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moeitsu · 24 days

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The Tie Which Linked My Soul To Thee

Summary: A well deserved hunt with Charles, met with an unexpected surprise back at camp... Ao3 Wattpad Ch.1 Ch.2 Ch.3 Ch.4 Ch.6 Ch.7 Ch.8 Ch.9 Ch.10 Tags: Arthur Morgan/Original Female Character, Widowed, Original Character, Mutual Pining, Slow Build, Eventual Smut, Eventual Romance, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, High Honor Arthur Morgan, Friends to Lovers, Child Loss, Trauma, Canon-Typical Violence, Arthur Morgan Does Not Have Tuberculosis, Arthur Morgan Deserves Happiness, Chubby Arthur Morgan, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence

CH 5 - My Heart Beats On As Warmly Now

“What began as a journey had become a retreat into the unknown. We were backing into the abyss; so worried our sins would follow us we didn’t bother watching where we walked. And behind us was a cliff.” ~ Elsa Dutton 1883

Arthur’s anger dissolved with the storm, replaced by a heavy sense of regret as he trudged back to camp that evening. All he wanted was to drown his shame in a few bottles of liquor, away from prying eyes, away from the disappointment he felt in himself. He hadn’t intended for Kate to see that side of him, not yet at least. And certainly not against a sickly innocent man. He let his anger and frustrations get the better of him. Like he switched on auto-pilot and let the outlaw in him take control. He worried now that Kate might actually leave, and he blamed himself for that.

Swiftly, he made his way to the crate of beer bottles behind the chuck wagon, grabbing a few before retreating to his tent. He craved solitude, a respite from the demands of camp life, from the weight of his own mistakes.

Seated on his cot, a beer wedged between his legs, Arthur opened his journal, the one constant in his life since Dutch and Hosea taught him to read and write. It was his confidant, his sanctuary in a world of chaos. John always gave him shit for it growing up, calling him a pansy and constantly trying to snoop in his personal entries.

Despite being in a gang for most of his life, he still felt incredibly lonely. There weren't many people he would truly open up to. So his journal became that person. It was the one thing that did not judge him, ever. But even as he poured his thoughts onto the page, he longed for a human connection, someone to truly understand him.

Hosea and Dutch had been like parents to him, raising him from a young age in the ways of the outlaw. They had their flaws, but they had also shown him kindness and guidance when he needed it most. He always saw Hosea as his father, he would consider Dutch his father too, although he was more like an older brother at times. Hosea was probably the only person who truly knew Arthur, and saw the things he wished not to speak about. Neither parent was perfect by any means, and Arthur could recognize that. But even as an adult, there is still a child inside that longs for the comfort of a father.

It was that fatherly instinct that drove Hosea to Arthurs tent that night.

“Evening Arthur,” he greeted, holding open the tent flap, “may I come in?”

He put down his journal and nodded. Gesturing for Hosea to join him on his cot.

“I noticed Kate didn’t ride back with you, is she okay out in this storm?” He inquired.

Arthur smiled with a slight shake of his head, that's Hosea for you. Always worried about others, here he was checking on his son but was more concerned about the lady he left behind.

“I’m sure she’s fine, saw her heading into Valentine,” he answered, taking a sip of his beer. He handed one of the full bottles to Hosea as the older gentleman sat down.

“I take it things didn't go well then,” he said with a hint of sympathy.

Arthur sighed, “when do they ever.”

As they sat together in the dim light, the rain drumming softly on the canvas roof, Arthur felt a sense of comfort in Hosea’s presence. He didn’t need to explain himself, didn’t need to justify his actions. Hosea simply listened, offering silent support.

“I don’t know why I do it,” he confessed, his voice barely above a whisper. “The man was sick and weak, I should've just given him a warning.” Arthur concluded with a shake of his head.

Hosea sighed knowingly. “I think you can blame your fathers for that son,” taking a sip to clear his throat, “Dutch and I did what we thought was best at the time and well, you were quite impressionable when you were young. We used that to our advantage to turn you into a grade A outlaw.” He said gently with honesty.

Arthur chuckled at the memories of his youth, before John came along he was the golden child. He used to love it when Dutch would teach him how to pick locks, or when Hosea taught him a whole book of curse words. Had he not been the son of outlaws, his life would’ve looked very differently.

“We’ll always be thieves,” he mused with a hint of nostalgia, “only difference now is that the world don't want us no more.”

Hosea nodded, silently agreeing, “We're doomed just like every other creature on this rock Arthur,” he remarked with a wry smile. “I just wish I had acquired that wisdom at less of a price.”

After a moment of contemplative silence, Arthur spoke, his voice heavy with regret. "I just wish I’d done things differently," he admitted, his gaze fixed on the floor. His remorse mixed with his actions at the Downes ranch, and for every mistake he’s made in the past that led him here.

Hosea laid a comforting hand on Arthur's shoulder, a silent gesture of understanding. "We can't change the past, son," he said gently. "All we can do is learn from it and strive to do better in the future."

Arthur nodded, the weight of Hosea's words settling over him like a blanket of reassurance. "I don't want to be the kind of man who hurts others for no good reason," he confessed, his voice tinged with vulnerability. "I want to be better, for Kate, for everyone."

Hosea squeezed Arthur's shoulder affectionately before rising to his feet. “She’ll come around, son.” He offered a parting reminder, “underneath it all, you have a good heart.”

Before he disappeared into the night, Hosea turned back with a final piece of news. “By the way, your brother wants to speak with you about using that oil cart you found to rob the train tomorrow night.”

Arthur scoffed, shaking his head. “He ain’t my brother,” he muttered disdainfully.

Hosea chuckled. “Well, you two sure argue like brothers. G’night, Arthur.”

He tipped his head to the old man as he left, “night Pa.”

Arthur laid back on his cot, tucking his journal into his satchel when something small and round fell out and made a soft pitter on the ground. When he looked down he saw the peach pit, the one Kate gave him on her first night. He reached to pick up the small seed. His thumb ran over its hard wrinkles.

He held it tight to his chest, and silently promised he would make things right with Kate. If he ever saw her again.

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

Kate took in a deep breath of the crisp morning air, reveling in the freshness that lingered after the storm had passed in the night. The scent of newly sprouted grass and moist earth filled her senses, while dew-kissed leaves sparkled under the gentle caress of the rising sun. A light breeze danced around her, carrying the promise of spring on its wings. It felt like the start of something new as if the world itself was awakening alongside her. It was the perfect day for a ride.

She met Charles in the early morning, exactly where he said he’d be. Waiting for her to begin their journey into the wild lands in hopes of finding a fresh hunt. They were a few hours into their journey now, heading north into Ambarino to hunt cow elk. Just one 200 pound elk is enough to feed the entire camp for a month. Maybe more. It was a day's ride there and back, short enough to keep the meat fresh in time.

With a satisfied sigh, Kate exhaled the tension from her shoulders, “this is exactly what I needed Charles, thank you.”

Charles smiled warmly, guiding his horse closer to hers. "Thanks for joining me, Kate," he replied, his own gratitude evident in his tone.

With her face tilted to the sun, she savored the moment. Allowing Lorena to guide her. A silent trust shared between them, that her mare will take her where she needs to go. “You know, I always thought you preferred hunting alone. I never see anyone go with you.” Kate remarked, eyes still closed in bliss.

Charles nodded thoughtfully. "Arthur and I have gone together a few times, but other than that, I don't seek much company from the others," he admitted, his words tinged with honesty. It was clear that while he valued his fellow gang members, solitude was his preferred companion in the wild.

“That why you’re always so quiet?” She inquired, innocently.

Charles chuckled softly. "If the choice is folks thinking I'm dumb but not knowing for sure, and folks knowing I'm dumb because I sound like them, I think I'd rather keep them wondering," he explained with a grin. The confidence in his voice a testament to his strength.

Kate chuckled, her eyes reflecting understanding. "I get that. Sometimes it's better to keep people guessing," she replied. Under her breath she added, “I know some of those men can be pretty dumb,” loud enough for Charles to hear.

Charles exclaimed in frustration, “tell me about it! All this death and for what? Just so we can have enough money to be able to run from what we've done?”

Kate pondered for a moment, she still didn't know what happened all those weeks ago that drove the gang of outlaws here. It was the one piece of information they didn’t talk about around her. Perhaps Charles would share the missing pieces. “What happened to everyone to cause you to run?” Her tone colored with genuine curiosity.

As Charles recounted the events of that fateful day, Kate couldn't help but feel a pang of sadness for what they must have been through. The gang did not like to talk about Blackwater, and the consequences must have been devastating.

"It was a fucking execution," he began, his voice tinged with regret. "We thought it would a simple job robbing a ferry, carrying payroll. But there were civilians too." Kate could already imagine where this led. $5000 for his head alone, the words echoed in her mind.

“We raised a lot of hell that day, and things got out of control. Next thing we know, the Pinkertons are on us along with the law. And everyone just starts shooting. I don't know which one of us shot first but that's all it took. There were passengers caught in the crossfire.” He shook his head with disappointment. She couldn't imagine the terror those innocent people must have felt as they found themselves caught in the chaos.

“Dutch he,” Charles hesitated, “he killed a young girl. Just to get the law off him. And no one batted an eye.” His voice heavy with emotion. Her stomach churned at the thought of such senseless violence. “We lost three good people, and John barely made it out alive.”

He turned, facing her, "I don't kill for fun Kate; I kill when I need to," he urged, his tone pleading. It was clear that he was grappling with the moral implications of their actions, and Kate couldn't help but admire his integrity in the face of such darkness. One so hauntingly familiar.

“Arthur came out different after Blackwater,” he added with a sigh.

“Being an outlaw can’t be easy,” Kate added, trying to lighten the mood. She understood the hardships and turmoil that came with senseless violence.

Charles huffed and shook his head at the memory, “easy certainly wasn't in the job description.”

As they rode on, the weight of their conversation hung heavy between them. She couldn't shake the feeling that they were all running from something far greater than the law. A feeling she was not immune to.

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

Their hunt had been successful, tracking and swiftly killing a massive elk. They settled in for a fire and camped near a lake for the night. Enjoying fresh fish for dinner. In the morning they tied their game to the back of Taima, and began their journey back to camp. Kate’s spirit felt lightened in a way, the two of them spent most of the night sharing stories. And she realized she and Charles had a lot in common. A gentle reminder that she is not entirely alone in her struggles.

The ride home went by quickly, and with the sun tickling the horizon, they arrived at the great plains of New Hanover, and eventually, the familiar overlook.

As they rode into camp, the air was thick with urgency, Miss Grimshaw's voice cutting through the chaos. "Alright girls, everything into the wagons, now!" she barked, her tone sharp.

Charles swiftly brought their kill to the chuck wagon, while Kate hurriedly dismounted and rushed to join the flurry of activity. The girls worked frantically, packing crates with blankets and clothing, fear etched on their faces.

"What's happening?" Kate asked, her voice tinged with concern.

Mary-Beth paused in her task, her expression grim. "Arthur and John got into trouble with the law in Valentine," she explained, her hands moving quickly. "Dutch says we need to leave, fast."

A surge of panic swept over Kate at the thought of Arthur and John in danger. "Did they get caught?" she asked, her heart pounding.

Mary-Beth shook her head. "I don't know," she admitted, sympathy in her eyes. "But we have to go."

As Kate’s mind began to spiral with the worst outcomes imaginable, a voice rose above the commotion. Speaking of the man himself.

Dutch's voice cut through the chaos. "Charles!" he called out, his tone urgent. "Find Arthur at Dewberry Creek, we need a new hideout." Charles turned on his heel with a nod, mounting Taima and taking off back down the trail they came in on only a moment ago.

With his words she felt a sudden sense of relief, Arthur is okay. Their last conversation weighed heavy on her heart. And she would be damned if that was the last time they spoke.

Dutch's voice commanded attention once more. "When they give us the all clear, we move out! Let's get to work, people!" he shouted.

Mary-Beth and Tilly went back to their work and left Kate alone with her thoughts. She returned to her belongings, packing quickly. But her moment of respite was short-lived as a sickeningly familiar voice cut through the air like a bullet.

“Well hello Kate,” Micah said with disdain and arrogance.

“I don’t have time for your bullshit Micah,” Kate retorted, her patience wearing thin.

Micah advanced, his eyes blazing with hostility. "Funny how you show up right when trouble finds us," he taunted.

Kate scoffed, the idea completely absurd, “you idiots robbed a fucking train, did you seriously expect a welcome home party?” She shot back, her voice filled with sarcasm.

Micah's gaze narrowed. "We were set up in Valentine, someone ratted us out," he growled, his words dripping with bitterness.

“I was just hunting with Charles,” she explained, not bothering to hide the bite in her voice, she refused to play his game.

Micah approached with malice, his fist twitched at his side, ready to pull his pistol any moment. "Well Charles ain't here now,” he gestured around the camp, “and we think it was you," he hissed, the accusation cutting through the chaos.

Realization dawned on her that he was setting her up, but the reason why was still unclear. “And when Charles comes back he can testify to that,” she spat, turning to continue her packing.

He closed the distance between them with predatory grace. In one swift motion, he raised his pistol. Before Kate could react, the butt of the gun connected with her temple, sending a searing pain shooting through her skull. Stars exploded behind her eyelids as she stumbled backward, the world spinning dizzily around her. Darkness threatened to engulf her.

As she struggled to regain her bearings, Micah loomed over her, a twisted smirk playing across his lips, “we’ll be long gone by the time they come back princess.”

With a sickening thud, Kate's head hit the ground, the impact reverberating through her skull. As the world faded into blackness, she felt herself being pulled into an abyss of darkness. The last sound echoing in her ears was the distant whinny of Lorena, a mournful cry that seemed to fade into the void.

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The commotion of the camp kept her drifting in and out of consciousness for the next hour. She heard Abigail's voice call out to Kate in concern, and Micah snapped back warning her to keep her distance. She also realized her wrists had been bound along with her ankles, with Micah standing guard over her like a dog. Like she could run away in this state anyways.

The darkness began to creep in again, and in a moment she awoke and Micah was gone. It was almost dark and she was in a different spot now, away from the center of camp and behind the tree line. That fucking bastard tried to leave me here. She thought with bitterness.

In the midst of the chaos, a familiar voice pierced through the camp, but Kate's mind was still swimming in a fog of confusion. Wagons rattled as they hurriedly departed the overlook, leaving Kate struggling to make sense of the commotion. Summoning all her strength, she pushed herself up onto her knees, squinting through the haze.

Then, like a beacon in the night, Arthur's horse appeared, Belle’s white coat gleaming amidst the darkness. With a surge of relief, Kate locked eyes with Arthur, who rushed over to her side, his expression etched with concern.

Her consciousness flickered like a dim candle in the wind as she slowly regained awareness. The throbbing pain in her head was a harsh reminder of what had just transpired. Blinking away the haze, her vision blurry.

"Kate? Are you alright?" Arthur's voice cut through the fog, filled with concern as he took in the sight of her bound wrists and ankles. Swiftly dismounting Belle and pulling a knife from his belt to cut her free.

Her head throbbed as she recounted what happened and she felt sick in the stomach. She couldn’t stay with them anymore, not after this. Micah was a real problem, and if what Charles told her about Blackwater is true, then Dutch is likely the same.

“I’m okay,” she answered wearily, “Micah set me up,” a hint of fear mixed with rage creeped into her voice. Arthur helped her rise to her feet, just as the last wagons were leaving the overlook. Without missing a beat she turned to find her horse.

Arthur was slightly taken aback, unsure if she was still upset with him from the nights before, all while trying to make sense as to why Micah had set her up.

“I-I’m sorry Kate,” he pleaded, “I shoulda been here,” his voice was laced with remorse. His strides quickened as he closed the distance between them. Kate's heart clenched at the sincerity in his voice, but she knew she couldn't stay.

“It’s not your fault,” she reassured, “but I have to leave.” She decided in the moment, ripping the bandaid clean off. She longed to stay with Arthur and the gang, but she no longer wanted part in this trouble. “Goodbye Arthur,” she bid him a solemn farewell.

“Kate,” he called out, desperation filling the air. He wanted to stop her, to grab her and beg her to explain what happened with Micah. But the look in her eyes told him everything he needed to know, she had made up her mind. So all he could do was stand and watch as she rode off.

She clutched at Lorena’s reins, taking off in the same direction as the wagons, intending to ride past them and make her way to Rhodes, hopefully putting enough distance between them so she could get her bearings and be on the move again. Her heart raced with adrenaline and disappointment. Things could not have taken a turn for the worst.

She used the darkness to her advantage, slipping away from the wagons as they took a path down following the railroad tracks, while Kate veered off towards the twin stacks. As she climbed altitude she watched the wagons below, specifically watching Arthur take off behind them, his mare flying through the train of carts and horses like a butterfly dancing between flowers.

She paused for a moment, letting herself consider that perhaps she wasn't just running away out of fear, but something else as well. She thought about the girls, and Charles, who had just become a dear friend after their hunting trip. She thought about Abigail, who must be clutching little Jack close to her heart at this moment, praying John will see his family out of this alive. Her last conversation with Arthur still ate at her heart, so many words went unspoken that she wished she had said that night.

Memories of her past came back in waves along with the painful throb of where she had been hit with Micah’s gun. Her fear, mixed with her disappointment and anger. A reminder of her own weakness.

Yet, she decided long ago that she would never live in that kind of world again, where the weak would rather guilt the strong than become strong themselves. This world doesn’t care what the weak want. This world eats the weak. Therefore, she became strong.

The sudden sound of gun fire dragged her from her thoughts, she rode farther up the slope looking for the source of the noise. She saw in the distance the tiny images of wagons and horses, and a group of raiders descending to their location..

Gripping the reins with such ferocity, Lorena reared on her hind legs as Kate spun her around and took off back down the slope. She would not let death sink its venomous teeth into the belly of another.

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thewritingofspencerrose · 23 days

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general masterlist

Max Verstappen x Single!Mom OC

can you tell i'm finishing up/ cleaning out my drafts? this is based on max's padel match with other drivers a few races back that kelly & p attended

"If it isn't my favorite little muppet!" Lando's voice is the first to reach us as we enter the facility, Claire's entire face lighting up at the sight of Max's friend. Although it's not just Max and Lando, there's Daniel, and a few other drivers that we have been acquainted with, most that I recognize from the track but cannot for the life of me remember the name of.

"Mijn liefje," Max whispers into my hair, kissing the top of my head before hauling Claire into his arms, peppering kisses all over her face and pulling giggles from her little lips.

Five years old and you'd never know there was a time she was a colicky baby for months on end. You'd never know when she's around Max.

"Sorry we're late, someone decided to spray her juice box all over all over the front of my dress," I muse, partly amused by her and also still bothered that the once-white dress is now stained.

Max just chuckles, shaking his head at our girl before he pulls me to his since once more, kissing the side of my head. "You look gorgeous regardless. Thank you for coming."

His eyes are shining, nearly brighter than all of the lights in this court.

"Of course, Love, you know we appreciate any extra time we get with you," and I truly mean it. "Plus, this gives Claire a perfect place to run around so we're not cooped up with a crazy lady tonight in the hotel," I joke, said little girl giggling brightly.

"She enjoys the chaos she brings," Max's comment makes her laugh more, ever clearer that she has certainly been raised in part by him. For the last two years that we've been together he's been her second parent, her father figure, and it's obvious day in and day out that she's taking after him.

"Max, mate, don't hog my favorite members of your household!"

Lando's voice reminds me of the other driver's presence. His arms reach out, stealing Claire and throwing her onto his shoulders, wandering away without even a greeting.

"Be careful with her!" Max is quick to remind, taking my hand into his and pulling me along, closer to his work friends.

"Are you going to introduce us?" One I know to be Yuki asks, approaching us all from the other side of the court, lunchbag in hand.

He doesn't wait for an answer though, turning to me with a smile. "Can I share a snack with her?"

"Oh," my hand comes to my heart, "She has a couple allergies, so it depends on what the snack is?" Max's hand slips from mine to my waist, looking down at the Japanese driver.

"She's allergic to peanuts and gluten," He offers, offering a small smile.

Yuki nods, going over to Lando's shoulders and beginning a broken conversation with Claire, handing her what looks to be an apple slice.

"Schatz, these are my fellow drivers, Daniel Ricciardo, Charles Leclerc, Carlos Sainz, Fernando Alonso, Yuki Tsunoda, and then you know Lando," Max introduces, pointing to each man as he names. He turns to me now, smiling down on me as he speaks words meant for his friends. "This is my girlfriend Jean," He begins, turning to where Claire is still perched on Lando, "and our daughter Claire."

