#or else these will never be more than a smattering of bullet points | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

angelasscribbles · 2 years

Text

Hinge: Homecoming Part 1

Series: Hinge.

Fandom: The Royal Romance/The Royal Heir

Pairings: Drake x Riley x Liam

Word Count: 2,597

Rating: M

Warnings: Violence, medical emergency

A/N: So I've had an interaction between Drake and Riley in the safe house in my head for probably over a year now, since before I published my first TRR fic. But once I started writing this, I realized just how crap canon is around this.

First, there is no way her security detail just drops her at the safe house and leaves. They are not needed at the palace. They are assigned to her detail, not the general guard and leaving her would be an egregious dereliction of duty.

Second, any organization with the foresight to have safe house, has emergency medical personnel on standby as well. They just can't be as incompetent as PB made them out to be or the entire royal family would have been murdered years ago.

Third, no way MC can patch up a bullet wound with alcohol swabs and gauze. Come on now.

So....Riley and Drake are not going to be alone in that safe house, and this changes my original ideas. Also, it got longer than intended, so I had to split it into two parts.

DISCLAIMER: I know plenty of other people have written this night, the homecoming ball, the shooting, the safe house. This is my take on it, any similarities to anyone's version is purely unintentional and coincidental.

Everything else: Master List.

Riley was happy. Everything was going right for a change. The news of her engagement to Liam had been very well received, both in Cordonia and abroad. Engagement photos were scheduled, wedding planning was in full swing, and she’d already picked out the perfect wedding dress. Things couldn’t have been better.

She’d spent some alone time with both Drake and Liam earlier in the day and she was feeling satiated, content and cherished. Real happiness bubbled up in her chest and lodged there, refusing to budge.

She was standing next to one of her loves while watching the other on the stage. Liam was getting ready to announce her appointment as Duchess of Valtoria, making their engagement official and airtight. She felt Drake’s hand resting comfortingly on the small of her back, his nearness calming her nerves, soothing what little bit of stage fright remained. As she watched Liam’s eyes land on her, full of love and warmth, she felt like her heart might burst from happiness. He reached his hand toward her. She reached back.

One moment, all was right with her world. More than right. Shining, sparkling, the future laid out in front of her like the promised land stretching in the distance. Then in an instant, it was all snatched away, shattered, and everything she had, everything she loved was slipping through her fingertips.

The lights went out, plunging the ballroom in darkness. The sound of boots storming through the room combined with smatterings of shouts and gasps as guests were shoved and pushed aside.

When the lights came up, all she saw was a gun pointed straight at Liam. Her heart stopped; time slowed down. She screamed his name as she struggled to push her way through the crowd to get to him. She never saw the second gunman, never saw the gun pointed at her own head. She had no awareness of her own danger until she heard the gunshot and by then, Drake’s body had already crashed into hers, sending her sprawling to the floor as his body dropped its weight onto her.

Blood. There was blood everywhere. She was swimming in it, hot and sticky, smearing everywhere as she tried to sit up. Why couldn’t she move? Drake. Drake was on top of her, and he wasn’t moving.

“Drake? Drake? Drake!” Scalding tears fell down her face, the breath ripped from her body. The blood, it was his. No, no, no, oh God, please, no, the desperate prayer repeated in her head, on loop. Her focused narrowed to her frantic pleas to a god she wasn’t sure existed.

Then Drake was gone, and she was being hauled to her feet, as a voice shouted, “Move!”

Her head twisted around, frantically searching the stage, “Liam! Where-“

“Your Majesty…Lady Riley…Riley! Look at me!” The voice barely penetrated her senses as she was pulled along toward the exit.

She slowly turned her head toward the voice as the ringing in her ears started to subside, “Marco?”

“Yes, it’s me, it’s Marco. Alec has Liam, trust him, we have to go now! Drake needs medical attention!”

That got her attention, “Drake? Drake! Where is he?”

“This way!” Marco shouted and Riley followed him without another argument.

She found herself in the back of an unmarked black SUV, Drake was sitting up, but his head was lolled back against the leather upholstery, a young guard she didn’t recognize applying pressure to the wound. “Can you put pressure on this?” He yelled at her.

“Uh..ye…yes!” She replaced his hand on the makeshift tourniquet as the young guard dove out of the car and ran back toward the chaos. Marco slid into the seat the other guard had just vacated as Bruno jumped into the front passenger seat yelling, “Go! Go! Go!” to the driver.

“Where are we going?” The driver yelled back.

“Safe house A19!” Bruno responded.

Riley was startled away from staring into Drake’s face, silently willing him to live. Panic spiked through her, “What? No! He needs a hospital! Marco! He needs a hospital!”

“No, we can’t risk it, we’ll have a doctor meet us at the safe house.”

“What?” Nothing made sense.

“We have a cadre of trusted doctors on call for these situations.”

“But-“

Her objections went unheard as the SUV hurtled through the Cordonian night. Drake’s voice was weak and thready, barely above a whisper, “He’s right….”

“Drake! You need a hospital!” Panic laced her voice. She felt relief surge through her at the sound of his voice, but fear spiked right behind it as she registered the feebleness of it. His skin was too pale, his breathing too labored, blood was still seeping through the tourniquet. He can’t die, he can’t die, he can’t die, please God, he can’t die!

“S’ok…” He squeezed his eyes shut and grimaced in pain then he opened them again and found hers, “Not…sorry….they were…..aiming….” He grunted again then drew in a deep breath, “for you.”

“What?” Her eyes opened wide in shock.

He nodded, as his eyes searched hers, “You’re….ok?”

“I’m fine, Drake! You’re the one that got shot!” She was crying again.

“It’s ok….if I die….worth it…”

“You’re not going to die! You can’t die! Please, please, please, I love you, please, you can’t leave me!” Huge, shuddering sobs wracked her body, tears and snot streaked her face and she didn’t care, she didn’t notice. The entirety of her consciousness had narrowed to this one moment, to this one request, no, this one demand of the universe, of him: Live!

The bleeding had slowed down, but she didn’t know if that was a good thing or a bad thing. Was it because she had successfully staunched the bleeding or because he was almost out of blood?

The car had barely rocked to a stop before the three guards were out of it, two of them pulling Drake from the backseat.

Drake’s body sagged between the other men as Marco and Bruno helped him from the car and into the small unassuming house.

Marco flipped the light switch, nothing. He looked over his shoulder at the guardsman that had driven them there, “Hey Wallace, go outside and find the breaker.”

“Yes, Lieutenant.” The man replied as he disappeared out the door.

“Where do you want him?” Bruno asked.

Why were they asking her? Riley’s head swiveled between them in confusion before it dawned on her. Liam wasn’t here, and Drake was barely conscious. They were looking to her for answers. For orders. Shit!

She scanned the house quickly then nodded toward the back, where an open door was visible in the dim light filtering through the windows, “Is that a bedroom?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Bruno answered her.

“In there then.” Riley walked with them, keeping pressure on the wound as the men moved him into the bedroom and lowered him carefully onto the bed. Bruno left the room to go keep watch out front while Marco hesitated in the doorway, his worried gaze falling on Drake.

Riley straddled him so she could use her body weight to keep pressure on his shoulder. “Where the fuck is that doctor?”

“On his way, Your Majesty, but I think there’s a first aid kit in the kitchen.” Marco answered.

“Well bring it to me!” She yelled, as if she were used to ordering soldiers around, but her fear had made her desperate.

“Drake! Drake! Wake up!” She begged.

A low moan came from the man below her, “Lemme sleep….”

“No, no, stay with me, please!”

The sound of banging cabinets and drawers filled the house, then Marco reappeared with the first aid kit just as the lights flickered on.

“What’s in it?” She asked.

“Uh…” Marco flipped it open and dug through it, “Band aids, alcohol swabs, some gauze, ace bandages-“

“Fuck, give me the-“

“The doctor’s here!” Bruno called out.

“Oh thank God!” The relief that washed through her was so strong, she thought she might pass out from it.

A young doctor entered the room, followed by a nurse carrying a medical bag. The doctor cut the shirt away from his shoulder and moved the tourniquet, “Good job stopping the bleeding, let’s clean this up and see what we’ve got.

Riley moved out the way as the medical professionals worked, but she refused to leave the room.

Marco tried, “Riley, come sit down, let me get you something to-“

“I’m not leaving him!” She snarled at him.

He nodded and stepped back, “Of course, I understand. I’ll be just outside the door if you need me.”

She watched as the doctor and nurse worked together to clean, exam and repair the wound.

“How bad is it?” She asked, “Is he…is he….”

“I’d say he’s the luckiest man in Cordonia!” The doctor said as hung a bag of blood from an IV pole. “If you’re going to take a bullet to the shoulder, this is how you do it. It went under the clavicle but above the scapula, and missed every major artery. He’s going to be fine, but there is a lot of tissue damage, and he suffered a good amount of blood loss.”

Riley gaped at him in astonishment, the IV pole had been in a closet, she’d watched the nurse pull it out, but where had the blood come from? “You just happened to have blood with you? Blood that matched Drake’s type?”

“When the call came in, they gave me a code that told me who it was. We have all guardsmen’s blood types on file, as well as members of the royal family, council members and anyone else we might be called on to treat.” He explained. “So yes, I brought blood with me. We are trained for this.”

“Who’s we?”

“Select doctors from all over the country. It’s top secret, we all have regular jobs, so no one knows, but we are always on call for the government. I’m surprised you haven’t been briefed on all this.”

“Well, I’ve only been queen in waiting for a few days. No one expected…. this.” She gestured weakly in Drake’s direction.

“Of course not. Rest assured that I reviewed Captain Walker’s full medical history on the way here, so I’d be aware of any issues, drug allergies, etc.”

“Well thank God for that! He’s really going to be ok?”

“He’ll need to get to the hospital as soon as possible, just to double check everything, but he’s stable. I’ve stitched him up and given him pain meds. Once he gets some blood volume back, he should feel a little better. He’s going to be sore as hell and a possibly a little loopy from the drugs, but I don’t see any reason for him not to make a full recovery.”

She had no words to express her gratitude, so she threw herself into the doctor’s arms, hugging him tight enough to squeeze the breath out of him. “Thank you seems so inadequate!”

The man hugged her back then told her, “No need for thanks. It’s literally my job, but you’re welcome. My name is Blake, this is my nurse, his name is Michail. We’re going to spend the night in one of the extra bedrooms, so we’ll be nearby if anything changes. We’ll monitor him throughout the night and hopefully things will be clear to transport him to the hospital tomorrow.”

“Ok, thank you again.”

Drake seemed to be sleeping peacefully and the nurse was still with him, so she slipped out to the living room to update Marco. After she’d done that, she asked about Liam.

“I’m sorry, Your Majesty, I don’t know anything.”

“I told you, call me Riley. Can’t you call someone and find out? Something? Anything?”

“Liam’s team has gone radio silent, but don’t worry!” He warned as he saw the panic that flashed across her face, “It’s protocol. It’s so the enemy can’t monitor communications.”

“Is there anything you can tell me?”

He hesitated and she saw it. “What?” She demanded.

“It’s nothing, really-“

She surprised herself with the commanding note in her voice as she ordered him, “Don’t make me play the queen card, Marco. Tell me what you know!”

“Just that no other team has activated a trauma response unit, which most likely means that no one else was hurt.” He didn’t meet her eyes and she understood what he wasn’t saying. Liam didn’t need a doctor either because he hadn’t been hit, or because he was already dead. A chill of dread threaded its way down her spine.

“Where is he? Why isn’t he here?” She asked, more shrilly than she’d intended.

“Each security team has their own protocols, their own safe houses. For events just like this. It’s safer to scatter. And our objective was to save you, not Liam. Just like his team’s objective was to save him, not you.”

“Can’t you go back to the palace, check on things?”

“Absolutely not. We stay here until we get orders to the contrary. If I left you, I’d be deserting my post. My duty is to keep you safe, and to keep you here until I’m told otherwise.”

“But don’t you care about-“

“Of course I care, Riley. But again, my duty is to stay here and protect you!”

“So, you never deviate from orders, no matter what?” She asked bitterly.

“Technically taking time to save Captain Walker was a violation of our prime directive.”

She felt her stomach drop, “What?”

“You heard me.” He responded tightly, “My orders, my duty, my objective is to protect you, and only you, at any and all cost. I risked my job, and your life, taking time to pull a wounded man out of the middle of that melee.”

Her eyes filled up with tears, she vaguely wondered how it was possible she had any tears left, she’d already cried so much. “I’m sorry, Marco. I know you care. I’m just so scared. What if he…what if….”

Marco’s gaze softened and so did his voice, “Hey, I know. It’s ok. Tonight has been nothing but trauma for all of us, but at least some of us are trained for it. You’re not. Why don’t you go in there and try to get some sleep? I promise I’ll update you the moment I know anything.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

“Even if you have to wake me up?”

“Yes, the moment I know anything.”

Drake was still asleep when she went back into the bedroom. The nurse left saying he’d check back in about an hour and to call him if anything changed before then. Riley wandered into the master bath, startling when she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, still in a formal ballgown, drenched in Drake’s blood, now dry and stiff.

She peeled off her clothes and stepped under the shower, letting steaming hot water cascade down her body, soothing her aching muscles, but doing nothing for her jangled nerves. Visions from the evening ran through her mind’s eyes. The sound of the gunshots, the screaming, the room as it plunged into darkness. The feel of Drake’s body as it hit hers, the sticky wetness of his blood as it coated them both. How pale he’d been in the back of the SUV. Liam’s face right before the lights went out, Liam with a gun pointed directly at his head. Drake telling her it was ok if he died. It was too much. And she still had no idea if Liam was alive or dead.

She leaned her head against the cool tile of the shower and cried.

66 notes · View notes

wiypt-writes · 3 years

Text

Rock ‘N’ Roll People In A Disco World

Part 2- Panic At The Disco

Intro: You head to the hospital as Paul’s life hangs in the balance and as you wait for news, you start to reflect on the early days of your relationship.

Pairing: Paul Diskant x Reader

Warnings: Bad language, Smut (NSFW, 18+)

Disclaimer: This is a pure work of fiction and classified as 18+. Please respect this and do not read if you are underage. I do not own any characters in this series bar the reader and any other OCs. By reading beyond this point you understand and accept the terms of this disclaimer.

A/N: So, you migh recognise a few familiar names/faces in this as well- I can assure you this isn’t an Avengers/Diskant AU, just a way for me to pay tribute to a few of our faves…because, why not!

Rock ‘n’ Roll People Masterlist // Main Masterlist

Part 1

"All units, we have a possible 2-4-5 in progress at 4223 E Palm, South of Figueroa and 1st. Unit responding is requesting back up, 11-9-9, Code 3."

"Unit 613 responding, Code 3."

The call went out over dispatch and you felt a slight relief at the fact support was on its way. You took a deep breath, held firm, your weapon poised as your partner stood next to you.

"LAPD, drop the weapon and come out with your hands up. We will fire." Officer Barton, a long time veteran on beat called out. "Panny, hit the porch."

You nodded and walked the short steps, bracing yourself against the stucco near the jam.

"Come on Garcia, your old lady called it in, I have back up coming, bro. You don't want this to go down worse than it is," Barton shouted. "Don't make my Rookie work hard today, man."

Lights and sirens filled your ears and soon a second unit had arrived on scene. The suspect, now surrounded, soon surrendered, his weapon dropped to the ground as he came out of his home with his hands up.

The second unit to respond to the call was helping Barton with the arrest while you headed inside to check on the girlfriend who'd called it in. She was beat up and bloodied, a bullet graze across her upper left arm. Paramedics were treating her as you wrote down everything she could tell you for the report to be filed later.

You gave the woman’s hand a little squeeze as you promised her you’d be right back and headed outside where you saw Barton stood talking to one of the duty sergeants from the second unit and another officer who you hadn’t seen before.

"She's requesting an escort, both medics are male," You said to Barton.

“Okay.” Barton nodded. “You good to take it or do you want me to call back and request someone take over?”

You shook your head, “Nah, I’m good, I could use the overtime. It’s no problem.”

"Rookies, always looking for the pay out," Barton laughed at you and you snorted before you looked back at the house.

“Well, to be honest I wanna make sure she’s okay, she’s beat up pretty bad.”

"Yeah, well this isn't their first 240 but now, it's bumping to a 273D, if she keeps the chargers." Barton nodded. “Okay, go with her and I’ll file the initial report when I get back. You can add your details to it later.”

“See, we’re not always money grabbing assholes.” The officer you’d never met before turned his eyes to the sergeant who met his look with one of his own. “Some of us rookies are simply driven by our social conscience.”

As the two men looked at one another it was clear that the statement meant something, and you could probably take a good guess that the officer in question had also had his fair share of rookie jokes at his expense. It was part and parcel of being a newbie.

“Oooh I’m sensing a little bit of tension there, Barnes!” Barton looked at the sergeant who scoffed and rolled his eyes.

“He’s a wise guy, thinks he’s funny.”

“I don’t think it, I know it.” The buzz cut man shrugged. “Why else does everyone laugh at me when I walk into a room?”

At that you couldn’t help a little chuckle of laughter as your eyes looked over the hood of Sargent Barnes' black and white and caught the name plate of the wise ass, before your eyes flicked up to his face. A pair of shades were pushed up on top of his shorn light brown hair, revealing a pair of blue eyes which were twinkling slightly with good humour. He was clean shaven with a strong jawline, and a pretty handsome profile with high cheekbones and a smattering of freckles over his nose. Two strong arms folded over a broad chest, as he stood tall, a good inch or so above Sergeant Barnes and a fair few over you.

His eyes caught yours, a smirk curling in his lips as he clearly thought you’d been checking him out.

Which, to be fair, you had, and all in all, he was pretty damned hot.

"Don't I know you?" He asked, his hands unfolding from across his chest and coming to rest on his utility belt, either side of the buck.

“I don’t think so.” You shook your head.

“I’m sure I do. I never forget a pretty face.”

You laughed at the blatant pick up line and looked at Barton who was watching, his eyebrow raised. You shook your head and turned back to make some sly quip of your own before the medic interrupted the exchange, telling you they were ready for transport. You nodded before once more switching your attention back to the three men around you.

“It’s been a pleasure, gents.” You smiled, nodding to both Barton and Sergeant Barnes before you turned to look at the other man. "Diskant.”

He feigns a pain to his chest with a hard slap of his right hand over his heart. "Uh, you do know me! That hurts."

“Read your name tag.” You shrugged and with that you turned and left.

The red and blue lights of the black and white bouncing off the concrete exterior of UCLA Medical Centre as you arrived brought you out of your memory. Officer Weiss opened the door for you and escorted you inside where the waiting room had been cleared and you were met with the somber faces of not only Captain Biggs, but Paul's Captain, Sam Wilson. But what brought your world crashing down on you for the second time that night was seeing your own Captain, Steve Rogers, waiting for you. Wilson had to have called him in.

"Steve," your voice quivered as your Captain and friend wrapped an arm around you. Sam, too, pulling you close. "What...." you couldn't even get the words out, each syllable choked back by the closing of your throat, sobs threatening to escape.

"We don't know, not yet. The call came in as an officer down, unit in pursuit. Medics arrived and called in code blue, 10-45C GSW to the neck. As soon as they arrived he was wheeled into emergency surgery," Captain Biggs explained.

The air left your lungs at the news and you near hit the floor, both Rogers and Wilson catching an arm, and had you been more with it, you’d have clocked the worried look that your Captain shot Sam. He'd known you since your training at the academy, his eye on you for SWAT from the get go, and never had he seen your lose control in such a way. You hadn’t on the job, not once. It was something you prided yourself on.

Biggs grabbed a chair from the wall behind him, where a dozen lined the sterile white space, and allowed you to flop into it. Your hands were shaking, legs bouncing on the balls of your feet, the tore up converse you’d slipped on squeaking a little on the clinical floor. You’d dressed in such a haste, your skinny jeans being grabbed straight back off the top of the hamper for you to put on, one of Paul’s hoodies being pulled on over a tight camisole. Whilst you hadn’t given a single thought to what you were wearing, clearly your subconscious had wanted to be near him, and you were glad as you pulled the dark grey item round you tighter, breathing in his smell. And you were reminded of the first time you were able to really be close enough to smell his cologne or deodorant, a smell that was uniquely Paul Diskant.

It was Friday and your shift had just finished. It was the first time your rest days had fallen over a Saturday and Sunday, and you were making the most of it. A few from your team were heading to Jack's Bar for a few beers and, you suspected, a lot of shots and probably karaoke later, apparently that’s how your team nights went down.

You’d been there a few hours and your rounds had all gotten out of sync, as was always the case when everyone had had a few, so you stood up to head to the bar to get yourself a refill, cringing at the cat-screeching masquerading as singing which was ringing around the room. You found a space, placing your empty glass on the smooth wood of the bar and stood waiting for the bar tender. You hadn’t been there long when someone sidled in next to you, their elbow lightly brushing your arm and you glanced up to see the handsome, buzz-cut officer that had attended the 273D you’d dealt with in the week.

“Did you bring your cuffs?” He asked and you frowned, looking at him.

“What? Why?”

He jerked his head over his shoulder in the direction of the woman singing, “because she’s murdering Shania Twain and whilst she may feel like a woman, personally I feel that as police officers, it’s our duty to prevent crimes of this nature.”

You groaned out a laugh, “Jesus, you’re terrible”

“My name isn’t Jesus, but give me a chance and I’ll make you say ‘Oh God’,” he shot you a wink, “how’s that for terrible?”

You laughed and shook your head, cocking it slightly to one side as you studied him for a second. And then, you decided on a little joke of your own. “It’s Disco, right?”

He groaned, dropping his head in a dramatic sigh. “Diskant. Come on, you read my name tag, remember?”

"Diskant." You shrugged, "Close enough."

He chuckled, nodding to your drink that was down to the foam at the bottom of the glass, "what are you drinking?"

"Beer," you replied.

"Any beer? Or..."

"The Heff," you nod to the taps.

Diskant waved the bartender over, "Jack, can we get another round, one for me and one for Officer...."

"Y/L/N."

"Officer Y/L/N. Whatever she's drinking."

"It's Paul by the way," he smirked at you while dropping some cash on the bar top as Jack returned your beers.

"Thanks for the beer, Disco," You winked and walked off to join your partner and the rest of the shift team.

“Woah, it’s like that? I buy you a drink and you bail, without even telling me your name?” He scoffed and you turned to look at him over your shoulder, giving him a smirk.

“Yeah," you shrugged, and when you turned away you could feel his eyes burning into your back.

Later, you saw him laughing in a full body tilt, eyes crinkled and his smile exploding. His partner, whom you'd recognized again as Barnes, had said something ridiculous causing the table to erupt.

You headed to the bar and ordered a round of shots for your team and another beer to chase it. But sent one over Paul's way, with a note on the napkin.

When the waitress took the beer to him, she placed the napkin down first, making sure he saw the scribbled note.

'Now we're even. - Y/N'

You watched as he read the note, a huge smile breaking over his handsome face and he turned, bright eyes searching the bar. When they fell on you, he arched his brow and raised his beer in thanks. You gave a sharp jerk of your head to show you’d seen and turned back to your team.

From then on, he was a persistent little shit. He'd somehow figured out your shift patterns, catching you in and out of the doors to the station as you'd be coming off shift and he starting his. Barton liked to give you shit for it as he'd always walk with you out, calling Diskant "your lost, little puppy-dog" and the unit were quick to catch on. It was all in good fun, until one day, you'd worked a tough shift; chasing down a couple of suspects and catching yourself up on a fence, gashing your arm good. Medics treated you at the scene, but told you that it required stitches. You finished you shift anyway and like clockwork, there he was walking in as you were out.

"Hey Y/N, you okay?" He'd expressed concern as your face was blatantly displaying your discomfort and mood which wasn’t great.

You were tired, irritated and in pain, now that the day was over, you wanted to just go home, so you seemed to snap in reply, "What the hell is it gonna take for you to just go away?"

Your response took him back a bit as he raised his hands in defense."Whoa, relax," his voice was soft and careful.

You sighed and stepped out of the way of the different people coming in and out the doors. He followed. "I'm sorry, that was shitty. It's just been a really long day."

"It’s okay, I get it. Look, I'm off today, I was coming in to get some stuff I left in my locker. I'm sorry if I've crossed a line somehow."

You thought to yourself for a moment. He hadn't crossed any line, not one that made you uncomfortable. You had your own reservations about dating someone from work, but it wasn’t like no one else did it, hell, half the entire force seemed to be married to one another, and if you were honest, you were actually kind of attracted to him and you found his flirty way of things to be fun and you liked it.

“No, you didn’t, like I said, bad day.” You shook your head. “I gotta head to the clinic for some stitches, and if I’m honest, I’m not a huge fan of needles so...."

He frowned “you hurt yourself?”

"Got hung up on a chain link chasing a perp through an alley. Finished the shift with the bandages from the medics, now I gotta take care of it."

"Do you... errr...", he moved out of the way of someone leaving the building and scratched the back of his neck, "do you need a lift up there or something, I got nothing else on."

"I could use a ride, sure," you shrugged, a small smirk tugging at the corner of your lips.

“Okay, well gimme two minutes to grab something out of my locker and I’ll be with you in a second.”

You headed out of the way of the various traffic in and out of the station and perched on the low wall that surrounded the parking lot. True to his word, Diskant emerged a few minutes later, sliding his shades down from his head to his eyes, a bright pink gift bag in his hand and for some inexplicable reason, you felt your heart sink at the sight of the item in his hand, it was clearly for a woman.

“Who’s the lucky girl?” You asked, nodding to it as he stopped in front of you. A smirk crossed his face and a brow arched over the top of his wraparounds.

“Is that your way of asking me if I have a girlfriend?” He quipped and you hastily shook your head, lying through your teeth.

“No, I was just…making conversation. Besides, you might be gay for all I know.” You finished lamely and he snorted.

“Well, I’m not, and it’s for my Mom. It’s her birthday tomorrow and she’s a pain in the ass for finding her presents in my room or wherever I hide them. That and I actually only picked it up yesterday and forgot about it.”

"None of my business." You shrugged and at that he sighed, looking down before he glanced at you, chuckling.

"You asked, sweetheart."

The pet name had you feeling a little warm around your neck. Thankfully, Diskant then led you to his car, the conversation moving swiftly onwards as you explained in a little more detail how you’d gotten your injury. By the time you’d finished you were out of the parking lot and had joined the steady stream of traffic on the main road.

“You should count yourself lucky that it was only your arm.” Paul mused, his thumb tapping the steering wheel. “One of the first shifts I ever did ended with the guy I’d been partnered with straddling a piece of razor-wire.”

“Ouch.” You winced and Paul wrinkled his nose.

“Lot of blood and screaming.” He sniffed. “Mind you, every cloud and all that, he said it would save him and his wife a fortune on a vasectomy.”

You blinked before your mouth fell open in disbelief and you scoffed, shaking your head. “Bullshit.”

“I swear down…”

“Don’t believe you, Disco.”

“Well, I’m offended on two counts. First that you think I’m untrustworthy and second you know that’s not my name.” He shook his head, hanging a right.

You shrugged, “I like it, it suits you.”

“I used to get that all the time at school.” He shrugged, “fucking everyone used to sing that damned D-I-S-C-O song in the halls.”

“Okay, now that’s in my head.” You smirked, and you opened your mouth to sing but he cut you off.

“Just, no.”

You laughed and took a deep breath. “Well, if it makes you feel any better my team call me Panny, short for Panic. On account of the fact I never seem to.”

At that he snorted, “yeah, I’m not calling you that, that’s, fucking awful!”

You let out a low chuckle, “Y/N’s fine.”

“Mind you,” he stole a quick glance at you before his eyes went back to the road. “Panic at the Disco, not a bad band.”

You rolled your eyes and chuckled a little. The conversation flowed with little interruption or awkwardness and once you arrived, your time at the clinic seemed relatively fast. You'd figured he'd left as you'd said goodbye to one another when you'd entered the clinic but to your surprise, and catching you a bit off guard, he was still waiting.

"You didn't have to wait." You smiled at him and he shrugged.

“How else you gonna get back for your car?" His eyes flicked down, noting the clean wound and stitches in your forearm.

“Uber?” You shrugged and he paused, before he took a deep breath.

“Okay, you could have but my mom taught me never to leave a lady in need of help.”

"I was in there for an hour," You chuckled.

“Yeah, and now I’m kinda hungry, are you hungry?"

“Diskant…”

"There's a little place I know where we get some great quick food."

"And if I say no?"

"I'm a gentleman and no is no, I’ll take you back to the lot and you get in your car.” He paused, "and then I'll go home and weep into my pillow as I deal with your rejection."

You laugh loudly, genuinely amused, "fine, take me to dinner."

"Woah, I didn't say anything about dinner. I said food."

"Fine, food, let's get some food."

With a grin he gestured for you to lead the way and you headed out of the medical centre back to his car.

It turns out the place he’d been meaning was the Santa Monica Pier. And the food he had in mind was hot dogs and fries, which suited you absolutely fine.

"Alright, I gotta hand it to you, this is a pretty good hot dog and the beer isn't half bad," You tilted back the drink and smiled. "But, it doesn't beat Coney Island."

"Never been," he shrugged, "so I'll have to take you at your word."

"What else do you take me for? Obviously, you're swindling your way into something."

"I resent that accusation, Y/N."

"If I didn't know any better, I'd say you just suckered me into a date." You teased and he paused, turning to face you. “And, seeing as you said that was what it would take to get you to leave me alone…” “No, this is not a date.” He cut you off, shaking his head.

“Hmm, just the two of us, you bought me food, pretty sure it counts as a date.” You wrinkled your nose, your tone flirty and Paul shook his head once more.

“Nope. Absolutely not. There’s a vital element missing.”

“What?”

“I haven’t kissed you.” He signed dramatically. “So, I’m afraid that if you want me to count this as a date then you’re gonna have to lay one on me.”

“Oh my God-“ You burst out laughing, “You are-“

“Hey, I don’t make the rules, Y/N!”

“So, to be absolutely clear, if I kiss you this counts as a date?”

“Yes.” He nodded.

“Well,” You popped a shoulder, stepping a little closer to him, your eyes flicking from his to his lips, “what the hell.”

You brought your lips to his, a littler firmer than you'd thought but the feel of his mouth against yours was soft and in a way delicate and as you began to pull away, his arm looped around your rib cage and pulled you back in for a longer, deeper kiss that if you'd been honest with yourself, made your stomach tilt and your toes curl. The way his tongue dipped into your mouth was delightful, the salty hoppy taste of the beer and fries you were sharing still an essence in his mouth.

Breathless, you pulled away, “You gonna leave me alone now?”

“Not a chance.” He chuckled and leaned in again for a third kiss.

"Y/N..." the voice calling out to you was familiar but your head was pounding and nothing but a fog had filtered over you. Tearfully coming out of your memory, you looked up to see Dorothy, Paul's mom standing before you, her husband Jim in the background talking to Sam.

"Hi," you croaked and stood from your chair. She immediately wrapped her arms around you in a tight embrace. "I'm sorry... I didn't..."

"Its okay, Jimmy called us after Sam had called us both." She tearfully explained. "We came as soon we'd heard." She nodded to James Barnes, Paul's former beat partner who was talking with Jim, Sam and now Steve.

"Dotty, I... I'm scared." You cried and she took hold of you again. Together you cried until Jim came and hugged you both, his eyes tearful but his demeanour strong. As a force veteran himself, Big Jim Diskant knew all too well how these things could happen but never did he want to believe it'd be his own son wounded in the line of duty.

Barnes was quick to hand you a tissue and you accepted with a sad, soft smile in thanks. "He's gonna pull through, doll. Just you watch. You can't get rid of him that easy."

Your quivering lip turned to a wobble until you saw the doctor emerge from the double doors that led into the body of the hospital. His scrubs were bloodied and you feared the worst as he called out, "family of Paul Diskant."

The world around you felt like it was moving at a snail's pace, your stomach in your throat as you, Dotty, Jim and those there to comfort you all made their way to the doctor.

"We've moved him into the ICU. He's critical, however, I'm hard pressed to say stable. He's not out of the woods yet. The bullet hit his carotid artery which supplies the brain, face and neck and while we were able to remove it, he's lost a lot of blood and I feel it's best to keep him medically sedated until some real healing takes place. That's all up to him on how long that will take and how his body works. Unfortunately, until he wakes up, we won’t be able to determine if there will be any long lasting damage due to the loss of blood to the brain. You should know, we nearly lost him once during the procedure and I know he coded twice before arrival. He's a fighter, that's for sure. For now, he just needs time."

