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killerkillerkillher · 1 month

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Bound to Fall in Love

Angel/Demon! 141 x reader

Tags: kidnapping, sacrifices, religious references, reader is too angry to die, reader commits murder lol, canon typical violence??, reader gets a kissy on the forehead, a tad crack-ish

Inclusivity tags: reader is referred to w he/him and they/them pronouns, no bodily description, no y/n

A/n: call my brain an apple w all the worms it's got. This was just a blurb at first, but I made room in there for me to potentially make it into... something I guess.

minors dni!

"Cole, I can't fucking focus while they're just... staring at us like that."

"Ignore it, Bess. We have to finish these candles."

You wish a bolt of lightening would come down and strike all three of you at once. Or maybe the building spontaneously combusting would be better. Anything, anything, would be better at this moment than watching your boyfriend and best friend work together to light a summoning circle after having tied you up in your sleep.

For a fraction of a second, you wonder if any gods are watching, if any of them would be willing to give you a boon and allow you one last chance to punch both of these betrayers in the face.

"Okay, okay, the book," Bess mutters, going to the pick up her ritual book from the coffee table you bought. Honestly, if they were going to try to sacrifice you somewhere, your living room is one of the most disrespectful places. Probably right under your bed room.

"I'm sorry," Cole has the gaul to look down at you with a face stricken with grief. Like you're dead already. "We didn't know what else to do. We're both in bad places and you've always been so good to us, so we figured-"

"You better hope this fucking kills me." You grunt. Cole's face melts into a glare. "Because if I'm still breathing, it's going to take more than Satan's intervention to save you from me. I swear on my mother." You jerk forward, making him jump back a step.

"Cole...?" Bess looks at you, then up at Cole with unease. Cole doesn't say anything for a second, sorting his feelings out with a leer before turning to her.

"Read the book."

He drags you into the middle of their pentagram while she sings Latin words off the old book pages. The candles flicker and waver before their flames grow twice as tall. Cole rolls you onto your back and pulls a knife from his back pocket.

"I meant it when I said I'm sorry," Cole mutters. You snarl, but don't jump at him like you want to.

"Yeah? Yeah, you're sorry? Kiss my ass!" You shout over Bess's reading. "If I'm still alive after this, I'm killing you and burying you in the fucking septic tank!" You crane your head up so you can see Bess as well. "Time to get some stuff off my chest, yeah? Bess, I fucked your older brother on the day we graduated."

Her eyes go wide, and she almost stops talking, but Cole shoots her a look that forces her to continue.

"And his friend Carl, the one you had a crush on. And Cole? I never. Fucking. Finished. Ever! You are the only person I've dated who couldn't get me off." Cole's hand's twitch around the blade.

"Are you serious?"

"Does now look like a time to- ack!" You don't get to finish because Bess finished the spell and it was time for your blood to fuel it. The blade buries in your gut, turning this way and that way at measured increments. You just lay there and twitch, breathy gasps falling from your gaping mouth, the pain only throwing fuel to the fires of your rage.

"Please, we call you here! Honor us with your presence!" Bess chants. Cole step away from you when the candles roar and your vision is filled with bright red and orange.

The ground beneath you rumbles. Whispers fill your ears, nothing you can ever imagine understanding, but something tells you they're other summoners. Or maybe little souls of those who were just where you are now, with a people sacrificing them.

It's odd, you think as blood soaks your back, your hair. You thought you'd be more scared in what could be your final moments. But there's only anguish where there should be fear. Only unfettered violent tension felt in your muscles, and a tongue hungering for iron and gore. You're jaw is wound tight enough to shatter your teeth.

If you could think straight, if you weren't about to die, you might be a little concerned. Never have you wanted to sink your fingers into someone's soft bits as much as you do now. This is normal, right? A normal amount of rage for the people taking your life.

Something in your gut tells you it's not.

In the fog of your rage, you missed the appearance of a pair of men above you. They hover, leathery plum colored wings sagging. One wears a leather strap harness across his chest, while the other favors an unbuttoned silk shirt. One of them looks at you curious as the fire dies, steam and copper colored smoke bellowing from his mouth. A thick cigar hangs on his lips.

"You came! There's... two of you?" Cole gawks, then falls to his knees beside Bess. You can't help but scoff at their sniveling forms.

"We did. There are." The one without the cigar brushes back his long mohawk to get a better look at the whimpering humans. They're nothing new to them, just another set of weak little things looking to get something without putting in the work for it.

Well, they might have had to put in the work to capture you, based on the way you still squirm and fight the rope keeping your arms together. So much blood has left you. You are going to die. Yet you spend your last moments doing what most humans find to be a waste of precious time. Being angry. It's interesting.

"What do you want?" The bearded one in the silk shirt grunts out around his cigar. Bess lifts her head just a bit to speak.

"We want to make a trade. A soul for a better life for us."

There's a moment of silence. You blink your heavy lids, growing too tired to do much else anymore. Both demons look back at you, then to the kneeling humans.

"They're not dead." They say at the same time.

Bess and Cole stiffen and finally chance a glance at you. You're bleeding, a glassy look to your eye and a smile on your face, but you're not dead.

"See, Bess?" You cough up blood only to swallow it back down, "what did I tell you? The cunt can't make me come and can't... can't even make me go."

The mohawked devil pops a wicked smile, not even hiding it from his would-be contractors.

Cole fumes. "I can finish the job. Fuck, am I going to finish the job." He stands, moving to step into the circle only to yelp, the invisible border around the summoning circle becoming visible if only to shock Cole back.

"Not so fast," the bearded one spawns a scroll in his hand. He's eyes glow a molten orange as he scans it. "Section 1, clause 3, part 19 states: executioner(s) must sacrifice one(1) human soul to contractee(s)... Let's see... Here it is: Sacrificee(s) must be dead upon arrival so that proper collection can be done. If sacrificee(s) is still soul bond upon arrival, then they are made the true contractor and all work will be conducted with them."

"In other words," the mohawked one grinned, "you should have went for the heart." He taps at his chest.

"Or the neck." The other devil offers.

"Or that vein in they're thigh."

"The sephenous, Johnny."

"Yeah, that."

"No, no!" Cole grabs at his hair as Bess looks like she's about to start crying. You want to laugh. They deserve the despair. They deserve the horror in their mistake. They were going to kill you!

"That means," the devils lean back to look at you. "You're our contractor. You get two requests at the price of one, human. I suggest one of those requests includes healing you." He flicks the ashes of his cigar on your leg. You don't even have to think of what you want most right now.

"I want you to untie me." You roll on your side. They wait for the rest. Cole and Bess look like they're going to shit themselves from the pale faced looks of terror they give you. Your eyes narrow. "And a hammer. A old fashioned iron and wood handled hammer."

Another beat of silence before the infernals bend over in laughter. The room shacks, sulfuric smoke pouring from their mouths to funk up the room. Cole tries to cox Bess to her feet while they're distracted. Their feet can't move though. It's like they're glued in placed and no amount of pulling and tugging could get them loose. Shame.

"Yer a funny one, love. I'll love having your soul for a few eternities." The one in leather floats over you, tilting his head this way and that way to get a good look at you. You settle him with a neutral look. "My name is Johnny. You sure that's what you want? I think you've only got a few minutes left in you."

"Then let's hurry this up a little, huh?"

"Ooh, you heard 'em." The cigared one snickers and snaps his claws. Two contracts appear in front of your face, both written in a language you can hardly comprehend. A pen appeared in front of your mouth. "Sign on the dotted line please."

You take the quill in your mouth, dip it in the blood beneath you.

"Rah 'ere?"

"Mhm."

You lean forward to dot the paper with your sloppy signature, but bizarrely enough, it seems like the powers that be have decided that they haven't made enough appearances. The floor trembles, and you worry about your poor infrastructure for a fraction of a second, when a set of gold doors spawn right behind you. You roll back onto your back to intake everything. You swear you're hallucinating when a pair of white winged angels step out, the clouded blue of heaven at their back.

"Hello?" You greet stupidly. You must be losing your mind, right? What the fuck is happening.

"Do not sign a thing." The bronzen angel instructs. "Human, we are here as messengers. God sees great things for you in your ascension. Please do not squander that to these demons." He shoots a sharp look at the demonic pair. The angel's counterpart wears a white cloak, obscuring all but his glowing golden eyes. You half expect him to sing "Be not afraid." despite you actively shitting bricks.

Oddly enough, their appearence seems to have some sort of healing property. Your lethargy starts to clear and the blade in your gut starts to get pushed out. Nothing hurts anymore.

"Oh, so we've got a big soul on our hands here, huh?" Johnny smirks. "Price, what's the plan?"

Price the devil throws his cigar to the ground and crushes it.

"Do what we do best. Bargain."

"Don't play with us, Price." The shrouded angel grunts. He's got a mind piercing voice that's got your head ringing, and you swear it echoes despite the room being well furnished. "We can provide them with just as much, if not more, at no cost of their soul." Those gold orbs land on you. "All we ask for is your faith."

"Jesus fucking Christ!" You tug at your bonds with renewed vigor. The angels wince at the mention of their Lord, but only watch as you force yourself upright. "I could not give a rat's ass who gets what! How about this? First one to get me free and a hammer in hand gets my loyalty."

There's two resounding snaps from either side of you. The ropes disappear, a hammer is in your left and right hand. You don't think deeper on what that implies. You finally stand, dropping the hammer in your nondominant hand, and march over to the two people you thought you could trust. They kneel now, seemingly ready to beg for their souls.

"Come on, don't look scared now." You drop your hands on your hips. "What happened to you finishing the job?"

"I didn't want-"

"Say it with your chest." You poke his breast plate with the iron hammer head.

"I didn't want it to come to this!" Cole yells. The divine audience doesn't say anything about it. They watch you curiously as you bounce the hammer in hand. Your soul is visible to them. What should be a glowing ball of light is a red and white morning star, all sharp edges and pulsing like a heart. Your soul will certainly not end up with the others, that much is true.

"I just... I couldn't keep up with you! Your life style, the way you act, your job. I never left good enough. Bess expressed the same thing and we just... clicked. We would have just left, but we could have never lived without struggling, so we just..." He swallows. You can't look at him anymore, hands clenching at what he says next. "The book called for someone we cared for."

''That supposed to make me feel better?" You tilt your head. Cole winces, eyes falling on your feet. You look to Bess. "Thought you were better than this. You were going to kill me. Because what, I was happy? I loved both of you, you could have just talked to me."

"We're sorry! What more do you want?" Bess sobs. You straighten up, bouncing the hammer on your hip, acting like you next action is something to deliberate. You already know what they deserve, and a flash of sadness bubbles in your chest, but it quickly passes as a hot, searing emotion burns a hole into what little hesitation you had left.

"Reckon I want your souls after all the shit you've caused." You grin before swinging the hammer back and caving in Cole's chest.

"Fuck..." is all you can say after everything is done. Cole and Bess lay in a bloody heep, all recognizable features destroyed and crushed. You pant, hands trembling and nothing but white noise and static crunching around in your head. You just killed your best friend and boyfriend. For some reason, you've never felt so light.

Someone's whistle gets followed by a clap.

"Impressive. Done that before?" Johnny chuckles. He floats closer, hand running down your back as he moves past and pokes around the pulped organs. "Shite, did them right in. Can't tell which is which."

"I've never-" you start to answer, but hands are clapped onto your shoulders, shocking you into silence.

"Well, that was a good place to start, lad. Your swings were a bit sloppy, but we can fix that." Price squeezes at your trapezius, massaging the stiffness out of them. A throat clears, and Price sighs like he forgot there was other company.

"We aren't finished. The human is our ward now, Price." The uncloaked angel snaps his finger, pulling you from Price and making you spawn between the two angels. The bronzen angel smiles down at you with teeth so white you could damn near see your reflection.

"There you are. It's nicer to have you close. My friend here is Simon and I'm-"

"Come on, Kyle, you know he's ours!" Johnny spits, his wings flaring out. "We gave him the hammer first, so piss off."

"Uh...huh." Kyle's smile falls. "I think you're a bit mistaken. Look, after executing the human's request, I have his name here." A stone slab appears in front of your face. It's smells like sunshine and warm grass. What the fuck. "His pledge to the Lord has been set and his soul already has a place next to Their throne."

"Right, right, like we don't have documentation neither." Johnny huffs. The stone disappears as a scroll appears next to the devil. The smell of sulfur and smoke wafts over to you. "His name is right there, pretty boy. Getting yer fuckin' lookers on."

Kyle ignores the rude tone and does pull out a pair of reading glasses to go over the scroll. You stand there in the silence, a little too scared to speak up. What could you do anyway? In a blind anger, you didn't really have the mind to think any of this out. Angels and devils are fighting over you because you'd stupid ass was too blood hungry to think past murder. All that can be done is for them to figure this out amongst themselves, and for you to wait for the sentencing. Heaven, or Hell?

"...Simon." Kyle slowly pulls his glasses off. "This is legit. His soul is promised to all of us."

You glance up at Simon, the scary motherfucker. He blinks. Once. Twice. Then pinches the bridge of his nose with a hagard sigh.

"Shit."

That's not good.

Johnny laughs, Price grinning like a dog with a bone. Kyle marches over to you, patting your shoulders with an awkward smile. His demeanor reminds you of the way your mom acted when she said she was going to divorce your dad. And all you can think is "Not this again." Are you going to be spending your afterlife going between heaven and hell forever? Does God get weekends because Their day is Sunday or whatever?

"We need to go and talk this over with some superiors. We'll clean this up," Kyle snaps and the gore is gone, so is the ritual circle and candles. "And we'll get back to you in the morning." He places a feather light kiss on your forehead, and suddenly you're squeaky clean and in the softest set of pajamas you've ever worn. "Stay safe while we're gone and don't allow these two to influence you. Get some rest."

"Blah, blah, blah," Johnny mocks from the sidelines. Price tilts his head, and there's nothing but amusement behind those eyes. Yeah, this is exactly like your parents divorce.

"O-okay? I mean, I'll try." You shrug.

Simon nods. "That's all you can do." He steps back into the golden doorway and Kyle falls in stride. You make some distance, and with a final wave from a white toothed angel, the doors shut with a slam that shakes the house's foundation.

"Just you and us now, stud."

You turn with a comedic slowness to the devils. Price chuffs and floats forward. His assess you, takes you in in all your fluffy white pajama glory, and it seems he finds what he wants when he nods.

"Guess we've got to talk with top brass to see what's going on ourselves. Pity we couldn't stick around longer." The devil's eyes never meet yours, staying glued to various parts of your face. They hop from ears, to your eyebrows, down to your lips. Christ on a bike, is it getting hot in here? His blue, glowing cerulean eyes appear to flash with something.

"Shite, yer right." Johnny groans. "I hate going down there."

"Suck it up, love. You know how I feel about sharing." Price drops his interest in you like an old toy and takes Johnny close by his waist. You watch with a lead poisoned stare as their noses touch intimately, words you can't hear being exchanged. It's kinda of awkward to just stand there and watch but your brain isn't really functioning well enough to tell you to stop.

"Hey, stud." You blink, refocusing on the pair. Johnny seems to have climbed his partner, his legs on his waist and arms around his neck. Price makes busy opening a portal to hell in your livingroom with one hand, supporting Johnny under his ass with the other. "Sit pretty, yeah? 'll be back before those two arseholes, promise."

"Right... yeah." You nod. "Uh, be safe?"

"Be safe, he says." Price mutters. "Cute." Johnny waves until Price steps through the infernal hole and falls from view. The portal closes right behind him so you'd have no hopes of seeing anything but the red hue of smog and dust.

And here you are. A little dazed, a little sad, probably holding back a break down from the last hour of events. But you're alive and you're healed. There's no blood to clean, you're in comfortable pajamas. Could probably sleep right now if your brain would stop for a minute, but it doesn't look like that's in the plans.

So you look for something to do. Cole and Bess and moved around all your furniture to make the summoning circle. Guess you can start there, right?

#ghost mw2 #price mw2 #cod modern warfare #gaz mw2 #soap mw2 #call of duty #angel/devil au #141 x reader #141 x male reader #poly!141 x reader #let me cook!#LET ME COOK!

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mechanicalchickens · 1 month

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Oh! That’s most certainly Mitzi, on first read I didn’t look close and thought that was Atlas’s silhouette. All the old crew are caught adrift in what was, huh.

Which means that which ‘makes light for dead eyes’ is the dead tree… does it represent Atlas? Or the dead husk of what he built, upon which Mordecai Mitzi and Victor project so much?

What is that veining the tree? Lightning?( the crackles certainly suggest so).

Or is it water ? a flood slowly seeping through the dead husk of what was built, until it all cataclysmically crumbles (the primary mechanisms of which would be ROT and slowly building water pressure, very thematically appropriate).

They’re in a desert, with a singular dead tree. a trickle would bring life, a deluge will lead to flash flooding and destroy the tree. But I’m not sure what water IS metaphorically in that interpretation of the scenario. I do know that the great flood of 1927 is coming.

There’s a storm brewing in the sky(which would bring WATER), maybe they’re all waiting for lightning to strike twice — that would make Atlas’s first entrance into their lives a metaphorically lightning strike, ultimately destructive. And if the tree crackles with energy, then perhaps that suggests that is what M&M&V are doing — living off the aftershocks of energy, waiting for another lightening strike even if that might mean doom.

Interesting, not quite sure what to make of it, except that living trapped in memory is unlikely to end well for any of them!

#Lackadaisy #lackadaisy cats #mitzi may #mordecai heller #Viktor vaasko #lackadaisy spoilers #<probably overkill but there might be show-onlys #this isn’t quite meta. more rambling about symbolism #that doesn’t quite jump the gap to theorizing #maybe I’ll figure out a coherent interpretation. what does it MEAN #is water the lifeblood of the city taken to excess?#is it renewal and rebirth turned destructive because of how much they’ve built on memory?#I do know that there is a water motif. and that there is a flood coming #am I missing the point? probably #maybe it’s just saying that atlas was an oasis in the desert for the old crew and they’re left staring at the dried up remnants of it #holing for life to come back #idk #*hoping

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freedomfireflies · 2 years

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Rumours | 2. Lightening Strikes (Maybe Once, Maybe Twice)

Life without Harry isn’t what she expected.

But it’s exactly what she needed.

The days start long. Sleepless nights. Staring at his contact in her phone. Praying for the courage to let him go.

The days turn into weeks. The weeks come easier. She deletes his number. Deletes the pictures. Refuses to linger on a memory when it comes to mind.

She packs him away. Closes the box. Tapes it shut. Locks the door.

The weeks melt into months, the box growing cold as it disappears behind dust and cobwebs in her subconscious.

Soon, a familiar scent or reminder of who they once were doesn’t hurt as much. She can see his old t-shirt and feel nothing.

She finds new friends. Finds new parts of the city she’s never explored. Finds new hobbies, new interests, new favorite songs.

Things that are hers. Only hers. Not theirs.

She becomes who she’s always wanted to be. Who she was always meant to be.

She finds herself.

The weekends, which used to be spent in wallowing and self-pity (and buckets of ice cream) are now spent dancing. All through the night, she and her friends roam the city streets going from club to club as they create memories to last a lifetime.

And enough blisters to remind her why she prefers staying home.

Not once in the two years since she walked out that door and left Harry behind has she seen him. Hasn’t heard his name. Hasn’t caught a whiff of his cologne. Hasn’t seen the familiar curve of his jaw. Of his nose. Of his lips.

Not until tonight.

She sees his hair first. Longer than it used to be, but not by much. It’s grown out around his ears. Gives him a boyish charm.

She sees his tattoos next. The familiar face of the mermaid. The elegant ship that ripples when he moves. The rose he had insisted she get to match his.

Then, she finds his eyes. As hauntingly persuasive as she remembers.

The room moves around them. People dancing. Music loud and lively. Energy infectious.

But they don’t move. They stand in the middle of the crowd, and they reminisce. Five years in five seconds. Taking in the other as they wonder how two years could have gone by so fast.

It feels as though it were yesterday.

And somehow, a lifetime ago.

Then…he smiles.

She hadn’t expected to feel so relieved, but she does. The soft pull of his lips enough to soothe her muscles as she returns the gesture.

She had hoped one day they’d find peace.

She’s glad to see they have.

They turn back to their friends and continue with their night. She’s surprised to find she feels lighter than she did when she first came in. Surprised to find that he doesn’t hurt her anymore.

But she’s happy for it, nonetheless.

As the night continues, she finds herself wondering if she should extend an olive branch. If she owes it to him to put the past behind them. Pursue a friendship.

She supposes she doesn’t. After all, she has no idea where his life has led him. Has no idea who he is anymore.

It’s not her responsibility to find out.

She attempts to push the thought free. Moves about the room until she can find a spot to rest and collect her breath. Rehydrate and regroup. She watches her friends dance the night away with a knowing expression of peace and contentment. Happy to be a part of the night, no matter how bizarre and surprising.

That’s where Harry finds her.

Leaning against the hallway wall as she observes, the water bottle tight in her hand, skin glistening with sweat.

He hesitates for a moment once he realizes, and she herself feels the flush in her cheeks as her heart begins to race.

Then, he straightens up and offers a soft smile. “Hi.”

She feels her muscles unwind, slouching against the wall with relief as she nods her greeting. “Hi.”

For a moment, neither of them truly knows how to proceed. How to be in each other’s company. What to say, where to look, how to act.

But, as usual, Harry takes the lead, stepping closer and crossing his arms. “How’ve you been?”

“Good,” she tells him, and she smiles at the truth of the statement. Because it is true, and she’s so glad it is. “You?”

“Good, yeah.” His tone softens, almost as if he’s not allowed to admit he’s been good. To admit that life did in fact move on. “I’m…it’s good to see you, it’s been…what? A year?”

“Two,” she corrects, and his eyes widen. “I know, time goes by so fast.”

“Shit, no kidding.”

A lull in the conversation as his head shakes and his eyes find the floor, lost in thought.

For a moment, she wonders if she should ask what he’s been up to. Wonders if she should attempt reconciliation.

But she’s afraid to open that box. Not after she worked so hard to close it.

It’s as if he can sense her hesitation, gaze flicking back up to find her. “You look good,” he murmurs, and despite the surprise of his compliment, she can hear the earnestness in his voice. “Happy.”

Now it’s her turn to look away, suddenly overcome with sentiment. She can feel her skin grow hot as he looks on, but she forces herself to remain unperturbed. “You do, too.”

And to be fair, he does look good. She can’t quite say he looks happy, but he does look like the Harry she fell in love with. But older. Perhaps wiser. The kindness in his eyes ever-present the way she remembers.

A quick pause in the conversation as he clears his throat and looks toward his feet. “I missed you.”

This admittance is ushered so low, it’s almost carried away by the rhythm echoing throughout the building.

But she hears it, nonetheless, and the strings of her heart are tugged as she regards him. She works to fight the words ready to slip free, but before she can, she hears herself whisper, “I missed you, too.”

Because she did. Of course she missed him. She’ll always miss him. Maybe not as her lover but as her friend.

She’ll forever miss the young boy she grew to adore, who dragged her through the streets looking for the perfect ice cream cone. The boy who carried her on his back whenever her feet got tired. The boy who crawled through her window so he could slip into her arms and find sleep.

He seems surprised to hear this. Surprised, maybe, that she hasn’t told him off.

But she finds no point in holding onto the past any longer. No point in writing him off when all she wants is for him to be happy.

“How is she?”

The question comes out before she can restrain herself. And for a brief moment, she wants to wince…but the truth is, she doesn’t mind hearing about this woman. Not anymore. Not after how hard she’s worked to put it all behind.

She’s strong enough to handle it now.

If Harry had been startled before, he’s gobsmacked now, cheeks growing red as he struggles to meet her eye. “She—” Another clear of his throat. “—uh, I don’t know. It’s…it’s over.”

Her brow raises. She searches her subconscious for any sign of relief but finds none. “Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.”

He snorts. Not in a particularly condescending way, but she does imagine he finds her condolences odd. “Don’t be.”

“Oh. Okay.”

He pauses. “I…I meant to tell you. Earlier. I mean, it’s been over for a while, and I wanted to tell you, but I just…I didn’t think you’d want to know—”

“Really, it’s fine. You don’t…you don’t owe me anything—”

“No, I do.” His voice grows louder, his body language tense. He’s adamant. “I do, I owe you fucking everything. I don’t…I know you don’t want to talk about it, but I never should have…I never—”

He sucks in a sharp breath through clenched teeth, head shaking with bitter disdain as he looks away.

The urge to comfort him is strong. To assure him that she holds no grudge.

But she waits. Waits to see what lies in his heart after all this time.

“Shit, I don’t…I wanted to call you,” he mumbles after a moment, glaring at the floor. “I wanted to call you every fucking day and just hear your voice. Just…just hear that you were okay. But you changed your number, and I knew it was because of me and—and I knew. I knew I’d made you afraid of me, and I’m…I’m so fucking sorry.”

She steps forward. Her hands find his chest. Captures his attention as he looks at her.

“It’s okay, Har,” she whispers, her voice soft like satin. Encouraging him to listen. To understand. “I don’t carry it around with me anymore. You shouldn’t either.”

His breath hitches. Overcome with regret. “I…I just—”

“We were meant to let go.” She repeats the reality she had to learn for herself. “We were meant to find who we are without each other. We were meant to move on.”

Her palms find his cheeks, cupping his face tenderly so he’ll accept what she has to offer.

“We’re okay, Har,” she murmurs. “You’ll always be in my heart. Always be the first man I fell in love with. Always.”

She can see the gratitude woven into his features, but the storm still brews behind his eyes. He’s not quite sure what to say. What to think.

So, instead…he doesn’t think. He doesn’t speak.

He just does.

He kisses her.

There isn’t enough time for her to be confused or disconcerted or aghast. Because suddenly, everything comes back to her then.

The feel. The feel of him. The feel of his touch. The feel of his love.

Muscle memory. Pulling her into him. Washing away her intuition and her grievances. Reminding her of a time when she was at her happiest.

When she was his.

And perhaps tomorrow she’ll find the pieces of her heart shattered on the floor.

But tonight, she can’t find it in herself to care.

She chases the feeling like she chases the taste of him. Rising to her tiptoes as she tangles her tongue with his. As she lets the alcohol and the music and the lust drive her forward.

His aggression is exactly like she remembers. Tugging her into his body as he bites at her bottom lip. As he groans her name. As he whispers how much he missed her. How much he really missed her.

Within moments, he’s dragging her into the bathroom. Slamming the door shut. Locking it before throwing her against it. Having her the way he’s dreamed about for months.

And maybe this is the closure she needed from him. Just one last time. One final goodbye.

It’s rough and it’s messy and it’s so fucking familiar that it almost kills her. A memory that had once been cold and grey now warm like sunshine on a fall day. Comforting. Like autumn leaves that fall from the trees. Like picnics in the park. Like apple cider and large sweaters.

And it’s always been good with them. They know each other better than anyone else in the world ever could. Ever will. They know their bodies, their pleasure, their mind. What drives them mad. What drives them to their knees.

“Shit…fucking waited for me, didn’t you?” he grits between clenched teeth as he fucks her. Hard and unforgiving. Slow and salacious. “Knew nothing would ever make you feel like I do, yeah?”

“Yes.” She’s not sure what she’s saying. Imagines he’s not sure what he’s saying, either. But they say it because it feels right. Even if it means nothing. “Shit, Har…s’always you.”