Our daughter.

I can't help how large my smile gets, looking up at Max like he's the sun. Because to me he is.

"You have a child?" Alonso is the one to ask, chuckling to himself, elbowing Carlos. "Man beats me on the tracks and to having a child, que sigue (what's next)?"

Typically I would join the boys in there laughter, but I'm too focused on the near tears in Claire's eyes as she stares at a laughing Max.

"You called me your daughter?"

That sends a pause over everyone.

"Wait, she is not his child?" Carlos questions, meant to be a quiet comment to his teammate.

"You're my daughter in the ways that matter," Max answers, pulling away from me and to take our tearful girl from Lando, hugging her tight to the space between us.

"Max and I got together when Claire was two, she's five now," I explain, offering a small smile to Max's friends.

"He's my dad," Claire smiles, arms wrapped tight around his neck.

"Well, it's very nice to meet you both," Charles is the one to greet. "It is nice to meet those who are Max's family."

"And it is nice to meet the famous inchedent man- i mean, his track family."

Everyone laughs once more, Max kissing my head. "You're a menace. No wonder Claire is chaos."

Claire just giggles, "You love us."

Max just smiles, shaking his head.

"I do."

#the writing of spencer rose #original character #formula 1 fanfiction #formula 1 #max verstappen x oc #single mom oc #dad max

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pullakori · 10 months

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Febuwhump 2023

Day 13. Forced to hurt a loved one

alt 3. Soft words

TW: Mentions of dub-con and thretened non-con

Also, a/b/o

Sequel to day 11.

It felt like Charles' head was full of cotton and his limbs were too heavy to move. He had no idea where he was, other than somewhere soft and warm. His telepathy was as tired as his body was, he could barely feel any kind of presence from the minds nearby. He wanted to fall asleep again, but something at the back of his mind was telling him that he had to get up and get away. But what was it? Why did he need to run..?

And then the memories of Shaw and the forced heat hit him. Charles could feel aches in his body that wouldn't be there if he would have been successfull fighting him off again. He found enough energy to move his hand and feel around his neck, only to feel a fresh bite mark there. A broken sob escaped his mouth as panic started to settle in.

No. No, no nonono! This couldn't be happening!

There was a voice, speaking to him, but he didn't register it. Only when a hand touched his shoulder, did he even realize that someone else was there.

Charles recoiled from the touch, throwing himself back as far as his arms and legs could push him and the covers would let him. To his surprise, the hand didn't try to stop him and when he finally managed to open his eyes, he didn't see Shaw, like he had anticipated, but Erik. Erik, who was holding his hands up and speaking something, that Charles couldn't hear from the static in his ears.

"Erik?" His own voice sounded strange in his ears. Was he dreaming? How was Erik here?

"It's okay Charles, you're safe now. You're home." Erik spoke gently. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, wearing a grey sweatshirt.

"Home?" Only then did Charles look around. He wasn't in the bedroom inside Shaw's submarine anymore. It took him few moments, but eventually, he recogniced the room as one of the manor's guest rooms. "What happened?" How did they end up in his childhood home?

"Shaw is dead. You helped me kill him." Erik told him, putting his hands down as Charles' panic subdued a little. "Do you remember that?" Charles closed his eyes, trying to remember. But every time he seemed to be close to recall something, it slipped away from him.

"It's all... Foggy, impossible to hold." Charles tried to explain and opened his eyes again. Erik's expression was strange, pained.

"He had dozed you with something that had forced your body into a heat." That Charles knew. He had fought the daze of heat the first time, but this second time... The omega touched the mating bite on his neck again and his body felt cold, despite the duvet and the pajamas some one had put on him. He hadn't been strong enough...

Shaw might be dead, but Charles would wear his mark forever. Despite his efforts, he wasn't able to keep his breathing steady.

"You were dying." Erik's voice was shaky as he kept speaking. "You would have died had I not-" Those cut off words made the omega look up with wide eyes. He managed to see how the alpha's eyes were filling with tears just before he hanged his head down. "I'm sorry Charles." He sounded like a man waiting for his judgement, but Charles could only stare at him as his earlier words sank in.

It had been Erik. Erik had bonded with him and bit him. Erik was his alpha.

"You..." Charles tried to speak, but his words were cut off by what was something between a sob and hysterical laugh. This also got Erik's attention, making him lift his head.

"Charles?" He asked, confused and slightly worried frown on his face as Charles tried to calm himself enough to explain.

"I thought that Shaw-" He couldn't finish the thought. It was too terrible to say, but Erik must have known what he meant, horror making his face pale.

"No!" He hurried to assure the omega. "He didn't touch you." He promised and Charles could hear a slight alpha growl under his voice.

A shiver ran through the telepath's body. He was still exhausted and the emotional turmoil that he had just went through made him even more so. But his body was aching for its alpha, demanding to be close to him after a bonding. But Erik was keeping his distance, clearly unsure weather he was wanted or not. Or maybe, and Charles' stomach sank from the idea, he didn't want to be close to the omega. He had been forced to bond with Charles to save him, no matter what he wanted.

The telepath owed his life to Erik, the least he should give him was some space. But the ache was becoming painflull and after spending weeks chained on Shaw's bed and surrounded by his stench, he was desperate for any kind of comfort. So he pushed himself up enough to slump closer to the alpha, who let out a startled noise and backed away slightly, before Charles moved his hand closer to him and looking at him witj pleading eyes. Erik looked at his hand and then in his eyes. Charles wondered if he felt similiar ache too, or at least something, from their bond.

Erik swallowed and slowly moved to first take Charles' hand and then moving to lie on his side close to the omega, but leaving some space between. Charles knew he was pushing it, but he couldn't help himself. He pushed himself closer again, but he didn't make it far by himself before Erik moved closer instead and wrapped his arms around Charles.

The ache in the omega's heart was instantly soothed as he was embraced by his alpha and he could breathe in his scent. He moved his own arm around the metalbender's waist and his other hand to hold his shirt.

They stayed like that for a few minutes, but Charles could feel how tense Erik was and the guilt about the whole situation became too much.

"I'm sorry." He whispered, keeping his eyes glued on Erik's chest, unable to look up and see what would most likely be resentment in his eyes. But what little he got through his telepathy, Erik only felt surprised and remorseful.

"No, Charles. None of this is your fault." He assured Charles, stroking the smaller man's hair and back. "And I'm the one who should apologise, even though its nowhere close enough to make this right." Charles drew back, just enough to look Erik in the eyes.

"You saved me." He argued, but Erik shook his head.

"By forcing you to bond with me." The alpha's voice was almost desperate and Charles moved his hand that had been clutching his shirt to gently touch Erik's cheek. The simple touch seemed to be close to shattering his whole world.

"But also by forcing yourself to bond with me." Charles responded.

And that was true, they had both been forced into this situation without their premission or input. And here they were laying face to face, their hearts completely open. Maybe it was their bond settling or Charles' telepathy recovering, but he could feel small snippets of Erik's thoughts. Too forgiving. He deserves so much better. Wanted to court him. To take things slow. To do this on our own terms. Charles felt tears gathering in his eyes as he smiled at his alpha.

"I would have liked that too." He whispered and Erik took a hold of his wrist and kissed his palm.

They kept holding hands and Erik stroked Charles' wrist with his thumb, bedore he looked down at it and frowned slightly. Lost weight...

"You need something to eat." He decided and moved to stand up. He bearly made it out of bed though, when Charles let out a distressed whine without meaning to. The omega's cheeks flamed as Erik immidiately sat back down and took his hand again, but the mere idea of being alone right now made Charles sick.

"Please don't go..." He pleaded and saw Erik's eyes soften before the alpha laid back down, under the covers this time.

"Okay. I'll stay." He promised Charles as he gathered him close once again.

The exhaustion was starting to get the better of the omega, but he still hugged Erik back as tightly as he could. "Shhhh. It's okay, you're safe." Erik murmured to his ear as he began to troke his back and hair again. The warmth of the alpha's body and mind lulled Charles closer and closer to sleep. Erik kept speaking softly, until the telepath fell asleep again. "Everything is going to be alright."

#once again no proof reading #it's way too late #we die like men #charles whump #febuwhump 2023 #cherik #a/b/o #my writing

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amyscascadingtabs · 3 years

Text

don’t want to keep secrets just to keep you [chapter 1]

“Actually, I want to add one more rule.” “Yeah?” Jake leans back in his chair, crossing his arms behind his head and flexing his biceps through the green shirt with a smug grin. “You’re not allowed to fall in love with me.” "Won't be a problem."

Amy Santiago doesn't date cops. Jake Peralta's sworn never to date a lawyer again. When a couple of drinks and the returning of a borrowed shirt ends with the two of them in bed together, Amy decides to take control of the situation the best way she knows how: a comprehensive set of rules. There's just one little thing she hadn't anticipated – Jake Peralta is full of surprises.

Written for the B99 Summer 2021 Fic Exchange.

AO3 link // playlist

My contribution to this year’s fic exchange, for @fezzle! @b99fandomevents 💛

1. i never saw you coming (and i’ll never be the same)

He gets out of the car, and before Amy can gather the courage to shout after him, he’s disappeared from her sight.

She leans her forehead against the steering wheel, squeezing her fist and punching it in frustration. It doesn’t feel better, just makes her hand hurt. Amy pretends that’s what’s making her eyes tear up, and not the thought that she just screwed up her chances of ever seeing Jake Peralta again.

five months earlier.

The cop is five minutes late entering the courtroom, and Amy vows to dislike him from that point onward.

What's worse is that he doesn't seem ashamed. He simply gives Judge Stewart an apologetic grin, runs a hand through his already messy hair, and sits down on the bench next to the sergeant Amy recognizes as Terry Jeffords. Amy gives him a polite faked smile to tell him she's noted this presence and she's going to win this case, but the cop doesn't seem to notice the toxicity in her facial expression, because she gets another wide grin back. Judging from the colorful marks on his teeth, it looks like he had candy for breakfast – could it be gummy bears? Either way, Amy's respect for the man sinks even lower.

At least she won't have to worry about him, she tells herself. She already knows this case is about to be a win.

That is until it turns out this man has a reply for everything. She’d been certain the evidence against her client was circumstantial at best, nowhere near enough to get him convicted on, and the notes she’d gone through from the initial police questioning had lacked significant information. It had been nothing short of sloppy, and she’d entered the courthouse this morning filled with glowing confidence. That same confidence is now seeping away, dripping onto the polished floors of the courtroom in exchange for heated frustration as it turns out the detective – Jake Peralta, she learns – was present at the scene earlier than Amy had gathered, and from the vantage point he had, saw her client running from the corner store at full speed.

“Would you say it’s possible my client was running for a different reason?” She asks, staring coldly into the detective’s eyes as she speaks. “Such as exercising, perhaps?”

“Well, he was carrying a huge green backpack, identical to the one he was wearing when my partner Charles caught him ten minutes later. So, no,” he says, meeting her look with a smug smile of his own. “I would say that’s unlikely.”

“But not impossible?”

“Considering we also found the stolen goods in that same backpack, I’d say the chance is pretty solid it was him.”

“The bags couldn’t have been switched? Or, as my client claims, the goods couldn’t have been dropped in there by someone who wanted to get rid of them?”

“With all due respect,” says Jake Peralta, and the self-assuredness in his voice is enough for her to know the case is lost. “The streets were more crowded than a Taylor Swift concert, your honor. Someone would have seen something.”

It’s late Friday afternoon by the time Amy returns to the office of Newsom & Associates, but there’s still plenty of her coworkers left to watch as she throws her briefcase on top of the chair before closing the door to her office and digging out her pack of shame cigarettes from the bottom drawer of her desk. The only window in the room opens out to a back alley with trash cans and forgotten bikes, which is a drab view most of the time but comes in handy for secret shame-smoking. She closes her eyes and leans back against the wall, trying to savor the first inhale. She hates the habit and always tells herself she’s going to quit soon, but at times when work stresses her out like this, there’s no better fix. It’s all Jake Peralta’s fault, anyway. He’d waved at her when they’d left the courtroom, looking genuinely pleased to see her, and that had only worsened her frustration. It’s one thing being defeated – it’s worse when the winner acts like it wasn’t even a big deal.

“You should stop that.” The sound of Rosa’s voice appearing in the doorway to Amy’s office causes her to inhale too much smoke, coughing and tearing up as she hurries to extinguish the cigarette butt on the windowsill. “It’s gross.”

“I needed it,” Amy coughs again before drying her eyes with the sleeve of her blazer. “You should’ve been there. That fucking detective ruined my defense.”

“So? It happens. Doesn’t make you a bad lawyer. Stop pitying yourself.”

“You’re just saying that because you win nearly all your cases,” Amy mumbles. “And everyone’s terrified of you.”

Rosa does a little shrug, but Amy thinks she can spot the hint of a smile on her lips. She can’t be certain, though. Rosa almost never smiles, but that’s not nearly the most terrifying thing about her. She also rides her motorcycle to court and wears leather jackets and skin-tight black jeans to trials, and somehow no one's ever dared to police her on it. Amy once asked her out of curiosity if putting on a blazer would really hurt that much, and the stare she got back told her she’d be a fool to make that mistake again.

“Either way, it's not that. It was that cop who ruined everything. I mean, he showed up late, for god’s sake, with candy in his teeth and a wrinkled suit! But he somehow had an answer and explanation for everything,” Amy snorts. “And he smiled the whole time like he’d already won. And he referenced Taylor Swift! During the trial! Who does that?”

Rosa lets out a laugh. “You're a Swift hater? God, please don't tell me you took Kanye’s side too.”

“I didn't – that's beside the point!”

“Which is?”

“That he has zero respect for the sacred rules of a courtroom, and gets away with it all because of that super-charm smile.”

“Yeah, you mentioned the smile. Twice.”

“It was just so…” She clenches her fist until her red nails press into her palm to the point of pain, then releases it. “It's fine. I’ll win my next case, and there are lots of cops in New York. I probably won't ever see him again.”

Amy can barely hide her frustration in court the next week when she hears the doors open and looks up from the papers she was sorting, only to see Jake Peralta for the second time in her life. He’s on time today, which she supposes is progress, but there are stains on his shirt that seem to be coming from the can of orange soda he’s holding in his hand. She wonders if it's his breakfast. If that's his diet, he looks surprisingly fit in a grey suit for it.

He grins again when he sees her, raising his hand in a lazy wave. Amy gives him a forced smile, then returns to her papers. She’ll have to make sure to win this time.

But despite her confidence and very best efforts, she loses to Jake Peralta yet another time.

And another.

It's not that she's suddenly magically unlucky, because she still manages to win several other cases, but every time Jake Peralta shows up to testify, without fault, Amy loses.

It infuriates her.

The worst part is that Jake seems oblivious to her anger. He smiles at her every time they leave the courtroom, even though she returns them with little to no genuineness at all. She once spots him doing a childish victory gesture outside the courthouse, but he never once takes the opportunity to brag about his win to her face.

Aside from his surprisingly good manners when it comes to bragging, though, he's a mess. There's always some kind of stain on his shirt or his cheek that he seems unaware of, his ways of describing things involve one too many pop culture references for Amy’s liking, and she starts preparing to meet him every time a detective is five minutes late. She wonders if no one's ever told him how one is supposed to behave in a courtroom, but he’s usually accompanied by the precinct’s sergeant, so that seems unlikely. The more likely option, Amy figures, is that he just doesn't seem to find it that important; especially considering he seems to get away with it every single time.

She swears it's all because of that stupid infectious smile.

It pleases Amy to no end when she learns that Jake Peralta is going to be the witness in one of the strongest cases she’s had in a long while. The client was clearly acting in self-defense, she has a witness of her own who can testify to that, and although she knows that nothing is for certain until the verdict falls, she’s got a good feeling about this one. Finally, the day has come for Jake Peralta to watch her win.

At first, the state attorney’s case seems solid. Jake is assisted by a short, round-faced man with dark brown hair and an expression that looks like he’s seconds away from apologizing for taking up everyone’s time, but his suit is matched and perfectly straight and he gets right to the point without any odd references, so Amy still earns a fair amount of respect for detective Charles Boyle. He and Jake had entered the subway car after hearing about a fight taking place, and stepped on just in time to watch her client aim a closed-fist punch at the face of the man on top of him. It’s clear and convincing, but Amy knows that after the recess, it will be her time to shine. She loves these moments, when it’s obvious the other side thinks they have it in the bag but she knows something they don’t, and they have no idea what’s coming. She knows trials are about justice and not personal victories – but she’s only human. Winning is always a thrill.

She’s thinking about how she’s going to be celebrating her win later this evening when Jake Peralta bumps into her at the coffee shop neighboring the courthouse. As in, literally bumps into her, with his elbow when he hurries forward to grab a plastic cup with whipped cream and so much caramel syrup on top of the coffee that Amy pities his dentist.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry… wait, it's you!” He shines up as if he’d just seen a past good friend, and Amy’s once more taken aback by how polite he is. A lot of cops she meets during trials either tend to make fun of her profession or glare bitterly at her from a distance, but Jake's doing neither. He even reaches out his free hand to shake hers, so she accepts. “Jake Peralta – wow, you have a very firm handshake.”

“I took a seminar. Amy Santiago.”

“Where?” He asks, but she ignores him and moves forward in line to order her coffee with milk.

“Nothing for your client? Wow. I’d expected you to have better manners than that, Santiago.”

“I offered, but he wanted to spend recess with his partner for moral support. See?” She raises a brow at him. “I do have manners.”

There's that smile again, up close this time, and Amy's relieved when the barista hands her the coffee so she can hide the involuntary blush in her cheeks. She never noticed he had dimples before.

“So, how are you feeling about the rest of the trial, then? Ready to go defend the guilty guy?”

“Innocent until proven guilty, Peralta. Famously one of the most sacred principles in the American justice system. And I was born ready.”

“And lose. The whole question was, are you ready to go defend the guilty guy and lose, and you said you were born that way.” Jake grins in a way that makes him look like an overgrown mischievous school kid. Maybe not that far off, Amy thinks.

“Twist my words all you want, I am winning this case.” She hesitates for a moment, noticing Jake's detective partner looking at the two of them from a table in the corner of the room. Not normally something she'd be that creeped out by, if it hadn't been for the fact that the man isn’t tearing his eyes away from them, and he looks weirdly overjoyed. “Uhm, is detective Boyle okay? He's staring at us pretty intensely.”

“Huh? Oh yeah, he has… an eye condition.” Jake turns around and mouths something that looks to be BOYLE, and the man rolls his eyes before stalking away. “Ignore him. Anyway… so what do you think about the judge?”

Amy's about to launch into a description of her good experience with judge Myers when someone brushes past her with their iced coffee in a hurry, losing control of the plastic cup. The unsecured lid wobbles, and before Amy realizes what’s about to happen, cold coffee splashes onto her earlier pristine white blouse. “Fuck!” She reaches for a bunch of paper napkins and tries to dab the worst away with them, but the milky coffee is already seeping through the fabric and leaving an obvious stain that her blazer can’t hide.

“What a jerk,” Jake mutters, glaring in the direction of where the stranger disappeared.

“Never mind that! I don’t have another shirt! I can’t go into a courtroom looking like this! Unlike you, I actually care about whether my clothes have giant stains on them!”

“First of all, rude, and second of all, they’re not giant.”

“I don’t care. I’m screwed. Fuck, I don’t have time to run back home before the trial starts – I guess I could call Rosa –”

“Hey, hey.” Jake holds up his hands as if trying to calm her down, which only makes Amy more frustrated. “I know this is kind of crazy, but, I have a shirt in my car that I was planning to return to my ex. But emphasis on ex, so…” He shrugs. “You could borrow it?”

Amy considers her options. On the one hand, she figures there’s about an eighty percent chance that whatever Jake has in his car also has some kind of mysterious stain on it, but on the other hand, she took the subway today and there's no way she’ll make it to her apartment and back before the court is back in session. Asking for a longer recess is an option, but making everyone wait simply because she needs a change of clothes makes her too uncomfortable to even consider.

“Fine,” she relents. “Where's your car?”

Jake's car turns out to be an old Mustang, which Amy can tell even from her strictly limited car-knowledge is pretty impressive, but she doesn't understand how he can find anything in there. The backseat is a mess of empty orange soda bottles, a couple of frisbees, candy wrappers, what looks to be cartoons and old CDs, and the cup holders have shaving foam next to another can of orange soda. She's equally surprised and impressed when he pulls out a clean, dark blue charmeuse blouse. Whoever Jake's ex-girlfriend was, she seems to have both taste and money.

