#it will always be a gap within her that she’ll never see filled and one of the reasons she resented the Jedi | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

letsperaltiago · 3 years

Text

somewhere only we know

This is my entry for the B99 Summer 2021 Fic Exchange and it's for lovely Johanna aka. @amyscascadingtabs <3 I picked the prompt: "Jake and Amy going on a babymoon and enjoying some time together before everything changes for good."

It's very simple and just pure good, happy parents to be-vibes so yeah :) I initially wanted to add smut but didn't have the time to write it :(( If you feel like it's something you'd like, then feel free to lemme know! I can always add a chapter two heh. Anyways, enjoy!!

Rating: G

Words: 2.7k

Read here or on Ao3

“Jake, this is… amazing.”

This seems to be all Amy can come up with as the hotel room presents itself before her. Better or bigger words seem to be lacking from her otherwise excellent vocabulary but she blames it on the fact that she’s been carrying a tiny human for the past 35 weeks - not that she’s complaining. It’s been hard, both physically and mentally, and there are a few more weeks to go but by the end of it all, she’ll be holding her little baby boy.

She’s tired and every inch of her body swollen and/or sore, but more importantly she’s eager and excited. Jake is too, if not even more than her, and this has resulted in the current scene: their babymoon.

“You like it?”

The way Jake asks her, eyes shining with innocent expectation and voice laced with childish excitement has her imagining just how their little boy will turn out to be. She can’t hold back her smile. This man will walk to the end of the earth to make her happy, essentially already has during this pregnancy, and the babymoon is just as much for him as it is for her.

She turns on her heels to face him, showing him the bright smile that’s plastered on her makeup-free face which has gained some freckles during her pregnancy.

“You could’ve planned a trip to a dumpster and I would still love it.”

Hands cupping his scruffy cheeks she pulls him in for a short but tender kiss that even so many years later, after thousands of kisses, has his toes curl in excitement. She truly would’ve stayed anywhere as long as Jake was with her. Although she does appreciate the fact that she’s standing in a beautiful lakeview suite at the LakeHouse Inn.

“Should we reassess how much we refer to dumpsters and other gross locations when we declare our love for each other?”

She chuckles at his comment, lips resonating against the corner of his grin.

“Should we?” She slowly slides her hands to the back of her neck, entangling her fingers to keep her latched onto him even as she pulls away to flash him a pretend contemplative expression.

Eyebrows cocked in playfulness, they share an indicative look in silence, only for them to break it in unison. “Nahh.”

“Right? It’s what makes us us.” Jake pulls her in by the hips which are carrying their son.

Everything about Amy reminds him of their little miracle and makes him feel all tingly and excited. One look at her, one touch, and he forgets about the rest of the world and its crappiness. He has Amy and together with the tiny human in her belly, she is his entire universe.

“Exactly.”

She closes the gap between them (as much as she can with the full-blown balloon shape of her stomach).

“So,” she mumbles against his lips, “what are your plans for us?”

Sadly, the 3-hour drive from home didn’t do wonders for her heavily pregnant body and even though she won’t admit it out loud, she hopes her husband’s plans for tonight will demand the bare minimum of her. She feels his lips and body withdraw, prompting her eyes open however the mischievous smile that meets her has a dimmed anxious feeling creeping over her - he does remember she’s 35 weeks pregnant, right?

“I know that look, Peralta.” Her voice is distrustful, and after 7 years together she should know better than giving in to his teasing, but her suspicious air only fuels his fire and desire to mess with her.

“In honor of my incredible and always so organized wife, there’s a tightknit schedule waiting for us.”

Tightknit schedule? Amy would usually be beaming at these words but right then and there, swollen legs, hungry and feeling everything but hot and fit after the drive, she aches to fall back onto the bed and sleep for days. It’s huge, king-sized, with crispy white sheets and the fluffy pillows are definitely calling her name. Although, the fact that Jake has everything planned out for their last vacation together, just the two of them, does pull on some heartstrings. He loves her so much and she loves him so much too. So much that she (almost) doesn’t turn a hair when he proudly starts listing their schedule for the evening and following day.

“So right now it’s 4 PM which means unpacking-time. At 6 we have a dinner reservation at this cute little restaurant in a little town nearby so we’ll need to leave at approximately 5.45. At 8 there’s a showing of Die Hard at the local movie theater, which I thought we could attend?”

Okay, maybe her left eye flinches at this but very discreetly (or so she chooses to believe).

“Then tomorrow there’s breakfast at 7, which is perfect because we have canoeing on the lake at 8.30...”

She zones out after this. Hormones, tiredness, the fact that she can’t feel her feet- there are a thousand reasons but Amy can feel the most is tears prickling, threatening to spill. Not because she doesn’t appreciate her husband’s efforts and grand gestures, all for her, but because she can’t stand the thought of doing any of these sweet things he’s planned for them. She can’t cry though. He’s going to think something is actually wrong.

“Babe?”

However far gone she was, the sound of Jake’s voice pulls her back in and there’s a confusing mixture of mischief and pure adoration shining from these famous deep brown eyes. Why is he almost smiling when she’s having a tiny meltdown?

“Are you crying?”

“No?” she scoffs although she’s proven wrong upon touching her cheek where her fingers are met by a thin wet streak. “I’m just,” she clears her throat in hopes of avoiding a strained voice, “so overwhelmed by happiness and everything you’ve planned for us. It all sounds… great.”

Silence dawns upon them as Amy’s fake smile tries to convince him. On his part, Jake is biting his lip in an attempt to hold back a laugh, but his wife’s panicked look and teary eyes have him failing to last and after a couple of seconds he breaks the quietness.

“Honey, I’m messing with you,” he chuckles and quickly pulls her back in for a tight hug, as tight as the belly allows, pecking the top of her head. “I know you love a good schedule but the only plans I have for us are: staying in bed, ordering room service, and watching tv.”

“Oh, thank God.”

The moan of relief flies out of her before she can even consider how it must sound to Jake, a great deal of embarrassment hitting her upon realization. She just made it sound like she wouldn’t appreciate her husband’s effort to make this weekend of theirs the best.

“Jake, I’m so sorry! I didn’t-”

She pulls back to look him in the eyes, ready to offer a sincere apology for her blunt exclamation. She never gets to. Instead, she’s met with a huge grin and her husband looking everything but mad or hurt. Almost as if he knew. He knew how she’d react. He wanted her to react.

“You sly sneak! You knew you’d freak me out!”

Only her husband can trick her like this, and, on one hand, it’s very endearing... Jake Peralta is more than just a good cop; he’s excellent. Brilliant and bold, maybe even too much sometimes, although he usually gets away with it. Usually, she’s always on his heels and she hates to admit it, but her mommy brain and restless hormones are making it much harder, if not impossible, to keep up with his always upbeat pace.

“Of course I knew, babe.”

No matter how hard she tries, she can’t even find it within herself to be genuinely annoyed with him. He’s pulled her back into his arms and is looking at her with that mischievous smile that can both infuriate and enchant her. Tonight it’s a little bit of both although mostly the latter, she has to admit and the last bit of annoyance melts away the second he leans in, offering her a soft kiss that lets reminds her of the fact that he’s the best thing in the whole damn world.

“I love you,” she manages to mumble against his lips before he can pull too far back, her swollen fingers cradling his jaw to emphasize her words. It tampers with any kind of reasoning and her ability to remain miffed.

“I love you too...” her husband mumbles back against her lips.

Pulling away isn’t an option, he’s too addicted and he enjoys feeling the air coming from her nose when she chuckles. “How much?”

“At the very least enough to not make my heavily pregnant wife canoe around a lake.”

“Peanut and I appreciate that very much.”

Although after all these months there’s a comfort and familiarity in being able to rub her belly and know her son is in there, safe and sound, knowing he soon enough will be out here in the real world with them has butterflies fluttering in her chest. Jake’s hand joining hers in stroking her belly only causes the number of butterflies to multiply, explode all over again, and her hormones are making her question whether she wants to cry or laugh - or perhaps do both. After such a long wait, from the second they decided to start trying, there’s no blaming her impatience. There’s so much to expect and patience has never been her strongest asset. Only when it comes to Jake and their son. She’s impatient to see, hear and feel it all. The life and adventure she’s created with the man she loves the most seems scarily close yet torturously far away.

With no reason to leave in sight, Amy finds herself bundled up in a hotel bed sent from heaven, wearing nothing but panties and her favorite nursing bra. Jake is on an errand run to grab her the creme cheese-filled pierogis and Arroz con Leche their son and she are very much craving. Although she does prefer her abuela’s homemade version of the latter, even a pregnant Amy can come to terms with the fact that there are limits to Jake’s super husband-powers. He can and will get her almost anything as long as physically possible - or within a radius of 20 miles which Abuela Dolores at this given time for good reasons isn’t.

Amy had insisted on the hotel’s room service menu being more than fine, but her husband knows her all too well and could tell she wasn’t content with the ravioli and créme brulée she’d originally settled for. Before she could even begin to protest his offer to run out and get it for her, her husband had pulled on a pair of jogging pants and a hoodie, grabbed his keys, and left her behind with a peck to the top of her head and a promise to be back in not too long.

In all honesty, the ravioli and creme brulée would’ve been fine, and she would’ve preferred Jake to be here to cuddle her. Nonetheless, there’s no denying how loved and important Jake makes her feel. Especially when he suddenly walks in the door, multiple plastic bags hanging on his arms and car keys dangling from his mouth. The view is hilarious, to say the very least, and she wonders: how did she ever get so very lucky?

Perhaps she will never know the answer to this. Luckily when you’re cuddled up in a soft hotel bed eating pierogis, fries, grapes, and Arroz con Leche with the love of your life, it doesn’t really matter how you got there. Being too busy talking, eating, and making out, the documentary about the history of paper Amy’s been dying to watch is mostly just background noise.

“Can you believe we’re having a baby?”

Her husband’s mouth is filled with fries and before she can even think of answering his question, she has to reach over to wipe ketchup from the corner of his mouth.

“Yes… but also no. In a good way.”

It’s true. She always knew she wanted kids but wanting is one thing; actually outliving it still seems surreal to her, even as she runs her hands around the curve of the skin encapsulating their very own little human being. What makes it so much more surreal is the fact that Jake Peralta is the father. Jake Peralta, the guy who she 6 years ago could only pine for. Now she’s lying in bed with him, watching him smile at her with those soft, brown eyes and warm rosy lips that she not so secretly hopes their son will inherit. He swiftly wipes oil and salt off his fingers before reaching over to place his hands on top of her belly. Placing hers on top of his happens like a newfound reflex of hers. His hand is warm and feels like home.

“This is probably the last getaway we’ll have, yanno, just the two of us.”

His soft voice has her looking up from their joined hands on her belly to see him looking directly at her with glistening eyes, the blue light from the television casting a blue hue on the side of his head. He looks so handsome, pensive, so perfect and she can’t come to terms with the fact that he’s her’s and she his, and together they’ve created new life.

“Yeah. More likely than not.”

“How do you feel about that? Are you scared? You know- of giving birth and how life will be after that?”

A few beats of silence go by, only the dull sound of the tv filling the otherwise silent room. His hand never slips out of from beneath hers. Does this question maybe reflect some worries of his?

“Not scared, per se...”

She quickly makes sure that there’s no food in-between them before scooting in closer to him. Her hand slips off of his only to slide up his arm, all the way up to cup his face. There’s close to no room between them. Her thumb dances across his cheekbone.

“... Excited, maybe a bit anxious, but I know it’ll be alright and so very worth it in the end. And yeah, our life nd dynamic might have to change a bit but it’ll always be us. But I’m not scared,” This seems to put a damper on his running mind. “And you know why?”

“Hm?”

“Because I have the world’s best baby daddy.”

As hoped a wide smile lights up his face, pure unadulterated joy so obviously present in this little moment of theirs. Worries seem irrelevant and non-existing.

“Are you worried, babe?”

She sees his smile fade a bit but not enough to genuinely worry her. Just like everyone, he has his thoughts and worries. With care comes worries. He wants to do his best, she knows.

“Maybe a bit, you know? Like not genuinely worried like I would’ve been a few years ago, but just… averagely worried.”

“That’s okay,” she comforts, her thumb still tracing smooth lines on his cheek. “It’s normal. It just means you care and want to do good, which is all I can really ask of you.”

“I do care. A lot. So so much,” he chuckles shyly.

“Which is also why you’re going to be fine, I will be fine and everything will be fine.”

She doesn’t give him the time to agree nor protest but instead leans in to place a long, tender kiss on his lips, inviting him to join in on the moment. It’s just a simple kiss, soft, like the one they had a Shaw’s after agreeing to stop trying (which eventually lead to more trying, but that’s beside the point). With every breath, they take the kiss grows deeper, longer. It’s as if their bodies are aware of the fact that this will be the last time they get to do this without a child to get home to; without the responsibility of being a parent. All at once, it’s frightening but also, more than anything, exciting. Their lives might be on the verge of changing forever. Although lying there in bed together, feeling the soft touch of their spouse, it feels like they’ve never changed and never will. They’re always going to be Jake and Amy.

#B99 Summer 2021 Fic Exchange #b99 #brooklyn nine nine #jake x amy #peraltiago #fluff #brooklyn nine-nine #jake and amy #mac peralta #baby peraltiago #oneshot

46 notes · View notes

aki-mochi · 3 years

Text

Ch. 7: I Love You

It’s been a few weeks since the incident during training with Jean and Y/n’s mental state became worse. Throughout the days, she’s skipped meals and barely gave any effort in combat training. During cleaning sessions, her mind would either go blank or wander towards a certain Captain. She often worried about his injuries from the war but knew it was inevitable to do so since he constantly avoided her whenever she was within his eyesight. Most days she would hide in a vacant room whenever she had another PTSD episode and would usually last a few hours, wondering if she’ll ever overcome the hell inside her head.

Tonight she sat at one of the dinner tables in the Mess Hall whilst picking at her food, once again not having an appetite. Her gaze was empty before she heard a low feminine voice call her name from across the table, snapping her out of her empty thoughts.

“Y/n?”

She looked up and saw Mikasa. She gave a slight look, wondering how long the female Ackerman had been sitting there. “Hm?”

“Your eyes are red and puffy.” She stated. “Were you crying?”

Looking down, Y/n raised an arm to her face to wipe away any tears that might have escaped. “N-no…I’m fine….”

When she lifted her head again, she saw Levi walk into the room as he kept his balance with his cane. The stoic man silently walked by her table as he avoided eye contact. Her heart wrenched at the sight of him. How she wished he would just talk to her so they can settle things between them. When Mikasa saw the broken look on her face, she grew concerned.

“What are you looking at?” She asked as she looked where your sight was locked on to. When she saw Levi placing himself at a table with Hanji, she instantly knew what was wrong since she knew Y/n and Levi had broken up a few months ago.

“Oh…” turning her attention back to Y/n, Mikasa reached across the table to place both her hands on top of hers. “Y/n, you know I’m here for you, right?”

“I’m fine, Mikasa, really.” She gave a smile but Mikasa knew it was fake. “I just didn’t sleep well, that’s all…”

“Okay…” the ebony haired girl didn’t really believe her words but decided not to push her as she got up. Giving a small wave goodbye, she left with Eren and Armin as Y/n sat alone while watching her friend leave.

Giving a quiet sigh, her gaze went back to her untouched food before feeling a pair of eyes burning holes at the back of her head. Looking up once more, she turned to look over her shoulder to find Jean sitting in his spot with a hand at his cheek as he watched her. You stared back at him for a minute before he realized you had caught him looking at you, probably wondering about the incident at training. Biting her lip, Y/n turned back around in her seat to avoid the awkwardness between you too and continued to pick at her food some more before debating whether or not to throw it away. A few minutes pass before you see movement in the corner of your eye. Turning her head once again, she saw Jean had gotten up and started to walk over to her.

“Y/n? Are you okay?”

Y/n blinked. “Yeah, of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

Apparently her response wasn’t the one he wanted to hear as he suddenly grabbed her arm and pulled her up from her seat as he started to drag her outside, unaware of a certain pair of eyes watching them. Y/n staggered behind him, noticing that his grip was aggressive, she could tell he was pissed. She couldn’t help but get scared from the familiar grip, remembering how much it hurts. Once he rounded a corner of the building, he pinned her up against the wall, leaving no room for her to escape.

“I know you’re not okay, so don’t even try to lie to me. So, tell me…did Levi do something to you? Did he hurt you?”

Her body stiffened. “H-How did you…?”

“You know you can tell me, right?” He frowned.

“No, Jean. I’m fine, I promise he didn’t-“

“Bullshit!” He cut her off, his voice raising in volume. It started to scare Y/n but Jean continued his rant.

“People don’t cry out of the blue like that for no reason!”

“J-Jean…please stop yelling…” she said as tears welled in her eyes.

“All I’m asking is for you to trust me! You never tell me anything! I have to find out from others! I thought we were friends but you never come to me! Why don’t you-“

“Just leave me alone, Zeke!” Y/n screamed out. Her legs gave out as she sat in a fetal position on the ground while she cried.

“Zeke…?” Jean looked down at her shaking form before an intense glare etched onto his face, severely pissed. “What the hell did that bastard do to you?!” He yelled before a hand had placed itself on his shoulder.

“Hey, that’s enough. Screaming at her won’t make her tell you anything, idiot. Now get inside.” Levi ordered.

Jean slightly relaxed his shoulders before looking down at you. “Yes, sir…” Silently, he made his way back inside the Mess Hall to finish his food.

Levi watched as Jean walked off before looking down where Y/n still sat. Her hands were covering her ears as her body trembled.

“Y/n….” Levi’s thin eyebrows furrowed at the sight, his heart ached as he went to touch her shoulder only for her to pull away. His cold stare softened as he carefully and slowly knelt down to her level. Reaching out his left hand, he tenderly cupped her cheek and stroked it softly with his thumb.

Her shaking had stopped the minute she recognized the familiar touch that’s on her cheek. Slowly looking up, her tear filled eyes widened as she saw Levi sitting in front of her. Y/n could barely believe that he was here before suddenly, yet carefully, throwing herself onto him as she clung to him for dear life. This took Levi back by surprise but instinctively wrapped his arms around her, noticing how much weight she’d lost within the weeks. Sobs racked her body as her fingers crinkled at his shirt, letting out all of her stress to him.

“It hurts, Levi! I can’t sleep, I can’t fight, I can’t live my damn life and I can’t fucking close my eyes! Not without seeing his stupid face!” She cried out.

Levi tilted his head down as his hair shadowed over his eyes, his arms bringing her closer to his body as he stroked her hair. “I’m sorry, Y/n….I couldn’t protect you….this is all my fault…”

“L-Levi…” Y/n couldn’t believe what she was hearing.

“If only I’d gotten to him sooner…I could’ve stopped him….” His voice cracked ever so slightly.

“No…if only I would’ve told you….because I was scared to lose you and I didn’t know what’d to do….” She hiccuped in his shoulder.

“I know…and I shouldn’t have left you…” a single tear escaped his eye as he nuzzled his nose into her hair, inhaling her scent that he loved so much. “I’m never leaving you again…because I love you, Y/n…”

Her eyes widened, having to have missed him saying those three words the last few months. Before she could respond, he continued.

“I don’t expect you to feel the same for me anymore. I just…needed to say it…at least once…”

Y/n pulled back enough to face him while still in his arms. Her hands declawed themselves from his shirt and made their way to his scarred face, cupping both sides with the utmost care as her thumb stroked the scars along his cheeks lovingly. He watched her as she tapped her forehead against his, stray tears cascading down her own cheeks. “I love you too. And I always will, Levi.”

His eyes widened at her words as his heart felt like it would beat out of his chest. He was finally able to forgive her, and she had forgiven him. Without a moment’s thought, he leaned in to close the gap between them to give her a tender kiss. Both of them had found their peace, and he was more than ready to help her fight the nightmares that haunt her dreams as long as it takes.

He surely is never going to leave her side again.

22 notes · View notes

ferihas · 2 years

Text

WHO: @ferihas & @henry-whittock WHEN: Evening of Saturday, December 8th WHERE: Offices of Whittock Textiles

The pile of papers on the desk seemed never ending. The factory workers has largely gone home, but here Henry sat at his father’s desk. After the years of following his father around, he still hadn’t warranted his own desk. The expenses were too high this month for his father’s liking and the patriarch had tasked him with finding where the increased costs had come from and what could be done about them.

Along with all of that, the actual work given to him, he needed to find a way to fill in the gaps of the one account that had been drawn on more than it should have been. He shouldn’t have taken the funds from the business. He knew that. But Eleanore deserved to have some heat and John deserved to have at least a few toys come Christmas morning and neither were overly likely to occur without his intervention. Now he had to figure out what reasonable expense he could put in its place that wouldn’t harm the workers even further than his father’s harsh practices did.

And all of that was in addition the the whispers that seemed to grow more loud when the moon was in the sky.

When he heard the door open, he expected it to be his father come to check in on him or perhaps some worker with an emergency they felt warranted his attention. He felt his heart twist when he saw instead it was Feriha. There was a time once, a life time ago it felt, that he would have been thrilled to see her face. Now it only seemed to make him feel the weight of his own exhaustion. He couldn’t even imagine how she had managed to discover this was where he was or to gain entrance to the office.

He took a deep breath as he looked up from the ledgers. “Fer, what was you doing here? I’ve work to do,” he looked down at the books feeling a bit helpless. “I need to find a way for father to lower his costs that isn’t cutting back on coal for the heating at Christmas time.” The irony of just how like A Christmas Carol his words sounded were not lost on him. “I’m sorry, but I do not have the time for dalliances today.”

Feriha doesn’t expect their friendship to snap back to just like how they used to be, gallivanting across London in the pursuit of fun. Too much has happened for that, the responsibilities on his shoulders too heavy to cast off so easily, but if she can get Henry to loosen up just a little, to feel more like himself than the somber, overworked man sitting in front of her now, she’ll consider that a win. She is of the philosophy everyone needs a break once a while—or more than that. They need time to unwind and step back, to release the coil of stress binding them so tightly. Keep all that in, and one might never find their way back out.

That, and she simply wants Henry to be happy. And where is happiness found within the dreary walls of the factory, ledgers piled upon ledgers with no end to the responsibilities in sight? She cannot say Just leave it all behind, because the truth of it is he can’t, just as her brother can’t. But that doesn't mean he has to drown, and each time she can bring back that familiar gleam in his eyes is a victory to her.

It’s mission that has brought her to his factory, and how Feriha’s even gained entry remains something of a mystery—to her credit, she’s always been a great sweet-talker, and dropping her brother’s name to the second-in-command does wonders to get her through those doors and into Henry’s office. “You always have work to do,” says Feriha frankly in lieu of a greeting, leaning against the doorframe.

She walks in, pursing her lips in thought as she peers down at the open ledgers, the numbers indecipherable to her. If only she’d absorbed some of Daya’s business sense. “Is there anything to do with foreign imports or trade or something? Could cut back on those if they’re not as needed.” She sighs, scrunching her nose at her attempt and offering a small, apologetic smile. “Sorry, I’m horrid at this kind of thing. I’d just like to help if I can—but look,” she sweeps into the chair opposite his desk, careful not to send his papers scattering as she props her elbows up, “you’re not getting anywhere just staring at it all. You, my dear friend, need a break.” It’s as if she’s making a business proposal of her own, though entirely one his father would disapprove of. “You asked why I’m here, yeah? Well, I’m here to drag you out. Have some fun, relax. Come back with fresh eyes and you’ll maybe have some kind of epiphany. It’s Saturday night, for fuck’s sake.” She gives him a winning smile, her voice just a little pleading. “Won’t you? Even just for an hour. There’s dancing and music and you won’t be bored, swear it. I think the fresh air will do you good.”

#idk what's going on but every time i tried to reply to the post tumblr kept glitching on me??#so i'm trying it this way hopefully that's ok !!#( int. )#( int | henry. )

8 notes · View notes

wingsofhcpe · 3 years

Note

oh and this one because i love pain: having to watch your lover die, as you’re restrained by the antagonist, unable to fight your way out of their grip, yet your eyes are glued on your lover’s

(@sparklingrainbowdragon you asked for this too so, tagging you here!)

I am very sorry in advance for this. Read below the cut!

"Sir. We have captured some of the deserters."

Ivan turned around to look at Galina, his second-in-command, as she walked into the strategy room. She looked rumpled, as if it's taken a lot out of her to capture the rogue Grisha. Possibly, Ivan thought with satisfaction, that meant her squad had caught a lot of them.

"How many?" He asked, and raised an eyebrow when he saw her shift her weight from one foot to the other. "Well?"

"Just... Just two of them, sir." Her heartbeat spiked up dangerously, and Ivan wondered if she was afraid he would reprimand her for not bringing in more captives.

"Well then." He said strictly, but not as cold as he would have usually been. "That's still something worth reporting to the General."

"Sir..." Galina swallowed. "Sir, one of then is- we- we have captured Fedyor Kaminsky."

Ivan stood very, very still. For a moment, he thought it was Galina's heart pounding against her chest like a caged bird trying to be freed; then he slowly realised, the sound of blood rushing in his ears, was his own.

He stalked past Galina and was out of the tent before he could check himself. Another of his Grisha threw a pitying glance at him, but Ivan hardly registered it. It didn't matter. None of it mattered.

Fedyor had been thrown into one of the Fabrikator-enforced cages, with a set of sturdy, iron cuffs clamped around his wrists. He sat slumped next to the second captive Grisha (an unconscious young girl who Ivan didn't recognise), but when he picked up Ivan's heartbeat his head shot up like a deer caught in the firelight. Those warm, brown eyes widened impossibly, and to Ivan's shock, he smiled.

"Vanya!" He said, his voice as soft and warm and loving as it had always been. Ivan nearly threw himself on the metal bars, his hand reaching through the gaps as if to reach Fedyor.

There was no need for words; their hearts did the talking. Besides, there wasn't anything they could have said. Not in this situation.

Fedyor didn't move, but he leaned closer to the bars. Belatedly, Ivan realised his right leg was bent in a strange angle underneath him. He cursed under his breath.

"Who did this to you?" He hissed, a spark of his old fierce protectiveness bubbling to the surface. Fedyor shrugged.

"One of the oprichniki decided I wasn't being cooperative enough while we were being transported here."

