ugh,” Sam whined but still made his way to the stairwell, “This is gonna suck.”

“Oh, come on.” I said, scooping up Lola from the blanket she was playing on, “It won’t be that bad. I’m sure we won’t even know that they’re there.”

"OK. I saw the sun. Can I go home now?"

"Ugh, couldn't you have picked a time to practice when the sun isn't so bright?"

"I don't even have reception out here! And Maria cut off my data so no wifi either! This blows!"

"I mean, what am I even going to do at the park? I'm not a baby anymore. I don't want to play on the playground."

“Stop giving me the death glare, Sam. I can take a message.”

“Obviously not.” Sam growled at his siblings. In between the complaints, Sam would catch my eye and flash me an expression that screamed 'I told you so.' Still, I remained optimistic as we reached the soccer field. Adri and Ashton sat at the benches and began to pull out their phones. With my Lola free hand, I snatched them away from their hands. They both looked at me with shock and anger.

"You were brought here to be away from your phones." I said, giving them a stern look, "Now, meet Sam out on the field."

"But-" Ashton and Adri began to introgect but one flash of my evil eye shut them both up. They reluctantly stood up and walked with me to the field.

"They're joining us?!" Sam scoffed, "But they are just going to slow us down!"

"Come on kiddo." I rolled my eyes and patted Sam on the back, "Buck up! You're starting to sound like them."

We all worked together to set out Lola’s play pen then, with her placed safely next to me, we all created a circle facing each other. I bounced the ball on the side of my foot and looked at the group. “Alright,” I said in the best couch voice I could muster, “Today we are going to play a little game of truth or dare. Pass the ball to the person you want to ask and they must comply.”

“Boring!” Adri groaned, “Truth or dare is a sad game that little girls play at slumber parties to talk about who likes who. Besides, the dares are weak. ‘I dare you to tell your crush you like them!’, ‘I dare you to tell a stranger they look nice!’, ‘I dare you to knock on a door then run away!’” Adri blew a raspberry.

“Ok, if you are so confident,” I passed the ball to Adri, “Accept a dare from me.” Adri caught the ball clumsily between her legs. All the same, she looked up at me with determination.

“Fine!” Adri scoffed and folded her arms, “Hit me with your best shot, Granny!” I smirked and pulled out my phone. With one quick scroll through my contacts, I pulled up a certain someone’s profile. I hummed to myself and held out the phone to Adri. “Adrienne, I dare you to call Lucien and tell him about that mole growing on your back.”

Adri’s face flushed royally, “H-How did you know about that?!” She stammered.

“You just told me.” My smirk grew. Adri stood dormant.

“Wh-what if I say no?” She asked, her trembling voice erasing what sassiness she held before. I hummed and reached into Lola’s diaper bag.

“I get to draw on your face and post it in my moments.” I said, waving a washable red marker in the air.

“Pfft, I can do that.” Adri said, approaching me confidently. Before she could take the marker, I pulled it away.

“I wouldn’t be too sure.” I said, my smile unwavering, “I wouldn’t think you’d want a certain someone seeing that.”

“I don’t care if Professor-”

“I’m not talking about Lucien.” I mused, “I’m talking about a certain superstar. I don’t know if you’ve heard him. His name is Kiro?” Adri’s normally pale face became ghastly as she stared at me wide eyed.

“K-Kiro follows you?!” She gasped.

“Oh yeah. And he often is the first to react to a post.” I brought the pen back down into Adri’s reach, “So, still want me to draw on you?”

Adri remained motionless. Her eyes played how much emotions she couldn’t quite express. Ashton giggled from behind her. “Oh man.” He chuckled, “You’re boned!” Sam burst into laughter and leaned on his twin for support.

“You’ve got to choose which hot guy is worth making yourself a fool out of!” Sam laughed heartily, “You should have kept your mouth shut!”

“As should you.” I chimed, looking up at the boys, “Don’t forget, it will be your turn eventually.” The twins gulped.

In a flash, Adri swiped my phone from my hand. She pressed a few buttons on it and held it up to her ear. “Don’t pick up. Don’t pick up!” She chanted rocking back and forth in her heels, “Don’t- SHIT AH I HAVE A MOLE ON MY BACK!” And with that, she pulled the phone from her ear, hung up the call, and chucked the phone at me.

“Swear jar.” Ashton chimed, covering a large grin as Sam fell to the floor in a fit of laughter. With a furious red face, Adri glared menacingly at me.

“You are evil!!” She huffed. I lowered my head so I stood eye to eye with her. With a cunning smile, I responded,

“Never challenge Ikamara Bikira.”

And so our time on the field continued. Adri, now dead set on exacting her revenge on me, soon got lost in the game as Sam and Ashton soon got their comeuppance. Ashton through telling everyone he secretly plays detective with his stuffed animals when he is alone in his room, and Sam when he confessed to the girl in his art class over the phone that he was the one who drew a mustache on the masterpiece that cost her an A.

Soon, the ball was passed to me by Ashton. “Alright, kid.” I said through a steady smile as I messed with the ball between my feet, “Hit me.” Ashton watched me as I played with the ball, his eyes clouded with thought.

“... Tell us how you know how to play soccer.”

I stopped playing with the ball. The happy energy in the group tanked quickly as I looked up at Ashton. “... What?”

“Tell us how you know how to play soccer.” He reiterated, “You’ve been teaching Sam soccer for years and he has gotten good. Really good. So that would bring up the question, how does a business woman such as you know how to play so well?”

“... You didn’t even ask me, truth or dare.”I said, trying hard to hold back what anxiety pooled at my throat.

“Ok, truth or dare?” Ashton asked, folding his arms.

“Dare.”

“I dare you to answer the question.”

I gritted my teeth and straightened my posture.

“Uh, hey!” Sam quickly said, “Maybe there can be a line that we don’t-”

“No, no.” I waved my hand to Sam but maintained my eye contact with Ashton, “You all did what you were dared to do… I can too.” paused then took in a deep breath.

“I learned it at my fourth foster home.”

The field went silent...

“... I just told an insanely hot college professor I had a mole on my back.” Adri deadpanned, “I think we need a little more than that.”

“Ok, fine.” I groaned. My eyes fell to the soccer ball sitting idly between my feet. Small flashes of suppressed memories flew past my eyes. I blinked them away but I knew I couldn’t hold them back. Ashton was right, I had been teaching Sam soccer since I was fifteen. He had a right to know… they all did.

After a pause that seemed to last ages, I sighed. “... I had just gotten out of the police station for turning in my abusive foster parent. I was immediately moved to an emergency foster house until they could find a new, permanent one for me to live in. The foster father welcomed me in like I had always been his daughter. He bathed me, clothed me, and gave me a warm meal to eat with in the first hour I was there. He was the best dad I had ever had… but the foster mother wasn’t as kind.

“She would always find something that she hated about me. My hair, clothes, skin, and so on. She particularly hated seeing the scars that my last family had left and would constantly nag that I would cover them up. But it wasn’t just me that she would yell at.

“Her and her husband would constantly fight. So much so that I had to play my radio at full volume to block out the sound. Though it would only make the mother angrier as she would start yelling at me to turn it down…” I took a deep breath, “But the father wouldn’t give up on me. While the mother was at work and he had time off from his… work, we would do something that only belonged to us. Something that he loved to do and could teach like it was riding a bike… and that was soccer.

“He taught me how to play any chance he could. It would be away from his wife, full of exercise, and the perfect way for him to be spending time in between work. We really got to know each other. In fact, he talked about running away together. Just the two of us… playing together forever…” I paused.

“... What happened?” Adri asked impatiently. I cringed. The memories I tried so hard to stifle shot like daggers behind my eyes.

“... One day, around six at night, my foster father came home from a long trip. I was already in the backyard, playing with the soccer ball and readying for our practice. But, his wife had gotten to him first. They started fighting again but it wasn’t like how it was before. They were screaming at each other, threatening each other, as if the fight was about to get physical. It got to the point where I couldn’t understand what they were saying. And then, as quick as it started, it stopped. Something felt off so I went into the house, only to find that my foster father was on the ground… bleeding out from his head. That woman was standing over him, holding one of his trophies and looking at her husband in horror. It didn’t take long for her to notice me and, when she did, all hell broke loose.

“She blamed me for what happened, said that the fight wouldn’t have begun if I had just stayed with my last family. Then, she kicked me out, told me to never come back and that if I told the police she would end me like she did to him. I didn’t give it a second thought. I quickly packed my things into a school bag and took off. I walked for hours until I was at the foster center. I refused to talk about what happened, terrified out of my mind from what that wench said.

“Later I had found out that the foster center agreed with the police to keep my being there out of the papers to shelter me from any press so no one knew I was there… or how much that man meant to me…

“After spending some time in an orphanage, I had eventually found my way into the home you guys find yourselves in now… and, the rest is history.”

After finishing my monologue, I was scared to look at the faces standing before me. I expected them to press me for details, to badger me for names or tell me that I was lying and to tell the real reason. Instead, Adri did something much worse.

“... Your foster parent was Tyler Young-Diaz, wasn’t it?”

Though her voice was small, it sent shockwaves through my head. I looked up at her. She was looking at me with wide eyes and a complicated expression, one of which the other two boys held as well.

Seeing that I wasn’t going to respond, Adri continued, “I read about it today. He was murdered by his wife with his nationals trophy.”

“...yeah. That was him.” I sighed, looking back down at the ball at my feet.

“... So, you were taught soccer under a professional?!” Adri asked with feigned excitement. I looked back up at her in confusion.

“Really?!” Ashton scoffed and punched Adri’s arm, “Is that really all you got from that story?!”

“Hey! I’m just trying to lighten the mood!” Adri glared at Ashton as she rubbed her arm, “What else do you say to someone who just confessed to witnessing her foster father’s murder?!?”

“Ike.” Sam spoke up. I turned to him. He looked at me with tearfilled eyes, “Did all of that really happen?” I hesitated, then nodded. Sam winced as if he were in pain. Before I could ask, he ran to me and nearly tackled me with a hug. “I’m so sorry.” He sobbed, clutching to my shirt tightly, “I didn’t know! I should have never agreed to learn from you! I would have just kept playing poorly if it meant you’d never have to relive those days.”

“Hey.” I pried Sam off of my stomach to look him in the eye, “Weren’t you paying attention? The time I played soccer with Tyler was the best time I had spent with that family. Playing soccer with you isn’t painful. It’s my favorite time of the week.” Sam’s eyes welled with tears once again, but I could tell it wasn’t for the same reason as before. He buried his head back into my stomach.

“I love you, Ike.” He sobbed, rubbing his face into my clothes. I sighed and stroked his head softly. I looked up and caught the eyes of Adri and Ashton as they watched us, longingly, eyes watering slightly. I rolled my eyes and held out my arms.

“Bring it in.” I said, gesturing to them. Adri and Ashton exchanged looks, then joined us in our hug, pulling us all tightly together. Our hold only lasted a moment before a disgruntled yelp sounded from beside me. I looked down to find an angry baby looking up at us.

“Alright, Lola.” I sighed and scooped the baby up from her pen, “You can join in.” Lola’s face immediately lit up as we brought her into the hug. She giggled and grabbed for whatever she could reach. Unfortunately for Ashton, it was his hair.

“Alright!” He quickly called, delicately removing Lola’s fingers from his head, “Hug time’s over.” Sam and Adri laughed and quickly backed out of the hug to help Ashton.

“What a practice this turned out to be.” Sam chuckled, wiping the last of his tears away.

“Aw man. I miss the hug?!?"

We all turned and caught sight of our sharply dressed, disappointment looking, eldest foster brother strolling into view. "First you don't invite me to your sibling pow wow and now I don't even get a hug!" Chris pouted, extending his empty arms out to us.

"Chris!" Sam exclaimed, running to vacate the space between Chris' arms. Chris accepted Sam's hug, pulling him off his feet and into the air as he shook him around. Adri rolled his eyes and walked over to him while Ashton hid behind me for protection. This backfired as Chris approached me from a hug and I accepted, dragging my little brother in with me. Ashton groaned and struggled out of my grip, bringing a chuckle throughout the group.

"I came to visit you guys but no one was home!" Chris said, plucking Lola from my hands, "Momma Maria said you'd be here! But, what’s with the tears?”

“Ashton asked the wrong question.” Adri deadpanned.

“Sam is an emotional dork.” Ashton retaliated.

“We learned more about Ike’s past!” Sam beamed, “She told us about her last foster family before us! The hug just kinda happened... almost like we all found a new appreciation for each other.” Sam looked meaningfully around the circle. Ashton rolled his eyes and shoved his brother.

“Like I said, emotional dork.” Ashton tactlessly remarked. Sam growled and jumped at Ashton. I caught Sam in mid-air, stopping him from making any contact with Ashton.

“Alright, kiddos.” I said, picking Sam up casually and sitting him on my shoulder, “How bout some ice cream?” Sam cheered loudly, causing Lola to cheer as well. Adri and Ashton exchanged looks of begrudged approval. I looked up at Chris. “You care for some family time, pal?” I asked with a smile. Chris beamed brightly.

“Let’s go!” He cheered, jumping in place like a child. I rolled my eyes and placed Sam down as the phone in my pocket vibrated obsessively.

“Take care of the pen, would you, Sam?” I asked as I pulled out my phone. Sam quickly complied and began taking it down, humming to himself happily. I smiled and, without looking at my phone, answered the phone.

“Speaking.”

“... A mole on your back, you say?” A familiar voice chimed.

My heart leapt.

“I’m afraid I have more questions then answers, Evelyn.” Lucien added through an obvious smile.

“Sorry, Lucien.” I said as eased my posture slightly, “We were playing truth or dare and I had Adri call you. Don’t take what she said seriously.”

“We?” Lucien asked curiously.

“Ashton and Sam were there too. We spent the afternoon playing truth or dare while Sam practiced his passing for soccer.”

“I see.” Lucien mused, “Did you have fun?” I looked over at my siblings, who were all laughing and talking together.

“Yeah.” I answer genuinely through a genuine smile, “I feel like we have grown closer as siblings.” I directed my attention back to Lucien, “I’m sorry if I pulled you from your work.”

“Not at all.” Lucien said quickly, “In fact, I have some free time to keep talking to you. May I press you for details on your day?”

My smile grew, “Sure. I can talk.”

(Next)

3 notes · View notes

forgotten-envies · 3 years

Text

No Stronger Thread Than Ours

Thank you @miraculously-purple for the prompt! It’s finally done! It’s ~4000 words and can either be read on AO3 here (x) or under the cut.

Wei Wuxian could only remember one conversation he ever had with his mother. It floated in his mind with little detail, the edges as hazy and warped as a dream. Sometimes, he thought he could recall the deep scarlet of his mother’s ribbon. At other times, her laughter, ringing and loud. Most often, he could not find the event itself, could not distinguish between memory and fabrication and was left with only her message, void in tone but permanent in meaning.

_________

This is your red string of fate. It leads to the one you will love and be loved by.

Wei Ying sat outside the Jiang compound, sulkily watching as a red string coiled, swayed, and darted across the lake. The setting sun warmed his back and cast a long shadow all the way to the edge of the dock. Shijie was inside, meeting her newly betrothed for the first time. Wei Ying was not inside because the stuck-up, gold-plated peacock had dragged his dog with him.

He kicked the water and watched the thread bob like a fishing line. It was an ongoing experiment of his, to see which objects could affect it. People couldn’t, other than him. Nor dogs or trees. He bet even the claws of a divine beast would pass right through. Still, it rippled in the wind and water as if it were actually there and affected. It wasn’t. He’d tried fishing with the thing before, but no bait could be attached. He had high hopes for using it with a spiritually-infused needle, though.

A tug on the string pulled a grin out of him. There is, of course, one other person that can touch it. The one on the other end. He pulled it into a taught red line strung between two fingers and plucked it with a nail. He adjusted the length and did it again, picking out a crude melody. He thought he could make a language out of it, like the Lans do with their guqins.

This is how he was found later, scattering thoughts into notes, a phrase. A presence, tall and comforting, settled by his side. He broke off his ciphered letter and pouted up at his shijie. She smiled and folded her legs under herself. “A-Ying, what’s wrong?

He snuggled up to her side and looked up at her through his lashes, silver eyes wide. She took his hand with a giggle, familiar with this routine after two years as his shijie. “You shouldn’t marry Jin Zixuan,” he whined.

She laughed, surprised. “Why not?”

He twirled the string around a finger. If he knew the person on the other end, he was sure they’d help him. Wei Ying spoke clearly, laying the case before his understanding shijie, “He brought a dog and said the lake smells bad. When I opened the gate for him, he asked Madam Jin to take him back to Lanling. The peacock wouldn’t eat the cakes you made for him and he didn’t even say you looked pretty!” Her face fell, but she brought an arm up to wrap around him. Wei Ying mentally kicked himself.

“Don’t be disrespectful to your seniors.” The rebuke was half-hearted and soft-edged though, and she rubbed her pinky with her thumb. The nail caught on an invisible cord and her lips lifted a little. “A-Ying, do you know where the red threads lead?”

“The person you’ll love.” He furrowed his brow, wondering what this had to do with Jin peacocks.

Warm hands patted his head. Quiet and slow she explained, “And who will love you in return. A-Ying, Mother set up my engagement to Young Master Jin because we are connected by this.” She brushes her fingers against his pinky. “Jin Zixuan is the one I will marry.”

This made little sense to the boy. “But Madam Yu and Uncle Jiang aren’t connected! You could marry someone else.”

A strange look crossed her face as she sighed. “I think they might be, A-Ying. They love each other in their own way.” He found this hard to believe; impressions of soft touches and laughter lit up the picture he’d formed of his own parents. She flicked his nose. “And Young Master Jin and I just met. It’s only natural that we don’t love each other yet.” They sat together in silence as Wei Ying composed a ‘hello’ on the thread.

Their shadows had stretched, rippling on the lake when Wei Ying’s small, unsure voice asked, “Does it take a long time?”

“Hm?”

“To love someone?”

She shook her head and pulled him closer. “I think it takes longer to learn how.”

_________

It may bend,

Wei Wuxian’s too-long, awkward legs tripped on a tree root. He caught himself and kept going, winding his way through the forest surrounding the lake Lotus Pier was built on.