“You're totally saving my day today,” she says as he gives it to her. “You really didn't have to.”

“Prove that cops aren't all bad?” Amy rolls her eyes, and Jake laughs. “Just kidding. You have to give it back, though.”

“As soon as I’ve washed it. Wait, we have to be able to get in touch.” She digs in the inside pocket of her briefcase and pulls out two of her business cards. “I’m assuming you don't have any, so write your number on the back of that one.”

“Rude, but correct.” He scribbles down something on one of the cards before giving it back. “I’ll see you up there, then… Amy Santiago.”

Something about the way he says her name, slowly and with perfect pronunciation, makes her want to hear it again. She hurries back into the building and toward the bathrooms, hopefully before he can tell that she's blushing.

“The defense may call the next witness.”

“The defense calls Elinor Simons.” Amy can feel everyone's eyes on her as well as the witness as a young girl, no more than eighteen, walks up to the stand. She's pale, but she looks determined, and Amy gives her a comforting smile as she swears the oath.

Elinor’s voice trembles at her first words, but Amy keeps steady eye contact with her, and soon she’s speaking louder and less hesitant. She had been on her way to her friend’s house when she entered the same subway car as the two young men, and had overheard the two of them fighting over something. Sitting only a few seats away from them in the near-empty car, she’d noticed the defendant looking scared, and out of curiosity, had turned off her music. She’d heard the man who’d later gotten attacked – Mr. Lorentz – scream that the defendant was an asshole, and then she’d seen him push him to the floor, much unlike the way the prosecution had described a course of events in which both men had slipped. It had scared her, so she’d gotten up to walk away, but before she could move she’d seen Mr. Lorentz leaning down.

“It looked like he was about to hit the defendant,” she says without wavering, and Amy can see a few of the jury members nodding in understanding. “And even if they were about the same size, Mr. Lorentz looked really strong. The defendant tried, but it seemed to me like he was unable to get up. I remember thinking this wasn’t going to end well, so I headed for the end of the car before they noticed me.”

“And you’re sure of what you saw?”

“Completely sure. I only found out later that the defendant was a cousin of my sister’s boyfriend, which is how I learned about the trial.”

Amy nods and clasps her hands together, trying to assume a confident stance as she keeps her eyes focused on the witness stand. “Elinor, in the position he was in, do you believe that the defendant would have been scared?”

“I think anyone would have been.”

“So the punch witnesses watched the defendant throw, could it have been in self-defense?”

“Yes. Yes, I think so.”

Amy smiles. “Thank you. No further questions.”

The prosecution’s closing arguments are short and precise, sticking entirely to the part of the events that took part after the police walked in. The district attorney, a balding man in his fifties, as good as overlooks Elinor’s testimony in favor of focusing in on detailed descriptions of the headaches Mr. Lorentz had experienced after the event, and that alone is enough to make Amy’s blood boil; but instead she just sits there, waiting with a polite smile on her lips.

Finally, the other attorney sits down, and the judge nods at Amy to stand up. During her very first trials, this moment used to freak her out – everyone’s eyes on her and waiting expectantly – but with time she’s come to love this. It reminds her of the thrill of getting the last word in a heated fight with her siblings when she was younger, only now, she doesn’t have to shout to be heard. Everyone’s already listening.

“Your Honor, ladies and gentlemen of the jury: it’s correct that the defendant hit Mr. Lorentz on that train. He admits to doing so himself.” Amy nods to the young man sitting next to her, fidgeting nervously with the cuffs on his shirt. “But there is one key aspect which the prosecution has so conveniently chosen to ignore, and that is the events which led up to Mr. Petersen’s actions. A background which he not only has explained clearly himself, but which is also backed up by Ms. Simmons’ testimony.” She gestures with her hand to Elinor.

“You see, Mr. Petersen wasn’t acting unprovoked. When the incident happened, he had been pushed to the floor, and like both my client and the witness described, he was unable to get up. Mr. Lorentz himself admits to practicing weightlifting; he’s not a weak man, and in the moment, he was clearly upset with the defendant. As Ms. Simmons put it… “ She takes a break to gather the attention of everyone in the room. “Anyone in that position would have been terrified.”

“Under New York Law, Penal Law paragraph thirty-five point fifteen, a person is justified in using physical force against another, when that person is under the reasonable belief that the physical force is necessary to defend the person from what they reasonably believe to be the illegal imminent use of force or the illegal use of force. Mr. Petersen was stuck, and under the reasonable belief that Mr. Lorentz could hurt him unless he managed to free himself. He acted in self-defense, which I remind you that the prosecution has not been able to disprove. In fact, the case against Mr. Petersen cannot be proved against reasonable doubt, which means that you must find him… not guilty.”

From the other side of the room, she swears she can feel Jake’s eyes on her. When she looks up, she sees him mouthing nice job.

“What did you say he looked like, now again? Except for crazy hot and adorable?” Kylie takes another sip of her mojito, spying over the crowded bar.

“Okay, I said neither of those things.”

Kylie shrugs. “Didn’t have to.”

“Ugh. Whatever. Brown hair, brown eyes, medium height, I guess kind of a bigger nose… and I don’t know what he wears outside of court, but there was a leather jacket in the front seat of his car, so maybe that?” She strains her neck to try and see through the Friday night crowd. She’s never been to this particular Brooklyn bar before, but Jake had suggested it when Amy asked about a good place to give him back the shirt, and she’d figured after a long week, she might as well treat herself to a couple of after-work drinks with a friend. After being asked about the so-called mystery hottie five times, though, she’s starting to regret bringing Kylie along.

“Mm, that’s like, all the guys in here… oh, wait, that one’s waving to you!” Kylie points to a figure near the door, elbowing Amy in the side and causing her to nearly choke on her wine. She’s still coughing when Jake walks up to them, trying to offer him a smile while drying her eyes. Jake looks politely confused, but shakes Kylie’s hand in the meantime.

“I’ll leave you two alone,” she says with a meaning wink to Amy before sliding off the leather barstool, leaving it for Jake. “Have a good night!”

“Ignore her.” Amy sighs. “Sorry, I…”

“No, no worries,” Jake says, and the honest care in his expression makes her feel oddly warm. “You okay?”

“Yeah, sorry.” She waves a dismissive hand and picks up the dry-cleaning bag hanging on the back of her chair. “Well, here’s the shirt. Thank you for the loan. Or thank your ex, I suppose.”

“Dry-cleaned, really? You truly are type A.”

“What about it?”

“Nothing, it makes sense.” He nods to the glass in her hand. “Celebrating Tuesday’s win?”

“Something like that. It was Monday, though,” she can’t stop herself from correcting him. “I don’t get a lot of time off. Gotta make the best out of it.”

“Yeah, me neither. Do you mind if I join you for another drink? Or maybe you should do water, in case you choke again?”

Something about the way he poses it like a challenge makes her take the glass, put it to her lips, and swallow the rest of the wine in one gulp. “I think I can handle it.”

They pay for their own drinks, because whatever this meeting is, it’s definitely not a date, and it makes Amy relieved that Jake doesn’t seem to think so either.

“A toast,” he suggests. “To your win this week. I gotta give it to you, those closing statements were solid.”

“To justice,” Amy says, and they raise their beer bottles in unison. “And my win. Finally.”

“Yeah, what has it been, like, five wins for me?”

“Four, but dream on, Peralta.”

Jake laughs. The dimples in his cheeks become even more prominent when he laughs, Amy notes. “Have you always been this intense about winning cases, then? Or is it something that comes with law school? Like there’s a class in being petty about this stuff?”

You’re intense too, she thinks, but doesn’t say it out loud. “Maybe. I have seven brothers, and I was the only girl. I got pretty good at winning fights using other things than physical strength when I was a kid. Actually, sometimes physical strength, too.”

“I feel like you could beat someone up if you wanted to. You could surprise them.”

“Oh, I could most definitely beat someone up if I wanted to. But I stuck to arguing. I got good at it. And I always had good grades, so I ended up at Columbia, and I’ve never really regretted it.” She takes a swig of her beer. “Not even when cops call me the devil.”

“I wouldn’t call you the devil,” Jake says. “I mean, do I think you lack a bit of a moral compass? Probably. But each to their own.”

She leans her head a little bit to the side, eyeing him closely. “Why do you think that?”

“Well, you have to defend people that you know did awful things, right? Doesn’t that make you feel sick sometimes?”

“I don’t have to defend their actions. Most times, it’s not even about that. It’s about making sure the trial is fair, the evidence is sufficient and their rights are respected, so that if there’s a conviction, it’s actually beyond any reasonable doubt. I like to believe most people are better than their worst moments. I see it as my job to make sure they’re treated that way.”

“Huh.” Jake nods slowly. “Guess I never thought of it that way.”

“Plus,” she winks, “someone’s gotta hold you guys accountable, right?”

“Fine.” He shakes his head. “Hey, did you say you went to Columbia? My captain’s husband teaches law there. Did you ever have a Kevin Cozner?”

“No way! Your captain is Raymond Holt?” She’s speaking way too loudly, she can tell from the way other people are glancing at her, but Jake looks entertained. “Sorry, it’s just – Professor Cozner was my favorite constitutional law teacher. I still send him and Raymond Christmas cards every year!”

“That doesn’t surprise me in the slightest.” Jake grins. “But, how weird is that? Almost like the universe is bringing us together or something.”

Amy thinks that it’s not that weird, since Kevin must teach hundreds of students every year that g on to become lawyers, but she kind of wants to keep seeing that smile on Jake’s face forever, so she nods. “So weird.”

They order another drink, plus some chips and nuts when Jake realizes he forgot to eat dinner, and move to another table in the back of the room. Amy’s surprised how comfortable she feels in his presence. It’s like she can’t wipe the smile off her face but doesn’t want to, and with time and a little more alcohol, jokes that she barely would have noticed on any other day become laugh-out-loud funny. It feels natural, even though she’s not sure how, and she tries not to glance at the clock on the wall when he doesn’t either. She’s got work to do tomorrow and she can’t stay out forever, but she doesn’t want to be reminded that this evening has to end at some point.

“So what made you become a cop, then?” She asks when she realizes she’s the only one who’s shared her origin story tonight. “Childhood superhero dreams?”

Jake shines up like he’s been waiting for the question all night. “Oh, that’s easy. Die Hard.”

“Really?”

“For sure. Actually, my mom said I was always good at protecting people, so I ended up doing it for a job. But I think that’s bullshit. It was definitely Die Hard.”

“I’ve never seen it,” Amy confesses, and Jake stares at her like she just insulted his entire being. “But if you want a cop movie, my top three’s Training Day, Lethal Weapon, and Fargo.”

“Wrong, wrong, and wrong! How can you not have seen Die Hard? It’s classic, man!”

“I just never did! How many lawyer movies have you seen, then?”

“Uhm…” Jake squints. “Charles made me watch Legally Blonde once? It was pretty good, honestly.”

“Well, duh, that movie is a cinematic masterpiece and a feminist work of art. How feminist is Die Hard, from a scale of one to ten?”

“Hey! Holly Gennaro does plenty of cool stuff throughout the movies! You’re just going to have to watch them yourself.”

“I can almost guarantee you I won’t.”

“Fine, but you’re missing out.” He grabs a couple of peanuts from the jar between them, throwing them in the air and catching them in his mouth. “Cool trick, right?”

Amy raises an eyebrow. “Is this what you do at work all day?”

“I did teach myself that during stakeouts, but no. Whatever. Throw me another one.” She does, and he catches it again, this time almost sliding off the barstool in the process. She laughs a bubbling laugh as he does it another time. “Now you.”

“Fine. Try me.” The peanut flies through the air between them, and she tries to dive for it, but it just ends up landing at her feet. “Okay, another one.” She misses that one too. “Okay, there must be something wrong with these nuts.”

“Title of your sextape.”

“Title of my what?”

“Nevermind.” Jake laughs. “You just need some practice. Maybe at work? It could liven up a trial.”

“Nuh-uh, don’t need practice. Just need a better tactic.” Without thinking, she grabs a handful of them this time, throwing them in the air. This time, she catches a few of them in her mouth, while the rest end up spread over the couch and floor. “The key is volume!”

“Yeah, and the bartender is looking at you like he wants to kill you, so maybe don’t do it again or we’ll get thrown out.”

“It’s fine, I’m a lawyer.”

“That phrase works well to get out of trouble?”

“If you know what you’re doing. We could order more drinks to keep him happy?”

“Shots?”

“I’m down if you’re down.”

Jake orders a Kamikaze shot for each of them, and as she reaches forward to take the second glass, her hand brushes against the top of his for a moment longer than necessary, resting there. It’s warm, and it feels calloused but somehow soft at the same time. They look at each other, his light brown eyes staring into hers, and she feels instantly hyper-aware that they’re around far, far, too many people.

She lets go of his hand, taking the shot and swallowing it before anyone can notice what’s happening. It smells like sour hand sanitizer and burns going down, and she laughs at Jake’s grimace when he drinks his.

“God, every time.” He shakes his head and runs a hand through his hair. “Hey, I know this is crazy, but… do you maybe want to get out of here? We could have another drink at my place… watch Die Hard… whatever.”

“Mm, yeah. Maybe I should check that the shirt gets back to your place properly?”

“Shirt? What shirt? Oh, right, fuck, the shirt!” Jake spins in place, rushing back to the table where they were just sat. “Shit, I probably spilled beer on it, Sophia’s going to be pissed now...”

“It’s still in the bag, smartass.” Amy shows him. “Ta-da. Shirt’s still clean. Comes in handy being type A sometimes, huh?”

Jake sighs. “I know you're making fun of me, but I could seriously kiss you right now.”

Maybe it’s the four drinks, maybe it’s the thrill that comes with how rarely she does this, or maybe it’s just sheer and wild impulse, but Amy finds herself whispering,

“Maybe we should get out of here, then.”

Amy learns a lot of things that night.

She learns that Jake Peralta is a seriously good kisser, tasting faintly of orange soda beneath the alcohol and salt, and that being pressed against his front door with his hands protecting her head strikes the perfect balance between feeling adventurous and safe. She learns that he’s never really quiet, soft moans and sighs filling the room in the breaks between their kisses, but that the sound only makes her want more.

She learns that he wears even more layers than her. Beneath the leather jacket and hoodie is a checkered blue flannel that has way too many buttons for her liking right now, and she curses her slight tipsiness while working at them one by one. When she's finally done, Jake pulls the grey t-shirt over his head, and she barely has time to pause to admire how he somehow can look fit despite that catastrophic diet, or the curls on his chest that are begging for her to run her fingers through them, before he's asking “my turn?”. She learns that Jake Peralta is impatient, that his hands work fast on the buttons of her cerise shirt, and that he gets adorably confused when he can't find the button on her suit pants.

“It's on the side,” she tells him and shows him the zipper, and then they're both giggling until she kisses him like that and it's back on again.

She learns that his hands feel good, sliding slowly up the sides of her stomach and back and rubbing against her shoulder blades. She unclasps the white t-shirt bra for him, smiling to herself as he swallows quickly.

“God, you’re hot,” he whispers, and the soft bites he trails down her chest and stomach make her feel that way, too.

They move to his bed, leaving a trail of clothes behind them, and then she’s underneath him and breathing hard as his mouth moves lower, closer. The anticipation of it all is driving her mad, but then he looks up at her and asks “okay?” with the most sincere and caring expression, and Amy’s had very, very few one-night-stands in her life, but she’s certainly never had one like this.

“Okay,” she nods, and there’s that familiar grin again, but this time it makes her feel warm in a very specific place.

She learns that Jake Peralta can do a whole lot more with his mouth than talking people’s ears off. His breath ghosts over her through her underwear at first, warming her up even though it’s barely even necessary, and then he’s finally pulling down the black material and helping her kick them off. His tongue is careful at first, just tasting her as if to gauge her expression, but then she nods at him to continue and the next second, her head is thrown back as she lets out a gasp.

She learns that he likes it when she pulls his hair. At first, her hands are just lightly tangling in it for practicality, but then she holds on tighter as a means of control when her legs begin to tense up and the familiar pressure is starting to rise. She’s raising her hips slightly only to lower them again, helping him get her there, and the curls of his hair are just begging to be pulled.

“Do that again,” he pauses to say, so she tugs his hair harder and he straight-up moans.

She learns that he can make her scream, which she wasn’t expecting, and she rocks through the euphoric waves and pants and practically melts into the bed as she comes down from it.

“That good?” He winks, and she wants to roll her eyes, but he did just make her come harder than she remembers doing in a long time, so she kisses the smile off of him instead, tasting her arousal on his lips.

She learns that he's respectful and a gentleman, telling her that they can stop this here if she'd rather, but she doesn’t want to, and they don’t. He has to rifle through the drawer in his bedside table for a while before he finds a condom – maybe he doesn’t do this as often as she’d thought, maybe it’s another sign of his poor organization skills, but he finds one soon enough so she’s not sure she cares – and then it’s a little bit of a blur, but she rolls it on him with precise strokes and lowers herself on top of him and oh my god.

She learns that when he looks at her, when he touches her, it makes her feel powerful and special all at once. He plays with her boobs as she sets the pace, his thumbs rolling against her nipples in a way she didn’t realize she liked, and she picks up her rhythm, clenching around him and leaning back on his raised thighs.

She learns just how enjoyable it is to watch him fall apart underneath her. His pace stutters and he curses, groaning a confession of how close he is, and she could almost come again from watching him alone but she brings two fingers to her clit and touches herself anyway. He finishes before her, spilling out inside the condom with a moan that she can only imitate, collapsing against his chest as she brings herself to orgasm again right after him.

When they're done learning, they collapse together in his bed. For a moment, Amy considers turning around and calling a cab home, because that would be the most responsible thing to do, but then Jake throws an arm around her to pull her closer, and after all, she's still a little tipsy.

What harm could it possibly do, anyway?

Sharp, unforgiving morning light wakes Amy up before her alarm the next morning. She must have forgotten to close the blinds last night, she thinks, and rolls over on the other side so the light doesn't hurt her eyes. She expects the usual greeting of a sea of pillows, and has to stop herself from letting out a yelp of surprise when instead, she's hit with a wall of Jake sleeping with his back to her. A vague memory of them falling asleep like this hits her. He’d wanted to be the little spoon, she remembers.

At first, knowing that intimate fact about him makes her feel proud. Then it makes her panic.

She jumps out of bed, throwing off her part of the comforter in search of her clothes. She finds her underwear and bra together with her shirt, trying to dress as quietly as possible, quick before Jake wakes up and discovers that she's half-naked in his apartment and they have to have a very, very awkward talk –

“Amy? What are you doing?”

Too late.

She freezes on the spot, chewing on her lip as she fumbles for an explanation. Jake’s eyes rake over her with curiosity, which somehow feels a lot more exposing today than it did last night, and it's making her lose track of her words. His bed head curls and disoriented smile is decidedly not helping her focus.

“We slept together last night,” she manages.

Jake’s smile grows wider and prouder as he sits up fully in bed. Amy blushes as she notices the shadow of two hickeys way too close to his neck to be professional.

“Yeah, I was there.”

“Very funny.” She sees her pants thrown across the back of a massage chair and quickly reaches for them. “But this… You know this can’t be a thing, right? Just so we're on the same page about it.”

Jake frowns. “What do you mean with a thing?”

“This – us – we can't date, Jake. I know that. You know that.”

He’s silent for a moment before he fakes a shudder. “Yeah, yeah, no. I’ve dated lawyers before. Never ends well.”

“You have?” The reveal surprises her. “It doesn't matter. This can’t happen.”

“I know.”

“Good,” she exhales. “I’m just going to find my clothes, then, and then I’m going to leave.”

“Hey, wait.” He twists his hands together, bringing them to his chin with a smile. “This is going to sound weird, but… even if nothing can happen between us, I’m still glad we had sex last night.”

The confession takes her by surprise, and Amy wonders again if she just doesn't know anything about one-night-stands. Sleep together, have fun, sneak out in the morning before anything can go deeper – isn't that how it's supposed to go? If so, she's majorly failing, because she can't stop herself from giving him another shy smile in return.

“Me too. Just because, we were like… really good at it.”

“Stupid good!” Jake exclaims. “It makes no sense!”

“We still can't date, though,” she reminds him. “So how do we work this out?”

