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andraaste · 3 years

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I am not your enemy - Lance fanfiction part 8

This is the chapter of which I had published an excerpt the very first time, so here’s finally the full version ! This is one of my favorites, I hope this will also be the case for you 💕

(Link for Chapter 9 here)

Chapter 8 : Your powers are still there

The door slammed shut and I felt Lance's large body pass near me, brushing my arm nonchalantly as it passed. My stomach contracted in apprehension.

I had most likely just interrupted him during a workout because, without ever completely turning his back on me, he grabbed a towel and quickly wiped his abdomen before putting on some of his armor, completely covering his neck and chest.

- Are you afraid that I will try to attack you from behind again ? I said ironically to see him cover himself like this, especially the back of his neck.

The dragon smirked at my remark. He stole a glance at me as he finished covering himself.

- You know very well that it is you who would gain the most to protect yourself in my presence rather than the other way around, he replied as naturally as possible. If I wanted to, I could have killed you in the market place without anyone seeing anything.

Good.

- It's just that I never completely remove my armor in the presence of another person, just a matter of habit, he explained to me then.

An ironic pout on his lips, he added :

- And indeed, I understood that you were rather unpredictable, as a girl. I prefer to avoid the risk of attacks in the back.

- At least I'm making an impression, I continued in the same vein. Should I also fear for my survival by leaving the door closed ?

My question was meant to be amused, but his indecipherable gaze still gave me a slight doubt.

- For you to see if you decide to trust me or not, I could completely lie to you by telling you that you do not fear anything here.

Where was he, the sensible little smile to accompany this kind of thinking ?

- But you came on your own, so I take it you know what you're doing, he finally concluded.

If he knew how much I had no idea...

I looked away to observe the room around me (and potentially discreetly analyze my chances of running away from here in the event of a life or death story), never having had the opportunity to see in which type of place Lance could live well. Another detail ends up intriguing me. The room was really ... sober. Other than a bed, all kinds of weapons and armor, and a few books, the room showed no particular sign of singularity. Having probably noticed that I was inspecting his lair with my eyes, Lance explained to me with a shrug :

- I don't particularly like wasting my time settling somewhere, I have relatively few personal effects.

Much more than its sobriety, I was also surprised to realize that the room was perfectly tidy. Having arrived unexpectedly, it would have been normal to find even two or three things that were out of place, but nothing seemed to hang around despite my research.

- Why don't you like to settle down ? I asked him, genuinely curious to know his way of seeing things.

My question seemed to catch him off guard too, for he seemed to be trying to find his words for a moment.

- I just think I never really had a home.

I turned to observe him. Looking thoughtful, he didn't seem to have noticed me.

- I've always migrated quite a bit, and even if it's not the first time I've moved somewhere for a long time like here, I prefer not to get too attached to a place and be free to leave when I want. Moreover, as a warrior, you have to know how to be ready for any eventuality and not get too attached to such trivial things.

I pondered his words as silence fell between us. Lance really had a knack for turning everything into drama.

Or the bombastic.

- But every good warrior must have a home waiting for him somewhere, right ?

- When you have one, probably yes. But what connects me to this place is not one of them.

I thought back to what I had been told about Lance's return to custody. His need to redeem himself was probably the only thing holding him back here. The memories in that place were probably going to hurt more than anything to him. He had suffered a real emotional shock, even though he had totally sought it out.

- I think I understand what you mean, I started cautiously. Me neither, I don't really have a home anymore, with the difference that I already had one. When I got to Eldarya, I lost everything else. Everything that made Earth home to me.

Memories of arriving here flooded through my head, especially the potion Miiko had forced me to drink soon after. It was clearly not glorious, but at least it had made it a little less difficult for me to accept this forced new start.

- I finally managed to recreate a semblance of home here, but then...

Seeing that I did not continue my sentence, the dragon deduced it for me.

- I pushed you to sacrifice yourself and lose everything once again.

His words were harsh, brittle, yet he let no emotion betray his face. He pursed his lips as if to keep from adding something. I was confused.

- Yes, I breathed so low I doubted he heard me.

- Look, I'm not going to apologize again. If that's what you're here for, you can leave, nothing is holding you back and certainly not me.

His jaws were twitching as he spoke, which irritated me in turn.

- I'm not here tonight to blame you or try to make you apologize, so you don't need to make those kinds of threats to me. And I'm a big girl, know that if I want to leave I don't need your approval.

- We at least agree on this point.

It was my turn to cringe. Damn, why was he being so rude again ?

- I'm glad to see that you still have your bad temper anyway, I said bitterly.

He gave a sharp laugh that made my hair stand on end.

- People don't change fundamentally, Andraste. They each evolve in their own way, but their nature remains the same. Remember that living in redemption doesn't change who I am.

- So you're telling me that all the nice words I've been hearing about you for weeks are wrong ?

- That's not what I'm saying and I don't know what you've been told about me. Anyway, I don't want to know, even if I have my little idea about it.

- Oh, but I don't doubt that, no. You have to believe that you did a good job of putting everyone in your pocket.

I could see his jaws twitching sharply under his tanned skin.

- That's not what you think, Andraste.

- I thought you had nothing to do with what I thought ?

- Do not distort my words.

- So you have something to do with it ?

- That's not what I said either, stop playing it.

I put my fingers over my eyes, trying to calm the anger rising in me. He might be working for Eldarya's good now, but other than that he definitely hadn't changed. Lance might have been calmer and more thoughtful than before, but he still remained the same to some extent. It all reminded me too much of Ashkore.

- Look, I don't even know why I decided to come see you here, but what is certain is that it was a mistake. We are definitely not meant to get along, you and me.

Pissed off and frustrated, I headed for the door to leave this stuffy place, when his hand grabbed my forearm and stopped my gesture.

- Andraste, calm down.

I didn't answer. I just waited for him to make up his mind to let go of me, still turning my back on him.

- You still haven't told me why you came here, he continued.

- I already told you, I had no particular reason, so let me go please. I thought you won't hold me back.

- I won't hold you back when you explain it to me.

His tone was dry, but nonetheless he pulled gently on my arm to push me to face him. With our sleeves rolled up, this was the first time our two bare skins had touched each other, the dragon usually always wearing gloves, and that contact felt like pricking my skin. Feeling a strange sensation arise in me, I finally unwrapped everything for him, trying to hold back my tears of frustration in the process.

- I feel lost, Lance. I feel like I have to start all over again, except this time around, a chasm seems to separate me from those I already knew. I am tired, my body can no longer keep up. And I feel ...

I looked for a moment at his hand, which was still holding my forearm firmly, the paleness of my skin contrasting sharply with the tanned complexion of his, before looking up at him.

- Incomplete, I finally concluded. I feel like my body needs to regain its powers, but I can't.

Lance observed me for a long time before lowering his eyes in turn.

- Look.

I followed his movement to discover a soft light escaping from my palm held between us. I was speechless.

- How...

My voice stopped. Why were my powers awakening at this precise moment? Since that famous training with him, I had tried several times to use them again, but each of my attempts had resolutely turned out to be luck.

Lance's fingers grew colder and colder and soon, faint streaks of ice appeared on my skin and descended to the heat source in the palm of my hand. When the two elements met, I felt an incredible force spread in me and with the same impulse, the light which escaped from my extremity suddenly burst a bluish color. My hand and arm were almost completely covered in ice, but yet I only felt a slight chill run through me.

He released the pressure on my arm before sliding his fingers until finally let go of me. When the contact between our skins broke, my light flickered for a moment before disappearing. No more sign of magic marked my numb member.

- Your powers are still there, Andraste.

He paused before adding :

- And obviously, they seem to react to mine.

I didn't understand exactly where he was going.

- To react to yours, what do you mean by that?

The dragon had let go of me, but he still didn't back down. His large build blocked my view, I only saw him.

- I don't know exactly, I’ve never had this kind of reaction before. But aengels and dragons have a rather complicated common past, that would explain some events like this one.

I thought back to the fight Leiftan and I had faced him seven years ago. Our powers had as it were merged that day. I thought this only happened because we were both aengels, but was it possible between beings of different origins ?

- Have you ever heard of people merging their powers? I inquired, nervous at the thought of his answer which I certainly wasn't going to like.

His gaze remained impenetrable.

- Apart from Leiftan and you, no, not that I know of. But our races being extinct, we know very little about these kinds of facts.

A memory came back to me then.

- And Fáfnir, he could tell us more !

Lance didn't move but I felt him imperceptibly tighten, which made me anguish. I asked the question that nagged me cautiously.

- Something wrong with Fáfnir ?

He seemed to hesitate to answer me for a moment, but finally spoke, his tone heavy.

- Andraste ... he breathed in contrition and I thought I saw a few sparks of ice escaping from his lips. Memoria is gone, he said, and the dragon's eye too.

I was speechless in amazement. He gave me a few seconds to digest the information before continuing cautiously.

- We don't know where the dragon souls are at the moment. Shortly before you woke up, quite a few unexplained events like this happened. Fáfnir is ... nowhere to be found, let's say.

For the first time, the man's gaze in front of me seemed to waver slightly. The dragon never let it show, but yet I knew it disturbed him more than he made it seem.

- Lance ...

- It's not important, he cut me coldly. We will inevitably find them eventually but for the moment, we cannot count on the knowledge of Fáfnir. However, I would like to know one thing.

I looked at him questioningly.

- How come my ice didn't do anything to you? You didn't seem to feel the cold.

I was taken aback. Granted, only Lance was the only one who really knew what was happening to my body after seeing the miraculous healing of my wound, and my unexplained blood loss, but I hadn't told him all the details I had. had counted on keeping for myself.

- It's probably because of this merging of powers thing, nothing more, I argued with a shrug that wanted to be nonchalant. We do not yet know anything about this phenomenon after all.

Unsurprisingly, the young man did not seem entirely convinced by my answer. He was definitely a formidable adversary, even in areas other than combat. It was my luck.

Cautiously, he moved closer to me, his gaze fixed on mine.

- So, you know if you trust me?

Getting a little closer, he lifted his hands and slowly directed them to my neck, probably giving me time to decide whether or not to let him.

- Let me try something, he whispered to me.

Cradled by the calm tone of his voice, I let his hands reach the thin skin that covered my neck. His long, slender fingers encircled the entire back of my neck, he barely touched me, as if he was afraid that I would push him away. I plunged my questioning gaze into his, his gaze totally focused on his task, when the tingling sensation I'd had earlier on his touch began again, this time where his hands covered me in.

His concentrated face was now tilted so close to mine that I only had to whisper for him to hear my question.

- What are you doing ?

I suddenly felt the same streaks of ice run through my skin. Rising to the bottom of my face, they marked my skin with a slight tickle. Despite everything, I only felt a small sensation of cold.

Lance smirked weakly.

- Breath, he intimated in a deep voice.

Without really knowing why he was asking me to do this, I still breathed weakly into the small space between us. It was then that with amazement, I observed light crystals of ice escaping from my mouth, until gradually transforming into a sort of bluish flame. I widened my eyes at this phenomenon, it was his dragon fire !

His smile widened then.

- A real little ice dragon.

A light expression floated on his face as he gently removed his hands from my neck, removing the last traces of ice that covered me. Slowly, he pulled away from me as well, putting a distance of convenience between us.

I was obsessed with the feeling of fierce power that had invaded me for a brief moment. So that was the strength of the dragons? This feeling of invincibility so primitive. I understood better why they were so formidable, when I had yet tasted only a tiny part of his powers.

- How did you do that? It was amazing!

The latter observed me, his face suddenly slightly serious.

- To be honest, I didn't think it would work. This is the first time that I have tried to impart some of my power to someone else, I didn't even know it was possible.

We both watched each other silently in the stillness of the room, each realizing the extent of the communion of our respective powers.

And it was ... almost scary, to be honest.

The dragon's voice finally broke our silence.

- Andraste, I will advise you not to tell anyone about this phenomenon for the moment, I do not yet know what that could imply.

I nodded without batting an eyelid, I totally agreed with that idea. On the other hand...

I fixed his blue eyes with a determined gaze.

- Lance, I would like you to help me regain my powers.

I paused, hesitating on what to do next.

- But maybe ... out of sight, like here.

He raised an eyebrow in disbelief, a thin smile on his lips.

- The little human wants to make clandestine dates in my room ?

(Chapter 9)

#eldarya #eldarya new era #eldarya lance #eldarya writing #eldarya fanfiction #ashkore #i am not your enemy

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thefanficmonster · 3 years

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Icy Fairytale

Boyinaband (Dave Brown) x Reader (Gender Neutral)

Warnings: Swearing

Genre: Fluff, Romance, RPF (Real Person Fic)

Summary: Falling in love is walking on thin ice in and of itself, but what happens when it's literal? Yeah that's right - two ambitious individuals fall head over heels for one another on the delicate icy ground of a Brighton ice skating rink.

Requested by @onceuponadie Hi! Thank you so much for your request! I'm so sorry for the long wait but I still hope you find the time to enjoy the read! Love, Vy ❤

No matter how hard I try, I can't tie the laces of my skates properly. I can't tell what's wrong with me today but I know something's seriously not right. To be perfectly honest though, I might have an idea or two as to why this is happening to me but I'd rather keep my mouth shut on the subject to avoid the intense blush and the flock of butterflies that will inevitably attack my stomach. And I can't have that many distractions while I'm on the ice.

Oh who am I kidding, my main distraction is always there, either in front of me or by my side. Sometimes even holding onto me for support.

Dave Brown is the name of it.

The name I was completely indifferent to when it was first brought to my attention.

It was a cold rainy day in Brighton, the town I was still on-the-fence about at the time. My trainer had been wanting to collaborate with a trainer from the UK for a while and had finally scheduled and arranged for the two of us to be able to fly out there and meet with him. I thought my trainer was ambitious, but this this new guy was a whole new level of ambitious. I could tell right away he'd be hard to please and I had no issue with that - I am and I always have been a goal-getter; I myself am hard to please and I've often been called an 'obsessed artist' by my trainer so I was beyond excited for this new extraordinary and challenging journey.

I just didn't know that the challenging part wouldn't be the skating.

After a particularly long practice session, once I was finally left alone by my trainers, I stuck around at the skating rink to wind down and feel the freedom of skating how I want and how I know I'm supposed to. Free like a bird gliding through the sky, not bound by any choreography or anyone's rules and opinions. That's when I'm most myself.

And that's when I met him.

The rink was closed and suppose to be reserved for only me and my coaches for the day but him and his friends - now my friend too - Joel probably didn't think much of the notice on the door considering they had waltzed in with zero idea the vicinity was booked.

I was too entranced in my own world to notice their presence by the seats. I only took notice of the fact I wasn't alone when Joel called out to me.

"Are we interrupting? Is this a private session or something? We can leave, sorry for bothering you."

While the other boy was talking, Dave remained silent, blending into the background and not drawing any of my attention to him. And yes, maybe I was supposed to turn them back, tell them to leave and whatnot, but I did the exact opposite.

"Private session's over, you can stick around, it's not a problem." I said, slowly gliding over to the entrance of the rink where the boys were now standing after they finished climbing down the stairs to approach the ice rink.

I stopped in my tracks rather abruptly as to not crash into them, stabilizing myself before offering them my hand for a handshake. "I'm Y/N. Professional figure skater."

I couldn't help but let out a little giggle when their jaws went loose, hanging open in surprise. They were quick to regain their composure, Joel being the one to accept my hand first, followed by Dave, both of them introducing themselves as they did so.

"Cool streak." I casually pointed at the red streak in Dave's hair, "I've always wanted to dye my hair but I'm not allowed to by my trainer."

He scoffed at my remark, "Your trainer? He's got the audacity to boss you around? Does he not realize how lucky he is to have a skater like you to his name?"

I was understandably taken aback by this compliment. I'm used to being given compliments after my performances in competitions, but I've never considered my unchoreographed skating as anything more than mediocre. It was surprising to receive such a positive remark, heartwarming nonetheless though.

"That's so kind of you to say, Dave, thanks." I'm still a long way from knowing how to properly respond to compliments - mostly cause I don't believe them - but I'd like to think I handled that one well. No, I know I handled it well considering Dave, Joel and I have been friends ever since.

As to why they were at the skating rink that day - they wanted to fulfill a New Year's resolution they had made at the start of the year: learning how to ice skate because apparently they were hopeless at it. And yes, they were - they got on the ice with me that day and were dropping like flies. I considered it a miracle if they were even able to get off their asses on their own. I had to pull them up a couple of times - a gesture they paid me back for with lunch afterwards. Following that day, only Dave remained determined to make his resolution count and he kept coming to the ice rink to practice (read: fall and get back up) and learn with my help of course. It's safe to say I've never laughed so much in such a short period of time and never have I ever established a friendship so quickly with anyone ever. I guess being someone's ice skating buddy is a whole different level of a friendship where the rules of a regular friendship don't apply.

I soon came to realize why that was...

Because I suddenly found myself wanting more than a friendship with Dave. It's ridiculous as hell, as all goddamn hell, but I couldn't and still can't help myself. It's these little subtle signs that shine through my behavior, all completely unintentional. The lingering hold meant to keep him stable on his skates. The firm eye contact when I'm trying to get him to focus on his balance. The little touches and hugs all gestures meant to congratulate him on his little wins like falling and managing to get to his feet on his own; managing to make three solid strides without sprawling out on the ice, etc. I must be the worst ice skating instructor ever - as Dave gained more balance and needed my assistance less, I found myself missing the times I literally had to hold him up, his arms wrapped around me and mine around him. I miss the times he held my hand to avoid falling and still fell, sometimes dragging me down with him.

And I'm only gonna miss those times even more after tomorrow because after tomorrow, I'll no longer be in the UK and I'll no longer be there to see Dave's successes and fails. I'll no longer have him be my distraction, the only distraction I've ever approved of and wanted around. I'll no longer have a chance to feed into the temptation of telling Dave what I feel for him. It's a temptation and a fear and excites me just as much as it terrifies me, paralyzes me just thinking of the outcome, especially when I know I won't get my feelings reciprocated. I won't get anything better than a soft rejection from him yet I still want to come clean.

Why, you might be asking - well, it's rather simple, actually. I think he deserves to know how special he's made these last few months. How much he's made me fall in love with this city and the UK as a whole. How much I enjoyed our adventures both on and off the ice. How much fun I had going sightseeing with him as my tour guide.

How much I enjoyed his company and how hard I fell for him in the process.

Today's the last day of 'class' for the both of us but I just so happen to be the only one who's aware of it. Yeah, I've been one hell of a coward and never brought up my inevitable departure despite having been informed over a week ago. Exactly, I had a week to come clean about more things than one, but I chose silence.

And boy did that bad decision come to hit me against the back of the head like a boomerang. A mocking and particularly painful one at that.

Get it together, Y/N. One of these news you'll have to tell him, he has to know you're leaving. And the other...

"Sorry I'm late!" The familiar voice coming in a breathy yell from somewhere in the darkness surrounding the seats awakens me and frees me from my mind's battle with itself. "The rain only makes traffic worse."

Now or never. Don't drag it out and keep adding salt to the wound!

"I'm leaving!" I say, loud enough to be heard clearly despite our distance. Also loud enough to cover up the tremble in my voice. It took a lot of power just to say that one sentence, I wonder how I'm gonna power through having to explain it to him.

"Jeez, did I upset you that badly?" Dave surprises the hell out of me when he steps on the ice, already in his skates which I didn't even notice him put on. I'm not surprised by that to be honest, I'm too caught up in my own thoughts and how I'm displaying them in my demeanor to notice my surroundings.

"N-no, I..." so much for covering up that tremble in my voice, "I have to leave the UK...tomorrow...I'm going back home for a competition and to, you know, get ready for the Olympics...I don't know when or if I'll be back but I was hoping..."

"What? When'd you hear about this? Why so suddenly? Is it that big of an emergency that they inform you literally five minutes in advance?" There are enough emotions in his voice to prevent me from looking at his face, especially his eyes. I'm afraid of what kind of hurt or whatever other emotion I might see there.

I bite the inside of my cheek, "My trainer told me last week...", I admit, gritting my teeth and cringing as my stomach ties itself is several knots that are causing me great discomfort.

There's a pause which I'm assuming is meant for him to collect all his thoughts and properly process them. I'm afraid of what he'll say when he does.

"So I'm the one finding out five minutes before your departure?" He finally asks, the tone of voice he uses making my heart sink a little.

Damn it, Dave I already feel guilty enough, this is unnecessary!

No, no, he has a point and has every right to be upset. Friends don't keep friends in the dark about things like this. About any things really.

Then why do you keep him in the dark about literally EVERYTHING?

This is what I was afraid of - getting the temptation of coming clean. I have nothing to lose after all, I'm leaving tomorrow anyway. I'll lose him one way or another.

"Listen, Dave...", I didn't think this through but I'll improvise it, that's a better option than shutting my mouth and not saying another word, "I was gonna tell you, I really wanted to, but I couldn't...I couldn't bring myself to do it. I still don't want to believe that I'm leaving. I love it here and just the thought of leaving it all behind...it hurts, you know. And 'the more people know the realer it is' is a real thing so I didn't want...." I stop, my voice cutting off completely as I find myself weak on balance. Maybe standing in the middle of an ice rink isn't the best setting for this conversation. "I'm being ridiculous and I'm stalling like a coward." I say that more to myself than to him but I don't let him speak. Instead, I continue my rambling after a brief sigh.

Dave, God bless his soul, stays silent and just looks at me with this curious gaze which is letting me know he's holding back for my sanity's sake, allowing me to take a breather and collect my thoughts before I express them to avoid misunderstanding me.

I inhale, finally ready to start talking, "Alright, here we go...Look, I don't want to end this...friendship between us on a bad note but I don't want it to end with there still being secrets between us so I'm gonna finally say what I've been wanting and not wanting to tell you for a while now. It's on you whether it'll be a bad ending to a good story or not, but I just need to get it off my chest, ok?"

He nods, not at all as hesitantly as I thought he would which is relieving to see, so I continue.

"This is gonna sound pathetic and downright laughable but here it goes - I like you, Dave. The kind of like where I see you as more than a friend and sometimes even wish you would see me the same way as well despite being sure you don't. And please, if you plan on pulling a pity act give me a heads up so I can just walk aw-"

My ramble is put to an end when Dave puts his hand up, pointer finger in the air and almost touching my lips as a gesture to shush me. I am typically one of the hardest people to shut up EVER, but now the words die down on their own as if they are even happy to be put to rest at his request.

"Y/N you are the most talented, most graceful, the kindest and most beautiful and smartest person I have ever met and yet you still also happen to be the densest and most ignorant when it comes to the people around you. You're a people pleaser, I've figured out as much, but goddamn it, you rarely know what a person actually wants. I mean, correct me if I'm wrong, this could just be the case with me and an inability to show emotion which I haven't known about all this time, but still - if your dense ass hasn't noticed it yet I'll say it out loud for you and if you still find a way to misinterpret it, I'll spell it out for you in huge neon letters, got it?" He makes something barely alike a pause before sighing, "Y/N L/N, the most densest person in this whole word, you've had me star-struck since day one and I've only been falling deeper and harder in love with you ever since. And you don't have even the slightest clue of what happened to me and my heart a couple minutes ago when you said you were leaving. Believe what you wanna, but words have never crushed me harder ever before and trust me, that says a lot. So, before you go and think you have my emotions figured out, remember that I actually know how to skate."

That's A LOT to take in. It's got layers upon layers of questions followed by answers followed by even more questions that I'm not sure I'm prepared to ask or answer.

So he's liked me since the day we met? Love at first sight? Nah, that shit only exists in movies.

He was hurt by that? I hurt him by not telling him then I hurt him by telling him and I'll hurt him the hardest when I leave tomorrow. How am I supposed to not feel responsible for putting so much pain on him without even realizing it?

And wait - he knows how to skate???

"You can skate? Like, you can can skate? Like, you're not a hopeless case like you've made me believe?" I ask, one of my eyebrows shooting up suspiciously.

Dave goes from looking puzzled to cracking up with laughter within a second after hearing my question, "Oh Y/N, you're so adorable. That's what's got you puzzled the most out of all I just said?"

I narrow my eyes at him, folding my arms over my chest defensively, "Well the rest seems pretty cut-and-dry, if you ask me." I say sarcastically, earning another laugh from him.

It's only now that I notice how confidently he's standing on the ice - as though he's standing on solid, non-slippery ground which is far from the image I have of Dave while on ice. The uncertainty, the lack of stability, it's all disappeared from his still demeanor which now makes a lot more sense.

He smirks at me, "Does it now, densey?"

I frown at the nickname, "Don't call me th-"

He doesn't let me finish, instead presses his lips against mine, the contact making me lose balance on my skates. Luckily, he probably calculated this risk in advance cause his arms wrap around me instantly, preventing me from slipping more than an inch.

"Who needs to be held up now?" He asks, pressing his forehead against mine when we pull away from the kiss.

I keep my eyes closed despite the urge to roll them in playful annoyance, "Oh, shut it."

And he does so by pressing his lips against mine once again.

What will happen once I leave, I have not the slightest clue. Hell, I don't even know what'll happen when we pull away permanently and get off the ice we're standing on. But I do know what's happening right now - I'm kissing Dave Brown and nothing's ever felt this right before.

@waterlilypat @iwillboilyourteeth @insanedeathwish @onceuponadie @loraleiix @smiithys @rottenroyalebooks @goldenstarofthunderclan @cosmicstorm19 @lam-ila @sra-verissimo @marthebeeduosimp

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yandere-daydreams · 4 years

Note

Kirishima with a darling who refuses to let him love her and take care of her so she decides to keep her isolated until she wants his company

He’s such a good Yandere to get stuck with, isn’t he? Considerate, loving, so dedicated to your relationship, he’s willing to do anything to keep you by his side. The last one is more draw-back than anything, actually, but don’t worry. His intentions are *always* golden.

TW: Kidnapping and Threats of Violence.

Three weeks, five days, eighteen hours and thirty minutes to the second. That’s how long you’d spent in silence, living with only the sound of domestic trivialities, two pairs of footsteps and the stifling awareness that something was wrong, even if you could never be sure what that off-factor was.

It’d been three weeks, five days, eighteen hours and thirty minutes since the last time Kirishima spoke to you.

You didn’t have a problem with it, honestly. Any fondness you might’ve had for him had shriveled up and died the morning you woke up in an windowless bedroom, restrained, gagged and still recovering from being drugged out of your mind the night before. When he’d stopped talking to you, going mute with all the grace of a puppy trying not to bark, he’d stopped touching you, too, although the gifts and bribes for your forgiveness continued to flow steadily. Rather, he acted as a reluctant caretaker, one to been barely seen and never heard, your meals left on your bedside table without a word and his ‘duties’ only carried out while you were unconscious, your only signal that he’d bathed you or cleaned your room being slightly damp hair and a pounding headache, one that often left you more incapacitated than his medication did. It was fine, though, it was great. You wanted to be let go, you wanted to be free, but you’d settle for making Kirishima miserable, if you had to. As long as he wasn’t happy, you were content, and he couldn’t be unhappy.