Jiang Cheng was full of it, obviously, and a terrible prankster. Who could believe his half-spun tale of following his thread and meeting his partner? Certainly not Wei Wuxian, who’d once seen his shidi insult his crush to her face, fist clenched and the cake he’d bought as a present to her ruined. He had to laugh at the memory; the girl, a visiting disciple a few years older than them, had smiled and patted the frozen Jiang heir on his impressively blushing cheek, thanking him with a, “Red is my favorite color!” She’d disappeared while Wei Wuxian had been too busy laughing and they never saw her again.

So clearly, he had evidence.

Still, the general theory holds true. Two people were connected by a continuous thread and therefore could find each other by simply following it to its end, though parents discouraged their children from doing it. Wei Wuxian had brought it up before to Uncle Jiang and was merely answered with, “They are threads of fate. You shouldn’t rush it.”

But he was restless and it was summer. The Yunmeng sun seemed to stick to one’s skin, seeping its too-bright rays through burned ears. It turned thoughts into the soft, catching mud on the banks of the receded lakes and encouraged the most reckless of decisions.

He wiggled the string like a trill. It was a habit he’d developed, a simple way to convey laughter to the person on the other side, as he wasn’t there to teach his partner the basic language he’d made. Still, he continued expanding the language and sending his letters. He wanted that person to know how he was feeling, wanted to form a relationship. Maybe that was why he was out here, trekking through the forest and spooling red thread around his fingers before it shortened.

It was behaving… strangely, if such a thing could behave at all. It stretched through tree trunks as it normally did, unaffected, but at other points, it wound around several different trees and formed elaborate knots. He knew why the string twisted, who wouldn’t? The Thread and its Three Difficulties were taught early on in the form of stories and cemented in copious allusions. All three were directly caused by the wishes or actions of one or both thread-mates; ergo, his partner was bending the thread.

Honestly, Wei Wuxian couldn’t understand at all why someone would do this. Who didn’t want to meet their partner? Their confidant and future spouse? Well, he wasn’t anyone to be afraid of! And they were destined to love each other, after all.

He circled four trees, straightening the latest knot, and kept following it. The problem was that the thin string could barely be seen from only a few feet away, so he couldn’t simply bypass the entanglement and shorten the string as it fell behind him. So he did it this way and wasn’t sure if it was better to blame his slowly growing dizziness on the heat or his circular motions. Last night’s second jar had been a sweet mistake. He can’t bring himself to regret it.

Hours passed. Several times, he groaned out loud at especially layered or lengthy configurations but didn’t turn back. After the last one, he’d sent, “Just make it a little easier. I’m trying to be friends with you!” across the thread, but the words seemed to have no effect, or at least no positive one.

The shadows lengthened until the only light came from the talisman glittering in Wei Wuxian’s hand. Made even harder to see in the dark, the string could only be followed and not anticipated.

Finally, he could feel it straightening out, wavering less and forming only very simple knots. He smiled and trilled a laugh, recklessly bounding through the night as he chased his goal.

He seemed to reach some sort of transition in the terrain, the end of the forest, perhaps, and broke through it. He paused, tilting his head back and closing his eyes, inhaling deeply the fresh, night air, smelling faintly of lotuses.

His eyes snapped open, and suddenly, he thought he hated nothing more than the lake that spread out in front of him, illuminated by the glow of Lotus Pier at its center. He had followed the thread, gotten turned around so often that he couldn’t tell North from South, and essentially made a very large circle, ending up not far from where he had started.

In the shifting glow of the talisman, his red thread shot off into the forest once more, twisting around a tree like a last teasing, parting wave.

As he made the short walk back to his little boat, a thought, the only reasonable conclusion, cleared his mind of any lingering sun-induced daze and chilled him in a way the slight breeze could never achieve.

The recipient of his many letters, his thread-mate, did not want to be found.

_________

Stretch,

The Cloud Recesses were beautiful, quiet and peaceful in a timeless, pristine sort of way. Its stones had never been stained with spilled dye, its waters ran mountain-cold and pure, and its people walked slowly and purposefully, confident yet humble in their talents.

All of these qualities, however, faded to a pale background in the presence of its Second Jade, Lan Zhan, Wei Wuxian’s thread-mate. He was purity, icy coldness, and a cloud’s grace. He spoke little, saving his words for only the most important things, the complete opposite of Wei Wuxian who talked even when he could not speak, plucking messages to a person who never responded, aside from biting out scathing remarks about Wei Wuxian.

And that was it, wasn’t it? His jade-like face never smiled at Wuxian’s antics, only glared and turned away. His deep, soothing voice bit out rebukes for breaking the rules. His powerful frame held no comfort, but rather sidestepped gentle, yearning touches.

His red string, so bright against colorless robes, hung between them and spooled in a pile on the ground.

“Lan Zhan!”

“We are not close.”

In the frigid emptiness of a cave under Qishan, hours of battle and days of synchronous preparation led to two people, their breaths shallow and hearts weakened. They stared at each other, gold and silver mixing until one blinked, slow and threatening sleep.

“Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan… sing for me.”

Lan Wangji, brow furrowed in pain, in worry, gently held Wei Wuxian’s hand as if it would break at the slightest movement. In the dark, no excess thread lay between them, no distance separated.

The world faded and Lan Zhan sang.

When Wei Wuxian was dropped into the Burial Mounds, he reached out, clutching the taut line as he fell, wishing he could be caught, held, saved.

When he walked out, shadows filling his fractures and curling around his steps, he did not follow the string. It spilled lax and trailing on the ground, a line of red blood against death-gray. He laughed, but for the first time since he’d begun the habit, he didn’t share it with Lan Zhan. The spirits laughed with him. Good, they said, a grating hiss, feel our resentment, feel our pain. His chest tightened with it, the weight a constant companion, now. Be our revenge! On the last word, familiar screams filled his mind and he pulled out his flute, black as the place it came from, and began playing.

He hunted and he tortured and he had his revenge. When Jiang Cheng and Lan Zhan found him, smiles and laughter concealed the damage to his spirit, but the person they expected him to be had died with a prayer on his lips and left barely more than a shell for resentful energy in his wake.

“Wei Wuxian!” “Lan Wangji!”

Again, Wei Wuxian walked out of the Burial Mounds, a flute at his side and a red thread dragging on the ground before him. This time, though, a child sat on his shoulders, laughing pure and untainted, uncaring of his small dinner, lack of playmates, and a guardian who was not his parents.

The people he now lived with healed Wei Wuxian in a way that the resentful energy could not replicate. A few treasured moments with Wen Qing or a-Yuan or any of the other people who had, quite suddenly, become his family, scattered themselves throughout every bad day. They each featured prominently in the good days. No day could be called perfect when living in the Burial Mounds, but a certain balance formed, a precarious yin and yang.

On the days he was the most clear-headed, he found himself sending messages to Lan Zhan, an activity that had stopped during the Sunshot Campaign. He played about his inventions and his breakthroughs, Uncle Four’s wine and the adventures of a-Yuan. He thought, a strange feeling too warm to be resentful energy curling around his heart, that Lan Zhan would make a good father, though a stricter one than himself.

In Yiling, Lan Zhan found a-Yuan and spoiled him more than Wei Wuxian thought the austere man capable of. He shared a meal with the two, a red string pooling underneath the table. Wei Wuxian tried to keep the conversation on lighter matters, asking about gossip he knew Lan Zhan wouldn’t provide. For his trouble, he learned of a wedding he couldn’t be invited to, a painful reminder of the family he’d left behind. Inevitably and with his typical direct manner, Lan Zhan changed the subject.

“Can you control it? Will you stay like this from now on?” The Second Jade of Lan probably couldn’t imagine a life in the Burial Mounds, tainted in a way the Cloud Recesses weren’t. He would never choose to walk the single-plank bridge.

When he ran out of the tea shop, Lan Zhan followed. He spared Wen Ning and even helped return him to consciousness, but he would not stay. Wei Wuxian led him to the barrier and with a rueful look, finally answered his question.

“What other choice do I have?” Stay here, and do not leave, Wei Wuxian didn’t say.

Lan Zhan left and did not turn back.

_________

And fray,

Everything blurred together as the shadows whispered and screamed, pulling him down, down, building his resentment at himself, at the righteous, at the shadows themselves. He raised an army brimming with power and darkness, held together by an iron seal. Both him and them, control, control.

Let it burst out in a wave, let it destroy.

Weak and trembling, frayed threads touched a frayed being. “Goodbye.”

One army against another, familiar faces battling his own end, his final weakness.

As the seal broke, Wei Wuxian acknowledged a truth that he’d chosen to ignore since that day in Yunmeng with his shijie. Between his hands, the blood-red string vibrated, conveying his heart. But a pinch stilled movement and stopped sound, so nothing ever reached his thread-mate.

Lan Zhan hadn’t heard.

He plucked a laugh across the connection, no fingers to still it, and shuffling feet turned toward him.

_________

Quiet, thin notes gently pulled Wei Wuxian from the depths of sleep. Slowly, he became aware of the warmth that surrounded him, the body pressed against his chest and the quilt draped across them both. Bright, mid-morning sunlight streamed into his eyes from the window above their bed and Wei Wuxian turned his head to bury it in Lan Zhan’s hair.

The lullaby-like song stopped as his husband turned to face him, graceful in a way Wei Wuxian hadn’t thought possible before marrying him. Soft, golden eyes drifted over his face, taking in the sleepy mess of it all. His lips upturned, a content smile. Neither of them spoke, enjoying the peaceful beauty of both the morning and each other.

They didn’t often have the opportunity to spend mornings in bed together. Supervisory responsibilities required that Lan Zhan be ready much earlier than Wei Wuxian’s habitual wake-up time and they both taught the junior disciples in the afternoon. As such, he treasured such chances to simply be. No boundaries lay between them, no expectations to uphold. They could brush light kisses to tired eyes, entwine their hands, and let themselves breathe.

Wei Wuxian closed his eyes, regulating his breathing to match his husband’s as he entered a casual sort of meditation. He didn’t, couldn’t, stop thinking altogether, but he had become decent at dismissing whatever thoughts came up as unimportant in the moment. Mastery of the technique had by no means been achieved, though..

Eventually, Wei Wuxian’s curiosity got the better of him. Turning so Lan Zhan’s arm curled around his shoulders, he voiced the question that floated lazily at the back of his mind.

“What instrument were you playing?” he said, voice low and smiling, “It couldn’t have been your guqin. Wangji is deeper. Besides, you only played one note at a time and it doesn’t fit on the bed anyway.” He laughed, quieter than usual but just as happy.

Lan Zhan brought their hands to his lips, peppering a few kisses onto his husband’s knuckles. He looked up, turning their hands so that their little fingers lay in front of Wei Wuxian, the red thread connected to them wrapped loosely around their hands.

His mouth opened quickly once he understood Lan Zhan’s meaning. “You played a song… on the string?”

“Mm.” Lan Zhan hummed, low and trailing.

He rubbed their thumbs together, thinking. “You know I used to do something like that too?” He glanced over at Lan Zhan and found his head tilted forward in interest. “I made up a whole language! I was inspired by the Lan Clan, of course, but it’s very different from the guqin language, seeing as there’s only one string.”

He smiled wistfully, remembering all the letters he’d sent to his thread-mate even before he’d known it was Lan Zhan. “I would compose letters to you. You couldn’t hear them, of course,” he laughed, “but I liked imagining that you could, that you listened to each one.” He shook his head. “It was foolish, I know, but you’d silence me all the time! I had to talk to you somehow!” Lan Zhan’s face didn’t slip into his typical fond exasperation at the teasing, instead dropping the smile and becoming serious.

Wei Wuxian turned back over and brought his free hand up to cup the beautiful face. “Hey, are you okay?”

Lan Zhan looked away, a shadow of sadness coming to rest over his eyes. “I would also speak to you, in a way.”

Wei Wuxian fought to keep his many questions from bubbling out of his mouth, knowing by now to let Lan Zhan finish whatever he wanted to say.

“I composed songs on it to convey my thoughts, like Brother.” From what he had learned from them both, Lan Xichen and Lan Zhan often conveyed their emotions to each other via songs and duets. It was simpler than stumbling over words that could be misinterpreted.

“You… played me music?”

“Mn.” His ears looked a little pink, now.

Wei Wuxian smiled and moved closer, pressing their hands between their chests. “Well at least the conversation was two-sided then, even if neither of our messages reached each other.”

Lan Zhan shook his head, a slight, confused movement. “I often received a message from you.”

“A message? Nothing gets through to the other side.” He pinched the string like he used to and plucked it. No vibrations traveled to Lan Zhan’s little finger.

Lan Zhan shook his head and moved a finger to the string, flicking it quickly in a familiar motion.

Oh.

“You… you knew those were from me?”

“Yes, Wei Ying.” There was that fond exasperation, relaxed and a little teasing in itself which, fair. It’s not like anything else could have touched the string.

“Do you know what it means?” He’d never mentioned it to his husband; such a small thing had never seemed important. Besides that, it’d become natural to him, second nature.

“It is Wei Ying’s laugh.”

Surprised, Wei Wuxian did just that, a little too loud for such a morning, and, reflexively, trilled it on the thread. His eyes widened. “My Lan-er-gege knows me so well!”

Leaning in, he offered a kiss, and they stayed like that, lips barely moving against each other, for a long while, until once more, Wei Wuxian broke the silence with a quiet, “I’m glad we know how to love each other, Lan Zhan.”

Eyes gentle, he pulled Wei Wuxian into his arms.

But it will never break.

#mdzs fanfiction #modao zushi #gdc #wangxian #red string of fate au #prompt fill #wei wuxian #lan wangji #book canon

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smellysluna · 5 years

Text

Phase 1: BLUE | Peter Parker | Soulmate AU!

Pairing: Peter Parker x reader

Series: Additive Colors

Warning(s): this story is set between Homecoming and Infinity War, swear words, badass reader.

Word count: 1.8K

Side note: heyyy, it’s been a long time since i’ve posted something online, but i hope you enjoy this <3

Peter blasted web after web at Queens' buildings. After Liz left because of him (even if she wasn’t his soulmate, he liked her anyway), his patrols as friendly neighborhood Spider-Man became crude, crass. The streets had no taste, no color until everything around him changed in an instant.

He crashes into a supply lorry, denting it just slightly. Peter stood up the instant he hit the ground oblivious to the worried bystanders.

I need to get somewhere high.

Peter's mind activated autopilot the moment a balcony came into his shaky view. His stiff feet landed on the balcony's rail. He seemed a panther looking for its prey amidst the jungle —a spider waiting for the fly to get trapped in its webs. He searched for a person instead of prey. What he felt the moment his life did a one-eighty was exactly what he was hunting —perplexity.

A girl struggling for breath chasing colors appeared under his eyes and his blurry view cleared. The people pulsed around her, they were fast-paced whilst she had no pace whatsoever.

Peter can't remember landing in front of her but he faced the girl anyways. Without any first words or glances, he picked her up and shot a spider-web to the top of a building. It took a moment for the girl to assess the case at hand. Usually, she'd be the one striking the first word —and as a bad habit, she’d get the last word too— but this time her mind went numb. To distract herself from the suited hero in front of her, she stared at the sky —a thing she could never appreciate before. In the corner of her eye, she sensed him imitating her. The question throbbed in her mind, in her throat, and on her tongue. If the answer to her question were "yes"... What would it mean to him? What would it mean to her? What would it mean to both of them?

Too many feelings at once. I think there was a word to describe the churning in my stomach.

Spider-Man stared at the blank canvas painted on the girl beside him. Her gaze set on a distant cloud the moment Karen pulled out her personal details. The boy behind the mask assumed he shared the same emotions as the girl next to him. His brows kept knitted together as he read the girl's file. With difficulty, a gulp passed through his tight throat.

"You're... seeing the same thing, right?" It was unusual for Peter to take the first step but the more he read her file... the more he urge to know if she was... the one.

"Blue, the sky's blue." A pause before indulging in her dramatics. "It's haunting to realize just now the beauty of the wild blue yonder which was over our heads all this time." She hasn't stared at him yet, the jetting jaw painfully clear in his sight. "I'm at a loss for words. My soulmate being Spider-Man and all that —God I really hope you're a teenager."

He carefully watched her every moving muscle. Still, he can't grasp the instant she faced him. For once, Peter felt as if someone were looking right through his mask and into his eyes.

The words sunk in and he felt his body heat up. "No! No! Don't worry! I'm... I'm not some creepy-old-man, I swear! I go to Midtown —ah! Shouldn't have said that. Forget I said that. Mr. Stark would dissect me if he knew I said that." The girl couldn't stop the laughter that crawled through her lungs as she stared at the hero's wobbling arms. "Karen, no! Delete that footage! Oh my God, Mr. Stark cannot hear that."

"Karen?" She managed through giggles.

Peter stared at her amusing raised brow, her smile reaching the eyes. The sight made him smile too.

He somewhat regained his calm composure after Karen erased the footage. "Artificial intelligence built-in the suit."

"Did you develop her?" He couldn't fail to notice the spark in her eyes the moment he mentioned the AI.

"No, uh, Mr. Stark did." He almost experienced a hard attack when Karen announced to Spider-Man a message from Tony Stark which said he was on the street under his apartment. "Oh, God, I want to stay here and get to know you but right now Mr. Stark needs me."

A pang went through his chest at her disappointing stare.

"Listen, you're not supposed to know who I am. So we'll just have to get to know each other this way." He pointed at his mask with both pointer fingers. "We'll make it work — I think."

"Can you tell me at least your name?"

"Sorry." He hugged her.

"I'll swing by your place when I get time. See ya, (Y/N)."

In a blink, he was gone. Spider-Man didn’t even need to ask her name, she was sure that he even knew where she lived in an instant. A shiver ran through her spine.

(Y/N) doesn't know how she managed to stay on her legs for so long without trembling. But the moment he disappeared, she instantly laid in the on the cold floor. The sky was still blue. Her brows knitted together but then relaxed and closed her eyes.

This is unfair... How come you get to know my name but I can't get yours.

A smirk painted on her face as a light bulb lit up in her mind.

Spider-Man, you might think you’re smart and mysterious. But the joke’s on you, I’m smart and mysterious too.