“Well, it sort of looked like you were planning to just leave, and I’m not going to stop you if that's your choice, but… there is one more option.”

“What are you thinking?”

“We could be friends with benefits,” he shrugs. “None of the commitment, none of the weird incompatibilities between a cop and a lawyer, just us and some stupid good sex.”

“Friends with benefits? Do the kids really say that, still?”

“I’m saying you could consider it.”

Amy's first instinct is to protest, to say absolutely not and leave on the spot. Her relationship history may not contain that many names, but at least they’ve all been fairly straightforward and conventional. She's never done something like this before, and the mere idea of jumping into something so unknown with someone like Jake scares her shitless.

Then again, she's also never been with someone like Jake. Yesterday hadn't been a date, but it had still been better than all the awkward dinners and half-hearted walks she's been at since she broke up with Teddy a year ago. And the sex – well, she'd be lying if she said she wasn't already thinking of doing that again.

“There would need to be rules,” she says.

“Sure, we can come up with some.”

“I’ll write a contract.”

“We need a contract?”

“Yeah,” she decides. “If this is going to work, we need a comprehensive set of rules, and they need to be written down, because I don't trust you not to adjust them in your head last minute.”

“How am I attracted to you? But, fine.”

Amy shakes her head, closing the last button on the shirt that had been left unbuttoned until now. “So… I’ll put together a draft and bring it over tonight? Your place?”

Jake gapes at her for a moment like he can't believe what he hears, but then he nods. “I’m free.”

“Cool. I’ll see you tonight, then.” With that, she pulls on her socks and shoes, leaving before she can freak out again.

“Cool, cool,” she hears just before closing the door. “Friends with benefits. Cool, cool, cool, cool… cool.”

#b99fandomevents #b99 summer 2021 fic exchange #my writing #b99 #peraltiago #jake x amy #b99 fic #b99 fanfiction #jake x amy fanfiction #peraltiago fanfiction #MY FIRST AU PLEASE ENJOY #three more parts to come hahah but i'm only going to post one before the deadline #read on ao3 if you want line breaks since tumblr has ruined those

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lightsovermonaco · 3 years

Text

His Good Sweater: Chapter 5

Masterlist

Shoutout to @acollectionofficsandshit for being my sounding board and beta reader! She's the absolute best a girl could ask for, thanks my love!

Word Count: 3.0k

Recommended song: "The Heart is a Muscle" by Gang of Youths

You woke before the sun, Pierre's bare chest pressed to your back and an arm slung over your middle. You wiggle in his grasp, trying to be sneaky as you turn to face him but ultimately waking him. You run a finger over his lips as they curve upwards before biting lightly. You draw back and he laughs quietly.

"Morning," You whisper, head throbbing slightly. "I feel like I got hit by a train."

"Knocking back four or five shots in a few hours will do that to you." Pierre stretches, arching his back and exposing his neck. The slight mark you left the night before had darkened into a true, unmissable bruise. The reminder of it sent a thrill down your spine, and you couldn't resist ghosting your lips over the hurt.

He sighs, cupping your chin and bringing your mouth up to his. The kiss is lazy, both of you still too ensnared by sleep to put any heat into it.

You stayed tangled in him until Yuki called to remind Pierre they had to be at the airport by eight. You helped him pack as slowly as you could manage, a stone settling in your gut. When the time came, Pierre hadn’t wanted to leave, only relenting when Yuki called again to say the jet was waiting on him.

The longing wasn't something that normally hit you this hard when Pierre left. It was new, the edges raw and unhealed when you poked at it. Everything on campus Tuesday reminded you of him, from the sunlight hitting the lab table to the rare cloudless blue of the London sky.

Just when you’d gotten over the sting of his absence, the news broke. Charles sent you the link to the article, simply captioned, 'You will want to read this.'

Gasly snogs mystery girl in London bar, the headline read. And fuck, that was a grainy picture of you standing between his legs, fingers tangled in his hair. You scroll through the article, heart in your throat, praying you weren’t called out by name.

By some small miracle, whoever had taken the photos hadn’t gotten one of your face. Against your better judgement, you checked the comments.

That was where your name came up. Fans had connected the dots. Your hair had been up that night, but it was the exact same shade as the picture. Your instagram had been filled with photosets of London for months, and Pierre had flown out early before Silverstone. Clearly he had been meeting someone. Anyone with half a brain could figure out that you were the one in the photos, even if the article didn't mention you directly.

The first DM didn’t come for a few hours. It was nasty, the user hurling cruel words at you that struck your chest like tiny knives. Plenty more followed, threats and names alike.

Gold digger.

Does she really think she deserves him?

He could do so much better.

You couldn’t bear attending classes. You sent Pierre the link to the damning article and stayed in your apartment and sobbed. The fans- if they could even be called such a thing- pulled no punches. Every DM and comment struck home, until you eventually had to turn your phone off and curl up in bed, defeated.

People are cruel, you thought, wiping the tears that streak down your cheeks.

You kept your phone off for a few hours before you gathered the courage to check it again. You immediately uninstall any and all social media, unwilling to let it affect you further than it already had. But messages pour in, most from Pierre and a few from your brother.

Hell yeah! Was all your brother sent, along with a screenshot of the article. Your mouth twists, the memory of the comments washing over you again.

Pierre’s messages were the ones that broke you. There were close to a dozen of them, accompanied by missed calls and panicked voicemails.

“Are you okay? Please pick up the phone, my love, I need to hear that you’re okay. I love you. Please call me back.”

The last message, time stamped from a half hour earlier, simply said, “I’m getting on a plane.”

A fresh sob wracks your body. You press a hand to your mouth, trying to silence it. God, he was so pure hearted. You knew the comments would hurt him just as much as they hurt you, if not more. He would blame himself, when in reality, it had been a mutual mistake. Either one of you should have recognized the risks of your actions. But you couldn't let him risk his career for it. You could make it through… somehow.

I’m okay, you type, hating that you had to lie. You don’t need to come to London.

I’m already in the air, He informs you, and you curse softly. He would have hell to pay upon returning to Austria, even if he had somehow convinced Tost to let him leave at the last minute.

I'll be there soon

The flight from Vienna to Heathrow was about two and a half hours, which meant you had that long to pull yourself together. You didn’t want Pierre to see you broken. You shower and change into slightly less ragged sweatpants and an oversized shirt. You grab your laptop, quickly emailing your professors to apologize for missing lecture unannounced and informing them you wouldn’t be there the rest of the week either. You'd need time to sort out your head before facing your peers.

Pierre’s knock came far too quickly. You’d barely assembled your face into a mask of resolve before the door opened. Whatever semblance of control you'd managed to construct came crashing down at the sight of him. He looks just as distraught as you, eyes red and cheeks flushed.

Before he says a word, he gathers you in his arms, tucking your head to his chest. Your lip wobbles, and when he whispers “I’m so sorry,” the tears fall in earnest. For less than a week, you’d been on top of the world with Pierre by your side. You’d gotten to enjoy the idea of being his girlfriend for six days before reality stepped in and ruined it.

You clutch at his shirt, fighting hard to piece yourself back together. Now that he was there, the dam had burst and no amount of willpower could keep the sobs back.

Pierre sweeps you up, one arm under your knees and the other keeping you tight to him as he carries you to your bedroom. He climbs into bed, shoes and all, and keeps you in his lap as he strokes your hair. He sniffles, softly enough that you know he's trying to be strong for you. The realization that he's crying too just makes it hurt that much more.

"I'm sorry," He whispers again and again, as if the two syllables were the only ones he remembered. You can't find your voice to tell him you don't blame him or how much his presence means.

Instead, you press your face into the soft cotton of his sweater. He doesn't move except to stroke a calloused hand over your hair. You let his presence wash over you until your breathing turns more even and your fingers stop trembling.

"H-how were you able to leave Austria?" Your voice shakes, but you tilt your head up to face him. He quickly wipes away the wetness on his cheeks with a sleeve.

"I just left. The only one I told was Yuki. He said he'd cover for me. I saw the comments and I couldn't think straight. I didn't want you to believe them." The look he turns on you is an apology. "When I called and it didn't even ring, I had to get to you."

"I don't think you'll be welcomed back with open arms," You point out, and he presses a tender kiss to your brow.

"They can be pissed at me all they want. I don't care. I needed to be here." You wouldn't admit it, but he was right. The fact that he'd risked everything to comfort you helped you ignore what those users had said. Nothing could ever erase the words, but Pierre’s presence dulled their impact.

“I already petitioned for the article to be removed,” Pierre says softly. “Don’t know if it’ll amount to anything, but it’s worth a shot.”

You nod and wipe your nose on your sleeve. “It’s so much worse than I imagined.” Pierre’s cheek comes to a rest atop your head, his thumb rubbing soothing circles on your arm. “I get that I’m not the only one that loves you. But it’s like they don’t remember that I’m human.”

“People are bold when they're speaking to a screen instead of another person.”

"It was so much easier before anyone knew," You say, words dipped in longing. Rumors had never swirled when you had kept your distance, you'd made sure of it. But now that the secret was out… Would your life be spent dodging threats and dealing with negativity?

He pauses, thumb stilling. “Do you… Do you want it to go back to the way things were before? When we were... friends?"

Your head whips around. “What?”

“It isn’t fair that you have to go through this because of me,” He explains. “I hate the fact that I’m the one causing you pain. The way you’re being treated is only because I live in the spotlight.”

“It’s not your fault,” You assert, placing a hand on his stubbled cheek. “Please don’t blame yourself.”

“Maybe it would be easier if we-”

“Don’t you dare finish that sentence,” You say sternly. You force him to look at you, his eyes storming like the sea. “We’ll figure it out. Our emotions got the best of us last week. We just have to be more careful, keep this behind closed doors. We don’t need to flaunt it, right? Just tell the press that you want to keep your private life private, and I’ll take a break from social media. We can figure it out.”

Pierre nodded in agreement. His voice is scratchy, like he had swallowed gravel. “Alright.”

“It’s us against the world,” You tell him, “And I couldn’t ask for a better teammate.” Your lips ghost against his in an attempt to reassure him. He returns the kiss, firmer and more confident. Your hand slips to the nape of his neck, drawing him in as your tongue glides against his lower lip.

Last week, you’d fucked. But tonight, the sex was something else entirely. It was soft sighs and languid kisses, whispered words of adoration and promises of endless love. Above all, it was an affirmation. Pierre loved you; heart, mind, and soul. In every sense of the word. He would let nothing come between you and himself. Not his career, jealous fans, or the thousands of miles that may sometimes separate you.

Pierre offered you his heart, and you accepted it without question.

**********

The few precious hours Pierre managed to give you were enough to keep you afloat the rest of the week. The break from seemingly endless lectures helped to reset your mind and give you time to focus on yourself.

Pierre called as often as he could, and texted when he couldn’t. You filled him in on the little things you did to keep busy, like how you spent all of Sunday rearranging your tiny apartment so that your bed was as close to his in Austria as you could get it. Monday night, you fell asleep on Facetime with him as you tried and failed to write a term paper for your architectural history class.

Pierre’s visit and subsequent calls had made you feel invincible. But the moment you walk into the lecture hall on Tuesday, everyone’s eyes are on you: the first test of your newly minted confidence. Chin held high, you meet a few of their stares and take your usual seat at the front. The moment you start to question yourself, if you're ready to face the scrutiny, your phone buzzes with a text from Pierre.

Ignore them. Remember that I love you. I’ll call you tonight.

Once again, he somehow knew exactly what you needed to hear. It amazed you that a handful of carefully selected words could grant you so much strength. But it was proof that Pierre recognized and accepted your fears and was willing to help you work through them.

You take a breath, letting the whispers of your classmates fade until they were nothing more than a faint hum. You turn your focus on the professor as she enters, falling into your usual cadence. Easy. You could ignore the gossip until they got tired of it and left you alone. Their fascination couldn’t last more than a few days.

You made it through the rest of your classes and walked home without incident. No one ran up to you and demanded you explain your relationship with Pierre. Your worst fears had been abated. The stress of it rolls off your shoulders when you make it to your apartment. It was already 7 o’clock, but Pierre hadn’t called yet. Seeing as Austria was an hour ahead, you weren’t sure he would hold to his earlier promise.

Your stomach growls, and you leave your bag next to your bed before heading to the kitchen. Dinner was a box of macaroni and cheese, simple but delicious. You couldn’t stop yourself from glancing at your phone every few minutes, hoping to see Pierre’s name on the screen.

Coming to terms with the fact that you probably wouldn't be getting a call, you settle into your favorite chair and crack open your laptop. Term papers didn't write themselves, and you still had a few thousand words to write. You lost yourself in theories and articles for a few hours before your phone breaks your concentration.

You awake?

A smile splits your face. Yeah. Working on this never ending term paper.

I'll leave you to it. Love you, sleep tight.

You laugh quietly. You agree with his 'school first' mentality most of the time, but there were exceptions to every rule. You call him, heart stuttering when he answers.

"You're supposed to be writing."

"Well, nice to hear your voice too," You say playfully. "It was boring me anyway. Who wants to read twenty pages comparing Roman and Greek columns anyway?"

"I'm pretty sure your professor does," He says with a laugh that warms your bones. If only he were standing in front of you so you could feel his chest rumble beneath your fingertips. Wanting to see his face, you switch to a video call.

"I was wondering how long that would take," He teases, smile wide and welcoming.

"I miss you," You say softly, padding to your bed. You'd accomplished enough that you could push off writing more until tomorrow. "I wish I could come to Japan this weekend."

"Me too, my love," He responds, voice tinged with longing. "It's one of the more challenging circuits on the calendar. And you've always wanted to visit Tokyo."

You weren't surprised that he remembered that silly dream of yours. "Send me something that reminds me of you." You flick off the lights before climbing under the covers, pulling them up to your chin. "Something cute and sweet."

"I fly out tomorrow night to meet Charles. I should have some extra time to do some window shopping."

"You and Charles going on a date?" You tease, propping your head on a hand. Now that you were cozy, it was hard to keep your eyes open.

He shakes his head. "He's been… helping me with the press. Tackling it all."

"Oh." The mood sours. You decide not to dwell on it, turning to humor instead. "Give him a kiss for me as a thank you."

"He would love that," Pierre laughs. Comfortable silence blankets you, broken only by Pierre humming softly. It was a song you recognize as one of his favorites; it must have been stuck in his head.

"What time do I have to wake up on Sunday?" You mumble, struggling to stay awake while he was unknowingly serenading you.

"Do you want to watch the prerace stuff?" Papers shuffle softly on the other end as he figures it out for you. "If you do, probably like 3:30. If not, the race would be at five your time, so maybe 4:30."

"That's early. You're lucky I love you enough to sacrifice my beauty sleep."

He didn't hesitate before responding. "Luckily you don't need sleep to be beautiful."

Your mouth curls in a sleepy smile. "When you say things like that, I hate the distance between us even more."

Pierre scrubs a hand over his face. "I don't have a break for another month or so."

"I know."

Silence falls again, both of you lost in your own heads.

"You should sleep," He says finally, and you nod. Your first class was only 6 hours from now. "I'll sing to you if you promise to close your eyes and try to sleep."

Despite your best efforts, you yawn. You often called him for a song when you couldn't sleep and the time difference permitted it. Just hearing his voice was soothing enough, but a song? It was heaven. "Shouldn't be hard to do." Sleep came within minutes, Pierre's soft song your lullaby.

Tagging: @flashcal @sunshinesewis

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thesoulesscollection · 2 years

Text

(Request) The Perfect Timeline; Ellry

Request: I have a Rosemin request.

((WARNING Long post down below))

Now I decided to do my own spin on it so I apologize if it's not exactly what was asked from me.

The Pardoned Pals route happened but Henry was always strangely protective over Ellie. Whenever she was in danger he cared for nothing except her safety, this man who always hid his superpowers suddenly busted them out without hesitation, throwing caution to the win. He killed Grigory with Reference, froze the Bukowski twins with ice magic, and even was preparing to metalbend the helicopter before recognizing Charles as the pilot. Ellie always found this weird given the secrets Henry kept, but knowing he never had a partner before and that he brought down the Toppats not just to avenge his father Terrance Suave and get revenge on his mother Carol Cross for abandoning them to the Clan's wrath, she thought it was loyalty born from his mommie issues.

That's what Ellie thought until she overheard Henry telling Charles he betrayed the government and stole the Romanian Ruby to become The Wall's top priority and get captured at the same time they got her. It doesn't make sense, Henry didn't know she tried to steal the Norwegian Emerald at the time, he had no reason to help her or know The Wall was after her.

So as Henry sleeps that night she reads his memories with The Force and finds the truth. She learns of Henry's first route, Toppat Civil Warfare, and how the remorse brought by her parting words as she died in his arms drove him to rewind time, giving up on his victory all the riches he could ever want to set things right.

How the greatest criminal in the world changed his ways and stole her heart.

***

'Meet me outside. On top of the hill looking out at the horizon'

After reading the simple note a couple more times knowing what to do next in reserved understandment, Ellie heaved a hearty sigh she'd been holding in when taking the first step. The red-headed woman knew something was up; it didn't take anyone with a single brain cell to understand why she was being called by the other where they'll be alone together to talk in privacy. Now she didn't know what the note meant, causing her to worry just a little bit, familiar inner turmoil swimming in the pit of her stomach yet despite it she kept up a strong outlook. It stayed that way until it slowly crumbled apart when she walked the steep hill finding he was waiting for her arrival with an unreadable expression on his face. From how she saw it he didn't notice her presence at least at first noting he was pacing back and forth, twirling his thin fingers as he murmured to himself.

"Hey, Henry. You wanted to see me?" She asked puzzled, growing more worried then she'd like to admit out loud with the man's nervous tics coming to the surface.

"O-oh. Yes I'm so glad to see you here, Ellie" Startled by her sudden voice breaking the silence, body involuntarily stiffening, Henry nodded chewing at his bottom lip, "I needed to talk to you about something. In private. Just you and me"

The ex-convict stood in front of her stiff like a statue, sweating bullets, red-faced, struggling to speak coherently and she walked up to him with a hand laid on his shoulder, "Relax, alright? Whatever you have to say to me shouldn't cause you to be a nervous wreck. I'm a big girl, I can handle it"

"Okay. But I have to warn you now. It's. It's bound to get rough and confusing. You may not get it. I hope you do"

Then in a sudden, hesitation was long gone, it finally broke loose, the floodgates were forced open, Henry spilled everything he wanted to tell her he couldn't do in person last time. How he was helplessly stuck in other timelines where he had to struggle making the right choices if he didn't want to fail - or rather die - and in the end meant nothing. What was worse in his wet eyes filled to the brim with fresh tears is being left in the Toppat Civil War, feeling dead then empty inside witnessing his love who despised him die in his arms. Even afterwards in a new one, be it in ones befriending the fiery woman he was still scared shitless about her wellbeing where he tends to be overly protective doing whatever it takes to keep her safe. If it means having to leave destruction in his path then so be it, he did much worse back then anyways so he can live with it.

"I would've never thought it was like that? So many timelines. Yet so little control over it or your choices. All the failures and short lived successes..." Ellie managed to speak in breathless huffs, already knowing small bits due to shamelessly using a rare ability, The Force many nights ago on the man who remained unsuspecting in a deep slumber once curiosity got too much to bear though the power itself can only go so far however she never told a soul on the matter instead allowing him to tell the full story, her magenta eyes sparkled in the moonlight, it was more than she initially expected in her fever dreams, "... I. I'm not surprised you didn't tell me what's going on earlier. Or anyone else for that matter. Nobody would've believed you. I knew you weren't feeling well. There was something plaguing your mind and I wanted to help when I didn't know how. I did things myself I wasn't proud in either"

In the corner of her eyes, unable to muster the strength in herself to face the other although she did manage to see through blurred vision that the man nodded back with a depressed look on his pale face.

"There wasn't much I could've done, Ellie. At the moment back then or even now and I did try. I really did to have the perfect timeline" Henry tiredly sighs.

"I think it's perfect how it is now. You have me, Charles and even everything else you can want?"

Shaking his head, the rail thin man ran his bony hands down his drooping face, dull eyes struggling to stay open with heavy, dark bags laying underneath, "I suppose. But there's a part of me thinking that this would end any moment. That tomorrow I'll wake up to see everything reset again. I can't do that again. I can't lose everything, everyone I have. I won't lose you"

"It won't, Henry. You said it earlier with Charles that it's been months since anything happened. Maybe that thing, whatever it was, grew tired and let you be. Allowed you to finally live a comfortable, safe life"

Inching closer yet keeping the distance between them Ellie slipped her hands down in order to hold Henry's own gently squeezing them in reassurance.

