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the-letter-horror-lover · 2 years

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They stay in my townhouse," the earl assured. "They feed people curry bread on the street corners during the day - Sebastian must have given Agni the recipe, although I would not be surprised if Agni has changed it to suit his style of cooking.”

"I expect I should know these circumstances, given my new engagement," mused Elizabeth, more bitterly than she had intended. "Whether I should go to live in Bengal with him in future, and other adjustments.”

"There it is, I knew it," Ciel muttered, abandoning his work to come and stand beside his cousin. They watched as a breeze shook the plants in the garden, standing as silent and still as statues. After some time he turned to Elizabeth and placed his hands on her shoulders. "Lizzy, you are still my only living family - you, and your father, mother, and brother. Regardless of what you may believe at this moment, I do care for you. I would not break this engagement and betroth you to another if I did not believe this was the best course of action for you, and if I did not trust that the person to whom I promised you was a person worthy of you. Prince Soma is undoubtedly the greatest nuisance I have ever encountered, but he and Agni both have integrity that I lack. I promise you will be safe and, eventually, happy with this arrangement.”

"I do not doubt that," Elizabeth replied curtly. "I trust Prince Soma greatly. However, I worry for you. You may keep pushing away everyone who loves you until you succeed in isolating them." She lowered her head briefly, and Ciel feared she would begin shedding tears. When she raised her head again, rather than sadness in her face, the earl read determination and resignation. "I will not cry over this like a little girl. You have yet to truly see my strength, and I believe now is as good a time as any to begin acting like the woman I will have to be in just a few short years. I will accept this and make the best of it, but what I said in the parlor remains the truth, I do still love you no matter what you have done. Do you think I was unaware of your doing horrible things as the Queen's Watchdog? Do you think I have any place to judge you for the actions you have taken and lengths to which you have gone in order to keep society safe and to preserve the Phantomhive name? But no matter. As I said, I have resigned myself to your will, and as you have said, you know things I do not know.”

A sad expression rested itself briefly on Ciel's face before he placed both hands on Elizabeth's cheeks and planted a soft kiss on her forehead. "I'm sorry, Lizzy," his voice sounded more broken than Elizabeth had ever heard it before. "I cannot let you marry a demon."

Chapter 6: Matilda Livesey and the Dinner Party

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Undertaker was used to the general gloom that pervaded his shop, but he wasn't sure how he would adjust to his returning solitude. He helped Matilda pack her remaining belongings in a carpetbag, thinking how much he would miss the magenta-haired woman.

"I'm sorry it turned out to be this sudden," the mortician apologized as he placed Matilda's nightdress on top of her other clothes. "Apparently external circumstances have interfered with one of the servant's ability to work tonight, and they need you to start immediately. I realize I should have asked you before volunteering your services-”

Matilda shushed him, facing the older man and gently laying her hand on his shoulder. "You needn't be sorry. It's the life of people like us. I am honored to serve the Phantomhives."

Undertaker chuckled to himself a little bit as the girl closed her carpetbag. "Call us people if you like; whether or not that's true anymore is more than I care to ponder."

Matilda laughed along with him, allowing him to help her into her coat. "The only thing I'm worried about is how will the school continue to function with me gone?”

Undertaker tapped her nose gently with his forefinger. "Never you worry about that; I will take care of everything." He stood a few paces away and took in the whole image of this woman. Everything, from her messy magenta curls to her glowing golden eyes to her plain white-and-green dress to the wedding band on her finger, was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. He grasped both of her shoulders and gazed at her through his bangs. "I'll miss you.”

She embraced him tightly. "I'll miss you too." They shared a quick kiss before walking outside, where Sebastian was waiting with a carriage. Undertaker helped Matilda into the carriage, and waved almost wistfully as Sebastian drove away.

Sebastian was grateful for Matilda's help in the kitchen that evening. Under normal circumstances he would have been able to make enough food for a small party such as this entirely on his own, while also cleaning up the blunders of the other servants. However, whatever strange feelings he was beginning to experience seemed to be taking a toll on his capabilities, and with Paula preoccupied with an unexpected baby and Mey Rin helping with that situation, it was a stretch for even he and Agni to complete the task on their own. Agni had managed to find suitable tasks for Bard and Finny in the kitchen, but that still left a great deal of preparations elsewhere, and at that point Sebastian knew he had to bring the Undertaker's friend to the manor as soon as possible.

Matilda had taken Sebastian's place in the kitchen that evening and allowed him to make all the other preparations for supper; setting the table with the proper tablecloth, silver, and china, as well as creating a suitable centerpiece of impeccable white roses. He checked back in the kitchen every few minutes to see all operations running smoothly. He put all the finer touches on the meal while the others prepared it. In the end, the group had produced a magnificent supper fit for the diverse guests that would be dining at the Phantomhive manor that evening.

As the dinner guests were Prince Soma, Lau and Ran Mao, and Lady Elizabeth, and of course the Young Master himself, the servants had taken the liberty of adding a little something to appeal to each person at the table. Ciel sat at the head of the table and watched as Matilda and Agni served the food, listening to Sebastian describe each course as it came in between the conversation he was having with his guests.

"This curry soup has been prepared with the finest tumeric and cumin, premium chicken and fresh produce," Sebastian said as Agni ladled soup into bowls and Matilda places the bowls before the guests. Ciel did not appear to have heard the butler, as he narrowed his eyes at the unusually smug expression resting on Lau's face.

"What's the matter with you? You're grinning like a Cheshire cat, what do you find so amusing?”

"Cheshire cat, my lord?" Lay questioned cynically as he dipped his spoon into the steaming bowl of soup. "I always thought I was much more of Major Caterpillar, wouldn't you say so, Ran Mao?" The ever-silent Ran Mao merely nodded her head once in response, rolling her eyes when Lau was not looking. "In answer to your question, I am not sure amusing is the right word here. This business with you and your demon butler is very curious, I must say; it sparks many questions. Does this mean you can now perform the dirty work you so often left to Sebastian?”

Prince Soma gripped his spoon so tightly his knuckles turned white. "Of what exactly are you accusing Ciel?" he demanded.

Lau merely smirked. "I thought you were aware of all the goings-on of the Queen's Watchdog, my prince? England's Underworld is a very nasty place; it follows that anyone involved with it, in any way, should frequently find themselves handling nasty business. Young lord, are you going to kill your enemies yourself now, with your newfound demonic abilities?"

Elizabeth shot an angry look at Lau, and Ciel tried to keep his composure. "I am still the earl of Phantomhive," he replied in an even, complacent tone. "If I must perform a task I see unfit for a member of aristocracy, it falls to Sebastian to commit these actions in my stead. That is the way of a butler.”

Matilda brought out the second course, a magnificent roast turkey, which Agni began to serve to the guests as Sebastian described it.

Elizabeth watched Ciel raise a bite of turkey to his mouth, chew it and swallow. "Ciel... do you still need to eat human food?" she inquired, as politely as possible.

"I do not necessarily need it," the earl answered without so much looking at his cousin. "However, I do like the taste, and consuming human food does not hurt me in any way." He sighed inwardly. He knew this dinner gathering would be tiresome, with all these questions.

"Say, young lord," Lau spoke again. "I thought demons consumed souls. How shall this work? Are you going to make contracts with us now? I wonder how our souls would taste to you...."

Elizabeth exhaled forcefully. "For heaven's sake, Lau, why would you ask a question like that?”

"Certainly Ciel would never do something like that," Soma added, though even as he spoke he felt his assurance within him waning away.

"Begging your pardon, Mr. Lau," Sebastian interrupted the conversation at the table. "I must ask whether these inquiries are to extract information from the young lord, or to confound him.”

Lau was unmoved. "I would never intentionally place the young lord in a compromising position," he replied coyly, raising his wine glass to the butler. "I merely wish to know the changes in the dynamic beyond this household.”

Ciel dabbed his mouth with a napkin, fixing Lau with a stern gaze that would unsettle anyone else. "I would not expect the dynamic beyond the Phantomhive manor to change a great deal, if it changes at all," stated the earl. "That is the point in my continuing to run Funtom and monitor the Underworld; nobody should know the difference. Now if you are all quite finished with your interrogations, I propose we finish this meal in silence.”

Lady Elizabeth and Prince Soma glanced at each other and gulped, complying with the earl's wishes. Lau smirked to himself, but did not say another word. For the entirety of the remainder of the meal, the only sounds were the clinking of dishes and utensils and Sebastian's commentary accompanying each new course.

"These vegetables have come fresh from the market this morning, and they have been cooked to perfection and seasoned with Sichuan pepper and star anise.”

"Additionally we have the now-infamous curry bread, as well as a citrus ice with fresh fruit.”

"For dessert, we have a strawberry and almond layer cake, prepared especially by our new maid Matilda Livesey.”

Matilda smiled humbly at this recognition and continued to help Agni serve the food. The silence that had settled on the dinner party during the second course was broken with each person's bite of the cake, as every guest in turn exclaimed how delicious it was and complimented Matilda. Sebastian, for his part, thought it best to respond in his signature method to the maid's compliments: "If she could not prepare an exquisite layer cake for a dinner party, what sort of Phantomhive maid would she be?”

Matilda nodded to Sebastian's words, adding "A right poor one, that's what.”

Her sudden words surprised the rest of those present, servants and aristocrats alike. Sebastian laughed softly to himself and explained, "That question is more rhetorical than anything else.”

"Is it?" Matilda questioned as she refilled the wine glasses of each guest. "I suppose it doesn't make any difference whether or not the question is rhetorical as long as my answer is correct.”

"Matilda Livesey." Ciel said the woman's name as if hearing it for the first time. "I thought you were here to assist Mei Rin, not replace her.”

"I am here to assist everyone," Matilda confirmed. "This evening Mei Rin had other business to attend to, so Agni and I took over several tasks for tonight.”

"I see," Ciel muttered, audibly disinterested in the backstory of the new help. "Well, I'm sure Sebastian or Tanaka, or even Agni while he is still here, can teach you anything you do not already know - such as to not answer a rhetorical question.”

"Sir... did you say Tanaka?" the magenta-haired woman gaped at her master in confusion. "Is he here?”

The dinner guests watched Matilda in confusion, while Agni and Sebastian shared a quick glance that communicated an on-the-spot plan.

"Whatever the urgency is, Miss Matilda," Agni said to the maid with concern. "We can finish tonight's tasks without you. You may go see to whatever this is.”

"Tanaka is in his part of the servants' quarters," Sebastian added, poised to point in the direction Matilda needed to go.

"No need to come find me," an old creaky voice said from the doorway to the dining room. Everyone turned to see Tanaka standing there, at full height. He smiled kindly at the new maid. "Hello, Matilda. I'm so glad it's true.”

Matilda broke into a wide smile and rushed forward to embrace the ancient butler. "Hello, Grandfather." Her voice was muffled against Tanaka's body.

"Grandfather?" The guests collectively exclaimed. Even Ciel looked questioningly at Matilda.

The two broke from their embrace and turned to the rest of the people in the room. "Matilda Livesey is my granddaughter," Tanaka confirmed. "Her family lives on a farm in a very rural part of England. But many years ago they turned her out, for a series of feeble reasons. If I had known she came to London after that...."

Matilda grasped her grandfather's hand and looked at him in admiration, continuing the story. "I came to London and was able to find work at all sorts of places, but never permanent employment. I was very lucky that the mortician was able to use my help in his shop. Instead of paying me, he allowed me to live in his home. I'm very grateful to him.”

"If you speak of the Undertaker that I know, his home is merely a coffin-" Ciel froze, a forkful from a second slice of cake halfway to his mouth, and changed his sentence abruptly. "Hang on... just how close are you and that batty old reaper?”

Matilda blushed, then began helping Agni clear the table. "It's not a very interesting story, my lord," she said as she began stacking empty plates. "I'm sure there are a number of more riveting tales on other topics out there for you.”

"Speaking of which," Sebastian's voice startled the guests, who had risen from the table in plans of retiring to the drawing room. They looked sharply at one another, wondering when the butler had disappeared and reappeared. Even now, wise to the true nature of the butler, they were still baffled by him. He ignored their gaping faces and made his way to Ciel's mildly pouting one, holding a letter on a silver platter. "This is urgent from the Queen, my lord.”

"What on earth could even the Queen have to bother her watchdog over at this hour?" Lau wondered aloud, looking at an eternally placid Ran Mao.

Ciel opened the letter carefully, scanning the words once, twice, thrice. Then, sighing, he announced to his guests; "I will be retiring early this evening. You are welcome to stay the night, as I may require your services come morning. I will reveal the contents of this letter to you tomorrow, after I have had a night to ponder over the next course of action.”

With that, Ciel made a regal exit from the dining room, followed as always by Sebastian, leaving a collection of utterly confused dinner guests and three curious servants.

Chapter 7: Nocturne

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Self-reflection.

Mei Rin never underwent the process of self-reflection unless the situation was a dire one. She had briefly reflected on who she was becoming the first time she assassinated someone, but by the time Sebastian had appeared to recruit her she was almost immune to the flickers of integrity in her soul. Working to protect the Phantomhive manor and the young master, she never committed any tasks that called her integrity into question. She, as well as Bard and Finny, prevented threats from harming the young master, and that was that.

Then the circus performers came.

They had materialized in the middle of the night with the obvious purpose of attacking the manor and the young earl. The servants eliminated the ragtag band using every manner at their disposal, and never gave a fully conscious second thought until after the fact. The members of the Noah's Ark Circus had all been so young, they could not have been acting on their own; they must have been working for someone.

Mei Rin had felt her first twang of a guilty heartstring in a long time when she heard the grieving cry of the one called Peter, when she had shot the one called Wendy. She had pushed those little thoughts aside, continuing to protect the Phantomhive manor with every bit of her being. But the feelings continued, until the day she stumbled upon the files for the Noah's Ark Circus case when cleaning the earl's study. The performers had been working for someone; their benefactor and, for all intents and purposes, father. They had acted out of protection for their assumed family, just as she, Bard, and Finny had protected their own "family" that fateful evening.

Then came the fire.

Several cases for the Queen later, after Sebastian and the young master had investigated all manner of murders and kidnappings and deceit, acquiring Pluto in the process, the fire had struck London. It was, physically, the work of Pluto, being controlled - Mei Rin knew now - by an angel of massacre. The earl had convinced her and the other servants that Pluto was out of his mind, succumbing to the beast inside of himself, and urged them to shoot; to put him out of his misery. And they did. And Mei Rin's guilt gushed within every vein. In her own mind, no matter what logic the others applied, she had murdered a friend - in a way, a family member - and thus, her integrity was abolished for good.

These musings and memories flooded Mei Rin's mind as she stood before the mirror in her room in the servants' quarters, preparing to meet Sebastian in the garden. She had spent the evening helping Paula take care of the Abberline baby, and with her tasks as well as Sebastian's completed for the night, it was time for the second wave of discussion.

She did not look forward to it.

All the nervousness that would have filled her with anticipation for meeting Sebastian at any other time did not exist now. Instead, Mei Rin felt a numb anger. She had wholeheartedly forgiven Sebastian for his fooling her and the other servants, but the thought of everything that had come to light about the young master left her disillusioned about what she had so long perceived as an idyllic life. She could not protect the boy who had given her so much. Mei Rin stared expressionless at her reflection in the full-length mirror, then slowly reached up to her face and removed her eyeglasses, placing them in a drawer in her nightstand.

With a last glance at herself, she turned on her heel and lethargically exited her room, making her way to the Phantomhive gardens.

Sebastian was waiting when Mei Rin arrived. How long he had waited, she could not tell. He saw her approaching, regarding her almost kindly. When she reached him, he gave a nod of the head by way of greeting, to which she only stared.

"Mei Rin, whatever happened to your glasses?" Sebastian inquired, noticing the maid's distinctly bright, cat-like eyes. "True, I don't suppose you need to disguise your astounding eyesight anymore..."

Mei Rin shook her head. "I don't deserve them, I don't," she stated, her voice rendered monotone. "I was supposed to protect the young master, and I failed. I don't deserve that gift from him."

The butler watched her speak. "In fact, your job, as well as Bard and Finny's job, was to protect the Phantomhive Manor; I was tasked with protecting the young master's life." he placed a hand on the maid's shoulder. "You failed at nothing."

"Are you so sure?" Mei Rin unenthusiastically jerked her shoulder away. "Did you forget the utter destruction of the manor after Pluto's fire?"

"If all had gone according to plan, the state of the manor would have meant nothing," Sebastian continued. "The young master had achieved his revenge; I should have taken his soul.

If I had not lost my arm - and, with it, the contract seal - the young master would be long dead, and the condition of the Phatomhive estate would be inconsequential to all."

"And what would have become of us?" Mei Rin demanded, glaring at the butler. "Finny, Bard and myself - why, even Tanaka! What would we have done, without the young master and the estate, without even you to guide us?"

"Do you really believe I would not have provided for each of you?" Sebastian countered, audibly disgruntled.

"To be frank, Mister Sebastian," Mei Rin's voice was frighteningly calm. "I believe you would not have given any of us a second thought after consuming the young master's soul."

Sebastian was speechless. He realized, confounded, that the maid was right even though she was wrong. He had made preparations to give each of them new employment following the desecration of the manor, but it was true: he would never think of them again beyond that. They had been meaningless to him. Had been. He stared at her guiltily, wondering how and why he managed to get into this situation. She glared back, unmoving. At length, he lowered his head in admittance.

"Since the young master made the choice to reveal the truth to everyone and continue running Funtom, and we traveled back to the estate, I have thought in detail about humans," the butler confessed. "Demons think of humans primarily as food, you see, and that is still correct in that the devouring of human souls remains the source of sustenance for a demon. But viewing the human race as only food is, in fact, a misjudgment. I see now, in hindsight and in the moment, how strong and complex humans really are. You fight with everything you have to protect what you deem important. You fully comprehend your mortality, and though you may fear death you accept it - most humans, at least. Mortality is not a matter presented to demons very often; we have no reason to dwell on it. Living with that shadow over your every action... many demons view that as incredibly naive. I see now that to still regard humans in that light is to remain in ignorance."

Mei Rin watched Sebastian closely throughout his soliloquy. When she assumed he had finished, she kept her eyes on him a moment longer before exhaling sharply through her nose and looking away. "Mortality brings different meanings to different people. Growing to respect the human race as a whole is an improvement to your character, but keep in mind that not all humans are the same."

"Just as I hope you will keep in mind, Mei Rin," the butler replied coolly, "That not all demons are the same."

The maid glanced at him, but said nothing.

They walked silently throughout the garden for several minutes before Sebastian decided to speak again. "I suppose the best use of our meeting tonight would be to examine our respective feelings regarding one another," he began, but another scoff from Mei Rin made him stop short.

"Is that really the wisest use of our time?" she questioned. "I feel a certain way and you are immune to feeling. How does that warrant an examination?"

"Today I have been noticing unfamiliar stirrings within myself," the butler answered, matter-of-factly. "Well... I suppose unfamiliar is not the correct word. I was human once, and I experienced sensations similar to these current stirrings. I have been subject to them before today as well, but they were not nearly as strong. I believe it is safe to say that, due to the abundance of unprecedented activity in the recent past, my emotions are returning to me. I am, if you will, learning to feel again."

This caught Mei Rin's attention. Her eyes widened at Sebastian in curiousity. "Learning to feel again? That's an interesting notion. I wonder if it will change your disposition."

Sebastian sighed in amusement. "I have been this way for nearly a millennium. I can hardly remember what it was like to be human, or what sort of human I was. I have no way of knowing how my newfound humanity will affect me now." he paused, then chuckled softly.

"The only thing I know that remained in me from my humanity is my love of cats."

The maid allowed herself to laugh along at this remark. "I expect this will be a journey for all of us, then. It never occurred to me that you might have to make adjustments as well. I wish you luck, Mr. Sebastian."

"I confess I do not believe in luck, Mei Rin," Sebastian fixed her with his crimson eyes, and he began looking more familiar to her. She found this comforting, somehow. "Especially in this situation, after all; I will have you and the others to instruct me."

He smiled kindly at her, an expression which she gladly returned. And with that, Mei Rin slowly felt her resentment - both towards herself and towards the black-clad butler - fade away.

Chapter 8: The New Case

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The next morning began - as, presumably, all mornings would now begin - with Matilda's singing voice echoing through the whole of the servants' quarters. It seemed the new maid was an earlier riser than the rest.

Her singing voice was unremarkable but by no means unpleasant, and she seemed to have a full repertoire of lyrics at her disposal to accompany her morning activities. Matilda had risen early, washed, dressed, and begun her chores while the rest of the Phantomhive staff was still shaking cobwebs from their brains. When Sebastian - who, as per the usual, had not slept that night - entered the kitchen to begin preparing breakfast for the earl, he found Matilda adding the finishing touches to the young master's meal, and that she had taken the liberty of making a plain but substantial breakfast for all of the servants.

"Good morning, Mr. Sebastian," she piped cheerily as the astonished butler entered the kitchen. "Help yourself to breakfast." she gestured at the corner of the table, where Sebastian found nine plates of crispy bacon, fried eggs, and a slice of toast each, as well as a large teapot and nine steaming cups of tea. His jaw dropped momentarily in his surprise.

"We all need our strength to serve the young master as best we can, yes?" she asked the butler, seeming to read his surprise as insulting. "It's hard work, keeping up an estate like this. Don't worry though, I didn't lose any time over making us breakfast. I grew up on a farm, remember? I can do this in no time, even in my sleep. Oh, and I brought my own teapot and cups when I came here; I didn't use the master's set."

The rest of the servants, including Paula and Agni, began walking through the door to the kitchens, their eyes lighting up at the sight of the meal prepared for them. They ate hungrily from their respective plates, thanking Matilda for preparing the food, Tanaka even embracing his granddaughter as he complimented her skill. Sebastian recovered from his initial shock, taking several bites from his plate for the sake of manners and taste, then inquired, "I see there are two untouched plates of food. One is obviously yours; for whom is the other?"

"The Phantomhive footman, of course," Matilda replied, garnishing the breakfast trays she was preparing for the earl and his guests with a different flower for each person. "I met him this morning in the greenhouse; I daresay he's a new addition?" she picked up a tray with a white rose; apparently, the young master's breakfast tray. "Should I take this to the earl myself, or is that your job?" she asked Sebastian.

The butler came unacceptably close to stuttering before answering that he would take it up to the earl, Agni would take Prince Soma's tray, Paula would take Lady Elizabeth's tray, and Matilda could take the two trays to Lau and Ran Mao. Footman?, he thought to himself, his mind racing momentarily until he remembered Snake. The young master rarely made use of his footman, having only taken him on in the first place out of a fiercely-denied sense of guilt. The entire Phantonhive household had all but forgotten about Snake.

Sebastian quickly recovered and looked at the different flowers on each tray. "A white rose for the master, a pink peony for Lady Elizabeth, a marigold for Prince Soma, an orchid for Lau, and a camellia for Ran Mao. How very clever of you, Matilda. I must compliment you on your creativity."

Matilda beamed at him as she hurriedly consumed half of her breakfast and picked up Lau and Ran Mao's breakfast trays, and all but skipped out of the kitchens. Sebastian watched her and listened absently to the other servants babbling about how fortunate they were to have Matilda working alongside them. He himself was not quite convinced. There was something off about the new maid; he could smell it in her blood. The butler took a deep breath and made his way to the earl's bedroom. He could further investigate the Matilda situation later, but right now he had to remind the young master about Snake.

When Sebastian entered the earl's bedroom, the earl himself was already awake and pacing back and forth in his nightclothes. This was unusual for the boy earl, who ordinarily slept as late as he could before Sebastian would wake him and remind him of the day's responsibilities. Ciel hardly regarded the butler as he entered, placed the breakfast tray on the nightstand, and began making the bed while explaining the food on the tray, as per his usual behavior. The boy was too preoccupied with last night's letter from the Queen. He read it and reread it, searching for some type of hidden message or clue that would bring more understanding to the matter, but had found nothing when Sebastian finally caught his attention.

"I beg your pardon, Young Master," the butler spoke with a slightly irregular tone. "But I am afraid we have forgotten about Snake."

"What, the footman from the circus?" Ciel asked, though he knew the answer perfectly well. He furrowed his brows in a momentary grimace. "I haven't forgotten about him, I simply have no practical use for him. At least not while he is always covered in snakes. Why are you telling me this?"

"It seems Matilda met him this morning," Sebastian explained. "I thought it best to remind you of the young man's presence here at the estate."

"Yes, well," the earl brushed off his butler's words. "That is irrelevant. I have too much to think about regarding this letter from the Queen to bother with a circus freak."

Sebastian took a few steps closer to Ciel. "If I may," he began. "What about this letter is so puzzling?"

"Everything," Ciel answered. "She gives me very explicit instructions, but they are simultaneously vague. She warns of threats she cannot describe." he shook his head and placed the letter on the bed. "Dress me, Sebastian. It is time I address my guests again."

Lau, Ran Mao, Prince Soma, and Lady Elizabeth conversed in low voices in the drawing room, awaiting Ciel's arrival. When the door opened and the young earl entered, everyone fell silent and merely stared at him. He glowered back at them.

"Stop that. You look like you are gawking at a menagerie attraction." he barked at them. Inhaling deeply and standing so that everyone could view him easily, Ciel began to elucidate the Queen's letter to the best of his ability.

"Last night you witnessed me receive this letter from our queen," he began. "I confess I am somewhat vexed by it, given its paradoxical nature. Queen Victoria first tells me that I must continue to house all of you here. According to her, there has been an attack on the Midford estate-" he paused as Elizabeth gasped and clapped a hand to her mouth, "As well as what she calls racially-motivated crimes throughout London. Apparently this is primarily affecting people such as Lau and Soma, so it appears I continue to suffer you lot to stay here."

Ciel paused again and glanced around the room. Apart from Elizabeth's surprise, there was no visible reaction from the rest of the guests, so the earl continued as Sebastian and Matilda entered with a tea tray. "She further expresses her concern regarding a certain ballet troupe in London, and its connection to a rival toy company. She does not elaborate on the nature of this concern at all, merely entreating us to attend the ballet and keep our eyes peeled for unusual activity." He held up a handful of tickets. "As such, it appears we will be attending a ballet tonight. Prepare accordingly; we will make the journey into London as soon as possible so we may investigate before the show as well."

Matilda gave Lady Elizabeth a cup of tea and gently patted her shoulder, a gesture for which the fourteen-year-old girl was visibly grateful. "Are the Queen's concerns potentially related to the attack on my home?" she asked worriedly.

"It is unclear from the letter, although she does mention in the postscript that the attack was unsuccessful and your family remains safe," Ciel answered his cousin. "I expect I ought to have mentioned that before. Are there any more questions?"

Instantly there was a clamor of voices from each of the guests, and Ciel did his best to decipher the separate questions. At last he held his hand up, an action the guests correctly assumed to mean silence, and took a teacup from Sebastian.

"The prima ballerina with this troupe is a woman named Bryony Redruth," Ciel informed them, taking a sip of his tea with a scowl on his face. He furrowed his eyebrows once more. "A common, disgustingly rural name, if you ask me. She is most likely the suspect in this case, though of course we have no way of knowing. It may be best for some of us to watch her closely during the ballet, while the others observe other possible suspects." he took another sip of his tea. "As for my supposed rival toy company, my guess is that the Queen is referring to Kurios Toy Emporium. I have actually been meaning to meet with the two sisters who run the company to see how they would feel about collaborating on a new product. They create miniature steam- powered mechanical toys - they branded them curios - made so that children can take them apart and rebuild them in different ways. Frankly, I think their ideas are ingenious. I cannot understand why the Queen has involved them in this case. Now then, it is time we finished our preparations and departed."

With that, the earl set his teacup down on the nearest table and left the room. His guests, after several bewildered glances at each other, followed suit, leaving only Sebastian and Matilda in the drawing room collecting cups. Noticing the odd look on the maid's face, the demon butler inquired as to what was wrong.

"Bryony Redruth," Matilda repeated the name. "I may be mistaken, but I think I know this girl."

Sebastian narrowed his eyes at the maid, but said nothing more.

Chapter 9: Capucine Brodeur

Chapter Text

“What’s the matter with you?” Ciel inquired as Sebastian helped him get ready to go to the ballet. “You are more pensive than usual, I can sense it.”

“You are correct; obviously your senses have improved greatly since your transformation.” Sebastian confirmed. “Matilda made a rather intriguing comment after the briefing, you see, and as a result I have a thought about the group going to the ballet.”

Ciel scowled. “Well, out with it then! Why do you make me drag out my questions?”

“Matilda said that she knows the prima ballerina of the troupe,” the butler stated. “At least, she thinks she does. It is my belief, young master, that it would be of the utmost benefit to you and to the solving of this case if you were to include Matilda in the outing to the ballet.”

The young earl scoffed. “I would never dream of allowing a household servant to come along on an outing of nobles. You, Agni, and Paula are the odd exceptions.”

Sebastian finished tying Ciel’s bowtie and stood upright, delivering a flat retort. “I’m afraid this is folly, my lord.”

Ciel whipped his head around. “What?” he growled at his butler, glowering.

“Matilda could be the pivotal point for this case,” Sebastian continued, straightening his gloves on each hand. “She could expedite the solution by days, even weeks, if you take her with you and she recognizes this Bryony Redruth. Her presence in this case may even eliminate the need to consult Undertaker; you never know. To refuse to allow such an asset to accompany you and the others to the ballet merely due to the station she holds as a servant is folly.”

“This is new for you,” Ciel remarked. “Speaking so directly to your master. I suppose the more my senses improve, the less self-control and decorum you have. In other words: the more I adjust to being a demon, the more human you become.” he sighed in defeat. “Fine, I suppose you are right. Matilda will come with the rest of us to the ballet. Perhaps that explains the extra ticket the queen included with the letter.” The earl began to pace back and forth across the room once more. “It won’t do to have her coming along as the maid, though, even with some of the other servants accompanying their masters. She has no particular master or mistress as it is not her station. We must think of a new identity for her to assume; a disguise.”

“I believe I am the best person for that job!” An exaggerated voice sounded from the hallway, and all of a sudden the door flew open to reveal a flamboyant and blood-red reaper striking a pose.

“What the - Grell?!” Ciel stumbled backwards in shock. Sebastian immediately inserted himself between the earl and the shinigami, realizing as he did so that he no longer needed to protect his master so fiercely.

Grell clapped her hands to her face and squealed. “Oh, Bassy! Did you miss me?”

“Miss you?” the butler replied in a labored voice. “Why, I haven’t even aimed at you yet.”

Grell waved a hand at the butler, as if shooing his retort away. “Oh, you,” she giggled, but then straightened up and tried to don a serious demeanor. “In this case, however, I am not here for you. Adrien asked me to keep an eye on his wife since he has some corpses to take care of, and now that she is going to the ballet with you it seems you need my skills to create the perfect disguise for her.” She marched over to the wall where a tasseled rope hung, tugging on it to summon Matilda to the earl’s bedchamber.

Ciel peered at the reaper from behind Sebastian. “Adrien? His wife?”

“Undertaker, silly boy!” Grell put her hands on her hips and bent down to the earl’s level. “Don’t tell me all this time you never learned his name!”

“His name is Adrien?” Ciel inquired. “And Matilda Livesey is his wife?”

“Adrien Craven and Madame Mathilde,” Grell confirmed, clasping her hands together and popping one foot up behind her. “I’ve never known a more romantic union than the two of them. I even attended the wedding! It was simply splendid, especially for one held in a mortuary. But never mind about that now: we have to create the ultimate persona for Mathilde!”

“Madame Mathilde?” Sebastian wondered aloud, but was ignored by both Ciel and a gushing Grell as Matilda entered.

“Why, Grell!” the maid exclaimed, rushing forward to grasp hands with the red reaper. “What a lovely surprise! How is Adrien?”

“Working hard and longing for you, of course,” Grell sighed. “I’ll tell him you are in the same position. Now, then:” the shinigami circled Matilda, gesturing broadly and flourishingly. “Given her French ancestry, it is only fitting that she take on the role of a French noblewoman tonight,” she lifted a finger in the air matter-of-factly. “Because she is a servant and is going undercover, I propose the name Capucine Brodeur - Brodeur from the French word for embroiderer, signifying servitude, and Capucine from the French word meaning cape or hood, representing a disguise.”

Matilda raised an eyebrow. “I’m afraid I’m confused,” she admitted. “What is going on?”

Ciel addressed the household maid. “We need you to accompany us to the ballet tonight. If you recognize Bryony Redruth, you could be a tremendous help on this case. However, you cannot attend as yourself. Paula, Agni, and Sebastian can attend as servants because they are assigned to Lady Elizabeth, Prince Soma, and myself as personal servants, you see. Because you tend to the entire household rather than a singular master or mistress, it would raise suspicion if you were to be seen with members of high society. We have to disguise you.” he threw an irritated gesture in Grell’s direction. “Apparently he’s your best chance.”

Matilda glanced at Grell, who flipped her long red hair and cocked an eyebrow at the boy earl. “Grell knows a great deal about these subjects; she is quite talented,” the maid declared, in a tone almost chastising the young master. Ciel glowered at Matilda but said nothing.

“As for her clothing, certainly none of her dresses are fit for the ballet, and I’m afraid I do not own much besides my work attire,” Grell continued, addressing the earl. “However, if you were to point me in the direction of a collection of fine women’s clothing, I can fix this wench right up!”

Ciel pressed his thumb and forefinger to his chin and puzzled over the reaper’s request. “Hmm... nothing Lizzie owns would fit an adult... perhaps I have something of Mother’s or Aunt An’s stored away somewhere. It may be the best we can do. Sebastian!”

Without having to hear the rest of the order, Sebastian placed his hand over his heart and bowed. “Yes, my lord.”

Many minutes later, Matilda was dressed in a velvet gown of vivid red, and her magenta hair had been curled and pinned atop her head. She gazed at her reflection in astonishment.

“I hardly recognize myself,” she struggled to comment as Grell applied rouge to the maid’s lips. “I wish Adrien could see me this way.”

“Trust me,” the reaper replied, placing the final touches on Matilda’s face. “You already appear this way in his eyes.” Grell set the rouge down on the dresser, stepping back to survey her work with a pleased expression. “Gentlemen,” she called to Ciel and Sebastian, motioning for Matilda to stand. “I give you: Lady Capucine Brodeur!”

Matilda curtsied clumsily, giving a weak smile. “I have much more to learn about playing this part,” she admitted timidly.

Queen Victoria had, it seemed, taken it upon herself to send two coaches to transport the group to the ballet; one driven by Charles Grey, the other driven by Charles Phipps. Ciel, Sebastian, Lady Elizabeth, and Paula climbed into the first coach, while Prince Soma, Agni, Matilda, Lau, and Ran Mao squeezed into the second one; Ran Mao made room for Matilda by sitting on Lau’s lap. The journey into London seemed shorter than usual, perhaps because Ciel found himself discussing the case details with Lady Elizabeth. When they arrived at the theatre and Grey and Phipps opened the carriage doors, the party found a substantial crowd gathered.

“It seems this particular ballet is quite popular,” Sebastian remarked. “Though I wonder if it is the production or the troupe that the audience enjoys.”

After much jostling and waiting and walking, they finally arrived at their seats in one of the left balconies of the theatre. Matilda, Ciel, Lady Elizabeth, Prince Soma, Lau, and Ran Mao sat in a row together while Sebastian, Paula, and Agni sat directly behind their masters and mistresses. Matilda peered down at the stage through the opera glasses that had been loaned to her.

“I can see so clearly from up here,” she exhaled in awe. “I’ve never seen any sort of theatre production from a balcony seat! How exciting!”

“Of course not,” Ciel grumbled beside her. “The higher seats are reserved for nobility. Act like you’re used to this, or you’ll give yourself away, and us with you.”

Just then, a voice from the entrance to their balcony made all nine heads turn at once. Ciel instantly went rigid with disgust, for merely feet away stood a horrifyingly familiar person.

“Viscount Druitt!” he exclaimed under his breath.

Chapter 10: The Flight of the Robin, Part One

Chapter Text

Aleistor Chamber, or the Viscount of Druitt, stood at his full height in the doorway to the balcony and cast sweeping glances over the audience members with his amethyst eyes. He smiled, the same dashing yet sinister smile which sent shudders down the spines of all who knew him.

“How lovely to see such an impressive gathering of connoisseurs of the performing arts, all flocking here tonight beneath this celestial rooftop to watch my very own production!” the Viscount sighed, waving his hands about dramatically.