His nose brushes the skin of her cheek as he finds comfort in the mold of her body against his. “Yeah? Always me, baby, fucking promise. Always me—”

“Always.”

They spend the moments after catching their breath. Still entangled in each other’s arms as he whispers his praises. As he tells her he’ll never go without her again.

And she lets him, fingers brushing through his sweaty curls as his head rests on her shoulder, face nuzzled into her neck.

She realizes then that it doesn’t matter how far she moves on. Who she becomes. Where she goes.

At the end of the day…it all comes down to him.

All comes down to the man he once was. The man he is. The love she has for the stranger in her arms. The love that she finally accepts she’ll never be free from.

It will always come down to him.

And maybe she’s okay with that.

~ Rumours | 1. The Chain (You'll Never Love Me Again)

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#harry #harry styles #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles imagine #harry styles short story #fleetwood mac #stevie nicks #harry styles request #harry styles smut #rumours #gypsy

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fanmoose12 · 3 years

Text

As all horrible things do, it starts out with a peaceful moment.

The day, when it begins, is humid and hot, the promise of storm is prominent in the air.

But for now, it's just a promise, and Levi allows himself not to worry. The large tree hides him in its shadow, the grass providing a soft pillow for his body, and Hange is pressed against him, her fingers writing the secrets of universe on his skin.

She murmurs something to him, too soft for Levi to catch. He means to ask her to repeat it, but then his eyes meet hers, and the honey brown of her irises entrances him so much that everything else flies out of his head. He thinks of making love to her right there and then, with the sun as their witness. That douche Apollo would certainly like it...

His lewd plans must have reflected on his face, because Hange shakes her head and tuts, "Levi, Levi... You don't listen to me. What if I was going to say something important?"

"Everything you say is important."

It slips out of his lips unprompted, unexpected. Levi blames in on the sun. Apollo, that deceiving bastard, must have loosen his tongue.

Hange widens her eyes and her mouth falls open in an expression of pure wonder as though Levi has done something incredible.

"Oh, Levi," she whispers, her voice softer than the wind.

She props herself on her elbows to raise up and get closer to him. There is a smile on her face, one that tells him that Hange is going to kiss him. One that promises that the kiss is going to be full of passion, sweetness and love.

Hange hovers just above him, only inches separating their lips. Levi waits for her to shorten that distance, and just before Hange does...

Someone behind them clears their throat. Levi and Hange abruptly turn around, staring at their intruder. Due to the scorching sun and the promise of that kiss that haven't been fulfilled, it takes Levi a long moment to recognise who has disturbed them.

As soon as he does, he hurries to hide Hange behind his back, protecting her with his body.

The god's messenger - Hermes - laughs and takes a step forward. Levi tenses, pushing Hange back just a little further. He doesn't trust gods, never did. And he has a damn good reason for that.

The messenger stays silent for a lengthy moment, and Levi starts to hope - maybe, it's just a mistake. Maybe, he'll leave them alone. The hope grows and grows until-

Until Hange opens her mouth.

"Did Apollo get jealous of our quiet afternoon? Does he wish to join?"

The joke is ill-timed, ill-advised and all around terrible. Levi should have scolded Hange. Instead he snorts alongside her.

Hermes doesn't bat an eye. He doesn't even glance at Hange, as though Levi is the only one here. Perhaps he should feel relieved that Hange is supposedly sparred from god's anger for one deed or another. However, he feels a slight irritation at the apparent disregard for her person.

"Levi," the god speaks. "You have been summoned to the Mount Olympus. Come with me and I'll take you there."

The words spoken surprise him, but Levi doesn't let it show on his face.

"No," he says resolutely. "I have no business with gods."

"You have now."

Something in Levi snaps at the indifferent tone of the messenger's voice. He means to raise up, to come closer to him, but Hange holds him back, her touch both reassuring and calming.

"What do you want from Levi?" she asks, and Hermes shoots her nothing more than a quick, uninterested glance.

"It doesn't concern you."

Levi's anger boils to a frightening point. God or no god, Levi won't let anyone treat Hange like that.

"Whatever concerns me, concerns Hange too. So answer her question, or leave and don't come back."

"And why did I even bother..." Hermes mutters.

He raises his hand, snaps his finger and- and Levi starts falling.

When he opens his eyes, the peaceful afternoon, the scorching sun, Hange's warm body - it's all gone. What he has now is a cold, marble floor and dozen pairs of eyes staring down at him from giant, grand thrones.

Instinctively, he reaches out for Hange only to find that both of his hands are bound.

"Hange-" everything else dies on his tongue, when he sees Hange with two men restraining her. Levi furiously fights against his bounds, desperate to get to her, to make sure she is safe and unharmed.

Hange meets his eyes and shakes her head. Calm down, I'm fine, her gaze tells him, don't do anything stupid.

Levi wants to do something stupid so badly, he wants to free himself and hurt those who dared to lay hands on his Hange. He wants to unleash his anger and destroy everything and everyone here, leaving nothing behind.

But it's not a shady tavern, Levi reminds himself. It's a Pantheon, and one should never anger gods. It was the first lesson Levi's childhood taught him.

That lesson is the one he would never forget, so more for Hange's sake than his own, he forces himself to forget about his anger. He turns to look straight ahead and nearly chokes as he comes face to face with him.

He saw that man only twice in his life, back when he was no more than a skinny brat. Levi thought him a mere human back then, not an almighty god, the king of kings.

He didn't change since since then - the same lushious brown hair, the same piercing green eyes, the same infuriating smirk.

All this time Levi thought that the man who killed his mother was a wealthy merchant or an influential politician. A powerful, yet simple mortal. Turns out, his mother's murderer is Zeus himself.

But reverence before god's might and fear of their punishment doesn't ease Levi's anger. The desire to hurt the man in front of him only grows.

"Kneel," someone behind him urges, but Levi only raises his chin in defiance. He would rather visit the Underworld and stay there than kneel before that scum.

"Kneel," they demand again. Levi stays unmoving. He stares at his so called father with all fury in the world. If Zeus is really his his father, if he is really a son of the king of gods himself, then if he glares hard enough, maybe, the bastard will go up in flames. Maybe, the lightining will strike him or-

The pained grunt interrupts Levi. He looks to his left to see Hange- his Hange lying on a floor with her face pressed to cold marble and a man standing above her, his foot on her back. Levi wants to rage, wants to kick and scream and tear the man who dared to touch her to pieces.

But it will do him no good. It will do Hange no good, so he surrenders.

He gets down on one knee and bows his head - not in reverence, but to hide his burning eyes.

His father laughs. "Welcome to my palace, son. How do you like it?"

I don't, Levi wants to say, but they have Hange. And her wellbeing is more important than his petty anger.

"It's marvelous, all songs don't do it justice," Hange's voice rings. Levi turns to her with wide eyes, even now, bound and overpowered, she tries to protect him. "Is there a reason you were gracious enough to invite us here, my lord?"

"A fierce one," his father chuckles approvingly. He raises his hand, waves it and Hange starts to scream. "But not very smart. Mortals have no right to speak up in this place."

Levi's vision clouds with specks of violent red. His hands are shaking with anger and rage, he desperately wants to-

Hange catches his eye and subtly shakes her head. I'll be fine, my love, she wordlessly tells him, hush and don't fret.

Levi tries his best to do as Hange says. He raises his head and meets his father's eyes.

"Why did you call me up here?" keeping his voice straight and calm takes a considerate effort, but Levi does his best. For Hange.

"My son," the allfather's voice carries around the large chamber. "I have a job for you. The Titans have risen up in power. They seek to have my place, to take what it's rightfully mine. I need you to destroy them for me."

Destroy... Titans? Even the notion of it was ridiculous. Do gods have no one else that'd be more suited for this job?

"I'm not strong enough for this mission," he says. "Find someone more powerful than me."

"You're my son," Zeus' eyes flash with anger. "There is no one more powerful and skillful than you. You will do this for me, Levi. Or..."

His father shifts his gaze to Hange, a smirk pulling on his lips. "Or I'll do to your lover the same thing I did to your mother. And the child that grows inside her will suffer an even more horrible fate."

A child? Levi's heart falls. He slowly turns to Hange, but she seems just as bewildered by this. She looks down to her stomach, then back up at Levi. Her eyes fill with understanding, and then - they start to fill with rebelious fire. Hange is not afraid, but that feeling has always been unknown to her.

Levi, on the other hand, is afraid. He is terrified for Hange, for their child, but he doesn't let fear get to his head.

If his father insists on him fulfilling this mission, Levi will submit. On his own conditions.

"I see you've already saw the reason," Zeus smiles. "My son, with time you'll realize what an honor I've bestowed upon you. You will be sung about in songs, you will be remembered and praised for the rest of your life."

Levi wants to scoff, as if he desires to have any of it. His only wish is to have a peaceful life with his Hange and their child, without any gods or deities interfering.

"And if you're so worried about succeeding, I'll give you the means to defeat every foe. You'll receive my lightining bolts..."

"No," Levi says. "You will give them to Hange."

His father laughs again. "Until you defeat my enemies, son, your lover stays with me."

A shudder runs through Levi at the thought of leaving Hange behind with him. The memories of his mother's corpse flash through his mind,and straighten his resolve.

"Hange will come with me, or I won't go at all."

The lightening cackles in the air.

"Are you trying to bargain with me, boy? Don't anger me, or your lover..."

"Lift a finger in her direction, and you'll have to look for another child of yours. I may not be able defeat you, father," he spits the word like a curse. "And every other god that will want to stop me, but hurt Hange and I will certainly try. You need me to defeat Titans for you, and I need Hange with me."

Somewhere behind Levi, the lightening strikes, the thunderous ripples reverberating through the marble floor and walls. Levi doesn't flinch.

His father nods, as though he is impressed. "You clearly are my son. you're just as fiery. I wanted to keep your lover safe, but be it as you wish, the mortal will go with you. I should warn you, however, the journey won't be an easy one."

"Hange is strong. And without her, I'm ten times weaker."

Zeus waves his hand at the soldiers that hold Hange. They release her, and Levi instantly reaches out, firmly grasping her hand. Already, he feels that much calmer.

"You have nine moons to finish your mission, my son. If the child of that mortal is born and the nine Titans still don't meet their end, I'll take the child and kill your lover. I'll be watching your journey. And I hope you won't disappoint me."

Levi can barely nod, before the world around him changes again.

He's back in their little garden once more, and as soon as he catches his footing, he pulls Hange to him and holds her in his arms.

He inhales the sweet scent of hers, his whole body trembling. Apologies want to tumble from his mouth, but Hange interrupts his laments with a low laughter.

"So your father is Zeus himself? I should be more careful while making love to you from now on... What if I make you feel so good, you'd start blasting lightening from fingertips?"

It's just like Hange to find a joke in everything. Levi can't help but chuckle along with her.

"Maybe, it'll knock some sense into you..."

"You've knocked me up already, my love," Hange giggles, and Levi wants to kick her. He also wants to bury himself in her embrace and stay there for all eternity.

"That's all you've got to say?" he takes a step back to glance into her sparkling eyes. "What about my father? Aren't you surprised?"

"My love," Hange cups his cheek, leaving a ghost of a kiss on his lips. "Why must I be surprised? I always knew you were special."

***

It takes them a whole month to track the first Titan.

He is huge, bigger that Levi could ever imagine, but he’s also old and barely able to move when they find him.

Levi slices his neck and marvels at how easy it was. Hange runs up to him as soon as the Titan disappears and gives him a kiss that makes him weak in the knees.

She gives him a wide smile when they separate, and Levi smiles right back.

One Titan out of nine is defeated, and Hange didn’t even have to get involved. That gives them more than enough reason to celebrate, and they do it under the stars near the glistering lake.

Hange punctuates every kiss with a sweet praise and soft confession. When Levi is near his peak, she draws back and curves her lips in a tantalizing smirk.

“Careful now, my love,” she teases, while Levi can’t do nothing but huff and grunt at her. “Don’t kill me with your lightening…”

“I won’t if you do the job right,” he shoots back, pulling Hange down for another kiss.

She laughs as he nibbles at her jaw and lets Levi flip them around, wrapping her arms around his neck.

“If I die in your arms, Levi,” she whispers. “I’d shame the gods themselves with my happiness.”

***

Their next victim is harder to defeat. He’s not so big, but he seems younger. When Levi approaches, his blade already drawn, the creature grows mad with rage.

Levi gestures for Hange to stay back, and she does.

Up until the Titan launches his first attack.

Levi docks but not to evade the Titan’s massive arm. Hange starts throwing the lightning bolts they got from Zeus, aiming them with breathtaking precision. The creature roars, as one of the bolts hits him right in his eyes.

“Levi, go!” Hange shouts, and he doesn’t waste another second. He cuts the Titan’s legs and waits for him to fall. When he inevitably does, Levi is already there, right next to his nape. He slashes it without hesitation.

Hange lets out a joyous cry, launching herself on Levi. “We did it, again!” she happily laughs.

“I told you to stay back,” Levi scolds her, but Hange just keeps laughing.

“But, my love, you know me. I hate staying out of action.”

***

That night, when they make love in a small clearing in a dark forest, Hange doesn’t praise him.

Instead, she goes on and on, complimenting herself.

“You’re so lucky, Levi,” she husks as her hands roams his chest. “To have a lover as gifted as me. My aim is as precise as Artemis’, my wits are sharper than Athena’s swords, my beauty can rival Aphrodite’s…”

The gods always listen, and what Hange says will undoubtedly anger them all. But Levi is high on their victory, high on their love, so he doesn’t care about it now.

He throws his head back, when Hange moves her hands from his chest to his stomach and then even lower. He moans when Hange grabs him and whispers, “And your ego is as big as Ares’.”

The pleasure Hange was giving him disappears.

“I am as gifted as gods,” Hange straddles his hips and pins his hands above his head. She licks her lips, her eyes flashing, as she revels in his quiet whimper. “And my punishment can be just as severe…”

Levi is absolutely spent when Hange takes mercy on him. She curls around him, and watches his attempts to catch his breath with a wicked smile.

If this is the kind of punishment he’ll keep receiving, Levi is ready to defy gods every waking moment of his life.

***

"This one is different," Hange whispers in his ear as together they observe the Titan's movements. "The skin is..."

"Weird," Levi finishes for her.

Weird is not colorful enough to describe this Titan. Where the other looked vaguely human-like, this one does not. Its skin is too white and its body too long. The mouth doesn't look normal too.

"Be careful," Hange warns, when Levi pushes himself off the rock they've been leaning against.

"Don't intervene," he shoots back.

Hange grins and doesn't even give him a courtesy of promising to stay out of it. With her trusty bolts, she starts running towards the Titan, an excited cry tearing from her lips. Levi curses andhurries after her.

Together they defeat the Titan in mere minutes, despite its many abnormalities.

Later that evening, they go to the nearest town and buy grapes and bread. Hange demands to buy wine but Levi points to her stomach, and she stops arguing right after that.

Hange isn't showing yet, barely two and a half moons have passed since the child was apparently conceived, but she's been growing moodier with each day and she often complains about the ache in her back.

"That's your fault, Zeus' descendent," she huffs as she tries to get comfortable around him. "You tricked, seduced and dishonored me in the most terrible fashion."

Levi rolls his eyes and doesn't point out that it was Hange who bewitched and seduced him. And she never had any honor or shame to begin with. He just pulls her closer and pops a grape into her mouth. Hange smiles as she tastes the sweet fruit.

"Although I have to admit," she says after she swallows it. "I didn't imagine that Zeus is you father."

"Who did you expect it to be then?"

"Don't know," Hange shrugs. "Hades, maybe? Both of you have the same dark and wicked scowl."

His scowl can get too dark, but it's certainly not wicked... But for now, Levi wants to know something else.

"How did you guess I wasn't mortal?"

"Well," Hange flicks hair out of her face and opens her mouth, asking Levi for another grape. With a sigh, he complies. Hange gives him a grateful smile and continues. "Sometimes you pick up stuff that should be too heavy for you. And sometimes you move too fast for me to follow. But more importantly..."

"Yes?"

"You're too handsome to be a mere mortal. And when you make love to me, it feels absolutely divine..."

Hange laughs and Levi scoffs. He leans closer and kisses her laughter away.

"If there was a god of stupidity, Hange,” he whispers against her lips. “You'd be their child."

***

The fourth Titan they encounter is the strongest one yet.

It's different from all others, its fur covered body and long ears more beast-like than human.

"I don't like that one at all," Hange mutters and Levi silently agrees. Just looking at that Titan makes him wish that he had left Hange back home, where she and their child would be safe.

But Hange isn't at home, and Levi likes to think that she is safer here with him than with his father and the rest of his kind on Mount Olympus.

"Looks like a monkey," he mutters. "A really ugly one," he adds just to make Hange laugh.

"We can't all be beauties like you," she slings an arm over his shoulder and presses a kiss to his cheek. "Good luck, Levi."

Hange means to move away, but Levi doesn't let her. He catches her hand and brings her back to him, pulling her to his chest. Something is wrong with that Titan, something about him... makes his throat constrict with fear.

"Hange," he breathes all air out of his chest and fills it with her sweet scent. He doesn't ask her to stay back, knows it's pointless, but that horrible feeling inside, the fear and almost certainty that something will go wrong... it forces Levi to embrace Hange just a little bit tighter.

"I'll be alright, my love," Hange whispers. "We both will be."

Of course, they will – how could they not? Levi is a son of Zeus, and Hange is brighter and more brilliant than any other mortal or deity.

They will be alright, he keeps repeating it in his head as he starts running to the Titan.

Something is definitely wrong with that Titan, because when Levi approaches, the giant creature smiles. It smiles and then looks away, turning— turning to Hange.

Levi’s heart stops.

The Titan lowers his enormous, clawed hand, and before Levi can move, before Levi can find it in himself to breathe, the beast snatches Hange up in the air.

Levi doesn’t remember what happens next, doesn’t register his next moves. His vision fills up with red and his chest is heavy with rage.

He sees nothing but blood, blood, blood. He is covered in it when the Titan crushes down and Levi catches Hange up in his hands.

He falls to the ground with her, pulling her on top of him. It is only when he hears Hange’s heartbeat, his own finally starts up again.

He breathes in deeply – once, then twice, and when the trembling in his hands ceases, he lowers Hange down and methodically checks her, looking for wounds and injuries.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” she keeps repeating, but she is not. There is a long and deep scratch on her leg and bruises all over her forearms and chest. Her stomach seems unharmed, but Levi still presses his ear to it and prays he hears something there.

“It’s still there,” Hange gently brushes his hair. “It’s still there, I can feel it. We’re alright, my love. All three of us.”

He leaves a tender kiss there and thanks his yet unborn child for being so strong. He then picks Hange up and carries her to the nearby stream. Hange protests and tries to kick him, but Levi just holds her tighter. After what has just happened, after what he’s just felt, he just wants for Hange to be close, needs to feel her warmth and know that she’s still with him.

He cleans her wounds by the stream and dresses every injury with a great deal care.

“Levi?” Hange asks, when later that day they sit by the fire. Levi is curled around Hange, and he kisses her shoulder to tell him he’s listening. “That Titan...”

Levi’s blood boils just at the mention of that beast. His mind flashes with memories of Hange in its arms, there up in the air. For the first time in his life, Levi thanks his unhuman instincts. If he came just a second later…

“I think he was sentient, Levi. Not like an animal, but almost like… almost like human.”

The tone of her voice, the almost defeated notes he can hear in it, Levi doesn’t like where this is going.

“What if they’re not mindless beasts like we’ve been told they are? What if they’re just like us?”

“Hange…” he says, a gentle precaution.

But Hange perseveres. “He didn’t attack you, but decided to go for me. He ignored you, even though you’ve posed a bigger threat, because he recognized that I was your weakness. Animals can’t be so smart. Only humans are.”

Levi sighs. He can’t bring himself to say it out loud yet, but he agrees with Hange. There is something more to the Titans that they’ve been told. There is something more to the Titans that his father has shared.

“The next Titan we meet…” Hange turns to look at him, her eyes pleading. “Can we observe them a bit more? Maybe…”

“Maybe,” Levi echoes. He presses his forehead against Hange’s and promises, “Next time we’ll do it your way.”

***

Hange’s belly grows in the time it takes them to find their next Titan. If situation had been any different, Levi would have been adamant about her staying back, but he promised her they’d get to the bottom of this together.

And he intends to keep that promise until…

Until they locate their target. And realize that they’re dealing with not one, but three Titans.

Images of Hange’s body flying around like a ragdoll still wake him up in the middle of the night with a hoarse scream on his lips, and it was just one Titan. Levi doesn’t want to know what will happen if they’ll fight three of them. He turns to Hange, intent on making her sit this one out, but then Hange points her finger, forcing him to follow its direction.

When he does, Levi sees the three Titans. Who are running in the opposite direction from them.

“Let’s catch up with them!” Hange urges.

Despite carrying a child for almost six moons, Hange gets on a horse surprisingly easy. She waits for Levi to get behind her before spurting the horse in pursuit.

It takes them a better part of an hour to get close to the Titans. When they do, Levi jumps from a horse and starts to approach the giants. He makes sure that his steps are slow and measured, as unthreatening as possible. But just as gets close enough, the Titans turn from defence to offence.

The one in the middle - the one that looks like he's covered in armor - steps forward and raises his arm.

"I don't want to hurt you!" Levi shouts, but this only spurs the creature on.

Before he can crush Levi with his might, Hange jumps right in front of the Titan, her arms spread wide.

"Please, stop!" she yells, frantically moving her arms up and down. "We just want to talk, we mean no harm!"

The Titans exchange looks between each other, before the one with blonde hair nods her head.

"We will listen," she says. "But you have to lay down your weapons first."

Hange grins, looking at Levi with a childish wonder. She grabs his blade and throws it out before approaching the three giants.

"So," she takes her time to study each of them, her grin growing wider and wider. She rubs her hands when she finishes, looking almost feral in her excitement. "I have a plan."

***

Hange's plan is ridiculous, risky and possibly not worth the effort. But Hange charms the Titans with her passionate words, and then turns to Levi with a smile that has charmed him all these years ago. She has all of them convinced in less than an hour.

"If you were humans before, you can be turned back again," Hange says like it's that easy.

"If there is a way to do it, we don't know how," the tallest and largest one replies.

"But if there is someone who knows..." the one with armor around his body begins uncertainly.

The one with a blonde hair sighs. "If there is someone who knows, it can only be her. Give me your map, I'll show you where to find her."

"Well," Hange meets Levi's eyes and winks, absolutely radiant in her briliance. "That's already a start."

***

That her turns out to be another Titan. Unlike the others of her kind, she walks on all fours and looks like an ugly, hairless dog. Her companion is even worse - with large jaw and disproportionate body, he simply looks awful.

"Try to be nice, Levi," Hange chides, when he shares his observation with her. "They're possible allies."

Levi doesn't completely understand what's the point of all of this, but he always trusts Hange, and this time is no exception. He follows her to meet these new Titans.

Surprisingly, they listen to Hange patiently, at least, the one resembling a dog does.

But when Hange finishes, she shakes her head, sadness and remorse reflecting in her giant eyes.

"The curse turned us into this. And we can be turned back only by the person who did this to us."

"And who is it?" Levi asks, although he feels like he already knows an answer.

"Zeus," another Titan replies. "You came to finish what he started, didn't you? I can smell his stench all over you."

"He ordered us to come," Hange agrees, her voice placating. "But we do not wish to follow through with his order. Perhaps, if there was another way..."

"With you on our side..." Titans stare at each other, seemingly holding a silent conversation. Whatever decision they come to, it is in Levi and Hange's favor. "Perhaps, we can truly find another way."

***

It takes them two more moons to formulate their plan.

As they go over details again and again, the sky above them grows heavier and darker, and Levi feels lightening in the air. It's not a storm, not yet, but it is worryingly close enough.

As the weather continues to worsen, Hange's stomach continues to grow. The baby's kicks grow so strong, even Levi can feel them now - he delights in it every time he does.

By the time they're finished with the plan, Hange is already too late in her term. Going without her is out of question, Levi doesn't want to leave her alone and he doesn't wish to do this without his better half. They all agree to wait until the baby is born.

On the day their child feels like it's ready to see the world, the storm starts in earnest. The wind flies around and the sky is completely black with only flashes of lightening illuminating it all.

Hange's screams mix with thunder, and Levi holds her hand throughout it all, trying to soothe her pain with gentle touches and kisses.

When the baby finally arrives, it takes his breath away.

She is absolutely beautiful because she is unmistakably theirs.

Levi smiles when he sees a patch of black hair, and his heart swells, when the baby opens her eyes and he sees the familiar honey brown.

Just as she opens her eyes, she starts screaming and kicking, and Levi thinks 'yes... this is definitely Hange's child.'

They don't have the time to pepper her sweet rosy cheeks with kisses, marvel at her beauty or get tired of her wailing.

The storm grows stronger, and Levi knows that he is waiting.

They put the child in a small crib Levi made just days ago and they tuck her in, stopping just for a second to stare at her in awe.

"Take care of her for us," Hange asks their allies. They all give her a nod and position their large bodies protectively around the crib. "Thank you," she smiles. "We promise to take care of you too."

As soon as these words leave her mouth, the ground below them disappears. Levi takes Hange's hand in his at the very last moment.

He keeps holding it as they return to a marble throne room.

The guards try to separate them just as they did the last time, but Levi doesn't let them. He glares at them defiently and holds Hange close to him.

"My son," his father begins with a false sweetness in his voice. "Your time is up, your child is born. Then why the Titans continue to live?"

"I thought you could help us with that, father. It is your curse that had created them after all. Lift it and their threat will cease to exist."

"It's not what we had agreed upon."

"But it's a much easier way."

Zeus' eyes flash with fury, the lightening dancers around his fingers. "Do you dare to defy me?"

Levi keeps his head raised high, as he stares up at his father. "I'm just offering a different sollution."

"You will pay for that."

"If I will, so will you. The Titans have gathered, there is a small number of them, but they're strong, maybe, strong enough," he glances up at the gods seated on their grand thrones, "than some of you. Do you wish to test if it is true?"

"Insolent boy," his father growls, but Levi knows his anger means nothing.

There are whispers all around him, hushed and concerned. Other gods don't wish to have another war, not if they're not sure that they can win it. And if Zeus doesn't submit, then he risks starting a war even grander that against Titans - a war among gods.

"I will lift the curse," he grits through his teeth.

"And you will leave us alone," Hange adds in a singing voice.

Zeus' glare is impressive, but Levi isn't afraid of it anymore. He knows it can't burn people.

"That's all we wanted to discuss," Levi fails to hide the smugness from his tone. "And now if you excuse us..."

"We have a daughter to return to," Hange finishes.

The gods sigh in relief when a demigod and his mortal disappear from their realm. History has taught them just how much destruction a grieving lover can bring. They thank Tyche for their luck.

***

When Hange and Levi return to their world, they find that the Titans are gone. Instead five humans are waiting for them, gathered around a crib with a wailing baby.

The storm is over and the sun is shining brigthly.

Hange kisses the back of his hand and murmurs, "We did it, my love."

Levi smiles and together, they come to hold their baby girl in their arms.

And like all joyous things, this one starts perfectly.

#sheeesh! sorry anon i'm an idiot and accidentally deleted your ask #good thing i had a screenshot :)#also thank you for your prompt it was a delight!!!!! i wanted to write something like that for a very long time #levihan

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libraryofnesta · 3 years

Text

Tied to Ruin

ao3 link

Summary:

Cassian and Nesta were lovers, partners in crime. They did everything together. That is until tragedy strikes, causing Nesta to run away, far from everything she once knew.