*******

It was too quiet in my apartment, the atmosphere more stuffy than usual. The dirt on the floor indicated that a person was here. On guard, I walk into the living room. The breath in my lungs got kicked out and in less than a second, I was on the floor with someone choking me.

A normal person would be scared in my place. But I am not an average girl. My situation is self-explanatory and it takes just one name: Jessica Jones.

Jessica taught me no mercy, Jessica forced me independence, Jessica trained me to take care of myself, better said: Jessica’s small group of Defenders beat the crap out of me — which made me tough.

Jessica took me in after my parents’ death and she’s taken care of me since then. The other Defenders appeared later on. In the beginning, Jess taught me self-defense and sometimes she’d break some of my bones by letting her real strength slip through.

“It’s how it is in the real world,” she’d say. “If you’re lucky, of course.” And the moment I’d hit the floor, she’d kick my obliques ready to kill. “If it’s an average day… they won’t hesitate.” She’d kick again. “That’s why you won’t hesitate either.”

The Defenders weren’t around for long. Still, I learned many things from them. Every one of them had their own style to teach and none was better than the other. Jessica taught me to endure the pain; Danny (Iron Fist) taught me to control my inner calm; Matt (Daredevil) taught me to concentrate; Luke taught me to manage my strength. Actually, Luke let me hit him as hard as I wanted so I had a human punching bag.

Jess never wanted me to live with her —she made it very clear. The moment she was sure I could manage, she got me an apartment in Queens and told me to enroll at Midtown School —a nerd school. I thought she was kidding and scoffed at the idea, but her lack of humor seemed obvious. After I went through Jessica’s stuff (once... on several occasions), the reason she wanted me to go to Midtown became clear: an offer to attend the school personally written by the principal. I ignored Jessica and enrolled in Queens Metropolitan High School.

But discovering that Spider-Man, my soulmate, goes to Midtown creates a twist in my life. Guess I’ll have to put up with the nerds for some time.

Transferring really seemed quick and simple given that it’s the school’s department that carries out the process. But then again, we’re talking about nerds. It took me less than a week to get all the papers right. And since nerds like everything neat, I could start on Monday.

I had really been pushing my feelings to the back of my head. But what am I actually going to do after I find my soulmate? Improvisation was my go to plan.

Anyways… what was I doing again? Oh yeah! Getting strangled.

Jessica’s face came into perfect view and her look betrayed intent to kill. She was between my thighs, her grip on my neck firm. It only takes her six seconds to make me unconscious. I don’t let her. My body switches to muscle memory at this point.

Cross grip.

Shoulder-blade.

Foot on hip.

Turn.

Boom.

Forward thrust with hips.

“Shit!” Jessica hurriedly skidded from me. “Why’d you break my arm for!?” We both knew it didn’t hurt as it should. And instead of pain traveling through her voice, it was indignation.

I scoffed, “you had worse.” I waved my hand dismissively before plopping on my sofa. “And I broke your elbow, not your arm —you’re the one who taught me.”

“Not that,” she grimaced.

Jess settled casually right next to me. I glanced at her elbow, knowing damn well she wasn’t going to get it treated properly —neither of us cared.

“So you’re finally listening to me.” I knew what she meant, Midtown. “Don’t want to admit it? Alright.” She stood up, her broken elbow long forgotten. The cork-board on the wall catches her attention. “You’re still into this?” She plays with one of the strings. She trails her finger across the string that’s different than the rest. “What does Spider-Man have to do with any of this?” I forgot Jess was able to recognize the colors on the board, all of them. Jess still loves Luke and it shows.

“The string’s blue.” Her body turned faster than I could imagine.

“When did this happen?” To ever understand what Jessica meant, you always had to look at the big picture. It was annoying at first but it helped to analyze the bigger picture in everything else.

“Like a week ago. I don’t know who’s under the mask... yet.”

“Yet?”

“The only thing I know right now is that he’s enrolled at Midtown.”

She scuffed, “figures.” Her gaze shifted back to the board. “And Spider-Man’s connected to Tony Stark in what way?”

“I don’t know but it’s obvious that there’s some connection.”

She stared at the center of it all: a picture of me. “A piece of advice: don’t do anything that I would.”

“Yes, mum.” Mockery. One stare was enough to know she wasn’t a fan of it.

I didn’t matter who she was, I wasn’t planning on listening to reason anytime soon.

#peter parker #peter parker x reader #peter parker imagine #marvel #tom holland #tom holland x reader #soulmate au #peter parker au #spiderman x reader #tom holland imagine

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peekaboo-parker · 6 years

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Lucky, Unlucky- Peter Parker x Mermaid!Reader (3)

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

Summary of Overall Series: After his countless efforts to catch just one fish, Peter finds himself reeling in something much larger. A mermaid. Despite his luck in being eye-to-eye with a real life mythical creature, he could never have guessed what sort of unlucky events come with the catch. Warnings: -Mild language my childrens. -Only small mention of sex. -This is for mature audiences, because the editing mistakes in this story may be distressing to some. (Don’t worry, it’s not for mature audiences, I was just trying to do a lame joke. I’m sorry you had to endure that. This will be seen in ever part, so you’ll have to endure it more than once :D)

Author’s Note: I apologise if the story starts off slow, I just really want to develop Peter’s and your relationship more as you are both really fascinated by each other. I hope that makes a little sense. But please enjoy my frens!!! o(*^▽^*)o

F/C= Favourite colour

Masterlist

“I’m telling you the truth… I promise it’s true. If you just give me a damn chance to show you, you’ll be thankin’ me and then we’ll be rich. And— And I’ll be able to say ‘I told you so’. So, whatdya say, huh? I tell you what, come tomorrow morning and I’ll show you. If it doesn’t show up then I won’t prod you any further. But if— yes. Yes that’s right. Exactly… so… do we have a deal then? Huh? I promise you will not be disappointed. Thank you… yes, see you tomorrow then, huh?”

That was close…

Your father was already up. As a king, he did usually wake up quite early, but never as early as you had. It’s only the 5th day of sneaking out to see Peter, but it’s the 15th day of sneaking out in the morning. He just had to wake up the moment you did.

“What are you doing, Y/N?” He asked you in his deep voice. He was a large merman, both in height and width. He was more muscular, than obese. Since your father was the king, that made your mother the queen of your mermaid and merman tribe. She was beautiful. You always found that touching the small stretch marks by her hips was fascinating and you always liked to hug your mother, because she was warm. Everyone else you’d ever hugged was cold, but your mother was warm. Your father was cold, but your mother was warm.

“I’ll ask you one more time. What are you doing, Y/N?”

“I wanted to go out to… exercise.”

“This early in the morning?” His fin only gently pushed the water under neath him, but your father still managed to get close to you.

“Yes,” You dipped your head in embarrassment, “I do not like it when other people look at me, so I go early now.”

“Oh Y/N,” Your father’s piercing green eyes softened and his large hand came into contact with your cheek, gently pushing your face up to meet your gaze. “You know, when I was a merman your age, I did the same thing. I never liked it when my friends, or my family, or-or anybody looked at me.”

You found yourself smiling, happy that you got away with your lie, but you also loved getting to know your father just that little much more.

“Now go and do your thing my dear Y/N, but don’t stay out too long, alright? Your mother’ll get worried again.”

“Thank you father. I promise I won’t worry mother this time,” You laughed gently, whilst your father grinned and put his hand on your back, to manoeuvre his way around your form, in order to move in the kitchen.

You watched your father wade his way into the next room, before you then hurried out of your home. Your fin kicked at the water, pushing you faster and further away from your kingdom. Your heart pounded in exhilaration; the thrill of breaking your parents’ rules was addictive, as was the face, the voice, the smile, the everything, belonging to Peter. After having five mornings worth of getting to know the human boy, you’ve found out his full name to be Peter Benjamin Parker. You rather fancy the name, it has a cute ring to it, that just seems to suit him so well.

“Benjamin,” Even the name was fun to say. Benjamin. Peter. Benjamin. Parker. You giggled to yourself as a small fish fluttered past you, tickling the skin of your arms. You spun around, watching the fish swim away, only to turn back around and become swarmed by the rest of the school.

A squeal escaped your lips at the sudden swarm, as you twisted around, losing your direction toward the surface. Your head was still spinning, once all the fish had left, leaving you in the open water, confused. Where were you going again? What were you doing?

Oh! That’s right!

You were going to go exercise.

Mr Seagull’s feet padded against the wooden flooring of the small peer, waddling beside Peter. The bird occasionally flapped his wings in order to catch up with the boy, but he still fell a little behind.

The equipment in Peter’s hands got harshly placed to the ground with a thud. He took his backpack off of his back as he began to sit down by the edge. Mr Seagull made it to his own spot by the doge of the peer, making sure to wriggled his feet beneath him as he lay down.

Peter couldn’t help but give the feathered creature a small smile as he began to take his shoes and socks off, rolling up the bottoms of his tracksuit pants. After a moment to take in the beautiful sunrise in front of him, he leaned down to check the water’s temperature with the tips o his fingers. Much to his fortune, the water seemed warmer than usual, so he dipped his feet in, stretching his toes out and letting out a long relaxed sigh.

“You haven’t seen Y/N yet?” Peter asked his bird companion, leaning back on his hands.

Mr Seagull responded with a cluck and a ruffle of his feathers.

“She’s usually here earlier than I am, and I’m kinda late today.” He looked down at his wrist, noticing he forgot to put his watch on. “Mr Seagull, I can’t tell you how much she’s made an impact on my life. I don’t even want to catch fish anymore... Y/N was all I needed to catch in the first place. God,” He sighed dreamily and leaned further back, letting his head droop with the motion. He closed his eyes and continued, “She’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen in my life. Mr Seagull, don’t you think she’s just perfect?”

The seagull cooed in a reply, and gently nudged the boy’s knee with his beak.

A laugh fell from Peter’s nose and he brought up a hand up to his hair, sitting back up straight to watch the soft movement of the sea water. “I just hope she comes.”

“You hope who comes, son?”

Alarmed, Peter’s head snapped around, as did the rest of his body. “Muh-Muh-Muh-Mr Hodges?! Uh-ummm...”

The older man wasn’t alone, he seemed to have company. Two larger men stood behind him, their arms folded. Mr Hodges stroked his beard with a laugh, “Don’t stress, son.” He turned to the men behind him, “This is the boy I was talking to you about. He’s yet to catch a fish.”

Peter frowned as the two larger men simply nodded, not daring to demonstrate any sort of emotion. He was confused. Who were they? What were they here for?

Mr Seagull, suspicious, picked himself up and gracefully jumped onto one of the wooden poles by the edge of the peer, gaining height, compared to Peter who was still sitting on the ground.

The boy swallowed thickly, and carefully stood up, patting down his clothes with awkward movements.

Mr Hodges jutted a thumb over his shoulder, “These are men from the… from the-uh-the Animal Welfare Institute; I’m sure you’ve heard of ‘em. I wanted to show ‘em our beautiful range of marine life we have here.”

As if Peter wasn’t already suspicious, the older man gave the men behind him a look and a hearty laugh. His chest bulged, before he pushed past Peter, purposefully knocking his shoulder in the process. He hadn’t even given the boy a second to apologise, before his head lowered, staring at the boy’s belongings, “Now son, if you don’t mind, would you care to pack up your things?”

With disbelief, Peter stepped forward, grabbing the older man’s shoulder to force him to turn around to negotiate. There was no way he could just let Mr Hodges find you out. “Buh-but—”

“But what, Peter? You waiting for something? Or someone…?”

The said boy’s big brown eyes glared into Mr Hodges’. It was obvious now, he was here for you. There was no denying it. But despite the fact that Peter knew that Mr Hodge’s may have an idea that he knows about you, the boy persisted. “I-I haven’t fully had my morning time. Mr Hodges, you know how I’m always here in the mornings… can I please stay here for a bit longer?”

The older man frowned before turning to the men behind him. Peter watched as the two large figures shifted their crossed arms and shook their head, they eyes holding urgency and a stern gaze. “Peter, you will pack up your things. I’m not gonna say it thrice now—“

“No, Mr Hodges!”

The said man stumbled backward at the sudden outburst. Even Peter was surprised by his own confidence, it was evident in his eyes and the way he looked to the older man with worry. He didn’t want to hurt the fisherman. Rephrase; he didn’t want anyone to get hurt. Especially not you.

Peter took a quick second, hurriedly peeking over his shoulder, but the water didn’t stir. Fortunately, Mr Seagull was keeping watch over the sea, remaining poised on top of the wooden pole. The boy’s fingers subconsciously curled into his palm, as his eyes narrowed at the man in front of him.

One of the ‘Animal Welfare’ men grunted, passing a noise through his nose, like a hog. If they weren’t there to put Mr Hodges in his place, the man would’ve left without another word. In truth, the boy’s confidence was frightening him. He seized the opportunity to stare Peter down. “Peter. I own this land, I own this peer. If you don’t leave right now, I’ll just have to make you. Understand?” His teeth gritted together, pushing out the skin at the ends of his jaw.

The brown-eyed boy could’ve sworn Mr Hodges’ veins would pop out of his neck, as well as the ‘Animal Welfare’ men behind him.

The males stared each other down, slowly closing in on the boy, but none the less he wouldn’t budge. Not until Mr Seagull shrieked, capturing everyone’s attention. The water stirred. You were here.

The boy’s body twisted around, watching along with the sniggering men behind him, as bubbles formed on the surface of the water, heading closer and closer to the edge of the peer. Peter’s eyes wandered to the many rocks on the right side of the peer, where the waves were not as calm. A sudden idea flashed through the boy’s mind, causing his feet to spring into action; he bent down, scooping his backpack, flinging it over his shoulder. Next, with a swift motion, he grabbed his rod and sprinted past the men. Mr Seagull, squawked at the older men, before letting his wings take him up to the air, following close behind Peter.

“Oi! Peter Park—!”

“Finally. He’s gone…” One of the men ran a hand over their face. It was their business to catch rare creatures, but the fact that they had some sort of contact with this annoying fisherman was beyond them. They only had one goal; to get money.

The other man threatened, “Now... where’s the mermaid?”

“Sh-She should be here—“

The men pushed past Mr Hodges without a second thought, looking over the edge of the peer. One of them grunted, taking out a large net from their impossibly small pocket.

The older fisherman’s eyes widened, gaping at them. Sure, he wanted to receive the prize money for capturing a mythical creature just as much as the met standing before him, but... something felt off.

Peter’s pants of breath became easily ignored over the crashing of the waves. They smacked into the rocks harshly, spraying a bit of water here and there.

Still, it was Peter’s duty to keep you safe. And if that meant putting himself in danger, he was willing to do just that.

As the waves began to pull out, the only other sound he could hear was the rocks crunching underneath his sneakers and the soft humming of... a person. He rounded a sharp, low corner, placing his hand on the rough surface to enable some balance to walk through.

Mr Seagull waddled behind again, the wind being too strong for him to be able to fly.

“Y-Y/N?”

A gasp, loud enough to hear over the crashing waves just next to you, pushed past your lips. As your form twisted around with shock, you threw up your hand which had held a large, smooth rock, in protection over the intruder. But upon seeing the familiar face, the fiery look in your E/C eyes quickly faded, replacing your stern expression into one of contentment and joy.

“Peter! What are you doing here? Oh, and hello Mr Seagull,” Your fingers barely moved in a small wave.

As the boy made his way toward you, he dropped his belongings under the rocky corner he had just walked through, and sat down next to you. Although, he did make sure to keep his distance, as your whole body was exposed now. He’d only ever seen the top half of your body, and now he was lucky enough to see your beautiful F/C fins.

“I was about to ask you the same question... and also what you’re doing with the rock.” Peter had to physically stop himself from staring so much. The way the rising sun made your wet skin glisten, got his heart flipping. Being level with you this time, eye-to-eye, he noticed how much smaller you were than what he had previously thought.

“I was exercising, Peter Benjamin,” You grinned, demonstrating to him the way you had used the rock for such an activity.

After he had told you his full name, you began to refer to him as Peter Benjamin; a name that Peter didn’t take long to accustom to. The fact that the name came from your lips, was enough to let him adapt to it. “Ah, I see. I just-I just thought you were going to come to the peer, like you always do now.”

“To the peer? The wooden... that thing?”

He nodded gently, sensing a hint of strange confusion in your tone of voice.

“I did not — wait...” The school of fish, the spinning, the open water, the boredom of the morning. Everything clicked inside your brain and your heart pounded at your stupid mistake. Peter’s eyebrows furrowed, gently asking you what was causing you to become so worried. So you told him about your morning, including your encounter with your father.

“So he is the king? Of course he’s the king...” He shook his head in thought. Mornings were now the weirdest times of the day. It used to be weird, always during fifth period when that one guy in all of his classes would ways bring up the topic of sex. That boy wouldn’t hesitate to bring it up in any sort of class. But that weirdness couldn’t possibly beat the moments Peter was enduring every morning now. “Y/N, you’re a princess.” He breathed.

“Indeed I am.”

The grin of his face was contagious. So big it almost couldn’t fit his face, but it hadn’t lasted as long as you had wanted. His joyful expression wiped off of his face as he had had a sudden realisation. “Hohh no... no no no...”

“Peter?” Your voice laced with concern, as his head lowered, but the crease in between his eyebrows was evident. “Benjamin?”

“Y/N, I didn’t tell anyone about you but— Mr Hodges...”

You nodded hurriedly, giving him permission to continue. All your attention settled in him, as your hand placed itself by Peter’s which lazily lay on the cool rocky surface.

“He knows you’re real a-and I saw these two big guys with him. They looked super mean and buff... I don’t want to assume too much, but I think they want to... I don’t know how to say this nicely—”

“Just say it,” You cried with concern.

“I think they want to catch you, capture you... kidnap you.”

“C-capture me?” Your jet black pupils shrunk in fright, as your eyes searched in Peter’s chocolate-brown ones for any sort of hint of sarcasm. He could be joking, right? He was easy to read, however, and the uncomfortable look he gave you held all the answers you needed, but didn’t want. Your head began to shake, slowly. “No Peter, I do not want to go.” Faster now. “I can still come here, can I not? Every morning?”

A sigh escaped his lips, and his eyelids dropped with stress. He hadn’t known you for long but the connection you had with him was strong, unbreakable. “I don’t want you to leave either, but-b-but you’ll be safer if you stay away.”

“Let me fight him off then!”

