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gisachi · 4 years

Note

For the writing ask can you do number 4 please 😍💜

Hello, thank you for patiently waiting 🤗 I hope you don’t mind that I combined your asks since it’s the same prompt. ^^ It’s pretty obvious by now that I’m a sucker for College AUs and not only that but I feel like I have this thing for Drunk!Ran lmao if I’m not mistaken this will be the fourth time that I write her character under the influence of alcohol. I’m sorry!! She’s just so fun to write like this! No holds barred when it comes to saying what she wants. Also this kinda went longer than I expected so I put the rest under the cut. Anyway, here it is and I hope you like it!

4. An accidental brush of lips followed by a pause and going back for another, on purpose. (2,125 words)

“Ne, Sonoko, what does a kiss on the nose mean?”

Sonoko finishes her glass and sets it down the table, its loud clatter punctuating Ran’s unexpected question. Her eyes narrow, studying Ran carefully like a professor to her student, but bereft of any form of judgment.

“Heeeh,” she cocks an eyebrow, “so Shinichi’s been doing that? For how long?”

“Since the start of this year…” she replies unthinkingly, only to turn beet red after realizing her blunder half a second later. “I-I didn’t say it was him?!”

“Ran, really? You think you can hide that fact from me?” she exclaims loud and proud, brandishing her signature grin of victory that makes Ran shrink in her seat and their other girl friends chant their excited ‘oooh’s’ around the table.

“Seriously, though. It’s about time he does that,” Kaede remarks. “Ran-chan, I only met you and Shinichi-kun here in uni but the first time I saw you both I knew right then you’re bound to get married.”

“Oh please, they’ve been married since 4.” Sonoko drawls. “I don’t know if they’re playing oblivious but everybody with eyes knows they’re practically married. Even their parents.”

“Right? Who on earth would religiously walk the other home even if their dorms are in opposite directions? Even my boyfriend doesn’t do that!” Minami adds.

“Mou, minna! Just answer my question!” Ran squeaks, torn between being flustered for what she has asked or annoyed at her friends’ embarrassing side comments, the truth of which she cannot find in her to deny.

“Okay. So since you’re such a helpless little angel, let me tell you Ran that you are surely Shinichi’s object of committed affection.”

“He finds you cute.”

“He cares for you deeply.”

“All of these, you mean like a sister or a friend?”

“Ran! As in romantically! Shinichi likes you! No— he’s in love with you! Goodness!” Minami runs her hand over her face. “How you’re so smart and so dense at the same time, I don’t understand.”

“B-but it doesn’t make sense!” Ran defends. “I mean if he uh, l-likes me... then why not say it straight to my face...we tell each other everything. We’re best friends.”

Kaede pats her shoulder like she’s consoling a child. “That’s exactly why. You’re best friends. Perhaps he’s shy of admitting his real feelings yet. So he conveys it through nose kisses instead, hoping you’ll get it.”

“More importantly though,” Sonoko leans to her, “what do you feel about it, Ran?”

Overcome by shyness, she bites her lower lip to restrain any slip of tongue that may give her away completely, although she knows deep down that she’s still unsure of her response. Her friends think he’s in love with her. Though she trusts their judgment, she cannot, for the life of her, reconcile with the idea of her and Shinichi being more than best friends by title, even if by fact they already are. The fear of uncertainty bothers her. She’s known him to be a man of his actions and words. So when he does something a guy friend won’t normally do like kiss her on the nose and without him clarifying what it actually means, she’s befuddled. Actions may speak louder than words but that doesn’t make the latter any less important.

Seeming to understand her struggle, the trio share a common look of agreement that leads them to shove her one glass half filled with alcohol.

“We got you, girl. Want a drink?”

One glass in and Ran feels like she’s a completely different person from the woman who sat in that same chair an hour ago. She feels lightheaded and floaty. She also feels more talkative than usual, her mouth on its own accord ranting on and on about this certain detective, while her friends listen with utmost interest.

“...and when he did that the first time, I remember it was the start of school after holidays, I was shocked, really shocked, ‘cuhs he did it sooo quickly and with such a straight face and...ugh god.”

“And what? That’s when you realize you want to marry him for real?” Sonoko wiggles her brows while Kaede and Minami guffaws.

“NO! Shut! I-”

“Speak of the devil.”

The main subject of their conversation arrives, which, as they know it, means that Ran’s about to be picked up. That’s just how those two are. Still, that doesn’t stop Sonoko and Minami from offering him a shot, which he doesn’t decline.

“Sorry for taking her away from you so early. You know how her mother blames me whenever she goes home late.” Shinichi stands behind Ran and rubs the back of his head, somewhat apologetic for ruining their night out.

“It’s okay, Shinnn. We understand how strict your in-law is,” Minami coos and waves her glass in the air. “Oh, and sorry by the way if we made Ran-chan drink.”

“She drank?” Disregarding Minami’s first statement, Shinichi looks at the three then at Ran, who flashes him a wide goofy smile.

“She needs it for our session today, sorry Shinichi!” Sonoko makes a peace sign. “Only a half glass, so she’s probably just a tiiiiny bit disoriented. And she already drank water.”

Though not mad, Shinichi doesn’t hide his surprise. Ran only drinks juice whenever she hangs out with the girls, a fact he has known since they entered college. Now in their second year, this is the first time he actually hears her drink alcohol. He doesn’t mind at all because she’s in good company anyway. After bidding the others good night, he guides her out the pub.

The walk back to Ran’s apartment consists of her talking about her day half the time and the other half complaining about how she feels weird being too talkative. Shinichi walks alongside her, enjoying Ran’s newfound vibrancy as he listens, his eyes smiling with his lips and Ran forgets talking for a second because she nearly trips and falls after catching herself getting mesmerized by his beautiful smiling face yet again.

Whenever he brings her home, Shinichi doesn’t go up her floor, only to the lobby at most, but tonight is an exception. He needs to ensure that Ran makes it inside her apartment. He watches her fumble for her keys and when she finally succeeds in opening her door, he says his good night. He is about to leave when Ran tugs on his sleeve.

“Heey,” she starts. “Arentcha forgetting something?”

“Forgetting what?”

She hiccups, doesn't say anything as she drags a finger to the tip of her nose. “... Right here.”

Shinichi stares at her, startled.

“You always do that… why not now?”

“I’m... quite surprised you remember trivial details like that even when you’re like this.”

“Weell! It’s not trivial!” she puffs her cheeks, “At least for me.”

“What does that mean?” He smiles, facing her completely.

“Iunno? ‘Cause we’ve been tight since forever? And you’ve been doing that since the year started? At least be consistent? And I like it when you do that? What else?"

She catches his pupils dilate for a split second and back.

“Ran,” he suppresses a little laugh. “Stop that, okay.” Then he inches closer. “Now I kinda want to give Sonoko an earful for turning you into this shameless talking machine."

Shinichi bends a little to level with her face. “Do me a favor and look yourself in the mirror once you’re in, yeah?” One hand is in his pocket and the other he uses to part loose locks dangling over her right eye and cheek, giving him an unobstructed view of her very pink, almost swelling face. “You’re a mess.”

「A kiss on the nose means he cares for you deeply.」

“I’m nooot. You are,” she lightly punches his chest, to which he just sniggers.

“I am what?”

“You’re the messed up one. You mess me up.”

“Again, what does that even mean?”

“As far as I know, you’re the detective here. Figure that out yourself will ya.”

He gives her this tiny smirk and Ran barely catches it.

“I don’t know, Ran. Perhaps... hearing it straight from you is much better.”

She tries to keep her eyes open but they burn so much they sheen with tears, and the alcohol’s to blame. “Huh?”

“Nothing.” He chuckles, his timbre doing things to her heart that she cannot resist stealing him a glance despite the aching throb in her head.