Over five years later, Nesta is living life to as full as it can get. It’s not until an incident occurs that drags her into far more than she bargained for.

Notes:

thanks so much for reading. i'm a huge hoe for exes to lovers, so i have like 20 ideas in my head, and this is one of them. It's multichapter. i'm not sure how long this is gonna be, but definitely over ten chapter. this fic has two timelines. One will show them from when they're kids to teens, and one while they're adults. Both will occur at the same time, so things will start to unravel as you read.btw! velaris is gonna be like a super small town in new york. like no one knows about it.

TW: implied domestic violence, nothing graphic.

Chapter 1: lonely beds, different cities

Words, how little they mean

When you're a little too late

I stood right by the tracks

Your face in a locket

Good girls, hopeful they'll be and long they will wait

Sad Beautiful Tragic

Taylor Swift

2016, Small Town Velaris

“Please,” she whispers, voice hoarse. Nesta is practically begging at this point, but she has nothing else to relent to. “We can get out of here.” She swallows hard when he doesn’t reply. “We’re still young Cassian, we can still-”

“Nesta.” He says. It's one word, but it makes her pause. He rarely calls her Nesta. It’s always ‘Nes’ or ‘Sweetheart.’

“I can’t.”

Their lives have changed so drastically over the past few weeks. Nesta’s whole childhood is here. Everything she’s ever known. She’s not sure how much more of it she can handle now.

She’s well aware of the tears streaming down her face. Nesta doesn’t know what she can say to convince him, so she says the one thing that she’s been repeating over and over.

“You can…”

Cassian’s face seems to harden. The look he gives her makes her take a step back. He hasn’t looked at her like that in years. “Go ahead and leave Nesta.”, he says, voice rising. “Go live that picture perfect you always wanted. I won’t stop you.”

“Not everyone wants what you do.”

2021 New York, Manhattan

Something about leaving Valkyrians still makes her feel at odds. She’s not as resistant to the sight of blood anymore, and she’s not sure if she can ride a motorcycle as well as she used to. There are still parts that linger though. She still remembers how to throw a punch. A damn good one too. She still feels uneasy when someone walks in the same direction for too long though. It might be the worst part of it all.

Nesta doesn’t do much for fun. She doesn’t dance as much as she likes. The amount of books she reads has decreased. Her days consist of work and eating, even though she skips more meals than she should. But she’s free. That’s what really matters, doesn’t it?

The muscles in Nesta’s body ache. She just finished a seven hour shift, and got a promotion that pays much better. Nesta wants to celebrate. She wants to talk to someone. It’s been so long since she’s talked to anyone. The fear of someone finding out about her past is lodged so deep in her head it caused her to isolate. The simple way of putting it is she has no friends.

Coworkers are the only source of non-work related conversation she engages in. It’s always small talk too. Just as Nesta is about to fall asleep, she rubs her eyes and forces herself to stay awake. Getting up from the lumpy couch, Nesta walks to her cabinet, grabbing a random mug and pouring wine into it. Once she gets a better look at the mug, she can’t help but scoff.

It’s ironic. Complaining about being lonely. It’s almost like she chose loneliness. She loves the quiet. When she was younger, all she wanted was alone time. She dreads it now. Nesta gets up after finishing her glass. She’s a bit drowsy, and is way too tired to walk all the way to her room. Instead Nesta walks back over to her couch. She lies horizontally, staring into the abyss until she eventually falls asleep.

She dreams of seeing him that night. It’s a regular occurrence. It’s lessened over the years, but never fully disappeared. The image of him is blurry. It’s not as precise as it used to be. She hates still thinking of him. It doesn’t stop her from reminiscing a little though.

Her being upset makes sense of course. They’d known each other for over ten years, hating one another at first. Eventually, he began to grow on her. Their bickering had become playful, before they once again became estranged.

“Cassian?”

The figure turns around, and he knocks the wind out of her. His hair is out of it’s usual bun. He gives her that familiar boyish smile, walking towards her and putting an arm on her.

“Missed me Sweetheart?”, he says, ruffling her hair a bit. Nesta scrunches her nose in response.

“You wish.”

He rolls his eyes. “Yeah yeah whatever.” He talks for a while. Nesta’s barely paying attention. It’s just nice to hear his voice again. He asks her what she’s reading, and she replies the same every time. It’s silent after a while. They’ve talked themselves out. It’s a nice silence though. Her favorite silence.

Cassian stares at her for a few seconds, giving her a soft smile and pushing a loose hair behind her ear.

“Come back,” he whispers.

Her breath stutters. “It’s been five years, Cass,” she mutters, breaking eye contact. Her eyes flicker between the ground and his face, gauging his reaction.

He doesn’t stop looking at her.

“I didn’t want to leave,” said Nesta. There’s a lump in her throat.

He scrubs a hand over his face. “Yet here we are.”

“You know why I left.”

Her eyes feel like they’re beginning to water. “I asked you to come with me. You’re the one who didn’t.”

Cassian looks to the side. He looks impassive, yet also emotionless. “You’re the one who ran away, Nesta.”

“I didn’t run away.”

He scoffs in response. “Keep telling yourself that.” Cassian starts walking away. It’s cloudy and has no solid ground or sky. At that moment she remembers where she really is. Nesta stands there, waiting until he fully fades away. It always feels too real.

The dreams always end like that.

Nesta can barely pry her eyes open when she wakes up. She has the next two weeks off. Her boss, Helion, had insisted she take a week or two off, since the bar was under a small renovation. She checks her phone and it reads 12:03. Jesus, she really had overslept.

In all honesty Nesta had no idea what to do with her free time. Maybe she’ll finally finish that book she started months ago. But in reality Nesta knows all she’ll do is go to a bar and let a stranger fuck her into oblivion until she kicks them out or leaves.

By the time Nesta leaves her house it’s around 3:00. She goes to the coffee shop next door. She orders a coffee and sits in the corner of the room. Nesta somehow feels like the center of attention. It’s an empty shop, but it feels like all eyes on her. The room feels too cold.

The feeling follows her when she goes to the local bookstore. It’s crowded, but the area is quiet. Nesta browses through the shelves, sticking to the romance section. She holds a few books. It’s not until Nesta drops one, people begin to look at her. It makes a loud thump hitting the floor. Several pairs of eyes turn to her. The cover is of a shirtless man too.

Fuck , she thinks, This is embarrassing. Nesta purses her lips, hand curling into a fist as she puts the book back on it’s shelf.

It’s around 5:00 when she takes the train home. Nesta spent the rest of her day at the park, not wanting to stay at home. It doesn’t feel like home as much as she’d like it to though. Finally, Nesta makes it home.

She’s in an empty parking lot. The area she lives in is pretty small. Nesta knows basically everyone in her apartment complex. It’s a tiny place. She never talks to anyone, but they do acknowledge each other. Barely anyone has a car either, herself included. So it is a bit weird to see an unrecognizable car. It’s odd, but Nesta thinks nothing of it. It’s probably just someone visiting.

Nesta goes into her apartment, before leaving once more to go to the bar that’s the second closest to her apartment. She’s usually working at this time, flirting with customers and taking them home when her shift ends.

The bar is crowded and loud. Lights are flashing, voices yelling, bodies moving. It’s out of her comfort zone. She’s been doing this for years and is still isn’t used to it. She sits on one of the stools where the drinks are served. A girl approaches her. Nesta never approaches anyone. She can’t see clearly in the light. The girl’s hair is brunette, though her roots are dark. Her brown skin illuminates in the flickering light.

“Hey”, she says “I’m Nora” Nora extends her hand to her. Nesta smirks in response, resting her elbow on the counter grasping her hand with the other.

“I’m Mila,” she says. No matter what she does, Nesta will never use her real name. Nora’s eyebrows raise. Nesta can see her lick tongue move as it pushes on her skin.

“Pretty name.”

They talk for around five minutes. It’s all small talk. They drink while they talk. Most of the things she responds with are lies anyways. Nora grasp’s her arm with her hand. “Wanna get out of here?” she asks. Her words are slurred, and Nesta has to restrain herself from flinching.

Something in her head tells her not to let anyone in her house though. Something is wrong, but she can’t put her mind on it. The idea of letting a stranger in her house sends goosebumps across her arms. Before, she’d never question it twice. Now that she thinks of it, doing this practically screams stranger danger. Especially with her past, this person could be anyone. Nesta slowly probes herself from the girl.

“I’ve gotta go”, she says. “Sorry, but there's something I need to do.” The girl doesn't seem to mind, either too drunk to care, or only looking for a one night stand. She nods, before introducing herself to someone else. Nesta feels her chest lighten, exiting the crowded bar to call an uber.

Whenever it’s quiet, she always reminisces.

2006, Small Town Velaris

Nesta wakes up and finds herself stranded. She has no idea where she is. She’s lying in a bed inside a mostly empty room. There’s only a few pieces of furniture, a stool and a drawer. It’s relatively small. The last thing she remembers is being in a car with her sisters and parents. She hears voices outside of the room yelling.

“You expect me to leave-”

“Her father is-”

“She’s nine what would she-”

“So what if she’s young!”

“-s innocent so what if-”

She hears a loud smack. The silence after is deafening. The voices are quiet after, whispers. Afterwards, Nesta hears footsteps approaching. She scrunches her eyes shut, trying to pretend to be asleep. Nesta hears the door open and close. A hand lays on her forehead. As the person removes it, a calming voice talks. “Are you awake?” Nesta slowly looks at the person, opening only one eye, then another. She sees a woman with black hair and tan skin. Her cheeks are flushed and she has a small smile on her face.

The woman squats down so she’s the same height as the bed Nesta is laying on. “Hi,” the woman whispers, voice solemn and comforting. “My names Aurora,” she says. Nesta squishes her lips together. She’s confused and feels like crying. Nesta doesn’t cry though. She’s pretty sure her eyes water though, because Aurora strokes her hair and whispers, “It’s okay to cry.”

Nesta gasps and shakes her head. “Mommy says I’m not supposed to cry.” Aurora seems to be shocked silent. The silence makes Nesta become aware of everything that is happening. She slowly sits up. Once her feet are off the bed, Nesta quickly sprints to the door, opening it and running out. She has no idea where she’s going.

Suddenly, Nesta is hit with a hard impact, and falls down on her butt. She looks up and sees two boys. They’re both around the same height. They have the same dark hair too, except one is longer than the other. Nesta gets up and brushes off the dust on her leggings.

She notices it then. The leggings. She’s never worn pants before.

It’s also when she notices the juice smeared across one of the boy's shirts. It’s the long haired one’s. He drops the red cup to the ground and makes an angry noise. “That was my favorite shirt.”

Nesta feels sheepish as she whispers a quiet, “Sorry.”

The one with longer hair whispers to the other boy, obviously meaning for her to hear too. “She’s probably not even double digits.” The other boy is quiet, looking at the ground. He seems nervous and shy.

Nesta feels a sense of outrage course through her. She pouts, crossing her arms. “I’m almost ten. I’m nine and a half” The boy crosses his arms too.

“Well I’m ten and a half,” he says.

“Cassian,” Aurora scolds. “Play nice.” She puts a hand on Nesta’s shoulder and bends down. “I need to talk to…” She doesn’t continue.

Nesta turns towards her, and realizes she needs her name. “Nesta,” she says.

Aurora smiles, “That’s a wonderful name.”

Cassian still seems angry. “I think it’s stupid.” Aurora sighs and gets up. “Azriel”, she says to the other boy. He hadn’t talked the whole time, Nesta almost forgot he was there. “Make sure he stays out of trouble. And Cassian, please change your shirt.” The two (stupid) boys walk away. Once they’re from a far enough distance, Aurora looks back down at her. “I have to talk to you about something.”

2021 New York, Manhattan

Nesta walks into her apartment tired and half asleep. Once inside her apartment, she changes into more comfortable clothes, sweatpants and a grey t-shirt.

Nesta’s about to go to bed, until she hears the sound of glass shattering and liquid spilling. She freezes, thinking about the mug of wine she left out.

No.

Nesta scrambles towards the kitchen and grabs a flashlight from a cabinet, flashing the light to the ground. The mug is shattered to pieces, and she can still see little droplets of wine. The words aren’t visible anymore, letters broken and unreadable.

There’s no way it could’ve fallen on its own. It was in the middle of her counter. Unless...

Suddenly it all makes sense. The unrecognizable car in the parking lot. The uneasy feeling in her stomach. The constant nagging in her head, telling her that something is wrong.

She thinks about calling the police but goes against it. Years in a fucking biker gang taught her better then to trust those scumbags.

She always kept a gun in her house. Just in case. She really hates how no matter what she does. she’ll always be connected to this.

The person inside her apartment most definitely knows where she is. Nesta grabs a broom, sweeping the glass shards into an empty bag. She can fix it later. Tying it up, Nesta leaves it on her counter.

There's a wall blocking the entrance to her bathroom. She walks towards it, opening and closing the door so it seems she went inside. Grabbing her gun from the small drawer, Nesta lays her back against the wall, barely peeking out the wall, but just enough so she can see them as they crawl out from behind her couch.

The figure moves stealthily, back turned towards her. If she weren’t directly staring at it, there would be no way of knowing it was there. The moves look familiar, but she can’t put her mind on it. The moonlight shines on them so she can see the most obvious features. It’s not until the floor creaks the figure turns towards her direction. Nesta turns back to face her bathroom door, hands drawn to tight fists. There’s no way they hadn’t seen her. She moved too slow. Nesta peeks her head out to look again.

It’s not until she sees a familiar pair of scarred hands in the moonlight, it all comes together.

“Azriel Night?”

In dreams

I meet you in warm conversation

We both wake

In lonely beds

In different cities

And time

Is taking its sweet time erasing you

And you've got your demons

And darlin' they all look like me

PSA!! go to ask’s to be added to tag list

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dark128 · 4 years

Text

KNOCKOUT - CHAPTER 11

“Do you want me to?”

Bo nods down at the condom Harry’s stiffly holding onto. He’s coiled up so tight that it would be a bad idea to let her undress him. He’s having a difficult enough time as it is just toying with the inevitable of her touching him, let alone below the waist.

Bo had watched in fondness from her spot lounging on the bed as Harry moved from candle to candle, lighting as many as he could before the flame on the match got too low. She’d laughed at his explanation for not striking a second match, claiming there was a fine line between romantic and sacrificial.

But now in this soft, flickering room, she smiles at him and he almost loses his nerve.

“No, it’s alright, I’ve got it.” Kneeing closer to her across the mattress, “just lay back,” Harry encourages softly.

On second thought, that’s probably the worst thing he could of suggested because now Bo’s laid beneath him and he’s acquired an audience to a process that makes his hands shake. Hair splays on his pillows and it’s been so long since he’s had something so pretty occupy his bed.

She’ll linger on his sheets. The smell of her perfume and the fleeting heat of her body which escapes once the covers are peeled back, both temporary, both are not enough. He craves so much more. But the memory will be permanent.

Harry doesn’t think he’ll ever forget the way she’s looking at him now, like he hung the moon and every star in the sky.

He swallows before going through the motions of unbuttoning his jeans and sliding the zip. The full weight of her gaze lands on his stomach as the bottom of his t-shirt is taken between his teeth to hold it up and out of the way. Fingertips unwittingly tickle as Bo traces his hip and on towards his belly button. And he sort of hopes she misses the goosebumps it raises on his skin.

As Harry gently presses to widen her legs, the winsome charm she led with earlier seems to escape her. He’s left feeling fully endeared by her absent fiddling of his belt loop.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong.”

There’s a smile but it lacks prowess and so Harry removes himself from looming over her and comes to lay beside her. Bo shifts into him.

“We’ve had sex before.”

It’s quiet because he doesn’t want to disturb the delicacy they’ve slipped into. Facing each other, it’s still a little difficult to comprehend that he’s with her now. She’s in his tiny basement flat where the hot water is temperamental and the floorboards creak in odd places along the hall.

“I know. But it feels new,” she softly smiles, thumb lightly rubbing at the tattoo on his hip.

Her beauty has become more refined in the five years they’ve known each other, more of a classic look that has Harry pinned every time she holds his eye contact. Despite her wishes for a growth spurt, Bo stands at the same height against Harry’s shoulder. But now there’s a confidence in the way she holds herself, filled with achievements and future aspirations.

He can’t really imagine what she’s seeing. He’s been greeted by this image of tattoos and damaged eye every morning for years whilst he brushes his teeth in the bathroom mirror. So perhaps this intimacy does feel new to her now.

He’s pliantly patient as he waits for Bo to initiate further contact between them. They talk quietly, muffling laughter into the pillow as Harry recounts one of his mishaps in the kitchen. It’s not long before she’s bashfully rubbing her nose to his and Harry’s sighing into the sweet kiss they share.

He welcomes the palm warming his side and it’s when she gets a little more handsy that Harry encourages Bo to seat herself upon his lap. Sat with his back to the coolness of the wall, there’s a heavy clash in temperature between the brickwork and the woman he holds close. And whether wilfully calculated or involuntary, Bo’s hip movements are progressing the thoughts in Harry’s one-track mind. The longing of experiencing another person so intimately is finally being quelled, soft mouths and testing fingertips reaffirming to the both of them.

But it’s the tug to Bo’s hair that sharply clears the heavenly ascent, lacking in any sort of lustful passion and is instead leaning more towards unintentional pain. She breaks the kiss, fingers wrapping Harry’s wrist.

“AaaaAA,” Bo’s pitch escalates as he attempts to remove the hand riddled with silver rings from her hair.

“Shit, I’m sorry,” Harry fusses.

She’s instructed to hold still, huffing out a sigh, whilst Harry sorts the situation out with a commentary of swears. Looking like she’s sucking on a lemon, Bo obediently follows Harry’s lead as he adjusts so he’s not working in his own shadow. Once she's free, her hair is tangled enough to make drawing her fingers through it bit of a pain.

Harry twists the rings off his fingers, throwing them in irritation to the bedside. Another colourful curse falls from his mouth as he shuffles them both down the bed before flopping backwards onto the mattress. Bo watches as he rubs his eyes with tightly clenched fists.

“I’m sorry,” Harry sighs through his hands that are currently covering his face.

“Don’t be silly.”

“I cocked that up.”

Still currently residing in Harry’s lap, she’s not quite sure if she should remove herself given that the mood has taken bit of a nosedive. Bo’s answer is given moments later as Harry’s knees come up behind her and palms splay out on her thighs.

“Don’t. Feels good.”

“You ok?”

“I’m fine, are you alright?” he tightly replies.

“You just seem a little tense,” she warily suggests.

“It hasn’t exactly gone as smoothly as I’d hoped.”

He doesn’t quite meet her eyes, the action weighing heavy on her chest.

“You been thinking about this a lot then?” Bo teases, eyebrows suggestively raising as she tries to lighten the tone.

“‘Bout what?” he fires back, palms softly squeezing where they’ve remained.

Harry loves the flirting, and is more than thrilled to have it reciprocated, to have her play with him in this back and forth. Suggestive tones that are made even more fun because he knows there’s a depth to it.

But he sort of also wants to hear her explain their situation. Explicitly.

“What do you think?”

“Couldn’t say,” he goads.

“About having me under you,” Bo simply replies, not missing a beat.

Prayers answers.

“Maybe, but it’s mostly been about the cuddling and kisses on the cheek.”

“Liar,” she accuses, lightly pinching at his side.

“Ok, ok!” he jostles her as Bo’s fingers find a particularly ticklish spot under his arm. “I might have thought once or twice about getting you in that window seat.”

“You said you were kidding about that,” she implores, batting him across the arm.

“A guy can dream.”

“Well, you’ll be dreaming for an eternity.”

“Shame, any thoughts about the same activity in the shower?”

Bo laughs, rearranging herself out of Harry’s lap.

“Maybe we should concentrate on the current situation,” she motions, “lay back."

Harry’s on his back and he feels like a fucking lemon because his hands don’t know how to play it cool and his heart is hammering like it’s his first time. He can’t be sure what Bo is doing until she appears with her hair tied back from her face. She’s assumed the odd position of straddling his knees. And Harry watches her crawl up his body before a kiss between them only has four inches to make contact.

“Hey,” Bo hushes with a smile. “How ya doing?”

“Fine.”

“Just fine?” Bo lightly tests, her fingernails running across his stomach.

Harry lays with his brain between his legs and his bottom lip between his teeth. He enjoys the lingering tingle as nails drag just that little bit too deep; done it to himself when the occasion arises and he’s in the mood to get off. But this is different because for the first time in a while it’s not Harry’s own hand palming over the seam of his jeans. And it’s the partially choked sound he makes that sets her smile.

Her touch is gentle, easing his jeans down until another tattoo is uncovered. She gives it some consideration, thumbing over the patch of inked skin.

“Is this a tiger?” she asks, grinning up at Harry.

“Thiger.”

Bo snorts before clamping her hand to his thigh to lean in for a kiss, which ends up being a clumsy kiss to his chin when Harry moves his head at the last second. They laugh again.

“Please tell me you didn’t just get that tattoo so you could make that joke,” she scorns him whilst edging his underwear down.

“It did make you laugh thou-“

The sentence is choked off as Bo takes him into her mouth. All thoughts evaporate from his mind, only ones of pleasure and utter desperation remain as she licks around the tip.

“You’re gunna have to bear with me, it’s a steep learning curve.”

And Harry thinks she almost looks smug as her index traces the curve of him from base to head. Even more so as his cock is laden with chaste kisses, an innocent gesture for such an erotic setting. And apparently mirroring his dilemma between either wanting to take Bo sweetly or just nail her into the mattress.

He only realises how pent up he is when his fists loosen in the sheets once she’s finished with her little display. He’s hardened fully and he’s having trouble with digesting the image of her laid between his legs.

Even with a mouth full of cock she’s trying hard not to smile.

“You’re gunna kill me,” he pants, eyes rolling back.

She huffs a laugh around him which proves to visibly tighten the muscles in his thighs. And it’s only now that Harry thinks, she tied her hair back to suck me off. He may have transcended to a higher plain of existence as her hand begins to work him over - deliberate with her strokes and squeezing just slightly to keep him coiled up.

Harry’s own hands have returned to the sheets, balling them in fists as he endures what’s panning out to be the most long-awaited oral of his life. He’s a little embarrassed to say that he can already feel the muscles in his stomach tightening. It’s a hot clench that only burns warmer by the second. Harry’s approach is a little haphazard, but the hand he brushes to Bo’s cheek hurriedly catches her shoulder to encourage her away.

“I-I think I’ll be alright now.”

Or maybe not, Harry swallows as Bo passes the back of her hand over the corner of her mouth.

“Spoilsport,” she teases.

***

“I always loved your thighs,” Harry comments, warming his palms to the inside of Bo’s legs.

He’s going to satisfy that heavy ache she feels low in her belly. It only intensifies as Harry looks up at her through his eyelashes. He’s going to bewitch her senses and leave her wanting him again and again. It’s been so long, Bo would forgo sleep and forfeit any sort of productiveness the next day just roll in the serenity of candlelight and a lover’s warmth.

She’s still sporting her bee-saving t shirt as she watches the muscles in his chest and shoulders transform with his movement. An ungainly squeak is produced on account of Harry sharply dragging her a little further down the mattress. Something which he finds highly amusing judging by the crinkle to his nose.

“Brute.”

Harry laughs.

He murmurs a quick apology, brushing his fingers to her cheek before retrieving a condom. The process is smoother as his hands refuse to quake and now Bo’s onlooking makes his blood rush in electric excitement. He’s practically thrumming with it as his touch leisurely slips between the apex of her thighs. She clamps his hand there with the forgotten feeling of someone else’s kind fingers. Harry’s treated to a series of spectacular little sounds, whisperings and then small startles that are muffled into Bo’s arm as she hides her face. He’s being brazen with it, not just the fact that his fingers play but knowing that this is what she wants, she wants him.

There’s a look of wild revelation as his fingers dip into wet warmth. The couple hold eye contact, Harry’s movements gentle and without haste in the knowledge of acts to follow. There’s an actual throbbing between Bo’s thighs, making them shake in the effort to keep them from falling completely open. It’s barely a whisper, but Harry hears it, the “please” that tells him she’s barely keeping it together.

She’s ethereal laying below him, all soft features and devout gaze as he lines up and finally pushes in. It’s almost jarring the way she feels around him again, giving him that pliant smile, the one he recognises, the one that means she’s not completely with him. That is until he starts to move and it’s like she’s a drowning woman breaching the surface. Her back arches from the bed, arms around his neck as she pants into his, clinging to him like he’s her saviour.

“Harry.’

His name is spoken in a raging half whisper.

“I know,” he replies because he can feel it too.

Rapture. She’ll be his undoing and his sexual reawakening. Harry welcomes that warm pull in his belly as he angles his hips to draw new, breathy sounds from his lover’s lips.

Bo’s an honest delight beneath him. The way he can feel her toes curling against his calf, her fingers gripping his nape to encourage him further on top. As if he could get any closer, they’re already sharing breath and fumbling kisses.

Harry’s pretty sure a bottom corner of the fitted sheet has sprung loose with the way they’re contorting to keep damp skin close. His skimming hands have pushed her t shirt up, deft fingers hooking the right cup from her bra down so he can kiss at her breast.

She’s more fussy than he remembers, especially when he leans away and takes a heady breather. Her huffing is a tad undue but Harry thrives in it, noting her disgruntled expression as he slips from her entirely. There’s a flash of an unpleasant second when Harry’s mind tells him he’s going to be booted in the face.

But Bo’s brought her feet up to lightly drum against his chest and Harry can’t help but laugh at the playfulness, grabbing at her ankles before she has a chance patter against him again.

“Come on,” she almost whines.

His hands move of their own accord, sliding down her calfs to press his thumbs into the back of her knees.

“Impatient little thing, aren’t you,” Harry replies, leaning into her whilst spreading and gently bearing down on the back of her thighs.

There’s pink blooming on her cheeks, and Harry can’t be sure if it’s the temperature in their duvet fort, or the fact that Bo’s ankles are now resting on his shoulders.

“You promised me a whole evening.”

Harry thinks her chide lacks the lustre needed to fully penalise him, especially when he can feel her wriggling to meet his hips.

“And I wouldn’t want to go back on my promise.”

He lightly kisses at her ear, unworried about hiding his smile.

“Because that would make you a shitty person.”

He’s not expecting the pinch to his hip, so the growl he produces in response is a surprise to both of them.

“I don’t remember you being so boisterous.”

“Maybe it’s because you’re practically bending me in half.”

Harry lets Bo unfurl, her legs slipping down to rest beside his hips once more.

“You’ll have to forewarn me next time so I can stretch beforehand.”

“Next time?” Harry curiously enquires.

“I’m not just having you once,” Bo breathily promises in his ear, the tone making it seem like that fact was obvious.

Harry plays along with their distracted conversation, leaning over her with an elbow propped and his thigh between hers.

“Tonight?”

He’s not ready for the shove to his shoulder or the dominating role reversal, so when Bo’s sat astride him Harry’s sure she feels him twitch. She doesn’t play at coy, but there’s definitely something more bashful in her movements as she delights in the feel of him again.

“Forever.”

That promise sets his heart soaring.

