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theknightmarket · 3 months ago

Note

Hi!!! It's the girl who made the original post about that mayor attorney "I Can See You" fanfic, and I'm here to say you have thrown me back into my hyperfixation!

I swear I don't only get ideas from Taylor Swift songs, but I was listening to "The Moment I Knew" after reading the fanfic and couldn't stop thinking about how good an angsty Damien x reader/DA story would be.

Kinda like he's busy with stuff and doesn't really want to be seen at the DA's party afraid it may stir up drama or something, and in all his overthinking he kinda just doesn't think about their feelings and they realize that the social pressure (or conceived social pressure) is putting a real strain on the relationship.

It could be just super angsty, or if you can think of a way to make a more neutral/happy ending, that could also be fun. I thought I'd just throw this request out there!

Thank you, love your work! :)

"He said he'd be here."

In which Damien is just too late. TW: none, but angst heavy Pages: 21 - Words: 8000

[Requests: OPEN]

In the midst of a winter night, the city hall was a beacon – a lighthouse for storm-tossed sailors. The garlands, the stars, the general holiday décor all culminated to form a masterpiece of cheer. It served two purposes, the first being to make the place look less drab than it normally did, and the second being to rope in the spirit of generosity. The season of giving, as it was so often called, only really worked when everyone was hyped up on champagne and cuts of beef. Not that you could begrudge them that because you were the one providing them with such distractions.

It was your turn to host the party. Every year, government bodies and notorious businesses combined to entertain members of the public at a charity event, the proceeds of which were spread between a select group of organizations. Officially, everyone was welcome, but the crowd who gathered tended to be the upper-class who had both the money to spare and an apathy towards the wholesomeness of the occasion. While most people were at home with their families, the city hall was full to the brim with entrepreneurs and their wives.

As you snaked through the main hall, you took stock of the people in attendance. You supposed you couldn’t be too aggravated with the situation. You weren’t exactly chomping at the bit to get home yourself. In fact, you wanted to stay here as long as possible – it was the one time of the year that guaranteed you would see certain people, and, while one you saw more often than not, it was the rarest of times it would be without a mountain of paperwork between you.

You skipped your gaze across the room like a stone, jumping from person to person, dress to suit, trying to discern that man from the chatter and chortles that permeated the space. Instead, however, you regretfully made eye contact with a member of the press, who was quick to duck between elbows in a steady path toward you. You hoped your sigh was disguised by the faint band playing in the corner. Pretending you didn’t see them wasn’t an option and waving them off was career suicide. You’d just have to suck it up.

That was easier said than done. The first few minutes were the worst, a social test to see how practiced your patience was. Given your experience with members of the media, you liked to think you had built up a tolerance, and it was proven when your cheeks started to hurt from effectively keeping up your smile. It was the anticipated small talk, the ‘oh, how nice you are to host!’ as if it weren’t your responsibility, and the ‘oh, how many people this is going to help!’ as if you hadn’t already seen the lists.

When their head pushed forward and their hands fiddled with their notebook, you knew you were in for the more specific – read: more invasive – questions. Most people would start to sweat at those signs, but you were well-prepared. In fact, you liked them more because you were on equal footing. The press couldn’t ask you too curious a question without risking you sending one back.

No, both of you had to be tactical, and that was your strong suit.

“It must have been very expensive to rent out the city hall,” was the first comment. They never started with a question. Small talk did nothing to test the waters, so this was the hand under the faucet.

“Surprisingly, it was less taxing than you’d expect – and, besides, we wanted to go all out this year to attract as many donations as we can.”

Casual denial mixed with a reputation boost. You didn’t want to give them any fodder to call it an economic waste, but you also couldn’t afford to tell them the full truth. Your relationship was still somewhat of a mystery to the media, and even many of your coworkers, so hinting that you had a discount on the city hall was out of the question. You weren’t lying, just hiding certain information, like any good lawyer did.

“Is there going to be a private after-party?” Their tone was a mechanical copy, intentionally casual with the understanding that you didn’t believe them.

You shook your head. “No, I don’t think so. Tuesday nights aren’t the best chance for revelry besides good food and good wine.” You forced out a slight laugh, almost tempted to throw in a wink but that seemed to be a step too far. Someone of your social stature was far more vulnerable to accusations of manipulation that the reporter in front of you.

Still, they followed suit, obviously not wanting to appear cold against your chiseled warmth. They glanced around in a perfect circle before asking, “Are you expecting anyone else to show up?”

That was when your façade faltered ever so slightly. You propped it up as soon as it dropped, but you weren’t getting off the hook that easily. That tilt of their head shocked your nerves – that widening of their grin pushed your heart into overdrive – that suggestion frightened your thoughts into a stampede.

You struggled to keep your eyes off the front entrance.

“Nobody in specific, but we pride ourselves on always keeping the doors open.”

It was a lie, and both of you knew it, but what else were you supposed to do? It was eight-thirty, so dinner had gone by. Any self-respecting member of society would have sent word that they’d be late, any important member would have already been there regardless. Again, your eyes flickered like twin flames to the set of definitely closed doors.

The reporter opened their mouth to speak, probably to prod you about this mystery guest, but as you dragged your attention back to them, you noticed familiar faces. Not the man you were hoping for, but along the right lines.

You shot the person a faint smile, apologized for having to leave, wished them a good evening, and then rushed off without giving them a chance to respond. Good. They didn’t deserve one.

And you had more pressing issues to attend to than supplying their moment of etiquette.

You weren’t the first one to call out, even as you strode away from the crowd. Instead, you were greeted by a jovial, “Ah, there they are!”

You came to a stop in front of Celine and William, who stood side by side at the edge of the room. While you would have expected Will to be hopping from person to person, he had developed a habit for sticking by the more reclusive of your circle of friends. You didn’t blame Celine, of course, you knew recent years hadn’t done her any favors with the upper-class, and only when she was with people she liked did she act more her normal self. In this moment, you were actually relieved to see them on their own.

“I’m so glad you two could make it—” You felt that artificial smile give way to a genuine one, “—is Mark here, too?”

“Oh, he’s around,” Celine said, nodding. “Mingling with the other socialites, if I know him well enough.”

If there was one thing you were envious of Mark for, it was his confidence. He had the uncanny ability to enforce whatever reality he wanted, whether that was a playful conversation or the very fact that he belonged wherever he went. What was that phrase, fake it ‘till you make it? From his line of work, Mark was practiced in doing just that.

“Did you all come together?” You asked the question, but you felt hesitant in the second that followed. Guilty – for fishing for the answer, for avoiding the question directly, for acting an awful lot like that reporter when they were supposed to be your friends. But you couldn’t make your mouth form the words. You should have been the one to know, of anyone did, where he was.

You didn’t know if Will noticed your tone or decided not to question it, because he was quick to respond jovially, “Not at all! It was a coincidence that we ended up at the same table, and now that you’re over her, we almost have a full set.”

Your focus slid to the doors again. Although you tried to pull yourself away, you just ended up glancing to the window to see if he was walking by. When you managed to tear away and back to the conversation, you felt utterly pitiful. You were an adult with a job and a mortgage, but you acted like some abandoned child at the playground, waiting with tears in their eyes for their friend to show up.

The corner of your mouth fell down and, once again, you were too slow to pick it back up. Celine definitely noticed, her hand raised towards your shoulder, but the bustle of conversation interrupted any attempt at comfort. Colleagues of yours surrounded you with their complaints about new cases, and the prior subject was lost to the world of legalese and syntax. Luck was suddenly on your side – or else fate had decided you needed a break.

The doors were still closed.

It was half an hour later that you decided to leave the group, deigning to tend to the other circles of conversation. As much as you had been entertained by Will’s jokes and Celine’s taunts, you were the host, and you had the duties to go along with it. You weren’t able to stand around with people you saw every day when there were fires to put out between stockbrokers and generals. You had to hope they would stay metaphorical ones.

But you found the time to put them on the backburner when you noticed another of your friends in the hall. Like many times before, he was in the middle of the room, but strangely and for once, he was alone with a champagne flute in hand. You wondered briefly if he were looking for Celine, but it was promptly beaten out by the possibility of him not actually being alone. It was slim and probably stupid, but you were already walking over, and he did look off.

When you were close enough, having ducked away from a jutted-out elbow, you got his attention, saying, “Mark?”

You had tried to do it softly, as softly as the crowded space allowed, but that didn’t stop him from jumping. It was a reaction you had never prompted from him before, and the both of you looked surprised at it.

“You- um, you scared me.” Mark adjusted the red tie of his suit. “Splendid party you have here, dear, I must say.”

His irises darted around in the white pools in a familiar fashion.

Your eyebrows creased as you asked, “Are you alright?”

That brought his focus back to you, like a rabbit only noticing the headlights before impact. He rushed through his words, “Of course, of course, I am. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You’re in a room of two hundred people, and you jumped when I said your name.” You weren’t sure if that was meant to be a joke or not. “And you look like you’re being hunted.”

“No, no, really, I’m…” Any protestations he might have had were undermined by his trailing off and keeping the reason a secret was a no-go when he was looking painfully obviously in the direction of Celine and Will. They were still surrounded by the lawyers, sometimes sharing a private comment followed by barely contained laughter.

“I’m fine,” he said hollowly.

Mark wasn’t fine – and neither were you. While he stared at the pair halfway across the hall, your thoughts drifted, as they inevitably did when given a moment of relief, to your own partner, who was nowhere in sight. You were conflicted, a battle of emotions waged in your heart and mind that was shaping up to be a war of attrition. You tried to accept that this was the reality. He just wasn’t there, nothing else to it, and feeling anything towards it wasn’t going to change anything. Logically, you should have pushed him to the side and got on with the festivities.

Too bad logic had no hand in your emotions. What was left made you livid. You had discussed this whole night, planned it out together and made sure to accommodate every little detail that could have ruined the event. There had been question of what to do if one of you didn’t show up, because why would there have been? You trusted each other. You trusted each other. And yet, there you stood, in front of one of your friends with nobody at your side, sending glances at those godforsaken doors like he might’ve decided to show up after all! If he had any sort of decency, he would have stayed right where he was and never gone near you again.

But there was a part of you that wasn’t angry. A war had at least two sides, after all, and civil had never suited you. No, the side opposing the rage was betrayal, in that kind of bitter way where there was no room for temper or spite. Why didn’t he show up? Why wasn’t he by your side? A soft pattering of rain made the ire fizzle out into nothing but smoke, leaving you with charred remains that wouldn’t be fixed for a long while now.

Slowly, you closed your eyes and took a deep breath. Rationality covered up the hurt, like hell freezing over, but it boiled beneath.

“Hey,” you choked out, “if you need to go somewhere to take your mind off of things, there’s a spare office or two you could settle into.”

Mark’s eyes softened as he drew them back to you. “I appreciate the offer, but I’ll be okay.”

You assumed that would be the end of that, ready to bow out and find someone else to deal with, but Mark took a sip of his champagne and then quickly pulled the flute away again. That professional grin told you he had slipped back into the persona he toted for the screen.

“But enough about me. How are you doing?”

“In what regard?”

He made a vague gesture with his empty hand. “Making your way up the ladder, working on your public projects, spending time with…”

He paused and looked around, but you didn’t need him to finish to know who he was referring to. You’d look, too, if you didn’t think it would kill you.

When he came up empty handed, he asked, “Where is the old boy, anyway?”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t know. All you could provide was a shrug – much too limp for a social appearance but animating yourself felt like a chore – and a glance away. Not towards the doors. Not there.

Had you been in a better mood, you might have called out Mark not acting like a drama-queen. Instead, his shoulders dropped, and he placed a gentle hand on your upper arm. Solidarity. A little pact made, as if you were two schoolchildren playing heroes in the backyard.

“Remember your own advice, dear. There’s no shame in taking some time out of it.”

You nodded, only just meeting his eyes. “Thanks, Mark.”

“Good luck.”

“You, too.”

You parted from Mark, and, as he faded into the crowd, you jumped into your duties once more. Whenever you felt yourself getting closer to the entrance, you diverted to another group. Whoever made themselves at home near the doors would have to go without your assistance, you supposed, but that thought didn’t stop you from getting further and further away. Your effort was gradually being used to stop you from looking. You had to keep your vision straight, pretend you had horse blinders or something, anything to keep you on task and stop your thoughts from always wandering, slowly, painfully, like removing a knife from a stab wound when you wanted it to hurt, back to Damien.