"Yeah… I love you. A whole lot and I hate to see you get hurt or worse" Giving his best smile, Henry's crystal blue eyes staring back at Ellie attempting to relax with varying success. "You don't know know I'll do for you"

"I love you too. Just allow me to take care of you too every once in a while. Don't bottle it all up on me. You deserve attention and love"

Abruptly Henry gave Ellie a tight hug, nuzzling his face into her neck shakily clinging on for dear life as if she would've disappeared once he let go. His messy black hair that under the moon's light glowed beautifully tickled against her jawline. Soon his long, slender arms slid around her waist drawing them in close, bodies pressed together almost intimately and she didn't hesitate to do the same around his neck. Warm heat radiating in waves off the pair, keeping the cold to never disturb them in their loving embrace lasting for what seems to be an eternity. Then inevitably they separated when Ellie made the first move pulling back, wiping the tears away with her thumbs as she cupped his damp face.

"We mean so much to one another, I know that for sure. So let's try to be open, learn to enjoy our time together without worrying all the time" Peppering in a few, carefully calculated kisses along the way, she ran her hands across the man's face, "I'll always have your back and love you through everything thrown our way"

#Ask Box Is Always Open #Asks Are Always Appreciated #Anon Or Not #The Henry Stickmin Collection #Henry Stickmin Collection #Ellie Rose #Henry Stickmin #Ellry #Henry x Ellie #Ellie x Henry #Angst #Character Whump #Henry Whump #Henry Stickmin Knows About Alternate Timelines #Hurt/Comfort #Emotional Hurt/Comfort #Romantic Fluff #Domestic Fluff

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hb-writes · 3 years

Text

The Small Acts

1924

Clara rested her chin on her knees, arms wrapped tight around her legs as Polly finished weaving her damp hair into a braid. She had been tender with the brushing and the plaiting, something the woman often wasn't when dealing with Clara’s long tresses, but Polly knew it wasn't time for tough love or rough handling. Her niece needed to be coddled a bit. She needed to be a girl and not the nearly grown woman she imagined herself to be.

A few moments after she finished, Polly tapped a foot into Clara's side, prompting the girl up from the carpet when she seemed not to notice the ritual was through, her gaze lost in the fireplace while her mind, Polly assumed, was still a bit trapped in Warwickshire.

Clara reluctantly climbed onto the cushion beside her aunt, wrapping herself tightly in her borrowed robe as she drew her legs to her chest. Clara's stomach had been unsettled since she arrived, before that even, her nerves frayed by the time she arrived at the halfway point between Warwickshire and Sutton Coldfield, once the adrenaline borne of her row with Tommy finally subsided. It had all happened right around the same time that the rain started to come.

"He's gonna murder me," Clara said, the first decent string of words she had put together since coming out of the bath.

The bath had been at Polly's insistence, because Clara had been chilled to the bone when she showed up on Polly's doorstep in the middle of the night and because Polly needed a moment without Clara's presence to have a frank phone call with Tommy. And most of all, Polly hoped the bath would calm Clara's sputtering tears, same as it often had when she was a small child.

Polly could see now that the bath had helped Clara in a way, had at least dealt a bit with the cold bones. But while she was calmer, and very much quiet, Polly thought Clara seemed less soothed and more numb than anything else so Polly decided it would be time, then, that would ultimately make it better. She had been suspecting it for weeks, that her niece and nephew both needed a bit of time apart.

Tommy hadn't seemed particularly soothed by the call informing him his sister was safe at Polly's, his voice clipped and methodical as they sorted through the particulars. Sure, Polly had noted a certain measure of relief in her nephew at hearing she was present and accounted for, but the relief was quickly cast aside, and a certain gruffness returned to his tone. Polly couldn't help but think his tone wasn't just from the itch to shout at the girl for making the three-hour hike out to Polly's on her own in the middle of the night, though that certainly would have been enough to warrant it.

"Is he on his way?" Clara finally pulled her eyes from the fire and looked to her aunt.

"No." Polly moved the brush from the couch beside her to the end table, noticing the way Clara's shoulders had slumped a bit. "I told him to leave it for the night. It's already late. And an evening apart will do you some good."

Tommy would have been out to collect her directly after the phone call if Polly had allowed it. He intended for his sister to finish out the evening under his roof, in her own bed. He intended on seeing to it that his sister spent her evenings there for the foreseeable future, actually, but Polly put him off, delaying his collection until the following morning. She said it was on account of the storm and the hour, but it was also on account of the fact that Polly Gray didn't want to release her niece to her brother's care quite so soon, not with Clara in her current state and Tommy being as he was.

"But—"

"They'll be fine. Your brother is a grown man and Charles has his father and a whole staff to look after him."

An argument was already well-formed in Clara's head, even before Polly's interruption, because Clara and Tommy spent plenty of time apart these days, largely at her brother's behest. And after Polly's words, Clara couldn't quite dispel the swell of anxiety at the idea of her nephew being looked after by someone other than her. She knew on some level that Mary was entirely capable of caring for the boy, and under normal circumstances, her brother was quite capable too, but it had been Clara reading him bedtime stories and tucking him in every night since Grace's death, answering his late-night calls and soothing the bad dreams with her off-tune humming before the staff woke. And Clara hated herself a bit for not being there now.

"I know you worry after him, but it's not your job to mother."

Clara was sixteen, but Polly still saw a child when she looked at her. She saw one of the two babies she’d raised almost from birth, having done more nurturing of Clara and Finn than she’d done of her other niece and nephews, more rearing of the twins than she’d done even of her own two children. And though Clara and Polly rarely fought on subjects relating to the girl growing older as Clara and Tommy did, there were moments when it did make Polly a bit sentimental.

“And that can go for either one of them,” Polly added. “You’re a sister and an aunt, and there’s no expectation for you to be more than that.”

When Polly was sixteen, before that even, she had been helping her older brother’s wife to mother her niece and nephews, cleaning up after Arthur Sr.’s messes. By twenty-five, when her sister-in-law passed, Polly was tending to the responsibilities he left behind on Watery Lane, the business and the brood he had never helped with, the family he never deserved.

The relationship between Polly and her brother had been dissimilar in every way from that between Clara and Tommy, but Polly knew intimately the nature of the girl’s pain. She understood what tugged at Clara’s heart when she heard her brother wasn’t coming to bring her home. She knew how a bit of innocent worry could nag even when one’s heart was filled with rage or in Polly’s case, hate. Polly knew what it was feeling compelled to fill a void for motherless children and for a moment, the circular nature of life struck her.

“Same as you, then?” Clara said, the notion striking her at the same moment. “A sister and aunt, mothering when it’s not her job.”

Polly sighed. “That was different, love.”

Clara knew her aunt was at least partly right. It was different. Charles had a father and Tommy had resources. She could meet nothing more than the minimum requirements of sister and aunt and Tommy and Charles would certainly be fine. Clara wasn't sure the same could be said if Polly hadn't stepped in to raise them, especially during the war.

"I shouldn't have run."

"Probably not," Polly said. It had been a hot-headed response, not one of the well-thought-out reactions Polly was used to seeing from the girl, but she was grieving and rowing with her brother, and a bit of impulsivity could be expected under such circumstances. "But there's no use in troubling over that now."

Polly figured Tommy would give her plenty of time to trouble over the insensibility of her choices later. There was no need to discuss them with her now.

"I shouldn't have bothered you so late."

Polly waved her off. "It's okay, love. I couldn't sleep anyway." She pulled Clara closer. "Now, come here." Polly maneuvered the girl so Clara's head rested in her aunt's lap and settled a blanket over her. "You know it's never too late to bother your Aunt Polly." She cleared her throat, her tone a bit sharper. "Unless you're bringing me nonsense, in which case, you can take that right to one of your brothers or your sister and leave me out of it."

Clara nearly smiled, the both of them looking at the flames of the fireplace while Polly rubbed her hand up and down the girl's arm. Despite her aunt's pointed tone, Clara knew Polly would never turn her away. Not if it was midnight or if she brought the woman nothing but nonsense or got herself into some sort of real trouble or ran out on her brother in the middle of the night. In sixteen years of late-night intrusions, grand tantrums, difficult questions, and bits of heartbreaking melancholy, Polly had never turned Clara away without providing something, whether it be a bit of love or wisdom or strength.

They were the small acts of Polly's self-conscripted mothering that Clara had always taken for granted, but she recognized them for what they were now.

"You're a good mother."

It was the type of comment Polly would usually shrug off, announcing that she wasn't the kids' mother, claiming she was just an aunt doing her duty, stepping in when the kids had no one else, but she didn't fight Clara's mumbled declaration now.

The comment actually left Polly unable to speak for a moment, so she squeezed her niece's arm instead, blinking away the wetness in her eyes, grateful Clara's head was still in her lap, her face turned to the fire while Polly regained her composure.

"Alright, love,” Polly said. “It's late. You get some rest now."

-----

Peaky Blinders (Little Lady Blinder) Masterlist

#peaky blinders #peaky blinders fanfic #shelby!sister #shelby sister #polly gray #clara shelby #little lady blinder #I love you prompts #300 follower celebration

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make-me-imagine · 3 years

Text

Request + Prompts: Mr. Bingley comforting the reader at a party after hearing someone talk bad about them? + “I wanted to know if you were okay” and/or “You don’t have to leave”

Pairing: Charles Bingley x Gender!Neutral Reader

Requested by: @thebookbakery

Triggers: None Words: 1.3k

Genre: Some angst + fluff (happy ending)

You smiled as you chatted away with the few close friends you had at the ball you were attending. Looking around you acknowledged some others you knew, as well as admired the celebration itself.

As your eyes met with another’s your breath hitched in your throat as you recognized the owner. Charles, or rather Mr. Bingley as would be the more proper way to refer to him, smiled widely at you and nodded his head in greeting. Smiling lightly and sending a small curtsy in his direction, you felt your face rush at the interaction.

You had known Charles for a few months now, having met when he and his sister moved into the town, you got along with him very well. You seemed very alike in personality and were seemingly very comfortable around each other. Being in his company was becoming a very fond thing for you. Though, you knew others would not see it that way.

The Bingley family were well off and well known, and your family was not, so there were many who did not think your friendship, or anything more, would be suitable. You knew his sister felt this way as well, she would pretend to like your company and would compliment you when you were visiting, but you knew better. You saw the looks she gave you when she thought you were not looking, and the quiet whispers to her companions as she giggled and glanced in your direction. But you did not care what she thought of you, only what Charles thought.

However tonight, you could not help but be effected by the way you were treated behind your back. As you moved from a small group of acquaintances you wandered over to one of your friends to say hello, faltering in your step when you heard a nearby conversation between some more wealthy members of the party.

“I am surprised that they are even here, they certainly stand out in a crowd, and not in a good way.” they whispered, followed by giggles.

Another woman speaking up “To think they are an acquaintance of the Bingleys, you know, some say that Mr. Bingley has his eye on them, however-” she chuckled “They most certainly are not worthy of carrying the Bingely name, they are a nobody, they do not belong.” the comment was followed by more giggles.

Your eyes fell onto them, an emotion of shock and anger in them, which caught the gossiping women off guard as they silenced themselves and looked away.

Instead of approaching your friend you turned and made your way through the crowd. You no longer wanted to be in the presence of such rude and judgmental people. How many others were whispering about you behind your back? Were they right? Yes, they were. This was not a place you belonged. The riches, the money. But you didn’t care about those things. You simply wanted to be happy. But you were stupid to think that you could find happiness with Charles Bingley, especially when you knew of the company his family held.

As you fled, you were unaware of the figure following quickly behind you. Charles had been just behind the group of women and overheard what they were saying. He was unsure of who they were talking about until his eyes landed on you, he could see the offense and sadness on your face, followed by your angry glare at the women before you turned and fled from the party. He was quick to follow, not wanting you to leave, and wanting to make sure you were alright.

You couldn’t help the small build up of tears in your eyes. You damned yourself for letting yourself get emotional. You were stronger than this. You collected your shawl and made your way towards the door, alone in the foyer, you did not care that your family was still in the party, you would walk home if need be.

“Y/n?” the voice came suddenly, soft from behind you.

Turning quickly you turned to see Charles approaching you slowly, as though he was approaching a scared animal. You straightened up and put on a fake smile before curtsying slightly “Mr. Bingley. Uh, I do not feel well so I thought I might take my leave a bit early.”

“I heard what those women said” he spoke, catching you off guard. How had he heard? You did not see him. “I wanted to know if you were okay.”

You looked down shyly at your feet before looking back up at him “I-” you were unsure of how to respond. You sighed in resignation “They were right, I do not belong here.” you began to turn away from him again.

“You don’t have to leave.” he said quickly before walking closer to you “Please, don’t leave.”

You looked back at him, head still down slightly “I cannot listen to anymore of their poisonous words Char-” you cut yourself off before saying his name, you should not become so comfortable “Mr. Bingley” you corrected.

His face fell slightly at this, taking one more step closer his countenance seemed to become a bit more bashful as he was now standing in front of you “They were wrong. You have every right to be here. Your company is much more favorable to me than there’s will ever be. I am the one who is unworthy of having you as a companion.” he took the smallest step closer to you, that made you hold your breath as he looked into your eyes, before reaching out slowly and taking your hand in his “I would never recover if you were to stop seeing me, if you were to listen to those women. I do not think the same things as them. I do not care that your family is of a lower status than us, that should not matter, it does not. I simply-” he paused as he squeezed your hand slightly ”I simply wish, for you to stay. With me.”

You stared at him, your heart pounding in your chest, your mind flashing back to those women “They will simply whisper even more, they will not stop.”

“I don’t care. Let them say what they wish, there lies and insults will not stop the truth from being the truth.”

“What is the truth?”

Charles became even more bashful in countenance as he smiled at you “That you are worthy of the Bingley name” your eyes widened in surprise as he continued “And that you are the most amazing person I have ever met, and that, I love you.” he finished his confession in a little more than a whisper.

You opened your mouth to speak but remained silent, only able to smile in shock, you shook your head slightly, as if pulling yourself together “Charles” you said exasperated. He smiled at this, oh how he loved when you said his name.

“Marry me Y/n” he said, continuing to surprise you. Seeing this, he took your other hand in his and held them close to his chest “Please.”

You let out a surprised laugh as our eyes grew moist with emotion, you grinned at him before nodding your head “Yes, I will.”

Charles grinned at your acceptance before pulling you gently towards him and kissing you. After a moment you pulled away and rested your foreheads against one another as he spoke quietly “We will not tell them yet, simply, go in together, and let them see that the did not win. And when they do learn of our engagement, they will be the ones to leave in embarrassment.”

You smiled at him as he straightened up, reaching out his arm for you to take. Looping your arm into his he lead you back into the main room. You noticed the immediate whispers of the same women from before, as well as the curious and dismayed look from his sister. But as Charles looked at you and smiled, you no longer cared about their gossiping words. Because no matter what they thought or said, they had no say in your happiness.

xx End xx

((Bonus Fun Fact: The Actor that plays Mr. Bingley in P&P 1995 is Crispin Bonham-Carter; Helena Bonham-Carter’s third cousin once removed))

If you liked this please consider reblogging or leaving a comment.

If you would like to be added to a taglist for any fandom or character let me know!~

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bunnys-beetlejuice-blog · 3 years

Text

some kind of attention grabbing noise to clue you into the fact that its FIC TIME, BABES! again, mentions of self harm in this chapter, be cautious and take care of yourselves lost? confused? frightened? worry not. start here, for delicious tasty context

His home is broken. When he’d arrived at the Tudor, floating up the steps, he’d almost felt a sense of relief. No matter how bad everything is, at least he can see his dad and sister now. Even if they can’t see him, he can find a way to make them say his name, and maybe his presence will only be a band aid on a mortal wound, but they’ll at least all be bleeding out together.

But he doesn’t recognize the people in this house. They call themselves Lydia and Charles, and their voices sound the same, and they mostly look the same, but these can’t be his breathers, his family, because they hardly seem to count as one. Lydia’s only sixteen, but she looks older, sadder, the dark makeup and short dark hair a shock, when he’s only known her as fresh faced and long haired and blonde. And his Lydia used to smile, she used to tell jokes, she used to have life behind her eyes. This Lydia is functionally dead. She walks around, eyes half hidden behind hair and eyeliner, and sits quietly, hardly eats, picks at her food like she’s already accepted starvation as a viable escape method. Charles is just as bad. His father reeks of alcohol, a scent BJ can’t stand, and the gray at his temples is more pronounced than he remembers.

But worst of all, is how neither of them talk about anything that matters. He sits in his chair, at dinner, listens to Charles berate Lydia over some stupid school thing. “Mom always said high school was temporary. Ya know, unimportant,” he grates out, like he’s a part of the conversation, but no one turns to look at him. Lydia pushes her food around her plate, hardly reacts to the scolding, and that’s dinner. Two dead people, playing at being alive, neither doing an especially good job.

He goes before them, up the stairs, leaving a cold air behind himself, and he finds that he’s able to manipulate his bedroom door, though not by much, and it’s exhausting to do so. It opens only a fraction, but that must be enough to get Lydia’s attention, because she enters, pokes around, and even asks Charles about it. But he can see from the look in both their eyes, that this evidence of his existence isn’t enough. Lydia lays on his bed, in the dark, and cries for their mother, and he would give anything to cry with her. As it is, he hugs his knees to his chest, in the dark, and sits there, shaking and overwhelmed, as he listens to his baby sister softly sob herself to sleep.

He becomes well acquainted with their new bad habits fairly quickly. Charles is drinking himself into a stupor, every night, falling asleep at his desk, barely making it to work in the mornings, sometimes not changing out of his suit for a number of days, only applying cologne as needed, too busy in the bottle to take care of himself properly. That’s bad enough, but the first time he sees what Lydia does, now, it scares him so badly it’s hard to even think. She digs a shard of glass into her forearm, and it at least seems she’s not cutting to kill, but both siblings watch the red prick along the new wound in silence, until he speaks. “Mom wouldn’t like that,” he tells her, not that it matters. “You shouldn’t be doin’ that, Lyds. What if it gets infected? What if you get seriously hurt? Th’ blood’s supposed to be on th’ inside, kiddo,” he babbles, pointlessly, as she cuts deeper, sinks that glass further into her skin, and sits there, watching it, passively. Like it’s not happening to her. Like she’s watching something on a screen. Like she couldn’t care less that she’s hurting herself. “Dead Mom,” she addresses her empty room, as she often does. “If you can see this, you’re probably freaking out. This is coping. I’m coping.” She lies to the air in front of her. “You’re not,” he croaks out. “This isn’t healthy, Lyds, please..”

It’s a nightly ritual for her, at this point. She listens to music, looks through photos, and maims herself, and all he can do is watch her, trying to make sure she doesn’t do anything stupid, or stupider. A week into silently stalking his own family, and he’s still not any closer to being seen, or figuring out how to make them say his name. It’s torture. He follows the two of them around the house, plays at being their shadows, and trails them places, work, school, the grocery store, wherever. It doesn’t matter. He might as well not exist.

Actually, not existing is already starting to sound pretty good.

Lydia stands up from her bed, still bleeding, and the motion of that breaks his thoughts. She crouches low, retrieves a photo album from under her bed that he didn’t know had been there. She flips through it, and has to sit down, after only a second.

“That th’ blood loss catchin’ up to you?” he snarks, before glancing over at her, and his eyes widen. She’s staring at a photo of him. Several photos of him, actually, and she flips through the album, pages and pages of him. He studies her expression, as she lands on a picture that he recognizes. The two of them, coming back from that disastrous visit to the Smallpox Hospital, on the lift, over the water. She’s nine, and adorable, and he’s sixteen and grubby, but infatuated with the two who had been sitting across from them. Adam had taken Lydia’s instamatic, and snapped the picture of the siblings, making faces, the skyline behind them.

“You remember that day, Lyds?” he tries, as he watches her brow furrow. She sighs, like she’s disappointed in herself, and closes the album, and it’s deposited back under her bed. “Mama, some of these pictures, they make my head hurt, more than my heart,” she says, softly, which he understands. She can’t remember him, all the memories she has of him are locked behind whatever mental wall this curse has created, and trying does nothing but confuse her. Maybe she can’t even see his face, in the pictures. Maybe it’s a blur, out of focus, like the moment you wake up, and have yet to rub the sleep from your eyes. That’s all he is, now, just a dream she can’t remember upon her return to the waking world.