“No,” Peter couldn’t help but laugh. The seemingly determined expression in your face was too cute. He wanted to hug you right then and there, hold your hand even. Just, he wanted to touch you again. “You need to stay safe or else we won’t ever... ever see each other again. Y-Y/N, I don’t want to lose you, so please just—“

“Okay,” You interject quietly, only just audible of the crashing noises of the waves. “I promise. But when can I see you again? When will the human leave?”

A swift movement from the Seagull caused you to flinch, pulling your hand back, before lowering it down, only to land on top of Peter’s fingers. He was warm, like your mother.

Despite the sudden contact, neither of you moved away. The skin of your palm was so surprisingly soft, that Peter ignored how cold your hand was.

He lifted his head up, right at the same moment your gaze had also shifted upward. He met your concerned eyes, softening at the beautiful sight of the gentle pink that adorned the edges of your E/C iris’. The urges that had been bottled up inside of him finally made its escape, as Peter flipped his hand over, swiftly grasping onto yours, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “I-I don’t know, Y/N, but I hope he leaves soon... I hope he leaves now.”

There was no hesitation, as you squeezed his hand back, allowing the warm shivers crawl through your body. The touch was electric, and you couldn’t get enough of it. There was no way were you ever going to give up the feeling of touching the human boy, or give up the feeling of seeing him, talking with him. He was a magnet, pulling you into him with so much strength, you couldn’t and didn’t want to leave.

“Peter Benjamin, let us meet each other here every morrow now. This can be our escape!”

The plan sounded great, however the location wasn’t. Using the opportunity to squeeze your hand again, he grabbed your full attention, his eyes boring into yours, “Are you sure? Y/N, it’s not too dangerous for you? I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“I will be okay. Will you be okay?”

“If I get to see you every morning again, then yeah.”

Both of you beamed at each other, sharing cheerful giggles. The noise of the crashing of the waves was nothing compared to the audible noise of two teenagers smitten with each other. The love radiated off of both your bodies like the comforting, warm and most sympathetic heat of the suns rays.

Mr Seagull could have rolled his eyes during your seemingly dream-like moment. That is- if he had the ability to.

“It’s been three hours, Hodges.”

“I-I can assure you both, I-I-I know what I saw.”

“Well, we don’t have all morning, so unless you want to prove that there really is a fucking mermaid here. I suggest you don’t pester us anymore. The same thing happened last time with the ‘Loch Ness’.”

“That was—! I was just—!”

“Alright, Hodges. Don’t get your knickers in a knot.”

“I-I’m not—“

“Keith, we’ll be going. It’s no more use, we’ve got other things to do.”

“No wait—“

“We appreciate the thought of the mermaid, but I’m afraid you’ve just wasted our time. Unless it is an absolute emergency, I suggest you don’t call us again.”

“Thanks for the tour, Hodges. You take care of yourself now.”

“Now, hold on a moment—“

“Goodbye, Mr Hodges.”

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unreadable0 · 6 years

Text

Prompt

Thanks for the amazing prompt ask @kuropikt ! Man, I was really excited to get started on this one! This one ended up kind of crack-y, but I hope that you like it! This features a de-aged Kuroro and an expasperated Kurapika who has to play nanny.

75. (edited) “Get back here and put on a shirt!”

Kurapika was sure that he was being punished for something.

Had it been any other form of divine retribution, Kurapika would have had no qualms. He was sure that he would have deserved it, even. But not this time. Not when his punishment came in the form of an innocent-looking, four-year-old version of his worst enemy.

Ugh.

Even the man’s vile fur coat had shrunk to fit his new, much smaller body. The boy looked up at him with confusion and complete, foolish trust. Kurapika sighed.

He hadn’t even been looking for the Phantom Troupe leader in the first place! Heck, he’d stopped doing that years ago, and Kurapika had just started learning how to live a semi-normal life when Lucilfer had crash landed (literally) onto his front steps, a slip of paper sticking out of his front pocket.

‘Sorry, I fucked up. Please watch over this package for me until I come to collect it in a few days,’ it read, and the only thing that identified the writer of the note was a hasty scribble of a clown at the bottom left corner.

Kurapika decided that he hated clowns. Perverted, pink-haired clowns, to be specific. Oh, how he wished he could just pummel Hisoka into oblivion... that would save him so much trouble in the long run.

Sighing, Kurapika turned his attention back to the smiling child a couple feet away from him. He had time to plot Hisoka’s timely demise later; there were bigger problems he had to deal with at the moment.

“Older sister? Older sister can you play with me?”

A tick developed at Kurapika’s eyebrow. “I’ve told you before, Lucilfer, I’m not your older sister,” he told the boy sternly. “If anything, I’m your older brother,” he muttered to himself.

“Okay, older brother!” Kuroro exclaimed, a cheerful grin playing at his lips.

Shit. I guess his nen-enhanced hearing carried over as well.

At least he seemed to have forgotten how to access his pesky hatsu.

Kurapika exhaled slowly. It was going to be a long couple of days. Kuroro seemed to sense his pessimistic thoughts, and shot him the brightest, most adorable toddler smile imaginable.

Kurapika almost smiled. Almost.

Three weeks later...

“Get back here and put on a clean shirt, for crying out loud!”

“No!” Kuroro protested, darting off with his favorite, now-stained shirt.

Kurapika chased the dark-haired boy down the hall. “Kuroro, please stop running! You’re going to fall and hurt yourself!”

The child just giggled and ran even faster, much to Kurapika’s dismay. Sighing, the blond wearily sat down. He was way too old for this. He was only 21, but still.

It was strange. Twenty-one days had passed, and he found that it was getting harder and harder to see the four year old boy as his worst enemy with each moment that he spent with the boy. After all, how could such a sweet—if not a bit mischievous—child be the cold-blooded murderer that he had come to know? It was as if his mind had made them separate entities entirely.

Speaking of which, Kuroro did not seem to be much of a toddler anymore. If anything, he seemed to have grown a couple years in the past few weeks. Perhaps it was a side-effect of whatever curse that had been set on him in the first place. With any luck, Kuroro would be back to his infuriating adult self in a few weeks. Good thing that Kurapika had burned that blasted coat while he’d had the chance. Currently the kid was dressed more tastefully in a pair of shorts and a t-shirt.

“Kurapika, is something wrong?” Sparkling grey eyes peered up at him questioningly, and the blond found himself smiling fondly. Wait, fondly?

“Just a bit tired of chasing you around the whole day,” Kurapika explained, pretending to swoon for added dramatic effect. “I think I’ll just sleep now and not cook you dinner. Ah! It’s all your fault, you cruel monster!”

“No! I’m sorry Kurapika! I didn’t mean to!” the boy cried, latching onto him like some sort of affectionate leech. “Please, please cook dinner! I promise I’ll never do it again!” Kuroro sniffled against his shirt, and Kurapika ruffled his hair playfully.

“I’m just joking with you. I could never be mad at you, Kuroro,” the blond assured him without thinking. How ironic his words were.

“Really?” Something flickered in the boy’s eyes, something sharper and more familiar.

Kurapika froze.

“Yay!” Kuroro shouted, hugging onto him tighter, and the previous tightness evaporated in an instant.

Relaxing, Kurapika hoped that it had just been his imagination. With a pang, he realized that he was going to miss the little kid once the spell had worn off. Ever since Kuroro had started living with him, Kurapika had been forced to adopt a normal routine. He would wake up to a hyper kid shaking him awake at precisely 7 am, who would then drag him downstairs to cook breakfast for the both of them. Then he would complete his papers for the Zodiacs and entertain Kuroro while doing so. Instead of falling asleep on top of his work, Kurapika would tuck in the child before turning in for the night himself, as the two of them shared a room, anyway.

Heck, if Kuroro’s spell remained permanent, then he’d consider renting a two-bedroom apartment instead. He certainly had the money to, anyway...

Wait, why am I even thinking about this? Shouldn’t I be waiting for any chance to boot him out?

Two more weeks later...

Kurapika smiled softly as the dark-haired boy frowned in his sleep, and he closed the story book he had been reading. Flicking off the light, he tried to disperse the nervous thoughts that had gathered in the back of his mind as he crawled onto a nearby futon. He had learned early on that Kuroro didn’t like sleeping by himself in the dark, based off of the first handful of nights in which he had been woken up by a distressed toddler wailing about the monsters under his bed.

It had become second nature, now, to read a quick excerpt to the child before tucking him in for the night. Kuroro had grown four-and-a-half years in the past five weeks, by Kurapika’s estimation, and he was about to make a good twenty-year jump over night, if Hisoka’s note was any indication.

The clown had finally made contact with him, in the form of a very irritated letter. Kurapika had promptly shredded the note as soon as he had read it, but the main thing that he got from it was that Hisoka was a creepy pervert that should not be let around kids. Oh, and the fact that Hisoka had worked out a deal with whomever had cursed Kuroro in the first place. Kuroro would be returned to his original state by morning.

Thinking about it made Kurapika feel a bit uneasy. Best case scenario would be that Lucilfer wouldn’t remember anything and Kurapika could feel free to kick him out without remorse. But even that would be slightly upsetting, due to the fact that Kurapika would have to return to his boring ways of paperwork and Zodiac meetings.

Right as Kurapika was starting to drift off to sleep, too worn out by his worrisome thoughts, he realized that he probably should have just slept in the living room. Or in a hotel, for that matter. Oh, well. Too late for that now.

For the first time in thirty-five days, Kurapika woke up to silence. As soon as he opened his eyes, with the sun trickling in from opened curtains, he knew that something was very, very wrong.

One, because he had somehow ended up back on his own bed, something that had not happened in weeks. Two, there was no sound or movement to be heard whatsoever, but Kurapika could feel Lucilfer’s aura presence in his vicinity.

No...

Turning slightly to the other side of the bed, Kurapika screamed in terror. There, face just inches away from his own, was none other than Kuroro Lucilfer, in all his adult glory. Which meant that he was also blatantly without clothes, assuming that the clothes that he had been wearing didn’t fit anymore. There was a pleased grin on Lucilfer’s lips, and Kurapika had a feeling that the other man had been watching him for quite some time.

“Holy shit,” Kurapika whispered, and he had never backpedaled off of a bed so quickly in his whole life.

“Hey,” Lucilfer greeted, voice perfectly smooth and not at all resembling the child-like one that Kurapika had grown so accustomed to. With one swift movement, the Spider Head pulled the blond back to his chest, and Kurapika tried his best not full-out panic.

Trying his best to escape the other’s vice-like grip, Kurapika averted his eyes to protect his modesty. “Lucilfer, please unhand me. If we work together, you can leave as soon as possible without any further issues.”

The dark-haired man inhaled deeply, hugging the Kurta even closer, if that was possible. “I do believe that I liked it better when you called me by my first name.”

“I’ll do that when hell freezes over,” Kurapika hissed, trying not to get too comfortable. “Now let me go, or I won’t be held accountable for the consequences.”

“But I thought that you could never be mad at me, Kurapika,” Lucilfer replied smugly, and Kurapika closed his eyes and counted to ten. Damn it! I knew those words would come back to bite me later!

“So you remember everything?” Kurapika hazarded, still trying to pry the other man’s fingers off of his waist.

All he got was a hum in response, and if Kurapika had been any less conscious of his situation, he might have called it cute.

“You’re not going to let this go, aren’t you?”

Kurapika could practically feel Kuroro smile into his back. “This whole situation or you? Well, no for both.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“Aww, but you loved me yesterday.”

Scoffing, Kurapika paused in his attempts to free himself in favor of turning to look at the Phantom Troupe leader. “That was when you were still a more complacent and agreeable kid, dumbass.”

“That just means that I’ll have to make you love me at this age, too.”

“That’s gross. Almost pedophilic for me,” Kurapika retorted.

“Not if we were interested in each other before I was turned into a toddler,” Lucilfer responded quickly.

“You—I wasn't—what?” the blond was sure that his head was going to explode.

“Ooh, this is going to be fun.”

Sorry, I have to cut this off here. Sorry for the weird-as-butt plot here, but let me now if you want to read more! I would really like to fully edit this blurb and further it, but I don’t know if I’ll find the time or inspiration to. This was super fun to write, but unfortunately I had to multi-task as I was doing so. I hope that you liked it!

#hxh #hunter x hunter #kurapika kurta #kuroro lucilfer #chrollo lucilfer #kurokura #kuropika #chrollopika #unreadable0 answers

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anonthenullifier · 7 years

Text

An Auspice of Scarlet

Title: An Auspice of Scarlet

Treat for: @atendrilofscarlet

Rating: T

Warnings: None

Word Count: 5.6k

Prompt: A Scarlet Vision Victorian AU

Chapter: 1/?

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12184758/chapters/27661812

Summary: After another failed seance, Wanda Maximoff finds herself seeking asylum from an unknown millionaire and his reserved, but kind butler. As with most things in her life, it's when the semblance of normalcy and contentment begin to form that her past comes crashing in to upend everything she's worked hard to form. Will the blossom of love be enough to vanquish the demons of her past?

Note: Anya - This is my gift to you in thanks for all of the hard work you put in to organizing the Scarlet Vision Exchange. I don't think anyone realizes just how much work it was to take this on and how amazing it is that things went as smoothly as they did. It was my honor to help you where I could and my delight to see all of the amazing Scarlet Vision works that came from the exchange. You are an amazing and wonderful person that I have enjoyed getting to know through our mutual love of Scarlet Vision. Since you put in so much work, as you are aware because I can't keep secrets, I decided to finally fulfill your request (that you made way way long ago, tried to find it but we have had too many conversations on too many stories to locate it easily) to write a Victorian AU of Scarlet Vision. This is against my better judgment, seeing as I am not an AU writer, but because it's for you, I'll deal with it :). I thought having to write the comic book versions of Wanda and Vision was out of my depth, but this story so far has made me feel like a shark stranded in the middle of the Sahara. So I hope you enjoy this and that it is everything you were hoping for with this AU. I don't know how long it will be, but I promise that I will fill it with as much melodramatic romance and angst, secrets and sordid pasts, misunderstandings and dramatic reconciliations in the rain as possible.

I hope you all enjoy!

Written for @scarletvisionexchange2017

The man holding her hand is trembling, a sickening claminess developing between their palms the longer she feeds the thickening, anticipatory silence. All Wanda wants to do is take her hand back, pack up her things, and eat dinner, but the lack of money to afford food dictates she continue. A deep, well-practiced hum builds in her chest, vibrating up her esophagus before it escapes her lips. There is a gasp in front of her, Harriet, the youngest of the five daughters at the table, no doubt (since she has been gasping about every three seconds), but at least she is receptive and so Wanda tentatively reaches out to her mind.

Despite spending the past three months working exclusively like this, Wanda is still disoriented when touching a mind that is not Pietro’s, the thorn of his name stabbing her heart, wrestling all air from her lungs. She pushes back the pain, the memories, the horror of his loss and instead caresses the surface of Harriet’s mind, searching for something to pull out. A cursory examination reveals only a recently deceased pet, which will have to do. “I believe my spirit guide has arrived.” A flick of Wanda’s finger sends a tendril of scarlet rapping against the underside of the table.

“Oh,” the table shakes as Harriet pounds her feet excitedly on the ground, “What does it look like?”

Wanda breathes in, memorizing the image from Harriet’s mind before pulling her powers out, “A white dog, with well-groomed fur, and a cerulean vest.” Another gasp from across the table is joined by a harumph from Mr. Clammy Hands. “It is informing me its name is Buttons.”

A reminiscent sigh of “My poor poor Buttons” fills the room, allowing enough distraction for Wanda to move on to her next target. An invisible pulse of power shoots into the husband’s head, twisting through his judgmental disregard of her abilities and Wanda has to ignore the ire curled tightly around his thoughts about how much he dislikes having this woman in their home.

“Buttons is running away,” a pained No and a stern Quiet, Harriet, barely register as Wanda delves deeper into the man’s memories, searching for something useful. “He is running towards a figure,” she pauses, trying to remember the advice from the seminar led by the Fox Sisters: give them drama, give them suspense, heightened emotion means heightened gullibility. Wanda drops her voice, emphasizing her accent as she announces: “It is a woman.” The image in the man’s mind clarifies and she can make out every wrinkle on the face, the perennially stray wisp of hair sticking out of the tightly coiled bun that likely horrified such a poised woman, and the intense, hawkish gaze. “She is old.”

A quiet, mournful, “Grandmama…” comes from across the table.

“Harriet,” the connection between their hands break as the girl’s father scolds her, “That is exactly what this…” Wanda parts her eyes enough to watch him gesticulate at her, his voice perfectly conveying his disgust at being a part of this seance, “skilamalink* woman wants.”

The Fox Sisters also emphasized the importance of rearing in the disbelievers, muffling their arguments as efficiently and tersely as possible. They suggested kicking their shin, but Wanda always tries to go for shock, figuring that she should save physical actions for a last-ditch effort. “The spirit has a message for you, Mr. Smith.”

She doesn’t have to watch him to feel the roll of his eyes and the impudence that clings to every movement of his sweaty palms. “Oh, I am sure she does, something about live a long, healthy life of prosperity, and how terribly she misses me and her morning cup of tea on the porch. You are all the same, just-.”

Wanda cuts him off, clenching her fist to grasp the memory firmly, attempting to match her voice to the stern cadence in his mind. “She says to go to the cellar and shove wool in your mouth for misbehaving, Willy.”

Suddenly the room chills, the man motionless, his surprise potent enough to quiet the women surrounding the table. Wanda, for a split second, thinks she might actually have conjured a spirit, until the screech of a chair being pushed back and the thud as it's thrown to the ground causes her to open her eyes to a red face gleaning with sweat, the drops jumping from his mustache into the air as he trembles. “Witch!”

A cacophony fills the room as Harriet screams, falling to the ground, and her sisters join her, crouching low, but Wanda is only focused on Mr. Smith, fingers curling into her palm, her nails digging into her skin, falling into the groove of her long ago acquired scars, horrified at how easily this man rips the red satin cloth from the table, throwing her candles, crystals, and gems onto the floor. All she can seem to think about, as she watches him crumple the cloth, struggle to rip its seams, is how much money this is going to cost if she can’t get it all back. Mr. Smith points an angry, accusatory finger at her, yelling “Witch!” once more before he stalks out of the house.