Damn it, he’s so annoying but so beautiful, his eyes are so bright, his cheeks so rosy—

“Pfft aren’t you blushiiiing!”

“Shut up.” And he plants a little kiss on her nose.

「A kiss on the nose means that he finds you cute.」

“There. Happy?”

While that effectively shuts her up, the fleeting drop of his lips landing as gently as a falling petal on her nose has her instinctively following his head with her own, honest in wanting another feel.

“Wait no! Again. But sloooower, pretty please?”

Her grip on his sleeve tightens, and she wonders if it’s possible for the erratic drumming of her pulse to be conducted through such fabric as to make the man in front of her aware of her state. She sounds so needy and clingy, and a part of her wants to barf and slap herself into sobriety, but a part of her also insists to just keep going. And the latter is winning.

“... You really are something, you know that?”

As swift as the night, he slowly leans his head and she closes her eyes, her senses becoming hyper aware of how open and vulnerable her entire being is before his presence. Her heart thumps mercilessly against her chest.

「A kiss on the nose means you’re his object of committed affection.」

...

What if he’s my...

The voice at the back of her head tells her to reciprocate. Which she eventually goes for as she lifts her chin, aiming to kiss his nose right before he does.

What she doesn’t expect is for their lips to brush and suddenly there is spark and both of them retract fast.

Sky-crystal eyes meet azure. For that brief second, she thinks she’s stepped one foot beyond their demarcation line, and she searches her mind and heart for that doubt and dread and fear brought about by an accidental venture to an unknown territory, yet she finds nothing. Nothing of that sort.

Instead, she feels like she has just dipped her foot on the ocean, the expanse of which scares her, but the moment the water touches her skin she discovers that it isn’t so bad and fear disappears and all that’s left is the genuine willingness to feel more of its glorious warmth, to let it consume her, to submerge into its depths.

And so she doesn’t push him away when he cups her left cheek and closes their gap; nor does he say anything when she steps on tiptoes and eyes flutter close as her lips purposely seek his. It doesn’t last long, just enough to acquaint herself with his softness, his shape; she feels him chapped from the spring cold, but really she doesn’t mind.

A kiss on the nose is sweet.

But a kiss on the lips is...

They separate as soundlessly as they merge. Both remain silent for a good minute, forehead against each other, his thumb brushing her cheek like it’s responsible for painting the crimson colors across it.

Shinichi purses his lips, before stepping back and locking eyes with hers, shyly.

“So, uh...Tomorrow. 10AM. I’ll be here. Please get a good night’s rest and I-... We’ll sort this out, properly...when you’re ready and sober. Ran.”

For the last time that night, he plants a light kiss on her nose and departs, leaving her in a trance by her doorstep.

W-Wait, Shinichi, I—!

Her eyes scan the corridor, but he’s already gone.

I’m...

Her head floats and so do her feet as she retreats to her room, all while her fingers trace her lips, trying to replicate his lips through them but she isn’t taking it. Even in this state, she cannot find the exact words to describe how he truly makes her feel. She recalls how their conversation ran. Her honest words. His vague replies. His sweet actions. Her eager response.

Their shared kiss.

Shoot. That makes everything even more confusing, doesn’t it?

She falls with her back on the bed, still in a state of trance. Reaching for her phone deep in her bag, she presses a button for speed dial, with one intent in mind.

“Hello, you’ve reached Suzuki Sonoko. I’m currently unable to take your call, so please leave your message after the beep.”

“Ne, Sonoko, what does a kiss on the lips mean?”

#shinran #fanfic #ashjsdjkf thank you for waiting and sorry for typos/errors #!!!#damnit why do i like a drunk ran so much #//sweats #but still i hope you like it!!#/edit: so idk what tumblr did but now i cannot edit the keep reading tab ;;-;;#/edit again: ok so i fixed it lmao why is the edit function different in mobile and pc ;-;#kiss prompts

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victoodles · 4 years

Text

Cruel World I’m Gone (Chapter 6)

back again with another chapter, edited by the fantastic @verai-marcel! follow the series on AO3 and make sure you read part 1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5

Arthur has unconventional definitions of love. One he originally believed started with Mary. But after years of reflection and introspection, Arthur realized it ran deeper, began sooner.

He’s a young boy, with a father he loathes and silently mourning a mother he still thinks about fondly. A father who is a “no good bastard”, who taught him nothing but contempt and that wickedness could have a face.

Blood is thicker than water?

What a crock of shit.

They’re bitter memories, painful. But a sweetness tinges them, immortalized in the form of six pink flowers and a weathered portrait he still keeps beside his bed - even to this day. Sentimentality is a blessing and a curse.

Now he’s fourteen, on the cusp of manhood and something else entirely. He’s angry. Angry at a dead father who left him with nothing but the hat on his head and a measly mugshot. Angry at the world that couldn’t give a shit about him but still insists on taking, taking, and taking.

But mostly he’s alone, scared; he can snarl and bare his teeth all he likes but he’s still just a child. Arthur yearns for companionship, for a family that he never truly had growing up. For things he was wrongly denied.

It’s unorthodox, but eventually, he does find what he’s looking for. In the form of a younger Dutch and Hosea: the curious couple and their new unruly son.

The blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb.

And for twenty long years, he had a father - two in fact! They took him in off the streets, taught him how to read, write, shoot. Raised him from a boy to a man capable of finally taking back from this cruel world and then some.

From Hosea, he learned empathy, humanity. And from Dutch, loyalty, a code of honor.

Despite all his hypocrisies, Arthur can’t wash away and deny that he is who he is because of Dutch van der Linde.

Arthur tries to focus on the good years as much as he tries to forget the ugly, warped ending to that chapter of his life. It’s a continuous uphill struggle but that’s nothing new for him, just more difficult to deal with.

Thinking of some good years…

He’s traversing through his twenties now.

Arthur has had a tryst from time to time as a young man, reveling in the experiences of his first kiss and other means of getting handsy. He was awkward at first, as any boy is when they delve into the unknown fruits adolescence bears. Fumbling hands, a nervous flush dusting his cheeks, all bundled in a veil of naivety.

Hosea used to tell everyone, drunk around the campfire, the humiliating tales of a younger Arthur. His particular favorite being when Arthur came to him, on the verge of tears, thinking he now had to marry a local stable girl because he dared to kiss her behind dear old daddy’s barn.

But then there was Mary.

Mary, Mary, Mary.

Formerly known as Gillis, and soon to be Linton. A name no one dared to whisper around camp for years. In a life filled with killing, robbing, and running from the law, Mary was possibly the most complicated aspect of it.

She yearned for things Arthur couldn’t give or be. Wanted a man that Arthur couldn’t become despite his best efforts.

Loyalty is the only thing that matters…

A belief that cost him happiness time and time again.

It wasn’t just Mary at fault - Arthur couldn’t deliver on his promises either.

In the end, he tried. Tried to mold himself into someone worthy of her and her cantankerous father’s expectations of what a man should be. Tried to be one of those Saint Denis socialites with their coiffed hair and perfectly tailor suits. But despite all the gussying, primping and grooming, he was just a rugged outlaw playing at a gentleman. A wolf in sheep’s clothing.

It took him a while to overcome his heartbreak, to realize she had her own heavy crosses to bear the same as he did. Roles to fill, people to placate despite the pining of the ever-fickle heart. Coming to terms with that wasn’t easy despite the ever apparent facts. And like many before him, Arthur shared his sorrows with the bottom of a bottle and buried them deeper between the legs of a stranger.