Of course he hadn't been. Ivan would have been proud of him had it not ended like that. He made a mental note of finding the oprichnik in question and tanning their arse so hard they wouldn't be able to sit for days.

"Does it hurt?" Ivan askes uselessly.

"A bit." The words were breathed out softly; Fedyor was good at masking his pain, but Ivan knew him too well. He knew he was in agony. He longed to lay his hand on Fedyor's knee, ease his pain, call a healer. But... He couldn't. And Fedyor wouldn't want his pity.

Ivan blinked the sudden wetness away and shifted his attention at the other Grisha. "And she?"

"Her name is Mariya." Fedyor said fondly, and for a moment Ivan felt a pang of jealousy. Then he realised Fedyor's heart beat for her the same way it had done for Nina. Protective, a mentor. His shoulders relaxed against his will.

"She was knocked unconscious by one of the Heartrenders. But she'll be okay, I think. Until..."

'Until we're sentenced to death and executed for high treason.' Ivan knew he would have to be the one to pass the sentence. The General wasn't going to let him off the hook for sentimentalities.

"Saints, Fedya." Ivan sat on the ground so he could be at level with the other man. "Why didn't you leave? Why didn't you go to Ketterdam or something?"

"I'm sorry, Vanya." Fedyor said softly, and sounded like he meant it. "I couldn't leave Alina. I couldn't leave Ravka to Kirigan's mercy."

Not the General's. Whatever respect Fedyor had once held for that man, had vanished into thin air. The worst was, Ivan found that he couldn't blame him.

"You should have left." Was all he said, uselessly. It didn't matter anymore. His husband was going to die. And he would be the cause of it.

Fedyor shifted awkwardly as if trying to pass one of his hands through the bars. It was hard with the cuffs on, but in the end he managed to slip his fingers out, towards Ivan's. Ivan quickly held his hand out to hold them.

"It's alright, Vanyusha." Fedyor whispered as their heads leaned close to each other. "We both made a choice. I'm glad to die for it."

"I'm not!" Ivan blurted. "Saints, I don't want to lose you!"

He already had, in a sense. But at least he'd known Fedyor was out there, alive, possibly happy. This... This was different. Permanent.

"I love you." Fedyor replied simply, his eyes twinkling in the twilight. "You know that, yeah?"

"Of course. And I love you too. More- More than anything else, Fedyenka." Ivan said softly. He didn't say more; he knew he wouldn't be able to keep his voice steady.

"Can you stay?" Fedyor asked. "If only for a little while. My leg hurts."

The simple admittance broke Ivan, along with the knowledge he couldn't do anything to help. He let out a choked sob, gripping Fedyor's cuffed hand tighter.

"I will. I promise I will."

---

"Mariya Abramova Svetaeva, and Fedyor Alexeivitch Kaminsky, you are hereby sentenced to death for the crime of high treason against the Second Army, the Grisha, and Ravka as a whole."

Kirigan's voice echoed like the drop of a hammer in the silence of the evening, that was only interrupted by Mariya's muffled whimpers as she cried. Fedyor spoke softly to her, trying to comfort her.

"Silence." The oprichnik that held him hissed, and punctuated the order with a swift kick on the Grisha's broken leg. Fedyor couldn't swallow back a short cry of pain as he nearly crumpled to the ground, and Ivan felt hot rage building up inside of him.

"Soldier." He snapped. "You will not attempt to harm the prisoners before the passing of the sentence."

The oprichnik muttered something about lovesickness and lack of conviction, but Ivan elected to ignore it. Kirigan cleared his throat to restore order.

"The sentence will be carried out immediately."

He announced. Ivan felt his stomach drop to his shoes- no, surely they'd have more time, surely he could have another moment with Fedyor-

"Aleksandra," Kirigan turned to the lead Inferni "build a pyre in the middle of the camp."

For a second, Ivan wasn't sure what the General had meant. Then it dawned on him, and he swore he could feel the ground crumpling from under his feet.

"Sir, that's not-"

"An order is an order, Ivan. They do not deserve a Grisha death. Rather, they will be treated to a druskëlle sentence."

Mariya must have finally realised what was happening, because she let out a heartbreaking wail and strained against the guard that held her.

"No!" She screamed. "No, please, sir I repent, I repent-"

The General ignored her and turned around. "Ivan, I trust you will carry out what needs to be done. It's what's best for Ravka, and for the Grisha. No sentimentalities."

Ivan didn't know what the feeling building up within him was; he had never felt anything like it. Too cold to be called rage, too powerful to be called fear. All he could see was Fedyor chained to a wooden pole, screaming and crying for mercy as the flames consumed him. Looking at him, those brown eyes filled with agony.

Something inside Ivan broke.

Distantly, he heard himself roaring as he hurled himself against Kirigan's back, hands wrapping around the other man's neck. Grisha powers be damned, Ivan was going to kill the bastard with his own two hands-

But Kirigan flipped him around easily, and suddenly his back was pressed against the other man's chest, his hands held painfully behind him. He couldn't move a finger.

"Careful, Ivan." The General hissed in his ear. "Or you will share your lover's fate."

"I'd rather burn than side with someone who would kill us like the druskëlle!" Ivan snapped, straining against Kirigan's grip. "You are a disgrace to the Grisha. To think I believed in you-"

"I am only doing what is best for all of us. Our personal feelings don't matter." Kirigan's voice was cold, detached. As if he had killed whatever warmth remained inside him long ago. He probably had.

"Vladimir." He said to the guard that held Fedyor. "Kill him now."

"No!" Ivan shouted. "No- Fedya, Fedyenka- no!"

Fedyor's eyes met his. Impossibly, he smiled; that damned, irresistible smile that Ivan had fallen for the first time he'd ever seen it.

"It's alright, Vanya." He said easily as the oprichnik fumbled for his dagger. "I'll wait for you, yes? We'll see each other again."

He sounded so calm, as if he was just leaving on a long mission rather than being executed. Ivan sobbed, sagging against Kirigan's grip.

"Vanya-" Fedyor grunted as the oprichnik pulled him back, the cold steel of an ornate dagger pressing against his throat. "Look at me, my love. Look at me."

Ivan forced himself to look. The knowledge that this would be the last time he heard Fedyor's voice, saw him alive and well and smiling, shattered him. But Fedyor kept smiling, his eyes filled with love and tears.

"Fedyor." Ivan whispered. Fedyor closed his eyes.

A moment later, the dagger sliced his throat, and blood painted the ground in front of him red.

#liaduval #my writing #answered #shadow and bone #heartrender husbands #fivan #fedyor x ivan #fedyor kaminsky #ivan no last name #i am So sorry

35 notes · View notes

ruzek-halstead · 3 years

Text

keep telling me that it gets better (does it ever?)

julie doesn't expect one of the worst days of her life to lead to the best.

an alternate universe where julie is a talented tattoo artist, battling her demons and luke occasionally helps out at a flower shop because recording a demo isn't cheap. their meeting isn't the most glamorous, but it's one for the books.

masterlist || ao3

It’s only when she turns her head to the side and her curls follow, that he notices the black outline of a butterfly tattoo on her shoulder. It’s unbelievably simple and void of any colour, but Luke finds it suits her. Her arm reaches out as she playfully hits the shoulder of someone she’s with and Luke catches more of the ink on her skin. He spots the dahlia first, and her reaction at the flower shop when he thought they didn’t have any makes a lot more sense; it must have a deep meaning to her.

The urge he feels to know everything and anything about her overwhelms him.

The moment Julie's alarm clock starts ringing that rainy Wednesday morning, she knows it can only go further downhill from there.

She has been dreading this day for the entire month, and now that it's finally here, she isn't sure how to feel. She knows how she feels; her insides are turning themselves inside out and the pinch at the front of her forehead signals the start of a headache that will most likely be there for the remainder of the day.

It's only seven-thirty in the morning and her phone is already flooding with messages. They're mostly from her dad, reminding her what today is. It isn't as if she needs a reminder; this day will stick with her for as long as she walks this earth. Other messages are from her Tía Victoria, a bit more aggressive, trying to ensure Julie's presence later tonight.

Julie understands it's all in good faith; she knows that. It doesn't help lessen the pain though.

She's has never found it anything less than difficult to visit her mother's grave. The image of Rose being lowered in her coffin will forever stay burned in Julie's mind, and that was all she could picture whenever she went back. However, the standing tradition was that they all would visit her mother's grave on the anniversary of her death.

Julie visited on the first anniversary. She was only able to stay the entirety of four minutes before she ran to the nearest trashcan to empty out her insides.

She stopped by the second year but couldn't find the strength to leave the car.

By the third year, the mere thought of visiting the cemetery was enough to send Julie into a whirlwind of panic attacks; they were so debilitating that she couldn't even leave her apartment.

At the fourth anniversary, Julie simply opted to not go. Her father was disappointed, her Tía was angry (even though she tried to hide it) and her brother said nothing at all.

Today marks the fifth anniversary of Rose's death, and once again, she's expected to show up. Even if the pain is just as fresh as the day it happened, the expectation is that she'll show up anyway with flowers and say something nice and meaningful.

Julie doesn't have anything nice or meaningful to say because she's still so angry that something like this even happened in the first place. She doesn't see why she has to hide her anger, why she has to hide it for the sake of her family. It should be okay that she's still grieving; it isn't something you just get over.

Julie clears the messages from her phone without responding. She has work to get to, and she can't be anymore distracted than she already is. She jumps in for a quick shower, not bothering to style her hair since it was a dreary, rainy day anyway. She chooses a pair of black ripped jeans, a matching black cropped band t-shirt and her red and black plaid shirt to complete the outfit. Grabbing an apple for the road, she picks up her army green jacket, an umbrella and quickly weaves through the crowds of people on the street until she reaches her destination.

The 'OPEN' sign is still turned off, but she spots lights flickering in the back. Balancing her umbrella and the apple she shoved in her mouth due to lack of hands, she uses her key to let herself in.

Willie is already in the back, setting up his station for a full day of appointments. Somehow people were always willing to get pricked with a needle, no matter how much it hurt.

Their other co-workers, Flynn and Carrie haven't arrived yet.

Julie is grateful for that. After working with these people for so many years, they know a lot about her and most of them were even there when her mother's health severely started deteriorating out of nowhere.

They know exactly what today is.

She doesn't want to be coddled in the way she knows they'll want to.

Luckily, she doesn't have to worry about that with Willie. He somehow just understands exactly what everyone needs, no words necessary.

"Morning Jules," he murmurs, motioning behind him to the break room. "I set the coffee a bit ago. Can you check on that?"

Julie, ever grateful for the distraction, drops her things at her station and rushes into the break room. Coffee is a must every morning, and it's best to always have a fresh pot. You never know when you'll need a fix. After so many years of working together, they've all memorized each other's coffee orders and so, Julie takes it upon herself to prepare everyone's coffee.

It's mostly for a distraction. But every time she thinks of things as distractions, it only reminds her of what she's trying to distract herself from. It's a lose-lose situation.

"Good morning Julie!"

Julie turns to glance over her shoulder at where Carrie is walking in, hooking her jacket on the coat rack and shaking out the raindrops from her loose waves. She immediately dives for her coffee, taking a deep gulp with a sigh of pleasure.

Her blue eyes meet Julie's surprised brown ones. Carrie merely sends her a small smile and doesn't say anything else. Julie sends one back.

"Is Nick coming in today?" Julie asks, turning back to the four coffees.

Nick is their apprentice, currently working with Carrie. He doesn't come in everyday and Julie doesn't want to waste a perfectly good coffee if he isn't coming in.

"No, not today. He gets days off. Anyone know what those are?"

Julie lets out a snort. She spots the pleased smile on Carrie's lips from the corner of her eye. She understands her co-workers are trying to make this day as pain-free as possible and she really appreciates it.

"Jules, your phone's going off again!" Willie yells from the other room. Julie frowns, knowing exactly who it is and what it's for. She glances at her watch, noting it's time to open. She grabs her coffee along with Willie's and drops it off along the way.

Julie once again presses decline, silences it, and shoves it into one of her drawers. She ignores the somewhat knowing look from Willie; she knows he won't say anything.

She can feel it in the aggressive manner of her movements; she's just so frustrated. She's frustrated with her emotions and what she's feeling. A part of her thinks she should be over it by now, so she wouldn't have to suffer through this every year. But she knows that's ridiculous; this kind of pain doesn't just disappear overnight. She's also frustrated with her family. They don't seem to care about what she's feeling and instead solely on what they want her to do.

But then, she's also frustrated with herself.

Why is it so difficult for her to visit her mother? Maybe it would be therapeutic and bring Julie some closure. She knows this, but her body rejects the idea at every attempt.

It's frustrating all around and Julie can feel herself growing sour as the day goes on.

Julie never pictured herself going into tattooing. To be perfectly honest, blood used to freak the hell out of her and in large quantities, it still does. But she always had an interest in drawing. It started with little doodles on the corners of her notebooks, then when she was gifted her first proper drawing pad, she filled it up within days. It was the one thing that brought her joy, so she decided to make something out of it.

Tattooing was still never on her radar. It wasn't until Julie met up with some of her cousins at a family get together that the idea was proposed. After that, Julie furthered her education on drawing and applied for an apprenticeship with an experienced tattoo artist. She wanted to see if it was the right profession for her, and she was amazed by how much she loved it.

Her mentor thought she was adorable at first. She was so tiny, and so bare of any tattoos, but when she started showcasing her talent, both knew this was the right place for Julie. She stayed there for a few months and eventually started venturing elsewhere. That's when she discovered Willie and his tattoo parlour Powerhouse.

He's absolutely the chillest boss Julie has ever encountered. He cares that you do your job and you do it properly. She also met some pretty amazing coworkers along the way, so it was quite possibly one of the best decisions she ever made.

Sitting in the break room during a gap in appointments, Julie idly stares at the ink littering her forearms. She never saw the appeal to ink her skin before her mom passed away. After that, she was desperate to keep her memory alive, and as close to her as possible.

The black outline of a dahlia on her wrist reminds Julie of her mother's favourite flower; she always made sure to have them in the house, even if they were out of season. There was a flower shop nearby that always managed to get them in, and coincidentally, it ended up being the shop across the street from where she worked now. Julie is familiar with the elderly lady who owned the shop, Beverly; she's the absolute sweetest, and continued to get dahlias even after Rose had passed away.

Julie likes to keep some in her apartment as well, so she continues stopping by.

She kept adding designs to her skin as time went on.

Her style is mostly black ink, thin lines. She understands most people get tattoos without a specific meaning behind it, as getting a tattoo is already meaningful enough. But Julie has always been dead set on having all her tattoos mean something to her.

She has her mother's signature on the underside of her other wrist. This one, Carlos and she got together. It's the only time Carlos ever let her come close to him with a needle, even though she has begged him multiple times.

Julie also has a black butterfly on the back of her shoulder. She loves butterflies and everything they represent; rebirth, change, hope, transformation, everything she wishes she could do.

She has a few more littering the skin on her arms, all personal designs, and all done by her ridiculously talented co-workers; Julie wouldn't trust anyone else.

Julie's day has dragged on, and she's still dodging calls from her family. It hurt, deep down in her chest that she's ignoring them, but it hurt so much more thinking about her mom and where she is.

When her phone rings again as she's cleaning up her station after the last client of the evening, Julie moves to decline the call. She stops short when she notices the screensaver is a dorky photo she took of Carlos many years ago; it's her brother calling, and he hasn't bothered to do so in quite a while.

Julie, with hesitation, decides to pick up the phone anyway. She hasn't talked to her brother in months, and she can't decline his call; it would hurt too much.

"Julie," he greets, seemingly surprised she even picked up; he knows what she's like on his particular day. It's like a breath of fresh air hearing his voice, and it makes Julie feel even worse for ignoring her father and Tía's calls earlier.

"Hey Carlos," Julie replies softly. "How are you?

It's a dumb question, but it was instinct more than anything else.

"I'm okay, considering," Carlos responds honestly, and Julie's heart nearly bursts from how much it hurts. To know her little brother is hurting and she has been avoiding him like the plague, it makes her feel like a terrible sister. And that wouldn't be far from the truth, considering how MIA she has been with her entire family. "Are you coming tonight?"

Julie inhales sharply. It's easier to just decline calls to let them know she isn't coming rather than actually having to tell them. "I'm sorry Carlos, I don't think I can make it tonight."

There's an ominous silence from the other end. They both know Julie's full of shit.

"Okay," he replies solemnly. "I just —" When Julie hears what she thinks is a quiet sob, her eyes immediately well up with tears. For a second, it feels like all the air has been sucked out of the room and she can't figure out how to breathe. "I would really like it if you came. I need you."

Carlos is so obviously in pain and Julie doesn't have it in her to deny it anymore. She's in pain too, but it isn't just about her.

"I'll be there," Julie tells him, voice breaking on the last word. "I'm just finishing work, but I'll meet you all there."

"Thanks Jules," he thanks her, but honestly, there's no need. "I love you."

Julie hastily wipes at the tears that have escaped. "I love you too. See you soon."

Julie immediately ends the phone call and ducks her head into her arms to silence the sobs wracking her body.

God, it hurt so much.

Everything hurt.

Julie only allows herself to fall apart for a single minute. After that, she composes herself and wipes away her tears. She had promised Beverly she would stop by today, as she always sent Julie some dahlias on the anniversary of her mother's death. She figures she may as well bring them to her mother's grave; her father would appreciate it.

Julie hastily grabs her jacket from the back and storms to the front door. Her co-workers are still in, so she mumbles a quick goodbye but doesn't stay long enough to receive any questions. In her rush, she forgets to grab her umbrella and of course, it's still raining out.

She growls in frustration under her breath. She isn't usually an angry person, but today she's completely out of it.

The flower shop is only across the street, so she quickly makes a run for it and ducks into the shop.

Julie is expecting to see Beverly behind the counter, so she's unpleasantly surprised to see a floppy-haired, sleeveless man sitting behind it instead. She was truly hoping to see Beverly; she always made Julie feel better, especially on days like this.

So, she can't exactly explain the overwhelming feeling of rage that overtakes her.

Luke is sitting behind the counter on a stool, pencil between his lips, brows furrowed together as he reviews his latest lyrics. His head is bopping up and down as he murmurs the words from the notebook splayed on his lap.

He's been in a bit of a rut lately and everything he seems to write makes him want to bang his head against the wall.

The flower shop is quiet and slow, and it's the perfect place for Luke to write out his latest song ideas. They are still three songs short for the demo album they're currently recording and Luke is on a bit of a time crunch. It's a miracle they found a studio willing to let them record their demo album at all, but that's the price of knowing people (or Reggie knowing people; he meets a lot of random people).

Unfortunately, recording a demo doesn't pay much, so Luke helps out in the flower shop occasionally. Beverly is a family friend of his mom's and she's more than happy to have Luke help out so she can spend some more time with her grandkids.

When he hears the bell of the door go off, signalling there's a new customer, he glances up, pencil dropping into his lap. Her back is to him so he can only spot her unruly curls and army green jacket littered with raindrops.

He watches her silently; it isn't like he's trying to be creepy or anything, but usually he can tell by their expressions if they need his help or not. When she turns in his direction to glance at the row of flowers, he offers a friendly smile.

Luke is momentarily distracted by her effortless beauty, but his brows furrow at the obvious distress written on her features. Her eyes are slightly rimmed red, and he doesn't want to make any assumptions, but coupled with her rosy nose, it seems as if she has been crying. There's a pinch in her brow, and Luke can't tell if she's angry or just severely upset.

Neither are his specialty, and truth be told, he figures he'll only make things worse if he tries to talk to her. But she looks so sad, and it is technically his job. How horribly could he mess this up?

With hesitation, he slips out from behind the counter and approaches her cautiously, bouncing on his heels.

"Hey!" Luke greets, his right hand automatically reaching towards the back of his head to scratch his scalp. He has been told it's his nervous tick, though he can't really help it at this point. His voice sounds so loud in the quiet shop; only the sounds of buzzing from the coolers can be heard. "Is there anything I can help you with?"

Julie is still gazing over the flowers, growing irritated that there are no dahlias in sight. She spares a single look at his curious expression. His green eyes are searching her face, and she can only imagine how terrible she looks right now. His gaze is oddly intense and Julie breaks away like she's been burned.

Shaking her head to break out of her reverie, she looks back at the flowers. "I'm looking for dahlias."

"Oh!" Luke frowns, even more so when Julie doesn't make further eye contact. "Sorry, we don't have any in stock right now. Not the season."

Luke has dealt with crabby customers before, normally upset because they don't have what they're looking for. He's used to that, and he has a pretty upbeat demeanour that helps him whenever he has to talk down customers. And though Julie looks upset, he doesn't expect her to snap the way she does.

She turns to face him with such ferocity that the ends of her jacket flap against his thigh. There’s a wild gleam in her eye as it twitches. “What?” Though the single word is packed with animosity and venom, Luke spots the hint of desperation beneath. “That’s not possible. This place always has dahlias! They have to be here somewhere!" Her voice lowers into a soft whine when she says, "I need them."

Julie’s eyes flood with tears the more she speaks, and though she realizes he probably has no idea that Beverly always makes sure there are dahlias for her, she can’t help but let her frustrations out somewhere. Plus, she doesn't know him, so it's fine, right?

At the prospect of Julie bursting into tears right there and then in front of him, Luke jumps right into panic mode.

If Beverly’s shop receives a terrible review because of him, she will absolutely have his head.

(Beverly is a sweet lady but the sass.)

“Uh — hold on, just give me a second,” Luke stutters, reaching his hand out as if to comfort her. Julie’s eyes drop down to his hand and he snaps it back and tangles it into the back of his head with a sheepish smile. He’s always been very touch-oriented; it’s a problem sometimes, especially with people he doesn’t know very well. He just can't help it; if he sees someone in pain and suffering, he'll want jump in and help. However, it seems like the only way to help this particular distraught customer is to find some dahlias. “Hey, okay — listen, why don’t I check in the back? I could definitely be wrong.”

Julie’s eyes meet his and he becomes increasingly aware that she’s about ready to lose her bearings and cry right there in front of him. It makes his heart turn in his chest, and he doesn’t even know her that well. He takes a step back to head to the cooler but his hesitation is at an all-time high; Julie looks so ready to explode and it rubs him the wrong way to leave her on her own.

But he figures it’ll be for the best if he can find the dahlias, so he awkwardly steps back to enter the cooler. The cooler is relatively empty, only vases with long-stemmed roses, some ready-to-go arrangements and a few orders waiting to be picked up. He walks through the cooler quickly, checking any crevice for hidden dahlias. It’s only when he spots a bouquet of dahlias with baby’s breath, neatly wrapped in cellophane that he stops in his tracks. There’s a note attached and Luke recognizes Beverly’s loopy hand-writing.

A pretty, curly-haired brunette will be by to pick these up later. No charge. Please be nice, Luke.

Luke nearly snorts at the addition of the note, but quickly realizes it was probably added because of the brunette’s emotional state that he just witnessed. He would otherwise argue he’s a very kind person.

(He isn’t usually wrong about what they have in stock either, but it seems today is a day for firsts.)

Luke grabs the bouquet and gently brings it back out. Luckily, the brunette hasn’t burst into tears; in fact, she seems more composed than earlier (he can’t help but think that maybe it was because his bothersome presence was gone).

“Ah — I’m sorry about that,” Luke apologizes, holding out the bouquet. He realizes the note Beverly left is still stuck onto the cellophane when he catches Julie’s eyes very obviously reading it. He awkwardly snatches the note back and shoves it into his pocket, but when he notices the right side of her lip quirk into a small smirk, he can’t help but feel a swell of pride. “Turns out Bev had this ready for you in the back.”

Julie accepts the bouquet, glancing up to send him a small, thankful smile. She recognizes she was quite snappy with him, and truthfully, he handled it considerably well as opposed to how he could have. But she also knows she isn’t mad at him and he didn’t deserve to be her punching bag today. Whoever he is.

Julie doesn’t recognize him, but he seems to know Beverly just as well as she does. He has a decently cute smile and Julie seems to be drawn to his mannerisms; the way he constantly scratches the back of his scalp or bites his lip when he’s awaiting replies.

She only notices that she’s been staring at him for the last few seconds when he clears his throat and his hand dives towards the back of his neck. She would be embarrassed if this wasn’t already one of the worst days of her life; it truly can’t get any worse.

Instead, she pulls out her wallet with her free hand, but Luke shakes his head. She saw the note that said no charge, but she had been a nightmare, it was the least she could do. “No charge,” Luke murmurs, eyes latching to the delicately wrapped dahlias. “Boss’s orders.”

Julie forces another smile onto her lips. “Thank you,” she says. She debates saying anything else, maybe apologizing but she’s already running late and she doesn’t want her family to think she’s bailing on them again.

So, she turns to leave. Immediately, dread starts pooling at the bottom of her belly and she just knows getting to the cemetery will be one of the hardest things she'll have to face.

At watching her leave after a painfully obvious fake smile, Luke hesitates. He’s a curious person, and he doesn’t like to see people hurt. He always needs to make things better; it's part of who he is. So, he bites his lip and launches forward, blurting loudly, “Are you alright?”

Julie nearly snorts because she most definitely is not alright and that much is obvious, but it’s nice of him to ask anyway. She stops in her tracks and turns to him with soft eyes. “I’m not, but thank you anyway,” she replies honestly.

Her eyes drop down to search for a name tag, but he doesn’t have one. She then remembers the name scribbled on the note at the same time he supplies, “Luke.”

“Thank you anyway, Luke,” Julie repeats. Her eyes quickly roam over his features once again. She hadn’t noticed his sleeveless tank was an old band t-shirt, but at this close range, she could tell it had been purposely ripped and destroyed. The shirt, coupled with his distressed denim pants and outdated jean-chain gives her serious 90s vibes. She decides she likes it.

Luke nods in response, folding his lips in an awkward smile. Her warm brown eyes are softer now as they gaze at him and for some reason, he can feel his heartbeat start to pick up. She turns to walk away again and this time he doesn’t interrupt.

He would absolutely deny that he was creeping on her (he just happened to be looking in that direction) but he watches as she ducks into the tattoo parlour across the street. He finds it a bit odd; it seems like a weird place to go after a flower shop, especially given how upset she looked.

One thing he does know: it seems as if Beverly is quite familiar with this mysterious brunette, and he would be lying if he said he doesn't want to know more about her.