Not one could be, in a relationship so one-sided.

That was why you didn’t prostrate yourself when he came in, another small wrapped box in his hand and his posture stiff, as uncomfortable as you’d been, at first. You were settled on your bed, laying on your stomach, a book propped up in front of you, although you hadn’t had the motivation to read in hours. Still, your eyes never left the scrawling text as you heard the door open, shutting again before heavy, measured footsteps made their way towards you. You only kicked slightly, letting the chain around your ankle rattle before you bothered speaking.

“Today would be a really good day to let me go,” You started, your tone light, playful. After so long, you’d fallen into a routine, one you almost enjoyed. “I know I say that every day, but I mean it, this time. Is it sunny, outside? It feels sunny. I think I’d like to get out of here on a sunny day.” You paused, more for effect than anything else, making a point of turning to the next page. You couldn’t remember the title, anymore. “Well, big guy? Gonna let me go?”

Silence was his only response, deadened and insufferable silence. You sighed, accepting his refusal, nodding as you went back to your idle task. “Leave it with the rest of ‘em, then. I don’t accept presents from criminals.”

That was where your interaction usually ended, Kirishima taking his leave with a forlorn sigh and a wayward glance in your direction. You listened intently, waiting for the sounds that always accompanied his exit, wondering if you should use the next hour to stare at the ceiling or contemplate your own captivity, but you didn’t get the chance to decide. More wrongness drew away your attention, terrible and awful and appalling, stillness where there shouldn’t have been. This time, you reacted, glancing over absentmindedly, but once your eyes landed on him, you couldn’t pull them away.

Kirishima wasn’t glaring. He wasn’t staring blankly or in one of the many, many states desolate desperation you’d gotten used to. No, no, this was something new. Something dangerous.

He was crying.

Choked sobs racked over his chest as he took a step towards you, then another, tears just beginning to appear. You were stunned, but only for a moment, quickly pulling yourself out of your stupor and sitting up, your book falling away uselessly as you positioned yourself on your knees. By the time he reached the edge of your bed, he was furiously trying to wipe away the evidence of his grief, but each drag of his collar across his cheek and rub to his eyes only made him cringe a little more visibly or grit his teeth a little harder, his jaw so clenched, it had to be painful.

He seemed to relax, when he finally, finally spoke. As if he’d been holding in the same tension for years, rather than a handful of weeks. “Say you’re sorry,” He demanded, his voice trembling on every other syllable. “Say you love me.”

“What? No.” Your reply was automatic, born of equal parts confusion and noncompliance. “Are you alright? You’re acting weird--”

“I’m acting like a good boyfriend.” Anger had replaced whatever sterile authority he’d tried to display, everything from his tone to his demeanour becoming more unstable, more volatile. Out of habit, you started looking for places to run, a closet you could lock yourself in or a nook too small for him to drag you out of, but as soon as Kirishima noticed your focus shifting, his temper boiled over. In the blink of an eye, he was no longer standing in front of you, and you weren’t crouching at a safe distance. Instead, he was on top of you, his hand around your neck and shoving you against the headboard with a harsh thud, your vision going black before returning so much more vivid than before.

You could breathe, but barely, each inhale labored and strained, but if Kirishima seemed to have any sympathy for his captive, you couldn’t tell. If anything, he only seemed more hostile when he went on. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you? You’re trying to hurt me.” The accusation was followed by growl, sharp and primal, making what was left of your air supply get caught in your throat. “I tried taking care of you, but you’re too scared to be reasonable. I tried giving you space, but you just get spoiled, taking me for granted and asking for the one thing you know I can’t let you have. Do you hate me? Or are you just too stupid to be grateful when someone tries to protect you?”

“I-I don’t know what you’re--” You were cut short as his fist tightened around your neck, squeezing so mercilessly, you didn’t doubt he would leave bruises. Hopelessness welled up inside your chest, dark and unignorable, and all the threats and punishments and fear you’d try to repress came back in an instant. You knew nothing you did would make a difference, but you tried anyway, not sure what else you could do. “Please, Eijirou, you… you kidnapped me. I can’t just forget that. You shouldn’t, either.”

“You’re supposed to get past it.” He was gruff, unwavering, his resolution taking shape and growing steady. You weren’t sure whether or not that was a good sign. “You’re supposed to realize that this is for the best, that I’m keeping you safe, and be thankful. You’re not supposed to whine until you get your way.”

You didn’t have a response, not one that would’ve soothed him. Without another option, you did the only thing you could think to do, too many emotions coming over you all at once and choosing to show themselves in ugly, blurry tears, as frantic as Kirishima’s. But, the closest thing to empathy your outburst earned was a softened frown and a half-hearted hush, despite how quiet you attempted to be. “It’s alright, baby. This is my fault, too.” His assurances came gently, but he was unfazed. You had a feeling your resolve wouldn’t be as unshakable as his, soon.

“I just need to be a little stricter than I have been. Everything’ll be better, after you see how much I’m helping you.”

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ilikemesometaetaes · 2 years

Note

HI LOVELY AND MERRY CRIMBO BABY I HOPE YOU’RE DOING WELL AND LOOKING AFTER YOURSELF!

My bad for the long pause- this semester has absolutely dragged and I fear I do not have much brain activity going on up in here but I HOPE YOU CAN GET TO ENJOY TODAY and the New Years! :)

The whole secret santa thing is so cute please 😭😭 like different authors gifting a piece of work to each other omg 😭♥️ I’m so excited to read Bad taste!! I first thought it was a continuation of banana split you know, carrying on that food theme possibly ending in some type of food play (I promise this is not a kink of mine idek why my mind even went went there oops)

I hope your finals went well too and you weren’t too stressed about them. Regardless I believe in you and hoping for the best with that

Black is also my favourite colour and I seem to find myself wearing it all the time oh my. Maybe my New Years resolution would be to introduce some colour into my wardrobe, I’m kind of leaning towards earth tones atm. But what would your New Years resolution be (if you do have one) and did you manage to fulfil the one from 2020?

OOOH AND I MADE A NEW FRIEND IN THE CAFE AND WE’RE ON THE SAME COURSE AND I SAW HER LOCKSCREEN OF THE TANNIES AND I JUMPED FOR THE OPPORTUNITY so now I think I have a concert buddy if they ever decide to come here again

BUT THE BEST BIT IS SHE READS FANFIC AND YOU KNOW I HAD TO LINK HER WITH MY FAVOURITE BABY (and I also had to convert her to be a tumblr gal because she was solely on wattpad- never do I want to revisit those days aha) did you have a wattpad phase too? I’m ngl I was kind of obsessed with the whole mafia/ werewolf trope (and weirdly arranged marriage but is this projecting? I’m not really sure I can only internally cringe from these memories aha) so I hope she interacts with you (and doesn’t name drop me either or you’ll be confused)

WHICH REMINDS ME I AM SO EMBARRASSED ABOUT MY LAST ASK WITH HOW I WAS ABOUT MY PAGE OH MY. But I hope you understand I didn’t actually remember if I got off anon or not and my page had my whole government name and I’ve had this account for so long so there’s some unexplainable weird things on here (as well as a gradual change from Shawn mendes + 5sos ->BTS) 💀

The vogue photo shoot? I’m not really up to date on their content but this whew... deserves all the hype and more

MR KIM TAEHYUNG I feel lightheaded. I’m getting palpitations just thinking about it especially THE BLACK OUTFIT HIS STARE he is crafted by the gods I swear how can it be allowed to be this pretty - honestly he doesn’t wear black a lot at all but when he does 😌

MR JEON JUNGKOOK WITH HIS PIERCING put me out of my misery this man is so fine with the bluish grey short back and side oh my SIR MIN YOONGI WITH HIS SKIRT AS WELL oh please if this man even looked in my direction I would just collapse. MR JUNG HOSEOK AND HIS UTILITY GILET OUTFIT WITH THE BLUE JOGGERS I LOVE HIM IN THIS OUTFIT AND MR KIM NAMJOON THE MAN THAT HE IS. The short hair suits him so well and the way he incorporated pottery into one of the photos 😭 I’m actually going to take a class the things this man does to me. OH AND LETS NOT FORGET MY MAN KIM SEOKJIN in a suit- absolutely 0 regard for my well being and my baby Park Jimin in the turtlenecks as well oh my god.

My bad but I need to express how fine these men are like it was just something about this photo shoot which is different from the others I’ve seen of them

Any plans for the new year too?

But aside from that do you have any major life achievements (or not even major, just any achievement at all :)) that you’ve made this year that you’re proud of. Just to end it on a good note.

Thanks for being like my (virtual) penpal, I know I’ve said this a lot but your blog is a safe space so I appreciate you for maintaining it in this way (but no pressure to continue it either- your blog your rules you know) ♥️♥️

And from stalking your blog just now, I wanted to say you looked really cute on Halloween! I love the outfit and I hope you’re feeling better too!

But as always stay healthy and stay safe cutie!! And since you want to be held (same tbh) here’s a cute little virtual hug which I hope you can receive well :)

(っ* ´∀｀*)っ

It took me so long to get around to answering this. What better way than to answer it on New Years’ Eve since I’m alone for it??

I had a long semester too omg it was so freaking hard. I passed all my classes tho! How about you?

I think Bad Taste could be a continuation of Banana Split… it kind of fits the storyline and personality a bit… if you decide to take it that way, I won’t be bothered at all! lol. I hope you like reading it! Also, there’s nothing wrong with liking food play. I’ve actually done it before and it tasted so much better when I… ate lollipops with whipped cream…

I didn’t really have a resolution for 2020. I’m not super into making resolutions because I don’t like adding extra expectations onto myself. It gets to be super stressful on my mental when people expect so much of me already. With the whole black clothing thing, I felt that. I love wearing black. Whenever I think about wearing other colors, I always give ‘Man In Black’ by Johnny Cash a listen. Really helps me feel more comfortable with my style choice. (I also just look at Jungkook because that boy makes black the new rainbow at this point).

If your new friend has gotten the time to visit my page, I hope to meet her! (Friend of my anon, hello there 👋🏼) I hope she enjoys my work and can find solace in my space because I always love meeting new friends! Arranged marriage isn’t really my forte though- a friend of mine is in an arranged marriage and it is not the happy ending that we get in the standard arranged marriage AUs. I can still write about it… I just would prefer not to… Werewolves? Oh you KNOW I’m all over that lol

That Vogue photo shoot can suck my dick because I did not deserve that. At all. Who thE FUCK do thEY THINK THey ARE???

Some achievements that I’m proud of… hmmm… I made my service selection in the fall, which means I’m officially bound for my commission. I’ll be making my ship selection in the spring and I’m hoping to be assigned to a ship in Japan. Then, I’d be moving to Japan and living there for a few years! I’m incredibly excited to see what 2022 holds, as I will be graduating from university, commissioning as an officer in the military, and setting out into the big, wide world.

I hope to continue maintaining the neutrality of my blog, as I am a neutral person that welcomes any and all. I try to use my blog as a representation of my personality- my biggest principle is that everyone deserves a chance to be heard. My friends think it is a flaw of mine, but I have the utmost patience for people, no matter how bad they can be. I hope to convey this through my blog.

Thanks for the compliment on my Halloween costume! Haha it was a last minute thing because I was originally planning on being a BTS boy, however, it ended up not working out.

And thanks for the hug. I really needed it. Being alone for yet another New Year sucks. I’m happy to call you my online penpal, anon.

Happy holidays and Happy New Year!

-Allannah

#asks #anon asks #thanks for sending!#please send asks because i love answering them

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eliemo · 4 years

Text

All Gone- Part 3

Next part of my fan work for the Labelled Universe by @snowdice

Sorry this part took a bit longer to upload, but its also a longer chapter!

TW: kidnapping, violence, panic and mention of drugs (nothing too bad, just sedatives and stuff)

Virgil woke with what he quickly decided was the absolute worst headache he’d ever had in his entire life.

And with how many times he’d woken up in varying degrees of pain, that was really saying something. At least he’d had morphine when he’d opened his eyes to a bullet wound.

Now though, it felt like somebody had taken a meat cleaver to his skull, his head throbbing in time to his racing heartbeat, his whole body trembling and burning like he’d been dunked in lava.

Jesus, he wasn’t even sure he could move.

Virgil tried to open his eyes, quickly backtracking and squeezing them shut when even a sliver of dim light felt like a million tiny knives burrowing into his brain.

He bit back a groan as a wave of nausea washed over him, overwhelming and awful as he lay perfectly still against something cold and hard.

Hadn’t he been at school? He thought so. It had been the week from Hell- his foggy, pounding brain could at least piece that together.

Between school work piling up as the year came to an end, stress from a new villain rising in power, and the fight with Logan, Virgil was--

Logan.

This time, Virgil’s eyes did fly open, his sudden panic as memories came flooding back not nearly enough to smother the cry of pain as agony shot through his whole body at the movement.

Logan had been right in front of him, calling to him from the car, panicked and afraid as arms wrapped around Virgil and dragged him into the dark.

There’s been a stabbing pain in his neck, something cold and sharp pressing into his skin before he’d passed out.

Oh god, had he been drugged? How long had he been out?

It couldn’t have been too long, he reasoned against the rising panic. Logan wouldn’t let him stay kidnapped for long. Logan would find him, kick the shit out of whoever had taken Virgil, and bring him home to a fretting Patton.

It would be fine. It was ok. No need to freak out like a baby, Logan was probably on his way right now to--

“Are you awake, Shadow Caster?”

That made Virgil freeze, panic intensifying because last time he checked he definitely was not wearing his mask. He’d just been trying to get home after band practice.

There were feet suddenly moving in his line of sight, and Virgil shrank back out of instinct, tensing at the feeling of someone looming over him, in far too much pain to try scrambling away.

“Well, hey.” The man was crouching down, still too close and too tall, and Virgil squeezed his eyes shut as he moved closer. “What’s the matter, Shadow? Scared?”

It was that horrible sickly sweet tone, the one Virgil had heard so many times before that reeked of false kindness, drenched in eager giddiness at the power they had over him.

Virgil couldn’t move from where he lay on the floor, and he was quickly realizing that wasn’t just from the fear. His body, aside from the lingering pain, felt heavy and cold, limbs slow and unresponsive.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” the man said. “Do you prefer Virgil?”

Virgil felt like he was going to be sick, hearing his real name somehow so much worse, the reality of the entire situation hitting all at once, too many memories flooding back.

He couldn’t even concentrate long enough to form anything more than a measly shadow against his ankle. Nothing that would be of any help.

Virgil risked a glance up, furiously forcing back the tears that threatened to spill over at what he saw.

It was the man from the news, the one Logan had been working tirelessly to track down. The one that clearly had no qualms with killing innocents.

And he knew who Virgil was behind the mask. He’d taken him right in front of Logan.

“What do you want?” Virgil asked in a breathy rush, cringing at how shaky his voice was. He couldn’t see most of his kidnapper’s face behind the black mask, but his eyes were practically glowing with amusement.

“Here,” he said, and Virgil couldn;t even try to hold back the whimper that escaped when the man reached forward, shrinking back and shutting his eyes. “Let’s get you off the floor.”

Virgil tried to protest, tried to kick and scramble away, tried to do anything in his power to make sure this man didn’t touch him, but in the end it was useless.

Virgil’s body was still slow and uncooperative, and the man moved too fast. Before he knew it there was a hand fisted in his shirt, another squeezing his wrist, and Virgil was roughly yanked to his feet and dragged to the nearest wall, forced to sit up and lean against it.

It wasn’t any better than laying on the floor, despite being a bit less vulnerable, and the sudden movements had only sent more bursts of stabbing pain through his body, stars dancing along his already hazy vision.

He grit his teeth and said nothing, now staring resolutely at the man’s black jeans in front of him.

“You’re sixteen, right?” the masked man asked. Virgil didn’t answer. “Poor kid. Do your parents know about your little bank robbing habit?”

Virgil forced himself not to flinch, wishing he had the strength to curl up into a ball, feeling far too vulnerable and exposed.

He barely went out as Shadow Caster anymore, spending the free time he did have training with Logan, and he definitely hadn’t stolen since moving in Logan and Patton.

The man’s hand was suddenly moving without warning, too fast and too close to Virgil’s face, and he couldn’t fight back against a violent flinch this time, ears burning when the man laughed.

“I don’t need to hurt you,” he said, a hand now rested on Virgil’s shoulder. It was too tight, too confining, to be anything even remotely gentle. “Your dad seemed real upset when I picked you up. We don’t want to keep him worrying much longer, right?”

Virgil tired (and failed) to steady his breathing, dissolving mostly into hiccuping gasps, ignoring the nagging panic that came with each second Logan failed to make his entrance.

He...he was coming, right? Virgil knew they’d fought that morning, and he’d been unfairly short tempered when he’d known Logan was already stressed but...but that wouldn’t mean…

Virgil didn’t realize he’d been hit until the pain registered, seconds after the deafening crack that rose up in the empty room, the man’s hand now missing one of his black gloves.

“Are you paying attention to me, Shadow Caster?”

It wasn;t the first time he’d been slapped, obviously, and definitely not the first time he’d heard that demand afterwards. Of course, this situation was arguably a bit different.

He’d literally been kidnapped, he had no obligation to cower and submit to this adult’s wants. Logan was coming- he was. Virgil was still alive for a reason. He could afford to be defiant.

But a bit of rational thought wasn’t nearly enough to erase a lifetime worth of conditioning. Virgil found himself pressing back even further against the wall, fighting to raise heavy, trembling hands up to block his face from another hit, unable to raise his eyes from the floor.

“S-sorry,” he stuttered out, hating himself for turning so weak so quickly. He wondered, briefly, if Logan would be disappointed. “I...what do you want?”

The man’s eyes practically lit up at the obvious fear, and Virgil shuddered under the weight of his excitement. He hoped his own expression wasn’t giving away how badly that slap had hurt.

“I sent your friend Bluebird a nice little picture,” he said. “Figured he’d want to know the kid that used to follow him around had gotten into a little...predicament. Smart guy like him should be able to find our location, right?”

Virgil forced himself to breathe, the mark on his face burning like acid. He had enough experience to know that it would probably leave a nasty bruise.

“He’s...he’ll be here.”

“Yeah?” It was impossible to tell for sure behind the mask, but Virgil thought the man was smirking. “You’ve already been here about two hours now.”

Two hours? And Logan still hadn’t…

No. No. It was fine. It was all going to be ok. Logan would find him. He would.

“He’ll be here,” Virgil repeated, barely audible, more for himself than anything. “And he’ll kick your ass.”

Virgil expected the slap this time, but that didn’t mean it hurt any less, a new burst of pain exploding across his already throbbing cheek.

“Tell you what,” the man said, casually, like Virgil wasn’t hunched over himself and fighting back tears. “Let’s make a deal, ok? Just in case he doesn’t.”

Virgil didn’t answer, just stared resolutely down at his feet, shivering and uselessly trying not to dissolve into sobs.

God, he just wanted to go home.

“I’ll let you go right now,” he said. “All I need is the Bird’s name. His real name. Tell me who he is, and you’re good to go.”

And there was no way in hell Virgil was ever going to accept that. It wasn’t even a question. Not for a second.

He was just glad this guy was apparently too stupid to connect Virgil’s recent adoption with the superhero’s identity.

“No,” he spat, and quickly cringed back when the man’s hand raised again. “Wh-why don't you just...figure it out yourself? You found me.”

“It’s not hard to find some street kid, Shadow. Not if you try hard enough. Bluebird’s another story.”

Virgil swallowed, fairly sure he could taste some blood in his mouth as he hunched his shoulders and braced himself, knowing what was coming.

“I don’t know who he is.”

It was a fist that connected with his face this time, real anger finally leaking through the man’s giddy facade, and Virgil definitely tasted blood now.

“Don’t lie to me, kid.”

“I-I’m not--”

He honestly couldn’t tell if he’d been punched again, all of the pain was starting to blend together into one horrible wave of agony. But even as he feels himself roughly shoved to the ground, something digging into the back of his neck, his answer never changed.

He was used to beatings. He could...he could take it. And yeah, maybe he’d gotten used to living under Logan and Patton’s safety the last year. Maybe it was worse because there was absolutely nothing stopping this man from killing him in seconds.

But there wasn’t a second where he considered giving Logan up. Because even if he died...Logan would be ok. The only people to ever show him a shred of kindness in his life would be safe.

And that was...that was…

He didn’t even have time to finish his thought before the weight on top of him was ripped away, the sudden change in pressure only making the pain flare up worse than before, and Virgil cried out in alarm.

There were noises around him, too far away to make out, and much too loud to bring any semblance of calm. There were voices, he thought, angry and demanding, followed by deafening crashes and thuds.

Had he done something wrong again? Everything hurt so bad and he couldn’t lift his head to even see where he was anymore. He shouldn’t be this weak. He should be able to get up and run while he could. He needed to get away, he needed--

There was a crash, louder than any of the other sounds, and Virgil thought he heard someone scream. A second later, he realized it could have been him.

But the crash had definitely been close this time, like someone had hit the wall right above him, and Virgil used what was left of his fading strength to curl into himself, doing what he could to protect his face.

Something sharp scraped against his arms and legs as he moved, stabbing pain joining the rest of the constant hurt, but he didn’t pay it any mind.

And then, despite the fact that he hadn’t opened his eyes or lifted his head, Virgil is painfully aware of a presence making its way back towards him, looming over him, ready to hurt him all over again.

But he wasn’t giving this guy any answers.

“Virgil--”

“I-I’m...I’m not telling you who-who he is, I’m not--”

Oh god, Virgil can’t breathe. He can feel the panic rising up, stronger than the pain and drowsiness, and his chest aches with his labored, frantic breaths.

There’s a hand on his shoulder and Virgil couldn’t help the sob that escaped as he flinched back, back slamming into the wall.

“Please d-dont.” He was begging now, desperate and scared, unable to stop himself. “Don’t hurt me, don’t hurt me I’m--”

“Virgil, it’s me.” The hand loosened slightly, but didn’t let go. “It’s just me. I found you, you’re safe.”

And that...that sounded like…

“Look at me, Virgil. Please. I...I need to see that you’re alright.”

Virgil found himself obeying, not moving from where he was curled up on the floor, but glancing up just enough to see Bluebird on his knees in front of him, gloved hand on Virgil’s hoodie.

He couldn’t remember deciding to speak, barely able to hear his own pitiful voice. But it was there all the same, small and unsure. “D...dad?”

There’s a beat of silence, Bluebird--Logan-- watching him with poorly concealed worry, before he clears his throat and replies.

“Hello, Virgil. I assume you’re ready to go home.”

Virgil had broken down within seconds. He didn’t bother to hold back any sobs this time, still not strong enough to move from the floor, but Logan quickly gathers Virgil in his arms, murmuring frantic reassurances and what sounded like apologies.

Logan held him close to his chet, Virgil pressed close enough to hear his heartbeat, fast and strong and real.

Virgil felt himself being moved, but there was no panic that came with the motion, just another wave of pain and dizziness. Logan said something when he cried out in pain, hold briefly tightening, but Virgil was asleep before he could hear it.

#thomas sanders #labelled universe #virgil sanders #logan sanders #patton sanders #sanders sides #superhero au #snowdice #fanfiction #fanwork

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zet-sway · 3 years

Text

THE FROZEN SEA CHAPTER 2

I've literally never done a chapter 2 to anything before. It's boring but whatever, I wrote it. Hopefully I can find the stamina to continue. Longfic is so difficult (╥﹏╥)

Word Count: ~3000 Rated: "T" AO3 Link: "The Frozen Sea - Chapter 2" Pairing: Thane / FemShep Summary: "When they finally disembark, she beelines for the elevator with a painfully stiff spine and heavy footfalls. In that moment, Thane can see the weight of her two missing years more clearly than ever before, her humanity practically seeping through the cracks in her hardsuit."

- - - - - - - - - - -

It's shortly after breakfast when Shepard appears in his room unannounced. Fresh mug of coffee in one hand and datapad in the other, she takes the seat across from him without a word. Her eyes are glued to the screen, worried, but focused.

"Shepard, to what do I owe the pleasure?"

Her mug hits the table with a soft thump and her eyes flick up at him from under her lashes.

"What do you know about the collectors?"

Curious, he leans in, hands folded. "I've encountered them before, although not directly."

Shepard raises an eyebrow.

"My work has taken me to some less than desirable reaches of the galaxy," he says dryly.

"Ever killed one?"

By now he's unsurprised by her direct questions, but it's enough of a hint for him to understand there's definitely something afoot. Thane shakes his head. "No, I've only watched from afar. The Collectors have a reputation for black market dealings."

The datapad flickers off as she sets it down and takes a sip of her coffee. Then she summons an image of a planet he's never been to on her omni-tool. Horizon, a human colony.

"This morning I received an emergency directive from The Illusive Man. It's very likely we're about to go head to head with Collector forces for the first time."

Ah, that would be why she's here so early.

"How much longer until we arrive?"

"Sixty minutes. Tell me what you know."

He pauses to consider what might be most valuable to the mission.

"They fly, like insects."

Shepard visibly chokes on her coffee. "That's different." She transfers the planetary data to his omni-tool. "Suit up and meet me us upstairs in thirty."

With that, she gets up and walks out.

- - - - - - - - - - - - -

They load up into the shuttle. Shepard is nearly silent but Garrus seems to be in good spirits.

"So the Collectors can fly? Is that right?" the turian asks, checking the safety on his rifle for the 6th time.

Thane nods in his direction.

"I guess we're about to find out. We'll give em' hell, Commander."

Shepard merely hums her approval. Her mind is elsewhere.

When the shuttle touches down, she's the first one on the ground, motioning for the others to hold position inside the shuttle until she gives her signal. It's not until she's confident that Mordin's protection against the seeker swarms is effective that she allows them to press forward.

While she forges ahead to clear the proverbial brush for them, Thane wonders about the duality of her. Kalahira's messenger, making every attempt to prolong their lives. The goddess does not take life for the pleasure of it, she needs them for the battle ahead.

He wonders if she, too, will be swept up in the coming tide.

- - - - - - - - - - - - -

Fighting the Collectors makes her skin crawl.

The drone of seeker swarms and collector wings never seems to fade out from her mind. Their flesh is… wrong, somehow. Filled with fluids, too soft, with unseeing alien eyes. Garrus bolts one on her flank and its head bursts like overripe, rotting fruit. She cringes and presses forward, Thane by her side tearing down barriers. He’ll have biotic burns after this mission if she’s not careful.

They’re armed with particle weapons - unsurprising given their intel. The air singes in the wake of each shot as they move from cover to cover. The deeper they move into the colony, the more horrors they unearth.

By now, Shepard is accustomed to the knowledge that husks were once people. But two years gone has brought frightening new context to that idea when she sees what other horrors the Collectors have in their arsenal. Grotesque amalgams of... things. People. Other creatures. What is she even supposed to call this four legged thing with a mass of human heads below it's carapace? Is this what the Collectors are doing with these people?