Eliza…

Her name still fills him with guilt, albeit it a dull ache now in contrast to the agonizing stabbing he once felt on his heart. She was just a girl trying to get by, barely on the cusp of twenty, who just happened upon Arthur in a disgustingly familiar drunken stupor as he wallowed in self-pity and the bitter taste of whiskey. She humored him, at least he thinks she did. Or it could’ve been a kindness, he can’t quite recall after all these years.

But she slept with him, let him indulge in his therapeutic carnal desires all the while he sputtered out another woman’s name. He was reckless, careless and he couldn’t give less of a damn at the time.

And as a result, it got her…

It got them…

He can’t dwell on it now, refuses to. The thoughts weigh heavy on him, crushing his ribs in a vice and stealing the breath he counts himself lucky to have from his lungs.

He tries to distract himself, instead focus on things more lighthearted to ease his troubled thoughts. He starts with something tangible, for instance, the small ring in his pocket that suddenly feels ten times heavier than the burdens he that weigh on his bad shoulders. And the girl he intends to give it to...

You.

He doesn’t think he can articulate how much you mean to him, but that doesn’t stop him from trying within the confines of a new leather-clad journal. No longer does he write harsh words of self-deprecation and hopelessness. They’re kinder, eloquent and beautiful. Soft lines that make out the shape of you adorned with hearts. He melds into your embrace all too easy now, and despite two decades of bloodshed and dodging Death’s scythe, he’s never felt safer than in your arms.

Arthur never thought life would deem him worthy of second chances. Dealing him a fortunate hand with a new life, new purpose, new love. Absolution was not a word his tongue was familiar with, yet here he stands on the porch to his - your home. The stains of his past don't follow him beyond the mountains and rolling hills.

The Van der Linde gang is gone - scattered, dead, or both. Arthur Morgan, Dutch’s right-hand gun has turned in his holsters and bandolier and has now found work as a simple carpenter in Annesburg. He spends his day building and expanding the ever-growing civilization he was trying to run from. A law-abiding everyday man. The irony isn’t lost on him. But it’s good work, honest work. The kind that only cares if you’re strong and able and doesn’t focus on the minute details of one’s extensive criminal record.

And he’s proud to say that after months of arduous labor, he managed to save enough for the ring that seems to be burning a hole in his pocket. It’s humble but elegant with a single diamond resting in the middle of a pale gold band.

Like her, Arthur idly muses with a smile.

Ideally, he would’ve loved to grace your finger with some luxurious rock as a grandiose display of his affection. A massive diamond that would glint perfectly in the light atop the rare platinum. It would’ve been all too easy to hold up some pompous jeweler, the routine and its step all but muscle memory at this point. But that’s not how one does when trying to leave behind the life of an outlaw and it wouldn’t be a proper way to start your marriage.

Marriage.

The concept alone has him frozen in front of his own home, trembling with excitement. He thought Mary would be his everything at one point - the future Mrs. Morgan. When she left he felt as if she took that possibility with her along with the shards of his fractured heart. There's a hint of fear in him as well, a nagging sense that history could repeat itself once more. Round and round the thoughts go in his head as he opens the door with a shaking hand, rattling painfully in his skull.

I’m not ready for this.

Dread surges through him, rough seas raging against his chest as his heart threatens to burst. He’s been shot at, beat, and tortured but this plunge he’s about to take might possibly be one of the scariest things he’s ever done.

Arthur somehow manages to get the door open, feet heavier than lead as he makes his way through the threshold. The sound of your singing from the garden out back restores his composure, lulling him into a serenity once more. He’s refocused, and the tremors that plague him gradually cease. There’s a reinvigorated sense of purpose, sparked to life once more, and he eagerly calls your name in response.

“Out here, Arthur!” You chirp back and Arthur wastes no time following the sound of your voice. He doesn’t realize how quickly he rushes to the backdoor until the afternoon sun is blinding him. When he regains his vision he finds you tending to your plants, a basket of freshly picked vegetables at your side and a tender smile on your lips.

Beautiful.

“Happy to see me, are we darling?” Your voice has a teasing lilt to it - he hadn’t realized he’d spoken that last sentiment aloud. A flush creeps up the back of Arthur’s neck, spreading up to his ears and painting them an embarrassing shade of red. He hopes you don’t notice in the sunlight but when your smile turns into a playful smirk, he knows there's no chance of hiding it now.

Arthur clears his throat, “Always am, sweet pea.”

Your impishness seems to have passed for the time being, your simper losing its bite as you turn your attention back to your gardening. “How was work today?” You ask idly as you go to work pulling another carrot from the dirt.

It was the same as any other day, building more housing for the miners in the ramshackle town of Annesburg. Who can think about something so mundane when there were bigger picture things for him to be concerned about? But still, he answers back with a simple, “Good.”

You titter at that. “How positively exciting, Mr. Morgan.”

Arthur wishes he had more to offer in terms of a response but he’s too distracted by you. There’s dirt smudged on your cheeks and hands, skirt a wrinkled mess, and hair in a messy braid to keep out of the way of your gardening. Some might find you disheveled but he thinks you look absolutely lovely- as always.

A voice in the back of his mind whispers, She’s not her.

He finds himself imagining what you would look like in all white, waiting for him at the altar of a church. Maybe at the cathedral in Saint Denis where the colors of the impressive stained glass would shine down on you, casting you in an ethereal rainbow glow. In your hand is a bouquet of the finest flowers: lavender, honeysuckle, daisies. A gossamer of silk covers your face, that same breathtaking smile on your lips as Arthur makes his way towards you and-

“Arthur?” You snap him out of the daydreaming he inadvertently slipped into. “Are you alright?”

“I-” He struggles to find the right words, any words, but comes up short. You look at him expectantly but that only makes him more tongue-tied. Christ, he’s a grown man, this shouldn’t be so difficult.

“You…” You try to ease him into something resembling a response, bless your heart, but still, nothing.

So instead he opts for action.

Arthur gets down on one knee in the dirt with you, going for the ring he still has nestled in his jacket. Your eyes go wide at the gesture, and even wider when he silently presents the ring to you.

“I,” he begins again, voice a little stronger in its conviction. “I love you. More than you could ever know.” He takes your hand with his free one, running his fingers over your knuckles softly. Tears begin to well up in your eyes and you can’t help as they begin to trail down your cheeks.

Arthur continues, “You are my heart, my soul, my everything. Without you, Hell, I wouldn’t even be in front of you to ask this. When I’m with you, everything makes sense. And I’m ready, really ready to start over, good and proper. With you.”

It’s time to leave Arthur Morgan the outlaw, the man shackled by so many fears and doubts behind in the ashes of what once was. His rebirth comes in dreams of the future, hand in hand and growing old by the fireplace.

Together.

“So I was wonderin’...what I’m trying to ask is you would-”

“Yes,” you whisper, unable to find your own voice now. You heart is hammering fiercely, galloping like a wild horse at the sheer intensity of Arthur’s proposal.

He can’t help but chuckle at your ardor, endearing (and relieving) as it may be. “You didn’t let me-”

“Yes! Yes, yes, yes a thousand times yes you silly man!” you exclaim with no hesitation this time, throwing yourself on him and peppering him with kisses. “Yes,” you repeat over and over and over, as many times as you can to reaffirm you aren't dreaming. That this isn’t your own self-made mirage that could vanish at any moment.

Arthur is momentarily stunned and brings you as close to him as possible, burying his face in the crook of your neck as he finds his own tears starting to form. The same voice is back, no longer a whisper but a firm reassurance of, She isn’t her. She isn’t any of them.

And she never will be.

“Say it again.”

Let it be real.

Your lips find his now, in between each kiss marked with a, “yes”.

A single syllable has him enraptured, spellbound. Such a glorious admittance, the most heavenly sound he’s ever heard.

And as he slips the ring onto your finger, the both of you grinning madly, he thinks “I do” will sound even better.