It's a fair assumption to say Luke’s life is a tad bit complicated at the moment.

His band, Sunset Curve, was graced with the amazing opportunity to record their demo in a borrowed studio. It was a truly unbelievable experience, and Luke was eating up every second. But as the resident songwriter, it was up to him to make sure they had enough original songs to even record.

It’s no secret that Luke has been having trouble in the inspiration department.

The lyrics just weren’t flowing to him like they usually did. He wasn’t really sure of the reason; he originally just assumed writer’s block. But then a certain event occurred and he started to see everything in a different light.

It sounds ridiculous, he knows that.

He doesn’t even know her name.

But her effortless beauty compelled him, and there was something about the sadness in her eyes that drew him in. There were many things about their encounter that were completely out of the ordinary. Her vulnerability and obvious desperation drove his curiosities wild and even though he’d only been in her presence for a few minutes, he was itching to know more.

So, he isn’t the least bit surprised when he starts adding words to his notebook as potential lyrics start spilling out of him.

Specifically, he focuses on her emotions and the obvious distress she seemed to be feeling. It’s out of the realm of his usual type of song, and maybe it isn’t something he’d pitch for the band, but a smile comes to his lips as he thinks of these passages just for himself.

she closed the door

she hides behind a face nobody knows

she feels her skin touch the floor

she wants to fight

but her eyes are tired, nobody’s on her side

she wants to feel like she did before

she looks into her mirror

wishing someone could hear her, so loud

It's definitely not his usual, but her presence in his life gets the ball rolling.

He needs to know more.

Luke finds himself a week later back in Beverly’s flower shop, this time with her by his side. They receive deliveries on Thursday evenings, so Luke usually stops in to help. He hadn’t gotten a chance to pick up another shift since he met the mysterious brunette last week due to back-to-back sessions at the studio, but this was finally his opportunity.

He hasn’t found the right opportunity to ask; he isn’t even sure what to say, but apparently his actions are a bit more obvious than he's intending them to be.

“Am I about to get robbed?”

At Beverly’s odd, but capturing question, Luke turns to her with furrowed brows. She’s sitting behind the counter, checking off their invoices one by one. He’s unloading boxes into the cooler, albeit slower than necessary. He’s a tad bit distracted by the glass windows.

“What?” He mumbles, stopping for a moment to focus on her words. He wipes a hint of sweat off his brow. For someone with a high level of stamina due to the countless hours on stage, he's quite embarrassed at how out of shape he seems to be from a few boxes.

Beverly peeks up at him over the rim of her glasses. “Well, you keep looking out the window, almost as if one of your dorky bandmates is about to run in and break into my register."

Luke snorts at the mention of his dorky bandmates; she definitely isn't wrong. But that isn't the reason why he continues to glance out the window.

“No. It’s just — that girl from last week, with the dahlias. Uh — what’s her name?”

Beverly's smirk is evident and he nearly shies away from the knowing look in her eye. “You didn’t ask for her name?”

His eyes roll back at the obvious judgment in her tone and he wants to laugh, but she's already beat him to it. “I was kind of distracted trying to make sure she didn't cry at the sight of my face."

"Right, I could've warned you about that."

Luke's eyes latch onto her smirk. "You could've."

“She’s a sweet girl,” Beverly sighed, filing another completed invoice. “She’s had a hard life, sad story, really.”

That certainly piqued Luke’s interest.

“What happened?”

But he should’ve figured Beverly wasn’t going to make it that easy for him.

“Not my story to tell,” she says simply. “But I can tell you her name is Julie and she works at the tattoo parlour across the street.”

Realization dawns on Luke at once. He saw her ducking into the parlour after buying flowers but he never imagined she actually worked there. It didn’t seem like her thing, but he should know better than anyone not to judge a book by its cover.

“Are you going to go talk to her?”

At Beverly’s absurd suggestion, he scoffs. “What? No. I was just curious; I don’t even know her.”

Beverly rolls her eyes. “How is it possible that the male species have gotten even stupider since my time?”

Luke drops his jaw in offence, but she's already slid her glasses back on and started studying the next invoice.

Did the thought of casually dropping by the tattoo parlour cross his mind? Yes, of course. But he doesn't want to do that. He isn't used to that. He's never the one that had to chase; it sounds stupid, especially because he hardly knows her, but sometimes there's just a feeling. A feeling that might not make any sense at all, but it's there and it's impossible to ignore.

Luke did his best to ignore the feeling, but only a mere week later, he would find that it wasn't that easy.

"Alright, boys. You all understand how important tonight is, right?"

Alex rolls his eyes for the umpteenth time, as if Luke hasn't drilled the thought into their minds a million times by now. Ever since they secured this gig, it was all Luke could talk about. They each knew how important it was. Yes, their demo was currently in the making but one amazing performance in front of some killer producers, and their demo may not even be necessary to get signed.

It's exciting and anxious as hell.

"I know, I know," Luke sighs, running his hands nervously through his hair. He can't stay still and he can't stop moving or his anxiety will eat him alive. "I'm just so nervous."

Reggie nods his head from the snack table. They each have their own ways of dealing with pre-stage jitters and nerves; Reggie's happens to be stress-eating, and his food of choice? Hot dogs. How he manages to not upchuck everything when onstage is a question they've all asked themselves multiple times.

"I get it dude," he says through a mouthful. "But we're going to rock this like we always do. It'll be awesome."

Reggie's words are comforting but they do little to ease Luke's nerves. This is a big deal for him, for all of them. After so many years of following their passions and trying to accomplish their dreams, a real chance is finally awaiting them just outside these doors.

It's enough to make him nearly puke twice before he makes it on stage, and it only frustrates him further because he never gets this panicky.

He works himself up before he takes the final plunge and finds his way to the one place in the world he's ever felt truly comfortable; centre-stage in front of a microphone with his guitar slung around his neck.

The lights are bright, but he's used to it. His connection to the crowd is instant; that's never been a problem for Luke. He reaches the crowd in the way he sings passionately, surrendering every emotion each song elicits.

He's trying not to think too much; he doesn't want to get too far into his head because he does his best work musically when he isn't thinking, only feeling the music coursing through his veins. He can easily spot the producers in the corporate pantsuits sitting in the far back corner and his eyes try to avoid them as best as possible.

He focuses on the music, on his boys and on giving the performance of a lifetime.

Luke is so focused, he momentarily misses the sight of his flower shop mystery girl smack-dab in the middle of the crowd. His eyes immediately snap back, catching her polite smile as she nods her head along with the music. Though she isn't jumping along like some fans in the front row, she is offering some acknowledgement that she's enjoying his music.

And he isn't sure why, but it sends a fire through his chest that animates him for the rest of the show.

They don't take any breaks during the set; their dedication is endless.

Luke can physically feel how animated the club is, how unbelievably well their show is going. He shouldn't be surprised but the nerves were too much for him earlier. By the time they're winding down for their last performance of the night, Luke doesn't want it to end.

But he's also perfectly aware of the incredibly important people sitting near the back and he knows he has to face them eventually.

They end their stellar performance with their favourite song to perform, so near and dear to their hearts, and also energetic as hell, Now or Never. It's the perfect oath to live their lives to the fullest, as Luke and the boys try to do every day. Today is no different; an opportunity came knocking and Luke plans to take full advantage.

When Luke finally makes his way off stage, everything seems to happen in slow motion.

He can idly feel Alex pulling on his tank and Reggie wrapping an arm around his shoulders, messing up his sweaty hair even more than it already was.

Even when a woman wearing a salmon coloured pantsuit sneaks into their makeshift dressing room to have a quick word, he feels like he's frozen in time, watching from outside his body.

Alex does all the talking (mostly nervous rambling) but the lady, who later introduces herself as Lucy Fields, happens to think it's adorably hilarious.

She tells them she absolutely loved their performance and sees some real, authentic potential; they're young, have a defined sound and a clear talent for writing their own music. Lucy hands them her card, asks for a phone number for reference and promises to call.

When Reggie confusedly asks what this means, Lucy offers them a small smirk.

"I'm going to set up a meeting with my boss. If he likes what he sees, maybe you guys will be signing some paperwork." At their obvious disbelief, she continues, "You guys will definitely be signing some paperwork."

The silence that follows is palpable, but understandable.

Luke hasn't been able to utter a single word since getting off stage, which is highly unusual for him. This news doesn't help his predicament. Reggie starts coughing violently when he chokes on his water, and Alex is nearly about to drop to the ground because what even is air anymore?

Lucy isn't really sure what reaction she would get, but she isn't expecting complete silence. This is rectified when three, fully-grown man-children launch themselves at her, thanking profusely; Reggie even goes so far to plant a sloppy kiss on her forehead.

"We are so sorry," Alex apologizes breathlessly, yanking Reggie back towards his side. "We've just been wait — this is really huge for us."

But Lucy is laughing, so they know they haven't totally ruined their opportunity before it's even begun. "It's alright, boys. This is exciting, I get it. I'll be in touch," she promises before leaving the way she came in.

It's only fitting that the boys can't find any words for a solid five minutes. How does one sum this up into words? Luke certainly can't; in fact, he's pretty certain his brain is short-circuiting because his mind is completely blank.

"What the actual hell?" Alex mutters, quite literally sitting down on the floor where he stood. "Did that just happen? Am I dreaming?"

In response, Reggie whacks Alex on the back of the head; the blonde whines in pain. "Not dreaming," Reggie replies positively. He turns to Luke, nodding, "Dude, you haven't said a word. You good?"

"I don't know what to say," Luke finally says. "This is fucking wild. I mean — I knew it was a possibility, I know this is what we were hoping for but, it's actually happening."

Alex shoots Luke a toothy grin, eyes involuntarily watering with happy tears. "It's finally happening," he repeats. He braces himself when Reggie suddenly launches himself onto him, then groans when Luke hops on as well, laughing heartily.

"It's finally happening!"

It's only when he's distracted, laughing with his brothers on what is quite possibly one of the best days of his life that he remembers just exactly who is currently outside. Untangling himself, he scrambles off the dog pile and nervously tries to fix his messy hair.

"Shit, I have to go."

Alex furrows his eyebrows. "What? Where?"

"We have to celebrate!" Reggie pouts, grunting when Alex pushes him off.

Luke is busy rummaging through all their belongings, looking for some breath mints or even gum. Alex peeks at his actions with curiosity. "What are you — Lucas Patterson! Who is the girl?"

"Shh!" Luke fires back. He isn't totally sure why he does, because it isn't like she can hear them, but it's automatic. "It's the flower shop girl, Julie. I saw her in the crowd."

Reggie shares an incredibly suggestive look with Alex, and Luke can't help but roll his eyes. He finally locates his emergency pack of breath mints and pops three into his mouth. "The tattoo artist? Oh, dude, get your ass out there."

"Good luck Luke! Don't mess it up!" Alex yells after him.

Luke slams the door shut behind him and chuckles; he really should get some new friends. But if things go as expected at this meeting, he'll be stuck with them for life.

He is keenly aware of the fact that Julie might not even be around anymore. It's more than probable, but Luke hopes luck is on his side tonight.

After all, he owes her somewhat of a thank you.

He was in a musical rut before she stormed into his flower shop and nearly bit his head off. He can't explain it, but their encounter sparked something within him and he found himself writing more lyrics than he could keep up with.

Plus, she seemed to recognize him when they made brief eye contact, so it couldn't be a bad idea, right?

(Tell that to his palms that are obsessively sweating as his bright eyes rake through the hoards of people looking for her.)

Luke finds her relatively quickly; she's perched a top of a stool directly in front of the bar. Even though he can only see her back, he recognizes the cascade of curls down her back.

Maybe luck is on his side.

He can’t even put into words how good it looks on her, and maybe that’s a little shallow of him to think, but he’s truly floored by her appearance.

He knew she was beautiful when he saw her that first time, but seeing this side of her, this personal side of her; she’s simply gorgeous and he can’t wait to tell her.

He takes a deep breath and fixes his shirt; it's old and ratty and ripped, but it hasn't failed him yet. He has absolutely no idea what he even plans on saying; he never has to think about it, it usually just comes to him.

Luke slides in next to her, flagging down the bartender immediately.

He really needs a drink.

“Rum and coke, please.”

The tone of his voice must render familiar because Julie pivots on her stool with curious eyes and a lazy smile.

“Well, if it isn’t flower shop boy.”

In another world, he might’ve been offended that the only memorable thing about him was that he worked in a flower shop (he would argue his devilishly good looks or sparkling eyes were absolutely unforgettable). But with one look at her tilted head and amused eyes, he's just glad she remembers him at all.

“In the flesh,” he replies, tongue pressed against his teeth to keep from smiling too excitedly. “Though I do think I proved myself on stage; rockstar is a much more badass nickname."

Julie’s eyes twinkle mischievously as she clicks her tongue before pulling the straw of her drink between her lips. Luke’s eyes immediately follow absentmindedly. “I don’t know,” she drawls with a hint of sarcasm, “I think flowers suit you somehow.”

He wouldn't normally associate himself with flowers.

He's all about ripped jeans and band tees; bottomless coffee pots and dark splashes of colour. Flowers don't normally come to mind, but for some reason, the thought that she does associate him with flowers brings a smile to his lip. Clearly flowers mean a lot to her, if the dahlia tattoo is anything to go by.

It also isn't the wildest thought; he does occasionally work in a flower shop, after all.

The bartender slides his drink across the counter and Luke digs into his back pocket for his wallet. His emerald eyes glance at Julie's nearly empty glass and he leans forward to ask for a refill before throwing a few bills onto the counter.

Julie's eyes glance at the new drink and she shoots a shy smile in his direction.

He doesn't know her very well, but from what he's seen, shy doesn't really seem to fit her.

"You're in a band."

It almost seems like a question, but it very obviously isn't. Luke still feels the need to reply.

"Yeah. We do alright," he replies, hiding a chuckle.

If there is one thing that Luke Patterson is one-hundred percent certain of is that Sunset Curve rocks. Record deal or not, he knows it and he'll never give it up.

However, it doesn't seem like he'll have to and the thought brings a smile to his lips.

"You guys are more than alright!" Julie's face brightens as she turns to speak more animatedly. "I have to be honest, I wasn't really for going out tonight, but I was pleasantly surprised."

"Pleasantly surprised because you saw a familiar face or —?"

Julie's head tilts again and his eyes absentmindedly trace her jaw. "Pleasantly surprised because you guys were good and I was having fun." As an afterthought, she smirks and adds, "Plus, the drummer was cute."

Luke's smile immediately drops and he returns his focus to his drink with a pout. "He's unavailable," he mutters grumpily.

But then she laughs and with one quick glance at her amused expression, it's clear she's only messing with him.

"I like your ink," he says with a nod. "Are they your designs?"

At the comment, Julie's eyebrows rise beneath her curls. "They are, yeah," she replies with a hint of confusion in her voice.

"Beverly told me you work at the tattoo parlour across the street," Luke explains with a shrug of his shoulders.

While Luke doesn't realize the gravity of his words, Julie is filled with a rush of excitement. Clearly, he's been talking about her or at least thinking about her. It's especially surprising considering how their first meeting actually went.

But the truth is, she's thought about him too.

It was hard not to, given his kind smile and friendly nature. Though she was stressed at the time, she couldn't help but think back afterwards. She was of the type to think about things constantly, even after it was all said and done. Awkward encounters, stupid things she's said, you name it.

So, nearly crying in front of a cute stranger definitely made the list.

"You talked about me?" Julie asks, revelling in the quick bloom of red that spreads across Luke's cheeks.

Though he's blushing, he seems completely at ease. "I actually asked about you," he admits, taking another large gulp of his glass. He senses the burn of the alcohol passing through his system. "I was curious."

Julie nods, stirring her glass with the black straw. "Not curious enough to stop by?"

This time, his eyebrows rose in surprise. "I would've stood out too much."

At this, Julie's dark eyes roam over Luke's bare arms, subtlety forgotten. She's surprised she even held out this long, given how loose his shirt is. The cutoff sleeves droop low on his sides and she has a decently clear view of his chest at the angle he's sitting. Her eyes automatically snap back up to his face where he's smirking through another sip from his glass.

His arms are still glistening with sweat, but they're bare of any ink.

"I mean, we can always change that," Julie suggests. She hasn't taken notice of how her body has absentmindedly leaned closer to him, but Luke has. If his racing pulse is anything to go by, he's definitely noticed.

Luke lets out a breathy chuckle, gaze dropping to appreciate the tattoos littering her caramel skin (don't even get him started on what her tattoos are doing to him). "Needles and I don't get along too well and I'm sure as hell not about to cry in front of you before we've even had a first date."

Julie's eyes widen at his forwardness and Luke's breath catches in his throat.

But only seconds later, a pleased smile spreads across Julie's mouth slowly and his gaze automatically drops.

"We can change that too."

Luke has mysteriously forgotten how to breathe, but luckily, Julie is making all the first moves. She pulls her phone out of her purse, unlocks it and brings up a new contact page. She hands him the phone with bright, hopeful eyes and he can only take the phone numbly because he's pretty sure his brain is starting to shutdown.

He doesn't ever freeze up. He doesn't panic when it comes to girls.

In any other scenario, he would had had her number minutes ago.

But this. This is different.

It feels odd for him not to be in control but he's weirdly okay with it? He can't explain it, but he'll sure as hell enjoy it.

Julie glances over her shoulder towards the door as Luke finishes up with her phone. He hands it back to her, expertly making sure their fingers brush as she takes it back (see? His game isn't completely gone).

"I have to go," Julie explains, and is that a breathy tone Luke detects? "My friends are waiting, but it was nice to see you again, Luke." Her eyes seem to go blank for a moment and she shakes her head. "Oh — my name is Julie, by the way. Julie Molina."

A grin blooms across his lips. He already knew her name, but he isn't trying to freak her out with that information. "It's nice to see you again, Julie."

Julie slides off her stool and tucks a few wayward curls behind her ear.

Luke knows he shouldn't, but his gaze roams over her figure. But she did oogle his biceps, so they were even, right?

"By the way," he mumbles and curses his mouth that moves faster than his brain. He's up and out of his seat before he notices. "This might be totally out of place for me to say, but I hope you're doing alright. You know — from that day and all."

He's wincing, preparing himself for when she tells him to go to hell or where he can shove his sentiments, but she surprises him. He shouldn't be surprised because she seems full of surprises, but he still is.

It had only been a week since the fifth anniversary of Rose's death but the wound is still just as fresh. She appreciated when he asked her if she was okay back then, and she appreciated it just as much now.

It's quite comical. She actively avoided her co-workers and friends just so they wouldn't ask her if she was okay, because clearly she wasn't. But she didn't mind a complete stranger asking her; in fact, she welcomed and appreciated it.

Obviously Luke wants to know what had her so upset that day. And it wasn't just that day; he can see the sadness that follows as soon as he mentions it now. It's clearly something she struggles with everyday and that kills him. He wants to know how he can help, how he can make it go away.

Hopefully, he'll get that chance one day, but for now, he's still waiting on that first date.

Julie's sad eyes sweep across his crestfallen features and she steps forward. Her delicate hand presses down on his shoulder to bring him closer and she gently presses her lips to the apple of his cheek. She lingers, because she can and even though he just played an entire set under hot, gleaming lights, he still smells amazing.

"I'm doing better, thank you," Julie murmurs, stepping back. Her eyes roam Luke's face; his blown pupils, lips parted in surprise. "I'll message you," she promises, taking a few steps back towards her friends who are staring very obviously.

She has all the power; he doesn't even have her number. But he's alright with it.

It was small and it felt like nothing, but hearing that she was doing better made his heart flutter.

Luke realizes with a start that she's waiting on a final reply from him before she turns around and joins her friends. So, he offers her a smile and watches in mild horror as his arm comes up through its own volition to grace her with a goofy wave.

But she merely laughs before turning back to her friends.

Luke decides he wants to hear that sound as often as possible.

All in all, his night turned out pretty successful. He can't wait to go tell his boys.

To say that Luke, Reggie and Alex weren't glued to Alex's phone for the entire next week would be the biggest lie of any of their lives.

Alex had given his number to producer Lucy Fields; she promised to call and now they were waiting hand and foot. They each know there's a chance she may not call at all and any opportunity they thought they got, disappears forever. But they were all choosing to be optimistic.

The anxiety is overwhelming.

Luke thought pre-gig was bad, but post-gig is so much worse.

He has to keep himself busy or he'll go insane. So, he focuses on his writing and offers to take a few more shifts at Beverly's.

And he has no ulterior motive to pick up some more shifts. None at all.

It isn't like he can hide it from Beverly anyway. Not when he has his nose pressed to the glass window every hour to stare at the tattoo parlour across the street.

"Good Lord," Beverly mutters after the fifth hour. "If you don't get over there within the next five minutes, I'm firing you."

Luke whips around to face her, hiding his laughter. "You wouldn't."

"Honey, watch me."

Luke chuckles, detaching himself from the window. He's being extra, he knows. But it's mostly because Beverly's sighs and reactions are priceless. He doesn't need to stare through a window to get a date; not when he's already gotten it.

"No need, Bev," he sasses, grabbing some window cleaner (it's the least he can do). "I'm going out with her later today."

Beverly's eyebrows rise so high, they disappear under her hair. She looks so surprised, Luke wants to laugh. "How did you manage that?"

"Saw her at my last gig," he shrugs, hiding a smile. "You know how charming I am, Bev, it was only a matter of time."

Beverly rolls her blue eyes. "Do you need to leave early to change into a date-worthy outfit?"

Luke glances down at his outfit; his signature black ripped jeans, a distressed white band t-shirt and his plaid jacket hanging across the counter. It's normal Luke attire so he isn't sure what brought on the question. "I was just going to wear this?"

Beverly stares at him for a moment before folding her lips to hide a smirk. "Well, you may as well show her what she's getting."

Clearly Beverly woke up today on attack mode.

Earlier this morning, Julie shot Luke a quick text message. They had been texting ever since the day after Luke's gig, but they were solely feeling each other out, and hadn't made any concrete plans. But it had been a week now, and Julie figured it was time.

Luke awoke to a simple text message from Julie, asking if he wanted to grab a coffee after she was done work. It was the best wakeup call, better than a splash of water across his face. He promised to meet her outside of work since he'd be helping out today too and now he was counting down the minutes.

Coffee was a good start.

It's simple, close to their comfort zones and who doesn't love coffee?

Luke still hasn't heard from Lucy so he's grateful for any distraction.

When the time came, he grabs his jacket, places a sloppy kiss on Beverly's cheek and crosses the street with a grin on his features. He leans against one of the light posts, waiting diligently.

When a man with jet black hair piled on top of his head exits, he hears him yell, "Night Jules! Don't forget to lock up!" He makes brief eye contact with Luke and he seems to recognize him from his gig the other night. He nods his head at Luke, glancing back at Julie before walking off.

Luke swears he watches him smirk before he walks away.

But then Julie exits the building and all focus is immediately on her and only her.

She's once again wearing that army green jacket from their first meeting and when she turns to face him, he realizes she's wearing a distressed denim black mini-skirt. She's also wearing a black crop-top and matching black converse. All he wants to think is if all tattoo artists have a black only dress code, but his brain is currently short-circuiting at all the soft skin he wasn't expecting to see.

It's only when he spots the tattoo located on her upper thigh that he realizes he might have to hold onto the light post for support.

"Hey!" Julie greets with the softest smile. She turns around again to lock the front door and Luke lets out an embarrassing puff of air. Get your shit together, Luke, he thinks to himself. "It's nice to see you again."

Julie debates for a moment if she should hug him but ultimately decides against it. He already seems a little pale, so she opts to nod her head in the direction of the coffee shop.

"How are you?" The words Luke has been chanting in his brain finally make it out past his lips, and he turns to gouge her reaction. His hands are stuffed into the front pockets of his jeans as they walk. The itch to hold her hand is strong but, not yet.

Julie nods her head, smiling. That's always a good sign. "It was a good week. Really busy." She eyes his covered arms. "You sure you don't want some ink?"

"Pretty sure we decided after the first date only."

Julie's intrigued eyes turn to him, amusement lighting them up. "Right. I think we did."

Luke stops to open the door to the coffee shop and waits for Julie to enter before he goes in after her. It's surprisingly not busy, considering the usual post-work buzz, but he likes it better like this. It's a full service shop and by the time Luke and Julie take a seat and pull off their jackets, a friendly waitress is already waiting to take their order.

His gaze is automatically drawn to her displayed tattoos and he nearly forgets to relay his order to the waitress.

"Hey, so, before we get into the first date small talk, I just want to be completely transparent with you."

Luke's smile dims just a smidge. It isn't the greatest way to start a conversation, but he's obviously going to give her the benefit of the doubt.

"That day we first met," Julie takes a full breath, actively avoiding eye contact. She doesn't have to tell him this, but she feels as if he deserves to know. "It wasn't my finest hour. I don't normally snap at employees who are just doing their job, I promise."

Luke nods in accordance.

"That day happened to be the fifth anniversary of the death of my mom."

All the colour from Luke's face drains. He planned to let her finish speaking before he said anything, but he just had to jump in with an, "I'm so sorry."

"Thank you," Julie replies with a sad smile. "I've never been good at dealing with that day and I haven't been able to visit her grave properly ever since but my family was hounding me to visit, and she loves dahlias —" Julie's eyes glaze over, so caught up in her own thoughts. "She loved dahlias and I always try to keep some in the house. Beverly helps with that. I just wanted you to know it was an off-day for me, but I do have some baggage I don't totally know how to handle and I think it's fair you know that before you get overly invested."

Oh, but he already is.

Instead of saying something right away, Luke places his hand on the table, palm up. An invitation if she wants it.

"You didn't have to tell me any of that, but I appreciate it," Luke says softly. His pulse quickens when she intertwines their fingers together. "That's not enough to scare me off. If you don't want to move this forward, that's okay, I understand. But it won't be on my account."

Julie solely stares at their intertwined hands before a smile breaks out onto her features.

As if on cue, their waitress appears with their drinks and they begrudgingly let go of each other.

Now that the hard stuff was out in the open, conversation flows comfortably. Julie is having the time of her life, nearly laughing at every other word that comes out of Luke's mouth. He revels in it; making her laugh is the highlight of his days.

Over an hour passes by and they hardly even notice. They're too busy engrossed in each other. Eventually they decide to take a walk; the conversation is too good to stop, but sitting was becoming exhausting.