He can open and close doors, but only barely, and it takes the energy out of him. He finds that any fire he lights still affects the world of the living, but when he tries to spell his name out in flames on the walls, all he manages to do is scare Charles into calling an electrician, about a possible electrical issue causing fires. He hadn’t even been able to spell out a “B” because somehow, this stupid curse can tell his intentions, and he hadn’t been able to physically move his arm, to form the letters he needed.

A month into living in hell, he’s finding himself feeling more and more like he’s losing his mind. He knows humans can be driven mad by isolation, but he’d never thought of what the effects on himself would be, especially since it’s not true isolation. He can go into a crowd, surround himself with people. It just doesn't matter, which is what’s making him feel so unhinged, and more than once, he throws himself into a crowd of people, and screams and kicks and thrashes, begging them to see him. All he succeeds in doing is giving a group of New Yorkers a slight chill.

But the thing that makes him the angriest is the day he finds a red headed stranger in their house. He and Lydia come in together, her just returning from a day at school, and him returning from a day of tagging along behind her, and the siblings both stop, and cock their heads at the same time, the same direction, at the sight of the strange woman standing in the foyer. Her red hair is piled in sort of a silly looking bun on top of her head, and she’s got some very intense bangs, hiding her forehead. She’s also wearing almost exclusively purple. She's scrunching her nose, examining one of Emily’s framed prints, the one of Saturn Devouring His Son, looking a bit disgusted.

“Who th’ hell is that?” he asks Lydia, and Lydia addresses the woman. “Who the hell are you?”

The woman turns to face them, and then smiles. “Oh, hello there!” she says, like they're strangers, and she’s welcoming them into her home. She lifts her hands, and rings a triangle Betelgeuse hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “You’re bringing a very interesting energy into this house, Lydia,” the stranger smiles, like that’s the only facial expression she’s got. “You don’t say. I’m about to bring the energy of a bunch of cops here, too,” the teen threatens, staring at the woman, who places a hand over her chest. “My name is Delia,” she says, finally. “Your dad has hired me to be your life coach! He says you’ve been feeling down in the dumps, lately,” she gives an over exaggerated sad face. “But I know with a little positive thinking, me and you can turn that sad aura into a bubbling rainbow one!”

“Oh my god, you should bite her,” Betelgeuse says, instantly. “You up to date on your rabies shot?” Lydia asks. “Positivity makes me foam at the mouth. I wouldn’t get too close.”

Delia cocks an eyebrow, but does move, and allows the teen to move past her, up the stairs. “I’m just here to help you gain a new perspective, Lydia~!” she calls from behind her, as Lydia storms up to her room, and she slams the door behind herself. “Unbelievable,” she growls, throwing her bag on her bed, and he echoes her. “Un-fuckin'-believable!” he agrees, pacing around her room. “What th’ hell is a life coach, even?”

Lydia kicks at her wall, her big black combat boot leaving a mark on the red paint. “I’m the one who needs help? He can’t even say her name, and I’m the one who needs the hippie to come in, and try and change my perspective? A change of perspective doesn’t bring MOM BACK!” She ends her sentence in a scream, her face going red, and then she picks up her bag, and throws it at her bedroom door. The bang it makes isn’t satisfying enough, and she whirls around her room, looking for anything else she can throw around, and destroy. He settles on her bed, and watches, forced to be passive by the curse, as Lydia storms around her room, until finally, Charles throws open her bedroom door.

“You are being ridiculous,” he hisses at her, his grip on her door knob white knuckled.

“Get out! Get the hell out and leave me alone, and take that bitch downstairs with you!” Lydia screams, a hair’s breadth away from throwing a potted plant at him. “Scream and throw fits all you want, little girl. You can’t temper tantrum your way out of Delia being here. She’s going to help you.” She lobs the plant at him, and it barely goes sailing by their father’s head. Betelgeuse watches go over the railing, and then there’s the sound of it shattering on the entrance floor, followed by Delia’s surprised, “Oh!” Charles’ expression is deadly. “You can stay in here until you’ve calmed down,” is all he says, before slamming her door, and Lydia stands there, breathing heavily. “You learned how to throw those epic tantrums from me,” Betelgeuse tells her, as she flops on her bed, and screams into a pillow. read the rest right over HERE

#beetlejuice #beetlejuice fanfiction #beetlejuice broadway #beetlejuice the musical #lydia deetz #beetlejuice fic #my writing

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sometimesitrytowritethings · 4 years

Text

Mountain Man: Part 1

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Reader

Word count: 2.9k

Warnings: Swearing

Summary: You never thought you’d love again. Then Arthur Morgan came into town. Fate continuously has you meeting each other in odd ways, and a troubled past is something you are both familiar with. Perhaps that’s what will make this time different.

Notes: A MASSIVE THANK YOU to @morgans-whore for helping me out with this!!! If you haven’t read their work, please do so immediately. Also goddamn it I WILL figure out how to insert a read more break on mobile if it kills me.

------

Smithfield’s Saloon was a bustling, loud mess when you entered, as was typical for a Friday evening in the small town of Valentine. The place was only a couple of years old, fully built from the timber milled in nearby Strawberry and lit by strategically placed oil lamps, giving it a sepia-toned glow that you could bask in all evening. Several tables were scattered about the sparsely-decorated room, a larger one covered in green cloth currently hosting a nightly low-stakes poker game.

You made your way inside, taking off your light jacket since escaping the mild chill in the air and scanned the room, looking for your friends in the crowd. The piano man was playing one of the four songs in his repertoire, The Arkansas Traveller, as Quentin, the barber, swayed slightly in time to the music at his normal post in the back, beer in hand, and speaking to one of the saloon’s regular patrons. Jon, the old drunk, was sitting at his usual table, downing a bottle of whisky and ranting about something or other. After years of enduring his presence, you had finally been able to tune him out. Jedadiah, the bartender, nodded your way as your gaze wandered past him before serving Tommy, who seemed to already be well into his cups, another glass of whisky.

Dozens of other familiar faces were scattered about the room as you scanned it, finally spotting the two women chatting with two unfamiliar men at the end of the bar. After a rather long week working across the street at Saints Hotel, cooking, running baths, cleaning, and washing a couple of particularly unruly patrons, your good friends Anastasia and Margaret had invited you over to their place of work for a few drinks - on the house.

“Evening Anastasia, Margaret,” you call over the din of piano music, clinking glasses, and loud conversations. Anastasia was a freckled, firey redhead who was almost always getting into trouble. As was typical for an evening on the job, her white chemise was pushed down low on her chest, revealing her ample cleavage to entice more of the men into paying for a night with her. Margaret, on the other hand, was of a slimmer build and had lovely dark brown hair, pulled away from her doe-eyed face. She was always ready to flirt with anyone she sees and crack jokes on the regular, which definitely worked on many a man over the course of her career as a working girl. These women were two of the first friends you made when moving to Valentine with your soon-to-be husband almost a decade ago. They had been working at Keane’s back then, the older saloon down the street, but have since moved to the wealthier spot when it opened a few years ago.

They both look toward you and becon you over. “Hey hun, these handsome gentlemen are Javier and Charles. They’ve just come into town, isn’t that right?” Margaret explained, putting her hand on Charles’s bicep and giving it a flirty squeeze as she batted her lashes.

You gave a small snort and glanced over at the men. The one introduced as Charles had long, dark hair, dark skin, and shining brown eyes. He was very obviously an outdoorsman, slightly bulky and built for spending time in nature, wearing a tattered light blue shirt cinched at the hips by a gun belt. He nodded at you, but said nothing and took a sip of his whisky, eyeing you over the rim of the glass. Javier, on the other hand, took your hand from across the corner of the bar and gave it a quick kiss. Also dark-haired, his was cut significantly shorter and tied in a ponytail at the nape of his neck, Javier was slightly leaner than his companion, and was dressed in finer clothes - a charmer, no doubt.

They were both very handsome men, indeed, but you recognized Margaret’s tactic from a mile away: butter up the new ones with enough complements, keep them well in their liquor, and they’ll be coming back to you every night for their entire stay. You raised a hand to the bartender, ordering a round of whisky for the group.

“Why thank you, Mariposa,” crooned Javier, picking up the drink and nodding at you over the rim of the cup.

You laughed. “No need to try that with me, I don’t work here,” you teased, raising your glass to him before taking a long drink of your whisky. Jedadiah has given you the higher-quality bottle this time - good. Javier let out a laugh and went back to speaking with Anastasia, leaving you to sip your drink in silence for the time being. The slight burning sensation warmed your throat and then worked its way down to your belly, easing away the stress of the previous week. There really was nothing like a good glass to take the edge off.

As you finished your first drink, the door to the saloon suddenly swung open, drawing the attention of your companions. All four turned to face the new patron, the women leaning against the bar as the two men moved to greet their friend.

“Oh! Arthur!” called Charles, waving his hand towards the bar to summon him over.

“Arthur, come here, come here! Come over here! I want you to meet our friends.” Javier called and moved from the bar to smack his friend on the back. You turned as well, leaning your right side against the bar, drink still in hand, and taking in the handsome new patron.

He was average height, but bulkier than his friends - a powerhouse made of pure muscle. You were sure he could break you in half if you let him. His light brown hair was brushed haphazardly away from his face, which was slightly tanned from days spent in the sun. As you slowly dragged your eyes across his face you noticed two small scars on his chin, where his beard wouldn’t grow. His eyes, an alarming shade of teal, narrowed as he looked over your group, like something was missing.

“Pleased to meet ya,” he drawled, his voice deep and husky, likely from the combination of years on the road and smoking plenty of tobacco. His hands went to his hips, and he looped his fingers through his belt, looking around the room.

Anastasia seemed awestruck and was ready to dive in and cause plenty of trouble to get this man’s attention. The other two could wait for now. “Well ain’t you just the tough as teak mountain man?” she flirted, leaning against the counter and pushing out her chest so her bust was closer to eye-level.

“Oh, you be quiet Anastasia,” Margaret chided, also wanting a bite of the newcomer. “Anyone can tell this one is a pussy cat.” There it was. Margaret had tried one of her usual godawful jokes that somehow seemed to land her a client every time, and you tried your best not to laugh. Instead, you raised your glass to your lips, only to find it empty.

“Exactly!” Javier cut in. You turned to Jeb and held up your empty glass, which he promptly came over to refill. “He’s a pussy… cat. Ain’t that so, Arthur?” This time you did laugh, a very loud and uncomfortable snort that you couldn’t stop if you had tried.

You drew your refilled glass quickly to your lips, trying your best to cover for yourself. The new man glanced your way shortly before turning back to the other two women. If anyone else had noticed, they didn’t say anything.

The new man, Arthur, stepped a little closer to the group, looking your friends up and down. “How much you cost anyway?”

Anastasia, for some reason seemed genuinely offended, shock immediately overtaking her face. “Well ain’t that a nice way to talk to a lady?” she snapped, though you weren’t sure why. She was a prostitute after all.

Arthur leaned closer, an almost manic grin on his face. “Oh, I didn’t know I was talking to a lady…” he teased. You immediately knew what he was up to. He needed his friends alone, and didn’t have the decency to just ask. Luckily, two could play at his game.

Anastasia balked. Sure, she wasn’t a ‘lady’ like those rich women in New York or San Denis, but she deserved at least a modicum of respect. She scoffed angrily and walked off with a grumbled, “excuse me,” pushing her way past the man, before glancing back at you to see if you were coming. You nodded, you’d be with them in a second. There was no need to stay in the bar and drink, you had plenty of liquor back at home. But before you leave, you may as well get the last word with the man who had, surprisingly accurately, insulted your friends.

“Oh, it’s alright, Anastasia,” you called after her, staying in position at the corner of the bar. You pointedly looked Arthur up and down before speaking again. “This one couldn’t afford one of us anyway,” you tossed at him with a wink over the rim of your glass. Keeping your eyes locked on his, you slowly took a drink.

Like a predator preparing to pounce on its prey, he moved slowly toward you, sizing you up. “That so?” he drawled, slowly dragging his eyes from where your feet were crossed at the hem of your skirt, to your hips leaning against the side of the bar, to your chest, where he paused for just a moment.

“Oh, most definitely,” was your response, accompanied by a practiced smirk. You may not have been a working girl in the saloon, but your years offering deluxe baths at the hotel across the street had given you more than enough practice at charming men. Even ruggedly handsome men who were likely to make you weak in the knees like this one.

His eyes snapped back up to yours as you spoke, a matching smirk gracing his lips. “Why don’t we see about that?” he teased, reaching for what you presumed was money in his satchel. If you had thought his voice was husky before, it was nothing in comparison to how it sounded now. Sultry, eager.

Before you could even begin to think of a response, you heard your name being called by Anastasia, who was standing impatiently at the door with Margaret at her side. “Are you coming?”

You felt the heat rise to your face as soon as the moment was over, but magically kept your composure. “Sorry, it turns out that my shift just ended,” you hummed, reaching up to straighten out his collar. Your fingers lightly brushed his skin and you swore he tensed and took in a sharp breath in that moment. Next, you gave him a light pat on the shoulder and started to walk away. You only had to remember not to look back.

Hips swaying, you headed towards the door, stopping briefly to grab your jacket from the coat hook along the way. “See you around, gentlemen,” you called, swinging the door open and stepping out into the cool night air, feeling his eyes on you the entire time. Perfect.

Anastasia and Margaret followed you out in a huff, brushing past another stranger who was staggering up the steps and into the saloon.

The walk back to the local boarding house, where you had been staying with your son for the past few years, was luckily a short one. However, almost the entire 10 minutes were filled with complaints from the other two women about the “uncivilised” and “incredibly rude” man, effectively ruining any hopes you had of continuing a fun evening with your friends.

“It’s such a surprise that he’s friends with those other two. They just seem so sweet, and he’s such a… such a brute!” ranted Anastasia, looking from Margaret to you for confirmation. “He’s got those ruggedly handsome looks, sure but, by god! How dare he talk to me like that! Can you even believe it?”

You wanted to laugh, but held it in. Your friend was already upset, there was no need to make it worse. Luckily, before you needed to say anything, Margaret cut in. “I know! What was he thinkin’? Even insinuatin’ you wasn’t a lady! You are the most ladylike woman in this town, Anastasia,” she rattled on, wrapping an arm around her friend’s shoulders.

You did the same out of solidarity and played with a strand of her red hair. The three of you walked further, arms around Anastasisa’s shoulders. “He just wanted to get his friends alone, you know,” you told her after a few minutes of her angry silence, before moving your hand and squeezing her shoulder comfortingly. “He only said those things because he knows you two already had his friends wrapped around your fingers and they certainly weren’t about to leave,” you further elaborated with a wink to the redhead. Who knows if that was true, but it would most definitely make Anastasia feel better.

She sighed, her shoulders shrugging, and looked wistfully in the distance. “Yeah, I s’pose you’re right,” came her response. “We did have them on the hook pretty quick, didn’t we?”

“Oh, absolutely!” chimed in Margaret with excitement as you reached the large blue house on the outskirts of town. You glanced quickly to the second floor, and spotted your window. It was dark inside. “And it’ll be real easy to reel them in again tomorrow.”

The three of you burst into a fit of giggles as you reached the front porch. You dropped your arm from Anastasia’s shoulders and gave both women hug. “I think Ben is asleep, so I may turn in as well, if you two don’t mind.” The both nodded and hugged you back, saying quiet farewells and making their way further down the dirt road to their own homes.

The door opened with a slight creek as you stepped inside the dark house. It was a rather large house for this area, meant to house several farmworkers at the time it was built. Since then, a hotel and several other larger homes have popped up closer to town, leaving this one nearly empty most of the time. You rented a decent sized room on the second floor, and had done so for nearly five years running. It wasn’t luxury accommodation by any means, but it was away from the hustle and bustle of town, and it was more than affordable on your meager salary. Not to mention, the landlady had been a good friend of your late mother-in-law, and had been happy to offer your family a place to stay at a decent price, in exchange for occasional work around the house. Quietly, stepping over the floorboard that you knew let out a loud squeak when moved, you shrugged off your jacket, listening for the sounds of small footsteps pattering about on the second floor. Nothing.

What you did hear, however, were the sounds of a conversation coming from the kitchen. You walked down the dimly lit hallway to the room, where you found your landlady sitting at the table with a stranger. Your landlady, Ms. Chadwick, an older woman with a perpetually frustrated look on her face, sat in her nightgown, nursing a cup of hot coffee while the stranger looked over a piece of paper that had been laid in front of her on the table.

She was a pretty woman, about the same age as yourself, with dark brown hair neatly plaited down her back and clear, tanned skin, that almost glowed in the lamplight. Her clothes were obviously expensive and well cared for, and a pair of small, matching suitcases sat at her feet. Her nimble fingers with clean, neatly trimmed nails skimmed over the short paragraph on the paper. This was very obviously a woman who had never worked a day in her life. What on earth was she doing in Valentine, of all places?

“Thank you very much for the use of the spare room,” she said to the landlady, her voice boasted a light southern accent, like that of the debutantes in San Denis. “Your home is lovely, and little Ben is an absolute darling. I do so love staying in homes instead of hotels when I can and, of course, I am happy to help out where I can while I am here.”

“Oh no, that’s not necessary dear,” she chided. “Your pay is more than enough. Please relax and enjoy your time here as much as you can. You don’t need any more stress on your shoulders.”

As Ms. Chadwick finished her sentence, the stranger seemed to notice your appearance in the doorway. “Oh!” she exclaimed, though keeping her voice down slightly. “You must be Ben’s mother! It’s wonderful to meet you. Your son and Ms. Chadwick greeted me this afternoon when I arrived, he’s a lovely little boy.” She stood up from her chair, skirts billowing around her ankles, and reached out to kiss both of your cheeks in what you had heard was a customary French greeting.

Although you were slightly taken aback by her forward attitude, the comment about your son brought a smile to your face. “Thank you very much. I like to think I’ve taught him well so far,” your responded, pulling slightly away from the new woman and introducing yourself.

“It’s very nice to meet you,” she said, voice sweet and still low enough as to not wake your son, sleeping soundly upstairs. “I’m Mary Linton.”

#Arthur Morgan x reader #rdr2 #rdr2 fanfic #arthur morgan #red dead redemption 2 #arthur morgan x f!reader #f!reader

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iamhereonlytobeanunstableshipper · 3 years

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Your Universe (A Cherik One Shot)

Read on AO3

Summary:

Two years after the incident with Apocalypse, Charles hasn't seen Erik again. When his old friend's birthday comes, Charles finds himself looking at the calendar all day long. Would it be a good idea to wish him a Happy Birthday? Well, it will be just a moment, Charles thinks. A brief touch of his mind. Two words, as a sign of peace. And that's it.

But of course, nothing is that easy when we talk about love.

Notes:

I wrote this a long ago, and I know it's not perfect. But this fanfiction kinda grew up on me because it was the first Cherik one I ever wrote. So, I'm finally posting it. Hope you enjoy it!

Also, I'm not a native speaker. So my English is a mix of public school lessons, google translate, and Grammarly. Sorry and feel free to correct me if I wrote something wrong :)

The chestnut eyelashes tinkled like the flutter of a soft butterfly in the ample room, gently pushing away the dust that was approaching the oceanic irises. They stood out like sapphires in the dim light that the sleepy sunset allowed to pass through the windows.

The man was resting on his comfortable mattress, a pillow lifting his head slightly. His hands were placed in his lap, while his left thumb repeatedly stroked the knuckles of his right hand, a gesture he used to do when he thought about a difficult subject.

Meanwhile, his ruby lips were nibbled over and over again nervously by his pearly teeth, unconsciously.

Something had been haunting the telepath's head since, the night before, his watch had marked midnight.

He remembered it as if it were yesterday when, in one of their many whiskey and chess nights, a deep-eyed man confessed that his birthday was that exact day that now passed through the calendar.

It had been two years after he had last seen him, in the incident with Apocalypse. He had hoped that now that things ended with no fights involved, the magnetic man would one day go back to the mansion (to say hi, at least). But the weeks ran one after another, and Charles could only try to convince himself that he didn't miss Erik at all.

Fake it 'till you make it, they say.