They manage a small number of survivors. Too few. But among them is Ashley Williams - a fucking sight for sore eyes if Shepard’s ever seen one.

"Ash, it's good to see you," she says, face splitting into a grin. It takes all her self control to not throw her arms around the soldier.

Ever the professional, Ashley stands resolute among her Alliance compatriots. She's grown into a strong soldier, and Shepard beams with no small amount of pride.

"I didn't want to believe it was you. It really is you, right? Shepard?"

"It's me, in the flesh." Shepard says, arms outstretched in a proud gesture.

Ashley looks incredulous, her expression is hard to read. "And you too, Garrus - what happened to your face?"

Garrus flares his mandibles in a characteristic turian smirk. "Just a scratch, really. A rocket to the face will do that."

"Jesus, Shepard..." The way Ashley's tone trails off immediately makes the air turn sour. Her smile twists away into nothing. "You're really with Cerberus, then?"

"It isn't what it looks like, Ash." The words are thick in her throat. Even if it's true, the phrase sounds utterly hollow.

"I thought you died. I… we… had a funeral for you. People don't just come back from the dead,” Ashley says, eyes like daggers.

"I didn't believe it myself until I saw the final report. You can read it if you like," Shepard’s face scrunches up in discomfort. The photos still haunt her. "Meat and tubes, Ash.”

"I'm disappointed you'd even let yourself believe that." Her voice is rising, eyes narrowed in accusation and contempt. The look on her face is every bit as painful as her words.

Shepard chews on her lip, trying to think of something to say, anything at all, because after everything they’d been through, Ashley is one of the last people she’d have expected....

“Cerberus,” she mutters. “Shepard, I trusted you.”

Shepard loses focus rapidly after that, her mind forcibly shrouding the words in a fog if only to get through the moment, second by agonizing second. Some days it's like she's been resurrected into a living nightmare. The sting of rejection after two lost years burns like her lungs in the vacuum of space.

"I woke up on a Cerberus operating table," she interrupts, loudly. "They told me the station was under attack, so I grabbed my gear and got the fuck on with it. And then they told me I'd been dead for two years." She takes a step back, eyes flicking out across Horizon's dull gray sky. "I didn’t ask for this. For all I know, The Illusive Man put a fucking chip in my head set to blow the minute I disappoint him."

She can feel their eyes on her. Garrus looks lost, Thane is stone still and motionless. The heavy silence threatens to crush her heart into a hundred cybernetic pieces.

"I'm just as confused as you are. But I'm trying to stop this ," she gestures around at the disquieting emptiness of the colony, the grisly remains of slain Collectors. Her heart is racing, her head seething with the heat of indignation. She can taste the bitter words that sling past her teeth, regretting them the moment they hit the air.

"I wish you the best, Ash. If someone ever undeadifies your fucking corpse against your will, I’ll try not to hold it against you."

- - - - - - - - - - - - -

No one speaks as they board the shuttle back to the Normandy. Shepard's eyes are glued to the floor, her shoulders slacked in an uncharacteristic display of upset.

Thane and Garrus exchange glances but neither dare to break the silence.

When they finally disembark, she beelines for the elevator with a painfully stiff spine and heavy footfalls. In that moment, Thane can see the weight of her two missing years more clearly than ever before, her humanity practically seeping through the cracks in her hardsuit. Garrus looks just as worried. They part ways at deck three. Shepard's eyes are distant as the elevator doors snick closed.

When she doesn't appear for dinner, Thane tries - and fails - to knock loose the worry. It's certainly no business of his, and if she wanted his counsel she'd have sought him out by now. Still, he's compelled.

He fixes a fresh mug of coffee, and a mug of tea for himself, before boarding the elevator.

- - - - - - - - - - - - -

He finds her sat on the couch, smushed into the corner with a datapad in her hand. Eyes ringed with fatigue, she looks so much smaller than she had on the battlefield. This close to the hull, her cabin is colder than the rest of the ship.

"You didn't show for dinner. I brought you some coffee. May I sit with you?"

She heaves an audible sigh, as though reluctant to accept. "Sure."

Maybe he’s invading her privacy, but there’s something about the way she looks that’s more vulnerable than he expected. Her hair is mussed and she’s wearing a black sweatshirt. The zipper is pulled low enough for him to see her dog tags glimmering against the bare skin in the valley of her chest. If she notices his wandering gaze, she doesn’t seem to care. She's tending to her own needs - without the requisite to prove a damn thing to anyone, least of all him.

He seats himself in an adjoining chair and passes the mug to her. At least she seems to enjoy the warmth in her hands, bringing it close to her face to inhale the scent of it.

"About what happened on Horizon-" he begins.

She sits up to face him. "Thane, I know you mean well. But please don't concern yourself."

He can see the pain etched into her features, though. It's hard to imagine, but if he looks close enough, she’s there. This unguarded human, the same woman who put the fear of god in him just days ago. He decides it’s better to respect her boundaries, and stands to depart.

"I understand, Commander. I’ll leave you be.”

“Wait,” she says, tiredly. Thane pauses, waiting on her next words. “Sorry, it’s just been… a long day.”

Slowly, he eases back into his seat to wait in silence while she gathers her thoughts.

"Did you hear about Eden Prime, two years ago?"”

“Yes, a Prothean beacon was destroyed there,” he nods.

“Yeah. That’s where I met Ashley,” she sighs, leaning back against the cushions. “A lot of things happened on Eden Prime. Video feeds caught Sovereign just before touchdown. We lost Jenkiens within minutes of landing, and Nihlus not long after. The Geth were there, Saren was there. The beacon exploded and knocked me cold.” Life changed pretty fast after that.”

The way she recalls the memory is disorienting. He reminds himself that it probably is confusing for her - and she’s probably better off for it. Sometimes life without perfect recall sounds like a blessing.

Shepard takes a tentative sip from her coffee before continuing.

“Ashley was with me when we stopped Saren. She’s a great soldier, and a good friend. The things we saw together, the people we lost... I never expected her to be so cold.” Another sip, and she closes her eyes. “Shit hurts.”

“I see,” he says, two nearly meaningless words in the storm of his own memories. He thinks of Kolyat, so small all this years ago. Somewhere, he's now a man with accusations and hurts of his own.

Thane shifts in his seat, refocusing his attention on Shepard. “What changed?”

“Cerberus,” she frowns. “She’s angry, and she has every right to be."

"The way you spoke on Horizon gave me a different impression."

"You're right, and I regret what I said to her. But I..." Shepard chews on her lip. "I don't want to... talk down on other soldiers. But I'm not surprised she doesn't see this the way I do. We didn't see eye to eye when Kaidan died, either. There's a reason we aren't all special forces."

Kaidan, Jenkins, Nihlus - Thane hasn’t heard these names before, but he decides now isn’t the time to pry. Instead, he asks, "You believe her military rank cheapens her understanding of what happened?"

Shepard shakes her head. "Not her rank. Her training."

That piques his interest. Thane sets his elbows on his knees and leans in. "You're both Alliance, how was your training different?"

Shepard stares at the ceiling as if searching for the words. Idle fingers trace her dog tags against her chest, holding them out to him.

"This symbol, N7," she begins. "It's from the interplanetary combatives training program. N is special forces, and 7 is the highest rank of training. The duties and privileges are different, but N7 is... kind of like the Spectres, in terms of a kind of exclusivity."

She lets the tags drop against her chest, and this time she zips her sweatshirt, like she wants to forget about them.

"You had to be selected?"

"Yeah, for candidacy." She stares into her coffee and downs the rest of it before lacing her fingers behind her head, eyes fixed firmly on everything but him. "No one leaves ICT unchanged. I thought it would be like a fucked up version of boot camp. It kind of was, but that's not what made it so hard. We were thrust on to the front lines, thrown into impossible situations. There were people who…" she leans down on her elbows and sighs, restless. "People die during these promotions, Thane. People depend on you for their lives and you-” she laughs, sort of, "You depend on them not to be stupid.

"You don't feel proud of what you've done. You just... you change how you look at the world. Every wink of sleep, every moment of rest, whatever. It has to be earned. They give you a mission, and you can't go home until it's done. Sometimes you know you're sending good, honest soldiers against fatal odds. It's fucked - it really is, but you're the last line of defense for that mission. And it has to get done, or even more people could die. So you fight - dirty, if you have to - anything to complete the mission without losing more of your men. Sometimes that means…" Her mouth twists into a lopsided half-smile that doesn't reach her eyes. "...the enemy of your enemy is your friend.”

The enemy of their enemy - Cerberus. The entire ship understands this, but Ashley had not. Polarizing moralities, indeed.

"By the time I was promoted,” Shepard continues, “I got why every N7 I've ever met never stays in one place for long."

"I think I understand,” he says quietly.

A moment of silence passes before she glances at him, curiously.

"Was training like that for you too?"

Thane shakes his head. "Not quite. It was intense for different reasons. But I never knew anything else. Our entire lives were training and discipline. I rarely socialized outside of our…" he pauses, thinking. "I think the closest word would be 'monastery.'"

"Monastery?" Shepard asks, finally meeting his eyes. "Was religion part of your training?"

"No, but the… asceticism of our lives bore resemblance to a monastery." He holds her inquisitive gaze with a smile. "I started going to services just to get away from my studies, but eventually I found comfort in them.”

The memories are pleasant, actually. Stealing away from the others for prayer service was like a special privilege.

She smiles. "That's kind of nice, I guess."

He recalls the scent of incense, the chanting, the faces of trusted mentors, and when he speaks there's a hint of nostalgia in his tone.

"The priest became like a father to me, in some ways. At least, I thought of him often when..."

The words almost slip his mouth, but he catches them, freezing them in his throat.

When Kolyat was born.

Slammed with the realization that he hasn’t felt this glib with another person in years, he fidgets uncomfortabltly. It’s a disquieting change in how he’s used to conducting himself.

"Another time, perhaps,” he says. If he's lucky, she won't bring it up again.

Shepard raises an eyebrow, but there's no judgement in her gaze. She wrings her hands where they hang between her knees. "I get it. Some things are too painful."

Painful isn't quite the word he would use, but it’s close enough. In truth, the guilt is what withholds him. Like the more time that passes without his son, the less he deserves the memory of him.

"Sorry for all this. Honestly I... It's been two years for everyone else, but a few months for me. Sometimes it can feel isolating.”

He offers a kind smile, standing and collecting her empty mug. “I can relate. Those of us forged under extreme circumstances seldom find others who understand us.”

She smiles, and this time it reaches her eyes. "Thanks for thinking of me, Thane."

"You're quite welcome. I enjoy your company, Shepard," he says, his voice warm. "I'll let you rest."

"Likewise." She stands to see him out, bidding him goodbye with a grateful hand on his arm. She seems more like herself. "See you at PT."

He leaves, back to the silence of his makeshift quarters to mull over their conversation. The ghost of her handprint lingers on his arm until sleep claims him.

- - - - - - - - - - - - -

This is the biggest fanfic yolo I've ever done. Send help writing is hard lol ┐(‘～`;)┌

#zet writes things #thane krios #thane #fshrios #shrios #the frozen sea au

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the-darklings · 4 years

Text

—𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒐𝒏𝒍𝒚 𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒎𝒂𝒏𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒓𝒏𝒆𝒔𝒔;

pairing: john wick x f!reader x santino d’antonio

word count: 12.6k+

summary: You’re so tired of being haunted all the time.

warnings: swearing, angst, ptsd/trauma symptoms.

notes: a very late birthday present to my wonderful friend @ilikecheesecakeforbreakfast who is the OG Team Santi and the proud captain of the ship. Thank you for always putting up with me, rascal. You’re the best. :’)

children of ares series: 01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05 | 06 | 07 | . . | 09 |

gif credit (x)

Your shaky fingers wrap around the crystal glass, going for the bottle in front of you. There is no telling what it even is. Brandy? Bourbon? Whiskey?

It doesn’t matter at this point. Your skin is frigid but your insides burn.

You had pushed right past Santino who was clearly caught off guard by your blunt, choked words, going straight for the drinks table. Despite the chill deep in your bones, you find that the penthouse is as open and as welcoming as always.

The glass in your hand shakes so badly you fear for a moment that you’re going to drop it. But it’s not like he doesn’t have another dozen to replace this one with and yet—

His larger hand suddenly wraps around your wrist from behind, stilling you, and you flinch at the searing heat of his skin. Your wrist looks pathetically fragile in his grip. You’ve never considered your hands as weak before, not even before Tokyo. But now you do. Your fingers fold tighter around the glass and you suck in a sharp breath.

“You don’t like hard liquor, amore,” he states, his words carefully neutral. But his voice is wrapped, heavy.

You tug your wrist free and chuckle. It sounds a touch manic and your forced smile wobbles. “Well, why not,” you whisper wetly, turning the glass from side to side before finally placing it back on the table with a jarring clatter. “Might find it—”

“What happened, cara mia?”

Your eyes lift to his. You laugh this time; it sounds miserable and strangled and you step away from him, ashamed. It’s so good to see him again but you can’t stand the look in his eyes. It’s eerily similar to the look he often wore before and during Chicago. That calm rage is when Santino is at his worst. At his most dangerous.

“I killed him,” you force out, your voice frayed as you wander further into the room. The fireplace is lit—warm and inviting as always—but you feel numb to its soothing embrace. “I killed him, Santi. Shot him right in the head. And I felt nothing—I—I feel nothing. And now they will come and—the debt is unpaid, they will kill me…or…or…”

You hear him step closer to you but can’t find it in yourself to look at him. Instead, you focus on your hands. The grooves and the ridges, the lines and the dips. You see blood on them even though there is none.

There is so much blood on your hands that you can wash it away but it still clings to you.

“No one is going to kill you,” Santino tells you, quiet and calm, but his words are laced with an icy sort of finality. Like that fact is an absolute and he will not consider anything else. “And no one is going to harm you either, cara mia.”

Your head shakes at his words and you hate how powerless you suddenly feel.

“There are rules, Santino, the High Table—”

He cuts the remaining distance between you in two brisk steps, his hands coming to grip your forearms firmly as he pulls you closer. Your eyes jump to him and you see his calm demeanour beginning to crack too. His stare is hard, unforgiving.

“Fuck the rules,” he hisses, his words sharp with fury. “And fuck the High Table.”

His grip on you tightens when he notices your attention dropping from him, still lost in your head. In the terror of your own vulnerability.

“Look at me,” he insists, strained, but when you don’t, his hands release you and he cups your face instead, pulling you even closer till the only thing you can look at is him. The heat of his hands against your skin burns into you and you stare at him, suspended and startled. “Look at me. I swore to you that night, no? I swore that I will never allow anyone to ever harm you again. I swore, (Name), and I do not do so lightly.”

The severity of his expression eases somewhat when he notes the way you tremble before him. His thumb brushes delicately against your cheek, lingering, while his eyes flicker over your expression slowly. Devouring as always. You see his anger buried deep, simmering just beneath the calm he tries to force into his face but fails. His jaw keeps clenching, and you can see something close to worry in that restless tick.

“If anyone tries to take you from me,” he whispers, low and resolute, and you feel a shiver crawl down your spine as his eyes search yours. “I will burn this city to the ground, do you understand? I will never let them touch you. Hm, yes? Come here.”

You practically collapse against him, your forehead pressing into the crook of his neck. Dry sobs leave you but tears don’t come. Santino is warm and unmoving as always, and you bury yourself in the safety of his arms, gasping and afraid. You feel one of his hands come to rest on your head, smoothing his fingers over your hair while his other wraps around your shoulders.

“Shh, amore. Nothing and no one will hurt you here,” he hums, his voice thick with wrath he no doubt wants to unleash, and his grip only tightens when he feels your arms wrap around his waist. Desperately so. “You are under my protection. Oh, amore mio. No one. My word to you. Word of the old Camorra.”

Word of the old Camorra.

Their own internal version of a binding Marker. Only to be given out by the head or lady of Camorra and the heirs. Rare and powerful as jewels.

You shudder in his embrace, not saying a word.

You’re not sure how long you stand there, wrapped up in his arms like it can shield you from everything.

But for the first time in your life, you allow the sensation of being someone else's priority to soothe your restless mind.

It takes you an hour to get out of the shower.

The process is…difficult.

After Tokyo, simple things like showering became hard, and baths are still unbearable to this day. You can’t submerge yourself into the warm depths without the horrifying sensation of being forced underwater clawing up from your past.

You hate the feeling of losing control, the feeling of teetering too close to the edge again. Despite your less than savoury mental state, Santino insisted that you need to warm up, and you both hate and adore the amount of faith he has in your inner strength.

You’ve been forced to stay at the penthouse a few times in the past. Mostly due to injuries, and Santino has more than prepped his home for the possibility of you staying again. It used to make you feel terrible because it always seemed like he was waiting for you to reach out and come home to him. Now, it just makes you feel grateful that you have some form of shelter away from the world. That he keeps his door open to you despite the dozens upon dozens of times you have rejected and pushed him away in the past.

For a man who is so proud and so easy to sway towards resentment, he is unfailingly patient with you.

“Men like my brother are not capable of love. But if they find it—”

Gianna’s words crawl up from the deepest recesses of your mind and you swallow, your throat dry. You have chosen to wipe them from your mind in the past. Back then you rebelled against the very notion. It was easier to convince yourself that something between you and Santino hasn’t fundamentally changed since Chicago—that it’s still simple lust and playful teasing between you with his intentions clear and easy to see through.

Standing in the doorway to the lounge, you watch his profile for a moment, and think that nothing is easy between you anymore.

His hair is a mess. You wonder if he has been running his fingers through it again while he waited, and the usually combed and neat curls rest in a disarray. The round curve of his chin and jaw are familiar to you too. He sits on the sofa like a king; legs folded, spread out, and arms extended elegantly, a drink in one hand while he absentmindedly turns his Camorra ring. Even relaxed he doesn’t lose that edge of arrogance that is so integral to him as a man.

When have you stopped resenting that? Did you ever?

Santino and John couldn’t be more different and yet it makes you wonder how, exactly, you are able to find common ground with both.

You are under my protection.

You can’t help but marvel at the simplicity of it all. How easily he has sworn himself as a Camorra’s heir to your protection. But it makes you wary as well. Santino is vicious and he is volatile. You believed him when he said that he would make New York bleed for you and it worries you. He’s been so focused lately. Steady. He took Gianna inheriting the seat well, perhaps too well. Then the attack on you both. Now, this. Something will give and soon.

Santino has only one true love.

Power.

Is there anything he won’t give up for it?

You can’t help but wonder if that’s why—even after all these years—you still hesitate.

If John left you for love, what is to stop a selfish man like Santino from leaving you for power?

How many times can you be left behind before—

His attention remains focused on the flickering flame as you continue observing him from your spot, and you can’t help but wonder what put him in such deep thought.

He blinks suddenly, seemingly coming back to the present and his head turns in your direction.

A slight smile greets you. “Ah, feeling better, cara? You took a while.”

You shuffle inside. Tired—no, exhausted. It seeps into the very soul of you but you’ve been unable to shake the sense of hyper-vigilance. Every second seems so precious yet slips through your fingers too quickly.

“Shower was…difficult.”

His expression falters at your confession, and then his features smooth with every second that passes. There is no pity in those bright green depths, just an old understanding.

You approach him and try not to cringe under the quiet intensity of his stare as his eyes follow you. From this close up he looks tired, the bags under his eyes more prominent, and you feel a stab of guilt. What’s the time? 3am? Later?

Exhaling, you sit down beside him, staring at your knees.

The emptiness inside your chest throbs and your fingers twitch in response.

Santino shifts and you glance at his hand beside yours. He turns his fingers around, palm facing upwards, and it rests like that; a silent offering.

Your own features fall, soften, and you don’t think there are any words in any language either of you knows that can express the depth of your gratitude for his offer.

Carefully, you place your fingers in-between his and he gently folds them around yours.

He holds your hand in his like it’s something important—precious—to him and your eyes flutter closed.

He doesn’t say anything for a long time, and you bask in the comfort of his touch for a while longer. His thumb traces small, tender circles against your skin but when you finally glance at him you find his expression drawn, solemn. Focused on the bruises, on the swollen knuckles.

“Tell me what happened.”

You’re grateful that he doesn’t phrase it like another order he’s so used to giving others.

You swallow twice before finding enough strength to open your mouth and begin speaking.

Then, you tell him everything.

From John to Tarasov, and all the things in-between.

It pours out of you like a river, swift and untamed.

Santino doesn’t say a word the entire time you talk.

His silence stretches on even after you’re done, and as long minutes start adding up so does your unease.

He places his drink back on the table, not releasing your hand, and finally, his head turns in your direction. His expression is carefully devoid of anything that may hint at how he feels but the coil of his back muscles is rigid.

Santino simply gazes at you for another minute, his stare burning, and then his eyes settle on your neck. On the scratches that after your long shower must be looking especially tender. “And these?”

His voice is sharp enough to cut yet somehow even lower than usual.

“Perkins,” you choke out, tightening your grip on his hand when you see the way his expression comes undone for just a second. In that split, you don’t see a man you know but the Smiling Shark instead. Camorra’s unruly wildcard. Bloodthirsty and dangerous as the first time you met him. “Tarasov sent her. She attacked me in my room. Got some hits in before I finished it.”

You can almost hear his teeth gritting together. He reaches out, his fingers delicate against your throat as he ghosts his fingertips over the deep gnashes. With every second that passes you can see his fury mounting, twisting his expression into something unforgiving.

“That woman? After I told her what happens if—”

You place your hand on top of his when he touches the silver chain around your neck, and his eyes jump to you. “Winston took care of it. She broke the Continental rules. We won’t be seeing her again.”

Despite your words, a slight sneer still lingers across Santino’s expression, and he lifts your connected hands to his lips, pressing them lightly against your damaged skin.

The iciness of his stare suggests that the gesture is more for himself than you.

“That makes her, hm, rather lucky, then,” he murmurs, barely audible against your skin before lowering your hands. You keep your fingers on his, if only to hold him still. “I would have not shown her similar mercy.”

Exhaling unsteadily, you shake your head a little before tightening your grip on him, and lean your cheek against his shoulder for a moment.

“You’re very bloodthirsty, have I told you that?” you try to banter but it comes off flat. Santino breathes deeply beside you, barely restrained and your eyes close. His warmth sinks into your cheek through his shirt and you inhale his cologne; something warm and heady, a spice that unlike with most scents you encounter, you don’t try to analyse. “You’re angry at me too.”

He doesn’t hesitate. “Yes, amore,” he says. “I am.”

“I’m sorry—”

His grip on you constricts before loosening. When he speaks next, it’s an effort to stay calm, you can tell, “I do not need nor want an apology from you,” he informs you flatly. “That phonecall—”

Your head lifts and you know your expression is as devastated as you feel. “I just thought that it would be easier.”

“Easier?” he repeats, his lips twitching into a cool, cutting smile. “Tell me, cara mia. Who exactly would it have been easier for? You?”

Your head turns away from him, stung. You’re so tired. So tired. You don’t want to fight with him too. Not when these might very well be your last moments together. Everyone, always, wants to fight and you just want—

His hand comes to cup the side of your jaw, turning your face back towards him, and you feel the coolness of his Camorra ring caress your skin. His eyebrows are furrowed and he stares at you seriously.

“Do you truly think that if were the end—” he cuts himself off, swallows, and you notice his jaw twitch. His expression is grave and his voice a low drawl. “You misunderstand my anger, cara. If it had truly been the end, you would have robbed me of my only chance to say goodbye. You would have been lost to me because of him.”

Oh.

“This has nothing to do with him.”

It surprises you when he releases his hold on you and rises to his feet abruptly. His hands slip into his trousers and he wanders closer towards the fire, leaning his forearm against the mantle as he stares at the flame. He chuckles, harsh and disbelieving, and it sounds almost cruel.

“Ah, but it is him, it’s always him,” he notes so quietly you barely hear him. His lips are twisted into a smile but it lacks joy, lacks the easy charm you know him for. “After everything that he has done. After all the hurt he has caused. He still thinks he has any right to drag you back—”

He curses in Italian, coarse and muffled, and you only manage to pick out a few words before he turns away with a shake of his head and a loud sigh. He leans his palms against the mantle and silence reigns between you.

You stare at his back wordlessly but Santino clearly has nothing left to say on the topic—nothing that he knows won’t upset you further, at least. Turning your head to hide your expression, your lips tremble before you nibble on the soft flesh to keep steady.

His silence hurts.

But what did you expect?

Santino has always resented John for leaving you for Helen—an outsider, someone unworthy in his eyes—and his reaction shouldn’t surprise you.

You were angry too after all. Angry that John would ask you to place yourself in such danger for his revenge.

When all is said and done, it’s your life that’s now on the line. John is out. John is free. There will be no consequences for him. In the eyes of the High Table, John would have done nothing wrong. But you knew the risk when you took it. Tarasov was not an idiot. He never truly trusted you because the priest was right. Deep down he must have always known that you will try to betray him in the end. The moment you were free of the contract he likely would have killed you himself. Simply for knowing too much, simply so that no one else can employ you to gain power for themselves—namely Santino.

The risk was worth it.

Anything to get rid of Tarasov once and for all.

Rising to your feet with a feeble swallow, you turn to go.

“(Name).”

You stagger to a stop at the sound of your name. You can’t identify the emotion in Santino’s voice but there is an edge to the way he calls for you that tells you he wants you to stay.

“I’m tired,” you mumble without turning around. “You should get rest too. Goodnight, Santino.”

There’s blood on your hands, in your eyes, in your mouth—

“Give her another round,” Kishi orders from somewhere in the distance, his voice twisting with a perverted kind of joy at your suffering. “Make her bleed like a pig. Make her cry,” he drags the last word out in a sing-song voice and cackles.

Tarasov’s face appears in front of you, his lips contorted into a malicious, brutal sort of sneer before he wraps his large hand over your face, smothering you.

You writhe desperately, trying to free your hands or legs, or anything but you are bound as always. Helpless and abandoned and you scream in terror, thrashing even more wildly.

But then—suddenly—over Tarasov’s shoulder, you catch a glimpse of an achingly familiar face.

He stands half-swallowed in the shadows as he observes what’s happening before him, and you jerk in your seat, trying to reach for him.

John only looks at you though, something close to pity in his eyes. Similar to the way one watches a suffering animal, as if wishing they could be put out of their misery already.

Your ribs crack.

You scream his name, muffled and incoherent, over Tarasov’s heavy fingers over your face. His weight keeps pushing down and you’re choking, choking—

Please, I love you.

John smiles slightly, a glimmer of a loving dream, and turns away from you—

You wake up howling.

Something—someone, is shaking you, and you snarl, throwing yourself at them blindly. With their hands still on you, they drag you down with them, and you grapple to wrap your hands around their neck the moment you hit the ground. Your legs lock around them so they won’t be able to throw you off and you breathe harshly, gasping for breath. Your fingers wrap around the curves of a warm neck, and you feel a steady, strong pulse beat beneath your fingertips.