It's only when Luke's phone buzzes in his pocket that he realizes how much time has passed. He doesn't reach for his phone because that's rude, but it continues to vibrate incessantly and he has no choice.

He quickly apologizes to Julie, who waves him off.

Luke pulls off to the side and Julie busies herself with checking her own phone. The many vibrations are coming from their Sunset Curve group chat, namely from Alex. Luke's heartbeat picks up before he even opens the messages. His eyes scan the screen quickly. Alex's messages are nearly incoherent, a jumble of words and random letters but Luke quickly understands.

ADFAGDJFSHFNG SFFSVVBAAKG

THEY GOOGLEBS US

WE SIGNGG CONTRATS TOMORROWS

They googled us.

We sign a contract tomorrow.

Luke doesn't mean to stop breathing, but he does. He only dials back into planet Earth when Julie gently touches a hand to his arm. "Luke? Are you okay?" She pulls him closer to the wall.

"I —" He doesn't even know how to explain it. His jaw can't seem to close. "We, um — we met with a producer after our gig. She said she was going to talk to her boss and then call us."

Julie's face immediately lights up.

"That was Alex," Luke continues numbly. "They said they googled us. They want us to sign a contract tomorrow."

Julie's jaw drops in solidarity. "A contract? Like a record deal?"

Luke's neck snaps up to look at her, a smile breaking out over his features.

Holy fucking shit, it's really happening.

"Luke! Congratulations!" Julie immediately launches herself into his arms, boundaries be damned. Luke doesn't mind a single bit, arching his back to lift her off her feet.

He's so happy; he throws all caution out to the wind.

"I've wanted to kiss you since I saw you in the crowd of my show."

Julie's arms lower and her lips split in shock.

The hesitation in her eyes only lasts for a moment.

"I think I have too."

It's all the acknowledgment he needs before he sneaks a hand to cradle her cheek. The sun is slowly setting, but the rays are hitting her cheeks just right. Her dark eyes drop to his lips before they fan closed across her cheeks. Luke sucks in a deep breath, then gently presses his lips against hers, slotting his lips perfectly in between.

It's short, simple, sweet and chaste.

Luke isn't trying to overdo it on their first date. He wasn't even planning on kissing her today, to be perfectly honest. But inspiration and opportunity struck, and he couldn't help himself.

He's pleasantly surprised when Julie secures his head with both hands and surges forward to capture his lips once again. This kiss is nothing like the first; Julie is completely in control, and when her tongue slips into his mouth, chaste isn't really the word he'd use to describe it.

His eyes are easily hooded when she pulls away with a smirk.

And she believed he wasn't invested yet?

"Thought you deserved a proper congratulations. It's not everyday you score a record deal."

Luke swallows harshly, hand crawling into the hair on the back of his head. "Appreciate that," he coughs out.

God, he really needs to learn to be much smoother around her.

As much as Julie enjoys his company and would like to spend even more time with him, this is a special moment for him and it wasn't her he should be with.

Julie lets her hand slide down his arm, squeezing his wrist gently. "I had fun today. But I think you should go be with your band."

An excited grin spreads across his face as he leans down and presses a sloppy kiss to her cheek; Julie can only giggle. "Thank you!" He excitedly taps her nose before starting to run away. He turns momentarily and shouts, "I'll call you!" Then he runs off, leaving Julie laughing.

Julie doesn't expect one of the worst days of her life to lead to the best.

But it does.

Luke is infectious. He invades her life so easily and he fits, regardless of the differences.

He understands her baggage and he gives her the time and space necessary to heal. She learns his triggers and recognizes when he needs her and when he needs space. They're respectful of each other's boundaries and it's what makes their relationship work.

Luke surprises her every day.

Sometimes he'll crawl into bed late at night, when Julie has already snoozed off from a long day at work. He'll do his best not to wake her but he misses her all day and can't wait to tell her he wrote a new song. About her. Because all his songs are about her.

When he finds himself in a writing mood, Julie will sit next to him, binging the latest tv show or playing BuzzFeed quizzes on her phone. It doesn't matter what she does, he just needs her there next to him as his inspiration. Sometimes her presence is a distraction more than anything and he'll throw his songbook to the side, pressing his lips to her neck as she loses herself in a fit of giggles.

She's there when their first album is officially released. She's there at their first official show under the new label. She's always cheering him on backstage, his good luck charm.

When they go on their first official tour, she can't attend because she can't leave her work for that long (not that he would want her to anyway, he understands how much she loves her job). It's the first time they're apart for that long, and it hurts but they're mature about it. Instead, they fill the time with late-night phone calls and FaceTime sessions. When he surprises her at home a day early, she nearly throws the bowl she wiping down at his face, then hurriedly jumps into his awaiting arms.

And it isn't often, but sometimes they fight. They're both especially opinionated and like to get in the last word. When it comes to each other, it can sometimes get heated and often they may say something they don't actually mean. Julie loves to sneak out onto the balcony after a fight; the breeze helps her cool down and look at things with more clarity. Luke can't stand the thought of Julie being angry with him, so it never took long before he followed her out onto the balcony. She would quickly crawl into his inviting lap, they would apologize to each other and talk about things more rationally. Sometimes, all it took was the cold breeze and Luke's soft lips against Julie's temple to calm them down.

It's the relationship they've both always dreamed about but never thought they could actually have.

Sure, Luke's fame sometimes comes with a price, but their love for each other trumps everything else.

He eventually allows Julie to ink his skin like she's expressed so many times she would love to do. He gets a matching Sunset Curve tattoo on his bicep with Alex and Reggie; it's simple, just their logo. He trusts Julie and only Julie to do it; he doesn't need anyone witnessing his pain and she's already too far gone to leave him solely because he nearly passes out from a tattoo.

(She also distracts him with soft kisses and no one else could do that.)

When he walks by a jewellery store one day and the pull is too strong to ignore, he knows with one-hundred percent certainty that this is the path he wants to take.

And when he drops to one knee at the most inconvenient of times because she found the velvet box hidden at the bottom of his sock drawer, his plans for a fancy proposal escape his mind immediately. Her hands fly to cover the gasp escaping her mouth, eyes clouding with tears.

Her answer is yes, always yes.

And every year when the anniversary of Rose's death comes around, Luke looks to Julie for guidance on what she needs. It takes time and strength, but with Luke's help, she's able to visit her mother's grave, drop off some dahlias and tell Luke all about the goddess that used to be her mother.

He often wishes he got the chance to meet her because he knows he would have loved her. Every time he visits Rose's grave, he silently promises to love and honour her daughter for as long as he lives. He hopes that's enough to help her soul continue to rest in peace.

At every visit, Julie would wrap her arm around Luke's and lean her head against his shoulder.

He never realizes it originally, but Julie believes her mom is responsible for their meeting, and she makes sure to thank her every visit.

"Thank you, mom," she murmurs quietly. "Thank you for bringing Luke to me."

44 notes · View notes

purple-dahlias · 3 years

Text

recovering- chapter 2

word count: 1742

trigger warnings: eating disorders, disordered eating, mental health

hello! this is the second chapter of recovering. it’s taken a while (oops) but i hope you enjoy <3

(also chapter 1 can be found here)

The days bleed by, agonisingly slow. Sarah goes about her last days in the emergency department almost completely on autopilot, in a daze. If she had to describe it, it was as though there was a wall separating her from everyone else, everything just felt far-off and somehow muffled. Perhaps it was an overreaction, but things just feel different somehow, ever since match day. Even the way the others behaved towards her.

How Natalie had reacted when Sarah had told her. Polite with her congratulations, but somehow different. Maybe even apologetic, as though she herself had been hoping to be told something different. And maybe Sarah was overanalysing, picking things apart too closely, reading into them when there was nothing to be found. But still. It only contributed towards making her doubts more pronounced, every part of her screaming out: you’ve made a mistake. And how was she supposed to tell anyone that? Especially when she had seemed so dead set on pathology. How was she supposed to turn it around? There was only herself to blame.

None of Sarah’s thoughts do any good for her, and she wishes, oh how she wishes she could turn back time. That feeling, that unhappiness, seeps into every part of her, taking a vice-like hold over her, rooting deep within. This is supposed to be her future, the rest of her life. And already, she’s completely messed things up. So she does what she always does. Retreats into herself.

But it’s on her last day, incidentally the night of her graduation, that things take a turn. Even then, she just can’t let it go. Can’t shake the feeling that she had walked into something so very completely wrong. And where does that land her? The nurses’ station in the PICU, waiting for little Michael’s test results to come back from the labs. Dr Manning had already told her to go, she had a graduation to attend after all, but Sarah couldn’t. She can’t leave now. Not until she knows Michael, lying a few feet away from her in a cot fighting for his life, is going to pull through.

It means she misses her graduation, but what does it matter? Her mother’s not coming. There’s no one else to see her. It’s of no real importance to her, she tells herself. It’s only a ceremony, a formality. She’ll still be a doctor without going. And in any case, it was worth it, because now, now she knew, Michael was going to be okay. The hug she gets, the smile from Doctor Manning, the way she gets be the bearer of good news: there was a happy ending to this story. It was worth it. All of it.

Apart, she remembers, from the fact that this wouldn’t be her life anymore. Today marked the day it was all over.

What should be a momentous occasion almost feels like a cruel joke, opening the box to find her lab coat emblazoned with pathology across the chest. She’d made it, she was Dr Reese now. But it was all just more than a little bittersweet. Even with Ethan, for all his kindness and congratulatory remarks, she can’t find it in her to be completely happy, as she knows she should.

The guilt wells up inside of her, until she can’t quite bare it any longer. Until there’s nothing else for her to do.

It’s a rash decision, one she’s sure will send the others in the ED reeling when they find out. But it’s her only option now, she doesn’t quite know what else to do. And Dr Shore telling her she won’t have a job anymore, well… it’s not like she hadn’t already thought of that.

For the first time in a very long while, Sarah Reese has no plans, no direction. Nothing. And yes, whilst it was a completely self-made problem, it was still more than a little daunting. To have your whole future, which had only moments ago been filled, now completely empty, stark and uninviting. A perfect blank canvas stretching out for miles ahead. No prospects.

One conversation and she’s gone. One conversation and it’s all over. No residency, no reason to stay: as far as she’s aware, there are no other residency posts open at Gaffney. But nowhere to go, either. It’s completely ludicrous, what she’s gone and done. Even if Dr Charles tells her she’s going to be “just fine,” it doesn’t feel that way. Not one bit. In many ways, it’s more like the world has ended for her. And for her, maybe it has.

–

There were not many things that remained constant in Sarah Reese’s life. But one that was, was the only thing that she had left now. And it’s all too easy to collapse into herself, let it fill up the gaping, empty spaces inside of her.

Her apartment seems darker, colder, lonelier these days. Which she knows seems irrational, because physically, nothing had changed inside of it. But it still all just all felt wrong. Like she had stepped into the twilight zone, was living someone else’s life.

She was alone now, completely alone. She knew it was only a matter of time before Joey stopped calling, stopped texting, stopped trying to go and get her to meet him. That was the way. Sarah always pushed everyone away, that was just how it went. Yes, she had been alone before. In grade school, at college, in med school. But this was different. Then, she had been alone but alongside other people, even if it was on the outskirts of their lives, it wasn’t total isolation. This, however: she was an island. A shell of her former self. A shadow, an outline of a person. And it’s an awful thought, but it crosses her mind, more than she’d care to admit. If she died, if anything were to happen to her, would anyone notice; who would care?

“You have nothing,” she says aloud to no one in particular, glancing at her reflection in the mirror, the morning of the fourth day after she had quit pathology. It was all true. What was she to do now? There had always been a goal to work towards. Finish high school. Get into med school. Graduate. Secure a residency post. And now? What was there for her?

Time slips by. Hours, days, and somehow, strangely, weeks, without Sarah quite noticing. What she does with that time, if asked, she would never be able to say. And not for lack of trying—it all just passes in a haze. Her lab coat remains crumpled at the bottom of her bag, stethoscope discarded in a drawer in the living room to gather dust. She won’t be needing either of them. Laundry begins to pile up, but Sarah doesn’t care. All she needs is the blue cotton sweatshirt she’s been wearing for days on end, the fabric softer against her skin, hanging far looser from her frame than it had ever done before. Groceries go neglected, not that she needs much. She finds she can hardly stomach anything much these days, apart from wafer crackers with peanut butter, the occasional bowl of cereal (without milk, of course).

The isolation doesn’t help; it makes everything a thousand times worse, she doesn’t know where to begin. Now there’s completely no one to hide from, no one to pretend for. Things are bad, and Sarah sinks into it. It’s like second skin. There again, there when she was absolutely alone.

When she finally manages to drag herself out from her apartment, summer is well and truly in full swing. She’s taken up long walks, through the parks and the streets of Chicago. Sometimes aimless, sometimes with purpose. Slowly she gets round to groceries, though never quite buying enough. But it’s not as though she uses it all up, anyway. Better to undercut, she thinks. Things seem to last longer these days, anyhow.

By the fourth week, Sarah knows this can’t go on. Her doing nothing. As much as she feels she has no energy, still no direction. Something has to change. In any case, with no job now, she needs to find a way to pay her rent at least.

She must be the most overly qualified barista in all of Chicago, with an MD attached to her name. Not that anyone knows that. Not that any of them would care in the slightest. She’s not so sure she deserves that title anyway, what with the way things turned out. But it feels at least a little better, having something to do, a little more routine, a little more structure to her days. It’s not ideal. No newly graduated doctor wants to be manning a till and serving coffee, but this was her life now. Small, quiet, trimmed down to almost zero people. The only person she still saw from her life Before was Joey. She’s pretty sure he’ll stop coming soon. And she’s right.

The upside, if there is an upside to any of this, is that Sarah Reese has always been good at working with what she had. She was used to getting things done alone, used to her own company, her own thoughts, however awful they might get. Just like in college. And medical school. She had been alone. Been there for herself. Pulled herself along. Her own champion and cheerleader in one. And maybe it hadn’t quite worked out perfectly; she hadn’t quite escaped without the scars, but still. She was here. And that had to count for something, didn’t it?

Sometimes, she thinks that when Will had asked her, she should have said something. What exactly, she doesn’t quite know. But maybe something. Because now, no one notices it happening this time. How groceries stretch further and further. How the gaps between her meals increase and the portion sizes decrease. How the dark circles under her eyes only grow. How she’s now a little more shaky, a little more unsteady. The dogs at the shelter she volunteers at on Saturdays don’t notice. The others on her shift at the coffee shop don’t notice. No one does. And it’s fine, it’s really all fine. Because there’s nothing wrong and Sarah’s never had a problem. Never.

And this is her life now, anyway. Just her, her apartment, the coffee shop a few blocks over and the dog shelter on Saturdays. That was her lot.

#recovering!au #recovering!fic #sarah reese #chicago med #my writing #eating disorder tw #chapter 2

13 notes · View notes

defyances · 3 years

Text

𝐀𝐍 𝐀𝐍𝐀𝐋𝐘𝐒𝐈𝐒 𝐎𝐍 𝐋𝐎𝐑 𝐈𝐑𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐀

( where yugen is so incredibly obsessed with this woman that she decides to rant about her )

on: her followers

to start us off, we’ll discuss the main event of irelia’s performance: her relationship with blossoming blade. they are very close with each other, and it can be interpreted as platonic or romantic. i only say this because they establish their relationship as teacher/student, a platonic/familial bond that can be as powerful as a romantic one. but i also digress, given the affectionate remarks they give each other such as:

irelia: i wish i could give you silks, but i must give you steel. blossoming blade: stay by my side. i cannot ask for more.

irelia: ionians into formation! blossoming blade: i’d follow you to the black heart of noxus itself.

&& there is so much more. blossoming blade is not confident in her ability to fight, much like irelia && her lack of confidence in her ability to lead, which might explain why irelia has some sort of connection to her. she sees her as a mirror of herself, and much like she needed at one point, blossoming blade needs someone to support her. so, she will give that plus much more. lastly, irelia’s reaction upon blossoming blade’s death; it is simply undeniable that they love each other.

i am a bit bothered by the lack of interactions between irelia && zinneia since it is implied that zinneia is her former mentor:

irelia: zinneia, you are a master at your craft. zinneia: and fate has sent you to give my craft purpose.

irelia: as a child, i watched you dance at the placidium every spring. zinneia: it was your bravery that brought me to the fight.

i was hoping to have more information on their relationship && the sort of impact zinneia had on irelia, but at the same time, it gives me the opportunity to fill in the gaps! given zinneia’s interactions with the rest of irelia’s followers, she is an elder ( we will not talk about how that isn’t reflected in her card art ) who leads the dance program at the placidium. while irelia’s o’ma taught her how to dance, zinneia perfected it with her lessons, and she became the mother/grandmother figure in her life once all her family members passed away. it assures me that irelia did have a support system ( even if a part of her might disagree. ) i will do a more thorough ( * headcanon based ) look at their relationship in another post.

when irelia said she is a warm && caring person, she really meant it. she cares a great deal for her followers as shown:

coastal defender: generations tended this land. i cannot leave. irelia: we must retreat for now, but i promise we’ll return.

ribbon dancer: stand behind me! they won’t hurt you. irelia: if they hurt you, i’d never forgive myself.

fighting for your freedom is important, yes but not so recklessly. if a battle isn’t turning out in their favor, irelia would rather retreat and keep her followers safe rather than dying in vain. her tone is mother-like, always worrying for them even though they are confident and determined to protect their home, and at their deaths, she is torn apart. she is both grateful ( ‘ your sacrifice mattered ’ ) && heartbroken ( ‘ so young . . . ’ ), which is why i emphasize her hesitance to believe in herself as a leader. she is responsible for their lives and for each that falls, she fails. she cannot fail them ( something she says herself upon the death of her card ); her people deserve to live to see the day of bittersweet victory.

on: noxus

as expected, irelia harbors a lot of hate towards them, and rightfully so. however, what i want to talk about is riot confirming my assumption on how deep this hate runs.

imperial demolitionist: for the empire. irelia: so young, already so wicked.

imperial demolitionist: remember the objectives. irelia: ‘murder the innocent’ and ‘destroy their homes’?

for those who don’t know, imperial demolitionist is a child. irelia is speaking to a child and not in a tone you would expect an adult would talk to a child ( especially one who was brainwashed to commit awful atrocities. ) this confirmed my headcanon of irelia’s white && black mentality: no matter who you are or how you came to be, if you are noxian, she will kill you. she will refuse to see you as anything but a tyrant, and she will continue to allow this hate to fester and dehumanize noxus as a whole. she won’t even refer to them by name! she has her reasons, given how much they have taken away from her, but it doesn’t make it right. as we all know, noxus has slaves, ranging from adult to children, and will send them to war whether they volunteered or not. they have to act in order to survive, but irelia can’t see that they’re trying to live; she sees them trying to kill her home, so in turn, she’ll kill them. && that is a flaw i will cover more on in another post.

even though the faith in herself wavers, the passion to protect ionia doesn’t with how confident she talks back to the noxians. she threatens them, promises to kill them, even when faced with their technology and their machinery. she has that much faith in her people and the land, and it’s admirable. no wonder why people follow her.

on: shurima

i never expected interactions between irelia and the shurimans ( especially with azir and nasus ), but it was a pleasant surprise nonetheless! azir && irelia are two fierce leaders, fighting tooth and nail to secure the safety of their homes; however, the difference between their idea of leading is evident within their interactions.

azir: a leader must see victory beyond each loss. irelia: my heart weeps for every fallen ally.

azir: war is an instrument that can make or destroy its leaders. irelia: instruments create beauty; war ends it.

from my perspective, azir isn’t so affected by the loss of lives in the war like irelia is ( it could be because he’s become desensitized after leading for so long or he truly doesn’t care ), and i could be wrong as i am not so familiar with azir. but with irelia, it is obvious that she is very sensitive towards the death of her people. whether they were close to her or not, as far as she knows, they were innocent souls, and they were dragged into this war unprepared. so many lives lost, so many deaths unjustified — it is simply unfair to her people, who have done nothing wrong. && no matter how many times she’s seen a body belonging to the first lands, it never hurts any less. she’s been able to mask that pain over the years she’s grown, but she still grieves, and it can be seen/heard whenever someone very close to her dies.

another difference i like to point out between the two leaders is their viewpoints on war: azir sees war almost like survival of the fittest. in the second quote, war is a way to create leaders, the best of the best while irelia sees it as destroying the beauty of life. war is a massacre, no matter which side wins, && even though she also strives for victory, she will only remember it as the day that peace died.

nasus: sorrow weighs upon you, but death could bring you peace. irelia: not yet, curator. i am far from done.

this made me snort because it’s basically nasus telling irelia, “k’ing yourself would make you feel better,” but i’m sure it isn’t meant to sound that way. rather, he understands her grief && how badly it is affecting her, so he is “testing” her will to see how strong it really is. if she had the opportunity, would she die && end her suffering there, or would she continue to preserve despite the agony she holds in her heart? irelia answers almost incredulously; if she dies now, ends her suffering now, who will lead her people to victory? certainly not anyone she knows/trusts. so, she cannot die. she will not die, not until she knows that her home is safe. ( this plays a bit into my headcanon that irelia doesn’t really fear death since she anticipates the day of reuniting with her family && ending her torment. )

there isn’t much to say about her interactions with the soothsayer && the voice of the risen other than she’s grateful for their aid in these trying times.

on: miscellaneous champs

lastly, i’ll be touching upon her interactions with in-game characters — which, suffice to say, isn’t a whole lot. it’s a bit disappointing. i expected more interactions with shen, karma, riven, and zed; i expected interactions with yasuo, yone, and lulu ( who is apparently in ionia?? ) but unfortunately, we weren’t given that. but i won’t say i’m heavily disappointed either because we did get some interactions with ionian && noxian champs plus extra.

shen: the balance requires a watchful eye. irelia: ionia needs brave hearts and able hands, too.

much like akali, irelia does not believe in waiting around && letting the land fight on its own. she even questions shen’s philosophy because of the slaughter that happened, which makes me theorize her faith in the spirit; clearly, she still believes in it but not so deeply like shen and the elders.

karma: ionia speaks through me. irelia: then tell me when this bloody fight will end?

she even questions the spirit of ionia itself, in a tone that is tired and desperate to end this terror. she is a lot nicer to karma in lor than lol, which confirms my suspicion that while irelia was initially frustrated with karma’s ( lack of ) action, she has come to understand her reasoning through the years that they’ve worked together.

zed: pledge yourself to the shadows. irelia: noxian tyranny has already forged our bond.

riven: [ dies ] irelia: irredeemable.

isn’t it crazy how irelia would rather side with the “evil” shadow master rather than the former noxian? of course, zed isn’t all bad, and riven isn’t all good, but it just further proves how she doesn’t treat noxians as humans at all; however, i would also like to point out her interaction with riven is if she’s against her. irelia would perhaps give her a chance if her quote in-game with her proves anything: “you want redemption? join me, and kill your masters!”

&& i’m still flabbergasted by her interaction with zed. she might not entirely agree with him, but she’ll work with him without hesitance. after all, they do share the philosophy of killing all noxians.

irelia: join us, prince jarvan. dance by our side. jarvan: i’m afraid i was born with two left feet. it’s a lightshield thing…

jarvan: noxus will pay for what they did to your people. irelia: yes, demacian prince. we will see to that.

so not only does she have shurima’s support but also demacia’s! a bit shocking since demacia is antimage and irelia is technically a mage, but i am glad to see that she and jarvan are on good terms.

irelia: my family...h-have you seen them? kindred: drifting between innocence and consequence.

STOP!! astra and i literally discussed this: if irelia was given the chance to talk to kindred, she would most certainly ask for her family && question why she was spared. of course, kindred would answer ominously, which in this interaction, makes me curious. between innocence and consequence? what do they mean? is her family stuck in limbo? are they currently being judged based on irelia’s actions in life? or are they waiting for irelia to join them? perhaps we’ll never know.

#˗ˏˋ⠀ 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧. ›› the day you died，you did not tell your body.#/ wow this is the most i've written for a character ever #/ three hours n i was just rambling nonsense at the end sfjdhsb

24 notes · View notes

bubonickitten · 3 years

Link

Fic summary: Jon goes back to before the world ended and tries to forge a different path.

Chapter summary: Jon and Basira make their way to Ny-Ålesund; Daisy and Martin have a long-overdue conversation.

Previous chapter: AO3 // tumblr

Full chapter text & content warnings below the cut.

Content warnings for Chapter 26: panic/anxiety symptoms; brief descriptions of Flesh-domain-typical imagery; discussion of police violence, intimidation tactics, & abuse of authority (re: Daisy’s past actions); mentions of canonical character deaths & murder; reference to a canonical instance of a character being outed (re: Jon’s coworkers gossiping about him being ace); allusions to childhood emotional neglect; a bit of internalized ableism re: ADHD symptoms; discussions of strict religious indoctrination; a physical altercation, including being restrained with a hold; swears. SPOILERS through Season 5.

Chapter 26: Remains To Be Seen

The journey to Tromsø is… uneventful, comparatively speaking.

Almost worryingly so, Jon observes at one point.

You’re fretting because something hasn’t gone horribly wrong? Basira asks.

Aren’t you?

The tension in Basira’s shoulders is answer enough. They’re both on tenterhooks, all too aware of the dreadful species of things that lurk in the margins of the world, any number of which could be waiting in the wings for them.

That’s not to say there are no complications at all. There’s a learning curve to navigating the world blindfolded, but the two of them settle into something of a routine: Basira guiding Jon with a hand on his arm, talking him around obstacles, across gaps, and up and down stairs. An improvised system of nudges and taps develops organically over the course of their travels, starting when Basira realizes that Jon has trouble parsing her words over the noise of a crowd. It becomes their go-to mode of communication with surprising ease.

It’s an exercise in trust oddly refreshing in its mundanity.

Jon finds the blindfold comforting, in its own way: surreal, but somehow not as surreal as the evidence of normalcy all around him. Consistent, straightforward geography is disorientating enough after so long traversing a world knitted together by nightmare logic and allegory. Even more bewildering are the people. Throngs of them go about their day-to-day routines, each preoccupied with their own affairs, taking for granted their relative anonymity against the vast backdrop of the bustling world around them, secure in the privacy of their own thoughts – and blissfully unaware of the alternative.