Standing in front of the door, Damien felt paralyzed. He also felt selfish, guilty, terrified, all manner of negative emotions that created a storm in his mind, but none of those mattered as much as the fact that he couldn’t move his feet. He didn’t know why they refused to listen to his orders. Just an inch forward, that was all he wanted, but there he stood, statuesque and three miles from where he was supposed to be.

His eyes flickered to the clock. The larger hand was just ticking past eight as if mocking his stillness. He was already late to the event and, although it normally spurred him to action, it only served to stir up more hesitation.

With a huff, Damien decided to check some more things around the house – and as the thought occurred to him, the curse broke, and he was able to step backwards towards the kitchen. That sort of freedom might have been prompted him to try the door again had this not already happened three times over. The stove was off, the windows were closed, the daily chores were all completed to sufficiency – just as they had all been the last time he checked.

He was going around in circles, and, shamefully, he knew that. He just didn’t know what to do about it. Every time he got within reach of the door handle, he froze completely, his joints locking and keeping him from getting any closer. It was almost torturous, and he didn’t even know why it was happening…

Oh, who was he kidding? He knew why. He didn’t want to admit it, but there was no bluffing his way out of this. Simply put, he didn’t want to go to that party. College-him would have balked as his introversion and then more so at who he was brushing off in the process.

He felt bad, of course, he did. He could only imagine what you were going through, especially without having told you he would be late, but even getting a message to you seemed too much commitment.

He almost laughed. Commitment. The two of you had been dating for a year but telling you he wasn’t going to be there was a step too far?

When had he stopped in front of the door again?

Damien felt his grip tighten around the cane. He had a few choices, each with their own sub-categories and problems to match. First was blowing off the night altogether, shirking his clothes and responsibilities, and trying to get some sleep. What stemmed from that was the decision between facing your inevitable wrath or trying to avoid you for the rest of his life. The very thought of either of them made his stomach churn, with the likelihood of you never wanting to see him much too high whether he wanted it or not.

Second was forcing himself to attend. Late was better than never, right? He only hoped you believed that, because a spitting match in public was in the cards, and it wasn’t the only issue he might face. If it were, he would have arrived on time in the first place.

Damien’s current life was a deathly balancing act that threatened to topple him over every second he spent on the tightrope. On one side was his personal life that spawned problems of its own, chief amongst them being their freshly reunited group of friends. Mark, Celine, and William all in one room was a recipe for disaster that was only made worse combined with the other side that pressed down on him. Reporters were going to be swarming the city hall, a plague of locusts that would only let up in the light of the morning. If anything went wrong – Damien spilling a glass, saying the wrong thing, getting involved in an ill-intentioned marital disagreement – everyone would hear and then everything would be over before daylight.

Both options held a nightmare of uncertainties, and there was a miniscule change that he would get out scot-free. He had to choose, which was something he had never been good at. The only question was what he felt better losing – his job or you?

You wished you could enjoy the scene before you, but all you felt was bitter disappointment and the cold of the wall. Set away from the crowds, you watched them dance to the songs the orchestra had been playing for the last half hour. Joining in was an infeasible thought, but you tried to come up with a better alternative to this.

Bursts of movement caught your attention before kids burst out from between suited legs, proceeded by parents with words of chastisement. It was well past their bedtimes, and most of the other families had funneled out a long time ago, but you were in no mood to deny reckless childhood. You could barely stand to look at them.

Directing your focus elsewhere was no better; the small group of remaining teenagers guided each other into waltzes and box-steps. Arms around one another, hands being adjusted like art critics working on their masterpieces, everything just so. When one got the spin wrong or stepped on another’s feet, there was an explosion of laughter and then helpful advice. It all made the corners of your mouth drop further, but that wasn’t the worst of it.

The thing that made you shove the heel of your hand into one eye and then the other was an elderly couple. They were engulfed by the other dancers, but they stood out to you, with graying hairs and wrinkled skin and content smiles pressed into one another’s shoulders. They swayed more in time with each other than with the music, as if their heartbeats created their own tune that only they could indulge in.

It was only when a wandering waiter crossed your vision that you grabbed a champagne flute off their tray and slipped off to one of those unused offices you had told Mark about.

Given your state, you would consider it to your credit that it took you fifteen minutes to get through your breakdown. There had been pride in your when you stepped through the door without collapsing into sobs – a feeling that was promptly swept up by the shame and betrayal that had seemed to be simmering during the night. You were lucky that the room was barren, or else the property damage expenses would make an awful night even worse. Nothing had been light enough to throw, and you weren’t unstable enough to try heaving the desk out of the window.

It was better that way. You wanted to preserve some decorum in front of your friends, after all, when they eventually found you. Unsure if you wanted them to see you like this, you decided on ignoring them for the time being as they took you in.

You surely looked a mess, with a drained flute and jacket draped haphazardly over the chair, but you weren’t willing to hide your face. While you were aware you had a good poker face, you had never seen it from the outside, so you underestimated your guard. Nobody was able to tell how you felt from that distantly dazed sheen over your eyes.

Celine was the first to speak, with the tentativeness of treating a wild animal – no, not wild. Possibly dead.

“Are you alright?” she asked.

Similarly as slow, you dragged your attention to the group. The headcount surprised you, especially in such close proximity, but you didn’t comment on it aloud. Instead, you breathed in and out.

“No.”

It wasn’t a surprise to anyone, nor was Celine jumping to her brother’ defense. “I’m sure Damien just got caught up with something.”

The very sound of his name – the first time you’d heard it all night – demanded more tears in the corners of your eyes. When your despair trailed off into hiccups before, you had assumed you wouldn’t be able to cry for another week, at the very least, but today had proven the faults in believing past experiences.

“He probably got a call, something urgent- I mean, he’s the mayor—”

She was cut off by a sudden, strangely dull comment from Mark, “That’s no excuse.”

His distant expression was not lost on you, but you were in no position to be comforting him anymore. Hell, you were barely paying attention to the conversation, too caught up in your own dejection and the thoughts that spawned from it. Questions dominated your stream of consciousness, varying in emotion and intent, but all of them were focused on the reason for this situation.

Celine continued on without your input, saying, “Yes, it is. He’s just busy. He wanted to come, I know he did, he just got held up.”

You liked Celine, you really did, and you understood her natural instinct to protect Damien’s name – but you didn’t care. She could have told you he had figured out the solution to world hunger, and you wouldn’t care. In this instant, you were too overwhelmed to give weight to any of their words. All you knew was how you felt, the emotions that you had blocked out from your professional life and dumped into your personal turning from sweet to sour in just a few hours.

It was Will who noticed your state first, placing a hand on Celine’s shoulder to get her attention. Muttering her name, he nodded in your direction. The tears were no longer staying contained by your waterline. The nails you were jamming against the desk were bending under the force. The skin of your lips was being torn piece by piece off the flesh.

“Damien said he’d be here,” you said quietly. From anyone else, they might have assumed it was a statement of fact, but you delighted in the logistics of reality. This was a forlorn admittance of a disappointing truth.

When you repeated it, the words were laden with resentment. “He said he’d be here.”

“He’s just busy—”

“I know!” Your yell had Will leading Celine back a step, though it didn’t deter you one bit. “I know he’s just busy with important meetings and important paperwork and important campaigns, I just thought…”

You choked pitifully before having to take a few seconds to collect yourself. Outbursts were not common for you but tonight seemed to be the blue moon that everyone talked about, only everything it was used in a positive context for was happening on the same day.

Sighing, you let yourself drop further into the embrace of the desk chair as you finished your little rant, “I just thought I was important, too.”

It was in the proceeding moment of silence that a consensus was reached; Celine and Mark shared a look while Will checked down the hallway for stray guests who had missed the bathrooms. In a feat worthy of celebration, they quietly agreed to cooperate.

“You should go home,” Mark said, gently.

Your head lolled into the wooden back. “I can’t. I’m the host.”

“We’ll take care of everything here, and you can go home and get some rest. I mean no offence, but you look awful, dear.”

You huffed a weak laugh, only partly genuine. Being amused seemed so wrong in this moment, but shrugging the effort off did too. Your mood was bad enough already, you didn’t need the awkwardness of a failed joke to make it worse, even if it was only slightly. Still, you weren’t able to meet his eyes, or anyone else’s, as the sound trailed off.

Celine ducked into the hallway as she said, “I’ll get you a cab.”

Will followed her out, but he stopped by the door, standing guard with a returned air of a soldier. You appreciated it more than you were able to express.

“What time were you planning on ending the night?” Mark asked.

“Everyone is supposed to be out in an hour, but there’s sometimes stragglers.” Pressure from your hands as you pushed them into your eyes relieved some of the stress behind them. “The press tends to stick around for any bloto politicians.”

He nodded with absolute certainty. “They’ll be gone before the clock strikes ten.”

You assumed that was the end of that, and you were glad for it, too. Guiding people out with tear-tracks down your cheeks and red-tinted eyes was not something you looked forward to. Luckily, this was an appealing solution that only required you to get out the front door.

Just as you reached for your jacket, though, Will poked his head back around the corner of the frame, eyebrows furrowed together. “If Dames does come, whaddya want us to tell him?”

“It doesn’t matter,” you answered immediately, gripping the sleeve like a lifeline. “He won’t.”

“He still has time.”

In a flurry of movement, impatience and irritation, you pulled on the jacket and readjusted your cuffs around the ends. “If he wanted to show up, he would have shown up before me.” You accidentally kicked a chair leg as you jumped from the seat, but wincing was beyond you. “You know how he is about punctuality. It’s all or nothing with him.”

This time, on the unfortunate flip of a coin, it was nothing.

The easy-going tone flooded back to Will as he spoke, “It’s his loss. I haven’t drunk as well as this since your graduation.”

The corners of your mouth dropped even further. Your graduation – the celebration of years of hard work and sacrifice to be enjoyed with your friends, family, and the very man who had graduated alongside you and was currently missing from tonight.

You cast your attention to the ceiling in an attempt to avoid crying again.

“Sorry,” Will muttered.

“It’s fine.”

But it wasn’t, not really. None of this was fine. For it to be fine, things would have had to change three hours ago, probably longer. For it to be fine, you would have been going through the motions of a waltz instead of holed up in an unused office. For it to be fine…

You groaned. You didn’t have the energy to fight right now. Gradually, the anger nestled in your bones was waning to make space for fatigue. Your entire firm, and likely many other important facets of society, were going to be out of order tomorrow, so an early night and late morning were not out of the question. People were going to make assumptions, but better they thought you indulged yourself than fell apart at someone’s absence.

Steps along the corridor, the taps of heels, made you tense up, but your shoulders dropped when Will stepped aside for Celine.

“The cab’s here,” she said.

You nodded and started towards the door, Mark at your heels followed by Celine and Will when you got to the corridor. It was a slow process, especially when you hit the main hall, but you got by with a few smiles and waves. You didn’t stay in one spot long enough for anyone to ask questions, and you were forced to pick up the pace when you saw that reporter from earlier perk with recognition.

Soon enough, the night air was biting at exposed skin and soothing over raised hairs with the chill of the breeze. Just as Celine had said, there was a car pulled up on the side of the road, and it was such an appealing sight that you barely got out your goodbyes before you were rushing down the concrete steps. You would see them again, sooner or later, though you couldn’t predict the mood of the situation. Still, waiting to be courteous meant being there any longer than you had to, so it was with haste that you pulled open the car door and rattled off your address.

Forty-five minutes. Damien had forty-five minutes to find you, let you air out your grievances, and convince you to give him another chance – which seemed easy enough because you were the host, he was great at listening to you, and you loved each other, so there was very little that could go wrong – and the more he said it, the easier it would get!

However, he had to admit, avoiding being accosted by the press was making getting in much harder than it had to be. He took it as a hint where you wouldn’t be, though; both of you had long since shared an aversion to the media, and he knew the most you would give them were courtesy conversations about superficial topics. The sight of notepads and cameras drove him to the other side of the hall, though, strangely, it failed to put many people between them.

In fact, as Damien slipped to the back of the room, he noticed vacant spots appearing between groups. The empty space both teased him and pushed him into a flurry as he spun around businessmen and lawyers, none of whom you were with.

His wanderings only became more and more constricted as the minutes ticked by; he was already steering clear of journalists scattered around, but the sight of Mark and William standing far too close for comfort has him backing away further. This was what he had been worried about, but showing up three hours late hadn’t stopped it. The men’s clenched jaws and fists told him all he needed to know about how their interactions were going. He only wondered where Celine was, if they were on their own.