#vic's fics!#red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 #arthur morgan #arthur morgan x reader

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dashielldeveron · 6 years

Text

A Prologue in Venom

Part One of the Viper AU: a Mob!Tom Holland AU in which you are a political author, Tom’s personal lawyer, and eventually his consigliere.

Warnings: violence, swears, the law.

Summary: an introduction to the ongoing AU of you working for the mob tirelessly out of your innate sense of justice and thirst for the mob boss. You have an incredible mentor who is pushing you down a path of crime in order to do the right thing. Your mentor forgot 1) to mention that your new employer is so fucking charismatic and 2) that you’re a dramatic little bitch.

From: Tracey Prine To: [email protected] Subject: article attached

Thought you might want to see this. You’ve made the papers for your real job for once, although your name still isn’t mentioned—but I expect you enjoy that. It’s all over the news stations, and NPR is currently airing the story. Congratulations. There’s a nice quotation from Polson near the bottom that you’ll get a kick out of.

Additionally, I’m going to need your piece on the refugee crisis within twelve hours if it’s going to be published this week.

Thanks, t.

[attachment]

FALSELY ACCUSED, JULIA LAURENS ACQUITTED

In the late afternoon of October 17, the protracted trial of Julia Laurens came to a sudden end in light of new evidence. Laurens, on trial for the murder of Moira Herrington, daughter of celebrated actors Jay and Melissa Herrington, walks as an innocent woman this morning.

As Moira’s violin teacher, Laurens would have had access to the Herrington residence during lessons on Mondays, but, it turns out, she was not the only one. It seemed like an open-and-shut case when Moira’s body, dismembered, was found in various black bags in Laurens’s garbage bins, along with the ice pick used to gouge out Moira’s eyes under the seat in Laurens’s vehicle on the day Laurens was stopped on the route from the Herrington residence. Laurens had said that she had driven to the lesson without being able to find Moira and was returning home, but the body had already been discovered.

However, as the defence exposed, all supposed evidence was a plant by perpetrator Johnson Mays, a colleague of Laurens who had a secret, unhealthy obsession with the underage Moira. Mays, a mechanic, had attended the weekly game night at Laurens’s apartment on Sunday and had sabotaged Laurens’s car and planted an ice pick similar to the one used. With this setup, Mays would have time to commit the murder during the scheduled violin lesson, while Laurens would have to attend to her car.

You kicked your feet up on the coffee table and flicked through the article. Fucking yes. You’d made national news for being a lawyer, for once. You were the one who’d done the intricate research to discover Mays’s connections, and when Dr. Prine gave you leave, you had driven upstate to investigate Mays’s house under warrant, posing as a general lackey. You had felt the need to see his place with your own eyes, and you had struck gold: not only had you found the real ice pick in his wood pile, but you had found one of Moira’s contacts stuck to the back of his freezer. Her fucking contact. When the lab reports came back, complete with the drop of blood on the ice pick matching Moira’s, you forwarded everything to Dr. Prine, and she sent it to her attorney acting defence in the trial. Mays wasn’t even a player in the game before you, and now the rightful murderer was going to jail. An innocent woman walks free because of you.

Justice felt fantastic. Your work being in the national headlines felt a little better.

You scanned the rest of the article until you reached the quotation Dr. Prine had told you about.

…Out of the clamouring press following the trial, only this was squeezed from a fuming Prosecutor James Polson: “I [redacted] had them. Whoever dug up the dirt on Mays, they’re a [redacted] viper, sinking their fangs into the status quo and letting their venom spread.”

Grinning, you took another bite of Ben and Jerry’s, straight out of the carton. Dr. Prine was right. You were going to have to find a hard copy of the Times so that you could post this on your bedroom wall. You had to bite your lip you were smiling so hard.

You set your ice cream on the coffee table and lay back on the couch to compose a response to Dr. Prine, but you called her instead. As your phone rang, you kicked back and stared at the ceiling fan, its pull making small circles as the blades spun.

“Dr. Prine,” you said when she picked up, “Holy fuck! Holy fuck!”

“Congratulations,” she said, her smile coming through over the phone, “I’m proud of you. You did some really solid work.”

“I didn’t think this would happen! I saved someone’s life! Julia Laurens can go to fucking Hobby Lobby, and no one will accost her. It’s my fault, and she doesn’t even know me,” you said, sitting up to grab your ice cream again.

“Isn’t that what you wanted?”

“Well, yeah,” you said thickly through a chunk of frozen brownie, “It is. I wish I could tell my mother, though, but it’s not that big of a deal.”

“Is she still doing all right?”

You swallowed, choking a bit to get it down. “Yeah. How’s work for you?”

“The freshman students write the worst papers I’ve ever seen,” said Dr. Prine with a clattering in the background, “Damn, I just—hold on. Dropped the binders.” A door creaked shut on her end, and Dr. Prine spoke more loudly after. “I miss your work. It was nice grading it, since I didn’t have to mark it up much. These kids can’t even handle a mock trial yet. I worry for your generation.”

“Don’t worry. We’re all just tired,” you said, “Speaking of my work, I’ve almost finished the refugee piece. Once I get a solid closing statement, I’ll send it your way.”

“Well, don’t procrastinate. Your deadline’s soon. You got anything lined up this evening?”

Scrunching your eyes shut, you winced. “Don’t remind me. Polson’s got me doing menial work again. Something totally useless with spreadsheets and the expenses of the fucking break room and secretarial offices. If he knew what I was capable of—”

“If he knew you worked against him in the Laurens trial? I know,” said Dr. Prine, her voice softening, “I’ve been meaning to tell you something. It’s your ticket out of Polson’s firm. I’ve found a place where your talents would be…much more appreciated. You could start within the week.”

“Say more right now.”

***

2,132.

2,132 rejections via mass email, starting in your second year of law school. All from different firms that didn’t want you. Rounds upon rounds of interviews, competing with your friends and total strangers who held themselves like they were Croesus, reaching the final interview, only to get rejection emails three days later from firms you would have quite literally killed people to work for. Years of working for and studying under Dr. Prine, editing her national law journal, diligently dotting the is of her excruciating cases late into the night. Getting a taste of the allure of wealth and entrenched power, and never having it want you outside of the knowledge that you were her student. All of it—from the cases you and she never could crack and stood outside in the rain pulling your hair out over, to the parts of your life you missed out on, like your best friend’s wedding and your mother’s last birthday before you started growing apart—leading up to this: walking into a high-rise building with mirror-like windows in the middle of Manhattan and staring up at an embossed, brass nameplate on a door that read Harrison Osterfield.

The next chapter in your life, and it sank like a stone in your stomach. You raised your fist to knock, but before you could, someone snatched it away.

“Ripley,” said the bony man maybe a decade older than you, pulling on his collar and dropping your hand, “and you’re not getting my first name. We’ve got to get upstairs before they see you. No time to lose. I’m the lawyer you’re replacing.”

Glancing back at Osterfield’s door, you followed behind Ripley up a few floors (the elevator was too risky, he told you.) and into a crusty, windowless office with water damage dripping in a back corner. After closing the door, he sat in one of the two chairs in front of the desk (one leg was propped up by a book) and gestured for you to do the same.

“You’re Dr. Prine’s student, aren’t you?”

“I am,” you said, sinking into the leather, “She also told me that you’d be waiting for me, but considering this business belongs to a Mr. Thomas Holland, one would think I’d be meeting him on my first day.”

Ripley pulled a leg into his lap, resting one ankle on the opposite knee. “With any luck, you won’t have any direct interactions with him. Nasty man in a nasty business.”

“Being in an IT consulting company can’t be that bad,” you said, head snapping towards a bucket against the wall once water dripped into it from the ceiling. “What’s with the, uh…?” You nodded your head towards the leak.