Wanda looks to the missus for help, but the frizzy-haired woman is pale, could even be a standin for a spirit at a seance, if need be, giving off the impression of being strangled by her high-necked dress. Harriet is even less help, still laying on the ground, surrounded by her sisters who are giggling and fanning her with whatever objects are within reach. Wanda can see Mr. Smith moving outside, slamming his feet in a straight path towards the Hudson and she groans a, “Not again,” before running out of the house after him.

“Mr. Smith!” The futility of talking sense into him does not escape her, yet Wanda always attempts reason first in hopes that one day it will work. William continues his emotional stomp, the tablecloth trailing on the ground, stirring the dirt of the path. Wanda tilts her body forward, steps increasing in pace until she is jogging behind him. Once she catches up to Mr. Smith, she attempts to grab the cloth from him, but his grip is too strong, too fueled by his anger as he fumes, whispering (she can’t tell if it is too her or to the sky) about how easy it would be to reinvoke the witch trials because clearly the people of Salem were on to something.

Eventually another voice follows, a slightly more colored (though still quite pale) Mrs. Smith, with her dress carefully clutched in her hands, pleading “William put her stuff down, this is preposterous,” but he doesn’t. The houses along the path remain silent, though the curtains pull back to reveal curious, terrified faces and Wanda tries to gesture for help, pleading with the bystanders for someone to take pity on her, but each pane is instantly re-covered. “William, please.”

“My house will not suffer a witch.”

Wanda tries one more time to wiggle the cloth free from his hands, but to no avail, and so she re-attempts to reason with him even though she doesn't have to be a witch to foresee it won't have an impact, “I am not a witch.”

They stop, the shallow gulping of water mixing easily with his heavy breathing, and Wanda sighs as Mr. Smith squints at her, a growl developing in his voice as he says. “Then may your spirit guides save your wretched soul.” For the seventh time in the past two weeks she watches as her materials are unceremoniously thrown into the river and then, without another word, she is abandoned.

Wanda stands alone on the riverbank, hands hanging limply at her side, watching as the cloth soaks up the water and begins its descent into the murky depths. An exhausted, fed-up sigh falls from her mouth as she unlaces her boots, strips her stockings from her feet, and hitches her dress up with a thin rope she has learned to carry around just for this situation. Slowly she dips her foot into the water, a half grimace, half relieved smile warring on her face as she wades into the river to collect her materials. Thankfully the sun has not set yet and so the water is tepid, uncomfortable, but not hypothermic.

Even though the temperature of the water is in her favor, the current is not nor are the branches and roots nestled in the sand, catching the tablecloth firmly between a rock and a branch, unwilling to move even with some gentle witchy (she looks over her shoulder before doing this, just to be safe as she’d really prefer not to be known as the first to be burned in the new witch trials) encouragement. It’s only when she braces her feet on two rocks, bending her knees to lower her center of gravity, that she is able to pull hard enough to get the tablecloth loose, but the force of the pull is more than she had intended and it sends her falling backwards into the water. “I,” her hands flop down into the water with a defeated annoyance, “give up.”

Wanda remains sitting in the river, not certain how much time has passed as her thoughts run through the cost of the materials she lost from this seance, certain she will not be eagerly welcomed if she returns later to ask for her candles and gems back. More concerning is that there are only three more families left in the hamlet that she hasn’t contacted, but she’s reluctant to proffer her services, particularly since one is the local minister and his very pregnant wife. Perhaps it is time to move on, yet again. What she does not understand is that, unlike the Fox Sisters who urge vagueness and shifty answers, Wanda actually contacts spirits, well, not real spirits, but the memories of lost loved ones. She does not believe in spiritualism and mesmerism as they teach it because she knows it is all doctored, with wires shoved up sleeves to lift tables, and tin boxes tied to knees to make a rattling sound when a “spirit” enters. Wanda, unlike the rest, actually offers something real, something tangible, but it is as if people are eager to contact the dead until the dead actually respond.

“Pardon me.”

If there is one bright spot to her uncanny ability to be tossed from houses and end up contemplating her life choices in the river, it is that her schedule seems to coincide quite nicely with a handsome, albeit, overdressed gentleman. “Do you always pass by the river at five?”

He hesitates, mouth contorting in amusement as he steps down from the seat of the carriage, his three-piece black suit perfectly matching the black hat on his head and his black-gloved hand dipping into the pocket of his waistcoat to check the time. “Five seventeen, to be exact.”

“Oh well, sorry for my imprecision.”

“It is shameful,” she watches as he examines the ground, feet shuffling the grass from side to side, a curious yet predictable action as he searches for a fallen branch long enough to reach her, never willing to sully the pristine suit on his body by wading into the river. “I will,” his face brightens as he bends down, scooping up a branch and approaching the shore, “excuse your imprecision, however.”

Wanda rolls her eyes as she grips the branch, one well-practiced hoist lifting her to her feet and kickstarting her momentum out of the water. “Thank you.”

“Oh,” a bashful smile flirts with his lips as he drops the branch and waits for her to join him in walking towards the carriage, “you are most welcome.” They walk in silence, his eyes set on their destination, allowing her a brief moment’s glance at his face, the only chance she ever gets to parse out this mysterious man who is going to give her a towel, a sandwich, and then insist he must be going. Wherever he ends up, she is certain it is outdoors, his face tinged with red yet his clothing has to be insufferable in the oppressive June heat. “May I make an inquiry?”

Wanda’s feet halt as her head cocks to the side, taking in the nervous twitch in his shoulders as he grabs the towel and the slight scuffle of his feet as he waits for her to respond. Slowly she accepts the towel, hands acting on their own accord as they bring it to the tips of her hair, lazily blotting the water. “You don’t have to ask me if you can ask a question.”

The concept seems to confuse him, furrow forming between his blonde eyebrows, his gloved hands, now free of the towel, hovering in the air as he contemplates whether to respond to her or continue with the inquiry. Wanda finds her lips lifting at his indecision, about to offer her opinion but he finally chooses a path and forges ahead. “Have you considered a profession that might be,” his hands wave through the air as he attempts to extract the appropriate wording, “less prone to amphibious attacks?”

A small, self-deprecating chuckle falls from her lips, unsure how to answer a question she asks herself almost daily. “Unfortunately, for an unattached woman as myself, the only other options are to be a dressmaker in the city,” not to be confused with a seamstress who would actually fix dresses instead of spend her nights spread eagle on a bed, “or consign myself to servitude and I refuse to be owned by anyone.”

This is not the first time she has defended her decisions in life, but unlike the majority of audiences (mostly in taverns or along the road or on the decks of steamboats as she travels), he seems to actually listen to her words, weigh them, parse out the meaning and other possible options, and then accept what she says with a gentle, affirming nod. “Understandable.”

Though the word is said without judgment, there is an odd, reticent quality to his voice that causes her eyebrow to lift, eyes trained on his back as he swiftly turns away from her, no doubt reaching for her pickled herring sandwich. This is the first time they’ve spoken beyond concerned inquiries as to her well-being, and so, since he opened the line of communication she determines to pry a little deeper to learn more about this man. “What is your calling in life?”

“I am,” he swivels back around, holding a small, carefully wrapped sandwich between them, his face ostensibly serious and neutral, yet his eyes dart to the side as he answers her, “a butler.”

Embarrassment rushes to her cheeks, the fancy three-piece suit, well-planned schedule, and ability to always have on hand exactly what she needs suddenly coalescing into an impossible to deny framework of the ideal butler. “It is a,” it is not like her to save face, always unapologetic in her opinions and emotions, but this man has been far nicer to her than almost any person she has met since immigrating to the United States, far nicer, in fact, than the majority of people she has met since the death of her parents when she was ten, “noble profession.”

A tight smile forms on his face, her feigned admiration transparent, “It is, akin to your reasoning, far preferable than alternative options.” The man’s lips slip into an easier, more controlled and congenial tilt, pulling a slip of paper from a pocket inside the right breast of his jacket. Carefully he holds it out to her, an expectant lift to his eyebrows that encourages her to grab the sheet and unfold it, confusion bubbling in her chest at the evenly spaced, disciplined lines of the numbers and letters. “I have inquired with my,” he pauses, weighing the most appropriate word likely due to her admitted distaste of his lifestyle, “employer and he concurs of my assessment that his estate be available to you for your seances. Due to the distance from the river and the impartial atmosphere, I believe it would be a suitable and, quite arguably, safer location for your work. Please do not hesitate to utilize this offer, I,” his gaze shifts to the murky waves of the Hudson, the alcove nearest the town filled with pockets of green, slimy algae that frames the distant, passing steamboats and barges, “do not object to helping you from the river but would prefer if it was less frequent.”

“I-” very few people have willingingly approached her, the distinctive patchwork fabric of her skirt and the scarlet, jeweled headdress she wears for seances a black mark against her, an experience she, sadly, is far too familiar with even in her home country. Yet this prim and proper man not only somehow is always at the river when she needs help, but he actually helps her, feeds her, speaks with her without reservation, and now, now he offers her his (well not his, his master’s) home. “This is very kind but I do not want to inconvenience you.”

“I assure you it is not an inconvenience.”

Wanda attempts a smile, appreciative of his offer yet hesitant to allow herself to believe there is no ulterior motive. “I will certainly consider it, but I should be leaving, before it gets dark.”

The man’s body freezes, only his eyes showing signs of life as they shift side to side, clearly thrown off by her refusal. “Would you consider an offer to accompany you back to town to ensure your safe return?”

Another foreign and tempting offer but Wanda shakes her head, “I’ll be fine, thank you. I am sure you are a very busy man.” She decides it’s best to walk away, fearing if she remains there looking at the confusion in his eyes or the slightly pained frown on his face that’ll she say yes, open herself up to one more avenue of contact that will only end in manipulation, if her past can predict the future. This doesn’t mean that it hurts any less when she hears the carriage rattle, a gentle hut hut as he spurs the horses into action.

Wanda wraps the towel around her shoulders, head held high as she enters the town, not wanting to portray any weakness to the eyes that appear in the windows, disappearing anytime she turns to stare at them. It is a walk that she despises but she will never allow it to render her as lesser in their eyes, steadfastly holding to her confidence. That is until she reaches her tiny dwelling, one she sublets from an elderly woman who occasionally sprinkles salt on the windowsills, and finds the two windows shattered and the door barely hanging on the frame. Scarlet dances around her fingers as she pushes past the door, turning the knob of the lantern hanging on the wall, a spark of red igniting the wick and filling the room with a golden, muted glow as she holds it aloft.

Everything is in disarray. The table flipped on it’s side, the floor strewn with her papers, tarot cards, and the books she had been reading. Her bed is in a similar state, the rickety frame missing two legs and straw spilling out from a large slash in the mattress. Wanda breathes in, attempting to keep the tears from forming in her eyes, fights back the nauseating memories from her final days in Sokovia, of the hysteria, the yelling, the thrown stones, and the pyre, but then she turns to the left, lifting the lantern to inspect the last part of her room and on the wall, in dark red, dripping liquid is the word Witch and she can’t hold back the sob anymore, falling onto her knees as her hand rises to wipe the tears away.

It is time to leave again, that much is clear.

“Wanda?”

The voice startles her, but not enough to cloud her judgment, and so she controls the flow of red tickling her palm, social survival outweighing her instincts to attack. This voice is kind, concerned, but brimming with anger. “Clint.”

More light fills the room as he sets down his own lantern, hand falling lightly, cautiously on her back. Wanda flinches at the touch but does not move away. “I tried to stop them,” if she lifted her finger an inch she would be able to access his memories of the event, but the quiver in his voice and the scrunch of his fingers in the fabric of her dress is enough to spur her imagination. Then the object of his anger shifts, lessening the emotions to annoyance more so than ire. “But you just had to mess with William Smith, didn’t you?”

“His wife offered enough for a month’s worth of food.”

Clint scoffs at her, a sound that should infuriate her but she knows it is down in partial, mostly good-natured mockery, a sign that he might actually care about her well-being. “I thought you listened to me when I explained that Marjory is not the voice of William. Wanda,” this time he sighs, sinking into the chair at her side before leaning back and staring at the ceiling, “that man owns this area, I don’t want you to be the next Helen Jewett**”

Wanda sits up, shaking away the timidity in her limbs, conjuring her confidence and reiterating, in her mind, that she did nothing wrong. Her eyes travel to Clint’s face, taking in the exhaustion of his half-hearted smirk, an effect of a new child and little sleep. This man, just as the one at the river, has surprised her, a Blacksmith by trade who strongly refused her offer to read his fortune (something about being swindled by a fortune teller in his youth), yet invited her into his home the day she arrived, stoked a fire to dry her feet, fed her, and provided her unasked for guidance in attaining living arrangements. She is not beholden to anyone or anything, utterly alone in life, and yet, she cannot ignore the itch of despair at his disappointment, actually finds herself defending her actions in hopes he accepts the excuse. “I thought it would be different, she seemed accepting and-.”

“You thought wrong.”

“Yes.” Wanda glances despondently around the room. “It is not safe here anymore.”

The thing she respects the most about Clint is his inability to soften his words. “No, not right now.”

The confirmation is what she was seeking, mind shutting down any peripheral thoughts, instead only focusing on survival, what is next. Perhaps she offers her services to a caravan, leaves the reassuring oldness of the settlements to pursue the paradise of autonomy the fliers posted along the road describe existing in strange places with names like California, Oregon, and Utah. But she also wonders if a denser, more populated area might be better, return to New York City where she could disappears into the faceless, pulsing crowds again. Though she left the city precisely because she could not escape, no matter how crowded it got. “I am not sure where to go now.”

“I have a suggestion, if you want to actually listen to me this time.” Wanda glares at him, his honesty can be both refreshing and infuriating, particularly when he takes on a paternalistic air, the need for a parent in her life long since necessary. But instead of biting back, she waves her hand for him to continue. “I think we can salvage this,” a statement that creates a small, strange roiling in her chest, the implication being he doesn’t want her to leave. It is a foreign concept, someone wanting her to stay. “We just need to reinvent your image, you know?”

Wanda’s listless glare morphs into a wrinkled brow. “No...”

“I think it is pretty fair to say you have not managed your public image or reputation very well,” something she’d likely argue against any other day, but given her dress is creating a small pond of mud beneath her (and, much to her fury, all of her other clothing is lying in roughly torn strips on the floor) she’ll concede to his point at the present moment. “Take a break, find some place safe, start small, and then come back once they’ve calmed down.”

“Where am I supposed to find safety?”

Clint stands up, offering her his hand, which she takes, and he pulls her back onto her feet with a smile. “I’d offer my house, but,”

“Your family deserves to live unworried.”

He nods. “Precisely, but got a friend of a friend that owns an estate just north of here. Bit eccentric but from what I’ve been told he never refuses a guest with an interesting past.”

It is only as they approach the estate, it’s appearance masked by the thick, oppressively humid darkness, that Wanda second guesses the plan, is uncertain why she agreed to ask for lodging from a stranger and why she trusts Clint so much. There is a strong likelihood this will end the same as every other endeavor since her brother’s death, but the mellow flicker of gaslights lining the cobbled path to the estate is quite inviting, enough to vacate her concerns for one night of warmth and safety. Wanda clutches the small bag in her lap, containing the only remaining, mostly intact possessions that survived the violation of her room. “You are certain of this?”

Clint gives an unhelpful shrug and an even more unhelpful answer, as he never elaborates on who his friend is beyond telling Wanda that she is terrifying in the most admirable way possible, “Natasha claims this is a safe place, I believe her. Plus she said there is an incredible archery range so if you stay long enough I can probably use it.”

The reigns are tugged twice, and the horse comes to a standstill, an expectant whinny filling the air, urging Clint to swing down from the seat and offer a morsel of apple in appreciation. Wanda is not as eager to get down, suspicious eyes studying the brick facade and the curve of the railing lining the porch that disappears into the shadows cast by the gaslights affixed to the building. A deep breath in readies her, steadying her shaking hands and feet as she takes Clint’s proffered hand and steps down from the carriage. Together they approach the door, Clint gripping the large, brass ring and releasing it with glee, the door vibrating from the force of the knock.

“Promise you’ll be fine.”

“I hope you are corr-” The door opens and Wanda finds herself unable to complete the sentence, taking in the surprised stare of the man from the river, no longer in his three piece suit, having foregone the hat (revealing unsurprisingly well-tamed blonde hair) and the jacket leaving him only in a dark, silk vest and a white shirt that clearly started out pristinely pressed but has rumpled naturally from a long day.

The butler recovers first, turning his attention towards Clint, “Mr. Barton, Miss-”

“Maximoff.” Wanda intercedes, realizing they’ve never actually introduced themselves.

He nods at her, a softness forming in the way his lips curl up ever so slightly. “Maximoff. What may I do to assist you?”

“Smith’s a bit upset with his seance experience today.”

The butler’s knowing, “Yes,” is ignored by Clint, who carries on, explaining what happened to her room, acting as if the man didn’t say anything, but Wanda finds herself unable to ignore him, her body collecting the humidity from the air and channeling it deep within her cheeks at the way his eyes have not left her since she told him her name.

“Was wondering if you’d mind her staying here, let things settle down?”

There is less than a second of silence between the question and the slight, rigid bend at the waist of the blonde man, his voice stiff and formal as he bows with an, “Of course.” He straightens his body back to its full height and steps gracefully back from the doorway, “Miss Maximoff, you may stay as long as you desire. Please,” his kind, blue eyes find hers again and the heat from her cheeks rushes down her neck, filling her chest with gratitude, leaving no room for concerns at the present moment, “come in.”

Clint nudges her back, an expectant, annoyingly paternal glint to his eyes before he waves to her, “I’ll be back tomorrow.”

Wanda thinks she lifts her hand in farewell, but her attention is fixated on the man in front of her, watching his arms travel behind his back, lowering to an angle suitable to lace his fingers together, and his body develop a subdued yet nervous sway as he glances around the house, likely assessing what needs to be done with this new, hopefully not wholly unwelcome, guest. “Miss Maximoff?”

“Yes?”

Her words have an instant effect, the apprehension leaving his body as he assumes his prescribed role, pulling his shoulders up into a dignified tension as his fingers release from behind his back, arms coming to hang at his side. She discovers she rather prefers the prior, more nervous, more honest version of the man from moments before, particularly when he speaks, his voice now taking on an air of formality and depersonalization, a far cry from the bashful, playful dialogue earlier in the day. “Would you be amenable to my showing you to your room?”