"Can we see him?" Dotty asked, the words not able to leave your lips.

"You can. One at a time," the doctor replied. "ICU rules. I can take the first of you up with me now."

Dotty very quickly turned to you, "go on." You looked at her like a deer in headlights. Jim nodded in agreement with his wife.

"Follow me," the doctor nodded to go with him and as he did, he handed you a small plastic bag. "We had to cut it off. I'm sorry."

He placed the bag containing Paul's St. Christopher medal in your hand. It was covered in blood, no doubt from what had happened and the weight of it felt heavier than it ever had before in your hand as you joined the good doctor on the lift up.

It had been a month into your relationship when your parents decided to head out for a week trip to New York, your dad making good on his promise to treat your mom for their anniversary. That meant that you and Paul were playing house for the week.

After seeing them off, you'd proudly tidied up and made sure you pampered yourself before your date night to kick the week off. Fridays post shift were usually spent at Jack's but, you were off and Paul and Barnes were already day shift, as if the stars had perfectly aligned for tonight. Your gut was telling you that after a month of heavy, very heavy petting, absolutely breath-taking make out sessions and a few down the pants moments, tonight just might be the night things would change for the two of you. And if not tonight, then hopefully while the two of you were shacked up for the next five days.

A few hours of primping, preening and a ridiculously relaxing bath, setting fire to that very diamonds and pearls side of you, you picked out your nicest lingerie, a little all black set of bra and panties that hid lines well in your selected sleek black dress. Paul had said the two of you were going for a nice dinner, and he promised it was truly a nice dinner, not like the last he'd said was nice and you two laughed your way through burgers at the Beach Hut. He was going to pick you up at five, and you needed to be ready.

Punctual as always, your doorbell rang and there he was, duffle in one hand, flowers for you in the other. He always brought you flowers on your dates and you loved the old fashioned in him that clearly was a product of his parents love story.

You smiled at him from behind red lips and smoky eyes, your hair down and straight. "Hey! Thank you!" You took the outstretched flowers and welcomed him in.

"Wow," he whispered, getting the full view of you as he stepped inside the doorway. "Sweetheart, you..., wow."

“You said nice... so if you’re taking me to some dive, Disco, when I’m dressed like this there’s gonna be trouble.”

"I promise, it's nice." Dropping his overnight bag next to the stairs, he followed you into the kitchen as you put the flowers in a vase. You turned from the island and his lips were on yours. "You do look beautiful, but if you want to get into trouble, I've got my cuffs in the car."

You didn't miss the fire in his eyes and the feeling between your legs. “I thought only bad girls get the cuffs?”

"Maybe we should see how bad you can get."

"You're gonna have to feed me first."

“Damn, you drive a hard bargain.”

You wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him in for a deep kiss, fingers scratching at the nape of his neck, "You think that's hard, you should..."

His finger covered your lips, "don't, don't finish that sentence or we'll never make dinner. THAT I can promise."

You smirked and pulled away from him fully, grabbing your hand bag off the entry table, "I'm ready, let's go."

The meal was divine, expensive and rich in place and taste, you dined on steaks and lobsters, Paul pulling out all the stops for such a new relationship and start of a fun weekend. You didn't mind, but you also knew that you'd have been fine with something simple too.

"You know you didn’t have to spend so much, I’d have laid on my back for a sub," you sighed contently as he drove you two back to yours.

"Well, in that case, fuck it, next time it's Subway."

"Is that what this was? You buttering me up so I'd sleep with you, Disco?"

“No, that’s...” he stopped and shrugged, “did it work?”

All you did was smirk back at him. From then, until tires skidded into the driveway, Paul drove at lightspeed, making a snarky comment about needing a red light for the dash or wishing he was in his squad car because he couldn't get you home fast enough. You were barely in the door before he was all over you, hands tangled through your hair, you kicking your shoes off at the bottom of the stairs. His strong arms and big hands lifted you off your feet as you clawed at him, your legs wrapping around his slender waist while he carried you up the stairs. It was a mix of breathy sounds and lots of tongue until your back hit the lamp at the landing stair, causing it to tilt, and the bulb to break.

Shit," Paul cursed against your lips.

"I'll get that later," you replied, continuing to fight for dominance in your kiss.

He managed to get you to your room, but your pace slowed down as you entered, the heat lowering to a simmer unlike the two horny teenagers you’d both been in the stairs and hall. Your toes curled into your plush carpet as he set you down. Breathless and chests heaving, you kissed each other softly and slowly as your fingers unbuttoned his shirt, trying to hide your nerves. Your nails raked down the chest of his crisp white tee he wore underneath. You could feel his heart under your palm.

Your eyes looked into his and you saw deep and beautiful blue pools staring back at you, a soft twitch of a smirk at the corner of his mouth. He took a half breath and his lips covered yours, his tongue slowly rolling over your top lip to pull you in. It made your stomach drop in need, and you wrapped your arms around his neck to close the space between you.

His big hand splayed over your right ass cheek and held you there against him while the other hand cupped your face. If anyone were to walk in, they'd think you were one person, the two of you were so close to one another. Then you felt his hand trail over the curve of your backside, closer and closer to the start of your zipper. You felt your dress grow looser as he pulled the little metal piece over the teeth of its track.

His lips trailed over your skin, and you could feel his heart now racing through his pulse point in his neck. Your eyes met his as he pulled away a second, "me too," You whispered.

A breathy chuckle left his lips and you pulled your dress away from your body, allowing the fabric to hit the floor. You felt naked despite the bra and panty set, his gaze taking all of you in. By no means was this your first time with a man, but it was your first time with Paul, and so far, you'd never felt or experienced anything like this and he wasn't even inside you yet. It was like your skin was on fire from the inside out, all of your nerves firing at once, causing everything to tingle and your breath to catch as your heart threatened to leap from your chest.

His foot stepped between yours and he placed his hands on your hips, gently backing you into the bed, his lips sealing with yours, your hands holding his forearms to steady yourself. His hands cradled you as the two of you fell into the mattress, his body covering yours, his lips traveling down your neck and nipping at that sensitive spot that made your panties pool and your thighs clench. Your hands shoved the material of his button down over his shoulders and, as his lips carried on toward the swell of your breasts, he flung the shirt wherever it landed.

You smirked as he figured out the bra you had on was front closure and with a snap your breasts were freed.

"Fuck, sweetheart," he said with a tone you'd never heard from him before.

He had his mouth on you before you could reply, your skin flushing and that twist of stomach igniting with pleasure. His hot tongue lolled around your nipple before suckling it between his teeth and giving it a little pull. You moaned as he pulled away, your fingers scratching at his neck. He smirked against your other breast as you arched into him, his free hand running over your hip and behind you to palm your ass as your leg lifted and bent a knee at his hip.

"I....oh God," you purred as his tongue licked and his mouth sucked, alternating between your breasts. "Fuck, I... Paul, please."

He sat back and ripped his shirt over his head, adding it to the pile. You could see he was solid from your foreplay and you knew the size he was packing. Your stomach twisted in anticipation.

"Please... What?" He said softly as he left hot, wet kisses up the inside of your thigh. "You know, for a trained police officer I would expect you to have a little more self-control, Baby.”

"Shut up..."

He nipped at your thigh, and you moaned obscenely, your muscles twitching. "You gonna tell me what you want?" He nipped again, higher this time. "Or.."

"I need you."

“I asked what you want...”

"Fuck me."

Quickly he was standing, undoing his belt and pants while pulling a condom from his back pocket. You laid there amazed and in awe of the thick muscles of his entire body, the bare chest and tight abs he had on display. You'd seen his thick and full length before, hell, you'd even put your mouth around it but now, all you can think of is how it would feel deep inside you. Your eyes watched him with a hunger you could feel coursing all through you, the way he rolled the latex circle down his shaft and kneeled toward you on the bed.

He pulled at your panties, peeling them away from your body, your legs lifting to remove them fully. You were soaked as he tested your folds, slicking the head of his cock. It felt so good already, you were squirming by the time his head dipped inside you. He caged you in with his body as he pressed into you little by little until you were both moaning at the perfect fit as he became fully seated inside you. His St. Christopher medal dangled between the two of you as it ghosted across your chest.

Your hand gripped the medallion as you gave a gentle pull, his lips barely touching yours, "I said fuck me, Diskant." You sealed your words with a hard kiss, nothing but tongue inside his mouth and his hips snapped, again the two of you making lewd sounds as your bodies joined together.

He broke away from your kiss and thrust his hips forward again, slowly pulling out and snapping back in. It was blissful torture, your body experiencing each movement as if it were new. Your walls continuously contracted around him, giving him a pressure around his cock. It was a tight fit, but not painful, not uncomfortable in any way. Your eyes and his never broke away from each other, only lashes kissing cheeks as you would close your eyes for a kiss.

With a deep, intentional roll of his hips, his lips moved across your jaw and neck, settling near your ear. "I love you," he whispered.

You gasped as you felt your body react, "Oh fuck!" You moaned, your orgasm coming out of nowhere, tightening around him hard.

"Fucking hell," Paul moaned as his hips sped up, until he was spasming inside you, his seed filling the barrier.

He stilled while inside you, pulling out and slipping away with a soft kiss, only to come back cleaned up and pulling the sheet over the two of you. He curled his body around yours, your bare skin against his chest, his hand entwined with yours as his lips kissed your tousled head. "You're amazing."

You turned to look at him with your tired but happy eyes, "did you mean it?"

A soft smile splayed over his features as his eyes twinkled a bit, understanding exactly what you were referring to. "I was being ironic, as I was, literally loving you." He took a pause and leaned in for a sweet, all lip kiss. "But hypothetically... if I did mean it..."

You grinned, “then, hypothetically I’d say I love you to."

He chuckled and quickly pecked you again before settling in behind you for sleep. "Good to know."

The bell to the lift beeped and the doors loudly opened, bringing you to the present. It felt like everything took forever since you'd received Captain Biggs' call. You followed the doctor down the hall and after a sharp left, he showed you the doorway to Paul's room.

As you stepped inside, your heart shattered. The first thing you noticed was how small and pale he looked there in his bed. Paul wasn't a small guy, in fact he was six feet of thick muscle and hard strength. A built frame that loved to wrap itself around you any chance he could. Your firm and well taught body fitting like the perfect piece to him. You swallowed hard as you stepped forward, closer to the edge of his bed. There were so many wires, so many leads hooked up to the various machines that ensured he stayed in his medicinal sleep and keeping him alive. A tube for the ventilator was in his mouth and down his throat while monitoring equipment measured his vitals, IV lines and pumps full of medication surrounded him, a feeding tube was stuck in his nose, and not to mention the various drains and catheters. You found yourself cursing all the episodes of ‘Grey’s Anatomy’ the pair of you had watched as you weren't sure if you'd rather not fucking know what the hell they all were.

Despite the sick symphony of beeps and blips on the screens, the only sound you heard was the sound of his heart rate on its own monitor. A steady, morbid mantra reminding you that he was there but not really there with you.

Gone were those beautiful blue eyes you loved waking up to each morning or staring deeply into as his pupils, lust blown with deep passion, love and desire stared back you while you made love. Hiding behind an ugly plastic tube were those pearly whites you loved seeing when he smiled or laughed with his whole body, his cheeky grin missing. Silent was the voice that would make your heart skip its beats, your body ignite, that would meet your voice in reply, 'sugar'.

You held back the sob that was choking you breathless and you sat in the chair beside his bed, facing him. Your warm and soft hand took hold of his, and you were broken at how cold he felt.

As you looked up for some form of help to the heavens above, your eyes looked back at him and you gave a breathy, shaky sigh, "hey, Stud."

***** Part 3

#rock n roll people in a disco world #Paul Diskant #paul diskant x reader #paul diskant x you #street kings #street kings fan fic #chris evans #chris evans characters

260 notes · View notes

deluluass · 3 years

Text

misericordia

It's finally here T^T Here's to reaching 100+ followers! Thank you so much everyone!!

Content Warnings: rape/noncon; nsfw; somnophilia; description of dead bodies; includes some elements of cosmic horror; dystopian-ish au; biblical references/imagery; angel! Ushijima

To name is a barren tree: fruitless and, ultimately, the workings of this kind.

The earth will soon be without form, and void; and darkness shall remain the face of the deep.

The Spirit of God no longer moves in the face of the waters.

Names are for nothing.

But, for any cause done here, to name is essential. As it was in the beginning, when there was still a beginning (but it has not ended yet, so the beginning shall still stay), to name had been the first task.

So when asked for a name, the mouth was able to conjure:

“Ushijima Wakatoshi,” the body said.

And as it is the way of the Created, the body became he.

And as it is the way of the Created, proof was immediately demanded for the name.

And as it is the way of the Created, once found on the chest, Ushijima Wakatoshi was then welcomed.

You weren’t there when the world ended.

In fact, so, too, was your father's father. The sky had cracked open and the oceans had already split up the old lands for as long as anyone could remember.

Before the city became a city in truth, the people had just been strangers, seeking shelter after everything fell apart, only to be abandoned by those who’d promised protection.

That didn't mean, however, that things got better for your lot once someone swept in and established order and peace and stability and whatever it is those at the top had to say to justify them being there.

If your father were to be believed, you had been sleeping in your mother’s womb, still a tiny beating heart, when the longest winter happened ("winter"; they still called it that when there had been minute differences between hot and cold).

Supplies were short; food was scarce; so when you finally clawed your way into a world breathing its last, your mother couldn't help but bleed into the sheets until your cry outlived hers.

But your father barely recognized you during his final days. That’s why when your neighbors call you a liar for saying “I was born on a Spring,” you shrug it off and think you might as well have been born on a Spring.

There’s no way of knowing. The story had always changed every time you asked him.

Sometimes he blamed you, sometimes he told you it’s not your fault. Nothing you could do about it. Spring it is, then; you told yourself.

Spring always looked so... different, in the drawings Granny made, anyway.

No one here actually knows her age. Granny had always been Granny; as permanent to this place as the walls enclosing the city.

She rarely left her quarters, that crone, and could barely stand on her own without your help. Worse, she could no longer see. What use is a blind artist, the others would laugh.

It’s their loss, you’d retort, mocking her like that. Because then they’d miss the way her gnarled and knobby hands would glide with unwavering purpose if you asked her to, strokes bold and not a space wasted.

“You never learn,” she croaked once finished, jostling the wrinkled piece of paper to your lap. “Why throw away your rations for this piece of junk?”

Granny retched, “Incurable fool.”

At this point, she would grumble about suffering in the old pig’s (her words, not yours) kitchens for nothing, and always, without fail, you’d feel a smile break on your face. It hurt, honestly, but after an entire day of frowning over the dishes you had to wash and the floors that needed scrubbing and all the other orders yelled your way, it was worth it, anyway.

“I know you’re laughing. My ears still work, mind you.”

You felt your belly shake as you giggled, brushing the paper with worn fingers, staring open-mouthed at the piece before you.

“This is amazing, Granny,” you sighed.

“Idiot,” she repeated. “It’s the same thing as the one before. And the one before that.”

And for good measure, Granny added, “Idiot. Not like you hadn’t seen that one.”

When all you’d done was take her hand in yours and place a pack of food along with a thin roll of paper in her feeble grasp, Granny finally asked, “Why do you keep coming back here, girl? Asking for the same thing.”

There wasn’t any of that surly frown now.

And looking at her like that, without the crabbiness that sharpens her features, that oddly makes her look younger and in control of herself, you find that you don’t have an answer this time. Arrested by the realization that her shoulders slumped lower than you’d thought. And that she’s getting thinner.

“Why?” you whispered back, feeling traces of charcoal stick to your palm.

Maybe it’s because there’s no other way that she’d accept food, unless she does something in return. She kicked you out the first time you intended to give her the ration you’d earned.

(Or maybe it's because you know what they'd do, once they find out she's no longer making trades.)

Why, indeed.

Maybe it’s because you hadn’t really seen things grow before.

You might work at the Governor’s place, at the heart of the city and everything else that matters, but grunt workers like you are prohibited to get anywhere near the farm, let alone actually enter it. So, really, there's no other way of seeing what growth looks like.

Maybe it’s because you can only do that when you witness her in her craft. You really don’t have anything to compare it with, but you’re sure life from soil works the same way.

Everything must come from something. And that something must be quite the artist, if they're anything like Granny.

Birthing roots from the ground of what was once a blank piece of paper with a flick of the wrist; growing into large trunks, strong branches, then into an abundance of leaves and blossoms.

Trees drawn on both sides of the paper, always with a smattering of grass and flowers in the middle. She said they used to grow here, when she was just a girl. And if you begged hard enough, she’d add a stray butterfly fluttering around the corner.

You hummed thoughtfully. “Maybe I just love seeing you, Granny,” you grinned.

“Crock of shit.”

“Really!” You grabbed your knapsack as you stood from your seat, folding the paper with care. “Hey, Granny, guess what? Don’t give me that face— I’ve already saved just enough and you know what that means?”

She snorted.

“Listen,” you pouted. “I’ll finally be able to get those pigments! I heard they don't cost that much and if I trade next-”

“Don’t.”

She tilted her head and faced your way, misty eyes pinning you. "How much does paper cost you?"

You gulped.

Then, with a swiftness that surprised you, she grabbed you by your tattered sleeve and gritted, “I may be the blind one here, but I think I see a lot more clearly than you do. You can sweat and bleed for those pigments, but I will never paint.”

You felt a sting in your eyes as she continued, “I know what you’re doing. And I’d be the greater fool if I let you work yourself to the bone for some pipe dream."

"Content yourself with coal, girl. That’s all you’re gonna get from this place. Dirt and rust and smoke. Go sneak into that damned farm. Go steal some of those fuckers’ riches. In fact, while you’re at it,” she laughed dryly. “Steal them all and run away from here. If you really want to live.”

“Only,” she said, too soft that you had to sit back down to hear her, “Only, stop hoping, my child.”

Her chest wheezed as she breathed, like air passing through the holes of a rundown machine.

You kissed the back of her hand before you left.

The wind howled and threatened to topple you as you walked back to your building, hard rain slapping you across the face when you picked up into a run. They didn’t descend in small drops anymore. As you get older, thunderstorms are to be expected once evening falls, lingering for weeks only to suddenly bring about an irritatingly humid day.

But tonight, the large cavern above that parts the dark, heavy clouds into opposite streams seem to yawn wider, closing itself lower and lower into the earth that you swore someday it’ll devour the city whole.

Mud water in your boots, you grabbed onto your soaked coat and climbed the steps of the decaying piece of slab you call home, mindful that you won’t slip and break your skull against the thick beams, twisted metal jutting out of the corners.

A solitary lamp flickered through the window of the room next to yours. Little Soo-jin must be having nightmares again, you thought with a frown.

You were about to knock on their door when the sirens blared, echoing louder across the city than the boom of lightning, followed by a grating squeal that could only be an opening gate.

Your knuckle froze over the chipped wood.

The last time the alarm rang, the people were greeted by the body of a young council member, brought by a small and wounded troop who’d accompanied him outside the city.

Soo-jin’s mom peered through the murky window, meeting your eyes after both of you stared into the direction of the gate closest to your zone, as if seeking you for an explanation. You only gave her a shrug.

“Someone must have died,” you said.

“No, he’s not dead. That’s why you’re bringing food to his room, aren’t you?”

You stared at the girl stubbornly shaking her head.

“I- I know, but! Didn’t you hear? They said they found him full of bullet holes and I—”

“Even if you’re serving a rotting corpse, as long as Cook orders it, you follow.”

It was admirable that she’s refused for this long. If it were you, you’d have been sacked the moment you opened your mouth to say no. You wiped your hand with the towel next to the sink, having finished the work assigned to you, and watched the ongoing bout in the kitchen.

“Why can’t you just ask the others? Marga’s not doing anything!”

“Marga,” the older woman hissed, “is with the others. Almost everyone is in the meeting room. So if you don’t take your butt up there, I’m gonna have no other choice but to tell Cook.”

You winced. This can’t be good.

You cleared your throat. “I can do it,” you said.

The tray was shoved to you faster than you can drop your raised hand. You would have found it amusing, considering that you’re sure they couldn’t even recognize you, but the idea of being in the same room with a half-alive man does make you feel uneasy.

Not that it’s anything new for you; you nursed your father until the fever took him, after all. You just haven’t lived long enough to get used to it yet. But you steeled yourself and did your job, because it’s not as if you had any choice.

You prepared yourself for anything as you entered one of the many guest chambers. Bullet holes, rotting corpse, entrails held together by stitches.

And when you announced your presence and gripped the tray tighter so as to not spill the soup on the sprawling carpet, it’s not really surprise that caused you to stumble upon your words when you saw the man sitting on the bed.

It’s more of an embarrassment, of sorts.

You must’ve entered the wrong room, you thought. You immediately checked around to make sure no one saw you talk and almost grovel to an actual sculpture.

Because that’s what he was.

The Governor’s estate houses floors and floors of rooms that you hadn't explored yet. But there was one that, if no one would bother to keep track of the workers, you had the habit of sneaking into.

Thinking about what it took for this family to have all those sculptures there hurt your head, so you stopped a long time ago. You chose, instead, to just admire the marble wonders in all their beauty, always looking back down at you with majesty and pride.

Just as he's doing right now.

Chiseled torso wrapped in bandages; sharp jaw that could cut; eyes the color of olives, gazing deep.

"That is for me."

You snapped your head down.

"Huh- uh, yes? Yes!"

His deep voice still rumbled through you.

"Yes, I'm sorry," you muttered, heat rushing to your face as you placed the tray on the table next to him, inflaming when you realized he didn't mean it as a question.

That is for me.

Not a question. A question means you can answer. His words brooked no other response but obedience, reminding you of your place.

Much like those sculptures, every time you'd spent too much time inside the room and you'd get the feeling that you're not supposed to be there, too filthy to be anywhere near what you think is the closest thing to perfection.

And the truth would settle on you like a heavy weight: that no amount of beauty can ever breathe warmth if it cannot live and grow.

The same way that despite the sunshine filtering through the floor to ceiling windows, surrounding him in blinding light as he sat on the bed, you can't shake the impression that this is the coldest this room has ever been, with him here.

So you anticipated his orders; a single word or maybe a glance that would tell you he wants you gone. Just either one of those and you'd run out of this room in a heartbeat.

But neither came. The man (you still didn't know his name) remained silent, staring at the food like they've insulted him specifically, and now he's questioning the collective audacity of the soup, bread, and bowl of fruits laid before him.

Maybe they don't serve those where he came from. He's from the North, after all, made evident by the small eagle etched on his chest, just above a pectoral. The last visiting Northerner you served who also bore that mark threw a rag at you (she missed) for "mixing the bathing oils incorrectly."

You stayed in your position and asked, "Is the food not to your liking?"

He didn't say anything, but he did shift his attention to you.

And what a mistake that was. How does this man go about life with such a severe presence?

"Er..is something..wrong?" you sweated, suddenly fascinated by the vases behind him.

Glaring back at the food, he answered with a deep "no" and breathed out. His large arms rose and fell along with it, straining the bandages around the muscles.

Oh, right. Right.

You perked up. "Do you need help?"

Stepping closer to the table, you gave him a tightlipped smile and a sheepish "excuse me" before taking the spoon in your hand.

You scooped a thick serving of soup, your palm hanging under it, and waited.

And waited.

The man looked at you the same way he looked at the bowl of fruits earlier.

"What are you doing?" he said, gravel-voiced.

You're gonna lose this job.

Why did you think you could feed him like he's an ailing, decrepit old man? Or a literal child? He's built like he commands an army (and he probably does).

You are definitely gonna lose this job.

"I- I'm sorry!"

You jerked away, your hip hitting the table, the impact shaking it and causing the plates and silverware to clatter against each other.

"O-oh no, I'm-" The spoon in your hand fell as you attempted to set things properly, soup spilling to the carpet along with the utensils.

You're gonna lose this job and you're gonna starve to death.

"I'm sorry! I'm so so sorry!"

Dropping to your knee like your life depended on it, you picked up the myriad of similar looking spoons and forks and placed them back on the tray.

You kept your head downwards, bowing as you'd been repeatedly taught, and shut your eyes tightly.

"I thought that you hadn't healed yet and needed help and- and-" you huffed.

"And I thought that I should feed you but- no-no!" You looked at him and flailed your hands in front of you. "No! I didn't mean feed- I meant- I meant no disrespect please forgive me!"

Not a word was spoken in that second that spanned an entire year. But just as you'd accepted that the worst has come, he said:

"Then, feed me."

Wait.

Wait, what?

"I don't.. understand..?"

"Then, feed me," was what he told you. And so matter-of-factly, at that.

So you did, desperate to keep the only thing keeping you alive.

Though your hand trembled and you wished to be anywhere but here— even the wasteland waiting outside the gates, with all its unimaginable threats, seemed like paradise —you took a loaf of bread from the basket and brought it closer to his mouth.

Lines marred his forehead as he chewed. You were about to ask, self-destructive that you are, whether you should get the sweetened roll instead, thinking he found the one in your hand too bland. But you don't have the luxury to risk digging your grave any deeper.

You kept quiet and pointedly removed him from your line of sight, choosing to count the tassels hanging off the canopy instead.

Once he's eaten all that's left of the pastries, you dipped your hand into the bowl of fruits and took a grape in-between your fingers and, as much as you can, you steadied your hand to avoid touching his lips.

It didn't work.

You shuddered at the contact, curling your toes in your boots to avoid squirming.

This has got to be the weirdest day of your entire life.

Not a hint of unease was shown. He continued to close his plump lips around the tip of your fingers and crushed the fruits with pointed canines, making the hair on your body stand on end. What if he bites you? Would you bleed?

The man seemed to like them more than bread. A sense of urgency rose within you as he went through the berries and sliced mangoes like this is the first time he's had them.

Can't say you blame him. The last time you ate something that resembled a fruit, a real fruit, was when Granny persuaded (coerced) a young boy in her complex to steal one from his employer. That boy has a child of his own now.

You felt your mouth water, your stomach growl and command that you take the bowl from him and shovel its contents to your mouth, as you watched him devour the sweet and tangy meat, the smell of it sickening as it is strangely compelling.

He raised his head and met your eyes.

Shit.

The apples, you thought as you looked back down to the tray. They're the only ones left soaking in the bowl, those apples. After this you'd be out of this stuffy room and you'd laugh about this later with Soo-jin and her mom and Granny too if she's not cranky.

You could still feel him staring at you as you fed him a slice, the apple crisp when he took a bite.

Juice trickled down your hand, the sticky extract tickling your arm as it slid to the crook of your elbow, and you were about to wipe it with your other hand, when you felt a wet tongue probe the gap between your fingers.

You gasped. "Sir..!"

You stepped away. Tried to, anyway, but with a firm hand, a hand that's not injured, after all, he gripped your wrist and continued to suck a digit.

"This is- sir!" struggling out of his hold, you pleaded with him to let go, please sir let me go, even as he only looked at you, his eyes dimming when he grabbed your waist to bring you closer.

He licked your hand, lapping at the trail the juice left behind, and when you thought he would release you, he took your hand to pluck another slice from the bowl.

Your legs gave up beneath you, forcing you to sit on his stretched lap, his hard body scorching you through the sheets, as he ate the apple from your palm, slurping the leftovers dripping from it.

"Don't cry," Granny told you once.

"Especially when you feel like crying," she said. "Don't cry."

You'd never really been good at listening, but now, you decided to suck in your breath and keep those tears at bay. You can cry and laugh about all this later.

Because you might be jobless after this, but you will certainly have a damn good story to tell over the fire once you finished kneeing him in the nuts.

So: one.

Breathe.

His teeth scraped your soaked hand.

Two.

You rested your hand on his shoulder.

Three.

You braced your leg, moving it between his thick thighs, and then, as you clutched his bandages, you—

"Ushijima-sama."

The door swung open.

"Pardon the intrusion, but the Council members requested-”

It was Secretary Hara.

“Oh."

Secretary Hara: a lanky, dark haired man with glasses who's always at the Governor's beck and call. He was here, carrying a small stack of papers, and gaping at the scene before him.

You and the esteemed guest. Who's still suckling at your skin. On the bed.

He grinned, full of humor and disgusting. “Well,” he said.

At least you weren't crying.

A question, shared only by the Heavens, began when the Lord fashioned the flesh out of the dust of the ground and said,"You are made in My image and likeness."

It was not their way, before that: to question. (One of them did, once, but that is a different story).

They have no need for questions.

They hold the highest seat, below only to the Creator, unencumbered by the trappings of the earth.

They have no need for questions.

So it remained unasked, lingering in fragments in the House of the Lord.

The question comes to him now.

For the flesh is a cage. It is ephemeral and prone to decay.

It is fitting for this kind to have it, with all their qualities bound to the material world.

You are the very epitome of these.

Graceless. Stumbling like a newborn foal. Too many apologies. Too many questions.

God is not here, he thinks as you insist on asking what does not matter.

“Is the food not to your liking?” and “Is something wrong?” and “Do you need help?”

Indecisive, too. Reneging on your promises. You said you’d feed him and then you said you wouldn’t.

Ushijima Wakatoshi is a mere flesh, locking inside divinity your kind would never understand. Yet he felt its tedious demands gnaw at him when he saw you. Something so impermanent should have no right for constant sustenance.

But he knows, just for this time, that he needs it. That’s why he tells you to feed him, as you said you would. After all, it is your way to serve. And, for all your many inadequacies, God has granted you bread and water and fruit to sate your appetites.

Thus, for as long as he is flesh, he will do as it tells him to.

When it urged for the taste of fruit, for the cloying sweetness of its juice, it is only right that he heeded its call and had his fill.

How dare you object. His light is brighter than yours; God has granted it so (and yet you were given the will that they never had). And even in flesh you are beneath him. You are easily held and defeated.

The ache in his belly did not cease, each gulp he took heightening his senses, shouting for more, more, more as he took you with his tongue. And he realizes that this is what the first of your kind may have felt like when they disobeyed. The first act of betrayal.

(For what is the wrath of God to the cries of the flesh?)

And with that, Ushijima Wakatoshi finds, since donning this useless flesh, that it is not at all easy to gratify.

Not in the least.

There are so many rules in this mansion that even Cook’s effort to batter them on your head could sometimes be futile, given that their number is just as big as this place. But, there is one, among all the convoluted and at times nonsensical decrees, that you are not allowed to forget:

Unless you’re among the core staff, you can never enter the East Wing.

The East Wing is where all the important things happen, see. It goes without saying that someone as lowly as you cannot pollute that hallowed ground.

Today seems to be an exception.

When Cook barked that Secretary Hara wanted you in the East Wing first thing in the morning, you had a feeling that you just might not live to see the next day.

You didn't speak unless spoken to. You didn't look unless told to. The things you should've done much earlier.

"How are you liking the work here so far?"

Secretary Hara pushed the pen to the side and leaned back against the leather swivel chair.

"It's a job," you mumbled, to which he only replied with a breathless chuckle. You didn't see the point in bootlicking any further. Besides, Granny hated that the most; so you avoided doing it as much as you can.

There's only one conclusion for you here, anyway. No matter how severe the punishment. And it's back in your room, with a uniform that needs sewing for a job that you no longer have.

He tapped his fingers against the lacquered table. "You're right," he said. "Work is work. Despite your place in this society."

You wanted to roll your eyes. Secretary Hara has never been any of the workers' favorites (not that any of you had your "favorites," but if you could, you avoided this guy). He had this astonishing effect, too, in which he can actually bring people together. All because everyone hated him.

He's a slimeball, is what he is. If one needed lessons in kissing ass, he was your man.

"Do you know why you're here?"

You're getting fired. End of story. Now can I please just go? is what you want to say. But losing your job doesn't usually take this much time and attention. Normally, it was Cook who'd grunt "You're out" and that was it.

So you shake your head.

"I'm promoting you," he said. "Congratulations."

Somewhere, beneath that condescending smile of his, is a punchline that you're sure he's deliberately keeping from you. Just so he can be the only one who gets to laugh.

"I-" You balled your hand to a fist. "Why?"

He scoffed. "What are they teaching you in that rathole? Honestly."

They taught me not to be rude to people I don't know, you little bitch.

"Drop the coy act, it's okay," he sneered. "It's cheap and it won't work on me."

Oh, now you really want to get fired. If only to kick his teeth in. "That man," Secretary Hara continued. "Ushijima Wakatoshi. You were all over him and you seriously don't know who he is?"

You gritted. "Secretary Hara, what happened- it wasn't- I didn't want it."