“Wha- his production?” Ciel hissed, his skin crawling. He had not forgotten the nature of the secret underground parties Viscount Druitt had once thrown, and his own narrow escape. He glanced down at his ticket. The Flight of the Robin, it read. He cringed, knowing he was in for a long night.

“The show will begin soon, but I could not allow it to start without first coming to personally greet all who have-” the Viscount gushed, but stopped and gasped when his eyes fell upon Matilda. Ciel resisted the urge to slap a palm to his face.

“Why...” Viscount Druitt whispered, rushing to Matilda’s side and grasping both of her gloved hands in his own. “Why, I declare I have never seen such an exquisite specimen as you! Cloaked in such deep scarlet like the blood pulsing through a heart impassioned with love, intriguing golden eyes like drops of the sun placed on the face of a porcelain doll by a goddess! I must confess that if I do not learn your name, my enrapturing cardinal, I shall live forever in regret until my final days!”

Matilda stared at the Viscount, completely speechless. She had barely inhaled to reply before Sebastian stepped in.

“This is the Lady Capucine Brodeur, a distinguished noblewoman who has traveled all the way from France to witness your masterpiece,” Sebastian smiled, intentionally adulating the Viscount to distract him.

Viscount Druitt put the back of his hand to his forehead and sighed. “France? How divine!” he gave a little start and glanced at his pocket watch. “I’m afraid I must be off now; the show must go on!”

And with that, the Viscount fluttered out of the balcony, leaving the bewildered party staring after him. Ciel rubbed his temples.

“I cannot believe I have to sit through this,” he muttered.

As the lights began to dim in the theatre, the earl noticed two women in one of the balconies across from them. One was wearing an aubergine gown and had fiery ginger hair, and the other wore an aqua gown and her hair was the dullest shade of brown. Both women were unusually pale and their eyes were underlined with purple, as if they had not slept for several days. Ciel pointed the two women out to Sebastian and the rest of the party, in a low voice as Aleistor Chamber addressed the audience from the stage.

“Those are the sisters who run Kurios Toy Emporium,” he whispered. “Florentia and Theodosia Loric. It makes sense that they would attend a ballet such as this; I expect they are always on the watch for inspiration for new products, as I am also.” In a much lower voice he added to Sebastian; “Keep an eye on them; they may just be sick or sleep-deprived, but they have the looks of people tormented.”

Sebastian nodded and whispered back, “Yes, my lord.”

The velvet curtain rose and the orchestra began to play the lively overture. Several ballerinas, all in costumes reminiscent of soirée attire, danced about the stage and pretended to mingle with one another. Ciel gritted his teeth and sank low in his seat as the prima ballerina appeared in the center of the stage, her costume an imitation of the pink and black dress he had worn himself while going undercover for the Jack the Ripper case. He could hear Sebastian snickering behind him and knew that no amount of glaring would stop the butler’s laughter. Beside him, Matilda gasped quietly and lowered the opera glasses.

“I do know her,” she whispered to Ciel. “She is wearing a wig, but I still recognize her face.”

Ciel nodded at this confirmation, relieved to have extra help on the case. With his heightening senses and Sebastian’s dulling ones, the end result was that they both became rather average, and until they could find a solution to that predicament the earl would need all the help he could get for Underworld cases.

The production dragged on for Ciel, though Elizabeth, Soma, and Matilda appeared to be enjoying it. Lau and Ran Mao had, it seemed, stopped paying attention. The earl suffered through watching the ballerina interpretation of himself flirt with the male ballerina playing Viscount Druitt during an especially cheap scene in the woods. He did have a laugh, however, when two male ballerinas reenacted the magic trick Sebastian and Lau had performed at the party that night. Sebastian, too, could not help but smile at the dramatic portrayal.

“If I could not provide a distraction worthy of being replicated in a ballet,” he muttered to himself. “What kind of a Phantomhive butler would I be?”

The curtain fell as the ballerina playing Sebastian stepped out of the sword-addled wardrobe unharmed, and the theatre brightened to signal intermission. Ciel turned to Matilda.

“After the show is over, see if you can meet Bryony outside.” he instructed. “Try and find out what’s going on. I wish I knew more of what Her Majesty was concerned about, then I could give you clearer orders, but for now I only know that something sinister is tied to this ballet. Find out as much about that as you can.”

“Of course, Lord Phantomhive,” Matilda nodded, polishing the opera glasses absentmindedly. She had yet to take her eyes off the stage.

Ciel shifted in his seat to face Sebastian. “And you: after the show, find the Loric sisters and set up a meeting between them and myself for the next opening in my schedule.”

“Yes, my-”

Sebastian’s signature reply was cut short by another surprise arrival in the balcony.

“Fancy seeing you here, Lord Phantomhive,” came a grouchy voice from the left side. All nine heads turned in that direction once more, and the face that greeted them was just as familiar as that of the Viscount, though much more grave.

“I could say the same for you,” Ciel retorted, his expression almost smug. “Sir Arthur Randall.”

Sir Arthur, the police commissioner of Scotland Yard, glowered at Ciel before noticing Matilda. “And who might you be?”

“Bonsoir monsieur,” Matilda introduced herself in French, surprising the entire party. “Je m’appelle Vicomtesse Capucine Brodeur. Comment allez-vous?”

“Where was that during the meeting with the Viscount?” the earl muttered, his face positively blue with annoyance. Shaking it off, he turned to the police commissioner. “So why are you here, Sir Arthur?”

“I know just as much as you do, Watchdog,” the gruff man seethed. “Perhaps even less.”

Ciel crossed his arms and scoffed. “Well, I don’t know very much. I was given my orders with as little detail as possible. Frankly I was hoping you knew more than I, that way you could tell me what I lack in this case.”

Sir Arthur grimaced at Ciel before admitting, “This particular troupe seems to be the target of several attempted murders. Never the same technique twice, but always with the apparent intention of eradicating the prima ballerina.”

Matilda’s eyes grew wide and she gasped, refraining at the last moment from exclaiming in shock and fright. Sebastian had only to look at her to understand what would have come out of her mouth had she not covered it up: Not Bryony!

“My my,” Lau smiled coolly, stroking Ran Mao’s thigh. “This intermission is shaping up to be far more interesting than the ballet itself, don’t you think so, Ran Mao?” The assassin nodded silently as usual.

“I see,” Ciel mused aloud. “So Her Majesty is concerned for the safety of this ballerina and the apparent obsession with her death. Are there any clues regarding who might be the perpetrator in these attempted crimes?”

“None yet,” Sir Arthur growled. “But you can be sure Scotland Yard will handle it as soon as any clues surface. You, Watchdog, may stay out of this.”

“And if it turns out to be something far more sinister than what the Yard is used to?” the earl inquired smugly. “What will you do when you find yourself up to the ears in unexplained phenomena?”

The commissioner gritted his teeth. “Scotland Yard will take care of this,” he repeated, stumped by Ciel’s question. He seemed to want to say more but was abruptly prevented by Edward Abberline, who had been standing quietly behind him the entire time.

“Hello there, Lord Phantomhive!” he exclaimed, quickly inserting himself between Ciel and Sir Arthur. He grinned nervously, hoping to contain the conflict before it grew too large for the theatre balcony. “Such a very interesting show tonight, isn’t it? Simply fascinating. Unfortunately, the commissioner and I must be off now-“ he gave Sir Arthur a pointed look. “We will undoubtedly run into you again before this is all over. Have a nice night!”

Sir Arthur stared at Abberline, wishing he could strangle the life out of the impertinent inspector right then and there. Exhaling heavily, he threw a final glare in Ciel’s direction before departing. “Your compulsion to protect that detestable brat, Abberline,” the commissioner muttered as they returned to their own seats. “Will land you in a mire of troubles one of these days.”

Chapter 11: The Flight of the Robin, Part Two

Chapter Text

The curtain rose for the second half of the ballet, and the earl Phantomhive stared at the stage with a furrowed brow. Someone was plotting to murder the prima ballerina, but he did not know who was behind it or how they would try this time.

“I should have pressed Sir Arthur for more details on the previous murder attempts,” Ciel muttered to Sebastian, who leaned his head forward to listen. “That way we could at least eliminate the methods the killer may use tonight. Keep your eyes peeled, Sebastian.”

“Yes, my lord,” came the butler’s perennial reply.

To Ciel’s left, Matilda was chewing on her bottom lip, nervously watching the prima ballerina without blinking. “I can’t let anything happen to Bryony,” she said, more to herself than to the earl, but he heard her nonetheless. “It’s been years since we’ve spoken, but I can’t let anything happen to her.”

“What happened to the two of you, anyway?” Ciel asked her. There was no point in watching the ballet, especially if Sebastian was watching carefully for foul play. “You said you knew her. How?”

Matilda turned her face ever so slightly towards the earl, never taking her eyes off of Bryony the ballerina. “We were childhood friends, but she moved with her family to London when we were still fairly young. She used to talk about her dreams of performing; I’m surprised she still uses her given name instead of inventing a stage name for herself. You were right, Lord Phantomhive: it is a very rural name.”

Bryony and her co-star were locked in a passionate performance alone on the stage. Ciel gritted his teeth, anger welling up inside him at the Viscount. It stood to reason that Viscount Druitt would make up some story to cover the truth in his ballet; the human trafficking and black market auction ring he was running below his lavish parties. This scene portraying the two characters dancing erotically together in the manor gardens... it made his stomach turn.

Lady Elizabeth leaned over to whisper to Ciel, “It’s so curious; I attended this party, I even remember seeing the young lady in that beautiful dress, but I don’t remember her being as taken with the Viscount as he was with her. Perhaps he composed this ballet to win her back. Were you in attendance at that party, Ciel?”

Instantly, the earl Phantomhive felt his entire body go rigid. Lizzy!, he thought frantically. Lizzy was there! How could I have forgotten? Even if she hasn’t made the connection about me, surely she realizes now that Sebastian was there with Lau, and even Madam Red! She��s going to figure it out sooner or later... what am I going to do?

But Lizzy was not focused on the parallels between her cousin and the metaphorical robin. She was distracted by Prince Soma on her other side, who appeared to be conflicted about whether or not he should take her hand. He scrunched up his face in confusion, clearly immersed in a battle with his own thoughts. His hand inched towards hers, then inched away, rather like a metronome. Elizabeth raised her eyes from the prince’s hand to his face, and gave him a kind expression as she placed her hand on top of his. He froze in surprise before turning to her and offering a weak, nervous smile.

Ciel watched them from the corner of his eye, pleased to see them adjusting to their new engagement. However, the discomfort in the back of his mind was novel to him. It had been years since he was able to feel these types of emotions, not since that burning night; why would they reappear now of all times, when the emotional aspects of his humanity should be fading?

Suddenly, there was a shriek from the stage. Bryony Redruth had disappeared into the floor - or so it seemed. She had fallen through a trapdoor that had opened up in the middle of the stage, but had managed to grip the opening at the last moment. She struggled to pull herself back above ground, receiving help from her fellow dancers once they had shaken off their initial shock at her drop. They led her away from the trapdoor and to a corner of the stage to talk, presumably about whether or not to continue the ballet.

“Oh my,” Lau purred, not sounding surprised in the slightest as he caressed Ran Mao’s head.

The whole theatre was full of the confused buzzing of patrons and performers alike. Viscount Druitt was positively electrified, running about the whole of the theatre and waving his arms like a madman.

“What on earth is this? What just happened? That isn’t part of the production! Is she injured in any way? What fool let that trapdoor open? Oh, heavens above, I am cursed with woe to befall my every endeavor!” he flew from one end of the theatre to the other in this fit.

“Se-... Sebastian!” Ciel managed to choke out as he recovered his voice. “Did you see anything just now? Anybody nearby who was opening the trapdoor, or something set up to open it by itself, anything?”

Sebastian’s face was much paler than usual. He sighed in defeat. “I... I am afraid I did not, my lord,” the butler admitted guiltily. He shared an uneasy glance with his master. If his senses were slowing down this much this rapidly, they were in bigger trouble than they had realized previously.

Paula and Agni clutched their hearts before glancing at each other and leaning forward to comfort Prince Soma and Lady Elizabeth, both of whom were still stunned by Bryony’s near- death experience. Lizzy buried her face in her hands, but only for a moment.

“Oh, I say,” piped up Lau from the end. “Where has Matilda gone?”

The rest of the party glanced down the line to the far left where Matilda had been seated, only to find her chair empty and her scarlet fan resting in her place.

Ciel’s expression darkened as he scanned the theatre. “She’s not the only one who is missing,” he growled, inclining his head to two empty seats that had previously held Florentia and Theodosia Loric. “Sebastian, find out where they’ve gone. I’ll find Matilda myself.”

Sebastian placed his hand across his chest and bowed. “Yes, my lord.” Within a moment, he was off.

Ciel cast his uncovered eye this way and that before standing up and trying to creep away from the rest of his party. It was odd, he knew, for him to be going anywhere at all without Sebastian tailing him, but the best he could hope for was that he would go unnoticed in the panicky throng because he was so small. He darted this way and that through the audience, managing to get through with less difficulty than he expected. All was going beautifully until he reached the bottom of the stairs carrying him off the balcony, at which point he came face-to- buttons with a white uniform.

“Oi,” came the placid voice of Charles Grey, who stood admiring his sword and blocking the earl’s way. “Where do you think you’re running, Watchdog?”

Matilda had not been thinking clearly after seeing Bryony almost fall through the trapdoor. She was out of the balcony and halfway through the bottom floor audience before she gave her actions any conscious thought. All she knew was that she had to get to Bryony.

One of the male ballerinas addressed the crowd, explaining why they would have to end the ballet early this evening, while simultaneously comforting the Viscount. The dancers were all still quite confused from the ordeal onstage, making it easy for Matilda to slip backstage and blend in among them. She found Bryony near the door, sitting on a costume trunk and holding a cup of tea which Matilda suspected held a good deal of brandy as well. The bluenette wig was on her lap, revealing the dark green hair Matilda remembered so well from childhood. She approached the ballerina cautiously, wondering if her old friend would remember her. She need not have worried, however, for recognition lit up Bryony’s face the moment she noticed her.

“Impossible!” the ballerina exclaimed, sitting up a bit straighter but not rising. “Matilda Livesey, after all these years? How did you find yourself in such fine condition? Married wealthy, did you?”

Matilda hurried forward to embrace her friend. “No, in fact I married about as poor as I was born,” she laughed into Bryony’s hair. “I work as a maid; this is a disguise.” They pulled apart, but Matilda kept her hands on Bryony’s shoulders. “What happened out there? What’s been happening to you each show? They told me you’re the target of murder attempts!”

Bryony shook her head, still terrified from her experience. “It’s never the same,” she explained. “One night they tried to drop a chandelier on me, another night it was a gunshot. There was even an instance of someone setting fire to the stage! I’m surprised nobody else has been hurt so far.”

Matilda cupped her friend’s face. “Come back to the manor with me,” she pleaded. “My master will know what to do. We’re trying to protect you and put a stop to this. Lord Phantomhive will-”

“Phantomhive?” Bryony interrupted. “You mean you work for the Queen’s Guard Dog?”

“Please,” Matilda continued. “I don’t want to keep asking you questions until he is present. He will know what to ask you. I only cook and clean, Bry; I don’t know anything about being a villainous noble, or about interrogation.”

Chapter 12: The Tale of Bryony Redruth

Chapter Text

“What the devil do you think you’re doing?” Ciel snarled at the Queen’s butler. “I order you to move out of my way this instant!”

“Sorry, little guard dog,” Charles Grey gently turned his sword over in his hands, glancing down at the earl. “I’m not your butler. I do not answer to your feeble orders. Now I shall ask again: where are you off to in such a hurry? Surely Her Majesty would not be happy to find you bounding off through the theatre in such a cumbersome fashion, drawing attention to yourself and your work.” He sneered, waiting for an answer.

Ciel glared at Grey, clenching his fists and finding it harder than normal to contain his anger. “Her Majesty would certainly not be happy with you for interfering with my ability to put her mind at ease,” he practically spat. “I told you to get out of my way!”

Without thinking, Ciel shoved the butler with both hands. Ordinarily the earl’s thin arms would not have been able to move the butler one bit. Now, with his new demonic strength, Ciel sent Grey flying into the wall; not hard enough to crack the wall, or even to knock him out, but enough to stun him into brief paralysis and give the earl enough time to run into the bottom floor audience and get lost in the crowd.

Grey sat against the wall, a pained groan escaping his wide-open mouth. His eyes - as large as dinner plates in his fear - followed Ciel through the theatre. Her Majesty will want to know of this, he thought to himself.

Ciel reached the stage just as he saw Matilda helping Bryony to her feet. Pushing through the last of the dancers, he made his way to the women with enraged strides that were almost stomps. Matilda saw him and pointed him out to Bryony before he was very close, and they met him in the middle of the stage near where the trapdoor remained open.

“What do you mean by running off like that?” Ciel demanded.

“Forgive me, young master,” Matilda apologized sheepishly. “But I’m afraid you have another guest tonight.”

The earl’s eyes shifted to the ballerina. “Bryony Redruth, I presume.” His voice was flat. “Yes, certainly. Come back to Phantomhive Manor with us; I have some questions for you anyhow.”

Just then, Sebastian appeared at Ciel’s side; startling all three quite a bit, for they had not seen him walk in their direction. “Young Master,” he began. “I was unable to locate the Loric sisters themselves; however, I found their butler, and between the two of us we have arranged a business meeting over afternoon tea tomorrow.”

“Thank you, Sebastian.” Ciel replied, not taking his eyes off Bryony. He stared a moment longer before turning his attention to the gaping hole in the stage. He drew closer to it, intending to inspect it, but a gloved hand held him back by his shoulder.

“Perhaps I should perform this task, my lord,” the butler suggested, though it was obvious that it was far from a genuine suggestion. If the earl protested, Sebastian would find excuse after excuse to keep him away from the trapdoor. “This is too dangerous for you.”

Ciel glared but said nothing, giving the butler a passive nod after a brief standoff. Sebastian passed the party to the trapdoor and bent over it, cocking his head from one side to the other before motioning over his shoulder.

“Matilda,” he said. “Come here please.”

Matilda reached the butler in less than five long steps, peering into the opening with him. She had to blink once for her eyes to pierce the darkness, but slowly she began to perceive the wood flooring where performers would ordinarily land during a production.

“Am I seeing this correctly?” Sebastian asked her, trying not to show how disconcerted he really was. “I’m afraid my eyesight is... well, fading, insofar as my supernatural sight.”

“I see what looks like the outline of a square right below us, where Bryony would have landed,” the maid answered. “But it’s too far away to get a very detailed look. What do you see?”

“There appears to be splinters around the square,” Sebastian told her, bringing a gloved hand to his chin in thought. “But that’s all I can make out at this distance. I used to be able to discern the details on a signet ring in a photograph... now it is as if I can barely see.” he glanced over his shoulder across the theatre to see employees ushering audience members outside. Time was running short. “If there are splinters, perhaps Bryony was meant to fall through another layer of flooring; perhaps there is something else lower underground.”

Sebastian and Matilda turned to see Sir Arthur approaching them, looking distinctly aggravated, while Edward Abberline followed him with an air of relief. Ciel and Bryony spotted him as well; the earl narrowed his eyes in anticipation.

“We’ve ordered the whole theatre to clear out,” the police commissioner explained to the four of them. “We will have men guarding the theatre overnight, and we will conduct a thorough investigation tomorrow. Lord Phantomhive,” he turned his attention to the boy earl. “I have a deal to make with you.”

“As it happens, I am rather fond of deals,” Ciel said, sharing a smirk with Sebastian. “What can we do for you, Sir Arthur?”

“I will give you access to all files and restricted areas related to this case,” he proposed. “If you will share all information you and your monster of a butler discover with the Yard.”

“I am no monster, Sir Arthur,” Sebastian corrected. “Rather, I am one hell of a butler.”

Ciel rolled his eyes at his butler, returning his attention to Sir Arthur. “I believe that will work in both of our favors. Very well; it’s a deal.”

The commissioner nodded curtly before turning and leaving as quickly as he decently could, with Abberline following.

The earl jerked his head towards the exit. “Come,” he commanded the other three. “Let’s rejoin the others; they’re probably already outside and waiting for us by now.”

Charles Grey had, it seemed, left the premises after his altercation with the earl, so Charles Phipps had sent for Snake to draw the second carriage. Ciel and Sebastian climbed into Phipps’s carriage with Elizabeth and Paula, leaving Lau, Ran Mao, Soma, Agni, Matilda and Bryony to cram into Snake’s carriage. After a moment of silence, Bryony volunteered to sit next to the footman. She climbed nimbly up to the top seat of the carriage, where a stunned Snake sat frozen, unsure how to respond. After a brief awkward exchange of glances - in which Bryony smiled timidly and Snake’s eyes grew wide - the footman snapped the reins and sent the carriage moving towards home, with Phipps’s carriage following.

When they arrived back at the Phantomhive manor, they were greeted by a surprised Grell Sutcliffe. “What on earth are you doing back so soon? Surely the ballet isn’t over yet?”

“Good evening to you, Grell,” Sebastian said ever-so-placidly as he held the carriage door open for Ciel, Elizabeth, and Paula. “I’m afraid we had to return early thanks to an attempt on the life of the prima ballerina. As a matter of fact, it’s good that we have a reaper among us tonight; we may have to ask you some questions, Grell.”

Grell cast the butler a questioning look but said nothing, which was unusual for her.

Ciel and Matilda led Bryony into the parlor, followed by Lau, Ran Mao, Prince Soma, Lady Elizabeth, and Grell. Paula left to attend to her godson, and Agni and Sebastian left to prepare tea for the nobles. Sebastian entered minutes later with a steaming pot and seven teacups, but Agni decided to search for work elsewhere in the house.

“Here you are, Miss Redruth,” Sebastian handed the ballerina a cup of tea, taking care that her hands were not still shaking. “I have chosen a special herbal blend that I believe will help calm your nerves.”

“Thank you,” Bryony said, taking a sip while Matilda patted her friend’s knee.

Ciel took a sip from his own cup before speaking in his usual bored, commanding voice. “Miss Redruth, if you wouldn’t mind telling us everything you know about these attempts on your life, we would very much like to help you.”

“As soon as you feel ready to say anything,” Matilda added, taking care not to send the earl a withering glance.

With a deep breath, Bryony began. “It’s always a different method and a different show, but for the entire tour I’ve been in danger. It’s like I told Matilda; guns going off, chandeliers falling from the ceiling, the stage burning, trapdoors opening like tonight. We’ve taken the issue to Scotland Yard, but because every attempt happened with a different method and in a different city, they have no way of connecting anyone to the crimes.” she took another sip of tea and continued. “What I don’t understand is why anyone would want to kill me. All I do is dance! Ask Matilda here, she’ll tell you; dancing is all I’ve ever done.”

Matilda’s eyes lit up suddenly, as if a lightbulb had gone off above her head. “Bry,” she grasped her friend’s shoulders. “Did anything strange happen between your move to the city and the first murder attempt? Did you witness anything criminal, did you fall on someone’s bad side on accident...?”

“I daresay members of any of the many mafias in the Underworld would have a reason to come after you if you saw something you shouldn’t have,” Lau grinned from the sofa.

“Speaking from experience, are you?” the earl muttered. Turning to Bryony, he said, “Matilda has the right idea. If you can think of anything that would give someone a motive, let us know immediately. Meanwhile, we must look for other connections. Sebastian!”

The butler had been lost in thought, worrying about his fading vision, but the sound of his name from his master’s voice brought him back to the present. “Sir?”

“You may not be able to do this tonight, but go over the attendance of every show from this troupe and see if anyone went to every show. I want alibis from anyone matching that criteria.” Suddenly the earl turned to Bryony, his brow furrowed. “Wait. Viscount Druitt wrote tonight’s ballet. Has he written any of the other shows your troupe has performed?”

Bryony looked at Ciel as if he had grown an additional head. “Of course, Lord Phantomhive,” she confirmed. “The Viscount is our benefactor. He funds everything we do, and recently he has started writing our ballets. I think he’s calling the next one The Lobster Quadrille, and it’s supposedly based off of his real experiences a few years ago but also draws a good deal from the works of Lewis Carroll...” she trailed off and narrowed her eyes at everyone. “Wait... you don’t think the Viscount is behind this?”

The earl shook his head. “Not necessarily the culprit, no. But I think he may have something to do with it, whether or not he knows it.”

Prince Soma stood and paced by the window. Elizabeth followed him with her eyes. “So what should we do to investigate?” he asked.

Sebastian smirked to himself. “I expect this calls for another undercover mission on your part, my lord?”

Ciel’s face turned purple and red as he glared in rage at his butler. Before he could retort, Elizabeth spoke up.

“That’s an idea, Sebastian! You’re brilliant! You saying that, plus thinking of the events that ballet was portraying... it all gives me an idea.”

“Oh?” Lau’s interest was piqued. “You have an idea, Lady Elizabeth? I’m sure whatever it is, the little earl will be unable to deny you.”

“Not a bit,” Ran Mao added in monotone, shaking her head.

Everyone in the room blinked at Lau before Ciel rolled his eyes. “What is your idea, Lizzy?”

“It is well known that Viscount Druitt has a proclivity for girls and young women,” Elizabeth put her hand to her chin in thought. “What if we attend one of his parties and I try to get close to Viscount? Surely he would be more open with a young lady, as opposed to any of you trying to interrogate him.”

Ciel and Prince Soma both reacted in shock.

“Absolutely not, Lizzy!” the earl exclaimed. “I won’t allow it!”

“Lady Elizabeth, surely that is too dangerous for you,” Prince Soma’s reply was calmer than Ciel’s, but no less concerned for the lady.

“It won’t be too dangerous if all of us attend the ball together,” Elizabeth replied calmly. This was not enough for Ciel, however, and the two of them began arguing.

“Surely we can get Bryony to question the Viscount? They know each other, after all.”

“Hasn’t Bryony suffered enough?”

“What about Matilda, then?”

“She performed well tonight, but all she really had to do was sit still. In a fancy ball with lots of moving about and talking to people, she might give us away.”

“Alright, fine. Well... maybe Grell could do it?”

Grell herself interjected. “Absolutely not,” she said. “I have to get back to my real job. I only came by to check on Mathilde for Adrien.”

Elizabeth folded her arms and held her head high. “I can do this, Ciel. Don’t worry about me.”

Ciel glowered at her, but he had to relent.

Chapter 13: Developments of a Demon

Chapter Text

When his young master had been dressed for bed and safely under the covers, Sebastian made his way down the hall, greatly puzzled. Under normal circumstances he would have teased Ciel about the situation with Lady Elizabeth and the surge of deja vu he must be having, but his mind was preoccupied with troubling thoughts of the events at the theatre. Why had he not been able to discern the details of the floor below the trapdoor? If his power was draining that much as the young earl’s power was increasing, he might be in for more trouble than he had originally reckoned.

He was so deep in these thoughts that he bumped into Grell before noticing her. “Oh!” he started. “My apologies, Grell.”

But Grell did not seem too bothered. In fact, she seemed rather indifferent. “Not to worry, Bassy. I was just on my way to have one last conversation with Mathilde before I take my leave. Have you seen her?”

“No, not since the gathering in the parlor dispersed,” Sebastian replied. “I assume she would be in the servants’ quarters with the rest. I am on my way there now, in fact. You might as well join me; I have some questions for you anyhow.”

Grell flipped her long red hair and turned on her heel. “Certainly, Bassy,” she chirped and fell in step alongside the butler. “I expect you want to know if we reapers know anything about these ballet murders - or rather, attempted murders?”

“That was one thing on my mind, yes,” Sebastian placed a gloved hand on his chin.

“Well, you can rest easy,” Grell replied. “Miss Redruth is not on the To-Die List. As a matter of fact, nobody who was in any proximity to that ballet is on the List, not for a long time.”

“Hm,” Sebastian furrowed his eyebrows. “Well, at least that means we can count on your help, and possibly the help of other reapers.”

Grell said nothing, but beamed at this.

“Grell, I have another question,” Sebastian began tentatively.

“Oh?” Grell tilted her head. “Is something the matter?”

“From one immortal divine being to another,” the butler continued. “Have you ever heard of something like this happening before? A situation like the one my young master and I find ourselves in?”

Grell puzzled over this for a moment. “Not that I can think of,” she finally replied. “But at the same time, it is exceedingly rare that one of your kind would become so attached to human prey in the first place. The only other incident I can recall of a demon developing emotions for a soul is with that demon you knew as Hannah Annafellows. From all I’ve ever heard, humans who make deals with demons find their wishes granted quite soon, sometimes instantaneously. Hardly ever does a fulfillment take as long as this did, especially with you at his side the entire time.”

“Is it... is it normal for my strengths to fade?” the butler asked, beginning for the first time in ages to feel truly anxious. “If this has not happened before, then perhaps take a guess?”

“There’s not much I can conjecture about this, Sebastian,” Grell surprised both the butler and herself by using his full name. “You are bound in eternal servitude to that brat, who became a demon through a contract loophole. As he is coming into his strengths, it is entirely possible that yours will grow weaker. But don’t be too concerned. You’ll always be the way you are, there’s no getting around that.”

They reached the servants’ quarters, and Grell took her leave with a “Bye bye, Bassy,” and another hair flip before walking into Matilda’s room. Sebastian hesitated, struggling with his mixed reactions to what the reaper had told him, before setting his teeth and knocking on Mei Rin’s door.

The maid opened the door, holding a candle with one hand and scratching her head sleepily with the other. She was not wearing her eyeglasses. She had taken to not wearing them since their talk in the garden. It was almost jarring for Sebastian to see her without them, he had grown so accustomed to seeing them obscuring her face. It reminded him of when he first recruited her to protect the manor, when she had been a mercenary and assassin.

"Mr. Sebastian?" Mei Rin murmured, still not quite awake. "What are you doing here? Is something wrong?"

It was as if all decorum had fled him. "Do you need me?" he blurted out.

Mei Rin's face turned such a dark shade of red it was almost burgundy. "W-what?!" she exclaimed.

Sebastian pushed past her and entered her bedroom, wringing his hands and stammering. "No no no, I mean, does anybody need me in this manor? Will I become obsolete one day?"

He might have gone on forever if Mei Rin hadn't realized what must have been going on in his head and taken control of the situation. "You had better sit down, Mr. Sebastian, yes," she walked to her bed and sat on it, patting the space beside her.

Unsure what else to do, Sebastian sat down beside her, feeling his face flush. "I just want to be a good butler," he whispered.

Mei Rin, after a moment's hesitation, placed a hand on Sebastian's shoulder. "Have you forgotten everything we said to you in the kitchens?"

"But that was before I started losing my abilities," he said quickly, placing his hand on top of hers before he could think about it. "I've started to lose my... my supernatural elements, if you will. Everything I could do extraordinarily because I'm a demon, I can't do those things as well anymore."

"I'm sure you can still do anything better than the rest of us combined could do it," Mei Rin squeezed his shoulder. "Even if you can't do things as well as you used to."

Sebastian shook his head, not even willing himself to look at the maid. "Tonight at the theatre," he explained, practically panting. "I tried to make out small details that normally I could see without any trouble, but I couldn't, not without help from Matilda. I don't think she's entirely human either, though I'm not sure what she is."

"Don't worry about this, Mr. Sebastian," the maid advised. "This whole household will always need you. We servants need you to lead us, demonic powers or no demonic powers. And I'm sure the young master will always need you as well. You two have grown close, even though I know neither of you would ever admit it. You're both too proud." she smiled to herself at this last bit, realizing she was teasing him.

Sebastian seemed to realize this as well and smirked. "I am bound to the young master for eternity," he said solemnly. "I don't want to ever become obsolete."

Mei Rin squeezed his shoulder gently again. "There's no danger in that."

Seemingly satisfied, the butler patted her hand on his shoulder. They stared at one another briefly, Sebastian full of a jumble of emotions he had long forgotten how to feel, before they both looked away in any direction. Mei Rin coughed and awkwardly patted the butler's back. "Try and get some sleep now, Mr. Sebastian. If demons even sleep at all."

Sebastian smiled kindly at her and they stood up simultaneously. He turned to go but abruptly turned back around, coming face to face with Mei Rin a little closer than he had anticipated. "Mei Rin... for the sake of propriety and household position, it is right that you and the other servants should call me Mr. Sebastian. But between the two of us... I mean, when we are alone... that is to say... you may call me Sebastian. Just... Sebastian. If you like."

Mei Rin smiled tiredly. She would enjoy this so much more if she wasn't so sleepy. "I would like that very much, Sebastian, yes." They stood nervously for a moment before she gently gave him a push towards the door. "Now go try and rest."

Once he was in the hall and began shutting the door, he whispered a very hurried "Goodnight" to her before closing the door and leaning his back on it, breathing hard. What on earth was happening to him? Certainly he could never become a full human, not revert back like that, but was he truly gaining human emotions again? Anxiety? Jealousy? Lust?

With a sigh, he pressed his fingers to his temples and groaned quietly. "Perhaps I do need sleep," he muttered to himself. With that, he made his way down the hall to his own rarely-used bedroom.

Chapter 14: Ephraim Abberline

Chapter Text

Mei Rin had been caring for the Abberline baby while the others went to the ballet. When Paula returned to the manor, she made sure Lady Elizabeth was situated in the parlor with the others before venturing downstairs to claim her godson.

“He was such a good baby, yes he was,” Mei Rin smiled as she handed the infant over to Paula. She took him and cradled him gently, smiling back at the Phantomhive maid. “What happened at the theatre? Why is everyone back so soon?”

Paula bounced the baby gently. “There was an attempted murder tonight during the second half of the performance,” she explained. “Matilda knew the prima ballerina from childhood, so we brought her back with us. You’ll get to meet her soon, she’s very nice.” After a moment, she started walking towards the door. “Thank you so much for taking care of him tonight. You must be exhausted. I’ll get out of your way so you can get some rest.”

Mei Rin smiled and thanked Paula, removing her apron as the brunette closed the door behind her. Paula took the few steps to her room quietly, taking care not to wake the baby. I will have to give him a name soon, she thought to herself. But what? Not Fred or Edward, as much as I love my brothers; I can’t bear that. Perhaps... something biblical?

She was still puzzling over this, pacing carefully about her bedroom, when the baby began to cry. None too loudly, but enough to cause Paula to worry.

“Oh dear,” she whispered. “What on earth is the matter?” she couldn’t smell anything, so she assumed he was fine on that end of things. Unsure what else might be wrong, she concluded that he must be hungry. Biting her lip, she began unbuttoning the top of her dress and lifted her left breast out so as to nurse the baby.

Suddenly the door swung open, and Agni strode in. “Excuse me, Paula, but I-”

There was a moment’s stunned silence for both of them as their faces burned and strangled, incoherent noises of surprise escaped their mouths. As soon as he had regained control of himself, Agni fell prostrate on the floor before Paula, stumbling over his own tongue in his effort to apologize.

“Forgive me, Paula! I am ever so sorry! There is no excuse! I can hardly redeem myself!” he began scooting backwards out the door, like an inchworm. “I will give you your privacy now! I beg your forgiveness, please have mercy on me!”

Paula turned her back on the door, sweat dripping off her temple. “Wait, Agni,” she called, stopping him before he had fully exited the room. “I... I don’t know much about babies. I have no experience with them. If you could fetch someone who does know... or, if you yourself have any knowledge of infants... someone to help me? I’m not sure what I’m doing, or if I’m doing it right....”

Agni recovered himself, staring at Paula’s back with a burning face. “I know nothing of nursing children,” he admitted. “I’m afraid I will only be of use after the child is weaned.” he placed his thumb and forefinger on his chin and thought. “But in this household... perhaps Matilda knows something of this nature. Even if she has never nursed children herself, I expect she has seen her family nursing their children. If I recall, she comes from a large family.”

With that, Agni backed out of the room, pulling the door to the frame but not closing it all the way. Paula let out a stealthy breath, wary of the baby’s cries growing slightly louder. She felt the blood in her face from embarrassment... and... what was that? Thrill? Why on earth would being intruded upon in this way give her a thrill? Certainly if any average churl had burst in upon her in such a state, she would be furious and humiliated. But Agni... not only was his apology sincere, but she found that she might not mind him seeing her... the rest of her.

Paula shook her head, trying to wipe those thoughts away. Certainly that was out of the question. Agni was an attractive man, to be sure, but surely he was too holy and reverent to ever give in to lust, especially for a woman as... plain... as she thought herself to be.

Within minutes, Agni returned with Matilda, who had removed her Capucine Brodeur disguise and was once again in her plain clothes. “Mr. Agni,” she said as she moved towards Paula. “Stand by the door, won’t you?”