“That would be amenable, thank you.”

A quick, well-trained nod meets her words as he begins to walk towards an impressive, mahogany framed staircase, pausing briefly before turning with an indecisive frown on his face. “I-” the indecision leaves as he squares his body again, and Wanda is enthralled at the flickering of his personality between butler and man. The butler, it seems, wins out, his left elbow bending, arm forming a reluctant triangle that he offers her. “May I offer assistance up the stairs?”

“No thank you, I,” Wanda desperately wants the man from the river back, attempts to flash a sly smile at him while she adds a touch of joviality to her voice to tempt him to loosen up, “believe I am fully capable of walking up stairs on my own, unless you need assistance.”

For a brief, fleeting moment, he allows the seriousness to slip from his face, a twitch overtaking the corner of his mouth that could be construed as merriment, but then he nods, washing away the vestige of humor. “I believe I am also quite capable of traversing stairs. Please, follow me.”

They walk in relative silence, though it is a silence she has not experienced, lacking the tension of fear that hovers at a seance and no sign of awkwardness or boredom that engulfs her when she is trapped with a stranger on a transport. No this is comfortable, soothing, undemanding and incredibly refreshing. Which is why she isn’t sure why she decides to obliterate the silence, but curiosity is always a strong temptation for a Maximoff. “Your,” she attempts to remember his vocabulary at the river, “employer will be okay with me staying here?”

“Oh, undoubtedly.” The lack of hesitation combined with the nonchalance of the answer is reassuring. “As I explained earlier, you were already welcome, this is not qualitatively different.”

“Thank you.”

He nods as he directs her towards an open door, the room instantly stealing all of her attention as her eyes travel along the majestic four-poster jet-black bed, gilded panels etched with ornate designs of leaves. Next to the bed is an equally macabre and lavish chaise lounge, the deep purple encasing the cushions tempting her to walk across the room and run her palm along the indulgent softness of the crushed velvet. “I hope this room is suitable.” Wanda has no words, dumbfounded at the luxury of the room, never having seen something like this even in the homes of the elite she visited (and was often unceremoniously tossed from) for seances. “There are dressing gowns in the wardrobe and you should find all necessities for this evening. I shall better prepare the room tomorrow. Sleep well and do not hesitate to ring the bell near the bed if you require assistance of any sort.”

It’s not until his last words and the slight creak of the heavy wooden door that Wanda, without thinking, throws out a scarlet thread to stop the door, tossing out a hurried, “Wait!”

The butler takes a hesitant step back into the room, an anticipatory set to his face as he waits for her request. “How may I help you, Miss Maximoff?”

Wanda walks to the door, neck craning to stare up at his face, studying his features as best she can in the dim lighting. “What’s your name?” “Oh, yes, my apologies.” The man clears his throat before continuing, a nervousness permeating the air around him that she finds somewhat unsettling, almost making her offer an apology as the question seems to have upset him. “You may simply call me Vision, it is what my employer and his guests refer to me as and so it is what I answer to if you find you need assistance.”

“Vision?”

“Correct,” the man steps away with a small, stiff bow. “Sleep well, Miss. Maximoff,” and then he disappears into the darkness of the surrounding hallway, leaving her alone.

Wanda finds the information infuriating, a seething rage forming in her limbs at the implication of his words, but she resolves to release it for the night, change into dry clothes, and perhaps tomorrow she will unravel the mystery of this man and figure out what comes next for her.

*Shady

**A famous case of a murdered prostitute from 1800s NY

#scarletvisionexchange2017 #sve2017 #scarlet vision #Victorian AU #Antebellum US AU #fluff #angst #melodrama #chaptered fic #ao3 #be kind I am new and quite uncomfortable with AUs #aos

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javannahmelissa · 7 years

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Slam Dunk Chapter 2

I’m back! I had the worst case of writer’s block (always happens for some reason) and a super busy past two weeks, along with a birthday!

I deeply apologize for keeping you guys waiting on this chapter (well two chapters because I said I would have chapter 3 up, but that has yet to be written) but here it is!

If you haven’t read chapter 1 yet, here is the link.

Thank you all for being so patient with me, and for leaving reviews, reblogs, and likes!

Let’s get on with chapter 2 now!

It had been two weeks since the incident at the Roman mansion and Ahsha Hayes had been a roller coaster of emotions. The routine of smiling throughout the day and being up all night became her new norm.

As her best friends, Jelena and Kyle made it an effort to spend as much time as they could with Ahsha, making sure that she was not spinning out on her heartbroken emotions.

On Friday nights while the kids spent time with Derek for the weekend the three young mothers would get together and have wine and pizza night. Last weekend, wine and pizza night turned out to be an utter fail when Ahsha sobbed uncontrollably, giving Jelena and Kyle a sense of lost hope.

"We need a plan." Jelena says as she takes a sip of her Starbucks cold brew.

"What? Torture her into talking about the divorce?" Kyle jokingly assumes. Jelena frowns at her best friend who stuffs a piece of pound cake in her mouth.

"I say we stage an intervention with the both of them." Kyle says, making Jelena almost choke on her coffee.

"Are you crazy? She'd never do that."

"That's the point, J, she won't. Look we know how stubborn Ahsha is, and we know how stubborn Derek is as well. Making them talk it out would work."

"But how are we going to get them together?" Jelena inquires, cooking up a plan in her devious little head of her’s.

"Maybe the guys can help us." Kyle suggests. Little does Mrs. Hart-Wall know, the guys would become great help.

Another successful weekend set the tone for a successfully great week at work for Ahsha. Pizza and wine night gave the young mother something to look forward to and seemed to make the work week go by quickly for Ahsha.

The thing that she enjoyed most about her job is that she could dance and unwind, and do what she loves to do best, help people develop a love for dance.

Little does she know, this Friday night holds different plans.

"Are you guys excited for pointe tonight?" She asks her class of ten advanced pointe dancers who put their pointe shoes on after an hour of stretching. The last twenty minutes of her dance class are usually spent going over choreography.

The girls sigh and nod their heads, making Ahsha giggle. No one said pointe was easy, putting your feet into a small boxed shoe and standing on your toes hurt.

You're also expected to dance perfect as well. Does pointe still sound fun? To Ahsha, it was a dream come true when she first took pointe.

Ahsha's feet are sore, having just got out of teaching her five PM beginner's pointe class. Among the students in the beginner's pointe class is Mackenzie who adores standing on her toes.

Derek opposed the idea of seeing his little girl on her toes at ten and a half years old, but with reassurance and convincing thanks to Katharine and Kyle, his mind was at ease. Ahsha is his daughter's mother and that made him trust that his baby girl was in great hands.

The young mother laces her shoes and tucks the laces underneath each other. Taking a sigh she stands en pointe, doing frappe's and battements while waiting for her students to finish lacing their shoes.

"Okay let's start." Ahsha tells her class once her last student finishes tying her shoes.

"We’re going to practice going up in relevé and holding it while trying to move our hips." She tells them and demonstrates. The whole class joins in.

"Perfect. Next we're going to work on simple chaîné turns across the floor. Together, for the few of you afraid of going across individually." She says and looks at her students who put their heads down.

"Hey. I've been there. Even when I was a Devil Girl." She implies, cheering up her students who love to hear about her Devil Girl stories.

The dancers go across the floor in their chaîné turns and then work on their pirouettes.

"Okay, now the recital piece." Ahsha excitedly chimes.

The girls move across the floor in sync, making their dance teacher proud.

Ahsha notices some of her dancers looking sore and exhausted, she looks at the clock and notices that class is over for the day. "That's enough pointe work for today. Remember ladies, Wednesday is the last pointe class before recital week so it's very important that you're here."

The girls, including Ahsha eagerly take off their pointe shoes. Ahsha takes off her gel pads and put them back into her shoes. "I need to try lambs wool." She tells herself.

"I'll see you guys next week." She says as each one of her students waves goodbye to her and leaves for the week.

"See you next week Ms. Ahsha!"

"See you later, Ashley!" Ahsha calls out, taking a sigh of relief that she is done for the night.

It is now seven o'clock and Ahsha decides that she does not want to leave the dance studio yet. Pizza and wine can wait another hour or so.

Putting on her shoes, she grabs her belongings and places them by the door. "Thank God I grabbed everything before leaving my office." She says to herself.

A particular person stands outside of the window watching their ex wife's hips sway to the music and dance fluidly as if she was on air. Ahsha does a dip to the floor and continues dancing her heart out without knowledge of the business man's presence.

Derek stands and watches as Ahsha continues to move across the floor, turning him on with every move she makes.

He walks into the room as the song changes to the sexy tango playlist on her phone. Ahsha goes into ballet, still keeping up the sexy choreography. She spins and grabs her leg, holding it over her head. Letting go of her leg, she leaps into a firebird.

"Oh my God!" She screams and turns off the music, clutching her chest, now aware of the presence of her former lover.

Derek can't help but laugh at his ex wife's scared reaction and closes the door behind him.

"I came to pay for the girls' dance classes and heard the music playing. I wanted to see if you were up here." He replies nervously, biting his lip.

Ahsha breathes out and nods her head. "Okay. Thank you for letting me know." She says, adding a light chuckle.

"Listen, about what happened two weeks ago..." Ahsha starts to cut him off, still feeling a little bothered about what happened between them.

"It was out of line, I know. It will never happen again."

Derek's face falls and he feels his stomach hit his feet. "I wasn't going to say..." Cutting him off again, Ahsha starts to speak what comes to her mind.

"Then what were you going to say, Derek? He speaks! After a year the man finally has words coming out of his mouth! Wow."

He shakes his head and starts again. "If you would let me finish, we can get somewhere."

Ahsha pushes past Derek and grabs her things walks out the door, leaving him behind her. Not a care in the world crossed Ahsha's mind when it came to Derek's thoughts.

"Ahsha!"

"You know, I find it hilarious how you have so much to say now, but you spent two years barely saying a word to me. The only time we ever had some form of communication was when it came to our kids!" She shouts at him, taking him aback by her actions.

"I didn't mean..."

"I don't want to hear that you didn't mean it! You hurt me Derek! You mean to tell me that you didn't mean to hurt me? What about the kids? You didn't mean to hurt them either?" Ahsha quizzes, tears threatening to fall down her face.

The two make it to the elevator and Derek presses the down button.

"I'm not getting on that elevator with you." She snaps, quickly wiping her tears away.

"The stairs are under maintenance, what are you going to do? Take the window?" Ahsha rolls her eyes at Derek's sarcastic comment and silently waits for the elevator.

“I’d gladly jump out the window to avoid seeing your face again, but we all can’t get what we want.” She bitterly retorts.

The elevator took a few seconds to come but to Ahsha it felt like eternity. The sooner she could be out of the presence of her ex husband, the better.

Derek lets Ahsha step on the elevator first and he steps on right after. Ahsha clicks the button for the first floor and crosses her arms.

The tension between the two is entirely too difficult to cut with a knife and being in this elevator does not help.

“Why are you so bitter?”

A cold chuckle leaves Ahsha’s plump lips. “Don’t ask me that.”

Ahsha sighs as the elevator starts to move, thinking about how she would be able to get away from Derek.

The lights in the elevator flicker, startling Ahsha. The elevator makes a loud screeching noise and comes to a complete halt at the second floor.

Throwing her head into her hands, Ahsha sighs and places her bags down. She lets out a groan and starts to hyperventilate, being stuck in tight enclosed spaces has always freaked her out.

"Where's your phone?" Ahsha asks. Derek touches his pockets and his eyes widen.

"I left it in my truck."

"Of course you did. You know, if it wasn't for you, we wouldn't be stuck in this predicament."

"No, no. I wouldn't be stuck in this predicament, but you would. Hey, I'm just here to keep you company." Derek continues, getting a kick out of catching Ahsha with her own words.

"Well thank you so much for being my knight in shining armor. You're ever so kind!" She sarcastically yells.

"What did I do to you? What's up with the attitude?"

Ahsha feels her blood fuming and she clenches her fists.

"What did you do? We had sex after two years! Two fucking years, Derek! We were married, things were going great between us, and you let whatever you had going on get in the middle of it. You lied to me, kept secrets, and shut me out. How do you come back and act like nothing ever happened?" Ahsha asks.

Derek instantly grabs Ahsha and presses a kiss to her lips in the dark elevator. He backs her up against the wall and moves his lips down her body.

"You really think that I'm about to have sex with you in this eleva..." Ahsha starts. She is cut off by Derek hitting her weak spot, making her squirm at his touch.

"Fuck." She says under her breath as Derek's fingers find the swollen gland in between her legs. He picks her legs up, removing her shoes.

Ahsha's nails dig into Derek's back as his hands do the work on her body.

"You're not supposed to be doing this." She scolds herself as Derek's kisses become firmer, making her cry out in pleasure.

The dancer becomes clay in Derek's hands as he slides his fingers into her parts.

The heated situation goes completely over Ahsha's head and before she knows it, she pulls down Derek's pants.

Her moans turn into loud screams as Derek's movements become faster. With one swift hand, he pulls Ahsha's underwear and leggings off.

Without thought, he slides his wet fingers out of his ex wife and licks the juices off his fingers as Ahsha tries to catch her breath.

"Jump." He says, his voice deep, laced with lust.

The dancer jumps and Derek catches her, sliding himself right into her wet, slick folds.

"And what was that you said about not having sex with me in here?" Derek whispers in his ex lover's ear, turning her on with his dark, sexy voice.

Losing her voice in the presence of her ex husband was unexpected, but the hold he has over her is inevitable.

"Fuck!" She screams in his ear once again as he pounds harder against her. Losing his balance, Derek slams Ahsha's back onto the wall causing her to gasp for air in the hot elevator.

Derek's hot, minty breath against her chest was enough to send the dancer into overdrive. She clings to her ex lover's neck as his sloppy kisses on her neck turn into possessive love bites.

"I'm close." She whispers in his ear as he pounds her harder.

"You can release when I tell you." He whispers back huskily, trailing his rough kisses down to her perky breasts.

Ahsha closes her eyes and succumbs to the sensation on her body.

Derek boldly nibbles lightly on Ahsha's hard areolas causing her to nearly fall down the wall.

"Shittttt!" She groans as he moves to the other breast, repeating his actions with more aggression.

"Please, Derek!"

The former baller’s warm liquids seep down Ahsha’s legs as he continues to thrust hard against her body, making her envious.

Knowing Ahsha would lose control, Derek's finger slowly traces Ahsha's throbbing vulva as his rough movements continue.

The dancer's red fingernails bore into the tall man's back as she bites his shoulder hard to avoid calling his name once more.

"What was that?" Derek teases as Ahsha squirms underneath him in pure ecstasy. She shakes her head as his fingers grown more firm against her body.

"Nothing." She whimpers and crashes her lips against his, causing Derek to chuckle.

Derek bites Ahsha's lip as he caresses her back, making her shiver. The dancer's hot minty breath hits Derek's face as his left hand squeezes Ahsha's bare ass.

"Go." He whispers. Ahsha nearly collapses as she climaxes, tightly holding on to Derek.

There is nothing Derek Roman loves more than watching Ahsha squirm underneath him.

He removes his hand from her center and slides out of her, capturing his lips with hers, letting her come down from her high.

"Ahsha, what the hell are you doing?"

"What do I mean what am I doing? I needed this. Right, but I'm also no longer married to him." Ahsha contemplates back and forth to herself.

Taking a deep breath along with gathering her thoughts, she pulls away from her ex husband's body, grabbing her maroon laced thong and leggings.

The two awkwardly change into their undergarments and athletic wear without mumbling a word to each other.

"Ahsha, I didn't mean for this to happen." Derek sighs.

"What? You doing me on the elevator? Or doing me in our old house? Not speaking to me about something other than the kids until now?" She scoffs.

"Yeah." He answers cockily, causing Ahsha to bore daggers into his face with her glare. If looks could kill, Derek Roman would be on his way to his deathbed.

"And why is that? I was fulfilling all your little pleasures, right? What? I should've blown you instead, right? That would’ve made you happier." She sarcastically remarks.

"No! No, no. Ahsha, calm down."

"Then what is it Derek? I deserve the truth after the way things ended with the divorce." She implies, making Derek shake.

"Look Ahsha, I'm in the process of getting to know someone right now and I really don't want what you and I are doing to ruin the chances of she and I starting a relationship."

Ahsha nods her head and purses her lips as Derek talks about the mystery lady. “I see.”

"Her name is Francesca and she..." Derek Roman is cut off with a smack to the face, his mouth hung open, while a rage filled Ahsha feels sick to her stomach.

Back at her apartment, a woman sits by her phone waiting for a certain businessman to call her phone.

"Have you heard from him yet?" Her best friend asks her as she takes a seat next to her while the soft sounds of Banks' Someone New plays on the record player.

"Nope. He must be busy with his kids."

The woman's best friend nods her head at the comment.

"How do you feel about them, better yet, his ex wife?"

The woman takes a deep breath and answers the hard, yet deep question that the other woman asked.

"They're adorable. I haven't met them yet, but they look so sweet. Their mother, Ahsha, and Derek were married for seventeen years. I haven't met her either but she seems so down to earth, I don't want to feel like I'd be taking her place, you know, Claire?"

Claire takes her blonde hair and places it into a high messy bun. "It's too late for that, Francesca, but look, Ahsha will be fine." The thought of tearing a family apart shakes Francesca to the core, for the sale of Claire she ignores her feelings.

Little does Claire know, Ahsha’s two best friends have just spoken those same four words.

"I'm sure she's at the dance studio." Jelena chimes into her phone as she eats a piece of her flaky croissant.

"She would've called by now."

"Kyle, Ahsha's fine, she's probably getting dicked down right now. She’s allowed to skip pizza night for D-Ro’s D." She teases, making her best friend laugh.

"Mommy, what's di-"

"Joshua Adam Hart! Go back to bed!" She shrieks, scaring the poor five year old.

"Babe, he was just curious." Zero teases, wrapping his arms around his wife's waist and pressing a kiss to her cheek.

"Yeah, don't yell at my nephew." Kyle pipes, making the couple laugh.