He got his answer not ten seconds later, meeting his sister’s eyes across the hall. Relief prompted him to take a calming breath, hoping that she would explain where you were, but panic returned to him when he saw her striding over with purpose. He set out to meet her halfway, curiosity and concern shoving him forward.

Damien was the first to speak, but he barely got out a rushed, “Celine, where is—” before she interrupted.

“You have seriously messed up.” A tone he was relatively unfamiliar with, at least when directed towards him, underlined her words. It was the frigid anger of hypothermia, which spread to his own body to send a chill up his spine.

“What do you mean?”

Celine didn’t say anything, but she didn’t need to. They both knew what she meant.

Damien swung his cane up to his other hand, wringing it as one would a rag as he thought it all through. He hadn’t taken a moment to consider what he would say to you, but admitting what he did was the first step. This was just practice.

“I know,” he muttered, “I know I’m late.”

“That’s an understatement, it’s nearly over.”

“I just need to find…” He surveyed the crowds while he spoke, the words trailing off as he placed more focus on where he was looking. All the formalwear was starting to blend together, the sleek blacks molding into one blanketed stretch of cotton that was broken periodically by dashes of white – stars in the night sky, but none of them you. The only person he recognized in the mass was Mark, who was speaking to a group and gesturing to the door.

His eyebrows furrowed, but the question died on his tongue at Celine’s words.

“They’re gone, Damien.” His head spun to look at her so quickly that his neck clicked, but all she did was repeat her point. “They left.”

“Why?”

“You weren’t here.”

Heartbeat overtaking her words, vision swimming at the edges, breath speeding up to the point that he couldn’t tell whether he was inhaling or exhaling, Damien froze. You were gone. He was here, but you weren’t, so where were you? Why did you leave?

“But they’re good at publicity like this, they didn’t need me.”

“That’s not the point.”

In the space of one of his rapidly accelerating heartbeats, he recognized the gravity of the situation. He had thought, perhaps only hoped, that this would be a simple conversation. Not because it was a trivial matter, but because you had gotten through these kinds of things before, with communication and perseverance. The battles ahead of you were nothing compared to what was behind you, and you had faced them together. A team.

But cliffs eroded, machines rusted, and what was behind you had knocked down your defenses. If he didn’t get to you soon, there was going to be nothing left.

As blood ran from his face, he too rushed to the front door, bypassing Mark and Will’s confused glances towards him. The front door barely registered to him, eyes landing on the closest cab that he was able to practically launch himself into. This was the second time he had given someone your address with such a shaky tone, nerves lighting his words ablaze, but that first instance only served to make his heart ache more in this moment. How things had changed in years past.

He spent the journey from town hall to your home in constant motion. Sitting still meant idleness, which meant not doing enough, which meant he was also groaning about the irony while tapping his foot against the bottom of the car. A tense fifteen minutes crawled by as though he were swimming through tar slightly too high for him – but the floor seemed to drop out from under him when the driver turned onto your street.

When they pulled up to the curb, it was all Damien could do to take a deep breath in and an unstable breath out.

Even as he handed over the cash for the driver’s time, he was barely paying attention to him, although he heard him say, “You want me to stay?”

Damien answered simply, “No, thank you. That won’t be necessary.”

He wished.

But first, he had to get to you, and, although crossing the stone path was akin to traipsing through a graveyard, it was seconds before he was at the door with a fist raised. Three solid knocks, the only stern action he was able to muster.

Initially, he received no answer – were you even home? Had you wanted to avoid him so much that you went to a hotel, another friend’s house, back to your office? The front windows showed static shadows, but you tended to spend evenings in the garden room with a book in hand and moonlight fading into the warmth of the lamp.

He wasn’t stupid enough to break into your back garden, so he knocked again in that thump-thump-thump pattern.

Luckily, he didn’t have to pitifully try again or leave with his tail between his legs. The slight creak of the door, a sound you always pointed out but refused to fix, had him holding his breath. When he saw you, however, his shoulders dropped, and a frown overtook his lips. You were indeed home, and you were making a good show of not being a wreck. You were disheveled and teary-eyed, but what he noticed most was your complete silence.

Damien spoke immediately, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

You sniffed but held eye contact with him. “Why?”

“I didn’t make it in time. I got to the hall, but you weren’t there, and then Celine told me you’d already left. I came as quickly as I could.”

His explanation was lacking – he didn’t think he would ever be able to tell you exactly what happened – but you didn’t acknowledge any of it. Instead, you said, “No, why were you late? Why weren’t you there after you said you would be?”

All he had to do was ‘find you, let you air out your grievances, and convince you to give him another chance’. That was what he had assumed, wasn’t it? And yet there he stood, on your doorstep, hardly able to conceive a thought towards answering your question.

“I-I was busy.”

You were no more impressed with the response as he was. “You were busy,” you repeated, bluntly.

“Unexpectedly, yes, I didn’t want to be busy, but I was.”

“Go on then, what were you so busy with?”

A moment’s hesitation on Damien’s part had you scoffing and starting to close the door. On impulse, he reached out to touch your arm, stop you, stop the door, stop the creaking that he would fix if you just let him.

“Darling—”

“Don’t!” With that yell, you stumbled back away from him and into the shadow of a shelf. “Don’t touch me. And don’t call me that. And don’t- don’t lie to me. We both know you’re not good at it, so don’t even try.”

You weren’t trying to close the door anymore, but the disappointed look in your eyes was pain enough. It wasn’t a glare, just an exhausted glaze over what would normally be vibrant passion.

“Damien, people asked after you, nobody knew where you were. I didn’t know where you were, and now you’re here, but you won’t tell me why you didn’t show up.”

“I couldn’t.”

You waited for him to continue. He didn’t. As tension flooded the air between you, you took the cue to move into your living room, just a few steps and a turn from the door. So unused to the etiquette for this, you left the door open for Damien to follow – or, maybe, you just wanted him to.

From behind you, you heard him start to apologize again, but you cut him off before he could start anything meaningful.

“I don’t care if you’re sorry or not.” You had to force yourself to turn around to see him. “I want to know what was so important that you missed a party you told me you’d be at.”

Fighting the urge to look away again, you watched as he opened and closed his mouth. It was a struggle for you both, and, in the end, all he managed was, “I couldn’t come.”

That was what you had feared; this conversation was devolving into some Sisyphean nightmare, and your options were limited as to how to break the cycle. Trying the first, you slapped your hands together, the sound ringing out like a church bell.

“Okay. Fine. You couldn’t come.” You spoke casually, like that was the end of that, but Damien knew it wasn’t. “But if you can’t tell me, then you can’t be honest with me, and eventually we’ll end up hiding more stuff from each other.”

It was no secret what, or who, you were referencing. Both of you had seen what happened to your friends’ marriage, and neither of you wanted it to happen between you, especially given you had yet to reach that stage of relationship yet. But what could you say? The two of you tended towards the nontraditional.

With that pessimistic thought, you ploughed on. “And at first, it’ll be the small things, you know, the mistakes that are cleaned up before the other can notice, but then it starts to get important, and then suddenly we can’t trust each other at all.”

You had failed to maintain contact with him, your attention drifting when it got too much. That overwhelming, pleading gleam in Damien’s eyes felt like a vice grip over your heart, slowing your heartrate into arrhythmia.

Dully, you finished, “And I don’t want us to get to that point.” Your voice was thick with unshed tears, which you tried your hardest to push away.

“We won’t,” Damien declared with a confidence that you envied. “I trust you now, and you trust me, right?”

“You’re the one who’s refusing to tell me why you didn’t come!”

“We haven’t been in a room with Celine, Mark, and Will since he got back from France—” He hadn’t meant to say it so suddenly, but the words burst from his mouth like a tidal wave, “—and there’s no way that we’d get through the night without something going wrong. Knowing them, it’d be Mark and Will taking cheap shots at each other and then getting into some fight in the middle of the hall. Celine would get involved herself and then we’d be left picking sides and putting out fires. I didn’t want our first big event together to be like that.”

He had seen Mark and Will at the end of the night, each with their jaws clenched and insults stirring in their minds; he knew what they looked like before they exploded, and after so many years of experience, he didn’t know how it went over your heard.

However, unlike Damien, you had seen them for the entire night. With a sardonic chuckle, you said, “Well, you’ll be happy to know that nothing like that happened. Wasn’t even close. Everyone was completely civil, because they’re not children, and I think you know that.”

“I also couldn’t risk being in a room with all those reporters, and the businessmen, and the lawyers, and every other sector of society who are waiting for me to mess up. If I make one mistake, I am done. I can’t afford to be seen so much by the public eye outside of office, or people will think I’ve been wasting time.”

A pin-drop was audible, though how it would have gotten through the tension in the air was a wonder. You both stared at each other, waiting to see who would make the first move.

“So,” you started, straightening your shoulders with faux composure, “our relationship is you wasting time?”

Panic shot through Damien’s heart. “You know I didn’t mean it like that.” He had meant… anything but that.

“Do I? Because everything that you just said was to do with work.”

“Are you angry that our relationship isn’t an issue?”

“I think it isn’t on your mind at all. You’re not worried about it because you aren’t even considering it.”

Now was not the time to point it out, but Damien couldn’t help but notice your habit of constructing stories. Holdovers from prosecuting defendants and defending patrons. He wasn’t the only one who had a poor divide between work and life, but he understood that it would only add fuel to the fire. Yours was steadily puttering out into a few stray embers.

Sighing, you dropped onto the couch. Plush pillows bent around your formal wear.

“Damien, I can’t do this.”

He didn’t blame you. The entire night had been an emotional rollercoaster, not to mention the workday preceding it.

He kept his voice soft as he said, “We can talk about it tomorrow if you want. I’ll call out from work, and we can have a conversation.”

After rubbing a hand over your eyes, you looked at Damien. Your poor, sweet Damien. The last few years had been amazing. You wouldn’t have wanted to spend them with anyone else. Even the parties in college, the ones you barely remembered beyond the off-putting taste of beer, you cherished, because there was that sense of safety that only came when he was nearby, joking and teasing your being a lightweight.

But that was when you were young, and times had changed. The world was harsher than it had originally let on, and there you were, facing your partner and resigning yourself to the chance of never loving again.

“No. We can’t.” Your words were quiet but firm.

“What do you mean?”

“It’s over, Damien.”

Realization dawned on him, an expression of dread overtaking it as soon as it came. “Wait. Please. We can- I can fix this.”

You got up, brushed imagined dust off your legs, and did your best to avoid his eyes as you said, “There’s nothing to fix. You’re not going to resign, and I’m not going to beg you to. It’ll be better for both of us, so please don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

You didn’t know who you were talking to in that moment.

“But it doesn’t have to be like this in the first place.”

“Why not? Give me one reason.”

“I love you.”

That was exactly what you didn’t want to hear, the ‘harder’ than it had to be. The vice grip squeezed your heart so hard that the walls and tubes burst, sending shockwaves through your body. Though you were relatively unaware of your lawyer-tactics in your personal life, it never escaped you that Damien had his own little tricks – like stating facts with both the utmost conviction and simplicity, as if it would never and could never be any other way. There was no room for argument, or else you would find yourself backed into a corner by well-chosen statistics and evidence.

In your silence, Damien continued, “You know I do. I want to make this work. Just give me the chance to make this work.”

You let him take your hand. You hadn’t noticed he was moving closer until you felt the familiar texture of bumps and ridges and bones. Warmth spread from the point of contact to the rest of your, replacing those shockwaves with a treasurable feeling, if only because you would never get to feel it again.

“I love you too. But it’s not enough. We’re done.”

[yeowch. eugh. oof. and all other manner of expressions of pain. Thanks for requesting – sorry this took so long, but I had a real rough time doing this. The concept was amazing, and I had so much fun getting the ideas together, but then it got to the dialogue and suddenly I was having to go on walks to alleviate my pain. In my mind, they reconnect just before WKM happens when the DA is made, y’know, the DA – they’re both excited to rekindle their friendship, they might even still have feelings for one another, but, well, it turns out how it turns out.

On a happier note, I also like to think that Damien and the DA pulled a Blair and planned that whoever got elected first would become the mayor (or whatever equivalent of the prime minister) and whoever didn’t would become a top lawyer. It’s very cute. Again, though, thanks for requesting, and I hoped you enjoyed :D!]

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dontsh0vethesun · 2 years ago

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back in town

part one of home for christmas

natasha romanoff x reader

The hallmark movie inspired Christmas story that nobody asked for.

Natasha Romanoff fell out of love with Christmas, but perhaps a certain someone could help her find the festive magic once again.