“Yes, and you may call me Agni.” the khansama took his place next to the closed door, like a soldier at attention.

“Paula, darling,” Matilda took the baby from her hands and turned him the other direction. “Hold him this way, chest to chest. Support his head. Tilt his head towards you this way, make sure it touches his lip...” Matilda guided Paula’s hand, which held the baby’s head. “And he’ll open his mouth, and that’s when you carefully pull his head in closer. It may take a couple of tries, but once he connects, he’ll do the rest.”

Matilda was right. The baby instantly latched on and began suckling. Paula felt a little panicked, but she focused on keeping the baby comfortable. She looked at Matilda uncertainly. “How do I... when he finishes... will I know...?”

The other maid nodded kindly. “He’ll stop on his own. And, you’ll be able to tell the difference between him finishing nursing and him accidentally disconnecting from your breast.” As if on cue, the baby’s head began moving away, but Matilda took Paula’s hand and used it to reposition his head. “Just place it back, and he’ll connect again.”

Paula bowed her head sheepishly. “Thank you, Matilda,” she murmured. “I’m so sorry for this. I confess I may need your help more often until I adjust to this practice.”

Matilda grinned widely. “It’s no trouble at all, Paula dear, I promise.” she patted Paula’s knee. “This is good practice for me as well, if I ever have children.”

“Ah, yes,” Agni spoke up from the door. The women gave a small start, as they had very nearly forgotten the khansama’s presence in the room. “You are the wife of the Undertaker, are you not, Miss Matilda?”

“You may call me Matilda, Agni,” she replied. “And yes, I am. It’s funny how so many people overlook that until someone tells them.” she blushed and looked at the floor. “I expect it would be easier to believe if we were seen together. But, he has his work at the mortuary, and I have my duties here. We do what we must for the Lord Phantomhive.”

Agni had been facing the wall in order to give Paula privacy, but now he turned his head to Matilda out of curiosity. “He runs the mortuary for the earl? I thought he enjoyed that work.”

“It isn’t just a front for him,” Matilda confirmed. “He does enjoy making corpses beautiful again. It helps him receive closure, I think. To be frank, it isn’t something I’ve pressed out of him. I understand that there are some things he isn’t ready to share, even with his wife. He will tell me in time.”

The baby stirred, finishing nursing. Matilda held out her arms to hold him while Paula buttoned her dress. “You may join us, Agni,” Paula said, tucking her hair behind her ear and trying to suppress the blood rising to her cheeks.

The khansama strode to the bed and knelt down beside the women, gently adjusting the swaddling blankets. “Have you decided what you will name him?” he asked Paula, beaming at the infant. “Or did Maria already name him?”

Paula shook her head. “I don’t think Maria could bear to name him,” she replied. “But... I have thought of a name that may be fitting. Ephraim. It has hints of both Fred and Edward, my brothers. I think Fred and Maria both would appreciate it.”

Matilda and Agni smiled at each other and then at Paula. “It is a lovely name,” Matilda affirmed, kissing Ephraim’s head. “I think he will like it as he grows.”

The three of them suddenly fell silent, hearing voices at the entrance to the hall. Matilda stood, brushing her skirts. “That’ll be Grell,” she said quietly. “She’ll be wanting to talk to me before leaving the manor. I’d best go to my room so she doesn’t come in here and disturb the baby - I mean, Ephraim.” Smiling sweetly at Paula and Agni, she scurried quietly off to her room to await the flamboyant reaper.

Agni and Paula sat in silence, listening to Ephraim’s steady breathing, stealing shy glances at one another for several minutes. After blinking and surveying the room, Paula gasped, giving way to a sudden realization. “Ephraim has nowhere to sleep,” she whispered. “Last night I made do with a wash bin and a pillow, but we had to use that bin today and it is still dirty. Lord Phantomhive promised to fetch the bassinet from Maria’s home before long, but in the meantime I don’t know what to do.”

Agni thought for a moment before an idea came to him. He stood and pulled a drawer out from the nearby small dresser. He set some of the uniforms on top of the dresser and placed the drawer on the floor by the bed. Then, to Paula’s great surprise, Agni removed his turban and folded it neatly on top of the remaining uniforms, making a soft makeshift cradle for Ephraim. “There,” he said. “That should do until the Lord Phantomhive procures a proper bassinet.”

Paula stared at Agni, unable to find words to thank him. The khansama seemed to understand her silence, however, and merely bowed kindly before bidding her goodnight and turning to leave, his white hair resting on either side of his shoulders and back.

Chapter 15: Lady Elizabeth's Motive

Chapter Text

Paula was busy caring for her nephew, so after the discussion in the parlor had dispersed Lady Elizabeth sat in her bedroom to wait until her maid could return to help her prepare for sleep. Her proposal in the parlor had given her such a rush, she was sure she wouldn’t be able to sleep for hours. How exciting to finally be part of an investigation, to finally be useful! Even if she wasn’t going to be using any of the skills she had been honing for years, she would finally get to help Ciel. That was all she ever really wanted.

A gentle knock at her door brought her out of her reverie. Thinking it was Paula, she bid the visitor enter, only to find a nervous Bengali prince in her doorway.

“Lady Elizabeth,” he began, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “I... I apologize for coming here at this hour... but after the conversation downstairs...”

Elizabeth smiled sweetly and motioned for Prince Soma to come further into the room. “I half expected you to have something to say about it.”

The prince wrung his hands, searching for the right words. “I would never presume to tell you what you can and cannot do, Lady Elizabeth,” he said. “I learned the hard way that insisting my loved ones never endanger themselves never works. But I have to wonder if you have truly thought this through?”

#black butler fanfiction

0 notes

mooni-bunni · 3 years

Text

AOT with a Black S/O

A/N: There are SO many characters I want to do so this is definitely going to be a part one. Please know that I’m going off of MY ✨black experience✨ so if I mention something that you don’t do or experience, then idk, write your own. 🤨

CW: Modern AU, Black!Reader, Reader is female oriented,

TW: some light racism mentions.

Eren Jaeger

I’m going to start this off by saying Eren is completely into ethnic women.

If it’s not the way your skin glows under the summer sun, it’s definitely the goddamn brown eyes that are just BEAUTIFUL MAN.

He won’t say it, but he is such a nerd for learning more about your culture. Learns a lot about black history and excitedly tells you the new stuff he learned. He gets so happy when he learns about inventions by black people too.

He gets really mad about a lot of social issues though. He’s a really good listener when it comes to you voicing your feelings about something that’s happened in the community. Definitely an unapologetic activist.

Take him to a predominantly black church, watch him be all awkward but tapping his toes. He’ll tell you after that he really enjoyed it and had a lot of fun. He may not be feeling the Holy Ghost, but he is definitely going with you on sunday just to enjoy it with you

Over all, he just loves you so much, he gets to experience so,etching new every single day and he loves it. Especially when it comes to music, food, and clothing. Dress him up please, he likes it. Use him as a wig stand too.

Armin Arlert

Please, he was doing research on black culture before you were even dating. 🤨🖐🏾

When you started dating, you were definitely surprised by how much he actually knows about black culture. It’s all because he wanted to make sure he never says anything to you that makes you upset. If he has questions about something, he is going right to those books and the internet. He’s also not afraid to ask you questions but he would prefer to not burden you with the responsibility of educating him.

If you grew up in a predominantly white neighborhood, he tries his best to make you feel comfortable about being your most authentic self and not washing yourself down for him. He doesn’t like it when you hold yourself back or fix your speech so that he can understand you better, he’ll fight you to be yourself. USE YOUR AAVE AND TEACH HIM.

He really likes the way you talk. He takes note of any little inflectional accented letters in the words you speak. He will use words like “bussin” and “Chile” in the wrong way, so please just… stop him, he’s trying his best.

He’s also really into African American protective hairstyles and why they are important

Definitely sits down with you and helps you with your hair. He’s not the best with it, but he is definitely helpful. Like he’ll at least hold stuff for you or let you use his hand as the pallet for the grease or gel. If you’re a wig wearer, he likes being the model while you shape it. If you’ve got an Afro, he’s buying you the cutest bonnets to wear at night.

Mikasa Ackerman

The thing she loves so much about you is how she’s able to swap cultural experiences with you. 🥺

She grew up in a half Asian household and has a lot of things to share. The fact that she gets to mix her culture with yours is incredible to her. Especially with food because traditional Japanese dishes with traditional African American foods is fun to combine

She is really into r&b music, too. Swapping music with her is so much fun because she finds some new artists she’s never heard of before. She really likes Destiny’s Child

Asks you a lot of questions, too. It’s always light hearted and she means so well. She wants to know more about your family, the dynamic, what kinds of struggles you went through, the celebrations.

Bring her to parties and family functions, she is a visual and hands on learner.

Calls you beautiful every single day. There’s not a single thing about you that she doesn’t love.

Jean Kirschtein

Jean definitely gets quite the culture shock when you first start living together.

Mainly because of the food. He is not used to any cuisine that as a little spice in it. The first time you cool all the fixings for him, he is overwhelmed. It smells so good and some is familiar, but he’s never had them in this way.

He’s eating all of it anyways honey. He’s telling you it’s BUSSIN. Every fuckin meal, bro, he is saying it. Y’all can’t even go to cookouts because he says it so loud, tell him to STOP. (But don’t because it sounds funny and he’s just trying to express his love for soul food.)

OH AND DANCING. BRO. He learns a lot about how dances were ripped off from black people and he asks you to teach him the correct way to do it, if you know how. If not, he’ll happily teach you. He loves the history of it, too.

He is very active as an ally and does a lot of work to make sure the community you guys live in is accepting and safe for you and everyone else.

It really does take him a minute to get into the swing of daily life, but he is so happy he met you and that you let him in.

Sasha Braus

You already know I’m going to say food with this girl.

The way she is tearing up a plate the first time you cook food for her is a little animalistic. She licks that shit CLEAN. Some soul food at a party is going to be nonexistent if you bring her.

She may not be the brightest girl, but movies are definitely her thing. She likes it when you show her some movies directed by black people like Jordan Peele or Tyler Perry. One of her favorite movies is Dream Girls.

She also asks a lot of questions. (Ahem, her with Onyankopon…) It’s always her trying to learn more but they sometimes come off as a little uhhhhh… you know…. Like that. Don’t worry though, explain things to her and she is immediately apologetic for even asking.

You might have to teach her a few things though, I’m not gonna lie.

Take her to a family reunion or a Juneteenth celebration party, trust me she’ll enjoy herself.

Levi Ackerman

Surprisingly the thing he enjoys the best is the music.

You’d think with his classical tea loving ass, he’d be a little weary with the music, but no! He actually really likes old hip hop and rap. New age is not his favorite, but he likes artist like Tupac, Biggie, Jay Z, Old Kanye. Don’t be surprised to see him rapping randomly. I’ll stand by this.

He’s also really good with hair. Like surprisingly good with it. Like, he could actually just do your hair and you will probably never have to go to a salon ever.

He saw you struggling with yours one morning and noticed how expensive it was for you to get yours done, so he literally went out to any black owned salon and asked if they could teach him how it’s done. For weeks he just spent his free time learning how to do textured hair, which products were good, which ones were harmful, how to style, all of it. He came home one day and saw you booking an appointment to get yours done and told you he could do it. Success.

He also learns your favorite soul food meals. Spends time with your family to learn how you like it.

Overall, Levi isn’t great with words but he shows you he loves you by doing these extravagant things for your that’s how you know he cares about you and how important your heritage is.

A/N: this was so cute wahhh. Idk why I’m worried about being canceled when I’m black- also sorry for any typos I miss.

#soft side 🌕#moon writes ✍🏾#aot x black reader #Eren x reader #armin x reader #mikasa x reader #jean x reader #sasha x reader #levi x reader #aot headcanons #aot fluff

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scuttling · 3 years

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Head Over Feet - Chapter 4

Fandom: Criminal Minds Pairings: Aaron Hotchner/Female Reader Spencer Reid/Female Reader (Unrequited) Word Count: 5,180 Chapters: 4/4 Complete Tags: 18+, NSFW, Unrequited love, Protected sex, Oral sex, Vaginal fingering, Rough sex, Friends with benefits, Praise kink, Daddy kink, TW Fire, TW Burns Summary: Falling in love with one of your two closest friends was never something you planned; it only makes sense that falling in love with the other would also come as a complete surprise. *Inspired by/in collaboration with @ssamorganhotchner. Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Link to AO3 or read chapter 4 below! You pat Spencer on the back, rub your hand soothingly over his shoulders. He’s not crying, but he’s clinging to you like a child, and your heart aches for him a little.

“I’m sorry, Spence. I know it’s hard when you care about someone and things don’t work out, especially because of what we do. It’s complicated; sometimes people just don’t understand.”

He shifts out of your embrace, stands up, runs a hand over his face.

“I’ve spent most of my life not being understood. I thought maybe I found someone who finally got me.”

You get him, you muse; you’ve always been the one to translate his info dumps into useful commentary, to sense when he’s overwhelmed, anxious, to pull him back before his emotions get the better of him. You may only be his friend, but dismissing that fact hurts more than it should.

You sigh, step into the kitchen, fill your electric kettle with water and turn it on, pull a box of chamomile tea out of the cupboard.

“I’ll be right back. Watch the kettle,” you say, patting his arm, and you head for the bedroom.

Aaron has his undershirt on, and he sits on the edge of the bed staring at the tv—he’s not so much watching it as just looking at it, and when he catches sight of you in the doorway, he turns it off.

“What’s going on?”

“Chelsea broke up with him,” you explain, wrapping your robe tighter around your body. “He missed a function because of work, and she wasn’t able to see past that. It’s been a point of contention.” You know it’s a bit of a sore subject, even after all this time, because of his divorce; you try to tread lightly.

“I should go,” he says, standing, and instantly your heartbeat races. You step toward him, put your hands on his arms.

“No, don’t go. Aaron,” you say when he pulls back, looking around the room as if forgetting that all of the rest of his clothes are piled by your front door. “Please, I don’t want you to go.”

“He needs you.” His voice doesn’t sound particularly kind or unkind, just flat, and you sigh, reach up and take his face in your hands.

“Hey. I’m making him a cup of tea—to go.” He wets his lips, and you pull him down for a slow, soft kiss, drag it out, breathe against his mouth. “Please stay with me.”

“You want me to stay, and you want him to go,” he murmurs, clarifying, and you nod, kiss him again.

“Yes. Give me ten minutes?” He agrees, and you turn to head back to the kitchen, but he stops you, pulls you close for a kiss so full of hunger it makes your head spin. You wouldn’t have thought you’d have another round in you after all that, but it may not be completely out of the question.

Back in the kitchen, Spencer leans against the counter, waiting for the water to boil. His eyes roam over you, and then the mess on the floor—clothes, shoes… condom wrapper.

“I didn’t realize he was here,” he rasps. “I’m sorry; I shouldn’t have come.”

“It’s alright. I understand.” You walk around him, pull a travel mug down from the cupboard, an unspoken sign that a warmer welcome is not being extended tonight. “You’ll go home and get some sleep. In the morning, call her and apologize for the things you said. The situation may not be as hopeless in the light of day.”

“It feels pretty hopeless,” he counters, and you stand next to him, look up at him.

“There have been times I’ve felt pretty hopeless. You’ll get through it, with or without her.” He rests his elbows on the counter, his head in his hands, frowns exaggeratedly.

“I wouldn’t blame her if she doesn’t take me back. I was a jerk.”

“Love makes us brave and dumb; it’s an unfortunate combination—and you, Doctor, are not used to feeling dumb.” You tap him lightly on the arm, smile softly. “If she gets you as well as you think, she just might understand your reasons for saying what you said.”

“How did you get through it? When we… When I…” He trails off, but you don’t need him to finish; you both know what he means to say. “Because it feels like my heart is literally breaking, even though I know that’s biologically impossible.”

“It wasn’t without effort, or… help.” You think of Aaron in your bedroom, who has been nothing but patient and kind and caring, who has been there through sleepless nights and self-doubt and you being, honestly, a little insufferable; the thought makes you smile. You loop an arm around his, lean against his shoulder. “Or the knowledge that what is meant to be will be. I was meant to love you, Spencer Reid—but only like this: friends, partners, bad movie buddies.”

“I like this,” he agrees, and you stand close until the kettle beeps. You prepare his tea, snap the lid on the cup, hand it over, and he leans down to press a kiss to your cheek. “Okay, I’m taking your advice. Wish me luck?”

“All the luck,” you say with a smile, and then you see him out, close and lock the door behind him. You make a second cup of tea—in an FBI mug, this time—and head back to your bedroom, press the cup into Aaron’s hand where he sits propped up against the pillows.

“Is everything alright?” he asks as you climb onto the bed, curl up against his side.

“I think so; I gave him some advice, he left in better spirits. Whether or not they can work it out is another story. He can take it from here, though.” Aaron takes a sip of tea, hands you the mug, and you take a sip and then set it on your bedside table. “I’m glad you didn’t leave,” you say softly when you turn back to him; you just look up at him for a moment, then wrap your fingers in his t-shirt, pull him close for a slow kiss. “I don’t ever want you to leave, you know?” You brush your nose along his, and he brings a hand to your cheek, kisses you back—it starts as something tender, but becomes steamier as it goes on, until you’re panting, breathless against each other’s lips.

“I don’t want to leave you,” he whispers, and you kiss again, a bit rougher, more desperate, pull his shirt over his head. You sweep your hands over his shoulders, his arms, brush one through his hair.

“Good. Don’t leave me.” You rise to your knees, untie your robe, and he gets his hands inside it, runs them over your body, pushes the robe off and onto the bed. He presses up to pull his boxers off, and you swing a leg over his, straddle his thighs, curl in to kiss him deeply, wet and messy. “Don’t leave me, Aaron,” you breathe, beg against his lips, and you lean forward to slip him inside.

You grip his shoulders, moan as you sink down, and work your hips, pressing kisses to his face and hair. His hands caress you, running up your back, gripping your hair where it falls over the back of your neck. “Oh, baby. Fuck,” he groans as you move up and down, and the hand on your back slides down to press against your ass, to encourage your quick, eager movements. “You’re so good; you feel so good. I’m here, I won’t leave you.”

“Hmm. And I’m yours, right daddy?” You look up at him, chest heaving, grip his hair at the back of his head, and he nods, moves his other hand to your ass as well and squeezes hard; you whimper, tip your head back, slam down roughly.

“You’re mine, kitten, all mine; you belong to daddy.”

“Oh, fuck yes. Yes.” You moan, lean back in his lap, press your hands against his legs, and ride him hard; nothing has ever sounded better than his groans, looked better than his face while you fuck like you haven’t already gotten off twice by his perfect body tonight.

You let your hair fall back, bring a hand up to rest on his flexing stomach, and he surprises you by running his hands over your thighs, then your legs, pushing you up so you have to plant your feet against the bed. He wraps his big hands around your hips, takes control and moves your body up and down on his cock, your ass meeting his thighs with each of his thrusts. The new position means you’re leaned back further than before, and that he can see everything—your blissed out face, bouncing breasts, your pussy as it hugs him, enveloping him in tight, wet heat.

“Daddy’s good girl, fucking so pretty,” he grinds out, and you just hold onto his legs, moan while he works to bring you both off. “Come on my cock, baby, all over it. Give it to me.”

“Oh, god. Yes, daddy. I will, I will.” Your head drops back, exposing your throat, and you swallow hard, whine your impatience. You want to please him and find release, and it’s frustrating but so fucking sexy, the position he’s put you in. “Harder, please, please.”

“Harder? Are you sure you can take it?” He slams you down roughly, thrusts up faster, and you tremble both with effort and pleasure, press your nails against his thighs.

“I can take it, I can take you. Feels so good.” You’re breaking a sweat, can feel it prickling at the nape of your neck, behind your knees, and you bounce in his hands, clamp tight, nearly sigh in relief when your orgasm is just out of reach. “I’m gonna come, daddy, gonna come on your cock—oh, fuck. Fuck.”

“Yes, baby, just like that.”

Your climax is powerful, lengthy, and Aaron is loving it if the tightened grip on your hips, the low groans of pleasure are any indication. You don’t have it in you to help anymore, too worn out, but he continues to move your body until he comes, and you stare down at him, satisfied and out of breath and ridiculously—surprisingly—in love.

Oh, fuck. Three weeks go by, and you don’t talk about it—with anyone. It eats at you, and you simultaneously want to scream it from the rooftops and hide it in the dark and hope that the feelings pass.

You love Aaron. You’re in love with Aaron. Your best friend, friend with benefits, the man you suddenly on a whim decided to call daddy because you just can’t get enough of him: of his strong hands, soft hair, lips and voice and just… everything.

You’re not sure when exactly your feelings for Spencer went away, but it’s like they drifted off silently into the night, only to be gradually replaced by sharing big breakfasts and a hot coffee on your desk and wearing his flannel pajama pants just because they’re comfy and lazy morning sex on the weekends—

—are you dating Aaron? Because friends with benefits doesn’t feel like coming home to just the right person at the end of the day, like you missed him even though you work together. It doesn’t feel like desperation, like a need to know you belong in his arms, like a confirmation that he’s here because he wants to be, not just because you asked him to be.

Things haven’t really changed since that night—you still go to one of your apartments after work, have dinner, have sex some evenings or just relax others, sleep together every night—but you’re so nervous you’re going to slip up and say or do something to clue him in that you’re almost always on edge now. He notices, because he notices things, and because he notices you.

“What’s got you acting so odd lately?” he asks softly in your ear while you cuddle on the couch, reading, your back against his arm, legs stretched out in front of you. You’d like to crawl into his lap, wrap his arms around you, breathe against his neck, but you settle for this because it’s a little more manageable.

“Odd? Me?” He curls his arm around your chest, rests a hand gently on your throat. There’s no pressure, it’s just a soft claim, but it makes your heart beat fast.

“Yes, baby. You’ve been quiet. You haven’t flipped a page in a while. Is something on your mind?”

“Not really,” you murmur, and he taps a few fingers against the side of your neck.

“You wouldn’t lie to me, would you?” It’s soft, not a line your daddy expects parroted back to him, but a question Aaron feels the need to ask. You bring a hand up to rest on his arm, something of a hug.

“I’m just thinking. Enjoying sitting here with you.” You tip your head back to look at him, and he leans down to kiss your mouth, slowly, deeply, squeezing your throat just a little. It makes you feel warm and fuzzy, cared for, and a little turned on. “Are you enjoying me?”

“I always enjoy you,” he says quietly, brings his other hand to your cheek to cradle your face. “Just making sure you’re okay.”

“I’m okay,” you whisper, looking up at him, into his deep, curious eyes—he seems to know there’s something more, but he also seems to know now’s not the time. “Do you want to go to bed?”

He nods, and you both get up, tidy up the living room, turn off the lights. When you climb into bed, you just kiss, for what feels like hours, curled up around him, skin on skin. Your next case takes you to Portland, where you are tasked with building a profile for a serial arsonist. It’s not going well.

“We’ve been over this,” Derek says, running a hand over his head. “The motives for arson are simple: vandalism, crime concealment, political statement, profit, and revenge.” You stand in front of a whiteboard with your arms crossed; the words he just said are already scrawled across it in your handwriting, in green dry erase marker.

“Well we’re missing something, so let’s go over it again. There have been no signatures, no hits on social media, nothing sent to the news outlets, so we’re not thinking ‘political statement.’” You draw a line through the words.

“No connection between the buildings, so we’ve all but removed ‘revenge’ from the list,” Emily adds, and you draw a line through that one too.

“Second building had no insurance, was taken over by the city—no one profited from that,” Penelope adds from the speakerphone. You strike it out, sigh.

“That leaves vandalism and crime concealment.”

“Nothing was found at any of the scenes to indicate crime concealment, but it is possible,” Derek reminds you; that one stays on the board. Emily taps her pen against her notepad, looks up at you with a cocked brow and points to the board.

“We’re forgetting one. Hero syndrome: when a firefighter or other first responder sets the fires with the intent of returning to help put them out.” You quickly scribble it on the board.

“So we know that in most instances, those who engage in acts of arson due to hero syndrome have had some type of failed attempt at heroism in the past, be it a botched detective exam, dishonorable military discharge…”

“What about someone who failed out of the arson investigator program?” Penelope asks, keys clacking in the background. “I have an Alexander Carter who works for the Portland Fire Department who has failed out of the program—wow, a whopping six times.”

“Could be he’s trying to prove what an asset he’d be,” Emily proposes, and you turn to jot it down, then freeze.

“Did you say Carter? Alex Carter,” you repeat, and she hums.

“Yes, Alexander Carter, age 30, 5’11”, 200 lbs, brown hair, brown eyes.” You cross the room in a hurry, search your jacket pockets for your cell phone, and Derek stands almost immediately.

“What is it?” he asks, and Emily and Penelope echo his question.

“Hotch and Spencer are with Alex Carter right now. They’re checking out the last scene, the one where the fire went out on its own and didn’t spread. The one that failed.” You look up at him, hold your phone up to your ear, dialing Aaron. It rings and then goes to voicemail three times before going straight to voicemail the fourth. Derek tries Spencer, but his goes to voicemail right away. “We have to go there. Fuck. Garcia, what’s the address again?”

The three of you rush out of the conference room, passing JJ, who gets a brief rundown from Emily and offers to stay back to keep an ear out in case they call. You, Emily, and Derek strap on your vests, and Derek drives—Speed Racer may be useful right now, but your hands are trembling. You sit on them so no one sees.

The building is up in flames when you arrive, and there are firefighters on scene as well as police, EMS… and the coroner.

“Where are they?” you all but scream at the detective. He stands, hands on his hips, shakes his head, and your throat goes dry. “God damn it. Say something. Where are our men?”

“Where do you think they are?” He gestures to the smoldering storefront, and you take a calm, measured breath and step away from him; nothing you say will do you any good, only serve to get you in trouble, and it’s not his fault anyway, not really. You try the fire chief, hope you don’t sound like you’re pleading when you ask him for news.

“My people are working hard to put the fire out; we don’t know the extent of it. We can’t say for sure,” he says, and it’s kind, but firm. Not a guarantee. Derek finds you, puts a hand on your arm, and you look up at him like he’s going to have the answers to this. Someone has to, right?

“We just have to wait,” he says, soothing, and even though you know he’s just trying to help, you could punch him in the face; it’s an unfamiliar feeling, not something you’ve ever felt when faced with Derek Morgan. You shake your head.

“Wait? Wait for what, for—for them to be pulled out in body bags? I can’t wait, I won’t wait. I’ve waited long enough as it is,” you mutter under your breath, turning away. You stare at the flaming storefront, trying to formulate a plan that doesn’t end with Derek tackling you before you can get close enough to call for them, but you can’t come up with anything, and it’s not necessary anyway: less than ninety seconds later, Aaron and Spencer come around from the back of the building, looking a little worse for wear, but not as bad as Alex Carter, who is badly burned on the left side of his face.

You are so relieved you could pass out, and it’s an honest to goodness miracle that you don’t. They get Carter to the ambulance, where the EMTs begin to treat him, and then they walk toward you.

You can’t help it, your feet move without you, bridging the distance, and you crash into Aaron, nearly knocking him over; you cling to his shirt and inhale the scent of smoke and cologne, listen to his heartbeat, think the words you’ve been so afraid to say out loud.

He holds you tightly, one hand on the back of your neck, murmurs words in your ear that you can’t make out; when Derek and Emily come over, you snap out of it, grab Spencer by the shoulder and pull him in too, and the five of you form a group hug and you are not the only one to cry.

You go back to the hotel so everyone can shower, wash away the soot; you would have preferred being able to shower with Aaron, to move your hands over his body and see for yourself that he is unharmed, to wash the stale scent of smoke from his hair, but that’s just not possible. You settle for a text that tells you he’s okay, he’s just tired and ready to go home with you—home, which is apparently wherever you are, whichever apartment you are making noise in, taking up space in, wherever you are leaving half empty cups of tea.

You’ve never wanted to kiss him so badly in your life, but the flight from Portland to Virginia is five hours long and almost torture. He sits next to you on the plane, which doesn’t usually happen, and he does paperwork, brushes his free hand against yours occasionally. You drift in and out of consciousness, so tired from the emotions of the day, and before you know it Aaron is smoothing his hand over your head to wake you up.

He drives you to his apartment, stopping only to pick up takeout from your favorite Indian place—the bags are abandoned on the kitchen counter, though, because the moment you are behind closed doors, everything changes.

You kiss him like it will be the last time—and maybe it will be, considering what you plan to say—your hands in his hair, breath on his lips, the taste of him on your tongue. This could be like Spencer all over again; you hadn’t realized then just how not on the same page the two of you had been, not even on the same chapter, maybe in a whole different book, so what makes this any different? What you have come to realize is love could just be comfortable, guaranteed sex to Aaron, and if he turns you down too, you’ll probably give up on all of it.

You move to the bedroom with the practiced motions of a couple who has walked this walk many times before, but this time it feels different. It feels like matching energies, like emotions that have been tamped down and are now allowed to be fully expressed, fully exposed.

Aaron gets you out of your clothes first, with sure, gentle hands, and then you strip him slowly, look him over the way you wish you could have earlier. You touch his arms, his chest, his stomach, then bend to run your hands over his legs, his feet.

“You’re whole. You’re here,” you murmur when you stand, and he takes your face in his hands, presses his lips to yours again and again.

“I told you I wouldn’t leave you; I meant it.” You wet your lips, look up at him, exhale softly. After a sentence like that, what the hell are you waiting for?

“I love you.” His eyes search your face, and you release one soft sob before he pushes you back onto the bed, covers you with his body, kisses you deeply, wet and passionate.

“I love you—fuck, I love you,” he breathes, his hands in your hair, on your face, and then he reaches down to grab your wrists and hold them above your head. You gasp, shudder, spread your legs for him, and he weaves a hand between your bodies, roughly rubs your clit. “Going to fuck you so good. So good.”

He stares down at you, wrists clasped in one hand, the other working to bring you close, or off, you’re not sure; you ache to touch him, but since you can’t you just breathe a little harder, hitch your knees up higher, give yourself to him.

“Please, daddy,” you sigh, and he knows what you want, guides his cock inside you and then slams it all the way in, so deep that you’re overcome by the feeling of fullness and your eyes water. It’s not pain, or even really pleasure, though it does feel good, but more like… completeness. Like you were made for each other in all the ways that count.

He thrusts into you hard, his knees digging into the bed, and you take kisses when he offers them, moan when he doesn’t, struggle against his grip on your wrists just to feel him tighten it. He pounds his hips roughly against you, uses his free hand to squeeze your ass, then your breast, and then finally, eventually, your throat.

He hovers over you, panting, staring down like he’s viewing a masterpiece and not looking at your sweaty, overheated face. “Can I have you? All of you?” He glides the hand from your throat down to your chest, rests it just over your heart, and you nod, surge up to meet him for a kiss.

“All of me—all of me.” He releases your arms, plants his hands against the bed and fucks you hard, and you slide your hands up his back, pull him down so he’s fully on top of you, heavy and solid and strong. “Take me, Aaron, I’m yours. Take me.” You lift your legs, knees almost up to his armpits, and he holds your hips, kisses you deeply, messy, pumps inside and then comes murmuring your name into your hair. You clutch him, buck desperately against him, mouth at his shoulder, and he shushes you softly, brushes his palm over your hot cheek.

“I’ve got you, baby,” he says with a kiss, and then he slides an arm around your lower back, tilts your hips up, grinds inside until you come digging your fingertips into his sides.

He rests your body against the bed, drapes himself over you, moves his mouth slowly up and down the side of your throat; you wrap your arms around his shoulders, and he presses a hand to the back of your neck, holds you close to him. After a few minutes, he speaks, low, into your ear.

“So this is why you’ve been so…”

“Odd?” you say with a smile, and he tilts his head so he can see you, smiles too, kisses you on the lips.

“Yes. Odd. Because you love me?” You shift slightly, pull back so you can see him better, card your fingers through his hair.

“Not because I love you, because I was afraid to tell you I love you.” He makes a face like that’s the most ridiculous thing he’s ever heard, and you brush your thumb over the ridge of his ear. “I’m not sure if you remember this,” you begin, softly sarcastic, “but I recently told Spencer that I loved him, and it didn’t go over very well. I was scared that could happen with you, too. It was easier to just enjoy what we had.”

He looks over your features, sighs lightly.

“Do you remember the night you stayed late at the office to help me with the records retention? We ordered pizza and you raided Rossi’s office for liquor.”

“Yes, and it was very expensive Scotch and it went very well with my veggie pizza. You smiled more that night than I’d ever seen,” you say, almost dreamily; you’re such a goner for him, now—it’s like letting yourself tell him was the last straw, and now the floodgates are open and your affection pours out of you, thick and sweet and sappy. You press a palm to his cheek, and he covers it with his hand.

“That was the night I realized I was in love with you.” You look up, think back, try to place that night on the calendar.

“That was six months ago. Right?” He nods, slow and steady.

“Yes, six months ago. Two months after that, I… miscalculated. I got it in my head that you and Reid were in a relationship. I tried to pull back, give you space, but you never seemed to want that, so I selfishly continued to spend time with you.” You curl around him, press close for several soft, slow kisses, lightly tug at his hair.

“Well, that explains why you were so confused when I told you what happened with Spencer. Why you thought you couldn’t talk to me. Silly.”

“I just wanted to do the right thing. You were happy, and I thought it was because of him.” That makes you frown, and you think of what happened that night after Spencer’s, how you came here, broken down about being rejected by another man, and Aaron, who was in love with you, was so kind and gracious and sweet, put your pieces back together. You don’t deserve him, or any of it.

“I was happy. I’m happier now,” you whisper, because any louder and you wouldn’t be able to get the words out over the lump in your throat. “And I am so in love with you.”

“I’m happier now, too,” he says, hovering over your lips, “and so in love with you.” Saturday morning is for sleeping in as long as your bodies will allow—that only ends up being 8:30, but it still feels indulgent—and puttering around Aaron’s apartment, stealing kisses because you can’t so much as brush past him without his arms winding around your waist, without wanting to push your hands up the back of his shirt and hug him.

You both get a text at noon, from Penelope, stating under no uncertain terms that the team will be meeting at a bar you frequent, at 9 PM, and that everyone is expected to attend—significant others are not only welcomed, but encouraged.

“So. If you’re alright with it,” Aaron says when he’s driving to your place—he’s dressed and ready, looks handsome in a navy shirt with his sleeves rolled up, top button undone, but you didn’t have anything appropriate to wear, so you’re heading home to change your clothes. “This could be an easy way to tell the team we’re in a relationship.”

You don’t think it will be particularly easy, especially not for you, because you’ll be hounded for information all night, but the timing is convenient, and you just love to hear him say that you’re in a relationship, so you agree. You change, head to the bar, and when you meet up, Penelope and Emily are already there.

“Hey, guys,” you say as you hug Emily, and then Penelope. “Just the two of you so far?”

“Just us single ladies,” Emily says with a sip of her drink. “You didn’t bring the boyfriend? I thought we were finally going to meet the man who’s been putting a smile on your face,” she says with a grin of her own, and you shrug your shoulders, wrap your arm around Aaron’s.

“Actually, I did.” They both look at you, at Aaron, between you, then at each other, and then they aww in unison. You turn to him, smile, and he offers to go for drinks, excuses himself with a soft look and a brush of his hand.

“Holy shit,” Penelope says, and you can’t help the smile that takes over your face.

“Yeah, I know.” Well, that was a wild ride! Thanks again @ssamorganhotchner for the prompt—I know I changed a lot of it, omitted some things, but this is what happened when my fingers hit the keys! 🤣 Taglist 🤍: @thaddeusly @arsonhotchner @mrsh0tchner @ssahotchie @sleepyreaderreads @mintphoenix @meghannnnnn @disgruntledchowchow @azenpal @g-l-pierce @my-rosegold-soul @ssamorganhotchner @heliotropehotch @angelhotchner @qtip-blog @gspenc @wishuhadstayed @averyhotchner @hotforhotchner11 @itsmytimetoodream @unicornprancing @uchihasteph @mugi-chwan95 @madamsnape921

#aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner fanfic #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfic #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x female reader #hotch x female reader #hotch x reader

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uwuwriting · 4 years

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Aizawa, Todoroki and Shinsou bringing their kids to work

Request: I just binged your whole blog and let me tell you Hawks bringing his kid to school was fhrqhelfifreh so could I request todoroki shinsou and aizawa bringing their kids to work - anonymous

Okay till the end of this week I’ll be giving you fluffy stuff because starting next week we are entering angst territory . I hope I finish the fic with Shirakumo’s daughter and then I have some angst requests to get to. So this is like a parting gift to happiness. Love ya. 💖💖💖

rules

masterlist

warnings: fluff

Aizawa Shouta

-He loves being a dad.