Bright green greets you.

His lips are moving, his fingers gentle around your wrists even when your own tighten around his neck further, your nails sinking into his skin.

You—

You know him.

The roaring in your ears subsides, stripping away the thick taste of copper on your tongue too.

“Santi?”

“Are you expecting—ah—another man in your room, c-cara mia?”

Your expression crumbles, your grip loosening and you feel disgust rip through you like a bolt of lightning. You’ve tried—

“Oh God,” you mumble, and try to force oxygen into your lungs but they only cramp up tighter, making it near impossible to breathe. “He was right—he’s right, there’s nothing left. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. He’s right, I’m dead to the world—”

You pull away from him, crawling backwards, and feel sick to your stomach. Santino rises at once, his expression tense as he reaches for you. His hand pauses before he can touch you though, and he hovers it over your shoulder, hesitant.

“Let me,” he requests, urgent but soft, and you only shake your head, curling away from him. “Count with me, amore. Uno, due, tre…”

“Q-Quattro,” you choke out, and your chest tightens further, causing you to muffle a gasp of pain. Copper stings your tongue, and you realise too late that you’ve bitten your inner cheek, making you flinch again. “I can’t. D-Don’t touch—”

His fingertips graze your bare shoulder lightly and you suck in a sharp breath, shivering on the floor, and your eyes fly to his. For a second you’re suspended, hardly breathing before you hiccup, gasping for more oxygen. You feel cold all over and it makes you feel pathetically small. It makes you feel hollow and empty of anything but nightmares from your past that are happy to wrap their arms around you and choke the life right out of you.

It feels like that cramped flat in Moscow. Your parents dead, dead, dead.

It feels like Tarasov’s office. Your cheek and shoulder throbbing, throbbing, throbbing.

It feels like that pit in the outskirts of Tokyo. Your soul and body being crushed, torn apart, and shredded.

There is nothing left.

For how much longer can you keep pretending that there is?

“Come with me.”

His hushed voice cuts through the suffocating silence and your pained pants and you look up at him. His fingers rest gingerly on your shoulder and it amazes you that he can still bear to touch you after you just attacked him as you did.

“I can’t.”

Santino’s expression cracks, darkening, and you think that he looks almost angry.

“Yes,” he whispers, his voice and expression equally steely. “You can. I know a woman who can do anything she puts her mind to.”

His fingers release you, and for a moment you can’t help but think that he’s going to stand up and walk away. Leave you here alone on the floor.

He doesn’t.

Santino does stand—still dressed in the same clothes as before, even though his shirt is more creased now—but instead of walking away, he holds out his hand to you, stern and expectant.

He’s not going to pull you up and let himself be used as a crutch.

He expects you to stand up on your own.

Because he believes that you can.

Your throat bobs; once, twice.

It takes you four tries before—fingers sunk deep into the bed covers—you finally manage to stagger to your feet. Your knees shake like you’re a newborn fawn and breathing takes twice as much effort. The sensation of being suffocated won’t drop no matter how hard you try to remind yourself that you’re fine.

You sway unsteadily but Santino grabs your hand in his, moving closer, and you stand like this for a while. He’s calm even though his gaze is stormy, and you are shivering and panting like you’ve just ran a marathon. You can feel your loose t-shirt sticking to your back from the cold sweat clinging to you, and shiver despite the fact that the room is warm. Your heartbeat thuds like a drum against your ribs and your fingers clench firmer around his.

“There she is,” he notes mildly, his voice silk, and when your eyes flicker up to him you see his chin tilt upwards. It’s an arrogant, haughty tip in his demeanour you have seen a hundred times in the past, but his eyes gleam with quiet sort of pride. “My sea on a stormy night, hm? Come with me.”

He steps closer, carefully twisting his arm to loop around yours and you stay silent, clinging to his arm as he guides you out of the room. It’s a tedious process but he makes no comments about your slowness—the last thing anyone who knows you associates with you—as you cut through his apartment together.

If someone told you almost six years ago when you first met him in that church and pressed a knife to his throat that you will end up like this…

You would have laughed in their faces.

Santino D’Antonio.

Over the years he has proven to be exactly what you expected him to be, and yet completely different too.

A stinging, sharp pain grinds into your chest as you walk and you focus on putting one foot in front of another, still clinging to his arm. You’re so focused on the test of strength, you don’t notice Santino leading you up the staircase before he pulls the patio door open, pulling you out into the frigid morning air.

The terrace is a sprawling, massive space and in the distance, you can see the pool reflecting the light. The shadows from the pavilion are well known to you too—there’s been plenty of times in the past when you, Santino, and Ares have enjoyed drinks there while planning your next job.

Even though it’s still dark outside, New York City is never quiet and the symphony of traffic noise washes over you as does the brisk breeze that comes with being this high up.

A quiver rolls across your limbs and you gulp the freezing air regardless of the fact that it makes your throat and lungs ache harder.

“Look up.”

You do.

The vastness of the sky opens up above you. From this height, you feel like you can reach out and touch the horizon. The stars are not as bright here as they are in Naples but it’s still a comforting sight. New York is your city. Perhaps not by choice but by fate.

“You are not in that pit anymore,” Santino speaks from beside you but you simply stare up at the sky. “You are here and you are free, amore. That man, Tarasov, they both may have hurt you but where are they now, hm? Dead, cara mia. By your hand. You outlived and outsmarted them both.”

“I feel nothing, Santino,” you whisper weakly, choked. “Tarasov is dead and I feel so fucking numb—”

Your voice cracks, and you finally lower your head, the back of your neck aching from craning your head too far back.

“I don’t want my last hours to be spent back in that headspace,” you croak, your voice trembling. “I thought—I thought I overcame it. I’ve been—it’s hard but I’ve been better.”

For once, Santino doesn’t offer anything in reply. You feel his focus on you but he remains silent and you’re grateful because he understands your need to voice this. That you need to let this manic terror out somehow.

Tarasov cracked you, Kishi crushed you, but John shattered you completely.

The latter always hurt the most. Because he was the last person you ever expected to damage you the way he did. It hurt the most when you fell by his hand even if he never caused physical harm. It crippled something deep inside you, and no matter how carefully you’ve glued yourself together over the years—and you don’t know if you would have managed if it hadn’t been for the man beside you, Winston, Ares—it still haunts you.

You’re so tired of being haunted all the time.

“I hate seeing you like this,” Santino’s voice slices through the quiet and the whistling wind suddenly. The morning chill is merciless and you press closer to him as you listen. “It makes me want to steal you away.”

“Paris?”

He turns towards you then, and you glance at him from the corner of your eye too. “No, cara. Just home,” he murmurs lightly, and something about the simplicity of his words catches you completely off guard, somehow pains you even more. “Get Gia to cook us some Ribollita. We can sit on the terrace and enjoy some white wine after.”

You can almost taste it. Can almost smell the sunshine and the sea salt in the air. Feel the warm breeze instead of the chilly one. Can almost step back in time to last year and those three days where the world outside did not exist. No Tarasov, no debt, no ghosts or chains.

Just sunshine, just laughter.

To a time before now—the now that is so very complicated.

“How is she?” you ask instead, your voice still hoarse, knowing full well that you don’t have a reply to his earlier statement.

Santino hums under his breath, thoughtful, and his eyes sweep over the already lively streets below. From this angle, he looks like a god simply gazing down at his subjects. His edges unpolished, almost wild, but as deadly as always. It’s odd, but it’s here, at this moment, that you look at him and see a Camorra boss for the first time. Not during past jobs, not during negotiations or galas or family meetings—but here, now. It startles you so much that you fixate on him for a while longer, lost for words.

“Missing your company,” he divulges at last with a glimmer of a grin, and you blink rapidly, trying to focus on his words. “She enjoyed your stay.”

The wind blows again and you sigh, finally being able to feel the freshness filling your body. The previous frenzied terror has retreated for now and only the weak shell remains.

You search for words, for the memories of that visit, and try to glean happiness from them.

“I got you drunk on cheap wine,” you state dryly, faltering, but a smile wants to twitch your facial muscles and the sensation brings you some comfort. “Hardly something to enjoy.”

Santino blinks, and again, and then gives you such affronted look you almost laugh.

“You…” he begins, and stops, and then peers at you before frowning with that petulant twitch of his lips. “Did not get me drunk.”

Your own lips twist; something awkward but genuine in its teasing. “You were hungover as a skunk the next day,” you remind him, a touch smug, and delight in the way he narrows his eyes like you’ve called one of his suits ugly. “That family meeting you had to attend the next morning was a misery, don’t lie.”

He looks so offended that you can’t help but laugh slightly, your tiny smile stretching wider.

You feel his eyes track the motion intently and his own lips twitch into a smug little smile.

“Ah, there it is,” he notes, satisfied. “Better?”

Your head lowers with a nod, and when you look up at him again you simply gaze at each other for a moment.

You want to believe him—want to let him in.

You want to. So badly sometimes.

But where would you even begin?

Everyone you’ve ever loved in your life you have lost.

You can’t—

“I would love to go back to Naples, too, but when the High Table comes—”

“Then I wish them luck, cara mia,” his voice cuts in, and it’s almost as chilly as the wind dancing around you both, and this time your shiver has nothing to do with the temperature outside. “They would never take you from my home. I’m Camorra.”

You exhale at his words, slow and sad. “But you’re not the head, Santino,” you state, your voice twisted with dismay. “And I’m not in your family. If they came for me, you would have to obey or your life is forfeited.”

The strong curve of his eyebrows knits together, framing his face with an expression you have never seen before. His eyes roam over your features and you shift silently, not sure what to make of it.

“No,” he agrees faintly, his words and expression empty. “You are not.”

It’s impossible to stomach the look on his face. The subtle traces of disappointment and indignation that you seem so good at pulling out of him. You press the now near numb tip of your nose against his shoulder for a second, eyes closed—a silent, genuine apology before you untangle your linked arms and turn to go. You feel his heavy stare follow you as you wander inside on trembling legs, and distantly hear him follow after you.

Rubbing your hands together, you walk back towards the lounge. The clock on the wall reads 06:12am and you sigh, bone-weary and drained. Your panic may have passed but you feel like you weigh a ton emotionally, your limbs limp with exhaustion.

Santino comes to your side, reaching towards the bottle of what you think might be scotch, and your guilt intensifies when the light reveals the red marks on his neck.

“I’m sorry about earlier—”

“Never,” he stops you, lowering the crystal bottle and giving you a sharp look over his shoulder. “You will never have to apologise for that, bella.”

“I’ve seen you kill people for less,” you point out, your words fragile as you fold your arms over your chest. It comes off more defensive than you would have liked, and you realise your mistake when Santino straightens. One of his hands slips inside his trousers and he steps closer. Like a toss of a coin, you feel the tension between you shift, thicken, and can’t help but exhale when he places his hand against the curve of your chin, tilting your head so he can see your expression.

“Yes, and I imagine I will do so again in the future,” he admits unperturbed, and the heat of his palm sinks into your chilled skin pleasantly. “For even less,” he adds after a pause, unashamed.

He leans closer then, and for a split second, you think that he’s going to kiss you. But instead, his lips ghost over your ear. “They are not, however, you.”

With that, he pulls away, turns, and leaves you standing alone in the lounge.

Sun wakes you up.

Light burns beneath your eyelids and you release a muffled groan, trying to block it out as you shift beneath the covers. Your eyes crack open slowly and you blink up at the ceiling, bleary-eyed and disoriented. The familiar walls of the penthouse guest-room greet you and a groan bubbles at the back of your throat. You feel even more tired now than when you first went to sleep, collapsing on the messy bed after being left alone in the lounge.

The room seems to glow with brightness when you shuffle from underneath the expensive cotton that kept you warm. No more nightmares visited you, but you can’t help but think it’s more due to sheer exhaustion than anything else.

You stop by the bathroom briefly, avoiding your own reflection, and change into new clothes after washing up. Your bruised hands appear even worse today and just before you leave, you risk a brief glance in the mirror.

Is today the day I die?

It might be. It’s a miracle you haven’t been sought out yet—that you know of—and it makes you both confused and shackled with dread.

You look exactly how you feel: terrible. Still, alive is better than nothing and you settle for that. There have been days in the past when even that had seemed like too much of a task. Yet here you are.

Still here.

Straightening your slumped shoulders, you tilt your chin in that arrogant manner Santino always does and inhale deeply, your spine a rigid line. Your fingertips dance over the silver chain around your neck, settling briefly on the weight at the bottom and you shake your head, tucking it under your clothes again. The cool tickle of the metal fades quickly and you feel ready to face the day.

Yesterday was a bad day, that much is evident. But today still remains to be seen.

With that thought, you leave the guest room—your room, Santino always insists—and cut through the apartment.

“—what I want to know is how this was even possible,” Santino’s distant and already irritated voice greets you. “I want answers.”

You poke your head in the lounge, your eyes cutting across the open space to the other side where the open plan kitchen-diner stretches with the New York skyline for a backdrop.

He stands with his back to you, clad in a fresh dark moss-green suit and not a crease out of place. He looks out towards the city while he talks, and you can read familiar ticks in his body language that tell you he’s not enjoying the conversation he’s having one bit.

Ares and Roberto are here as well. The former rises from the dining table when she spots you, and Roberto’s face stretches into a slight, relieved smile beneath his beard when you wink at him.

You are as bad as him when it comes to trouble, Ares signs as she approaches. She’s clad in her own dark navy suit today, and you suppress a grin at the pinch of her mouth.

Worried? you sign back with a grin, and she punches your shoulder before wrapping her arm around your shoulder.

No, but he has a habit of becoming unbearable when you are injured, she explains with a pout and you give her a brief, one-armed hug before flicking her nose lightly. She swats your hand, mock glaring, but there’s relief there too.

Still alive, you reassure her, and her eyebrow arches, disbelieving and cautious too as the scar near her eye crinkles.

Santino has clearly filled her in on the seriousness of the situation.

“Oh, and I suppose Perkins just strolled in and tried to kill her under your roof by a happy mistake, then,” Santino’s voice slices through the room like a whip and your head snaps in his direction. “Do not presume me to be a fool, Winston.”

Your eyes cut towards Ares, a clear question there, but she gives you a halfhearted shrug that seems to say you know how he is.

Your grip on her loosens and you cut through the room quickly, coming to stand beside him, expectant. Santino’s eyes find yours and they soften a touch, his eyes sweeping over your features, searching. Your head tilts and you hold out your hand.

A faint frown lingers across the planes of his face before he sighs unnecessarily loudly into the receiver. “She is awake and wishes to speak with you,” he informs briskly and doesn’t wait for a reply before he holds out his phone as an offering. You can only imagine Winston’s expression on the other end. Their dislike for one another would be comical if it wasn’t for the fact that you want them to get on for once. Life would be so much simpler if they did.

Biting back a disapproving grumble, you take the phone from him, pressing it to your ear.

“Winston.”

“Still alive, I see.”

“Thanks,” you mutter, a touch sardonic. “You too.”

You expect Santino to walk away but he lingers beside you and when you glance at him, he stands still, his green eyes simply taking you in. You can’t help but think that he knows. Understands.

Yesterday was a rare moment of weakness, softness, that you no longer show people. He can no doubt tell that the wall is back up again, and the vulnerability of yesterday is locked away once again.

The wall between you is there but his focus doesn’t drop, probing and fierce as always. Sometimes it scares you. Because he looks like he’s going to tear that wall down with his bare hands alone. You’re not sure what, if anything, is holding him back from doing exactly that. If Santino wants something, he takes it. For him, it’s that simple.

He stands with you for another few seconds, thoughtful, before turning away without another word and wandering away, his hands slipping into his pockets.

He looks tired, you realise as you watch him go, and it makes you wonder if he got any sleep last night. Even if you were to ask, you’re unsure if he would tell you the truth. He doesn’t like showing weakness to others, and after yesterday you’re not sure where you stand with him, either. If that openness he sometimes shows still extends towards you.

You’re constantly pushing and pulling at each other, never quite finding the balance.

You are under my protection.

Inhaling, you clear your mind. “Did you find Marcus?”

It’s quiet for a beat before Winston speaks again. “Yes, we did,” he says, and there is graveness to his voice that makes your eyes drop. “Tortured. But the cause of death was multiple shot wounds.”

Your eyes squeeze shut for a breath. “I want him to have a proper funeral,” you voice weakly, your vocalisation heavy with…failure. Marcus lost his life and— “No unnamed graves. I’ll pay for it.”

The distant sound of traffic filters through from the other side and you realise that Winston must be having breakfast on the rooftop terrace again. “The rules were broken,” he notes coolly. “The very least the company can do is handle the arrangements.”

A lump in your throat turns you momentarily speechless and you nod your head, knowing full well that he can’t see you. “Thank you, Winston,” you tell him, your voice thick with genuine appreciation. “Perkins?”

“Early retirement. Occupation hazard, I’m afraid.”

Oh, it would be a lie to say there isn’t a flash of ruthless, victorious sort of satisfaction that rushes through you at that. It won’t bring back Harry or Marcus, but at least those who killed them have now met a similar fate.

“Such a shame.”

“Indeed.”

You bite back a grin at his dry, deadpan tone.

“And Johnathan?” Winston wonders.

You swallow, recalling his worn, pained expression from last night. “Alive.”

His hesitance at hearing that surprises you.

“Good. Well, if Mr. D’Antonio can bear to be parted from you for longer than an hour we need to talk in private,” Winston informs you, and you can’t quite read his tone but it does make you feel oddly uneasy. “Should I expect you for lunch?”

“Yes, I’ll be there,” you reply, though the hesitance in your voice is clear.

Winston bids you farewell before the line goes dead but you stand there for another minute, staring out into the city. The majestic landscape stretches out as far as the eye can see and you allow yourself to soak it in. If the whole “you see your life flash before your eyes” thing is real, you want something good to look back on when the time comes.

Lowering the phone, you turn towards the kitchen. Santino sits behind the dinner table, breakfast laid out in front of him as he reads over something in his hand. A half-drunk glass of white wine sits on one side of him with an empty espresso cup on the other. Sometimes, you can’t help but appreciate the routine, the ease, that comes with being in his space.

Ares stands beside him, frowning down at the card in his hand and you feel your momentary casualness fade. You approach them few steady steps at the time and tense when Santino suddenly slams the white paper on the table harshly. The sound rips through the open space with a loudness of a small explosion and you watch his expression splinter.

“She has some nerve,” he hisses in Italian, and his eyes blaze.

“What’s going on?” you question worriedly, placing his phone on the table and grabbing the card instead. The material feels thick and expensive with a faint scent of perfume tickling your nose—sage, bergamot, grapefruit; and something oddly specific and new to you that you can’t decipher immediately—and you can’t help but think of the High Table. Have they found out it was you who shot Tarasov? Made some sort of demand? “What’s this?”

Your eyes hurriedly sweep over the golden letters.

Oh.

“My darling sister,” Santino begins, his words strangled with rage, thickening his accent. “Decided that it would be apt to invite me to her coronation. And for what? To laugh in my face? As if—”

He breaks off, his mouth twisting into a sneer before he stands, tugging on his suit harshly as he drops the serviette back on the table, pushing past you. You turn, following his swift retreat, and look towards Ares who stands there with an equally startled expression.

She knows what this meant to him, she signs and there’s a sharpness to her movements that betray her own irritation.

Exhaling knowingly, you place the card back on the table and give both Ares and the awkwardly silent Roberto a look. “I’ll talk with him. Make sure he doesn’t kill anyone for looking at him funny today.”

Pocketing his phone, you depart the kitchen, already having a good idea where to find him. Climbing up the grand staircase, you emerge onto the terrace. The brisk breeze ruffles your clothes and hair but you immediately spot Santino in the far distance. His fingers drum against the railing as he stares down at the city below him. It’s a different sight to one from last night. Today he breathes that cold, unpredictable violence instead of calm.

“Dramatic much?” you call out but the way of opening up the conversation.

His grip on the railing tightens and his shoulders shake in a mockery of a laugh.

“Ah, right now may not be the best time, amore,” he replies with a deliberate exhale, his voice flat and biting. “I would prefer if we avoided you getting angry at me first thing in the morning.”

“It had to be done, grumpy,” you point out carefully as you come to stand beside him, giving him a deliberate nudge with your elbow. “You’re still a Camorra heir, even if a Spare. Inviting you is tradition. Gianna may not be the nicest person around but she is proud and won’t go for a cheap shot like this. You know that. Besides, you don’t have to go. I don’t think it would surprise many people if you didn’t show up.”

“Tradition,” he repeats with a scoff, scornful and dissonant. “I just—”

His voice is heavy with frustration, with the damage he tries to bury, and you glance up at him. “I know.”

He’s disappointed and jealous. You may know a thing or two about that.

You reach into your pocket and hold out his phone to him. Santino looks down at it and reaches out. But instead of taking the phone, he takes your hand, cradling it in his larger one.

“Santino.”

A plea and a warning.

“I know,” he echoes your earlier words, hollow, and his voice dips, lowering till it’s almost a whisper; his own plea. “But let me pretend. Even if only for a moment, hm? Would you do that for me, bella?”

Let me pretend that you love me.

Your heart aches.

In this dazzling morning sun, you feel helplessly exposed. In the shadows of the night, it’s so easy to pretend, to forget, to imagine that things are still simple between you. That this something between you doesn’t frighten you. That the way he’s looking at you right now isn’t ripping at that wall between you with enough force to make the foundation itself tremble.

“Vancouver,” you choke out, grasping for something—anything—to say. “You never told me how it went.”

His scrutiny doesn’t drop and you feel his thumb ghost over your knuckles. You hold incredibly still to avoid showing any sign of discomfort or pain but judging by his pinched expression, you fail at your task.

“Small loss of 400k,” he divulges in Italian, absentminded, and continues peering at you. “But we got the shipment back. However, the lead on who ordered the hit went cold. Very…frustrating.”

Only Santino D’Antonio would think a loss of 400k is a small one. But you also know that the whole shipment came closer to being 5 million in value so, in hindsight, you do understand his flippant outlook on it.

“If it weren’t for the High Table looming over me, I would say let’s go on a hunt,” you comment mildly, forcing a smile. But it’s difficult to keep a straight face when he’s tracing the ridges between your knuckles with such measured tenderness. Hands with just as much blood, if not more, on them hold your own carefully and something about it... “I—”

You tug your hand away from his, your expression faltering.

Santino gazes down at his phone blankly for a moment before slipping it inside his suit pocket, his own expression removed. Distant with its coolness.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur, shaking your head slowly and find that you can’t meet his stare. “I can’t.”

You hate the fact that you have to say no to him now of all the times. After what he did for you yesterday, after what you did to him. It’s so unfair and you hate yourself at that moment more than anything. That here, possibly at the end of it all, you still can’t—

You don’t want—

Hope is a dangerous thing. You can’t give him any now.

“Winston asked me to see him alone.”

“I know, cara mia.”

“That’s it?”

His eyes flash and his head tilts. “What is it that you wish me to say, hm?”

“If I never see you again—”

“Do not.”

You don’t know what to say in the face of such a vehement refusal to accept what you both know full well might be your reality.

So instead you step closer to him. The breeze brushes against his curls but unlike last night the unruly strands stay in place. He looks cautious, almost wary, to have you this near but you only lean closer. Your hand comes to rest against his left cheek while you press your lips lightly against his right. The warmth of him is so familiar you linger for a second, warmed by the moment itself, while he stands taut in front of you, still and silent. Breathing softly, you pull back and find his eyes closed, expression serene, and trace your fingertips down his cheek before stepping back and letting them drop away.

Despite not being able to pretend in a way he wants you to, you can still give him this.

You see him swallow just before you turn back towards the patio door and walk away.

I wish we had more time.

“If you plan to kill me, you picked a hell of a spot.”

Winston doesn’t even raise his head, still focused on his notebook as he continues scribbling something down. His handwriting is too elegant and cramped for you to get a good look at what he’s working on, and honestly, you know better than to try and poke around his business.

“Kill you?” he echoes, his voice bored. “People are enjoying their lunch, dear, don’t be ridiculous. And do sit down,” he adds when you don’t move from your spot in front of him.

You don’t want to sit down. It feels like an invisible blade has pressed against your neck, and you can feel it kissing your fragile skin with every second that crawls by. You know how these things go. Winston is in his kingdom and the walls that have always felt like safety—home—now feel like a threat.

Despite your open unease, you move towards the expensive leather sofa opposite to him and sit down stiffly. Your gaze, cautious and wary, sweeps over the dining guests intently. Anyone tries to take you on, and you will split them open. Yesterday’s acceptance of your looming death has seemingly up and vanished, and now there’s just an aloof sort of irritation left behind.

What did you do so wrong?

Killed a man who murdered your parents and then kept you chained to him like a dog for years?

That’s justice, not a crime.

“So, what am I looking at?”

He still doesn’t look at you, and his silence makes you almost fidget with nerves. When has anything good ever come from Winston keeping silent like this? His anger has always come in a different form to what you’re used to. No—his anger is like a chilly winter’s day. When the air is crisp and full of promise that there’s a blizzard coming soon. Almost unassuming in its vicious bite.

“They think it was Johnathan.”

You stare at him. “What?”

The man before you ‘tsk’s and scribbles something else in his notebook. “Trouble hearing at such a young age?”

Oh, he’s annoyed alright. But your heart is fluttering in your chest, and relief starts rushing through you before you can stop it. Does he really mean that? Has the High Table really concluded that it was John?

Did you really get away with killing Viggo Tarasov?

“Winston,” you bite out, forcefully calm. “What the hell do you mean they think it was John?”

Finally—finally—Winston’s eyes lift to you. He regards you coolly over his glasses, his lips pressed into a stiff line. He shifts in his seat, lowering his pen slightly and you hold his stare.

“Well the High Table was made aware of what was happening in New York,” he explains and you know full well that he was the one doing the reporting. As is standard procedure for every Continental owner. “And there is no one left alive to disapprove their theory.”

That gives you a pause. Because it’s true.

Everyone directly involved with Viggo—the man himself, his son, his elite guard—have all been butchered by either John or you. Even Marcus and Perkins are dead.

The only people left alive who know what really happened are you, John, Winston, and Santino. Ares may know most of it too but other than that…

“So they just…assumed?” you wonder in a whisper, almost choked with disbelief, with hope and joy. “Didn’t question it?”

Winston makes a small noise at the back of his throat and his lips twist into a wry, cynical thing. “Of course they did. They found the lack of your involvement suspicious,” he states and watches your reaction. “They asked for a report. I had to tell them the truth. That you were attacked on company grounds, and I told you to walk away which you did. I assume that Mr. D’Antonio had the pleasure of your company for the rest of the night.”

You blink, your eyes narrowing. For him to say that…

“Santino wasn’t back in New York till 1am,” you word as carefully as you can, and your eyes sweep over the diners again, cautious. Of course, if this conversation wasn’t safe for you to have out here in the lounge, then you won’t be having it. Still, it feels like too much of an invite for people to let their ears stray. “That’s almost a five-hour window in which Tarasov died and I’m unaccounted for.”