Coming home to her small hometown from her life in New York City, the children’s author is reunited with the people of her past; some are happier to see her than others.

But, will rekindled relationships inspire the Christmas story she’s struggling to write? Or will she go home empty handed?

fluff, lots of Christmas, hallmark movie cringe

for the sake of this fic, all characters are the same kind of age; ≈mid 20s

wc: 1.4k | part two

Serving customers their coffee has been an opportunity for a moment of peace lately. Wanda, as well as the remainder of your insufferable friends, had taken it upon themselves to set you up on dates. Somehow, their lack of success so far hasn’t managed to convince them of their matchmaking deficits.

So, during work hours, you’re bombarded with suggestions to which you decline time and time again. Apparently, being the Christmas season and all, it was a matter of extreme importance; the so-called ‘Christmas magic’ had to have a source of focus and, according to them, that was you.

You’d tried; the amount of boring and unsuccessful dates you’ve embarked on is almost embarrassing. You’ve had short lived relationships, fleeting flings, and so many blind dates you can’t even count them with all ten fingers. But none of them were right for you. None of the options were worthy to ‘cuddle up with by the fireplace’ or ‘entwine souls with beside a decorated tree’. Wanda had an optimistic take on your love life - you’d all be lying if you didn’t call her obsessed.

“C’mon, that girl in the bookstore was totally obsessed with you,” she spoke as soon as the customer in front of you had left with a smile and a cup of coffee in their hand.

“Wanda, please,” you groaned, busying yourself with the messed up counter, wiping down the surface hoping it’d will her away.

“She could be the one.”

“You say that about all of them,” you huffed with a laugh. She truly was a hopeless romantic. You hypothosise her obsession with your romantic endeavours is some haphazardly disguised attempt to draw away her own infatuation with a certain bookstore owner. It’s no coincidence you’re both in there so often and it’s definitely not because you have a crush on anybody there.

“Maybe this one’s different.”

“You always say that too,” you laughed. “What about you anyway? How about we get you a date with that woman you ogle, huh?”

“What woman? There isn’t a woman,” she defended, you saw right through her.

“The one that likes to give you discount on all those books you buy and never read. Agatha, is it?”

“Oh, look, you have a customer. I better get more coffee from the back,” she hurried out before rushing away.

Luckily your best friend seemed to have taken the hint for the time being and the next couple of hours passed with you working in your regular harmony.

“That man is always late, I swear,” Wanda spoke with a glance at the clock. Sam was meant to be in for his shift twenty minutes ago, though you find his lack of punctuality to be an endearing trait. And, as though his ears were burning, the man in question burst through the wreath-decorated door with quickened breaths from what you assumed to be a sprint into work.

“You will never guess who I just bumped into,” he shouted to you both as he pulled his coat off to replace it with the coffee shop apron.

“Santa?” Wanda grinned with an excitement an adult likely shouldn’t present herself with at the prospect.

“Better.”

“Nobody’s better than Santa,” she pouted.

“If it wasn’t an old guy in a red hat you’re gonna have a real sad boss to deal with,” you responded with a laugh.

“Well now I don’t wanna say,” he answered with a chuckle of his own.

“You can’t lead with that and not tell us,” Wanda countered with a poke to his arm.

“Natasha Romanoff.”

“You’re kidding.”

The pair of you answered him at the same time, a mirrored disapproval in your tones.

“Nope. She’s here for the holidays.”

“What, New York’s not good enough for her anymore?” you uttered in annoyance, rolling your eyes before plastering on an appeasing smile to the customer that approached.

“I didn’t think the small town Christmas vibe fit her new Scrooge persona,” Wanda added with an equally annoyed voice.

“I dunno, I didn’t talk to her much, I came to tell you two. You know I like the gossip,” Sam answered with a smile, though he wasn’t so pleased with her appearance either.

“You can put your matchmaking shit on hold,” you stated. “All focus is now on ‘operation avoid Romanoff’.”

“Mission accepted as long as you come up with a better title,” Wanda returned. “A Christmas themed one.”

—

“Oh my God, I need to tell you all who I saw in town this afternoon,” Kamala practically squealed as she took her seat in the booth with the rest of the group. A girl’s night out at the local bar was a no brainer after the news.

“Let me guess,” Monica voiced. “Red hair, expensive suit, kinda scary, and a knack for ghosting certain people?” She added, tapping her chin with her face contorted into one of faux musing and a pointed look towards you with her final words.

“Pretty good at breaking poor innocent hearts?” Carol added with a teasing nudge to your shoulder to lighten your mood.

“She didn’t break my heart,” you scoffed.

“Just stomped on it a little,” Kate said with the same joking tone - if there was one thing you adored your friends for it was their way of making even awful situations fell a little less dire.

“Poked at it with her expensive stilettos,” Wanda added.

“Oh, so I’m the last to know,” Kamala sighed. “That’s cool, I guess. Not that I wanted to come in here with big, dramatic news or anything.”

“No, please, go on,” you laughed. “Who was it that you saw?”

“Natasha. Romanoff,” she exclaimed with all the dramatic flare she’d hoped to achieve. And, of course, you all gasped just as you knew she’d enjoy.

“You’re kidding,” you deadpanned.

“I know!”

“I’m gonna get us some more drinks,” Kate spoke as she stood up. “No gossip whilst I’m gone, you know all the drama gets my blood up.”

And so you all talked. And talked. And talked. Every detail of your relationship - or lack thereof - was explored. Her departure and the toll it took on you was examined and you remembered just how grateful you’ve always been for their support, they’re truly the best friendship group you ever could’ve asked for.

“Oh my God.”

The phrase was grumbled out by the three of you positioned in the line of sight of the door, the faces of you, Carol and Wanda all laced with discontent at the sight.

“Alright, look behind you but be subtle,” Carol instructed. “I’m talking to you, Kamala.”

It started off discreetly to begin with, Monica glanced over her shoulder with a scoff at the image behind her. Kate, somehow, was just as discreet but, of course, Kamala being Kamala an obnoxiously loud gasp followed her gawking. It drew the attention of those at the eye of the display you were staring at and two pairs of eyes looked back at you.

“What a surprise,” Yelena grinned as she approached with her sister in tow.

“Yelena, you were literally invited,” you grumbled. “You said you had plans.”

“There’s been a change in plans,” she shrugged, clearly amused at the awkward situation she was dragging you into. “My dear sister and I are joining you.”

“I’ll get more drinks,” Natasha mumbled. The first words you’d heard from her in years and she kept her eyes everywhere but directed towards you; something about the way she still buries her hands in her coat pockets when she’s nervous stirred up a stinging familiarity.

“Lena, what the hell?” Wanda whispered when the blonde smugly took her seat in the already crammed booth.

“What?” she shrugged, feigning obliviousness at her clearly deliberate actions. “It’s Christmas, even the grinch needs a drink.”

Speaking of, the redheaded grinch in question approached with a tray of drinks and an awkward yet fleeting smile gifted to you when she pulled a chair up to the end of the table. To your surprise, she even held your gaze as she slid your glass over to you though you couldn’t muster much more than an almost inaudible thank you.

“So, you’re back,” Carol spoke, leaning forwards with her arms resting on the table.

And that began the awkward evening. There was an obvious tension between the pair of you; Natasha answered any questions she was asked and you pretended not to notice the way she’d steal looks at you over the edge of her glass. You, however, barely spoke.

How do you talk to the woman that left you behind? Especially when she comes back into town looking even more perfect than before; you scold your lustful eyes for tearing your mind apart.

#natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff x fem!reader #natasha romanoff fanfic #natasha romanoff #marvel fanfic #au: home for christmas

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olsenmyolsen · 11 months ago

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Chapter Three: Meeting Wanda Maximoff

The Farmer's Daughter - (A WandaNat Story)

Masterlist

Summary: As Natasha gets into the groove of things, someone shows up on the farm.

Word Count: 1.5K

Content: Just Natasha working on the farm

Natasha's alarm went off a little before 6 am, and she found herself groaning and cursing as she did her best to wake up.

But the fence needed to be finished, and she didn't have someone shouting at her to get a move on or drop and give her twenty.

So that was a nice bonus, and Natasha took it with a smile; just as the dark of the night was slowly making way for the sunshine of the day, Natasha got up, went to the bathroom, and started to get dressed.

She decided to wear brown boots, canvas pants, and a green shirt with a few buttons down the front. Natasha looked good, but she was wondering if her clothes were always working farm clothes in disguise.

The struggle of a lesbian, she guessed with a shrug before exiting her tiny house, ready to start the day.

An hour later, Erik finally found Natasha as she was finishing up the fence behind the greenhouse.

"You know, just like with dinner, breakfast is always an option." He said as he walked up with two tumblers of coffee. One silver and one black. He stuck his arm with the black one out to Natasha.

"Thanks." She said as her hand wrapped around the black mug. "But coffee is good with me." Erik nodded. "I figured." His eyes drifted to the sliver chain around Natasha's neck. "Old habits and all, I bet." He said, and Natasha wasn't too sure how to answer him, so all she did was sip her coffee.

It wasn't amazing, but it was better than what was provided on base.

"The fence looks good." Erik took a step back and admired Natasha's work. She nodded. "Thank you." She cleared her throat. "I was going to finish this, put the tools back, and then work on egg collecting."

Erik hummed. "Well, good luck with that." He said as he turned his body to walk away. "Remember, they'll peck." He hollered back, and Natasha nodded to herself; she watched Erik get pecked ten times yesterday.

Not that she counted.

Plus, she had been to war. A couple of chickens couldn't be that bad.

"Stop it!" She yelled at a chicken that she named Kentucky Fried after it pecked at her gloved hands for what had to have been the sixteenth time since entering their pen.

This one, unlike the others, was very protective of its work, and Natasha fully understood why Erik glared at this one yesterday when she was being shown around.

"Keep that up, and you'll see eleven herbs and spices real soon." She said after her left boot was pecked at.

This banter or 'verbal abuse' continued until Natasha was finished collecting all the eggs for the day that she placed in containers for Erik to pick up later.

Erik, who drove by on his tractor a distance away, laughed at Natasha.

"Bye!" She waved and almost flipped off the one chicken as she exited the pen and entered the barn to let the cows out to roam and to move hay around.

As she watched the cows slowly walk away, she couldn't believe how different her first two days with the military had been.

She went from having nothing to a piece of something. A future Natasha could grasp onto. It wasn't glamorous, but neither was what Natasha was doing before.

Natasha sighed with a smile and walked out of the barn into the field. She sat in the grass and kept her eyes on the cows as her thoughts drifted.

And then her phone rang.

Natasha jumped slightly as she forgot she had the device on her.

She removed her gloves and got her phone out just in time to see one name on the screen: Clint 🏹

She hit the green button with a smile.

"Miss me already?" She answered with a smirk. Clint let out a sigh of relief. "Wishing I wasn't. What kind of friend doesn't tell me where they end up, Natasha? I thought you were dead."

Natasha's smile slowly started to fade. She realized she was speaking with, "I'm a parent, so I'm freaking out on you," Clint.

She sighed. "Take a breath, Barton." She said as she could hear him stop and listen. "I'm doing okay. I'm alive." Natasha said with a smile as she heard Clint breathe out.

"Still, a text would've been nice." He mumbled.

Natasha rolled her eyes. "Okay, Dad."

Clint chuckled. "So where did you end up?" Clint asked as a cow mooed in the distance, making Natasha laugh, much to Clint's confusion. "What?" He asked.

Natasha shook her head as her left hand moved through the long grass. "I found work." She said. "On a farm about three and a half hours from base." Clint shook his head and laughed. "It really is impossible for you to relax, isn't it?"

Natasha looked around from her spot on the ground, surrounded by cows. "It's not so bad." She said as Sparky barked and ran out of the Lehnsherr house. Past Natasha's place on the other side of the fence and down the road.

Natasha and Clint hummed, but for different reasons.

Natasha realized and listened as Clint moved the phone away from his ear as another person came to talk to him. Natasha could bet it was Fury, but he probably would've said hello to Natasha if it was him.

So the hushed whispers left her wanting answers before Clint eventually raised his phone back to his ear. "Gotta go, Nat."

Natasha heard the tone change in her friend.

"Okay." She understood. "Need me to call Laura or anything?" Natasha offered, but Clint shook his head no. "She's my next call. It looks like we're flying out tonight." He sighed, and silence filled the phone for a moment. "Can't wait to hear about all the ways you're not relaxing another time."

Natasha laughed. "Call me when you can. Stay safe, Hawkeye."