She reaches behind for him, shuffling back to seat herself fully down with a flutter of eyelashes and somewhat of a startled whimper. And Harry can’t help but grunt at this all-consuming feeling; this time with the added pressure of hands splayed on his chest as he’s halfheartedly held down.

“Was that a bit cheesy?” Bo asks once she’s chased her breath. “It sounded romantic in my head.”

“A bit, but I think it worked in the moment.”

“Good, because I meant it."

He doesn’t want it to sound insincere whilst she’s riding him, so Harry bottles up the ‘I love you’, and saves it for when he can confess with a clearer mind. Instead, he grabs at her hips, eyes devouring the way her body moves against his and he’s delighted with the repeat image of her bouncing, slack jawed. And because he’s a tease, Harry delights further in the sounds she creates when his hips come up to meet hers.

She wants him every way she can, but that wish may have to wait.

“Lean forward,” he pleads.

Bo’s forehead comes to rest on Harry’s as his feet plant to the mattress and his knees come up behind her. With the strength of his tattooed hips, he meets hers at a toe-curling rate. Bo succumbs, allowing Harry to take the lead and guide them both, her face finding the crook of his neck and his arms wrapping around her back. He cradles her into completion, hearts hammering as Harry chases the rapture that Bo blissfully makes peace with. It’s only with the last few stuttering thrusts that Bo pushes up, taking his face between her hands to kiss away the curses that slip free from his smile.

***

“I like them,” Bo admires, fingers running over twin inked dates on his shoulders.

She shifts a little to sit back on his thighs, taking his forearm with her as she intently inspects all the splashes of black ink she’s unfamiliar with. It’s all Harry can do to give Bo a soppy smile whilst she carries on, giving each design her attention. They’re partially dressed again, Harry only decent enough to have taken delivery of their pizza before returning to the bedroom.

“Who’s this?”

Harry’s arm is raised as Bo taps a finger to the tattoo in question. It’s a delicate gesture that challenges her comical disapproval.

“My mermaid.”

“She’s cute,” Bo says, finger following the swish of dark hair. “Why’d you get her?”

“Dunno, I’ve always liked swimming.”

He’s met with a surprised laugh.

“So, of course, logically you got a mermaid permanently tattooed on your body,” she chides, shaking her head.

There’s a small “B” inked just below the inside crease of his elbow. She tilts her head, smoothing over the skin with her thumb.

“That one’s yours,” he says simply, like it couldn’t be anything else.

“Mine?” she asks, eyebrows shooting up.

Harry presses a kiss to her forehead.

“Yep, “B” for Bo,” Harry tells her quietly. “Beautiful.”

She licks her thumb, rubbing at the letter.

“You really got it tattooed?”

“Yeah,” he laughs.

“That’s permanent.”

“I’m aware,” Harry smirks, biting at her neck. “Just like my mermaid.”

“Yeah, just like her,” Bo thoughtfully rephrases.

It’s a few moments before she replies, still rubbing at the small letter.

“Why’d you get it?”

“You’re important to me, you’ve helped me through so much, it just felt right.”

She doesn’t say anything in return, not sure that she actually can. Pouting in contemplation, Bo shifts a little in Harry’s lap.

“Maybe I should get your name tattooed on me.”

“Oh, really?” Harry smirks. “Where? Hopefully somewhere only I get to see?”

“Hmmm, I was thinking more of a chest piece,” she leans away, gesturing to a band of skin above her breasts.

Harry appears a little horrified for a moment but his composure cracks before laughing and grabbing for her hands.

“I’m not sure that’s your best idea.”

She slumps back to be cradled into Harry’s side.

“Or maybe I’ll just get a ‘H’ here,” she hushes, voice more sincere as fingers point to the exact spot on her arm where he has her inked. “So we can match.”

Bo’s treated to a kiss to the tip of her nose. She sighs before further squirming away to continue the inspection of body art.

“Roll over then.”

She makes herself comfortable, sitting astride his lower back as delicate fingers trace more tattoos curving around his side.

“Oh God, that one’s awful.”

Harry huffs a laugh into the pillow in response to her brash opinion and feathery touch.

***

Harry wakes to the heart wrenching feeling of an empty bed. He sits up rather abruptly, hands skimming bed-warm sheets as the duvet slips to pool at his waist. He swallows twice, mind reeling to kickstart foggy memories from hours before.

The bedroom door has been left ajar, just enough for a thin strip of light to hollow out the darkened room. Soft footsteps follow and Harry’s heart climbs back down his throat for it to thud against his ribcage.

His body flops back against the pillows before the door is nudged just enough for Bo to slip back through. She doesn’t think anything of Harry now sprawled out on his back, but she knows he’s awake because of the subtle inclination when she draws back the confusion of sheets.

“Your hot tap is broken,” Bo hushes whilst climbing back into bed on the floor.

She receives a rough hum, Harry’s arm draping her waist.

“Did you hear me?”

Instead of moving himself closer, he opts for coercing Bo until the length of her body is flush to his, like he’s seeking the cool side of the pillow.

“Broken,” he grunts.

“And you don’t have a bath mat, my feet got cold. I can go out and get you one tomorrow. Or today?” she adds, trying to lean over Harry to confirm the time on one of their phones.

He mumbles something incoherent into her shoulder, lips forming words like kisses upon her skin. With her on her back and Harry now on his side, he’s almost perfected the art of blurring the lines between them and creating one warm entity under the covers.

“Repeat that.”

She gently catches under his chin with the tips of her fingers, prising him from the nook in her neck.

“Don’t need one.”

The raspy words catch in his throat.

“Everyone needs a bathmat. Where will you dry your feet? You’ll just track wet footprints through your room.”

“I’ll think about it.”

No, he won’t.

“Of course you won’t, I’ll just go and get you one,” she pauses. “It’ll be a fluffy orange monstrosity because you’re being difficult about it. Probably a matching toilet cover as well - if they still even sell those?”

The arm banding her middle squeezes tighter which Bo thinks is Harry’s silent way of getting her to hush..

“I love you.”

Oh.

Bo stills in his arms.

It’s something she’d insinuated hours before. That she would still be his in the morning, and every other morning of her promised ‘forever’. But for him to utter the words into their lengthy, soft post-sex haze - Bo was just about ready to settle into the cradle of sleep. But now she’s fully awake.

He’s still pressed against the length of her, his hair brushing her cheek as the urgency to gauge her reaction grows.

“I’m in love with you - still.”

Still. Like he’d never stopped. And that’s a little terrifying to know, especially in the knowledge of their separation and the years between then and their reunion.

“I’m still in love with you,” he rephrases. “Got there in the end.”

His lips catch a soft smile which diminishes as his words rest into silence. Harry feels Bo draw in a grounding breath as though she’s trying to compose herself. Unsure as to whether this conversation should be illuminated, Harry decides against turning on the lamp. Partly because he frightened to disturb her but mostly because he can’t bear the thought of seeing Bo’s face if it’s rejection that awaits him.

“If you’re not ready then I - well, I understand -“

“I’d like to take you out,” Bo interrupts.

“What?”

“Not fatally,” she hurriedly explains, “like on a date?”

“Oh - ok.”

“Yeah? We could go out to dinner or have cake at a cafe in one of the parks? Or there’s that cinema experience that looks quite fun.”

*** 4 Months Later ***

Harry can hear it in her voice, that she’s not prepared for his confession of undying love just yet and she certainly isn’t ready to say it back. But this is the start that they both deserve, a calm, normal beginning to their new relationship. It’s a chance to get to know each other again and to see where it progresses. And Harry’s happy with that as they lay and bounce date ideas between them, all the while Bo’s fingers have found his own.

“Why must everything be so high up?” Bo grumbles.

Her complaint is voiced to the glasses on the top shelf in Harry’s kitchen cupboard. Despite her irritation, he’s pleased to see her emerge minutes later with two drinks in hand and his socks pulled up nearly to her knees over leggings.

“I see you were successful,” he grins as Bo sorts out coasters.

“Well, I did nearly pull everything off the worktop in my struggle, but it’s fine.”

Her words are accompanied with a sugar-sweet smile that can only mean trouble for Harry. He hopes he’s forgiven with the choice of Tuesday night Bake-Off on the telly. And it’s as Bo’s laughing at some awful bread pun that the question just feels right.

“Bo, do you wanna move in?”

She smiles, pressing into his side and rearranging his arm so it curls around her back.

“No,” he huffs a laugh, pressing a kiss to her hairline. “I mean move into the flat - with me.”

“Really?”

Bake-Off forgotten, Bo swivels to face him. There’s joy dancing in her eyes as the bun atop her head bobs with her excited wriggle to move closer. The TV is set on mute and Harry becomes confused at the sharpness in her eyes.

“I want the left side of the bed, permanently,” she negotiates.

“It’s yours. Even when you’re not here.”

“And you’ll leave space in the bathroom for my things?”

“I mean, there’s quite a lot of your stuff in there already - but of course.”

Bo kisses his cheek.

“I just got my first pay from work,” Bo happily states. “I’m gunna buy some proper glasses, so we don’t have to drink wine out of mugs.”

“What’s the point?” Harry laughs. “The fact that you stick a straw in everything sort of lowers the tone of a proper wine glass anyway.’

The remark earns him a sore shoulder.

“And we can always get you a step for the kitchen.”

She rounds on him so fast he nearly spills the drink he’s just picked up from the coffee table.

“We will not be doing that. You’ll help me move everything down so I can reach it myself.”

“No problem.”

“I’m gunna phone my mum,” she rambles, untangling from Harry and tripping over a charging cable.

“Should I set up a direct debit? Or do you just want me to transfer my half to you each month? What would be easier?”

“Don’t worry,” he laughs. “We can sort it out later.”

“I love you!” she calls from where she’s peeking around the doorframe.

It’s such a casual gesture but Harry’s settling into the knowledge that the love he’s bursting with is reciprocated by the woman he adores.

“I love you, too,” he smiles.

522 notes · View notes

astriefer · 3 years

Note

“Please hold me.” for thomastair (ofc bc that's what you said) 🥺

Thank you for this! @littlx-songbxrd you asked for this as well. I'm sorry it's so bad.

~~~~~

Trust me with thy heart

Pairing: Thomastair

Words: 4,537

Contains mild angst, some self harm and hurt/comfort.

Note I am awful at writing angst or hurt/comfort. This whole poor writing is based on miscommunication, much or less, or the fear to let others close.

~~~~~

Thomas wasn't fond of fights.

Demons were one thing. Their destiny as Shadowhunters was to protect mankind from those filthy monsters who invade their world. They brought disorder and death. The people he cared about were a different tale.

A light jest with his friends, why not? A banter with his father about taking the coat or not while going outside? Sure. But not a very tumultuous, tempestuous strife with them. He preferred them all to get along with each other.

Thomas liked even less when it was him involved in the disagreement.

He spent the last day jogging between massive training seasons, hanging out with his friends, and losing himself in his thoughts. Now, he avoided everyone in favor of reading Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam. He made a special effort to tell no one where he was going, so non could bother him and ask him questions.

So Thomas was stunned when Ariadne Bridgestock, of all people, rushed through the entry in an unmatched combination of grace and ivory skirts, then flopped herself onto the armchair in front of Thomas.

While she had had a pleasant expression on her face, there was a dangerous gleam in her eyes. If Thomas hadn't known better, he would've sworn she came here to murder him.

"You and Alastair fought," she stated.

Thomas glanced between his book to her determined face twice, considering his options. Then, on behalf of good manners, he put a bookmark on the current page he pretended to be reading for half an hour. "Is it Alastair's way to tell me to speak to him? If so, please tell him not to embroil any other folks in our relationship."

"He hadn't sent me," Ariadne ignored the last part of his sentence. "But he did not arrive for our conclave."

A spark of concern lightened up in Thomas, yet he repressed it. He was angry with Alastair, Thomas reminded himself. "And what have you speculated I can do about it?"

She looked at him funny. "Talk to him, I presume."

"Ariadne," he tried, weariness falling heavy on him. "While I appreciate your concern, I doubt Alastair wants to see me. In fact, I doubt whether I want to see him right now. I know you confide in each other-" more than Alastair does with him, the bitter thought tore its way into his head. "And your intentions are well, but I will highly prefer to keep this between myself and Alastair."

He thought this would give her down and make her apologize. "Alastair wouldn't have sent someone else, and he didn't solicit help from myself," she said instead. "He would've given time to you both to collect your minds, and then come to you in clearer mind."

It was right. He knew it was. "So this parley is all you?"

"As I said, Yes. I worried for my friend, who happened to be your partner."

Thomas brushed his thumb on the spine of the book, musing over her words. "Why would you be worried?"

"He stood me up. I came by your flat later, just for him to say nothing has happened. When I asked where you were, he conceded you two had a big bump in the road."

"That's a nice way to put it," Thomas murmured. "I frankly wished to be left alone. It's nothing-"

"Thomas," Her amber eyes met hazel ones. "You are good at many things. Fighting demons, and keeping the rest of the Thieves out of trouble, for example."

He quirked an eyebrow. "And?"

"Lying is not one of them."

Thomas swallowed, endeavoring to hide the feeling of hurt off his face. Recalling what happened a few days before made his whole body ache in pain. "So Alastair and I had a row. It always happens with lads."

"It's not just a lad for you," she pressed. He was wide aware of the chastisement in her words. "It's Alastair. And never have I seen him the way he looked when I checked on him."

"What do you mean?" he asked after he perceived her words. "Alastair was absolutely fine when I left the flat."

"You have to see for yourself." Ariadne said, "Go to him."

Despite the knots formed in the abdomen, he dithered. "Things ended up stormy when we last spoke. Maybe he's still mad. Maybe I'm still mad."

It wasn't just Alastair who was mad. He wondered how Alastair had been this past day, and how was he feeling, among many other thoughts. Yet the cloud of exhaustion and hurt surrounding him perturbated the nervousness. He was allowed to be upset about what happened. It sure wasn't nothing. Not on his part, at most. Why couldn't Alastair just-

"Excuses are not appreciated," Ariadne announced, "So you better confront him already, or I swear I shall chase you to the end of the Earth with my electrum whip." Ariadne threatened, and that what had taken to wake Thomas out of his hesitation.

"Of course," he sighed, "Because I don't have enough troubles already."

She brushed it off again with a smile, and Thomas felt mildly annoyed. He hadn't shown it. "Sort it out. It will benefit the two of you to tackle the problem."

She left no place for arguments. Utterly abandoning the book, Thomas rose to his feet and went to leave the room.

He was glad to get out of the grip of this confusing confab, but he was even more unsure if to listen to her advice.

He was still angry with Alastair.

~~~~~

A veil of fog surrounded the city. It was a prevalent London day, cool and cloudy. The wind is blowing hard, welcoming passersby in a burst of freezing breeze. A thunderstorm on its way, they said.

But those were the last of things that perturbed Alastair's peace of mind. It matched his mood just fine. If someone was to describe him, curled up on his bed alone, he could imagine being portrayed as forlorn and tormented.

No, what bothered him was a particular someone that left and hasn't returned. Alastair hated he still hoped Thomas would return and make him less cold.

His breath was heavy, and his lungs burned like fire. He remembered words that haunted him for weeks in the past. I believed you were more than what others said about you. I conceived myself beneath all the harsh words, was someone with a kind soul waiting to be seen. Was it all a lie I told myself?

Darkness flooded his senses. Trying to get any portion of self-control on his body he could, Alastair rose to his feet, glancing out of the window on unsteady legs without seeing anything at all. Gather yourself together.

But the words burned deep then, and they burned deep now. That was a battle against himself he meant to lose. The cold spread not only from the world beyond the window but from within him. It pulled out his ugly head, writhing and furious, desperately trying to break free and rise to the surface. People walked in the streets, oblivious to his troubles just as he was to theirs.

Thomas wasn't there.

Thomas wasn't there, and Cordelia wasn't there, and anyone he loved wasn't there. He locked himself in their flat for the past day, overthinking and speculating and wondering why did he have to be the way he is. If Thomas had finally realized he deserved someone so much better than Alastair, would he be surprised? Alastair was aware of this fact too well. The way he looked at him when they fought, the shaky hands when he opened the door, and the hours of waiting in case Thomas will return, just for nothing to happen. What does it mean if not that Alastair finally made Thomas give up and leave?

This inner part of him was crying, demanded to be heard, to be set free. A shrill cry came to his ears, and it took him a moment to perceive it belonged to him.

His vision became vague, his head ached, and everything spun around. He tried to lay a hand on the wall - only to find he miscalculated the distance and fell ungracefully on his knees. His heart pounded in his chest while the darkness tried to pull him in; He tried to take a breath and dozens of small knives tore his lungs up. He shrank, gasping for air that didn't come.

Everything seemed blurry, all his mind could engross in was the words Thomas Lightwood told him, the cold truth dripping from them, freezing Alastair all over again.

Alastair was accountable for all the hideous things he'd done and said, unquestionably. How weak is he that he hides behind shallow faces and vicious words? What a dolt he is, hurting a person, mainly the only person outside of his family that seemed to genuinely care for him. His words rang in his head, Thomas's voice haunting every corner.

He sank lower, his breathing gurgling, reaching out in search of something stable, something that would serve as a pillar in the chaos that ensued around him. His hand extended out to the still air and then groped for something to hold on the floor. That came the way of a cold, sharp object that lay on the ground. He gripped it tightly, and he groaned in pain and relief at the physical ache that eased his mind.

"Alastair?" A voice called.

~~~~~

Thomas was about to lose his right mind. Alastair was trembling vigorously, barely able to stand on his feet that were shaking like a leaf swaying in the wind.

"Alastair," Thomas stuttered, with no response back. His indignation vanished to immediate panic. "Alastair?" he repeated more stubbornly.

His chest went up and down quickly; His eyes were wide like that of a deer caught in the automobile light. When Thomas tried to take a step toward him, the smaller man stiffened and stood bolt upright. Thomas stopped dead.

"I came at the behest of Ariadne," he said, just for the sake of talking. Alastair hadn't told him to quiet, so he kept going. "And because I was worried about you."

"Leave," Alastair hissed out frantically. Thomas couldn't stop the throbbing burn striking through his body.

Thomas took a few steps back, allowing Alastair his space. He had no temptation to leave as he requested - Thomas simply waited aside, for a chance Alastair would change his mind. He recalled the nights he woke up from a nightmare, dazed and overwhelmed with emotions, and how Alastair always reassured him in the dead of night.

This Alastair seemed lost in his own mind, unable to escape, and it terrified Thomas. Yet, he shoved the dread aside and put on the most relaxing facade he could. He was told to be quite good at it.

"I'm right here, Azizam."

"Everyone leaves. You can do as well."

Somewhere in his mind, the pieces joined together, like a colossal puzzle. Was he afraid Thomas would leave him? That he would give up on him? he told him he could leave in their run-in, because he thought everyone will leave him in the end?

"I don't know. I don't know how to do it." To cease making the wrong decision. To cease pushing people away. To cease hurting people. "man nemidânam."

"Alastair, can you hear me?"

As he found out, Alastair did not hear him. "I don't want to hurt you. I already hurt you so much." Alastair went on, choking on his own words. Thomas was in full panic mode, and he hurried further toward Alastair with barely contained alarm.

I find you worth any pain to come, Thomas thought.

"It's fine," Thomas said. "I am fine. I want you to be fine as well. It's much more important to me than whether you may or may not harm me."

Something split in his face, and he took a deep breath down his throat. His eyes snapped to Thomas. The terror on his face made Thomas's heart sink.

"Alastair?" he asked, but it didn't manage to elicit a response from the other man.

Thomas drew closer to Alastair, not missing the flinch passing the half-Persian's body. Thomas could hear his breath, shallow and trembling. He could painfully see the tremor of his hands. The wide eyes that so clearly tried to hold back tears. He took one step closer, and Alastair took one back.

Thomas imminently came to a halt. Alastair squeezed hard against the wall. He looked like a captive animal on the verge of losing hope, a man pushed to the edge, an injured soul.

Thomas took one step closer. With his enormous figure, it all needed to reach Alastair. He wrapped his arms around the shorter man, didn't let go even when Alastair squirmed, trying to shove him aside, fought to set free from Thomas's grip. His hold only tightened, and he used his strength to shove Alastair's head into his chest. He kept him close, kept even when Alastair protested, kept his hold when Alastair Surrendered abruptly, sinking into the soft material of Thomas's clothing, even when sobs began and his chest got wet from the tears of his love.

Thomas pressed his lips to the dark hair, held Alastair steadily while he cried. No words of reassurance passed between them. Truly, Thomas wasn't sure Alastair would have heard him if he tried. He knew the touch was what Alastair needed. Their embrace was clumsy and distorted, but it was enough. Enough to tell Alastair he wasn't alone; Thomas wouldn't have let him go through this alone.

With a soft sigh, Thomas finally let loose of his grip. He started to pull away and was surprised when he felt fists clasping on the fabric of the front of his sleeveshirt.

"Please," Alastair whispered desperately."Please hold me."

Thomas couldn't find it in himself to deny it to Alastair. They slipped to the floor. Alastair buried his face in Thomas's chest once again, shaking silently. Thomas felt his mouth forming words on his chest, although he could not tell which. All the while, his hands embraced the slim, shaking form of Alastair.

A few minutes had passed. Or an hour. Or a couple of days. Thomas didn't feel the time had passed while he tried to console his beloved one. He closed his eyes and concentrated on moving his hand on Alastair's small back, kept him close. The other hand came to caress the space between his ear and jawline, where he was creating circles on the tender skin.

Slowly, The dark-haired's breath became more even.

"Here you are," Thomas let a breath of both exhaustion and relief leave his body. "Can you hear me, Eshgham?"

"Y-Yes."

"Would you like me to get you a glass of water?"

"No."

Thomas sighed inertly as he held the other gentleman in his warm hands, promising reassurance and no judgment. Alastair, for the matter, clang to him as if he was drowning and Thomas was his only lifeline.

He never liked to fight with Alastair. It rarely happened, but when it did it left a bitter taste in his mouth and a pang at his heart. But he was not going to give up - not on this. He remembered his mother once told him couples fight, sometimes, because they still care about what the other does. It was their first argument with their new agreement. It didn't make him feel any better at the time. All his life he had been surrounded with unconditioned love, never exposed to the arguments and the imperfect details. It made him view love as just sweet and honey, while he learned that there's more with Alastair.

There's the giving. And the receiving. The trust in the other's intentions and the willingness to make them your priority foremost of all. The disagreements make you understand when your boundaries are and open a place for learning and acceptance. The balance you build with time, something he hoped he could shape with the man in front of him.

The trust part, to his belief, was something they still were working on. Alastair had leaned on him, and Thomas wondered it he thought now he calmed down, Thomas would leave him again. He did the last time.

"I'm not leaving," They locked eyes, and for some reason, he felt hope. "Alastair, I'm not leaving."

There are very few things he wanted more than Alastair. Verily, He was what he longed for above everything else. He wanted Alastair and everything he was.

Alastair didn't answer, but he averted his eyes.

"Are you ready to go now?"

Alastair seemed slightly lost, but he nodded and weakly stood on his legs. He followed Thomas while Thomas flung himself up and let Alastair sat on their bed beside him. The comfortable place always made both feel better - The mix of English and Persian and Spanish books on the bookshelves. The notebooks full of poems Thomas kept beside his side of the bed. Alastair's spears collection. The artworks they bought when they visited art galleries.Even the soft yellow light was a source of relief.

"You are mad," proclaimed Alastair in a hoarse voice.

"So are you," Thomas returned. Alastair shook his head, and Thomas's eyebrows rose. "So what then, if not mad?"

"Mostly nauseous," Alastair murmured, managing to startle a breathy chuckle out of Thomas. "But also bloody exhausted."

Thomas fumble after the right words, before deciding he should be candid. "I didn't like being apart from you in those few days. But I stick to what I told you before, Alastair." He saw it happening - the wall of defense Alastair was building up again after the last one had crushed. "Let me bring some fresh air into here."

Thomas tried to ventilate the room well while Alastair sank into the mattress and sat on the bed, leaning against the headboard. "If you call the London foggy, polluted air fresh, then sure."

A bit of relief passed because of Alastair's quip. He didn't lose it. "It seems you and my father share this opinion."

Thomas scanned Alastair, then noticed the cut on his right palm. Absentmindedly, he approached his side.

"Why did you do it?"

It took Alastair a moment to conceive what he was referring to. He hastily covered it with his other hand, but Thomas saw it. "I - didn't mean to."

Thomas watched the cut in awe as if it was imaginary. However, when he grazed the skin, Alastair winced.

Thomas wasn't sure how to counter this. Their fight. What just happened. Alastair didn't either. Or did he wish to pretend none of this happened? That he -both of them- weren't hurt?

This thought wasn't toleratable to Thomas.

And that's why, after he took his stele out of his dresser and was applying an iratze on Alastair's forearm, that he asked, "I want to talk about what happened the day before yesterday."

He could feel Alastair stiffening, his muscles tensing. "I was upset," Alastair said cautiously. "I shouldn't have snapped at you, Tom."

"You shouldn't have," Thomas agreed. He was done with the iratze and put the stele aside. "But that's not why I'm distraught."

Alastair shot him a tumultuous look. Thomas took a deep breath before looking Alastair dead in the eye. "You were upset, but you wouldn't tell me why. You grumble about things relentlessly, but when you're truly shaken you don't share at all. It's not - just this argument. It's not just one thing. Those small moments you hesitate whether to tell me the truth. The times you don't." He inhaled, letting the cold air fill his lungs. He resisted looking away from Alastair's face, didn't let his eyes flutter around the room like they were trying to do. "Love is also built on trust and communication. If we don't have those, what is left?" He didn't need to hear Alastair's reply. "We talk, and we share, yet I cannot understand why you're so grumpy at times. I need you to tell me."

"Can't one just be pissed off at the world?"

"Alastair."

"Many things can upset me," Alastair said. Thomas might have hallucinated it, but his voice was a bit shaky. "Do you want to hear them all?"

"Yes," Thomas answered immediately. His tone was sincere.

Alastair's hand reached to the other side of the bed, a nonverbal request. They still couldn't stop staring at each other. But not playfully, or lovingly, but earnestly.

Alastair, naked of his facade and any snide remarks. Alastair, whom he grew to know and rarely showed up to many else.

I do trust you. I care for you. were the meaning behind Alastair's gaze. All Thomas wanted is to lean on and forget everything. But still - it was not his pride making him relucent. That was much deeper than that.

He lingered there just for a moment too long, enough to make Alastair believe he declined the request, and his hand quirked in pain for a moment. His face became emotionless - and Thomas had feared he misleadingly deceived Alastair that he didn't want them after all. That he didn't want him.

In moments, he climbed on the bed. He coddled Alastair, silently and diligently. "Tell me. Tell me what's wrong."

"Nothing," Alastair retorted eventually. He rubbed his eyes and laid back on the bed board. Then after a moment. "Everything."

"I hate it when I see you suffer and I don't know why," Thomas whispered. "I want to help. More than anything. But you push me away and I am left to think it might be because of me, because-"

"No," Alastair said firmly, extending his hands to cup Thoams's. "You have never been anything but good to me. It's just-," he broke off.

Thomas searched his foggy eyes. "I don't blame you," he told him, "If it's hard for you. But trust me enough to tell me what bothers you, thus we could face it together." He collected his hands in his own, lifting them so he could kiss his knuckles. "I know I want to stand by your side whatever the cost." he was certain about that; No whirlwind to come could change it. "Will you let me?"

Instead of an answer, Alastair kissed him.