But he only gave you that look. As if to say, "Sure. Let's go with that." When it'd pass and the need to pummel him became stronger, he stood up and stepped towards the tapestry draped against the wall.

It was a map, the city a pinprick on the corner. Secretary Hara faced it, dusting the spotless surface, his back to you.

"Ever wonder what keeps us here?" he started, hand still on the map. "This city of ours?"

"The," you licked your lips. Where was he going with this? "The river..?"

Secretary Hara clapped his hands, his voice lilting like he's talking to a toddler as he said, "That's right. That's good. Excellent."

"So you do know some things, after all." His fingers crawled towards the long line of blue stitched beside the city. "And do you wonder what would happen if, say, that river begins to dry?"

You felt your eyes widen. You covered your mouth with a palm.

You're not supposed to know this. Why is he telling you this?

He scratched the thick clump of blue thread and continued, "These great cities. They have their energy; their military."

Your eyes followed his hand, moving farther and farther away from the pallid brown surrounding your city, towards the bright yellow West, stopping at the bright green East. "Some of them are blessed enough to not be surrounded by a literal desert."

Then, with a careful hand, he moved to the very top and said, "And the North…the North has it all."

The North was a sprawling, intricate web of threads, eating away the entire tapestry.

"The Ushijima clan rules the North. Much longer than this city has existed. And they’re so engrossed in their wars that they’d never glance our way if we don't give them at least half of what we make,” he spat. “These great people haven’t had contact with us in years."

Secretary Hara finally turned around, grin still in place. "But now one of them owes his life to us." He walked back to his desk, sitting on its edge. "Perhaps the heavens sent him here."

When you remained silent and looked at him with eyes that you wished had the ability to kill, because you know now what they wanted from you, Secretary Hara only shrugged.

"He asked for your name, actually," he said, tilting his head. "Lucky you. He didn't bother to learn ours."

You stood your ground. "No, sir," you said. "I won't."

He pulled a thin piece of paper from a pile sitting next to him. "You're not gonna do much," he said as he began to read. "Just show him around the city. Be his friend."

Friend.

"But I- No. I can't." You stepped forward. "Please."

He looked away from the paper. "Zone 42. Room 0312."

"What.."

"Granny," he said. "That's what you call her, isn't it?"

No.

"They say that for a blind old lady she's still somehow miraculously trading to keep a roof over her head."

Phantom touches crept to your arm, slick and nauseating like cold sweat.

"You must take it from her. Though you're not related," he said. "Apparently, you're so hardworking, you even work the night shift. When you don't have to."

You released a shaky breath. "I'll..I'll start," you croaked. "I'll start right away, sir."

Secretary Hara folded his arms, victory plastered all over his gaunt face.

"Thank you," he chimed. "I'm glad you understand. It's for your own good too, y'know."

The uniform they gave you chafed against your skin. Tugging at the sleeves did not help, the pristine fabric too coarse and stiff to budge. Your only comfort was the folded paper hidden in your pocket, fading at the edges every time you touched it.

You have to admit, however, that you did look...well, you did look clean. Not as much as him, though. And not just in the sense that he's out of the bandages now. Last you checked, and that had been a few minutes ago, he was still sporting a couple of scars on his forehead.

Despite that, you don't have to look behind you to know what's captured the people's attention as you strolled the capital. Or, who, to be exact.

Some were outright ogling; some happened to glance once and then immediately looked away with a blush; some made the laudable effort to not look.

A mirror of what you're doing right now.

They gilded him with gold, which is a redundancy if you ever see one. He was wearing the most expensive pigment, something that only the Governor's family could own: a deep violet tunic emblazoned with golden vines, swirling from the middle to the collar; paired with dress pants that you could probably trade for a whole month's worth of food.

You kept your distance as you walked in front of him. "Just show him around the city," was what Secretary Hara told you. That didn't mean you had to talk.

And it's not as if he had any complaints, either. He followed you through the rows of glass houses that adorned Governor's lane, not a word spoken about the sights.

Even when you'd attempted to speed through the dizzying streets, he kept his pace, long legs allowing him to stride close to you. By time you'd reached the plaza, you were already out of breath and in need of rest.

But you didn’t.

You remained standing a few feet away from him, the paper in your hand opened to reveal those great trees and thriving field, as he sat under the gazebo overlooking the square; a place reserved only for council members.

The smell of the sweetmeats and oranges in front of him reached your nose (Secretary Hara has a cruel sense of humor, you belatedly realized, when you were handed a bag of food that had a note saying “treat him well”). You fought the itch to cast out what little you’ve had for breakfast.

Children were playing around the sandbox, the staff of whatever family they belonged to guarding them. In a way, their job wasn’t that different from what you have now.

Except, it’s not a child you were threatened to accompany. With the feeling of his gaze burning your nape, it seems like you’re not the one doing the guarding as well.

And you didn’t feel every bit like the adult you are when he called your name.

You felt frighteningly small, as you yielded with a pathetic, “Ushijima-sama.”

He only looked at you. Those green eyes telling you exactly what he wanted.

People are watching. You can’t mess this up.

“Sir,” you said, hand still in your pocket, that frayed paper your anchor. “It is improper.”

Irritation swept through him, his sharp features harsher when dissatisfied. But you can’t give up, even though it’s sending a chill down your spine and he seems like he’s about to throttle in broad daylight. (And he doesn’t have to do much, you know. He can crush you with one hand.)

“Why- why are you here?” you hissed. “R-really?”

You don’t shut your trap when you have to, girl. That’s your problem.

“Because- because I’m not gonna be your..thing.” The paper was dampening in your grip. “While you do whatever it is you do, Ushijima,” you huffed. “...sama”

Ushijima did not blink, his stare unwavering as he turned towards the small crowd strolling below. There’s a part of you that wishes to put yourself in his place, like a king on his throne. What does the view look like from up there? Are the people beneath just multicolored ants moving from afar?

“A few of my kind have suddenly sided with yours,” he said. Then, briefly returning his gaze to you, “I had to see what draws them here.”

He linked his fingers together. “Before I do what must be done.”

You stifled a chortle. “Do what must be done” your ass. Does that include harassing people, too? “God only knows,” you whispered.

“You believe in God.”

You were the subject of his relentless attention again. You groaned, averting your eyes to a small girl, probably around Soo-jin’s age, who plopped down to create a heap of sand, much to the consternation of her nanny.

“No,” you replied in a thin voice.

“Why?”

“I don’t know.” Where is this question coming from? “Always seemed like a lot of work,” you said.

The little girl was making a castle. It’s apparent to you now that she has little pail by her side, shovel in her grubby hand. The frill of her dress caught most of the sand as she stacked them atop each other.

“And I’m pretty sure God has more fun things to do than worry about me,” you added, just because.

The castle reached her knees when the girl stood up.

"God has left," Ushijima said. "A long time ago."

And then she kicked it. The thing crumbled to a mound, the breeze scattering it back to the sand.

You did chuckle this time. The Northerners sure are strange. "Really? Where’d God go?" you hummed, looking up to the sky.

The sun was blanketed by waves of clouds, as usual. "Somewhere nicer, I hope," you sighed.

You closed your eyes and thought of that nicer place. It would have to be far, far away from here. Maybe it would even have those trees that Granny loved.

"Cherry trees."

You opened your eyes and gawked at him.

He was still gazing at you.

"You are attached to it," he told you, like it's nothing; like your heart's not wreaking havoc against your ribs with each word he utters. "On that paper."

Pulling it out of your pocket, you stumbled to him and unfolded it for him to see. "You- you know what this is? A 'cherry tree.' That’s what you call it?"

"Yes." Ushijima's eyes did not leave yours. "That is the name you people have bestowed upon them."

"Are you sure? Are you absolutely sure?"

You didn't let him answer that because, just like the fool that Granny accused you to be, you took his hand in your trembling one and laughed, somehow managing to drag him out of the gazebo.

It took a while before you finally let go.

Much has changed along the way, he felt this as the air grew hotter; the sound of bustling people louder and less constrained with inutile mortal etiquette. You seemed less wary of him here.

The hand that held his tightly was still brushing against him, as you talked incessantly about the pieces of paper plastered across the wall. They all looked the same, yellowed and infested with mold at the edges, but you insisted otherwise.

“See here?” You pointed to the one on the bottom. “Granny drew the leaves differently. They look like flowers don’t they? They are, aren’t they? I knew it! So they are flowers.”

There was a cot in the corner of the room. He sees you there in slumber, surrounded by rocks and scraps of metal and bits of gemstones held together by strings, each strand hanging on the crevices of the roof, gleaming every time they move.

You tapped his arm repeatedly. “Oh, oh. I put these two beside each other. Notice that the shades are different? This one is lighter while this one has more shadows to it.”

"Do you get it now?" you asked him, expectant.

Humans are baffling creatures, Wakatoshi thought. Because when he said nothing, you only laughed (you seem to like doing that) and told him to “follow me; hurry.” You didn’t hold his hand this time (you should’ve, he preferred it when you did).

“My bad. I hadn’t shown you yet,” you huffed as you grabbed a rag and set aside buckets of rainwater that obstructed his path.

Behind a curtain of sackcloth and ashes, draped at the furthest side of the wall, was a crack big enough to let a person through, corroding steel bars protruding along the broken concrete.

Wakatoshi ducked to enter the room next to yours. It was hollow, save for bits of gravel and a window obscured by dust. You paced to it then wiped the thick glass with the rag you brought with you.

“That hill is always there in Granny’s drawings,” you said, taking the paper in your pocket and setting it parallel to the scene revealed by the window.

Your smile was wide, as if you were admiring a land lush with vegetation, or wildflowers at least. When it was far from that. It was a vast desolation, beyond the gates and the brown earth fractured. But, just as you said, there is a solitary hill sitting along the horizon.

“Those trees- cherry trees,” you started, face radiating with mirth. “It’s the same but.. different each time.” Your breathless laugh makes him feel just as winded. “How is that even possible?”

“I know they can’t be just...green.” A finger traced the outline of the leaves. “Because these are real and they actually grow and- and they change.” And, as if it’s a secret, “Unlike the ones at the capital.”.

“If only Granny would paint them for me,” you whispered, the smile on those lips waning.

Wakatoshi couldn’t stand it. So, he grunted, “You are wrong. This one is green.”

He took the paper from your hand. “They only change colors once they bloom. White, first. Then, pink.”

This knowledge is trivial; if it can be considered knowledge at all. It is a speck in the infinite matters that simply exist— have existed, in this world. Yet such a thing has put that look in your eyes.

Perhaps it is not inconsequential at all.

“Pink?” you breathed, grinning incredulously at him.

You turned away and closed your eyes, your voice cracking as you murmured, “I see.”

There's a blood pumping organ within his chest. A vital piece that keeps you humans alive. It beats constantly, never ceasing. If it does then it means you are dead. He is flesh, for now; it follows that if it halts, then he is fodder for the earth.

How is it, then, that he is still here? He’s sure he felt it stop, the air knocked out of his lungs, as you looked back at him, eyes welling with tears when you said, “Thank you.”

Thank you, you told him, smiling.

Ah.

Wakatoshi gets it now.

This is what God must have seen, when your kind looked up and sang, “I love you, my God; I love you; I love you.” And when you knelt and dared to turn those eyes for others that are not God, he suddenly understands why they were ordered to rain fire and brimstone upon your great kingdoms.

Because he, too, would smite anything, burn it to the ground and salt what is left, if it would so much as receive a whit of your sweet, soft words.

“They used to grow here,” you sniveled. “Granny said so.”

“And I thought, maybe if Granny added a bit more color- maybe they'd feel more…I don't know..real..?” Laughter rings in his ears once again, pealing like bells. “Yeah..They'd feel more real...Though, she did get mad at me,” you winced.

“I just thought,” you sighed, your shoulders touching him. “Wouldn't it be nice if I can wake up one day and find them growing again? Right here.”

God created a garden for your kind once. It is gone now, but Wakatoshi wonders what you’d say, how you’d look at him, if he shows it to you. Your head against the grass, fingers laced with the lilies of the field, the taste of fruit on your lips, your thighs dripping with honey and dew—

Wakatoshi felt his loins stir, but he didn't say anything, except, “The soil here is poisoned.”

You snapped towards him, brows drawn together. “I know,” you said.

“A sapling cannot grow on this wasteland.”

“Yes, I’m not stupid.”

“That could have been any hill.”

“I know.”

His throat is parched; his hands a pair of useless things. He can hold galaxies in them, sink ships and level seas by the order of God had this body not trapped him. (He can free himself, but then you’d die). Now he doesn’t even know what to do with them as he rushes out a hoarse, “I have upset you.”

He refused to let you take the paper from him. You didn’t seem to mind.

“No,” you sighed. “No, of course not. Forgive me, Ushijima-sama.”

You bowed again. An act of servitude.

“Please, let me escort you back to the capital.”

He does not understand. He only told you the truth.

But you turned your back to him and the light in your eyes has gone and he wants to chase it back the same way he wanted to run after God when the parting happened, leaving the Heavens mourning until their wails split the firmament open.

Wakatoshi yearns to have you closer. He yearns for that smile and laughter back on your face.

Wakatoshi yearns.

But, that cannot be.

After all, that is just much too human, is it not?

The rain drenched Wakatoshi to the bone, droplets falling from his lashes to his cheeks, when he walked through the nighttime storm.

He didn't bother to dry himself.

After he'd reached your room and shoved the door open, the clap of thunder covering the noise, Wakatoshi decided to undress himself, shedding all articles of clothing until he was naked as the day God created your kind.

Wakatoshi felt the chill bite his skin. But that had nothing on the way you easily dismissed him earlier, by the time you'd reached the abode of this city's leader.

You left him and he could no longer see your face and yet that fierce longing in his chest stayed, creeping to every part of him, making a home in his belly.

Until he recognized the feeling for what it was.

Hunger.

Hunger, he could fathom. And when one feels it gnaw at one's flesh, what does one do, but eat?

You were sleeping on the cot, just as he'd imagined you to be. It's enough to keep him warm: the sight of you, at peace under the glimmer of the trinkets dancing above as a lamp burned lowly.

The mattress sank under his weight when he sat next to you. His much larger hand took yours, locking your fingers together to rest his cheek against it, bringing it beneath his nose, and feeling his heart race as he breathed in your scent.

He remembers the first time he did this so vividly. You tasted like apples and sin; and though there's none of that now, his mouth still waters as he savors your skin, his tongue traveling to your arm, just as he did then, leaving bites along the way.

You barely stirred when he lifted your shirt to reveal your tits, the sheen of sweat along the valley forcing a growl out of him.

Do you feel it, too? When you drag him further down to earth, debasing him and bringing him so low that now he is nothing but a hungry flesh and a mouth made of obscenities.

"Fuck," he grunts, as he took his cock, heavy and hard to touch, and rubbed the head with his fingers.

Perhaps he is lower than human now. Perhaps it does not matter. What is God to this hunger, anyway?

(This hunger is bigger than God.)

The cot was pitifully small as he straddled over your chest, breathing still shallow, and spat on his hand before wrapping it around the thick shaft. The tip of his cock touched your nipple as he fondled with the other one, thumb and forefinger pinching and pulling until you let out a tiny mewl.

Hearing it had him falling to his knees.

Wakatoshi moved off the cot to kneel on the floor, the better to suckle on your tits, to lick and nibble on the skin below it, on your stomach, until he's seeing red and ripping your loose pants down to your thighs.

He pumped his cock harder as he caressed the folds of your cunt. You groaned, arching your back and offering yourself to his mouth, when he started to lap on your clit, sticky liquid coating the swollen bud as he swirled his tongue to spread the juices dripping from your hole.

Your entire body was singing for him, even when all you'd managed were squirms and muted whimpers. He felt your skin twitch beneath his lips, as he cupped his balls and drove his hand faster around his throbbing cock, gripping his fist tighter.

Oh, he sees you on that garden, clinging onto him as he drives himself into you, pounding your cunt as you beg please, just as you did before, please, please, fuck me harder I am yours I am all yours.

But, for now, he settles himself with the violent shudders of your body, flooding his mouth with cream, as he releases his seed on his palm.

Wakatoshi rubbed it against your leaking cunt, quivering still in his hand.

There is something that must be finished, first, before he takes you, in truth. He cannot have you conscious (for now.)

He covered you back in your clothes, after. Then, Wakatoshi lingered on your face.

"Fearfully and wonderfully made," he whispered, a mere guttural sound amidst the rain pouring outside.

Here lies salvation, he thought, as his fingers brushed your closed eyes.

And here, Wakatoshi thought as he brought his lips down to kiss you, here lies damnation.

He wiped his blood on the doorposts and lintel before he left.

You woke up to silence.

Your nether regions ached and, really, the temptation to not go to work today was insanely strong. But the sun was already bleeding through the window and there's a heavy feeling on your chest.

And like wearing a shirt on backwards, you immediately knew that something was not right.

The sound of the door slamming open echoed through the building as you ran outside.

There was nothing.

Not the sound of people going about their day nor of children risking the wrath of their mothers with their games. The only thing you could hear was the buzzing noise of a fly circling around your ear.

You didn't bother knocking on your neighbor's room, rushing inside to shout for Soo-jin and her mom, stopping only when you found them sitting around a small table.

They didn't turn around to greet you.

"There you are," you panted, putting your hands on your knees. "I'm so sorry for barging in like this."

Even little Soo-jin, who never failed to jump into your arms given the opportunity, kept her back to you.

You stepped towards her. "Soo-jin," you whispered, placing a hand on her thin shoulder.

"Soo-jin, hey," you chuckled, your trembling fingers shaking her bit. "H-hey, what's wrong?"

Her head nodded down, like a doll grabbed all too suddenly, then it lolled to the side, rolling until she bared her neck, until you saw her face.

Her mouth hung open.

Inside the cavern were tiny black lumps that took you a second to realize were flies feasting on her molars. And when you lurched and sank to the floor, it was only then that you saw her staring back at you.

Bleached eyes, wide and whitened to the core and pupils like spoiled milk.

"N-no." Your vision was cloudy, freezing dread settling at the pit of your stomach when you saw that the same happened to her mother. "Who- who did this?"

Your voice strained out as you stood, mind moving faster than your legs.

Granny. Go to Granny.

Though you already know, don't you? You don't have to see her to know her fate. Because as you sprinted out of the room, leaping down across the steps, out of the building and into sand and concrete, the smell of sulfur followed you, choking you along with the sight of bodies sprawled on the ground.

Insects creeping out of nostrils and every other orifice, faces that you'll never have the chance of knowing and faces that you'd grown up with, hands reaching to the heaven as if at prayer.

You are alone. You are alone in a city filled with rotting corpses.

There was an uncontrolled animal inside your body, fighting out of its cage in a fit of rage as you craned to look up, further up.

The sky was on fire, the fissure in the middle gaping wider and wider and sucking in a mass of swirling clouds dipped with blood and orange.

And there. There, look. Standing atop the towering walls.

Beyond the heat wave was a figure, burning bright that you had to squint and you wanted to look away, you had to look away, but you can't go out like this, not without a scream and a curse at your lips.

What did you do, you were shouting, Who are you, you were screeching, feeling the veins in your neck stretch and pop as you walked closer and closer.

Wings as far as the eye could see stood atop the fallen city.

Spread out to span the horizon and folded at the middle to conceal whatever it is pointing a flaming sword towards the sun.

You tasted iron at the back of your mouth, but you did not stop. The earth beneath you swallowed your feet as it turned to mud with each step you took.

And with the flap of its wings, the sound of metal banging against each other reverberated louder.

There were children howling in pain, somewhere, behind you, in front of you, beside you. You staggered forward and for the life of you, you do not understand why you keep trying, because the ground below wasn't even soil anymore.

It took another step before you fell.

And it was like one of those dreams.

But this time you don't wake up.

You bawled out and thrashed your legs as water rose above you, slamming against your chest and filling up your mouth and burning your nose until it's all you could see, until you're floating in darkness and water is rushing to your lungs and you were flailing upwards, catching that spot of sunlight, but the more you kicked your feet and swung your arms, the more it tugged at your heavy legs and the less you could breathe and the further it got—

You were sinking, the clanging of a giant bell everywhere still, as the water pulled you down, and in the deep, below the nothingness, was a massive cleft illuminated by the barest of light, slowly opening to reveal an eye, and no sound came out though you know, though you felt your throat release a shriek, horrifyingly small, so, so small compared to that glass green pupil that illuminated the darkness, rapidly contracting and dilating and then blinking as salt and fire streamed deep in your skin, but they were looking at you from all sides, a thousand eyes flanking you and judging the weight of your soul with their unforgiving gaze as you tossed and turned in the waters.

I am going to die here, you thought. I will die here, you cried.

But something was pulling at your waist and despite clawing and jabbing at it, desperate to keep it away from you as you wailed get off me get off me, it gripped you tight, hauling you upwards until you were gulping and breathing in cold air.

Through tears and the piercing cry that ripped out your throat, you felt strong, warm arms cradle you close.

Along with a deep voice, familiar and conjuring a long lost memory.

It lulled you into hiccups and dry sobs, gentle as it whispered.

“Do not be afraid,” he said. “Do not be afraid. Do not be afraid.”

#tw noncon #tw non con haikyuu #yandere ushijima #ushijima wakatoshi x reader #ushijima x female reader #dark content haikyuu

379 notes · View notes

kjack89 · 4 years

Text

AITA

My bestie’s latest quarantine hobby is trolling through AITA on reddit and sending me ones she thinks will make me mad, so. I got inspired.

E/R, modern AU.

The sun was bright and the mood, all things considered, was high, as the crowd gathered by the river in preparation for the march downtown to call for defunding the police. Black Lives Matter was leading the protest, and Enjolras had volunteered Les Amis to serve as support and allies in whatever way they could, which mostly meant making sure folks were wearing masks and that no one decided to try something stupid with the cops.

“Good crowd,” Courfeyrac remarked, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet as he glanced around before looking back at Enjolras. “As much as I’m sure it’s killing you that they’re only calling for defunding and not abolition.”

“Yeah, well, not even a year ago, no one was talking about defunding the police,” Enjolras pointed out, a little sourly, adjusting his mask, which was emblazoned with WHITE SILENCE IS VIOLENCE. “I’ll take what progress I can get.”

Courfeyrac smirked. “You sound practically moderate.”

Enjolras scowled. “Take that back, or—”

His threat was cut off by the arrival of Joly, Bossuet and Grantaire. It was hard to tell by the masks all three wore, but Enjolras was pretty sure that all three were grinning, and judging by the way Bossuet was swaying, just slightly, it wasn’t just because they were in a good mood.

“I’ll take it you three decided to hit up a brunch spot on your way here?” Enjolras asked, even more sourly than before.

“A man has to eat,” Joly said innocently, which would have gone over much more believably had he not giggled at the end.

“Besides, we only ordered one drink,” Bossuet assured him.

Enjolras pinched the bridge of his nose. “Let me guess,” he said dryly, “you each ordered a bottomless mimosa.” He didn’t wait for any of them to confirm it. “And how many refills of said drink did you also order?”

Joly and Bossuet looked at each other and laughed, and Grantaire pulled his mask down to grin lazily at Enjolras. “Let me put it this way,” he said, “more than one and less than ten.” He paused. “Probably. I did lose track after about seven.”

Snickering, Joly and Bossuet headed over to join the rest of Les Amis, but when Grantaire made to follow, Enjolras blocked him, his arms crossed in front of his chest. “You’re drunk,” he said accusingly, and Grantaire’s grinned widened.

“Well, I’m sure as shit not sober.”

“Put your mask back on,” Enjolras ordered, less concerned for himself, as Grantaire was part of his quarantine bubble, and more for everyone else milling around before the march started. Especially any journalists who might love to get a shot of BLM protesters breaking the mask mandate. “And go home, Grantaire.”

Grantaire slowly pulled his mask back up over his mouth and nose, smoothing it into place before looking at Enjolras plaintively, all trace of humor vanishing from his expression. “Let me stay here,” he said, his voice soft, and not just from the cotton that covered his mouth.

Enjolras shook his head, well aware that even if Grantaire might suddenly sound sober, he wasn’t. “Go home,” he repeated. “The last thing we need is your drunk ass picking a fight with the cops or something worse and turning this whole thing into a riot instead of the peaceful protest its organizers intended.”

“What, you think I’m incapable of going two or three hours without starting a brawl?” Grantaire asked, incredulous.

Enjolras arched an eyebrow. “I think you’re incapable of a great many things.”

Grantaire’s lip curled. “Like believing, thinking, willing, living and dying?”

“Only you seem to think you’re incapable of dying,” Enjolras said quietly, before repeating, one more time, “Go home.”

But Grantaire shook his head, taking a step toward him. “If you’re so worried about it, then send Bahorel home, too!” he insisted. “Send home Joly and Bossuet who are just as drunk as I am. Or else let me stay.”

“No.”

Enjolras said the word calmly, but Grantaire recoiled as if he had shorted. “And why not?”

“Because I trust them!” Enjolras burst, his temper getting the better of him, and he scrubbed a hand across his face before adding, what he hoped was a calmer way, “I trust them to actually listen to my instructions and keep themselves out of trouble.”

But something in Grantaire’s face clouded as soon as Enjolras had said that he trusted them, and Enjolras had a bad feeling that he hadn’t really listened to the last part. “Right,” Grantaire said, a little dully, already turning away. “Well. I’ll see you later, I guess.”

“Grantaire,” Enjolras sighed, reaching out to catch his arm, but Grantaire shrugged him off, wandering towards the river, the hunch of his shoulders the only indication that he had any care in the world. Enjolras stared after him for a long moment, his expression troubled.

----------

Four days later, Grantaire rolled over in bed when his phone buzzed. He picked it up off his nightstand, saw that it was a text from Enjolras, and immediately tossed it down again, groaning.

He hadn’t talked to Enjolras since that morning of the BLM protest, and at this rate, he wasn’t sure he ever wanted to. Not when he knew that Enjolras didn’t trust him.

Joly would tell him he was being dramatic, and Bossuet would tell him to just text Enjolras and apologize and move on, and since Grantaire wanted to hear neither of those things, he also wasn’t talking to Joly or Bossuet.

Instead, he rolled over onto his stomach, grabbing his phone and stubbornly ignoring the text message from Enjolras still sitting, unread, in his messages. Instead, he clicked on twitter, figuring if he was going to sulk, he might as well sulk while reading about someone else’s misery.

A half hour later, Grantaire had scrolled through what felt like half of twitter before he stumbled upon a random tweet that linked to an ‘Am I the Asshole?’ post on the subreddit of the same name, and he glanced at the clock before deciding he had enough time to waste a couple of hours on a whole new level of misery.

He might’ve kept scrolling for hours, when he stumbled upon an AITA post that was surprisingly familiar.

Suspiciously familiar.

Like he had lived it.

He hesitated for only a moment before clicking on the post.

Posted by u/RadianceoftheFuture 8 hours ago AITA for kicking my friend out of a protest?

So I (25M) was attending a BLM protest the other day with the social justice organization I run. One of my friends, who we’ll call ‘R” (28M), showed up drunk and, IMO, looking to start a fight. This was the last thing I wanted, since we were there to be good allies, and starting fights or inciting a riot as white folks who will get away with it ain’t it. So naturally, I told him to go home.

Now here’s where I may be the asshole. R started arguing with me, and pointed out that some our other friends who were also there were also drunk, and one of our other friends who was there has a history of starting fights, so he asked me why I wasn’t making them leave. I told him it was because I trusted them.

Which is true, but not exactly how I wanted to word it, and I could tell that he was hurt by the implication that I didn’t trust him. And I do trust him, but I also didn’t want to spend the entire time worried about him. Anyway, he left, and he hasn’t talked to me since. If I’m the asshole, I want to apologize so that we can go back to being friends, and even if I wasn’t, I still want to figure out a way for us to talk again. I miss him. So tell me, AITA?

Grantaire stared at his phone, torn between something warm spreading in his chest at the fact that Enjolras cared enough to ask anonymous strangers on the internet about this, and freaking out because Enjolras had posted about their disagreement on the internet.

The man had only two speeds, it seemed, and somehow, Grantaire always ended up dealing with Enjolras on the highest speed.

Numbly, and mostly in an attempt to gather his thoughts, Grantaire scrolled through the comments on the post, unsurprised to see a decent mix of judgements from the redditors. More than expected YTAs (you’re the asshole), plus a number of NTAs (not the asshole), and, predominantly, a smattering of NAH (no assholes here).

Halfway down the page, he paused, realizing that the person who had written the post had responded to a question.

u/oldcoats_oldfriends - 7 hours ago INFO: why do you trust your other friends and not R?

u/RadianceoftheFuture - 6 hours ago Because R has a history of getting himself in trouble, whether by running his mouth off when he shouldn’t or picking fights with guys twice his side, and the trouble he gets into tends to happen after he’s been drinking. So when you put the two together, I was worried he’d do something stupid and get himself locked up or worse. And since keeping an eye on the rest of the protest was important, I knew I couldn’t afford to be distracted by also keeping an eye on him.

And for the record, I trust R with a lot. He’s not as ideological as a lot of us, doesn’t even have a lot of the same beliefs, but I know he would never do anything to hurt the cause, or me. Of course, he might not HELP the Cause, or me, but still. I’ve never once doubted that R would take a bullet for me, if it came to that. I would just never in a million years want him to.

Grantaire swallowed, hard. Of course he would take a bullet for Enjolras, or more, but it had never occurred to him that knowing that might make Enjolras worried. Worried that Grantaire would do something stupid.

If only the man knew that Grantaire worried about Enjolras in exactly the same way.

Hesitating for only a moment, he decided to leave a comment of his own.

u/MyFullGlass1832 - 1 minute ago NAH. Sure your friend shouldn’t have been drunk and you were right to kick him out, but drinking doesn’t make him an asshole (though not talking to you might). I am curious why you would have been worried about him. He’s a grown man and not your responsibility.

He quickly closed out of reddit, not wanting to do something stupid and refresh until Enjolras responded, but he only half-paid attention to the tweets he scrolled past, glancing at the clock to see if it was still pathetic for him to check for a response.

But to his shock, when he finally gave in and checked forty-five minutes later, Enjolras had answered, and something in Grantaire’s stomach twisted to know that he was still checking the thread, still seeking a resolution.

u/RadianceoftheFuture - 39 minutes ago Maybe ‘worried about’ is the wrong term, but he’s my friend. I didn’t want him to get hurt, or worse, because he was drunk. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s gotten hurt on my watch, and everytime it happens, it’s awful. And not just because he won’t shut up about it for the next six months - I always feel so guilty, like I should’ve been protecting him. I know that’s not realistic, so the very least I can do is send him home when I think he’s liable to hurt himself. That way I can sleep at night knowing I did what I could.

The breath caught in Grantaire’s throat, and his chest felt tight, especially as he read the follow up comments.

u/valiant.artisan - 34 minutes ago INFO: Are you and R gay?

u/tremble_b4apoppy - 26 minutes ago Dude you may be in love with R.

u/timidinrepose - 21 minutes ago OMG this is the sweetest thing I’ve read all day.

u/Lymantria_dispar - 12 minutes ago. Pretty sure this might go a little beyond just friendship. Either way, I’m glad you care about your friend, and even though you weren’t TA, you should call him and explain why you told him to go home.

Grantaire couldn’t seem to stop his stupid smile as he stared at the computer, and this time, he didn’t hesitate, opening his text chain with Enjolras without reading any of Enjolras’s previous texts. He didn’t need to read them know.

NTA.

He sent the text and held his breath, wondering if Enjolras would acknowledge it, immediately, or try to play it cool. His one word answer indicate the former: Sorry?

But Grantaire wasn’t nearly as willing to play it coy. Not anymore. Your AITA post. I’m giving you my judgment. NTA.

In his mind, he could see Enjolras blush, that same way he did when he was frustrated, two spots of color rising high in his cheek as he stared at Grantaire. You saw that?

Even in his mind, it was a beautiful sight. Yeah

Then you should know, I agree with the majority opinion.

The image of Enjolras blushing disappeared, leaving Grantaire blinking at his phone, his brow furrowed as he tried to think of what the majority option would have been. Oh?

NAH.

Grantaire grinned, but before he could respond, Enjolras texted, Want to come over? I think I owe you an explanation in person.

I thought you’d never ask.

----------

u/ RadianceoftheFuture - 45 minutes ago UPDATE: AITA for kicking my friend out of a protest?

(Original.)