This is how it should be, he admonishes himself in a weary refrain. People deserve ownership over their own minds, their stories, their secrets. The Archivist in him vehemently disagrees, of course. It’s exhausting, how relentlessly Jon has to challenge that instinctual voyeurism.

Prone to sensory overload, he’s always hated crowds: the noise, the flurry of movement, the press of bodies, the constant threat of unwanted touches, the lack of freedom to move at his own pace. Becoming the Archivist made the experience infinitely worse. The combination of the blindfold and Daisy’s noise-cancelling headphones does little to stem the tide of intrusive knowledge: random scraps of disconcerting trivia, a steady stream of morbid statistics, insights into the deep-seated anxieties of passersby – and, on a few occasions, the whisper of a story to be chronicled. At least the blindfold prevents him from inadvertently locking eyes with anyone.

They try to avoid traveling during peak commuting hours, but not every crowd can be evaded. The first time he wanders into the path of a potential statement giver, Jon nearly causes a pile-up in a congested station, stopping so abruptly in his tracks that the person in the queue behind him crashes headlong into him. Basira manages to catch him before he’s knocked off his feet, keeping a firm grasp on his arm when the panicked urge to flee overtakes him and nearly sends him careening blindly in the opposite direction. When a nearby stranger snipes at him for the nuisance, Jon is surprised at how immediately Basira leaps to his defense.

Back off, she says, the hint of a threat in her tone, before steering Jon out of the crowd and off to the side, where he can lean against the wall and catch his breath. She stands firm between him and the masses, diverting traffic and warding off anyone else who might seek a confrontation, giving him the sorely-needed time to compose himself. He’s certain that she’ll be cross with him after, but… she isn’t.

Tense, certainly. Concerned even. But criticism is bafflingly, mercifully absent.

There are a few more incidents after that, but none quite so dramatic. The instant he senses the Archivist in him stirring, he chokes out a warning to Basira, who turns out to be preternaturally adept at finding (or creating) spaces for him to recoup. With both of them on guard and communicating freely, they manage to avoid being in close quarters with anyone who might have a story to tell.

Tromsø offers a temporary reprieve from all of that. There are people, of course – it’s the busiest fishing port in Norway, the Eye interposes for the fourth time this hour. Jon takes an aggravated swipe at the empty air beside him, once again momentarily forgetting that there’s no pesky swarm of Watchers tagging along for this particular journey. Not visibly, at least.

Still, the open-air piers of a busy fishing port are a far cry from a densely-packed train. There’s a cargo ship scheduled to leave for Ny-Ålesund within the next hour, and Basira is further down the docks meeting with its captain to (hopefully) arrange for passage. Apparently Jon has earned some trust over the course of their travels, because she didn’t object when he requested to stay back and take a breather.

Although the docks of Tromsø bear little resemblance to the beaches of Bournemouth, the calls of seabirds are familiar enough to be meditative. Nostalgic, albeit in an uneasy, bittersweet way. His childhood was riddled enough with nightmares and alienation that thoughts of the place where he grew up are always laced with remembered horror and punctuated by a nebulous sense of grief for what could have been. If he never caught the Spider’s eye; if he never opened the book; if he wasn’t quite so demanding and easily bored and difficult to manage; if his eccentric reading habits were just a bit less finicky, even…

Left to his own devices, Jon could drown himself in what ifs.

A frigid gust of wind whips his hair about. When he reaches up to smooth it down, he finds it coarse from the brine-saturated breeze. Rubbing his fingertips together and grimacing at the faint gritty residue, Jon pulls Georgie’s scarf up over his nose to fend against the nip in the air and he turns his sight to the sky. It’s a stark, pallid grey, the kind of overcast that manages to be blinding-bright despite the sun’s concealment. The sight stings his eyes, but still he does not blink.

It should be exhilarating to look up and see nothing staring back. Instead, the sight fills him with… well, it’s difficult for him to define succinctly. Some peculiar species of dread, mingled with a disquieting, ill-defined sense of longing. Perhaps he’s simply becoming adrift in time again: remembering how it felt to look up at a Watching sky and hopelessly wish for a return to the world as it was, to clouds and stars and void. But he can’t shake the suspicion that it’s at least partly a monstrous yearning for the ruined future from which he came.

He doesn’t know what that says about him. Nothing good, probably.

You miss it, a gloating, sinister little voice concurs from one of the murky, thorny corners of Jon’s mind. You don’t belong here. You Know where you–

Jon’s phone dings several times, yanking him away from that ill-fated train of thought. Grateful for the interruption, he digs it out of his pocket, instantly brightening when Naomi’s name greets him and eagerly opening their text thread.

Jon is too busy smiling to himself to notice Basira’s approach.

“What’s – oh, sorry,” she says when he starts. “Keep expecting you to just sort of… Know I’m here.”

“The Eye doesn’t seem inclined to help me out on that front, unfortunately,” Jon says with an embarrassed chuckle. “If anything, my being jumpy probably feeds it.”

Basira glances down at his phone, then back up at him. “Everything alright?”

“Hm? Oh, yes. Naomi.” Jon’s grin returns. “All her texts from the last couple days just came through at once. She wants to know whether Krampus is real.”

“And what did you tell her?”

“Haven’t replied just yet.”

“Oh.” Basira opens her mouth to say more, then promptly closes it.

A delighted smirk twitches into being at the corner of Jon’s mouth. “Now you want to know as well, don’t you?”

Basira rolls her eyes, but doesn’t deny it. “Later. We have a boat to catch.”

When Jon reaches into his pocket to retrieve his blindfold, Basira shakes her head.

“Best not,” she says. “The captain agreed to take us, but she was leery about the whole thing. I don’t want to give her a reason to reconsider. The less suspicious we seem, the better.”

“Still getting odd stares, then?”

“Getting used to people looking at me like I’m transporting a hostage,” she replies with a tired, beleaguered smile. It fades into a frown as she looks him up and down, taking stock of his shaking hands and the way he leans heavily on his cane. “Alright?”

“A bit sore,” Jon admits, glancing down at his leg. “Probably just been putting weight on it for too long a stretch.”

“We should be able to sit soon. Until then, try not to fall.”

“Or freeze,” Jon says distractedly, glancing warily upwards again.

“Daisy says the cold always gets to her,” Basira says, quietly enough that Jon suspects it wasn’t meant for him. “Seriously, though – you alright? You keep staring at the sky like it’s going to crack open.”

“I’m fine.” Jon shuts his eyes and takes a slow, deep breath. “Just… apprehensive.”

“Sense anything?” Despite her carefully bland tone, the crux of the question is clear.

“Nothing concrete.” No statement givers, he does not say – but Basira nods, understanding his meaning. “I’ll let you know if that changes.”

“Come on, then.” She starts off down the dock – at a brisk pace at first, but slowing when she looks back to ensure that Jon is following and observes his stiffer, more deliberate gait.

He grimaces apologetically. Up until Jane Prentiss and her worms, he was inclined towards speed walking as much as Basira is. Always in a hurry to get nowhere at all, Georgie used to say, simultaneously lamenting and teasing. Not everyone is a power walker, Jon, Martin would gripe from time to time during the apocalypse.

Maybe some of us want to slow down and take in the scenery, he grumbled on one occasion, as they traipsed through a predictably grisly Flesh domain.

The forest of pulsating meat sculptures, you mean? Jon replied primly.

Oh, you’re telling me you don’t feel the overwhelming urge to stop and take notes on the ecology of flesh spiders?

Not as much as I want to get to a place where the ground isn’t a spongy skin trampoline.

Flesh domains always had a tendency to bring out the worst (best?) of their morbid humor, Jon notes upon reflection.

In any case, Jon has always had a tendency to hurry, too impatient to reach his destination to appreciate the journey. Internally, that impulse is still there. On good days, he can almost satisfy that restlessness. Today is not a good day.

Basira stops and waits. It’s a practice that has become second nature to her ever since Daisy emerged from the Buried: learning all the unspoken signals and warning signs of a bad pain day, from barely-suppressed winces and cold sweat to waspishness and stifled, winded breaths; gauging all the fickle fluctuations in mobility in real time through careful, constant observation; and discreetly adjusting her own walking pace to accommodate without question or complaint.

“You know, I haven’t spent much time on boats,” Basira says, apropos of nothing – probably to break the silence as she waits for Jon to catch up. “I’m hoping motion sickness during long car rides isn’t correlated with seasickness. Does the Eye have any statistics handy? Seems like it would qualify as terrible knowledge.”

“Let’s just say you should keep the Dramamine at the ready,” Jon says wryly as he reaches her position.

“Wonderful,” Basira sighs, and she resumes walking, this time matching Jon’s stride.

Martin will be the first to admit that, between the two of them, Jon doesn’t have a monopoly on obsessiveness.

Case in point: Jon and Basira have been gone for five days now, and – in between bouts of worrying over their safety and mounting apprehension about Peter’s inexplicable, persistent hiatus – Martin is still replaying everything he said and did in the moments leading up to Jon’s departure.

Or, more precisely, what he didn’t say.

Nearly two months have passed since Jon returned from the Buried. It’s been nice, it really has, spending time with him. He’s changed – How could he not have? – but he’s still Jon. Even more wounded and jaded than he was before – How much abuse can one person take? – but it hasn’t made him cruel or cold. Harder in some respects, to be sure – namely on himself.

Which is saying something, Martin thinks with a pang. In all the time that Martin has known him, Jon has never been kind to himself. It’s always been a struggle to convince him to take care of himself in the most basic of ways, let alone spare a thought for comfort.

But in other respects, Jon has grown softer. More open, more communicative – more trusting, somehow, despite this world and the next piling on reason after reason for him to detach and withdraw. Martin thinks about that every time the Lonely starts to whisper in his ear. The fog is still there, firmly planted in his mind, choking out his thoughts from time to time like an invasive weed. It won’t be easily uprooted. Seeing Jon alive and trying, reaching out, grasping at warmth, clinging to humanity with all his trademark stubbornness… it makes Martin want to try, too. It makes him want to hope, to look forward and see – to fight for – a future where things are better.

So, yes, Jon has changed. They both have.

I’m not the person you remember, Martin said the first time they spoke after Jon came back. I’m not the person you fell in love with.

Jon had locked eyes with him then, and Martin found that he could not look away.

Martin has spent the majority of his life walking a tightrope, striking an uneasy balance between competing instincts. The part of him that excels in flying under the radar takes comfort in being inconspicuous. There are people out there who see kindness as naivety and trust as a weakness to be exploited. The best way to avoid their notice is to avoid being seen at all, and Martin learned early on that to be unremarkable has its own advantages. All too often, to go unnoticed is to survive.

It isn’t enough to just survive, though, is it? Barely hidden underneath all the abysmal self-esteem and the carefully constructed mask of agreeability, there is a spark of indignation and outrage and want. To be seen is fundamentally terrifying; to demand acknowledgment is to welcome exposure. But Martin has always had a rebellious streak, carving out a space for itself amongst all the loneliness and fear and self-deprecation.

Look at me, it seethes. See me.

And when Jon did look at him – Saw him – an unmistakably pleased little voice jostled its way to the forefront to triumphantly declare, Finally.

Martin, I fell in love with this version of you, Jon said. With every version of you.

It was difficult to believe. Martin didn’t want to believe it. He was afraid to believe it. But he did, and he does, and he feels the same way, and he has for so, so long, and that defiant chip on his shoulder never truly let him forget it, even when isolation had him by the throat–

So why can’t you say it?

Since that day, it hasn’t come up again. Jon is affectionate, far more than Martin would have expected. Sure, Jon has always seemed more natural at expressing his feelings through actions rather than words, but Martin never imagined he would be so… well, cuddly. Jon always struck Martin as averse to touch, keeping people at arm’s length both figuratively and literally. He still is, sometimes. But more often than not, Martin gets the impression that Jon would cling like a limpet if given explicit permission. Martin doesn’t know whether that’s a new development, or whether it’s just that he now numbers among Jon’s rare exceptions.

Maybe I should ask Georgie, Martin thinks, only partly in jest.

There’s still a lingering hesitancy there, though. Yes, when Martin invites contact, Jon jumps at the opportunity to be close. Initiating, though… Jon doesn’t quite walk on eggshells per se, but he moves with a gentleness perhaps too gentle at times. Excessively tentative – but not subtle.

Martin long ago perfected the art of stealing furtive glances at Jon. It’s not difficult. Jon is prone to tunnel vision, predisposed to lose himself in his work or a book or his own mind until the rest of the world outside his narrow focus dissolves around him. If he ever noticed Martin’s eyes on him, Jon never called attention to it.

Jon’s staring doesn’t have the same finesse. His gaze is heavy. Concentrated, unwavering, penetrating – and Jon is painfully self-conscious about that. Prompt to stammer apologies whenever he’s caught watching, quick to avert his eyes. According to him, most people find the Archivist’s attention unnerving. Martin supposes it can be at times, but he’s long since become acclimated to it. Endeared to it, even. It’s grounding, despite how ruthlessly being Seen clashes with the Lonely aspects of Martin’s existence.

Maybe that disharmony is precisely why it’s grounding.

So Jon’s eyes flit to Martin whenever he thinks Martin isn’t looking, and cautious glimpses stretch into riveted, unconscious watching, and Martin graciously pretends not to notice. This has been the status quo for weeks now: faltering not-quite-touches and longing, not-so-surreptitious gazes, interspersed with understated handholding and a few sporadic sessions of what Martin can only call cuddling. All of it has been underscored by three simple words dangling in the scant expanse of empty space between them, waiting for acknowledgment.

Jon is waiting – waiting for Martin – and Jon… Jon has never been good at waiting, has he? Not like Martin. Jon’s directionless fidgeting and bitten-short declarations and absentminded stares betray his buzzing impatience despite his best efforts, but still he’s waiting, with as much valiant restraint as he can muster.

I love you. It’s a truth so obvious that speaking it aloud would hardly qualify as a confession. I love you, Martin thinks, and he feels it down to his bones, woven into the very atoms of him.

It’s difficult to pinpoint when it began. Early on, Martin only wanted to appear qualified to his new supervisor, then to impress him, then to prove him wrong – and then, eventually, to genuinely take care of him. Jon was in need of care, and resistant to receiving it, and that was familiar, wasn’t it? Maybe some desperate, stubborn part of Martin just wanted to be useful for once. To be seen. To succeed with Jon where he had failed with his mother.

Then Prentiss happened. Martin had been certain that Jon would dismiss Martin’s story, reprimand him for his prolonged absence, and snap at him to get back to work. And then… he didn’t.

Your safety is my responsibility, Jon said curtly, showing Martin to his new, hopefully temporary lodgings. I failed you, Jon’s contrite grimace read. I won’t fail you again. Then he immediately strode off to meet with Elias, leaving Martin loitering idly in Document Storage, speechless and bemused.

Maybe that’s where it started: Jon barging unannounced and uninvited into Elias’ office with brazen, unapologetic demands for safe haven and fire extinguishers and heightened security. He even went so far as to persistently badger Elias for customizations to the building’s sprinkler system. That tenacity may have been partly driven by guilt and obligation, but Martin swore he caught glimpses of something more from time to time. Something deeper and more personal, sympathetic and kind.

It started, as so many significant shifts do, with the small things.

Martin retired to Document Storage one night that first week to find extra blankets folded neatly at the end of his cot. I thought you might be cold, Jon admitted upon questioning. It can get chilly in here at night. The pressing question of exactly how many times Jon must have slept here overnight in order to know that was promptly crowded out by a vivid mental image of Jon wrestling a heavy quilt onto the Tube during the morning commuter rush. The thought brought a smile to Martin’s face. He said as much, and Jon immediately fabricated a clumsy excuse to exit the conversation.

On another occasion, Martin opened the break room cabinet to find his favorite tea restocked. He’d been putting off shopping, too anxious to leave the relative safety of the Institute’s walls. I noticed you were running low, Jon mumbled. And I was already at the store anyway, he added almost defensively, eyes narrowing in a stern glare to discourage comment – as if drawing attention to Jon’s random acts of kindness would destroy his curmudgeonly reputation.

Those circumspect displays of consideration were touching in their awkwardness. Jon was gruff and reticent, to be sure, but he cared, in his own unpracticed, idiosyncratic way. And one day, when Martin looked at him, he thought, I’d like to kiss him, and then: Oh no. Oh, fuck.

Jon never seemed to pick up on Martin’s feelings back then. But he knows now – not Knows, just knows – and, impossible as still seems, he returns those feelings. Jon said the words in no uncertain terms, left them in Martin’s care – and now he’s waiting for Martin to make the next move.

So why haven’t you? What are you waiting for?

“Want some tea?”

Martin jumps at the sound of Daisy’s voice.

“Sorry,” she snorts. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“I –” Martin clears his throat, recovering. “Tea. Right. Uh, I can get it–”

“Let me. I need to stretch my legs anyway. And I wouldn’t want to interrupt your pining.”

“Wh-what?” Martin sputters.

“You haven’t turned the page in at least twenty minutes,” Daisy informs him, nodding at the statement resting on the table in front of him. “Liable to burn yourself on the kettle while you’re spacing out, fantasizing about snogging Jon or whatever.”

“Wh– I – you – I’m – why would–”

“Don’t know why you’re being so coy about it.” Her blasé shrug is offset by the devious grin on her face. “Not like it’s a secret you’re on kissing terms.”

“We… we haven’t,” Martin blurts out, heat rising in his cheeks. Immediately, he kicks himself. Given what he knows of Daisy, there’s no avoiding an interrogation now.

“You – wait, really?” Daisy raises her eyebrows. “Why not?”

“It just hasn’t – I – it’s really none of your–” Martin huffs, flustered. “I don’t even know if he does that.”

“Why wouldn’t he?”

“B-because, he…”

Because Martin has a tendency to fade into the background, and people will say a lot of things when they assume no one else is in earshot.

Do you know if he and Jon ever…

No clue, and not interested! Although… according to Georgie, Jon doesn’t.

Like, at all?

Yeah.

Martin cringes at the memory. He wasn’t trying to eavesdrop. He still wishes he hadn’t overheard. Jon was always so tight-lipped about his personal life back then. It felt like a violation of his privacy, knowing something that he would in all likelihood have preferred to keep to himself and share only at his own discretion. Martin tried to put it out of his head, to avoid thinking too hard on the specifics of what Jon “doesn’t” – and, conversely, what he maybe, possibly does – but, well…

Martin shakes his head to clear his thoughts before they can meander any further into the realm of imagination. In any case, he certainly isn’t about to repeat that piece of gossip to Daisy now.

“I – I just don’t want to assume,” he says instead.

Daisy tilts her head, considering. “Well, have you asked him?”

“W-well, no.”

“Why not? Sure, some people aren’t into kissing, I guess, but I doubt he’d mind you asking. Even if the answer is ‘no,’ I guarantee he wants to be close in other ways.” At Martin’s lack of response, Daisy heaves an exaggerated sigh. “He reaches for you every time you’re not looking, you know. Always fidgeting with his hands, like he wants to touch but he doesn’t know how to ask. He’s as bad as you are, pining face and all.”

“I do not have a ‘pining face,’” Martin says. “If you must know, I was worrying just now.”

“You definitely have a pining face, and it’s different from your worried face. When you’re worried, you get all scowly and you chew your lip bloody. You’re focused, intense. When you’re pining, you get this faraway look to you, like you’re not taking anything in. And you touch your fingers to your lips a lot – yeah, like that.”

Martin yanks his fingers away from his mouth as if scalded, glowering indignantly at an increasingly smug Daisy. “What are you, a mentalist?”

“I’ve gotten used to reading people – picking up on openings, weak spots, stress signals, you know. Don’t know whether that’s a Hunt thing or a me thing. Both, maybe.” She shakes her head. “Anyway, you went from worried to pining about ten minutes ago now. And Jon, he’s even easier to read than you are. He’s so far gone for you, I can tease him mercilessly about it and never get a rise out of him. Even when I can get him to bat an eye, he never does that… that flustered denial thing he usually does when you hit a nerve. He just goes all… soft and wistful. Retreats into his own head, gets that smitten little smile – you know the one?”

“Yes.” Martin is blushing furiously now, he’s certain. Daisy flashes him another knowing, unabashedly victorious smirk.

“Point is, our lives are messed up, water is wet, and Jon Sims loves cats and Martin Blackwood, but he’s terrified of crossing some invisible line, so instead he’s just openly pining and it isn’t even fun to tease him about it because he’s too lovestruck to be properly embarrassed about it.” Daisy pauses for a breath. “So, if you want to kiss Jon, you should ask him, because I doubt he’s going to make the first move anytime soon, and it’s getting ridiculous watching the two of you tiptoe around the elephant in the room. So what are you waiting for?”

“How is any of this your business, anyway?” Martin snaps.

“Well, seeing as Jon’s my friend–”

That strikes a nerve, and Martin is reacting before he can properly evaluate the feeling.

“Okay, yeah, about that,” he says sharply. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Well, all you wanted to do before was hunt him down and hurt him.” Instantaneously, Daisy’s playful demeanor evaporates. “Even after Elias blackmailed you into working for him, you still looked at Jon like he wasn’t human. Not even a monster, either, just – just something you wanted to tear apart, just because you wanted to see him afraid. And now all of a sudden you’re friends? I mean, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that Jon’s willing to overlook a murder attempt. He… he has so little respect for himself, his standards are so…” Martin captures his lower lip between his teeth and bites down until it aches. “He’s so used to being treated badly, the bar is six feet below ground.”

“Yeah,” Daisy whispers.

“But – but what I can’t figure out is what your angle is. You wanted to hurt him, you did hurt him – he still has a scar from where you held a knife to his throat. You would’ve killed him if Basira didn’t stop you.”

“I–”

“He was so afraid of disappearing without a trace, did you know that?” Martin interjects, his face growing hotter as over a year’s worth of pent-up fury boils to the surface.

Martin has read enough statements to know that even one of the encounters representative of the Institute’s collection is one traumatic experience too many. Even so, it’s only a small fraction of the horror stories that have plagued humanity throughout history – that continue to unfold in the present day. How many people suffer something horrible and don’t live long enough to tell the story? The Archive, chock-full of terror though it may be, is an ongoing study in survivorship bias.

“When Prentiss attacked the Institute,” Martin fumes, “Jon was more afraid of that – of leaving nothing behind – than he was of dying. You were going to bury him where no one would ever find him, and no one would ever know what happened to him, and now… now you say you want to be his friend, like nothing ever happened? And I’m supposed to just trust you?”

For a long minute, the only sound is Martin’s rapid, heavy breathing. He doesn’t know what he’s expecting. Combativeness, maybe. For Daisy to get her hackles up, to defend herself against Martin’s implications, to take offense to his accusatory tone. Instead, her entire posture wilts and her shoulders curl inward. It’s as if an invisible weight is pressing against her on all sides, crushing her into something small and taut.

“I guess we’re doing this now, then,” she mumbles.

“Guess we are,” Martin says stiffly, one foot tapping frenetically against the floor as his agitation continues creeping ever upward.

Daisy nods and releases a heavy exhale. “This isn’t just about Jon, is it?”

“I…” Martin trails off as he considers the question. “No. I guess it’s not.”

“Well.” Daisy rubs at her upper arms, eyes fixed on the floor. “Go on.”

“When you questioned all of us – when you interrogated me, you didn’t – you didn’t actually want to find out the truth. You just wanted to get to Jon, because you assumed he was guilty, and…” Martin huffs. “No, it wasn’t even about guilt, was it? You didn’t care about solving Leitner’s murder, you didn’t care about finding Sasha – she could’ve still been alive for all we knew at the time, but you didn’t care whether she was in danger, whether she could be saved. And – and even if we did have proof that she was dead, we deserved to know what happened to her. She deserved better than to be a mystery.”

“You’re right.” Daisy’s soft agreement does nothing to temper Martin’s burgeoning wrath.

“She was my friend, you know that? She was my friend, and you just – dismissed her, like she wasn’t worth remembering, like her life was some – some trivial detail. I didn’t know whether to be afraid for her or – or – or to mourn for her, and all you had to offer was, ‘Jon probably killed her, tell me where he is or else.’ You were a detective, you were supposed to help, but all you cared about was getting to Jon, and you – you – you threatened me because you thought I could tell you where to find him. That you could use me to hurt him.” Martin breathes a bitter chuckle. “I guess Jon was right not to trust the police to figure out what happened to Gertrude.”

Daisy doesn’t deny it.

“So… yeah.” Martin shrugs as his rant tapers off. “That’s where I am, I guess. I know you’ve changed – haven’t we all – but… every time I see you near Jon, there’s a part of me that panics. Maybe I’m not being fair, but I – I can’t forget. I don’t know how to feel.”

Daisy is quiet for a long minute, fingers digging into her arms now, a pained expression lingering on her face.

“I’ve done… a lot of things I’m not proud of,” she says slowly. “Hurt a lot of people. Most more than they deserved. Many who didn’t deserve it at all. Can’t even make apologies to most of them, let alone make amends. I don’t even know if I could make amends. Some things are unforgivable.”

It doesn’t undo what I did, Jon’s voice plays in Martin’s mind. I can’t erase it.

“You should know,” Daisy says, “complete lack of self-respect aside, Jon doesn’t… he doesn’t overlook what I did.”

“What?”

“He knows what I am. What I’ve done. He doesn’t pretend I’m something I’m not, he doesn’t lie to me about what I could become, he doesn’t offer me forgiveness that I don’t deserve, but he still… he still doesn’t expect the worst from me, either. He expects me to make the right choice, even though I gave him every reason not to trust me.”

“He’s still too forgiving,” Martin mutters.

“That’s another thing. I… I don’t think he does. Forgive me, that is.”

“Have you asked him?”

“No.”

“Because you’re afraid to know the answer?” Maybe that’s uncharitable, but Martin never claimed to be an easily forgiving soul. Most people wouldn’t assume it at first glance, but he’s always had a tendency to nurse a grudge.

Daisy hunches even further, her shoulders drawing in tighter.

“Because if he did forgive me, he would tell me,” she says, her throat bobbing as she struggles to swallow. “But he doesn’t. I know he doesn’t, and he shouldn’t, and I’m not going to put him in a position where he has to justify himself, or sugarcoat it, or comfort me for what I did to him.”

Martin doesn’t know what to say to that.