Thomas knew he was kind, forgiving, trusting. He knew Alastair was slow to trust, slow to reveal his true feelings, hiding behind sharp words to secure himself from being harmed by people close to him. He knew the world broke his heart - so viciously, and that he took the pieces that were left. It was undoubtedly hard. Alastair had changed so much, yet Thomas wanted to understand, to reassure Alastair they were in this together.

"Hamsar-am," Alastair said when they pulled away. "I will try."

Thomas smiled at the endearment term. His heart was throbbing fast. "I was mad," he confessed, "because you refused to tell me what's wrong. You pretended. And I - I don't want facades, my love. I want the truth. I want you."

"I don't want to be weak around the people I love," Alastair whispered, and Thomas understood. To what extent did he fear that if he shows weakness, his friends and family would suffocate him again, shield him from the world as they did when he was younger? How much he feared at slightest of weakness shown, he would be smothered as Thomas had been when he was too small, too fragile?

But Alastair never did that. He supported him in his way, allowed him to be weak without acting as if Thomas was made of glass. "So not weak to everyone," He was astonished he found it in himself to laugh softly. "Each other will be enough. We can be vulnerable with one another."

Alastair stared at him for a long moment. Eventually, a faint smile appeared on his lips. "Okay."

"This is just another way of trust."

So Alastair told him. He told him about the rumors he heard from the London enclave about his family, the looks he had gotten. Of the words of people who were white while Alastair was brown. He didn't mind, much, but it drew attention to his family. And to Thomas. Respectable family and a kind heart seemingly weren't enough to make the rumors - and who spread them - silence. The opposite is correct - the fire burned even brighter, and its flame was like cutting knives. The people who matter didn't care about their agreement, and Alastair long stopped paying attention to rumors. But when it was about Thomas, he said, he had been furious. The stories unfolded, the truth shone through, and the more Alastair talked - not just about rumors, but on the way some of the people treated him, of the Cornwall's townhouse and its residents, the things his soul troubled about were finally out.

Thomas listened, understood, stroked Alastair's cheek when he seemed to start shaking again, but now out of relief instead of concealed agony.

They sunk into a comfortable silence in the end. Up until Alastair inquired, "You were out for so long. Where were you?"

"At the institute," Thomas replied. The concept of coming back to his parents' townhouse, admitting the quarrel, rewinding it all in his head countless times while enduring Sophie and Gideon's worrying looks, was nothing he wished to do. "Or somewhere I could avoid anyone."

"And now?" he asked tentatively. "You come back?"

"I have no intentions to leave this bed even if Ariadne herself will come to pluck me off the sheets." He affirmed.

Alastair's smirk became genuine this time. "Ariadne was here today."

When Thomas said "I know" he got a quizzical look from Alastair so he supplied, "She found my whereabouts and made me go confront you. Not much subtly, may I add."

"Yes. This jinx made me open up the door and refused to leave until I told her what happened."

Thomas silently laughed.

"I..suppose it was rather cathartic," Alastair said. It was evening now, Thomas noted, and none of them found it in themselves to get up and eat supper. They just kept their bodies close, relishing their air of comfort.

"Indeed. This, this was good. Splendidly better than reading the same page over and over again in the Devil's tavern or pretending to care what waistcoat Matthew is taking to the impending party at Anna's flat."

"You thought the place you and your squad go to hide is the best place to hide from them?" Alastair asked.

"It seemed reasonable at the time," Thomas murmured. "Each of us has a kind of hideout, have we not?"

Where was Alastair's safe hideaway? At home, with a book in hand? At museums, drinking in art and beauty? Was it hiking in the streets of London by himself and enjoying the view and the whispers of nature?