Thank you all very much for your feedback in the original post. There were a variety of perspectives on this, but some of the comments on the original post made me realize that I may in fact feel something more than friendship towards R, and it’s a good thing I figured it out, because he found the post, and even commented on it without me knowing! Anyway, we talked, I explained how I felt, and it turns out R’s had a thing for me pretty much since he’s known me. Anyway, we’re dating now, and while this isn’t exactly going to solve my problem of worrying about him, I also think he’ll be on somewhat better behavior now. For my sake at least.

We still have a lot to work on together, but we’re moving in the right direction. And to think, I probably never would’ve figured it out if it weren’t for reddit, of all the websites.

u/MyFullGlass1832 - 3 minutes ago WIBTA for hijacking my boyfriend’s reddit post to tell him that I love him?

u/ RadianceoftheFuture - 2 minutes ago YTA for sitting literally two feet away from me and responding to a reddit post when we could be doing something far more exciting.

u/MyFullGlass1832 - 1 minute ago ...good point.

#enjolras x grantaire #exr #enjoltaire #enjolras #grantaire #les miserables #fanfiction #modern au #reddit au #that pained me to type #anyway #developing relationship

136 notes · View notes

justasparkwritings · 3 years

Text

Peace: In Secret

Previous: Your Brothers As My Brothers

Pairing: Jungkook X Reader

Genre: Angst / Slice of Life

Rating: PG17

Word Count: 2.8k

Warnings: Swearing, Bar Fight, Defending Honor, Relationship Turmoil, Racism and Xenophobia, Everyone Cries

Summary: A fateful night pushes insecurities to the forefront as you and Jungkook reckon with what your future will look like.

Listening: peace by Taylor Swift

Peace Master List

The fight had escalated in a matter of minutes. A set of knuckles had collided, blood was spilled, security had rushed you out the back door and into the waiting van. As they tended to JK, you sat staring, fire stoking with every rotation of tires. He tried to speak to you, to ask if you were okay, to see if you were in shock or hurt in anyway. His free hand rested on your knee, drawing slow circles in an attempt to slowly exercise the adrenaline out of him.

As you arrived back at their Los Angeles Airbnb, security gave Jungkook direct orders to put it in a bowl of cold water with plenty of ice cubes. They needed the swelling to be minimal so they could further assess the damage his punch had created.

You shuffled in after him, absentmindedly finding your way to a stool in the kitchen. Your eyes were glossed over, the smoke in your body causing tears to form.

The other members rushed in, huddling around you both, asking what had happened. Jungkook related the story in rushed Korean, and from what you could make out, it sounded more exaggerated than it was.

Here’s what you knew to be true:

JK had gone to the bathroom to fix his hair

In his absence, another man had flirted with you

You’d rejected him kindly, saying you were waiting for your boyfriend to return

In typical fashion, he was persistent, saying some misogynistic line about leaving a girl like you alone at the bar

You laughed, bruising his ego

You turned to walk away when he tried to grab your wrist

JK must’ve caught this part of interaction

Through rage filled eyes he watched as another man made a pass on you

Jungkook could see your disgust and irritation

He could see the unwillingness the other man had to let you go

Jungkook had approached swiftly, telling the man to back off

The man had looked from Jungkook to you, a look of recognition passing over his face

The man laughed, then spit on the floor

There was name calling, and he looked back at you

He barked that he would never fuck a bitch with yellow fever

Jungkook punched him, knocking him on the ground instantly

You dropped your glass, shattering on impact

BTS security was on you in a matter of seconds, whisking you to the car

Tae and Ho-Seok were on you instantly, they wrapped arms around you, holding you close, whispering comforting phrases into your hair. You didn’t hear any of it, you didn’t feel any of it. All you saw was the smattering of flashing lights.

Jimin grabbed you a glass of water and turned you away from Taehyung and Ho-Seok. Squaring his shoulders with yours, he looked you in the eyes.

“Babe, say something,” Jimin whispered. You hadn’t noticed him in front of you, your gaze lost as you recounted the events of the evening. As you blinked you realized you were eye to eye with Jimin, and you gasped.

“Fuck! I didn’t realize you were so close,” You said.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Namjoon asked, moving to stand next to Jimin. Taehyung was still at your side, arm draped over your shoulder, holding you close to him.

You looked at him, expression blank. It was confirmation enough for Namjoon, and he informed the other members that they needed to give you and Jungkook a minute alone.

“Noona, are you okay? You haven’t said anything,” JK moved the bowl towards you, coming to sit on the stool next to you. His left hand reached for yours. You pulled it back, blinking the tears down your cheeks.

“I’m not fucking okay,” you whispered.

Jungkook hadn’t seen this wrath in you before. He didn’t recognize the shift in your tone. He couldn’t distinguish the look that swept across your face. He thought he knew every expression, every mood you had. He thought he’d seen every iteration of you, every hurt that he could imagine you experiencing. But as he stared at you, eyes searching for any sort of familiarity, he realized there was a side to you he’d never seen: blind rage.

“I know, it’s bad, it was a bad situation that-

“That you made worse.” You stood up, shoving the stool under the counter. It clattered against the cabinets below, the force you’d exerted unnecessary.

“What?” Jungkook’s doe eyes swelled, made it worse?

“You punched him,” You snapped.

“He was going to attack you!” He countered.

“I was walking away.” You placed your hands on the counter, fingers wrapping around the edges.

“He didn’t care!” Jungkook stood too, trying to find the higher ground.

“There were enough people around. The bodyguards were coming. You reacted recklessly!” You snapped, voice rising.

“Did you hear what he said to me? What he called me? What he said about you?! I was trying to -

“Were you? We’re you trying to protect me, or trying to defend yourself?” You yelled.

“Yes! I was trying to defend-

“Do you understand what you’ve done Jungkook?” Your voice broke, the yelling and tears taking its toll.

“What? I protected-

“You made a fucking scene. You irresponsibly, recklessly, made a scene and now you have put me and our relationship in jeopardy.” Your eyes were wild, your throat ached, venom dripped from your words, the threat of poison seeping into Jungkook’s eyes.

“I was taking you away from danger!” He knocked the bowl of water into the sink. The glass against the metal of the sink clanged, alerting everyone in the house to how far your fight had escalated.

“Everyone saw. Did you notice the phones out? The paparazzi waiting with bated breath outside the club? Did you see how they ogled me, the second we walked in? Did you fucking notice any of it?”

“I- “

“They all got it. I guarantee it’s already posted. K-pop idol Jeon Jungkook TKO. Defending some woman’s honor! It’s fucking everywhere,” Your voice was small, every syllable punctuated like the tattoo needles that adorned yours and your lovers’ skin.

“I was trying to protect you! He was a monster!” Jungkook yelled, wincing as the sound reverberated in the foreign kitchen.

“Monster or not, you kissed my cheek and sent me to the slaughter!” You blinked the tears down your cheeks, their warmth mixing with the heat that had arisen on your cheeks.

Jungkook didn’t often understand your religious imagery, and often turned to RM to relay a story or parable that you’d mentioned. This one he got. He was Judas. Giving up the savior to the zealots and Pharisees. He looked at you, you, his brilliant, compassionate, feisty girlfriend. You held his future in your hands, and as he stared at you, he recognized what was guiding your fight. It wasn’t anger or rage, it was fear.

“You put a fucking target on my back.” Your sob crashed through you, bringing your hands to your mouth as you tried to muffle the sound.

“I didn’t,” His tone softened.

“You didn’t think, Kook. I’ve already started popping up in articles and on Twitter. Strangers are tagging me in things. Now you’ve sealed my fate. They are the hunters, Jungkook. There’s nothing you or Management can do to stop it. They’ve got me. Game. Over.” You tried to steady your breathing, your cries coming out more as whimpers than the devastating sobs you’d let course through you.

“It’s not game over! We will protect you; I will protect you!” He said, indignantly.

“Why don’t you understand? They will kill me!” You yelled in return. Why was he so stubborn, so clueless?

“No, they won’t. No, they won’t.” Jungkook shook his head, trying to rid his mind of the dark places your words were taking him to.

“What can you do to stop it?” You asked, daring him to answer.

“I’ll take the bullet for you!” His voice was exasperated.

“Please, punching that guy was you cocking the gun.”

It hangs in the air, an unrecognizable cloud of disdain and hurt. You were beginning to choke on it.

“I would die for you,” he pleads, hand reaching out to try and grab yours again.

“In secret,” you mumbled pulling it away.

“What?” He asked, the anger returning to his voice.

“That’s the catch with you, Jungkook. you’d die for me, in secret. You’ll hold my hand, in secret, tell me you love me, in secret. Go out with me as a friend. Never take photos in case your phone is hacked. Why, in two years, do I only have one printed photo of us? You’ll take a bullet for me? Sure. But you’ll bleed in secret.”

“I, I’m trying to protect you.”

“Look where that’s gotten us.”

“What?”

“You can’t save me from this. I am the fucking storm, Jungkook.”

“No, you’re not,” Jungkook was trying to find something to hang on to, some way to make his way back to you, but he was coming up empty.

“It lives in me, and it always will. This wouldn’t have happened if I wasn’t there. If we weren’t together. Don’t you get it? This is the beginning; your life will never be peaceful. Ever. I can’t give that to you.” You laid out the points, why couldn’t he understand?

“My life hasn’t been peaceful in seven year,” Jungkook spoke with bitterness.

“I’m making it worse,” You responded.

“It’s not you! It’s ARMY! It’s fans! It’s everyone fucking else!” Jungkook hated to swear when he spoke to you, he hated becoming unraveled, unhinged as he stared at you.

“They’re screaming at us not to be together. They will do whatever they can to ensure you and I don’t make it.”

“Fuck them,” Jungkook said.

“Why?” You asked, exasperated.

“What do you mean why?” He snapped.

“Why protect me? Why care at all Jungkook, why screw over your fans for me?”

“I love you,” His heart was breaking, you could see it in his eyes. The love he had for you tried to tether you to each other, but it wasn’t the lifeline, it was the anchor.

“All I do is sit and talk shit; I’m fucking wasting your honor. Jeon Jungkook, stoic, in touch with his emotions, loving, caring, always looking out for others. Perfectionist in his craft. Working himself to the bone day after day. Jungkook, the empath. The Golden Maknae. The most adored and admired. Wasting two years with me so what, the minute another guy tries something you punch him and it’s all over the news? So, I can be harassed and sought out? So BTS will be in jeopardy of ever being able to have a spouse or partner? Offering us, our love, up for slaughter because what, it’s for show? All so you can, fucking love me in secret?”

Jungkook was knocked back by your words. The two years of your relationship, of your insecurities, of his, came tumbling out of you, shattering like your glass as they crashed around him. Hadn’t you worked through this? Hadn’t you made strides in your relationship? Weren’t his brothers yours, your lives dedicated to one another’s? Hadn’t you vowed to love each other through the cascading blue waves of stress, anxiety and depression that came with a long distance, Idol relationship?

“I am doing what is right,” Jungkook was gritting just teeth. The tension causing a headache to build.

“Sometimes what’s good for people isn’t what’s right.” You said turning your back to him.

“Where are you going? We need to talk-

“I don’t want to talk to you, Jungkook.” You said, your voice weary.

“We have to figure this-

“No, we don’t. You know why?” You questioned, turning to stare him down.

He already knew why.

“Because tomorrow we’ll be awoken with Management and it’ll be time to reassess our relationship, and the terms to which I have agreed to.”

“The devils in the details,” He muttered.

“Their verdict will be final. And the two years we’ve spent will go down the fucking drain as Big Hit decides to do everything in their power to keep us apart and to inhibit the rest of their K-Pop super team from ever falling in love.” The truth hurt; it was written across both of your faces as you stood staring. The damage of your fight echoed across the hall and into the kitchen.

“We’ve fought this fight, they won’t-

“You don’t know that, Jungkook. You don’t know that they aren’t meeting right now, pulling out papers and lists from years ago, weighing the options.”

“Can’t we just, try to-

“I don’t want to talk to you. I’m fucking exhausted. I’m devastated. And I can’t fucking look at you for another minute or I’ll never be able to recover.” The tears were pouring again, and you tried to stifle them until you were at least in a car home.

“Please just, tell me where you’re going, please, Noona.” He pleaded.

“I’m going home. Don’t call me.”

You grabbed your bag from the counter and walked towards the door, BTS bodyguards close behind you. They’d take you home and if Jungkook was worried enough, they’d stay the night, perched in their car, eyes trained on your front door.

You didn’t want to talk anymore. You wanted to shower and cry and sleep alone in your bed. There was nothing else to be said to Jungkook, nothing else to be done. Management had wanted your relationship to stay secret indefinitely, any breach of that could result in them terminating your security passes, removing every evidence of you from their systems. You’d become the blemish on their perfectly manicured boyband. You, the biracial American they had tried to dissuade Jungkook from dating. You, the woman who had stolen the hearts of every BTS member, becoming an integral part of their stories and lives. You, the woman Jungkook was going to marry… And he’d tossed it away.

The team came through to check out JK’s hand. It was fine, superficial scrapes. Nothing that ice and rest wouldn’t heel. Make up would cover the rest, like they had done with his tattoos. They could always wipe away any signs of his rebellion.

The bigger problem was the scene he’d made, and the team had been called and would spend the next week scouring the internet for evidence. Did the guy he hit know who he was? If he did, would he want money? Did the lawyers need to draft an NDA for him? Would they have to buy off website after website, fan sites and reddit threads from posting any evidence of what Jungkook did? Would the urban legend live on, that Jeon Jungkook, the Golden Maknae, was dating an American and had punched a man in her honor?

After the team finished with his hand, Jungkook made his way to the living room, slumping onto the couch, tears stinging as he tried to blink them away. The members trickled into the living room, sitting around him.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Taehyung asked.

“We always talk when we fight,” Jin added.

“I’m sorry if I’ve endangered you, or your futures,” Jungkook said, staring straight ahead. He couldn’t face them. He couldn’t let them know that pride had bested him. Pride, the most insidious of all emotions, had wormed its way into his being.

“It was so stupid,” Yoongi replied.

“You didn’t hear what he said.” Jungkook whispered.

“What did he say?” Yoongi challenged.

“First, he spit at me, and called me a China man, said that they should’ve dropped an A-bomb over all of Asian, rid us all from the planet…”

Yoongi regretted challenging him.

“Then, he looked at her, he,” Jungkook took a deep breath, “He looked at her and he said that he would never fuck a bitch with yellow fever.” His tears fell freely, the weight of the racism breaking him down. His hyungs sat silently, staring at one another. They’d never been the subject of a violent, xenophobic tirade before. They’d heard comments, they weren’t idiots, they knew it existed. But to Jungkook? To you?

Jungkook had punched the man because he insulted him, he used the most derogatory names he could think of, and he wasn’t sorry. Attacking Jungkook was par for the course, what the man had really been disgusted by was you. How could you, caramel skin and curvaceous figure be dating Jungkook? How could you, with that earth-shattering smile, be willingly dating a man who came from the Orient? Jungkook had defended himself, and he wasn’t sorry he had. He wasn’t sorry that he’d defended your honor. He wouldn’t apologize for it.

Jin, Taehyung, Yoongi, Jimin, Namjoon and Ho-Seok sat with him until his tears had dried. They held him close, their silence wrapping around him, offering him the comfort he desperately wanted from you. When his breathing had settled, Namjoon suggested he shower and get to sleep, they’d make sure you got home safely.

Jungkook let the water scaled his skin, turning the pale white to pink. He shortened his skin care routine and fell into bed, where the tears came again, and he clung to the space you should’ve been in.

Next: Would It Be Enough?

51 notes · View notes

jaceyneedsabetterusername · 4 years

Text

Doyenne ~ Part 7 (Final Chapter)

Warnings: Tommy Shelby x Reader

Summary: Tommy needs help from one of Birmingham’s most powerful underground gangs, the Hemlock Angels. Little does he know, he’s not the king of Birmingham after all.

Warnings: Murder, Illegal stuff (Is this even a warning for this show? Everything’s illegal)

Word Count: 5867

A/N: Ahh! The last chapter!!! As I go back and re-read the last few chapters, I’m nervous Tommy has been a little OOC (I hadn’t watched the show in a few weeks). But oh well! Thank you for sticking with me and I hope you enjoy the finale!

A/N 2: Also, all the monetary references have been adjusted for inflation. I think I forgot to mention it before. But, yeah. So 400 pounds was worth much more than 400 pounds now.

___________________________________

Fuck Thomas Shelby.

Fuck him and the way he treated everyone around him as if they were beneath him. Fuck him and the way he acted like people were expendable. Fuck him and the way he viewed everyone as pawns in his own overlord game of chess. Fuck him and the way he just blatantly called you out. Fuck him and the way he made you crave him.

Your encounter with him had been fulfilling in ways you hadn’t expected but it had also infuriated you, bringing back memories you’d struggled to suppress for the last two years. Memories brought out emotion and emotion was vulnerability and you had no room for that. But since Tommy had planted the seeds of memory in your mind, all you could do was feel the hidden rage and heartache you’d been concealing since Mason had screwed you over.

Mason had been your lover years ago as the Hemlock Angels grew. He was a poor boy desperate for money and you were a poor entrepreneur desperate for people willing to do illegal work. A romance very quickly blossomed and he was the first and only man you could say you ever truly loved. You’re whole heart and soul was invested in him.

He was tall and handsome with auburn hair that was slicked back on top but shook loose when he’d get into something he was doing - whether it was working hard loading crates, beating someone up who tried to cross you guys, or making love to you. He had a light smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose that gave his otherwise chiseled and angular face a soft touch. Toned muscles rippled across his perfect body and-

Even today, after all this time, after all he’d done, you still felt love for him and you hated yourself for it. Once the Hemlock Angels took off as a whiskey exporter (though still a young and admittedly sloppy version of your current business in retrospect), he’d been caught at the docks with the cargo. He and the crates were seized by police and, with the promise of a very handsome monetary reward and legal immunity, he’d given the police the address of your distillery. Thankfully, you weren’t there when it had been raided but you lost everything you’d worked for because of him. ₤400 was worth your love and life’s work apparently. He took the money and ran off to Switzerland to avoid being drafted and lived off his money, leaving you to rebuild your empire.

The betrayal had destroyed you, left you a complete shell of a person, incapable of trusting others, especially men. But it had allowed you to grow the Hemlock Angels. To avoid the pain, you threw yourself into rebuilding the distillery and developing more foolproof protocols for business operation. Never again would you make the mistake of allowing someone to double-cross you. It was why you conducted your business quietly, even quieter than, say, Alfie Solomons, who was also fairly underground as these sorts of businesses were concerned.

Thomas Shelby made you feel things that Mason had made you feel and it terrified you to no end. The impending doom of repeated history loomed over you heavily, suffocating you and ripping your ability to breathe away. But it was a mistake that you kept feeling yourself drawn to making.

Friday night had come around quickly and you found yourself awaiting Tommy in your main office yet again. The last thing that you wanted was to see him in this room, the ghost of his touch coming to haunt your skin. But no. This needed to happen here because meeting him on his turf gave him the upper hand. And now that Jameson and Brandon, the only thing you’d asked for in return for your work, had been killed, this was feeling more and more like a free favor. You refused to stake anything more than you already had on a free favor.

“Y/N, Thomas Shelby is here for you.” Rita announced, peeking her head through the crack in the office door. You stiffened up, trying to play it off as just sitting up straighter but your prodege must have seen straight through you because she gave you a knowing glare.

“See him in. Thank you.” Straight-forward, professional, and impersonal. That was going to be your new tactic. No more of the games you’d attempted to play with him, the same games that you were usually able to play successfully with everyone else. No more hot and cold, nice then firm. Tommy was able to worm his way through the small cracks of your professional wall to see the parts of even yourself that you tried to hide and that vulnerability stopped here.

“Mr. Shelby,” You nodded in acknowledgement when he entered your office and you gestured to the chair across from you. Tommy’s eyes flashed with a hint of confusion. The entire energy of this interaction felt off already but nonetheless, he followed your gesture and sat down.

You reached down and grabbed a leather bag from beneath your desk, dropping it on the table. Reaching up, you clicked the little locks on top open and pulled the material appart, revealing thousands of American bills, “Here is the final installment of the money. All the same as the first.”

Tommy peeked into the bag, just to ensure that the money was in fact there. He lifted out a stack and flipped through them. They all appeared to be identical both to each other and to the last bag and if he hadn't known any better, he would think they were all legitimate notes.

You leaned back and watched as he inspected the money, sure that he’d be satisfied with the work, before continuing, “There is a shipment going out to America tomorrow night. I need to know what it is that you’re shipping so I can be sure to leave enough room onboard.”

The man shook his head, “I can’t tell you what it is that we’re shipping.”

“Then I can’t help you anymore.” You stated matter-of-factly, crossing your arms, “I need to know what I’m sticking my neck out for.”

“Like I stuck my neck out for you?”

“Yes.” Your eyes locked with his, refusing to back down or allow him to guilt trip you.

Tommy sighed, “It’s snow.”

Your eyebrow raised in surprise, “Didn’t have you pegged for a drug lord.” You actually were almost impressed. The man had range.

“Just dabbling as you would put it,” he responded vaguely.

So cocaine… It wasn’t the worst of the possibilities that you’d imagined. Ideas of dismembered body disposal or massive amounts of firearms or a million other worse things had occurred to you as possibilities. Of course, it depended on how much as well. “What’re the dimensions of the shipment?”

“Half a cubic meter.”

“Half a cubic fucking meter?!” You exclaimed, nearly choking on air, “How the hell did you come into that much blow?”

Tommy put his hand up, “Now that I can’t tell you.”

You nodded, “Alright, alright. I can respect that. A half cubic meter is an easy accommodation. Now, for the game plan…”

Shipment days were anxiety producing enough as it was when you weren’t shipping thousands of pounds worth of cocaine along with it but tonight, your heart felt like it was in your throat. “Billy said the crates are all loaded at the distillery.” Rita announced to you, holding one ear to the receiving end of the phone and covering the mouthpiece with her hand. You finished loading your gun at the kitchen table inside of your shared house, slipping each bullet one by one into their slots with experienced skill.

“Good. Tell him we’ll meet him at the factory in forty-five minutes.” With a final spin of the chamber - a ritual you’d developed after telling yourself (with no real evidence) that it was good luck years ago - you clicked the metal pieces together and slid it into the holster at your side.

“Forty five minutes? It’s only twenty minutes outside of town.” Rita questioned once she’d hung up the phone after relaying the information.

You loaded Rita’s gun for her while you spoke and slid it across the table to her, “We are picking up Thomas and his brother Arthur to take them to the factory to load up their cargo.”

She caught the gun and looked at you with wide cautious eyes, “Are you sure that’s a good idea? Taking the Shelbys to the factory?”

You sighed a knowing breath, “Yeah, I know. But he insisted that he remain in possession of the goods for as long as possible.”

Rita’s face scrunched, “He knows he’s gonna have to relinquish possession at some point, right? What is he even shipping?” She slipped the gun into the pocket of her skirt.

“Snow.” You confided with an impressed chuckle.

She nearly snorted, “Really? Didn’t have him pegged for a drug lord.”

A shocked laugh left your lips, “That’s what I said!”

Ten minutes later, you pulled up to the shipping yard that Tommy had said he’d be at with the cocaine and sure enough, there he was standing beside Arthur, both with cigarettes between their lips as they waited. In the shine of your headlights, you saw them both look over at you and move to pick up a wooden crate that was on the ground alongside an old military canvas bag. “Good evening, Y/N.” Tommy greeted politely once your tires came to a halt on the crunching gravel.

“Good evening. This is it?” You confirmed once you got out of the car, pointing at the crate and bag full of money on the ground.

He nodded, “Yes, this is it.”

“Alright, we’ll just load those in the back seat for now,” You pointed back over your shoulder towards the black automobile behind you, “You must be Arthur. It’s nice to officially meet you. This is my right hand lady, Rita.” You introduced, first shaking his hand and then moving so Rita could as well.

“Pleasure.” Arthur nodded to you both.

“Well, should we get going?”

Right on time, you arrived at the old factory you were meeting Billy, the man in charge of transport at the distillery, at. The factory was inconveniently located, even in its prime, set twenty minutes out of town, and had been abandoned since at least the 1880’s following a massive fire that had totally destroyed the structure and killed dozens of working men. The ghost stories surrounding it had kept it from ever being rebuilt and it had been abandoned for nearly half a century since, which now made it the perfect place for you to conduct business.

“What the hell are we doin’ all the way out here?” Arthur asked when the car pulled up to the building. There had been nothing for miles and even now there was just your car and a large truck.

After turning off the engine, you got out, the other three people in the car following, “I know it doesn’t look like… well… anything really. But trust me, this has worked well for us over the years.”

“There’s no ports, no railroad stop. We had to take a dirt road to get here. How do you even move goods from this point?” Arthur questioned, skeptically. You could almost feel him reaching for his gun, convinced they were being ambushed or something and maybe, if you hadn’t been so eager to get this deal over with so you could stop whatever the hell was going on with Tommy, you would have dragged this out and messed with them a little bit.

You pointed to the opposite side of the large factory - or what was left of it at least, “You can’t see it from here at night but there’s an old railroad track just on the other side of that wall. The train only comes through once every two weeks or so but thankfully it’s usually the same conductor. A few pounds buys us an unscheduled stop on his trips down to Gloucester where they load everything up onto a cargo ship and haul it off to America.”

You were proud of your little system you’d developed. It had allowed you to grow into an international exporter and was the main source of your success. Tommy had seemed impressed last night when you developed the plan and explained everything to him then and now Arthur seemed to match his affections.

The loud closing of a door drew all of your attention to the large truck. Billy, a stout, acne scarred man in his late forties, walked towards your group from the driver’s side of the truck. “Y/N! Will said the train is runnin’ a little late but should be ‘ere by 10:30.” He informed you in his thick Irish accent once he made it to you guys. A few other of your men jumped out of the passenger side but hung around the truck instead of approaching.

Rita flipped out her pocket watch and checked the time, “We got about fifteen minutes then.”

The next fifteen minutes were passed with pleasantries and conversation. Arthur never quite let his guard down and seemed on edge but had relaxed significantly. Honestly, you had as well. Something about tonight felt different than usual. There wasn’t the constant paranoia that the Shelbys were out to double cross you tonight you. Perhaps it was a mistake but, for once, you felt almost comfortable in his presence.

The train came by right at 10:30, it’s crawling pace coming to a screeching halt with a loud hiss of steam. Billy went up to one of the old metal train cars and undid the locks. The door was slid open to reveal an empty space. “Alrighty, we’ll just move the boxes from the truck to here and then we’ll be on our way.”

The other men who chose to stay by the truck had already lifted the canvas cover off the top and were carrying huge crates one by one, full with copious bottles of your illegal whiskey, to fill the train car. You stood off to the side with Rita, Thomas, and Arthur while your men worked, waiting patiently as they unloaded the truck.

“Alright, Mr. Shelby. We have the space for your cargo now.” Billy invited, hands outstretched to take what Tommy had to ship. You noticed a nervous glance from the crate to Billy’s hands from Arthur.

Tommy at least pretended that he trusted Billy, “Y/N told me that you travel with the shipment all the way to America,” He took out a picture from his pocket, “This is the man that will be awaiting your arrival there. Pass the goods off to him and only him, understand?”

Billy nodded, inspecting the picture of the man before folding it into his coat, “Yes, sir.”

Finally, Arthur relinquished possession of the cocaine to your man and he set it carefully on one of your boxes. After packing the duffel bag full of money, Billy hopped inside and the door was slid shut.

The other men took the truck back to the distillery and you turned to Tommy, “I’ll call you when I get the call that it’s arrived in America. It usually takes between seven to ten days, depending on the weather.”

“Thank you. Perhaps, we could get a drink to celebrate.” He suggested as if you hadn’t had sex out of spite the other night.

“What is there to celebrate?” You avoided the invitation.

He gestured around, “A successful business transaction?”

You cocked an eyebrow at him, “I feel like you’d use anything as an excuse to drink. I have a hunch whiskey flows through your veins in place of blood.”

He shrugged, “Nobody needs an excuse to drink.”

“Fair point.” Internally, you smacked yourself but you ended up nodding a reluctant agreement, “Alright, one drink.”

Tommy gave you a satisfied look that could have almost resembled a smile, “But this time I want to show you one of my establishments.”

Thankfully, Tommy had agreed to your suggestion of Arthur and Rita joining the pair of you as well, using them as a buffer to ensure no other mistakes were made with the man who seemed to be your kryptonite. You’d taken everyone to the Garrison, a pub that you’d known to be under the control of the Peaky Blinders for the last several years, right after all the work at the factory had been finished.

Tommy held the door for you as you passed through, Arthur taking over to hold it for Rita. Wordlessly, Tommy held up four fingers before ushering you away to a small booth in the back, along with his brother and Rita. All four of you slid along the cushion seats, making small talk yet again. Thankfully, now, after having been around each other for the last few hours, it was much less awkward and everyone was open to more conversation than initially.

Arthur excused himself after a moment and when a poker game opened up between some of the other Blinders, Rita, an secret card shark, disappeared to swindle some poor, unsuspecting men of a few pounds. You and Tommy found yourselves alone, exactly what you’d hoped to avoid.

“Sure she should be playing?” Tommy pointed over to Rita was his mostly empty glass of whiskey. You followed his gaze to see her with a disappointed look, one of the guys sliding his hand to take what you assumed were her chips.

You snorted, “Oh, I’m sure. It’s your boys that should be looked after. Give ‘em a few more rounds. She’ll be leaving with most of their money.”

Tommy almost smiled and nodded, “Aye,” He paused before beginning again, “Y’know, I can’t help but feel a little guilty. You helped us out with a lot and you didn’t exactly get your end of the bargain.”

You inhaled deeply and looked away from him, bringing back up that professional front that you’d felt slowly slipping away throughout the night, “It happens sometimes I suppose. I thought about asking for more but a deal’s a deal and unlike some others, I don’t like to change my conditions once they’ve been agreed upon.”

“And what is it that you would have asked for had you been one to change deals?” He leaned forward, listening intently to your next words.

“Is Thomas Shelby feeling guilty for taking more than he gave?” You asked in shock, “I wouldn’t even do that.” Your tone quickly became jestful. “No, I’m only joking. You did end up coming to the rescue the other day which is more than others would have done.”

Instead of seeming satisfied with your answer, though, he only raised his eyebrows and repeated the question, “What would you ask for?”

Something told you that he was offering you new circumstances, an extra favor. Who did that? In this line of work, who knew what kind of horrible request would be made?

What did you want? It was a good question. But did you have to answer honestly? Because an honest answer might jeopardize your life’s work and maybe even your life itself with some people. Tommy hadn’t double crossed you thus far though…

After a long pause, you licked your lips, “A deal.”

“Another deal?” He questioned curiously.

You nodded, a small smirk on your face, “Yes. A deal between the Peaky Blinders and the Hemlock Angels. Business partners and an agreement to aid each other when needed. Neither of us offer the same services or sell the same goods, with the exception of the Garrison and my little establishment, so there’s no need to worry about losing business.”

Tommy cocked an eyebrow, “I thought you didn’t trust me. A double crosser, I believe you called me when we first met?”

“I said that’s what other people had called you.” You defended, remembering your first interaction well. “But I must be honest, I had a hunch they were correct.”

“Then why trust me now?”

“I don’t,” You answered short and honest, “But I want to despite everything telling me not to. I figure this way, I can keep an eye on you.” You threatened in a joking tone, although you really weren’t joking all that much. As the saying goes, keep your friends close and your enemies closer. Or, more fittingly for your scenario, keep your friends close and your acquaintance/ occasional hook up/ business partner who might backstab you closer.

It took only a few moments for Tommy to weigh out the decision before nodding, “Alright, a deal then.”

You raised your glass to him and he mirrored the action, a slight ting as your glasses tapped against each other in a celebration of a new alliance. The next twenty minutes or so was full of small talk, something that Tommy never found himself doing with anyone, so why was it so easy with you? Every now and then, there’s be grumbles of anger from the table playing poker as new opponents who insisted they could beat Rita lost a larger and larger fortune with each round.

A quiet ding as the door opened made you twist your neck, curiously checking to see who came in. Then your heart stopped. “Fuck-” Your heart was caught in your throat and you wanted to vomit.

Mason.

He looked almost identical to how he did two years ago, just with a few more age lines. Time had been less kind to him than it had to you. He entered the room with a large casual air, surely unknowing of your presence.

Tommy noticed your sudden panic when you uncharacteristically sunk into the the booth, hiding your face from the red-headed man who had entered the pub, “So that’s the man, eh?”