“They shoved me down here while the real office is getting renovated, or so they say. Doesn’t matter,” said Ripley, “You and I have a lot of work to do. You’re one of Dr. Prine’s. So am I. They’re working me to death here, and apparently you’re a masochistic workaholic. I need to get out, and this is—well, what we’re about to do is going to be easiest for everyone in this room.”

You tapped your fingers against the split leather, each landing with a dull thum. “Why do I get the feeling this is going to be needlessly complicated?”

“Please, trust me, or at least trust Dr. Prine,” he said, untwisting the cap of a nalgene from his desk, “It was her idea. I can call her up, if you want.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

Shaking your head, you said, “I’ve already seen your credentials. Dr. Prine gave me more information on you than I need to know, Jerome Ripley. I know you’re trustworthy. What’s the plan?”

“I hear you’re into anonymity.”

You always were a dramatic little bitch, so you agreed to the plan: you and Ripley would collaborate on the job until you knew much more of the rope of Osseous Enterprises, and Ripley would fade out as you took on the job by yourself. The plan was sketchy, and everything reeked of ulterior motives. You found yourself addressing stranger and stranger things sent to you in the emails (a lousy lawyer@osseous, how lame) right up until you opened an email from Holland before Ripley could get to it.

Inside were photographs of a human skeleton with the flesh freshly ripped off of it, and that lay to the side of the bones. Boss shot him through the neck, it was labelled, Had me skin it. Wants you to send it along to H. Jones in Queens and cover the death. Victim lived in… And then addresses, social security, et al.

You were supposed to cover up a murder. A murder committed by—oh, um. Hm. You didn’t sign up for this.

Ripley walked into the office right as Dr. Prine picked up on your phone call, and he slapped the phone out of your hands.

Both of them talked you through. The mafia. You were working for the mafia. Not the whole thing, obviously, but you were working for the most prestigious mob family in—fuck, they covered multiple countries, but their base was right here in New York, in the very fucking building you’d been working in for a month—oh, fuck. Were you in the mob? No, you had to be inducted, and to be inducted, you had to be trusted, or at least, even fucking noticed. Osseous Enterprises was a front corporation for Holland’s dealings in the mob, even though it made a lot of money—but significantly less than what was officially recorded. No wonder Ripley was taking certain tasks. He was easing you into it, letting you deal with the surface level shit before you really knew what you were getting into (an aside: this explained why Dr. Prine seemingly sent you to work in business when you specialised in criminal law).

It took hours and hours of skype calls with Dr. Prine and talking with Ripley outside of work to convince you to stay. Dr. Prine appealed to your better nature, damn it, and talked about how even though Holland worked selfishly, he confronted people and solved problems the government was too scared to commit to. All she had to do was talk up your innate sense of justice, and you started changing your mind, albeit with extreme reluctance, especially with the threat of returning to Polson’s firm. Not to mention your first paycheque had your head spinning, and that didn’t hurt your cause.

So, you worked for the mob, and no one knew you did, not even the mob. If Holland knew Ripley were leaving, Ripley would have a knife in his back within the next minute. It was safer for Ripley to phase out, with you proving your worth secretly, until you deemed it time to reveal yourself, after Ripley left.

“It’d be odd if all areas of your life were perfect in tandem,” Dr. Prine would remind you, and you’d affectionately flip her off and get back to writing your next Epiales piece. Deadlines were always too soon.

***

The Epiales project was the only thing going for you right now, aside from the sudden income from Holland. It began your final semester of law school, when you shouldn’t have been taking on anything new at all. You had written, quite frankly, a fucking astonishing article on modern feminism as it functions in the government and in law, and Dr. Prine had featured it in her law journal. You hadn’t wanted recognition, because your views differed drastically from your family’s, and you didn’t want your peers making fun of you, either. You’d decided on Epiales as your penname, because, even though you wanted to follow in the footsteps of political authors throughout history, you couldn’t find a Greek philosopher whose views you agreed with. So, you went with the personification of nightmares, just because it’d be your family’s worst nightmare if they knew you were this politically different from them.

Just as a joke.

But then, the New York Times had bought your article from Dr. Prine and published it on the front page. Eventually, through repetitions of this and an endless string of emails, you had a monthly feature in the fucking New York Times, so long as the article was original to their newspaper and not a republished one from the law journal. They conceded to your continued posting to the Epiales website on the basis that you posted online after they began selling that day’s edition. You didn’t care. You were in the New York Times, for Christ’s sake.

And no one knew it was you. You were completely safe, from hecklers, from your family, from disgusting men threatening to ruin your life and/or end it. You had taken too many precautions. Hell, if someone tried to trace your IP address, it’d relocate to the middle of a sulphur pit in Yellowstone.

Through a series of accidents, you garnered respect.

***

The day you should have been waiting for comments to roll in for your latest instalment on the refugee crisis, Tom Holland needed his lawyer present at a tennis match in the Hamptons. Holland intended to ensure political ties with Senator Hernandez, whose daughter was playing in the tennis tournament. A sizable crowd at a public outing, all distracted and getting steadily drunk? Holland could make his move easily.

Thus there you stood under the scant shade of a pine tree in the ninety-seven-degree heat, sweating through your jet-black blazer, sucking on a piece of ice, and damning Tom Holland to his grave. You glared daggers into the back of his pretty head as he leant against the railing of the pavilion, laughing with the crowd and swirling an old fashioned in his palm against the muted sounds of rackets hitting the ball in the background. When Harrison bent in to whisper to Holland, Tom took off his amber-tinted sunglasses and cleaned them on the inside of his suit jacket, and once finished, he nodded and started weaving his way through the spectators.

Holland wanted his lawyer here yet wasn’t doing anything worthwhile, you thought bitterly. You were too good for him, really, because you’d planted yourself near Senator Hernandez’s bench as he watched his daughter. While Holland flirted, you were eavesdropping and sweating your fucking skin off.

Near the end of the second set, you caved and shrugged off your blazer when you caught the latter half of something Hernandez was saying: “—read it? It’s brilliant. Next time Congress is in session, I’m bringing in that Epiales article.”

Your jaw dropped, and so did the ice from your mouth. Your blazer hung limp from one hand, and you steadied yourself against the tree, your high heels sinking into the earth. Fumbling around for your phone, you barely had time to get to Dr. Prine’s contact entry before someone gently nudged your arm from behind with a glass tumbler, condensation sticking to your skin.

“You look like you’d rather be anywhere else but here,” said Tom Holland, his voice hot in your ear, while he’s standing a little too close for comfort and holding out an old fashioned identical to his, “I can offer a distraction, at the least.”

You don’t drink, but you took what was offered. “Am I that transparent?”

“Like glass, sweetheart. What’s bothering you?” He leant against the tree trunk, slumping a little, and tapped his index finger against his tumbler.

“Afraid I’ve been dragged here for work.”

“On a Saturday?”

You met his gaze, completely fixated on you through the amber sunglasses. “My boss is a bit of an ass.”

“Sounds like it,” Tom said, cracking a grin, “Forcing you to come to some silly tennis match on the hottest day of the month and flat-out ignoring you.”

“It’s better than putting me in a sundress and having me on his arm.” Like Polson did once that summer. You had kicked his ass, verbally, about it, but since he threatened to smear your name through the mud for the rest of your life, which he was capable of doing, it had to be done. “At least I’m here for a reason, supposedly.”

“Who treats his employees like that? Wouldn’t dream of it.” Tom brought his glass to his mouth as his eyes flicked up and down your body, taking his time about it. “Though I’d put you in a green sundress. Something that shows off your shoulders.”

“And I’d put you in navy, in something with a high neckline. Anything to accentuate those pretty-boy cheekbones you’ve got,” you said.