-Unlike his students his son, Kaito, is a very very calm two year old.

-They take naps together in their matching sleeping bags, Shouta is the only one who can feed him his vegetables and they usually grade papers together.

-You are the one who looks after Kaito while Shouta is at work and once he gets home you go off to your agency.

-So basically Kaito spends half of his day with you and half with Aizawa.

-When you were called in that morning because of a villain attack, you had to leave Kaito with Aizawa.

- “I’m so sorry Shouta, Midnight was assigned on this mission with me and I don’t really trust Hizashi with a two year old.”

-He chuckled, taking a sleeping Kaito from your arms and giving you a kiss on each cheek and then on your forehead.

- “Don’t worry kitten, I’m sure he will be an angel.”

-In the teachers lounge, before class starts for the day, nearly half of the staff is cooing over the still sleeping toddler.

-They keep complimenting Shouta about how much they look alike and how cute he is.

-He just grumbles about how he wants them away from his son.

-He was saved from the bell, dashing to his class surprising all of his students with his sudden appearance.

-They hadn’t yet seen the baby in his arms until he stirred in his sleep, a few baby words tumbling from his mouth.

-Mina was ready to let out a really really high pitched squeal when Sero slapped her mouth shut.

- “Its sleeping!”

-Aizawa just let out a sigh and set his stuff on his desk.

-He went to start his lesson like usual but that apparently wasn’t an option.

-Sir you have a baby in your arms don’t expect us to stay silent and learn something useful.

-Kaito woke up a few minutes into the whisper shouting argument Shouta was having with 18 teenagers.

-He slowly blinked the sleep from his eyes, letting out a small yawn before looking around, his e/c eyes landing on all the new faces.

-Everyone was silent, expecting the toddler to start crying at the change of scenery and at the absence of his mother but surprisingly no.

-He rested his head on Shouta’s shoulder and shyly waved at the class.

-Since he was awake Mina could be a little more vocal.

-All the girls wanted to hold him, their main mission being to make him laugh.

-Some of the boys were asking Aizawa some questions while others were entertaining the toddler.

-Kaito was really amazed by Shouto’s flames and he let out a heart warming laugh.

-Uraraka made things float around the baby while Kaminari made small sparks.

-Aizawa has never heard his baby boy laughing that much before.

-At home he’s quiet, laughing only when you tickle him or when Shouta’s stumble scratches his plush cheeks.

-Maybe taking him out more and letting the class hang out with him a little wouldn’t be so bad.

-The last person who approached the kid was Bakugou, who crouched down to his eye level and they just stared at each for a solid minute.

-Then Bakugou activated his quirk and the mini explosions made Kaito giggle and reach out to Katsuki.

-The rest of the day was spent fawning over Kaito, nothing changed even after three hours of toddler entertainment.

-When it was time to leave, the kids begged Aizawa to bring him again.

- “Maybe I’ll bring him to the dorms at some point. But don’t irritate me you brats because otherwise he’s staying home.”

Bonus:

“I heard that you, little man, were a heartthrob today!”

*baby babbling*

“Yeah he didn’t let me teach.”

“Like it bothered you.”

“I never said that”

Todoroki Shouto

-You had to go on a mission abroad for a week and today the twins’ preschool had informed you that they wouldn’t open today.

-Frantically you called Shouto, proposing some solutions to your problem.

- “I’ll take them with me.”

-He wants to spend more time with his girls anyway.

-Both of them are very curious about their parents’ job and they have asked both of you to take them to work.

-This was their chance.

-You went to protest, knowing how stressing hero work could be and not wanting to stress your husband out more.

- “Love, I want them with me. I want to spend time with my snowflakes.”

-You couldn’t argue with that.

-He woke them up and helped them get dressed, leading them to the kitchen for breakfast while he simultaneously did their hair.

-The twins aren’t really morning types so they tend to be really quiet until noon.

-Telling them what they would be doing today, Shouto grabbed his things and stretched out both of his arms.

-When people at the agency saw the youngest Todoroki with two little girls clinging to his hands they were confused.

-They knew that he had a family, you two worked at the same agency after all, but they had never seen your kids.

-And let me tell you that 90% of your coworkers are now cooing at the three year olds.

-Shouto knew that his daughters didn’t really like crowds, even Rei who was the talkative one of the two would get shy and hide behind him when new people approached.

-Because of that he scooped both girls up and quickly made his way to his office.

-A few staff members greeting him and the girls but not many stopped him.

-Once inside he set them down and went straight to work.

-The girls are really quiet in general.

-They pulled two chairs on either side of their father and sat there, coloring and doodling or just staring at his reports.

-Surprisingly, Ren asked some questions while Rei stayed quiet.

-The crowd at the entrance must have exhausted her social battery.

-Pushing his chair back, he pulled both of them on his lap kissing their foreheads before going back to his reports making small comments here and there to keep them updated.

-Rei fell asleep after half an hour and it was the cutest sight.

-Ren followed soon after, the little white and red haired humans clinging to his shirt like a life line as they snoozed off.

-He took a picture and send it to you making you jealous beyond belief.

I want cuddles too!!! 😣😣😣 Someone’s jealous.🥰🥰

-He leaned his head on one of them at some point and he too fell asleep.

-His secretary walked in to inform him of his father’s arrival and had heart eyes for the rest of the day.

-She took a picture and sent it to you, informing you that your husband was sleeping on the job.

-They were too cute though so she couldn’t bring herself to wake them up.

-But alas there’s no rest for the wicked so he woke up at some point.

-The rest of the day was spent with the three of them going to meetings, filing reports and training at the agency’s gym.

-Watching two mini Shoutos running around the gym pretending to train is top tier stuff.

Bonus

“Rei sweetheart don’t freeze your sister.”

“But she’s the bad guy!”

“Am not!” *flames flying*

“Ren don’t burn the place down.”

Shinsou Hitoshi

-Kei is actually the one who wanted to go to the agency.

-She had asked both you and Shinsou to take her with you one day.

-She may be using it as an excuse to skip day care but you do you hun.

-It was her birthday and the little shit used that to her advantage.

- “Can I come with you to work? Pretty please?”

- “Kei...”

- “And it’s my birthday today.”

-You just level Shinsou with a glare.

- This is all you

-Shrugs.

-Now you have no choice but to take her with you and hope that everything goes smoothly.

-The main reason why you didn’t want to bring her with you was the looming possibility that someone could attack and your little girl would be in extra danger.

-Hitoshi reassured you that everything would be fine.

- “Her parents are two of the best heroes in the industry, she’ll be completely fine. I promise.”

-He woke her up the next morning, scooping her up and bringing her to the kitchen for breakfast.

-She was really clingy in the mornings and wouldn’t function correctly if one of you didn’t hug her until she fully woke up.

-Hitoshi is really soft for her during her birthday.

-He’s soft for her everyday but today he’s ten times softer.

-Gets her dressed and ready for the agency and is out the door in no time.

-Shinsou talks about his family a lot.

-He has like fifteen photos of you and Kei in his office and a bunch of her drawings tapped to the wall.

-He adores his family okay?

-So your coworkers aren’t so surprised when they see the small mess of violet hair resting in his arms.

-She too doesn’t like crowds but won’t cower away.

-She’ll put on a brave face and greet the strangers with acute politeness.

-As long as one of you is in a ten inch radius she’ll be fine.

-She answers all the questions that are being thrown her way.

-She even sat there and suffered through a handful of cheek pinching.

-Shinsou sees her suffering and scoops her up, excusing them and taking her to his office.

-You kissed her forehead and headed out to your own office, making her promise to visit you at some point because you too need some cuddles during work.

- “We’ll catch bad guys momma!!”

-She is a curious little girl, so for the next two hours or so she’ll be exploring every nook and cranny of Hitoshi’s office, opening drawers and cabinets, digging through case files and boxes.

-Then she might play with Hitoshi’s capture tool before visiting you for an hour or two.

-You love having her attention but you know she’s simply taking a break from her dad’s office.

-She’ll be back to Shinsou in no time.

-Daddy’s girl.....it iz what it iz.

-Around noon she starts to get tired.

-If she was in day care she would be taking her daily nap.

-Her exploring tired her way too much and that’s why she’s now snoozing off in one of the armchairs in Hitoshi’s office.

-He draped his jacket over her and let her sleep.

-Later on you two took her to a meeting, allowing her some insight in the hero industry.

-Plus she gets to hear the tea.

-For training she tags along with you, doing some laps and trying -and failing- to do some push ups.

-At the end of the day she was exhausted, sleeping soundly on Hitoshi’s shoulder as you made your way home.

Bonus

“I don’t want her to grow up.”

“Well we could always make another one.”

“Way to be subtle mister....”

“Let me smash...”

TAG TEAM AY:

@iwaqchan @the-arcana-fan-fic @angelwritings @axerrri @reinyrei @dnarez

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thefanficmonster · 3 years

Text

Caught Red-handed

Corpse Husband x Reader (Gender Neutral)

Warnings: Swearing, Struggling with migraines

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

Summary: Having suffered from migraines all their life, Y/N knows better than to give them much attention or let them hinder their work too much. However, their boyfriend is a lot more worried than they are and has taken it as his personal duty to ease their pain as much as he possibly can.

Requested by Anon. Hi dear! Thank you so much for your request, I’m so sorry it has taken me so long to get to it, write and post it, but here it finally is and I hope you come across it and read it! I’ve never experienced migraines nor have I known someone who has so if I’ve misrepresented or written any misinformation, anyone who catches it, feel free to let me know either in the comments or in my inbox/messages! Love, Vy ❤

The first time I got a headache was in the middle of math class in eighth grade. I remember it so distinctly because I had never before experienced such sudden and such intense pain. I got to go home early that day and spent a good portion of the day trying to sleep it off but to no avail.

Since then I’ve grown used to having to deal with a pain so strong it renders me unable to function for a whole day about two times a month. Sometimes, I even try to be stubborn with it - I try to push through as much work as I can despite the migraine, but that never works out for a long time considering it ends up crippling me in the end. That’s never kept me from trying over and over again though!

Now, to contrast my nonchalance and even annoyance with these pesky attacks, is my boyfriend Corpse’s concern over them. I’ve tried explaining to him that I’ve grown used to them and that I try not to let them bother me and that he shouldn’t stress over them so much but I may as well be talking to a wall because all he has to do is see me squint my eyes or cringe and he enters concerned-mother mode. Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate it to no end, I just don’t want him worrying over something so small. Also, a minor convenience: if the migraine doesn’t hinder me from tending to my tasks, Corpse will. He’ll make sure I’m off the task I’m working and transported into bed in an instant.

That’s why I’m now clenching my jaw, struggling to maintain a poker face as I work on an important project I have to send to my boss by the start of next week. I’ve got plenty of time, but I like to stay on top of my work so it doesn’t pile on top of me, you know what I’m saying. Corpse is sitting on the couch next to me, casually glancing at me every now and then while remaining quiet as to not disturb me. So far so good, he hasn’t noticed anything and, if I didn’t know any better I would sigh in relief. There’s nothing to trigger the pain to arise any further - the lights are dim, I’m staying hydrated, and I downed two painkillers in the bathroom about an hour and a half ago - so I’m sure I’ll be in the clear at least until dinner.

“Wanna watch a movie when you’re done?“ Corpse asks, “Unless you’re tired or anything...“

I flash him a grateful smile, giving his knee a squeeze of reassurance, “I’d love to, babe. But I can’t promise that I won’t fall asleep.”

He chuckles, “Yeah, I know you’ve got a tendency of doing that.” Giving me a side-glance he adds, “It’s cute.”

I roll my eyes, already sensing a blush creeping up on my cheeks and neck which I hide by turning to face my laptop screen. One thing I can’t hide though is the wide grin that’s spread across my face as I mutter: “Shut up.”

Just then, a particularly sharp jolt of pain courses through my head, testing that ability to maintain a resting face. Thankfully, Corpse is turned in the opposite direction, searching for his phone, so I allow myself a brief cringe at the discomfort.

Guess the painkillers are dying down on me, I think to myself, a second away from sighing exasperatedly at the thought that I have to down two more. It was wishful of me to think I could enjoy the luxury of a dull ache until dinner, now the migraine is straight up mocking me.

I quietly stand up from the couch and make my way to the bathroom so I can take another dose of aspirin because I don’t think I’ll be able to focus on my work for very long if it keeps hitting me with this intensity. Opening the door to the small cabinet above the sink, I automatically reach out for the bottle of pills but stop when I see a surprise.

Directly in front of the bottle stands a note written in, you guessed it, Corpse’s handwriting.

‘Already losing effect, huh? When are you thinking of coming clean?‘

Well shoot, am I that transparent?

I sheepishly exit the bathroom, walking back into the living room where Corpse greets me with the same stance as a parent greeting their kid who’s gotten home past curfew: legs crossed, arms folded over his chest, one eyebrow raised, the whole nine yards.

“Yeah, they’re already losing effect.“ I admit, a small apologetic smile tugging at the corners of my mouth, my cheeks burning with an embarrassed blush. “And I wasn’t gonna tell you at all.” I hurry to add: “Please don’t be mad though.“

Corpse shifts slightly, his gaze giving me a onceover as he contemplates how to pursue the case. I’ve already got several arguments/defenses ready - the perks of working for a lawyer - but I know he’ll dismiss all of them no matter how strong they might come off as in court. Bottom line: even statements that would fly in court can’t fly with Corpse sometimes. Especially when my health and well-being are the topic of observation.

“What have we said about lying?“ He finally asks, causing me to cringe and ball my fists in guilt.

However, I still have my arguments ready: “You never asked me so I never technically lied.” One might say I have quite the audacity to plead not guilty right now, even though I’ve been caught red-handed, but what can I say, I’m stubborn in nature. And Corpse knows this, he’s just testing me for his own amusement.

“Poor excuse, Y/N.“ He says with disapproval, shaking his head and fully embracing his disappointed parent persona. “You’re lucky I’m feeling generous today. So, as punishment for hiding the truth from me, you are to ditch that project you’ve been bugging yourself over and come cuddle and watch a movie with me. Bonus points for you if you fall asleep.“

I needn’t be told twice - not only will it wipe that look off his features but it’ll also get earn me a movie night with the additional benefit of cuddling with my boyfriend? - how could I refuse?

I can’t help it, I just gotta push my luck here and poke the bear with a stick, “If the punishments are so sweet I might start being dishonest more often.“

Corpse rolls his eyes, scooting on the couch and tapping the space he’s freed up for me, “I said I was feeling generous, don’t bet on it happening often though.”

Alright, enough luck-pushing, I should be grateful for this generosity instead. I should be using it to the max.

So, what’s stopping you from doing just that?

Good question, brain, good question.

Head still pounding just not as intensely, I slip under the thin soft comforter to find myself not only wrapped in it but also in Corpse’s arm, his warm embrace bringing me instant comfort, walking me on the tight-rope of falling asleep right away.

“Sneaky bastard.“ I attempt to mutter, yawning halfway through.

I feel his lips on the top of my head, placing a quick and gentle kiss in my hair before he says, “You’re welcome, babe.”

Count your lucky stars, Y/N. You’ve got one of the good ones.

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spiltscribbles · 3 years

Note

Prompt: Pro Athlete Sirius because that my and Remus' kink

~Notes: OMFG VICTOrIA!!!! I FUCKING SCREECHED!!!! lkadfjlaksdgjoiaejfalskdgjioeugisfkldshg Yes tis my kink as well!!! And then I saw this from Nonny and worlds collided and BOOM! I hope you like this my love<3<3 You incredibly talented sugarplum!!! TBH I want to write a thousand more things in this AU XD

FROM THIS LIST | Send Me A Prompt!💜 | A REBLOG MEANS THE GALAXY!!💜

When Remus was young— surrounded by the light breeze of the Welsh coast and the harmony of birds chirping in the distance— he would follow his mother to their small garden behind their cottage at the cusp of twilight as his father cooked their supper, and he’d watch as she laid flat all sorts of newspapers written in French and Arabic and English, watch as she brought her red pen against the ink and marked the articles with underlines and shorthand he wouldn’t understand for years still.

He asked her once, when he was barely eight years old, why she bothered to keep up with so many different publications, why she read the same story penned by countless perspectives when all the facts stayed the same at the end of the day. And he remembers how she had let out a quick, shrill of a laugh, tossing back her golden head while sucking in a puff from the bubbling hookah she had set up besides her— a habit she acquired from her Algerian, refugee parents, and one that became synonymous to those late nights in Remus’s eyes.

“Facts can be wielded to someone’s personal vendettas, Remus John,” she had crooned in that adoring way of hers whenever she spoke to him— honey eyes that were the same color and shape to Remus’s own flashing alight and their matching smiles going crooked in her stunningly beautiful face.

“Oh.” Remus had replied, still confused as all get out but was perfectly fine with just holding his small vigil, watching her beneath moonlight and the soft glow of their outdoors lamps, as he listened to the shuffling of papers while she commenced this odd quirk.

It’s a decade and a half later— as his editor for the Phoenix, a small, but bustling online editorial that plans on dethroning the likes of Politico and Vox in only a matter of years, scans his latest findings on the corrupt boosters linked to MP Avery from Leeds— when Remus thinks he suddenly understands what his mother, with her keen eyes and pixelated air, had meant by facts in how they can be colored differently simply by the words surrounding them. And he wonders if one day soon, one of his bylines will join her little stack of stories, if she’ll be proud of him even if she says as much even now, when he’s a lost twenty-something stumbling through life in the capitol and barely making it as is, between his actual job and the gig he has at the coffee shop nearest his dingy flat he shares with three other blokes.

“Mmm, this is good, Lupin,” Dorcas declares after what feels like an eon, dropping her long, dark legs from where they were lounging leisurely on her desk and scuffs out her cigarette in a pretty, glass ashtray. “Send it over to Flores to look into deeper, maybe it’ll corroborate the info she’s already gotten from her sources.”

Remus feels himself bristle, hopes that it doesn’t show, that his face stays passive as he contends, “I think I should at least help her write the expose, I’m the one who got this bombshell.”

“That’s not how it works, sweets,” Dorcas toots, tossing back her dark head of curls as she rises, perching on the corner of her desk delicately and looking down, straight into his gaze. “I know it’s frustrating, but you’re fresh blood. barely six months here, but Alice has been with us for years. This is her baby, and we’re just here to nurture it.”

“So I’ll have to wait another ten months, at least, to get the same treatment?” He argues in an admittedly petulant way, making Dorcas laugh endearingly, and Remus is suddenly, searingly reminded of his age, and how he’s the youngest staffer that this London based news outlet has on hand.

“C’mon, love, it won’t be that long for someone as sharp as you, just be patient, and don’t try to pull a Zoe Barnes on us, yeah? You��re far too pretty to clean up on the rails of the tube.” Dorcas tousles a hand into his dark tawny curls, and Remus holds back the roll to his eyes that he feels willing up inside of him as he stands fully.

“Thanks Cas.”

She smiles beatifically, and throws him a wink. “You’re joining Emmy for the report tomorrow on those United footballers and their fundraiser for the hospital, yeah?”

“Bright and early,” Remus replies, still feels a bit miffed that he was chosen to write up the charity function, considering he doesn’t know a lick about football and doesn’t really get on with anyone who does. But Caradoc— their typical sports reporter— is out sick with the flew, so it’s on him. “I’ll have it on your desk early enough so it’ll be published by tea time.”

“Good man,” Dorcas says in thanks, picking up her crowing cellphone before waving him off.

Remus isn’t all that surprised when he strides out of the office only to find Benjy Fenwick sitting against the opposite wall, knees pressed to his chest and quickly scrambling up when he catches sight of Remus. Sometimes it’s impossible to believe that the bespectacled man in front of him is one of the top editors for the Phoenix, that he’s a regular corespondent for places like the BBC or CNN— that his rebukes against the piss poor inquiries waged during PMQs have become more anticipated than the sessions themselves. Remus tends to forget all of that when he sees him like this, messy haired and wearing a graphic T-shirt with some marvel superhero embossed on the front. “Wotcher Remus.”

“Hiya Remus says, smiling softly and rocking back on his heels. “You wanted to talk to the sergeant then?”

“Huh? Oh, no, no. I didn’t want to talk to Dorcas, I just— Erm, I know you were showing her that stuff you got from that intern, Pettigrew, and i know you were chafed about not getting any opportunity here so—“ He trails off, scratching the back of his head and studying a point over Remus’s shoulder, and it’s all too endearing, and Remus is so beyond thankful he’s made such a good friend here.

“No cigar,” he says in answer to the unspoken question, shrugging noncommittally even if he feels like shit over it.

Benjy nods, face contrite in a way that tells Remus he never thought it would’ve went otherwise. “I’m sorry, that’s bollocks.”

“’S whatever,” Remus shrugs off the apology, begins walking down the hall and straightening his report to hand over to Alice.

“Ah,, erm. We can get a drink, yeah? In commiseration,” Benjy offers, and Remus stilts only for a beat before continuing the twisting trail to where Alice is set up with the more senior members on staff. And he feels only sorta bad about wanting to refuse. He knows that if he says yes, it’ll mean something different to Benjy than it does him, that he’ll probably take it as Remus finally giving into his pestering and deciding to actually go out with him, even if he’s refuted the other four times he’s asked as much. Remus’s simply just too busy trying to get a footing in this city, and trying to figure out where he’s suppose to go from here, and what he’s suppose to do. And yes, Benjy is cute— a complete Seth Cohen archetype. And he’s sweet and smart and funny enough. But Remus is really not in the mood for doing the whole flowers and wine and candle lit dinners shtick, had gotten enough of that while still with his university boyfriend. And yeah, he’s only just turned 24, but he already feels too old and too jaded for that sort of puppy love— even if Benjy’s got a good decade and some change on him.

Probably sensing his hesitation, Benjy is quick to rectify the offer. “I’ll ask Mary, and Fabian too, and a few others. We can make a night of it, just some drinks on a Friday after work.”

Stalling by the last turn to Alice’s desk, Remus looks at him from over his shoulder, and sort of hates himself for being such a soft hearted fuck sometimes. “Yeah Benj, sounds nice. Just let me know on the group chat, yeah?”

Benjy grins, much more genuine than his awkward quirk of the lips from earlier. “Yeah, good call, I’ll let the others know pronto.”

“Aces,” Remus says, tosses him a obligatory thumbs-up before finding an expectant looking Alice who’s tapping her foot impatiently.

Yeah, today is so bloody shit.

Surprisingly, the round of drinks turns to another and then a third and fourth and Remus is currently nursing his fifth mango margarita on Benjy’s tab, and he actually feels lighter than he has since taking the job at Phoenix, feels bright and bubbling and like absolutely nothing could be wrong as long as he’s got this drink in his grasp and he’s sitting with the handful of reporters and photographers from the office that don’t all have sticks up their asses. It’s fun, it’s good. So obviously it couldn’t have lasted.

Mary is currently cackling about her Uber driver from last night who asked her all sorts of well meaning, but incredibly dense questions about her hijab— a freshly poured glass of coke in one hand, while the other is tangled into her girlfriend Emmy’s. And From his left Remus can hear Fabian ribbing Frank on his crush on Alice, while Benjy scoots intermittently closer as they watch Kingsley and Marlene sparring over something to do with a Kardashian or TikTok trend or whatever the fuck else— The guy has resilience, Remus has to give Benjy that.

“Right, who’s buying next?” Marlene asks, abrasive as ever while scrolling through her phone, ostensively finding something to prove her point against the managing editor.

“Reckon it’s my turn,” Benjy crows, standing up smoothly and glancing down at Remus with a nervous sort of half grin.

“Just a water for me, ta. I need to sober up,” Remus tells him, feels proud that he didn’t even slur slightly. Benjy bobs his head understandingly, and Remus turns to ask Marlene about her latest tinder hookup which always is a good laugh, but then he catches on it. On the sound of the pub’s doors flinging open, followed by a raucous crowd of athletic looking guys probably only a bit older than he is, clambering indoors.

They’re all so very sixth-form, broad grins and slapping each other’s shoulders with jeers, topped off with loud, bark like laughter that makes it obvious to Remus that these wankers think that they’re some sort of group of gods amongst men, roaming around like everyone should fall to their feet and offer everything they have. It makes Remus roll his eyes so far back that it feels like he might’ve sprained them. They just give off this exhausting aura that reminds him of a past boyfriend in tenth year who was on the footie team and who’s favorite activity was either making Remus feel lucky enough to go out with someone so popular, or dragging him around like some sort of bloody trophy.

To put it nicely, Remus sorta hates them on sight. So when he sees one of the tossers— regrettably the brightest of the lot who’s all pearly teeth, and glittering eyes and incredibly impressive shoulders that tape off to a narrow waste in an objectively infuriating matter— swivels up to the barkeep and jostles Benjy on his way, well Remus doesn’t hesitate to dart forwards to tell him off.

“Oi, watch where you’re going, yeah?”

Benjy and the bloke who looks like he might moonlight as a model for Calvin briefs for when he’s not lounging in a yacht off the Tuscany coast, both turn to him at the same time. Benjy looking abashed, and the aforementioned tosser preening like the cat who’s just caught a canary.

“Sorry, love. Didn’t see you there,” he says in a delightfully deep tenner, giving Remus an appreciative once over, and Remus absolutely despises how the action makes him feel both thrilled and irritated. “Trust and believe, I wouldn’t have looked away if I saw you.”

“Not me, arse.” Remus spits back, refuses to pay any credence to how his cheeks have begun to flush. “You bumped into my mate right there, the one with the tray of loggers.”

The tosser darts his almost molten gray eyes over to Benjy for a sparing second before he laser focusses back onto Remus, the most phony expression of contrition all over his face. “Sorry to your friend,” he says the descriptor like a joke that no one else is in on. “Let me buy you a drink in sorry for the one I made slim here spill.”

Remus is officially unimpressed, hopes that his flat tone gets it across. “You’re an arse.”

“You’re mouthy,” he retorts, looks like it’s something he greatly appreciates— delights over even.

“Ah, ’s fine Remus, really. I’ll just bring these back and get us a new glass.”

“Listen to slim, Remus, he’s got the right idea.” The tosser hurriedly interjects, strutting close enough to him that he makes it so Remus has to tip his head back just slightly so not to drop his gaze. “I’m Black, Sirius Black, just to get the pleasantries out of the way.” His leer tells Remus that the name should probably evoke some response of aw into Remus, but all it does is make him sound so egregiously pretentious that Remus wants to smack his own bloody head against a dry wall and stay in the hole until this ruddy Sirius bloke leaves him the hell alone.

“Good for you,” he says instead of all of that, and spots Sirius’s friends from behind Sirius chuckling and elbowing one another. Evidently this is a line the tosser uses frequently, and Remus is pleased that he might be one of the first who aren’t at all impressed by the grandiose way he introduced himself.

“Hah, you know I’m use to the pretty ones playing hard to get, but I’m really feeling here that you’re not exactly liking my company, love.”

Remus sucks in a frustrated breath through his nose, shouldering past Sirius and taking the tray of drinks from Benjy before storming back to their table where the others have begun openly gawping at the scene— Marlene outright squawking with Fabian just as Remus takes his seat.

“Don’t,” Remus warns them all as he silently says fuck off to the water and instead gargles down one of the loggers. And if he has to steadfastly not turn around for the rest of the night towards where he can feel Sirius’s gaze burning into his back— well then so be it.

The next morning, Remus has to puke twice into the toilet, and gulps down three aspirins just to stave off his bloody hangover from the night before where he decided that getting properly sloshed would prove as a good technique to not end up making out with Sirius in some dark corner— or regrettably the backseat of his car. And if he does still remember flashes of ranting to him about how insufferable preppy, rich boys actually are while Sirius gazed at him endeared— well Remus just decides to purge it out along with the stomach acid. It’s not like he’ll ever see the douche again.

He meets Arthur— one of the accountants who also helps out by taking photos for more low key news stories— outside the hospital where the conference will be taking place with the Manchester United team. There was a scrimmage that they all played with some of the kids in the cancer ward that occurred at around eight in the ruddy morning, but thankfully Remus didn’t have to show up until an hour later when the team presented their big shiny check, to the big, shiny hospital.

However, Arthur has been here for hours, so he’s beyond chirpy and looks like he’s downed three cups of espresso as he chatters on about his son Percy starting secondary school, and his eldest, Bill, getting an award for his reading prowess, and all the strange craving his wife has been having throughout her pregnancy with the twins they’re expecting any week now. And Remus loves Arthur, he does— one of the sweetest folks he’s ever met— but God, his head is still thrumming from those misguided tequila shots and he really just wants to get his three quotes, and write up the story so he can find refuge back in his sheets.

While Arthur has moved to talking about his wife, Molly’s, plans to open up a daycare in their refurnished garage, Remus scans his eyes over the familiar face of reporters from other outlets who look just as bored as him, and then to the stage where a woman in a sharply pressed suit is ushering for the group of football stars to join her, so that the conference can finally fucking begin.

And Remus thinks that their faces are sorta familiar, probably from all the publicity they get on the telly— but then he freezes as he stops at one of them with dark brown skin, and thick rimmed spectacles— and he suddenly can hear him chatting about his redheaded girlfriend and drunkenly declaring that she’ll be the mother of his children some day soon. So he completely expects it when his stomach drops as he moves his glance just a bit to the right, being struck by pearly teeth, and glittering eyes and incredibly impressive shoulders that tape off to a narrow waste, made all the more infuriating by the tight kit he’s got on and the blazing number twelve splayed against his chest.

And fuck.

Remus runs through about a dozen scenarios in which he can make a discrete, or not so discrete exit before he notices him, but in tandem to his spiraling thoughts, the wanker actually looks forwards, and like a creepy metal detector, his quick silver gaze pinpoints onto Remus.

They stare at one another for a beat before his smirk goes wolfish, and he runs a hand through his artfully tousled hair in a way that practically screams, fancy meeting you here. And holy fuck he looks so mouth watteringly attractive with that faint film of sweat running down his neck, and how his smile pulls slightly more to the left, and how he’s looking at Remus like he’s his birthday and Christmas presents all rolled into one.

Remus suddenly hates everything— but most of all hates Sirius, and how bloody fit he is.

“Oh, you’re a fan then?”

Starting, Remus shifts around slightly so that he’s facing Arthur completely. “Pardon?”

“Sirius Black I mean, you’re a fan?” Arthur asks in that abrasively congenial and intensely scrutinizing way that he treats everything. “I mean he’s a great player, but I know you don’t really watch. So I bet it’s all that charity work he does, yeah?”

“Charity work?” Remus echos, feeling like a floundering fish.

“Truly some amazing stuff.” Arthur pontificates, rubbing a hand against his jaw as he tips his head back. “I mean obviously I’m partial to the fundraising for Reporters Without Borders, but of course the things he does with the more impoverished kids is great. And I know Molly likes his very outspoken posts about being anti war and his annual live streams to earn money for refugees in those war torn nations, like the last one he did for Syria?”

“Oh—“ Remus says, feeling like his head is being overrun by a fountain of new information.

“Yes well, you don’t usually see athletes get into the thick of it with political issues, but I reckon he never really minded. I mean the fact he’s the first football star from United to have come out without any fanfare really proved that. Oh, I think they’re starting, I should probably get some photos before Dorcas gives me a tongue lashing.”

And as quick as the flash of his camera’s lends, Arthur is using his considerable height to get to a more advantageous spot towards the front, and leaves Remus in the dust, as if he hasn’t just obliterated his every assumption of Sirius from after that initial meeting.

And unbidden, the words his mother had told him so many years ago, about facts and how they can color a situation just simply based off the person who’s speaking them— flood to the forefront of his mind.

“Fucking hell,” Remus mutters lowly, gets jostled by Greengrass, a hawkish reporter from a rivaling publication who always has on the most wickedly sharp acrylic nails, and perfectly quaffed curls— as she waves around her certification to speak her inquiry.

“My question is for Potter,” she announces when the woman leading the event, McGonagall, points her way. “And I was wondering how early you boys have to rise for training during the season? And how intense the sessions are that Coach Hooch puts you guys through?”

Potter, the one with the redheaded girlfriend that Remus heard so much about last night between his ranting at Sirius, parts his lips, but it’s not his voice that ends up reverberating through the outdoors space. Instead, it’s Sirius, who’s shouldering him with a goading air, obviously expecting his comment to have only ended up in Potter’s ear and not caught by the mike.

“I wonder if Lupin will let me wake up with’m so he can let me get some real training done before practices, eh?”

And just as soon as his words pitter off, the entire crowd drops to a hush— quiet enough so that they could probably hear it if a pen dropped.

Sirius’s handsome face— strong jawline, and broad but sharp cheekbones, and a long, narrow nose— goes suddenly ashen, and he flashes over to Remus as if he’s terrified that he’ll bite his face off.

God, what an idiot.

With a long suffering sigh, Remus plucks out the microphone from a slack faced Greengrass’s hand. “We can discuss the regimen afterwards, Black. Just meet me by the front doors and let your mate answer the bloody question.”

Everyone around them falls into laughter that’s caught between uncomfortable chuckles and amazingly amused cackling, but the only person Remus is paying any mind is Sirius, and how he seems to have gone absolutely incandescent, nodding electrically before miming the zip of his lips and gesturing for Potter to carry on.

Jesus help him, Remus has no idea what he’s gotten himself into.

~My Wolfstar FIC Masterlist

~Buy Me A Coffee

#WOLFSTAR #REMUS LUPIN #SIRIUS BLACK #SIRIUSXREMUS #REMUSXSIRIUS #WOLFSTAR FLUFF #THE HARRY POTTER SERIES #MARAUDERS #HARRY POTTER SERIES #ILU Victoria!!!#also to anyone side eyeing the buy me a coffee plz do not judge me #i am so searing embarrassed about it #rip #just it's there i guess #calls;jalksdgjaeowifjsadlkgh #look away from me #!!!#lmfao #spilt ink

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youbloodymadgenius · 3 years

Text

Ivarello (Modern!Ivar x reader) Chapter 3

Moodboard by @quantumlocked310

Ivarello's masterpost here

A/N: This is my entry for @deans-ch-ch-cherrypie 500 Followers Fairy Tale Challenge. It's a retelling of Cinderella. Congrats again, darling 💖

A huge thank you to @mrsalwayswrite , who's a great beta reader and an even greater cheerleader 😂

A massive thank you to @quantumlocked310 , @vikingstrash and @serasvictoria . Thank you for agreeing to collaborate and for sharing your talent with me. Your moodboards are beyond amazing 🤩

In this story, Sigurd is alive. Ragnar and Aslaug are dead, but Lagertha didn't kill her. I took a lot of liberties with the show, I hope you won't mind.

Unlike the tale, there will be no magic involved. Not everything will be realistic, however. It's a fayritale, after all!

Let me know if you want to be tagged 😊

Summary: Orphaned five years ago, Ivar and his brothers have been living with Lagertha ever since. Now 16 years old, he wants to attend Harald's traditional Midsummer party, but obstacles stand in his way.

Warnings: description of car crash; orphaned kids; Sigurd being Sigurd; OOC characters.

Words: 3497 (oops 🙈)

Additional note: what you’re going to read is not realistic.

Enjoy 🙂

🛡⚔️🛡

With his stomach in knots and a frown on his face, Ivar watches closely his godfather, who enters the living-room, wheeling a large trolley case behind him.

"Hello, Ivar." Floki looks around, an eyebrow raised questioningly, "Lagertha isn't here?", before flopping down on the corner sofa.

"No," Ivar shakes his head, wheeling up next to him, "She's out on a date with this English guy... Hammond, Halmund or whatever his name is."

Scratching his ear, Floki tilts his head, "but she knows you're going, right?" He pulls the trolley case closer and then snorts, mumbling under his breath, "don't think I can't see you rolling your eyes!"

"What do you think? Of course, she knows. She said, and I quote," Ivar raises his hands to make air quotes, his voice tinged with obvious annoyance, "'Of course you can go, sweetie, you know I don't want to be the one holding you back. Call me if anything goes wrong. And don't forget to take your meds.'"

"She cares, Ivar." Floki's tone is soft as he places a hand on his godson's shoulder.

Ivar lowers his gaze. "You should have taken me in." His words are barely audible and suddenly he feels like he's eleven again and he has to swallow against the sudden dryness in his throat.

"You do know that back then I wasn't in a good place." Floki's sad sigh almost gets Ivar in tears as memories of his parents and Helga flood his mind. The pain in his heart becomes nearly unbearable but he fights it off with all his might. He never wants to feel broken and lost again.