You covered your face which had turned a shade somewhere between pink with embarrassment and red from rage. But nevertheless, you nodded, still side eyeing Mason from between your fingers as he ordered a glass of gin.

“Gin?” Tommy noticed judgmentally, “Drinks like a woman.”

Normally, under any other circumstances, you would have made some snarky comment about using your gender as an insult but you appreciated the effort to insult this man he’d never met, simply because he’d wronged you. “So what happened?” He inquired.

You sighed, finally sitting up straight, just keeping your eyes on the table, “My ex. We were practically on the verge of marriage. He helped me start up the Hemlock Angles before he sold us out to the cops for a few hundred pounds. Ruined us for months.”

Tommy listened to the story intently, watching the man out of the corner of his eye and quickly noticing that he seemed to have noticed your presence. At first, he glanced over nervously towards you before deciding to approach, a decision that Tommy had a hunch was the wrong one.

“Four o’clock.” Tommy mumbled over the rim of his glass. Your eyes immediately shot to four o’clock to see Mason walking over, all too confident for your liking, a confidence you had every intention of destroying.

“Y/-” He began, only getting half way through your name before you interrupted.

“You have a lot of fucking nerve showing your face ‘round here.” You hissed, venom dripping from every word.

Mason put his hands up in defense. Those same hands that used to be calloused from work and you’d seen covered in blood looked as if they hadn’t so much as lifted a piece of wood in months. “I didn’t come looking for a fight. Just wanted to see how you were doing.”

“You’re lucky I don’t shoot you dead where you stand right now you pathetic sack of shit.” Tommy sat back and watched as you destroyed this man with your words and he could only imagine the other stories about him you had. Your viper tongue had him on edge in the best possible ways.

“I-”

“No. You’re nothing.” You interrupted.

He sighed, “I wanted to say I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry for what I did! I miss us. I miss you.” He reached down, trying to take your hand, but you snatched it away. He looked down and eyed Tommy for half a second, trying to determine whether your relationship was romantic or platonic.

You laughed a sadistic laugh, “You’re not sorry and you don’t miss me. You ran out of money didn’t you? Well I hate to tell you but you disappearing was the best fucking thing that ever happened to me. I run Birmingham now and it’s all thanks to you. Now get the fuck out of my city.”

Then for a second, there was a brief flash of danger in his eyes, that same danger that you’d fallen in love with. But this time, that anger was directed at you. His fist slammed down hard on the table in front of you, just barely missing your face, but you didn’t even flinch, “Listen here,-”

“She said fuck off, mate.” Tommy interjected finally. Both of you looked over at him and you could’ve sworn you almost forgot he was here.

Mason snorted, “‘N who the hell are you?”

“It doesn’t matter who I am. What matters is that you respect her wishes and kindly fuck off.” Tommy’s voice was calm, much calmer than yours, but still holding a very sincere threat.

Mason looked between the two of you and chuckled as if he’d been the one who was wronged in all of this before turning away, like he was trying to laugh it off nonchalantly. All of a sudden, he drew his arm back and began to swing his down onto Tommy. Before the blow could connect, you had your pistol out in a second and pulled the trigger.

The loud bang drew several startled yells from around the bar and everything got quiet as they looked at your booth to see Mason’s body crumble face first on top of the table, lifeless. When the realization of what you’d done hit you, your mouth fell open in shock. “Holy shit…” You whispered to yourself.

Tommy had jumped when the gunshot went off but now looked just as surprised as you did to see Mason lying dead across the table between you, “I really didn’t think you had it in you.” He really didn’t. Sure, he’d seen you shoot Sabini’s men but the way you looked at and talked about Mason, he assumed it was one of those loves you’d never be able to harm no matter the damage they’d caused to you. But, boy, was he blissfully surprised.

All the Blinders in the building, including two of the Shelby brothers, Finn and Arthur, jumped up, guns pointed and ready to take down the attacker. Tommy held up his hand, “It’s alright, boys! Hold your fire!”

You stood up to avoid the blood that was now dripping off the table and onto where you sat, “‘m sorry.” You apologized for the mess but Tommy shook his head.

“Don’t be. He looked like he had it comin’.” With a wave of his hand, a few Blinders that you didn’t know the names of stood up from their seats around the poker table and walked up, lifting the body off the table. You weren’t quite sure what to do or say. You’d actually shot him. You killed Mason. He wasn’t the first person you’d killed but that didn’t mean that you enjoyed doing it. Unless it was in a moment of grave danger, watching the life drain from someone’s eyes as they crumpled into a bloody heap never ceased to make you momentarily sick, thoughts of the family you may have ripped apart destroying you.

But you knew Mason didn’t have any family. The only person you’d hurt was him. You’d freed yourself.

You looked up at him as he now stood beside you and saw that he was gazing down at the body and then glanced over to you, nothing but pure impressed admiration on his face.

Tommy liked that you were able to take care of yourself and that you spoke honestly. It made him feel like perhaps this deal that you two had struck up would prove to be beneficial and trust based and that, just maybe, if things went well, perhaps the two of you could build your own empire together.

Tommy had always been rather daft (or perhaps was that he just didn’t care) when it came to other people’s emotions and he was well aware of this flaw. But now, it was like he could see every inch of confliction on your face. “You alright?” He asked when he’d noticed your eyes hadn’t left the body, even when the men’s forms had covered it.

His voice shook you out of your daze and you blinked yourself into clarity, “Yeah… yeah, I’m fine.” You turned away from the table to face the open room of the bar. Rita stood at the table, her chair tipped over on the ground behind her. She looked from you to Mason’s body that was being carried out back and back to you with a look of shock plastered on her face. The only other person who knew as much as you did about that situation was her.

You walked up to the bar and threw a few coins on the bar, “I don’t care what it is, just make it strong.”

“You don’t have to pay.” Tommy insisted but you ignored him, leaving the coins on the bar and taking the mystery drink that had been poured. Walking out the front door, Tommy trailed close behind.

Finally, you parked yourself against the outer wall of the Garrison and downed the whole glass in one go, the fiery liquid burning a trail down your throat. Whatever the drink was, you had no idea. You set the glass down on the ground and lit a cigarette to replace the glass rim.

Nobody spoke for a moment, until a small group of cops came running by. You tried your hardest to look innocent as they stopped and eye Tommy knowingly. “Tommy-” One of them started in a thick cockney accent.

Tommy shook his head and pointed down the road, “Wasn’t us this time. Came from down the street.”

It was clear from the looks on all three of the cops' faces that none of them believed a word that came out of his mouth but they weren’t about to cross Thomas Shelby. “There was a bit of a commotion from up there earlier before the shot.” You tried to reinforce the lie as smoothly and believably as possible.

The cop looked a little more convinced when you agreed with Tommy and nodded before the trio ran off down the road looking for another gunman. This exact situation was why you didn’t get involved with the cops because they’re not going to believe you when you need to lie about something like this.

As time passed, you became more calm, “I really am sorry about this, Tommy.”

“I’ve never had a woman shoot someone ‘cause I was ‘bout to be punched. It was quite attractive, I can’t lie.” Tommy lit a cigarette as well, standing beside you, almost blocking the activity of the street in what seemed like an attempt to protect you.

A smile cracked on your face when you chuckled a little, the constant matter-of-factness of his tone making almost everything he said sound like business, even when he was complimenting you, “Well, like you said, it had been a long time coming.”

You felt like you were being dramatic. Wasn’t killing just part of this gig afterall? “Y’know, I swear I can usually shoot someone without breaking down.” You tried to defend yourself with a weak laugh.

Tommy shook his head, “It’s not always easy, I know. My hands get the shakes at night. Just because it’s part of the deal doesn’t mean you have to enjoy it.” He took a deep breath before continuing, “You know, I haven’t felt the way I feel around you in a long time.”

His confession was simple and, while a small part of you wanted to smack him for his terrible timing, a larger part of you felt the same way. “Neither have I. I’m used to being airtight but you make me weak… and I hate it.” You looked away from him, avoiding his deep, knowing eyes.

“Whoever said that this had to be weakness?” He inquired, a hand running along your arm.

A scoff left your lips as you rolled your eyes, “And you don’t believe that romance is weakness?” It wasn’t until the words left your mouth that you remembered he’d lost Grace and a pang of guilt struck your chest for bringing up the memory. But you also weren’t about to revoke the question. It just further illustrated your fear.

Tommy looked at the ground a for moment, remembering what it was like to hold the love of his life in his arms as she died, knowing it was fault, and thinking about how it felt to relive that pain every time he looked at a portrait of her or his own son.

Finally, he nodded, “We’ve both lost people we loved but we also still have people we care about, whether they’re family or friends. A lesson that’s been very difficult for me to learn over the last decade or so is that it is impossible to completely rid yourself of all weaknesses.”

Again, an almost humorous comment coming from Thomas Shelby, who everyone had known to be as secure and weakness-free as you were. You thought about his words, though, and tried to convince yourself that this was a bad idea - that an alliance and romance with Thomas Shelby was only sure to blow up eventually.

“So?” He urged, his voice low and gravelly, after a few moments of silence.

Silently, you found yourself trailing your eyes from his chest that was straight ahead up to his lips and then to his eyes. You took just a step closer, closing the already thin gap between the two of you and placed your hand around his neck, slowly coming to lean up on your toes. The movement was slow, giving him more than enough time to protest or pull away from you but he didn’t.

Tommy’s hand lightly landed itself on your hip and he leaned down, meeting your lips in the middle. Unlike the last time your lips had met, this was soft and gentle, a side of Tommy that you had no idea even existed anymore.

The two of you stayed like that for a while before finally parting your lips. Your faces still rested just beside each other’s, bodies close enough to feel the other’s warmth through the cool night. Your eyes slid open finally to see Tommy already looking down at you, waiting to see if this was a kiss of new beginnings or of closure.

“Don’t make me regret risking everything for you.”

_________

Taglist:

@kiaoizz

@sweatydragoncloudknight

@hinagiku0

@stressedandbandobessed7771

#Peaky Blinders #peaky blinders fanfiction #peaky blinders smut #peaky blinder imagine #peaky blinder headcanon #thomas shelby #Tommy Shelby #tommy shelby imagines #tommy shelby x reader #doyenne

59 notes · View notes

boogiewrites · 5 years

Text

A Shelby in Margate

Characters: Alfie Solomons x Shelby Sister (OFC), Tommy Shelby

Summary: Penny Shelby has only wanted one thing, to not be a Shelby. Perhaps the man she’s loved from afar can help her with that.

Warnings/Tags: Angst and Fluff. CONTAINS SEASON 5 SPOILERS.

Click on my icon then go to my Mobile Masterlist in my bio for my other works and chapters. (Had to do this since Tumblr killed links, sorry.) Please like, comment and reblog if you enjoyed it! It helps out us writers A LOT!

A Shelby sister is something no one asks to be, and certainly something no one really wants. Especially when the relationship to a very bold and brash man named Tommy Shelby causes such grief in your life that you give up on finding a happiness that most women expect out of life and you move forward with the form of Scarlet Letter on your face that being Shelby lends.

Penelope or Penny Shelby was as crude and difficult as the rest of her siblings. Born after Tommy and before Ada, her darling sass of a little sister that she took great pride in helping raise. With the Romani blood running fiercely in her veins just like her Aunt Polly, before Tommy was a household name in Birmingham she could’ve gotten away with saying she wasn’t a Shelby at all due to the dark complexion she held. Olive skin set her apart and caused her enough trouble from the prejudice of the travelers and Irish alike she came from. She held that same icy blue eyes of her older brother, and hair as black as the coal from the fires they grew up with. A smattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks like her mother and a glare that could cause a grown man to tremble like her closest Aunt Polly.

Despite her strong exterior, the pain and turmoil of her life, mostly derived from her older brothers had left her soft and weary on the inside. She drank to cope, as did they all. She didn’t turn to the drugs, as if Tommy would’ve ever let her hear the end of it. She had been stronger, both inside and out only a few years prior. The final blow leaving her gaunt and haunted was the loss of a man she had thought of as her own, even if he never had been in any formal sense. Oh, how she’d loved him. His ability to outsmart her seemingly unstoppable brother, his smart mouth and intimidating physique. He was unlike anything she’d ever experienced and found herself enamored with the only slightly older man who she saw as her escape from forever being known as a Shelby.

There were few names as infamous as Solomons, and she knew that name would be her ticket out of the shadow of her brother. Unfortunately, Alfie was a bit more hesitant than she. Not that she wasn’t a lovely little bird, reminding him of some forest nymph from a fairy tale his mother would’ve told him as child with her haunting eyes and a smile so out of place with its genuine affection for him among a clan of troublesome Shelby’s it made his chest stir in a way he feared. She had proven herself loyal to him, little hints she knew he was clever enough to catch in the fleeting moments alone they shared. He knew she fancied him, lingering touches of her hand to his as she spoke softly and quietly. Eye contact that never wavered and that bloody smile she only had for him. It wasn’t until an encounter that her brother didn’t know about to this day, that he finally knew her intention.

“Penny, love? What are you doing here?”

“Saving your stubborn arse.” she chokes out, hands shaking with the heavy pistol between them, still smoking from the bullet just gone through the Italians head that was about the draw on him.

“Does your brother know you-”

“Fuck Tommy!” the tears finally break in her eyes and begin their descent down her cheeks. She lowers the gun and lays it on a crate beside her, slumping onto a hip height box with the exhaustion shown on her face. “He’s the reason John’s dead. The reason why these fucking wops are after us. And now YOU. I can’t lose anyone else.”

“There there, pet.” he says pushing the gun away and not knowing what to do except take her hand.

“I came to tell you they were coming for you. I overheard it. I couldn’t let them kill you, Alfie, I can’t lose you too.” she begins to sob, something he never thought a Shebly was capable of at that point. Grabbing his shirt she pushes herself into his arms.

“Lose me?”

“Alfie you’re too clever to not know how I feel about you.” she shakes her head and doesn’t meet his eyes.

“I had…suspected.” he pauses, his gut hurting for the poor lass. “But your brother.”

“I said FUCK TOMMY SHELBY! I never asked for this! I don’t want to BE a Shelby! I’m done. Finished. I can’t take life in his shadow.”

“Penny…love…” he says softly, “I”m leavin’ ya know. Retirin’. I’m finished with this life, I know they’re comin’ for us all. And I’m takin’ my gains and I’m gone.”

“Where?”

“That’s no concern for you. The less you know the better.”

“Take me with you.”

“That would be the end of me.” he lets out an amusing sound, almost a laugh.

“Alfie. I’ve admired you from afar for so long. It feels almost childish to think of you as my own when we’ve never even discussed it. We’ve barely been allowed time alone. But I feel something so strongly for you. It must be love.”

“You are not a child at all. And I’ve known by the way that bloody smile takes me out at my knees like a steel pipe that there was somethin’ there.” He sees the hope flicker in her eyes and his heartbreaks. “But we can’t. I’m not the man for you. As much as I’d like to be. It ain’t me love.”

She leaves with gunpowder on her hands and tears staining her dress that night. The news he was dead found her not too long after that. And now she stood mere yards away, unknowingly, from the man she’d loved from afar that she had mourned and still thought was dead.

—–

“What fuckin’ else can I do for ya Tom? From the way that hats being wrung I know that ain’t all ya want of me.” Alfie gruffs, reclined in his velvet chair that faces that balcony of his mansion in MArgate where he hides.

“There is one more person… that I want to know you’re alive.” his voice is as flat and dead as his face lends you to believe he is.

“Not asking for much, eh?” Alfie raises a brow. “Who?”

“Someone that deserves to know.” the way his shoulders slouched told Alfie everything he needed to know. Guilt that sat heavy on Tommy’s shoulders for what he’d almost done. And not for Alfie’s sake, but for Penny’s.

“Mmmph.” he nods. “I don’t think it’s a good idea. Best she thinks I”m dead. What use as I to her now?”

“I knew she loved you.” he states plainly.

A fact that Alfie actually hadn’t known. “Did you?”

“You think I don’t know me own baby sister?” he asks with a slight twist of anger.

“Said no such thing.”

“You’ll want to thank her for Cyril being taken such good care of. She’s treated that dog as if it were her own son.” a ghost of a smile crosses his lips. “That is after she cried for a month after she heard you were dead.” he pauses. “You know she cried more over you than her own husband?”

Alfie only nods. Knowing like most women her age her first husband died in the war. He realizes she had truly meant what she said. “We never…” Alfie clears his throat. “Y’know.” his attempts at being respectful amuse Tommy deeply.

“I knew that too.” he nods.

“Why do you want to hurt the poor girl again?”

“She visits your grave, Alfie. Just the other day she was telling Cyril stories of his papa.”

Alfie’s stomach turns. Had he made a mistake? Had he been too selfish.

“I take it by you being here she doesn’t know you’re the one what done it.”

“She does not.”

“Mmm. And how are you going to work around that?”

“Once she knows you are not dead I won’t have to.”

“I know you’re gambling man Tommy but those are steep odds. Against you, I might add.”

“I know her. She’ll forgive me.”

“That's’ what you bank on every time innit?”

Tommy glares at him. A silence falls between them as Alfie looks out to the sea from the open set of doors on the balcony.

“Alright.” Alfie grunts and sits up, taking a deep breath. “Since she’s taken care of my dog. ‘Spose she deserves to know.” he nods, taking a heavy sigh. “But I might frighten her now. She won’t be seein’ who I was.”

“I’ve heard her prayers, Alfie. When she thinks no one, not even God is listenin’ to her anymore. She won’t be frightened.”

A grunt is all he can say to such a thing.

“I’ll go fetch her.” Tommy says as he groans and stands.

“Ya fuckin’ what? Now?”

“She’s just outside.”

“What the fuckin’ hell Tom?” he gruffs out angrily. “Ya can’t just appear to a man in such a way and demand things of him in a state like I am!”

“She deserves to know,” he states plainly again. “I brought her because I didn’t want you going back on your word after you had time to think about it.”

Alfie gives his signature frown. A bottom lip jutted over his mustache in frustration. “Fuckin’ ‘ell. Not even had time to think ‘bout it!”

“That’s the purpose this serves. She deserves to have a real reaction. Not your carefully crafted answers.”

“What do you want of me Tom?” he asks plainly. “You surely don’t want her to be with me? Especially not NOW.” he juts the scarred side of his face forward.

“It’s no issue to me how you look. That’d be up to her, wouldn’t it? But have you known Penny to be shallow?”

Alfie sits back in his chair, elbows on his knees and looks at the dusty rug beneath his boots. “Lass is as deep as the ocean.” he mutters. She’d told him everything he as to her, a body was nothing but a vessel for his soul she said. Something he’d thought a bit naive back then, but upon reflection he found it taking a new meaning to him. Maybe a Shelby was right about something stranger things had happened.

“Then I’ll fetch her. I suggest you figure out which side of yourself you’re going to be honest with.”

—–

Penny in her summer dress wanders the garden as she was instructed, feeling the kiss of a sea salt breeze against her face. She loved the sea, and so rarely had seen it, felt it against her skin. The open expanse of it, the infinite mystery and possibility it held fascinated her. Tommy’s voice breaks her from her reflection, leaning against a stone wall and looking out at the waves crashing into the daunting cliffs.

“Come now Penny, there’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

She nods and fusses with her windblown hair. “This house is lovely.” she almost coos as she crosses the threshold.

Alfie hears her voice. What sort of man had he been to hurt her how he did. To prolong it in such a way. She was a rose among the thorns of her family, the women the only ones worth a damn out of them. She’d saved his life, took in a painful reminder of him and cared for Cyril after he was gone, kept his memory alive and he’d abandoned her. If she shot him where he stood he’d deserve it.

“Look at all this.” he can feel the genuine lilt like a songbird to her voice. “Who lives here? This place is fantastic. Look at all these interesting and eclectic things. You could spend hours and never see the end of it.”

“I’m glad you like it.” Tommy says standing in the archway into the room where Alfie stood. “Here’s the owner. You can discuss it all with him.” What a loaded statement and delivered so cooly.

Penny walks slowly, taking in her surroundings with great interest before her head turned and saw the man silhouetted in the light of the sun, framed by two open patio doors with that same sea breeze fluttering the long curtains that hung. She freezes, eyes fluttering in confusion. That posture, that build. The vest and the white billowy sleeves. A glint of light of the rings that adorned his overworked hands. It was him.

“Wh-I- H-how?” she whispers out, not even loud enough for Alfie to hear, but Tommy heard every beat of her heart as he watched the realization come over her face.

“‘Ello, love.” that warm, liquor voice that burned and soothed hit her like a hammer, taking her knees out from under her as Tommy caught her.

She squeaks and tears appear hot and plentiful in her eyes. “You can’t…you…” her breathing wheezes and she holds onto Tommy for support, her body failing her out of shock.

He turns his good side first, seeing her just as lovely as she ever had been. Sun-kissed skin from the season spent in the north in the caravans, that long wavy hair that framed her shocked face, touseled perfectly by the winds of MArgate. Despite the posh sort of dress Tommy was now known for, she was still in simple cotton. Her boots tight around her ankles and shiny, dirt under her nails from the garden. A salt of the earth woman that was wrongfully placed in the shit hole of Birmingham away from nature where she belonged.

“Alfie.” she finally forces out.

“Yeah, love. I’m afraid it’s me.” he says with a pain in his voice, one of fear of rejection as he lets the light show his true side as he called it. The side of him that showed what a monster he had been, the monster he was.

Her face remains unchanged. “Alfie you…” she wheezes and gasps, he takes a step towards her and she pushes out of her brother’s arms. Stumbling with the numbness in her limbs as she finds herself once again sobbing into the shirt of the man she still loved. No matter how hard she’d tried not to over these last years.

“There, there, pet.” he says just as he had the last time she’d heard it, but this time it is accompanied by the wrapping of warm and affectionate arms around her. He shushes her as she cries, soaking his shirt and hiccuping, a hand stroking her hair, the other rubbing her back. All things she’d dreamed of so often she’d lost track of if they’d ever happened or not.

“Is this real? Or did I jump off the cliffs outside and now I’ve somehow found myself not in hell?” she manages to get out with her forehead pressed to his chest.

“You’d most certainly go to heaven. And since I am here with you, I’m afraid that means we’re both very much still alive.”

“HOW? I heard you were shot!” her voice break as she looks up from his chest to meet his face. Seeing nothing but the man she’d longed for. She’d told God she didn’t care what state he was in, just give him back to her. Her last chance at happiness, her last shot to have someone who truly could understand her and her life.

“I was. As you can tell.” he shrugs his shoulder on the marked side of his face. Just as Tommy as said, and Alfie is fully frustrated he was correct, she reaches up to touch his face without even an inkling of regret or fear o disgust.

“Are you still hurt?” is her concern and he takes a long, deep breath to compose himself. He didn’t deserve her. Maybe he’d known all along and that was why he’d told her now. Because deep down, who gave a fuck what Tommy Shelby thought.

“It does sometimes, yeah.” he nods, speaking softly as her fingertips move over the raised scar on his cheek, looking over the milky eye that was blinded by the same bullet that made the disfigurement she was touching as if was perfect skin. “Certainly doesn’t right now though.” his voice is quiet, looking into her bright eyes full of tears for him.

One dark eye under the same heavy brow and a fuller beard now that hid those full lips, unphased by the shot, beaming down at her with what she could’ve sworn was affection. “How?”

“Man that shot me can’t shoot worth a damn is how.”

He sees storm clouds darken her eyes in a more clear moment of recognition. “Who?”

“That’s a question for your brother.” he leans in close, almost touching his forehead to hers.

She spins out of his arms, suddenly full of vengeance and steady. “Who?” she demands.

Tommy takes his stand. “I did.”

“YOU BASTARD!” she lunges at him and is whisked off her feet by Alfie.

“Can’t argue with that.” Tommy mumbles.

“YOU KNEW! YOU FUCKING KNEW HOW I FELT ABOUT HIM AND YOU TRIED TO KILL HIM? YOU FUCKING WANK STAIN! YOU ABSOLUTE MAD BASTARD!” she screams and fights against Alfie’s arms to maim her brother. He would’ve laughed if he hadn’t been so focused on keeping her from hurting herself.

“I asked him to!” Alfie shouts and he feels her little legs stop kicking.

Her head shakes in confusion. It was a lot on the poor lass to take in all at once. “Wha-What?” she squeaks and keeps her eyes on Tommy as Alfie sits her feet back to the floor.

Tommy stands with a confident nod. Not sure if he was proud that Alfie took credit for what had happened, because he had all but pulled the trigger.

“I asked him to, Penny.”

“Why?!” she screeches with a hand to her chest as she faces him, back humped over and heart feeling as if it might give out.

“The doctor. Wrongfully so told me I had cancer love.”

Once again her knees fail her as he scoops her up into his arms, seeing her head wobble and eyes lose focus.

“Poor things gonna faint.” he mutters, sitting in his chair and pulling her into his lap.

“She’ll be fine. Give her a moment.” Tommy says with complete faith. He was asking a lot of her, but he knew she could take it. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have gone through with it. As hard as he was, as much as he’d agree he was a mad bastard, he didn’t want to purposely hurt his sisters. It just so happened they got in the way of his plans at times and Penny found herself right in the middle of them currently.

“C-cancer?” she asks with a gasp of air, fighting to stabilize herself. She felt light-headed, but the arms around her helped, the beat of the heart under her palm helped the most.

“Yeah. Told me I was gonna die. I didn’t wanna waste away y’know? Not any sort of death for a man to face.” she shook his head. “Your brother and I. Had a…sort of agreement. To kill one another if it came down to it, yeah?”

“What in the fuck are you talking about?”

Her brash tone makes him chuckle. “The correct response, yes love. “ he nods. “I was told I was dyin’. Had Tommy meet me on that beach out there to kill me. And he thought he did. But add it to the long list of things your brother innit good at.”

His brows shift and rise and fall across her face, eyes wide and questioning. “You thought you were going to die. So you wanted ti over with.”

“I told you she’d understand.” Tommy adds from across the room, staying silent and still.

“Of course my friend’s mum… it would’ve been a kindness to end it for her.” she reflects. “So… you knew?” she asks with hands no longer shaking. “When I… told you about…how I…:

“I did.” he nods. “I wasn’t gonna put you through that. That’s not…that ain’t me, love.”

“I would have.” she states with conviction and his shoulders falter at the hurt in her eyes. “I mourned you. I cried until nothing came out any longer. I drank, I took pills, tonics, hoping to wake up wherever you were. I would’ve still…It wouldn’t have stopped me.”

“You don’t mean that…”

“Don’t tell me what I fucking mean Alfie!”

Tommy smiles from across the room.

“Right, right, sorry mate.” he sputters out with true surprise in his raised brow. Something about this little lady cut him down from newly adorned god status to a man stuttering in apology. Tommy knew at that moment he’d made the right decision.

Her breathing heavy and fast, she glares at him. “My head is spinning, my heart is on fire and my stomach feels like it’s gonna fall out my arse and I don’t know if want to kill you myself or .or,..” her bottom lip gives her away, a hand to his cheek as she shakes her head and groans.

“…love me?” he asks with a raise of the brow he could. It was a gamble to ask. But with her heart racing like a hummingbird, he could feel against his own chest where she sat.

“How dare you,” she whispers back. But her face isn’t offended, a thumb drifting softly over his blind eye and to his temple. “I can kill you and still love you.” she offers with a smile finally gracing her lips. “I have…I mean, I do. Still. Even now.”

“With me lookin’ like this.”

“Like what? Like a strong man who defied death? Don’t be daft Alfie. I wanted you back no matter what. And I meant it. I meant despite you hiding, letting me think you were dead. Oh, letting poor Cyril think you were dead.” her brows furrow and his heart warms like it hadn’t in decades.

He gives her a smile she finds most peculiar. She’d never seen it before on his face.

“What?” she whispers.

“You, love.”

“What about me?”

The smile remains, followed by a sigh as he looks over her face. Hurt, but holding no hate for him. He puts his hand to her cheek to mirror her own delicate actions. “Why me Penny, eh? Surely other men deserve a woman like you more than me.”

“No other man can handle me. And you know this.”

Another, wider grin from him.

“If I could choose who I love, and I can’t, I’d choose someone else because I know you would be nothing but a pain in the arse but….goddammit Alfie I do.” she gives his face a little shake and presses her forehead to his.

“I don’t deserve a woman like you. You know that right?”

“No one deserves anything, Alfie. You know this. Things just happen.”

“Fuck me, I really don’t deserve ya.” he groans and kisses her forehead.

“But do you want me? Did you ever?”

“You should know I did. I only wanted to protect you.”

“What about now?” she asks with brave eyes that pierce into his, not allow him to look away. “There’s nothing to hide behind now. No protecting me. Just… end it now or let this be the beginning.”

“Fuckin’ ‘ell…” he sighs. “How are you a Shelby with a mind that says things like that?” A slow sweep of his thumb over her lips makes her eyes shut and held her breath for an answer. A man like him couldn’t touch a woman like this without something in his heart for her, could he? “I… did and I…do. A man like me… he’s not so good at matters of the heart. The mind is where my talents lie.”

“Then let this be your first lesson.” she kisses the tip of his thumb. “Tell me you love me.”

“Penny I-”

“Thomas, leave.” she interrupts, both hands on Alfie’s face, that smile he’d missed and dreamed of from time to time back and in full force, assaulting his sensibility.

“Already got my hat on. You know my number.” he says and saunters away, content by the way things had played out.

“Now tell me Alfie, love. Let me hear it.” she whispers, nuzzling her nose against his.

“I love you Penny.” he manages with closed eyes. “You’re strong and brilliant. Not suited for the name of Shelby at all.”

She smiles against his lips, feeling the words warm over her skin like honey tea. “Perhaps you could come up with a way to change that?” she grins and he’s blessed with her soft laugh once again.

“I do believe I could.” he coos and finally gives her the soft kiss that she’d been dreaming of. A promise she’d get what she always wanted, to not be called Shelby.

442 notes · View notes

huilian · 4 years

Text

Flameo, Batman!

AO3 Characters: Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Bruce Wayne, Stephanie Brown, Cassandra Cain (Plus minor Damian Wayne, Tim Drake, and Alfred Pennyworth)

Summary :Bruce was kidnapped. Bruce Wayne was kidnapped, which means he can’t save himself because everyone still thinks he is a harmless non-bender. Incidentally, it is also why Dick is here in Gotham, as Nightwing, staking out this warehouse.

A/N: Written for batfamweek 2020, day 1! The prompt was meta AU, but I wanted to play with ATLA AU for so long that I decided ATLA AU was close enough to them having meta powers. There’s also some overprotectiveness here, so, I guess, you can count that? Anyways, enjoy!

title is, of course, from ATLA

Bruce was kidnapped. Bruce Wayne was kidnapped, which means he can’t save himself because everyone still thinks he is a harmless non-bender. Incidentally, it is also why Dick is here in Gotham, as Nightwing, staking out this warehouse.

Even Babs, with all her Oracle magic, can only narrow the possible sites to five different locations, and, as Damian is not old enough to do a stakeout alone, Dick came to Gotham to help with the stakeout. When the almighty Oracle can only narrow the possible sites of holding to five locations instead of her usual one-shot hit, you know that these people are at least good at what they do. They even have all their possible holding sites away from large bodies of water, which tells Dick two things about these kidnappers. One: they did enough research and have enough sense of self-preservation to know that the Bats have waterbenders in their ranks, and two: they do not have any waterbenders in their own ranks, or at least not one good enough to offset the advantage they would be giving the Bats by staying close to water.

“Is it time to burst in yet?” Jason’s voice said from Dick’s comm. “I’m getting tired of waiting.”

“I thought it was firebenders who are rumored not to have patience, Hood, not waterbenders,” Damian retorts.

“Hey too, Robin! I’m a waterbender!” Stephanie cries out. Dick really should not have given all of them the same frequency for the comms, because he knows this would happen, but they would eventually figure out which frequency the others use anyways, and this would also happen. Dick decided to just save them, and him, the trouble and gave all of them the same frequency. At least this way he won’t have to switch between frequencies before they all collectively decide on which frequency to use.

“Tt. My point exactly.”

Dick sighs. “No, it’s not time to burst in yet. Agent A is going to give the signal, remember? We’re trying the nice way first.”

Jason scoffs. It is really amazing how he could get that to transfer over the comms. “Why are we still doing the nice way first? When, in your nearly two decades of kidnapping experiences, have the nice way ever worked?”

Jason does have a point, but Dick is not going to tell him that. The nice way, which is trying to negotiate with the kidnappers, only worked in about never. But the nice way is how the Waynes’ reputation of being a harmless rich family stays intact, and so they are going to always do the nice way first.