"You can have him. Come get your brother too." She teases, pressing a kiss to Zero's lips.

The two women sigh over the phone.

"The kids are over Sloane and Pete’s and tomorrow they’ll be at John and Eleanor’s then there’s cake and ice cream for Ken’s birthday We can postpone pizza night to tomorrow night and have it at your place. I just want Ahsha to be happy." Jelena responds, feeling her heart breaking.

"She deserves to be happy, J. Wait why is pizza night at my house tomorrow?"

“Because we all know how much T misses his bro and how much my little nieces and nephew miss their cousins.” She teases.

Kyle giggles and playfully rolls her eyes as Terrence climbs into bed with her and kisses her shoulder. “Fine, pizza night at my house it is.”

The thought of pizza night crosses Ahsha’s mind as her stomach growls, but food quickly becomes the last thing on her mind. The elevator grows hot and clammy as Ahsha's insides turn, making her feel faint and nauseous.

"So, tell me more about this Francesca."

#Hit The Floor #hit the floor fanfiction #dersha fanfiction #dersha #fanfiction #Slam Dunk

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quwandathornton · 7 years

Text

GOOGLE TRANSLATE (ambw)

Y/N = you’re name, so you insert you’re name.

This story’s main girl is a plus sized beauty, because we’re human and want love to. :)

This is a ONE SHOT With Jeon Jeongguk from BTS.

Featuring - Hoseok, Taehyung and Namjoon as cameos. (Cameos as in, will only be there for a short time.)

Jungkook watched as the woman he see's every day, every lunch hour during school, walk by with her earbuds in both ears, shoulder slouched with a depressing look on her face. She doesn't attend the high school he does. She was most definitely older than him. Yet he can't keep his eyes off of her.

She enticed him.

Her hair, face, skin, height, and her body...Her, She was different.

She wasn't south Korean, or even Asian in that matter, she was a Foreigner.

Her skin, Dark chocolate, she was...chubby, no not the, I'm Beyonce in Korea fat.

But the, I'm....well; overweight.

Did he care? Nope.

He shifts slightly, leaning against his car, staring as she grew further from him; her strides are quick, but not confident. She seemed as if she was in a hurry to some place. he tilted his head with a small smile reaching his lips.

He knew she was depressed. He had his moments to, which is why he wants to get to know her.

The few days he had carefully observed her every move; his friend Taehyung; Nickname V, grew worrisome of the younger's obsessive observing.

Jungkook without knowing had began to drool.

"tch, are you going to go up to her and say hi one day? or just keep staring at her everyday of you're life like some creeper?" Taehyung interjected. He turns to V,and laughed.

"I.." Jungkook Nervously bites his lip staring at the direction the girl walked off to, he slowly looks away and down at the ground. Feeling a bit down that she was now no where in sight.

"I'm not sure I can go up to her, hyung. She's....Differnet?" His self-confidence slowly crashing to a abrupt stop, V Raises his eyebrow at him.

"Are you serious? She's just a girl. Not some celebrity hottie." He places a hand on Jungkook's shoulder, and shakes some sense into the younger.

"Oh Yeah, And don't let her being a Foreigner change you're mind, she's still a girl."

"No. Hyung...She's a Woman.. A full...Fledged woman..." Jungkook corrected, She was far from a girl...her body says it all.

Taehyung rolled his eyes, as two girls walk past Jungkook and him, giggling and whispering about how handsome they looked today.

"Man you're sprung." Muttered V.

(Next day)

This was the day.

That Jungkook will finally go over to his crush as she walks by, at 2:30pm, with her earbuds in..like always...but this time, he will speak to her.

Jungkook clutches his fists and inhales sharply. The mere thought of going up to her, made his heart rattle in nervousness. He felt his stomach develop butterflies out of nervousness.

"No worries Jungkook, I will say Hi. Just say Hello, I am Jungkook. I'm a High Schooler, Senior. I will graduate soon and I think you are cute." He says giving himself a pep talk. "And when she says Hi back, Then-...I'll ask her-" He paused. Racking his brain for an answer.

He slowly un-clentches his fists, and his fingers twitch nervously.

"I will say.....uh- I find you're body hot-....wait no! oh fuck me, REALLY? " He bites his bottom lip nervously, and racks his hands in his hair aggressively, messing it up he groans out of frustration.

Teenage Korean girls who were walking past him squealed and giggled at how his hair now resembled "I just had sex" hair.

A randomly girl shots out before running off , and giggling like some maniac.

"Oppa sexy *o*! kuehuehuehue!"

of course Jungkook ignored it, and kept on wracking his brain for answers.

"Ugh! what do I say! Other than creeper...compliments." He growls.

"Where are you from? what is you're sign? Blood type? Age? Name?? For fuck sakes Jeon." The voice telling him this was non other than his other close pal J-hope.

He quickly turns around to see V with a lollipop in his mouth, and J-hope, another friend of Jungkook, with a arm around some random girl. The voice telling him this was non other than J-hope.

She looked rather wonderful, unlike most of the girls at the school, trying to be something they shouldn't at their age, of 15.

Shuddering at the thought of a 15 year old girl resembling a stripper hitting on him.

Her name was Yubin, She was not 14, but 16 in that matter and dressed more better than most of the 14 year old girls in this high school. Her clothes actual hung onto her body.

"Just ask her where she is normally from? after saying hi!?" Jungkook's voice reached an octave causing V to flinch in annoyance....The win and loose of being a singer.

Jungkook sulks.

" Uh. Yea?? Why not? Isn't that a normal thing to ask in the first place? Meeting someone new?" V said playing with the lollipop with his tongue in his mouth, and stares blankly at the younger male. Jungkook turns his attention to Hoseok in hopes for advice.

"Well, V is right Kookie. Just ask her, Hi, what's your name? are you from around here? if she tells you, then ask her, would like to go out for some coffee? It's simple, you don't need to go all out to impress a lady. Especially if she digs you." J-Hope shrugs.

"Basically be one of the Korean boy's most foreigner girls will go for, the flower boy in Korean Dramas like boys over flowers! She would love you. " V chirped, and J-hope de-tested giving him the what the fuck look.

"....V....Just-....NO." J-hope denied.

Jungkook stares at Taehyung in disbelief.

"...let me guess...I'm a Idiot.."? V looked un-phased.

"You're an.............Einstein!!" Jungkook runs off, passing his car and jumping happily towards the side walk, waiting for her to show up. He cheers to himself, before almost falling on his rear-end; picking himself up before anyone notices he stood there like nothing ever happened.

"You've doomed him, V." J-hope said, laughing.

"...let's hope not. Let's go for some Bibimbop, hyung." V shrugged, throwing his lollipop stick in a near by trash bin before walking away with J-hope and his lady friend.

Jungkook on the otherhand, with his phone out he stares at the time, hoping she was in her way soon.

but as soon as he looked up, he see's her pass him right by and he freaks the fuck out. Literally, flipped his shit. The boy bounces back, and puts a hand over his heart. Just the mere sight of her made him jumpy- but not in a horrific way but in a "Oh my god I just saw my crush" way.

He didn't except that to happen, she almost gave him a heart attack with her presence. She was just to close to comfort...not the mention she smelled nice to him. Like vanilla.

He decided to *awkwardly* speed walk next to her.

walking by her side...he froze (while walking) next to her.

He forgot what to say or do, or even how speak. He even forgot his own name, His freaking age and what his favorite food was..holy shit he has gone completely stupid.

He even forgot to swallow, he was now drooling at the side of his mouth (Yet AGAIN) as he walked by her side, staring at her...her eyes....They we're Daunting.

For a few moment's, she stops, slowly looking towards her side at him; she gasps, placing a hand on her chest, also making him flinch and laugh nervously. Her eyes were wide in shock, and he nervously smiles at her.

"ehehe...u..-uh.." He rubs the back of his neck nervously, "H-Hello." He waves awkwardly, slowing down his walking pace as she did too, cautiously staring at him.

"Uhm; Hi..." She said back, staring into his eyes.

"Do..you like name?" Jungkook said in English, and the girl tilts her head to the side confused.

..... 'goodjob jungkook you idiot' he mentally smacks himself.

'what did I just ask her?'

Jungkook nervously pressed his lips together, trying hard not to burst out in a fit of agitated shouting and scaring her off.

Then he heard a small giggle.

He some how gained his confidence (From the cute action she made) and tried to correct himself.

"I mean! Do you-......" He pauses to think carefully of what he was saying.

"You have name?" He ask's quickly before he makes a fool of himself again.

"Oh okay, I'm Y/n" His heart flutters, her voice...so smooth, gentle almost..she sounded really shy. He loved that about her already.

"I am Jeon Jungkook" He points to his upper chest proudly smiling. She stopped walking, and he does to, he see's she isn't smiling anymore and seemed more cautious. She shifted back and forth on her feet as she stares at him.

He clears his throat nervously, and looks everywhere but at her as he nervously presses his lips together.

"Well hello, Jungkook-ssi.." She said awkwardly, and they stood there for a minute, in awkward silence before he spoken up.

"would you! ...coffee...me? Coffee.." He walks closer to her, and began to stutter. "I like C-Coffee....you? to? Let's Coppee.." She raises an eyebrow.

'act like a flower boy. Chill out Jungkook.'

"uhm.." she shivers, backing away; he was to close. He sense that she felt uncomfortable and apologizes and turns to walk away mentally kicking himself in the ass.

'ah man...'

But she stopped him.

"W-WAIT" She shouted. He quickly turned on his feet, and back to her; his face full of defeat.

"yes..?"

"Where should we have this .."Coffee" ?" She asked politely, with a small awkward smile.

He straightens up his body from the slouched position and smiles beaming-ly at her.

*At a small Coffee/Pastry Cafe somewhere in South Korea, I won't be to Descriptive it's only a story!*

Jungkook sat across the small table from his stranger crush, He stares at her as he watches her nervously sip at her chocolate frappe she had eagerly begged him not to buy and that she could get it herself but he refused whole heartedly.

She places t down gently, looking up at him quickly before looking away and nervously shakes her leg, and fondles with her fingers. Looking down at her lap.

'Break the ice Jungkook!'

"Uh..." He starts off, and she jumps slightly, shocked at how deep his voice got. His eyes widen and he nervously laughs and whispers.

"I'm sorry." Jungkook's looks down at his hands, before he did, he saw her nod, uncertain as to why he said sorry to her, he was at least happy she knew what that meant in korean.

'smooth jungkook' She looks at him with furrowed eyebrows, sipping her frappe. He looks away nervously, yet again pressing his lips together. Staring everywhere but at her.

*5 minutes passed*

The girl is looking outside the cafe window, and saw school girls and boys walking around during their lunch break; Jungkook then asks in broken English.

"Where...From?" He slowly says, and she smiles. His voice coming out smoother than usual.

"America"Her voice sounded more interested now. He nods acknowledging her, and smiles.

"American girl, Daebak" He gives her a thumbs up and smiles nervously at her and she laughs with a huge smile on her face. Is she blushing..? He felt his heart begin to pound out of his chest. He smiled brighter this time, but still nervous; he played with his hands underneath the table.

'she blushed! Yes!'

"Blood type?" He asks tilting his head and she tilts her head as well with a thoughtful look.

"You know what (Laughs)? I actually have no clue. Because In America we usually don't ask people their blood type, but we ask for their zodiac sign you know?, So I don't know my blood type by heart or memory. I'm sorry~" She says quickly, with a shake of her head. He tilts his head to the side and raises an eye brow obviously confused.

Jungkook looked like a deer caught in headlights.

"what was that.." He asked nervously.

"I- Don't know my blood type." She says slowly, this time.

"I..." He felt like he was going to go crazy..."I sorry, Bad English."

She nods, and looks down at her lap again, with a soft frown on her face. He sighs, and he felt his school's uniform pocket vibrate, he pulls out his phone and see's a text from Taehyung.

"I see you, in the cafe with you're future wife. Will you take her home and show her to daddy and mommy? kekeke"

Jungkook's face turns red and he looks outside the cafe's window to see, Taehyung, Hoseok and another friend of his, Namjoon outside being creepers and watching them at a bench, with front row seats..

"Hey Jungkook?...uhm...I think...I should-" He hear's her speak.. "I should be leaving now." His heart began to race as he saw her stand up slowly, and he quickly says .."N-no! wait.." He sounded so desperate, He stands up grabbing her hand gently.

The girl, looks down at his hand, eye's wide. Then looks at his face, and eyes taking in his full features. He was handsome- which all the more reason why to leave; she can't handle the closeness. Also the language barrier is to much for her heart.

She wasn't use to boy's acting the way he is, Like he actually; liked her. As in a CRUSH? So she wasn't sure how to act or Speak at that moment but stare at him, feeling weird. She was use to boys playing with her emotions; acting like they liked her for humorous reasons at school.

"Hold." He says quickly, He looks down at the annoying text, closing it, and opening up; his apps folder in his phone. and mentally praises himself for downloading Google translate on his phone the night before.

He quickly types in the first box in Korean and translate it into English.

(At this part, the Translation will be reverse. So when he types to her, it's in English, and she types in Korean"

"I'm sorry, my English is so horrible." He slowly hands his phone to her, and she cautiously looks at him and takes it. She looks down at it, and sees the innocent text and smiles with a small laugh; she deletes the first one and writes in her two cents.

"No, It's OK! I understand. My Korean is horrible As well." She hands it back to him, he looks down and laughs too with a confident nod; he types in the box once again.

"I asked you to the coffee shop, because I thought you look rather beautiful." He then gently hands her his phone with a confident smile on his lips. She grabs the phone and stares at it, her eyes widen and he could of swore he saw a smile pull on the edge of her lips.

She looks back down at the boy who sitting in his seat, with a hopeful smile on his lips. She erases his text and typed in her response.

"You're rather handsome you're self, Jungkook." She hands the phone back and giggles to show she is pleased. He smiles widely, reading the text and tried his hardest not to fanboy in front of her.

He "Professionally" keeps his composer and grins.

'...okay, Jungkook...now...just as if she has a boyfriend. That's EASY...Right?' He felt a sweat break out from his forehead.

He types his text as quickly as he could, afraid that something or someone might just ruin this epic moment of confession at any second. \

He types in:

"Someone as gorgeous as you, i'm pretty sure you have a boyfriend, no?" He hands the phone over, and she stares at it, then back up at him, then at the text, then him. She looked shocked.

'did I offend her..?' he blinks at her, She looks back down at the phone and began to reply.

"I do not have a boyfriend. Never had one, or at least a serious one I guess...Boys never really looked at me seriously since I was the tom boy type; let alone being overweight. American guys don't like that type of lady..or not all American guys that I knew...just the guys I hung around with..By FORCE because- school sucks. " Jungkook stares at the message and shook his head in understanding.

'how can guys be so shallow; But i guess it's all about the eye of the beholder. and my eyes love what they see.' He quickly wrote and reply and hands it back to her, she slowly moves back to her seat and sits down while reading it and sipping her frappe.

"Wow, Picky Picky little boys. Heh, I think you need a real man in you're life gorgeous." Her mouth dropped and she stares at the handsome boy, no scratch that. "Man" Across the table.

Why is he making her feel like a little girl again.

Ever since her crush had crushed her heart, she had felt as if she wasn't the most "Beautiful girl" in the world anymore, Those four words her crush had muttered that day and done enough damage to kill a Mountain Lion with just meer words.

*Flashback*

'ew, She's Fucking ugly'

The day her crush ruined her and her confidence.

*Flashback*

...

But now...This, "man" across the table is the exact opposite of that douche bag of a so called crush she had, he was confessing himself to her, and going all out with it. How is she to take this..she never got to experience how to handle a situation as this.

Jungkook started blushing, and being all kinds of adorable in front of HER of all people, the girl with low confidence in herself...She couldn't get why he would like someone like her? She weighed 240 pounds, in American pounds. Wasn't she to fat for him? wasn't she to tall? To dark skinned?

Why would he want someone with low self esteem? No confidence? There is plenty of lovely women with confidence in themselves, carry their heads high on their shoulders.

She didn't even notice she had dropped his phone onto the table , and she was actually in tears.

Jungkook:

1. Worried about his phone and

2. Worried about if he had scared her so much she was crying; began to panic.

"Uh-...Are you-?" he began but stopped when he caught on what was happening.

She abruptly stood up out of embarrassment, now noticing she was crying in front of him. He also stood up, looking confident as ever.

"I have to go!" She quickly said, as she began to speed walk away, but he quickly grabbed her forearm, and spun her around quickly to face him and he looks at her with full on confidence on his face.

"No..wait." He said, his voice now deeper, and serious. She shivers and yanks her arm away.

"....What?" She asked, looking away, wiping away her tears.

"I-" He clenches his teeth and goes back for his phone and quickly types in his message.

"If you could just give me this one chance to change the way you view love, life, the world. I promise you, I will not let you down. I'm not good at confessing my love..but..for you..I will go all of the way! Please...Will you be my girlfriend?"

The girl looks up at the strange boy, and scoffs. He bites his lip and furrows his eyebrows. She scoffed only to laugh, and the laugh turned into a light giggle and smiles all around as she quickly shook her head yes.

Jungkook stood there for a second, letting that all sink in.

She said "yes".

'The cute girl said yes.'

He thought to himself '

SHE SAID YES!'

The boy was jumping up and down with excitement and glee as people in the cafe stared at the boy weirdly, He Picked her up with amazing strength within him he twirls her around happily, surprising the heavy set cutie, She laughed with glee.

"Jungkook! let me down" She giggles, and he rejected cutely, enjoying the moment while he could.

And at that moment, Jungkook knew, he had to thank the heaven's that google translate existed.

Namjoon, J-Hope and Taehyung also celebrated with manly hugs outside the Cafe.

The END

Jimin: ............ HEY why do you always pick on me Namjoon! *pouts*

Namjoon: This is what I mean by you got no jams.

Min (Suga) Yoongi: That delay was sadder than the fact you got no swag or jams.

Jimin: *stands up and jumps on Namjoon giving him a wet willie*

Namjoon: Aeeerrrgh!!

Jin: Jimin! Stop this right now *Jin stands up to pull of Jimin*

J-hope: Jimin, bad Dirty water, In Namjoon's Ear! ( Jungkook: oh my gah)

Taehyung: (Farts and scares himself that he starts to cry)

Jungkook: *sighs and walks over to the recording cam corder* Bye everyone, Bangtan out.