Ivar lifts his head up and Floki can see the stubbornness in his eyes. "I could live with you now."

"No, you could not, and you know it!" Floki smiles and taps Ivar on the cheek. "Ivar, I live between two flights, today in Norway, yesterday in Iceland and after-tomorrow in Canada. What kind of life would this be for you, huh? And besides, living with Lagertha is not that bad."

But living with Sigurd is! Ivar wants to shout. He keeps quiet, though, shrugging before eventually mumbling. "Guess not..."

"So," Floki starts, eager to change the subject, "where are your brothers, by the way?"

"Where do you think they are, huh, you knock-kneed fool? They're already there." Ivar glances at his watch, furrowing his brow. "Harald's party started twenty minutes ago."

"We better hurry up, then!" Crouching down, Floki slowly opens the suitcase under Ivar's scrutinizing gaze.

"Quick!" Ivar commands, barely able to contain his impatience, his nervous fingers tapping his push rims. "What do you have for me, old man, huh?" He even contemplates climbing out of his chair to open it himself, but the fear of breaking a bone at the worst possible time is stronger than his eagerness.

"You're going to calm down, young Padawan." Floki quips, slowly moving his hand in front of Ivar with eyes full of mischief. Ivar immediately slaps his godfather's hand away, mumbling under his breath, "I'd rather be a Sith Lord." That earns him a loud, hysterical laugh from his godfather.

Ivar grunts, ready to protest, but all thoughts leave his mind as soon as he's able to see what is in the trolley case. The scowl on his face obvious, he doesn't even try to hide his disappointment as he utters, "you made me braces?"

He hates braces with a passion. Along with underarm crutches, he had some, as a child. They were bulky, stiff, painful and walking with them was tedious, agonizingly slow, and exhausting. Ragnar had been adamant that he wanted his youngest to walk, no matter the struggles, no matter the nearly unbearable pain. Ivar had settled his ass in a wheelchair the day of his father's funeral, getting rid of his braces shortly after, a decision he had never regretted. So no, such torture devices were not at all what he was hoping for.

"Have a little faith in me," Floki rolls his eyes. "These," he looks lovingly at the strange contraptions in his hands, "are not braces, Ivar. Have you and your crippled ass ever heard of exoskeleton?"

Ivar's eyes widen. "It's that thing used in rehab that allows paraplegics to walk, right?" As Floki nods, Ivar gives him a puzzled glance. "But, erm, you do know I don't have a spinal cord injury, don't you? Or are you suffering from memory loss? Maybe it's your age?"

Dismissing the remark with an exasperated wave of his hand, Floki hisses, "I'm well aware that you don't, godson dearest," before narrowing his eyes, his voice now serious, "you may have full sensation in both legs, yet they can't exactly support your weight and your lack of motor function can't be denied. Not really different from some paraplegic dudes, what do you think?"

Feeling a heavy lump in his throat, Ivar frowns, not pleased with the idea of him being like a paraplegic. Almost without thinking, he contracts his quads as best he can, as if he wants to make sure he's still able to do it.

Floki doesn't miss the barely-there movements in his thighs, though, and his voice softens. "Look Ivar, you're not a paraplegic, okay? But I used the exoskeleton technology. And since you're not paralyzed, I was able to make a smaller device that you can wear underneath your clothes, and you're going to walk. I mean, really walk, not just like those guys in rehab, between parallels bars and with a PT right behind them."

Ivar, his eyes bright, stares at his godfather, slack-jawed with amazement. "I'm..." He begins to sputter, voice filled with emotion, "I'm really going to walk?" Feeling like his heart is pounding out of his chest, he fails to contain his excitement, drumming the fingers of his right hand on his lap. He'd tap his feet if only he could.

"You are." Floki nods before taking out of the trolley case a pair of dress shoes. "I put dozens of sensors in the insole of these shoes, which will enable the exoskeleton to correct your stance practically every second. Therefore, you won't need crutches, although I would say it's safer for you to use this." Reaching down, he grabs a black derby-style cane, simple and sleek in design. "You know," he shrugs, "just for extra support. Better safe than sorry, hmh?"

Ivar, who doesn't even flinch when he sees the walking stick, just reaches out, his hand grazing the carbon fiber exoskeleton. "Is it really for me?" His eyes filled with wonder, his voice trembling, his lips stretch across his face as his godfather nods. "And you made this in what?... four, five days?"

Letting out his signature giggle, Floki waggles his fingers in front of his face. "Even I couldn't make this in such a short time. No, the truth is, I've been working on it for a while. Let's say your phone call just sped things up. Though I must say, this marvel of technology is not flawless... It has a really low battery life, like four hours of autonomy at best. If I had more time, I certainly could have done better, but for now, it is what it is and you'll have to make do with what you've got." Pursing his lips, he glances at his watch, "So, just so you know, if you put this on now, you'll have to come back around midnight if you don't want to have to crawl around. And if you hear a beep, you'd better hurry, okay?"

As Ivar just nods, his beaming smile never fading, Floki adds, tilting his head, "and now, go get ready, young Padawan, you have a party to attend!"

***

Sitting on a bench at the seaside, Ivar watches the party from afar, a feeling of uneasiness tightening his chest. It was a mistake. Attending to this party was a mistake. Despite the exoskeleton, despite the fact that he walks almost normally, it was a mistake. He shouldn't have come. He shouldn't be here. Anxiety surges like the swell of a wave, and he struggles to breathe. Sigurd was right: he doesn't belong here, doesn't belong to this life.

A part of him wants to leave. It would be better to run away, to go hide in his room. But he won't. He can't. Because just a moment ago he saw you. Because he's not ready to give up on you now that he is here, eventually close to you.

He recognized you the moment his eyes fell on you. Looking radiant in a polka dot dress, you're as pretty as he remembers. Pretty? Who's he kidding? The girl you were six years ago was pretty. You're a woman now, and one of the most beautiful he's ever seen.

Glowing, smiling at everyone, you didn't even see him. In his head, of course, he makes plans to approach you, even if deep down, he knows all too well he'll never muster enough courage to talk to you. You probably wouldn't want him to anyway. After all, he may be standing tall today, yet he's still a freak, a fucking cripple. He's still cursed with his bony, twisted, useless legs. He's still a burden.

Yet, there's this little voice inside of him, barely audible, whispering that you're not like this, that you never were in the first place; and that's partly why the ten-year-old boy he was when he first met you felt drawn to you almost instantly.

Closing his eyes, he focuses on his breathing and decides to take a little trip down memory lane, bringing him back to that sunny, summer day of his first – and only – encounter with you. His memory so vivid it's like it happened only yesterday.

He can't hear the chirping of birds as his brothers are loudly playing and bickering in the pool. His beloved mother is nowhere to be seen and he's willing to bet she's taking a nap, but not without first making sure he has everything he could possibly need. Lying on a sunbed in the shade of an oak, a glass of lemonade within reach and a thick book on his lap, he hardly notices his father coming into the backyard, Harald Hårfager following close behind.

Since Ivar knows Harald is here to talk business with his father, he pays no attention to the two men, who take their seats at the patio dining table.

He nearly falls off the sunbed when a tiny voice startles him. "Hello!"

Stunned, he turns his head towards the voice and comes face to face with a smiling girl he doesn't know. You. He'd say you're about his age.

"I'm Y/N," you tell him, waving your hand shyly. "I'm at my uncle's for the weekend," you keep going, pointing your finger at Harald, "and I was wondering... May I join you?" You finally ask, dragging a second sunbed closer to his.

His first instinct is to look around, because you can't possibly be talking to him. Why would you? Surely you can't have failed to spot his leg braces, nor his hideous orthopedic shoes. You can't have missed that he's a cripple.

Frowning as he sees that no one is around, he snorts, his nostrils flaring. He can tell you're wearing a swimsuit under your pink dress. What do you want, then? Are you here to mock and ridicule him or what?

"You better get in the pool with my brothers." He knows he sounds rude, not answering nor greeting you, but he doesn't care. He doesn't want to be made fun of and doesn't intend to give you the chance to do it.

Seemingly undeterred, you speak with a soft voice. "No, I'd rather not." Your smile is so genuine he can't help but think you mean no harm. "Actually," you shrug, sitting next to him, "I'd rather stay here with you, if you don't mind. What are you reading?"

Gobsmacked, he just looks at you – and gods, how pretty you are! – for a long time, unable to utter a single word. Are you truly interested in what he's reading? Interested in him? He swallows hard, his heart racing. A small smile dancing on your lips, your kind eyes never leave his as you wait, full of hope, for him to finally talk to you.

And that's what he ends up doing, almost in spite of himself. For the next two hours, he shows you his astronomy book, a gift from his godfather for his tenth birthday, and tells you about the stars, the constellations and the nights he spends watching the sky, when his mother allows him to. And for two hours you listen to him, asking a question here or there and always smiling. He's pretty sure you're not faking being interested in what he's saying.

All too soon, your uncle tells you it's time to go and you stand up with a scowl, letting out a sigh of regret. The next moment, you flash Ivar a grin. "I had a really great time with you, thanks! I'm going back to my mom's tomorrow but I hope we can spend time together again sometime, maybe next summer. I'd love to stargaze with you, you know?" With that, you lean forward and as your lips touch his cheek, Ivar's breath catches in his throat, his heart pounding like a drum in his chest.

Ivar inhales deeply. That kiss... That's when he fell madly and hopelessly in love with you. If he concentrates enough, he can still feel the softness of your lips against his skin, still smell your sweet, flowery scent.

That day, he had watched you leave with a smile on your face, already dreaming of the day he would see you again. You had said "next summer" and even though it was a long time away, he was willing to wait. In the meantime, he would have plenty of memories to recall - your joyful voice, your sparkling eyes, your lovely smile... Sure, he could wait.

And he had waited, hopeful and happier than he had been in a long time.

Not long after, however, his life had been turned upside down, his father being murdered and his mother dying in a car crash. Lost, angry, broken, and infinitely sad, he had gone through the following months as if anesthetized - barely living, hardly functioning, sometimes feeling as if the memory of you was the only thing keeping him from drowning.

Yet, and he doesn't know why – or perhaps simply because Ragnar being dead, Harald had no reason to visit anymore – he had never seen you again.

"Hello!"

His whole body freezes and he stops breathing. This voice... Your voice... He'd know it anywhere. Yet, it can't be, right? Did he fall asleep? Is he dreaming? Is one of his brothers tricking him? Why would you talk to the cripple?

"My name is Y/N." He can hear the smile in your voice. "I was wondering... May I join you?"

Summoning the courage he's not sure he has, Ivar looks tentatively toward you.

Gods! You're even more beautiful up close. Fuck. Now that you're here, right next to him, he doesn't know what to say, what to do. Panic seizes his hammering heart as a lump rises in his throat. He attempts to swallow around it to speak, to say something, anything, but the words won't come out and he finally just nods, his hand gesturing to the bench for you to sit on.

"Thanks," you give him a broad smile before taking your seat.

Ivar cannot believe his eyes. What are you doing? Did you recognize him? Why are you here, with him?

"Woul–", he sputters, struggling to find his voice, "Wouldn't you rather be there?" Pointing his index finger at the crowd gathered in front of the makeshift stage just a few meters away. He frowns, tilting his head, "the party is in full swing."

"No, I'd rather not." You shrug and as you turn your head toward him, he breathes in your sweet scent, suddenly feeling dizzy. "The guys are already drunk and really have one thing on their minds. And those who are not are boring." You lower your gaze, as if embarrassed, and it's so adorable Ivar feels like his heart is melting. "I'd rather stay here with you, if you don't mind."

Oh, he doesn't. He doesn't mind at all. The truth is, there's a fucking firework inside of him, and he barely contains the screams of happiness that threaten to escape his lips. "That's okay, you can stay," he says instead, his fidgeting fingers dancing on his lap.

Over the next hour or so, the conversation flows easily as you speak about Karasjok, the small town where you live, telling him about your mother's people, the Sami, their culture and customs.

Ivar shares with you bits and pieces of his life too, speaking about his passion for the Viking culture and about his belief in the ancient gods. The night, his night, is full of your laughs, full of your smiles, full of you. He wants it to never end.

He's still trying to figure out if you know who he is, if you remember meeting him once when you rise to your feet, almost bouncing with enthusiasm. "Walk with me, will you?"

He's about to break the truth about his inability to walk when he remembers that actually, thanks to Floki, he can. His eyes never leave yours as he grabs his cane with a little bit of self-consciousness, wincing as he stands up, but he can't see disgust, contempt, or disappointment on your face and your smile doesn't falter as you delicately slip your hand under his free arm, curling your fingers back over it. Shaken by your sudden proximity, Ivar feels goosebumps rising on his skin.

"It's such a lovely night and I'm so happy spending it with you."

Your words leave him speechless as you lead him close to the water. A bunch of guys can be seen in the distance and Ivar is pretty sure his brothers are among them. He can feel their heavy stares on him and doesn't need to hear them to know what they're saying. "Who's this dude? Do we know him?" Standing tall, with his braided hair and a blue suit, he knows he doesn't look like himself. Yet, as he locks eyes with Hvitserk for a second, he'd sworn he sees a hint of recognition crossing his brother's face. And as the latter gives him a thumbs up, he knows his mind is not playing tricks with him.

"Oh, I love this song!" You clap your hands twice before shrugging shyly. "Let's dance, please!"

Ivar's heart breaks. Scared out of his wits, he swallows hard, his breathing uneven. "I... I can't." It's a painful admission, and he wishes the ground would just swallow him up.

He realizes you pay no mind to his defeated tone, though, as you grab his cane, leaning it against a nearby tree. "We'll go slow, I promise."

Almost in spite of himself, he places his hands on your hips as you wrap your arms around his neck. Gently – cautiously – swaying to the music, Ivar leans in close and, inhaling deeply your delightful scent, he feels like he's going to spontaneously combust. Your head resting on his chest, he's sure you can hear his frantic, pounding heartbeat. But he can't bring himself to care, not when you're finally exactly where he wants you to be. In his arms.

That's why he doesn't hear the first beep, or if he does, he doesn't pay any attention, entranced by your beauty, your kindness and the mesmerizing color of your eyes.

But when you stop dancing, your eyebrows raised, "What's that beeping noise? It doesn't stop," he hears it too, cold sweats washing over him as panic courses through his body.

"I... I must... I must go," he stammers, and honestly he's about to throw up. He can't think, can't speak. All he knows is that he doesn't want you seeing him crawling around. He won't allow it. He can't.

Fuck.

That's why he leaves. He just strolls off. He doesn't see the appalled look you're giving him, doesn’t' realize he's leaving his black cane behind, doesn't hear the despair in your tone as you shout, "wait, please! I don't even know your name!"

He has only taken a few steps when crocodile tears run down his cheeks, blurring his sight. It hurts so much he could scream, and he can barely breathe as the realization starts to sink in. Who was he trying to fool? Sigurd had been right all along. No matter the exoskeleton, no matter the genius of his godfather, he's still a freak. A monster. An abnormality.

He doesn't belong. He's not worthy.

Fuck.

His heart shatters in a thousand pieces.

Fuck.

Y/N.

Fuck.

🛡⚔️🛡

Ivar's taglist: @waiting4inspiration @honestsycrets @lisinfleur @saldelys @gearhead66 @inforapound @readsalot73 @milkkygirls @xbellaxcarolinax @shannygoatgruff @zuxiezendler @hecohansen31 @lonewolf471 @fuckindiva @tgrrose @didiintheblog @peachyboneless @pieces-by-me @funmadnessandbadassvikings @ethereallysimple @destynelseclipsa @cocovikings23 @xceafh @mrsalwayswrite @deans-ch-ch-cherrypie @pomegranates-and-blood @jadelynlace @grimeundglow @quantumlocked310 @alexhandersen-marcoilsoe-fandom @adrille88

Ivarello's taglist: @not-another-viking-fanfic-blog @hashimily @prepare4trouble @supernaturalvikingwhore @funmadnessandbadassvikings @heavenly1927 @dini73

#ivar #modern ivar #modern!ivar #modern-ivar #modern ivar x reader #modern!ivar x reader #ivar x reader #ivar the boneless #ivar ragnarsson #ivar imagine #ivar fic #ivar fanfic #ivar fanfiction #ivar vikings #vikings ivar #cherrypie’s500 #fairytale retelling #ivarello

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nugnthopkns · 3 years

Text

i wish i could disappear

word count: 3.6k

warnings: explicit!fem reader, cursing, feelings of anxiety due to social media harassment, invasion of privacy that border on stalking

recommended listening: brutal | olivia rodrigo

series masterpost: here

a/n: and we're off to the races!! i love this album and olivia so much. there's a shoutout to goon by tobias jesso jr. in here bc it's my favourite album to cry to lmao (highly recommend giving it a listen!). i'm on the fence about this one but am posting it anyways because i don't think i can make it any better

How the fuck do people find your social media?

All of your accounts are private and Kevin makes sure to never tag you on the rare occasion he posts a picture of the two of you together. The wives and girlfriends who have public accounts make sure to never post about you, and you’re careful not to comment on posts often. You’re a private person and though you understand that due to the nature of your relationship with Kevin you intrigue some fans, you don’t want to give them more than you have to.

Despite making no attempt to open up to the public or media, every day you wake up with hundreds of follow requests from complete strangers. At first it was a little exciting knowing that people were curious about your life but after years of the same routine it’s become draining. It takes you nearly twenty minutes each day to weed through them and accept only the people you know personally. Kevin doesn’t actually know how many people want to catch a glimpse of your daily life because you do your best to keep it from him. Knowing would only bring him stress, and you want him to be able to focus on winning games and loving you with his entire heart.

☼☼☼☼

The phone on your desk rings loudly, pulling your attention away from the computer screen that has way too many numbers on it for your liking. The finance department needed someone to proof their audit before sending it away and since you’re the only one in human relations that has a business degree the job landed on your shoulders. Eager to take a break, you pick it up and press the receiver against your ear.

“Hello?”

The voice on the other side laughs gently, but you immediately know it’s Kevin. “Hi sweetheart,” he says warmly, “How’s work?”

“Fine I guess. It’s work, Kev. Nothing terribly exciting happens here,” you explain but continue to fill him in on all the coffee pot gossip you got this morning. Kevin listens as you complain about forgetting your lunch on the counter and chuckles at how upset the situation makes you.

“What if I told you I’m outside your window with a burrito bowl?”

Excited at the possibility of seeing your boyfriend before dinnertime, you whip towards the window and spot Kevin on the sidewalk, waving like an idiot despite knowing your office is on the fifth floor. You hang up quickly after telling him you’ll be down in two minutes and let the receptionist know you’re stepping out for lunch. There’s a line for the elevator so you head to the stairwell, taking them two at a time in your haste. You’re crossing the street to the small park where Kevin has set up a picnic before your co-workers are even out the door.

You plop down on the blanket beside Kevin and lean into him. He presses a sweet kiss to your forehead before passing you the food he brought. You take a bite, sighing at the taste. Kevin knows you better than you know yourself and knew exactly what to get that would satisfy your mounting hunger.

“Thanks babe,” you smile, holding up your fork and offering him a bite. He takes it graciously but makes a face. “What’s the matter?” you laugh as you take the utensil back.

“I fucking hate avocado.”

The two of you eat in relative silence, speaking only when you remember a detail from your morning. Kevin tells you about the drills he’s going to lead at practice in the afternoon and what he plans on cooking for dinner since he’ll be home before you. You insist you can whip something up when you get home but Kevin shakes his head. He reminds you that relationships are give and take, and that you’ve made dinner the past three nights because he had a string of games. You manage to reach a compromise that has you doing the dishes before you have to return to work.

Kevin insists on walking you back to your office even though you protest vehemently. Your relationship is far from secret, and has been the topic of workplace gossip more times than you can count, but after five years you’ve learned to ignore most of it. However, you don’t want your co-workers to think you flaunt your NHL player boyfriend to prove you’re better than them. They all love Kevin, and a couple of them congratulate him on last night’s goal as he follows you down the hall. A few of the newer hires stare in awe and shake his hand, completely blown away that one of Philadelphia’s biggest stars is asking how they like their jobs.

“Pretty soon they’re going to approach you to do PR for us,” you chuckle as you flip the light on and close the door of your office.

His laughter echoes off the walls as a pair of strong arms find a home around your waist. “It would be kind of fun to hear myself crush those radio commercials.”

“Since when do you listen to the radio?”

“Checkmate,” Kevin sighs, pulling you closer. He kisses you quickly, not wanting to give a show to anyone who could be walking past, but it still sends you reeling. You don’t want him to pull away and kiss him again.

You get your way for a few more moments and then Kevin’s leaving with a promise to not burn the house down and wishes for a good rest of the day. Focussed on giving the audit its final once-over you don’t bother pulling your phone from the drawer you had placed it in when you got to work that morning. You turn up the small radio at the corner of your desk and get to work scanning the document for errors. There’s a mistake halfway through that skews the rest of the data and fixing it takes a bit of time, but it isn’t a huge deal. You have nothing else to do except answer a few emails and organize meetings for after the weekend.

An hour or so later you’ve completed all your tasks and debate what to do. It’s too early to leave for the day, so you decide to kill time by checking your phone. You’re expecting a few notifications, perhaps two or three memes in the group chat you share with your friends, but not the hundreds that greet you.

The majority of them are instagram notifications, and assuming they’re just more fans requesting a follow you ignore them, instead heading to your text messages. There’s a picture from Kevin of a dog he found walking home and another from your mom asking why you haven’t called home in a few weeks. However the one from Claude’s wife is the one that piques your curiosity.

Just a heads up that someone posted a pic of you and Kev to one of those stupid wag pages. I filed a request for Instagram to take it down but it’s gotten a lot of traction. Sorry :((

Your heartbeat increases rapidly and a million thoughts fly through your head at a rapid speed. Fingers shaking, you respond with a thanks and open up the dreaded app. You don’t see it immediately, your feed being full of photos belonging to friends and family, but it’s in your messages almost two hundred times. Many of them have text attached and you know there will be a comment about your relationship regardless of which one you open.

Tapping on the most recent message you brace yourself for the worst. The new window opens a photo someone took of you and Kevin while eating lunch in the park across from your office not even three hours prior. It’s grainy and the camera angle is strange, but you’re eating and Kevin is looking somewhere out of frame. The accompanying caption reads Kev and his girlfriend out for lunch today! Follow @philllywagupdates for more :).

You let out a sigh of relief – it could have been a lot worse. Personal pictures of yourself have made it onto pages like that before and most of them they’re paired with mean-spirited captions about your appearance or other trivial matters. Assuming you’re in the clear, you head back to the page of the original message to thank the person for bringing the post to your attention. However, the message accompanying the post is anything but positive.

He can’t even fucking look at you. It’s only a matter of time before he leaves you

The blood in your veins runs cold. You know it’s not true – Kevin’s made it clear you’re the one and truthfully you’re just waiting for a ring – but it doesn’t stop the sting you feel. What could possess someone to say such horrible things? You decide not to respond despite, possibly opening another can of worms with the seen function, and close the app. Leaning back in your office chair you focus on anything but your phone, looking out the window at passersby while regaining your breath. It works for a while, but eventually not knowing what others said eats away at you. You go through every single message to see hundreds of similar comments to the first, with only a few saying they’re glad you’re happy or how posting the picture is a violation of your privacy.

By the time you’re finished your spirit has been crushed. However, it’s also an acceptable time to start the weekend – at least no one in the office will have to see you cry. Things are hastily packed into your bag and you wave a few quick goodbyes before once again taking the stairs. You curse yourself for deciding to walk to work that morning and set off in the direction of home wiping away tears. The last thing you need right now is for someone to recognize you, but you have to get home. Tobias Jesso Jr plays at much too loud a volume through your headphones and Kevin will most certainly remind you it’s bad for your hearing, but the melancholy piano riffs of Goon overpower the thoughts swirling around your head.

Do people really feel that way about me?

Are my friends just too nice to stop inviting me places?

Does Kevin really feel trapped?

Hundreds of similar sentiments and situations cross your mind as you stumble through the streets of downtown Philadelphia, but you force them as far back as possible before opening the door to the apartment you share with Kevin. Hoping to slip inside undetected, you take your shoes off slowly and throw your jacket on the end table instead of hanging it in the closet. Your plan fails somehow and Kevin hears you, greeting you in a goofy apron covered in flour.

“Hey sweetheart,” he smiles, but it drops once your eyes meet and he sees the hurt on your face. “What’s the matter?”

“It’s nothing,” you insist, trying to step around him in pursuit of the bathroom.

Kevin doesn’t buy it and sees right through your feeble words. “It’s not nothing if you’re this upset. If you don’t want to talk now that’s fine, but I think you should get it off your chest.”

You know he’s right, but you also know you can’t tell him the true cause of your despair. “Just some work stuff,” you sigh. “The audit got all fucked up and I had to fix it even though it’s not my job.”

It’s not technically a lie, which makes you feel better, and Kevin buys it. He presses a sweet kiss to your lips in sympathy. “Go take a shower and the gnocchi should be ready by the time you’re done. We can spend the night cuddling on the couch.”

“And watching Selling Sunset?”

“We can watch whatever you want sweetheart,” he chuckles. You part from him with a final kiss and head to the bathroom. Hopefully the steam from the water will carry away the negativity brought on by that damn post.

☼☼☼☼

Time passes but the hateful comments on social media don’t stop. In fact, you’re pretty sure they get worse. It’s so bad that you’ve deleted every app except facebook because you need it for work. Kevin doesn’t notice your abstinence from social media, but he picks up on how you spend more time criticizing yourself or staring off into space. When he pushes you either brush him off or feed some bullshit excuse about how work is getting you down. You know he doesn’t believe you but trusts you enough to come to him when you’re ready to talk.

You aren’t sure if you’ll ever be able to tell Kevin what’s been going on. There’s been scrutiny from social media before, when you first started dating, but it quieted down after the initial media frenzy. He helped you through that but it’s different this time around. Never before have you had strangers tell you your life is worthless or that your boyfriend should end your relationship. Some of the other wags notice your absence on instagram but chalk it up to you just taking a break. They reach out via the group chat and send wishes to see you at the next home game. It’s nice to know they care, but the voice in your head that has grown much larger in recent weeks tells you they don’t truly mean it. This leads you to decline the invite as politely as possible, citing extended work hours for your absence. In reality you’re too anxious to be anywhere that isn’t home or work, petrified someone is going to post something that will add fuel to the flames of those who interrogate you.

It’s another Friday afternoon, and you’re leaving the office early once again. There’s a small craft exhibition taking place around the corner from work and today is the last day it’s open. You had been meaning to go all week, hoping to find something small to add to Kevin’s birthday gift. As you step out of the building there’s a small group of young women, who don’t look old enough to have graduated college, standing off to the side. It fills you with dread, worried that somehow someone found out where you work and the insults are going to start occurring verbally, but you force yourself to be rational. You work fairly close to one of the artsier districts in the city and it’s more than likely they just want to find a cute mural to take pictures in front of.

You pass by and swear you hear them snicker, but you remind yourself you’ve just been jumpy lately. When they peel from their place on the wall and follow behind at a distance you think the coincidences are running out. It seems a little too strange how their movements line up with yours, and you go down a few winding side streets in an attempt to lose them. Part of you feels ridiculous because what group of barely legal girls would track a full-blown adult around a city of nearly two million people, but your life is currently strange enough you can’t be sure. They don’t follow you, and by the time you reach the market your heart rate has returned to normal.

The first few stalls have little to catch your eye, but a few rows in you find a leatherworker who makes adorable wallets. Kevin’s is ridiculously old and falling apart at the seams – his mom bought it for him before the two of you got together. You think a new one will make a perfect addition to the concert tickets you already bought and browse the table for something simple and elegant. A deep brown one with tan braiding around the edges catches your eye and you know it’s the one for Kevin. Checking the price to make sure you have enough cash in your wallet, you approach the shop owner to purchase. The older man has a kind smile that reaches his eyes as he thanks you for purchasing from him.

“No, thank you for making something so beautiful!” you gush. “My boyfriend is going to love it.”

It’s then you hear it – snickering accompanied by the click of a camera. You look over your shoulder to see the same group of girls from before laughing as they huddle over a cell phone, no doubt already starting to broadcast the photo across the internet. Tears prick at the corners of your eyes but you refuse to let them fall. Those girls don’t deserve to see their mission accomplished, but the longer they laugh at you the harder it is to swallow your feelings.

Head held high, you thank the owner one more time before holding your head high and walking past the group. The only way out is past them so you hold your breath and pray they don’t notice you. Unfortunately you aren’t that lucky, and one of them looks up just as you come into earshot.

“If Kevin doesn’t leave you after that sorry excuse for a gift I don’t know what’s wrong with him,” she sneers.

Another one chimes in, “You’re honestly so pathetic.” They all cackle in amusement, and you speed up. The tears flow freely now, and you call an uber even though it will be a ridiculous amount of money. You just want to get home.

The uber driver doesn’t say anything when you get in, though you know it’s strange to be bawling your eyes out at four in the afternoon. You can’t help it – weeks of keeping all the hate to yourself finally got to you and being followed with the sole intent of ridicule is the final straw. At one red light he silently passes you a box of tissues, which you accept gratefully.

Luckily the lobby of your apartment complex is empty and you manage to get to your floor without encountering a familiar face. There’s a few hours until Kevin gets home from his final roadtrip of the season, and if you play your cards right you can get all the tears out and be as normal as possible before he comes through the door. You don’t even bother to put anything away, just head straight to the bathroom to slump against the tub. Sobs rack your body and you lose all sense of time. All you can feel is the hurt you’ve been holding in releasing itself and soaking the material of your blouse.

Kevin finds you laying in the position hours later. He tripped over your shoes coming in the door and immediately knew something was wrong – you always place them neatly on the rack in the closet upon arriving home. Peering through the quiet house for a hint at where you are, he sees the bathroom light on and makes a beeline for the room. It breaks his heart to see you like this, and even more so because he doesn’t know what spurred it on.

“Sweetheart, hey,” he coos, maneuvering his body to sit beside you and pull you into his lap. “What’s the matter?”

You bury your head in his shoulder and clutch the material of his dress shirt as you cry harder at the sound of his voice. Kevin takes your reaction in stride, rubbing circles on your back and working on evening out your breath. He doesn’t pressure you to speak and provides the stability you desperately crave as the world around you spins. An unknown amount of time passes before your tears run out, but spend it all on the bathroom floor curled into Kevin.

“I guess I should have told you sooner,” you mumble, “But I didn’t want to bother you.”

Concern laces Kevin’s features and his eyebrows knit together. “Tell me what?”

“I, uh, have been the subject of some internet hate for the past little bit,” you say sheepishly. It feels stupid to not have told him now, but you can’t change that. “But you were really busy with the season and I wanted to make sure your head was completely focused on the game so I just dealt with it myself. I deleted the apps and tried my best to go about my life. And then today after work I was followed by some people and they said some really hurtful stuff and shit became a little too real.”

“I’m so fucking sorry.”

It’s your turn to be confused. “Why are you sorry Kev? You're Not the one sending me death threats.”

He tucks a loose strand of hair back into your ponytail. “Maybe not, but I still made you feel like you couldn’t talk to me about what was going on. What kind of partner am I?”

“The best one,” you say confidently. “It’s okay, I’m okay. I just want to forget about it right now. Can we just disappear for a little bit?”

Kevin wraps his arms around you tighter, as if he can engulf you to protect from the cruel outside world. “We can do whatever you want. If you want to get out of the city for a bit if you want, or just spend the next few days here away from prying eyes.”

“I love you.”

You say it because you mean it, and if you could scream it from the rooftops you would. Kevin is incredibly easy to love, even when you make it difficult for him to love you back. You know another much longer conversation is coming about everything that has happened recently because communication is the only way to solve problems and Kevin deserves that, but you’re thankful he’s willing to put it to rest for a few more moments.

He cracks a smile for the first time since he’s been home and kisses the crown of your head. “I love you too sweetheart,” he whispers, “Always and forever.”

Things are far from over and though you still never want to show your face in public ever again, you know that Kevin is going to do whatever he can to make things better and that’s enough for you.

☼☼☼☼

taglist: @ricohenrique @tortito @boqvistsbabe @iwantahockeyhimbo @himbos-on-ice @2manytabsopen if you want to be added just shoot me an ask :)

#i don't love this but here it is!!!#one day i'll like the stories i write #kevin hayes imagine #kevin hayes x reader #kevin hayes fic #philadelphia flyers imagine #nhl imagine #nhl fic #hockey imagine #hockey fic #cwrites #sour

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young-dumb-and-vaccinated · 3 years

Text

The Cult Girl (Hannibal x Female!Reader) pt. 13

Hello friends we have come to the end of Cult Girl. Thank you all for hyping me up throughout this story and giving me the confidence to actually post my work. Y/n and Hannibal throw a dinner party.

The sunlight streamed in through the window, illuminating the entire kitchen in that homey mid-morning glow. You were enjoying your coffee and scrolling through an article on your phone.

"Senator Hatch reportedly coughed up his late wife's toe on the floor of the precinct." You read out loud. "Huh. Wonder how that could have happened."

You side-eyed Hannibal, who was contentedly sharpening his knives. Placing a rather large meat cleaver to the side, he met your gaze. "I have my ways."

You finished off your coffee and brought the mug to the sink. "There was no way Theresa was going to survive that night, was there?"

"Clever girl." Hannibal praised.

"You were going to kill her if I didn't, were you?" You felt a smile coming on. "Did everything turn out as expected?"

"Darling, this all went much better than I could have ever hoped for." He smirked. "See, I had the whole evening mapped out. I was hoping you'd be the one to deliver justice and kill her, but I had to prepare for the possibility that you wouldn't."

You folded your arms and leaned against the island. "Is that why I was so sick that day?"

You could have sworn you saw some hesitation in Hannibal's face. Maybe even a touch of regret. "Yes. You needed an alibi. It was as easy as removing a single birth control pill from your packet. You'd see it was missing and think you'd already taken your medicine-"

"So I'd neglect to take my focus meds." You cut in. "Yeah, I knew something was off."

"By the end of the day, you'd be experiencing full withdrawal symptoms." Hannibal nodded. "I don't take any pleasure in upsetting the delicate balance of your brain chemistry, and for that I am sorry. I did what I had to."

"Yeah, don't ever do that again." You ordered, no disarming smile in sight. "I need those meds to function."

"I promise you, darling," Hannibal said, sincerely. "I would never keep you from being anything but your very best. I was just looking after you."

"I suppose now that all this is out in the open, you won't need to pull any shit like that again." You muttered. "But I'm still going to keep my pills at my apartment."

"That reminds me." He said. "Would you like to invite your roommates for dinner tonight? I've prepared a wonderful Spanish-inspired menu that's perfect for entertaining."

"I'd love for you to meet my friends, but, they all keep such weird hours I doubt they'll all be free tonight." You shrugged. "I'll give them a call though."

"Wonderful." He smiled. "You make arrangements while I prepare the kitchen."

You stepped into the office and called up Pilar. She answered within the minute.

"[F/N]!" She near shouted. "Holy fuck, how are you doing?"

"I'm actually doing..." you looked back into the kitchen, watching your beloved Hannibal in his element. "Really well."

"I heard about your cousin." Pilar cut in. "One down, two to go."

You snorted. "No fucking shit."

"Sorry, was that okay for me to say?" She apologized. "I know you said Theresa was a bitch, but it's your trauma and I-"

"No, you're fine." You laughed. "She was a bitch. Hey, do you have any plans tonight?"

"Uh, no. I don't think so." She answered. "Why?"

"Hannibal wants to invite you all for dinner tonight." You said with an audible smile. "Y'know, to celebrate the bitch's death."

"Yo! Steph!" Pilar shouted across the room. "Wake Randy up! We're having dinner at [F/N]'s rich boyfriend's house!"

You could make out Stephanie's voice in the background. "It's about damn time. We've been waiting for her to redistribute the wealth."

"She means thank you for the invitation." Pilar corrected.

"It's not like I had to twist his arm or anything. It was his idea." You chuckled. "He loves having guests. And excuses to dress up."

"Oh so we're getting fancy, huh?" Pilar's voice turned up in excitement.

"Hey [F/N]!" Randy snatched the phone from Pilar. "Text me the menu for tonight. My girlfriend'll steal a nice bottle of wine to pair. She's a pro, she works over at Cavatappi's wine and spirits."

"Much obliged, Randy." You said. "I'll see you guys at seven."

You returned to the kitchen with a smile. "They're coming."