Fortunately, or unfortunately, depending on how you see it, Alfred’s voice crackles through the comm at that particular moment. “They do not accept our, frankly, generous offer. It seems we have to use force after all.”

“Ha!” Jason cries out. “Told you so, N!”

“Yeah, yeah, Hood,” Dick says. “Everyone knows what they’re supposed to be doing?”

There is a smattering of agreements from everyone, which Dick expected. His siblings may bicker and generally cause havoc that Dick would then have to sort out, but they do their job with a professionalism that is really unparalleled, especially when it is someone of their own on the line.

“Alright then. Everyone has to go in at the same time, or this won’t work. If you have the jackpot, call it out on the comms. If you do not have the jackpot, immediately go and help the person has. Clear on that?”

Another smattering of agreements. Okay then, Operation-Save-Bruce-From-A-Kidnapping-Attempt Number too many to count is a go. “On my count. One, two, three!”

Dick hears glass crashing from one of the lines. Why do his family have to be so dramatic? But the best way into Dick’s warehouse from where he’s perching now is through the window, so Dick really doesn’t have much to stand on here.

Dick jumps from his perch, bends the trace amount of metal on his suit to his toes, protecting them from broken glass, and breaks the glass window. At the same time, he wills the earth underneath his legs to raise up to meet him. People don’t expect Nightwing to be an earthbender because his fighting style is more like those of airbenders, so sometimes Dick doesn’t start bending until the very end of a bust, just to give himself that extra advantage. But these guys know about waterbenders within the Bats’ ranks, which a lot of people don’t know, so Dick is pretty sure they knew already that Nightwing is an earthbender. Might as well use it to his advantage.

“Mine’s not it,” Jason says through the comms.

“Not it.” That is Cass

“Not here either.” Steph.

Dick scans the warehouse he is in. Thirty men, armed and armored. Their armor is not even metal, which goes to show that this group really knows about the Bat’s bending. All of them are aiming to where Dick is right now.

“I’m it,” Dick says into his comm while changing the shape of the boulder he just ripped from the earth. He bends it so that it would cover him from the thirty guns all firing at him while allowing him to look around for Bruce.

“You should have said so sooner, Nightwing.”

“Damnit, Robin, I’m driving. You’re not old enough!”

“And your driving skills are not up to par, Red, so I will be driving to get us to Nightwing’s location as soon as possible.”

This is Dick’s life. Trying to shut down a fight between his brothers while he is literally being shot at. “Robin, let Red drive.”

“Tt.”

Dick can tell that Damian is not entirely pleased with that order, but thankfully he doesn’t say anything else into the comms, which Dick took as him acquiescing to the order. That allows Dick to actually focus on his job, which is finding Bruce inside this warehouse.

Even though the men did not wear metal armors, they somehow forget their guns and bullets are still made of metal, which Dick can bend. It’s really lucky that Dick is the one who found where Bruce is being held because none of the others can bend metal.

From behind his boulder, Dick allows his senses to find all the guns in the room. Then, he jams them. Dick lets the final round of bullets hit his boulder and then listens to the curses that all the men are letting out. It’s really satisfying when the perps realize that their guns are not working anymore.

There he is. Dick spots Bruce handcuffed to a pillar at the very end of the warehouse. If he were being Batman, Bruce could have easily picked the lock for that handcuff. But he is not, and it is Dick’s job to save him. Divested of their guns, these men should not be that much of a challenge.

Dick goes out of this protective boulder, and smiles. Yeah, these men look terrified with their guns out of commission. This should be fun.

Dick is halfway through fighting the men when he hears a motorcycle coming into the warehouse. Jason, most likely. His place is the closest to Dick’s.

Gunshots. Jason, confirmed. Dick can’t feel bullets flying through the air, so Jason must be using rubber bullets. That’s nice. Dick is hoping to avoid a conversation with Bruce after this is all over. (He does not have the time to check which bullets Jason is carrying before they have to move. If Bruce knew about that, there would be conversations to be had, and Dick doesn’t want that when he already has to work twice as hard tomorrow because he misses a night in Bludhaven.)

Jason being there does help, though, because now Dick can almost reach Bruce. It’s really annoying to have to ‘rescue’ someone who is perfectly capable of rescuing themselves but can’t because they are keeping their identity intact. Dick should know, he’s been in both roles. Dick glances up to Bruce, trying to silently tell him to be patient and let Dick come to him, when he is tackled by Jason. Jason, who took the knife that was aiming for Dick.

“What the hell, Hood? I knew that knife was coming, I could feel it. It’s made of ceramic.”

“No thanks, N? I’m hurt.” Jason lets go of Dick to stand back up. “Ouch, the knife just went in deeper.”

“No shit, Hood. Wait, why is everyone on the ground already?”

There is no one left attacking the two of them when Dick could have sworn that there are at least several perps still standing when Jason tackled him to the ground. Then he sees Bruce, out of the handcuff, striking the last of the men.

Of course it’s Bruce. Dick should have known that Bruce would not be able to sit still once he saw one of them injured. It’s really sweet of him, but if he keeps doing it, then they might as well just threw the whole ‘secret identity’ thing to the garbage. Everyone is going to know that Bruce Wayne is capable of a really scary hand-to-hand, and then questions will be asked. And it was Bruce who insisted on the secret identity thing in the first place.

“Are you okay?” Bruce asks.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine, old man.”

“Agent A won’t be happy about the knife wound, Hood,” Dick says.

“As long as he still heals it, I’m okay with that,” Jason shrugs. Then cries out, because shrugging when you have a knife in your shoulder is really not a good idea.

Dick sighs. “Okay, you,” he points to Bruce, “are staying here until the police arrive and they can take your statement, which I don’t know why they bother, at this point. I’ll stay here with you until the police arrive, let them see me for a bit, and then leave. You,” Dick turns to Jason, “are hitching a ride with whoever is here next to the Cave, and you are going to let Agent A heals that shoulder. Okay?”

It is then that Cass and Steph come to the warehouse. They were not stationed near each other, at least not near enough that they could justify coming to Dick’s station together. Worse, each of their stations is further away from this warehouse than Tim and Damian’s station and they still manage to reach this place, together, earlier than Tim and Damian.

“Why are you here together?” Dick asks Cass and Steph.

They both shrug, but Steph actually elaborates. “From the sound of it, you two were handling this well enough. So me and Cass decides to just meet up and come here together, to avoid the disaster Robin duo.” Steph stops then, realizing that neither Tim nor Damian is present. “Wait, are we still earlier than the two of them?”

Dick sighs again. “Batgirl, take Hood to the Cave to get healed by Agent A. Black Bat, please keep an eye on Hood and make sure he actually gets to the Cave.”

Steph mock-salutes him. “You got it, boss.” Then, she frowns. “Wait, you’re not the boss anymore.”

“Batgirl, please?”

“Fine, fine! And you say I don’t do enough for this family.”

“Literally no one ever says that,” Jason mutters.

“Just, get him to Agent A. Please, BB?” Dick changes his tactics.

Cass smiles. It is not the smile that Dick wanted to see. That smile promises havoc. Why are his siblings like this again?

“A good time to start learning healing, huh, Batgirl?” Jason taunts.

“Learn healing yourself, Hood! You’re also a waterbender!”

“Enough! Come on! Just, go to the Cave and ask Agent A to heal you! It’s literally that simple, Hood. You don’t even have to do it if you had just let me handle that knife.”

“Is this the repayment I get for saving your life?”

“You didn’t save my life. I can literally feel that knife coming towards me. I’m an earthbender and that knife is made of ceramic, which is earth.”

“And yet you didn’t bend it away from you until I have to intercept it.”

Dick puts his hand to his head. Then, turning to Bruce, he says, “This is your fault. You’re the one who decides to give me siblings.”

Bruce’s face is deadpan. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Nightwing. How could I, Bruce Wayne, a harmless non-bender, be able to decide who becomes your siblings?”

Steph is the first one to laugh, but Jason and Cass are not far behind. Dick would be the first to admit that Bruce being sarcastic is absolutely hilarious, especially while he is being Brucie Wayne, but it does not help Dick in this situation. Which, come to think of it, is saving Bruce from a situation he could have easily saved himself from.

Screw it. Dick is washing his hands of this situation. “You know what, Mr. Wayne? Since this holding place has been secured, I’m going to leave you to the capable hands of Batgirl and Black Bat.” Dick smiles sweetly, which he is sure that Bruce knows is fake. “I’ll let them deal with the GCPD for a change. Oh, and I’m sure the Robins are going to be here any minute, and they are also very capable crimefighters. Between the four of them, I’m sure you are in good hands, Mr. Wayne. Good night.”

Dick can see the panic in Bruce’s eyes. Steph is notorious for trying to get a rise out of Bruce, and with Bruce being in the Brucie Wayne identity, he would have no way of reigning Steph in. Cass would just help, because Cass is sometimes evil that way. Add the two feuding Robins in the mix, and Bruce had just gotten himself a very explosive mix indeed.

“Wait, Nightwing…”

“Good night, Mr. Wayne. Hood, if you’re not coming with me right now, I’m going to leave you to ride that motorcycle alone back to the Cave with that knife still in your shoulders.”

“Jeez, alright ‘Wing, I’m coming.”

Alfred would find himself with, at the very least, two patients tonight. God knows what Damian and Tim have gotten themselves into. Well, they are Bruce’s problem now. After Jason has been taken care of, Dick is going to ask Alfred to work his amazing healing bending on him, because this mission with his family is really making his headache flare again.

(At this rate, either Jason or Steph really needs to learn healing, because poor Alfred is always being asked to heal something or another.)

#dc #fic #lian writes #batfamweek2020 #dick grayson #jason todd #bruce wayne #cassandra cain #stephanie brown #damian wayne #tim drake #alfred pennyworth

59 notes · View notes

lettalady · 4 years

Text

Alphabet Soup - M is for Maze

[ from Hitman for Hire ]

When they see him coming, rarely as it happens, he's never encountered someone willing to give up their life. Not immediately. That part usually comes after the struggle – once they realize the futility of it, once they're exhausted from the initial burst of exertion, having worn through the rush of adrenaline that kicks the fight or flight impulse into gear.

This target was no different than the rest. It's the location that has caused complications, and the weather. He hadn't paid much mind to the distant thunder the night before, thinking the storm that rolled through would be like any other: a smattering of rain, the moisture-soaked ground drying out well before midmorning just as it had every day since his arrival to the city.

He was wrong.

His target seems obsessed with inspecting every inch of the facility that could possibly affecting by the pooled precipitation. The extra movement should have provided extra opportunity but instead has him hunting a mouse in a maze while dodging security, both man and machine. Even with the insulation provided by the race a few days on at some point someone will end up pausing long enough to question him purely for his movements around the facility. Then the game would change to something bloodier.

He frowns as he follows his target back out into the hazy sunshine, back out towards the track, the barns, and the lorry park. The quicker the job the less collateral damage, which is his preference. Like many others of his profession he'd like to avoid having to bulldoze his way to the waiting payday. More deaths and more witnesses are never a good thing. One life is all he was contracted for, though preferences get removed from the equation when security interferes.

Whatever his target has done, deserving or not – he'd learned long ago not to pry to deeply – he will fulfill the contract. The man will be dead before the sun sets regardless of whatever was stolen, drugs used or transported – or refused, or whatever other reason under the sun that pissed someone off enough to warrant calling in the services of a hitman. He knew money was involved, and lots of it. Beyond that it isn't really his business, so long as he gets paid.

That damn storm. The saturated ground doesn't quite squelch as they move towards the barns but it's making him move slower, slowing down the job for the fact that he's having to play chase-around-the-complex.

Enough of this. He aims and fires his silenced weapon – the target jerks, but not in reaction to the pinch of an unexpected mosquito bite. His quarry has slipped in the mud – the shot anchoring in the wood fencing extending from the barns out towards the washing pit. The lightness in the man's curses suggest he hasn't yet realized how close he'd come to falling for an entirely different reason, never to stand again.

And then his quarry looks up, noticing he's not alone, not quite seeing – or processing – the gun that is trained on him as he rights himself, casting a scornful glance at the ground before committing a wide-eyed double take.

"Fuck."

The same word slips from both their mouths, rooted mostly in the same sentiment.

He aims again as the man scrambles for anything resembling cover, as much as can be found in the open space that is miraculously devoid of witnesses. He wings the man in the shoulder, not quite what he was aiming for, but it makes the man drop his phone into the muck. No calling for help on that – he shoots the phone for good measure, grinding it further into the mud as he passes by where the man dropped it.

"Whatever they're paying you..."

Bargaining and scrambling, trying to flee – trying – the key word.

He snorts as he follows the man into the washing pit, squaring up his shot – not wanting to waste another bullet. He would have said something aimed to comfort the man, or at least assure him that if he didn't succeed someone else would follow so why waste all that energy. The man surprises him, swinging the hose and rigging at him, the metal nozzle of the hose connecting and jarring his weapon free of his hands.

Alright. The up-close-and-personal way it is. He seeks out his blade, tugging it loose from its holster with one hand while he yanks the hose loose from the other man's grasp with the other. No more makeshift weapons. The man, this co-owner of one of the horses who is moneyed and wearing loafers for this insane inspection of the grounds for god's sake, shouldn't put up much resistance and then the day can progress.

But he does.

Call it an achievement of the adrenaline and the knowledge that death awaits. Call it agility masked for moments such as these – granted his sporadic movements lack the discipline, the knowledge behind the maneuvers, that is needed to ultimately succeed. Maybe that's the man's goal. Buying time. Prove just enough a challenge to allow someone to notice what is taking place. His own maneuvers are meant with one goal in mind: ending things quickly. A slash of the knife here, a calculated blow to the body there – he'll wear the man through or land a killing strike. Either will do.

They end up sprawled in the mud. He finally gets his arms locked around the man's shoulders, preventing further twisting, or flailing. It's close now, the final moment. There's a wildness in his target's eyes that he's seen many times before, fear blended with anger and the knowledge of the inevitable outcome.

"How heavy are the souls you take?" Spittle accompanies the man's venomous words, his breathing as erratic as his fighting style had been.

It rattles him, but he doesn't let that stall the work of his blade. One jerk of his arm and he's finally able to let go of his troublesome quarry. The ground, turned up and trampled from their scuffle, soaks a darker color as he stands, his target sprawled at his feet. He cleans his knife quickly before storing it, the air a heady blend of sweat and animals and fear and death.

He utters a soft response to the man's question as his breathing steadies, already seeking the weapon he'd dropped earlier. "Tygne än du vet."

There. Over where the mud fades to a different color demarking the path connecting the racetrack facility to the barns. He tries to shake some of the mud from his gloves, dislodging some from his forearm as well, scraping some off his pants leg as he stoops to retrieve his gun. Beneath his cuff the white of his shirt peeks out. His jacket and – yes, likely the slacks as well – won't be salvageable, but maybe the shirt. Maybe the shirt. He has an hour and a half trip back to the city center to make up his mind on the matter.

Prague. So many bridges. So many places to drop a bundle and have it disappear.

He yanks off one of his gloves, using it to wipe at the mud adorning his jacket before digging through his pockets to find his phone. The message he needs to send is brief:

ACCOMPLISHED

#alphabet soup challenge #hitman for hire

5 notes · View notes

renaroo · 4 years

Text

Super Brothers (3/12)

Disclaimer: Superman and associated characters are the creative property of DC Comics. Warnings: Child Abuse, Gender Dysphoria, PTSD and Anxiety, Character Death Rating: T Synopsis: Jon Kent knew he pretty much had the perfect family life, but something still felt wrong with himself. At the height of feeling like an alien in his own skin, however, his world got turned upside down when his parents took in a troubled child who embodied everything he felt he lacked. However, becoming a brother ended up being the smallest of the trials brought by adopting Christopher Kent. And being best friends with Damian Wayne has not exactly helped keep a neutral perspective on the matter.

A/N: Apologies for taking a bit longer to update this one, I had some extra work to get done in the last week and that cut into my writing time rather than my Animal Crossing time (who could have seen that coming?) and all my fics got a slight push, though I tried to get back on track by this one’s update. Ah, partial points for effort I suppose!

As always, I need to thank everyone. for the wonderful support that this story is receiving. It means so very much to me and I wouldn’t have the motivation to keep working and improving if it weren’t for those of you who promoted and commented on it! Shout outs to @mirrorfalls, @secretlystephaniebrown, @thistleknight, and @karagordon.

Chapter Three: The Runaway

Lor is in immeasurable pain.

He can feel his skin taut and broken across his back, too painful to lay on overnight. He can feel his cheek inflamed and pressing up against his eyelid. He can feel his ribs sensitive and cracked, aching against his every breath.

And the worst of it all is the way the rage against him has still not diminished.

In the past, Lor has been disciplined. It is not an unfamiliar sensation. But his parents finished with the consensus that a lesson of some sort has been learned. Lor even finds himself in agreement with them.

Not this time. Not today. He is hurt and they finished the discipline without any commentary or any softness to their expressions.

No, though, that is still not the worst. Not as Lor lays on his bed in hysteric contemplation alone in the dark.

The worst thing of all is that he cannot shut his eyes, cannot sleep, without the hideous cracking of Ti’ahl’s arm sounding off between his ears. The echos of her cries and the horror of the crowds reverberate throughout Lor’s body and send cold shivers through him.

His family is not loved when the masses of Jakuul bow. And Lor’s entire universe is turned upside down knowing this.

Before this terror in his life, Lor still did not have a full understanding of his world or his life. He is, after all, a child. But he thought he understood what he was to his father and mother.

He is the Last Son of Krypton. He is the future of the House of Zod.

But he also knows that not living up to such things means that his parents’ approval is gone. And if it is gone, bad things will happen.

Now, as he understands with the display involving Ti’ahl, those consequences are far greater than anything he could have imagined beforehand.

Suddenly, horrifically, Lor understands that his life is not the most valuable part of him.

And he is scared.

In the middle of the night, alone in his room, Lor feels the strongest impulse he has ever had in his short life.

Lor-Zod knows, without a doubt, that he needs to leave.

The instinct comes from deep within him — thoughts of the Phantom Zone and its endless prison, how escaping it meant never staying somewhere he didn’t want to again. He can see it, his old dreams of leaving for different worlds the moment he was scared or unsafe.

The only home he had ever known had been the promise of leaving the places that were wrong and painful.

And, now, Lor needs to go. He’s scared. It isn’t safe.

Thinking of his lessons on the sunstones, Lor moves, sluggishly and painfully through the palace toward the transportation lab. What little Kryptonian equipment and weapons they have managed to gather and to create — or have the Jakuul create — rests in there, including the Phantom Zone pod.

The spiral pod is bronze in color with no seeable thrusters, only a thin screen that allows its occupant to see outside the pod. It does not steer, does not operate as a ship in any way, but as a bullet to be fired in a singular direction. Once someone is inside of it, outside of a Phantom Zone Projector, nothing will be able to tear the pod off its course. It will phase through matter, it will burst through time and space. And whoever is within it will sleep until they are released, heal until they are done.

And that is all Lor needs. Peaceful, forceful sleep without interruption. He needs comfort and rest, to heal up his ribs and his back and his eyes so that when he is done, he can return to being what his mother and father need him to be.

So that he is not treated and left in pain that someone like Ti’ahl experiences.

He can’t imagine there’s something better, something in between.

Lor loads his burdens onto the pod and begins setting his coordinates. He has not lived out of the Phantom Zone long and can only think of a few places he can go.

One is Krypton, his home he never knew and is no longer there.

One is Earth, his father’s enemy, and his only other point of contact.

If he can make it to Earth and back, perhaps Lor can make it through anything else. Including his parents’ anger.

At least, that is his sincere hope.

Just like that, Lor leaves his family’s palace.

***

Father doesn’t look surprised by Damian’s intrusion on his meeting with Cassandra. He barely acknowledges that it means Damian is missing school and instead asks him if there is anything Damian would like for him to know.

Within Damian’s heart, he feels the judgment, knows the look of his father searching him for something Damian isn’t giving. It’s frustrating. It’s painful. And it’s a look he’s never seen given to Cassandra.

Damian has nothing to say except for what he feels is obvious.

“I am better than any of you see in me,” he informs his father haughtily.

His father gives him a sigh and waves him off, dismissive and annoyed. Like swatting at a fly.

“We’ll talk about it later, Damian,” Bruce Wayne says in a voice that is distinctly lacking Batman in it. It’s weary and light. Others in the family call it the Brucie Wayne voice, but for Damian, it’s something far worse.

It’s basically baby talk toward him.

Cassandra doesn’t get that treatment either.

“I doubt it,” Damian glowers, crossing his arms.

When Damian looks back up toward his father, he is met by sharp blue eyes piercing his own gaze. That is more like Batman. It sends a shiver down Damian’s spine.

Much better than baby talk, that is for certain.

“I have something important I need to discuss with Cassandra,” his father reminds him darkly. “Give us some privacy.” He gives a purposeful pause before continuing, “Please.”

For a few long moments, Damian stands cross-armed beside Cassandra, facing his father’s large executive desk. The entire suite is large and deceptively slick and modern. Devices and trick switches are hidden behind the ostentatious decor and smatterings of family photographs framed and preserved seemingly forever. Newspapers are mounted with new stories of interest over the decades.

Everything is large, squared, and imposing.

Just like their father.

When it reaches the point that Damian feels as though the silence is threatening to eat them all whole, he finally relents and turns around. It takes him nearly double the strides it would require his father to make to exit the room, just as it would take him twice the height to meet the same reach his father does.

Logically, Damian knows that the unspoken part of his father’s request for privacy was for Damian to continue from his way out of the room down to the street level where Pennyworth and the car would be waiting. Then Damian could receive a whole other lecture on manners and family and general behaving that he has received over a dozen times before.

He’s tired of it before he’s even done processing the thought of it.

Making an executive decision of his own, Damian does not leave for Alfred and the car but instead takes a hard left at the elevator shaft. Having memorized the blueprints — the actual blueprints — for Wayne Tower, Damian knows that in the blindspot of the stairwell security camera is an always taped off custodial closet. In that custodial closet is a secretive shaft that will lower into the bowels of the Tower itself.

Once a part of the robust subway tunnel system beneath the streets of Gotham, the old junction now serves as the open space for research and development of their nightly activities. At least, one of the spaces for R&D at least.

It is also the one place where Damian can open up the Oracle Network safely in Wayne Towers and check in on others without causing too much of a fuss.

Anyone who notices will assume it is Batman and everyone leaves Batman alone to his devices for the most part.

Stepping up to the large silver monitor screen, Damian watches as everything in the room begins to activate — light by light, display by display. It is a very sleek and intimidating presence.

His father is good at maintaining certain aesthetic sensibilities, Damian will give him that, at least.

Looking around, Damian sees the computer chair, built for the size and magnitude of Batman, and immediately jumps into it. His body impressively slumps into the cushions, leaving him staring straight ahead in annoyance.

Recovering from the momentary sag of his body, Damian scoots the chair up, hands gripped to the armrests so tightly his knuckles whiten. Then he leans forward to the keyboard and begins typing.

Using spy satellites is an unfortunate habit that Damian has picked up from his father, but he assures himself it is for good reason.

There is still something so wrong and disconcerting about the way that Jon reacted to Professor Pyg.

Few things dig themselves into Damian’s guts and leave him unsettled. His friend being hurt somehow by the madman was one of them. Whether it was Damian’s sense of guilt or genuine fear for Jon, Damian is still working out.

Either way, he wants to hone in on Metropolis and see how his friend is doing for himself.

It isn’t a difficult maneuver. There is already a preset coordinate to the exact location Damian needs.

Damian expects no less from his father, after all, there are a myriad of reasons to keep watch on the family and wellbeing of the most trusted and power being in the world, if not the universe.

He watches with vague interest as two figures — Superman and Superboy — approach the balcony of the Metropolis apartment in question. One has a suitcase, the other a backpack beneath his cape. Then, in a dash of color, they are both gone long before a less accurate or powerful satellite or camera would be able to capture them.

At least, Damian would hope so.

Leaning his head forward, chin sharply balanced on his palm, Damian tries to think of the expression on Jon’s face. It’s hard to tell, even with Wayne Tech advances, the nuances of someone’s face at that distance. The pixelation hides the crevices and intensity.

But Jon seemed to be smiling. Which is, really, all Damian wants to make sure of.

At the end of the day, Damian does not have many friends. The ones he does have are important to him.

And he’s still not sure that allowing himself to be in the equation frees his friends to have good things happen to them.

The thoughts are still heavy on his mind when the monitor and all of the Oracle Network change in an instant.

A red flash comes across the screen with a blare of a signal. Then again and again. It continues.

Damian jerks into sitting upright again. His shoulders drop as he looks around wide-eyed toward the different monitor screens.

Something is happening in Metropolis.

Reaching for the keyboard, Damian zooms out from the tiny apartment and widens his view to the city. Even above the city, there does not seem to be anything he can see at a distance. But, as he begins to wonder if he should switch to news coverage, Damian sees that the sky is the source of the danger alert.

Heading directly for Metropolis is a fireball the size of a car.

Before he even thinks about contacting his father or anyone else, Damian is leaping for the closest plane his father has been working on.

He knows he might not get there before the crash, but Damian is definitely going to be there to help his friend with the aftermath.

***

Jon still feels off-balance in the air. His leg wobbles a lot, the plank-like rigidness he needs to maintain for a smooth flight can still tire him. He’s working on it.

And it always feels easier in the morning with his dad.

When his pa smiles down at Jon, he feels like no matter how weird his thoughts for the morning, the whole world is going to be okay. That Jon is going to be okay. Because how can the world be anything less than perfect when Superman himself smiles like he means it at you.

Holding onto the straps of his backpack, Jon readies to part from his dad and head down to the Siegel and Shuster Middle back gym entrance, but his ears begin thumping.

Just like when he listened for his mother’s heartbeat earlier, Jon can feel every noise, every vibration of all of Metropolis at once. His jaw tightens and he tries to push the noises out. The screech and scream and bark and cry and pop all at once, but he knows that there is something still off about them. There’s something different from normal if he can hone in and direct himself to it.

He halts in the air, raising his hands up to his ears and begins mashing the heels of his palms into the ear canals. It does nothing to help him out, but he tries it anyway.

“Ow! What is that scratchy noise?” Jon can’t help but whine.

Ordinarily, Pa’s soothing voice would put him at ease, explain everything away. But it’s different this time.

Instead, Jon glances over his shoulder and sees his father also stopped in the air. Superman stares, wide-eyed and slack-jawed for a long moment before tensing up.

“Stay here, son,” Clark orders before disappearing in a dazzling whirl of red, blue, and yellow.

The whiplash of it all nearly makes Jon go crosseyed. He regains his position in the air, hovering with far less security than his pa manages to. Then he looks around in concern.

With a simple scan of the surroundings, Jon can see what got his father’s attention and it nearly makes him gasp.

Falling from the sky, seemingly from nowhere and at ludicrous speeds, is a flaming ball of metal aimed right for the city.

“Where did that come from!?” Jon asks clouds around him.

As to be expected, he doesn’t get an answer. But Jon does know what he needs to do next, even without an omniscient reply to his questions.

At full speeds, Jon pushes himself forward, his fists held out in front of him as he aims for the exact place in the sky where his father is lining up with the mystery object.

Even at his highest speeds, Jon is too slow to get there when his father first makes contact with the object and begins flying back, resisting with all his might despite the hurdling force. He is engulfed in the flames, slowing, but still heading for the skyline of Metropolis.

There needs to be more force on Pa’s side and Jon intends to provide it.

He swoops down between the city buildings and positions himself just like he saw his father do before him. He holds his arms out wide and holds out his hands to catch.

It feels like only a blink before his hands are filled with his dad’s cape, and Jon is suddenly falling back through the skies as well.

“Jon!” Superman chokes out between gritted teeth, straining with all his power.

“Pa!” Jon manages to get out alongside him

The particulars of their conversation are forced to wait as they buckle underneath the heavy metal and flames. Jon pushes into his father’s back, his father pushes into the machine, and they progressively slow as they drop through the sky.

“Feet! Flatten your feet!” Pa orders before showing Jon with his own.

Jon obeys, the soles of his tennis shoes directed toward the ground. It still shocks him when his feet hit and the air nearly leaves his lungs, or when he skids backward with the asphalt crackling beneath them. They keep moving, backward, with the space between them getting tighter and tighter as the broken roads rise up and push Jon into his father’s back.

When they stop at long last, Jon full bodily collapses against his dad and breathes a sigh of relief.

People are already on the streets, looking on in awe, which limits the conversations they can have out loud. That doesn’t keep Jon’s pa from turning on his heels, hands on his hips, and looking at Jon very seriously.

“Son,” he says sternly. “Go to school.”

“What, no way, you’re not going to let me even look in it?” Jon asks, circling around his father as widely as possible to get to the hull of the copper-colored machine. “It’s so weird and looks like a snail shell, I bet it’s an alien!”

His father is about to continue with words of wisdom or some all-important notes on responsibility, but Jon cannot hear them. He looks instead at the strange screen on the machine they stopped together and tilts his head. It’s fogged up, like the mirror after he uses the shower, and he can’t see in it. But he can see a strange, blue glow from within.

Squinting, Jon taps on the glass-like structure only to jolt as the metallic shell opens up.

A thick fog hisses out of the opening and forces Jon to wave it away from his face.

And when it’s gone, Jon looks into the face of another boy, no older than him, with strangely cut brown hair and a swollen eye and lip.

“Whoa!” Jon exclaims.

Then he is punched in the face with more force than he has ever felt in his life.

It hits so fast, so hard, Jon is sent soaring through the air backward, headlong into his father’s chest as the larger than life superhero moves in to catch him.

“Superboy!” Pa yells out in code that still can’t hide his horror or anger.

“Ow,” is all Jon can manage to get out, feeling like stars are still busting behind his eyelids.

By the time he’s set back on his feet, Jon can see that the boy from the pod is floating above it, eyes wide and confused. He turns to run.

Suddenly, Pa isn’t behind Jon holding him up anymore.

Jon realizes his dad is in front of him now, next to the boy, stretched out so his large, kind hand is wrapped almost gently around the boy’s wrist. It keeps the boy back, but he isn’t fighting, isn’t resisting. He’s looking at Superman with terror, tears in his eyes.

But Jon can feel his entire face swelling, he grabs at it and looks frantically to his dad. “Dad! He punched me!”

“Hold on, son,” Superman says without looking Jon’s way. He lowers his arm, the boy slowly dropping with it, head bowing and shoulders jerking uncomfortably. Then, Superman pulls the mystery boy to his chest and holds him. “Hold on.”

Confused and more than a little betrayed, Jon shakes his head at the nonsense and rubs at his aching face.

He doesn’t know what’s going on, he can’t even contemplate it. But he’s hurt and he has a bad feeling it’s going to get worse.

#Chris Kent #Damian Wayne #Jon Kent #Clark Kent #writing #super fic #Super: Super Brothers

19 notes · View notes

prolestariwrites · 4 years

Photo

Time To Go [4]: Sparda Boys On A Road Trip, What Could Go Wrong?

Fandom: Devil May Cry Rating: M Characters: Nero, Dante, Vergil, Kyrie, Nico, Trish, Morrison Tags: Mystery, Humor, Missing Person, First Time, Family Drama, Family Bonding, Post-Canon Chapter: 4/9 Chapter [1] [2] [3]

Summary: When Kyrie goes missing, Nero goes on a desperate search to find her. Unfortunately, Dante and Vergil go too. Sparda boys shenanigans, fighting demons, a smattering of family drama, and male bonding (otherwise known as Nero’s worst nightmare). Please check it out below, or you can read on FFNet or AO3. Beta read by @copper-wasp.

Now posted! Chapter 4: Sparda Boys On A Road Trip, What Could Go Wrong? in which the Sparda boys go on a road trip, and Dante fights a cat.

━━━━━━━✧━━━━━━━

Getting out of the van was one of the best moments of Nero’s life. Despite his warnings, Dante and Vergil continued to discuss women, sex, techniques, preferences, and things they had seen on television until Nero thought he would go mad. When they pulled into Clear Point at a quarter past midnight, he was never so glad to see a bar in his life.

Calling it a bar is generous, he decides. A dive is more accurate: decrepit, even. He puts his hands on his hips and looks the building up and down, taking in the dirty brick and the BAR sign half-flickering in pink neon. The windows are nearly black and the door looks rusted shut. He is going to need a hazmat suit to go in there.