“Yes, but it seems like signor D’Antonio had enough sense to corroborate your alibi and lie on your behalf regardless,” he says and you feel your heart stutter in your chest, your lips parting slightly in shock. “He may be a Spare but he is still Camorra. His word, it seems, still carries a degree of power.”

Winston’s eyebrow cocks at your stunned expression and his smile is a little too patronising for your taste. “He didn’t tell you,” he assumes and sighs, glancing back at his notes, and you read the subtle irritation there. “That certainly explains why he’s outside my hotel right now and has it surrounded.”

For a moment, it’s silent. The lounge is still a buzz of cutlery and murmurs of chatter between diners but the silence between you is suffocating with implication. Winston watches you, amused, and you kick your brain back into action. Dismayed.

“He’s what?”

You are under my protection.

The phantom of him leans over your shoulder, looming and protective, all sharp edges and that sly smirk, and you feel both cold and hot all at once. What the hell is he thinking? Does he really believe that if it came down to it he could save you from the High Table? What even is his plan? To break down Winston’s front door and paint the walls of Continental with blood?

The repercussions for such a breach of rules alone—

He could be stripped of his power, punished, he—

Insane.

He’s a goddamn insane idiot. He—

I will never abandon you.

“He promised me that he will keep me safe from the High Table.”

It comes out as a strangled whisper.

Winston hums, and you hear the hint of mockery there. “Promised? How quint,” he mutters, and takes his glasses off, placing them between the pages of his notebook. “I do wonder what value the word of Santino D’Antonio holds in today’s market.”

“The word of the old Camorra.”

That gets a reaction.

The man blinks, his face slacking with disbelief—maybe even shock—for a single second before his expression goes back to that familiar impersonal mask.

“My, my. He certainly is full of surprises, isn’t he?” he questions, but you can tell he’s not expecting an answer from you. His eyebrows are still raised though. He knows full well what those words mean. What power they hold, and with them you see understanding overtake his features. If before Santino’s presence outside his door was an annoyance, now it’s certainly still an annoyance but at least with an explanation. “Not that it would have made a difference, I’m sure you’re aware.”

Still reeling from the conversation at hand, you can’t help but bite out an irritated, “What’s with the attitude? Do you want an apology, is that it? You knew I would go after Tarasov. You even told me where they were.”

Winston’s weathered features draw into a deep frown. The blue of his eyes is cutting as he observes you shrewdly for a long moment.

“Yes, I did,” he begins, and you feel your shoulders curl downwards at his tone; reproachful, displeased. “With the hope that you would be smarter about this and help Johnathan to finish it instead of doing what you did. He gets his revenge and you are free of your debt. You both walk away without consequences. But instead, you broke the rules, (Name). Had the High Table pulled on so much as a thread, I would have had no choice but to tell them everything. You missed losing your life by an inch. By nothing more than sheer dumb luck and chance. You, better than most, know that luck doesn’t get you far in our world. You can’t expect to walk this line between both sides forever and come away unscathed every time. Luck always runs out, and when it does consequences follow.”

The void his words leave between you is unforgiving and heavy. The worst part is that you know he’s right. Luck and chance. Death missed you by a hair.

If it hadn’t been for Winston withholding information. If it hadn't been for Santino lying on your behalf…

You would be dead.

It still doesn’t stop the simmer of rage in your gut though. Of pain and helplessness. You’re silent for longer than you would have liked purely because you can’t speak over the swell of emotion inside you.

You want—need—him to understand.

Understand that despite his inherent belief in rules and order, sometimes they bind you from getting justice. That sometimes the righteous thing to do can be the wrong thing to do. That in a world of killers, liars, and thieves, the grey area is all that exists.

No one who lives in this world, who thrives in it, is good.

“Power is a dangerous thing. You have to be willing to lose everything in order to take it.”

Giovanni D’Antonio had at least that right.

The blood on your hands may haunt you, but it has also made you powerful, feared, respected.

You can’t—will not—be ashamed of that.

“After everything he took from me…it had to be me, Winston,” you croak out, your voice a mangled mess. Something flickers across the manager’s expression and the nature of his regard changes. “It had to be by my hand. Consequences be damned.”

Because you would have regretted it for the rest of your life. Revenge is an ugly thing. But you had needed it. It’s true that you could have left Tarasov to die there. Let him meet a miserable, slow end. It would have been easy. But you would have spent the rest of your life feeling cheated out of the twisted justice you’ve craved and bettered yourself for, for years.

“And?” Winston wonders, surprisingly quiet and curious. “Do you feel happy (Name)? Fulfilled now that it’s done?”

Your lips stretch back, baring your teeth to him in a mockery of a smile, off-tilter and twisted. “I don’t feel a damn thing.”

Your hand comes to cover your face and you rub your trembling fingers against your temple, your eyes burning.

“(Name),” he speaks deliberately, and there’s something softer in his voice this time. A tiny shift you won’t have noticed if you hadn’t known him for as long as you have. “Are you well?”

You laugh. It sounds as wrecked, as ruined, as the rest of you.

“No,” you admit because you both know it’s true. Your head slants, your arm dropping from your face, but your sardonic smile remains. “But I have no choice but to go on. It’s not like the last time,” you add upon noticing the deep furrow of his brows.

He peers at you with a look that makes you feel oddly vulnerable, oddly naked under that knowing, wise stare. It’s an echo of a look from years ago. From before Chicago.

“I presume you already know that I could get you safe passage out of the city by sundown if you need it,” he speaks slowly, his scrutiny not letting up, and you lace your trembling fingers together. Emotions bubble at the back of your throat as you stare at each other wordlessly.

“And you think that I should?” you wonder at last, soft and frayed. “Just run away?”

Winston gazes at you for a long minute and you distantly wonder what exactly he sees before him. You’ve never gotten a sense that he pities you—not once, not even when you were at your absolute worst—and despite everything, an ember of affection warms your chest as you peer at him. But Winston is still Winston. He’s as ruthless as the worst of them—perhaps even more so.

“I think,” he begins after a lengthy pause between you. “That for the first time in your life, you get to choose for yourself.”

Your head dips and you nod a little, dragging your hands up and down your thighs till you can feel the tremble subside somewhat. In your head, as always, you count. It helps. The relief of knowing that—for now at least—you are safe is immense too, overpowering almost everything else.

“Thank you, Winston. For everything,” you say to him, serious and soft; an echo of your letter to him. “And especially for stopping me from killing Perkins. For covering for me.”

The man nods his head once, looking a little wary when you rise to your feet. There is instability in your step that you know he picks up on immediately but doesn’t comment upon.

“But I still have loose ends to deal with in New York,” you inform him and exhale, thinking about Santino outside. A shadow from your shared past still lingers and you don’t like the idea of hiding from it. “Besides running now might make the High Table even more suspicious. I rather they don’t poke around further. Like you said…chance and luck.”

The older man places his glasses back on his face and studies you for another charged moment. Winston is not the type to disregard what you want but perhaps for the first time since before Chicago, he’s considering it.

“Be that it may, the offer still stands,” he states and a weak smile blooms across your face.

You’re about to open your mouth and reply when you hear someone walk up—heavy steps, off-balanced, most likely injured—to you. Your head turns and you feel something coil in your gut.

“John.”

He looks better than he did yesterday but obvious pain still lingers across his features. His suit is messier too—as if he didn’t have the energy to smooth out the creases the way he usually does. His dark eyes drink in the sight of you with clear relief and you swallow, trying to steel yourself under his scrutiny. He doesn’t need to know what the events of yesterday have managed to break and mangle inside you.

“Can I talk to you?”

It’s ridiculous how uneasy that question makes you feel. Both ‘yes’ and ‘no’ burn on the tip of your tongue but you can’t force yourself to say either.

“Jonathan,” Winston speaks in a greeting and when your eyes find him, you note his pointed stare. He’s buying you time to make up your mind. “So good to see you back with us again. And so soon.”

“Winston,” John greets back but his stare doesn’t stray from you.

Sighing, you clear your throat and glance back at your old partner.

“Let’s take this somewhere more private.”

Wait for me. We need to talk.

Your phone buzzes almost immediately.

I’ll be outside—Santi

Pocketing your phone with a faint sigh, you turn back towards John who sits on the loveseat in clear discomfort. He tries to hide it but you can read his tells.

“You shouldn’t be up and about,” you state flatly, and it’s impossible to miss your accusatory tone. “You do realise how close you came to death less than 24 hours ago, right?”

John breathes deeply, laboured; an exercise to block out the pain you know well enough. The only painkiller you’ve been able to locate inside his house was aspirin. Hardly the best drug given the circumstances due to its blood-thinning qualities but it’s not like you had any alternatives. In fact, with the wound tightly stitched, aspirin at least gave you some relief that the chances of him developing a blood clot have been reduced.

But watching him struggle with every inhale makes you bite back another sigh and move towards your work desk. Everything is still in place though the general mess from last night has been cleaned up. Your eyes snag onto two letters still sitting peacefully on your desk and you pause. You’ve been so ready to say goodbye. The desperation you’ve felt yesterday had blinded you but you don’t regret it. If you could avoid involving them, you still would. Even at the expense of your own life.

You reach for the two envelopes and input a code on the small keypad as your storage box opens. Inside, most of the spare solutions you’ve made in recent months. The rest sit safe and secure in the vaults underneath the hotel. The Continental is one of the few places you trust to store them.

You place the letters inside, lingering, and grab one of the vials on the side. The pale green liquid inside glimmers and you shake it a few times. Closing the door, you hear the telltale beep of the locks securing and turn back towards John again.

You hesitate for a second before you approach him, extending your hand.

Judging by his body mass, the dosage should be enough.

“For the pain and the swelling,” you inform him stiffly. “I’m still working on perfecting it so you’re better off going back to your room and sleeping this off. It will make you pretty dizzy and drowsy too. But besides Doc’s own work this is the best you can hope for around these parts. Should help with any possible infection too.”

“You weren’t there when I woke up.”

Your eyes shoot up to him, surprised. He holds your stare but reaches for the vial, his touch hesitant.

“Thought the High Table nabbed me?” you wonder with a humourless smile. “No. I left on my own accord.”

He digests your words, and you know that he understands what you’re trying to say. That you left because you didn’t want to stay. That even though he asked, you had the will to stand up and walk out of the door. That now, unlike before, it’s almost easy. Almost.

He gazes at you silently, and for split second you see the John from your dream. The John that always turns away. The John that always leaves. The John that’s always out of reach.

Just John.

“So what are you planning to do now?” you ask after the potent tension between you becomes near unbearable. “Your revenge is complete. I assume you know about Marcus too.”

“Yeah, I saw him,” John replies, and his quiet words are laced with pain. Marcus has been as much of a friend to John as he’s been a mentor. Back in their military days, all they had was each other. You know first hand how much protecting and fighting together binds people. How trust in them becomes an instinct, natural and effortless. “It’s my fault he died.”

“I talked him into it,” you say tightly, and your eyes leave him. It’s hard not to let guilt claw up your throat and steal your voice. “He—it was my fault. I underestimated Tarasov. His death is on me.”

Silence, and then, “I shouldn’t have involved either of you. I’m so sorry.”

Your attention goes back to him and you observe him coolly for several minutes.

The vial in his hand is empty and you smile again; even if it lacks warmth. “So how does it feel? Was it worth it? Your revenge?”

John doesn’t offer you an answer which is an answer in itself. His eyes lower and you notice him touch his wedding band, delicate and loving. A grieving husband. Perhaps it’s no wonder he rushed into this the way he did. When you’re hurting so much nothing else matters. You just want some form of release, an escape. Something to distract you from the misery of your own thoughts.

You know what that’s like.

“I owe you a debt,” he finally voices and you wonder if he realises how empty he sounds. How weary and reluctant. “The High Table—”

“Thinks that it was you.”

John’s eyes snap back to you, and you smile again, crossing your arms over your chest to hide the tremble in your fingers.

“Didn’t Winston tell you?” you question, a bite to your words that never used to be present when you talked. “I figured with the Russians possibly having something to say about Tarasov’s death he would have told you.”

John sighs and shifts slightly in his seat, his fingers ghosting over his wound. The sequence of little movements that just makes him look more miserable. “No, he didn’t,” he admits and you don’t quite understand his expression. “He isn’t too happy with me right now,” he adds wryly.

Your head tilts in confusion but before you can ask him anything else, he speaks, “Who will take over Tarasov’s mob?”

For a moment, you consider pursuing your previous line of inquiry but decide to drop it for now. Winston isn’t exactly happy with either of you at this moment.

Sighing, you consider his question. “Abram if I had to take a guess,” you divulge, and watch him dip his chin in consideration. “He’s the only blood relative of Viggo’s left. Igor may try to claim it but Abram has enough respect and pull to hold the position. Igor also doesn’t know New York the way Abram does. After such a heavy loss they need a strong leader who knows what he’s doing.”

“Does he have the power to call in your debt?”

“No,” you say without hesitation, and your eyes narrow on him. “Only an heir can inherit a debt unpaid. Viggo named his son his heir. He hoped that it would make Iosef step up to the plate. Man up. But, well, you know how well that worked out. Abram has no claim over my debt.”

For the first time since stepping inside your room, you see relief on John’s face. “So you’re free.”

You swallow thickly.

Those words make your skin itch.

Freedom.

A lack of leash does not amount to freedom.

“I—I don’t know,” you whisper and it sounds faint. “I’m pretty sure the High Table has to officially release me first. That’s assuming they don’t uncover any damning evidence that places me at the docks.”

John peers at you but his gaze now lacks that sharp edge. Your solution is starting to take effect. His muscles have started to relax, and the strain of pain that previously lingered across his features has been wiped away.

“You should be resting,” you remind him and clear your throat, glancing towards the window to avoid his stare. Your folded fingers twitch and you tighten your grip, your nails biting into your flesh even though it strains the bruised skin. “Go back, John. All those years ago, I told you to be happy. Your revenge is done. Go back and be glad that this ended as happily as it did. This isn’t your life anymore. You don’t belong here.”

It’s a cruel thing to say.

But so was I’m sorry. I never planned for this to happen.

So was walking out of that hotel room door knowing full well that the person you are leaving behind loves you more than anything.

You no longer know how to be kind and soft with him and it pains you.

John remains quiet for a long time after that. His expression creases with thought, troubling and deep, if the heavy curve of his shoulders is anything to go by. And when his stare does finally go back to you, as dark and as piercing as it has always been, you feel your heartbeat spike.

“I’m going to find my car first.”

And just like that, you know.

This isn’t over.

. . .

an: so you know when you all said how you want protective!Santi??? WELL HOW WAS THIS, HUH??? ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

Also sorry if 1) this chapter got a bit heavy but wherein most people would be hyped up and ready to take on the world I kinda felt like all this suddenly piling on top of her would negatively affect V, making her retreat and break down a bit 2) if this reads rougher than usual. this part has been a bit of a struggle to write due to some outside factors and me straight up not having a great time these last few weeks.

As always, I adore you all. Thank you so, SO much for reading this series and being so incredibly passionate about it. To finish this fic is one of my 2020 resolutions and BOI do I have some stuff in the plans for you lot. Hope you all had wonderful holidays!!! See you all next decade~ ;)

#john wick #john wick x reader #john wick imagine #santino d'antonio x reader #john wick fic #santino d'antonio #keanu reeves #riccardo scamarcio #winston #ares #fic: children of ares

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theclaravoyant · 4 years

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AN ~ At long last; a *very* belated Roaring Twenties Rarepair Exchange gift for the amazing @bobbimorseisbisexual (lazyfish), who prompted “Scis & Spies + Regency AU".

This fic was inspired by the show Gentleman Jack, which is technically set in the Georgian era but it's pretty close! It’s also the longest thing I’ve written in like a year, and my first ever S&S fic! Though it may not be apparent from the appalling lateness, I had a great time writing this; I hope you enjoy it too <3

Rated T. Mostly fluffy. Relationships: Scis & Spies (Bobbi x Simmons x Fitz x Hunter, polyamory)

Read on AO3 (3800wd)

The Jacks and the Gentlemen

Barbara Elizabeth Morse was a woman of a peculiar kind. She always had been.

Ever since she had developed the capacity to loathe things, for example, Barbara had loathed her name; in particular, the foremost. But the fact that she insisted on being addressed as “Bobbi” instead was merely the first in a long line of deviations she took from the expected norm of her assigned sex so that by young adulthood, she had permanently marked herself as quite the oddity.

Growing up, Bobbi had no interest in the banal niceties expected of a woman of her station, and less than none in frills and petticoats or tending house. Even learning the arts and languages and traipsing around her family’s estate on horseback became dull and boring after a time. What was the point after all, Bobbi reasoned, of broadening one’s horizons if one was only permitted to gaze at them from the safety and mundanity of one’s lace-curtained bedroom window? What was the point of developing a sharp mind if it was allowed only to consume and perform as it had been told? It was a gilded cage to be sure, but a cage nonetheless, and so Bobbi dedicated much of her life to spreading her wings and flying free of it.

To this end – and despite much protest from her hand-wringing family - Bobbi left the comforting cloister of her estate and travelled the world; whereupon she discovered and indulged in many a fascination that had been denied her for so much of her young life. She experimented with tailored coats and hats, trousers, cravats… She studied science and medicine, biology, strategy… She delighted in romantic challenge and chase and left many a heart broken in her wake. She was even married for a time, to a disgruntled British naval officer, but it didn’t stick. Few things did as, quite the opposite of bored, Bobbi became rather restless; all but consumed by the need to discover what the world held in store for her.

When came the news that she had to return home, it was devastating. Without the benefit of hindsight, it hardly seemed to Bobbi that there could be a new and equally enticing journey about to begin. Yet, she had never been one to be cowed by things not going her way, and so she held her head high – a little too high, perhaps, when she insisted upon driving the carriage home herself; fearing, not that she would admit it, that her recently-returned nightmares of the carriage walls closing in around her would finally come true.

Bobbi endured the talk of her home town with as much dignity as she could muster – and as both a woman of high class and exceeding stoicism, that amount was not insignificant. Still, she could not entirely pretend, to herself at least, that it did not bother her; the way they all seemed to talk about her as though she was the small one, the poorly achieving one, having done nothing with her life but travel and dabble in knowledge after knowledge. Even the ones she thought might understand seemed to be hopeful that her return was a sign she was ready to settle down, and the more times this was insinuated, the more Bobbi wanted to cut off her own hair, denounce all civilisation, and steal away into the night. She had the skills and the courage to do it now. The only thing stopping her was the need to rebuild her estate before her family’s finances collapsed entirely and left a few dozen good people out of work and home.

… Although, if she were being completely honest, it did not hurt matters that she had also been invited for tea with the newest and most curious of her neighbours, one Miss Jemma Anne Simmons.

Miss Simmons was a pretty young woman, but her arrival was making a splash in the papers as much for her scientific mind as for her elusive inventor fiancé, and her appearance of apparently Shakespearean beauty. So, as much as Bobbi had been weighed down by tired social occasion after tired social occasion with the socialites that flittered through town on the ever-changing wealth of this new age of industrialisation, she had a feeling in her gut that this one was going to be different.

That feeling certainly was not nerves, Bobbi insisted to herself as she stepped over the threshold of the Fitz-Simmons house – and then again, as she was announced and ushered into the parlour, to find Jemma in all the resplendent glory the papers had promised. The woman seemed delicate, refined, and delightfully feminine in all the ways Bobbi knew she herself was not and Bobbi – who had always been a rather brash sort – felt herself oddly humbled by Jemma’s smile.

“Good afternoon,” Jemma greeted, “it’s Barbara, isn’t it?”

Bobbi couldn’t help but cringe. “Please,” she requested, “call me Bobbi.”

“Oh yes, of course. My apologies.” Jemma curtsied a little – and was that a blush? “It’s lovely to have you, Bobbi. Would you care for some tea? Of if you would prefer, I can send for coffee…”

She reached for the bell, but Bobbi raised a hand to stop her.

“Tea would be wonderful,” she agreed. “Young Hyson, if you have it - black, with no sugar. Thank you.”

“Of course.” Jemma nodded, and began to pour. And yes, that was definitely a blush. Bobbi was even feeling a whisper of her own as Jemma added – as if she was trying to hide how desperately she wished Bobbi to acquiesce –

“I wonder if we might take tea outside this afternoon. I’ve been positively beleaguered with meetings today and I must see to my plants.”

A woman after her own heart. Bobbi smiled.

“Of course. We should stretch our legs after all.”

“Then it is decided.”

Bobbi’s heart dared to flutter in her chest as Jemma’s cautious hostess’ smile erupted into a beaming grin. The woman took hold of her skirts – revealing boots much like Bobbi’s own, rather than slippers that might have matched her otherwise refined ensemble – and took off out of the parlour door with great gusto. Finding herself drawn to follow, this time undeniably by more than her botanist’s interest alone, Bobbi strode after Jemma as best she could while reeling at her own spoonishness.

As they traipsed across the lawn, Bobbi marvelled in the delight Jemma seemed take at being out of doors, and drank in the prelude to the greenhouse – half snatched away by the wind though it was – with which the other woman was regaling her. Bobbi found herself entranced by Jemma’s spirited expression; the way she revelled in the trials and tribulations of seeking and transporting her large collection of exotics, unfazed even as the wind began to pull locks of her perfect hair from its arrangement and blow them unceremoniously into her face. And then –

“Oh, excuse me, Bobbi,” Jemma pleaded, and her expression narrowed into a scolding sort of glare. Bobbi followed the line of it and saw a ladder propped against the side of what appeared to be a disused chicken coop, and a figure hunched atop the rickety roof in an overcoat and goggles, fixing some contraption or other to the highest point of the pitch.

“Ho, Fitz!” Jemma hollered, as the figure lost hold of a tool and it fell to the dirt. He cursed.

“That’s Fitz?” Bobbi blurted. “Your Fitz?”

“You sound surprised,” Jemma noted.

“I meant no offence, it’s just – I’ve met quite a few of these entrepreneurial types and generally they’re rather… obnoxious.”

Jemma scoffed. “Oh, believe me: he’s plenty obnoxious.”

Resolute, she handed her cup of tea to Bobbi, hitched her skirt up a little higher with both hands and made a bee-line for the chicken coop, until she was close enough that her boots were in the muck.

“Fitz!” she called again.

“Yes, love?”

Fitz’s head jerked up at the call, and he saw her and Bobbi and apparently not the loose tile on which he had stepped. Before he could do any more than yelp in surprise, he had slipped and fallen flat on his back, coughing and spluttering and winded. His curls looked madder than ever as he lay there in resignation, and spat a soiled feather from his pouting mouth.

“Ugh, Fitz!” Jemma lamented. She locked an arm with her fiancé and hauled him out of the sludge. “I told you to wait until Mack could come down and help with all this.”

“Mack and I are building the mechanical milling machine,” Fitz corrected. “This is a sonic fox repellent. It’s just a prototype but – Oh, sorry. I’m Fitz, by the way. Leopold Fitz, technically, but please don’t call me that.”

“Barbara Morse, technically,” Bobbi greeted. “But please don’t call me that either. I prefer Bobbi. Sonic fox repellent, you say? Let me know if it works – I might have to purchase a couple for myself.”

“Well, uh, thank you, but um –“

“But Mack will be here any minute, dear,” Jemma interrupted, waving Fitz toward the house. “Go and clean up now. Go! Honestly.”

“Yes, dear.” Fitz rolled his eyes, but smiled at his fussing fiancé as he retreated toward the house. Jemma slogged the rest of the way to the chicken coop and retrieved the screwdriver he had dropped, setting it on a step of the nearby ladder in case he went looking for it later. Bobbi looked on with nought to do but hold the two teacups steady, and she was a little surprised to find that despite what perhaps should have been a heart-wrenching reality check - to discover that the most recent object of her affection was indeed happy with someone else - Bobbi felt nothing but delight. No jealousy, no despair. And, if anything, a redoubled sense of yearning.

“Sorry about him,” Jemma apologised as she returned to Bobbi’s side to fetch her tea. “He’s a lovely man, really, and very intelligent, but he’s not accustomed to being complimented by beautiful women.”

“Well, with you around you think he’d be used to it by now.”

Jemma laughed, and raised an eyebrow as she took a sip. “Careful, Ms. Morse, you’ll give a lady ideas.”

The delivery of it was coquettish, light-hearted, but still Bobbi couldn’t help feeling that she’d crossed a line. She thought of poor sweet Fitz, and her heart sunk.

“I- I’m sorry, Miss Simmons. I meant nothing of it. Just that… Mr Fitz is a very lucky man.”

Seeing that she had sent Bobbi skittering, Jemma hurried to backtrack so emphatically that she almost spilled her tea.

“Oh, please! No need to apologise, it is all in good spirit – It was I who misspoke without the proper context. You see, Bobbi – may I still call you Bobbi? – your reputation precedes you in this regard but perhaps mine does not. Oh, dear.” Flustered, Jemma paused to gather herself and suddenly wished very dearly for a side table on which to deposit the lukewarm, useless beverage in her hands. “You see, I have been known to uh, entertain the attentions of the fairer sex myself. Not only am I not in the slightest offended by your perfectly innocent compliment, but I- I’m afraid I must confess I’d rather hoped you were being flirtatious.”

Bobbi gaped. “But… Fitz? I couldn’t. You’re engaged. It’s- it would be-”

“Fitz and I have an understanding,” Jemma clarified. At least, she phrased it like it was a clarification, but Bobbi only stumbled deeper into her confusion. She’d only seen the pair interact for a few odd minutes and already the connection was clear.

“He doesn’t- He’s not in love with you?” That man? Are you sure? Perhaps she would have to rethink her own calibration for stoicism if he had managed to keep that a secret.

Jemma shook her head.

“I’m not explaining this right. It never comes out simply, does it?” She clicked her tongue, tutting to herself as if musing on a new location for a particular pot, and not resolving the several short circuits sparking off inside Bobbi’s mind right now. It seemed like hours before she finally began again to explain:

“Fitz and I have been friends for the longest time,” she said. “As we grew and discovered that each of us had rather taken to those of our own sex we thought, if we were to live and love as our true selves well then, why not make it a marriage of convenience? Of course, he went and fell in love with me, didn’t he – and I him, do not misunderstand me: by some very blessed coincidence, we are very much in love. But our arrangement still stands. Fitz would not take offence in the slightest if you and I were to… explore any possibilities that may… arise.”

“…Right.”

“I can see that you need some more time to process,” Jemma observed. “Well, if I haven’t scared you off entirely – let’s say no more of it, for now. Come. Let me show you the greenhouse.”

They said no more of it for the rest of the afternoon, and for several days after that. They wrote little notes back and forth, about tea and chickens and foxes and plants, and very much not about the other topic of the day. Jemma waited for Bobbi to broach it and Bobbi – despite thinking about the arrangement with increasing regularity as time went on – dared not. The exact reason for it eluded her; did she fear that perhaps she had misread something, and that Jemma had not in fact, meant what she had said after all? Did she fear being the other woman – as she had been asked and offered many a time by men and women alike who did not have such an arrangement with their partners? Or did she fear the opposite instead; that she had finally found someone as unusual and brilliant and queer in every way as she herself was? Perhaps even two someones?