"Well, we don’t have a moment to lose, then." Hannibal placed something wrapped in butcher paper on the counter. "Come now. Let me show you how to properly prepare a heart.

You and Hannibal spent the rest of the morning and the whole afternoon preparing a bountiful meal. You reveled in the irony of finally finding a space for Theresa in your life. That space just so happened to be on the stove.

Seven came far too quickly, but your friends were always a welcome sight. You greeted them at the door with hugs, Hannibal watching with stoic adoration.

"Guys, this is Hannibal Lecter, my partner." You introduced. "Hannibal, this is Pilar, Stephanie and Miranda."

"It is a pleasure to meet you, ladies." Hannibal greeted. “Please, make yourselves comfortable.”

"Here you go, Dr. Lecter." Randy handed him a bottle of wine. "Thank you for inviting us."

Hannibal examined the bottle. "Yes, this will pair quite nicely with our meal. Thank you very much. [F/N], could you show our guests to the dining room?"

You nodded and accepted the bottle, given the extra responsibility of pouring. You led your friends to the dining room and wasted no time distributing the alcohol.

"A toast." Stephanie rose her glass. "Too many of history's worst have had the privilege of dying on their own terms. Today, we celebrate the death of one who didn't: Theresa [L/N]."

"She will join her sisters Nancy Reagan and Madame Nhu in hell tonight." You concurred, tapping your glasses together with a series of satisfying clinks.

"Okay, you need to spill." Randy scooted her chair up and leaned towards you. "How the hell did you get away with it?"

"Well, it helped a lot that her husband was already a felon." You teased. "If I didn't kill her, he was going to eventually."

Pilar made a face. "I can't believe it took actual murder to get that latter-day lump thrown in prison."

"Well, the LDS church is a very influential organization with a stronghold on all of Utah." You explained. "There's a long history of legitimizing sex abuse there."

"We know, cult girl." Stephanie laughed. "You remind us every time your pedophile cousin-in-law comes up. Relax and take your victories where you can get them.”

“Ladies,” Hannibal entered. You rushed to his side to help him with the dinner plates. “Have we ever tried organ meat before?”

Everyone’s eyes found Pilar.

“Braised liver is delicious and you guys are just cowards.” Pilar protested. “I will die on this hill.”

Hannibal smiled and presented your friends with their plates. “You are a woman of good tastes, Pilar. Our first course is Riñones al Jerez.”

“Kidneys.” Randy translated. “Who’s kidneys are we eating today, Dr. Lecter?”

He tilted his head. “Theresa’s, of course.”

“I don’t care whose organs you harvested.” Stephanie said, her eyes rolling back into her head. “This is delicious.”

You and Hannibal shared a glance and a smile.

You and your roommates devoured the Riñones al Jerez, then dug into the next serving of heart stewed with chickpeas and olives. You finished off the evening with natillas de leche and a bottle of Sauternes Hannibal just happened to have lying around.

“This is the first time since like, Keith Raniere got sentenced that I’ve seen [F/N] happy-drunk.” Stephanie observed.

“Or even just... happy." Pilar said, looking at Hannibal. "I'll have some of whatever she's having, please."

"My pleasure." Hannibal poured her another glass of wine.

Your phone began to buzz on the table, capturing the attention of your guests. You didn't even need to look at the caller ID to know who it was. Nobody else in the world had such horrid timing.

"Shit, you've got to answer it here!" Stephanie pleaded. "So we can all give her a piece of our mind!"

You looked over to Hannibal, who you knew was just as curious.

You dragged the answer icon across the screen and put it on speaker. You gestured for your friends to be quiet. "Yeah?"

"Well look who finally decided to pick up." Grandma said. "Thank you for gracing me with your attention. I know you have so much going on right now, you're just too busy to pick up the phone and talk to your grieving grandmother."

"For your information..." you stumbled over your words. "I was interrogated by the police yesterday. I think that counts as having something going on."

"Are you drunk?" Her voice was laced with a disproportionate level of disgust.

"I'm grieving too, Beatrice." You counter. "What, suddenly you're the only one who can drink the pain away? That's not very democratic of you."

"In your state, you shouldn't even be thinking of alcohol!" Grandma scolded. "You of all people should know the effects alcohol has on an unborn baby."

You smacked yourself on the head. Of course Theresa would plant a seed to fuck you over one last time. "Did Theresa actually tell you I was pregnant?"

"It was her last message to me, actually. Anyway, you're coming home." Grandma said, without so much as waiting for a response. "I won't have my great grandchild living in that dangerous city that your cousin was killed in."

You exchanged looks with your friends, who were going through the same combination of emotions as you were. Grandma's words just seemed to fade out as you shared an entire nonverbal conversation with the people around you.

"And you're leaving that terrible, terrible man."

Hannibal raised an eyebrow and looked at you, waiting to see how you'd respond. You knew what you had to do. It was finally time. You did something you should have done a long time ago.

"No." You said, your nerves loosened by the wine.

"What?"

"No. And I mean it." A big smile crossed your lips. "Theresa lied to you. I'm not pregnant. And you have to live with the fact that your granddaughter's last words to you were a blatant lie."

Hannibal looked at you with pride and your friends began to silently gas you up with encouraging gestures. "

"...And that you're the only one to blame for her deception." You continued. "You raised her in your own image."

"This is why I refuse to let you raise my great grandchild with that man!" She wailed. "He's twisted your mind against me! He's made you cruel!"

"Hannibal made me see clearly that you made me cruel." You said with absolute certainty. "You'll never see me again."

"Don't be like your mother, [F/N]." Grandma snarled. "Don't cut people out for trying to help."

"You'll never see me again." You repeated and decided to leave it at that. You ended the call and blocked the number, joined by an eruption of excitement from your friends.

It was finally over. Your life could truly begin.

#hannibal nbc #hannibal x reader #hannibal lecter #hannibal x you #cult girl

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onecanonlife · 3 years

Text

Wilbur has never had wings. He has long since resigned himself to that fact. However much of his father's blood runs through his veins, it is not enough to grant him that gift.

Wilbur comes back to life, and his back begins to ache.

(word count: 6,141)

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

It’s stupid, but when his back first begins to ache, he assumes it’s old age.

The thing is that he doesn’t have any real frame of reference for what constitutes as old and what does not. His father is old, but his father has lived for literally thousands of years. Technoblade is not quite so old as that, but Technoblade never dies is more than just a catchphrase. Tommy is young, he’s sure of that much, but Tommy has days where he wakes up and his head and ribs won’t stop aching, remnants of that third death that have never quite left him, so Tommy is perhaps not the best gauge of what pains are and are not normal for a young person.

Wilbur doesn’t think that he’s particularly old. He’s still not yet thirty, unless he counts the void years. Then, he’s older than thirty. Then, he’s older than his own bones. He tries not to dwell on the void years, because dwelling on the void years gives him urges that he’s still learning how to ignore. Urges like informing everyone gaily and at length when the inevitable heat death of the universe will be, or giving everyone a graphic description of what happens at a microscopic level in the human body when it picks up a stomach bug.

The point is, he’s not very old. But he feels it, a lot of the time, so when he wakes up one morning and his back is killing him, he shrugs it off and goes about his day. It hurts, sure. It hurts kind of a lot. But he’s had worse. The void took him apart molecule by molecule and put him back together again so many times that he learned to love it, and compared to that, this is nothing at all.

Life in the Arctic has been—nice. It’s been nice, reconnecting with Phil, cautiously rebuilding his relationship with Technoblade. Tommy comes to visit a lot, and it’s odd, trying to juggle the kid he thinks of as a brother with his father and his father’s best friend, especially when there’s so much bad blood between the lot of them, but they make it work. And Ranboo is around a lot, and he’s a nice kid, and Niki stops by every so often, and it’s good to see her. No one else is very interested in coming to visit him, which is understandable, but she always smiles at him, and he knows that they’re still friends. Which is good.

He’s fairly sure that the four of them, Phil and Techno and Niki and Ranboo, have some sort of secret club thing going on. They always give him different answers when he asks about it; Niki blinks and tells him it’s a book club, and Ranboo does not blink because he does not have eyelids, but Ranboo claims that it’s a pet grooming society. So they’re lying to him for sure, and he thinks he could know the truth if he wanted to, if he tapped in just a bit more to those bits of void that have nestled in his heart. The temptation is strong, sometimes, but he resists.

He doesn’t want to mess with a good thing, is all. He’s found a peace here in the snow that he didn’t think he would be able to find outside of the grave. He is hesitant to call himself healing, but most days, when his head cries out for blood and fire and burning the world and himself along with it, he can push the idea away and carry on without trying to act on it. That is healing, perhaps.

Captain Puffy tells him it is, anyway, and he’s found that Captain Puffy tends to know what she’s talking about.

But so. His back hurts. And he expects it to stop after a while, because even old person aches surely can’t last forever. Except, it doesn’t, and in fact seems to only get worse over the next few days, to the point that he starts to worry that it’s going to begin interfering with his functionality. Which he doesn’t want. He needs freedom, freedom to go where he wants, even if where he wants to go usually isn’t very far. It’s the principle of the thing. He does not do well with confinement, with spaces that are too enclosed, and if this pain ends up laying him out in his room, he’s going to go insane.

Poor choice of words, that. But the point still stands, so he makes a decision. The decision is this: he’s simply not going to allow that to happen.

So he slaps a smile on his face and carries on with his business, and does his best to ignore the way his spine starts to feel like it’s cracking open and stabbing into the surrounding muscle. And he is a very good actor, if he does say so himself, so for the most part, no one seems to notice that anything is wrong. Phil asks him if he’s feeling alright, but he’s able to deflect by claiming fatigue, and Phil accepts the explanation easily. And the pain only increases, does not let up at all, but it’s a gradual sort of increase, so before too long, he figures out how to adjust to it. It’s fine. He’ll be fine.

And then Tommy stops by for a visit, and they’re chatting outside for a moment, and Tommy says something stupid and ridiculous, so he smacks him gently upside the head, which Tommy takes objection to. And then they’re wrestling, which makes the pain flare a bit, but it’s manageable, especially since he gets Tommy pinned in about four seconds flat, which. Is concerning, a bit, because he is not particularly strong, physically, so if he can pin Tommy, there are a lot of other people who could also definitely pin Tommy.

But he’s probably not thinking about it the right way. This was a play fight, not a real one, and it’s difficult, sometimes, to remember that the server is currently at peace.

He pins Tommy, both of them panting and grinning in the snow, and he doesn’t let up until Tommy admits defeat. And then he gets to his feet, and here is where he makes the error: he turns his back.

The snowball impacts him right between his shoulder blades. He stumbles forward with the force of it, and his knees hit the snow.

Tommy is already cackling, is calling him a bitch. Wilbur barely has time to think oh, shit before something spasms, and it’s like something has taken a knife to him from the inside out. He hears a strangled little scream, choked and agonized, and barely recognizes the fact that it’s coming from him, because black spots are dancing across his vision and his lungs aren’t inflating properly and he can hardly think.

“Oh, come on,” Tommy says, a wide smile still in his voice. “Don’t be such a pussy. I didn’t even pack any ice in.”

He can’t reply. The agony is centered where the snowball hit, but it’s radiating outward, and the whole of his back feels like it’s burning and freezing all at once, and he shudders violently, breaths coming in short, quick gasps. He clenches his fists, braces them against his thighs, pressing down hard enough to leave bruises.

“Wilbur?” Tommy asks, more uncertain. And then, Tommy is there, kneeling down in front of him, and his face goes all wide and panicky. “Wilbur? Holy shit, are you dying? Are you having a heart attack? A stroke? Are you freezing to death? Have I just killed you with a snowball? You’ve got three lives again, right? Where are you hurt, Wil, come one, you’ve got to tell me, you’ve gotta tell me so I can fix it, are you—”

“My back,” he manages, “my back’s been—my back’s been hurting, it wasn’t your fault, it’s just—” He cuts off with another gasp as all the muscles in his back convulse, tensing and untensing and tensing again and sending a wave of stabbing pain through his nerves.

“Oh, Prime,” Tommy says, “oh, Prime, alright, you’re gonna be fine, big man, let’s just get you inside, alright? Can you walk? Nevermind, just—” Tommy hooks his hands underneath his arms and hauls him to his feet, slinging one of his arms across his shoulders as soon as he can get them in the right position. He lets out a little whimper, and hates himself for doing so, just a little bit, but fuck, that hurts.

The stairs are a trial. His feet drag, and he would trip and fall flat on his face if it weren’t for Tommy. But then, they’re inside Phil’s house, and Tommy sits him down on Phil’s ratty little couch, and he immediately curls in on himself, hands gripping his forearms as if the pain will go away if he hugs himself hard enough.

“Okay, shirt off, Wil, let me see,” Tommy says, and he blinks dumbly for a moment.

“What?” he asks, his tongue thick and heavy in his mouth.

“No, just—you’ve got to let me see what’s wrong, yeah?”

“‘S old man aches,” he mumbles, but doesn’t try to fight it when Tommy begins manhandling his arms, pushing at his coat sleeves.

“What the fuck are you on about?” Tommy demands. “You’re not that old. Who do you think you are, Philza fucking Minecraft? Come on, just let me see—” He finally manages to get the coat off, and then the shirt, and his skin erupts in gooseflesh as it’s exposed to the air. Tommy freezes.

“What?” he asks. “What is it, what’s—”

“I don’t,” Tommy says, running a hand through his hair, “I don’t, Wilbur, I don’t know what this is, I don’t—holy shit, that’s actually kind of scary. Um! No, nevermind, don’t pay attention to me, just keep um, breathing! Breathing is good! Breathing exercises!” He breathes in and out, loud and exaggerated. “See, just like that. I’m just gonna—”

And he puts a hand out, and before Wilbur can stop him, he rests it on his back. Light and cautious, but still too much, and Wilbur stuffs a fist into his mouth to stop himself from screaming. In the same motion, he flinches away, violently, but the damage has already been done. Because the contact hurts, a lot, but what’s worse is the horror, because in the split second that Tommy’s hand touched his skin, he could feel the way that it is wrong, that his back is wrong, that there is something terribly wrong. Because there are ridges protruding from his back, long and thick and raised, and it’s wrong and it hurts and Tommy’s right, actually, this is scary, he’s fucking scared.

“Shit, shit, shit,” Tommy is saying, “I’m so sorry, I’m so fucking sorry, I won’t do that again, I’m so sorry, Wilbur, are you okay? Please be okay, please—”

He nods, though it’s more like he lets his head fall and then painstakingly brings it back up a little.

“Okay, I think we need—” Tommy says. “I think that I don’t know what to do, so I think we need—” He takes a deep breath. “Phil! Phil!” Loud, panicked, earsplitting. Wilbur winces. “Phil! He is home, isn’t he? Phil!”

A second passes, and then, drifting up from the basement, a distant, “Tommy? Everything good?”

“Phil, get up here right fucking now!”

There is a beat of silence, and then there are footsteps, quiet at first but growing closer, and they are quick, hurried. Phil must have detected the genuine fear in Tommy’s voice, because Tommy and Phil generally stand on very shaky ground with each other, so while Phil will typically indulge Tommy in his whims, it depends on the day as to how far he’ll go, how quick he’ll respond. But it’s only a moment or two before Phil’s head pokes out of the floor, his hands clinging to the ladder, his face twisted in confusion.

“What on earth is the matter?” he asks, and then breaks off as his eyes land on Wilbur, who—he must be a sight. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t care. But terror flashes across Phil’s face, and he is crossing the floor in an instant, hands hovering over him, fluttering helplessly, though thankfully, he doesn’t touch.

“What’s wrong, where are you hurt, what—” The words come out in a jumbled flurry, but he stops just as abruptly, and Wilbur knows that he is looking at the horror show that is his back.

“It hurts, Phil,” he whispers.

“Okay,” Phil says, sounding—still concerned, but perhaps marginally calmer? “Okay, you’re going to be alright. I think I know what this is.” He settles himself on the couch right next to him and opens his arms, and Wilbur doesn’t hesitate before leaning forward, slumping against him. Phil seems to know better than to put any kind of pressure on his back, and instead places one hand on his arm and the other on the back of his head, threading his fingers through his hair.

“Then what the fuck is it?” Tommy demands.

“Tommy, I need you to run over to Techno’s and ask him for something for pain, and something for sleep. Can you do that for me?” Phil asks instead of answering, and perhaps Wilbur should be terrified by the implication that he’s going to need either of those things, but the promise of some kind of relief overrides any kind of trepidation.

“Like fuck I will,” Tommy says, “Not before you tell me what the fuck is wrong with him!”

Another convulsion wracks him. He bites his lip to keep from crying out, and tastes blood. His breath is hitching, and he can’t stop it.

“Tommy.” Phil’s voice is sharp, but then, Wilbur feels rather than hears him sigh. “It’s wings, I think. I don’t understand why now, but I went through this a long time ago, when I was very young. I recognize the signs. So Tommy, please.”

Tommy makes a surprised little sound. Wilbur isn’t looking, has his face buried in Phil’s shoulder, but he can imagine the look on his face: the slack jaw, the wide open eyes. And then, there are rushed footsteps retreating, and the door slamming, and Tommy’s muffled voice calling out for Technoblade.

And then, Wilbur processes what Phil just said.

He twists his head around so he can see his face, regretting it a moment later. Any kind of movement seems to make the pain worse, and he has to take a moment to tremble through it.

“Wings?” he whispers. “How?”

He’s never had wings.

If he were going to have wings, he would have gotten them a long time ago. He remembers nights spent as a child, staying up and hoping for feathered appendages to somehow miraculously appear on his back, just so he could be more like his dad. He remembers the crushing disappointment when he finally accepted that no matter how much divine blood runs in his veins, it is apparently not enough.

But he did accept it. He accepted it years ago. There is absolutely no reason for him to be developing wings now, as a fully-grown adult, but Phil sounds so very sure, and his back hurts so very much, and perhaps that’s consistent with actual appendages trying to sprout out of him.

“I don’t know,” Phil says. “I’ve never heard of it happening so late, even in avians. Which, I’m not exactly, but I got mine when I was a kid like they do, and I don’t—I don’t know, Wil, I really don’t, but I remember what it was like, yeah? I know what to do. It’s gonna suck for a little while, but you’re going to be fine, I promise.”

“Okay,” he croaks, “okay—” and then he has to stop talking, because the pain flares again, bright and intense and holy shit, but it’s worse this time, because now that he knows what’s going on, he can feel them. He can feel things inside of him, pushing against his muscles and his skin in ways that absolutely should not be possible, and there is too much of him to be contained in his body, and there are things inside of him trying to escape—

It’s almost like the way he gets when he thinks about the void too hard. Except not, because when he does that, he feels the urge to dissolve away, gently and peacefully, to let himself back into the quiet that is not quiet and the darkness that is not dark, where all the knowledge of the world is at his fingertips, too much for a mortal brain to contain and remain sane. That is not this. This is his own body trying to explode. There is no peace, no dissolution; it’s messy and physical and Prime he just wants it to stop.

He shifts in Phil’s grasp, fruitlessly trying to find a position that takes the pressure off, a little bit. It’s no use, of course, because he can still feel something moving under the skin of his back, and his vision whites out, and when he comes back to himself, he’s shivering, shivering and shaking and sobbing in Phil’s hold, and he doesn’t remember when he started crying but he can’t seem to make himself stop. Phil is keeping up a steady stream of soothing nonsense, and he latches onto the sound of his voice like it’s the only lifeline he has.

And then the door bursts open, and Wilbur doesn’t bother trying to look, but there are two sets of footsteps, not just one.

“Here,” Tommy says, panting, and there are several thumps, and several clinks, glass on glass.

“Oh god, don’t—and he’s doing it, he’s just dumping all of that on the floor. Don’t break those, Tommy, those aren’t splash pots. Have you never handled a potion before.” Technoblade pauses for a moment. “So, what exactly’s wrong with him? The child was making no sense at all.”

Wilbur thinks he detects a note of concern. But he’s not thinking clearly, and it’s always hard to tell anyway, with Technoblade.

“He’s got wings growing in,” Phil responds, voice clipped. Wilbur feels his hand leave his arm, and he whines at the loss of touch. And then another spasm, and he whines again, pressing his face harder into Phil’s shirt.

“Oh. Huh. Yes, that makes perfect sense, of course.”

Phil’s arm dips a bit, and Wilbur finds himself being moved, his head gently tilted back. Phil’s face comes into view, pale and blurry.

“You want to drink this for me, Wil?” he says, and then there is glass at his lips, and he parts them immediately. He doesn’t like being knocked out, doesn’t like the loss of control that comes with it, but if he has to be aware for another five minutes, he’s not going to be able to keep himself from screaming aloud.

He swallows, grimacing at the taste. The effects start hitting right away. His mind detaches from himself, and the pain drains from him. Every muscle goes lax.

He exhales.

“There we go,” Phil murmurs, “there we go. It’s gonna be alright, Wil. I’ll be here the whole time. You’re gonna be okay.”

The world falls away. He lets it. He trusts his father to catch him.

----------

He wakes up a few times, and each time, it hurts. Phil is always there, and usually, Tommy too, and sometimes Techno, and he can barely move but they always see that he’s awake, and they give him a potion and he’s under again, and he’s glad for it, because those moments of consciousness are a spiral of pain and confusion and his thoughts flying apart because he barely understands what’s going on or why he’s hurting and he just wants it to go away.

And then there is the time he wakes up and he thinks somebody is cutting his back open, and he can feel his own blood on his skin, sticky and hot, and he thrashes, trying to get away, and that makes the pain so much worse, and the sound that comes out of his mouth is inhuman, and he fights until a potion is poured down his throat and it’s back to sleep again.

And then there is the time he wakes up, and people are talking in low, hushed tones. He can’t make out what they’re saying. He cracks his eyes open, and it’s Phil and Technoblade, deep in some discussion, both looking terribly concerned. He decides he’ll ask what’s wrong later, and then closes his eyes and goes back to sleep again.

And then there is the time he wakes up, and some part of him is moving, and he doesn’t understand what it is because it’s not any of his limbs, not his arms and not his legs, and it feels alien and foreign and his back feels like it’s been shoved under a woodchipper and then tossed through a paper shredder for good measure, and he’s not aware enough to know why, so he panics. There is a bit of the void that still dwells in his heart, and he calls on it, cries out to it, and it answers, comes rushing in around him, and his mind expands to peer into galaxies.

Philza is at his side a moment later, and he is able to look at him and see all the weight of years that lie behind his eyes, and all the years that lie ahead of him, and the moment of his death, all spiraling out like a tapestry and like a mass, and the music is atonal, confused, but a closer glance reveals it to be twelve-tone, order in the chaotic lines. Wilbur is with the void again, and his heart still beats, but it’s a near thing, and he could stop it if he chose.

“Do you want to know, Philza?” he asks, words spilling from his lips like rain, like the river, like the flood. “Do you want to know when it will happen? I can see it. I can see how some part of you wants it. All our histories are like tangled up threads, but they all come to an end, and I can see those endings, Philza, I can tell you about them if you like.”

Pain constricts Philza’s face, and Wilbur doesn’t know why. He doesn’t know who wouldn’t love the void and its peace and its everything.

“I know, Wilbur,” Philza says, “I know, but how about you come back to me now, okay? Come back to me?”

“We’re all little bits of code, Philza,” he informs him. “None of us are real. We’re little bits of code and words on a page and lines in a script written by our better selves. Nothing in this world really matters. We might as well have all the fun we can before the lights go out. Do you want to know when that will be, Philza? Not too long after you, Philza. Not too long at all. I told Tommy, he knows, he didn’t want to know but that’s alright, he’s better off for it, if he hasn’t forgotten.”

“Come back, Wil, come on,” Philza says, “you can do it. You’ve got a heartbeat, do you feel it?”

Philza takes his hand and places it over his heart, and—that’s right. He’s alive. He’d forgotten. The void spins, and then it tucks itself away again, waiting for the next moment he needs it, and he is left with only vague impressions of what he’s just said and a vague idea that everything hurts and something is wrong with his back and he’d like to go to sleep now, please.

“Alright, yeah,” Phil says, “here, you can have this, you can sleep. You’re doing so well, Wil, I promise it’s almost done.”

He takes the potion. Or tries to; Phil has to hold it for him.

“Okay,” he says faintly. “I’m sorry.”

“You’ve nothing to be sorry for,” he hears Phil say, very far away. “So long as you come back, everything’s okay.”

He goes back to sleep again. He thinks he wakes up a few more times, but he doesn’t really remember. He doesn’t really want to.

----------

And then: awareness.

The first thing he processes is that everything aches, deeply and acutely, but none of it feels nearly as bad as it did before, and not even as bad as it’s been over the past couple of weeks. It’s irritating, painful, but more than manageable, really, practically a relief. The second thing he processes is that he’s lying on his stomach, and that there is something weighing him down.

His mind puzzles over this for a moment. He tries to roll over, to see what’s going on, but something stops him, and then he remembers: wings.

He’s got wings. There are wings on his back. Growing out of him. A part of his body. Wings.

As soon as he realizes that, he becomes aware of them. And it is so very strange, to suddenly have access to two extra limbs, to suddenly have additional body parts to move about and control. It’s a feeling impossible to describe, and he has to take several minutes to process it, to try to become accustomed to it. It doesn’t really work, but he tries moving them anyway, just a bit of a flex, and—

Ouch.

He groans, shoving his face into the pillow. A mistake. That was a mistake. He’d rather like to go back to sleep now and pretend that none of this is happening.

But his vocalization draws attention, and then there is a hand on his shoulder, gently brushing him just enough to feel, not enough to pain him. He turns his head to the side, reluctantly, and Phil is kneeling beside him, his face open and soft and clearly relieved, his lips curling into a slight smile.

“Hey,” he says. “How you feeling, Wil?”

He considers this, and decides on honesty. “Bit like I’ve been caught between a piston and a wall for the past couple of days,” he admits. “Better than before, though.”

“Good to hear,” Phil says, and then his face goes a bit more serious. “How much of that do you remember?”

“Not much?” he says. “I don’t think? Impressions, I guess. I know I wasn’t having a good time. I’m glad I don’t remember it too clearly. I was out for most of it, yeah?”

“Most of it,” Phil agrees, and Wilbur thinks that perhaps there is something he’s not saying, but he doesn’t feel like pressing the matter. He can guess what it is, anyway; there is a chill in his chest, and his thoughts feel just slightly more fractured than usual, so it’s not hard to assume what might have happened. Not hard to assume where he might have gone. He’s sure he’ll feel terrible about it when everything stops feeling so surreal.

He has wings.

“It’s over now?” he asks, and winces at the way his voice cracks. “It’s done?”

Phil’s eyes do the thing where they go immeasurably soft and crinkly at the edges, and it’s love and relief and sadness all at once. “It’s done,” he agrees, and then hesitates. “You’re not gonna be able to fly on them for a while, but would you like to see?”

He doesn’t understand why Phil is being so cautious about it. Of course he wants to see. If he’s going to be put through hell, he wants to see what came of it. He wants it to be worth it.

“Usually, when wings grow in, they’re all downy and shit. Like a baby bird,” Phil says, probably in response to whatever face he’s sure he’s making. “Flight feathers come in over the next few weeks.” He pauses again, and Wilbur thinks he understands his reticence, now, understands the still-present concern.

“But that’s not what happened with mine,” he states, and Phil shakes his head.

“Yours are fully fledged,” he says. “Probably part of why it hurt so much. I don’t know why, Wil. But do you wanna have a look?”

Wordless, he nods, and Phil takes that as his cue to reach out and help him sit upright. It’s far more effort than it should be, compounded by the fact that his sense of balance feels all wrong, and that’s going to take some getting used to, he can already tell. And he’s sore, like he’s run a marathon or fought another half dozen wars all in one go, and his head spins a little bit when he finally situates himself. He closes his eyes against it, breathing in sharply.

He feels Phil guiding his wings forward, into his field of vision. He opens his eyes.

They are very big, is the first thing he notices. They would have to be, of course, to hold his weight up. Magic and suspension of disbelief only stretches so far. They are very large, and the feathers are very large, and they are very angular and neat as well, so neat that someone has to have arranged them while he was unconscious, because there’s no way that they came out looking like that.

The color, though. The color. He swallows, hard.

They are black, perhaps. They look black. But he knows on an instinctive level that they are black in the same way that the void is black, and that if someone were to stare at them for too long, they would realize as much, would realize that actually, they are not black at all, but rather some color or some lack of color that is beyond human comprehension. The void translates as black to the human mind because it is as close as the human mind can get to true perception, and most of the time, Wilbur remembers it as black, but it was not, and his wings are not, and he is never going to be free of it, is he?

On some level, he knew that. Knew that the void is in him and about him, and no matter what he does, it will never leave him completely, not after all the years he spent with it, intertwined with the infinite nothing. But now he has wings on his back, and they should be a connection between him and Phil, should be something to celebrate, but he stares at the plumage and feels sick to his stomach.

“Wil?” Phil asks. He sounds confused, sounds worried by his reaction. “You okay, mate?”

He’s not sure how to phrase this in a way that Phil will understand. Not sure that he wants to.

“Void,” he manages, voice a broken whisper. “They look like void, Phil.”

He looks up just in time to see Phil’s face crumple.

“Wil—”

“They look just like it, Phil,” he continues. “Just like it. And I know I’m not always good about, about being here, about keeping myself stable, but I’m trying. I try to ignore it when it calls, I try not to reach out to it, and when I fail, I, I try to come back, I do, I swear. I can’t—I can’t have these, Phil, they’re from it, that’s why I’m getting them now, maybe it triggered something, I don’t know, but I can’t, Phil, I can’t—”

He reaches out toward them, intending to do—something, maybe, and Phil must have a better idea than he does, because his hand darts out and snags his, stopping him in his tracks.

“No, Wil, don’t do that, okay? We can work on it, we’ll figure it out, but please don’t—”

“You’re up!”

He and Phil both freeze, and as one, look to the door. Tommy is standing there, grinning like nobody’s business, and Technoblade is lurking behind him, his face contorted into an expression that looks like he wants to murder someone but really just means he’s feeling very awkward.

Tommy glances back and forth between the two of him, and his face slowly falls.

“Is everything okay?” he asks. “Nothing—I mean, it all went right, didn’t it?”

He blinks. Tilts his head slightly. Gently removes his hand from Phil’s grasp, and then spreads out his wings behind him, putting them on full display, as far out as he can make them go, and it aches and he’s not going to be able to hold them there for long, but it’s worth it. He wants Tommy to see. Because Tommy will know. Tommy remembers. And unlike him, Tommy hates to remember. Tommy hates the void. So perhaps this is an act of self-sabotage. That’s what Captain Puffy would say. But he does it anyway, because he wants someone else to see and understand, understand in a way he knows Phil won’t be able to.

“I’ve got void wings, Tommy,” he says, and a smile splits his face. “See them?”

Tommy’s eyes widen, and he flinches.

Gratification is not nearly as sweet as he thought it would be. Actually, he just sort of feels like crying.

But then, Tommy’s brows draw together. And he steps further into the room, coming closer and closer until he’s standing right up against the bed, staring at the feathers. Wilbur holds himself very still.

“I see,” Tommy says slowly, “but Wilbur, I’m not sure you do.”

“What are you talking about?” he asks, and cranes his neck to try to see whatever Tommy’s looking at. For a moment, he doesn’t; there’s just the feathers, void feathers, death feathers, a reminder that—

But arctic sunlight slants through the window, and if he shifts his angle just a little bit—

The noise that escapes him is small and involuntary. He hopes no one calls him on it, but that’s the least of his concerns right now. Because the colors do not change, not exactly, but if he holds them to the light, the sun illuminates the feathers, haloing their edges in gold, and there is a sheen of color running across them, a sheen that ripples and moves as he shifts them in the sunbeam, and it is a beautiful, rich blue.

And they’re lovely.

“Oh,” he says, and Tommy laughs at him, the fucking gremlin.

“Yeah, fucking oh,” he says. “You’re such a moron. They’re so fucking ace, Wilbur.”

“I think that maybe you need to work on rememberin’,” Technoblade says from the doorway, “that you’re the sum of all your experiences, and not just one.”

Wilbur stares at him.

“Oh my god,” he finally says. “That’s so cheesy. Who the hell are you and what have you done with Technoblade?”

“Alright,” Techno grumbles, “see if I do anythin’ nice for you ever again. I didn’t come up here to receive this kind of treatment. This is an outrage.”

He laughs. He laughs, from the sheer relief of it, and his trepidation is melting away like snow in the sunshine, and he can allow himself to revel in it, to revel in the wings on his back, and he is sore and tired but this is what glory feels like, maybe, and perhaps he can fly into the air and there will be no wax to drip away.

Perhaps these wings are of the void, but they are of him, too.

And he looks to Phil again, and Phil is smiling at him, warm and happy. His own wings are flared out behind him, tattered at the edges, so many feathers torn or still missing entirely, and the more time that passes, the more and more likely it is that those feathers are never going to grow back, that Phil truly will never fly again. Phil has already resigned himself to it, he knows, but Wilbur has never given up hope, will never be able to bring himself to give up hope.

“It’s not fair that I can fly when you can’t,” he says quietly, and the room goes still and quiet. Especially when it’s my fault, he doesn’t say, though he knows everyone hears it.

“Wil,” Phil says, “nothing could bring me more joy than this.”

And Wilbur hears what he means: you, here.

So he flexes his wings and revels in the ache and revels in the sunshine and revels at his family, here, his father sitting by him and his friend-protege-brother poking at curiously at his feathers and Technoblade still in the doorway, not leaving even for all his grumbling. He revels in this, revels in this life, and for a time, the void recedes entirely.

And in its wake is the sunlight.

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cheri-translates · 3 years

Text

[CN] Victor’s Leaving Traces Date

🍒 Warning: This post contains detailed spoilers for a date, 留痕之约, which has not been released in EN! 🍒

[ This date was released on 28 April 2021 ]

MC (phone call): I found your study room. May I invite CEO Victor to state his next instruction!

Victor (phone call): There’s a black file on the third shelf of the bookcase, closer to the right side. Do you see it?

MC: Third shelf... to the right... I see it!

Victor: Mm, open and check it for me.

I tap on the hands-free function, place the phone on the table, then carefully retrieve the file.

Today is the sixth day that Victor is on a business trip, and he gave me a call asking me to help him find a document.

Even though this is for an “official purpose”, being in this room filled with a familiar scent and hearing his voice feels pretty wonderful.

Flipping open the file, what enters my vision is the cover page of a contract.

MC: Is there an investment contract for a public educational welfare program inside?

Victor: That’s right.

When I see the date stamped at the bottom, my lips involuntary curl upwards.

MC: The public welfare program you invested in last year is going to have a charity gala in a few days... Someone keeps claiming that he isn’t a philanthropist, yet does quite a number of things in secret which reap zero returns.

Victor: Actually, it doesn’t count as zero returns. This program offers public welfare courses and training in universities. Each year, there are graduates who choose to work in LFG. The value they create is a form of return.

MC: Do all investors like such long-term strategies? Snatching up investments quickly, but only obtaining benefits after a very long time.

Victor: It’s also possible that there wouldn’t be any benefits. Since risks can’t be avoided, why not shoulder the greatest risk, and find that biggest “fish”.

MC: ...that’s what someone strong and capable would say.

I turn around, storing the file into my bag. Catching sight of Victor’s spectacles on the table, I pick them up, holding them in front of my eyes.

After adjusting to the slight dizziness from the spectacle degrees, I hold the spectacles and scan the surroundings.

MC: Victor, I’ve always been curious. Does the world you look at differ from other people?

Victor: How do you think it’d be different?

MC: For example... can you see the shape of time?

My imagination roams uncontrollably. If I could see time, and even adjust its speed, I might become the second Victor...

However, a sigh at my ear very quickly interrupts my daydream.

Victor: Even if I could see it, it wouldn’t be the way you imagine it.

MC: ...

Victor: If I remember correctly, a certain someone still has the job of broadcasting LFG’s charity gala. If you want to do a proper job, don’t place your hopes on shortcuts.

Hearing his cool voice, I purse my lips.

MC: You’re putting emphasis on efficiency again. You’re really skilful in managing your time... In that case, could I look forward to you returning early? With CEO Victor supervising me personally, my mentality at work will be even better.

Victor: I find that you always have a hundred reasons for not doing honest work.

MC: That wasn’t my main point...

Perhaps hearing my grumbling clearly, Victor laughs.

Victor: But you can look forward to it. Do what you have to do properly, and wait for me to return.

The next day, I send the document Victor needs to the office. After that, I take a taxi over to conduct a pre-interview.