"You," Alastair said. Thomas hadn't realized he voiced his question aloud. A tired, small smile played on Alastair's lips, yet his words were soft, plain and simple. Their eyes locked, and he could feel how genuine Alastair was. "You are my hideout."

~~~~~

Dictionary:

man nemidânam - I don't know

Eshgham - my love

Hamsar-am - my equal head, my better half

#alastair carstairs #thomastair #thomas lightwood #the last hours #my fics #thomastair fics #for the matter Thomas does NOT know how to help Alastair in the state he was in. He doesn't know the right way to approach this.#They just found solace in physical affection so he found it fitting there too #I'm sorry #littlx-songbxrd #carstairstessa #Besides I take centuries to write because not only I am extremely busy (and sunk way too deep into the fluff fic and Choi)#but have to wait for inspiration to strike. It works not another way.#so sorry

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novelconcepts · 3 years

Text

fic: the shape of it

for a prompt from @karatam

They expect the Lady to come, one day. They expect the Lady to take Dani, in the end.

They did not expect it to go like this.

“She’s going to take me,” Dani says in a voice so thick with resignation, it nearly kills Jamie outright. Says it like a foregone conclusion, like something biblical ingrained in her from childhood. Jamie looks at her, and thinks, She believes it. Nothing else matters. She believes this with her whole heart.

Jamie takes her hand anyway. Offers her company anyway. Loads up the car with bags and dreams of outrunning all of it anyway. The way she sees it, it’s the only path forward. Anything less would leave bits of Dani--bits of Jamie, too--behind in this house forever.

They are not running away together, exactly. They are moving slowly, carefully, checking the road ahead for obstacles and cracks in the pavement as they go. Slowly, the distance between the pair of them and Bly Manor expands. Slowly, the world stops looking so much like a ghost story. Jamie, more and more every day, thinks, She believed it with her whole heart, but maybe not so much anymore. Maybe not so much.

Even so, even as the months turn to years, Jamie can’t forget the certainty in Dani’s face that day as she said it. She’s going to take me. The most certain Dani has been about anything except Jamie herself. Though the days are gorgeous, long and lazy, stretching on like there will be millions more ahead, Jamie can’t forget. She’s going to take me.

“Not if I have anything to say about it,” she murmurs, brushing Dani’s hair back. She’s fallen asleep on the couch again, her head in Jamie’s lap, and though it’s well past midnight, Jamie can’t bring herself to wake her. Moments like this. Moments like this are so many, and so precious, and so much more than how very small they seem.

Dani thinks the Lady will take her, someday. Jamie thinks Dani knows her own mind better than anyone. In two very different ways, they’re both primed to fight.

And even still, when it begins, it’s a blind strike to the side of the head.

***

Dani has lost her key.

It sounds so small, so nothing. She turns up at the shop an hour after she’s gone home to get dinner started, looking more than a little sheepish. Jamie, wrist-deep in repotting some of the hardier flowers, cocks her head.

“What’re you doing back? Don’t tell me the apartment caught fire.”

Dani, head bowed, sits behind the counter. “Can’t get in,” she says miserably. “Left the key somewhere.”

Jamie smiles. Dani hates making silly mistakes--she sometimes thinks it’s this vaguely type-A attitude that drew her toward teaching in the first place, toward helping kids not screw up the little things in life. It’s endearing, the rare occasion Dani lets her see a side of error not confined to her tragic inability to make a hot beverage.

“I’m sure it’s in with the laundry or something,” she says, brushing off her hands and setting aside her trowel. “No worries, I’m just about finished here anyway. You want to pick up tacos on the way?”

No worries. That’s how it feels, as a pouting Dani tucks her arm through Jamie’s bent elbow and follows her out of the shop. People misplace things every day--it’s not like Dani pitched her key down a gutter or something. It’ll turn up.

And, within an hour of arriving home with the best Mexican food suburban Vermont has to offer, it does: under Dani’s purse, dead center of a couch cushion. Jamie produces it with a flourish, dropping to one knee like a knight of old and raising it upon her palms like a magic sword.

“M’lady,” she drawls. “Your treasure.”

Dani laughs. She plucks the key from Jamie’s hand, tucks it into her hip pocket, pulls Jamie into a giggly kiss--and just like that, the matter is forgotten. A nothing. A moment.

If she looks a little puzzled, a little irritated with herself, it passes before Jamie can even comment.

***

The plants in the back are wilting.

Jamie stands, hands in her pockets, regarding them with some alarm. Shouldn’t be a problem, she thinks, running through the possibilities. Roots should have plenty of space. Lights are working fine. No sign of rot anywhere to be found. They just look a little...

“Dani,” she calls, eyes still on the yellowing leaves. Dani pokes her head through the door, a bundle of roses in her hands.

“Yeah?”

“Have you, uh. Watered these recently?”

She waits for the obvious answer. Dani always waters this side of the room. She takes the left, Jamie takes the right, and everybody gets the nourishment they need.

When Dani doesn’t answer for a full ten seconds, Jamie turns to her with a frown, surprised to find Dani’s brow furrowed like she’s thinking hard.

“I...thought I did,” she says slowly. “Yeah. Yeah, I must have.”

“How many times this week?” Jamie asks. Dani closes her eyes as if counting.

“I...” She steps into the room like she’s half-asleep, staring at the plants so hard, it’s a wonder the flowers don’t burst into flame. “Twice? Three times, maybe. Or...”

More than that, Jamie thinks, gently lifting a drooping leaf and inspecting its unhealthy pallor. If she didn't know better, she’d say Dani had watered this poor thing twice a day for the last week.

“S’okay,” she says, though a faint bloom of annoyance is opening in her chest. “It’s salvageable, I think. Just so long as we let ‘em dry out some. Leave this side to me, okay?”

Dani is staring at the plant nearest to her like she’s never seen one before. Whatever annoyance Jamie feels at having to quite possibly start over with previously-perfect plants vanishes at the sight of her expression.

“Hey,” she says, taking Dani’s hands and squeezing. “Honestly, Dani, don’t worry about it. These things happen.”

Dani’s frown deepens as if to say not to me, they don’t. Jamie gives her hands a gentle swing from side to side until that frown lightens.

“Maybe I take care of the watering for a bit, yeah? You can supervise.”

She doesn’t look too closely at any of it, at the way Dani’s brow creases like she’s still trying to keep track of how many days are in the week. She doesn’t look too closely at why she’s just heard herself say “supervise” instead of “keep the books”, as she normally would. Don’t look at it. Dani’s fine.

Just a little scattered today, is all.

***

“It’s, uh...hang on...”

Dani is scowling at the ceiling, racking her brain for something Jamie can’t help with. There was a woman, a woman in the grocery store, who spoke to Dani as though she’d done it a hundred times.

“Barb?” Jamie suggests, plucking a name out of thin air. “Carol. Monica.”

Dani shushes her, flapping a hand for silence. Jamie shuts up, her mouth pulling into a relaxed grin she doesn’t quite feel.

Dani’s been doing this more and more lately--stopping mid-sentence to grope for some detail Jamie can’t see behind her eyes. It shouldn’t worry her. She doesn’t want it to worry her.

These things just happen, she tells herself, watching Dani bend forward to press her face with frustration against her knees. They’re getting older--have been together almost ten years now--and their lives are busy. Busy brains are easily worn out by an abundance of minor details, and sometimes, the less important stuff slips. It’s okay. It’s nothing to be concerned about.

Except Dani looks like she’s on the verge of tears, scraping around in her head for the name of some woman they ran into in the bread aisle. Dani is dragging deep breaths in that old familiar way that says the trigger is small, but the imminent explosion could take out the whole night.

“Poppins,” Jamie says, prodding at her ribs until she sits up and stares with wet eyes into Jamie’s face. “Is this a woman I’m meant to invite to dinner?”

Dani shakes her head. Jamie shrugs.

“Then I’m going to go right ahead and call her Honeywheat, and we can just be done with it.”

Dani laughs--not a real laugh, but a huff through her nose to tell Jamie she’s trying. Jamie smooths a thumb across her cheekbone, pretending this hasn’t been happening more and more frequently. Pretending she hasn’t noticed just how badly it pulls at Dani’s threads, each time she loses track of something small.

“Charlene!” Dani says, half an hour later, practically shouting the word into the silence of the living room. Jamie jumps, losing her place in her book, looks up to find Dani staring at her with a fierce sort of pride that scares her. It’s a look that says I did it, and I’m okay, goddammit, and this is not happening.

“Charlene, hm?” Jamie repeats. “I think I prefer Honeywheat.”

***

The day of the fire, she has to admit there’s cause for concern.

She thinks, at first, it’s just her. That she’s had such a long day at the shop, been yelled at by far too many young men who didn’t understand why it’s less than appropriate to give your spouse flowers by way of asking for a divorce, and her brain has been scrambled. It’s the only explanation, she thinks, for smelling smoke the minute she walks into the apartment building.

Except it gets worse as she heads up the stairs. Worse still, until she’s fitting the key into the lock, opening the door, realizing with a jolt of horror that the smell is both very real and very much coming from the kitchen.

“Dani?” she calls, and her voice sounds to her own ears like a scream echoing over a moonlit lake. She forces the panic down, forces herself to walk--not run--to the kitchen and survey the damage.

A plate of something undefinable is sitting in the microwave. It is no longer on fire, she notes, but the microwave is still, as she wrenches it open, counting down. The little green numbers flash 40:03, blinking at her, waiting to resume their cook time.

“Dani!” she calls again, jamming her thumb into the Clear button and slamming the microwave shut on a wall of acrid smoke.

“Yeah?” Thank Christ. Dani, poking her head out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around her body. “You’re home! ...what’s that smell?”

“You tell me,” Jamie says, more sharply than she intends; her heart is in her throat, blocking off anything resembling restraint. She staggers toward Dani, whose face is the picture of bemusement.

“It’s not...coming from our kitchen?”

“Dani.” Jamie takes her by the shoulders, reassured by the soft slide of Dani’s skin against her palms. Real. Here. Okay. “You had something cooking. Did you...”

Forget, she doesn’t say. The color pours out of Dani’s face, answering the question so completely, Jamie sags against her.

“Threw it in,” Dani says slowly. “Leftovers. Just...”

Jamie thinks she can guess. Threw it in, walked away, forgot it completely. Would have been fine, if that had been all. If Dani had simply spaced on the idea of retrieving the dish before it grew cold, if she’d opted for a shower instead, there would have been no harm done.

Except that counter was so high. Except Dani had, plainly, set the timer for nearly an hour.

Dani is looking at the smoke hazing the air, polluting the hall, with an expression of such grim anxiety, Jamie nearly forgets to breathe. Pull it together. She needs you to keep focus.

“I’m sorry,” Dani says, so softly, Jamie would have missed it if not for staring at Dani’s face like it might slip away at any second. “I don’t know how...”

“It’s okay.” Jamie pulls her close, struggling to keep her heart from pounding out of her chest. So much could have gone wrong. If they hadn’t gotten lucky. If she hadn’t gotten home in time. So much could have-- “It’s okay.”

“Jamie?” Dani’s voice is tiny, her face turned against Jamie’s neck. “I think there’s something wrong with me.”

***

She calls Owen after Dani falls asleep, careful to keep her voice down. France is six hours ahead, and it’s clear her call catches him still in bed, but his voice is cheerful all the same.

“Jamie! Big surprise. How’s everything--”

“How did it start?” Jamie keeps her voice low, her eyes on the hall. She doesn’t like leaving Dani alone in the bedroom, doesn’t like the idea of Dani waking and not knowing where she is. Make it quick, then.

“Sorry?” Owen sounds confused, and rightly so. “How did what start?”

“Your mum.” She can’t think of a cleaner way to approach it, a nice, easy route to opening Owen’s old scars. “How did it start, with her?”

He’s silent for so long, she wonders if the connection has severed. Finally: “Jamie, what’s going on?”

She can’t. She can’t get into it. If she says too much, if she explains what she’s been seeing in drips and drops over the past few years, it might cement the whole thing into reality. She can’t.

“Please,” she says, hearing her own voice break with exhaustion. “Just tell me.”

***

There are tests. Dani doesn’t want to take them, and Jamie quite frankly doesn’t want to force it, but there are tests all the same. CT scans, and doctors who ask probing questions that grit Dani’s teeth and put fire into her eyes, and Jamie thinks for a hopeful few minutes that this is stupid. That they don’t need to be here. That Dani is okay, and fierce, and strong, and here.

“I’m not going to say there’s no cause for concern,” the doctor says, when Dani has jumped through all his hoops. “But your scans don’t show much yet, and your grasp on those questions seems strong. Keep an eye on it, all right? Call me if there’s any change.”

He’s looking at Jamie like he knows why she’s here, why she’s standing just a few inches from Dani’s side. She nods once, sharp, and he pats Dani lightly on the shoulder.

“You’re young,” he says, like youth means anything at all where tragedy is concerned. “I have a good feeling about this.”

***

Jamie starts coming home when Dani does, starts waiting for her to get ready before going into the shop. She can’t help when Dani loses track of details inside her head--the date, their plans for the weekend, a longtime customer’s name--but she can help with other things. With knowing exactly where Dani’s purse is at all times. With knowing exactly where Dani’s favorite earrings are. With knowing exactly when Dani last ate.

“You don’t have to do that,” Dani says in a voice like iron. Jamie raises her head from the salad she’s preparing for lunch.

“Don’t have to...?”

“Fuss,” Dani says, almost coldly. “I’m fine, Jamie.”

It hits her like a punch, almost doubling her over, the look in Dani’s eyes. Some horribly chilly combination of frustration and anger, maybe not at Jamie, but directed her way all the same. She pauses, setting the cheese grater down, looking Dani in the eye.

Really? Only, the last time I didn’t set us up with a timely meal, you went ten hours without eating anything and nearly passed out on me.

She doesn’t say the words. Instead, she says, “I love you.” It’s become a mantra in moments like this, when Dani is so not herself, it’s like staring at someone else in a mirror. I love you. I love you on bad days, and I love you when you remember every detail of our first kiss, and I love you tomorrow.

The fight goes out of Dani’s body, her hand cupping around her eyes. The gold of her ring stands out in the afternoon sun, and Jamie thinks, It’s still her. It’s still her.

“I’m sorry. I just...I feel...”

Jamie moves toward her slowly, like approaching a trapped animal. She's never moved like this with Dani in all the time they’ve been together, never felt the need, but lately, Dani is so unpredictable it hurts.

“Trapped,” Jamie suggests softly. Dani nods into her hand. “I’ve been hovering.” Dani nods again. “Too much?”

Hesitation. A final nod that is also sort of a shake. Jamie sighs.

“Just want to make sure I don’t--” Lose you. “--miss out on something important, is all. I’m sorry, too. I can back off some.”

It terrifies her to say so, to promise that when Dani sometimes looks around the living room like it’s brand-new. But Dani’s right. She isn’t a child. She doesn’t need Jamie to treat her as such. She’s okay. She’s still here.

“I love you,” she says again, and Dani walks into her arms like she’s the only thing in the room not spinning.

***

She tries not to panic, when Dani doesn’t come home. Tries to will herself back to ancient therapy techniques, to breathing rituals, to steady reminders that Dani is okay. Dani is fine. Dani has had a really good couple of weeks, in fact, and when she told Jamie she wanted to stop off at the store after work, Jamie had agreed.

An hour passes. Two. Jamie’s pacing, doing fevered mental math: the shop is a ten-minute walk from the apartment, the grocery store a five-minute walk from the shop. How long does it take to pick up eggs, cheese, tomatoes? Half an hour?

Okay, she thinks, forcing a calming breath through her nose. Okay, so that’s five--fifteen--forty-five minutes...

Not five minutes after this less-than-bracing thought, she’s throwing on a jacket and storming out the door. A fifteen-minute walk to the grocery store, she completes in eight. The cashier is a teenager in an outdated Nirvana t-shirt, looking at her like she’s out of her mind when she blows through the doors and says, “Blonde woman, brown jacket, one blue eye, one brown. Seen her?”

He has not. She forces herself not to sprint through the tiny store, peering doggedly down each aisle in turn. No sign of Dani.

The shop, then. She makes her way back, cups her hands around her eyes as she leans into the dark window. Door is still locked, and not a light is burning. Dani wouldn’t shut them off unless she was at the door--no matter what happens, no matter how confused she gets, she never plunges herself into darkness until she’s ready to make an escape into light.

Breathe, Jamie thinks. Breathe. Maybe she��s just taking a stroll.

She walks for blocks, her legs carrying her at twice the normal speed, looking around every corner with absolute terror. When she finds Dani at last, seated on a bench outside their favorite Mexican restaurant, the relief almost stops her heart.

“Dani.”

Miserable eyes turn up to her, Dani’s face shell-shocked. “How long,” she says brokenly, “have we lived here? In this neighborhood.”

Jamie swallows. “Fifteen years.”

Dani nods, like she’s just given a complicated multiplication problem to a student who got it right on the first go. “Fifteen years,” she repeats. “Jamie. I couldn’t. I couldn’t remember--”

Jamie drops down beside her, arms wrapping tight, not caring who might be looking. Dani is so small, hands gripping Jamie’s shoulders, shaking all over.

“I’ve got you,” Jamie murmurs. “I’ve got you. It’s okay.”

***

“It’s her,” Dani says. They’re laying in bed, Jamie’s head on Dani’s chest, Jamie trying desperately not to count all the things that have gone wrong in Dani’s head this week. How Dani stared in confusion at an order she’s put together a hundred times. How Dani snapped at a customer, who looked at her like she’d just stabbed his mother. How Dani had been midway through a joke when she lost track of the punchline, and looked ready to burst into tears.

“It’s her,” Dani repeats. Jamie raises her head.

“Dani...”

“It’s. Her.” Dani reaches for her hand, fingers pressing down on the gold band she once hid in a plant. Jamie closes her eyes, inhales.

“Dani, I don’t want you to--you can’t go thinking--”

“Every day,” Dani says, her eyes on the ceiling. It’s like she thinks looking at Jamie would splinter her self-control. “Every day, I feel it a little less.”

Jamie waits. She’ll go on, eventually, explain herself. Jamie hates cutting her off, hates stepping in the way of a thought, lest Dani never quite get it back again.

“Every day,” she says at last, “we’re here. Living our lives. I see that, I feel...I feel you touching me, I feel how much we...and still, it’s like...like someone’s putting up glass. That fogged-up glass you can only see shapes through, you know? I can see us through it, but every day, that fog gets a little thicker.”

Her voice trembles, her throat working. Jamie shifts until her fingers are threaded with Dani’s, clenching tight.

“You’re here,” she says, unable to think of anything more reassuring. It’s what she’s been telling herself about Dani for months. Years. That Dani, no matter what else is going on, is still here with her. Still smiling at her. Still whispering her name in the dark.

“What if I’m not?” Something in Dani’s voice wavers to breaking, a hairline fracture in the words. “What if I’m looking at you, and I...I...”

Jamie can’t breathe. A muscle is jumping under her jaw, straining against the sob she’s been holding back for days.

“What if I’m looking at you when she takes me,” Dani whispers, and Jamie breaks. Can’t not. She presses her face against Dani’s skin, tears coming hot, and Dani holds fast to her like they both know the ship is going down.

“I love you,” she says, that same voice Jamie’s been leaning into for almost twenty years. “I love you. I love you. I love--”

***

“How is she?” Owen crosses his legs, sips his beer. Jamie’s own leg is fidgety, sock-clad foot hammering a mad rhythm against the floor.

“She’s...”

“How is she?” Owen repeats before she can polish off a pretty lie. She shuts her eyes against his too-kind stare.

“Told the same story four times yesterday.”

He’s nodding, sympathetic. “Mum used to get stuck on one about the best dinner she ever made. How she rescued it at the last second from burning. Proudest moment of her life, I think, except for the day I got into culinary school.”

Jamie sighs. “It was about the kids.”

“Ah.” He leans back, surveying her as though looking for cracks. If he finds any, he wisely keeps it to himself. Jamie, bottle still angled toward her lips, leans a little to look down the hall. The bedroom door is shut, no sign of Dani waking.

“I tried to get her to stay up,” she says, wondering why she feels the need to convince Owen, of all people. “She does miss you.”

She doesn’t tell him about the heartbeat of confusion, the way Dani’s brow had knit when Jamie mentioned he was coming into town. How, for a second, Dani had seemed uncertain if she knew Owen from Bly, or from Iowa.

“There’s always breakfast,” he says, placidly keeping tempo with this song they’re tossing back and forth, the one that goes everything is okay, everything is just fine, so long as we don’t look at it.

It’s good to be around someone who understands, even if she doesn’t really want to talk about it. Good to know Owen, who is watching her with knowing eyes, remembers all too well what it feels like to watch someone slip away.

“Seem to remember,” she says, taking the last swig and dropping the bottle against the breakfast bar, “saying once that this was a just shoot me situation. That it wasn’t fair.”

“And now?” He unfolds from his seat, moving in three strides to the fridge to replace her drink. Owen Sharma, at home in any kitchen without even trying.

“Now,” she sighs, “I don’t care about fair. I don’t care about burdens. I don’t care about anything except making sure she still....she’s still...”

He hands her the bottle, leans his elbows against the counter. There’s an abundance of gray in his hair these days, and contacts in his eyes. He smiles like Owen, though. Always that familiar, warm smile.

“She’s still your Dani,” he says. It isn’t a question. “Even on the days she isn’t. It’s the hardest part, maybe, remembering that. When she slips up, or can't remember the apartment number, or gets angry because you’ve reminded her of a gap she knows shouldn’t be there. But, Jamie, remember. She is still Dani.”

“I know.” Jamie scuffs a hand under her nose, rubs hard against her wet eyes. “I know. And sometimes she is so Dani. As if she was never anything else.”

As if, she doesn’t add, there wasn’t something else in there with her. Wiping her away a little at a time. Something else, matching her movements. Waiting.

“To Dani Clayton,” Owen says, raising his bottle and clinking against her own. “Your anchor.”

***

She thinks she’s getting used to it, if this is something one can get used to. Thinks she’s building a rhythm, a routine, around Dani’s bad days. Little jokes work sometimes. Little kisses and touches. Dani responds to Poppins better than her own name now, and Jamie leans into it, trying to pretend that doesn’t tear at her. Trying to pretend she can go back to a time when safety was a nickname, a silly joke on her lips to keep the well of feelings from overwhelming her good sense.

She says, “Morning, Poppins” and “I love you, Poppins”, and “G’night, Poppins”, like she hasn’t mostly been calling Dani by her real name since the day she admitted just how in love she was.

Even so, it’s a method of getting by. Dani is still Dani, after all, just as Owen said. Maybe sometimes she thinks it’s 1987, and maybe sometimes she thinks there are ghosts in the mirrors, and maybe sometimes she looks sharply up from a movie with the name “Eddie” harsh on her lips. Sure. Sometimes. But, mostly, she is still Dani.

Jamie is prepared, most days, for the mood swings and the bewilderment. For finding Dani’s toothbrush in the bedroom, or relocating Dani’s wallet back into her bag. She’s prepared for almost all of it, after so much time.

Nothing. Nothing can prepare her for the day Dani forgets her name.

They’re setting about readying for the day--readying themselves for the plane, in fact, which is slated to leave in three hours--and Dani has gone off to the bathroom to shower. She returns in one of Jamie’s softest shirts, her legs bare, her hair dripping. Jamie raises her eyes from last-minute packing, smiling.

“Nice and clean, then?”

Dani freezes. Turns slowly on her heel. Stares at Jamie like she’s never seen her before.

Something in Jamie cracks. Something in Jamie, something she didn’t even know could break, splintering wide open.

“I--who--” Dani, backing up fast, backing toward the door. It’s like she walked into her apartment to find some burglar lurking at the foot of her bed. Her hand extends, warding Jamie off, and Jamie realizes she’s been trying instinctively to move closer. To take Dani into her arms. To remind her.

“Dani. Poppins. Hey.” Each word, a knife turned back on herself. Each word, a question. She’s never said Dani’s name like this, with so much uncertainty weighed into each letter. “Dani, please.”

It’s the please that really breaks her. The please, like begging Dani for the kindness of her own name on Dani’s lips is something she ever thought she’d need to prepare for.

Dani blinks. Blinks again. Raises her left hand, stares hard at the band wrapped around her third finger. As Jamie watches, she touches the heart, the hands, the crown.

“Jamie?”

She’s on her knees, she realizes, on her knees on the floor with her arms wrapped around herself, and Dani is all but running to her. She’s on her knees, sobbing, feeling as though she could not be more wrung out if she’d walked in to find Dani cold on the bed.

Don’t let me find out, she thinks desperately, please, fuck, don’t ever let me find out how that feels compared to this.

“Jamie,” Dani says against the top of her head, holding her, “Jamie, hey, shh, come on...”

She doesn’t know, Jamie thinks wildly. She has no idea where she just went. No idea what almost washed away just now. She doesn’t know.

“Still here,” Jamie rasps through a sob. “You’re still here?”

Dani is silent a moment, and Jamie knows she’s heard it: the question at the end of the sentence, placed there for the very first time. Her hand tucks beneath Jamie’s chin, guiding her face up until her swollen eyes are staring into Dani’s tired ones.

“Still here,” she says softly. “I promise.”

***

Twenty years. It’s been twenty years, almost to the day, and California is glorious. Vermont is home, and Jamie would never trade it, but there’s just something about California she loves. The air is sweeter, somehow. The people, warmer. Or maybe they just care less.

Dani holds to her arm like a life preserver as they make their way through people much younger and more aloof than they’ve been in years. Jamie tries to stand taller, tries to look as though she belongs among Flora’s friends. Flora, who barely knows who she is, even--her eyes coasted right over Jamie when she walked up, right past Dani’s smile, the polite disinterest of a stranger.

It’s different than what she’s been watching with Dani. Different--but no less harsh, in its own quieter way.

Miles, practically a man now, shakes their hands with undue formality. Henry, just this side of relaxed, kisses her cheek. Embraces Dani. Jamie tries not to notice how her wife goes stiff in his arms, like there’s some part of her that can’t quite put a finger on why he feels entitled to such friendliness.

“Flora’s uncle,” Jamie whispers against Dani’s hair under the guise of a kiss. Dani nods once to show she understands, smiles at Henry like it’s summer, like it’s ‘87, like she couldn’t forget her past no matter how hard she tried.

“Lovely to see you both,” Henry says, oblivious to it all. Jamie’s glad she kept this to herself, kept it between Dani and her and Owen. No one else knows Dani here, anyway. No one needs to pry into the battle she’s been waging for two decades.

The rehearsal dinner is pleasant--everyone drinking a little too much, Flora beaming up at her groom-to-be, Owen telling bad jokes and advising them both to run off to Bali. With Dani’s hand gripping hers on the tablecloth, in full view of the world, Jamie almost feels at home. If she has to lean over from time to time to whisper a name in Dani’s ear, if she has to gently guide Dani to the bathroom, it all feels fitting of an out-of-town wedding. It’s fine. It’s okay. They can do this.

They’re sitting in the parlor of a presumably-haunted wedding venue, Dani leaning out of her chair to hold Jamie’s hand, when Jamie hears herself say it. She hadn’t planned on it in advance. It feels like flirting with fire, somehow, something that might keep them all warm or burn them all down.

“I have a story,” she says, Dani’s fingers warm around her own. “Well. It isn’t really my story...”

She glances up, catching Dani’s eyes, and for a heartbreaking moment, finds them blank. Dani, looking at her with jaw clenched and brow furrowed, trying to place herself. Trying to ward off the thing still working so hard to take her from all of them.

“It isn’t my story,” Jamie says again, a question, seeking permission. Dani’s face clears. She smiles. Nods once.

Jamie leans forward, takes a steadying drink. This may not do anything, she cautions herself. May not matter beyond the scope of a single night, with a room full of strangers waiting on her next words. Tomorrow, Dani might wake and not have the first idea whose bed she is sharing.

That, Jamie thinks firmly, is tomorrow.

“The teacher,” she begins, squeezing Dani’s hand, “was, by choice, a solitary young woman...”

#the haunting of bly manor #the haunting of bly manor spoilers #fanfiction #dani x jamie #jamie x dani #this is 1000% jess' fault #she knows it #and I genuinely wasn't sure I could write it but #here it is anyway #I promise future stories will make up for uhh any emotional damages

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rolandtowen · 3 years

Photo

Dumbass Romantics, the first part of a series exploring the ways in which Sokka and Zuko falling in love after the War.

Sokka and Zuko seem to keep “accidentally” flirting with each other with romantic gestures from their respective cultures. It takes a while for everyone else (and them!!) to catch on. Set a few months after the end of the war, featuring chronic pain and cultural flirting.

Read it under the cut!

The Fire Lord hated the cold. He supposed he should have commissioned a fur cloak before visiting Katara and Sokka, but where could his tailors find fur on such short notice? He couldn’t bring himself to slaughter dozens of squirrel-toads just for one coat. He had settled on a cloak woven with extra koala-sheep wool, but stepping out of his ship’s warmth now and into the crisp air of the Southern Water Tribe, Zuko knew he should have heeded Sokka’s advice to him to dress warm.

The cold was a bitch. But thankfully, he didn’t have to dwell on it long.

“Zuko!” Came Katara’s voice from somewhere below him. Zuko hurried down the rampart and came to meet his old friend. He went to bow formally, but she laughed and pulled him in for a hug. “Maybe save the bowing for when we have dinner with the old folks tonight.”

Zuko raised his eyebrow.

“Oh! It’s nothing big – just my Dad, Bato, Kanna, and Pakku. I do hope you’ve worked up an appetite for stewed sea prunes, that’s all my Dad can make without blowing the kitchen up – unless you’re allergic to sea prunes, of course, but I guess you wouldn’t know yet seeing as you’ve never tried them—”

“Katara,” Sokka’s voice startled Zuko a little bit, coming from his left side. Zuko shifted his head so he could hear him better. “You’re rambling again. Let the man breathe!” Zuko let out a low chuckle and turned to fully face Sokka.

“It’s good to see you too, Sokka.”

“And you, jerkbender! Spirits, aren’t you cold? I told you bring layers!”

The trio started to walk towards Katara and Sokka’s village. Zuko pondered what he should say: admit weakness and say he was, in fact, cold; or be miserable for the rest of his visit in silence?

“I’m okay, it’s just that the Fire Nation hasn’t ever had a need to make warm clothing. My tailors wouldn’t even know where to start on finding fur for a cloak.”

“Well then,” Sokka said, “it’s lucky for you that we have polar leopards!” And with that, Sokka unclipped the fur-lined cloak he was wearing and draped it over Zuko’s shoulders, fastening the metal clips with practiced ease. Zuko was shocked.

“Sokka, I can’t take your cloak!” He protested, stopping in his tracks.

“Relax, jerkbender, there’s more where that came from. When are you going to learn to dress up for your visits, dork?”

Katara chimed in. “The last time Zuko was here, his body temperature was elevated by his righteous search for the Avatar. I’m sure peace and love have probably cooled your hot head off quite a bit, huh?”

Zuko only hummed, looking down at the cloak that had been thrust upon him. It really was, quite warm. And quite intricate as well! He ran his fingers over the moon phases embroidered at the seams, a striking white against the deep blue of the cloak.

“Enjoying my handiwork?” Katara asked.

“Yeah, I am.” Zuko answered in a daze.

He wasn’t sure if he should tell them what it meant in Fire Nation culture, to place your own cloak on another’s shoulders, to literally and figuratively place another under your protection. Really, Zuko couldn’t remember the last time he had been given anything as a gift. Charity was not a concept Ozai was familiar with. Sokka couldn’t have possible known that what he just did was like the Fire Nation equivalent of a betrothal necklace. Still, it did leave Zuko touched that Sokka would so willingly give over such a valuable garment. He decided to leave the matter alone and revel in the warmth of the cloak.

“Sooooooooo, do you wanna go fishing together?”

Zuko sighed. He was a little bored. When they got back to the village, Katara had immediately ditched them to go help Kanna and Hakoda prep for the night’s family dinner. Leaving him and Sokka to do…. whatever until dinner time rolled around.

“Uh, I don’t really know how to fish—”

“That’s alright! I can teach you. Just grab your cloak!” Sokka leapt up and swept out the door. “You are coming, right?” Sokka called from afar.

“Yeah, I’m coming!” Zuko hollered back. He fiddled with the clasp on Sokka’s – er, his cloak—and stepped back into the cold.

Sokka was at the edge of the village, spears in hand. “You ever been on a kayak before?”

Zuko chuckled. “No, the ships I’ve been tend to carry more than one person, I don’t suppose you’ve got one of those?”

Sokka punched him in the shoulder. “We can’t use one of the warrior’s boats, we’ll scare the fish!” Oh. That made sense. “Now I get it, you really don’t know anything about fishing, do you? What have you got to say for yourself?”

“Two things: one, prince; two, fire nation. We much prefer Komodo sausage to seal jerky.”

“Well, your hotness, let me show you how it’s done.” Sokka hopped into one kayak, patting the one next him. “I assume you at least know how to use a paddle?”

Zuko laughed. “I may have been an adrift refugee once or twice. I think I can handle a paddle.”

“Good,” Sokka smiled at him as he climbed into the one-seater kayak. Zuko took a few moments to adjust to the shift in his center of gravity, then nodded at Sokka.

“Let’s catch some fish.”

It turns out, Zuko is not a natural at spear-fishing. He watched closely the first few times Sokka threw his spear, bringing up fish each time. “Go on, try it,” Sokka encouraged him. Zuko looked into the depths and tried to aim for the blurry shadows he took to be fish. His spear came up empty. “That’s okay! It took me a few fishing trips before I really go the hang of it.” Sokka analyzed his form. “Make sure you extend your arm a bit before your release the spear, then you can change your angle more easily.”

Zuko nodded, mirroring the way Sokka was holding his spear. They waited in silence, kayaks knocking gently into each other on the waves. A fresh school of fish appeared underneath them, and they released their spears at the same time. This time, even Zuko had caught a fish! Only one, compared to Sokka’s two, but it was his first fish! Sokka smiled widely at him. “I knew you could do it.”

“I guess I should call you Sifu Sokka now, my fishbending master.” Zuko quipped.

Sokka blushed and he hoped the gathering snow hid it from Zuko. “I think we should probably get back; you don’t want to miss Dad’s stewed sea prunes.

“Definitely not.” Zuko replied. “What, what does one do with a fish once they’ve caught it?”

“It depends – I think it being your first fish, we should celebrate it! What do you say to making some boiled fish dumplings?”

“I think that if you’re teaching me, it’ll be wonderful.”

If it was even humanly possible, Sokka blushed harder.

When they docked their kayaks, Zuko noticed that Sokka was favoring one of his arms over the other. Normally, it wouldn’t be strange to see a person favoring a side, but Zuko knew Sokka was ambidextrous. He didn’t say anything, so Zuko kept his observations to himself. Kanna met them outside her home, and positively beamed when Sokka told her that Zuko had caught his first fish.

“Well, better a late bloomer than never, eh?” Zuko laughed but still bowed his head in deference.

“It is very nice to finally meet you, Lady Kanna. Sokka has told me much about you in your letters.”

“Oh, he has, has he?” Kanna gave a mean side-eye to Sokka, who was suddenly very interested in the icy ground. “He’s told me about you as well. You have my gratitude – I can’t imagine what would’ve happened if you hadn’t gone to the Boiling Rock.”

“It was my pleasure, Lady Kanna.”

“Just Kanna, just Kanna, my dear. Well, come in! I see Sokka has leant you a cloak, but you still must be freezing! In, in!” Kanna shooed them inside. “I will take special care of your first fish, Zuko. Anything you had in mind?”

“Uh, dumplings?”

“Excellent choice, dear. Fish dumplings coming right up!” She disappeared into the kitchen of the home.

Sokka sat down on floor, covered by blue fabrics and pelts. Zuko noticed how gingerly he set himself down, now obviously favoring his right side. Sokka’s lips were drawn tightly as he rubbed circles into his left shin. Zuko could have almost swore he heard Sokka whimper. Almost.

“Sokka,” Zuko knelt down next to his friend. “Talk to me.”

“Mmph,” Sokka scowled.

“Words, Sokka.”

“It’s mostly my leg—you know how I broke it on the day of the Comet?”

Zuko grimaced. He did remember. Even in his lightening-induced fever, Zuko remembered. He heard his physicians set Sokka’s leg and pop his shoulder back in place. He wanted to forget those sounds of Sokka in pain, but he couldn’t.

“Well,” Sokka continued. “Ever since then, it still… it still hurts. Katara’s tried everything, but I’m probably stuck with it forever. My leg hurts the worst, but my shoulder’s the most inconvenient. I’m old enough to start putting braids in my wolf tail, but I just—can’t. I can’t lift my arm above shoulder-level. And I know I’m wallowing to the guy who literally got half his face burned off but—”

“But nothing, Sokka. You’re allowed to be in pain. Here, you know what, pull up your pant leg—”