But, oh. Sometimes faking it was harder than letting himself drown surrounded by those memories. Charles could still feel those piercing eyes watching him with an indecipherable gaze, sometimes so intense that Charles wondered who was the telepath there. His coffee scent, striking his pituitary, was so sweet and so sour. Always sweet and sour, of course. His smirk, showing his gleaming and sharp teeth. His messy kisses, exploring Charles' mouth during that night that had been carved into his memory like a mantra.

It was a blessing to remember all this with acute certitude but a curse to know that it would never happen again.

Loving a memory was the most addictive and delusional form of torture the telepath could ever experience.

Despite all the pain, the anger, the betrayal, it was impossible to hate that man. And the desire to see him again or simply touch his mind was unshakable. And, now that he knew Erik no longer carried that helmet, the desire was unbearable.

Erik's birthday was the perfect occasion to wander through his mind, even if it was just a simple touch.

Charles decided not to think about it anymore. It had been torturing him for hours, and that was enough. He knew right away that he would regret it, but the decision was made.

The mansion halls seemed to be sleeping, just like the students did. Charles could feel the tall walls judging him as he passed by.

Sooner than he had expected, he arrived at Cerebro. Charles reached there by inertia because he surely wasn't paying attention as he wheeled through the mansion. He was too busy thinking about how stupid was what he was about to do. Without paying too much attention to his common sense, he placed the helmet-like machine on his head. He hid his blue orbs behind his lids and focused on his telepathy.

Finding Erik among all the other minds was frighteningly simple. As if it was a reflex action.

As soon as Charles entered Erik's mind, a sense of nostalgia intoxicated every inch of his being.

He stopped for a few moments observing the beautiful work of art that made up Erik's mind.

He explored with his telepathy the brain connections of the opposite, feeling with amazement how each neuron connected with the rest, creating constellations of stardust around him. An infinite universe of dark nebulae elegantly intertwined with each other, creating lugubrious galaxies of thoughts and emotions.

Charles gazed in awe at the mental barriers built into Erik's mind, how impressive they were to be made by someone who wasn't a telepath. He remembered when he had taught the man about telepathy in one of their many conversations. Those barriers housed Erik's most significant memories, Charles noticed right away. Most were gray; they gave off inhuman suffering and loneliness, creating a gloomy atmosphere between all those galaxies. But there were some, only some, so beautiful and brilliant that they would beat the sun any other day.

Charles shuddered to see that in most of those beautiful memories, he was the protagonist. The telepath's ruby smile was kept in the German's mind like a precious treasure, like the brightest star in all that small yet infinite universe.

Between the painful and the brilliant memories, all those agitated galaxies that comprised the place were created. The telepath could feel the magnetism being born from all that nebulae in a stealthy but persistent way.

Erik's mind seemed like the Guernica painted with stardust. So full of war, beauty, disorder, sublimity.

Meanwhile, Erik was sitting on his bed, looking outside the window. He had lived in the mutant shelter for quite a while now.

It didn't take long for him to realize that something was wrong with his mind. He realized that a presence was in there, and it took just a brief second for one of his most precious memories to come to mind like déjà vu, instantly recognizing that person.

Recognizing when a telepath is inside your mind is not an easy task, but Charles had taught it to him years ago. Now, the telepath wondered if it had been a good idea to have taught that to Erik.

"Charles?"

That precious name touched Erik's lips in a hopeful sigh. The man wasn't quite sure if he had drunk too much whiskey and was beginning to imagine things.

"Happy birthday, Erik."

Said a voice pearled with memories within the magnetic's mind. His tone was calm and somewhat carefree as if that situation was the most normal thing in the world. But slight nuances of nostalgia, pain, and... love colored the letters of the man's name.

Charles was grateful that he didn't have to speak aloud, so that the opposite would not have to hear his voice breaking more and more with each syllable, making a clear portrait of his trembling heart.

Before leaving the mind of the other, the telepath stopped for a moment to feel how sadness and happiness were intermingled in each star of those nebulae, creating a battle that they both knew would win the distance from each other.

A selfish thought crossed Charles's mind, as a small part of him was glad that Erik still cared, if only a little.

Erik felt Charles's presence fade from his mind, leaving it with a cold feeling of loneliness. For a few seconds, he forgot that he was the great and impenetrable Magneto. He forgot about his promise of never to love anyone else. He forgot to forget about affection. For a few seconds, he was Erik again. That boy who jokingly kissed the hand of a young blue-eyed man while taking him out to dance to the sound of Can't help falling in love.

Magneto had dedicated half of his life to lock Erik in the depths of his mind. And with him, all the memories of those crimson lips he longed for.

But, with a simple touch, Charles managed to make Erik dominate every cell of his body, making that song resonate in his ears, accustomed to the deafening sound of bullets. What Charles had given him, Erik didn't know. But he guessed he really couldn't help falling in love with that man.

The two men would never talk about the tears that were created in their orbs. Or the small smiles that raised the corners of their lips. Neither the heavy knot that closed their stomachs or the devastating cold that harbored their minds. Not even the glass that they both served themselves, knowing that neither one nor a thousand could fill the void that the other had left in their lives.

#cherik #erik lensherr x charles xavier #erik lehnsherr #charles xavier #mutant husbands #fanfiction #writing #my writing #fanfic #xmen #professor x #magneto #one shot

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jarienn972 · 3 years

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La Sirena - Chapter Ten (Epilogue)

Captain Swan Supernatural Summer

(that’s finally being completed in winter)

We have reached the finale of this @cssns tale at last. This has been such a fun and challenging experience trying to build this universe, and I hope that readers have found it enjoyable as well. Thanks for all of your lovely words and feedback along the way!

I thank you, @kmomof4, for all of your assistance and input. You rock as a beta! And @courtorderedcake, thank you once again for the beautiful artwork that really brought to life the imagery of the opening chapter!

And now, back to the story... Here, we pick up moments after a stubborn and confused Killian pretended to be asleep to avoid his brother. He’s about to get a wonderful surprise...

Catch up from the beginning here on Tumblr: One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight Nine Or read in full on AO3 or FF.net

The instant that Killian was certain that Liam was out of earshot and wouldn't be present to scold him for faking sleep, his eyelids sprang open wide to behold the most wondrous sight. Perched in the chair just to his left was the very same angelic vision he'd first laid eyes on back on that deserted beach days ago. She looked different with her long, gilded tresses pulled back by a ribbon and seemed a bit more diminutive while wearing a vastly oversized sailor's white uniform tunic and navy woolen trousers but he knew for certain it was her.

But how? How was he gazing upon a beautiful siren here in his own quarters? How could she be here and still be real?

"Emma? It's you!" he exclaimed, trying to sit upright to greet her properly despite the pain. "What are you doing here? How are you even here, Love?

"One question at a time," she chuckled as she reached over and placed her hand atop his forearm to urge him not to move. The moment her fingers brushed his skin, he felt a tingle pass through his entire body - one that was warm and tender. His heart was suddenly racing, but it was no longer driven by fear or anxiety. He welcomed her touch, her presence. "I'm here because this is where I belong and it would seem that even the gods agree."

"But you're a siren. I thought your home was those isles and the surrounding seas? I thought you couldn't leave without…" His voice trailed off before he could say sacrificing your powers.

Her demeanor rapidly switched from jovial to serious at Killian's off-handed, yet important questions. Her eyes avoided his for a moment, then recaptured his gaze with an intensity he'd not seen from her before. There was a new melancholy about her as she took in a deep, reflective breath before responding.

"That cove was no longer my home. In truth, it was far more of a prison for longer than I care to remember. I thought I was happy alone when I left the ranks of the siren council, but I had no idea how wrong I was - until you floated into my bay." Killian's jaw gaped in stunned silence as he watched the tears begin to well in her eyes, but she shushed him when he tried to reply. There was more to her confession that she needed him to hear before he could respond properly. "I may have rescued you from drowning that fateful day, but it was you who rescued me from an eternity of loneliness. And then watching my sister attempting to harm you only strengthened my resolve…" She paused to take a breath, unsure how he was going to react to her next words. "I guess what I am trying to say is that I am here right now on this ship, wearing these ridiculous garments because I knew I couldn't let you go. I risk sounding like a fool right now, but there is something I must confess. I love you, Lieutenant Killian Charles Arthur Jones of His Majesty's Royal Navy. Nothing in my entire lifetime has felt as right as the days I spent with you, and because of that, I asked the mighty Poseidon to make me human so that I could accompany you."

"Emma… I…," he stammered, his thoughts an incoherent jumble.

Her jaw wavered as she dipped her head, almost ashamed of her utterance. "I'm sorry if I've upset you, but after all we've been through these past days, I believed you should know the truth. I do understand if you do not feel the same as I do."

Ignoring his body's cries of pain, Killian threw off the blanket and forced his protesting limbs to sit upright, swinging his legs over the side of the bunk so he could position himself close enough to her that he could cup her cheek in his palm and brush away a tear with the pad of his thumb.

"Emma, there is no need for tears," he assured her. "While I will admit that your revelation to be a siren - and all of the events that followed - were a tad horrifying, I still knew I would gladly spend the remainder of my years stranded in that cove with you. But you, you gave up being a siren - being immortal - for me?"

"What good was being immortal if it meant losing you?" she said with a sniffle just as Killian leaned forward to capture her lips with his, neither of them even caring if Liam were to reenter Killian's quarters right then and there. For a brief moment, the universe was theirs alone until Killian's protesting rib cage caused him to reluctantly pull away, but not without more questions.

"But my brother and the crew, they didn't suspect you to be any less than human? Liam, he addressed you as Miss Swan? Since I don't believe that sirens have family names, wherever did that come from? Whatever did you tell them whilst I was incapacitated?"

"No one suspects me to be a siren, if that is your worry. Once your fellow crew members reached the cove to rescue you, I had to tell them something, so I led them to believe that I was a fellow prisoner from the sunken pirate ship. They believe that the pirates attacked my family's vessel prior to abducting you on that isle of Neverland you spoke of. It isn't as though any of them could corroborate my story with your captors. The crew also collected several damaged trunks and weathered chests that had washed up on the shore, believing them to be part of the stolen loot from the sunken ship. I happened to notice that there was a swan's head carved into one of the wooden trunks so as I boarded this vessel, I introduced myself to your captain as Emma Swan. Do you believe I should have chosen something else?"

Killian chuckled at the thought of her thinking up a surname on the spot. "I don't think anyone will make the connection. I kind of like it. You're beautiful and graceful like a swan. It suits you."

"Thank you," she blushed. "I hardly feel beautiful in these borrowed clothes. This fabric, it is rather unpleasant."

"I'm sure we can find you some attire more suitable for a lady when we next make port. Women aren't common on the high seas. There's an old legend that they're unlucky."

"What nonsense," she muttered with a frown. "But no matter. I have it on good authority that no harm will come to this ship. No creature of the seas would dare challenge Poseidon's edict."

"I still don't understand how this is possible. How does my brother not know that the expedition to the uncharted island went horribly wrong? He wants to award me a bloody commendation that I don't deserve. They think I've lost my mind."

"This will need to be our secret, but the events as you remember them never actually transpired," she stated, which of course left Killian befuddled. He opened his mouth, prepared with a barrage of questions, but she raised a hand to shush him, wanting to explain what she meant before letting him speak. "I know you will have many questions, some of which I will never be able to answer, but in simple terms, Poseidon modified all of the events that led up to your brother's ship arriving to rescue us from the cove. Everything that transpired remained in the same order, but not in the same manner. You still encountered the pirates on that island, they still took you prisoner, and the sirens still laid siege to the ship before it ran aground and sank, but Poseidon changed the scope of each event and allowed your brother's ship to pursue the pirate vessel to locate you. Your injuries were all believed to have come at the hands of your pirate captors and during the escape from the sinking vessel. They have no reason to suspect otherwise."

"But what about my crew? Does no one remember their sacrifices?" he queried anxiously, afraid that those men's lives had been lost in vain.

"Some of them were never there, never set foot on the island. Others were there but their fates were changed by the modified events," she explained, although her words did little to alleviate his confusion. "In this revised timeline, there was no actual battle with those scoundrels. You alone were captured by the pirates. I have no way else to explain, but essentially, Poseidon changed how your history played out. No one beyond our realm will ever know of the version you lived through."

His jaw remained slack as he shook his head and tried to come to terms with a turn of events that was nothing short of miraculous. "But how? Why?" he stammered. "Why would he do such a thing?"

"He said I reminded him of his daughter, Ursula, and he recognized your good heart - much like the man Ursula fell in love with so long ago. He knew you'd been wronged, as had I, and he wanted to put things right. He granted my wish to become human and accompany you, and brought your brother's ship into the bay so you could be saved by your kind."

"Do you know what became of your sister?"

"Not all. I do know that she had her powers revoked for abusing them and that she was made mortal, although not by choice in her case. I don't know if Poseidon turned her human or made her a permanent creature of the sea, and in truth, I don't care. I've made my peace with it. Now, all I wish is to be with you, if you'll have me."

"I wish for nothing else," he replied with a beaming smile. "I just don't know what sort of life I can provide for a former siren… There's so much out there…"

"And I want to experience it all!" she exclaimed giddily as she gestured towards the faded map of Britannia that Killian had pinned to one of the beams lining the walls of his cabin. "I know little of the world beyond our isles. If my time is now finite, I want to see and experience as much as possible! I want to visit these other lands and sail the other seas…"

Killian chuckled at her enthusiasm, not really sure what would be physically possible, but hey - after surviving several harrowing encounters with mythical beings and living to tell the fantastical tales, he was open to adventure.

"Whatever your heart desires, Emma. Whatever your heart desires is what I want for you," he repeated as he pulled his siren - his beautiful angel - in for another heartfelt, lengthy kiss, almost certain that he felt a surge of energy embrace them both.

A few years later…

It was a perfect morning. Only a few wispy clouds broke up the brilliant blue skies as gentle ripples made their way across the serene harbor. Crew lowered and secured the huge canvas sails of the Jewel of the Realm as Liam oversaw their arrival at the dock. His sailors worked like a well-oiled machine performing their tasks, which was a good thing since their Captain might have been a tad distracted.

Instead of supervising lines being tied off, Liam was scanning the shoreline in search of something - or rather, someone. He'd made sure to send out correspondence through courier when they last made port making sure that Killian was aware the Jewel was on its way to the port of Misthaven where they'd agreed to rendezvous.

He hadn't been particularly overjoyed when Killian had decided to resign his commission upon return to Britannia, but if he was honest, the decision hadn't come as much of a surprise. His little brother had endured a harrowing experience, one that Liam knew he could never fully understand. In the process, he'd formed a bond with the lovely Swan woman and Liam had seen all the signs that Killian had fallen head over heels in love and feared lengthy deployments at sea that would keep him apart from his love.

Liam also had to admit that he was a little envious of his brother, but it was clear that while Killian loved the sea, his calling wasn't a career in His Majesty's Royal Navy. He knew that his sibling had taken up as captain of a merchant ship, but since it had been nearly a year and a half since he had last seen Killian, he was curious to see how his brother was faring in his new pursuits.

"Ahoy, brother!" he heard a shout from the pier and off in the distance, he spotted his sibling waving like a fool. And was he wearing black leather?

Once the Jewel was safely moored, Liam gave out his instructions for crew liberty and then made his way down the gangplank with dozens of rambunctious sailors at his heels. He chuckled as they darted past him, scurrying along the pier on their way to one of the local taverns. At least one of them would likely end up spending a night in the brig for overindulgence, but Liam couldn't be bothered with that right now.

His brother awaited him at the far end of the pier, casually leaning against a stone pillar with his foot propped up on an overturned barrel. It was a far more confident stance than Liam recalled when they'd last seen each other, but it was Killian's attire that spoke volumes about his newfound fortitude. He'd not expected to find Killian sporting an ebony leather duster that hung to his knees atop of a bold crimson waistcoat and black woolen trousers that, even from a distance, appeared to be far softer than Liam's own scratchy uniform. Killian clearly seemed to be happy and must have been doing well for himself to afford such luxuries.

"You look well, brother," Killian greeted him.

"As do you," Liam replied, pulling his younger sibling into an embrace and patting him heartily on the back. "Whatever are you wearing?"

"Ah, this…," Killian smiled as he took a step back so Liam could take in all of the elaborate detail on the coat which included embroidered cuffs and lapels along with silver clasps and carved bone buttons. "This was a gift from Queen Ava. The circumstances behind how it came to be is a rather long tale that I'll not bore you with since we've little time to catch up."

"Of course…," Liam responded, raising his eyes skyward with a shake of his head. Killian always seemed to have a new, unbelievable tale these days. "Where ever is that lovely wife of yours? I expected she would be here with you."

"She's waiting for us back on our ship. It's getting a tad more difficult for her to get around these days."

"So then, my new niece or nephew will be arriving soon?"

"Soon enough. Likely before the next full moon. It is why we'll be sailing back to the port of Arendelle, leaving the day after tomorrow," an excited Killian announced.

"Arendelle?" Liam questioned. "Why are you heading there?"

"We were invited by the Queen, and one simply does not turn down the invitation of royalty."

"You were invited by Queen Elsa?" Liam asked incredulously as they ambled along the cobblestone street towards another section of Misthaven's bustling harbor that was filled with smaller fishing boats and merchant ships. He tried to figure out which of the vessels was the one Killian now owned but he couldn't be certain.

"Queen Anna, actually," Killian corrected him. "Queen Elsa stepped down from the throne last year as she believed her more vivacious sister was better suited to handle the duties of the royal court."

"Alright, but that still doesn't explain how you secured a royal invitation."

"While sailing the Northern Isles last summer, we stumbled upon the wreckage of a galleon that had partially sunk in a narrow, rocky fjord. We explored it to see if there was anything worthy of salvage and located a chest containing a crown and other treasures that had been stolen from the Kingdom of Arendelle. We returned the riches to the castle and received a hefty finders fee for our efforts and Emma made fast friends with the Queen. We've made several visits back to Arendelle and have kept in correspondence with the royal family. As soon as Queen Anna learned that Emma was with child, she extended the royal invitation to come join them in the castle. She's already arranged a midwife for Emma, and has said we're welcome to stay as long as we wish. Can you imagine - living in a castle? I would never have thought it possible…"

"I'm very happy for you, Killian, and very proud of you as well. For someone who believed himself a failure not so long ago, you seem to have fortune smiling upon you."

"It hardly seems possible, brother. I feel like the luckiest bloke in all the world," Killian gushed, stopping at the bottom of the gangplank of a decent sized ship with a single towering mast. It was far more compact than the Jewel, but still large enough to carry crew and cargo comfortably. "Here we are. This is our lovely lady, La Sirena."

"Beautiful vessel. Interesting choice of name though. What led you to christen her after such a creature?"

"Oh, I have my reasons," Killian smirked. "But anyway, here's Emma now." A broad smile lit up Killian's visage as he stared up at his wife who was leaning over the railing on the deck above them. "It's almost unfathomable how I ever got so lucky that the gods would send such an angel to watch over me." Emma didn't say a word herself but the smile that stretched from ear to ear across her own face seemed to echo his sentiment.

But then maybe she suspected that the love that blossomed from a heart that was true and good was worth far more than a little bit of luck.

#cssns #cssns 2020 #captain swan supernatural summer #cs ff #cs au ff #siren emma #la sirena

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officialyourdailyinspiration · 3 years

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Effectual Prayer

by Charles Spurgeon

"Oh, that I knew where I might find him! That I might come even to his seat! I would order my cause before him, and fill my mouth with arguments." - Job 23:3-4

In Job's uttermost extremity he cried after the Lord. It appears that his objective was to pray as in God's presence. He would appeal from the lower courts, where his friends had judged unrighteously, to the High Court of heaven. There, said Job, "I would order my cause before him and fill my mouth with arguments." There are two things here set forth as necessary in prayer: ordering of our cause, and filling our mouth with arguments.

Job teaches us how he meant to plead and intercede with God. He does, as it were, reveal the secrets of his closet and unveils the art of prayer. We are admitted into the guild of suppliants; we are shown the art and mystery of pleading; we have taught to us the blessed handicraft and science of prayer.

First, it is needful that our suit be ordered before God. There is a vulgar notion that prayer is a very easy thing, a kind of common business that may be done anyhow, without care or effort. Some think that you have only to pull a book down from the shelf and get through a certain number of very excellent words and you have prayed, and then you may put the book up again. Others suppose that to use a book is superstitious, and that you ought rather to repeat extemporaneous sentences, sentences which come to your mind with a rush, like a herd of swine or a pack of hounds, and that when you have uttered them with some little attention to what you have said, you have prayed.