Clint laughed. "Will do, Romanoff."

A second later, the call ended, and Natasha didn't realize it, but her left hand had moved from the grass to the tags around her neck. Rubbing the metal with her index finger and thumb.

Natasha removed her fingers from the tags and pulled her phone away from her face. Her lock screen reappeared, and it was a picture of her and a blonde. Both wearing their military uniforms and cheesing at the camera.

It was from five years ago.

Clint took the picture using Kate's camera.

Natasha clicked the button on the side of her phone, so the screen went black as she sniffled her nose. She put the phone back into her pocket, and thanks to her settings, the picture would be gone the next time she tapped her phone.

But still, it felt nice to see a picture of her and her sister Yelena happy.

Natasha sniffled again before her face scrunched up, thanks to a particular smell. She slowly turned her body to the right and loudly groaned away the tears in her eyes before getting up.

"Couldn't do this anywhere else!?" She playfully yelled at the cow before walking up to its side. The cow mooed at Natasha and returned to eating grass as if nothing happened, forcing the redhead to laugh.

Natasha went to put back on her gloves, when suddenly the quiet countryside became loud as a Jeep without doors or a roof packed with a bunch of twenty-somethings came down the dirt road to Lehnsherr's house with a barking Sparky running behind it.

Natasha kept her eyes on the vehicle and noticed pairs of eyes glance at her as the car zoomed by.

A set of eyes hidden behind sunglasses stared at Natasha the longest.

Natasha walked down the grassy plain towards the house as the Jeep came to a stop and parked. Natasha figured the packed SUV wasn't a threat, but that didn't mean she wasn't a little curious.

So, as Natasha hopped over the fence and started making her way down the dirt road, the back left car door flew open, and nothing appeared until a set of long tan legs with blush-colored mid-calf boots touched the ground.

Natasha's green eyes worked up and down the leg multiple times before the rest of the body exited the vehicle with a bounce in their step.

Denim shorts that didn't leave much to the imagination were the next thing Natasha's eyes focused on before the color yellow of the long cotton blouse stole Natasha further and further up the woman's gorgeous body. Her hair was next, and Natasha was in love with the look. Brunette hair with blonde highlights flowed down her back.

The closer Natasha got, the more she saw the definition in the mysterious woman's figure until she turned around when Natasha was about ten feet away.

The person kept their eyes hidden behind their sunglasses, but the rest of their face was exposed. And it was wonderful. To Natasha, her skin looked soft, and she had a jawline Natasha was immediately impressed by and jealous of.

With the car full of people watching them, the mysterious person kept their pink lips closed tight until she brought a hand up to her sunglasses and blessed Natasha with the sight of the prettiest green eyes she had ever seen.

Natasha kept her mouth closed, but her breathing changed.

The pink lips separated themselves, and when she spoke, Natasha knew she was fucked. "Who are you?"

dividers by @/benkeibear

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ineedtotouchgrassrightnow · 8 months ago

Text

Art by Kkiaikk_07 on twitter

"A bedtime story"

Claude X F! Byleth!

The war was finally over. After years, what felt like a never ending nightmare ended. Nemesis was killed yet again—this time, for good. It was a bittersweet moment, to say the least.

Many were lost on the road here, and many will be forgotten. People died on all sides; even the innocent were killed.

This was and will be the prime example of war for the years to come. The Empire, the Kingdom, and the Alliance all fought for five long years, and it's hard to swallow the fact that they were all friends not long ago.

They ate together in the church that turned them into this. They walked and trained together in the same cult disguised as a holy temple that held them together.

No one was better than another. You could've been a commoner or a noble, with or without a crest, and you were treated the same, because, at the end of the day, you were all just teens.

The butterfly effect where one option can change the future it sounds utterly ridiculous to imagine. A simple change can alter the fate of hundreds, but it happened.

Edelgard, Dimitri, and Claude were being chased by bandits when they came across a group of mercenaries—none other than Byleth and Jeralt. They begged for help, and the mercenaries complied, not being ones to back down in fear.

Byleth struck the bandits effortlessly, and everything was fine until an axe was thrown at Edelgard. Without a moment’s hesitation, Byleth ran in front of her. As time froze, she realized she would’ve been ripped to shreds, saving an innocent girl whose name she didn’t even know.

A goddess was on her side and pushed back the hands of time to just before the axe was thrown. Byleth, having just seen the future and its outcomes, charged again, fully prepared to block, and she did. She saved Edelgard without the cost of her life.

And with that brave act of strength, Byleth became a professor at the church, and her father returned to his role as captain.

They had mock battles, laughed together, and Byleth loved teaching. In fact, her students made her show emotions even her own father had never seen before. But, of course, all good things come to an end.

A girl went missing. They looked for her, found her, and found another girl Byleth had never seen before, passed out together. That same girl later murdered Byleth’s father.

Byleth tried to turn back the hands of time to save her father, but it was no use; he was gone.

Now, there is more to that story, my sweetheart, but that isn’t necessarily important for now, and I’ll save it for another day.

That being said Byleth became protective of her students, wanting to hold them close, and she remembered something her father had once said: “If anything happens to me, search this room.” And that, she did.

Do you know what she found? A diary and a bag. Inside that bag was a ring with instructions to give it to someone she loved.

She held that ring close to her for years and years. And remember what I said about the war?

Byleth was teaching a boy named Claude. Claude was handsome and cunning, always with a plan—or six—and she loved him.

She and Claude were around the same age. He was annoying and a brat, but you can never help who you fall in love with, and so she did love him.

She fought by his side in all the wars. They kept each other in line—he made her loosen up, and she brought her walls down around him, and he knew that.

After the final war, she was approached by the same man she had fallen in love with. While Byleth isn’t usually one for cheesy moments or situations, she remembers that day clearly: his voice, his posture, and every single word he said.

He walked up to her. “Sorry for calling you out like this,” he said, his voice filled with vulnerability, soft-spoken. “I wanted to talk, just the two of us.”

He thanked her for all the work she’d done to get everyone here, and they talked about Fódlan and its future when…

“I’m sorry that I won’t be by your side at such an important event, but I’m certain you’ll do great.”

“You won’t be there!?” she asked.

“I must return to my homeland. As for ruling this new, unified land... well, I'll leave that to you.”

Byleth’s eyes widened at that. Or so he said later on, Claude knew what he wanted, and he kept moving toward his goals. Nothing could distract him from that, not even Byleth.

“The Fódlan blood that flows in my veins... I’ve made use of it as best I could. Now I’ve got to use my other bloodline to change my homeland for the better.”

“I have royal connections there too, insignificant as they may be. It’s time for me to struggle all over again and see what good I can do.”

Claude wanted a world that would never judge one for being different, an outsider, and he was determined to make that goal happen... he just needed to do something first.

He pulled out a silver ring with green gemstones, the color of her hair.

“I have something else to ask. Please... I hope you’ll accept this.”

“When I first saw you wield the Sword of the Creator, I wanted to use your power to my advantage.” He looked away in shame.

“I wanted to use you to make my dream of a new world come true.” His gaze slowly met hers again. “But before long, I realized what I really wanted was to see that new world... with you by my side.”

“I still feel that way, you know. I always will. That’s why I have to leave. But nothing will stop me from coming back. There’s no way I’m gonna let you go. You know that, don’t you?”

He pulled her into a hug as he thanked her.

“Thank you… for everything.”

He placed a hand on her head and played with her hair as she clung to his clothes.

“I’ll be back before you know it. We’ll only be apart for a short while. And now... I’m off to cross Fódlan’s Throat.”

He smiled at her and said the words she would hear every night since his departure.

“I love you. With everything I am. And the next time we see each other... it will be at the dawn of a whole new world. A peaceful, happy world.”

“I love you too, Claude,” she replied.

They pulled away from the hug and went their separate ways. She thought of him always and dreamed of being in his arms again, and after long years, he came back.

Completing his mission of creating a world he believed in, he returned to her, the same as ever, and ran to her, picking her up in his arms and spinning her around.

She wore the brightest smile on her face and laughed—the most emotion she’d ever shown at that point in time. She only wished her father could’ve been there to see how far his little girl had come.

And while Byleth missed her father and the many friends she lost along the way, she found peace when she saw the most perfect person on Earth for the first time.

A sweet little girl with green eyes, tan skin, and brown hair—a symbol of her love with Claude.

Byleth spoke in a soft tone to her daughter, running a hand through her five-year-old daughter’s hair.

“Mom...?” she yawned. “How do you know so much about those people?”

Byleth smiled affectionately. “That’s your dad and me.”

Her daughter gasped, struggling to keep her eyelids open. “N-No... way…” she yawned.

“Good night, princess,” Claude said, leaning down to place a kiss on her forehead as Byleth turned off the lights.

#byleth eisner #byleth fire emblem #fe3h byleth #female byleth #claude x byleth #fire emblem #claude von riegan #claude fire emblem #fluff

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jadeandquartzes · 5 months ago

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okay okay I'm a fake friend and icr what fh pairings you like to/have written so this is like one of. two or three separate ones I'll send to give u options and feel free to pick and choose any/none of them that speak to you etc <333 5. "there's blood on my/your hands" + fig/gorgug (for me. for the three fg warriors out there.)

[under the cut for length + mild gore]

"The duration is one minute," Gorgug says. His voice sounds steady, and he's proud of that. Really proud, considering, well. Everything about the last half hour. "If the guy used metamagic, he might have made it two minutes, but that's unlikely."

"Okay," Fig says from her position on the ground. Her shoes are bloody; some of her hair is singed away. She looks - well, she looks like she's about three seconds from death. He knows she's not, logically. She can't be, because Kristen just healed her. But knowing doesn't make it any better. "Okay. I'll just stay here. I'll just - stay right here and hang out, then. Amazing. Great."

Her eyes are pitch black. It's intense, like looking at a thunderhead cloud, or the ever-spinning circle of an engine wheel. She's blinking, faster than normal, trying in vain to clear the Blindness spell from her skull. It's okay, though. It'll be gone shortly. And she's fine. She's alive, and she's fine. That's the main thing that Gorgug is focused on.

(The sorcerer cast it on Fig while she was mid-flip. She'd crashed off her skateboard, high up in the air - fallen six stories and landed in a heap at the caster's feet, unconscious amidst a pile of bloody bones. Then, the sorcerer had charged up a Disintegrate spell, lines of flickering grey magic lancing down his arm, hungry and hateful.)

(Then he hadn't done much of anything, since that was the point in the fight where Gorgug threw a greataxe across the room and split his skull in two.)

"Cool," Gorgug says. He sits down crosslegged, directly across from Fig. He makes some noise on purpose, so that she isn't startled when his knees press up against her own. "I'll stay with you, then."

"You sure?" Fig says. But she's reaching for him already, even as she says it. Her hand is cold in his. He holds it carefully, puts his other hand over the top to warm it up. "The others don't need you?"

Somewhere in the distance, Adaine is warding the cave entrance with the last of her spell slots. Gorgug is vaguely aware of Kristen and Riz talking in hushed tones, of Fabian pacing around and guarding the tunnels that had hosted hordes of undead mere moments ago. All the details are fuzzy, though. It's like they're filtered through a phone screen, like one of those black and white movies that the substitute teachers occasionally put on. Fig's the only thing that isn't blurry. He's not sure what to make of that.

"Nope," he says, and pats her hand, a little awkwardly. "They're fine. Everybody's doing great."

"No one's hurt?"

"Just you, Fig," he says, and then makes it a teasing thing, a valiant effort at distraction, because it looks like she really fucking needs it: "You had to have the spotlight, huh?"

It works, thank the gods. A small smile cracks at the corner of her mouth, wry and mean. Like a beam of sun between mountains, like the first chord of a good song.

Fuck. She was almost -

- but she's fine now, so it doesn't bear thinking about. Gorgug can't think about it, actually. Mostly, he needs to take care of her. Mostly, he needs to make sure she's okay.

"How do I look?" Fig says.

That feels like a loaded question. It's one of those social norms that tends to get Gorgug in trouble. This is Fig, though, so he doesn't need to be as worried. Maybe. Probably. "Uh. Good?"

She laughs. There's something sharp behind it. Worry returns, gnawing at Gorgug's shoulderblades incessantly. "I mean - like, am I okay? Do I have - I don't know - three tails, or feathers for hair, or - are there any side effects, Gorgug? Are my clothes all gone, or something stupid? I don't have the spell slots for Disguise Self right now, so I don't - I don't know. Tell me what I need to know. Whatever."