“Geez, buy a guy dinner first will you?”

Zuko blushed but Sokka did as he was told, exposing his left shin and ankle. Zuko focused a little bit of heat into the palms of his hands. He placed one on Sokka’s ankle, scanning his face for any pain. When Sokka relaxed into the touch, Zuko placed his other hand on Sokka’s shin, applying the slightest bit of pressure.

“You know, with those hands you could almost be a healer like Katara.”

Zuko snorted. “And you need to learn to let people help you.” After a few minutes, he pulled his hands away, fearing that if he kept them there too long he’d burn his friend. “If you want, I can help you braid your hair. I won’t even tell Katara.”

Sokka smiled shyly at him. He guessed Zuko didn’t know the importance of braiding another’s hair in water tribe culture—reserved for family members and, well, lovers. But Zuko was kneeling in front of him, in a water tribe cloak, offering to help him with a warrior tradition. After everything they’d been through, Zuko was family—and maybe, he could be open to being something more?

“Okay,” Sokka nodded. He pulled two beads from his pocket, both striking shades of blue, one carved by Kanna and one by Katara. “You know how my Dad wears his beads? It’s the same idea.”

“I caught my first fish today, I’m pretty sure there’s nothing I can’t do now.” Zuko settled himself closer to Sokka’s face. “I’m going to let your hair down now, is that okay?” Sokka nodded again.

Zuko took out the hair tie and separated two sections of hair thick enough to support the beads. For lack of another set of hands, he resorted to holding the sections in his mouth while he carded the rest of Sokka’s back into place and tied it into the wolf’s tail again. Sokka was suddenly very aware of how close Zuko was to him—more specifically how he never wanted him to leave. He loved the warmth that radiated from him, but furthermore, he couldn’t remember the last time someone helped him with his hair. He hadn’t asked anyone since he got back from the war, and while they were on the run… he was focused on more important things than his hair. Sokka risked a look at Zuko’s face: he was rewarded with Zuko’s adorable concentration face. Wait, adorable? Where had that come from?

“How do you know how to braid, anyway? I didn’t see a whole lot of braids in the Fire Nation.”

“My mother used to let me braid her hair when I was feeling anxious or overwhelmed. You know, it’s calming, repetitive, doesn’t involve fire—perfect for mess of emotional issues like me.”

“Hey, you’re not a mess.”

Zuko laughed darkly.

“Well, not anymore than the rest of us. We all already had our own issues and then a war happened on top of that. You were just lecturing me on letting people help me. You don’t have to be alone in this.”

Zuko’s fingers trembled as he finished the second braid. “I know. I’m still getting used to having people I can actually trust.”

Kanna suddenly called from the kitchen. “Are you two done lounging around or are you going to help an old woman with this fish?”

They looked at each other and laughed. They did kind of forget about everyone except each other.

“Hey, Zuko,” Sokka started as Zuko stood up and held out a hand for him.

“Yeah?”

“You can braid my hair anytime you want.”

Zuko resisted simultaneous urges to bow and to hug Sokka. He smiled instead.

“I’d like that.”

Bonus:

Kanna had heard everything of course. But she couldn’t bear to interrupt them sooner. Tui and La, if those two didn’t end up together she’d have a riot. In the few months since Sokka had been home with her, he hadn’t opened up to anyone about his pain. And he certainly hadn’t asked anyone for help with his braids.

Spirits, those two were good for each other. Dumbasses in love.

#my fic #mine #rolandtowen #zukka #fic #zuko #sokka #chronic pain #the dragon and the wolf #cloak sharing #avatar #atla #avatar: the last airbender #firelord zuko #ambassador sokka

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withoneheadlight · 3 years

Text

With the house they inherit:

Piles and piles and piles of yellowing newspapers from May of the fifty-four to July of the sixty-six. An old, damp-stained Spanish guitar Billy tortures Steve with for a whole, whole week. And actually cool rattan garden set. An acceptably new lawnmower that refuses to start up.

A pipe system that, when using the hot water, always sounds like there’s a ghost trapped inside, howling all around it.

It drives Billy stir crazy but, doesn’t bother Steve that much.

("I don't care for supernatural creatures as long as they don't have fangs"

"Oh, babe, that’s only because you still haven't seen Poltergeist”)

The ugliest, “Ugliest couch, Steve, really” any of them has seen in their entire lives. A Brownish-green. Mushy. Deformed. Gigantic thing the kids bitch about all the time, calling it ‘The Swamp Thing’ (but then proceed to lament even louder than the pipe-ghost when they finally decide to get rid of it)

An old, sad, perpetually yawning dog that won't leave their porch (As if he’d loved somebody here once. As if he’s waiting), and for which they end up making a place inside the house as if it were theirs (“Which is not, Harrington”) because, Steve knows, there are a few things Billy believes and even preaches about himself that are, in fact, all wrong. As if he got them stitched over the real ones so long ago he can no longer tell them apart from the original pattern.

Like,

"If you like the dog, we can keep it. He's not moving, anyways"

"I don't like dogs" He growls, petting the dog, scratching his chest right where the animal clearly most likes it, letting him methodically lick on the back of his hand.

And those things― it's Steve's job to find them, now. Cut the thread that binds them. Reach out for the realness lying underneath the lie.

"Are you sure about that?"

Billy glances up at him, frowns, tilts his head as if he doesn't get why Steve’s smirking.

"Yeeeah. Pretty sure" Snorts. Shrugs. The dog's paw drums rhythmically on the ground.

"Yeeeah” Steve mimics, brow rising “Then tell me, baby, why do you keep on feeding him?"

It takes more than a week and more than a few beers and their dog happily napping curled up at his feet on their freshly mowed backyard for Billy to say:

"It's because that's how I felt" eyes set on the orangey, melting sun, taking a big gulp of air before going on “When you went away. Those years. I–“ swallows like this is, right here, right now, on the sighing sleepiness of this summer evening, the first time he’s tried to find the words for something that’s been inhabiting inside of him only as a raw, wordless feeling for so long.

(Too long)

And Steve feels it like the blade of a knife, cold at the tip of his tongue, the urging to say ‘I shouldn’t have’ and ‘I regret It’ and ‘I’m sorry’. But Billy told him, that night they parted ways, hands cupping his face. Told him “There’s nothing to be sorry about, pretty boy. You do what you gotta do. And who knows, maybe one day I’ll have another lucky strike” So he doesn’t. Buries the words down inside. They’re not what Billy needs, now.

What he needs is,

Steve to stay quiet. Steve to wait. Needs,

“You left and then–” Say it, Steve thinks, C’mon, say it. Eyes set on the way his breath gets trapped on its way out of Billy’s chest, like it takes such a fight, letting these all out “this fucking town was all I got left. And we had touched in so many places we had― kissed in so many places. Everywhere I looked and. People say. You’ve to forget about it. Let life go on but. But that’s not what I wanted. I wanted to feel all those moments, to be– close to them. Inhabit them and I. Was―”

Billy cuts himself off. Breathes out a “Fuck”. Glances at Steve. A quick, elusive thing, as if he’s scared of himself, of having said too much, being too much, and Steve realizes it’s just one more of those patches, one that he’ll have to unstitch slowly, stretch the original fabric carefully out. Reveal another part of the original masterpiece. So he reaches for Billy’s cheek, traces it down to his chin. The lightest of caresses. Brings Billy’s eyes back to his.

It’s an overwhelming amount of love, the one he feels for Billy Hargrove, there’s no way for Steve to pour it all in between the lines on his fingerprints, but he tries, just in case, he keeps on trying.

“Yeah?” he asks. Soft. Low. Because this Billy right here is like a distant comet orbiting around the sun. A once, maybe twice in a lifetime thing. More. Many more, hopefully. If Steve does his job right. So he waits, as the night settles around them, as it pulses, like a beating, like the inside of a heart.

Billy breathes in, his chest shaking as he lets the air blow out of him.

“The only difference between that dog and I, Steve, is that. You came back” and it’s still there at the tip of his tongue, maybe will forever be, that sorry, but Billy doesn’t need it and not everything Steve feels is regret, because he did what he needed to do and all that happened took him here. And he knows the ending of this story. He believes in it. He’s― No. They. They’re. Fighting so hard for it. This story that happens in a freshly mowed backyard connected by a scratchy door to a weirdly trapezoidal kitchen. That happens in Billy’s lips, parting, growing into a smile. This story ends with,

“Is that I had another fucking lucky strike”

Ends. And then again. Begins.

And Steve wishes he could take all this love out, get it embroidered all over his body for Billy to read, to touch, to see.

But the only way is to keep on getting it out in small, uncompleted fragments. Stitch himself into Billy. Re-pattern them both into a bigger, better piece.

So he waits a little more, until Billy has wiped away the wetness of his eyes, until Billy has taken a long sip of his fifth beer, until Billy has lightened another cigarette.

Until Billy has taken his time.

And then asks.

“How do you want to call him?”

Billy looks at him -eyes round, brow raised- in bewilderment, like that’s the most obnoxious thing somebody has ever asked him.

“Dog?”

And Steve laughs. And Laughs and laughs and laughs. And wonders. Wonders. Will forever wonder.

How Billy’s still thinking he’s the lucky one.

#harringrove #steve x billy #billy x steve #the house #a house (is a home)#xharringrove #xfluffy

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cyraclove · 4 years

Text

Higher Pursuits

BOTW Grad School AU

“...so, if you do decide that you’ll be writing a thesis in lieu of the comprehensive examination, I’ll be the one you’ll need to speak with.”

Zelda scribbled furiously in her notebook as Dr. Kaneli continued to speak, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose every few minutes like clockwork. He’d come to Dr. Teba’s diagnostics lecture that morning to speak about research opportunities, accompanied by several of his current research assistants.

“No need to decide right this moment, of course,” he said, “but we will be needing your name and thesis topic by the end of your first year if you do select that track.”

Thesis by end year one, she scrawled onto the paper.

God, a thesis. She’d dreamt of this moment.

Had Zelda ever wanted anything more than to write a thesis? What greater pleasure was there than to delve so completely into research that you know every facet of it like you know the letters of your own name? The plethora of potential opportunities was exhilarating, her mind running rampant at the very notion of selecting one.

A hand suddenly covered hers, causing her pen to scratch to a halt.

She glanced up to see Link staring at her, an eyebrow cocked in her direction.

“What?” She whispered, “I’m taking notes.”

‘Just listen,’ he signed, ‘You don’t have to write down every word he says.’

She felt a smile tug at her lips as she rolled her eyes. “We’ll see who’s coming to who with questions in a few weeks.”

Link grinned brightly, waving a hand at her in dismissal.

“My personal field is neurological disorders,” Kaneli explained, recapturing Zelda’s undivided attention, “and if you have any interest in my research, do let me know. I am always in need of hardworking graduate assistants. It’s not easy work, mind you, but we do have fun.”

The professor then paused to smile at a young man seated amongst the other second year students In the front row.

“I’m sure you can attest to that, Mr. Medoh,” he teased cheerily. A few of the others around him chuckled lightly.

From where she and Link were sitting in the lecture hall, it was impossible to see his face. Even when craning her neck a bit, Zelda could only glimpse locks of raven hair that dusted the man’s shoulders, several strands pleated into delicate braids while some was piled atop his head in a haphazard bun.

Medoh, she wrote hastily in the margins.

Link tapped the table to get her attention before furrowing his brow and asking, ‘Why?’.

She shrugged. “Might be good to have second year connections. And quit reading over my shoulder.”

Link’s face took on a sly expression as he eyed her curiously. With two fingers, he gestured a circle around his face before pointing to the man in the first row.

“Handsome?” Zelda scoffed, “How can I think that he’s handsome when I can’t even see him? You hush.”

He waggled his brows at her. ‘I’m not talking,’ he signed.

“You know what I mean,” she said. “You can make that joke all you want and it still won’t be funny.”

“Ah, does someone there in the back have a question?”

Zelda’s face prickled hot as nearly everyone in the room swiveled around to look at her. She froze, damning her immoveable tongue for not immediately coming to her rescue with a response. She barely heard Link sniggering beside her as she stared blankly at Dr. Kaneli, an expectant look on his face.

Her gaze was drawn downward to a pair of green eyes staring up from beneath thick, dark lashes.

The young man that Kaneli had called Mr. Medoh was now looking directly at her, incredulity marring his brow. His sharp, almost bird-like features gave him a stern appearance, the strong cut of his jaw curtained by wisps of hair. The striking emerald of his irises was offset by the deep, rich tone of his bronzed skin.

Oh. He was handsome.

Someone cleared their throat.

“Ms. Farore,” Dr. Teba prompted from his seat in the corner, “did you have a question or didn’t you?”

“Oh, no. Uh, sir. No, sir,” she stammered, “I didn’t...um, no. Sorry.”

Teba pursed his lips and hummed his disapproval, but said nothing more. He instead encouraged Kaneli to continue, apologizing for the interruption. Zelda’s pulse thundered in her ears as she caught a hint of a smirk on the dark-haired man’s face just before he turned back around.

She wanted to die.

And, maybe, smack Link.

The remainder of the lecture went quickly, though Zelda registered only a quarter of anything that was said. She still felt hot with humiliation, her embarrassment taking the uncomfortable form of sweat; she could think only of how badly she wished she had a stick of deodorant and a new blouse.

When Kaneli and Teba finally concluded and announced dismissal, Zelda slumped down into her chair and covered her face with her hands. She sat amidst the shuffling of papers and zipping of book bags, letting the rest of the class file out until she and Link were the only two left in the large hall.

When she finally peeked through her fingers at Link, she saw him looking just as remorseful as he could, signing ‘sorry’ on his chest.

Zelda sighed. “Oh, don’t look at me that way. I’ve already forgiven you, you know that.”

He beamed at her, and she suddenly remembered why it was impossible to ever be cross with him in any capacity. He stacked his fists then, twisting one atop the other as he raised his brows in question.

“Yeah, coffee sounds good. You’re buying.”

The Café Bar was bustling with students just being released from class, flocking in from outside to escape the chilly October air and scrambling for a place in line. Others stood idly by and scouted for empty tables, often to no avail. Though there were several places to go for coffee on campus, the little, locally-owned coffee shop that sat just near the university was by far the most popular.

The gentle hiss of milk being steamed and the pleasant gurgle of fresh coffee brewing could just be heard above the sound of light jazz mingling with idle chatter. Cups and saucers clinked as they were cleared from tables. Zelda inhaled deeply, the comforting scent of espresso a welcome respite.

“I have a vanilla latte with extra whip on the bar!”

She nudged Link with her elbow to get his attention. They had managed to procure their favorite spot; a small circular table over by the large bay window that sidled right up to the window seat. He looked up from his phone.

“That’s you,” she said. He nodded and stood with a smile, lightly touching her shoulder and giving it an affectionate squeeze as he slipped behind her. Zelda smiled to herself before returning to the article that she’d been perusing, a clinical research study on the affects of naturalistic treatment protocols on aphasic patients. She’d not even read five words when she heard her name being softly called from across the café.

“Zelda, over here.”

A petite, red-headed young woman came striding towards her, her arms piled with books. Zelda hopped up from her chair to lighten her load, carefully taking a few of the books off of the top.

“Oh, Mipha, let me help you. Where’s your--wait, here, set them on the table.”

She thanked her profusely as she plunked the remaining books on the tiny table, making it wobble sadly on its narrow legs. She slid onto the window seat, shrugging her blue sweater from her shoulders. Her cheeks were a pretty, wind-bitten pink as she smiled warmly, releasing a sigh of relief.

“I thought you’d already gone home,” Zelda said, “And what are all of these for?”

“Oh, these are my textbooks for this semester. I’ve just been to the bookstore to pick them up,” she explained. She screwed up her face. “They didn’t have the one I need for my biochem class, though. I preordered that one, too.”

“You need all of these?” Zelda asked, brows raised in awe as she mentally tallied the books.

Mipha nodded resignedly. “Yes, all of them. That’s what I get for deciding to get my master’s in marine biology, I suppose. I’m on my way to the apartment, but I thought I’d stop and grab a latte or so—” she paused, copper eyes shifting their attention from Zelda’s face to just behind her. “Oh, Link, hello.”

Link nodded cheerfully at Mipha with a mug in one hand and a plate holding the largest muffin that Zelda had ever seen in the other. She kicked out his chair for him with her foot and he sat, gingerly placing his coffee on the table. He signed ‘thank you’ with his free hand, the other still absentmindedly clutching the plate as his eyes swept the café. Mipha and Zelda gave one another a quick, knowing look.

“Sidon’s still at the rec with Bazz,” Mipha mentioned, a smile in her voice, “He told me to tell you ‘hi’, though.”

Zelda watched Link’s jaw visibly clench as he sucked in a breath through his nose.

‘He did?’

Mipha nodded.

Link bit the inside of his cheek, and then quickly shrugged and focused his attention on making a dent in the mountain of whipped cream on his coffee.

‘That’s cool,’ he told her, ‘Tell him hey, I guess.’

The redhead turned to Zelda for a translation; she was with the two of them so frequently now that she’d been able to pick up quite a bit of ASL, but still needed occasional help. Zelda found that Link was particularly difficult to understand when the subject of conversation was Sidon, simply because his hands moved twice their normal speed.

“He said to tell Sidon that he’s the most handsome man he’s ever seen and that he’d love to go on a date sometime,” Zelda answered casually, unlocking her phone to open up her article again.

Link nearly choked on a piece of muffin.

“I have an americano with cream on the bar!”

“Be right back,” Zelda chimed as she got up to get her drink, looking back briefly to see Link signing ‘wrong’ on his chin repeatedly. She chuckled inwardly and turned back around, only to collide with an oddly familiar looking green cardigan.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said, backing up, “That’s my fault. I wasn’t even paying attention.”

“Evidently not.”

Zelda’s eyes flicked up at the foreign voice, her heart leaping into her throat as she realized with whom she was speaking.

Oh, shit.

Handsome braids guy.

“Uh, hi. Again,” she muttered, hopelessly lost for anything else to say.

He gave her a queer look. “Again?”

“Um. I mean, yeah. You were just in Dr. Teba’s lecture? You came with Dr. Kaneli. For the, uh, research. Thing.”

The corner of the young man’s mouth quirked up ever so slightly as he tucked a strand of hair behind his ear. “Right. You didn’t have a question.”

Zelda felt her cheeks burn at the very mention of the incident, her chest tightening at the memory. The man raised a brow at her, an irritatingly amused expression on his face. She felt her eye twitch.

“Yes, well. If you’ll excuse me. Sorry, ag--”

A barista interrupted.

“Americano with cream to-go!”

Green cardigan stepped up to the bar to accept the coffee, thanking the woman who’d handed it off with an actual smile. Zelda watched him, dumbfounded, as he hoisted his messenger bag up onto his shoulder and glanced in her direction for a fraction of a second before heading for the door.

“Wait!”

The words had flown out of her mouth before she’d even had time to register them. Perfectly annoyed, he stopped to turn and face her, his eyes on her in silent query.

“About Dr. Kaneli’s research lab,” she began, “are there still spots open for new assistants right now?”

His demeanor changed at the question and he adopted a defensive, almost territorial stance. He studied her closely, eyeing her with an uncomfortable thoroughness; as though he were sizing up a rival.

“Yes,” he drawled, “Why?”

“I’d like to apply,” she responded, maybe too quickly.

He sucked his teeth. “Interesting. Well, come by the office at the clinic if you want an application. They’re due in a week.”

Zelda grinned, nodding excitedly. “Oh, that’s excellent. I’ll definitely be by, then. Thank you, um...” she paused, chewing her lip, “Sorry. What did you say your name was?”

“I didn’t.”

Making for the door once again, he left Zelda with her mouth partly open, staring after him in quiet disbeleif. His fingers brushing the handle, he hesitated, looking back over his shoulder.

“It’s Revali,” he said, and was gone.

Zelda stood in place for a while until he was completely out of sight, her mind fumbling with the entire interaction. Her stomach had twisted itself into a squirmy knot, a feeling with which she was unfamiliar. She felt like she’d somehow been both insulted and praised at the same time.

Revali, she thought to herself.

What a dick.

I hope you enjoyed this completely self-indulgent drabble of a Grad School AU that I’m considering. The more I think about this ship the more I like it. Thanks for reading! @botwrareships

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twopoppies · 4 years

Note

I would love if you could rec me some older Harry and Louis fics if you have any? Thank you!

Oooh, yes! I do have some.

may we all have a vision now and then by momentofclarity / @gaycousinlarry (M, 4K) This author is one of my favorite writers in this fandom and everything they do is infused with so much delicacy and tenderness. I literally cried through this fic because of how wounded Harry’s character feels. Read it and then treat yourself to their whole AO3 catalogue.

‘Sup by MediaWhore / @mediawhorefics (GA, 7K) Awkward, divorced Harry falls for silver fox Louis at the local coffee shop. It’s just sweet and charming and, as always with this author, beautifully written.

Don’t Want Shelter by @kingsofeverything (FullOnLarrie) (E, 77K) This author does such a good job of creating these characters and their years-long dislike for each other that when they’re forced to work and live together and confront their behavior, the emotions feel so realistic and you’re just rooting for them to figure it all out. Such a great read (plus, “older” Larry, which is such a rare treat in this fandom).

we should open up (before it's all too much) by @disgruntledkittenface (M, 43K) This was just a really unique and beautiful story about loss, grief, and learning how to open up to someone. Harry is in his late 30s.

But When We Kiss… by @indiaalphawhiskey (E, 8K) At last this author has graced us with another fic and it’s a filthy, fantastic Sugar Baby Harry fic. Hallelujah! But seriously, their writing is so good, the dynamics are so hot, Harry is just the perfect kind of desperate in this one, AND you get silver fox Louis! Go read it!

once bitten and twice shy by @pinkcords (M, 19K) First of all, for a first fic in this fandom, I thought this author really did a nice job with their characterizations. I especially liked the way they captured Harry’s anger and humiliation and stubbornness. I’m looking forward to their epilogue to see what happens next! We start out with younger Harry, but the bulk of the fic takes place when they’re older.

taking tips and getting stoned by alison (M, 24K) Slightly OOC, but I really enjoyed the realistic approach to the storyline and having a fic about life not turning out the way you thought it might, and the opportunity for second chances.

The Second Hand Unwinds by @kingsofeverything (FullOnLarrie) (E, 52K) Also known as “the NASA fic”. This one has such a unique and well thought-out storyline. Add in time travel, exes to lovers, ot5, and excellent pacing….you’ve got yourself a great fic! Louis is older here because of the time travel, so it’s a bit of a different twist, but the fic is great fun.

maybe by momentofclarity / @gaycousinlarry (GA, 2K) I know this is just 2K, but it’s so tender and warm and there’s so much feeling in this one. This author always packs so much into so few words. Yes, this one made me tear up.

Lightening Strikes Twice by @dinosaursmate (E, 105K) While this has some super hot smut and rockstar Harry/groupie Louis, it also has older Larry, frank conversations about death, aging, sexual dysfunction, and falling in love as an “mature adult”. This is another one I’ve read more than once and I really have such a soft spot for this author’s older version of H/L

ain’t had none like you in a while by istajmaal (E, 12K) Also known as the time travel daddy fic and man, it covers a lot of ground. Louis and Harry are both older. And they’re both younger. It’s not easy writing a fic that is mostly smut and involves more than two people but still keeps it interesting and actually makes you feel for the characters. But this one definitely does, as far as I’m concerned (yes, I like some feelings with my porn).

Saved Tonight by objectlesson (E, 31K) Louis is the older one in this fic and I particularly loved the deep discussion of art and fandom and queer representation. But it’s also beautifully written and sexy af. Link is to a download.

my heart is breathing for this moment in time by usedtothebeach (E, 160K) Probably my absolute favorite time travel fic. I’ve read it more times than I’d like to admit, and every time I love it more. One of the things I like most is how organically the author weaves in canon events…every little moment is an easter egg without it being so obvious that it pulls you out of the fic. Anyway, this one is so moving and so absorbing, I hope you like it if you give it a try! There’s an 18K companion piece to it as well, but you’ll see the link at the appropriate time when you’re reading the main fic (and when you read the scene that breaks your heart –– in the best possible way –– come and scream at me. You’ll know which one I mean).

#Anonymous #older larry #older louis #older harry #larry fic rec #my fic rec

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ldaoec · 3 years

Text

I loved you

I fought for us like white knuckles on a roller coaster ride Unbuckled and unrestrained-- The ride, I mean No safety gear keeping us safe And I just let us happen Kind of like you stand back And watch storm clouds gather Watch lightening strike the same place Once Twice Going on thirty times But that doesn’t make it any less fascinating Train wreck, perfect storm, natural disaster All happening inside your head

Inside your heart Inside your soul A supersonic earthquake going through your body Burning you up like fuel So that you can’t win. It was a score It did become a game of sorts A game of survival Of faith Trying to get to the finish line first I loved you like white knuckles on a rollercoaster ride And scraped knees on a bicycle. I loved you like a first car wreck First hello First love I loved you like the 11th hour Like the final drought finally breaking And bringing rain I loved you like the giving tree One leave Two leave All the leaves And then winter I loved you like sleeping pill phone calls, When your voice was my favorite song I loved you like sad stories make better men And I didn’t know you were that smart I loved you like little things I started noticing Small little not-rights Like flickering stop lights in traffic I loved you like calm after the tsunami, gentle waves And can you please forgive that overreaction? I loved you like— Stop Slow And nothing I love you like the power going off Like A.I turning on, and How may I help you, today? I loved you like back pedaling on a broken bike And slippery rocks to get to the truth And Blinking lights Frustration Message flashing in neon lights and Street after street after street I loved you like better luck next time Like I’m not feeling myself and Should have’s Maybe have’s Maybe if I loved differently here I loved you like the first seconds of sunrise The sun starts peeking over the horizon and Hope? Is that hope, already? At this time? And something quiet stirring in my chest A doe waking up from hibernation A deep breath of clean air A second genesis, and-- Stop short Free fall I loved you like nothing I loved you like still nothing I loved you like dead in a ditch, wouldn’t I know? who would have told me? I loved you like I’ll call her I’ll see if she knows where you are And then, “Hey. My phones been elsewhere. Like ‘I ended u going with her for the weekend. It’s been interesting, to say the least.” I loved you like stop. I loved you like recalibrating I loved you like not-dead Just my heart sputtering, shutting down, a kind of sick feelings and wrong I loved you like want to cry Don’t want to cry I loved you like zeroing on on anger like missiles finding a heat signature I loved you like I can play this game better than you If you don’t care I won’t care even less I loved you like I was born in a pilots seat With my finger on the trigger Like a vulture Been waiting for this kill short for ages I loved you like over prepared Bug out bag packed and ready I loved you like an old fashioned arcade game Flashing lights Wrong answer Wrong answer Wrong answer Wrong answer I loved you like nightcaps of arsenic and whiskey Like the vertigo of a tornado Like wet socks Tight chests Push pins all over the floor And screw this bullshit I loved you like done when you are Ready to jump before the plane crash lands Like I packed my life raft in my carry on Got flares and rations And I am not afraid I loved you like days Twelve days of nothing. Twelve days of silence and then This week has felt weird, not talking to you Like a bulldozer plowing through the brick wall I’d been carefully building Surprise I’m back The arcade powering up and then I loved you like round two A careful score card read between Lifelines growing and depleting with every volley of text messages I loved you like 300-word response, backspace, twenty word reply I loved you like the stop-go of a nervous driver Like this isn’t going to work Like slap in the face after punch to the stomach And “Goodbye.” Six months later, I loved you like the slow, flickering power on from an ancient computer The dial up tone And then White screen Blinking curser ‘Would you like to play a game?’ I loved you like nostalgic seasons with rewrites Like a speeding up bicycles And scraped knees and palms from flying off I loved you like the first time I’ve cried in months, Tight hugs And He doesn’t want me back I loved compassionately I loved like the abuse of compassion, and ruthless retaliation I loved like world war three I loved like bombs and mortar shells blowing up around me And trying to sleep through the night I loved like shit I knew that line sounded family And ‘I didn’t include that line as a point of conversation’ I loved like stop and go, again Go Stop It’s right Not Like wait Did you just— Hold on, a second I loved you like landmines I loved you like twisting stomach, Anger waltzing with sadness Foxtrotting with nostalgia Doing the Lindy Hop with confusion I loved like, “Buddy, you haven’t seen angry poetry, yet” I loved like, did you know I cried on my birthday? Did you know I spent more time sobbing than watching dinosaur movies? Did you care? I loved like, you didn’t care Not enough Not like the war submarines I’d sent to the front lines The offers of peace turned to handshake grenades Like explode in your face And I’ll show you what anger looks like on a woman I loved you like hate Or something very close to it Exploding in my chest In my room Filling me like panic line Do not overfill I loved you like wanting something I can’t have Like conviction that I am doing the right thing I loved you like walking out, and wishing it wasn’t the right choice. I walked away like Andersen’s little mermaid Feet bleeding from the pain of it I loved you like a leap of faith Panicked free fall And a sudden impact of disappointment As you weren’t what I knew you could be I loved you like mistakes happen When we’re young Or when we trust I loved you like screaming myself hoarse in the bathroom, Banging on the glass between us why can’t he hear me I love you like celebrating the moments you got mad Because at least you were reacting I loved you like did you text me two days before my birthday Just to be apathetic And hurt And hurt And hurt me All over again? I love you like snide remarks you are in no position to say to me Like freedom tastes a lot like magic And did you know this? Do you think you’ll ever experience it? I loved you like long story, written out Some of the piece missing Like I kind of know what happened But the subtitles are a little off So I’m not quite sure who the villains were And if the heroes won Or if Maybe Some of those characters deserved a better ending I loved like the ending of a foreign movies I have no idea what the hell just happened I loved like I really missed out on the Taylor Swift, first time around I loved you like why didn’t he care? What did he want? What could I have done better Different To get a better ending? I loved you like disappointment being the spice of growing up Getting older Getting smarter And making the hard choice To Once again Yank out the poison thorn that you stuck in me, Get myself to a hospital Sew up my wounds because you threw a grenade through the key hole And tore me apart. Getting older is not always easy And losing you was not always as hard As it should have been But on nights like these I’m still quite convinced You lost nothing when you chose her And I lost everything I loved you like realizing That you never loved me, at all.

#poetry

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cherishedkids · 4 years

Text

karasuno, fight! - a reimagining

anime: haikyu!! warning/s: manga spoilers after s3! words: 3,013 pairing/s: slight Kageyama x Hinata, but nothing else summary: After losing to Inarizaki High in the Spring Interhigh, a second-year Kageyama Tobio starts to think. He usually doesn’t, so this is worrisome.

A/N: i just wanted to vent out some of my frustration in this fic! I did my best trying to imagine what would happen during their second year hehe.

—

Kageyama looks at the scores. He feels dread in his stomach. Only one point left for Inarizaki High, and they would be taking the fifth set. If he was somehow able to use Hinata or Tanaka to spike a ball without alerting any of the blockers, he thinks he might be able to bring the game to a duece. It’s a long stretch, as the other team has the momentum now, but it would not hurt to try.

He catches his breath as he wipes sweat from his brow. He doesn’t feel the usual adrenaline coursing through his body--instead it was replaced by thoughts of losing here. He glances at the third-years, Nishinoya, Tanaka, Ennoshita, Kinoshita, and Narita. He sees the pained look on their faces when the realization that they might lose here, sets in.

But he pushes those thoughts away. They were here to win.

It was just their bad luck that Miya Atsumu was going to be serving. But Kageyama needs to focus and trust in Nishinoya. Immediately, all the shouting ceases with the raise of his fist. Kageyama watches as he throws the ball high up in the air and runs towards it, before jumping up and stretches before it. With a loud slam, the ball that Miya Atsumu serves ends up in their court.

It takes him a second to realize that Nishinoya got the ball up, and Kageyama rushes to get the second touch. He sets to Tanaka, the only one he can trust right now, and he knows Hinata would rag on him later. But that didn’t matter at the moment.

Tanaka spikes with all his might, but the blockers are able to touch his powerful ball. Atsumu Miya tosses to his brother, Osamu Miya, and Kageyama knows that the God-like quick that they copied off of him and Hinata will follow. Thankfully, Nishinoya anticipates this and stands at the correct place. The ball goes up high, and Kageyama thinks about who to give the ball to.

The first-year is a bit too timid for his liking and reminds him too much of a younger Hinata. Tanaka is still reeling from his powerful spike, and if his spike gets stopped again, Kageyama knows his performance would be full of doubt again. Tsukushima is full of bad habits he despised. The choice is clear in his mind. He tosses it to Hinata.

Hinata jumps with all his might, probably the highest so far that he has seen. His eyes focused on the dawn of the other side of the court unfolding before his eyes. But the blockers have already read that he was going to give it to Hinata again. For the first time, he sees Hinata use his brain, and rebounds the ball back, betting it all on the blockers not to slam it back down.

It seems like Nishinoya is having a busy day, as he gets the ball back up, and Kageyama thinks about giving it to the first-year. But he thinks it’s not necessary, that maybe he could end the game right here and then. He could feel the tension, the waiting gaze of Inarizaki High, to see who’d spike it next. He uses this and fakes a toss, lightly tapping the ball. The ball tiptoes on the net, and he thinks he finally one-upped them.

But the nasty Osamu Miya manages to chase the ball with a pancake. He’s barely able to give it back to Atsumu Miya, but when he does, Kageyama feels frustration build up inside him. Atsumu Miya is able to give a set with his underhand to one of the spikers, and Tsukishima is there to block it. But their libero saves it and Kageyama swears he can see Atsumu Miya grinning at him. As if mocking their team, he tosses it to his brother again, and he does a normal spike, catching Nishinoya off-guard. Kinoshita receives it with difficulty, and Kageyama finally uses the first-year.

This was the longest volley in the set, and after four sets of this, the fatigue has finally worn his teammates down. It’s their last competition, and if they don’t win this, their shot of going back to nationals is gone. For the third-years, he knows the impact this loss would give them, and Kageyama won’t let that happen. He refuses to.

The ball lands on the hands of the libero again. The first year spiked in a straight line, so it was received easily. Atsumu Miya sets, and all his teammates rush out in a spiking position. Tsukishima and him ready for the other members, while Hinata commits to Osamu Miya.

Tsukishima manages a touch on the ball, and as he turns to look at Nishinoya, he can see that the third-year is at his limit. He needs to end the volley right now, or else Nishinoya would break himself. The only one he really trusted, no matter what, was the pipsqueak running backwards for a start-up. If they won this point, he needed Tanaka at his best condition, so he had to rest this out. He knows it will annoy him, but it was necessary.

Again, he sets to Hinata, hoping against all hope that he’ll be able to parse through the blockers and spike the ball into a tricky spot, that even their libero won’t be able to save. Hinata’s performance has been good, and Kageyama knows that the whistle from the umpire would be coming soon.

The blocker in front of Hinata jumps a second after him and slams the ball down.