No doubt, there was some combination of all three tangled up in this knot in her chest, but it was the latter that kept Bobbi going to her desk in the middle of the night, pulling out a pen and paper, and not… quite… putting… the words down.

Or putting them down, and crossing them out.

Or putting them down, and throwing them in the fire.

As she watched the pages curl and blacken, Bobbi could taste the bitter memory of the last time she’d found herself in such a position. She had few regrets in her life, but one of them was that day; the day she’d let (or rather, driven) her former husband’s last words to her fall into the fire. There had been a lot more anger involved that time around, she recalled, and no shortage of jabbing at sparks with the fire iron, to make sure she’d got every last bit. This time, it felt like a step in the wrong direction. Like she was waiting to release the breath she was holding, or for the knot in her chest to untie and it never would.

I fear I must, were the last words she could discern now, from the letter she had burnt. She reached for the poker with a tremor in her fingers, and gritted her teeth. One good jab, and it would all be over. Then again, there was a blank spot just there. She could save it, if she were careful – and quick, as the words were already shrinking before her eyes.

I fear I

I fear

Fear

And then they were gone. And her breath was still caught in her chest but she lifted her head. She may have burned her bridges with the Midshipman after all, but she could still remember that infuriatingly rakish daredevil smile of his.

“Come on, love,” he used to like challenging her. “A little fear is nothing to be afraid of.”

It was something that had always bound them; the rush of taking risks, the revelling in new horizons. It was every reason she had to have left her home in the first place; perhaps that was what had made their relationship last so long, despite the warning signs. And as Bobbi reflected upon this image of herself, kneeling at her hearth, clutching a fire poker with a shaking hand at some unearthly hour in the morning - and not for the first time at that - she had to laugh. This was exactly the reason Hunter had broken up with her and after all this time she had to admit, the limey was right: as much as she purported to be bold and confident, to love a challenge, she was a coward when it came to affairs of the heart.

But Bobbi was no fool. She knew regret, and she knew the value of a wasted opportunity. She had regretted leaving Hunter enough times in her life thus far; she dared not waste such an opportunity again.

So she stood, and reached for her coat. Never mind the nightgown, never mind ringing for Davis; Bobbi figured, she could tack a horse herself just as quickly and if she didn’t take action now the fear might just get the better of her. Perhaps the boots, though, rather than these flimsy slippers – yes, she should take the boots.

She pulled them on in a fluster, hopping in through the stable door, and tacked up in the dark as fast as her fingers remembered how. Of course, she could walk to the Fitzsimmons’ – they were only next door after all, just a little ways down the road - but it was far too late at night for that, and God forbid it would give her too much time to think.

Fortunately, Belle was fleet of foot and it was not long at all before she was clattering up the FitzSimmons’ driveway, her heart in her throat. There was a carriage she did not recognise in a nearby pen. Did they have a guest? Should she turn back? Belle whinnied low as if warning her, and Bobbi swallowed her fear once again. If she did turn back, no doubt she would find herself achingly alone by the fireplace for many more nights in her life, and as much as she treasured her independence, she didn’t want it to be like that. Not when it didn’t have to be.

Bobbi slid from the saddle, and as she tied Belle to a nearby post she spared a thought of gratitude that she had decided to wear boots for a little relief against the chilled and dewy cobblestones. With a deep breath, she approached the threshold, and knocked, and rang the bell.

Seconds passed, and though she counted them along their way they still somehow felt like minutes. Like hours. Bobbi watched every breath steam in front of her and after the third she closed her eyes and reluctantly wondered what it would be like to just give in to the dread, and forget the whole thing.

Just as she was on the knife’s edge of giving up, however, the door opened a crack.

It was Fitz, with his soft curls and his shirt loose and dishevelled, and upon recognising the figure who stood at his door, a rather bewildered expression.

“Jemma, dear,” he called, “I think- I think it’s for you.”

And so Jemma came to the door as well, and looked Bobbi up and down. A frown crossed her features, concerned and curious, as she ushered Bobbi inside.

“Are you alright?” she wondered. “I… hadn’t heard from you.”

“I know.” Bobbi bounced on the spot. With adrenaline keeping her blood pumping, she hadn’t realised it was quite so cold. “I know. It’s my fault. I meant to tell you so- so many things. I was flattered- I am flattered. Exceedingly so. I just…”

“It’s perfectly understandable,” Jemma assured her. “I should never have sprung something so… unconventional on you like that!”

“But being unconventional is why I like you.” It blurted out with no restraint, and Bobbi felt her heart warm when Jemma smiled. “And it’s not the- the arrangement itself that worries me. I suppose I thought you were mocking me; that you might not have been taking me seriously.”

“Bobbi.” Jemma looked her square in the eyes, and very deliberately reached out a hand to take hers. “We were very serious – and still are, if you’ll have us.”

Fitz nodded his agreement earnestly, and at last, Bobbi felt the knot in her chest begin to untie.

“Well then,“ she confessed, “I suppose my answer is yes.”

Jemma beamed, and clapped in delight.

“Wonderful!” she cried. “Won’t you come in for a drink to celebrate?”

“Certainly,” Bobbi agreed. The fear was fading much faster than she had anticipated, and she smiled at her companions with genuine warmth in her heart. “I would love a brandy, if you have it.”

“I’ll pour you a glass,” Fitz said, and scoffed. “If Hunter hasn’t taken the last drop.”

“If- who?”

Bobbi stammered, and let Jemma and Fitz usher her into the lounge without protest, with hardly a thought as she checked back over what she had heard. Surely it couldn’t be…

“Where’ve you been, lovelies?”

That voice, she knew it. The spinning, slightly drunken dance he was doing as he poured himself a glass. Even that scruffy beard, and the medallion of St Anthony that gleamed on a leather thong around his neck as he turned away from the fireplace and back toward the door - Bobbi couldn’t see it from this far away but she knew, she knew that’s what it was.

Apparently, he knew her just as quickly too, as he froze mid-dance and mid-pour and stared. Not too long ago, he would have made a snide comment to try and to get a rise out of her – speak of the devil? she could imagine he would say - and a rise she would gladly have given him. But this time he simply… stared.

“Uh…” Fitz wondered from the sidelines. “Do you two know each other?”

Jemma elbowed him, and hissed for him to hush, but it barely registered to Bobbi. She was too busy watching Hunter, waiting for him to burst the bubble of nostalgia and rose-coloured glasses she had no doubt shaded him with. Any second now.

Instead, he smiled, and held the last glass of the brandy out to her.

“It’s good to see you, Bob,” he said.

“It’s good to see you too.”

#aosfic #scis & spies #agents of shield #aosficnet #roaring 20s rarepair exchange #marvel #polyamory #clara's fic tag

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thenovelartist · 5 years

Text

An Impromptu Proposal, 28-29

<<Previous Next>>

28. Community service

When Adrien and Marinette returned from their trip to China, well rested and relaxed, there was one big thing they decided on: Adrien was going to go to counseling, and Marinette should probably see someone, too. Their kwamis did offer to help them, and while Marinette and Adrien agreed to take some of the help, they also thought seeing an outside specialist would be beneficial. Neither of the kwamis objected.

“Honestly, as fantastic as that vacation was, it’s kinda nice to be home,” Marinette said, stepping into their apartment.

“Yeah,” Adrien said. “Though, home is only home because you live here, too. Makes it feel like I belong here now.”

With a smile, Marinette looped her arms around his neck. “I’m glad to have this home with you.”

His own smile grew before he leaned down to press a sweet kiss to her lips. “Love you.”

“I love you.”

“Do you want to wash off the plane and travel feeling?” he asked.

“Yes. Very much.”

“Are you joining me?”

“Well, since you’re offering, how can I refuse.”

…

When Marinette and Adrien finally got out of the shower, Adrien immediately collapsed on the bed for a cat nap while Marinette scrolled through the emails and phone calls she’d been purposefully ignoring for the last few weeks.

She was about to call Alya when her best friend beat her to it. “Hey,” Marinette greeted quietly, knowing Adrien was in the other room. She got up to shut the door to the bedroom so she wouldn’t disturb Adrien. “I was just gonna call you.”

“One step ahead of you,” Alya’s cheerful voice came through the phone. “Wanted to call and catch you up. But first, how was the trip with the hubby?”

Marinette sighed, relaxing into the couch. “Relaxing and much needed.”

“Do anything special?”

Marinette was going to ignore the particular teasing lit in Alya’s tone. “No. Not particularly.”

“Did you pay attention to the news?”

“Definitely not.”

“Then you didn’t hear Lila and Gabriel’s sentencing, I assume.”

Marinette stiffened at that. “They were sentenced already?”

“Yeah,” Alya confirmed. “You don’t exactly get to terrorize the entirety of Paris for several years and not get the luxury of a swift and painful trial. Anyway, Lila was pissed and fought all the while. She never got out that you and Adrien were Chat and Ladybug, so you guys still have a little time before that surfaces. Besides, you know I’ll do damage control over it.”

“The bonuses of being best friends with the ladyblogger,” Marinette teased.

“Girl, had I known who you were earlier, I totally would have helped keep your identity.”

Marinette pursed her lips to keep back the doubtful smirk. “Sorry, but I’m not sure I believe you. I knew how you were in school.”

Alya paused. “True, but you also know that I would have helped my best friend. But, I know how Ladybug loved her secret identity, which was probably for the best.”

“Thank you.”

“Anyway,” Alya said, getting back on topic. “As for Gabriel, he surrendered shockingly easily. Because of that, they were a little more merciful on him. I mean, life in jail and community service isn’t pretty, but Gabriel may have the option of parole earlier than Lila does. That is… if he gets the clear from the psychiatric doctor. They were really worried for his mental state during the trial, so he’s in a specialty ward at the moment being cared for as a potential risk to himself.”

Marinette cringed. How was she going to tell that to Adrien? He was already a mess as is. Knowing that might be even worse. But then again, he’d find out one way or another. She’d tell him later, and then they could talk about it at counseling.

Speaking of which…

“Hey, Alya. Um, one of the things that Adrien and I agreed to was to seek some counseling help considering that we’re facing… all of this. And I was wondering—”

“If I knew anyone?” Alya finished. “I’ll do all the research for you, girl. I got you covered. I think that Adrien could really use it, poor guy. I’m glad that he sold the company when he did, though. He’s not dealing with the legal battles now.”

“I got to feel a little bad for the buyer, though,” Marinette said. “Having to deal with that mess.”

“Well… yeah,” Alya admitted. “But honestly, it’s so much better than Adrien dealing with it. That’s the last thing that guy needs right now.”

Marinette couldn’t disagree with that. Knowing her husband wasn’t the one who had to bear that weight on his shoulders along with everything else was a relief. “Yeah, you’re right about that.”

“How are you doing?” Alya asked. “Because I know that we’re talking about Adrien being KO-ed, which is completely understandable, but what about you? This can’t be easy on you, either.”

“It’s not,” Marinette said. “But I think part of that stress is knowing what Adrien is going through and wanting to shoulder what I can and be a pillar of support so he doesn’t feel like the world’s caving in on him.”

“Honey, you are a good wife to that man. He better take good care of you.”

“He does,” Marinette said, smile on her face and a warm feeling in her heart. “He’s my partner; we take care of each other. I don’t think either of us know the limit of how far is too far. Particularly Adrien.”

Alya hummed. “I think you’re right. But don’t forget that you have your own stressors that you need to carry. Don’t try to carry everything on your own.”

“You’re right,” Marinette admitted. “I’ll be careful.”

“Good, because I care about you…” There was a pause at the end of the line. “Hey, give me a second, Nino’s calling, probably about the wedding venue.”

“Okay.” Marinette couldn’t help but grin. Nino had finally gotten the courage to propose to Alya a couple months back in between all this superhero chaos. They decided not to rush with it, because they were dealing with their own stress from it, too, but it seemed like they were moving ahead with it now.

There was a click signaling Alya’s return. “Hey, so I’m sorry, but I gotta jet. Nino’s picking me up in a couple minutes to go check out a wedding venue.”

“Then I’ll let you go. Hope it’s a successful endeavor.”

“Here’s hoping. Call you back to talk later, ‘kay?”

“Okay. Bye.”

“Bye, girl.”

When Marinette hung up the phone, she suddenly felt Adrien’s arms wrap around her shoulders. “You’re the most incredible wife I could ask for,” he whispered.

“Were you listening?” she asked, reaching up to hold his arms.

“I was,” he admitted.

“I thought you were sleeping.”

“Not really, and this cat has killer hearing.”

She couldn’t help but giggle.

“Thank you so much for everything,” Adrien said, squeezing her tight. “And I’m sorry if I make you feel like you have to shoulder any of my burden—”

“You don’t,” Marinette cut in. “I do try to because I love you and want to help you through this."

"It helps just knowing you’re there.”

“Then that’s all that matters.”

Adrien squeezed her tight, then pressed a kiss to her cheek. “I love you so much.”

“I love you, too, kitty. I love you so much.”

...

29. Kwami swap

Before either Marinette or Adrien had realized, Christmas season was upon them. Life was slowly returning to normal. Counseling was going well for both of them. Marinette decided her new year’s resolution would be to start looking for a new job. She was ready to get back into the workforce. Adrien, on the other hand, decided to continue his studies and find a university to apply to next year, but for now, he was looking into his options of courses of study. Honestly, for where he was, Marinette was very proud of her husband for beginning to take those steps.

This next year was going to be a good one, Marinette could tell. And she was very much looking forward to it. But for now, Marinette was looking forward to a very nice, underrated, mundane Christmas that wouldn’t be overshadowed by the fear of an akuma appearing in the middle of any party or dinner or event. They could open gifts and sleep in and have Christmas dinner without the constant fear of an akuma or two or three cropping up right when it was the least convenient.

At the moment, Marinette was taking a leisurely stroll around Paris trying to find the perfect Christmas gift for her husband.

“I’m hungry. Are we done yet?”

With a cranky little kwami in tow.

“Here,” Marinette said, taking a wedge of cheese out of her purse. How Adrien carried that stuff around for years, Marinette had no idea. She was certain she’d die from the smell. “Now, no more until you help me find a good gift for Adrien.”

“He’d be happy with your kisses. There. End of story.”

Despite being married for a few months, Marinette still blushed under the sarcastic kwami’s smug smirk. “Plagg.”

“What? You know I’m right.”

“Yeah, but I actually want a gift to give him.”

“Wrap yourself in a ribbon.”

She was going to smack this kwami into another country. “Plagg!”

“Fine,” the kwami whined. “Geez. I happen to know of a couple books he wants. Okay?”

“Thank you,” Marinette said. “Which ones?”

Plagg sighed. “We go to that big, fancy bookstore, and I’ll tell you.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

“And then we get to go home, right?”

Marinette smirked. “Sure. After we get a gift for each of my parents, Alya, Nino, and Chloe.”

Plagg let loose a long groan before sinking into her purse. “Wake me up when we get there.”

With a roll of her eyes, Marinette shut her purse. Even though Plagg had proven himself to be the laziest kwami in existence, he was helpful enough when he wanted to be.

…

“Tikki, I will trade Marinette for you.”

Tikki giggled. “You don’t mean that.”

“You’re helpful,” Adrien began, listing things off on his fingers. “You don’t sass back. You actually gave me good suggestions for Marinette’s Christmas gift as well as gifts for her parents. You don’t smell like cheese all the time. And you’re tidy. Just to name a few.”

“Well… yeah, I can’t argue with you about those,” Tikki cheekily retorted.

“So, when Marinette gets back, we’re trading.”

Again, Tikki giggled. “You don’t have your ears pierced.”

“A small detail,” Adrien dismissed with a wave.

“I think you’d make a good Ladybug, to be honest. But I think you make a better Black Cat.”

Adrien shrugged. “I guess it has its perks.”

Tikki settled in his hair. “Sure. Whatever you say.”

#miraculous ladybug #fanfiction #ladynoir july 2019 #fluff #marinette dupain cheng #adrien agreste #alya cesaire #plagg #Tikki #sorry this took so long

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its-flicked-switch · 5 years

Text

It Can Be

Teen and Up | 2.8k

While on a stakeout, a burning question is asked leading to unexpected revelations and a conversation that is long overdue. Set mid to late S6.

This story was written for the X-Files Secret Summer Fanfic Exchange (2019) created and orchestrated by OnlyTheInevitable\\ @gaycrouton.

Prompt: "I'm ok with twists or turns, fluff or angst, but true to characters."

A gift to Pstafford3 (Twitter)

Beta by: @kikocrystalball and @admiralty-xfd

"Well, you need a father, of course. I can get you genetic counseling on finding an anonymous donor if that's what you want... unless you already have someone in mind."

"Yeah... I, uh... I just have to figure out how to ask him."

Flashback in 8x13 — Per Manum

|| 2 days later ||

"If Emily had lived … do you think I could have done it? Been a single mother?"

They've been sitting in a car outside of an abandoned warehouse for nearly an hour indulging one of his hunches. Mulder had anticipated catching the third degree for calling her at 2 A.M. on a Saturday morning, but this is not the degree he expected, so he proceeds with caution.

"That's a rather loaded question."

He doesn't say it to be abrasive or to deflect away from the seriousness and vulnerability he hears in her voice. He says it because he's not sure what else to say.

Their interactions following the revelation of her stolen ova have been strained. While Scully hasn't outright ignored him or overtly lashed out at him, she's certainly maintained a respectable distance, keeping her fury and frustration hidden beneath layers of masked professionalism. After their discussion in the elevator, Mulder had braced himself for fire and brimstone, but so far, all he has been afforded is silence, which is far worse.

Two weeks have passed, but the tension is still unbearably high, leading him to believe that she has conferred with several specialists of her own choosing and has now reached the same conclusion he arrived at little over a year ago — the ova are not viable. While he can appreciate her anger, he doubts that she fully grasps his intent in keeping it from her or the depth at which it has eaten away at him.

When he discovered her stolen ova back in 1997, he immediately took them to a specialist to be assessed, and when he hadn't gotten the answer he wanted to hear, he had them sent them to another one. That pattern held for well over six months before he finally relented.

Keeping it from her had been an easy decision to make in the beginning given how gravely ill she was, but as her health returned, his justification in continuing to do so had been more complicated. Ultimately, he had kept it from her out of pure, unadulterated hope. Hope that there was an answer — a different path that he could take that would lead him to something other than the devastating news he currently had: the ova are not viable.

How in the fuck was he supposed to tell her that? On top of everything else, how could he possibly tell her that he had found her ova, but that there was nothing to be done with them? That they were useless? He couldn't even say it to himself in the mirror without becoming physically ill.

If the syndicate possessed the power to cure her cancer, then was it not reasonable to assume that they also possessed the ability to reverse her infertility? Somehow turning unviable ova into something viable? It didn't seem any less likely than curing incurable cancer.

Scully was the scientist, not him. Yet, the leading experts in the field had already told him that he was wasting his time and money looking for alternatives and storing ova that were not viable. Within a year, he was convinced that there was nothing conventional that could be done and was unable to stomach telling Scully that the fate of her ability to conceive a child of her own making would rest in the hands of the same monsters who had taken that right from her to begin with.

He valued his partnership with Scully more than anything, and he would move mountains or die trying before he would ever hurt her. And this news — this secret, would undoubtedly hurt her, so instead of telling her the truth, he had kept it from her and continued to search for solutions on his own with the hope that when the time came, he would have an answer. But in the blink of an eye, weeks turned into months and months into years, and still, there had been no resolution, conventional or otherwise.

And then came Emily.

Emily's sudden appearance changed everything. She was living proof that Scully's ova had been viable at one point, or that perhaps, out of all those extracted, he had just been unlucky enough to grab the one vial that was useless.

That was the other issue. Telling Scully the truth would require another harmful and devastating admission. There were more out there, and they were currently unaccounted for. When he returned to the research facility to retrieve the other vials, they were gone, either removed or destroyed, and there was no way to determine which since the facility had been burned to the ground.

The matter was further complicated by his degree of uncertainty with regards to her current medical status and the nature and permanency of the effects of the experimentation that was performed. While it was clear that they had taken a substantial amount of Scully's reproductive material, it was unclear if they had taken everything. Had what was in that drawer been a representation of everything they had taken? Or had there been more stored elsewhere? Had the extraction left her completely barren? Or had it merely ensured that it would be difficult for her to conceive naturally? If so, did she know?

Seeing her with Emily had only deepened his despair. He should have told her about the ova then. Hell, he should have told her as soon as she returned to work, months before Emily ever came into the picture, but he continued to hold back, having convinced himself that all he needed was more time. But all of that changed two weeks ago when he found Scully standing in a daze on the elevator. In that moment, every argument and justification he had ever made crumbled.

He couldn't keep it from her any longer. Not when she had brought it to him directly. She deserved to know the truth, and he had already kept it from her for far longer than he should have.

This is how Mulder came to be the asshole who told his partner about her stolen ova on an elevator.

"So you don't," Scully says, breaking their silence. "You don't think I could have done it."

There's an edge to her voice that makes him inwardly cringe. It comes out matter-of-fact, but Mulder knows better.

"I didn't say that. I just said it was a loaded question," he replies, doing his best to choose his words carefully.

"You either do or don't. I wouldn't have asked if I didn't want to know."

The bite in her voice is unmistakable. Scully is pissed, and frankly, she has a right to be. He just wishes that he could find a way to articulate his intentions to her. While he's well aware of the fact that he can be a certified asshole, he would never do anything to intentionally harm her, and he knows that underneath all of the anger and hurt, she knows that.

Everything he has done, he has done to protect her.

"Scully—"

"I asked you to back me up … to testify on my behalf and you did, but there was … hesitancy there. From both you and my family."

"I can't speak for your family, Scully. I can only speak for myself, but you're right, I did have reservations … but none of them had anything to do with you or your ability to parent or raise a child."

"Then—"

"Three years after your abduction, a child shows up with your DNA. I was questioning the validity of it and what it could mean, especially in light of what I knew they had taken from you. Had the circumstances been different, I would have been happy for you … elated even, but instead I was terrified … for you and for her … and at the same time I was furious."

"Furious?"

"They took something from you that they had no right to take … something that was yours to give to a person of your choosing. And Emily? She didn't deserve … no child deserves to be a pawn in someone else's game. I know that better than most."

The silence that ensues is thick, but instead of letting it hang, Mulder presses forward.

"I just had a feeling … a feeling that it wasn't real."

"She was real, Mulder, and she was mine."

"Yet she wasn't. She bled green."

She doesn't argue with him on this point because she can't, but she's clearly not pleased with him for making it to begin with.

"I shouldn't have kept this from you, Scully. I know that, and I'm sorry."

"Yet you did it anyway. For almost two years."

"You've never asked me why."

"Because it doesn't matter. You had no right."

"It does matter. It matters a lot."

"Okay. I'll bite. Why, Mulder? Why did you think that keeping me in the dark about MY OWN genetic material was a good call for YOU to make? Were you afraid that I would break down and check myself into a psychiatric ward? Or was keeping it from me more about your impending fear of me leaving you alone to chase monsters in the dark?"

The heat radiating off of her body and venom in her voice startles him into silence.

This is the reaction he anticipated two weeks ago, but the anticipation hasn't diminished its impact. It would be easy in this moment to give it right back to her and let his rising pulse predominate, giving her the fight she's clearly looking for, but he won't. If she wants to be angry, that is certainly her right, but she is at least going to have all of the facts straight first.

"Do you honestly believe, after everything that we've been through, that I would ever do anything to intentionally hurt you, Dana?"

The use of her given name is intentional. It's a quiet, subtle ceasefire, and the effect it has is immediate. As soon as it rolls off of his tongue, she stills, the fire in her eyes dissipating as her attention shifts. Holding her gaze, he lets the silence that follows hang, cooling the air around them before he continues.

"The look of devastation that crossed your face … I would have done anything in the world to keep that look off of your face, so yes, I kept it from you. I consulted every credentialed doctor and accredited research facility in the country and refused to let them destroy them despite being told repeatedly that they weren't viable. I wanted to find a solution, even if it wasn't a conventional one … so that one day, when I did tell you, it wouldn't be the news I have now. Keeping this from you was wrong, and you have every right to be angry but don't think for a single second that it didn't weigh on me, because it did. It still does."

The silence that follows is heavy, the intensity of the moment driving Scully to avert her eyes. The fire that filled them earlier has fled, making way for the emotions brewing underneath. She's hurt, devastated even, and now, she's trying desperately not to cry.

Pulling his handkerchief out his pocket, he hands it to her and waits, unsure of what to say or if he should say anything else at all.

At this point, it's clear that this stakeout is a bust, but he doesn't want to make it more awkward or break the moment by starting the car and pulling away. Instead, he fixes his eyes ahead, giving her a bit of privacy as the light of dawn begins to creep up over the horizon.

"You still haven't answered my question," she says after a few moments have passed.

Her voice is low, but the tone she sets requires no translation. Scully is a woman of action, so the fact that she has returned to her original question is her concession. While she may not like or agree with what he has kept from her, she has forgiven him.

"If you're asking me if I think that you would be a good mother, then the answer is yes," Mulder replies.

The lack of hesitancy in his response appears to surprise her, shifting her gaze back to his.

"Then why the—"

"You asked specifically about being a single mother," he replies evenly.

"Yes, and?"

Sighing, Mulder shifts uncomfortably, unsure of how much more he should say if anything at all.

"Well, I just don't see that as being an issue, and I'm not saying that because I think you are incapable of doing it alone."

"They why are you saying it?"

"Scully … look … I …," he says, taking a deep breath. "I already feel like I'm six feet under, I don't want to say anything to make it worse."

"That ship has already sailed, so you might as well just say it."

Sighing and regarding her cautiously, he relents and says what's on his mind. If she wants an honest answer, he will give her one. Given all he has kept from her over the past two years, he owes her that much.

"It's just … you have too much to offer someone else to be forced down that road alone."

Of all the things she expected to come out of his mouth, this was clearly not one of them. The blush rising in her cheeks does little to hide her surprise at his admission. He would feel more guilty for making her uncomfortable if she didn't look so radiant. Even with minimal sleep and tear stained eyes, she's still the most beautiful woman he has ever seen. That much hasn't changed in the six years he's known her.

"Look," he says, returning his focus back to the warehouse. "All I'm saying is that if raising a child is something you want to do, then there is absolutely no reason for you do it alone unless you just want to."

"Mulder, I haven't been asked out on a date in years."

"I find that hard to believe."

"Well, it's true."

"Men can be idiots."

To this, he receives no argument, only a ghost of a snort as Scully relaxes more deeply into her seat.

"Well, then, I guess all the men currently in my life are idiots."

"Guilty as charged," he says, raising his hands into the air.

Their soft laughter echoes in the car briefly before again returning them into silence, but unlike the silences that preceded them, this one is comfortable. Mulder knows he should quit while he is ahead, but he can't.