“And the same goes for you.” Daisy steals a quick glimpse at Martin before lowering her head again. “I won’t ask you to forgive me. Ever. But I am sorry – for how I treated you, for what I did to Jon. I’ll never stop being sorry. That doesn’t make it better, I know. But I want to do better. I’m trying to be better. Too little too late, maybe, but I won’t go back to how I was before. I can’t take it all back, but I can at least make sure I don’t hurt anyone else.”

“You sound like Jon.”

“First and second place for guiltiest conscience, us,” Daisy says with a tired chuckle. “And I don’t know which of us is in first.” She sighs. “Look, I know you have no reason to trust me, but I do see Jon as a friend. Not just because I’m sorry, or because he saved me, or because I owe him, but because he… well, he sees me as I am, and he sees me for who I want to be, and he doesn’t see those as mutually exclusive, but he also doesn’t deny the contradiction.”

“Wish he could apply the same logic to himself.”

“Yeah. He’s an absolute mess of double standards. Best we can do is call him on it at every opportunity. Maybe eventually he’ll get it through his head.”

“Yeah,” Martin scoffs. “Maybe.”

“Anyway,” she says, “I care about him, and he cares about you, so…”

“So you thought you’d appoint yourself his wingman?”

“Maybe a little.” Daisy gives him a hesitant, sheepish grin. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Martin sighs. The resentment is still there, but he does feel a bit lighter after getting it all out in the open. Besides, he's so emotionally drained from his outburst, he can’t quite work up the energy for mild annoyance right this moment.

“Well, in that case – if you want to kiss him, you should ask. That’s all I’m saying,” Daisy says hurriedly, holding up her palms in a placating gesture when Martin gives her a tired glare. “I’ll drop it now. I meant it when I said I wanted tea.”

Daisy winces as she rises to her feet.

“And I meant it when I said I can get it,” Martin says.

“I’ve got it.”

“Then at least let me come along and–”

“Uh, no.” Daisy gives him a quelling look. “Jon warned me about how you are with tea.”

“What?”

“Says you’re a micromanager.”

“He what?” Martin demands.

“Okay, he didn’t say it like that. Actually, I think the word he used was persnickety.”

“Oh, as if he has room to talk,” Martin mutters. “He’s just miffed that I caught him microwaving tea once and I refuse to let him live it down.”

“What’s wrong with microwaving tea?” Martin recoils, affronted – and then Daisy snorts. “Settle down. I’m just messing with you.” She starts to leave, pausing only briefly to glance over her shoulder. “I won’t be long. Yell if Peter decides to finally show his face.”

“Will do,” Martin groans, reluctantly returning to the statement in front of him. Yet another alleged Extinction sighting, courtesy of Peter, for Martin to dutifully pretend to research.

Stringing Peter along is the best way Martin knows to keep in check. In that sense, it’s an important job – one only Martin can do. Nonetheless, it’s reminiscent of how it felt to be left behind when the others went to stop the Unknowing. Distracting Elias was important, sure, and dangerous in its own way, but it wasn’t exactly on the same level as storming the Circus to stop the apocalypse. Comparatively, Martin felt useless.

Now, with Basira and Jon off on their mission, Martin is beset by a similar sense of futility. There’s certainly enough work to keep him busy, given that Peter delegates most of his job responsibilities to Martin. (Martin is fairly certain that, fraudulent CV or not, he’s more qualified to run the Institute at this point than Peter is.) Performing routine administrative duties can be a boring and demoralizing enough endeavor in the context of a mundane underpaid office job; doing so in service to an unfathomable cosmic evil is, to put it mildly, soul-destroying. Perhaps in a literal sense, as far as Martin knows.

That’s not to mention the customary gloom that comes with reading account after dreadful account of senseless, indiscriminate suffering.

Martin wishes there was something practical he could do, is his point. Patient though he may be, indefinite waiting is less tolerable when what he’s waiting for is the other shoe to drop, so to speak. He has no desire to interact with Peter in any capacity, but the longer he remains scarce, the more Martin’s trepidation soars.

There’s no way Peter has conceded his bet with Jonah, but there’s no telling whether he’s simply biding his time and observing how events unfold, actively plotting his next moves, or already enacting an revised scheme from the shadows. Regardless, he’s a clear and present danger for as long as he’s around. He may not be hasty, but he’s still a wildcard. Jon told Martin about the last time: how Peter released the NotThem to rampage through the Institute, solely for the sake of causing a distraction. As long as he has The Seven Lamps of Architecture in his possession, he–

Oh.

Martin smiles to himself. Maybe there is something more he can do.

The warehouse is, unsurprisingly, dark. Even with the door propped open, the daylight filtering through illuminates a radius of only a few yards before it’s swallowed by unnatural gloom. As Jon and Basira move further into the cavernous space, the beams of their torches barely penetrate the velvety murk.

“Any idea where she is?” Basira whispers from Jon’s left.

“Waiting in ambush, I assume. I can’t See much of anything.”

“See or See?”

“Either. Both.”

“And you’re certain that applies to Elias as well? He won’t be able to See us here?”

“Positive,” Jon says. “The Dark has–”

An enraged bellow sounds out from behind them. Basira’s torch clatters to the concrete floor, its light promptly extinguished as the casing cracks and the batteries come loose. In a flash, Basira is on the ground, locked in a furious scuffle with–

“Manuela Dominguez!” Jon says. Manuela looks up reflexively, surprised to hear her name. It’s all the opening Basira needs to gain the upper hand, grappling Manuela into a prone position on the floor and pinning her in place with a wristlock. Manuela cries out in pain, but her wild thrashing continues unabated.

“Jon,” Basira grunts, increasingly winded as Manuela attempts to break the hold. “A little help?”

“Manuela, listen, we – we’re just here to talk–”

Manuela briefly pauses in her struggling to spit at Jon’s feet. Funny, how some details remain the same. A second later, she’s resisting again, now attempting to twist around and bite at whatever exposed skin she can find.

“Stop.”

The command crackles up Jon’s throat and sparks off the tip of his tongue like a static shock, hundreds of iterations of the word coinciding. The air itself seems to quake with the force of it, and Jon is left shivering in its wake.

So, it seems, is Manuela: her voice shudders out of her when she speaks.

“Who are you?” she hisses. “What do you want?”

“To make a deal,” Jon says, the words slightly slurred.

“Why would I deal with you?” In the flickering glow of his torchlight, Jon can see the baleful glint in Manuela’s eyes. “You’re of the Eye, aren’t you? What could you even possibly want? You’ve already taken everything – you lot and your Archivist. Where is she, anyway?” Manuela makes a show of scanning the room as best she can, pinioned as she is. “Too much of a coward to witness the wreckage she’s wrought?”

“Gertrude is dead,” Basira says.

“Stopping us took everything she had, then.” Manuela smirks. “Serves her right.”

“You wish,” Basira scoffs. “She was murdered. Completely unrelated.”

“That’s –” Manuela’s smug expression vanishes. “Who–?”

“Elias,” Jon says. “She was too much of a thorn in his side. Too much of a force to be reckoned with.”

“Then why are you here?”

“I told you,” Jon says. “We want to make a deal. A temporary alliance.”

“An alliance?” Manuela repeats. What starts as a weak, dismissive laugh dissolves into a wheeze.

“We have a mutual enemy.” Manuela’s eyes narrow in something more like curiosity now. “I take it I’ve piqued your interest. Will you hear us out?”

Manuela deliberates for a protracted moment, torn between rebellion and intrigue. “Let me up.”

“What, so you can throw more punches?” Basira says.

“It’s fine, Basira,” Jon says. Manuela is still seething with defiance. The more powerless she feels, the less open she’ll be to negotiation. Better to make a few concessions and let her feel some control over the situation.

Judging from her furrowed brow, Basira is running through the same calculations. She hesitates a moment longer before sighing, releasing her hold, and standing. Manuela staggers to her feet and backs away several steps, brushing herself off and panting shallowly as she catches her breath.

“Did you come here alone?” she asks, massaging her abused wrist as her suspicious gaze flits back and forth between Basira and Jon. “Just the two of you?”

“Yes,” Jon answers. Basira shakes her head with an impatient tsk – which Jon interprets as something like stop volunteering free information to every Avatar you parley with, Jon. “Like I said, we’re just here to talk. And to offer you the opportunity for revenge.”

“What revenge? Gertrude is dead,” Manuela spits out. “Who else is there? Her replacement?”

“I’m her replacement.”

With that, Manuela lunges in Jon’s direction. Basira swiftly moves to intercept her, but Manuela stops in her tracks before Basira can grab her. A tension-filled standoff ensues, the two of them eyeing each other warily. After nearly a full minute, Basira seems satisfied enough that the situation has been defused to take her eyes off Manuela and treat Jon to an exasperated glare.

“Do you have to antagonize every single person who wants to kill you?” she scolds.

Jon ignores her grievance in favor of addressing Manuela directly: “You wouldn’t have any luck killing me.”

Basira dips her head down and plants the heel of her hand on her forehead, grumbling under her breath. It’s mostly unintelligible, but Jon thinks he can make out the words fuck’s sake somewhere in there.

“I could try,” Manuela snarls. Her hands ball into tighter fists, trembling with rage at her sides, but she continues to stand her ground.

“You could,” Jon says mildly. “And you would fail.”

“You’ll just compel me, you mean.”

“I could.” He would rather avoid it if possible, but Manuela doesn’t need to know that. He can only hope she can’t tell just how much he’s only pretending at nerve. “Or, you can listen to what we have to say. Gertrude is dead, and lashing out at me isn’t going to satisfy your thirst for revenge. We can offer up a more satisfying target.”

“Unless you have a way for me to unmake the Power your Archivist served.” When Jon doesn’t deny it, Manuela lets out another harsh, scornful laugh. “You’ve got to be joking.”

“Well – arguably, Gertrude didn’t serve the Eye. She followed her own path.” Manuela breathes a derisive huff. “Like her or not, she did. Formidable as she was, none of that was due to the Beholding’s favor. That was all her. She never embraced the power it promised – not like most Archivists do. Striking a blow against the Eye wouldn’t be an insult to Gertrude’s memory. If anything, it would do her proud.”

“Killing it with the sales pitch,” Basira carps.

“But the head of the Institute does serve the Eye,” Jon presses on, “and he’s the one responsible for appointing Gertrude the Archivist in the first place. Hurt the Eye, and you hurt him.”

“I’m not an idiot,” Manuela says, bristling. “Your patron may pale in comparison to my god, but I’m not arrogant enough to believe that I would stand a chance of vanquishing it.”

“We can’t vanquish it, no. But we could destroy the Institute that serves it. Same as happened to the Dark’s faithful.”

“An eye for an eye,” Basira adds.

“Well, you’ve wasted your time coming all this way.” Manuela’s disparaging chuckle gets caught in her throat. “I’m the only one here. An abandoned disciple, guarding a lost cause. There’s nothing left of our former power.”

“The Dark Sun,” Basira says.

Manuela tenses. Then her shoulders slump, weighed down by dawning, solemn resignation.

“Of course,” she says bitterly. “It isn’t enough to decimate our numbers. You need to steal the only remnant of our crusade.”

“We’re giving you the opportunity to reclaim its purpose,” Jon says. “Or would you rather it rot away here, diminishing until it collapses in on itself?”

Manuela is silent for a long minute, a shrewd look in her eye. “Why would you want to betray your god?”

“The Beholding isn’t my god,” Jon says. “I’m not a willing convert. I was drafted into someone else’s crusade without my consent – and you know what that’s like, don’t you?”

Manuela just scowls.

“I Know your story.” Jon’s voice turns sibilant with power as the Archive rears its head. “Indoctrinated into a faith that never spoke to you –”

“– brought up to believe in the light of God, his radiant, illuminating presence –”

“Shut up,” Manuela says in a low growl.

“– deep down they were vicious, spiteful people who used their faith to hurt others, and I fondly imagined them discovering themselves in an afterlife other than the one they had assumed was their destination – I broke with them as soon as I could –”

“Jon,” Basira interrupts. The firm squeeze of her hand on his shoulder is enough to snap him out of his shallow trance. She jerks her head at Manuela, who looks about ready to charge him again. “Maybe not the time?”

“S-sorry,” he gasps. He shakes his head to clear the residual static clouding his thoughts before looking back to Manuela with genuine contrition. “Didn’t mean to do that, I swear. I only meant to say that I – I read the statement you gave to Gertrude. I know that your parents were zealots. They envisioned a perfect world that seemed to you like hell on earth, and you did everything you could to rebel against their arrogance. To spite the god they worshiped. We have some common ground there, you and I.”

Granted, Jon didn’t grow up in a religious household. His grandmother was content to let him explore – and he did.

Even as a child, he had an inclination for research. A topic would catch his attention and he would voraciously seek out as much information as he could. His grandmother didn’t take much interest in the content of those fixations, but she did encourage them as a general principle. Not with overt praise, necessarily, but by facilitating his endeavors: procuring reading material on the obsession of the month, escorting him to the library every so often and allowing him to max out his card. He suspects now that she was simply grateful for some way to occupy his attention. If his nose was in a book, he was keeping out of trouble.

He never told her how wrong she turned out to be.

In any case, one of his many early “phases,” as she liked to call them, was comparative religion. Part of it was simple curiosity. Part of it was a genuine desire to find something to believe: some conception of the afterlife that would resonate with him, some straightforward framework for understanding the world, some sort of certainty to assuage his fear of the unknown. His grandmother never seemed to care whether he found what he was looking for. She never really asked.

It was for the best. He never liked admitting defeat. Not back then.

They returned all the books to the library on the day they were due, and Jon brought home a new haul, this one centered around the field of oceanography. The seas were brimming with mystery, but at least there was a very real possibility of turning those unknowns into knowns. New discoveries were being made every day, newer and newer technology being developed to push the boundaries of that knowledge. There were sure answers, and they could be grasped, so long as humanity could invent the right tools for the job.

Still, Jon found himself envying people of faith from time to time. Sometimes he wished he had someone to point him in some sort of direction, like many other children seemed to have. But hearing of Manuela’s upbringing… well, if Jon was forced to choose between extremes, he has to admit that he prefers the complete lack of guidance he received as opposed to strict proselytization. His grandmother may not have shown interest in his opinions, but at least she gave him the freedom to come to his own conclusions. She may not have had reassurances to offer, but at least she didn’t foist upon him a worldview that made no place for him in it.

“It’s not the same thing as childhood indoctrination,” he tells Manuela, “but… becoming the Archivist – it was like being drafted into the service of a god that I never would have chosen for myself. Had Elias told me the terms, I never would have signed the contract.”

“I take it he didn’t tell you beforehand that he murdered your predecessor?”

“That I had to find out the hard way, unfortunately.”

“So you’re saying you’re not so much a traitor to your faith as you are a disgruntled employee.”

“Elias is my boss. Is that a trick question?” Jon is surprised to hear Manuela give an amused snort. “But yes. I’d like to… tender my resignation, so to speak.”

Manuela scrutinizes him intently, as if trying to solve a riddle. “You would give up your power?”

“I don’t want it,” Jon says truthfully.

If he’s perfectly honest with himself, there was a time that at least some aspects of that power were alluring. There was something intoxicating and liberating about being able to ask a question and not only receive a guaranteed answer, but be certain he wasn’t being presented with an outright lie – especially after spending so many months beholden to unchecked paranoia, distrust, and frantic, futile investigation.

But there was never anything benign or inconsequential about invading a victim’s privacy or compelling someone to surrender a secret, no matter how he tried to justify it to himself. Even if there was, even if it wasn’t both reprehensible in principle and harmful in practice, it still wouldn’t be worth the irrevocable costs.

“I want out,” he says, “and if getting out isn’t an option, then I at least want Elias to know what it is to be offered up to a god inimical to every atom of his existence. I thought you might be able to assist with that.”

“How?”

“The Institute is a seat of power for the Beholding,” Basira says. “If we introduce it to your Dark Sun…”

“A mote in the Eye,” Manuela says, intrigued. Her attention swivels back to Jon. “Do you Know what would happen?”

“No,” he says. “But I imagine it will hurt.”

“And then what? What happens after? You let me pack up my relic and walk away?”

“I don’t see why not.”

“I don’t believe you,” Manuela says.

“You don’t pose an existential threat,” Jon says with a shrug. “I have no doubt that the Dark will attempt another Ritual someday, but it won’t happen in our lifetimes. We have no qualms letting you walk away after our alliance is finished.”

“And the Dark Sun?” Manuela presses.

“I don’t know what condition it will be in after exposure to the Eye,” Jon admits. “But you’re free to do as you wish with it after. We won’t stop you.”

So she can hurt more people, Jon’s battered conscience chimes in.

“And if I say no?”

“Then I walk in there right now, Behold it, and destroy it entirely.” It comes out sounding more menacing than Jon had initially intended, but maybe that’s not a bad thing, given the way Manuela freezes up.

“You wouldn’t survive.” Manuela sounds far from certain.

“Maybe. Maybe not. But your Sun certainly wouldn’t.” Jon pauses for a moment to let that sink in. “Do you want to see its potential wasted here and now, or do you want to make all that sacrifice worth something?”

“If you’re so certain you have the upper hand, what’s stopping you from just taking it, then?”

“I’m not its engineer or its keeper. I wouldn’t even Know how to safely transport it. Too many unknown variables.”

“So you need me.”

“Yes. Beneath the Institute, there’s a… a sanctum of the Eye. A place of power, like Ny-Ålesund is for your patron. If you can bring the Dark Sun there, I… well, I’m hoping it will sever the Eye’s connection to that place. Destroy the Institute.”

“How would that work?”

“I’m… not certain,” Jon confesses. “Call it a… a hunch.”

“There’s precedent,” Basira says. “We found a statement that hinted at worshipers of the Dark destroying a temple to the Eye in 4th century Alexandria.”

Manuela’s eyes light up with interest. “How?”

“We don’t know,” Jon says.

“Oh, right. Foolish of me to ask,” Manuela says pertly. “Why would I expect you to know things? It’s only the entire point of you.”

“I never claimed to be good at my job,” Jon retorts. “Look, maybe I don’t Know exactly what will happen, but a focus of the Dark should hurt the Eye in some capacity, I think.”

“You think,” Manuela mutters under her breath, just loud enough for him to hear the derision in her tone.

“Whatever happens, it’ll be more satisfying than anything you’ve got going on here,” Basira points out.

Manuela barks out a contemptuous laugh. “You don’t even have the shadow of a plan!”

“We… haven’t ironed out the details, no.” Jon rubs the back of his neck, chagrinned. “We figured that if you did agree to an alliance, you would want to be part of the actual planning process.”

“And if you don’t cooperate, it’s a moot point,” Basira says.

“Also, I was… I suppose I was hoping you could offer insight,” Jon says. “The Dark is something of a blind spot for me, shockingly.” Manuela shoots him a withering look. “So even if I had any clue how to wield the Dark Sun, I wouldn’t be able to channel its full potential. Not like you could.”

“That much is obvious,” Manuela sneers, teeth gleaming in the torchlight as her lips stretch in a taut, wolfish grin. “You Beholding types always assume that knowledge is synonymous with control. Putting yourselves on the level of Powers greater than any mortal, assuming insight into things you could not possibly understand… you fly too close to the sun and then have the gall to indulge in outrage when you burn.”

We didn’t come here for a sermon, Jon almost says, but he bites his tongue.

“But I accept that I am a supplicant, not a god,” Manuela says, reverence seeping into her tone to supplant the reproach. “It’s pure hubris to assume that you could wield the Black Sun like a tool. It’s a communion, and only those with true and dutiful faith could ever hope to win its favor. Approach it with anything less than respect and devotion, and it will devour you.”

“If you’re done pontificating?” Basira says. She doesn’t give Manuela an opening to respond. “We’re well aware that we stand no chance of wielding–” Manuela looks up sharply, and Basira hastily corrects herself. “Fine – communing with the Dark Sun ourselves. That’s why we’re looking for an alliance rather than just taking it.”

“Do you think you could–” Jon pauses as he searches for a way to phrase his question that won’t unleash another tirade. “Would you be able to arrange for the Dark Sun to be brought into the Eye’s stronghold? Expose them to one another, let them… I don’t know – have it out with each other?”

“I’m capable of bringing it to London, if that’s what you’re asking,” Manuela says primly. “But it would be at a disadvantage on the Beholding’s home turf. If – if – I were willing to test this hypothesis, I would only do so on the condition that I could level the playing field as much as possible. Wait for ideal circumstances, as it were.”

“Which would be…?” Basira asks.

“The winter solstice. The Dark Sun will be the strongest on the night of the winter solstice.”

“That’s months from now,” Basira protests. “Can’t you just –”

“Ideally, I would insist on a total solar eclipse,” Manuela snaps, “but it will be quite some time before London witnesses another. Not until 2090.”

“Looking ahead, are you?” Basira asks.

“It is likely the soonest opportunity for another attempt at a Ritual.” Manuela pretends at nonchalance with a shrug, but she can’t quite conceal her profound disappointment as her voice grows measurably more subdued. “It gives me ample time to study our failure. To discover what went wrong.”

“To refine your Ritual, you mean.”

“There will always be faithful to take up the mantle,” Manuela says, her chin lifting marginally in defiance as she stares Basira down.

“But you won’t be around to see it.” Basira meets Manuela’s eyes with equal nerve. Jon remains silent, looking from one to the other as they face off against one another.

“No,” Manuela replies evenly. “I’ll have to settle for passing on my findings to those who come after. Leave behind a legacy to guide their steps.”

“In the meantime, the Dark Sun will stagnate,” Jon chimes in. It’s a bluff, of course: he has no idea whether or not it’s true. Judging from the unsettled look on Manuela’s face, neither does she. Jon latches onto that uncertainty, carefully twisting the knife just a little further: “Or, you could let it serve a purpose.”

“Its purpose was to usher in a world of true and holy Darkness,” Manuela says acidly. “You’re proposing I give it scraps.”

“Like it or not, you can’t give it the apocalypse it was promised,” Jon says.

Manuela’s fingers flex and clench back into fists. Jon suspects she would love nothing more than to wring his neck. She’s a truth seeker at heart, though. Ambitious, rebellious – idealistic even, albeit in a twisted sort of way, harboring an aspiration that most would rightfully find horrific. Adept at detecting and exploiting the more malleable aspects of material reality where possible, infusing the scientific method with just enough magical thinking to bend natural laws.

However, there are some truths that even she cannot deny, and she isn’t the type to ignore a certainty when it’s right in front of her face. And so, despite the unconcealed vitriol in her eyes and the contrariness sitting at the tip of her tongue, she does not deny his assertion.

“But it can still pay tribute to your god,” Jon coaxes, striving to stop short of needling. It’s a razor’s edge he’s always struggled to walk, but Manuela is still right there with him, toeing the line. “It’s better than nothing at all.”

Manuela directs a venomous glower towards the floor as she vacillates between summary dismissal and the temptation of vengeance. Basira side-eyes Jon as the standstill stretches from seconds into minutes, but all Jon can offer her is an awkward shrug. The ball is in Manuela’s court, and it seems she has no qualms leaving them in indefinite suspense as she painstakingly examines all the variables and weighs her options. The best they can do is wait and hope that tangible revenge will prove more enticing than spiteful noncooperation.

Eventually, she lets out a sharp exhale, raises her head, and breaks her silence.

“The winter solstice,” she repeats, her voice teeming with tension and lingering aversion. “Barring an eclipse, I would have to settle for the winter solstice. The longest, darkest night of the year… it’s second best, but it should suffice. Shame about the light pollution, of course,” she adds, wrinkling her nose with disdain, “but the power is in the symbolism.”

“Jon?” Basira prompts.

“Dream logic,” he says, massaging his forehead wearily. “It tracks.”

“Fine,” Basira sighs. She looks back to Manuela. “So does this mean you’ll do it?”

“I’m tired of haunting this place like a ghost.” There’s a sharp, predatory look in Manuela’s eyes now. “The Dark has lost its crusaders. The Watcher should have a taste of loss.”

Just then, a loud, metallic thunk interrupts the negotiations, reverberating through the space and drawing everyone’s attention to warehouse entrance. The light that had been percolating through from outside had been preternaturally dimmed before, but now it’s been snuffed out entirely.

Jon glances anxiously at Basira. “The wind, maybe?”

“There was no wind.” Basira is already drawing her gun. Like a switch has been flipped at the prospect of danger, her voice goes steely with manufactured composure. “Not strong enough to blow the door shut. I propped it open very securely.”

“We’re near the water, though,” Jon murmurs. “Strong gusts sometimes blow in off the sea–”

Jon’s mouth snaps shut at Basira’s quelling look. Manuela’s posture is defensive again, eyes darting suspiciously between Jon and Basira in the muted torchlight.

“I thought you said you came here alone,” she says accusingly.

“We – we did,” Jon says. “We–”

“Oh, Archivist,” a new voice sings out, oozing with an exultant malice. “Long time no see!”

It’s been ages since Jon last heard that cadence, but it’s horrifyingly, heart-stoppingly familiar even after all this time. It pierces Jon like a knife in the dark. He takes a frantic step back, nearly tripping over his own feet as his panic skyrockets and a tidal wave of adrenaline crashes over him.

“We just want to talk,” croons a different voice, rougher and more ragged-sounding. It’s difficult to gauge the newcomers’ positions through the impermeable gloom, but judging from the sounds of their voices, they’re drawing ever nearer. “Won’t you come out?”

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” Jon breathes an incredulous laugh, distraught enough to border on a whimper. “Now?”

“Who are they?” Basira asks urgently. Jon is still frozen in place, eyes straining against the darkness. Any answer he could make is bogged down with terror, snagging in his throat and forestalling coherence. “Jon!”

Jon swallows hard and finally looks at Basira, his eyes wide with dread.

“Hunters.”

End Notes:

naomi: hey jon. jon. consider: surveillance state kink jon: shut the hell your mouth

____

Both instances of Archive-speak are from MAG 135. A few pieces of dialogue from the beginning of the conversation with Manuela are taken/reworked from MAG 143. The Melanie and Basira gossip is from MAG 106.

Once again, had way too much fun with the text convo btwn Naomi and Jon. Cannot resist those chatfic shenanigans vibes.