Vergil makes a noise as he steps up next to Nero. “That place looks disgusting. I’m not going in there.”

Nero is loath to agree with anything he says, but nods. On the other side of him Dante says, “Places like this always have the best grub.”

Both Nero and Vergil turn to look at him strangely, and Dante shrugs. “What? It’s true. There’s a reason this place is so dirty.” They stare at him blankly and Dante gestures, “You know, ‘cause people come here.”

“Not people. Demons.” Trish steps out of the shadows and walks up towards them, shaking her head. “This isn’t gonna work.”

“What isn’t?” Nero asks.

“The three of you. You stick out like a sore thumb.” She nods to Dante. “Especially you. You can’t come in.”

“Fine by me,” he says, stretching his arms over his head.

Nero gives him a glance as Trish continues, “Find somewhere to set up and cover the door. My contact knows we’re coming, but the bar will be full of demons. If they start to suspect something, there may be a problem.”

“Right.” Dante salutes and walks off whistling. Nero turns back to Trish, who looks them both over. “You’ll do,” she says to Vergil, then jerks her chin at Nero. “You stay in the van.”

“No way,” Nero says. “I’m coming too.”

“He looks like a demon,” Trish argues, pointing at Vergil. “Still smells like one too. You, on the other hand, look like a three-course meal. No way you are gonna pass in there.”

“I’m not staying here!” Nero snaps.

“And I’m not going in there,” Vergil adds, gesturing towards the bar. “God knows what diseases I’ll pick up. And I don’t smell.”

Trish huffs in annoyance and puts her hands on her hips. “Look, either we do it my way, or we don’t do it at all. Vergil comes, no one else. Or you can turn right around and go back to Fortuna. I’m not risking you scaring off my informant because you’re too stubborn to do this.”

Nero works his jaw as he struggles to put a lid on his temper. “Fine. Vergil goes in. But I’m giving you ten minutes, that’s it.”

“What?” Vergil exclaims.

“You owe me,” Nero nearly growls, jabbing him in the arm with his finger.

Vergil rolls his eyes with a sigh. “When will you stop playing this card? Fine. I’ll go in, but I’m not touching anything.”

Nero watches them enter, shaking his head when Vergil insists Trish hold the door open for him. He will be damned if he’s sitting in the car though, so he goes hunting for Dante, who is pretty easy to spot in his red leather coat. He finds him on the roof of an auto supply store across the street, and Nero easily pulls himself up the side of the building and walks across the roof, crouching down next to where Dante is sitting. “Vergil went in,” he says. “Trish said he was the most demonish.”

Dante laughs. “Yeah, sounds about right. Pop a squat, kid.”

“No thanks.” Nero flexes his hands as he stares at the front door of the bar.

He feels Dante give him a hard clap on the back. “Try not to worry.”

“How can I not?” he hisses. “Kyrie is god knows where, she could be hurt, she could be— shit! If we don’t find her—”

“We will.”

“It’s been more than a day.” Nero runs a hand through his hair, tugging it sharply by the roots. “We need to find her.”

Dante stretches his legs out, leaning back on his palms to prop himself up. “They said they’d be in touch, right? They wouldn’t kill her if they were gonna call you.”

Nero glances over to argue, but can’t find a good retort. Dante’s right, but the lack of action and the very casual way he watches the bar grates on Nero’s nerves. “They’re gonna be dead once I find them.”

They fall into silence as a few minutes tick by. Then Dante asks, “You got any money?”

Nero frowns. “A bit, why?”

“I’ve got an idea.”

He kneels and reaches into his pocket, pulling out a couple of twenty dollar bills and handing them over. Dante grins and fishes inside his own pocket, finding his cell phone. Nero watches as he pushes a few buttons, narrowing his eyes when Dante puts the phone to his ear and flashes a smile.

His suspicion turns to irritation when Dante says, “Hey! You are open. That’s awesome. Yeah, I need a large ham and extra cheese, and throw some pepperoni on there too—”

“You’re ordering pizza?” Nero hisses.

Dante waves him off, turning to finish his order. Nero silently fumes as he describes the auto shop, shooting him a death glare when Dante laughs as he hangs up. “They’ll be here in ten.”

“We’re staking out a demon hangout and you’re ordering food,” he mutters.

“I’m hungry,” Dante counters. He stands up and stretches, then looks down at Nero. “I’m gonna go wait down there. Give a signal if something happens.”

He strolls over to the side of the roof, and Nero watches in annoyance as he swings his legs over and jumps. “What an idiot,” he mutters, shaking his head. This family is filled with idiots, but he can’t help but chuckle a bit despite himself.

Several minutes go by in silence, and Nero feels uneasy. Something should be happening, but there is no sound or movement from the bar. No one goes in or out, and he keeps a sharp eye on the windows for any sign of what is happening inside. As he waits, he can’t help but think of Kyrie. His mind goes to the worst possible scenarios, flipping through them like a picture book: Kyrie hurt, Kyrie crying, Kyrie tied up, Kyrie shivering and dirty and scared. Emotion wells in him at the idea, and he vows for the thousandth time to find the bastard that did this and make him pay.

A car pulls up below, and when Nero leans over to look he sees Dante bending into the passenger window. A moment later he emerges with a pizza box, and Nero rolls his eyes. Deep down he is grateful he is here; Nero wouldn’t have gotten nearly this far without him, and if and when it comes to fighting Dante is the best. Plus… he grumbles to himself, folding his arms, It is nice to not have to do this alone.

Vergil, though, is another story. Nero had insisted that he not come, but he and Dante basically bulldozed over him. Nero grits his teeth thinking about the two of them together. Everything is a contest they can bicker over, and when they do actually get along for a minute, it’s as if they are determined to join forces to drive him mad. He gives a shudder, thinking about the quickly aborted sex talk. Sometimes it felt like they wanted to make up for twenty years by going over the top playing dad and uncle, when other times they treat him like an employee, or worse, some dumb kid. Is it even possible for their family to just be normal?

His thoughts are interrupted when there is a movement in the window. Nero stands, narrowing his eyes into a piercing gaze, when a bullet whizzes out of the window with the sound of shattering glass. “Dante!” he shouts, launching himself forward, and he easily jumps off the side of the building and lands in a crouch that knocks the wind from him a bit.

Dante is nowhere to be seen, but he takes off running, darting to the front door and yanking it open. He blinks as his eyes adjust while he steps inside, pulling his gun from the holster on his side and looking around. The place is packed with people, although many of them look strange, and his insides twist as eyes land on him.

“Who the fuck are you?” one of the demons asks, standing up and flashing a set of claws.

“Back off,” Nero growls, pointing his gun at it. The demon doesn’t move, so Nero’s eyes dart around, looking for Trish and Vergil. He carefully steps around the tables, aiming for any demons that look like they might want to tangle. The others are nowhere to be seen, and he mutters a curse as he makes his way through the room.

A hand grabs his arm and Nero spins, ready to fight. But it’s Trish, who is glaring at him angrily. “What are you doing in here?” she asks. “I told you to stay outside!”

“A bullet came flying out!” he hisses. “I thought you guys were in trouble.”

“You need to go,” she mutters. Trish pushes on his back to spin him, herding him towards the front door.

“Stop,” Nero protests. “Where is your informant? I want to talk to him.”

“No. You need to—”

A huge man steps in front of them, blocking their path. He is easily over seven feet tall, and both Nero and Trish look up into his deep scowl. His body is huge, dark oily hair hanging in his eyes, but Nero can easily see the crimson glow in the corner of his eyes. “Hey. I know you.”

“Good for you,” Nero snaps.

“You’re that kid from Fortuna.” The guy cracks his knuckles, and Nero puts his thumb on the hammer of the gun. “I lost my whole crew there.” It narrows its eyes and grins, revealing sharp and pointed teeth. “Time to pay up.”

They both move at the same time, and Nero has his revolver pointed between the demon’s eyes as its giant hand grabs the top of his head. He feels it squeeze, and Nero cocks the gun. “Let’s see who pays first,” he growls.

“Don’t try me,” the demon answers.

There is movement in the bar as people step back from the fight, but then the flash of something catches Nero’s eye. The Yamato is now pressed against the demon’s neck, and Nero spots Vergil behind it. “Looks like you lost,” Vergil says.

“This isn’t your business,” the demon growls.

“On the contrary. He is my business.”

The demon gives a low rumble. “If you think cutting off my head will stop me—”

He tilts the blade so it picks up some of the light in the room. “Take a look at this sword, and decide if you want to risk it.” Vergil tilts his head, a small smile creeping on his lips. “I can assure you, this blade is no ordinary weapon.”

Nero’s eyes dart back to the demon’s face. The creature is peering down at the blade, and then its brows twitch. “Fine,” it says, releasing its grip on Nero.

He keeps his gun pointed as Vergil steps around the hulking thing. “Move,” Nero says.

The demon takes a step back, and then its arms go out. “Looks like the sons of Sparda are here!” he calls. The entire bar goes silent, every head turning in their direction. “Anyone feel like getting some payback?”

“Oh shit,” Nero curses. He and Vergil press back to back as dozens of them form a circle around them, the familiar burn on his arm filling the room with a blue glow as his demon arm rises to the surface of his skin.

━━━━━━━✧━━━━━━━

“Son of a bitch!” Dante curses. He kicks a trashcan and listens, following the rattling sound through the alley. It is dark as hell in the space between the auto shop and the convenience store next door, but he knows the thing darted in there.

He grabs another can and pushes it aside, and finds his prey underneath. “There you are,” he growls. “Give it back.”

The cat hisses at him, standing on top of the half-eaten pizza it had snatched. Dante had stuffed four slices in his mouth before slinging the box under his arm for the climb back up to the roof. But just as he had reached the top, the damn thing slid out from his grip and fell to the ground. By the time Dante had jumped back down it was gone, and the mangy tail of the stray slinking down the alley told him exactly what had happened to it.

“Shoo,” he says, waving his hands at the cat. “That’s mine. Get out of here.”

The cat’s hair stands on end, its back going rigid as it gives another hiss. “All right, you asked for it,” Dante says.

He moves to grab the cat, but its claws swipe first, drawing blood on his arm. “Damn it!” Dante curses, and then the cat bites his hand, its teeth sinking in and not letting go. He shakes his arm to knock the cat away, but the fucker won’t let go, and he tugs on its scruff to pry it from him.

At the end of the alley, an eruption of gunfire and shouting catches his attention, and he drops the cat. It pounces onto his leg, giving him one last bite for good measure before darting underneath the dumpster against the wall. “Bastard!” he snaps, shaking his bleeding hand.

More gunfire and a roar sounds, and then he hears Nero shout, “Dante! Haul ass!”

He looks down at the ground where his pizza is covered in dirt and hair, ruined. “You owe me ten bucks!” he yells at the dumpster before taking off for the street, pulling Ebony and Ivory out as he runs.

There are demons spilling from the bar, kept at bay by Vergil and the Yamato. Dante darts forward, landing in the center of the swarm, and starts shooting. It takes no time at all for the two of them to wipe out the dozens of demons, but just when he thinks they are done, more start to emerge from the shadows and crawling up from the sewer grates.

“What the hell did you guys do?” he shouts to Vergil.

“You were supposed to be covering us!” Vergil yells back.

He looks up to see Trish pushing something into the side of the van as Nero pulls the door shut. “Get in, let’s go!” he calls, yanking open the passenger door and sending a few bullets flying over Dante’s shoulders before pitching himself inside.

He makes it to the van first, Vergil a split second after, and he climbs into the back as Vergil slams the passenger door. Nero takes off with a squeal of the tires, and Dante stumbles, landing hard on the floor of the van with a shout.

“Well that didn’t go as planned,” Trish says.

He looks up at where she is sitting on the bench, her legs crossed and an annoyed look on her face. “Just another Saturday night,” he jokes.

“It’s Tuesday,” she says sarcastically to Dante. Then she yells at the front seat, “And I told you to stay out of there!”

“It’s not my fault!” Nero argues back.

“Just take a left up here,” Trish sighs. She nudges the thing next to her, and Dante peers in the darkness at the lump. After a second he realizes it is a person—or rather, a demon in a person disguise that is now dirty and badly torn.

“This your guy?” he asks.

“Yeah. Now we can see if he knows anything.”

Dante grins as the van crests a hard left. “Good thing for you, interrogation is my specialty.”

#dmc #devil may cry #dmc nero #dmc dante #dmc vergil #dante sparda #vergil sparda #nero sparda #nerokiri #dmc trish #fan fiction #myfic #time to go

15 notes · View notes

gaycrouton · 5 years

Note

prompt idea I thought you would do excellent on: pre relationship, scully ends up getting another dog, a big one this time that she takes out on runs with her and basically is her guard dog on runs and at home, mulder is jealous of said dog :)

Hey! Thanks for sending to me, this is so cute!! XD I hope it turned out okay, I’m still new to experimenting with this vingette combo style and I also never interact with dogs.

msr / pre-relationship / fluff / au

“His name’s Stubb,” she explained with a beaming smile as he was being mauled by what had to have been a descendent of Sasquatch. Or, at least, he thinks she’s smiling - he lost sight of her when the mutt licked his eyes, seemingly wanting to explore Mulder but not finding anything that intrested him.

“And, uh, why is Stubb here?” he asked, trying to ease the creature back on all fours. Even when it was, he was still at Mulder’s upper thigh, he must’ve been at least at Scully’s waist.

“I adopted him,” she explained, laughing as Stubb ran back to her and nuzzled against her side, nearly toppling her over. He was right, seeing them side to side, he had no doubts that dog weighted more and, was probably two times bigger than, Scully. She could probably put a saddle on the thing and save on gas.

“...he uh...seems a lot different than Queequeg,” he chuckled, watching Scully get knocked off her feel a few times from the dog’s enthusiasm. Hell, Queequeg was probably as big as this dog’s last bowel movement.

“He’s a mastive, apparently he’d been at the shelter for almost a year because no one wanted him since he’s so big,” she replied, petting the dog fondly behind his ears. Well that explained it - of course Scully would choose the mutt no one else wanted. That was just so her.

“I didn’t know you wanted a dog,” he replied slowly. This was out of left field. It was selfish, this was just a dog after all, but the thought of someone-thing else taking her attention away from him, especially when they’d been so close as of late, made the green eyed monster come out a little in him.

The dog knew that too. Mulder could just see it in his face as Stubb jumped up and licked the cheek Mulder’d placed a kiss on the other night - as if to say she’s mine now in dog terms.

She cleared her throat uncomfortably as her smile faltered, “I just-I thought it’d be nice to have someone here with me.”

Oh.

The realization felt like a bucket of cold water to his face. He could still smell the new plaster they had to cover the bullet hole in the ceiling with, he could still see the fresh bruises left in Pfaster’s wake, he’d seen the way she’d jumped in the office when he moved too fast. She wanted someone here as a form of protection. She was alone when Pfaster attacked her and no one had come. She’d had to save herself. Again.

He was glad she’d gotten someone to come home to at night.

He just wished it was him.

They looked ridiculous, absolutely 100% ridiculous, and he couldn’t keep the smile off his face.

His attention was drawn to them immediately, even from the other side of the park. A petite woman running while a massive dog simply trotted along to keep up with her was jarring to the eye as much as it was funny - she was covered in a sheen of sweat while the tog looked like he was exuding no effort.

As his eyes adjusted, he realized that the petite woman was noneother than Dana Scully, taking her new dog out on a run.

Picking up his own pace, he started cutting across the grass so he could get on the same trail as her. Had he ever seen Scully in excersize gear? From his vantage point a few yards behind her, her little ponytail jumped in place with every foot fall, and the tight material of her outfit complimented her every curve. God, she looked hot.

Wanting to surprise her, he ran a little faster so he would end up running next to her. She hadn’t noticed him yet by the time he was a foot away, but Stubb sure as hell did. The dog locked eyes with him and let out a low menacing growl, placing his own body between him and Scully. Mulder shot the dog an equally annoyed glace and tried to move to the other side, only to have him follow.

This game of back and forth went on for a few more feet until Scully noticed someone behind her and stopped slowly, looking over her shoulder to see who it was. “Oh, hey, Mulder!” she exclamied while panting, stopping with the dog at her feet.

“Hey, Scully,” he panted, jumping when the dog barked at him.

“No! Stubbs, that’s Mulder. Be nice to him,” Scully chastized in a tone he was slightly offended to realize had been used on him before.

“I don’t think he likes me, Scully,” Mulder informed cautiously.

“What makes you think that?” she asked, petting the dog while looking at him and inadvertenly missing the way the dog bared it’s teeth to him.

“He refused to let me get close to you. Plus, just look at him,” he exclaimed. But as soon as Scully turned, the dog stuck out his tongue and lovingly leaned into her touch. Funny, he thought this type of thing only happened when he was trying to get her to look at a UFO.

“Mulder, don’t be silly,” she laughed.

The dog nuzzled into her side and Mulder swore the thing was making fun of him.

Last he’d remembered, movie nights were a two person thing.

In face, last week pre-Stubbs (that’s how he referred to his life now - was it pre or post dog) he’d finally gotten the balls to sit close enough on the couch to Scully that their legs touched. The week before that he’d just accidentally brushed her knee. It might not seem like much, but when it’s taken several years just to get her to want to hand out, this type of development was a rapid progression.

This week he’d been hoping he might down enough Shiner to get the nerve to wrap an arm around her - apparently the juvenile moves of a middle schooler were now his goals. But instead, he was smashed into the side of the couch while the dog sat in the middle of them.

The dog in question currently had his head in Scully’s lap and Mulder couldn’t even hold it in this time - he was jealous of a dog. As he sat their and twiddled his thumbs, Stubb got the full brunt of Scully’s affection. Asshole.

Wanting to have atleast had some sort of contact with Scully tonight, he rest his arm along the back of the couch so that his fingers just barely grazed the nape of her neck. Being daring, he let his middle finger peep out and gently touch the skin underneath her baby hairs. Just as he felt a smattering of goosebumps erupt under his touch, the dog was up with a bark.

“What’s wrong, Stubb?” Scully asked leaning forward, not noticing the way Mulder’s jaw clenched out of irritation.

“He doesn’t like it when I touch you. Or look at you. Or exist near you,” Mulder explained, setting his hand back in his lap.

“Not true,” Scully laughed.

Deciding to be bold, he reached over the dog to place his palm on her thigh. As soon as hand touched leg - the dog was headbutting him away. “Huh,” she uttered with uncertainty, watching as the dog jumped off the couch to stand in front of them - watching with intensity.

Emphasizing his point, he put his hand out in front of him and slowly moved it towards Scully, both of them watching the dog’s expression change from curiosity to fierce protection with every millimeter he got closer. By the time he was close enough to feel her body heat, Stubb barked and put his paws on the couch in warning.

“That can’t be right,” she mused.

“Stubb,” he deadpanned.

“No, not like that, Mulder. He can hear you don’t like him,” Scully admonished.

“I don’t mind him, it’s him who doesn’t like me,” Mulder reminded.

She rolled her eyes and tried to hide the smile tugging at her lips. “Try again.”

“Stubb,” Mulder called out with fake enthusiasm, patting his legs. But the dog didn’t move. He stayed latched at Scully’s side like he wanted to build a home there. Not that Mulder blamed him.

Scully frowned and looked from the dog to him specutively. “Try again.”

Putting on a fake smile, he patted his knees and snapped his fingers, “Stubb, come ‘ere.” The dog growled in response and Scully gasped. “See! Did you see that!” Mulder exclimed, pointing at the dog like a tattling child.

“Bad Stubb!” Scully reprimanded. The dog whined at her dissaproval and Mulder couldn’t help but empathize with the way he bowed his head and his ears fell.

Scully walked over to him and, before he could even process, she wrapped her arms around his torso and nuzzled her head against his side. “Stubb, we like Mulder, look,” she called out, getting the dog’s attention.

Stubb perked up and looked at the pair, immediately standing up in confused alert that she was so close to the enemy. He tentatively put one paw in front of the other and watched the pair, cocking his head. “I think it’s working,” she whispered.

“What is?” Mulder asked, not trusting the mutt.

“Stubb,” she called out sweetly. “Look,” she demanded before raising herself on her toes and pressing a noisy, firm kiss to Mulder’s cheek, bending back down afterwards to nuzzle against him once more. Oh, this was her tactic. Get him to love by showing her own. He had to say, it was his favorite theory of hers yet.

Deciding to participate, just to back her up and all, he raised his hands and hugged her back, pressing their bodies together as they watched the dog. Well, realistically Mulder was barely paying attention to anything other than feeling Scully so intimately pressed to him, while being so affectionate nonetheless.

“Try petting his head,” Scully instructed him when the dog got close enough to touch. Reluctantly letting go of her, he bent down and touched Stubb’s head surprised when the dog let him.

��It’s working!” she exclaimed, squeezing him for emphasis.

“Uh, kinda,” Mulder countered. The dog was letting him touch him, but he was in no way encouraging it. It was like he was wearing a party hat to an event he never wanted to attend, and Mulder’s hand was the hat.

Part of him couldn’t believe she wasn’t seeing that this dog did not trust him, while the other part was touched that she seemed so averse to the possibility that something wouldn’t like him.

Mulder made it his life mission to protect Scully.

Stubb made it his life mission to protect Scully.

Of course this would be what made them see eye to eye.

She’d been distracted, padding around her apartment after they’d finished some take out when she slipped on some water and started falling to the floor - hard. They both noticed at the same time, but Mulder was closer (and a human), so he was able to catch her just in time before she fell. Instead of falling ass-first onto the hardwood, she fell into Mulder who fell back and took the brunt of the fall, the dog running around them while looking for frantic assurance she was okay.

“You alright?” he laughed, ignoring the soreness in his left cheek.

“I’m so sorry,” she laughed, pivoting in between his legs to look at him.

“You’re fine,” he smiled back, watching Stubb lick her face in comfort.

Then, much to his surprise, Stubb turned and licked him too, nuzzling into him while his pink tongue panted in happiness.

Scully’s face lit up and she set one hand on Mulder’s leg while the other reached up to pet the dog. “He’s licking you!” she exclaimed, as if the five o’clock shadow made of dog saliva wasn’t clueing him in to that fact.

“Thank you, Stubb,” he joked, trying to dislodge the dog from his face which only resulted in him laying across Mulder’s lap.

“I think he’s saying thank you,” she admitted, sending him a beaming smile.

He’d let the dog lick him forever if it meant he could get a smile like that.

#gaycrouton #my fanfiction #mulder #scully #msr #fluff #theres a dog too

103 notes · View notes

trashpandaorigins · 4 years

Text

The Body Keeps the Score Ch. 14 Reckoning

"You said it yourself bitch, we're the Guardians of the Galaxy." Gamora is finally a part of something. But the past always follows you, eats at you and she must come to grips with her deeds as she tries to build a future. Meanwhile Rocket has never cared much for anyone or anything. Together the two of them discover they are more alike than different and try to heal themselves by befriending the other.

*Content Warnings: Mentions of child/animal abuse, trauma, character death, physical torture/pain*

Title of this fic is taken from the book of the same title "The Body Keeps the Score: Brain, Mind, and Body in the Healing of Trauma," by Bessel van der Kolk

I can see you in the distance, and you're heading for a fall

Sinking deeper by the minute, you're about to lose it all

You better change, before the sun goes down

You better leave, before you are the last in town.

You better raise, your fortresses or tear them down

Better Change - Dan Fogelberg

Rocket’s claws clinked against the metal plating on his collar bones, tap tap tapping against the rusted pieces. He curled in his bunk, but despite his efforts nothing replicated that surreal cautious tenderness with which someone besides Groot had dared touch those metal bolts. It was …...nice. It warmed something inside him that had been cold. Some dark place devoid of light where he had poured his malice and hatred at the world. None but Groot, the old Groot, the real Groot, the one who was gone had ever shed any light on that space inside of him. Until now. No one else besides the flora had ever touched him without wanting to hurt him, change him, upgrade or improve or experiment on him. And, like the monster he was...he’d returned the favor with betrayal. He lowered the protective mask and fired more plasma at the Hadron enforcer’s core, sealing it. No it probably didn’t need any fine-tuning but Rocket’s mind spun for something, anything to tinker with, so an upgrade it was.

“Hey, Rocket?!” Quill called over the intercom, “Can you come up here? We got a situation.” The hair on the ringtail’s back rose with irritation,

“If this is about the patch job I do more work on this hunk of junk than any of yous so make Drax repair it!”

He threw down his equipment and made his way to the main deck.

“M Groot!” The little flora rolled into the hall, giggling and munching on the tiny leaf that grew from his own arm. Rocket’s mouth twitched in an amused smile, scooping the little thing up.

“There you are.”

“I...a...am Groo..ot!”

“Quill was tossing you?”

“I am Groot!”

“Tsch, well if he did that , I’m about to get my blasters and…”

The words died in his mouth. Three Nova Corps ships, and six officers surrounded them. Rocket instantly recognized the man to the left, the one whom he had called just terran hours ago. How’d they get here this fast? The engines on those things must be over twenty quarstones.

“Peter Jason Quill and the Guardians of the Galaxy, well we didn’t think we’d be seeing you so soon. Honestly, I’m impressed you made it this far without coming up on our radar.”

Rocket reached for his holster, his other paw reaching up to his shoulder where Groot perched curiously out from behind his ear.

“What is this about Nova,” Quill’s attempt at diplomacy appeared ineffective. The officer, one whom Rocket did not recognize, shook her head. He slid his gaze over to Gamora who stood beside Quill, as stern and expressionless as ever, arms folded and stance secure.

“If this is about the Platain town I massacred...that was….a while ago,” Drax defended, both of his knives out and ready. The Nova officers ignored him.

“Lady Gamora,”

Fuck…. Rocket cursed inwardly. His body tensed, grip tightening around his sidearm. Fuck...fuck...fuck you stupid piece of pelt….you really thought you could get away with this. After all she’s done for you? You fucking monster.

“You are under arrest for endangering your fellow crew, illegal pursuit of a fugitive and to prevent further actions against innocent plants and peoples.”

Three of them encroached, the man holding cuffs.

“Hey, hey!” Quill stepped between them. “There’s gotta be a misunderstanding! You sure your not thinking of the other daughter of Thanos? The bald one with the metal. What’s her name? Nebula? Yeah her! She’s the one you ought to be after!”

“Step aside Starlord,” the Nova officer ordered. Quill grinned cheekily,

“Uh uh, I see what you're doing, but validating my badass outlaw name is not going to make me turn Gamora over.”

Shoot! Run! Get the flark out of here! The machine...or heart...whatever was in his chest raced with trepidation. Take Groot and go! He slipped his revolver out of it’s holster and gripped it tight.

“There must be a mistake,” Gamora clarified evenly. She made no move for her sword even as the officers side-stepped Quill. “I was going after Nebula. But she is no more a daughter of Thanos than I am.”

“Family relations aside, we have deemed you too reckless to be allowed out in the Galaxy unchecked. You were given your chance.”

“What chance? I’ve done nothing but pursue Nebula who is a direct threat not only to myself but to every planet she lands on.” She spoke like someone who’d talked her way out of dangerous situations before.

“That’s enough,” the woman Nova officer dismissed with a wave of her hand. “Take her away, she can answer to Nova Prime.”

“No no, no, wait man that’s not what we agreed to!” Quill exclaimed, “we just saved your lousy planet, remember?” The officers moved for Gamora, the one with the handcuffs approaching first. Rocket watched her strike the man, he didn’t even realize she’d unsheathed her sword. He fell to the ground with a thud. One down, five more to go.

“Damn it!” Quill’s blasters were out in seconds, and Drax charged forward towards the three Nova ships with uproarious laughter. Rocket took aim instantly shooting at the man he’d spoken with not long ago. The man dodged, just in time to duck and take his own shot. Rocket leapt away, the hiss of the bullet ringing in his ears. Behind him Drax shouted something obscene, rushing to beat down the third Nova officer who was making a run for Gamora. She grunted, kicking him in the temple and ran her sword through his side.

“Guys the ships they….!” Quill shouted, but Rocket didn’t need to hear the end of his words. Two of the Nova officers had gone back to their ships, now firing volleys at them and the Benatar.

“Get back to the ship!” Gamora was screaming, pivoting as three rounds of fire shot towards her. Rocket, reached behind him to grab the Hadron Enforcer, grasping blindly for the handle,

Shit…! Shit! Shit!

“I am Groot!”

The frightened saplings cry sent his blood coursing with fright. Shaking, he dropped to all fours just in time for a Nova Officer to run at him. He slid on the ground and spun, firing at the man’s back.

“Die! Die!” Drax cackled, running towards the ramp of the Benatar.

“Get the people in the ships you dumb ass!” Rocket yelled, wincing at the sound of crumpling metal. They’d only just repaired the ship!

“Groot hang on,” he instructed, he’d have to get closer to get the best shot with a revolver. He ran forward to the Nova Officer’s ships. He darted instinctually on all fours, dashing from side to side and leaping up the nearest tree, scurrying out on a limb and dropped down on top of the ship.

From this position, he could see Gamora grappling with the remaining officers, Drax and Quill on either side of her. The officer inside the ship sent solar flares at the Benatar with unrelenting force. Rocket stood over the glass dome, taking aim and shot. The glass shattered, the man inside looked up in shock, cursing something before the ringtail jumped on top of him. Clawing, scratching, biting. Tearing into the fabric of the man’s uniform. His enhanced claws scratched the metal painfully.

“I am Groot!” Groot shrieked, desperately holding on to the straps of the raccoonoid’s jumpsuit.

“Get off me!”

The officer flailed, kicking, the ship rocked. Rocket stumbled backward, turning as the whole ship veered to the left, the hail of solar beams skated from the Benatar towards Quill, Drax and Gamora fought.

No! NO! NO! NO!

Rocket spun, grabbing the controls, throwing his weight against the gun, shoving with all his might.

“Quill!” Gamora’s shout caught his ears even from inside the ship. He looked up, stomach buckling. The humie was down, the woman’s arm around him. Drax brought down the remaining officer with a quick thrust of his knife through the man’s jugular.

“Why you!” The Nova Officer behind him yanked at the scruff of Rocket’s neck with his glove torn hand. The ringtail snarled, teeth bared. He lunged forward, pointed incisors sinking into soft flesh. Warm, metallic blood spurted, filling the raccoonoid’s nostrils in a frenzy. He snarled, gnawing. The man screamed, ripping out handfuls of fur, pulling on his tail. Rocket’s teeth latched around something hard, there was an audible crack and something wet, fleshy quivered in his mouth. He rent backward, blood smattering against his fur. The Nova officer pressed his hands to his throat, gurgling.

Rocket starred, his entire body shaking, fur raised. His claws curled. In a heated rage he watched the man’s open neck, twitching, ghastly and shredded.

“I am g...g...Groot…”

The ringtail turned, still heaving for breath. The tiny flora pointed towards the ship. Rocket wiped his muzzle with the back of his paw and grabbed Groot in his blooded claws, running back to the others. Iron sweet blood slick on his tongue, he swallowed as he ran trying to get the taste out of his mouth.

“There you are furry friend, I did not know where you….what happened to your face?”

“T...take Groot,” the raccoonoid offered the sapling to the Destroyer who accepted without question.

“Quill!” Rocket shouted, eyes scanning the man for any wound as they half ran half limped up the ramp into the Benatar. “Quill, yah alright?!”

“Y...yeah,” the man wheezed, one hand pressed to his side. “It was just a graze.” Rocket snorted, though no less comforted. “You think you can get us out of here?”

“She’s taken a few bad hits but I can get her going.” The raccoonoid nodded, scrambling to the flight deck and revved up the engines.

Come on, come on, come on!

He thrust the engines up and forward adrenaline still coursing through him. He licked his lips, whiskers twitching. The Benatar rumbled, grumbled and spat, finally lifting off from Recseta.

“Drax, what’s the nearest planet?”

“Tarque. The largest planet in the Keystone Quadrant.”

Good enough.

They raced through the jump port.

---

“Where we headed?”

Quill’s voice jolted Rocket from his reverie. The ringtail licked at the inside of his mouth, the taste of blood still lingering.

“Tarque, not far.”

The human nodded, collapsing with a sigh into the co-pilot seat.

“So I’ll live, in case you were wondering,” he lamented. Rocket shook his head, ears flattened making a concerted effort to appear irritated.

“I wasn’t.”

“Okay, well we’ll stop on Tarque. Hopefully Nova hasn’t sent backup and we’ll be able to resupply before they find us. If we weren’t wanted before they’ll really be after us now.”

“Really?!”

Rocket hissed, punching autopilot. He cursed, climbing down from the seat and taking off to his quarters.