"You're a lethal combination, Scully. Not all men can handle that."

"Lethal combination?"

"Stunning and intelligent. Typically, you get one or the other … both are… well, a bit rare and can be a bit intimidating."

Scully doesn't say anything in response, but the pink hue rising up through her neck and into her cheeks warns him that he's teetering dangerously close to the edge. He doesn't want to embarrass her or make her uncomfortable, but he also wants her to know that he does see her, not just as a partner but as a woman. A woman who has a tremendous amount to offer, little of which has anything to do with her reproductive status.

When she doesn't speak, he begins to backpedal a bit, not wanting to end on a note that is upsetting or uncomfortable.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. Look, I think you will be an excellent mother with or without a partner, so if that's what you're asking, then that's my answer. Forget the rest."

"You didn't make me uncomfortable Mulder," she says quietly, avoiding his eyes. "It's just … not something I'm used to hearing."

"Hmmm … sounds to me like you need better friends, or maybe just a better partner. One who actually encourages you to get out of the car."

"Mmmm … my partner can certainly be an ass, but he's grown on me. And most of the time, I don't actually mind being in the car."

"And the other times?"

To this, she only smirks, nodding her head in a manner of dismissal and averting her gaze back to the warehouse. When it's clear she's going to let the question hang without answering it, Mulder changes the subject.

"Why … why bring this up?"

He asks the question half expecting her to skirt around it without directly answering it, but she doesn't.

"Because I'm almost 35. There are options out there … I just have to decide whether or not I'm going to take them."

"Well, whatever you decide, you'll have my full support, Scully."

The silence that follows surprises him, causing him to shift his focus back to her and study her expression. What he finds is as intriguing as it is troubling. There's clearly something weighing on her mind. Something she isn't sharing.

"I wish it were that simple."

Reaching out, he takes her hand in his and gives it a squeeze.

"It can be."

#the x files #msr fanfic #msr #conversation in the car #mulder and scully #angst #X FILE SUMMER FANFIC GIFT EXCHANGE 2019

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the-last-airbadger · 4 years

Text

My 2019

Hello pals. It's time for my annual end of the year post. The end of the decade means time for reflection and seeing how well I did with my resolutions haha (not that well I fear)

The Beginning of 2019 vs Now

The beginning of this year was amazing! I started off the year with a three week break, and after that, the second semester of my first year at uni started. This semester was honestly probably the happiest I've been in my life. I love attending university and I have the greatest group of friends there and every day there was a treat that semester (the current one is a bit of a drag sadly). My mother also moved in februari, which was something I wasn't really looking forward to at the time, but in hindsight, that was really great too. I was excited to go into the new year and felt sure it was going to be a good one!

I also had the best sleeping schedule back then. I slept from 12 til 9 literally every night, was on top of all of my schoolwork, and basucally I really had my life in order while also having a lot of time left to read and do other fun things, which was a great feeling.

The Best Things about 2019

The first best thing that happened this year was the DAY6 concert! I've been wanting to see a kpop group live ever since I got into kpop, so this was literally a dream come true. Not only was the concert the best concert I've ever been to, I also got the chance to give all the members a high five, which was a surreal feeling. One of the best evenings of my life.

Then, like I said, my mom moved into a new house, and it's such a chill house! I love beeing there! So that was great too

I also fell into a booktube hole around that time, which I'm really happy about! A Clockwork Reader's videos have entertained me for hours and Jessethereader is one of my favourite youtubers right now. I'm so thankful I found his videos! They are both entertaining and has really given me more motivation to read, as well as introduced me to many many books I'd never heard of before. My tbr has grown considerably since then haha. I also read so much since then! I have never read this much in a year!

I turned 20, scored a 10 in one of my courses (very proud of that), and I went to Alec Benjamin's concert with my sister which was amazing!

But I don't really remember many other special things that happened 😅. OH WAIT YEAH AVENGERS ENDGAME AND THE NEW SPIDERMAN MOVIE. And a lot of kpop releases! But I feel like it was mostly a year of school, books, and chilling than one of specific exciting events.

My Resolutions for 2019?

Oof, I haven't really looked at these resolutions at all this year, and I'm realising that I probably should have, because I don't think I accomplished many of these 😂

Dye my hair (let’s give that another go shall we) - My hair is still very brown 😔

Get a good haircut - I've had a couple of really good haircuts this year, so that's a win! This makes me wonder what my hair looked like last year though🤔 (I looked it up, it wasn't that bad XD)

Get a tattoo - Didn't do that :(

Move out of my parent’s house (that’s a bold one) - Didn't do that either! I could have, but then I realised I was actually quite happy living at home so I decided to stay for a while. I guess that's still a win because I'm happy about where I live 🤔. I do still wanna move out at some point though, but there's no need to rush.

Accomplish my reading challenge on Goodreads (I really want to accomplish that 35 books goal, it’s starting to haunt me) - YES. I DID THAT. FINALLY. AFTER 3 YEARS. and not just a little bit either, I read 49 BOOKS this year and more than double the amount of pages I've ever read in a year. 2019 really was the year of reading. Discovering booktube was really a gift.

Get tickets for A.C.E.’s concert - Did that! The concert was cool

Get swol - yeeeaaah nooooppee

Communicate more with the people around me - I don't know if I did that, I guess I didn't really pay attention to whether I did this or not soooo🤷‍♂️

Don’t let other people’s opinions shape my actions - Still working on that

Pass my first year at uni - Yeehaw

Go swimming (I haven’t done that in 3 years) - HOW HAVE I NOT DONE THIS YET?? I NEED TO SWIM IT'S BEEN 4 YEARS

Grow a beard (plz universe) - 😔

Learn how to make flipbooks (it looks really cool) - yeah I kinda lost interest in this

Learn how to knit (I really wanna make my own sweaters) - still want to try this 🤔

Read books on storytelling and learn more about how to tell a story - I did not read books on storytelling, but I did watch a couple of Hello Future Me videos which were helpful so tiny mini win

Develop my story more - This is a very vague resolution... like I have no Idea what "more" is when I don't know how much I wrote in 2018 😂. If this means just continuing to develop my story then I think I succeeded, but if it means I consistenly and conciously spent more time on developing my story then I did not.

Write at least 100 pages - I have no idea how much I wrote this year honestly. I wrote a bit but 🤷‍♂️

Spend more time with my friends, both new friends and old friends - sadly, I kinda feel like I failed this one. Last semester I only really saw my best friends twice. My other friendgroup I saw every day (because school) but I only saw them about 3-4 times outside of school which I would have liked to be more...

Expectations for 2020

I don't really have that many expectations for this year. I know I will start my third year at university (time is going TO FAST) and will have to start working on my thesis which I'm not really looking forward to.

Another thing that I know will happen is that my dad will move, meaning I'll move into my mom's house permanently. I am actually quite looking forward to the stability of living in one house again instead of switching every week, but I will miss my room.

And yeah apart from that I don't really know. I have a feeling this will be a year of personal development, writing, reading and creativity, but I have no idea.

I'm also looking forward to the release of the new Hunger Games Prequel, and I'm also hOPING that SHINee will come back at the end of the year but only time will tell 👀

2020 Resolutions

I'm feeling ambitious right know so I might end up doing none of these things BUT that's okay let's do this

Express my feelings more (as in I get really awkward in any sappy or mushy situation but I would like to be able to tell people I appreciate them without cringeing)

Again, learn to depend less on other people's opinions and trust my own

Get my sleeping schedule back on track

Become better at summarizing (no more 4 page summaries of 4 page texts 😂)

WRITE MORE. This time I'll make some concrete goals: Either I'll get my story's first draft done, or I'll write 100 pages on a single project

I want to try NaNoWriMo (not nessicarily in November, but at some point)

I want to read a lot again but maybe not as much as this year because I want to focus on writing too. 40 books?

Read all my current unread books (Aru Shah 2, Skullduggery Pleasant 9, Gemina, The Mistborn Trilogy and Call Down The Hawk) and finish my reread of Heroes of Olympus and the Raven Cycle

Finally read a book by V.E. Schwab (I've been wanting to try one of her books for ages)

Finish Playing Twilight Princess (I promised my brother)

Finally start spelling "definitely" correctly because I've been spelling it as "definately" for years and I really need to stop 😂.

Go. Swimming. Seriously. It's scandalous that I still haven't done that after waiting so long to be able to😂

Try to worry less about school and not overwork myself

Maybe try another drawing challenge somewhere this summer? I haven't done any of those in a while and I feel like my art needs more attention

I want to try a 24 hour readathon

I kinda want to learn a piano piece as well, but I already have so many hobbies I want to focus on so I don't know if I'll have the time :(

So, that was it for this year! Thanks for reading and happy 2020!

@the-official-pentacorn @asiandutchgirl

Last year’s post (x)

#new year's eve #2020 #2019 #end of the DECADE #personal #the post was made on mobile this year so the layout is bad I fear

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nuka-nuke · 6 years

Text

Love Letters

Ilya learns something new about Mike.

@life-is-no-sugarlicking comes up with a lot of great headcanons for Ilya and Mike’s relationship, but this one inspired me to actually try to write it! So here ya go, my first ever fic. Starring her character Mike, which if you don’t know him, what are you doing with your life?

The air hung heavily in the penthouse of Fizztop Grille. It was fairly early into the summer months, and already the humidity of Massachusetts was bringing on a familiar haze to the theme park. Mike drew his cigarette up to his lips and inhaled slowly, allowing the nicotine to fill his lungs, and eventually letting the plume of smoke add to the stagnant atmosphere with a deep sigh. He laid lazily upon the bed on the raised wooden platform in the corner of the room with half-lidded eyes staring upwards towards that weird painting of some kind of pre-war sunset that hung above the headboard, unable to find the motivation to finally get himself up off that ancient mattress.

It had been hours since he woke up in the unbearable heat to find the Boss had already left his side. In the past couple of weeks since he had been spending more time here than in the arcade he normally resided, he had learned that it was normal for her to rise before him since she had such issues with the weather, but a glance around indicated that she had headed out for the day. Most likely with that suck up piece-of-shit he added to the thought with a visible sneer. He despised when she’d leave with him alone. Gage may still be her right-hand man, but that did not change the fact that he had an unfortunate amount of familiar knowledge of their mutual boss. Even though she insisted those ties had been cut, and even though he knew it was childish, he still fumed at the thought anytime it arose in his mind.

Not that it matters or anything, he bitterly crushed the cigarette out right onto her nightstand, It’s not like she ‘n I’ve anything different.

But the interrupting sound of the elevator creaking its way up the side of the building made him perk up, and with a mechanical whirl he swung his prosthetic leg onto the floor to finally rise up off the bed.

“Hey there, Snowflake,” Mike grinned at the sight of his boss as the elevator reached its final stop.

Her normally carefully styled silver hair looked disheveled with loose strands of curls falling out of her ponytail and off into the air, and her automatic rifle, painted obnoxiously with the style of the Pack, was slung haphazardly over her shoulder along with a clutch of documents she held in her hands. Even her make-up was smeared across her right cheek with the struggle of a long day’s work.

Ilya wordlessly dropped her weapon to the side with a resounding clatter as soon as the elevator drew to a stop. Her footsteps over the threshold seemed drawn and exhausted, but in his vision, she was still like a corporeal work of art, coming to life to free him from this boring day. Like a magnet, her arms immediately draped themselves around him and he scooped her up from the ground into a grateful embrace.

She dusted the scarred cheek she was presented with with several kisses before simply resting her head onto his bare shoulder. “Baby… Am I ever glad to see you,” her voice was quiet and wistful, unusual for his normally confident Overboss.

Mike couldn’t help but smirk at the compliment, whether she meant it as one or not didn’t really matter, and swung her down to the antique sofa beside the entrance. He sat with a metallic creak of protest from his artificial limb and placed her onto his lap. She made no effort to change the direction in which he carried her and seemed quite content just to nestle into the chest of the man who greeted her.

“Yeah? Rough day out there, huh?” he answered, his voice hoarse with the cigarettes and whiskey he’d occupied his day so far with. He shifted her slightly until he could properly press a kiss to those lips that graced his mangled cheek.

Ilya rose to meet the affection and hummed with a pleased sigh. “Well, do you know what a Gatorclaw is?” she began, those icy blue eyes finally flicking up from under long lashes to meet his gaze.

Mike visibly flinched when she did, but tried to play it off with a casual maneuver to brush the bangs off her forehead. He’d never outright admit it to her, but those eyes of hers were seriously terrifying; like nothing he’d ever seen before in all the radioactive wastelands he’d traversed. While they could viciously strike fear into the souls of many of the men and women here in Nuka World, he had learned to find that healthy fear of her almost arousing during all this time they’d spent together. She could still be pretty scary when she wanted to be, though.

“Ehh, can’t say I do,” again, he punctuated the sentence with a resolute kiss.

“Then you’re lucky,” Ilya grumbled, finally shifting out of his embrace to stand and toss the documents which remained in her grasp onto the coffee table beside them.

Mike glanced down towards the papers with a disinterested sigh. He had been more enthused by the Boss making herself comfortable on his lap and was disappointed that that was already over. “What’s all this?” he said in a tone which obviously hinted that he actually didn’t care, and instead focused on watching her walk away.

“Hmm. Just… Some things from Gage,” she hesitated without looking back, and he could feel his stomach sink. Just the mention of that name killed the mood he’d been trying to create. “Don’t worry about it.”

Her flippant disregard of something that clearly would annoy him just annoyed him even more. “Well, what is it?” he tried to play it off like it really didn’t matter, but he could tell by the way she immediately looked over her shoulder with those piercing eyes that he didn’t fool her one bit.

“Why don’t you just fucking read it if it bothers you?” Ilya responded coolly.

For a brief second his expression faltered, as if she had slung a harsh insult at him instead of a simple suggestion. Her brow furrowed thoughtfully.

Over the years in her life before all this, she had worked hard to make herself astute to the needs of others. She could tell what someone wanted, and especially what they wanted to hear, before even they knew. “She could sell ice to an eskimo” as her father always put it, and it was a skill she benefitted from greatly while in this new wasteland. And in this moment, she paused to choose her words carefully.

“Mike,” she slowly started, in a much softer tone, “ … do you not know how to read?”

“W-what?” He let out a short scoff and quickly stood up, waving a hand towards the papers nonchalantly. “Of course I can fuckin’ read, you think I’m an idiot? Man, you’re crazy,”

She stared at him silently. The feeling of her analyzing him was palpable and it made his face burn.

“I just, y’know, really don’t give a shit what kinda love letters you’re sharing behind my back with your ex-man, yeah? Like, he’s probably… probably just jealous that you’re with me now, fuckin’ obviously. Who wouldn’t be?” Mike shrugged with an over the top flourish and turned away from her. Her lips had curved into a hurt looking frown and he couldn’t stand to see it, especially with knowing he had caused it. He knew he was overreacting too much for her to actually believe him, but he couldn’t stop; for some reason just her finding out this one simple thing about him seemed to send him spiraling into a panic.

If she knew this, she knew some way she was better than him. She knew a weakness... And showing weakness only ever leads to getting himself hurt again.

“I didn’t mean that as an insult,” her tone remained the same, melodic and soothing, despite the fact that his seemed to unintentionally be rising in volume. “It’s just, not something I expected. That’s pretty uncommon, even in this world,” Ilya took a few tentative steps closer until she could see his face again, identifying from the way he stood avoiding her eyes that she was probably the first person to figure this out about him on their own and clearly he wasn’t equipped to deal with this kind of embarrassment.

“… So what now, you’re pitying me?” Mike cringed, just wishing he could have backtracked and reigned in his petty jealousy to avoid all this. “I don’t need your pity, Boss. You don’t…” he stopped himself, finally turning to look down with his mutilated vision onto the face of the woman standing so closely at his side. She was observing him thoughtfully with those translucent blue eyes, like maybe she actually genuinely had feelings, or at the very least some kind of compassion for him, but he told himself that he had learned better over the years than to fall for that. Everyone in this Wasteland was only looking after themselves, including himself, and she’d find some way she could use this against him. But his own thoughts sent a pang through his heart.

One of her ghostly hands extended to rest upon his back, the gentle contact against his skin sending an electric pulse through his whole body that knocked him out of the hypnotic effect of her gaze. He whipped around to face her fully, shoving that tiny hand away in the process. “You can’t know what my life was like, okay, Ilya? You think I had time for shit like that? I mean, fuck—“ his voice wavered and he hated it, one hand furiously rubbing into his blind eye. “I worked since I could walk. I grew up on a shitty farm out here, and I worked, just like everyone else. We all did. Me, my parents, my sist—“

Mike groaned to interrupt himself, having said too much again. Every time he opened his mouth, it was like a tidal wave of words he really didn’t ever want to say, but couldn’t hold them back. She didn’t even need to say anything and he was pouring out his fucking guts to her, what the fuck was wrong with him?

These were things he never wanted to talk about, things no one knew about as far as he was aware. He hated seeming like a weak wastelander like all the rest out there and kept up his confident visage at all times, at all cost. But despite himself, here he was, for some reason laying out to her his actual emotions plain as day. He just felt an inherent need to make her understand; he couldn’t let her walk away and think less of him, and the strain of attachment he suddenly felt for the Overboss seemed to facilitate his desire to explain himself. How did she manage to have this kind of hold over him?

It’s not like me and her have anything deeper than she had with Gage, the thought again bitterly resurfaced, but at this point he even found himself reluctant to believe it.

He was deeply considering at the moment how effective it would be to just shoot himself in his good leg with her rifle there on the ground to get out of this conversation when he was drawn out of his mind by those tiny arms extending up to loop around his neck. Ilya was significantly shorter than him and needed to stand on the toes of her boots to reach, but still strong enough to yank him down to her height and reconnect their lips in a forceful kiss, silencing all his grumbling once and for all. He could feel his stomach twist into knots for reasons he really didn’t want to delve too far into and the panic seemed to come to an abrupt pause. Unsure of how to respond from here, he just stood there, dumbly bent in half into his lover with his arms hanging at his sides.

After a few minutes, she leaned out of the kiss, but did not allow him any opportunity to storm off again; her right hand tangled itself into his messy blonde hair to redirect his head to rest face down into her chest. The motion was so gentle and careful that despite his instinctive reaction, he couldn’t even find the ability to force himself to remain on guard against her. His own arms slowly lifted, enveloping her small frame in a returning embrace with only a moderate amount of remaining caution. “You don’t need to be so worried,” Ilya began, and with his face buried in her breasts he couldn’t see but felt another small peck be placed against his temple. ”I care about you... And you can trust me,” she spoke softly, her voice now down so low he could barely hear it, as if this was a secret which only he was allowed to know.

This comfort was so unusual than anything he’d experienced before that it threw him off. She wasn’t judging him or mocking him. She didn’t even seem effected at all about any of the frantic rambling he just poured out onto her. Nothing that he expected to come did. Instead she just whispered kindly with that indiscernible accent she had, holding him tightly until he sighed the breath he hadn’t even realized he’d been keeping.

In that moment, he even found himself actually believing her.

“Besides, of course Gage is jealous I’m with you now. I mean, why wouldn’t he be?” Mike let out a muffled laugh and finally she could feel the tension release from his shoulders.

Both arms abruptly squeezed her tighter and then he tilted his head away from her chest so he could glance back into her eyes. “Ah, what’s that? Sorry mate, I was distracted by these tits. Fantastic.” He grinned, relieved the conversation had successfully shifted tones when he heard her bright sarcastic laugh as a response.

She swiftly stepped backwards until they were reacquainted with her ragged old couch again, never letting her hold on him slack. She dragged him along with her the whole way back, causing him to trip over his own feet to remain attached to the much tinier person in the way she demanded from him. Finally they were face to face once more, one mechanical leg pressed into the sagging cushions beside her hips, where she could adequately reunite their lips once again. In the middle of the kiss, she practically purred her response, answering his joke with a very serious, “Oh, you can believe I will give you something to be distracted by.”

#ilya valle #mike williams #my oc #friend's oc #fallout fanfiction #nuketext #lots of nuketext #i am really nervous to actually post anything i write ever. buuuuut here we go then #only because dino said she loved it #oc x oc #flirty trashbags #my writing

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stereksecretsanta · 6 years

Text

Merry Christmas, @daddy--oreo!

Have some feels and fluff! I hope you like it!

Rating: T

Summary: In which Stiles and Derek face their greatest foes yet: miscommunication and a crippling lack of self esteem! But hey, they work it all out in the end!

*****

Cast Aside These Broken Hearts

“It’s just a sprained ankle, buddy,” Stiles says, trying to pull his foot away but having no luck.

“I’m not your buddy,” Derek says, looking up from where he’s carefully wrapping Stiles’ ankle in a bandage to glare at him.

“Of course not,” Stiles says, sighing in what sounds like defeat.

It’s strange, Derek thinks, how shutting Stiles up just doesn’t fill him with the same glee that it used to.

“I didn’t…” Derek tries, “I mean, that’s not..”

“Whatever,” Stiles says, taking Derek’s stuttering as a chance to break away and stand up, ignoring the pain shooting through his ankle at the pressure. “I’ll get out of your way. See you next time something tries to kill us, I guess.”

He’s halfway to the door before Derek tries to stop him.

“Stiles,” he says, “I… you can’t drive like that. Let me bring you home at least.”

“I don’t drive with my left foot,” Stiles says, and then he’s gone, clicking the door shut softly behind him.

It somehow makes Derek cringe more than if he’d just slammed it.

“What the hell was that?” he asks the empty room. The room, thankfully, doesn’t answer.

“Why is it always you?” Derek groans as he dodges another honest-to-god fireball, pulling Stiles down to the ground with him before he can get barbecued.

“Because the universe is fucking cruel,” Stiles replies, still trying to catch his breath from running. “Obviously.”

Derek finds himself unexpectedly smarting at the comment. Stiles is always sarcastic and quick-witted, but the extra bitterness Derek hears in his voice recently is new. And unwelcome.

“Just stay down,” he says roughly, shoving Stiles behind what’s left of a warehouse wall.

“Hell no,” Stiles says, pulling himself up to crouch next to Derek again. “You want me to hide while everyone else gets charbroiled? You’re nuts!”

“We’ll heal,” Derek says, “just stay out of the way and we’ll take care of it.”

“Hey!” Stiles exclaims, “I’ve saved your furry asses more times than I can count! Don’t tell me to just roll over and play dead!”

“Stiles!” Derek shouts, eyes burning red in full force for a moment until he can get it under control.

Stiles, while resolutely refusing to show any fear, has gone silent.

“Just…please,” Derek says. Begs, really. “Just stay safe for once, ok?”

Stiles considers him for a long long moment, before finally nodding tightly.

“Fine,” he says. “I’ll sit this one out. But if you or any of my friends get fired, I’m resurrecting you just so I can kill you again! You got it?”

Before Derek can reply, a fireball flies past him, and he turns to face their opponents, roaring in anger at full volume.

He can’t be sure, but it definitely sounds like Stiles is laughing in delight behind him. But he’ll worry about that when all these freaking firestarters are taken care of.

“What I don’t get,” Stiles says, tossing the basketball over to Scott without even trying for the net, “is why he still hates me so much. I mean, it’s been like 6 years. And now I can’t even spend summer break back home without the ‘grr, arg’ act!”

“Pretty sure that’s vampires, dude,” Scott says, tossing the ball back to Stiles, who catches it with a huff.

“Why are we even doing this?” Stiles asks. “Neither of us play basketball.”

“It was your idea,” Scott says, shrugging.

“I think I needed to be doing something manly while I had this embarrassing conversation,” Stiles says, clutching the basketball to his chest tightly.

“It’s not embarrassing,” Scott says, “you’re allowed to talk about your feelings. Even if you don’t know what they are yet.”

“Oh my god,” Stiles whines, “you take a year of 101’s and think you’re Dr. Phil!”

Scott scoffs. “Dr. Phil is a hack!”

“True,” Stiles allows.

“And Derek doesn’t hate you,” Scott adds, belatedly. “I think that might be the problem.”

“What does that even mean?” Stiles asks, exasperated. “He’s always brushing me off, or telling me to stay out the way, or questioning all my plans, like I’m not training with Deaton on top of literally going to school for law enforcement!”

Scott decides to switch tactics to try and get through.

“How long have you wanted to be a cop?” Scott asks.

“My whole life,” Stiles says. “Except for that summer I wanted to be a rock star.”

“We were awful,” Scott laughs. “And how long have we known each other?”

“Forever, dude,” Stiles says. “I don’t know, like 15 years or so?”

“Right,” Scott says. “And how long has it been since I got bitten?”

“Six years,” Stiles says. That one, he knows he’ll never forget.

“And how long have you been in love with Derek?” Scott asks.

“Five years,” Stiles says immediately, and then cringes with what Scott can only assume is his brain re-booting.

“So you see the problem now?” Scott asks, gently.

Stiles just nods slowly and hands the ball over to Scott, who has gotten much closer than he was a moment before.

“I think I do,” he says. “I need to go…like right now, I need to go and find Derek.”

“Yeah you do!” Scott says, clapping Stiles on the shoulder. “Go get him!”

Stiles laughs and shakes his head.

“I need to go apologize to him,” he says. “I must have been making him so uncomfortable with my feelings or chemo-signals or whatever other stuff werewolf-y noses pick up on!”

“I don’t think you need to do that,” Scott tries, but Stiles is already jogging off towards the Jeep and waving goodbye.

“So,” Stiles says as Derek opens the door. “We should talk.”

Derek looks at him warily, but moves aside to allow Stiles in anyway, closing and locking the door behind him. The new apartment is nicer and warmer looking than the loft, but he still doesn’t ever feel completely at ease.

Stiles kicks off his shoes and settles down on one side of the couch, folding his legs under him and leaning his back against the couch arm. After a pointed stare at both Derek and the other side of the couch, Derek rolls his eyes and goes to sit down, mirroring Stiles’ pose just to annoy him.

“I wanted to apologize,” Stiles says once he’s seated. And well. That was definitely not what Derek was expecting.

“For what?” Derek asks, smirking. “If it’s about the time you dropped my favorite mug and tried to convince me a rogue pigeon took it out… don’t bother. Nobody believed that.”

“I’m being serious here,” Stiles says, frowning. “And I am sorry about the mug. But that’s not what this is about.”

“Then what?” Derek asks, giving Stiles his full attention.

“I need to apologize for my like…everything,” Stiles says, waving a hand around as if to encompass his entire being. “I didn’t realize I was even doing it until it was too late, but I’ll try to stop from now on. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable anymore.”

“What are you even talking about?” Derek asks, bewildered and more than a little concerned at the tone of Stiles’ voice.

“The feelings!” Stiles bursts out. “The romantic-y type feelings! That are not reciprocated. Like, at all. I just… I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Oh,” Derek says, suddenly subdued. “Those feelings.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says, wiping angrily at his eyes with the back of his hands and avoiding Derek’s stare.