In other news, Daisy WILL point at Jon and loudly exclaim, “Is anyone gonna volunteer as wingman for this lovesick disaster or do I have to do everything myself?” and not even wait for an answer. (Jon made the mistake of confirming that he doesn’t mind her lovingly dunking on him about this sort of thing and now she’s a menace. Listen, playful ribbing is basically her platonic love language.)

Sorry for the cliffhanger!! But hey, I think we all knew that there’s no way things would go entirely smoothly for Jon and Basira. And now I finally get to add some new character tags.

I’m very behind on replying to comments. (Tbh, spent most of the last month grappling with this chapter. I was stuck on a scene that REALLY didn’t want to cooperate.) I’m gonna try to catch up this weekend, though. <3 As always, thank you for reading!

#the magnus archives #magpod #tma #tma fic #tma spoilers #long post

17 notes · View notes

crystxlclear · 3 years

Text

sudden desire

chapter seven: mornings are for coffee and sexual tension

part eight of sudden desire

prologue / one / two / three / four / five / six / masterlist

synopsis: the morning after.

word count: 3.2k

warnings: the briefest and vaguest implications of sex (about as pg as it gets honestly), mutual pining (they’re oblivious idiots what do you expect from them at this point?), not beta’d

author’s note: i’ve not been in a good headspace lately and deleted my twitter app the other day to try and clear my head (✨a great move for someone who’s being crushed under crippling loneliness✨) so i feel like this really isn’t my best work, by a long shot, but writing this was the only thing that seemed to cheer me up, so we’re rolling with it! enough about me here’s the good stuff!

Some mornings beat her down. She’ll wake with a terrible wait on her chest and her head in a haze, and the day will stretch on in slow motion. Sadness and pain and upset stretching the hours for miles and miles. Those days, she hates to leave her bed. Her body feels too heavy to move from the mattress. But those days come far less frequent than they used to; every couple of months, when the rain lashes heavy against the window panes and the fog rolls over the river. Melancholia lingers like the smell after it rains and hoodies keep her together and the gazes away.

Others are rosy, honeysuckle sweet and tipped in golden sunshine. She’ll wake to the familiar smell of roses and fresh cotton, of cinnamon and citrus and the candles she’d burned the night before. She’s weightless as she rises, breezy dresses and peach lipgloss, and it’s like a never-ending summer, even when the weather turns frigid and she’s freezing in dresses made for the heat. Those mornings are mornings made for Marcus and syrupy sweet coffee in tiny coffee shops.

But some mornings exist alone; those mornings when anticipating hangs in the air, when change still has yet to set in. Mornings she doesn’t know how to feel when she wakes surrounded by her duvet. Mornings that can become the best or the worst of her life.

Mornings with Marcus over coffee in the sunshine are usually the best.

They’re filled with familiar laughter.

Coraline wakes to the sun streaming into her bedroom, bright, golden and insistent. The curtains are cracked open a little - disturbed and out-of-line, no longer drawn together like they had been when she’d fallen asleep - and the gap lets the warm morning sunlight in. A chill pulls through her; even as she tugs her duvet up underneath her chin for a moment. It’s thicker than it normally is, the weather proving to be much harsher than she’d ever anticipated it could be as Spring edges closer, and it’s even worse when she feels the bed beside her empty and cold. Coraline stretches an arm out over the sparse half of the bed, the sheets there cool, neat and frustratingly unoccupied.

Her heart sinks a little at the realisation.

Even if she isn’t entirely sure what she would have done if she’d woken up with Marcus by her side.

Marcus is a morning person, only allowing himself to sleep in on weekends . But Coraline is usually always the first one of them awake; the one who wakes him up with a text or coffee at his front door. He normally claims her to be ridiculously - and, she’s sure, annoyingly - springly in the early mornings, no matter what time she wakes, no matter how many hours of sleep she’s managed. It takes a while, and far too many cups of coffee, and she usually crashes in the late evening when things catch up on her with ferocity. She knows, this morning, Marcus has done the gentlemanly thing and left her to sleep in those precious few hours, before she has to wake up and head to the heavy load of interviews she has peppered throughout the day. But she really wishes he’d woken her, even just to say goodbye, before he’d left for work.

Coraline knows he’d never intended on staying the night. It wasn’t that kind of arrangement, they both knew that, but it had just happened. And, honestly, neither of them had been entirely made about it, either. He'd made a joke about how her bed was so much comfier than his and she’d giggled and yawned and tucked herself into the warmth of his side, without a second thought. Neither of them had complained about the closeness. Her eyes had grown heavy with sleep and her words quiet, and Marcus had traced patterns into her lower back until she’d fallen asleep a few moments later.

She digs a knuckled into her eyes to rub away the sleep that weighs down her eyelids and groans as she stretches out her aching limbs. Everything aches - even places she didn’t know could ache - especially her back as she lifts her head to glance over at the alarm clock. She’s utterly exhausted, the late night catching up with her, but she’s too worried she’s overslept to even think about going back to sleep. 8:04 blinks back at her in glaring white fluorescent.

Blinking up at the ceiling, laying flat on her aching back, blinking away the weariness that clouds her eyes, Coraline finally finds it within herself to climb out of bed. Some mornings, she can rarely leave the comfort of her blankets. The weight of something always seems to press down on her; sometimes, she doesn’t even know what that weight is. This morning is one of them. She groans when she stands and her feet touch the wooden floor. She stretches her limbs out, every joint in her body seeming to crack as she moves, and yawns so wide that she’s glad no one is around to see it. She’s sure she looks ridiculous on a morning - with wild hair and watery eyes and bright flushed cheeks - but, now, with no one around to see, she doesn’t care.

Coraline slips her glasses onto the bridge of her nose and shuffles her way out of the bedroom. Her father’s old Eagles shirt - the one she’d stolen from his drawers when she’d left for LA; the one that reminded her of her childhood and smelt so reminiscent of him - brushes the middle of her thighs as she moves. It was the first thing she’d grabbed the night before, still balled up at the foot of her bed.

She’s greeted by a sight she hadn’t expected to see when she steps into the kitchen.

The low, slow bubble of the coffee machine, followed by the rich smell of coffee beans. Marcus Pike stands, leant against the counter without a care in the world, with two mugs perched in front of him; one is Cora’s favourite — her Death Cab For Cutie mug — and the other is the old one with the chip in the rim Marcus had accidentally made when he visited her apartment the first time. She’d meant to throw it out, but it reminded her of him, and she’d always reach for her mug whenever he made coffee at hers.

She wishes she’d made an effort to make herself look presentable for him; he’s never seen her look so rough, and she hopes to god that her early morning appearance doesn’t scare him away. But it’s like she’s stepped into an entirely new world where it’s only the two of them left; no one else matters because they don’t exist. Coraline and Marcus are the only two people left in this world.

“Good morning, Sunshine,” he calls cheerily at the sound of the bedroom door clicking shut behind her.

He doesn’t turn, just continues pushing the buttons on the coffee machine as he places her mug beneath, but she can hear the smile in his voice when he speaks. She’s struck by how relaxed he looks. The whole sight seems familiar, somehow; he’s relaxed against the counter, his suit jacket and tie slung over the back of one of her chairs, and he’s humming some indiscernible tune quietly as she steps through the space.

“Good morning.” Coraline returns his greeting and leans her elbows against the island behind him. She watches him with a fond smile on her face. She can’t help it. Everything just seems gentle and wonderful, and she wouldn’t be against this becoming a weekly sight. But it wouldn’t - it couldn’t - and maybe that was for the best.

She’s staring.

She can’t help it. Her heart aches along with the rest of her body; she can feel it skipping in that awkward rhythm, fluttering like butterflies trapped between her ribs, along to the tune of the song he’s singing. A little out of tune but endearing, nonetheless. It’s a little embarrassing that she’s feeling this way over a friendship, of all things, and she knows better than to kindle that little fire within her that she knows will reach out and swallow her whole. She’s been burned by it in the past - so has he, more than she, unjustly and unfairly, and in ways no one should ever have to be burned - and maybe it’s better that they keep their distance from feelings that aren’t entirely platonic.

“I was going to wake you before I left,” Marcus calls back to her before he turns and offers her out the mug of coffee. “Didn’t seem right to leave without saying goodbye.” He leans back against the counter and he’s looking at her like he always does, like a best friend does, with a small smile and sparkling eyes and a friendly fondness that makes her feel appreciated each day. She’s glad last night hasn’t changed anything; if he’d been looking at her any differently, she thinks it might have broken her.

She’d expected things to be awkward and heavy. She’d fallen asleep hoping they wouldn’t, that things would be as normal as they are now, a repeated mantra in her head to remind herself that things don’t have to bear a terrible weight, but she’d expected inescapable tension in the air between them when they saw each other for the first time after what they’d done the night before. The terrible consequence of their agreement and how it would fall flat instantly when the realisation of their terrible idea sets in. Instead, the only thing that hangs between them is that easy informality that comes so easy to them, that her brother had joked about the night before. Maybe what they were doing was a terrible, ill-conceived idea - an idea that anyone else would think was utterly insane - but she’s glad it hasn’t tarnished the friendship that she holds so dear and is too scared to lose. Because he’s here, a gentle look on his face, making her coffee in her favourite mug. She doesn’t think she could ever get tired of seeing that damn smile. The smile that makes her feel so appreciated, so grounded, it’s so familiar and welcome and if she ever goes too long without seeing it she’s sure she would feel cold and brutally alone. He makes her feel at ease and, even despite her wild hair and sleep-kissed cheeks and the shirt that’s too baggy and slides off her shoulder, she doesn’t feel like so much of a mess. She’s forgotten the chill that had swept through her when her feet touched the freezing floorboards.

She’s staring at him again, staring like she’s trying to figure him out, a puzzle to her eyes, staring at the fond smile on his face that tugs gentle at his lips, and blinking back at him without a reply.

But his smile only grows at the sight of it.

“You didn’t have to make me coffee,” Coraline insists after a moment, placing the mug onto the kitchen island and letting her chin drop into her hands where they’re propped up against the counter. She tilts her head to the side when he grins and shrugs his shoulders. “I’m serious, you’re my guest. I should be the one making you coffee.”

“Well, what can I say? I’m a great friend.”

Friend. He really is a great friend.

Her best friend, the one person she really would dare to tell all her secrets to.

They’ve become so used to joking with each other, the lighthearted jabs and sarcastic comments, that it comes as second nature. But she still can’t help but roll her eyes as she chuckles and takes another sip of her coffee; it’s sweet and just how she likes it. She knows that an inevitable sugar crash will come in the late afternoon but it seems worth it.

Coraline runs her thumb around the rim of her mug idly, a distraction, she supposes. Manicured nails tinker against the cheap but long-loved ceramic. She’s half-sure Marcus is going to mention something about the night before — about what they did or what it meant to the feelings between them, or even when they were going to do … it again — but he never does. He just makes idle conversation from opposite her, too far away for her to touch but close enough for her to smell the lingering remnants of his cologne from the night before. It clings to the fabric of his shirt, to the curve of his neck. She’d recognise that smell a while away; sweet and strong and comforting, just like him.

“I should be heading back to my apartment,” Marcus announces suddenly. He places his empty mug into the sink and reaches for his jacket and tie.

Coraline can’t help but frown. “You’re not staying for breakfast?” She doesn’t know why she asks; not long ago, she’d accepted the fact that he’d left for work without waking her, now she wanted him to stay longer.

She thinks Marcus sighs, but it’s too quiet to hear, if he does. “As much as I would love that.” His eyes are soft - that surely unintentional puppy-dog look of apology that melts her heart and softens her soul - when he turns back to her, looping his tie around his neck. “I think people might notice if I show up in the same clothes as yesterday.” His shirt and jacket are wrinkled from where they lay on her bedroom floor all night. There’s an especially deep crease, stark grey against the crisp white fabric, that runs from the collar to the waistband of his pants.

Coraline sets her mug down and rounds the island towards Marcus. She smooths her hands down the creases in his shirt, trying to brush the wrinkles from his usually-pristine cotton before she bats his hands away from his tie. She can feel his gaze burning into the top of her head as she fiddles with the silken material, out-of-practice hands working the material like she does this everyday. She loves the simple domesticity of it all. It gives them both a moment to breathe.

“Cora-” His voice hangs low in his throat. “-what are you doing?”

“What does it look like I’m doing?”

Marcus exhales deeply out of his nose and runs his hands up her arms. “You don’t have to,” he hums. “I can do it myself.”

“What can I say?” She smooths down the back of his collar and the knot of his tie. She tilts her head to look up at him. “I’m a great friend.”

She thinks for a moment he’s going to kiss her. There’s an unreadable look in his eyes; it’s intense and searching, and his brows are furrowed yet he’s smiling still. He holds her gaze for so long that she’s almost sure of it. That he’s going to kiss her despite their agreement that they’re just friends, nothing more and nothing less, and it’s still going to mean nothing because of the night before. Because they’re just friends and they know that.

But Coraline wouldn’t mind if he did kiss her.

“So handsome.” She smiles, after a moment of soft silence, patting his shoulders once she finishes knotting up his tie. So damn handsome it’s painful. The smile is sweet and saccharine, welcoming yet still dismissive of any romantic intentions. She really wouldn’t mind if he kissed her, but he can’t. She really wouldn’t mind if this was a daily thing, if every morning she could wake up to him and his gentle smiles, but she can’t. Coraline wonders if the timing was different - if they’d met some other time, some other place, before their heartbreaks or when the reluctance of moving on had waned - would it be more than a friendship? Cora knows that friendships like this are hard to find amongst the fickle fire of Hollywood relationships, and she’d be damned if she ever let him slip between her fingers.

She hears Marcus hum low in his throat when she turns to drop her empty mug into the sink. The water runs and the heater hums, and Coraline pays no mind to the way his gaze lingers.

Marcus watches her; even in her early morning muddle - shirt far too baggy, slipping from her shoulders, drowning her slightness in it’s black, worn material; hair a near-tangled beautiful mess, twisted against the nape of her neck and mussed up on the side where she’d curled up against his chest; rosy red cheeks, pink-flushed like the sky during the sunset; the smile on her lips, soft and lazy with sleep - he still think she’s the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen. He’d let himself drown in her beauty if he could, if there weren’t a life-preserver of past holding him above the calming waves. His brain placates his desire in the form of a platonic friendship and he keeps her close enough to quell the unintentional desire. Marcus rushed in headfirst and headstrong; somehow, this ill-thought out arrangement makes more sense than figuring what exactly it is that lingers between them.

They assume it’s friendship. That makes the most sense.

But he’ll remember this when it’s over - when the sleepless nights and exhausted days come and there’s this small, delicate thing that relies on them both just to get by - because how could he ever forget. He’ll remember her kitchen in the soft morning sunlight as the sun continues to rise and spills through the window, mellow unlike he’d ever seen it before, and he’ll remember the feel of her warmth at her side as she sleeps. Every fleeting moment he spends with her - between work and happenstance and everything that keeps them mindlessly busy for weeks on end - feels like a lifetime of teenage summers when friendship and sunshine are the only things that matter.

“Thank you,” he hums again. He pulls on his shirt jacket; it’s wrinkled, like his shirt, from a night spent crumpled on the floor. He’s glad his apartment is within walking distance and he doesn’t have to take the Metro looking as disheveled as he does. Anyone awake enough would realise why he looks the way he does.

When she turns back to him, she’s smiling wider than before. The coffee has cut through the sleepy haze she’s worn since she’d woken and the Coraline he’s used to - the Coraline with the sunshine smile, golden and bright, and the enthusiasm that sparkles in her eyes - is back. Though he realises he’s just as fond as both versions of her: the drowsy woman in the morning light, blissful and comfortable when pulled from her dreams and the one who’s bright and vibrant and whose smile lights up his entire day.

Marcus mirrors her smile and leans over towards her. He kisses the corner of her mouth; so close, yet so far away. Her eyebrows pinch together at the feeling, the gentle brush of his plush lips over her skin, barely an inch touching the curve of her lips, but settle before he pulls back and notices the pull on her expression. “See you around, Sunshine.” He bids her farewell before he sweeps from her apartment and she’s left to sigh and slump back against the kitchen counter.

Damn that man and the effect he has on her.

taglist: @wheresthewater @ah-callie @its--fandom--darling

#marcus pike x fem!oc #marcus pike x oc #marcus pike x reader #marcus pike x female reader #marcus pike #the mentalist #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal x oc #sudden desire

37 notes · View notes

eve6262 · 3 years

Text

allister, priestess. [[pt 1?]]

Ghosts have many a secret. Some pretend not to know the circumstances of their death, others simply ignorant of society as they lived in a completely separate realm they don’t dare disclose, pretending they were simply drifting in limbo; some will hint at their true origins, knowing very well the humans could never understand.

Most of the humans. Then again, Allister isn’t full human anymore.

The train is slow to his standards, so he ignores it. Corviknight taxis to the area have been banned, so he brings out his trusty Gengar and clings to the fur as they go through a portal. For a moment, within the gap, it feels like he can see all eternity and nothing at all.

Then they’re in the quaint little village that the champion- both Leon, when he still was, and the new- hails from. Already the air is rich with the magic that makes his skin feel electric and fills his ears with songs he doesn’t know in a language that’s definitely not anyone’s anymore; he ignores all that, though, because from his spot in the shadows he can see the group.

The rest of them have arrived by train, of course, and crowd away from an old woman who has surely been taken by the Visionless. There are spindly bug legs emerging from her body, and two large cicada wings that buzz together angrily as she stares at them blankly. Sonia, a face he doesn’t see often but recognizes nonetheless, calls out to her. “Grams?”

Something needs to be done about this. Gengar, though, is slow, and waddles along to catch up as his Runeigerus quickly carries him forward on its shadowy, etheral hands. He clings to it all the same, hands holding shadows that they say should give him visions of nightmares.

They know nothing of nightmares, he thinks.

His tongue moves in strange ways foreign to language, and the woman looks towards him with recognition and some desperation. Her brain must be turning over itself trying to understand what’s going on, the poor thing.

Let’s give her peace, says his Gengar, clearly nothing good will come out of preserving this.

Maybe so, replices the Polteageist that has wriggled itself out of its Pokeball, but I doubt the Queen would take kindly to that.

“We’ll decide...after we talk to her, I think.” And that decision is final, because neither can find much argument with it.

“Who are you?” Asks the woman, in her strange bug-laden scratchy voice.

“Someone. Go back to your nest, these people will not hurt you. I will address the situation.” He can feel more than see Bea staring at him in shock, but ignores it. The woman looks at him strangely, wings buzzing, strange pose caused by the malformation of limbs and pincers shifting in worse ways, and then turns around and hops like she forgot how to walk.

“Allister, what-”

“I have to go....speak to the Queen,” he says, unsure of how else to word it. Now in plain English, at least, so they understand the idea.

“Not alone!”

“They’ll attack you if you come near. I...can’t stop them.��

“What about you!?”

“They won’t attack me.”

As if to prove this point, his Gengar makes a face at them and nods slightly. No worries! She’ll love him.

“My brother-”

“He’ll be fine. They’ll all be...fine.”

Before anyone else can argue, he turns around, already getting back into his Runigerus’s waiting arms. “Wait here. Or else...they might attack anyway.”

He almost leaves then and there, ignoring whatever else pleas come through, but Bede’s voice cuts through the rest. “I want to help.”

Allister turns around. He must’ve learnt it from Opal, the fairy of the forest who knows the ways. Even now she’s here- she’s allowed special access, partially because that’s always true for even former gym leaders and partially because no one has the courage to tell her no- but she does not offer. Perhaps she understands her purpose, or perhaps she simply thinks she’s too old for this.

Either way.

“Alright. You can come.”

“Okay, great-”

“But only you.”

“Why!?”

“The Queen will be...displeased with anyone else.”

“But-”

“Oh, shut it.” Opal smaks him with the parasol she always keeps around. “I’ll explain while you’re gone, dearie. The two of you can head off.”

So Allister motions forward, and Bede brings out his Rapidash and mounts up as well.

We’re off to see the wizard, sings the Polteageist, Or maybe to grandmother’s house in the woods?

dunno if I'll do the rest of this, but I got the whole thing in my head. might post it on AO3 if I do. also, there's a reason I said priestess in the title. it's a whole thing with the worldbuilding in my head.

~Eve6262

#pokemon #pokemon sword and shield #pokemon allister #allister #bede #bede pokemon #fanfic #writing #short story #writeblr #tw: vague body horror

6 notes · View notes

starfleetimagines · 4 years

Text

Christopher Pike - Brink of Death

Pairing: Christopher x female reader Requested by user fandoms_united1206 on Wattpad: Would you be able to do an insert for Christopher Pike and female reader. The rough plot is the reader is severely injured and on the brink of death, and this is what makes him realises he loves her. Word count: 1062 Warnings/notes: Injury and angst Tag list: @space-helen, @deeppandanerdbatty - if anyone wants to be added to or removed from a tag list, let me know!

His heart lodged in his throat. He felt the colour drain from his face as he registered what he’d been told. You had been in engineering when a conduit overloaded due to the ship passing through an ion storm. You were suffering second degree burns and were going into organ failure. If the doctor couldn’t stabilize your vitals within the next few hours, you could become brain dead.

“Sir?” Number One asked, looking at him with a furrowed brow. She knew you and he were close friends, and she’d always had a hunch that there was more than friendship between the two of you.

Christopher licked his lips, moving his gaze to her. The entire bridge had gone silent. “I…” He cleared his throat. “I’ll be in sickbay if anyone needs me. You have the bridge, Number One.”

She nodded silently and watched him leave for the turbolift. Once the doors shut in front of him, he let out a ragged breath. He ran his hand through his hair and tilted his head back to stop the tears from falling.

The turbolift doors opened and he walked briskly to sickbay. He took in a deep breath to prepare himself for what he was going to see. He stepped inside, seeing several crewmembers on the biobeds, all with seemingly minor injuries—a few burns, a cut or two, and what looked like a dislocated shoulder. They should all be fine, and he nodded their way. His eyes found you. You were lying on the biobed furthest from the door and had the most people around you. You weren’t awake, thank God. If you had, Christopher knew you’d been in excruciating pain.

“Captain,” a nurse said as she made her way towards one of the other crewmembers. “Is there something I can do for you?”

He blinked, drawing his gaze away from you. “No, thank you. I just came to check on Y/N.”

“The doctor’s working on stabilizing her vitals now.”

He nodded and went closer to you, making sure to stay out of the way of the medical officers. He watched as the doctors and nurses fretted over you; as they gave you several hyposprays; as they ran handheld devices over your burnt skin. He felt helpless as he stood there. There wasn’t anything he could do to help you get better. All he could do was wait and let the doctors do their work.

“Heartrate is back to normal,” a nurse said, and Christopher let out a breath.

“Does that mean she’ll make it?” he asked.

The head doctor turned to look at him briefly. “There’s a good chance. Now that her vitals are returning to to normal, we need to bring her into surgery and repair the damage on her internal organs.”

Christopher nodded. “Contact me when you’re done, please.”

The doctor nodded and Christopher left, heading straight to his quarters.

As he waited for your surgery to be over, he paced around his room. There was still a risk that you wouldn’t make it out of surgery, though it was low. Still, the thought of losing you made Christopher’s chest hurt like nothing he’d ever felt before. The thought of a future without you in it was something he couldn’t bare to imagine. You had become such an integral part of his life. You filled a gap that he didn’t even know was there. You just… completed him.

He ran his hand through his hair. He hadn’t ever really thought of how much you meant to him. Sure, he knew he cared about you deeply and you him, but he had never thought of your friendship with this much scrutiny before. But now, he was coming to the realization that he was madly, deeply in love with you.

He sighed heavily, wishing he had realized sooner. If he had, maybe he and you could have been dating all this time. Maybe you wouldn’t be teetering on the edge of death without knowing how Christopher truly felt about you.

He was going to tell you. As soon as you woke up, he would tell you.

The doctor contacted him about an hour later, telling him that your surgery was a success and you were on the road to recovery.

Christopher had nearly cried out in relief when he’d gotten the message, but he kept his composure and told the doctor he would be there soon. When he arrived, he sat by your bed and watched your vitals closely.

Your eyes moved under your eyelids as you started to wake up from the anesthesia.

“Y/N, can you hear me?” Christopher asked softly, taking your hand in his.

Your fingers twitched against his hand and you cracked open your eyes, squinting at him. “What happened?”

“There was an accident in engineering,” he replied. “You were pretty badly injured. But you’re going to be okay. The doctor can give you a full overview of your injuries when you’re more awake.”

You nodded slightly and swallowed.

“I can’t tell you how relieved I am that you’re okay.” He ran his thumb over the back of your hand.

You smiled softly. “You can’t get rid of me that easily.”

He chuckled. “Y/N, I… while I was waiting for your surgery to be over, I realized something.”

Your eyebrows rose in question. “What’s that?”

He pursed his lips together, looking at your face. He smiled nervously. “That I’m in love with you.”

Your heart fluttered in your chest. A broad smile spread over your face. “Really?”

“Yes, really,” he said. “I hate that it took you being severely injured for me to figure it out.”

You reached up with your free hand and placed it onto his cheek. “Better late than never.”

He bit his lip and regarded your expression.

Your smile widened. “Well, I’m in love with you as well.”

“You are?” he asked, his smile as wide as yours.

“I wouldn’t have said it if I weren’t,” you replied, eyes starting to droop.

Christopher laughed and leaned down. He kissed your forehead gently. “You need your rest. We can talk about this more when you’re feeling better.”

You gave his hand a squeeze. “Will you be here when I wake up?”

“I’ll be here,” he said. “I’m not going anywhere.”

You smiled tiredly and let yourself drift off to sleep, your hand still in Christopher’s.

If you enjoy my work, please consider supporting me on Ko-Fi ($3 that’ll go towards my education)

#Christopher Pike #christopher pike x reader #christopher pike imagine #star trek #star trek imagine #star trek fanfiction #star trek fanfic #star trek discovery #star trek strange new worlds #star trek disco #star trek snw

117 notes · View notes

gasp-iwrotesomething · 4 years

Note

Hey, sorry. I accidentally exited out of the request and it sent before I wanted it to, but can you please do a Dad!Neil Dresner? Where finds out his teenage daughter has a boyfriend? I imagine him to be very protective. Please and thank you. And I love your work.

Sure thing! And thank you for the compliment, I sincerely appreciate it; thank you for your request and I hope you enjoy it, @storiesformc!