It's a lot of words. Gorgug feels his throat close up, for a second. He takes a deep breath in through his nose, lets it out through his mouth like his parents taught him to do when things get bad. He closes his eyes. The world goes black.

He thinks about every time he's watched Fig disguise herself to sidestep an interaction, or an interrogation, or a piercing question from her mom. Every time she's fled from him on her skateboard, laughing loudly, after saying something that might have revealed a bit too much about herself. Every mirror he's watched her veer away from, ever so subtly.

He opens his eyes, takes her in. Her shoulders are tense; she's worrying her lower lip between her teeth. Her face is sallow. Her braids are tangled in her horns. She can't see him yet, her eyes are still clouded, but she's looking straight at him. As if she knows where Gorgug is, regardless of the circumstance.

"Uh, your fishnet is torn," he says slowly. "Nothing I can't patch, though. Your skateboard might take me a little more time to fix, but no more than a week. Kristen fixed up the cut on your head, but it'll leave a really cool scar for a month or two. There's blood on your hands, but it won't stain your gloves or your jacket. Other than that, everything is normal, I think? You don't need to worry. You got through it just fine. You look great, honestly."

You look beautiful, he doesn't say. But it's a close call.

"Huzzah." She laughs, but it turns into a cough. Full-blown, this time. "I'd hate to look anything less than epic when I die."

"You didn't die, Fig."

"I know," Fig says. "But it's the principle of the thing. I think....I might need to take a nap now, actually. Wow."

She squeezes his hand and rocks forward slowly, unsteadily. Gorgug puts his other hand on her shoulder, tries to hold her up, but he doesn't want to push too hard, so she ends up sort of collapsed against him, her face pressed against the collar of his shirt. Panic spikes in his throat for a second before logic kicks in, before he can feel the steady rise and fall of her lungs against his own.

She's fine. She's alive, and she's fine - or, well, she's not fine, none of them are fine, really, but she's alive, which is somewhat close to that. And Gorgug is holding her, so she's going to be okay.

He'll do whatever he has to, to make sure of that.

#HI SAV! you are the loveliest of friends and i adore these options and i WILL be tackling them all for fun and delight so tysm <3 #anyway this made me experience every emotion under the sun. figgorgug my beloved.#dimension 20 #fantasy high #the bad kids #jade posts #jade writes #ask #grasslandgirl

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rallamajoop · 4 months ago

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This is really random but what are your headcanons on Mia and Ethan's early childhood? Two, I kind of wonder what your thoughts on a Miranda/Ethan/Mia story would be like (canonically, don't think there's a chance in hell, but it's interesting to consider what could lead to Miranda obsessing over Ethan or Mia in a manner similiar to Rose, because I doubt it would be anything healthy. I don't know, maybe she baby-traps them or something - the baby would have megamycete powers, like Rose.

To answer your first question, basically all my ideas about Ethan and Mia's pre-canon lives are in my fic Quarantine! Probably the only one that counts as 'early childhood' is that I like the idea Ethan spent some summers as a kid living with gun-loving relatives from Texas, just to explain why a guy as mild-mannered as him is still so comfortable using and reloading guns in RE7. He and Mia seem to have lived in Texas, according to Mia's driver's license, at least, and the geography tracks with roughly how long it seems to take him to get to Louisiana, but neither of them have Texas accents, so I doubt either of them grew up there. But they might be more likely to have moved there as adults if Ethan has family and some fond memories of the state.

I have no particular ideas about Mia's early childhood, but hoo boy can I go on and on about everything that happened to her from college to the present day ‒ y'know, the stuff that actually explains all the backstory behind how she wound up working for the Connections (again, see Quarantine if you do actually want to hear me go on about it). But I do like the idea that the music box that was "a wedding gift from Grandma" was her grandma's, not Ethan's, so maybe that counts.

As for Miranda/Ethan/Mia... well heck, you don't have to dig far in the canon to find real support for the idea of Miranda having a sinister fixation on Ethan specifically: I mean, she spends god knows how long pretending to be his wife, and both Heisenberg and Moreau suggest pretty loudly that Miranda's plans involve Ethan 'joining the family', so to speak. The implications are right there, and so much so that I'm already kind of playing them from different angles in both my current WIPs (Follow Me Home and Atypical side-effects may include, FTR). And if I'm not about to share all my ideas on that front, it's mostly because that would mean Spoilers. XD

But let's look at your ideas for now, because there's a whole second ask to elaborate on that one, and it's long, so I'm sticking it under a cut.

That's a lot to cover, so we'll take it point by point. For reference, the post that mentions Miranda possibly getting close to her in some disguised form was this one, primarily about the timeline for how long she might've spent posing as Mia.

Okay, so the elephant in the room when we're talking anything Miranda/Ethan (or Miranda/Mia) is that we are essentially talking about rape, and I'd rather acknowledge that up front. There's no real redeeming a character like Miranda; the nicest possible way I can imagine her getting to Ethan would involve deliberately driving a wedge between him and Mia, then taking advantage of him post-breakup. The more obvious option involves rape-by-deception, with Miranda impersonating Mia. Being Miranda, violence and mind-control are always options too. No judgement here for wanting to go there: this is a horror canon, and there's so much territory here that went under-explored in the game. I'm all for dark scenarios and dirtybadwrong fic, and god knows there's ample potential in what Miranda did to both Mia and Ethan for either ‒ but let's not kid ourselves about where this is going.

So I'm a little thrown by the idea of Miranda 'baby trapping' Ethan. A baby trap generally means one partner trying to prevent the other from leaving a relationship by getting them pregnant, getting themselves pregnant, or faking a pregnancy ‒ perhaps even sabotaging contraception to make it happen. But Miranda is, y'know, not in a relationship with either Mia or Ethan, and the idea of raping someone and then trying to start a relationship with them because one of you is now pregnant is… well, I mean, it's definitely a thing that has happened in some parts of the world, but I think we've left traditional 'baby trap' territory pretty far behind.

Naive as he can be, I don't think Ethan Winters would be particularly susceptible to this one. I can see Ethan being more reluctant to kill Miranda if she's pregnant, or doing his best to save the baby after it's born, but "this complete stranger who impersonated my wife and raped me thinks we're in a relationship now" is a level of delusion I do not see even Ethan falling for. Miranda's canonically 100% willing to use deception, manipulation and straight-up mind-control to get what she wants; she doesn't need "I'm having your baby!" as a tactic.

In other points worth addressing, I wouldn't take Ethan and Mia's fertility as evidence that Miranda would be necessarily fertile herself. Maybe she is, maybe she isn't, but the Winters were infected by a different strain of the mould under very different circumstances. Ethan's fertility may even be just about unique: if anyone with the mould in their system could have produced a kid like Rose, I doubt getting one would've taken Miranda so long.

But regardless of her own status, Ethan's fertility is still categorically the prime reason Miranda would be interested in him. He is, after all, the father of 'her' child, or at least her child's new body. That's plenty reason enough for someone as fucked up as Miranda to get Ideas about Ethan's place in her new 'family'.

And as I touched on above, there is a surprising amount in canon to back that up. Heisenberg states outright that Miranda's been having Ethan destroy her current 'family' as a test to see if he's good enough to join himself, and Moreau's heartfelt, "I should be with her, not you," strongly suggests that Miranda doesn't want Ethan as just another new 'child'.

Then you've got everything she was up to in the Winters' home. Sure, we're probably meant to assume that Miranda impersonated Mia as a means to get close enough to Rose to make sure she was a suitable vessel for Eva without immediately alerting the authorities. Perhaps she originally assumed that Mia was the source of most of Rose's powers, and capturing and experimenting on Mia was a means to learn more. Fuck, maybe she's even had Mia pegged as a potentially compatible infectee and future surrogate mother since way back when she was working with the Connections ‒ maybe that's even part of how Eveline got the idea that Mia was the one she wanted as her mother in the first place.

And there would be so much territory to play with here! We know nothing about Mia's own history with Miranda, beyond the fact that one photo was taken. I've speculated before) that it may have only been taken shortly before Mia and Alan left to transport Eveline to the US, but that's certainly not the only option. There's every reason to imagine that the Connections might've had genetic profiles of its own staff, and Miranda might well have had access to them. And there's no reason to imagine that the Connections would've done anything to protect Mia if Miranda was developing a creepy fascination with one of their best agents, or had requested she be transferred to the E-series project, perhaps even considered as a donor or incubator for the next series. Mia would've had no-one she could've gone to if Miranda's interest made her uncomfortable. In that situation, Mia's disappearance en route to the US might have saved her from much worse. You could really go so many places developing Miranda's history with Mia, climaxing with her capture and imprisonment in Miranda's lab.

But Ethan still remains the more obvious target for any fixation Miranda might've developed with the Winters. I mean, the fact she spent so much time living in Ethan's home, imitating his wife… man, is that suggestive, no matter how you slice it.

The major fly in the ointment of the whole theory is, of course, that none of Miranda's own interactions with Ethan suggest much interest in him 'joining the family' in any capacity ‒ and I'm sure that's the main reason I've never seen much fic exploring the idea. When she finally reveals herself to Ethan, she greets him with nothing but mocking disdain. But that's nothing you can't work around with a little imagination.

Perhaps claiming Ethan was the original plan, but in the time since, she's realised he'd never want her willingly, and is immune to her usual mind-control powers over other infected, and now she's going all tsundere, playing it like she was never that interested in him anyway. Maybe Chris bursting in with guns blazing messed up her original plans to manipulate Ethan into believing that Miranda's twisted version of his wife was always the real woman he was in love with, who would willingly hand over his daughter and follow her back to her village, to assassinate her 'false' children in a show of devotion. The idea of her turning Ethan against Chris (or the real Mia) is actually a hell of an image too, or trying similar tactics on Mia by imitating Ethan. Miranda is categorically a fairy-tale witch-queen, and a willingness to turn on a previous lover who no longer seems pliable or useful is wholly in character.

It's also notable that, as devoted as Miranda is to her long-lost Eva, we never hear a single breath about Eva's father. Was he alive or dead when she lost Eva? Was she ever married? Was he ever more to her than some itinerant asshole who left her pregnant? We don't know, because he's no longer of any importance to her. Miranda is not someone with any obvious capacity for romantic or sexual love.

It's not even remotely clear whether her apparent love for Eva took any form that the real Eva would appreciate, had she lived or been reborn to experience it. Eva is dead, and thus perfect, incapable of disappointing her mother with any mortal flaw. And though Miranda may be incapable of loving, she certainly enjoys devotion from all her subjects, right up until the devoted are judged to outlived their usefulness. I'm sure her only interest in Ethan would be to expect him to express the same devotion, and she wouldn't hesitate to discard him the moment he disappointed her.

Of course, the idea of Miranda developing her own twisted obsession with Ethan, as you suggest ‒ deciding he's already hers, much as she did with Rose ‒ is a pretty compelling angle too. I can't see her loving Ethan, but convincing herself that Ethan was meant to be hers ‒ this perfect father figure for her reborn daughter, host of the same mould Miranda herself gifted to the Connections, so clearly a gift from the very fates in answer to her long years of labour! It's not a huge stretch to imagine her getting invested enough in that idea to be furious and disbelieving when Ethan turns her down.

At the end of the day, it's still perfectly believable that she never had any interest in Ethan beyond what she expresses in game, and that Heisenberg and Moreau were mistaken about her intentions. But had Miranda been a little more invested, or Ethan a little more susceptible to her attempts at mind control and manipulation, it's very easy to imagine the conflict of the game going in some very different directions. And her plans for Mia are a completely blank page in canon, and could go anywhere you like.

#Resident Evil Village #Resident Evil #Mother Miranda #Ethan Winters #Mia Winters #this has no shipname and probably doesn't deserve one #but even so #this was actually a pretty fun area to theorise more about!#asks

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hezzabeth · 2 years ago

Text

NANOWRIMO DAYS 1-10

Saying Farewell to Armageddon

Act 1

The first winter

This is not a ghost story. Well, technically, it is, as it involves the haunting consciousness of someone who is definitely dead. Probably dead. Most likely dead. In the far-off future, true death is mostly optional.

This is not a fairytale. Granted, there is a princess in disguise. There is a fair bit of magic. True love prevails. But no, this isn't a fairytale.

Rather, this is a war story.