Kageyama’s body moves before his body is able to think. He twists his torso in a desperate attempt to save the ball. Nishinoya, who is usually adept at reading blocks, reacts slowly, due to him frequently throwing his body toward the ground. He slides his sweaty body across the floor, the same as Kageyama. At this point, neither of them care if they bump into each other. Saving the ball was their top priority. He feels his arm burning as he reaches out for it, body screaming at the pain they were feeling. It was only temporary, but the loss was permanent. He had to get this ball back.

But the sound of the synthetic leather ball reverberates in the arena as it bounces on the wooden polished floor. Once, then twice, then thrice, until it rolls away, out of reach.

The cold realization strikes him as he locks eyes with Nishinoya. The older boy’s face is unreadable, but it was not his usual happy demeanor. The sweat on Kageyama’s skin evaporates as he starts to feel warm from frustration and regret.

He gets up from his spot and lends a hand to his senior. Nishinoya was emotionless as he accepted the help and rushed to the bench, where their coach was sitting. It doesn’t take a detective to know that the third-years were disappointed in themselves, unable to get any wins this year.

“Don’t despair,” Coach Ukai starts, hands folded neatly and eyes closed. “You fought well on the court.”

After shaking hands with Inarizaki High, who were celebrating their win, the Karasuno team were handed their silver medal. But it didn’t feel right. It didn’t feel like this was supposed to happen. It felt like… loss. Because it really was. Nobody aims for second place. It was especially painful to fail after investing so much time into what you loved.

Kageyama drinks from his water jug, but the dryness won’t disappear. He keeps replaying the last point in his head, thinking if he had just tossed to a different member, would they have gotten a deuce? He wonders if he had thought more about the abilities of the others, would they still be playing on court with the third-years?

The bus ride back to Karasuno High is silent. The first-years are quiet, scared that their seniors would get angry or upset. Kageyama disagrees. The silence is filled with regret, worry, and pain. It reminds the third-years of what transpired earlier, and if the first-years realized how agonizing it was for the others, they would make noise to fill the void. The silence makes everyone more perceptive, and he knows that everyone is also thinking about what they could have done differently.

As the bus pulls up to the school, he sees a banner hanging, saying ‘Congratulations! You did well, Karasuno Volleyball Team!’. It means well, but it leaves a stinging feeling in his pride. It was like saying ‘congratulations, but there was just someone better than you!’. Kageyama does his best to not look at the third-years. Their faces would just make him more frustrated.

They get off the bus and head to the gym. The third-years were betting it all on going to nationals, and now that they just lost the ticket to it, even their steps sounded hollow. Ennoshita opens the door and they all wait for him to speak. This would be his last speech as their captain, and everyone knew it was Yamaguchi who was next in line. The first-years and second-years sit on the floor as the third-years sit in front of them.

“Like coach Ukai said earlier, we fought well,” There’s a slight tremor in his voice, like any moment, he might break down. But he had to stay strong in front of his team, to show them that their captain believes in them, no matter what. “I know…”

He trails off, and chokes back a sob. “I know we lost to Inarizaki High earlier. I know the pain must be unbearable right now. And I know just how angry you are at yourselves, but believe me, being angry does nothing,”

Tanaka is the first to cry at their loss. He has always been the first one to express his emotions, but it was usually to lighten up the mood. But right now, it was anything but.

“I’m sure you all know that we aimed for nationals, but even if we aren’t able to progress, I want you all to cherish the memories we had on court. All the trainings, the painful drills we had to endure, the sweat and tears you shed, never forget them. There’s nothing better than spending time with your teammates,” He continues, at this point, all the third-years are bawling. “Take the hurt and frustration you feel right now, and use it to fuel your dreams and ambitions. Never lose sight of that.”

Ennoshita gives a low bow, and the third-years follow. “Thank you for accepting us, Karasuno!”

The second-years and the first-years bow as well, unable to accept that they really are leaving after this. “Thank you for guiding us, third-years!”

Tanaka stands up and wipes the tears from his eyes. “Can you promise us something before we go?”

He stares at his underclassmen, eyes full of hope and determination. They all nod at his request, and he takes a moment before speaking. “Promise us that you’ll do better and reach higher heights than your seniors! I’ll be watching you all next year in Tokyo!”

The sheer belief and the power he had in his words were able to bring the atmosphere back in the usual one. “We will!”

At this, Tanaka sighs in relief. But then his eyes widen. “We forgot!”

Ennoshita also looks the same and nods his head. “Karasuno’s new captain--Yamaguchi Tadashi, please come here,”

Kageyama watches as Yamaguchi, once a timid and nervous boy, dons a look of pride on his face. He makes his way to the front and all eyes are on him. “Give a few words to your teammates as the captain,”

“Ah, right,” He turns to face the team and bows. Then he stands up, a fierce look on his face. “I’d like to take this team with me to nationals!”

The team goes wild and everyone shouts in agreement. Kageyama smiles at this, and Hinata makes fun of him for his weird smile. But he lets this one go.

At this point, coach Ukai and manager Hitoka appear from outside the gym. They smile as they see the team look unaffected by the loss. He walks up to the team and clears his throat.

“Japanese beef is on me!” The Karasuno Volleyball boys later receive a complaint from the houses near the school after they scream their heads off at their coach’s announcement.

The cooking meat fills Kageyama’s nose, and he can feel the grumble of his stomach. He is hungry after the gruelling match earlier, and he can’t wait to devour the food in front of him.

“I’m thinking of going to Italy after graduation,” Nishinoya blurts out.

Tanaka makes a look that shows disinterest. “C’mon man, so many leagues want you as their libero, enough with the Italy talk,”

Nishinoya scrunches his face. “You’re all perfectly okay with Shoyo going to Rio after he graduates, though?”

“Hey! Don’t drag me into this!” Hinata shouts from his seat, and Kageyama shoots him a look of disgust as he speaks with his mouth full of beef. Hinata glares back at him and opens his mouth more. Kageyama moves to murder Hinata, but Tanaka replies.

“He’s going there to train!”

“I’m going to Italy to catch marlins! Tomato, to-mato!”

“It’s tomato, you idiot! We aren’t in Britain!”

Ever since Nishinoya brought up going to Italy, Tanaka would do his best to persuade him to join a league. But it didn’t seem like the shorter boy didn’t want to. Kageyama wondered what was up with marlins that Nishinoya was so obsessed about.

The rest of the team laughs at Tanaka and Nishinoya. Their dynamic was a vital part of the team, and Kageyama could not imagine a team without them. The past two years he has relied on Tanaka and Nishinoya, and sure, while they have been cultivating the rest of the first-years, he still knows that he’ll miss his seniors. It was the same when Sawamura, Sugawara, and Azumane left. Bittersweet memories came back to him. It was the same as this, eating for the last time as a team in Tokyo.

He walks back home with Hinata. They always take the same road everytime, and usually, they race to the top of the hill. But right now, neither of them have the energy to do that. Instead, they walk in the silence, but it does nothing to soothe the thoughts Kageyama begins to have again.

The loss of the third-years signalled something. They had to be responsible as their seniors now. It meant that they would also soon face the last year of their volleyball career in high school. The future was uncertain, but Kageyama knew that he was going to join a league immediately after.

“It was a nice game out there,” Hinata first speaks. His voice has a sentimental feel to it. “We still came up in second place,”

“I know.” He replies briskly. Kageyama knows this himself. He should be proud of having played on that court, where hundreds of people watched him. But he can’t help but to feel disappointed in himself. “It would have been better if we were the ones who get to go to nationals,”

Hinata looks up at Kageyama. He has the same expression on his face when they lost at nationals months prior. He has heard the countless doubts Kageyama has voiced out. “We’ll get there next competition,”

“How can you be so sure?” The dark-haired man stuffs his hands in his pocket. “The third-years aren’t here anymore. We’ll be the ones carrying the team--what if we don’t live up to them?”

“You’re supposed to be a genius, huh…”

Kageyama turns to him, eyes dark. “What did you say?”

“I’m kidding!” Hinata nervously laughs. “It’s just--when will you get it through your thick skull that you don’t need to worry about that?”

Kageyama glares at him, and for a moment, Hinata wonders if Kageyama is really serious whenever he says he’ll murder him. But he drops the look and looks straight ahead. “What do you mean by that?”

The orange-haired boy blinks, grateful to God that he wouldn’t die by Kageyama’s hands that night. He composes himself and thinks about what to say.

“You won’t ever live up to the third-years, you just can’t compare yourself to them,” When Kageyama hears this, he looks at Hinata again with a menacing look on his face. “W-wait! I’m not done yet!”

Hinata clears his throat before continuing. “You’re Kageyama Tobio, setter of the Karasuno Volleyball team. You’re you, not anyone else. Tanaka, Nishinoya, and the others--they’re different, and so are you. You shouldn’t worry about next year because Yamaguchi and Tsukishima will also be there. Don’t burden yourself too much,”

It was the second time Hinata used his brain today. Kageyama could not be more proud. “Thanks… I guess,”

“Of course! I won’t be able to spike if you mope around like that!” Hinata exclaims. Scratch that, he really wasn’t using his brain. “Race you to the top!”

Hinata was already running and Kageyama cursed at him. He followed after, refusing to lose to the pipsqueak.

He was right, even though Kageyama didn’t want to admit it. He had to stop thinking about himself, as he had the whole team to rely on. Why was he afraid to spread his wings and inherit the mantle of the third-years? There was no difference, just that more people relied on him. In a way, that fueled him more, that people count on him.

The dread in his stomach dissipates. The dawn of a new day falls on him. The faces of his disappointed seniors, he wanted to make sure their eyes would shine again as they played at nationals. The hopeful eyes of his underclassmen, he’d protect them so they’d see Karasuno thrive again.

He wasn’t going to embody Sawamura, Sugawara, nor Azumane. He was going to embody himself. No doubts, eyes wide open, feet on the ground, ready to take on any challenges that show up.

He was not going to let them down, no matter what.

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jenovahh · 4 years

Text

Comm 02 - NSFW - Opulence

Rating: NC-17, Explicit Tags: Female!Reader, NTR, Cunnilingus, Oral Fixation, Penetration

The commissioner has chosen to remain anonymous, but I appreciate them very much for their patience and understanding!

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‘I’d like to go out sometime…’

You muse bitterly as you stroll down the busy sidewalk of Amaurot, huddling your dress coat as close to your body as possible. While making your own lunch would’ve been the smart thing to do, you’ve chosen instead to indulge today and eat your feelings by heading to your favorite local coffee shop. Sighing, you idly wish you had chosen to wear some slacks instead of the snug pencil skirt you were wearing. At the very least, your coat was good at keeping the top half of you warm.

Your boyfriend had all but swept out the door upon waking to go to work, merely grabbing his toast and coffee and giving you a peck on the cheek. Gone were the days where you would both rise to share eggs and bacon with each other each morning before heading to work, and you couldn’t help but feel a little heartbroken about it.

Stepping inside the cafe, the warmth of baked goods and warm coffee wafts into your nose, and immediately your mood lightens. You wonder if you should order the usual; after all the clerks have already spotted you and waved in greeting. As much as you would be up to trying something different, you prefer the comfort of something familiar to soothe the ache in your heart.

Just as you prepare to step into a line, another man makes the same move. You let out a slight squeal as you nearly bump into him, to which that seems to gain his attention. “Oh, excuse me miss. Were you in line?”

The man’s voice is velvety smooth, rich like a fine brandy or a dark chocolate. Looking up, you meet sharp, golden eyes, that seem as if they bore into your very soul. You trace their tired but attractive eyes to fine cheek bones, a strong jawline, burgundy hair with a stark white streak. He seems like your average business man, except no business man you’ve seen looks as good as he does in a three piece suit. It fits him so well you wonder if it’s tailored.

“Ma’am?” He speaks, breaking you out of your daze. You immediately flush red, hands flying to cover your face and promptly dropping your wallet. Your face inflames further as you watch in heavy mortification as he kneels to pick it up. “I am so sorry,”

“No need to apologize miss. I seem to have caught you by surprise.” He purrs, holding out your wallet with an outstretched hand. Your eyes are drawn to the watch on his wrist, noting its simplicity, but the craftsmanship implies that is worth a pretty penny. He must be a very successful businessman.

“That was my own fault...I was distracted.” You titter nervously, gasping as your fingers brush his own to take your wallet. His touch is electric and you find yourself gazing deep into his eyes again, breath stolen as you meet his calm smile.

“You must be a regular here?” He asks, gently placing the wallet in your hand.

Once again dragging yourself from your stupor, you clutch your wallet to you, swiping your tongue nervously across your suddenly dry lips. “I-I am. How did you,”

“I saw the clerks here greet you. You must be a familiar face. A beautiful one at that.” The delivery of his compliment is so smooth it takes a minute it to hit you. You feel like a young schoolgirl again before this man, despite him not looking that much older than you. It had been so long since anyone had complimented on your appearance in a way that felt genuine, a long time since your own boyfriend had even--

“Is there anything on the menu you’d suggest?” He asks, gently placing a hand on your back politely to nudge you forward in the queue. His hand is warm through the thick layer of your coat, and you wonder how you’ve not combusted yet with how much attention he’s given you.

“If you like scones, I would suggest those. Their croissants are the perfect amount of buttery and flaky, and I’m personally a fan of their matcha green tea.” The words bumble forth before you can stop yourself, mouth watering at the idea of sinking your teeth into a delicious sandwich. “I’m personally here for lunch…my favorite is the caprese sandwich.” You murmur shyly, noticing he hasn’t taken his hand off your back.

“I’ll have to take your word for it.” He grins, flashing you stunning white teeth. You find yourself hopelessly enchanted the more you stay in his presence. “This is my first time at this establishment...I’m glad I didn’t have to go in blind, with you at my side.” He grins, giving you a light nudge forward. You try not to think of his eyes on your back as you order your food, quietly moving to the side and flashing him a small smile as you step away to wait.

“Do you work nearby?” He questions as he walks up to you, tossing his receipt into a nearby bin.

“I, uh…” You stammer, averting your eyes.

“My apologies, that is a bit invasive isn’t it?” He replies, making an obvious move to turn and move away.

“No, wait!” You reach out for him, fingers just barely brushing his sleeve, to which his golden eyes glance at your fingers just barely brushing the finest material you have ever felt. “What I mean is...I do work nearby.” He seems to regard you silently for a moment, as if mulling over something.

“As do I.” He finally speaks, extending his right hand in an invitation to shake it. “Might I have the pleasure of your name?”

You place your delicate hand in his, preparing to squeeze his firmly just as your mother taught you, only to blush as he brings it to his lips to press a kiss to the back of your hand. You give him your name in a daze, forgetting how to breathe as his breath ghosts across your skin. When he finally makes eye contact once more, his gaze is smouldering.

“I go by Emet-Selch. Perhaps, we shall meet again soon.”

You meet him much sooner than you’d like. At first you don’t see him at every visit to the coffee shop; meeting him maybe once or twice. You strike up light conversation when you do, making small talk about your work at the nearby law firm as a secretary, trying your best to sound as impressive as possible because despite his humility, he is obviously loaded. He makes a point to listen to you more than tell you about himself, and you find yourself slowly opening to an easy friendship with him, even if it means losing a few extra dollars of your paycheck to eat lunch after work everyday.

“I’d like to take you out sometime.”

The statement catches you so off guard you nearly spill your tea all over yourself, eyes wide like a deer in the headlights. Your heart leaps at the offer, but your brain is too busy assaulting you with so many red flags that it is a sea of crimson in your mind’s eye.

“I’m sorry, I uh...wow,” You stutter, carefully putting down your tea. “I mean I’d love to, but it’s just…” You hoped turning him down wouldn’t mean that this friendship you had worked on would all go to waste.

“I apologize, I had only asked because you weren’t wearing a ring.” He comments smoothly, saving you the breath of having to say it yourself.

“Yes, I do...have a boyfriend.” You murmur sadly, eyes downcast as you stare hard into your cup. It is silent for a few moments, and you fear the worst. “Please don’t,”

“Don’t worry.” When you meet his eyes, he still wears that smug grin, golden eyes twinkling. “Let it just be as friends.” Reaching into his blazer he pulls out a business card. “Simply give me a call when you wish to go out. It’ll be my treat.”

Gingerly, you take the card from him, its material obviously made of fine stock paper. It really made you wonder what made someone as refined as himself continue to eat in a hole in the wall like this. “Thank you, Emet-Selch...I,” He holds up a hand to stop you, an easy smile on his face.

“Merely call when you are ready, and I will handle the rest.”

You finger the card in your hands as you are curled up on the couch. It smells like his cologne, and you’re ashamed to say you had given it a strong whiff more than once. Its scent is subtle, but somehow overbearing. ‘He smells amazing.’ You muse, glancing at Emet-Selch, Professional Architect shining on the card in elegant lettering.

The door to your shared apartment opens and your boyfriend walks in, already tugging off his blazer and tie. “Honey, you’re home,” you start but he marches on down the hallway, giving a grunt as a form of greeting. Standing to your feet you follow him into your bedroom, watching as he changes out of his suit. “Are you going somewhere?” you ask, watching as he pulls on some sweatpants and a t-shirt. He looks rugged; not the refined elegance you had come to admire in Emet-Selch.

“Yeah. The boys want to go and play some ball, so I’m heading out.” Done pulling his shirt over his head, he snags some sneakers out of the closet.

“But it’s movie night…” You whisper, watching as he swings past you, giving you a quick peck on the cheek.

“I know babe, and I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to you!” He calls, giving you a wave as he heads for the door. You stand there completely still as you listen to the door open and close, to the quiet of your apartment.

Walking back to the living room, you reach for the card you left abandoned on the couch and grab your phone off the coffee table. With watery eyes you punch in the numbers listed on the card and bring your phone to your ear.

“Emet-Selch? Are you free tomorrow?”

He is.

And you have never felt more out of your league.

You’ve styled your hair up, your evenly cut bangs still framing your face but you’ve curled the length of it into a ponytail. You feel slightly self conscious wearing one of your favorite party dresses from your single days, feeling wistful as you unearthed it from the back of your closet. With a little light makeup and your favorite dress coat, you felt ready for a quiet dinner at perhaps a nearby restaurant.

What you did not expect was Emet-Selch to pull up in a very expensive car.

He looks no different than he does any other day you see him, though this time his three piece suit is a quiet navy blue. He steps from the car and walks to the other side, taking your hand in his once again to press a kiss to it. “You look stunning.” He breathes, his eyes sparkling like jewels in the moonlight. Ever the gentleman, he opens his car door and lets you step inside, the plush leather seats already warm.

He makes simple conversation that distracts you for a moment as he drives you to your destination, clear across town into very high profile neighborhoods. When you arrive at the restaurant he once again helps you out the car, politely dropping they keys off in the valet’s waiting hands. Offering you his elbow you feel every bit the lady, looping your arm through his with a small smile on your face.

You try not to feel so terribly out of place as you step in, recognizing this as a restaurant where even some of the highest paid businessmen had to have reservations weeks in advance. With gentle hands he leads you to a secluded table, taking your coat and pulling out your chair to sit down in. A sommelier and waiter swoop by almost immediately listing off wines in some foreign language and you sit there dumbfounded as he repeats the wines back with perfect intonation. You vaguely remember being asked what you were in the mood for, somewhat recall mentioning meat, and distantly recollect Emet-Selch ordering lamb for you, the sommelier and waiter take their leave, finally leaving you and Emet-Selch alone.

You’re thankful that Emet-Selch once again takes the lead with the conversation, for you are still too stunned at the luxury he is giving you. The food and wine comes and he’s helpful about proper dining etiquette, sounding not at all patronizing as he tells you which fork is for what use. You’re having a pleasant time and you know its not solely the work of the wine. When the dessert has been eaten and your glass emptied, you find yourself sorely wishing you didn’t have to go home.

Standing, Emet-Selch comes to pull out your chair and help you back into your coat, his cologne wafting into your nose at his closeness. He looks so handsome up close, your eyes following the sharp angle of his jawline as he towers above you. With a hand on the small of your back he nods to the waiter and escorts you out of the establishment where the valet is already waiting with his car.

“I hope you’ve had a wonderful evening, my dear.” He purrs, taking his keys from the valet and handing him a hefty tip in return. He gently helps you back into his car, his stride elegant as he circles the vehicle to get in on the driver’s side.

“I’ve...had a wonderful time Emet.” You whisper, staring into his glittering gold eyes. “I wish the night didn’t have to end so soon.” The words are out before you can take them back, his eyes twins flames as a result. You are no fool and can see the pure desire there.

“It doesn’t have to.” With that one statement he puts the ball in your court, the weight of your choice the remaining barrier between you. “I do not wish to overwhelm you; I meant what I said by offering to take you out as mere companions. However, if you wish to go home,”

“I would like to spend more time with you.” You blurt out, unsure if he’s trying to talk himself out of it, or talk you into it. “What I mean is...I would like to know more about you.” He gives you a confident smile, leans back into the driver’s seat as he puts the car in gear and pulls away from the curb.

You shouldn’t have gotten in his car. You shouldn’t have offered yourself, knowing full well how these things go.

You should’ve asked him to take you home, to tell him it was a nice dinner and let’s never do this again.

You did none of those things.

Instead, you allowed him to drive to his penthouse apartment, to park his car in a sectioned garage of several more that were surely his own. Allowed him to lead you into his home, and realize just what kind of man you were dealing with. You allowed him to show you around his home, to stare at you so hungrily that you should have been offended.

“Are you nervous?” He asks, his eyes half lidded. He is not ashamed of his appraisal of your body, of admiring your curves so poorly hidden beneath your dress. You stand in his opulent dining room, you wonder if it’s seen any use. “You seem...on edge.”

You meet his eyes, your breath loud in the silence of his home. “I am...I shouldn’t be here.” Your voice is quiet and you very much feel like a mouse caught before the eyes of a hawk, its golden eyes piercing through to you, knowing it is ready to strike.

“Is that so?” He chuckles. “Tell me, why is that?” He questions, pacing around the dinner table like a lion who has cornered its prey.

“I...I’m not a fool. Y-You want me.” You hiss, trying to find it in yourself to be angry. You glare angrily at the floor, finding the only person you can be furious at, is yourself.

“So I do. Though it would seem by your presence here, the feeling is mutual.” Your eyes snap up to meet his, finding him suddenly closer than he was at first. His scent wafts into your nose, the warmth of him just barely tickling your senses. “I meant what I said. That we could go out like friends…” He steps closer and you gasp as you back into the table, your heels slipping on the tiled floor but with quick reflexes he steadies you with a hand at your waist. “You could come home with me like friends…” He continues, pressing further against you. You’re getting lightheaded as you eyes dart from his eyes to his lips, looking soft and oh so kissable. A strong hand comes to tilt your chin up to face him, giving you nowhere to look but him.

“And we could even sleep together, as friends do.” His thumb gently rubs your bottom lip, and without any prompting you take it into your mouth, wrapping your tongue around the digit. Your eyes flutter closed, unwilling to face your own depravity. Your guilt must be palpable, for his next words send shivers down your spine. “I know that you are a good girl.” He whispers, bringing you close against him where you can feel his arousal. “Perhaps, you can be a good girl for me.”

Your eyes slowly open as he pulls his thumb from your mouth, finding him hovering before your face before his lips press to yours. He is not at all patient in demanding entrance into your mouth, biting down on your bottom lip to open your mouth for him, kissing you passionately as he presses himself further into you. His hands trail down your sides to the hem of your dress where it stops mid thigh, fingers tickling, teasing as they grip tightly and hike your dress up. With surprising strength he lifts you onto the table, paying no mind to the cutlery or centerpieces as they tumble and crash to the floor.

He is aggressive as he spreads your legs for him, settling himself between them as his hands push your dress past your thighs to settle at your hips. You feel him pull back as he encounters the lacy material of your underwear, your face tinting red as he tugs it with a finger and releases it to snap against your skin. “Wearing such lacy things like this, I have to wonder if you came here with intentions.” Emet-Selch purrs, tracing the fine material to your front, teasing the skin of your inner thigh.

You refuse to say anything, choosing instead to watch his hand with bated breath as he slowly drags his fingers higher to press at the junction of your thighs, drifting across your obvious arousal for him. “Look at you...so wet. So eager.” He murmurs like a caress, only lightly dragging his fingers across your slit.

“D-Don’t tease me…” you whine, trying to press your hips forward onto his hand. Your fingers grip tightly onto the fine material of his blazer, distantly worrying if it’s all right you wrinkle such a fine suit, but he seems to not mind for how insistently he is touching you.

“I would never.” He breathes, reaching to lock your lips with his own. His kiss is intoxicating, your arms moving to link around his neck and bring him close against you, his chest brushing against your own. Soon enough does he slide your panties to the side, fingers finally brushing to part your lower lips to find the pink bud lurking beneath. You moan into his mouth when he finds it, legs wrapping around his hips instinctively as you use him to anchor you through the pleasure that courses through your body.

“Someone is sensitive, I see.” He croons, giving another delicate stroke of your clit that makes you moan with abandon into his shoulder, body shaking as you try to clutch him tighter. Was it supposed to feel this good? “Or perhaps, you have not truly been taken care of.” He muses, your heart stopping as he hits the mark. You meet his half lidded eyes, see the smugness lingering on the surface with the lust and desire. “H-How did you,”

“An educated guess.” He replies, giving another fervent press to your clit and you whimper, ashamed of how your hips try to leap into his touch, his fingers stroking and rubbing until he finds what you like, finds what as you moaning like wanton in his hands. Your head is in the clouds, slowly losing touch with reality as he drives your pleasure higher and higher. “If we are going to do this love, I prefer you call me by my name.” Come his words through the haze of lust, sounding as if he is lightyears away.

“Emet-Selch isn’t your name?” You ask between pants, meeting those golden pools he calls eyes. Your lips are surely plump from his kisses and bites, the skirt of your dress hiked up around your hips and your sure his free hand is moving to push the straps from your shoulders to expose more of you to him.

“It is more a title, strange as that sounds, I’m sure. My name is Hades.” His voice is low and seductive, and you find that his name suits him.

“Why tell me this now?” You ask, whimpering as he pushes your panties even further to the side, eyes widening as he slowly kneels on the floor. A hand grips your hip and pulls you toward him to the edge of the table, his eyes devious as he looks up at you from his place below.

“Because, my love, it is only polite to cry out the name of the one who pleases you.”

You can’t formulate a reply fast enough as his lips press to your clit, your hands practically flying to to bury themselves in his hair, his own hands keeping your thighs apart as they instinctively try to clench together. Your boyfriend had never given you oral, or rather good oral, and in just mere moments had Emet-Selch, Hades, out classed him entirely. His tongue swirled around your center, reaching inside you, and surely enough did you cry out his name in abandon as the fire in your belly blaze out of control.

Your cries are loud as they echo off the spacious walls of his apartment alongside the lewd sounds him lapping up your juices. Each press of his tongue to your clit pushes the guilt and doubt further away in your mind, focusing only on the mind-blowing pleasure the man currently between your legs has to offer you. Your hands fist in his hair careful not to tug too hard, your body hardly able to deal with how good you feel. Such pleasure shouldn’t be possible, but Hades seems determined to prove you wrong.

With mischievous eyes does he slip a finger inside your opening, pulling a long moan from you, your eyes shut tight as your pleasure spikes. He picks an easy pace as he thrusts his finger in your tight hole, ignoring your pleas to stop as you try to pull away from him. It’s so much, too much, you feel ready to burst but he won’t let you run, going as far as slipping a second finger inside, spreading you open for him. “I-I can’t,” you whimper. Clearly to Emet-Selch it does not matter, for he gives a hard suck on your pink bud and curls his fingers just so that has you falling apart on him, coming with an orgasm so intense you had never even thought it possible.

Your breath is stolen from you as you ride your high, his tongue giving a final few flicks as the waves of bliss finally see fit to release you, your body flushed with sweat. You release his hair as he moves to stand, slowly kissing up your body as he slowly peels your dress off of you, baring your creamy skin before his gaze. Tossing your dress aside, he moves to finally divest himself of his blazer, dropping it to the floor carelessly as his hands move to undo his cuff links, gently placing them on the table. You watch enraptured as he undresses, unashamed at how you stare at his pale, muscled skin as it reveals itself to you. He is by no means bulky, but neither is he lanky by how he lifted you with ease earlier. Your hands reach for him on their own, bringing him in for a kiss which seems to surprise him, but he quickly returns it, his hands fumbling with his belt in a sudden rush to get his pants off. Your hands reach behind your back to undo your bra, tossing it to the side all while continuing the kiss, moaning into his mouth as his hands move to cup your breasts in his hands.

The kiss grows feverish, as if the two of you cannot touch enough of each other, or quickly enough. Patience seems to fly out the window, neither of you worried about getting him out of his slacks, shoving them down far enough to free his length so that you may stroke it gently in your hands as his lips trail down your jawline to nip and bite at your neck, unsatisfied until the only sounds from your lips are his name or your cries of pleasure. His own grunts and moans from your attention on his cock send heat pooling into your legs once again, making you distantly wonder if your slick is staining his lovely dining room table. He gives you no time to ponder it though, pushing your hands off him to rub himself along your folds, letting your fluids cover his length instead, teasing you with the heat of his cock.

“I thought you said you wouldn’t tease,” you beg, trying to arch your hips to take him inside. You need him so badly, you worry you might fall apart if he doesn’t touch you or even if he did. A single hand comes to cradle your face gently, bidding you to look into his eyes. There is an adoration mixed within the lust, stealing your breath away just as he presses the head past your lips, slowly sliding himself into your wet sheathe. “My love, whoever could deny you?”

You feel so incredibly full, joined with him so intimately. He lets you adjust to his girth, chuckling when you wiggle your hips impatiently. “You feel amazing, my dear.” He praises, moving to stroke your hair as he pulls out to the tip, slowly plunging back inside. He repeats the slow pace, letting you feel the length of him as he drives himself inside you, his attention never leaving your face. The way he looks at you makes you feel as if you are the most beautiful thing he has laid eyes on, despite the opulence he had surrounded himself with. His thumb slides past your lips once more and you suck on it eagerly, or rather to the best of your ability as he finally picks a pace.

If he is bothered by your inability to continue your attentions on his thumb he doesn’t show it, clearly more pleased with his name falling from your lips with each thrust as he fills every crevice your body has to offer. His thrusts increase in pace, the sound of skin against skin becoming the only thing you can hear past your own moan and his quiet breaths. Taking a look at him you wonder what you must look like; the very picture of debauchery you were sure. You prayed that this wouldn’t be a small fling, unsure if you could ever go through life knowing just how good you could feel.

“Stay with me.”

You’re suddenly alert at those words, his hips not stopping their thrusting as he stares you down. His face is a bit more serious now, but still maintains that confident, superior air, as if he knows you won’t turn down whatever request he is about to make.

As if you will bow to his every whim.

“I can’t,” you whimper, whining as he slows down his thrusts.

“You want this. Want me. Why deny yourself?” He presses on, giving a single, hard thrust, pressing you down to lay you flat on the table, more cutlery crashing to the floor. “You don’t have to leave your boyfriend if that is what you fear.” His voice is hypnotic, somehow adding to the pleasure itself as he begins to fuck you. “Just know that I will see to your every need. Your every desire.” He rasps, a groan torn from his lips as his hands snap to your hips to bring you down harder on his cock. Each stroke threatens to tear at your sanity, what little of it you feel you have left his hand reaches between your leg to rub on your clit and force an unexpected orgasm from you, your body clutching him tightly and shuddering around him but he doesn’t stop, only continues to thrust into your wet heat to the point of overstimulation.

“Hades…” you whine, breath coming fast as he lets you pull him close, chest to chest as your hands tangle themselves in his hair. His hips fuck at a brutal pace, fully giving over to his own pleasure and you fight to keep your focus on him, wanting to watch this beautiful, composed man fall apart inside you. You clutch his face between your hands, his eyes glazed over with desire as you sense he is nearing his end. “Come inside me.” You whisper, and it’s those very words that push him over the edge, Emet-Selch groaning your name softly as he releases deep inside you. His body shudders above your own as he holds you tight as his orgasm takes him under, his lips smashing into yours in a fierce kiss as you feel his cum reach deep inside. You whimper into his mouth as one of his hands finds your clit, rubbing insistently until you must part from the kiss to make room for his name as he brings you to orgasm once again.

The two of you catch your breath, chest’s heaving as you lie in the afterglow. His hands gently caress your body, running across your skin, feeling its softness, his lips pressing kisses as light as a butterfly’s wingbeats. Closing your eyes, you give yourself over to him, sighing in contentment.

“Babe?”

Your eyes flutter open, finding the confused face of your boyfriend staring back at you. You turn to him slightly, letting him know you’re listening.

“You going out?” He asks, leaning against the doorframe to your bathroom. Reaching for your lipstick, you apply it with grace, placing the tube back on the counter. “I am.” You answer simply, moving past him to head for your closet. Grabbing your heels, you move to sit on the bed to put them on.

“Where to?” He asks, moving to stand nearby. Your hair is once again up in a ponytail, though it need not be. It’s just going to come down anyway.

Hades does love unwrapping his gifts.

“Company dinner.” You lie, pushing away his hand as you finally get your last heel on, grabbing your clutch off the bed. Pulling out your phone you check your messages, practically beaming at your phone. “I know you said you were heading out yourself. I’ve got a ride, so don’t worry about me.” Giving him a peck on the cheek, you give him a quick smile before strolling down the hallway, giggling at his dumbfounded look. “Catch you later!”

Stepping outside, you hurry down the stairs as best you can, making a mad dash for the luxury car outside. “I thought I asked you to not pick me up!” You hiss, quickly opening the passenger door and slipping inside.

“But where’s the fun in that, my love?” Emet-Selch whispers, breath husky as he brings you to him for a kiss. “I would not be opposed from skipping dinner and going straight to dessert.” He teases and you shudder, looking at hunger in his eyes. Giving one last bite to your bottom lip he parts from you, putting the car in gear to slowly pull out from the parking lot. You give one look back at your apartment, before your attention is stolen by Emet-Selch who twines his fingers with yours.

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