“Maybe we should just not hang around each other for a while,” Stiles says, quietly.

Derek flinches back at that, but pulls himself together before his face can show just how much he hates that idea.

“If that’s what you think is best,” he says.

“I guess I do,” Stiles says, standing up and heading for the door.

Before he can get past Derek though, he finds himself stopped by Derek’s fingers around his wrist.

“Wait,” Derek says. “Please. Just, don’t run off.”

“I really don’t want to stay and humiliate myself further,” Stiles says, moving to wrench his arm away, but Derek’s grip stays tight.

“Is it really that humiliating?” Derek asks, looking oddly hurt. “I mean, I know you don’t feel the same way I do. But is it so awful that you think you need to run away?”

“I don’t want to put any pressure on you!” Stiles says, “not even subconsciously. You deserve way better than some scrawny asshole shoving his hormones in your face all the time!”

“What?” Derek asks, suddenly feeling like he’s completely lost the plot.

He drops his grip from Stiles’ wrist, and watches as it goes slack and falls to Stile’s side.

Stiles sighs deeply before squaring his shoulders and finally looking Derek in the face again.

“I’m fucking crazy about you, man,” he says, pausing to steel himself and take a deep breath. “I’m sorry.”

Derek, however, is just looking up at him like is entire life has been a lie.

“You’re crazy about me?” he asks, incredulously. “Since when?”

“About twenty minutes ago,” Stiles replies. “Give or take about five years.”

“What.” Derek’s so shocked that he can’t even make it into a real question.

“I’m a little slow on the uptake sometimes, shut up,” Stiles says, crossing his arms against his chest defensively.

Suddenly, Derek is laughing. Full on, body-shaking, gasping-for-air laughing, head buried in his hands on his lap.

Stiles really isn’t sure what to do in this situation. He’s prepared for if Derek gets angry(retreating,) or if he gets mean(wolfsbane and then retreating), but no protocol for Derek melting down with laughter.

“I don’t know what’s happening here,” he says as Derek’s laughter starts to die down, “but I’m gonna go now. Thanks for not mauling me and all that.”

“No!” Derek says, standing up so suddenly that Stiles gets a little dizzy.

And then Derek is right there in front of him, green eyes shining from the tears of laughter, smiling at Stiles like he knows something that he does not.

Which, considering the way the day is going, Stiles imagines is entirely possible.

“I thought you were apologizing for not feeling the same way I do,” Derek says, finally, reaching out to rest one big hand against Stiles’ neck, cupping his jaw.

“I..I was,” Stiles says, shivering at the touch against his valiant attempt not to.

“Then you obviously have no idea how I feel about you,” Derek says, smiling in that way that always makes Stiles knees feel like jello.

“How do you feel about me?” Stiles asks, voice hoarse, “because I was under the impression that it was somewhere between hatred and reluctant ally most days.”

“I’m fucking crazy about you, too,” Derek says, and then he’s leaning in and all Stiles can do is meet him halfway for an incredibly sweet kiss.

“Hey,” Stiles says later, when the Netflix screen asks them if they’re still watching the show they haven’t seen a minute of.

“Yeah?” Derek asks, running his thumb under Stiles’ kiss-swollen lips and staring up at him with lust-hazed eyes.

Stiles grins, completely forgetting whatever he was about to say.

“Never mind,” he says instead, moving down to kiss Derek again. “This is way more important.”

Suffice to say, Derek agrees.

#daddy--oreo #stereksanta17 #*fic17 #*gifts17

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xaphrin · 7 years

Text

Lost Bearings

“You could have been killed.”

[more under the cut]

There’s a bite to her voice - a note he hears so little that his shoulders slump in a strange form of defense, and Obi begins to feel as if he’s a dog who’s been scolded by his master. He can feel his heart fall into the pit of his stomach, swaying with the motion of the ship. They’re moored just outside an island, high, green cliffs sheltering them from the view of enemies and the rougher edges of the wind, but right now it feels as if they’re out in the open sea, and the thunder is sweeping across the waves to take them into the heart of a storm. He swallowed the feelings that were bubbling into his throat, and looked away from her. It’s better if she doesn’t see the rawer parts of him.

“Obi.” She was trying to get him to talk, but his self-preservation didn’t let him do more than state the obvious.

“You’d been captured, Miss-”

“Shirayuki.” She corrected him with even more snap of her teeth than he’s used to, and he cringed internally, but refused to allow his emotions take purchase on his face.

“-Umiheibi wasn’t going to play nice. I refused to let anything happen to you, and…” He trailed off, the echoes of his hastily shouted words perpetually echoing in the empty space between his ears. Gods. Had he… had he really said that to her? And in front of the entire crew? It was one thing to keep his emotions hidden in his heart, but it was something completely different to have not only Shirayuki, but the rest of his crew to know his feelings. He was never going to live this down.

“I couldn’t lose you,” he finished lamely, his voice nearly cracking. The pesky feeling of self-preservation kicked in, and he tried to cover up his feelings with practicality. “Do you know how hard it is to find someone with your skill?”

Shirayuki’s nible fingers paused, resting just above a healing wound on his shoulder, and he could feel the unmistakable heat of her breath curl down his spine. Heavens. This was not helping him at all. True, he’d been in this position a hundred times before, caught under her tender touch as she tried to heal him, but this time it felt different. This time, it felt like everything had changed between them. He leaned forward and rested his head in his hands, staring down at the planks of the floor. He wasn’t above counting nails if he had to.

“Is… is that it?”

He closed his eyes, listening to the hitch in her voice, and he knew it was too much to hope for. It was too much to want to believe that she might want him the same way he wanted her - that whatever this was between them was more than just quick quips and companionship.

“You just don’t want to lose your medic?”

She leaned forward and Obi could feel the soft push of her breasts against his shoulder, the linen of his shirt loose on her form. It was only then that he realized she hadn’t changed out of it just yet. He had offered it to her after her own clothes became soaked in a fall from one of Umiheibi’s smaller boats, but they were back on their own ship now, and her cabin was only a deck below. His heart twisted again and Obi felt as though his breath had been caught in his chest, refusing to leave.

Silence stretched between them, almost awkward with its length, and Obi felt her hands slide over his arms. He could feel the ridges and bumps in her fingers, and knew where she would stop to pet a scar or trace the curve of a muscle. It was familiar, and her touch was careful, almost cautious, as if she was afraid that he might run away if she pushed too close. She was giving him the space to run if he wanted, but Obi felt glued to the spot. He felt like everything had stopped, and that storm inside him raged even harder, begging for his attention.

Shirayuki rested her forehead against the back of his neck, the heat from her skin making his body tighten with need. “Obi… you… you called me Love.”

His back tensed and icy panic flooded him. If he tried just hard enough, he might be able to make it to the main deck, and maybe he could escape her for a little while. He could hide in the crow’s nest, or duck into the store rooms if he needed. At least until he figured out the right answer to her question. But, nothing inside him would move. He was nailed to the spot on his bed, and Shirayuki was simply kneeling behind him, dressed in nothing more than his shirt. She was blanketing him, trying to offer some kind of warmth and protection against… everything.

“It was… it was a spur-of-the-moment decision.” It was his brain misfiring, like a poorly made pistol.

“Did you mean it?” She leaned closer, and he could feel her nipples through the fabric. Gods, this was really not helping.

“Calling you Love?”

She nodded, but said nothing else.

“I…”

“No lies. No redirects. No half-truths, Obi… did you…” Her voice broke, and she shivered against him. He could feel her fear fluttering against her skin - the same fear that ran through him - that these feeling where unrequited. She was just as afraid of this newness that he was. Shirayuki’s eyes fluttered and he could feel her eyelashes against his neck. “…did you mean it? That I was your love?”

Yes. Unequivocally yes.

“I… suppose. In the heat of the moment, it made sense.”

“Oh…”

Shirayuki drew her arms back, resting her weight on her ankles as she forced a small amount of space between them. Obi felt bereft without her next to him, like his energy and his emotions had been syphoned from his limbs. Lead filled his body, weighing him down, and Obi forced himself to look over his shoulder at her. She was a picture of dejection, her shoulders slumped, her hair tangled around her face, her eyes downcast towards her lap. Every part of her screamed something he didn’t want to see, but Obi didn’t know what else to say or do. He just sat there and stared at her.

“I… I suppose I hoped too much then.” She forced a small polite smile, and it pulled tight at the edges of her lips. “That… nevermind. I should… I should go dry out my things.”

“Miss…” What had he done? She didn’t deserve this. She didn’t deserve any of this. “Miss, I…”

Shirayuki moved from his bed, setting her legs onto the floor. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

Yes. Yes there was. She could stay here with him, wrapped in his arms as he whispered all the secrets that were still building inside him. He had spent the last few years chasing her around islands, feeling her hands on him when he was injured, learning everything he could about her, and it had all culminated to this moment - he felt like a pot that had been left to boil for too long with nowhere to go but up in smoke. He was waiting for a moment like this, a moment where everything could just be out and open in front of them.

His hand reached out as if to touch her, but Shirayuki had already moved away, straightening herself the best she could. The lace edge of her pantalettes were peeking out from the bottom edge of his shirt, practically taunting him.

“If you need me-”

I need you.

“-I’ll be in my quarters.” She straightened her hair with her shaking hands and moved towards the door, pausing briefly. It was like she was waiting for him to say something, to stop her from leaving, but Obi couldn’t. He could only just sit there and stare, knowing his face was blank. Shirayuki’s shoulders sagged against an invisible weight and she opened the to step outside. “Good night, Captain.”

Obi cringed, the word landing on his skin with all the sting of a slap. He waited until he was positive that she had left before looking up. Inside his chest was a war of emotions, each one rumbling and clawing against him. Had that really happened? Had they actually been so close to finally saying what they had both been avoiding for so long? And… and for what? For every word to tangle like rough rope in his throat, all because he was scared.

Gods, what kind of useless idiot was he? His love for her felt so violent and strong that it scared him. This was no life for a woman, even one as strong-willed and stalwart as Shirayuki. It was a rough life, filled with fear and scars and the constant shadow of death. If something were to happen to her he would never be able to forgive himself. He wouldn’t be able to bear with the thought that his life and his choices drug her into a world he couldn’t control and she couldn’t fight against.

It would be his fault for dragging her into this, and what could he do to fix it?

Nothing.

Obi hadn’t been able to sleep all night. He lay in his bed, imagining that he could still smell the scent of the herbs that clung to her skin. It was earthy and musty and smelled so much of her. He was almost certain it was his mind playing tricks on him, but it felt so real - like the echo of her form still with him. Hand tucked behind his head, he stared up at the crossbeams above his bed, hearing the soft lull of waves fade into the quiet still of night.

Why couldn’t he tell her what he was feeling? Why couldn’t he admit to her that she… that she was everything to him? It was such a stark contrast to a year ago, when the Wistalia family had suggested he tote her around on his adventures. Then, he considered Shirayuki the worst burden imaginable. A woman was bad enough, but a reckless one? He considered himself lucky that his ship didn’t sink the moment her toes touched the deck.

But… she was perfect. Smart, quick-witted, brave, soft, kind… all the things Obi never thought he needed, let alone want in a woman. He just had to admit it out loud, and he had to admit it to her. She deserved that little bit at least.

He sat up and swung his legs over the edge of his bed. His stomach knotted in a strange feeling of resolution, and he knew what he had to do. It was one thing to keep her at arm’s length for her protection, but it was something completely different to deny the feelings they both had because he was scared of his own feelings. Shirayuki called him brave and foolish, and she smiled at him with this secretive little smile that peeked out from behind a book or the canvas cloth she used as a sunshade. She made him feel like he was stronger that he looked, and he couldn’t let her thoughts of him be sullied by anything different.

Obi shoved his feet into his boots and practically stomped across the deck, ducking into the belly of the ship to find her room tucked in the curve of the bow as it had always been. She was still here, and that’s what he needed. He could see a flicker of light creep out from between the door and the floor. A smile pulled at his lips as he thought about all the times he told her not to waste oil - she never listened, and he learned to buy more than he thought they might need. His heart swelled as he thought about all of the happy memories that filled all the cracks and spaces of his ship. Shirayuki was so utterly ingrained in every part of him, he would never get her out.

Obi walked through the narrow hold of of their supplies, trying to be as quiet as possible. The last thing he needed was for the crew to wake and everyone to know what he was going to do. It suddenly occurred to Obi how much more private this would be if he had just admitted it to her in his own quarters.

Behind him, he could hear Suzu roll around in his cot, mumbling ‘bout time.

His cheeks flushed and Obi quietly opened the door to Shirayuki’s small workspace. She must have fallen asleep at the desk, a smudge of black ink on her cheek as she slumped over a letter she’d been writing a letter to… to him. Her hands cover most of what she’d been writing but he sees a line that makes him stop dead in his tracks:

…I think it’s time I returned to the Wistalias…

He swallowed and looked from the letter to her sleeping form. His heart ached, air leaving his lungs in a single rush so loud that it started Shirayuki awake. Her eyes fluttered, a verdant green staring up at him from beneath the dark red of her eyelashes. They stared at each other for a long moment, and Obi watched as the lace strap of her nightgown slid over her pale shoulder, exposing curves of her that were not lewd by nature, but no less erotic.

His mouth set into a thin line, and he grabbed the letter from under her hand, crumpling it up and throwing it into a corner of the room to be forgotten.

“I refuse.”

Shirayuki just sat there, trying to understand what he meant through the haze of sleep.

“I need you, Shirayuki.”

#obiyuki #obiyukibingo #pirate au #in which there is a complicated backstory that i will shelve for a later date #and obi is a pirate #who never ties the laces on his shirt #because he's so extra

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phanarchy-blog · 7 years

Text

The End of All Things

Description: Phil has something to tell Dan- he’s getting married. How will Dan cope?

Rating: PG-13

Words: 2814

2019

“Dan, I need to talk to you,” Phil said solemnly. The tone in his voice surprised Dan, and if he were being quite honest, scared him.

“Can it wait until after we film PINOF 10?” Dan asked. He was hesitant to have the conversation, whatever it may be. Phil considered his request briefly.

“Yeah, I suppose it could. It may be better this way,” he responded. It was ambiguous, and vague, and it was the worst sort of tease. The kind where you knew it was bad, but you had to know now, or the anxious curiosity would burn at your throat until you found out.

“Well, nevermind,” Dan said. “Now I need to hear it. Shoot.” He braced himself as Phil sat on the sofa, angling himself towards Dan.

“So, you know how I turned 32 this year, and how we’ve been doing this for 10 years now, and we’ve been so caught up in each other and our channels and the tour, we’ve never really had time to date and stuff, right?” Phil was rambling, and Dan had no idea where it was headed.

“Uh huh, go on..”

“Dan, I joined a dating site.” Phil was nearly cringing in anticipation of Dan’s reaction. Dan just laughed.

“What, like you’re on Tinder now?” He chuckled, relief on his face. “I mean, may be a bit risky what with all the Phangirls, but you do you.” He turned away and stood to leave when Phil grabbed at his hand and kept him in place.

“No, it’s not like Tinder. Sit, please.” Phil now covered his face with his free hand, sliding it down while exhaling. He wondered the best way to explain. “It’s not really a normal dating site. It’s more like, a professional matchmaker. For people serious about meeting someone and getting married soon. Dan, they found someone for me.” The seriousness of the situation hit Dan again like a train.

“You’re, you’re getting married?” he asked.

“Probably, yeah. I haven’t met her in person yet, but we’ve chatted, and she’s really nice. I like her.”

“Phil, this sounds like an arranged marriage, doesn’t it? I mean,” panic was setting into his voice now. Panic and some other, undefined feeling that had his breathing shallow and his stomach in knots. “Phil, wouldn’t you rather marry someone you know? Someone you really enjoy spending time with? Someone you love?”

“Well, I sure as hell am not marrying you now, am I?” There was a bitterness to his voice that was entirely foreign to each of them, and their eyes welled as their throats closed.

Adding to all that, Dan was also confused. Why was he feeling so desperate? And what exactly was he desperate for? It’s not as if he and Phil had anything going on. They haven’t been the least bit romantic since- Well, since-

2009

The two had just finished shooting PINOF 1. Well, most of it. They were now laying on the floor next to Phil’s bed, after Phil pounced on Dan. Phil ran his hand through Dan’s thick hair, brushing it off of his face. He leaned down and smiled, that fuckboy smile that occasionally graced his videos and made Dan weak. Phil closed his eyes as he kissed Dan, breathing him in as deeply as possible, tongue gliding over his lips.

Dan pulled back though, as far as he could for someone whose head was against the floor. Phil stopped, looking into his eyes.

“Something wrong?” he asked.

“I just,” Dan started. “It’s just that I don’t think I’m ready for this. I like you, and you’re really turning me on right now..”

“But,” Phil interrupted.

“...but I’ve never felt like this about a guy, and I’m really confused.”

Phil sat upright, knowing that the moment was over. He faced away from Dan so he wouldn’t see the shine in his eyes, threatening to spill over and give him away.

“Phil, I think we should be friends until I figure myself out. Because you’re my best friend already and I really don’t want to hurt you and I don’t want to lose you. Maybe that’s selfish, but-”

“You’re not gonna lose me,” he said quickly. He cleared his throat. “And it doesn’t hurt that much, I’ll be fine. Friends first, right?” Phil smiled at him the best he could. Dan smiled back.

“Friends first.”

2019

“So, what’s her name again? I don’t want to mess it up and come off like a douche.”

“Dan, relax. Sarah will love you.”

He was meeting Phil’s- girlfriend? Betrothed? Fiancée? Ugh. He was meeting Sarah today. Phil had made it official, and now she wanted to meet his Best Man. Dan was honored, of course, to accept the position, but something about it still felt bitter-sweet.

He thought it must be the thought of Phil moving out, leaving Dan alone in the flat. They’d still be friends, no doubt. But Dan knew that Phil and Sarah would probably move to a house on the outskirts of London, and get a dog, and maybe have a baby, and he would be stuck alone. Yeah, that must be it. He feared the loneliness.

Yet, when Sarah entered Starbucks and Phil instantly got up to hug her hello, Dan felt that same undefined sting he felt the day Phil told him about her. His stomach was so tight and all he wanted to do was tear the two apart. He wanted to pull him away. Why?

“Dan, Sarah. Sarah, Dan,” Phil said, snapping Dan out of his day dream.

“It’s so great to meet you!” she said. “I’d say ‘finally’ but truth be told, it’s all happened so quickly!” She was sweet, and had the same innocent glow about her that attracted, no drew, rather, Dan to Phil. Dan reached out to shake her hand.

“It has, hasn’t it?” It came off more snarky than he meant it. Almost judgemental.

“Well, let’s have a seat, you both. Get chatting, I’ll order. Caramel machiatto for Dan, Sarah, what’s your drink?”

“I’ll have a cappuccino, thanks!” When Phil turned away, Sarah spoke to Dan. “Strange he knows your order, but not mine,” she laughed.

“Not really that strange,” Dan quipped. “We’ve been friends for ten years. Flatmates for seven. We know almost all there is to know about each other.”

Sarah leaned in, as if they were close friends, before asking, “Anything you should warn me about him then?” Her eyes sparkled and like that, she was easy to talk to, to be friends with. Sarah was lovely.

“Well, he steals cereal, so you’d better hide it if you want to know you’ll safely have yours in the morning,” he said. “Then again, you both will probably share cereal.”

Phil returned with the drinks and set them all down in front of each of them.

“Pleased to see you’re getting along,” Phil said.

“So, I guess we may as well get on with it and tell you the big news!” Sarah spoke for herself and Phil. It felt wrong to Dan.

“Big news?” he asked.

“We have a date picked out. December 28th!” A date. They had a date picked out. The pang that had been in his chest all morning intensified at the thought of Phil with her, deciding on a date for their wedding. Yet he had to stay cool.

“Next year? That sounds good.”

“No, this year. In 3 weeks,” Phil retorted. He looked at Dan seriously, assessing his reaction.

“3 weeks? Are you kidding me?” Suddenly the walls were closing in on him. His shallow breathing sped up and he thought he may vomit by the knot in his stomach, the pin pricks in his finger tips. He stood up, tugging at his collar in an attempt to let some of that damn sweat evaporate. “I need to go.” Phil stood up as well.

“Dan?”

“I’m sorry Phil, Sarah, I need to go, now.” And he bolted out the door, leaving the bell chiming behind him. He ran until he was out of breath, which in truth was not very long, given his history with exercise and his current state of mind. He sank to the pavement as the tears came, for the first time since he’d been told, he cried over Phil’s impending marriage. And now that it was happening, he wondered why he hadn’t cried sooner. Because now, he finally understood.

He loved him. He had always loved him. And now he was marrying someone else.

Two Weeks Until the Wedding

Dan entered the living room to find Phil scribbling in a journal, something he hadn’t done since that failed New Year’s Resolution of 2013.

“What’s that about?” Dan asked him.

“It’s something Sarah does and she told me I should try it. She says it’ll help me sort out my feelings since this is all happening so quickly.”

“Oh,” Dan replied. “Is it working?”

“Yeah, I think so,” he smiled at him softly, in a way that said I know this is hard, be patient, it’ll all work out.

Phil stood up and entered his bedroom, coming out soon after.

“I’m going to the shop. Want anything?”

“Nah, I’m set. Thanks, Phil.”

When the door shut behind him, the emptiness sank in. The flat was not the same without Phil’s shimmer and glow. The air left Dan’s chest and even though he was breathing, it still felt like he was suffocating. Then he thought of the journal, hiding all of Phil’s thoughts on the matter, lurking not 10 meters away from him. He knew he shouldn’t, but a strange void had overtaken him lately and Dan would do anything in his power to end this. He had felt like this before, but not since September, 2009.

He entered Phil’s room, nearly floating, and checked the most obvious place he could think of, Phil’s bedside table drawer. And the journal was in there, of course, since Phil wouldn’t hide it. He was so trusting. Dan flipped through the pages quickly, unsure what he was looking for until he caught a glance of his own name.

Dan is taking it pretty hard, I think. He tries to be positive in front of me, and in front of Sarah, but I can see it in his eyes, even when he smiles and laughs. And if that doesn’t give it away there’s the fact that he literally ran out of Starbucks when we told him when we were getting married.

Wow, I’m getting married to Sarah. It’s so strange how your whole future can change in an instant. There was a time, and it didn’t seem too long ago, that I thought I wouldn’t marry anyone if it wasn’t Dan.

Dan froze, re-reading the line a full six times before he was certain he interpreted it correctly. Phil had wanted to marry him. Or at least, didn’t want to marry anyone else. But, it was all in past tense. He continued-

Of course, Dan has never felt that way and that’s fine, because I have Sarah now. And she’s really amazing. I never thought I could feel excited to get to know someone again. It’s like, well, it’s like falling in love.

Dan snapped the journal shut and the icy, heavy feeling returned to his heart. He nearly threw it back in the drawer when he saw a tiny velvet box. He knew what this meant, it would be a wedding band. Part of him ached at the thought that he hadn’t seen it before. That Phil wouldn’t have shown him the ring he got for Sarah. But maybe he was doing his best not to rub it in his face. Dan shouldn’t have looked.

But inside the tiny box was a silver ring. It had a thick band, and a small black stone in it. It was a men’s ring, must be Phil’s. And it was beautiful. Not really Phil’s style, Dan thought, but then again, how would Sarah even know?

Dan returned to the living room just in time for Phil to come around the corner.

“Malteasers?” Phil said as he tossed the bag in Dan’s lap. Dan sniffed back his tears before answering.

“Thank you.”

One Week Until the Wedding

Dan was walking through the kitchen when the thought occurred to him. It was so sudden, out of the blue. And then he was acting on it, and he hadn’t thought it through at all, really. He just knew it was what he wanted and he was about 99% sure Phil wouldn’t really mind so he went with it.

He stepped up to Phil, who was sitting on the sofa, laptop in lap, mug of coffee in hand. Dan took the mug from him and set it on the table wordlessly.

“Dan?” Phil asked. Dan slid his laptop off his lap and onto the sofa beside him. He grabbed Phil by the hands and stood him up.

Phil looked at him quizzically. Then Dan leaned into him, his face embarrassingly close. He waited a moment, and Phil did not pull back. The heat of his breath so near to him, Dan closed the gap and pressed his lips to Phil’s. In an instant, they were kissing. Phil was kissing him back and Dan wrapped his arm around his waist, curled his fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck. Phil grabbed him by the hips gently.

Dan separated them when he felt his jeans getting tighter around his groin. Best to avoid that embarrassment.

“What was that?” Phil asked.

“I just,” Dan hadn’t even thought about how he’d explain it afterwards. “I just wanted to do that. You know, once. If it’s my last chance.”

Their breathing was shallow again, but filled with a new kind of anticipation.

“If it’s your last chance?” Phil repeated.

“Well, not like I can stop the wedding,” Dan replied.

“You can’t stop the wedding?” Phil was confused, and his words weren’t making sense. To him or to Dan. Rather than fight him on it, Dan just nodded and left the room. He wanted to leave the kiss exactly how it was, untainted by explanations of feelings and worries about what is to come. He had kissed Phil for the second, and last, time.

December 28th, 2019

“Phil, I’ve been working on something I want to show you.”

“Dan, what is it? You’re gonna make me late to my own wedding,” he chided, knowing that procrastination and tardiness was an ongoing joke between them.

“You’ll like this, I swear. And I made sure you have time. We’re already dressed and everything.”

Just come in here, he gestured towards his bedroom. Phil entered and Dan followed behind him, sitting down at the piano.

“Aren’t surprise performances usually done at the reception?” Phil laughed.

“I thought you’d prefer this one be more private.”

Dan didn’t wait for his reaction before striking the first few chords. The melody was slow, and beautiful, and full of passion. Phil recognized the song, though he couldn’t identify it until Dan began to sing.

“Whether near or far, I am always yours. Any change in time, we are young again.”

Phil brought his hands to his mouth as Dan continued. His voice was not perfect, and slightly off-key, but his it was every bit as passionate as the piano.

“In these coming years, many things will change, but the way I feel, will remain the same.”

Phil began crying openly.

“Lay us down, we’re in love.” Dan choked up at that line, but he made it through. And as he finished the last notes and let them ring out, Phil grasped him around the neck from behind and sobbed into his neck. Dan stood to face him.

“It’s okay, Phil,” he said. “I just wanted you to know.” But Dan’s acceptance was met with a needy kiss from Phil. He twisted his fingers in Dan’s hair. Dan shuddered against him. It was unexpected and he was left with his confidence shaken. He was prepared to sing his song, make his piece, and let Phil go. But how could he let go of this? He wrapped his best friend, his love, in a tight hug and began crying again himself.

“Don’t go,” Dan said. “I don’t want you to go.”

“I’m not going,” Phil cried. “We’re in love.”

Thanks so much for anyone who reads, likes, or reblogs this! I don’t think it’s well-written but I worked really hard on it and I love the story line! Like this story? Read on to Part 2, When the Day Met the Night!

#phanfiction #phan #dan and phil

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