3834 AD: Ten miles from Skandasaipur, a city on Mars, part of the country of Mangalrajya.

A cold and burnt-red winter. Turquoise snow gently falls in tiny cubes, landing on the rust-colored dirt. In the distance, right on the horizon, there are pillars of smoke. Somewhere a city is on fire. “Aiyo Rama! They better not have burned down the teleportation port again! It makes shipping the ice impossible,” a young woman called Sugafana sighed from deep within her layers of bright purple and emerald green protective clothing. Her companion, a man covered in dark blue and silver, sighed, leaning down on his shovel. “Calm down! We can always drive down to Samarthanagari and use the public pod station,” the man, whose name was simply Jay, said. Sugafana merely grunted with annoyance before picking up her own shovel.

Once, Sugafana had worked in Samarthanagari's best girls' school. Every Thursday and Monday, she would march in through the front gate with her smart green briefcase. The school was now nothing more than a steel shell. “The hair curlers burned that pod station last month,” Sugafana reminded Jay, who sighed. “Just keep digging, Martian snow is going for fifty credits per kilo right now,” Jay pointed out, and Sugafana picked up her shovel before digging into the ground. Fifty credits a kilo. Before the war, Martian snow went for five dollars a kilo. Every Shigmo, children would eat cups full of the stuff flavored with sugar and wild honey.

“I can practically feel your frown from here,” Jay remarked as Sugafana scooped then snow up before dropping it in her bucket. “Prices are getting ridiculous! Barf cheene ghan used to be super cheap, and now vendors will have to charge ten credits to make a profit,” Sugafana growled with annoyance. “And it’s just dry sugar ice,” Sugafana finished as she stuck her spade into the snow again. “Correction, it’s dry sugar ice that some people believe has magic powers!” Jay cried in a sing-song voice. “And do you believe that?” Sugafana sarcastically asked. Jay shrugged. It was the sort of shrug Sugafana had seen many times over the past two years they had spent ice farming. A shrug that indicated Jay wasn’t willing to really believe in anything. Sugafana struck the ice again with her shovel, and there was a sudden faint clinking sound. “There’s something here,” Sugafana said, feeling faintly surprised. “You probably just hit some black ice, the snow fell during the night and the field was empty yesterday,” Jay pointed out. No human alive would dare to go out into the snow at night. The icy winds would tear through layers of protective clothing freezing blood in its veins. “The appliances wouldn’t come out here, no energy charging grids for miles,” Sugafana pointed out as she leaned down to push the cubed snow away with her gloved hands. “I heard the richer appliances have started using humans as portable batteries. They make the humans run ahead of them on treadmills,” Jay recalled as he shifted, standing behind Sugafana. “And who told you that? Your gossiping premika?” Asked crisply. “I told you before, Minty is not my girlfriend,” Jay said wearily, and Sugafana gasped. An eye was staring back at her in the snow. A shiny golden eye. “It’s an android,” Sugafana said, pushing more snow away to reveal a lady's face. A long and elegant face with Cupid bow lips and a stately nose. “Hit it with your shovel,” Jay ordered her. “I said Android! Not appliance! Androids don’t have artificial intelligence,” Sugafana snapped with annoyance as she quickly used her shovel to clear more and more snow. “They don’t? I thought all electronics were determined to turn us into slaves,” Jay remarked as Sugafana unearthed golden shoulders covered in a magenta silk shawl. “My transportation pod uses an electric battery, the lights at camp use electric wind power, and none of them have killed us,” Sugafana pointed out, and Jay raised a gloved finger. “None of them have tried to kill us yet,” Jay merely replied. “Just help me! Baba Tarak will find us a buyer who will pay a small fortune,” Sugafana said, and Jay kneeled down next to Sugafana, his gloves brushing against the snow. For a moment, their eyes met. It was amazing, Sugafana thought, what a person could tell just by glancing at someone’s eyes. Sugafana had never seen Jay’s entire face. They always met five times a week on the fields in their uniforms, helped each other shovel the snow, and then said goodbye at the migrant camp's gates. It has been that way for years. Once or twice, Jay had been foolish enough to ask Sugafana if she wanted to stand together in the food ration line. She always said no. It was easier that way. Still, Jay’s eyes were so dark it was almost impossible to see their pupils. They did, however, crinkle in a way that whispered they were kind. “That’s peculiar,” Jay remarked, breaking away from her gaze. His hands had uncovered a peculiar glowing lump that extended just below the android's chest. “It looks like a perfectly normal maternity droid to me,” Sugafana replied, brushing more snow off its legs. “Is that what they look like? I’ve never seen one in real life! Most women had their babies in my town the old-fashioned way,” Jay remarked. “I used to walk past a boutique selling them on my way to work! I never saw actual pregnant women in the city,” Sugafana replied as she cocked her head to one side, trying to find the android's barcode. “Strange, there’s no identification,” she said to Jay. “And what does that mean exactly?” Jay asked.

#nano 2023 #nanowrimo #life on mars #write a novel #writing #speculative worldbuilding #speculative fiction #science fiction #scifi #sci fi and fantasy #original character #original story

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slugterra-twisted-ends · 3 months ago

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First: Surface bound is giving me some Detentionaire vibes in a good way. I hope if you write a fanfiction it goes down that route :)

And second, you might've seen that I've been posting about my new characters the old & new stunters, so I just wanted to have a little idea spill to see if these rolls work well. So:

W.B. (Waylon Brooke Dawson): In the 9th grade. He has two dads. Often skateboards around town but always comes home in time, if not before dark. Often hangs out with his two adopted cousins Hunter (Moulton) and Samuel (Slasher). Gets picked on by Billy, Shorts and Glasses but then Eli defends him causing the two to become friends.

Hunter & Samue Turnerl: Both work at a warehouse and are adopted by Michael Turner. The two often skate at and explore abandoned buildings but will not or will pick a safer option when W.B. tags along.

Daniel Drag: He's the security of an old parking lot. Often has to stop the brothers from graffiting the walls, even if they are his old jobs bosses' kids. But he let's W.B. explore and skate around. Why? It ain't all that clear.

Michael Turner: He's the boss of a conveince store. Used to be a roller blade team leader but then the thing broke up some time later. W.B. calls him Uncle since he was often taken care of by Michael when he was little due to his parents being quiet busy with their jobs.

David Edison: Pretty quiet, low energy guy. He works at an arcade with his pal Walker. The two were apart of the old roller blade gang. Works at the ticket exchange desk.

Sam Walker: Goes by his last name, he's the opposite of David, he's quite energetic and quite loud but can be a bit too wild with his ideas. He works as an arcade mechanic.

Brandon: W.B.'s biological dad (W.B.'s mother left the hospital after the stealth pregnancy). Works as mall security and was also a former roller blade gang member, that's actually how he met his now husband Kade in hospital after he broke his leg.

Kade: Works as a doctor, more specifically at the morgue. As I just mentioned, Brandon's husband/W.B.'s other dad. He did street racing when he was younger.

But yeah, I hope you like my Stunter Gangs surface bound characters, and I hope they don't clash with anything or too much in your story. Can't wait to hear more about the Surface bound series :)

You'd be right in saying it reminds you of Detentionaire! It's one of the inspiration for Surface Bound, along with Strange Hill High, Z-Squad, Exchange Student Zero, a bit of Tale of Arcadia Bay: Troll Hunters, superhero secret identities tropes (mainly from Randy Cunningham: 9th Grade Ninja and Dino Squad), and some 2000s, early 2010s highschool based sitcoms. (think your Ned Declassified, Victorious, etc)

As for the Stunters turned Surface Bound counterparts, Eli would more than happily defend W.B against Billy or any of the bullies found in the school grounds. He believes in people getting justice for dealing with idiots who pick on them or do bad things. Another 9th grader saved by Eli and co (both in their hero disguises and just regular selves), Dandelion Redwall, would probably ask W.B if he'd want to be apart of the 'Heroes of Darefield' fan club since he'd probably also get rescued at some point by said heroes

For the warehouse, is it specific or could it be apart of a grander company such as BearTech (owned by Janice Lewis and working very closely with Principal Blakk)? BearTech is huge and probably would have a warehouse or two in Darefield with their larger ones closer to home base in Frostbite Valley, the neighbouring big city to Darefield.

The old car park is an interesting area to mention. It makes me think of BearTech would have that owned and looking into tearing it down for a small BearTech store despite it being a very useful spot for those visiting public areas around it (if I might say, the skate park, a playground, general parkland and maybe a small corner store that has no room for a proper car park)

The arcade and convenience store I could see being visited by a lot of the students and even some of the staff of Darefield High, Middle School and Elementary. Though Michael Turner's store may run into some rivalry with Spink's store, but purely from sales and customer traffic, not much else

And that's very sweet that Brandon and Kade found each other, kinda reminds me of how Mira's parents met a little bit! Which now I think about it for Surface Bound, Dr Nathaniel wouldn't have broken his legs from a great fall, but maybe had some form of illness when ascending by accident to the surface? Maybe broke an arm while cave climbing and was found by Will and Marie. Marie healed his arm and became fascinated with where he had come from given his clothes were not that of the surface, sparking a crush on someone she could see as handsomely foreign and interesting to her.

#slugterra #slugterra surface bound #bajoterra #surface bound #slugterra au #slugterra twisted ends #slugterra oc #eli shane #slugterra eli #dr blakk #slugterra dr blakk

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shsl-hubris-guy · 7 months ago

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Takemichi stan here, please talk more about him being a protag, I'm very intrigued.

(And also, Celeste's cat, lmao)

I have been WAITING for this ask since I dropped the tier list. Thank you. Thank you so much

So in UDG, Komaru becomes the protagonist because she's Makoto's sister, and thus, becomes Monaca's target. Well, Komaru is still Monaca's target in this UDT au too, BUT it's because she's the sister of the mastermind, not the one who killed the mastermind. This puts her as a secondary deuteragonist of the game, as Leon (the deuterag) is unsure how much she knows and if she's trustworthy or not. But that left me with an empty protagonist slot, so I thought to myself, which Captive would best fit within this au? And two options came to mind. The first was Takaaki, but I ultimately wanted the protag/Deuterag dynamic that Toko and Syo had with Komaru so I decided against it, instead opting to have him be in my au's UDT 2 and play a major role there. The other was Takemichi.

Takemichi has always been one of the captives I would've liked to see the most, and it helped here that Mondo had become the first victim in this AU's THH, so I figured that gave him enough significance right off the bat to put him in a leading role in a game about the victims' loved ones, especially considering that we know Leon and Mondo were friends prior to the games. I imagine a game in which Takemichi actually remembers Leon but Leon has no memory of him has a ton of potential to it especially. (Also, as much as I love Tokomaru and Syomaru, I wanna assert that Leon and Takemichi are gonna be entirely platonic. Maybe a QPR at most)

If there are any Takemichi lovers who've scrounged up every known piece of info about Takemichi, and any of it contradicts with my limited knowledge and assumptions, please tell me, I'd love to hear more, but as of typing this out, all my knowledge of Takemichi is

A) he's Mondo's right hand in the gang

B) he's expressly not interested in women despite a literal fanclub

And

C) he's short? Ider finding this info so this could just be an assumption based on the way they draw his face

So my line of thinking would be him pulling together an outfit and painting a biker helmet to look like a Monokuma kid, and therefore, avoid being attacked. This disguise would be a work in progress over the course of the game, coming to completion in the later chapters to introduce a sneaking mechanic. This disguise would make for a way to reveal that the helmets aren't just helmets, but tracking devices to keep track of the kids, so while you can go past the kids with the disguise, it doesn't work on the Monokumas bots because there's no sensor telling them to stop. Also, I like to think his weapon of choice would be something along the lines of a survival multi tool for map exploration, while Komaru maintains the gun and can be swapped out when specific bullets are needed for puzzles, rather than shooting being the primary progression mechanic. Leon, meanwhile, is the main fighter, wielding a metal bat to break the Monokumas when they're attacked.

Really, I'd like to delve into the story of what made Takemichi want to join a biker gang, and having his past let him connect with Nagisa. I can't help but imagine Takemichi, who joined a gang, might've done so because of pressures in his home life leading him to redefine his life and leave home, maybe even staying with the Owadas. So he might just be the right character to reach out to Nagisa and get through to him, saving him from being killed by his own robot and giving him a second chance, with him then being the one to help them through the final chapter and warn them of Monaca's interest in Komaru, though he doesn't know why.

But yeah that's what I've been thinking!