Now neither of these modes of prayer were adopted by ancient saints. They were accustomed, like Job, to order their cause before God in the manner of a petitioner coming into Court. A petitioner does not come into court unprepared, stating his case on the spur of the moment. Rather, he enters into the chamber with his case well prepared, having learned, moreover, how he ought to behave in the presence of the great One to whom he is appealing. There are times, when in peril and distress, that we may fly to God just as we are, as the dove enters the cleft of the rock even though her plumes are ruffled. But in ordinary times we should not come with an unprepared spirit. See yonder priest? He has a sacrifice to offer. But he does not rush into the court of the priests and hack at the bullock with the first ax upon which he can lay his hand. He washes his feet at the brazen laver, puts on his garments, adorns himself with his priestly vestments, and then he comes to the altar with his victim properly divided according to the law. He is careful to do according to the command and takes the blood in a bowl and pours it in an appropriate place at the foot of the altar, not throwing it any which way. He does not kindle the fire with a common flame but with the sacred fire from off the altar. Now this ritual is all superseded, but the truth which it taught remains the same: our spiritual sacrifices should be offered with holy carefulness. God forbid that our prayer should be a mere leaping out of one's bed and kneeling down and saying anything that comes first to mind.

When I feel that I am in the presence of God and take my rightful position in that presence, the next thing I shall want to recognize will be that I have no right to what I am seeking. I cannot expect to obtain it except as a gift of grace. I must also recognize that the only channel for receiving mercy is through his dear Son. Let me put myself then under the patronage of the great Redeemer. Let me feel that now it is no longer I that speak but Christ who speaks with me, and that while I plead, I plead his wounds, his life, his death, his blood, himself.

The next thing is to consider what I am to ask for. It is most proper to aim at great distinctness in supplication. Do not beat around the bush but come directly to the point. I like that prayer of Abraham's: "Oh that Ishmael might live before thee!" There is the name of the person prayed for and the blessing desired all in a few words. Many persons would have used a roundabout expression of this kind: "Oh that our beloved offspring might be regarded with the favor which thou bearest to those who," etc. Why not be distinct and say what we mean as well as mean what we say? It is not necessary to rehearse the catalog of every desire you may have had, can have, or shall have. Ask for what you now need. Ask for it plainly. Your eloquence and oratory will be less than nothing and vanity. Let your words be few but let your heart be fervent.

You have not quite completed the ordering when you have asked for what you want through Jesus Christ. There should be a searching as to whether it is assuredly a fitting thing to ask, for some prayers would never be offered if men did but think. A little reflection would show us that some things which we desire were better let alone. We may, moreover, have a motive at the bottom of our desire which is not Christ-like, a selfish motive which forgets God's glory and caters only for our own ease and comfort. Now although we may ask for things which are for our profit, yet still we must never let our profit interfere in any way with the glory of God. There must be mingled with acceptable prayer the holy salt of submission to the divine will. When we are sure that what we ask for is for God's glory, then, if we have power in prayer, we may say, "I will not let thee go except thou bless me."

The second part of prayer is filling the mouth with arguments, and the first question is, why are arguments to be used at all? Most certainly it is not because God is slow to give or because we can change the divine purpose or because he needs to be informed of our circumstances. The arguments to be used are for our own benefit. When we bring forth strong reasons, it shows that we feel the value of the mercy. There is no need for prayer at all as far as God is concerned, but what a need there is for it on our own account! The very act of praying is a blessing. To pray is to bathe oneself in a cooling stream, to mount on eagle's wings above the clouds, to enter the treasure house of God. To pray is to grasp heaven in one's arms, to embrace the Deity within one's soul. To pray is to cast off your burdens, to throw away your rags, to shake off your diseases, and to be filled with spiritual vigor. It is to reach the highest point of Christian health.

Now the most interesting part of our subject remains: a rapid summary and catalog of a few of the arguments which have been used with great success with God.

It is well in prayer to plead with Jehovah his attributes. Abraham did so when he laid hold upon God's justice when he pleaded for Sodom. "Shall not the Judge of all the earth do right?" Here the wrestling begins. It was a powerful argument by which Abraham grasped the Lord's left hand and arrested it just when the thunderbolt was about to fall. But there came a reply to it. It was intimated to him that this would not spare the city, and you notice how the good man, when sorely pressed, retreated by inches; and at last, when he could no longer lay hold upon justice, he grasped God's right hand of mercy, and that gave him a wondrous hold when he asked that if there were but ten righteous there the city might be spared. So you and I may take hold at any time upon the justice, the mercy, the faithfulness, the wisdom, the long-suffering, the tenderness of God, and we shall find every attribute of the Most High to be, as it were, a great battering ram with which we may open the gates of heaven.

Another mighty piece of ordnance in the battle of prayer is God's promise. When Jacob was on the other side of the brook Jabbok and his brother Esau was coming with armed men, he pleaded with God not to suffer Esau to destroy the mother and the children. As a master reasoner he pleaded, "And thou said, Surely I will do thee good." Oh the force of that plea! He was holding God to his word, "Thou said."

A third argument to be used is that employed by Moses, the great name of God. How mightily did he argue with God upon this ground! "What will thou do for thy great name? The Egyptians will say, Because the Lord could not bring them into the land, therefore he slew them in the wilderness." Now, if the Lord should not be as good as his promise, not only is the believer deceived but the wicked world looking on would say, "Aha! Where is your God?"

We may also plead the sorrows of his people. Jeremiah is the great master of this art. "The precious sons of Zion, comparable to fine gold, how are they esteemed as earthen pitchers, the work of the hands of the potter!" He talks of all their griefs and trials in the siege. He calls upon the Lord to look upon his suffering Zion, and ere long his plaintive cries are heard.

It is good to plead with God the past. David prays, "Thou hast been my help. Leave me not, neither forsake me." Moses also, speaking with God, says, "Thou did bring this people up out of Egypt." As if he would say, "Do not leave thy work unfinished."

Lastly, the grand Christian argument is the suffering, the death, the merit, the intercession of Christ Jesus. Brethren, I am afraid we do not understand what it is that we have at our command when we are allowed to plead with God for Christ's sake. When we ask God to hear us, pleading Christ's name, we usually mean, "O Lord, thy dear son deserves this of thee; do this unto me because of what he merits." But we might go farther. Supposing you should say to me, you who keep a warehouse in the city, "Sir, call at my office and use my name, and say that they are to give you such a thing." I should go in and use your name and obtain my request as a matter of right and a matter of necessity.

This is virtually what Jesus Christ says to us. "If you need anything of God, all that the Father has belongs to me; go and use my name." When you have Christ's name, to whom the very justice of God has become a debtor and whose merits have claims with the Most High, there is no need to speak with fear and trembling and bated breath. Oh waver not and let not faith stagger. The name of Christ which you plead shakes the gates of hell!

The man who has his mouth full of arguments in prayer shall soon have his mouth full of benedictions in answer to prayer. It is said (I know not how truly) that the explanation of the text, "Open thy mouth wide, and I will fill it," may be found in a very singular Oriental custom. It is said that not many years ago (I remember the circumstance being reported) the King of Persia ordered the chief of his nobility, who had done something which greatly gratified him, to open his mouth. And when he had done so, he began to put into his mouth pearls, diamonds, rubies, and emeralds until he had filled it as full as it could hold. Then he bade him go his way. This is said to have been occasionally done in Oriental courts toward great favorites. God says, "Open thy mouth with arguments," and then he will fill it with mercies priceless, gems unspeakably valuable. Would not a man open his mouth wide to have it filled in such a style? Surely the most simple-minded among you would be wise enough for that. Let us then open wide our mouths when we have to plead with God. Our needs are great. Let our requests be great, and the supply shall be great too.

#Effectual Prayer #Charles Haddon Spurgeon #Job 23:3-4

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thorne93 · 3 years

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The Stars Made Us (Part 28)

Prompt: In this world, you’re one of the “lucky” ones who got a soulmate, but what if the universe gives you more than you bargained for?

(Prompt challenge – You live in a world where your soulmate can write on their skin and you will get the writing on your own and vice versa. Where they can wash away the ink on their own skin, however, the writing is forever scarred onto your skin until you meet face to face)

Word Count: 2741

Warnings: angst and language throughout, seizure/medical complications

Notes: This was supposed to be for @sorryimacrapwriter and their challenge like a year ago, I think? I still loved the prompt though and have been working on this story for quite some time. This aesthetic was made by @dontshootmespence, thank you so much! Beta’d by @like-a-bag-of-potatoes, couldn’t have done it without you, as well as @carryonmyswansong and @arrow-guy and @mrs-dragneel-stark-solo

Also, I’ve never really liked the whole soulmate AU thing idea, but this felt so right and it was amazing to write. I hope y’all love it too!!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Over a month had gone by since Stephen so painfully sent you away. Your work had picked up after a week and you went back to business as usual. You fell back into your role in the mansion quickly and easily and when no one was around, that's when you let yourself grieve the loss of your love with Stephen.

It was getting slightly better with time. And a large part of that was due to Charles. He was practically worshiping you every day. He surprised you with flowers quite a bit, cooked for you every now and then, took you to restaurants, made picnics. He bought you a few pieces of art you'd been eyeing. He even gave you foot rubs after the end of your long days.

He was your saving grace.

The two of you felt as if time hadn't passed at all for you. There was no lull in returning to your romantic lives together. You still loved him with all of your heart and nothing had changed that, not even the issues with Stephen.

One day, while you were working on a report for work, you got a call. You frowned, not recognizing the number, but picked it up anyway.

"Hello?"

"Y/N? It's Wong. How are you?"

"I'm fine, Wong, how are you?" you wondered, extremely worried as to why he was calling. You told him only to call you if there were issues with Stephen.

"I'm okay, but Strange isn't. He's... Well he's not himself."

"Isn't that a good thing?" you joked.

Of course, Wong didn't respond with any kind of laughter.

"In this case, no," he informed.

"Why? What's wrong?"

"Well he took the position as protector of the New York Sanctum."

"Mhm."

"He's doing that fine, he's just not... You might just want to see for yourself."

"Wong, I told you to call for emergencies. If he's just in a bad mood--"

"He won't talk," he said. "He always had something to say before. Some joke, some horrible crack to make. Now, he doesn't speak. He talks to me about the sanctum, but that's it."

You frowned. That was unusual.

"I'd like to help, Wong, I would, but Stephen cast me out. He doesn't want me around."

"I don't know what he told you before, but he lied. The moment you left, it was like someone drained the life force out of him. I've been sending him new books to learn, to keep up with his training, but when I check in on him, it's like he's in a fog. He hasn't read, or what he has read, he doesn't retain."

You chewed on your lip. "Okay, I'll see what I can do. New York sanctum?"

"Yes, he's there 24/7, never leaves."

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

You got home that night and Charles greeted you cheerily, as he always did. Kissing you sweetly before showing you to the dinner he had made. Hank was working late tonight out at a military base.

"I got a call today," you informed as you began to pick around the roast beef on your plate.

"Oh? Who from?"

"Wong."

Charles stilled momentarily, and he hoped you didn't catch it, but you did. He went back to eating.

"What'd he have to say?"

"He wants me to come see Stephen."

Charles put his fork down and gave you his full attention. "Has something happened? Is he alright?" he asked, concerned.

"I think he's okay mentally. He told me that I suppose he can't focus, that he's a bit of an emotional wreck." You sounded almost confused. "Why, I don't know, he's the one that sent me away."

"Do you want to go to him?" he asked softly.

You chewed your lip. "I don't know. Yes, and no. I want to see him. I want to make him feel better. I want to talk about why he was cruel. But I also can't take it again if he just turns me away, if he's as hateful as he always is when it comes to me."

"You know I support you either way?" he said as he reached across the table and held your hand.

You nodded, fighting back tears. "I know, and I love you for it."

"What does your gut say?" he inquired, staring at you with those dreamy blue eyes that made you melt.

"I feel like I want to see him, but..."

"But what? Talk to me," he urged.

You pressed your lips together, worried about what you were about to tell him. "I love him too. I don't want to have to choose."

He nodded. "I know, my dove. While I would be over the moon if you were mine, and mine alone, I also understand that the universe has granted you two souls to love, and two souls to love you back. When you made visits to me from Nepal, that felt quite alright. Of course I'd rather have you here, but if you need to split your time between us, I understand and support that."

Happy tears went down your cheek as you peered at him.

"Thank you so much."

"Of course, darling. I would never, ever, make you choose. Whatever your heart desires, it's yours."

You got up and went to hug him. He hugged you back, tightly, pulling you into his lap. You were crying, kissing him, and hugging him. The stars truly blessed you when you got Charles Xavier as your mate.

The next morning, you decided to make your way into the city to see Stephen. You had no idea what you'd find, what you would say or do, what he would say or do. All you wanted to ask, was why he made you leave, so forcefully, when everything seemed so perfect.

While you were driving to the sanctum, you were white knuckling the whole way. You were so nervous about seeing him again, nervous that he'd turn you away.

You arrived at the sanctum, sucking in a breath before knocking. You could feel yourself break out in a cold sweat, your heart hammering in your chest.

The door opened and you saw Stephen. His eyes narrowed quickly, taken aback by your presence.

He looked so much more beautiful than you remembered. His cuts from the fight had healed. Surprisingly, when you saw him, happiness flooded you. You didn't think that would happen.

"Y/N?"

"Hi, Stephen. Can I come in?" you asked.

"Uh, sure." He moved out of the way and invited you in, where you stood at the bottom of those large stairs.

"I see you got the place all cleaned up," you remarked.

"Yeah, uh, Wong helped. Mordo quit the program. After he learned about the Ancient One's power, he felt like he'd been lied to," he informed.

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. But you're sticking around?"

"I am. I had an encounter that made me see that you and Christine were right about me saving lives that doesn't require a medical degree."

You smiled slightly. "I'm glad to hear that. Whatever makes you happy. Um, Kaecilius, is he?"

"Dead. Him and his followers. We sort of gave them up to Dormammu."

"That dark entity? You encountered him?"

He gave a slight laugh. "That's one way to put it, yeah."

"What happened?" you inquired, pressing him for more information.

"Long story short, we went to Hong Kong. I had to use the eye of Agmatto to turn back time, to fix things, to bring Wong back. We realized that if we did that though, we'd only have to keep fighting Kaecilius. So, we went after the source, or rather, I did."

You took a step closer to him. "Stephen, what did you do?"

He took a deep breath, his eyes staring into yours. "I faced Dormammu."

"You did what?" you gasped. "How--How did you survive? What did you do? Jesus, Stephen."

"You used to have so much faith in me," he quipped with a smirk.

"And I still do, but I don't approve of anyone putting themselves in the line of danger."

"I had to."

"What'd you do?"

"I... I created a time loop, and trapped him in it endlessly. He killed me, over, and over, but the time loop reset. Basically, I annoyed him so much that he agreed to leave Earth alone."

"That sounds about right. You pestering a dark entity so much that they beg you to leave them alone. Only the great Dr. Stephen Strange could do that." You gave a weak smile. "What did the Ancient One do? Was she helpful? Did she give you the idea to do that or...?"

"She... she died. We were fighting Kaecilius and she fell from a great height and hit the ground. She died before we ever went to Hong Kong to fight. She was the reason I decided to stick around, do something more meaningful with my life."

"I see... I'm so sorry. I'm sure that wasn't easy," you said, starting to reach towards him but then you began to lower your arm.

He grabbed your hand and held it in his. "I've missed you," he suddenly confessed.

"And I you."

In a shaky voice, he said, "I missed you so much, I, uh, I came to visit you."

"Was I not home?"

"Uh, you didn't know I came by," he informed. "I used my astral form."

You nodded slowly. "You spied on me?"

"No, not quite. I just... I came by to make sure you were okay. I went once to your work. I went another time to your home."

"You did? But why?"

"Because I missed you so much," he said, his voice thick as tears came to his eyes. He smiled down at you before his hand came up to rest against your neck, his thumb stroking your chin. "I'm so sorry I invaded your privacy, I just had to see you. I had to know how you were doing."

You let out a sigh. "And what did you find?"

He let out a bit of a sigh, the tears now rolling down his cheeks. "I saw you, standing at your bedroom window. It was pouring down rain. Charles was in bed, fast asleep. You were standing at the window, talking to yourself."

You sighed, your own tears now. You remembered that night.

"What... what did you hear?" you managed to ask before taking a deep breath.

"I heard you asking yourself why I made you leave. I heard you asking why I didn't want you any more. I heard you asking what you'd done. I heard you churning it over and over in my mind what happened. It broke my heart to see you that way. To see what I'd done to you."

You took a deep breath. "Uh, um, but if you have missed me, why did you leave me? Why did you kick me out of your life?" you asked, shaking your head. "I mean if it really killed you to see me that way, why not just come visit me in your normal body and talk to me? Tell me what happened? How do you go from telling me I was just one giant distraction to caring about me? You told me you wanted him out of your life and then you come and see me? That doesn't make any sense. What did I do wrong?"

"Nothing," he assured, smiling at me as he cried. Both of his hands were resting on either side of your face. "You did absolutely nothing wrong. You did everything right. That was the problem."

You were crying more now, shaking your head. "I don't understand."

"I... I pushed you away because I saw you almost die, protecting me. You almost died because of a situation I put us directly in. You were pinned to the floor by a blade. You bled out and passed out next to me. You carried me to a hospital to my ex lover. You put everything aside, just to protect and save me. When I saw you and I saw how determined you were to get back and help me, but I felt so responsible. I had to kill a man to protect both of us. You nearly died. I didn't want that again. I don't want to put you in that position, ever again."

"I'd do it, happily, though," you informed, staring up at him.

"I know," he said, laughing slightly. "That's what the issue is. You're so ready to do so much for everyone else, and I can't risk that."

You looked down, feeling your heart break all over again.

"But I can't live without you either," he said, dipping his face slightly so he could see your eyes.

You looked up at him, surprised. "Me either. I've been thinking about you non-stop. For the life of me, I can't figure it out but I miss your smart-assed comments."

"Y/N, I love you."

"I love you," you said.

The two of you searched each other's eyes before you threw your arms around his neck and you collided your lips with his. Feeling alive again at the feeling of it. He kissed you back fervently, holding you close to him.

"Be with me," he requested when he let you go.

You nodded, feeling a light growing inside you. "I can do that. That's easy. Charles already said that he doesn't mind sharing if that's what I want."

He shook his head. "No, I-- I mean just be mine."

You took a step back from him. "Stephen, I--"

"Hear me out," he begged. "What if... What if the universe got it wrong? What if Charles isn't your soulmate? Or what if he's supposed to be your first but I'm supposed to be your last? Maybe there's a reason he and I showed up at the times we did."

"I--I don't think..." You shook your head, letting go of him. "No, that can't be right. It's not right," you affirmed.

"How do you know that? You don't. No one knows anything about having duel soulmates - no one. It is completely unique to you."

"Yeah maybe the phenomenon, but not how I feel. Soulmates or not, I am still very much in love with Charles, just as much as I love you. I can't choose between you, please don't make me. Charles isn't. Don't make me do that... I can't."

"But don't you see? What if this is the way it's supposed to be?" he pleaded, getting closer to you again, putting his hand behind your head. "What if Charles was your beginning, and I respect that, I do, but what if I'm your end?"

You shook your head.

"I don't know. I can't..."

"You can't say one way or the other if that's what it's supposed to be."

All you could do was panic, feeling trapped. What if he was right? What if you were just tied to Charles from all the history you had? Of course you still loved him. You were just as in love as before. Was it even possible that they weren't supposed to occupy your life at the same time? Maybe you weren't supposed to choose. Maybe you were supposed to move on.

But that just didn't feel right. You felt happiest when you had them both in your life.

"Stephen, I... I'm so sorry, but I just don't believe that. I love you, I do, but I can't choose, I won't choose. Charles is okay with sharing me, so either you are okay too or..." You trailed off, making the implication clear.

He let go of you, stepping back, he still held onto your hands, but barely as he continued to put more distance between you two.

"Then I can't do this," he said sorrowfully. "I can't have it both ways. I just want you all to myself, so if you can't give me that..."

"You'd rather not have me at all than share me?" you asked in shock, gasping from the pain.

"I'm sorry, but I want all of you. I don't want to have to fight for your attention."

"You wouldn't."

"That's how it would feel." He picked up your hands, bringing both to his lips, kissing them. "I'm so sorry, Y/N. I love you. Please come see me again if you change your mind."

He let you go and walked away, leaving you standing alone.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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