At this, he ran his tongue over his lower lip, pushed off the tree, and took a step closer to you. He may be enjoying it now, but this motherfucker would regret this conversation in about five minutes. To be honest, you were enjoying it a little too much. To have someone as powerful, confident, and attractive (the grey tweed suit buttoned over a tight, white button-down was doing things to you) as Tom was having his complete, unadulterated attention on you? It was a taste of something you denied yourself. But no matter how fast his charisma held you, it was time to wrap it up. You planned to work for this man a long time.

“Listen,” said Tom, “Why don’t I give you a tour of the country club?” He trailed two fingers from your wrist over the back of your hand to take your drink. “It’s not much, but we’ll get you into some air conditioning. We could find a place to talk without anyone overhearing, if you like.”

You rolled your shoulders back, and for the first time, you began to smile. “Hardly professional, Holland. To think I expected better of you.”

He blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Shouldn’t you be giving this attention to Senator Hernandez’s daughter? It’ll be easier to get to him through her.”

And there it was: his face hardened, his eyebrows furrowing and lips puckering very slightly, the brief clenching of his jaw and the flush around the tops of his ears—the face your opponents got in court when your research that would pack the case into a tight box was brought to the stand. “Who are you?” Tom asked flatly.

“You’re going to have to work for that information, Holland,” you said, “Be careful about how you respond. As much as you should like to, you can’t make a scene with so many witnesses.”

“I own all of these people,” he said through his teeth.

“Go ahead, then,” you said, and you clasped your hand behind your back, waiting.

After a beat, Tom sighed exasperatedly and grabbed you by the wrist to pull you somewhere, but before he could take two steps, you yanked yourself out of his grasp. He didn’t even bother looking over his shoulder. “Are you going to follow me?”

“Are you going to hurt me?”

He turned his head enough to look you in the eye. “You’re going to talk.”

“And if I don’t?”

“You appear to know who I am. Use your imagination.” He jerked his head towards the country club’s restaurant, not far from the tennis courts. “C’mon.”

Death sounded good at all occasions for you, but since someone needed to feed your cat this evening, now wouldn’t be the best time to die. Not to mention you still had half a croissant left over from that morning, and you couldn’t let that go to waste. You followed behind Tom at a couple of paces, checking to ensure no one was watching you leave, because it sure looked like you were sneaking off to give him a blowjob behind the ice machine.

He made you go first once you reached the stairs to the upper storey restaurant, and he cornered you at the far end of the balcony, trapping you against the iron railing with the metal pressing into your back and his hands planted on either side of you. Tom stood close enough that you had to lean backwards a little over the railing, and you had to grip the railing just inside of his hands to stay upright.

His mouth twitched. “Why are you here?”

Your gaze flashed from his lips to his eyes. “I’m here to supervise the contract you’re making with Senator Hernandez, and I’m ensuring that he does sign it.”

“And why’s that?” When he jerked forward in an attempt to make you lose your balance, you stifled a cough at the wave of the oversaturated cologne that hit you.

“Like I said, my boss is a bit of an ass.”

“Damn it,” Tom said, breaking eye contact for the first time. Freshly determined, he moved closer, his hipbones poking into you with one hand gripping your waist. “Who’d be stupid enough to provoke me? Who do you work for? Fletcher? The Fratellis?”

“You,” you said, and you left your lips pursed as he flinched away from you and bent over the back of a wrought-iron chair, pressing his fist to his mouth.

“I’m your lawyer,” you said, stifling a smile, “I wrote the Hernandez contract. I’ve also been managing your affairs for some time now, specifically covering your tracks for fucking murder—”

“What’d you do to Ripley?” Tom straightened up and removed his sunglasses. He tucked them over his collar.

“Ripley’s gone,” you said, “of his own free will. Or of his will, at least, since he wasn’t free to leave under your—”

“Where is he now?”

“Sorry. Privileged information. What matters is that Ripley’s gone completely off-grid so that you can’t find him. Even I’m not able to reach him.” You tentatively slid from your corner along the railing nearer to the chair he had propped a foot on. “I’ve been working for you for over a month now. You really should keep better tabs on your employees—though, I suspect, that’ll be part of my job soon.”

Tom snapped his fingers twice. “Name.”

“Paul McCartney.”

He narrowed his eyes, his nose wrinkling in the process, and said, “Your name.”

You didn’t hesitate in saying it, a first for you, and as he mouthed the syllables slowly, you said, “And don’t bother looking me up. I don’t have any social media, nor do I have an online presence at all.” Under your real name, that is. “You can find me in a list of interns for a certain renown professor, but I’m about to give you that information, anyway.”

Tom stared up at you, a curl dangling in front of his eyes. “A freely given piece of personal information?” His fingertips pressed above his left lapel. “I’m touched,” he said, his voice dark.

“My mentor for the better part of my life now,” you said, stepping closer to drag the back of your hand over the iron pattern in Tom’s chair (he jolted backwards, just barely, but you caught it), “has been Tracey Prine.”

He tilted his head, and his jaw hung open slightly, his tongue lingering on the edge of his top incisors before clicking it against the roof of his mouth. “No, she hasn’t.”

“Want me to call her?” You dug your phone out of your pocket and unlocked it to her contact entry, just where it had been before Tom started talking to you. Your thumb waited above the call button for his decision, but whatever. Fuck with him. You pressed it anyway and put it on speaker.

It rang twice before she picked up, and at the sound of her voice stating your name and telling you she’s got a class in two minutes and to check on the Times (you didn’t react to that part), Tom inhaled sharply and straightened his shoulders.

“Not much, Dr. Prine, but I’m here with my employer,” you say, the phone lying flat in your palm between you and Tom, whose gaze flickered from it to you.

“Tell Mr. Holland I appreciate his work ethic and that he should value yours to no end,” she said, “I’ve got to go. Tonight?”

“Tonight,” you said, and you hung up on her.

“What’s…?” When you shook your head, he held out his hand. “Let me see your texts.” He swore under his breath as he scrolled through them, going through months and months of casework for notable trials, and he read the attachments you had sent recently. “Lab work, blood results. An ice pi—holy shit,” Tom said, the hand with the phone falling limply to his lap, “The Laurens trial. You.” The corner of his mouth twitched before breaking into a smirk. “You’re the one that solved everything. You’re that viper.”

Oh, my fuck; he’s heard of you. Tom Holland has heard about you. He’s familiar with your work. Oh, holy fuck. You held it all in for the moment, but if you made it home alive, you were going to marathon Star Wars and call in for takeaway. “That I am,” you said coolly, accepting your phone when he offered it, “and what does that mean for you, Mr. Holland?”

Any evidence of doubt about him evaporated, and his charisma returned almost instantly. He was smiling now, his teeth on display, and he leant towards you. “I want you at my side, Viper,” he said, his hands dangerously close to yours on the back of the iron chair, “I want you to do for me what you did for Laurens. Exclusively. I’ll be your only client. I want you to tear apart my enemies and pick their bones clean. I want you to be merciless, and I want you to be mine.”

That’s a lot of subtext you’ll be thinking about in the shower later. But show nothing; be nothing. “You want an awful lot.”

Tom took a deep breath and moved to sit on the wrought-iron table. “That’s why I’m giving you an out,” he said, crossing his arms loosely, “before you’re in. Because once you’re in, you can’t leave. I’ll make sure of that.”

You took a moment before clasping your hands behind your back and taking a step around the chair towards him. “I want my privacy.”

“I can’t guarantee that. I’ve got to keep a close eye on you, since Ripley slithered away,” he said, “You’re a shot in the dark despite your accomplishments.”

“You will guarantee it,” you said, leaning against the table with the iron pattern pressing into your palm, “Addresses, bank accounts, social security, everything that I don’t give you.”