#crane's perfect au #udg #udg au #takemichi yukimaru #kuwata leon #shingetsu nagisa #komaru naegi

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asirensrage · 3 months ago

Text

Saudade - Chapter 40

Rating: Explicit Pairing: Mikey x OC, Hanma x OC, Ran x OC, Mikey x OC x Draken Fandom: Tokyo Revengers Warnings: swearing, violence, threats of violence, murder, smoking, sex, consensual sex between teenagers, alcohol, recreational drug use, mention of trafficking, torture, family neglect, mentions of sexual violence. isekai OC. memory loss. unbeta’d **warnings are not exhaustive** Summary: No one seems to realize she doesn’t belong until she finally runs into her “new” brother, Hanagaki Takemichi. Now, hearing his story, Takara makes the choice to help him and hopefully find her way home, but faking it til you make it only lasts so long when you start losing the memories of the life you had before. As Takemichi becomes the only family she’s ever known, how far will she go to protect him?

notes: I'm currently working on another Bonten series...basically about different ocs getting involved with the different men of Bonten (including Hanma). The first is a oneshot about Hanma and his girl. It's on here and titled 'Cursed'. Once I find a beta for the second one (it involves both Haitanis) then it's all over for you. hahaha I'm kidding. I have to finish the other ones I have planned too lol. (I have a dozen wips for this fandom.) This is a great chapter because it sets up some of my favourite things in this fic. I hope you enjoy it. Let me know what you think! <3 As always, expect spoilers for the manga from here on out.

also on ao3 fic masterlist - prev chapter

The atmosphere grows more tense as the days pass and Kanto responds to Rokuhara’s declaration. Enough that Takara takes a leave from her work to ensure that her location is known at all times. She keeps weapons on her, even with the bodyguards that Mikey sends, some in disguise some not. She’s not allowed to go anywhere alone anymore.

Mikey only truly relaxes when they’re together, when he can touch her to ensure she’s safe and at his side. It allows her access to meetings that she thinks if she was a regular girlfriend she wouldn’t have access to. But she’s not just a girlfriend. She’s helped form this gang. She recruited men who promised her loyalty, just as she promised Mikey hers.

“You ever think what we’re doing is wrong?”

She’s sitting in the room, lounging on the couch as she waits to hear back from Yuzuha, when Kokonoi asks her that. They haven’t really talked too much, outside of the meetings and other gang related things.

“Hmm? What do you mean?”

He leans forward, resting his elbow on the desk in front of him. He looks tired and Takara makes a mental note to make him get some rest. She’ll have Mikey order it if she has to.

“Do you ever think what we’re doing is wrong?” he asks again. The two of them are alone but Mikey doesn’t have as much of a problem with her alone with Kokonoi as he does with others.

Takara sits up and thinks about it. “Yes.” He blinks in surprise and she continues. “I know it’s wrong. We’re selling drugs, protection and now going into prostituition. No matter how well we frame it, it’s still making money off of people who might be in these situations because of circumstances they can’t control. We can easily be making it worse but…” She takes a deep breath as the realization sits heavy in her stomach. “I can’t regret it. I can’t say no or that we shouldn’t do that because it’s the only way we can realistically make the money we need, the only way we can gain the power we need to take over the city. I want to protect my friends and my family from anyone who could hurt them and that…that involves being in control. We need do to this shit to gain that control, as much as we don’t like as dark as it gets.”

Kokonoi sighs. “We bloody our hands to keep theirs clean.”

“Exactly,” Takara nods. “It’s the only option.”

“How do we keep ourselves from going too far?”

Takara pauses and thinks about it. “I don’t know,” she admits softly. “I don’t know if we can. But maybe that’s why we’re a team. We have to support each other, be that voice of reason for each other. We might be blinded to our own actions, but maybe we can look at others and point out when it’s time to stop.”

“That doesn’t work if we’re all blinded in the dark.”

“No,” she nods mostly to herself, “…then I guess we just don’t get caught.”

🛼

Takara tugs at the skirt of the dress Yuzuha put her in. It’s not about the length, but she’s not entirely used to not wearing shorts under it. It’s fine. She’s not alone in line at the club. Yuzuha is talking to Ran about the area and why they chose this club specifically. She can’t really hear them with the noise around them and the way the music leaks out every time the door opens. Rindou has his back to her, looking like he’s keeping an eye on the people around them but she’s pretty sure he just doesn’t want to talk to her. That’s fine.

Mikey is behind her, arm wrapped around her waist as he stares down anyone looking towards her. He’s not supposed to be here but the moment she told him of her intention of going out with Yuzuha and sneaking into a club, Mikey invited himself along. Especially when Ran and Rindou suggested the club in their area.

They’re trying to use it to their advantage, hoping that the reveal of the two of them being out in public will draw out Rokuhara, tempting them to do something stupid while Draken and Sanzu act on their own. It’s also something that’s going to permanently tie Yuzuha to them. The girl said it was fine, but Takara’s already mentally shopping for knives. Besides, estranged or not, she doesn’t doubt that if anything happened to Yuzuha, her crazy eyed giant of a brother would show up demanding retribution.

They get in with ease. Ran and Rindou are both recognized and the girls aren’t IDed before the bouncer waves them in. It’s not as packed as it could be and Takara lets herself be led to the bar first.

She doesn’t know what Mikey orders for her, but she takes it regardless. It’s something sweet and bubbly. Takara kisses his cheek in thanks before she grabs Yuzuha’s hand and heads for the dance floor. She’s never been clubbing before, but it’s easy to get lost in the music. She doesn’t have to worry about who’s around her because while Ran and Rindou scope the place out, Mikey is watching.

The two of them dance, pressing together as they move. It’s a little strange dancing with another girl, but it’s nice in the way that Takara can trust Yuzuha isn’t going to attempt to feel her up. They can look out for each other like this.

She’s soft in comparison to any of the other men she’s been this close with. Part of Takara wonders if she’d always be soft, if kissing her, or any girl really, would be a complete contrast to how kissing Mikey is. She’d never try though. She doesn’t want to ruin her friendship and more importantly, she can’t ruin her own plans. She’s Mikey’s for a reason.

It doesn’t take long before someone tries their luck. Takara doesn’t know if it’s because she’s short or she looks nicer than she is, but they aim for her over Yuzuha. She feels the touch first, the hesitancy in it that none of the boys she knows would have. It’s light against her waist before the body presses up against her back. Yuzuha’s eyes go wide as Takara turns with a snarl, ready to shove them off. She doesn’t get the chance. Before she’s fully around, the hand is pried off of her and Ran moves himself between her and the person touching her.

“Trust me, I’m helping you,” he tells the other man. “Leave and don’t touch her again. You won’t like the consequences.”

She doesn’t know if the older man is stupid or drunk, but he laughs. “From you?”

“I’m not the one you need to worry about.” He motions to the side where she left Mikey and she looks to see his eyes blank, glass broken in his hand as he drops it on the bar and heads towards them.

“Shit,” she moves without thinking, going to him. If the man didn’t think Ran was a threat, he wouldn’t assume Mikey is and she doesn’t want to get kicked out already because Mikey broke some guy who didn’t know better. Not yet at least.

Takara puts her hands on Mikey’s chest, trying to stop him from going further. “Hey, it’s fine.”

Mikey looks down, eyes glancing over her. “You alright?”

“I’m fine,” she says. “Don’t get into it. I was about to tell him to fuck off.” She wraps an arm around Mikey’s neck and kisses him. He pulls her closer, arm around her waist as he attempts to brand himself into her.

Her head falls back, leaning to give him more access when he moves his mouth to her neck. She doesn’t see the way Mikey watches the others as he sucks a new mark into her neck or how Ran’s jaw clenches before he drags the guy who tried to dance with her out.

“Hey, Mikey.”

He pulls back, a mix of satisfaction and irritation in his expression before he looks at the new voice, tugging Takara closer to him. “Takeomi.”

She doesn’t recognize the taller man. She knows she would. Not just because he’s clearly older but the scar on his face and the way he greets Mikey with familiarity. She stays silent, turning herself so her chest is pressed against Mikey’s side and her chin rests on his shoulder. It makes her look like an airhead, as if she’s not fully invested in the conversation but it lets her watch his back better.

“Didn’t think I’d ever see you in a place like this. How’d you get in?” The guy laughs lightly. He pulls out a cigarette and lights it. “Stupid question I guess. You gonna introduce me?” He asks, nodding towards her. Takara glances at him and looks away, paying more attention to Mikey and the unimpressed look in his eyes.

“Takara, this is Akashi Takeomi. He was a friend of my brother’s.” His brother who was murdered by his friend.

Takara nods. “Hi.”

“Nice to meet you,” he says, nodding back. “I’m surprised. Didn’t think Mikey was actually into girls.”

Takara straightens as Mikey stiffens. “Why’s that?” she asks lightly.

“He’s never shown interest,” he says. “Not as a kid.”

“Hmm,” Takara smiles. “Guess he was just waiting for me.” She leans forward and kisses his cheek. Mikey’s grip tightens slightly on her, a silent sign of appreciation. She grins, playing into the role of his girlfriend more than his partner in crime. Literally.

“Well, it’s nice. Shin would be ecstatic. You definitely beat him,” he laughs. He looks at Takara. “His brother was hopeless with women.”

“What do you want, Takeomi?” Mikey cuts in.

“I can’t come say hi?”

“You’re second in command of Brahman. I doubt you’re here just to say hi.”

Takeomi takes a drag of his cigarette. “So Kanto Manji knows of Brahman. Good.” He grins at him. “I am just here to say hi. Nothing more or less.”

“You should go,” Takara says, smiling gently despite the way her entire skin prickles and she shifts as to prepare to move if she has to. “You’re in Roppongi, y’know? That’s Haitani territory and the Haitanis are Kanto Manji.”

Takeomi barely glances at her. “We should meet, Mikey. Talk. It’s been awhile.”

“It has,” Mikey agrees. “I’ll have someone reach out to you. But not if you don’t leave. You’re ruining my girl’s night.”

“Alright,” Takeomi raises his hands and steps back. “I’ll leave. Nice to meet you,” he tells Takara. “It was good to see you.” He leaves without another word and Takara waits until he’s out of sight before she looks at Mikey.

“Brahman?”

“Yeah, the one led by the girl. Senju. She’s his sister.” She remembers the others talking about it, how they were growing as a powerhouse alongside Kanto. Takara had been fascinated by the idea of a woman outwardly leading a gang, but it was Sanzu who said that she was just a figurehead, likely being used. Takara has met too many people in this place who fail at being a sibling. She wouldn’t be surprised if she learned he was the one using her.

“We need to go?”

“No,” Mikey shakes his head. “It’s fine. He probably just wants to talk. My brother used to call him the God of War, saying Takeomi was the strategist of Black Dragons. He wasn’t one to start the fight right on the front line.”

“Hmm..” that is interesting news to her. She makes a mental note to dig in more. She doesn’t get the chance to ask anything else because Mikey turns before kissing her again.

When he finally pulls back, looking a little more satisfied than before he nods towards the floor. “Go.”

“You’re okay with that?”

“You’re enjoying it. I like watching you. Anyone touches you again, I’ll deal with them.”

She smiles and kisses him quickly, remembering Draken’s words when they left Kakucho. “Thank you.” She leaves him, darting back to her friend and getting back in the groove of the music. Mikey’s eyes never leave her.

🛼

They make it through maybe five more songs, and more than a few breaks which has Takara stumbling into Mikey as she laughs, a little drunk. He keeps her upright and steady, hand on her waist. Ran does the same for Yuzuha, keeping her between them.

It feels like nearly a perfect night. They’re having fun, Rokuhara hasn’t shown their face and Takara is at the perfect balance of feeling happy and a little high from second hand smoke. She’s surprised whoever was smoking weed wasn’t kicked out but it’s enough to make her want to try it herself.

Rindou shoves his way through the crowd, brows furrowed as he looks at them when he approaches. Mikey straightens.

“Draken was shot.”

Just like that, her night is ruined.

🛼

tag list: @raith-way @zeleniafic @veetlegeuse @chickensarentcheap @residentdormouse

@themaradwrites @kingsmakers @thatmagickjuju @awkwardchick87 @hayatoseyepatch

tr tag: @mitsuwuyaa @blackfire2013 @bleach-your-panties @reiners-milkbiddies @tenjikusstuff4

saudade tag: @thisbicc @scythegal @bontenxo

network tag: @pixelcafe-network

#tokyo revengers fic #tokyo revengers oc #mikey sano x oc #sano mikey x oc #sano manjiro x oc #haitani ran x oc #hanma shuji x oc #shuji hanma x oc #ran haitani x oc #mikey x oc x draken #tr fic #tr oc #tokyo rev fic #tokyo rev oc #oc: takara #fic: saudade

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