*He smiles handsomely before shutting of the camera*

I hope you guys enjoyed this story ^^

If you want more? with different memebers? let me know. Message me! ^D^ bug me!

Please.

I mean it.

#ambw bts #kpop #Jungkook ambw #ambw kpop #AMBW #bts scenarios #BTS ambw scenarios #jungkook scenarios

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frangipanidownunder · 7 years

Text

Small Miracles

Written for @leiascully‘s XF Writing Challenge: May.

Not sure what this is. I started out with the realisation that I’d never written a one-bed fic but this thing ended up as something entirely different. Set during the cancer arc, a bit funny, a bit angsty, just a bit odd.

It wasn’t the fact that it was freezing or the fact that the nearest decent town was fifty miles away or even the fact that the wallpaper in the reception area was the same colour as the dried blood under Mulder’s fingernails. None of those things, either individually or as a collective of annoyances, got under Scully’s skin more than the fact that Mulder knew damned well this whole couple of days had been a charade.

“Didn’t you good folk see all the posters around town?”

Scully twisted the sole of her shoe on top of the cockroach that skittered out from behind the desk.

“I didn’t even see the town,” she muttered to the roach.

“Scully?”

“Just give me my key, Mulder.”

“Head on over the parking lot there and number four is just to the right. Next to number three.” The clerk gave Mulder a key so large it looked like a novelty one from a joke shop.

“And I’m guessing that number three is just next door to number two?” Scully held out her hand, preparing to take the weight of her own key.

The clerk’s eyebrows sunk low. “No, ma’am. Number two is behind the reception, here. Next to number one.”

She caught Mulder smirking into his hand, fist under his nose, key ring looped over a blood-streaked finger.

“Scully,” he said, straightening up. “I’m afraid there’s only one room left.”

The words fell out of his mouth with more than a shade of that same smirk tinting them.

Number four was missing a working heater, two-thirds of the thread in the carpet, a wardrobe door and the expert work and tools of a good cleaner. Water dripped into the rust-stained sink, a fly clung to the tar-stained net curtain that barely covered the window. Scully pulled the drape across to blot out the the neon glare of the motel sign. The curtain rings uncoupled from the runner as she pulled on the wand and entire thing down crashed to the floor.

Mulder laughed.

Scully dug her nails into the palms of her hand. Angry felt good. In fact, angry was pretty much all she’d felt since the car hit the outskirts of Ira Springs.

He had taken up residence on the bed, arms under his head, tie flung off and collar opened, television already breathing life into him like a ventilator.

“Why are we here, Mulder?” She opened the fridge and sniffed. There had been something dead in there recently.

“Enjoying the Ira Springs MayFest with the good folk of the town, Scully.”

She pushed the door and it wheezed shut like dying fly. “Now tell me why we’re really here, Mulder. We’ve driven across the country to investigate what is likely a weather or environmental or atmospheric phenomenon, you’ve managed to get yourself into a fist-fight with the local hoodlum and you haven’t even washed his blood off your hands yet, and now we’re in this…” her hands flung out from her sides, “I don’t even know what this is, but we’re here and there’s only one bed and you’re…God, Mulder. Why are you smiling like that?”

He patted the bed. “Chill, Scully. Didn’t you read the literature I gave you? The Ira Springs MayFest…’

‘Runs for the month of May and offers therapeutic healing, yoga and meditation classes, hot stone and Reiki massage, auric readings…’

‘But aside from those, the festival has a renowned reputation for calming the souls of even the most uptight of folk. The story of Ira Iremos, the town’s founder, told how before he came here he was filled with uncontrollable rage, but no sooner than he settled in what is now the area the motel is built arond, his anger seeped away and he lived the rest of his days mellow and relaxed. He claimed there was a lighter atmosphere, a calming aroma in the air, spiritual fingers that massaged his soul. The now kinder and more generous Ira wanted other good folk,” he used air quotes, “to take the waters too.”

She stalked into the bathroom.

She filled the sink as Mulder rattled on behind the door. If she didn’t know any better she’d say he was drunk or high. Always generous with his words, this was another level of liberal. She lifted the grey water to her face, splashing it as though it might obliterate not just the continuous hum of Mulder’s voice but the entire day. She looked up at her face in the mirror and sighed. She would go a Reiki massage right now.

She ran a bath, hoping that Mulder would run out of oxygen before the tub filled. And on the off chance that he had developed the lung capacity of a cave-diver, she consoled herself that if she slipped away in the murky depths of the Ira Springs Motel’s dubious water supply, at least she could go out with the knowledge that Mulder might momentarily enjoy seeing her completely naked, for the first time, before the utter desolation of her death would propel him back to the impulsive, reckless shell of a man he was always just a whisker away from inhabiting.

She giggled out loud. Where the hell had that come from? The motel shampoo smelled like toilet cleaner. Probably was. But infused with magical properties. She giggled again and rubbed it into her hair.

Mulder had moved to the chair and was asleep, shoes kicked off, legs splayed open, one hand tucked under his cheek, the other resting on his lap. His mouth drooped open. She studied him for perhaps a moment too long – just like he looked at her ass when she bent to retrieve a file he’d requested, or down her top as she sat and he stood over her, lecturing her. She had a sudden yearning for a slide projector and a full five minutes of watching his jawline. She pulled the robe tighter around her and sat on the bed. It was soft and lumpy but a warm fatigue was making her drowsy. Or something.

The television played on, casting an otherworldly glow in the room. It picked up the blood on Mulder’s knuckles and she dampened a flannel to wipe his hand. He stirred, snuffled out a soft sigh, and shifted to face the other way. His neck was going to ache tomorrow. She slid under the blanket and enjoyed the sensation of peace and calm that slithered down her body. How had a bath in this joint after the couple of days they’d had, managed to leave her feeling so relaxed. It made no sense. But then again, she was in a motel room with Mulder in the middle of nowhere investigating yet another trumped-up case. And she had cancer.

Her life made no sense.

It was freezing again. Why was it so cold now? She snuggled further under the bedding but the odour of mothballs was too much and she inched her way higher. A frigid breeze hit her face and she opened her eyes. Mulder was trying to shut the door, arms full of booty.

“Mulder? What the hell?” She pulled the blanket up around her chin.

“I got hungry, Scully.”

“So you got scooby snacks from the diabetes and heart disease machine?”

“Funny, Scully. Want to die with me?”

His face fell as the words hung in the cold air.

And so did the bags of chips and candy. All over the floor. He scrabbled around apologising and gathering the feast in his arms.

She pushed herself up against the bed head, guilt thrumming through her. “It’s okay, Mulder. Sit here with me. I could go some M&Ms.”

He handed her the packet and she pulled it open, raising her eyes to his. His puppy-dog expression melted her heart and she couldn’t decide if she wanted to pull him into her arms or to sink into his. She shifted on the cooling sheets.

“Are you going to tell me why we’re really here, Mulder? What’s the deal with the Ira Springs MayFest? There’s something about this place. I know that.”

He quirked an eyebrow. “You can feel something here?”

The chocolate candy shell cracked between her teeth and the sweet filling oozed out. “It’s like the most maddening of feeling stirs you up and then you just mellow out. What’s your theory? Is there a giant marijuana crop growing in the hills?”

How could he look so hot stuffing chips in his mouth?

“I don’t have a theory, Scully. But I really wanted to hit that man earlier. Smash his nose over his face. What he said about you…”

“What, Mulder? What did he say about me?” She lay a hand over his forearm. The cold had left a trail of goosebumps under the fine hairs. “Come under here, you’re freezing.”

“It wasn’t exactly what he said, it was the way he said it.�� His long legs slid next to hers, lean and hard, through thin material of his pyjama bottoms. “Jeez, Scully. Your feet are like blocks of ice.”

“How did he say what he said?” She pushed her feet under his legs.

He flinched. “He said you were beautiful.”

She looked at him. “And you hit him for that?”

He had the decency to look guilty as he shrugged. “Sounds stupid now. I can’t really explain it, but he sort of leered when he talked and he raked his eyes over you and he stuck his pelvis out and…”

She ate another M&M. “He deserved it. How’s your hand?”

His knuckles were lilacy-purple in the odd luminescence of the room. She kissed them.

She kissed them?

His mouth popped open. His breath smelled salty. He took a while to speak, just stared at their hands, joined still.

“Do you get much pain, Scully?” The hitch in his voice took her breath away.

“I get headaches, deep behind my eyes. They make me nauseous.” She rubbed her thumb over his fingers.

“Have you had any pain since you’ve been here?”

She shook her head. “Well, at first I felt so angry – with you, mainly – but then last night I felt this amazing calm descend over me. No pain. No nausea. But that doesn’t prove anything. We’ve only been here a day.”

“People come here, during May, to get well. It’s been happening for years. Documented cases of the incurable being cured, of the terminally-ill living.” This time he kissed her hand.

“Mulder, this town is different, but I promise you, it’s not going to stop my cancer from spreading.”

“But you’re feeling better. You said so yourself.”

She nuzzled into his neck. “Maybe it’s just the company I’m keeping.”

“You know I can’t give up, Scully. I can’t stop looking.”

“I know. And I’m grateful for your persistence. But Mulder, whatever it is in this town, and I suspect it’s something not quite legal, is no doubt just an extravagant placebo. And someone is getting rich off the hopeful and the desperate.” She looked at his profile and added, “there are no miracles in Ira Springs. In May or any other month.”

His exhalation was long and mournful. She turned towards him and he pulled her closer. “Can we stay a while longer anyway?”

She chuffed out a laugh. “So you can make more friends?”

“No, so we can test how long we can sleep in one bed before we’re forced to cross the line from platonic to romantic partners.”

“Did you really just say that, Mulder?”

He laughed into her hair. “It’s this place. My inhibitions are all over the place.”

“I can feel them,” she said, smiling into his chest.

He moved away. She clasped his lower back and pulled him closer. “I like your inhibitions.”

“Scully…”

“Mulder?”

“If I said you were beautiful and I stuck my pelvis out at the same time, would you hit me?”

“Only if you leered at me too.”

“You’re beautiful. My eyes are closed.”

She chuckled. “There is a swathe of scientific evidence that suggests the hormones released after sexual intercourse are as effective at treating some medical conditions as conventional pharmaceutical therapies.”

“So are you telling me that we didn’t need to drive all the way to this hinky town to discover that fucking is better than drugs?”

“You could have just asked me.”

He kissed down her face and neck. “Perhaps I could just show you. If you’re sure about this. I don’t want to…hurt you. In any way, Scully.”

Her fingers grazed the elastic around his waist. “If there’s one thing this disease has taught me, Mulder, it’s that being the sensible one doesn’t always pay. Rationally, I should say no. But I feel more certain about this than about anything in the past few months. And sometimes life offers small miracles.” She kissed his mouth, enjoying the salty residue on his lips.

“Thank you, Scully. For me, this is a big, hulking, king-sized miracle.”

After, in the eerie glow of dawn, they both silently thanked Ira Iremos for the small miracles of life.

#xfwritingchallenge #xfwc prompt: may #txf fanfic #my fanfiction #msr fanfic

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deserving-ff-blog · 7 years

Text

I had just left from Dr. Lancaster's office when Chris called me to pick-up some money from him. He was at his cousin's house and based off the directions that he gave me; it wasn't too far from the doctor's office. I had invited him to come but he didn't respond which meant either he didn't get the message or he didn't want to go. Either way, I had the sonogram technician print out the pictures from the sonogram so I could show him. The original copies I had were for me but I thought I would be nice and give him his own to do with whatever he wanted. I followed Google's directions until I pulled in front of the house and immediately dialed his number. I wasn't familiar with his cousins and I sure as hell didn't feel comfortable knocking on some random person door.

Chris walked out of the house and got into my car, the strong stench of weed very present. Looking at him I could tell he had been smoking and I could feel myself getting irritated just by the smell of him. Getting high was more important than coming to a doctor's appointment, an appointment that he said he wanted to be apart of. "You think you can take me back to my house? I was with these niggas last night and left my shit at home."

I didn't answer him - instead I just rolled down the window and pulled away from the house. "How'd the doctor's appointment go?"

"Fine, the baby's doing good." Chris nodded and ran his hand down his face. "So what happened to you? I thought you were goin' to come?"

"How? I don't have my car." The doctor's office was literally ten minutes away, he could've gotten a ride. "I know I said I was gon' come but I didn't think I was gon' be at they house all night."

"Ok." I didn't feel like going back and forth with him; the sooner I got him out of my car the sooner I could go home.

We rode in silence the entire way to his house, I parked alongside his car. Chris dug around inside of his pocket, pulling out a couple hundred dollars and handing them to me. It was much less than the last time he gave me some money; but it was more than what I currently had on me. I still had the seventeen hundred he gave me a couple weeks ago; that was still sitting in my checking account accumulating with my own money. I put the money into my purse and grabbed the sonogram pictures, handing them to him.

"He's a little more developed now, so you can see his legs and feet and face." I explained each picture to him and he nodded, the smile on his face never leaving. "Those are yours. I have plenty from other doctor's appointments."

"I promise the next appointment I'm gon' be at." I nodded but kept my comments to myself. If he showed up; I'd be surprise. "You probably don't believe me though."

"Chris, I'm not gon' get into this with you right now but I will say this. For you to tell me that you didn't have a ride to come to a doctor's appointment, don't make sense to me. You just handed me seven hundred dollars and you smell like you been blowing good all day. You're literally ten minutes away but instead of finding a way, you just didn't come. If you're gon' be here - be here, if not, leave me and him alone."

Chris didn't say anything, the pitiful look on his face said enough. "I'm not telling you how to live your life but you need to decide what's more important. I can't be selfish anymore, it's not about me." Chris nodded his head. We sat in silence for the next couple of minutes before his phone interrupted the silence. He ignored it and I sighed.

"The next doctor's appointment is next week at eleven o'clock. If you don't think you'll make it, I don't have a problem with coming to get you. It's always on a Wednesday."

"I don't think I'll have a problem getting there, but I'll keep that in mind." Chris flashed a smile and returned it. He licked his lips, his eyes traveling down my face down to my stomach. "I don't want to be disrespectful and I know we're getting back on good terms, but can I touch your stomach?"

His request caught me off guard. I just knew something else was going to come out of his mouth and for that, my tongue was ready to let his ass have it. "I've been wanting to touch it but I don't know how you feel about it so I didn't."

I unfastened my seatbelt and pushed my seat back, grabbing his hand in the process. I placed his hand over my stomach, right on top of his leg. The sudden movement from our child surprised him as he kept his hand on my stomach, watching as the baby shifted inside of my stomach. I was used to him moving but to see Chris enjoy the movement was cute. I enjoyed watching him be in amazement at the life that we created together; if it were earlier then maybe our outcome would've been different.

Chris's hand roamed over my stomach and I giggled at the sensation of some of his touches. He looked at me, catching my smile and returning one of his own. He apologized but I didn't mind; I let him enjoy the movement of our son until his phone interrupted the moment again - this time he let it ring. Once it stopped it started again, this time causing Chris to sigh in disappointment and move his hand to answer it. The female voice could be heard loud and clear as soon as he answered, questioning where he was at. "Look, don't come at me on that shit - I told you I'd be there, I'd be there. You startin' that bullshit and I really don't have time for it."

While he argued with his girlfriend, I put back on my seat belt and prepared to leave his complex. I've been in her position, calling to see where he was at when he was doing something that he didn't have any business. Somethings never change when it came to Chris. "Listen," I turned to face him as he put the phone into his pocket. "I'm gonna call you later on once I've got everything settled."

"Does your girlfriend know about the baby?" Chris nodded his head. "How does she feel about it?"

"She doesn't feel anything for real. I mean, I haven't been there for the pregnancy until now so she feeling a certain type of way. But we not even that serious so, she trippin'."

I left it alone after that. Chris wasn't the most truthful person when it came to relationships so I knew that there was probably more to the story that he wasn't telling me. Thankfully, I didn't have any interest in finding out.

---

My mother recruited me to the kitchen to help make dinner, wanting to know what the doctor said about the baby. Usually, she accompanied me to the appointments but she had some other business to tend to. Plus - when I told her that Chris would be coming she didn't want to be around. My mama didn't care for him and with good reason; until recently he'd been every bit of a deadbeat and stereotypical baby's daddy. I told her about the money that he gave me but not the amount - she didn't need to know everything.

"So, he didn't show up?" I nodded confirming that he didn't and she shook her head. "I'm not surprised, when you told me that he had reached out I knew it was too good to be true."

"Yeah well, good thing I didn't have too much hope for that then huh?" I honestly didn't want to listen to my mother bash Chris for his short-comings. Granted, I talked shit but I would never say some of this shit to his face. My mother on the other hand, will if provoked. "Dr. Lancaster wants to start monitoring me twice a week since I'm measuring big. More than likely they're gonna induce me if he keeps getting bigger."

"Are you ready for that?" I shrugged my shoulders - it wasn't like I had a choice in the matter. If Dr. Lancaster wanted to schedule an induction then I would be induced. "It's gonna be okay, I'll be there with you and I promise nothing bad is gonna happen to you or my grandson."

My momma gave me a reassuring smile and I hugged her. She's always been in my corner - no matter what decision I made. When I found out that I was pregnant, I came to her first. I was nervous and scared about what she might say or do. I had friends' whose mothers' flipped on them completely, kicking them out of the house for getting pregnant but not my mother. She wiped my tears and kissed my forehead before she brought me into a hug. "We're gonna get through this; I got through this with you and you're gonna get through this with this baby."

As we finished dinner, my mother went to take a phone call while I made salad for the both of us. I poured her a glass of wine and got some grape juice for myself, sitting down at the table with my phone in my posession. Chris's mother had texted me, wanting to know if I could come over tomorrow so we could talk and she could give me some gifts for the baby. I had a hair appointment in the morning that would run over into the mid-afternoon but I told her that I would stop over afterwards. With the baby coming in the next couple of weeks, I didn't want the stress of worrying about my hair. I'm sure that she knew that we were on speaking terms now which meant that it was less awkward for her I'm assuming. Like I said before, I never had a problem with Joyce - my problem was with her son.

#chris brown #trey songz #fanfic #fan fiction #fan fic writing

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