Tom shook his head. “I can’t—”

“You will. It’s all I’m asking. I’ll be covering your dirty work from the world, so why can’t I hide mine?” It was your turn to be too close, for your breath to be hot against his skin as you said softly into his ear, “Tell me, Holland: are you afraid of the dark?”

tags: @presidentbttrflyfreak @magstorrn @imstarwarstrashokay @infamous-webhead @starksparker @starksmile @pparkerwrites @softspideys @spidereyhes @bi-writes @iron-spiderr @laurfangirl424 @wheremyotpat @valar--m0rghulis @upsidedownparker @hollandroos

#tom holland #fic #tom holland/reader #tom holland x reader #tom holland imagine #tom holland fic #tom holland fanfic #tom holland fanfiction #mob tom #mob!tom #mob!tom holland #mob au #DASH IT ALL #viper au

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lazy-cat-corner · 6 years

Text

You Know Her

Inspired by a Valkyrie Blondie aesthetic I did a week back. I just started playing the song and went with it. Not much to it! HAHA. So here’s my brain just shooting out words. Mostly just a cutsey thing and nothing really happens. Enjoy!

Rating: Teen Audience (swearing and alcohol abuse)

Relationship: Valki (Valkyrie X Loki)

Summary: Valki modern AU. Valkyrie can handle her liquor like a champ...sometimes. Other times, she winds up in weird situations and meets weirder people.

Word Count: 2k+ words

A roar of applause erupts when Brun slams the last shot glass on the bar table. Her competitor topples over the table top and tries to settle himself back on the stool. She’s too proud to admit it, but she’s ready to curl up on the billiards table and call it a night. A firm hand slaps her on the back and she could feel the whiskey climbing up her throat. She holds her mouth and swallows the remainder back down.

“I never seen a man or woman take six shots like it was their mornin’ tea.”

“Eight,” Brun corrects.

The large man takes a count of the shot glasses lined up against the bar and frowns.

“I pre-gamed before I came here.” She elaborates.

The man lets out a throaty laugh.

“An’ how are ye’ still standin’, lass?”

Brun punches her chest.

“I’ve had years of practice,” she shrugs.

“I’ll remember to never challenge ye’.” The man leaves her and returns to his crowd.

It’s not too often when Brun needs a drink of water, but those whiskey shots aren’t sitting too comfortably in her. She reaches over the bar and takes a bottle of water. The bartender eyes her and points her way.

“Put it on my tab,” she interrupts. Brun opens the bottle and takes a long drink. It’s hardly midnight and she’d be damned to go home after knocking that brutish ogre in his place. He was getting on everyone’s nerves and made a mistake trying to get in Brun’s pants.

Brun strides through the pub and looks for something of interest. The televisions are displaying a boring game of golf and she knows little about the sport to join in on the bet. The billiards tables and darts are occupied. Even so, she can’t imagine being eight shots in and winning anything. For the time being, she will occupy herself with the jukebox until her blood alcohol content wears down.

She fumbles in her pocket for a few quarters and searches for the right song. She settles on a song she used to listen to in secondary school. It was her mother’s favorite band when she was a teenager herself, and they used to play the cassette tape over and over for hours on end.

The opening chords bring her back to her trailer back home and she sways to the even beat.

She stands in her place and frowns. She realizes she has been dancing to a different song. She doesn’t recall the song changing and wonders when her song ended.

Perhaps the shots hit her harder than she expected. Brun decides to settle herself down. It’s going to be a rough night sweating off the liquor.

Her shoulder slams into another body. Was it always there? Her vision becomes blurred as she lets out an incoherent apology. The body-the man, as she can now see- holds her steady.

“Are you doing alright there?”

Brun gives a lazy smile and nods.

“Good music.” She points to the blaring speakers.

The man nods his head.

“Yeah, an old one but a classic.” He gives a weak laugh. “Can you walk?”

Brun realizes his hands are still holding her up. She shoves him off and grumbles.

“I can walk.”

Brun turns around and feels the floor hit her face.

Her face is throbbing when she cracks her eyes open. She’s laying on her side and wonders how she ended up on this leather couch. She thanks herself that she did end up on her side. Choking on her own vomit would not be a dignifying way to die.

“Aww, shit. I blacked out, again.” She groans.

She yelps when something cold touches her face. Brun swings out her foot and it makes an impact.

“Jesus Christ!”

Brun’s vision refocuses and she sees a man hunched over and clutching his gut.

She stands up on shaky legs and looks around. It doesn’t look like an apartment. It’s a dimly lit office room with the stench of cigarettes that probably polluted the air some decades ago. The man puts a gentle hand on Brun and she snatches it out of his grasp.

“I wouldn’t try walking back to the pub if I were you. You really blacked out.”

Back?

“I’m still in the pub?” Her voice croaks. She notices the thump of the music in the background.

The man offers her a cold bottle of water and she takes it.

“We’re in the manager’s office. I know the guy and he helped me bring you in.”

Brun sits on the office chair and lets the cool water soothe her dry throat.

“Do you remember anything?”

Brun tries to think hard.

“There was a drinking game,” she purses her lips, “and I won.”

“Is that all you remember?” He presses.

Brun focuses on the man’s face. It’s a little too dim to tell, but there is something about him that seems familiar. She nods her head, anyway.

The man sits across and rests his elbows on his knees.

“You started dancing by the jukebox for some time and then knocked into me. After that, you face planted on the floor and nearly broke your nose.” The man points to her face and Brun reaches up.

She winces at the stinging sensation on the bridge of her nose. She feels a makeshift bandage taped across.

“Don’t worry, it’s not broken.” He hands her the ice pack she knocked out of him earlier.

“You sure?” She takes the ice and sighs at the cool touch.

The man nods. “I got a friend who took a look. He didn’t see any fractures.”

Brun laughs. “How many mates do you have?”

“I’ve been told I’m quite sociable.” He smirks.

Brun shifts her eyes away. She can see how he would be likable. If he didn’t have to drag her passed out body through the pub and into the office, she might have tried hitting on him.

“Well, I would be flattered if I didn’t witness how much you drank.” He gives a nervous laugh.

“Did I say that aloud?” Her cheeks are burning.

“Looks like you’ve got a long way before you sober up.” He leans back. “You’re welcome to stay here.” He fidgets with his hand and shrugs. “Or I can take you home.”

Brun shakes her head, feeling her cheeks still warming up. “I got my bike here, I don’t want to leave it behind.” After a moment of silence, she continues. “You would trust me, here?” She gives a look of skepticism.

“It’s not my room to trash.”

Brun laughs and stands up. “I think I’ll just take myself home.”

He quickly stands up and puts a hand on her shoulder.

“I can’t let you do that.” He protests.

“Why not?” Brun takes a step back and feels the ground wobbling.

“You’re clearly still very drunk.” He motions. “You were passed out for hours.”

“I can handle myself.” She bats away his hand reaching for her.

“But, you see I’m already involved.”

Brun turns to him and raises an eyebrow. He sighs.

“If I let you leave the pub drunk and you get in an accident or hurt someone, I could get in trouble for not stopping you.” The man holds up both palms. “And my family would kill me if I get tied up with the law, again.”

“Again?” Brun begins to feel unsafe.

The man realizes how unsettling that comment sounds considering they’re alone in the back of a noisy pub.

“I just realized that was a bad joke.” He grimaces.

Brun keeps her guard up but considers his comment. Her judgment is not at its finest, but it’s unlikely he would go through this much trouble to get himself in other kinds of trouble.

“It would be best if you stayed here.” He points to the leather couch. “You can sleep there until you clear up.”

“I’m sure I can order a car over.” Brun pulls up her phone and curses herself. “Of course, it won’t turn on.”