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Neil wished he had more time to prepare.

Time to come to terms, to grieve, to miss the little girl Marina was before she got a... boyfriend. The thought was so surreal. Even the silent monologue in his head pronounced it differently. How could Marina, the little girl who wouldn’t go to bed until you recited her favorite bedtime story up until she was 12, have a boy now? The perception of her as a toddler up to her 13th birthday is so ingrained in his head that now each time he sees her cuddled up with that boy... it’s all he can picture. That prompted Neil to be instantly protective--what kind of father wouldn’t for his baby? His wife, however, was ecstatic. She merely squealed and hugged Marina tight enough to crush her, spouting all of this motherly nonsense about growing up and falling in love. Neil was disappointed in her, frankly. MC was his defense always, even when he was slightly off his rocker. But what did he expect? The grumpy doctor fell head over heels for a rebel barely in her 20′s--who ever said gals like her would understand the feeling Neil felt when he pictured Marina and her boyfriend?

That’s right, she wouldn’t know a lick of it.

Neil grumbles as he climbs into bed the following night, Marina’s announcement a boulder in his conscience. No matter which way he pushed or which way he pulled, Neil couldn’t rid himself of that burden of a thought. Marina’s got a boyfriend, MC recites brightly in his memory, her rosy cheeks tugged into a boundless smile, you believe it, Neil? Our baby’s growing up! He buries his scowling face into the pillows while her words play over and over, a broken record in his damned head. Life was simpler when he was just raising a babbling toddler who fell over her own two feet; simpler, but not easier. He could still remember the sleepless nights, the stressful mornings, the constant chatter… Beside him, MC joins him in bed and slips under the covers with him, her once-scarlet hair now deduced to loose brunette curls down to her shoulders. He could sense her eyes on him even with the pillow’s barrier and groans into its soft depths; the judgment was already there. “Neil, what’re you doing?” She sounds stern and Neil scoffs quietly. If only silence could be the answer to every problem you’ve got...

“Nothing,” he mumbles.

MC squints down at him, his muffled words barely reaching. “Take that pillow off your face, I can’t hear you.”

Reluctantly, Neil shifts the pillow aside, the comforting fluff gone and replaced with the dreary pigments of their ceiling--that dull grey was starting to wear away his eyes more than the sun has. He was tired of the color. Maybe a lighter and more vibrant shade would do. “Honey, that frown isn’t saying anything I need to know,” she playfully nudges his arm, a grin spread on her lips, “or am I supposed to take a hint?” He sighs, head turning to his wife. She was a treasure in this bleak room, her effortless charm swamping him totally. Nowadays it was difficult to keep frowning, thanks to MC. Neil didn’t know what to think about that; be grateful or be grouchy. Either or, Neil was glad she was there to talk to--being a single father sounded like hell. “No, I’ll talk about it, just finding the words to not fight with you.”

MC quirks an eyebrow. “A fight? What would I fight with you about?”

“Marina and her new boyfriend,” Neil relents, his eyebrows slowly drawing together as his expression deepens, “I don’t think she should be messing around with no boys at her age.”

The silence that fills the air after he speaks indicates Neil was right; this would brew a disagreement between them.

MC shakes her head. “Marina’s 16, Neil, just 2 years shy of being a woman. It’s about time you give her some freedom, the girl’s got some exploring to do.” She slides under the covers while pinning Neil with a stern stare, the diamonds of her eyes glittering in the dim moonlight. But Neil didn’t pay no mind. Sure, Marina was on her way to be a woman but that road was 2 years long, which left a window open of her still being a kid--of her still being Neil’s little girl. “Maybe, but you heard her, they’ve only known each other for a week. A week! How are you not on your toes when you hear that, MC?” He gives her an incredulous glance. How was he supposed to take that expression? Over time, wrinkles and creases formed on MC’s pale face, so now her frowns always seem deeper and her smiles more animated. He could faintly see the disapproval on her lips, in her eyes, all focused intently on him. He imagined that he appeared the same way to MC. “A week is a good enough time to fall in love; say, we fell in love within the span of a couple months and look where we are now. Who are you to judge when love is love?” She hisses gently, the soothing hiccup of her accent coiling around her sassy tone. Apparently MC was caught up on the part where Marina cried “love!”, but who knows if she’s just blowing their passion for each other out of proportion? Still, even after MC’s rebuke, Neil’s opinion is unchanging. “Our little origin story isn’t comparable to this, MC. Love can form when it has enough time to grow or else it’ll crash and burn. We worked out because we let our love prosper and thrive before diving into each other’s gullets,” he remarks, gruff and headstrong, about as willing to back down as MC was.

“Defining what you think is ‘true love’ isn’t going to help you win this. Everything’s different for everyone.”

“No, maybe not, but if it keeps Marina safe then I’ll be cracking open my damn dictionary.”

MC scoffs, pinching him quickly, “who said you couldn’t watch her back? You’re her daddy, Neil, you can look out for her while letting her live a little!”

No one speaks after her brief exclamation, the tension drawn tighter by the evident frustration the both of them faced. They never argued like this. Usually they’d disagree, talk, and smooth over the wrinkles, but now… Now they were determined to rough up their resolve before they even tried to be civil. After a couple seconds more of deep, stabilizing breaths, MC relents with a quiet sigh and cuddles up to Neil, her features now softened into a concerned furrow of her brows. She braces her hand on Neil’s chest, her fingers warm and tender to his flesh. “Listen, honey, I know how you feel--believe me, I do--but you’ve got to be more realistic. Whether you accept it or not, Marina’s getting older and closer to being on her own, she’s got to learn to think for herself. She’s a smart cookie. She’ll make for a fine independent woman, thanks to you. But now, I think you should give her a shot; see how this ship rocks with her new fella, you know?” MC pats his chest, a small assuring smile on her face. Neil mulls over her words. Maybe she was right in a way; maybe… maybe he was being a little too overbearing at times with Marina. But you couldn’t hold that against him, he loved his daughter. She was his world from the first breath down to these very seconds. Nothing’s changed except that she’s older, maturing, expanding into new walks of life that wouldn’t have suited her then. Marina was still his bundle of joy and he was still her caring, grouchy, sarcastic dad.

Even if it meant handing her away to some boy, Neil had to be supportive and at least mindful of her wishes, her desires.

Sighing, Neil winds an arm around his wife’s shoulders and brings her closer to him, close enough to smell the serene aroma of her berry-scented shampoo. She relaxes into him, resting her cheek against his shoulder. “...I’ll think about it, MC,” he could feel her cheek move as she smiles softly against him, “but it’s going to take some time for me to… adjust to this whole ‘growing up’ thing.” It was true. Daily, Neil would see Marina at the dining room table and wonder just when in that 16 year gap she grew taller, prettier. Marina wasn’t very tall but she reached Neil’s collarbone standing beside him. She was a brunette--go figure--with most of her prize-winning features taken directly from her father, Neil. Maybe that was why he was so protective and nurturing to her, they were so alike side from her mother’s energetic personality; well, that and she’s their only child.

He always had a feeling that she’d grow up to be beautiful, and seeing that unfold now, Neil was right in every facet imaginable.

“Thank you,” MC murmurs under the blanket of the shimmering moonlight, “I can tell this isn’t easy for you but I’m proud of you for trying.” He rubs her arm soothingly, allowing the tension to dissipate and fall into the background as he kisses her head. “I’m not exactly volunteering to do this but… I appreciate the sentiment, Mrs. Dresner.”

That claps the silence between them right where it stands, the both of them dissolving into a brief fit of laughter. Even if it would probably take the soul right out of him, Neil was willing to try--for his daughter and his wife.

He just hoped no no-good meathead would have to ruin this bliss for any of them, or else the doctor might have to shed his nurturing duty for a little bit.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Thank you again and I’m sorry for the wait!

If you want to request something, here’s the Prompt List, here are the Guidelines, here’s Who I Write For, and here is where you can Request me.

#neil dresner #speakeasy tonight

26 notes · View notes

shadow--writer · 3 years

Text

I'm Sick of all the Insincere, So I'm Gonna Give all my Secrets Away

song title lyrics.

Maeve x Lucas. Broken parts and pieces coming to surface. 2.9k

TW (real TW’s this time): gore, body horror, nightmares, almost panic attacks, gaslighting, mentions of past abuse. It’s a doozy folks

@dela-png

His voice was a sweet whisper as she chased after it. His shadowy form flickered in and out of the mist, the grass at her feet clinging to the hem of her dress as if begging her not to chase after him.

“Lucas!” she called, the wind stealing her voice as she ran. The world was hazy, slow, lazy. Like the fall of treacle onto a leaf.

Everything heightened.

He laughed, the sound guiding her through the underbrush. Tree branches sliced at her cheeks as she moved from grassy fields to deep wood.

“Lucas?”

“Over here Maeve!”

The world around her sharpened at his voice, she picked up her skirts. “Lucas!”

She ran into a clearing and there he stood. She brightened from the tips of her hair to the tips of her toes as she ran to him.

He held out his arms and scooped her up in a hug, spinning her around. Mists clung at his ankles.

He kissed her sweetly, smiling against her mouth. She buried her hands in his hair, letting out a breathy laugh.

He set her down gently, kissing her forehead as he twined their fingers together.

They walked through the clearing and back into the wood, him humming a tune. His voice was sweet and light, filling the empty air around them as they entered a wheat field.

So pretty the tune was. It sounded...odd coming from his mouth. Like it was cut from someone else and pasted over his voice.

“Maeve, can I ask you something?” he asked, his tone almost musical. It didn’t quite sound like Lucas’ voice. But like...someone else’s.

She ignored it.

“Anything!”

He let go of her hand moving ahead of her. She watched with a soft smile.

But the way he was moving was off. Jerky. Uncoordinated.

Puppet.

She felt the world slow to a stop, her gut sinking deep within herself.

He stopped, his arms twitching at his sides.

“Lucas?” she asked, inching closer to him. He didn’t respond, only shifted from foot to foot. The guttural noises he was making made her panic. “Lucas?!” Nothing.

Nothing.

He whimpered.

“Lucas, you're scaring me,” she whispered, reaching out to grab his hand. He let out a choked gargled gag as she touched his skin.

Her heart beat so fast, blood roaring in her ears. “M-Mo grá?”

His hand closed around hers, her fingers creaking under the pressure. She yelped, trying to pull away. “Lucas s-stop, you’re hurting me,” she whimpered. He didn’t let go. “Lucas please.”

“Can’t you see he only hurts people?” something whispered. “Matter of time before he hurts you too I suppose.”

“L-Leave me alone!” she whispered, trying in vain to pull her hand out of Lucas’. “L-Lucas!”

He let out a whimper, throwing his head up, shaking a little. Her fingers popped, one by one.

“Let me go!”

“Wouldn’t you be better with me again, sweetness?”

She froze.

“Look how easy it is to control him! Weed into his thoughts and slowly take over. Only a matter of time.”

“Get away from him!” she snapped, whirling around. She couldn’t hear the voice. Couldn’t place it over the whisper of trees.

Then Lucas broke her first finger.

And she screamed.

“Tsk, aww too bad. I hate having to hurt others to get to you. But you leave me no choice.”

Her second finger.

“Poor Maeve, hurt by the one she loves. Whatever shall she do?”

Her third finger. It cracked, creaked and then snapped. Her head spun at the pain.

Her screams were turning into a blubbering mess as she listened to the bones in her hand snap gently. One. By one.

Four.

His grip hurt. It hurt so bad she was dizzy. Going to be sick.

Then he started to shake.

Her screams faded into whimpers as Lucas let out a wail and let her hand go. His arm smacked her in the chest as he shook, sending her flying into the dirt.

She clutched her broken fingers to her chest, trying her best not to throw up or pass out.

Lucas hunched over, bones popping as he jerked around to face her.

All colour drained from her face.

His eyes were loose. Rolling. Bloodshot.

Scared.

“M̷̨̭͇̟̰̅͐̔̀̍̉͌͐̃͘͝ͅä̴͇͈̭͈́̂͌͌̒͠e̸͛̑̃͝v̵͚̱͖̐̌͒̀ͅè̸̢̺̣͈̊̅̎̊̒̑̕̕͘͠͠͠ͅ?̴͗̈́̒̃͋͗

She stared at him, his brows creasing with fear as his eyes rolled. He coughed, hacking and spitting.

And his eyes popped out of his skull with a wet squeak.

His voice was cracking and broken. “I can’t see you! M̷̨̭͇̟̰̅͐̔̀̍̉͌͐̃͘͝ͅä̴͇͈̭͈́̂͌͌̒͠e̸͛̑̃͝v̵͚̱͖̐̌͒̀ͅè̸̢̺̣͈̊̅̎̊̒̑̕̕͘͠͠͠ͅ! M̷̨̭͇̟̰̅͐̔̀̍̉͌͐̃͘͝ͅä̴͇͈̭͈́̂͌͌̒͠e̸͛̑̃͝v̵͚̱͖̐̌͒̀ͅè̸̢̺̣͈̊̅̎̊̒̑̕̕͘͠͠͠ͅ!”

“I-I’m right here,” she said, reaching out to him.

He paused at the sound of her voice.

The voice in the air cackled.

“I wanted to ask y̷̥̰̪̲̝͗̿͑̄̾̾̈́̚o̴̟͓͖̗̺̐̇̿̏̓̄̒͘u̶͖̓͛̍̚ something,” he whispered.

“Lu...cas?”

“Where did y̷̥̰̪̲̝͗̿͑̄̾̾̈́̚o̴̟͓͖̗̺̐̇̿̏̓̄̒͘u̶͖̓͛̍̚ go?”

Slowly his voice bubbled. Distorted. Grew deeper and more bloated.

“M̷̨̭͇̟̰̅͐̔̀̍̉͌͐̃͘͝ͅä̴͇͈̭͈́̂͌͌̒͠e̸͛̑̃͝v̵͚̱͖̐̌͒̀ͅè̸̢̺̣͈̊̅̎̊̒̑̕̕͘͠͠͠ͅ where did y̷̥̰̪̲̝͗̿͑̄̾̾̈́̚o̴̟͓͖̗̺̐̇̿̏̓̄̒͘u̶͖̓͛̍̚ go?”

His jaw snapped, and he stood needle straight, a creepy little smile climbing onto his cheeks as black sludge oozed from his eye sockets.

She shook, looking down at her knees.

And two blue eyes stared up at her.

She screamed, flinging her body back.

Lucas cackled.

“Can’t leave, can’t leave.” She heard his ribs groan. “Can’t go away,” he snarled, sludge pooling at his lips and spilling over onto his chin.

He laughed, the sound a low gurgle as black ran down his face, staining his clothes, his skin. “Don’t go. You p̵̠̞͇̥̂͋̅͘͜r̵̡̛͓̰̘̈̄o̶̾̃̆́̀͘m̸͉͉̜͗̃̕i̵̔̚ś̸̡̫̯̓̄̈́ȇ̵̟̗̬̭̩̬̂d̶̽.”

His head shuddered and he held it, tremors shaking his whole body as he hunched over to make himself smaller.

He retched, thick ooze falling from his lips as his chest heaved.

She watched in abject horror as his teeth fell out.

“You p̵̠̞͇̥̂͋̅͘͜r̵̡̛͓̰̘̈̄o̶̾̃̆́̀͘m̸͉͉̜͗̃̕i̵̔̚ś̸̡̫̯̓̄̈́ȇ̵̟̗̬̭̩̬̂d̶̽,” he whispered, his jaw cracking as he spoke. “You’re a L̸͉̖̯̠̾̒̿͛̓̏̍̄͠͠I̴̛̾͂͒̊̐Ä̵̙̎̀̒̔̔̓̍̐̈́͜Ṛ̸͈̾̍̊̆͝!” He sniffed, nails digging into his arms and leaving dark deep scrapes. “You left me.”

“She leaves everyone. She’ll leave you like she left me.”

Lucas gagged, his jaw popping once.

Her first warning.

With a scream his back snapped and he stared at the black dark sky above them.

Her voice was swallowed by the void, and she could only watch his body be ripped apart from the inside out.

The first thing she saw were hands. Poking out of Lucas’ mouth as his jaw unhinged like a snake’s.

Lucas whimpered and she shut her eyes, listening to the splatter of blood and the snap of bone. She wanted this to end.

Leave her ALONE.

She knew Lucas’ eyes were at her feet. Watching.

“Maeve, we both know it’s not him you want.”

The voice made her freeze, hands clawing at her face.

The voice was filth.

His.

“N-No,” she whispered, covering her ears to keep from hearing the bones crunching and the wet sound of blood splattering. She clawed at her skin as she screamed. “No. No no no NO!”

“Oh sweetheart, we both know it’s true. You don’t love him. Hmm oh wait,” Nicolas said, tone light with tease. Light with something hidden in the dark to snap at her feet. “You left him didn’t you? Distanced yourself like you always do. Because we both know you’ll only come crawling back to me.”

He was gone.

She spent years away.

Please go away.

“I did it…to protect him,” she whimpered.

Nicolas laughed, her eyes cracked open. He emerged from Lucas like a butterfly would a cocoon.

Lucas fell with a sickening wet thump, Nicolas stretching a little.

Leaving Lucas’ broken body at her knees.

She felt bile rise in her throat. His arms were twisted, the skin around his mouth torn so she could see his teeth through his cheeks. The gaps of missing teeth. Black sludge pooled around his broken (dead) body.

His empty eye sockets.

“Aw poor little Maeve thinking she can run again.” Nicolas moved closer, his footsteps echoing in her head. She closed her eyes again, trying to block everything out and whispering tiny prayers to someone.

Anyone.

There was a soft pop as he stepped on the eyes by her knees, splattering her clothes. “He may be bigger but we both know what I would do.”

Gone. He was gone.

He tilted her head up with his hand, opening her eyes gently with his thumb. He smiled at her, that smile that once made her warm and smile back. His dark hair fell into his eyes. Brown with flecks of green.

There was blood on his face.

“We both know I’ll find you again. And we both know what I’ll do if he’s still around.”

“You aren’t here anymore,” she gritted out, fighting back tears. Nightmare. This was all a dream. A very bad dream.

She just needed to wake UP.

“That’s the best part!” Nicolas said with a grin. His eyes darkened as he kissed her. He tasted like iron and gore. A hint of cinnamon (LucasLucasLucasLucasLucasLucas). “I never left.”

She woke with a choked screech, hair matted to her head with sweat.

She looked around the room, feeling panic rise in her throat. This wasn’t her room. Her bed. Her clothes.

She was going to scream.

Something happened.

The dream was real?

He found her?!

Out out outoutoutoutoutout she needed to get out.

Was Lucas okay?

Was she okay?

Where was she?

Where was Lucas?!

Breathing turning shallow and panicked, she shifted around in the bed, looking for something…anything.

It was Lucas’ soft breathing that startled her out of her panic, the sight of him alive and unharmed making her want to cry.

Her heart slowed as she watched him breathe, his chest a slow rise and fall. Eyes closed. Unharmed. Safe. Fine.

She let out a strangled whimper, and his eyes cracked open.

“Mmm Maeve?” His voice was thick with sleep, raspy and hoarse. He rubbed his eyes with his arm, cracking an eye open. His brows furrowed when he saw the panic on her face. “Maeve?”

She let out a small whimper, falling into him.

He immediately pulled her closer, rocking them back and forth, smoothing her hair down and whispering soft things to her shoulder. She wrapped her whole body around him, trembling and trying not to sob. “Nightmare?”

Choking on her voice, she nodded. She moved closer into his chest, fingers going numb as she grasped his shirt.

He kissed her shoulder, breathing softly. “Hey, hey, it’s okay.”

He was warm. He was here. He was okay.

Just a nightmare.

“I’m right here,” he whispered as she listened to the rain. It clinked into buckets scattered around his room.

“Y-You’re here right? R-Real?” she asked against his neck.

He slowly unraveled his arms, brushing her hair from her face. He kissed her forehead and he moved her hands. Exhaling softly, he kissed her fingertips.

He pressed her hands to his chest, his heart beating erratically under her palms. With a sleepy smile, he rested his forehead against hers.

“Yep. Right here, see?” His voice was rough yet soft. “Not going anywhere.”

Her lip trembled. “C-Can I try something?” she whispered.

He yawned a little, rubbing his nose against hers. “Mmm. Go ahead.”

She slowly let go of him, pushing his shoulders back, swinging her leg over his hips. His brows shot to his hairline. She couldn’t tell in the dark but she guessed he was flushed.

“S-So what are you doing?”

She curled her legs around his, her on top of his chest, cheek pressed against him, listening to the steady beat of his heart.

“Doing what y-you did but b-better,” she whispered, grabbing his hands and stretching them up onto the pillows beside his head.

She felt her heart slowly stop racing as she lay there, his heart slowing a little as well.

“Only a nightmare,” he murmured. “You’re okay.”

She slowly melted against him, relaxing her legs. The shirt she was borrowing from him bunched up around her hip, the fabric of his pants soft against her bare skin.

She closed her eyes, trying not to cry. Why did…why did she have to ruin everything good? It was going fine.

“I-I’m sorry,” she whimpered, curling up a little. Her knee bumped his thigh a little roughly. He let go of her hands, wrapping his arms around her, rubbing small circles on her thighs.

“Shhh,” he cooed, kissing her hair. “You have nothing to be sorry for. Just a nightmare.”

“B-But I woke you up.”

He combed his hands through her hair. There was a low rumble of thunder and the flash of lightning. “You had a nightmare, Thumbelina. You can wake me up every time you have one. I won’t mind.”

“But you will mind,” she said, moving onto her elbows. She blinked tears away, another flash of lightning illuminating his face. “You’ll mind eventually! You’ll mind when I keep waking you when I keep-”

He gently caressed her cheek, pulling her hair away from her lip. “Your hair is a mess,” he whispered with a soft chuckle.

“Lucas,” she whined, moving closer to him. He tugged her off her elbows, letting her face plant into the crook of his neck. “You missed the point.”

“No I didn’t. I don’t know why I, of all people, would mind nightmares.” He fiddled with the bunched up shirt, making her mumble something into his neck. He smoothed out the fabric on her legs.

“I’m not going to mind them. Ever.”

It sounded like a promise. She hoped it was.

“P-Promise?”

“Promise.”

She relaxed again, liking the weird way they fit together. “So y-you want…to share your bed with m-me more often?”

He chuckled, her body shaking with it. “Well, you’re not a bad bedmate.”

She let out a small sigh, kissing his neck. She nipped lightly at the skin there, making him squirm a little. “Not so…bad y-yourself.”

“Though I can deal without your cold appendages.”

She smiled, looking up from the crook of his neck. “Ooh big w-words.”

He shot her a glare. “Look, your toes are ice and it’s raining outside.”

She pursed her lips in a smug little smile, pressing her toes against his legs. He let out a low hiss, tugging lightly at the ends of her hair. She arched her neck into the touch, making him chuckle.

“Cruel.”

“Y-You balance m-m-me out.”

He huffed. “Unwillingly.”

Laying her chest on his, she listened to his heartbeat again.

“Thank…thank you,” she murmured, peering up at him through her lashes.

“For what? Comforting you? Maeve I would do it a thousand times over if it means you’re okay.”

She blushed, drawing back in surprise. “W-What?”

She couldn’t tell in the dark, but she thought he was blushing too. “Well…if you’ll have me, that is.”

She slowly shifted off of his chest, and nestled in the crook of his side. “I...I would like to. But y-you might...not want to. Later on.”

“Now is not later. Now I want to. It’s not something I’m going to adore doing, but…” he let out a sigh, staring at the ceiling. Jolie purred in her sleep, kicking her legs. “It’s you, okay? Maybe it’s because I spent months wondering what you were like, why you were trying to push me away.”

She sucked in a small breath, burying her face in his side. She didn’t want to see his expression. It was akin to a kicked puppy.

“But you’re here now, right?” He idly traced shapes onto her upper thigh. “Nightmares or not you’re…” his voice got deathly quiet. “...here.”

Maybe she wasn’t the only broken one.

She lifted her head to kiss him, really kiss him, softly. “And I don’t plan on going a-anywhere. Anytime soon that i-is. If you’ll…let m-m-me stay.”

He laughed, nuzzling her cheek before kissing her again. “Don’t plan on letting you go again.”

She smiled, pressing her hands on his stomach where his shirt hiked up. He let out another hiss, jumping a little.

“You’re cold Thumbelina. Cold and cruel.”

“Well you don’t plan on letting m-me go again.”

“...I regret that now.”

She snorted, holding his face in her hands. “Can’t take me back now. I got attached to you, I-I’m all yours~”

He rubbed his nose against hers, kissing the tip. “Cold nose too. You really can’t escape it.”

“N-Nope!”

“Glad to see you back to normal. Even if you’re stuttering.” She smiled, looking away. “And glowing.”

“I a-always glow.”

“I want to know about them.”

“What, a-about my freckles?”

“Yeah.”

She yawned a little, exhaustion hitting her like a brick. “Mm m-maybe...later.”

He kissed the top of her head. “Here, turn around,” he whispered. She nervously shifted over, feeling him adjust his arms over her hips, crossing his arms and holding her hands above her chest. She was pressed against him, feeling his breath fan her neck.

“Better?”

“M-Mm!”

He chuckled, kissing behind her ear. “Good. Now get some sleep. I’ll be right here if you have another nightmare.”

She yawned again, it came out like a tiny squeak. “You won’t…be gone when I-I wake up?”

He kissed behind her ear. “I plan to stay in bed as long as I’m able. This time I have a lovely lady with me.”

Jolie meowed, making them laugh.

“Okay, two lovely ladies. One of them human.”

She pressed her back against his chest, letting out a deep breath as her eyes fluttered shut.

He moved to kiss her shoulder, making her squeak.

“I could get used to that sound.”

She let out a tiny huff, squeezing her eyes shut. “B-Better not. Y-You’re not hearing it often.”

He chuckled, tucking her legs between his. “Oh I’m sure I can wheedle it out of you.”

It was silent for a moment. “So you’ll be h-here…when I wake up right?”

He squeezed her hands. “Always. Now get some sleep.”

Her voice was soft, like any louder he’d fade away. “Okay.”

#the arcana #the arcana game #my writing #lucas #maeve #maeve x lucas #maevas #a DOOZY I tell you #tw gore #tw boddy horror #I hurt them okay #good morning to me I guess

3 notes · View notes