“You really did it now…” he muttered to himself, storming down the rickety stairs. His fists balled, tail thrashing.

How the flark and I am going to…

Something hard hit against his face, he teetered backward. Looking up and instantly away with shame.

“Gams!”

She looked down at him, stepping around him and down the hall with a grunt.

Rocket’s stomach threatened to empty itself before he made it to his quarters. Even ignoring Groot who called for him as he passed.

---

Tarque was just populous enough to comfortably hide a band of outlaws in plain sight. Not nearly as big as Knowhere, but still….Rocket could not calm his tight muscles. The cybernetics in his back ached, tugging at his flesh with the slightest movement.

“I’m gettin’ a drink, don’t wait up for me,” he grumbled as they departed the Benatar.

“No! Dude! We need to stick together! We need supplies! We can’t risk landing on another habitable planet for awhile! We have to get…”

the human’s voice quickly died off in the crowd of aliens. Rocket walked in a daze through the streets. Eyes shifting between the people as they bustled and brawled. It took no time to find a dank, dreary dive bar.

“Evmon’s” the sign proclaimed. Rocket peered in to the hazy room. A bartender cleaned glassed, only two other patron’s kept to themselves on either end of the long bar.

Perfect.

He shoved the door open, hauled himself up onto the stool and ordered two shots of Urkven.

If anything can wash the taste of that guys blood out of my mouth, it’s Urkven.

---

“You,” a voice seethed.

Rocket’s mind swam with the alcohol he had consumed in the last...well...he wasn’t keeping track of the time and the foul fleshy taste of the Nova officer’s neck was not washing away as he’d hoped.

“You betrayed me to the Nova Corps.”

“N...no I didn't,” he slurred, groping for the glass before him.

“What did they offer you?” She fumed stalking over to him out of the darkness. “Units?”

“....yeah,” he burped a little and took another drink. “Lots of units.”

“What were those units going to buy you, Rocket?” Gamora’s voice rose beyond rage “Weapons for your anger? Booze for your pain? Friendship? Sympathy? Answers?!” She glared at him with such ruthless disappointment the raccoonoid almost had the audacity to look ashamed. “I thought we were worth more than units. I thought you learned your lesson.”

“What lesson?” Rocket managed a sneer.

“That there are things more precious than bombs or ships or getting rich. Family....empathy...” Rocket rolled his eyes. “You know who taught me that?”

“Lemme guess, Star Shit?”

“Groot.” Gamora answered shortly. Rocket watched her face shift from livid contempt to something he couldn’t name. Something softer...sadder. The thing in his cybernetically enhanced chest nearly shorted out.

“I thought...we were a family after that. That we could be something better. Groot taught me that. That’s what his sacrifice meant to me. I thought....I was sure it would mean something to you too. I thought if anyone could get through to you it would’ve been him.”

She looked down at her glass, tapping her finger against the rim. Hair fell over her shoulder obscuring her face.

“I was wrong about you both. I guess his death wasn’t worth much after all. Not to you anyway.” She turned back to face him, eyes searing as she looked down at him with disgust.

“You were right Rocket. You are a monster. I’m sorry Groot didn’t realize that sooner. It would’ve saved him if he had.”

She looked down at her hands.

“The people from Halfworld were right. I should’ve given you back to them.”

Sobriety came crashing back to the ringtails mind, brought on by stomach dropping dread.

“Y….you wouldn’t....”

“No but I should have. I wouldn’t do that though. I’m not like you.”

“W...what?” Rocket tried to conceal the hurt in his voice trying to stop it from shaking already afraid of what she was going to say. Even his bravado has its limits.

“Your heart. You have none. The only thing that's there is a cybernetic pump. No different than this tap,” she gestured to the bar.

“At least the bar tap can bring people joy and comfort.”

“Shut up! You don’t know what the flark your talking about!”

“I saw the scans Rocket. You had them saved on your data pad. You want to know what was in there?” She jabbed a finger towards his chest,

“A metal pump with wiring connected to your main circulatory system. There’s no heart. Just a machine.”

His tail trashed madly, claws curling around the bottle in his paws so tight it smashed.

“Shut up! You're no better than Thanos! You’re a murderer and a killer and you’ll always be one!

Gamora curled her fists, ready to strike. He braced for it, but the blow never came. Instead she only slammed her knuckles into the counter.

“Papa Thanos never should’ve let you out to Ronan and we never should’ve trusted you!” He bared his red stained teeth. “You’re worse than Thanos, he knows he’s an evil son of a bitch, but you,” Rocket stood up on the counter of the bar, leaning in to the assassin woman’s face so close his nose nearly touched hers. “You pretend to be good and care about people! Your worse than him! I hope Nebula finds you! I hope she murders your cybernetic ass!”

Gamora’s hand swung out grabbing him by the back of the head and lifting him off the bar counter with ease. She strode out the door and dropped him with a thud on the hard ground.

Rocket rubbed his head, staggering to his feet.

“When we get back to the ship, I’m telling the rest of them what you’ve done,” she threatened.

“N...no!” the ringtail shouted, turning his back on her. He dragged himself off, into the thin alley between the bar and the next building. If Gamora saw him go, she didn’t bother to follow him.

---

The ringtail slid down the wall, onto the trash infested ground. Gamora’s furious green face screamed at him everytime he closed his eyes.

He smelled of filth and stale booze, his stomach lurched and he wretched onto the ground beside him. The world spun in a dizzying mess.

Where was Groot? Where was Groot to tell him Gamora was wrong? To tell him he did in fact have a heart, a real one? Maybe If I finish this bottle I can find out. He smiled at the thought. His head lolled to the side to see the cracked green bottleneck still clutched in his claws. The big dumb flora smiled at him in his imagination. If Groot were here we could run off, if Groot were here…. he’d curl up in those long wooden arms and sleep off this terrible nausea. If Groot were here he’d...be ashamed that he had sold Gamora to the Nova Corps.

The thought made the raccoonoid sick again, vomiting.

“Hey! Look what we have here?”

Something hard knocked Rocket in the ribs. He doubled over curling in a ball.

“Give us your units rat!”

A flash of white pain exploded across his head. Everything went dizzy. Something trickled down his fur and dripped onto the cold ground. He tried to reach for his gun, but hard fingers grabbed around his wrist, twisting it. He yelped in pain,

Groot!

He tried to snarl and bite, but the assailants shoved him against the wall; a hand closing around his throat.

“Where are your units?!”

“I d...don’t got n..no uni...units!”

The fist smashed into his stomach again, knocking the breath from him. He gasped, small claws scraping frantically. The second attacker pulled at his tail, the tender bone snapping. Rocket chittered with agony before being flung to the ground once more. Fingers rifled through his pockets but try as he might the raccoonoid could not move.

“S...stop! St….aghh,” he gagged as three feet at once beat into his stomach and back. The paneling in his spine twinged and spasmed, pinching his nerves and crushing his bones.

“Hey!”

A bright flash of yellow light streamed by, screams, shouting.

“Leave him alone!”

Rocket opened his eyes a sliver,

“Quill?”

More shots, the man ran into his attackers, shooting and beating at them until they ran.

“Rocket!” The humie was at his side in an instant.

“Oh shit man, I’m sorry I didn’t come in time. Gamora said she found you at a bar….I just didn’t know which one! There’s so many of em and…”

Rocket yowled as the human attempted to lift him up.

“Sorry man, but we gotta go, I heard the word Nova’s on our tail already.”

The man’s words drifted into his ears and out again, replaced by Gamora’s.

I thought you learned your lesson. I thought...we were a family after that. That we could be something better. Groot taught me that. That’s what his sacrifice meant to me.

His vision clouded even as Quill tucked him safely to his chest and hurried through the city. He tried to imagine Groot’s branches; the soft little lights of spores, the smell of earth...but all his nose could sniff was alcohol and vomit.

He had to do something. What would Groot do? No fuck that, Groot would NEVER betray his friends. What...what would Groot want him to do? Make it right. But how?

Rocket swallowed, tasting the blood of the Nova officer still stuck to his throat.

---

On the Benatar, after Quill had forced him to drink water and sit in the common area the raccoonoid slowly began to regain his thoughts, slipping off the couch and heading for the weapons storage.

“Rocket!”

The raccoonoid jolted in panic, but steadied a little upon seeing the humie. He grabbed several guns and a med kit, stuffing them into his pack.

“What are you doing?”

“Somethin’ I shoulda done a while ago.”

He sniffed, taking a casing of bullets and made for one of the escape pods.

“Dude, where are you going?”

“Someplace I’ll probably regret,” he whispered slowly, checking the fuel saloge. “If I’m not back in four turns just...just take care of Groot okay?”

“Rocket…” Quill reached out a hand to him.

Either Gamora hasn’t told him yet...or he’s even dumber than I thought.

“He needs watering everyday, twice a day. Make Sure he still sleeps in his pot and that he gets enough sunlight. He should be under the portrain lamp for at least thirty nano secs. But not too much or he’ll dry out.”

“Rocket, man where are you going?”

The ringtail punched the codes, opening the pod and strapped in. Looking up at the humie who blinked down at him, naive and innocently unaware. It made the heart. ..no, machine in his chest cinch.

“If I’m not back just tell Gams….tell her I’m sorry, kay?”

“Rocket whatever is going on we can talk this out man!”

“No. We can’t. Trust me.”

He looked away before that stupid face made him change his mind. He punched in the coordinates.

“Fine,” Quill muttered. Trusting him.

Something thudded into Rocket’s lap. He paused, glancing up at the humie again.

“Quill, I can’t...take one of your elemental blasters.”

“You're not taking it. Your borrowing it,” the man corrected, smiling. The raccoonoid looked over the weapon and sighed heavily, taking it in his paws and strapped it to his side. He couldn’t bring himself to look at the man’s face again. But pressed the release button, holding his breath as the escape pod released.

#my writing #the body keeps the score fic #groot #baby groot #drax the destroyer #drax #rocket raccoon #gamora #peter quill #star lord #gotg fanfiction #gotg fanfic #Guardians of the Galaxy #this is a duzy #gamora and rocket friendship

7 notes · View notes

jaggedwolf · 4 years

Text

TSCOSI Ficlets #1

Villains pretending to be redeemed

McCabe is an inconvenience. Park had hoped they would panic, betray him, add credence to his cover. Or that Patel would get suspicious at someone Park never mentioned, take care of that problem. No luck there.

They're alive, and worse, they're on the Iris with him and the merry band of insurgents.

Now Park has to keep track of everything he's ever let slip to McCabe, make sure none of it contradicts what he tells the rest of them. Quite frankly, he's not trained for this. He's not even being paid for this.

The crew gets more used to his presence. McCabe quickly realises Park has nothing to offer in this life and they'd have better luck looking expectantly at someone else. The gaping hole that used to be his left eye doesn't get infected. All things in favor of his operation.

Yet, every day on this ship tires him.

He wants to walk out of the airlock and let the cold vacuum of space take him. He wants to corner Patel to tell her everything so she can end things with a bullet to his head. He wants to go to sleep and never wake up. Screw humanity, screw the IGR.

He wasn't made to be a spy. If they hadn't had Shelly, he never would have agreed.

Frederick might be dead or incapacitated (another great aspect of the on-the-run life was the complete lack of information he was used to), but the IGR has an excellent chain of command. Someone else is in charge of Shelly now, someone else knows the terms by which Park could keep her safe, someone else is listening to the coded messages Park taps into his watch every night.

So, he wakes up.

Spends yet another day pretending he cares about the lives of anyone on this ship.

Time for a sex-off

Violet really isn't sure what she's witnessing, but she figures she'll follow Krejjh's lead and watch. Eat some of their fruit jerky while she's at it.

Arkady frowns at Brian's most recently made point. "Okay, what about a bar?"

"Uh, dude, did you forget I literally worked at a bar on Rydell? Yeah I've had sex in a bar." Brian chuckles.

"With a bartender?" tries Arkady.

Arkady's losing this argument and knows it. Krejjh certainly thinks so. They hoot and holler with every act or partner Brian lists off. Though Violet imagines they'd do the same if Brian had confessed to an entire life of celibacy.

Brian's smile shrinks. "Alvy."

"Shit, dude." Arkady shoots a worried glance at Violet, as if Violet is any better at lightening the mood.

Brian shrugs it off. "It's fine, man."

Seems fair enough. Violet's been tracking Arkady's yes's - she's not trying to, but her brain logicking out her girlfriend's past seems to be an unmutable feature - and many of them had to have dated from Cresswin or the war. Has to be some losses there, even if Arkady’s deft tale-telling elides that.

Brian suddenly looks pleased with himself. "You've never slept with a Dwarnian."

"No shit," grumbles Arkady.

"First Mate Patel, are you saying this doesn't entice you?" Krejjh struck a ridiculous pose, their face offended.

Arkady squinted at Krejjh, silent. Violet snickered. She refilled all four cups of moonshine, idly attempting to retrace the origins of this conversation.

"Moving on," Arkady finally says, turning back to Brian, "sex outdoors."

"You got me there, bud. Nope," admits Brian.

"I think," says Arkady, "that this competition calls for some calibration. You're half a decade older than me, you've had more time at this. Back me up, Violet. You're the scientist here, isn't there something about experiments and controls?"

Arkady smiles at Violet, her face playing at casual, her dark brown eyes filled with warmth. Her leather jacket's half-slipped off her, and Violet's gaze is transfixed by the revealed bare arm as if she's never seen it before. She wants to pull Arkady into a kiss, drag her back to her room and do about fifty percent of the things Arkady's listed. There are plenty of experiments and controls she'd like to test there.

Instead, Violet breathes out and responds with a "There are way too many factors at play for both of you, even without the age difference. I'm not sure any calibration would be fair."

Krejjh and Brian high-five. Arkady sulks, leaning even more into Violet, and Violet can't help but think they've won regardless.

Shaky Hands

Sana, Violet decides, is a far better patient than Arkady. It's a comforting fact to latch on to as Violet examines the burned flesh of Sana's forearm, the preliminary treatments done. Sana doesn't object to Violet's procedures, nor does she take offense to Violet asking if she's injured anywhere else.

"Rest of the crew?" asks Sana, her breaths ragged and eyes unfocused. She's seated on the medbay cot, her uninjured side slumped against the wall. Her shaking fingers are interlocked in her lap. Adrenaline after-effect. Temporary reflexes of muscles and tendons that would fade away.

"In the cockpit. We're clear of the planet, from Arkady's last update." Violet sets up one of the medbay's scanners above Sana's arm.

Sana simply nods, closing her eyes.

The Iris's medbay is a large room, with Sana and Violet only occupying a small corner of it. A pang of guilt strikes Violet. Maybe Sana would have appreciated having someone else around too.

Violet looks over the scans on the screen and the diagnostic inferences the software has made. "I may have kicked Arkady out of the medbay."

"Good call." Sana smiles weakly, dimples showing. "Can't have the first mate distracted while the captain's out of commission. How's my arm looking?"

"With the Iris's equipment, you might not even have a scar after this." Violet flashes what she hopes is a reassuring look at Sana. "You'll want to keep use of that arm to minimum, though."

"Okay." Sana doesn't relax at Violet's good news. In fact, she seems tenser. She blinks open her eyes. "And the tremors? There's nothing to worry about there?"

Sana sounds uncharacteristically disbelieving.

"Captain, I can take more scans, but I'm not seeing any nerve damage, if that's what you're worried about."

Sana sighs, her body relaxing against the wall. "Thank you, Violet."

Conversation to have later, maybe with some cross-referencing of Sana's medical history. It had taken a while for Violet to notice that the captain's reticence in sharing details of her own experiences, especially compared to the others.

"It'll take me a few minutes to wrap your arm up, you can go to sleep after that." Violet retrieves what she needs and starts work on Sana's arm

Sana shakes her head. "We should head back up to the cockpit after this, I'm sure the others have questions."

Violet fixes her gaze on Sana. "Didn't you make an announcement the other day that everyone had to listen to me when it came to medbay stuff? You're in the medbay, ergo-"

"I should listen to you." Sana almost looks proud. "Are you sure they don't need anything from me?"

"They're fine, and if they did, Arkady would have commed me by now." Violet adjusts the pillow on the cot. "You can rest, Captain."

Gunpoint

Arkady stared up the barrel of the gun pointed at her. She scowled. Made a show of pressing her wrists against the handcuffs that trapped them behind her back.

"Well, human," said Krejjh from the other side of the gun, a forced grin on their face, "the tables have twisted."

The dwarnian mercs behind Krejjh chuckled. That boded well. Meant they were buying the hasty cover story. Two of the mercs were whispering, jostling each other, and finally someone yelled at Krejjh something in Dwarnian. Whatever it was, it startled Krejjh.

"Why would I"-Krejjh stopped themself, hand holding the gun dropping limply by their side. They continued their reply in Dwarnian. That only seemed to piss off the mercs more, and an argument ensued.

The only non-English Arkady had ever learned was a healthy smattering of swear words, but the merc's expressions provided plenty of reading material, as did the way Krejjh's ears flared back. Easy enough to guess at the little group bonding suggestion Krejjh had rejected.

The mercs had started to doubt Krejjh. Shit. Two against ten would've been risky even if Arkady had been armed. She took a second to assess the situation before arriving back at her original decision. If they survived this, hopefully Violet and Sana wouldn't get too annoying about it.

"Hey, ass!" Arkady's words carried over the din of voices arguing in Dwarnian.

Krejjh turned to her, face stoic, but Arkady could see the signs of confusion. Krejjh hadn't had to do too many in-person cons. Might as well make it a little easier on them.

"Yeah, you, you purple piece of shit," spat Arkady. When Krejjh only took a single step towards her, she kept going. "What, you're too scared of humans to even approach one you've restrained?"

Krejjh's voice was uncharacteristically slow and serious. "I've never been scared of a human." They took another step forward.

This close, Krejjh blocking most of the other mercs from view, Arkady risked glancing at the gun and then Krejjh's brilliant red-yellow eyes. She gave the slightest nod. Krejjh's arm jerked, and they snarled, "You-"

"Me," mocked Arkady. "I've killed so many of your kind during the war. Pretty satisfying. Some deaths were quick and simple. Others, not so much. Want me to go through the list? The first one, now-"

The gun struck right against Arkady's nose, sending her stumbling to the ground shoulder-first. Blood filled her nostrils and relief her lungs in the same haggard breath that followed. A loud roar of approval came from the mercs, even some clapping. Arkady pulled herself back up to one knee. A sliver of blood slipped over her lips into her mouth.

Krejjh was panting heavily. They still looked pissed as hell at Arkady's little speech, and that'd work great for the crowd. Krejjh spun back to the mercs. They waved a free hand back at Arkady. "That good enough for you, fellas?"

The merc that had first yelled at Krejjh clapped them on the back. Arkady's lips quirked, and she reshaped the grin that threatened to show into yet another scowl. She shouldn't have doubted Krejjh pulling through.

For all the shit she'd given Krejjh, at the end of the day, they were a soldier, same as her.

Accidental Guardianship

One of the teenagers - the human one - has been staring at him recently. Longer than at anyone else. (He is excellent at noticing when he's being watched. It had been a useful skill to cultivate.)

Park briefly considers the possibilities. Perhaps she thinks him the biggest threat on this ship? Laughable. No depth perception, and Patel and the Dwarnian both exist. She's uncomfortable with the eye-patch? No, given her and her friend's background, she's seen far uglier sights than him. He snorts midway through considering the idea that she's chosen him the way her friend has chosen the Dwarnian. He has nothing to offer there.

It doesn't seem to be a problem yet, so Park does nothing. He thinks she isn't planning on stabbing him in his sleep with that knife of hers either, but he does check the locks on his door. Better to be safe.

Instead, she finds him in the kitchen one evening. Her footsteps are silent, and her question entirely unexpected.

"You were an analyst for the IGR, right?" Her brown eyes are intent, but wary, as if he might react the wrong way.

Park presses his hands flat against the table where he sits, and decides not moving is the best strategy. "Most people lump it all together under 'Agent' but yes, that was my job title."

"My mom did that too." The teenager slowly flexes her hand. "At least that's what Dad always said." Her hand stills into the form of a fist. "Then again, he always said she'd ditch it and finally join us again, so who knows what he knew."

An unexpected distaste settles into Park's mouth. His job had been a good one. Hard-won, too. But there was a very good reason Park had made sure the only person he was responsible for over those years had been himself.

Shelly had been the exception. Then again, she'd barged into it all. Left him little choice in the matter. Or perhaps that was a justification to cope with how little he knew about her current state.

A matter for another time. The teenager looked at him expectantly, and he realizes, dread in his gut, what she wants from him.

"There were many analysts working for the IGR." He tries to say the words kindly, but that's never been one of his strengths. "I wouldn't have-"

"What? I'm not stupid, of course you wouldn't know her," the teen spits out defensively. "I...wanted to know what the job was like." She crossed her arms. "If you're not still following the IGR's NDAs."

That he could do. Should he? That was probably in the presentation the captain and Violet had given the crew without the teenagers knowing: Acceptable Conversation Topics For Fourteen-Year-Olds. (Arkady had several objections, and not that Park disagreed, but it made the already thorough presentation even longer.)

He'd hated when adults had lied to him when he was growing up. Always subtleties they assumed he didn't understand, or they thought the world would right itself before any of it became his problem.

He is tired of lies. The others can harangue him about it tomorrow if they want.

Daemons

He'd expected the worst in Zone Z. There was plenty of data to be gained from a spare body and its daemon, with no useful intelligence coming from either. He didn't need to be a scientist to list the obvious experimental setups - separation, intercision, simply touching his daemon.

He always had lacked imagination.

Hyeona's gurgling croaks used to be a reassuring rumble. As he had worked overtime, the raven perched on his shoulder. As he had woken up in the morning, her beak pecking at and rearranging his hair. As he'd walked away from Agent McCabe for the last time, her black wings fluffed up just enough to brush against his ear.

He didn't think he could hear any of her calls the same way. Not after they'd been the background music to her pecking his right eyeball out, claws digging deep into his face. The IGR had a fondness for turning allies against each other, and what greater allies were there between human and daemon? He wondered if forcing Hyeona to do that had been a new level of achievement for them, or if she'd simply demonstrated an existing technique.

After, she didn't look at him.

She didn't look at him as they finally left Zone Z, she didn't look at him as he didn't shoot the dwarnian, she didn't look at him as they boarded the Iris. She flew as much as she could, even chose the ground to rest her feet on over his shoulder. There were too many practicalities to discuss in those early days of the renegade life, and that detail, like so many others, was pushed aside. In any case, the facts were simple.

His hands were the cleanest they'd been in decades. Still, his soul turned away.

#we're just gonna batch'em #maybe i'll finally get around to finishing whumptober a month later #so many good prompts......#is this just the agent park edition #maybe so #tscosi /#i...should really back up these ficlets somewhere more searchable/long-term-y #but that is future jaggedwolf's problem #as always #ficlets #tscosi ficlets #fuck is park my fourth fave character now have i done this to myself...#answer: yes #tscosi

18 notes · View notes

writeanapocalae · 5 years

Text

Inktober Day 2: Explosion

Gavin jumped out of the car, barely putting it in park, not caring that he was too far away from the curb. Other officers, usually his friends but currently just background noise, shouted at him, tried to stop him, but there was no stopping him. He pushed his way past them, past the androids that came out of the building, wide eyed and flashing red.

Everything was blue.

Somehow, he got inside. He was coughing, wheezing. There was so much smoke. He could see shapes through it but the lights were the most use. He pulled up his shirt, covering his nose and mouth before calling out for one android in particular.

He called and called but those that were scrambling past him, those that grabbed at him, too broken to carry themselves out, were staring at him with as much confusion as he was showing worry.

One of them, a woman who was missing her right arm, thirium pouring down her side and staining her slightly melted face, put a hand on his shoulder.

“Who are you looking for? Who’s Nines?” she asked, her voice so calm she must not have been a deviant.

Of course, no wonder none of them had tried to help him. They didn’t know Nines, not by name.

“My partner. He’s a, uh, an RK900.” He hoped that was enough. He’d never memorized the serial number.

She tilted her head and thought for a moment as more androids shoved past, trickling instead of flooding now. There weren’t many left in the building that had survived the explosion or the collapse after, he assumed.

“It is upstairs, apartment 206. Damages are minimal to the unit.” she stated.

Gavin almost felt cold, even though he knew that the building was burning. He hated it when people, android or not, referred to Nines as an it. He rushed off, not bothering to thank her. She wouldn’t feel any way about it either way. The entrance had been mostly cleared out by those moving through it but there was more rubble, more broken walls and cracked floors the closer he got to the stairs. He’d never been to the android apartments before, but he found the stairs easily enough, he just had to find the long lines of blue.

The railing was a curled twisting thing, the steps broken and sagging, even though they were cement and rebar. A gardener android pushed past him in his urge to get out of there, the upper half of a Traci, bleeding and sobbing wrapped around his chest, clinging to his neck.

The 3rd floor ceiling had collapsed. There were chunks of it everywhere but, in between 205 and 209 was the largest piece of it. That didn’t mean it was too big though, only about seven feet, and Gavin had a sudden, horrible turn in his gut as he realized that the apartments for androids, at least, those on this floor, were slightly larger than lockers. A place to go into stasis and nothing more.

He pushed through the dust and the smoke closer, to where he could see flashing flickering red in a synchronized pair.

Nines was on his knees, one hand hoisting up the massive chunk of concrete. Even though his muscles were synthetic Gavin could see the strain as he held it up. Beneath the slab was another android, one that Gavin didn’t know the designation of but had dark hair and a strong jaw and were pretty much everywhere. This one though was pressed flat from the waist down and was trying to drag himself out from under the collapsed roof. He wasn’t doing well.

“Phck!” Gavin growled and reached under the slab, grabbing the android by the armpits. He cried out as he grasped at Gavin back, the pain apparent in his face as Gavin dragged him out. Nines dropped the floor as soon as the android was free and panting.

“Get him out of here,” Nines ordered, “and yourself while you’re at it.”

“What the phck?” Gavin shot him a look but he was already helping the whimpering and shuddering android into his arms, so that he could carry him out of there. “I just phcking found you, you piece of shit!”

“You should not have.” Nines stood and stared at the ceiling, eyes scanning through the floor into the apartments. “This place is far too dangerous for a human.”

“It’s too dangerous for you too, dumbass! Or did you not realize that a bomb went off?”

“There’s another explosive in the building.” Nines pointed with that one arm. Gavin noted that the other was hanging limp and dead at his side. The white of his sleeve was a deep blue starting at the elbow. “You have to get out of here before it goes off.”

“I’m not leaving without you!” Gavin argued.

“I have a job to do.” Nines started to walk towards the part of the 3rd floor that hadn’t fallen but sloped. Gavin knew he was planning on climbing it, going up further. “If you remain here when the explosive detonates you will have a 3% chance of surviving.”

“What about you?”

Nines didn’t even look at him. “I have to get everyone still alive out of here.”

“You know what I mean, tin can! You gonna live or what?”

“If I am here when the explosive detonates I will have a 1.2% chance of surviving. I recommend you do not tarry me further.”

Gavin swore under his breath. There were fingers digging into his shoulder, a red LED pressed against his chest, wires and thirium dripping down his thighs from where he was holding the half crushed android. Nines was right though, he always was.

Getting down and out of the building was easier than getting inside and to Nines. There were techs everywhere, firefighters preparing to take care of the fire that was spreading, and the bomb squad, as well as the seemingly endless sea of androids and police.

“Everyone away from the building!” Gavin bellowed, walking as quickly as he could towards one of the tech vans. “There’s another bomb in the building! I repeat! Get away from the building!”

Someone must have heard him because the message was repeated over intercom and people started to move, getting further from the building than their initial training had told them to. Gavin set the android down with one of the techs, though his fingers were now half embedded in Gavin’s jacket and he didn’t seem willing to let him go. Guy must have been in shock. Gavin hated to leave him there but he also couldn’t leave Nines alone inside. He just had to hope that Nines would get everyone else out. He would never take care of himself first. Selfless to the end.

He knew it was coming. He knew that Nines was right about it. That didn’t help him brace for it when it did come, when the building shattered and glass flew out in all directions. The sound was like a single bullet being fired multiplied by a thousand and followed by a terrible rolling thunder that never seemed to end. Even though he was far enough away not to get hit by debris he could feel the wind hit him like little shards and a high pitched ringing took over his hearing.

He was rushing back. He wasn’t his own. His legs moved on instinct. 1.2% was a blaring red sign in his head. Nines was in there. He was probably dead or dying but Gavin knew he was in there. He couldn’t be in there alone. He couldn’t die alone. The others were better at slowing him down this time. Fowler even stepped in, put his hand on Gavin’s chest, threatened to fire him. He didn’t care. That didn’t matter. His job was all that he had, all that he was, but that didn’t matter. Nines had come into his life. He couldn’t let him leave it again, not like this.

He shoved past, ignored the continued yelling. He made it to the door, jumping over the bomb squad’s perimeter and their own little robot, and shoved through the buckled wood. It was now completely dark. There was no red to see by. There was just smoke and debris.

“NINES?” he screeched, pushing himself through it, feeling hands creeping up to him, trying to grab at him, trying to pull him back. They tightened in his jacket and he let them pull it off of him so he could dart further, climb the piles of cement, look for his partner. Look for his friend. “NINES YOU BETTER NOT BE DEAD YOU SACK OF SHIT!”

You pushed through and forward, trying to get to the stairs. Nines had been working his way up. He didn’t even get halfway there when he felt a thick smattering of water splash onto him. If it weren’t for that terribly familiar chemical smell he would have thought it was just water, anyway. It wasn’t.

With the flashlight on his phone he could see the blue that had landed on him. He was practically covered in blue by now but this large drop had landed on his heart, where his jacket had kept him clean before.

He brought his phone up, the light illuminating the floors above him, all exposed now. There was a hand, hanging over the side of part of the whole, dripping blue blood. The sleeve on it was also blue but he could tell it was once white.

“Shit! NINES! I’M HEADING UP THERE! DON’T MOVE!” He screamed as loud as he could hearing the building groan in response, as if it wanted to keep him away itself.

He pushed through harder, moved faster, some semblance of hope that Nines may have survived growing in his chest. His muscles ached, his lungs burned, and he could feel the heat grow as the fire started to eat at the walls, invisible to him but very much present.

He made it to the stairs but, that was it. He couldn’t go any further. They had completely collapsed. He felt the air leave him, his hopes also collapse. He couldn’t get there. He couldn’t find Nines. If he was still alive he was going to die alone.

The building shuddered and he heard a few thuds, more collapsing and falling. He didn’t have much time. He knew there were others in the building. They were coming for him.

A door crashed to the floor and smoke billowed out into the main space. Gavin couldn’t see at first, the flames within the room blinding him to what was coming. All he could tell from the silhouette was that it was vaguely human in shape. Then the smoke overtook the flames, and he could see.

Nines.

He was pulling himself through the doorway, walking on a leg that looked like it was ready to collapse beneath him with each step. There was a hole going through his thigh. His jaw was clenched, his eyes on Gavin and there was a look on his face, pure determination, intimidating and even more so because a large chunk of his skin had broken off. His teeth were visible, though they were stained blue as was most of that side of his face, even the sclera of his eye had pooled with it. And his arm. Of course, it was missing. What was left were tubes and mechanical parts, hanging from him. Blue was pouring out of him.

“You came back,” he stated. His voice was more machine than it had ever been before, not an echo but a tinny quality to it, as if he was actually speaking through a tin can.

“Of course,” Gavin showed his own teeth, not sure what he was supposed to do. A large part of him wanted to rush forward and grab Nines, hold him close like he had the half flat android. There was another part of him though that knew to stay away because Nines was strong and scary as hell and would never accept his help.

The fire fighters were shouting after them. They were almost there. They were going to be alright.

“Thirium levels at 27% and dropping,” Nines admitted, eyes flickering down. “Shutdown imminent.”

They weren’t going to be fine. Nines took another step and, without the door frame to keep himself upright he staggered, half falling. He didn’t catch himself. He didn’t need to. Gavin was there, hands calloused and rough on Nines’ waist. The android lay his head on Gavin’s shoulder, face half buried in his neck.

“It’s okay, plenty of thirium just a few yards away. You’re going to be okay.” Gavin promised.

Nines wasn’t a deviant, but he was certain he could feel him shaking as he stained Gavin’s skin with his blue.

#jotober #detroit become human #gavin reed #rk900 #my writing #fanfiction #whumptober2019 #no. 2

18 notes · View notes