Aside from preparing for the charity gala, I’m also doing a documentary with the theme of “Craftsmen of Time”. It records people who are able to maintain their craft despite having a fast-paced life.

Today, I’m visiting a boutique for custom-made suits which has been in business for several decades. It’s hidden in a small alley in the downtown area, and it’s as though time has stopped at a corner.

The boss shows me around the store while giving me introductions. After making one round, he lifts his head to look at his watch, then turns to me apologetically.

MC: Miss MC, I’m sorry about this, but a customer has made an appointment for a fitting, and will be here soon. We do a one-on-one service here. If the customer is unwilling, you might have to step back for a while.

Just as I’m able to wave my hands to express my understanding, the sound of the door being pushed open drifts from not too far off.

What follows is a familiar voice -

?: She doesn’t need to leave.

I turn my head. As expected, I see Victor walking in.

Boss: Mr Victor.

MC: Victor!

The boss and I speak in unison, then stop at the same time.

Seeing the slightly shocked expressions on both of their faces, I’m a little embarrassed as I scratch my cheek.

MC: Ooh... erm. Welcome.

Victor: Mm, thank you.

A few employees behind chuckle softly. However, Victor is unaffected, and he walks over to look at the notebook in my hand.

Victor: You’re working?

MC: Mm, I'm here for an interview. What are you doing here?

Victor: Didn’t you hear it earlier? I have an appointment at this timing. I’ll be interrupting you for a while, but it won’t take too long.

I shake my head to show that I don’t mind. Only then does Victor turn his head towards the boss.

Victor: Today’s the fitting, isn’t it.

Boss: That’s right. The clothes have already been hung in the changing room for you.

Victor: You’ve worked hard.

Victor walks into the changing room. I hold onto his outer coat while sitting on a chair at the side, waiting. Once again, I look around at the suits displayed in the shop.

Before, I used to tacitly agree that formalwear were more or less the same. Today, I realised that there are many differences when it comes to the details.

They can also be custom-made according to various settings and personal preferences, to become a form of personalised “fashion”.

Not following the crowd and not being set in stone is indeed very appropriate for Victor’s style.

After a moment, Victor pulls open the door and walks out. The boss immediately steps forward to check the measurements.

I stare directly at Victor in the mirror.

Even though the suit isn’t finished, the superior quality and lines have already made the person before me appear even taller and more capable.

It’s just that...

Boss: It’s been a long time since I last saw Mr Victor. It seems you’ve become much thinner recently. The suit will be done in a few days. To be safe, we’ll take your measurements again today.

Victor: I’ll have to trouble you then.

I flip the notebook open as a guise, but my gaze never leaves Victor.

The employee measures his neck. Victor lifts his head, and I realise that his lower chin has become thinner. When he’s expressionless, he looks even more solemn.

The measuring tape extends and retracts on his body, leaving light wrinkles on his already-fitting vest.

Ever since we met, it seems like his appearance in my mind has never changed.

A serious expression, wearing a well-fitting suit, always with people clustering around him... just like the sight before me right now.

However, in contrast to the usual, the Victor of this moment is a little different.

What the boss said is correct. He has indeed lost weight. But only a week passed - how could there be such an obvious change?

I recall how he looked before he left on the business trip. For a moment, I find that he was different from the way he is now. In the next moment, I find that he was the same as the way he is now.

I finally realise that before this, I never even noticed that he had grown thinner...

Wanting to look at him more carefully, I narrow my eyes, only to suddenly meet Victor’s gaze.

Victor: Looks like you learnt quite a lot today.

MC: What?

Victor: Are these numbers needed for work?

Following his gaze, I look at the book in my hand, and realise that I had subconsciously recorded down many numbers.

These numbers seem to be the measurements taken by the employee...

MC: T-this is just an accident!

Seeing that the employee has finished taking measurements, I hurriedly shut the book, stuffing it into my bag.

Boss: We’ll make some adjustments, and will contact you in a few days to collect the finished suit.

Victor: Thank you for the hard work.

After saying this, Victor walks over to me. Pretending to be professional, I shake and open his outer coat, helping him put it on.

MC: Is the new outfit for the charity gala?

Victor: Yes.

MC: When the time comes, I’ll remind the director to do more dashing close-ups of CEO Victor!

Victor: You’re still so proud despite using your professional capacity for personal gain.

Victor casts me a sidelong glance. Since I have nothing to fear, I give him a smile.

MC: Oh yes, why didn’t you tell me that you returned early?

Victor: Didn’t I promise you over the phone last night?

MC: But it’s still too quick... Did you board the plane right after hanging up?

Victor: It just shows that the timing was just right.

As he mentions this casually while fastening his buttons, I can’t help but ask him a question that I should have asked from the start.

MC: So was this chance encounter also a coincidence that was “just right”?

Victor: This wasn’t a chance encounter. You shared your location with me in the taxi earlier. You don’t remember?

MC: Ah, my fingers must have slipped...

Victor: You can maintain this habit. I guessed that you had work to do, so I didn’t send you a message. But I remember that a certain someone mentioned wanting me to supervise her at work, so I came over to have a look.

Victor appears to be in a good mood, and he pats the top of my head.

Victor: I’m done with my task here. You can continue with what you were doing.

MC: Wait!

Seeing that Victor is about to leave, I hurriedly take a step forward to stop him.

MC: I’ll go with you.

Victor: Are you done with the interview?

MC: Today’s portion has been done. Give me a moment.

I blink at him, then run swiftly to the boss to make an appointment for the next collection of materials.

Even though I did hope that he’d be by my side to “supervise me at work”...

When the person I’ve been yearning for day and night appears in front of me, my train of thought is unable to remain entirely on work.

It’s rare for Victor’s to have a free schedule, so I urge him to return home to rest.

The sun sets, and the clamour of the city gradually goes away. Life seems to return to its original rhythm in this tranquil room.

I’m leaning against Victor as I tap on the keyboard, yet can’t help but peek at him from time to time in secret.

I watch as he wears the spectacles that were in his study room before, and the curiosity that I shelved aside from the previous night surfaces once again.

MC: Victor, do you still remember when you first stopped time?

Victor: I can’t remember clearly. Back then, I didn't think of deliberately stopping time. I just had a blurry wish.

MC: That’s really nice...

Victor: You seem to really like this ability?

MC: Anyone would be envious. Being able to stop time is both cool and useful. To take it even further, if you want to, life can even be extended.

A soft chuckle drifts from the side, kneading into the sound of flipping paper.

Victor: It isn’t that easy to control time. Simply stopping it for a while doesn’t change any outcome. The time that’s “stolen” isn’t very meaningful either. Instead, why not watch time flow by and see what it can bring?

After hearing his words, I stop typing.

MC: As expected, when it comes to the topic of time, you’re the person with the most right to speak. You really won’t consider letting me add an episode featuring an exclusive interview with you?

Victor: Rejected.

MC: You rejected so quickly... hm?

Just as I turn my head to look at him, a slight sharp pain drifts from the back of my head.

Thinking my hair is trapped on something, I reach out to look for it, and bump into VIctor’s hand accidentally.

Lowering my head, a few strands of hair spread over his fingers. The tips of my hair brush against my hand, and finally fall back into his palm.

Was he... tangling my hair earlier?

This action doesn’t seem to fit with Victor’s style. I glance at his slightly unnatural expression, controlling my laughter as I ask him a question.

MC: Victor, what are you doing?

Victor: ...I just realised that your hair has grown a little longer.

MC: It does seem like a while since I went to the salon.

I smoothen my hair in front of my chest to take a look, but don’t find any obvious changes.

MC: I can’t tell, but it’s definitely a little longer than when I had it cut.

Victor: Of course you can’t tell if you see it every day. But it’s much more obvious when looking at it after a period of time. Yesterday, you asked if I could see the shape of time. It probably looks like this. It isn't difficult to find proof of time’s existence. You can see it too.

Victor smoothens my hair a little clumsily, the corners of his lips lifting upwards.

I suddenly recall my hug with him earlier, and how I felt that his waistline was evidently thinner.

Time is constantly flowing, leaving numerous, subtle traces on our bodies.

And these little discoveries after reuniting are a form of compensation, enabling people to see the things we’ve grown accustomed to in a fresh light.

Lifting my head, I reach out to prop up his spectacles.

MC: So this is the time in your eyes.

Victor: What do you mean?

MC: In the past, I used to think that the passage of time was something a little sad. It seemed like many things fade away and vanish with time. But maybe this isn’t the fault of time. It’s just that we neglected those things because we’ve grown accustomed to their existence beside us.

Victor: Not a bad thought.

MC: See? There are benefits to occasionally deviating from habits! At the very least, I discovered another side of “Victor”.

Victor: A dummy being able to enlighten herself counts as a form of improvement. But based on the number of anniversaries you commemorate, some things are difficult to ignore.

MC: ...just treat it as a periodic review!

Victor: So at this current stage, what do you want to review?

MC: Right now...

I turn my body towards Victor. While thinking about this question, I subconsciously scrutinise Victor up and down.

His washed hair is no longer restrained by hair gel, and the eyes beneath his fringe are warmer and brighter.

I can’t recall when he started looking at me with that gaze often.

How many days and nights have we spent together? There are probably so many that I wouldn’t be able to segment them into “periods” soon.

But no matter which anniversary it is, or which moment I wish to inscribe, my feelings are the same.

MC: I thought of a poem I once read in a book - “Now is the time for drinking!” Being able to discover new surprises from a life one is accustomed to... Right now is the best time.

Victor glances at me, then turns my hand over, making a stamping gesture.

Victor: I approve of this “periodic review”.

After a tight schedule of preparations, the day of LFG’s charity gala quickly arrives.

In previous events like this, I’d remain backstage, constantly rushing around.

Even though I'm sitting with the distinguished guests this time, I take occasional peeks at my phone, paying attention to the happenings backstage.

The first half of the soirée goes smoothly, and many people make use of the intermission to rest and relax.

Just as I think of searching for Victor, my phone vibrates. I hurriedly slip away to the corridor of the venue to answer it.

MC: Willow, did something happen?

Willow: Boss, some issues cropped up with one of the auction items for the second half. Come quickly and have a look!

I check the time, realising that there are only twenty minutes before the second half of the soirée starts.

With no time to hesitate, I rush to the props room immediately.

People are bustling around backstage, and only the props room is unusually quiet.

Willow leans towards me, quietly explaining the situation before me.

Willow: When preparing the props earlier, we accidentally bumped into Auction Item No. 4 and it fell somewhere. The item’s too small, and we haven’t been able to find it. The person responsible for No. 4 has a bad temper, and is stopping us from working until we find the auction item.

I pat Willow comfortingly.

MC: Don’t panic. Our colleagues are always watching the props room, so it shouldn’t be lost. First, tell the director that this item will appear later in the evening. Pick a few meticulous colleagues to look for it. The others can handle the props as soon as possible. Leave the person-in-charge to me.

Willow nods, and very quickly attends to the matter. I suck in a soft breath, walking towards the person-in-charge who is not too far off.

MC: Hello, may I know if you’re Mdm Zheng? I’m the producer of this soirée...

While I’m conversing with the person-in-charge, my colleagues hastily deal with the props.

And that “missing” Auction Item No. 4 is finally found in between several large paper boxes.

After the person-in-charge checks it personally, she rushes to send it to the stage at the very last minute.

Stepping into the house, the phone which has been vibrating for the entire evening finally returns to silence.

The second half of the soirée was more or less spent coordinating the auction issue backstage.

By the time I finished replying to all the messages accumulated in my phone, the car had already reached the house.

I watch as Victor minds his own business and hangs both of our outer coats properly, and doesn’t seem to have an intention to probe. Clearing my throat, I follow after him.

MC: Cough cough. Isn’t CEO Victor going to ask what I was busy with this evening?

Victor: I heard all about it. You resolved a big problem.

MC: ...you don’t sound very surprised.

Victor: You think I don’t know what you’re busy with? Also, this is something you’re already capable of doing.

MC: Hmph, whatever you say makes sense.

Despite my words, the corners of my lips lift upwards involuntarily.

Victor glances at me, then pulls me towards the cloakroom suddenly.

By the time I return to my senses, he has already settled me down onto a soft chair.

MC: Whats wrong?

Victor doesn’t respond. He squats down in front of me, pinching my ankle.

Victor: After busying yourself for an entire evening, are you tired?

MC: I’m pretty okay. I usually run around like this too. I’m the type who’s good in both books and martial arts!”

Victor seems to chuckle. He lifts my left foot and places it on his lap, then helps me untie the numerous shoelaces.

MC: !

My heel presses against his newly made trousers. I freeze for a moment, subconsciously wanting to retract my foot.

As though undisturbed, Victor continues holding on to my ankle, studying the knot tied to my calf.

Victor: Looks like making you take on a few large-scale events is quite meaningful. I still remember how you used to get nervous when meeting people who were the slightest bit famous. Also, when faced with trouble, you’d first lose your head and panic. After resolving it in a roundabout manner, you’d even ask me for praise.

MC: You actually remember such embarrassing things...

Victor: It’s meant to show how much you’ve improved.

While saying this, Victor tugs at the shoelace, brows furrowing slightly.

Victor: Why are these shoelaces so complicated...

Glancing at his somewhat perplexed expression, I chuckle as I pull on his hand, guiding him in untying the knot on my leg.

MC: Knowing that CEO Victor was attending the event in splendid attire, I had to work hard to dress up as well. Aside from improvements in work, don’t you find that my aesthetic sense has also improved?

Victor removes my shoe for me, rubbing my toes gently.

Victor: These shoes suit you, but they don’t fit your feet adequately. Your toes are swollen, and you didn’t feel it?

MC: Isn't this what happens when wearing high heels for a long time?

Victor: Things that are truly suitable will be comfortable no matter the circumstances. Although there are improvements in certain areas, there isn’t much progress when it comes to taking care of yourself.

After saying this, Victor once again lowers his head to untie the shoelaces on my right foot.

Staring at the top of his head, I can’t help but find this situation a little abrupt.

The person who was receiving the applause from an audience just a few hours ago is now voluntarily taking care of me tenderly.

Not only that. Even when I’m unaware, he’s always paying close attention to me.

Even when it comes to details I don’t realise, he takes note of them for me.

In this instant, a faint, stinging emotion is in my heart, urging me to blurt out my genuine thoughts.

MC: The reason why I haven’t made progress is because you’ve been taking such good care of me, isn’t it? CEO Victor may be an investor in other areas, but in this area, you’re a big philanthropist.

Victor: Are you blaming me?

MC: I’m complimenting your conscientiousness and patience, and how you’re willing to spend time taking care of a dummy.

Victor chuckles, and I feel warm breaths faintly on my skin.

Victor: Looks like this dummy hasn’t realised that I didn’t help you this time.

MC: Hm? Are you referring to the soirée?

Victor: Mm. From planning to execution, including the sudden incident, I didn’t provide any advice. Do you know what this means?

MC: It means... that this was a test?

Victor: It’s just a periodic test. Not bad. You passed.

MC: In that case, do I get a periodic prize?

Victor: From now onwards, I can give you the right of choice. You can judge for yourself if you want to accept the programs I give you. Whether it’s a request from other businesses or from LFG. As long as you give me a clear and logical reason, you can reject them.

I’m stunned, and it’s only after a long while before I blink my eyes slowly.

MC: But rejecting CEO Victor’s goodwill sounds like a wastage of natural resources...

Victor: How do you know that everything I give you is “goodwill”?

MC: Huh?

Victor: I said that I'd let you judge for yourself. There aren’t many good things that fall from the sky.

MC: In that case, if I simply feel tired and want to take a break, could I reject them too?

Victor: If it isn’t because you’re being lazy, you can.

MC: What if it’s because I’m giving the opportunity to our competitors?

Victor: You’ll bear all the consequences yourself.

MC: ...as expected, you’re still an investor.

Victor: If you aren’t happy about it, you could become an investor yourself and confront me.

MC: That’s even more absurd!

Victor laughs, glancing at me.

Victor: The quantitative and qualitative changes will require time. You can get used to it slowly. But the next time you take on several jobs, remember to change into a comfortable pair of shoes. Don’t make others worry.

With a gentle brush of my leg, the shoelaces of my right shoe loosen.

My ankle relaxes, and I subconsciously lower my head to look at Victor, suddenly thinking about something.

MC: Victor... I have one more question to ask you. Is the reason why you’re giving me this reward because of sympathy or because I’ve really improved?

Victor: The latter of course.

MC: But I can’t really sense any changes in myself. You mentioned it earlier too. What happened tonight was something I should already be capable of doing.

Victor: When I said that you could do it, I was referring to the you of right now. The mistakes you made in the past didn’t surface, and the issue was resolved very well. Of course it’s an improvement.

I scrutinise his serious expression, and the corners of my lips gradually curve upwards.

MC: Is this an assessment criterion CEO Victor made specially for me?

Victor: I treat everyone equally when it comes to work. But this reward was indeed prepared specially for you.

MC: Thank you for the special care, CEO Victor! On a certain level, such improvement should also count as a trace of time.

Victor: That’s right. In that case, I’ll look forward to seeing more time on a certain person.

The final shred of doubt at the bottom of my heart is smoothened out. I cradle Victor’s cheeks, giving him a quick peck at the side of his lips.

MC: T-this is a “stamp of approval”! From now onwards, CEO Victor has to mentally prepare himself for my “rejections”.

After saying this, I try to seize this opportunity to retract my foot, but Victor catches me firmly.

Victor straightens up, looking at my expression with interest.

Victor: You seem to really like this method of “stamping”.

MC: [blushing] Well... After all, this is a tiny special privilege that I have.

Victor: Even though you know that it’s a privilege, you still use it so guiltily. Your face is as red as a tomato.

MC: [blushing] ...

Hearing the teasing tone in his voice, I feel my face becoming even warmer. Slightly embarrassed, I duck my head backwards.

Victor chuckles softly, a hand propped against the cabinet behind me, blocking my way out.

Victor: Don’t forget that this is a “contract” that both parties have to sign. Before I “stamp” it, you still can’t refuse.

The unique scent of the person in front gradually encases me, as though wanting to return in full the warmth of an evening spent apart.

As the distance gradually closes, even the lights are unable to come between us.

My vision begins to blur. It turns out that being at a close range would render one unable to see the person before them.

Yet, I am very certain that at this moment, even if we’re very close, we will still be able to see each other.

The corners of our lips meet gently, and a familiar temperature is branded on my skin.

The subtle ticking of the second hand drifts to my ear, as though penning down this memory.

In the very long time we share, one more stroke is written.

👠 Phone calls: First l Second

👠 Support the cafe by dropping by the tip jar!

#mlqc #mlqc cn #mlqc spoilers #mlqc victor #Victor's dates always make me feel so peaceful <3 #and I learn a lot of life lessons LOL #sometimes I can't tell if I'm translating a date or a self-help guidebook

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bitsandbobsandstuff · 4 years

Text

Ink on his heart

Summary: Here’s how Bucky Barnes got a haircut and then decided it was about damn time he controlled his own destiny - starting with a bit of ink.

Star Spangled Bingo Square: “A thoughtful gift”

Characters: Bucky Barnes x TattooArtist!Reader

Words: 7,400 Warnings: Tattoo experiences, a couple stories about war. Some swearing. Mostly lots of feels and fluff.

A/N: This one has been in my head a long time, I love tattoos and I love the idea of Bucky getting them! While I desperately wish I could draw the designs in my head, hopefully you get enough of a word picture to imagine. And yes, it is kinda long (I know, I know), but I couldn’t stop myself!

Want to find all my stories? Search #bitsmasterlist or try the link in my bio!

*****

Not that Bucky’s counting, but it’s been three days, 18 hours and 26 minutes and he can’t get over it.

In the damp, chilly hours before dawn, he sits on the floor of the tower living room, watching the marshmallows in his hot chocolate melt in white swirls. Now and then, he lifts his eyes to the windows, finds the faint edges of his reflection in the dark glass, and tilts his head. Tentative fingers scratch through close cropped hair and a slow smile appears. Even now, he expects long strands trailing through his fingers. Believes he can feel the phantom tug of a snarl.

It was just a haircut. What a simple, ordinary thing.

But Bucky Barnes has never been ordinary.

That small act triggered a startling transformation. Decades of heartbreak fell away with that dark hair, revealing the shape of a man he begins to remember, and it makes him think. About small things, about change. About simple acts making an extraordinary difference.

The last haircut Bucky remembers before the beginning of his first ending, was January 1945. The memory came back one evening, of a tent in Austria, the heavy silence of snow drifting down. He remembers Steve with a dull scissors, snipping carefully along his ear, remembers the catch of a knife gently shaving his neck. It was a ritual they shared for years. When pennies were tight and life was tough, they took care of each other.

And then? Then there was after.

After the fall, after capture, after the world went pear-shaped. Hydra wasn’t concerned with the formalities of self-care, a haircut was functional. Sharp scissors biting into his scalp, rough hands tearing his hair, a harsh slap if he considered resisting. Get it done and get it done fast. The Asset has work to do.

He despised those haircuts.

But now, here he is. No more handlers and horrors. No more running. No more hiding. No more ropes dragging him somewhere he doesn’t want to be.

Wresting back his independence was exhilarating.

When Steve had finished this haircut - because Bucky still preferred a Steve Rogers special to anything - he’d dusted off Bucky’s shoulders and waited. Sam stood behind him, and Bucky rolled his eyes, expecting a barrage of sassy comments.

But Sam just ruffled the freshly cut hair and laughed.

“Not bad old man. Still not as handsome as yours truly, but hey - maybe someday.”

Such a simple thing, a haircut.

It makes him wonder what else he might do, just for himself.

Fuzzy and disconnected, an old memory flickers to life. It buzzes in his brain, images and connections filtering through the cracks and Bucky lets out a breathless laugh.

“Yeah,” he murmurs to himself. “Okay.”

He closes his eyes and sips his hot chocolate.

*****

Steve yawns when he answers the door. Blond hair spikes in every direction and he rubs his eyes, looking for all the world like a sleepy, overgrown toddler.

“Hey, man. Everything okay?”

Bucky leans against the doorframe and chews his thumbnail while he gathers his thoughts.

“Sure, just - can I get a favor?”

Bemused, Steve ushers him inside and Bucky plops in the red bean bag chair Steve keeps tucked beside his dresser. Stretching out his legs, he waits for Steve to flop back into bed and snuggle his pillow, before he speaks.

“Remember back in ’37 when we were coming home from that shitty bar in Midtown, and we saw that sailor getting a tattoo?”

Whatever Steve expected, it wasn’t this. It takes him a moment to conjure the image, but when it comes he belts out a laugh.

“That terrified kid gettin’ a big heart on his arm? Looked ready to shit his pants?”

Bucky grins at the memory, a milk-faced kid with hair dark and shiny as an oil-slick.

“Thought he was gonna puke on the guy.”

“Yeah, and didn’t we stand outside that window arguing while you tried to convince me we both needed one? Something about good girls liking bad boys?”

“Hey, I stand by that statement!”

“Oh fuck off, you know exactly what your Ma would’ve said if we’d come home with tattoos.”

“Yeah,” Bucky chuckles. “God, she’d a skinned me alive.”

“Damn straight,” Steve agrees and they fall quiet, momentarily lost in shared memories of a woman with a voice of steel and a heart of gold.

Bucky leans forward and rests his chin on his knee.

“You know, all these years and I’ve never really - done anything like that,” he admits wistfully. “Gotten something done to me, I mean. Something I decided on my own. If that makes sense?”

Controlling his own destiny, choosing to do something by himself, instead of always accepting things done to him - the idea is intoxicating. He remembers the pained grimace on that sailor’s face and he relishes the prospect.

Pain you choose to feel holds a different meaning, than the torture he knows.

“S’never too late, Buck,” Steve says drowsily. “You can do anything you want.”

Bucky contemplates Steve’s words. He can do anything he wants. Heart beating fast, he takes a deep breath.

“So listen, I was thinking -”

*****

For two straight weeks, Steve works on ideas.

The floor of his bedroom is littered with sketches and concepts, crumpled sheets of paper dappled with flowing lines. Finally, after midnight on a dreary Thursday, he knocks on Bucky’s door. The moment it opens, he shoves his tattered leather portfolio in Bucky’s hands.

“So, I guess, uh - here.”

Steve crosses his arms, his toe tapping nervously, and Bucky chokes down a laugh. Some things about Steve Rogers remain comfortingly unchanged. No matter how incredible his work, all confidence seems to evaporate the moment Bucky lays eyes on anything.

—

“Give it back asshole!”

“God dammit Steve, YOU’RE the one who asked me to look!”

“Yeah well, I changed my mind, now give it back!”

—

Bucky remembers laughing while Steve chased him around their apartment. He remembers the neighbors banging on the wall, shouting at them to shut up, and he remembers the smell of their forgotten scrambled eggs burning. But most of all, he remembers that drawing - he tucked that portrait of his mother in his rucksack the day he shipped out and it stayed there, a good luck charm all through the war.

Steve had cried when Bucky told him.

Because Bucky’s opinion was always the one that mattered. Seventy years changes nothing.

Tonight, he opens the leather case, revealing three separate drawings. Outlines of black ink and a rainbow of colors paint over the curves and breaks of a human form and he pores over each page. Each drawing is utterly unique, telling the story of Bucky Barnes in metaphors and moments.

There are no words.

His throat feels suddenly thick, cotton lodged in his windpipe.

“I can redo them,” Steve blurts out. He snatches at the paper, but Bucky spins sideways, blocking the reach.

“The fuck you will. You ain’t touching these,” his voice cracks. Blinking back the flood of emotion, he looks up. “This is - they’re perfect, Steve. Thank you.”

Steve blushes petal pink and coughs to hide his delight. He fails miserably, of course, but that’s one more reason Bucky loves the little punk.

*****

One week later, Bucky stands before a demure brick storefront on a slow Brooklyn side street, the portfolio housing Steve’s three precious drawings clutched tight in a sweaty hand. Glancing at the address in his hand, he looks up to find stenciled letters curving across a glass window.

BROOKLYN INK ESTABLISHED 1973

“Here we go,” he mutters. Before he can lose his nerve, he shoves forward.

Three steps inside the tattoo parlor, he pulls up short.

Wow.

Black iron chandeliers hang from the ceiling, splashing sparkles across plush velvet chairs, rich violet and bright turquoise. The floor is an eclectic mix of reclaimed barn board, full of knots and whorls in every shade of brown. Artwork in black and white frames line the brick wall, tattoo designs, letters and fonts, photos of finished work. The entire space overflows with warmth, and Bucky feels instantly at ease.

The front desk is empty, but he hears someone rattling around back, so he takes a seat. Piled high on an end table are bundles of photo albums, full of work; he sinks into the cushions and starts flipping through.

Immersed in the images, he misses the sound of quiet footsteps.

“Are you James?”

The voice startles him and in one swift move, he manages to throw the album on the floor and tumble from the chair. Pages of photographs spill everywhere and he crawls over, hastily scooping them up and babbling one inappropriate apology after another.

��Shit! Sorry, I’m sorry! Shit, I mean I’m sorry for saying shit. Fuck, I didn’t - oh my god, I’m sorry, I’m not usually so - ”

Soft laughter greets him and he looks up in panic, a more refined apology on his lips, but the words evaporate.

Crouching beside him, graceful hands gather up the mess of photos, slipping them back into the album. Dropping it carelessly on the end table, she bounces back to her feet and offers him a hand.

“No worries,” she says with a breathtaking smile. “I shouldn’t have startled you.”

Although he has no need for the support, Bucky reaches mutely for her outstretched fingers because he can’t help but take them. When she tugs, he allows her to pull him up.

“I’m, um - Bucky. Please, call me Bucky.”

“Hello Bucky,” she says. She shares her name and he repeats it slowly. Clearing his throat, he takes a deep breath.

“Thanks for meeting me so late, I know it’s after hours.”

“Sure,” she says lightly. “So, what can I do for you?”

This is the tricky part.

“On the website, it mentioned you had experience with - with tattooing around scars,” he begins carefully. “Scar tissue I mean. Is that right?”

With his question, her expressions turns serious. She observes him for a long moment.

“Yes, I do. Can I ask how long you served?” she asks delicately and Bucky acknowledges her perception with a short nod. He toys with the zipper on Steve’s portfolio, debating his response.

“Seemed like forever,” he finally says, and it’s the most honest answer he has.

Nodding silently, she motions him behind the counter.

“Come on back, let’s see what you had in mind.”

Hugging the pictures to his chest, Bucky follows, eyes saucer wide as they weave through the work area to her space. The shop smells like the woodsy smoke from the candles sitting along her table, mixed with ink and latex and an odd sterile tang. He inhales and discovers he likes it, the strange scent lighting him up.

Dropping to her stool, she gestures for him to have a seat. Bucky sits gingerly, wide eyes still staring. When she catches his eye, he flushes.

“Sorry. First time I’ve been in a shop.”

“That’s okay, there’s lots to see,” she says easily. Looking at the portfolio still clutched against his chest, she grins. “Did you have some ideas already?”

He thrusts the portfolio at her. Propping it on her knees, she flips it open and he beams when he hears her astonished gasp.

“I like the colors there, if you think they’re possible?”

“Sure, might take some extra time, but I can do it,” she murmurs, pinching her lip. Turning the page sideways, she examines every minute detail, shaking her head in disbelief. “This is exquisite.”

“I’ll tell my artist. He’s a real diva sometimes.”

“I’d say he’s earned that right,” she laughs, tracing the paper with a light finger. She flips to the second picture and tilts her head. “The grays and silvers might look nice with midnight blue for contrast?”

Bucky nods eagerly. “Yeah, I love that idea.”

She looks again, examining the intricate design.

“Can you tell me about your pain tolerance? The designs are beautiful, but they’re complex. Each will take multiple sessions to finish.”

Bucky drops his eyes. He heaves a sigh at the obligatory question.

“It’s high,” he mutters. “Very - high.”

Silence follows his admission. When he dares to look up again, he feels a twinge in his chest at the compassion he finds. He offers a rueful smile and she slowly returns it.

“Would you like to come after hours? It can get noisy during the day, if you prefer things quieter. Most soldiers like that better.”

There is a sweep of relief at her casual acknowledgement. He huffs out a shaky breath.

“That would be great. If you don’t mind, I mean.”

“Not at all. I’m a night owl anyway.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says quietly. “Me too.”

She looks back to the portfolio, carefully shuffling the pages.

The third picture appears.

And Bucky sees it, that precise moment when realization sinks in. When she realizes exactly who is sitting in her chair tonight. There is no doubt the drawing gives that fact away. Heart pounding, he flinches, steeling himself for the inevitable.

But nothing happens.

She meets his nervous gaze head on and yet - that gentle smile remains.

“Bucky,” she repeats and this time she understands. “Oh. It’s nice to meet you, Bucky Barnes. Come back tomorrow night, 9pm. Don’t be late.”

He leaves the tattoo shop feeling lighter than he has in years.

*****

TATTOO 1: FOREARM

“Show me a man with a tattoo and I’ll show you a man with an interesting past.” - Jack London

*****

Perpetually early for everything, Bucky arrives at 8:45pm the next night.

The bell over the door tinkles when he enters, and she looks up from the front desk and waves. His stomach unexpectedly leaps and he thinks it must be nerves.

“Hey, Bucky,” her voice is soft.

“Evening,” he says shyly.

“You ready to do this?”

“Could hardly sleep last night,” he confesses with a grin.

Sliding timidly into her black leather chair, he watches her arrange tools on a shiny silver tray. An arm rest is attached to his right side, and he dries his sweaty palm on his jeans before easing his arm onto the cushion, palm up. When she drops onto her stool at his side, he offers a weak smile.

“You got the email I sent with all the information, right? Did you have any questions?”

He scrunches his nose, recalling the long, detailed summary she shared. For each of the three tattoos he requested, she gave him a detailed analysis of the process for creating each design; broke down how long each session would take; gave explicit instructions on the healing and care process; confirmed each individual color and how it would be applied; clarified the tools that would be used, including their brand names and how each one worked; she even provided floor plans of her shop - outlining entries and exits and bathrooms and locations of fire extinguishers.

It was a novel of information that must’ve taken her hours, and he was inexplicably grateful for the time she spent just to make him comfortable.

“No questions, I just, uh - thanks. For putting all that together. It was helpful to have all the information. Helps me keep my head on straight.”

“Of course,” she says. “So this first design should take probably 5-6 hours. Since you’re new, we’ll start with short blocks and see how it goes.”

Bucky gives a jerky nod and she pauses, pressing her fingertips against the smooth skin of his forearm.

“Here are the rules. You’re in charge, okay? We can go as fast or as slow as you need. This is not a race, and I have nowhere to be but here. Any time you want to stop, you say the word and I stop. We can take a breather, grab a cup of coffee and start again - or we can call it a night. This is your experience, Bucky. You’re in control. Understand?”

There is a fierce surge of gratitude at her words. Gratitude for her kindness, for her acceptance. Gratitude for her.

“Got it,” he whispers.

And with that, they begin.

Bucky follows each step, while she measures his arm, while she considers the contours and angles of his muscle, while she cleans and preps his skin. When she finally applies a stencil, his heart is hammering so hard his teeth are chattering.

The low buzz of the tattoo machine fills his ears with a click.

When the needles touch his skin, sweat instantly beads his neck. Adrenaline drenches his tongue and for one wild moment, Bucky panics. Wonders if this was a terrible idea, because what idiot asks for pain, seriously Barnes, what the hell is wrong with you, why’re you so stupid all the -

And then - oh.

Huh.

Interesting.

Wide-eyed, Bucky follows her careful strokes, black lines appearing on his skin.

It does hurt - sort of. Obviously nothing he can’t handle; in the grand scheme of his life, this would register as a minor inconvenience, but there is a pinch.

But that spark of pain vanishes, when the raw symbolism behind Steve’s design hits him full force.

Holy shit.

How many times through the decades did Bucky Barnes die? And how many times did he rise, born again from the frozen ash of oblivion? It was simply what the Soldier did. But it was a shadow-life, nothing more. Bucky never knew how close he was to giving up, until that day above the Potomac, Steve’s bloody face beneath his furious fists. He was so far gone, so lost and forgotten, until those memories cracked the Soldier’s fierce veneer.

And suddenly he was Bucky again. Awake and alive. For the first time in 70 years he felt fire in his soul. For the first time in 70 years he could breathe.

Tears inexplicably fill his eyes.

“All okay?”

Through a tunnel, Bucky hears her voice. Hypnotized by the metaphor inking itself into his skin, his head feels waterlogged when blinks up at her.

“Sorry?”

She scans his face, her thumb rubbing the pulse thrumming at his wrist.

“Everything okay?” She asks again and Bucky feels a potent rush of euphoria.

“Yes,” he says slowly. The excitement bubbles over and he lets out an ecstatic laugh. “Yes! This is incredible. This is - fucking hell, this is amazing.”

Chuckling to herself, she bends back to her task.

“So I guess we’ll keep going?”

“Yeah,” he laughs. “Yeah, let’s keep going.”

Two hours later, the outline of the Phoenix is inked into his skin, crisp black lines like fresh paint. Long tail feathers are curled around his wrist, the lush feathered body splashed over his forearm, her wings spread open and curving around his arm, her head reaching toward the sky.

Born from ash. Alive again.

Bucky hates to cover it up, but she insists.

“Follow the cleaning instructions and it should be fine. We need to wait between the sessions, give you time to heal.”

At that comment, he fidgets.

“Actually, I heal pretty - fast.”

“I assumed you might. Usually I say 2-3 weeks between sessions, so how about you come back in 1 week and we can see. Let’s just make sure. Does that work?”

Bucky glances at the crisp white bandage on his arm.

“Okay, that works,” he says.

She squeezes his hand and he meets her eyes.

“You did great,” she tells him.

Bucky smiles in return. And he doesn’t stop for the next six days.

*****

When he walks into the shop for his next session, he carries a large coffee for himself and an extra large iced peach green tea for her. When he gets to the front desk, he thrusts the cup at her.

“Evening. Um, here. Saw you had one last time, so - anyway.”

“Bucky, thank you. I’ve been craving one all day.” She gives the straw an experimental bite, before taking a long drink and for some reason, the silly quirk makes his heart bounce.

After a quick check on how he’s healed, she declares him perfect and they get started, settling into a comfortable silence. After an hour of buzzing, Bucky clears his throat.

“Is it okay to talk while you work?”

“It is,” she affirms, dabbing at the ink. Glancing up, she sees hesitant blue eyes. “I’m good at listening too. Sometimes it’s nice just to listen.”