“I’ll charge it for you.” He takes her phone and walks back to the couch.

The man sits on the edge of the couch and leans over for his phone. He removes it from the charger, switches the phones and begins to stand up.

While Brun has never met this man before, it is odd, and admittedly flattering, that someone so attractive is being so kind to her. Brun sits down next to him and puts her hand on his knee.

“I don’t think I’ve ever met someone at a pub who was so…hospitable.” Brun leans closer and glances up at the man’s blue eyes. “You might be the most interesting one, yet.” She smiles and presses herself up against his thigh.

The man sucks in a breath and gives a weak smile.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but I would prefer to get to know you better when you’re not as intoxicated.” He gently nudges her off.

Brun huffs and settles herself back down.

Well, if that’s not what he’s after.

“You will feel better, and thank me later if you just turn in, here.” The man stands up and makes his way to the door.

He reaches over the doorknob and turns the lock.

“You can keep this locked if you want.”

This guy is really going out of his way for me.

The longer she remains on the couch, the more comfortable she feels. Slowly, Brun can feel her body make contact with the cushions and falls asleep the second the lights go out. The last thing she hears is the click of the door shutting.

“Thanks for the help, guys. Tonight, was wilder than I thought it would be.” Korg puts the bottles of liquor back on their shelves.

“Anything for free bottles of ale!” Thor pumps his fist in the air.

Loki’s brother finishes clearing up the last table and slaps him on the back.

“Are you sure you want to wait here?”

Loki motions to the closed office door. “It wouldn’t be wise to leave a pub to someone who can handle their liquor.”

“The things you do for a pretty face.” Thor nudges him.

“She practically passed out in my arms. I couldn’t just drop her and walk away.” He rolls his eyes.

“Sure thing, brother. Remember to give Sleeping Beauty a kiss before she wakes up. Or maybe feed her one of your experimental dishes, that ought to bring her back to life.” He snickers.

Loki shoves Thor and reminds him not to bite the hand that feeds them both.

While Thor might be jesting, there isn’t anyone else he knows better that can take care of a hungover person. He hopes his brother will fill him in on the details about this mystery woman, later.

“I’ll come back later in the afternoon.” Korg hands him the key. “If I’m not back, make sure you lock up on your way out.”

“I will.” He nods.

Loki squints his eyes when the pair opens the front door. Morning light quickly flashes in the pub and he realizes how late-or early- it is. He drags his feet to the back of the bar and makes himself a cup of coffee. Hopefully, it won’t be long before she wakes up and he can get a few hours of sleep in when he gets home.

Loki thanks Korg that he took his advice and started putting the pub’s kitchen to use and serve decent food to the patrons. He reasons that his friend won’t miss a few missing eggs and such.

Brun’s head feels like it’s stuffed with rocks. Luckily, she can recall why she’s on the sofa in the pub.

“I’d call that a victory in my book.” She laughs to no one and rubs her head. She notices a tempting glass of water on the desk with two aspirins. It feels strange being taken care of, but she can’t refuse considering the throbbing headache the whiskey left her.

Finishing her glass of water and pocketing her fully charged phone, she decides to step out the office.

“Well good morning.” The familiar face on one of the bar stools smirks and motions a coffee mug.

“Is it really morning?” Brun walks over and grumbles. She presses her temples at the sound coming from the television. Since when was morning news so loud?

The man notices her discomfort and puts the television on mute.

“Afraid so.” He holds up what looks like a breakfast sandwich. “Luckily, the pub has some eggs, bread rolls and sausages I could put together.”

Brun holds her gaze at the sandwich and feels reluctant to accept. Her bike is just outside and she’s not the one to stick around for the morning after. Even if nothing technically happened.

“Unless you prefer some stale beans and toast.” The man frowns.

Brun shakes her head and accepts. She recoils when she feels the food hit her empty stomach. Hangover breakfasts are never pleasant for her, no matter what the food is. She feels bad that she can’t enjoy her meal. From what she can taste, it seems like this man has a talent for food.

“If you don’t own this place, where is the owner.”

“He left for a bit.” He offers her a cup of coffee. Brun shakes her head. She’s still having trouble keeping the breakfast sandwich in her hungover stomach.

“He must really trust you to leave you alone, here.” Brun smiles and eyeballs all the tempting liquor beckoning her to take a taste. There’s some top-shelf stuff she’s only had the pleasure of tasting when people with platinum credit cards wanted to gain her favor.

“You can say that. He’s more acquainted with my brother.”

Brun settles herself on the bar stool and continues with her food. Her taste is slowly coming back to her.

“But…”He trails off, “he owes me a favor, anyhow.”

“This is just a favor? Why go through all this trouble?” Brun finishes her sandwich.

“Well, maybe I was hoping to get lucky.” He gives a playful grin.

Brun laughs. “No, you weren’t.”

The man raises his eyebrows. “You’re reasoning?”

Brun hums in thought. “You wouldn’t have admitted it.” A smile cracks, “The faux-chivalrous type of people I know would beg me to thank them. Or start ranting away about how out of their way they went to help me.”

“Maybe I’m different.”

Brun considers and humors him, “Maybe.”

“Or maybe I’ve noticed you for some time and hoped for a reason to talk to you.” Brun can’t tell if he’s being honest or twisting up any clues she has about this man. He continues with his theory, “I can’t think of another story more romantic than that.”

“Hah, some romance! I don’t even know your name.” She laughs.

“It’s Loki,” he smiles.

Brun begins to tell him her name and he cuts her off.

“And you’re Brunnhilde.”

She tilts her head.

“I had to check your I.D. Just in case.” He tosses her wallet back. “Don’t worry, there was nothing worth taking.” He snickers.

Brun takes a quick look to be sure and mutters. “It’s Brun, actually.” She puts her wallet back in her pocket.

“Well, Brun. It was a pleasure to meet you.” He takes a bite out of his sandwich.

Brun nods her head. “Likewise.” She takes one last look in those striking blue eyes and mutters. “And, thank you.”

Loki’s eyes warm up at that and nods.

Brun zips up her jacket and reaches in her pocket for her keys. She stops when she feels some loose change.

“Before I go.” She smirks. “I might as well leave you something for your troubles.” Brun walks over to the jukebox and puts some coins in.

“You know I could have done that free of charge.”

Brun ignores him and tries not to cry out in frustration.

Too late!

She smiles at the jukebox menu left at her favorite song. As if it was meant to happen.

Loki holds back a laugh at the opening chords of the song. Looks like she forgot she already did this last night. Though, she was dancing between a sea of sweaty men and unaware of his wandering eyes that time.

Brun makes her way out and sways her hips along. She pauses mid-step, frowns and realizes her choice.

“This was the song I picked when I was drunk dancing, wasn’t it?”

Loki laughs and nods his head.

“I knew it wasn’t a coincidence.” She grumbles to herself.

“It’s a good song.” He shrugs.

“Well, I’m still exiting with the song playing.”

“Oh don’t forget to re-bandage your nose.” A smile peeks over Loki’s mug as he takes a sip.

Brun touches her blood-soaked nose and whines. She must have looked ridiculous this whole time. She picks up her pace and leaves without another word.

The last half of the song is accompanied by the roar of a motorbike.

Loki finishes his sandwich and smiles to himself. He never thought he would find somebody as theatrical as himself. Hopefully one day he could treat her to a drink for her performance.

Note: Just noting, that I tried to keep the AU in U.K. but, I wouldn’t say I’m an expert but I do hope the story was close to how things are done, there. Let me know if I missed something! 😊

#lazycat writes #lazycat fic #lazycat fanfiction #valki fanfic #valki fanfiction #valkyrie #loki #thor fanficiton #loki x valkyrie #marvel fanfiction

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