Bucky figures that’s a fair statement. He fiddles with a stray thread on his shirt.

“Do you read much?” He asks hopefully, picturing the teetering stack of books beside his bed. She perks at the question.

“I love to read. Have a pile of books on my nightstand waiting for me to find time. What about you? Are you reading anything good now? Any favorites I should know?”

Bucky swallows the happy surprise. If he could, he’d be content to spend the rest of his years with a comfortable chair, a cup of coffee, and an unending supply of stories. He could talk about books for days, he just normally keeps quiet, because most people aren’t interested in that facet of Bucky Barnes.

So he begins to talk.

He tells her how Natasha lent him all her Russian copies of Pushkin and Tolstoy and Dostoevsky, insisting that reading in the original language was infinitely better. He describes how he found a copy of Rumi’s poetry at a yard sale, and what an incredible treasure it was. He flusters recounting how much he cried reading ‘A Fault in our Stars’ and says he was scared shitless to even see a clown for a full year after reading Stephen King.

He talks and talks and talks, and when he finally stops to breathe, she glances up.

“It’s nice to hear a man who’s so well read,” she says and Bucky preens at the compliment. “Do you have an all time favorite? Something you never get tired of?”

A favorite? No question.

“Yeah, I do. Something I read during the war and kinda fell in love. It’s about here, I guess. About Brooklyn.”

At the description, her mouth quirks, but she keeps working.

“Did you ever think about a book quote for a tattoo?”

Now there’s an idea. He makes a mental note to think of a quote he could add as another tattoo. Or maybe another couple tattoos. Hell, one session in and he’s already addicted.

The comment tumbles free before he realizes he’s spoken out loud. He blushes at her laughter.

“It can be addicting,” she agrees. Bucky understands completely, seeing the vibrant crimson ink soak into his skin, painting the bird’s feathers. And then she pauses, meeting his eyes with a peculiar expression. “The right words can make you feel invincible.”

Setting the tattoo machine down, she rolls her chair back a bit and sits up straight. Lifting the hem of her shirt, Bucky sees a line of gold text inked below her ribs, his eyes following the flowing cursive.

“She was all of these things and of something more,” he reads aloud.

“‘A Tree Grows in Brooklyn’ is my favorite book too,” she says quietly. There is a long, unbroken moment where they stare into each others eyes. He should say something, he thinks. Something intelligent or witty or anything, but instead he just thinks about the fact that he found a woman in Brooklyn to permanently carve pictures into his skin and she has the same favorite book as him.

Bucky always was a sucker for fate.

“That’s - that’s really - I love that,” he finally says instead.

*****

A week later, Bucky arrives with a bundle of folders and an exasperated expression.

“This is really annoying, but do you mind if I finish some reports while you work? Got behind, someone’s gonna have my ass.” Bucky raises the papers apologetically.

“No problem,” she says easily. “Let’s keep your ass safe.”

Bending back to her task, Bucky snorts a laugh. They’re just a handful of mission reports, normally he types them soon as he returns, but lately he’s been slacking, because lately he has other things he finds more interesting.

Like the scene in front of him.

Together they work, each with their own pen. Bucky writes, she colors, and the clock on the wall ticks along. After awhile, she takes a break to stretch. Rolling her shoulders, she observes him.

“Are you left-handed?” she asks curiously and it takes Bucky a moment to think.

“Oh. Uh, not really,” he says. “But I can switch. Never been a problem.”

At the confession, she raises her eyebrows.

“That’s impressive. I wish I had a talent like that.”

He ducks his head at the praise. And he keeps writing, of course. Maybe adds a bit more flair. After all, the old Bucky Barnes did like to swagger.

*****

“Well, I think that’s it.”

It takes a beat before Bucky understands what she means. Confused, he peers up at her with a dopey expression and she gestures at his arm.

He feels his heart lurch.

It flames to life along his arm, painted in vibrant ruby red and rich crimson and deep plum, highlights edged in shining gold. Mesmerized, Bucky stares down at the lines of ink and he flexes, the tendons of his arm shifting, and the bird moves. For one wild moment, he believes if he stays still, it could leap from his skin and take flight.

It leaves him breathless.

“God, this is better - fuck, it’s so much better - than I ever imagined. How did you - wow. I don’t know how you did it, but - thank you. Thank you so much.”

Unanticipated emotion makes his voice tremble. Because this is the first time Bucky Barnes chose something permanent for himself. Serums and metal arms and bullets and blades, those were always forced upon him, his pleading refusals met with violence and sneering indifference.

But this?

This.

This is all his.

*****

TATTOO 2: BACK

“Wear your heart on your sleeve in this life.” - Sylvia Plath

*****

“So, uh, how exactly does this work?”

Standing beside the leather chair while she organizes her inks, Bucky wrinkles his nose. She looks up and motions for him to turn, straddling the chair with his chest pressed against the back.

“Are you comfortable completely removing your shirt? Or would you prefer to leave it part way on? I’ll just need it out of the way for the right side of your back.”

Bucky grimaces. Eventually she’s going to see his shoulder - he knows that - but he’s not in the mood to rip that band-aid off yet.

“Uh - let’s do part of the way if that’s okay?”

“That’s okay,” she confirms and he awkwardly tugs his right arm free, baring the broad expanse of his back. Tucking his arms in front of him, he slings a leg over the chair and rests his chin carefully on the headrest.

He says nothing, simply stays still while she absorbs the sight. Littered up and down his back are a litany of scars, puckers from the occasional bullet, thin lines from errant blades, and a few other marks he prefers not to define. His voice is muffled when he warily asks.

“Are you able to - work with it?“

“Absolutely,” she answers firmly and Bucky warms at the decisiveness in her tone. Her confidence makes him feel infinitely more positive.

This is the largest of his three tattoos, stretching from the tip of his shoulder blade and flowing down to his waist. It will also take the longest, but Bucky assures her he has no issue sitting perfectly still for hours.

It’ll be worth it. He can’t wait to show Sam - he’ll get a kick out of this one.

Once she applies the stencil over his skin, she goes to work, dropping into that headspace of deep focus. She works so quietly for so long, he falls into a trance, lulled by the melodic buzz.

When she speaks, it startles him.

“What made you decide you wanted a tattoo?”

He lays his cheek along the edge of the chair so he can see her from the corner of his eye when he answers.

“S’random, but back in ’37, me and Steve were out and I remember walking by this old tattoo shop over in Midtown. They had one of those big glass windows with the chair in front, so people could stand and watch. Anyway, we walk by and there was this kid sitting in the chair, and no fuckin’ joke, he was getting a big heart on his arm with ‘MOM’ written in the middle.”

“Ah yes, the ever popular ‘mom’ tribute. I’ve done a few of those,” she says and Bucky grins.

“Well anyway, I always kinda wanted something, you know? Thought about getting one before I shipped out, but I didn’t, and then it was - “ he pauses for a moment, but she encourages him with a questioning hmmm? and Bucky bravely pushes forward. “I had lots of years where I didn’t get to make my own decisions. And there was so much - bad shit that happened to me. Anyway, I guess I thought if someone’s gonna do something to me, I wanted it to be on my own terms. You know?”

“Yeah,” she murmurs. “I think that makes perfect sense.”

Bucky sits quietly, contemplating. The question has been rattling around his brain for awhile and it spills free before he can stop himself.

“The whole process, it feels sort of - intimate, doesn’t it?”

He flushes at the insinuation, but intimate is the best way to describe it, he thinks, this practice of someone permanently carving their art into your skin.

“It is intimate,” she says softly, leaning closer. “It’s almost like you’re - leaving a piece of your soul under someone’s skin? I don’t know if that makes sense, but that’s what it’s always felt like.”

Bucky nods, watching her capable, artistic, beautiful hands as they move, slowly transferring bits and pieces of herself to him.

What a gift. He holds on tight.

*****

It was bound to happen at one of the sessions.

It’s been dark and rainy for days, buckets dumped from the heavens, the perpetual grumble of thunder always near. When Bucky comes through the front door, he feels like a wet dog. He shakes out his jacket, stomps his boots. He feels off base tonight, the result of bad sleep, bad dreams, and one particularly bad mission. He’s frustrated with himself for bringing it with him, thinks maybe he should’ve cancelled, but the thought of skipping his session - both the ink and her - was too depressing.

So instead of holing up in his room and moping under the covers, he braved the storm.

The one inside and out.

Searching for calm, he licks chapped lips.

“Hey,” he says, cringing when his voice cracks.

“Hey, Buck,” she turns cheerfully, but when she sees him squinting at her through the droplets cascading down his face, his shoulders hunched and tense, she stops. Looks him up and down and her expression softens. Beckoning him back, she digs up a towel and a dry t-shirt with ‘BROOKLYN INK’ stamped across the front, ushering him to the bathroom.

“Take all the time you need. No rush.”

Bucky mumbles his thanks and shuts the door. Gripping the sink, he glares at the mirror, at the smudge of dark beneath his eyes, at the clench of his jaw. Closing his eyes, he breathes slow and deep.

“You’re okay. You’re okay.”

He repeats the mantra, determined to settle. He’s been eager for this session all week, he’s sure as hell not ruining it because he can’t get his idiot brain to stop spinning.

When he finally emerges, he finds her arranging her work space. Halting in front of her, he keeps trembling hands stuffed in his pockets, eyes downcast.

“I’m afraid I’m poor company tonight,” he admits quietly.

“That’s okay. We can reschedule, Bucky,” she says softly and Bucky feels the disconcerting sting of tears. He rubs the heel of his hand against watery eyes.

“If it’s okay, I’d - I’d rather go ahead. Been looking forward to seeing you - uh, seeing you work, all week. It was just - “ he pauses and fights the temptation to spill his guts. No, he snarls internally, she doesn’t need to hear all your shit.

He clamps his mouth shut and shrugs instead.

She says nothing, but when she gives his hand a comforting squeeze, Bucky feels that familiar surge of gratitude. She guides him carefully toward the chair and he slumps into the seat, automatically tugging up his new shirt.

“Just close your eyes and breath. You’re okay.”

Bucky rests his chin on the edge of the chair. Troubled eyes flutter shut, and the comforting buzz of the tattoo machine fills his ears, muting the sound of the storm raging outside. When he feels the prick of the needles, he lets out a weary breath. And when he feels the easy pressure of her fingers, he begins to relax.

For hours, she works. Firm strokes, painting the story across his skin.

The dark night begins to fade before she finally sets her tools aside. When he climbs to his feet, she pulls him into a gentle hug.

Bucky sinks into her arms.

That morning, the sun begins to shine.

*****

Bucky’s been sitting for a couple hours now, eyeing the brick wall behind the chair. A question pops into his head and he feels like a jerk for not asking sooner.

“Hey - all these hours together, and I never asked you - what made you want to draw on people for a living?”

She hums at the question, and he can hear the happiness in her reply.

“Well, I always wanted to be an artist. For my eleventh birthday, my best friend Mike gave me this set of gel pens, there were a million colors. When I told him I wanted to be a tattoo artist, he let me draw pictures all over him for practice. He insisted on being the first person I inked, once I got my license. Would always tell people he was the ‘original canvas’ for my brilliance.”

When she laughs, Bucky chuckles with her; it reminds him of Steve.

“Sounds like a good man,” he says.

“Yeah, he is - he was,” she quietly corrects herself. “He was an EOD specialist in Afghanistan. Right before he left for his last tour, I drew up plans for the arm sleeve he always wanted; he planned to get it when he finished. A month later, he was in a convoy that was moving through the Gereshk Valley in the Helmand Province, when an IED hit his vehicle. He didn’t make it home.”

The story hits home like a kick in the face.

Too many soldiers, too many lives. Bucky reaches back to still her hand. He slowly turns to face her, gently tugging the tattoo machine free and setting it aside. Wordlessly, he offers his hand and she accepts it gratefully, weaving her fingers through his. It takes a few attempts before she speaks again.

“It took me a long time to get through that. One day I met a friend working down at the VA, and I heard a vet talking about the scars on his legs. He sounded so - sad about them, you know? Kept saying he didn’t recognize himself anymore. And I just stood there thinking, maybe I couldn’t help Mike, but I could still do something.” Staring resolutely down, she considers her fingers still entangled with Bucky’s. “I did some research and took some classes and - learned how to tattoo on scar tissue.”

Bucky gazes at her. He feels a sweep of pride at the way she turned her tragedy into something beautiful.

“I’m so sorry that happened,” he says and she finally looks up, meeting blue eyes bright with compassion. “But you should know, what you’re doing for people, it’s incredible. And if you don’t mind me saying, I think he’d be real god damn proud of you.”

A tear slips down her cheek and she ducks her head, her whisper so low he nearly misses it.

“Thank you Bucky.”

*****

Hours later, Bucky hears a clatter of tools and her huff of relief.

“All done.”

Wiping her hands, she pops excitedly up from the stool and Bucky pushes back from the chair to follow. Without a thought, she grabs his metal hand, tugging him impatiently over to a set of floor length mirrors along the wall. Bucky grips tight and obediently follows, his pulse racing. When she positions him at the mirror, she adjusts the panels so he can see himself from all angles.

“There, have a look.”

Along his spine, the single metal wing bursts free, so intensely realistic, Bucky’s jaw drops. It arches gracefully up, curving over his shoulder blade and sweeping down his back, razor sharp feathers tickling his rib cage before billowing out above his waist. Made from silvers and grays and shaded hints of midnight blue, it glows in the light. When Bucky reaches toward the sky, the muscles shift beneath the ink and it creates the strangest sensation of feathers unfolding.

All the scars littering his back, a flesh and bone patchwork of memories left by vicious handlers and fights too close for comfort, have disappeared. Blending into the steel of his new wing, their only purpose is to strengthen the image.

After all this time, he’s come to terms with the metal arm so unwillingly gifted all those years ago. But it’s remained a relic of a past life, something heavy, to drag him down.

But now, he rolls his shoulder back and his new metal wing lifts him higher than he’s felt in a long, long time.

*****

TATTOO 3: SHOULDER

“I can bear any pain as long as it has meaning.” - Haruki Murakami

*****

“So our last session.”

“Our last session,” he murmurs.

Bucky thinks for a moment that she seems glum, but maybe that’s wishful thinking.

“This is a tough one,” she warns, “but I think we can do it in one session. I won’t try and cover them up, it won’t work. The best solution is to incorporate your scars into the design. Make sense?”

Bucky pictures the pattern Steve drew, bright green leaves and vines tracing the seam of his arm, melding with the thick ribbons of raised tissue. It doesn’t matter, but he timidly asks anyway.

“Will it hurt?”

“No,” she says gently. Pressing her hand to his galloping heart, she shakes her head. “It won’t hurt much there, but you need to tell me if it hurts here. You need to tell me if I should stop. Remember, you’re in charge, okay?”

“Okay,” he whispers.

Steeling himself, he whips off his shirt, balling it up in nervous hands. The cool air blowing through the shop is a relief for his overheated body.

“Do you mind if I feel the skin here? So I can make sure I approach it right?”

“Yeah, ‘course,” Bucky mumbles. Staring at his hands, he waits.

Leaning close, her fingers brush over him, feeling the lines and ridges, assessing the canvas. For ten minutes, she tests his skin, lightly pushing and pressing, observing the scars and bumps where metal meets man.

“Does it still hurt?”

She doesn’t want to ask, but needs to know what she’s working with. With a grim smile, he shrugs.

“Not really. Aches sometimes, but doesn’t hurt. Can’t feel much there besides some pressure.”

Nodding, she pinches her lip. “I was thinking last night, um - would you want to add anything else into the design? Nothing big, but a few flowers? Some daisies maybe?”

“Sure, I’d like that. Any reason for daisies?” Bucky asks curiously.

Pulling out a few additional bottles of ink, she absently touches the necklace at her throat, and Bucky sees a silver daisy spinning.

“Daisies represent new beginnings. Thought it might be a nice way to end, if you like?”

Does he like it? The idea of having this small thing in common?

Hell yes he likes it.

Maybe - maybe he even more than likes it?

“Yeah. That sounds perfect,” he says softly. He swallows hard and she nods encouragingly.

“Okay. Remember - stop me if you need a break.”

This one, Bucky knows will be hard. It was the reason he left it to the end - the mental fortitude required here is much different.

As she begins, he contemplates the pink furrows gouged into his skin. The memory of how they got there flashes before him, a sick image of shredded skin raked bloody beneath his blunt fingernails. Faint screams of a past life echo in his ears, the smokey cry of his own voice desperate for relief from the pain.

Cold sweat slides down his face and he slams his eyes shut, but that seems to make it worse. The images glow technicolor bright, and he grunts a frustrated breath.

And then, through the thin latex of her glove, he feels her cool hand press against his pounding heart. Cracking an eye open, he finds her calm face and he focuses on her, until his breathing begins to ease. Blinking rapidly, he drinks in the curve of her nose, the shape of her mouth, the beauty of her eyes.

His heart stutters, stunning him into a different kind of breathless.

“Okay?”

“Yeah,” he murmurs, wide eyes locked on hers. “Yeah, I’m okay. You can keep going.”

When she bends back to her task, Bucky melts. It occurs to him, that perhaps if she might let him, he could be content watching her forever.

But for tonight, this forever lasts only a few hours before she’s done.

And there it is.

Shades of green line his shoulder, the vines curling and winding around his scars, blending them seamlessly into the foliage covering his skin. Spidering vines trail across his chest, and it seems incompatible in a way, something alive bursting from the stark metal, but the leaves look so real, he swears they flutter with each breath he takes. Strewn throughout the greenery, small splotches of yellow and white reveal her daisies and he sucks in a breath.

For the first time in his life, Bucky stares at his scars and a foreign word comes to mind, one he never, ever thought to use.

“Beautiful,” he breathes. “They’re beautiful.”

*****

And so, after 3 months and 30 hours together, they were done.

Hands in his pockets, Bucky gazes at her. Ink on her hands, ink on his heart. It hits him then, this is it. They shuffle, making small talk, neither ready to say goodbye.

“Promise you’ll come back if you decide on anything else. Tattoos, piercings, anything,” she teases and Bucky laughs.

“Told you, I might be a little addicted,” he admits, knowing full well he means to tattoos and to her. “Soon as I can think of a reason, I’ll be back.”

“I hope so,” she says. There is a brief moment where she seems to gather her courage and then she leans in to press a soft kiss to his cheek. “You’re a work of art, Bucky, but - you were before any of this. Remember that.”

Dazed, Bucky touches his cheek.

Indelible and perfect, the tattoo of her lips inks itself straight onto his heart.

*****

When she arrives at the shop the next day, there is a new sight sitting on the front desk.

Daisies, their white petals and yellow faces as fresh as the afternoon sunshine filtering through the window. Bemused, she looks around the bustling shop and spies the card propped beside the overflowing vase, her name scrawled across the front.

“When I got home, I stood in front of the mirror for hours, staring at your artwork. Every time I told myself to go to sleep, I found something new I loved. The tail feathers on my Phoenix or the petals of your daisies. What you’ve given me is more than I ever hoped - I can never thank you enough.

But anyway, I remembered what you said - how this kind of art is like leaving a piece of your soul under someone’s skin.

Well, I won’t lie - you must have done, because I miss you already.

So at the risk of being forward (although I did break into your shop and leave this, so maybe this won’t seem that forward), would you have dinner with me?

I think there’s another new beginning waiting out there, if you’d like to find it with me.

Yours,

Bucky”

At the bottom of the note, a phone number is printed.

Brushing her fingers over the delicate white petals, she pictures him, that dark haired man with eyes like blue ink, so heartbreakingly beautiful inside and out. She feels the unconscious pull of her heart, telling her all she needs to know.

A new beginning.

She says yes.

*****

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes #SSB2020 #bucky fic #bitsmasterlist #tattoos #tattoo trope

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maddieinwonder · 3 years

Text

Bait & Switch

Spencer Reid x GN!BAU!Reader

Genre: Fluff

Warnings: None, super fluffy

Word Count: 3.5k words

Plot: Reader reveals that they’re going to buy a Nintendo Switch so Spencer invites them to go together with him. In the process, some feelings reveal themselves.

Author’s Note: My first time writing about Spencer, and actually, my first time writing a fic in a long time haha. Just imagine that this takes place in 2017, although you don’t have to know anything about the Switch in order to read this.

Masterlist

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

"What's got you in such a good mood, baby?" Derek asked, leaning over his chair. Even without looking up, you could feel the smirk that decorated his face. After almost a month at the BAU, you didn’t need to be a profiler to expect this much from Derek. "Got a date this weekend?"

You tried to focus on your paperwork before relenting, rolling your eyes. Still, you couldn't hide the smile in your voice when you shot back a reply. "With this job? You wish, Morgan."

"Give yourself some credit, beautiful. With your looks I'm sure you could score a good looking fellow for a night you won't forget."

"I'm sure you would know all about that," you replied, this time grinning from ear to ear.

Ever since you joined the BAU, your seat has always been across Derek Morgan. The guy was a terrible flirt but also one of the most trustworthy people you knew, so you couldn't keep up a sarcastic mood for long.

"Actually," you replied genuinely, "I'll be lining up this weekend to buy a Nintendo Switch." Out of the corner of your eye, you could sense Spencer stiffen in his chair next to you.

"A what switch?" Derek asked, his face scrunching up in confusion.

But before you could begin to reply him, Spencer rolled his chair over and opened his mouth. The both of you knew what was coming.

"The Nintendo Switch. A video game console developed by Japanese company Nintendo that's completely one-of-its-kind, on account of its console functioning like a tablet that can either be docked on a home console and linked to a TV, or used as a portable device with two wireless controllers so you can..."

Not being able to help yourself, you giggled at his info dump. You've always admired how much knowledge he could store in his big brain. But more importantly, you thought he was kind of cute like this. A fire would light in his eyes and it seemed like the world around him ceased to exist.

You only realised you were staring at Spencer when the last bits of his question registered in your mind. "...you going to?"

Blinking your eyes, you snapped to attention. Derek seemed to notice, because you felt his signature smirk return to his face.

"Which store are you going to?" Spencer repeated the question. Anybody else might be annoyed, but he only seemed mildly restless. A rare look for the unathletic genius.

"I'm going to the one three blocks down from here," you replied.

"So am I!" Spencer sat upright in his chair, beaming. You think that this is the most excitement he's expressed to you since you joined the BAU.

Then his confidence seemed to waver. He began tugging at the edge of his sleeve, eyes glancing to the side at nothing in particular when he asked, "W-would you like t-to go together?"

A smile spreads across your face before you can stop it. "Sure! Sounds like fun."

Spencer grinned back, and there was a moment of silence before Derek interrupted the conversation that he began. "Well, I'll leave you and lover boy to plan your date. I'm going to spend my Friday night at the bar."

Your heart thumped involuntarily at the word "date", while Derek turned to Emily. "Hey Prentiss, you want to grab a few drinks and dinner? I'm sure I can get the others to leave work for one night."

"Anything's better than this," Emily shrugged, lifting her mug of already-cold coffee.

Standing up to retrieve her bag, she smirked at you and Spencer, having heard more of the conversation than she let on. "Have a great weekend, you lovebirds. Don't do anything I wouldn't do!"

She and Derek shared a laugh as they moved towards the Batcave to retrieve Garcia next.

As you watched them go, you feel Spencer's eyes on you and a flush warming your cheeks. You knew they were just teasing you with the word "date", but the truth is you've liked the genius almost as soon as you met him.

You may not have an eidetic memory, but you could still remember the flutter of butterflies that exploded in your chest when you first laid eyes on Dr. Spencer Reid.

He had waved from a comfortable distance, the other hand tucked in the pocket of his dark slacks. He towered over you easily with curly locks that barely touched his sweater vest, and you swore you've never seen anybody more attractive in your life. His intelligence only added to your attraction.

"Shall I pick you up at 7am tomorrow?"

You turned back to Spencer, who seemed even more nervous now that everybody in the bullpen had left. Yet what he was proposing was rather bold compared to his usual behaviour.

“Pick me up?” You repeated.

“It’ll be easier to find a parking spot that way, and the weather report predicts that tomorrow will be a sunny day, so I know you’d rather not walk three blocks to the store.” He rambled nervously.

“You know me well, Spencer.” A cheeky smile snuck onto your face, and in a moment of false bravado, you said what was on your mind. “7am. It’s a date, then.”

Spencer’s face turned beet red.

You didn’t wait to dwell on his reaction, dumping the last of your paperwork into a pile and picking up your bag. But as you walked to the elevator, you couldn’t help yourself from grinning ear to ear. It was a date. Kind of.

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

You couldn’t sleep. You had gotten home earlier than usual, but the extra time to plan for your “date” tomorrow proved to be a bad idea.

What would you wear? What would you talk about? Should you extend it to a meal, or dessert, or maybe coffee?

Although you were confident in the moment, you were beginning to regret teasing Spencer before you left. You’d known him long enough to know how he reacted to embarrassment, and there’s a good chance he might back away because of your forwardness.

You groaned, trying to get these thoughts out of your head. The reality of the "date" was sinking in now. This would be the first time that you and Spencer would be alone in a non-work setting. To say that you were nervous was a gross understatement.

But there was something worse than showing up nervous, which was showing up nervous and sleep-deprived, so you turned off your bedside lamp and tried to will yourself to sleep. That's when your phone began to buzz.

You were so on edge that the sound almost made you fall off your bed. Turning over your phone, your heart leapt to your throat.

Spencer, 2:03am: Sorry to disturb you when it's so late, but I realised I don’t have your address. Could you send it to me when you're awake?

You gulped. Just relax, just relax, you repeated in your head.

Me, 2:05am: It’s alright, you didn’t wake me up. I’ll attach my address below.

Spencer, 2:06am: Thanks. Having trouble sleeping?

Me, 2:07am: A little

Spencer, 2:08am: Me too.

What was I supposed to reply to that? You silently screamed. But it turned out you didn't have to figure it out.

Spencer, 2:11am: To be honest, I'm a little nervous about tomorrow.

Me, 2:13am: Why?

Spencer, 2:15am: I suppose it’s because we've never spent any time alone before.

Hearing the genius act so shy made you feel a little more brave.

Me, 2:16am: Well, I'm looking forward to the chance

Spencer, 2:17am: I am too.

Despite your nerves, you smiled at his small confession.

Spencer, 2:19am: We should get some sleep.

Me, 2:19am: I’ll see you tomorrow. Good night, Spence

Spencer, 2:20am: Sweet dreams.

Your anxieties were washed away and replaced with the biggest smile on your face. Without knowing it, Spencer’s words rippled a sense of calm over you, and you fell asleep shortly after.

The next morning, you woke up with a newfound clarity. You knew what you were going to wear.

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

Spencer couldn't stop tapping the edge of his steering wheel. He knew he was nervous, and admitting it to you last night didn't do much to stop that fact from eating away at him.

He texted you 3 minutes ago that he was waiting outside your apartment, but you hadn't replied. Although he knew that there were plenty of logical reasons why you might have missed his text, his hands didn't stop itching to call you and see if you were alright.

Then out of the corner of his eye, you emerged from the corridor and he felt his heart speed up.

You were wearing a blue flannel that he'd never seen you in before with a pair of dark jeans. Your hair, which you usually kept in a up-do at work, was let down in waves, touching your shoulders. And then there was the pièce de résistance, you were wearing a Doctor Who t-shirt with the TARDIS on it.

Hook, line, and sinker.

He didn't break his gaze on you the entire time you got into his car. Even when you beamed at him and wished him a good morning, a small yawn escaping your perfect lips, he was completely tongue-tied.

"Earth to Spencer," you called out, looking up at him curiously. "You there?"

Spencer shook his head suddenly, cursing himself internally for being such a doofus. "Sorry, uh, I was distracted. Good morning." He smiled sheepishly, tucking a stray hair strand behind his ear.

"Anyway," he cleared his throat. "I was thinking we could grab some coffee before we headed to the store? We can make it quick. I know there'll be some people already lining up."

He peeked at you rubbing your eyes and thought it was the cutest thing he's ever seen. “Looks like you might need it," he said without realising he'd just flirted with you.

You giggled, lowering your hands from your face. "Sounds great."

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

Spencer wasn't lying when he said it'd be quick, although in truth you could have taken all the time in the world and you would still be happy. The initial awkwardness between you washed away almost immediately as you fell into a quiet conversation about your favourite Doctor Who episodes.

You wanted to commit the sight of him driving in the morning to memory. The sun had just rose, lighting a gentle halo around Spencer’s messy hair and sculptured face. He was wearing a bigger sweater than usual, the sleeves hanging around his wrists loosely. While his eyes were focused on the road, his lips parted slightly as he softly bantered with you about David Tennant.

You felt an overwhelming urge to reach out and kiss him despite the driving hazard. And despite the fact that you’ve never kissed him, of course. But you could hope. And hope you did.

Your hope had grown when he parked in front of the coffee house you’d once mentioned was your favourite. Spencer made your coffee order perfectly and you had found yourself hoping that it was because he’d paid extra attention to you, and not because of his brilliant memory.

And when you reached the video game store and he opened the door for you, you hoped it was because he wanted to make a good impression, not only because he was a gentleman.

And when he stood between you and a video game rack in line, you hoped that he was trying to shield you from the other people in the store, and you hoped that he was thinking of pressing you against the rack and kissing the daylights out of you.

You needed to get a hold of yourself.

The conversation had swapped to the reason why you two were here in the first place, and you found yourself talking to Spencer about Breath of the Wild, a game that brought you back to fond memories of your childhood.

“The Legend of Zelda was the first video game I ever played, on the first console I ever owned.” You shared, smiling fondly. “It was the video game that my brother and I bonded over, and we bought every game together since.”

Spencer nodded in rapt. You felt him leaning closer to you, although it may have been your imagination.

“This is actually the first time I haven’t been with him for a new game,” you realised. “Due to our jobs, we haven’t seen each other in awhile, but we still text each other!” You tried to end on a lighter note, not wanting to bring the mood down on this “date”.

Spencer looked at you as if he wanted to say something, but he kept his lips shut.

“What about you? What was your first video game?” You threw the question to him, trying to divert attention away from your sad-enough story.

He blushed in response to your question and looked down at his black converse. You noticed he began touching his sleeve in a familiar motion and you looked at him suspiciously. “Spencer?”

“W-well, the t-truth is, I didn’t actually c-come here to buy a Switch, and I don’t play video games at all.“ The last part of his sentence came out rapidly. You might have missed it, if you weren’t already used to the tongue twisters he spit out on a daily basis.

“What?” You exclaimed a little too loudly, causing the other shoppers in line to glance at you weirdly. “Then... Then what are you doing here?” You said quieter this time. Your eyebrows furrowed as your mind scanned the possibilities.

“W-well, I, uh, wanted to spend time with you,” he blurted out. He raised his eyes to meet yours, his face completely red.

It was your turn to be flustered now. Your voice was quiet and you could feel your hands shaking. “Is this a date, Spencer?”

“Only if you want it to be, I mean, I want it to be but your opinion matters to me, and I wouldn’t want to bring you on a date if you didn’t want to. We can just hang out like friends if that’s more comfortable--”

You grabbed his free hand, gently lowering it from where it was moving as he rambled, until your fingers were intertwined.

“I would like it to be,” a large smile took over your face. You were a little teary despite how weird it was to confess your feelings for him in a video game store of all places.

Spencer was quiet for a moment, squeezing your hand in return. “Would you like to go for lunch after this? As a date,” he clarified this time.

"I would love that,” you beamed at him, “as a date.”

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

Spencer had always imagined the kind of girl he would fall in love with. Caring, intelligent, had an appreciation for classic literature, maybe. But when he saw you for the first time, every expectation he held flew out of the window.

You were beautiful. Wavy dark hair tied into a high ponytail, wearing a navy shirt, and funnily enough, a beige cardigan and black converse. Morgan joked that it was like meeting Spencer 2.0, but he disagreed: the two of you were worlds apart.

You were incredibly tech savvy, although not as much as Garcia, but certainly more than the rest. You loved the smell and taste of coffee without sugar. You were happy to hug everybody you met, from colleagues to victims. You didn’t like paperback so you read everything on a Kindle.

But the biggest difference between the two of you, was that you were emotionally intelligent.

All of your brilliance, combined with your PhD in psychology - having worked as a psychiatrist affiliated with Sex Crimes before joining the BAU - you were able to pick out the team’s moods from a single glance. It’s what endeared everyone to you immediately, and what made you such a great profiler.

But the way you treated him was different. You just, listened to him. While everyone else had gotten into the habit of cutting him off or simply ignoring him when he opened his mouth, your eyes would light up instead.

He could always tell you were listening because you would look into his eyes when he spoke, and you would ask him questions after he was done.

It made him feel like the world around him ceased to exist, except for you.

So he started studying your interests to grab your attention, trying to throw in a few jokes hoping to see you smile. It only took one month for him to seize his chance. Still, never in his calculations did he think you would say yes.

He smiled at the thought, stroking your hair gently as you cuddled on the couch together, watching you play Breath of the Wild.

After a more than successful first date, you had asked him to come over the next day to spend more time together. A month ago, he would have politely declined with an excuse like needing to read a new academic journal, but when he arrived at your doorstep he allowed himself to be drawn into your arms, relishing the giggle he earned as a reward for being hugged.

“Damn it,” you grumbled quietly as you ran out of stamina scaling a cliffside for the fifth time.

Spencer laughed. Without a second thought, he pulled you closer and kissed the top of your head.

In the background Link fell off the cliff once again, the game playing a sound that he came to recognise as Link dying. But there were no curses this time, as you had turned to look at Spencer, nothing but adoration in your eyes.

“That was our first kiss,” you said so quietly and sweetly that Spencer’s heart melted at the sound of it.

“First?” He took his chance, leaning closer. “You know, the usage of the word ‘first’ almost always implies that there will be a ‘second’ and a ‘third’ and a...”

His voice trailed off as your fingers left the controller to touch his lips. Your touch was intoxicating and he wanted more.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Spence,” you started, lifting your finger from his lips. “I didn’t mean to interrupt you-”

“Don’t be sorry,” he managed to get out in a hurry before capturing your lips in his. He felt your astonishment at first, but you quickly lost yourself in the kiss as he brought his hands up to cup the sides of your face, deepening the kiss further.

You finally broke apart after awhile, both panting for air and smiling widely. Spencer never thought he could be so lucky. “That’s the second one,” he said quietly, bringing up two fingers to indicate the number.

You looked at him with love in your eyes and abandoned your controller on the table before throwing yourself at him, flattening the two of you against your couch.

“Ready for the third?”

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

Derek Morgan wasn’t an idiot. That’s why he could tell that something had changed over the weekend between his desk mate and boy genius.

The two came into work together on Monday morning, which was weird in itself, but they also took every opportunity to stick to each other, from coffee breaks to disappearing for lunch and “asking” about paperwork.

When they vanished for the umpteenth time that day for coffee, Derek leaned over Emily’s desk to confirm his theory.

“It’s not just me. Pretty boy finally made a move, didn’t he?” He cocked an eyebrow.

“Definitely. Those two are so obvious that even Hotch has picked up on it. From his office.” She quipped, grinning as her eyes moved to the scene behind Derek. “Speak of the devil.”

Entering the conversation, Spencer did what he did best. “Did you know that ‘speak of the devil’ is the short form of the idiom ‘speak of the devil and he doth appear’? The phrase can be traced back to the 16th century when mentioning the devil was considered prohibited. In fact, when people were caught saying the phrase--”

Derek caught your eyes drifting to look adoringly at Spencer. He couldn’t take this anymore. “So what happened between you two last weekend, huh?” he interrupted, smirking.

Your reaction was better than he gambled. You turned a bright red and your eyes darted between Spencer and Derek in panic, truly flustered for the first time since he’s met you. But Spencer was strangely calm, his eyes travelling from his best friend to Emily in the background trying to stifle her laughter, while a small smile tugged at his lips.

“We’re dating now,” he announced to the two a little triumphantly, while rubbing your shoulder as a peaceful gesture.

Derek and Emily were stunned by their friend’s directness, only to be shocked out of it as Hotch walked by. “Finally,” he muttered, loud enough for them all to hear.

You were the first to crack a smile, then the rest followed suit with laughs and congratulations. Hearing the uproar, Garcia and JJ peeked out of their rooms, joining in and demanding more details about this new but not entirely unexpected development.

Amidst the chaos, Spencer laces his hands in yours and gives it a squeeze. For the first time in a long time, you feel unequivocally, unmistakably happy.

#mads fics #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid #dr spencer reid #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid fic #spencer reid fanfiction #criminal minds #criminal minds fic #criminal minds fanfiction #cm fic #cm fanfic #criminal minds fandom

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